“Old songs, old songs—what heaps I knew,From ‘Chevy Chase’ to ‘Black-eyed Sue’;From ‘Flow, thou regal, purple stream,’To ‘Rousseau’s melancholy Dream!’I loved the pensive ‘Cabin Boy,’With earnest truth and real joy.To greet ‘Tom Bowling’ and ‘Poor Jack’;And, oh! ‘Will Watch,’ the ‘Smuggler’ bold,My plighted troth thou’lt ever hold.”Eliza Cook.
“Old songs, old songs—what heaps I knew,From ‘Chevy Chase’ to ‘Black-eyed Sue’;From ‘Flow, thou regal, purple stream,’To ‘Rousseau’s melancholy Dream!’I loved the pensive ‘Cabin Boy,’With earnest truth and real joy.To greet ‘Tom Bowling’ and ‘Poor Jack’;And, oh! ‘Will Watch,’ the ‘Smuggler’ bold,My plighted troth thou’lt ever hold.”Eliza Cook.
“Songs! Songs! Songs! Beautiful songs! Love songs! Newest songs! Old songs! Popular songs! Songs,Three Yards a Penny!” was a “standing dish” at the “Catnach Press,” and Catnach was the Leo X. of street publishers. And it is said that he atone time kept a fiddler on the premises, and that he used to sit receiving ballad-writers and singers, and judging of the merits of any production which was brought to him, by having it sung then and there to some popular air played by his own fiddler, and so that the ballad-singer should be enabled to start at once, not only with the new song, but also the tune to which it was adapted. His broad-sheets contain all sorts of songs and ballads, for he had a most catholic taste, and introduced the custom of taking from any writer, living or dead, whatever he fancied, and printing it side by side with the productions of his own clients.
He naturally had a bit of a taste for old ballads, music, and song writing; and in this respect he was far in advance of many of his contemporaries. To bring within the reach of all the standard and popular works of the day, had been the ambition of the elder Catnach; whilst the son was,nolens volens, incessant in his endeavours in trying to promulgate and advance, not the beauty, elegance, and harmony which pervades many of our national airs and ballad poetry, but very often the worst and vilest of each and every description—in other words, those most suitable for street-sale. His stock of songs was very like his customers, diversified. There were all kinds, to suit all classes. Love, sentimental, and comic songs were so interwoven as to form a trio of no ordinary amount of novelty. At ordinary times, when the Awfuls and Sensationals were flat, Jemmy did a large stroke of business in this line.
It is said that when the “Songs—Three-yards-a-penny”—first came out and had all the attractions of novelty, some men sold twelve or fourteen dozen on fine days during three or four of the summer months, so clearing between 6s. and 7s. a day, but on the average about 25s. a week profit. The “long songs,”however, have been quite superseded by the “Monster” and “Giant Penny Song Books.” Still there are a vast number of half-penny ballad-sheets worked off, and in proportion to their size, far more than the “Monsters” or “Giants.”
As a rule there are but two songs printed on the half-penny ballad-sheets—generally a new and popular song with another older ditty, or a comic and sentimental, and “adorned” with two woodcuts. These are selected without any regard as to their fitness to the subject, and in most cases have not the slightest reference to the ballad of which they form the head-piece. For instance:—“The Heart that can feel for another” is illustrated by a gaunt and savage looking lion; “When I was first Breeched,” by an engraving of a Highlandersans culotte; “The Poacher” comes under the cut of a youth with a large watering-pot, tending flowers; “Ben Block” is heralded by the rising sun; “The London Oyster Girl,” by Sir Walter Raleigh; “The Sailor’s Grave,” by the figure of Justice; “Alice Grey” comes under the very dilapidated figure of a sailor, or “Jolly Young Waterman;” “Bright Hours are in store for us yet” isheadedwith atail-pieceof an urn, on which is inscribedFinis!“The Wild Boar Hunt,” by two wolves chasing a deer; “The Dying Child to its Mother,” by an Angel appearing to an old man; “Autumn Leaves lie strew’d around,” by a ship in full sail; “Cherry Ripe,” by Death’s Head and Cross Bones; “Jack at the Windlass,” falls under a Roadside Inn; while “William Tell” is presented to the British public in form and style of an old woman nursing an infant of squally nature. Here follow a few examples of the style, also that of some of the ballad-sheets: together with variousverbatimimprints used by “The Catnach Press,” chronologically arranged fromcirca1813 to the present time.
THE GALLANT SAILOR.
London:Printed by J. Catnach, and sold Wholesale and Retail atNo. 60, Wardour Street, Soho Square.
Farewell thou dear and Gallant Sailor,Since thou and I have parted been,Be thou constant and true hearted,And I will be the same to thee.
Farewell thou dear and Gallant Sailor,Since thou and I have parted been,Be thou constant and true hearted,And I will be the same to thee.
CHORUS.
May the winds and waves direct thee,To some wishful port design’d,If you love me, don’t deceive me,But let your heart be as true as mine.*****When oft times my fancy tells me,That in battle thou art slain,With true love I will requite thee,When thou dost return again.May the winds, &c.
May the winds and waves direct thee,To some wishful port design’d,If you love me, don’t deceive me,But let your heart be as true as mine.*****When oft times my fancy tells me,That in battle thou art slain,With true love I will requite thee,When thou dost return again.May the winds, &c.
O RARE TURPIN.
Printed by J. Catnach, 2, Monmouth Court, 7 Dials.Sold by J. Sharman, Cambridge, Bennet, Brighton; & R. Harris, Salisbury.
As I was riding over Hunslow Moor,There I saw a lawyer riding before,And I asked him if he was not afraid,To meet bold Turpin that mischievous blade.CHORUS.—I asked him if he was not afraid,To meet bold Turpin that mischievous blade.Says Turpin to the lawyer and for to be cute,My money I have hid all in my boot,Says the lawyer to Turpin they mine can’t find,For I have hid mine in the cape of my coat behind.I rode till I came to a powder mill,Where Turpin bid the lawyer for to stand still,For the cape of your coat it must come off,For my horse is in want of a new saddle cloth.Now Turpin robbed the lawyer of all his store,When that’s gone he knows where to get more,And the very next town that you go in,Tell them you was robb’d by the bold Turpin.
As I was riding over Hunslow Moor,There I saw a lawyer riding before,And I asked him if he was not afraid,To meet bold Turpin that mischievous blade.CHORUS.—I asked him if he was not afraid,To meet bold Turpin that mischievous blade.Says Turpin to the lawyer and for to be cute,My money I have hid all in my boot,Says the lawyer to Turpin they mine can’t find,For I have hid mine in the cape of my coat behind.I rode till I came to a powder mill,Where Turpin bid the lawyer for to stand still,For the cape of your coat it must come off,For my horse is in want of a new saddle cloth.Now Turpin robbed the lawyer of all his store,When that’s gone he knows where to get more,And the very next town that you go in,Tell them you was robb’d by the bold Turpin.
MOUNTAIN MAID.
Printed by J. Catnach, 2, Monmouth Court, 7 Dials.Travellers and Shopkeepers supplied with Sheet Hymns. Patters, and SlipSongs as Cheap and Good as any Shop in London.
The Mountain Maid from her bower has hied,And speed to the glassy river’s side,Where the radiant mead shone clear and bright,And the willows wav’d in the silver light.On a mossy bank lay a shepherd swain,He woke his pipe to tuneful strain,And so blythely gay were the notes he play’d,That he charm’d the ear of the Mountain Maid.She step’d with timid fear oppress’d,While soft sighs swell her gentle breast,He caught her glance, and mark’d her sigh,And triumph laugh’d in his sparkling eye.So softly sweet was the tuneful ditty,He charmed her tender heart to pity;And so blithely gay were the notes he play’d,That he gain’d the heart of the Mountain Maid.
The Mountain Maid from her bower has hied,And speed to the glassy river’s side,Where the radiant mead shone clear and bright,And the willows wav’d in the silver light.On a mossy bank lay a shepherd swain,He woke his pipe to tuneful strain,And so blythely gay were the notes he play’d,That he charm’d the ear of the Mountain Maid.She step’d with timid fear oppress’d,While soft sighs swell her gentle breast,He caught her glance, and mark’d her sigh,And triumph laugh’d in his sparkling eye.So softly sweet was the tuneful ditty,He charmed her tender heart to pity;And so blithely gay were the notes he play’d,That he gain’d the heart of the Mountain Maid.
MEET ME IN THE WILLOW GLEN
—————————————J. Catnach, Printer, 2, Monmouth Court, 7 Dials. Cards, &c. PrintedCheap.☞Country Shops and Travellers supplied.——————————
Meet me in the willow glen,Where the silvery moon is beaming,Songs of love I’ll sing thee then,When all the world is dreaming.Meet me in the willow glen.When the silver moon is beaming,Songs of love I’ll sing thee then,If you meet me in the willow glen.No prying eye shall come love.No stranger foot be seen.And the busy village hum, love,Shall echo through the glen.Meet me, &c.
Meet me in the willow glen,Where the silvery moon is beaming,Songs of love I’ll sing thee then,When all the world is dreaming.Meet me in the willow glen.When the silver moon is beaming,Songs of love I’ll sing thee then,If you meet me in the willow glen.No prying eye shall come love.No stranger foot be seen.And the busy village hum, love,Shall echo through the glen.Meet me, &c.
DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES.
J. Catnach, Printer, 2, Monmouth Court, 7 Dials. Sold by W. Marshall.Sold by T. Pierce, Southborough. (Cards Printed Cheap.)
Drink to me only with thine eyes,And I will pledge with mine,Or leave a kiss but in the cup,And I’ll not look for wine;The thirst that from my soul doth rise,Doth ask a drink divine;But might I of Jove’s nectar sip,I would not change for thine.
Drink to me only with thine eyes,And I will pledge with mine,Or leave a kiss but in the cup,And I’ll not look for wine;The thirst that from my soul doth rise,Doth ask a drink divine;But might I of Jove’s nectar sip,I would not change for thine.
The Mistletoe Bough
Printed by J. Catnach, 2, Monmouth Court, 7 Dials. Sold by Pierce,Southborough, Bennet, Brighton; and Sharman, Cambridge.
The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,The holly branch shone on the old oak wall,The baron’s retainers were blithe and gay,And keeping their Christmas holiday.The baron beheld with a father’s pride,His beautiful child, young Lovell’s bride:While she with her bright eyes, seemed to beThe star of the goodly company.Oh! the mistletoe bough!“I’m weary of dancing now,” she cried!“Here tarry a moment—I’ll hide—I’ll hide,And, Lovell, be sure thou’rt the first to traceThe clue to my secret lurking place.”Away she ran—and her friends beganEach tower to search, and each nook to scan;And young Lovell cried, “Oh! where dost thou hide?I’m lonesome without thee, my own dear bride.”Oh! the mistletoe bough!
The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,The holly branch shone on the old oak wall,The baron’s retainers were blithe and gay,And keeping their Christmas holiday.The baron beheld with a father’s pride,His beautiful child, young Lovell’s bride:While she with her bright eyes, seemed to beThe star of the goodly company.Oh! the mistletoe bough!“I’m weary of dancing now,” she cried!“Here tarry a moment—I’ll hide—I’ll hide,And, Lovell, be sure thou’rt the first to traceThe clue to my secret lurking place.”Away she ran—and her friends beganEach tower to search, and each nook to scan;And young Lovell cried, “Oh! where dost thou hide?I’m lonesome without thee, my own dear bride.”Oh! the mistletoe bough!
THE Rose will Cease to Blow.
Printed by J. Catnach, 2, Monmouth Court, 7 Dials. Sold by T. Batchelor,14, Hackney Road Crescent; W. Marshall, Bristol. Sold by Bennetand Boyes, Brighton.
The rose will cease to blow,The eagle turn a dove,The streams will cease to flow,Ere I will cease to love.The sun shall cease to shine,The world shall cease to move,The stars their light resign,Ere I will cease to love.
The rose will cease to blow,The eagle turn a dove,The streams will cease to flow,Ere I will cease to love.The sun shall cease to shine,The world shall cease to move,The stars their light resign,Ere I will cease to love.
I’M A TOUGH True Hearted Sailor.
J. Catnach, Printer, 2 & 3, Monmouth Court, 7 Dials, & at 14, WaterlooRoad, (late Hill’s). Country Shops, and Travellers supplied.
I’m a tough true-hearted sailor,Careless and all that, d’ye see,Never at the times a railer—What is time or tide to me?All must die when fate must will it,Providence ordains it so;Every bullet has its billet,Man the boat, boys—Yeo, heave, yeo!Life’s at best a sea of trouble,He who fears it is a dunce,Death, to me, an empty bubble,I can never die but once,Blood, if duty bids, I’ll spill it,Yet I have a tear for woe,Every bullet has its billet, &c.
I’m a tough true-hearted sailor,Careless and all that, d’ye see,Never at the times a railer—What is time or tide to me?All must die when fate must will it,Providence ordains it so;Every bullet has its billet,Man the boat, boys—Yeo, heave, yeo!Life’s at best a sea of trouble,He who fears it is a dunce,Death, to me, an empty bubble,I can never die but once,Blood, if duty bids, I’ll spill it,Yet I have a tear for woe,Every bullet has its billet, &c.
WHEN BIBO THOUGHT FIT.
Printed and Sold byJ. Catnach, 2 & 3, Monmouth Court, 7 Dials.
When Bibo thought fit from the world to retreat,As full of champagne as an egg’s full of meat;He wak’d in the boat, and to Charon he said,He would be rowed back, for he was not yet dead.‘Trim the boat, and sit quiet,’ stern Charon replied—‘You may have forgot—you were drunk when you died!’
When Bibo thought fit from the world to retreat,As full of champagne as an egg’s full of meat;He wak’d in the boat, and to Charon he said,He would be rowed back, for he was not yet dead.‘Trim the boat, and sit quiet,’ stern Charon replied—‘You may have forgot—you were drunk when you died!’
THE SUN That Lights the ROSES.
A. Ryle and Co., Printers, 2 & 3, Monmouth Court, Seven Dials, and 35,Hanover Street, Portsea, where upwards of 4000 different sorts of balladsare continually on sale together with 40 new penny song books.
Tho’ dimple cheeks may give delightWhere rival beauties blossom;Th’o balmy lips to love invite,To extacy the bosom.Yet sweeter far yon summer sky,Whose blushing tints discloses,Give me the lustre beaming eye,The Sun that lights the Roses.
Tho’ dimple cheeks may give delightWhere rival beauties blossom;Th’o balmy lips to love invite,To extacy the bosom.Yet sweeter far yon summer sky,Whose blushing tints discloses,Give me the lustre beaming eye,The Sun that lights the Roses.
THE Woodpecker.
London:—Printed by J. Paul & Co., 2 & 3, Monmouth Court.
I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl’dAbove the green elms, that a cottage was near,And I said if there’s peace to be found it the world,A heart that is humble might hope for it here.
I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl’dAbove the green elms, that a cottage was near,And I said if there’s peace to be found it the world,A heart that is humble might hope for it here.
CHORUS.
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound,But the woodpecker tapping in the hollow beech tree.And here in this lone little wood, I exclaim’d,With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye,Who would blush when I prais’d her, and weep if I blam’d,How blest could I live, and how calm could I die.Every leaf, &c.
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound,But the woodpecker tapping in the hollow beech tree.And here in this lone little wood, I exclaim’d,With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye,Who would blush when I prais’d her, and weep if I blam’d,How blest could I live, and how calm could I die.Every leaf, &c.
YE Topers All.
London:—Published by Ryle and Paul, 2 & 3, Monmouth Court, 7 Dials.Where an immense number of songs are always ready.
Ye topers all drink to the soul,Of this right honest fellow;Who always loved a flowing bowl,And would in death be mellow.The lamp of life be kindled up,With spirit stout and glowing;His heart inspired thus with a cup,Ascends where nectar’s flowing.
Ye topers all drink to the soul,Of this right honest fellow;Who always loved a flowing bowl,And would in death be mellow.The lamp of life be kindled up,With spirit stout and glowing;His heart inspired thus with a cup,Ascends where nectar’s flowing.
Death of Nelson.
——————————London:—Ryle & Co., Printers, 2 & 3, Monmouth Court, Bloomsbury.——————————
RECITATIVE.
O’er Nelson’s tomb, with silent grief oppress’dBritannia mourns her hero now at rest.But these bright laurels ne’er shall fade with years,Whose leaves are water’d by a Nation’s tears.
O’er Nelson’s tomb, with silent grief oppress’dBritannia mourns her hero now at rest.But these bright laurels ne’er shall fade with years,Whose leaves are water’d by a Nation’s tears.
AIR.
’Twas in Trafalgar’s bay,We saw the Frenchmen lay,Each heart was bounding then;We scorned the foreign yoke—Our ships were British oak,And hearts of oak our men,Our Nelson mark’d them on the wave,Three cheers our gallant seamen gave,Nor thought of home or beauty;Along the line this signal ran—“England expects that every manThis day will do his duty!”
’Twas in Trafalgar’s bay,We saw the Frenchmen lay,Each heart was bounding then;We scorned the foreign yoke—Our ships were British oak,And hearts of oak our men,Our Nelson mark’d them on the wave,Three cheers our gallant seamen gave,Nor thought of home or beauty;Along the line this signal ran—“England expects that every manThis day will do his duty!”
THE SCARLET FLOWER.
A. Ryle & Co., Printers, 2 & 3, Monmouth Court, Bloomsbury.
She’s gentle as the zephyr,That sips of every sweet,She fairer than the fairest lily,In nature’s soft retreat;Her eyes are like the crystal brok,As bright and clear to see?Her lips outshine the Scarlet Flow’rOf bonny Ellerslie.
She’s gentle as the zephyr,That sips of every sweet,She fairer than the fairest lily,In nature’s soft retreat;Her eyes are like the crystal brok,As bright and clear to see?Her lips outshine the Scarlet Flow’rOf bonny Ellerslie.
THE THORN.
London:—Printed at the “Catnach Press” by W. Fortey, (late A. Ryle)2 & 3, Monmouth Court. Bloomsbury. (Established 1813.) The Oldestand Cheapest House in the World for Ballads, (4,000 sorts) Song Books, &c.
From the white blossomed sloe,My dear Chlœ requested,A sprig her fair breast to adorn;No by heavens I exclaimed, may I perishIf ever I plant in that bosom a thorn.When I shewed her the ring and implored her to marryShe blushed like the dawning of morn,Yes I’ll consent she replyed if you’ll promise,That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn,No by heavens I exclaim’d may I perish,If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn.
From the white blossomed sloe,My dear Chlœ requested,A sprig her fair breast to adorn;No by heavens I exclaimed, may I perishIf ever I plant in that bosom a thorn.When I shewed her the ring and implored her to marryShe blushed like the dawning of morn,Yes I’ll consent she replyed if you’ll promise,That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn,No by heavens I exclaim’d may I perish,If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn.
BANKS OF THE NILE.
Printed at the “Catnach Press” by W. FORTEY, Monmouth Court,Bloomsbury, the Oldest House in the World for Ballads (4,000 sorts) SongBooks, &c. &c.
Hark! I hear the drums a beating—no longer can I stay,I hear the trumpets sounding, my love I must away,We are ordered from Portsmouth many a long mile,For to join the British soldiers on the banks of the Nile.Willie, dearest Willie, don’t leave me here to mourn,You’ll make me curse and rue the day that ever I was born,For the parting of my own true love is parting of my life,So stay at home dear Willie, and I will be your wife.I will cut off my yellow locks, and go along with you,I will dress myself in velveteens, and go see Egypt tooI will fight or bear your banner, while kind fortune seems to smile,And we’ll comfort one another on the banks of the Nile.
Hark! I hear the drums a beating—no longer can I stay,I hear the trumpets sounding, my love I must away,We are ordered from Portsmouth many a long mile,For to join the British soldiers on the banks of the Nile.Willie, dearest Willie, don’t leave me here to mourn,You’ll make me curse and rue the day that ever I was born,For the parting of my own true love is parting of my life,So stay at home dear Willie, and I will be your wife.I will cut off my yellow locks, and go along with you,I will dress myself in velveteens, and go see Egypt tooI will fight or bear your banner, while kind fortune seems to smile,And we’ll comfort one another on the banks of the Nile.
Poor Crazy JANE.
London:—Printed at the “Catnach Press” by W. S. Fortey, 2 & 3, MonmouthCourt, Bloomsbury. (Established 1813.) The Oldest and CheapestHouse in the World for Ballads, Song Books, Children’s Spelling & ReadingBooks, Panorama Slips, Almanacks, Valentines, Hymns, Toy Cards,Poetry Cards, Lotteries, Characters, Note Paper, Envelopes, &c.⁂ Shopkeepers and Hawkers supplied on the lowest terms.
Why fair maid in every feature,Are such signs of fear expressed,Can a wandering wretched creature,With such horror fill thy breast.Do my frenzied looks alarm thee,Trust me, sweet, thy fears are vain,Not for Kingdom would I harm thee,Shun not then poor crazy Jane.Fondly my young heart believed him,Which was doomed to love but one;He sighed, he vowed, and I believed him,He was false, and I’m undone.From that hour has reason never,Had her empire o’er my brain,Henry fled, with him for everFled the wits of Crazy Jane.
Why fair maid in every feature,Are such signs of fear expressed,Can a wandering wretched creature,With such horror fill thy breast.Do my frenzied looks alarm thee,Trust me, sweet, thy fears are vain,Not for Kingdom would I harm thee,Shun not then poor crazy Jane.Fondly my young heart believed him,Which was doomed to love but one;He sighed, he vowed, and I believed him,He was false, and I’m undone.From that hour has reason never,Had her empire o’er my brain,Henry fled, with him for everFled the wits of Crazy Jane.
“It was Christmas morning—dear Christmas morningWhen bright angels and men kept watch for its dawning—And merrily Christmas bells were out ringing,And blithely the children their carols were singing—’Twas a hundred years agone—or more.”
“It was Christmas morning—dear Christmas morningWhen bright angels and men kept watch for its dawning—And merrily Christmas bells were out ringing,And blithely the children their carols were singing—’Twas a hundred years agone—or more.”
From time immemorial the ballad singer, with his rough and ready broad-sheet, has travelled over the whole surface of the country in all seasons and weathers, yet there was one time of the year, however, when he went out of his every-day path and touched on deeper matters than accidents, politics, prize fights, sporting matches, murders, battles, royalty, famous men and women. Christmas time brought, both to him and his audience, its witness of the unity of the great family of heaven and earth, its story of the life and death of Him in whom that unity stands.Several examples, of Christmas carols and Scripture-sheets, bearing Catnach’s imprint lie before us, thanks to the kindness of Mr. W. S. Fortey, Catnach’s successor; these broadsides bear several distinctive marks which show that it was an object of more than ordinary care to publishers and ballad singers. In the first place, these Christmas sheets are double the size of the ordinary broad-sheet—measuring 30 inches by 20—andcontain four or five carols—generally one long narrative ballad, and three or four short pieces. Each of them having two or three large woodcuts and several of smaller sizes, and having the following distinctive titles—The Trial of Christ. Faith, Hope, and Charity. Our Saviour’s Love. The Tree of Life. The Crucifixion. The Saviour of Mankind. The Messiah. The Harp of Israel. The Saviour’s Garland. Divine Mirth. And The Life of Joseph, to which is appended:—
LONDON: PRINTED AND SOLD BYJ. CATNACH, 2, MONMOUTH COURT, 7, DIALS,WHERE MAY BE HAD THE FOLLOWING SHEETS, WITH CUTS.
The Last Day, Our Saviour’s Letter, The Son of Righteousness, Travels of the Children of Israel, Glory of Solomon, The Morning Star, The Noble Army of Martyrs, Christmas Gambols, The Hertfordshire Tragedy, and a Variety of Others are in a state of forwardness for the Press.
“Looking at these Christmas broad-sheets,” says the writer of an article on street-ballads, in the “National Review,” for October, 1861, “it would really seem as if the poorest of our brethren claimed their right to higher nourishment than common for their minds and souls, as well as for their bodies, at the time of year when all Christendom should rejoice. And this first impression is confirmed when we examine their contents. In all those which we have seen, the only piece familiar to us is that noble old carol ‘While shepherds watched their flocks by night,’ where the rest come from, we cannot even conjecture; but in the whole of them there is not one which we should wish were not there. We have been unable to detect in them even a coarse expression; and of the hateful narrowness andintolerance, the namby-pamby, the meaningless cant, the undue familiarity with holy things, which makes us turn with a shudder from so many modern collections of hymns, there is simply nothing.
“Account for it how we will, there is the simple fact. Perhaps it may lead us to think somewhat differently of those whom we are in the habit of setting down in the mass as little better than heathens. We cannot conclude this article better than by giving an extract or two from these Christmas broad-sheets.”
“The Saviour’s Garland, a choice Collection of the most esteemed Carols,” has the usual long narrative ballad, which begins:
“Come, all you faithful ChristiansThat dwell upon the earth,—Come celebrate the morningOf our dear Saviour’s birth:This is the happy morning,—This is the happy mornWhereon, to save our ruined race,The Son of God was born.”
And after telling simply the well-known story, it ends:
“Now to him up ascended,Then let your praises be,That we His steps may follow,And He our pattern be;That when our lives are endedWe may hear His blessed call:‘Come, Souls, receive the KingdomPrepared for you all.’”
Another, “The Star of Bethlehem, a collection of esteemed Carols for the present year,” opens its narrative thus:
“Let all that are to mirth inclinedConsider well and bear in mindWhat our good God for us has done,In sending His beloved Son.Let all our songs and praises beUnto His heavenly Majesty;And evermore amongst our mirthRemember Christ our Saviour’s birth.The twenty-fifth day of DecemberWe have great reason to remember;In Bethlehem, upon that morn,There was a blessed Saviour born,” &c.
One of the short pieces, by no means the best, we give whole:
“With one consent let all the earthThe praise of God proclaim,Who sent the Saviour, by whose birthTo man salvation came.All nations join and magnifyThe great and wondrous loveOf Him who left for us the sky,And all the joys above.But vainly thus in hymns of praiseWe bear a joyful part,If while our voices loud we raise,We lift not up our heart.We, by a holy life alone,Our Saviour’s laws fulfil;By those His glory is best shownWho best perform His will.May we to all His words attendWith humble, pious care;Then shall our praise to heaven ascend,And find acceptance there.”
We do not suppose that the contents of these Christmas broad-sheets are supplied by the same persons who write the murder-ballads, or the attacks on crinoline. They may be borrowed from well known hymn books for anything we know. But if they are borrowed, we must still think it much to the credit of the selectors, that, where they might have found so much that is objectionable and offensive, they should have chosen as they have done. We only hope that their successors, whoever they may be who will become the caterers for their audiences, will set nothing worse before them.
Christmas broad-sheets formed an important item in the office of the “Catnach Press,” as the sale was enormous, and Catnach always looked forward for a large return of capital, and a “good clearance” immediately following the spurt for Guy Fawkes’ speeches, in October of each year. But although the sale was very large, it only occupies one “short month.” This enabled them to make Carols a stock job, so that when trade in the Ballad, Sensational, “Gallows,” or any other line of business was dull, they used to fill up every spare hour in the working off or colouring them, so as to be ready to meet the extraordinary demand which was sure to be made at the fall of the year.
Like most of the old English customs, Christmas-carol singing is fast dying out. Old peripatetic stationers well remember the rich harvest they once obtained at Christmas times by carol selling. Now there are very few who care to invest more than a shilling or two at a time on the venture; whereas in times long past, all available capital was readily embarked in the highly-coloured and plain sheets of the birth of our Saviour, with the carol of “Christians awake,” or “The Seven Good Joys of Mary:”—
“The first good joy our Mary had,It was the joy of one,To see her own Son, Jesus,To suck at her breast-bone.To suck at her breast-bone, God-man,And blessed may He beBoth Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,To all eternity.”
Now, whether carol singing has degenerated with carol poetry, and consequently the sale of Christmas carols diminished is a question we need not enter upon; but when we turn to the fine old carols of our forefathers, we cannot help regretting that many of these are buried in the records of the long past.
Here are a couple of verses of one, said to be the first carol or drinking-song composed in England. The original is in Anglo-Norman French:—
“Lordlings, from a distant home,To seek old Christmas are we come,Who loves our minstrelsy—And here unless report mis-say,The greybeard dwells; and on this dayKeeps yearly wassail, ever gayWith festive mirth and glee.****Lordlings, it is our host’s command,And Christmas joins him hand in hand,To drain the brimming bowl;And I’ll be foremost to obey,Then pledge we, sirs, and drink away,For Christmas revels here to day,And sways without control.Nowwassailto you all! and merry may you be,And foul that wight befall, who drinks not health to me.”
One can well imagine the hearty feeling which would greet a party of minstrels carolling out such a song as the above in Christmas days of yore; and then contrast the picture with atroupefrom St. Giles’s or Whitechapel bawling out “God Rest you Merry Gentlemen!” The very thought of the contrast sends a shudder through the whole human system; and no wonder the first were received with welcome feasting, and the latter driven “with more kicks than half-pence” from the doors.
In an old book of “Christmasse Carolles newely emprinted at London, in the fletestrete at the sygne of the Sonne by Wynkyn de Worde. The yere of our Lorde, m.d.xxi. Quarto.” Is a carol on “Bryngyng in the Bore’s Head”:—
“The bore’s head in hand bring I,With garlandes gay and rosemary,I pray you all synge merely,Qui estis in convivio.The bore’s head, I understandeIs the chiefe servyce in this lande,Loke wherever it be fande,Servite cum Contico.Be gladde, lordes, both more and lasse,For this hath ordayned our stewarde,To chere you all this ChristmasseThe bore’s head with mustarde.”
With certain alterations, this carol is still, or at least was very recently, retained at Queen’s College, Oxford, and sung to a cathedral chant of the psalms.
It would occupy too much space to search into the origin of Christmas carols. They are doubtless coeval with the original celebrations of Christmas, first as a strictly Romish sacred ceremony, and afterwards as one of joyous festivity.
This “Moral-Sheet” entitled “THE STAGES OF LIFE: or, The various Ages and Degrees of Human Life explained by these Twelve different Stages, from our Birth to our Graves,” had a great sale.
INFANCY
To 10 Years old.
“Hisvain delusive thoughts are fill’dWith vain delusive joys—The empty bubble of a dream,Which waking change to toys.”
“Hisvain delusive thoughts are fill’dWith vain delusive joys—The empty bubble of a dream,Which waking change to toys.”
From 10 to 20 Years old.
“Hisheart is now puff’d up,He scorns the tutor’s hand;He hates to meet the least controlAnd glories to command.”
“Hisheart is now puff’d up,He scorns the tutor’s hand;He hates to meet the least controlAnd glories to command.”
From 20 to 30 Years old.
“There’snaught here that can withstandThe rage of his desire,His wanton flames are now blown up,His mind is all on fire.”
“There’snaught here that can withstandThe rage of his desire,His wanton flames are now blown up,His mind is all on fire.”
From 30 to 40 Years old.
“Lookforward and repentOf all thy errors past,That so thereby thou may’st attainTrue happiness at last.”
“Lookforward and repentOf all thy errors past,That so thereby thou may’st attainTrue happiness at last.”
From 40 to 50 Years old.
“Atfifty years he isLike the declining sun,For now his better half of life,Man seemeth to have run.”
“Atfifty years he isLike the declining sun,For now his better half of life,Man seemeth to have run.”
From 50 to 60 Years old.