 Section 61 of ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of England. This Librevoct recording is in the public domain. THE MASKERS' SONG In the Yorkshire Dales the young men are in the habit of going about at Christmas time in grotesque masks and of performing in the farmhouses a sort of rude drama accompanied by singing in music. The maskers have wooden swords and the performance is an evening one. The following version of their introductory song was taken down literally from the recitation of a young bosom maker now residing at Linton in Craven, who for some years past has himself been one of these rustic actors. From the allusion to the pace or partial egg it is evident that the play was originally an Easter pageant, which in consequence of the decline of the gorgeous rites formerly connected with that season has been transferred to Christmas, the only festival which in the rural districts of Protestant England is observed after the olden fashion. The maskers generally consist of five characters, one of whom officiates in the threefold capacity of clown, fiddler, and master of the ceremonies. The custom of masking at Christmas is common to many parts of Europe and is observed with a special zest in the Swiss cantons where the maskers are all children and the performances closely resemble those of England. In Switzerland, however, more care is bestowed upon the costume and the songs are better sung. Enter clown who sings in a sort of chant, a recitative. I open this door, I enter in, I hope your favour for to win. Whether we shall stand or fall, we do endeavour to please you all. A room, a room, a gallant room, a room to let us ride. We are not of the ragged sort, but of the royal tribe. Secure up the fire and make a light to see the bloody act to-night. Here another of the party introduces his companions by singing to a violin accompaniment, as follows. His two or three jolly boys all in one mind, we've come a pace egging. I hope you'll prove kind. I hope you'll prove kind with your money and beer. We shall come no more near you until the next year. Faldiral, Laldilal. The first that steps up is Lord Nelson, you'll see, with a bunch of blue ribbons tied down to his knee, with a star on his breast, like silver doth shine. I hope you'll remember this pace egging time. Faldiral, Laldilal. Oh, the next that steps up is a jolly Jack Tarr. He sailed with Lord Nelson during the last war. He's right on the sea, old England to view. He's come a pace egging with so jolly a crew. Faldiral, Laldilal. Oh, the next that steps up is old Tosspot, you'll see. He's a valiant old man in every degree. He's a valiant old man, and he wears a pigtail, and all his delight is drinking Maldale. Faldiral, Laldilal. Oh, the next that steps up is old Miser, you'll see. She heaps up her white and her yellow money. She wears her old rags till she starves and she begs, and she's come here to ask for a dish of pace eggs. Faldiral, Laldilal. The characters being thus jolly introduced, the following lines are sung in chorus by all the party. Gentlemen and ladies that sit by the fire, put your hand in your pocket, it is all we desire. Put your hand in your pocket and pull out your purse and give us a trifle. You'll not be much worse. Here follows a dance, and this is generally succeeded by a dialogue of an ad-libertum character, which varies in different districts, being sometimes similar to the one performed by the sword dancers. End of THE MASKER'S SONG Recording by Stephen Harvey Section 62 of ancient poems, ballads and songs of the peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Glastisher, Wasailor's song. He is still customary in many parts of England to hand around the Wasail, or health bowl, on New Year's Eve. The custom is supposed to be of Saxon origin, and to be derived from one of the observances of the Feast of Yule. The tune of this song is given in popular music. It is a universal favourite in Glastisher, particularly in the neighbourhood of Stare on the Wall where the winds blow cold, as the old rhyme says. Wasail, Wasail, all over the town. Our toast is white and our ale is brown. Our bowl is made of a mapling tree. We be good fellows all, I drink to thee. Here's to our horse and to his right ear. God send our master an happy new year. A happy new year is ere he did see. With my Wasailing bowl I drink to thee. Here's to our mare and to her right eye. God send our mistress a good Christmas pie. A good Christmas pie is ere I did see. With my Wasailing bowl I drink to thee. Here's to our cow and to her long tail. God send our master us never may fail. A cup of good beer I pray you draw near. And our jolly Wasail it's then you shall air. Be here any maids I suppose here be some. Sure they'll not let young men stand on cold stone. Sing hey oh maids control back the pin. And fair is maid in the house let us all in. Come butler come bring a bowl of the best. I hope your soul in heaven will rest. And if you do bring us a bowl of the small Then down for butler and bowl and all. End of Gloucestershire Wasailers song. Recording by Alan Mapstone a peasant from Gloucestershire in England. Section 63 of ancient poems ballads and songs of the peasantry of England this leap of ox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Josh Kibbe the mummer song or the poor old horse as sung by the mummers in the neighborhood of Richmond Yorkshire at the merry time of Christmas. The rustic actor who sings the following song is dressed as an old horse and at the end of every verse the jaws are snapped in chorus. It is a very old composition and is now printed for the first time. The old horse is probably of Scandinavian origin. A reminiscence of Odin's Slepnore. You gentlemen and sportsmen and men of courage bold all you that's got a good horse take care of him when he is old. Then put him in your stable and keep him there so warm. Give him good corn and hay pray let him take no harm. Poor old horse. Poor old horse. Once I had my clothing of Lindsay Woolsey fine my tail and mane of length and my body it did shine but now I'm growing old and my nature does decay. My master frowns upon me these words I heard him say. Poor old horse. Poor old horse. These pretty little shoulders that once were plump and round they are decayed and rotten I'm afraid they are not sound. Likewise these little nimble legs that have run many miles over hedges over ditches over valleys gates and styles. Poor old horse. Poor old horse. I used to be kept on the best corn and hay that din fields could be grown or a ninny meadows gay but now alas it's not so there's no such food at all I'm forced to nip the short grass that grows beneath your wall. Poor old horse. Poor old horse. I used to be kept up all in a stable warm to keep my tender body for many cold or harm but now I'm turned out in the open fields to go to face all kinds of weather the wind cold frost and snow. Poor old horse. Poor old horse. My hide unto the huntsman so freely I would give my body to the hounds for I'd rather die than live so shoot him whip him strip him to the huntsman let him go for he's neither fit to ride upon nor in any team to draw. Poor old horse. You must die. End of The Mummer Song. As sung at Richmond Yorkshire on the eve of the New Year by the Corporation Pinder. The custom of singing Hagmina songs is observed in different parts of both England and Scotland. The origin of the term is a matter of dispute. Some derive it from Oguide Lannouf, i.e. to the mistletoe this new year, and a French Hagmina song still in use seems to give some authority to such a derviation. Others dissatisfied with a heathen source find the term to be a corruption of Greek text which cannot be reproduced, i.e. the holy month. The Hagmina songs are sometimes sung on Christmas Eve and a few of the preceding nights and sometimes as at Richmond on the eve of the New Year. For further information the reader is referred to brands popular antiquities volume 1 pages 247-8 Sir H. Ellis's edit 1842. Tonight it is the New Year's night. Tomorrow is the day. And we are come for our right and for our ray. As we used to do in Old King Henry's day. Sing fellow sing Hagman high. If you go to the bacon flick cut me a good bit. Cut, cut, and low beware of your ma. Cut, cut, and round beware of your thumb. That me and my merry men may have some. Sing fellow sing Hagman high. If you go to the black arc bring me X mark. Ten mark, ten pound throw it down upon the ground. That me and my merry men may have some. Sing fellow sing Hagman high. End of fragment of the Hagmana song. Section 65 of ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Linda R. Nielsen Vancouver, B.C. The green side wakes song. The wakes, feasts, or tides of the north of England were originally religious festivals in honour of the saints, to whom the parish churches were dedicated, but now a days, even in Catholic Lanceture, all traces of their pristine character have departed, and the hymns and prayers by which their observance was once hallowed have given place to dancing and merry-making. At green side, near Manchester, during the wakes, two persons dressed in a grotesque manner, the one a male, the other a female, appear in the village on horseback, with spinning wheels before them, and the following is the dialogue, or song, which they sing on these occasions. To green side wakes, we've come to the town, to show you some sport of great renown, and if my old wife will let me begin, I'll show you how fast and how well I can spin, tread the wheel, tread the wheel, then dawn, then all. Though brags of thyself, but I don't think it true, for I will uphold thy faults are not a few. For when thou hast done, and spun very hard, of this I'm well sure thy work is ill-marred, tread the wheel, tread the wheel, then dawn, then all. Though art a saucy old jade, and pray hold thy tongue, or I shall be thumping thee, err, it belong, and if that I do, I shall make thee to rue, for I can have many a one as good as you, tread the wheel, tread the wheel, then dawn, then all. What is it to me who you can have? I shall not belong, err, I'm laid in my grave, and when I am dead you may find, if you can, one that'll spin as hard as I've done, tread the wheel, tread the wheel, then dawn, then all. Come, come, my dear wife, hear endeth my song. I hope it has pleased this numerous throng, but if it has missed, you need not to fear, will do our endeavor to please them next year. Tread the wheel, tread the wheel, then dawn, then all. End of Poem The Greenside Wakes Song Section 66 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England. This Labour Vox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. The Swearing-In Song, or Rhyme. As formerly sung, or said, at Highgate in the County of Middlesex. The proverb, He has been sworn at Highgate is more widely circulated than understood. In its ordinary signification it is applied to a knowing fellow who is well acquainted with the good things, and always helps himself to the best, and is not alone. It has its origin in an old usage still capped up at Highgate in Middlesex. Gross, in his classical dictionary of the vulgar tongue, London 1785, says, a ridiculous custom formerly prevailed at the public houses of Highgate, to administer a ludicrous oath to all the men of the middling rank who stopped there. The party was sworn on a pair of horns fastened on a stick. The substance of the oath was never to kiss the maid, when he could kiss the mistress, never to drink small beer when he could get strong, with many other injunctions of the like-kind to all of which was added a saving clause, unless you like it best. The person administering the oath was always to be called father by the juror, and in return was to style him son under the penalty of the bottle. From this extract it is evident that in 1786 the custom was ancient and had somewhat fallen in to destitute. Hohn's yearbook contained a very complete account of the ceremony, with full particulars of the mode in which the swearing-in was then performed in the fox under the hill. Hohn does not throw any light on the origin of the practice, nor does he seem to have been aware of its comparative antiquity. He treated the ceremony as a piece of modern fullery, got up by some landlord for the good of the house, and adopted from the same interested motive by others of the tribe. A subsequent correspondent of Mr. Hohn, however, points out the antiquity of the custom, and shows that it could be traced back, long before the year 1782, when it was introduced into a pantomime called Harlequin Teague, or the Giant Cowsway, which was performed at the Haymarket on Saturday, August 17, 1782. One of the scenes was Highgate, where, in the parlor of a public house, the ceremony was performed. Mr. Hohn's correspondent sends a copy of the old initiation song, which varies considerably from our version, supplied to us in 1851 by a very old man, an Ostbler, at Highgate. The reciter said that the copy of verses was not often used now, as there was no landlord who could sing, and gentlemen preferred the speech. He said moreover that the verses were not always alike. Some said one way, and some another. Some made them long, and some cotton short. Gross was an error when he supposed that the ceremony was confined to the inferior classes, for even in his day such was not the case. In subsequent times the oath has been frequently taken by people of rank, and also by several persons of the highest literary and political celebrity. An inspection of any one of the registered books will show that the jurors have belonged to all sorts of classes, and that amongst them the Harvehians have always made a conspicuous figure. When the stagecoachers ceased to pass through the village in consequence of the opening of railways, the custom declined, and was kept up only at three houses, which were called the old original house, and the original, and the real old original. Two of the above houses have laterally ceased to hold courts, and the custom is now confined to the fox under the hill, where the rite is celebrated with every attention in ancient forms and costume, and for a fee which, in deference to modern notions of economy, is only one shelling. Byron, in the first canto of Child Harold, alludes to the custom of Highgate. Some o'er thy tamas row the ribboned fair, others along the safer turnpike fly. Some Richmond hill ascend, some wind to wear, and many to the steep of Highgate high. Ask ye, for weishon shades, the reason why. Tis to the worship of the solemn horn, grasped in the holy hand a mystery. In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, and consecrate the oath withdrawn, and dance till mourned. Canto I, stanza seventy. Enter landlord, dressed in a black gown and bands, and wearing an antique fashion wig, followed by the clerk of the court, also in appropriate costume, and carrying the registry book and the horns. Landlord, do ye wish to be sworn at Highgate? Candidate, I do father. Amen. The landlord then sings, or says, as follows. Silence! O yes, ye are my son. Fold to ye old father, turn, sir. This is an oath ye may take as ye run, so lay ye hand thus on the horn, sir. Hear the candidate places his right hand on the horn. You shall spend not with cheaters or cousiners your life, nor waste it on profligate beauty, and when ye are wedded be kind to your wife, and true to all petticoat duty. The candidate says, I will, and kisses the horn in obedience to the command of the clerk, who exclaims in a loud and solemn tone, kiss the horn, sir. And while ye thus suddenly swear to be kind, and shield and protect from disaster, this part of your oath ye must bear it in mind, that ye, and not she, is the master. Clerk, kiss the horn, sir. You shall pledge no man first when a woman is near, for neither kiss proper nor write, nor unless ye prefer it, drink small for strong beer, nor eat brown bread when ye can get white, sir. Clerk, kiss the horn, sir. You shall never drink brandy when wine ye can get, say when good port or sherry is handy, unless that your taste on spirit is set, in which case ye may, sir, drink brandy. Clerk, kiss the horn, sir. To kiss with the maid when the mistress is kind, remember that you must be loath, sir, but if the maid's fairest your oath doesn't bind, or you may, if you like it, kiss both, sir. Clerk, kiss the horn, sir. Should you ever return, take this oath here again, like a man of good sense, leal and true, sir, and be sure to bring with you some more merry men, that they on the horn may swear to, sir. Landlord, now, sir, if you please sign your name in that book, and if you can't write, make your mark, and the clerk of the court will attest it. Here one of the above requests is complied with. Landlord, you will please pay half a crown for court fees and what you please to the clerk. This necessary ceremony being gone through the important business terminates by the landlord saying God bless the king, or queen, and the lord of the manor, to which the clerk responds, amen, amen. Note, the court fees are always returned in wines, spirits, or porter, of which the landlord and clerk are invited to partake. End of The Swearing-In Song, or Rhyme Section 67 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in The Public Domain, recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Fairlop, Fair Song The following song is sung at Fairlop Fair, one of the gayest of the numerous Saturnella kept by the good citizens of London. The venerable oak has disappeared, but the song is never the last sung, and the curious custom of riding through the fair, seated in boats, still continues to be observed. Come, come, my boys, with a hearty glee, to Fairlop Fair, bear chorus with me. At Hane-Alt Forest is known very well. This famous oak has long bore the bell. Let music sound as the boat goes round, if we tumble on the ground. We'll be merry, I'll be bound. We will booze it away, don't care, we will defy, and be happy on the first Friday in July. At Hane-Alt Forest, Queen Anne, she did ride, and beheld the beautiful oak by her side. And after viewing it from bottom to top, she said that her court should be at Fairlop. Let music sound as the boat goes round, if we tumble on the ground. We'll be merry, I'll be bound. We will booze it away, don't care, we will defy, and be happy on the first Friday in July. It is eight fathom round spreads an acre of ground. They plastered it round to keep the tree sound, so we'll booze it away, don't care, we'll defy, and be happy on the first Friday in July. Let music sound as the boat goes round, if we tumble on the ground. We'll be merry, I'll be bound. We will booze it away, don't care, we will defy, and be happy on the first Friday in July. About a century ago, as I have heard say, this fair it was capped by one Daniel Day, a hearty good fellow as ever could be. His coffin was made of a limb of the tree. Let music sound as the boat goes round, if we tumble on the ground. We'll be merry, I'll be bound. We will booze it away, don't care, we will defy, and be happy on the first Friday in July. With Blackstrap and Perry, he made his friends merry, all sorrowed for to drown with Brandy and Sherry, so we'll booze it away, don't care, we'll defy, and be happy on the first Friday in July. Let music sound as the boat goes round, if we tumble on the ground. We'll be merry, I'll be bound. We will booze it away, don't care, we will defy, and be happy on the first Friday in July. At Tain Hall Forest there stands a tree, and it has performed a wonderful bounty. It is surrounded by woods and plains, the merry little warblers chant their strains. Let music sound as the boat goes round, if we tumble on the ground. We'll be merry, I'll be bound. We will booze it away, don't care, we will defy, and be happy on the first Friday in July. So we'll dance round the tree, and merry we will be. Every year we'll agree the fair for to see, and we'll booze it away, don't care, we'll defy, and be happy on the first Friday in July. Let music sound as the boat goes round, if we tumble on the ground. We'll be merry, I'll be bound. We will booze it away, don't care, we will defy, and be happy on the first Friday in July. End of Fairlop Fair Song Section 68 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. As Tom was awalking. An ancient Cornish song. This song, said to be translated from the Cornish, was taken down, says Mr. Sandys, from the recital of a modern Cory Fias, or leader of a parish choir, who assigned to it a very remote but indefinite antiquity. As Tom was walking when fine summers mourned, when the daisies and gold cups the fields did adorn, he met Cozen Mal with a tub on her head, says Tom. Cozen Mal, you might speak, if you would. But Mal stamped along and appeared to be shy, and Tom synced out, Zounds, I'll now of thee why. So back he tore a tear in a terrible fuss, and axed Cozen Mal. What the reason of thus? Tom Trailer cried out, Mal, I'll nothing do with ye. Go to Fanny Tremba, she d'know how I'm shy. Tom here d'other d'down the hill, thee didst stop, and dabbed a great dope fig in Fanny Tremba's lap. As for Fanny Tremba, I near taught with her twice, and give her a dope fig. They are so very nice. So I'll tell thee I went to the fear to other day, and the dope figs I bough'd, why I saved them away. Says Mal, Tom Trailer, if that be the cause, May the Lord bless for ever that sweet pretty face. If these'd give me thy dope figs, these'd bough'd in the fear, I'll swear to thee now, thee shouldst marry me here. End of, as Tom was, a walking. Section 69 Of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England This LibriVox recording is in the Public Domain. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. The Miller and His Sons A miller, especially if he happened to be the owner of a souk mill, has always been deemed fair game for the village satirist. One of the numerous songs written in ridicule of the calling of the rogues ingrain, the following is one of the best and most popular. Its quaint humor will recommend it to our readers. For the tune see popular music. There was a crafty miller, and he, had lusty sons, one, two, and three. He called them all, and asked their will. If that to them he left his mill. He called first to his eldest son, saying, My life is almost run. If I to you this mill to make, what toll do you intend to take? Father, said he, my name is Jack. Out of a bushel I'll take a peck. From every bushel that I grind, that I may a good living find. Thou art a fool, the old man said. Thou hast not well learned thy trade. This mill to thee I ne'er will give. For by such toll no man can live. He called for his middlemost son, saying, My life is almost run. If I to you this mill do make, what toll do you intend to take? Father, says he, my name is Ralph. Out of a bushel I'll take a half. From every bushel that I grind, that I may a good living find. Thou art a fool, the old man said. Thou hast not well learned thy trade. This mill to thee I ne'er will give. For by such a toll no man can live. He called for his youngest son, saying, My life is almost run. If I to you this mill to make, what toll do you intend to take? Father, said he, I'm your only boy. For taking toll is all my joy. Before I will a good living lack, I'll take it all, and forswear the sack. Thou art my boy, the old man said. For thou hast right well learned thy trade. This mill to thee I give, he cried, and then he turned up his toast, and died. End of The Miller and His Sons. Section 70 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England. This Libra Vox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Linda Bray Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C., Jack and Tom. An Old Border Ditty, Traditional The following song was taken down from recitation in 1847. Of its history nothing is known, but we are strongly inclined to believe that it may be a sign to the early part of the 17th century and that it relates to the visit of Prince Charles and Buckingham under the assumed name of Jack and Tom to Spain in 1623. Some curious references to the adventures of the Prince and his companion on their masquerading tour will be found in Hallewell's Letters of the Kings of England, Vol. 2. I'm a North Country man in Redstale, Born. Where our land lies, Lee, and grows Nikorn, and such two lads to my house never come, as them two lads called Jack and Tom. Now Jack and Tom, they're going to the sea. I wish them both in good company. They're going to seek their fortunes, I want the wide sea. Far, far away fray their own country. They mounted their horses and rode over the moor till they came to a house where they wrapped at the door. And out came Jockey, the hostler-man. Did ye brew on ale, did ye sell on beer? Or have ye on lodgings for strangers here? Knee, we brail knee ale, nor we sell knee beer, nor we have knee lodgings for strangers here. So ye bolted the door and bade them by gone. For there was knee lodgings there for poor Jack and Tom. They mounted their horses and rode over the plain. Dark was the night and down fell the rain. Till a twinkling light they happened to spy, and a castle and a house they were close by. They rode up to the house and they wrapped at the door. And out came Jockey, the hostler. Did ye brew on ale, did ye sell on beer? Or have ye on lodgings for strangers here? Yes, we have brewed ale this fifty long year, and we have got lodgings for strangers here. So the roast to the fire, and the pot hung on, was all to accommodate poor Jack and Tom. When supper was over and all was sited down, the glasses of wine did go merrily round. Here is to thee, Jack, and here is to thee, and all the bonny lasses in our country. Here is to thee, Tom, and here is to thee, and look they might leak for thee and me. Twas early next morning before the break of day, they mounted their horses, and so they rode away. For Jack he died upon a far foreign shore, and Tom he was never, never heard of more. In of Jack and Tom, Section 71 of ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of England, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen Vancouver, B.C. Jones Ale was new. Ours is the common version of this popular song. It varies considerably from the one given by de Ofree in the pills to purge Melancholy. From the names of Nolly and Joan and the allusion to Ale, we are inclined to consider the song as a lampoon leveled at Cromwell, and his wife, whom the royalist party nicknamed Joan. The protectors' acquaintances, depicted as low and vulgar tradesmen, are here humorously represented paying him a congratulatory visit. On his change of fortune, and regaling themselves with the brewer's ale, the song is mentioned in Thackeray's catalogue under the title of Jones Ale new, which may be regarded as circumstantial evidence in favour of our hypothesis. The air is published in popular music, accompanying three stanzas of a version copied from the deuce collection. The first verse in Mr. Trample's book runs as follows. There was a jovial tinker, who was a good ale drinker. He never was a shrinker. Believe me, this is true. And he came from the weld of Kent, when all his money was gone and spent, which made him look like a jack, a lent. And Jones Ale is new, my boys, and Jones Ale is new. There were six jovial tradesmen, and they all sat down to drinking, for they were a jovial crew. They sat themselves down to be merry, and they called for a bottle of sherry. You're welcome as the hills, says Nully. While Jones Ale is new, brave boys, while Jones Ale is new. The first that came in was a soldier, with his fire lock over his shoulder. Sure no one could be bolder, and a long broad sword he drew. He swore he would fight for England ground, before the nation should be run down. He boldly drank their house all round, while Jones Ale was new. The next that came in was a hatter. Sure no one could be blacker, and he began to chatter among the jovial crew. He threw his hat upon the ground, and swore every man should spend his pound, and boldly drank their hearse all round, while Jones Ale was new. The next that came in was a dyer, and he sat himself down by the fire, for it was his heart's desire to drink with the jovial crew. He told the landlord to his face, the chimney corner should be his place, and there he'd sit and die his face, while Jones Ale was new. The next that came in was a tinker, and he was no small beer drinker, and he was no strong ale shrinker among the jovial crew. For his brass nails were made of metal, and he swore he'd go and mend a cattle. Good heart, how his hammer and nails did rattle when Jones Ale was new. The next that came in was a tailor, with his bodkin shears and thimble. He swore he would be nimble among the jovial crew. They sat and they called for ale so stout, till the poor tailor was almost broke, and was forced to go and pawn his coat, while Jones Ale was new. The next that came in was a ragman, with his rag-bag over his shoulder. Sure no one could be bolder among the jovial crew. They sat and called for pots and glasses, till they were all drunk as asses, and burnt the old ragman's bag to ashes, while Jones Ale was new. End of Jones Ale was new. Section 72 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of Peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C., George Riddler's Oven. This ancient Gloucestershire song has been sung at the annual dinners of the Gloucestershire Society from the earliest period of the existence of that institution, and in 1776 there was an harmonic society at Sarenster, which always opened its meetings with George Riddler's Oven, in full chorus. The substance of the following key to this very curious song is furnished by Mr. H. Gingel, who extracts it from the annual report of the Gloucestershire Society for 1835. The annual meeting of this society is held at Bristol in the month of August, when the members dine, and a branch meeting, which was formerly held at the Crown and Anchor in the Strand, is now annually held at the Thatched House Tavern, St. James. George Riddler's Oven is sung at both meetings, and the late Duke of Beaufort used to lead off the glee in capital style. The words have a secret meaning, well known to the members of the Gloucestershire Society, which was founded in 1657, three years before the restoration of Charles II. The society consisted of royalists, who combined together for the purpose of restoring the stewards. The Cavalier Party was supported by all the old Roman Catholic families of the kingdom, and some of the dissenters, who were disgusted with Cromwell, occasionally lent them a kind of passive aid. First verse by George Riddler is meant King Charles I. The Oven was the Cavalier Party. The swans that built the Oven, and that came out of the Blicne Quare, were the immediate followers of the Marquis of Worcester, who held out long instead fastly for the royal cause at the Raglan Castle, which was not surrendered till 1646, and was in fact the last stronghold retained for the king. His head did grow above his hair, is an allusion to the crown, the head of the state, which the king wore above his hair. Second verse. This means that the king, before he died, boasted that notwithstanding his present adversity the ancient constitution of the kingdom was so good, and its vitality so great, that it would surpass and outlive every other form of government. Third verse. Dick the treble, jack the mean, and George the base, mean king, lords, and commons. The injunction to let every man sing in his own place is a warning to each of the three estates of the realm to preserve its proper position and not to encroach on each other's prerogative. Fourth verse. Mine hostess maid is an allusion to the queen, who was a Roman Catholic and her maid, the church. The singer we must suppose was one of the leaders of the party, and his dog a companion or faithful official of the society, and the song was sung on occasions when the members met together socially, and thus, as the Roman Catholics were royalists, the allusion to the mutual attachment between the maid and my dog and I is plain and consistent. Fifth verse. The dog had a trick of visiting maids when they were sick. The meaning is that when any of the members were in distress or desponding, or likely to give up the royal cause in despair, the officials or active members visited, counseled, and assisted them. Sixth verse. The dog was good to catch a hen, a duck, or a goose, that is, to enlist as members of the society any who were well affected to the royal cause. Seventh verse. The good ale tap is an allusion under cover of the similarity in sound between the words ale and ale to the church, of which it was dangerous at the time to be an avowed follower, and so the members were cautioned that indiscretion might lead to their discovery and overthrow. Eighth verse. The allusion here is to those unfaithful supporters of the royal cause who welcomed the members of the society when it appeared to be prospering, but parted from them in adversity. Ninth verse. An expression of the singer's wish that if he should die he may be buried with his faithful companion as representing the principles of the society, under the good aisles of the church. The following text has been collated with a version published in notes and queries from the fragments of a manuscript found in the speech house of Dean. The tune is the same as that of the Wasseler's song and is printed in popular music. Other ditties appear to have been founded on this ancient piece. The fourth, seventh, and ninth verses are in the old ditty called My Dog and I, and the eighth verse appears in another old song. The air and words bear some resemblance to, told in, Haim. The storms that built George Widdler's oven, and thy came from the Bleak-Niquor, and George he were a jolly old man, and his yid it grode above his yar. One thing of George Widdler I must commend, and that were vor unnotable thing. He meed his brags of vor he died, with any dre brooders his zons should sing. There's Dick the treble and John the mean, that every man sing in his own place, and George he were the elder brother, and therefore he would sing the bass. My hostess is moid, and her noom, Tornel. I pretty wrench, and I loved her well. I loved her well good reason why, because she loved my dog and I. My dog is good to catch a hen, a dug or goose is wood for men, and where good company I spy, O' thither goes my dog and I. My mother told I when I were young, if I did dwellow the strong bear put, that drink would prove my avid dwell, and make me wear a threadbare quote. My dog had gotten, Zick, a trick, to visit maize when they be sick, when they be sick and like to die, O' thither goes my dog and I. When I have dre six pence under my thumb, O' then I be welcome wherever I come, but when I have none, O' then I pass by. Tis poverty parts good company, if I should die as it may hap, my grave shall be under the good yield tap, in vooded yarns there will us lie, cheek by joll my dog and I. End of George Riddler's Oven Section 73 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Vindemri Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. The Carrion Crow This still popular song is quoted by Gross in his O' Leo, where it is made the subject of a burlesque commentary, the covert political allusions having evidently escaped the penetration of the antiquary. The reader familiar with the annals of the commonwealth and the restoration will readily detect the leading points of the allegory. The Carrion Crow in the oak is Charles II, who is represented as that bird of vicarious appetite because he deprived the Puritan clergy of their livings, perhaps also because he ordered the bodies of the regicides to be exhumed, as Ainsworth says in one of his ballads. The Carrion Crow is a sexton bold. He rickets the dead from out of the mold. The religion of the old sow, whoever she may be, is clearly pointed out by her little pigs praying for her soul. The tailor is not easily identified. It is possibly intended for some Puritan divine of the name of Taylor, who wrote and preached against both Prelacy and Papacy, but with a special hatred of the latter. In the last verse he consoles himself by the reflection that, notwithstanding the deprivations, his party will have enough remaining from the voluntary contributions of their adherents. The cloak which the tailor is engaged in cutting out is the Geneva gown or cloak. The spoon in which he desires his wife to bring treacle is apparently an allusion to the spatula upon which the wafer is placed in the administration of the Eucharist, and the introduction of chitterlings and black puddings into the last verse seems to refer to a passage in Rebellé, where the same dainties are brought in to personify those who, in the matter of fasting, are opposed to rommish practices. The song is found in collections of the time of Charles II. The carrion-crow he sat upon an oak, and he spied an old tailor a-cutting out a cloak. Hey, go, the carrion-crow! The carrion-crow he began for to rave, and he called the tailor a lousy knave. Hey, oh, the carrion-crow! Wife, go fetch me my arrow and my bow. I will have a shot at that carrion-crow. Hey, oh, the carrion-crow! The tailor he shot, and he missed his mark, but he shot the old sow through the heart. Hey, oh, the carrion-crow! Wife, go fetch me some treacle in a spoon for the old sows in a terrible swoon. Hey, oh, the carrion-crow! The old sow died and the bells they did toll, and the little pigs prayed for the old sow's soul. Hey, oh, the carrion-crow! Never mind, said the tailor, I don't care a flea. They'll be still black puddings, souse, and chitterlings for me. Hey, oh, the carrion-crow! End of The Carrion-Crow, Section 74 of Ancient Palms, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. The Leatherin Bottle, Somerset Sher version. In chapel's popular music is a much longer version of the Leatherin Bottle. The following copy is the one sung at the present time by the country people in the county of Somerset. It has been communicated to our pages by Mr. Sandys. God above who rules all things, monks and abbots and beggars and kings, the ships that in the sea do swim, the earth and all that is therein, not forgetting the old cow's hide, and everything else in the world beside, and I wish his soul in heaven may dwell, who first invented this Leatherin Bottle. Oh, what do you say to the glasses fine? Oh, they shall have no praise of mine. Suppose a gentleman sends his man to fill them with liquor as fast as he can, the man he falls in coming away, and sheds the liquor so fine and gay, but had it been in the Leatherin Bottle, and the stopper been in, to it all have been well. Oh, what do you say to the tankard fine? Oh, it shall have no praise of mine. Suppose a man and his wife fall out, and such things happen sometimes, no doubt. They pull and they haul in the midst of the fray, they shed the liquor so fine and gay, but had it been in the Leatherin Bottle, and the stopper been in, to it all have been well. Now, when this bottle it is worn out, out of its sides you may cut a clout, this you may hang upon a pin, to a serve to put odd trifles in, ink and soap and candle ends, for young beginners have need of such friends, and I wish his soul in heaven may dwell, who first invented the Leatherin Bottle. End of The Leatherin Bottle, section 75 of ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Linda Henry Nielsen Vancouver, BC. The Farmer's Old Wife A Sussex Whistling Song This is a countrymen's whistling song, and the only one of the kind which we remember to have heard. It is very ancient and a great favorite. The farmer's wife has an adventure somewhat resembling the heroes in the burlesque version of Don Gingovanti. The tune is Lily Berlero, and the song is sung as follows. The first line of each verse is given as a solo, then the tune is continued by a chorus of whistlers, who whistle that portion of the air, which in Lily Berlero would be sung to the words Lily Berlero Bullen Allah. The song so then proceeds with the tune, and sings the whole of the verse through, after which the string is resumed, and concluded by the whistlers. The effect, when accompanied by the strong whistles of a group of lusty countrymen, is very striking, and cannot be adequately conveyed by description. This song constitutes the traditionary verses upon which Burns founded his Carl of Killiberne Brays. There was an old farmer in Sussex did dwell, chorus of whistlers. There was an old farmer in Sussex did dwell, and he had a bad wife as many knew well. Chorus of whistlers. Then Satan came to the old man at the plow. One of your family I must have now. It is not your eldest son that I crave, but it is your old wife and she I will have. O welcome, good Satan, with all my heart! I hope you and she will never more part. Now Satan has got the old wife on his back, and he lugged her along like a peddler's pack. He trudged away till they came to his hall gate, says he here take an old Sussex chap's mate. Oh, then she did kick the young imps about, says one to the other. Let's try turn her out. She spied thirteen imps all dancing in chains. She upped with her patterns and beat out their brains. She knocked the old Satan against the wall. Let's try turn her out, or she'll murder us all. Now he's bundled her up on his back amane, and to her old husband he took her again. I have been a tormenter the whole of my life, but I never was tormenter till I met with your wife. End of The Farmer's Old Wife Section Seventy-Six of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, BC. The Old Witcher and His Wife This song still retains its popularity in the North of England, and when sung with humor, never fails to elicit wars of laughter. A Scotch version may be found in Herd's Collection, 1769, and also in Cunningham's Songs of England and Scotland, London, 1835. We cannot venture to give an opinion as to which is the original, but the English set is of unquestionable antiquity. Our copy was obtained from Yorkshire. It has been collated with one printed at the Aldermen Mary Press, and preserved in the third volume of the Roxborough Collection. The tune is peculiar to the song. Oh, I went into the stable and there for to see, and there I saw three horses stand, by one, by two, and by three. Oh, I called to my loving wife, and anon, kind sir, quoshi. Oh, what do these three horses hear, without the leave of me? Why, you old fool, blindfold, can't you very well see? These are three milking cows my mother sent to me. Odd's bobs, well done, milking cows with saddles on. The like was never known. Old Witcher, a coocold, went out, and a coocold he came home. Oh, I went into the kitchen, and there for to see, and there I saw three swords hang, by one, by two, quoshi. Oh, I called to my loving wife, and anon, kind sir. Oh, what do these three swords do here, without the leave of me? Why, you old fool, blindfold, can't you very well see? These are three roasting spits my mother sent to me. Odd's bobs, well done, roasting spits with scabbards on. The like was never known. Old Witcher, a coocold, went out, and a coocold he came home. Oh, I went into the parlor, and there for to see, and there I saw three cloaks hang, by one, by two, and by three. Oh, I called to my loving wife, and anon, kind sir, quoshi. Oh, what do these three cloaks do here, without the leave of me? Why, you old fool, blindfold, can't you very well see? These are three mantuas my mother sent to me. Odd's bobs, well done, mantuas, with capes on. The like was never known. Old Witcher, a coocold, went out, and a coocold he came home. Oh, I went into the pantry, and there for to see, and there I saw three pair of boots, by one, by two, and by three. Oh, I called to my loving wife, and anon, kind sir, quoshi. Oh, what do these three pair of boots here, without the leave of me? Why, you old fool, blindfold, can't you very well see? These are three putting bags my mother sent to me. Odd's bobs, well done, putting bags with spurs on. The like was never known. Old Witcher, a coocold, went out, and a coocold he came home. Oh, I went into the dairy, and there for to see, and there I saw three hats hang, by one, by two, and by three. Oh, I called to my loving wife, and anon, kind sir, quoshi. Pray, what do these three hats here, without the leave of me? Why, you old fool, blindfold, can't you very well see? These are three skimming dishes my mother sent to me. Odd's bobs, well done, skimming dishes with hat bands on. The like was never known. Old Witcher, a coocold, went out, and a coocold he came home. Oh, I went into the chamber, and there for to see, and there I saw three men in bed, by one, by two, and by three. Oh, I called to my loving wife, and anon, kind sir, quoshi. Oh, what do these three men here, without the leave of me? Why, you old fool, blindfold, can't you very well see? They are three milking maids my mother sent to me. Odd's bobs, well done, milking maids with beards on. The like was never known. Old Witcher, a coocold, went out, and a coocold he came home. End of Old Witcher and His Wife. Section 77 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, BC. The Jolly Wagoner. This country song can be traced back a century at least, but is, no doubt, much older. It is very popular in the west of England. The words are spirited and characteristic. We may perhaps refer the song to the days of transition, when the wagon displaced the packhorse. When first I went awagening, awagening did go, I filled my parents' hearts full of sorrow, grief, and woe, and many are the hardships that I have since gone through, and sing woe my lads, sing woe, drive on my lads, I ho, and who wouldn't lead the life of a jolly wagoner. It is a cold and stormy night, and I'm wet to the skin. I will bear it with contentment, till I get unto the inn, and then I'll get a drinking, and with the landlord and his kin. And sing woe my lads, sing woe, drive on my lads, I ho, and who wouldn't lead the life of a jolly wagoner. Now summer is a coming, what pleasure we shall see. The small birds are a singing on every green tree. The blackbirds and the thrushes are a whistling merrily. And sing woe my lads, sing woe, drive on my lads, I ho, and who wouldn't lead the life of a jolly wagoner. Now Michael Bass is coming, what pleasure we shall find. It will make the gold to fly my boys like shaft before the wind, and every lad shall take his lass, so loving and so kind. And sing woe my lads, sing woe, drive on my lads, I ho, and who wouldn't lead the life of a jolly wagoner. End of The Jolly Wagoner Section seventy-eight of ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in The Public Domain, recording by Linda Marie Nielsen Vancouver, B.C. The Yorkshire Horse Dealer This ludicrous and genuine Yorkshire song, the production of some unknown country minstrel, obtained considerable popularity a few years ago from the admirable singing of Emory. The incidents actually occurred at the close of the last century, and some of the descendants of Tommy Towers were resident at Clapton Till within a very recent period, and used to take great delight in relating the laughable adventure of their progenitor. Abbey Muggins is understood to be a sobriquet for a then-Clapham innkeeper. The village of Clapham is in the west of Yorkshire, on the high road between Skipton and Kendall. Bain, to Clapton Towngate, lived an on Yorkshire tyke, who, idealing, I horse-fleshed head, near met his like, tore his pride that I awe the hard bargains he'd hit. He'd bit a girt money, but never been bit. This, on Tommy Towers, be that nam he wore, Khan, head an out-carion tit that wore sheer skin and ban. To have killed him for to curse was, have been quite as well, but tore Tommy opinion he'd de on himself. Well, yet Abbey Muggins, a neighbouring cheat, thou tadittle on Tommy would be a girl treat. He'd a horse, too, tore war then on Tommy, ya see, for neat a foe then he'd throat proper ta-dee. Thanks, Abbey, toward Codger, I'd never smoke ta-trick. I'd swap with him my poor dead horse for his wick, and if Tommy ad-nub-it can happen ta-trap, twill be a fine feather, e-Aborum cap. So what to Tommy he goes, and the question he pops, between thy horse and mine, Tommy, what swaps? What will give me ta-boot, for mines ta-better or still? Not, said Tommy, I'll swap even hands, and ye will. Abbey preached a long time ab-oat, sama ta-boot, insistent that his war the loveliest brute. But Tommy stuck fast where he first had begun. Till Abbey shook hands and said, will Tommy done? Oh, Tommy, said Abbey, I sorry for thee. I throat, though, a hadden mare, wit I the e. Good luck wit thy bargain, for my horse is dead. Hey, says Tommy, my lad, so is mine, and it's flead. So what Tommy got the better of the bargain, avast, and came off with a Yorkshireman's triumph at last? For the off-twix dead horses there not much to choose, yet Tommy wore richer by de-hide and flower shoes. Section number seventy-nine of the ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of England, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Linda Ray Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. The King and the Countryman. This popular favorite is a mere abridgement and alteration of a poem preserved in the Roxborough collection called The King and Northern Man, shrewing how a poor Northumberland man, tenant to the King, being wronged by a lawyer, his neighbor, went to the King himself to make known his grievance, to the tune of Slut. Printed by and for Alex Melbourne, at the stationaire's arms in Green Arbor Court in the Little Old Bailey, the Piercy Society printed The King and Northern Man from an edition published in 1640. There is also a copy preserved in the Bagford collection, which is one of the imprints of W only. The edition of 1640 has the initials of Martin Parker at the end, but, as Mr. Collier observes, there is little doubt that the story is much older than 1640. See preface to Piercy Society's edition. There was an old chap in the West Country, a flaw in the lease the lawyers had found, towards all about felling of five oak trees, and building a house upon his own ground, right to Laurel, Laurel, Laurel, right to Laurel-la. Now this old chap to Lunan would go, to tell the King a part of his woe, likewise to tell him a part of his grief, in hopes the King would give him relief. Now when this old chap to Lunan had come, he found the King to Windsor had gone, but if he'd known he'd not been at home, he'd dang'd his buttons if ever he'd come. Now when this old chap to Windsor did stump, the gates were barred and all secure, but he knocked and thump'd with his oaken clump. There's room within for I to be sure, but when he got there, how'd he did stare, to see the yeoman strutting about, he scratched his head and rubbed down his hair. In the ear of a noble he gave a great shout. Pray, Mr. Noble, show I the King. Is that the King that I see there? I see'd an old chap at Bartley, fair? Look more like a King than a chap there. Well, Mr. King, pray how do you do? I've gotten for you a bit of a job. Which if you'd be so kind as to do, I'd gotten a summit for you in my fob. The King he took the lease in hand. To sign it, too, he was likewise willing, and the old chap to make a little amends, he lugged out his bag and gave him a shilling. The King, to carry on the joke, ordered ten pounds to be paid down. The farmer he stared, but nothing spoke, and stared again, and he scratched his crown. The farmer he stared to see so much money, and to take it up, he was likewise willing. But if he'd a known King had got so much money, he'd dang'd his wig if he'd gin him that shelling. End of THE KING AND THE COUNTRYMAN Section 80 Of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England, this LibriVox recording is in The Public Domain, recording by Linda-Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, BC. Joan O. Greenfields, Bramble The county of Lancaster has always been famed for its admirable patatus songs, but they are in general the productions of modern authors, and consequently, however popular they may be, are not within the scope of the present work. In the following humorous production, however, we have a composition of the last century. It is the oldest and most popular Lancaster song we have been able to procure, and unlike most pieces of its class, it is entirely free from grossness and vulgarity. says Joan to his wife on a hot summer's day. I'm resolved. I, Greenfield, no longer to stay, for I'll go to Audwam as fast as I can, so fare thee well, Greenfield, and fare thee well, Nan. A soldier I'll be, and brave Audwam I'll see, and I'll have a battle with the French. Dear Joan, then, said Nan, unhobiterly cried, wilt be one o' the foot, or the meons to ride. Aud sounds wrench, I'll ride other ass, or a mule, or a cure, a griffin, as black as the dew. Both Clemink and Starvink, a never affardent, a God it would drive any man mad. A Joan, sin would come, and in Greenfield for to dwell, we'd have money a bear meal, or Convera will tell. Bear meal, a God, a, that a Vera will know, there's been two days this week, or when had no at all. I'm Vera nearsighted, afore abided, a fate other Spanish or French. Then says my Aunt Margaret, Aud Joan, there so hot, I'd near go to Audwam, both I, England, I'd stop. It matters now, Madge, for to Audwam I go. I'll not claim to death, both somebody shall know. First Frenchman I find, I'll tell him my mind, and if he not faint, he shall run. Then down the brew I come, for we livened at top. I thought I'd reach Old Harne, ere ever I'd stop. E' God, hew they stared, when I'd getten to the mumps, me old hat I'd my haunt, and may clogs full o' stumps, for I soon toward him I'd going to Old Ham, an ahaddle battle with the French. I kept and way, though the lone unto Old Ham I went, I asked a recruit if they'd made up their quent. No, no honest lad, for he talk like a king, go with me though the street, and thee I will bring. Where, if they're willent, thou may have a shillent, E' God, I throught this war-red news. He brought me to the plank, where to measuring their height, and if they'd been height, there's now said about weight. I wretched me and stretched me, and never did flinch, says the morn, I believe there made lad to an inch. I throught this I'll do, as tiny guineas now. E' God, Old Ham, brave Old Ham, for me. So fare thee well, Grinfeldt, a soldier I made. I'm gettin' new shun, an a rare cockade. I'll fate out Old England as hard as I can. Or they're French, Dutch, or Spanish, to me it's a one. I'll make him to stare like a new-started hare. An I'll tell him, from Oldham I come. End of John, O Grinfeldt's Bramble. Section 81 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Linda-Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Thorne Ha More Woods A celebrated Nottingham Shire Poacher's Song Nottingham sure was, in the olden day, famous in song for the achievements of Robin Hood and his merry men. In our times, the reckless daring of the heroes of the Greenwood Tree has descended to the poachers of the county, who have also found poets to proclaim and exalt over their lawless exploits. And in Thorne Ha More Woods we have a specimen of one of these rude but mischievous and exciting lyrics. The ear is beautiful and of a lively character, and will be found in popular music. There is it, prevalent idea, that the song is not the production of an ordinary ballad writer, but was written about the middle of the last century by a gentleman of rank and education, who, distesting the English game laws, adopted a too successful mode of inspiring the peasantry with a love of poaching. The song finds locality in the village of Thorne Ha, in the hundred of Newark. The common, or more fields, was enclosed in about 1797, and is now no longer called by the ancient designation. It contains 800 acres. The manner of Thorne Ha is the property of the ancient family of Neville, who have a residence on the estate. In Thorne Ha More Woods, in Nottingham Shire, Fol De Role La Re, Right Fol La Di Di. In Robin Hood's Bold Nottingham Shire, Fol De Role La Re Da. Three Keeper's houses stood three square, and about a mile from each other they were. Their orders were to look after the deer. Fol De Role La Re Da. I went out with my dogs one night. The moon shone clear, and the stars gave light. Over hedges and ditches and stales, with my two dogs close at my heels, to catch a fine buck in Thorne Ha More Fields. Oh, that night we had bad luck. One of my very best dogs was stuck. He came to me both breeding and lame. Right Thorne was I to see the same. He was not able to follow the game. I searched his wounds, and found them slight. Some Keeper had stun this out of spite. But I'll take my pike staff. That's the plan. I'll range the woods till I find the man, and I'll tan his hide right well, if I can. I range the woods and groves all night. I range the woods till it proved daylight. The very first thing that, then, I found, was a good fat buck that lay dead on the ground. I knew my dogs gave him his death wound. I hired a butcher to skin the game, likewise another to sell the same. The very first buck he offered for sale was to an old hag that sold bad ale, and she sent us three poor lads to gale. The quarter-sessions we soon espied, at which we all were four to be tried, the chairman laughed, the matter to scorn. He said the old woman was all for sworn, and unto pieces she ought to be torn. The sessions are over, and we are clear. The sessions are over, and we sit here, singing, fall the roll, la, ridah. The very best game I ever did see is a buck or a deer, but a deer for me. In Thornhaw Moor Woods, this night will be, fall the roll, la, ridah. End of Thornhaw Moor Woods. The Lincolnshire Poacher This very old diddy has been transformed into the dialects of Somershireshire, Northamptonshire, and Leicestershire, but it properly belongs to Lincolnshire. Nor is this the only liberty that has been taken with it. The original tune is that of a Lincolnshire heir, well known as the Manchester Angel. But a floored modern tune has been substituted. The Lincolnshire Poacher was a favorite diddy with George IV, and it is said that he often had it sung for his amusement by a band of Berkshire Plowman. He also commanded it to be sung at his harvest homes. But we believe it was always on such occasion sung to the playhouse tune, and not to the genuine music. It is often very difficult to trace the locality of countrymen's songs in consequence of the license adopted by printers of changing the names of places to suit their own neighborhoods. But there is no such difficulty about the Lincolnshire Poacher. The oldest copy we have seen printed at York about 1776 reads Lincolnshire, and it is only in very modern copies that the venue is removed to other counties. In the Somershire version, the local vernacular is skillfully substituted for that of the original, but the deception may nevertheless be very easily detected. When I was bound to print us in famous Lincolnshire, for well I served my master for more than seven years, till I took up with poaching as you shall quickly hear. Oh, it is my delight of a shiny night in the season of the year. As me and my comrades were setting out of a snare, it was then we cede the gamekeeper, for him we did not care, for we can wrestle and fight my boys and jump or everywhere. Oh, it is my delight of a shiny night in the season of the year. As me and my comrades were setting four or five and taking on him up again, we caught the hare alive. We caught the hare alive, my boys, and through the woods did steer. Oh, it is my delight of a shiny night in the season of the year. Bad luck to every magistrate that lives in Lincolnshire. Success to every poacher that wants to sell a hare. Bad luck to every gamekeeper that will not sell his deer. Oh, it is my delight of a shiny night in the season of the year. End of the Lincolnshire Poacher. Section 83 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Summer Set Shire, Hunting Song. This following song, which is very popular with the peasantry of Summer Set Shire, is given as a curious specimen of the dialect still spoken in some parts of that county. Though the song is a genuine peasant's diddy, it is heard in other circles and frequently roared out at hunting dinners. It is here reprinted from a copy communicated by Mr. Sandys. There's no pleasures can compare. We the hunting or the hare, in the morning, in the morning, in fine and pleasant weather. With our hosses and our hounds, we will scamps, it or the grounds, and sing trow huzzah, and sing trow huzzah, and sing trow brave boys, we will follow. And when poor puss arise, then away from us she flies, and will gives her boys, will gives her one thundering and loud holler. With our hosses and our hounds, we will scamps, it or the grounds, and sing trow huzzah, and sing trow huzzah, and sing trow brave boys, we will follow. And when poor puss is killed, will retires from the field, and will count boys, and will count, on the same good, when, tomorrow, with our hosses and our hounds, we will scamps, it or the grounds, and sing trow huzzah, and sing trow huzzah, and sing trow brave boys, we will follow. In of summer set shire hunting song. Section 84 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Linda Ray Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. The Trotting Horse. The common copies of this old Highwayman song are very corrupt. We are indebted for the following version, which contains several commendations to Mr. W.H. Ainsworth. The song, which may probably be referred to the age of Charles II, is a spirited specimen of its class. I can sport as fine a trotting horse as any swell in town. To trot you 14 miles an hour, I'll bet you fifty crown. He is such a one to bend his knees and tuck his haunches in, and throw the dust in people's face, and think it not a sin. For to ride away trot away, fa la la. He has an eye like any hawk, a neck like any swan, a foot like as the stags, the while his back is scarce a span. Kind nature hath so formed him, he is everything that's good. A, everything a man could wish, in bottom, bone, and blood. For to ride away trot away, refar la la. If you drop therein, he'll nod his head and boldly walk away, while others kick and bounce about, to him its only play. There never was a finer horse, or went on English ground. He is rising six years old, and is all over right and sound. For to ride away trot away, refar la la. If any frisk or milling match should call me out of town, I can pass the blades with white cockades, their whiskers hanging down. With large jack towels round their necks, they think they're first and fast. But with their gappers open wide, they find that they are last. Whilst I ride away trot away, refar la la. If three score miles I am from home, I darkness never mind. My friend is gone, and I am left, with pipe and pot behind. Up comes some saucy kitty, a scampsman on the hot. But ere he pulls the trigger, I am off, just like a shot. For I ride away trot away, refar la la. If fortune ere should fickle be, and wish to have again, that which she so freely gave, I'd give it without pain. I would part with it most freely, and without the least remorse. Only grant to me what God hath gave, my mistress and my horse, that I may ride away, trot away, refar la la. End of The Trotting Horse. Love. This very curious old song is not only a favorite with our peasantry, but in consequence of having been introduced into the modern dramatic entertainment of The Lone of a Lover has obtained popularity in higher circles. Its sweetly plaintive tune will be found in popular music. The words are quaint, but by no means wanting in beauty. They are no doubt corrupted, as we have derived them from common broadsides, the only form in which we have been able to meet with them. The author of the song was Mrs. Fleetwood Habergum of Habergum in the County of Lancaster. Ruined by the extravagance and disgraced by the vices of her husband, she soothed her sorrows, says Dr. Whitaker, by some stanzas yet remembered among the old people of her neighborhood. History of Wally. Mrs. Habergum died in 1703 and was buried at Paddyham. I sowed the seeds of love. It was all in the spring, in April, May, and June, likewise when small birds they do sing. My gardens well planted, with flowers everywhere. Yet I had not the liberty to choose for myself, the flower that I loved so dear. My gardener, he stood by. I asked him to choose for me. He chose me the violet, the lily, and pink, but those I refused, all three. The violet I forsook, because it fades so soon. The lily and the pink I did or look and I vowed I'd stay till June. In June, there's a red rosebud, and that's the flower for me. But often have I plucked at the red rosebud, till I gained the willow tree. The willow tree will twist, and the willow tree will twice. Oh, I wish I was in the dear youth's arms that once had the heart of mine. My gardener, he stood by. He told me to take great care. For in the middle of a red rosebud there grows a sharp thorn there. I told him I'd take no care till I did feel the smart, and often I plucked at the red rosebud till I pierced it to the heart. I'll make me a posy of hyssop. No other can I touch that all the world may plainly see I love one flower too much. My garden is run wild. Where shall I plant a new? For my bed that once was covered with time is all overrun with rue. End of The Seeds of Love. Section 86 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Larry Wilson. The Garden Gate. One of our most pleasing rural ditties. The air is very beautiful. We first heard it sung in Malamdale, Yorkshire, by Willie Bolton, and Old Dale's Minstrel, who accompanied himself on the Union Pipes. The day was spent. The moon shone bright. The village clock struck eight. Young Mary hastened with delight into the garden gate. But what was there that made her sad? The gate was there, but not the land, which made poor Mary say and sigh, Was ever poor girl so sad as I. She traced the garden here and there. The village clock struck nine, which made poor Mary sigh and say, You shan't, you shan't be mine. You promised to meet me at the gate at eight. You nare shall keep me, nor make me wait, For all that all such creatures see, They nare shall make a fool of me. She traced the garden here and there. The village clock struck ten. Young William caught her in his arms. No more to part again. For he'd been to buy the ring that day, And oh, he had been a long, long way. Then how could Mary cruel prove To banish the lads she so dearly did love? Up with the morning sun they rose, To church they went away, And all the village joyful were Upon their wedding day. Now and caught by Riverside, William and Mary both reside, And she blesses the night that she did wait, For her absence wane at the garden gate. End of The Garden Gate. Section 87 of ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Larry Wilson. The New Moan Hay. This song is a village version of an incident which occurred in the Cecil family. The same English adventure has, strangely enough, Been made the subject of one of the most romantic of war's Irish melodies. This, you remember Helen, the Hamlet's Pride. As I walked forth one summer's morn, Hard by a Riverside, Where yellow cowslips did adorn, The blushing field with pride, I spied a damsel on the grass, More blooming than the may. Her looks the Queen of Love surpassed Among the New Moan Hay. I said, Good morning, pretty maid, How came you here so soon? To keep my father's sheep, she said, The thing that must be done. While they are feeding among the dew To pass the time away, I sit me down to knit or sew Among the New Moan Hay. Delighted with her simple tale, I sat down by her side, With vows of love I did prevail On her to be my bride. In strains of simple melody She sung a rural lay, The little lamb stood listening by Among the New Moan Hay. Then to the church they went with speed, And Hyman joined them there, No more her use and lambs to feed, For she's a Lady Fair. A Lord he was that married her To town they came straight away. She may bless the day he spied her there Among the New Moan Hay. End of The New Moan Hay. Section 88 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the Public Domain. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen Vancouver, B.C. The Praise of a Dairy. This excellent old country song, which can be traced to 1687, Is sung to the air of Packington's Pound, For the history of which see popular music. In Praise of a Dairy I purpose to sing, But all things in order, First God save the King, And the Queen I may say, That every May-day Has many fair dairy-maids all fine and gay. Assist me, fair damsels, To finish my theme, Inspiring my fancy with strawberry cream. The first of fair dairy-maids, if you'll believe, Was Adam's own wife, our great-grandmother, Eve, Who off-milked a cow, as well, she knew how. Though butter was not then as cheap as tis now, She hoarded no butter nor cheese on her shelves, For butter and cheese in those days made themselves. In that age or time there was no horrid money, Yet the children of Israel had both milk and honey. No queen you could see of the highest degree, But would milk the brown cow with the meanest she. Their lambs gave them clothing, Their cows gave them meat, And in plenty and peace all their joys wore complete. Amongst the rare virtues that milk does produce, For a thousand of dainties is daily in use, Now a pudding of tally, and so can maid Nelly, Must have from good milk both the cream and the jelly. For a dainty fine pudding without cream or milk Is a citizen's wife without satin or silk. In the virtues of milk there is more to be mustard, O the charming delights both of cheesecake and custard. If too wakes you resort, you can have no sport, Unless you give custards and cheesecake, too, for it. And what's the jack pudding that makes us to laugh, Unless he half-god a great custard to quaff? Both pancake and fritter a milk have good store, But a Devonshire white pot must needs have much more. Of no brew you can think, though you study and wink, From the lusty sack posset to poor posset drink, But milks the ingredient, the wines nare the worse, For tis wine makes the man, though tis milk makes the nurse. Of this popular country song there are a variety of versions. The following, which is the most ancient, Is transcribed from a black letter broadside in the Roxbury collection Entitled The Milkmaid's Life or A Pretty New Diddy Composed and Pinned The Praise of the Milking Pale to Defend. To a curious new tune called The Milkmaid's Dump, It is subscribed with the initials MP, probably those of Martin Parker. You rural goddesses that woods into fields possess, Assist me with your skill that may direct my quill more Jockingly to express, the mirth and delight both morning and night On mountain or in dale, of them who choose this trade to use, And through cold dues do never refuse to carry the milking pale. The bravest lasses gay live not so merry as they, And on a civil sort they make each other sport as they Tread on their way. Come there or foul weather they're fearful of nether, Their courage is never quail, And wet and dry the winds be high, And dark to sky they never deny to carry the milking pale. Their hearts are free from care they never will despair, Whatever them befall they bravely bear out all, And fortunes frowns out there. They pleasantly sing to welcome the spring, Against heaven they never rail. If grass will grow, their thanks they show, And frost or snow they merely go, Along with the milking pale. Bass idleness they do scorn, They rise very early in the morn, And walk into the field where pretty birds do yield, Brave music on every thorn. The linnet and thrush doosing on each bush, And the dulcet nightingale, Her no-duth strain by Jock and vane, To entertain that worthy train, Which carry the milking pale. Their labour-duth health preserve, No doctors' rules they observe, While others too nice in taking their advice, Look always as though they would starve. Their meat is digested, They ne'er are molested, No sickness to them assail. Their time is spent in merriment, While limbs are lend they are content To carry the milking pale. Upon the first of May with garlands fresh and gay, With mirth and music sweet for such a season meet, They pass the time away. They dance away sorrow and all the day thorough, Their legs do never fail, For they nimbly their feet duplie, And bravely try the victory In honour of the milking pale. If anything that I do practice flattery, And seeking thus to raise the merry milkmaid's praise, I'll to them thus reply, It is their desert to inviteeth my art To study this pleasant tale, And their defence, whose innocence And providence gets honest pence, Out of the milking pale. End of The Milkmaid's Life