No109 THE MERRY HAYMAKERS

1An American frigate, the "Richard" by name,Mounted guns forty four and from New York she came,To cruise in the channel of old English fame,With a noble commander, Paul Jones was his name.2We had not cruised long ere two sails we espies,A large forty four, and a twenty likewise.Some fifty bright shippers, well loaden with store,And the convoy stood in for the old Yorkshire shore.3['Bout twelve was the hour when we came alongside,With long speaking trumpet: 'Whence came you?' he cried.'Ho! answer me quickly, I'll hail you no more,Or a thundering broadside I'll into you pour.'][28]4We fought them four glasses, four glasses so hot,Till forty bold seamen lay dead on the spot.And fifty five wounded lay drenched in their gore,While loudly the cannons of Paul Jones did roar.5[Our carpenter frightened, to Paul Jones he came,Our ship she leaks water, is likewise aflame.Paul Jones he made answer, thus to him replied,'If we can do no better, we'll sink alongside.'][29]6The Serapis wore round, our vessel to rakeO then the proud hearts of the English did ache.The shot flew so frequent, so fierce and so fast,That the bold British colours were haul'd down at last.7Oh! now my brave boys, we have taken a prize,A large forty four, and a twenty likewise.God help the poor mothers, bereavèd who weepFor the loss of their sons in the unfathom'd deep.

An American frigate, the "Richard" by name,Mounted guns forty four and from New York she came,To cruise in the channel of old English fame,With a noble commander, Paul Jones was his name.

We had not cruised long ere two sails we espies,A large forty four, and a twenty likewise.Some fifty bright shippers, well loaden with store,And the convoy stood in for the old Yorkshire shore.

['Bout twelve was the hour when we came alongside,With long speaking trumpet: 'Whence came you?' he cried.'Ho! answer me quickly, I'll hail you no more,Or a thundering broadside I'll into you pour.'][28]

We fought them four glasses, four glasses so hot,Till forty bold seamen lay dead on the spot.And fifty five wounded lay drenched in their gore,While loudly the cannons of Paul Jones did roar.

[Our carpenter frightened, to Paul Jones he came,Our ship she leaks water, is likewise aflame.Paul Jones he made answer, thus to him replied,'If we can do no better, we'll sink alongside.'][29]

The Serapis wore round, our vessel to rakeO then the proud hearts of the English did ache.The shot flew so frequent, so fierce and so fast,That the bold British colours were haul'd down at last.

Oh! now my brave boys, we have taken a prize,A large forty four, and a twenty likewise.God help the poor mothers, bereavèd who weepFor the loss of their sons in the unfathom'd deep.

H.F.S.

music

[[audio/mpeg][XML] [Note]

1The golden sun is shining bright,The dew is off the field;To us it is our main delight,The fork and rake to wield.The pipe and tabor both shall play,The viols loudly ring,From morn till eve each summer day,As we go hay-making.CHORUS: The pipe and tabor, &c.2As we my boys hay-making go,All in the month of June,Both Tom and Bet, and Jess and JoeTheir happy hearts in tune.O up come lusty Jack and Will,With pitchfork and with rake,And up come dainty Doll and Jill,The sweet, sweet hay to make.CHORUS: The pipe and tabor, &c.3O when the haysel all is done,Then in the arish grass,The lads shall have their fill of fun,Each dancing with his lass.The good old farmer and his wife,Shall bring the best of cheer,I would it were, aye, odds my life!Hay-making all the year.CHORUS: The pipe and tabor, &c.

The golden sun is shining bright,The dew is off the field;To us it is our main delight,The fork and rake to wield.The pipe and tabor both shall play,The viols loudly ring,From morn till eve each summer day,As we go hay-making.CHORUS: The pipe and tabor, &c.

As we my boys hay-making go,All in the month of June,Both Tom and Bet, and Jess and JoeTheir happy hearts in tune.O up come lusty Jack and Will,With pitchfork and with rake,And up come dainty Doll and Jill,The sweet, sweet hay to make.CHORUS: The pipe and tabor, &c.

O when the haysel all is done,Then in the arish grass,The lads shall have their fill of fun,Each dancing with his lass.The good old farmer and his wife,Shall bring the best of cheer,I would it were, aye, odds my life!Hay-making all the year.CHORUS: The pipe and tabor, &c.

C.J.S.

music

[[audio/mpeg][XML] [Note]

1In Bibberley town a maid did dwell,A buxom lass, as I've heard tell;As straight as a wand, just twenty two,And many a bachelor had her in view.Ri fal de ral diddle, ri fal de ral dee,What ups and downs in the world there be!2This maid so beautiful fair and free,Was sought by a squire of high degree;He courted her honestly for his wife,But she couldn't venture so high in life.Ri fal de ral &c.3A tinker there came to mend the kettle,She fell in love with the man of metal;His songs and his jokes won her heart and her hand,And she promised with him in the church to stand.Ri fal de ral &c.4They wed, and this jovial mender of potsProved only a brute and the prince of sots;He beat her, he starved her, she gave him the slip,And back to Bibberley town did trip.Ri fal de ral &c.5She found that the Squire her former flameHad wooed and married a wealthy dame;But a vacant place in the house she took,And, instead of his wife, she became his cook.Ri fal de ral diddle, ri fal de ral dee;What ups and downs in the world there be!

In Bibberley town a maid did dwell,A buxom lass, as I've heard tell;As straight as a wand, just twenty two,And many a bachelor had her in view.Ri fal de ral diddle, ri fal de ral dee,What ups and downs in the world there be!

This maid so beautiful fair and free,Was sought by a squire of high degree;He courted her honestly for his wife,But she couldn't venture so high in life.Ri fal de ral &c.

A tinker there came to mend the kettle,She fell in love with the man of metal;His songs and his jokes won her heart and her hand,And she promised with him in the church to stand.Ri fal de ral &c.

They wed, and this jovial mender of potsProved only a brute and the prince of sots;He beat her, he starved her, she gave him the slip,And back to Bibberley town did trip.Ri fal de ral &c.

She found that the Squire her former flameHad wooed and married a wealthy dame;But a vacant place in the house she took,And, instead of his wife, she became his cook.Ri fal de ral diddle, ri fal de ral dee;What ups and downs in the world there be!

C.J.S.

musicmusic continued

[[audio/mpeg][XML] [Note]

1'Twas East North East, so near the lineSo near as we could lie,We'd had scarcely left our loading port,'Ere ten sail of Turks we spy."Come strike your colours ye English dogs,Strike colours presently,Come strike your colours ye English dogs,Or they shall be struck by we."2Our captain being a valiant man,On quarterdeck did stand,"It ne'er shall be said that we did runWhile we have aboard a hand."O! then out spake our boatswain bold,To the gunner then spake he,"Come plant your guns while they are coldBoth powder and shot are free."3Broadside to broadside we return'dFrom morn till day was doneTill three we sank, and three we burn'dAnd three away did run,Till three we sank, and three we burn'dAnd three did sail away;And one we brought to merry EnglandTo show we'd won the day.4Now if you'd know our goodly shipAnd know our captain's name;Sir Thomas Merrifield captain wasOf the Marigold, ship of fame.A gallant man Sir Thomas wasOf famous Bristow townA gallant crew were we aboardWe gained us great renown.

'Twas East North East, so near the lineSo near as we could lie,We'd had scarcely left our loading port,'Ere ten sail of Turks we spy."Come strike your colours ye English dogs,Strike colours presently,Come strike your colours ye English dogs,Or they shall be struck by we."

Our captain being a valiant man,On quarterdeck did stand,"It ne'er shall be said that we did runWhile we have aboard a hand."O! then out spake our boatswain bold,To the gunner then spake he,"Come plant your guns while they are coldBoth powder and shot are free."

Broadside to broadside we return'dFrom morn till day was doneTill three we sank, and three we burn'dAnd three away did run,Till three we sank, and three we burn'dAnd three did sail away;And one we brought to merry EnglandTo show we'd won the day.

Now if you'd know our goodly shipAnd know our captain's name;Sir Thomas Merrifield captain wasOf the Marigold, ship of fame.A gallant man Sir Thomas wasOf famous Bristow townA gallant crew were we aboardWe gained us great renown.

C.J.S.

music

[[audio/mpeg][XML] [Note]

1I once had a cousin called Arthur Le Bride,And he and I wandered adown the sea side,For our pleasure and pastime a watching the tide;O the weather was pleasant and charming.2So gaily and gallant we went on a tramp,We met Sergeant Napier and Corp'ral Demant,And the neat little drummer that tended the camp,To beat the row-dow in the morning.3Good morning young fellows, the sergeant did cry,And the same to you sergeant we made a reply,There was nothing more spoken, we made to pass by.'Twas all on a Christmas day morning.4Come! come my fine fellows, I pray you enlist,Ten guineas in gold I will slap in your fist,And a crown in the bargain to kick up a dust,For to drink the king's health in the morning.5[30]O, no! Mr. Sergeant, we are not for saleWe make no such bargain—your bribe won't avail,Not tired of our country we care not to sail,Tho' your offers look pleasant and charming.6[31]Hah! if you insult me, without other wordsI swear by the king we will draw out our swords,And thrust thro' your bodies, as strength us affords,And leave you without further warning.7We beat the bold drummer as flat as his shoe,We made a football of his row-de-dow-do,And the sergeant and corporal, knocked down the two,O we were the boys in the morning.8The two little weapons that hung at their side,As we trotted away we threw into the tide,May old Harry be with you, said Arthur Le BrideFor staying our walk in the morning.

I once had a cousin called Arthur Le Bride,And he and I wandered adown the sea side,For our pleasure and pastime a watching the tide;O the weather was pleasant and charming.

So gaily and gallant we went on a tramp,We met Sergeant Napier and Corp'ral Demant,And the neat little drummer that tended the camp,To beat the row-dow in the morning.

Good morning young fellows, the sergeant did cry,And the same to you sergeant we made a reply,There was nothing more spoken, we made to pass by.'Twas all on a Christmas day morning.

Come! come my fine fellows, I pray you enlist,Ten guineas in gold I will slap in your fist,And a crown in the bargain to kick up a dust,For to drink the king's health in the morning.

5[30]

O, no! Mr. Sergeant, we are not for saleWe make no such bargain—your bribe won't avail,Not tired of our country we care not to sail,Tho' your offers look pleasant and charming.

6[31]

Hah! if you insult me, without other wordsI swear by the king we will draw out our swords,And thrust thro' your bodies, as strength us affords,And leave you without further warning.

We beat the bold drummer as flat as his shoe,We made a football of his row-de-dow-do,And the sergeant and corporal, knocked down the two,O we were the boys in the morning.

The two little weapons that hung at their side,As we trotted away we threw into the tide,May old Harry be with you, said Arthur Le BrideFor staying our walk in the morning.

C.J.S.

musicmusic continued

[[audio/mpeg][XML] [Note]

1O there was a keeper, a shooting did go,And under his arm he did carry a bow,And that for to bring down the buck and the doe;All in the green forest, the forest so green,Where the red roses blossom to crown my queen.2The very first doe that he shot at he miss'd,The second escaped by the breadth of his fist.The third doe was young, so he caught her and kiss'd;All in the green forest, the forest so green,Where the red roses blossom to crown my queen.3"My fair pretty doe, you no longer shall roam,For certainly henceforth with me you shall come,To tarry securely in my little home;All in the green forest, the forest so green,Where the red roses blossom to crown my queen.4"Aside I will cast now my billets and bow,I'll tarry at home with my own pretty doe,As proud as a king of his sceptre, I trow;All in the green forest, the forest so green,Where the red roses blossom to crown my queen."

O there was a keeper, a shooting did go,And under his arm he did carry a bow,And that for to bring down the buck and the doe;All in the green forest, the forest so green,Where the red roses blossom to crown my queen.

The very first doe that he shot at he miss'd,The second escaped by the breadth of his fist.The third doe was young, so he caught her and kiss'd;All in the green forest, the forest so green,Where the red roses blossom to crown my queen.

"My fair pretty doe, you no longer shall roam,For certainly henceforth with me you shall come,To tarry securely in my little home;All in the green forest, the forest so green,Where the red roses blossom to crown my queen.

"Aside I will cast now my billets and bow,I'll tarry at home with my own pretty doe,As proud as a king of his sceptre, I trow;All in the green forest, the forest so green,Where the red roses blossom to crown my queen."

C.J.S.

music

[[audio/mpeg][XML] [Note]

1To the Queen of Hearts he's the Ace of sorrow,He is here to-day, he is gone to-morrow;Young men are plenty, but sweet-hearts few,If my love leave me, what shall I do?2When my love comes in I gaze not around,When my love goes out, I fall in a swound;To meet is pleasure, to part is sorrow,He is here to-day, he is gone to-morrow.3Had I the store in yonder mountain,Where gold and silver is had for counting,I could not count, for the thought of thee,My eyes so full that I could not see.4I love my father, I love my mother,I love my sister, I love my brother;I love my friends, my relations too,But I'd leave them all for the love of you.5My father left me both house and land,And servants many at my command;At my commandment they ne'er shall be,I'll forsake them all for to follow thee.6An Ace of sorrow to the Queen of Hearts,O how my bosom bleeds and smarts;Young men are plenty, but sweet-hearts few,If my love leave me, what shall I do?

To the Queen of Hearts he's the Ace of sorrow,He is here to-day, he is gone to-morrow;Young men are plenty, but sweet-hearts few,If my love leave me, what shall I do?

When my love comes in I gaze not around,When my love goes out, I fall in a swound;To meet is pleasure, to part is sorrow,He is here to-day, he is gone to-morrow.

Had I the store in yonder mountain,Where gold and silver is had for counting,I could not count, for the thought of thee,My eyes so full that I could not see.

I love my father, I love my mother,I love my sister, I love my brother;I love my friends, my relations too,But I'd leave them all for the love of you.

My father left me both house and land,And servants many at my command;At my commandment they ne'er shall be,I'll forsake them all for to follow thee.

An Ace of sorrow to the Queen of Hearts,O how my bosom bleeds and smarts;Young men are plenty, but sweet-hearts few,If my love leave me, what shall I do?

C.J.S.

musicmusic continued

[[audio/mpeg][XML] [Note]

1Of all the birds that ever I see,The owl is the fairest in her degree.For all the day long she sits in a tree,And when the night cometh, away flies she.To-whit! To-who! says she, To-who!Cinamon, ginger, nutmegs and cloves,And brandy gave me my jolly red nose.2The lark in the morn ascendeth on highAnd leaves the poor owl to sob and to sigh;And all the day long, the owl is asleep,While little birds blithely are singing, cheep! cheep!To-whit! To-who! says she, To-who!Cinamon, ginger, &c.3There's many a brave bird boasteth awhile,And proves himself great, let Providence smile,Be hills and be vallies all covered with snow,The poor owl will shiver and mock with Ho! Ho!To-whit! To-who! says she, To-who!Cinamon, ginger, &c.

Of all the birds that ever I see,The owl is the fairest in her degree.For all the day long she sits in a tree,And when the night cometh, away flies she.To-whit! To-who! says she, To-who!Cinamon, ginger, nutmegs and cloves,And brandy gave me my jolly red nose.

The lark in the morn ascendeth on highAnd leaves the poor owl to sob and to sigh;And all the day long, the owl is asleep,While little birds blithely are singing, cheep! cheep!To-whit! To-who! says she, To-who!Cinamon, ginger, &c.

There's many a brave bird boasteth awhile,And proves himself great, let Providence smile,Be hills and be vallies all covered with snow,The poor owl will shiver and mock with Ho! Ho!To-whit! To-who! says she, To-who!Cinamon, ginger, &c.

C.J.S.

music

[[audio/mpeg][XML] [Note]

1I am a brisk and bonny lass,A little over twenty.And by my comely air and dress,Of sweethearts I've got plenty.But I'll beware of wedlock's snare,Tho' dying swains adore me,The men I'll tease, myself to please,My mother did so before me.2With fine brocade and diamonds bright,Like merry Spring delighting,My heart, my humours all delight,For my sweet face's inviting.I take delight, both day and night,To be talked of in story.I'll have it said: Here shines a maid!My mother did so before me.3To parks and plays I often go,I'll waste each leasure hour;I'll walk and talk with every beau,And make them feel my power.If e'er a spark should fire my heart,From one who does adore me,I'll wed and kiss, in married bliss,My mother did so before me.4So well I'll manage when I'm wed,My husband to perfection,And as good wives have always said,Keep husbands in subjection.No snarling fool me e'er shall rule,Nor e'er eclipse my glory,I'll let him see, mistress I'll be,My mother did so before me.

I am a brisk and bonny lass,A little over twenty.And by my comely air and dress,Of sweethearts I've got plenty.But I'll beware of wedlock's snare,Tho' dying swains adore me,The men I'll tease, myself to please,My mother did so before me.

With fine brocade and diamonds bright,Like merry Spring delighting,My heart, my humours all delight,For my sweet face's inviting.I take delight, both day and night,To be talked of in story.I'll have it said: Here shines a maid!My mother did so before me.

To parks and plays I often go,I'll waste each leasure hour;I'll walk and talk with every beau,And make them feel my power.If e'er a spark should fire my heart,From one who does adore me,I'll wed and kiss, in married bliss,My mother did so before me.

So well I'll manage when I'm wed,My husband to perfection,And as good wives have always said,Keep husbands in subjection.No snarling fool me e'er shall rule,Nor e'er eclipse my glory,I'll let him see, mistress I'll be,My mother did so before me.

C.J.S.

music

[[audio/mpeg][XML] [Note]

1On Monday morn I married a wife,I thought to live a sober life.As it fell out I were better dead,Than mark the time when I was wed.Laddy-heigh-ho! Laddy-heigh-ho!Fal-de-ral-li-do! Laddy-heigh-ho!2On Tuesday morning to my surprise,A little before the sun did rise,She rattled her clapper, and scolded more,Than ever I heard in my life before.Laddy-heigh-ho! &c.3On Wednesday morning I went to the wood,I thought to do my wife some good.I cut me a twig of holly green,I trust the toughest I'd ever seen.Laddy-heigh-ho! &c.4I hung the stick up well to dry,I thought on Thursday it to try,I laid it about her head and back,Before my twig began to crack.Laddy-heigh-ho! &c.5On Friday morning to my surprise,A little before the sun did rise,She rattled her clapper in scolding tone,I turn'd my back and left her alone.Laddy-heigh-ho! &c.6On Saturday morn, as I may say,As she on her pillow consulting lay,A Bogie arrived in fume and flame,And carried her off both blind and lame.Laddy-heigh-ho! &c.7On Sunday, neighbours, I dine withoutA scolding wife and a brawling rout;Enjoy my bottle, and my best friend,And surely this is a brave week's end.Laddy-heigh-ho! &c.

On Monday morn I married a wife,I thought to live a sober life.As it fell out I were better dead,Than mark the time when I was wed.Laddy-heigh-ho! Laddy-heigh-ho!Fal-de-ral-li-do! Laddy-heigh-ho!

On Tuesday morning to my surprise,A little before the sun did rise,She rattled her clapper, and scolded more,Than ever I heard in my life before.Laddy-heigh-ho! &c.

On Wednesday morning I went to the wood,I thought to do my wife some good.I cut me a twig of holly green,I trust the toughest I'd ever seen.Laddy-heigh-ho! &c.

I hung the stick up well to dry,I thought on Thursday it to try,I laid it about her head and back,Before my twig began to crack.Laddy-heigh-ho! &c.

On Friday morning to my surprise,A little before the sun did rise,She rattled her clapper in scolding tone,I turn'd my back and left her alone.Laddy-heigh-ho! &c.

On Saturday morn, as I may say,As she on her pillow consulting lay,A Bogie arrived in fume and flame,And carried her off both blind and lame.Laddy-heigh-ho! &c.

On Sunday, neighbours, I dine withoutA scolding wife and a brawling rout;Enjoy my bottle, and my best friend,And surely this is a brave week's end.Laddy-heigh-ho! &c.

C.J.S.

musicmusic continued

[[audio/mpeg][XML] [Note]

1The old man can't keep his wife at home,She dearly loves abroad to roam,She will but eat the choicest meat,And leave th'old man the bone.Herself must have good cheer,Herself drink humming beer.A merry life lives she,For her heart is full of glee.CHORUS: The old man can't keep his wife at home,She dearly loves abroad to roam, &c.2The old man's wife went out to dine,And left him tuck'd in bed at home.She dressed so fine, drank red red wine,Her face with pleasure shone.She capered and she danc'd,She like an ostrich pranc'd,And sang There's none so free,As old men's wives may be.CHORUS: The old man can't keep his wife at home,She dearly loves abroad to roam, &c.3The old man began to crawl and cough'd;Above the door he set a stone,Then sat and quaff'd thin beer and laugh'd,Till spasms made him groan.His wife so late came home,Then clatter'd down the stone,It fell upon her head,It knocked her flat and dead.CHORUS: The old man don't keep a wife at home,Not one who dearly loves to roam.Odds bobs, of strife, and gadding wifeThe old man now has none.

The old man can't keep his wife at home,She dearly loves abroad to roam,She will but eat the choicest meat,And leave th'old man the bone.Herself must have good cheer,Herself drink humming beer.A merry life lives she,For her heart is full of glee.CHORUS: The old man can't keep his wife at home,She dearly loves abroad to roam, &c.

The old man's wife went out to dine,And left him tuck'd in bed at home.She dressed so fine, drank red red wine,Her face with pleasure shone.She capered and she danc'd,She like an ostrich pranc'd,And sang There's none so free,As old men's wives may be.CHORUS: The old man can't keep his wife at home,She dearly loves abroad to roam, &c.

The old man began to crawl and cough'd;Above the door he set a stone,Then sat and quaff'd thin beer and laugh'd,Till spasms made him groan.His wife so late came home,Then clatter'd down the stone,It fell upon her head,It knocked her flat and dead.CHORUS: The old man don't keep a wife at home,Not one who dearly loves to roam.Odds bobs, of strife, and gadding wifeThe old man now has none.

C.J.S.

music

[[audio/mpeg][XML] [Note]

1Will by Mary sad reposesOn a bank of prim-a-roses.Sore is William's heart at leaving,Tears that flow tell Mary's grieving,Sweet, Farewell! Dearest, farewell, farewell!I'm in the marching order.

Will by Mary sad reposesOn a bank of prim-a-roses.Sore is William's heart at leaving,Tears that flow tell Mary's grieving,Sweet, Farewell! Dearest, farewell, farewell!I'm in the marching order.

2Hark! I hear the Colonel crying,Drums are beating, colours flying.Colours flying, drums are beating,Boys! advance, there's no retreatingSweet, farewell! &c.3Gallant boys! be stiff and steady,Each man have his flint-lock ready!Each man have his flask and powder!And his fire stock o'er his shoulder!Sweet, farewell! &c.4Mary said, Do not bereave me!Do not break my heart and leave me!If you do, I will torment you,When I'm dead, my ghost will ha'nt youSweet, farewell! &c.5Nay, said William, my dear MaryI with you nowise can tarry.Duty calls—that naught can alterAt its summons none must falter.Sweet, farewell! &c.

Hark! I hear the Colonel crying,Drums are beating, colours flying.Colours flying, drums are beating,Boys! advance, there's no retreatingSweet, farewell! &c.

Gallant boys! be stiff and steady,Each man have his flint-lock ready!Each man have his flask and powder!And his fire stock o'er his shoulder!Sweet, farewell! &c.

Mary said, Do not bereave me!Do not break my heart and leave me!If you do, I will torment you,When I'm dead, my ghost will ha'nt youSweet, farewell! &c.

Nay, said William, my dear MaryI with you nowise can tarry.Duty calls—that naught can alterAt its summons none must falter.Sweet, farewell! &c.

C.J.S.

musicmusic continued

[[audio/mpeg][XML] [Note]

1Old Adam was a poacher,Went out one day at Fall,To catch a hare for roastingAnd eating bones and all,In the sunExpecting funOld Adam smiling lay.O hare it is good eating,Thus did old Adam say.Old Adam was a poacher,Went out one day at Fall,To catch a hare for roasting,And eating, bones and all.2A keeper that was passing,Peer'd slyly through the brakeSaw Adam with his springle;Proceeded both to take.Hare not his'n,So in prisonOld Adam groaning lay.O hare it is good eatingBut not for him to-day,Old Adam was a poacherWent out one day at FallWent out that morning looking bigReturnèd, looking small.

Old Adam was a poacher,Went out one day at Fall,To catch a hare for roastingAnd eating bones and all,In the sunExpecting funOld Adam smiling lay.O hare it is good eating,Thus did old Adam say.Old Adam was a poacher,Went out one day at Fall,To catch a hare for roasting,And eating, bones and all.

A keeper that was passing,Peer'd slyly through the brakeSaw Adam with his springle;Proceeded both to take.Hare not his'n,So in prisonOld Adam groaning lay.O hare it is good eatingBut not for him to-day,Old Adam was a poacherWent out one day at FallWent out that morning looking bigReturnèd, looking small.

C.J.S.

music

[[audio/mpeg][XML] [Note]

1Matthew, Mark and Luke and JohnBless the bed that I lie on.Four angels to my bedTwo to bottom, two to head,Two to hear me when I pray,Two to bear my soul away.2Monday morn the week begin,Christ deliver our souls from sin.Tuesday morn, nor curse nor swear,Christes Body that will tear.Wednesday, middle of the week,Woe to the soul Christ does not seek.3Thursday morn, Saint Peter wroteJoy to the soul that heaven hath bote,Friday Christ died on the treeTo save other men as well as me.Saturday, sure, the evening dead,Sunday morn, the Book's outspread.4God is the branch and I the flower,Pray God send me a blessed hour.I go to bed, some sleep to take,The Lord, he knows if I shall wake.Sleep I ever, sleep I never,God receive my soul for ever.

Matthew, Mark and Luke and JohnBless the bed that I lie on.Four angels to my bedTwo to bottom, two to head,Two to hear me when I pray,Two to bear my soul away.

Monday morn the week begin,Christ deliver our souls from sin.Tuesday morn, nor curse nor swear,Christes Body that will tear.Wednesday, middle of the week,Woe to the soul Christ does not seek.

Thursday morn, Saint Peter wroteJoy to the soul that heaven hath bote,Friday Christ died on the treeTo save other men as well as me.Saturday, sure, the evening dead,Sunday morn, the Book's outspread.

God is the branch and I the flower,Pray God send me a blessed hour.I go to bed, some sleep to take,The Lord, he knows if I shall wake.Sleep I ever, sleep I never,God receive my soul for ever.

1.BYChance it was. Music and words dictated by James Parsons, hedger, Lew Down; he had learned it from his father, "The Singing Machine."

A second version of the melody was obtained from Bruce Tyndall, Esq., of Exmouth, who had learned it from a Devonshire nurse in 1839 or 1840. The melody was but a variant. It had lost the E♮that comes in so pleasantly.

The tune was certainly originally in the Dorian mode, the E♭being an alteration of a modern singer. We did not, however, feel justified in restoring the air to its early form, as we had no authority for so doing.

The words of the song are to be found in a collection of early ballad books in the British Museum, entitled "The Court of Apollo." There it consists of six verses, the first three of which are almost word for word the same as ours. In "The Songster's Favourite Companion," a later collection, the same song occurs. There it is in three verses only, and in a very corrupt form.

We are inclined to think that the song dates from the time of James I. or Charles I.

2.The Hunting of Arscott of Tetcott. This song, once vastly popular in North Devon, and at all hunting dinners, is now nearly forgotten. The words have been published in "John Arscott of Tetcott" by Luke, Plymouth,N.D.A great many variations of the text exist. An early copy, dating from the end of the 18th century, was supplied me by R. Kelly, Esq., of Kelly; another by a gentleman, now dead, in his grandmother's handwriting (1820), with explanatory notes. The date given in the song varies; sometimes it is set down as 1752, sometimes as 1772.

John Arscott, the last of his race, died in 1788. The "Sons of the Blue" are taken to have been Sir John Molesworth of Pencarrow, Bart., William Morshead of Blisland, and Braddon Clode of Skisdon. But neither Sir John Molesworth nor Mr. Morshead was, as it happens, a naval man. If the date were either 1652 or 1672, it would fit John Arscott of Tetcott, who died in 1708, and Sir John Molesworth of Pencarrow, who was Vice-admiral of Cornwall; and the "Sons of the Blue" would be Hender, Sparke, and John, sons of Sir John. The second John Molesworth married Jane, daughter of John Arscott of Tetcott, in 1704. It seems probable, accordingly, that the song belonged originally to the elder John Arscott, and was adapted a century later to the last John Arscott. The date is not given with precision in the song; it is left vague as to the century—"In the year '52."

The author of the version of the song as now sung is said to have been one Dogget, who was wont to run after the foxhounds of the last Arscott. He probably followed the habit of all rural bards of adapting an earlier ballad to his purpose, and spoiling it in so doing. I think this, because along with much wretched stuff there occur traces of something better, and smacking of an earlier period. As Dogget's doggerel has been printed, and as I have taken down a dozen variants, I have retained only what I deemed worthy of retention, and have entirely recast the conclusion of the song.

John Arscott is still believed to hunt the country, and there are men alive who declare positively that they have seen him and his hounds go by, and have heard the winding of his horn, at night, in the park at Tetcott.

Mr. Frank Abbott, gamekeeper at Pencarrow, but born at Tetcott, informed me, concerning Dogget: "Once they unkennelled in the immediate neighbourhood of Tetcott, and killed at Hatherleigh. This runner was in at the death, as was his wont. John Arscott ordered him a bed at Hatherleigh, but to his astonishment, when he returned to Tetcott, his wife told him all the particulars of the run. 'Then,' said Arscott, 'this must be the doing of none other than Dogget; where is he?' Dogget was soon found in the servants' hall, drinking ale, having outstripped his master and run all the way home."

In the MS. copy of 1820, the names of the "Sons of the Blue" were Bob (Robt. Dennis of S. Breock), Bill (Bill Tickell), and Britannia (Sir J. Molesworth). The tune, which is in the Æolian mode, was obtained through the assistance of Mr. W.C. Richards, schoolmaster at Tetcott. We also had it from John Benney, labourer, Menheniot.

Mr. Richards writes:—"This song is sung annually at the Rent-audit of the Molesworth estate at Tetcott. Thirty years ago an old man sang it, and the version I send you is as near the original, as sung by him, as can be secured. Workmen on the estate often hum the air, and always sing it at their annual treats." The Arscott property at Tetcott passed by inheritance to the Molesworths.

Half of the tune was employed by D'Urfey, a Devonshire man, in his "Pills to Purge Melancholy," to the words, "Dear Catholic Brother" (vi. p. 277, ed. 1719-20). From D'Urfey it passed into the "Musical Miscellany," 1731, vi. p. 171, to the words, "Come take up your Burden, ye Dogs, and away." From England the same half-tune was carried into Wales, and Jones, in his "Musical Relicks of the Welsh Bards," 1794, i. p. 129, gives it set to the words of "Difarwch gwyn Dyfl."

As Benny's variant is interesting, I give it here—

And sing Fol-de-rol.

[[audio/mpeg][XML]

3.Upon a Sunday Morning.The melody taken down from Robert Hard, South Brent. This is the song to which reference has been made in the Introduction. It is not a genuine folk melody, but it is an interesting example of the way in which the folk muse reshapes an air.

Hard sang the words of Charles Swan—

"'Twas on a Sunday morning, before the bells did peal,A note came through the window, with Cupid as the seal."

These words were set to music by Francis Mori in 1853. I give Mori's tune, and advise that with it should be compared Hard's variation of it. I have written fresh words to this variation—

F. Mori.

[[audio/mpeg][XML]

4.The Trees they are so High.Words and melody taken down in 1888 first from James Parsons, then from Matthew Baker. Again in 1891 from Richard Broad, aged 71, of Herodsfoot, near S. Keyne, Cornwall. Again, the words, to a different air, from Roger Hannaford. Another version from William Aggett, a paralysed labourer of 70 years, at Chagford. Mr. Sharp has also obtained it in Somersetshire. A fragment was sung at the Folk-Song Competition at Frome in April 1904. Mr. Kidson has noted a version in Yorkshire, Miss Broadwood another in Surrey, seeFolk-Song Journal, vol. i. p. 214. Apparently there exist two distinct variants of the ballad, each to its proper melody.

Johnson, in his "Museum," professed to give a Scottish version—

"O Lady Mary Ann looks owre the Castle wa',She saw three bonny boys playing at the ba',The youngest he was the flower among them a';My bonny laddie's young, but he's growing yet."

But of his version only three of the stanzas are genuine, and they are inverted; the rest are a modern composition.

A more genuine Scottish form is in Maidment's "North Country Garland," Edinburgh, 1874; but there the young man is fictitiously converted into a Laird of Craigstoun. It begins—

"Father, said she, you have done me wrong,For ye have married me on a childe young man,And my bonny love is longAgrowing, growing, deary,Growing, growing, said the bonny maid."

But the most genuine form is on an Aberdeen Broadside, B.M., 1871, f. This, the real Scottish ballad, has verses not in the English, and the English ballad has a verse or two not in the Scottish.

I have received an Irish version as sung in Co. Tipperary; it is in six verses, but that about the "Trees so High" is lacking. The rhyme is more correct than that of any of the printed versions, and the lines run in triplets. One verse is—

"O Father, dear Father, I'll tell you what we'll do,We'll send him off to college for another year or two,And we'll tie round his college cap a ribbon of the blue,To let the maidens know he is married."

In one of the versions I have taken down (Hannaford's and Aggett's) there were traces of the triplet very distinct, and the tune was akin to the Irish melody sent me, as sung by Mary O'Bryan, Cahir, Tipperary. Portions of the ballad have been forced into that of "The Cruel Mother" inMotherwell's MS., Child's "British and Scottish Ballads," i. p. 223. In this a mother gives birth to three sons at once and murders them; but after they are murdered—

"She lookit over her father's wa',And saw three bonnie boys playing at the ba'."

Our melody is in the Phrygian mode, a scale which is extremely scarce in English folk-song. The only other example we know is in Ducoudray's book of the "Folk Melodies of Brittany."

The Scotch have two airs, one in Johnson's "Museum," the other in "The British Minstrel," Glasgow, 1844, vol. ii. p. 36, both totally distinct from ours.

That the ballad is English and not originally Scotch is probable, for Fletcher quotes it in "The Two Noble Kinsmen," 1634. He makes the crazy jailer's daughter sing us a snatch of an old ballad—

"For I'll cut my green coat, a foot above my knee,And I'll clip my yellow locks, an inch below my eye,Hey ninny, ninny, ninny;He's buy me a white cut (stick) forth for to ride,And I'll go seek him, through the world that is so wide,Hey ninny, ninny, ninny."

In the ballad as taken down from Aggett—

"I'll cut my yellow hair away by the root,And I will clothe myself all in a boy's suit,And to the college high, I will go afoot."

I have had versions also from Mary Langworthy, Stoke Flemming, in the Hypodorian mode, and from W.S. Vance, Penarth, as sung by an old woman at Padstow in 1863, now dead.

Mr. Sharp gives a version in "Folk Songs from Somerset," No. 15.

5.Parson Hogg. This was sung by my great-uncle, Thomas Snow, Esq., of Franklyn, near Exeter, when I was a child. I have received it also from Mr. H. Whitfeld, brushmaker, Plymouth. The words may be found, not quite the same, but substantially so, in "The New Cabinet of Love,"circ.1810, as "Doctor Mack." In Oliver's "Comic Songs,"circ.1815, it is "Parson Ogg, the Cornish Vicar." It is also in "The Universal Songster" (1826), ii. p. 348. It is found on Broadsides.

6.Cold blows the Wind. The words originally reached me as taken down by the late Mrs. Gibbons, daughter of Sir W.L. Trelawney, Bart., from an old woman, who, in 1830, was nurse in her father's house. Since then we have heard it repeatedly, indeed there are few old singers who do not know it. There are two melodies to which it is sung, that we give here, and that to which "Childe the Hunter" is set in this collection. The ballad is always in a fragmentary condition. The ballad, under the title of "The Unquiet Grave," is in Professor Child's "British Ballads," No. 78. He gives various forms of it. The idea on which it is based is that if a woman has plighted her oath to a man, she is still bound to him, after he is dead, and that he can claim her to follow him into the world of spirits, unless she can redeem herself by solving riddles he sets her. See further on this topic under "The Lover's Tasks,"No. 48. Verses 8 and 10 are not in the original ballad. I have supplied them to reduce the length and give a conclusion.

7.The Sprig of Thyme. Taken down from James Parsons. After the second verse he broke away into "The Seeds of Love." Joseph Dyer, of Mawgan in Pyder, sang the same ballad or song to the same tune, and in what I believe to be the complete form of words—

Back to Index Next