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EVANS'S
COLLECTION OF OLD
BALLADS, Continued
XXI.
"LAMENTATION
OF JOHN MUSGRAVE,
Who was
executed at Kendal, for robbing the King's Receiver, and taking away from him
great store of treasure."
TO lodge it was my chance of late
At Kendal in the 'sizes week,
Where I saw many a gallant state
Was walking up and down the street.
Down Plumpton Park as I did pass,
I heard a bird sing in a glen:
The chiefest of her song it was,
Farewell the fIower of serving-men.
Sometimes I heard the music
sweet,
Which was delightful unto me;
At length I heard one wail and
weep,
A gallant youth condemned to die.
A gentleman of courage bold,
His like I never saw before;
But when as I did him behold,
My grief it grew still
more and more.
Of watery eyes there was great
store,
For all did weep that did him see,
He made the heart of many sore,
And I lamented for company.
To God above (quoth he) I call,
That sent his son to suffer death,
For to receive my sinful soul,
As soon as I shall lose my breath.
O God I have deserved death,
For deeds that I have done to thee,
Yet never liv'd I like a thief,
Till I met with ill company.
For I may curse the dismal hour,
First time that I did give consent,
For to rob the King's Receiver,
And to take away his rent.
You gallants all be warned by me,
Learn cards and dice for to refrain,
Fly whores, eschew ill company,
For these three things will
breed you pain.
All earthly treasures are but
vain,
And worldly wealth is vanity:
Search nothing else but heaven to
gain,
Remember all that we must die.
Farewell good fellows, less and
more,
Be not dismay'd at this my fall:
I never did offend before,
John Musgrave all men did me call.
SECOND PART.
The bait beguiles the bonny fish,
Some care not what they swear or say;
The lamb becomes the fox's dish,
When as the old sheep runs away:
Down Plumpton Park as I did pass,
I heard a bird sing in a glen,
The chiefest of her song it was,
Farewell the flower of serving-men.
The fowlers that the plovers get,
Take glistering glass their net to set;
The ferret, when the mouth is cop't,
Doth drive the coney to the net.
The pike devours the salmon free,
Which is a better fish than himself
Some care not how whose children
cry
So that themselves may keep their pelf.
Farewell good people less and more,
Both great and small that did me ken,
Farewell rich, and farewell poor,
And farewell all good serving men.
Now by my death I wish all know,
That this same lesson you may teach,
Of what degree of high or low,
Climb not, I say, above your reach.
Good gentlemen, I you entreat,
That have more sons than you have land,
In idleness do not them keep,
Teach them to labour with their hands.
For idleness is the root of evil,
And this sin never goes alone;
But theft and robbery follows
after,
As by myself is plainly shewn.
For youth and age will not
understand
That friends in want they be but cold,
If they spend their portions and
lack land,
They may go beg when they are old.
Farewell, farewell, my brethren
dear,
Sweet sisters make no dole for me,
My death's at hand, I do not
fear,
We are all mortal, and born to die.
I know that Christ did die for
me,
No earthly pleasures would I have,
I care not for the world a fly,
But mercy, Lord, of thee I crave.
Come, man of death, and do me
right,
My glass is run, I cannot stay:
With Christ I hope to lodge this
night,
And all good people for me pray.
The man of death his part did
play,
Which made the tears blind many an eye
He is with Christ, as I dare say,
The Lord grant us that so we may.
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XXII.
"JOCKIE
IS GROWNE A GENTLEMAN."
This Satire was most probably levelled against the
numerous train of Scotch adventurers who wisely emigrated to England in the
time of James the First, in the full expectation of being distinguished by the
particular favour and patronage of their native sovereign. The realization of
these hopes, and perhaps some disappointment of his own, excited the gall of
the unknown Satirist, and produced this effusion. Its extreme rarity cannot be
better exemplified than by simply stating, that no other copy of it was ever
seen by Mr. Chalmers, whose knowledge respecting every subject of Scottish
history and literature is proverbial: and the late Mr. Ritson absolutely
questioned it's existence till he was convinced of his error by the production
of the original. The ensuing transcript is made from a very curious manuscript
in the possession of the Rev. H. J. Todd, who has given an account of the other
parts of the volume in his preliminary observations on the Sonnets of Milton.
WELL met, Jockie, whether* away?
Shall we two have a worde or
tway?
Thow was so lousie the other day,
How the devill comes thow so gay?
Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
Jockie is growne a gentleman.
Thy shoes that thow wor'st when
thow wenst to plow,
Were made of the hyde of a
Scottish cow,
They are turnd into Spanish
leather now,
Bedeckt with roses I know not
how.
Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
Jockie is growne a gentleman.
Thy stockings that were of a
northerne blew,
That cost not past 12d when they
were new,
Are turnd into a silken hew,
Most gloriously to all men's vew.
Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
Jockie is growne a gentleman.
Thy belt that was made of a white
leather thonge,
Which thow and thy father ware so
longe,
Are turnd to hangers of velvet
stronge,
With golde and pearle embroydred
amonge.
Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
Jockie is growne a gentleman.
Thy garters that were of the
Spanish say,
Which from the taylor thow
stoll'st away,
Are now quite turnd to silk, they
say,
With great broade laces fayre and
gay.
Ha ha ha, by sweet St, An.
Jockie is growne a gentleman.
Thy doublet and breech that were
so playne,
On which a louse could scarse
remayne,
Are turnd to sattin, god a mercie
brayne,
That thow by begging could'st
this obtayne.
Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
Jockie is growne a gentleman.
Thy cloake which was made of a
home-spun thread,
Which thow wast wonte to flinge
on thy bed.
Is turnd into a skarlet red,
With golden laces aboute thee
spread.
Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
Jockie is growne a gentleman.
Thy bonnet of blew which thow
wor'st hether,
To keep thy skonce from wind and
wether,
Is throwne away the devill knowes
whether,
And turnd to a bever bat and
feather.
Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
Jockie is growne a gentleman.
Westminster hall
was covered with lead,
And so was St. John
many a day;
The Scotchmen have
begd it to buy them bread;
The devill take all
such Jockies away!
Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
Jockie is growne a gentleman.
* MS. Whether is the
old spelling for whither, as in the 8th stanza also.
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XXIII.
"THE
COMPLAINT OF THE SHEPHEARD HARPALUS."
[Black letter; for the
assigns of Symcocke.]
POOR Harpalus opprest with love
Sat by a chrystal brook:
Thinking his sorrows to remove,
Oftimes therein to look,
And hearing how on pebble stones,
The murmuring river ran,
As if it had bewail'd his groans,
Unto it thus began.
Fair stream, quoth he, that
pities me,
And hears my matchless moan,
If thou be going to the sea,
As I do now suppone,
Attend my plaints past all
relief,
Which dolefully I breath,
Acquaint the sea nymphs with the
grief
Which still procures my death.
Who sitting in the cliffy rocks
May in their songs express,
While as they comb their golden
locks,
Poor Harpalus' distress;
And so perhaps some passenger
That passeth by the way,
May stay, and listen for to hear,
Them sing this doleful lay.
Poor Harpalus a shepherd swain
More rich in youth than store,
Lov'd fair Philena, hapless man,
Philena oh therefore!
Who still, remorseless-hearted
maid,
Took pleasure in his pain:
And his good will, poor soul,
repaid,
With undeserv'd disdain.
Ne'er shepherd lov'd a
shepherdess
More faithfully than he,
Ne'er shepherd yet beloved less
Of shepherdess could be,
How oft did he with dying looks,
To her his woes impart,
How oft his sighs did testify
The dolour of his heart.
How oft from vallies to the hills
Did he his grief rehearse,
How oft re-echoed they his ills
Aback again alas!
How oft on barks of stately
pines,
Of beech, of holly green,
Did he engrave in mournful lines
The grief he did sustain.
Yet all his plaints could have no
place
To change Philena's mind,
The more his sorrows did encrease
The more she prov'd unkind,
The thought thereof with wearied
care
Poor Harpalus did move,
That, overcome with high despair,
He lost both life and love.
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XXIV.
SHEPHERD'S
DELIGHT.
To the
tune of Frog's Galliard.
[Black
letter, for the Assigns of Symcocke.]
ON yonder hill there springs a
flower,
Pair befall the dainty sweet,
And by that flower there stands a
bower
Where all the heavenly Muses meet,
And in that bower there stands a
chair,
Fringed all about with gold,
And therein sits the fairest fair
That ever did mine eyes behold.
It was Phillida fair and bright,
And the shepherd's only joy,
She whom Venus most did spite,
And the blinded little boy,
It was she the wise, the rich,
Whom all the world did joy to see,
It was, Ipsa quæ, the which,
There was none but only she.
Thou art the shepherd's queen,
Pity me, thy woful swain,
For by thy virtue Lave been seen
Dead men restored to life again;
Look on me now with thy fair eyes
One smiling look and I am gone,.
Look on me for I am he,
Thy poor afflicted Corydon.
Dead I am to all delights,
Except thy mercy quicken me,
Grant, oh queen, or else I die,
A salve for this my malady,
The while we sing with cheerful
noise,
Wood nymphs and satyrs all may play,
With silver sounding music's
voice,
Rejoicing at this happy day.
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XXV.
"THE
NORTHERN LASSES LAMENTATION,
OR,
The
Unhappy Maid's Misfortune."
"Since she did from her
friends depart,
No earthly thing can cheer her
heart,
But still she doth her case
lament,
Being always filled with
discontent,
Resolving to do nought but mourn,
Till to the north she doth
return."
To the
tune, — I would I were in my own country.
A NORTH country lass
Up to London did pass,
Although with her nature it did
not agree,
Which made her repent,
And so often lament,
Still wishing again in the North
for to be,
O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
Do flourish at hone in my own
country.
Fain would I be,
In the north country
Where the lads and the lasses are
making of hay,
There should I see
What is pleasant to me,
A mischief light on them entic'd
me away!
O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree
Do flourish most bravely in our
country.
Since that I came forth
Of the pleasant North,
There's nothing delightful I see
doth abound,
They never can be
Half so merry as we,
When we are a dancing of
Sellinger's round.
O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree.
Do flourish at home in our own
country.
I like not the court,
Nor the city resort,
Since there is no fancy for such
maids as we,
Their pomp and their pride
I can never abide;
Because with my humour it doth
not agree.
O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
Do flourish at home in my own
country.
How oft have I been
On the Westmorland green,
Where the young men and maidens
resort for to play,
Where we with delight
From morning till night,
Could feast it and frolick on
each holyday.
O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
Do flourish most bravely in our
country.
A milking
to go,
All the
maids on a row,
It was a fine sight and pleasant to see,
But here
in the city,
They are
void of pity,
There is no enjoyment of liberty.
O the oak, the
ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
They flourish most bravely in our country.
When I had
the heart
From my
friends to depart,
I thought I should be a lady at last:
But now do
I find,
That it
troubles my mind,
Because that my joys and pleasures are past.
O the oak, the
ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
They flourish at home in my own country.
The ewes
and the lambs
With the
kids and their dams,
To see in the country how finely they play,
The bells
they do ring,
And the
birds they do sing,
And the fields and the gardens so pleasant and gay.
O the oak, the
ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
They flourish most bravely in our country.
At wakes
and at fairs
Being void
of all cares,
We there with our lovers did use for to dance,
Then hard
hap had I,
My ill
fortune to try,
And so up to London my steps to advance.
O the oak, the
ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
They flourish most bravely in our country.
Yet still
I perceive
I a
husband might have,
If I to the city, my mind could but frame,
But I'll,
have a lad
That is
north country bred,
Or else I'll not marry in the mind that I am.
O the oak, the
ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
They flourish most bravely in our country.
A maiden I
am,
And a maid
I'll remain,
Untill my own country again I do see,
For here
in this place
I shall
n'er see the face
Of him, that's allotted my love for to be.
O the oak, the
ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
They flourish at home in my own country.
Then
farewell my daddy,
And
farewell my mammy,
Untill I do see you I nothing but mourn,
Remembring
my brothers,
My sisters
and others,
In less than a year I hope to return;
Then the oak,
and the ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
I shall see them at home in my own country.
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XXVI.
A LOVER'S
PRAISE OF HIS LADY.
[From the
"Handefull of Pleasant Delites," 1584.]
"To
Calen o Custure me: sung at everie lines end."
WHEN as I view your comely grace,
Your golden hairs, your angel face,
Your azured veins much like the skies,
Your silver teeth, your christal eyes,
Your coral lips, your crimson cheek,
That Gods and men both love and leek.
Your pretty mouth with divers gifts,
Which driveth wise men to their shifts,
So brave, so fine, so trim., so young,
With heavenly wit, and pleasant tongue,
That Pallas though she did excell,
Could frame, ne tell a tale so well.
Your voice so sweet, your neck so white,
Your body fine, and small in sight:
Your fingers long so nimble be,
To utter forth such harmony,
As all the Muses for a space,
To sit and hear, do give you place.
Your pretty foot with all the rest
That may be seen, or may be guest:
Doth bear such shape, that beauty may
Give place to thee, and go her way;
And Paris now must change his doom,
For Venus, lo, must give thee room.
Whose gleams doth heat my heart as fier,
Although I burn, yet would I nigher,
Within myself then can I say,
The night is gone, behold the day:
Behold the star so clear and bright,
As dims the sight of Phoebus light.
Whose fame by pen for to discrive,
Doth pass each wight that is alive:
Then how dare I with boldned face
Presume to crave, or wish your grace?
And thus amazed as I stand,
Not feeling sense, nor mooving hand.
My soul with silence-mooving sense,
Doth wish of God with reverence,
Long life and virtue you possess
To match those gifts of worthiness;
And love and pity may be spied
To be your chief and only guide.
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XXVII.
"A
PROPER SONG,
INTITULED,
Fain wold
I have a pretie thing
To give
unto my ladie,"
To the
tune of — Lusty Gallant.
[From
Robinson's "Handefull of Pleasant Delites," 1584.]
FAIN would I have a pretty thing
To give unto my
lady,
I name no thing, nor I mean no thing,
But as pretty a
thing as may be.
Twenty journeys would I make,
And twenty ways
would hie me,
To make adventure for her sake
To set some
matter by me.
Some do long for pretty knacks,
And some for
strange devices,
God send me that my lady lacks,
I care not what
the price is.
Some go here, and some go there
Where gazes be
not geason,*
And I go gaping every where.
But still come
out of season.
I walk the town, and tread the street,
In every corner
seeking
The pretty thing I cannot meet,
That's for my
lady's liking.
The mercers pull me going by,
The silk wives
say What lack ye?
The thing you have not, then say I,
Ye foolish
fools go pack ye.
It is not all the silk in Cheap,
Nor all the
golden treasure,
Nor twenty bushels on a heap,
Can do my lady
pleasure.
The gravers of the golden shows,
With jewels do
beset me,
The semstress' in the shops that sew,
They nothing do
but let me.
But were it in the wit of man,
By any means to
make it,
I could for money buy it then,
And say, Fair
lady, take it.
O lady, what a luck is this,
That my good
willing misseth
To find what pretty thing it is
That my good
lady wisheth.
Thus fain would I have had this pretty thing
To give unto my
lady:
I said no harm, nor I meant no harm,
But as pretty a
thing as may be.
* Where shows or public exhibitions
are not uncommon.
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XXVIII.
"BALLAD FROM THE ROMANCE CALLED
THE FAMOUS HISTORY OF FRAGOSA AND HIS THREE SONS "
"Then Albina think no more of Dorosa's beauty or
valiancy; yea, if thou canst not quench the coales of desire with
forgetfulness, yet rake them up in the ashes of modesty; bear a painted sheath
with a leaden dagger, and a merry countenance with a melancholy mind; and of
all thy father's knights esteem Dorosa the least, yea, and so rauch the less as
he is the latest.
With this she taking her lute
that lay at her bed's head warbled forth this ditty:"
ALL this night
By his might,
Love hath made my heart his cell;
Venus joy,
Wanton boy,
From mine eyes did rest expel.
Wanton sports,
Wily ports,
Slippery slights, and foolish love,
His intent,
To invent,
How to catch the simple dove.
Blinded boy,
Venus joy,
All thy god-head is a toy,
Power small
To enthrall,
Or to work my heart's annoy.
I have right
Armour bright,
Compound of rare chastity;
This I say
Night and day,
Shall withstand thy deity.
Then pack hence,
Hie thee hence,
Or with nettles I'll thee whip,
For thy sin
Thou shalt win
Scourges that will make thee skip.
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XXIX.
"A
pleasant ditty of a mayden's vow,
That
faine would marry and yet knew not how."
[From a
black letter copy by H. G. id est, Henry Gosson.]
THERE was a lusty youthful lad
That lov'd a
country lass,
And many a sweet discourse they had
As they alone
did pass.
This young man he was apt to woo,
And well
himself could carry,
The maid was kind, of yielding mind,
But yet she
would not marry.
This young's man's heart was set on fire,
And still he
did invent,
How he might compass his desire,
And frustrate
her intent.
For still this maid. said as before,
From all thy
hopes I'll bar thee,
Therefore begone, let me alone,
In sooth I will
not marry.
This answer much dismayed him,
And troubled so
his mind,
That he thereat lookt pale and grim,
And no content
could find,
This maiden she was nothing mov'd,
Nor from her
words would vary,
But constantly she did reply,
I'll never
yield to marry.
My love, quoth he, is so entire,
And firm to
thee, my dear,
Whose love again I much desire
With many a
weeping tear,
Therefore sweet-heart be not unkind,
Nor say that thou wilt tarry,
But let me prove thy constant love,
And then
consent to marry.
Didst thou but know the inward grief
I suffer for
thy love;
Thy flinty heart would yield relief,
Or more
obdurate prove:
My legs are grown so weak, that they
My body scarce
can carry,
Then yield relief to ease my grief,
And, give
consent to marry.
No, no, quoth she, thy flatt'ring tongue
Shall ne'er
obtain his suit,
Thy tempting words have done me wrong,
Therefore I
pray be mute:
For I am fully purposed
Henceforth to
be more wary;
Therefore away, make no delay,
For in sooth I
will not marry.
He asked her the reason why
She would
reject him so
She would not wed, she did reply,
For friend nor
yet for foe:
Quoth she, my years are yet but green,
I am young
enough to tarry
This twelve-month's day, therefore away,
'Tis time
enough to marry.
Quoth he, it makes me half despair,
And troubleth
my mind,
That one so comely and so fair,
Should ere prove so unkind:
Therefore sweet-heart tell me the cause,
That thou so
much doth vary,
From all the minds of women-kind,
As to refuse to
marry.
SECOND PART.
Didst thou but know the sweet delights,
That marriage
doth afford.
And how fair ladies, lords, and knights,
In marriage bed
accord;
Thou would'st not fondly make reply,
Th' art young
enough to tarry,
But be content, and give consent
Without delay
to marry.
He that says love is vanity,
Shall ne'er
persuade me to it,
Nor yet deny a courtesy,
If any one will
do it:
For I have made a vow, quoth she,
And sworn by
great King Harry,
That till I have the thing I crave,
I will not
yield to marry.
If I had known the cause, quoth he,
Why thou didst make denial.,
I quickly would have proffer'd thee
A sweet
contending trial:
Which would have made thee soon consent,
Though thou
wert ne'er so wary,
And never more say as. before,
I’ll never
yield to marry.
Then use your wit, the maid replied,
For now you
know the cause,
A maiden's No proves often Aye
To yield to
Hymen's laws,
If you prove kind, the maiden said,
Consent and do
not tarry,
And then I soon will change this tune,
And quickly
yield to marry.
With that the young man bad her, but
Keep secret and
prove kind,
And he would verify her oath,
And satisfy her
mind:
Quoth she, I will be satisfied
If that thou
dost not vary,
But yet, in troth, I am very loath
To, give my
grant to marry.
With that they both concluded were,
But wot you how
she sped,
By consequence it did appear
That it her
liking bred,
For when her oath was verified
That she swore
by King Harry,
She never stay'd, but quickly said,
Sweetheart now
let us marry.
This young's man's love was quickly cold,
That here
betwixt them past,
Quoth he, I will not be too bold,
Least I repent
at last:
For he that weds too hastily,
Had need for to
be wary,
Beast he repent he gave consent
Without advice
to marry.
Fair maidens all take good advice
Before you give
consent,
Unto your loves in any wise
These follies
to prevent;
For she that to perform her vow,
So long a time
did tarry,
Was brought to shame, and much defame.
Before that she
did marry.
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XXX.
THE MAIDS
COMPLAINT OF HER MOTHER.
[From
"the Muses Garden. 1610."]
My father fain would have me take
A man that hath
a beard,
My mother she cries out, a-lack!
And makes me
much afraid,
Forsooth I am not old enough,
Now surely this
is goodly stuff,
Faith let my mother marry me,
Or else my
father bury me.
For I have liv'd these fourteen years,
My mother knows
it well,
What need she then to cast such fears,
Can any body
tell!
As though young women do not know
That custom
will not let them woo;
I would be glad if I might chuse,
But I were mad
if I refuse.
My mother bids me go to school,
And learn to do
some good,
'Twere well if she would let the fool,
Come home and
suck a dug,
As if my father knew not yet
That maidens
are for young men fit;
Give me my mind and let me wed,
Or you shall
quickly find me dead.
How soon my mother hath forgot
That ever she
was young,
And how that she denied not,
But sung
another song,
I must not speak what I do think,
When I am dry I
may not drink;
Though her desire be now grown old
She must have
fire when she is cold.
You see the mother loves the son,
The father
loves the maid;
What, would she have me be a nun?
I will not be
delay'd,
I will not live thus idle still,
My mother shall
not have her will,
My father speaketh like a man,
I will be
married do what she can.
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