Books: Ancient Poems, Ballads and Songs of England
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Robert Bell >> Ancient Poems, Ballads and Songs of England
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The ashes that are left behind,
Do serve to put us all in mind
That unto dust
Return we must;
Think of this when you take tobacco!
The smoke that does so high ascend,
Shows that man's life must have an end;
The vapour's gone, -
Man's life is done;
Think of this when you take tobacco!
Ballad: THE SPANISH LADIES.
[This song is ancient, but we have no means of ascertaining at what
period it was written. Captain Marryat, in his novel of Poor Jack,
introduces it, and says it is OLD. It is a general favourite. The
air is plaintive, and in the minor key. See Popular Music.]
Farewell, and adieu to you Spanish ladies,
Farewell, and adieu to you ladies of Spain!
For we've received orders for to sail for old England,
But we hope in a short time to see you again.
We'll rant and we'll roar {66} like true British heroes,
We'll rant and we'll roar across the salt seas,
Until we strike soundings in the channel of old England;
From Ushant to Scilly is thirty-five leagues.
Then we hove our ship to, with the wind at sou'-west, boys,
We hove our ship to, for to strike soundings clear;
We got soundings in ninety-five fathom, and boldly
Up the channel of old England our course we did steer.
The first land we made it was called the Deadman,
Next, Ram'shead off Plymouth, Start, Portland, and Wight;
We passed by Beachy, by Fairleigh, and Dungeness,
And hove our ship to, off the South Foreland light.
Then a signal was made for the grand fleet to anchor
All in the Downs, that night for to sleep;
Then stand by your stoppers, let go your shank-painters,
Haul all your clew-garnets, stick out tacks and sheets.
So let every man toss off a full bumper,
Let every man toss off his full bowls;
We'll drink and be jolly, and drown melancholy,
So here's a good health to all true-hearted souls!
Ballad: HARRY THE TAILOR. (TRADITIONAL.)
[The following song was taken down some years ago from the
recitation of a country curate, who said he had learned it from a
very old inhabitant of Methley, near Pontefract, Yorkshire. We
have never seen it in print.]
When Harry the tailor was twenty years old,
He began for to look with courage so bold;
He told his old mother he was not in jest,
But he would have a wife as well as the rest.
Then Harry next morning, before it was day,
To the house of his fair maid took his way.
He found his dear Dolly a making of cheese,
Says he, 'You must give me a buss, if you please!'
She up with the bowl, the butter-milk flew,
And Harry the tailor looked wonderful blue.
'O, Dolly, my dear, what hast thou done?
From my back to my breeks has thy butter-milk run.'
She gave him a push, he stumbled and fell
Down from the dairy into the drawwell.
Then Harry, the ploughboy, ran amain,
And soon brought him up in the bucket again.
Then Harry went home like a drowned rat,
And told his old mother what he had been at.
With butter-milk, bowl, and a terrible fall,
O, if this be called love, may the devil take all!
Ballad: SIR ARTHUR AND CHARMING MOLLEE. (TRADITIONAL.)
[For this old Northumbrian song we are indebted to Mr. Robert
Chambers. It was taken down from the recitation of a lady. The
'Sir Arthur' is no less a personage than Sir Arthur Haslerigg, the
Governor of Tynemouth Castle during the Protectorate of Cromwell.]
As noble Sir Arthur one morning did ride,
With his hounds at his feet, and his sword by his side,
He saw a fair maid sitting under a tree,
He asked her name, and she said 'twas Mollee.
'Oh, charming Mollee, you my butler shall be,
To draw the red wine for yourself and for me!
I'll make you a lady so high in degree,
If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!
'I'll give you fine ribbons, I'll give you fine rings,
I'll give you fine jewels, and many fine things;
I'll give you a petticoat flounced to the knee,
If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!'
'I'll have none of your ribbons, and none of your rings,
None of your jewels, and other fine things;
And I've got a petticoat suits my degree,
And I'll ne'er love a married man till his wife dee.'
'Oh, charming Mollee, lend me then your penknife,
And I will go home, and I'll kill my own wife;
I'll kill my own wife, and my bairnies three,
If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!'
'Oh, noble Sir Arthur, it must not be so,
Go home to your wife, and let nobody know;
For seven long years I will wait upon thee,
But I'll ne'er love a married man till his wife dee.'
Now seven long years are gone and are past,
The old woman went to her long home at last;
The old woman died, and Sir Arthur was free,
And he soon came a-courting to charming Mollee.
Now charming Mollee in her carriage doth ride,
With her hounds at her feet, and her lord by her side:
Now all ye fair maids take a warning by me,
And ne'er love a married man till his wife dee.
Ballad: THERE WAS AN OLD MAN CAME OVER THE LEA.
[This is a version of the Baillie of Berwick, which will be found
in the Local Historian's Table-Book. It was originally obtained
from Morpeth, and communicated by W. H. Longstaffe, Esq., of
Darlington, who says, 'in many respects the Baillie of Berwick is
the better edition--still mine may furnish an extra stanza or two,
and the ha! ha! ha! is better than heigho, though the notes suit
either version.']
There was an old man came over the Lea,
Ha-ha-ha-ha! but I won't have him. {67}
He came over the Lea,
A-courting to me,
With his grey beard newly-shaven.
My mother she bid me open the door:
I opened the door,
And he fell on the floor.
My mother she bid me set him a stool:
I set him a stool,
And he looked like a fool.
My mother she bid me give him some beer:
I gave him some beer,
And he thought it good cheer.
My mother she bid me cut him some bread:
I cut him some bread,
And I threw't at his head.
My mother she bid me light him to bed.
I lit him to bed,
And wished he were dead.
My mother she bid me tell him to rise:
I told him to rise,
And he opened his eyes.
My mother she bid me take him to church:
I took him to church,
And left him in the lurch;
With his grey beard newly-shaven.
Ballad: WHY SHOULD WE QUARREL FOR RICHES.
[A version of this very favourite song may be found in Ramsay's
Tea-Table Miscellany. Though a sailor's song, we question whether
it is not a greater favourite with landsmen. The chorus is become
proverbial, and its philosophy has often been invoked to mitigate
the evils and misfortunes of life.]
How pleasant a sailor's life passes,
Who roams o'er the watery main!
No treasure he ever amasses,
But cheerfully spends all his gain.
We're strangers to party and faction,
To honour and honesty true;
And would not commit a bad action
For power or profit in view.
Then why should we quarrel for riches,
Or any such glittering toys;
A light heart, and a thin pair of breeches,
Will go through the world, my brave boys!
The world is a beautiful garden,
Enriched with the blessings of life,
The toiler with plenty rewarding,
Which plenty too often breeds strife.
When terrible tempests assail us,
And mountainous billows affright,
No grandeur or wealth can avail us,
But skilful industry steers right.
Then why, &c.
The courtier's more subject to dangers,
Who rules at the helm of the state,
Than we that, to politics strangers,
Escape the snares laid for the great.
The various blessings of nature,
In various nations we try;
No mortals than us can be greater,
Who merrily live till we die.
Then why should, &c.
Ballad: THE MERRY FELLOWS; OR, HE THAT WILL NOT MERRY, MERRY BE.
[The popularity of this old lyric, of which ours is the ballad-
printer's version, has been increased by the lively and appropriate
music recently adapted to it by Mr. Holderness. The date of this
song is about the era of Charles II.]
Now, since we're met, let's merry, merry be,
In spite of all our foes;
And he that will not merry be,
We'll pull him by the nose.
Cho. Let him be merry, merry there,
While we're all merry, merry here,
For who can know where he shall go,
To be merry another year.
He that will not merry, merry be,
With a generous bowl and a toast,
May he in Bridewell be shut up,
And fast bound to a post.
Let him, &c.
He that will not merry, merry be,
And take his glass in course,
May he be obliged to drink small beer,
Ne'er a penny in his purse.
Let him, &c.
He that will not merry, merry be,
With a company of jolly boys;
May he be plagued with a scolding wife,
To confound him with her noise.
Let him, &c.
[He that will not merry, merry be,
With his sweetheart by his side,
Let him be laid in the cold churchyard,
With a head-stone for his bride.
Let him, &c.]
Ballad: THE OLD MAN'S SONG.
[This ditty, still occasionally heard in the country districts,
seems to be the original of the very beautiful song, The Downhill
of Life. The Old Man's Song may be found in Playford's Theatre of
Music, 1685; but we are inclined to refer it to an earlier period.
The song is also published by D'Urfey, accompanied by two
objectionable parodies.]
If I live to grow old, for I find I go down,
Let this be my fate in a country town:-
May I have a warm house, with a stone at the gate,
And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate;
May I govern my passions with absolute sway,
And grow wiser and better as strength wears away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.
In a country town, by a murmuring brook,
With the ocean at distance on which I may look;
With a spacious plain, without hedge or stile,
And an easy pad nag to ride out a mile.
May I govern, &c.
With Horace and Plutarch, and one or two more
Of the best wits that lived in the age before;
With a dish of roast mutton, not venison or teal,
And clean, though coarse, linen at every meal.
May I govern, &c.
With a pudding on Sunday, and stout humming liquor,
And remnants of Latin to welcome the vicar;
With a hidden reserve of good Burgundy wine,
To drink the king's health in as oft as I dine.
May I govern, &c.
When the days are grown short, and it freezes and snows,
May I have a coal fire as high as my nose;
A fire (which once stirred up with a prong),
Will keep the room temperate all the night long.
May I govern, &c.
With a courage undaunted may I face my last day;
And when I am dead may the better sort say -
'In the morning when sober, in the evening when mellow,
He's gone, and he leaves not behind him his fellow!'
May I govern, &c.
Ballad: ROBIN HOOD'S HILL.
[Ritson speaks of a Robin Hood's Hill near Gloucester, and of a
'foolish song' about it. Whether this is the song to which he
alludes we cannot determine. We find it in Notes and Queries,
where it is stated to be printed from a MS. of the latter part of
the last century, and described as a song well known in the
district to which it refers.]
Ye bards who extol the gay valleys and glades,
The jessamine bowers, and amorous shades,
Who prospects so rural can boast at your will,
Yet never once mentioned sweet 'Robin Hood's Hill.'
This spot, which of nature displays every smile,
From famed Glo'ster city is distanced two mile,
Of which you a view may obtain at your will,
From the sweet rural summit of 'Robin Hood's Hill.'
Where a clear crystal spring does incessantly flow,
To supply and refresh the fair valley below;
No dog-star's brisk heat e'er diminished the rill
Which sweetly doth prattle on 'Robin Hood's Hill.'
Here, gazing around, you find objects still new,
Of Severn's sweet windings, how pleasing the view,
Whose stream with the fruits of blessed commerce doth fill
The sweet-smelling vale beneath 'Robin Hood's Hill.'
This hill, though so lofty, yet fertile and rare,
Few valleys can with it for herbage compare;
Some far greater bard should his lyre and his quill
Direct to the praise of sweet 'Robin Hood's Hill.'
Here lads and gay lasses in couples resort,
For sweet rural pastime and innocent sport;
Sure pleasures ne'er flowed from gay nature or skill,
Like those that are found on sweet 'Robin Hood's Hill.'
Had I all the riches of matchless Peru,
To revel in splendour as emperors do,
I'd forfeit the whole with a hearty good will,
To dwell in a cottage on 'Robin Hood's Hill.'
Then, poets, record my loved theme in your lays:
First view;--then you'll own that 'tis worthy of praise;
Nay, Envy herself must acknowledge it still,
That no spot's so delightful as 'Robin Hood's Hill.'
Ballad: BEGONE DULL CARE. (TRADITIONAL.)
[We cannot trace this popular ditty beyond the reign of James II,
but we believe it to be older. The origin is to be found in an
early French chanson. The present version has been taken down from
the singing of an old Yorkshire yeoman. The third verse we have
never seen in print, but it is always sung in the west of
Yorkshire.]
Begone, dull care!
I prithee begone from me;
Begone, dull care!
Thou and I can never agree.
Long while thou hast been tarrying here,
And fain thou wouldst me kill;
But i' faith, dull care,
Thou never shalt have thy will.
Too much care
Will make a young man grey;
Too much care
Will turn an old man to clay.
My wife shall dance, and I shall sing,
So merrily pass the day;
For I hold it is the wisest thing,
To drive dull care away.
Hence, dull care,
I'll none of thy company;
Hence, dull care,
Thou art no pair {68} for me.
We'll hunt the wild boar through the wold,
So merrily pass the day;
And then at night, o'er a cheerful bowl,
We'll drive dull care away.
Ballad: FULL MERRILY SINGS THE CUCKOO.
[The earliest copy of this playful song is one contained in a MS.
of the reign of James I., preserved amongst the registers of the
Stationers' Company; but the song can be traced back to 1566.]
Full merrily sings the cuckoo
Upon the beechen tree;
Your wives you well should look to,
If you take advice of me.
Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the morn,
When of married men
Full nine in ten
Must be content to wear the horn.
Full merrily sings the cuckoo
Upon the oaken tree;
Your wives you well should look to,
If you take advice of me.
Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the day!
For married men
But now and then,
Can 'scape to bear the horn away.
Full merrily sings the cuckoo
Upon the ashen tree;
Your wives you well should look to,
If you take advice of me.
Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the noon,
When married men
Must watch the hen,
Or some strange fox will steal her soon.
Full merrily sings the cuckoo
Upon the alder tree;
Your wives you well should look to,
If you take advice of me.
Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the eve,
When married men
Must bid good den
To such as horns to them do give.
Full merrily sings the cuckoo
Upon the aspen tree;
Your wives you well should look to,
If you take advice of me.
Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the night,
When married men,
Again and again,
Must hide their horns in their despite.
Ballad: JOCKEY TO THE FAIR.
[A version of this song, not quite so accurate as the following was
published from an old broadside in Notes and Queries, vol. vii., p.
49, where it is described as a 'very celebrated Gloucestershire
ballad.' But Gloucestershire is not exclusively entitled to the
honour of this genuine old country song, which is well known in
Westmoreland and other counties. 'Jockey' songs constitute a
distinct and numerous class, and belong for the most part to the
middle of the last century, when Jockey and Jenny were formidable
rivals to the Strephons and Chloes of the artificial school of
pastoral poetry. The author of this song, whoever he was, drew
upon real rural life, and not upon its fashionable masquerade. We
have been unable to trace the exact date of this ditty, which still
enjoys in some districts a wide popularity. It is not to be found
in any of several large collections of Ranelagh and Vauxhall songs,
and other anthologies, which we have examined. From the christian
names of the lovers, it might be supposed to be of Scotch or Border
origin; but Jockey to the Fair is not confined to the North; indeed
it is much better known, and more frequently sung, in the South and
West.]
'Twas on the morn of sweet May-day,
When nature painted all things gay,
Taught birds to sing, and lambs to play,
And gild the meadows fair;
Young Jockey, early in the dawn,
Arose and tripped it o'er the lawn;
His Sunday clothes the youth put on,
For Jenny had vowed away to run
With Jockey to the fair;
For Jenny had vowed, &c.
The cheerful parish bells had rung,
With eager steps he trudged along,
While flowery garlands round him hung,
Which shepherds use to wear;
He tapped the window; 'Haste, my dear!'
Jenny impatient cried, 'Who's there?'
''Tis I, my love, and no one near;
Step gently down, you've nought to fear,
With Jockey to the fair.'
Step gently down, &c.
'My dad and mam are fast asleep,
My brother's up, and with the sheep;
And will you still your promise keep,
Which I have heard you swear?
And will you ever constant prove?'
'I will, by all the powers above,
And ne'er deceive my charming dove;
Dispel these doubts, and haste, my love,
With Jockey to the fair.'
Dispel, &c.
'Behold, the ring,' the shepherd cried;
'Will Jenny be my charming bride?
Let Cupid be our happy guide,
And Hymen meet us there.'
Then Jockey did his vows renew;
He would be constant, would he true,
His word was pledged; away she flew,
O'er cowslips tipped with balmy dew,
With Jockey to the fair.
O'er cowslips, &c.
In raptures meet the joyful throng;
Their gay companions, blithe and young,
Each join the dance, each raise the song,
To hail the happy pair.
In turns there's none so loud as they,
They bless the kind propitious day,
The smiling morn of blooming May,
When lovely Jenny ran away
With Jockey to the fair.
When lovely, &c.
Ballad: LONG PRESTON PEG. (A FRAGMENT.)
[Mr. Birkbeck, of Threapland House, Lintondale, in Craven, has
favoured us with the following fragment. The tune is well known in
the North, but all attempts on the part of Mr. Birkbeck to obtain
the remaining verses have been unsuccessful. The song is evidently
of the date of the first rebellion, 1715.]
Long Preston Peg to proud Preston went,
To see the Scotch rebels it was her intent.
A noble Scotch lord, as he passed by,
On this Yorkshire damsel did soon cast an eye.
He called to his servant, which on him did wait,
'Go down to yon girl who stands in the gate, {69}
That sings with a voice so soft and so sweet,
And in my name do her lovingly greet.'
Ballad: THE SWEET NIGHTINGALE; OR, DOWN IN THOSE VALLEYS BELOW.
AN ANCIENT CORNISH SONG.
[This curious ditty, which may be confidently assigned to the
seventeenth century, is said to be a translation from the ancient
Cornish tongue. We first heard it in Germany, in the pleasure-
gardens of the Marienberg, on the Moselle. The singers were four
Cornish miners, who were at that time, 1854, employed at some lead
mines near the town of Zell. The leader or 'Captain,' John
Stocker, said that the song was an established favourite with the
lead miners of Cornwall and Devonshire, and was always sung on the
pay-days, and at the wakes; and that his grandfather, who died
thirty years before, at the age of a hundred years, used to sing
the song, and say that it was very old. Stocker promised to make a
copy of it, but there was no opportunity of procuring it before we
left Germany. The following version has been supplied by a
gentleman in Plymouth, who writes:-
I have had a great deal of trouble about The Valley Below. It is
not in print. I first met with one person who knew one part, then
with another person who knew another part, but nobody could sing
the whole. At last, chance directed me to an old man at work on
the roads, and he sung and recited it throughout, not exactly,
however, as I send it, for I was obliged to supply a little here
and there, but only where a bad rhyme, or rather none at all, made
it evident what the real rhyme was. I have read it over to a
mining gentleman at Truro, and he says 'It is pretty near the way
we sing it.'
The tune is plaintive and original.]
'My sweetheart, come along!
Don't you hear the fond song,
The sweet notes of the nightingale flow?
Don't you hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in those valleys below?
So be not afraid
To walk in the shade,
Nor yet in those valleys below,
Nor yet in those valleys below.
'Pretty Betsy, don't fail,
For I'll carry your pail,
Safe home to your cot as we go;
You shall hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in those valleys below.'
But she was afraid
To walk in the shade,
To walk in those valleys below,
To walk in those valleys below.
'Pray let me alone,
I have hands of my own;
Along with you I will not go,
To hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in those valleys below;
For I am afraid
To walk in the shade,
To walk in those valleys below,
To walk in those valleys below.'
'Pray sit yourself down
With me on the ground,
On this bank where sweet primroses grow;
You shall hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in those valleys below;
So be not afraid
To walk in the shade,
Nor yet in those valleys below,
Nor yet in those valleys below.'
This couple agreed;
They were married with speed,
And soon to the church they did go.
She was no more afraid
For to {70} walk in the shade,
Nor yet in those valleys below:
Nor to hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sung in those valleys below,
As she sung in those valleys below.
Ballad: THE OLD MAN AND HIS THREE SONS.
[This traditional ditty, founded upon the old ballad inserted ante,
p. 124, is current as a nursery song in the North of England.]
There was an old man, and sons he had three, {71}
Wind well, Lion, good hunter.
A friar he being one of the three,
With pleasure he ranged the north country,
For he was a jovial hunter.
As he went to the woods some pastime to see,
Wind well, Lion, good hunter,
He spied a fair lady under a tree,
Sighing and moaning mournfully.
He was a jovial hunter.
'What are you doing, my fair lady!'
Wind well, Lion, good hunter.
'I'm frightened, the wild boar he will kill me,
He has worried my lord, and wounded thirty,
As thou art a jovial hunter.'
Then the friar he put his horn to his mouth,
Wind well, Lion, good hunter.
And he blew a blast, east, west, north, and south,
And the wild boar from his den he came forth
Unto the jovial hunter.
Ballad: A BEGGING WE WILL GO.
[The authorship of this song is attributed to Richard Brome--(he
who once 'performed a servant's faithful part' for Ben Jonson)--in
a black-letter copy in the Bagford Collection, where it is entitled
The Beggars' Chorus in the 'Jovial Crew,' to an excellent new tune.
No such chorus, however, appears in the play, which was produced at
the Cock-pit in 1641; and the probability is, as Mr. Chappell
conjectures, that it was only interpolated in the performance. It
is sometimes called The Jovial Beggar. The tune has been from time
to time introduced into several ballad operas; and the song, says
Mr. Chappell, who publishes the air in his Popular Music, 'is the
prototype of many others, such as A bowling we will go, A fishing
we will go, A hawking we will go, and A fishing we will go. The
last named is still popular with those who take delight in hunting,
and the air is now scarcely known by any other title.]
There was a jovial beggar,
He had a wooden leg,
Lame from his cradle,
And forced for to beg.
And a begging we will go, we'll go, we'll go;
And a begging we will go!
A bag for his oatmeal,
Another for his salt;
And a pair of crutches,
To show that he can halt.
And a begging, &c.
A bag for his wheat,
Another for his rye;
A little bottle by his side,
To drink when he's a-dry.
And a begging, &c.
Seven years I begged
For my old Master Wild,
He taught me to beg
When I was but a child.
And a begging, &c.
I begged for my master,
And got him store of pelf;
But now, Jove be praised!
I'm begging for myself.
And a begging, &c.
In a hollow tree
I live, and pay no rent;
Providence provides for me,
And I am well content.
And a begging, &c.
Of all the occupations,
A beggar's life's the best;
For whene'er he's weary,
He'll lay him down and rest.
And a begging, &c.
I fear no plots against me,
I live in open cell;
Then who would be a king
When beggars live so well?
And a begging we will go, we'll go, we'll go;
And a begging we will go!
Footnotes:
{1} This is the same tune as Fortune my foe.--See Popular Music of
the Olden Time, p. 162.
{2} This word seems to be used here in the sense of the French
verb mettre, to put, to place.
{3} The stall copies read 'Gamble bold.'
{4} In the Roxburgh Collection is a copy of this ballad, in which
the catastrophe is brought about in a different manner. When the
young lady finds that she is to be drowned, she very leisurely
makes a particular examination of the place of her intended
destruction, and raises an objection to some nettles which are
growing on the banks of the stream; these she requires to be
removed, in the following poetical stanza:-
'Go fetch the sickle, to crop the nettle,
That grows so near the brim;
For fear it should tangle my golden locks,
Or freckle my milk-white skin.'
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