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They rode till they came to his mother's yett,
So faint and feebly he rapped thereat.
'O, my son's slain, he is falling to swoon,
And it's all for the sake of an English loon.'

'O, say not so, my dearest mother,
But marry her to my youngest brother -
'To a maiden true he'll give his hand,
Hey lillie, ho lillie lallie.

To the king's daughter o' fair England,
To a prize that was won by a slain brother's brand,
I' the brave nights so early!'

Ballad: THE JOVIAL HUNTER OF BROMSGROVE; OR, THE OLD MAN AND HIS
THREE SONS. (TRADITIONAL.)

[The following ballad has long been popular in Worcestershire and
some of the adjoining counties. It was printed for the first time
by Mr. Allies of Worcester, under the title of The Jovial Hunter of
Bromsgrove; but amongst the peasantry of that county, and the
adjoining county of Warwick, it has always been called The Old Man
and his Three Sons--the name given to a fragment of the ballad
still used as a nursery song in the north of England, the chorus of
which slightly varies from that of the ballad. See post, p. 250.
The title of The Old Man and his Three Sons is derived from the
usage of calling a ballad after the first line--a practice that has
descended to the present day. In Shakspeare's comedy of As You
Like It there appears to be an allusion to this ballad. Le Beau
says, -

There comes an old man and his three sons,

to which Celia replies,

I could match this beginning with an old tale.--i. 2.

Whether The Jovial Hunter belongs to either Worcestershire or
Warwickshire is rather questionable. The probability is that it is
a north country ballad connected with the family of Bolton, of
Bolton, in Wensleydale. A tomb, said to be that of Sir Ryalas
Bolton, the Jovial Hunter, is shown in Bromsgrove church,
Worcestershire; but there is no evidence beyond tradition to
connect it with the name or deeds of any 'Bolton;' indeed it is
well known that the tomb belongs to a family of another name. In
the following version are preserved some of the peculiarities of
the Worcestershire dialect.]

Old Sir Robert Bolton had three sons,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
And one of them was Sir Ryalas,
For he was a jovial hunter.

He ranged all round down by the wood side,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter,
Till in a tree-top a gay lady he spied,
For he was a jovial hunter.

'Oh, what dost thee mean, fair lady,' said he,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
'The wild boar's killed my lord, and has thirty men gored,
And thou beest a jovial hunter.'

'Oh, what shall I do this wild boar for to see?'
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
'Oh, thee blow a blast and he'll come unto thee,
As thou beest a jovial hunter.'

Then he blowed a blast, full north, east, west, and south,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
And the wild boar then heard him full in his den,
As he was a jovial hunter.

Then he made the best of his speed unto him,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
[Swift flew the boar, with his tusks smeared with [gore], {11}
To Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.

Then the wild boar, being so stout and so strong,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
Thrashed down the trees as he ramped him along,
To Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.

'Oh, what dost thee want of me?' wild boar, said he, {12}
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
'Oh, I think in my heart I can do enough for thee,
For I am the jovial hunter.'

Then they fought four hours in a long summer day,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
Till the wild boar fain would have got him away
From Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.

Then Sir Ryalas drawed his broad sword with might,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
And he fairly cut the boar's head off quite,
For he was a jovial hunter.

Then out of the wood the wild woman flew,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
'Oh, my pretty spotted pig thou hast slew,
For thou beest a jovial hunter.

'There are three things, I demand them of thee,'
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
'It's thy horn, and thy hound, and thy gay lady,
As thou beest a jovial hunter.'

'If these three things thou dost ask of me,'
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
'It's just as my sword and thy neck can agree,
For I am a jovial hunter.'

Then into his long locks the wild woman flew,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
Till she thought in her heart to tear him through,
Though he was a jovial hunter.

Then Sir Ryalas drawed his broad sword again,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter,
And he fairly split her head into twain,
For he was a jovial hunter.

In Bromsgrove church, the knight he doth lie,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
And the wild boar's head is pictured thereby,
Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.

Ballad: LADY ALICE.

[This old ballad is regularly published by the stall printers. The
termination resembles that of Lord Lovel and other ballads. See
Early Ballads, Ann. Ed. p. 134. An imperfect traditional copy was
printed in Notes and Queries.]

Lady Alice was sitting in her bower window,
At midnight mending her quoif;
And there she saw as fine a corpse
As ever she saw in her life.

'What bear ye, what bear ye, ye six men tall?
What bear ye on your shoulders?'
'We bear the corpse of Giles Collins,
An old and true lover of yours.'

'O, lay him down gently, ye six men tall,
All on the grass so green,
And to-morrow when the sun goes down,
Lady Alice a corpse shall be seen.

'And bury me in Saint Mary's Church,
All for my love so true;
And make me a garland of marjoram,
And of lemon thyme, and rue.'

Giles Collins was buried all in the east,
Lady Alice all in the west;
And the roses that grew on Giles Collins's grave,
They reached Lady Alice's breast.

The priest of the parish he chanced to pass,
And he severed those roses in twain.
Sure never were seen such true lovers before,
Nor e'er will there be again.

Ballad: THE FELON SEWE OF ROKEBY AND THE FREERES OF RICHMOND.

[This very curious ballad, or, more properly, metrical romance, was
originally published by the late Doctor Whitaker in his History of
Craven, from an ancient MS., which was supposed to be unique.
Whitaker's version was transferred to Evan's Old Ballads, the
editor of which work introduced some judicious conjectural
emendations. In reference to this republication, Dr. Whitaker
inserted the following note in the second edition of his History:-

This tale, saith my MS., was known of old to a few families only,
and by them held so precious, that it was never intrusted to the
memory of the son till the father was on his death-bed. But times
are altered, for since the first edition of this work, a certain
bookseller [the late Mr. Evans] has printed it verbatim, with
little acknowledgment to the first editor. He might have
recollected that The Felon Sewe had been already reclaimed PROPERTY
VESTED. However, as he is an ingenious and deserving man, this
hint shall suffice.--History of Craven, second edition, London,
1812.

When Sir Walter Scott published his poem of Rokeby, Doctor Whitaker
discovered that The Felon Sewe was not of such 'exceeding rarity'
as he had been led to suppose; for he was then made acquainted with
the fact that another MS. of the 'unique' ballad was preserved in
the archives of the Rokeby family. This version was published by
Scott, who considered it superior to that printed by Whitaker; and
it must undoubtedly be admitted to be more complete, and, in
general, more correct. It has also the advantage of being
authenticated by the traditions of an ardent family; while of Dr.
Whitaker's version we know nothing more than that it was 'printed
from a MS. in his possession.' The readings of the Rokeby MS.,
however, are not always to be preferred; and in order to produce as
full and accurate a version as the materials would yield, the
following text has been founded upon a careful collation of both
MSS. A few alterations have been adopted, but only when the
necessity for them appeared to be self-evident; and the orthography
has been rendered tolerably uniform, for there is no good reason
why we should have 'sewe,' 'scho,' and 'sike,' in some places, and
the more modern forms of 'sow,' 'she,' and 'such,' in others. If
the MSS. were correctly transcribed, which we have no ground for
doubting, they must both be referred to a much later period than
the era when the author flourished. The language of the poem is
that of Craven, in Yorkshire; and, although the composition is
acknowledged on all hands to be one of the reign of Henry VII., the
provincialisms of that most interesting mountain district have been
so little affected by the spread of education, that the Felon Sewe
is at the present day perfectly comprehensible to any Craven
peasant, and to such a reader neither note nor glossary is
necessary. Dr. Whitaker's explanations are, therefore, few and
brief, for he was thoroughly acquainted with the language and the
district. Scott, on the contrary, who knew nothing of the dialect,
and confounded its pure Saxon with his Lowland Scotch, gives
numerous notes, which only display his want of the requisite local
knowledge, and are, consequently, calculated to mislead.

The Felon Sewe belongs to the same class of compositions as the
Hunting of the Hare, reprinted by Weber, and the Tournament of
Tottenham, in Percy's Reliques. Scott says that 'the comic romance
was a sort of parody upon the usual subjects of minstrel poetry.'
This idea may be extended, for the old comic romances were in many
instances not merely 'sorts of parodies,' but real parodies on
compositions which were popular in their day, although they have
not descended to us. We certainly remember to have met with an old
chivalric romance, in which the leading incidents were similar to
those of the Felon Sewe.

It may be observed, also, in reference to this poem, that the
design is twofold, the ridicule being equally aimed at the
minstrels and the clergy. The author was in all probability a
follower of Wickliffe. There are many sly satirical allusions to
the Romish faith and practices, in which no orthodox Catholic would
have ventured to indulge.

Ralph Rokeby, who gave the sow to the Franciscan Friars of
Richmond, is believed to have been the Ralph who lived in the reign
of Henry VII. Tradition represents the Baron as having been 'a
fellow of infinite jest,' and the very man to bestow so valuable a
gift on the convent! The Mistress Rokeby of the ballad was,
according to the pedigree of the family, a daughter and heiress of
Danby, of Yafforth. Friar Theobald cannot be traced, and therefore
we may suppose that the monk had some other name; the minstrel
author, albeit a Wickliffite, not thinking it quite prudent,
perhaps, to introduce a priest in propria persona. The story is
told with spirit, and the verse is graceful and flowing.]

FITTE THE FIRSTE.

Ye men that will of aunters wynne,
That late within this lande hath bin,
Of on I will yow telle;
And of a sewe that was sea strang,
Alas! that ever scho lived sea lang,
For fell folk did scho wele. {13}

Scho was mare than other three,
The grizeliest beast that ere mote bee
Her hede was greate and graye;
Scho was bred in Rokebye woode,
Ther war few that thither yoode, {14}
But cam belive awaye.

Her walke was endlang Greta syde,
Was no barne that colde her byde,
That was fra heven or helle; {15}
Ne never man that had that myght,
That ever durst com in her syght,
Her force it was sea felle.

Raphe {16} of Rokebye, with full gode wyll,
The freers of Richmonde gav her tyll,
Full wele to gar thayme fare;
Freer Myddeltone by name,
Hee was sent to fetch her hame,
Yt rewed him syne full sare.

Wyth hym tooke hee wyght men two,
Peter of Dale was on of tho,
Tother was Bryan of Beare; {17}
Thatte wele durst strike wyth swerde and knife,
And fyght full manlie for theyr lyfe,
What tyme as musters were. {18}

These three men wended at theyr wyll,
This wickede sewe gwhyl they cam tyll,
Liggand under a tree;
Rugg'd and rustic was her here,
Scho rase up wyth a felon fere, {19}
To fyght agen the three.

Grizely was scho for to meete,
Scho rave the earthe up wyth her feete,
The barke cam fra' the tree:
When Freer Myddeltone her saugh,
Wete yow wele hee list not laugh,
Full earnestful luik'd hee.

These men of auncestors {20} were so wight,
They bound them bauldly for to fyght,
And strake at her full sare;
Until a kilne they garred her flee,
Wolde God sende thayme the victorye,
They wolde aske hym na maire.

The sewe was in the kilne hoile doone,
And they wer on the bawke aboone,
For hurting of theyr feete;
They wer sea sauted {21} wyth this sewe,
That 'mang thayme was a stalwarth stewe,
The kilne began to reeke!

Durst noe man nighe her wyth his hande,
But put a rape downe wyth a wande,
And heltered her ful meete;
They hauled her furth agen her wyll,
Qunyl they cam until a hille,
A little fra the streete. {22}

And ther scho made thayme sike a fray,
As, had they lived until Domesday,
They colde yt nere forgette:
Scho brayded upon every syde,
And ranne on thayme gapyng ful wyde,
For nathing wolde scho lette.

Scho gaf sike hard braydes at the bande
That Peter of Dale had in his hande,
Hee myght not holde hys feete;
Scho chased thayme sea to and fro,
The wight men never wer sea woe,
Ther mesure was not mete.

Scho bound her boldly to abide,
To Peter of Dale scho cam aside,
Wyth mony a hideous yelle;
Scho gaped sea wide and cryed sea hee,
The freer sayd, 'I conjure thee,
Thou art a fiend of helle!

'Thou art comed hider for sum trayne,
I conjure thee to go agayne,
Wher thou was wont to dwell.'
He sained hym wyth crosse and creede,
Tooke furth a booke, began to reade,
In Ste Johan hys gospell.

The sewe scho wolde not Latyne heare,
But rudely rushed at the freer,
That blynked all his blee; {23}
And when scho wolde have takken holde,
The freer leapt as I. H. S. wolde, {24}
And bealed hym wyth a tree.

Scho was brim as anie beare,
For all their meete to laboure there,
To thayme yt was noe boote;
On tree and bushe that by her stode,
Scho venged her as scho wer woode,
And rave thayme up by roote.

Hee sayd, 'Alas that I wer freer,
I shal bee hugged asunder here,
Hard is my destinie!
Wiste my brederen, in this houre,
That I was set in sike a stoure,
They wolde pray for mee!'

This wicked beaste thatte wrought the woe,
Tooke that rape from the other two,
And than they fledd all three;
They fledd away by Watling streete,
They had no succour but their feete,
Yt was the maire pittye.

The fielde it was both loste and wonne,
The sewe wente hame, and thatte ful soone,
To Morton-on-the-Greene.
When Raphe of Rokeby saw the rape,
He wist that there had bin debate,
Whereat the sewe had beene.

He bade thayme stand out of her waye,
For scho had had a sudden fraye, -
'I saw never sewe sea keene,
Some new thingis shall wee heare,
Of her and Myddeltone the freer,
Some battel hath ther beene.'

But all that served him for nought, -
Had they not better succour sought, {25}
They wer served therfore loe.
Then Mistress Rokebye came anon,
And for her brought scho meete ful soone,
The sewe cam her untoe.

Scho gav her meete upon the flower;
[Scho made a bed beneath a bower,
With moss and broom besprent;
The sewe was gentle as mote be,
Ne rage ne ire flashed fra her e'e,
Scho seemed wele content.]

FITTE THE SECONDE.

When Freer Myddeltone com home,
Hys breders war ful faine ilchone,
And thanked God for hys lyfe;
He told thayme all unto the ende,
How hee had foughten wyth a fiende,
And lived thro' mickle stryfe.

'Wee gav her battel half a daye,
And was faine to flee awaye
For saving of oure lyfe;
And Peter Dale wolde never blin,
But ran as faste as he colde rinn,
Till he cam till hys wyfe.'

The Warden sayde, 'I am ful woe
That yow sholde bee torment soe,
But wee had wyth yow beene!
Had wee bene ther, yowr breders alle,
Wee wolde hav garred the warlo {26} falle,
That wrought yow all thys teene.'

Freer Myddeltone, he sayde soon, 'Naye,
In faythe ye wolde hav ren awaye,
When moste misstirre had bin;
Ye all can speke safte wordes at home,
The fiend wolde ding yow doone ilk on,
An yt bee als I wene,

Hee luik'd sea grizely al that nyght.'
The Warden sayde, 'Yon man wol fyght
If ye saye ought but gode,
Yon guest {27} hath grieved hym sea sore;
Holde your tongues, and speake ne more,
Hee luiks als hee wer woode.'

The Warden waged {28} on the morne,
Two boldest men that ever wer borne,
I weyne, or ere shall bee:
Tone was Gilbert Griffin sonne,
Ful mickle worship hadde hee wonne,
Both by land and sea.

Tother a bastard sonne of Spaine,
Mony a Sarazin hadde hee slaine;
Hys dint hadde garred thayme dye.
Theis men the battel undertoke
Agen the sewe, as saythe the boke,
And sealed securitye,

That they shold boldly bide and fyghte,
And scomfit her in maine and myghte,
Or therfor sholde they dye.
The Warden sealed toe thayme againe,
And sayde, 'If ye in fielde be slaine,
This condition make I:

'Wee shall for yow praye, syng, and reade,
Until Domesdaye wyth heartye speede,
With al our progenie.'
Then the lettres wer wele made,
The bondes wer bounde wyth seales brade,
As deeds of arms sholde bee.

Theise men-at-arms thatte wer sea wight,
And wyth theire armour burnished bryght,
They went the sewe toe see.
Scho made at thayme sike a roare,
That for her they fear it sore,
And almaiste bounde to flee.

Scho cam runnyng thayme agayne,
And saw the bastarde sonne of Spaine,
Hee brayded owt hys brande;
Ful spiteouslie at her hee strake,
Yet for the fence that he colde make,
Scho strake it fro hys hande,
And rave asander half hys sheelde,
And bare hym backwerde in the fielde,
Hee mought not her gainstande.

Scho wolde hav riven hys privich geare,
But Gilbert wyth hys swerde of warre,
Hee strake at her ful strang.
In her shouther hee held the swerde;
Than was Gilbert sore afearde,
When the blade brak in twang.

And whan in hande hee had her ta'en,
Scho toke hym by the shouther bane,
And held her hold ful faste;
Scho strave sea stifflie in thatte stoure,
Scho byt thro' ale hys rich armoure,
Till bloud cam owt at laste.

Than Gilbert grieved was sea sare,
That hee rave off the hyde of haire;
The flesh cam fra the bane,
And wyth force hee held her ther,
And wanne her worthilie in warre,
And band her hym alane;

And lifte her on a horse sea hee,
Into two panyers made of a tree,
And toe Richmond anon.
When they sawe the felon come,
They sange merrilye Te Deum!
The freers evrich one.

They thankyd God and Saynte Frauncis,
That they had wonne the beaste of pris,
And nere a man was sleyne:
There never didde man more manlye,
The Knyght Marone, or Sir Guye,
Nor Louis of Lothraine.

If yow wyl any more of thys,
I' the fryarie at Richmond {29} written yt is,
In parchment gude and fyne,
How Freer Myddeltone sea hende,
Att Greta Bridge conjured a fiende,
In lykeness of a swyne.

Yt is wel knowen toe manie a man,
That Freer Theobald was warden than,
And thys fel in hys tyme.
And Chryst thayme bles both ferre and nere,
Al that for solas this doe here,
And hym that made the ryme.

Raphe of Rokeby wid ful gode wyl,
The freers of Richmond gav her tyll,
This sewe toe mende ther fare;
Freer Myddeltone by name,
He wold bring the felon hame,
That rewed hym sine ful sare.

Ballad: ARTHUR O'BRADLEY'S WEDDING.

[In the ballad called Robin Hood, his Birth, Breeding, Valour and
Marriage, occurs the following line:-

And some singing Arthur-a-Bradley.

Antiquaries are by no means agreed as to what is the song of
Arthur-a-Bradley, there alluded to, for it so happens that there
are no less than three different songs about this same Arthur-a-
Bradley. Ritson gives one of them in his Robin Hood, commencing
thus:-

See you not Pierce the piper.

He took it from a black-letter copy in a private collection,
compared with, and very much corrected by, a copy contained in An
Antidote against Melancholy, made up in pills compounded of witty
Ballads, jovial Songs, and merry Catches, 1661. Ritson quotes
another, and apparently much more modern song on the same subject,
and to the same tune, beginning, -

All in the merry month of May.

It is a miserable composition, as may be seen by referring to a
copy preserved in the third volume of the Roxburgh Ballads. There
is another song, the one given by us, which appears to be as
ancient as any of those of which Arthur O'Bradley is the hero, and
from its subject being a wedding, as also from its being the only
Arthur O'Bradley song that we have been enabled to trace in
broadside and chap-books of the last century, we are induced to
believe that it may be the song mentioned in the old ballad, which
is supposed to have been written in the reign of Charles I. An
obscure music publisher, who about thirty years ago resided in the
Metropolis, brought out an edition of Arthur O'Bradley's Wedding,
with the prefix 'Written by Mr. Taylor.' This Mr. Taylor was,
however, only a low comedian of the day, and the ascribed
authorship was a mere trick on the publisher's part to increase the
sale of the song. We are not able to give any account of the hero,
but from his being alluded to by so many of our old writers, he
was, perhaps, not altogether a fictitious personage. Ben Jonson
names him in one of his plays, and he is also mentioned in Dekker's
Honest Whore. Of one of the tunes mentioned in the song, viz.,
Hence, Melancholy! we can give no account; the other,--Mad Moll,
may be found in Playford's Dancing-Master, 1698: it is the same
tune as the one known by the names of Yellow Stockings and the
Virgin Queen, the latter title seeming to connect it with Queen
Elizabeth, as the name of Mad Moll does with the history of Mary,
who was subject to mental aberration. The words of Mad Moll are
not known to exist, but probably consisted of some fulsome
panegyric on the virgin queen, at the expense of her unpopular
sister. From the mention of Hence, Melancholy, and Mad Moll, it is
presumed that they were both popular favourites when Arthur
O'Bradley's Wedding was written. A good deal of vulgar grossness
has been at different times introduced into this song, which seems
in this respect to be as elastic as the French chanson, Cadet
Rouselle, which is always being altered, and of which there are no
two copies alike. The tune of Arthur O'Bradley is given by Mr.
Chappell in his Popular Music.]

Come, neighbours, and listen awhile,
If ever you wished to smile,
Or hear a true story of old,
Attend to what I now unfold!
'Tis of a lad whose fame did resound
Through every village and town around,
For fun, for frolic, and for whim,
None ever was to equal him,
And his name was Arthur O'Bradley!
O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!
Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Now, Arthur being stout and bold,
And near upon thirty years old,
He needs a wooing would go,
To get him a helpmate, you know.
So, gaining young Dolly's consent,
Next to be married they went;
And to make himself noble appear,
He mounted the old padded mare;
He chose her because she was blood,
And the prime of his old daddy's stud.
She was wind-galled, spavined, and blind,
And had lost a near leg behind;
She was cropped, and docked, and fired,
And seldom, if ever, was tired,
She had such an abundance of bone;
So he called her his high-bred roan,
A credit to Arthur O'Bradley!
O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!
Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Then he packed up his drudgery hose,
And put on his holiday clothes;
His coat was of scarlet so fine,
Full trimmed with buttons behind;
Two sleeves it had it is true,
One yellow, the other was blue,
And the cuffs and the capes were of green,
And the longest that ever were seen;
His hat, though greasy and tore,
Cocked up with a feather before,
And under his chin it was tied,
With a strip from an old cow's hide;
His breeches three times had been turned,
And two holes through the left side were burned;
Two boots he had, but not kin,
One leather, the other was tin;
And for stirrups he had two patten rings,
Tied fast to the girth with two strings;
Yet he wanted a good saddle cloth,
Which long had been eat by the moth.
'Twas a sad misfortune, you'll say,
But still he looked gallant and gay,
And his name it was Arthur O'Bradley!
O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!
Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Thus accoutred, away he did ride,
While Dolly she walked by his side;
Till coming up to the church door,
In the midst of five thousand or more,
Then from the old mare he did alight,
Which put the clerk in a fright;
And the parson so fumbled and shook,
That presently down dropped his book.
Then Arthur began for to sing,
And made the whole church to ring;
Crying, 'Dolly, my dear, come hither,
And let us be tacked together;
For the honour of Arthur O'Bradley!'
O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!
Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Then the vicar discharged his duty,
Without either reward or fee,
Declaring no money he'd have;
And poor Arthur he'd none to give:
So, to make him a little amends,
He invited him home with his friends,
To have a sweet kiss at the bride,
And eat a good dinner beside.
The dishes, though few, were good,
And the sweetest of animal food:
First, a roast guinea-pig and a bantam,
A sheep's head stewed in a lanthorn, {30}
Two calves' feet, and a bull's trotter,
The fore and hind leg of an otter,
With craw-fish, cockles, and crabs,
Lump-fish, limpets, and dabs,
Red herrings and sprats, by dozens,
To feast all their uncles and cousins;
Who seemed well pleased with their treat,
And heartily they did all eat,
For the honour of Arthur O'Bradley!
O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!
Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

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