Fisher, fishing in the sea,Fish my mistress up for me.Fish her up before she drowns,Thou shalt have four hundred crowns.Fish her for me dead and cold,Thou shalt have my all in gold.
Fisher, fishing in the sea,Fish my mistress up for me.
Fisher, fishing in the sea,
Fish my mistress up for me.
Fish her up before she drowns,Thou shalt have four hundred crowns.
Fish her up before she drowns,
Thou shalt have four hundred crowns.
Fish her for me dead and cold,Thou shalt have my all in gold.
Fish her for me dead and cold,
Thou shalt have my all in gold.
The romantic ballads of Provence are of an importance which demands, properly speaking, a separate study. Provence was, beyond a doubt, one of the main sources of the ballad literature of France, Spain, and Italy. That certain still existing Provençal ballads passed over into Piedmont as early as the thirteenth century is the opinion of Count Nigra, the Italian diplomatist, not the least of whose distinguished services to his country has been the support he was one of the first to give to the cause of popular research. In all these songs the plot goes for everything, the poetry for little or nothing; I shall therefore best economise my space by giving a rough outline of the stories of two or three of them. "Fluranço" is a characteristic specimen. Fluranço, "la flour d'aquest pays," was married when she was a little thing, and her husband at oncewent away to the wars. Monday they were wed, Tuesday he was gone. At the end of seven years the knight comes back, knocks at the door, and asks for Fluranço. His mother says that she is no longer here; they sent her to fetch water, and the Moors, the Saracen Moors, carried her off. "Where did they take her to?" "They took her a hundred leagues away." The knight makes a ship of gold and silver; he sails and sails without seeing aught but the washer-women washing fine linen. At last he asks of them: "Tell me whose tower is that, and to whom that castle belongs." "It is the castle of the Saracen Moor." "How can I get into it?" "Dress yourself as a poor pilgrim, and ask alms in Christ's name." In this way he gains admittance, and Fluranço (she it is) bids the servant set the table for the "poor pilgrim." When the knight is seated at table, Fluranço begins to laugh. "What are you laughing at, Madamo?" She confesses that she knows who he is. They collect a quantity of fine gold; then they go the stable, and she mounts the russet horse and he mounts the grey. Just as they are crossing the bridge the Moor sees them. "Seven years," he cries, "I have clothed thee in fine damask, seven years I have given thee morocco shoes, seven years I have laid thee in fine linen, seven years I have kept thee—for one of my sons!" The carelessness or cruelty of a stepmother (the head-wife of Asiatic tales) is a prolific central idea in Provençal romance. While the husband was engaged in distant adventures—tournaments, feudal wars, or crusading expeditions—the wife, who was often little more than a child, remained at the mercy of the occasionally unamiable dowager who ruled the masterlesschâteau.The case of cruelty is exemplified in the story of Guilhem de Beauvoire, who has to leave his child-wife five weeks after marriage. "I counsel you, mother," he says as he sets out, "to put her to do no kind of work: neither to fetch water, nor to spin, nor yet to knead bread. Send her to mass, and give her good dinners, and let her go out walking with other ladies." At the end of five weeks the mother put the young wife to keep swine. The swine girl went up to the mountain top and sang and sang. Guilhem de Beauvoire, who was beyond the sea, said to his page, "Does it not seem as though my wife were singing?" He travels at all speed over mountain and sea till he comes to his home, where no man knows him. On the way he meets the swine girl, and from her he hears that she has to eat only that which is rejected of the swine. At the house he is welcomed as an honoured guest; supper is laid for him, and he asks that the swine girl whom he has seen may come and sup with him. When she sits down beside him the swine girl bursts into tears. "Why do you weep, swine girl?" "For seven years I have not supped at table!" Then in the bitterness of yet another outrage to which the vile woman subjects her, she cries aloud, "Oh! Guilhem de Beauvoire, who art beyond the sea, God help thee! Verily thy cruel mother has abandoned me!" Secretly Guilhem tells her who he is, and in proof of it shows her the ring she gave him. In the morning the mother calls the swine girl to go after her pigs. "If you were not my mother," says Guilhem, "I would have you hung; as you are my mother, I will wall you up between two walls."
The antiquity of the ballads ofFlurancoandGuilhem de Beauvoireis shown by the fact that they plainly belong to a time when such work as fetching water or making bread was regarded as amongst the likely employments of noble ladies—though, from excess of indulgence, Guilhem did not wish his wife to be set even to these light tasks. A ballad, probably of about the same date, treats the case of a man who, through the weakness which is the cause of half the crimes, becomes the agent of his mother's guilt. The tragedy is unfolded with almost the sublime laconicism of theDivina Commedia. Françoiso was married when she was so young that she did not know how to do the service, and the cruel mother was always saying to her son that Françoiso must die. One day, after the young wife had laid the table, and had set thereon the wine and the bread, and the fresh water, her husband said to her, "My Françoiso, is there not anyone, no friend, who shall protect thy life?" "I have my mother and my father, and you, who are my husband, very well will you protect my life." Then, as they sit at meat, he takes a knife and kills her; and he lifts her in his arms and kisses her, and lays her under the flower of the jessamine, and he goes to his mother and says, "My mother, your greatest wish is fulfilled: I have killed Françoiso."
The genuine Provençal does not shrink from violence. Old inhabitants still tell tales of the savage brigandage of the Estérel, of the horrors of theTerreur blanche. Mild manners and social amenities have never been characteristic of fair Provence. Even now the peasant cannot disentangle his thoughts without a volley of oaths—harmlessindeed, for the most part (except those which are borrowed from thefranciots), but in sound terrific. Yet if it be true that the character of a nation is asserted in its songs, it must be owned that the songs of Provence speak favourably for the Provençal people. They say that they are a people who have a steady and abiding sympathy with honest men and virtuous women. They say further that rough and ruthless though they may be when their blood is stirred, yet have they a pitiful heart. The Provençal singer is slow to utterly condemn; he grasps the saving inconsistencies of human nature; he makes the murderer lay his victim "souto lou flour dou jaussemin:" under the white jessamine flower, cherished beyond all flowers in Provence, which has a strange passion for white things—white horses, white dogs, white sheep, white doves, and the fair white hand of woman. Many songs deal directly with almsgivings, the ritual of pity. To no part of the Bible is there more frequent reference than to the parable of the rich man and Lazarus; no neocatholic legend has been more gladly accepted than the story in which some tattered beggar proves to be Christ—a story, by the by, that holds in it the essence of the Christian faith. If a Greek saw a beautiful unknown youth playing his pipe beside some babbling stream, he believed him to be a god; the Christian of the early ages recognised Christ in each mendicant in loathsome rags, in each leper succoured at the risk of mortal infection.
The Provençal tongue is not a mixture (as is too often said) of Italian and French; nor is physical Provence a less fair Italy or a fairer France. A landwildly convulsed in its storms, mysteriously breathless in its calms; a garden here, a desert there; a land of translucent inlets and red porphyry hills; before all, a land of the illimitable grey of olive and limestone—this is Provence. Anyone finding himself of a sudden where the Provençal olives raise their dwarf heads with a weary look of eternity to the rainless heaven, would say that the dominant feature in the landscape was its exceeding seriousness. Sometimes on the coast the prevailing note changes from grey to blue; the blanched rocks catch the colour of the sea, and not the sky only, but dry fine air close around seems of a blueness so intense as to make the senses swim. Better suited to a Nature thus made up of crude discords and subtle harmonies is the old Provençal speech, howsoever corrupt, than the exquisite French of Parisiansalons. But the language goes and the songs go too. Damase Arbaud relates how, when he went on a long journey to speak with a man reported to have cognisance of much traditional matter, he met, issuing from the house door, not the man, but his coffin. The fact is typical; the old order of things passes away:nouastei diou se'n van.
Footnote 1:I am told that the peasants of the country round Moscow have a natural gift for imitating birds, and that they intersperse the singing of their own sad songs with this sweet carolling.
In a paper published under the head of "Chaucer's Night Spell" in the Folk-lore Record (part i. p. 145), Mr Thoms drew attention to four lines spoken by the carpenter in Chaucer'sMiller's Tale:
Lord Jhesu Crist, and seynte BenedyhtBlesse this hous from every wikked wight,Fro nyghtes verray, the White PaternostreWhen wonestow now, seynte Petres soster.
Lord Jhesu Crist, and seynte BenedyhtBlesse this hous from every wikked wight,Fro nyghtes verray, the White PaternostreWhen wonestow now, seynte Petres soster.
Lord Jhesu Crist, and seynte Benedyht
Blesse this hous from every wikked wight,
Fro nyghtes verray, the White Paternostre
When wonestow now, seynte Petres soster.
("Verray" is commonly supposed to mean night-mare, but Mr Thoms referred it to "Werra," a Sclavonic deity.)
Mention of the White Paternoster occurs again in White'sWay to the True Church(1624):
White Paternoster, Saint Peter's brother,What hast i' th t'one hand? white booke leaves,What hast i' th t'other hand? heaven gate keyes.Open heaven gates, and streike (shut) hell gates:And let every crysome child creepe to its own mother.White Paternoster, Amen.
White Paternoster, Saint Peter's brother,What hast i' th t'one hand? white booke leaves,What hast i' th t'other hand? heaven gate keyes.Open heaven gates, and streike (shut) hell gates:And let every crysome child creepe to its own mother.White Paternoster, Amen.
White Paternoster, Saint Peter's brother,
What hast i' th t'one hand? white booke leaves,
What hast i' th t'other hand? heaven gate keyes.
Open heaven gates, and streike (shut) hell gates:
And let every crysome child creepe to its own mother.
White Paternoster, Amen.
A reading of the formula is preserved in theEnchiridion Papæ Leonis, a book translated into French soon after its first appearance in Latin at Rome in 1502:
Au soir, m'allant coucher, je trouvis trois anges à mon lit couchés, un aux pieds, deux au chevet, la bonne Vierge Marie du milieu, qui me dit que je me couchis, que rien ne doutis. Lebon Dieu est mon Père, la bonne Vierge est ma mère, les trois vierges sont mes sœurs. La chemise où Dieu fut né, mon corps en est enveloppé; la croix Sainte Marguerite à ma poitrine est écrite; madame d'en va sur les champs à Dieu pleurant, rencontrit Monsieur Saint Jean. Monsieur Saint Jean, d'où venez vous? Je viens d'Ave Salus. Vous n'avez pas vu le bon Dieu; si est, il est dans l'arbre de la croix, les pieds pendans, les mains clouans, un petit chapeau d'épine blanche sur la tête.Qui la dira trois fois au soir, trois fois au matin, gagnera le Paradis à la fin.
Au soir, m'allant coucher, je trouvis trois anges à mon lit couchés, un aux pieds, deux au chevet, la bonne Vierge Marie du milieu, qui me dit que je me couchis, que rien ne doutis. Lebon Dieu est mon Père, la bonne Vierge est ma mère, les trois vierges sont mes sœurs. La chemise où Dieu fut né, mon corps en est enveloppé; la croix Sainte Marguerite à ma poitrine est écrite; madame d'en va sur les champs à Dieu pleurant, rencontrit Monsieur Saint Jean. Monsieur Saint Jean, d'où venez vous? Je viens d'Ave Salus. Vous n'avez pas vu le bon Dieu; si est, il est dans l'arbre de la croix, les pieds pendans, les mains clouans, un petit chapeau d'épine blanche sur la tête.
Qui la dira trois fois au soir, trois fois au matin, gagnera le Paradis à la fin.
Curious as are the above citations, they only go a little way towards filling up the blanks in the history of this waif from the fabric of early Christian popular lore. A search of some years has yielded evidence that the White Paternoster is still a part of the living traditional matter of at least five European countries. Most persons are familiar with the English version which runs thus:
Four corners to my bed,Four angels round my head,One to watch, one to pray,And two to bear my soul away.
Four corners to my bed,Four angels round my head,One to watch, one to pray,And two to bear my soul away.
Four corners to my bed,
Four angels round my head,
One to watch, one to pray,
And two to bear my soul away.
A second English variant was set on record by Aubrey, and may also be read in Ady's "Candle in the Dark" (1655):
Matthew, Mark, Luke, John,Bless the bed that I lye on;And blessed guardian angel keepMe safe from danger while I sleep.
Matthew, Mark, Luke, John,Bless the bed that I lye on;And blessed guardian angel keepMe safe from danger while I sleep.
Matthew, Mark, Luke, John,
Bless the bed that I lye on;
And blessed guardian angel keep
Me safe from danger while I sleep.
Halliwell suggests that the two last lines were imitated from the following in Bishop Ken's Evening Hymn:
Let my blest guardian, while I sleep,His watchful station near me keep.
Let my blest guardian, while I sleep,His watchful station near me keep.
Let my blest guardian, while I sleep,
His watchful station near me keep.
But if there was any imitation in the case, it was the bishop who copied from the folk-rhymer, not the folk-rhymer from the bishop.
The thought of the coming of death in sleep, is expressed in a prayer that may be sometimes seen inscribed at the head and foot of the bed in Norwegian homesteads:
Here is my bed and sleeping place;God, let me sleep in peaceAnd blithe open my eyesAnd go to work.
Here is my bed and sleeping place;God, let me sleep in peaceAnd blithe open my eyesAnd go to work.
Here is my bed and sleeping place;
God, let me sleep in peace
And blithe open my eyes
And go to work.
Go into thy bed, take thee a slumber,Reflect now on the last hour;Reflect now,That thou mayest take thy last slumber.
Go into thy bed, take thee a slumber,Reflect now on the last hour;Reflect now,That thou mayest take thy last slumber.
Go into thy bed, take thee a slumber,
Reflect now on the last hour;
Reflect now,
That thou mayest take thy last slumber.
Analogous in spirit is a quatrain that has been known to me since childhood, but which I do not remember to have seen in print:
I lay me down to rest me,And pray the Lord to bless me.If I should sleep no more to wakeI pray the Lord my soul to take.
I lay me down to rest me,And pray the Lord to bless me.If I should sleep no more to wakeI pray the Lord my soul to take.
I lay me down to rest me,
And pray the Lord to bless me.
If I should sleep no more to wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
ThePetite Patenôtre Blanchelingers in France in a variety of shapes. One version was written down as late as 1872 from the mouth of an old woman named Cathérine Bastien, an inhabitant of the department of the Loire. It was afterwards communicated toMélusine.
Jésu m'endort,Si je trépasse, mande mon corps,Si je trépasse, mande mon âme,Si je vis, mande mon esprit.(Je) prends les anges pour mes amis,Le bon Dieu pour mon père,La Sainte Vierge pour ma mère,Saint Louis de Gonzague,Aux quatre coins de ma chambre,Aux quatre coins be mon lit;Preservez moi de l'ennemi,Seigneur, à l'heure de ma mort.
Jésu m'endort,Si je trépasse, mande mon corps,Si je trépasse, mande mon âme,Si je vis, mande mon esprit.(Je) prends les anges pour mes amis,Le bon Dieu pour mon père,La Sainte Vierge pour ma mère,Saint Louis de Gonzague,Aux quatre coins de ma chambre,Aux quatre coins be mon lit;Preservez moi de l'ennemi,Seigneur, à l'heure de ma mort.
Jésu m'endort,
Si je trépasse, mande mon corps,
Si je trépasse, mande mon âme,
Si je vis, mande mon esprit.
(Je) prends les anges pour mes amis,
Le bon Dieu pour mon père,
La Sainte Vierge pour ma mère,
Saint Louis de Gonzague,
Aux quatre coins de ma chambre,
Aux quatre coins be mon lit;
Preservez moi de l'ennemi,
Seigneur, à l'heure de ma mort.
Quenot, in hisStatistique de la Charante(1818), gives the subjoined:
Dieu l'a faite, je la dit;J'ai trouvé quatre anges couchés dans mon lit;Deux à la tête, deux aux pieds,Et le bon Dieu aux milieu.De quoi puis-je avoir peur?Le bon Dieu est mon père,La Vierge ma mère,Les saints mes frères,Les saints mes sœurs;Le bon Dieu m'a dit:Lève-toi, couche-toi,Ne crains rien; le feu, l'orage, et la tempêteNe peuvent rien contre toi.Saint Jean, Saint Marc, Saint Luc, et St Matthieu,Qui mettez les âmes en repos,Mettez-y la mienne si Dieu veut.
Dieu l'a faite, je la dit;J'ai trouvé quatre anges couchés dans mon lit;Deux à la tête, deux aux pieds,Et le bon Dieu aux milieu.De quoi puis-je avoir peur?Le bon Dieu est mon père,La Vierge ma mère,Les saints mes frères,Les saints mes sœurs;Le bon Dieu m'a dit:Lève-toi, couche-toi,Ne crains rien; le feu, l'orage, et la tempêteNe peuvent rien contre toi.Saint Jean, Saint Marc, Saint Luc, et St Matthieu,Qui mettez les âmes en repos,Mettez-y la mienne si Dieu veut.
Dieu l'a faite, je la dit;
J'ai trouvé quatre anges couchés dans mon lit;
Deux à la tête, deux aux pieds,
Et le bon Dieu aux milieu.
De quoi puis-je avoir peur?
Le bon Dieu est mon père,
La Vierge ma mère,
Les saints mes frères,
Les saints mes sœurs;
Le bon Dieu m'a dit:
Lève-toi, couche-toi,
Ne crains rien; le feu, l'orage, et la tempête
Ne peuvent rien contre toi.
Saint Jean, Saint Marc, Saint Luc, et St Matthieu,
Qui mettez les âmes en repos,
Mettez-y la mienne si Dieu veut.
In Provence many a worthy country woman repeats each night thispreiro doou soir:—
Au liech de DiouMe couche iou,Sept anges n'en trouve iou,Tres es peds,Quatre au capet (caput—head);La Buoeno Mero es au mitanUno roso blanco à la man.
Au liech de DiouMe couche iou,Sept anges n'en trouve iou,Tres es peds,Quatre au capet (caput—head);La Buoeno Mero es au mitanUno roso blanco à la man.
Au liech de Diou
Me couche iou,
Sept anges n'en trouve iou,
Tres es peds,
Quatre au capet (caput—head);
La Buoeno Mero es au mitan
Uno roso blanco à la man.
The white rose borne by the Good Mother is a pretty and characteristic interpolation peculiar to flower-loving Provence. In the conclusion of the prayer theBoueno Merotells whosoever recites it to have no fear of dog or wolf, or wandering storm or running water, or shining fire, or any evil folk. M. Damase Arbaud got together a number of other devotional fragments that may be regarded as offshoots from the parent stem. St Joseph, "Nourricier de Diou," is asked to preserve the supplicant from sudden death, "et de l'infer et de ses flammos." St Ann, "mero-grand de Jésus Christ," is prayed to teach the way to Paradise. To St Denis a very practical petition is addressed:
Grand Sant Danis de Franço,Gardetz me moun bouen sens, ma boueno remembranço.
Grand Sant Danis de Franço,Gardetz me moun bouen sens, ma boueno remembranço.
Grand Sant Danis de Franço,
Gardetz me moun bouen sens, ma boueno remembranço.
Another verse points distinctly to a desire for protection against witchcraft. The Provençals, by the bye, are of opinion that theAngeluswas instituted to scare away any ill-conditioned spirits that might be tempted out by the approach of night.
In Germany the guardian saints are dispensed with, but the angels are retained in force. I am indebted to Mr C. G. Leland for a translation of the most popular German even-song:
Fourteen angels in a bandEvery night around me stand.Two to my left hand,Two to my right,Who watch me everBy day and night.Two at my head,Two at my feet,To guard my slumberSoft and sweet;Two to wake meAt break of day,When night and darknessPass away;Two to cover meWarm and nice,And two to lead meTo Paradise.
Fourteen angels in a bandEvery night around me stand.Two to my left hand,Two to my right,Who watch me everBy day and night.Two at my head,Two at my feet,To guard my slumberSoft and sweet;Two to wake meAt break of day,When night and darknessPass away;Two to cover meWarm and nice,And two to lead meTo Paradise.
Fourteen angels in a band
Every night around me stand.
Two to my left hand,
Two to my right,
Who watch me ever
By day and night.
Two at my head,
Two at my feet,
To guard my slumber
Soft and sweet;
Two to wake me
At break of day,
When night and darkness
Pass away;
Two to cover me
Warm and nice,
And two to lead me
To Paradise.
Passing on to Italy we find an embarrassing abundance of folk-prayers framed after the self-same model. The repose of the Venetian is under the charge of the Perfect Angel, the Angel of God, St Bartholomew, the Blessed Mother, St Elizabeth, the Four Evangelists, and St John the Baptist. Venetian children are taught to say: "I go to bed, I know not if I shall arise. Thou, Lord, who knowest, keep good watch over me. Before my soul separates from my body, give me help and good comfort. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, so be it. Bless my heart and my soul!" The Venetians also have a "Paternoster pichenin," and a "Paternoster grande," both of which are, in their existing form, little else than nonsense. The native of the Marches goes to his rest accompanied by our Lord, the Madonna, the Four Evangelists,l'Angelo perfetto, four greater angels, and three others—one at the foot, one at the head, one in the middle. The Tuscan, like the German, has only angels around him: of these he has seven—one at the head, one at the foot, two at the sides, one to cover him, one to watch him, and one to bear him to Paradise. The Sicilian says: "I lay me down in this bed, with Jesus on my breast. I sleep and he watches. In this bed where I am laid, five saints Ifind: two at the head, two at the feet, in the middle is St Michael."
Perhaps the best expression of the belief in the divine guardians of sleep is that given to it by an ancient Sardinian poet:—
Su letto meo est de battor cantones,Et battor anghelos si bie ponen;Duos in pes, et duos in cabitta,Nostra Segnora a costazu m'ista.E a me narat: Dormi e reposa,No hapas paura de mala cosa,No hapas paura de mala fine.S' Anghelu Serafine,S' Anghelu Biancu,S' Ispiridu Santu,Sa Vigine Maria,Tote siant in cumpagnia mea.Anghelu de Deu,Custodio meo,Custa nott' illuminame!Guarda e difende a meCa eo mi incommando a tie.
Su letto meo est de battor cantones,Et battor anghelos si bie ponen;Duos in pes, et duos in cabitta,Nostra Segnora a costazu m'ista.E a me narat: Dormi e reposa,No hapas paura de mala cosa,No hapas paura de mala fine.S' Anghelu Serafine,S' Anghelu Biancu,S' Ispiridu Santu,Sa Vigine Maria,Tote siant in cumpagnia mea.Anghelu de Deu,Custodio meo,Custa nott' illuminame!Guarda e difende a meCa eo mi incommando a tie.
Su letto meo est de battor cantones,
Et battor anghelos si bie ponen;
Duos in pes, et duos in cabitta,
Nostra Segnora a costazu m'ista.
E a me narat: Dormi e reposa,
No hapas paura de mala cosa,
No hapas paura de mala fine.
S' Anghelu Serafine,
S' Anghelu Biancu,
S' Ispiridu Santu,
Sa Vigine Maria,
Tote siant in cumpagnia mea.
Anghelu de Deu,
Custodio meo,
Custa nott' illuminame!
Guarda e difende a me
Ca eo mi incommando a tie.
My bed has four corners and four angels standing by it. Two at the foot and two at the head; our Lady is beside me. And to me she says, "Sleep and repose; have no fear of evil things; have no fear of an evil end." The angel Serafine, the angel Blanche, the Holy Spirit, the Virgin Mary—all are here to keep me company. Angel of God, thou my guardian, illuminate me this night. Watch and defend me, for I commend myself to thee.
My bed has four corners and four angels standing by it. Two at the foot and two at the head; our Lady is beside me. And to me she says, "Sleep and repose; have no fear of evil things; have no fear of an evil end." The angel Serafine, the angel Blanche, the Holy Spirit, the Virgin Mary—all are here to keep me company. Angel of God, thou my guardian, illuminate me this night. Watch and defend me, for I commend myself to thee.
A Spanish verse, so near to this that it would be needless to give it a separate translation, was sent by a friend who at that time was in the Royal College of Santa Ysabel at Madrid:
Quatro pirondelitasTiene mi cama;Quatro angelitosMe la acompaña.La madre de diosEsta enmedio,Dicendome:Duerme y reposa,Que no te sucederaNinguna mala cosa.Amen.
Quatro pirondelitasTiene mi cama;Quatro angelitosMe la acompaña.La madre de diosEsta enmedio,Dicendome:Duerme y reposa,Que no te sucederaNinguna mala cosa.
Quatro pirondelitas
Tiene mi cama;
Quatro angelitos
Me la acompaña.
La madre de dios
Esta enmedio,
Dicendome:
Duerme y reposa,
Que no te sucedera
Ninguna mala cosa.
Amen.
Amen.
In harmony with the leading idea of the White Paternoster, the recumbent figures of the Archbishops in Canterbury Cathedral have angels kneeling at each corner of their altar tombs. It is worth remarking, too, how certain English lettered compositions have become truly popular through the fact of their introducing the same idea. A former Dean of Canterbury once asked an old woman, who lived alone without chick or child, whether she said her prayers? "Oh! yes," was the reply, "I say every night of my life,
"Hush, my babe, lie still in slumber,Holy angels guard thy bed!"
"Hush, my babe, lie still in slumber,Holy angels guard thy bed!"
"Hush, my babe, lie still in slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed!"
The White Paternoster itself, in the form of "Matthew, Mark, Luke, John," was, till lately, a not uncommon evening prayer in the agricultural parts of Kent. At present the orthodox night and morning prayers of the people in Catholic countries are the Lord's Prayer,CredoandAve Maria, but to these, as has been seen, the White Paternoster is often added, and at the date of the Reformation—when the "Hail Mary" had scarcely come into general use—it is probable that it was rarely omitted. Prayers that partake of the nature of charms, have always beenpopular, and people have ever indulged in odd, little roundabout devices to increase the efficacy of even the most sacred words. Boccaccio, for instance, speaks of "the Paternoster of San Giuliano," which seems to have been a Paternoster said for the repose of the souls of the father and mother of St Julian, in gratitude for which attention, the Saint was bound to give a good night's lodging. It remains to be asked, why the White Paternoster is called white? In the actual state of our knowledge, the reason is not apparent; but possibly the term is to be taken simply in an apologetic sense, as when applied to a stated form of dealing with the supernatural. White charms had a recognised place in popular extra-belief. It was sweet to be able to compel the invisible powers to do what you would, and yet to feel secure from uncomfortable consequences. Of course, in such a case, the thing willed must be of an innocent nature. The Breton who begs vengeance of St Yves, knows tolerably well that what he is doing is very black indeed, even though the saint were ten times a saint. Topsy-turvy as may be his moral perceptions, he would not call this procedure a "white charm." He has, however, white charms of his own, one of which was described with great spirit by Auguste Brizeux, the Breton poet who wove many of the wild superstitions of his country into picturesque verse. Brizeux' poems are not very well known either in France or out of it, but they should be dear to students of folk-lore. The following is a version of "La Poussière Sainte:"
Sweeping an ancient chapel through the night(A ruin now), built 'neath a rocky height,The aged Coulm's old wife was muttering,As if some secret strange abroad to fling."I brave, thee tempest, and will do aloneWhat by my grand-dame in her youth was done,When at her beck (of Leon's land, the pride),The ocean, lion-headed, curbed its tide."Sweep, sweep, my broom, until my charm uprearsA force more strong than sighs, more strong than tears:Charm loved of heaven, which forces wind and wave,Though fierce and mad, our children's lives to save."My angel knows, a Christian true am I;No Pagan, nor in league with sorcery.Hence I dispense to the four winds of God,To quell their rage, dust from the holy sod."Sweep on my broom; by virtues such as theseOft through the air I scattered swarms of bees.And you, old Coulm, to-morrow shall be prest,You, and my children three, against my breast."In Enn-Tell's port meanwhile, the pier alongPressed forward, mute, dismayed, the anxious throng.And as the billows howl, the lightnings flash,And skies, lead-black, to earth seem like to dash;Neighbours clasped hand to hand, and each one prayed,Through superstition, speechless, while afraid.Still as the port a sail did safely reach,All shouting hurried forward to the beach:"Father, is't you? Speak, father is it true?"Others, "Hast seen my son?" "My brother, you?""Brave man, the truth, whate'er has happened, say,Am I a widow?" Night in such dismayDragged 'neath a sky without a moon or star.Thank God! Meanwhile all boats in safety are,And every hearth is blazing—all save one,The Columban's. But that was void and lone.But you, Coulm's wife, still battle with the storm,Fixed on the rocks, your task you still perform,—You cast, towards east, towards west, and towards the north,And towards the south, your incantations forth."Go, holy dust, 'gainst all the winds that fly.No sorceress, but a Christian true am I.By the lamp's light, when I the fire had lit,In God's own house, my hands collected it."You from the statues of the saints I swept,And silken flags, still on the pillars kept,And the dark tombs, of those whose sons neglect,But you, with your white winding-sheet protect."Go, holy dust! To stem the winds depart!Born beneath Christian feet, thou glorious art:When from the porch, I to the altar sped,I seemed upon some heavenly path to tread."On you the deacons and the priests have trod,Pilgrims who live, forefathers 'neath the sod;Wood flowers, sweet grains of incense, saintly bones;By dawn you will restore my spouse and sons."She ceased her charm; and from the chapel thenShe saw approach four bare-foot fishermen.The aged dame in tears fell on her kneesAnd cried, "I knew they would escape the seas!"Then cleansing sand and sea-weed o'er them spread,With happy lips she kissed each cherished head.
Sweeping an ancient chapel through the night(A ruin now), built 'neath a rocky height,The aged Coulm's old wife was muttering,As if some secret strange abroad to fling.
Sweeping an ancient chapel through the night
(A ruin now), built 'neath a rocky height,
The aged Coulm's old wife was muttering,
As if some secret strange abroad to fling.
"I brave, thee tempest, and will do aloneWhat by my grand-dame in her youth was done,When at her beck (of Leon's land, the pride),The ocean, lion-headed, curbed its tide.
"I brave, thee tempest, and will do alone
What by my grand-dame in her youth was done,
When at her beck (of Leon's land, the pride),
The ocean, lion-headed, curbed its tide.
"Sweep, sweep, my broom, until my charm uprearsA force more strong than sighs, more strong than tears:Charm loved of heaven, which forces wind and wave,Though fierce and mad, our children's lives to save.
"Sweep, sweep, my broom, until my charm uprears
A force more strong than sighs, more strong than tears:
Charm loved of heaven, which forces wind and wave,
Though fierce and mad, our children's lives to save.
"My angel knows, a Christian true am I;No Pagan, nor in league with sorcery.Hence I dispense to the four winds of God,To quell their rage, dust from the holy sod.
"My angel knows, a Christian true am I;
No Pagan, nor in league with sorcery.
Hence I dispense to the four winds of God,
To quell their rage, dust from the holy sod.
"Sweep on my broom; by virtues such as theseOft through the air I scattered swarms of bees.And you, old Coulm, to-morrow shall be prest,You, and my children three, against my breast."
"Sweep on my broom; by virtues such as these
Oft through the air I scattered swarms of bees.
And you, old Coulm, to-morrow shall be prest,
You, and my children three, against my breast."
In Enn-Tell's port meanwhile, the pier alongPressed forward, mute, dismayed, the anxious throng.And as the billows howl, the lightnings flash,And skies, lead-black, to earth seem like to dash;Neighbours clasped hand to hand, and each one prayed,Through superstition, speechless, while afraid.Still as the port a sail did safely reach,All shouting hurried forward to the beach:"Father, is't you? Speak, father is it true?"Others, "Hast seen my son?" "My brother, you?""Brave man, the truth, whate'er has happened, say,Am I a widow?" Night in such dismayDragged 'neath a sky without a moon or star.Thank God! Meanwhile all boats in safety are,And every hearth is blazing—all save one,The Columban's. But that was void and lone.But you, Coulm's wife, still battle with the storm,Fixed on the rocks, your task you still perform,—You cast, towards east, towards west, and towards the north,And towards the south, your incantations forth.
In Enn-Tell's port meanwhile, the pier along
Pressed forward, mute, dismayed, the anxious throng.
And as the billows howl, the lightnings flash,
And skies, lead-black, to earth seem like to dash;
Neighbours clasped hand to hand, and each one prayed,
Through superstition, speechless, while afraid.
Still as the port a sail did safely reach,
All shouting hurried forward to the beach:
"Father, is't you? Speak, father is it true?"
Others, "Hast seen my son?" "My brother, you?"
"Brave man, the truth, whate'er has happened, say,
Am I a widow?" Night in such dismay
Dragged 'neath a sky without a moon or star.
Thank God! Meanwhile all boats in safety are,
And every hearth is blazing—all save one,
The Columban's. But that was void and lone.
But you, Coulm's wife, still battle with the storm,
Fixed on the rocks, your task you still perform,—
You cast, towards east, towards west, and towards the north,
And towards the south, your incantations forth.
"Go, holy dust, 'gainst all the winds that fly.No sorceress, but a Christian true am I.By the lamp's light, when I the fire had lit,In God's own house, my hands collected it.
"Go, holy dust, 'gainst all the winds that fly.
No sorceress, but a Christian true am I.
By the lamp's light, when I the fire had lit,
In God's own house, my hands collected it.
"You from the statues of the saints I swept,And silken flags, still on the pillars kept,And the dark tombs, of those whose sons neglect,But you, with your white winding-sheet protect.
"You from the statues of the saints I swept,
And silken flags, still on the pillars kept,
And the dark tombs, of those whose sons neglect,
But you, with your white winding-sheet protect.
"Go, holy dust! To stem the winds depart!Born beneath Christian feet, thou glorious art:When from the porch, I to the altar sped,I seemed upon some heavenly path to tread.
"Go, holy dust! To stem the winds depart!
Born beneath Christian feet, thou glorious art:
When from the porch, I to the altar sped,
I seemed upon some heavenly path to tread.
"On you the deacons and the priests have trod,Pilgrims who live, forefathers 'neath the sod;Wood flowers, sweet grains of incense, saintly bones;By dawn you will restore my spouse and sons."
"On you the deacons and the priests have trod,
Pilgrims who live, forefathers 'neath the sod;
Wood flowers, sweet grains of incense, saintly bones;
By dawn you will restore my spouse and sons."
She ceased her charm; and from the chapel thenShe saw approach four bare-foot fishermen.The aged dame in tears fell on her kneesAnd cried, "I knew they would escape the seas!"Then cleansing sand and sea-weed o'er them spread,With happy lips she kissed each cherished head.
She ceased her charm; and from the chapel then
She saw approach four bare-foot fishermen.
The aged dame in tears fell on her knees
And cried, "I knew they would escape the seas!"
Then cleansing sand and sea-weed o'er them spread,
With happy lips she kissed each cherished head.
Several causes have combined to give the professional minstrel a more tenacious hold on life in Italy than in France or Germany or England. One of them is, that Italian culture has always been less dependent on education—or what the English poor call "book-learning"—than the culture of those countries.
To this day you may count upon finding a blind ballad-singer in every Italian city. The connection of blindness with popular songs is a noteworthy thing. It is not, perhaps, a great exaggeration to say that, had there been no blind folks in the world, there would have been few ballads. Who knows, indeed, but that Homer would not have earned his bread by bread-making instead of by enchanting the children and wise men of all after-ages, had he not been "one who followed a guide"? Every one remembers how it was the singing of a "blinde crowder, with no rougher voice than rude style," that moved the heroic heart of Sidney more than the blare of trumpets. Every one may not know that in the East of Europe and in Armenia, "blinde crowders" still wander from village to village, carrying, wheresoever they go, thesongs of a former day and the news of the latest hour; acting, after a fashion, as professors of history and "special correspondents," and keeping alive the sentiment of nationality under circumstances in which, except for their agency, it must almost without a doubt have expired.
When the Austrians occupied Trebinje in the Herzegovina, they forbade the playing of the "guzla," the little stringed instrument which accompanies the ballads; but the ballads will not be forgotten. Proscription does not kill a song. What kills it sometimes, if it have a political sense, is the fulfilment of the hopes it expresses; then it may die a natural death. I hunted all over Naples for some one who could sing a song which every Neapolitan, man and boy, hummed through the year when the Redshirts brought freedom:Camicia rossa, camicia ardente. It seemed that there was not one who still knew it. Just as I was on the point of giving up the search, a blind man was produced out of a tavern at Posilippo; a poor creature in threadbare clothes, holding a wretched violin. He sang the words with spirit and pathos; he is old, however, and perhaps the knowledge of them will not survive him.
Our present business is not with songs of a national or local interest, but with those which can hardly be said to belong to any country in particular. And, first of all, we have to go back to a certainCamillo, detto il Bianchino cieco fiorentino, who sang ballads at Verona in the year 1629, and who had printed for the greater diffusion of his fame a sort of rhymed advertisement containing the first few lines of sometwenty songs that belonged to his repertory. Last but one of these samples stands the following:
"Dov' andastú jersera,Figlioul mio ricco, savio e gentil;Dov' andastú jersera?"
"Dov' andastú jersera,Figlioul mio ricco, savio e gentil;Dov' andastú jersera?"
"Dov' andastú jersera,
Figlioul mio ricco, savio e gentil;
Dov' andastú jersera?"
"When I come to look at it," adds Camillo, "this is too long; it ought to have been the first to be sung"—alluding, of course, to the song, not to the sample.
Later in the same century, the ballad mentioned above had the honour of being cited before a more polite audience than that which was probably in the habit of listening to the blind Florentine. On the 24th of September 1656, Canon Lorenzo Panciatichi reminded his fellow-academicians of the Crusca of what he called "a fine observation" that had been made regarding the song:
"Dov' andastú a cena figlioul mioRicco, savio, e gentile?"
"Dov' andastú a cena figlioul mioRicco, savio, e gentile?"
"Dov' andastú a cena figlioul mio
Ricco, savio, e gentile?"
The observation (continued the Canon) turned on the answer the son makes to the mother when she asks him what his sweetheart gave him for supper. "She gave me," says the son, "un' anguilla arrosto cotta nel pentolin dell' olio." The idea of a roasted eel cooked in an oil pipkin offended the academical sense of the fitness of things; it had therefore been proposed to say instead that the eel was hashed:
"Madonna Madre,Il cuore stá male,Per un anguilla in guazzetto."
"Madonna Madre,Il cuore stá male,Per un anguilla in guazzetto."
"Madonna Madre,
Il cuore stá male,
Per un anguilla in guazzetto."
Had we nothing to guide us beyond these fragments,there could be no question but that in this Italian ballad we might safely recognise one of the most spirited pieces in the whole range of popular literature—the song of Lord Ronald, otherwise Rowlande, or Randal, or "Billy, my son:"
"O where hae ye been, Lord Ronald, my son?O where hae ye been, my handsome young man?""I hae been to the wood; mother, make my bed soon,For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down.""Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Ronald, my son?Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?""I dined wi' my love; mother, make my bed soon,For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down.""What gat ye to dinner, Lord Ronald, my son?What gat ye to dinner, my handsome young man?""I gat eels boil'd in broo; mother, make my bed soon,For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down.""And where are your bloodhounds, Lord Ronald, my son?And where are your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?""O they swell'd and they died; mother, make my bed soon,For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down.""O I fear ye are poison'd, Lord Ronald, my son!O I fear ye are poison'd, my handsome young man!""O yes, I am poison'd! mother, make my bed soon,For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain would lie down."
"O where hae ye been, Lord Ronald, my son?O where hae ye been, my handsome young man?""I hae been to the wood; mother, make my bed soon,For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."
"O where hae ye been, Lord Ronald, my son?
O where hae ye been, my handsome young man?"
"I hae been to the wood; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."
"Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Ronald, my son?Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?""I dined wi' my love; mother, make my bed soon,For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."
"Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Ronald, my son?
Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?"
"I dined wi' my love; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."
"What gat ye to dinner, Lord Ronald, my son?What gat ye to dinner, my handsome young man?""I gat eels boil'd in broo; mother, make my bed soon,For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."
"What gat ye to dinner, Lord Ronald, my son?
What gat ye to dinner, my handsome young man?"
"I gat eels boil'd in broo; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."
"And where are your bloodhounds, Lord Ronald, my son?And where are your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?""O they swell'd and they died; mother, make my bed soon,For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."
"And where are your bloodhounds, Lord Ronald, my son?
And where are your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?"
"O they swell'd and they died; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."
"O I fear ye are poison'd, Lord Ronald, my son!O I fear ye are poison'd, my handsome young man!""O yes, I am poison'd! mother, make my bed soon,For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain would lie down."
"O I fear ye are poison'd, Lord Ronald, my son!
O I fear ye are poison'd, my handsome young man!"
"O yes, I am poison'd! mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain would lie down."
This version, which I quote from Mr Allingham'sBallad Book(1864), ends here; so does that given by Sir Walter Scott in theBorder Minstrelsy. There is, however, another version which goes on:
"What will ye leave to your father, Lord Ronald, my son?What will ye leave to your father, my handsome young man?""Baith my houses and land; mither, mak' my bed suneFor I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun.""What will ye leave to your brither, Lord Ronald, my son?What will ye leave to your brither, my handsome young man?""My horse and my saddle; mither, mak' my bed sune,For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun.""What will ye leave to your sister, Lord Ronald, my son?What will ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?""Baith my gold box and rings; mither, mak' my bed sune,For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun.""What will ye leave to your true love, Lord Ronald, my son?What will ye leave to your true love, my handsome young man?""The tow and the halter, for to hang on yon tree,And let her hang there for the poisoning o' me."
"What will ye leave to your father, Lord Ronald, my son?What will ye leave to your father, my handsome young man?""Baith my houses and land; mither, mak' my bed suneFor I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun."
"What will ye leave to your father, Lord Ronald, my son?
What will ye leave to your father, my handsome young man?"
"Baith my houses and land; mither, mak' my bed sune
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun."
"What will ye leave to your brither, Lord Ronald, my son?What will ye leave to your brither, my handsome young man?""My horse and my saddle; mither, mak' my bed sune,For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun."
"What will ye leave to your brither, Lord Ronald, my son?
What will ye leave to your brither, my handsome young man?"
"My horse and my saddle; mither, mak' my bed sune,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun."
"What will ye leave to your sister, Lord Ronald, my son?What will ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?""Baith my gold box and rings; mither, mak' my bed sune,For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun."
"What will ye leave to your sister, Lord Ronald, my son?
What will ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?"
"Baith my gold box and rings; mither, mak' my bed sune,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun."
"What will ye leave to your true love, Lord Ronald, my son?What will ye leave to your true love, my handsome young man?""The tow and the halter, for to hang on yon tree,And let her hang there for the poisoning o' me."
"What will ye leave to your true love, Lord Ronald, my son?
What will ye leave to your true love, my handsome young man?"
"The tow and the halter, for to hang on yon tree,
And let her hang there for the poisoning o' me."
Lord Ronald has already been met with, though somewhat disguised, both in Germany and in Sweden, but his appearance two hundred and fifty years ago at Verona has a peculiar interest attached to it. That England shares most of her songs with the Northern nations is a fact familiar to all; but, unless I am mistaken, this is almost the first time of discovering a purely popular British ballad in an Italian dress.
It so happens that to the fragments quoted by Camillo and the Canon can be added the complete story as sung at the present date in Tuscany, Venetia, and Lombardy. Professor d'Ancona has taken pains to collate the slightly different texts, because few Italian folk-songs now extant can be traced even as far back as the seventeenth century. The learned Professor, whose great antiquarian services are well known, does not seem to be aware that the song has currency out of Italy. The best version is one set down from word of mouth in the district of Como, and of this I subjoin a literal rendering:
"Where were you yester eve?My son, beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,Where were you yester eve?""I with my love abode;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:I with my love abode;Alas, alas, that I should have to die.""What supper gave she you?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,What supper gave she you?""I supped on roasted eel;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:I supped on roasted eel;Alas, alas, that I should have to die.""And did you eat it all?My son, beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,And did you eat it all?""Only the half I eat;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:Only the half I eat;Alas, alas, that I should have to die.""Where went the other half?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,Where went the other half?""I gave it to the dog;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:I gave it to the dog;Alas, alas, that I should have to die?""What did you with the dog?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,What did you with the dog?""It died upon the way;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:It died upon the way;Alas, alas, that I should have to die.""Poisoned it must have been!My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,Poisoned it must have been!""Quick for the doctor send;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:Quick for the doctor send;Alas, alas, that I should have to die."Wherefore the doctor call?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,Wherefore the doctor call?""That he may visit me;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:That he may visit me;Alas, alas, that I should have to die.". . . . . ."Quick for the parson send;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:Quick for the parson send;Alas, alas, that I should have to die.""Wherefore the parson call?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,Wherefore the parson call?""So that I may confess;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:So that I may confess;Alas, alas, that I should have to die.". . . . . ."Send for the notary;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:Send for the notary;Alas, alas, that I should have to die.""Why call the notary?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,Why call the notary?""To make my testament;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:To make my testament;Alas, alas, that I should have to die.""What to your mother leave?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,What to your mother leave?""To her my palace goes;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:To her my palace goes;Alas, alas, that I should have to die.""What to your brothers leave?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,What to your brothers leave?""To them the coach and team;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:To them the coach and team;Alas, alas, that I should have to die.""What to your sisters leave?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,What to your sisters leave?""A dower to marry them;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:A dower to marry them;Alas, alas, that I should have to die.""What to your servants leave?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,What to your servants leave?""The road to go to Mass;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:The road to go to Mass;Alas, alas, that I should have to die.""What leave you to your tomb?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,What leave you to your tomb?""Masses seven score and ten;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:Masses seven score and ten;Alas, alas, that I should have to die.""What leave you to your love?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,What leave you to your love?""The tree to hang her on;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:The tree to hang her on;Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"Where were you yester eve?My son, beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,Where were you yester eve?""I with my love abode;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:I with my love abode;Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"Where were you yester eve?
My son, beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
Where were you yester eve?"
"I with my love abode;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
I with my love abode;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What supper gave she you?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,What supper gave she you?""I supped on roasted eel;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:I supped on roasted eel;Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What supper gave she you?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What supper gave she you?"
"I supped on roasted eel;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
I supped on roasted eel;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"And did you eat it all?My son, beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,And did you eat it all?""Only the half I eat;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:Only the half I eat;Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"And did you eat it all?
My son, beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
And did you eat it all?"
"Only the half I eat;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
Only the half I eat;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"Where went the other half?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,Where went the other half?""I gave it to the dog;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:I gave it to the dog;Alas, alas, that I should have to die?"
"Where went the other half?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
Where went the other half?"
"I gave it to the dog;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
I gave it to the dog;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die?"
"What did you with the dog?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,What did you with the dog?""It died upon the way;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:It died upon the way;Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What did you with the dog?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What did you with the dog?"
"It died upon the way;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
It died upon the way;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"Poisoned it must have been!My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,Poisoned it must have been!""Quick for the doctor send;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:Quick for the doctor send;Alas, alas, that I should have to die.
"Poisoned it must have been!
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
Poisoned it must have been!"
"Quick for the doctor send;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
Quick for the doctor send;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die.
"Wherefore the doctor call?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,Wherefore the doctor call?""That he may visit me;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:That he may visit me;Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"Wherefore the doctor call?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
Wherefore the doctor call?"
"That he may visit me;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
That he may visit me;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
. . . . . .
. . . . . .
"Quick for the parson send;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:Quick for the parson send;Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"Quick for the parson send;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
Quick for the parson send;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"Wherefore the parson call?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,Wherefore the parson call?""So that I may confess;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:So that I may confess;Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"Wherefore the parson call?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
Wherefore the parson call?"
"So that I may confess;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
So that I may confess;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
. . . . . .
. . . . . .
"Send for the notary;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:Send for the notary;Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"Send for the notary;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
Send for the notary;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"Why call the notary?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,Why call the notary?""To make my testament;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:To make my testament;Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"Why call the notary?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
Why call the notary?"
"To make my testament;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
To make my testament;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What to your mother leave?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,What to your mother leave?""To her my palace goes;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:To her my palace goes;Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What to your mother leave?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What to your mother leave?"
"To her my palace goes;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
To her my palace goes;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What to your brothers leave?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,What to your brothers leave?""To them the coach and team;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:To them the coach and team;Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What to your brothers leave?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What to your brothers leave?"
"To them the coach and team;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
To them the coach and team;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What to your sisters leave?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,What to your sisters leave?""A dower to marry them;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:A dower to marry them;Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What to your sisters leave?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What to your sisters leave?"
"A dower to marry them;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
A dower to marry them;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What to your servants leave?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,What to your servants leave?""The road to go to Mass;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:The road to go to Mass;Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What to your servants leave?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What to your servants leave?"
"The road to go to Mass;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
The road to go to Mass;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What leave you to your tomb?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,What leave you to your tomb?""Masses seven score and ten;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:Masses seven score and ten;Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What leave you to your tomb?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What leave you to your tomb?"
"Masses seven score and ten;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
Masses seven score and ten;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What leave you to your love?My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,What leave you to your love?""The tree to hang her on;O lady mother, my heart is very sick:The tree to hang her on;Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What leave you to your love?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What leave you to your love?"
"The tree to hang her on;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
The tree to hang her on;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
At first sight it would seem that the supreme dramatic element of the English song—the circumstance that the mother does not know, but only suspects, with increasing conviction, the presence of foul play—is weakened in the Lombard ballad by the refrain, "Alas, alas, that I should have to die." But a little more reflection will show that this is essentially of the nature of anaside. In many instances the office of the burden in old ballads resembles that of the chorus in a Greek play: it is designed to suggest to the audience a clue to the events enacting which is not possessed by thedramatis personæ—at least not by all of them.
In the northern songs, Lord Ronald is a murdered child: a character in which he likewise figures in the Scotch lay of "The Croodlin Doo." This is the Swedish variant:
"Where hast thou been so long, my little daughter?""I have been to Bœnne to see my brother;Alas! how I suffer.""What gave they thee to eat, my little daughter?""Roast eel and pepper, my step-mother.Alas! how I suffer.""What didst thou do with the bones, my little daughter?""I threw them to the dogs, my step-mother.Alas! how I suffer.""What happened to the dogs, my little daughter?""Their bodies went to pieces, my step-mother.Alas! how I suffer.""What dost thou wish for thy father, my little daughter?""Good grain in the grange, my step-mother.Alas! how I suffer.""What dost thou wish for thy brother, my little daughter?""A big ship to sail in, my step-mother.Alas! how I suffer.""What dost thou wish for thy sister, my little daughter?""Coffers and caskets of gold, my step-mother.Alas! how I suffer.""What dost thou wish for thy step-mother, my little daughter?""The chains of hell, step-mother.Alas! how I suffer.""What dost thou wish for thy nurse, my little daughter?""The same hell, my nurse.Alas! how I suffer."
"Where hast thou been so long, my little daughter?""I have been to Bœnne to see my brother;Alas! how I suffer."
"Where hast thou been so long, my little daughter?"
"I have been to Bœnne to see my brother;
Alas! how I suffer."
"What gave they thee to eat, my little daughter?""Roast eel and pepper, my step-mother.Alas! how I suffer."
"What gave they thee to eat, my little daughter?"
"Roast eel and pepper, my step-mother.
Alas! how I suffer."
"What didst thou do with the bones, my little daughter?""I threw them to the dogs, my step-mother.Alas! how I suffer."
"What didst thou do with the bones, my little daughter?"
"I threw them to the dogs, my step-mother.
Alas! how I suffer."
"What happened to the dogs, my little daughter?""Their bodies went to pieces, my step-mother.Alas! how I suffer."
"What happened to the dogs, my little daughter?"
"Their bodies went to pieces, my step-mother.
Alas! how I suffer."
"What dost thou wish for thy father, my little daughter?""Good grain in the grange, my step-mother.Alas! how I suffer."
"What dost thou wish for thy father, my little daughter?"
"Good grain in the grange, my step-mother.
Alas! how I suffer."
"What dost thou wish for thy brother, my little daughter?""A big ship to sail in, my step-mother.Alas! how I suffer."
"What dost thou wish for thy brother, my little daughter?"
"A big ship to sail in, my step-mother.
Alas! how I suffer."
"What dost thou wish for thy sister, my little daughter?""Coffers and caskets of gold, my step-mother.Alas! how I suffer."
"What dost thou wish for thy sister, my little daughter?"
"Coffers and caskets of gold, my step-mother.
Alas! how I suffer."
"What dost thou wish for thy step-mother, my little daughter?""The chains of hell, step-mother.Alas! how I suffer."
"What dost thou wish for thy step-mother, my little daughter?"
"The chains of hell, step-mother.
Alas! how I suffer."
"What dost thou wish for thy nurse, my little daughter?""The same hell, my nurse.Alas! how I suffer."
"What dost thou wish for thy nurse, my little daughter?"
"The same hell, my nurse.
Alas! how I suffer."
A point connected with the diffusion of ballads is the extraordinarily wide adoption of certain conventional forms. One of these is the form of testamentary instructions by means of which the plot of a song is worked up to its climax. It reappears in the "Cruel Brother"—which, I suppose, is altogether to be regarded as of the Roland type:
"O what would ye leave to your father, dear?"With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay."The milk-white steed that brought me here,"As the primrose spreads so sweetly."What would ye give to your mother, dear?"With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay."My wedding shift which I do wear,"As the primrose spreads so sweetly."But she must wash it very clean,"With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay,"For my heart's blood sticks in every seam,"As the primrose spreads so sweetly."What would ye give to your sister Anne?"With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay."My gay gold ring and my feathered fan,"As the primrose spreads so sweetly."What would ye give to your brother John?"With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay."A rope and a gallows to hang him on!"As the primrose spreads so sweetly."What would ye give to your brother John's wife?"With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay."Grief and sorrow to end her life!"As the primrose spreads so sweetly."What would ye give to your own true lover?"With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay."My dying kiss, and my love for ever!"As the primrose spreads so sweetly.
"O what would ye leave to your father, dear?"With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay."The milk-white steed that brought me here,"As the primrose spreads so sweetly.
"O what would ye leave to your father, dear?"
With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay.
"The milk-white steed that brought me here,"
As the primrose spreads so sweetly.
"What would ye give to your mother, dear?"With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay."My wedding shift which I do wear,"As the primrose spreads so sweetly.
"What would ye give to your mother, dear?"
With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay.
"My wedding shift which I do wear,"
As the primrose spreads so sweetly.
"But she must wash it very clean,"With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay,"For my heart's blood sticks in every seam,"As the primrose spreads so sweetly.
"But she must wash it very clean,"
With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay,
"For my heart's blood sticks in every seam,"
As the primrose spreads so sweetly.
"What would ye give to your sister Anne?"With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay."My gay gold ring and my feathered fan,"As the primrose spreads so sweetly.
"What would ye give to your sister Anne?"
With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay.
"My gay gold ring and my feathered fan,"
As the primrose spreads so sweetly.
"What would ye give to your brother John?"With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay."A rope and a gallows to hang him on!"As the primrose spreads so sweetly.
"What would ye give to your brother John?"
With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay.
"A rope and a gallows to hang him on!"
As the primrose spreads so sweetly.
"What would ye give to your brother John's wife?"With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay."Grief and sorrow to end her life!"As the primrose spreads so sweetly.
"What would ye give to your brother John's wife?"
With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay.
"Grief and sorrow to end her life!"
As the primrose spreads so sweetly.
"What would ye give to your own true lover?"With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay."My dying kiss, and my love for ever!"As the primrose spreads so sweetly.
"What would ye give to your own true lover?"
With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay.
"My dying kiss, and my love for ever!"
As the primrose spreads so sweetly.
The Portuguese ballad of "Helena," which has not much in common with "Lord Roland"—except that it is a story of treachery—is brought into relation with it by its bequests. Helena is a blameless wife whom a cruel mother-in-law first encourages to pay a visit to her parents, and then represents to her husband as having run away from him in his absence. No sooner has he returned from his journey than he rides irate after his wife. When he arrives he is met by the news that a son is born to him, but unappeased he orders the young mother to rise from her bed and follow him. She obeys, saying that in a well-ordered marriage it is the husband who commands; only, before she goes, she kisses her son and bids her mother tell him of these kisses when he grows up. Then her husband takes her to a high mountain, where the agony of death comes upon her. Thehusband asks: "To whom leavest thou thy jewels?" She answers: "To my sister; if thou wilt permit it." "To whom leavest thou thy cross and the stones of thy necklace?" "The cross I leave to my mother; surely she will pray for me; she will not care to have the stones, thou canst keep them—if to another thou givest them, better than I, let her adorn herself with them." "Thy substance, to whom leavest thou?" "To thee, my husband; God grant it may profit thee." "To whom leavest thou thy son, that he may be well brought up?" "To thy mother, and may it please God that he should make himself loved of her." "Not to that dog," cries the husband, his eyes at last opened, "she might well kill him. Leave him rather to thy mother, who will bring him up well; she will know how to wash him with her tears, and she will take the coif from her head to swaddle him."
A strange, wild Roumanian song, translated by Mr C. F. Keary (Nineteenth Century, No. lxviii.), closes with a list of "gifts" of the same character: