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EVANS'S COLLECTION OF OLD BALLADS,  Continued

XXXI.

"A rare example of a virtuous maid in Paris, who was by her own mother procured to be put in prison, thinking thereby to compel her to Popery: but she continued to the end, and finished her life in the fire."

IT was a lady's daughter,      Of Paris properly, Her mother her commanded      To mass that she should hie: O pardon me, dear mother,      Her daughter dear did say Unto that filthy idol      I never can obey. With weeping and wailing      Her mother then did go, To assemble her kinsfolks,      That they the truth may know; Who being then assembled      They did this maiden call, And put her into prison,      To fear her therewithal.  But where they thought to fear her,      She did most strong endure, Although her years were tender,      Her faith was firm and sure. She weigh'd not their allurements,      She fear'd not fiery flames, She hop'd thro' Christ her Saviour      To have immortal fame. Before the judge they brought her,      Thinking that she would turn, And there she was condemned      In fire for to burn; Instead of golden bracelets,      With cords they bound her fast, My God, grant me with patience       (Quoth she) to die at last. And on the morrow after,      Which was her dying day, They stript this silly damsel,      Out of her nice array, Her chain of gold so costly,      Away from her they take, And she again most joyfully      Did all the world forsake. Unto the place of torment      They brought her speedily, With heart and mind most constant,      She willing was to die, But seeing many ladies      Assembled in that place, These words she then pronounced,      Lamenting of their case. You ladies of this city,      Mark well my words (quoth she); Although I shall be burned      Yet do not pity me, Yourselves I rather pity,      And weep for your decay; Amend your time, fair ladies,      And do no time delay. Then came her mother weeping      Her daughter to behold, And in her hand she brought her      A book covered with gold: Throw hence, quoth she, that idol,      Convey it from my sight; And bring me hither my Bible,      Wherein I take delight. But my distressed mother      Why weep you? be content, You have to death delivered me,      Most like an innocent: Tormentor do thy office      On me when thou think'st best, But God, my heavenly Father,      Will bring my soul to rest. But oh, my aged father,      Wherever thou dost lie, Thou know'st not thy poor daughter      Is ready for to die; But yet amongst the angels      In heaven I hope to dwell, Wherefore, my loving father,      I bid thee now farewell. Farewell likewise my mother,      Adieu my friends also, God grant that you by others,      May never feel such woe. Forsake your superstition,      The cause of mortal strife, Embrace God's true religion,      For which I lose my life. When all these words were ended,      Then came the man of death, Who kindled soon a fire,      Which stopt this virgin's breath, To Christ her only Saviour,      She did her soul commend, Farewell, quoth she, good people,      And thus she made an end.

XXXIV.

THE ELVES DANCE.

[From the same Collection.]

XXXVI.

"THE MERRY HOSTESS:

OR,

A pretty new Ditty, compos'd by an Hoastess that lives in the city
To wrong such an Hoastess it were a great pitty,
By reason she caused this pretty new Ditty."

COME all that love good company,      And hearken to my ditty, 'Tis of a lovely hostess fine,      That lives in London city; Which sells good ale, nappy and stale,      And always thus sings she, My ale was tunn'd when I was young,      And a little above my knee, Her ale is lively, strong and stout,      If you please but to taste; It is well brew'd you need not fear,      But I pray you make no waste; It is lovely brown, the best in town,      And always thus sings she, My ale was tunn'd when I was young,      And a little above my knee. The gayest lady with her fan,      Doth love such nappy ale, Both city maids and country girls      That carry the milking pail: Will take a touch and not think much      To sing so merrily, My ale was tunn'd when I was young,      And a little above my knee. Both lord and esquire hath a desire      Unto it night and day, For a quart or two be it old or new,      And for it then will pay: With pipe in hand they may her command      To sing most merrily, My ale was tunn'd when I was young,      And a little above my knee. You'r welcome all brave gentlemen,      If you please to come in, To take a cup I do intend,      And a health for to begin: To all the merry jovial blades,      That will sing for company, My ale was tunn'd when I was young,      And a little above my knee. Here's a health to all brave Englishmen,      That love this cup of ale; Let every man fill up his can,      And see that none do fail: 'Tis very good to nourish the blood,      And make you sing with me, My ale was tunn'd when I was young,      And a little above my knee. SECOND PART. The bonny Scot will lay a plot      To get a handsome touch Of this my ale, so good and stale,      So will the cunning Dutch: They will take a part with all their heart,      To sing this tune with me, My ale was tunn'd when I was young,      And a little above my knee.  It will make the Irish cry A hone!      If they but take their fill, And put them all quite out of tune,      Let them use their chiefest skill, So strong and stout it will hold out      In any company, For my ale was tunn'd when I was young,      And a little above my knee. The Welchman on St. David's day      Will cry, cots plutter a nail, Hur will hur ferry quite away,      From off that nappy ale: It makes hur foes with hur red nose,      Hur seldom can agree, But my ale was tunn'd when I was young,      And a little above my knee. The Spaniard stout will have about,      'Cause he hath store of gold, Till at the last, he is laid fast,      My ale doth him so hold: His poignard strong is laid along,      Yet he is good company, For my ale was tunn'd when I was young,      And a little above my knee. There's never a tradesman in England,      That can my ale deny, The weaver, tailor and glover      Delight it for to buy, Small money they do take away,      If that they drink with me, For my ale was tunn'd when I was young,      And a little above my knee. There is smug the honest blacksmith,      He seldom can pass by, Because a spark lies in his throat      Which makes him very dry: But my old ale tells him his tale,      So finely we agree, For my ale was tunn'd when I was young,      And a little above my knee. The brewer, baker and butcher,      As well as all the rest,  Both night and day will watch where they      May find ale of the best: And the gentle craft will come full oft,      To drink a cup with me, For my ale was tunn'd when I was young,      And a little above my knee. So to conclude good fellows all,      I bid you all adieu, If that you love a cup of ale,      Take rather old than new, For if you come where I do dwell,      And chance to drink with me,  My ale was tunn'd when I was young,      And a little above my knee.

XXXVII.

"THE LITTLE BARLEY-CORN:

Whose properties and vertues here
Shall plainly to the world appeare
To make you merry all the yeere."

COME, and do not musing stand,      If thou the truth discern; But take a full cup in thy hand      And thus begin to learn, Not of the earth nor, of the air,      At evening or at morn, But jovial boys your Christmas keep      With the little barley-corn. It is the cunningest alchymist      That e'er was in the land, 'Twill change your mettle when it list,      In turning of a hand. Your blushing gold to silver wan,      Your silver into brass; 'Twill turn a taylor to a man,      And a man into an ass. 'Twill make a poor man rich to hang      A sign before his door, And those that do the pitcher bang,      Though rich, 'twill make them poor, 'Twill make the silliest poorest snake      The King's great porter scorn; 'Twill make the stoutest lubber weak,      This little barley-corn. It hath more shifts than Lamb e'er had,      Or Hocus-pocus too; It will good fellows shew more sport      Than Bankes his horse could do: 'Twill play you fair above the board,      Unless you take good heed, And fell you, though you were a lord.      And Justify the deed. It lends more years unto old age,      Than e'er was lent by nature; It makes the poet's fancy rage,      More than Castalian water. 'Twill make a huntsman chase a fox,      And never wind his horn; 'Twill cheer a tinker in the stocks,      This little barley-corn. It is the only Will o' the Wisp      Which leads men from the way; 'Twill make the tongue-tied lawyer lisp,      And nought but hic-up say. 'Twill make the steward droop and stoop,      His bill he then will scorn, And at each post cast his reckoning up,      This little barley-corn. 'Twill make a man grow jealous soon,      Whose pretty wife goes trim, And rail at the deceiving moon      For making horns at him: 'Twill make the maiden's trimly dance,      And take it in no scorn, And help them to a friend by chance,      This little barley-corn. It is the neatest serving-man,      To entertain a friend; It will do more than money can      All jarring suits to end. There's life in it, and it is here,      'Tis here within this cup; Then take your liquor, do not spare;      But clear carouse it up. “The Second Part of the little Barley-Corn, That cheareth the heart both evening and morne;" If sickness come this physick take,       It from your heart will set it, If fear encroach, take more of it,      Your heart will soon forget it. Apollo and the Muses nine      Do take it in no scorn, There's no such stuff to pass the time      As the little barley-corn. 'Twill make a weeping willow laugh,      And soon incline to pleasure; 'Twill make an old man. leave his staff,      And dance a youthful measure; Arid though your clothes be ne'er so bad,      All ragged, rent, and torn, Against the cold you may be clad      With little barley-corn. 'Twill make a coward riot to shrink,      But be as stout as may be, 'Twill make a man that he shall think      That Joan's as good as my lady. It will enrich the palest face,      And with rubies it adorn, Yet you shall think it no disgrace,      This little barley-corn. 'Twill make your gossips merry,      When they their liquor see, Hey, we shall ne'er be weary,      Sweet gossip here's to thee; 'Twill make the country yeoman      The courtier for to scorn; And talk of law-suits o'er a can      With this little barley-corn. It makes a man that write cannot      To make you large indentures, When as he reeleth home at night,      Upon the watch he ventures; He cares not for the candle-light,      That shineth in the horn, Yet he will stumble the way aright      This little barley-corn. 'Twill make a miser prodigall,      And shew himself kind hearted, 'Twill make him never grieve at all      That from his coin hath parted, Twill make the shepherd to mistake      His sheep before a storm, 'Twill make the poet to excell,      This tittle barley-corn. It will make young lads to call      Most freely for their liquor, 'Twill make a young lass take a fall      And rise again the quicker 'Twill make a man that lie.      Shall sleep all night profoundly, And make a man, what'er he be,      Go about his business roundly. Thus the barley-corn hath power,      Even for to change our nature, And makes a shrew, within an hour,      Prove a kind-hearted creature: And therefore here, I say again,      Let no man take 't in scorn, That I the virtues do proclaim      Of the little barley-corn.

HERE is a crew of jovial blades      That lov'd the nut-brown ale: They in an alehouse chanc'd to meet,      And told a merry tale: A bonny Seaman was the first,      But newly come to town; And swore that he his guts could burst,      With ale that was so brown. See how the jolly Carman be      Doth the strong liquor prize, He so long in the alehouse sat,      That he drank out his eyes: And groping to get out of door,       (Sot like) he tumbled down,  And there he like a madman swore,      He lov'd the ale so brown. The nimble Weaver he came in,      And swore he'd have a little; To drink good ale it was no sin,      Though 't made him pawn his shuttle: Quoth he, I am a gentleman,      No lusty country clown, But yet I love, with all my heart,      The ale that is so brown. Then next the Blacksmith be came in,      And said 'twas mighty hot; He sitting down did thus begin,      Fair maid, bring me a pot: Let it be of the very best,      That none exceeds in town, I tell you true, and do not jest,      I love the ale so brown. The prick-louse Taylor he came in,      Whose tongue did run so nimble, And said he would engage for drink      His bodkin and his thimble: For though with long thin jaws I look,      I value not a crown, So I can have my belly full      Of ale that is so brown. The lusty Porter passing by      With basket on his back, He said that he was grievous dry,      And needs would pawn his sack: His angry wife he did not fear,      He valued not her frown; So he had that he lov'd so dear,      I mean the ale so brown. The next that came was one of them      Was of the gentle craft, And when that he was wet within,      Most heartily he laugh'd, Crispin was ne'er so boon as he,      Tho' some kin to a crown. And there he sat most merrily      With ale that was so brown. But at the last a Barber he      A mind had for to taste; He called for a pint of drink      And said he was in haste: The drink so pleas'd he tarried there,      Till he had spent a crown; 'Twas all the money he could spare      For ale that is so brown. A Broom-man, as he passed by,      His morning draughts did lack, Because that he no money had,      He pawn'd his shirt from his back: And said that he without a shirt,      Would cry brooms up and down, But yet, quoth he, I'll merry be      With ale that is so brown. But when all these together met,      Oh what discourse was there, 'Twould make one's hair to stand an end,      To hear how they did swear! One was a fool and puppy dog,      The other was a clown, And there they sat, and swill'd their guts,      With ale that was so brown. The landlady they did abuse,      And call'd her nasty whore, Quoth she, do you your reckoning pay      And get you out of door: Of them she could no money get,      Which caused her to frown, But loath they were to leave behind      The ale that was, so brown.