When Robin Hood was about twenty years old,He happened to meet Little John,A jolly brisk blade, right fit for the trade,For he was a lusty young man.Tho' he was call'd little, his limbs they were large,And his stature was seven foot high:Where ever he came, they quak'd at his name,For soon he would make them to fly.How they came acquainted I'll tell you in brief,If you would but listen awhile;For this very jest, among all the rest,I think, may cause you to smile.For Robin Hood said to his jolly bowmen,Pray tarry you here in this grove,And see that you all observe well my call,While thorough the forest I rove.We have had no sport these fourteen long days,Therefore now abroad will I go;Now should I be beat, and cannot retreat,My horn I will presently blow.Then did he shake hands with his merry men all,And bid them at present good-bye;Then as near a brook his journey he took,A stranger he chanc'd to espy.They happen'd to meet on a long narrow bridge,And neither of them would give way;Quoth bold Robin Hood, and sturdily stood,I'll shew you right Nottingham play.With that from his quiver an arrow he drew,A broad arrow with a goose wing;The stranger replied, I'll liquor thy hide,If thou offer to touch the string.Quoth bold Robin Hood, thou dost prate like an ass,For, were I to bend but my bow,I could send a dart quite through thy proud heart,Before thou could'st strike me one blow.Thou talk'st like a coward, the stranger replied,Well arm'd with a long bow you stand,To shoot at my breast, while I, I protest,Have nought but a staff in my hand.The name of a coward, quoth Robin, I scorn,Therefore my long bow I'll lay by;And now, for thy sake, a staff will I take,The truth of thy manhood to try.Then Robin Hood stept to a thicket of trees,And chose him a staff of ground oak;Now this being done, away he did runTo the stranger, and merrily spoke:Lo! see my staff is lusty and tough:Now, here on the bridge we will play;Whoever falls in, the other shall winThe battle, and so we'll away.With all my whole heart, the stranger replied,I scorn in the least to give out.This said, they fell to't without more dispute,And their staffs they did flourish about.At first Robin gave the stranger a bang,So hard that he made his bones ring:The stranger he said, this must be repaid,I'll give you as good as you bring.So long as I'm able to handle a staff,To die in your debt, friend, I scorn:Then to it each goes, and follow'd their blows,As if they had been threshing of corn.The stranger gave Robin a crack on the crown,Which caused the blood to appear;Then Robin enrag'd more fiercely engag'd,And follow'd his blows more severe.So thick and so fast did he lay it on him,With a passionate fury and ire;At every stroke he made him to smoke,As if he had been all on fire.O then in a fury the stranger he grew,And gave him a damnable look;And with a blow, which laid him full low,And tumbled him into the brook.I prithee, good fellow, O where art thou now?The stranger, in laughter, he cried:Quoth bold Robin Hood, Good faith, in the flood,And floating along with the tide:I needs must acknowledge thou art a brave soul,With thee I'll no longer contend;For needs must I say thou hast got the day,Our battle shall be at an end.Then unto the bank he did presently wade,And pull'd him out by a thorn;Which done, at the last he blew a loud blastStraightway on his fine bugle horn:The echo of which thro' the vallies did fly,At which his stout bowmen appear'd,All cloathed in green, most gay to be seen;So up to their master they steer'd.O what is the matter? quoth Will. Stutely,Good master, you are wet to the skin:No matter, quoth he, the lad which you see,In fighting hath tumbled me in.He shall not go scot-free, the others replied;So straight they were seizing him there,To duck him likewise: but Robin Hood cries,He is a stout fellow, forbear.There's no one shall wrong thee, friend, be not afraid;These bowmen upon me do wait:There's threescore and nine; if thou will be mine,Thou shalt have my livery straight,And other accoutrements fit for a man:Speak up, jolly blade, never fear;I'll teach you also the use of the bow,To shoot at the fat fallow deer.O here is my hand, the stranger replied,I'll serve you with all my whole heart:My name is John Little, a man of good mettle;Ne'er doubt me, for I'll play my part.His name shall be alter'd, quoth Will. Stutely,And I will his godfather be;Prepare then a feast, and none of the least,For we will be merry, quoth he.They presently fetch'd him a brace of fat does,With humming strong liquor likewise:They lov'd what was good; so in the green woodThis pretty sweet babe they baptiz'd.He was, I must tell you, but seven feet high,And may be an ell in the waist;A sweet pretty lad; much feasting they had,Bold Robin the christening grac'd,With all his bowmen, which stood in a ring,And were of the Nottingham breed.Brave Stutely came then with seven yeomen,And did in this manner proceed:This infant was called John Little, quoth he,Which name shall be changed anon:The words we'll transpose; so wherever he goes,His name shall be call'd Little John.They all with a shout made the elements ring,So soon as the office was o'er;To feasting they went, with true merriment,And tippled strong liquor gillore.Then Robin he took the pretty sweet babe,And cloath'd him from top to the toeIn garments of green most gay to be seen,And gave him a curious long bow.Thou shalt be an archer as well as the best,And range in the green wood with us,Where we'll not want gold nor silver, behold,While bishops have ought in their purse.We live here like squires or lords of renown,Without e'er a foot of free land;We feast on good cheer, with wine, ale, and beer,And every thing at our command.Then music and dancing did finish the day:At length, when the sun waxed low,Then all the whole train their grove did refrain,And unto their caves they did go.And so ever after, as long as they liv'd,Although he was proper and tall,Yet nevertheless, the truth to express,Still Little John they did him call.
When Robin Hood was about twenty years old,He happened to meet Little John,A jolly brisk blade, right fit for the trade,For he was a lusty young man.
Tho' he was call'd little, his limbs they were large,And his stature was seven foot high:Where ever he came, they quak'd at his name,For soon he would make them to fly.
How they came acquainted I'll tell you in brief,If you would but listen awhile;For this very jest, among all the rest,I think, may cause you to smile.
For Robin Hood said to his jolly bowmen,Pray tarry you here in this grove,And see that you all observe well my call,While thorough the forest I rove.
We have had no sport these fourteen long days,Therefore now abroad will I go;Now should I be beat, and cannot retreat,My horn I will presently blow.
Then did he shake hands with his merry men all,And bid them at present good-bye;Then as near a brook his journey he took,A stranger he chanc'd to espy.
They happen'd to meet on a long narrow bridge,And neither of them would give way;Quoth bold Robin Hood, and sturdily stood,I'll shew you right Nottingham play.
With that from his quiver an arrow he drew,A broad arrow with a goose wing;The stranger replied, I'll liquor thy hide,If thou offer to touch the string.
Quoth bold Robin Hood, thou dost prate like an ass,For, were I to bend but my bow,I could send a dart quite through thy proud heart,Before thou could'st strike me one blow.
Thou talk'st like a coward, the stranger replied,Well arm'd with a long bow you stand,To shoot at my breast, while I, I protest,Have nought but a staff in my hand.
The name of a coward, quoth Robin, I scorn,Therefore my long bow I'll lay by;And now, for thy sake, a staff will I take,The truth of thy manhood to try.
Then Robin Hood stept to a thicket of trees,And chose him a staff of ground oak;Now this being done, away he did runTo the stranger, and merrily spoke:
Lo! see my staff is lusty and tough:Now, here on the bridge we will play;Whoever falls in, the other shall winThe battle, and so we'll away.
With all my whole heart, the stranger replied,I scorn in the least to give out.This said, they fell to't without more dispute,And their staffs they did flourish about.
At first Robin gave the stranger a bang,So hard that he made his bones ring:The stranger he said, this must be repaid,I'll give you as good as you bring.
So long as I'm able to handle a staff,To die in your debt, friend, I scorn:Then to it each goes, and follow'd their blows,As if they had been threshing of corn.
The stranger gave Robin a crack on the crown,Which caused the blood to appear;Then Robin enrag'd more fiercely engag'd,And follow'd his blows more severe.
So thick and so fast did he lay it on him,With a passionate fury and ire;At every stroke he made him to smoke,As if he had been all on fire.
O then in a fury the stranger he grew,And gave him a damnable look;And with a blow, which laid him full low,And tumbled him into the brook.
I prithee, good fellow, O where art thou now?The stranger, in laughter, he cried:Quoth bold Robin Hood, Good faith, in the flood,And floating along with the tide:
I needs must acknowledge thou art a brave soul,With thee I'll no longer contend;For needs must I say thou hast got the day,Our battle shall be at an end.
Then unto the bank he did presently wade,And pull'd him out by a thorn;Which done, at the last he blew a loud blastStraightway on his fine bugle horn:
The echo of which thro' the vallies did fly,At which his stout bowmen appear'd,All cloathed in green, most gay to be seen;So up to their master they steer'd.
O what is the matter? quoth Will. Stutely,Good master, you are wet to the skin:No matter, quoth he, the lad which you see,In fighting hath tumbled me in.
He shall not go scot-free, the others replied;So straight they were seizing him there,To duck him likewise: but Robin Hood cries,He is a stout fellow, forbear.
There's no one shall wrong thee, friend, be not afraid;These bowmen upon me do wait:There's threescore and nine; if thou will be mine,Thou shalt have my livery straight,
And other accoutrements fit for a man:Speak up, jolly blade, never fear;I'll teach you also the use of the bow,To shoot at the fat fallow deer.
O here is my hand, the stranger replied,I'll serve you with all my whole heart:My name is John Little, a man of good mettle;Ne'er doubt me, for I'll play my part.
His name shall be alter'd, quoth Will. Stutely,And I will his godfather be;Prepare then a feast, and none of the least,For we will be merry, quoth he.
They presently fetch'd him a brace of fat does,With humming strong liquor likewise:They lov'd what was good; so in the green woodThis pretty sweet babe they baptiz'd.
He was, I must tell you, but seven feet high,And may be an ell in the waist;A sweet pretty lad; much feasting they had,Bold Robin the christening grac'd,
With all his bowmen, which stood in a ring,And were of the Nottingham breed.Brave Stutely came then with seven yeomen,And did in this manner proceed:
This infant was called John Little, quoth he,Which name shall be changed anon:The words we'll transpose; so wherever he goes,His name shall be call'd Little John.
They all with a shout made the elements ring,So soon as the office was o'er;To feasting they went, with true merriment,And tippled strong liquor gillore.
Then Robin he took the pretty sweet babe,And cloath'd him from top to the toeIn garments of green most gay to be seen,And gave him a curious long bow.
Thou shalt be an archer as well as the best,And range in the green wood with us,Where we'll not want gold nor silver, behold,While bishops have ought in their purse.
We live here like squires or lords of renown,Without e'er a foot of free land;We feast on good cheer, with wine, ale, and beer,And every thing at our command.
Then music and dancing did finish the day:At length, when the sun waxed low,Then all the whole train their grove did refrain,And unto their caves they did go.
And so ever after, as long as they liv'd,Although he was proper and tall,Yet nevertheless, the truth to express,Still Little John they did him call.
The current tradition in Derbyshire concerning Little John is that he was born at Hathersage, in that county; that he was a man of immense stature, and of wonderful strength and prowess; that he was withal of mild and gentle temperament, of affectionate disposition, and faithful in his attachments; that after the death of Robin Hood at Kirklees, which he took deeply to heart, he was so dispirited that he sank under the loss, and having by great exertion succeeded in reaching the place of his birth, (Hathersage,) he was welcomed by his friends and old associates, who begged him to tarry with them for the rest of his life; that he had just strength enough left to point out the place in the churchyard where he wished to be buried, and to give them instructions for his burial; that he told them in three days he should die, and desired that his bow and cap should be hung up in the church; that on the third day he died, in a small cottage still standing, where, it is said, his length was so great when dead and "laid out," that his feet came outside the door; that he was buried where he had directed, his cap and bow being hung in the chancel of the church; that the people drave his last arrow into the ground near his grave, and that it took root and grew up into a tree. It is asserted that until within the last sixty or seventy years, his cap—a green cloth one—still hung high in the chancel, but was then taken away by some people fromYorkshire, who also despoiled his grave, and took away the thigh bones, which were found to be of immense length. The grave, which is marked by two small upright stones, one at the head and the other at the foot, measures about ten feet in length. In 1728 it was opened, and bones of an enormous size found in it. Some years ago it was again opened, and a thigh bone measuring thirty-two inches taken away from it.
In reference to this tradition it will no doubt be interesting to give the accompanying fac-simile of the writing of Elias Ashmole, copied from his MSS. at Oxford, (who was born in 1617,) and who there says—
"Little John lyes buried in Hatherseech Church yard within 3 miles fro Castleton in High Peake with one Stone set up at his head and another at his Feete, but a large distance betweene them. They say a part of his bow hangs up in the said Church Neere Grindleford Bridge are Robin Hoods 2 Pricks."
"Little John lyes buried in Hatherseech Church yard within 3 miles fro Castleton in High Peake with one Stone set up at his head and another at his Feete, but a large distance betweene them. They say a part of his bow hangs up in the said Church Neere Grindleford Bridge are Robin Hoods 2 Pricks."
The above sentence in handwriting
The following ballad, founded on a part of this tradition, was written by Mr. William Haines, and appeared in "The Reliquary," vol. II., page 11. Several other ballads relating toLittle John might well be given in this volume, but the two I have selected—his first acquaintance with Robin Hood, and his death and burial—will be sufficient to show their character. The others must be deferred for a future work.
When Robin Hood, by guile betrayed,In Kirklees' cloister died,Silent his merry men dispersed,And never more allied.Some passed unknown, or pardon got,And peaceful callings sought,Beyond the seas while others fled,And 'gainst the Paynim fought.And Little John, as lonely throughTheir vacant haunts he strode,Repented sadness in his soulHad e'er of old abode.As there beneath an oak his limbsRepose long failing found,A shape thrice warned him in a dream,To shun St. Michael's ground.Affrighted, from the sward he starts—Deep shone the guardian night!The moon the woods bowed motionlessWith plenitude of light.St. Michael's road, presaging nought,Leal John yestreen had ta'en;But now another way he chose,Lest there he should be slain.Northward, compelling soon his steps,Across the Tweed he hied;Thence sea and land to traverse far,A long and cheerless tide.For aye his heart in greenwood was,Wherever he might be;Till pleasing rose resolve once moreThe forests fair to see.Yet bootless he retraced dejectEach loved resort at last;The birds were mute, the leafless woldHeld drearily the blast.And as again John wandered wide,A fog so dense did fall,He could not see nor hill nor tree;It clos'd him like a wall.That dismal night he roamed lost,Exhausted, sick, and cold:The morn was long ere it was light,And long the vapour rolled.On every side came mighty stonesAbout a barren moor;No roof nor pale might be descried,As spread that waste forlore.At length 'mid wreathing fog-smoke swamThe sun's blanch'd disc on high;Mantled the ashy mists around;Grew wide the rover's eye.When, singing blithe as he approached,A shepherd boy met John:"Pray tell to me," the outlaw cried,"What ground I here am on?""St. Michael's, gallant yeomen, this,"The boy made prompt reply;"From yonder, Hathersage church-spire,May'st plainly now espy.""There hast thou knelled," said Little John,"The solemn bell for me;But Christ thee save, my bonny lad;Aye lucky shalt thou be!"He had not many steps advanced,When in the vale appearedThe Church, and eke the village sweet,His foot had vainly feared.Descending, welcome straight he findsThe ruddy hearth before:Cried young and old, "Among us dwell,And weary roam no more!"Said Little John, "No, never henceShall I fare forth again;But that abode is yet to found,Wherein I must remain."He led them to the churchyard frore,And digg'd therein a grave:"Three days," said he, "and neighbours, thisThe little inn I crave.Without a coffin or a shroudInter me, I you pray,And o'er my corse, as now yclad,The greensward lightly lay."The morn ensued, as John foretold,He never rose to greet;His bread upon the board was brought,Beside it stayed his seat.They laid him in the grave which heWith his own hands had made,And overspread the fragrant sod,As he had wished and said.His bow was in the chancel hung;His last good bolt they draveDown to the nocke, its measured length,Westward fro' the grave.And root and bud this shaft put forth,When Spring returned anon;It grew a tree, and threw a shadeWhere slept staunch Little John.
When Robin Hood, by guile betrayed,In Kirklees' cloister died,Silent his merry men dispersed,And never more allied.
Some passed unknown, or pardon got,And peaceful callings sought,Beyond the seas while others fled,And 'gainst the Paynim fought.
And Little John, as lonely throughTheir vacant haunts he strode,Repented sadness in his soulHad e'er of old abode.
As there beneath an oak his limbsRepose long failing found,A shape thrice warned him in a dream,To shun St. Michael's ground.
Affrighted, from the sward he starts—Deep shone the guardian night!The moon the woods bowed motionlessWith plenitude of light.
St. Michael's road, presaging nought,Leal John yestreen had ta'en;But now another way he chose,Lest there he should be slain.
Northward, compelling soon his steps,Across the Tweed he hied;Thence sea and land to traverse far,A long and cheerless tide.
For aye his heart in greenwood was,Wherever he might be;Till pleasing rose resolve once moreThe forests fair to see.
Yet bootless he retraced dejectEach loved resort at last;The birds were mute, the leafless woldHeld drearily the blast.
And as again John wandered wide,A fog so dense did fall,He could not see nor hill nor tree;It clos'd him like a wall.
That dismal night he roamed lost,Exhausted, sick, and cold:The morn was long ere it was light,And long the vapour rolled.
On every side came mighty stonesAbout a barren moor;No roof nor pale might be descried,As spread that waste forlore.
At length 'mid wreathing fog-smoke swamThe sun's blanch'd disc on high;Mantled the ashy mists around;Grew wide the rover's eye.
When, singing blithe as he approached,A shepherd boy met John:"Pray tell to me," the outlaw cried,"What ground I here am on?"
"St. Michael's, gallant yeomen, this,"The boy made prompt reply;"From yonder, Hathersage church-spire,May'st plainly now espy."
"There hast thou knelled," said Little John,"The solemn bell for me;But Christ thee save, my bonny lad;Aye lucky shalt thou be!"
He had not many steps advanced,When in the vale appearedThe Church, and eke the village sweet,His foot had vainly feared.
Descending, welcome straight he findsThe ruddy hearth before:Cried young and old, "Among us dwell,And weary roam no more!"
Said Little John, "No, never henceShall I fare forth again;But that abode is yet to found,Wherein I must remain."
He led them to the churchyard frore,And digg'd therein a grave:"Three days," said he, "and neighbours, thisThe little inn I crave.
Without a coffin or a shroudInter me, I you pray,And o'er my corse, as now yclad,The greensward lightly lay."
The morn ensued, as John foretold,He never rose to greet;His bread upon the board was brought,Beside it stayed his seat.
They laid him in the grave which heWith his own hands had made,And overspread the fragrant sod,As he had wished and said.
His bow was in the chancel hung;His last good bolt they draveDown to the nocke, its measured length,Westward fro' the grave.
And root and bud this shaft put forth,When Spring returned anon;It grew a tree, and threw a shadeWhere slept staunch Little John.
The following excellent ballad has been collected from thedisjecta membraof the forest minstrelsy of the High Peak, and arranged in its present form, by my friend Mr. William Bennett, of Chapel-en-le-Frith. Mr. Bennett considers, and with good reason, that it has originally formed two distinct ballads, one relatingto a contention and fight between Robin Hood and the keepers of Peak Forest, and the other to a match with the long-bow between him and the Foresters. This ballad has been printed in "The Reliquary," vol. I., page 101.
'Tis merry in the high Peak Forest,Out upon the lea;'Tis merry in the shady frith,Where birds are whistling free:The heather blooms on Lady low;O'er Combs[21]the wind blows dree;And the dappled deer are feeding there,Under the Greenwood tree."Now why amort, bold Robin Hood!And a buck so near at hand:'Tis easier far to cleave his crownThan a peeled willow wand.A nobler herd ne'er saw I run,Three hundred head and mo:The King won't miss a hart o' grease,If thou use thy good yew bow.""My bow's unstrung, Brian the Bearward!So much the worse for thee:Thou elder likest the twang of the string,Than the deftest minstrelsy:Thou prizest the swish of an arrow keen,When the mark is a buck of head;And liefer than tripping o'er the sward,Thou wouldst see the Quarry dead.""Ay, dead and buried," quoth the Bearward,"In the grave of a venison pie:And so wouldst thou, or men thee wrong;For all thou talk'st so high:But if thou durst not fly a shaft,As well as I would fly mine,Tend thou my bear, and lend thy bow;I'll swop my trade for thine."The Bearward strung the bow and shotFour hundred feet him fro:And hit a good fat buck, which fell,Nor lack'd a second blow."Well shot, shot well," bold Robin cried,"Thou'rt of the greenwood free;At stable stand, or wanlass drift,Thou need'st no lere from me."Then they were ware of six wight yeomen,That lusty were, and tall,Come marching up from Fairfield[22]side,Beneath the archer's wall;All clad in Lincoln green were they;And on their right arms woreA silver shield, which, in its field,A lion passant bore."Good morrow, good fellows!" the foremost said,"You are got to work eftsoon,I pray do you hold of the crown in chief,Or follow the Lady Moon?Of stout King Richard the lion's heartYe should be liegemen good,To break his laws, and kill his deer,Within his own greenwood.""Thou liest now, thou proud spoken keeper!Forever I say thou dost lie:Neither forest walk, nor deer are the King's,As I will well abye.To John of Mortaigne, the deer belong;To John of Mortaigne andme;And my share I'll take, when it me lists,Despite of him or thee.""Why who art thou, thou bold tongued traitor!That durst thus mate with me;And claim one half of the Prince's deer,Despite of his sovereignty?I trou thou'rt one of the Bearward's men,By keeping his company;And I'll make thee dance like a bear from France,If thy tongue not the kinder be."Then on he rushed, with his staff uprais'd,And dealt bold Robin a blow;But he was ware, and stopped him there,With his long and tough yew bow.And Robin put his Horn to his mouth,And blew both loud and shrill;And soon appeared five wight yeomenCome running down the hill.The first was a man hight Little John,A yeoman good and tall;The next Will Scarlet of gentle blood,Bred up in bower and hall;The third, the minstrel, Alan a Dale,So well with the harp sang he;The fourth was stalwart Clym o' the Clough,And William of Cloudeslie."Now, hold your hands," bold Robin cried,"Stand by and see fair play;And the keeper and I will try this bout,And see who'll win the day.The Bearward shall lay the dainty buckOn this mossy boulder stone;And he that fairly knocks down his foe,The fat buck shall have won.""A match, a match," cried the yeomen all,"Whoever shall say it nay,'Tis better ye two should fight it out,Than all should join in the fray:So handle your staves, and to it like men,As it may no better be;And he that first brings his man to ground,Shall gain the victory."Then Ralph the Ranger squared his staff,And gloured on Robin the while;The outlaw's staff lay loose in his hands,And he scarce forbore to smile.They stood together like Brothers twain,Good men at their hands and tall;But each seemed loth to begin the strife,Lest he first should have the fall.And round and round each pressed his man,Before he could get a blow;So well on guard, each kept his ward,As they traversed to and fro.With feint and dodge each tried to draw,His wary foeman forth;But both were cool, and cautious too;Like the good men of the north.Bold Robin first his staff let fly,(The challenger was he,)And for the honor of his craft,He must not dastard be.Woe worth the while he dealt the blow,His staff had scarcely flown;When Ralph's came dead athwart his head,And well nigh cracked his crown.He backward gave a step or two,But not one whit dismayed;Though now the Keeper's quarter staffAbout his shoulders played:His eye was keen, his hand was true,As well the Keeper found;For his staff did knap the Keeper's cap,And bring him to the ground."The buck is mine," the outlaw said,"Unless thou lik'st to tryWhich of us twain upon the ground,Can best make arrow fly.For kingly blood ye tend the frith;Ye ought to shoot right well:For mine own hand will I draw a bow,And see who bears the bell.""A match, a match!" cried the yeomen all,"Whoever shall say it nay;Good men ye are if ye shoot a shaft,As ye've handled the staff this day.So fix your mark, and choose your ground,And it may no better be;And he that first cleaves the willow wand,Shall gain the victory.""No willow wand will we have," quoth Robin,"But the Buck's dead glassy eye;And we'll shoot the length of the archer's wall,[23]Seven hundred feet or nigh.So Bearward lay the deer adownOn yon mossy boulder stone;And he who lodges a shaft in his eye,The fat buck shall have won."The buck was laid on the boulder stone,With his head towards the east;And the yeomen tall, with their bows in hand,To win the guerdon press'd;The Keeper first with wary eye,Took long and careful aim;And hit the buck right yeomanlyIn the middle of his wame."Well shot, well shot," bold Robin cried,(But the outlaw laughed the while,)"Right woodmanly that shaft is placed;But a miss is as good as a mile."With careless aim he drew his bow,And let his arrow fly;And lodged the shaft, both hard and fast,In the dead buck's glassy eye.So Robin he won the dainty Buck,By the side of the archer's wall;And left the tale to be sung or saidIn Tower, and Bower, and Hall.The old gray wall still stands on the hill,Though the archer's marks are gone;And the Boulder Rock is still kept in mind,By the name of old Buckstone.
'Tis merry in the high Peak Forest,Out upon the lea;'Tis merry in the shady frith,Where birds are whistling free:The heather blooms on Lady low;O'er Combs[21]the wind blows dree;And the dappled deer are feeding there,Under the Greenwood tree.
"Now why amort, bold Robin Hood!And a buck so near at hand:'Tis easier far to cleave his crownThan a peeled willow wand.A nobler herd ne'er saw I run,Three hundred head and mo:The King won't miss a hart o' grease,If thou use thy good yew bow."
"My bow's unstrung, Brian the Bearward!So much the worse for thee:Thou elder likest the twang of the string,Than the deftest minstrelsy:Thou prizest the swish of an arrow keen,When the mark is a buck of head;And liefer than tripping o'er the sward,Thou wouldst see the Quarry dead."
"Ay, dead and buried," quoth the Bearward,"In the grave of a venison pie:And so wouldst thou, or men thee wrong;For all thou talk'st so high:But if thou durst not fly a shaft,As well as I would fly mine,Tend thou my bear, and lend thy bow;I'll swop my trade for thine."
The Bearward strung the bow and shotFour hundred feet him fro:And hit a good fat buck, which fell,Nor lack'd a second blow."Well shot, shot well," bold Robin cried,"Thou'rt of the greenwood free;At stable stand, or wanlass drift,Thou need'st no lere from me."
Then they were ware of six wight yeomen,That lusty were, and tall,Come marching up from Fairfield[22]side,Beneath the archer's wall;All clad in Lincoln green were they;And on their right arms woreA silver shield, which, in its field,A lion passant bore.
"Good morrow, good fellows!" the foremost said,"You are got to work eftsoon,I pray do you hold of the crown in chief,Or follow the Lady Moon?Of stout King Richard the lion's heartYe should be liegemen good,To break his laws, and kill his deer,Within his own greenwood."
"Thou liest now, thou proud spoken keeper!Forever I say thou dost lie:Neither forest walk, nor deer are the King's,As I will well abye.To John of Mortaigne, the deer belong;To John of Mortaigne andme;And my share I'll take, when it me lists,Despite of him or thee."
"Why who art thou, thou bold tongued traitor!That durst thus mate with me;And claim one half of the Prince's deer,Despite of his sovereignty?I trou thou'rt one of the Bearward's men,By keeping his company;And I'll make thee dance like a bear from France,If thy tongue not the kinder be."
Then on he rushed, with his staff uprais'd,And dealt bold Robin a blow;But he was ware, and stopped him there,With his long and tough yew bow.And Robin put his Horn to his mouth,And blew both loud and shrill;And soon appeared five wight yeomenCome running down the hill.
The first was a man hight Little John,A yeoman good and tall;The next Will Scarlet of gentle blood,Bred up in bower and hall;The third, the minstrel, Alan a Dale,So well with the harp sang he;The fourth was stalwart Clym o' the Clough,And William of Cloudeslie.
"Now, hold your hands," bold Robin cried,"Stand by and see fair play;And the keeper and I will try this bout,And see who'll win the day.The Bearward shall lay the dainty buckOn this mossy boulder stone;And he that fairly knocks down his foe,The fat buck shall have won."
"A match, a match," cried the yeomen all,"Whoever shall say it nay,'Tis better ye two should fight it out,Than all should join in the fray:So handle your staves, and to it like men,As it may no better be;And he that first brings his man to ground,Shall gain the victory."
Then Ralph the Ranger squared his staff,And gloured on Robin the while;The outlaw's staff lay loose in his hands,And he scarce forbore to smile.They stood together like Brothers twain,Good men at their hands and tall;But each seemed loth to begin the strife,Lest he first should have the fall.
And round and round each pressed his man,Before he could get a blow;So well on guard, each kept his ward,As they traversed to and fro.With feint and dodge each tried to draw,His wary foeman forth;But both were cool, and cautious too;Like the good men of the north.
Bold Robin first his staff let fly,(The challenger was he,)And for the honor of his craft,He must not dastard be.Woe worth the while he dealt the blow,His staff had scarcely flown;When Ralph's came dead athwart his head,And well nigh cracked his crown.
He backward gave a step or two,But not one whit dismayed;Though now the Keeper's quarter staffAbout his shoulders played:His eye was keen, his hand was true,As well the Keeper found;For his staff did knap the Keeper's cap,And bring him to the ground.
"The buck is mine," the outlaw said,"Unless thou lik'st to tryWhich of us twain upon the ground,Can best make arrow fly.For kingly blood ye tend the frith;Ye ought to shoot right well:For mine own hand will I draw a bow,And see who bears the bell."
"A match, a match!" cried the yeomen all,"Whoever shall say it nay;Good men ye are if ye shoot a shaft,As ye've handled the staff this day.So fix your mark, and choose your ground,And it may no better be;And he that first cleaves the willow wand,Shall gain the victory."
"No willow wand will we have," quoth Robin,"But the Buck's dead glassy eye;And we'll shoot the length of the archer's wall,[23]Seven hundred feet or nigh.So Bearward lay the deer adownOn yon mossy boulder stone;And he who lodges a shaft in his eye,The fat buck shall have won."
The buck was laid on the boulder stone,With his head towards the east;And the yeomen tall, with their bows in hand,To win the guerdon press'd;The Keeper first with wary eye,Took long and careful aim;And hit the buck right yeomanlyIn the middle of his wame.
"Well shot, well shot," bold Robin cried,(But the outlaw laughed the while,)"Right woodmanly that shaft is placed;But a miss is as good as a mile."With careless aim he drew his bow,And let his arrow fly;And lodged the shaft, both hard and fast,In the dead buck's glassy eye.
So Robin he won the dainty Buck,By the side of the archer's wall;And left the tale to be sung or saidIn Tower, and Bower, and Hall.The old gray wall still stands on the hill,Though the archer's marks are gone;And the Boulder Rock is still kept in mind,By the name of old Buckstone.
The rhyme and the story of "Whittington and his Cat" are perhaps as well known as any ballads in the language. Sir Richard Whittington, or "Dick Whittington," as he is commonly called, was of the same family as the De Whittingtons, Lords of Whittington, near Chesterfield, Derbyshire. He was, it is stated, youngest son of a Sir William Whittington. In 1393, when he must have been about forty years of age, he became a member of the Mercers' Company, and was, it is said, besides being a Mercer, a Merchant Adventurer. He was also about this year an Alderman, and also Sheriff, of London. In 1397 he was appointed Lord Mayor of London, by writ from Richard II., to serve in place of the deceased Lord Mayor. In 1398, in 1406, and again in 1419, he was elected to and served the office of Lord Mayor. Whittington married Alice, daughter of Sir Hugh Fitzwarren and Maude his wife. He died in 1423. Besides being "thrice Lord Mayor of London," his body was, it seems,thriceburied in the church he had himself erected,—St. Michael Paternoster: first, by his executors, who erected a monument over his remains; secondly, in the reign of Edward VI., when the minister, thinking that probably some great riches had been buried with him, had his body taken up and despoiled of its leaden covering; and, thirdly, in the reign of Mary, when the parishioners were compelled to again take him up, re-enclose him in lead, and re-erect the monument over his remains. At the great fire of London, in 1666, both church and monument were destroyed. His memory has been well preserved in the popular mind by ballad and story and tradition; and his noble charities and his munificent acts, ofwhich so many evidences remain in London, form a prouder and more enduring monument than the one which the fire destroyed.
The following version of the ballad is perhaps the one most generally known:—
Here must I tell the praiseOf worthy Whittington,Known to be in his daysThrice lord-mayor of London.But of poor parentageBorn was he, as we hear,And in his tender ageBred up in Lancashire.Poorly to London then,Came up this simple lad;Where, with a merchant-man,Soon he a dwelling had;And in a kitchen plac'd,A scullion for to be;Where a long time he pass'dIn labour drudgingly.His daily service wasTurning at the fire;And to scour pots of brass,For a poor scullion's hire:Meat and drink all his pay,Of coin he had no store;Therefore to run away,In secret thought he bore.So from the merchant-manWhittington secretlyTowards his country ran,To purchase liberty.But as he went along,In a fair summer's morn,London's bells sweetly rung"Whittington back return:"Evermore sounding so,"Turn, again, Whittington;For thou, in time, shalt growLord-mayor of London."Whereupon, back againWhittington came with speed,A servant to remain,As the Lord had decreed.Still blessed be the bells,This was his daily song;"This my good fortune tells,Most sweetly have they rung.If God so favour me,I will not prove unkind;London my love shall see,And my large bounties find."But, see his happy chance!This scullion had a cat,Which did his state advance,And by it wealth he gat.His master ventur'd forth,To a land far unknown,With merchandize of worth,As is in stories shown:Whittington had no moreBut this poor cat as then,Which to the ship he bore,Like a brave valiant man."Vent'ring the same," quoth he,"I may get store of gold,And mayor of London be,As the bells have me told."Whittington's merchandise,Carried to a landTroubled with rats and mice,As they did understand;The king of the country there,As he at dinner sat,Daily remain'd in fearOf many a mouse and rat.Meat that on trenchers lay,No way they could keep safe;But by rats bore away,Fearing no wand or staff;Whereupon, soon they broughtWhittington's nimble cat;Which by the king was bought,Heaps of gold given for that.Home again came these men,With their ship laden so;Whittington's wealth beganBy this cat thus to grow:Scullion's life he forsook,To be a merchant good,And soon began to lookHow well his credit stood.After that, he was choseSheriff of the city here,And then full quickly roseHigher, as did appear:For, to the city's praise,Sir Richard WhittingtonCame to be in his days,Thrice mayor of London.More his fame to advance,Thousands he lent the king,To maintain war in France,Glory from thence to bring.And after, at a feastWhich he the king did make,He burnt the bonds all in jest,And would no money take.Ten thousand pounds he gaveTo his prince willingly;And would no penny haveFor this kind courtesy.As God thus made him great,So he would daily seePoor people fed with meat,To shew his charity:Prisoners poor cherish'd were,Widows sweet comfort found:Good deeds, both far and near,Of him do still resound.Whittington's College isOne of his charities;Record reporteth thisTo lasting memories.Newgate he builded fair,For prisoners to lie in;Christ-church he did repair,Christian love for to win.Many more such like deedsWere done by Whittington;Which joy and comfort breeds,To such as look thereon.
Here must I tell the praiseOf worthy Whittington,Known to be in his daysThrice lord-mayor of London.
But of poor parentageBorn was he, as we hear,And in his tender ageBred up in Lancashire.
Poorly to London then,Came up this simple lad;Where, with a merchant-man,Soon he a dwelling had;
And in a kitchen plac'd,A scullion for to be;Where a long time he pass'dIn labour drudgingly.
His daily service wasTurning at the fire;And to scour pots of brass,For a poor scullion's hire:
Meat and drink all his pay,Of coin he had no store;Therefore to run away,In secret thought he bore.
So from the merchant-manWhittington secretlyTowards his country ran,To purchase liberty.
But as he went along,In a fair summer's morn,London's bells sweetly rung"Whittington back return:"
Evermore sounding so,"Turn, again, Whittington;For thou, in time, shalt growLord-mayor of London."
Whereupon, back againWhittington came with speed,A servant to remain,As the Lord had decreed.
Still blessed be the bells,This was his daily song;"This my good fortune tells,Most sweetly have they rung.
If God so favour me,I will not prove unkind;London my love shall see,And my large bounties find."
But, see his happy chance!This scullion had a cat,Which did his state advance,And by it wealth he gat.
His master ventur'd forth,To a land far unknown,With merchandize of worth,As is in stories shown:
Whittington had no moreBut this poor cat as then,Which to the ship he bore,Like a brave valiant man.
"Vent'ring the same," quoth he,"I may get store of gold,And mayor of London be,As the bells have me told."
Whittington's merchandise,Carried to a landTroubled with rats and mice,As they did understand;
The king of the country there,As he at dinner sat,Daily remain'd in fearOf many a mouse and rat.
Meat that on trenchers lay,No way they could keep safe;But by rats bore away,Fearing no wand or staff;
Whereupon, soon they broughtWhittington's nimble cat;Which by the king was bought,Heaps of gold given for that.
Home again came these men,With their ship laden so;Whittington's wealth beganBy this cat thus to grow:
Scullion's life he forsook,To be a merchant good,And soon began to lookHow well his credit stood.
After that, he was choseSheriff of the city here,And then full quickly roseHigher, as did appear:
For, to the city's praise,Sir Richard WhittingtonCame to be in his days,Thrice mayor of London.
More his fame to advance,Thousands he lent the king,To maintain war in France,Glory from thence to bring.
And after, at a feastWhich he the king did make,He burnt the bonds all in jest,And would no money take.
Ten thousand pounds he gaveTo his prince willingly;And would no penny haveFor this kind courtesy.
As God thus made him great,So he would daily seePoor people fed with meat,To shew his charity:
Prisoners poor cherish'd were,Widows sweet comfort found:Good deeds, both far and near,Of him do still resound.
Whittington's College isOne of his charities;Record reporteth thisTo lasting memories.
Newgate he builded fair,For prisoners to lie in;Christ-church he did repair,Christian love for to win.
Many more such like deedsWere done by Whittington;Which joy and comfort breeds,To such as look thereon.
I have not as yet been able to recover the whole of the words of this ballad. The following fragment was written by Mr. Chappell, from the singing of Mr. Charles Sloman, and is all I have respecting it:—
Music
[Listen]
Lyrics:The miller he caught the maid by the toeWhat d'ye call this, my dearest?The miller he caught the maid by the toe;What d'ye call this, my dearest?Oh! this is my toe, near to my shoe sole.Thy toe on my territory.I'm the maid of the mill, and the corn grinds well.
Lyrics:
The miller he caught the maid by the toeWhat d'ye call this, my dearest?The miller he caught the maid by the toe;What d'ye call this, my dearest?Oh! this is my toe, near to my shoe sole.Thy toe on my territory.I'm the maid of the mill, and the corn grinds well.
One Sunday in 1806 the Prince of Wales, afterwards George IV., passed through Tideswell, in the High Peak, and stopped to change horses at the principal inn of the place. The circumstance caused, as was only natural, considerable excitement in the place, which culminated in not only the whole of the congregation of the parish church, but also the clergyman himself, and his clerk, forsaking the service to see him pass. This circumstance gave rise to much merriment, and more than one ballad was the result. The following is the best:—
Declare, O Muse, what demon 'twasCrept into Tideswell Church,And tempted pious folk to leaveTheir parson in the lurch.What caused this strange disaster, say,What did the scene provoke?At which the men unborn will laugh,At which the living joke!The Prince of Wales, great George's Heir,To roam once took a freak;And as the fates did so decree,He journey'd through the Peak.But, ah! my Prince, thy journey turn'dThe Sabbath into fun day;And Tideswell Lads will ne'er forget,Thy trav'ling on a Sunday.The Ringers somehow gain'd a hint,Their loyalty be praised!That George would come that way, so gotThe Bells already rais'd.The Prince arrived, then loudest shoutsThro' Tideswell streets soon rang;The loyal clappers strait fell down,With many a merry bang.To Pulpit high, just then the Priest,His sacred gown had thrust;And, strange coincidence! his Text"In Princes put no trust."With Man of God they all agreed,Till bells went clitter clatter;When expectation did them feed,But not with heavenly matter.The congregation, demon rous'd,Arose with one accord;And, shameful, put their trust in Prince,And left the living Lord.They helter skelter sought the door,The Church did them disgorge;With fiercest fury, then they flew,Like Dragons to the "George."As through Churchyard with tumult direAnd wild uproar they fled;Confusion was so great, some thoughtThey would have rais'd the Dead.The Parson cried, with loudest lungs,"For love of God, pray stay!"But love of Prince more prevalent,Soon hied them fast away.The Demon hov'ring o'er their heads,Exulted as they pass'd;"Friend Belzebub," the Parson cried,"Thou'st got a Prize at last."The Clerk then to his master said,"We're left behind complete;What harm if we start off for Prince,And run the second heat?"The Parson with good Capon lin'd,Then ran with middling haste;Spare Clerk, was at his rear, who knew,"Amen," should come the last.Amidst the mob, they soon descriedThe Prince, Great Britain's Heir;Then with the Mob they both did join,And play'd at gape and stare.Their wish the sovereign People show,Impress'd with one accord;It was to turn themselves to beasts,And draw their future Lord.The Prince put forth what's filled with sense,It was his Royal sconce:Insisted they should act like men,And break their rules for once.Steeds more appropriate being brought,Huzzas formed parting speech;The Prince drove on and people wentTo swig with Mrs. Leech.Thy Flock's frail error, Reverend Sir,Did serve a loyal dish up;For which, if Prince has any grace,He'll surely make thee Bishop.
Declare, O Muse, what demon 'twasCrept into Tideswell Church,And tempted pious folk to leaveTheir parson in the lurch.
What caused this strange disaster, say,What did the scene provoke?At which the men unborn will laugh,At which the living joke!
The Prince of Wales, great George's Heir,To roam once took a freak;And as the fates did so decree,He journey'd through the Peak.
But, ah! my Prince, thy journey turn'dThe Sabbath into fun day;And Tideswell Lads will ne'er forget,Thy trav'ling on a Sunday.
The Ringers somehow gain'd a hint,Their loyalty be praised!That George would come that way, so gotThe Bells already rais'd.
The Prince arrived, then loudest shoutsThro' Tideswell streets soon rang;The loyal clappers strait fell down,With many a merry bang.
To Pulpit high, just then the Priest,His sacred gown had thrust;And, strange coincidence! his Text"In Princes put no trust."
With Man of God they all agreed,Till bells went clitter clatter;When expectation did them feed,But not with heavenly matter.
The congregation, demon rous'd,Arose with one accord;And, shameful, put their trust in Prince,And left the living Lord.
They helter skelter sought the door,The Church did them disgorge;With fiercest fury, then they flew,Like Dragons to the "George."
As through Churchyard with tumult direAnd wild uproar they fled;Confusion was so great, some thoughtThey would have rais'd the Dead.
The Parson cried, with loudest lungs,"For love of God, pray stay!"But love of Prince more prevalent,Soon hied them fast away.
The Demon hov'ring o'er their heads,Exulted as they pass'd;"Friend Belzebub," the Parson cried,"Thou'st got a Prize at last."
The Clerk then to his master said,"We're left behind complete;What harm if we start off for Prince,And run the second heat?"
The Parson with good Capon lin'd,Then ran with middling haste;Spare Clerk, was at his rear, who knew,"Amen," should come the last.
Amidst the mob, they soon descriedThe Prince, Great Britain's Heir;Then with the Mob they both did join,And play'd at gape and stare.
Their wish the sovereign People show,Impress'd with one accord;It was to turn themselves to beasts,And draw their future Lord.
The Prince put forth what's filled with sense,It was his Royal sconce:Insisted they should act like men,And break their rules for once.
Steeds more appropriate being brought,Huzzas formed parting speech;The Prince drove on and people wentTo swig with Mrs. Leech.
Thy Flock's frail error, Reverend Sir,Did serve a loyal dish up;For which, if Prince has any grace,He'll surely make thee Bishop.
Another short piece on this same subject may be added: