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PEE FACE.
The Pictorial Book of Ballads is intended to supply what
is conceived to be a desideratum in English literature, bv gather-
ing together, in one ' local habitation,' the ballad lore in which
that literature is so rich ; and thus presenting the general
reader, in a compact form and at a moderate price, with that
which has hitherto lain scattered through numerous and costly
volumes. Nothing critical, therefore, or recondite, is to be
looked for in the work, the object of which is simply to bring
under the notice of those who might be considered unlikely to
go in quest of it themselves, the ballad literature of their
country. At a time, too, when the press teems with cheap
publications, — some of them, by the way, of a character calcu-
lated to excite in the warmest advocates for its liberty doubts
whether that liberty is not degenerating into licentiousness, —
it was hoped that those whom it is now the fashion to call ' the
million,' might be seduced into purchasing a work of this kind ;
and so be led gradually, and as it were involuntarily, if not
indeed in spite of themselves, to exchange the garbage with
which they are but too prodigally gorged, for more wholesome
food. The plan of periodical publication was therefore adopted,
and at a price which would put it in the power of every one;
and, as seeming likely to aid in effecting the object in view,
Pictorial Illustrations were employed, with a profusion and ex-
cellence never before attempted in similar circumstances. The
hope, however, on which this plan was founded, lias not been
realized; ' the million' have too long ' battened on the moor' to
be able to breathe the bracing air of the mountain; the work
PREFACE.
has found its patrons amongst a higher class than those for
whom it was designed; and it has consequently been determined
to discontinue the periodical publication, without, however, in
anywise altering the character of the work, which still professes
to be, and is, essentially and exclusively popular.
With regard to the sources from which its materials are
derived, it may be sufficient to say here, that they are invari-
ably pointed out and referred to in the Introductory Notice pre-
fixed to each ballad ; by reference to which it will be seen that
not only Percy, Ritson, and such well known sources, have
been resorted to, but some others not so accessible and familiar.
For these, as far as the present volume is concerned, the
Editor is principally indebted to the kindness of his friend,
J. H. Dixon, Esq., an active and zealous member of the Percy
Society, to whom he begs thus publicly to return his thanks for
the warm interest he has ever taken in the success of the work,
and the many valuable suggestions by w^hich he has improved it.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
Chevy Chase • • . . .
1
The Nut-Browne Mayde . . . .
9
The Mermaid . . . . .
18
Robin Hood. His Birth, Breeding, Valour, and Marriage
26
The Blind Beggar's Daughter of Bednal Green
3.3
The Lists of Naseby Wold ; or the White Armed Ladye's Oath .
41
The Children in the Wood . . . .
48
Sir Turlough ; or. The Churchyard Bride .
53
Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne
59
Sir Aldingar
66
Glenfinlas ; or, Lord Ronald's Coronach
73
King Estmere
81
The Cout of Keeldar
89
Lord Soulis
97
John Gilpin
105
The Bristowe Tragedie ; or. The Dethe of S
ir Charles Bawdin
. 113
The Feaste of AUe Deuiles
. 124
The Child of Elle
. 131
Sir Caulme .
. 137
The Lady of The Black Tower .
. 148
Robin Hood and Little John
. 156
Sir Guy, the Seeker
. 161
The Heir of Linne
. 170
Roprecht the Robber .
. 177
Gil Morrice
. 188
Robin Hood and the Beggar
. 194
The Wandering Jew
. 205
Hardyknutc (Part L) .
. 209
/T-ii-t TT ^
•
. 219
CONTENTS.
PAGE
The Admiral Guarino . . . . .231
Gernutus the Jew ..... 236
The Witch of File . . . . .241
Robin Hood and the Monk .... 250
The Death of Parcy Reed . . . .260
Lenora ...... 265
Adam Bel, Clym of the Cloughe, and Wyllyam of Cloudesle . 273
The Red-Cross Knight . . . .292
Valentine and Ursine • . . . . 303
Our Ladye's Girdle . . . • .314
The Felon Sow of Rokeby and the Friars of Richmond . 323
The Birth of St. George . . . .331
111 May-day . • • • .337
The Worme of Lambton . . . .342
Sir James the Rose ..... 354
Gondoline . . • • • .361
The Battle of Otterbourne . . • .370
Robin Hood and the Stranger .... 378
Sir Delaval and the Monk . . . .388
The Gay Goss-Hawk . . . . .396
The Hermit of Warkworth . . . .401
^':!i
' 'I f1 ^ ^-^ \ - '^-. if-.-; ' ^^^ r
/ [There are two versions of this ballad. The older, which
he calls the ' genuine antique poein, the true original song,'
Kishop Percy thinks, was written not later than the time of
Henry VI. ; and the more modern one, which we have
adopted, as more intelligible to the general reader, ' not
much later than the time of Queen Elizabeth.' When — if
ever— the ' woefull hunting' befell, can only be conjectured.
' This celebrated lay,' says Mr. Hallam, ' relates a totally fic-
titious event with all historical particularity, and with real
names.' Perhaps, however, the ballad had, originally,
some foundation in fact. It was a law of the Marches
that neither party should hunt on the other's bor-
ders without leave from the proprietors or their
deputies. Some transgression of this law may bo
commemorated in ' The Hunting a' tlic Cheviat —
for such was the original title-and this ' huntmg
*may have led to the battle of Otterbourne, m 13S8,
the only one mentioned in history wherem a Douglas
was slain fighting with a Percy. 15e this, however
as it may, the ballad itself has ever been a general
favourite. Sidney, ' the soul of chivalry,' never
hoard the old song of Percie and Douglas, that he
^lound not his heart moved more than with the sound ol
a trumpet,' atid Mr. Addison wrote an elaborate com-
mentary upon it. (Spectator, 70, 74.)
OD prosper long our noble king,
Our lives and safetyes all;
A woefull hunting once there did
In Chevy-Chase befall.
CHEVY-CHASE.
To drive the deere with hound and home,
Erie Percy took his way;
The child may rue that is unbome
The hunting of that day.
The stout Erie of Northumberland
A vow to God did make,
His pleasure in the Scottish woods
Three summers days to take;
The cheefest harts in Chevy-Chase
To kill and beare away.
These tydings to Erie Douglas came,
In Scotland where he lay:
Who sent Erie Percy present word,
He would prevent his sport.
The English erle, not fearing that,
Did to the woods resort,
With fifteen hundred bowmen bold,
All chosen men of might.
Who knew full well in time of neede
To ayme their shafts aright.
The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran
To chase the fallow deere:
On Munday they began to hunt
Ere daylight did appeare;
And long before high noone they had
An hundred fat buckes slain;
Then liaving dined, the drovyers went
To rouse the deere again.
The bowmen mustered on the hills.
Well able to endure;
Their backsides all, with speciall care,
That day were guarded sure.
The hounds ran swiftly through the woods,
The nimble deere to take;
That with their cryes the hills and dides
An eccho shrill did make.
Lord Percy to the quarry went.
To view the slaughterd deere;
Quoth he, Erie Douglas promised
This day to meet me heere:
chp:vy-chase.
But if I thought he wold not come,
Noe longer wold I stay.
With that a brave young gentleman
Thus to the erle did say:
Loe, yonder doth Erie Douglas come,
His men in armour bright;
Full twenty hundred Scottish speres
All marching in our sight;
All men of pleasant Tivydale,
Fast by the river Tweede:
cease your sport, Erie Percy said,
And take your bowes with speede:
And now with me, my countrymen,
Your courage forth advance;
For never was there champion yett,
In Scotland or in France,
That ever did on horsebacke come.
But if my hap it were,
1 durst encounter man for man.
With him to break a spere.
Erie Douglas on his milke-white steede,
Most like a baron bold,
Rode foremost of his company,
Whose armour shone like gold.
Show me, sayd hee, whose men you bee,
That hunt so boldly heere,
That, without my consent, doe chase
And kill my fallow deere.
The first man that did answer make,
Was noble Percy hee;
Who sayd, Wee list not to declare,
Nor show whose men wee bee :
Yet will wee spend our deerest blood.
Thy cheefest harts to slay.
Then Douglas swore a solempne oathe,
And thus in rage did say —
Ere thus I will out-braved bee,
One of us two shall dye :
I know thee well, an erle thou art.
Lord Percy, soe am I.
CHEVY-CHASE.
But trust me, Percy, pitye it were,
And great offence to kill
Any of these our guiltlesse men,
For they have done no ill.
Let you and me the battel trye.
And set our men aside.
Accurst be he, Erie Percy sayd,
By whom this is denyed.
Then stept a gallant squier forth,
Witherington was his name.
Who said, I wold not have it told
To Henry, our king, for shame.
That e'er my captain fought on foote,
And I stood looking on.
You be two erles, sayd Witherington,
And I a squier alone:
I'll doe the best that doe I may,
"While I have power to stand:
While I have power to weeld my sword,
I'll fight with heart and hand.
Our English archers bent their bowes,
Their hearts were good and trew ;
At the first flight of arrowes sent,
Full fourscore Scotts they slew.
Yet bides Erie Douglas on the bent.
As chieftain stout and good ;
As valiant captain, all unmoved,
The shock he firmly stood.
His host he parted had in three,
As leader ware and tryd ;
And soon his spearmen on their foes
Bare down on every side.
Throughout the English archery
They dealt full many a wound ;
But still our valiant Englishmen
All firmly kept their ground.
And throwing strait their bowes away.
They graspt their swords so bright :
And now sharp blows, a heavy shower.
On shields and helmets light.
CHEVY-CHASE.
They closed full fast on everye siJe,
Noe slacknes there was found ;
And many a gallant gentleman
Lay gasping on the ground,
Christ ! it was a griefe to see,
And likewise for to heare,
The cries of men lying in their gore,
And scattered here and there.
At last these two stout erles did meet,
Like captaines of great might :
Like lions wode, they layd on lode,
And made a cruell fight.
They fought untill they both did sweat,
With swords of tempered Steele ;
Until the blood, like drops of rain,
They trickling down did feele.
Yeeld thee. Lord Percy, Douglas sayd ;
In faith I will thee bringe
Where thou shalt high advanced bee
By James, our Scottish king.
Thy ransome I will freely give.
And thus report of thee,
Thou art the most courageous knight
That ever I did see.
Noe, Douglas, quoth Erie Percy then,
Thy proffer I doe scorne;
1 will not yeelde to any Scott
That ever yett was borne.
With that there came an arrow keene
Out of an English bow.
Which strucke Erie Douglas to the heart,
A deep and deadlye blow :
Who never spake more words than these—
Fight on my merry men all ;
For why, my life is at an end,
Lord Percy sees my fall.
Then leaving liffe, Erie Percy tooke
The dead man by the hand ;
And said, Erie Douglas, for thy life
Wold I had lost my land.
CHEVY-CHASE.
O Christ ! my very hart doth bleed
With sorrow for thy sake ;
For sure a more redoubted kuight
Mischance cold never take.
A knight amongst the Scotts there was,
Which saw Erie Douglas dye,
Who streight v^ wrath did vow revenge
Upon the Erie Percye :
Sir Hugh Mountgomerye was he calld,
Who, with a spere most bright,
Well mounted on a gallant steed,
Ran fiercely through the fight ;
And past the English archers all,
Without all dread or feare ;
And through Erie Percye's body then
He thrust his hatefull spere ;
With such a \ ohement force and might
He did his body gore,
The staff went through the other side
A large cloth-yard and more.
So thus did both these nobles dye.
Whose courage none could staine :
An English archer then perceiv'd
The noble erle was slaine :
He had a bow bent in his hand,
Made of a trusty tree ;
An arrow of a cloth-yard long
Up to the head drew hee :
Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye
So right the shaft he sett.
The gray goose winL' that was thereon
In his hart's bloode was wett.
This fight did last from breake of day
Till setting of the sun ;
For when they rung the evening-bell,
The battel scarce was done.
With brave Erie Percy there was slaine
Sir John of Egerton,
Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,
Sir James, that bold baron.
CHEVY-CHASE.
And with Sir George and stout Sir James,
Both knights of good account,
Good Sir Kalph Kaby there was slaine,
Whose prowesse did surmount.
For Witherington needs I must waile,
As one in doleful dumpes ;
For when his legs were smitten off,
He fought upon his stumpes.
And with Erie Douglas there was slaine
Sir Hugh Mountgomerye,
Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld
One foote wold never flee.
Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too,
His sister's sonne was hee;
Sir David Lamb, so well esteemd,
Yet saved cold not bee.
And the Lord Maxwell in like case
Did with Erie Douglas dye:
Of twenty hundred Scottish speres,
Scarce fifty-five did flye.
Of fifteen hundred Englishmen,
Went home but fifty-three;
The rest were slaine in Chevy- Chase,
Under the greenewood tree.
Next day did many widowes come,
Their husbands to bewayle;
They washt their wounds in brinish teares,
But all wold not prevayle.
Theyr bodies, bathed in purple gore,
They bare with them away;
They kisst them dead a thousand times,
Ere they were cladd in clay.
This newes was brought to Eddenborrow,
Where Scottland's king did raigne.
That brave Erie Douglas suddenlye
Was with an arrow slaine:
heavy newes, King James did say,
Scottland can witnesse bee
1 have not any captaine more
Of such account as hee.
CHEVY-CHASE.
Like tydings to King Henry came
Within as short a space,
That Percy of Northumberland
Was slaine in Chevy- Chase:
Now God be with him, said our king,
Sith it will noe better bee;
I trust I have within my roalnu;
Five hundred as good as hee.
Yet shall not Scots or Scotland say
But I will vengeance take:
I'll be revenged on them all,
For brave Erie Percye's sake.
This vow full well the king performd
After at Humbledowne;
In one day fifty knights were slayne.
With lordes of great renowne :
And of the rest, of small account.
Did many hundreds dye.
Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-C'iise,
Made by the Erie Percy.
God save our king, and bless this land,
In plentye, joye, and peace;
And grant, henceforth, that foule debate
'Twixt noblemen may cease.
[This fine old ballad appears to have been first printed, about ^^^^''^.l lu^
15'20, in a black-letter book, entitled, ' The Customes of Lon- ^ ^./- ''i(S
don, or, Arnoldes Chronicle ;' no earlier copy hiving been dis-^ r j "
covered. It wag probably an old piece, even then ; or an anti- <\,^-'
quary like Arnolde would hardly have inserted it among his
historical Collections. Indeed it lias been suppo.sed to ha\e
been written as early as the year 1400. It was revived in ' The
Muses Mercury' for June, 1707; where it is said to be ' near
three hundred years old.' Prior, who founded upon it his
' Henry and Emma,' printed it with his Poems, (1718,) assert-
ing it to have been ' written near three hundred years since ;'
and Dr. Percy included it in his ' Reliques.' ' Its sentimental
beauties,' he says, ' have always recommended it to readers of
taste, notwithstanding the rust of antiquity which obscures the
style and e.xpression." We give it in that rust ; nothing doubt-
ing that every reader will prefer it to any modern polish that
could be put upon it.]
Eit ryght or wrong, these men among
On women do complayne ;
Affyrmynge this, how that it is
A labour spent in vayne,
To love them wele; for never a dele
They love a man agayne:
^' For late a man do what he can,
■J Theyr favour to attayne,
Yet, yf a newe do thera pursue,
Theyr first true lover than
Laboureth for nought; for from her thought
He is a banyshed man.
c
Sl'indfatl.
J If^nlmsl'g.
10
THE NUT-BROWNE MAYDE.
I say not nay, but that all day
It is bothe writ and sayd
That womans faith is, as who sayth,
All utterly decayd;
But, neverthelesse, ryght good wytnesse
In this case might be layd,
That they love true and continue:
Recorde the Not-browne Mayde:
Which, when her love came, her to prove,
To her to make his mone,
Wolde not depart: for in her hart
She loved but hym alone.
Than betwaine us late us dyscus
What was all the manere
Betwayne them two: we wyll also
Tell all the payne and fere
That she was in. Nowe I begyn,
So that ye me answere;
"VVlierefore, all ye, that present be,
I pray you, gyve an ere.
I am the knyght; I come by nyght,
As secret as I can;
Sajdiige, Alas! thus standeth the case,
I am a banyshed man.
And I your wyll for to fulfyll
In this wyll not refuse;
Trustying to shewe, in wordes fewe,
That men have an yll use
(To theyr own shame) women to blame,
And causeless them accuse ;
Therfore, to you I answere nowe,
All women to excuse, —
Myne owne hart dere, with you what chere?
I pray you tell anone;
For, in ray mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
It standeth so; a deed is do,
Whereof grete harm shall growe;
My destiny is for to dy
A shameful! deth, I trowe;
Or elles to flee: the one must be.
None other way I knowe,
But to withdrawe, as an outlawe.
And take me to ray bowe.
THE NUT-BROWNE MAYDE. 11
Wherefore adue, my owne hart true!
None other rede I can:
For I must to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.
Lord, what is thys worldys blysse,
That changeth as the mone!
My somers day in lusty May
Is derked before the none.
1 hear you say, Farewell I Nay, nay,
We depart not so sone.
Wliy say ye so? wheder wyll ye go?
Alas! what have ye done?
All my welfare to sorrowe and care
Sholde chaunge yf ye were gone;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
I can beleve, it shall you greve.
And somewhat you dystrayne :
But aftyrwarde, your paynes harde
Within a day or twayne
Shall sone aslake; and ye shall take
Comfort to you agayne.
Why sholde ye ought? for to make thought.
Your labour were in vayne.
And thus I do, and pray yon to,
As hartely as I can ;
For I must to the grene wode go.
Alone, a banyshed man.
Now syth that ye have shewed to me
The secret of your mynde,
I shall be playne to you agayne,
Lyke as ye shall me fynde.
Syth it is so that ye wyll go,
I wolle not leve behynde ;
Shall never be sayd, the Not-Browne Mayde
Was to her love unkynde :
Make you redy, for so am I,
Allthough it were anone ;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
Yet I you rede to take good hede
What men wyll thynke, and say :
Of yonge and olde it shall be tolde,
Tliat ye be gone away,
12 THE NUT-BROWNE MAYDE.
Your wanton wyll for to fulfyll,
In grene wode you to play ;
And that ye myght from your delyght
No longer make delay.
Rather than ye sholde thus for me
Be called an yll woman,
Yet wolde I to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.
Though it be songe of old and yonge,
That I sholde be to blame,
Theyrs be the charge, that speke so large
In hurtynge of my name :
For I wyll prove, that faythfulle love
It is devoyd of shame ;
In your dystresse, and hevynesse,
To part with you, the same : '
And sure all tho, that do not so,
True lovers are they none;
For in my mynde, of all mankynde,
I love but you alone.
I counceyle you, remember howe
It is no mayden's lawe
Nothynge to dout, but to renne out
To wode with an outlawe ;
For ye must there in your hand bere
A bowe, redy to drawe ;
And as a thefe, thus must you lyve,
Ever in drede and awe.
Whereby to you grete harme myght growe
Yet had I lever than,
That I had to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.
I thynke not nay, but as ye say,
It is no mayden's lore :
But love may make me for your sake.
As I have sayd before,
To come on fote, to hunt and shote
To get us mete in store ;
For so that I your company
May have, I aske no more :
From which to part it maketh my hart
As cold as ony stone ;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
THE NUT-BROWNE MAYDE. 13
For an outlawe this is the lawe,
That men hym take and bynde ;
Without pyte, hanged to be,
And waver with the wynde.
If I had nede, (as God forbede !)
What rescous coud ye fynde ?
Forsoth, I trowe, ye and your bowe
For fere wolde draw behynde :
And no mervayle ; for lytell avayle
Were in your counceyle than :
Wherefore I wyll to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.
Ryght wele knowe ye, that women be
But feble for to fyght ;
No womanhede it is indede
To be bolde as a knyght :
Yet, in such fere, yf that ye were
With enemyes day or nyght,
I wolde withstande, with bowe in hande.
To greve them as I myght.
And you to save; as women have
From deth many one :
For in my mynde, of aU mankynde
I love but you alone.
Yet take good hede, for ever I drede
That ye coude not sustayne
The thornie wayes, the depe valeies,
The snowe, the frost, the rayne.
Tlie colde, the hete; for dry or wete,
We must lodge on the playne;
And us above, none other rofe
But a brake bush or twayne :
Which sone sholde greve you, I beleve.
And ye wolde gladly than
That I had to the grenewode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.
Syth I have here been partynere.
With you of joy and blysse,
I must also parte of your wo
Endure, as reson is.
Yet I am sure of one plesure.
And, shortely, it is this;
That, where yc be, me seemeth, pard(5,
I colde not fare amysse.
14 THE NUT-BROWNE BIAYDE.
Without more speche, I you beseche
That we were sone agone,
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
If ye go thyder, ye must consyder,
When ye have lust to dyne,
There shall no mete be for to gete,
Nor drinke, bere, ale, ne wyne,
No shetes clene, to lye betwene.
Made of threde and twyne;
None other house but leves and bowes,
To cover your hed and myne.
Oh myne harte swete, this evyll dyete,
Sholde make you pale and wan ;
Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.
Among the wylde dere, such an archere.
As men say that ye be,
Ne may not fayle of good vitayle,
Where is so grete plente.
And water clere of the ryvere,
Shall be full swete to me.
With which in hele, I shall ryght wele
Endure, as ye shall see;
And, or we go, a bedde or two
I can provyde anone;
For, in my mynde, of all mankjmde
I love but you alone.
Lo yet, before, ye must do more,
Yf ye wyll go with me;
As cut your here up by your ere,
Your kyrtle by the kne;
With bowe in hande, for to withstande
Your enemyes, yf nede be ;
And this same nyght, before day-lyght.
To wode-warde wyll I fle.
Yf that ye wyll all this fulfiU,
Doit short ely as ye can:
Els wyll I to the grene wode go.
Alone, a banyshed man.
I shall as nowe do more for you
Than longeth to womanhede.
To shorte my here, a bow to bere,
To shote in tyme of nede.
THE NUT-BROWNE MAYDE. 15
O, my swete mother, before all other
For you I have most drede;
But nowe adue! I must ensue
"Where fortune doth me lede.
All this make ye: Now let us fle;
The day cometh fast upon:
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
Nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go.
And I shall tell ye why: ;
Your appetyght is to be lyght
Of love, I wele espy:
For lyke as ye have sayed to me.
In lyke wyse, hardely,
Y''e wolde answere whosoever it were,
In way of company.
It is sayd of old, Sone hot, sone colde ;
And so is a woman ;
Wherfore I to the wode wyll go,
Alone, a banyshed man.
Yf ye take hede, it is no nede
Such wordes to say by me ;
For oft ye prayed and longe assayed,
Or I you loved, parde :
And though that I, of auncestry,
A baron's daughter be.
Yet have you proved howe I you loved,
A squyer of low degre ;
And ever shall, whatso befall ;
To dye therfore an one ;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
A baron's chylde to be begylde,
It were a cursed dede !
To be felawe with an outlawe
Almighty God forbede !
Yt beter were, the poor squy&re
Alone to forest yede.
Than ye sholde say, another day.
That, by my cursed dede,
Ye were betrayd : Wherefore, good mayd,
The best rede that I can.
Is, that I to the grene wode go.
Alone, a banyshed man.
16 THE NUT-BROWNE MAYDE.
Whatever befall, I never shall
Of this thyng you upbrayd ;
But, yf ye go, and leve me so,
Than have ye me betrayd.
Remember you wele, howe that ye dele ;
For yf ye, as ye sayd,
Be so unkynde to leve behynde
Your love, the Not-Browne Mayd,
Trust me truly, that I shall dye
Sone after ye be gone ;
For, in my mynde, of aU mankynde
I love but you alone.
Yf that ye went, ye sholde repent ;
For in the forest nowe
I have purvayed me of a mayd,
Whom I love more than you ;
Another fayrere than ever ye were,
I dare it wele avowe,
And of you bothe eche sholde be wrothe
With other, as I trowe :
It were myne cse to lyve in pese ;
So wyll I, yf I can ;
Wherfore I to the wode wyll go,
AJone, a banyshed man.
Though in the wode I undyrstode
Ye had a paramour.
All this may nought remove my thought,
But that I wyll be your.
And she shall fynde me soft and kynde
And courteys every hour;
Glad to fulfyll aU that she wyll
Commaunde me to my power.
For had ye, lo, an hundred mo,
Of them I wolde be one;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
Myne own dere love, I see the prove
That ye be kynde and true;
Of mayde and wyfe, in all my lyfe.
The best that ever I knewe.
Be merry and glad; be no more sad;
The case is chaunged newe;
For it wei*e ruthe, that, for your truthe.
Ye sholde have cause to rewe.
THE NUT-BROWNE MAYDE.
17
Be not dismayed ; whatever I sayd
To you, when I began ;
I wyll not to the grene wode go,
I am no banyshed man.
These tydings be more gladd to me,
Than to be made a quene,
Yf I were sure they sholde endure :
But it is often sene.
When men wyll breke promyse, they speke
The wordes on the splene.
Ye shape some wyle me to begyle,
And stele from me, I wene :
Than were the case worse than it was,
And I more wo-begone :
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
Ye shall not nede further to drede :
I wyll not disparage
You (God defend !) syth ye descend
Of so grete a lynage.
Now undyrstande ; to Westmarlande,
Which is myne herytage,
I wyU you brynge ; and with a rynge,
By way of maryage
I wyll you take, and lady make,
As shortely as I can :
Thus have you won an erlys son.
And not a banyshed man.
Here may ye se, that women be
In love, meke, kynde and stable :
Late never man reprove them than.
Or call them variable ;
But, rather, pray God, that we may
To them be comfortable ;
Which sometyme proveth such as he loveth,
Yf they be charytable.
For syth men wolde that women sholde
Be meke to them eacli one ;
^^^^ JMoche more ought they to God obey,
^ And serve but hym alone.
M JBnt^m^d^o
[Tins liallad, written by Dr. Leyden, was first puh-
lished in the ' Minstrelsy of the Scottish JJorder.'
' It is founded,' says Sir M'alter Scott, ' upon a
Gaelic traditional ballad called ' Macphail of Colon-
say anil the Mermaid of Corrivrekin,' a dangerous
gulf, lying between the islands of Jura and Scarba.
' The Gaelic story beai-s, that Macphail of Colonsay
was carried off by a mermaid while passing the
gulf above-mentioned ; that they resided together,
in a grotto beneath the sea, for several years,
during which time she bore him five cliildren ; but
finally, he tired of her society, and having prevailed
upon her to carry him near the shore of Colonsay,
he escaped to land.' The reader may find more
about mermaids in the ' Tclliamed' of M. Maillet ;
in Pontoppidan's 'Natural History of Norway";
and in an old work, the * Kong's Shuggsio, or Koyal
Mirror,' written, it is believed, about 1170. Some
very remarkable stories are also told of them in
WalJron's ' History of the Isle of Man.']
N Jura's heath how sweetly swell
The murmurs of the mountain bee I
IIow softly mourns tlu- writhed shell
Of Jura's shore, its parent sea !
THE MERMAID. 19
But softer floating o'er the deep,
The Mermaid's sweet sea-soothing lay,
That charmed the dancing waves to sleep,
Before the bark of Colonsaj.
Aloft the purple pennons wave,
As, parting gay from Ci-inan's shore,
From Morven's wars the seamen brave
Their gallant chieftain homeward bore.
In youth's gay bloom, the brave Macphail
Still blamed the lingering bark's delay ;
For her he chid the flagging sail,
The lovely maid of Colonsay.
And ' raise,' he cried, ' tlie song of love.
The maiden sung with tearful smile,
When first, o'er Jura's hills to rove.
We left afar the lonely isle !
" When on this ring of ruby red
Shall die," she said, " the crimson hue,
Know that thy favourite fair is dead,
Or proves to thee and love untrue." '
Now, lightly poised, the rising oar
Disperses wide the foamy spray,
And, echoing far o'er Cri nan's shore.
Resounds the song of Colonsay.
' Softly blow, thou western breeze,
Softly rustle through the sail!
Soothe to rest the furrowy seas,
Before my love, sweet western gale!
Where the wave is tinged with red.
And the russet sea-leaves grow.
Mariners, with prudent dread,
Shun the shelving reefs below.
As you pass through Jura's sound,
Bend your course by Scarba's shore;
Shun, O shun, the gulf profound,
Where Corrivrekin's surges roar!
If from that unbottomed deep,
With wrinkled form and wreathed train.
O'er the verge of Scarba's steep.
The sea-snake heave his snowy mane.
20 THE MERMAID.
Unwarp, unwind his oozy coils,
Sea-green sisters of the main,
And, in the gulf where ocean boils,
The unwieldy wallowing monster chain.
Softly blow, thou western breeze,
Softly rustle through the sail!
Soothe to rest the furrowed seas.
Before my love, sweet western gale!'
Thus, all to soothe the chieftain's woe.
Far from the maid he loved so dear,
The song arose, so soft and slow.
He seemed her parting sigh to hear.
The lonely deck he paces o'er,
Impatient for the rising day.
And still from Crinan's moonlight shore,
He turns his eyes to Colonsay.
The moonbeams crisp the curling surge,
That streaks with foam the ocean green:
While forward still the rowers urge
Their course, a female form was seen.
That sea-maid's form, of pearly light.
Was whiter than the downy spray.
And round her bosom heaving bright
Her glossy yellow ringlets play.
Borne on a foamy crested wave,
She reached amain the bounding prow.
Then clasping fast the chieftain brave.
She, plunging, sought the deep below.
Ah ! long beside thy feigned bier.
The monks the prayer of death shall say;
And long for thee the fruitless tear
Shall weep the maid of Colonsay!
But downward, like a powerless corse,
The eddying waves the chieftain bear;
He only heard the moaning hoarse
Of waters, murmtu'ing in his ear.
The murmurs sink by slow degrees;
No more the waters round him rave;
Lulled by the music of the seas.
He lies within a coral cave.
THE MERMAID. 21
In dreamy mood reclines he long,
Nor dares his tranced eyes unclose,
'Till, warbling wild, the sea-maid's song
Far in the crystal cavern rose;
Soft as that harp's unseen controul,
In morning dreams which lovers hear,
Whose strains steal sweetly o'er the soul.
But never reach the waking ear.
As sunbeams through the tepid air,
When clouds dissolve the dews unseen,
Smile on the flowers that bloom more fair,
And fields that glow with livelier green;
So melting soft the music fell;
It seemed to soothe the fluttering spray —
* Say, heardst thou not these wild notes swell ?
Ah! 'tis the song of Colonsay.'
Like one that from a fearful dream
Awakes, the morning light to view.
And joys to see the purple beam,
Yet fears to find the vision true,
He heard that strain, so wildly sweet,
Which bade his torpid languor fly;
He feared some spell had bound his feet,
And hardly dared his limbs to try.
* This yellow sand, this sparry cave,
Shall bend thy soul to beauty's sway;
Canst thou the maiden of the wave
Compare to her of Colonsay ?'
Roused by that voice of silver sound.
From the paved floor he lightly sprung.
And glancing wild his eyes around
Where the fair nymph her tresses wrung;
No form he saw of mortal mould ;
It shone like ocean's snowy foam;
Her ringlets waved in living gold.
Her mirror crystal, pearl the comb.
Her pearly comb the siren took.
And careless bound her tresses wild;
Still o'er the mirror stole her look,
As on the wondering youth she smiled.
22 THE MERMAID.
Like music from the greenwood tree,
Again she raised the melting lay; —
' Fair warrior, wilt thou dwell with me,
And leave the Maid of Colonsay?
Fair is the crystal hall for me,
With rubies and with emeralds set;
And sweet the music of the sea
Shall sing, when we for love are met.
How sweet to dance with gliding feet
Along the level tide so green;
Responsive to the cadence sweet
That breathes along the moonlight scene!
And soft the music of the main
Rings from the motley tortoise-sheU ;
While moonbeams o'er the watery plain
Seem trembling in its fitful swell.
How sweet, when billows heave their head.
And shake their snowy crests on high.
Serene in Ocean's sapphire bed
Beneath the tumbling surge to lie;
To trace, with tranquil step, the deep,
Where pearly di'ops of frozen dew
In concave shells unconscious sleep.
Or shine with lustre, silvery blue!
Then all the summer sun, from far.
Pour through the wave a softer ray;
While diamonds, in a bower of spar.
At eve shall shed a brighter day.
Nor stormy wind, nor wintry gale,
That o'er the angry ocean sweep.
Shall e'er our coral groves assail.
Calm in the bosom of the deep.
Through the green meads beneath the sea,
Enamoured we shall fondly stray —
Then, gentle warrior, dwell with me.
And leave the Maid of Colonsay!'
* Though bright thy locks of glistering gold,
Fair maiden of the foamy main !
Thy life-blood is the water cold,
While mine beats high in every vein:
thp: mermaid. 23
If I, beneath thy sparry cave,
Should in thy snowy arms recline,
Inconstant as the restless wave,
My heart would grow as cold as thine.'
As cygnet down, proud swelled her breast,
Her eye confessed the pearly tear:
His hand she to her bosom presst, —
_ * Is there no heart for rapture here?
These limbs, sprung from the lucid sea,
Does no warm blood their currents fill;
No heart-pulse riot, wild and free,
To joy, to love's delirious thrill?'
' Though all the splendour of the sea
Around thy faultless beauty shine,
That heart, that I'iots wild and free,
Can hold no sympathy with mine.
These sparkling eyes, so wild and gay,
They swim not in the light of love:
The beauteous Maid of Colonsay,
Her eyes are milder than the dove !
Even now, within the lonely isle.
Her eyes are dim with tears for me;
And canst thou think that siren smile
Can lure my soul to dwell with thee?'
An oozy film her limbs o'erspread.
Unfolds in length her scaly train;
She tossed in proud disdain her head,
And lashed with webbed fin the main.
'Dwell here alone!' the Mermaid cried.
' And view far off the sea-nymphs play;
The prison-wall, the azure tide,
Shall bar thy steps from Colonsay.
Whene'er, like Ocean's scaly brood,
I cleave with rapid fin the wave,
Far from the daughter of the flood.
Conceal thee in this coral cave.
I feel my former soul return.
It kindles at thy cold disdain:
And has a mortal dared to spurn
A daughter of the foamy main?'
24 THE MERMAID.
She fled; around the crystal cave
The rolling waves resume their road;
On the broad portal idly rave,
But enter not the nymph's abode.
And many a weary night weiit by,
As in the lonely cave he lay;
And many a sun rolled through the sky,
And poured its beams on Colonsay.
And oft beneath the silver moon,
He heard afar the Mermaid sing;
And oft to many a meting tune,
The shell-formed lyres of ocean ring.
And when the moon went down the sky,
Still rose, in dreams, his native plain.
And oft he thought his love was by.
And charmed him with some tender strain :
And heart-sick, oft he waked to weep.
When ceased that voice of silver sound,
And thought to plunge him in the deep
That walled his crystal cavern round.
But still the ring, of ruby red.
Retained its vivid crimson hue;
And each despairing accent fled,
To find his gentle love so true.
When seven long lonely months were gone,
The Mermaid to his cavern came,
No more mis-shapen from the zone;
But like a maid of mortal frame.
* O give to me that ruby ring,
That on thy finger glances gay.
And thou shalt hear the Mermaid sing
The song thou love-t of Colonsay.'
' This ruby ring, of crimson grain.
Shall on tliy finger glitter gay,
If thou wilt bear me through the main,
Again to visit Colon^y.'
' Except thou quit thy former love.
Content to dwell for aye with me.
Thy scorn my finny frame might move
To tear thy limbs amid the sea.'
THE MERMAID.
25
' Then bear me swift along the main,
The lonely isle again to see;
And when I here return again,
I plight my faith to dwell with thee.'
An oozy film her limbs o'erspread,
While slow unfolds her scaly train;
With gluey fangs her hands were clad;
She lashed with webbed fin the main.
He grasps the Mermaid's scaly sides,
As with broad fin slie oars her way;
Beneath the silent moon she glides,
That sweetly sleeps on Colon say.
Proud swells her heart! she deems at last
To lure him with her silver tongue.
And, as the shelving rocks she past.
She raised her voice and sweetly sung.
In softer, sweeter strains she sung,
Slow gliding o'er the moonlight bay,
When light to land the chieftain sprung.
To hail the Maid of Colonsay.
O sad the Mermaid's gay notes fell,
And sadly sink remote at sea!
So sadly mourns the writhed shell
Of Jura's shore, its parent sea.
And ever as the year return.-;.
The charm-bound sailors know the dp.
For sadly still the Mi i maid mourr^-
The lovely Chief wl Colonsi},
)i'}iiP /ivvo
fALOOR, A\-D MaURIAGE.
[This ballad is printed from Ritson's ' Robin Hood ;'
whoi'e it is given ' from a black-letter copy in the possession
of the Dulfe of Roxburgh. The full title of the original,"
says Ritson, ' is, ' Anew ballad of bold Uobin Hood: shew-
ing his birth, breeding, valour, and marriage at Titbury
liuU-running. Calculated for the meridian of Staffordshire,
but may serve for Uerbysliirc or Kent.' * With regard to its
antiquity, the editor of the ' Collection of Old Ballads,'
1723, thinks it 'one of the oldest extant on the subject."
On the other liand, to Dr. Percy it ' seems of much later
date tlian most of the others ; and can scarce lie older,' he
says, ' than the reign of King Charles I.' (Keliques, I. cii.)
For this opinion, and for ' tliinking that it is not found in
the l^opys collection,' Ritson, after his manner, falls foul of
the Bishop ; without, liowever, doing more tlian pointing
out that ' in tlie second volume of that collection, any
person disposed to the search, will find at least two copies
of it, both in black letter.' Be its precise date, however,
what it may, the reader will probably agree with Dr. Percy,
that ' from this ballad's concluding with an e.vhortation to
' pray for the khig,' &c., it is evidently posterior to the
reign of Q,ueen lilizabeth.']
O- _ IND gentlemen, will you be patient awhile?
■'*'"'' Ay, and then you shall hear anon
.\ very good ballad of bold Robin Hood,
And of his brave man Little John.
ROBIN HOOD.
In Locksly town, in merry Nottinghamshire,
In merry sweet Locksly town,
There bold Robin Hood he was born and was bred,
Bold Robin of famous renown.
The father of Robin a forrester was,
And he shot in a lusty strong bow
Two north-country miles and an inch at a shot,
As the Pindar of Wakefield does know.
For he brought Adam Bell, and Clim of the Clugh,
And William of Clowdesle,
To shoot with our forrester for forty mark,
And the fon-ester beat them all three.
His mother was neece to the Coventry knight,
Which Warwickshire men call Sir Guy;
For he slew the blue bore that hangs up at the gate.
Or mine host of the Bull tells a lie.
Her brother was Gamwel, of Great Gamwel-hall,
A noble house-keeper was he,
Ay, as ever broke bread in sweet Nottinghamshire,
And a 'squire of famous degree.
The mother of Robin said to her husband,
My honey, my love, and my dear,
Let Robin and I ride this morning to Gamwel,
To taste of my brother's good cheer.
And he said, I grant thee thy boon, gentle Joan,
Take one of my horses, I pray:
The sun is arising, and therefore make haste,
For to-morrow is Christmas day.
Then Robin Hood's father's grey gelding was brought.
And saddled and bridled was he;
God-wot a blue bonnet, his new suit of cloaths.
And a cloak that did reach to his knee.
She got on her holyday kirtle and gown,
They were of a light Lincoln green ;
The cloath was homespun, but for colour and make
It might have beseemed our queen.
And then Robin got on his basket-hilt sword.
And his dagger on his tothcr side ;
And said, My dear mother, let's haste to be gone,
We have forty long miles to ride.
28 ROBIN HOOD.
When Robin had mounted his gelding so grey,
His father, without any trouble.
Set her up behind him, and bad her not fear,
For his gelding had oft carried double.
And when she was settled, they rode to their neighbours,
And drank and shook hands with them all;
And then Robin gallopt, and never gave o're,
Till they lighted at Gamwel-hall.
And now you may think the right worshipful 'squire
Was joyful his sister to see;
For he kist her, and kist her, and swore a great oath,
Thou art welcome, kind sister, to me.
To-morrow, when mass had been said at the chappel.
Six tables were covered in the hall.
And in comes the 'squire and makes a short speech.
It was. Neighbours, you're welcome all.
But not a man here shall taste my March beer,
Till a Christmas carrol he does sing.
Then all clapt their hands, and they shouted and sung,
Till the hall and the parlour did ring.
Now mustard and brawn, roast beef and plumb pies.
Were set upon every table;
And noble George Gamwel said, Eat, and be merry.
And drink, too, as long as you're able.
When dinner was ended, his chaplain said grace.
And, Be merry, my friends, said the 'squire;
It rains and it blows, but call for more ale.
And lay some more wood on the fire.
And now call ye Little John hither to me.
For Little John is a fine lad.
At gambols and juggling, and twenty such tricks.
As shall make you both merry and glad.
When Little John came, to gambols they went,
Both gentlemen, yeomen, and clown;
And what do you think? Why, as true as I live,
Bold Robin Hood put them all down.
And now you may tliink the right worshipful 'squire
Was joyful this sight for to see;
For he said. Cousin Robin, thou'st go no more home,
But tarry and dwell here with me.
ROBIN HOOD. 29
Thou shalt have my hind when I die, and till then,
Thou shalt be the staiF of my age.
Then grant me my boon, dear uncle, said Robin,
That Little John may be my page.
And he said, Kind cousin, I grant thee thy boon ;
With all my heart, so let it be.
Then come hither, Little John, said Robin Hood,
Come hither my page unto me.
Go fetch me my bow, my longest long bow.
And broad arrows one, two, or three,
For when 'tis fair weather we'll into Sherwood,
Some merry pastime to see.
When Robin Hood came into merry Sherwood,
He winded his bugle so clear;
And twice five and twenty good yeomen and bold.
Before Robin Hood did appear.
Where are your companions all ? said Robin Hood,
For still I want forty and three,
Then said a bold yeoman, Lo, yonder they stand.
All under the greenwood tree.
As that word was spoke, Clorinda came by,
The queen of the shepherds was she ;
And her gown was of velvet as green as the grass,
And her buskin did reach to her knee.
Her gate it was graceful, her body was straight.
And her countenance free from pride;
A bow in her hand, and a quiver of arrows
Hung dangling by her sweet side.
Her eyebrows were black, ay, and so Avas her bair.
And her skin was as smooth as glass ;
Her visage spoke wisdom, and modesty too ;
Sets with Robin Hood such a lass!
Said Robin Hood, Lady fair, whither away ?
O whither, fair lady, away?
And she made him answei'. To kill a fat buck ;
For to-morrow is Titbury day.
Said Robin Hood, Lady fair, wander with me
A li+*' yonder green bower;
There set down to I'est you, and you shall be sure,
Of a brace or a leash in an hour.
30 ROBIN HOOD.
And as we were going towards the -green bower,
Two hundred good bucks we espy'd ;
She chose out the fattest that was in the herd,
And she shot him through side and side.
By the faith of my body, said bold Robin Hood,
I never saw woman like thee ;
And com'st thou from east, or com'st thou from west,
Thou need'st not beg venison of me.
However, along to my bower you shall go,
And taste ol" a forrester's meat ;
And when we came thither we found as good cheer
As any man needs for to eat.
For there was hot venison, and warden pies cold.
Cream clouted, and honeycombs plenty ;
And the servitors they were, besides Little John,
Good yeomen at least four and twenty.
Clorinda said, Tell me your name, gentle sir;
And he said, 'Tis bold Robin Hood:
Squire Gamwel's my uncle, but all my delight
Is to dwell in the merry Sherwood ;
For 'tis a fine life, and 'tis void of all strife,
So 'tis, sir, Clorinda reply'd.
But oh! said bold Robin, how sweet would it be,
If Clorinda would be my bride.
She blusht at the motion ; yet, after a pause.
Said, Yes, sir, and with all my heart.
Then let us send for a priest, said Robin Hood,
And be married before we do part.
But she said, It may not be so, gentle sir.
For I must be at Titbury feast;
And if Robin Hood will go thither with me,
I'll make him the most welcome guest.
Said Robin Hood, Reach me that buck. Little John,
For I'll go along with my dear;
And bid my yeomen kill six brace of bucks.
And meet me to-morrow just here.
Before he had ridden five Staffordshire miles,
Eight yeomen, that were too bold.
Bid Robin Hood stand, and deliver his buck:
A truer tale never was told.
ROBIN HOOD. 31
I will not, faith, said bold llobin; come, John,
Stand by me, and we'll beat 'em all.
Then both drew their swords, and so cut 'em, and slasht'em,
That five out of them did fall.
The three that remain'd call'd to Robin for quarter,
And pitiful John begg'd their lives;
When John's boon was granted, he gave them good counsel.
And sent them all home to their wives.
This battle was fought near to Titbury town,
When the btigpipes baited the bull;
I'm the king of the fiddlers, and I swear 'tis truth.
And I call him that doubts it a gull :
For I saw tliem fighting, and fiddled the while;
And Clorinda sung, ' Hey derry down!
The bumkins are beaten, put up thy sword. Bob,
And now let's dance into the town.'
Before we came in, we heard a great shouting.
And all that were in it look'd madly;
For some were on bull-back, some dancing a morris,
And some singing Arthur -a-Br adley .
And there we see Thomas, our justice's clerk.
And Mary, to whom he was kind;
For Tom rode before her, and call'd Mary madam.
And kiss'd her full sweetly behind:
And so may your worships. But we went to dinner.
With Thomas, and IMary. and Nan;
They all drank a health to Clorinda, and told hcj-.
Bold Robin Hood was a fine man.
When dinner was ended. Sir Roger, the parson
Of Uubbridge, was sent for in haste:
He brought his mass-book, and he bad them take hands,
And joyn'd them in marriage full fast.
And then, as bold Robin Hood and his sweet bride
Went hand in hand to the green bower.
The birds sung with pleasure in merry Sherwood,
And 'twas a most joyful hour.
And when Robin came in sight of the bower,
Where are my yeomen? said he:
And Little John answer'd, Lo, yonder they stiunl,
All under the iireen- wood- tree.
32
ROBIN HOOD.
Then a garland they brought her by two and by two,
And plac'd them all on the bride's head:
The music struck up, and we all fell to dance,
Till the bride and bridegroom were a-bed.
And what they did there must be co-unsel to me.
Because they Iny long the next day;
And I had haste liome, but I got a good piece
Of bride-cake, and so came away.
Now, out, alas! I had forgotten to tell ye,
That marry 'd they were with a ring;
And so will Nan Knight, or be buried a maid',:i:
And now let us pray for the king;
That he may have children, and they may have more.
To govern and do us some good:
And then I'll make ballads in Hobin Hood's bower,
And sing 'em in merry Sherwood.
7^ .\
^.wm- ^^nfi^f ^'^^¥Uf''
X 'f/^
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n]2M -£MiB4
' '^pm
[Tliis ballad is taken from Percy's ' Keliques,' where it is
given ' chiefly from his Folio MS., compareil'with two ancient
printed copies.' ' The concluding stanzas, however, which con-
tain the old beggar's discovery of himself,' were substituted
by the Doctor, apparently from his own pen, for ' those of the
vulgar ballad,' to remove the 'absurdities and inconsistencies'
of these latter, and to reconcile tlie story to 'probability and
true history. Fortliis,'hc says, ' informs us that at the decisive
battle of Evesham, fought August 4, 12G.'), when Simon de
Montfort, the gi'eat Earl of T eicestor, was slain at the head of
the barons, his eldest son, llu:iry, fell by his side, and in con-
sequence of that defeat, his whole family sunk for ever.' With
regard to the date of the ballad. Dr. Percy thinks it was written
in the reign of Queen Klizabcth, 'from the arms of England
being called the ' Quecnes Arivies," and from its tune being
quoted in other old pieces written in lier time.' In the IJritish
Museum are two copies, one in black-letter, bearing the fol-
lowing title: — ' The Rarest Uallad tliat ever was seen Of the
Blind Boggers Daughter of Bednal (ircen.' In both these
cniics the arms of lOngland are called tlie ' King's Arms.' The
' A'lgeir was a go! 1 coin, of the value of about ten shillings.]
FITT FIRST.
TT was a blind befigar,hacl long lost his sight,
Tie had a iaire daugliter of bcwty most bright:
And many a gallant brave suiter had shee,
For none was see comelye as pretty Bessee.
F
34 THE BLIND BEGGARS DAUGHTER
And thougli shee was of favour most faire,
Yett seeing shee was but a poor beggar's heyre,
Of ancyent housekeepers despised was shee,
Whose sonnes came as suitors to prettye Bessee.
Wherefore in great sorrow faire Bessy did say,
Good father and mother let me goe away
To seek out my fortune, whatever itt bee.
This suite then they granted to prettye Bessee.
Then Bessy, that was of bewtye soe bright.
All cladd in gray russett, and late in the night.
From father and mother alone parted shee.
Who sighed and sobbed for prettye Bessee.
Shee went till shee came to Stratford-le-Bow;
Then knew shee not whither, nor which way to goc:
With teares shee lamented her hard destinie,
Soe sadd and soe heavy was pretty Bessee.
Shee kept on her journey untill it Avas day.
And went unto Rumford along the hye way;
Where at the Queene's Amies entertained was shee:
Soe faire and wel favoured was pretty Bessee.
Shee had not been there a month to an end,
But master and niistres and all was her friend:
And every brave gallant that once did her see.
Was straightway cnamourd of pretty Bessee.
Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold,
And in their songs daylye her love was extold;
Her beawtye was blazed in every degree;
Soe faire and soe comely e was pretty Bessee.
The young men of Rumford in her had their joy;
Shee shewed herself curteous, and modestlye coye;
And at her commandment still wold they bee,
Soe faire and soe comelye was prettye Bessee.
Foure suitors att once unto her did goe;
They craved her favor, but still she sayd Noc;
I wold not wish gentles to marry with nice:
Yett ever they honoured prettye Bessee.
The first of them was a gallant young knight,
And he came unto her disguisde in the night:
The second a gentleman of good degree.
Who wooed and sued for prettye Bessee.
OF BEDNAL GREEN. 35
A merchant of London, whose wealth was not small,
He was the third suiter, and proper withall:
Her masters own sonne the fourth man must bee,
Who swore he would dye for pretty Bessee.
And if thou wilt marry with mee, quoth the knight,
He make thee a ladye with joy and delight;
My heart's so inthralled by thy be w tie,
That soone I shall dye for prettye Bessee.
The gentleman sayd, Come, marry with mee,
As fine as a ladye my Bessy shal bee;
My life is distressed: O heare me, quoth hee;
And grant me thy love, my prettye Bessee. *
Let me bee thy husband, the merchant cold say,
Thou shalt live in London both gallant and gay;
My shippes shall bring home rych Jewells for thee.
And I will for ever love pretty Bessee.
Then Bessy shee sighed, and thus shee did say:
My father and mother I meane to obey;
First gett their good-will, and be faithfuU to mee,
Ajid you shall enjoye your prettye Bessee.
To every one, this answer shee made;
Wherfore unto her they joy fullye sayd —
This thing to fulfill we all doe agree;
But where dwells thy father, my prettye Bessee?
My father, shee said, is soone to be seene;
The seely blind beggar of Bednal-Greene,
That daylye sits begging for charitie,
He is the good father of pretty Bessee.
His markes and his tokens are know en very well;
He always is led with a dogg and a bell:
A seely olde man, God knoweth, is hee,
Yet hee is the father of pretty Bessee !
Nay then, quoth the merchant, thou art not for mee;
Nor, quoth the innholder, my wiffe thou shalt bee:
I lothe, sayd the gentle, a beggars degree.
And therefore, adewe, my pretty Bessee!
Wliy then, quoth the knight, hap better or worse,
I waighe not true love by the waight of the pursse.
And bewtye is bewtye in every degree;
Then welcome unto me, my pretty Bessee.
36 THE BLIND BEGGARS DAUGHTER
With thee to thy father forthwith 1 will goe
Nay soft, said his kinsmen, it must not be soe;
A poor beggars daughter noe ladye shal bee,
Then take thy adevv of pretty Bessee.
But soone after this, by breake of tlie day,
Tlie knight had from Rumford stole Bessy away.
The younge men of Rumford, as thicke might bee,
Rode after to feitch againe pretty Bessee.
As swifte as the winde to ryde they were seene,
Untill they came neare unto Bednal-Greene;
And as the knight lighted most courteouslie
They all fought against him for pretty Bessee.
But rescew came speedily e over the plaine.
Or else the young kniglit for his love had been sluine.
This fray being ended, then straitway he see
His kinsmen come rayling at pretty Bessee.
Then spake the blind beggar. Although I bee poore,
Yett rayle not against my child at my own dooi'e;
Though shee be not decked in velvett and pearle,
Yet will I dropp angells with you for my girle.
And then if my gold may better her birthe,
And equall the gold that you lay on the earth,
Tiien neyther rayle nor grudge you to see
The blind beggars daughter a lady to bee.
But first you shall promise, and have itt wellknowne,
The gold that you drop shall all be your owne.
With that they replyed, Contented bee wee.
Then here's, quoth the beggar, for pretty Bessee.
With that an angell he cast on the ground.
And dropped in angels full three thousand pound;
And oftentimes itt was proved most plaine.
For the gentlemens one, the beggar dropt twayne:
Soe that the place wherein they did sitt.
With gold it was covered every whitt.
The gentlemen then having dropt all their store,
Sayd, Now, beggar, hold, for wee have noe more.
Thou hast fulfilled thy promise ai'right.
Then marry, quoth he, my girle to this knight;
And heere, added hee, I will now throweyou downe
A hundred pounds more to buy her a gowne.
OF BEDNAL GREEN.
The gentlemen all, that this treasure had scene.
Admired the beggar of Bednal-Greene;
And all those that were her suitors before,
Their fleshe for very anger they tore.
Thus was faire Besse matched to the knight,
And then made a ladye in others despite:
A fiiirer ladye there never was seene,
Than the blind beggars daughter of Bednal-Greene.
But of their sumptuous marriage and feast,
AVhat brave lords and knights thither were prest,
The second litt shall set forth to your sight.
With marvellous pleasure and wished delight.
FITT SECOND.
Off a blind beggars daughter most bright.
That late was betrothed unto a younge knight;
All the discourse thereof you did see;
But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee.
Within a gorgeous palace most brave,
Adorned with all the cost they cold have,
This wedding was kept most sumptuouslie.
And all for the creditt of pretty Bessee.
All kind of dainties, and delicates sweete
Were bought for the banquet, as it was most meete;
Partridge, and plover, and venison most free,
Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee.
This marriage through England was spread by report,
Soe that a great number thereto did resort
Of nobles and gentles in every degree,
And all for the fame of prettye Bessee.
To church then went this gallant younge knight;
His bride followed after, an angell most bright,
With troopes of ladyes, the like nere was seene,
As went with sweete Bessy of Bedaal-Greene.
This marryage being solempnized then.
With musicke performed by the skilfullest men,
The nobles and gentles sate downe at that tyde,
Each one admiring the beautifull bryde.
38 THE BLIND BEGGARS DAUGHTER
Now, after the sumptuous dinner was done,
To talke and to reason a number begunn;
They talkt of the blind beggars daughter most bright,
And what with his daughter he gave to the knight.
Then spake the nobles, * Much marveil have wee.
This jolly blind beggar wee cannot here see.'
My loi'ds, quoth the bride, my father's so base.
He is loth with his presence these states to disgrace.
' The prayse of a woman in questyon to bringe
Before her own face, were a flattering thinge;
But wee thinke thy father's baseness,' quoth they,
' Might by thy bewtye be cleane put awaye.'
They had noe sooner these pleasant words spoke,
But in comes the beggar cladd in a silke cloke;
A faire velvet capp, and a fether had hee;
And now a musicyau forsooth he wold bee.
He had a daintye lute under his arme.
He touched the strings, which made such a charme,
Saies, Please you to heare any musicke of mee.
He sing you a song of pretty Bessee.
With that his lute he twanged straightway.
And thereon begann most sweetlye to play; •
And after that lessons were playd two or three.
He straynd out this song most delicatelie.
• A poore beggar's daughter did dwell on a greene,
Who for her fairenesse might weU be a queene;
A blithe bonny lasse, and a daintye was shee,
And many one called her pretty Bessee.
Her father hee had noe goods, nor noe land,
But beggd for a penny all day with his hand ;
And yett to her marriage hee gave thousands three.
And still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee.
And if any one here her birth doe disdaine,
Her father is ready, with might and with maine,
To proove shee is come of noble degree:
Therlbre never flout att prettye Bessee.'
With that the lords and the companye round
With harty laughter were readye to swound;
Att last said the lords, Full well wee may see
OF BEDNAL GREEN. 39
On this the bride all blushing did rise,
The pearlie drops standing within her faire eyes;
O pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth shee.
That throughe blinde affection thus doteth on nnee.
Tf this be thy father, the nobles did say,
AVell may he be proud of tliis happy day;
Yett by his countenance well may wee see,
His birth and his fortune did never agree:
And therfore, blind man, we pray thee bewray
(And looke that the truth tliou to us doe say).
Thy birth and thy parentage, what itt may bee,
For the love that thou bearest to pretty Bessee.
' Then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one.
One song more to sing, and then 1 have done;
And if that itt may not winn good report.
Then doe not give me a groat for my spoit.
Sir Simon de Montfort my subject slial bee;
Once chiefe of all the great barons was bee:
Yet fortune so cruelle this lorde did abase,
Now loste and forgotten are bee and his race.
When the barons in armes did King Henrye oppose,
Sir Simon de Montfort their leader they chose;
A leader of courage undaunted was hee,
And oft-times he made their enemyes fliee.
At length in the battle on Eveshame plaine,
The barons were routed, and Montfort was slaino;
Moste fatall that battel did prove unto thee,
Thoughe thou wast not borne then, my prettye Bessee!
Along with the nobles that fell at that tyde.
His ehlest son Henrye, who fought by his side.
Was fellde by a blowe he receivde in the fight,
A blowe that deprivde him for ever of sight.
Among the dead bodyes all lifelesse he laye.
Till evening drewe on of the following daye,
When by a young ladye discoverd was hee;
And this was thy mother, my prettye Bessee
A barons faire daughter stept forth in the nighte
To search for her father, who fell in the fight,
And seeing young Montfoi-t, where gasping he laye.
Was moved with pitye, and brouglit him awaye.
40
THE BLIND BEGGARS DAUGHTER.
In secrette she nurst him, and swaged his paine,
While he throughe the realme was beleevd to be shiiiic;
At lengthe his I'aire bride she consented to bee,
And made hira glad fatlier of prettye Bessee.
And nowe lest oure foes our lives sholde betraye,
We clothed ourselves in beggars arraye;
Her jewelles shee solde, and hither came wee;
All our comfort and care was our prettye Bessee.
And here have wee lived in fortunes despite,
Thoughe poore, yet contented with humble delighte:
Full forty winters thus have I beene
A silly blind beggar of Bednal-Greene.
And here, noble lordes, is ended the song,
Of one that once to your own ranke did belong:
Andthus have you learned a secrette from mee
That ne'er had beene knowne, but for prettye Bessee.'
Now when the faire companye everye one,
Had heard the strange tale in the song he had showne.
They all were amazed, as well they might bee,
Both at the blinde beggar and pretty Bessee.
With that the faire bride they all did embrace,
Saying, Sure thou art come of an honoui'able race;
Thy father likewise is of npble degree,
And thou art well worthy a lady to bee.
Thus was the feast ended witli joye and delighte;
A bridegroome most happy then was the younge knighte;
In joy and felicitie long lived hce,
All with his faire lad3e, the pretty Bessee.
Ci)e Eisis of flascbi) 2SIiIoIlj :
OR,
HE WHITEABMED LADTF.'S OATH,
A LHOEKD.
[This very spirited and beautiful ballad, or —
as its authoi'prefers to call it — ' legend,' is taken
from ' Friendship's Offering,' for 1828, where,
we believe, it originally appeared. We say
' believe,' because we are unable to affirm any-
thing positively upon the subject. To whom we
are indebted for this contribution to our ballad-
lore ; who were Sir Carodac and ' swarthy
Britomart," and who the 'White- Armed Ladye ;'
in what period of the world's history they
played their parts ; and what, if any, was the
occasion of the lists being formed on Naseby
Wold, are matters upon which the author has
not thought proper to throw any more light
than can be obtained from the ballad itself; to
which, therefore, we must be content to refer
the reader, as to the only source of information
respecting them with which we are acciuainted.]
INSTRELS are wending from lordly tower,
Merry maidens from ladye's bower,
Shaven priest, and bearded knight,
k^ Courser black, and charger white.
G
42 THE LISTS OF NASEBY WOLD; OR,
Kinp; Richard mounts liis palfrey grey,
And England's best are in array;
For lordly blood and knighthood bold
Do mortal fight on Naseby Wold.
Wherefore is Carodac spear in rest?
Swarthy Britomart targe on breast?
Not for tilt, or tourney light,
But in deep defiance of deadly fight.
Horse to horse, and hand to hand,
God to speed, and his own red brand: —
Woe worth the day, woe worth the feud,
When the fiilcon stoops for the falcon's blood !
'Twas whisperd, somewhat of deadly wrong.
Of treason foul, and slanderous tongue; —
Some talkt of woman's wandering eye,
Far on the shores of Paynimie.
A Palmer spoke of murder's stain, —
Swords red, — but not on battle i)Iain,
I reck not, — 'tis as legends tell, —
None know how so dark a feud befell!
Certes! was seen a ladye there; —
(When was feud without ladye fair?)
Darkly bedight in foreign weed,
And proudly borne on an Eastern steed.
Maidens lip like hers ne'er smiled;
INFaidens eye was ne'er so wild: —
Saint Mary! yonder lip and eye
Have more than earthly witchery!
Jesu! 'twas an awful day,
When spirits mingled with earthly clay: —
Eastern lore hath sung her birth,
She was no ladye of nether earth!
Strange legends of her youth were told,
That India's seas had o'er her rolld;
That her sire was ruler in Oceans caves,
O'er Genii of the pearly waves.
Her mother was queen of Fairy Lands,
Crystal isles, and golden sands; —
And she, — the child of another sphere
Loves she? — or why is she mortal here?
THE WHITE-ARIVIED LADYE'S OATH. 43
Yes! Love, — in pain, in peril pi-oved; —
And who can doubt, that once has loved?
She has left her fathers caverns swart,
~ And crosst the wave with Sir Britomart.
Queen-like, around the lists she rides;
But her brow is dark as an Afric bride's;
For she has tried her magic power, —
But a mightier spell rules the battle-hour.
Hark! peals the heralds challenge loud, —
The warders are pricking through the crowd, —
The clarion sounds; — with a torrents force
Parts from his stance each barbed horse.
The spurs were red in the coursers side,
Ere the first note of battle died:
A second — and in mid career
Reels the steed, and cracks the spear!
Sir Britomarts horse was a noble one.
Matchless in blood and mighty in bone;
Araby's steeds, he had beaten them all, —
But he was not bred in earthly stall!
There are sprites of the air, and sprites of the sea,
Jesu shield us! — that such should be! —
Now, ladyes all, read me my rede,
Whence came he, that coal-black steed?
But Carodac bore him like stubborn rock:
And the Paynim barb reeld at the shock :
Heaven's own hand was in the deed.
Or he had not quaild to earthly steed.
The girths are snapt on his panting sides.
The hand has dropt from the rein that guides:
Yon ashen lance, so good and so true.
Has pierced Sir Britomart through and through!
The clarions rung, and ladyes wept,
And many a Leech has forward stept.
To staunch and to talk as Leech does now; —
But the sweat of death is on his brow!
Li shorter gasps his breath came and went.
Like the forest's groan when the storm is spent, —
And ever, with a torrents flood,
Gusht from his mouth the bubbling blood.
44 THE LISTS OF NASEBY WOLD; OR,
The priest would pray with the dying knight,
That his soul would pass, as pass it might;
But better the friar at home may preach, —
And he swore aloud at the trembling Leech!
His lips are moving, but not in prayer.
Though the blanch of death is settling there: —
He is trying to name his ladye's name, —
Few sounds were heard, — that ladye came.
O ! Death is deadly wherever he be.
On the lonely wild, or the pathless sea;
. But deadlier, wilder, in field or hall
When youth and strength before him fall.
To die, when life is but begun, —
To look your last on the blessed sun;
With the charnel-worm long vigils to keep, —
Or to sleep that last and awful sleep:
To clasp a hand, while your tongue can say —
A moment — and mine will be but clay; —
To gaze on the eye that is best and dearest,
And know, that Night to jovlv own is nearest!
O! this is death in his deadliest mood, —
Worse than battle, worse than blood;
Worse than rack, when sinews start: —
Such was the death of Sir Britomart !
There is a light form oer him bending, —
There is a breast his pillow lending,
O ! were the snow-wreath half as white,
No moon would shine on an Alpine night.
There is an eye that looks in his, —
Glazed and haggard and dim as it is : —
But the glaze and the dimness awhile can fly.
When he meets the beam of his Leila's eye.
So dark, so full, in its vivid glowing.
No light is quencht, though tears are flowing;
But her cheek is red in a crimson flood.
And her bosom steept in his hearts best blood !
She weeps no more on a senseless corse: —
Mount, gallant knights; to horse! to horse!
Say not tis woman's wrath you fly, —
No womans war is in that eye:
THE WHITE-ARMED LADYE'S OATH. 45
Ye have dared the tiger in his den, —
Ye quaild not before the Saracen, —
Ye have heard the Soldans battle-cry, —
Now, — hear the oath of Zatanai!
That oath is one of woe and fear, —
Deadly to speak, and deadly to hear; —
Twas framed in murkiest realms of air,
And sworn by fiends in their despair:
Few lived that heard the first brief word; —
The dark heath rockt before the third: —
Fiendish was it, — fiendish wrought; —
I must do penance for the thought !
Sir Carodac went o'er land and flood.
To fight for his faith, and the holy rood;
He has been six summers in Paynim land.
And deadly and keen was his knightly brand.
The Soldan came with his spear in rest.
And challenged of England's band the best:
But the Soldan fled like the fleecy rack.
For England's best was Sir Carodac.
He was foremost when Salem's towers were won;
He was first on the walls of Ascalon: —
But whether in fight, or in tourney ring,
A solemn voice was whispering; —
' 0! the Christian knight of his spear may boast;
He may 'scape the sea, he may 'scape the host;
Pirate and Paynim — one or both —
But he cannot 'scape that Ladye's oath.'
The ships are ploughing the northern foam,
And Carodac is welcomed home; —
His foot is on his own white sand.
And his face is turnd to his fathers land!
Onward they prickt, his good steed and he.
O'er hill and dale, right merrily; —
But the sun went down the hills beneath,
And the moon rose pale on a blasted heath:
Onward he prickt, — but spur and rein
To the weary horse are all in vain; —
And he paused — for, beneath the moon-beam cold.
He knew the lists of Naseby Wold !
46 THE LISTS OF NASEBY T70LD; OR,
Sir Carodac was a warrior brave:
He had fought the Turk at his Saviours grave; —
But hp and cheek are blanching both,
When he thinks of the White-armd Ladye's oath.
He heard a shriek, and a withering laugh,
Like the glee of fiends, when the cup they quaff';
And the lightning fires their red forks sent,
And the thunder rode in the firmament.
Thrice he spurred his courser good,
And thrice he signed the blessed rood: —
Knighthood's heart is steeld to fear;
But knighthood's heart is useless here!
Beneath the lightnings flickering glare,
The lists were set, and the tents were there;
Rung out the trump, and pranced the horse,
But each rider there was a ghastly corse.
All seerad as on that fatal day
When Britomart fell in the bloody fray:
Names of honour and rank were there.
And Queen of the lists sat a Ladye fair.
But nought of earthly shape was seen,
Save she alone, that Ladye Queen,
Mid grim and gaunt and ghastly ones,
For all around were skeletons !
And hark! upon the moaning blast,
Warrior forms are careering fast.
With shriek, and with shout, and with wild halloo.
And well those fiendish yells he knew.
The cymbal rung and the scymitar.
And gong and drum of Paynim war; —
He heard the Soldans battle-cry.
And he manned himself right valiantly.
But his gauntlet graspt at a broken brand.
And his spear was withered within his hand.
He would have cried, ' God for St. George!'
But the accents died in his helmets gorge.
Then slowly rose that Ladye bright.
Sole empress of the ghastly fight, —
Thrice waved her arm, and thrice she spoke,
And thrice the pealing thunder broke.
THE WHITE-ARMED LADYE'S OATH. 47
At the first sound came shapes of fear,
Lion, and gryif, and headless deer;
At the second, volumes of smoke and flame,
And devilries 'twere sin to name.
At the third, yawnd the dark heath wide.
Six long ells from side to side! —
Horse and knight have run their course,
But fathoms deep are knight and horse.
Deep are India's caves of jet, —
Sir Carodac's barb is deeper yet ;
Deep rolls the sea, but the founderd bark
Is not so deep as that warrior stark.
Knights have come from a far countrie,
Wizards have connd their gramarye.
Priests have journeyed with pyx and prayer.
But few have seen that Ladye fair.
Yet trembling Serfs the tale have told.
Of fearful sights on Naseby Wold;
Sabres gleaming, horses prancing.
And banners of flame to the night air dancing!
Of shadowy shapes in the cold moonlight,
Of turband Turk and of Christian Knight,
And of one who bears the blessed rood.
On a milk-white charger, mottled with blood.
Ever, ever, careers he fast.
When peals a lonely trumpet blast; —
He bears him well with spear in rest,
But he never wins that dark hills breast.
For, warder in hand, sits a Ladye there.
Queen-like, throned in an ebon chair;
And ere the good steed has run its course
In a fathomless gulph sinks man and horse.
Warders have told it on castle wall, —
Minstrels have sung it in lordly hall;
But priest and warrior cross them both,
Or ere they name that Ladye's oath.
Legends there are for midnight hour,
Song and tale for ladye's bower;
This may be one, or it may not be; —
I would not doubt it for earldoms three.
^4'iWi3?iim dm tM ^Bimtc
[The subject of this ballad was thought by Dr. Percy—
who printed it in his ' Reliques, from two ancient copies,
one of them in black letter, in the Pepys Collection,' — to
he taken ' from an old filay, of a young child murthered in
a wood by two niffins, with consent of his unkle. By
Rob. Yarrington, 1601.' This opinion, however, will pro-
bably be thought inconsistent with the fact that the ballad
was entered in the Stationers' books in the year l.'JOS ; and
would therefore seem to have been written before the
' lamentable tragedy' upon which the Doctor considered it
to have been founded. Internal evidence, too, seems strong
in favour of its originality and thorough English character;
whereas the scene of the play is laid in Italy. The present
version is chiefly that of Percy, compared, however, with
an old copy in the Hritish Museum, bearing this title :
■ The Norfolk Gentleman's Last Will and Testament, who
on his death-bed committed the keeping of his two chil-
dren, a boy and a girl, to his own bi-other, who did most
wickedly cause them to be destroyed, that so he might
possess himself and childi'en of the estate ; hut, by the just
judgments of the Almighty, himself and allthathe had, was
destroyed from oft" the face of the earth. To the tune of
Rogero, &c. London : Printed by and for W. D., and sold by
C. Boxes, at the Sun and Bible, in Gilt-Spur Street.']
OW ponder well, you parents deare,
These wordes which I shall write;
A doleful story you shall heare,
In time brought forth to light.
A gentleman of good account
In Norfolke dwelt of late,
Whose wealth and riches did surmount
Most men of his estate.
THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD. 49
Sore sicke he was, and like to dye,
No helpe his life could save;
His wife by him as sicke did' lye,
And both possest one grave.
No love between these two was lost,
Each was to other kinde,
In love they lived, in love they dyed,
And left two babes behinde:
The one a fine and pretty boy,
Not passing three yeares old;
The other a girl more young than he.
And made in beautyes molde.
The father left his little son.
As plainlye doth appeare,
When he to perfect age should come,
Three hundred poundes a yeare.
And to his little daughter Jane,
Five hundred poundes in gold,
To be paid downe on marriage-day,
Which might not be controUd:
But if the children chance to dye,
Ere they to age should come.
Their uncle should possesse their wealth;
For so the wille did run.
Now, brother, said the dying man.
Look to my children deare;
Be good unto my boy and girl,
Nofriendes else have they here:
To God and you I do commend
My children deare this day;
But little while be sure we have
Within this world to staye.
You must be father and mother both,
And uncle all in one;
God knowes what will become of them,
When I am dead and gone.
With that bespake their mother deare,
brother kinde, quoth shee.
You are the man must bring my babes
Towe'y.th ii)l:.inis^rie: • •;
■ ' K
50 THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD.
If you do keep them carefully,
Then God will you reward;
But if you otherwise should deal,
God will your deedes regard.
With lippes as cold as any stone,
They kist their children small:
God bless you both, my children deare!
With that the teares did fall.
These speeches then their brother spake
To this sicke couple there:
The keeping of your little ones,
Sweet sister, do not feare:
God never prosper me nor mine.
Nor aught else that I have,
If I do wrong your children deare.
When you are layd in grave.
The parents being dead and gone,
The children home he takes.
And brings them straite unto his house.
Where much of them he makes.
He had not kept these pretty babes
A twelvemonth and a daye.
But, for their wealth, he did devise
To make them both awaye.
He bargaind Avith two ruffians strong,
Which were of furious mood,
That they should take the children young.
And slaye them in a wood:
He told his wife an artful tale.
He would the children send
To be brought uj) in faire London,
With one that was his friend.
Away then went those pretty babes,
Rejoycing at that tide,
Rejoycing with a merry minde
They should on cock-horse ride.
They prate and prattle pleasantly.
As they rode on the waye,
To those that should their butchers be,
An,J
a translation from the Gaelic,' and first appeared
in Lewis' ' Tales of Wonder,' (1801.) ' The simple
tradition,' he says, ' upon which it is founded, runs
thus: — While two Highland hunters were passing
the night in a sdlitiirv liothy, (a hut built for the
purpose of hunting,) and uiaking merry over their
venison and whisky, one of them expressed a wish
that they had pretty lasses to complete their party.
The words were scarcely uttered, when two beau-
tiful young women, habited in green, entered the
hut, dancing and singing. One of the hunters was
seduced by the syren, who attached herself par-
ticularly to him, to leave the hut ; the othei- re-
mained, and, suspicious of the fair seducers, con-
tinued to jjlay upon a trump, or Jew's harp, some
strain consecrated to the Virgin Mary. Day at
length came, and the tempti-ess vanished. Search-
ing in the forest, he found the bones of his un-
fiirtunate friend, who had been torn to pieces and
(livijin x'd by the fiend into whose toils he had fallen.
The place was from thence called the Glen of the
Green Women.']
HONE a rie! O hone a x-ie!
T?ic ])ride of Albin's line is o'er,
And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree;
"We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald moj-c!
L
74 GLENFINLAS; OR,
O, sprung from great Macgillianore,
The chief that never feard a foe,
How matchless was tliy broad claymore,
How deadly thine unerring bow!
"Well can the Saxon widows tell
How, on the Teith's resounding shore,
The boldest Lowland warriors fell,
As down from Lenny's pass you bore.
But o'er his hills, on festal day,
How blazed Lord Ronald's beltane tree;
While youths and maids the light strathspey
So nimbly danced with Highland glee.
Cheerd by the strength of Ronald's shell,
E'en age forgot his tresses hoar;
But now the loud lament we swell,
O ne'er to see Lord Ronald more!
From distant isles a chieftain came,
The joys of Ronald's halls to find.
And chase with him the dark-brown game
That bounds o'er Albin's hills of wind.
'Twas Moy; whom in Columba's isle
The Seer's prophetic spirit found,
As, with a minstrel's fire the while.
He waked his harp's harmonious sound.
Full many a spell to him was known.
Which wandering spirits slu'ink to hear;
And many a lay of potent tone.
Was never meant for mortal ear.
For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood
High converse with the dead they hold.
And oft espy the fated shroud
That shall the future corpse enfold.
O so it fell, that on a day,
To rouse the red deer from their den.
The chiefs have ta'en their distant way,
And scourd the deep Glenfinlas glen.
No vassals wait their sports to aid.
To watch their safety, deck their board;
Their simple dress, the Highland plaid;
Their trusty guard, the Highland sword.
LORD RONALD'S CORONACH. 75
Three summer days, through brake and dell,
Their whistling shafts successful flew ;
And still, when dewy evening fell,
The quarry to their hut they drew.
In grey Glenfinlas' deepest nook
The solitary cabin stood.
Fast by Moneira's sullen brook,
Which murmurs through that lonely wood.
Soft fell the night, the sky was calm,
When three successive days had flown;
And summer mist in dewy balm
Steept heathy bank and mossy stone.
The moon, half hid in silvery flakes,
Afar her dubious radiance shed,
Quivering on Katrine's distant lakes,
And resting on Benledi's head.
Now in their hut, in social guise.
Their sylvan fare the chiefs enjoy.
And pleasure laughs in Ronald's eyes.
As many a pledge he quaffs to Moy.
* What lack we here to crown our bliss,
While thus the pulse of joy beats high?
What but fair woman's yielding kiss,
Her panting breath, and melting eye?
' To chase the deer of yonder shades.
This morning left their father's pile
The fairest of our mountain maids.
The daughters of the proud Glengyle.
* Long have I sought sweet Mary's heart.
And dropt the tear, and heaved the sigh;
But vain the lover's wily art.
Beneath a sister's watchful eye.
' But thou mayst teach that guardian fair,
While far with Mary I am flown.
Of other hearts to cease her care,
And find it hard to guard her own.
' Touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see
The lovely Flora of Glengyle,
Unmindful of her charge and me.
Hang on thy notes 'twixt tear and smile.
76 GLENFINLAS; OR,
' Or if she choose a melting tale,
All underneath the greenwood bough,
"Will good St. Oran's rule prevail,
Stern huntsman of the rigid brow?' —
' Since Enrick's fight, since Morna's death,
No more on me shall rapture rise,
Responsive to the panting breath,
Or yielding kiss, or melting eyes.
' E'en then, when o'er the heath of woe.
Where sunk my hopes of love and fame,
I bade my harp's wild wailings flow.
On me the Seer's sad spirit came,
' The last dread curse of angry Heaven,
With ghastly sights, and sounds of woe,
To dash each glimpse of joy, was given
The gift, the future ill to know.
' The bark thou sawst, yon summer morn,
So gaily part from Oban's bay,
My eye beheld her dasht and torn
Far on the rocky Colonsay.
' The Fergus, too — thy sister's son,
Thou sawst with pride the gallant's power,
As, marching 'gainst the Laird of Downe,
He left the skirts of huge Benmore.
' Thou only sawst their tartans wave,
As down Benvoirlich's side they wound,
Heardst but the pibroch, answering brave
To many a target clanking round.
* I heard the groans, I markt the tears,
I saw the wound his bosom bore.
When on the serried Saxon spears
He pourd his clan's resistless roar.
' And thou who bidst me think of bliss,
And bidst my heart awake to glee,
And court, like thee, the wanton kiss, —
That heai't, O Ronald, bleeds for thee!
' I see the death-damps chill thy brow,
I hear thy warning spirit cry;
The corpse-lights dance — they're gone, and now
No more is given to gifted eye !' —
LORD RONALD'S CORONACH. 77
' Alone enjoy thy dreary dreams,
Sad prophet of the evil hour !
Say, should we scorn joy's transient beams,
Because to-morrow's storm may loiu"?
' Or sooth or false thy words of woe,
Clangillian's chieftain ne'er shall fear;
His blood shall bound at rapture's glow,
Though doomd to stain the Saxon speai*.
' E'en now, to meet me in yon dell.
My Mary's buskins brush the dew.'
He spoke, nor bade the chief farewell.
But calld his dogs, and gay withdrew.
"Within an hour returnd each hound.
In rusht the rousers of the deer;
They howld in melancholy sound.
Then closely coucht beside the Seer.
No Ronald yet — though midnight came,
And sad were Moy's prophetic dreams,
As, bending o'er the dying flame,
He fed the watch-fire's quivering gleams.
Sudden the hounds erect their ears.
And sudden cease their moaning howl;
Close prest to Moy, they mark their fears
By shivering limbs, and stifled growl.
Untoucht the harp began to ring.
As softly, slowly, oped the door;
And shook responsive every string.
As light a footstep prest the floor.
And by the watch-fire's glimmering light.
Close by the Minstrel's side was seen
An huntress maid, in beauty bright.
All dropping wet her robes of green.
All dropping wet her garments seem,
Chilld was her cheek, her bosom bare,
As, bending o'er the dying gleam.
She wrung the moisture from her haii'.
With maiden blush she softly said,
' gentle huntsman, hast thou seen.
In deep Glenfinlas* moon-light glade,
A lovely maid in vest of green:
78 GLENFINLAS; OR,
' With her a chief in Highland pride;
His shoulders bear the hunter's bow;
The mountain dirk adorns his side,
Far on the wind his tartans flow ?'
* And who art thou; and who are they?'
All ghastly gazing, Moy replied;
' And why, beneath the moon's pale ray,
Dare ye thus roam Glenfinlas' side?'
' Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide.
Blue, dark, and deep, round many an isle,
Our father's towei's o'erhang her side.
The castle of the bold Glengyle.
' To chase the dun Glenfinlas deer.
Our woodland course this morn we bore,
And haply met, while wandering here.
The son of great MacgiUianore.
' O aid me, then, to seek the pair,
Wliom, loitering in the woods, I lost;
Alone I dare not venture there,
Wliere walks, they say, the shrieking ghost.'
'Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there;
Then, first, my own sad vow to keep.
Here will I pour my midnight prayer,
Which still must rise when mortals sleep.'
' first, for pity's gentle sake.
Guide a lone wanderer on her way!
For I must cross the haunted brake,
And reach my father's towers ere day.'
' First, three times tell each Ave-bead,
And thrice a Pater-noster say.
Then kiss with me the holy reed.
So shaU we safely wind our way.'
* O shame to knighthood, strange and foul!
Go, doif the bonnet from thy brow.
And shroud thee in the monkish cowl.
Which best befits thy sullen vow.
' Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire,
Thy heart was froze to love and joy.
When gaily rung thy raptured lyre,
To wanton Morna's melting eye.'
LORD RONALD'S CORONACH. 79
Wild stared the Minstrel's eyes of flame,
And high his sable locks arose,
And quick his colour went and came,
As fear and rage alternate rose.
' And thou ! when by the blazing oak
I lay, to her and love resignd.
Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke,
Or saild ye on the midnight wind?
* Not thine a race of mortal blood,
Nor old Glengyle's pretended line;
Thy dame, the Lady of the Flood,
Thy sire, the Monarch of the Mine.'
He mutterd thrice St. Oran's rhyme,
And thrice St. Fillan's powerful prayer;
Then turnd him to the eastern clime,
And sternly shook his coal-black hair:
And, bending o'er his harp, he flung
His wildest witch-notes on the wind.
And loud, and high, and strange, they rung.
As many a magic change they find.
Tall waxt the Spirit's altering form.
Till to the roof her stature grew ;
Then, mingling with the rising storm,
With one wild yell away she flew.
Rain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds tear,
The slender hut in fragments flew,
But not a lock of Moy's loose hair
Was waved by wind, or wet by dew.
Wild mingling with the howling gale.
Loud bursts of ghastly laughter rise.
High o'er the Minstrel's head they sail,
And die amid the northern skies.
The voice of thunder shook the wood,
As ceased the more than mortal yell,
And, spattering foul, a shower of blood
Upon the hissing firebrands fell.
Next dropt from high a mangled arm.
The fingers straind an half-drawn blade:
And last, the life-blood streaming warm.
Torn from the trunk, a gasping head.
80
GLENFINLAS.
Oft o'er that head, in battling field,
Streamd the proud crest of high Benmore;
That arm the broad claymore could wield,
Which dyed the Teith with Saxon gore.
Woe to Moneira's sullen rills!
"Woe to Glenfinlas' dreary glen !
There never son of Albin's hills
Shall draw the hunter's shaft agen !
E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feet
At noon shall shun that sheltering den,
Lest, journeying in their rage, he meet
The wayward Ladies of the Glen.
And we — behind the chieftain's shield
No more shall we in safety dwell;
None leads the people to the field —
And we the loud lament must swell.
O hone a rie! O hone a rie!
The pride of Albin's line is o'er;
And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree;
We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!
[Stanza 1. hone a rie signifies ' Alas for the prince, or chief.'
Stanza 4. The fires lighted by tlie Highlanders on the first of May, in compliance
with a custom derived from the Pagan times, ai-e so called. It is a festival celebrated,
with various superstitious rites, both in the north of Scotland and in Wales.
Stanza 22. St. Oran was a friend and follower of St. Columba, and was buried in
Icolnilvill. In memory of his rigid celibacy, no female was permitted to pay her de-
votions, or be buried, in the chapel, or the cemetery, called, after him, Hcilig Ouran.
This is the ' rule' alluded to in the poem.
Stanza .'j-t. St. Fillan has given his name to many chapels, holy fountains, &c., in
Scotland Scott.'\
lldmf @^itmig?iic
[' This old romantic legend' is taken from
Percy's ' Reliques,' whei-e it was piveii ' from
two copies, one of them in the Editor's Folio
MS., but which contained very great varia-
tions.' In an old book, entitled, ' The Com-
playnt of Scotland,' — ' one of the earliest pro-
ductions of the Scottish Press now to be found,
supposed to have been printed about l.')40' — an
ancient romance is mentioned, under the title,
' How the King of Estmureland married the
King's daughter of Westmureland,' which Sir
Walter Scott suggested might possibly have
been ' the original of the beautiful legeiul of
King Estmere.' Ro this as it may, the legend
itself ' bears marks,' as Bishop Percy .says, ' of
great antiquity.' In his opinion ' it wouM seem
to have been written while a great partof Spain
was in the hands of the Saracens or Moors :
whose empire there was not fully extinguished
before the year 1491. The Mahometans are
spoken of in v. 4'J, &c., just in tlie same terms
as in all other old romances.']
EARKEN to me, gentlemen,
Come and you shall lieare;
He tell you of two of the boldest
brethren.
That ever born y-were.
M
82 KING ESTMERE.
The tone of them was Adler yonge,
The tother was kyng Estmere;
The were as bolde men in their deedes,
As any were farr and neare.
As they were drinking ale and wine
Within kyng Estmeres halle :
When will ye marry a wyfe, brother,
A wyfe to gladd us all?
Then bespake him kyng Estmere,
And answered him hastilee:
I knowe not that ladye in any lande,
That is able to marry with mee.
Kyng Adland hath a daughter, brother,
Men call her bright and sheene;
If I were kynge liere in your stead,
That ladye shold be queene.
Sayes, Reade me, reade me, deare brother,
Throughout merry England,
Where we might find a messenger
Betweene us two to sende.
Sayes, You shall ryde yourselfe, brother,
Ee beare you compance;
Many throughe fals messengers are deceived,
And I feare lest soe shold wee.
Thus the renisht them to ryde
Of twoe good renisht steedes,
And when they came to kyng Adland s halle,
Of red golde shone their weedes.
And when the came to kyng Adlands halle
Before the goodlye yate,
Ther they found good kyng Adland
Rearing himselfe theratt.
Nowe Christ thee save, good kyng Adland;
Nowe Christ thee save and see.
Sayd, You be welcome, kyng Estmere,
Right hartilye to mee.
You have a daughter, sayd Adler yonge.
Men call her bright and sheene.
My brother wold marrye her to his wiife.
Of Englande to be queene.
KING ESTMERE. 83
Yesterdaye was att my dere daughter
Syr Bremor the kyng of Spayne;
And then she nicked him of naye,
I feare sheele do youe the same.
The kyng of Spayne is a foule paynim,
And 'leeveth on Mahound;
And pitye it were that fayre lady^
Shold marrye a heathen hound.
But grant to me, sayes kyng Estmere,
For my love I you praye;
That I may see your daughter dere
Before I goe hence awaye.
Althoughe itt is seven yeare and more
Syth my daughter was in halle,
She shall come downe once for your sake
To glad my guestes alle.
Downe then came that mayden fayre,
With ladyes lacede in pall.
And halfe a hondred of bolde knightes,
To bring her from bowre to hall;
And eke as many gentle squieres,
To waite upon them all.
The talents of golde, were on her head sette,
Hunge lowe downe to her knee;
And everye rynge on her small finger,
Shone of the chrystall free.
Sayes, Christ you save, my deare madame;
Sayes, Christ you save and see.
Sayes, You be welcome, kyng Estmere,
Right welcome unto mee.
And iff you love me, as you saye,
So weU and hartilee.
All that ever you are comen about
Soone sped now itt may bee.
Then bespake her father deare:
My daughter, I saye naye;
Remember well the kyng of Spayne,
What he sayd yesterdaye.
He wold pull downe my halles and castles,
And reave me of my lyfe;
84 KING ESTMERE.
And ever I feare that paynim kyng,
Iff I reave him of his wyfe.
Your castles and your towres, father,
Are strongly e built aboutc;
And therefore of that foule paynim
Wee neede not stande in doubte.
Plyght me your troth, nowe, kyng Estmere,
By heaven and your riglite hande.
That you will mariye me to your wyfe,
And make me queene of your land.
Then kyng Estmere he plight his troth
By heaven and his righte hiind,
That he wolde marrye her to his wyfe.
And make her queene of his land.
And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre,
To goe to his owne countree,
To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes,
That marryed the might bee.
They had not ridden scant a myle,
A myle forthe of the towne,
But in did come the kynge of Spayne,
With kempcs many a one.
But in did come the kyng of Spayne,
With manye a grimme barone,
Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter,
T other daye to carrye her home.
Then shee sent after kyng Estmere
In all the spede might bee.
That he must either returne and fighte.
Or goe home and lose his ladye.
One whyle then the page he went,
Another whyle he ranne;
Till he had oretaken king Estmere,
I wis, he never blanne.
Tydinges, tydinges, kyng Estmere!
What tydinges nowe, my boye?
O tydinges I can tell to you.
That Avill you sore annoye.
You had not ridden scant a myle,
A myle out of the towne,
KING ESTMERE. 85
But in did come the kyng of Spayne
"With kempes many a one:
But in did come the kyng of Spayne
With manye a grimme barone,
Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter,
T other daye to carrye her home.
That ladye fayre she greetes you well,
And ever-more well by mee:
You must either turne againe and fighte,
Or goe home and lose your ladye.
Sayes, Reade me, reade me, deare brother,
My reade shall ryde at thee,
Whiche way we best may turne and fighte.
To save this fayi'e ladye.
Now hearken to me, sayes Adler yonge,
And your reade must rise at me,
I quicklye will devise a waye
To sette thy ladye free.
My mother was a westerne woman,
And learned in gramarye.
And when I learned at the schole,
Something shee taught itt me.
There groweth an hearbe within this fielde,
And iff it were but knowne,
His color, which is whyte and redd,
It will make blacke and browne:
His color, which is browne and blacke,
Itt will make redd and whyte;
That sword is not in all Englande,
Upon his coate will byte.
And you shal be a harper, brother,
Out of the north countree;
And lie be your boye, so faine of fighte,
To beare your harpe by your knee.
And you shall be tlie best harper.
That ever tooke harpe in hand;
And I will be the best singer.
That ever sung in this land.
Itt shal be written in our forheads
All and in grammarye,
86 KING ESTMERE.
That we towe are the boldest men,
That are in all Christentyc.
And thus they renisht them to ryde,
On towe good renish steedes;
And whan they came to kyng Adlands hall,
Of redd gold shone their weedes.
And whan the came to kyng Adlands hall
Untill the fayre hall yate,
There they found a proud porter
Rearing himselfe theratt.
Sayes, Christ thee save, thou proud porter;
Sayes, Chi-ist thee save and see.
Nowe you be welcome, sayd the porter.
Of what land soever ye bee.
We been harpers, sayd Adler yonge,
Come out of the northe countree;
We beene come hither untUl this place.
This proud weddinge for to see.
Sayd, And your color were white and redd,
As it is blacke and browne,
Dd saye king Estmere and his brother
Were comen untill this towne.
Then they puUed out a ryng of gold,
Layd itt on the porters arme:
And ever we will thee, proud porter,
Thow wilt saye us no harme.
Sore he looked on kyng Estmere,
And sore he handled the ryng,
Then opened to them the fayre hall yates.
He lett for no kind of thyng.
Kyng Estmere he light off his steede
Up att the fayre hall board;
The frothe, that came from his brydle bitte,
Light on kyng Bremors beard.
Sayes, Stable thy steede, thou proud harper.
Go stable him in the stalle;
Itt doth not beseeme a proud harper
To stable him in a kyngs halle.
My ladd he is so lither, he sayd.
He will do nought that's meete;
KING ESTMERE. 87
And aye that I cold but find the man,
Were able him to beate.
Thou speakst proud words, sayd the Paynim king,
Thou harper here to mee:
There is a man within this halle,
That will beate thy lad and thee.
O lett that man come downe, he sayd,
A sight of him wold I see;
And whan hee hath beaten well my ladd,
Then he shall beate of mee.
Downe then came the kemperye man,
And looked him in the eare;
For all the gold, that was under heaven.
He durst not neigh him neare.
And how nowe, kempe, sayd the kyng of Spayne,
And how what aileth thee?
He sayes, Itt is written in his forhead
All and in gramarye.
That for all the gold that is under heaven,
I dare not neigh him nye.
Kyng Estraere then pulled forth his harpe,
And played thereon so sweete:
Upstarte the ladye from the kynge,
As hee sate at the meate.
Now stay thy harpe, thou proud harper,
Now stay thy hai'pe, I say;
For an thou playest as thou beginnest,
Thou'lt till my bride awaye.
He strucke upon his harpe agayne,
And playd both fayre and free ;
The ladye was so pleasde theratt,
She laught loud laughters three.
Nowe sell me thy harpe, sayd the kyng of Spayne,
Thy harpe and stryngs eche one.
And as many gold nobles thou shalt have,
As there be stryngs thereon.
And what wold ye doe with my harpe, he sayd,
Iff I did sell it yee ?
' To playe my wiffe and me a fitt.
When abed together we bee.'
88 KING ESTMERE.
Now sell me, quoth hee, thy bryde soe gay,
As shee sitts laced in pall.
And as many gold nobles I will give,
As there be rings in the hall.
And what wold ye doe with my bryde soe gay,
Iff I did sell her yee?
More seemelye it is for her fayre bodye
To lye by mee than thee.
Hee played agayne both loud and shrille,
And Adler he did syng,
* O ladye, this is thy owne true love;
Noe harper, but a kyng.
O ladye, this is thy owne true love,
As playnlye thou may est see;
And lie rid thee of that foule paynim,
Who partes thy love and thee.'
The ladye looked, the ladye blushte.
And blushte and lookt agayne,
While Adler he hath drawne his brande,
And hath the Sowdan slayne.
Up then rose the kemperye men.
And loud they gan to crye:
Ah! tray tors, yee have slayne our kyng.
And therefore yee shall dye.
Kyng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde,
And swith he drew his brand;
And Estmere he, and Adler yonge
Right stiffe in stour can stand.
And aye their swordes soe sore can byte,
Throughe help of Gramarye,
That soone they have slayne the kempery men,
Or forst them forth to flee.
Kyng Estmere tooke that fayre ladye.
And marryed her to his wyfe,
And brought her home t(j merrye England
With her to leade his lyfe.
[In this l)anad, the reader will sec the character of the old minstrels, those succcssorsof
the. bards, placed in a very respectable lij.'ht : one of them being represented mounted on
a fine horse, accompanied with an attendant to bear his harp after him, and to sing the
poems of his comporinj? ; and mixing in the company of kings without ceremony ; no
mean proof of the gi'cat antiquity of this poem. As to Estmere's riding into the hall while
the kings were at table, this was usual in the ages of chivalry ; and even to this day we see
a relic of this custom still kept up, in the Champion's riding info Westminster Hall during
the Coronation dinner.' — Perctf.]
IM €m^t ^t S%I^I^lIW&1i^
[This ballad was written by Dr. Leyden, and first pub-
lished in ' Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.' ' The
tradition,' says Sir Walter Scott, ' on which it is founded,
ilerives considerable illustration from the argument of
' Lord Soulis'— (see next ballad.) ' It is necessai-y to add,
that the most redoubted adversary of Lord Soulis was the
chief of Keeldar, a Northumbrian district, adjacent to
Cumberland, who perished in a sudden encounter on the
banks of the Hermitage. Being arrayed in armour of
proof, he sustained no hurt in the combat; but, stum-
bliuR in retreating across the river, the hostile party held
liim down I)elow water with their lances till he died ;
and the eddy, in which he perished, is still called the
Cout of Keeldav's Tool. His grave, of gigantic size, is
still pointed out on the banks of the Hermitage, at the
western corner of a wall, surrounding the burial-ground
of a ruined chapel. As an enemy of Lord Soulis, his
memory is revered ; and the popular epithet of Cout, i. c.
Colt, is expressive of his strength, stature, and activity.
The Keeldar Stone, by which the Northtmibrian chief
passed in his incursion, is still pointed out, as a boundary
mark, on the confines of Jed forest and Northumberland.
U is a rough insulated mass, of considerable dimensions,
and it is held unlucky to ride thrice irillioshhis — in a
direction, that is, contrary to the course of tlie sun —
ai'ound it. The Hrown Man of the Muirs is a Fairy of
(he most raali.gnant order.']
HE eiry blood-hound howled l)y night,
The streamers flaunted red,
Till broken streaks of flaky light
O'er Keeldar's mountains s})rcad.
N
90 THE COUT OF KEELDAR.
The lady sighed as Keeldar rose:
' Come tell me, dear love mine,
Go you to hunt where Keeldar flows,
Or on the banks of Tyne?'
' The heath-bell blows where Keeldar flows.
By Tyne the primi'ose pale;
But now we ride on the Scottish side,
To hunt in Liddesdale.'
' Gin you will ride on the Scottish side,
Sore must thy Margaret mourn;
For Soulis abhorred is Lyddall's Lord,
And I fear you'll ne'er return.
The axe he bears, it hacks and tears;
'Tis formed of an earth-fast flint;
No armour of knight, though ever so wight,
Can bear its deadly dint.
No danger he fears, for a charmed sword he wears,
Of adderstone the hilt;
No Tynedale knight had ever such might
But his heart-blood was spilt,'
' In my plume is seen the holly green,
With the leaves of the rowan tree;
And my casque of sand, by a mermaid's hand,
"Was formed beneath the sea.
Then Margaret, dear, have thou no fear;
That bodes no ill to me.
Though never a knight, by mortal might.
Could match his gramarye.' —
Then forward bound both horse and hound,
And rattle o'er the vale;
As the wintry breeze, through leafless trees,
Drives on the pattering hail.
Behind their course the English fells
In deepening blue retire;
Till soon before them boldly swells
The muir of dun Redswire.
And when they reaeht the Redswire high,
Soft beamed the rising sun;
But formless shadows seemed to fly
Alonor the muirland dun.
THE COUT OF KEELDAR. 91
And when he reacht the Redswire high,
His bugle Keeldar blew;
And round did float, with clamorous note,
And scream, the hoarse curlew.
The next blast that young Keeldar blew,
The wind grew deadly still;
But the sleek fern with fingery leaves,
Waved wildly o'er the hiU.
The third blast that young Keeldar blew,
Still stood the limber fern;
And a wee man, of swarthy hue.
Up started by a cairn.
His russet weeds were brown as heath
That clothes the upland fell;
And the hair of his head was frizzly red,
As the purple heather bell.
An urchin, clad in prickles red,
Climg cowering to his arm;
The hounds they howld, and backward fled,
As struck by Fairy charm.
* Why rises high the stag -hounds' cry,
Where stag-hound ne'er should be?
Why wakes that horn the silent morn,
Without the leave of me?'
' Brown dwarf, that o'er the muirland strays.
Thy name to Keeldar tell!' —
' The Brown Man of the Muirs, who stays
Beneath the heather-bell.
'Tis sweet, beneath the heather-beU,
To live in autumn brown;
And sweet to hear the laverocks swell
Far, far from tower and town.
But woe betide the shrilling horn,
The chase's surly cheer!
And ever that hunter is forlorn.
Whom first at morn I hear.'
Says, ' Weal nor woe, nor friend nor foe,
In thee we hope nor dread.' —
But, ere the bugles green could blow.
The wee Brown Man had fled.
92 THE COUT OF KEELDAE.
And onward, onward, hound and horse,
Young Keeldar's band have gone;
And soon they wheel, in rapid course,
Around the Keeldar Stone.
Green "vervain round its base did creep,
A powerful seed that bore;
And oft, of yore, its channels deep.
Were stained with human gore.
And still, when blood drops, clotted thin,
Hung the grey moss upon.
The spii'it murmurs from within.
And shakes the rocking stone.
Around, around young Keeldar wound,
And called, in scornful tone.
With him to pass the barrier ground,
The spirit of the Stone.
The rude crag rockt; ' I come for death,
I come to work thy woe!' —
And 'twas the Brown Man of the Heath,
That murmured from below.
• But onward, onward Keeldar past.
Swift as the winter wind.
When, hovering on the driving blast.
The snow-flakes fall behind.
They past the muir of berries blae,
The stone cross on the lee;
They reacht the green, the bonnie brae.
Beneath the birchen tree.
This is the bonnie brae, the green.
Yet sacred to the brave.
Where, still, of ancient size, is seen
Gigantic Keeldar's grave.
The lonely shepherd loves to mark
The daisy springing fail",
Where weeps the birch of silver bark.
With long dishevelled hair.
. The grave is green, and round is spread
The curling lady-fern;
That fatal day the mould was red.
No moss was on the cairn.
THE COUT OF KEELDAR. 93
And next they past the chapel there;
The holy ground was by,
Where many a stone is sculptured fair,
To mark where warriors lie.
And here, beside the mountain flood,
A massy castle frownd,
Since first the Pictish race, in blood.
The haunted pile did found.
The restless stream its rocky base
Assails with ceaseless din;
And many a troubled spirit strays
The dungeons dark witliin.
Soon from the lofty tower there liied
A knight across the vale;
* I greet your master well,' he cried,
' From Soulis of Liddesdale.
He heard your bugle's echoing call.
In his green garden bower;
And bids you to his festive hall
Within his ancient tower.'
Young Keeldar called his hunter train: —
' For doubtful cheer prepare;
And, as you open force disdain,
Of secret guile beware.
'Twas here, for Mangerton's brave lord
A bloody feast was set.
Who, weetless, at the festal board
The bull's broad frontlet met.
Then ever, at uncourteous feast,
Keep every man his brand;
And, as you mid his friends are placed,
Range on the better hand.
And, if the bull's ill-omened head
Appear to grace the feast,
Your whingers, with unerring speed.
Plunge in each neighbour's breast.' —
In Hermitage they sat at dine.
In pomp and proud array;
And oft they filled the blood-x'ed wine,
While merry minstrels play.
94 THE COUT OF KEELDAR.
And many a hunting song they sung,
And song of game and glee;
Then tuned to plaintive strains their tongue,
' Of Scotland's luve and lee.'
To wilder measures next they turn;
' The Black, Black Bull of Noroway!'
Sudden the tapers cease to bui-n,
The minstrels cease to play.
Each hunter bold, of Keeldar's train,
Sat an enchanted man;
For, cold as ice, through every vein
The freezing life-blood ran.
Each rigid hand the whinger wrung.
Each gazed with glaring eye;
But Keeldar from the table sprung,
Unhai"med by Gramarye.
He burst the doors; the roofs resound;
"With yells the castle rung;
Before him, with a sudden bound.
His favoxirite blood-hound sprung.
Ere he could pass, the door was barred;
And, grating harsh from under,
With creaking, jai'ring noise, was heard
A sound like distant thunder.
The iron clash, the grinding sound,
Announce the dire sword-miU;
The piteous bowlings of the hound
The dreadful dungeon fill.
With breath drawn in, the murderous crew
Stood listening to the yell;
And greater still their wonder grew,
As on their ear it fell.
They listened for a human shriek
Amidst the jarring sound;
They only heard in echoes weak
The murmurs of the hound.
The death-bell rung, and wide were flung
The castle gates amain;
While hurry out the armed rout,
And marshal on the plain.
THE COUT OF KEELDAR. 95
Ah! ne'er before in Border feud
Was seen so dire a fray!
Through glittering lances Keeldar hewed
A red corse-paven way.
His helmet, formed of mermaid sand,
No lethal brand could dint;
No other arms could e'er withstand
The axe of earth-fast flint.
In Keeldar's plume the holly green
And rowan leaves nod on,
And vain Lord Soulis' sword was seen,
Though the hilt was adderstone.
Then up the Wee Brown Man he rose,
By Souhs of Liddesdale; —
' In vain,' he said, ' a thousand blows
Assail the charmed mail;
In vain by land your arrows glide,
In vain your falchions gleam —
No spell can stay the living tide.
Or charm the rushing stream.'
And now young Keeldar reacht the stream,
Above the foamy lin;
The Border lances round him gleam,
And force the warrior in.
The holly floated to the side,
And the leaf of the rowan pale.
Alas! no spell could charm the tide,
Nor the lance of Liddesdale.
Swift was the Gout o' Keeldar's course
Along the lily lee;
But home came never hound nor horse.
And never home came he.
Where weeps the birch with branches green.
Without the holy ground.
Between two old gi'ay stones is seen
The warrior's ridgy mound.
And the hunters bold, of Keeldar's train.
Within yon castle's wall,
In deadly sleep must aye remain.
Till the ruined towers down fall.
96
THE COUT OF KEELDAR.
Each in his hunter's garb arrayed,
Each holds his bugle horn;
Their keen hounds at their feet are laid,
That ne'er shall wake the morn.
[Stanza 1 . ' Streamers'— northern lights.
St. •'). ' Earth-fast flint' — an insulated stone inclosed in a bed of earth. Its blow is
reckoned uncommonly severe.
St. f). ' Adderstone' — a name applied to celt.« and other round perforated stones. The
vulgar suppose them to be perforated by the stings of adders. Among the Scottish pea-
santry it is held in high veneration.
St. 7. The ' Rowan tree,' or mountain ash, is still used by the peasantry, to avert the
effects of charms and witchcraft.
St. IG. ' Urchin'— hedge-hog.
St. 21. The ' rocking stone,' commonly held a Dniidical monument, has always been
held in superstitious veneration by the people, who suppose it to be inhabited by spirits.
St. .33. Castles remarkable for size, strength, and antiijuitj', are by the conunon people
commonly attributed to the I'icts, or Pechs, who arc not supposed to have trusted solely
to tlieir skill in masonry in constructing these edifices, but are believed to have bathed
the foundation-stone with human blood, in order to propitiate the spirit of the soil.
St. 40. To present a bidl's head t)cfore a person at a feast, was, in the ancient turbulent
times of Scotland, a common signal for his assassination. Thus, Lindsay of Pitscottie
relates in his History, p. 17, that ' efter the dinner was endit, once alle the delicate
courses taken away, the chancellor (Sir William Crichton) presentit the buUis head
befoir the Earle of Douglas, in signe and toaken of condemnation to the death.'
St. 42. The most ancient Scottish song known is here alluded to, and is given by Win-
toun, in his ' Chronykil,' vol. i. p. 401 : that alluded to in the following verse is a wild
fanciful popular tale of enchantment, termed, ' The Black Bull of Noroway.' It is pro-
bably the same with the romance of the ' Three Futtit Dog of Noroway,' mentioned in the
' Complaynt of Scotland.'
St. .'iG. That no species of magic had any effect over a running stream was a common
opinion among the vulgar, and is alluded to in Hums' admirable tale of ' Tarn o' Shanter.'
—Scott.'i
Em'^
ii -"Vlj
•• (This ballad, like the preceding, was written by Dr.
Leyden, and first published in 'Minstrelsy of the Scottish
Rordor.' The hero, according to Sir Walter Scott, was
William, Lord Soiilis, a powerful baron, descended from
Alexander II. Local tradition represents bini 'as a cruel
tyrant and sorcerer ; constantly employed in oppressing:
his vassals, harassing; his neighbours, and fortifying his
castle of Hermitase against the King of Scotland, for which
purpose he employed all means, human and infernal ;
invoking the tiends, by his incantations, and fo'ving his
vassals to drag materials, like beasts of burden. Tradition
proceeds to relate, that the Scottish king, irritated by
reiterated complaints, peevishly exclaimed to the p'eti-
tioners, ' Boil him, if yon please, but let me hear no more
of him.' Satisfied with this answer, they proceeded with
the utmost haste to execute the commission ; which they
accomplished, by boiling him alive on the Ninc-stane Rig,
in a cauldron, said to have been long preserved at SUclf-
hill, a hamlet betwixt Hawick and the Hermitage.
Messengers, it is said, were immediately despatched by the
king, to prevent the efTects of such a hasty declariition,
but they only arrived in time to witness the conclusion of
the ceremony. The Nine-stane Kig is a declivity about
one mile in breadth, and foiu' in length, descending ujion
the Water of llcrmifage from the range of hills wbich
separate Liddesdalo and Tcviotilale. It derives its name
from one of those circles of large stones, which arc termed
Druidical, nine of which remained till a late period. Five
of these stones arc still visible, and two are particularly
p(iinte
i
iDlJam €)iil[^dmc
J
[' The Diverting History of Jolin Gilpin, show-
ing how lie went farther than he intended, and
came safe home again,' was written, as probahly
every reader knows, by William Cowper. Tha
story was related to him by Lady Austen, who
had heard it in her childhood, and made so vivid
an impression upon the poet, that tlie next
morning he told her the ludicrous incident had
kept him awake with laughter during the night,
and that ho had converted it into a ballad. It
first appeared, anonymously. In the ' I'ublic
Advertiser,' 1782 ; and, with the help of the
public recitations given of it by Henderson tho
comedian, with all the humour liis comic powers
could throw into It, speedily obtainod, and has
ever since enjoyed, unrivalU'robably Sir Baldewyn Fulford, Knt., a zealous
Lancastrian, who was executed at Bristol in the
latter end of 1461, the first year of Edward the
Fourth.]
HE featherd songster chaunticleer
Han wounde hys bugle-horne,
And tolde the earlie villager
The oommynge of the morne.
114 THE BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE; OR,
Kynge Edwarde sawe the ruddie streakes
Of lyghte eclypse the greie,
And herde the raven's croakynge throte
Proclayme the fated dale.
* Thou'rt ryght,' quod hee, ' for by the Godde
That syttes enthron'd on hyghe!
Charles Bawdin, and hys fellowes twaine,
To-daie shall surelie die.'
Thenne wythe a jugge of nappy ale
Hys knyghts dydd onne hymm waite;
' Goe tell the traytour thatt to-daie
Hee leaves thys mortall state.'
Syr Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe,
Wythe harte brymmfulle of woe;
Hee journey'd to the castle-gate,
And to Syr Charles dydd goe.
But whenne hee came, hys children twaine,
And eke hys lovynge wyfe,
Wyth brinie tears dydd wett the floore,
For goode Syr Charleses lyfe.
' O goode Syr Charles!' sayd Canterlone,
' Badde tydings I doe brynge.'
' Speke boldlie, manne,' sayd brave Syr Charles;
' Whatte says thie traytor kynge?'
' I greeve to telle; before yonne sonne
Does fromrae the welkin flye,
Hee hathe uponne hys honnour sworn,
Thatt thou shalt surelie die.'
* "Wee aU must die,' quod brave Syr Charles ;
' Of thatte I'm not affearde;
Whatte bootes to lyve a little space?
Thanke Jesu, I'm prepard:
Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not,
I'de sooner die to-daie,
Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are,
The' I shoulde lyve for aie.'
Thenne Canterlone hee dydd goe out.
To tell the maior straite.
To gett all thynges ynne reddyness
For goode Syr Charles's fate.
THE DETHE OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN. 115
Thenne Maister Canynge saughte the kynge,
And felle down onne hys knee;
' I'm come,' quod hee, ' unto your grace,
To move your clemeucye.'
' Thenne,' quod the king, ' youre tale speke out,
You have been much oure friend;
Whatever youre request may bee,
Wee wylle to ytte attende.'
' My nobile leige! alle my request
Ys for a nobile knyghte,
Who, tho' mayhap hee has donne wrong,
Hee thoughte ytte stylle was ryghte.
Hee has a spouse and children twaine;
Alle rewynd are for aie,
Yf thatt you are resolvd to lett
Charles Bawdin die to-daie.'
' Speke nott of such a traytour vile,'
The kynge ynne furie sayd;
' Before the evening starre doth sheens,
Bawdin shaU loose hys hedde.
Justice does loudlie for hym call,
And hee shalle have hys meede;
Speke, Maister Canynge! whatte thynge else
Att present doe you neede?'
* My nobile leige !' goode Canynge sayde,
' Leave justice to our Godde,
And laye the yronne rule asyde;
Be thyne the olyve rodde.
Was Godde to searche our hertes and reines,
The best were synners grete;
Christ's vycarr only knowes ne synne,
Ynne alle thys mortall state.
Lette mercie rule thyne infante reigne,
'T'wylle faste thye crowne fulle sure;
From race to race thy familie
Alle sov'reigns shall endure:
But yffe withe bloode and slaughter thou
Beginne thy infante reigne,
Thy crowne uponne thy childrennes brows
WyUe never long remayne.'
116 THE BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE; OR,
' Canynge, awaie! Thys traytour vile
Has scorn'd my power and mee;
Howe canst thou thenne for such a manne
Intreate my clemencye?'
' Mie nobile leige! the trulie brave
Wylle val'rous actions prize;
Respect a brave and nobile mynde
Altho' ynne enemies.'
' Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne Heav'n,
Thatte dydd mee being gyve,
I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade,
Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve!
Bie Marie, and alle Seinctes ynne Heav'n,
Thys sunne shall be hys laste!'
Thenne Canynge droppt a brinie teare,
And from the presence paste.
Wyth herte brymfuUe of gnawyng grief,
Hee to Syr Charles dydd goe,
And satt hymm downe uponne a stooie,
And teares beganne to flowe.
* "Wee alle must die,' quod brave Sjt Charles;
Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne?
Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate.
Of alle wee mortall menne.
Saye why, my friend, thie honest soul
Runns overr att thyne eye;
Is ytte for my most welcome doome,
Thatt thou doste child-lyke crye?'
Quod godlie Canynge, * I doe weepe,
Tliatt thou soe soone must dye,
And leave thy sonnes and helpless Avyfe;
'Tys thys that wettes myne eye.'
' Thenne drie the teares that out thyne eye
From godlie fountaines sprynge;
Dethe I despise, and alle the power
Of Edwarde, traytor kynge.
Whan through the tyrant's welcom means
I shall resigne my lyfe,
The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde
For bothe mye sonnes and wyfe.
THE DETHE OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN. 117
Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne,
Thys was appointed mee;
Shall mortal manne repyne or grudge
Whatt Godde ordeynes to bee?
Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode.
Whan thousands dy'd arounde;
Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode
Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde:
Howe dydd I knowe thatt ev'ry darte
That cutte the airie waie,
Myghte nott fynde passage toe my herte,
And close myne eyes for aie?
And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe,
Looke wanne and bee dysmay'd?
Ne! fromme my herte flie childishe feere;
Bee alle the manne display 'd.'
* Ah, goddelike Henrie! Godde forfende,
And guarde thee a»d thie sonne,
YiF'tis hys wylle; but yfF'tis nott,
Why, thenne hys wyUe bee donne.'
' My honest friende, my faulte has beene
To serve Godde and mye prynce;
And thatt I no tyme-server am,
My dethe wylle soone convynce.
Ynne London citye was I borne,
Of parents of grete note;
My fadre dyd a nobile armes
Emblazon onne hys cote;
I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone
Where soone I hope to goe.
Where wee for ever shall bee blest,
From oute the reech of woe.
Hee taughte mee justice and the laws
Wyth pitie to unite;
And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe
The wronge cause fromme the ryghte:
Hee taughte mee wyth a prudent hande
To feede the hungrie-poore,
Ne lette mie servants dryve awaie,
The hungrie fromme my doore:
118 THE BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE; OR,
And none can say butt alle mye lyfe
I have hys wordyes kept:
And summ'd the actyonns of the dale
Eache nyghte before I slept.
I have a spouse, gee aske of her
Yffldefyl'dherbedde?
I have a kynge, and none can laie
Blacke treason onne my hedde.
Ynne Lent and onne the holie eve,
Fromme fieshe I dydd refrayne;
Whie should I thenne appeai'e dismay 'd
To leave thys worlde of payne?
Ne! hapless Henrie! I rejoyce
I shalle ne see thie dethe;
Moste willynglie ynne thye juste cause
Doe I resign my brethe.
Oh, fickle people ! rewyn'd londe !
Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe;
Whyle Richard's sonnes exalt themselves,
Thye brookes wyth bloude wylle flowe.
. Sale, were ye tyr'd of godlie peace.
And godlie Henrie's reigne,
Thatt you dydd choppe youre easie daies
For those of bloude and payne?
Whatte tho' I onne a sledde bee drawne,
And mangled by a hynde,
I doe defye the traytor's power,
Hee can ne harm my mynde:
Whatte tho', uphoisted onne a pole,
Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre.
And ne ryche monument of brasse
Chai'les Bawdin's name shall bear;
Yette ynne the holie booke above,
Whyche tyme can't eate awaie,
There wythe the servants of the Lorde
Mye name shall lyve for aie.
Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne
I leave thys mortall lyfe:
Farewelle vayne worlde, and alle that's deare,
Mye sonnes and lovynge wyfe!
THE DETHE OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN. 110
Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes
As e'er the moneth of Maie;
Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve,
Wyth my dere wyte to stale.'
Quod Canynge, ' 'Tys a goodlie thynge,
To bee prepared to die;
And from thys world of peyne and greefe
To Godde ynne heav'n to flie.'
And nowe the bell beganne to toUe,
And claryonnes to sounde;
Syr Charles hee herde the horses' feete
A-prauncing onne the grounde.
And just before the officers
His lovynge wyfe came ynne,
Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe
Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne.
' Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere,
Ynne quiet lett mee die;
Praie Godde thatt ev'ry Christian soule
Maye looke onne dethe as I.
Sweet Florence! why these brinie teeres?
Theye washe my soule awaie,
And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe,
"Wythe thee, sweete dame, to stale.
'Tys butt a journie I shalle goe
Untoe the lande of blysse ;
Nowe, as a proofs of husbande's love
Receive thys holie kysse.'
Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her sale,
Tremblynge these wordes spoke:
' Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge!
My herte ys welle nyghe broke.
Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe
Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe?
The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke,
Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe.'
And nowe the officers came ynne,
To brynge Syr Charles awaie,
Whoe turnedd toe hys lovynge wyfe,
And thus to her dydd sale:
120 THE BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE; OR,
' I goe to lyfe, and not to dethc,
Truste thou ynne Godde above,
And teache thye sonnes to feare the Lorde,
And ynne theyre hertes hym love.
Teache them to runne the nobile race
Thatt I theyre fader runne,
Florence! shou'd dethe thee take — adieu!
Yee officers leade onne.'
Thenne Florence raved as anie madde,
And dydd her tresses tere;
' Oh stale, mie husbande, lorde, and lyfe !'
Syr Charles thenne droppt a tere.
' Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loud,
Shee fellen onne the flore ;
Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte.
And march'd fromme oute the dore.
Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne,
Wythe lookes fuUe brave and swete;
Lookes that enshone ne more concern
Thanne anie ynne the strete.
Before hym went the council-menne,
Ynne scarlett robes and golde.
And tassils spanglyng ynne the sunne,
Muche glorious to beholde :
The freers of Seincte Augustyne next
Appeared to the syght,
Alle cladd ynne homelie russett weedes.
Of godlie monkysh plyght.
Ynne diff'rent partes a godlie psaulme.
Most sweetlie theye dydd chaunt;
Behynde theyr backe syx mynstrelles came.
Who tuned the strunge bataunt.
Thenne fyve-and-twentye archers came;
Eachone the bowe dydd bende.
From rescue of Kynge Henrie's friends,
Syr Charles forr to defend.
Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles,
Drawne onne a clothe-layde sledde.
Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white,
Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde.
THE DETHE OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN. 121
Behynde hym fyve-and-twentye moe
Of archers stronge and stoute,
"Wythe bended bowe eachone ynne hande,
Marched ynne goodlie rout.
Seincte Jameses freers marched next,
Eachone hys parte dydd chaunt;
Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came,
Who tuned the strunge bataunt.
Then came the maior and eldermenne,
Ynne clothe of scarlett deckt;
And theyre attendyng menne eachone,
Lyke easterne princes trickt.
And after them a multitude
Of citizenns dydd thronge;
The wyndowes were aUe fuUe of heddes.
As hee dydd passe alonge.
And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse
Syr Charles dydd turne and saie,
' O thou thatt savest manne fromme sinne,
Washe mye soule clean thys dale.'
At the grete mynsterr wyndowe sate,
The kynge ynne myckle state.
To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge
To hys most welcom fate.
Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe,
Thatt Edwarde, hee myghte here,
The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe.
And thus hys words declare :
' Thou seest nje, Edward! traytour vile!
Exposed to infamie;
Butt bee assured, disloyall manne,
I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee.
Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,
Thou wearest nowe a crowne;
And hast appoynted mee to dye,
By power nott thyne owne.
Thou thynkest I shall dye to daie;
I have beene dede till nowe,
And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne
For aie uponne my browe;
B
122 THE BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE; OR,
Whylst thou, perhapps, for som few yeares,
Shalt rule thys fyckle lande,
To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule
'Twixt kynge and tyrant hande;
Thye power unjust, thou traytour slave!
Shall falle onne thye owne liedde — '
Fromme out of hearyng of the kynge.
Departed thenne the sledde.
Kynge Edwardes soule rush'd to hys face,
Hee turn'd hys hedde awaie,
And to hys broder Gloucester
Hee thus dydd speke and saie:
* To hym that soe-much-dreaded dethe
Ne ghastlie terrors brynge;
Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe;
Hee's greater thanne a kynge!'
* Soe lett hym die!' Duke Richard sayde;
' And maye eachone oure foes
Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe,
And feede the carryon crowes.'
. And nowe the horses gentlie drewe
Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle;
The axe dyd glysterr ynne the sunne,
Hys pretious bloude to spylle.
Syr Charles dydd uppe the scaffolde goe,
As uppe a gilded carre
Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs
Gayn'd ynne the bloudie warre.
And to the people hee dydd saie:
' Beholde you see mee dye,
For servynge loyally mye kynge,
My kynge most rightfuUie.
As long as Edwarde rules thys land,
Ne quiet you wylle knowe;
Youre sonnes and husbandes shalle bee slaine,
And brookes wythe bloude shalle flowe.
You leave youre goode and lawfulle kynge,
Whenne ynn advcrsitye;
Lyke mee, untoe the true cause styck;
And for the true cause dye.'
THE DETHE OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN. 123
Thenne hee, wjtlie preestes, uponne hys knees,
A prayer to Godde dydd make,
Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe,
Hys partynge soule to take.
Thenne kneelynge downe, hee layde hys hedde,
Most seemlie onne the blocke;
Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once
The able heddesmanne stroke:
And oute the bloude beganne to flowe,
And rounde the scaffolde twyne;
And teares, enow to wash't awaie,
Dydd flowe fromme each manne's eyne.
The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre
Ynto foure parties cutte;
And everye parte and eke hys hedde,
Uponne a pole was putte.
One parte dydd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle,
One onne the mynster-tower,
And one from off the castle-gate
The crow en dydd devours.
The other onne Seincte Poules goode-gate,
A dreery spectacle;
Hys hedde was placed onne the hyghe crosse,
Ynne hyghe streete most nobile.
Thus was the ende of Bawdin's fate ;
Godde prosper longe oure kynge,
And grante hee maye wythe Bawdin's soule,
Ynne Heav'n Godde's mercie syng!
®Ihi§ £rm^t^ i§)f Willi Diimafe
„,^^tj^~.
[This ' Ancient Ballad,' as it is there called,
is taken from ' Legends of the Library at
Lilies, by the Lord and Lady there,' London,
1>>3'2. The only information afTorded respect-
ing it is as follows : — ' To such as are well
read in the rare work of autobiography lately
published by Sir Jonah BaiTington, so singular
will the coincidence appear between the re-
kition he gives of the strange fate of Mr.
Joseph Kelly and Mr. Peter Alley, in ' My
Hrothcr's Hunting Lodge,' and the catastrophe
of the following talc, that, except for the
doubtless authenticity of the first-mentioned
narrative, it might almost be thought to have
been founded on this ancient ballad, which
bears evidence of having been written about
the middle of the sixteenth centiu-y, by a
person who was himself a witness of the event
ho celebrates. As it is, the two stories will
probably be taken as equall y true, and strongly
confirmatory of each other.']
GOODLYE romaunte you shal
heere, I wis,
Tisycleped of AlIeDeuilesHalle,
Likewyse of the Feaste of Alle
Deuiles it is,
And of what dyd there befalle.
THE FEASTE OF ALLE DEUILES. 125
For a pleasaunte thynge is this historye,
And much delyte doe I
In one so straunge, yett so true perdie
That noe man can ytt denye.
O the boarde is sette, and the guestes are mett
To drinke in Alle Deuiles' Halle,
The guestes are drye, but the walles are wett,
And the doores are barred on alle.
And why are the tables in ordere sett,
And why is the wassaile spredd,
And why are they mett while the walles are wett
To carouse o'er the uaultes of the dedd?
The Baronne of Hawkesdenne rose wyth the sunne
On the daye of Alle Sayntes in the morne.
A terrible feate hee had thoughte uponne,
And a terrible oathe he had sworne.
From holye church full manie a roode
Hee had ravishede of landys fayre.
And where Alle Saintes abbaye had latelye stoode
Hys holde hee had builded there.
For to hym our good Kynge Harrye had given
For hys fee that rich Abbaye,
When the Angels bequeathed for the service of Heuen
Were ta'en from the Church awaye.
Yett fii'mlye and well stoode the proude Chappell,
Though ne monk ne preeste was there,
Butt for festival nowe was hearde the bell
That wont to be hearde for prayer.
And those sayntelye walles of olde gray stone
Dyd witnesse foul revelrye,
And they shooke to heare theire echoes owne
Wordes of ribaulderie.
' Now builde mee a Halle,' the Baronne sayde,
' And builde ytt both wide and high.
And builde ytt mee ouer the moulderinge dedde,
As they rottc. in cemeterye.
For long haue I lacked a banquettinge Halle,
Meete for my feeres and me;
For our mirthf; the olde Chai)pell is alle too smalle,
Soe our butteiye-hatch ytt shal bee.
126 THE FEASTE OF ALLE DEUILES.
Thys aunciente place I wyl newlye calle,
And chi'istene ytt in goode wyne,
Thys church of Alio Sayntes shall be Alle Deuiles' Halle,
And the daye, too, Aile Deuiles and myne.
On the firste of Nouembre thys lordeshippe fayre
My heritage was made,
From noe Sayntc dydd I craue ytt by vowe or by prayere,
But I called to the Deuile for ayde.
Longe, longe did I striue, and on hope I leaned,
And att Courte I dyd uainlye toyle,
And his Highnesse was harde tyll I uowed to the fiende
A share in the Churche's spoyle.
Nowe, onn thys daye beginneth a moneth of cloudes.
And of deedes that mayne not bee forgiuen,
When the self-sleyne dedde looke upp from theire shroudes,
See no blew, and despaire of heuen.
And eache yeare thys festiuall daye wee wyl keepe,
Saynte nor angelle a place shal haue,
Butt darke spiritts wyth us shal carouse, pottle deepe,
And we'U welcome suche from the graue,
there wyU wee mocke the skulles belowe.
And we'll grinne more wyde than theye,
And we'll synge more loude thann the owletts doe,
And louder than preestes wolde praye.
And our dogges wyth eache pate that is bleached and bare
Shall sporte them rounde and rounde,
Or tangle theire jaws in the drye dedde haire.
As theye route in the hollowe grounds.
Att the wildered batte wee wyl loudlye laugh.
As hee flitts rounde hys mansyons olde,
And the earthe worme shal learne the redde wyne to quaff.
As he reeles in his slymie folde.
We wyl barre oute the blessede lyghte fulle welle,
And we'll heare noe lark to disturbe us,
For the larke synges to heuen, butt wee to helle,
Noe hymminge fooles shal curbe us.
A frend in our neede is indeede a frend,
And suche frend was the Deuile to mee;
And thys halle I wyll builde, to thys dutyfulle ende,
That my cuppe fellowe hee may bee.'
THE FEASTE OF ALLE DEUILES. 127
O Nouembre is neare wythe the closinge yeare,
And the Halle is unfinishede quite,
And what liuinge menne dyd reare in the day, ytt dyd appeai'e
That dedde handes dyd undoe at night e.
O the ceilinge and walles theye are rough and bare,
And the guestes they are comynge novve;
how shal the Baronne feaste them there,
And how shal hee keepe hys vowe?
Att the builders hee raued furiouslye,
Nor excuse wolde hee graunte att alle;
Butt, as one poore wretch low bent on hys knee,
He strake oute hys braynes wyth hys malle.
And, highe as he raysed his bloudie hande,
Ryght fearfuUie thus spake hee:
* Yff at eue thys halle unfinishede stande,
Not one knave of yee liuinge shal bee!'
Thenn the builders theye playstered dilligentlye.
For lyfe or deth playstered theye,
And, a dagger's depthe, thicke coates three
Theye had spredde on the walles that daye.
' Sore feare worketh welle !' quoth the proude Baronne,
As he strode to the festaU chayre.
And loude laughed the guestes to looke uponne
The worke so smoothe and fayre.
The pine torches rounde a braue lighte dydd flynge,
A redd noone through the darke nighte streaminge,
And small thoughte hadd the guestes of the waynscottinge,
Howe wette, and softe, and steaminge.
Now theye have barred faste the doores belowe,
And eke the windowes on highe ;
And withoute stoode tremblinge the vassailes a rowe
Att the bolde impietie.
O wee tremblede to hears their reuelrie,
(For I was there that nighte,)
A sabbath ytt seemede of Deuilrie,
And of Witches att theyre delyte.
There was chauntinge thenne amayne, butt the pure and holie
strayne
Of sweete musicke had loste ytt's feelinge,
And there was harpe and lute, but lyttel dyd ytt boote.
For the daunce was butt beastlie reelinge.
128 THE FEASTE OF ALLE DEUILES.
And the feates were ille tolde of chiuakye olde,
Amiddste dronkcnnesse and dinne,
And the softe laye of loue colde noe tendernesse moue
Ynu hartes of ryott and sinne.
Three nightes ytt endured, and the staringe owle
Was scared fi'om hys ivye throne,
And the poore currs dismallie answered a howle
More senselesse thanne theyre own.
And dronker theye waxed, and dronker yett,
And each manne dyd uainly laboure,
By reason of manie speakers, to gett
Meet audience from his neyboure.
These wordes thenn stammerede the loude Baronne,
' May I ne'er quitt thys goode cheere,
Tyll our maystere come to feaste wyth hys ovvne !'
And thatt was the laste wee colde heare.
The third morne rose full fayre, and the torches ruddye
glare,
Through, the windowes streamed noe more.
And, when the smalle birde rose from hys chambere in
the boughes.
The festiuall shout was o'er.
The smalle birde gay lye sunge,and the merry elarke uppe
sprunge.
And the dewe droppe spangled the spraye.
And the blessede sunne, that stille shines the same on
goode and ille,
Smyled thatt morne onn the old Abbaye.
O longe dydd we listene, in doubt and feare,
Att thatt unholye doore,
And, ere wee essayed to enter there,
Ytt was full highe noone and more.
Butt stiUc colde we gaine noe answere att alle,
Though wee asked continuallye;
And I that telle was the urchin smalle
That was thruste through the windowe to see.
O I hadde quayled in Saynte Quentin's fighte,
Where I rode in that Baronne's trayne.
And hadd shrunke to see the slayne att nighte,
As they laye onn the bloudye playne.
THE FEASTE OF ALLE DEUILES. 129
I hadde sickennede to see eache pale face bare,
And eache staringe glassie eye,
As the moone was dimmlye reflectede there,
Farre from agreeablje.
Butt ne'er hadde I seene suche a sjghte before
As thatt whjche dydd thenn befalle,
Of grimme and ghastlye dedd heddes a score
Mortared into a walle!
Theye were helde as theye dronkenlye backe dydd leane,
Ynn deadlye payne and despayre,
And the redd wyne was clottede theire jawes betwene,
And the mortare was growne to the hayre.
Full ofte haue I hearde thatt wyse menne doe saye
' Manie heddes are bettere thanne one;'
Butt, 0, thanne wyth suche gaunt heddes as theye
Ytt were bettere to liue wyth none.
And stille the gaye fruites blushede on the boarde,
As in scorne of the sadde arraye.
And the sparklinge flaggons, wyth wyne halfe stored,
Beamed cute to the sunne alwaye.
Nowe Time hath rolled onne for three score yeare,
And the olde walle standeth yett;
And, deepe, in rowes, rounde thatt dred chambere,
Eache darke browne skulle is sett.
The ivye hath wreathede a coronett grene
For the grimlye Baronne's browe;
And, where once the dais carpett flaunted shene,
The ranke grass waveth nowe.
In the sockett where rowled eache dronlcen eye
Hath the martlett builded her holde;
And, aye, midde the whyte teeth, gallantlye
The walle flowere twisteth ytt's folde.
And, in place of the torches of pine-tree made,
The pale moone quivereth o'er them me.
And the scritch owle, wyth sorry e serenade,
Mocketh the mynstrcll before themme.
And there muste they staye, tyll the dredful daye
When theire maystere claymeth hys dole!
O Gentles bceware of suche doome, and praye
Grammereye onne eache poore soule.
130
THE FEASTE OF ALLE DEUILES.
Butt, euermore, to your dyinge hower,
Remembere, whate'er bef'alle,
Keepe free your liartes from the foule fiende's power,
Ajid your heddes from newe mortared-walle.
Thenne of AUe Deuiles' Daye thys the storye is,
And of Alle Deuiles' Halle lykewyse ;
A wonderous tale, yett soe trewe ytt is.
That noe bodye it denyes.
[Stanza 7. 'Good Kynge Hari-ye" — Henry VIII. — whom the ordinary
reader may, perhaps, not at once recognise under that epithet.
St. 7. ' Angels' — metallic currency, not spirits of another world.
St. 9. ' Ribaulderie' — a sort of converse much in use among the soldiers of
the Pays des Ribauds ; desultory troops under the command of the Duke of
Burgundy in the holy wars. — Du Cangc.
St. 15. ' Despaire of heuen' — ' Que faut-il faire pour di.ssiper I'ennuie ?
C'est le mois de Novembre. II fait mauvais temps— temps de brouillards.
Que faut-il faire pourdissiiier I'ennuie ? Les Anglois se pendent. Que faut-
il faire, dis-je, pour dissiper I'ennuie ? II faut boire du ponche I — Almanach
des Gourmands.''^
mM (EifedUt ®f (BIU<
K^Tt
[This ballad is taken from Percy's ' Reliques,' where it
was ' given from a fragment in the Editor's folio IMS. ;
which, though extremely defective and mutilated, ap-
peared to have so much merit, that it excited a strong
desire to attempt a completion of the story. The reader,'
says I)r Percy, ' will easily discover the supplemental
stanzas by their inferiority, and at the same time he in-
clined to pardon it, when he considers how diihcult it
must be to imitate the affecting simplicity and artless
beauties of the original.' Probably, however, the reader
will be inclined to agree with Sir Walter Scott (' Min-
strelsy of the Scottish Border') in 'ascribing its gi-eatest
beauties to the poetical taste of the ingenious Editor.
They are,' he says, ' in the true stylo of Cotlnc em-
bellishment.' In the same work was published a ballad,
entitled ' Erlinton,' which Sir Walter considered to be
' the rude original, or, perhaps, a corrupted and imperfect
copy of 'The Child of EUe." It will be found m the
Appendix. ' CT/M,' says Dr. Percy, 'was a title some-
times given to a knight.']
N yonder hill a castle standes,
With wallcs and towres bedight,
And yonder lives the Child of Elle,
A yonnge and comely knighte.
132 THE CHILD OF ELLE.
The Child of Elle to his garden wente,
And stood at his garden pale,
Whan, lo! he beheld fair Emmelines page
Come trippinge downe the dale.
The Child of Elle he hyed him thence,
Y-wis he stoode not stille,
And soone he mette faire Emmelines page
Come climbing up the hille.
Nowe Christe thee save, thou little foot-page,
Now Christe thee save and see!
Oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye,
And what may thy tydinges bee?
My lady shee is all woe-begone,
And the teares they falle from her eyne;
And aye she laments the deadlye feude
Betweene her house and thine.
And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe
Bedew de with many a teare,
And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her,
Who loved thee so deare.
, And here shee sends thee a ring of golde
The last boone thou mayst have.
And biddes thee weare it for her sake.
Whan she is layde in grave.
For, ah! her gentle heart is broke.
And in grave soone must shee bee,
Sith her father hath chose her a new new love,
And forbidde her to think of thee.
Her father hath brought her a carlish knight,
Sir John of the north countraye.
And within three dayes shee must him wedde,
Or he vowes he wiU her slaye.
Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page,
And greet thy ladye from mee.
And telle her that I her owne true love
Will dye, or sette her free.
Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page.
And let thy fair ladye know
This night will I bee at her bowre-windowe.
Betide me weale or woe.
THE CHILD OF ELLE. 133
The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne,
He neither stint ne stayd
Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre,
Whan kneeling downe he sayd,
O ladye, Ive been with thy own true love,
And he greets thee well by mee;
This night will he bee at thy bowre-windowe.
And dye or sette thee free.
Nowe daye was gone, and night was come,
And all were fast asleepe.
All save the ladye Emmeline,
Who sate in her bowre to weepe:
And soone shee heard her true loves voice
Lowe whispering at the walle,
Awake, awake, my deare ladye,
Tis I thy true love call.
Awake, awake, my ladye deare.
Come, mount this faire palfriiye:
This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe,
He carrye thee hence awaye.
Nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight,
Nowe nay, this may not bee;
For aye sould I tint my maiden fame,
If alone I should wend with thee.
O ladye, thou with a knighte so true,
Mayst safelye wend alone,
To my ladye mother I will thee bringe,
Where marriage shall make us one.
' My father he is a baron bolde.
Of lynage proude and hye;
And what would he saye if his daughter
Awaye with a knight should fly?
Ah! well I wot, he never would rest,
Nor his meate should doe him no goode,
Till he had slayne thee. Child of Elle,
And scene thy deare hearts bloode.'
ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette,
And a little space him fro,
1 would not care for thy cruel father.
Nor the worst that he could doe.
134 THE CHILD OF ELLE.
ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette,
And once without this walle,
1 would not care for thy cruel father,
Nor the worst that might befalle.
Faire Emmeline sighed, faire Emmeline wept,
And aye her heart was woe:
At length he seizde her lilly-white hand,
And downe the ladder he drewe:
And thrice he claspde her to his breste,
And kist her tenderlie:
The teares that fell from her fair eyes,
Ranne like the fountayne free.
Hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle,
And her on a faire palfraye.
And slung his bugle about his necke,
And roundlye they rode awaye.
All this beheard her owne damselle.
In her bed whereas shee ley,
Quoth shee, My lord shall knowe of this,
Soe I shall have golde and fee.
•Awake, awake, thou baron bolde!
Awake, my noble dame!
Your daughter is fledde with the Childe of Elle,
To doe the deede of shame.
The baron he v*'oke, the baron he rose,
And called his merrye men all:
' And come thou forth. Sir John the knighte,
The ladye is carried to thrall.'
Fair Emmeline scant had ridden a mile,
A mile forth of the towne,
"When she was awai-e of her fathers men
Come galloping over the downe:
And foi-emost came the carlish knight.
Sir John of the north countraye:
* Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitoure,
Nor carry that ladye awaye.
For she is come of hye lynage,
And was of a ladye borne.
And ill it beseems thee a false churles Sonne
To carrye her hence to scorne.'
THE CHILD OF ELLE. 135
Nowe loud thou lyest, Sir John the knight,
Nowe thou doest lye of mee;
A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore,
Soe never did none by thee.
But light nowe downe, my ladye faire,
Light downe, and hold my steed,
While I and this discourteous knighte
Doe trye this arduous deede.
But light now downe, my deare ladye,
Light downe, and hold my horse;
While I and this discourteous knight
Doe trye our valours force.
Fair Emmeline sighde, fair Emmeline wept.
And aye her heart was woe.
While twixt her love and the carlish knight
Past many a baleful blowe.
The Child of Elle hee fought soe well.
As his weapone he wavde amaine.
That soone he had slaine the carlish knight.
And layde him upon the plaine.
And nowe the baron, and all his men
Full fast approached nye:
Ah! what may ladye Emmeline doe?
Twere now no boote to flye.
Her lover he put his home to his mouth,
And blew both loud and shrill,
And soone he saw his owne merry men
Come ryding over the hill.
' Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baron,
I pray thee, hold thy hand.
Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts.
Fast knit in true loves band.
Thy daughter I have dearly lovde
Full long and many a day;
But with such love as holy kirke
Hath freely e sayd wee may.
O give consent, shee may be mine.
And blesse a faithfull paire:
My lands and livings are not small,
My house and lynage faire:
136 THE CHILD OF ELLE.
My mother she was an earles daughter,
And a noble knyght my sire
The baron he frownde, and turnde away
With mickle dole and ire.
Fair Emmeline sighde, faire Emmeline wept,
And did all tremblinge stand:
At lengthe she sprange upon her knee.
And held his lifted hand.
Pardon, my lorde and father deare,
This faire yong knyght and mee:
Trust me, but for the carlish knyght,
I never had fled from thee.
Oft have you callde your Emmeline
Your darling and your joye;
O let not then your harsh resolves
Your Emmeline destroye.
The baron he stroakt his dark-brown clieeke,
And turnde his heade asyde
To whipe awaye the starting teare,
He proudly strave to hyde.
In deepe revolving thought he stoode.
And musde a little space:
Then raisde faire Emmeline from the grounde.
With many a fond embrace.
Here take her, Child of Elle, he sayd,
And gave her lillye hand;
Here take my deare and only child.
And with her half my land:
Thy father once mine honour wrongde
In dayes of youthful pride;
Do thou the injurye repayre
In fondnesse for thy bride.
And as thou love her, and hold her deare.
Heaven pi'osper thee and thine:
And nowe my blessing wend wi' thee,
My lovelye Emmeline.
rstanza 40. ' From the word kirkr, this hath hcen thought to he a Scoltisli
hallad ; but it must be acknowledged that the line referred to is among the
additions supplied bythcKditor: besides, in the northern counties of Eng-
land, k>rk is used in the common dialect for church, as well as beyond the
Tweed.'— PiTcy.]
[' This old romantic tale,' says Dr. Percy, from whose
' Reliques' it is taken, — ' was preserved in the Editor's
Folio MS., but in so very defective and mutilated a
condition, (not from any chasm in the MS., but from
Ri-eat omission in the transcript, probably copied from
the faulty recitation of some illiterate minstrel,) that it
was necessary to supply several stanzas in the first part,
and still more in the second, to connect and complete
the story.' Of the extent of the additions, by which
the story was thus connected and completed by the I>r.,
some idea may be formed by comparing the ballad, as
fiiven by him, with one published by Mr. Buchan, in
his ' Ancient Ballads and Songs of the North of Scot
land. (Edinb. 1828,)' entitled ' King Malcolm and Sir
C'olvin.' The similarity of names will be obvious at
once ; and, although in the catastrophe the two ballads
differ widely, and there is not in ' King Malcolm and
Sir Colvin ' any thing at all corresponding with the
second part of ' Sir C'auline ;' yet the resemblance of
the latter to the former, as far as it goes, is, notwith-
standing, very striking, and on the suppositidii (if their
being two independent ballads, not a little rfm.irliablo.
Probably, however, the old Scotch ballad [lUlilishiMl by
Mr. Buchan. or some version of it, formed the ground-
work of ' Sir (.'auline.' Or it may be regarded as
' some illiterate minstrel's faulty recitation' The
reader who wishes to judge for himself will find the
means of doing so in the Appendix.]
THE FIRST PART.
N Ireland, forr over the sea,
There dwelleth a bonnye kiiio;e ;
And with him a yong and comlyc knightc,
Men call him syr Cauline.
138 SIR CAULINE.
The kinge had a ladye to his daughter,
In fashyon she hath no peere ;
And princely wightes that ladye wooed
To be theyr wedded feere.
Syr Cauline loveth her best of all.
But nothing durst he saye ;
Ne descreeve his counsayl to no man.
But deerlye he lovde this may.
Till on a daye it so beffell.
Great dill to him was dight ;
The maydens love removde his mynd,
To care-bed went the knighte.
One while he spred his armes him fro,
One while he spred them nye :
And aye ! but I \nnne that ladyes love.
For dole now I mun dye.
And whan our parish-masse was done.
Our kinge was bowne to dyne :
He says, Where is syr Cauline,
That is wont to serve the wyne ?
Then aunswerde him a courteous knighte.
And fast his haudes gau w^ringe :
Sir Cauline is sicke, and like to dye
Without a good leechinge.
Fetche me do^vne my daughter deere.
She is a leeche fulle fine :
Goe take him doughe, and the baken bread.
And sei*ve him with the wyne soe red ;
Lothe I were him to tine.
Fair Christabelle to his chaumber goes.
Her maydens foUowyng nye :
O well, she sayth, how doth my lord ?
O sicke, thou fayr ladye.
Nowe ryse up wightlye, man, for shame,
Never lye soe cowardice ;
For it is told in my fathers halle,
You dye for love of mee.
Fayre ladye, it is for vour love
That all this dill I drye :
For if you wold comfort me with a kisse.
Then were I brought from bale to blisse.
No lenger wold I lye.
SIR CAULINE. 139
Sir kniglite, my father is a kinge,
I am his onlye heire ;
Alas ! and well you knowe, syr knighte,
I never can be youre fere.
O ladye, thou art a kinges daughter,
And I am not thy peere.
But let me doe some deedes of armes
To be your bacheleere.
Some deedes of armes if thou wilt doe,
My bacheleere to bee,
(But ever and aye my heart wold rue,
Giff harm shold happe to thee,)
Upon Eldridge hill there groweth a thome.
Upon the mores brodhige ;
And dare ye, syr knighte, wake there all nighte
Untill the fayre mornlnge ?
For the Eldridge knighte, so mickle of mighte,
Will examine you beforne ;
And never man bare life awaye.
But he did him scath and sconie.
That knighte he is a foul paynim.
And large of limb and bone ;
And but if heaven may be thy speede.
Thy life it is but gone.
Nowe on the Eldridge hilles He walke.
For thy sake fair ladie ;
And He either bring you a ready tok^n,
Or lie never more you see.
The lady is gone to her own chaumb^re,
Her maydens following bright :
Syr Cauline lope from care-bed soone,
And to the Eldridge hills is gone.
For to wake there all night.
Unto midnight, that the moone did rise.
He walked up and downe ;
Then a lightsome bugle heard he blowe
Over the bents soe browne :
Quoth hee. If cryance come till my heart,
I am fFar from any good towne.
140 SIR CAULINE.
And soone he spyde on the mores so broad,
A furyous wight and fell ;
A ladye bright his brydle led,
Clad ui a fayre kyrtell :
And soe fast he called on syr Cauline,
man, I rede thee flye.
For, * but' if cryancc come till thy heart,
1 weene but thou mun dye.
He sayth, ' No' cryance comes till my heart.
Nor, in faith, I wyll not flee ;
For, cause thou minged not Christ before,
The less me dreadeth thee.
The Eldridge knighte, he pricked his steed ;
Syr Cauline bold abode :
Then either shooke his trustve speare,
And the timber these two children bare
Soe soone in svmder slode.
Then tooke they out theyr two good swordes.
And layden on full faste,
Till helme and hawberke, mail and sheelde.
They all were well-nye brast.
The Eldridge kniglit was mickle of might.
And stiffe in stower did stande,
But syr Cauline with a ' backward' stroke.
He smote off his right-hand ;
That soone he with paine and lacke of bloud
Fell downe on that lay-land.
Then up syr Cauline lift his brande
All over his head so bye :
And here I sweare by the holy roode,
Nowe, caytiflFe, thou shalt dye.
Then up and came that ladye brighte,
Faste wringing of lier handc :
For the maydens love, that most you love,
"Withold that deadlye brande :
For the maydens love, that most you love.
Now smyte no more I praye ;
And aye whatever thou wilt, my lord,
He shall thy bests obaye.
Now sweare to moe, thou Eldridge knighte.
And here on this lay-land.
That thou wilt believe on Christ his laye.
And thereto plight thy hand :
SIR CAULINE. 141
And that thou never on Eldridge come
To sporte, gamon, or playe :
And that thou here give up thy amies
Until thy dying daye.
The Eldridge knighte gave up his amies
With many a sorrowfulle sighe ;
And sware to obey syr Caulines hest,
Till the tynie that he shold dye.
And he then up and the Eldridge knighte
Sett him in his saddle anone,
And the Eldridge knighte and his ladye
To theyr castle are they gone.
Then he tooke up the bloudy hand,
That was so large of bone,
And on it he fouiide five ringes of gold
Of knightes that had be slone.
Then he tooke up the Eldridge svrorde.
As hard as any flint :
And he tooke off those ringes five.
As bright as fyre and brent.
Home then pricked syr CauUne
As light as leafe on tree :
I-wys he neither stint ne blanne.
Till he his ladye see.
Then downe he knelt upon his knee
Before that lady gay :
O ladye, I have bin on the Eldridge hills :
These tokens I bring away.
Now welcome, welcome, syr Cauline,
Thrice welcome unto mee,
For now I p^ceive thou art a true knighte,
Of valour bolde and free.
O ladye, I am thy own true knighte.
Thy bests for to obaye :
And mought I hope to winnc thy love ! —
No more his tongc colde say.
The ladye blushed scarlette redde.
And fette a gentill sighe :
Alas ! syr knight, how may this bee.
For my degree's soe highe ?
142 SIR CAULINE.
But sith thou hast higlit, thou comely youth,
To be my batchilere,
He promise if thee I may not wedde,
I will have none other fere.
Theu shee held forthe her lilly-white hand
Towards that knighte so free :
He gave to it one gentill kisse,
His heart was brought from bale to l)lisse,
The teares sterte from his ee.
But keep my comisayl, s\t Cauline,
Ne let no man it knowe ;
For and ever my father sholde it ken,
I wot he wolde us sloe.
From that daye forthe that ladye fayre
Lovde syr Cauline the knighte :
From that daye forthe he only joyde
Wlian shee was in his sight.
Yea and oftentimes they mette
Within a fayre arboiire,
Where they in love and sweet daliaunce
Past manye a pleasaunt houre.
PART THE SECOND.
Eve RYE white will have its blacke.
And everye sweete its sowre :
This founde the ladye Christabelle
In an untimely howre.
For so it befelle as syr Cauline
Was with that ladye faire.
The kinge her father walked forthe
To take the evenyng aire :
And into the arboure as he went
To rest his wearye feet,
He found his daughter and syr Cauline
There sette in daliaunce sweet.
The kinge hee sterted forthe, i-wys,
And an angrye man was hee :
Nowe, traytoure, thou slialt hange or drawe,
And rewe shall thy ladie.
SIR CAULINE. 143
Then forthe syr Cauline he was ledde.
And thromie in dungeon deepe :
And the ladye into a towre so hye.
There left to wayle and weepe.
The queene she was syr CauUnes friend,
And to the kinge sayd shee :
I praye yon save syr Cavdines Hfe,
And let him banisht bee.
Now, dame, that traitor shall be sent
Across the salt sea fonie :
But here I will make thee a band,
If ever he come within this land,
A foule deathe is his doome.
All woe-begone was that gentil knight
To parte from his ladye ;
And many a time he sighed sore.
And caste a wistfulle eye :
Faire Christabelle, from thee to parte,
Farre lever had I dye.
Fair Christabelle, that ladye bright,
Was had forthe of the towre ;
But ever shee droopeth in her minde.
As nipt by an ungentle vidnde
Doth some faire lillye flowre.
And ever shee doth lament and weepe
To tint her lover soe :
Syr Cauline, thou little think' st on mee.
But I will still be true.
Manye a kinge, and manye a duke,
And lords of high degree.
Did sue to that fayre ladye of love ;
But never shee wolde them nee.
When manye a daye was past and gone,
Ne comforte she colde findo.
The kynge proclaimed a tourncament.
To cheerc his daughters mind :
And there came lords, and there came knights.
Fro manye a farre countrye,
To break a spore for thoyr ladyes love
Before tliat faire ladvc.
144 SIR CAULINE.
And many a ladye there was sette
In purple and in palle :
But faire Christabelle soe woe-begone
Was the fayrest of them all.
Then manye a knighte was mickle of might
Before his ladye gave ;
But a stranger wight, whom no man knewe,
He wan the prize eche daye.
His acton it was all of blacke,
His hewberke, and his sheelde,
Ne noe man wist whence he did come,
Ne noe man knewe where he did gone.
When they came out the feelde.
And now three days were prestlye past
In feates of chivalr^-e,
When lo upon the fourth mornhige
A sorrowfuUe sight they see.
A hug\-e giaunt stiflFe ai)d starke,
All foule of limbe and lore ;
Two goggling even like fire farden,
A mouthe from eare to eare.
Before him came a dwarffe full lowe,
That waited on his knee,
And at his backe five heads he bare,
All wan and pale of blee.
Sir, quoth the dwarffe, and louted lowe.
Behold that bend Soldain !
Behold these heads I beare with me !
They are kings which he hath slain.
The Eldridge knight is his own cousine,
^\^lom a knight of thine hath shent :
And hee is come to avenge his wrong.
And to thee, all thy knightes amcmg.
Defiance here hath sent.
But yctte he will appease his WTath
Thy daughters love to winne :
And but thou yeelde him that fayre mayd.
Thy halls and towers must brenne.
Thy head, syr king, must goe with mee ;
. Or else thy daughter deere ;
Or else within these lists soe broad
Thou must finde him a peere.
SIR CAULINE. 145
The king he turned hun round aljoute,
And in his heart was woe :
Is there never a knighte of my romid table,
This matter will undergoe '!
Is there never a knighte amongst yee all
Will fight for my daughter and mec ?
Whoever will fight yon grimme soldan.
Right fair his meede shall bee.
For hee shall have my broad lay-lands,
And of my crowne be heyre ;
And he shall winne fayre Christabelle
To be his wedded fere.
But every knighte of his round table
Did stand both still and pale ;
For whenever they lookt on the grim soldkii.
It made their hearts to quail.
All woe-begone was that fayre ladye,
When she sawe no helpe was nye :
She cast her thought on her owne true-love.
And the teares gusht from her eye.
Up then sterte the stranger knighte,
Sayd, Ladye, be not affrayd :
He fight for thee with this grimme soldan,
Thoughe he be unmacklye made.
And if thou wilt lend me the Eldridge sworde,
That lyeth within thy bowre,
I truste in Christe for to slay this fiende
Thoughe he be stiif in stowre.
Goe fetch him downe the Eldridge sworde,
The kinge he cryde, with speede :
Nowe heaven assist thee, courteous knighte ;
My daughter is thy meede.
The gyaunt he stepped into the lists,
And sayd, Awaye, awaye :
I sweare, as I am the bend soldan,
Thou lettest me here all daye.
Then forthe the stranger knight he came
In his blacke armoure dight :
The ladye sighed a gentle sighe,
" That this were my true knighte !"
u
146 SIR CAULINE.
And uowe the gyaunt and knighte be mett
Within the hsts soe broad ;
And now vdih swordes soe sharpe of Steele,
They gan to lay on load.
The soldan strncke the knighte a stroke,
That made him reele asyde ;
Then woe-begone was that fayre ladye.
And thrice she deeply sighde.
The soldan struck e a second stroke,
And made the blonde to flowe :
All pale and wan was that ladye fayre.
And thrice she wept for woe.
The soldan strucke a third fell stroke,
Which brought the knighte on his knee :
Sad sorrow pierced that ladyes heart,
And she shriekt loud shriekings three.
The knighte he leapt upon his feete.
All recklesse of the pain :
Quoth hee. But heaven be now my speede.
Or else I shall be slaine.
He grasped his sworde with mayne and mighte.
And spying a secrette part.
He drave it into the soldan' s syde.
And pierced him to the heart.
Then all the people gave a shoute,
WTien they sawe the soldan falle :
The ladye wept, and thanked Christ,
That had reskewed her from thrall.
And nowe the kinge with all his barons
Rose uppe from offe his seate.
And downe he stepped into the listes,
That curteous knighte to greete.
But he for payne and lackc of blonde
Was fallen into a swounde,
And there all walteringe in his gore.
Lay lifelesse on the groundc.
Come downe, come downe, my daughter deare.
Thou art a leeche of skille ;
Farre lever had I lose halfe my landes,
Than this good knighte sholde spille.
SIR CAULINE.
147
Downe then steppeth that fayre ladye,
To helpe him if she maye ;
But when she did his beavere raise.
It is my hfe, my lord, she sayes.
And shriekte and swound awaye.
Sir CauUne juste Hfte up his eyes
When he hearde his ladye crye,
O ladye, I am thine owne true love ;
For thee I wisht to dye.
Then giving her one partinge looke.
He closed his eyes in death.
Ere Christabelle, that ladye milde,
Begane to drawe her breathe.
But when she found her comelye knighte
Indeed was dead and gone.
She layde her pale cold cheeke to his,
And thus she made her moane.
O staye, my deare and onlye lord,
For mee thy faithfulle feere ;
'Tis meet that I shold foUowe thee.
Who hast bought my love so deare.
Then fayntinge in a deadlye swoune.
And with a deep-fette sighe,
That burst her gentle heart in twayne,
Fayre Christabelle did dye.
a^ !£^tf iSilF tM HH^et &l^i§t?«
[This ballad was written by Mrs. Mary Robinson, —
better known perhaps to some readers by the sobriquet
of ' Perdita," — who was born at Bristol in what in her
' Autobiography,' she calls the ' tempestuous night ' of
the ayth November, 1758; and died, after a somewhat
eventful career, in the year 1800, at the comparatively
early age of 42. When and where it first appeared we
are unable, after a pretty diligent search, to discover.
Probably, however, it was in one of the periodicals of
her day. in which many of her poetical pieces were first
published, with one or other of the signatures, Laura,
Laura Maria, Julia, Daphne, Oberon, Echo, and
Loui.sa After her death, her poems were collected and
published in .3 vols. l'2mo. (London, 180(5,) edited by
her daughter. This is now a very .scarce work; there
is no copy of it in the British Museum; nor have we
been fortunate enough to meet with one elsewhere.
The present version is taken from an edition of her
Poetical Works published by Jones and Co., London,
1826.]
ATCH no more the twinkling stars ;
Watch no more the chalky bourne ;
Lady ! from the holy wars
jSever will thy love return !
Cease to watch, .and cease to mourn,
Thv lover never will return !
THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER. 149
" Watch no more the yellow moon,
Peering o'er the mountain's head ;
Rosy day, returning soon,
Will see thy lover pale and dead !
Cease to weep, and cease to mourn,
Thy lover vdll no more return !
" Lady, in the holy wars.
Fighting for the Cross, he died ;
Low he lies, and many scars
Mark his cold and mangled side ;
In his vdnding sheet he lies.
Lady ! check those rending sighs.
" Hark ! the hollow sounding gale
Seems to sweep in murmurs by.
Sinking slowly down the vale ;
Wherefore, gentle lady, sigh 1
Wherefore moan, and wherefore sigh ?
Lady, all that live must die.
" Now the stars are fading fast :
Swift their brilliant course are run ;
Soon shall dreary night be past :
Soon shall rise the cheermg sun !
The sun vvill rise to gladden thee :
Lady, lady, cheerful be."
So spake a voice ! While sad and lone.
Upon a lofty tower, reclined,
A lady sat : the pale moon shone,
And sweetly blew the summer wind ;
Yet still disconsolate in mind,
The lovely lady sat reclined.
The lofty tower was ivy clad ;
x\nd round a dreary forest rose ;
The midnight bell was tolling sad —
'Twas tolling for a soul's repose !
The lady heard the gates unclose.
And from her seat in terror rose.
The summer moon shone bright and clear ;
She saw the castle gates imclosc ;
And now she saw four monks appear.
Loud chainidng for a soul's re])ose.
Forbear, ob, lady ! look no more —
They ])ast — a livid corpse they bore.
150 THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER.
They past, and all was silent now ;
The breeze upon the forest slept ;
The moon stole o'er the mountain's brow ;
Again the lady sigh'd and wept :
She watcht the holy fathers go
Along the forest path below.
And now the dawn was bright, the dew
Upon the yellow heath was seen ;
The clouds were of a rosy hue.
The sunny lustre shone between :
The lady to the chapel ran.
While the slow matin prayer began.
And then, once more, the fathers grey
She markt em})loy'd in holy prayer :
Her heart was full, she could not pray.
For love and fear were masters there.
Ah, lady ! thou wilt pray ere long
To sleep those lonely aisles among !
And now the matin prayers were o'er ;
The barefoot monks of order grey.
Were thronging to the chapel door.
When there the lady stopt the way :
"Tell me," she cried, " whose corpse so pale.
Last night ye bore along the vale?"
" Oh, lady ! question us no more :
No corpse did we bear down the dale !"
The lady sunk upon the floor,
Her quivering lip was deathly pale.
The bare-foot monks now whisper' d, sad,
" God grant our lady be not mad."
The monks departing, one by one.
The chapel gates in silence close ;
When from the altar-steps of stone.
The trembling lady feebly goes :
While moming sheds a ruby light.
The painted windows glowing bright.
And now she heard a hollow sound ;
It seem'd to come from graves below ;
And now again she lookt around,
A voice came murmuring sad and slow ;
And now she heard it feebly cry,
" Ladv ! all that live must die !
THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER. 151
' "Watch no more from yonder tower,
Watch no more the star of day !
Watch no more the dawning hour.
That chases sullen night away !
Cease to watch, and cease to mourn.
Thy lover will no more return !"
She lookt around, and now she view'd,
Clad in a doublet gold and green,
A youthful knight : he frowning stood.
And noble was his mournful mien ;
And now he said, with heaving sigh,
" Lady, all that hve must die !"
She rose to quit the altar's stone.
She cast a look to heaven and sigh'd.
When lo ! the youthful knight was gone ;
And, scowling by the lady's side.
With sightless skull and bony hand,
She saw a giant spectre stand !
His flowuig robe was long and clear,
His ribs were white as drifted snow :
The lady's heart was chill' d with fear :
She rose, but scarce had power to go :
The spectre grinn'd a dreadful smile.
And walkt beside her down the aisle.
And now he waved his rattling hand ;
And now they reacht the chapel door,
And there the spectre took his stand ;
While, rising from the marble floor,
A hollow voice was heard to cry,
" Lady, all that live must die !
" Watch no more the evening star !
Watch no more the glimpse of morn !
Never from the holy war.
Lady, will thy love return !
See this bloody cross ; and see
His bloody scarf he sends to thee !"
And now again the youthful knight
Stood smiling by the lady's side ;
His helmet shone with crimson light.
His sword with drops of blood was dyed
And now a soft and mournful song
Stole the chapel aisles among.
152 THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER.
Now from the spectre's paley cheek
The flesh hegan to waste away ;
The vaulted doors were heard to creak,
And dark hecame the summer day !
The spectre's eyes were sunk, but he
Seem'd mth their sockets still to see !
The second bell is heard to ring :
Four barefoot monks of orders grey.
Again their holy ser\'ice sing ;
And round the chapel altar pray :
The lady comited o'er and o'er.
And shudder' d while she counted — four !
" Oh ! fathers, who was he, so gay.
That stood beside the chapel door ?
Oh ! tell me, fathers, tell me pray."
The monks replied, "We fathers four,
Lady, no other have we seen,
Since in this holy place we've been ! "
PART SECOND.
Now the merry bugle horn
Through the forest sounded far ;
When on the lofty tower, forlorn.
The lady watcht the evening star ;
The evening star that seem'd to be
Rising from the darken' d sea !
The summer sea was dark and still.
The sky was streakt with lines of gold.
The mist rose grey above the hill,
And low the clouds of amber roU'd :
The lady on the lofty tower
Watcht the calm and silent hour.
And, while she watcht, she saw advance
A ship, with painted streamers gay ;
She saw it on the green wave dance,
And plunge amid the silver spray ;
"W^ile from the forest's haunts, forlorn.
Again she heard the bugle horn.
The sails were full ; the breezes rose ;
The billows curl'd along the shore ;
And now the day began to close ; —
The bugle horn was heard no more.
But, rising from the watery way.
An airy voice was heard to say :
THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER. 153
" Watch no more the evening star ;
Watch no more the billowy sea ;
Lady, from the holy war
Thy lover hastes to comfort thee :
Lady, lady, cease to mourn ;
Soon thy lover will return."
Now she hastens to the bay. ;
Now the rising storm she hears ;
Now the smiling sailors say,
" Lady, lady, check your fears :
Trust us lady ; we will be
Your pilots o'er the stormy sea."
Now the little bark she view'd,
Moor'd beside the flinty steep ;
And now upon the foamy flood,
The tranquil breezes seem'd to sleep.
The moon arose ; her silver ray
Seem'd on the silent deep to play.
Now music stole across the main :
It was a sweet but mournful tone !
It came a slow and dulcet strain ;
It came from where the pale moon shone :
And, while it pass'd across the sea.
More soft, and soft, it seem'd to be.
Now on the deck the lady stands ;
The vessel steers across the main ;
It steers towards the holy land.
Never to return again ;
Still the sailors cry, " We'll be
Your pilots o'er the stormy sea."
Now she hears a low voice say,
" Deeper, deeper, deeper still ;
Hark ! the black' ning billows play ;
Hark ! the waves the vessel fill :
Lower, lower, down we go ;
All is dark and still below." *
Now a flash of vivid light
On the rolling deep was seen !
And now the Isvdy saw the knight.
With doublet rich of gold and green :
From the sockets of his eyes,
A pale and streaming light she spies !
154 THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER.
And now his form transparent stood,
Smiling with a gliastly mien ; —
And now the cahn and boundless Hood
Was like the emerald, bright and green ;
And now 'twas of a troubled hue,
While, " Deeper, deeper," sang the crew.
Slow advanced the morning light.
Slow they plough' d the wavy tide ;
When, on a cliff of dreadful height,
A castle's lofty towers they spied :
The lady heard the sailor-band
Cry, " Lady, this is holy land.
" Watch no more the glittering spray ;
Watch no more the weedy sand ;
Watch no more the star of day ;
Lady, this is holy land :
This castle's lord shall welcome thee ;
Then, lady, lady, cheerful be."
Now the castle gates they pass ;
Now across the spacious square.
Cover' d high with dewy grass.
Trembling steals the lady fair :
And now the castle's lord was seen.
Clad in a doublet gold and green.
He led her through the gothic hall.
With bones and skulls encircled round ;
" Oh, let not this thy soul appal !"
He cried, "for this is holy ground."
He led her through the chambers lone,
'Mid many a shriek and many a groan.
Now to the banquet-room they came :
Around a table of black stone
She markt a faint and vapoury flame ;
Upon the horrid feast it shone —
And there, to close the maddening sight,
Unuumber'd spectres met the light.
Their teeth were like the brilliant, bright ;
Their eyes were blue as sapphire clear ;
Their bones were of a polisht white ;
Gigantic did their ribs appear ! —
And now the knight the lady led,
And placed her at the table's head! —
THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER.
155
Just now the lady woke : — for she
Had slept upon the lofty tower,
And dreams of dreadful phantasie
Had fiird the lonely moon-light hour ;
Her pillow was the turret-stone.
And on her breast the pale moon shone.
But now a real voice she hears :
It was her lover's voice • — for he,
To calm her bosom's rending fears,
That night had cross' d the stormy sea :
"I come," said he, " from Palestine,
To prove myself, sweet lady, thine."
"i'__,L_^ y-~t
■'- /*"]
[This ballad is taken from Ritson's ' Robin Hood,'
where it was given as corrected from a copy in the
' Collection of Old Ballads,' 1723. The title it there
bears is as follows : — ' Robin Hood and Little John :
being an account of their first meeting, their fierce
encounter, and conquest. To which is added, their
friendly agreement ; and how he came to be called
Little John. Time of Arthur a Blard.' With regard
to this latter point, ' the notion,' says Ritson, ' that he
obtained this appellation ironically, from his superior
stature, is doubtless ill-formed.' He admits, however,
that it is ' of considerable antiquity,' being traceable at
least as far back as to ' that most veracious historian,
iMaister Hector Rois,' according to whom (Historic of
Scotland, translatit be maister Johne Hellenden, Edin.
).i41,) Little John ' lies bene fourtene fut of hycht,
with square membris effering thairto.' He this, how-
ever, as it might, certain it is tliat ' the honour of his
death and burial is, like that of Homer's birth, ' con-
tended for by rival nations;' namely England, Scotland,
and Ireland : the favoured spot in the first being ' the
village of Hathersage, about six miles from Castleton,
in Derbyshire; in Scotland, ' the kirke of I'ette, in
Murray land, quliare,' says Bois, ' the banis of Lyiill
Johne remanis in gret admiratioun of pepill ;' and, in
the Emerald Isle, Arbor-hill, Dublin ; where, according
to Mr. Walker, (Hist. Essay on the Dress of the Ancient
and Modern Irish,) ' he was publicly executed for
robbery.' The evidence in support of these claims,
respectively, may be seen in Ritson, as above.]
HEN Robin Hood was about twenty years
old.
He bappen'd to meet Little John,
A jolly brisk blade, right fit for the trade.
For he was a lusty young man.
ROBIN HOOD AND LITTLE JOHN. 157
Tho' he was call'd Little, his Umbs they were large,
And his stature was seven foot high ;
Whereever he came, they quaked at his name,
For soon he would make them to fly.
How they came acquainted, I'll tell you in brief,
If you Mould but listen awhile ;
For this very jest, among all the rest,
I think it may cause you to smile.
For Robin Hood said to his jolly bowmen,
Pray tarry you here in this grove ;
And see that you all observe well my call.
While thorough the forest I rove.
We have had no sport for these fourteen long days.
Therefore now abroad will I go ;
Now should I be beat, and cannot retreat,
My horn I will presently blow.
Then he did shake hands with his merry men all.
And bid them at present good b'yw'e ;
Then as near the brook his journey he took,
A stranger he chanc'd to esj)y.
They happen' d to meet on a long narrow bridge.
And neither of them would give way ;
Quoth bold Robin Hood, and sturdily stood,
I'll shew you right Nottingham play.
With that from his quiver an arrow he drew,
A broad arrow with a goose-wing ;
The stranger reply' d, I'll liquor thy hide.
If thou offer to touch the string.
Quoth bold Robin Hood, Thou dost prate like an ass.
For were I to bend but my bow,
I could send a dart, quite through thy proud heart,
Before thou couldst strike me one blow.
Thou talk'st like a coward, the stranger reply' d;
Well arm'd with a long bow you stand.
To shoot at my breast, while I, I jjrotost.
Have nought but a staff in my hand.
The name of a coward, quoth Robin, I scorn,
Therefore my long bow I'll lay liy ;
And now for thy sake, a staff I will take.
The truth of thy manhood to try.
158 ROBIN HOOD AND LITTLE JOHN,
Then Robin Hood slept to a thicket of trees,
And chose him a staff of ground oak ;
Now this being done, away he did run
To the stranger, and merrily spoke.
Lo ! see my staff is histy and tough,
Now here on the bridge we will play ;
Whoever falls in, the other shall win
The battle, and so we'll away.
With all my whole heart, the stranger reply' d,
I scorn in the least to give out :
This said, they fell to't without more dispute.
And their staffs they did flourish about.
At first Robin he gave the stranger a bang,
So hard that he made his bones ring ;
The stranger he said. This must be repaid,
I'll give you as good as you bring.
So long as I'm able to handle a staff.
To die in your debt, friend, I scorn :
Then to it each goes, and follow their blows.
As if they'd been threshing of corn.
The stranger gave Robin a crack on the crown.
Which caused the blood to appear ;
Then Robin enrag'd, more fiercely engag'd,
And follow'd his blows more severe.
So thick and so fast he did lay it on him.
With a passionate fury and ire ;
At every stroke he made him to smoke,
As if he had been all on fire.
then into fury the stranger he grew.
And gave him a terrible look,
And with it a blow, that laid him full low.
And tumbl'd him into the brook.
1 prithee, good fellow, O where art thou now ?
The stranger, in laughter, he cry'd:
Quoth bold Robin Hood, Good faith, in the flood,
And floating along with the tide.
I needs must acknowledge thou art a brave soul.
With thee I'll no longer contend ;
For needs must I say, thou hast got the day,
Our battel shall be at an end.
ROBIN HOOD AND LITTLE JOHN. 159
Then unto the bank he did presently wade.
And pull'd himself out by a thorn ;
"Winch done, at last he blowd a loud blast,
Straightway on his fine bugle-horn.
The eccho of which through the Tallies did fly.
At which his stout bowmen appear'd.
All cloathed in green, most gay to be seen.
So up to their master they steer'd.
O, what is the matter 1 quoth "William Stately,
Good master, you are wet to the skin ;
No matter, quoth he, the lad which you see.
In fighting has tumbled me in
He shall not go scot-free, the others reply' d ;
So strait they were seizing him there.
To duck him hkewise ; but Robin Hood cries.
He is a stout fellow ; forbear.
There's no one shall wrong thee, friend, be not afraid.
These bowmen upon me do wait ;
There's threescore and nine ; if thou wilt be mine.
Thou shalt have my livery strait.
And other accoutrements fit for a man ;
Speak up, jolly blade, never fear ;
I'll teach you also the use of the bow.
To shoot at the fat fallow deer.
0, here is my hand, the stranger reply' d,
I'll serve you with all my whole heart ;
My name is John Little, a man of good mettle,
Ne'er doubt me, for I'll play my part.
His name shall be alter' d, quoth William Stutely,
And I will his godfather be ;
Prepare then a feast, and none of the least,
For we will be merry, quoth he.
They presently fetch' d him a brace of fat does,
"With humming strong liquor likewise ;
They lov'd what was good ; so in the green wood
This pretty sweet babe they baptize.
He was, I must tell you, but feven foot high.
And, may be, an ell in the waist ;
A sweet pretty lad ; much feasting they had ;
Bold Robin the christening grac'd.
IGO ROBIN HOOD AND LITTLE JOHN.
With all his bowmen which stood in a ring,
And were of the Nottingham breed ;
Brave Stutely came then, with seven yeoman.
And did in this manner proceed.
This infant was called John Little, quoth he,
His name shall be changed anon ;
The words we'll transpose : so whereever he goes.
His name shall be call'd Little John.
They all with a shout made the elements ring ;
As soon as the office was ore ;
To feasting they went, with true merriment.
And tippled strong liquor gillore.
Then Robin he took the pretty sweet babe.
And cloath'd him from top to the toe,
In garments of green, most gay to be seen.
And gave him a curious long bow.
Thou shalt be an archer, as well as the best.
And range in the green wood with us ;
"Wliere we'll not want gold or silver, behold,
While bishops have ought in their purse.
We live here like 'squires, or lords of renown.
Without ere a foot of free land ;
We feast on good cheer, with wine, ale, and beer.
And every thing at our command.
Then musick and dancing did finish the day ;
At length, when the sun waxed low.
Then all the whole train the grove did refrain.
And unto their caves they did go.
And so, ever after, as long as they liv'd,
Altho' he was proper and tall.
Yet, nevertheless, the truth to express.
Still Little John thev did him call.
[This ballad was written by Matthew Gregory Lewis, the
well-known author of ' The Monk,' and other tales and
ballads of the wild and marvellous ; and first appeared in
his ' Romantic Tales,' London, 18(18, 12mo. ' It is founded,'
he says, ' upon a tradition current in Northumberland.
Indeed, an adventure nearly similar to Sir Guy's, is said to
have taken place in various parts of Great Britain, particu-
larly on thePentland Hills, in Scotland, (where the prisoners
are supposed to be King Arthur and his Knights of the
Round Table,) and in Lancashire, where an ale-house near
Chorley still exhibits the sign of a Sir J(jhn Stanley follow-
ing an old man with a torch, while his horse starts back in
terror at the objects, which are discovered through two im-
mense iron gates — the ale-house is known by the name of
the ' Iron Gates,' which are supposed to protect the entrance
of an enchanted cavern in the neighbourhood. The female
captive, I believe, is peculiar to Dunstanburgh Castle ; and
certain sliining stones, which are occasionally found in its
neighbourhood, and which are called ' Dunstanburgh Dia-
monds,' are supposed by the peasants to form part of that
immense treasure, with which the Lady will reward her
deliverer. With regard to the castle itself, the interest at-
taching to it is by no moans lessened by the circumstance
of the ballad having been written in its neighbourhood,
during Mr. Lewis' residence at Ilowick, the seat of Karl
Grey ; to whose ancestor, Sir William Grey, it was granted
by James the First. The ' Rumble Churn ' is a vortex im-
mediately below the eminence on which the ruins stand,
and so called from the noise made by the breaking of the
waves against the rocks.]
■" IKE those in the head of a man just (load
Are his eyes, and his beard's hke siiow ;
But when here he came, his glance was a
oJ flame.
And his locks seemed the plumes of the crow.
162 SIR GUY, THE SEEKER.
Since then are o'er forty summers and more ;
Yet he still near the castle remains,
And pines for a sight of that lady bright,
Who wears the wizard's chains.
Nor sun nor snow from the ruins to go
Can force that aged wight ;
And still the pile, hall, chapel, and aisle,
He searches day and night :
But find can he ne'er the winding stair,
Which he past that beauty to see.
Whom spells enthrall m the haunted hall,
Wliere none but once may be.
That once, regret will not let him forget ! —
'Twas night, and pelting showers
Did patter and splash, whexi the lightning's flash
Showed Dunstanburgh's grey towers.
Raised high on a mound that castle frowned
In ruined pagean-trie ;
And where to the north did rocks jut forth,
Its towers hung o'er the sea.
Proud they stood, and darkened the flood ;
For the cliffs were so rugged and steep,
Had a plummet been dropt from their summit unstopt
That plummet had reached the deep.
Nor flower there grew ; nor tree e'er drew
Its nurture from that ground ;
Save a lonely yew, whose brandies threw
Their baleful shade around.
Loud was the roar on that soimding shore :
Yet still could the Knight discern,
Louder than all, the swell and the fall
Of the bellowing Rumble Churn !
With strange turmoil did it bubble and boil.
And echo from place to place ;
So strong was its dash, and so high did it splash,
That it waslit the castle's base :
The spray, as it broke, appeared like smoke
From a sea-volcano pouring ;
And still did it rumble, and grumble, and tumble.
Rioting ! raging ! roaring !
SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. 163
Up the hill Sir Guy made his courser fly.
And hoped, from the wind and the rain,
That he there should find some refuge kind ;
But he sought it long in vain ;
For fast and hard each portal was barred.
And against his efforts proof ;
Till at length he espied a porch spread wide
The shelter of its roof.
— ' Gramercy, St. George !' quoth glad Sir Guy,
And sought the porch with speed ;
And fast to the yew, which near it grew.
He bound his Barbary steed ;
And safety found on that sheltered ground
From the sky's increasing gloom ;
From his brow he took his casque, and he shook
The rain off, that burthened its plume.
Then long he stood in mournful mood.
With listless sullen air,
Propt on his lance, and with indolent glance
Watcht the red lightning's glare ;
And sadly Ustened to the shower.
On the clattering *oof that fell ;
And counted twice the lonely hour.
Tolled by some distant bell.
But scarce that bell could midnight tell.
When louder roared the thunder.
And the bolt so red whizzed by his head,
And burst the gates asunder.
And, lo ! through the dark a glimmering spark
He espied of lurid blue ;
Onward it came, and a form all flame
Soon struck liis wondering view!
'Twas an ancient man of visage wan.
Gigantic was his height ;
And his breast below there was seen to flow
A beard of grizzled white :
And flames o'er-spread his hairless head.
And down his beard they streamed ;
And in his hand a radiant wand
Of burning iron gleamed.
164 SIR GUY, THE SEEKER.
Of darkest gram, with flowing train,
A wondrous robe he wore,
"With many a charm, to work man's harm.
In fire embroidered o'er ;
And this rol)e was bomid his waste around
With a triple chain red-hot ! —
And still came nigher that phantom of fire.
Till he reacht the self-same spot,
Where stood Sir Guy, while his hair bristled high.
And his breath he scarce could draw ;
And he crost his breast, for, I wot, he guesst,
'Twas Belzebub's self that he saw !
And full on the Knight that ghastly wight
Fixt his green and glassy eyes ;
And he clanked his chain, and he howled with pain.
Ere his words were heard to rise.
— ' Sir Knight, Sir Knight ! if your heart be right,
And your nerves be firm and true,
Sir Knight, Sir Knight ! a beauty bright
In durance waits for you.
But, Sir Knight, Sir Knight ! if you ever knew fright.
That Dame forbear to view ;
Or, Sir Knight, Sir Knight ! that you feasted your sight,
While you live, you'll sorely rue !'
— * That mortal ne'er drew vital air,
WTio witnessed fear in me :
Come what come will, come good, come ill.
Lead on ! I'll follow thee !' —
And now they go both high and low,
Above and under ground,
And in and out, and about and about,
And roimd, and round, and romid I
The storm is husht, and lets them hear
The owlet's boding screech,
As now through many a passage drear
A vvdnding stair they reach.
With beckoning hand, which flamed like a brand,
Still on the Wizard led ;
And well could Sir Guy hear a sob and a sigh,
As up the first flight he sped !
SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. 165
While the second he past with foosteps fast.
He heard a death-bell toll ! —
While he climbed the third, a whisper he heard,
— * God's mercy on thy soul !' —
And now at the top the wanderers stop
A brazen gate before
Of massive make ; and a living snake
Was the bolt, which held the door.
In many a fold round the staple 'twas roUd ;
With venom its jaws ran o'er ;
And that juice of hell, where-ever it fell,
To a cuider burned the floor.
When the monster beheld Sir Guy, he swelled
With fury, and threw out his sting ;
Sparks flasht from each eye, and he reared him on high,
And prepared on the Warrior to spring ;
But the Wizard's hand extended his wand.
And the reptile drooped his crest.
Yet strove to bite, in impotent spite.
The groimd which gave him rest !
And now the gate is heard to grate,
On its hinges turning slow ;
Till on either side the valves yawn wide.
And in the wanderers go.
'Twas a spacious hall, whose sides were all
With sable hangings dight ;
And whose echoing floor was diamonded o'er
With marble black and white ;
And of marble black as the raven's back
A hundred steeds stood round ;
And of marble white, by each, a knight
Lay sleeping on the ground ;
And a hundred shafts of laboured bronze
The fretted roof upheld ;
And the ponderous gloom of that vaulted room
A hundred lights dispelled ;
And a dead man's arm by a magic charm
Each ghmmering taper bore.
And where it was lopt, still dropt and dropt
Thick gouts of clotted gore.
166 SIR GUY, THE SEEKER.
Where ends the room, doth a chrystal tomb
Its towering front uphold ;
And one on each hand two skeletons stand,
Which belonged to two giants of old :
That on the right holds a faulchion bright.
That on the left a hom ;
And crowns of jet with jewels beset
Their eyeless skulls adorn :
And both these grim colossal kings
With fingers long and lean
Point towards the tomb, within whose womb
A captive Dame is seen.
A form more fair than that prisoner's ne'er
Since the days of Eve was known ;
Every glance that flew from her eyes of blue,
Was worth an Emperor's throne.
And one sweet kiss from her roseate lips
Woidd have melted a bosom of stone.
Soon as Sir Guy had met her eye.
Knelt low that captive maid ;
And her lips of love seemed fast to move,
But he heard not what she said.
Then her hands did she join in suppliant sign,
Her hands more white than snow ;
And like dews that streak the rose's cheek.
Her tears began to flow.
The warrior felt his stout heart melt.
When he saw those fountains run :
— ' Oh ! what can I do,' he cried, * for you ?
Wliat mortal can do, shall be done !' —
Then out and speaks the Wizard ;
Hollow his accents fall I
— * Was never man, since the world began,
Could burst that chrystal wall.
For the hand, which raised its magic frame.
Had oft claspt Satan's own ;
And the lid bears a name Young Knight, the same
Is stamp'd on Satan's throne ;
At its maker's birth long trembled the earth ;
The skies dropt showers of gore ;
And she, who to light gave the wonderous wight,
Had died seven years before ;
SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. 167
And at Satan's right hand while keeping his stand,
The foulest fiend of fire
Shrunk back with awe, when the babe he saw,
For it shockt its very sire !
But hark. Sir Knight ! and riddle aright
The riddle I'll riddle to thee ;
Thou'lt learn a way without delay
To set yon damsel free.
Seest yonder sword, with jewels rare
Its dudgeon crusted o'er ?
Seest yonder horn of ivory fair ?
'Twas Merlin's horn of yore !
That horn to sound, or sword to draw,
Now, youth, your choice explain !
But that which you choose, beware how yon lose,
For you never will find it again :
And that once lost, all hopes are crost,
Which now you fondly form ;
And that once gone, the sun ne'er shone,
A sadder wight to warm :
But such keen woe, as never can know
Oblivion's balmy power.
With fixed despair your soul will share,
Till comes your dying hour.
Your choice now make for yon Beauty's sake ;
To burst her bonds endeavour ;
But that which you choose, beware how you lose ;
Once lost, 'tis lost for ever !'
In pensive mood awhile now stood
Sir Guy, and gazed around ;
Now he turned his sight to the left, to the right,
Now he fixt it on the ground.
Now the faulchion's blaze attracted his gaze ;
On the hilt his fingers lay ;
But he heard fear cry, — 'you're wrong, Sir Guy !'
And he suatcht his hand away !
Now his steps he addrest towards the North and the West;
Now he turned towards the East and the South ;
Till with desperate thought the horn he caught,
And prest it to his mouth.
168 SIR GUY, THE SEEKER.
Hark ! the blast is a blast so strong and so shrill,
That the vaults like thunder ring ;
And each marble horse stamps the floor with force.
And from sleep the warriors spring !
And frightful stares each stony eye.
As now with ponderous tread
They rush on Sir Guy, poising on high
Their spears to strike him dead.
At this strange attack full swift sprang back,
I wot, the startled Knight !
Away he threw the horn, and drew
His faulchion keen and bright.
But soon as the horn his grasp forsook,
Was heard a cry of grief ;
It seemed the yell of a soul in hell
Made desperate of relief !
And straight each light was extinguisht quite,
Save the flame so lurid-blue
On the Wizard's brow, (whose flashings now
Assumed a bloody hue),
And those sparks of fire, which grief and ire
From his glaring eye-balls drew !
And he stampt in rage, and he laught in scorn,
While in thundering tone he roared,
* Now shame on the coward who sounded a horn,
When he might have unsheatht a sword I '
He said, and from his mouth there came
A vapour blue and dank.
Whose poisonous breath seemed the kiss of death,
For the Warrior senseless sank.
Morning breaks ! again he wakes ;
Lo ! in the porch he lies,
And still in his heart he feels the dart.
Which shot from the captive's eyes.
From the ground he springs ! as if he had wings.
The ruin he wanders o'er.
And with prying look each cranny and nook
His anxious eyes explore :
But find can he ne'er the winding stair,
Wliich he climbed that Dame to see.
Whom spells enthrall in the haunted hall.
Where none but once may be.
SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. 169
The earliest ray of dawning day
Beholds his search hegun :
The evening star ascends his car,
Nor yet his search is done :
Whence the neighbours all the Knight now call
By ' Guy, the Seeker's' name ;
For never he knows one hour's repose
From his wish to find the Dame :
But still he seeks, and aye he seeks,
And seeks, and seeks in vain ;
And still he repeats to all he meets,
— ' Could I find the sword again !'
Wliich words he follows with a groan.
As if his heart would break ;
And oh ! that groan has so strange a tone,
It makes all hearers quake !
The villagers round know well its sound.
And when they hear it poured,
— ' Hark ! hark !' they cry ; ' the Seeker Guy
Groans for the Wizard's sword.' —
Twice twenty springs on their fragrant vdngs
For his wound have brought no balm ;
For still he's found But, hark ! what sound
Disturbs the midnight calm ?
Good peasants, tell, why rings that knell ?
— "Tis the Seeker-Guy's we toll ;
His race is run ; his search is done.' —
God's mercy on his soul !
%^ ^$k nlF %mn$c
/J
Fill m^ -n^kr^^
^^"^'2aar-G^
[This liallad is taken from Percy's ' Reliques.' ' The
original' he 'found in his folio MS .the breaches and defects
in which,' he says, • rendered the insertion of supplemental
stanzas necessary. These,' he hoped, the reader would
' pardon , as indeed the completion of the story was suggested
by a modern ballad on a similar subject.' The Dr. adds,
' that from the Scottish phrases here and there discernible
in the poem, it should seem to have been originally com-
posed beyond the Tweed.' Upon this hint subsequent
collectors have acted ; and the result has been the bringing
to light of a traditionary version still current in Scotland,
which was probably the ' original ' of the celebrated folio
MS. This version, the first three stanzas only of which had
previously appeared in print, was first given entire by Mr.
Dixon, in ' Scottish Traditional Versions of Ancient Bal-
lads.' edited by him for the Percy Society, London, 184.'i;
and will, by his permission, be found in the Appendix.
The .same gentleman, in another work edited by him for
the Percy Society, (Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of
the Peasantry of England, London, 184(),) gives, ' from an
old ehap-book without date or printer'.s name,' a ballad
entitled ' The Drunkard's Legacy,' which he considers to he
the ' Modern ballad' alluded to by Percy, ' which,' says Afr.
Dixon, ' although styled by him a miidern ballad, is only
so comparatively speaking ; for it must have been written
long anterior to Percy's time, and by his own confession,
must be older than the latter portion of ' The Heir of
Linne ' This ballad also, by the kindness of Mr. Dixon,
the reader will find in the Appendix ]
PART THE FIEST.
ITHE and listen, gentlemen,
To sing a song I will beginne :
It is of a lord of faire Scotland,
V/liich was the nnthriftv hcire of Linne.
THE HEIR OF LINNE. 171
His father was a right good lord.
His mother a lady of high degree ;
But they, alas ! were dead, him froe.
And he lov'd keeping companie.
To spend the daye witli merry cheare.
To drinke and revell every night,
To card and dice from eve to morne,
It was, I ween, his hearts delighte.
To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare.
To alwaye spend and never spare,
I wott, an' it were the king himselfe.
Of gold and fee he mote be bare.
Soe fares the unthrifty lord of Liune
Till all his gold is gone and spent ;
And he maun sell his landes so broad.
His house, and landes, and all his rent.
His father had a keen stewarde.
And John o' the Scales was called hee :
But John is become a gentel-man,
And John has gott both gold and fee.
Sayes, " Welcome, welcome, lord of Linne,
Let nought disturb thy merry cheere ;
Iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad.
Good store of gold He give thee heere."
" My gold is gone, my money is spent ;
My lande nowe take it unto thee :
Give me the golde, good John o' the Scales,
And thine for aye my lande shall bee."
Then John he did him to record draw,
And John he cast him a Gods-pennie ;
But for every pounde that John agreed,
The lande, I wis, was well worth three.
He told him the gold uj)on the horde,
He was right glad his land to winne :
" The gold is thine, the land is mine.
And now He be the lord of Linne."
Thus he hath sold his land soe broad.
Both hill and licit, and moorc and fenne.
All but a ])oorc and lonesome lodge.
That stood far off in a lonely glenne.
172 THE HEIR OF LINNE.
For soe he to his father hight,
" My Sonne, when I am gonne," sayd hee,
" Then thou wilt spend thy lande so broad.
And thou wilt spend thy gold so free :
But sweare me nowe upon the roode.
That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend ;
For when all the world doth froAMi on thee.
Thou there shalt find a faithful friend."
The heire of Linne is full of golde :
" And come with me, my friends," sayd hee,
" Let's drinke, and rant, and merry make,
And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee."
They ranted, drank, and merry made.
Till all his gold it waxed thinne ;
And then his friendes they slunk away ;
They left the unthrifty heire of Linne.
He had never a penny left in his purse.
Never a penny left but three.
And one was brass, another was lead.
And another it was white mon^y.
" Nowe well-aday," sayd the heire of Liime,
" Nowe well-aday," and woe is mee !
For when I was the lord of Linne,
I never wanted gold nor fee.
But many a trvistye friend have I,
And why shold I feel dole or care ?
He borrow of them all by tumes,
Soc need I not be never bare."
But one, I wis, was not at home ;
Another had payd his gold away j
Another call'd him thriftless looue.
And bade him sharpely wend his way.
"Now well-aday," sayd the heire of Linne,
" Now well-aday, and woe is me I
For when I had my landes so broad,
On me they liv'd right merrilee.
To beg my bread from door to door
I wis, it were a brenning shame :
To rob and steal it were a sinnc:
To worke my limbs I cannot frame.
THE HEIR OF LINNE. 173
Now He away to lonesome lodge.
For there my father bade me wend ;
WTien all the world should frown on mee,
I there shold find a trusty friend."
PART THE SECOND.
Away then hyed the heire of Linne
O'er hill and holt, and moor and fenne,
Untill he came to lonesome lodge.
That stood so lowe in a lonely glenne.
He looked up, he looked downe.
In hope some comfort for to winne :
But bare and lothly were the walles.
" Here's sorry cheare," quo' the heire of Linue.
The little windowe dim and darke
Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe ;
No shimmering sunn here ever shone ;
No halesome breeze here ever blew.
No chair, ne table he mote spye.
No chearful hearth, ne welcome bed.
Nought save a rope with renning noose.
That dangling hung up o'er his head.
And over it in broad letters.
These words were written so plain to see :
" Ah ! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all.
And brought thyselfe to penur'ie ?
All this my boding mind misgave,
I therefore left this trusty friend :
Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace.
And all thy shame and sorrows end."
Sorely shent wi' this rebuke,
Sorely shent was the heire of Linne ;
His heart, I wis, was near to brast
"With guilt and sorrowe, shame and siiine.
Never a word spake the heire of Linne,
Never a word he spake but three :
" This is a trusty friend indeed.
And is right welcome unto mee."
174 THE HEIR OF LINNE.
Then round his necke the corde he drewe.
And sprang aloft with his bodle :
When lo ! the ceiling burst in twaine.
And to the ground came tumbling hee.
Astonyed lay the heire of Linne,
Ne knewe if he were live or dead :
At length he looked, and sawe a bille,
And in it a key of gold so redd.
He took the bill and lookt it on,
Strait good comfort found he there :
Itt told him of a hole in the wall,
In which there stood three chests in-fere.
Two were full of the beaten golde,
The third was full of white money ;
And over them in broad letters
These words were written so plaine to see :
" Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere ;
Amend tliy life and follies past ;
For but thou amend thee of thy life.
That rope must be thy end at last."
" And let it bee," sayd the heire of Linue ;
" And let it bee, but if I amend :
For here I ^^'ill make mine avow.
This reade shall guide me to the end,"
Away then went with a merry cheare.
Away then went the heire of Linne ;
I vds, he neither ceas'd ne blanne,
Till John o' the Scales house he did winne.
And when he came to John o' the Scales,
Upp at the speere then looked hee ;
There sate three lords upon a rowe.
Were drinking of the wne so free.
And John himself sate at the bord-head,
Because now lord of Linne was hee.
" I pray thee," he said, " good John o' the Scales,
One forty pence for to lend mec."
" Away, away, thou thriftless loone ;
Away, away, this may not bee :
For Christs curse on my head," he sayd,
If ever I trust thee one pennie."
THE HEIR OF_^LINNE. 175
Then bespake tlie heire of Linne,
To John o' the Scales wife then spake he :
" Madame, some almes on me bestowe,
I pray for sweet saint Charitie."
" Away, away, thou thriftless loone,
I swear thou gettest no almes of mee ;
For if we shold hang any losel heere,
The first we wold Ijegin with thee."
Then bespake a good fellowe.
Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord ;
Sayd, " Turn againe, thou heire of Linne ;
Some time thou wast a well good lord :
Some time a good fellow thou hast been.
And sparedst not thy gold and fee ;
Therefore He lend thee forty pence,
And other forty if need bee.
And ever, I jn-ay thee, John o' the Scales,
To let him sit in thy companie :
For well I wot thou hadst his land,
And a good bargain it was to thee."
Up then spake him John o' the Scales,
All wood he answer' d him againe :
" Now Christs curse on my head," he savd,
" But I did lose by that bargaine.
And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne,
Before these lords so faire and free.
Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape,
By a hundred markcs, than I had it of thee."
"I drawe you to record, lords," he said.
With that he cast him a gods pennic :
" Now by my fay," sayd the heire of Linne,
" And here, good John, is thy money."
And he pull'd forth three bagges of gold.
And layd them down upon the bord :
All woe begone was John o' the Scales,
Soe shent he cold say never a word.
He told him forth the good red gold,
He told it forth inickle dinne.
" The gold is thine, the land is mine.
And now Ime againe the lord of Linne,"
176 THE HEIR OF LINNE.
Saves, " Have thou here, thou good fellowe.
Forty pence thou didst lend mee :
Now I am againe the lord of Linne,
And forty poimds I will give thee.
lie make the keeper of my forrest,
Both of the wild deere and the tame ;
For but I reward thy bounteous heart,
I -wis, good fellowe, I were to blame."
" Now welladay !" sayth Joan o' the Scales :
" Now welladay ! and woe is my life !
Yesterday I was lady of Linne,
Now Ime but John o' the Scales his wife."
" Now fare thee well," sayd the heire of Linne ;
" Farewell now, John o' the Scales," said hee :
" Cbrists curse light on me, if ever again
I bring my lands in jeopardy."
M®^t)?i^gM tM M^Mi^'is.
[This ballad was written by Robert Soiithey ; a name
familiar to every lover of ' ballad lore.' It first appeared,
it is believed, in ' Sharpe's London Magazine,' 1829. ' The
story,' says Mr. Southey, ' is told by Taylor the Water -
poet, in his ' Three Weeks, Three Days, and Three Hours'
Observations, from London to Hamburgh in Germany ;
amongst Jews and Gentiles, with Descriptions of Towns and
Towers, Castles and Citadels, artificial Gallowses and natural
Hangmen ; and dedicated for the present to the absent
Odcombian Knight Errant, Sir Thomas Coryat." It is in
the volume of his collected works, p. 82 of the third paging.
CoUein, which is the scene of this story, is more probably
Kollen.outhe Elbe, in Bohemia, or a town of the same
name in Prussia, than Cologne, to which great city the
reader will i)erceive I had good reason for transferring it.]
PART I.
OPRECIIT the Robber is taken at last,
In Cologne they have him fast ;
Trial is over, and sentence past ;
And hopes of escape were vain he knew,
For the llowiii(» moral ' burden :' —
' Hcpent therefore, O England !
Repent whilst you have space ;
And do not, like tliis wicked Jew,
Despise God's proffered grace.']
HEN as ill fair Jeriisfvlcm
Our Saviour Christ did live,
/ And for the sins of all the world
His own doar life did give ;
The wicked Jews with scoffs and scorns
Did dailye him molest,
That never till he left his life.
Our Saviour could not rest.
206 THE WANDERING JEW.
When they had crown' d his head with thorns.
And scourg'd him with disgrace,
In scornful sort they led him forth
Unto his dying place ;
WTiere thousands thousands in the street
Beheld him pass along.
Yet not one gentle heart was there.
That pittyd this his wrong.
Both old and young reviled him.
As in the street he went,
And nought he found but churlish taunts,
By every one's consent :
His owne deare crosse he bore himself,
A burthen far too great.
Which made him in the street to faint,
With blood and water-sweat.
Being weary thus, he sought for rest,
To ease his burthened soul.
Upon a stone ; the which a wretch
Did churlishly controul ;
And sayd. Away ! thou king of Jews,
Thou shalt not rest thee here ;
Pass on ; thy execution place
Thou seest, now draweth neare.
And thereupon he thrust him thence ;
At which our Saviour said,
I sure will rest, but thou shalt walk.
And have no journey stayd.
With that this cursed shoemaker,
For offering Christ this wrong,
Left wife and children, house and all,
And went from thence along.
Where after he had seen the blood
Of Jesus ('hrist thus shed,
And to the cross his bodye nail'd,
Away with speed he fled,
Without returning back again
Unto his dwelling place,
And wandereth up and down the woi-ld,
A runagate most base.
THE WANDERING JEW. 207
No resting conlrl he find at all,
No ease, nor hearts content ;
No house, no home, no dwelling place :
But wandring forth he went.
From tow'n to town in foreign lands.
With grieved conscience still,
Repenting for the heinous guilt
Of his fore-passed sin.
Thus after some few ages past
In wandring up and down.
He much again desired to see
Jerusalems fair town.
But finding it all quite destroy' d.
He wandred thence with woe.
Our Saviours words which he had spoke.
To verifie and show.
I'll rest ! sayd hee, but thou shalt walk.
So doth this wandring Jew
From place to place, but cannot stay
For seeing countries new ;
Declaring still the power of him.
Whereas he comes or goes ;
And of all things done in the east,
Since Christ his death, he shows.
The world he still doth compass round
And see those nations strange.
That hearing of the name of Christ,
Their idol gods do change :
To whom he hath told wondrous things
Of times forepast .and gone,
And to the princes of the world
Declares his cause of moan :
Desiring still to be dissolv'd.
And yield his mortal breath ;
But, if the Lord hath thus decreed,
lie shall not yet see death.
For neither looks he old or young.
But as he did those times,
When Christ did suffer on the cross,
For mortal sinners crimes.
208 THE WANDERING JEW.
He hath past through many a foreign place,
Arabia, Egypt, Africa,
Grecia, Syria, and great Thrace,
And through all Hungaria.
Where Paul and Peter preached Christ,
Those blest apostles deare ;
Where he hath told our Saviours words,
In countries far and near.
And lately in Bohemia,
With many a German town ;
And now in Flanders, as tis thought.
He wandreth up and down :
Where learned men with him confer
Of those his lingering days.
And wonder much to hear him tell
His jouruies, and his ways.
If people give this Jew an alms.
The most that he will take
Is not above a groat a time :
Which he for Jesus' sake.
Will kindly give unto the poor.
And thereof make no spare.
Affirming still that Jesus Christ
Of him hath daily care.
He ne'er was seen to laugh or smile.
But weep and make great moan ;
Lamenting still his miseries,
And days forepast and gone :
If he hear any one blaspheme.
Or take God's name in vaine.
He tells them that they crucifie
Their Saviour Christ again.
' If you had seen his death,' saith he,
' As these mine eyes have done.
Ten thousand thousand times would ye,
His torments think uj)on :
And suffer for his sake all j)aine.
All torments, and all woes.'
These are his words and this his life
Whereas he comes or goes.
?«i]?tri^tmm$«o
[This ' fine morsel of heroic poetry," as it is styled by
Dr. Percy, was first published in 1719, under the title,
• Hardyknute, a Fragment ;' Edinburgh, folio. The ex-
penses of publication were borne, in part at least, by the
Lord President Forbes and Sir Gilbert Klliot, afterwards
Lord Justice Clerk of Scotland, who believed it to be,
what it was represented to them as being, a genuine old
ballad. As such too it was admitted by Allan Ramsay
into his ' Evergreen, being a Collection of Scots poems
wrote by the ingenious before 16<((i ;' and it seems to
have ' generally passed for ancient,' until Dr. Percy, in
his ' Reliques of Ancient English Poetry,' London, 1755,
put an end to whatever doubt may have existed in refer-
ence to the point, by giving the name of the author.
This was Lady AVardlaw, wife of Sir Henry Wardlaw, of
Balumlie, in Fife. The MS. was sent to Lord IJinnington
by her brother-in-law. Sir John Bruce, of Kinross, as
having been ' found by him in an old vault at Dumfer-
line, written on vellum, in a fair Gothic character, but
much defaced by time.' Subsequently, however. Lady
Wardlaw acknowledged being the author, and by way of
proving herself .so, produced the last two stanzas, whicli
were not in the copy first printed]
TATELY stcpt he east the Ava',
And stately stept he west,
Full seventy years he now had seen,
Wi' scarce seven years of rest.
lie liv'd when Britons breach of faith
Wrought Scotland mickle wae :
And ay his sword tauld to their cost.
He was their deadlve fae.
210 HARDYKNUTE.
High on a hill his castle stood.
With ha's and tow'rs a height,
And goodly chambers fair to se,
Where he lodged mony a knight.
His dame sae peerless anes and fair,
For chast and beauty deem'd,
Nae marrow had in all the land.
Save Elenor the queen.
Full thirteen sons to him she bare.
All men of valour stout ;
In bloody fight with sword in hand
Nine lost their lives hot doubt :
Four yet remain, lang may they live
To stand by hege and land ;
High was their fame, high was their might,
And high was their command.
Great love they bare to Fairly fair.
Their sister saft and dear,
Her girdle shaw'd her middle gimp.
And gowden glist her hair.
What waefu' wae her beauty bred !
Waefu' to young and auld,
Waefu' I trow to kyth and kin.
As story ever tauld.
The king of Norse in summer tyde,
Puff'd up with pow'r and might,
Landed in fair Scotland the isle
With mony a hardy knight.
The tydings to our good Scots king
Came, as he sat at dine,
With noble chiefs in brave aray.
Drinking the blood-red wine.
" To horse, to horse, my royal liege,
Your faes stand on the strand.
Full twenty thousand glittering spears
The king of Norse commands."
" Bring me my steed Mage dapple gray,"
Our good king rose and cry'd,
A trustier beast in a' the land
A Scots king nevir try'd.
HARDYKNUTE. 211
" Go little page, tell Hardyknute,
That lives ou hill sae hie,
To draw his sword, the dread of faes.
And haste and follow me."
The little page flew swift as dart
Flung by his master's arm,
" Come down, come down, lord Hardyknute,
And rid your king frae harm."
Then red, red grew his dark-brown cheeks,
Sae did his dark-brown brow ;
His looks grew keen, as they were wont
In dangers great to do ;
He's ta'eu a horn as green as glass.
And gi'en five sounds sae shill.
That trees in green wood shook thereat,
Sae loud rang ilka hill.
His sons in manly sport and glee,
Had past that summer's mom.
When low down in a grassy dale.
They heard their father's horn.
"That horn," quo' they, "ne'er sounds in peace,
We've other sport to bide."
And soon they hy'd them up the hill,
And soon were at his side.
"Late, late the yestreen I ween'd in peace
To end my lengthened life.
My age might well excuse my arm
Frae manly feats of strife ;
But now that Norse do's proudly boast
Fair Scotland to inthrall.
It's ne'er be said of Hardyknute,
He fear'd to fight or fall.
Robin of Rothsay, bend thy bow.
Thy arrows shoot sae leel.
That mony a comely countenance
They've turnd to deadly pale.
Brade Thom.as take you l)ut your lance.
You need nae weapons mair,
If you fight vnt as you did ancs
'Gainst Westmoreland's fierce heir.
212 HARDYKNUTE.
And Malcolm, light of foot as stag
That runs in forest wild,
Get me my thousands three of men
Well Ijrcd to sword and shield :
Bring me my horse and harnisine.
My blade of mettal clear.
If faes but ken'd the hand it bare.
They soon had fled for fear.
Farewell my dame sae peerless good,
(And took her by the hand,)
Fairer to me in age you seem.
Than maids for beauty fam'd.
My youngest son shall here remain
To guard these stately towers.
And shut the silver bolt that keeps
Sae fast your pauited bowers."
And first she wet her comely cheiks,
And then her boddice green,
Her silken cords of twirtle twist.
Well plett with silver sheen ;
And apron set with mony a dice
Of needle-wark sae rare.
Wove by nae hand, as ye may guess.
Save that of Fairly fair.
And he has ridden o'er miur and moss.
O'er hills and mony a glen.
When he came to a wounded knight
INIaking a hea^-y mane ;
" Here maun I lye, here mavm I dye.
By treacherie's false guiles ;
Witless I was that e'er ga faith
To wicked woman's smiles."
" Sir knight, gin you were in my bower.
To lean on silken seat,
My lady's kindly care you'd prove.
Who ne'er knew deadly hate ;
Herself wou'd watch you a' the day.
Her maids a dead of night ;
And Fairly fair your heart wou'd chear,
As she stands in your sight.
HARDYKNUTE. 213
Arise young knight, and mount your stead,
Full lowns the shynand day :
Choose frae my menzie whom ye please
To lead you on the way."
With smileless look, and visage wan
The wounded knight reply'd,
" Kind chieftain, your intent pursue,
For here I maun abyde.
To me nae after day nor night
Can e're be sweet or fair.
But soon beneath some draping tree,
Cauld death shall end my care."
With him nae pleading might prevail ;
Brave Hardyknute to gain
With fairest words, and reason strong,
Strave courteously in vain.
Syne he has gane far hynd out o'er
Lord Chattan's land sae wide ;
That lord a worthy wight was ay,
Wlien faes his courage sey'd :
Of Pictish race by mother's side.
When Picts rul'd Caledon,
Lord Chattan claim'd the princely maid,
Wlien he sav'd Pictish crown.
Now with his fierce and stalwart train.
He reach' d a rising bight,
Quhair braid encampit on the dale,
Norss menzie lay in sicht.
" Yonder my valiant sons and feirs
Our raging revers wait
On the unconquert Scottish sward
To try with us their fate.
Make orisons to him that sav'd
Our sauls upon the rude ;
Syne bravely shaw your veins are fill'd
With Caledonian blade.'
Then furth he drew his trusty glave.
While thousands all around
Drawn frae their sheaths glanc'd in the sun
And loud the bougies sound.
214 HARDYKNUTE.
To joyn his king adoun the hill
In hast his merch he made,
While, playand pibrochs, minstralls meit
Afore him stately strade,
" Thrice welcome valiant stoup of weir,
Thy nations shield and pride ;
Thy king nae reason has to fear
When thou art by his side."
Wlien bows were bent and darts were thrawa ;
For thrang scarce cou'd they flee ;
The darts clove arrows as they met.
The arrows dart the tree.
Lang did they rage and fight fu' fierce,
With little skaith to mou.
But bloody, bloody was the field,
Ere that lang day was done.
The king of Scots, that sindle brook' d
The war that look'd like play,
Drew his braid sword, and brake his bow.
Sin bows seem'd but delay.
Quoth noble Rothsay, " Mine I'll keep,
I wat it's bled a score."
" Haste up my merry men," cry'd the king,
As he rode on before.
The king of Norse he sought to find,
With him to mense the faught,
But on his forehead there did light
A sharp unsonsie shaft ;
As he his hand put up to feel
The wound, an arrow keen,
O waefu' chance ! there pinn'd his hand
In midst between his een.
" Revenge, revenge," cry'd Rothsay' s heir,
" Your mail-coat sha' na bide
The strength and sharpness of my dart :"
Then sent it through his side.
Another arrow well he mark'd.
It picrc'd his neck in twa.
His hands then (juat the silver reins.
He low as earth did fa'.
HARDYKNUTE. 215
" Sair bleids my liege, sair, sair he bleeds !"
Again vvi' migbit he drew
And gesture dread his sturdy bow.
Fast the braid arrow flew :
Wae to the knight he ettled at ;
Lament now queen Elgreed ;
High dames too wail your darling's fall.
His youth and eomely meed.
" Take aff, take aff his costly jupe
(Of gold well was it twin' d,
Knit like the fowler's net, through quhilk,
His steelly harness shin'd)
Take, Norse, that gift frae me, and bid
Him venge the blood it bears ;
Say, if he face my bended bow,
He sure nae weapon fears."
Proud Norse with giant body tall,
Braid shoulders and arms strong,
Cry'd, " Wliere is Hardyknute sae fam'd,
And fear'd at Britain's throne :
Tho' Britons tremble at his name,
I soon shall make him wail.
That e'er my sword was made sae sharp,
Sae saft his coat of mail."
That brag his stout heart cou'd na bide,
It lent him youthfu' micht :
" I'm Hardyknute ; tbis day," he cry'd,
"To Scotland's king I heght
To lay thee low, as horses hoof ;
My word I mean to keep."
Syne with the first stroke e'er be strake.
He garr'd his body bleed.
Norss' een like gray gosehawk's stair'd wyld>
He sigb'd wi' shame and spite ;
" Disgrac'd is now my far-fam'd arm
That left thee power to strike :"
Then ga' his bead a blow sae fell.
It made him doun to stoup.
As laigh as he to ladies us'd
In courtly guise to lout.
216 HARDYKNUTE.
Fu' soon he rais'd his bent body.
His bow he marvell'd sair,
Sin blows till then on him but darr'd
As touch of Fairly fair:
Norse marvell'd too as sair as he
To see his stately look ;
Sae soon as e'er he strake a fae,
Sae soon his life he took.
Where like a fire to heather set,
Bauld Thomas did advance,
Ane sturdy fae with look enrag'd
Up toward him did prance ;
He spurr'd his steid through thickest ranks
The hardy youth to quell,
Wha stood unmov'd at his approach
His fury to repell.
" That short brown shaft sae meanly trimm'd.
Looks like poor Scotlands gear,
But dreadfull seems the rusty point !"
And loud he leugh in jear.
" Oft Britons bood has dimm'd its shine ;
This point cut short their vaunt :"
SvTie pierc'd the boasters bearded cheek ;
Nae time he took to taunt.
Short while he m his saddle swang,
His stirrup was nae stay,
Sae feeble hang his unbent knee
Sure taikeu he was fey :
Swith on the harden't clay he fell,
Right far was heard the thud :
But Thomas look't nae as he lay
All waltering in his blud :
With careless gesture, mind unmov't,
On rode he north the plain ;
His seem in throng of fiercest strife,
When winner ay the same :
Not yet his heart dames dimplet cheek
Could mease soft love to bruik.
Till vengefu' Ann return' d his scorn.
Then languid grew his luik.
HARDYKNUTE. 217
In thraws of death, with walowit cheik
All panting on the plain,
The fainting corps of warriours lay,
Ne're to arise again ;
Ne're to return to native land,
Nae mair with blithsome sounds
To boast the glories of the day,
And shaw their shining wounds.
On Norways coast the widowit dame
May wash the rocks with tears.
May lang luik ow'r the shipless seas
Befor her mate appears.
Cease, Emma, cease to hope in vain ;
Thy lord lyes in the clay ;
The valiant Scots nae revers thole
To carry life away.
Here on a lee, where stands a cross
Set up for monument,
Thousands fu' fierce that summer's day
Fill'd keen war's black intent.
Let Scots, while Scots, praise Hardyknutc,
Let Norse the name ay dread,
Ay how he faugh t, aft how he spar'd.
Shall latest ages read.
Now loud and chill blew th' westhn wind,
Sair beat the heavy shower.
Mirk grew the night ere Hardyknute
Wan near his stately tower.
His tow'r that us'd wi' torches blaze
To shine sae far at night,
Seem'd now as black as mourning weed,
Nae marvel sair he sish'd.
" There's nae light in my lady's bower.
There's nae light in my ha' ;
Nae blink shines round my Faikly fair.
Nor ward stands on my wa' ;
What bodes it ? Roljert, Tliomas, say ;" —
Nae answer fitts their dread.
" Stand back, my sons, Fie be your guide ;'
But by they past with speed.
" i\.s fast I've sped owre Scotlands faes," —
There ceas'd his brag of weir,
Sair sham'd to mind ought but his dame.
And maiden Fairly fair.
Black fear he felt, but what to fear
He wist nae yet ; wi' dread
Sair shook his body, sair his limbs.
And a' the warrior fled.
[lu this ballad as printed in a work entitled, ' Scottisli Tragic liallads,' London, 178L 'n
wliicb, to use tlic Editor's own words, ' the mutilated Fragment of llardyknute was given in its
original perfection,' the latter half of stanza 13 ran thus: —
' Still him to win strave Hardyknute,
Nor strave he lang in vain ;
Short pleiding eithly micht prevale
Him to his lure to gain.'
And between this stanza and that which in the original edition, and iu our copy, stands next,
was inserted the following : —
' I will return wi' speid to bide
Your plaint and mend your wae :
But private grudge maun neir be quelled,
IJefore our countries fae.
Mordac, thy eild may best be spaird
The fields of stryfe fraemang ;
Convey Sir Knieht to my abode,
And meise his egre pang.' *
To which was appended tliis note. — ' This stanza is now first printed. It is surprising its omis-
sion was not marked in the fragment formerly published, as without it the circumstance of the
knight's complaint is altogether foreign and vague. The loss was attempted to be glossed over
by many variations of the preceding four lines ; but the defect was palpable to the most inatten-
tive reader.' Be this as it may, the stanza was not found in the original edition, nor has it been
adopted in any subsequent one ; and the accomplished Editor of the work in which it first
appeared, was in all probability its author. It seemed necessary, however, to give it and the
alteration of the preceding stanza here, as without them the 'Second Part' is unintelligible.]
[This ' second pait ' of ' Hardyknute ' was fii'tt pub-
lished in thL woik mentioned m tlic note on pigo 21!!.
entitled, Scottish Tragic Ballads, London, 1781 The
editor professed, in his ' Dissertation on the Tiagic
Ballad,' picfixtd to the woik, to be ' indebted, foi inoit
of the stani-as recovered, to tht menuiv of a lidy in
)>anarksliiic ' He subsequently IiowtNti admitted that
they were his own composition To Mr I'lnkerton,
theiefoic, the readei is indebted foi a ' continuation,"
which, unlike the gtneiahty of suth productions, is
little, if at nil, mftiior to the oiii (JHARE haif ye been, ye ill womyne.
These throe lang nightis fra hame
Quhat garris tlie sweit tlraj) iVa yer brow,
Like elotis of tlie saut sea faem ?
242 THE WITCH OF FIFE.
" It fearis me muckil ye haif seen
Quhat guid man uever knew ;
It fearis me muckil ye haif been
Quhare the gray cock never crew.
" But the spell may crack, and the brydel breck.
Then sherpe yer werde will be ;
Ye had better sleippe in yer bed at hame,
Wi' yer deire littil bairnis and me." —
" Sit doune, sit doune, my leil auld man,
Sit doune, and listen to me ;
I'll gar the hayre stand ou yer crown,
Ajid the cauld sweit blmd yer e'e.
" But tell nae wordis, my guid auld man.
Tell never word again ;
Or deire shall be yer courtisye,
And driche and sair yer pain.
" The first leet night, quhan the new moon set,
Quhan all was douffe and mirk.
We saddled ouir naigis wi' the moon-fern leif.
And rode fra Kilmerrin kirk.
" Some horses ware of the brume-cow framit.
And some of the greine bay tree ;
But mine was made of ane humloke schaw,
And a stout stallion was he.
"We raide the tod doune on the hill.
The martin on the law ;
And we huntyd the hoolet out of brethe,
And forcit him doune to fa'." —
" Quhat guid was that, ye ill womyne ?
Quhat guid was that to thee ?
Ye wald better haif been in yer bed at hame,
Wi' yer deire littil bairnis and me." —
" And aye we raide, and se merrily we raide.
Throw the merkist gloffis of the night ;
And we swam the floode, and we darnit the woode.
Till we cam' to the Lommoud height.
" And quhan we cam' to the Lommond height,
Se lythlye we lychtid doune ;
And we drank fra the hornis that never grew.
The beer that was nerer browin.
THE WITCH OF FIFE. 243
" Then up there raise ane wee wee man,
Fra nethe the moss-gray stane ;
His feee was wan Uke the coUifloure,
For he nouthir had blude nor bane.
" He set ane reid-pipe til his muthe,
And he playit se bonnilye.
Till the gray curlew and the black-cock flew
To listen his melodye.
" It rang se sweit through the grein Lommond,
That the nycht-winde lowner blew ;
And it soupit alang the Loch Leven,
And wakinit the white sea-mew.
" It rang se sweit through the grein Lommond,
Se sweitly butt and se shill,
That the wezilis laup out of their mouldy holis,
And dancit on the mydnycht hill.
" The corby craw cam' gledgin' near,
The em ged veeryng bye ;
And the troutis laup out of the Leven Loch,
Charmit with the melodye.
" And aye we dancit on the grein Lommond,
Till the dawn on the ocean grew :
Ne wonder I was a weary wycht
Quhan I cam' hame to you."
" Quhat guid, quhat guid, my weird weird w}'fe,
Quhat guid was that to thee ?
Qe wald better haif bein in yer bed at hame,
Wi' yer deire littil bairnis and me."
" The second nycht, quhan the new moon set.
O'er the roaryng sea we flew ;
The cockle-shell our trusty bark,
Our sailis of the grein sea- rue.
" And the bauld windis blew, and the fire-flauchtis flew.
And the sea ran to the skie ;
And the thunner it growlit, and the sea-dogs howlit.
As we gaed scouryng bye.
" And aye we mountit the sca-grcin hillis,
Quhill we brushit through the cludis of the hevin ;
Than sousit dounright like the stern-shot light,
Fra the liftis blue casement driven.
244 THE WITCH OF FIFE.
" But our taickil stood, and o\ir bark was good.
And se pang was our pearlly prowe ;
Quhan we culdna speil the brow of the wavis.
We neediUt them throu' belowe.
" As fast as the hail, as fast as the gale,
As fast as the mydnycht leme.
We borit the breiste of the burstyng swale.
Or fluffit i' the flotyng faem.
" And quhan to the Norraway shore we wan.
We muntyd our steedis of the wynde.
And we splashit the ttoode, and we darnit the woode.
And we left the shouir behynde.
" Fleit is the roe on the grein Lommond,
And swift is the conryng grew.
The rein-deir dun can eithly run,
Quhan the houndis and the hornis pursue.
" But nowther the roe, nor the rein-deir dun.
The hinde nor the couryng grew.
Guide fly owr montaine, muir, and dale.
As our braw stedis they flew.
" The dales war deep, and the Doffrinis steep.
And we raise to the skyis ee-bree ;
Quhite, quhite was our rode, that was never trode,
Owr the snawis of eternity I
" And quhan we cam' to the Lapland lone.
The fairies war all in array ;
For all the genii of the north
War keip)Tig their holeday.
" The warlock men and the weird wcmyng.
And the fa3-s of the wood and the steip.
And the phantom hunteris all war there.
And the mermaidis of the deip.
" And they washit us all with the witch-water,
Distillit fra the muirland dew,
Quhill our beauty blumit like the Lapland rose.
That wylde in the foreste grew." —
" Ye lee, ye lee, ye ill womyne,
Se loud as I heir ye lee !
For the warst-faurd wyfe on the shoris of Fyfe
Is comlye comparit wi' thee." —
THE WITCH OF FIFE. 245
<' Then the mermaidis sang and the woodlandis rang,
Se sweitly swellit the quire ;
On every chff a herpe they hang,
On every tree a lyre.
" And aye the sang, and the woodlandis rang,
And we drank, and we drank se deip ;
Then saft in the arrais of the warlock men,
"We laid us doun to sleip."
" Away away, ye ill womyne,
An ill deide met ye dee !
Quhan ye ha'e pruvit se false to yer God,
Ye can never pruve true to me." —
" And there we learnit fra the fairy foke.
And fra our master true,
The wordis that can beire us throu' the air.
And lokkis and barris undo.
"Last nycht we met at Maisry's cot ;
Richt weil the wordis we knew !
And we set a foot on the black cruik-shell,
And out at the lum we flew.
" And we flew owr hill, and we flew owr dale.
And we flew owr firth and sea.
Until we cam' to merry Carlisle,
Quhare we lightit on the lea.
" We gaed to the vault beyound the towir,
Quhare we enterit free as ayr ;
And we drank, and we drank of the blshopis wine
Quhill we culde drynk ue mair."
" Gin that be true, my guid auld wyfe,
Whilk thou hast taidd to me,
Betide my death, betide my lyfe,
I'll beire thee companye.
" Neist tjrme ye gaung to merry CarUsle
To drynk of the blude-reid wyne,
Beshrew my heart, I'll fly with thee,
If the deil should fly behynde."
" Ah ! little do ye ken, my silly auld man,
The daingcris we maun dree ;
Last nychte wc drank of the bisho})is wyne,
Quhill near near ta'cu war we.
246 THE WITCH OF FIFE.
" Afore we wan to the Sandy Ford,
The gor-cockis nichering flew ;
The lofty crest of Ettrick Pen
Was wavit about with blue,
And, flichtering throu' the ayr, we fand
The chill chill mornyng dew.
" As we flew ower the hillis of Braid,
The sun raise fair and cleir ;
There gurly James, and his baronis braw.
War out to hunt the deir.
" Their bowis they drew, their arrowis flew.
And piercit the ayr with speide,
Quhill purpil fell the mornyng dew
Wi' witch-blude rank and reide.
" Littil do ye ken, my silly auld man.
The daingeris we maun dree ;
Ne wonder I am a weary wycht
Quhan I come hame to thee." —
" But tell me the word, my guid auld wyfe.
Come tell it speedilye :
For I lang to drynk of the guid reide wyne.
And to wyng the ayr with thee.
" Yer hellish horse I wilna ryde.
Nor sail the seas in the wjnide ;
But I can flee as weil as thee.
And ril drynk quhill ye be blynd." —
" O fy ! O fy ! my leil auld man.
That word I darena tell ;
It wald turn this warld all upside down.
And make it warse than hell.
" For all the lasses in the land
Wald munt the wynde and fly ;
And the men wald doff their doublets syde,
And after them wald ply." —
But the auld gmdman was ane cunnyng auld man,
And ane cunnyng aidd man was he ;
And he watchit, and he watchit for mony a nychte,
The witches' flychte to see.
Ane nycht he damit in Maisry's cot ;
The fearless haggs cam' in ;
And he heard the word of awsome weird.
And he saw their deidis of svnn.
THE WITCH OF FIFE. 247
Then ane by ane they said that word.
As fast to the fire they drew ;
Then set a foot on the black cruik-shell.
And out at the lum they flew.
The auld guidman cam' fra his hole
"With feire and muckil dreide.
But yet he culdna think to rue,
For the wyne cam' in his head.
He set his foot in the black cruik-shell, ^
With ane fixit and ane wawlying e'e ;
And he said the word that I darena say,
And out at the lum flew he.
The witches skalit the moon-beam pale ;
Deep groanit the trembling wynde ;
But they never wist till our auld guidman
Was hoveryng them behynde.
They flew to the vaultis of merry Carlisle,
Quhare they enterit free as ayr ;
And they drank and they drank of the bishopis wyne
Quhill they culde drynk ne mair.
The auld guidman he grew se crouse.
He dauncit on the mouldy ground,
And he sang the bonniest sangs of Fyfe,
And he tuzzUt the kerlyngs round.
And aye he piercit the tither butt.
And he suckit, and he suckit sac lang,
Quhill his een they closit, and his voice grew low.
And his tongue wald hardly gang.
The kerlyngs drank of the bishopis wyne
Quhill they scentit the morning wynde ;
Then clove again the yielding ayr.
And left the auld man behynde.
And aye he sleipit on thfe damp damp floor.
He sleipit and he snorit amain ;
He never dreamit he was far fra hame,
Or that the auld wyvis war ganc.
And aye he sleipit on the damp damp floor,
Quhill past the mid-day hightc,
Quhan wakenit by five rough Englishmen
That trailit him to the lychte.
248 THE WITCH OF FIFE.
" Now quha are ye, ye silly avild man.
That sleipis se sound and so well ?
Or how gat ye mto the bishopis vault
Throu' lokkis and barris of steel ? "
The auld guidman he tryit to speak,
Bvit aue word he culdna fynde ;
He tryit to think, but his head whirlit round,
And ane thing he culdna mynde : —
" I cam' fra Fyt'e," the auld man cry it,
" And I cam' on the mydnicht wynde."
They nickit the auld man, and they prickit the auld man,
And they yerkit his limbis with twine,
Quhill the reide blude ran in his hose and shoon,
But some crpt it was wyne.
They lickit the auld man, and they prickit the auld man,
And they tyit him till ane stone ;
And they set ane bele-fire him about.
To bum him skin and bone.
" wae to me ! " said the puir auld man,
" That ever I saw the day !
And wae be to all the ill wemyug
That; lead puir men astray !
" Let nevir ane auld man after this
To lawless greide inclyne ;
Let nevir ane auld man after this
Rin post to the deil for wyne."
The reike flew up in the auld nijinis face,
And choukit him bitterlye ;
And the lowe cam' up with ane angry blese,
And it syngit his auld breek knee.
He lukit to the land fra whence he cam',
For lukis he culdc get ne mae ;
And he thochte of his deire little bairais at hame,
And O the auld man was wae !
But they turnit their facis to the sun.
With gloffe and wondcroiis glair.
For they saw ane thing beth lairge and dun,
Comin' swaipin down the ayr.
That burd it cam' fra the landis o' Fyfe,
And it cam' rycht tymcouslyc.
For quha was it but the auld manis wife.
Just comit his dethe to see.
THE WITCH OF FIFE. 249
Scho put ane reide cap on his heide.
And the auld guidman lookit fain,
Then whisperit ane word intil his lug.
And tovit to the ayr again.
The auld guidman he ga'e ane bob,
I' the mids o' the burnyng lowe ;
And the sheklis that band him to the ring.
They fell fra his armis like to we.
He drew his breath, and he said the word,
And he said it with muckil glee,
Then set his fit on the burnyng pile,
And away to the ayr flew he.
Till aince he cleirit the swirlyng reike,
He lukit beth ferit and sad ;
But whan he wan to the lycht blue ayr.
He lauchit as he'd been mad.
His armis war spred, and his heid was hiche.
And his feite stack out behynde ;
And the laibies of the auld manis cote
War wauffiug in the wynde.
And aye he neicherit, and aye he flew.
For he thochte the ])loy se raire ;
It was like the voice of the gainder blue,
Quhan he flees throu' the ayr.
He lukit back to the Carlisle men
As he borit the norlan sky ;
He noddit his heide, and ga'e ane girn,
But he nevir said guid-bye.
They vanisht far i' the liftis blue wale,
Ne mair the English saw.
But the auld manis lauchc cam' on the gale.
With a lang; and a loud caifa.
May cvir ilke man in the land of Fyfe
Head what the drinkcris dree ;
And nevir curse his puir auld wife,
Kichte wicked altho' scho be.
[This ballad was first printed by the Rev. C. H. Harts-
horne, in his 'Ancient Metrical Tales,' (London, 1829,)
from a MS. preserved in the University of Cambridge. Its
e.xistence was unknown to Ritson, who speaks of it as 'a
legend once extant, of perhaps a still earlier date, than the
' Lytell Geste,' which he considered as ' probably the oldest
thing upon the subject wo now possess.' It afforded him, in
his own words, ' some little satisfaction to be able to give,'
as he did, (Robin Ilood, i. Ixxxv.,) ' even a fragment, from a
single leaf, fortunately preserved in one of the volumes of
old printed ballads in the British Museum, in a hand-writing
as old as Henry the Sixth's time.' This fragment consists of
the latter half of stanza 70, the three following stanzas
and of what is contained between the second lines of stanzas
78 and 81 inclusive respectively. In the MS. from which Mr.
llartshorne printed, which is in some parts so damaged by
the damp as to bo illegible, the only title the ballad bears is,
'A Tale of Robin Hood.' The propriety of the more parti-
cular designation of ' Robin Hood and the Monk," will how-
ever be apparent to every reader.]
N somcr when the shawes be sheyne,
Aud leves be large and longe,
nit is fulle niery in feyre foreste
To here the i'oulys song.
ROBIN HOOD AND THE MONK. 251
To se the dere draw to the dale.
And leve the hilles hee,
And shadow hem in the leves grene
Vndur the grene wode tre.
Hit befel on whitsontide,
Erly in a may momyng.
The son up fayre can shyne.
And the briddis mery can syng.
Tliis is a mery momyng, seid litulle Johne,
Be hym that dyed on tre,
A more mery man then I am one
Lyv'es not in cristiante.
Pluk vp thi hert my dere mayster,
Litulle Johne can sey,
And thynk hit is a fulle fayre tyme
In a mornynge of may.
Ze on thynge'greves me seid Robyne,
And does my hert myche woo.
That I may not so solem day
To mas nor matyns goo.
Hit is a fouttnet and more, seyd hee,
Syn I my sauyour see ;
To-day wil I to Notyngham, seid Robyn,
With the myght of mylde Mary.
Then spake Moche the mylner (s) sune,
Euer more wel hym betyde.
Take xii of thi wyght zemen
Welle weppynd be ther side.
Such on wolde thi selfe slon
That xii dar not abyde,
OflF alle my mery men, seid Robyne,
Be my feithe I wil non haue.
But litulle Johne shall beyre my bow
Til that me list to drawe
Thou shalle' beyre thin own said Litulle Jon,
Maister & I will beyre myne.
And we wille shete a peuy, seid litulle Jon,
Vnder the grene wode lyne.
252 ROBIN HOOD AND THE MONK.
I wil not shete a peny, seyd Robyn Hode,
In feith litulle Johne with tliee,
But euer for on as thou shetes, seid Robyn,
In feith I holde the thre.
Thus shet tlici forthe these zemen too
Bothe at buske and brome.
Til Utiille Johne wan of his maister
Vs. to hose and shone.
A ferly strife fel them betwene
As they went bi the way ;
Litulle John seid he had won v shyllyngs,
And Robyn Hode seid schortly nay.
With that Robyn Hode lyed litul Jone,
And smote hym with his honde,
Litul John waxed wroth therwith,
And pulled out his bright bronde.
Were thou not my maister, seid litulle Johne,
Thou shuldis by hit ful sore.
Get the a man where thou wilt Robyn,
For thou getes me no more.
Then Robyn goes to Notyngham
Hymselfe moruynge allone,
And litulle Johne to niery Scherewode,
The ])athes he knowe alkoue.
"VVlian Robyn came to Notyngham,
Sertenly without ene lapie,
He prayed to God and myld Mary
To brynge hym out sane agayne.
He gos into seynt Mary (s) chirche.
And knelyd downe before the rode,
AUe that euer were the churche within
Beheld wel Robyne Hode.
Beside hpn stode a gret hedid munke,
I j)ray to God woo he be,
Ful sone he knew gode Robyn (Hode)
As sone as he hym se.
Out at the durre he ran
Ful sone and anon,
Alle the zatis of Notyngham
He made to be sparred eueryclione.
ROBIN HOOD AND THE MONK. 253
Rise vp, he seid, thou prowde schereff,
Buske the and make the bowne,
I haue spyed the kynges feloue.
For sothe he is in this towne.
I haue spyed the false felone.
As he stondes at his masse,
Hit is longe of the seide the munke.
And euer he fro vs passe.
This traytur (s) name is Robyn Hode,
Vndur the grene wode lynde,
He rob by t me onys of a C pound,
Hit shalle neuer out of my mynde.
Vp then rose this prowd schereff.
And zade toward hym zare ;
Many was the modur son,
To the kyrk with hym can fare.
In at the durres thei throly thrast
With staves ful gode ilkone,
Alas, alas, seid Robyn Hode,
Now mysse I lituUe Johne.
But Robyne toke out a too-hond sworde.
That hangit down be his kne,
Ther as the schereff and his men stode thyckust,
Thidurward wold he.
Thryes thorow at them he ran,
Ther for sothe as I yow say.
And woundyt many a modur sone,
And xii he slew that day.
His sworde vpon the schireff hed
Sertanly he brake in too ;
The smyth that the made, seid Robyn,
I pray God, wyrke hym woo.
For now am I weppynlesse, seid Robyne,
Alassc agayn my wylle ;
But if I may fle these traytors fro,
I wot thei wil me kylle.
Robyns men to the churchc ran
Throout hem euer ilkon.
Sum fcl in swonyng as thei were dede,
And lay still as any stone.
254 ROBIN HOOD AND THE MONK.
Nou of theym were in her mynde
But only litulle Jon.
Let be your rule, seid litulle Jon,
For his luf that dyed on tre,
Ze that shulde be duzty men
Hit is gret shame to se.
Oure maister has bene hard bystode.
And zet scapyd away,
Pluk up your hertes and leve this mone.
And herkyn what I shal say.
He has seruyd our lady many a day.
And zet -wil securly,
Therfore I trust in her specialy
No wycked deth shal he dye.
Therfor be glad, seid litul Johne,
And let this mournyng be.
And I shall be the munkes gyde
With the myght of mylde j\Iary.
And I mete hym, seid lituU Johne,
We wille go but we too
Loke that ze kepe wel oure tristil tre
Vndur the levys smale,
And spare non of this venyson
Thatgose in thys vale.
Forche thei went these zemeu too,
Litul Johne and Moche onfere,
And lokid on Moche emys hows
The hyeway lay fuUe neie.
Litul John stode at a window in the mornjTige,
And lokid forth at a stage,
He was war wher the munke came ridynge,
And with hym a litul page.
Be my feith, seid Litul Johne to Moche,
I can the tel tithyngus gode ;
I se wher the munk comys rydyng,
I know hym be his wyde bode.
ROBIN HOOD AND THE MONK. 255
The! went into the way these zemen hothe,
As curies men and hende,
Thei spyrred tithyngus at the munke
As thei hade bene his frende.
Fro whens come ze, seid htul Johne,
Tell vs tithyngus I yow pray
Off a false owtlay (called Robjoi Hade)
Was takyn zisturday.
He rohbyt me and my felowes bothe
Of XX marke in serten ;
If that false owtlay be takyn.
For sothe we wolde be fayne.
So did he me, seid the munke.
Of a C pound and more ;
I layde furst hande hym apon,
Ze may thonke me therfore.
I pray god thanke yow, seid litulle Johne,
And we wil when we may.
We wil go with yow with your leve.
And brynge yow on your way.
For Robyn Hode hase many a wilde felow,
I telle yow m certen,
If thei wist ze rode this way.
In feith ze shulde be slayn.
As thei went talkyng be the way.
The munke and litulle Johne,
Johne toke the munkes horse be the hede
Ful soue and anone
Johne toke the munkes horse be the hed.
For sothe as I yow say,
So did Muche the litulle page.
For he shujde not stirre away.
Be the golett of the hode
Johne pulled the munke downe,
Johne was nothynge of hym agast.
He lete hym falle on his crowne.
Litulle John was sore agrevyd.
And drew out his swerde in bye.
The munke saw he shulde be ded,
Lowd mercy can he crye.
258 ROBIN HOOD AND THE MONK:
Now will I be porter, seid litul Joline,
And take the keyes in honde ;
He toke the way to Robyn Ilode,
And sone he hym vnbonde.
He gaf hym a gode swerd in his bond,
His bed [ther-] with for to kcpe,
And ther as the walle was lowyst
Anon downe can thei lepe.
Be that the cok began to crow,
The day began to sprynge,
The scheref fond the jaylier ded,
The comyn belle made he rynge.
He made a crye thoroowt al the tow (n),
Whedur he be zoman or knave,
That cowthe brynge hym Robyn Hode,
His warisone he shnld bane.
For I dar neuer, said the scheref.
Cum before oure kynge ;
For if I do I wot serten,
For sothe he wil me henge.
The scheref made to seke Notyngham,
Bothe be sti-ete and stye,
And Robyn was in mery Scherwode
As lizt as lef on lynde.
Then bespake gode lituUe Johne
To Robyn Hode can he say,
I bane done the a gode turne for an euylle,
Qnyte ' me' whan thou may.
I haiie done the a gode turne, said lituUe Johne,
For sothe as I you saie,
I bane bronzt the vndur (the) grene wode lyne,
Fare wel, ami haue gode day.
Nay be my trouthe, seid Robyn Hode,
So shalle hit neuer be,
I make the maister, seid Rol)yne Hode,
Off allc my men and me.
Nay be my trouthe, seid litulle Johne,
So shall hit neuer be,
But lat me be a felow, seid litulle Johne,
No nodur kepe VW be.
ROBIN HOOD AND THE MONK. 259
Thus Johne gate Robyn Hotle out of prisone
Sertan withoutyn layne.
When his men saw hym hoi and soun de
For sothe they were ful fayne.
They filled m wyne, and made him glad
Vndur the levys smale.
And zete pastes of venysone
That gode was ' withal.'
Than worde came to our kynge.
How Robyn Hode was gone.
And how the scheref of Notyngham
Durst neuer loke hyme vpone.
Then bespake oure cumly kynge.
In an angur bye,
LituUe Johne base begyled the schereflF,
In faith so base he me.
Litulle Johne has begyled vs bothe,
And that fulle wel I se,
Or ellis the scherefF of Notyngham
Hye hongut shuld be be.
I made hem zemen of tbe crowne,
And gaf hem fee with my bond,
I gaf hem grithe, seid oure kyng,
Tborowout alle mery Inglond.
I gaf hem grithe, then seid oure kyng,
I say, so mot I the.
For sothe soche a zcman as he is on
In alle Ingland ar not tbre.
He is trew to his maister, seide oure kynge,
I sey, be swete seynt Johne,
He louys bettur Robyn Hode,
Then he dose vs yehone.
Robyne Hode is cuer bond to him,
Bothe in strete and sialic,
Speke no more of this matter, seid our kynge.
But John has l)egylcd vs alle.
Thus cndys the talkyng of the munko,
And Robyne Hode I wysse ;
Gcd, that is euer a crowned kyng,
Bryng vs alle to bis blisse.
T 1 2
Wk$ Mmth is)if Wm^^ I^i^f^^o
(TRADITIONAL.)
[This ' version (if an ancient and popular Northumber-
land ballad' is taken, by permission of J. 11. Dixon, Esq.,
from ' Ancient Poems, i allads, and Songs of the Peasantry
of England,' edited by him for the Percy Society, (London,
1840) It was 'taken down,' says Mr. Di.xon, 'by R[r.
James Telfer, of Saiightree, Liddesdale, from the chanting
of Kitty Hall, an old w jman who resided at Fairloans,
Ro.xburgshire. Mr. Robert White communicated it to
'Tlie Local Historian's Table Book,' a iieriodical work pub-
li bed at Newcastle-on-Tyne ; where only it had appeared
previously toils insertion in Mr. Dixon's book. It may be
mentioned hero, as a literary rumour, for the correctness of
which however we are far from vouching, that Sir Walter
Scott is said to have had a copy of this ballad ; but that,
under the influence of a feeling altogether unintelligible in
such a man, he never would allow it to be seen. From the
notes of -Mr. Di.xon and Mr. White, we learn that 'the
barbarous murder of Reed by the Halls and the Crosiers,
whose displeasure he had incurred in the execution of his
office of suppressing and ordering the apprehension of
thieves, and other breakers of the law, is an historical fact,
which is said to have occurred in the sixteenth century ; and
that the circumstances attending it are accurately detailed
in the ballad.']
~ OD send the land deliverance
Frae every reaving, riding Scot ;
We'll sune hae neither cow nor ewe,
We'll sune hae neither staig nor stot.
THE DEATH OF PARCY REED. 261
The outlaws come frae Liddesdale,
They herry Redesdale far and near ;
The rich man's gelding it maun gang,
They canna pass the puir man's mcaie.
Sure it were weel, had ilka thief
Around his neck a halter Strang ;
And curses heavy may they light
On traitors vile oursels amang.
Now Parcy Reed has Crosier ta'en,
He has delivered him to the law ;
But Crosier says he'll do waur than that,
He'll make the tower o' Troughend fa.'
And Crosier says he will do waur —
He will do waur if waur can be ;
He'll make the bairns a' fatherless ;
And then, the land it may lie lee.
To the hunting, ho ! cried Parcy Reed,
The morning sun is on the dew ;
The cauler breeze frae off the fells
"Will lead the dogs to the quarry true.
To the hunting, ho ! cried Parcy Reed,
And to the hunting he has gane ;
And the three fause Ha's o' Girsonsfield
Alang wi' him he has them ta'en.
They hunted high, they hunted low.
By heathery hill and birken shaw ;
They raised a buck on Rooken Edge,
And blew the mort at fair Ealylawe.
They hunted high, they hunted low,
They made the echoes ring amain ;
With music sweet o' horn and hound,
They merry made fair Redesdale glen.
They hunted high, they hunted low,
They hunted up, they hunted down,
Until the day was past the jtrime,
And it grew late in the afternoon.
They hunted high in Batinghope,
When as the sun was sinking low.
Says Parcy then, ca' off the dogs.
We'll l)ait our steeds and hoineward go.
262 THE DEATH OF PARCY REED.
They lighted high in Batinghope,
Atween the brown and benty ground ;
They had but rested a httle while,
Till Parcy Reed was sleeping sound.
There's nane may lean on a rotten staff,
But him that risks to get a fa' ;
There's nane may in a traitor trust,
And traitors black were every Ha.'
They've stowii the bridle off his steed,
And they've put water in his lang gun ;
They've fixed his sword within the sheath,
That out again it winna come.
Awaken ye, waken ye, Parcy Reed,
Or by your enemies be ta'en ;
For yonder are the five Crosiers
A-coming owre the Hingin-stane.
If they be five, and we be four,
Sae that ye stand alang wi' me,
Then every man ye will take one.
And only leave but two to me :
We wall them meet as brave men ought,
And make them either fight or flee.
We mayna stand, we canna stand.
We daurna stand alang wi' thee ;
The Crosiers ha\id thee at a feud.
And they wad kill baith thee and we.
O, turn thee, turn thee, Johnie Ha',
O, turn thee, man, and fight wi' me ;
When ye come to Troughend again.
My gude black naig I will gie thee ;
He cost full twenty j)ound o' gowd,
Atween my brother John and me.
I mayna turn, I canna turn,
I daurna turn and fight wi' thee ;
The Crosiers hand thee at a feud.
And they wad kill baith thee and me.
O, turn thee, turn thee, Willie Ha',
O, turn thee, man, and fight wi' me ;
When ye come to Troughend again,
A yoke o' owsen FU gie thee.
I mayna turn, I canna turn,
I daurna turn and fight wi' thee ;
The C'rusiers band thee at a feud,
And thev wad kill baith thee and me.
THE DEATH OF PARCY REED. 2G3
O, turn thee, turn tliee, Tommy Ha —
O, turn now, man, and fight wi' me ;
If ever we come to Troughend again,
My daughter Jean I'll gie to thee.
I mayna turn, I canna turn,
I daurna turn and fight wi' thee ;
The Crosiers hand thee at a feud,
And they wad kill baith thee and me.
O, shame upon ye, traitors a' !
I wish your liames ye may never see ;
Ye've stown the bridle oif my naig,
And I can neither fight nor flee.
Ye've stown the bridle off my naig,
And ye've put water i' my lang gun ;
Ye've fixed my sword within the sheath.
That out again it winna come.
He had but time to cross himsel' —
A prayer he hadna time to say.
Till round him came the Crosiers keen,
All riding graithed, and in array.
Weel met, weel met, now Parcy Reed,
Thou art the very man we sought ;
Owre lang hae we been in your debt,
Now will we pay ye as we ought.
We'll pay thee at the nearest tree.
Where we shall hang thee like a hoimd.
Brave Parcy rais'd his fankit sword.
And fell'd the foremost to llie ground.
Alake, and wae for Parcy Reed—
Alake he was an unarmed man :
Four weapons pierced him all at once,
As they assailed him there and than.
They fell upon him all at once.
They mangled him most cruellie ;
The slightest wound might caused his deid,
And'they have gi'en him thirty-three.
They hacket off his hands and feet.
And left him lying on the lee.
Now, Parcy Recd^ we've paid our debt.
Ye canna weel dispute the tale.
The Crosiers said, and oft" they rade—
They radc the airt o' Liddesdale.
264 THE DEATH OF PARCY REED.
It was the hour o' glocimin' gray,
When herds come in frae fauld and pen ;
A hei'd he saw a huntsman he,
Says he, can this be Laird Troughen' ?
There's some will ca' me Parcy Reed,
And some will ca' me Laird Troughen' ;
It's little matter what they ca' me,
jNIy lacs hae made me ill to ken.
There's some will ca' me Parcy Reed,
And speak my praise in tower and town ;
It's little matter what they do now,
My life-blood rudds the heather brown.
There's some will ca' me Parcy Reed,
And a' my virtues say and sing;
I would much rather have just now
A draught o' water tVae the spring !
The herd flung aff his clouted shoon,
And to the nearest fountain ran ;
He made his bonnet serve a cup.
And wan the blessing o' the dying man.
Now, honest herd, ye maun do mair, —
Ye maun do mair as I ye tell ;
Ye maun bear tidings to Troughend,
And bear likewise my last farewell.
A farewell to my wedded wife,
A farewell to my brother John,
Wha sits into the Troughend tower,
\Vi' heart as black as any stone.
A farewell to my daughter Jean,
A farewell to my young sons five ;
Had they been at their father's hand,
I had this night been man alive.
A farewell to my followers a',
And a' my neighbours gude at need ;
Bid them think how the treacherous Ha's
Betrayed the life o' Parcy Reed.
The laird o' Clennel bears my bow,
The laird o' Brandon bears my brand ;
Whene'er they ride i' the border side.
They'll mind the fate o' the laird Troughend.
'oiuIlm,'
ti.iiiij-
VOM of
iKiiial,
It w.is .isscited, soon aftoi the imblRatitui of the pio^ciit
\(M 1(111, tliat J^urgcr took it from an old riii^'li^h Hall. id, to
bt found 111 the ' l-ollection of Old Ballads,' (Lciiidon, 17J.i,)
entitled, ' The Suffolk Miracle : or, a Relation of a Young
Man, who, a month after his death aiipcared to his
sweet-heart, and carried her on horseback behind him for
forty miles, in two hours, and was never seen ;ifter but in his
grave ;' of which there are two copies, (broadsides,) in the
Roxburglie Collection in the British Museum. J3tirger,
however, contradicted this assertion ; and declared that an
old Low Dutch liallad furnished him with the idea of
' Lenora.' That there was such an 'old F^nw Dutch ballad'
seems evident from the statement of a correspondent of the
Montlily Magazine, who says ' he had often heard it repeated
by sundry persons of Glaiidorf, and among others by a man
of the age of 75 years ; as well as by his step-mother, then
71 years old, who in her youth had often heard it related by
several people.' The similarity however, in point of story,
between the homely English ballad and the polished German,
is such as to make the supposition of a common origin
highly probable. The reader will find the means of judging
for himself in the .Appendix]
T l)roak of clay, with frightful dreams
Lenora struggled sore ;
— " My William, art thou slaine," said she,
" Or dost thou love no more?" —
266 LENORA.
He went abroade with Richard's host.
The Payuim foes to quell ;
But he no word to her had writt,
An he were sick or well.
With sowne of trump and heat of drum,
His fellow soldyers come ;
Their helmes bedeckt with oaken ])oughs.
They seeke their loug'd-fo; home.
And ev'ry roade, and ev'ry lane,
Was full of old and young.
To gaze at the rejoicing band.
To hail with gladsome touug.
— " Thank God !" their wives and children saide ;
" Welcome !" — the brides did say ;
But greete or kiss Lenora gave
To none upon that daye.
She askte of all the passing traine,
For him she wisht to see ;
But none of all the passing traine
Could tell if lived he.
And when the soldyers all were bye.
She tore her raven haire.
And cast herself upon the growne
In furious despaire.
Her mother ran and lyfte her up,
And clasped in her arme,
— " My child, my child, Avhat dost thou ail ?
God shield thy life from harm !" —
— " O mother, mother ! William's gone !
What's all besyde to me /
There is no mercye, sure, above !
iVll, all were spared but hee !" —
— " Kneel downe, thy paternoster saye,
'Twill calm thy troubled s])right :
The Lord is wyse, the Lord is good :
What hee hath done is right." —
— " O mother, mother ! say not so ;
Most cruel is my fate :
I ])rayde, and prayde, but watte avayl'd ?
'Tis now, alas ! too late !" —
LENORA. 267
— " Our Heavenly Father, if we praye,
"Will help a suff'ring childe ;
Go take the holy sacrament.
So shall thy grief grow milde."
— " O mother, what I feel within.
No sacrament can staye,
No sacrament can teche the dead
To bear the sight of daye." —
— " May be, among the heathen folk
Thy William false doth prove.
And puts away his faith and troth
And takes another love.
Then wherefore sorrow for his loss ?
Thy moans are all in vain ;
And when his soul and body parte.
His falsehode brings him paine." —
— " O mother, mother ! gone is gone.
My hope is all forlorn ;
The grave mie onlye safeguarde is,
O, had I neer been borne !
Go out, go out, my lampe of life.
In grislie darkness die :
There is no mercye, sure, above !
For ever let me lie !"
— " Almighty God ! O do not judge
My poor unhappy childe ;
She knows not what her lips pronounce.
Her anguish makes her wilde.
My girl, forget thine earthly woe,
And think on God and bliss ;
For so, at least, shall not thy soule.
Its heavenly bridegroom miss." —
— " O mother, mother ! what is blisse.
And what the infernal cclle '!
With him 'tis heaven any where,
Without my William, belle.
Go out, go out, my lamp of life.
In endless darkness die :
Without him I must loathe the earth,
Without him scorn the skyc." —
268 LENORA.
And so despaire did rave and rage
Athwarte her boiling veins ;
Against the providence of God
She hurlde her impious strains.
She bet her breaste, and wrung her hands,
And roUde her tearless eye,
From rise of niorne, till the pale stars
Again did freeke the skye.
"When harke ! abroade she hearde the trampe
Of nimble-hoofed steed ;
She hearde a knighte with clank alighte,
And climbe the staire in speede.
And soon she herde a tinkling haude,
That twirled at the pin ;
And through her door, that open'd not,
These words were breathed in.
— "What ! what ho ! thy dore imdoe ;
Art watching or asleepe ?
My love, dost yet remember mee,
And dost thou laugh, or weep V —
— " Ah ! "William here so late at night !
Oh ! I have watchte and waked,
^Vhence dost thou come ? for thy return
]My herte has sorely aked." —
— " At midnight only we may ride ;
I come o'er land and sea ;
1 mounted late, but soone I go,
Aryse, and come with me." —
" O "William, enter first my bowre.
And give me one embrace ;
The blasts athwarte the hawthorne hiss ;
Awayte a little space." —
— "Though blasts athwarte the hawthorne hiss,
I may not harbour here ;
My spurre is sharpe, my courser pawes.
My houre of flighte is nere.
All as thou lyest upon thy couch,
Aryse, and mount behinde ;
To-night we'le ride a thousand miles,
The bridal bed to finde." —
LENORA. 2G9
— " How, ride to-night a thousand miles ?
Thy love thou dost bemocke :
Eleven is the stroke that still
Rings on within the clocke." —
— " Looke up, the moone is bright and we
Outstride the earthlie men :
I'll take thee to the bridal bed.
And night shall end but then." —
— "And where is, then, thy house and home.
And where thy bridal bed?" —
— "'Tis narrow, silent, chilly, dark ;
Far hence I rest my head." — •
— " And is there any room for me,
Wherein that I may creepe ?"
— "There's room enough for thee and niee.
Wherein that we may sleepe.
All as thou lyest upon thy couch,
Aryse, no longer stop ;
The wedding guests thy coming waite,
The chamber door is ope." —
All in her sarke, as there she lay,
Upon his horse she sprung.
And with her lilly hands so pale
About her William clung.
And hurry-skurry forth they goe,
Unheeding wet or drye ;
And horse and rider snort and blow.
And sparkling pebbles flye.
How swift the flood, the mead, the wood.
Aright, aleft, are gone ;
The bridges thunder as they pass.
But earthlie sowne is none.
Tramp, tramp, across the land they speed.
Splash, splash, across the see:
— " Hurrah ! the dead can ride apace !
Dost feare to ride with mee ?
The moon is brighte, and blue the nyghte,
Dost quake the blast to stem?
Dost shudder, mayde, to seeke the dead ?" —
— " No, no, but what of them ?
270 LENORA.
How glumlie sownes yon dirgye song,
Niglit-ravens flappe the wing ;
What knell doth slowlie toll ding dong ?
The psalmes of death who sing ?
It creeps, the swarthie funeral traine,
The corse is on the beere :
Like croke of todes from lonely moores.
The chaunt doth meet the eere." —
— " Go, bear her corse when midnight's past,
With song, and tear, and wayle ;
I've gott my wife, I take her home.
My howre of wedlocke hayl.
Lead forth, O clarke, the chaunting quire.
To swell our nuptial song ;
Come, preaste, and read the blessing soone,
For bod, for bed we long." —
They heede his calle, and hushte the sowne.
The biere was seen no more ;
And followde him ore feeld and flood
Yet faster than before.
Halloo ! halloo ! away they goe,
Unheeding wet or dne ;
And horse and rider snort and blowe,
And sparkling pebbles flye.
How swifte the hill, how swifte the dale.
Aright, aleft, are gone ;
By hedge and tree, by thorpe and towne,
They galloj), gallop on. ' '
Tramp, tramp, acrosse the land they speede.
Splash, splash, acrosse the see :
— " Hurrah ! the dead can ride apace ;
Dost fear to ride with me ?
Look up, look up, an airy crewe
In roundel daunces reele ;
The moone is bryghte, and blue the nyghte,
May'st dimlie see them whcele.
(;ome to, come to, ye gostlie crew,
Come to, and follow me.
And daunce for us the wedding daunce.
When we in bed shall be." —
LENORA. 271
And brush, brush, brush, the gostUe crew
Come wheeling ore their heads.
All rustling like the wither' d leaves
That wyde the whirlwind spreads.
Halloo ! halloo ! away they goe.
Unheeding wet or drye.
And horse and rider snorte and blowe,
And sparkling pebbles flye.
And all that in the moonshyne lay,
Behynde them fled afar ;
And backward scudded overhead,
The skye and every star.
Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede.
Splash, splash, across the see ;
— " Hurrah ! the dead can ride apace ;
Dost fear to ride with me ?
I weene the cock prepares to crowe.
The sand voll soone be runne;
I snuff the earlye morning aire,
Downe, downe ! our work is done.
The dead, the dead can ryde apace,
Oure wed bed here is fit ;
Our race is ridde, oure journey ore.
Our endless union knit." —
And lo ! an yren-grated gate
Soon biggens to their viewe ;
He crackte his whype, the clangynge boltes.
The doores asunder flewe.
They pass, and 'twas on graves they trode ;
— " 'Tis hither we are bounde ;" —
And many a tombstone gostlie white,
Lay in the moonshyne round.
And when he from his steede alytte,
His armour, green with rust.
Which damps of charnel vaults had bred
Straight fell away to dust.
His head became a naked skull.
Nor haire nor cyne had hee ;
His body grew a skeleton,
Whilome so blythe of blee.
272
LENORA.
And att his dry and boney heele
No spur was left to be :
And inu his witherde hand you might
The scythe and hour-glasse see.
And lo ! his steede did thin to smoke,
And charnel fires outbreathe ;
And paled, and bleach' d, then vanish' d quite.
The mayde from underneathe.
And hollow bowlings hung in aire.
And shrieks from vaults arose,
Then knew the mayde she might no more
Her living eyes unclose.
But onwarde to the judgment seat.
Through myste and moonlight dreare :
The gostlie crewe, their flyghte persewe,
And hollowe inn her eare :
— " Be patient, though thyne herte should breke,
Arrayne not heavn's decree ;
Thou nowe art of thie bodie refte,
Thie soule forgiven bee !" —
[This ' very ancient, curious, and popular performance'
is taken from Ritson's ' Pieces of Ancient Popular Poetry,*
(London, 1791.) It had previously appeared in Percy's
' Reliques.' By both Editors it was given from an old black-
letter quarto, without date, ' imprinted at London in Loth-
burye, by Wyllyam Copland,' preserved among Garricks
Old riays, in the British Museum. Dr. Percy, however,
' corrected' this ' old quarto,' in some places, by a copy in
his Folio AIS., whereas Ritson appears to have followed it
implicitly. ' No earlier edition,' he says, ' is known.' Of
the heroes of the ballad, ' there is,' according to Ritson,
' no other memorial than the following legend.' Nume-
rous allusions to them, however, as Dr. Percy iioints out,
occur in various authors. Among others, 'Shakespeare, in
'Much Ado About Nothing,' Act I , Sc. i., seems to refer to
'lAdara Bell,' as also in ' Romeo and .Juliet,' Act JL, Sc. i.
Ben Jonson, in his ' Alchemist,' Act I. Sc. i., mentions
' C'lim o' the Clough;' whilst both are named together
by Sir William Davenant, in his poem, ' The F^ong
Vacation in London.' And in the ballad entitled, 'Robin
Hood, his Birth, Breeding, Valour, and Marringe,' SuprA,
p. 26, all three of them are represented as being contem-
poraries of ' the father of Robin.' ' Clym of the Cloughe'
is exi>lained by Percy to mean Clem, (Clcmentl of the Cliff ;
and Ritson thinks ' Cloudesle' the same with Clodsley. 'A
ballad of William Clowdisley,' (never printed before,) was,'
he says, 'allowed by the Stationer's Company to Edward
White, on the Ifitli Angust, 1.586.' ' Englishe-Wood, is
Englewood or Inglewood, in Cumberland ; and si^iiitii's, ac-
cording to Percy, ' wood for firing ;' or, according to Hitson,
' a wood in whicli extraordinary fires wprp ninde on particu-
lar occasions.']
ERY it was in grene forest,
Amonge the levcs greno,
Whcr tliat men walko east and west,
Wyth bow( s and arrowcs kene.
274 ADAM BEL, CLYM OF THE CLOUGHE,
To ryse the dere out of theyr denne,
Such sightes hath ofte bene sene ;
As by thre yemen of the north couutre}%
By them it is I meane :
The one of them hight Adam Bel,
The other Clyni of the Clough,
The thyrd was Wilham of Cloudesly,
An archer good yuough.
They were outlawed for venyson.
These yemen everechone ;
They swore them brethren upon a day.
To Englysshe-wood for to gone.
Now hth and lysten, gentylmen.
That of myrthes loveth to here :
Two of them were single men.
The third had a wedded fere.
Wyllyam was the wedded man,
Muche more then was hys care.
He sayde to hys brethren upon a day.
To Caerlel he would fare.
For to speke with fayi-e Alse hys wife.
And with hys chyldren thre.
By my trouth, sayde Adam Bel,
Not by the counsell of me ;
For if ye go to Caerlel, brother.
And from thys wylde wode wende.
If the justice mai you take.
Your lyfe were at an ende.
If that I come not tomorrowe, brother.
By pryme to you agayne,
Trutse not els but that I am take.
Or else that I am slayne.
He toke hys leave of hys brethren two,
And to Carlel he is gon.
There he knocked at hys owne windowe.
Shortly e and anone.
"Where be you, fayre Alyce, my wyfe ?
And my chyldren three ?
Lyghtly let in thyne owne husbande,
Wyllyam of Cloudesle.
AND WYLLYAM OF CLOUDESLE. 275
Alas ! then sayde fayre Alyce,
And syglied wonderous sore,
Thys place hath ben besette for you,
Thys half yere and more.
Now am I here, sayde Cloudesle,
I woulde that I in were : —
Now feche us meate and drynke ynoughe.
And let us make good chere.
She fetched hym meat and drynke plenty,
Lyke a true wedded wyfe.
And pleased hym wyth that she had,
Whome she loved as her lyfe.
There lay an old wyfe in that place,
A lytle besyde the fyre,
Wliych Wyllyam had found of cherytye
More then seven yere ;
Up she rose and walked ful styll,
Evel mote she spede therefoore.
For she had not set no fote on ground
In seven yere before.
She went unto the justice hall.
As fast as she could hye ;
Thys nyght is come unto this town
Wyllyam of Cloudesle.
Thereof the justice was full fayne,
And so was the shirife also ;
Thou shalt not travaile hether, dame, for nought,
Thy meed thou shalt have or thou go.
They gave to her a ryght good goune,
Of scarlat it was as I heard sayne.
She toke the gyft and home she wente.
And couched her downe agayne.
They raysed the towne of mery Carlel,
In all the hast that they can, —
And came thronging to Wyllyames house.
As fast as they rayght gone.
Theyr they besette that good yeman.
Round about on every syde ;
Wyllyam hearde great noyse of folkes,
That heythcr-ward they hyed.
K K 2
27G ADAM BEL, CLYM OF THE CLOUGHE,
Alyce opened a shot-wyndow.
And loked all about,
She was ware of the justice and shirife bothe,
Wyth a full great route.
Alas! treason! cry'd Aleyce,
Ever wo may thou be !
Go into my chambre, my husband, she sayd,
Swete Wyllyam of Cloudesle.
He toke hys sweard and hys bucler,
Hys bow hys chyldren thre.
And wente into hys strongest chamber.
Where he thought surest to be.
Fayre Alice, folowed him as a lover true.
With a pollaxe in her hande ;
He shal be dead that here cometh in
Thys dore whyle I may stand.
Cloudesle bent a wel good bowe,
That was of trusty tre.
He smot the justise on the brest.
That hys arrowe brest in thre.
Gods curse on his hartt, saide William,
Thys day thy cote dyd on.
If it had ben no better then myne.
It had gone nere thy bone.
Yelde the Cloudesle, sayd the justise.
And thy bowe and thy arrowes the fro.
Gods curse on hys hart, sayde fair Alice,
That my husband councelleth so.
Set fyre on the house, saide the sherife,
Syth it wyll no better be,
And brenne we therin William, he saide,
Hys wyfe and chyldren thre.
They fyred the house in many a place,
The fyre flew up on bye ;
Alas 1 then cryed fayr Alice,
I se we here shall dy.
William openyd hys backe wyndow.
That was in hj's chambre on hie.
And wyth shetes let hys wyfe downe.
And hys chyldren thre.
AND WYLLYAM OF CLOUDESLE. 277
Have here my treasure, sayde William,
My wyfe and my chyldren thre,
For Christes love do them no harme.
But wreke you all on me.
"Wyllyam shot so wonderous well,
Tyll hys arrowes were all ygo.
And the fyre so fast upon hym fell.
That hys bowstryng brent in two.
The spercles brent and fell hym on.
Good Wyllyam of Cloudesle !
But than wax he a wofuU man,
And sayde, thys is a cowardes death to me.
Lever I had, sayde Wyllyam,
With my sworde in the route to renne.
Then here among myne ennemyes wode.
Thus cruelly to bren.
He toke hys sweard and hys buckler.
And among them all he ran.
Where the people were most in prece,
He smot downe many a man.
There myght no man stand hys stroke.
So fersly on them he ran ;
Then they threw wyndowes and dores on him.
And so toke that good yeman.
There they hym bounde both hand and fote,
And in depe dongeon hym cast ;
Now, Cloudesle, sayd the hye justice.
Thou shalt be hanged in hast.
One vow shal I make, sayde the sherife,
A payre of new galowes shall I for the make.
And the gates of Caerlel shal be shutte,
There shall no man come in therat.
Then shall not helpe Clim of the Cloughe,
Nor yet shall Adam Bell,
Though they came with a thousand mo.
Nor all the devels in hell.
Early in the mornyng the justice uprose,
To the gates first gan he gon.
And commaundede to be shut full cloce
Lightile every chone.
278 ADAM BEL, CLYM OF THE CLOUGHE,
Then went he to the market-place.
As fast as he coulde liye,
A payre of new gallons there dyd he np set,
Besyde the pyllory,
A lytle boy stod them amonge,
And asked what meaned that gallow tre
They sayde, to hange a good yeaman,
Called Wyllyam of Cloudesle.
That lytle boye was the towne swyne-heard.
And kept fayre Alyce swyne.
Oft he had scene Cloudesle in the wodde,
And geven hym there to dyne.
He went out att a creves m the wall.
And lightly to the wood dyd gone,
There met he with these wight yongemen.
Shortly and anone.
Alas ! then sayde that lytle boye,
Ye tary here all to longe ;
Cloudesle is taken and dampned to death,
All ready e for to honge.
Alas ! then sayde good Adam Bell,
That ever we see thys daye !
He myght her with us have dwelled,
So ofte as we dyd him praye !
He myght have taryed in grene foreste.
Under the shadowes sheene.
And have kepte both hym and us in reaste.
Out of trouble and teene !
Adam bent a ryght good bow,
A great hart sone had he slayne.
Take that, chylde, he sayde to thy dynner.
And bryng me myne arrowe agayne .
Now go we hence, sayed these wight yongmen,
Tary we no lenger here ;
We shall hym borowe, by Gods grace.
Though we bye it full dere.
To Caerlel went these good yemen.
On a mery mornyng of Maye.
Here is a fyt of ('loudesli,
And another is for to save.
AND WYLLYAM OF CLOUDESLE
THE SECOND FIT.
And when they came to mery Caerlell,
In a fa\ re mornyng tyde,
They founde the gates shut them untyll,
Round ahout on every syde.
Alas ! than sayd good Adam Bell,
That ever we were made men !
Tliese gates be shut so wonderous wel.
That we may not come here in.
Then spake him Clym of the Clough,
Wyth a wyle we wyl us iu bryng ;
Let us saye we be messengers,
Streygiit come nowe from our kuig.
Adam said, I have a letter written wel,
Now let us wysoly werkc,
We wyl saye we have the kinges seales,
I holde the portter no clerke.
280 ADAM BEL, CLYM OF THE CLOUGHE,
Then Adam Bell bete on the gate.
With strokes great and strong,
The porter herde suche noyse therat.
And to the gate he throng.
Who is there nowe, sayde the porter.
That niaketh all thys knocking ?
We be tow messengers, sayde Clim of the Clough,
Be come ryght from our kyng.
W'e have a letter, sayd Adam Bel,
To the justice we must it bryng :
Let us in our messag to do.
That we were agayne to our kyng.
Here commeth none in, sayd the porter,
Be hym that dyed upon a tre,
Tyll a false thefe be hanged.
Called Wyllyani of Cloudesl^.
Then spake the good yeman Clym of the Clough,
And swore by Mary fre.
And if that we stande longe wythout,
Lyke a thefe hanged shalt thou be.
Lo here we have the kynges scale ;
What I lordeyne, art thou wode 1
Tlie porter went it had ben so.
And lyghtly dyd of hys hode.
Welcome be my lordcs scale, he saide.
For that ye shall come in.
He opened the gate full shortlye.
An evyl openyng for him.
Now are we in, sayde Adam Bell,
Thereof we are full faine.
But Christ knows, that harowed hell.
How we shall com out agayne.
Had we the keys, said Clim of tlie Clough,
Ryght wel then shoulde we spede ;
Then might we come out wel ynough.
When we se tyme and nede.
They called the porter to counsell,
And wrange hys necke in two,
And caste him in a depe dongeon,
And toke hys keys hym fro.
AND WYLLYAM OF CLOUDESLE. 281
Now am I porter, sayde Adam Bel,
Se brother the keys have we here,
The worst porter to merry Caerlel
That ye had thys hvmdred yere :
And now wyll we our bowes bend,
Into the towne wyll we go.
For to delyver our dere brother.
That lyveth in care and wo.
And thereupon they bent theyr bowes,
And loked theyr strhages were round,
The market-place in mery Caerlel,
They beset that stound ;
And as they loked them besyde,
A paire of new galowes ther thei see.
And the justice with a quest of squyers.
That had judged Cloudesl^ there hanged to be :
And Cloudesl^ hymselfe lay redy in a carte,
Fast both fote and hande.
And a stronge rop about hys necke.
All ready e for to hange.
The justice called to him a ladde,
Cloudesles clothes should he have.
To take the measure of that yeman.
And therafter to make hys grave.
I have seen as great a mearveile, said Cloudesli,
As betwyene thys and pryme.
He that maketh thys grave for me,
Himselfe may lye therin.
Thou speakest proudli, saide the justice,
I shall the hange with my hande :
Full wel herd hys brethren two.
There styll as they dyd stande.
Then Cloudesle cast hys eyen asyde,
And saw hys to brethren stand
At a corner of the market place,
With theyr good bows bent in ther hand.
I se comfort, sayd Cloudesli,
Yet hope I well to fare ;
If I might have my handes at wyll,
Ilyght lytle wolde I care.
282 ADAM BEL, CLYM OF THE CLOUGHE,
Then spake good Adam Bell,
To Clym of the Clough so free,
Brother, se ye marke the justyce wel,
Lo yonder ye may him see ;
And at the shyrife shote I wyll.
Strongly with arrowe kene,
A better shote in mery Caerlel
Thys seven yere was not sene.
They lowsed their arrowes both at once.
Of no man had they dread,
Tlie one hyt the justice, the other the sheryfe,
That both theyr sides gan blede.
All men voyded that them stode nye.
When the justice fell downe to the grounde,
And the sherife fell nyghe h}Tn by,
Eyther had his deathes wounde.
All the citezens fast gan flye.
They durst no longer abyde.
They lyghtly then loused Cloudesle,
Where he with ropes lay tyde.
Wyllyam searte to an officer of the towne,
Hys axe out of hys hande he wronge,
On eche syde h^ smote them downe,
Hym thought he taryed all to long.
Wyllyam sayde to hys brethren two,
Thys daye let us lyve and dye,
If ever you have nede as I have now,
The same shall you fynde by me.
They shot so well in that tyde.
For theyr stringes were of silke ful sure,
That they kept the stretes on every side !
That batayle dyd longe endure.
They fought together as brethren tru,
Lyke hardy men and bolde.
Many a man to the ground they thrue.
And many a herte made colde.
But when their arrowes were all gou.
Men preced to them full fast.
They drew theyr swordes then anone.
And theyr bowes from them cast.
AND WYLLYAM OF CLOUDESLE. 283
They went lyghtlye on theyr way,
Wyth swordes and buclers round.
By that it was myd of the day.
They made mani a wound.
There was an out-home in Caerlel blowen.
And the belles bacward did ryng.
Many a woman sayd alas !
And many theyr handes dyd wryng.
The mayre of Caerlel forth com was,
And with hym a ful great route,
These yemen dred him full sore,
For of theyr lyves they stode in great doute.
The mayre came armed a full great pace.
With a pollaxe in hys hande.
Many a strong man wyth him was.
There in that stowre to stande.
The mayre smot at Cloudlesle with his bil,
Hys bucler he brust in two.
Full many a yeman with great evyll,
Alas ! treason ! they cryed for wo.
Kepe we the gates fast they bad,
That these tray tours thereout not go.
But al for nought was that they wrought.
For so fast they downe were layde,
Tyll they all thre, that so manfulU fought.
Were gotten without abraide.
Have here your keys, sayd Adam. Bel,
Myne office I here forsake,
Yf you do by my councell,
A new porter do ye make.
He threw theyr keys at theyr heads,
And bad them evell to thryve.
And all that letteth any good yeman
To come and comfort hys wyfe.
Thus be these good yemen gon to the wod.
And lyghtly as Icfe on lynde,
They lough and be mery in theyr mode,
Theyr ennemyes were ferre behynd.
When they came to Englyshe-wode,
Under the trusty tre.
They found bowes full good.
And arrowes full great plenty e.
284
ADAM BEL, CLYM OF THE CLOUGHE,
So God me help, sayd Adam Bell,
And Clym of the Clough so fre,
I would we were in mery Caerlel,
Before that fayre mcyny.
They set them downe and made good chere.
And eate and diynke full well.
Here is a fet of these wight yong men,
An other I wyll you tell.
THE THIRD FIT.
As they sat in Englyshe-wood
Under theyr trusty tre,
They thought they herd a woman wepe,
But her they mought not se.
Sore then syghed the fayre Alyce,
And sayde, alas ! that ever I sawe thys day !
For now is my dere husband slayne,
Alas ! and wel a way !
Myght I have spoken with hys dere brethren.
Or with eyther of them twayne,
To let them' know what him befell
My hart were put out of payne !
AND WYLLYAM OF CLOUDESLE. 285
Cloudesle walked a lytle besyde,
And loked under the grenewood linde.
He was ware of hys wife and chyldren thre.
Full wo in hart and mynde.
"Welcome wife, then sayde Wyllyam,
Under this trusti tre ;
I had wende yesterday, by swete sayut John,
Thou shulde me never have se.
Now well is me, she sayde, that ye be here,
My hart is out of wo.
Dame, he sayde, be mery and glad,
And thanke my brethren two.
Hereof to speake, sayd Adam Bell,
I wis it is no bote ;
The meat that we must supp withall.
It runneth yet fast on fote.
Then went they down into a launde,
These noble archares all thre,
Eche of them slew a hart of greece.
The best they could there se.
Have here the best, Alyce my wyfe,
Sayde Wyllyam of Cloudesl^,
By cause ye so bouldly stod by me.
When I was slayne full nye.
Then went they to supper,
Wyth suche meat as they had,
And thanked God of ther fortune.
They were both mery and glad.
And when they had supped well,
Certayne without any leace,
Cloudesle sayd, we wyll to our kjmg.
To get us a charter of peace ;
Alee shal be at our sojournyng,
In a nunry here besyde,
My tow sonnes shall wyth her go.
And ther they shall abyde :
Mync eldest son shall go wyth me,
For hym have I no care.
And he shall you breng worde agayn
How that we do fare.
286 ADAM BEL, CLYM OF THE CLOUGHE,
Thus he these yemen to London gone.
As fast as they myght hye,
Tyll they came to the kynges pallace,
Where they woulde nedes be.
And whan they came to the kynges courte,
Unto the pallace gate.
Of no man wold they aske no leave,
But holdly went in therat.
They preced prestly into the hall,
Of no man had they dreade :
The porter came after, and dyd them call.
And with them began to chyde.
The ussher sayed, Yemen, what wold ye have ?
I pray you tell me :
You myght thus make offycers shent :
Good syrs, of whence be ye ?
Syr, we be out lawes of the forest,
Certayne without any lease ;
And hether we be come to our kyng,
To get us a charter of peace.
And whan they came before the kyng.
As it was the lawe of the lande.
They kneled downe without lettyng.
And eche helde up his hand.
They sayed, Lord, we beseche the here.
That ye wyll graunt us grace ;
For we have slaine your fat falow der.
In many a son dry place.
"What be your names ? then said our king,
Anone that you tell me.
They sayd, Adam Bel, Clim of the Clough,
And Wyllyam of Cloudesl^.
Be ye those theves, then sayd our kyng.
That men have tolde of to me ?
Here to God I make a vowe.
Ye shal be hanged al thre :
Ye shal be dead without mercy.
As I am kynge of this lande.
He commanded his officers everichone,
Fast on them to lay hand.
AND WYLLYAM OF CLOUDESLE. 287
There they toke these good yemen.
And arested them al thre.
So may I thryve, sayd Adam Bell,
Thys game lyketh not me.
But, good lorde, we beseche you now,
That you graunt us grace,
Insomuche as we to you be comen.
Or els that we may fro you passe.
With suche weapons as we have here,
Tyll we be out of your place ;
And yf we lyve this hundreth yere.
We wyll aske you no grace.
Ye speake proudly, sayd the kynge ;
Ye shal be hanged all thre.
That were great pitye, then sayd the quene.
If any grace myght be.
My lorde, whan I came fryst into this lande
To be your wedded wyfe.
The fyrst bowne that I wold aske.
Ye would graunt it me belyfe z
And I asked never none tyll now ;
Therefore, good lorde, graunt it me.
Now aske it, madam, sayd the kynge.
And graunted shall it be.
Then, good my lord, I you beseche.
These yemen graunt ye me.
Madame, ye myght have asked a bowne.
That shuld have ben worth them all three
Ye myght have asked towres, and townes,
Parkes and forestes plenty.
None soe pleasant to mi pay, she said ;
Nor none so lefe to me.
Madame, sith it is your desyre,
Your askyng graunted shal be ;
But I had lever have geven you
Good market townes thre.
The quene was a glad woman.
And saydc. Lord, gramarcy ;
I dare undertake for them,
That true men shal they be.
ADAM BEL, CLYM OF THE CLOUGHE,
But, good lord, speke som mery word.
That comfort they may se.
I graunt you grace, then said our king;
Wasshe, felos, and to meate go ye.
They had not setten but a whyle,
Certapie without lesynge.
There came messengers out of the north
With letters to our kyng.
And whan they came before the kynge,
They kneled downe on theyr kne ;
And sayd. Lord, your offycers grete you wel.
Of Caerlel in the north cuntr^.
How fare my justice, sayd the kyng,
And my sherife also ?
Syr, they be slayne, without leasynge.
And many an officer mo.
Who hath them slayne ? sayd the kyng ;
Anone thou tell me.
Adam Bel, and Clime of the Clough,
And Wyllyam of Cloudesle.
Alas ! for rewth ! then sayd our kynge ;
My hart is wonderous sore ;
I had lever than a thonsande pounde,
I had knowne of thys before ;
For I have graunted them grace.
And that forthynketh me ;
But had I knowne all thys before.
They had been hanged all thre.
The kyng opened the letter anone,
Hymselfe he red it tho,
And founde how these thre outlawes had slaine
Thre hundred men and mo :
Fyrst the justice, and the sheryfe,
And the mayre of Caerlel towne ;
Of all the constables and catchipolles
Aly ve were left not one :
The baylyes, and the bedyls both.
And the sergeauntes of the law,
And forty fosters of the fe.
These outlawes had yslaw :
AND WYLLYAM OF CLOUDESLYE. 289
And broke his parks, and slaine his dere ;
Over all they chose the best ;
So perelous outlawes as they were,
Walked not by easte nor west.
When the kynge this letter had red,
In hys harte he syghed sore :
Take up the table anone he bad.
For I may eat no more.
The kyng called hys best archars
To the buttes wyth hym to go :
I wyll se these felowes shote, he sayd,
In the north have wrought this wo.
The kynges bowmen buske them blyve.
And the queues archers also ;
So dyd these thre wyght yemen ;
With them they thought to go.
There twyse or thryse they shote about,
For to assay theyr hande ;
There was no shote these yemen shot.
That any pry eke myght them stand.
Then spake Wyllyam of Cloudesl^;
By him that for me dyed,
I hold hym never no good archar.
That shuteth at buttes so wyde.
Whereat ? then sayd our kyng,
I pray thee tell me.
At suche a but, syr, he sayd,
As men use in my countree.
Wyllyam went into a fyeld,
And his to brethren with him.
There they set up to hasell roddes,
Twenty score paces betwene.
I hold him an arch, of Northamptoi.shiro, descended of
the ancient Baions of Uokeby.' It was first published, from
wliat Sir Walter calls ' an inaccurate MS., not corrected very
happily,' in Wliitaker's ' Ilistory of Craven ;' from whence
it was transferred, 'with some well-judged conjectural im-
provements,' to Evans's ' Old I allads.' But Hir Walter con-
siders that Mr. Rokeby's MS. furnishes ' a more authenti-
cated and full, though still imperfect, edition of this humor-
ous composition." ' It is,' he says, ' one of the very best of
the ancient minstrel's mock romances, and has no small
portion of comic humour. Ralph Rokeby, who, for the
jest's sake apiiarently, bestowed this intractable animal on
the convent of Richmond, seems to have flourished in the
time of Henry VII., which, since we know not the date of
Friar Theobald's Wardenship, to which the poem refers,
may indicate that of the composition itself.' It has been
suggested to the Editor, by Mr. Dixon, his obligjitions to
whom he has more than once had the pleasure of acknow-
ledging, that ' the ballad is jirobably the effusion of some
waggish monk of Sawlaye, or IJolton, who wished to ridicule
the Benedictines of Richmond The language, Mr. Uixon
says, is that of the mountain district of Craven, in the
West Riding of Yorkshire, as spoken by the inhabitants In
the present day.' Stanza 22 is defective in the original.]
E men that will of aunters winne,
That late within this laud hath bt'oue,
Of one I will you tell ;
And of a sow that was sea Strang ;
Alas ! that ever she lived sea lang,
For fell folk did she whell.
N N 2
324 THE FELON SOW OF ROKEBY AND
She was mare than other three,
The grishcst beast that ere might be,
Uer head was great aud gray :
She was bred in Rokeby wood,
There were few that thither goed.
That came on hve awav.
Her walk was endlong Greta side ;
There was no bren that durst her bide.
That was t'rae heaven to hell ;
Nor never man that had that might,
That ever durst come in her sight.
Her force it was so fell.
Ralph of Rokeby, with good will,
The fryers of Richmond gave her till.
Full well to garre them fare ;
Fryar Middleton by his name,
He was sent to fetch her hame.
That rued him sine full sarc.
With him tooke he wicht men two,
Peter Dale was one of thoe,
That ever was brim as beare ;
And well durst strike with sword and knife.
And fight full manly for his life.
What time as mister ware.
These three men went at God's will,
This wicked sew while they came till,
Liggan under a tree ;
Rugg and rusty was her haire ;
She raise up with a felon fare.
To ficht ajjainst the three.
She was so grisely for to meete,
She rave the earth up with her feete.
And bark came fro the tree ;
When Fryar Middleton her saugh,
Wcet ye well he might not laugh,
Full earnestly look't hee.
THE FRIARS OF RICHMOND. 325
Those men of aiinters that was so wight,
They bound them bauldly for to fight.
And strike at her full sare :
Until a kiln they garred her flee.
Wold God send them the victory.
They wold ask him rioa mare.
The sew was in the kiln hole down,
As they were on the balke aboon.
For hurting of their feet ;
They were so saulted with this sew,
That among them was a stalworth stew,
The kiln began to reeke.
Durst noe man neigh her with his hand.
But put a rape down with his wand.
And haltered her full meete ;
They hurled her forth against her will.
Whiles they came into a hill
A little fro the street.
And there she made them such a fray ;
If they should live to Doomes-day,
They tharrow it ne'er forgett ;
She braded upon every side,
And ran on them gaping full wide.
For nothing would she lett.
She gave such brades at the band
That Peter Dale had in his hand.
He might not hold his feet ;
She chafed them to and fro.
The wight men was never soe woe.
Their measure was not so meete.
She bound her boldly to abide ;
To Peter Dale she came aside.
With many a hideous yell ;
She gaped soe wide aiul cried soe hee,
The Fryar scid, I conjiu'c thee.
Thou art a fiend of hell.
32G THE FELON SOW OF ROKEBY AND
Thou art come hither for some trainc,
I conjure thee to go agavne
AVherc thou Avast ucnt to dwell.
He sayiicd him with crosse and creede,
Took forth a hooke, began to reade
In St. John his gospell.
The sew she would not Latin heare.
But rudely rushed at the Frear,
That blinked all his blee ;
And when she would have taken her hold,
The Fryar leaped as Jesus wold,
And healed him with a tree.
She was as brim as any beare,
For all their meate to labour there.
To them it was no boote :
Upon trees and bushes that by her stood.
She ranged as she was wood.
And rave them up by roote.
He sayd, Alas! that I was Frear !
And I shall be rugged in suuder here,
PLird is my destinie !
Wist my brethren in this houre.
That I was sett in such a stoure,
They would pray for me.
This wicked beast that wrought this woe,
Tooke that rape from the other two,
And then they tledd all three ;
They tledd away by Watling-strcet,
They had no succour but their feet.
It was the more pity.
The feild it was both lost and woune ;
The sew went hame, and that full soone.
To Morton on the Greene ;
When Ralph of Rokeby saw the rape,
He wist that there had been debate.
Whereat the sew had beene.
He bad them stand out of her vfay,
For she had had a sudden fray, —
I saw never so keene ;
Some new things shall we heare
Of her and Middleton the Frear,
Some battell hath there beene.
But all that served him for nought,
Had they not better succour sought.
They were served therfore loe.
Then ^listress Rokeby came anon,
And for her brought shee meate full soone,
The sew came here unto.
She gave her meate upon the flower,
When Fryar Middleton came home.
His brethren was full faine ilkone.
And thanked God of his life ;
He told them all unto the end,
How he had foughten with a fiend.
And lived through mickle strife.
We gave her battell half a day.
And sithen was fain to fly away.
For saving of our life ;
And Peter Dale would never blinn,
But as fast as he could ryn.
Till he came to his wife.
The warden said, I am full of woe,
That ever ye should be torment so.
But wee with you had beene !
Had wee been there your brethren all.
Wee should have garred the warle fall,
That wrought you all this teyne.
328 THE FELON SOW OF ROKEBY AND
Fryar Middleton said soon. Nay,
In faith you would have fled away.
When most mister had heen ;
You will all speake words at hame,
A man would ding you every ilk ane.
And if it be as I weine.
He look't so griesly all that night.
The warden said, You man will fight
If you say ought hut good ;
Yon guest hath grieved him so sare.
Hold your tongues and speake noe mare.
He looks as he were woode.
The warden waged on the morne,
Two boldest men that ever were borne,
I weine, or ever shall be ;
The one was Gilbert Griffin's son.
Full mickle worship has he wonue.
Both by land and sea.
The other was a bastard son of Spain,
Many a Sarazin hath he slain.
His dint hath gart them die.
These two men the battle undertooke.
Against the sew, as says the booke.
And sealed security.
That they should boldly bide and fight,
And skomfit her in maine and might,
Or therefore should they die.
The warden sealed to them againe.
And said, In field if ye be slain.
This condition make I :
We shall for you pray, sing, and read
To doomesday with hearty speede.
With all our progeny.
Then the letters well was made.
Bands bound with scales brade.
As deedes of armes should be.
THE FRIARS OF RICHMOND. 329
These men of armes that were so wight.
With armour and with brandes bright.
They went this sew to see ;
She made on them slike a rerd,
That for her they were sare afer'd.
And ahnost bound to flee.
She came roveing them againe ;
That saw the bastard son of Spaine,
He braded out his brand ;
Full spiteously at her he strake.
For all the fence that he could m.ake.
She gat sword out of hand ;
And rave in sunder half his shielde.
And bare him backward in the feilde.
He might not her gainstand.
She would have riven his privich geare,
But Gilbert with his sword of werre.
He strake at her full strong.
On her shoulder till she held the swerd ;
Then was good Gilbert sore afer'd.
When the blade brake in thron";.
Since in his hands he hath her tane.
She tooke him by the shoulder bane.
And held her hold full fast.
She strave so stiffly in that stower.
That through all his rich armour
The blood came at the last.
Then Gilbert grieved was sae sare.
That he rave ofl" both hide and haire,
The flesh came fro the bone ;
And with all force he felled her there.
And wanu her worthily in werre.
And band her him alone.
And lift her on a horse sea hce.
Into two panicrs well-made of a tre.
And to Richmond th^y did hay :
When they saw her come,
They sang merrily Te Deum,
The Fryers on that day.
330 THE FELON SOW OF ROKEBY, &c.
They thanked God and St. Francis,
As they had won the best of pris.
And never a man was slaine ;
There did never a man more manly,
Knight Marcus, nor yett Sir Gui,
Nor Loth of Louthyane.
If ye will any more of this,
Li the Fryers of Richmond 'tis
In parchment good and fine ;
And how Fryar Middelton that was so kend.
At Greta-bridge conjured a feind
In likeness of a swine.
It is well known to many a man.
That Fryar Theobald was warden than.
And this fell in his time ;
And Christ them bless both farre and nearc.
All that for solace list this to heare.
And him that made the rhime.
Ralph Rokeby with full good-will,
The Fryers of Richmond he gave her till,
This sew to mend their fare :
Fryar Middleton by his name.
Would needs bring the fat sew hame,
That rued liim since full sare.
[Tliis ballad is taken from Percy's 'Reliques.' ' It can.
not be denied,' says the Doctor, 'but that a great part of it
Jjil IS modern.' ' It may be safely denied, however,' says Ritson,
('Ancient Songs and Ballads,' i. xxxi.) 'that the least part
of it is ancient.' The reader will probably agree with the
Clitic, particularly as no mention is made by Dr. Percy of
its existing, in any shape or form, in his Folio MS. ' The
incidents,' he says, ' are chiefly taken from the old story-
book of the • Seven Champions of Christendom,* written
by ' one Richard Johnson, who lived in the reigns of Eliza-
beth and'janics ; which, though now the plaything of chil-
dren, was formerly in high repute.' As to St. George him-
self, • whose martial history is allowed to be apocryphal,'
his very existence has been doubted. The reader who de-
sires to investigate the matter, may consult Pcttingal's' Dis-
sertation on the Origin of the Equestrian Figure of the
(icorge and of the Garter,' London, I75;>; and Milner's
' Historical 'and Critical Enquiry into the Existence and
Character of Saint George,' &C., London 1792.]
ISTEN lords, in bower and hall,
I sing the wonderous birth
Of brave St. George, whose valorous arm
Rid monsters from the earth.
Distressed ladies to relieve
He travel!' d many a day,
In honour of the Christian faith,
Which shall endure for aye.
In Coventry some time did dwell
A knight of worthj' fame.
High steward of this noble realnie ;
Lord Albret was his name.
He had to wife a princely dame,
Wliose beauty did excell.
This virtuous lady, being with child,
In sudden sadness fell.
For thirty nights no sooner sleep
Had clos'd her wakeful eyes.
But, lo ! a foul and fearful dream
Her fancy would surprize :
She dreamt a dragon fierce and fell
Conceiv'd within her womb ;
Whose mortal fangs her body rent
Ere he to life could come.
All woe-bcgone, and sad was she ;
She nourisht constant woe :
Yet strove to hide it from her lord.
Lest he should sorrow know.
In vaine she strove ; her tender lord.
Who watch' d her slightest look.
Discover' d soon her secret pain,
And soon that pain partook.
And when to him the fearful cause
She weeping did impart,
W^ith kindest speech he strove to heal
The anguish of her heart.
Be comforted, my lady dear.
Those pearly drops refrain ;
Betide me weal, betide me woe,
I'll try to ease thy pain.
And for this foul and fearful dream,
That causeth all thy woe.
Trust me I'll travel far away
But I'll the meanii)"- knowe.
THE BIRTH OF ST. GEORGE. 333
Then gmng many a fond embrace,
And shedding many a teare,
To the weird lady of the woods,
He purpos'd to repaire.
To the weird lady of the woods.
Full long and many a day,
Thro' lonely shades and thickets rough
He winds his weary way.
At length he reach' d a dreary dell
With dismal yews o'erhung ;
Where cypress spred its mournful boughs.
And poisonous nightshade sprung.
No chearful gleams here pierc'd the gloom.
He heard no chearful sound ;
But shrill night-ravens' yelling scream.
And serpents hissing round.
The shriek of fiends and damned ghosts
Ran howling thro' his ear;
A chilling horror froze his heart,
Tho' all unus'd to fear.
Three times he strives to win his way,
And pierce those sickly dews :
Three times to bear his trembling corse
His knocking knees refuse.
At length upon his beating breast
He signs the holy crosse ;
And, rouzing up his wonted might,
He treads th' unhallow'd mosse.
Beneath a pendant craggy cliff.
All vaulted like a grave.
And opening in the solid rock.
He found the inchanted cave.
An iron gate clos'd up the mouth.
All hideous and forlorne ;
And, fasten' d by a silver chain.
Near hung a l)razed home.
Their offering up a secret prayer.
Three times he blowes amaine :
Three times a deep and hollow sound
Did answer him againe.
334 THE BIRTH OF ST. GEORGE.
" Sir Knight, thy lady heares a son,
"Who, hke a dragon hright,
Shall prove most dreadful to his foes.
And terrible in fight.
His name advanc'd in future times
On banners shall be worn :
But lo ! thy lady's life must passe
Before he can be born."
All sore opprest with fear and doubt
Long time lord Albret stood ;
At length he winds his doubtful way
Back thro' the dreary wood.
Eager to clasp his lovely dame
Then fast he travels back :
But when he reach' d his castle gate,
His gate was hung with black.
In every court and hall he found
A sullen silence reigne ;
Save where, amid the lonely towers,
He heard her maidens' plaine ;
And bitterly lament and weep.
With many a grievous grone :
Then sore his bleeding heart misgave.
His lady's life was gone.
With faultering step he enters in.
Yet half afraid to goe ;
With trembling voice asks why they grieve,
Yet fears the cause to knowe.
"Three times the sun hath rose and set ;"
They said, then stopt to weep :
" Since heaven hath laid thy lady deare
In death's eternal sleep.
" For, ah ! in travel sore she fell,
So sore that she must dye ;
Unless some shrewd and cunning leech
Could ease her presentlye.
But when a cunning leeche was fet.
Too soon declared he.
She, or her babe must lose its life ;
Both saved could not be.
THE BIRTH OF ST. GEORGE. 335
Now take my life, thy lady said,
My little infant save :
And O commend me to my lord,
When I am laid in grave.
O tell him how that precious babe
Cost him a tender wife ;
And teach my son to lisp her name.
Who died to save his life.
Then calling still upon thy name,
And praying still for thee ;
Without repining or complaint.
Her gentle soul did flee."
What tongue can paint lord Albret's woe.
The bitter tears he shed,
The bitter pangs that wrung his heart.
To find his lady dead ?
He beat his breast : he tore his hair ;
And shedding many a tear.
At length he askt to sec his son ;
The son that cost so dear.
New sorrowe seiz'd the damsells all :
At length they faultering say ;
" Alas ! my lord, how shall we tell ?
Thy son is stoln away.
Fair as the sweetest flower of spring,
Such was his infant mien :
And on his little body stampt
Three wondrous marks were seen :
A blood red cross was on his arm ;
A di'agon on his breast ;
A little garter all of gold
Was round his leg exprest.
Three carefuU nurses we provide
Our little lord to keep :
One gave him sucke, one gave him food.
And one did lull to sleep.
But lo ! all in the dead of night,
We heard a fearful sound :
Loud thunder clapt ; the castle shook ;
And lightninc; flasht around.
336 THE BIRTH OF ST. GEORGE.
Dead with affright at first we lay ;
But rousing up anon.
We ran to see our Httle lord :
Our little lord was gone !
But how or where we coixld not tell ;
For lying on the ground, •
In deep and magic slumbers laid.
The nurses there we found.
O grief on grief ! lord Albret said :
No more his tongue cou'd say.
When falling in a deadly swoone,
Long time he hfeless lay.
At length restor'd to life and sense
He nourisht endless woe.
No future joy his heart could taste.
No future comfort know.
So withers on the mountain top
A fair and stately oake.
Whose vigorous arms are borne away
By some rude thunder-stroke.
At length the castle irksome grew,
He loathes his wonted home ;
His native country he forsakes.
In foreign lands to roame.
There uji and downe he wandered far,
Clad in a palmer's govni :
Till his brown locks grew white as wool,
His beard as thistle down.
At length, all wearied, down in death
He laid his reverend head.
Meantime amid the lonely wilds
His little son was bred.
There the weird lady of the woods
Had home him far away.
And train'd him up in feates of amies.
And every martial play.
[This ballad is taken from ' The Crown Garland of Golden
Roses,' Part II., as reprinted, by the Percy Society, from the
rars edition of 1059 ; the author of which was Richard John-
son, mentioned,- p. 331, as the author of ' The Seven Cham-
pions of Christendom.' The full title of it is as follows : —
' The story of 111 May-Day in the time of King Henry
the Eighth, and why it was so called : and how Queen
Katherine begged the lives of Two Thousand London
'Prentices. To the tune of 'Essex's Good Night." It
was inserted in the ' Collection of Old Ballads,' London,
172.3 ; in Evans's ' Old Ballads,' and in ' Songs of the
London 'Prentices,' which has also been reprhited by the
Percy Society. It is stated in Evans to be founded on a
fact which happened on the May-eve of the year 1.517,
the 8th of Henry the Eighth's reign, of which he gives a
detailed account, a summary of which will be found
in the note, p. 341. The reader of ' The Fortunes of
Nigel' will not fail to recognise in Jin Vin and his fellows
the worthy successors of the London 'Prentices of ' 111 May-
Day.']
ERIJSE tlie stories of this land,
And with advisement mark the same ;
And you shall justly understand
How ill May-day first got the name.
For when King Henry Eighth did reigii,
And rul'd our famous kingdom here ;
His royal (jueen lie had from Spain,
With whom he liv'd full many a year.
00
338 ILL MAY-DAY.
Queen Katherine named, as stories tell.
Sometime his elder brother's wife.
By which unlawful marriage fell
An endless trouble during hfe.
But such kind love he still conceiv'd
Of his fair queen, and of her friends,
"Which being by Spain and France perceiv'd.
Their journeys fast for England bends.
And with good leave were suffered
Within our kingdom here to stay ;
Which multitudes made victuals dear.
And all things else from day to day.
For strangers then did so increase.
By reason of King Henry's queen;
And privilege in many a place
To dwell, as was in Loudon seen.
Poor tradesmen had small dealing then.
And who but strangers bore the bell ?
Which was a grief to EngUshmen,
To see them here in London dwell.
Wlierefore, God wot, upon May Eve,
As prentices on maying went.
Who made the magistrates believe
At all to have no other intent.
But such a May-game it was known.
As like in London never were.
For by the same full many a one,
With loss of life did pay full dear.
For thousands came with Bilboa blade.
As with an army they could meet ;
And such a bloody slaughter made.
Of foreign strangers in the street.
That all the channels ran down with blood
In every street where they remain' d ;
Yea, every one in danger stood.
That any of their part maintain'd.
The rich, the poor, the old, the young,
Beyond the seas though born and bred,
By prentices there suffered wrong.
When armed thus they gathered head.
ILL MAY DAY. 339
Such multitudes together went.
No warhke troops could them withstand ;
Nor yet by policy them prevent.
What they by force thus took in hand :
Till at the last King Henry's power
This multitude encompass' d round,
Where with the strength of London's tower,
They were by force suppress' d and bound.
And hundreds hang'd, by martial law.
On sign-posts at their master's doors.
By which the rest were kept in awe,
And frighted from such loud uproars.
And others which the fact repented,
(Two thousand prentices at last),
Were all unto the king presented.
As mayors and magistrates thought best.
With two and two together tied.
Through Temple-Bar and Strand they go.
To Westminster, there to be tried.
With ropes about their necks also.
But such a cry in every street
Till then was never heard nor known.
By mothers for their children sweet.
Unhappily thus overthrown.
Whose bitter moans and sad laments
Possess the court with trembling fear;
Whereat the queen herself relents,
Though it concern'd her country dear.
What if, quoth she, by Spanish Ijlood
Have London's stately streets been wet.
Yet will I seek this country's good.
And pardon for these young men get.
Or else the world will speak of me,
And say Queen Katherine was unkind ;
And judge me still the cause to be,
These yotmg men did these fortunes find.
And so, disrob'd from rich attires,
With hair hang'd down, she sadly hies.
And of her gracious lord requires
A boon, which hardly he denies,
o o
340 ILL MAY-DAY.
" The lives," (quoth she), " of all the blooms
Yet budding green, these youths T crave ;
O, let them not have timeless tombs.
For nature longer limits gave !"
In saying so, the pearled tears
Fell trickling from her princely eyes,
Whereat his gentle queen he cheers,
And says, " Stand up, sweet lady, rise !
The lives of them I freely give,
No means this kindness shall debar.
Thou hast thy boon, and they may live
To serve me in my Boulogne war."
No sooner was this pardon given.
But peals of joy rung through the hall.
As though it thunder' d down from heaven.
The queen's renown amongst them all.
For which, (kind queen), with joyful heart.
She gave to them both thanks and praise.
And so from them did gently part.
And liv'd beloved all her days :
And when King Henry stood in need
Of trusty soldiers at command.
These prentices prov'd men indeed,
And fear'd no foes of warlike band.
For at the siege of Tours, in France,
They showed themselves brave Englishmen
At Boulogne too they did advance
Saint George's lusty standard then.
Let Tourcnne, Tournay, and those towns
That good King Henry nobly won,
Tell London's prentices' renowns.
And of their deeds by them were done.
For ill May-day, and ill May-games,
Perform'd in young and tender days.
Can be no hindrance to their fames.
Or strains of manhood any ways.
But now it is ordain'd by law.
We see on May-day's eve at night.
To keep unruly youths in awe.
By London's watch in armour bright.
ILL MAY-DAY.
341
Still to prevent the like misdeed,
Which once through headstrong young men came ;
And that's the cause that I do read.
May-day doth get so ill a name.
[The following is a summary of the account, mentioned in the Introduetory Note as being given
in Evans's ' Old Ballads,' of the ' fact' upon which this ballad is founded. Two apprentices of
London, playing in the streets about eleven o'clock on the May-eve of the year 1517, in contraven-
tion of an order issued some time previously, requiring all persons to be within doors by nine at
night, the alderman of the ward came to arrest them. The apprentices resisted, and by their cries
brought so many of their fellows to their assistance, that the alderman was forced to fly. Encou-
raged by this, and by the increase of their numbers, they hastened to the prisons, and delivered
those who had been committed for abusing strangers ; many of whom were at that time settled in
England, with particular privileges, to the injury, as was then thought, of the native inhabitants.
The Lord Mayor and Sheriffs being unable to restrain them by persuasion or force, they made a
furious rush to the house of a very rich foreigner, whom, as he was a great trader, they particu-
larly hated, broke open his doors, killed every one they met with there, and rifled all the goods •
and In other places they committed divers outrages. At length the Earls of Shrewsbury and Surrey'
with the assistance of the inns of court men, cleared the streets of the rioters, and took numbers of
them prisoners. Two hundred and seventy-eight were found guilty ; but, through the intercession
of Queen Katherine, not above twelve or fifteen suffered death, the remainder being ordered to
appear before the King at Westminster, in white shirts, and halters about their necks ; whom the
King eventually pardoned.]
UM l^i§)imti^ ®ir E®mliti9)m«
[This liallad is taken from ' The Local Historian's Table-
Ijdiik,' wliere it is given as 'revised by the autlior,' the
Ucv J. Watsrm .having, apparently, been tirst published
in 'Tail's Edinburgh Magazine.' It is founded upon a
f.imily legend,' current in the County of Durham, ' the
,«K»J
Pry.,
If,
X. ^>^^'
*TO authority of which,' says Mr. Brockett, in his ' Glossary of
1 Vortti Country U'ords," ' the inhabitants will not allow to be
i|Uo^tiiined.' ' The lapse of three centuries,' he adds, ' has so
/ completely enveloped in obscurity the particular details, that
it is impossible to give a narration which could in any degree
be considered as complete.' In the Table-book,' however, is
given a ' history,' said to have been ' gleaned with much
patient and laborious investigation, from the viva voce nar-
^^ rations of sundry of the elders of both sexes on the banks of
"^ the Wear, in the immediate neighbourhood of the scene of
action.' This ' history' is almost identical with the story of
the ballad ; the allusions in which will be found explained
in the notes. With regard to the origin of the Legend,
which has been ' preserved and repeated almost without
variation for centuries,' it is conjectured in the ' Table-
boolc' to have ' arisen from the circumstance of an invasion
from a foreign foe, some successful chieftain, with well-dis-
t ciplined bands, destroying and laying waste with fire and
~\i sword, whose advance over unequal ground would convey to
\ the fiars of the peasantry the ai)pearance of a rolling ser-
' \ pent,; and the power of re-uniting is readily accounted for
^v. by the ordinary evolutions of military tactics. And by the
knight's 'destroying this legion by his single arm,' is sup-
y, posed to be signified that he was ' the head and chief in the
\\ onslaught.']
THE SINNING.
T is the joyful Easter morn,
And tlic bells ring loud and clear.
Sounding the holy day of rest
Through the quiet vale of Wear.
THE WORME OF LAMBTON. 343
Forth at its sound, from his stately hall.
Hath the Lord of Lambton come.
With knight and squire in rich attire.
Page, seneschal, and groom.
The white-hair' d peasant and his dame.
Have left their woodland cot ;
Children of toil and poverty,
Their cares and toil forgot.
And buxom youth and bashful maid.
In holiday array.
Thro' verdant glade and greenwood shade,
To Brigford bend their way.
And soon within its sacred dome
Their wandering steps are stayed ;
The bell is rung, the mass is sung,
And the solemn prayer isT)rayed.
But why did Lambton' s youthful heir.
Not mingle with the throng ?
And why did he not bend his knee.
Nor join in the holy song ?
O, Lambton' s heir is a wicked man !
Alike in word and deed ;
He makes a jest of psalm and priest.
Of the Ave and the Creed.
He loves the fight, he loves the chase ;
He loves each kind of sin ;
But the holy church, from year to year.
He is not found within.
And Lambton's heir, at the matin prayer.
Or the vesper, is not seen ;
And on this day of rest and peace
He hath donned his coat of green ;
And with his creel slimg on his back.
His light rod in his hand,
Down by the side of the shady Wear
He took his lonely stand. *
There was no sound but the rushing stream,
The little birds were still,
As if they knew that Lambton's heir.
Was doing a deed of ill.
344 THE WORME OF LAMBTON.
Many a salmon and speckled trout
Through the quiet waters glide ;
But they all sought the deepest pools.
Their golden scales to hide.
The soft west wind just rippled the brook,
And the clouds flew gently by,
And gleamed the sun, — 'twas a lovely day
To the eager fisher's eye.
He threw his line, of the costly twine.
Across the gentle stream ;
Upon its top the dun-flies drop
Lightly as childhood's dream.
Again, again, — but all in vain.
In the shallow or the deep ;
No trout rose to his cunning bait ;
He heard%o salmon leap.
And now he wandered east the stream.
And now he wandered west ;
He sought each bank or hanging bush.
Which fishes love the best.
But vain was all his skilful art ;
Vain was each deep disguise ;
Vain was alike the varied bait,
And vain the mimic flies.
When, tired and vexed, the castle bell.
Rung out the hour of dine,
"Now," said the Lambton's youthful heir,
*' A weary lot is mine.
For six long hours, this April mom,
My line in vain I've cast ;
But one more throw ; come weal come wo.
For this shall be the last."
He took from his bag a maggot worm.
That bait of high renown ;
His line is wheeled quickly through the air.
Then smik in the water down.
When he drew it out, liis ready hand
With no quivering motion shook.
For neither salmon, trout nor ged.
Had fastened on his hook.
THE WORME OF LAMBTON. 345
But a little thing, a strange formed thing,
Like a piece of muddy weed ;
But hke no fish that swims the stream.
Nor ought that crawls the mead.
'Twas scarce an inch and a half in length.
Its colour the darkest green ;
And on its rough and scaly back
Two little fins were seen.
It had a long and pointed snout,
Like the mouth of the slimy eel,
And its white and loosely hanging jaws,
Twelve pin-like teeth reveal.
It had sharp claws upon its feet,
Short ears upon its head,
A jointed tail, and quick brjght eyes.
That gleamed of a fiery red.
" Art thou the prize," said the weary wight,
" For which I have spent my time ;
For which I have toil'd till the hour of noon,
Since rang the matin chime ?"
From the side" of the dell, a crystal well
Sends its waters bubbhng by ;
" Rest there, thou ugly tiny elf.
Either to live or die."
He threw it in, and when next he came.
He saw, to his surprise.
It was a foot and a half in length ;
It had grown so much in size.
And its vdngs were long, far-sti etched and strong.
And redder were its eyes.
THE CURSE.
But Lambton's heir is an altered man ;
At the church on bended knee,
Three times a day he was wont to pray ;
And now he's beyond the sea.
He has done penance for his sins.
He has drank of a sainted well,
He has joined the band from the Holy Land
To chase the infidel.
346 THE WORME OF LAMBTON.
Where host met host, and strife raged most,
His sword flashed high and bright ;
WTiere force met force, he winged his course.
The foremost in the fight.
Where he saw on high th' Oriflamme fly.
His onward path he bore.
And the Paynim Knight, and the Saracen,
Lay weltering in their gore.
Or in the joust, or tournament.
Of all that valiant band,
When, with lance in rest, he forward prest.
Who could the shock withstand ?
Pure was his fame, unstained his shield ;
A merciful man was he ;
The friend of the weak, he raised not his hand
'Gainst a fallen enemy.
Thus on the plains of Palestine,
He gained a mighty name,
And, full of honour and renown.
To the home of his childhood came.
But when he came to his father's lands.
No cattle were grazing there ;
The grass in the mead was unmown and rough.
And the fields untilled and bare.
And when he came to his father's hall.
He wondered what might ail ;
His sire but coolly welcomed him.
And his sisters' cheeks were pale.
" I come from the fight," said the Red-Cross Knight
" I in savage lands did roam ;
But where'er it be, they welcome me.
Save in my own loved home.
" Now why, now why, this frozen cheer ?
What is it that may ail ?
Why tremble thus my father dear ? —
My sister, why so pale ?'*
" O! sad and woful has been our lot.
Whilst thou wast far away ;
For a mighty dragon hath hither come
And taken up its stay ;
At night or morn it sleepeth not.
But watcheth for its prey.
THE WORME OF LAMBTON. 347
'Tis ten cloth yards in length ; its hue
Is of the darkest green ;
And on its rough and scaly back.
Two strong black wings are seen.
It hath a long and pointed snout.
Like the mighty crocodile ;
And, from its grinning jaws, stand out
Its teeth in horrid file.
It hath on each round and webbed foot
Four sharp and hooked claws ;
And its jointed tail, with heavy trail,
Over the groimd it draws.
It hath two rough and hairy ears
Upon its bony head ;
Its eyes shine like the winter sun.
Fearful, and darkly red.
Its roar is loud as the thunder's sound.
But shorter, and more shrill ;
It rolls, with many a heavy bound.
Onward from hill to hill.
And each mom, at the matin chime,
It seeks the lovely Wear;
And, at the noontide bell.
It gorges its fill, then seeks the hill
Where springs the crystal well.
No knight has e'er returned who dared
The monster to assail.
Though he struck off an ear or limb,
Or lopt its jointed tail.
Its severed limbs again unite.
Strong as the iroa mail.
My horses, and sheep, and all my kine,
The ravenous beast hath killed ;
With oxen and deer, from far and near,
Us hungry maw is filled.
'Tis hence the mead is unmown and long,
And the corn-fields are untilled.
My son, to hail thee here in health.
My very heart is glad ;
But thou hast hoard our tale— and say,
Canst thou wonder that we're sad ?"
348 THE WORME OF LAMBTON.
THE ASSOILING.
And sorrowful was Lambton's heir :
"My sinful act," said he,
" This curse hath on the country brought ;
Be it mine to set it free."
Deep in the dell, in a ruined hut.
Far from the homes of men,
There dwellt a witch the peasants called
Old Elspat of the Glen.
'Twas a dark night, and the stormy wind
Howled with a hollow moan.
As through tangled copsewood, bush, and briar.
He sought the aged crone. ,
She sat on a low and three-legged stool.
Beside a dying fire ;
As he lifted the latch she stirred the brands.
And the smoky flames blazed higher.
She was a woman weak and old.
Her form was bent and thin ;
And on her lean and shrivelled hand.
She rested her pointed chin.
He entered with fear, that dauntless man.
And spake of all his need ;
He gave her gold ; he asked her aid.
How best he might succeed.
"Clothe thee," said she, " in armour bright,
In mail of glittering sheen.
All studded o'er, behind and before.
With razors sharp and keen :
" And take in thy hand the trusty brand
Which thou bore beyond the sea ;
And make to the Virgin a solemn vow.
If she grant thee \-ictory.
What meets thee first, when the strife is o'er.
Her offering shall be."
He went to the fight, in armour bright
Equipped from head to heel ;
His gorget closed, and his vizor shut.
He seemed a form of steel.
THE WORME OF LAMBTON. 349
But with razor blades, all sharp and keen.
The mail was studded o'er ;
And his long tried and trusty brand
In his greaved hand he bore.
He made to the Virgin a solemn vow.
If she granted victory.
What met him first on his homeward path
Her sacrifice should be.
He told his sire, when he heard the horn,
To slip his favourite hound ;
"'Twill quickly seek its master's side
At the accustomed sound."
Forward he trod, with measured step.
To meet his foe, alone.
While the first beams of the morning sun
On his massy armour shone.
The monster slept on an island crag.
Lulled by the rustling Wear,
Which eddy'd turbid at the base
Though elsewhere smooth and clear.
It lay in repose ; its wings were flat.
Its ears fell on its head.
Its legs stretched out, and drooped its snout.
But his eyes were fiery red.
Little feared he, that armed knight.
As he left the rocky shore ;
And in his hand prepared for fight.
His unsheathed sword he bore.
As he plunged in, the waters' splash
The monster startling hears ;
It spread its wings, and the valley rings.
Like the clash of a thousand spears.
It bristled up its scaly back,
Curled high its jointed tail.
And ready stood with grinning teeth.
The hero to assail ;
Then sprung at the knight with all its might.
And its foamy teeth it gnashed ;
With its jointed tail, like a thrasher's flail.
The flinty rocks it lashed.
350 THE WORME OF LAMBTON.
But quick of eye, and swift of foot.
He guarded the attack ;
And dealt his brand with skilful hand
Upon the dragon's back.
Again, again, at the knight it flew ;
The fight was long and sore ;
He bravely stood, nor dropped his sword
Till he could strike no more.
It rose on high, and darkened the sky.
Then with a hideous yell,
A moment winnowed th' air with its wings.
And down like a mountain fell.
He stood prepared for the falling blow.
But mournful was his fate ;
Awhile he reeled, then, staggering, fell
Beneath the monster's weight.
And round about its prostrate foe
Its fearful length it rolled.
And clasped him close, till his armour cracked
Within its scaly fold.
But pierced by the blades, from body and breast,
Fast did the red blood pour ;
Cut by the blades, piece fell by piece,
And quivered in the gore.
Piece fell by piece, foot fell by foot :
No more is the river clear.
But stained with blood, as the severed limbs
Rolled down the rushing Wear.
Piece fell by piece, and inch by inch.
From the body and the tail ;
But the head still hung by the gory teeth
Tight fastened in the mail.
It panted long, and fast it breathed.
With many a bitter groan ;
Its eyes grew dim, it loosed its hold.
And fell like a lifeless stone.
Then lo\id he blew on his bugle-horn,
The blast of victory ;
From rock to rock the sound was borne.
By Echo, glad and free ;
For, burdened long by the dragon's roar,
She joy'd in her hberty.
THE WORME OF LAMBTON. 351
But not his hound, with gladdened bound.
Comes leaping at the call ;
With feelings dire, he sees his sire
Rush from his ancient hall.
! what caji equal a father's love,
When harm to his son he fears ;
'Tis stronger than a sister's sigh,
More deep than a mother's tears.
When Lambton's anxious listening lord
Heard the bugle notes so wild,
He thought no more of his plighted word.
But ran to clasp his child.
" Strange is my lot," said the luckless wight,
"How sorrow and joy combine !
When high in fame to my home I came.
My kindred did weep and pine.
This mom my triumph sees, and sees
Dishonour light on me :
For I had vowed to the Holy Maid,
If she gave me victory.
What first I met, when the fight was o'er.
Her offering should be.
1 thought to have slain my gallant hound.
Beneath my unwilling knife :
But I cannot raise my hand on him
Who gave my being life 1"
And heavy and sorrowful was his heart,
And he hath gone again
To seek advice of the wise woman,
Old Elspat of the Glen.
" Since thy solemn vow is unfulfilled.
Though greater be thy fame.
Thou must a lofty chapel build
To the Virgin Mary's name.
On nine generations of thy race,
A heavy curse shall fall :
They may die in the fight, or in the chase.
But not in their native hall."
352 THE WORME OF LAMBTON.
He builded there a chapel fair,
And rich endowment made,
Where morn and eve, by cowled monk,
In sable garb arrayed,
The bell was rung, the mass was sung,
And the solemn prayer was. said.
L ENVOY.
Such is the tale which, in ages past.
On the dreary winter's eve.
In baron's hall, the harper blind.
In wildest strain, would weave ;
Till the peasants, trembling, nearer crept.
And each strange event believe.
Such is the tale which often yet.
Around the Christmas fire.
Is told to the merry wassail group.
By some old dame or sire.
But though they tell that the crystal well
Still flows by the lovely Wear,
And that the hill is verdant still.
His listeners shew no fear.
And though he tell that of Lambton's race
Nine of them died at sea.
Or in the battle, or in the chase.
They shake their heads doubtingly.
And though he say there may still be seen
The mail worn by the knight,
Tho' the blades are blunt that once were keen.
And rusted that once were bright.
They do but shake their heads the more.
And laugh at him outright.
For knowledge to their view has spread
Her rich and varied store ;
They learn and read, and take no heed.
Of legendary lore.
And pure religion hath o'er them shed
A holier heavenly ray ;
And dragons and witches, and mail-clad kniglits,
Are vanished away ;
As the creatures of darkness flee and hide,
From the lieht of the dawnins: day.
THE WORME OF LAMBTON. 353
But Lambton's castle still stands by the Wear,
A tall and stately pile ;
And Lambton's name is a name of might,
'Mong the mightiest of our isle.
Long may the sun of Prosperity
Upon the Lambtons smile !
[The Worme of Lambton. — ' Orme, or Worme, is, in the ancient Norse, the generic name for
serpents.' The Italian poets, Dante, (' Inferno,' c. vi. 22,) and Ariosto, (' Orlando Furioso,' c. 46,
78,1 call the infernal serpent of old, ' il gran verme,' that great xourm ,-' and Milton, ('Paradise
Lost," Bk. ix., 1067,) makes Adam reproach Eve with having given 'ear to that false xvorm.'
Cowpei', (' Task,' Bk. vi.,) adopts the same expression: —
' ^o foe to man
Lurks in the serpent now ; the mother sees.
And smiles to see, her infant's playful hand
Strecht forth to dally with the crested worm '
Shakespeare, too, (' Cymbeline, Act iii., Sc. 4,) speaks of slander's tongue as, 'outvenoming
all the worms of Nile.' To these passages, quoted in ' The Loc:il Historian's Table-book,' may be
added the following :— Shakespeare, (' Macbeth,' Act iii., Sc. 4,) ' There ths grown serpent lies :
the wonn that's fled,' &c. Massinger, ('Parliament of Love,' Act iv., Sc 2,]
' The sad father
That sees his son stung by a snake to death,
I\Iay with more justice stay his vengeful hand,
And let the n-orm esca|ie,' &;c.
' Piers Plowman,' (iii !• Ed. 1501,) speaks of ' VVyld wormcs in woodes ;' and in the old ballad of
' Alison Gross,' (Jamieson's ' Popular Ballads and Songs,' ii. 187, Ed. 1806,) that ' ugliest witch of
the north countrie' turns one who would not be her ' lemuian sae true' into ' an ugly worm, and
gard him toddle about the tree.' The word is also used in the same sense in the ballad, entitled
'The laidly Worm of Spindlestane Heughs.'
St. 27. ' A crystal well' — ' known at this day by the name of the Worm Well."
St. 38. ' Red-Cross Knight.' According to a curious entry in an old MS. pedigree, lately in the
possession of the family of Middleton, of Offerton. ' John Lambeton that slewe ye worme was
Knight of Rhodes and Lord of Lambeton and Wod Apilton after the dethe of fower brothers,
sans esshew malic.'
St. 46. ' The hill' — still called ' The Worm Hill, a considerable oval-shaped hill, 345 yards in
circumference, and 5'2in height, about a mile and a half from old Lambton Hall.'
St. 56. ' All studded oer . . .with razors.' ' At Lambton Castle is preserved a figure, evidently
of considerable antiquity, which represents a knight, armed cap-a-pie, his vizor raised, and the
back part of his coat of mail closely inlaid with spear blades: with his left hand he holds the head
of the worm, and with his right he appears to be drawing his sword out of his throat. The worm
is not represented as a reptile, but has ears, legs, and wings.'
St. 88. If popular tradition is to be trusted, ' this prediction was fulfilled, for it holds that
during the period of ' the curse" none of the Lords of Lambton died in their beds- Be this as it
may, nine ascending generations from Henry Lambton, of Lambton, Esq., M.P., (elder brother to
the late General Lambton, would exactly reach Sir John Lambton,) Knight of Rhodes. Sir Wm.
Lambton, who was Colonel of a regiment of foot in the service of Charles I., was slain at the
bloody battle of Marston Moor, and his son William (his eldest son by his second wife) received
his death-wound at Wakefield, at the head of a troop of dragoons, in I643. The fulfilment of the
curse was inherent in the ninth of descent, andgrcat anxiety prevailed during his life-time, amongst
the hereditary depositaries of the tradition of the county, to know if the curse would hold good to
the end. He died in his chariot, crossing the New- Bridge, thus giving the last link to the chain of
circumstantial tradition connected with the history of ' The Worme of Lambton.'— i. H. Table-
book.
m M^m^^ tM I^®^i^<
[This ballad ' is said to have been written,' snys Mr.
Motherwell, (' Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern,' Glasgow,
1S27,) ' by Michael Bruce,' a young Scottish poet, who was
born at Kinnesswood, in Kinross-shire, in 1746, and died, of
consumption, in 1767, before he had completed his 22nd year.
This ' consumption' of his, says Sir Walter Scott, (Life, by
Lockhart, ch. 05,, ' has been the life of his verses.' His
poems were first published in l^'f*, by his friend the Rev.
.John Logan, author of the beautiful lines ' To the Cuckoo,'
which, however, have been claimed by some of Brace's
rilations and friends, as his. The present ballad is one of
' two modern ballads'— the other being ' Elfrida and Sir
.lames of Perth,' — which, according to Mr. Motherwell, ' have
sprung out of an old one,' bearing the same name. ' It
might be curious," he says, ' to .ascertain which of these
mournful ditties is the senior, were it for notliing else than
perfectly to enjoy the cool impudence with which the grace-
less youngster has appropriated to itself, without thanks or
acknowledgment, all the best things which occur in the
other.' That ' Elfrida and Sir James of Perth,' is a ' mourn-
ful ditty,* in more senses than one, few, probably, will be
found to deny ; but whether Bruce's ballad deserves to be so
characterised, may admit of doubt. The original ballad of
' Sir James the Rose,' as given by Motherwell, will be found
in the Appendix.]
F all the Scottish northern chiefs,
Of high and warlike name,
The bravest was Sir James the Rose,
A knicht of meikle fame.
SIR JAMES THE ROSE. 355
His growth was as the tufted fir.
That crowns the mountain's brow ;
And, waving o'er his shoulders broad.
His locks of yellow flew.
The chieftain of the brave clan Ross,
A firm undaunted band ;
Five hundred warriors drew their sword.
Beneath his high command.
In bloody fight thrice had he stood.
Against the English keen.
Ere two and twenty opening springs
This blooming youth had seen.
The fair Matilda dear he loved,
A maid of beauty rare ;
Ev'n Margaret on the Scottish throne
Was never half so fair.
Lang had he wooed, lang she refused,
With seeming scorn and pride ;
Yet aft her eyes confest the love
Her fearful words denied.
At last she blest his well-tried faith.
Allowed his tender claim :
She vowed to him her virgin heart
And owned an equal flame.
Her father, Buchan's cruel lord.
Their passion disapproved ;
And bade her wed Sir John the Graeme,
And leave the youth she loved.
Ae nicht they met, as they were wont,
Deep in a shady wood.
Where, on a bank beside a burn,
A blooming saugh-tree stood.
Concealed among the underwood.
The crafty Donald lay.
The brother of Sir John the Graeme ;
To hear what they would say.
When thus the maid began : " My sire
Your passion disapproves.
And bids me wed Sir John the Graeme ;
So here must end our loves.
p p 2
356 SIR JAMES THE ROSE.
" My father's will must be obeyed ;
Nocht boots me to withstand ;
Some fairer maid, in beauty's bloom,
Must bless thee with her hand.
" Matilda soon shall be forgot.
And from thy mind effaced :
But may that happiness be thine.
Which I can never taste."
" What do I hear? Is this thy vow ?"
Sir James the Rose replied :
" And will Matilda wed the Graeme,
Though sworn to be my bride ?
" His sword shall sooner pierce my heart
Than reave me of thy charms."
Then claspt her to his beating breast.
Fast lockt into liis arms.
" I spake to try thy love," she said ;
" I'll ne'er wed man but thee :
My grave shall be my bridal bed.
Ere Graeme my husband be.
" Take then, dear youth, this faithful kiss.
In witness of my troth ;
And every plague become my lot.
That day I break my oath ! "
They parted thus : the sun was set :
Up hasty Donald flies ;
And, " Turn thee, turn thee, beardless youth ! "
He loud insulting cries.
Soon turned about the fearless chief.
And soon his sword he drew ;
For Donald's blade, before his breast.
Had pierced his tartans through.
" This for my brother's slighted love ;
His wrongs sit on my arm."
Three paces back the youth retired.
And saved himself from harm.
Returning swift, his hand he reared,
Frae Donald's head above.
And through the brain and crashing bones
His sharp-edged weapon drove.
SIR JAMES THE ROSE. 357
He staggering reeled, then tumbling down,
A lump of breathless clay :
" So fall my foes !" quoth valiant Rose,
And stately strode away.
Through the green-wood he quickly hied.
Unto Lord Buchan's hall ;
And at Matilda's window stood,
And thus began to call :
" Art thou asleep, Matilda dear ?
Awake, my love, awake !
Thy luckless lover on thee calls,
A long farewell to take.
For I have slain fierce Donald Graeme ;
His blood is on my sword :
And distant are my faithful men.
Nor can assist their lord.
To Skye I'll now direct my way,
Where my two brothers bide,
And raise the vahant of the Isles,
To combat by my side."
" O do not so," the maid replies ;
" With me till morning stay ;
For dark and dreary is the night.
And dangerous the way.
All night I'll watch you in the park ;
My faithful page I'll send.
To run and raise the Ross's clan.
Their master to defend."
Beneath a bush he laid him down,
And wrapt him in his plaid ;
While, trembling for her lover's fate.
At distance stood the maid.
Swift ran the page o'er hill and dale.
Till, in a lonely glen.
He met the furious Sir John Graeme,
With twenty of his men.
" Where goest thou, little page ?" he said ;
" So late who did thee send ?"
" I go to raise the Ross's clan,
Their master to defend :
358 SIR JAMES THE ROSE.
" For he hath slain Sir Donald Graeme ;
His blood is on his sword :
And far, far distant are his men.
That should assist their lord."
" And has he slain my brother dear ?"
The furious Graeme replies;
" Dishonour blast my name, but he
By me, ere morning, dies !
"Tell me, where is Sir James the Rose ;
I will thee well reward."
"He sleeps into Lord Buchan's park ;
Matilda is his guard."
They spurred their steeds in furious mood.
And scoured along the lee ;
They reacht Lord Buchan's lofty towers.
By dawning of the day.
Matilda stood without the gate;
To whom the Graeme did say,
" Saw ye Sir James the Rose last night ?
Or did he pass this way ?"
" Last day, at noon," Matilda said,
" Sir James the Rose past by :
He furious prickt his sweaty steed.
And onward fast did hie.
" By this he is at Edinburgh,
If horse and man hold good."
" Your page, then, lied, who said he was
Now sleeping in the wood."
She wrung her hands, and tore her hair ;
" Brave Rose thou art betrayed ;
And ruined by those means," she cried,
" From whence I hoped thine aid !"
By this the valiant knight awoke ;
The virgin's shrieks he heard ;
And up he rose and drew his sword.
Whence the fierce band appeard.
" Your sword last night my brother slew ;
His blood yet dims its shine :
And, ere the setting of the suu,
Your blood shall reek on mine.'
SIR JAMES THE ROSE. 359
" You word it well," the chief replied ;
" But deeds approve the man :
Set by your band, and hand to hand.
We'll try what valour can.
" Oft boasting hides a coward's heart ;
My weighty sword you fear.
Which shone in front of Flodden-field,
When you kept in the rear."
With dauntless step he forward strode,
And dared him to the fight :
But Graeme gave back, and feared his arm ;
For well he knew its might.
Four of his men, the bravest four.
Sank down beneath his sword :
But still he scorned the poor revenge.
And sought their haughty lord.
Behind him basely came the Graeme,
And pierced him in the side :
Out spouting came the purple tide,
And all his tartans dyed.
But yet his sword quat not the grip.
Nor dropt he to the ground,
Till through his enemy's heart his steel
Had forced a mortal wound.
Graeme, like a tree with wind o'erthrown.
Fell breathless on the clay ;
And down beside him sank the Rose,
And faint and dying lay.
The sad Matilda saw him fall :
" ! spare his hfe !" she cried ;
" Lord Buchan's daughter begs his life ;
Let her not be denied !"
Her well-known voice the hero heard ;
He raised his death-closed eyes,
And fixt them on the weeping maid,
And weakly thus replies :
"In vain Matilda begs the life,
By death's arrest denied :
My race is run — adieu, my love" —
Then closed his eyes and died.
360
SIR JAMES THE ROSE.
The sword, yet warm, from his left side
With frantic hand she drew :
" I come. Sir James the Rose," she cried;
" I come to follow you ! "
She leaned the hilt against the ground.
And bared her snowy breast ;
Then fell upon her lover's face,
And sank to endless rest.
[This ballad was written by Henry Kirke Wiite ; a name
which it is impossible to pronounce or hear without feeling,
with Lord Byron, ('English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,')
' the liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to
talents, which would have dignified even the sacred func-
tions they were destined to assume.' He was bom at Not-
tingham, on the 21st March, 1785, and died at Cambridgeon
the 19th Oct. 1806, in his 22nd year ; ' in consequence of
too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that,' in the
eloquent language of the noble poet already quoted, ' would
have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not
impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than sub-
dued.' His Lordship's beautiful , eulogy on 'Unhappy
White,' in the work above-mentioned, is too well known to
require insertion here. With regard to the ballad, it would
appear from ' The Remains of Henry Kirke White,' edited
by Robert Southey, whose generous assistance of the author
while'^living, and tribute to his memory, after his death, are
familiar to all readers, to have first appeared in what his
biographer calls ' the littlc.volurac which Henry published
in 1803." It is here taken from Southey's edition of his
works,,abovc named, London, 1816—22.]
HE night it was still, and the moon it shone,
Serenely on the sea,
And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock,
They murmur' d pleasantly.
362 GONDOLINE.
When Gondoline roam'd along the shore,
A maiden full fair to the sight ;
Though love had made bleak the rose on her cheek.
And turn'd it to deadly white.
Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear
It fill'd her faint blue eye.
As oft she heard, in fancy's ear,
Her Bertrand's dying sigh.
Her Bertrand was the bravest youth
Of all our good king's men,
And he was gone to the Holy Land
To fight the Saracen.
And many a month had past away.
And many a rolling year.
But nothing the maid from Palestine
Could of her lover hear.
Full oft she vainly tried to pierce
The ocean's misty face ;
Full oft she thought her lover's bark
She on the wave could trace.
And every night she placed a light
In the high rock's lonely tower.
To guide her lover to the land.
Should the murky tempest lower.
But now despair had seized her breast,
And sunken in her eye ;
" O tell me but if Bertrand live.
And I in peace will die."
She wander' d o'er the lonely shore.
The curlew scream' d above.
She heard the scream with a sickening heart,
Much boding of her love.
Yet still she kept her lonely way.
And this was all her cry,
" O ! tell me but if Bertrand live.
And I in peace shall die."
And now she came to a horrible rift.
All in the rock's hard side,
A bleak and blasted oak o'erspread
The cavern yawning wide.
GONDOLINE. 363
And pendant from its dismal top
The deadly nightshade himg ;
The hemlock and the aconite
Across the mouth were flung.
And all within was dark and drear.
And all without was calm ;
Yet Gondoline enter'd, her soul upheld
By some deep-working charm.
And as she enter'd the cavern wide.
The moonbeam gleamed pale,
And she saw a snake on the craggy rock.
It clung by its slimy tail.
Her foot it slipt, and she stood aghast,
She trod on a bloated toad ;
Yet, still upheld by the surest charm.
She kept upon her road.
And now upon her frozen ear
Mysterious sounds arose ;
So, on the mountain's piny top
The blustering north wind blows.
Then furious peals of laughter loud
Were heard with thimdering sound,
Till they died away in soft decay,
Low whispering o'er the ground.
Yet still the maiden onward went,
The charm yet onward led,
Though each big glaring ball of sight
Seem'd bursting from her head.
But now a pale blue light she saw.
It from a distance came ;
She follow' d, till upon her sight
Burst full a flood of flame.
She stood appall' d ; yet still the charm
Upheld her sinking soul ;
Yet each bent knee the other smote.
And each wild eye did roll.
And such a sight as she saw there
No mortal saw before.
And siich a sight as she saw there
No mortal shall see more.
364 GONDOLINE.
A burning cauldron stood in the midst.
The flame was fierce and high,
And all the cave so wide and long
Was plainly seen thereby.
And round about the cauldron stout
Twelve withered witches stood :
Their waists were bound with living snakes.
And their hair was stiff with blood.
Their hands were gory too ; and red
And fiercely flamed their eyes ;
And they were muttering indistinct
Their hellish mysteries.
And suddenly they join'd their hands.
And utter'd a joyous cry.
And round about the cauldron stout
They danced right merrily.
And now they stopt ; and each prepared
To tell what she had done,
Since last the lady of the night
Her waning course had rmi.
Behind a rock stood Gondoline,
Thick weeds her face did veil.
And she leaned fearful forwarder.
To hear the dreadful tale.
The first arose : she said she'd seen
Rare sport since the blind cat mew'd
She'd been to sea in a leaky sieve.
And a jovial storm had brew'd.
She call'd around the winged winds.
And rais'd a devilish rout ;
And she laught so loud, the peals were heard
Full fifteen leagues about.
She said there was a little bark
Upon the roaming wave.
And there was a woman there who'd been
To see her husband's grave.
And she had got a child in her arms.
It was her only child.
And oft its little infant pranks
Her heavy heart beguiled.
GONDOLINE. 365
And there was too in that same bark,
A father and his son ;
The lad was sickly, and the sire
Was old and woe-begone.
And when the tempest waxed strong.
And the bark could no more it 'bide.
She said it was joAdal fun to hear
How the poor devils cried.
The mother claspt her orphan child
Unto her breast and wept ;
And sweetly folded in her arms
The careless baby slept.
And she told how, in the shape of the wind.
As manfully it roar'd.
She twisted her hand in the infant's hair.
And threw it overboard.
And to have seen the mother's pangs,
'Twas a glorious sight to see ;
The crew could scarcely hold her down
From jumping m the sea.
The hag held a lock of the hair in her hand
And it was soft and fair :
It must have been a lovely child,
To have had such lovely hair.
And she said the father in his arms
He held his sickly son.
And his dying throes they fast arose.
His pains were nearly done.
And she throttled the youth with her sinewy hands.
And his face grew deadly blue ;
And the father he tore his thin gray hair.
And kiss'd the livid hue.
And then she told how she bored a hole
In the bark, and it filled away :
And 'twas rare to hear how some did swear,
And some did vow and pray.
The man and woman they soon were dead.
The sailors their strength did urge ;
But the billows that beat were their winding-sheet.
And the wind sung their funeral dirge.
366 GONDOLINE.
She threw the mfant's hair in the fire.
The red flame flamed high.
And round about the cauldron stout
They danced right merrily.
The second begun : She said she had done
The task that Queen Hecate had set her ;
And that the devil, the father of evil.
Had never accomphsht a better.
She said, there was an aged woman.
And she had a daughter fair,
Whose evil habits fiU'd her heart
With misery and care.
The daughter had a paramour,
A wicked man was he,
And oft the woman him against
Did murmur grievously.
And the hag had workt the daughter up
To murder her old mother,
That then she might seize on all her goods.
And wanton vidth her lover.
And one night as the old woman
Was sick and ill in bed.
And pondering solely on the life
Her wicked daughter led.
She heard her footstep on the floor.
And she raised her pallid head,
And she saw her daughter, with a knife.
Approaching to her bed.
And said. My child, I'm very ill,
I have not long to live.
Now kiss my cheek, that ere I die
Thy sins I may forgive.
And the murderess bent to kiss her cheek.
And she lifted the sharp bright knife.
And the mother saw her fell intent.
And hard sljie begg'd for life.
But prayers would nothing her avail.
And she scream' d aloud with fear,
But the house was lone, and the piercing screams
Could reach no human ear.
GONDOLINE. 307
And though that she was sick, and old,
She struggled hard, and fought ;
The murderess cut three fingers through
Ere she could reach her throat.
And the hag she held the fingers up.
The skin was mangled sore,
And they all agreed a nohler deed
Was never done before.
And she threw the fingers in the fire.
The red tlame flamed high.
And round about the cauldron stout
They danced right merrily.
The third arose : She said she'd been
To holy Palestine ;
And seen more blood in one short day
Than they had all seen in nine.
Now Gondoline, with fearful steps.
Drew nearer to the flame.
For much she dreaded now to hear
Her hapless lover's name.
The hag related then the sports
Of that eventful day.
When on the well-contested field
Full fifteen thousand lay.
She said that she in human gore
Above the knees did wade.
And that no tongue could truly tell
The tricks she there had play'd.
There was a gallant featured youth.
Who like a hero fought ;
He kiss'd a bracelet on his wrist,
And every danger sought.
And in a vassal's garb disguised.
Unto the knight she sues.
And tells him she from Britain comes.
And brings unwelcome news.
That three days ere she had cmbarkt
His love had given her liand
Unto a wealthy Thane : and thought
Him dead in Holy Land.
368 GONDOLINE.
And to have seen how he did writhe
WTien this her tale she told,
It would have made a wizard's blood
Within his heart run cold.
Then fierce he spurr'd his warrior steed,
And sought the battle's bed ;
And soon all mangled o'er with wounds
He on the cold turf bled.
And from his smoking corse she tore
His head, half clove in two.
She ceased, and from beneath her garb
The bloody trophy drew.
The eyes were starting from their socks,
The mouth it ghastly grinn'd
And there was a gash across the brow.
The scalp was nearly skinn'd.
'Twas Bertrand's head I With a terrible scream
The maiden gave a spring,
And from her fearful hiding place
She fell into the ring.
The lights they fled, — the cauldron sank.
Deep thunders shook the dome.
And hollow peals of laughter came
Resounding through the gloom.
Insensible the maiden lay
Upon the hellish ground.
And still mysterious sounds were heard
At intervals around.
She woke, she half arose — and wild
She cast a horrid glare.
The sounds had ceased, the lights had fled.
And all was stillness there.
And through an awning in the rock
The moon it sweetly shone.
And show'd a river in the cave
Which dismally did moan.
The stream was black, it sounded deep
As it rusht the rocks between.
It off'er'd well, for madness fired
The breast of Gondoline.
GONDOLINE.
369
She plunged in, the torrent moan'd
With its accustom' d sound.
And hollow peals of laughter loud
Again rebellow'd round.
The maid was seen no more. — But oft
Her ghost is known to glide.
At midnight's silent, solenm hour,
Along the ocean's side.
a Q
EUdig I^sii^to ®f (i)iiJtgi?I^igimt^mir«
[This ballad is takuii from Percy's ' Reliques ;' where it
was ' printed from an old JIS. in the Cotton Library, (Cleo-
patra, c. iv.i' In that MS. it has no title ; but in a copy in
the Hai'Ieian Collection [No. 293, fol. 52,] it is, according to
Percy, thus inscribed : — ' A Songe made in R. -2. his tyme of
the battele of Otterburne, betweene Lord Henry Percye earle
of Northombcrlande and the earle Douglas of Scotlande.
Anno 1388.' ' But this title.' says Dr. Percy, 'is erroneous :
for, L The battle was not fought by the Earl of Northum-
berlande, who was absent, nor is once mentioned in the
ballad ; but by his son Sir Henry Percy, Knt., sumamed
Hotspur; in those times they did not usually give the title
of Lord to an earl's eldest son. 2. Although the battle was
fought in Richard IL's time, the song is evidently of later
date, as appears from the poet's quoting the Chronicles in
Pt. IF. ver. 26 ; and speaking of Percy in the last stanza as
dead. It was liowever written, in all likelihood, as early as
' Chevy Chase .'(Sup. p. 1,J if not earlier, with which poem, it
will be observed, it has some lines in common. With regard
to the battle itself, which was fought on the 1.5th August,
1380, the particulars are circumstantially related by Frois-
sart, (Cronycle, by Berners, c. cxlij.,) who gives the victory
to the Scotch. 'The ground on which it took place,' says
Sir Walter Scott, (' Minstrelsy,' i. .■)47, ed. )H30, still retains
the name of the Rattle-Cross ; and on a neigbouiing emi-
nence called Fawdoun Hill, may yet be discerned the ves-
tiges of the Scottish Camp.' The version of the ballad
given by Sir Walter, will be found in the Appendix.]
T felle abowght the Lamasse tyde.
When husbonds wj'nn ther haye, [ryde.
The dowghtye Dowglasse bowynd hymn to
In Ynglond to take a praye :
THE BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE. 371
The yerlle of Fyffe, withowghten stryffe.
He bowynd hym over Sulway :
The grete wolde ever together ryde ;
That race they may rue for aye.
Over Ottercap hyll they came in.
And so dowjTi by Rodelyffe cragge.
Upon Grene Leyton they lyghted dowyn,
Styrande many a stagge :
And boldely brente Northomberlonde,
And haryed many a towyn ;
They dyd owr Ynglyssh men grete wrange.
To battell that were not bowyn.
Then spake a heme upon the bent.
Of comforte that was not colde.
And sayd. We have brent Northomberlond,
We have all welth in holde.
Now we have haryed all Bamboroweshyre,
All the welth in the worlde have wee ;
I rede we ryde to Newe Castell,
So sty 11 and stalwurthlye.
Uppon the morowe, when it wais daye.
The standards schone fuUe bryght ;
To the Newe Castelle the toke the waye,
And thether they cam fulle ryght.
Sir Henry Percy laye at the Newe Castelle,
I telle yow withowtten drede ;
He had byn a marche-man all hys dayes.
And kepte Barwyke upon Twede.
To the Newe Castell when they cam.
The Skottes they cryde on hj'^ght,
Syr Harye Percy, and thou byste within.
Come to the fylde, and fyght :
For we have brente Northomberlonde,
Thy eritage good and ryght ;
And syne my logeyng I have take,
With my brande dubby d many a knyght.
Sir Harry Percy cam to the walles.
The Skottyssh oste for to se ;
" And thow hast brente Northomberlond,
Full sore it rewyth me.
a Q 2
372 THE BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE.
Yf thou hast haryed all Bambarowe shyre,
Thow hast done me grete envye;
For the trespasse thow hast me done,
The tone of us schall dye."
Where schall I byde the, sayd the Dowglas ?
Or where wylte thow come to me,
" At Otterborne in the hygh way,
Ther maist thow well logeed be.
The roo full rekeles ther sche rinnes.
To make the game and glee :
The fawkon and the fesaunt both,
Amonge the holtes on hee.
Ther maist thow have thy welth at wyll,
Well looged ther maist be.
Yt schall not be long, or I com the tyll,"
Sayd Syr Harry Percye.
Ther schall I byde the, sayd the Dowglas,
By the fayth of my bodye.
Thether schall I com, sayd Syr Harry Percy ;
My trowth I plyght to the.
A pype of wyne he gave them over the walles,
For soth, as I yow saye :
Ther he mayd the Dowglas drynke,
And all hys oste that daye.
The Dowglas turnyd hym homewarde agayne.
For soth withowghten naye.
He tooke his logeyng at Oterborne
Uppon a Wedyns-day :
And ther he pyght hys standerd dowyn,
Hys gettyng more and lesse,
And syne he warned hys men to goo
To chose ther geldyngs gresse.
A Skottysshe knyght hoved upon the bent,
A wache I dare well saye :
So was he ware on the noble Percy
In the dawnynge of the daye.
He prycked to his pavyleon dore.
As faste as he myght ronne.
Awaken, Dowglas, cryed the knyght,
For hys love, that syttes yn trone.
THE BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE. H73
Awaken, Dowglas, cryed the knyght,
For thow maiste waken wyth wynne :
Yender have I spyed the prowde Percy,
And seven standardes wyth hym.
Nay by my trowth, the Douglas sayed.
It ys but a fayned taylle :
He durste not loke on my bred banner,
For all Ynglonde so haylle.
Was I not yesterdaye at the Newe Castell,
That stonds so fayre on Tyne ?
For all the men that Percy hade,
He cowde not garre me ones to dyne.
He stepped owt at hys pavelyon dore.
To loke and it were lesse ;
Araye yow, lordyngs, one and all,
For here bygynnes no peysse.
The yerle of Mentaye, thow arte my erne,
The fowarde I gyve to the :
The yerlle of Huntlay cawte and kene.
He schall wyth. the be.
The lorde of Bowghan in armure bryght
On the other hand he schall be :
Lorde Jlion stone, and lorde Maxwell,
They to schall be with me.
Swynton fayre fylde upon your pryde
To batell make yow bowen :
Syr Davy Scotte, Syr Walter Stewarde,
Syr Jhon of Agurstone,
A FYTTE.
The Perssy came byfore hys oste,
Wych was ever a gentyll knyght.
Upon the Dowglas lowde can he crye,
I wyll holde that I have hyght:
For thow haste brente Northumberlonde,
And done me grete envye;
For thys trespasse thou hast me done.
The tone of us schall dye.
The Dowglas answerde hym agayne
With grete wurds up on hee.
And sayd, I have twenty agaynst thy one.
By holde and thow maiste see.
374 THE BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE.
Wyth that the Percye was grevyd sore.
For sothe as I yow save :
He lyghted dowj'ii upon his fote,
And schoote his horsse clene away.
Every man sawe that he dyd soo,
That ryall was ever in rowght ;
Every man schoote hys horsse him froo.
And lyght him rowynde abowght.
Thus Syr Hary Percye toke the fylde.
For soth, as I yow saye :
Jesu Cryste in hevyn on hyght
Dyd helpe hym well that daye.
But Dyne thowzand, ther was no moo ;
The cronykle wyll not layne ;
Forty thowsande Skottes and fowre
That day fowght them agayne.
But when the batell byganne to joyne,
In hast ther came a knyght.
Then letters fayre furth hath he tayne
And thus he sayd Ml ryght :
My lorde, your father he gretes yow well,
Wyth many a noble knyght ;
He desyres yow to byde
That he may see thys fyght.
The Baron of Grastoke ys com owt of the west,
Wyth hym a noble companye ;
All they loge at your fathers thys nyght.
And the Battel fayne wold they see.
For Jesu's love, sayd Syr Harye Percy,
That dyed for yow and me,
Wende to my lorde my Father agayne,
And saye thow saw me not with yee :
INIy trowth ys plyght to yonne Skottysh knyght.
It nedes me not to layne,
That I schulde byde hym upon thys bent,
And I have hys trowth agayne :
And if that I wende off thys grownde
For soth unfoughten awaye.
He wolde me call but a kowarde knyght
In hys londe another daye.
THE BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE. 3/5
Yet had I lever to be ryiide and rente,
By Mary that mykel maye ;
Then ever my manhod schulde be reprovyd
Wvth a Skotte another daye.
Wherfore schote, archars, for my sake,
And let scharpe arowes flee ;
Mynstrells, playe up for your waryson,
And well quyt it schall be.
Every man thynke on hys trewe love.
And marke hym to the Trenite :
For to God I make myne avowe
This day wyll I not fle.
The blodye Harte in the Dowglas armes,
Hys standerde stode on bye ;
That every man myght full well knowe :
By syde stode Starres thre.
The whyte Lyon on the Ynglysh parte,
Forsoth as I yow sayne ;
The Lucetts and the Cressawnts both :
The Skotts faught them agayne.
Ui)pon sent Andrewe lowde cane they crye.
And thrysse they schowte on hyght,
And syne marked them one owr Ynglysshe men,
As I have tolde yow ryght.
Sent George the bryght owr ladyes knyght,
To name they were full fayne,
Owr Ynglysshe men they cryde on hyght
And thrysse the schowtte agayne.
Wyth that scharpe arowes bygan to flee,
I tell yow in sertayne ;
Men of armes byganne to joyne ;
Many a dowghty man was ther slayne.
The Percy and the Dowglas mette.
That ether of other was fayne ;
They schaj)ped together, whyll that the swette.
With swords of fyne CoUayne ;
TvU the blood from ther bassonctts ranne.
As the roke doth in the rayne.
Yelde the to me, sayd the Dowglas,
Or ells thow schalt be slayne :
376 THE BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE.
For I see, by thy bryght bassonet,
Thow arte sum man of myght ;
And so I do by thy burnysshed brande,
Thow art an yerle, or ells a knyght.
By my good faythe, sayd the noble Percy,
Now haste thou rede full ryght,
Yet wyll I never yelde me to the,
Whyll I may stonde and fyght.
They swapped together, whyll that they swette,
Wyth swordes scharpe and long ;
Ych on other so faste they beette,
Tyll ther helmes cam in peyses dowyn.
The Percy was a man of strenghth,
I tell yow in thys stounde.
He smote the Dowglas at the swordes length.
That he felle to the growynde.
The sworde was scharpe and sore can byte,
I tell yow in sertayne ;
To the harte he cowde hym smyte.
Thus was the Dowglas slayne.
The stonders stode styll on eke syde
With many a grevous grone ;
Ther the fowght the day, and all the nyght.
And many a dowghty man was slone.
Ther was no freke, that ther wolde flye.
But styffly in stowre can stond,
Ychone hewyng on other whyll they myght drye,
Wyth many a bayllefull bronde.
Ther was slayne upon the Skottes syde.
For soth and sertenly,
Syr James a Dowglas ther was slayne.
That daye that he cowde dye.
The yerlle of Mentayne he was slayne,
Grysely groned uppon the growynd ;
Syr Davy Scotte, Syr Walter Steward,
Syr John of Agurstonne.
Syr Charlies Morrey in that place
That never a fotc wold flye ;
Sir Hughe Maxwell, a lord he was,
With the Dowglas dyd he dye.
THE BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE. 377
Ther was slayne upon the Skottes syde.
For sotli as I yow saye.
Of fowre and forty thowsande Scotts
Went but eyghtene awaye.
Ther was slayne upon the Ynglysshe syde,
For soth and sertenlye,
A gentell knyght, Sir John Fitz-hughe,
Yt was the more petye.
Syr James Harebotell ther was slayne.
For hym ther hartes were sore.
The gentyll Lovelle ther was slayne.
That the Percyes standerd bore.
Ther was slayne uppon the Ynglyssh perte.
For soth as I yow saye ;
Of nyne thowsand Ynglyssh men
Fyve hondert cam awaye :
The other were slayne in the fylde,
Cryste kepe ther sowles from wo,
Seyng ther was so fewe fryndes
Agaynst so many many a foo.
Then one the mome they mayd them beeres
Of byrch, and haysell graye ;
Many a wydowe with wepyng teyres
Ther makes they fette awaye.
Thys fraye bygan at Otterborne
Bytwene the nyghte and the day :
Ther the Dowglas lost hys lyfe,
And the Percy was lede awaye.
Then was ther a Scottyshe prisoner tayne,
Syr Hughe Mongomery was hys name.
For soth as I yow saye
He borowed the Percy home agayne.
Now let us all for the Percy praye
To Jesu most of myght.
To bryng hys sowle to the blysse of heven,
For he was a gentyll knyght.
[This ballad is taken from Ritson's ' Robin Hood,'
where it was given ' from an old black-letter copy in the
collection of Anthony a Wood.' ' The title now given it,'
says Ritson, ' is that which it seems to have originally borne,
liaving been foolishly altered to ' Robin Hood newly re-
vived.' The Second Part, given in Ritson, and here, ' from
III old black-letter copy in Major Pearson's' — the Roxburghe
— ' Collection,' now in the British Mnseum, — ' is constantly
jinnted,' says Ritson, ' as an independent article, under
the title of ' Robin Hood, Will Scadlock, and Little John ;
or a Narrative of their Victories obtained against the
Piince of Aragon and the two giants; and how Will Scad-
loi k married the princess. Tune of Robin Hood ; or, Hey
down down, a down.' ' Instead of which are given in all
former editions,' what Ritson calls ' the incoherent stanzas,'
which will be found at page 387, and which, according to
him, ' have all the appearance of being the fragment of a
<|Uite different ballad.' Be this as it may, there can, it is
apprehended, be little doubt that this ' Second Part ' is
altogether apocryphal, and ought never to have been re-
ceived into the Robin Hood canon.]
OME listen awhile, you gentlemen all,
That are this bower within,
For a story of gallant bold Robin Hood,
I purpose now to begin.
ROBIN HOOD AND THE STRANGER. 379
WTiat time of day ? quo Robin Hood then,
Quoth Little John, 'tis in the prime.
Why then we will to the green wood gang.
For we have no vittles to dine.
As Robin Hood walkt the forrest along, .
It was in the mid of the day.
There he was met of a deft young man.
As ever walkt on the way.
His doublet was of silk tis said.
His stockings like scarlet shone ;
And he walked on along the way,
To Robin Hood then unknown.
A herd of deer was in the bend.
All fee ling before his face :
Now the best of you lie have to my dinner.
And that in a little space.
Now the stranger he' made no mickle adoe.
But he bends and a right good bow.
And the best of all the herd he slew.
Forty good yards him froe.
Well shot, well shot, quo Robin Hood then,
That shot it was shot in time ;
And if thou wilt accept of the place.
Thou shalt be a bold yeoman of mine.
Go play the chiven, the stranger said.
Make haste and quickly go ;
Or with my fist, be sure of this.
He give thee buffets sto' .
Thou hadst not best buffet me, quo Robin Hood,
For though I seem forlorn.
Yet I have those will take my part.
If I but blow my horn.
Thou wast not best wind thy horn, the stranger said,
Beest thou never so much in haste.
For I can draw a good broad swoi d.
And will quickly cut the blast.
Then Robin Hood bent a very good bow.
To shoot, and that he would fain ;
The stranger he bent a very good bow.
To shoot at bold Robin again.
380 ROBIN HOOD AND THE STRANGER.
Hold thy hand, hold thy hand, quo Robin Hood,
To shoot it would be in vain ;
For if wc should shoot the one at the other,
The one of us may be slain.
But let's take our swords and our broad bucklers,
And gang under yonder tree.
As I hope to be saved, the stranger he said,
One foot I will not flee.
Then Robin lent the stranger a blow,
'Most scared him out of his wit ;
Thou never felt blow, the stranger he said.
That shall be better quit.
The stranger he drew out a good broad sword,
And hit Robin on the crown.
That from every haire of bold Robin's head
The blood ran trickling down.
God a mercy, good fellow, quod Robin Hood then,
And for this that thou hast done.
Tell me, good fellow, what thou art.
Tell me where thou dost won.
The stranger then answered bold Robin Hood,
He tell thee where I do dwell ;
In Maxwell town I was bred and born.
My name is young Gamwell.
For killing of my own father's steward,
I am forc'd to this English wood ;
And for to seek an uncle of mine,
Some call him Robin Hood.
But art thou a cousin of Robin Hood, then
The sooner we should have done.
As I hope to be saved, the stranger then said
I am his own sister's son.
But, lord, what kissing and courting was there.
When these two cousins did greet !
And they went all that summer's day.
And Little John did not meet.
And when they met with Little John,
He unto them did say,
O! master, pray where have you been.
You have tarried so long away ?
ROBIN HOOD AND THE STRANGER. 381
I met with a stranger, quo Robin Hood,
Full sore he hath beaten me.
Then He have a bout with him, quod Little John,
And try if he can beat me.
O no, O no, quo Robin Hood then.
Little John, it may not be so ;
For he is my own dear sister's son,
And cousins I have no mo.
But he shall be a bold yeoman of mine.
My chief man next to thee ;
And I Robin Hood, and thou Little John,
And Scadlock he shall be.
And well be three of the bravest outlaws,
That live in the north country.
H you will hear more of bold Robin Hood,
In the second part it will be.
PART THE SECOND.
Now Robin Hood, Will Scadlock, and Little John,
Were walking over the plain,
With a good fat buck, which Will Scadlock
With his strong bow had slain.
Jog on, jog on, cries Robin Hood,
The day it runs full fast ;
For tho' my nephew me a breakfast gave,
I have not broke my fast.
Then to yonder lodge let us take our way,
I think it wondrous good.
Where my nephew, by my bold yeomen,
Will be welcom'd unto the green wood.
With that he took his bugle horn.
Full well he could it blow :
Straight from the woods came marching down.
One hundred tall fellows and mo.
Stand, stand to your arms, says Will Scadlock,
Lo ! the enemies are within ken.
With that Robin Hood he laugh'd aloud,
Crying, they arc my bold yeomen.
382 ROBIN HOOD AND THE STRANGER.
Wlio when they arriv'd, and Robin espy'd,
Cry'd, master, what is your will ?
We thought you had in danger been,
Your horn did sound so shrill.
Now nay, now nay, quoth Robin Hood,
The danger is past and gone ;
I would have you welcome my nephew here.
That has paid me two for one.
In feasting and sporting they passed the day,
Till Phoebus sunk into the deep ;
Then each one to his quarters hied,
His guard there for to keep.
Not long had they walked within the green-wood.
But Robin he soon espy'd,
A beautiful damsel all alone.
That on a black palfrey did ride.
Her riding-suit was of a sable hue black.
Cypress over her face,
Thro' which her rose-like cheeks did blush.
All with a comely grace.
Come tell me the cause, thou pretty one.
Quoth Robin, and tell me a right.
From whence thou comest, and whither thou goest,
All in this mournful plight ?
From London I came, the damsel reply'd.
From London upon the Thames,
Which circled is, O, grief to tell !
Besieged with foreign arms,
By the proud Prince of Arragon,
Who swears by his martial hand.
To have the princess to his spouse.
Or else to waste this laud.
Except such champions can be found,
That dare fight three to three.
Against the prince, and giants twain,
Most horrid for to see ;
Whose grisly looks, and eyes like brands.
Strike terror where they come ;
With serpents hissing on their helms,
Instead of feathered plume.
ROBIN HOOD AND THE STRANGER. 383
The princess shall be the victor's prize.
The King hath vow'tl and said ;
And he that shall the conquest win,
Shall have her to his bride.
Now we are four damsels sent abroad,
To the east, west, north, and south.
To try whose fortune is so good,
To find these champions out.
But all in vain we have sought about,
For none so bold there are,
Who dare adventure life and blood,
To free a lady fair.
When is the day ? quoth Robin Hood,
Tell me this and no more ;
On midsummer next, the damsel said.
Which is June the twenty-four.
With that the tears trickled down her cheeks.
And silent was her tongue ;
With sighs and sobs she took her leave.
And away her palfrey sprung.
The news struck Robin to the heart.
He fell down on the grass.
His actions and his troubled mind
Shew'd he perplexed was.
Where lies your grief? quoth Will Scadlock,
O master, tell to me ;
If the damsel's eyes have pierc'd your heart,
I'll fetch her back to thee.
Now nay, now nay, quoth Robin Hood,
She doth not cause my smart ;
But 'tis the poor distressed princess.
That wounds me to the heart :
I'll go fight the giants all.
To set the lady free ;
The devil take my soul, quoth Little John,
If I part with thy company.
Must I stay behind ? quoth Will Scadlock,
No, no, that mnst not be ;
He make the third man in the fight.
So we shall be three to three.
384 ROBIN HOOD AND THE STRANGER.
These words cheer'd Robin to the heart,
Joy shone upon his face ;
Within his arms he hugged them both,
And kindly did embrace.
Quoth he, we'll put on motley grey,
And long staves in our hands,
A script and bottle by our sides,
As come from the holy land.
So we may pass along the highway.
None will ask us from whence we came ;
But take us pilgrims for to be,
Or else some holy men.
Now they are on their journey gone.
As fast as they may speed ;
Yet for all their haste, ere they arriv'd.
The princess forth was led.
To be delivered to the prince.
Who in the list did stand,
Prepar'd to fight, or else receive
His lady by the hand.
With that he walk'd about the list.
With giants by his side ;
Bring forth, quoth he, your champions.
Or bring me forth my bride.
This is the four and twentieth day,
The day prefixt upon ;
Bring forth my bride, or London bums,
I swear by Alcaron.
Then cries the King, and Queen likewise,
Both weeping as they spake,
Lo ! we have brought our daughter dear.
Whom we are forc'd to forsake.
With that stept bold Robin Hood,
Cries, my liege, it must not be so,
Such beauty as the fair princess
Is not for a tyrant's mow.
The prince he then began to storm.
Cries, fool, fanatic, babooH !
How dare thou stop my valour's prize ?
I'll kill thee with a frown.
ROBIN HOOD AND THE STRANGER. 385
Thou tyrant Turk, thou infidel.
Thus Robin began to reply.
Thy frowns I scorn ; lo ! here's my gage,
And thus I thee defy.
And for those two Goliahs here.
That stand on either side.
Here are two little Davids by.
That soon shall tame their pride.
Then did the king for armour send.
For lances, swords, and shields ;
And thus all three in armour bright
Came marching into the field.
The trumpets began to soimd a charge,
Each singled out his man ;
Their arms m pieces soon were hew'd.
Blood sprang from every vein.
The prince he reacht Robin Hood a blow.
He struck with might and main.
Which made him to reel about the field.
As though he had been slain.
God a mercy, quoth Robin, for that blow.
The quarrel shall soon be try'd.
This stroke shall shew a full divorce
Betwixt thee and thy bride.
So from his shoulders he cut his head.
Which on the ground did fall.
And grumbled sore at Robin Hood,
To be so dealt withal.
The giants then began to rage.
To see their prince lie dead :
Thou's be the next, quoth Little John,
Unless thou wilt guard thy head.
With that his faulchion he wherl'd about,
It was both keen and sharp,
He clove the giant to the belt.
And cut in twain his heart.
Will Scadlock well had play'd his part,
The giant he had brought to his knee ;
Quoth Will, the devil cannot break his fast.
Unless he have you all three.
386 ROBIN HOOD AND THE STRANGER.
So with his faulcliion he ran him through,
A deep and ghastly wound ;
WTio damn'd and foam'd, curst and blasphem'd,
And then fell to the ground.
Now all the lists with shouts were fiU'd,
The skies they did resound,
Which brought the princess to herself,
Who had fallen into a swound.
The king and queen, and princess fair,
Came walking to the place.
And gave the champions ma.nj thanks,
And did them farther grace.
Tell me, quoth the king, whence you are.
That thus disguised came.
Whose valour speaks that noble blood
Doth run through every vein.
A boon, a boon, quoth Robin Hood,
On my knees I beg and crave ;
By my crown, quoth the king, I grant.
Ask what, and thou shalt have .
Then pardon I beg for my merry men,
Which are in the green wood.
For Little John and Will Scadlock,
And for me, bold Robin Hood.
Art thou Robin Hood ? quoth the king ;
For the valour thou hast shown,
Your pardons I do freely grant.
And welcome every one.
The princess I promis'd the victor's prize.
She cannot have you all three.
She shall choose, quoth Robin ; said Little John,
Then little share falls to me.
Then did the princess view all three.
With a comely lovely grace.
And took Will Scadlock by the hand.
Saying, here I make my choice.
With that a noble lord stept forth,
Of iNIaxfield earl was he.
Who look'd Will Scadlock in the face.
And wept most bitterly.
ROBIN liOOD AND THE STRANGER. 387
Quoth he, I had a son Uke thee.
Whom I lov'd wondrous well ;
But he is gone, or rather dead.
His name it is young Gamwell.
Then did Will Scadlock fall on his knees,
Crying, father ! father ! here.
Here kneels your son, your young Gamwell,
You said you lov'd so dear.
But, lord ! what embracing and kissing was there,
When all these friends were met !
They are gone to the wedding, and so to the bedding ;
And so I bid you good night.
[The following are the Stanzas mentioned in the Introductory Notice, p. 378. ]
Then bold Robin Hood to the north he would go.
With valour and miekle might,
With sword by his side, which oft had been tried,
To fight and recover his right.
The first that he met was a bonny bold Scot,
His servant he said he would be :
No, quoth Robin Hood, it cannot be good,
For thou wilt prove false unto me.
Thou hast not been true to sire nor cuz,
Nay, marry, the Scot he said.
As true as your heart, lie never part,
Gude master, be not afraid.
Then Robin turned his face to the east,
Fight on, my merry men stout.
Our cause is good, quo brave Robin Hood,
And we shall not be beaten out.
The battel grows hot on every side.
The Scotchman made great moan ;
Quoth Jockey, gude faith, they fight on each side.
Would I were with my wife Joan !
The enemy compast brave Robin about,
"Tis long ere the battel ends ;
There's neither will yield, nor give up the field,
For both are supplied with friends.
This song it was made in Robin Hood's dayes ;
Let's pray unto Jove above.
To give us true peace, that mischief may cease,
And war may give place unto love.
[Pt. 2. St. 22. ' Alcaron,' says Ritson, ' is a deity formed by raetathesis from Alcoran, a' [the]
'book.' Thus in the old metrical romance of ' The Sowdon of Babyloae,'
' And songe the dirige of Alkarnn,
That bibill is of here laye ;'
Alkaron ii expressly the name of a book, (i. c., The Koran) : in the following passage it is that of
a god:
' He defycd Mahounde, and Apolyne,
Jubiter, Astarot, and Alcaron also.'
Wynken de Words printed ' A lytell treatyse of the Turkes law, called .Alcaron, &c.' See Herbert,
224. It was, at the same time, a proper name in the East; as, ' Accaron princeps insuls Cypri',
is mentioned by Roger Hoveden, 786.']
lit DisH^l^^Il &w^ tM M^^nkc
[TIii>? IS 1 'modernised version,' taken from ' The Local
Historian s Table-book,' of a ballad written by Robert
Owen, Fsq , formerly of North Shields, which 13 there stated
to have been ' first printed in Hone's Table-book,' in a style
so overdone in its labouring after an antiquated orthogra-
phy, as to be nearly unintelligible to the general reader.'
It IS founded upon a Legend which, in the first-mentioned
work, bears tlie following title: — 'The Monk's Stone: A
(loodljt legend of a Cross: sheweing how a certayne
Monk windered from his Monasterie of Tinemouth, And
going unto ye Castell of Seton Dela-val stole therefrom
a I'lgf, s Head, with what befell him on his waie back:
IK wilt wiittendowno by the Auctour from sundrie truthes
gotten out of diuerse bookes and ould writeingcs, and from
tliL saicings of manie aunciente men and wiues of vcrie
goddt report.' This Legend, ' as Master Francis Grose
rcl iteth it m his Large Book," is very closely followed in the
15 ill id Of the Stone itself, only the pedestal and part of
the sli ift rtinain, their present site, after frequent removal,
being in a field a little to the north-east of Tynemouth. On
the surface of the former is inscribed in lettering almost
obliterated, 'O HOROR TO KILL A MAN FOR A
PIGCi'S HEAD.]
HAT want ye, what want ye, thou holy friar,
Said Sir Delaval's warder brave ;
What lack ye, what lack ye, thou jolly friar?
Saith — Open the portal, knave !
Wearie leagues three from the Priorie
I've come since the sun hath smil'd on the sea.
SIR DELAVAL AND THE MONK. 389
Now nay ! now nay ! thou holy friar,
I may not let ye in ;
Sir Delaval's mood is not for the rood.
And he cares not to shrive his sin ;
And should he return with his hound and horn.
He will gar thy holiness rin.
For Christ his sake ! now say not nay,
But open the portal to mz;
And I will donne a rich benison
For thy gentlesse and courtesie ;
By mass and by rood ! if this boon is withstood
Thou shalt perish by sorcerie.
Then quicklie the portal was open'd wide.
Sir Delaval's hall was made free,
And the table was spread for the friar with speed.
And he feasted right plentifullie.
Did a friar wicht ever lack of might
"When he tooken cheap hostelrie r
And the friar he ate, and the friar he drank.
Till the cellarman wondered full sore.
And he wish'd him at home at St. Oswin's tomb,
With his relicks and missal lore :
But the friar did eat of the venison meat.
And the friar he drunk the more !
Now this day was a day of wassail kept.
Sir Delaval's birth day, I ween,
And many a knight and ladye bright,
In Sir Delaval's castle was seen ;
But since the sun on the blue sea shone,
They'd hunted the woods so green.
And rich and rare was the feast prepar'd
For the knights and ladyes gay ;
And the field and the fiood both yielded their brood.
To grace the festal day :
And the wines from Spain which long had lain
And spices from far Cathay.
390 SIR DELAVAL AND THE MONK.
But first and fairest of all the feast.
By Sir Delaval priz'd most dear,
A fat boar roasted in seemly guise.
To grace his lordly cheer :
The reek from the fire sore hunger'd the friar.
In spite of refecting gear.
And thus thought the friar as he sate.
This Boar is right savourie !
I wot 'tis no sin its hede to win
If I mote right cunninglie ;
This godless knight is a church-hating wicht.
To filch him, no knaverie.
"With that he took his leathern poke,
And whetted his knife so sheen.
And he patiently sat at the kitchen grate
Till no A^Ueins were thither seen ;
Then with meikle drede cut off the boar's hede.
As tho' it never had been.
Then the friar he nimbly footed the sward.
And bent him to holy pile ;
For once within its sacred shrine.
He'd laugh and joke at his guile ;
But hie thee fast with thy utmost haste.
For thy gate is many a mile.
Now Christ ye save ! wlien the villeins saw,
The boar without his hede.
They wist and grie that witcherie
Had done the fearsome deed :
In sore distraught the friar the}' sought.
To help them in their need.
They sought and sought, and long they sought,
No friar, no hede, could find.
For friar and hede, far o'er the meade,
Were scudding it like the wind :
But haste, but haste ! thou jolly friar,
"Where bolt and bar will bind.
SIR DELAVAL AND THE MONK. 391
The sun was high in his journey's flight.
And homeward the fisher boat rowed,
When the deep sounding horn told Sir Delaval's return,
With his knights and ladyes proud :
The bagpipes did sound, and the jest went round,
And revehie merrie and loud.
But meikle, but meikle was the rage.
Of the host and the companie.
When the tale was told of the deed so bold.
Which was laid to witcherie ;
And how in distraught, the monk they sought.
The monk of the Priorie.
Now rightlie I trow. Sir Delaval knew,
When told of the friar knave,
By my knighthood I vow he shall dearly rue.
This trick he thought so brave :
And away flew the knight like an eagle's flight,
O'er the sands of the northern wave.
And fast and fast Sir Delaval rode
Till the Priorie gate was in \'iew.
And the knight was aware of a friar tall.
With a look both tired and grue.
Who with rapid span o'er the green-sward ran.
The wrath of the knight to eschew.
But stay ! but stay ! thou friar knave.
But stay and shew to me,
What thou hast in that leathern poke.
Which thou mayest carry so hie ! —
Now, Christ ye save ! said the friar knave.
Fire-wood for the Priorie.
Thou liest ! thou liest ! thou knavish priest,
Thou liest unto me ! —
The knight he took the leathern poke.
And his boar's hede did espie.
And still the reek from the scorched cheek,
Did seem right savourie.
392 SIR DELAY AL AND THE MONK.
Gods' wot ! but had ye seen the friar.
With his skin of Uvid hue,
When the knight drew out the reeking snout,
And flourished his hunting thew ;
Gramercie, gramercie ! Sir Knight on me.
As the Virgin will mercy shew ! "
But the knight he banged the friar about.
And beat his hide full sore ;
And he beat him as he rolled on the sward,
Till the friar did loudly roar :
No mote he spare the friar maire.
Than Mahound on eastern shore.
Now take ye that ye dog of a monk !
Now take ye that from me ; —
And away rode the knight, in great deUght,
At his feat of flagellrie :
And the sands did resound to his war-steed's bound.
As he rode near the margined sea.
But who's that hies from the Priorie gate.
With a cross so holie and tall.
And of monks a crowd all yelping loud.
At what might the friar befall.
For they saw the deed from the Priorie hede.
And heard him piteous call ?
The friar he lay in sore distraught.
All writhing in grim dismay.
Each lashed wound spread blood on the groimd.
And tinged the daisy gay :
Woe fall the deede ! and there lay the hede.
Both reeking as well might they.
No word he spake, no cry could make
When the prior came breathless nigh ;
But the tears yran from the holy man.
As he heav6d many a sigh :
Then the prior was rede of the savourie hede.
That near the monk did lie.
SIR DELAY AL AND THE MONK. 393
Then they bore the monk to the Priorie gate,
In dolorous step and slow ;
They vengeance vowed, in curses loud.
On the horseman wicht I trow ;
The welkin rang with their yammerings lang,
As they came the Priorie to.
A leech of skill, with meikle care.
And herbs and conjurie.
Soon gave the monk his wonted spunk.
For his quippes and knaverie ;
When he told how the knight, Sir Delaval hight.
Had done the batterie.
But woe for this knight of high degree.
And greet as well he may !
For the friar I wot he battered and bruised
Took ill, as the churchmen say,
And is surely deade withouten remede,
Within year and eke a day.
Farewell to youre lands. Sir Delaval bold.
Farewell to youre castles three.
They're gone from thy heir, tho' grievest thou sair.
They're gone to the Priorie ;
And thou must thole a woollen stole.
And lack thy libertie.
Three long long years in dolefull guise.
In Tynemouth Abbey pray.
And many a mass to heavenward pass
For the friar that thou didst slay ;
Thou mayest look o'er the sea, and wish to be free.
But the prior of Tynemouth sayeth naye.
When thou hast spent three long long years
To the holy land thou must hie,
Thy falchion wield on the battle field,
'Gainst the Paynim chivalrie ;
Three crescents bright, must thou win in fight.
Ere thou winn'st thy dear countrie.
And on the spot where the ruthless deed
Ystained the meadow greene,
All fair to see in masonrie,
As tall as anie oaken treene.
Thou must set a stone, with a legend thereon.
That a murder there had been.
The masses most grieved Sir Delaval sore.
But pray he must and may.
He thummelled his bead, and beat his head
Through the night and through the day.
Till the three years o'er he leapt to the shore.
And cried — To the battle awav !
He doifed his stole of woollen coarse,
And donned in knightly pride
His blade and cuirass, and said no more mass.
While he crossed the billowy tide :
No candle ! no rood ! but the lighting mood
Was the mood of the border side.
Soon, soon, midst the foes of the holy land.
Where the lances thickly grew.
Was Sir Delaval seen, with his brand so keen
On his steed so strong and true ;
The Pagans they fell, and passed to hell.
And he many a Saracen slew.
Gallantly rode sir Delaval on.
Where lethal wounds were given.
And the onsets brave, like a sweeping wave,
Roll'd the warriors of Christ to heaven :
But for each holy knight yslaine in fight,
A hundred false hearts were riven.
And he soon from the ranks of Saladin bore
Three crescents of silver sheen.
No Pagan knight might withstand his might.
Who fought for wife and wean ; *
Saint George ! cried the knight, and England's might !
Or a bed 'neath the hillock green !
SIR DELAVAL AND THE MONK. 395
Now brave Sir Delaval's peuance was done,
He homeward sought his way,
From the battle plain, across the main.
To fair England's welcome bay ;
To see his lone bride to the north he hied,
Withouten stop or stay.
Once more is merrie the border land.
Hark ! through the midnight gale
The bagpipes again play a wassail strain.
Round round flies the joyous tale :
Many a joke of the friar's poke
Is passed o'er hill and dale.
The Ladye Delaval once more smiled.
And sang to her wean on her knee.
And prayed her knight in fond delight
While he held her lovinghe :
Nor grieved he more of his dolours sore,
Tho' stripped of land and fee.
At Warkworth castle which proudly looks
O'er the stormy northern main.
The Percy greeted the Border knight.
With his merriest minstrel strain :
Thronged was the hall with nobles all.
To welcome the knight again.
Now at this day while years roll on.
And the knight doth coldly lie,
A stone doth stand on the silent land,
To tellen the strangers nigh.
That a horrid deede for a pig his hedc
Did thence to heavenward cry.
[This ballad is taken from ' The Minstrelsy of the Scot-
tish Border,' where it was given, as ' never before published,
partly from one, under the same title, in Mrs. Brown's Col-
lection, and partly from a MS. of some antiquity, penes Edit.
The stanzas appearing to possess most merit were selected
from each copy.' It is to be regretted that Sir Walter
Scott did not give the two versions in their genuine state
rather than a third made up of them. Some idea, how-
ever, of what they were may be gotten from comparing the
ballad, as given by him, with what Mr. Motherwell calls ' a
less complete version ' of it, which he prints in his ' Min-
strelsy,' under the title of ' The Jolly Goshawk ;' and which
will be found in the Appendi.x. With regard to the story of
the ballad, ' there is,' says Sir Walter Scott, ♦ some resem-
blance betwixt it and an Irish Fairy Tale, called ' The Ad-
ventures of Faravla, Princess of Scotland, and Carral
O'Daly, son of Donogho More O'Daly, Chief Bard of Ire-
land.' The princess, being desperately in love with Carral,
despatches in search of him a faithful confidante, who, by
her magical art, transforms herself into a hawk, and, resting
upon the windows of the bard, conveys to him inforinatiou
of tho distress of the Princess of Scotland.']
"WALY, waly, my gay goss-hawk,
Gin your feathering be sheen ! "
" And waly, waly, my master dear,
Gin ye look pale and lean !
THE GAY GOSS-HAWK. 397
" have ye tint, at tournament.
Your sword, or yet your spear ?
Or mourn ye for the Southern lass.
Whom you may not wm near ? "
" I have not tint, at tournament,
My sword, nor yet my spear ;
But sair I mourn for my true love,
Wi' mony a hitter tear,
" But weel's me on ye, my gay goss-hawk.
Ye can baith speak and flee ;
Ye sail carry a letter to my love.
Bring an answer back to me."
" But how sail I your true love find.
Or how suld I her know 1
I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake.
An eye that ne'er her saw."
" O weel sail ye my true love ken,
Sae sune as ye her see ;
For, of a' the flowers of fair England,
The fairest flower is she.
" The red, that's on my true love's cheik.
Is like blood drops on the snaw ;
The white, that is on her breast bare.
Like the down o' the white sea-maw.
" And even at my love's hour door
There grows a flowering birk ;
And ye maun sit and sing thereon
As she gangs to the kirk.
" And four-and-twenty fair ladyes
Will to the mass repair ;
But well may ye my ladye ken.
The fairest ladye there."
Lord William has written a love letter.
Put it under his pinion gray ;
And he is awa' to Southern land
As fast as wings can gae.
And even at that ladye' s hour
There grew a flowering birk ;
And he sat down and sung thereon
As she gaed to the kirk.
398 THE GAY GOSS-IIAWK.
And weel he kent that ladye fair
Amang her maidens free ;
For the flower, that springs in May morning,
Was not sae sweet as she.
He hghted at the ladye' s gate.
And sat him on a pin ;
And sang fu' sweet the notes o' love.
Till a' was cosh within.
And first he sang a low low note.
And syne he sang a clear ;
And aye the o'erword o' the sang
Was — " Your love can no win here."
" Feast on, feast on, my maidens a',
The wine flows you amang.
While I gang to my shot-window.
And hear yon bonnie bird's sang.
" Sing on, sing on, my bonnie bird,
The sang ye sung yestreen :
For weel I ken, by your sweet singing.
Ye are frae my true love seen."
O first he sang a merry sang,
And syne he sang a grave ;
And syne he peck'd his feathers gray.
To her the letter gave.
" Have there a letter from lord William :
He says he's sent ye three,
He canna wait your love langer,
But for your sake he'll die."
" Gae bid him bake his bridal bread,
And brew his bridal ale ;
And I shall meet him at Mary's kirk,
Lang, lang ere it be stale."
The lady's gane to her chamber.
And a moanfu' woman was she ;
As gin she had ta'en a sudden brash,
And were about to die.
" A boon, a boon, my father deir
A boon I beg of thee ! "
Ask not that paughty Scottish lord,
For him you ne'er shall see.
THE GAY GOSS-HAWK. 399
" But, for your honest asking else
Weel granted it shall be."
" Then, gin I die in Southern land,
In Scotland gar bury me.
" And the first kirk that ye come to,
Ye's gar the mass be sung ;
And the next kirk that ye come to,
Ye's gar the bells be rung.
And when ye come to St. Mary's kirk,
Ye's tarry there till night."
And so her father pledged his word,
And so his promise plight.
She has ta'en her to her bigly hour
As fast as she could fare ;
And she has drank a sleepy draught.
That she had mix'd wi' care.
And pale, pale grew her rosy cheek.
That was sae bright of blee,
And she seemed to be as surely dead
As any one could be.
Then spak' her cruel step-minnie,
"Tak' ye the burning lead.
And drap a drap on her bosome.
To try if she be dead."
They took a drap o' boiling lead,
They drapp'd on her breast ;
"Alas! alas!" her father cried,
"She's dead without the priest."
She neither chatter'd with her teeth.
Nor chiver'd with her chin ;
" Alas ! alas !" her father cried,
" There is nae breath within."
Then up arose her seven brethren,
And hcw'd to her a bier;
They hew'd it frae the solid aik.
Laid it o'er wi' silver clear.
Then up and gat her seven sisters.
And sewed to her a kell ;
And every steek that they put in
Sewed to a siller bell.
400 THE GAY GOSS-IIAWK.
The first Scots kirk that they cam' to.
They garr'd the bells be rung,
The next Scots kirk that they cam' to.
They garr'd the mass be sung.
But when they cam' to St. Mary's kirk.
There stood spearmen all in a raw ;
And up and started lord William,
The chieftaue amang them a' .
" Set down, set down the bier," he said ;
" And let me look her upon :"
But as soon as lord William touched her hand.
Her colour began to come.
She brightened like the lily flower.
Till her pale colour was gone ;
With rosy cheik, and ruby Up,
She smiled her love upon.
" A morsal of your bread, my lord.
And one glass of your wine :
For I ha'e fasted these three lang days.
All for your sake and mine.
" Gae hame, gae hame, my seven bauld brothers !
Gae hame and blaw your horn !
I trow ye wad ha'e gi'en me the skaith.
But I've gi'en you the scorn.
" Commend me to my grey father.
That wish'd my saul gude rest !
But wae be to my cruel step-dame,
Garr'd burn me on the breast."
" Ah ! woe to you, you light woman !
An ill death may you dee !
For we left father and sisters at hame
Breaking their hearts for thee."
I
[This ballad was written by Dr Percj, afterwards Bishop
of Droraore in Ireland ; ' a poet and a man of taste,' saj's
Sir Walter Scott, ('Minstrelsy,' i. 44, &c.,l 'who, com-
manding access to the individuals and institutions which
could best afford him materials for executing the task of
collecting and illustrating ancient popular poetry ,gave the
public the result of his researches in a work entitled
'Reliques of Ancient English Poetry,' (London, 1765); a
work which must always be held among the first of its class
in point of merit, and which the taste with which the mate-
rials were chosen, the extreme felicity with Avhich they were
illustrated, the display at once of antiquarian knowledge
and classical reading which the collection indicated, render
it difficult to imitate, and impossible to excel.' How deeply
indebted to the ' learned and amiable prelate's, work the
present collection is, the reader of it does not require to be
reminded. It was not merely as a collector and illustrator,
however, ' a gatherer and disposer of other mens stuff,' that
the doctor excelled : for ' in the actual imitation of the
ancient ballad,' says the great authority already quoted,
' he was eminently successful. The ' Hermit of Warkworth,"
and other minstrel tales of liis composition, must always be
remembered with fondness by tho»e who have perused them
in that period of life when the feelings are strong, and the
taste for poetry, especially of this simple nature, is keen and
poignant.' Theballad was first publi.slied in 1771. undertlie
title, • The Hermit of Warkworth. A Northumberland
Ballad. In three Fits or Cantos.' London ; 4to ; from which
edition it is here taken. It was accompanied with an In-
troduction and Notes, such parts of which as are necessary
to the understanding, or pertinent in illustrating it, will be
\ found in the Notes.]
ARK was tlie night, and wild the storm,
And loud the torrent's roar ;
f And loud the sea was heard to dash
Against the distant shore.
s s
402 THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH.
Musing on man's weak hapless state.
The lonely hermit lay,
When, lo ! he heard a female voice
Lament in sore dismay.
With hospitable haste he rose,
And waked his sleeping fire,
And snatching up a lighted brand,
Forth hied the reverend sire.
All sad beneath a neighbouring tree
A beauteous maid he found.
Who beat her breast, and with her tears
Bedewed the mossy ground.
O weep not, lady, weep not so.
Nor let vain fears alarm ;
My little cell shall shelter thee,
And keep thee safe from harm.
It is not for myself I weep,
Nor for myself I fear,
But for my dear and only friend,
Who lately left me here :
And while some sheltering bower he sought
Within this lonely wood.
Ah ! sore I fear his wandering feet
Have slipt in yonder flood.
O! trust in Heaven, the hermit said.
And to my cell repair ;
Doubt not but I shall find thy friend.
And ease thee of thy care.
Then climbing up his rocky stairs.
He scales the cliff so high.
And calls aloud and waves his light
To guide the stranger's eye.
Among the thickets long he winds,
With careful steps and slow.
At length a voice returned his call.
Quick answering from below :
O tell me, father, tell me true.
If you have chanced to see
A gentle maid I lately left
Beneath some neighbouring tree :
THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 403
But either I have lost the place,
Or she hath gone astray :
And much I fear this fatal stream
Hath snatcht her hence away.
Praise Heaven, my son, the hermit said,
The lady's safe and well :
And soon he joined the wandering youth.
And brought him to his cell.
Then well was seen, these gentle friends
They loved each other dear :
The youth he prest her to his heart.
The maid let fall a tear.
Ah ! seldom had their host, I ween.
Beheld so sweet a pair :
The youth was tall with manly bloom ;
She slender, soft, and fair.
The youth was clad in forest green.
With bugle-horn so bright ;
She in a silken robe and scarf,
Snatcht up in hasty flight.
Sit down, my children, says the sage ;
Sweet rest your limbs require :
Then heaps fresh fuel on the hearth.
And mends his little fire.
Partake, he said, my simple store.
Dried fruits, and milk, and curds ;
And spreading all upon the board.
Invites with kindly words. ,
Thanks, father, for thy bounteous fare.
The youthful couple say ;
Then freely ate, and made good cheer,
And talkt their cares away.
Now say, my children (for perchance
My counsel may avail),
What strange adventure brought you here
Within this lonely dale ?
First tell me, father, said the youth
(Nor blame mine eager tongue,)
What town is near ? What lands are these ?
And to what lord belong ?
s s2
404 THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH.
Alas ! my son, the hermit said,
Why do I live to say.
The rightful lord of these domains
Is banisht far away ?
Ten winters now have shed their snows
On this my lowly hall,
Since valiant Hotspur (so the North
Our youthful lord did call)
Against Fourth Henry Bolingbroke
Led up his northern powers,
And stoutly fighting, lost his life
Near proud Salopia's towers.
One son he left, a lovely boy,
His country's hope and heir ;
And, oh ! to save him from his foes.
It was his grandsire's care.
In Scotland safe he placed the child
Beyond the reach of strife.
Not long before the brave old earl
At Bramham lost his life.
And now the Percy name, so long
Our northern pride and boast,
Lies hid, alas ! beneath a cloud ;
Their honours reft and lost.
No chieftain of that noble house
Now leads our youth to arms ;
The bordering Scots despoil our fields.
And ravage all our farms.
Their halls and castles, once so fair.
Now moulder in decay ;
Proud strangers now usurp their lands.
And bear their wealth away.
Not far from hence, where yon full stream
Runs vrinding down the lea.
Fair Warkworth hfts her lofty towers.
And overlooks the sea.
Those towers, alas ! now lie forlorn.
With noisome weeds o'erspread.
Where feasted lords and courtly dames.
And where the poor were fed.
THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 405
Meantime, far oiF, 'mid Scottish nills,
The Percy Uves unknown ;
On stranger's bounty he depends,
And may not claim his own.
O might I with these aged eyes
But hve to see him here,
Then should my soul depart in bhss ! —
He said, and dropt a tear.
And is the Percy still so loved
Of all his friends and thee ?
Then bless me, father, said the youth.
For I, thy guest, am he.
Silent he gazed, then turned aside
To wipe the tears he shed ;
And lifting up his hands and eyes.
Poured blessings on his head :
Welcome, our dear and much-loved lord.
Thy country's hope and care :
But who may this young lady be.
That is so wondrous fair ?
Now, father, listen to my tale,
And thou shalt know the truth ;
And let thy sage advice direct
My unexperienced youth.
In Scotland I've been nobly bred
Beneath the Regent's hand.
In feats of arms, and every lore
To fit me for command.
With fond impatience long I burned
My native land to see ;
At length I won my guardian friend
To yield that boon to me.
Then up and down, in hunter's garb,
I wandered as in chase,
Till, in the noble Neville's house,
I gained a hunter's place.
Sometime with him I lived unknown,
Till I'd the hap so rare
To please this young and gentle dame,
That baron's daughter fair.
406 THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH.
Now, Percy, said the blushing maid.
The truth I must reveal ;
Souls great and generous, like to thine,
Their noble deeds conceal.
It hap])cned on a sunmier's day,
Led by the tragrantj breeze,
I wandered forth to take the air
Among the greemvood trees.
Sudden a band of ragged Scots,
That near in ambush lay,
Moss-troopers from the border-side,
There seized me for their prey.
My shrieks had all been spent in vain ;
But Heaven that saw my grief,
Brought this brave youth within my call.
Who flew to my relief.
With nothing but his hunting sj)ear,
And dagger in his hand,
He sprung like lightning on my foes.
And caused them soon to stand.
He fought till more assistance came ;
The Scots were overthrown ;
Thus freed me, captive, from their bands.
To make me more his own.
happy day I the youth replied ;
Blest were the wounds I bare !
From that fond hour she deigned to smile,
And listen to my prayer.
And when she knew my name and birth.
She vowed to be my bride ;
But oh! we feared (alas, the while)
Her princely mother's pride:
Sister of haughty Bolingbroke,
Our house's ancient foe,
To me I thought a banisht wight
Could ne'er such favour show.
Despairing then to gain consent.
At length to fly with me
1 won this lovely timorous maid ;
To Scotland bound are we.
THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 407
This evening, as the night drew on,
Fearing we were pursued,
"We turned adown the right-hand path,
And gained this lonely wood ;
Then lighting from our weary steeds
To shun the pelting shower.
We met thy kind conducting hand.
And reacht this friendly bower.
Now rest ye both, the hermit said ;
Awhile your cares forego :
Nor, lady,'scorn my humble bed ; —
We'll pass the night below.
FIT II.
Lovely smiled the blushing morn.
And every storm was fled ;
But lovelier far, with sweeter smile,
Fair Eleanor left her bed.
She found her Henry all alone.
And cheered him with her sight :
The youth, consulting with his friend,
Had watcht the livelong night.
What sweet surprise o'erpowered her breast,
Her cheeks what blushes dyed.
When fondly he besought her there
To yield to be liis bride !
Within this lonely hermitage
There is a chapel meet ;
Then grant, dear maid, my fond request,
And make my bliss complete.
O Henry, when thou deignst to sue,
Can I thy suit withstand ?
When thou, loved youth, hast won my heart.
Can I refuse my hand ?
For thee I left a father's smiles
And mother's tender care ;
And whether weal or woe betide.
Thy lot I mean to share.
408 THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH.
And wilt thou, then, O generous maid,
Such matchless favour show.
To share with me, a hauisht wight.
My peril, pain, or woe ?
Now Heaven, I trust, hath joys in store
To crown thy constant hrcast ;
For, know, fond hope assures my heart
That we shall soon be blest.
Not far from hence stands Coquet Isle,
Surrounded by the sea ;
There dwells a holy friar, well known
To all thy friends and thee :
'Tis Father Bernard, so revered
For every worthy deed :
To Raby Castle he shall go,
And for us kindly plead.
To fetch this good and holy man
Our reverend host is gone ;
And soon, I trust, his pious hands
Will join us both in one.
Thus they in sweet and tender talk
The lingering hours beguile :
At length they see the hoary sage
Come from the neighbouring isle.
"With pious joy and wonder mixt
He greets the noble pair.
And glad consents to join their hands
With many a fervent prayer.
Then straight to Raby's distant walls
He kindly wends his way :
Meantime in love and dalliance sweet
They spend the hvelong day.
And now, attended by their host.
The hermitage they viewed,
Deep-he\Mi within a craggy cliff.
And overhung with wcod.
And near a flight of shapely steps,
All cut with nicest skill.
And piercing through a stony arch.
Ran winding up the hill.
THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 409
There, deckt with many a flower and herb.
His httle garden stands ;
With fruitful trees in shady rows,
All planted by his hands.
Then, scoopt within the solid rock,
Three sacred vaults he shows :
The chief a chapel, neatly archt.
On branching columns rose.
Each proper ornament was there
That should a chapel grace :
The latice for confession framed,
And holy-water vase.
O'er either door a sacred text
Invites to godly fear ;
And in a little scutcheon hung
The cross, and crown, and spear.
Up to the altar's ample breadth
Two easy steps ascend ;
And near, a glimmering solemn light
Two well-wrought windows lend.
Beside the altar rose a tomb.
All in the living stone.
On which a young and beauteous maid
In goodly sculpture shone.
A kneeling angel, fairly carved.
Leaned hovering o'er her breast ;
A weeping warrior at her feet.
And near to these her crest.
The cliff, the vault, but chief the tomb.
Attract the wondering pair :
Eager they ask, What hapless dame
Lies sculptured here so fair ?
The hermit sighed, the hermit wept.
For sorrow scarce could speak ;
At length he wiped the trickling tears
That all bedewed his cheek :
Alas ! my children, human life
Is but a vale of woe ;
And very mournful is the tale
Which ye so fain would know.
410
THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH.
^5 "^
THE HERMIT'S TALE.
Youug lord, thy grandsire had a friend
In days of youthful fame ;
Yon distant hills were his domains ;
Sir Bertram was his name.
Where'er the noble Percy fought,
His friend was at his side ;
And many a skirmish with the Scots
Their early valour tried.
Young Bertram loved a beauteous maid.
As fair as fair might be ;
The dew-drop on the lily's cheek
Was not so fair as she.
THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 411
Fair Widdrington the maiden's name.
Yon towers her dwelling-place ;
Her sire an old Northumbrian chief,
Devoted to thy race.
Many a lord, and many a knight.
To this fair damsel came ;
But Bertram was her only choice ;
For him she felt a flame.
Lord Percy pleaded for his friend ;
Her father soon consents ;
None but the beauteous maid herself
His wishes now prevents.
But she with studied fond delays
Defers the blissful hour.
And loves to try his constancy.
And prove her maiden power.
That heart, she said, is lightly prized
Which is too Hghtly won.
And long shall rue that easy maid,
Who yields her love too soon.
Lord Percy made a solemn feast
In Alnwick's princely hall.
And there came lords, and there came knights.
His chiefs and barons all.
With wassail, mirth, and revelry,
The castle rung around :
Lord Percy called for song and haq^.
And pipes of martial sound.
The minstrels of thy noble house.
All clad in robes of blue.
With silver crescents on their arms.
Attend in order due.
The great achievements of thy race
They sung : their high command :
" How valiant Mainfred o'er the seas
First led his northern band.
Brave Galfrid next to Normandy
With venturous Rollo came ;
And from his Norman castles won,
Assumed the Percy name.
412 THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH.
They sung how in the Conqueror's fleet
Lord WilUam shipt his powers,
And gained a fair young Saxon bride
With all her lands and towers.
Then journeying to the Holy Land,
There bravely fought and died :
But first the silver crescent wan.
Some Paynim Soldan's pride.
They sung how Agnes, beauteous heir.
The queen's own brother wed.
Lord Josceline, sprung from Charlemagne,
In princely Brabant bred.
How he the Percy name revived.
And how his noble line
Still foremost in their country's cause
With godlike ardour shine."
With loud acclaims the listening crowd
Applaud the master's song.
And deeds of arms and war became
The theme of every tongue.
Now high heroic acts they tell,
Their perils past recall :
When lo ! a damsel young and fair
Stept forward through the hall.
She Bertram courteously addrest ;
And kneeling on her knee —
Sir knight, the lady of thy love
Hath sent this gift to thee.
Then forth she drew a glittering helme.
Well-plated many a fold.
The casque was wrought of tempered steel,
The crest of burnisht gold.
Sir knight, thy lady sends thee this,
And yields to be thy bride.
When thou hast proved this maiden gift
Where sharpest blows are tried.
Young Bertram took the shining helme,
And thrice he kist the same :
Trust me, I'll prove this precious casque
With deeds of noblest fame.
THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 413
Lord Percy and his barons bold
Then fix upon a day
To scour the marches, late opprest.
And Scottish wrongs repay.
The knights assembled on the hills,
A thousand horse and more :
Brave Widdrington, though sunk in years,
The Percy standard bore.
Tweed's limpid current soon they pass,
And range the borders round :
Down the green slopes of Tiviotdale
Their bugle-horns resound.
As when a lion in his den
Hath heard the hunter's cries.
And rushing forth to meet his foes.
So did the Douglas rise.
Attendant on their chief's command
A thousand warriors wait :
And now the fatal hour drew on
Of cruel keen debate.
A chosen troop of Scottish youths
Advance before the rest ;
Lord Percy markt their gallant mien,
And thus his friend addrest.
Now, Bertram, prove thy lady's helme.
Attack yon forward band ;
Dead or alive I'll rescue thee,
Or perish by their hand.
Young Bertram bowed, with glad assent.
And spurred his eager steed,
And calling on his lady's name,
Rusht forth with whirlwind speed.
As when a grove of sapling oaks
The livid lightning rends.
So fiercely 'mid the opposing ranks
Sir Bertram's sword descends.
This way and that he drives the steel.
And keenly pierces through ;
And many a tall and comely knight
With furious force he slew.
414 THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH.
Now closing fast on every side,
They hem Sir Bertram round ;
But daimtlcss he repels their rage.
And deals forth many a wound.
The vigour of his single arm
Had well-nigh won the field.
When ponderous fell a Scottish axe.
And clove his lifted shield.
Another blow his temples took.
And reft his helme in twain —
That beauteous helme, his lady's gift ! —
His blood bedewed the plain.
Lord Percy saw his champion fall
Amid the unequal fight ;
And now, my noble friends, he said.
Let's save this gallant knight.
Then rushing in, with stretcht-out shield
He o'er the warrior hung.
As some fierce eagle spreads her wing
To guard her callow young.
Three times they strove to seize their prey.
Three times they quick retire :
What force could stand his furious strokes,
Or meet his martial fire ?
Now, gathering round on every part.
The battle raged amain ;
And many a lady wept her lord.
That hour untimely slain.
Percy and Douglas, great in arms.
There all their courage showed ;
And all the field was strewed with dead.
And all with crimson flowed.
At length the glory of the day
The Scots reluctant yield.
And, after wonderous valour shown.
They slowly quit the field.
All pale, extended on their shields.
And weltering in his gore.
Lord Percy's knights their bleeding friend
To Wark's fair castle bore.
THE HER.MIT OF WARKWORTH. 415
Well hast thou earned my daughter's love,
Her father kindly said ;
And she herself shall dress thy wounds,
And tend thee in thy hed.
A message went, no daughter came ;
Fair Isabel ne'er appears ;
Beshrew me, said the aged chief,
Young maidens have their fears.
Cheer up, my son, thou shalt her see
So soon as thou canst ride,
And she shall nurse thee in her bower.
And she shall be thy bride.
Sir Bertram at her name revived ;
He blest the soothing sound ;
Fond hope suppUed the nurse's care,
And healed his ghastly wound.
FIT III.
One early morn, while dewy drops
Hung trembling on the tree,
Sir Bertram from his sick-bed rose.
His bride he would go see.
A brother he had in prime of youth,
Of courage firm and keen.
And he would tend him on the way.
Because his wounds were green.
All day o'er moss and moor they rode.
By many a lonely tower ;
And 'twas the dew-fall of the night
Ere they drew near her bower.
Most drear and dark the castle seemed,"
That wont to shine so bright ;
And long and loud Sir Bertram called
Ere he beheld a light.
At length her aged nurse arose,
With voice so shrill and clear :
Wliat wight is this that calls so loud.
And knocks so boldly here '(
416 THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH.
'Tis Bertram calls, thy lady's love,
Come from his bed of care :
All day I've ridden o'er moor and moss.
To see thy lady fair.
Now out, alas ! (she loudly shriekt)
Alas ! how may this be ?
For six long days are gone and past
Since she set out to thee.
Sad terror seized Sir Bertram's heart.
And oft he deeply sighed ;
"Wlien now the drawbridge was let down,
And gates set open wide.
Six days, young knight, are past and gone
Since she set out to thee,
And sure, if no sad harm had hapt.
Long since thou wouldst her see.
For when she heard thy grievous chance.
She tore her hair, and cried,
Alas ! I've slain the comeliest knight
All through my folly and pride !
And now to atone for my sad fault.
And his dear health regain,
I'll go myself, and nurse my love.
And soothe his bed of pain.
Then mounted she her milk-white steed
One morn by break of day.
And two tall yeomen went with her
To guard her on the way.
Sad terror smote Sir Bertram's heart,
And grief o'erwhelmed his mind :
Trust me, said he, I ne'er will rest
Till I thy lady find.
That night he spent in sorrow and care ;
And with sad boding heart.
Or ever the dawning of the day.
His brother and he depart.
Now, brother, we'll our ways di^^de,
O'er Scottish hills to range ;
Do thou go north, and I'll go west.
And all our dress we'll chane;e.
THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 417
Some Scottish carle hath seized my love
And borne her to his den.
And ne'er will I tread English ground
Till she is restored agen.
The brothers straight their paths divide.
O'er Scottish hills to range ;
And hide themselves in quaint disguise.
And oft their dress they change.
Sir Bertram, clad in go\vn of gray.
Most like a palmer poor.
To halls and castles wanders round.
And begs from door to door.
Sometimes a minstrel's garb he wears.
With pipes so sweet and shrill ;
And wends to every tower and towa,
O'er every dale and hill.
One day as he sat under a thorn.
All sunk in deep despair,
An aged pilgrim passed him by,
"Who marked his face of care.
All minstrels yet that ever I saw.
Are full of game and glee :
But thou art sad and wo-begone ;
I marvel whence it be I
Father, I serve an aged lord.
Whose grief afflicts my mind ;
His only child is stolen away.
And fain I would her find.
Cheer up, my son ; perchance (he said)
Some tidings I may bear ;
For oft when human hopes have failed.
Then heavenly comfort's near.
Behind yon hills, so steep and high,
Down in the lowly glen.
There stands a castle fair and strong.
Far from th' abode of men.
As late I chanced to crave an alms.
About this evening hour,
Methought I heard a lady's voice
Lamenting in the tower.
418 THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH.
And when 1 asked what harm had hapt,
What lady sick there lay ?
They rudely drove me from the gate.
Aid bade me wend away.
These tidings caught Sir Bertram's ear ;
He thanked him for his tale ;
And soon he hasted o'er the hills,
And soon he reacht the vale.
Then drawing near those lonely towers.
Which stood in dale so low.
And sitting down beside the gate,
His pipes he 'gan to blow.
Sir porter, is thy lord at home
To hear a minstrel's song?
Or may I crave a lodging here.
Without offence or wrong ?
My lord, he said, is not at home
To hear a minstrel's song ;
And should I lend thee lodging here,
My life would not be long.
He playd again so soft a strain.
Such power sweet sounds impart.
He won the churlish porter's ear.
And moved his stubborn heart.
Minstrel, he said, thou playst so sweet.
Fair entrance thou shouldst win ;
But, alas ! I'm sworn upon the rood
To let no stranger in.
Yet, minstrel, in yon rising cliff
Thou'lt find a sheltering cave ;
And here thou shalt my supper share.
And there thy lodging have.
All day he sits beside the gate,
And pipes both loud and clear :
All night he watches round the walls.
In hopes his love to hear.
The first night, as he silent watcht,
All at the midnight hour.
He plainly heard liis lady's voice
Lamenting in the tower.
THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 419
The second night the moon shone clear,
And gilt the spangled dew ;
He saw his lady through the grate.
But 'twas a transient view.
The third night, wearied out, he slept
Till near the morning tide,
"When, starting up, he seized his sword,
And to the castle hied.
"When lo ! he saw a ladder of ropes
Depending from the wall ;
And o'er the moat was newly laid
A poplar strong and tall.
And soon he saw his love descend,
"Wrapt in a tartan plaid.
Assisted by a sturdy youth.
In Highland garb y-clad.
Amazed, confounded at the sight,
He lay unseen and still ;
And soon he saw them cross the stream,
And mount the neighbouring hill.
Unheard, unknown of all within.
The youthful couple fly ;
But what can 'scape the lover's ken.
Or shun his piercing eye ?
"With silent step he follows close
Behind the flying pair.
And saw her hang upon his arm
"With fond familiar air.
Thanks, gentle youth, she often said ;
My thanks thou well hast won :
For me what wiles hast thou contrived !
For me what dangers run !
And ever shall my grateful heart
Thy services repay : —
Sir Bertram would no farther hear,
But cried. Vile traitor, stay !
Vile traitor ! yield that lady up ! —
And quick his sword he drew :
The stranger turned in sudden rage.
And at Sir Bertram flew.
420 THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH.
With mortal hate their vigorous arms
Gave many a vengeful blow ;
But Bertram's stronger hand prevailed,
And laid the stranger low.
Die, traitor, die ! — A deadly thrust
Attends each furious word ;
Ah ! then fair Isabel knew his voice.
And rusht beneath his sword.
O stop, she cried ; O stop thy arm.
Thou dost thy brother slay ! —
And here the hermit paused and wept :
His tongue no more could say.
At length he cried. Ye lovely pair.
How shall I tell the rest ?
Ere I could stop my piercing sword.
It fell, and stabbed her breast.
Wert thou thyself that hapless youth ?
Ah ! cruel fate ! they said.
The hermit wept, and so did they :
They sighed ; he hung his head.
! blind and jealous rage, he cried.
What evils from thee flow ?
The hermit paused ; they silent mourned ;
He wept, and they were woe.
Ah ! when I heard my brother's name,
And saw my lady bleed,
1 raved, I wept, I curst my arm,
That wrought the fatal deed.
In vain I claspt her to my breast.
And closed the ghastly wound ;
In vain I prest his bleeding corpse.
And raised it from the ground.
My brother, alas ! spake never more ;
His precious life was flown ;
She kindly strove to soothe my pain.
Regardless of her own.
Bertram, she said, be comforted.
And live to think on me :
May we in heaven that union prove.
Which here was not to be !
THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 421
Bertram, she said, I still was true ;
Thou only hadst my heart :
May we hereafter meet in bliss !
We now, alas ! must part.
For thee I left my father's hall.
And flew to thy relief ;
When, lo ! near Chiviot's fatal hills
I met a Scottish chief.
Lord Malcolm's son, whose proffered love
I had refused with scorn ;
He slew my guards, and seized on me
Upon that fatal morn.
And in these dreary hated walls
He kept me close confined.
And fondly sued and warmly prest
To win me to his mind.
Each rising morn increased my pain.
Each night increased my fear :
When wandering in this northern garb.
Thy brother found me here.
He quickly formed his brave design
To set me captive free ;
And on the moor his horses wait.
Tied to a neighbouring tree.
Then haste, my love, escape away,
And for thyself provide.
And sometime fondly think on her
Who should have been thy bride.
Thus pouring comfort on my soul
Even with her latest breath.
She gave one parting fond embrace,
And closed her eyes in death.
In wild amaze, in speechless woe.
Devoid of sense I lay :
Then sudden all in frantic mood
I meant myself to slay :
And rising up in furious haste,
I seized the bloody brand :
A sturdy arm here interposed.
And wrencht it from my hand.
A crowd, that from the castle came,
Had mist their lovely ward.
And seizing me, to prison bare,
And deep in dungeon barred.
It chanced that on that very morn
Their chief was prisoner ta'en :
Lord Percy had us soon exchanged.
And strove to soothe my pain.
And soon those honoured dear remains
To England were conveyed.
And there within their silent tombs
With holy rites were laid.
For me, I loathed my wretched life.
And oft to end it sought ;
Till time, and thought, and holy men,
Had better counsels taught.
They raised my heart to that pure source
WTience heavenly comfort flows :
They taught me to despise the world.
And calmly bear its woes.
No more the slave of human pride.
Vain hope, and sordid care,
I meekly vowed to spend my life
In penitence and prayer.
The bold Sir Bertram now no more.
Impetuous, haughty, wild.
But poor and humble Benedict,
Now lowly, patient, mild.
My lands I gave to feed the poor,
And sacred altars raise.
And here, a lonely anchoret,
I came to end my days.
This sweet sequestered vale I chose.
These rocks, and hanging grove ;
For oft beside that murmuring stream
My love was wont to rove.
My noble friend approved my choice ;
This blest retreat he gave ;
And here I carved her beauteous form.
And scoopt this holy cave.
THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 423
Full fifty winters, all forlorn.
My life I've lingered here ;
And daily o'er this sculptured saint
I drop the pensive tear.
And thou, dear brother of my heart,
So faithful aud so true.
The sad remembrance of thy fate
Still makes my bosom rue !
Yet not unpitied passed my life,
Forsaken, or forgot.
The Percy aud his noble son
Would grace my lowly cot.
Oft the great earl, from toils of state
And cumbrous pomp of power,
Would gladly seek my little cell
To spend the tranquil hour.
But length of life is length of woe ;
I lived to mourn his fall :
I lived to mourn his godlike son,
Their friends and followers all.
But thou the honours of thy race,
Loved youth, shalt now restore.
And raise again the Percy name
More glorious than before.
He ceased, and on the lovely pair
His choicest blessings laid.
While they with thanks and pitying tears
His mournful tale repaid.
And now what present course to take.
They ask the good old sire.
And, guided by his sage advice,
To Scotland they retire.
Meantime their suit such favour found
At Raby's stately hall.
Earl Neville and his princely spouse
Now gladly pardon all.
She, suppliant at her ue])hew's throne,
The royal grace implored :
To all the honours of his race
The Percy was restored.
424 THE HERMIT OF WARK WORTH.
The youthful earl still more and more
Admired his beauteous dame :
Nine noble sons to him she bore,
All worthy of their name.
[Warkworth Castle, in Northumberland, stands very boldly on a neck of land near the sea-shore,
almost surrounded by the river Coquet, (called by our old Latin historians Coqueda,) wliich runs
with a clear rapid stream, but when swollen with rain becomes violent and dangerous.
About a mile from the Castle, in a deep romantic valley, are the remains of an Hermitage; of
which the chapel is still entire. This is hollowed with great elegance in a cliff near the river, as
are also two adjoining apartments, which probably served for the sacristy and vestry, or were ap-
propriated to some other sacred uses : for the former of these, which runs parallel with the chapel,
is thought to have had an altar in it, at which mass was occasionally celebrated, as well as in the
chapel itself.
Kach of these apartments is extremely small ; for that which was the principal chapel does not
in length exceed eighteen feet ; nor is more than seven feet and a half in breadth and height; it
is, however, very beautifully designed and executed in the solid rock ; and has all the decorations of
a complete gothic Church, or Cathedral in miniature. But what principally distinguishes the chapel,
is a small tomb or monument, on the south side of the altar ; on the top of which lies a female
figure, extended in the manner that effigies are usually exhibited, praying on ancient tombs. This
figure, which is very delicately designed, some haveignorantly called an image of the Virgin Mary;
though it has not the least resemblance to the manner in which she is represented in the Romish
churches, who is usually erect, as the object of adoration, and never in a prostrate or recumbent
posture. Indeed the real image of the blessed Virgin probably stood in a small nich, still visible be-
hind the altar; whereas the figure of a Bull's Head, which is rudely carved at this Lady's feet, the
usual place for the crest in old monuments, plainly proves her to have been a very different per-
sonage.
About the tomb are several other figures ; which, as well as the principal one above-mentioned,
are cut in the natural rock, in the same manner as the little chapel itself, with all its ornaments,
and the two adjoining apartments. What slight traditions are scattered through the country con-
cerning the origin and foundation of this hermitage, tomb, &c , are delivered to the reader in the
preceding rhymes.
It is universally agreed, that the founder was one of the Bertram family, which had once consi-
derable possessions in Northumberland, and were anciently Lords of Bothel Castle, situate about
ten miles from Warkworth, he has been tliought to be the same Bertram that endowed Brinkburn
Priory, and built Brenkshaugh Chapel ; which both standin the same winding valley, higher up the
river.
But Brinkburn Priory was founded in the reign of King Henry I., whereas the form of the
Gothic windows in this chapel, especially of those near the altar, is founded rather to resemble the
style of architecture that prevailed about the reign of King Edward lil. And indeed that the
sculpture in this chapel cannot be much older, appears from the crest which is placed at the Lady's
feet on the tomb ; for Camden informs us, that armorial crests did not become hereditary till about
the reign of King Edward II.
These appearances, still extant, strongly confirm the account given in the poem, and
plainly prove that the Hermit of Warkworth was not the same person that founded Brinkburn
Priory in the twelfth century, but rather one of the Bertram family who lived at a later period.
It will, perhaps, gratify the curious reader to be informed, that from a word or two formerly legi-
ble over one of the chapel doors, it is believed that the text there inscribed was that Latin verse of
the Psalmist, which is in our translation, (Ps. xlii. .'J.)
My lEAPS HAVE BEEN JIY MeAT DaV AND N:GHT.
It is also certain, that the memory of the first Hermit was held in such regard and veneration
by the Percy family, that they afterwards maintained a Chantry Priest, to reside in the Hermitage,
and celebrate Jlass in the chapel, whose allowance, uncommonly liberal and munificent, was con-
tinued down to the dissolution of the monasteries ; and then the whole salary, together with the
Hermitage and all its dependencies, reverted back to the family, having never been endowed in
Mortmain.
St. .54. Adjoining to the Cliff, which contains the Chapel of the Hermitage, are the remains of
a small building, in which the Hermit dwelt. This consisted of one lower apartment, with a
little bed-chamber over it, and is now in ruins : whereas the Chapel, cut in the solid rock, is still
very entire and perfect.
St. (i;j. In the little island of Coquet, near Warkworth, are still seen the ruins of a Cell, which
belonged to the Benedictine Monks of TinemouthAbbcy.
St. 77. This is a Bull's Head, the crest of the Widdrington family. All the figures, &c. here
described are still visible, only somewhat effaced with length of time.
St . 93 . In Lower Normandy are three places of the name of Percy : whence the family took the
surname De Percy.
St. 12.3. Wark Castle, a fortress belonging to the English, and of great note in ancient times,
stood on the southern bank of the river Tweed, a little to the east of Tiviotdale, and not far from
Kelso. It is now entirely destroyed.— Percy.
END OF VOL. I.
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