XXI.THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION.

FOOTNOTES:[394][See vol. ii. book i. No. 15.][395]The king says this.[396][The head, feet, and ears of swine boiled and pickled for eating.â€”Halliwell's Dictionary.][397][Ver. 80. courtnalls, that courteous be.MS. and P.][398][A favourite liquor among the common people, composed of ale and roasted apples, the pulp of the apple worked up with the ale till the mixture formed a smooth beverage.Nares' Glossary.][399][Ver. 57.for good hap:i.e.for good luck; they were going on an hazardous expedition.][400][strutted.][401][Ver. 60. Maid Marian in the Morris dance, was represented by a man in woman's cloaths, who was to take short steps in order to sustain the female character.][402][forthwith.]

[394][See vol. ii. book i. No. 15.]

[395]The king says this.

[396][The head, feet, and ears of swine boiled and pickled for eating.â€”Halliwell's Dictionary.]

[397][Ver. 80. courtnalls, that courteous be.MS. and P.]

[398][A favourite liquor among the common people, composed of ale and roasted apples, the pulp of the apple worked up with the ale till the mixture formed a smooth beverage.Nares' Glossary.]

[399][Ver. 57.for good hap:i.e.for good luck; they were going on an hazardous expedition.]

[400][strutted.]

[401][Ver. 60. Maid Marian in the Morris dance, was represented by a man in woman's cloaths, who was to take short steps in order to sustain the female character.]

[402][forthwith.]

Thisbeautiful old song was written by a poet, whose name would have been utterly forgotten, if it had not been preserved bySwift, as a term of contempt.DrydenandWitherare coupled by him like theBaviusandMÃ¦viusof Virgil.Dryden, however, has had justice done him by posterity: and as forWither, though of subordinate merit, that he was not altogether devoid of genius, will be judged from the following stanzas. The truth is,Witherwas a very voluminous party-writer: and as his political and satyrical strokes rendered him extremely popular in his life-time; so afterwards, when these were no longer relished, they totally consigned his writings to oblivion.

George Witherwas born June 11, 1588, and in his younger years distinguished himself by some pastoral pieces, that were not inelegant; but growing afterwards involved in the political and religious disputes in the times of James I. and Charles I. he employed his poetical vein in severe pasquils on the court and clergy, and was occasionally a sufferer for the freedom of his pen. In the civil war that ensued, he exerted himself in the service of the Parliament, and became a considerable sharer in the spoils. He was even one of those provincial tyrants, whom Oliver distributed over the kingdom, under the name of Major Generals; and had the fleecing of the county of Surrey: but surviving the Restoration, he outlived both his power and his affluence; andgiving vent to his chagrin in libels on the court, was long a prisoner in Newgate and the Tower. He died at length on the 2d of May, 1667.

During the whole course of his life,Witherwas a continual publisher; having generally for opponent,Taylorthe Water-poet. The long list of his productions may be seen in Wood'sAthenÃ¦.Oxon.vol. ii. His most popular satire is intitled,Abuses whiptand stript, 1613. His most poetical pieces were eclogues, intitled,The Shepherd's Hunting, 1615, 8vo. and others printed at the end of Browne'sShepherd's Pipe, 1614, 8vo. The following sonnet is extracted from a long pastoral piece of his, intitled,The Mistresseof Philarete, 1622, 8vo. which is said in the preface to be one of the Author's first poems; and may therefore be dated as early as any of the foregoing.

[This favourite song appeared in 1619, appended to Wither'sFidelia, and again in hisJuveniliain 1633 inFair Virtue themistress of Philarete. It was reprinted again and again, and occurs in the Folio MS. (ed. Hales and Furnivall, vol. ii. p. 50).Mr. Chappell refers to a copy in the Pepys Collection entitled,A New Song of a young man's opinion of the difference between goodand bad women, the first line of which is, "Shall Iwrestlingin despaire?" This reading seems to have been pretty popular, as Mr. Chappell gives two instances of the tune being called "ShallI wrastle in despair?" Mr. Chappell prints a song in the same metre and with a similar burden, which has been attributed on insufficient evidence to Sir Walter Raleigh. The first stanza is as follows:â€”

Mr. Chappell refers to a copy in the Pepys Collection entitled,A New Song of a young man's opinion of the difference between goodand bad women, the first line of which is, "Shall Iwrestlingin despaire?" This reading seems to have been pretty popular, as Mr. Chappell gives two instances of the tune being called "ShallI wrastle in despair?" Mr. Chappell prints a song in the same metre and with a similar burden, which has been attributed on insufficient evidence to Sir Walter Raleigh. The first stanza is as follows:â€”

"Shall I like a hermit dwellOn a rock or in a cell?Calling home the smallest partThat is missing of my heart,To bestow it where I mayMeet a rival every day?If she undervalues meWhat care I how fair she be."

Popular Music of the Olden Time, vol. i. p. 315.]

Shall I, wasting in dispaire,Dye because a woman's faire?Or make pale my cheeks with care,'Cause another's rosie are?Be shee fairer then the day,5Or the flowery meads in may;If she be not so to me,[403]What care I how faire shee be?Shall my foolish heart be pin'd,'Cause I see a woman kind?10Or a well-disposed natureJoyned with a lovely feature?Be she meeker, kinder, thanThe turtle-dove or pelican:If shee be not so to me,15What care I how kind shee be?Shall a woman's virtues moveMe to perish for her love?Or, her well-deservings knowne,Make me quite forget mine owne?20Be shee with that goodnesse blest,Which may merit name of Best;If she be not such to me,[404]What care I how good she be?Cause her fortune seems too high,[405]25Shall I play the foole and dye?[405]Those that beare a noble minde,[405]Where they want of riches find,[405]Think what with them they would doe,[405]That without them dare to woe;[405]30And, unlesse that minde I see,[405]What care I how great she be?[405]Great or good, or kind or faire,I will ne'er the more dispaire:If she love me, this beleeve;35I will die ere she shall grieve.If she slight me when I wooe,I can scorn and let her goe:If shee be not fit for me,What care I for whom she be?40

Shall my foolish heart be pin'd,'Cause I see a woman kind?10Or a well-disposed natureJoyned with a lovely feature?Be she meeker, kinder, thanThe turtle-dove or pelican:If shee be not so to me,15What care I how kind shee be?

Shall a woman's virtues moveMe to perish for her love?Or, her well-deservings knowne,Make me quite forget mine owne?20Be shee with that goodnesse blest,Which may merit name of Best;If she be not such to me,[404]What care I how good she be?

Cause her fortune seems too high,[405]25Shall I play the foole and dye?[405]Those that beare a noble minde,[405]Where they want of riches find,[405]Think what with them they would doe,[405]That without them dare to woe;[405]30And, unlesse that minde I see,[405]What care I how great she be?[405]

Great or good, or kind or faire,I will ne'er the more dispaire:If she love me, this beleeve;35I will die ere she shall grieve.If she slight me when I wooe,I can scorn and let her goe:If shee be not fit for me,What care I for whom she be?40

FOOTNOTES:[403][Ver. 7. if shee thinke not well of mee, MS.][404][V. 23. soe to me, MS.][405][V. 25-32. this stanza is not in the MS.]

[403][Ver. 7. if shee thinke not well of mee, MS.]

[404][V. 23. soe to me, MS.]

[405][V. 25-32. this stanza is not in the MS.]

Suchis the title given in the editor's folio MS.[406]to this excellent old ballad, which, in the common printed copies, is inscribed,Eneas, wandering Prince of Troy. It is here given from that MS. collated with two different printed copies, both in black-letter, in the Pepys Collection.

The reader will smile to observe with what natural and affecting simplicity, our ancient ballad-maker has engrafted a Gothic conclusion on the classic story of Virgil, from whom, however, it is probable he had it not. Nor can it be denied, but he has dealt out his poetical justice with a more impartial hand, than that celebrated poet.

[This once popular ballad was entered on the Registers of the Stationers Company in 1564-5 as "a ballett intituledThe WanderyngePrince." Its great popularity is evidenced by the frequent references in literature and the large number of ballads sung to the tune ofQueen DidoorTroy towne. InThe Penniless Parliament ofThreadbare Poets, 1608, ale-knights are said to "singQueen Didoover a cup and tell strange news over an ale-pot," and the same song is referred to in Fletcher'sCaptain(act iii. sc. 3) and hisBonduca, act i. sc. 2.The only tune that Mr. Chappell could find for the ballad was one by Dr. John Wilson (the Jack Wilson of Shakspere's stage according to Dr. Rimbault), which is printed in hisCheerful Ayresor Ballads, Oxford, 1660.]

The only tune that Mr. Chappell could find for the ballad was one by Dr. John Wilson (the Jack Wilson of Shakspere's stage according to Dr. Rimbault), which is printed in hisCheerful Ayresor Ballads, Oxford, 1660.]

When Troy towne had, for ten yeeres "past,"[407]Withstood the Greekes in manfull wise,Then did their foes encrease soe fast,That to resist none could suffice:Wast lye those walls, that were soe good,5And corne now growes where Troy towne stoode.Ã†neas, wandering prince of Troy,When he for land long time had sought,At length arriving with great joy,To mighty Carthage walls was brought;10Where Dido queene, with sumptuous feast,Did entertaine that wandering guest.And, as in hall at meate, they sate,The queene, desirous newes to heare,"Says, of thy Troys unhappy fate"15Declare to me thou Trojan deare:The heavy hap and chance soe bad,That thou, poore wandering prince, hast had,And then anon this comelye knight,With words demure, as he cold well,20Of his unhappy ten yeares "fight,"Soe true a tale began to tell,With words soe sweete, and sighes so deepe,That oft he made them all to weepe.And then a thousand sighes he fet,[408]25And every sigh brought teares amaine;That where he sate the place was wett,As though he had seene those warrs againe;Soe that the queene, with ruth therfore,Said, worthy prince, enough, no more.30And then the darksome night drew on,And twinkling starres the skye bespred;When he his dolefull tale had done,And every one was layd in bedd:Where they full sweetly tooke their rest,35Save only Dido's boyling brest.This silly woman never slept,But in her chamber, all alone,As one unhappye, alwayes wept,And to the walls shee made her mone;40That she shold still desire in vaineThe thing, she never must obtaine.And thus in grieffe she spent the night,Till twinkling starres the skye were fled,And PhÅ“bus, with his glistering light,45Through misty cloudes appeared red;Then tidings came to her anon,That all the Trojan shipps were gone.And then the queene with bloody knifeDid arme her hart as hard as stone,50Yet, something loth to loose her life,In woefull wise she made her mone;And, rowling on her carefull bed,With sighes and sobbs, these words shee sayd:O wretched Dido queene! quoth shee,55I see thy end approacheth neare;For hee is fled away from thee,Whom thou didst love and hold so deare:What is he gone, and passed by?O hart, prepare thyselfe to dye.60Though reason says, thou shouldst forbeare,And stay thy hand from bloudy stroke;Yet fancy bids thee not to fear,Which fetter'd thee in Cupids yoke.Come death, quoth shee, resolve my smart!â€”65And with those words shee peerced her hart.When death had pierced the tender hartOf Dido, Carthaginian queene;Whose bloudy knife did end the smart,Which shee sustain'd in mournfull teene[409];70Ã†neas being shipt and gone,Whose flattery caused all her mone;Her funerall most costly made,And all things finisht mournfullye;Her body fine in mold was laid,75Where itt consumed speedilye:Her sisters teares her tombe bestrewde;Her subjects griefe their kindnesse shewed.Then was Ã†neas in an ileIn Grecya, where he stayd long space,80Wheras her sister in short whileWritt to him to his vile disgrace;In speeches bitter to his mindShee told him plaine he was unkind.False-harted wretch, quoth shee, thou art;85And traiterouslye thou hast betraidUnto thy lure a gentle hart,Which unto thee much welcome made;My sister deare, and Carthage' joy,Whose folly bred her deere annoy.90Yett on her death-bed when shee lay,Shee prayd for thy prosperitye,Beseeching god, that every dayMight breed thy great felicitye:Thus by thy meanes I lost a friend;95Heavens send thee such untimely end.When he these lines, full fraught with gall,Perused had, and wayed them right,His lofty courage then did fall;And straight appeared in his sight100Queene Dido's ghost, both grim and pale;Which made this valliant souldier quaile.Ã†neas, quoth this ghastly ghost,My whole delight when I did live,Thee of all men I loved most;105My fancy and my will did give;For entertainment I thee gave,Unthankefully thou didst me grave.Therfore prepare thy flitting souleTo wander with me in the aire;110Where deadlye griefe shall make it howle,Because of me thou tookst no care:Delay not time, thy glasse is run,Thy date is past, thy life is done.O stay a while, thou lovely sprite,115Be not soe hasty to convayMy soule into eternall night,Where itt shall ne're behold bright day.O doe not frowne; thy angry looke,Hath "all my soule with horror shooke."[410]120But, woe is me! all is in vaine,And bootless is my dismall crye;Time will not be recalled againe,Nor thou surcease before I dye.O lett me live, and make amends125To some of thy most deerest friends.But seeing thou obdurate art,And wilt no pittye on me show,Because from thee I did depart,And left unpaid what I did owe:130I must content myselfe to takeWhat lott to me thou wilt partake.And thus, as one being in a trance,A multitude of uglye feindsAbout this woffull prince did dance;135He had no helpe of any friends:His body then they tooke away,And no man knew his dying day.

Ã†neas, wandering prince of Troy,When he for land long time had sought,At length arriving with great joy,To mighty Carthage walls was brought;10Where Dido queene, with sumptuous feast,Did entertaine that wandering guest.

And, as in hall at meate, they sate,The queene, desirous newes to heare,"Says, of thy Troys unhappy fate"15Declare to me thou Trojan deare:The heavy hap and chance soe bad,That thou, poore wandering prince, hast had,

And then anon this comelye knight,With words demure, as he cold well,20Of his unhappy ten yeares "fight,"Soe true a tale began to tell,With words soe sweete, and sighes so deepe,That oft he made them all to weepe.

And then a thousand sighes he fet,[408]25And every sigh brought teares amaine;That where he sate the place was wett,As though he had seene those warrs againe;Soe that the queene, with ruth therfore,Said, worthy prince, enough, no more.30

And then the darksome night drew on,And twinkling starres the skye bespred;When he his dolefull tale had done,And every one was layd in bedd:Where they full sweetly tooke their rest,35Save only Dido's boyling brest.

This silly woman never slept,But in her chamber, all alone,As one unhappye, alwayes wept,And to the walls shee made her mone;40That she shold still desire in vaineThe thing, she never must obtaine.

And thus in grieffe she spent the night,Till twinkling starres the skye were fled,And PhÅ“bus, with his glistering light,45Through misty cloudes appeared red;Then tidings came to her anon,That all the Trojan shipps were gone.

And then the queene with bloody knifeDid arme her hart as hard as stone,50Yet, something loth to loose her life,In woefull wise she made her mone;And, rowling on her carefull bed,With sighes and sobbs, these words shee sayd:

O wretched Dido queene! quoth shee,55I see thy end approacheth neare;For hee is fled away from thee,Whom thou didst love and hold so deare:What is he gone, and passed by?O hart, prepare thyselfe to dye.60

Though reason says, thou shouldst forbeare,And stay thy hand from bloudy stroke;Yet fancy bids thee not to fear,Which fetter'd thee in Cupids yoke.Come death, quoth shee, resolve my smart!â€”65And with those words shee peerced her hart.

When death had pierced the tender hartOf Dido, Carthaginian queene;Whose bloudy knife did end the smart,Which shee sustain'd in mournfull teene[409];70Ã†neas being shipt and gone,Whose flattery caused all her mone;

Her funerall most costly made,And all things finisht mournfullye;Her body fine in mold was laid,75Where itt consumed speedilye:Her sisters teares her tombe bestrewde;Her subjects griefe their kindnesse shewed.

Then was Ã†neas in an ileIn Grecya, where he stayd long space,80Wheras her sister in short whileWritt to him to his vile disgrace;In speeches bitter to his mindShee told him plaine he was unkind.

False-harted wretch, quoth shee, thou art;85And traiterouslye thou hast betraidUnto thy lure a gentle hart,Which unto thee much welcome made;My sister deare, and Carthage' joy,Whose folly bred her deere annoy.90

Yett on her death-bed when shee lay,Shee prayd for thy prosperitye,Beseeching god, that every dayMight breed thy great felicitye:Thus by thy meanes I lost a friend;95Heavens send thee such untimely end.

When he these lines, full fraught with gall,Perused had, and wayed them right,His lofty courage then did fall;And straight appeared in his sight100Queene Dido's ghost, both grim and pale;Which made this valliant souldier quaile.

Ã†neas, quoth this ghastly ghost,My whole delight when I did live,Thee of all men I loved most;105My fancy and my will did give;For entertainment I thee gave,Unthankefully thou didst me grave.

Therfore prepare thy flitting souleTo wander with me in the aire;110Where deadlye griefe shall make it howle,Because of me thou tookst no care:Delay not time, thy glasse is run,Thy date is past, thy life is done.

O stay a while, thou lovely sprite,115Be not soe hasty to convayMy soule into eternall night,Where itt shall ne're behold bright day.O doe not frowne; thy angry looke,Hath "all my soule with horror shooke."[410]120

But, woe is me! all is in vaine,And bootless is my dismall crye;Time will not be recalled againe,Nor thou surcease before I dye.O lett me live, and make amends125To some of thy most deerest friends.

But seeing thou obdurate art,And wilt no pittye on me show,Because from thee I did depart,And left unpaid what I did owe:130I must content myselfe to takeWhat lott to me thou wilt partake.

And thus, as one being in a trance,A multitude of uglye feindsAbout this woffull prince did dance;135He had no helpe of any friends:His body then they tooke away,And no man knew his dying day.

FOOTNOTES:[406][Ed. Hales and Furnivall, vol. iii. p. 502.][407][Ver. 1. 21. war. MS. and PP.][408]fetched.[409][trouble.][410]Ver. 120. MS.Hathmade my breath my life forsooke.

[406][Ed. Hales and Furnivall, vol. iii. p. 502.]

[407][Ver. 1. 21. war. MS. and PP.]

[408]fetched.

[409][trouble.]

[410]Ver. 120. MS.Hathmade my breath my life forsooke.

FromBen Jonson'sMasque of Queenspresented at Whitehall, Feb. 2, 1609.

The editor thought it incumbent on him to insert some old pieces on the popular superstition concerning witches, hobgoblins, fairies, and ghosts. The last of these make their appearance in most of the tragical ballads; and in the following songs will be found some description of the former.

It is true, this song of the Witches, falling from the learned pen of Ben Jonson, is rather an extract from the various incantations of classical antiquity, than a display of the opinions of our own vulgar. But let it be observed, that a parcel of learned wiseacres had just before busied themselves on this subject, in complimentto K. James I. whose weakness on this head is well known: and these had so ransacked all writers, ancient and modern, and so blended and kneaded together the several superstitions of different times and nations, that those of genuine English growth could no longer be traced out and distinguished.

By good luck the whimsical belief of fairies and goblins could furnish no pretences for torturing our fellow-creatures, and therefore we have this handed down to us pure and unsophisticated.

1 Witch.[411]

I have been all day looking afterA raven feeding upon a quarter;And, soone as she turn'd her beak to the south,I snatch'd this morsell out of her mouth.

2 Witch.

I have beene gathering wolves haires,5The madd dogges foames, and adders eares;The spurging of a deadmans eyes:And all since the evening starre did rise.

3 Witch.

I last night lay all aloneO' the ground, to heare the mandrake grone;10And pluckt him up, though he grew full low:And, as I had done, the cocke did crow.

4 Witch.

And I ha' beene chusing out this scullFrom charnell houses that were full;From private grots, and publike pits;15And frighted a sexton out of his wits.

5 Witch.

Under a cradle I did crepeBy day; and, when the childe was a-sleepeAt night, I suck'd the breath; and rose,And pluck'd the nodding nurse by the nose.20

6 Witch.

I had a dagger: what did I with that?Killed an infant to have his fat.A piper it got at a church-ale,[412]I bade him again blow wind i' the taile.

7 Witch.

A murderer, yonder, was hung in chaines;25The sunne and the wind had shrunke his veines:I bit off a sinew; I clipp'd his haire;I brought off his ragges, that danc'd i' the ayre.

8 Witch.

The scrich-owles egges and the feathers blacke,The bloud of the frogge, and the bone in his backe30I have been getting; and made of his skinA purset, to keep sir Cranion[413]in.

9 Witch.

And I ha' beene plucking (plants among)Hemlock, henbane, adders-tongue,Night-shade, moone-wort, libbards-bane[414];35And twise by the dogges was like to be tane.

10 Witch.

I from the jawes of a gardiner's bitchDid snatch these bones, and then leap'd the ditch:Yet went I back to the house againe,Kill'd the blacke cat, and here is the braine.40

11 Witch.

I went to the toad, breedes under the wall,I charmed him out, and he came at my call;I scratch'd out the eyes of the owle before;I tore the batts wing: what would you have more?

Dame.[415]

Yes: I have brought, to helpe your vows,45Horned poppie, cypresse boughes,The fig-tree wild, that growes on tombes,And juice, that from the larch-tree comes,The basiliskes bloud, and the viper's skin:And now our orgies let's begin.50

FOOTNOTES:[411][These witches are called Hags by Jonson.][412][a wake or feast in commemoration of the dedication of a church.][413][skull.][414][the herb wolfbane.][415][Jonson meant the Dame to represent Ate or the goddess of Mischief.]

[411][These witches are called Hags by Jonson.]

[412][a wake or feast in commemoration of the dedication of a church.]

[413][skull.]

[414][the herb wolfbane.]

[415][Jonson meant the Dame to represent Ate or the goddess of Mischief.]

AliasPucke, aliasHobgoblin, in the creed of ancient superstition, was a kind of merry sprite, whose character and atchievements are recorded in this ballad, and in those well-known lines of Milton'sL'Allegro, which the antiquarian Peck supposes to be owing to it:

"Tells how the drudgingGoblinswetTo earn his creame-bowle duly set;When in one night ere glimpse of morne,His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the cornThat ten day-labourers could not end;Then lies him down the lubber fiend,And stretch'd out all the chimneys length,Basks at the fire his hairy strength,And crop-full out of doors he flings,Ere the first cock his matins rings."

The reader will observe that our simple ancestors had reduced all these whimsies to a kind of system, as regular, and perhaps more consistent, than many parts of classic mythology: a proof of the extensive influence and vast antiquity of these superstitions. Mankind, and especially the common people, could not every where have been so unanimously agreed concerning these arbitrary notions, if they had not prevailed among them for many ages. Indeed, a learned friend in Wales assures the Editor, that the existence of Fairies and Goblins is alluded to by the most ancient British Bards, who mention them under various names, one of the most common of which signifies,The spirits of themountains. See also Preface to Song XXV.

This song, which Peck attributes to Ben Jonson, (tho' it is not found among his works) is chiefly printed from an ancient black-letter copy in the British Museum. It seems to have been originally intended for some Masque.

It is intitled, in the old black-letter copies,The mad merryPrankes of Robin Goodfellow. To the tune ofDulcina, &c. (See No. XIII. above.)

To one, if not more of the old copies, are prefixed two wooden cuts, said to be taken from Bulwer'sArtificial Changeling, &c., which, as they seem to correspond with the notions then entertained of the whimsical appearances of this fantastic spirit, and perhaps were copied in the dresses in which he was formerly exhibited on the stage, are, to gratify the curious, engraven below.

[The copy in the RoxburgheCollection(ed. Chappell, vol. ii. pl. i. p. 80) is printed by H[enry] G[osson], who was a contemporary of Ben Jonson. Some little books in prose onRobin Goodfellow, written in the seventeenth century, were printed for the Percy Society by Mr. J. P. Collier.]

From Oberon, in fairye land,The king of ghosts and shadowes there,Mad Robin I, at his command,Am sent to viewe the night-sports here.What revell rout5Is kept about,In every corner where I go,I will o'ersee,And merry bee,And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho!10More swift than lightening can I flyeAbout this aery welkin soone,And, in a minutes space, descryeEach thing that's done belowe the moone,There's not a hag15Or ghost shall wag,Or cry, ware Goblins! where I go;But Robin ITheir feates will spy,And send them home, with ho, ho, ho!20Whene'er such wanderers I meete,As from their night-sports they trudge home;With counterfeiting voice I greeteAnd call them on, with me to roameThro' woods, thro' lakes,25Thro' bogs, thro' brakes;Or else, unseene, with them I go,All in the nickeTo play some trickeAnd frolicke it, with ho, ho, ho!30Sometimes I meete them like a man;Sometimes, an ox, sometimes, a hound;And to a horse I turn me can;To trip and trot about them round.But if, to ride,35My backe they stride,More swift than wind away I go,Ore hedge and lands,Thro' pools and pondsI whirry, laughing, ho, ho, ho!40When lads and lasses merry be,With possets and with juncates fine;Unseene of all the company,I eat their cakes and sip their wine;And, to make sport,45I fart and snort;And out the candles I do blow:The maids I kiss;They shriekeâ€”Who's this?I answer nought, but ho, ho, ho!50Yet now and then, the maids to please,At midnight I card up their wooll;And while they sleepe, and take their ease,With wheel to threads their flax I pull.I grind at mill55Their malt up still;I dress their hemp, I spin their tow.If any 'wake,And would me take,I wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho!60When house or harth doth sluttish lye,[416]I pinch the maidens blacke and blue;The bed-clothes from the bedd pull I,And lay them naked all to view.'Twixt sleepe and wake,65I do them take,And on the key-cold floor them throw.If out they cry,Then forth I fly,And loudly laugh out, ho, ho, ho!70When any need to borrowe ought,We lend them what they do require;And for the use demand we nought;Our owne is all we do desire.If to repay,75They do delay,Abroad amongst them then I go,And night by night,I them affrightWith pinchings, dreames, and ho, ho, ho!80When lazie queans have nought to do,But study how to cog and lye;To make debate and mischief too,'Twixt one another secretlye:I marke their gloze,85And it disclose,To them whom they have wronged so;When I have done,I get me gone,And leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho!90When men do traps and engins setIn loop-holes, where the vermine creepe,Who from their foldes and houses, getTheir duckes and geese, and lambes and sheepe:I spy the gin,95And enter in,And seeme a vermine taken so;But when they thereApproach me neare,I leap out laughing, ho, ho, ho!100By wells and rills,[417]in meadowes greene,We nightly dance our hey-day guise;[418]And to our fairye king, and queene,We chant our moon-light minstrelsies.When larks 'gin sing,105Away we fling;And babes new borne steal as we go,And else in bed,We leave instead,And wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho!110From hag-bred Merlin's time have IThus nightly revell'd to and fro:And for my pranks men call me byThe name of Robin Good-fellow.Fiends, ghosts, and sprites,115Who haunt the nightes,The hags and goblins do me know;And beldames oldMy feates have told;SoVale, Vale; ho, ho, ho!120

More swift than lightening can I flyeAbout this aery welkin soone,And, in a minutes space, descryeEach thing that's done belowe the moone,There's not a hag15Or ghost shall wag,Or cry, ware Goblins! where I go;But Robin ITheir feates will spy,And send them home, with ho, ho, ho!20

Whene'er such wanderers I meete,As from their night-sports they trudge home;With counterfeiting voice I greeteAnd call them on, with me to roameThro' woods, thro' lakes,25Thro' bogs, thro' brakes;Or else, unseene, with them I go,All in the nickeTo play some trickeAnd frolicke it, with ho, ho, ho!30

Sometimes I meete them like a man;Sometimes, an ox, sometimes, a hound;And to a horse I turn me can;To trip and trot about them round.But if, to ride,35My backe they stride,More swift than wind away I go,Ore hedge and lands,Thro' pools and pondsI whirry, laughing, ho, ho, ho!40

When lads and lasses merry be,With possets and with juncates fine;Unseene of all the company,I eat their cakes and sip their wine;And, to make sport,45I fart and snort;And out the candles I do blow:The maids I kiss;They shriekeâ€”Who's this?I answer nought, but ho, ho, ho!50

Yet now and then, the maids to please,At midnight I card up their wooll;And while they sleepe, and take their ease,With wheel to threads their flax I pull.I grind at mill55Their malt up still;I dress their hemp, I spin their tow.If any 'wake,And would me take,I wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho!60

When house or harth doth sluttish lye,[416]I pinch the maidens blacke and blue;The bed-clothes from the bedd pull I,And lay them naked all to view.'Twixt sleepe and wake,65I do them take,And on the key-cold floor them throw.If out they cry,Then forth I fly,And loudly laugh out, ho, ho, ho!70

When any need to borrowe ought,We lend them what they do require;And for the use demand we nought;Our owne is all we do desire.If to repay,75They do delay,Abroad amongst them then I go,And night by night,I them affrightWith pinchings, dreames, and ho, ho, ho!80

When lazie queans have nought to do,But study how to cog and lye;To make debate and mischief too,'Twixt one another secretlye:I marke their gloze,85And it disclose,To them whom they have wronged so;When I have done,I get me gone,And leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho!90

When men do traps and engins setIn loop-holes, where the vermine creepe,Who from their foldes and houses, getTheir duckes and geese, and lambes and sheepe:I spy the gin,95And enter in,And seeme a vermine taken so;But when they thereApproach me neare,I leap out laughing, ho, ho, ho!100

By wells and rills,[417]in meadowes greene,We nightly dance our hey-day guise;[418]And to our fairye king, and queene,We chant our moon-light minstrelsies.When larks 'gin sing,105Away we fling;And babes new borne steal as we go,And else in bed,We leave instead,And wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho!110

From hag-bred Merlin's time have IThus nightly revell'd to and fro:And for my pranks men call me byThe name of Robin Good-fellow.Fiends, ghosts, and sprites,115Who haunt the nightes,The hags and goblins do me know;And beldames oldMy feates have told;SoVale, Vale; ho, ho, ho!120

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