My lute, awake! perform the lastLabor that thou and I shall waste;And end that I have now begun:And when this song is sung and past,My lute! be still, for I have done.As to be heard where ear is none;As lead to grave in marble stone,My song may pierce her heart as soon;Should we then sing, or sigh, or moan?No, no, my lute! for I have done.The rock doth not so cruelly,Repulse the waves continually,As she my suit and affection:So that I am past remedy;Whereby my lute and I have done.Proud of the spoil that thou hast gotOf simple hearts thorough Love's shot,By whom, unkind, thou hast them won;Think not he hath his bow forgot,Although my lute and I have done.Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain,That makest but game of earnest pain;Trow not alone under the sunUnquit to cause thy lovers plain,Although my lute and I have done.May chance thee lie withered and oldIn winter nights, that are so cold,Plaining in vain unto the moon;Thy wishes then dare not be told:Care then who list, for I have done.And then may chance thee to repentThe time that thou hast lost and spent,To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon:Then shalt thou know beauty but lent,And wish and want, as I have done.Now cease, my lute! This is the lastLabor that thou and I shall waste;And ended is that we begun:Now is thy song both sung and past;My lute, be still, for I have done.
My lute, awake! perform the lastLabor that thou and I shall waste;And end that I have now begun:And when this song is sung and past,My lute! be still, for I have done.
As to be heard where ear is none;As lead to grave in marble stone,My song may pierce her heart as soon;Should we then sing, or sigh, or moan?No, no, my lute! for I have done.
The rock doth not so cruelly,Repulse the waves continually,As she my suit and affection:So that I am past remedy;Whereby my lute and I have done.
Proud of the spoil that thou hast gotOf simple hearts thorough Love's shot,By whom, unkind, thou hast them won;Think not he hath his bow forgot,Although my lute and I have done.
Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain,That makest but game of earnest pain;Trow not alone under the sunUnquit to cause thy lovers plain,Although my lute and I have done.
May chance thee lie withered and oldIn winter nights, that are so cold,Plaining in vain unto the moon;Thy wishes then dare not be told:Care then who list, for I have done.
And then may chance thee to repentThe time that thou hast lost and spent,To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon:Then shalt thou know beauty but lent,And wish and want, as I have done.
Now cease, my lute! This is the lastLabor that thou and I shall waste;And ended is that we begun:Now is thy song both sung and past;My lute, be still, for I have done.
In court to serve, decked with fresh array,Of sugared meats feeling the sweet repast;The life in banquets and sundry kinds of play,Amid the press of worldly looks to waste:Hath with it joined oft times such bitter taste,That whoso joyes such kind of life to hold,In prison joyes, fettered with chains of gold.
In court to serve, decked with fresh array,Of sugared meats feeling the sweet repast;The life in banquets and sundry kinds of play,Amid the press of worldly looks to waste:Hath with it joined oft times such bitter taste,That whoso joyes such kind of life to hold,In prison joyes, fettered with chains of gold.
—At the threshold of her chamber doorThe Carthage lords did on the Queen attend:The trampling steed, with gold and purple trapped,Chewing the foaming bit there fiercely stood.Then issued she, awaited with great train,Clad in a cloak of Tyre embroidered rich.Her quiver hung behind her back, her tressKnotted in gold, her purple vesture ekeButtoned with gold. The Trojans of her trainBefore her go, with gladsome Iulus.Æneas eke, the goodliest of the rout,Makes one of them, and joineth close the throng.Like when Apollo leaveth Lycia,His wint'ring place, and Xanthus, stood likewise,To visit Delos his mother's mansion,Repairing eft and furnishing her quire.The Candians and the folk of Driopes,With painted Agathyrsi shout and cry,Environing the altars round about,When that he walks upon Mount Cynthus' top,His sparkled tress repressed with garlands softOf tender leaves, and trussed up in gold,His quiver and darts clattering behind his back—So fresh and lusty did Æneas seem.But to the hills and wild holts when they cameFrom the rock's top the driven savage rose.So, from the hills above on the other side,Through the wide lawns they gan to take their course.The harts likewise, in troops taking their flight,Raising the dust, the mountain-fast forsake.The child Iulus, blithe of his swift steedAmids the plain, now pricks by them, by these;And to the encounter wisheth oft, in mind,The foaming boar instead of fearful beasts,Or lion brown, might from the hill descend.
—At the threshold of her chamber doorThe Carthage lords did on the Queen attend:The trampling steed, with gold and purple trapped,Chewing the foaming bit there fiercely stood.Then issued she, awaited with great train,Clad in a cloak of Tyre embroidered rich.Her quiver hung behind her back, her tressKnotted in gold, her purple vesture ekeButtoned with gold. The Trojans of her trainBefore her go, with gladsome Iulus.Æneas eke, the goodliest of the rout,Makes one of them, and joineth close the throng.Like when Apollo leaveth Lycia,His wint'ring place, and Xanthus, stood likewise,To visit Delos his mother's mansion,Repairing eft and furnishing her quire.The Candians and the folk of Driopes,With painted Agathyrsi shout and cry,Environing the altars round about,When that he walks upon Mount Cynthus' top,His sparkled tress repressed with garlands softOf tender leaves, and trussed up in gold,His quiver and darts clattering behind his back—So fresh and lusty did Æneas seem.But to the hills and wild holts when they cameFrom the rock's top the driven savage rose.So, from the hills above on the other side,Through the wide lawns they gan to take their course.The harts likewise, in troops taking their flight,Raising the dust, the mountain-fast forsake.The child Iulus, blithe of his swift steedAmids the plain, now pricks by them, by these;And to the encounter wisheth oft, in mind,The foaming boar instead of fearful beasts,Or lion brown, might from the hill descend.
This short extract is given as a sample of the first blank verse written in the English language. The spelling has been modernized.
From Tuscan' came my lady's worthy race;Fair Florence was some time their ancient seat;The western isle, whose pleasant shore doth faceWild Camber's cliffs, did give her lively heat:Fostered she was with milk of Irish breast;Her sire an earl; her dame of princes' blood:From tender years, in Britain she doth restWith king's child, where she tasteth costly food.Hunsdon did first present her to my een:Bright is her hue, and Geraldine she hight:Hampton me taught to wish her first for mine:And Windsor, alas, doth chase me from her sight.Her beauty of kind, her virtues from above;Happy is he that can obtain her love.
From Tuscan' came my lady's worthy race;Fair Florence was some time their ancient seat;The western isle, whose pleasant shore doth faceWild Camber's cliffs, did give her lively heat:Fostered she was with milk of Irish breast;Her sire an earl; her dame of princes' blood:From tender years, in Britain she doth restWith king's child, where she tasteth costly food.Hunsdon did first present her to my een:Bright is her hue, and Geraldine she hight:Hampton me taught to wish her first for mine:And Windsor, alas, doth chase me from her sight.Her beauty of kind, her virtues from above;Happy is he that can obtain her love.
Wyatt resteth here that quick could never rest:Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain,And virtue sank the deeper in his breast;Such profit he by envy could obtain.A head where wisdom mysteries did frame,Whose hammers beat still in that lively brain,As on a stithe where that some work of fameWas daily wrought, to turn to Britain's gain.A hand that taught what might be said in rhyme;That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit;A mark, the which (unperfected for time)Some may approach, but never none shall hit.An eye whose judgment none effect could blind,Friends to allure and foes to reconcile,Whose piercing look did represent a mindWith virtue fraught reposed void of guile.A heart where dread was never so imprestTo hide the thought that might the truth advance;In neither fortune lost, nor yet represt,To swell in wealth, or yield unto mischance.A valiant corpse, where force and beauty met,Happy alas, too happy but for foes,Lived, and ran the race that nature setOf manhood's shape, when she the mould did lose.Thus for our guilt this jewel have we lost;The earth his bones, the heavens possess his ghost.
Wyatt resteth here that quick could never rest:Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain,And virtue sank the deeper in his breast;Such profit he by envy could obtain.
A head where wisdom mysteries did frame,Whose hammers beat still in that lively brain,As on a stithe where that some work of fameWas daily wrought, to turn to Britain's gain.
A hand that taught what might be said in rhyme;That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit;A mark, the which (unperfected for time)Some may approach, but never none shall hit.
An eye whose judgment none effect could blind,Friends to allure and foes to reconcile,Whose piercing look did represent a mindWith virtue fraught reposed void of guile.
A heart where dread was never so imprestTo hide the thought that might the truth advance;In neither fortune lost, nor yet represt,To swell in wealth, or yield unto mischance.
A valiant corpse, where force and beauty met,Happy alas, too happy but for foes,Lived, and ran the race that nature setOf manhood's shape, when she the mould did lose.
Thus for our guilt this jewel have we lost;The earth his bones, the heavens possess his ghost.
WyattandSurreyare usually named together as the most illustrious poets of the earlier part of the sixteenth century. J. Churton Collins calls them, not inaptly, "the Dioscuri of the Dawn." "They inaugurated," he says, "that important period in our literature known as the Era of Italian Influence, or that of the Company of Courtly Makers—the period which immediately preceded and ushered in the age of Spenser and Shakespeare." It is to them that we are indebted for the sonnet: they were indeed the founders of our lyrical poetry. Jonson, Herrick, Waller, Cowley, and Suckling found inspiration in their ditties. Surrey's translation of the second and fourth books of Virgil's "Æneid" (1552) is the earliest specimen of blank verse in our language.
Thomas Wyattwas born at Allington Castle in 1503, and in his youth was a prominent and very popular member of the court of Henry VIII. He was knighted in 1536, and in 1537 became high sheriff of Kent. In April of the same year he was sent as ambassador to Spain, and in 1539-40 was with the court of Charles V. in the Low Countries. Returning to England he lived for the next two years in retirement, and died at Sherborne in 1542.
Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, was born about 1517, and, like his friend Wyatt, passed his youth at the court of Henry VIII. He served in France in 1540, and again in 1544-46. After taking Boulogne, he became its governor; but, on account of defeat soon afterwards at St. Etienne, he was recalled to England by Henry VIII. His comments upon this action of the king caused his arrest and imprisonment in the Tower. A charge of high treason was preferred against him for having quartered the royal arms with his own, and he was beheaded on Tower Hill, January 21, 1547.
O waly,1waly, up the bank,O waly, waly, doun the brae,2And waly, waly, yon burn-side,3Where I and my love were wont to gae!I lean'd my back unto an aik,I thocht it was a trustie tree,But first it bow'd and syne4it brak',—Sae my true love did lichtlie5me.O waly, waly, but love be bonnieA little time while it is new!But when it's auld it waxeth cauld,And fadeth awa' like the morning dew.O wherefore should I busk6my heid,Or wherefore should I kame my hair?For my true love has me forsook,And says he'll never lo'e me mair.Noo Arthur's Seat7sall be my bed,The sheets sall ne'er be press'd by me;Saint Anton's well sall be my drink;Since my true love's forsaken me.Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,And shake the green leaves off the tree?O gentle death, when wilt thou come?For of my life I am wearie.'Tis not the frost that freezes fell,Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie,'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry;But my love's heart grown cauld to me.When we cam' in by Glasgow toun,We were a comely sicht to see;My love was clad in the black velvet,And I mysel' in cramasie.But had I wist before I kiss'dThat love had been so ill to win,I'd lock'd my heart in a case o' goud,And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin.Oh, oh! if my young babe were born,And set upon the nurse's knee;An' I mysel' were dead and gane,And the green grass growing over me!
O waly,1waly, up the bank,O waly, waly, doun the brae,2And waly, waly, yon burn-side,3Where I and my love were wont to gae!I lean'd my back unto an aik,I thocht it was a trustie tree,But first it bow'd and syne4it brak',—Sae my true love did lichtlie5me.
O waly, waly, but love be bonnieA little time while it is new!But when it's auld it waxeth cauld,And fadeth awa' like the morning dew.O wherefore should I busk6my heid,Or wherefore should I kame my hair?For my true love has me forsook,And says he'll never lo'e me mair.
Noo Arthur's Seat7sall be my bed,The sheets sall ne'er be press'd by me;Saint Anton's well sall be my drink;Since my true love's forsaken me.Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,And shake the green leaves off the tree?O gentle death, when wilt thou come?For of my life I am wearie.
'Tis not the frost that freezes fell,Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie,'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry;But my love's heart grown cauld to me.When we cam' in by Glasgow toun,We were a comely sicht to see;My love was clad in the black velvet,And I mysel' in cramasie.
But had I wist before I kiss'dThat love had been so ill to win,I'd lock'd my heart in a case o' goud,And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin.Oh, oh! if my young babe were born,And set upon the nurse's knee;An' I mysel' were dead and gane,And the green grass growing over me!
"This is a very ancient song," says Bishop Percy, "but we can only give it from a modern copy." It is often printed as part of a ballad relating to the history of Lord James Douglas and of the Laird of Blackwood. The lament is that of a beautiful lady whose fortunes were connected with those of Lord Douglas.
1.waly.An interjection denoting grief.
2.brae.Hillside.
3.burn-side.Brook-side.
4.syne.Then.
5.lichtlie.Slight, undervalue.
6.busk.Dress.
7.Arthur's Seat.A hill near Edinburgh, at the foot of which is St. Anthony's well.
[This ballad is a confused echo of the Scotch expedition which should have brought the Maid of Norway to Scotland about 1285.]
[This ballad is a confused echo of the Scotch expedition which should have brought the Maid of Norway to Scotland about 1285.]
The king sits in Dunfermline town,Drinking the blude-red wine;"O whare will I get a skeely skipper,To sail this new ship of mine!"O up and spake an eldern knight,Sat at the king's right knee,—"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor,That ever sail'd the sea."Our king has written a braid letter,And seal'd it with his hand,And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,Was walking on the strand."To Noroway, to Noroway,To Noroway o'er the faem;The king's daughter of Noroway,'Tis thou maun bring her hame."The first word that Sir Patrick read,Sae loud, loud laughed he;The neist word that Sir Patrick read,The tear blinded his e'e."O wha is this has done this deed,And tauld the king o' me,To send us out, at this time of the year,To sail upon the sea?"Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,Our ship must sail the faem;The king's daughter of Noroway,'Tis we must fetch her hame."They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,Wi' a' the speed they may;They hae landed in Noroway,Upon a Wodensday.They hadna been a week, a week,In Noroway, but twae,When that the lords o' NorowayBegan aloud to say,—"Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud,And a' our queenis fee.""Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!Fu' loud I hear ye lie."For I brought as much white monie,As gane my men and me,And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goud,Out o'er the sea wi' me."Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a'!Our gude ship sails the morn.""Now, ever alake, my master dear,I fear a deadly storm!"I saw the new moon, late yestreen,Wi' the auld moon in her arm;And, if we gang to sea, master,I fear we'll come to harm."They had not sailed a league, a league,A league but barely three,When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,And gurly grew the sea.The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap,It was sic a deadly storm;And the waves cam o'er the broken ship,Till a' her sides were torn."O where will I get a gude sailor,To take my helm in hand,Till I get up to the tall top-mast,To see if I can spy land?""O here am I, a sailor gude,To take the helm in hand,Till you go up to the tall top-mast;But I fear you'll ne'er spy land."He hadna gane a step, a step,A step but barely ane,When a bout flew out of our goodly ship,And the salt sea it came in."Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith,Another o' the twine,And wap them into our ship's side,And let na the sea come in."They fetched a web o' the silken claith,Another of the twine,And wapped them round that gude ship's side,But still the sea came in.O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lordsTo weet their cork-heel'd shoon!But lang or a' the play was play'd,They wat their hats aboon.And mony was the feather-bed,That flattered on the faem;And mony was the gude lord's son,That never mair cam hame.The ladyes wrang their fingers white,The maidens tore their hair,A' for the sake of their true loves;For them they'll see na mair.O lang, lang, may the ladyes sit,Wi' their fans into their hand,Before they see Sir Patrick SpensCome sailing to the strand!And lang, lang, may the maidens sit,Wi' their goud kaims in their hair,A' waiting for their ain dear loves!For them they'll see na mair.O forty miles off Aberdeen,'Tis fifty fathoms deep,And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.
The king sits in Dunfermline town,Drinking the blude-red wine;"O whare will I get a skeely skipper,To sail this new ship of mine!"
O up and spake an eldern knight,Sat at the king's right knee,—"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor,That ever sail'd the sea."
Our king has written a braid letter,And seal'd it with his hand,And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,Was walking on the strand.
"To Noroway, to Noroway,To Noroway o'er the faem;The king's daughter of Noroway,'Tis thou maun bring her hame."
The first word that Sir Patrick read,Sae loud, loud laughed he;The neist word that Sir Patrick read,The tear blinded his e'e.
"O wha is this has done this deed,And tauld the king o' me,To send us out, at this time of the year,To sail upon the sea?
"Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,Our ship must sail the faem;The king's daughter of Noroway,'Tis we must fetch her hame."
They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,Wi' a' the speed they may;They hae landed in Noroway,Upon a Wodensday.
They hadna been a week, a week,In Noroway, but twae,When that the lords o' NorowayBegan aloud to say,—
"Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud,And a' our queenis fee.""Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!Fu' loud I hear ye lie.
"For I brought as much white monie,As gane my men and me,And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goud,Out o'er the sea wi' me.
"Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a'!Our gude ship sails the morn.""Now, ever alake, my master dear,I fear a deadly storm!
"I saw the new moon, late yestreen,Wi' the auld moon in her arm;And, if we gang to sea, master,I fear we'll come to harm."
They had not sailed a league, a league,A league but barely three,When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,And gurly grew the sea.
The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap,It was sic a deadly storm;And the waves cam o'er the broken ship,Till a' her sides were torn.
"O where will I get a gude sailor,To take my helm in hand,Till I get up to the tall top-mast,To see if I can spy land?"
"O here am I, a sailor gude,To take the helm in hand,Till you go up to the tall top-mast;But I fear you'll ne'er spy land."
He hadna gane a step, a step,A step but barely ane,When a bout flew out of our goodly ship,And the salt sea it came in.
"Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith,Another o' the twine,And wap them into our ship's side,And let na the sea come in."
They fetched a web o' the silken claith,Another of the twine,And wapped them round that gude ship's side,But still the sea came in.
O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lordsTo weet their cork-heel'd shoon!But lang or a' the play was play'd,They wat their hats aboon.
And mony was the feather-bed,That flattered on the faem;And mony was the gude lord's son,That never mair cam hame.
The ladyes wrang their fingers white,The maidens tore their hair,A' for the sake of their true loves;For them they'll see na mair.
O lang, lang, may the ladyes sit,Wi' their fans into their hand,Before they see Sir Patrick SpensCome sailing to the strand!
And lang, lang, may the maidens sit,Wi' their goud kaims in their hair,A' waiting for their ain dear loves!For them they'll see na mair.
O forty miles off Aberdeen,'Tis fifty fathoms deep,And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.
This ballad in its original form is a very old one, and was probably at first a metrical story of the Scotch expedition which was sent to bring the Maid of Norway to Scotland (about the year 1285). In its sixteenth-centuryform it shows many changes and additions, some of which are not in harmony with the original tale. Thecork-heel'd shoon, for example, were unknown until some hundreds of years later than the occurrence of the events here narrated.
skeely, skilful.gane, suffice.skipper, captain.half-fou, a quart, dry measure.braid, open, not private.alake, alack.goud, gold.lift, sky. (Still used in Scotland.)fee(see note 13, page105).shoon, shoes.
There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe,And he was a squires son;He loved the bayliffes daughter deare,That lived in Islington.Yet she was coye, and would not believeThat he did love her soe,Noe nor at any time would sheAny countenance to him showe.But when his friendes did understandHis fond and foolish minde,They sent him up to faire London,An apprentice for to binde.And when he had been seven long yeares,And never his love could see,—"Many a teare have I shed for her sake,When she little thought of mee."Then all the maids of IslingtonWent forth to sport and playe,All but the bayliffes daughter deare;She secretly stole awaye.She pulled off her gowne of greene,And put on ragged attire,And to faire London she would goHer true love to enquire.And as she went along the high road,The weather being hot and drye,She sat her downe upon a green bank,And her true love came riding bye.She started up, with a colour soe redd,Catching hold of his bridle-reine;"One penny, one penny, kind sir," she sayd,"Will ease me of much paine.""Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart,Praye tell me where you were borne.""At Islington, kind sir," sayd shee,"Where I have had many a scorne.""I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee,O tell me, whether you knoweThe bayliffes daughter of Islington.""She is dead, sir, long agoe.""If she be dead, then take my horse,My saddle and bridle also;For I will into some farr countrye,Where noe man shall me knowe.""O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe,She standeth by thy side;She is here alive, she is not dead,And readye to be thy bride.""O farewell griefe, and welcome joye,Ten thousand times therefore;For nowe I have founde mine owne true love,Whom I thought I should never see more."
There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe,And he was a squires son;He loved the bayliffes daughter deare,That lived in Islington.
Yet she was coye, and would not believeThat he did love her soe,Noe nor at any time would sheAny countenance to him showe.
But when his friendes did understandHis fond and foolish minde,They sent him up to faire London,An apprentice for to binde.
And when he had been seven long yeares,And never his love could see,—"Many a teare have I shed for her sake,When she little thought of mee."
Then all the maids of IslingtonWent forth to sport and playe,All but the bayliffes daughter deare;She secretly stole awaye.
She pulled off her gowne of greene,And put on ragged attire,And to faire London she would goHer true love to enquire.
And as she went along the high road,The weather being hot and drye,She sat her downe upon a green bank,And her true love came riding bye.
She started up, with a colour soe redd,Catching hold of his bridle-reine;"One penny, one penny, kind sir," she sayd,"Will ease me of much paine."
"Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart,Praye tell me where you were borne.""At Islington, kind sir," sayd shee,"Where I have had many a scorne."
"I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee,O tell me, whether you knoweThe bayliffes daughter of Islington.""She is dead, sir, long agoe."
"If she be dead, then take my horse,My saddle and bridle also;For I will into some farr countrye,Where noe man shall me knowe."
"O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe,She standeth by thy side;She is here alive, she is not dead,And readye to be thy bride."
"O farewell griefe, and welcome joye,Ten thousand times therefore;For nowe I have founde mine owne true love,Whom I thought I should never see more."
There are twelve months in all the year,As I hear many say,But the merriest month in all the yearIs the merry month of May.Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone,With a link a down, and a day,And there he met a silly old woman,Was weeping on the way."What news? what news? thou silly old woman,What news hast thou for me?"Said she, "There's my three sons in Nottingham townTo-day condemned to die.""O, have they parishes burnt?" he said,"Or have they ministers slain?Or have they robbed any virgin?Or other men's wives have ta'en?""They have no parishes burnt, good sir,Nor yet have ministers slain,Nor have they robbed any virgin,Nor other men's wives have ta'en.""O, what have they done?" said Robin Hood,"I pray thee tell to me.""It's for slaying of the king's fallow deer,Bearing their long bows with thee.""Dost thou not mind, old woman," he said,"How thou madest me sup and dine?By the truth of my body," quoth bold Robin Hood,"You could not tell it in better time."Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone,With a link a down, and a day,And there he met with a silly old palmer,Was walking along the highway."What news? what news? thou silly old man,What news, I do thee pray?"Said he, "Three squires in Nottingham townAre condemn'd to die this day.""Come change thy apparel with me, old man,Come change thy apparel for mine;Here is ten shillings in good silvèr,Go drink it in beer or wine.""O, thine apparel is good," he said,"And mine is ragged and torn;Wherever you go, wherever you ride,Laugh not an old man to scorn.""Come change thy apparel with me, old churl,Come change thy apparel with mine;Here is a piece of good broad gold,Go feast thy brethren with wine."Then he put on the old man's hat,It stood full high on the crown:"The first bold bargain that I come at,It shall make thee come down."Then he put on the old man's cloak,Was patch'd black, blue, and red;He thought it no shame, all the day long,To wear the bags of bread.Then he put on the old man's breeks,Was patch'd from leg to side:"By the truth of my body," bold Robin can say,"This man loved little pride."Then he put on the old man's hose,Were patch'd from knee to wrist:"By the truth of my body," said bold Robin Hood,"I'd laugh if I had any list."Then he put on the old man's shoes,Were patch'd both beneath and aboon;Then Robin Hood swore a solemn oath,"It's good habit that makes a man."Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone,With a link a down and a down,And there he met with the proud sheriff,Was walking along the town."Save you, save you, sheriff!" he said;"Now heaven you save and see!And what will you give to a silly old manTo-day will your hangman be?""Some suits, some suits," the sheriff he said,"Some suits I'll give to thee;Some suits, some suits, and pence thirteen,To-day's a hangman's fee."Then Robin he turns him round about,And jumps from stock to stone:"By the truth of my body," the sheriff he said,"That's well jumpt, thou nimble old man.""I was ne'er a hangman in all my life,Nor yet intends to trade;But curst be he," said bold Robin,"That first a hangman was made!"I've a bag for meal, and a bag for malt,And a bag for barley and corn;And a bag for bread, and a bag for beef,And a bag for my little small horn."I have a horn in my pockèt,I got it from Robin Hood,And still when I set it to my mouth,For thee it blows little good.""O, wind thy horn, thou proud fellòw!Of thee I have no doubt.I wish that thou give such a blast,Till both thy eyes fall out."The first loud blast that he did blow,He blew both loud and shrill;A hundred and fifty of Robin Hood's menCame riding over the hill.The next loud blast that he did give,He blew both loud and amain,And quickly sixty of Robin Hood's menCame shining over the plain."O, who are these," the sheriff he said,"Come tripping over the lee?""They're my attendants," brave Robin did say;"They'll pay a visit to thee."They took the gallows from the slack,They set it in the glen,They hanged the proud sherìff on that,Released their own three men.
There are twelve months in all the year,As I hear many say,But the merriest month in all the yearIs the merry month of May.
Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone,With a link a down, and a day,And there he met a silly old woman,Was weeping on the way.
"What news? what news? thou silly old woman,What news hast thou for me?"Said she, "There's my three sons in Nottingham townTo-day condemned to die."
"O, have they parishes burnt?" he said,"Or have they ministers slain?Or have they robbed any virgin?Or other men's wives have ta'en?"
"They have no parishes burnt, good sir,Nor yet have ministers slain,Nor have they robbed any virgin,Nor other men's wives have ta'en."
"O, what have they done?" said Robin Hood,"I pray thee tell to me.""It's for slaying of the king's fallow deer,Bearing their long bows with thee."
"Dost thou not mind, old woman," he said,"How thou madest me sup and dine?By the truth of my body," quoth bold Robin Hood,"You could not tell it in better time."
Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone,With a link a down, and a day,And there he met with a silly old palmer,Was walking along the highway.
"What news? what news? thou silly old man,What news, I do thee pray?"Said he, "Three squires in Nottingham townAre condemn'd to die this day."
"Come change thy apparel with me, old man,Come change thy apparel for mine;Here is ten shillings in good silvèr,Go drink it in beer or wine."
"O, thine apparel is good," he said,"And mine is ragged and torn;Wherever you go, wherever you ride,Laugh not an old man to scorn."
"Come change thy apparel with me, old churl,Come change thy apparel with mine;Here is a piece of good broad gold,Go feast thy brethren with wine."
Then he put on the old man's hat,It stood full high on the crown:"The first bold bargain that I come at,It shall make thee come down."
Then he put on the old man's cloak,Was patch'd black, blue, and red;He thought it no shame, all the day long,To wear the bags of bread.
Then he put on the old man's breeks,Was patch'd from leg to side:"By the truth of my body," bold Robin can say,"This man loved little pride."
Then he put on the old man's hose,Were patch'd from knee to wrist:"By the truth of my body," said bold Robin Hood,"I'd laugh if I had any list."
Then he put on the old man's shoes,Were patch'd both beneath and aboon;Then Robin Hood swore a solemn oath,"It's good habit that makes a man."
Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone,With a link a down and a down,And there he met with the proud sheriff,Was walking along the town.
"Save you, save you, sheriff!" he said;"Now heaven you save and see!And what will you give to a silly old manTo-day will your hangman be?"
"Some suits, some suits," the sheriff he said,"Some suits I'll give to thee;Some suits, some suits, and pence thirteen,To-day's a hangman's fee."
Then Robin he turns him round about,And jumps from stock to stone:"By the truth of my body," the sheriff he said,"That's well jumpt, thou nimble old man."
"I was ne'er a hangman in all my life,Nor yet intends to trade;But curst be he," said bold Robin,"That first a hangman was made!
"I've a bag for meal, and a bag for malt,And a bag for barley and corn;And a bag for bread, and a bag for beef,And a bag for my little small horn.
"I have a horn in my pockèt,I got it from Robin Hood,And still when I set it to my mouth,For thee it blows little good."
"O, wind thy horn, thou proud fellòw!Of thee I have no doubt.I wish that thou give such a blast,Till both thy eyes fall out."
The first loud blast that he did blow,He blew both loud and shrill;A hundred and fifty of Robin Hood's menCame riding over the hill.
The next loud blast that he did give,He blew both loud and amain,And quickly sixty of Robin Hood's menCame shining over the plain.
"O, who are these," the sheriff he said,"Come tripping over the lee?""They're my attendants," brave Robin did say;"They'll pay a visit to thee."
They took the gallows from the slack,They set it in the glen,They hanged the proud sherìff on that,Released their own three men.
Among the earliest and most popular of English ballads are those relating to Robin Hood. This noted, half-mythical outlaw was the impersonation of popular rights as they were understood by Englishmen of the lower orders in the days of the Plantagenets. Hence the memory of him and his reputed deeds was preserved in the songs of the people. "It is he," says an old historian, "whom the common people love so dearly to celebrate in games and comedies, and whose history, sung by fiddlers, interests them more than any other." Even so late as the reign of Edward VI., "Robyn Hoode's Daye" was very generally observed in the country parishes as a day of feasting and amusement.
The ballads were originally the production of wandering minstrels or gleemen, a class of men very popular in the Middle Ages, who followed the profession of poetry and music. These rude poets were held in the highest esteem and veneration by the people among whom they lived; they were received and welcomed wherever they went, and even kings delightedto honor them. In short, their art was supposed, by the Anglo-Saxons, to be of divine origin, having been invented by Odin, the great All-Father, and perfected by Bragi, the musician of the gods. As, however, civilization advanced and Christianity became established, this admiration for the minstrel and his art became modified in a degree. He was no longer regarded as a poet, but only as a singer, a sweet musician. Poetry was cultivated by men of leisure and refinement; but lyrical ballads remained the peculiar inheritance of the minstrel. For a long time after the Norman conquest, minstrels continued to gain their livelihood by singing in the houses of the great, and at festive occasions, which were never considered complete unless graced by the presence of these honored descendants of Bragi; nor did they cease to compose and sing their inimitable pieces until near the close of Elizabeth's reign. The greater number of the ballads now in existence were probably produced during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; and the best of them originated in the "North Country," or the border region between England and Scotland. They were not at first reduced to writing, but were handed down from one generation to another merely by oral tradition. As regards their metre and versification, the ballads were commonly composed of iambic hexameters or heptameters rhyming in couplets. These couplets are readily broken into stanzas of four lines, in which form they are usually printed.
The first collection of English ballads ever published was probably that of John Dryden, in 1684. The collection was included in a volume entitledMiscellany Poems. In 1723 a work calledA Collection of Old Balladswas published anonymously. In 1724 Allan Ramsay issuedThe Evergreen, "being a collection of Scots Poems wrote by the Ingenious before 1600." This work included many popular songs and ballads. It was reprinted in 1875.
We owe the preservation of a large number of the most interesting and beautiful ballads to Bishop Percy, who, in 1765, published the first really valuable collection of such works in hisReliques of Ancient English Poetry. Previous to that time most of these songs had existed only in manuscript, or, if printed at all, in the cheapest style of typography, on sheets designed for circulation among the poor. Bishop Percy's work first called the attention of scholars to the value and beauty of these neglected and half-forgotten relics, and did much to bring about that revolution in literature which took place in the latter part of the last century. And it is to these old ballads, thus rescued from oblivion, that we owe very many of the noblest literary productions of the present century. We know that they were the immediate inspiration of Sir Walter Scott, and that they exerted a wonderful influence in modifying and directing the taste and style of many other distinguished writers.
"When we pass from Chaucer's age, we have to overleap nearly a hundred and eighty years before we alight upon a period presenting anything like an adequate show of literary continuation. A few smaller names are all that can be cited as poetical representatives of this sterile interval in the literary history of England: whatever of Chaucer's genius still lingered in the island seeming to have travelled northward and taken refuge in a series of Scotch poets, excelling any of their English contemporaries. We are driven to suppose that there was something in the social circumstances of England during the long period in question which prevented such talent as there was from assuming the particular form of literature. Fully to make out what this 'something' was may baffle us; but, when we remember that this was the period of the Civil Wars of the Roses, we have reason to believe that the dearth of pure literature may have been owing, in part, to the engrossing nature of the practical questions which then disturbed English society. . . . Accordingly, though printing was introduced during this period, and thus Englishmen had greater temptations to write, what they did write was almost exclusively plain grave prose, intended for practical or polemical occasions, and making no figure in a historical retrospect."—David Masson.
"When we pass from Chaucer's age, we have to overleap nearly a hundred and eighty years before we alight upon a period presenting anything like an adequate show of literary continuation. A few smaller names are all that can be cited as poetical representatives of this sterile interval in the literary history of England: whatever of Chaucer's genius still lingered in the island seeming to have travelled northward and taken refuge in a series of Scotch poets, excelling any of their English contemporaries. We are driven to suppose that there was something in the social circumstances of England during the long period in question which prevented such talent as there was from assuming the particular form of literature. Fully to make out what this 'something' was may baffle us; but, when we remember that this was the period of the Civil Wars of the Roses, we have reason to believe that the dearth of pure literature may have been owing, in part, to the engrossing nature of the practical questions which then disturbed English society. . . . Accordingly, though printing was introduced during this period, and thus Englishmen had greater temptations to write, what they did write was almost exclusively plain grave prose, intended for practical or polemical occasions, and making no figure in a historical retrospect."—David Masson.
"Must we quote all these good people who have nothing to say? . . . dozens of translators, importing the poverties of French poetry, rhyming chroniclers, most commonplace of men; spinners and spinsters of didactic poems who pile up verses on the training of falcons, on heraldry, on chemistry, . . . invent the same dream over again for the hundredth time, and get themselves taught universal history by the goddess Sapience. . . . It is the scholastic phase of poetry."—Taine.
"Must we quote all these good people who have nothing to say? . . . dozens of translators, importing the poverties of French poetry, rhyming chroniclers, most commonplace of men; spinners and spinsters of didactic poems who pile up verses on the training of falcons, on heraldry, on chemistry, . . . invent the same dream over again for the hundredth time, and get themselves taught universal history by the goddess Sapience. . . . It is the scholastic phase of poetry."—Taine.
John Lydgate(1370-1440). See biographical note, page283.
Thomas Occleve(1365-1450). "De Regimine Principum"; short poems.
Robert Henryson(1425-1480). See biographical note, page283.
William Dunbar(1450-1513). See biographical note, page283.
Gawain Douglas(1474-1522). See biographical note, page284.
Stephen Hawes( -1530), "The Pastime of Pleasure"; "Graunde Amour and la Belle Pucel."
John Skelton(1460-1529). See biographical note, page272.