 19. Of ancient poems, ballads and songs of the peasantry of England. This liberal arts recording is in the public domain. Recording by Elaine Conway, England. Lord Bateman, this is a ludicrously corrupt bridgement of the ballad of Lord Biken, a copy of which will be found inserted amongst the early ballads, and edition page 144. The following grotesque version was published several years ago by Tilt London and also according to the title page by Mustafa Sirid, Constantinople, under the title of the Loving Ballad of Lord Bateman. It is however the only ancient form in which the ballad has existed in print and is one of the publications mentioned in Thackeray's catalogue, See Anti, page 20. The air printed in Tilt's edition is the one to which the ballad is sung in the south of England, but it is totally different to the northern tune which has never been published. Lord Bateman, he was a noble lord, a noble lord of high degree. He shipped himself on board a ship, some foreign country he would go see. He sailed east and he sailed west, until he came to proud Turkey, where he was taken and put to prison until his life was almost weary, and in this prison there grew a tree. It grew so stout and grew so strong, where he was chained by the middle, until his life was almost gone. This Turk he had one only daughter. The fairest creature my eyes did see, she stole the keys of her father's prison, and swore Lord Bateman she would set free. Have you got houses? Have you got lands? Or does Northumberland belong to thee? What would you give to the fair young lady that outer prison would set you free? I have got houses. I have got lands. And half Northumberland belongs to me. I'll give it all to the fair young lady that outer prison would set me free. Oh, then she took him to her father's hall. It gave to him the best of wine. And at every house she drank unto him, I wish Lord Bateman that you were mine. Now in seven years I'll make a vow, and seven years I'll keep it strong. If you're wed with no other woman, wed with no other man. Oh, then she took him to her father's harbour, and gave to him a ship of fame. Farewell, farewell to you, Lord Bateman. I'm afraid I'll near see you again. Now seven long years are gone, and past, and fourteen days, well known to thee. She packed up all her gay clothing, and swore Lord Bateman she would go see. But when she came to Lord Bateman's castle, so boldly she rang the bell. Who's there? Who's there? cried the proud porter. Who's there unto me, come tell. Oh, is this Lord Bateman's castle? Or is his lordship here within? Oh yes, oh yes, cried the young porter. He's just now taken his new bride in. Oh, tell him to send me a slice of bread, and a bottle of the best wine, and not forgetting the fair young lady, who did release him when close, confined. Away, away went this proud young porter. Away, away, and away went he. Until he came to Lord Bateman's chamber, down on his bended knees fell he. What news, what news, my proud young porter, what news hast thou bought unto me? There is the fairest of all young creatures, that ever my two eyes did see. She has got rings on every finger, and round one of them she has got three, and as much gay clothing round her middle, as would buy all Northumbaly, she bids you send her a slice of bread, and a bottle of the best wine, and not forgetting the fair young lady, who did release you when close, confined. Lord Bateman, he then, in a passion flew, and broke his sword in splinters, three, saying, I will give all my fathers riches, if Sophia has crossed the sea. Then up spoke the young bride's mother, who never was heard to speak so free. You'll not forget my only daughter, if Sophia has crossed the sea. I own I made a bride of your daughter, she's neither the better nor worse for me. She came to be with her horse and saddle. She may go back in her coach and three. Lord Bateman prepared another marriage, and sang with heart so full of glee. I'll range no more in foreign countries, now since Sophia has crossed the sea. According by Chris Pyle, the Golden Glove, or the Squire of Tamworth. This is a very popular ballad and sung in every part of England. It is traditionally reported to be founded on an incident which occurred in the reign of Elizabeth. It has been published in the broadside form from the commencement of the 18th century, but is no doubt much older. It does not appear to have been previously inserted in any collection. A wealthy young Squire of Tamworth, we hear. He courted a nobleman's daughter so fair, and for to marry her it was his intent. All friends and relations gave their consent. The time was appointed for the wedding day. A young farmer chosen to give her away. As soon as the farmer or the young lady did spy, he inflamed her heart. Oh, my heart, she did cry. She turned from the Squire, but nothing she said. Instead of being married, she took to her bed. The thought of the farmer soon run in her mind. A way for to have him, she quickly did find. Coat, whisked in britches, she did then put on. And a hunting she went with her dog and her gun. She hunted all round where the farmer did dwell. Because in her heart she did love him full well. She often times fired, but nothing she killed. At length the young farmer came into the field. And a discourse with him it was her intent. With her dog and her gun to meet him she went. I thought you had been at the wedding, she cried, to wait on the Squire, and give him his bride. Nosir said the farmer, if the truth I may tell, I'll not give her away for I love her too well. Suppose that the lady should grant you her love. You know that the Squire your rival will prove. Why then, says the farmer, I'll take sword and hand. By honour I'll gain her when she shall command. It pleased the lady to find him so bold. She gave him a glove that was floured with gold, and told him she found it when coming along, as she was hunting with her dog and her gun. The lady went home with a heart full of love, and gave out a notice that she'd lost a glove. And said, who has found it, and brings it to me, whoever he is, he my husband shall be. The farmer was pleased when he heard of the news. With heartful of joy to the lady he goes. Dear honoured lady, I've picked up your glove, and hope you'll be pleased to grant me your love. It's already granted I will be your bride. I love the sweet breath of a farmer, she cried. I'll be mistress of my dairy, and milking my cow, while my jolly brisk farmer is whistling at plow. And when she was married she told of her fun, how she went hunting with her dog and her gun. And now I've got him so fast in my snare, I'll enjoy him forever I vow and declare. End of The Golden Glove or The Squire of Tamworth Recording by Chris Pyle Section 21 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England This LibriVox recording is in the Public Domain Recording by Devora Allen King James I and the Tinkler Traditional This ballad of King James I and the Tinkler was probably written either in, or shortly after, the reign of the monarch who is the hero. The incident recorded is said to be a fact, though the locality is doubtful. By some the scene is laid at Norwood in Surrey, by others in some part of the English border. The ballad is alluded to by Percy, but is not inserted either in the Relics or in any other popular collection. It is to be found only in a few broadsides and chapbooks of modern date. The present version is a traditional one, taken down, as here given, from the recital of the late Francis King. It is much superior to the common broadside addition with which it has been collated, and from which the 13th and 15th verses were obtained. The ballad is very popular on the border, and in the Dales of Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Craven. The late Robert Anderson, the Cumbrian Bard, represents Stevie, in his song of the Clay Doben, as singing the King and the Tinkler. And now, to be brief, let's pass over the rest, who seldom or never were given to jest, and come to King Jamie, the first of our throne, a pleasanter monarch sure never was known. As he was hunting the swift fallow deer, he dropped all his nobles, and when he got clear, in hope some pass time away he did ride, till he came to an ale-house, hard by a wood-side. And there with a Tinkler he happened to meet, and him in kind-sword he so freely did greet. Pretty good fellow, what hasten thy jug, which under thy arm thou dost lovingly hug? By the mass, quote the Tinkler, it's nappy brown ale, and for to drink to thee, friend, I will not fail. For although thy jacket looks gallant and fine, I think that my tuppence as good is as thine. By my soul, honest fellow, the truth thou hast spoke. And straight he sat down with the Tinkler to joke. They drank to the king, and they pledged to each other, who'd seen him had thought they were brother and brother. As they were drinking, the king pleased to say, What news, honest fellow, come tell me, I pray. There is nothing of news beyond that I hear, the kings on the border are chasing the deer, and truly I wish I so happy may be, whilst here's a hunting the king I might see. For although I've traveled the land many ways, I never have yet seen a king in my days. The king with a hearty brisk laughter replied, I tell thee, good fellow, if thou canst but ride, thou shalt get up behind me, and I will thee bring to the presence of Jamie thy sovereign king. But he'll be surrounded with nobles so gay, and how shall we tell him from them, sir, I pray? Thou wilt easily ken him when once thou art there, the king will be covered, his nobles all bare. He got up behind him, and likewise his sack, his budget of leather and tools at his back. They rode till they came to the merry greenwood, his nobles came round him, bareheaded they stood. The tinkler then seeing so many appear, he slyly did whisper the king in his ear, saying they're all clothed so gloriously gay, but which amongst them is the king, sir, I pray? The king did with hearty good laughter reply, By my soul, my good fellow, it's thou or its I, the rest are bareheaded, uncovered all round. With his bag and his budget he fell to the ground. Like one that was frightened quite out of his wits, then on his knees he instantly gets, beseeching for mercy the king to him said, Thou art a good fellow, so be not afraid. Come tell thy name, I am John of the Dale, a mender of kettles, a lover of ale. Rise up, sir John, I will honor thee here, I make thee a knight of three thousand a year. This was a good thing for the tinkler, indeed. Then unto the court he was sent for with speed, where great store of pleasure and pastime was seen in the royal presence of king and of queen. Sir John of the Dale he has land, he has fee, at the court of the king who so happy as he. Yet still in his hall hangs the tinkler's old sack, and the budget of tools which he bore at his back. End of Section XXI. Section XXII of ancient poems, ballads and songs of the peasantry of England. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Devorah Allen. The Keech in the Creel. This old and very humorous ballad has long been a favorite on both sides of the border, but had never appeared in print till about 1845, when a Northumbrian gentleman printed a few copies for private circulation, from one of which the following is taken. In the present impression some trifling typographical mistakes are corrected, and the phraseology has been rendered uniform throughout. Keech in the Creel means the catch in the basket. A fair young May went up the street, some white fish for to buy, and a Bonnie clerks fall in love with her, and he's followed her by and by, and he's followed her by and by. Oh, where live ye my Bonnie lass, I pray thee tell to me, for again the night were ever so merc, I would come and visit thee, thee I would come and visit thee. O my father, he eyelocks the door, my mother keeps the key, and again you were ever sick a wily white, you cannot win into me, me you cannot win into me. But the clerke he had a true brother, and a wily white was he, and he has made a long letter, was thirty steps in three, was thirty steps in three. He has made a cleak butt and a creel, a creel butt and a pin, and he's away to the chimney top, and he's letting the Bonnie clerk in, in, and he's letting the Bonnie clerk in. The old wife, being not asleep, though late, late was the hour. I'll lay my life, quote the silly old wife, there's a man in our daughter's bower, bower, there's a man in our daughter's bower. The old man he got over the bed, to see if the thing was true. But she's tamed the Bonnie clerk in her arms, and covered him o'er with blue, blue, and covered him o'er with blue. Oh, where are you going now, father, she says, and where are you going so late? You've disturbed me in my evening prayers, and oh, but they were sweet, sweet, and oh, but they were sweet. Oh, ill but hide, you silly old wife, and an ill death may you day. She has the muckle book in her arms, and she's praying for you and me, me, and she's praying for you and me. The old wife, being not asleep, then something mere was said. I'll lay my life, quote the silly old wife, there's a man by our daughter's bed, bed, there's a man by our daughter's bed. The old wife she got over the bed, to see if the thing was true. But what the rack took the old wife's foot? For into the creel she flew, flew, for into the creel she flew. The man that was at the chimney top, findin' creel was full. He wrapeth her up round his left shother, and fast to him he drew, drew, and fast to him he drew. Oh, help! Oh, help! Oh, Henny, no help! Oh, help! Oh, Henny, do! For him that ye eye wished me at, he's carried me off just no, no, he's carried me off just no. Oh, if the fall thief's gotten ye, I wish he may keep his hold. For all the lee long winter night, you'll never lie in your bed, bed, you'll never lie in your bed. He's towed her up, he's towed her down, he's towed her through and through. Oh, God, assist! quote the silly old wife, for I'm just a part and no, no, for I'm just a part and no. He's towed her up, he's towed her down, he's gained her a right downfall. Till every rib in the old wife's side played knick-knack on the wall, wall, played knick-knack on the wall. Oh, the blue, the bonny, bonny blue, and I wish the blue may do well. And every old wife that's a jealous of her daughter, may she get a good keech in the creel, creel, may she get a good keech in the creel. End of section 22 Section 23 of ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of England. This Liber-Vox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. The Mary Broomfield, or the West Country wager. This Old West Country ballad was one of the broad sides printed at the Alder Mary Press. We have not met with any older impression, though we have been assured that there are black-letter copies. In Scots' ministerly of the Scottish border is a ballad called the Broomfield Hill. It is a mere fragment, but is evidently taken from the present ballad, and can be considered only as one of the many modern antiques to be found in that work. A noble young squire that loved in the West, he courted a young lady gay, and as he was Mary he put forth a jest, a wager with her he would lay. A wager with me, the young lady replied, I pray about what must it be. If I like the humor you shan't be denied, I love to be merry and free. Quote he, I will lay you a hundred pounds, a hundred pounds a and ten, that a maid if you go to the Mary Broomfield, that a maid you return not again. I'll lay you that wager, the lady, she said, then the money she flung down a main. To the Mary Broomfield I'll go a pure maid, the same I'll return home again. He covered her bet in the midst of the hall with a hundred and ten jolly pounds, and then to his servant he straight away did call, for to bring forth his hawk and his hounds. A ready obedience the servant did yield, and all was made ready or night. Next morning he went to the Mary Broomfield to meet with his love and delight. Now when he came there, having waited a while, among the green broom down he lies. The lady came to him and could not but smile, for sleep then had closed his eyes. Upon his right hand a gold ring she secured, drawn from her own fingers so fair, that when he awaked he might be assured his lady and love had been there. She left him a posy, a pleasant perfume, then stepped from the place where he lay, then hid herself close in the bison of Broom to hear what her true love did say. He wakened and found the gold ring on his hand, then sorrow of heart he was in. My love has been here, I do well understand, and this wager I now shall not win. O where was you, my goodly go-hawk, the witch I have purchased so dear? Why did you not waken me out of my sleep, when the lady my love was here? O with my bells did I ring, master, and eek with my feet did I run, and still did I cry, pray awake, master, she's here now, and soon will be gone. O where was you, my gallant gray hound, whose collar is flourished with gold? Why has thou not waken me out of my sleep, when thou didst my lady behold? Dear master, I barked with my mouth when she came, and likewise my collar I shuck, and told you that here was the beautiful dame, but no notice of me then you took. O where was thou, my serving men, whom I have clothed so fine? If you had waken me when she was here, the wager then had been mine. In the night you should have slept, master, and kept awake in the day. Had you not been sleeping when hither she came, then a maid she had not gone away. Then home he returned when the wager was lost, was sorrow of heart, I may say. The lady she laughed to find her love crossed, this was upon mid-summer day. O squire, I laid in the bushes concealed, and heard you when you did complain, and thus I have been to Mary Broomfield, and a maid returned back again. Be cheerful, be cheerful, and do not repine, for now tis as clear as the sun. The money, the money, the money is mine, the wager I fairly have won. End of The Mary Broomfield or The West Country Wager Section 24 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Sir John Barleycorn The West Country ballad of Sir John Barleycorn is very ancient, and being the only version that has ever been sung at English merry makings and country feasts, can certainly set up a better claim to antiquity than any of the three ballads on the same subject to be found in Evans's Old Ballads, Viz, John Barleycorn, The Little Barleycorn, and Mass Malt. Our West Country version bears the greatest resemblance to The Little Barleycorn, but it is very dissimilar to any of the three. Burns altered the old ditty, but on referring to his version it will be seen that his corrections and additions want the simplicity of the original, and certainly cannot be considered improvements. The common ballad does not appear to have been inserted in any of our popular collections. Sir John Barleycorn is very appropriately sung to the tune of Stingo. See popular music page 305. There came three men out of the West, their victory to try, and they obtained a solemn oath. Poor Barleycorn should die. They took a plow and plowed him in, an arrow clodged on his head, and then they took a solemn oath. Poor Barleycorn was dead. There he lay sleeping in the ground, till rain from the sky did fall. Then Barleycorn sprung up his head, and so amazed them all. There he remained till mid-summer, and looked both pale and won. Then Barleycorn he got beard, and so became a man. Then they sent men with sides so sharp to cut him off at knee, and then poor little Barleycorn they served him barbarously. Then they sent men with pitchforks strong to pierce him to the heart, and like a dreadful tragedy they bound him to a cart. And then they brought him to a barn, a prisoner to endure, and so they fetched him out again, and laid him on the floor. Then they sent men with holly clubs to beat the flesh from his bones, but the miller he served him worse than that, for he ground him between two stones. Oh, Barleycorn is the choicest grain that ever was sown on land. It will do more than any grain by the turning of your hand. It will make a boy into a man, and a man into an ass. It will change your gold into silver, and your silver into brass. It will make the huntsman hunt the fox, that never wound his horn. It will bring the tinker to the stalks, that people may him scorn. It will put sack into a glass, and clar it in the can, and it will cause a man to drink, till he neither can go nor stand. End of Sir John Barleycorn. Recording by Alan Mapstone in Oxford, England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen Vancouver, BC. Blow the winds, I ho. This North Umbrian ballad is of great antiquity, and bears considerable resemblance to the baffled knight, or lady's policy, inserted in Piercy's relics. It is not in any popular collection. In the broadside from which it is here printed, the title and chorus are given, Blow the winds, I ho. A form common to many ballads and songs, but only to those of great antiquity. Chapel, in his popular music, has an example in a song as old as 1698. Here's a health to Jolly Bacchus, I ho, I ho, I ho. In another well-known old catch, the same form appears. A pie sat on a pear tree, I ho, I ho, I ho. I ho, or, as we find it given in these lyrics, I ho, was an ancient form of acclamation or triumph on joyful occasions and anniversaries. It is common with slight variations to different languages. In the Gothic, for example, Iola signifies to be Mary. It has been supposed by some etymologist that the word yule is a corruption of I ho. There was a shepherd's son. He kept sheep on Yonder Hill. He laid his pipe and his crook aside, and there he slept his fill. And blow the winds, I ho. Sing, blow the winds, I ho. Clear away the morning dew, and blow the winds, I ho. He looked east, and he looked west. He took another look. And there he spied a lady gay, was dipping in a brook. She said, Sir, don't touch my mantle. Come, let my clothes alone. I will give you as much money as you can carry home. I will not touch your mantle. I'll let your clothes alone. I'll take you out of the water clear, my dear, to be my own. He did not touch her mantle. He let her clothes alone. But he took her from the clear water, and all to be his own. He set her on a milk-white steed, himself upon another, and there they rode along the road. Like sister and like brother. And as they rode along the road, he spied some cocks of hay. Yonder, he says, is a lovely place for men and mates to play. And when they came to her father's gate, she pulled at a ring, and ready was the pround porter for to let the lady in. And when the gates were open, this lady jumped in. She says, You are a fool without, and I'm a maid within. Good morals to you, modest boy, I thank you for your care. If you had been what you should have been, I would not have left you there. There is a horse in my father's stable. He stands beyond the thorn. He shakes his head above the trough, but dares not pry the corn. There is a bird in my father's flock. A double comb he wears. He flaps his wings and crows full loud. But a cappon's crest he bears. There is a flower in my father's garden. They call it merry gold. The fool that will not win he may, he shall not win he would. Said the shepherd's son, as he daught his shroom, My feet they shall run bare, And if ever I meet another maid, I read that maid beware. End of Blow the Winds, I owe. Section 26 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 beautiful lady of Kent, or the seaman of Dover. We have met with two copies of this genuine English ballad. The older one is without printer's name, but from the appearance of the type and the paper, it must have been published about the middle of the last century. It is certainly not one of the original impressions, for the other copy, though of recent date, has evidently been taken from some still older and better edition. In the modern broadside the ballad is in four parts, whereas in our older one there is no such express division, but a word at the commencement of each part is printed in capital letters. Part 1 A seaman of Dover, whose excellent parts, for wisdom and learning had conquered the hearts of many young damsels of beauty, so bright, of him this nudity in brief, I shall write, and show of his turnings and windings of fate, his passions and sorrows so many and great, and how he was blessed with true love at last, when all the rough storms of his troubles were passed. Now, to be brief, I shall tell you the truth. A beautiful lady whose name it was Ruth, a squire's young daughter near Sandwich in Kent, proves all his heart's treasure, his joy and content, unknown to their parents in private they meet, where many love lessons they'd often repeat. With kisses and many embraces likewise, she granted him love and thus gained the prize. She said, I consent to be thy sweet bride. Whatever becomes of my fortune, she cried. The frowns of my father I never will fear, but freely will go through the world with my dear. A jewel he gave her in token of love, and vowed by the sacred powers above, to wed the next morning, but they were betrayed, and all by the means of a treacherous maid. She told her parents that they were agreed, with that they fell into a passion with speed, and said, or a seamen their daughter should have, they rather would follow her corpse to the grave. The lady was straight to her chamber confined, here long she continued in sorrow of mind, and so did her love for the loss of his dear. No sorrow was ever so sharp and severe, when long he had mourned for his love and delight, close under the window he came in the night, and sung forth this diddy, my dearest farewell, behold in this nation no longer I dwell, I am going from hence to the kingdom of Spain, because I am willing that you should obtain your freedom what's more for my heart it will break, if longer thou liest confined for my sake. The words which he uttered they caused her to weep, yet nevertheless she was forced to keep, deep silence that minute, that minute for fear, her honored father and mother should hear. Part 2 Soon after bolt Henry he entered on board, the heavens a prosperous gale did afford, and brought him with speed to the kingdom of Spain, there he was a merchant some time did remain, who, finding that he was both faithful and just, preferred him to places of honor and trust. He made him as great as his heart could request, yet wanting his roof he with grief was oppressed, so great was his grief it could not be concealed, both honor and riches no pleasure could yield, in private he often would weep and lament, for Ruth the fair, beautiful lady of Kent. Now, while he lamented the loss of his dear, a lady of Spain did before him appear, bedecked with rich jewels both costly and gay, who earnestly sought for his favor that day. She said, gentle Swain, I am wounded with love, and you are the person I honor above, the greatest of nobles that ever was born, then pity my tears and my sorrow mourn. I pity thy sorrow tears, he replied, and wish I were worthy to make thee my bride, but lady thy grandeur is greater than mine, therefore I am fearful my heart to resign. Oh, never be doubtful of what will ensue, no matter of danger will happen to you, at my own disposal I am, I declare, receive me with love or destroy me with care. Dear Madame, don't fix your affection on me, you are fit for some lord of a noble degree that is able to keep up your honor and fame, I am but a poor sailor from England who came. A man I mean fortune, whose substance is small, I have not wherewith to maintain you with all. Sweet lady, according to honor and state, now this is the truth which I freely relate. The lady she lovingly squeezed his hand, and said with a smile, ever blessed be the land, that bread such a noble brave semen as thee, I value no honors, though art welcome to me. My parents are dead, I have jewels untold, besides in possession a million of gold, and thou shalt be lord of whatever I have, grant me but thy love which I earnestly crave. Then turning aside to himself, he replied, I am courted with riches and beauty beside. This love I may have, but my Ruth is denied, wherefore he consented to make her his bride. The lady she clothed him costly and great, his noble department both proper and straight, so charmed the innocent eye of his dove, and added a second new flame to her love, then married they were without longer delay, now here we will leave them both glorious and gay, to speak of fair Ruth who in sorrow was left at home with her parents of comfort bereft. Part 3 When under the window with an aching heart, he told his fair Ruth he soon must depart. He told his fair Ruth he so soon must depart. Her parents they heard, and well pleased they were, but Ruth was afflicted with sorrow and care. But Ruth was afflicted with sorrow and care. Now after her lover had quitted the shore, they kept her confined a fall twelve months or more, and then they were pleased to set her at large, with laying upon her a wonderful charge, to fly from a semen as she would from death, she promised she would with a faltering breath, net nevertheless the truth you shall hear, she found out a way far to follow her dear, then taking her gold and her silver also, in semen's apparel a way she did go, and found out a master with whom she agreed, to carry her over the ocean with speed. Now when she arrived at the kingdom of Spain, from city to city she traveled amain, inquiring about everywhere for her love, who now had been gone seven years and above. In Cadiz as she walked along in the street, her love and his lady she happened to meet. But in such a garb as she never had seen, she looked like an angel or beautiful queen, with sorrowful tears she turned her aside. My jewel is gone, I shall there be his bride, but nevertheless though my hopes are in vain, I'll never return to old England again. But here in this place I will now be confined, it will be a comfort and joy to my mind, to see him sometimes, though he thinks not of me, since he has a lady of noble degree. Now while in the city fair Ruth did reside, of a sudden this beautiful lady she died, and though he was in the possession of all, yet tears from his eyes in abundance did fall. As he was expressing his piteous moan, fair Ruth came unto him and made herself known. He started to see her, but seemed not coy, said he, now my sorrows are mingled with joy. The time of the morning he kept it in Spain, and then he came back to old England again. With thousands and thousands which he did possess, then glorious and gay was sweet Ruth in her dress. Part 4 When over the seas to fair sandwich he came, with Ruth and a number of persons of fame, then all did appear most splendid and gay, as if it had been a great festival day. Now when that they took up their lodgings behold, he stripped off his coat of embroidered gold, and presently borrows a mariner's suit, that he with her parents might have some dispute. Before they were sensible he was so great, and when he came in and knocked at the gate, he soon saw her father and mother likewise, expressing their sorrow with tears in their eyes. To them with obeisance he modestly said, Pray where is my jewel that innocent made? Who sweet lovely beauty doth thousands excel, I fear by your weeping that all is not well. No, no, she is gone, she is utterly lost. We have not heard of her twelve months at most. Which makes us distracted with sorrow and care, and drowns us in tears at the point of despair. I'm grieved to hear these sad tidings, he cried. Alas, honest young man, her father replied, I heartily wish she'd been wedded to you, for then we this sorrow had never gone through. Sweet Henry, he made them this answer again. I newly come home from the kingdom of Spain, from whence I have brought me a beautiful bride, and am to be married tomorrow, he cried. And if you will go to my wedding, said he, both you and your lady, right welcome shall be. They promised they would, and accordingly came, not thinking to meet with such persons of fame. Odecked with their jewels of rubies and pearls, as equal companions of lords and of earls, fair Ruth with her love was as gay as the rest, so they in their marriage were happily blessed. Now, as they returned from the church to an inn, the father and mother of Ruth did begin, their daughter to know by a mole, they behold, although she was clothed in a garment of gold. With transports of joy they flew to the bride, O, where hast thou been, sweetest daughter, they cried. Thy tedious absence has grieved us sore, as fearing alas, we should see thee no more. Dear parents, said she, many hazards I run, to fetch home my love and your dutiful son. Receive him with joy, Fortis very well known. He seeks not your wealth, he's enough of his own. Her father replied, and he merrily smiled. He's brought home enough, and he's brought home my child. A thousand times welcome you are, I declare, whose presence disperses both sorrow and care. For seven long days in feasting they spent, the bells in the steeple they merrily went, and many fair pounds were bestowed on the poor. The like of this wedding was never before. End of THE BEAUTIFUL LADY OF KENT, OR THE SEAMON OF DOVER. Section number twenty-seven 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 Berkshire Ladies' Garland, in four parts, to the tune of the Royal Forester. When we first met with this very pleasing English ballad, we deemed the story to be wholly fictitious, but strange as the relation may appear, the incidents narrated are true, or at least founded on fact. The scene of the ballad is Whitley Park, near Reading, in Berkshire, and not, as some suppose, Calcott House, which was not built till 1759. Whitley is mentioned as the Abbots Park, being at the entrance of Reading Town. At the dissolution, the estate passed to the Crown, and the mansion seems, from time to time, to have been used as a royal palace till the reign of Elizabeth, by whom it was granted, along with the estate, to Sir Francis Nollies. It was afterwards, by purchase, the property of the Kendricks, an ancient race descended from the Saxton Kings. William Kendrick, of Whitley, Armory, was created a baronet in 1679, and died in 1685, leaving issue one son, Sir William Kendrick, of Whitley, Barrister, who married Miss Mary House of Reading, and died in 1699, without issue male, leaving an only daughter. It was this rich heiress, who possessed store of wealth and beauty bright, that is the heirloom of the ballad. She married Benjamin Child Esquire, a young and handsome, but very poor attorney of Reading, and the marriage is traditionally reported to have been brought about exactly as related in the ballad. We have not been able to ascertain the exact date of the marriage, which was celebrated in St. Mary's Church, Reading. The bride wearing a thick veil, but the ceremony must have taken place sometime about 1705. In 1714 Mr. Child was High Sheriff of Berkshire, as he was an humble and obscured personage previously to his espousing, the heiress of Whitley, and in fact owed all his wealth and influence to his marriage. It cannot be supposed that immediately after his union he would be elevated to so important and dignified a post. As the high chivalry of the very aristocratical county of Berks, we may therefore consider nine or ten years to have elapsed betwixt his marriage and his holding the office of High Sheriff, which he filled when he was about thirty-two years of age. The author of the ballad is unknown, supposing him to have composed it shortly after the events which he records. We cannot be far wrong in fixing his date about 1706. The earliest broadside we have seen contains a rudely executed, but by no means bad likeness of Queen Anne, but the reigning monarch at that period. Part 1. Showing Cupid's Conquest over a Coy Lady of Five Thousand a Year Bachelors of every station mark this strange and true relation which in brief to you I bring never was a stranger thing. You shall find it worth the hearing. Loyal love is most endearing. When it takes the deepest route, yielding charms and gold to boot, some will wed for love of treasure, but the sweetest joy and pleasure is in faithful love, you'll find, grace with a noble mind. Such a noble disposition had this lady with submission, of whom I this sonnet write, store of wealth and beauty bright. She had left by a good granum four five thousand pounds per annum, which she held without control, thus she did in riches' role. Though she had vast store of riches, which some persons much be witches, yet she bore a virtuous mind, not the least to pride incline. Many noble persons courted, this young lady, Tis reported, but their labour proved in vain, they could not her favour gain. Though she bade a strong resistance, yet by Cupid's true assistance, she was conquered after all. How it was, declare I shall, being at a noble wedding, near the famous town of Redding, a young gentleman she saw, who belonged to the law. As she viewed his sweet behaviour, every courteous carriage gave her, new addition to her grief, forced she was to seek relief. Privately she then inquired about him so much admired. Both his name and where he dwelt, such was the hot flame she felt. Then at night this youthful lady called her coach, which, being ready, homeward straight she did return, but her heart with flames did burn. Part 2 Showing the lady's letter of a challenge to fight him upon his refusing to wed her in a mask without knowing who she was. Night and morning for a season, in her closet would she reason with herself, and often said, Why has love my heart betrayed? I, that have so many slighted, am at length so well requited, for my griefs are not a few. Now I find what love can do. He that has my heart in keeping, though I for his sake be weeping, little knows what grief I feel, but I'll try it out with steel, for I will a challenge send him, and a point where I'll attend him, in a grove without delay, by the dawning of the day. He shall not the least discover that I am a virgin lover, by the challenge which I send, but for justice I contend. He has caused sad distraction, and I come for satisfaction, which if he denies to give, one of us shall cease to live. Having thus her mind revealed, she her letter closed and sealed, which, when it came to his hand, the young man was at a stand. In her letter she conjured him, for to meet, and well assured him, recompense he must afford, or dispute it with the sword. Having read this strange relation, he was in, a consultation, but advising with his friend, he persuades him to attend. Be of courage, and make ready. Faint heart never one fair lady, in regard it must be so, I along with you must go. Showing how they met by appointment in a grove, where she obliged him to fight or wed her. Early on a summer's morning, when bright Phobias was adorning every bower with his beams, the fair lady came, it seems, at the bottom of a mountain near a pleasant crystal fountain. There she left her gilded coach, while the grove she did approach, covered with her mask, and walking. There she met her lover talking, with a friend that he had brought, so she asked him who he thought. I am challenged by a gallant who resolves to try my talent, who he is, I cannot say, but I hope to show him play. It is I that did invite you, you shall wed me, or I'll fight you, underneath those spreading trees, therefore choose, you which you please. You shall find I do not vapor, I have brought my trusty rapier, therefore take your choice, said she, either fight or marry me. Said he, Madam pray what mean you, in my life I've never seen you, pray unmask your visage show, then I'll tell you a or no. I will not my face uncover, till the marriage ties are over, therefore choose you which you will, wed me, sir, or try your skill. Step within that pleasant bower, with your friend one single hour, strive your thoughts to reconcile, and I'll wander here the while. While this beauteous lady waited, the young bachelors debated, what was best for to be done, both his friend the hazard run. If my judgment can be trusted, wed her first, you can't be worsted, if she's rich you'll rise to fame, if she's poor why you're the same. He consented to be married, all three in a coach were carried, to a church without delay, where he wed the lady gay. Those sweet pretty cupids hovered, round her eyes her face was covered, with a mask he took her thus, just for better or for worse. With a courteous kind behavior she presents his friend a favor, and with all dismissed him straight, that he might no longer wait. Part 4 Showing how they rode together in her gilded coach, to her noble seat, or castle, etc. As the gilded coach stood ready, the young lawyer and his lady, rode together till they came, to her house of state and fame, which appeared like a castle, where you might behold a parcel, of young cedars tall and straight, just before her palace gate. And in hand they walked together, to a hall, or parlor rather, which was beautiful and fair, all alone she left him there. Two long hours there he waited, her return, at length he fretted, and began to grieve at last, for he had not broke his fast. Still he sat, like one amazed, round a spacious room he gazed, which was richly beautified, but alas he lost his bride. There was peeping, laughing, sneering, all within the lawyer's hearing, but his bride he could not see. What I were at home, thought he. While his heart was melancholy, said the steward, brisk and jolly, tell me, friend, how came you here? You some bad design, I fear. He replied, dear loving master, you shall meet with no disaster. Through my means, in any case, madam brought me to this place. Then the steward did retire, saying that he would inquire, whether it was true or no. Nair was lover, hampered so. Now the lady who had filled him with those fears, for well beheld him, from a window, as she dressed, pleased at the merry jest. When she had herself attired in rich robes to be admired, she appeared in his sight like a moving angel bright. Sir, my servants have related. How some hours you have waited. In my parlor, tell me who. In my house, you ever knew. Madam, if I have offended, it is more than I intended. A young lady brought me here. That is true, said she, my dear. I can be no longer cruel, to my joy, and only jewel. Thou art mine, and I am thine. Hand and heart, I do resign. Once I was a wounded lover, now these fears are fairly over, by receiving what I gave, Thou art Lord of what I have. Beauty, honor, love, and treasure, a rich golden stream of pleasure. With his lady he enjoys, thanks to Cupid's kind decoys. Now he's clothed in rich attire, not inferior to a squire. Beauty, honor, riches store. What can a man desire more? End of The Berkshire Ladies' Garland Section 28 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 Nobleman's Generous Kindness Giving an account of a nobleman who, taking notice of a poor man's industrious care and pains for the maintaining of his charge of seven small children, met him upon a day, and, discoursing with him, invited him and his wife and his children home to his house, and bestowed upon them a farm of thirty acres of land, to be continued to him and his heirs for ever, to the tune of the two English travelers. This still popular ballad is entitled in the modern copies, The Nobleman and Thrasher, or The Generous Gift. There is a copy preserved in the Roxborough collection with which our version has been collated. It is taken from a broadside printed by Robert Marchbank in the Custom House Entry, Newcastle. A nobleman lived in a village of late, hard by a poor thrasher whose charge it was great, for he had seven children and most of them small, and not but his labor to support them with all. He never was given to idle and lurk, for this nobleman saw him go daily to work, with his flail and his bag and his bottle of beer, as cheerful as those that have hundreds a year. Thus careful and constant each morning he went, unto his daily labor with joy and content, so jocular and jolly he'd whistle and sing, as blithe and as brisk as the birds in the spring. When morning this nobleman taking a walk, he met this poor man and he freely did talk. He asked him at first many questions at large, and then began talking concerning his charge, Thou hast many children I very well know, Thy labor is hard and Thy wages are low, and yet Thou art cheerful, I pray tell me true, how can you maintain them as well as you do? I carefully carry home what I do earn, my daily expenses by this I do learn, and find it is possible, though we'd be poor, to still keep the ravenous wolf from the door. I reap and I mow and I harrow and sow, sometimes a hedging and ditching I go, no work comes amiss, for I thrash and I plow, thus my bread I do earn by the sweat of my brow. My wife she is willing to pull in a yoke, we live like two lambs, nor each other provoke, we both of us strive like the laboring ant, and do our endeavors to keep us from want. And when I come home from my labor at night, to my wife and my children in whom I delight, to see them come round me with prattling noise, now these are the riches a poor man enjoys. Though I am as weary as weary may be, the youngest I commonly dance on my knee, I find that content is a moderate feast, I never repine at my lot in the least. Now the noble man hearing what he did say, was pleased and invited him home the next day, his wife and his children he charged him to bring, in token of favor he gave him a ring. He thanked his honor and taking his leave, he went to his wife, who would hardly believe, but this same story himself he might raise, yet seeing the ring she was lost in a maze. Be times in the morning the good wife she arose, and made them all fine in the best of their clothes, the good man with his good wife and children small, they all went to dine at the nobleman's hall. But when they came there, as truth does report, all things were repaired in a plentiful sort, and they at the nobleman's table did dine with all kinds of dainties and plenty of wine. The feast being over he soon let them know, that he then intended on them to bestow a farmhouse with thirty good acres of land, and gave them the writings then with his own hand. Because thou art careful and good to thy wife, I'll make thy days happy the rest of thy life. It shall be for ever for thee and thy heirs, because I be held thy industrious cares. No tongue then is able in full to express the depth of their joy and true thankfulness, with many a curtsy and bow to the ground, such nobleman there are but few to be found. End of THE NOBLEMAN'S GENERUS KINDNESS. First, giving an account of a gentleman having a wild son, and who, for seeing he would come to poverty, had a cottage built with one door to it, always kept fast. And how, on his dying bed, he charged him not to open it till he was poor and slighted, which the young man promised he would perform. Secondly, of the young man's pawning his estate to a vintner, who, when poor, kicked him out of doors. When thinking at time to see his legacy, he broke open the cottage door, where instead of money he found a gibbet and halter, which he put round his neck, and jumping off the stool, the gibbet broke, and a thousand pounds came down upon his head, which lay hidden the ceiling. Thirdly, of his redeeming his estate, and fooling the vintner out of two hundred pounds, who, for being jeered by his neighbors, cut his own throat. And lastly, of the young man's reformation. Very proper to be read by all who are given to drunkenness. Percy, in the introductory remarks to the ballad of The Air of Lin, says, The original of this ballad, The Air of Lin, is found in the editor's folio manuscript, the breaches and defects of which rendered the insertion of supplemental stanzas necessary. These it is hoped the reader will pardon, as, indeed, the completion of the story was suggested by a modern ballad on a similar subject. The ballad thus alluded to by Percy is the drunkard's legacy, which, it may be remarked, although styled by him a modern ballad, is only so comparatively speaking, for it must have been written long interior to Percy's time, and, by his own admission, must be older than the latter portion of The Air of Lin. Our copy is taken from an old chapbook, without Data Printer's name, and which is decorated with three rudely executed woodcuts. Young people all, I pray, draw near, and listen to my diddy here, which subject shows that drunkenness brings many mortals to distress. As, for example, now I can, tell you of one, a gentleman, who had a very good estate, his earthly travails they were great. We understand he had one son, who a lewd wicked race did run. He daily spent his father's store when moneyless he came for more. The father often times with tears would this alarm sound in his ears. Son, thou dost all my comfort blast, and thou wilt come to want at last. The son did these words little mind, to cards and dice he was inclined, feeding his drunken appetite in taverns, which was his delight. The father, ere it was too late, he had a project in his fate, before his aged days were run to make provision for his son. Near to his house, we understand, he had a waste-plat of land, which did but little profit-healed on which he did a cottage-build. The wise man's project was its name. There were few windows in the same. Only one door, substantial thing, shut by a lock, went by a spring. Soon after he had played this trick it was his lot for to fall sick, as on his bad he did lament, then for his drunken son he sent. He shortly came to his bedside, seeing his son he thus replied, I have sent for you to make my will, which you must faithfully fulfill. In such a cottage is one door, narrow open it, do thou be sure, until thou art so poor, that all do then despise you, great and small. For to my grief I do perceive, when I am dead, this life you live, will soon melt all thou hast away. Do not forget these words, I pray. When thou hast made thy friends thy foes, pond all thy lands, and sold thy clothes, break up the door, and there depend to find something thy griefs to end. This being spoke, the son did say, your dying words I will obey. Soon after this his father, dear, did die, and buried was, we hear. PART 2 Now pray observe the second part, and you shall hear his satish heart. He did the tavern so frequent, till he three hundred pounds had spent. This being done we understand he pond the deeds of all his land, unto a tavernkeeper who, when poor, did him no favour show. For to fulfill his father's will he did command this cottage still. At length great sorrow was his share, quite moneyless, with garments bare. Being not able for to work, he and the tavern there did lark, from box to box among rich men, who often times reviled him then. To see him sneak so up and down, the ventner on him he did frown, and one night kicked him out of door, trudging him to come there no more. He and a stall did lie all night, in this most sad and wretched plight. Then thought it was high time to see his father's promise legacy. Next morning then, oppressed with woe, this young man got an iron crow, and as in tears he did lament, unto this little cottage went. When he the door had opened got, this poor, distressed drunken sought, who did for store of money hope, he saw a gibbet and a rope. Under this rope was placed a stool, which made him look just like a fool, crying, Alas, what shall I do? Destruction now appears in view. As my father foresaw this thing, what satishness to me would bring, as moneyless and free of grace his legacy I will embrace. So then, oppressed with discontent, upon the stool he sighing went, and then his precious life to check did place the rope about his neck. Crying, Thou God, who sits down high and on my sorrow casts an eye, Thou knowest that I have not done well, preserve my precious soul from hell. Tis true the sighting of Thy grace has brought me to this wretched case, and as through folly I am undone, I will now eclipse my morning sun. When he, with sighs these words had spoke, jumped off and down the gibbet broke, and falling as it plain appears, dropped down about this young man's ears. In shining gold a thousand pound, which made the blood his ears surround. Though in amaze he cried, I'm sure this golden soul of the sore will cure. Blessed be my father then, he cried, who did this part for me so hide, and while I do a lie remain, I never will get drunk again. PART 3 Now by the third part you will hear this young man as it doth appear, with care he then secured his chink and to the Vintners went to drink. When the proud Vintner did him see, he frowned on him immediately, and said, Be gone, or else with speed, I'll kick thee out of doors indeed. Smiling, the young man he did say, Thou cruel knave, tell me I pray, as I have here consumed my store, how dost thee kick me out of door? To me thou's been too severe. The deeds of eight score pounds a year, I ponder them for three hundred pounds that I spent here. What makes such frowns? The Vintner said unto him, Serah, bring me one hundred pounds to-morrow, by nine o'clock take them again, so get you out of doors till then. He answered, If this chink I bring, I fear that will do no such thing. He said, I'll give under my hand a note, that I to this will stand. Having the note away he goes, and straight way went to one of those that made him drink when moneyless, and did the truth to him confess. They both went to this heap of gold, and in a bag he fairly told a thousand pounds, ill yellow boys, until the tavern went their ways. This bag lay on the table set, making the Vintner for to fret. He said, Young man, this will not do, for I was but ingest with you. So then bespoke the young man's friend, Vintner, thou mayest sure to pin'd, in law this note to will you cast, and he must have his land at last. This made the Vintner to comply. He fetched the deeds immediately. He had one hundred pounds, and then the young man got his deeds again. At length the Vintner began to think how he was fooled out of his chink. Said, when tis found how I came off, my neighbors will me game and scoff. So to prevent their noise and clatter, the Vintner, he, to mend the matter, in two days after it doth appear, did cut his throat from ear to ear. Thus he untimely left the world, that to this young man proved a churl. Now he who followed drunkenness, lives sober, and death lands possess. Instead of wasting of his store as formerly, resolves no more to act the same, but does indeed relieve all those that are in need. Let all young men now, for my sake, take care how they such havoc make, for drunkenness you plain may see, had like his ruin for it to be. End of The Drunkard's Legacy Section 30 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Bose Tragedy Being a true relation of the lives and characters of Roger Wrightson and Martha Railton of the town of Bose in the county of York who died for love of each other in March 1714 or 1715. Tune of Queen Dido The Bose Tragedy is the original of Mallet's Addition and Emma. In these verses are preserved the village record of the incident which suggested that poem. When Mallet published his ballad, he subjoined an attestation of the facts which may be found in Evans' Old Ballads, Volume 2, Page 237, Addition 1784. Mallet alludes to the statement in the parish registry of Bose that, quote, they both died of love and were buried in same grave, end quote, etc. The following is an exact copy of the entry, as transcribed by Mr. Denim, 17 April 1847. The words which we have printed in brackets are found interlined in another and at later hand by some person who had inspected the register, quote, Roger Wrightson, Jr., and Martha Railton, both of Bose, buried in one grave. He died in a fever and upon tolling his passing bell, she cried out, My heart is broke and in a few hours expired, purely, or supposed, through love, March 15th, 1714 or 1715, aged about 20 years each, end quote. Mr. Denim says, quote, The Bose tragedy was, I understand, written immediately after the death of the lovers by the then master of Bose Grammar School, his name I never heard. My father, who died a few years ago, aged nearly 80, knew a younger sister of Martha Railton's, who used to sing it to strangers passing through Bose. She was a poor woman, advanced in years, and had brought her in many a piece of money, end quote. Let Carthage Queen be now no more the subject of our mournful song, nor such old tales, which heretofore did so amuse the teeming throng, since the sad story which I'll tell, all other tragedies excel. Remote in Yorkshire, near to Bose of late, did Roger Wrightson dwell. He courted Martha Railton, whose repute for virtue did excel, yet Roger's friends would not agree that he to her should married be. Their love continued one whole year, full sore against their parents' will, and when he found them so severe, his loyal heart began to chill. And last Shrove Tuesday took his bed with grief and woe encompassed. Thus, he continued twelve days' space in anguish, and in grief of mind, and no sweet peace in any case this ardent lover's heart could find, but languished in a train of grief, which pierced his heart beyond relief. Now, anxious Martha, sore distressed, a private message did him send, lamenting that she could not rest till she had seen her loving friend. His answer was, nay, nay, my dear, our folks will be angry, I fear. Full fraught with grief, she took no rest, but spent her time in pain and fear till a few days before his death, she sent an orange to her dear. But, cruel mother, in disdain did send the orange back again. Three days before her lover died, poor Martha, with a bleeding heart to see her dying lover hide in hopes to ease him of his smart, where she's conducted to the bed in which this faithful young man laid, where she with doleful cries beheld her fainting lover in despair, at which her heart with sorrow filled, small was the comfort she had there, though his mother showed her great respect, his sister did her much reject. She stayed two hours with her dear, in hopes for to declare her mind, but Hannah Ritzen stood so near, no time to do it could she find, so that, being almost dead with grief, away she went without relief. Tears from her eyes did flow amane, and she full oft would sighing say, my constant love, alas, is slain, and to pale death become a prey. Oh Hannah, Hannah thou art base, thy pride will turn to foul disgrace. She spent her time in godly prayers, and quiet rest did from her fly. She to her friends full oft declares that she could not live if he did die. Thus she continued till the bell began to sound his fatal knell. And when she heard the dismal sound, her godly book she cast away with bitter cries would pierce the ground. Her fainting heart began to decay. She to her pensive mother said, I cannot live, now he is dead. Then after three short minutes space as she, in sorrow groaning lay, a gentleman did her embrace, and mildly unto her did say, dear melting soul, be not so sad, but let your passion be elade. Her answer was, my heart is burst, my span of life is near and end, my love from me by death is forced, my grief no soul can comprehend. Then her poor heart it waxed faint when she had ended her complaint. For three hours space, as in a trance this broken heart had creature lay, her mother wailing her mischance to pacify her did a say, but all in vain, for strength being passed, she seemingly did breathe her last. Her mother, thinking she was dead, began to shriek and cry a mane and heavy lamentations made, which called her spirit back again, to be an object of hard fate and give to grief a longer date. Distorted with convulsions, she in dreadful manner gasping lay of 12 long hours, no moment free. Her bitter groans did her dismay. Then her poor heart being sadly broke, submitted to the fatal stroke. When things were to this issue brought, both in one grave were to be laid, but flinty hearted Hannah, thought by stubborn means for to persuade their friends and neighbors from the same, for which she surely was to blame. And being asked the reason why, such base objections she did make, she answered thus scornfully in words not fit for Billingsgate, she might have taken fairer on or else be hanged. Oh, heart of stone, what hell-born fury had possessed by vile inhuman spirit thus? What swelling rage was in thy breast that could occasion this disgust and make the show such spleen and rage which life can't cure, nor death assuage? Sure, some of Satan's minor imps ordained were to be thy guide, to act the part of sordid pimps and fill thy heart with haughty pride. But take this caveat once for all, such devilish pride must have a fall. But when to church the corpse was brought, and both of them met at the gate, what mournful tears by friends were shed when, that alas, it was too late, when they in silent grave were laid, instead of pleasing marriage bed. You parents, all both far and near, buy this sad story, warning take, nor to your children be severe when they their choice in love do make. Let not the love of cursed gold true lovers from their love withhold. End of the Bose tragedy. Section 31 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The crafty lover or the lawyer outwitted. Tune of I Love Thee More and More. This excellent old ballad is transcribed from a copy printed in the Aldermary Churchyard. It still continues to be published in the old broadside form. Of a rich counselor I write, who had one only daughter, who was of youthful beauty bright, now mark what follows after. Her uncle left her I declare a sumptuous large possession, her father he was to take care of her at his discretion. She had ten thousand pounds a year and gold and silver ready, and courted was by many a peer, yet none could gain this lady. At length the squire's youngest son in private came a wooing, and when he had her favor one he feared his utter ruin. The youthful lady straightway cried, I must confess I love thee, though lords and knights I have denied, yet none I prize above thee. Thou art a jewel in my eye, but here said she the care is. I fear you will be doomed to die, for stealing of an heiress. The young man he replied to her like a true politician. Thy father is a counselor. I'll tell him my condition. Ten guineas they shall be his fee he'll think it is some stranger. Thus for the gold he'll counsel me and keep me safe from danger. Unto her father he did go the very next day after, but did not let the lawyer know the lady was his daughter. Now when the lawyer saw the gold that he should be the gainer, a pleasant trick to him he told with safety to obtain her. Let her provide a horse, he cried, and take you up behind her, then with you to some parson ride before her parents find her, that she steals you you may complain and so avoid their fury. Now this is law I will maintain before or judge your jury. Now take my writing and my seal which I cannot deny thee, and if you any trouble feel in court I will stand by thee. I give you thanks, the young man cried, by you I am befriended, and to your house I'll bring my bride after the work is ended. Next morning ere the day did break this news to her he carried. She did her father's counsel take and they were fairly married, and now they felt but ill at case and doubts and fears expressing. They home returned and on their knees they asked their father's blessing. But when he had beheld them both he seemed like one distracted, and vowed to be revenged on oath for what they now had acted. With that bespoke his new-made son there can be no deceiving, that this is law which we have done, here is your hand and sealing. The counselor did then reply, was ever man so fitted, my hand and seal I can't deny, by you I am outwitted. Ten thousand pounds a year in store she was left by my brother, and when I die there will be more for child I have no other. She might have had a lord or knight from royal loins descended, but since thou art her heart's delight I will not be offended, if I the Gordian not should part were cruel out of measure, enjoy thy love with all my heart in plenty peace and pleasure. END OF THE CRAFTY LOVER TREDITIONAL We have seen an old printed copy of this ballad, which was written probably about the date of the event it records, 1537. Our version was taken down from the singing of a young gypsy girl to whom it had descended orally through two generations. She could not recollect the whole of it. In Miss Strickland's lives of the Queens of England we find the following passage. An English ballad is extant, which, dwelling on the elaborate mourning of Queen Jane's ladies, informs the world in a line of pure bathos. In black were her ladies, and black were their faces. Miss Strickland does not appear to have seen the ballad to which she refers, and as we are not aware of the existence of any other ballad on the subject, we presume that her line of pure bathos is merely a corruption of one of the ensuing verses. Queen Jane was in Travay for six weeks or more, till the woman grew tired, and feign would give or, a woman, a woman, good wives, if ye be, go send for King Henry and bring him to me. King Henry was sent for, he came with all speed, in a gown of green velvet, from heel to the head. King Henry, King Henry, if kind Henry ye be, send for a surgeon and bring him to me. The surgeon was sent for, he came with all speed, in a gown of black velvet, from heel to the head. He gave her rich coddle, but the death sleep slept she. Then her right side was opened, and the babe was set free. The babe it was christened, and put out, and nursed, while the royal Queen Jane she lay cold in the dust. So black was the morning, and white were the wands. Yellow, yellow the torches, they bore in their hands. The bells they were muffled, and mournful did play, while the royal Queen Jane she lay cold in the clay. Six knights and six lords bore her corpse through the grounds. Six dutes followed after, in black mourning gowns. The flower of Old England was laid in cold clay, while the royal King Henry came weeping away. End of The Death of Queen Jane. Section 33 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 Wandering Young Gentlewoman, or Catskin. The following version of this ancient English ballad has been collated with three copies. In some editions it is called Catskin's Garland, or The Wandering Young Gentlewoman. The story has a close similarity to that of Cinderella, and is supposed to be of Oriental origin. Several versions of it are current in Scandinavia, Germany, Italy, Poland, and Wales. For some account of it see Pictorial Book of Ballads 2, page 153, edited by Mr. J.S. Moore. Part 1 You fathers and mothers and children also, draw near unto me and soon you shall know the sense of my diddy, and I dare to say the likes not being heard of this many a day. The subject which to you I am to relate, it is of a young squire of vast estate, the first dear infant his wife did him bear, it was a young daughter of beauty most rare. He said to his wife, had this child been a boy, to would have pleased me better and increased my joy. If the next be the same sort, I declare, of what I possessed it shall have no share. In twelve months time after this woman we hear, had another daughter of beauty most clear, and when that he knew it was but a female, into a bitter passion he presently fell. Saying, since this is of the same sort as the first, in my habitation she shall not be nursed. Pray that her be sent into the country, for where I am truly this child shall not be. With tears his dear wife unto him did say, Husband be contented, I'll send her away. Then to the country was speed her did send, for to be brought up by one was her friend. Although that her father he hated her so, he a good education on her did bestow, and with a gold locket and robes of the best this slighted young damsel was commonly dressed, and when unto stature this damsel was grown, and found from her father she had no love shown, she cried, before I will lay under his frown, I am resolved to travel the country around. But now mark good people the cream of the jest, in what sort of manner this creature was dressed. With cat skins she made her a robe, I declare, the witch for her covering she daily did wear, her own witch attire and jewels beside, then up in a bundle by her they were tied, and to seek her fortune she wandered away, and when she had traveled a cold winter's day. In the evening tide she came to a town, where at a night's door she sat herself down, for to rest herself, who was tired soar, this noble night's lady then came to the door. This fair creature seeing in such sort of dress, the lady unto her these words did express, whence camest thou, girl, and what wouldest thou have? She said, a night's rest in your stable, I crave. The lady said to her, I'll grant thy desire, come into the kitchen and stand by the fire. Then she thanked the lady and went in with haste, and there she was gazed on from highest to least, and being well warmed her hunger was great, they gave her a plate of good food for to eat, and then to an outhouse this creature was led, where with fresh straw she soon made her a bed, and went in the morning the daylight she saw, her riches and jewels she hid in the straw, and being very cold she then did retire into the kitchen and stood by the fire. The cook said, my lady hath promised that thee shall be as a Skolian to wait upon me, what sayest thou, girl, art thou willing to bid? With all my heart's truly, to him, she replied, to work at her needle she could very well, and for raising of paste few could her excel. She being so handy, the cook's heart did win, and then she was called by the name of cat's skin. Part 3. The lady a son had both calmly and tall, who oftentimes used to be at a ball, a mile out of town and one evening tied, to dance at this ball away he did ride. Cat's skin said to his mother, pray madame, let me, go after your son now, this ball for to see. With that in a passion this lady she grew, and struck her with the ladle and broke it in two. On being thus served she quick got away, and in her rich garments herself did array, and then to this ball she with speed did retire, where she danced so bravely that all did admire. The sport being done the young squire did say, young lady where do you live? Tell me, I pray. Her answer was to him, sir, that I will tell, at the sign of the broken ladle I dwell. She being very nimble got home first, to said, and in her cat's skin rose she soon was arrayed, and into the kitchen again she did go, but where she had been they did none of them know. Next night this young squire, to give him content, to dance at this ball again forth he went. She said, pray let me go this ball for to view, then she struck with the skimmer and broke it in two, then out of the doors she ran full of heaviness, and in her rich garments herself soon did dress, and to this ball ran away with all speed, where to see her dancing all wondered indeed. The ball being ended the young squire said, where is it you live? She again answered, sir, because you ask me account I will give, at the sign of the broken skimmer I live. Being dark when she left him she homeward did high, and in her cat's skin robes she was dressed presently, and into the kitchen amongst them she went, but where she had been they were all innocent. When the squire dame home and found cat's skin there he was in a maze and began for to swear. For two nights at the ball has been a lady, the sweetest of beauties that ever I did see. She was the best dancer in all the whole place, and very much like our cat's skin in the face. Had she not been dressed in that costly degree I should have sworn it was cat's skin's body. Next night to the ball he did go once more, and she asked his mother to go as before, who, having a basin of water in hand, she threw it at cat's skin as I understand. Shaking her wet ears out of doors she did run, and dressed herself when this thing she had done. To the ball once more she then went her ways, to see her fine dancing they all gave her praise, and having concluded the young squire said he, from whence might you come pray lady tell me, her answer was sir you shall soon know the same from the sign of the basin of water I came then homeward she hurried as fast as could be this young squire then was resolved to see where to she belonged and followed cat's skin into an old straw house he saw her creep in he said oh brave cat's skin I find it is thee who these three nights together has so charmed me though the sweetest of creatures my eyes error beheld with joy and content my heart is now filled though art our cook's skullion but as I have life grant me but thy love and I'll make thee my wife and thou shalt have maids for to be at thy call sir that cannot be I've no portion at all thy beauty's a portion my joy and my dear I prize it far better than thousands a year and to have my friends consent I have got a trick I'll go to my bed and fain myself sick there no one shall tend me but thee I profess so one day or another in thy richest dress though shalt be clad and if my parents come nigh I'll tell them tith for thee that sick I do lie part four thus having consulted this couple parted next day this young squire he took to his bed and when his dear parents this thing both perceived for fear of his death they were right sorely grieved to tend him they sent for a nurse speedily he said none but catskin my nurse now shall be his parents said no son he said but she shall or else I'll have none for to nurse me at all his parents both wondered to hear him say thus that no one but catskin must be his nurse so then his dear parents their son to content up into his chamber poor catskin they sent sweet cordials and other rich things were prepared which between this young couple were equally shared and when all alone they in each other's arms enjoyed one another in love's pleasant charms and at length on a time poor catskin to said in her rich attire again was a raid and when that her his mother to the chamber do near then much like a goddess did catskin appear which caused her to stare and thus for to say what young lady is this come tell me I pray he said it is catskin for whom sick I lie and except I do have her with speed I shall die his mother then hasten to call up the night who ran up to see this amazing great sight he said is this catskin we held in such scorn I near saw a finer dame since I was born the old night he said to her I pray thee tell me from whence thou didst come and of what family then who were her parents she gave them to know and what was the cause of her wandering so the young squire he cried if you will save my life pray grant this young creature she may be my wife his father replied thy life for to save if you have agreed my consent you may have next day with great triumph and joy as we hear there were many coaches came far and near then much like a goddess dressed in rich array catskin was married to the squire that day for several days this wedding did last where was many a topping and gallant repast and for joy the bells rung out all over the town and bottles of canary rolled merrily round when catskin was married her fame for to raise who saw her modest carriage they all gave her praise thus her charming beauty the squire did win and who lives so great now as he and catskin part five now in the fifth part I'll endeavor to show how things with her parents and sister did go her mother and sister of life are bereft and now all alone the old squire is left who hearing his daughter was married so brave he said in my noodle a fancy I have dressed like a poor man now a journey I'll make and see if she on me some pity will take then dressed like a beggar he went to her gate where stood his daughter who looked very great he cried noble lady a poor man I be and am now forced to crave charity with a blush she asked him from whence that he came and with that he told her and likewise his name she cried I'm your daughter whom you slighted so yet nevertheless to your kindness I'll show through mercy the Lord hath provided for me pray father come in and sit down then said she then the best provisions the house could afford for to make him welcome was set on the board she said you are welcome feed heart he I pray and if you are willing with me you shall stay so long as you live then he made this reply I only am come now by love for to try through mercy my dear child I'm rich and not poor I have gold and silver enough now in store and for this love which at thy hands I have found for thy portion I give thee ten thousand pound so in a few days after as I understand this man he went home and sold off all his land and ten thousand pounds to his daughter did give and now all together in love they do live in love the wandering young gentlewoman or cat's skin