274

OUR GOODMAN

A.Herd’s MSS, I, 140; Herd’s Ancient and Modern Scottish Songs, 1776, II, 172.B.‘The Merry Cuckold and Kind Wife,’ a broadside: Printed and Sold at the Printing-Office in Bow Church-Yard, London.

A.Herd’s MSS, I, 140; Herd’s Ancient and Modern Scottish Songs, 1776, II, 172.

B.‘The Merry Cuckold and Kind Wife,’ a broadside: Printed and Sold at the Printing-Office in Bow Church-Yard, London.

The copy in Ritson’s Scotish Song, I, 231, is from Herd, 1776; that in the Musical Museum, No 454, p. 466, is the same, with change of a few words. In Smith’s Scotish Minstrel, IV, 66, the piece is turned into a Jacobite ballad. The goodwife says she is hiding her cousin McIntosh; ‘Tories,’ says the goodman.

Bwas reprinted by Dixon in Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England, p. 211, Percy Society, vol. xvii, ‘Old Wichet and his Wife,’ from a copy “obtained in Yorkshire” and “collated” with the Aldermary broadside. The fifth adventure (in the closet) is lacking. Two or three staves, with variations for the better, are given from memory in Notes and Queries, First Series, VI, 118, as communicated by Mr R. C. Warde, of Kidderminster. (See the notes.)

Percy madeBover in two shapes, whether for simple amusement or for the projected extension of the Reliques: ‘Old Wichet’s Discoveries,’ ‘Old Wichard’s Mistakes,’ among Percy’s papers.

A.Our goodman, coming home, sees successively a saddle-horse, pair of jack-boots, sword, powdered wig, muckle coat, finally a man, where none such should be. He asks the goodwife how this came about without his leave. She responds contemptuously that the things he has supposed himself to see are, respectively, a sow (milch-cow), a pair of water-stoups, a porridge-spurtle, a clocken-hen, a pair of blankets, a milking-maid, which her mother has sent her. Far has he ridden, but a saddle on a sow’s (cow’s) back, siller spurs on water-stoups, etc., long-bearded maidens, has he never seen.

B.InBOld Wichet comes uponthreehorses, swords, cloaks, pairs of boots, pairs of breeches, hats, and in the end three men in bed. Blind cuckold, says the wife, they are three milking-cows, roasting-spits, mantuas, pudding-bags, petticoats, skimming-dishes, milking-maids, all presents from her mother. The like was never known, exclaims Old Wichet; cows with bridles and saddles, roasting-spits with scabbards, etc., milking-maids with beards!

A song founded on this ballad was introduced into the play of “Auld Robin Gray,” produced, according to Guest’s History of the Stage, at the Haymarket, July 29, 1794. This song is a neat résumé of the ballad, with a satisfactory catastrophe.[84]See an appendix.

A Gaelic copy, taken down by Rev. Alexander Stewart, of Ballachulish, from the recitation of an old man in his parish whose father had been in the way of singing it sixty years before, is plainly based uponA. The goodman, coming home unexpectedly, finds a boat on the beach, a horse at the door, etc. These and other things are explained by his wife as gifts from her mother. Far has he wandered, but never saw a saddle on a cow, etc. Alexander Stewart, ’Twixt Ben Nevis and Glencoe, 1885, p. 76 ff.

A ballad known and sung throughout Flemish Belgium, ‘Mijn man komt thuis,’ is formed upon the pattern ofA, and must have beenderived fromA, unless the two have a common source. Two copies are given in Volkskunde (Tijdschrift voor Nederlandsche Folklore), II, 49-58, by the editors, Messrs A. Gittée and Pol de Mont, a third by Pol de Mont, V, 20. A man comes home late, and sees in his bedroom a strange hat, overcoat, and other articles of clothing, and asks whose they are. His wife answers that they are a water-pot, a straw mattress, etc., which her mother has sent her. Travel the world round, he has never seen a water-pot with a band about it, a straw mattress with two sleeves, etc. In the last adventure of the first copy, the husband finds a man in the room, and his wife flatly answers, it is a lover my mother has sent me. The second copy ends a little better, but not well. The man is explained to be a foster-child sent by his wife’s mother, and so in the third. The husband has travelled the world round, but a foster-child with whiskers has he never seen. The wife packs out of the house. He has travelled the world round, but a wife like his he wishes never to see again.

Friedrich Wilhelm Meyer, in 1789, turnedBinto German in very happy style, furnishing adénoûmentin which the man gives his wife a beating and explains his cuffs as caresses which her mother has sent her. Meyer’s ballad was printed in 1790, in the Göttingen Musenalmanach, p. 61 ff., and the same year in Lieder für fröhliche Gesellschaften, p. 37 (Hamburg). It had great and immediate success, was circulated as a broadside, and was taken up by the people, in whose mouth it underwent the usual treatment of ballads traditionally propagated.[85]From Germany it spread into Scandinavia and Hungary, and perhaps elsewhere. German varieties are: ‘Des Mannes Heimkehr,’ Hoffmann u. Richter, p. 225, No 195; ‘Wind über Wind,’ Simrock, p. 375, No 241; ‘Des Ehemannes Heimkehr,’ Ditfurth, Fränkische Volkslieder, IIrTheil, p. 61, No 61; Firmenich, Germaniens Völkerstimmen, III, 66; ‘Der Bauer u. sein Weib,’ Erlach, IV, 90; ‘Der betrogene Ehemann,’ Pröhle, p. 143; Walter, p. 97; ‘O Wind, O Wind, O Wind!’ Zurmühlen (Dülkener Fiedler), p. 101. (The last four lack the beating.)

The only Scandinavian copy that I have seen is the Swedish ‘Husarerna,’ in Bergström och Nordlander, Sagor, Sägner och Visor, 1885, p. 93. For indication of others, Danish, Norwegian, and Swedish (including a broadside as early as 1799), see, particularly, Olrik, Danmarks gamle Folkeviser, V,II, 211 f., and note***; also, Dybeck’s Runa, 1aSamlingen, 1865, I, 89 (where the beginnings of two stanzas are cited); Afzelius, ed. 1880, II, 285.

Magyar (Szekler), Kríza, Vadrózsák, p. 242, No 483; Aigner, p. 149.

French.A similar ballad is common in France, especially in the south.

Poésies pop. de la France, MSS: II, fol. 54, ‘Marion;’ III, 60 (printed in Revue des Traditions pop., II, 66), 62, 64, Puy-de-Dôme; 68, Auvergne; 69, ‘Zjean et Mariou,’ Bourbonnais; 71, Pays de Caux; 72, ‘Le jaloux,’ environs de Toulouse; 74, Gascogne (Rolland, II, 211); 75, Languedoc; 76, ‘Lo surprero,’ Limousin (Rolland, II, 212); 78, ‘Le mari de Marion,’ Normandie; 80, 66, ‘Le mari jaloux,’ Bouches-du-Rhône; 82, ‘Marion,’ Provence; 83, Loiret; 84, ‘La rusade,’ Limousin;’ 87, ‘Lou jolous’ (Rolland, II, 213, Revue des Trad. pop., I, 71), Limoges; VI, 381 vo, ‘Jeannetoun’ (Rolland, II, 214), Quercy. ‘Lou jalous,’ Arbaud, Chants pop. de la Provence, II, 152. ‘Lou galant,’ Atger, Revue des Langues romanes, VI, 261, and Poésies pop. en Langue d’oc, p. 53. ‘Las finessos de la Marioun,’ Moncaut, Littérature pop. de la Gascogne, p. 316 = Bladé, Poésies pop. de la Gascogne, II, 116 f. Revue des Traditions pop., II, 64, Cévennes. Daudet, Numa Roumestan, ed. 1881, p. 178, Provence = Revue des Tr. pop., II, 65, Ouest de la France. ‘Lou Tsalous, Daymard, Bulletin de la Société des Études,’ etc., du Lot, IV, 100, 1878, Vieux chants pop. rec. en Quercy, 1889, p. 92. ‘Las rebirados de Marioun,’ Soleville,Chants pop. du Bas-Quercy, p. 22; partly, in Pouvillon, Nouvelles réalistes, ed. 1878, p. 151. Victor Smith in Romania, IX, 566-68, three copies, Forez, Velay, bas-limousin. ‘Le mari soupçonneux,’ Tarbé, Romancero de Champagne, II, 98, Ardennes. ‘La chanson de la bergère,’ Puymaigre, Chants pop. rec. dans le Pays messin, 1865, p. 215, 1881, I, 263. ‘Les répliques de Marioun,’ Almanach des Traditions pop., 1882, p. 86, in Rolland, II, 208, No 162 a, environs de Lorient. ‘Las respounsos de Marioun,’ Laroche, Folklore du Lauraguais, p. 211. “Le Chroniqueur du Périgord et du Limousin, Périgueux, 1853, p. 109.” “Le Pélerinage de Mireille, p. 173.” (The last two I have not seen.)

For the most part, the colloquy runs in this wise: ‘Where were you last evening, Marion?’ ‘In the garden, picking a salad.’ ‘Who was it you were talking with?’ ‘A gossip of mine’ (camarade, voisine, cousine, sœur, servante, etc.). ‘Do women wear a sword?’ ‘It was no sword, but a distaff.’ ‘Do women wear breeches?’ ‘She was kilted up.’ ‘Have women a moustache?’ ‘She had been eating mulberries.’ ‘It is too late for mulberries.’ ‘They were last year’s’ (an autumn branch, etc.). ‘I will cut off your head.’ ‘And what will you do with the rest?’ ‘Throw it out of the window.’ ‘Les corbeaux (cochons, chiens, chats, mouches, couteliers, capucins, anges, etc.) en feront fête.’ In a few instances, to end the more smartly, the husband is made to promise (or the wife to ask) forgiveness for this time, and the wife adds, aside, ‘and many more.’ ‘You will play off no more tricks on me.’ ‘Forgive this, and I will, a good many.’ (Rolland.) ‘Pardon this fault; to-morrow I will commit another.’ (Victor Smith.) ‘Get up: I pardon you.’ ‘What dolts men are! What can’t we make them believe!’ (MSS, III, 78.) Etc.

In some half dozen copies, Marion has been at the spring (not in the garden), and has stayed suspiciously long, which she accounts for by her having found the water muddied. After this, and in a few copies which have no garden or spring, the matter is much the same as in the English ballad; there is a sword on the mantel-shelf (a gun on the table), boots (cane) behind the door, a man where nae man should be. Nearest of all to the English is one of Victor Smith’s ballads, Romania, IX, 566: ‘Whose horse was that in the stable last night?’ ‘No horse, but our black cow.’ ‘A cow with a saddle?’ ‘No saddle; it was the shadow of her horns.’ ‘Whose breeches, boots, sabre, hat?’ ‘qui était couché à ma place?’ The mulberries are nearly a constant feature in the French ballad.

There is an approach to a serious termination in MSS, III, 87: ‘Say your prayers, without so much noise.’ ‘At least put my bones in the ground.’ And in Puymaigre: ‘I will take you to Flanders and have you hanged.’ ‘Leave the gallows for the great robbers of France.’ The copies, MSS, III, 62, 71, end, prosaically,’Jamais je n’ai vu ni fille ni femme qui sent la putain comme toi;’ ‘Femme qui m’a trompé la mort a méritée!’

The lace-makers of Vorey are wont to recite or sing this ballad winter evenings as a little drama: V. Smith, Romania, IX, 568, note. So the young girls in Lorraine during carnival, Puymaigre, I, 263; and the young fellows in Provence, Arbaud, II, 155 f.

Italian.‘Le repliche di Marion,’ Nigra, Canti popolari del Piemonte, p. 422, No 85, A, B, C. The Piedmontese copies follow the French closely, beginning with picking salad in the garden, and ending with ‘your peace is made,’ as in Poésies p. de la France, MSS, III, 64. ‘Il marito geloso’ (incomplete), Ferraro, Canti p. monferrini, p. 93, No 70. ‘La sposa colta in fallo,’ Bernoni, Canti p. veneziani, puntata ix, No 8, p. 12. (Mariù goes on her knees and asks pardon, and is told to get up, for pardoned she is.) ‘Bombarion,’ Ferrari, first in Giornale di Filologia romanza, III, No 7, p. 74, 1880, and then in Archivio per le Tradizioni popolari, Canti p. in San Pietro Capofiume, VII, 398, 1888 (peace is made). All the Italian versions keep near to the French, having nothing original but an unimportant insertion, ‘Chi ti farà la minestra?’ etc., just before the end.[86]

Catalan.‘La Trapassera,’ Briz y Saltó, Cants pop. catalans, II, 69. Father hears daughter talking with lover in the garden; the usual questions and replies; improved, or corrupted, at the end.

For serious ballads, Scandinavian, Spanish, etc., exhibiting similar questions and evasions, see ‘Clerk Saunders,’ No 69F, and the remarks at II, 157 f., 512 a, III, 509 a, IV, 468 a. The romance ‘De Blanca-Niña’ occurs in the Cancionero de Romances of 1550. The oldest Scandinavian ballad of the class is one of Syv’s, printed in 1695.

Herd, 1776, is translated by Wolff, Halle der Völker, I, 96, Hausschatz, p. 230; by Fiedler, Geschichte der schottischen Liederdichtung, I, 32; by Knortz, Schottische Balladen, p. 82.

Herd’s MSS, I, 140.

1Hame came our goodman,And hame came he,And then he saw a saddle-horse,Where nae horse should be.2‘What’s this now, goodwife?What’s this I see?How came this horse here,Without the leave o me?’Recitative.‘A horse?’ quo she.‘Ay, a horse,’ quo he.3‘Shame fa your cuckold face,Ill mat ye see!’Tis naething but a broad sow,My minnie sent to me.’‘A broad sow?’ quo he.‘Ay, a sow,’ quo shee.4‘Far hae I ridden,And farer hae I gane,But a sadle on a sow’s backI never saw nane.’5Hame came our goodman,And hame came he;He spy’d a pair of jack-boots,Where nae boots should be.6‘What’s this now, goodwife?What’s this I see?How came these boots here,Without the leave o me?’‘Boots?’ quo she.‘Ay, boots,’ quo he.7‘Shame fa your cuckold face,And ill mat ye see!It’s but a pair of water-stoups,My minnie sent to me.’‘Water-stoups?’ quo he.‘Ay, water-stoups,’ quo she.8‘Far hae I ridden,And farer hae I gane,But siller spurs on water-stoupsI saw never nane.’9Hame came our goodman,And hame came he,And he saw a sword,Whare a sword should na be.10‘What’s this now, goodwife?What’s this I see?How came this sword here,Without the leave o me?’‘A sword?’ quo she.‘Ay, a sword,’ quo he.11‘Shame fa your cuckold face,Ill mat ye see!It’s but a porridge-spurtle,My minnie sent to me.’‘A spurtle?’ quo he.‘Ay, a spurtle,’ quo she.12‘Far hae I ridden,And farer hae I gane,But siller-handed spurtlesI saw never nane.’13Hame came our goodman,And hame came he;There he spy’d a powderd wig,Where nae wig shoud be.14‘What’s this now, goodwife?What’s this I see?How came this wig here,Without the leave o me?’‘A wig?’ quo she.‘Ay, a wig,’ quo he.15‘Shame fa your cuckold face,And ill mat you see!’Tis naething but a clocken-hen,My minnie sent to me.’‘Clocken hen?’ quo he.‘Ay, clocken hen,’ quo she.16‘Far hae I ridden,And farer hae I gane,But powder on a clocken-henI saw never nane.’17Hame came our goodman,And hame came he,And there he saw a muckle coat,Where nae coat shoud be.18‘What’s this now, goodwife?What’s this I see?How came this coat here,Without the leave o me?’‘A coat?’ quo she.‘Ay, a coat,’ quo he.19‘Shame fa your cuckold face,Ill mat ye see!It’s but a pair o blankets,My minnie sent to me.’‘Blankets?’ quo he.‘Ay, blankets,’ quo she.20‘Far hae I ridden,And farer hae I gane,But buttons upon blanketsI saw never nane.’21Ben went our goodman,And ben went he,And there he spy’d a sturdy man,Where nae man shoud be.22‘What’s this now, goodwife?What’s this I see?How came this man here,Without the leave o me?’‘A man?’ quo she.‘Ay, a man,’ quo he.23‘Poor blind body,And blinder mat ye be!It’s a new milking-maid,My mither sent to me.’‘A maid?’ quo he.‘Ay, a maid,’ quo she.24‘Far hae I ridden,And farer hae I gane,But lang-bearded maidensI saw never nane.’

1Hame came our goodman,And hame came he,And then he saw a saddle-horse,Where nae horse should be.

Hame came our goodman,

And hame came he,

And then he saw a saddle-horse,

Where nae horse should be.

2‘What’s this now, goodwife?What’s this I see?How came this horse here,Without the leave o me?’

‘What’s this now, goodwife?

What’s this I see?

How came this horse here,

Without the leave o me?’

Recitative.‘A horse?’ quo she.‘Ay, a horse,’ quo he.

Recitative.‘A horse?’ quo she.

‘Ay, a horse,’ quo he.

3‘Shame fa your cuckold face,Ill mat ye see!’Tis naething but a broad sow,My minnie sent to me.’

‘Shame fa your cuckold face,

Ill mat ye see!

’Tis naething but a broad sow,

My minnie sent to me.’

‘A broad sow?’ quo he.‘Ay, a sow,’ quo shee.

‘A broad sow?’ quo he.

‘Ay, a sow,’ quo shee.

4‘Far hae I ridden,And farer hae I gane,But a sadle on a sow’s backI never saw nane.’

‘Far hae I ridden,

And farer hae I gane,

But a sadle on a sow’s back

I never saw nane.’

5Hame came our goodman,And hame came he;He spy’d a pair of jack-boots,Where nae boots should be.

Hame came our goodman,

And hame came he;

He spy’d a pair of jack-boots,

Where nae boots should be.

6‘What’s this now, goodwife?What’s this I see?How came these boots here,Without the leave o me?’

‘What’s this now, goodwife?

What’s this I see?

How came these boots here,

Without the leave o me?’

‘Boots?’ quo she.‘Ay, boots,’ quo he.

‘Boots?’ quo she.

‘Ay, boots,’ quo he.

7‘Shame fa your cuckold face,And ill mat ye see!It’s but a pair of water-stoups,My minnie sent to me.’

‘Shame fa your cuckold face,

And ill mat ye see!

It’s but a pair of water-stoups,

My minnie sent to me.’

‘Water-stoups?’ quo he.‘Ay, water-stoups,’ quo she.

‘Water-stoups?’ quo he.

‘Ay, water-stoups,’ quo she.

8‘Far hae I ridden,And farer hae I gane,But siller spurs on water-stoupsI saw never nane.’

‘Far hae I ridden,

And farer hae I gane,

But siller spurs on water-stoups

I saw never nane.’

9Hame came our goodman,And hame came he,And he saw a sword,Whare a sword should na be.

Hame came our goodman,

And hame came he,

And he saw a sword,

Whare a sword should na be.

10‘What’s this now, goodwife?What’s this I see?How came this sword here,Without the leave o me?’

‘What’s this now, goodwife?

What’s this I see?

How came this sword here,

Without the leave o me?’

‘A sword?’ quo she.‘Ay, a sword,’ quo he.

‘A sword?’ quo she.

‘Ay, a sword,’ quo he.

11‘Shame fa your cuckold face,Ill mat ye see!It’s but a porridge-spurtle,My minnie sent to me.’

‘Shame fa your cuckold face,

Ill mat ye see!

It’s but a porridge-spurtle,

My minnie sent to me.’

‘A spurtle?’ quo he.‘Ay, a spurtle,’ quo she.

‘A spurtle?’ quo he.

‘Ay, a spurtle,’ quo she.

12‘Far hae I ridden,And farer hae I gane,But siller-handed spurtlesI saw never nane.’

‘Far hae I ridden,

And farer hae I gane,

But siller-handed spurtles

I saw never nane.’

13Hame came our goodman,And hame came he;There he spy’d a powderd wig,Where nae wig shoud be.

Hame came our goodman,

And hame came he;

There he spy’d a powderd wig,

Where nae wig shoud be.

14‘What’s this now, goodwife?What’s this I see?How came this wig here,Without the leave o me?’

‘What’s this now, goodwife?

What’s this I see?

How came this wig here,

Without the leave o me?’

‘A wig?’ quo she.‘Ay, a wig,’ quo he.

‘A wig?’ quo she.

‘Ay, a wig,’ quo he.

15‘Shame fa your cuckold face,And ill mat you see!’Tis naething but a clocken-hen,My minnie sent to me.’

‘Shame fa your cuckold face,

And ill mat you see!

’Tis naething but a clocken-hen,

My minnie sent to me.’

‘Clocken hen?’ quo he.‘Ay, clocken hen,’ quo she.

‘Clocken hen?’ quo he.

‘Ay, clocken hen,’ quo she.

16‘Far hae I ridden,And farer hae I gane,But powder on a clocken-henI saw never nane.’

‘Far hae I ridden,

And farer hae I gane,

But powder on a clocken-hen

I saw never nane.’

17Hame came our goodman,And hame came he,And there he saw a muckle coat,Where nae coat shoud be.

Hame came our goodman,

And hame came he,

And there he saw a muckle coat,

Where nae coat shoud be.

18‘What’s this now, goodwife?What’s this I see?How came this coat here,Without the leave o me?’

‘What’s this now, goodwife?

What’s this I see?

How came this coat here,

Without the leave o me?’

‘A coat?’ quo she.‘Ay, a coat,’ quo he.

‘A coat?’ quo she.

‘Ay, a coat,’ quo he.

19‘Shame fa your cuckold face,Ill mat ye see!It’s but a pair o blankets,My minnie sent to me.’

‘Shame fa your cuckold face,

Ill mat ye see!

It’s but a pair o blankets,

My minnie sent to me.’

‘Blankets?’ quo he.‘Ay, blankets,’ quo she.

‘Blankets?’ quo he.

‘Ay, blankets,’ quo she.

20‘Far hae I ridden,And farer hae I gane,But buttons upon blanketsI saw never nane.’

‘Far hae I ridden,

And farer hae I gane,

But buttons upon blankets

I saw never nane.’

21Ben went our goodman,And ben went he,And there he spy’d a sturdy man,Where nae man shoud be.

Ben went our goodman,

And ben went he,

And there he spy’d a sturdy man,

Where nae man shoud be.

22‘What’s this now, goodwife?What’s this I see?How came this man here,Without the leave o me?’

‘What’s this now, goodwife?

What’s this I see?

How came this man here,

Without the leave o me?’

‘A man?’ quo she.‘Ay, a man,’ quo he.

‘A man?’ quo she.

‘Ay, a man,’ quo he.

23‘Poor blind body,And blinder mat ye be!It’s a new milking-maid,My mither sent to me.’

‘Poor blind body,

And blinder mat ye be!

It’s a new milking-maid,

My mither sent to me.’

‘A maid?’ quo he.‘Ay, a maid,’ quo she.

‘A maid?’ quo he.

‘Ay, a maid,’ quo she.

24‘Far hae I ridden,And farer hae I gane,But lang-bearded maidensI saw never nane.’

‘Far hae I ridden,

And farer hae I gane,

But lang-bearded maidens

I saw never nane.’

A broadside: Printed and Sold at the Printing-Office in Bow Church-Yard, London.

1O I went into the stable,and there for to see,And there I saw three horses stand,by one, by two, and by three.2O I calld to my loving wife,and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:‘O what do these three horses here,without the leave of me?’3‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,can’t you very well see?These are three milking-cows,my mother sent to me.’4‘Heyday! Godzounds! Milking-cows with bridles and saddles on!the like was never known!’Old Wichet a cuckold went out,and a cuckold he came home.5O I went into the kitchen,and there for to see,And there I saw three swords hang,by one, by two, and by three.6O I calld to my loving wife,and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:‘O what do these three swords do here,without the leave of me?’7‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,can’t you very well see?They are three roasting-spits,my mother sent to me.’8‘Heyday! Godzounds! Roasting spits with scabbards on!the like was never known!’Old Wichet a cuckold went out,and a cuckold he came home.9O I went into the parlour,and there for to see,And there I saw three cloaks hang,by one, by two, and by three.10O I calld to my loving wife,and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:‘O what do these three cloaks do here,without the leave of me?’11‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,can’t you very well see?These are three mantuas,my mother sent to me.’12‘Heyday! Godzounds! Mantuas with capes on!the like was never known!’Old Wichet a cuckold went out,and a cuckold he came home.13I went into the pantry,and there for to see,And there I saw three pair of boots hang,by one, by two, and by three.14O I called to my loving wife,and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:‘O what do these three pair of boots do here,without the leave of me?’15‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,can’t you very well see?These are three pudding-bags,my mother sent to me.’16‘Heyday! Godzounds! Pudding-bags with spurs on!the like was never known!’Old Wichet a cuckold went out,and a cuckold he came home.17I went into my closet,and there for to see,And there I saw three pair of breeches lie,by one, by two, and by three.18O I calld to my loving wife,and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:‘O what do these three pair of breeches do here,without the leave of me?’19‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,can’t you very well see?These are three petticoats,my mother sent to me.’20‘Heyday! Godzounds! Petticoats with waistbands on!the like was never known!’Old Wichet a cuckold went out,and a cuckold he came home.21I went into the dairy,and there for to see,And there I saw three hats hang,by one, by two, and by three.22I calld to my loving wife,and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:‘Pray what do these three hats do here,without the leave of me?’23‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,can’t you very well see?They are three skimming-dishes,my mother sent to me.’24‘Heyday! Godzounds! Skimming-dishes with hat-bands on!the like was never known!’Old Wichet a cuckold went out,and a cuckold he came home.25I went into the chamber,and there for to see,And there I saw three men in bed lie,by one, by two, and by three.26I called to my loving wife,and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:‘O what do these three men in bed,without the leave of me?’27‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,don’t you very well see?They are three milking-maids,my mother sent to me.’28‘Heyday! Godzounds! Milking-maids with beards on!the like was never known!’Old Wichet a cuckold went out,and a cuckold he came home.

1O I went into the stable,and there for to see,And there I saw three horses stand,by one, by two, and by three.

O I went into the stable,

and there for to see,

And there I saw three horses stand,

by one, by two, and by three.

2O I calld to my loving wife,and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:‘O what do these three horses here,without the leave of me?’

O I calld to my loving wife,

and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:

‘O what do these three horses here,

without the leave of me?’

3‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,can’t you very well see?These are three milking-cows,my mother sent to me.’

‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,

can’t you very well see?

These are three milking-cows,

my mother sent to me.’

4‘Heyday! Godzounds! Milking-cows with bridles and saddles on!the like was never known!’Old Wichet a cuckold went out,and a cuckold he came home.

‘Heyday! Godzounds! Milking-cows with bridles and saddles on!

the like was never known!’

Old Wichet a cuckold went out,

and a cuckold he came home.

5O I went into the kitchen,and there for to see,And there I saw three swords hang,by one, by two, and by three.

O I went into the kitchen,

and there for to see,

And there I saw three swords hang,

by one, by two, and by three.

6O I calld to my loving wife,and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:‘O what do these three swords do here,without the leave of me?’

O I calld to my loving wife,

and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:

‘O what do these three swords do here,

without the leave of me?’

7‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,can’t you very well see?They are three roasting-spits,my mother sent to me.’

‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,

can’t you very well see?

They are three roasting-spits,

my mother sent to me.’

8‘Heyday! Godzounds! Roasting spits with scabbards on!the like was never known!’Old Wichet a cuckold went out,and a cuckold he came home.

‘Heyday! Godzounds! Roasting spits with scabbards on!

the like was never known!’

Old Wichet a cuckold went out,

and a cuckold he came home.

9O I went into the parlour,and there for to see,And there I saw three cloaks hang,by one, by two, and by three.

O I went into the parlour,

and there for to see,

And there I saw three cloaks hang,

by one, by two, and by three.

10O I calld to my loving wife,and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:‘O what do these three cloaks do here,without the leave of me?’

O I calld to my loving wife,

and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:

‘O what do these three cloaks do here,

without the leave of me?’

11‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,can’t you very well see?These are three mantuas,my mother sent to me.’

‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,

can’t you very well see?

These are three mantuas,

my mother sent to me.’

12‘Heyday! Godzounds! Mantuas with capes on!the like was never known!’Old Wichet a cuckold went out,and a cuckold he came home.

‘Heyday! Godzounds! Mantuas with capes on!

the like was never known!’

Old Wichet a cuckold went out,

and a cuckold he came home.

13I went into the pantry,and there for to see,And there I saw three pair of boots hang,by one, by two, and by three.

I went into the pantry,

and there for to see,

And there I saw three pair of boots hang,

by one, by two, and by three.

14O I called to my loving wife,and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:‘O what do these three pair of boots do here,without the leave of me?’

O I called to my loving wife,

and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:

‘O what do these three pair of boots do here,

without the leave of me?’

15‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,can’t you very well see?These are three pudding-bags,my mother sent to me.’

‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,

can’t you very well see?

These are three pudding-bags,

my mother sent to me.’

16‘Heyday! Godzounds! Pudding-bags with spurs on!the like was never known!’Old Wichet a cuckold went out,and a cuckold he came home.

‘Heyday! Godzounds! Pudding-bags with spurs on!

the like was never known!’

Old Wichet a cuckold went out,

and a cuckold he came home.

17I went into my closet,and there for to see,And there I saw three pair of breeches lie,by one, by two, and by three.

I went into my closet,

and there for to see,

And there I saw three pair of breeches lie,

by one, by two, and by three.

18O I calld to my loving wife,and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:‘O what do these three pair of breeches do here,without the leave of me?’

O I calld to my loving wife,

and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:

‘O what do these three pair of breeches do here,

without the leave of me?’

19‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,can’t you very well see?These are three petticoats,my mother sent to me.’

‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,

can’t you very well see?

These are three petticoats,

my mother sent to me.’

20‘Heyday! Godzounds! Petticoats with waistbands on!the like was never known!’Old Wichet a cuckold went out,and a cuckold he came home.

‘Heyday! Godzounds! Petticoats with waistbands on!

the like was never known!’

Old Wichet a cuckold went out,

and a cuckold he came home.

21I went into the dairy,and there for to see,And there I saw three hats hang,by one, by two, and by three.

I went into the dairy,

and there for to see,

And there I saw three hats hang,

by one, by two, and by three.

22I calld to my loving wife,and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:‘Pray what do these three hats do here,without the leave of me?’

I calld to my loving wife,

and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:

‘Pray what do these three hats do here,

without the leave of me?’

23‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,can’t you very well see?They are three skimming-dishes,my mother sent to me.’

‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,

can’t you very well see?

They are three skimming-dishes,

my mother sent to me.’

24‘Heyday! Godzounds! Skimming-dishes with hat-bands on!the like was never known!’Old Wichet a cuckold went out,and a cuckold he came home.

‘Heyday! Godzounds! Skimming-dishes with hat-bands on!

the like was never known!’

Old Wichet a cuckold went out,

and a cuckold he came home.

25I went into the chamber,and there for to see,And there I saw three men in bed lie,by one, by two, and by three.

I went into the chamber,

and there for to see,

And there I saw three men in bed lie,

by one, by two, and by three.

26I called to my loving wife,and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:‘O what do these three men in bed,without the leave of me?’

I called to my loving wife,

and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ quoth she:

‘O what do these three men in bed,

without the leave of me?’

27‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,don’t you very well see?They are three milking-maids,my mother sent to me.’

‘Why, you old cuckold, blind cuckold,

don’t you very well see?

They are three milking-maids,

my mother sent to me.’

28‘Heyday! Godzounds! Milking-maids with beards on!the like was never known!’Old Wichet a cuckold went out,and a cuckold he came home.

‘Heyday! Godzounds! Milking-maids with beards on!

the like was never known!’

Old Wichet a cuckold went out,

and a cuckold he came home.

11.Or, Our goodman came hame at een.21.Or, How came this horse here?22.Or, How can this be?31.Or, Ye ald blind dottled carl.32.Or, Blind mat ye be!33.Or, a bonny milk-cow.34. My minnyis an alternative and necessary reading forThe miller.41.Or, travelld.42.Or, And meikle hae I seen.44. [Or,] Saw I.51.Or, Our goodman came hame.74. The cooper sent.9-12. At the end, with a direction as to place: not completely written out.91. Hame, etc.103. O how.121,2. Weel far hae I travelled,And muckle hae I seen.124. Saw I never nane.The regular readings have been inserted or substituted. In printing, Herd gave sometimes the alternative readings, sometimes not.

11.Or, Our goodman came hame at een.

21.Or, How came this horse here?

22.Or, How can this be?

31.Or, Ye ald blind dottled carl.

32.Or, Blind mat ye be!

33.Or, a bonny milk-cow.

34. My minnyis an alternative and necessary reading forThe miller.

41.Or, travelld.

42.Or, And meikle hae I seen.

44. [Or,] Saw I.

51.Or, Our goodman came hame.

74. The cooper sent.

9-12. At the end, with a direction as to place: not completely written out.

91. Hame, etc.

103. O how.

121,2. Weel far hae I travelled,And muckle hae I seen.

121,2. Weel far hae I travelled,

And muckle hae I seen.

124. Saw I never nane.

The regular readings have been inserted or substituted. In printing, Herd gave sometimes the alternative readings, sometimes not.

Printed in seven staves, or stanzas, of eight long lines.11, 21. Oh.153, 193. the three.Notes and Queries, First Series, VI, 118 (“Shropshire Ballad”).I went into the stable,To see what I could see;I saw three gentlemen’s horses,By one, by two, by three.I called to my loving wife,‘Coming, sir!’ says she:‘What meaneth these three horses here,Without the leave of me?’‘You old fool! you blind fool!Can’t you, won’t you, see?They are three milking-cows,That my mother sent to me.’‘Odds bobs, here’s fun! Milking-cows with saddles on!The likes I never see!I cannot go a mile from homeBut a cuckold I must be.’I went into the parlour,To see what I could see;I saw there three gentlemen,By one, by two, by three.I called to my loving wife,‘Coming, sir!’ said she:‘What bringeth these three gentlemen here,Without the leave of me?’‘You old fool! you blind fool!Can’t you, won’t you, see?They are three milking-maids,That my mother sent to me.’‘Odds bobs, here’s fun! Milking-maids with breeches on!The likes I never see!I cannot go a mile from homeBut a cuckold I must be.’The unhappy husband next wanders into the pantry, and discovers ‘three pairs of hunting-boots,’ which his spouse declares are’ . . . milking-churns,Which my mother sent to me.’‘Odds bobs, here’s fun! Milking-churns with spurs on!The likes I never see!I cannot go a mile from homeBut a cuckold I must be.’The gentlemen’s coats, discovered in the kitchen, are next disposed of, but here my memory fails me.APPENDIX‘’Twas on Christmas Day,’ found on a slip, “Sold at No 42 Long Lane,” in a volume in the British Museum, 1876. e (not paged, but at what would be p. 57), and again in The New Covent Garden Concert, London, Printed and sold by J. Evans, No 41 Long-Lane, West Smithfield, Br. Mus. 1077. g. 47 (4), dated in the catalogue “1805?”’Twas on Christmas DayFather he did wed;Three months after thatMy mother was brought to bed.My father he came home,His head with liquor stord,And found in mother’s roomA silver-hilted sword.Fiddle de dum de de, etc.‘How came this sword here?’My mother says, says she,‘Lovee, ’tis a pokerAntee sent to me.’Father he stumbld and star’d;’Twas the first, I ween,Silver-headed pokerHe had ever seen.Father grumbled on,But getting into bedEgad! as luck fell out,A man popd up his head;‘That’s my milk-maid,’ says she;Says dad, ‘I never heardIn all my travels yetA milk-maid with a beard.’My father found a whip,And very glad was he;‘And how came this whip here,Without the leave of me?’‘Oh! that’s a nice strap-laceMy antee sent to me;’Egad! he lac’d her stays,And out of doors went she.FOOTNOTES:[84]I am indebted for information concerning this song, and for a copy, to Mr P. Z. Round.[85]Hoffmann von Fallersleben, Unsere Volksthümlichen Lieder, No 478. It begins:Ich ging in meinen Stall, da sah ich, ei! ei!An Krippen standen Pferde, eins, zwei, drei.[86]‘O Violina, tu hai le gote rosse,’ a very pretty littlecontrastobundled by Tigri with hisrispetti(Canti p. toscani, p. 284, No 1023, ed. 1856), is a skirmish between father and daughter, after the fashion of our ballad. (‘My cheeks are stained with mulberries.’ ‘Show me the mulberries.’ ‘They are on the hedges.’ ‘Show me the hedges.’ ‘The goats have eaten them.’ ‘Show me the goats,’ etc.) Ferrari, in an excellent paper in the journal referred to above, tries to make out some historical relation between the two. He seems to me to take ‘La Violina’ quite too seriously.275GET UP AND BAR THE DOORA. a.‘Get up and bar the Door,’ Herd, The Ancient and Modern Scots Songs, 1769, p. 330; Ancient and Modern Scottish Songs, 1776, II, 159.b.[Pinkerton], Select Scotish Ballads, 1783, II, 150.B.‘John Blunt,’ Macmath MS., p. 74.C.‘Johnie Blunt,’ Johnson’s Museum, IV, 376, No 365, 1792.The copy in Johnson’s Museum, volume three, No 300, p. 310, 1790, isA awith two slight changes; that in Ritson’s Scotish Song, I, 226, 1794, isA a.A bis substituted forA ain the third edition of Herd, 1791, II, 63. Christie, II, 262, who followsA a, but with changes, gives as a refrain, “common in the North of Scotland from time immemorial,”And the barring o our door,Weel, weel, weel!And the barring o our door, weel!A, B.A housewife is boiling puddings anight; a cold wind blows in, and her husband bids her bar the door; she has her hands in her work and will not. They come to an agreement that whoever speaks first shall bar the door. Two belated travellers are guided to the house by the light which streams through an opening. They come in, and, getting no reply to their questions or response to their greetings, fall to eating and drinking what they find; the goodwife thinks much, but says naught. One of the strangers proposes to the other to take off the man’s beard, and he himself will kiss the goodwife. Hot water is wanting (for scalding), suggests the second; but the boiling pudding-bree will serve, answers the first. The goodman calls out, Will ye kiss my wife and scald me? and having spoken the first word has to bar the door.C.InCman and wife are in bed, and the travellers haul the woman out and lay her on the floor: this makes the husband give tongue.Stenhouse notes that this ballad furnished Prince Hoare with the principal scene in his musical entertainment of “No Song, no Supper,” produced in 1790, and long a favorite on the stage. (Musical Museum, 1853, IV, 292.)This tale is one of a group which may or may not have had a single archetype. Of the varieties, that which comes nearest is the first story in Straparola’s Eighth Day. Husband and wife are sitting near the entrance of their house one night; the husband says, It is time to go to bed, shut the door; she says, Shut it yourself. They make a compact that the one who speaks first shall shut the door. The wife, tired of silence and growing sleepy, goes to bed; the husband stretches himself on a bench. A gentleman’s servant, whose lantern has been put out by the wind, seeing the door open, asks for a light. There is no reply. Advancing a little way into the house, he finds the man lying on the bench with his eyes open, but can get no word from him though he shakes him. Looking round, he sees the woman in bed and addresses her, but she is as dumb as her husband; he gets into the bed. The woman says nothing till the intruder goes away; then calls out, A pretty man you, to leave the door open all night and let people get into your bed. Fool, he says, now go shut the door. The same, with insignificant divergences, in L’Élite des Contes du Sieur d’Ouville, Rouen, 1699, I, 159.A wedding-feast over, neither bridegroom nor bride will consent to shut the street-door;the lady proposes that the one who speaks first shall do this, to which the bridegroom agrees. They sit looking at each other in silence for two hours. Thieves, seeing the door open, come in, pillage the house, and even strip the young pair of everything valuable that they have on them, but neither says a word. In the morning a patrol of police find the house door open, enter, and make an inspection. The chief demands an explanation of the state of things; neither man nor woman vouchsafes a response, and he orders their heads off. The executioner is beginning with the husband; the wife cries out, Spare him! the husband exclaims, You have lost, go shut the door. (The Arabian tale of Sulayman Bey and the Three Story-Tellers, cited by Clouston, Popular Tales and Fictions, II, 29.)Hemp-eaters, who have found a sequin and bought a mass of food, quarrel about fastening the gate of a tomb to which they have retired, to gorge unmolested. They come to an agreement that the man who first speaks shall close the gate. They let the victuals stand and sit mute. A troop of dogs rush in and eat all up clean. One of the party had secured some of the provender in advance of the rest, and bits are sticking to his mouth. A dog licks them away, and in so doing bites the lip of the fellow, who, in his pain, raps out a curse on the dog. The rest shout, Get up and shut the gate! (Turkish, Behrnauer, Die vierzig Veziere, p. 175 f.; Gibb, The History of the Forty Vezirs, p. 171 f.)In the second Pickelheringsspiel, in the first part of Engelische Comedien und Tragedien, 1620, a married pair contend again about the shutting of a door. (R. Köhler; not seen by me.)In other cases, speaking first entails a penalty different from shutting a door.A young pair, lying in bed the first night after marriage, engage that whichever of the two gets up first or speaks first shall wash the dishes for a week. The husband, pretending to make his will by the process of expressing by signs his acceptance or rejection of the suggestions of a friend, bequeaths away from his wife a handsome article of dress belonging to her. The wife utters a protest, and has to wash the dishes. (Novelle di Sercambi, ed. d’Ancona, p. 16, No 3, ‘De simplicitate viri et uxoris.’)A man complains of dry bread which his wife has given him for his supper. She tells him to get up and moisten it; he bids her do this, but she refuses. It is finally settled that the one that speaks first shall moisten the bread. A visitor comes in and can make neither of them say a word. He kisses the wife, gives the husband a blow on the cheek; no word from either. He makes complaint to the kází; the husband will say nothing when brought before the kází, and is condemned to be hanged. At the moment of execution the wife ejaculates, Alas, my unfortunate husband! You devil, says he, go home and moisten the bread! (An Arabian story in Beloe’s Oriental Apologues, cited by Clouston, II, 21.)A shoemaker and his wife agree that the one who speaks first shall carry back a frying-pan that they have borrowed. A soldier who requires a girth for his horse asks the shoemaker to cut him one, but gets no answer, though he threatens to take off the man’s head. Enraged at last, he seizes the shoemaker by the head to do what he had menaced, when the wife cries out, For mercy’s sake, don’t! Well done! says the husband, now carry back the pan. (Bernoni, Fiabe pop. veneziane, p. 67, No 13, ‘La Scomessa;’ Crane, Italian Popular Tales, p. 284.)John makes terms with his wife that which of the two eats first of a soup which she has brought in, or speaks the first word, shall have a beating. William, of whom the husband is jealous, comes to offer his company to go to a fight which is to come off. Man and wife will neither eat nor speak, and he thinks them possessed. He takes the woman by the hand, and she goes with him. John cries out, Let my wife be! She says, John, you have spoken and lost. (Ayrers Dramen, ed. von Keller, III, 2006-08.)A man who has been taunting his wife as a cackler is challenged by her to a trial at silence. A tinker comes in asking for kettlesto mend. He can make neither of them open their mouth, and, as a last resource, offers to kiss the woman. The husband cannot contain himself; the wife says, You have lost! and remains mistress of the house, as she had been before. (Farce d’un Chauldronnier, Viollet Le Duc, Ancien Théâtre François, II, 109 ff.)[87]Aa.Herd, The Ancient and Modern Scots Songs, 1769, p. 330.b.[Pinkerton], Select Scotish Ballads, 1783, II, 150.1It fell about the Martinmas time,And a gay time it was then,When our goodwife got puddings to make,And she’s boild them in the pan.2The wind sae cauld blew south and north,And blew into the floor;Quoth our goodman to our goodwife,‘Gae out and bar the door.’3‘My hand is in my hussyfskap,Goodman, as ye may see;An it shoud nae be barrd this hundred year,It’s no be barrd for me.’4They made a paction tween them twa,They made it firm and sure,That the first word whaeer shoud speak,Shoud rise and bar the door.5Then by there came two gentlemen,At twelve o clock at night,And they could neither see house nor hall,Nor coal nor candle-light.6‘Now whether is this a rich man’s house,Or whether is it a poor?’But neer a word wad ane o them speak,For barring of the door.7And first they ate the white puddings,And then they ate the black;Tho muckle thought the goodwife to hersel,Yet neer a word she spake.8Then said the one unto the other,‘Here, man, tak ye my knife;Do ye tak aff the auld man’s beard,And I’ll kiss the goodwife.’9‘But there’s nae water in the house,And what shall we do than?’‘What ails ye at the pudding-broo,That boils into the pan?’10O up then started our goodman,An angry man was he:‘Will ye kiss my wife before my een,And scad me wi pudding-bree?’11Then up and started our goodwife,Gied three skips on the floor:‘Goodman, you’ve spoken the foremost word,Get up and bar the door.’BMacmath MS. p. 74. “From the singing of Miss Jane Webster, 15th October, 1886, and 26th August, 1887, who learned it at Airds of Kells, Kirkcudbrightshire, many years ago, from James McJannet.”1There leeved a wee man at the fit o yon hill,John Blunt it was his name, OAnd he selld liquor and ale o the best,And bears a wondrous fame. OTal lara ta lilt, tal lare a lilt,Tal lara ta lilt, tal lara2The wind it blew frae north to south,It blew into the floor;Says auld John Blunt to Janet the wife,Ye maun rise up and bar the door.3‘My hans are in my husseyskep,I canna weel get them free,And if ye dinna bar it yerselIt’ll never be barred by me.’4They made it up atween them twa,They made it unco sure,That the ane that spoke the foremost wordWas to rise and bar the door.5There was twa travellers travelling late,Was travelling cross the muir,And they cam unto wee John Blunt’s,Just by the light o the door.6‘O whether is this a rich man’s house,Or whether is it a puir?’But never a word would the auld bodies speak,For the barring o the door.7First they bad good een to them,And syne they bad good morrow;But never a word would the auld bodies speak,For the barring o the door, O.8First they ate the white puddin,And syne they ate the black,And aye the auld wife said to hersel,May the deil slip down wi that!9And next they drank o the liquor sae strong,And syne they drank o the yill:‘And since we hae got a house o our ainI’m sure we may tak our fill.’10It’s says the ane unto the ither,Here, man, tak ye my knife,An ye’ll scrape aff the auld man’s beard,While I kiss the gudewife.11‘Ye hae eaten my meat, ye hae drucken my drink,Ye’d make my auld wife a whore!’‘John Blunt, ye hae spoken the foremost word,Ye maun rise up and bar the door.’CJohnson’s Museum, IV, 376, No 365, 1792. Contributed by Robert Burns.1There livd a man in yonder glen,And John Blunt was his name; OHe maks gude maut and he brews gude ale,And he bears a wondrous fame. O2The wind blew in the hallan ae night,Fu snell out oer the moor;‘Rise up, rise up, auld Luckie,’ he says,‘Rise up, and bar the door.’3They made a paction tween them twa,They made it firm and sure,Whaeer sud speak the foremost wordShould rise and bar the door.4Three travellers that had tint their gate,As thro the hills they foor,They airted by the line o lightFu straught to Johnie Blunt’s door.5They haurld auld Luckie out o her bedAnd laid her on the floor,But never a word auld Luckie wad say,For barrin o the door.6‘Ye’ve eaten my bread, ye hae druken my ale,And ye’ll mak my auld wife a whore!’‘A ha, Johnie Blunt! ye hae spoke the first word,Get up and bar the door.’A. a.Johnson’s Museum has these variations:24. Gat up and.43. first who should speak the foremost word.b.13. That our gudewife had.14. she boild.21. wind blew cauld frae east.24. Get up and.33. hunder.34. Its neer be barrd by.42. word whaever spak.51. come.53. Whan they can see na ither house.54. And at the door they light.72. And syne.73. Thowanting.81. Then ane unto the ither said.93. bree.111. O up then started.113. you have spak the first word.Ois added to the second and fourth lines for singing, in both of the Museum copies and inB.FOOTNOTES:[87]All the above have been cited by Reinhold Köhler, Jahrbuch für romanische u. englische Literatur, XII, 348 f., or by Clouston, Popular Tales and Fictions, II, 15 ff.276THE FRIAR IN THE WELLA. a.‘The Fryer well fitted,’ etc., Rawlinson Ballads, 566, fol. 63, 4°.b.‘The Fryer well fitted,’ etc., Roxburghe Ballads, II, 172; Ebsworth, Roxburghe Ballads, VII, 222.c.‘The Fryer and the Maid,’ Wit and Mirth, or, Pills to purge Melancholy, “I, 340, 1707,” III, 325, 1719.B. a.‘The Friar and Fair Maid,’ Buchan’s MSS, II, 351.b.‘The Friar,’ Kinloch MSS, VI, 97.c.Kinloch MSS, V, 60.The broadside,A a,b, is found in many other collections: Pepys, III, 145, No 143; Crawford, No 94, etc. (see Ebsworth).B, the Scottish ballad (an improvement on the English), is without doubt derived from print, but not directly fromA a,b. InBthe maid feigns to be afraid of her master, as inA c, not of her father. From Halliwell’s Notices of Fugitive Tracts, p. 37, No 49, Percy Society, vol. xxix, we learn that The Royal Garland of Protestant Delight, London, 1689, has a ballad with the title ‘The witty lass of Somersetshire, or the fryer servd in his kind,’ with an “answer,” in the last stanza of which ‘the inn-keeper, her master,’ laughs at the fryer’s disaster.The tune of ‘The Friar in the Well’ occurs in The Dancing Master, from 1650 to 1686: Chappell’s Popular Music, p. 274. Munday, in his ‘Downfall of Robert, Earl of Huntington,’ Act iv, Scene 2, 1598, refers to the ‘merry jest ... how the friar fell into the well, for love of Jenny, that fair bonny belle.’ A reference of Skelton’s in his Colyn Cloute[88]carries the story, and almost certainly the ballad, back to the first quarter of the sixteenth century.The copy in Kinloch’s Ballad Book, p. 25, was compounded by the editor fromB b,c.A maid, solicited by a friar, says that she fears hell-fire; the friar reminds her that if she were in hell he could sing her out. She stipulates for money in advance; while the friar is gone to fetch some, she hangs (spreads) a cloth before (over) a well. The money in band, she calls out that her father (master) is coming; the friar runs to hide behind the cloth (a screen), and falls into the well. The friar cries for help; he is left to sing himself out. Extricated after a sufficient cooling, he asks his money back, but is told that he must pay for fouling the water.This story, one might safely say, is not beyond the “imaginary forces” of any Western people, but an open well inside of an English house is at least of unusual occurrence, and if we find something of the kind to our hand in an Eastern tale of similar character, a borrowing seems more plausible than an invention. There is a considerable class of tales, mostly Oriental, in which a chaste wife discomfits two or three would-be seducers, bringing them to shame and ridicule in the end. In some, she exacts or receives money from her suitors at the outset; in some, an allegation that her husband is coming is the pretext for her concealing them. An example in English is ‘The Wright’s Chaste Wife,’ by Adam of Cobsam, edited for the Early English Text Society, in 1865, by Dr Furnivall. In this, three men successively are tumbled through a trap door into an underground room. But in the Persian Tútí Náma, or Book of the Parrot, of Nakhshabí, the wifelays a bed over a dry well, her suitors are invited to sit on it, and they fall in; and here, it is not extravagant to suppose, we may have the remote source of the trick in our ballad.[89]There is a French ballad of the same general type: ‘Le lourdaud moine,’ Tarbé, Romancero de Champagne, II, 135; ‘Le moine Nicolas,’ Bujeaud, II, 284. A monk, enamored of a married woman, is appointed to come to her while her husband is away; he is told to lay off his frock, which she secures, and she takes money which he has brought. He is then sent to the door to see if the husband be coming, and is locked out. He asks to have his frock and money returned; she will keep them for her husband. The convent jeer at him when he comes back: ‘Dieu bénisse la commère qui t’a joué ce tour-là!’‘Munken i Vaande,’ a rather flat Danish ballad from a MS. of the 16th century, tells of a monk who knocks at the door of a woman whom he has been courting, and calls to her to keep her word; she tells her husband to slip under the bed, and lets the monk in; the monk hands the woman gold rings which he had promised; the goodman comes out and gives him a beating; the monk leaps out of the window and goes to his cloister; his superior asks why he has been away; he has been shriving the farmer’s wife, and it has nearly cost him his life.Aa.Rawlinson, 566, fol. 63, 4o.b.Roxburghe, II, 172; Ebsworth, Roxburghe Ballads, VII, 222.c.D’Urfey’s Pills to purge Melancholy, ed. 1719, III, 325.1As I lay musing all alone,fa, la, la, la, laA pretty jeast I thought upon;fa, la, la, la, laThen listen a while, and I will you tellOf a fryer that loved a bonny lass well.fa, la, la, la, lafa, la, la, lang-tre-down-dilly2He came to the maid when she went to bed,Desiring to have her maidenhead,But she denyëd his desire,And told him that she feard hell-fire.3‘Tush,’ quoth the fryer, ‘thou needst not doubtIf thou wert in hell I could sing thee out:’‘Then,’ quoth the maid, ‘thou shalt have thy request;’The fryer was glad as a fox in his nest.4‘But one thing,’ quoth she, ‘I do desire,Before you have what you require;Before that you shall do the thing,An angel of mony thou shalt me bring.’5‘Tush,’ quoth the fryer, ‘we shall agree,No mony shall part my love and me;Before that I will see thee lack,I’le pawn the grey gown from my back.’6The maid bethought her of a wileHow she the fryer might beguile;While he was gone, the truth to tell,She hung a cloth before the well.7The fryer came, as his covenant was,With money to his bonny lass;‘Good morrow, fair maid!’ ‘Good morrow!’ quoth she.‘Here is the mony I promised thee.’8She thankt the man, and she took his mony:‘Now let us go to ’t,’ quoth he, ‘sweet hony:’‘O stay,’ quoth she, ‘some respite make,My father comes, he will me take.’9‘Alas!’ quoth the fryer, ‘where shall I run,To hide me till that he be gone?’‘Behinde the cloath run thou,’ quoth she,‘And there my father cannot thee see.’10Behind the cloath the fryer crept,And into the well on the sudden he leapt;‘Alas,’ quoth he, ‘I am in the well!’‘No matter,’ quoth she,’ if thou wert in hell.11‘Thou sayst thou couldst sing me out of hell,Now prithee sing thy self out of the well:’The fryer sung with a pittiful sound,Oh help me out, or I shall be dround!12‘I trow,’ quoth she, ‘your courage is coold.’Quoth the fryer, I was never so foold,I never was served so before.‘Then take heed,’ quoth she, ‘thou comst there no more.’13Quoth he, For sweet Saint Francis sakeOn his disciple some pitty take:Quoth she, Saint Francis never taughtHis scholars to tempt young maids to naught.14The fryer did entreat her stillThat she should help him out of the well;She heard him make such pittious moanShe helpd him out, and bid him be gone.15Quoth he, Shall I have my mony again,Which thou from me hast beforehand tane?‘Good sir,’ said she, ‘there’s no such matter;I’le make you pay for fouling my water.’16The fryer went all along the street,Droping wet, like a new-washd sheep;Both old and young commended the maidThat such a witty prank had plaid.Ba.Buchan’s MSS, II 351.b.Kinloch MSS, VI, 97, in Kinloch’s handwriting.c.Kinloch MSS, V, 60, in the handwriting of James Beattie.1O hearken and hear, and I will you tellSing, Faldidae, faldidadiOf a friar that loved a fair maiden well.Sing, Faldi dadi di di (bis)2The friar he came to this maiden’s bedside,And asking for her maidenhead.3‘O I would grant you your desire,If ’t werena for fear o hell’s burning fire.’4‘O hell’s burning fire ye need have no doubt;Altho you were in, I could whistle you out.’5‘O if I grant to you this thing,Some money you unto me must bring.’6He brought her the money, and did it down tell;She had a white cloth spread over the well.7Then the fair maid cried out that her master was come;‘O,’ said the friar, ‘then where shall I run?’8‘O ye will go in behind yon screen,And then by my master ye winna be seen.’9Then in behind the screen she him sent,But he fell into the well by accident.10Then the friar cried out with a piteous moan,O help! O help me! or else I am gone.11‘Ye said ye wad whistle me out o hell;Now whistle your ain sel out o the well.’12She helped him out and bade him be gone;The friar he asked his money again.13‘As for your money, there is no much matterTo make you pay more for jumbling our water.’14Then all who hear it commend this fair maidFor the nimble trick to the friar she played.15The friar he walked on the street,And shaking his lugs like a well-washen sheep.A.a,b.The Fryer well fitted, or,A pretty jest that once befell,How a Maid put a Fryer to cool in the well.To a merry tune.a.London. Printed for F. Coles, T. Vere, and J. Wright.b.Printed for W. Thackeray and T. Passinger.a.31,3, 73, 82, 3, 91,3, 104, 124, qd.forquoth.73. qd. he.82. too’t.83. Oh.101. did crept.162. Drooping.b.54. my grey.73. quoth she.101. fryer crept.102. on a.113. sung on.122. never was.142. she would.152. Which from me thou.162. Dropping.c.The variations are insignificant until we come to 83; from that point this copy (which is abridged) runs as follows:83.‘Nay, stay a while, some respite make;If my master should come he would us take.9‘Alas,’ quoth the maid, ‘my master doth come!’‘Alas!’ quoth the fryer, ‘where shall I run?’‘Behind yon cloth run thou,’ quoth she,‘For there my master cannot see.’10.Behind the cloth the fryer went,And was in the well incontinent.‘Alas,’ quoth he, ‘I’m in the well!’‘No matter,’ quoth she, ‘if thou wert in hell.111,2.‘Thou saidst thou could sing me out of hell,I prithee sing thy self out of the well.Sing out,’ quoth she, ‘with all thy might,Or else thou’rt like to sing there all night.’113,4.The fryer sang out with a pitiful sound,Oh help me out, or I shall be drownd!143,4.She heard him make such pitiful moanShe hope [=holp] him out and bid him go home.123,4.Quoth the fryer, I never was servd so before:‘Away,’ quoth the wench, ‘come here no more.’161,2.The fryer he walkd along the streetAs if he had been a new-washd sheep.Sing, hey down a derry, and let’s be merry, And from such sin ever keep.Thefa laburden is not given.B. b.Apparentlyarevised by Kinloch.42. singforwhistle.72. thenwanting.101. awanting.152. sheetforsheep.c.1.Listen and I will you tellWi a falaldirry, falaldirryHow a friar in love wi a lassie fell.Wi a falee and latee and a lee-tiddle-tiddle-tee7.The lassie cries, My master comes!The friar cries, Where shall I run?8.‘O you’ll do you in below this cloth;That you be seen I wad be loth.’10.The friar cries, I’m in the well!‘I care na tho you were in hell.11.‘You said you w[a]d sing me out of hell;Sing yoursell out o the well.’12.‘If you’ll help me out, I will be gone,Back to you I’ll neuer come.’She helped him out, and he was begone;Back to her he never came.15.The frier he gaed up the street,Hanging his lugs like a washen sheet.2-6, 9, 13, 14,wanting.

Printed in seven staves, or stanzas, of eight long lines.

11, 21. Oh.

153, 193. the three.

Notes and Queries, First Series, VI, 118 (“Shropshire Ballad”).

I went into the stable,To see what I could see;I saw three gentlemen’s horses,By one, by two, by three.I called to my loving wife,‘Coming, sir!’ says she:‘What meaneth these three horses here,Without the leave of me?’‘You old fool! you blind fool!Can’t you, won’t you, see?They are three milking-cows,That my mother sent to me.’‘Odds bobs, here’s fun! Milking-cows with saddles on!The likes I never see!I cannot go a mile from homeBut a cuckold I must be.’I went into the parlour,To see what I could see;I saw there three gentlemen,By one, by two, by three.I called to my loving wife,‘Coming, sir!’ said she:‘What bringeth these three gentlemen here,Without the leave of me?’‘You old fool! you blind fool!Can’t you, won’t you, see?They are three milking-maids,That my mother sent to me.’‘Odds bobs, here’s fun! Milking-maids with breeches on!The likes I never see!I cannot go a mile from homeBut a cuckold I must be.’

I went into the stable,To see what I could see;I saw three gentlemen’s horses,By one, by two, by three.

I went into the stable,

To see what I could see;

I saw three gentlemen’s horses,

By one, by two, by three.

I called to my loving wife,‘Coming, sir!’ says she:‘What meaneth these three horses here,Without the leave of me?’

I called to my loving wife,

‘Coming, sir!’ says she:

‘What meaneth these three horses here,

Without the leave of me?’

‘You old fool! you blind fool!Can’t you, won’t you, see?They are three milking-cows,That my mother sent to me.’

‘You old fool! you blind fool!

Can’t you, won’t you, see?

They are three milking-cows,

That my mother sent to me.’

‘Odds bobs, here’s fun! Milking-cows with saddles on!The likes I never see!I cannot go a mile from homeBut a cuckold I must be.’

‘Odds bobs, here’s fun! Milking-cows with saddles on!

The likes I never see!

I cannot go a mile from home

But a cuckold I must be.’

I went into the parlour,To see what I could see;I saw there three gentlemen,By one, by two, by three.

I went into the parlour,

To see what I could see;

I saw there three gentlemen,

By one, by two, by three.

I called to my loving wife,‘Coming, sir!’ said she:‘What bringeth these three gentlemen here,Without the leave of me?’

I called to my loving wife,

‘Coming, sir!’ said she:

‘What bringeth these three gentlemen here,

Without the leave of me?’

‘You old fool! you blind fool!Can’t you, won’t you, see?They are three milking-maids,That my mother sent to me.’

‘You old fool! you blind fool!

Can’t you, won’t you, see?

They are three milking-maids,

That my mother sent to me.’

‘Odds bobs, here’s fun! Milking-maids with breeches on!The likes I never see!I cannot go a mile from homeBut a cuckold I must be.’

‘Odds bobs, here’s fun! Milking-maids with breeches on!

The likes I never see!

I cannot go a mile from home

But a cuckold I must be.’

The unhappy husband next wanders into the pantry, and discovers ‘three pairs of hunting-boots,’ which his spouse declares are

’ . . . milking-churns,Which my mother sent to me.’‘Odds bobs, here’s fun! Milking-churns with spurs on!The likes I never see!I cannot go a mile from homeBut a cuckold I must be.’

’ . . . milking-churns,Which my mother sent to me.’

’ . . . milking-churns,

Which my mother sent to me.’

‘Odds bobs, here’s fun! Milking-churns with spurs on!The likes I never see!I cannot go a mile from homeBut a cuckold I must be.’

‘Odds bobs, here’s fun! Milking-churns with spurs on!

The likes I never see!

I cannot go a mile from home

But a cuckold I must be.’

The gentlemen’s coats, discovered in the kitchen, are next disposed of, but here my memory fails me.

APPENDIX

‘’Twas on Christmas Day,’ found on a slip, “Sold at No 42 Long Lane,” in a volume in the British Museum, 1876. e (not paged, but at what would be p. 57), and again in The New Covent Garden Concert, London, Printed and sold by J. Evans, No 41 Long-Lane, West Smithfield, Br. Mus. 1077. g. 47 (4), dated in the catalogue “1805?”

’Twas on Christmas DayFather he did wed;Three months after thatMy mother was brought to bed.My father he came home,His head with liquor stord,And found in mother’s roomA silver-hilted sword.Fiddle de dum de de, etc.‘How came this sword here?’My mother says, says she,‘Lovee, ’tis a pokerAntee sent to me.’Father he stumbld and star’d;’Twas the first, I ween,Silver-headed pokerHe had ever seen.Father grumbled on,But getting into bedEgad! as luck fell out,A man popd up his head;‘That’s my milk-maid,’ says she;Says dad, ‘I never heardIn all my travels yetA milk-maid with a beard.’My father found a whip,And very glad was he;‘And how came this whip here,Without the leave of me?’‘Oh! that’s a nice strap-laceMy antee sent to me;’Egad! he lac’d her stays,And out of doors went she.

’Twas on Christmas Day

Father he did wed;

Three months after that

My mother was brought to bed.

My father he came home,

His head with liquor stord,

And found in mother’s room

A silver-hilted sword.

Fiddle de dum de de, etc.

‘How came this sword here?’My mother says, says she,‘Lovee, ’tis a pokerAntee sent to me.’Father he stumbld and star’d;’Twas the first, I ween,Silver-headed pokerHe had ever seen.

‘How came this sword here?’

My mother says, says she,

‘Lovee, ’tis a poker

Antee sent to me.’

Father he stumbld and star’d;

’Twas the first, I ween,

Silver-headed poker

He had ever seen.

Father grumbled on,But getting into bedEgad! as luck fell out,A man popd up his head;‘That’s my milk-maid,’ says she;Says dad, ‘I never heardIn all my travels yetA milk-maid with a beard.’

Father grumbled on,

But getting into bed

Egad! as luck fell out,

A man popd up his head;

‘That’s my milk-maid,’ says she;

Says dad, ‘I never heard

In all my travels yet

A milk-maid with a beard.’

My father found a whip,And very glad was he;‘And how came this whip here,Without the leave of me?’‘Oh! that’s a nice strap-laceMy antee sent to me;’Egad! he lac’d her stays,And out of doors went she.

My father found a whip,

And very glad was he;

‘And how came this whip here,

Without the leave of me?’

‘Oh! that’s a nice strap-lace

My antee sent to me;’

Egad! he lac’d her stays,

And out of doors went she.

FOOTNOTES:[84]I am indebted for information concerning this song, and for a copy, to Mr P. Z. Round.[85]Hoffmann von Fallersleben, Unsere Volksthümlichen Lieder, No 478. It begins:Ich ging in meinen Stall, da sah ich, ei! ei!An Krippen standen Pferde, eins, zwei, drei.[86]‘O Violina, tu hai le gote rosse,’ a very pretty littlecontrastobundled by Tigri with hisrispetti(Canti p. toscani, p. 284, No 1023, ed. 1856), is a skirmish between father and daughter, after the fashion of our ballad. (‘My cheeks are stained with mulberries.’ ‘Show me the mulberries.’ ‘They are on the hedges.’ ‘Show me the hedges.’ ‘The goats have eaten them.’ ‘Show me the goats,’ etc.) Ferrari, in an excellent paper in the journal referred to above, tries to make out some historical relation between the two. He seems to me to take ‘La Violina’ quite too seriously.

[84]I am indebted for information concerning this song, and for a copy, to Mr P. Z. Round.

[85]Hoffmann von Fallersleben, Unsere Volksthümlichen Lieder, No 478. It begins:Ich ging in meinen Stall, da sah ich, ei! ei!An Krippen standen Pferde, eins, zwei, drei.

[85]Hoffmann von Fallersleben, Unsere Volksthümlichen Lieder, No 478. It begins:

Ich ging in meinen Stall, da sah ich, ei! ei!An Krippen standen Pferde, eins, zwei, drei.

Ich ging in meinen Stall, da sah ich, ei! ei!

An Krippen standen Pferde, eins, zwei, drei.

[86]‘O Violina, tu hai le gote rosse,’ a very pretty littlecontrastobundled by Tigri with hisrispetti(Canti p. toscani, p. 284, No 1023, ed. 1856), is a skirmish between father and daughter, after the fashion of our ballad. (‘My cheeks are stained with mulberries.’ ‘Show me the mulberries.’ ‘They are on the hedges.’ ‘Show me the hedges.’ ‘The goats have eaten them.’ ‘Show me the goats,’ etc.) Ferrari, in an excellent paper in the journal referred to above, tries to make out some historical relation between the two. He seems to me to take ‘La Violina’ quite too seriously.

275

GET UP AND BAR THE DOOR

A. a.‘Get up and bar the Door,’ Herd, The Ancient and Modern Scots Songs, 1769, p. 330; Ancient and Modern Scottish Songs, 1776, II, 159.b.[Pinkerton], Select Scotish Ballads, 1783, II, 150.B.‘John Blunt,’ Macmath MS., p. 74.C.‘Johnie Blunt,’ Johnson’s Museum, IV, 376, No 365, 1792.

A. a.‘Get up and bar the Door,’ Herd, The Ancient and Modern Scots Songs, 1769, p. 330; Ancient and Modern Scottish Songs, 1776, II, 159.b.[Pinkerton], Select Scotish Ballads, 1783, II, 150.

B.‘John Blunt,’ Macmath MS., p. 74.

C.‘Johnie Blunt,’ Johnson’s Museum, IV, 376, No 365, 1792.

The copy in Johnson’s Museum, volume three, No 300, p. 310, 1790, isA awith two slight changes; that in Ritson’s Scotish Song, I, 226, 1794, isA a.A bis substituted forA ain the third edition of Herd, 1791, II, 63. Christie, II, 262, who followsA a, but with changes, gives as a refrain, “common in the North of Scotland from time immemorial,”

And the barring o our door,Weel, weel, weel!And the barring o our door, weel!

And the barring o our door,

Weel, weel, weel!

And the barring o our door, weel!

A, B.A housewife is boiling puddings anight; a cold wind blows in, and her husband bids her bar the door; she has her hands in her work and will not. They come to an agreement that whoever speaks first shall bar the door. Two belated travellers are guided to the house by the light which streams through an opening. They come in, and, getting no reply to their questions or response to their greetings, fall to eating and drinking what they find; the goodwife thinks much, but says naught. One of the strangers proposes to the other to take off the man’s beard, and he himself will kiss the goodwife. Hot water is wanting (for scalding), suggests the second; but the boiling pudding-bree will serve, answers the first. The goodman calls out, Will ye kiss my wife and scald me? and having spoken the first word has to bar the door.

C.InCman and wife are in bed, and the travellers haul the woman out and lay her on the floor: this makes the husband give tongue.

Stenhouse notes that this ballad furnished Prince Hoare with the principal scene in his musical entertainment of “No Song, no Supper,” produced in 1790, and long a favorite on the stage. (Musical Museum, 1853, IV, 292.)

This tale is one of a group which may or may not have had a single archetype. Of the varieties, that which comes nearest is the first story in Straparola’s Eighth Day. Husband and wife are sitting near the entrance of their house one night; the husband says, It is time to go to bed, shut the door; she says, Shut it yourself. They make a compact that the one who speaks first shall shut the door. The wife, tired of silence and growing sleepy, goes to bed; the husband stretches himself on a bench. A gentleman’s servant, whose lantern has been put out by the wind, seeing the door open, asks for a light. There is no reply. Advancing a little way into the house, he finds the man lying on the bench with his eyes open, but can get no word from him though he shakes him. Looking round, he sees the woman in bed and addresses her, but she is as dumb as her husband; he gets into the bed. The woman says nothing till the intruder goes away; then calls out, A pretty man you, to leave the door open all night and let people get into your bed. Fool, he says, now go shut the door. The same, with insignificant divergences, in L’Élite des Contes du Sieur d’Ouville, Rouen, 1699, I, 159.

A wedding-feast over, neither bridegroom nor bride will consent to shut the street-door;the lady proposes that the one who speaks first shall do this, to which the bridegroom agrees. They sit looking at each other in silence for two hours. Thieves, seeing the door open, come in, pillage the house, and even strip the young pair of everything valuable that they have on them, but neither says a word. In the morning a patrol of police find the house door open, enter, and make an inspection. The chief demands an explanation of the state of things; neither man nor woman vouchsafes a response, and he orders their heads off. The executioner is beginning with the husband; the wife cries out, Spare him! the husband exclaims, You have lost, go shut the door. (The Arabian tale of Sulayman Bey and the Three Story-Tellers, cited by Clouston, Popular Tales and Fictions, II, 29.)

Hemp-eaters, who have found a sequin and bought a mass of food, quarrel about fastening the gate of a tomb to which they have retired, to gorge unmolested. They come to an agreement that the man who first speaks shall close the gate. They let the victuals stand and sit mute. A troop of dogs rush in and eat all up clean. One of the party had secured some of the provender in advance of the rest, and bits are sticking to his mouth. A dog licks them away, and in so doing bites the lip of the fellow, who, in his pain, raps out a curse on the dog. The rest shout, Get up and shut the gate! (Turkish, Behrnauer, Die vierzig Veziere, p. 175 f.; Gibb, The History of the Forty Vezirs, p. 171 f.)

In the second Pickelheringsspiel, in the first part of Engelische Comedien und Tragedien, 1620, a married pair contend again about the shutting of a door. (R. Köhler; not seen by me.)

In other cases, speaking first entails a penalty different from shutting a door.

A young pair, lying in bed the first night after marriage, engage that whichever of the two gets up first or speaks first shall wash the dishes for a week. The husband, pretending to make his will by the process of expressing by signs his acceptance or rejection of the suggestions of a friend, bequeaths away from his wife a handsome article of dress belonging to her. The wife utters a protest, and has to wash the dishes. (Novelle di Sercambi, ed. d’Ancona, p. 16, No 3, ‘De simplicitate viri et uxoris.’)

A man complains of dry bread which his wife has given him for his supper. She tells him to get up and moisten it; he bids her do this, but she refuses. It is finally settled that the one that speaks first shall moisten the bread. A visitor comes in and can make neither of them say a word. He kisses the wife, gives the husband a blow on the cheek; no word from either. He makes complaint to the kází; the husband will say nothing when brought before the kází, and is condemned to be hanged. At the moment of execution the wife ejaculates, Alas, my unfortunate husband! You devil, says he, go home and moisten the bread! (An Arabian story in Beloe’s Oriental Apologues, cited by Clouston, II, 21.)

A shoemaker and his wife agree that the one who speaks first shall carry back a frying-pan that they have borrowed. A soldier who requires a girth for his horse asks the shoemaker to cut him one, but gets no answer, though he threatens to take off the man’s head. Enraged at last, he seizes the shoemaker by the head to do what he had menaced, when the wife cries out, For mercy’s sake, don’t! Well done! says the husband, now carry back the pan. (Bernoni, Fiabe pop. veneziane, p. 67, No 13, ‘La Scomessa;’ Crane, Italian Popular Tales, p. 284.)

John makes terms with his wife that which of the two eats first of a soup which she has brought in, or speaks the first word, shall have a beating. William, of whom the husband is jealous, comes to offer his company to go to a fight which is to come off. Man and wife will neither eat nor speak, and he thinks them possessed. He takes the woman by the hand, and she goes with him. John cries out, Let my wife be! She says, John, you have spoken and lost. (Ayrers Dramen, ed. von Keller, III, 2006-08.)

A man who has been taunting his wife as a cackler is challenged by her to a trial at silence. A tinker comes in asking for kettlesto mend. He can make neither of them open their mouth, and, as a last resource, offers to kiss the woman. The husband cannot contain himself; the wife says, You have lost! and remains mistress of the house, as she had been before. (Farce d’un Chauldronnier, Viollet Le Duc, Ancien Théâtre François, II, 109 ff.)[87]

a.Herd, The Ancient and Modern Scots Songs, 1769, p. 330.b.[Pinkerton], Select Scotish Ballads, 1783, II, 150.

1It fell about the Martinmas time,And a gay time it was then,When our goodwife got puddings to make,And she’s boild them in the pan.2The wind sae cauld blew south and north,And blew into the floor;Quoth our goodman to our goodwife,‘Gae out and bar the door.’3‘My hand is in my hussyfskap,Goodman, as ye may see;An it shoud nae be barrd this hundred year,It’s no be barrd for me.’4They made a paction tween them twa,They made it firm and sure,That the first word whaeer shoud speak,Shoud rise and bar the door.5Then by there came two gentlemen,At twelve o clock at night,And they could neither see house nor hall,Nor coal nor candle-light.6‘Now whether is this a rich man’s house,Or whether is it a poor?’But neer a word wad ane o them speak,For barring of the door.7And first they ate the white puddings,And then they ate the black;Tho muckle thought the goodwife to hersel,Yet neer a word she spake.8Then said the one unto the other,‘Here, man, tak ye my knife;Do ye tak aff the auld man’s beard,And I’ll kiss the goodwife.’9‘But there’s nae water in the house,And what shall we do than?’‘What ails ye at the pudding-broo,That boils into the pan?’10O up then started our goodman,An angry man was he:‘Will ye kiss my wife before my een,And scad me wi pudding-bree?’11Then up and started our goodwife,Gied three skips on the floor:‘Goodman, you’ve spoken the foremost word,Get up and bar the door.’

1It fell about the Martinmas time,And a gay time it was then,When our goodwife got puddings to make,And she’s boild them in the pan.

It fell about the Martinmas time,

And a gay time it was then,

When our goodwife got puddings to make,

And she’s boild them in the pan.

2The wind sae cauld blew south and north,And blew into the floor;Quoth our goodman to our goodwife,‘Gae out and bar the door.’

The wind sae cauld blew south and north,

And blew into the floor;

Quoth our goodman to our goodwife,

‘Gae out and bar the door.’

3‘My hand is in my hussyfskap,Goodman, as ye may see;An it shoud nae be barrd this hundred year,It’s no be barrd for me.’

‘My hand is in my hussyfskap,

Goodman, as ye may see;

An it shoud nae be barrd this hundred year,

It’s no be barrd for me.’

4They made a paction tween them twa,They made it firm and sure,That the first word whaeer shoud speak,Shoud rise and bar the door.

They made a paction tween them twa,

They made it firm and sure,

That the first word whaeer shoud speak,

Shoud rise and bar the door.

5Then by there came two gentlemen,At twelve o clock at night,And they could neither see house nor hall,Nor coal nor candle-light.

Then by there came two gentlemen,

At twelve o clock at night,

And they could neither see house nor hall,

Nor coal nor candle-light.

6‘Now whether is this a rich man’s house,Or whether is it a poor?’But neer a word wad ane o them speak,For barring of the door.

‘Now whether is this a rich man’s house,

Or whether is it a poor?’

But neer a word wad ane o them speak,

For barring of the door.

7And first they ate the white puddings,And then they ate the black;Tho muckle thought the goodwife to hersel,Yet neer a word she spake.

And first they ate the white puddings,

And then they ate the black;

Tho muckle thought the goodwife to hersel,

Yet neer a word she spake.

8Then said the one unto the other,‘Here, man, tak ye my knife;Do ye tak aff the auld man’s beard,And I’ll kiss the goodwife.’

Then said the one unto the other,

‘Here, man, tak ye my knife;

Do ye tak aff the auld man’s beard,

And I’ll kiss the goodwife.’

9‘But there’s nae water in the house,And what shall we do than?’‘What ails ye at the pudding-broo,That boils into the pan?’

‘But there’s nae water in the house,

And what shall we do than?’

‘What ails ye at the pudding-broo,

That boils into the pan?’

10O up then started our goodman,An angry man was he:‘Will ye kiss my wife before my een,And scad me wi pudding-bree?’

O up then started our goodman,

An angry man was he:

‘Will ye kiss my wife before my een,

And scad me wi pudding-bree?’

11Then up and started our goodwife,Gied three skips on the floor:‘Goodman, you’ve spoken the foremost word,Get up and bar the door.’

Then up and started our goodwife,

Gied three skips on the floor:

‘Goodman, you’ve spoken the foremost word,

Get up and bar the door.’

Macmath MS. p. 74. “From the singing of Miss Jane Webster, 15th October, 1886, and 26th August, 1887, who learned it at Airds of Kells, Kirkcudbrightshire, many years ago, from James McJannet.”

1There leeved a wee man at the fit o yon hill,John Blunt it was his name, OAnd he selld liquor and ale o the best,And bears a wondrous fame. OTal lara ta lilt, tal lare a lilt,Tal lara ta lilt, tal lara2The wind it blew frae north to south,It blew into the floor;Says auld John Blunt to Janet the wife,Ye maun rise up and bar the door.3‘My hans are in my husseyskep,I canna weel get them free,And if ye dinna bar it yerselIt’ll never be barred by me.’4They made it up atween them twa,They made it unco sure,That the ane that spoke the foremost wordWas to rise and bar the door.5There was twa travellers travelling late,Was travelling cross the muir,And they cam unto wee John Blunt’s,Just by the light o the door.6‘O whether is this a rich man’s house,Or whether is it a puir?’But never a word would the auld bodies speak,For the barring o the door.7First they bad good een to them,And syne they bad good morrow;But never a word would the auld bodies speak,For the barring o the door, O.8First they ate the white puddin,And syne they ate the black,And aye the auld wife said to hersel,May the deil slip down wi that!9And next they drank o the liquor sae strong,And syne they drank o the yill:‘And since we hae got a house o our ainI’m sure we may tak our fill.’10It’s says the ane unto the ither,Here, man, tak ye my knife,An ye’ll scrape aff the auld man’s beard,While I kiss the gudewife.11‘Ye hae eaten my meat, ye hae drucken my drink,Ye’d make my auld wife a whore!’‘John Blunt, ye hae spoken the foremost word,Ye maun rise up and bar the door.’

There leeved a wee man at the fit o yon hill,

John Blunt it was his name, O

And he selld liquor and ale o the best,

And bears a wondrous fame. O

Tal lara ta lilt, tal lare a lilt,

Tal lara ta lilt, tal lara

2The wind it blew frae north to south,It blew into the floor;Says auld John Blunt to Janet the wife,Ye maun rise up and bar the door.

The wind it blew frae north to south,

It blew into the floor;

Says auld John Blunt to Janet the wife,

Ye maun rise up and bar the door.

3‘My hans are in my husseyskep,I canna weel get them free,And if ye dinna bar it yerselIt’ll never be barred by me.’

‘My hans are in my husseyskep,

I canna weel get them free,

And if ye dinna bar it yersel

It’ll never be barred by me.’

4They made it up atween them twa,They made it unco sure,That the ane that spoke the foremost wordWas to rise and bar the door.

They made it up atween them twa,

They made it unco sure,

That the ane that spoke the foremost word

Was to rise and bar the door.

5There was twa travellers travelling late,Was travelling cross the muir,And they cam unto wee John Blunt’s,Just by the light o the door.

There was twa travellers travelling late,

Was travelling cross the muir,

And they cam unto wee John Blunt’s,

Just by the light o the door.

6‘O whether is this a rich man’s house,Or whether is it a puir?’But never a word would the auld bodies speak,For the barring o the door.

‘O whether is this a rich man’s house,

Or whether is it a puir?’

But never a word would the auld bodies speak,

For the barring o the door.

7First they bad good een to them,And syne they bad good morrow;But never a word would the auld bodies speak,For the barring o the door, O.

First they bad good een to them,

And syne they bad good morrow;

But never a word would the auld bodies speak,

For the barring o the door, O.

8First they ate the white puddin,And syne they ate the black,And aye the auld wife said to hersel,May the deil slip down wi that!

First they ate the white puddin,

And syne they ate the black,

And aye the auld wife said to hersel,

May the deil slip down wi that!

9And next they drank o the liquor sae strong,And syne they drank o the yill:‘And since we hae got a house o our ainI’m sure we may tak our fill.’

And next they drank o the liquor sae strong,

And syne they drank o the yill:

‘And since we hae got a house o our ain

I’m sure we may tak our fill.’

10It’s says the ane unto the ither,Here, man, tak ye my knife,An ye’ll scrape aff the auld man’s beard,While I kiss the gudewife.

It’s says the ane unto the ither,

Here, man, tak ye my knife,

An ye’ll scrape aff the auld man’s beard,

While I kiss the gudewife.

11‘Ye hae eaten my meat, ye hae drucken my drink,Ye’d make my auld wife a whore!’‘John Blunt, ye hae spoken the foremost word,Ye maun rise up and bar the door.’

‘Ye hae eaten my meat, ye hae drucken my drink,

Ye’d make my auld wife a whore!’

‘John Blunt, ye hae spoken the foremost word,

Ye maun rise up and bar the door.’

Johnson’s Museum, IV, 376, No 365, 1792. Contributed by Robert Burns.

1There livd a man in yonder glen,And John Blunt was his name; OHe maks gude maut and he brews gude ale,And he bears a wondrous fame. O2The wind blew in the hallan ae night,Fu snell out oer the moor;‘Rise up, rise up, auld Luckie,’ he says,‘Rise up, and bar the door.’3They made a paction tween them twa,They made it firm and sure,Whaeer sud speak the foremost wordShould rise and bar the door.4Three travellers that had tint their gate,As thro the hills they foor,They airted by the line o lightFu straught to Johnie Blunt’s door.5They haurld auld Luckie out o her bedAnd laid her on the floor,But never a word auld Luckie wad say,For barrin o the door.6‘Ye’ve eaten my bread, ye hae druken my ale,And ye’ll mak my auld wife a whore!’‘A ha, Johnie Blunt! ye hae spoke the first word,Get up and bar the door.’

1There livd a man in yonder glen,And John Blunt was his name; OHe maks gude maut and he brews gude ale,And he bears a wondrous fame. O

There livd a man in yonder glen,

And John Blunt was his name; O

He maks gude maut and he brews gude ale,

And he bears a wondrous fame. O

2The wind blew in the hallan ae night,Fu snell out oer the moor;‘Rise up, rise up, auld Luckie,’ he says,‘Rise up, and bar the door.’

The wind blew in the hallan ae night,

Fu snell out oer the moor;

‘Rise up, rise up, auld Luckie,’ he says,

‘Rise up, and bar the door.’

3They made a paction tween them twa,They made it firm and sure,Whaeer sud speak the foremost wordShould rise and bar the door.

They made a paction tween them twa,

They made it firm and sure,

Whaeer sud speak the foremost word

Should rise and bar the door.

4Three travellers that had tint their gate,As thro the hills they foor,They airted by the line o lightFu straught to Johnie Blunt’s door.

Three travellers that had tint their gate,

As thro the hills they foor,

They airted by the line o light

Fu straught to Johnie Blunt’s door.

5They haurld auld Luckie out o her bedAnd laid her on the floor,But never a word auld Luckie wad say,For barrin o the door.

They haurld auld Luckie out o her bed

And laid her on the floor,

But never a word auld Luckie wad say,

For barrin o the door.

6‘Ye’ve eaten my bread, ye hae druken my ale,And ye’ll mak my auld wife a whore!’‘A ha, Johnie Blunt! ye hae spoke the first word,Get up and bar the door.’

‘Ye’ve eaten my bread, ye hae druken my ale,

And ye’ll mak my auld wife a whore!’

‘A ha, Johnie Blunt! ye hae spoke the first word,

Get up and bar the door.’

A. a.

Johnson’s Museum has these variations:24. Gat up and.43. first who should speak the foremost word.

Johnson’s Museum has these variations:

24. Gat up and.

43. first who should speak the foremost word.

13. That our gudewife had.14. she boild.21. wind blew cauld frae east.24. Get up and.33. hunder.34. Its neer be barrd by.42. word whaever spak.51. come.53. Whan they can see na ither house.54. And at the door they light.72. And syne.73. Thowanting.81. Then ane unto the ither said.93. bree.111. O up then started.113. you have spak the first word.Ois added to the second and fourth lines for singing, in both of the Museum copies and inB.

13. That our gudewife had.

14. she boild.

21. wind blew cauld frae east.

24. Get up and.

33. hunder.

34. Its neer be barrd by.

42. word whaever spak.

51. come.

53. Whan they can see na ither house.

54. And at the door they light.

72. And syne.

73. Thowanting.

81. Then ane unto the ither said.

93. bree.

111. O up then started.

113. you have spak the first word.

Ois added to the second and fourth lines for singing, in both of the Museum copies and inB.

FOOTNOTES:[87]All the above have been cited by Reinhold Köhler, Jahrbuch für romanische u. englische Literatur, XII, 348 f., or by Clouston, Popular Tales and Fictions, II, 15 ff.

[87]All the above have been cited by Reinhold Köhler, Jahrbuch für romanische u. englische Literatur, XII, 348 f., or by Clouston, Popular Tales and Fictions, II, 15 ff.

276

THE FRIAR IN THE WELL

A. a.‘The Fryer well fitted,’ etc., Rawlinson Ballads, 566, fol. 63, 4°.b.‘The Fryer well fitted,’ etc., Roxburghe Ballads, II, 172; Ebsworth, Roxburghe Ballads, VII, 222.c.‘The Fryer and the Maid,’ Wit and Mirth, or, Pills to purge Melancholy, “I, 340, 1707,” III, 325, 1719.B. a.‘The Friar and Fair Maid,’ Buchan’s MSS, II, 351.b.‘The Friar,’ Kinloch MSS, VI, 97.c.Kinloch MSS, V, 60.

B. a.‘The Friar and Fair Maid,’ Buchan’s MSS, II, 351.b.‘The Friar,’ Kinloch MSS, VI, 97.c.Kinloch MSS, V, 60.

The broadside,A a,b, is found in many other collections: Pepys, III, 145, No 143; Crawford, No 94, etc. (see Ebsworth).B, the Scottish ballad (an improvement on the English), is without doubt derived from print, but not directly fromA a,b. InBthe maid feigns to be afraid of her master, as inA c, not of her father. From Halliwell’s Notices of Fugitive Tracts, p. 37, No 49, Percy Society, vol. xxix, we learn that The Royal Garland of Protestant Delight, London, 1689, has a ballad with the title ‘The witty lass of Somersetshire, or the fryer servd in his kind,’ with an “answer,” in the last stanza of which ‘the inn-keeper, her master,’ laughs at the fryer’s disaster.

The tune of ‘The Friar in the Well’ occurs in The Dancing Master, from 1650 to 1686: Chappell’s Popular Music, p. 274. Munday, in his ‘Downfall of Robert, Earl of Huntington,’ Act iv, Scene 2, 1598, refers to the ‘merry jest ... how the friar fell into the well, for love of Jenny, that fair bonny belle.’ A reference of Skelton’s in his Colyn Cloute[88]carries the story, and almost certainly the ballad, back to the first quarter of the sixteenth century.

The copy in Kinloch’s Ballad Book, p. 25, was compounded by the editor fromB b,c.

A maid, solicited by a friar, says that she fears hell-fire; the friar reminds her that if she were in hell he could sing her out. She stipulates for money in advance; while the friar is gone to fetch some, she hangs (spreads) a cloth before (over) a well. The money in band, she calls out that her father (master) is coming; the friar runs to hide behind the cloth (a screen), and falls into the well. The friar cries for help; he is left to sing himself out. Extricated after a sufficient cooling, he asks his money back, but is told that he must pay for fouling the water.

This story, one might safely say, is not beyond the “imaginary forces” of any Western people, but an open well inside of an English house is at least of unusual occurrence, and if we find something of the kind to our hand in an Eastern tale of similar character, a borrowing seems more plausible than an invention. There is a considerable class of tales, mostly Oriental, in which a chaste wife discomfits two or three would-be seducers, bringing them to shame and ridicule in the end. In some, she exacts or receives money from her suitors at the outset; in some, an allegation that her husband is coming is the pretext for her concealing them. An example in English is ‘The Wright’s Chaste Wife,’ by Adam of Cobsam, edited for the Early English Text Society, in 1865, by Dr Furnivall. In this, three men successively are tumbled through a trap door into an underground room. But in the Persian Tútí Náma, or Book of the Parrot, of Nakhshabí, the wifelays a bed over a dry well, her suitors are invited to sit on it, and they fall in; and here, it is not extravagant to suppose, we may have the remote source of the trick in our ballad.[89]

There is a French ballad of the same general type: ‘Le lourdaud moine,’ Tarbé, Romancero de Champagne, II, 135; ‘Le moine Nicolas,’ Bujeaud, II, 284. A monk, enamored of a married woman, is appointed to come to her while her husband is away; he is told to lay off his frock, which she secures, and she takes money which he has brought. He is then sent to the door to see if the husband be coming, and is locked out. He asks to have his frock and money returned; she will keep them for her husband. The convent jeer at him when he comes back: ‘Dieu bénisse la commère qui t’a joué ce tour-là!’

‘Munken i Vaande,’ a rather flat Danish ballad from a MS. of the 16th century, tells of a monk who knocks at the door of a woman whom he has been courting, and calls to her to keep her word; she tells her husband to slip under the bed, and lets the monk in; the monk hands the woman gold rings which he had promised; the goodman comes out and gives him a beating; the monk leaps out of the window and goes to his cloister; his superior asks why he has been away; he has been shriving the farmer’s wife, and it has nearly cost him his life.

a.Rawlinson, 566, fol. 63, 4o.b.Roxburghe, II, 172; Ebsworth, Roxburghe Ballads, VII, 222.c.D’Urfey’s Pills to purge Melancholy, ed. 1719, III, 325.

1As I lay musing all alone,fa, la, la, la, laA pretty jeast I thought upon;fa, la, la, la, laThen listen a while, and I will you tellOf a fryer that loved a bonny lass well.fa, la, la, la, lafa, la, la, lang-tre-down-dilly2He came to the maid when she went to bed,Desiring to have her maidenhead,But she denyëd his desire,And told him that she feard hell-fire.3‘Tush,’ quoth the fryer, ‘thou needst not doubtIf thou wert in hell I could sing thee out:’‘Then,’ quoth the maid, ‘thou shalt have thy request;’The fryer was glad as a fox in his nest.4‘But one thing,’ quoth she, ‘I do desire,Before you have what you require;Before that you shall do the thing,An angel of mony thou shalt me bring.’5‘Tush,’ quoth the fryer, ‘we shall agree,No mony shall part my love and me;Before that I will see thee lack,I’le pawn the grey gown from my back.’6The maid bethought her of a wileHow she the fryer might beguile;While he was gone, the truth to tell,She hung a cloth before the well.7The fryer came, as his covenant was,With money to his bonny lass;‘Good morrow, fair maid!’ ‘Good morrow!’ quoth she.‘Here is the mony I promised thee.’8She thankt the man, and she took his mony:‘Now let us go to ’t,’ quoth he, ‘sweet hony:’‘O stay,’ quoth she, ‘some respite make,My father comes, he will me take.’9‘Alas!’ quoth the fryer, ‘where shall I run,To hide me till that he be gone?’‘Behinde the cloath run thou,’ quoth she,‘And there my father cannot thee see.’10Behind the cloath the fryer crept,And into the well on the sudden he leapt;‘Alas,’ quoth he, ‘I am in the well!’‘No matter,’ quoth she,’ if thou wert in hell.11‘Thou sayst thou couldst sing me out of hell,Now prithee sing thy self out of the well:’The fryer sung with a pittiful sound,Oh help me out, or I shall be dround!12‘I trow,’ quoth she, ‘your courage is coold.’Quoth the fryer, I was never so foold,I never was served so before.‘Then take heed,’ quoth she, ‘thou comst there no more.’13Quoth he, For sweet Saint Francis sakeOn his disciple some pitty take:Quoth she, Saint Francis never taughtHis scholars to tempt young maids to naught.14The fryer did entreat her stillThat she should help him out of the well;She heard him make such pittious moanShe helpd him out, and bid him be gone.15Quoth he, Shall I have my mony again,Which thou from me hast beforehand tane?‘Good sir,’ said she, ‘there’s no such matter;I’le make you pay for fouling my water.’16The fryer went all along the street,Droping wet, like a new-washd sheep;Both old and young commended the maidThat such a witty prank had plaid.

As I lay musing all alone,

fa, la, la, la, la

A pretty jeast I thought upon;

fa, la, la, la, la

Then listen a while, and I will you tell

Of a fryer that loved a bonny lass well.

fa, la, la, la, la

fa, la, la, lang-tre-down-dilly

2He came to the maid when she went to bed,Desiring to have her maidenhead,But she denyëd his desire,And told him that she feard hell-fire.

He came to the maid when she went to bed,

Desiring to have her maidenhead,

But she denyëd his desire,

And told him that she feard hell-fire.

3‘Tush,’ quoth the fryer, ‘thou needst not doubtIf thou wert in hell I could sing thee out:’‘Then,’ quoth the maid, ‘thou shalt have thy request;’The fryer was glad as a fox in his nest.

‘Tush,’ quoth the fryer, ‘thou needst not doubt

If thou wert in hell I could sing thee out:’

‘Then,’ quoth the maid, ‘thou shalt have thy request;’

The fryer was glad as a fox in his nest.

4‘But one thing,’ quoth she, ‘I do desire,Before you have what you require;Before that you shall do the thing,An angel of mony thou shalt me bring.’

‘But one thing,’ quoth she, ‘I do desire,

Before you have what you require;

Before that you shall do the thing,

An angel of mony thou shalt me bring.’

5‘Tush,’ quoth the fryer, ‘we shall agree,No mony shall part my love and me;Before that I will see thee lack,I’le pawn the grey gown from my back.’

‘Tush,’ quoth the fryer, ‘we shall agree,

No mony shall part my love and me;

Before that I will see thee lack,

I’le pawn the grey gown from my back.’

6The maid bethought her of a wileHow she the fryer might beguile;While he was gone, the truth to tell,She hung a cloth before the well.

The maid bethought her of a wile

How she the fryer might beguile;

While he was gone, the truth to tell,

She hung a cloth before the well.

7The fryer came, as his covenant was,With money to his bonny lass;‘Good morrow, fair maid!’ ‘Good morrow!’ quoth she.‘Here is the mony I promised thee.’

The fryer came, as his covenant was,

With money to his bonny lass;

‘Good morrow, fair maid!’ ‘Good morrow!’ quoth she.

‘Here is the mony I promised thee.’

8She thankt the man, and she took his mony:‘Now let us go to ’t,’ quoth he, ‘sweet hony:’‘O stay,’ quoth she, ‘some respite make,My father comes, he will me take.’

She thankt the man, and she took his mony:

‘Now let us go to ’t,’ quoth he, ‘sweet hony:’

‘O stay,’ quoth she, ‘some respite make,

My father comes, he will me take.’

9‘Alas!’ quoth the fryer, ‘where shall I run,To hide me till that he be gone?’‘Behinde the cloath run thou,’ quoth she,‘And there my father cannot thee see.’

‘Alas!’ quoth the fryer, ‘where shall I run,

To hide me till that he be gone?’

‘Behinde the cloath run thou,’ quoth she,

‘And there my father cannot thee see.’

10Behind the cloath the fryer crept,And into the well on the sudden he leapt;‘Alas,’ quoth he, ‘I am in the well!’‘No matter,’ quoth she,’ if thou wert in hell.

Behind the cloath the fryer crept,

And into the well on the sudden he leapt;

‘Alas,’ quoth he, ‘I am in the well!’

‘No matter,’ quoth she,’ if thou wert in hell.

11‘Thou sayst thou couldst sing me out of hell,Now prithee sing thy self out of the well:’The fryer sung with a pittiful sound,Oh help me out, or I shall be dround!

‘Thou sayst thou couldst sing me out of hell,

Now prithee sing thy self out of the well:’

The fryer sung with a pittiful sound,

Oh help me out, or I shall be dround!

12‘I trow,’ quoth she, ‘your courage is coold.’Quoth the fryer, I was never so foold,I never was served so before.‘Then take heed,’ quoth she, ‘thou comst there no more.’

‘I trow,’ quoth she, ‘your courage is coold.’

Quoth the fryer, I was never so foold,

I never was served so before.

‘Then take heed,’ quoth she, ‘thou comst there no more.’

13Quoth he, For sweet Saint Francis sakeOn his disciple some pitty take:Quoth she, Saint Francis never taughtHis scholars to tempt young maids to naught.

Quoth he, For sweet Saint Francis sake

On his disciple some pitty take:

Quoth she, Saint Francis never taught

His scholars to tempt young maids to naught.

14The fryer did entreat her stillThat she should help him out of the well;She heard him make such pittious moanShe helpd him out, and bid him be gone.

The fryer did entreat her still

That she should help him out of the well;

She heard him make such pittious moan

She helpd him out, and bid him be gone.

15Quoth he, Shall I have my mony again,Which thou from me hast beforehand tane?‘Good sir,’ said she, ‘there’s no such matter;I’le make you pay for fouling my water.’

Quoth he, Shall I have my mony again,

Which thou from me hast beforehand tane?

‘Good sir,’ said she, ‘there’s no such matter;

I’le make you pay for fouling my water.’

16The fryer went all along the street,Droping wet, like a new-washd sheep;Both old and young commended the maidThat such a witty prank had plaid.

The fryer went all along the street,

Droping wet, like a new-washd sheep;

Both old and young commended the maid

That such a witty prank had plaid.

a.Buchan’s MSS, II 351.b.Kinloch MSS, VI, 97, in Kinloch’s handwriting.c.Kinloch MSS, V, 60, in the handwriting of James Beattie.

1O hearken and hear, and I will you tellSing, Faldidae, faldidadiOf a friar that loved a fair maiden well.Sing, Faldi dadi di di (bis)2The friar he came to this maiden’s bedside,And asking for her maidenhead.3‘O I would grant you your desire,If ’t werena for fear o hell’s burning fire.’4‘O hell’s burning fire ye need have no doubt;Altho you were in, I could whistle you out.’5‘O if I grant to you this thing,Some money you unto me must bring.’6He brought her the money, and did it down tell;She had a white cloth spread over the well.7Then the fair maid cried out that her master was come;‘O,’ said the friar, ‘then where shall I run?’8‘O ye will go in behind yon screen,And then by my master ye winna be seen.’9Then in behind the screen she him sent,But he fell into the well by accident.10Then the friar cried out with a piteous moan,O help! O help me! or else I am gone.11‘Ye said ye wad whistle me out o hell;Now whistle your ain sel out o the well.’12She helped him out and bade him be gone;The friar he asked his money again.13‘As for your money, there is no much matterTo make you pay more for jumbling our water.’14Then all who hear it commend this fair maidFor the nimble trick to the friar she played.15The friar he walked on the street,And shaking his lugs like a well-washen sheep.

1O hearken and hear, and I will you tellSing, Faldidae, faldidadiOf a friar that loved a fair maiden well.Sing, Faldi dadi di di (bis)

O hearken and hear, and I will you tell

Sing, Faldidae, faldidadi

Of a friar that loved a fair maiden well.

Sing, Faldi dadi di di (bis)

2The friar he came to this maiden’s bedside,And asking for her maidenhead.

The friar he came to this maiden’s bedside,

And asking for her maidenhead.

3‘O I would grant you your desire,If ’t werena for fear o hell’s burning fire.’

‘O I would grant you your desire,

If ’t werena for fear o hell’s burning fire.’

4‘O hell’s burning fire ye need have no doubt;Altho you were in, I could whistle you out.’

‘O hell’s burning fire ye need have no doubt;

Altho you were in, I could whistle you out.’

5‘O if I grant to you this thing,Some money you unto me must bring.’

‘O if I grant to you this thing,

Some money you unto me must bring.’

6He brought her the money, and did it down tell;She had a white cloth spread over the well.

He brought her the money, and did it down tell;

She had a white cloth spread over the well.

7Then the fair maid cried out that her master was come;‘O,’ said the friar, ‘then where shall I run?’

Then the fair maid cried out that her master was come;

‘O,’ said the friar, ‘then where shall I run?’

8‘O ye will go in behind yon screen,And then by my master ye winna be seen.’

‘O ye will go in behind yon screen,

And then by my master ye winna be seen.’

9Then in behind the screen she him sent,But he fell into the well by accident.

Then in behind the screen she him sent,

But he fell into the well by accident.

10Then the friar cried out with a piteous moan,O help! O help me! or else I am gone.

Then the friar cried out with a piteous moan,

O help! O help me! or else I am gone.

11‘Ye said ye wad whistle me out o hell;Now whistle your ain sel out o the well.’

‘Ye said ye wad whistle me out o hell;

Now whistle your ain sel out o the well.’

12She helped him out and bade him be gone;The friar he asked his money again.

She helped him out and bade him be gone;

The friar he asked his money again.

13‘As for your money, there is no much matterTo make you pay more for jumbling our water.’

‘As for your money, there is no much matter

To make you pay more for jumbling our water.’

14Then all who hear it commend this fair maidFor the nimble trick to the friar she played.

Then all who hear it commend this fair maid

For the nimble trick to the friar she played.

15The friar he walked on the street,And shaking his lugs like a well-washen sheep.

The friar he walked on the street,

And shaking his lugs like a well-washen sheep.

A.a,b.

The Fryer well fitted, or,A pretty jest that once befell,How a Maid put a Fryer to cool in the well.To a merry tune.

The Fryer well fitted, or,

A pretty jest that once befell,

How a Maid put a Fryer to cool in the well.

To a merry tune.

a.London. Printed for F. Coles, T. Vere, and J. Wright.b.Printed for W. Thackeray and T. Passinger.

a.London. Printed for F. Coles, T. Vere, and J. Wright.

b.Printed for W. Thackeray and T. Passinger.

31,3, 73, 82, 3, 91,3, 104, 124, qd.forquoth.73. qd. he.82. too’t.83. Oh.101. did crept.162. Drooping.

31,3, 73, 82, 3, 91,3, 104, 124, qd.forquoth.

73. qd. he.

82. too’t.

83. Oh.

101. did crept.

162. Drooping.

54. my grey.73. quoth she.101. fryer crept.102. on a.113. sung on.122. never was.142. she would.152. Which from me thou.162. Dropping.

54. my grey.

73. quoth she.

101. fryer crept.

102. on a.

113. sung on.

122. never was.

142. she would.

152. Which from me thou.

162. Dropping.

c.The variations are insignificant until we come to 83; from that point this copy (which is abridged) runs as follows:

83.‘Nay, stay a while, some respite make;If my master should come he would us take.9‘Alas,’ quoth the maid, ‘my master doth come!’‘Alas!’ quoth the fryer, ‘where shall I run?’‘Behind yon cloth run thou,’ quoth she,‘For there my master cannot see.’10.Behind the cloth the fryer went,And was in the well incontinent.‘Alas,’ quoth he, ‘I’m in the well!’‘No matter,’ quoth she, ‘if thou wert in hell.111,2.‘Thou saidst thou could sing me out of hell,I prithee sing thy self out of the well.Sing out,’ quoth she, ‘with all thy might,Or else thou’rt like to sing there all night.’113,4.The fryer sang out with a pitiful sound,Oh help me out, or I shall be drownd!143,4.She heard him make such pitiful moanShe hope [=holp] him out and bid him go home.123,4.Quoth the fryer, I never was servd so before:‘Away,’ quoth the wench, ‘come here no more.’161,2.The fryer he walkd along the streetAs if he had been a new-washd sheep.Sing, hey down a derry, and let’s be merry, And from such sin ever keep.Thefa laburden is not given.

83.‘Nay, stay a while, some respite make;If my master should come he would us take.

83.

‘Nay, stay a while, some respite make;

If my master should come he would us take.

9‘Alas,’ quoth the maid, ‘my master doth come!’‘Alas!’ quoth the fryer, ‘where shall I run?’‘Behind yon cloth run thou,’ quoth she,‘For there my master cannot see.’

‘Alas,’ quoth the maid, ‘my master doth come!’

‘Alas!’ quoth the fryer, ‘where shall I run?’

‘Behind yon cloth run thou,’ quoth she,

‘For there my master cannot see.’

10.Behind the cloth the fryer went,And was in the well incontinent.‘Alas,’ quoth he, ‘I’m in the well!’‘No matter,’ quoth she, ‘if thou wert in hell.

10.

Behind the cloth the fryer went,

And was in the well incontinent.

‘Alas,’ quoth he, ‘I’m in the well!’

‘No matter,’ quoth she, ‘if thou wert in hell.

111,2.‘Thou saidst thou could sing me out of hell,I prithee sing thy self out of the well.Sing out,’ quoth she, ‘with all thy might,Or else thou’rt like to sing there all night.’

111,2.

‘Thou saidst thou could sing me out of hell,

I prithee sing thy self out of the well.

Sing out,’ quoth she, ‘with all thy might,

Or else thou’rt like to sing there all night.’

113,4.The fryer sang out with a pitiful sound,Oh help me out, or I shall be drownd!

113,4.

The fryer sang out with a pitiful sound,

Oh help me out, or I shall be drownd!

143,4.She heard him make such pitiful moanShe hope [=holp] him out and bid him go home.

143,4.

She heard him make such pitiful moan

She hope [=holp] him out and bid him go home.

123,4.Quoth the fryer, I never was servd so before:‘Away,’ quoth the wench, ‘come here no more.’

123,4.

Quoth the fryer, I never was servd so before:

‘Away,’ quoth the wench, ‘come here no more.’

161,2.The fryer he walkd along the streetAs if he had been a new-washd sheep.

161,2.

The fryer he walkd along the street

As if he had been a new-washd sheep.

Sing, hey down a derry, and let’s be merry, And from such sin ever keep.

Thefa laburden is not given.

B. b.Apparentlyarevised by Kinloch.

42. singforwhistle.72. thenwanting.101. awanting.152. sheetforsheep.

42. singforwhistle.

72. thenwanting.

101. awanting.

152. sheetforsheep.

1.Listen and I will you tellWi a falaldirry, falaldirryHow a friar in love wi a lassie fell.Wi a falee and latee and a lee-tiddle-tiddle-tee7.The lassie cries, My master comes!The friar cries, Where shall I run?8.‘O you’ll do you in below this cloth;That you be seen I wad be loth.’10.The friar cries, I’m in the well!‘I care na tho you were in hell.11.‘You said you w[a]d sing me out of hell;Sing yoursell out o the well.’12.‘If you’ll help me out, I will be gone,Back to you I’ll neuer come.’She helped him out, and he was begone;Back to her he never came.15.The frier he gaed up the street,Hanging his lugs like a washen sheet.

1.Listen and I will you tellWi a falaldirry, falaldirryHow a friar in love wi a lassie fell.Wi a falee and latee and a lee-tiddle-tiddle-tee

Listen and I will you tell

Wi a falaldirry, falaldirry

How a friar in love wi a lassie fell.

Wi a falee and latee and a lee-tiddle-tiddle-tee

7.The lassie cries, My master comes!The friar cries, Where shall I run?

The lassie cries, My master comes!

The friar cries, Where shall I run?

8.‘O you’ll do you in below this cloth;That you be seen I wad be loth.’

‘O you’ll do you in below this cloth;

That you be seen I wad be loth.’

10.The friar cries, I’m in the well!‘I care na tho you were in hell.

10.

The friar cries, I’m in the well!

‘I care na tho you were in hell.

11.‘You said you w[a]d sing me out of hell;Sing yoursell out o the well.’

11.

‘You said you w[a]d sing me out of hell;

Sing yoursell out o the well.’

12.‘If you’ll help me out, I will be gone,Back to you I’ll neuer come.’

12.

‘If you’ll help me out, I will be gone,

Back to you I’ll neuer come.’

She helped him out, and he was begone;Back to her he never came.

She helped him out, and he was begone;

Back to her he never came.

15.The frier he gaed up the street,Hanging his lugs like a washen sheet.

15.

The frier he gaed up the street,

Hanging his lugs like a washen sheet.

2-6, 9, 13, 14,wanting.

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