 Section 34 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 Brave Earl, Brand, and the King of England's Daughter. This ballad, which resembles the Danish ballad of Rebolt, was taken down from the recitation of an old fiddler in Northumberland. In one verse there is a hiatus owing to the failure of the reciter's memory. The refrain should be repeated in every verse. Oh, did you ever hear of the Brave Earl, Brand? He, lily, whole lily lay. His courted the King's Daughter, O' Fair England. I, the Brave Knights, so early. She was scarcely fifteen years that tied, When, say boldly, she came to his bedside. O Earl, Brand, how fiend would I see? A pack of hounds let loose on the lee. O fair lady, I have no steed but one. But thou shalt ride, and I will run. O Earl, Brand, but my father has two, And thou shalt have the best of though. Now they have ridden o'er moss and more, And they have met neither rich nor poor, Till at last they met with old Carl Hood. He's a for ill and never for good. Now, Earl, Brand, and ye love me, Slay this old Carl and gar him thee. O Lady Fair, but that would be fair, To slay an old Carl that wears gray hair. My own fair lady, I'll do not that. I'll pay him his fee. O, where have ye ridden this lee, Langde, And where have ye stoned this fair lady away? I have not ridden this lee, Langde, Nor yet have I stoned this lady away, For she is, I trow, my sick sister, Whom I have been bringing for a Winchester. If she's been sick and nigh to dead, What makes her wear the ribbon so red? If she's been sick and like to die, What makes her wear the gold say hi? When came the Carl to the ladies yet, He rudely, rudely, wrapped there at. Now, where is the lady of this hall? She's out with her maids, a-playing at the ball. Ha, ha, ha, ye are all mistaken. Ye may count your maidens, or again. I met her far beyond the lee, With the young Earl Brand, his leemen, to be, Her father of his best men, arm fifteen, And there ridden after them Bedeen. The lady looked o'er her left shoulder, then, Says, O Earl Brand, we are both of us taken. If they come on, me, one by one, You may stand by till the fights be done. But if they come on me, one and all, You may stand by and see me fall. They then came upon him, one by one, Till fourteen battles he had won. And fourteen men he has them slain, Each after each upon the plain. But the fifteenth man behind stole round, And dealt him a deep and a deadly wound. Though he was wounded to the dead, He set his lady on her steed. They rode till they came to the river dune, And there they lighted to wash his wound. O Earl Brand, I see your heart's blood, It's nothing but the glint and my scarlet hood. They rode till they came to his mother's yet, So faint and feebly he wrapped there at. O my son slain he is falling to swoon, And it's all for the sake of an English loon. O say not so, my dearest mother, But marry her too, my youngest brother. To a maiden true he'll give his hand. Hey lily, ho lily, lally! To the king's daughter, O fair England, To a prize that was won by a slain brother's brand. I the brave knights, so early! End of poem, the brave Earl Brand, And the king of England's daughter. A jovial hunter, a bromsgrove, But amongst the peasantry of that county And the adjoining county of Warwick, It has always been called The Old Man and His Three Sons. The name given to a fragment of the ballad Still used as a nursery song in the north of England, The chorus of which slightly varies from that ballad. See post, page 250. The title of The Old Man and His Three Sons Is derived from the usage of calling a ballad after the first line, A practice that has descended to the present day. In Shakespeare's comedy of, As You Like It, There appears to be an allusion to this ballad, Lobo says, There comes an old man and his three sons. To which, seal your replies, I could match this beginning with an old tale. Whether the jovial hunter belongs to either Worcestershire or Warwickshire is rather questionable. The probability is that it is a north country ballad Connected with the family of Bolton, Of Bolton in Wensleydale. A tomb said to be that of Sir Rialus Bolton, The jovial hunter is shown in Bromsgrove Church, Worcestershire. But there is no evidence beyond tradition To connect it with the name or deeds of any Bolton. Indeed it is well known that the tomb belongs To a family of another name. In the following version are preserved Some of the peculiarities of the Worcestershire dialect. Old Sir Robert Bolton had three sons, Windwell, Thy Horngood Hunter, And one of them was Sir Rialus, For he was a jovial hunter. He ranged all round down by the wood side. Windwell, Thy Horngood Hunter, Till in a treetop a gay lady he spied, For he was a jovial hunter. What does the mean-fair lady said he? Windwell, Thy Horngood Hunter, The wild boar has killed my lord And has thirty men gored, And thou beest a jovial hunter. What shall I do, this wild boar, For to see? Windwell, Thy Horngood Hunter, O thee blow a blast, and he'll come unto thee, As thou beest a jovial hunter. Then he blowed a blast Full north, east, west, and south. Windwell, Thy Horngood Hunter, And the wild boar then heard him Full in his den, as he was a jovial hunter. Then he made the best of his speed unto him, Windwell, Thy Horngood Hunter, Swift flew the boar with his tusk smeared with gore, To Sir Rialus the jovial hunter. Then the wild boar being so stout And so strong, Windwell, Thy Horngood Hunter, Thrashed down the trees as he ramped him along To Sir Rialus the jovial hunter. Oh, what dost they want of me? Wild boar said he, Windwell, Thy Horngood Hunter, Oh, I think in my heart I can do enough for thee, For I am the jovial hunter. Then they fought four hours in a long summer day, Windwell, Thy Horngood Hunter, Till the wild boar feign Would have got him away from Sir Rialus, The jovial hunter. Then Sir Rialus draw'd his broad sword with might, Windwell, Thy Horngood Hunter, And he fairly cut the boar's head off quite, For he was a jovial hunter. Then out of the wood the wild woman flew, Windwell, Thy Horngood Hunter, Oh, my pretty spotted pig thou hast slew For thou beest a jovial hunter. There are three things I demand them of thee, Windwell, Thy Horngood Hunter, Windwell, Thy Horn, and thy hound, And thy gay lady as thou beest a jovial hunter. If these three things thou dost ask of me, Windwell, Thy Horngood Hunter, It's just as my sword and thy neck can agree, For I am a jovial hunter. Then into his long locks the wild woman flew, Windwell, Thy Horngood Hunter, Till she thought in her heart to tear him through, Though he was a jovial hunter, Then Sir Rialus draw'd his broad sword again, Windwell, Thy Horngood Hunter, And he fairly split her head into twain, For he was a jovial hunter. In Bromsgrove Church the night he doth lie, Windwell, Thy Horngood Hunter, And the wild boar's head is pictured thereby, Sir Rialus, the jovial hunter. End of The Jovial Hunter of Bromsgrove, Or The Old Man and His Three Sons Recording by Stephen Harvey. Section 36 of Ancient Poems, Ballads and Songs of the Peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Lady Alice. This old ballad is regularly published by the stall printers. The termination resembles that of Lord Lovell and other ballads. See, early ballads, annotated edition page 134. An imperfect traditional copy was printed in notes and queries. Lady Alice was sitting in her bower window at midnight, Mending her coiff, And there she saw as fine a corpse as she ever saw in her life. What bear ye? What bear ye ye six men tall? What bear ye on your shoulders? We bear the corpse of Giles Collins, An old and true lover of yours. O lay him down gently, ye six men tall, All on the grass so green, And tomorrow when the sun goes down, Lady Alice a corpse shall be seen. And bury me in St. Mary's church all for my love so true, And make me a garland of marjoram and of lemon thyme and rue. Giles Collins was buried all in the east, Lady Alice all in the west, And the roses that grew on Giles Collins' grave, They reached Lady Alice's breast. The priest of the parish, He chanted to pass, And he severed those roses in twain. Sure never were seen such true lovers before, Nor ere will there be again. End of Lady Alice. This very curious ballad, all more properly, Metrical Romance, was originally published By the late Dr. Whitaker in His History of Craven, From an ancient manuscript which was supposed to be unique. Whitaker's version was transferred to Evans' Old Ballads, The editor of which work introduced Some judicious conjectural emendations. In reference to this republication, Dr. Whitaker inserted the following note In the second edition of His History. This tale, Safe My Manuscript, Was known of old to a few families only, And by them held so precious That it was never entrusted to the memory of the son Till the father was on his deathbed. But times are altered, For since the first edition of this work, A certain bookseller, the late Mr. Evans, Has printed it verbatim, With little acknowledgement to the first editor. He might have recollected that The felon Soa had been already reclaimed Property vested. However, as he is an ingenious and deserving man, This hint shall suffice. History of Craven, second edition, London, 1812. When Sir Walter Scott published his poem of Rockaby, Dr. Whitaker discovered that the felon Soa Was not of such exceeding rarity As he had been led to suppose, For he was then made acquainted with the fact That another manuscript of the unique ballad Was preserved in the archives of the Rockaby family. This version was published by Scott And added its superior to that printed by Whitaker, And it must undoubtedly be admitted to be more complete, And, in general, more correct. It has also the advantage of being authenticated By the traditions of an ardent family, While of Dr. Whitaker's version, We know nothing more than it was printed From a manuscript in his possession. The readings of the Rockaby manuscript, however, Are not always to be preferred, And in order to produce as full and accurate a version Of the materials would yield, The following text has been founded upon A careful collation of both manuscripts. A few alterations have been adopted, But only when the necessity for them Appeared to be self-evident, And the orthography has been rendered Tolerably uniform. For there is no good reason Why we should have Soa, Sho, and Syke in some places, And more modern forms of Sao, Shi, and such in others. If the manuscripts were correctly transcribed, Which we have no ground for doubting, They must both be referred to a much later period Than the era when the author flourished. The language of the poem is that of Craven in Yorkshire, And although the composition is acknowledged On all hands to be one of the reign of Henry VII, The provincialisms of that most interesting Mountain district have been so little affected By the spread of education, That the Felon Soa is, at the present day, Perfectly comprehensible to any Craven peasant, To such a reader neither note nor glossary is necessary. Dr. Whitaker's explanations are, therefore, Few and brief, for he was thoroughly acquainted With the language and the district. Scott, on the contrary, who knew nothing of the dialect And confounded its pure Saxon with his lowland scotch, Gives numerous notes, which only display His want of the requisite local knowledge, And are, consequently, calculated to mislead. The Felon Soa belongs to the same class Of composition as The Hunting of the Hare, Reprinted by Weber, and the Tournament of Tottenham, In Percy's Relief. Scott says that the comic romance Was a sort of parody upon the usual Subjects of minstrel poetry. This idea may be extended, For the old comic romances were in many instances Not merely sorts of parodies, But real parodies on compositions Which were popular in their day, Although they have not descended to us. We certainly remember to have met An old chivalric romance in which The leading incidents were similar To those of the Felon Soa. It may be observed also, in reference To this poem, that the design is twofold, The ridicule being equally aimed At the minstrels and the clergy. The author was, in all probability, A follower of Wycliffe. There are many sly, satirical allusions To the Romish faith and practices In which no Orthodox Catholic Would have ventured to indulge. Ralph Rochabee, who gave the sow To the Franciscan friars of Richmond, Is believed to have been the Ralph Who lived in the reign of Henry VII. Tradition represents the Baron As having been a fellow of infinite jest, And the very man to bestow So valuable a gift on the convent. The mistress Rochabee of the ballad Was, according to the pedigree of the family, A daughter and heiress of Danby of Yafforth. Friar Theobald cannot be traced, And therefore we may suppose That the monk had some other name. The minstrel author, albeit a Wycliffe, Not thinking it quite prudent, perhaps, To introduce a priest in propria persona. The story is told with spirit, And the verse is graceful and flowing. Fit the first. Ye men that will of aunters win That, late within this land hath been, Of on I will yow tell. And of a soar that was sea-strang, Alas, that ever shall lived sea-lang, For fell-folk did show well. Show was mere than other three, The grizliest beast that ere moat be. Her head was great and gray. Show was bred in Rochabee wood. There were few that dither ewed, But came b'live away. Her walk was endlang greta-side. Was no barn that culled her bide That was for heaven or hell. A never man that had that might Ever durst come in her sight, For force it was sea-fell. Rafe of Rochabee, with full gold will, The freers of Richmond have give her till, For well to guard them bare. For your middle-tone, by name, He was sent to fetch her home, It raewed him, sign-fulls ere. With him took he white men, too. Peter of Dale was on of, though. Tother was Brian of Bear. That welder striked with swerd and knife, And fight full manly for their life, What time as musters were. These three men wended at their will, This wicked sewer, Gwihil, they came till, Liggend under a tree. Rugged and rustic was her hair, She'll raise up with a felon fair, To fight again the three. Grizli was show for to meet, She'll rave the earth up with her feet, The bark came for the three. When freer middle-tone her saw, Wet you well, he list not laugh, Full unustful looked he. These men of ancestors were so white, They bound them boldly for to fight, And strike at her full sere. Until a kiln they guarded her flee, Wold God send them the victory, They would ask him na mea. The sewer was in the kiln-hoil dune, And they were on the bokeh boon, For hurting of their feet. They were sea-salted with this sewer, That mangbem was a stalwart stowa. The kiln began to reap, Durs no man nigh her with his hand, But put a rape down with a wand, And helped her full meet. They hauled her forth again her will, Conil they came until a hill, A little for the street. And there she'll made them psych-afray, As had they lived until Domestay, They couldn't ne'er forget, She'll braided upon every side, And ran on them gaping full wide, For nothing waltz she'll let. She'll gaff psych-hard braids at the band That Peter of Dale had in his hand, He might not hold his feet. She'll chase at them, see to and fro, The white men never wear, say woe, Their measure was not meet. She'll bound her boldly to abide, To Peter of Dale she'll come aside, With money a hideous yell. She'll gate sea-wide, and cried, See he the freer say, I conjure thee thou art a fiend of hell, Thou art combed hyder for some train, I conjure thee to go again, Where thou was want to dwell. He's sane at him with cross and creed, Took forth the book, began to read, In St. Johann his gospel. The summer show would not Latin here, But rudely rushered at the freer That blinked all his blee. And when show-walt had taken hold, The freer let as I ate chess-walt, And bealed him with a tree, She was brim as any bear, For all their meat to labour there, To them it was no boot. On tree and bush that by her stood, She avenged her as show-walt would, And rave them up by hoot. He said, Alas, that I were freer, I shall be hugged asunder here, Hard as my destiny. Whist my brethren in this hour, That I was set in psychostour, They would pray for me. This wicked beast that dropped the wool, Took that rape from the other two, And then they fled all three. They fled away by Wattling Street, They had no sucker but their feet, It was the mayor pity. The field it was both lost and won, The sewer went home, and that fell soon, To Morton on the green. When Rafe of Rokabee saw the rape, He whist that there had been debate, Whereat the sewer had been. He bade them stand out of her way, For a show had had a sudden fray, I saw never sewer see keen, Some new thingies shall we hear, Of her and Middletown the freer, Some battle hath there been. But all that served him for naught, Had they not better sucker sought, They were served therefore low. Then Mistress Rokabee came on on, And for her brought show meatful soon, The sewer came her on too. She gave her meat upon the flower, She made a bed beneath a bower, With moss and broom besprint, The sewer was gentle as moat be, Nairage, n' air flashed fra her e, Show seam-a-dwell content. Fit the second. When freer Middletown come home, His breaders were full, Fane ill-chone, And thanked God for his life. He told them all unto the end, How he had fought on with a fiend, And lived through Mickelstife. We gave her battle half a day, And was fain to flee away For saving of our life. And Peter Dale would never blend, But ran as fast as he could wring, Till he came till his wife. The warden said, I am fo' woe that yow should be torment so, But we had with yow been. Had we been there, yow breaders all, We woe'd have guard the war-low fall, That watcher all this team. Thru your Middletown, he said soon, Nay, in faith ye woe'd have run away When most mistail had been. Ye all can spake saft words at home, The fiend woe'd ding yow dune ill-chon, And hit be all's I wean. He looked, say, grisly all that night. The warden said, Yon man woe' fight if ye say art but good. Yon guest hath grieve at him, see sore, Hold your tongues and speak no more. He looks as he were woe'd. The warden waged on the morn, Two boldest men that ever were born, I wane, or ere shall be. Tone was Gilbert Griffin's song. Full Mickelworship had he won, Both by land and sea. Tother a bastard son of Spain, Money as Sarazan had he slain, His dint had guard them die. They smen the battle undertook, Again the silver, as seeth the boat, And sealed security, That they should boldly bide, And fight and scumfit her in main and might, For therefore should they die. The warden sealed to them again, And said, if ye in field be slain, Condition make eye. We shall for yow pray, sing and read, Until domus day, with hearty speed, With all our progeny. Then the letters were well made, The bonds were bound with seals' braid, As deeds of arms should be. These men at arms that were, say, Bright, and with their armor burnished bright, They went the sour tossy. Show made at them psychorore, That for her they fear it soar, And almost bound to flee. Show come running them again, And saw the bastard son of Spain, He braided out his brand, Full spitiously at her he strike, Yet for the fence that he cold make, Show strike it, throw his hand, And rave a sander, half his shield, And bare him backward in the field, He mount not her gain stand. Show would have riven his privilege gear, But Gilbert with his sweard of war, He strike at her full strang. In her showther he held the sweard, Then was Gilbert soar afield, When the blade back in twang, And one in hand he had hath tain, Show took him by the showther bane, And held her hold full fast. Show strays he stiffly in that store, Show bit through all his rich armor, Till blood come out at last, Then Gilbert grieve it was he said, That he rave off the hide of hair, The flesh cam for the bane, And with force he held her there, And won her worthily in war, And banned her him alone, And lift her on a horse see he, In two two panniers made of a tree, And till Richmond anon. When they saw the felon come, They sang merrily te deum, The freers ev'ric one. They thanketh God and Saint Francis, That they had won the beast of Pris, And ne'er a man was slain. There never did man war man lay, Than night maroon horsergy, Nor louie of lathrain. If yah will any more of this, Is the fray aray at Richmond, written it is, In parchment good and fine, How freer Middletown see hen'd, At Greta Bridge conjured a fiend, In likeness of a swine. It is well known to many a man, That freer Theobald was warden ban, And this fell in his time. And Christ, aim bless, both fair and ne'er, All that for soulless this doe here, And him that made the rhyme, Rafe of Rokabee would fool God will, The freers of Richmond gathered till, This soul to mend their fair. Freer Middletown, by name, He would bring the felon home, That rewed him both there. End of the Felon Sower of Rokabee, And the freers of Richmond. Recording by Stephen Hardy. Section 38 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. Arthur O. Bradley's Wedding. In the ballad, called Robin Hood, His birth, breeding, valor, and marriage, Occurs the following line, And some singing Arthur O. Bradley. Antiquaries are by no means agreed As to what is the song of Arthur O. Bradley, There alluded to, for it so happens, That there are no less than three different songs About the same Arthur O. Bradley. Ritzen gives one of them in his Robin Hood, Commencing thus, See you not pierce the piper. He took it from a black letter copy In a private collection, Compared with, and very much corrected by, A copy contained in an antidote Against melancholy, made up in pills Compounded of witty ballads, jovial songs, And Mary catches, 1661. Ritzen quotes another, And apparently much more modern song On the same subject, And to the same tune beginning, All in the merry month of May. It is a miserable composition, As may be seen by referring to a copy Preserved in the third volume of the Rocksboro Ballads. There is another song, the one given by us, Which appears to be as ancient as any of those, Which Arthur O. Bradley is the hero, And from its subject being a wedding, And also from its being the only Arthur O. Bradley song That we have been enabled to trace in broadside, And chapbooks of the last century, We are induced to believe it may be The song mentioned in the Old Ballad, Which is supposed to have been written In the reign of Charles I, An obscure music publisher, Who about thirty years ago resided in the Metropolis, Brought out an edition of Arthur O. Bradley's wedding, With the prefix written by Mr. Taylor. This Mr. Taylor was, however, Only a low comedian of the day, And the ascribed authorship was a mere trick On the publisher's part to increase The sale of the song. We are not able to give any account of the hero, But from his being alluded to by so many Of our old writers, he was perhaps Not altogether a fictitious personage. Ben Johnson names him in one of his plays, And he is also mentioned in Decker's Honest War. Of one of the tunes mentioned in the song, The hence melancholy, we can give no account. The other mad mole may be found In Playford's Dancing Master, 1698. It is the same tune as the one known By the names of Yellow Stockings And the Virgin Queen. The latter title seeming to connect it With Queen Elizabeth, as the name of mad mole Does with the history of Mary, Who was subject to mental aberration. The words of mad mole are not known to exist, But probably consisted of some fulsome Pantygyric on the Virgin Queen At the expense of her unpopular sister. From the mention of hence melancholy And mad mole, it is presumed That they were both popular favourites When Arthur O'Bradley's wedding was written. A good deal of vulgar grossness Has been at different times Introduced into this song, Which seems in this respect To be as elastic as the French chanson Which is always being altered And of which there are no two copies alike. The tune of Arthur O'Bradley Is given by Mr. Chappell In his popular music. Come, neighbours, and listen a while If ever you wish to smile Or hear a true story of old Attend to what I now unfold Tis of a lad whose fame did resound Through every village and town around For fun, for frolic, and for whim None ever was to equal him. And his name was Arthur O'Bradley. Oh, rare Arthur O'Bradley. Wonderful Arthur O'Bradley. Sweet Arthur O'Bradley. Now Arthur being stout and bold And near upon thirty years old He needs a woeing wood-go To get him a help-mate, you know. So gaining young Dolly's consent Next to be married they went. And to make himself noble up here He mounted the old padded mare. He chose her because she was blood. And the prime of his old daddy's stud. She was wind-gulled, spavined, and blind. And had lost a near leg behind. She was cropped, and docked, and fired. And seldom, if ever, was tired. She had such an abundance of bone. So he called her his high-bread ron. A credit to Arthur O'Bradley. Oh, rare Arthur O'Bradley. Wonderful Arthur O'Bradley. Sweet Arthur O'Bradley. Oh. Then he packed up his drudgery hose. And put on his holiday clothes. His coat was of scarlet, so fine. Full-trimmed with buttons behind. To sleeves it had, it is true. One yellow, the other was blue. And the cuffs and the capes were of green. And the longest that ever were seen. His hat, though greasy and tore. Cocked up with a feather before. And under his chin it was tied. With a strip from an old cow's hide. His breeches three times had been turned. And two holes through the left side were burned. Two boots he had, but not kin. One leather, the other was tin. And for stirrups he had to pattern rings. Tied fast to the girth with two strings. Yet he wanted a good saddle cloth. Which long had been eaten by the moth. Twas a sad misfortune, you say. But still he looked gallant and gay. And his name it was Arthur O'Bradley. O rare Arthur O'Bradley. Wonderful Arthur O'Bradley. Sweet Arthur O'Bradley. Oh. Thus accoutred away he did ride. While dolly she walked by his side. To coming up to the church door. In the midst of five thousand or more. Then from the old mare he did a light. Which put the clerk in a fright. And the parson so fumbled and shook. That presently down dropped his book. Then Arthur began for to sing. And made the whole church to ring. Crying dolly my dear come hither. And let us be tacked together. For the honor of Arthur O'Bradley. O rare Arthur O'Bradley. Wonderful Arthur O'Bradley. Sweet Arthur O'Bradley. Oh. Then the vicar discharged his duty. Without either reward or fee. Declaring no money he'd have. And poor Arthur he'd none to give. So to make him a little amends. He invited him home with his friends. To have a sweet kiss at the bride. And eat a good dinner beside. The dishes though few were good. And the sweetest of animal food. First a roast guinea pig. And a bantam. The sheep's head stewed in a lathorn. To cas feet and a bull's trotter. The fore and hind leg of an otter. With crawfish, cockles, and crabs. Lumpfish, limpets, and dabs. Red herring and sprouts by dozens. To feed all their uncles and cousins. Who seemed well pleased with their treat. And heartily they did all eat. For the honor of Arthur O'Bradley. Oh. Rare Arthur O'Bradley. Wonderful Arthur O'Bradley. Sweet Arthur O'Bradley. Oh. Now the guests being well satisfied. The fragments were laid on one side. When Arthur, to make their hearts merry. Brought ale and parken and parry. When Timothy Twig stepped in. With his pipe and a pipkin of gin. A lad that was pleasant and jolly. And scorned to meet Melancholy. He would chant and pipe so well. No youth could him excel. Not pan the god of the swains. Could ever produce such strains. But Arthur, being first in the throng. He swore he would sing the first song. And one that was pleasant and jolly. And that he should be hence Melancholy. Now give me a dance. Quoth Dahl. Come Jeffrey play up Mad Mall. Tis time to be merry and frisky. But first I must have some more whiskey. Oh. You're right. Says Arthur. My love. My daffy down dilly. My love. My everything. My wife. I ne'er was so pleased in my life. Since my name it was Arthur O'Bradley. Oh rare Arthur O'Bradley. Wonderful Arthur O'Bradley. Sweet Arthur O'Bradley. Oh. Then the piper he screwed up his bags. And the girls began shaking the rags. First up jumped old mother crew. Two stockings and never a shoe. Her nose was crooked and long. Which she could easily reach with her tongue. And a hump on her back she did not lack. But you should take no notice of that. And her mouth stood all awry. And she never was heard to lie. For she had been dumb from her birth. So she nodded consent to the mirth. For honor of Arthur O'Bradley. Oh rare Arthur O'Bradley. Wonderful Arthur O'Bradley. Sweet Arthur O'Bradley. Oh. Then the parson let off at the top. Some danced while others did hop. While some ran foul of the wall. And others down backwards did fall. There was lead up and down figure in. For hands across then back again. So in dancing they spent the whole night. Till bright Phoebus appeared in their sight. When each had a kiss of the bride. And hopped home to his own fireside. Well pleased was Arthur O'Bradley. Oh rare Arthur O'Bradley. Wonderful Arthur O'Bradley. Sweet Arthur O'Bradley. Oh. End of Arthur O'Bradley's Wedding. Section 39 of Ancient Poems and Ballads in Songs of the Peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Larry Wilson. The Painful Plot. This is one of our oldest agricultural ditties and maintains its popularity to the present hour. It is called for at merry-making and feasts in every part of the country. The tune is in the minor key and of a pleasing character. Come all you jolly plumb and of courage stout and bold that labor all the winter in stormy winds and cold. To clothe the fields with plenty your farm yards to renew. To ground them with contentment behold the painful plow. Hold plowmen, said the gardener. Don't count your trade with ours. Walk through the garden and view the early flowers. Also the curious border and pleasant walks go view. There's none such peace and plenty performed by the plow. Hold, gardener, said the plowmen. My calling don't despise each man for his living upon his trade we lies, where not for the plowmen both rich and poor would rue, for we are all dependent upon the painful plow. Adam in the garden was sent to keep it right, but the length of time he stayed there, I believe it was one night. Yet of his own labor, I call it not his due, soon he lost his garden and went to hold the plow. For Adam was a plowman when plowing first begun, the next that did succeed him was Cain, the eldest son. Some of the generation this calling now pursued, that bread may not be wanting, remains the painful plow. Samson was the strongest man, and Solomon was wise. Alexander Ford to conquer was all his daily prize. King David was valiant and many thousands slew, yet none of these brave heroes could live without the plow. Behold the wealthy merchant that trades in foreign seas and brings home gold and treasure for those who live at ease, with fine silks and spices and fruits also too. They are brought from the Indies by virtue of the plow, for they must have bread, biscuits, rice pudding, flour and peas to feed the jolly sailors as they sell over the seas, and the man that brings them will own to what is true. He cannot sail the ocean without the painful plow. I hope there's none offended at me for singing this, for it is not intended for anything amiss. If you consider rightly, you'll find what I say is true, for all that you can mention depends upon the plow. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. The Useful Plow, or The Plow's Praise. The common editions of this popular song inform us that it is taken from an old ballad, alluding probably to the dialogue given at page 44. This song is quoted by Farkor. A country life is sweet in moderate cold and heat to walk in the air how pleasant and fair in every field of wheat, the fairest of flowers adorning the bowers and every meadows brow. To that I say, no courtier may compare with they who clothe in gray and follow the Useful Plow. They rise with the morning lark and labor till almost dark, then folding their sheep they hasten to sleep while every pleasant park. Next morning is ringing with birds that are singing on each green tender bow. With what content and merriment their days are spent, whose minds are bent to follow the Useful Plow. The gallant that dresses fine and drinks his bottles of wine were he to be tried, his feathers of pride which deck and adorn his back are tailors and mercers and other mandrassers for which they do done them now but Ralph and Will no compters fill for tailor's bill or garment still but follow the Useful Plow. There are hundreds without remorse, some spend to keep dogs and horse who never would give as long as they live not two pants to help the poor. Their wives are neglected and harlots respected, this grieves the nation now but tis not so with us they go where pleasures flow to reap and mow and follow the Useful Plow. End of the Useful Plow or the plows praise. Section 41 of ancient poems, ballads and songs of the peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Farmer's Son This song, familiar to the dwellers of the Dales of Yorkshire was published in 1729 in the Vocal Miscellany a collection of about four hundred celebrated songs. As the Miscellany was merely an anthology of songs already well known the date of this song must have been sometime anterior to 1729. It was republished in the British musical Miscellany or the Delightful Grove, 1796 and in a few other old song books. It was evidently founded on an old black-letter dialogue preserved in the Roxborough collection called a mad kind of wooing or a dialogue between will, the simple, and nan, the subtle. With their loving argument to the tune of the new dance at the Red Bull Playhouse printed by the Assignees of Thomas Simcock. Sweet Nelly, my heart's delight be loving and do not slight the proffer I make for modesty's sake I honour your beauty bright for love I profess I can do no less thou hast my favour won and since I see your modesty I pray agree and fancy me though I'm but a farmer's son. No, I am a lady gay tis very well known I may have men of renown in country or town so, Roger, without delay Court, Bridget, or Sue, Kate, Nancy, or Prue their loves will soon be won but don't you dare to speak me fair as if I were at my last prayer to marry a farmer's son. My father has riches stored two hundred a year and more besides sheep and cows, carts, arrows, and plows his age is above three score and when he does die then merrily I shall have what he has won both land and kind all shall be thine if thou wilt incline and wilt be mine and marry a farmer's son. A fig for your cattle and corn your preferred love I scorn tis known very well my name is Nell and you're but a bumpkin born well since it is so away I will go and I hope no harm is done Farewell, Edger, I hope to woo as good as you and win her too though I'm but a farmer's son. Be not in such haste, quote she perhaps we may still agree for man I protest I was but ingest come pretty sit down by me for thou art the man that verily can win me if ere I'm won both straight and tall, gentile with all therefore I shall be at your call to marry a farmer's son. Dear lady, believe me now I solemnly swear and bow no lords in their lives take pleasure in wives like fellows that drive the plow for whatever they gain with labour and pain they don't with to harlots run as courtiers do I never knew a London bow that could outdo a country farmer's son end of a farmer's son section 42 of ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of England this LibriVox recording is in the public domain the farmer's boy Mr. Denham of Piercebridge who communicates the following says there is no question that the farmer's boy is a very ancient song it is highly popular amongst the north country lads and lasses the date of the composition may probably be referred to the commencement of the last century when they're prevailed amongst the ballad-mongers a great rage for farmer's sons plowboys, milkmaids, farmer's boys, etc, etc the song is popular all over the country and there are numerous printed copies ancient and modern the son had set behind yon hills across yon dreary moor weary and lame a boy there came up to a farmer's door can you tell me if any there be that will give me employ to plow and sow and reap and mow and be a farmer's boy my father is dead and mother is left with five children great and small and what is worse for mother still I'm the oldest of them all though little I'll work as hard as a Turk if you'll give me employ to plow and sow and reap and mow and be a farmer's boy and if that you won't me employ one favor I have to ask will you shelter me till break of day from this cold winter's blast at break of day I'll trudge away elsewhere to seek employ to plow and sow and reap and mow and be a farmer's boy come try the lad the mistress said let him no further seek oh do dear father the daughter cried while tears ran down her cheek he'd work if he could so tis hard to want food and wander for employ don't turn him away but let him stay and be a farmer's boy and when the lad became a man the good old farmer died if the lad the farm he had and his daughter for his bride the lad that was the farm now has oft smiles and thinks with joy of the lucky day he came that way to be a farmer's boy end of the farmer's boy section 43 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. Richard of Taunton Dean or Dumbledome Deary this song is very popular with the country people in every part of England but more particularly with the inhabitants of the counties of Somerset Devon and Cornwall the chorus is peculiar to country songs of the west of England there are many different versions the following one communicated by Mr. Sandys was taken down from the singing of an old blind fiddler who says Mr. Sandys used to accompany it on his instrument in an original humorous manner a representative of the old ministerals the air is in popular music in Halliwell's nursery rhymes of England there is a version of this song called Richard of Dalton Dale last New Year's Day as I've heard say young Richard he mounted his dapple gray and he trotted along to Taunton Dean to court the parson's daughter Jean Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Dee with butt skin breeches shoes and hoes and Dicky put on his Sunday clothes likewise a hat upon his head all be daubed with ribbons red Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Dee young Richard he rode without dread or fear till he came to the house where lived his sweet dear when he knocked and shouted and bellowed hello be the folks at home say a or no Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Dee a trusty servant let him in that he his courtship might begin young Richard he walked along the great hall and loudly for a mistress Jean Jean they call Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Dee Miss Jean she came without delay to hear what Dicky had got to say is pose you know me mistress Jean I'm honest Richard of Taunton Dean Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Dee I'm an honest fellow although I be poor and I never was in love a four my mother she bid me come here for to woo and I can fancy none but you Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Dee suppose that I would be your bride pray how would you for me provide for I can neither so nor spin pray what will your days work bring in Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Dee why I can plow and I can so and sometimes to the market go with Gaffer Johnson straw or hay and yearn my nine pence every day Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Dee nine pence a day will never do for I must have silks and satins too nine pence a day won't buy us meat at Zooks said dick I Zach of wheat Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Dee besides I have a house hard buy tis all my own when mommy do die if thee and I were married now odds I'd feed thee as fat as my father's old cow Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Dee dicks compliments did so delight they made the family laugh outright young Richard took huff and no more would say he kicked up old Dobbin and trotted away Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Deary Dumbledome Dee in of Richard of Taunton Dean or Dumbledome Dreary section 44 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 wooing song of a yeoman of Kent's song the following song is the original of a well-known and popular Scottish song I hay laid a herring in salt las gin ye low me tell me now I hay brewed a four pit o' mouth and I cannot come eek a day to woo there are modern copies of our Kentish wooing song but the present version is taken from Melissa Madda musical fancies fitting the court city and country two three four and five voices London printed by William Stansby for Thomas Adams 1611 the tune will be found in popular music one page 90 the words are in the Kentish dialect each have house and land in Kent and if you'll love me love me now two pence half penny is my rent each cannot come every day to woo two pence half penny is his rent and he cannot come every day to woo each am my father's eldest son my mother eat doth love me well for each Kent bravely clout my shun and each full well can bring a bell for he can bravely clout his shun and he full well can bring a bell my father he gave me a hug my mother she gave me a zow each have a good father dwells thereby and he on me bestowed a plow he has a good father dwells thereby and he on him bestowed a plow when time each gave thee a paper of pins another time a todry lace and if thou wilt not grant me love in truth each die before thy face and if thou wilt not grant his love in truth he'll die before thy face each have been twice our witson lord each have had ladies many there and each though hast my heart in hold and in my mind seems passing rare and each though hast his heart in hold and in his mind seems passing rare each will put on my best white slop and each will wear my yellow hose and on my head a good grey hat and into each stick a lovely rose and on his head a good grey hat and into each stick a lovely rose wherefore cease off make no delay and if you'll love me love me now or else each seek some other where for each cannot come every day to woe or else he'll seek some other where for he cannot come every day to woe end of wooing song of a yeoman of Kent's song section 45 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 clown's courtship this song on the same subject as the proceeding is as old as a rain of Henry the 8th the first verse says Mr. Chapel being found elaborately set to music in a manuscript of that date the air is given in popular music page 87 wilt thou have me I pray thee now wilt and I'lls marry with thee my cow my calf my house my wrents and all my lands and tenements O say my Joan will not that do I cannot come every day to woe I've corn and hay in the barn hard buy up in the stye I have a mare and she is cold black I ride on her tail to save my back O say my Joan will not that do I cannot come every day to woe I have a cheese upon the shelf and I cannot eat it all myself I three good marks that lie in a rag in the nook of the chimney instead of a bag O say my Joan will not that do I cannot come every day to woe to marry I would have thy consent but faith I never could compliment I can say not but hoi ji ho words that belong to the cart and the plow O say my Joan will not that do I cannot come every day to woe end of the clowns courtship section 46 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. this old ditty in its incidents bears a resemblance to Dumbledum Deary see anti page 149 it used to be a popular song in the Yorkshire Dales we have been obliged to supply a hiatus in the second verse and to make an alteration in the last where we have converted the red nose person of the original into a squire Harry courted modest Mary Mary was always brisk and airy Harry was country neat as could be but his words were rough and his duds were muddy Harry when he first bespoke her kept a dandling in the kitchen poker Mary spoke her words like Venus but said there's something I fear between us have you got cups of china metal canister cream jug tongs or kettle ozooks I bowls and siles and dishes in now to supply any prudent wishes and oh your cups of chainie canister cream jug I've not any I've a three footed pot and a good brass kettle pray what do you want with your chainie metal a ship and full of rye for to fodder a house full of goods one Mac or another a thrash in what you sit spinning oh Molly I think that's a good beginning I'll not sit at my wheel a spinning or rise in the mourn to wash your linen I'll lie in bed to the clock strikes eleven oh grant me patience gracious heaven why then thou must marry some red nose squire who'll buy thee a saddle to sit by the fire for I'll to Marjorie in the valley she is my girl so farewell Molly end of Harry's courtship section 47 of ancient poems ballads and songs of the peasantry of England this Libra Vox recording is in the public domain Linda Marie Nielsen Vancouver B.C. Harvest Home Song our copy of this song is taken from one in the Roxborough collection where it is called the Country Farmers Vainglory in a new song of Harvest Home sung to a new tune much in request licensed according to order is published in popular music a copy of this song with the music may be found in the Urphys pills to purge melancholy it varies from ours but the Urphys is so loose and inaccurate in his texts that any other version is more likely to be correct the broadside form which the following is copied was printed for P. Brooksbury J. Dencon Deacon J. Blair and J. Back our oats they are how'd and our Barley's reaped our hay is mowed and our hovels heaped Harvest Home, Harvest Home will merely roar out our Harvest Home Harvest Home will merely roar out our Harvest Home will merely roar out our Harvest Home we cheated the parson we'll cheat him again for why should the vicar have one in ten One in ten, One in ten for why should the vicar have one in ten 4. For staying while dinner is cold and hot, and putting and dumplings burnt to pot, burnt to pot, burnt to pot, till putting and dumplings burnt to pot, burnt to pot, burnt to pot, will drink off the liquor while we can stand, and hay for the honour of old England, old England, old England, end of Harvest Home Song, section 48 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., Harvest Home, from E.C. 1. Come Roger and Nell, come Simkin and Bell, each lad with his lass hither come, with singing and dancing, and pleasure advancing, to celebrate Harvest Home. 2. Tiss series bids play, and keep holiday, to celebrate Harvest Home. Harvest Home, Harvest Home, to celebrate Harvest Home. 3. Our labour is o'er, our barns in full store, now swell with rich gifts of the land, let each man then take, for the prong and the rake, his can and his lass in his hand. 4. Tiss series bids play, and keep holiday, to celebrate Harvest Home. Harvest Home, Harvest Home, to celebrate Harvest Home. 5. No courteur can be so happy as we, in innocence, pastime, and mirth, while thus we carose, with our sweetheart or spouse, and rejoice o'er the fruits of the earth. 6. Till series bids play, and keep holiday, to celebrate Harvest Home. Harvest Home, Harvest Home, to celebrate Harvest Home. End of Harvest Home. Section 49 of ancient poems and ballads and songs of the peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Larry Wilson. The Mole. A Harvest Home song. Tune Where the Bee Sucks. This favourite song copied from a chapter called The Whistling Plowing, published at the commencement of the present century, is written in imitation of Ariel's song in the tempest. It is probably taken from some defunct, valid opera. Now our work's done, thus we feast, after labour comes our rest. Joy shall reign in every breast, and right welcome is each guest. After harvest merrily, merrily, merrily, will we sing now, after the harvest that heaps up the mole. Now the plowman he shall plow, and shall whistle as he go, whether it be fair or blow, or nether barley-mow, or the furrow merrily. Merrily, merrily, will we sing now, after the harvest the fruit of the plow. Toil and planting, toil and ease, still the husband then he sees. Whether when the winter frees, or in the summer's gentle breeze, still he labours merrily, merrily, merrily, after the plow, he looks to the harvest that gives us the mole. End of the Mole. This song is sung at country meetings in Devon and Cornwall, particularly on completing the caring of the barley, which the rick, or mole of barley, is finished, on putting up the last sheaf, which is called the craw, or crow, sheaf. The man who has it cries out, I have it, I have it, I have it. Another demands, what have ye, what have ye, what have ye? And the answer is a craw, a craw, a craw, upon which there is some cheering, etc., and a supper afterwards. The effect of the barley-mow song cannot be given in words, it should be heard, to be appreciated properly, particularly with the West Country dialect. Here's a health to the barley-mow, my brave boys. Here's a health to the barley-mow. Here's a health to the barley-mow, my brave boys. Here's a health to the barley-mow. Here's a health to the barley-mow, my brave boys. Here's a health to the barley-mow. Here's a health to the barley-mow. Here's a health to the barley-mow. Here's a health to the barley-mow. Here's a health to the barley-mow. Here's a health to the barley-mow. barley mow. Here's a health to the barley mow, my brave boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. We'll drink it out of the quarter pint, boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. The quarter pint, Nibberkin, and the jolly brown bowl. Here's a health to the barley mow, my brave boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. We'll drink it out of the half a pint, boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. The half a pint, quarter pint, the Nibberkin, and the jolly brown bowl. Here's a health to the barley mow, my brave boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. We'll drink it out of a pint, my brave boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. The pint, a half pint, the quarter pint, the Nibberkin, and the jolly brown bowl. Here's a health to the barley mow, my brave boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. We'll drink it out of the quarter pint, my brave boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. The quarter pint, the Nibberkin, and the jolly brown bowl. Here's a health to the barley mow, my brave boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. We'll drink it out of the bottle, my boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. The bottle, the quarter pint, the Nibberkin, and the jolly brown bowl. Here's a health to the barley mow, my brave boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. We'll drink it out of the gallon, my boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. The gallon, the bottle, the quarter pint, the Nibberkin, and the jolly brown bowl. Here's a health to the barley mow, my brave boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. We'll drink it out of the half anchor, boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. The half anchor, gallon, the bottle, the quarter pint, the Nibberkin, and the jolly brown bowl. Here's a health to the barley mow, my brave boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. We'll drink it out of the anchor, my boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. The anchor, the half anchor, the gallon, the bottle, the quarter pint, the half pint, the quarter pint, the Nibberkin, and the jolly brown bowl. Here's a health to the barley mow, my brave boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. We'll drink it out of the half hogshead, boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. The half hogshead, the anchor, the half anchor, the gallon, the bottle, the quart, the pint, the half pint, the quarter pint, the Nibberkin, and the jolly brown bowl. Here's a health to the barley mow, my brave boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. We'll drink it out of the hogshead, my boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. The hogshead, the half hogshead, the anchor, the half anchor, the gallon, the bottle, the quart, the half pint, the quarter pint, the Nibberkin, and the jolly brown bowl. Here's a health to the barley mow, my brave boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. We'll drink it out of the pipe, my brave boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. The pipe, the hogshead, the half hogshead, the anchor, the half anchor, the gallon, the bottle, the quart, the pint, the half pint, the quarter pint, the Nibberkin, and the jolly brown bowl. Here's a health to the barley mow, my brave boys. Here's a health to the half anchor, the gallon, the bottle, the quart, the pint, the half pint, the quarter pint, the Nibberkin, and the jolly brown bowl. Here's a health to the barley mow, my brave boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. We'll drink it out of the well, my brave boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. The well, the pipe, the hogshead, the half hogshead, the anchor, the half anchor, the gallon, the bottle, the quart, the pint, the half pint, the quarter pint, the Nibberkin, and the jolly brown bowl. Here's a health to the barley mow, my brave boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. We'll drink it out of the river, my boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. The river, the well, the pipe, the hogshead, the half hogshead, the anchor, the half anchor, the gallon, the bottle, the quart, the pint, the half pint, the quarter pint, the Nibberkin, and the jolly brown bowl. Here's a health to the barley mow, my brave boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. We'll drink it out of the ocean, my boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. The ocean, the river, the well, the pipe, the hogshead, the half hogshead, the anchor, the half anchor, the gallon, the bottle, the quart, the pint, the half pint, the quarter pint, the Nibberkin, and the jolly brown bowl. Here's a health to the barley mow, my brave boys. Here's a health to the barley mow. End of the Barley Mow Song. Section 51 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 Barley Mow Song, Suffolk Version. The Peasantry of Suffolk sing the following version of the Barley Mow Song. Here's a health to the barley mow. Here's a health to the man, who very well can, both harrow and plow, and sow. When it is well sown, see it is well mown, both raked and graveled clean. And a barn to lay it in. Here's a health to the man, who very well can, both rash and fan, it clean. End of the Barley Mow Song, Suffolk Version. Section 52 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Craven Churn Supper Song. In some of the more remote dales of Craven, it is customary at the close of the Hay Harvest for the farmers to give an entertainment to their men. This is called the Churn Supper, a name which Eugene Aram traces to the immemorial usage of producing at such suppers a great quantity of cream in a churn, and circulating it in cups to each of the rustic company to be eaten with bread. At these churn suppers, the masters and their families attend the entertainment and share in the general mirth. The men mask themselves and dress in a grotesque manner, and are allowed the privilege of playing harmless practical jokes on their employers, etc. The Churn Supper Song varies in different dales, but the following used to be the most popular version. In the third verse there seems to be an allusion to the clergymen's taking tithe in kind, on which occasions he is generally accompanied by two or three men and the parish clerk. The song has never before been printed. There is a marked resemblance between it and a song of the date of 1650 called A Cup of Old Stingo. See popular music of olden time. 1-308 God rest you, merry gentlemen, be not move it at my strain, for nothing study shall my brain but for to make you laugh. For I came here to this feast for to laugh, carouse, and jest, and welcome shall be every guest to take his cup and quaff. Be frolicsome, every one, melancholy none. Drink about, see it out, and then we'll all go home. And then we'll all go home. This ale it is a gallant thing. It cheers the spirits of a king. It makes a dumb man strive to sing, eye in a beggar play. A cripple that is lame and halt and scarce a mile a day can walk when he feels the juice of malt will throw his crutch away. Be frolicsome, every one, melancholy none. Drink about, see it out, and then we'll all go home. And then we'll all go home. To make the parson forget his men, to make his clerk forget his pen, to turn a tailor's giddy brain and make him break his wand. The blacksmith loves it as his life. It makes the tinkler bang his wife. Eye in the butcher seek his knife when he has it in his hand. Be frolicsome, every one, melancholy none. Drink about, see it out, and then we'll all go home. And then we'll all go home. So now, to conclude my merry boys all, let's with strong liquor take a fall, although the weakest goes to the wall. The best is but a play. For water it concludes in noise, good ale will cheer our hearts brave boys, then put it round with a cheerful voice, we meet not every day. Be frolicsome, every one, melancholy none. Drink about, see it out, and then we'll all go home. And then we'll all go home. And of the Craven Churn supper song. LibriVox Recording by Rita Louise, 2019 Ann Arbor, Michigan. Section 53 of ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The rural dance about the maypole. The most correct copy of this song is that given in the Westminster Drollery, Part 2, page 80. It is there called the rural dance about the maypole, the tune, the first figure dance at Mr. Young's Ball, May 1671. The tune is in popular music. The maypole, foresold the song is called in modern collections, is a very popular diddy at one time. The common copies vary considerably from the following version, which is much more correct than any hitherto published. Come, lasses and lads, take leave of your dads, and away to the maypole high, for every he has got a machine in the minstrel standing by, for Willie has gotten his jill, and Johnny has got his jone, to jig it, jig it, jig it, jig it, up and down. Strike up, says Watt, agreed, says Kate, an eye per the fiddler play. Content, says Hodge, and so says Maj, and this is a holiday. That every man did put his hat off to his lass, and every girl did kerchie, kerchie, kerchie on the grass. Begin, says Hall, aye, aye, says Maul, will lead up Packington's pound. No, no, says Dahl, and so says Dahl will first have cellingers round. Then every man began to foot it round about, and every girl did jet it, jet it, jet it, in and out. You're out, says Dick, to the lie, says Nick, the fiddler played it false. To's true says Hugh, and so says Sue, and so says Nimble Alice. The fiddler then began to play the tune again, and every girl did trip it, trip it, trip it, to the men. Let's kiss, says Jane, content, says Nin, and so says every she. How many says Bat, why three says Mat, for that's a maiden's fee. But they, instead of three, did give them half a score, and they in kindness gave him, gave him, gave him as many more. Then after an hour they went to a bower and played for ale and cakes, and kisses, too, until they were due the lasses kept the stakes. The girls did then begin, to quarrel with the men, and bid them take their kisses back and give them their own again. Yet there they sat until it was late and tired the fiddler quite, with singing and playing without any paying from morning unto night. They told the fiddler then they'd pay him for his play, and each a two-pence, two-pence gave him and went away. Good night, says Harry, good night, says Mary, good night, says Dally to John, good night, says Sue, good night, says you, good night, says everyone. Some walked and some did run, some loitered on the way, and bound themselves with love-nuts-love-nuts to meet the next holiday. And of the rural dance about the maypole. LibriVox recording by Rita Louise, 2019, Ann Arbor, Michigan. Section 54 of ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Hitchin May Day Song. The following song is sung by the mayors at Hitchin in the County of Hertz, for an account of the manner in which May Day is observed at Hitchin see Hones' everyday book. Remember us poor mayors all, and thus do we begin with our lives in righteousness, or else we die in sin. We have been rambling all the night, and almost all the day, and now, returned back again, we have brought you a branch of May. A branch of May we have brought you, and at your door it stands. It is but a sprout, but it's well butted out by the work of our Lord's hand. The hedges and trees they are so green as green as any leek. Our father he watered them, with his heavenly dew so sweet. The heavenly gates are open wide, our paths are beaten plain, and if a man be not too far gone, he may return again. The life of man is but a span, it flourishes like a flower. We are here today, and gone tomorrow, and we are dead in an hour. The moon shines bright, and the stars give a light a little before the day, so God bless you all, both great and small, and send you a joyful May. End of The Hitchin May Day Song, Recording by Rita Louise 2019, Ann Arbor, Michigan Section 55 of ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Hellstone Furry Day Song At Hellstone in Cornwall, the 8th of May is a day devoted to revelry and gaiety. It is called the Furry Day, supposed to be a corruption of flora's day from the garlands worn and carried in procession during the festival. A writer in the Gentleman's Magazine for June 1790 says, in the morning very early some troublesome rogues go round the streets of Hellstone with drums and other noisy instruments, disturbing their sober neighbors and singing parts of a song the whole of which nobody now recollects, and of which I know no more than that there is mention in it of the grey goose quill, and of going to the greenwood to bring home the summer and the mayo. During the festival the gentry, tradespeople, servants, etc. dance through the streets and thread through certain of the houses to a very old dance tune given in the appendix to Davies Gilbert's Christmas Carols and which may also be found in chapel's popular music and other collections. The Furry Day Song possesses no literary merit whatever. But as a part of an old and really interesting festival it is worthy of preservation. The dance tune has been confounded with that of the song but Mr. Sandys to whom we are indebted for this communication observes that the dance tune is quite different. Robin Hood and Little John they both are gone to the fair oh, and we will go to the merry greenwood to see what they do there oh, and four to chase oh, to chase the buck and oh, with howl and toe rumble oh, for we were up as soon as any day oh, and four to fetch the summer home the summer and the may oh for summer is a come oh, and winter is a gone oh. Where are those Spaniards that make so great a boast oh they shall eat the grey goose feather and we will eat the roast oh, in every land oh, the land where air we go, with howl and toe rumble oh, for we were up as soon as any day oh, and four to fetch the summer home the summer and the may oh, for summer is a come oh, and winter is a gone oh. As for St. George oh, St. George he was a knight oh, of all the knights in Christendom St. George is the right oh, in every land oh the land where air we go with howl and toe rumble oh, for we were up as soon as any day oh, and four to fetch the summer home the summer and the may oh, for summer is a come oh, and winter is a gone oh. And of the Hellstone Furry Day Song Recording by Rita Louise 2019 Ann Arbor Michigan Section 56 of ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of England this LibriVox recording is in the public domain Cornish Midsummer Bonfire Song The very ancient custom of lighting fires on Midsummer Eve, being the vigil of St. John the Baptist, is still kept up in several parts of Cornwall. On these occasions the fishermen and others dance about the fires in appropriate songs. The following has been sung for a long series of years at pensons and the neighborhood and is taken down from the recitation of the leader of a West Country choir. It is communicated to our pages by Mr. Sandys. The origin of the Midsummer Bonfires is fully explained in Brand's popular antiquities. C's or H. Ellis's edition is only in one page as 166 to 186. The bunny month of June is crowned with the sweet scarlet rose the groves and meadows all around with lovely pleasure flows. As I walked out to Yonder Green one evening so fair I'll wear the fair maids may be seen playing at the bonfire. Hail lovely nymphs, be not too coy yield your charms let love inspire with mirth and joy in Cupid's lovely arms. Bright Luna spreads its light around the gallants for to cheer as they lay sporting on the ground at the fair June bonfire. All on the pleasant dewy mead they shared each other's charms till Phoebus' beams began to spread and coming day alarms. Wilt's larks and linets sing so sweet to cheer each lovely swain, let each prove true unto their love and so farewell the plane. End of Cornish Midsummer Bonfire Song Recording by Rita Louise 2019 Ann Arbor, Michigan Section 57 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 Suffolk Harvest Home Song In no part of England are the harvest homes kept up with greater spirit than in Suffolk. The following old song is a general favorite on such occasions. Here's a health unto our master, the founder of the feast. I wish with all my heart and soul, in heaven he may find rest. I hope all things may prosper that ever be takes in hand for we are all his servants and all at his command. Drink, boys, drink and see you do not spill, for if you do you must drink too, it is your master's will. Now our harvest is ended and supper is passed. Here's our mistress, good health in a full flowing glass. She is a good woman. She prepared us good cheer. Come all my brave boys and drink off your beer. Drink, my boys, drink till you come unto me. The longer we sit, my boys, the merrier shall we be. And beyond green wood there lies an old fox. Close by his den you may catch him or know. Ten thousand to one you catch him or know. His beard and his brush are all of one fuller. I'm sorry, kind sir, that your glass is no fuller. Tiss down the red lane. Tiss down the red lane. So merrily hunt the fox down the red lane. End of Suffolk Harvest Home Song. Section fifty-eight of ancient poems, ballads and songs of the peasantry of England. This was recorded by Larry Wilson. The Haymaker Song. An old and very favorite ditty sung in many parts of England at merrimakings, especially those which occur during the Hay Harvest. It is not in any collection. In the merry month of June, in the prime time of the year, down in yonder meadows there runs a river clear and many a little fish doth in that river play and the alas go abroad in making hay. In come the jolly mowers and mow the meadows down, but budget and with bottle of ale both stout and brown, all laboring men of courage bold come here their strength to try. They sweat and blow and cut and mow for the grass cuts very dry. Here's nimble Ben and Tom with pitchfork and with rake. Here's Molly, Liz, and Susan come here their hay jug jug the nightingale to sing from morning unto even song as they are hay-making and when that bright day faded and the sun was going down there was a merry piper approaching from the town. He pulled out his pipe and taper so sweetly he did play, which made all lay down their rakes and leave off making hay. Then joining in a dance they jicket or the green, though tired with their labor no one less was seen. But sporting like some fairies their dance they did pursue in leading up and casting off till morning was in view. And when that bright daylight the morning it was come, they lay down and rested till the rising of the sun, till the rising of the sun when the merry larks do sing, and each lad did rise and take his last and away to hay-making. End of The Haymaker's Song Section 59 of ancient poems, and songs of the peasantry of England, this Libravox recording is in the public domain. The Sword Dancers Song Sword dancing is not so common in the north of England as it was a few years ago, but a troupe of rustic practitioners of the art may still be occasionally met with at Christmas time in some of the most secluded of the Yorkshire Dales. The following is a copy of the introductory song as it is written by the Warfdale Sword Dancers. It has been transcribed from a manuscript in the possession of Mr. Holmes Surgeon at Grassington in Craven. At the conclusion of the song a dance ensues and sometimes a rustic drama has performed. See post page 175. Jumping Joan, alluded to in the last verse, is a well-known old country dance tune. The spectators being the actors and after drawing a circle with his sword walks round it and calls in the actors in the following lines which are sung to the accompaniment of violin played outside or behind the door. The first that enters on the floor, his name is Captain Brown. I think he is as smart a youth as any in this town. In courting of the ladies gay he fixes his delight. He will not stay from them all day and is trade called Obadiah Trim. You may quickly guess by his plain dress and hat a broadest brim that he is of the quaking sect who would seem to act by merit to vieze and nays and hums and hares and motions of the spirit. The next that enters on the floor he is a foppish knight. The first to be in modest dress he studies day and night. Observe his habit round about, even from top to toe. The fashion late from France was brought. He's finer than a bow. Next I present unto your view a very worthy man. He is a vintner by his trade and love ale is his name. If gentlemen propose a glass he seldom says um nay, but does always think it's right to drink, while other people pay. The next that enters on the floor it is my beautiest dame. Most dearly I do her adore and is her name. At needlework she does excel all that air learnt to sew, and when I choose she'll nare refuse what I command her do. And I myself have come long since and Thomas is my name, though some are pleased to call me Tom I think they're much to blame. Folks should not use their betters thus, but I value it not a groat, though the tailors too that botching crew have patched it on my coat. I pray use this we've met with here that tickles his trunk wame we've picked him up as here we came and cannot learn his name but sooner than he's go without I'll call him my son Tom and if he'll play be at night or day we'll dance you Jumping Joan End of The Sword Dancers Song Recording by Stephen Harvey Section 60 of Ancient poems, ballads and songs of the peasantry of England. This Libre vox recording is in the public domain. The Sword Dancers Song and Interlude has now performed at Christmas in the County of Durham. The late Sir Cuthbert Sharpe remarks that it is still the practice during the Christmas holidays for companies of 15 to perform a sort of play or dance accompanied by song or music. The following version of the song Interlude has been transcribed from Sir Cuthbert Sharpe's Bishopric Garland, corrected by a collation with a manuscript copy recently remitted to the editor by a countryman of Durham. The Devonshire peasants have a version almost identical with this but laths are used instead of swords and a few different characters are introduced to suit the locality. The pageant called The Fool Plough which consists of a number of sword dances dragging a plow with music was anciently observed in the north of England not only at Christmas time but also in the beginning of Lent. Wallace thinks that the sword dance is the antique dance or chorus armatus of the Romans. Brand supposes that it is a composition made up of the gleaning of several obsolete customs anciently followed in England and other countries. While we still practice the sword dance at Christmas and Easter we once witnessed a sword dance in the Eiffel Mountains which closely resembled our own but no interlude or drama was performed. Enter dancers decorated with swords and ribbons the captain of the band wearing a cocked hat and a peacock's feather in it by way of a cacade and the clown or Bessie who acts as treasurer and brush dependent. The captain forms with his sword a circle around which walks the Bessie opens a proceedings by singing Good gentlemen all to our captain take heed and hear what he's got for to sing he's lived among music these 40 long years and drunk of the elegant spring the captain then proceeds as follows his song being accompanied by a violin generally played by the Bessie six actors I have brought who never on stage before but they will do their best and they can do no more the first that I call in he is a squire son he's like to lose his sweetheart because he is too young but though he is too young he has money for to robe and he will spend it all before he'll lose his love chorus followed by a symphony on the fiddle during which the introduced actor walks around the circle the captain proceeds the next that I call in he is a tailor fine what think you of his work he made this coat of mine here the captain turns around and exhibits his coat which of course is ragged and full of holes so comes good master snip his best respects to pay he joins us in our trip to drive dole care away chorus followed by the symphony on the fiddle during which the introduced actor walks around the circle here the tailor walks around accompanied by the squire son this form is observed after each subsequent introduction all the newcomers taking part the next I do call in the prodigal son is he spending of his gold he's come to poverty but though he has all spent again he'll wield the plow and sing right merrily as any of us now next comes a skipper bold he'll do his part right wheel a clever blade I'm told has ever posed a keel he is a bonny lad as you must understand it's he can dance on deck and you'll see him dance on land to join us in this play here comes a jolly dog who's sober all the day if he can get no grog but though he likes his grog as all his friends do say he always likes it best when other people pay last I come in myself the leader of this crew and if you know my name my name it is true blue here the Bessie gives an account of himself my mother was burnt for a witch my father was hanged on a tree and it's because I'm a fool nobody meddle with me the dance now commences it is an ingenious performance and the swords of the actors are placed in a variety of graceful positions so as to form stars, hearts, squares, circles, etc the dance is so elaborate that it requires frequent rehearsals quick eye and a strict adherence to time and tune before it concludes grace and elegance have given place to disorder and at last all the actors are seen fighting the parish clergyman rushes in to prevent bloodshed and receives a death blow while on the ground the actors walk round the body and singers follow to a slow sound like tune alas our parson's dead and on the ground is laid some of us will suffer foot young men I'm sore afraid I'm sure it was not of me I'm clear of that crime it was him that follows me that drew his sword so fine I'm sure it was not me I'm clear of the fact it was him that follows me that did this dreadful act I'm sure it was not of me who sate me villains all for both my eyes were closed when this good priest did fall the best he sings cheer up cheer up my bonny lads and be of courage brave we'll take him to his church and bury him in the grave the captain speaks in a sort of recitative doctor a ten pound doctor oh enter doctor here I am captain doctor what's your fee doctor ten pounds is my fee but nine pounds nineteen shillings eleven pence three farthings I will take from thee the bestie there's generosity the doctor sings I am a doctor a doctor rare who travels much at home my famous pills they cure all ills past present and to come my famous pills who'd be without they cure the plague the sickness and gout anything but a love sick maid if you're one my dear you're beyond my aid here the doctor occasionally slews one of the fair spectators he then takes out his snuff box which is always of very capacious dimensions a sort of miniature warming pan and empties the contents flour or meal on the clergyman's face singing at the time take a little of my nif naf put it on your tiff taff pass and rise up and preach again the doctor says you are not slain the clergyman here sneezes several times and gradually recovers and all shake him by the hand the ceremony terminates by the captain singing our players at an end and now we'll taste your cheer we wish you a merry Christmas and a happy new year and your pockets full of brass and your cellars full of beer the general dance concludes the play end of the sword dancer's song and interlude recording by Stephen Harvey