More Scarce Songs

Latest additions and/or corrections: Sept. 15, 2003
Return to Home Page


All in a garden greene, 1600 Go to
Allan a Mault, + Go to
Andrew Macintosh (Marrowbones variant) Go to
Annie Laurie Go to
As I walked by myself- Shomberg Go to
Auld Lang Syne, c 1700 Go to
Balow, my babe Go to
Barbara Allen Go to
Bedlam, Go to
Betsy is a beauty fair, Laws' M20 Go to
The Betrayed Maiden. Laws' M20 Go to
Black's LamentationGo to
The Bloody Miller, Original of Laws P35 Go to
Blue Bells of Scotland, see Bonny Dundee
Bold Soldier/ Dragoon (Laws M27, by Abraham Miles), Go to
Bonnie May Go to
Bonny Dundee, and relatives Go to
Bonny Wee Window Go to
Braes o' Balquhidder/Balquither Go to
Braw Lads o' Galla Water Go to
Bryan O'Lynn Go to
Ca' Hakie through the watter. Go to
Catskin Go to
Child of Ell Go to
Cold and Raw Go to
A constant Wife, a kind Wife (Locks and Bolts)Go to
Counting Eggs before Hatching Go to
Crab/ [Old] Sea Crab/ Lobster/ Codfish Go to
Cruel Miller Go to
Cruel Mother (Child #20) Go to
Cutty Wren/ Wran Song Go to
Danity Davie Go to
Desdemona's Willow Song in Othello Go to
Dickie Macphalion [Shule Aroon] Go to
Dotty Poll [Drunken sot] Go to
Down sat/lay the shepherd swain (following John Anderson, my Jo) Go to
The Duke of Grafton Go to
The Duke's Daughter's Cruelty (Cruel Mother - Child #20) Go to
Dumb Wife; Dumb, Dumb, Dumb (Laws Q5) Go to
The dying young man and obdurate maid Go to
Elsie Marley Go to
Farmer's Daughter (Cold and Raw) Go to
Farmer's Son of Devonshire Go to
Fine Old English/Irish Gentilman Go to
For a' that Go to
The Fox-Chace Go to
Good night and Joy be with you all Go to
Green grow the rashes, O Go to
Greensleeves Go to
Had I the wyte she bade me Go to
Hallow, my fancy, Go to
He till't and she till't Go to
Hinkumbooby (Hokey Pokey) Go to
Housewife's Lament Go to
How can I keep my maidenhead Go to
I am asleep and don't waken me Go to
I live not where I love Go to
I rede ye beware of the ripples Go to
Jeanie's Black Ee Go to
Jenny's Bawbie (tune later called Polly put the kettle on) Go to
John and Joan Go to
John Anderson my Jo (earliest versions) Go to
John Appleby Go to
John Barleycorn, Sir, + Go to
Kissing at the Window Go to
Lea Rig Go to
Lenox Love to Blantyre Go to
Little Barly-Corne, the, + Go to
Little Mousgrave and Lady Barnet, Child #81C Go to
Looby Loo (Lubin, Hokey Pokey) Go to
Love Overthrown, Laws' M20 Go to
Maid in Bedlam Go to
Masterpiece of Love-Songs, Go to
Maunding Souldier, the Go to
Mermaid Go to
Merry Muses tunes (corrections) Go to
Mill, Mill, O Go to
The Miller and the King's Daughter, by Mr. Smith (Child ballad #10) Go to
Modewark Go to
Moreen/Maureen(Irish) [or] Morag/Marion (Scots) na Ghibberlain (Morag the Beggar's Daughter) Go to
My Ain Kind Deary Go to
My Wife's a Wanton Wee Thing Go to
Nancy Dawson Go to
New Mad Tom o Bedlam Go to
Niel Gow's Farewell to Whisky Go to
The Northern Lasses lamentation, or the unhappy Maids Misfortune Go to
The Oak, and the Ash, and the bonny XXX tree Go to
Old Soldiers of the Queen Go to
Our Goodman Go to
Over the hills and far away Go to
The Parting Glass Go to
Patrick Flemming (Whiskey in the Jar, Laws L13A&B) Go to
Polly put the kettle on (tune) Go to
Praise of Sailors (Mermaid) Go to
Queen's Old Courtier/ Fine Old English/Irish Gentilman Go to
Recruiting Officer Go to
Reel o Stumpie Go to
The Ruined Lovers Go to
Sea Crab/ Crabfish/ Lobster/ Codfish Go to
The Seven Merry Wives of London Go to
Shule/Shool Aroon Go to
Six Dukes went a fishing Go to
Soor plums o' Galashiels Go to
Tail Toddle Go to
Talk of 10 Wives on their Husbands Ware (Song) Go to
Tam Lin Go to
That Georgie reigns in Jamie's stead that Go to
Tichborne's 'Elegie' Go to
Tom o' Bedlam Go to
Tommy O'Lynn Go to
Turkey Factor Go to
Tutheree, OO, and Tan (Marrowbones variant) Go to
Two Sisters (Child ballad #10) Go to
Wap and Row Go to
Western Knight and Young Lass of Bristoll Go to
Wexford/Lexington/Knoxville Girl Go to
When the King enjoys his own again Go to
When this old hat/cap was new Go to
Where wad bonnie Annie ly? Go to
Whiskey in the Jar Go to
White Cockade Go to
Will you go to Flanders, my Mally O? Go to
Willow song Go to
Woman's work is never done Go to
World Turned Upside Down Go to

Texts: Mostly Irish

At ZN787 in the broadside ballad index here you will see that the tune direction for "The Downfal of the Whiggs", c 1684, is "Patrick Flemmen he was a Valiant Souldier". We do not find the ballad of "Patrick Fleming" until about a century to a century and a quarter later, when it appears in the Madden collection without imprint. This is reprinted in Holloway and Black's 'Later English Broadside Ballads', I, #90. We see from the text below that this ballad has a number of traditional versions [Laws L13B (older form) and L13A, Roud# 533-4]. It's a version of the favourite Irish song McCollister/ The Irish Robber/ Whiskey in the Jar. Flemming was executed on Apr. 24, 1650 Patrick Flemming . This type of 'last goodnight' ballad was often written on the day of execution or very soon thereafter (and sometimes before, so it could be sold at the public execution). The Madden collection also contains an issue of the "Whiskey in the Jar" version, but I have no copy of it. For traditional versions of the older form see Helen Hartness Flanders, "McCollister", in 'Vermont Folk-Songs and Ballads', and "Lovel, the Robber" in 'The New Green Mountain Songster'.

Patrick Flemming

Patrick Flemming was a Vallient Soldier,
He carried his Blunderbuss upon his shouldier
He cockt his Pistol and drew his Rapier,
Stand and deliver for I am the taker fal, lal,

If you're Patrick Flemming as I do suppose you be,
We are three Pedlars a ganging so free sir,
We are three Pedlars a ganging to Dublin,
Nothing at all in ur Pockets but our loading.

Says Patrick Flemming prithe don't trifle,
For I am resolved Your packs for to rifle,
Here is a bank on which they must rest on,
To search tham all I have a Commission.

Loath they were to do as he commanded,
But knowing Patrick charg's double-handed,
Searching their packs most carefully round,
There did he find four Hundred pound.

Oh! I have two brothers they're both in the army
The one is at Cork and the other at Kilkenny,
If they were here both blyth and bonny,
I'd rather see them than any one dear honey.

As I was going over Ruberry mountain,
Gold and silver there was counting
He thought it little I thought it better,
I took the Gold from Colonel Pepper.

My Whore she proved false and that is the reason
Or else Patrick Flemming had never been taken,
When I was asleep and knew nothing of the matter
Then she loaded my arms with Water:

Oh Patrick Flemming how often have I told you
With Swords with Pistols we would surround You,
For kissing of other mens wives brisk and merry,
as You was going to Londonderry.

Now my dear brothers I must leave You,
For of my life they will bereave me
But when he set foot upon the Ladder
He briskly called for his hat and Feather.

Now You pretty Wives of fair London City
E'er it is long I sure shall be withe Ye,
So bold and so Gallan i'lle gane to ye
That halters not made that e'er can undo me.

Go to Index

Mostly Scots

The Merry Muses of Caledonia. Those songs without tune directions were to be sung to their own tune.

Wrong tune directions:

How can I Keep my Maidenhead; Tune - The Birks of Abergeldie:
   Wrong, and I think probably an error "The Braes of 
   Auchtertyre", a version of the tune noted as follows: Scots 
   tradition says the tune "Lenox Love to Blantyre" is of the 
   17th century, but it was first published in Scotland in 1757 
   (Bremner's Reels, Lib. of Congress). The Sinkler
   MS copy of 1710 has no title. The earliest copy of the tune 
   with a title is "How can I keep my maidenhead" in bk 2. of 
   Walsh's Caledonian Country Dances, c 1736. As 
   "Lenox Love to Blantyre" the tune, with directions for its 
   country dance, is in The Merry Medley, II, 1745. 
He till't and she till't; Tune - Maggie Lauder: Wrong, to its own 
O Can Ye Labour Lee, Young Man; Tune - Sir Arch. Grant's 
   Strathspey: This has been identified as D. Dow's ever popular
   "Monymusk", originally "Sir Arch. Grant of Monymusk's
   Strathspey". But the tune direction is wrong. This should be 
   "Sir Alex Don's Strathspey" (modern "Auld Lang Syne"). An 
   Arch. Grant was a member of the Crochallan Fencibles (who
   probably compiled The Merry Muses), and this may have been an
   inside joke.
Misleading tune directions:

Our Jock's Brak Yestreen; Tune - Gramachree: This is an Irish
   name for the Scots tune "Will you go to Flanders". Oswald
   published the tune thirty one years before Ogle's "Gramachree
   Molly" appeared (1774), indeed, several years before Ogle was
Had I the Wyte she Bade me; Tune - Highland Hills: This is a late
   name for the tune "Had I the Wate she Bade me", see above.
I rede you beware o' the Ripples; Tune - The Taylor's faun thro'
   the bed, &c,: This is a late title for "Beware of the
   Ripples", CPC bk 11, p. 28, c 1760.
She gripet at the Girtest o't; Tune - East Nook of Fife; This is 
   a late title for "She griped at ye greatest on't", CPC bk. 4,
   p. 5, c 1752.
The Modiewark; Tune - O for ane an' twenty Tam: This title comes
   from Burns' song to the tune. The tune is "The mowdewart" in
   book 3 of Walsh's Caledonian Country Dances, 
   1740; untitled in CPC, bk. 4, p. 8-9, c 1752; and as 
   "Mowdewort" again in R. Bride's Twenty Four Country 
   Dances for the Year 1769 (in Lib. of Congress).
Go to Index

Below are several songs from The Merry Muses of Caledonia, for which the age of their tunes suggest that they were old songs in 1799, i.e., traditional songs.

The Mill, Mill - O.

As I came down yon water side, And by yon Shillin hill, O; There I speir'd a bonny lass, A lass that loed right weel, O. The mill, mill, O, and the kill, kill, O, An' the coggin' o' Pegy's wheel, O, The sacks an' the sieve, a' she did leave, An' danc'd the millars reel, O. I spier'd at her, gin she cou'd play, But the lasie had nae skill, O; An' yet she was nae a' to blame, She pat it in my will, O, The mill, #c. Then she fell o'er, an' sae did I, An' danc'd the millars reel, O, Whene'er that bonny lassie comes again, She shall hae her ma't ground weel, O. The mill, &c. Play: MILLMILL, S2.ABC

Go to Index

I Rede You Beware of the Ripples.
Tune- The Taylor's faun thro' the bed, &c. [Scots Musical Museum, #212, where tune is "Beware of the Ripples"]

I rede you beware o' the ripples, young man,
I rede you beware o' the ripples, young man;
Tho' the saddle be saft, ye needna ride aft,
For fear that the girdin' beguile ye, young man.

I rede you beware o' the ripples, young man,
I rede you, &c.
Tho' music be pleasure, tak' music in measure;
Or ye may want win' i' your whistle, young man.

I rede you beware o' the ripples, young man,
I rede you, &c.
Whate'er ye bestow, do less than ye dow,
The mair will be thought o' your kindness young man.

I rede you beware o' the ripples, young man,
I rede you beware o' the ripples, young man;
Gif you wad be strang, and wish to live lang,
Dance less wi' your a--e to the kipples, young man.

Play: S2, BEWARRP1- Tak Tent to the Rippells Gudeman.
         BEWARRP2- The Rippells, 1736.
         BEWARRP3- Beware of the Ripples, c 1759. 
Go to Index

Tail Todle
[Merry Muses of Caledonia, 1799. No tune indicated, i.e., its own]

Tail todle, tail todle;
Tammie gart my tail todle;
At my a--e wi' diddle doddle,
Tammie gart my tail todle.

Our gudewife held o'er to Fife,
For to buy a coal-riddle;
Lang or she came back again,
Tammie gart my tail todle.
Tail, &c.

When I'm dead I'm out o' date;
When I'm sick I'm fu' o' trouble;
When I'm weel I step about,
An' Tammie gars my tail todle.              
Tail, &c. 
Jenny Jack she gae a plack,
Helen Wallace gae a boddle;
Quo' the bride, its o'er little
For to mend a broken doddle.
Tail, &c.

Play: S2, TAILTDL1- Fiddle Faddle
         TAILTDL2- Lasses gar your tails toddle
         TAILTDL3- Taill Todle
Go to Index

The Modiewark

[The Merry Muses of Caledonia. Tune- O for ane an' twenty Tam.
Which is Burn's song to "The Modiewark"]

The modiewark has done me ill,
And below my apron has biggit a hill;
I maun consult some learned clark
About this wanton modiewark.

An' O the wanton modiewark,
The weary wanton modiewark;
I maun consult some learned clark
About this wanton modiewark.

O first it gat between my taes,
Out o'er my garter niest it gaes;
At length it crap below my sark,
The weary wanton modiewark.
An' O, &c.

This modiewark, tho' it be blin';
If ance its nose you lat it in,
Then to the hilts, within a crack
It's out o sight, the modiewark.
An' O, &c.

When Marjorie was made a bride,
An' Willy lay down by her side,
Syne nocht was hard, when a' was dark
But kicking at then modiewark.
An' O, &c.

Play: S2, MODWARK1- Mowdewort, c 1740
         MODWARK2- Scotch Jig (Mowdiewort), c 1752
Go to Index

My Ain Kind Deary / The Lee Rig

Here's a song from David Herd's MSS, c 1776.

The Ley-Rigg

Will ye gang o'er the ley-rigg
Wi' me, my kind deary O,
And cudle there fu' kindly,
Myne ain kind dearie O?

I'll row you east, I'll row you west,
I'll row you the way you like best,
An I'll row you o'er the ley-rig,
Mine ain kind deary O.

At thornie dyke and birken tree
We'll daff and ne'er be weary O,
They'll skug ill een frae you to me,
My ain kind dearie O.

Nae heard wi' kent or collie there
Shall e'er come near to feare ye O,
But lav'rocks, singing in the air,
Shall woo like me there dearie O.

While others herd their ewes and lambs
And boil for wardly gear, my jo,
Upon the ley my pleasure growns,
Wi' you, my kind dearie O.

Herd's MSS contains a related 4 line verse that seems to be the basis of the 8 line one that Burns quoted in the Interleaved Museum.

Here's another from 'The Merry Muses of Caledonia', 1799.

My Ain Kind Deary

I'll lay thee o'er the lea-rig,
Lovely Mary, dearie, O;
I'll lay thee o'er the lee-rig
My lovely Mary, deary, O.
Altho' the night were ne'er so wet
An' I were ne'er so weary O!
I'd lay thee o'er the lee-rig
My lovely Mary, deary, O.
[Cho] Altho' the night, &c.

Look down ye gods from yonder sky,
An' see how blest a man am I;
No envy my fond heart alarms,
Encircled in my Mary's arms.
Lyin' across the lee-rig,
Wi' lovely Mary, deary, O;
Lyin' across the lee-rig,
Wi' my aind kind deary, O!
[Cho] Altho' the night, &c.

The tune was known both as "My ain kind deary" and "The Lee Rig". 

Play: S2, KNDDEAR1- My Ain Kind Deary
         KNDDEAR2- The Lee Rigg
Go to Index

My Wife's a Wanton Wee Thing.[Merry Muses, 1799]

My wife's a wanton wee thing,
My wife's a wanton wee thing,
My wife's a wanton wee thing,
She winna be guided by me.

She play'd the loon or she was maried,
She play'd the loon or she was maried,
She play'd the loon or she was maried,
She'll do it again or she die.

She sell'd her coat and she drank it,
She sell'd her coat and she drank it,
She row'd hersel in a blanket,
She winna be guided for me.

She mindit na when I forbad her,
She mindit na when I forbad her,
I took a rung and I claw'd her,
An' a braw good bairn was she.

Play: S2, WNTNTHG- My Wife's a wanton Wi Thing, 1731.
Go to Index

Dainty Davie

[First, Merry Muses version. Based on a tale of the Rev. David
Williamson and the daughter of the Lord and Lady Cherrytrees, in
Scotch Presbyterian Eloquence Display'd, 1692]

O leeze me on his curly pow,
Bonie Davie, dainty Davie;
Leeze me on his curly pow,
He was my dainty Davie.

Being pursu'd by the dragoons,
Within my bed he was laid down,
And weel I wat he was worth his room
My ain dear dainty Davie.
Leeze, &c

My minnie laid him at my back,
I trow he lay na lang at that,
But turn'd, and in a verra crack
Produc'd a dainty Davie.
Leeze, &c.

Then in the field amang the pease,
Behin' the house o' Cherrytrees,
Again he wan atweesh my thies,
And, splash! gaed out his gravy.
Leeze, &c.

But had I goud, or had I land,
It should be a' at his command;
I'll ne'er forget what he pat, i' my hand,
It was a dainty Davie.
Leeze, &c.

[Version in Herd's Scots Songs, 1776]
[Chorus first]
O leeze me on your curly pow,
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie;
Leeze me on your curly pow,
Mine ain dainty Davie.

It was in and through the window broads,
And a' the tirle wirlies o'd;
The sweetest kiss that e'er I got,
Was frae my dainty Davie.
O leeze me on your curly pow, &c.

It was down amang my dady's pease,
And underneath the cherry-trees;
O there he kist me as he pleas'd,
For he was mine ain dear Davie.
O leeze me on your curly pow, &c.

When he was chas'd by a dragoon,
Into my bed he was laid down;
I thought him wordy o' his room,
And he's ay my dainty Davie.
O leeze me on your curly pow, &c.

Play: S2, DANTDVY- Dainty Davie, 1701
Go to Index

He till't and she till't.

He till't and she till't
  An' a' to make a lad again;
The auld beld carl
  When he wan on to nod again

An' he dang, an' she flang,
  A' a' to mak a laddie o't,
But he bor'd and she roar'd,
  An' couldna mak a lassie o't
This song is from Merry Muses, where tune direction is "Maggie Lauder". Correct tune, however, is its own, "He till't and she till't" in Oswald's Caledonian Pocket Companion, bk 9, c 1758.

Play: S2, HETILLT, Oswald's CPC

Go to Index

Had I The Wyte She Bade Me

Had I the wyte, had I the wyte,
     Had I the wyte she bad me;
For she was steward in the house,
     And I was fit-man ladddie;
And when I wadna' do't again,
     A silly cow she ca'd me;
She straik't my head, and clapt my cheeks
     And lous'd my breeks and bad me.

Could I for shame, could I for shame,
     Could I for shame deny her;
Or in the bed was I to blame,
     She bad my lye beside her;
I pat six inches in her wame,
     A quarter wadna fly'd her;
For ay the man I ca'd it hame,
     Her ports they grew the wider.

My tartan plaid, when it was dark,
     Could I refuse to share it;
She lifted up her hollan-sark,
     And bad me fin' the gair o't:
Or how could I amang the garse,
     But gie her hilt and hair o't;
She clasp'd her houghs about my arse,
     And ay she glowr'd for mair o't.
From The Merry Muses of Caledonia, where tune direction is "Highland Hills". "Highland Hills", however, proves to be simply a new name for the tune "Had I the Wate she bade me", in Oswald's CPC, bk. 7, c 1755.

Play: S2, HADIWAT, Oswald's CPC

Go to Index

[From The Merry Muses of Caledonia, 1799

Green Grow the Rashes

[Chorus first]

Green grow the rashes, O,
Green grow the rashes, O,
The lassies the hae wimble-bores,
The widows they hae gashes, O.

O wat ye ought o' fishe Meg,
And how she trow'd the webster, O,
She loot me see her carrot c--t,
And sell'd it for a labster, O.
Green, &c.

Mistress Mary cow'd her thing,
Because she wad be gentle, O,
And span the fleece upon a rock,
To waft a Highland mantle, O.
Green, &c.

An' heard ye o' the coat o' arms,
The Lyon brought our lady, O,
The crest was, couchant, sable c--t,
The motto ,"ready, ready, O,
Green, &c.

An' ken ye Leezie Lundie, O,
The godly Leezie Lundie, O,
She m--s like reek thro' a the week,
But finger f---s on Sunday, O.
Green, &c.


John Anderson, My Jo.

[From Philomel, 1744]

JOHN Anderson, my jo,               
   I wonder what you mean;                 
To rise so soon at morn,                
   And sit up so late at e'en:    
You'll blear out all your eyne,        
   John; and why will you do so?         
Gang sooner tull your bed at e'en,         
   John Anderson, my jo.

I wit it is a bonny thing         
   For to look o'er the dyke;         
But yet it is much bonnier,          
   John, to feel your hammer strike:       
To feel your hammer strike, John,
   And riggle to and fro;
So wall I like your chaunter-pipe,
   John Anderson, my jo.

I'm sided like a salmon,
   I'm breasted like a swan;
My wem is like a downy cod:
   Fye, John, gin ye come on.
Fro' my top-knot to my toe, [John,]
   Is like the driven snow;
'Tis aw for your conveniency,
   John Anderson, my jo.

When I begin to snort, John,
   See that you gird me fast;
When I begin to snort, John,
   See that you gird me fast:
See that you gird me fast, John
   Till I cry oh and oh;
Your back shall crack, e're I cry that  [error, slack]
   John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo,
   Is a right good honest man;
And had as good a tale-tree[,]
   As ony in the land:
But now it's waxen wain, John,
   And wollops to and fro;
There's twa go-ups, for ane go-down,
   John Anderson, my jo.
[From The Masque, 2nd. ed,. 1768]

John Anderson, my jo, John,
  I wonder what you mean,
To rise so soon in the morning,
   And sit up so late at e'en;
Ye'll bleur out a your eyn, John,
   And why will you do so?
Come sooner to your bed at e'en, 
   John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John  
   When first you did begin,
You had as good a tailtree 
   As ony ither man -
But now 'tis waxen weak, John,
   And wriggles to and fro;
I gi'e twa gae ups for ane gae down,
   John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson my jo,
   You're welcome when you please;
Either in the warm bed, John,
   Or else upon the claoths;
Or you shall have the horns, John,
   Upon your head to grow;
And thats the cuckold's malison,
     John Anderson, my jo.

When you come on before, John,
   See that you do your best,
When you begin to haud me,   
   See that ye gripe me fast:
See that ye gripe me fast, John,
   Until that I cry Oh!
Your back shall crack, e'er I cry slack
   John Anderson, my jo.

O! 'tis a fine thing
   To keek out o'er the dyke,
But 'tis a muckle finer thing
   To see your hurdies fike;
To see your hurdies fyke, John,
   And wriggle to and fro;
Tis then I like your chaunter pipe,
   John Anderson, my jo.

I'm backed like a salmon,
   I'm breasted like a swan,
My wyme is like a downcod,
   My middle you may span;
From top unto my toe, John,
   I'm like the new fawn snow;
 And 'tis a' for your convenciency,
   John Anderson, my jo.
Play: S2, JANDMHJ, tune from A. Stuart' Music, c 1726. Noted below.
B253, Skene MS tune
B254, Watt's Musical Miscellany tune

First text above is from page 202, SONG CCI, of Philomel: Being a Small Collection of only the Best English Songs. London: Printed for M. Cooper, at the Globe in Pater-noster-Row. 1744. The song is without title or tune direction. With a few small spelling and punctuation changes, mostly for the worst, and considerable capitalization, it was reprinted by Cooper in Vol. I, p. 303, of The Comic Miscellany, 1756. The second text is that on p. 309 of the 2nd edition, 1768, of The Masque (the earliest dated edition among four total that I've been able to locate). John Stephen Farmer in Merry Songs and Ballads printed a text supposedly from p. 292 of this edition of The Masque, but his text is not from that source. Except for spelling and punctuation, the text (with music) on p. 306 of The Convivial Songster (1782) follows that in The Masque. The six verse version is also in The Humours of London, p. 79, n.d. [c 1770]

A traditional version of the last verse was collected by J. M. Carpenter from Mrs. Reid of Lochabers, Scotland, about 1928, and is preserved on the original disk of the Carpenter collection in the Folklore Archive of the Library of Congress. The disk is #14836, side B, entitled in the index "She Was Breisted Like the Swan". The phono record is in such poor condition that I could not transcribe the words or even ascertain if the tune is "John Anderson, my jo".

The tune appears in a mid-seventeenth century Scots manuscript known as the Skene MS, which I have seen. The tune there is printed from G. F. Graham's translation of the tablatue by William Dauney in Ancient Scottish Melodies, p. 219, 1838. Dauney, at the time, believed the manuscript to be much older than modern musical historians place its date. The tune seems to have first been printed in A. Stuart's Music for Allan Ramsay's Collection of Scots Songs, p. 114-5, Edinburgh, c 1726. It is in the ballad operas Achilles, 1733, and The Whim, 1734, and in book 4 of J. Oswald's Caledonian Pocket Companion, c 1752. The tune is also in The Musical Miscellany, VI, 1731, and The British Musical Miscellany, III, n.d. [1735].

C. M. Simpson reprints Dauney's tune in BBBM, p. 394, and also prints the later version of the tune from The Convivial Songster. Without mentioning what text is printed to the tune in the latter, he directs his readers to a late edition of The Merry Muses of Caledonia.

The first half of the third verse of the first version appeared in slightly different form in "Downe: sate the shepard" in the Percy Folio Manuscript, c 1640, reprinted in the supplementary volume Loose and Humorous Songs, p. 57. It is given more fully in John Aubrey's Brief Lives under John Overall, and is also in Choyce Drollery, 1656. John Wardroper in 'Love and Drollery' gives a text in modern form, and cites a manuscript copy in the Dyce collection in the Albert and Victoria Museum.

"The Shepheards Lamentation for His Love," Choyce Drollery

Down lay the Shepheard Swain,
     So sober and demure,
Wishing for his wench again,
     So bonny and so pure.
With his head on hillock low,
And his arms on kembow;
And all for the losse of her hy nonny nonny no.

His tears fell as thin,
     As water from a still,
His haire upon his chin,
     Grew like tyme upon a hill.
His cherry cheeks were pale as snow,
Testifying his mickle woe;
And all was for the loss of her hy nonny nonny no.

Sweet she was, as fond of love,
     As ever fettered Swain;
Never such a bonny one
     Shall I enjoy again.
Sit ten thousand on a row,
Ile forbod that any show
Ever the like of her hy nonny nonny no.

Fac'd she was of Filbard hew,   [See John Anderson, 
     And bosom'd like a Swanne:          [My Jo.
Basck'd she was of bended yew
     And wasted by a span.           [waisted]
Haire she had as black as Crowe,
From the head unto the toe,
Down, down, all over, hy nonny, nonny no.

With her Mantle tuck't up high,
     She foddered her Flocke,
So bucksome and alluringly,
     Her knee upheld her smock;
So nimbly did she use to goe,
So smooth she danc'd on tip-toe,
That all men were fond of her, hy nonny nonny no.

She simpred like a Holy-day,
     And smiled like the Spring,
She pratled like a popinjay,
     And like a swallow sing.
She tript it like a barren doe,
And strutted like a Gar-crow:
Which made me so fone of her, hy nonny nonny no.

To trip it on the merry Down,
     To dance the lively Hay,
To wrestle for a green Gown
     In heat of all the day,
Never would she say me no.
Yet me thought she had though
Never enough of her, hy nonny nonny no.

But gone she is, the blithest Lasse
     That ever trod on plain
What ever hath betided her,
     Blame not the Shepheard Swain.
For why, she was her own foe,
And gave her selfe the overthrowe,
By being too free of her hy nonny nonny no.
[no tune known]

Go to Index

Annie Laurie.

Maxwelton banks are bonnie,
Where early fa's the dew;
Where me and Annie Laurie
Made up the promise true;
Made up the promise true,
And never forget will I,
And for bonny Annie Laurie
I'd lay down my head and die.

She's backit like a peacock,
She's breastit like a swan,
She's jimp about the middle,
Her waist ye weill may span;
Her waist ye weil may span,
And she has a rolling eye,
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd day down my head and die

Sir Robert Laurie, first baronet of the Maxwelton family (created 27th March, 1685), by his second wife, a daughter of Riddell of Minto, had three sons and four daughters, of whom Annie was much celebrated for her beauty, and made a conquest of Mr. Douglas of Fingal, who is said to have composed these verses- under an unlucky star, for the lady afterwards married Mr. Fergusson of Craigderroch.
C. K. Sharpe, A Ballad Book, 1823.

For the second verse above see "Down lay the shepherd swain" and "John Anderson, My Jo".

Go to Index
Our Goodman

In David Herd's Scots Songs, 1776 (also in Herd's MSS, and as Child ballad #274). No earlier copy has yet been discovered, in spite of considerable effort to do so. Herd gave no music nor did he indicate a tune. David Clarke, musical editor of SMM, and Johnson the engraver and publisher didn't know the tune, but heard of a man in Edinburgh, a Mr. Geikie, who sang the song. They visited Mr. Geikie, and recovered the tune, and gave it as SMM #454 (1797). They also got some corrections to Herd's text, but from Geike's singing or Clarke's arranging? For that reason I give here the SMM text.

Our goodman came hame at e'en,
   And hame came he;
And there he saw a saddle-horse,
   Where no horse should be.
O How came this horse here?
   Or how can it be
O how cam this horse here,
   Without the leave o' me?
     A horse quo' she;
     Ay a horse quo' he.
Ye auld blind dotard carl,
   And blinder mat ye be
'Tis but a dainty milk cow,
   My minny sent to me.
     A milk cow! quo he;
     Ay a milk cow, quo she.
O far hae I ridden,
   And meikle hae I seen,
But a saddle on a milk cow
   a_fore I ne'er saw nane.

Our goodman came hame at e'en
   And hame came he;
He spy'e a pair of jackboots,
   Where nae boots should be.
What's this goodwife?
   What's this I see?
How came these boots there
   Without the leave o' me!
     Boots. quo' she:
     Ay, boots quo' he.
Shame fa' your cuckold face,
   And ill mat ye see,
It's but a pair of water stoups
   The cooper sent to me.
     Water stoups, quo' he:
     Ay, water stoups, quo' she.
Far hae I ridden,
   And farer hae I gane,
But siller spurs on water stoups
   Saw I never nane.

Our goodman came hame at e'en,
   and hame came he;
And then he saw a (siller) sword,
   Where a sword should not be:
What's this now goodwife?
   What's this I see?
O how came this sword here,
   Without the leave o' me?
     A sword, quo' she:
     Ay, a sword, quo' he.
Shame fa' your cuckold face,
   And ill mat you see,
It's but a parridge spurtie
   My minnie sent to me.
     (A parridge spurtle! quo' he: [()missing in Herd
     Ay, a parridge spurtle quo' she.) [missing in Herd
Weil, far hae I ridden,
   And muckle hae I seen;
But siller banded (parridge) spurtles [() missing in Herd
   Saw I never nane.

Our goodman came hame at e'en,
   And hame came he;
There he spy'd a powder'd wig,
   Where nae wig should be.
What's this now goodwife?
   What's this I see?
How came this wig here
   Without the leave o' me.
     A wig! quo' she:
     Ay, a wig quo' he.
Shame fa' your cuckold face,
   And ill mat you see,
'Tis naething but a clocken hen
   My minnie sent to me.
     A clocken hen! quo' he:
     Ay, a clocken hen, quo' she.
Far hae I ridden,
   and muckle hae I seen,
But powder on a clocken-hen.
   Saw I never nane.

Our goodman came hame at e'en,
   And hame came he;
And there he saw a muckle coat,
   Where nae coat shou'd be.
O how came this coat here
   How can this be?
How came this coat here
   Without the leave o' me?
Ye auld blind dotard carl.
   Blind mat ye be,
It's but a pair of blankets
   My minnie sent to me.
     Blankets! quo' he:
     Ay, blankets, quo' she.
Far hae I ridden,
   And muckle hae I seen,
But buttons upon blankets
   Saw I never nane.

Ben went our goodman,
   And ben went he;
And there he spy'd a sturdy man,
   Where nae man should be.
How came this man here.
   How can this be?
How came this man here.
   Without the leave o' me?
     A man! quo' she:
     Ay, a man, quo' he.
Poor blind body,
   And blinder mat ye be,
It's a new milking maid,
   My mither sent to me.
     A maid! quo' he:
     Ay, a maid, quo' she,
Far hae I ridden,
   And muckle hae I seen,
But lang-bearded maidens
   Saw I never nane.


Go to Index

The Wren, or, Lennox's Love to Blantyre.

[from Herd's Scots Songs, II, 1776 (reprint ed.)
The Wren scho lyes in care's bed,
   In care's bed, in care's bed;
The Wren scho lyes in care's bed,
   In meikle dule and pyne--O.

Quhen in came Robin Red-breast,
  Red-breast, Red-breast;
Quhen in came Robin Red-breast,
  Wi' succar-saps and wyne---).

Now, maiden, will ye taste o' this,
  Taste o' this, taste o' this;
Now, maiden, will ye taste o' this,
  It's succar-saps and wyne---O.
Na, ne'er a drap, Robin,
  Robin, Robin;
Na, ne'er a drap, Robin,
  Gin it was ne'er so fine---O.

************************* [i.e., incomplete]

And quhere's the ring I gied ze,
  That I gied ze, that I gied ze.
And quhere's the ring I gied ze,
  Ze little cutty quean---O
I gied it till a soger,
  A soger, a soger,
I gied it till a soger,
  A kynd sweet-heart o' myne---O
That last part doesn't fit very well with the Stewart/ Hamilton family of Lennox Love. Frances Stewart may be the only favorite of Charles II that didn't become his mistress, and she's one of the few (maybe only one) I haven't seen slandered in the political satires (song and poems) written about his court favorites.

The earliest known printed copy of the tune is "How can I keep my maidenhead", see Scots tunes index

Merry Medley dance directions:

Hand a Cross quite round with the second couple, and cast off
Hands a Cross with the third couple, and cast off again
Foot it and cast up to the top 
Right Hand and Left into the second Couples Place
Foot it Corners and turn
Foot it the other Corners and turn
Hey contrary sides
Foot it to your Partner and turn

Holmain MS dance directions, modern terminology, thanks to Sylvia

First cple cross over with right hands and cast off one place.
First & 3rd cples dance four hands across, half way.
First cple set twice.
First & 3rd cples dance half right and left and first cple end
facing first corners.
Set to and turn first, then second corners.
Reel of 3 on the sides, cross to own side at the end.
The Vickers MS c 1770 (ed. by Mat. Seattle as The Great Northern Tune Book has the tune as "How can I keep my maidenhead", and a quite different tune as "Lenox Love". Go to Index

How can I keep my maidenhead

[from The Merry Muses of Caledonia, (1799) Legman's type facsimile. Tune direction there is "The Birks o' Abergeldie".
How can I keep my maidenhead,
  My maidenhead, my maidenhead;
How can I keep my maidenhead,
  Amang sae mony men, O.

The Captain bad a guinea for't,
  A guinea for't, a Guineas for't;
The Captain bad a guinea for't,
  The Colonel he bad ten, O.

But I'll do as my minnie did,
  My minnie did, my minnie did;
But I'll do as my minnie did,
  For siller I'll hae nane, O.

I'll gie it to a bonie lad,
  A bonie lad, a bonie lad;
I'll gie it to a bonie lad,
  For just as gude again, O.

An auld moulie maidenhead,
  A maidenhead, a maidenhead;
An auld moulie maidenhead,
  The weary wark I ken, O.

The stretchin' o't, the strivin' o't,
  The borin' o't, the rivin' o't,
And ay the double drivin' o't,
  The farther ye gang ben, O.
Play: S2, LNXLV1, LNXLV2

Go to Index
A rather different version is given in C. K. Sharpe's A Ballad Book, 1823:

My Mither Built a Wee, Wee House.

My mither built a wee, wee house,
Awee, wee house, awee, wee house,
My mither built a wee, wee house,
To keep mer frae the men, O!
The wa's fell in, and I fell out,
The wa's fell in, and I fell out,
The wa's fell in, and I fell out,
Amang the merry men, O!

How can I keep my maidenhead,
How can I keep my maidenhead,
How can I keep my maidenhead,
Amang sae mony men,O?
Ane auld mouldy maidenhead,
Ane auld mouldy maidenhead,
Ane auld mouldy maidenhead,
Seven years and ten, O!

The captain bad a guineas for 't,
A guinea for 't, a guinea for 't
The captain bad a guineas for 't,
The colonel he bad ten, O!
The sergeant he bad naething for 't,
Bad naething for 't, bad naething for 't,
The sergeant he bad naething for 't,
And he came farrest ben, O!

The Reel of Stumpie

The main text, last here, is from The Merry Muses of Caledonia. There are some other fragments which are closely related to this song. J. S. Farmer in Vol. V, p. 266, of Merry Songs and Ballads reprints two verses from Maidment's Ane Pleasant Garland, 1835. This song was taken from a manuscript, now NLS MS Adv. 19.1.4, f. 33v, and this manuscript text is given here.

A slee one, A wee one,
  I nee're saw sike a slee one;
The first night that I with him lay,
  Oh, then hee gott this wee one.

This wee one, This wee one,
  This bonny winking wee one;
I'de bin a Maide amongst the rest
  Were nor I gott this wee one.
A version in Whitaker's North Countrie Ballads, London, 1921, goes:

    Wrap up, rowl up, rowl up the feetie on't
    Wrap up, rowl up, rowl up the feetie on't
    We never knew we had a bairnie till we
      heard the greetin on't

    Red-lipped rosy-cheeked just like the mother on't
    Blackhaired, knock-kneed, just like the father on't
    We never knew we had a bairnie till we heard
       the greetin on't
A nursery rhyme, expanded around part of the Merry Muses text is #157 in the Montgomerie's Hogarth Book of Scottish Nursery Rhymes, 1970.

The tune has long been a favourite, under several titles. There is a tune "Stumpie" in a Scots manuscript of 1734, but this has not been printed or identified to the best of my knowledge. "Stumpie" was printed in Aird's Airs, II, (1782) and as "Stumpie Strathspey" in the first book of Gow's Strathspey Reels, (1784). The song is one of the Scots chorus first ones, and the chorus and first verse are in The Scots Musical Museum, #457, with the tune. John Glen in Early Scottish Melodies, (SMM #457), pointed out that the tune was entitled "Butter'd Pease" in Book 1 of Walsh's Caledonian Country Dances (c 1734), but there are earlier copies under this title. Wm. Stenhouse correctly pointed out the tune as "Jockey has gotten a Wife" in the ballad opera The Female Parson, 1730 (a rather poor version). As "Butter'd Peas" the "Stumpie" tune is also in The Fashionable Lady, 1730, The Boarding School, 1732, Achilles and The Decoy, 1733, and The Whim, 1734. [John Glen pointed out that "Jockey has gotten a Wife is an entirely different tune. As it turns out both Stenhouse and Glen were correct. The Female Parson also has a tune labeled "Butter'd Pease," which is a version of "Jockey has gotten a Wife" (in 6/4 rather than 9/8). Thus, the titles of the two tunes were switched around in that ballad opera. Correct 9/8 versions of this other tune are "Jockey has gotten a Wife" in the recently reprinted (1990) Dublin, c 1726, collection of the Neals, A Choice Collection of Country Dances, and "Jockey has got him a wife" in the score of a London stage dance production of 1772, The Irish Fair.]

In the Northumberland Vickers MS (ed. by Mat. Seattle, The Great Northern Tune Book, II, #202, 1987) our tune is entitled "Jack's be the Daddy On't - or- Butter'd Peas".

The Reel O' Stumpie.

Wap and row, wap and row,
  Wap and row the feetie o't
I thought I was a maiden fair,
  Till I heard the grettie o't

My daddie was a fiddler fine,
  My minnie she made mantie O,
And I mysel a thumpin quean,
  And try'd the reel of stumpie O.

Lang kail, pease and leeks,
  They were at the kirst'nin' o't,
Lang lads wanton breeks,
  They were at the getting o't.
    Wap and row, &c.

The Bailie he gaed farthest ben,
  Mess John was ripe and ready o't,
But the Sherra had a wanton fling,
  The Sherra was the daddie o't.
       Wap an' row, &c.

Play: S1, STMPIE1, Female Parson 
      S1, STMPIE2, Achilles   
      S1, STMPIE3, SMM #457
Go to Index

[From Herd's Scots Songs, 1776]

Jenny's Bawbie.

[Cho:] And a' that e'er my Jenny had,
My Jenny had, my Jenny had;
A' theat e'er my Jenny had,
Was ae bawbie.

There's your plack, and my plack,
And your plack, and my plack,
Any my plack and your plack,
And Jenny's bawbie.
&nbps;&nbps;&nbps;&nbps;And a' the e'er, &c.

We'll put it a' in the pint-stoup,
The pint-stoup, the pint-stoup,
We'll put in in the pint-stoup,
And birle't a' three.
&nbps;&nbps;&nbps;&nbps;And a' the e'er, &c.

[I don't have the tune from Joshua Campbell's collection of 1778. Song and tune are in 'The Scots Musical Museum', #496 (1797). See the Opies' 'The Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes' (Polly put the kettle on) for more history.]

Play S2, Jenny's Babee [later, Polly put the kettle on], Aird's Airs, IV (1794)

Go to Index

["The Cutty Wren", untitled, from Herd's 'Scots Songs', 1776,
the earliest known text. Also in Herd's MSS, printed by Hans
Hecht, p. 200.] 

Will ze go to the wood? quo' FOZIE MOZIE;
Will ze go to the wood? quo' JOHNIE REDNOZIE;
Will ze go to the wood? quo' FOSLIN'ene;
Will ze go to the wood? quo' brither and kin.

What to do there? quo' FOZIE MOZIE;
What to do there? quo' JOHNIE REDNOZIE;
What to do there? quo' FOSLIN'ene;
What to do there? quo' brither and kin.

To slay the WREN, quo' FOZIE MOZIE:
To slay the WREN, quo' JOHNIE REDNOZIE:
To slay the WREN, quo' FOSLIN'ene:
To slay the WREN, quo' brither and kin.

What way will ze get her hame? quo' FOZIE MOZIE;
What way will ze get her hame? quo' JOHNIE REDNOZIE;
What way will ze get her hame? quo' FOSLIN'ene;
What way will ze get her hame? quo' brither and kin.

We'll hyre carts and horse, quo' FOZIE MOZIE:
We'll hyre carts and horse, quo' JOHNIE REDNOZIE:
We'll hyre carts and horse, quo' FOSLIN'end:
We'll hyre carts and horse, quo' brither and kin.

What way will we get her in? quo' FOZIE MOZIE;
What way will we get her in? quo' JOHNIE REDNOZIE;
What way will we get her in? quo' FOSLIN'ene;
What way will we get her in? quo' brither and kin.

We'll drive down the door-cheeks, quo' FOZIE MOZIE:
We'll drive down the door-cheeks, quo' JOHNIE REDNOZIE:
We'll drive down the door-cheeks, quo' FOSLIN'ene:
We'll drive down the door-cheeks, quo' brither and kin.

I'll hae a wing, quo' FOZIE MOZIE:
I'll hae another, quo' JOHNIE REDNOZIE:
I'll hae a leg, quo' FOSLIN'ene:
And I'll hae anither, quo' brither and kin.
Go to Index

Bonny Dundee

A song of seven verses was given by C. K. Sharpe from the Mansfield/ St. Clair MS in Additional Illustrations to SMM, p. 526 (Note to SMM #548). Sharpe said it was sung to the same tune as "The Blue Bells of Scotland" and was an older set of words. Mansfield/St. Clair MS song goes:
O, fair maid, whase aught that bonny bairn,
O, fair maid, whase aught that bonny bairn?
It is a sodger's son, she said, that's lately gone to Spain,
Te dilly dan, te dilly dan, te dilly, dilly dan.

O, fair maid, what was the sodger's name?
O, fair, &c.
In troth a'tweel, I never speir'd__the mair I was to blame.
Te dilly dan, &c.

O, fair maid, what had that sodger on?
O, fair &c.
A scarlet coat laid o'er wi' gold, a waistcoat o' the same.
Te dilly dan, &c.

O, fair maid, what if he should be slain?
O, fair &c.
The king would lose a brave sodger, and I a pretty man.
Te dilly dan, &c.

O, fair maid, what if he should come hame?
O, fair &c.
The parish priest should marry us, the clerk should say amen.
Te dilly dan, &c.

O, fair maid, would ye that sodger ken?
O, fair &c.
In truth a'tweel, an' that I wad, among ten thousand men.
Te dilly dan, &c.

O, fair maid, what if I be the man?
O, fair &c.
In truth a'twell, it may be so; I'se haud ye for the same.
Te dilly dan, te dilly dan, te dilly, dilly dan. 
It is the second piece in the MS according to William Montgomerie's Bibliography of Scottish Ballad Manuscripts, Part IV, Studies in Scottish Literature, V, p. 107, 1967. A traditional version is #58, "Scots Callan O'Bonnie Dundee" in Nigel Gatherer's 'Sonngs and Ballads of Dundee', 1986. In Herd's Scots Songs, II, 1776, is the following:

O have I burnt, or have I slain?
  Or have I done aught injury?
I've gotten a bonny young lassie wi' bairn,
 The bailie's daughter of bonny Dundee.
Bonny Dundee, and Bonny Dundass,
  Where shall I see sae bonny a lass?
Open your ports, and let me go free,
  I maun stay nae langer in bonny dundee.
The first four lines of "Bonny Dundee", said to be old, Scots Musical Museum, #99.
O whar did ye get that hauver meal bannock?
O silly blind body, O dinna ye see;
I gat it frae a young brisk Sodger Laddie,
Between St. Johnston and bonny Dundee.
The question is obviously addressed to the Minister's daughter (Jenny) here, and it isn't a haver meal bannock she has, but a wee bairn. This is obvious from a later version of this sequel in The Greig-Duncan Folk Song Collection, VII, #1472, 1997, "There was a gallant Soldier". Verse 3 of A:

Fair may O rare May, fa is yere bairn tull,
It's tul a gallant soldier jist like yersel.

In the fragment C we have:

O fair maid, O rare maid, O what' you sodger's name?
They ca' him Rob Runawa' when he's nae at hame.

That Rob Runawa' looks a bit like a renamed Robin Rattle (formerly Jockey) in:

Jenny Nettles

[Text and tune, 'The Scots Musical Museum', #52, 1787.]

O Saw ye Jenny Nettles;
Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles.
Saw ye Jenny Nettles,
Coming frae the market:
Wi' Bag and baggage on her back,
Her fee and and bountith in her lap,
wi' Bag and baggage on her back,
And a babie in her oxter

I met ayont the kairny
Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles;
Singing till her bairny,
Robin Rattles bastard:
To flee the dool upo' the stool,
And ilka ane that mocks her,
She round about seeks Robin out,
To stap it in his oxter.

Fy, fy, Robin Rattle
Robin Rattle, Robin Rattle,
Fy, fy, Robin Rattle [Drop this line?]
Use Jenny Nettles kindly;
Score out the blame, and shun the shame,
And without mair debate o't,
Tak hame your wean, make Jenny fain.
The leel and leesome gate o't.

Play S2:- JENNYN Jenny Nettles

[from Ritson's reprint of 'The North-Country Chorister', Durham, (1802) 1809, Song IV. Ritson's remark in aq foot note states that this was lately introduced on the stage by Mrs. Jordan.

The New Highland Lad

There was a Highland laddie courted a lawland lass
There was, &c.
He promis'd for to marry her, but he did not tell her when;
And 'twas all in her heart she lov'd her Highland man.
Oh where, and oh where does your Highland laddie dwell?
Oh where, &c.
He lives in merry Scotland, at the sign of the Blue Bell;
And I vow in my heart I love my laddie well.

What cloaths, O what cloaths does your Highland laddie wear?
What cloaths, &c.
His coat is of a Saxon green, his waistcoat of the plaid;
And it's all in my heart I love my Highland lad.

Oh where and oh where is your Highland laddie gone?
Oh where, &c.
He's gone to fight the French whilst George is on the throne,
And I vow in my heart I do wish him safe at home.

And if my highland laddie should chance to come no more,
And if, &c.
They'll call my chid a love-begot, myself a common whore;

And I vow in my heart I do wish him safe on shore.

And if my laddie should chance to dye,
And if, &c.
The bagpipes shall play over him, I'll lay me down and cry,
And I vow in my heart I love my Highland boy.

And if my Highland laddie should chance to come again,
And if, &c.
The parson he shall marry us, and the clerk shall say amen;
And I vow in my heart I love my Highland man.

The Blue Bells of Scotland

Oh! where, tell me where is your highland laddie gone?
Oh! where, tell me where is your highland laddie gone?
He's gone with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done,
And my sad heart will tremble, till he come safely home,
[repeat last two lines]

Oh! where, tell me where did your highland laddies stay?
Oh! where, tell me where did your highland laddies stay?
He dwelt among the holly trees, beside the rapid Spey,
And many a blessing followed him the day he went away,
[repeat last two lines]

Suppose, ah suppose, that some cruel, cruel wound
Should pierce your highland laddie, and all your hopes confound;
"The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly,
And for his king and country dear with pleasure would he die.
[repeat last two lines]

But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie bounds,
But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie bounds,
His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds,
While wide through all our highland hills his warlike name

['Sung by Mrs. Jordan' is "The Blue Bells of Scotland" in
Apollo's Budget, London, 1801.] 

I'm missing the text of another 'Blue Bell's of Scotland' by
Annie McVicar Grant, 1799, according to Helen Kendrick Johnson,
'Our Familiar Songs and those who made them',1881.]

Here's the oldest relevent text, mostly from a companion-piece song, an English broadside ballad:

Bonnie Dundee: or, Jockey's Deliverance.

Being his Escape from Dundee and the Parson's Daughter, whom he had Mow'd.

To an Excellent Tune, called, Bonny Dundee. Licensed according to Order.

Where got'st thu that Haver mill Bonack,
 blind booby can'st thou not see,
Ise got it out of the Scots=man's wallet,
 as he lig Lousing him under a tree:
Come fill me my Cup, come fill me my Can,
Come saddle my Horse, and call up my Man,
 Come open the Gates and let me go free,
 And show me the way to Bonny Dundee.

For I have neither robbed nor Stole,
 nor have I done any Injury,
But I have gotten a Fair Maid with Child,
 the Minsister's Daughter of Bonny Dundee:
Come fill me my Cup, come fill me my Can,
Come saddle my Horse, and call up my Man,
 Come open the Gates and let me go free,
 And show me the way to Bonny Dundee.   

Although Ise have gotten her Maiden-head,
 gued faith Ise have left her mine own in lew,
For when at her Daddys Ise gone to Bed,    
 Ise Moad her without any more to do,
Ise cuddl'd her close, and gave her a Kiss,
Pray tell me now, where is the harm in this,
 Then open the Gates and let me go free,    
 For Ise gang no more unto Bonny Dundee.

All Scotland never afforded a Lass    
 so bonny and blith as Jenny my dear,
Ise gave her a Gown of greeen on the grass,
 yet now Ise no longer must tarry here:    
Then saddle my Nag, that's bonny and gay,
For now it is time to gan hence away;    
 Then open the Gates and let me go free,
 Shes ken me no more unto Bonny Dundee.

In liberty still I reckon to raign,    
 for why I have done no honest Man wrong,
The Parson may take his daughter again,
  for she'll be a Mammy before 'tis long,
And have a young Lad or Lass of my Breed;
Ise think I have done a generous deed:    
 Then open the Gates and let me go free,
 For Ise go no more unto Bonny Dundee.

Since Jenny, the fair, was willingly kind,
 and came to my Arms with ready good will,
A token of love Ise leave her behind,    
 thus have I requited her kindness still,
Though Jenny, the fair, I often have Moad,
Another may reap the Harvest I sow'd.    
 Then open the Gates and let me go free,
 For Ise go no more unto Bonny Dundee.   

Her Daddy would have me make her my Bride,
 but have, and to hold, I ne're could endure,
From Bonny Dundee this day I will Ride,
 It being a place not safe and secure,
Then Jenny farewel, my Joy and my Dear,
With Sweard in my hand, the Passage Ise clear, 
 Then open the Gates and let me go free,
 For Ise gan no more unto Bonny Dundee.

My father is a muckle good Leard,
 my Mother a Lady bonny and gay,
Then while I have skill to handle a sweard,
 the Parson's request Ise never obey,
Then Jenny Sanny my Man, be thou of my mind,
In Bonny Dundee we'se not be confin'd,
 The Gates we will force and set our selves free,
 And never come more unto Bonny Dundee.

Then Sawny reply'd: Ise never refuse
 to fight for a Leard so Valiant and Bold,
Whilst I have a drop of blood for to lose,
 e're any sick Loons shall keep us in hold;
This sweard in my hand Ise Valiantly weild,
And fight by your side to kill, or be kill'd,
 For forcing the Gates, and set our selves free,
 And so bid adieu to Bonny Dundee.

With Sweards ready drawn they rid to the gate
 where being deny'd they fought at that rate,
 that some ran away, and others they slew,
Thus Jockey, the Leard, and Sawny, his man,
The Valiantly fought, as High-Landers can,
 In spight of the Loons they set themselves free,
 And so bid adieu to Bonny Dundee.
Printed for Charles Bates at the White-Hart in West-Smith-field.

[c 1690-96. Also with music in Pills to Purge Melancholy, V, 17, 1719. Also in Nigel Gatherer's Songs and Ballads of Dundee, #28, 1986. See also his #29.]

The first verse of the broadside here is obviously corrupt and belongs with Jenny's lamentation, not Jockey's escape from her father. It appears that an old Scots ballad sung by the bailie's or minister's daughter was reworked into the song in the Mansfield MS, that in turn reworked to 'The New Highand Lad', and that reworked into "The Blue Bells of Scotland".

The tune, "Adew Dundee", or "Bonny Dundee", is found in many places, see the Scots tune index, and Simpson's BBBM.

In Merry Muses of Caledonia, 1799, we find the 'hero' as a Cooper and named Sandie, and it's the Bailie's daughter as in Herd's text, and the tune is that for the broadside ballad.

The Cooper of Dundee
Tune - Bonny Dundee

Ye coopers and hoopers attend to my ditty,
    I sing o' a cooper wha dwelt in Dundee;
This young man he was baith am'rous and witty,
    He pleasld the fair maids wi' the blink o' his e'e.

He was nae a cooper, a common tub-hooper,
    The most o' his trade lay in pleasin' he fair;
He hoopt them, he coopt them, he bort them, he plugt them,
    An' a' sent for Sandie when out o' repair.

For a twelvemonth or sae this youth was respected,
    An' he was as bisie as weel he could be;
But his bis'ness increas'd so, that some were neglected,
    Which ruin'd trade in the town o' Dundee.

A baillie's fair daughter had wanted a coopin',
    An' Sandie was sent for, as oft time was he,
He yerkt her sae hard he she sprung an end-hoopin',
    Which banish'd poor Sandie frae bonny Dundee.

Play: B033, Bonny Dundee

[The following may be related, as far as text goes. From Herd's Scots Songs, II, 1776]

Go to Index

Ranting Roving Lad

My love was born in Aberdeen,
The bonniest lad there e'er was seen;
O he is forced frae me to gae,
Over the hills and far away.

O he's a ranting roving laddie;
O he's a brisk and bonny laddie;
Betide what will, I'll get me ready,
And follow the lad wi' the Highland plaidie.

I'll sell my rock, my reel, my tow,
My gude grey mare and hacket cow,
To buy my love a tartan plaid,
Because he is a roving blade.

O he's a ranting roving laddie,
O he's a brisk and bonny laddie,
Betide what will I'll get me ready,
To follow the lad wi' the Highland plaidy.

[from The Scots Musical Museum, III, #272, 1790]

The White Cockade.

My love was born in Aberdeen,
The boniest lad that e'er was seen,
But now he makes our hearts fu' glad,
He takes the field wi' his White Cockade.
[cho:] O he's a ranting, roving lad,
        He is a brisk and bonny lad,
        He is a brisk and bonny lad,
        Betide what may, I will be wed,
        And follow the boy wi' the White cockade.

I'll sell my rock, my reel, my tow,
My gude gray mare and hawkit cow;
To buy mysel a tartan plaid,
To follow the boy wi' the White cockade.
ChoS. O he's a ranting, roving lad,


Go to Index


[This last verse, above, takes us to "Shule Aroon/ Johnny has gone for a Soldier". From Charles Gavin Duffy, The Ballad Poetry of Ireland, (1845) here from the 1869 edition, p. 121.]

A Brigade Ballad

[The date of this ballad is not positively known, but it appears to be
early in the eighteenth century, when the flower of the Catholic youth
of Ireland were drawn away to recruit the ranks of the Brigade. The
inexpressible tenderness of the air, and the deep feeling and simplicity
of the words, have made the ballad a popular favourite, not withstanding
its meagreness and poverty.]

I would I were on yonder hill,
'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill,
And every tear would turn a mill
Is go de tu mo murnin slan.
    Shuke, shule, shule aroon,
    Shule go succir, agus shule go cuin,
    Shule go den durrus augus eligh glum,
    Is go de tu mo murnin slan.

I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,
I'll sell my only spinnning wheel,
To buy for my love a sword of steel,
Is go de tu mo murnin slan.

I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red,
And round the world I'll beg my bread,
Until my parents shall wish me dead,
Is go de tu mo murnin slan.

I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,
I wish I had my heart again,
And vainly think I'd not complain,
Is go de tu mo murnin slan.

But now my love has gone to France,
To try his fortune to advance;
If he e'er come back 'tis but a chance,
Is go de tu mo murnin slan.

Above is the suggestion that the song was connected to the 'Wild Geese', but with no evidence for it. By inquiry to Joe Hickerson, formerly head of the Folklore Archive at the Library of Congress: Not only did he not know of any 18th centrury broadside version of the song at the Library of Congress, he was skeptical that it was sung in the U.S. prior to the Civil War.

Here's a poorly printed and unusual broadside version. I think the printer, Haly, was mostly active in the 2nd quarter of the 19th century.

                 Shula Agrah

Oft I roved my garden bowers;
    To gaze upon fast fading flowers,
And think upon past happy hours,
    That's fled like summer's bloom.
         Shul, Shule, Shule Arah
Time can only ease my woe
Since the lad of my heart did go
    Gudhe, Tough, guidhe tough slaun

No more am I that blooming maid
That used to rove the valley's shade
My youth, my bloom, are both decayed
    And every charm is gone
        Shuld, Shule, Shule, etc.

For now he's gone to other climes
To seek one more pleasing to his mind
But ah, the maid he left behind
    Shall love him best of all
        Shule, Shule, Shule etc

His eyes were black, his coat was blue
His hair was fair, his heart was true,
I wish in my heart I was with you
    Gudhe tough, gudhe tough slaun
        Shule, shuel, shule, etc

Time can only ease may woe
Since the lad of my heart from me did go
    Uska dhe, uske dhe, mavourneen slaun
I'll sell my rack, I'll sell my reel
When my flax is out I'll sell my wheel
    Gudhe tough, gudhe tough &c

I wish I was in younder hill
It's there I'd sit and cry my fill,
That every tear would turn a mill
    Gudhe tough, gudhe tough slaun
        Shule, Shule, Shule, &c,

Oft I sat on my love's knee
Many a fond story he told me
He said many things that ne'r will be
    Gudhe tough, gudhe tough, &c,

I'll dye my petticoat, I'll dye it red
That round the world I may be my bread
And then my parents would wish me dead
        Shule, shule, shule etc.

Time can only ease my woe
Since the lad of my heart from me did go
    Uske dhe, uska dhe, mavourneen slaun

    Haly, Printer, Cork

It would be nice to have some documentary evidence that some form of the song was earlier than the 19th century, but I haven't seen any yet.

Fragment from Perthshire, Scotland, in A Ballad Book, by C. K. Sharpe, 1823.

I went to the mill, but the miller was gone
I sat me down and cried ohone!
To think of the days that are past and gone,
Of Dickie Macphalion that's slain.
   Shoo, shoo shoolaroon
   To think on the days that are past and gone,
   Of Dickie Macphalion that's slain.

I sold my rock, I sold my reel,
And sae hae I my spinning wheel
And 'a to buy a cap of steel
    For Dickie Macphalion that's slain.
    Shule Aroon, Shule Agra

[From Lady John Scott's MSS, NLS, MS 839, late 1840's. Courtesy
of Jack Campin.]

   I wish I were on yonder hill
   Tis there I'd sit and mourn my fill
   Till every tear should turn a mill
   Escadil mavourneen shaun

   Since my love ceased [to] woo
   I have roamed the whole world through
   To heal the heart he broke in two
   Escadil mavourneen shaun

   I tracked his footsteps on the moor
   I watched his shadow from the door
   I prayed as I shall pray no more
   Escadil mavourneen shaun

   My wheel is stopped I'll set it by
   My tears within my eyes are dry
   I'll close their watery lids and die
   Escadil mavourneen shaun

Go to Index
Wm. Motherwell, in 'The Paisley Magazine', p. 377, 1828, reprinted the early version of "Auld Langsyne" from a broadside which he took to be prior to 1700. Watson's 'A Choice Collection of Comic and Serious Scots Poems', III, p, 71, 1711, has this and a second part of four additional verses. The tune appeared as "For old long Gine my Joe", in Playford's "A Collection of Original Scots Tunes', 1700.

Auld Langsyne [from Motherwell]

To its own proper tune.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot
  An never thought upon,
The flames of love extinguised,
  And freely past and gone;
Is thy heart, now grown so cold,
  In that loving breast of thine,
That thou can'st never once reflect
  On auld langsyne?
Where are thy protestations--
  Thy vows and oaths, my dear,
Thou made to me, and I to thee,
  In register yet clear:
In faith and truth so violate
  To the immortal gods devine,
That thou can'st never once reflect
  On auld langsyne?

Is't Cupid's fears, or frostie cares,
  That makes thy sp'rits decay?
Or is't some object of more worth
  That's stolen thy heart away?
Or some desert makes thee neglect
  Her once so much was thine,
That thou can'st never oce reflect
  On auld langsyne?

Is't worldly cares so desperate
  That makes thee to despair?
Is't that makes thee exasperate,
  And makes thee to forbear?
If thou of that were free as I,
  Thou surely should be mine,
And then, of new, we would renew
  Kind auld langsyne.
But since that nothing can prevail,
  And all hope now is vain,
From these rejected eyes of mine,
  Still showers of tears shall reighn:
And though thou hast me now forgot,
  Yet I'll continue thine,
And though thou hast me now forgot,
 On auld langsyne

If ever I have a house my dear,
  That's trule called mine,
And can afford but country cheer,
  Or aught that's good therein:
Tho' thou were rebel to the King,
  And beat with wind and rain,
Thou'rt sure thyself of welcome, love,
  For auld langsyne.

This seems to have been supplanted by a song in Allan Ramsay's
'Scots Songs', 1720. It is this song that appears later as "Auld
Lang Syne". It is with the tune and called 'Auld Lang Syne' in
both editions of 'Orpheus Caledonius', c 1725 and 1733, and also
with the tune, and called 'The Soldier's Welcome Home' in Walsh's
'The British Musical Miscellany', III, n.d. (1735). James Dick,
'The Songs of Robert Burns', notes other 'Auld Lang Syne" songs.

Play: S2, Auld Lang. 
Play MIDI  Orpheus Caledonius tune
Play MIDI  Scots Musical Museum tune
Go to Index

Where wad bonnie Annie ly?

[From NLS MS 6299, 1740s. Almost the same is in in Herd's 'Scots Songs' II, p. 220, 1776, and 'Scots Musical Museum', #324, 1792.]

He: Where will bonny Annie ly
        alane nae mair she maun ly
        wad ye a Good man try
        is that the thing ye're lacking

She: Can a lass sae young as I
        venture on th' Brydal tie
        syn down with a good man ly
        I'm fleer'd he keep me wawking

He: Never Judge ye untill ye try
        make me your good man and I
        Shaunna hinder you to ly
        and sleep till you be weary

She: But what if I should wawking ly
        When the Hoboys are gawn by
        Will ye tent me when I cry
        My dear, I'm faint and iry

He: In my bosom thou shalt ly
        When thou wawkrife art or dry
        A healthy Cordial standing by
        shall presently relieve thee

She: To your will I then comply
        Join us, priest and let us try
        How I'll wi' a good man ly
        That can a cordial give me

Play: S2:HTM, WHRWAD1- Where wad bonny Annie ly
Play: S2:HTM, WHRWAD2- Red House

Go to Index
This song is in The Little Warbler, I, p. 133, Oliver: Netherbow, 1804, and a few later songbooks. The tune later appeared in Gow's 'Strathspey Reels', bk. 5 (1809).

Gow's Farewell to Whisky

You've surely heard o' famous Neil,
The man that played the fiddle weel,
I wat he was a canty chiel',
And dearly lo'ed the whiskey, O!
And ay sin' he wore tartan trews,
He dearly lo'ed the Athole brose;
And wae was he you may suppose,
To play fareweel to whiskey, O.

Alake, quoth Neil, I'm frail and auld,
And find my bluid grows unco cauld,
I think 'twad mak me blythe and bauld,
A wee drap highland whiskey, O
Yet the doctors they do agree,
That whiskey's no the drink for me:
Saul, quoth, 'twill spoil my glee,
Should they part me and whiskey, O.

Tho' I can get baith wine and ale,
And find my head and fingers hale,
I'll be content, tho' legs should fail,
To play fareweel to whiskey, O.
But still I think on auld lang syne,
When Paradise our friends did tyne,
Because something ran in their mind
Forbid, like highland whiskey, O.

Come, a' ye powers of music, come!
I find my heart grows unco glum;
My fiddle-strings will no play bum
To say fareweel to whiskey, O.
Yet I'll tak my fiddle in my hand,
And screw the pegs up while they'll stand,
To mak a lamentation grand,
On gude auld highland whiskey, O.


Go to Index

The Farmer's Daughter
[D'Urfey's song, 1688, from Pills to Purge Melancholy, II, 1719. Commonly known as "Cold and Raw". The broadside expansion (ZN499 in the broadside ballad index, which also lists 3 sequels) contains 2 more verses, which do little for the song. Cf. "Maulkin was a country Maid/ Within the North Country/ Farmer's Daughter of Merry Wakefield" in Scarce Songs 1.]

Cold and raw the north did blow,
Bleak in the morning early;
All the trees were hid in snow,
Dagl'd by winter yearly:
When come riding over a knough,
I met with a farmer's daughter;
Rosie cheeks and bonny brow,
Good faith made my mouth to water.

Down I vail'd my bonnet low,
Meaning to show my breeding;
She return'd a graceful bow,
A visage far exceeding:
I ask'd her where she went so soon,
And long'd to begin a parley;
She told me unto the next market town,
A purpose to sell her barly.

In this purse, sweet soul, said I,
Twenty pounds lie fairly;
Seek no further one to buy,
For I'se take all thy barly,
Twenty more shall buy my delight,
Thy person I love so dearly;
If thou wouldst stay with me all night,
And go home in the morning early.

If twenty pounds could buy the globe,
Quoth she, this I'd no do, sir;
O were my kin as poor as Job,
I wo'd not rise 'em so, sir:
For should I be to night your friend,
We'st get a young kid together;
And you'd be gone ere the nine months end,
And where should I find a father?

I told her I had wedded been,
Fourteen years and longer;
Or else I'd choose for her my Queen,
And tie the knot much stronger:
She bid me then no farther rome,
But manage my wedlock fairly;
And keep purse for poor spouse at home,
For some other shall have her barly.

Play: B450, Stingo from Dancing Master, 1651.
B451: Tune for D'Urfey's song in Comes Amores, 1688.

Go to Index

[From Porkington MS 10, via 'Ballads from Manuscripts', I, p. 29. Thorns are given as y, and so ye is 'the'. yoghs are variously translated as y, g, or gh, and I've enclosed my translation in parenthesis.]

A Talk of Ten Wives on their Husbands' Ware. [c 1460]

Leve, lystynes to me
Two wordys or thre,
And herkenes to my songe;
And I schall tell (y)ow a tale,
How .x. wyffys satt at the nale,
And noman hem a-monge.

"Sen we haue no othere songe
[Forto singen vs amonge,]
Talys lett vs tell
Off owre hosbondes ware,
Wych of hem most worthy are
To-day to bere the bell.

And I schall nowe begyn att myne:
I knowe the mett well & fyne,
The length of a snayle,
And euer he warse is from day to day.
To grete god euer I pray
To gyve hym evyle hayle."

The secund wyffe sett her nere,
And seyd, "by the rode, I haue a ware
That is two so mene:
I mett hym in the morrow tyde,
When he was in his moste pryde,
The length of .iii. bene.

"How schuld I be served with that?
I wold gybbe, owre gray catt,
Were cord there on!
By sayn[t]e peter owte of rome,
I se neuer a wars lome
Stondyng opon mone."

The .iij. wyfe was full woo,
And seyd that "I haue one of thoo
That no(gh)te is at nede; [nought
Owre syre breche, when hit is torn,
Hys pentyll pepyth owte be-forn
Lyke a warbrede; [worm

"Hit growethe all with-in the here:
Sychon se I neuer ere,
Stondyng opon schare.
yett the schrewe is hodles,
And all thynges goodless!
There cryste gyve hym care!"

The .iiij. wyffe of the floke
Seyd, "owre syre fydecoke
ffayn wold I skyfte:
He is longe, and he is smalle,
And yett hathe the fydefalle;
God gyve hym sory thryfte!"

"The leste fyngere on my honde
Is more than he, whan he dothe stonde:
Alasse that I am lorn!
Sory mowntyng com there-on!
He schold a be a womon
Had he be eere born"

The .v. wyffe was full fayn
When sche hard her fellowys playn,
And vp shee gan stond:
"Now (y)e speke of a tarse!
In all the warld is not a warse
Than hathe my hosbond.

"Owre syre bradys lyke a dere,
He pysses his tarse euery yere,
Ryghte as dothe a boke:
When men speke of archery,
He mon stond faste there-by,
Or ellys hys schote woll troke."

The .vj. wyffe hy(gh)te sare;
Sche seyd: "my hosbondys ware
Is of good a-syse;
He is whyte as ony mylke,
He is softe as ony sylke,
yett sertis he may not ryse.

I lyrke hym vp with my hond,
And pray hym that he woll stond,
And (y)ett he lythe styll.
When I se that all is noghte, [nought
I thynke mony a a thro thoghte; [fierce
Bot cryste wote my wyll."

The .vij. wyffe sat on the bynch,
nd sche caste her legge on wrynch,
And bad fyll the wyne:
"By seynt Iame of galys,
In englond ne in walys
Is not a wars than myne!

Whon owre syre comys In,
And lokes after that sory pyne
That schuld hengge bytwen his leggis,
He is lyke, by the rode,
A sory lauerock satt on brode
Opon two adyll eggis."

The .viij. wyffe was well I-ta(gh)te,
And seyd, "seldom am I sa(gh)te,
And so I well may:
When the froste fresys.
Owre syris tarse lesys,
And all-way gose a-way.

When the (g)eke gynnys to synge, [cuckoo
Then the schrewe begynnys to sprynge,
Lyke a humbulbe;
He cowres vp on othere two,-
I knos\w not the warse of thos,
I schrew hem all thre!"

The .ix. wyffe seet hem nyghe,
And held a mett vp on hyghe
The len(gh)te of a fote:
"Here is a pyntell of a fayre len(gh)te,
But he berys a sory stren(gh)te, -
God may do boote;-

'I bow hym, I bend hym,
I stroke hym, I wend hym;
The deuell mot hym sterve!
Be he hote, be he cold,
Tho I torn hym two fold,
yett he may not serve."

The .x. wyffe be-gan her tale,
And seyd, "I haue on of the smale,
Was wyndowed a-way.
Of all no(gh)tes it is no(gh)te: [of less, the least
Sertis, and hit schuld be bo(gh)te,
He is not worth a nay.": Amen.

Go to Index

The number was pared a bit in a song of like content:

The Seven Merry Wives of London:
or, The Gossips Complaint against Their Husbands, For their Neglect,
As they met together in a Tavern, over half a dozen Bottles of Canary.

To the tune of, Fond Boy,    Licensed according to Order.

There's seven young Wives met together of late,
In a Tavern, not far from the Bell-savage-gate,
Where they call'd for the bet of Canary with speed,
And in pleasant Discourse they began to proceed:
    Quoth the Waterman's Wife, I must drink and then run,
     For a Woman's work, Sisters, you know is ne'er done.

I was to the Temple and next Inns of Court,
And the lively young Lawyers, they yield pretty sport,
When I go to their Chambers each morning or night,
They my Heart is transported with joy and delight:
    When the pleasure is over, dear Sisters, I run,
    For at home, I must tell you, my work is ne'er done.

The Shoe-maker's Wife fill'd a bowl to the brim,
Crying out, Here's a Bumper sweet Sisters, to him,
That is able to please a young Wife to the heart,
But, alas, to my sorrow, the truth I'll impart;
    I'm afraid I shall ne'er have a Daughter or Son;
    Tho' I labour a Woman's work never is done.

My husband is lusty, young, proper and tall,
Yet I think he has but a short Peging-aul,
Which does nothing to purpose, dear Friends, as I live,
All the shooes in my shop I would willingly give
    To enjoy a young beautiful Daughter or Son;
    But my work I must tell is never well done.

The Pewterer's Wife then spoke up with a grace,
Loving Sisters, believe me, I pity thy case,
There is no greater grief in the World I declare
Then to have a dull soul, for I solemnly swear
    Seven Years I've been foolishly baffl'd with one;
    For my work, loving Sisters, is never well done.

A Man of much mettle I took him to be,
Or else, faith, he had never been marry'd to me,
But alas, to my sorrow, I find I am fool'd,
For he seldom cast into the mould that he should;
    Which has caus'd my eyes like fair fountains to run;
    For to think that my work it was never well done.

A Chyrurgeon's Wife them immediaely swore,
The she now had been marry'd a Twelvemonth and more
Yet he hever had enter'd nor found the right Vein,
Therefore surely, said she, I have cause to complain:
    If he don't mend his manners, astray I shall run;
    For 'tis fit that a Woman's work should be well done.

The Wife of a Fidler, cry'd, Hear me I Pray
My unnatural Husband he seldom will play
His kind Wife a sweet Lesson, but once in a Moon,
He complains that his Fiddle is still out of Tune:
    If he don't mend his manners, astray I shall run,
    For you know that a Woman's work must be well done.

The Wife of a Pavier, cry'd out it was true,
And I have as much reason as any of you
To complain of my Pavier, who has but one Stone,
And besides, the worst Rammer as ever was known:
     To a Neighbour for help I am forced to run,
     For you know that a Woman's work must be well done.

The Wife of a young Vulcan she took off her bowl,
And declar'd that her Husband he was a boon Soul,
She had no kind of cause to complain of these wrongs,
For he follow'd his labour with hammer and tongs,
    Having five or six Daughers besides a young Son;
    Therefore her work had been very well done.

London: Printed for J. Blare, at the Looking-glass on London- bridge.

Play: B143- Fond Boy

Go to Index
I live not where I love.

[From Morley's 'First Book of Ayres', 1600. These are Robert Southwell's verses 5, 4, and 3 from "Marie Magdalens complaynte at Christes death", in 'Saint Peter's Complaint, With other Poems', 1595.]

With my loue my life was nestled,
In the some of happines,
From my loue my life was wrested,
To a world of heauines,
O let loue my life remoue,
Sith I liue not wher I loue.

Where the truth once was and is not,
Shadows are but vanities,
Shewing want that helpe they cannot,
Painted meate no hunger feedes,
Dying life each death exceedes.

O true loue since thou hast left me,
Mortall life is tedious,
Death it is to liue without thee,
Death of all most odious,
Turne againe and take me with thee,
Let me die, or liue thou in me.

Play: B212- Morley's tune; later ones, B213, B214

Go to Index

[Broadside ballad, Entered Jan. 8, 1638]

The Constant Lover,
Who his affection will not move,
Theough he live not where he love.

To a Northerne Tune Called Shall the absense of my Mistresse.

You loyall Lovers that are distent
    from your Sweet-hearts many a mile,
Pray come helpe me at this instant
    in mirth to spend away the while
In singing sweetly, and compleately,
    in commendation of my love;
Resolving ever to part never,
    though I live not where I love.

My love shee's faire and also vertuous;
    God grant to me she may prove true!
Then there is naught but death shall part us,
    and Ile ne're change her for a new:
And though the fates my fortunes hates,
    and me from her doe farre remove,
Yet I doe vow still to be true,
     though, &c.

My constancy shall ne're be failing,
    whatsoe're betide me here:
Of her vertue Ile be telling,
    be my bidding farre or neere.
And though blind fortune prove uncertaine
    from her presence me to remove,
Yet Ile be constant every instant,
     though, &c.

Though our bodies thus are parted,
    and asunder many a mile,
Yet I vow to be true-hearted,
    and be faithful all the while:
Though with mine eye I cannot spye,
    for distance great, my dearest Love,
My heart is with her altogether,
     though, &c.

When I sleepe I doe dream on her,
    when I wake I take no rest:
but euery moment thinke upon her:
    she's so fixed in my brest:
And though farre distance may be assistance
    from my mind her loue to moue,
Yet I will neuer our loue disseuer,
     though, &c.

To thinke upon the amrous glances
    that haue beene betwixt us twaine,
My constancy and love aduances,
    though from her presence I remaine,
And makes the teares, with groanes and feares,
    from watery eyes and heart to moue,
And, sighing, say, both night and day,
    Alas! I liue, &c.

I, to her, will be like Leander
    if Hero-like shee'le prove to me;
For her sake through the world Ile wander,
    no desperate danger I will flee;
And into the seas, with little ease,
    the mountains great themselves shal move,
Ere faith I breake, let me ne're speake,
     though, &c.

Penelope shal be unconstant,
    and Diana prove unchaste,
Venus to Vulcan shall be constant,
    and Mars farre from her shall be plac't,-
The blinded boy no more shal ioy
    with arrowes keen lovers to move,
Ere false I be, sweet-heart to thee,
     though, &c.

The Birds shall leave their airy region;
    the fishes in the aire shall fly;
All the world shall be at one religion;
    all living things shall cease to dye;
Al[l] things shal[l] change to shapes most strange
    before that I disloyall proue,
Or any way my loue decay,
     though, &c.

If you doe come before her,
    or doe deigne to touch her hand,
Tell her that I doe adore her
    aboue all maidens in the land;
Remaining still at her good will,
    and alwayes to her loyall proue,
T[i]ll death with dart doe strike my heart,
     though, &c.

And tell my mistresse that a louer
    that Loue's perfect image beares,
As true as loue it selfe doe loue her,
    witnesse his farre-fetcht sighes and teares,
Which forth he groanes with bitter moanes,
    and from his troubled breast he moues,
And day nor night takes no delight,
    because, &c.

So with my duty to her commended,
    her loyall seruent Ile be still,
Desiring I may be befriended
    with loue againe for my good will;
And wish that she as true may be,
    as I to her will constant proue,
And night and day I still will pray
    and wish I may liue where I loue.

       FINIS         P[eter]. L[owberry].

London, Printed for Henry Gosson.

[Reeves, 'The Everlasting Circle', #70, from Hammond's MSS, collected in 1905, but without tune. Same, Frank Purlsow, 'Marrow Bones', p. 43, with tune.]

I Live Not Where I Love.

Come all you maids that live at a distance
many a mile from off your swain,
Come and assist me this very moment
For to pass away some time,
Singing sweetly and completely
Songs of pleasure and of love.
My heart is with you altogether
Though I lives not where I love.

Oh when I sleep I dreams about you,
When I wake I take no rest,
For every instant thinking on you
My heart e'er fixed in your breast,
O this cold absence seems at a distance
And many a mile from my ture love,
But my heart is with her altogether
Though I live not where I love.

So farewll lads anmd farewell lasses,
Now I think I've got my choice,
I will away to yonder mountains
Where I think I hear his voice.
And if he holloa I will follow
Around the world that is so wide
For young Thomas he did me promise
I shall be his lawfull bride.

Now if all the world was of one religion
Every living thing should die.
Or if I prove false unto my jewel
Or any way my love deny,
The world shall change and be most strange
If ever I my mind remove.
My heart is with her altogether
Though I live not where I love.

Go to Index

The Maunding Souldier;

Or, The Fruits of Warre is Beggery.

To the tune of Permit me, Friends. [unknown]

Good your worship, cast your eyes
Upon a souldier's miseries!
Let not my leane cheekes, I pray,Your bounty from a souldier stay.
    But, like a noble friend,
    Some silver lend,
And Jove shall pay you in the end:
    And I will pray that Fate
    May make you fortunate
In heavenly, and in earth's estate.

To beg I was not borne, sweet Sir,
And therefore blush to make this stirre;
I never went from place to place
For to divulge my wofull case:
    For I am none of those
    That roguing goes,
That, maunding, shewes their drunken blowes,
    Which they have onely got
    While they have bang'd the pot
In wrangling who should pay the debt.

I scorne to make comparison
With those of Kent-street garrison,
That in their lives nere crost the seas,
But still at home have lived at ease;
    Yet will they lye and sweare,
    As though they were
Men that had travel'd farre and neere;
    True souldiers' company
    Doth teach them how to lye;
They can discourse most perfectly.

But I doe scorne such counterfaits
That get their means by base deceits:
They learne of others to speake Dutch;
Of Holland they'll tell you as much
    As those that have bin there
    Full many a yeere,
And name the townes all farre and neere;
    Yet they never went
    Beyond Graves-end in Kent,
But in Kent-street their dayes are spent.

They in Olympicke games have beene,
Whereas brave battels I have seene;
And where the cannon use to roare
My proper spheare was evermore:
    The danger I have past,
    Both first and last,
Would make your worship's selfe agast;
    A thousand time I have
    Been ready for the grave;
Three times I have been made a slave.

Twice through the bulke I have been shot;
My braines have boyled like a pot:
I have at lest these dozen times
Been blowne up by those roguish mines
    Under a barracado,
    In a bravado,
Throwing of a hand-grenado:
    Oh! death was very neere,
    For it tooke away my eare,
And yet, thank God! ch'am here, ch'am here.

The second Part

To the same tune.

I have uppon the seas been tane By th' Dunkerks, for the King of Spaine, And stript out of my garments quite, Exchanging all for canvis white;     And in that poore aray     For many a day I have been kept, till friends did pay     A ransome for release;     And having bought my peace, My woes againe did fresh increase.

There's no land-service as you can name
But I have been actor in the same;
In th' Palatinate and Bohemia
I served many a wofull day;
    At Frankendale I have,
    Like a souldier brave
Receiv'd what welcomes canons gave;
    For the honour of England
    Most stoutly did I stand
'Gainst the Emperour's and Spinolae's band.

At push of pike I lost my eye;
At Bergen siege I broke my thigh;
At Ostend, though I were a lad,
I laid about me as I were mad.
    Oh, you would little ween
    That I had been
An old, old souldier to the Queene; [Scarce Songs 1
    But if Sir Francis Vere
    Were living now and here,
Hee'd tell you how I slasht it there.

Since that, I have been in Breda
Besieg'd by Marquesse Spinola;
And, since that, made a warlike dance
Both into Spaine and into France;
    And there I lost a flood
    Of noble blood,
And did but little good:
    And now I home am come,
    With ragges about my bumme,
God bless you, Sir, from this poore summe!

And now my case you understand,
Good Sir, will you lend your helping hand?
A little thing will pleasure me,
And keepe in use your charity:
    It is not bread nor cheese,
    Nor barrell lees,
Nor any scraps of meat, like these;
    But I doe beg of you
    A shilling or two,
Sweet Sir, your purse's strings undoe.

I pray your worship, thinke on me,
That am what I doe seeme to be-
No rooking rascall, nor no cheat,
But a souldier every way compleat;
    I have wounds to show
    That prove 'tis so;
Then, courteous good Sir, ease my woe;
    And I for you will pray
    Both night and day
That your substance never may decay.

        FINIS.   ;      M[artin]. P[arker].

Printed a London for F. Grove on Snow-hill.

[This ballad is probably 1628-29. A ballad entered in the Stationers' Register on June 20, 1629, is to the tune of "The Maunding Souldier". Parker's ballad, here, was reworked in the 1690's when the English were again fighting in Flanders. The latter version is "The Low-country Soldier", ZN1068]

Go to Index

The Farmer's Son of Devonshire:

Being the Valiant Coronel's Return fromFlanders,
who endeavoured to persuade his Brother Jack to
forsake the Plow, and to take up Arms the next
Spring; which he refuesed to do, because he was
loathe to leave his sweet wife Joan

Tune of, [Let] Mary live long.

Licensed according to Order.

Well met, Brother Jack, I have been in Flanders,
With valiant Commanders, and am return'd back
        To England again' Where a while I shall stay, and shall then march away;
        I'm an Officer now;
Go with me, dear Brother, go with me, dear Brother,
        And lay by the Plow.

I tell thee, old boy, the son of a farmer,
In glittering armour, may kill and destroy,
        A many proud French.
As a Squire or Knight, having courage to fight,
        Then Valiantly go
In arms like a Soldier, in arms like a Soldier,
        To face the proud foe.

But, dear Brother Will, you are a vine vellow,
And talk mighty mellow, but what if they kill
        Thy poor brother Jack,
By the pounce of a gun? If they shou'd I'm undone,
        And ruin'd quite:
You know that I never, you know that I never,
        Had courage to fight.

If you will advance in arms like a Soldier,
The Nation's upholder, a fortunate chance
        Your portion my be:
All that goes are not slain, you may return again,
        With Victory here.
There's no men but cowards, there's no men but cowards,
        Are subject to fear.

Each timorous soul, when trumpets are sounding,
And cannons rebounding, he fears no controul,
        Nor death in the least;
When the smoke do' arise, and darkens the skies,
        We fall on amain;
That trophies of honour, that trophies of honour,
        In Field we may gain.

King William you know in the heat of the battel,
When guns they do rattle, he enters also;
        Then what shall we fear?
When an army is lead, by a Crown'd Royal head,
        It baffles all fear,
And makes soldiers fire, and makes soldiers fire,
        From the front to the rear.

        Jack's Answer

The King I confess, he labours by power,
The French to devour; let Providence bless
        His conquering arms:
I wou'd do the same thing, if I were to be King,
        And make the French groan.
Till then, loving Brother, till then, loving Brother,
        Pray let me alone.

The enemies' men with horror will fill me,
Perhaps they may kill me, and where am I then?
        This runs in my mind;
Should I chance to be lame, will the trophies of Fame,
        Keep me from sad groans?
A fig for that honour, a fig for that honour,
        Which brings broken bones.

Such honour I scorn, I'd rather be mowing,
Nay, plowing or sowing, or threshing of corn,
        At home in a barn,
Then to leave Joan my wife, and to loose my sweet life.
        In peace let me dwell;
I am not for fighting, I am not for fighting,
        So, Brother, Farewell.

Printed for J. Deacon, at the Angel in Gilt-spur-Street, without Newgate.

Play: B279

Go to Index
[From Herd's 'Scots Songs', II, 23, 1776]

Will ye go to Flanders, my Mally-O?
Will ye go to Flanders, my bonnie Mally-O?
  There we'll get wine and brandy,
  And sack and sugar candy;
Will ye go to Flanders, my Mally-O?

Will ye go to Flanders, my Mally-O?
And see the chief commanders, my Mally-O?
You'll see the bullets fly,
and the soldiers how they die,
And the ladies loudly cry, my Mally-O


Go to Index
When the King enjoyes his rights againe.
[1643, Bishop Percy's Folio MS, II, p. 24, 1868]

What Booker can prognosticate,
consider[i]ng now the kingdomes state?
I thinke myselfe to be as wise
as he tht gaseth on the skyes;
my skill goes beyond the depth of Pond
    or Riuers in the greatest raine,
wherby I can tell that all thinges will goe well
    when the King enioyes his rights againe.

There is neither swallow, doue nor dade,
can sore more high, or deeper wade
to shew a reason from the starres,
what causeth these our ciuill warres.
the man in the moone may weare out his shoo[ne]
    in running after Charles his wayne;
but all is to noe end, for the times will not me[nd]
    till the King enioyes his rights againe.

full 40 yeeres his royall crowne
hath been his fathers and his owne,
& is there any more nor hee
that in the same shold sharrers bee,
or who better may the scepter sway
    then he that hath such rights to raine?
there is noe hopes of a peace, or the war to ce[ase],
    till the King enioyes his rights againe.

Although for a time you see Whitehall
with cobwebbs hanging on the wall
insteed of silkes & siluer braue
which formerly was wont [to] haue,
with a sweete perfume in euerye roome
    delightfull to that princely traine;
which againe shalbe when the times you see
that the King enioyes his right againe.

[Ebsworth, Roxburghe Ballads, VII, p. 633-4, gave what he said was the original version, with title "Upon the defacing of Whitehall", but didn't say where he found it. The first four verses are nearly the same as those above, except his burden line is "till the King enjoyes his Own again", and he adds a fifth verse as follows:]

Till then upon Ararat's hill my Hope shall cast her anchor still,
Until I see some peacefull dove bring home the branch she dearly loved;
Then will I wait till the waters abate, which now disturb my troubled brain,
Else never rejoice, till I hear the voice that the King enjoyes his Own again.

[For the expanded broadside ballad version see ZN2787 in the broadside ballad index.]

Play: B511, When the King enjoys his own again.
B511B, The Restoration of King Charles (When the King enjoys..)

Play: T1-T048

Go to Index

The World Is Turned Upside Down.

To the tune of, When the King enjoys his own again.

Listen to me and you shall hear,
News hath not been this thousand year:
Since Heros, Caesar, and many more,
You never heard the like before.
    Holy-days are despis'd,
    New fashions are devis'd.
Old Christmas is kickt out of Town.
    Yet let's be content, and the times lament,
    You see the world turn'd upside down.

The wise men did rejoyce to see
Our Saviour Christs Nativity:
The Angels did good tidings bring,
The Sheepheards did rejoyce and sing.
    Let all honest men,
    Take example by them.
Why should we from good Laws be bound.
     Yet let's be content, &c.

Command is given, we must obey,
And quite forget old Christmas day:
Kill a thousand men, or a Town regain,
We will give thanks and praise amain
    The wine pot shall clinke,
    We will feast and drinke.
And then strange motions will abound.
     Yet let's be content, &c.

Our Lords and Knights, and Gentry too,
Doe mean old fashion to forgoe:
They set a porter at the gate,
That none must enter in thereat.
    They count it a sin,
    When poor people come in.
Hospitality it selfe is drown'd.
     Yet let's be content, &c.

The serving men doe sit and whine,
And thinke it long ere dinner time:
The Butler's still out of the way,
Or else my Lady keeps the key,
    The poor old cook,
    In the larder doth look,
Where is no goodnesse to be found.
    Yet let's be content, &c.

To conclude, I'll tell you news that's right,
Christmas was kil'd at Nasbie fight:
Charity was slain at that same time,
Jack Tell troth too, a friend of mine,
    Like wise did die,
    Rost beef and shred pie,
Pig, Goose and Capon no quarter found.
    Yet let's be content, and the times lament,
    You see the world turn'd upside down.

Play: B511, B511B, as above

[Above, 1646, from BL Thomason collection via Rollins' 'Cavalier and Puritan', 1923.]

There have been many suggestions as to what tune the British played as "The World Turned Upside Down" at the surrender at Yorktown, 1781, but a title alone is too little to identify it. A song, "The World turn'd upside down", commencing "When I was a young man in my prime" is in 'The Scots Nighingale', 2nd ed., 1779. S. P. Bayard, Dance to the Fiddle, March to the Fife, #538, 1982, gives the first half of a tune (rest forgotten) called "The world turned upside down", with the comment that the title is a floater, and adds: "Our half-air simply adds one more to the list of pieces called The World Turned Upside Down."

Go to Index
Desdemona's Song in Othello.

In 'Othello' Shakespeare gives part of the Willow song, a fuller text of which, with the music, from BL MS Add'l 15117, is given by John Cutts in JAMS X 14 (1957). Simpson's tune in BBBM, B524 is the same in more modern notation. Here is the broadside ballad version:

A Louers complaint being forsaken of his Loue.

To a pleasant new tune.

A poore soul sat sighing under a Sicamore tree,
    O willow, willow, willow
With his hand on his bosome, his head on his knee,
    O willow, willow, willow
    O willow, willow, willow
Sing O the greene willow shall be my garland.

He sigh'd in his singing, and after each grone,
    Come willow, &c.
I am dead to all pleasure, my true love is gone,
    O Willow, &c.
Sing O the greene Willow, &c.

My Loue she is turned, untrue she doth proue,
    O Willow, &c.
She renders me nothing but hate for my loue,
    O Willow, &c.
Sing O the greene willow, &c.

O pitty me (cried he) you Louers each one,
    O Willow, &c.
Her heart's hard as marble, she rues not my mone,
    O Willow, &c.
Sing O the greene Willow, &c.

The cold streames ran by him, his eyes wept apace,
    O Willow, &c.
The salt tears fel[l] from him, which drowned his face
    O Willow, &c.
Sing O the greene Willow, &c.

The mute birds sat by him, made tame by his mone
    O willow, willow, willo, &c.
The salt tears fell from him, which softned the stone
    O willow, willow, willo, &c.
Sing O the greene willow shall be my Garland.

Let no body blame me, her scornes I do proue
    O Willow, &c.
She was borne to be faire, and I die for her loue,
    O Willow, &c.
Sing O the greene Willow, &c.

O that beauty should harbour a heart that's so hard,
    O Willow, &c.
My true loue rejecting without all regard,
    O Willow, &c.
Sing O the greene Willow, &c.

Let Loue no more boast him, in Palace or Bower,
    O Willow, &c.
For women are trothles, and fle[e]te in an houre,
    O Willow, &c.
Sing O the greene Willow, &c.

But what helps my complaining in vaine I complaine,
    O Willow, &c.
I must patiently suffer her scorne and disdaine,
    O Willow, &c.
Sing O the greene Willow, &c.

Come all you forsaken, and sit downe by me,
    O Willow, &c.
He that plaineth of his false loue, mine's falser then she
    O Willow, &c.
Sing O the greene Willow, &c.

The Willow wreath weare I since my loue did fleet
    O willow, willow, willo, &c.
A Garland for Louers forsaken most meete,
    O willow, willow, willo, &c.
Sing O the greene Willow shall be my Garland.

        Printed at London for I. W[right].

Play: B524

Go to Index

The Black's Lamentation. A New Song

I am a poor Black, 'tis true, Love does invade me,
It is my Overthrow, And mad has made me.
O Cupid, be kind to me, And wound yt fair She,
That now confineth me, here in new Beldam.

Ye Gods in Nature great, to die I had rather,
Unless you pity show, make me a white Creature
For love I'm confin'd in Chains, while my Love distains
Oh! come Death & ease my pain, now in new Bedlam.

Why do I here complain, my Chains I'll read them,
My Passion so great, I can't I can't contain them,
I'll fly unto my Dear, unless they'll bring her here,
That she may ease my Care, now in new Beldam.

I'll make a Ring of Straw, none shall be neater,
I'll send it to my Dear, for to compleat her,
Who knows she may be kind, & ease my troubl'd Mind,
And with that if may be joyn'd, to that fair Creature.

Hark how the Birds do sing, their pleasant Ditty,
Me thinks in my Behalf, to make her pitty,
Their pretty fluttering Wings, yt joyful Tydings brings,
She'll free me from these Chains, now in new Bedlam.

Venus the Queen of Love, infuse into her,
And make her for to know it, It is in thy Power,
To wound yt unkind Heart, That sets this tragick Part,
That she may know ye Smart, Of her poor Lover.

How happy are young Men, The keep their Freedom
And ne'er in Love do trust, A perjur'd Woman,
For if they find you prize, Their handsome Shape & Eyes,
Oh! how they'll tyranize, Young Men ne'er heed them.

The Answer

George Sighous I wonder yt you, should be so silly,
To fall in Love with me, or that I should so pity,
For your Suit it is in vain, In Bedlam you may remain,
My Consent you will never gain, there fore believe me.

[5 more anti-black verses]

Play: S2, BEDLAM Go to Index

The Maid in Bedlam.

One morning very early, one morning in the Spring,
I heard a maid in Bedlam, who mournfully did sing;
Her chains she rattl'd on her hands, while sweetly thus did sing,
        I love my love, because I know, my love loves me.

Oh! cruel were his parents, who sent my love to sea;
And cruel, cruel, was the ship that bore my love from me,
Yet I love his parents, since they're his, although they've ruin'd me;
        For I love my love, &c.

Oh should it please the pitying pow'rs, to call me to the sky,
I'd claim a guardian angel's charge, around my love to fly,
For to guard him from all dangers, how happy should I be!
        For I love my love, &c.

I'll make a strawy garland, I'll make it wonderous fine,
With roses, lilies, daisies, I'll mix with eglantine:
And I'll present it to my love, when he returns from sea:
        For I love my love, &c.

O if I were a little bird, to build upon his breast;
Or if I were a nightingale, to sing my love to rest;
To gaze upon his lovely eyes, all my reward should be;
        For I love my love, &c.

O if I were an eagle, to soar into the sky,
I'd gaze around, with piercing eyes, where I my love might spy;
But ah! unhappy maiden, that love you ne'er shall see;
        For I love my love, &c.


The tune to the song was cited as "Gramachree" in 'The Scots Nightingale', 2nd ed., 1779, 'Wilson's Musical Miscellany/ St. Cecelia', 1779, and in 'St. Cecelia, or the British Songster', 1782. No specific tune is cited in Vol. II of 'The Charmer', 1782. "Gramachree" takes its name from a song by George Ogle, commencing "As down on Banna's Banks I strayed" that appeared with its tune (Will you go to Flanders) in 'the London Magazine', Sept. 1774, and without the tune in the following year in 'The Bull Finch'.

Go to Index

Tom o' Bedlam

[Early copy, from Giles Earle's MS, 1615-26. Another early copy in Bodleian MS Tanner 465 [Margaret Crum, 'First line Index.. MS Poetry..Bodleian'] is noted in the index to the MS to be "Tom o' Bedlam's Song to K. James". I have little doubt that the song is from a lost comic show, 'Tom of Bedlam', presented at court, Jan. 9, 1618 [Shoenbaum's revised ed. of Harbage's 'Annals of English Drama']. A lute MS in which the tune appears is said to be of 1613-16, but even educated guesses like this often times miss a bit. Detailed study of some manuscripts have lead me to revise my own first estimates on several occassions.]

From the hag and hungry goblin,
That into rags would rend ye,
And the spirit that stands by the naked man
In the book of moons, defend ye,
That of your five sound senses
You never be forsaken
Nor wander from yourselves with Tom,
Abroad to beg your bacon.
While I do sing: Any food
Any feeling, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

Of thirty bare years have I
Twice twenty been engaged,
And of forty been three times fifteen
In durance soundly caged
On the lordly lofts of Bedlam,
With stubble soft and dainty,
Brave bracelets strong, sweet whips, ding dong,
With wholesome hunger plenty.
And now I sing: Any food
Any feeding, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

With a thought I took for Maudlin,
And a cruse of cockle pottage,
With a thing thus tall, sky bless you all.
I befell into this dotage.
I slept not since the Conquest,
Till then I never waked,
Till the rougish boy of love where I lay
Me found and stripp'd me naked.
And now I sing: Any food
Any feeding, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

When I short have shorn my sour-face,
And swigg'd my horny barrel
In an oaken inn I pound my skin,
As a suit of gilt apparrel
The moon's my constant mistress,
And the lowly owl my morrow;
The flaming drake and the night-crow make
Me music to my sorrow.
While I do sing: Any food
Any feeding, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

The palsy plagues my pulses,
When I prig your pigs or pullen,
Your culvers take, or matchless make
Your chanticlere or sullen.
When I want provant, with Humphrey
I sup, and when benighted
I repose in Powles with waking souls,
Yet never am affrighted.
But I do sing: Any food,
Any feeding, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

I know more than Apollo,
For oft when he lies sleeping,
I see the stars at bloody wars
In the wounded welkin weeping,
The moon embrace her shepherd,
And the queen of love her warrior,
While the first doth horn the star of morn,
And the next the heavenly Farrier.
While I do sing: Any food
Any feeding, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

The Gipsy snap and Pedro
Are none of Tom's comrados.
The punk I scorn, and the cutpurse sworn,
And the roaring boys bravados.
The meek, the white, the gentle,
Me handle, touch, and spare not;
But those that cross Tom Rhinoceross
Do what the Panther dare not.
Although I sing; Any food
Any feeding, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

With an host of furious fancies
Whereof I am commander,
With a burning spear and a horse of air
To the wilderness I wander.
By a knight of ghosts and shadows
I summon'd am to tourney
Ten leagues beyond the wide world's end,
Methinks it is no journey.
Yet will I sing: Any food,
Any feeding, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.
Play: B467

Go to Index

Here is the copy that Hales and Furnival gave from the Percy Folio MS, of what is called on broadside ballads "New Mad Tom o Bedlam", where the tune direction is "Grays Inn Masque".

Darksome Cell:

Fforth ffrom my sadd & darksome cell,
ffrom the deepe abisse of hell,
madd Tom is come into the world againe
to see if hee can ease his distempered braine.

ffeare & dispayre pursue my soule!
harke how the angry ffuryes howle!
Pluto laughes, proserpine is gladd
to see poor naked Tom of Bedlam madd.

through woods I wander night and day
to seeke my stragling sences;
In an angrye mood I ffound out time
with his Pentarchye of tenses.

when mee he spyes, away hee fflyes;
time will stay ffor no man;
In vaine with cryes hee rends the skyes,
pitty is not common.

Cold & comfortlesse I lye.
helpe, oh helpe! or else I dye.

harke! I heere Appolloes teeme,
the Carman 'gins to whistle;
Chast Dyana bends her browe,
the bore begins to bristle.

Come, vulcan with tooles & with takells,
& knocke of my troublesome shakells!
bid Charles make ready his waine
to ffeitch my ffiue sences againe.

Last night I heard the dogstar barke,
Mars mett venus in the darke;
Limping vulcan heates an Iron barr,
& furyouslye runs att the god of warr.

Mars with his weapons layd about,
but vulcans temples had they gout,
ffor his broad hornes did hang soe in his light
that hee cold not see to aime arright.

Mercurye, the nimble post of heauen,
stayd to see this quarrell,
gorreld-bellyed Bacchus, gyant-like
bestryds a strong beere barrell:

to me he dranke, I did him thanke,
but I cold gett now Cyder;
hee dranke whole butts till hee burst his gutts;
but mine were neere the wyder.

poore naked Tom is verry drye;
a litle drinke, ffor charitye!

hearke! I heare Acteons hounds.
the huntsman woopp and hallowe;
Ringwood, Royster, Bowman, Iowler,
all the chase doe ffollowe.

the man in the moone drinkes Clarett,
eates pouthered beefe, turnipp & Carrett;
a cup of old Maligo sacke
will fire the bush att his backe.

Play: B165, Grays Inn Masque

Go to Index

Some songs are a little on the long side, e.g., Q 37 in Laws' American Balladry from British Broadsides, but traditional versions don't have this many verses.

The Factor's Garland

Tune of, The Wand'ring Lady. [see next song]

Behold here's a ditty, 'tis true and no jest,
Concerning a young Gentleman in the East,
Who by his great gaming came to poverty,
And afterwards went many Voyages to Sea.

Being well educated and one of great Wit,
Three Merchants of London they all thought it fit,
To make him their Captain and Factor also,
And for them to Turkey a Voyage he did go.

And walking along in the Streets there he found,
A poor Man's dead Carcass lying on the ground.
He asked the reason what made him there lye;
When one of the natives made him this reply,

That man was a Christian, Sir, when he drew Breath,
The Duties not being paid he lies above Earth.
Why, what is your Duty, the Factor he cry'd?
It is fifty pound, Sir, the Turk he reply'd.

That is a great Sum, said the Factor, indeed;
To see him here makes my Heart for to bleed;
So then by this Factor the Money was paid,
And then by this Factor his dead Carcass was laid.

When having gone further he chanc'd to espy
A beautiful Creature just going to die,
A young Waiting-Maiden who strangled must be,
For nothing but striking a Turkish Lady.

To think of her dying with dread she was fill'd;
And Rivers of Tears then like Water distill'd,
Like a Stream or Fountain from her Eyes flow'd down
Her red Rosy Cheeks and from thence to the Ground.

Hearing what the crime was, he to end the Srife,
Said, What must I give for this young Creature's Life?
The answer returned was a Hundred pound,
The which for her Pardon he freely laid down.

He said come fair Creature, thy weeping refrain,
And be of good comfort thou shalt not be slain;
Behold I have purchas'd thy Pardon, Wilt thee
Be willing to go into England with me?

She cry'd Sir, I thank you who freed me from Death,
I am bound to pray for you as long as I've Breath,
And if you are willing to England I'll go,
And due respects to you until Death I will show.

He brought her to London where, as it was said,
He set up House-keeping, and she was his Maid,
For to wait upon him; and finding her just,
With the Keys of his Riches he did her intrust.

At length this young Factor was hired once more
To cross the proud Waves and Billows which roar,
And into that Country his course was to steer,
Which by his Maid's Father was govern'd we hear.

Being a hot County this Man did prepare,
To get fine light Robes for that Country-wear.
He bought a Silk-Wast-coat which, as it is told,
His Servant flourished with Silver and Gold.

She said unto him, Master, I do understand,
You are going Factor unto such a Land,
And if you that Prince's Court do enter in,
Be sure that you let this flourish'd Garment be seen.

He said unto that Prince's Court I must go,
The meaning of thy Words I long to know.
Sir, I'll not tell you, there's some reason you'll find
With that he reply'd, I will fulfill thy Mind.

Then away he sailed and came to Port,
The Factor he went to the Emperor's Court;
For it was the usual custom of that Place,
For to present some noble Thing to his Grace.

His Gift was accepted, and as he stood by,
On his flower'd Garment the Prince cast an Eye,
Which caused him to colour, and thus he did say,
Friend, who flower'd that Robe, tell me now I pray.

If please your Grace my last Voyage was to Turkey,
Where I saw a Creature that strangled must be,
And to save her Life, I gave an Hundred pound,
And carry'd her home with me to London Town.

There she is my House-keeper while I'm in this Land,
And when of my coming she did understand,
She flower'd this Robe, and gave charge unto me,
To let it be seen by your great majesty.

The Prince cry'd behold Friend, this Robe that I wear
Is of the same Flower and Spot I dare swear,
Thy Maid wrought them both, and 'tis my darling dear
I have not heard of her till now this three Year.

To pay a visit to some young neighbouring Prince,
I sent her into a Ship, and ne'er see her since,
And I was afraid the Sea had proved her Grave,
But I hear to Turkey she was taken a Slave.

For loss of my Child who I thought had been dead,
A Well full of Tears in my Court has been shed;
My Princess her Mother for her could not rest,
And her groans drew Millions of sighs from my Breast.

Thy Ship shall be richly laden with speed
An I'll send a Ship for thy convoy indeed,
And because thou savest my Child's Life,
Bring her alive home, I'll make her thy Wife.

An if you should not live to bring her to me,
That Man that brings her home his Bride she shall be,
And a Hundred thousand a Year he shall have,
Therefore take care my dear Child's Life to save.

The Ship being laden their Anchor was weighing,
And he and his Convoy came over the Main,
To fair London City and home he did go,
And gave this young Princess these tydings to know.

He said noble Lady I have good news to tell,
The old Prince your father and Mother are well,
And your noble Parents this thing have design'd,
In the Bands of Wedlock we both shall be join'd.

Perhaps noble Lady you will not be free,
To marry a poor man especially me.
Sir, were you a Beggar, I would be your Wife,
Because when just dying you saved my Life.

I ne'er shall forget that great token of Love,
Of all Men now breathing I prize you above,
And since it is so order'd I am pleased I vow
And glad my Father this thing doth allow.

Pray sell off your Goods that you have now in store,
And give all the Money to those that are poor,
And let us be jogging with speed o'er the Main,
For I long to see my Parents again.

This thing was soon done and she sailed away,
In that Ship her Father sent for his Convoy.
But mark what was acted on the Ocean wide,
To deprive this Factor of his Royal Bride.

That Captain that convoy'd him over the deep,
One Night as the Factor, was laid in his sleep,
Being under sail Over-board did him throw,
Saying now I shall have this young Creature, I know.

There happen'd to be a small Island to hand,
To which this Factor swam as I understand
And there I will leave him some time for to mourn,
And unto his Ship now again I will turn.

Next morning as soon as Day light did peep,
He waked this young Princess out of her Sleep,
And said noble Lady the Factor's not here,
He's fallen over-board and drown'd I fear.

To hear this sad News then her Eyes they did flow,
He said noble Lady now since it is so,
There's none here can help it, don't troubled be;
In two or three Days you your Parents shall see.

And when that she came to the desired Port,
This Princess went weeping to her Father's Court,
Who gladly receiv'd her with Joy and great Mirth;
Saying, Where is the Man that freed thee from Death.

The Captain reply'd as we lay fast asleep,
He fell over-board, and was drown'd in the deep.
Your Grace said the Man that home did her bring,
Shou'd have her, and I hope you'll perform the thing.

Yes, that was the promise the Prince he reply'd,
What say'st thou my Daughter wilt thou be his Bride?
She said, yes, dear Father; but first if you please,
For him that sav'd my Life I'll mourn Forty Days.

Then into close mourning this Lady she went,
For loss of this good Friend in Tears to lament;
And there I will leave her to mourn for a while,
And turn to the Factor who is left on the Isle.

In this desart Island the Factor he lay,
In flood of Tears weeping a Night and a Day,
At length on the Ocean appear'd to his view,
A little Old Man padling in a Cannoe.

The Factor call'd to him, which caus'd him to stay,
And drawing near to him the Old Man did say,
Friend, how cam'st thou here? Then with Eyes that did flow,
He told him his Secrets, and where he would go.

The Old Man said to him if here thou dost lye,
With Grief and great Sorrow in short time thou wilt dye,
What wilt thou give, and to Court I'll be thy Guide?
I have nothing to give you this Factor reply'd.

If thou wilt but promise and be true to me,
To give me the first Babe that's born unto thee.
When Thirty Months old, to that Court I'll thee bring,
I'll not release you without that very thing.

The Factor consider'd that thing wou'd cause grief,
And without it for him there was no relief;
He cry'd Life is sweet, and my Life to save,
Carry me to the Palace, your Will you shall have.

So then he was carry'd to that Court, and when
Come under the Gate he saw his Lady then
Looking out at her Window, who seeing him there
From Sorrow to great Joy transported she were.

He unto the Court was with great Joy received,
Where this Lady met him, who for him had greiv'd
And said, my dear Jewel, my Joy and my Dear,
Oh! Where have you tarry'd, pray let me hear?

Where he so long tarry'd he then did relate,
And by what means he came to her Father's Gate.
He said, I was cast over-board in my Sleep,
I think 'twas the Captain threw me in the deep.

With that the Captain was sent for with speed,
And hearing the Factor was come there indeed,
To show himself guilty like a cruel Knave,
Leap'd into the Ocean, which proved his Grave.

Next day with great triumph and joy as we find,
This Factor and Lady in Marriage was join'd:
And within he compass and space of two Years,
They had a Son and a Daughter we hear.

The Son was first born a perfect Beauty,
And was belov'd of the whole Family,
When 30 Months old, came that Man for his Child,
Who released the Father from that Desart Isle.

When the Factor see him his Eyes they did flow,
Then he gave this Lady and her Parent to know,
He was forced to make him promise, or lye,
In the Desart, till he with Hunger did die.

With a grimly look then this Old Man appears,
Which made the Court tremble, and fill'd 'em with fears,
Crying, What shall we do for this is no Man,
He will have our Darling, do all that we can?

He said 'twas my promise, and I'll have my due,
There is one Babe for me, and another for you:
I will have your first born, come give it to me:
With that all the Family wept bitterly.

The Babe's Mother cry'd, I am griev'd to the Heart,
To think I with such a dear Infant must part,
To one that will carry it the Lord knows where,
And perhaps in pieces my darling will tear.

With that she embrac'd it, and down the Tears fell,
An when having kissed it she bid it farewell;
Saying, 'tis for the sake of my Husband and I,
We part with our first born, tho' for it we die.

So then this grim Ghost to her Husband did say,
Sir, do you remember in Turkey one Day,
You saw a dead Body lying on the ground,
And to have it buried gave Fifty Pound.

Sir, I am the Spirit of that dead Body,
I saved your Life for that great Love shown to me,
You may keep your Child, so the Lord bless you all;
Then away he vanished out of the Hall.

Being gone the Old Prince and his Princess likewise,
The Babe's tender Parents with Tears in their Eyes,
With Joy they embrac'd that darling their Son,
Crying Child hadst thou left us we had been undone.

Now I will leave the Court full of Joy and much Mirth,
To love one another while God gives them Breath,
And now on the Factor we may see indeed,
No Mortal can prevent what the Fates have decreed.

Go to Index
[The song below is called Catskin; or the Wandering Lady, in a copy in the Madden collection, and has the same meter as the song above, and I think there is little doubt that "The Wand'ring Lady" tune for "The Factor's Garland" was derived from "Catskin", but the Madden copy of "Catskin" has no tune direction. According to J. W. Ebsworth in 'Roxburghe Ballads', VIII, p. 167, an early issue of "Catskin" called for the tune "The Wandering Jew". The only song of "The Wandering Jew" that I know of (ZN2819), the one Ebsworth identified as the tune source, is in a different meter, and its tune, "The Ladies's Fall" (In Peascod time), won't fit our songs here. "The Wandering Jew's Chronicle" (ZN2900) is also in a different meter. A long 19th century traditional version of our song below was recited, not sung, so there is no tune for it (text in J. O. Halliwell's 'Nursery Rhymes and Nursery Tales of England'), so, the tune for our songs, above and below, remains a puzzle.]

Go to Index

The Wandering Young Gentlewoman; or, Catskin.

You fathers and mothers, and children also,
Draw near unto me, and soon you shall know
The sense of my ditty; and, I dare to say,
The like ha' n't been printed this many a day.

The subject, which to you I am to relate,
It is of a Squire of a vast estate:
The first dear infant his wife did him bear,
It was a young daughter of beauty most fair.

He said to his wife; "Had this child been a boy,
'Twould have pleased me better, and increased my joy;
If the next be the same sort, I do declare,
Of what I am possessed she shall have no share."

In twelve months' time after this woman, we hear,
Had another daughter of beauty most clear;
And when the he knew it was a female as well,
In a bitter passion he presently fell---

Saying, "Since this is of the same sort as the first,
In my habitation she shall not be nurs'd;
Pray let her be sent into the Country,
For where I am truly this child shall not be.

With tears his dear wife unto him did say,
"Husband, be contented, I'll send her away."
Then to the Country with speed she was sent,
For to be brought up by one who was her friend.

Altho' that her father he hated her so,
He good education on her did bestow;
And with a gold locket and robes of the best,
This slighted young female was commonly drest.

And when unto stature this damsel was grown,
And found from her father she had no love him shown,
She cry'd: "Before I will lie under his frown,
I am fully resolved to range the world round."

The Second Part.

But now mark, good people, the cream of the jest,
In what sort of manner this creature was drest:
With Catskins she made her a robe, I declare,
The which for her covering she daily did wear.

Her own rich attire, and jewels beside,
Them up in a bundle by her they were ty'd:
Then to seek her fortune she wander'd away,
And when she had travell'd a cold winter's day,

In the evening-tide she came to a town,
When at a Knight's door she then sat her down,
For to rest herself, who was tired, besure;
This noble Knight's Lady then came to the door.

Then seeing this creature in such sort of dress,
This Lady unto her these words did express:
"Whence camst thou, girl, and what would'st thou have?"
She said, "A night's rest in your stable I crave."

The Lady said to her, "I'll grant thy desire;
Come into the kitchen, and stand by the fire."
Then she thanked the lady, and went in with haste;
There she was gazed on from the biggest to least.

And being well warmed, her hunger being great,
They gave her a piece of good Food for to eat;
Then to an out-house this creature was led,
Where she with fresh straw then made her a bed.

And when in the morning the daylight she saw
Her riches and jewels she hid in the straw;
And being very cold, she then did retire,
To go to the kitchen and stand by the fire.

The Cook said, "My Lady hath promis'd that thee
Shalt be as a Scullion to wait upon me;
And what say'st thou, girl, art willing to bide?"
"With all my heart truly, "to him she reply'd.

To work with her needle she could very well,
And for raising of paste few could her excel;
She being so handy, the Cook's heart did win;
And there she was called by the name of 'Catskin.'

The Third Part.

The Lady had a Son, both comely and tall,
Who ofentimes used for to be at a Ball:
A mile out of town, one evening-tide,
To dance at this Ball away he did ride.

Catskin said to his mother, "Pray, Madam, let me
Go after your son, now, this ball to see?"
With that in a passion this lady she grew,
And struck her with the ladle, and broke it in two.

And being thus served, she then got away,
And with her rich garment herself did array;
Then to this Ball she with speed did retire,
Where she danced so bravely that all did admire.

The spot being done, this young Squire did say,
"Young Lady, where do you live? tell me, I pray."
Her answer to him was, "Sir, that will I tell:
At the sign of the Broken Ladle I dwell.:

She being very nimble, got home first, 'tis said,
And with her Catskin robes she soon was array'd;
And into the kitchen again she did go,
But where she had been then none of them did know.

Nest night this young Squire, himself to content,
To dance at this Ball away again went.
She said "Pray let me go this Ball for to view";
The she struck her with a skimmer, and broke it in two.

The out of doors she ran, full of heaviness,
And with her rich garment herself did soon dress;
And again to that Ball she ran away with speed,
Where to see her dancing all wonder'd indeed.

The Ball being ended, this young Squire then
Said, "Where is it you live?" She answer'd again,
"Sir because you ask me, account I will give;
At the sign of the Broken Skimmer I live."

Being dark, then she left him, and homeward did hie,
And with her Catskin robe was drest presently;
And into the kitchen amongst them she went,
But where she had been they were all innocent.

When the Squire came home, and found Catskin there,
He was in amaze, and began for to swear:
"For two nights at this ball has been a lady,
The sweetest of beauties that ever I see.

"She was the best dancer in all the whole place,
And very much like our Catskin in the face;
Had she not been dressed in that costly degree,
I should have sworn it had been Catskin bodily.

Next night to the Ball he did go once more
And she asked his mother to go as before:
Who, having a bason of water in her hand,
She threw it on Catskin, as I understand.

Shaking her wet ears, out of doors she did run,
And dressed herself; when this thing she had done,
To the Ball once more she then went her ways:
To see her fine dancing all gave her the praise.

And having concluded, this young Squire he
Said, "From whence do you come, pray, Lady, tell me?"
Her answer was, "Sir, you shall soon know the same;
From the sign of the Bason of Water I came."

Then homeward she hurried as fast as could be.
This young Squire then was resolved to see
Whereto she belonged; then following Catskin
Unto an old straw-house, he saw her creep in.

He said, "O brave Catskin, I find it is thee!
These three nights together has so charmed me;
Thou art the sweetest creature my eyes e'er beheld;
With joy and content my heart is now fill'd.

"Thou art our Cook's scullion, but as I have life,
Grant me but thy love, and will make thee my wife;
And you shall have maids to be at your call."
"Sir, that cannot be, I have no portion at all."

"Thy beauty is a portion, my joy and my dear;
I prize it far better than a thousand a year;
And, to have my friends' consent, I have got a trick:
I'll go to my bed, and I will feign myself sick.

"There's no one shall tend me but thee, I profess;
So, one day or another, in thy rich dress
Thou shalt be clad, and if my parents come nigh,
I'll tell them 'tis for thee that sick I do lie."

The Fourth Part.

Having thus consulted, this couple parted,
Next day this young Squire he took to his bed;
And when his dear parents this thing had perceived,
For fear of his death they were heartily grieved.

To tend him they sent for a nurse speedily:
He said, "None but Catskin my nurse then shall be."
His parents said, "No, son." He said, "But she shall;
Or else I'll have none to nurse me at all."

His parents both wondered to hear him say thus
That no one but Catskin must then be his nurse;
So then his dear parents, their son to content,
Up into the chamber poor Catskin they sent.

Sweet cordials and other rich things were prepar'd
Which between this couple were equally shar'd;
And when all alone, they in each other's arms
Enjoy'd one another, in love's pleasant charms.

And at length, on a time, poor Catskin, 'tis said,
In her rich attire she then was array'd;
And when that his mother the chamber drew near,
Then much like a goddess did Catskin appear;

Which caus'd her to start, and thus for to say,
"What young lady is this, son? tell me, I pray."
He said, "Why, 'tis Catskin, for whom sick I lie;
And except I have her, with speed I shall die."

His mother then hasted to call up the Knight,
Who ran up to see this amazing great sight:
He said, "Is this Catskin, we held in such scorn?
I ne'er saw a finer dame since I was born."

The old knight said to her, "I pray thee tell me
From whence thou didst come, and of what family?"
The who were her parents she gave them to know,
And what was the cause of her wandering so.

The young Squire cry'd, If you will save my life,
Pray grant this young creature she may be my wife."
His father reply'd, "Thy life for to save,
If you are agreed, my consent you shall have."

Next day, with great triumph an joy, as we hear,
There were many coaches that came far and near;
And for joy the bells rung all over the town,
And bottles of canary roll'd merrily round.

When Catskin was marry'd, her fame for to raise,
Who saw her modest carriage all gave her the praise.
The her charming beauty the Squire did win;
And who lives so great now as he and Catskin?

The Fifth Part.

Now in this firth part I'll endeavour to show
How things with her parents and sister did go.
Her mother and sister of life are bereft,
And now all alone the old Squire is left;

Who, hearing his daughter was marry'd so brave,
He said, "In my noddle a fancy I have:
Drest like a poor man now a journey I'll make,
And see if she on me some pity will take."

The drest like a beggar he went to her gate,
Where stood his daughter, who appear'd very great.
He cry'd, "Noble lady, a poor man I be,
And am now forced to crave your charity."

With a blush she asked, from whence that he came?
With that he then told her, and gave her his name.
She cry'd, "I am your daughter, whom you slighted so;
Yet ne'ertheless to you some kindness I'll shew:

"Through mercy the Lord hath provided for me;
Pray, father, come in, and sit down, " then said she.
The best provision the house could afford,
For to make him welcome, was set on the board.

She said, "You are welcome; feed hearty, I pray;
And, if you are wiling, with me you shall stay
So long as you live." Then he made this reply:
"I only am come now thy love for to try.

"Through mercy, my child, I am rich and not poor;
I have gold and silver enough now in store;
And for this love which at thy hands I have found,
For thy portion I'll give thee ten thousand good pounds."

So in a few days after, as we understand,
This man he went home, and sold off his land,
An ten thousand pounds to his daughter did give;
And now together in love do they live.


Go to Index

[Child #220O, II, p. 500, "The Cruel Mother", 1690's. ZN2495.]

      The Duke's Daughter's Cruelty:
                                 Or the
Wonderful Apparition of two Infants whom she Murther'd and
    Buried in a Forrest, for to hide her Shame.

To an excellent new Tune.         Licensed according to Order.

There was a Duke's Daughter lived in York,
   Come bend and bear away the Bows of Yew
So secretly she loved her Father's Clark,
   Gentle Hearts be to me true.

She lov'd him long and many a day,
   Come bend, &c.
Till big with Child she went away,
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

She went into the wide Wilderness,
   Come bend, &c.
Poor she was to be pitied for her heaviness,
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

She leaned her back against a Tree,
   Come bend, &c.
And there she endur'd much misery,
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

She leaned her back against an Oak,
   Come bend, &c.
With bitter sighs these words she spoke.
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

She set her foot against a Thorne
   Come bend, &c.
And there she had two pritty Babes born,
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

She took her filliting off her head,
   Come bend, &c.
And then she ty'd them hand and leg,
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

She had a Penknife long and sharp,
   Come bend, &c.
And there she stuck them to the heart
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

She dug a Grave, it was long and deep,
   Come bend, &c.
And there she laid them into sleep
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

The coldest Earth it was their Bed,
   Come bend, &c.
The green Grass was their Coverlid,
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

She cut her hair and changed her Name
   Come bend, &c.
From Fair Elinor to Sweet Wiliam
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

As she was going by her Father's hall,
   Come bend, &c.
She see three Children aplaying at ball,
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

One was drest in Scarlet fine,
   Come bend, &c.
And the other as naked as e're they was born,
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

O Mother, O Mother, if these Children was mine,
   Come bend, &c.
I would dress them [in] Scarlet fine,
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

O Mother, O Mother, when we was thine,
   Come bend, &c.
You did not dress us in Scarlet fine,
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

You set your back against a Tree,
   Come bend, &c.
And there you endured great misery,
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

You set your foot against a Thorne,
   Come bend, &c.
And there you had us pritty Babes born
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

You took your filleting off your head,
   Come bend, &c.
And there you bound us hand and leg,
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

You had a Penknife long and sharp,
   Come bend, &c.
And there you stuck us to the heart
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

You dug a Grave, it was long and deep
   Come bend, &c.
And there you laid us into sleep,
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

The coldest Earth it was our Bed,
   Come bend, &c.
The green Grass was our Coverlid,
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

O, Mother, O Mother, for your sin,
   Come bend, &c.
Heaven-gate you shall not enter in.
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

O, Mother, O Mother, for your sin,
   Come bend, &c.
Hell-gate stands open to let you in,
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

The Lady's cheeks look'd pale and wand,
   Come bend, &c.
Alas! said she, What have I done?
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

She tore her silken locks of hair,
   Come bend, &c.
And dy'd away in sad despair,
   Gentle Hearts, &c.

Young Ladies, all of beauty bright,
   Come bend and bear away the Bows of Yew
Take warning by her last good-night
   Gentle Hearts be to me true.

London, Printed for J. Deacon at the sign of the Angel in Guiltspur Street.

Go to Index

["The Two Sister's", Child ballad #10. Here from Wit Restor'd In severall Select Poems Not formerly publish't. 1658, pp. 51-4.]

The Miller and the King's Daughter,
        By Mr. [James] Smith.

There were two Sisters they went a playing,
    With a hie downe, downe, a downe-a-
To see their fathers ships come sayling in
    With a hy downe, downe, a downe-a-

And when they came unto the sea-brym,
    With, &c,
The elder did push the younger in;
    With, &c,

O sister, O sister, take me by the gowne,
    With, &c,
And drawe me up upon the dry ground,
    With, &c,

O sister, O sister, that may not bee,
    With, &c,
Till salt and oatmeale grow both of a tree;
    With, &c,

Somtymes she sanke, Somtymes she swam,
    With, &c,
Untill she came unto the mil-dam;
    With, &c,

The miller runne hastily downe the cliffe,
    With, &c,
And up he betook her withouten her life,
    With, &c,

What did he doe with her brest bone?
    With, &c,
He made him a viall to play thereupon,
    With, &c,

What did he doe with her fingers so small?
    With, &c,
He made him peggs to his Violl withall;
    With, &c,

What did he doe with her nose-ridge?
    With, &c,
Unto his Violl he made him a bridge,
    With, &c,

What did he do with her Veynes so blewe?
    with, &c,
He made him strings to his Viole thereto;
    with, &c,

What did he doe with her eyes so bright?
    with, &c,
Upon his Violl he played at first sight;
    with, &c,

What did he do with her tongue so rough?
    with, &c,
Unto the violl it spake enough;
    with, &c,

What did he doe with her two shinnes?
    with, &c,
Unto the violl they danc't Moll Syms;
    with, &c,

Then bespake the treble string,
    with, &c,
O yonder is my father the King;
    with, &c,

Then bespake the second string,
    with, &c,
O yonder sitts my mother the Queen:
    with, &c,

And then bespake the stringes all three;
    with, &c,
O yonder is my sister that drowned mee
    with, &c,

Now pay the miller for his payne,
    with, &c,
And let him begone in the divels name.
    with, &c,

[Child's A text, with a few trivial variations, was reprinted from 'Notes and Queries', in which it was stated that the text was reprinted from a broadside ballad issued by Francis Grove in 1656. The only extant Grove broadside ballad to bear a date is one of 1643. There is no known broadside ballad text of "The Two Sisters" of any date, and there is no Stationers' Register entry that can be identified with our ballad. Grove was conscientious about entering his ballads in the Stationers' Register in 1656 (but later put 'Licensed and Entered According to Order' on many ballads that weren't entered). I think the purported broadside ballad origin was probably fictitious, and I further suspect Smith's version was a metrical translation from a Scandinavian version.]

Go to Index

[Betsy is a beauty fair, Laws' M20. 17th and 19th century broadside copies.]

Love Overthrown. The Young Man's Misery;
And the Maids Ruine;

Being a true Relation, How a beautiful Hereford-shire
Damsel (who coming to live in London, and being greatly Beloved by her
Master's Son) was, by her Mistress, sold to Virginia: And of the great
Lamentation her Disconsolate Lover makes for her.

The Tune is,All happy times when free from love, &c.

There was a maiden fair and clear,
The which came out of Herefordshire,
A Serving Maid now for to be,
That fitted best to her degree.

Her skin the Lilly did invite,
To try which was the better white,
Her cheeks were of Vermilion red,
Like fragrant Beds of Roses spread.

At length this fair Damsel came
As Servant to live in the Strand,
With a Tradesman of great renown,
Whose wealth and riches did abound.

This Tradesman had a youthful Son,
Whose heart to love had not begun;
But pritty Betty was so fair,
She soon did draw his heart in snare.

He often-times did Betty try,
But she always did him deny,
Saying, Good Sir, it is in Vain,
My honour you shall never stain.

One Night he watching of his time,
He unto Betty told his mind,
How that he dearly did her love,
And nothing sure could it remove.

Therefore my dearest Dear (quoth he)
If that thou wilt consent with me,
On Sunday next, to end all strife,
My Dearest thou shalt be my wife.

His mother chanced them to hear,
Who hid her self in a Place near,
She strait resolved in her mind,
To frustrate her Son's design.

Then in the morning she did say,
Come Betty dress you speedily,
For in the Country you must go
With me for one day or two.

And so she did her bring,
Unto a Captain of her Kin,
Whose ship that time lay in the Downs
And he was for Virginia bound.

And so away this Damsel's gone
Unto Virginia sailing on.
O Heavens unto her prove kind,
And grant she may some comfort find.

But when her Mistress was come home,
You are welcome mother, said her Son,
But where is Betty now I pray,
That she so long behind doth stay,

I understand my Son, quoth she,
How great your love is to Betty;
But your designs are all in vain,
For Betty's sailing on the main.

And now this Young-man's grown so sad,
No sort of mirth can make him glad;
But oft in slumbering sleep doth cry,
O Betty, Betty, I must die.

London, Printed and Sold by Charles Barnet.

Constancy Lamented: Or, a
Warning for Unkind Parents,

Not to seperate those who are joyned in Love.
Being a full and true account of a Wealthy Tradesman's Son in the Strand, who died
on Friday last, for the Grief he conceived in the Absence of his dearly beloved E.
H--ks, (a Hereford-shire Damsel) who was by his Hard-hearted Mother, sold to
Virginia; and of the many Arguments the Mother used to perswade this Young-
Man to fix his love on some more Wealthy Maiden: With the Mothers sad lamen-
tation, and almost Raving Distraction for her Son's Death, and her own most Un-
worthy Action.
The whole Published from the Relation of a Worthy young Gentleman, a daily Visi-
tant of the said young Man's, and a sorrowful mourner for his great mishap.

To the tune of, All happy times, &c. Or, Languishing Swain.

Alas! me dearest Dear is gone,
And I am left to sigh and moan,
To weep and wail, to sigh & cry,
O Betty, Betty, I must die.

There is no pleasure I can find,
Now she is gone: Perplex'd in mind
I'm rowling on my love-sick bed;
The thoughts of her does strike me dead.

Physicians they do come to try
Their Doses with great industry:
But I tell'em all it is in vain,
Since Betty's sailing on the main.

Nought in the world but sweet Betty,
Can ease my mind, or set me free
From those distractions which I bear,
Her Absence for my heart doth tear.

There is no pleasure, O my Dear,
That I can find, no comfort here!
But 'frightened Dreams do me surprize,
When that dull sleep has shut my eyes.

Methinks, my dearest Dear, I see
What cruel Fights attendeth thee:
How that thou too and fro art tost,
And in great Hazards to be lost.

O cruel Mother, and Unkind,
Which brought this grief unto my mind,
By banishing my dearest Joy,
'Tis only this doth me destroy.

Why should'st thou love, his mother said
A silly poor and serving maid,
Whose birth is of some mean degree,
Which would bring Scandal unto me.

Behold, my Son, there's Virgins store,
Most beautiful, and yet not poor;
Of birth and breeding most compleat:
My Son, it's these will make thee great.

I'd rather surely see thee dead,
Then that thou should'st my Servant wed,
To make her equal unto me,
Whose birth is of some poor degree.

Wealth! birth! (the Young-man cries)
Alas, alas, are foolish Toys:
They do indeed perplex the mind,
True Love alone doth comfort find.

O cruel mother hear I pray,
And listen unto what I say;
For your desire you'll surely have
To lay me in the silent Grave:

For why, I feel now at my heart,
Such cruel pain, such bitter smart
That long I'm sure I cannot bear
Such cruel Tortures as they are.

O Neptune, let me thee implore
To guard my love safe to the shore:
And tho' I never must her see,
Heavens grant her Felicity.

And now, Farewel Mother unkind,
You have ruined body and mind;
For to this world I bid adieu,
And Dying cry, 'Tis long of you.

But when his mother she did see
That he was dead assuredly,
Like one distracted she did run.
Still crying, O my Son, my Son.

For thee, alas, my heart doth bleed,
Accursed be my wretched Deed:
Could I but have thy life again,
I'd send for Betty o'er the Main.

Therefore you Parents every where,
Whose chance it is these lines to hear,
Do no contend against True Love,
For fear you such like Tryals prove.

London, Printed and Sold by Charles Barnet.

The Betrayed Maiden.

Pitts, Printer, Toy and Marble Warehouse,
6 Great St. Andrews Street, 7 Dials.

Of a Brazier's daughter who lived near,
A pretty story you shall hear,
And she would up to London go,
To seek a service you shall know.

Her master had one only son,
Sweet Betsy's heart was fairly won,
For Betsy being so very fair
She drew his heart in a fatal snare.

One Sunday night he took his time,
Unto sweet Betsy he told his mind.
Swearing by all the powers above,
'Tis you, sweet Betsy, 'tis you I love.

His mother happening for to hear,
Which threw her in a fatal snare,
For soon she contrived sweet Betsy away
For a slave in the province of Virginia.

Betsy, Betsy, pack up your cloaths,
For I must see what country shews,
You must go with me a day or two
Some of our relations there for to view.

They rode till they came to a sea town
Where ships were sailing in the Down,
Quickly a captain there was found,
Unto Virginia they were bound.

Both hired a boat along side they went,
Sweet Betsy rode in sad discontent,
For now sweet Betsy's upon the salt wave,
Sweet Betsy's gone for an arrant slave.

A few days after she [the mother] returned again,
You are welcome mother, says the son,
But where is Betsy, tell me I pray,
That she behind so long doth stay?

O son, O son, I plainly see,
How great your love is for pretty Betsy,
Of all such thoughts you must refrain,
Since Betsy's sailing over the watery main.

We would rather see our son lie dead,
Than with a servant girl to wed,
His father spoke most scornfully,
It will bring disgrace to our family.

Four days after the son fell bad,
No kind of music could make him glad,
He sighed and slumbered, and often cried,
'Tis for you, sweet Betsy, for you I died.

A few days after the son was dead,
They wrung their hands and shook each head,
Saying would our son but rise again
We would send for Betsy over the main.

Go to Index

         The Fox=Chace:

         The Huntsman's Harmony,
                      By the
Noble Duke of Buckingham's Hounds, &c

         To an Excellent Tune Much in Request.

                  Licens'd and enter'd according to Order.

        All in a morning fair,
        As I rode to take the air,
I heard some to hollo most clearly;
        I drew myself near,
        To listen who they were
That were going a hunting so early.

        I saw they were some Gentlemen
        Who belong'd to the Duke of Buckingham,
That were going to make there a tryal
        To run the Hounds of the North,-
        Being of such fame and worth,
England has not the like, without all denial.

        Then in Wreckledale Scrogs
        We threw off our dogs,
In a place where his lying was likely;
        But the like ne'er was seen
        Since a huntsman I have been,-
Never hounds found a fox more quickly.

        There was Dido, and Spanker,
        And Younker was there,
And Ruler, that ne'er looks behind him;
        There was Rose, and Bonny Lass,
        Who were always in the chace;
These were part of the hounds that did find him.

        Mr. Tybbals cries "Away!"
        Heark away! heark away!"
With that our foot huntsmen did near him;
        Tom Mossman cries "Codsounds!" [God's wounds
        Uncouple all your hounds,
Or else we shall never come near him!"

        Then Caper, and Countess,
        And Comely, were thrown off,
With Famous, Thumper, and Cryer,
        And several hounds beside,
        Whose stoutness there was try'd,
And not one in the pack that did tire.

        Our hounds came in apace,
        And we fell into a chace,
And thus we pursu'd this poor creature;
        With English and French Horn
        We encourag'd our hounds that morn
And our cry it was greater and greater.

        It could not be expresst
        Which hound ran the best,
For they ran on a breast all together;
        They ran at such rate
        As you have not heard of late,
When they chac'd him i'th' vallies together.

        Then to the Moor he twin'd,
        Being clean against the wind,
Thinking he might ha' cross'd over;
        But our hounds ran so hard,
        They made this Fox afraid,
And forc'd him to turn to his Cover.

        Up the Hills he runs along,
        And his Cover was full strong,
But I think he had no great ease on't,
        For they ran with such a cry,
        That their echoes made him fly;
I'll assure you our sport it was pleasant.

        Then homeward he hies,
        And in Wreckledale he lies,
Thinking the Wind it might save him;
        But our hounds ran him so near,
        That they posted him with fear,
And our horsemen they did deceive him.

        For Squire Whitcliffe rode amain,
        And he whipt it o'er the Plain;
Mr. Watson his horse did not favour;
        They rode up the highest Hills,
        And down the steepest Dales,
Expecting his life for their labour.

        Mr. Tybbals rode his part;
        Although this Chace was smart,
Default they were seldom, or never;
        But ever by and by
        To the hounds he would cry,
"Halloo, Hallo, halloo! Heark away all together!".

        Tom Mosseman he rode short,
        Yet he help'd us in our Sport,
For he came in both cursing and swearing;
        But when 't was in his power,
        He cry'd out, "That's our Lilly, whore!
Heark to Caperman! now Slaughterman's near him!".

        Then to Skipland Wood he goes,
        Being pursued by his foes,-
The Company after him did follow;
        An untarpage there we had, [word unkown
        Which made our Huntsman full glad,
For we gave him many a Holloo.

        The sport being almost done,
        And the chace being almost run,
He thought to ha' cross'd the River;
        But our hounds being in,
        They after him did swim,
And so they destroy'd him forever.

        Then Leppin took a Horn,
        As good as e'er was blown;
Tom Mosseman bid him wind his death then;
        The Country people all
        Came flocking to his fall;
This was honour enough for a French man.

        "So-Whoo-up!" we then proclaim,
        God bless the Duke of Buckingham,
For our hounds then had gain'd much Glory;
        This being the sixth fox
        That we kill'd above the Rocks.
And there is an end to the story.

London. Printed by and for W[illiam]. O[nley]. and sold by the Booksellers
      of Pye-corner and London-bridge. [1690's]

Go to Index

"Good night an joy be wi' you a'" seems to have been so common in Scotland that few thought is was worthwhile to publish it. In Herd's 'Scots Songs' it is given without title thus:

O this is my departing time!
    For here nae langer maun I stay:
There's not a friend or foe of mine
    But wishes that I were away.

What I hae done for lack o' wit,
    I never, never can recal!
I hope you're a' my friends as yet:
    Good-night and joy be wi' you all.

Here is the version in 'The Scots Musical Museum', #600 (1803/4).

Good night and joy be wi' you a'.

The night is my departing night,
The morn's the day I maun awa,
There's no a friend or fae o' mine,
But wishes that I were awa.
What I hae done for lack o' wit I never can reca'
I trust ye're a my friedns as yet,
Gude night and joy be wi' you a'.

An extend version on a broadside of very uncertain date, but probably c 1770 is as follows:

Good Night, and God be with you all: Or, The Neighbor's Farewell to his Friends.

Now come is my departing time,
And here I may no longer stay,
There is no kind comrade of mine
But will desire I were away.
But if that time will me permit,
Which from your Company doth call,
And me inforceth for to flit,
     Good Night, and GOD be with you all.

For here I grant some time I spent
In loving kind good Company;
For all offences I repent,
And wisheth now forgiven to be;
What I have done, for want of wit,
To Memory I'll not recall:
I hope you are my Friends as yet
     Good Night, and GOD be with you all.

Complementing I never lov'd,
Nor talkative much for to be,
And of speeches a multitude
Becomes no man of quality;
From Faith, Love, Peace and Unity,
I wish none of us ever fall;
God grant us all prosperity:
     Good Night, and GOD be with you all.

I wish that I might longer stay,
To enjoy your Society;
The Lord to bless you night and day,
And still be in your Company.
To vice, nor to iniquity,
God grant none of you ever fall,
God's blessing keep you both and me!
     Good Night, and GOD be with you all.

    The Friends Reply.

Most loving friend, God be thy guide,
And never leave thy Company,
And all things needful thee provide,
And give thee all prosperity;
We rather had thy Company,
It thou woulds't have stayed us among;
We wish you much felicity:
     Good grant that nothing doe thee wrong.

Play: S2, GDNIGHT1- Skene MS c 1635?
GDNIGHT2- Guthrie MS, c 1675
GDNIGHT3- Playford's Original Scotch Tunes, 1700
GDNIGHT4- SMM, #600, 1803\4

The Irish version>

The Parting Glass.

O, all the money e'er I had,
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm I've ever done,
Alas! It was to none but me.
And all I've done for want of wit,
To mem'ry now I can't recall,
So fill to me the parting glass,
Goodnight an joy be with you all.

Oh, all the comrades e'er I had,
They're sorry for my going away,
And all the sweethearts e'er I had,
They'd wish me one day more to stay,
But since it falls unto my lot,
That I should rise and you should not,
I gently rise and softly call,
Good night and joy be with you all.

If I had money enough to spend,
And leisure time to sit awhile,
There is a fair maid in this town,
That sorely has my heart beguiled.
Her rosy cheeks and ruby lips,
I own she has my heart in thrall,
Then fill to me the parting glass,
Good night and joy be with you all.

Play: S2, GDNIGHT5 - The Parting Glass

Go to Index

[From Pills to Purge Melancholy. Earlier broadside version (ZN1361) 1686-8, is rather different and longer but shares some verses. It is there a maid going to market to get a baker's dozen of eggs. ZN1361, in the web broadside ballad index, it is to the tune of "The Country Farmer" (King James's Jig, B262 of the broadside ballad tunes), or "The Devonshire Damsels" (same tune, diff. title, but not that at 'Play' below.) I've forgotten on which night Shahrazad told this as a tale.]

To curb rising Thoughts

There was an Old Woman that had but One Son,
And he had neither Land nor Fee;
But got little Gains,
Yet fain a Landlod he would be,
With a fadariddle la, fa la da riddle la, fa la la fa la la re.

And as he was a going Home,
He met his Old Mother upon the Highway;
O Mother, quoth he,
Your Blessing grant me,
Thus the Son to the Mother did say,
With a fa, &c.

I ha' begg'd Butter-milk all this long Day,
But I hope I shan't be a Beggar long;
For I've more Wit come into this Pate,
Then e'er I had when I was Young.
With fa, &c.

This Butter-milk I will it sell,
A Penny for it I shall have you shall see;
With that Penny I will buy me some Eggs,
I shall have Seven for my Penny.
With a fa, &c.

And those seven Eggs I'll set under a Hen,
Perhaps Seven Cocks they may chance for to be
And when those Seven Cocks are Seven Capons,
There will be Seven Half-Crowns for me.
With a fa, &c.

But as he was going Home,
Accounting up all of his Riches all;
His foot it stumbled against a Stone,
Down came Butter-milk Pitcher and all.
With a fa, &c.

His Pitcher was broke, and his Eggs were dispatch'd.
This 'tis to count Chickens before they are Hatch'd.
With a fa da, &c.

Play S2, RISTHGHT, Pills tune

Go to Index

[Little Musgrave and Lady Barnet, Child #81C. The broadside version below is the earliest extant text, and is probably the original broadside edition. It was entered in the Stationers' Register on June 24, 1630. A verse in 'The Knight of the Burning Pestle', 2nd. ed, 1635 (but I don't know if it was in the 1611 edition) and was probably close to the version in Wit Restor'd, 1658.]

The lamentable Ditty of Little Mousgroue,
and the Lady Barnet.
To an excellent tune, [unknown]

As it fell on a light Holyday,
    as many more does in the yeare,
Little Mousgroue would to the Church and pray
    to see the faire Ladyes there,
Gallants there were of good degree,
    for beauty exceeding faire,
Most wonderous louely to the eie,
    that did to that Church repaire.

Some came downe in red Veluet,
    and others came downe in Pall,
But next came downe Lady Barnet,
    the fairest among them all,
She cast a look upon Little Mousgroue,
    as bright as the Summers Sunns,
Full well precieued then Little Mousgroue,
    Lady Barnets Loue he had wonne.

Then Lady Barnet most meek and mild,
    saluted this Little Mousgroue,
Who did repay her kinde courtesse,
    with fauour, and Gentle Loue,
I haue a bower in merry Barnet,
    bestrowed with Cowslips sweet,
If that it please you, Little Mousgroue,
    in loue me there to meete,

Within my Armes one night to sleepe,
    for you my heart haue wonne,
You need not feare my suspicious Lord,
    for he from home is gone.
Betide me life, betide me death,
    this night I will sleepe with thee,
And for thy sake Ile hazzard my breath,
    so deare is my loue to thee.

What shall wee doe with our little Foot-Page,
    our Counsell for to keepe,
And watch for feare Lord Barnet comes,
    whilst wee together doe sleepe:
Red Gold shall be his hier, quoth he,
    and Siluer shall be his fee,
If he our Counsell safely doe keepe,
    that I may sleepe with thee.

I will haue none of your Gold, said he,
    nor none of your siluer fee,
If I should keepe your Counsell, sir,
    t'were great disloyaltie.
I will not be false unto my Lord,
    for house nor yet for land,
But if my Lady doe proue untrue,
    Lord Barnet shall understand.

Then swiftly runnes the little Foot-Page,
    unto his Lord with speed,
Who then was feasting with his deare friends,
    not dreaming of this ill deede:
Most speedily the Page did haste,
    most swiftly did he runne,
And when he cme to the broken Bridge,
    he lay on his brest and swumme.

The Page did make no stay at all,
    but went to his Lord with speed,
that he the truth might lay to him,
    concerning this wicked deed.
He found his Lord at supper then,
    great merriment there they did keepe.
My Lord, quoth he, this night on my word
    Mousgroue with your Lady does sleepe.

If this be true, my little Foot-Page,
    and true as thou tellest to me,
My eldest daughter Ile giue to thee,
    and wedded shalt thou be.
If this be a lye, my little Foot-Page,
    and a lye as thou tellest to mee:
A new pairs at Gallowes shall straight be set,
    and hanged shalt thou be.

If this be a lye, my Lord, said he,
    a lye that you hears from me,
Then never stay a Gallowes to make,
    but hang me upon the next tree.
Lord Barnet then cald up his merry men,
    away with speed he would goe,
His heart was sore perplext with griefe,
    the truth of this he must know.

Saddle your horses with speed, quoth he,
    and saddle me my white Steed,
If this be true as the Page hath said,
    Musgroue shall repent this deed.
He charg'd his men no noise to make,
    as they rode along on the way,
Nor winde no hornes, quoth he, on your life,
    lest our comming it should betray.

But one of the men that Mousgroue did loue,
    and respected his friendship most deare,
To giue him knowledge Lord Barnet was neere.
    did winde his Bugle most cleere,
And euermore as he did blow,
    away Mousgroue and away:
For if I take thee with my Lady,
    then slaine thou shalt be this day.

O harke, faire Lady, your Lord is neere,
    I heare his little horn blow,
And if he finds me in your Arms thus,
    then slaine I shall be, I know.
O lye still, lye still, little Mousgroue,
    and keepe my backe from the cold,
I know it is my Fathers shepheard,
    driuing sheep to the Pinfold.

Mousgroue did turne him round about,
    sweete slumber his eyes did greet
When he did wake, he then espied
    Lord Barnet at his bed feete.
O rise up, rise up, little Mousgroue,
    and put thy Clothes on,
It shall never be said in faire England,
    I slew a naked man.

Here's two good swords, Lord Barnet said,
    thy choice Mousgroue thou shalt make,
The best of them thy selfe shalt haue,
    and I the worst will take;
The first good blow that Mousgroue did strike,
    he wounded Lord Barnet sore,
The second blow that Lord Barnet gaue,
    Mousgroue could strike no more.

He tooke his Lady by the white hand,
    all loue to rage did conuert,
That with his sword in most furious sort,
    he pierct her tender heart,
A gaue, a graue, Lord Barnet cryde,
    prepare to lay us in,
My Lady shall lie on the upper side,
    'cause she's of the better kin.

Then suddenly he slue himselfe,
    which grieves his friends full sore:
The deaths of those three worthy wights,
    with teares they did deplore.
This sad mischance by lust was wrought,
    Then let us call for grace,
That we may shun this wicked vice,
    and mend our liues apace.

London Printed for H. Gosson.                  FINIS.

Go to Index

A Woman's Work is never done.

Here is a Song for Maids to sing,
Both in the Winter and in the Spring;
It is such a pretty conceited thing.
Which will much pleasure to them bring:
Maids may sit still, go, or run,
But a Woman's work is never done.

To a Delicate Northern Tune, A Woman's Work is never done,Or, The Beds making.

As I was wandering on the way,
I heard a married woman say
Thet she had lived a sollid life
Ever since the time that she was made a wife.
For why, quothe she, my labor is hard,
And all my pleasures are debarr'd:
Both morning, evening, night and morn,
I'm sure a woman's work is never done

And now, quoth she, I will relate
The manner of my woful fate;
And how my self I do bestow,
As all my neighbors well do know:
And therein all, that will it hear,
Unto my song I pray awhile give ear;
Ile make it plainly to appear, right soon,
How that a woman's work is never done

For when that I rise up early in the morn,
Before that I my head with dressings adorn,
I sweep and cleanse the house, as need doth require,
Or, if that it be cold, I make a fire:
Then my husband's breakfast I must dress,
To fill his belly with some wholesom mess;
Perhaps thereof I eat a little, or none,
But I'm sure that a woman's work is never done

Next thing that I in order do,
My children must be lookt unto;
Then I take them from their naked beds,
To put on their clothes and comb their heads:
And then, what hap soever do betide,
Their breakfast straight I must provide.
'Bread', cries my daughter, and 'Drink! my son,
And thus a woman's work is never done

And when that I have fill'd their bellies full
Some of them I pack awy to school,
All save one suckling child, that at my brest
Doth knaw and bite, and sorely me molest:
But when I have laid him down to sleep,
I am constrain'd the house to keep,
For then the pottage-pot I must hang on,
And thus a woman's work is never done

The second part.
To the Same Tune

And when my pottage-pot is ready to boil,
I must be careful all the while;
And for to scum the pot is my desire,
Or else all the fat will run i' th' fire.
But when th'leven a clock bell it doth chime,
Then I know 't is near upon dinner time:
To lay the table-cloth I ten do run,
And thus a woman's work is never done

When dinner time is gone and over-past,
My husband he runs out o' th' doors in haste;
He scarce gives me a kiss for all that I
Have dealt and done to him so lovingly;
Which sometimes grieves me to the heart,
To see him so clownishly depart:
But to my first discourse let me go on,
To shew a woman's work is never done

There's never a day, from morn to night,
But I am with work an tired quite;
For when the game with me is at the best,
I hardly in a day take one hour's rest:
Sometime I knit, and sometimes I spin,
Soemtimes I wash, and sometimes I do wring.
Sometimes I sit, and sowe by my selfe alone,
And thus a woman's work is never done

In making of the beds such pains I take,
Until my back, and sides, and arms, do ake;
And yet my husband deals so cruelly,
That he but seldom comes to comfort me.
And then at night, when the clock strikes nine,
My husband he will say, 'tis supper time;
Then presently he must be waited upon,
And thus a woman's work is never done

When supper's ended to bed we mus go-
You all do know't is fitting it should be so-
Then do I think to settle all thing right,
In hope that I shall take some rest by night.
The biggest of my children together I lay,
And place them by degrees so well as I may:
But yet there is a thing to be thought upon,
And thus a woman's work is never done

Then if my husband turns me to the wall,
Then my suckling child will cry and brawl;
Six or seven times for the brest 't wil cry,
And then, I pray you judge, what rest take I.
And if at any time asleep I be,
Perchance my husband wakes, and then wakes me;
Then he does that to me which I cannot shun,
Yet I could wish that work were oftener done.

All you merry girles that hear this ditty,
Both in the country, and in the city;
Take good notice of my lines I pray,
And make the use of the time you may:
You see that maides live more merrier lives,
Then do the best of married wives:
And thus to end my song as I begun,
You know a woman's work is never done

Entered According to Order.
London, Printed for John Andrew, at the White Lyon in Pye- Corner.

[Entered in the Stationers' Register on June 1, 1629, but this Andrews' issue, the only copy known, printed 1656-62. Neither of the two tunes cited are known. A tune "Woman's work is never done" in two Scots MS of the late 17th century doesn't fit (it was later called "The Black Eagle"). "Woman's Work is never done" is a tune in the ballad opera 'Momus turned Fabulist". "Momus' tune and Blaikie MS tunes are reprinted in John Glen's 'Early Scottish Melodies', p. 59, 1900, and 'Momus' tune and Leyden MS tune in Wooldridge's re-edition of Chappell, "Old English Popular Music', II p. 150 and p. 152. 'Momus' tune is under the title "The Doubting Virgin" in C. M. Simpson's 'The British Broadside Ballad and Its Music'. However, I can't fit our song here well to either tune. Better is the "Black Eagle" one in The Scots Musical Museum, #288.]

'Momus' tune is B121, and the other is WMNSWRK in S2, also in S2 is "The Black Eagle", #288 in SMM.

Go to Index

                        The bloody Miller
Being a true an just Account of one Francis Cooper of Hocstow near Shrewbury,
    who was a Millers Servant, and kept company with one Anne Nicols for the space
    of two years, who then proved to be with Child by him, and being urged by her
    Father to marry her he most wickedly and barbarously murderd her as you shall
    hear by the sequel

                 Tune, Alack for my Love I dye.

Let all pretending Lovers
    take warning now by me,
Lest they (as I) procure their woe,
    and work their misery:
For I my self have overthrown,
    as you shall plainly see,
I for my transgression must dye.

I was a likely Country Youth,
    and might have lived well,
But yet in sin and wickedness
    most Youngmen did excell
But mind what for my cruel deeds
    to me at last befell:
I for my &c.

I was a Miller by my Trade,
    ir plainly doth appear,
Pretending love unto a Maid,
    whose Father lived near,
But she for my acquaintance,
    poor soule, did pay full dear:
I for my &c.

She was a fair and comely maid,
    thought modest, grave, and wise,
And 'twas suppos'd all wickness
    did utterly despise
But my dissembling flattering tongue
    did her poor Heart surprize:
I for my &c.

Tho' I was young and likely too,
    I wanton was and wild,
And by my amorous carriage she
    most strangely was beguil'd,
She did believe my flatterring tongue
    till I got her with Child:
I for my &c.

At last she to her Father told
    that she had done amiss,
Who seemed much astonished,
    and wondered much at this;
But I false wretch, and Judas like,
    betray'd her with a kiss:
I for my &c.

Her Father sent her to the Mill
    to ask him her to marry,
Which he then seemed to refuse,
    and told her she must tarry
but by my strange & treacherous tricks
    I strangely did miscarry:
I for my &c.

There was another Maid before
    whom I kept company,
Which made me far more impudent
    in my immodesty,
But my first Love I did forsake
    and utterly deny:
I for my &c.

She told me I must marry her,
    or for the Child provide;
Five pound I offer'd, which by her
    was utterly deny'd;
She in the full conclusion
    by me was mortified:
I for my &c.

One Sunday on an Evening tide
    to her poor soul I sent
Who came to me immediately,
    not dreaming what I meant,
And so into a secret place
    we sinful sinners went:
I for my &c.

There kissing and imbracing her,
    my treachery appear'd,
I like a cruel bloody wretch,
    whom she so little fear'd,
Did murder her in such a sort,
    the like was never heard:
I for my &c.

From Ear to Ear I slit her mouth,
    and stab'd her in the Head,
Till she poor soule did breathless lie
    before her Butcher bled,
For which most cruel horrid fact
    I now am punished:
And for my &c.

My bloody fact I still denied,
    disown'd to the last,
But when I saw for this my fact
    just judgement on me past,
The blood in Court ran from my nose
    yea; ran exceeding fast;
And for my &c.

So like a wretch my daies I end,
    upon the Gallow=Tree,
And I do hope my punishment
    will such a warning be,
That none may ever after this
    commit such villany;
And for my transgression I die.

[ZN1998] Hyder E. Rollins, In The Pepys Ballads III, reprinted the ballad, and quoted a diary entry of Feb. 20, 1684, stating that the murder had been committed on the 10th, the Sabbath. G. M. Laws, Jr., in American Balladry from British Broadsides, commencing p. 104, quoted three later broadside versions, "The Berkshire Tragedy, or the Wittam Miller", "The Lexington Miller", and "The Cruel Miller", but did know about the 17th century original. It's well known traditionally (Laws' P 35).

The 17th century tune is not known, but comes from a broadside ballad "William Grismond" (on which ours here seems to be modeled), ZN1988, which has appeared in Scots tradition as "William Guiseman/Graham", and from that there are traditional tunes [Grieg-Duncan #190].

Go to Index

                 The Ruined Lovers
Being a rare Narrative of a young Man that dyed for his cruel Mistriss,
    in June last, who not long after his death, upon consideration of
    his intire Affection, and her own coyness, could not be comforted,
    but lingered out her dayes in Melancholy, fell desperate sick,
    and so dyed.

Tune of, Mock-Beggers Hall Stands Empty.

Mars shall to Cupid now submit,
    for he that gain'd the glory;
You that in Love were never yet,
    attend unto my story,
For it is new, 'tis strange and true
    as ever age afforded;
A tale more sad, you never had
    in any Books recorded.

A Young-man lately lov'd a Maid
    more than his life or fortune,
And in her ears the same convey'd,
    for thus he did importune:
Dear, pity me, the Lover cry'd,
    Sweet let thy heart come to me;
And often said unto the Maid,
    Love me, or you'l undo me.

I never was ingag'd before,
    I must and will be true t'ye,
Love never made me cry and roar,
    untill I saw thy beauty.
No creature cou'd of flesh and bloud,
    bring more delight unto me:
Which makes me cry perpetually,
    Love me, or you'l undo me.

He made Adresses to the Maid,
    and profered to advance her:
I cannot love thee, then she said,
    pray take it for an answer:
In many wayes, he sung her praise,
    Love shot his Arrow thorow me,
Why did not he, do so to thee,
    Love me, &c.

She made him such a straight reply,
    he durst no more come near her:
Quoth he I will go home and dye,
    since there is nothing dearer.
The joyes of all the Christian World,
    (said he) are nothing to me;
'Tis Death only, can set me free:
    Love me, &c.

He took his Bed, he rag'd and burn'd,
    (sure this must greatly grieve him).
His scorching love was quickly turn'd
    into a burning Feaver:
And then he dy'd, but first he cry'd,
    O! will she not come to me:
Then sheds a tear; his last words were,
    Love me, or you'l undo me.

The second part, Containing the misery, sorrow, and death of the Maid.
To the same tune.

The Virgin when she heard news
    was very greatly troubled;
And when ye coffin'd Corps she views,
    her woes were all redoubled;
And hast thou dy'd for me she cry'd,
    thou hast in love out-run me,
Too late I may, thus sadly say,
    Thy death hath quite undone me.

Had I a thousand worlds, I would
    give them all to restore thee,
For I am guilty of thy bloud,
    how dare I stand before thee;
I am a Murdress, woe is me,
    Let all true Lovers shun me;
And I must cry untill I dye,
    Thy death hath, &c.

It is in vain for me to live,
    thy memory will haunt me,
I only have short Reprieve,
    thy sorrows daily daunt me;
Where ever thy, dead Corps do lye,
    (since thou in death hast won me)
I will be laid, a wofull Maid,
    Thy death hath quite undone me.

With that the tears fell from her eyes
    she could no longer bear it,
For Love and Death did tyrannize,
    she could no longer bear it.
Pray have me home to bed she cry'd,
    my sorrows over-run me
I am rewarded for my pride;
    Thy death hath quite undone me.

She took her bed and in her head,
    a thousand frantick dreams are,
Sadly she lyes, and in her eyes
    a hundred flowing streams are;
What wretched fool am I? cry'd she,
    O whether am I going? [whither
Poor soul (she cry'd) and so she dy'd:
    Thy death hath, &c.

Let all fair Maids that are in love,
    by this poor Soul take warning,
Lest that like her, you sadly prove
    the purchase of her scorning:
Let all by this, mend what's a miss,
    before grief over run-[ye];
Lest you be forc'd to die, and cry,
    Thy death hath quite undone me.                  FINIS

London, Printed for F. Coles, T. Vere, and J. Wright. [1663- 74]

This issue of this song seems to be the earliest extant, and may or may not antedate the mention of "Barbara Allen" in Pepys diary. The ballad from which the tune is derived cannot be dated precisely. Ebsworth in 'Roxburghe Ballads' VII, p. 763 puts it at 1636-42, but Harper printed ballads in 1643, and even issued a chapbook in 1660. I think from this tune citation (c 1640-50?) that the ballad above is probably a reissue of one of the late 1640's or 50's. The repeat in the 3rd from last verse is the type of error one finds in reprints, where the typesetter's eyes strayed from the correct line on his text source. [Ballads were mostly reprinted from a copy of the most recent previous issue, so errors accumulated. This gives rise to some reprinted ballads with strange titles when the old copy had the top torn off, and some strange tune directions, too, ones that won't fit the ballad.]

I strongly suspect, but can't definitely prove, that "Barbara Allen" was based on the above song.

Here's another on the same theme as that preceeding, and see "Barbara Allen following:

The dying Young-man, and the obdurate Maid,

A strange and wonderful Relation of a Young-man that dyed for love about the
midest of this present Iune, with the Maids perplexity for loss of her love, and
how likely she is to dy for the same cause worthy the view of all young-men and
Maids both in Country and City, delightfull to all, hurtful to none.

                 To the Tune of, Fancies Phenix.

COme you young men and maidens fair
For unto you I will now declare,
And likewise I will hear unfold,
As true a tale as ere was told,
Of a young man that oft did cry,
Sweet grant me love or else I dye.

Fair Maids I pray you lend an ear,
And you the truth thereof shall hear,
And of these lines come take a view,
No damage thereby will ensue,
Admit not your love too oft to cry,
Sweet yield Reliefe or else I dye.

        The young mans Complaint.
Dear love when first I cast mine eye,
Upon thy feature and beauty
My heart did burn in such a flame,
That I could never quench the same,
And doth continue constantly,
Sweet yield Relief or else I dye.

        Maids reply.
Kind Sir your mind I will make known,
The less your mine the more your own,
For on that side I cannot hear
Yet thank you kindly for your fear,
No cause at all I can espy,
For to give credit to your cry.

Dear Love thou lodgest in my heart,
And from thence shall ne'r depart,
Dread Cupit hath wounded me so,
Then do not proove my mortall fo,
Which forceth me inceasently,
To cry sweet love me or I dye.

Sweet Sir your sute is all in vain,
Without a cause you do complain,
Young-men I know can counterfeit
And seem to be lovers compleat
Us silly Maidens for to try,
But we their actions do defie.

Dear love do not obdurate prove,
But this my wo and grief remove,
And ease me now that am oprest,
So that I may have peace and rest,
For in thy love my heart doth fry,
Sweet yield relief or else I dy.

Sir you to me a stranger are,
Then wherefore for to me should you care,
Some thing to mitigate your pain,
Come home I will you entertain.
If I may prove the remedy,
You for love shall never dye.

Then receive this kiss my dear,
That I give the in token here,
I love thee dearer then my life,
Intending to make thee my wife
Ten thousand times happy am I,
That thou lovest me assuredly.

HE kept his time and to her came
But she proved a scornful dame,
Her entertainment was harsh and course [coarse
And her reproaches ten times worse,
Farwel deer heart thus did he cry,
Tis for thy love that I must dye.

Straight home he came and went to bed,
Whereupon fancies still he fed,
And for twelve dayes he there did ly,
In griveous wo and misery,
And ever and anon did cry,
Tis for thy love that I must dye.

    Four lines apiece of the four following
      verses, was found written in his own
        Trunk, since his departure.

        His Complaint.
Thy heart is harder far then flint,
And will not suffer Cupits plint,
But vears his Arrows back to Iove,
Hard hearted thou that canst not love,
My life is now in Jeoperdy,
Tis for thy love that I must dye.

And when I dye true lovers mourn,
Deck all you heads with witherd corn,
Wear on each hand a sable glove,
To testifie I dyed for love,
Proclaim it in the streets and cry,
Twas for her love that I did dye.

Then bear me softly by her door,
And with your mourning breads deplore,
Cry loud look down you gods above,
On her that kills him for her love,
To all the world go testifie,
Twas for her love that I did dye.

Last build my Tomb of lovers bones,
Laid round about with marble stones,
My Schothon being a Venus Dove
To signifie I dyed for love,
For whilst I live in flames I fry,
And so farewll lo here I dye.

Imediately in came the Maid,
His Cofin made [her] heart to dread,
And to inquire who there did dy,
That within that house did ly,
She being told wept bitterly,
And said I do deserve to dye.

And since that hour continues still,
Beyond any Physitans skill,
Her sorrows daily do increase,
Her burning feavors do not cease,
She frets and grieves unceasantly,
Confessing she deserves to dye.

Young men and maids that love intend,
These line unto you I commend,
To those that love you prove most true,
And do not change them fo[r] a new,
Give ear to those that truth doth tell,
And so I bid you all farwell.

London, Printed for John Andrews, at the White-Lyon near Py-Corner.

Andrews dates from c 1655 to 1663 or 1664, when his widdow Elizabeth succeeded him. The tune is derived from a ballad by Charles Hammond, c 1660, (ZN517) whose is tune is unknown. The dead lover is surprisingly observant about subsequent events in the last three verses. The ballad doesn't seem to have been proof-read very well.

See the two preceeding for slightly more plot.

        Barbara Allen's Cruelty;

The Young Man's Tragedy; with Barbara Allen's
    Lamentation for her Unkindness to her Lover and

To the tune of, Barbara Allen.     Licensed according to Order.

In Scarlet Town where I was bound,
    there was a fair maid dwelling,
Whom I had chosen to be my own,
    and her name it was Barbara Allen.

All in the merry month of May,
    when green leaves they were springing,
This young man on his death-bed lay,
    for the love of Barbara Allen.

He sent his man unto her then,
    to the town where she was dwelling,
'You must come to my master dear,
    if your name be Barbara Allen.

'For death is printed in his face,
    and sorrow's in him dwelling,
And you must come to my master dear,
    if your name be Barbara Allen.

'If death is printed in his face,
    and sorrow's in him dwelling,
Then little better shall he be
    For bonny Barbara Allen.

So slowly, slowly she got up,
    And so slowly she came to him,
And all she said when she came there,
    Young man, I think you are a dying.

He turned his face unto her then:
    'If you be Barbara Allen,
'My dear,' said he, 'come pity me,
    As on my death-bed I am lying.'

'If on your death-bed you be lying,
    What is that to Barbara Allen?
I cannot keep you from death;
    So farewell,' said Barbara Allen.

He turned his face unto the wall,
    And death came creeping to him:
'Then adieu, adieu, and adieu to all,
    And adieu to Barbara Allen!'

As she was walking on a day,
    She heard the bell a ringing,
And it did seem to ring to her
    'Unworthy Barbara Allen.'

She turned herself round about,
    And she spy'd the corps a coming:
'Lay down, lay down the corps of clay,
    That I may look upon him.'

And all the while she looked on,
    So loudly she lay laughing,
While all her friends cry'd amain,
    'Unworthy Barbara Allen!'

When he was dead, and laid in gave,
    Then death came creeping to she:
'O mother, mother, make my bed,
    For death hath quite undone me.

'A hard-hearted creature that I was,
    To slight one that lov'd me dearly;
I wish I had been more kinder to him,
    The time of his life when he was near me.'

So this maid she then did dye,
    And desired to be buried by him,
And repented her self before she dy'd,
    That ever she did deny him.
Printed for, P. Brooksby, J. Deacon, J. Blare, and J. Back.

Samuel Pepys in his diary mentioned Mrs. Knipp's Scotch song of "Barbery Allen" on Jan. 2 1666, but we do not know a single line of that song, nor even if she was the same "Barbara Allen " of later date. The Child ballad, #84, from the earliest known copy above is of 1690 at the earliest. There doesn't appear to be any 'Scotch' in this copy. The original tune for it is unknown. I know I will be in a minority, but I believe this to be a very silly ballad. We see that Barbara Allen didn't live in the same town as the dying young man, and she doesn't seem to have laid eyes on him before she went to Scarlet town to see him on his death-bed. Since her friends were around when his corpse was being carried this must have been the town where Barbara Allen lived, wherever that was, not Scarlet town, wherever that was.

This looks rather like a reworked version based on the two earlier ballads above. More cliches were piled on later in order to 'fix' up the ballad, red rose and briar, and such.

Go to Index

[From A Handful of Pleasant Delights, 1584, Rollins' edition. The whining of a discarded lover.]

   A new Courtly Sonet, of the Lady Green
   sleeues. To the new tune of Greensleeues.

Greensleeues was all my ioy,
   Greensleeues was my delight:
Greensleeues was my hart of gold,
   And who but Ladie Greensleeues.

Alas my loue, ye do me wrong,
   to cast me off discurteously:
And I haue loued you so long,
   Delighting in your companie.
      Greensleeues was all my ioy,
         Greensleeue swas my delight:
      Greensleeues was my heart of gold,
         And who but Ladie Greensleeues.

I haue been readie at your hand,
   to grant what euer you would craue.
I haue both waged life and land.
   your loue and good will for to haue.
      Greensleeues was all my ioy, &c.

I bought thee kerchers to thy head,
   that were wrought fine and gallantly:
I kept thee both ay boord and bed,
   Which cost my purse wel fauouredly,
      Greensleeues was al my ioie, &c.

I bought thee peticotes of the best,
   the cloth so fine as fine might be:
I gaue thee jewels for thy chest,
   and all this cost I spent on thee.
      Greensleeues was all my ioie, &c.

Thy smock of silk, both faire and white,
   with gold embrodered gorgeously:
Thy peticote of Sendall right:
   and thus I bought thee gladly.
      Greensleeues was all my ioie, &c.

Thy girdle of gold so red,
   with pearles bedecked sumptuously:
The like no other lasses had,
   and yet thou wouldst not loue me,
      Greensleeues was all my ioy, &c.

Thy purse and eke thy gay guilt kniues,
   thy pincase gallant to the eie:
No better wore the Burgesse wiues,
   and yet thou wouldst not loue me.
      Greensleeues was all my ioy, &c.

Thy crimson stockings all of silk,
   with golde all wrought aboue the knee,
Thy pumps as white as was the milk,
   and yet thou wouldst not loue me.
      Greensleeues was all my ioy, &c.

Thy gown was of the grossie green,[grassy
   thy sleeues of Satten hanging by:
Which made thee be our haruest Queen,
   and yet thou wouldst not loue me.
      Greensleeues was all my ioy, &c.

Thy garters fringed with the golde,
   And siluer aglets hanging by,
Which made thee blithe for to beholde,
   And yet thou wouldst not loue me.
      Greensleeues was all my ioy, &c.

My gayest gelding I thee gaue,
   To ride where euer liked thee,
No Ladie euer was so braue,
   And yet thou wouldst not loue me.
      Greensleeues was all my ioy, &c.

My men were clothed all in green,
   And they did euer wait on thee:
Al this was gallant to be seen,
   and yet thou wouldst not loue me.
      Greensleeues was all my ioy, &c.

They set thee vp, they took thee downe,
   they serued thee with humilitie,
Thy foote might not once touch the ground,
   and yet thou wouldst not loue me.
      Greensleeues was all my ioy, &c.

For euerie morning when thou rose,
   I sent thee dainties orderly:
To cheare thy stomack from all woes,
   and yet thou wouldst not loue me.
      Greensleeues was all my ioy, &c.

Thou couldst desire no earthly thing. [,]
   But stil thou hadst it readily:
Thy musicke still to play and sing,
   And yet thou wouldst not loue me.
      Greensleeues was all my ioy, &c.

And who did pay for all this geare,
   that thou didst spend when pleased thee?
Euen I that am reiected here,
   and thou disdainst to loue me.
      Greensleeues was all my ioy, &c.

Wel, I wil pray to God on hie,
   that thou my constancie maist see:
And that yet once before I die,
   thou wilt vouchsafe to loue me.
      Greensleeues was all my ioy, &c.

Greensleeues now farewel adue,
   God I pray to prosper thee:
For I am still thy louer true,
   come once againe and loue me.
      Greensleeues was all my ioy, &c.

Play: Greensleeves, B168

Go to Index

From Hales and Furnival, 'Bishop Percy's Folio Manuscript', II,
p. 30, 1868. For another copy and the 1639 Stationers' Register
of what was probably a broadside expansion of this, rather than
this song itself, see ZN3675 in the broadside ballad index on my
website. The style and subject here suggest to me that the song
was from some private masque presented before royalty or
nobility. There were other broadside ballads sung to the tune of
this song.   

Hollow me ffancye.

In: a Melancholy fancy, out of my selfe,
thorrow the welkin dance I,
all the world survayinge, noe where stayinge;
like vnot the fierye elfe,
over the tops of hyest mountaines skipping,
ouer the plaines, the woods, the valleys, tripping,
ouer the seas without oare of shipping,
hollow, me fancy! whither wilt thou goe?

Amydst the cloudy vapors, faine wold I see
what are those burning tapors
which benight vs and affright vs,
& what the Meetors bee.
ffaine wold I know what is the roaring thunder,
& the bright Lightning which cleeues the clouds in sunder,
& what the cometts are att which men gaze & wonder.
Hollow, me &c.

Looke but downe below me where you may be bold,
where none can see or know mee;
all the world of gadding, running of madding,
none can their stations hold:
One, he sitts drooping all in a dumpish passion;
another, he for Mirth and recreation;
the 3.d, he hangs his head because hees out of
Hollow, &c.

See, See, See, what a bustling!
Now I descry one another Iustlynge!
how they are turmoyling, one another foyling.
& how I past them bye!
hee thats aboue, him thats below despiseth;
hee thats below, doth enuye him that ryseth;
euerye man his plot & counter plott deviseeth.

Shipps, Shipps, Shipps, I descry now!
crossing the maine Ile goe too, and try now
what they are proiecting & protecting;
& when thé turne againe.
One, hees to keepe his country from inuadinge;
another, he is for Merchandise & tradinge;
the other Lyes at home like summers cattle shadding.

Hollow, me fancy, hollow!
I pray thee come vnto mee, I can noe longer follow!
I pray thee come & try [me]; doe not flye me!
Sithe itt will noe better bee,
come, come away! Leave of thy Lofty soringe!
come stay att home, & on this booke be poring!
for he that gads abroad, he hath the lesse in storinge.
welcome, my fancy! welcome to mee!

Play BM5 BAdd557, Hallow my fancie, from Balcarres lute MS 
Go to Index

Palmer's Balow [from Pinkerton MS, 4to p. 48. Not that he printed]

Balow my babe, ly still and sleepe!
It greves me sore to see thé weep!
It thow wert quyet, I wold be glade;
Thy murneinge makes thy mother sade!
        Balow, my boy, thy mother's ioy;
        Thy father bred me great annoy!

And thow, my darleinge, sleepe awhyle,
And when thow waikest, sueetlie smyle!
O doe not smyle as thy father did
To Cousinge maides: may God forbid!
        But yet I feare that thow wilt leare
        Thy father's face and hart to beare

When he begane to court my loue,
And with his sugared wordes to move,
His fained tongue and flatteringe cheare
That tyme to me did not apeire;
        But now I see that cravell he
        Caires nather for my babe nor me.

Fairwell, fairwell, the falsest youthe
That ever kist a womans mouthe!
Let never maiden efter me
Commit hir to thy curtasie!
        For crevell thow, if once not how.

I cannot chuse, but ever will
Be loueinge to thy father still,
Though cuninge he procured my hart,
That can in no wayse from him pairt.
        In weell or woe, whare ere he goe,
        My hart sall never pairt him fro!

Heir, by my greeff. I vowe and sueare,
Thé, and all vthers, to forbeare.
I'le never kise, nor cull, nor clape,
But lull my younglinge in my lape.
        Hart, do not greeve! leave off to murne!
        And sleepe securelie, hart, allone!

Play B021, 022

Go to Index

[There have been many names for this old dance,
Hinkumbooby, Lubin, Looby Loo, Hokey Pokey.
A dance cited as "Prinkum Prankum is a fine dance" in the 17th
century may well be the same. Here's the oldest version I know
of, from Chambers' 'Popular Rhymes'.]

Fal de ral la, fal de ral al,
Hinkumbooby round about.

Right hands in and left hands out,
Hinkumbooby round about;
Fal de ral la, fal de ral al,
Hinkumbooby round about.

Left hands and right hands out,
Hinkumbooby round about;
Fal de ral la, fal de ral al,
Hinkumbooby round about.

Right foot in and left foot out,
Hinkumbooby round about;
Fal de ral la, fal de ral al,
Hinkumbooby round about.

Left foot in and right foot out,
Hinkumbooby round about;
Fal de ral la, &c.

Heads in and backs out,
Hinkumbooby round about;
Fal de ral la, &c.

Backs in and heads out,
Hinkumbooby round about;
Fal de ral la, &c.

A' feet in and nae feet out,
Hinkumbooby round about;
Fal de ral la, &c.

Shake hands a', shake hands a',
Hinkumbooby round about;
Fal de ral la, &c.

Good night a', good night a',
Hinkumbooby round about;
Fal de ral la, &c.
Go to Index

[First verse and chorus of song in NLS MS 2910, f. 26. I'm sorry but this is all that I copied.]

A New Song.      Tune: Lady Mackintosh's Reel

That Georgie reigns in Jamie's stead
I'm grieved yet scorn to shaw that
I'll neer look down, nor hang my head
On Rebel whigs for a that
        For a' that and a that
        And twice as mickle's a that
        Hes bonny oer the hill the night
        That will be King for a that.

Play: LDYMNTSH in S2.ABC, from Bremner's Reels, 1759

Go to Index

The Northern Lasses lamentation,
The unhappy Maids Misfortune

Since she did her friends depart
    No earthly thing can cheer her heart,
    But still she doth her case Lament,
Being always fill'd with discontent,
    Resolving to do nought but mourn,
    Till to the North she doth return.

To the tune of I would I were in my own Country.

         With Allowance.

    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
Doth flourish at home in my own Country.

    fain would I be
    in the North Country
Where the ladds and the lasses are making of hay
    there should I see
    what is pleasant to me
A mischeif light on them intic'd me away,
    O the Oak, the Ash, and the Bonny Ivy Tree
Doth flourish most bravely in our Country.

    Since that I came forth
    of the pleasant North
Ther's nothing delightful I see doth abound,
    they never can be
    half so merry as we
When we are a dancing of Sellingers round.
         O the Oak, the Ash, and the Bonny Ivy Tree
Doth 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 me,
    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
Doth 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 morniing to night,
Could feast it and Frollick on each Holliday.
    O the Oak, the Ash, and the Bonny Ivy Tree
They flourish most bravely in our Country.

    A Milking we go
    All the Maids on a row
It was a fine sight to see.
    but here in the City
    they are void of pitty
There is no injoyment 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 I do find
    that it troubles my mind
Because that my joyes and my pleasure is past,
    O the Oak, the Ash, and the Bonny Ivy Tree
They flourish at home, &c.

    The yows and the Lambs
    With the Kidds and their Damms
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
    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. [sic]
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, &c.

    Yet still I perceive
    I a husband might have
If I to the City my mind could but frame,
    but i'le have a Lad
    That is North-Country bred
O else i'le not marry inth' mind that I am,
    O the Oak, the Ash, and the Bonny Ivy Tree
They flourish, &c.

    A maiden I am
    And a maid I'le remain
Until my own Countrey again I do see
    for here in this place
    I shall ner' see the face
Of him that's alotted my Love for to be.
    O the Oak, the Ash, and the Bonny Ivy Tree
They flourish, &c.

    Then farwel my Daddy
    I[A]nd farwel my Mammy,
Until I do see you I nothing but mourn
    Remembering my Brothers
    my Sisters & others, In less than a year I hope to return.
    O the Oak, the Ash, and the Bonny Ivy Tree
I shall see them at home in my own Countrey.

Printed for P. Brooksby at the Golden Ball in West Smithfield. [1672-80]

Search for 'Tree' in the Digital Tradition database for many progeny.

[There are two tunes in Simpson's BBBM that may be for the song. Evidence is not very solid, but that's what Simpson inherited, and could do nothing about.]

Play: I would I were in my own country, B225, B226

Go to Index

Braw Lads of Galla Water.

Here's a version from 'The Scots Musical Museum', #125. The text varies only slightly from one in Herd's 'Scots Songs' 1776 (without music). The tune had earlier been called "Coming through the broom", and the song is called "Down among the Broom" in 'The Scots Vocal Miscellany', 1780. It's called "Galla Water" in 'The Goldfinch', Glasgow, c 1780, but the last two lines are given there as "The lassie lost her silken snood, That gar'd her greet till she was weary". "Bonnie Lass o' Galla Water" in Chambers' 'Songs of Scotland Prior to Burns' seems to be derived from the 1st 3 verses of this. The "Braw, braw lass of Galla water" in Seeger and MacColl's 'The Singing Island' is almost the same as that below with 'lass' substituted for 'lads'.

Braw, braw lads of Galla water.

Braw, braw lads of Galla water,
O! braw lads of Galla water:
I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee,
And follow my love thro' the water.

Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow,
Sae bonny blue her een, my dearie;
Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou',
The mair I kiss, she's ay my dearie.

O'er yon bank, and o'er yon brae,
O'er yon moss amang the heather:
I'll kilt my coat aboon my knee,
And follow my love thro' the water.

Down amang the broom, the broom,
Down amang the broom, my dearie.
The lassie lost her silken snood,
That cost her mony a blirt and bleary

[From the singing of Betsy Miller (Ewan MaColl's mother) on Folk- Lyric FL 116]

Braw, braw lads o' Gala Water,
Bonnie lads o' Galla Water;
I'll kilt my coats abune my knee,
And follow my love through the water;
Braw, braw lads.

Lothian lads are black as deils,
And Shelkirk lads are no' much better,
I'll kilt my coats abune my knee,
And follow the lad o' Galla Water;
Braw, braw lads.

It's ower the moss and doon yon glen,
And ower the bonie blooming heather,
Nicht or day he bears the gree, [prize
The bonnie lad o' Galla Water;
Braw, braw lads.

Corn riggs are fine and bonnie,
A flock o' sheep is muckle better,
The wind will shake a field of oats,
While lambs are frisklin' in Galla Water;
Braw, braw lads.

Adieu, soor plooms o' Galashiels,
Tae you, my faither, here's a letter;
It's I'm awa wi' the black herd lad,
To bide wi' him in Galla Water;
Braw, braw lads.

[From p. 151 of the Mansfield/ Eliz. St. Clair MS, c 1785]

Out o'er yon moss, out oe'r yon muir,
Out o'er you bonny bush of heather,
O all ye lads wha e'er ye be,
Shew me the way to Gala Water.
    Bra, bra lads o' Galla Water.
    Bonny lads o' Galla Water
    The Lothain lads maun ne'er compare
    Wi' the bra lads o' Gala Water.

At Nettlie-flatt we will begin,
And at Halltree we'll write a letter,
We'll down by the bower and take a scour,
And drink to the lads o' Gala Water.
    Bra, bra lads o' Galla Water

There's Blindie and Torwoodlie,
And Gallasheils is meikle better,
But young Torsonce he bears the gree,
Of a' the Pringles on Gala Water.
    Bra', bra', &c.

Bucklaw is a bonny place,
But Appletree-leaves is meikle better,
But Cockle-ferry bears the gree,
Fra ilka laird on Gala Water
    Bra', bra', &c.

Lords and lairds come here to woo,
And gentlemen wi' sword and dagger,
But the black-eyed lass o' Galashiels
Wad ha'e none but the gree o' Gala Water.
    Bra', bra', &c.

Lothian lads are black wi' reek,
And Tiviotdale lads are little better,
But she's kilted her coats aboon her knee,
And gane wi' the lad o' Gala Water.
Bra', bra', &c.

Thoo' corn rigs are good to see,
Yet flocks o' sheep are meikle better,
For oats will shake in a windy day
When the lambs will play in Gala Water.
    Bra', bra', &c.

Adieu Sour-plumbs in Gallashiels,
Farewell my father and my mother!
For I'll awa' wi' the black-hair'd lad,
Wha keeps his flocks on Gala Water.
    Bra', bra', &c.

Play: S2, BRAWLAD, "Braw lads of Galla Water/ Down among/ Coming thro' the broom"

Oswald's CPC, bk 8, c 1756 has an unvocal version of the tune as "Brave Lads of Galla water" That below is SMM #125, which was taken from a book of 1772, where it was called "Coming thro' the Broom". There are several other copies.

That "Sour/soor plumbs o'Galashiels" is a puzzle because that's the title of an older tune in 'Orpheus Caledonius', 1725 and Mitchel's 'Highland Fair', 1731, and doesn't seem to me to be related to our songs. There are at least two other songs that involve "The lassie lost her silken snood", which I suspect was from a rather bawdy song for which the later songs were designed as polite replacements. Whether it was originally connected to "Braw Lads of Galla Water" I wouldn't hazard to guess.

Play: S2, SOORPLUM, "Soor Plums o' Galashiels"

Go to Index

"Old Soldiers of the Queen" is an early 17th century song (c 1615-20) in BL MS 30982, f. 7v, commencing "Whan old moathy coat & manly nose". Old Courtier [Roxburghe Ballads, from Le Prince d/Amour, 1660.]

An old song made by an old aged pate,
Of an old worshipful gentleman, had a wealthy estate,
That kept an old house at a bountiful rate,
And an old Porter to relieve poor people at his gate,
Like and old courtier of the Queen's,
And the Queen's old courtier.

With an old Lady whose anger one word asswageth,
Who every quarter paid his old servants their wages,
Who never knew what belonged to coachman, footman, nor pages,
But kept two and fifty men in blew caps and badges.
Like an old courtier, &c.

With an old study, stuft full of old learned books,
And an old parson, you may know him by his looks;
And an old butt'ry-hatch worn quite off the old hooks,
And an old kitchin that maintain'd half a doxen old cooks.
Like an old courtier, &c.

With an old hall hung with pikes, guns, and bows,
And old blades and bucklers, had borne many shrowd blows,
With an old freezadoe coat to cover his trunck hose,
With an old cup of sherry to comfort his old nose.
Like an old courtier, &c.

When an old fashion, when Christmas was come,
To call in all his old neighbours with a bagpipe or a drum,
And good cheer enough to furnish out every old room,
And beer and ale would make a cat to speak, and a wise man dumb.
Like an old courtier, &c.

With an old faulkner, a huntsman, and a kennel of hounds,
That never hauked nor hunted but in his grand-father's old grounds,
Who like a wise man kept himself in his own old bounds,
And when he died gave each child a thousand old pounds.
Like an old courtier, &c.

But to his son and heir his lands he assign'd,
With an old will to charge him to keep the same bountiful minde,
To be good to his old tenants, and to his old neighbours kinde,
But in the next ditty you shall hear how he was inclin'de.
Like a new courtier of the King's,
And the King's new courtier.

The New Courtier[A continuation]

With a flourishing gallant, who is newly come to his land,
Who keeps a brace of painted creatures at his own command,
And can take up readily a thousand pounds on his bond,
And drink in a new tavern, till he can neither go nor stand,
Like a new courtier, &c.

With a new lady whose face is beautiful and fair,
Who never knew what belong'd to house-keeping nor care,
But purchas'd seven colour'd fans to play the wanton ayr,
And seventeen new dressings of other women's hair,
Like a new, &c.

With a new study full of pamphlets and playes,
With a new Chaplin, that drinks oftener than he prays,
With a new butt'ry-hatch opens once in five or six days,
With a new French cook to devise cickshaws and toys,
For the new, &c.

With a new hall builded where an old hall stood,
Hung round with new pictures, does the poore little good,
With a new shouel-board whereon never stood food,
With 22 fair chimnies never burnt coals nor wood.
For the new, &c.

With a new fashion when Christmas was drawing on,
Upon a new journey they must all to London be gon,
And leave none to keep house in the country, but their new man John,
Who relieves all his neighbours with a great thump on the back with a cold stone,
For the new, &c.

With a new gentleman-usher whose carriage is compleat,
With a new coachman, and two footmen to carry the meat,
With a new waiting geltlewoman whose dressing is very neat,
Who when he lady hath dined gives her fellow very little meat,
Like a new, &c.

When new titles of honor bought with his grand-father's old gold,
For which most of his father's mannors were all sold,
And that's one cause housekeeping is grown so cold,
Yet this is the new course most of our new gallants hold.
Like new courtiers of the King's, and the King's new courtiers.

Thus have you heard of the old courtiers and the new,
And for the last I could wish never a word were true,
With these rude lines which I dedicate to you,
And these rude verses I present to your view.
By the poor courtier of the King's, and the King's poor courtier.

Play: Old Soldiers of the Queen; B285 [A slightly later song under whose title the tune is found]

[Not copied; in New Songs. The Fashionable Songster, Manchester: Hooper and Hope, 1801:

Moderation and Alteration

Here's an old song made by a good old antient pate.
Of a worthy old gentleman who had a good estate.

The Old English Gentleman [nominally Thomas Hudson's, 1821, (who cited no tune) but I neglected to copy his text. In the interim here's that given by Ebsworth, 1876.]

I'll sing you a good old song, made by a good old pate,
Of a fine old English gentleman, who had an old estate,
And who kept up his old mansion, at a bountiful old rate;
With a good old porter to relieve the poor at his gate.
Like a fine old English gentleman, all of the olden time.

His hall so old was hung around with pikes, and guns and bows,
And swords, and good old bucklers, that had stood against old foes;
'Twas there "his worship" held his state in doublet and trunk hose,
And quaff'd his cup of good old sack, to warm his good old nose:
Like a fine old English gentleman, &c.

When winter's cold brought frost and snow, he open'd house to all;
And though three-score and ten his years, he featly led the ball;
Nor was the houseless wanderer e'er driven from his hall,
For, while he feasted all the great, he ne'er forgot the small:
Like a fine old English gentleman, &c.

But time, though sweet, is strong in flight, and years roll swiftly by;
And autumn's falling leaves proclaim'd, the old man - he must die!
He laid him down right tranquilly, gave up life's latest sigh;
While a heavy stillness reign'd around, and tears dimm'd every eye.
For this good old English gentlman &c.

Now surely this is better far than all the new parade
Or theatres and fancy balls, "At home," and masquerade;
And much more economical, when all the bills are paid:
Then leave your new vagaries off, and take up the old trade
Of a fine old English gentleman, &c.

The Fine Ould Irish Gentleman [Howe's Songs of Ireland, 1864, 'Gintleman' earlier.]

I'll sing you a dacent song, that was made by a Paddy's pate,
Of a real old Irish gentleman who had a fine estate,
Whose mansion it was made of mud, with thatch and all complete,
With a hole at the top thro' which the smoke graceful did retrate;
Hurrah for the Irish gentleman, the boy of the oulden time.

His walls so cold were covered wid the devil a thing for show,
Except an ould shillelah, which had knocked down many a foe,
And there ould Barney sits at ease without a shoe or hose,
And quaffs his noggin of poteen to warm his big red nose,
Like a fine ould Irishman, the boy of the oulden time.

To Donnybrook his custom was, to go to ev'ry fair,
And tho' he'd seen a few score years, he still was young when there,
And while the rich they feasted him, he still among the poor
Would sing, and dance, and hurl, and fight, and make the spaleens roar,
Like a real ould Irish gentleman, the boy of the oulden time.

But och! mavrone! once at a row, ould Barney got a knock,
And one that kilt him, 'cause he could'nt -- overget the shock;
They laid him out so beautiful, and then set up a groan,
Och! Barney darlint, jewel, dear-- why did ye die? och hone!
Then they waked the Irish gentleman, the boy of the oulden time.

Tho' all things in their course must change, and seasons pass away,
Yet Irish hearts, of oulden time, were just as at this day.
Each Irish boy he took a pride to prove himself a man--
To serve a friend, and bate a foe, it always was the plan
Of a raal ould Irish gentleman, the boy of the oulden time.

Notes I'm going to beg off on here; there's just too much. C. M. Simpson in the The British Broadside Ballad and Its Music gives the tune for the 1st above, lists the drollery copies of the texts, and cites the other 17th century songs to the tune. J. W. Ebsworth's notes to the copy of the first in "An Antidote to Melancholy' in his reprint editon of 'Choyce Drollery (1656)', 1876, goes on cite give many later imitations of the form "x Fine Old X Gentleman" form. An Irish-American "Good Old Irish Gentleman" is, with music, on the Levy sheet music collection website. The Bodley Ballads website has a "Fine Old English Gentleman" attributed to a George Purdy (no date cited).

Go to Index

Tichborne's 'Elegie'

Made by Chidiock Tichborne of himself in the Tower, the night before he suffered death, who was executed in Lincoln's Inn Fields for treason, 1586.

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares
My feast of joy is but a dish or pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares, [tears
And all my goods is but vain hope of gain:
The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun;
And now I live, and now my life is done!

My spring is past, an yet it hath not sprung;
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green;
My youth is past, and yet I am but young;
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen:
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;
And now I live, and now my life is done!

I sought for death, and found it in the wombe;
I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade;
I trode the ground, and knew it was my tomb;
And now I die, and now I am but made:
The glass is full, and yet my glass is run;
And now I live, and now my life is done!

[From Introduction to Morfill's 'Ballads from MSS', II, xxii, 1873, with notes on the Babington-Ballard conspiracy (run by a spy of the crown according to Antonia Fraser in 'Mary, Queen of Scots'), 1873. A copy of c 1620, "Mr Tichbournes elegy in the Tower", is in BL MS Addl. 30982, f. 24]

Go to Index

Mostly English

Go to Index

TV's theme song for Sharpe's Rifles series. [Pills to Purge Melancholy, 1706, but here from reprint of 1719 edition, V, p. 319.]

The Recruiting Officer: Or, the Merry Volunteers: Being an Excellent New Copy of Verses upon raising Recruits.

To the foregoing Tune. [Over the Hills and far away = Jockey's Lamentation, comm: Jockey met with Jenny fair. Here, tune B360 in file BM3. And JACLP- Jack the Piper in S2.]

Hark! now the Drums beat up again,
For all true Soldiers Gentlemen,
Then let us list, and march I say,
Over the Hills and far away;
   Over the Hills and o'er the Main,
  To Flanders, Portugal and Spain,
  Queen Ann commands, and we'll obey,
  Over the Hills and far away.

All Gentlemen that have a Mind,
To serve the Queen that's good and kind;
Come list and enter into Pay,
Then o'er the Hills and far away;
  Over the Hills, &c.

Here's Forty Shillings on the Drum,
For those that Volunteers do come,
With Shirts, and Cloaths, and present Pay,
When o'er the Hills and far away;
  Over the Hills, &c.

Hear that brave Boys, and let us go,
Or else we shall be prest you know;
Then list and enter into Pay,
And o'er the Hills and far away;
  Over the Hills, &c.

The Constables they search about,
To find such brisk young Fellows out;
Then let's be Volunteers I say,
Over the Hills and far away;
  Over the Hills, &c.

Since now the French so low are brought,
And Wealth and Honour's to be got,
Who then behind wou'd sneaking stay?
When o'er the Hills and far away;
  Over the Hills, &c.

No more from sound of Drum retreat,
While Marlborough, and Gallaway beat,*
The French and Spaniards every Day,
When o'er the Hills and far away;
  Over the Hills, &c.

He that is forc'd to go and fight,
Will never get true Honour by't,
While Volunteers shall win the Day,
When o'er the Hills and far away;
  Over the Hills, &c.

What tho' our Friends our Absense mourn,
We all with Honour shall return,
And then we'll sing both Night and Day,
Over the Hills and far away;
  Over the Hills, &c.

The[n] Prentice Tom he may refuse,
To wipe his angry Master's Shoes;
For then he's free to sing and play,
Over the Hills and far away;
  Over the Hills, &c.

Over Rivers, Bogs, and Springs,
We all shall live as great as Kings,
And Plunder get both Night and Day,
When o'er the Hills and far away;
  Over the Hills, &c.

We then shall lead more happy Lives,
By getting rid of Brats and Wives,
That Scold on both Night and Day,
When o'er the Hills and far away;
  Over the Hills, &c.

Come on then Boys and you shall see,
We every one shall Captains be,
To Whore and rant as well as they,
When o'er the Hills and far away;
  Over the Hills, &c.

For if we go 'tis one to Ten,
But we return all Gentlemen,
All Gentlemen as well as they,
When o'er the Hills and far away;
  Over the Hills, &c.

* Henry de Massue, French, created Earl of Galway by the English in 1697, reviving extinct title. In 1707 he lost the battle of Almanza. The tune, presumeably Irish, "Lord Gallaway's Lamentation", probably refers to him. [D. O'Sullivan's 'Carolan', II, p. 128-9]

Play: B360- Over the Hills and Far Away Click to play
Go to Index

[From an English MS of c 1690]

On Schonberg who holds predistination & talks to himself. [See Opie's 'Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes for later versions. David Herd gave with his version the tune direction "Greensleeves".]

As I walk'd by myself & talk'd to my self
   My self said to me
Looke to thy self, take care of thy self,
   For no body cares for thee

I answered my self & said to my self
   With the self same repartee
Looke to thy self, or not Looke to thy self
   The self same thing will be.

namePlay: S2- GREENSLV, from Wm.Ballet Lute MS

Go to Index
[A different False Knight on the road, was ancestor to some English and Scots traditional songs]

The Western Knight and the young Maid of Bristoll,

Their loves and fortunes related.
To a pretty amourous tune.

It was a young knight borne in the West,
that led a single life,
And for to marry he thought it best
because he lackt a wife.

And on a day he him bethought,
as he sate all alone,
How he might be to acquaintance brought,
with some young pretty one.

With luck, alas, (quoth he) haue I
to live thus by my selfe?
Could I find one one of faire beauty,
I would not sticke for pelfe.

Oh, had I one though nere so poore,
I would her not reject:
I have enough, and aske no more,
so she will me affect.

With that his man he then did call
that nere unto him staid,
To whom he soone unfolded all,
and vnto him he said,

Come saddle me my milke white steed,
that I may a wooing ride,
To get some bonny Lasse with speed,
to whom I may make my bride.

On horseback mounted this gallant young Knight,
and to try his fate he went,
To seeke some Damsell faire and bright,
that might his mind content.

And as he through Bristoll Towne did ride,
in a fine window of Glasse,
A gallant Creature he espide,
in the Casement where she was.

His heart then taught his tongue to speake
as soone as he her saw,
He vnto her his mind did breake
compel'd by Cupid's law.

Faire Maid, quoth he, long may you liue,
and your body Christ save and see,
Five hundred crowns I will you give,
to set your love on me.

Though I am faire, qd. she, in some sort,
yet am I tender of age,
And want the courtesie of the Court,
to be a young Knights Page.

A page, thou gallant Dame, quoth he,
I meane thee not to make,
But if thou love me, as I love thee,
for my Bride I will thee take.

If honestly you meane, quothe she,
that I may trust your word,
Yours to command I still will be,
at bed and eke at boord.

The Second part. To the same tune.

Then he led her by the lilly white hand,
up and downe a Garden greene,
What they did, I cannot understand,
nor what passed them betweene.

When he to her had told his mind,
and done what he thought best,
His former promises so kind,
he turned to a Iest.

Yet he gave to her a Ring of gold,
to keep as her owne life:
And said, that in short time he would,
come and make her his wife.

Then mounted he upon his Steed,
and rode from the Damsell bright,
Saying he would fetch her with speed,
but he forgot it quite.

When fifteen weeks were come and gone,
the Knight came riding by,
To whom the Lasse with grievous moane,
did thus lament and cry.

Sir Knight, remember your vow quoth she
that you to me did say,
With child, alas, you have gotten me,
and you can it not deny.

So mayest thou be, quothe he, faire Flowre,
and the child be none of mine,
Unless thou canst tell me the hour,
and name to me the time.

Full fifteen weeks it is, quoth she,
that you lay my body by;
A gay gold Ring you gave to me,
how can you this deny?

If I (quoth he) my gold Ring gave,
to thee, as to my friend,
Thou must not thinke I meane to have,
thee till my life doth end.

Nor do I meane to take for my wife,
a Lasse that is so meane,
That shal discredit me all my life,
and all my kindred cleane.

Quoth she, false Knight, why didst thou then
procure my overthrow,
Oh, now I see that faithlesse men,
will sweare, yet meane not so.

Now may I live from ioyes exilde,
like a bird kept in a Cage,
For I am fifteen weeks gone with child,
and am but fourteen yeares of age.

Farewel, farewel, thou faithlesse Knight,
sith thou wilt me forsake,
Oh heavens grant all Maidens bright,
by me may warning take.

When as the Knight did heare what she
poore harmlesse wretch did say
It mov'd his heart, and quickly he
made her a Lady gay.

Printed at London for F. Coules.

This ballad was entered in the Stationers' Register June 1, 1629, and this issue is an early or original one.

Traditional descendents:
"Down by the riverside", #28, Reeves' Idiom of People
"My Valentine, #95, A & B. Reeves' Everlasting Circle
"Abroad as I was Walking", (with music) Purslow, The Wanton Seed, p. 6.
"Down by the Woods and Shady Green Trees" (with music) Purslow, The Wanton Seed, p. 37.
Cf. other versions extending the ending in Folk Music Journal, 1967-9.
"Bonnie May", Herd's Scots Songs, I, 98, 1776, and with music (and several minor differences) in SMM, #110.
Cf. "The Dainty Downby", Herd's collection.

The Child ballad, "Crow and Pye", looks like an early incomplete version.

Play: no early tune known

Here's Herd's text.

Bonnie May

It was on an ev'ning sae fast and sae clear,
A bonny lass was milking the kye,
And by came a troup of gentlemen,
And rode the lassie by.

Then one of them said unto her,
Bonny lass, pr'ythee shew me the way,
O if I do sae it may breed me wae,
For langer I dare not stay.

But dark and misty was the night
Before the bonny lass came hame;
Now where hae you been, my ae doughter?
I am sure you was nae your lane.

O father, a tod has come o'er your lamb,
A gentleman of high degree,
And ay whan he spake he lifted his hat,
An bonny, bonny blinkit his ee.

Or e'er six months were past and gane,
Six months but and other three,
The lassie begud for to fret and to frown,
And think lang for his blinkin ee.

O wae be me to my father's shepherd,
An ill death may he die;
He bigged the bughts sae far fra hame,
And trysted a gentleman to me.

It fell upon another fair evening,
The bonnie lassie was milking her ky,
And by came the troup of gentlemen,
And rode the bonnie lassie by.

Then one of them stopt, and said to her,
Wha's aught that baby ye are wi'?
The lassie began for to blush, and think
To a father as good as ye.

O had your tongue, my bonny May,
Sae loud I hear you lie;
O dinnae you mind the misty night
I was in the bught with thee?

Now he's come aff his milk-white steed,
And he has taen her hame:
Now let your father bring hame the ky,
You ne'er mair shall ca' them again.

I am lord of castles and towers,
With fifty ploughs of land and three,
And I have gotten the bonniest lass
That is in this countrie.

A single verse appears with music in 'The Greig-Duncan Folk Song
Collection', VII, #1317-B.

Play: S2, BNYMAY, SMM tune.

Go to Index

John and Joan:
A mad couple well met.

To the tune of The Paratour

You nine Castilian Sisters,
   that keep Parnassus hill,
      Come down to me,
      and let me bee
   inspired with your skill,
That well I may demonstrate
   a piece of household stuffe;
      you that are wed,
   mark what is sedd,
   Beware of taking snuffe.

A mad phanstastick couple,
   a young man and a Lasse,
      with their content,
      and friends consent,
   resolv'd their times to passe
As man and wife together;
   and so they married were.
      Of this mad match
      I made this Catch,
   which you that please may hear.

They both had imperfections,
   which might have caused strife;
      the man would sweare
      and domineere--
   so also would his wife.
If John went to one Alehouse,
   Joan ran unto the next;
      between them both
      they made an oath
   That neither would be vext.

What ever did the good man,
   his wife would do the like;
      if he was pleas'd,
      she was appeas'd;
   if he would kick, shee'd strike.
If queane or slut he call'd her,
   she call'd him rogue and knave;
      if he would fight,
      shee'd scratch and bite,--
   He could no victory have.

If John his dog had beaten,
   then Joan would beat her cat;
      If John, in scorne,
      his hand would burn,
   Joan would have burnt her hat.
If John would breake a Pipkin;
   then Joan would break a pot;
      then he and she
      did both agree
   To waste all that they got.

If John would eate no victuals,
   then Joan would be as crosse;
      they would not eat,
      but sav'd their meat--
   In that there was no losse.
If John were bent to feasting,
   then Joan was of his mind;
      in right or wrong
      both sung one song,
   As Fortune them assigned.

The Second part.

In Taverne or in Alehouse,
   if John and Joan did meet,
      who ere was by
      in company,
   might tast their humours sweet:
What ever John had cal'd for,
   Joan would not be out-dar'd;
      those that lack'd drink,
      through want of chink,
   For them the better far'd.

Thus would they both sit drinking
   as long as coine did last;
      nay, more than this,
      ere they would misse
   good liquor for their taste,
John would have damm'd his doublet,
   his cloak, or anything,
      and Joan would pawne
      her coife of Lawne,
   her bodkin or her ring.

If John were drunk, and reeled,
   then Joan would fall i'th fire;
      if John fell downe
      i'th midst o'th towne,
   beewraid in dirt and mire,
Joan, like a kind co-partner,
   scorn'd to stand on her feet,
      but down she'd fall
      before them all,
   And role about the street.

If John had cal'd his Host "knave,"
   Joan cal'd her Hostis "whore,"
      for such like crimes
      they oftentimes
   were both thrust out of dore.
If John abused the Constable,
   Joan would have beat the Watch:
      thus man and wife,
      in peace or strife,
   Each other sought to match.

But mark now, how it chanced,
   after a year or more,--
      this couple mad
      all wasted had,
   and were grown very poore.
John could no more get liquor,
   nor Joan could purchase drink;
      then both the man
      and wife began
   Upon their states to thinke.

Thus beat with their own weapons,
   John thus to Joan did say,
      "Sweet heart, I see
      we two agree
   the cleane contrary way;
Henceforth let's doe in goodnesse
   as we have done in ill;
      Ile doe my best,
      doe thou the rest:"
   "A match!" quoth Joan, "I will."

So, leaving those mad humours
   which them before possest,
      both man and wife
      doe leade a life
   in plenty, peace, and rest.
Now John and Joan both, jointly,
   doe set hands to the Plough.
      Let all doe so
      in weale or woe,
   And they'l do well enough.       M. P.


      Printed at London for Tho: Lambert

See "John Appleby" below for a song based on this at its beginning.

John Appleby

John Appleby was a man's name, and he lived
          near the sign of the Kettle,
His wife was called Joan Quiet, because she could
          scold but a little;
John to the alehouse would go, Joan to the tavern
          would run,
John would get drunk with the women, and Joan
          would get drunk with the men.
               Sing tol de rol lol, &c.

John would spend his own two-pence, and Joan
          would spend the groat;
Joan would pawn her best jacket, and John would
          pawn his best coat;
John set the porridge-pot by, Joan sent the bress
           kettle to sell,
The money came readily in, and they merrily spent
          it in ale.
               Sing tol de rol lol, &c.

Thou art a base hussey, says John, for selling my
           pewter and brass;
An thou art a cuckold, says Joan, for thy ears are
          as long as an ass.
I'll bang thy back, hussey, says John, if you give
          me another cross word,
And for thy fury and vapours, I tell thee, I care
               not a ----.
               Sing tol de rol lol, &c.

John he was no great eater, and Joan whe was no
And for to tickle their maws they bought them a
           shoulder of mutton.
John, in an angry mood, took the mutton in his
And out of the window he threw it, but Joan she
          was at a stand.
               Sing tol de rol lol, &c.

Joan she was at a stand, but of it she made no
Immediately took her in hand, and after it threw
           the platter;
An old woman coming by, and seeing the mutton
Caught up the platter and mutton, and with them
          she ran away.
               Sing tol de rol lol, &c.

The neighbours came running in, and thinking to
          end the quarrel,
But, before they had half done, they left ne'er a
          drop in the barrel;
They banged the barrel about, pulled out the spig-
          got, too;
We'll al get drunk to-night, for what we have else
          to do?
               Sing tol de rol lol, &c.

From The Universal Songster, I, p. 385, 1828, with an engraving by Marshall from a design by Cruikshank, showing John and Joan in the house, and the leg of mutton flying out the window. For tradiional copies see Margaret Dean Smith's Guide to English Folk Song Collections, and Frank Purslow's Marrow Bones. Compare with "John and Joan" above.

Go to Index

The praise of Sailors, heere set forth, with their hard

    fortunes which doe befall them on the Seas, when
        Land-men sleepe safe in their Beds

             To a pleasant new tune.

As I lay musing in my bed,
    full warm, a well at ease,
I thought upon the lodging hard
    poore sailors have at Seas.

They bide it out with hunger and cold,
    and many a bitter blast,
And many a time constrain'd they are
    for to cut down their Mast.

Their victuals and their Ordinance,
    and ought else that they haue,
They throw it overboard with speed,
    and seeke their liues to saue.

When as the raging Seas doe fome,
    and loftie winds do blow,
The Saylors they goe to the top,
    when Land-men stay below.

Our Masters Mate takes Helme in hand,
    his Course he steeres full well,
When as the loftie winds do blow,
    and raging Seas doe swell.

The Master to his Compass goes.
    so well he plies his charge:
He sends a Youth to the Top amaine,
    for to vnsling the Yeards.

The Boatson he's under the Deck,
    a man of courage bold;
To th'top toth'top, my liuely Lads,
    hold fast my hearts of gold.

The Pilot he stands on the Claine,
    with Line and Lead to sound,
To see how farre and neare they are
    from any dangerous ground.

It is a testamonial good,
    we are not far from land,
There sits a Mermaid on the Rocke,
    with Combe and Glasse in hand.

Our captain he is on the Poope,
    a man of might and power,
And lookes when raging seas doe gape
    our bodies to devour.

Our royall Ship is runne to racke,
    that was so stout and trim,
And some are put unto their Witts,
    either to sinke or swim.

Our Ship that was before so good,
    and eke likewise so trim,
Is now with raging Seas grown leakt,
    and water fast comes in.

The Quarter master is a man,
    so well his charge plies he,
He calls them to the Pumpe amaine,
    to keepe their leake-ship free.

And many dangers likewise they
    doe many times endure,
When as they met their enemies,
    that come with might and power:

And seeke likewise from them to take
    their lives and eke their goods:
Thus Saylors they sometimes endure,
    upon the surging floods.

But when as they doe come to Land,
    and homewards safe returne,
They are most kinde good fellowes all,
    and scorne ever to mourne.

And likewise they will call for Wine,
    and score it on the post:
For Sailors they are honest men,
     and will pay well their Hoast.

For Saylors they be honest men,
    and they doe take great paines,
When landed men and rufling lads.
    doe rob them of their gaines.

Out Saylors they worke night and day,
    their manhood for to try,
When landed men and ruffling Jacks,
    doe in their Cabines lye.

Therefore let all good minded men,
    give eare unto my Song,
And say also as well as I,
    Saylors deserve no wrong.

This have I done for Saylors sakes,
    in token of goodwill:
If ever I can doe them good,
    I will be ready still.

God blesse them eke by Sea and land,
    and also other men;
And as my Song beginning had,
     so must it have and end.


        Printed for I. Wright.[1605-32]

[John Wright started purlishing in 1605, adding his street address to his imprint in 1632, so this is no later. Child, "The Mermaid", #289, completely neglected the 17th century version, but it is obviously the original form of the song.

Later, c 1640, Martin Parker reworked it as "Saylors for my money", (ZN728) and added a chorus line "How ere the wind doth blow". Later yet, about 1660, J. P. (probably John Phillips), again reworked it as "Neptune's Raging Fury", revising the first line to "You gentlemen of England", and chorus to "When the stormy winds do blow (ZN3028). The tune of this latter is "When the stormy winds do blow", B512 among the broadside ballad tunes) J. P.'s version was reprinted fairly often until the late 18th century, when it was again lightly reworked as "Ye Gentlemen of England".

However, Parker's version and J. P.'s version leave out the mermaid, the sailors skipping to the top, and the landsmen lying down below, so they are not in the line of descent of "The Mermaid".

Go to Index
[Sir John Barleycorn/ Allan-a-mault. 16th century Scots version from the Bannatyne MS]

Quhy sowld not allane honorit be

Quhen he wes yung and cled in grene
Haifand his air abowt his Ene
Baith men an wemem did him mene
quhen he grew on yon hilis he
quhy sowld not allane honorit be

His fostir faider of the toun
To vissy Allane he maid him boun
he saw him lyane allace in swoun
For falt of help and lyk to de
quhy sowld not allane honorit be

Thay saw his heid begin to ryse
Syne for ane nvreiss thay send belyse
quha brocht wt hir fyfty and fyve
Of men of war full prevely
Quhy sowld not allane honorit be

Thay ruschit furt lyk hellis rukis
And every ane of thame had hukis
Thay cawt him schortly in the clukis
Syne band him in ane creddill of tre
Quhy sowld not allane honorit be

They brot him invart in the land
Syne every freynd maid him his band
quhill thay micht owdir gang or stand
nevir ane fute fra him to sle! Quhy etc.

The grittest cowart in this land
ffra he wt allane entir in band
Thot he may nowdir gang nor stand
That fowrty sall not gar him sle
Quhy sowld not allane honorit be

Sr allanis hewmond is ane cop
Wt ane sege feddir in his top
ffra hand till hand so dois he hop
Quhill sum may nowdir speiki nor se
Quhy sold not allane honorit be

In yule quhen ilk man singis his carrell
gud allane lyis in to ane barrell
quhen he is thair he dowtis no parrell
To cum on him be land or se
Quhy etc.

Yit was thair nevir sa gay a gallane
Fra he meit wt our maistir ser allane
Bot gif he hald him by the hallane
bak wart on the shue fallis he
Quhy etc.

My maistir allane grew so stark
quhill he maid mony cunning clerk
Vpoun thair faiss he settis his mark
A blud reid noiss besyd thair E
Quhy etc.

My maistir allane I may sair curss
He levis no money in my purss
At his command I mon deburss
moir nor the twa pairt of my fe
Quhy etc.

And last of allane to conclude
he is bening courtass and gude
And sevris ws of our daly fvde
An thr wt liberalitie.
Q. etc.

ffinis q allane matsonis suddartis

English versions abound, for 17th century ones see the broadside index items ZN282 (below), ZN546, ZN1759, and the song in Thomas Robbins chapbook 'The Arraignment and Inditing of Sir John Barleycorn, Knight", ZN3428. Robert Burns slightly reworked a traditionsl version and gave it in his Poems, 1787. Traditional versions are many, but some do not take the song to the point where John Barlycorn arises and starts laying the drinkers low (like Burns').

A new Ballad for you to looke upon, How Mault doth deale with euery one, to the tune of, Triumph and Ioy.

Mas Mault he is a Gentleman,
And hath been since he world began,
I neuer knew yet any man
  that could match with master Mault sir,

I neuer knew any Mault be once, [but
The Miller with his grinding stones.
He laid them so close that he crusht his banes,
  you neuer knew the like sir.

Mault, Mault, thou art a flowre
Thou art beloued in euery bowre
Thou canst not be missing one halfe hour.
  you neuer saw the like sir.

For laying of his stanes so close,
Mault gaue the Miller a copper nose,
Saying thou and I will neuer be foes,
  but unto thee I sticke sir.

Mault gve the Miller such a blow,
That from [h]is horse he fell full low,
He taught him his master Mault for to know
  you neuer saw the like sir.

Our hostesse maid she was to blame,
She stole master Mault away from her dame,
And in her belly she hid the same
  you neuer saw the like sir.

So when the Mault did work in her head,
Twice a day she would be sped,
At night she could not go to bed,
  you neuer saw the like sir.

Then came in the master Smith,
And said that Mault he was a thiefe.
But Mault gaue him such a dash in the teeth:
  you neuer saw the like sir.

For when his Iron was hot and red,
He has such an ache all in his head,
The Smith was fain to get him to bed,
  for he was then very sicke sir.

The Carpenter then came a piece to square,
He had Mault come out if he dare,
He would empty his belly, & beat his sides bare,
  that he knew not where to sit sir.

To fire he went with arm full of chips,
Mault hit him right between his lips,
And made him lame in both his hips.
  you neuer saw the like sir.

The Shoe-maker sitting upon his seat
With master Mault he began to fret,
He said he would the knaue so beat,
  you neuer saw the like sir.

Mault peeped his head out of a hall,
The Sho-maker said, he would drinke him up al,
They tumled together until down they did fall, 
  you neuer saw the like sir.
The Weaver being in his loome,
He threatened mast Mault to burn,
When he had knit on to the thrum,
  you neuer saw the like sir.

And such a Court some Weauers held
They would pay our hostes when they had feld,
But when euery one had his part and deald 
  they know not where to sit sir.

The Tinker he took the Weavers part
Because he is touching bute his Art,
He tooke the pot and dranke a quart,
  the world was very quicke sir. 

Mault had of him his alone desire,
He made him tumble into the fire,
And there he lost his burling ire,
  he hath not found it yet sir.

The Taylor he came in to grinde his sheares,
Maukt and he were together by the eares,
Great is the company Mault still reares,
  you neuer saw the like sir.

For when his pressing Iron was hot,
He pressed a board instead of a coat,
And sayles home in a fether-bed boat,
  you neuer saw the like sir.

So then the Tinker did sound his pan,
Then said master Mault I must be gone,
I am the good fellow that helpeth catch one,
  you neuer saw the like sir.

The Tinker then that he was faine,
With Mault to haue a bout or twaine   
Mault hit him sore in euery vaine,
  you neuer saw the like sir.

Then bespake the Tinker anon 
He said he would prove himself a man,
He laid on Mault till the bausse was gone,
  the Bung and he Tinker fell sicke sir.

The Sayler he did curse and ban,
He bad the boy, go tap the can,
Ile haue about with Mault anon,
  you neuer saw the like sir.

Aboard they went to try their match,
And there they playd at hop and catch,
Mault bestowed him under the batch
  and make him keepe the ship sir.
Then came the Chapman traueling by,
And said, My masters I will be w'ye,
In deed master Mault my mouth is dry,
  I will gnaw you with my teeth sir.

The Chapman he laid on a pace,
Till store of blood came in his face,
But Mault brought him in such a case,
  you neuer saw the like sir.

The Mason came an Ouen to make,
The Bricklayer he his part did take,
They bound Mault to the good-ale sake,
  you neuer saw the like sir.

Then Mault began to tell his mind,
And plide them with Ale, Beere and Wine,
They left Brick-ats and trowell behind,
  they could not lay a bricke sir.

Then came the Labourer out with his hood,
And saw his two masters how they stood,
He tooke master Mault by the whood,
  and swore he would him strike sir.

Mault he ran and for feare did weep,
The Labourer he did skip and leape,
But Mault cast him into the morter heape,
  and there he fell asleepe sir.

The Butcher came to buy a sheepe:
He said he would make Mault to creepe,
But Mault made him the cat to whip,
  you neuer saw the like sir.

The Glouer came to buy a skin,
Mault hit him right aboue the chin,
The[n] pewter John came doubling in
  you neuer saw the like sir.

And laid on head, armes and ioynts,
Tooke away his gloues, and grosse of points,
And swore they had paid him in quartes and pints,
  you neuer saw the like sir.

Thus of my song I will make an end,
And pray my hostesse to be my friend,
To giue me some drink now my mony is spend,
  then Mault and I are quit sir.

Although not found earlier than c 1620-30 (H.G. = Henry Gosson),
on the same sheet with that below, the tune direction tags this
song as c 1578-1600. Later printings attempt to modernize it and
correct it and have numerous changes small and large. 
[c 1620-30]

A pleasant New Ballad to Sing Evening and Morn,
Of the Bloody Murther of Sir John Barley-Corn.

The Tune is Shall I lie beyond Thee.

As I went through the North Country,
  I heard a merry meeting,
A pleasant toy, and full of joy,
  two Noble-men were greeting.

And as they walked forth to sport,
  upon a Summers day,
They met another Noble-man,
  with whom they had a fray.

His name was Sir John Barley-Corn,
  he dwelt down in a Vale,
And had a Kinsman dwelt with him,
  they called him Thomas good-Ale.

The one named Sir Richard Beer,
  was ready at that time,
And likewise came a busie Peer,
  call'd Sir William White-Wine.

Some of them fought in a black-Jack,
  some of them in a Can.
But yet the chiefist in a black pot,
  fought like a Noble-man.

Sir John Barley-Corn fought in a Bowl,
  who won the Victory,
Which made them all to chafe and swear,
  that Barley-Corn must dye.

Some said kill him, some said him drown,
  some wished to hang him high,
For those that followed Barley-Corn,
  they said would beggars dye.

Then with a Plow and they Plow'd him up,
  and thus they did devise
To bury him within the Earth,
  and swore he would not rise.

With harrows strong they came to him,
  and burst Clods on his head,
A joyful Banquet then was made,
  when Barley-Corn was dead.

He rested still upon the earth,
  till rain from Sky did fall,
Then he grew up on branches green,
  which sore amaz'd them all.

Increasing thus till Midsummer,
  he made them all afraid,
For he sprang up on high,
  and had a goodly Beard  

When ripening at St. James tide,
  his countenance waxed wan,
Yet now full grown in part of strength,
  and thus became a man.

Wherefore with Hooks and Sickles keen,
  unto the fields they hy'd,
They cut his Legs off by the Knees,
  and Limb from Limb divide.

Then bloodily they cut him down,
  from place where he did stand,
And like a Thief for Treachery,
  they bound him in a band.

So then they took him up again,
   according to his kind,
And plac'd him up in several stacks,
  to wither with the wind.

Then with a pitchfork sharp and long,
  they rent him to the heart,
And Traytor like for Treason did,
  they bound him in a Cart.
And tending him with weapons strong,
  unto the Town they hie,
Whereas they Mow'd him in a Mow,
  and so they let him lie.

They left him groaning by the walls,
  till all his Bones were sore,
And having took him up again,
  they cast him on the floor.
And hired two with Holly Clubs,
  to beat at him at once,
Who thwackt so hard on Barley-Corn,
  the Flesh fell from his Bones, [sic]

Then fast they knit him in a sack,
  which griev'd heim very sore,
And soundly steept him in a fat, [vat
  for three days space and more.

From whence again they took him out,
  and laid him forth to dry,
Then cast him on the Chamber Floor,
  and swore that he should dye.

They rub'd and stir'd him up and down,
  and oft did toyl and ture,
The Mault-man likewise with vows his death,
  his body should be sure.

They pul'd and hal'd him in a spight,
  and threw him on a Kill, [kiln
Yea dry'd him o're a fire hot,
  the more to work their will.

Then to the Mill they forst him straight,
  whereas they bruis'd his bones,
The Miller swore to murther him,
  betwixt a pair of Stones.

The last time when they took him up,
  they serv'd him worse than that,
For with hot scalding Liquor store     
   they washt him in a fat. [vat

But not content with this Bod wot, [God
  they wrought him so much harm,
With cruel threat they promise next,
  to beat him into Barm.

And lying in this danger deep,
  for fear the he should quarrel,
They heap'd him straight out of the fat,
  and turned him into Barrell, [sic]

They roar'd and broach'd it with a Tap,
  so thus his death begun,
And drew out every drop of Blood,
  while any drop would run.

Some brought in Jacks upon their backs,
  some brought in Bowls and Pail,
Yea, every man some weapon had,
  poor Barley-Corn to kill.

When Sir John Good-Ale heard of this, [Thomas Good-Ale
  he came with mickle might,
And took by strength their Tongues away,
  their Legs, and their sight.

Sir John at last in this respect,
  so paid them all their hire,
That some lay bleeding by the walls,
  some tumbling in the mire.

Some lay groaning by the walls,
  some fell i'th street down right,
The wisest of them scarcely knew
  what he had done o'er night.

All you good wives that brew good ale,
  God keep you all from teen,
But if you put too much water in,
  the Devil put out your Eyne.
[Below, pros and cons, but note how the pros can easily backfire, and sometimes do. Entered Nov. 23, 1632, to Ed Blackmore, who printed the text below. Note the early date of the tune "Stingo", and see "Good Ale for my Money" in the Laurence Price file.]

The little Barly-Corne.
Whose properties and vertues here
Shll plainly to the world appeare,
To make you merry all the yeere.

To the tune of Stingo.

Come, and doe not musing stand,
  if thou the truth discerne,
But take a full cup in thy hand,
  and thus begin to learne--
Not of the earth, nor of the ayre,
  at evening or at morn--
But joviall boyes your Christmas keep,
  with the little Barly-Corne.

It is the cunningst alchhymist
  that ere 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 brasse--
'Twill turne a taylor to a man,
  and a man into an asse.

'Twill make a poor man rich, to hang
  a signe before his doore;
And those that doe the pitcher bang,
  though rich, 'twill make them poore;
'Twill make the silliest pooest snake
  the King's great Porter scorne;
'Twill make the stoutest lubber weak,
  this little Barly-Corne.

It hath more sifts then Lambe e'er had [1
  or Hocus Pocus too;
It will good fellowes shew more sport
  then Bankes horse could doe [2
'Twill play you faire above the boord,
  unlesse you take good heed,
And fell you, though you were a Lord,
  and justifie the deed.

It lends more yeeres unto old age
  than e'er was lent by nature;
It makes the poets fancy rage
  more than Castilian water;
'Twill make a huntsman chase a fox,
  and never winde his horne;
'Twill cheere a tinker in the stockes,
  this little Barly-Corne.

It is the only Will o'th' wispe
  which leades men from the way;
'Twil make the tongue-ti'd lawyer lisp,
  and nought but "hic cup" say;
'Twill make the steward droope and stoop,
  his bils he then will scorne,
And at each post cast his rekning up,
  this little Barly-Corne.

'Twill make a man grow jealous soone,
  whose pretty wife goes trim,
And raile at the deceiving moone
  for making hornes at him:
'Twill make the maidens trimly dance,
  and take it in no scorne,
And helpe them to a friend by chance,
  this little Barly-Corne.

It is the neatest serving-man
  to entertaine a friend;
it will doe 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, doe not spare,
  but cleare carouse it up.

The second pat of the little Barly-Corne
That cheareth the heart both evening and morn.

To the same tune.

If sickness come, this physick take,
  it from your heart will set it.
If feare encroach, take more of it,
  yur heart will soone forget it:
Apollo, and the Muses nine,
  doe take it in no scorne;
There's no such stuffe to pass the time
  as the little Barly-Corne.

'Twill make a weeping wiedow laugh,
  and soon incline to pleasure;
'Twill make an old man leave his staffe,
  and dance a youthful measure:
And though your clothes be ne'er so bad,
  all ragged, rent, and torne,
Against the cold you may be clad
  with the little Barly-Corne.

'Twill make a coward not to shrinke,
  but be as stout as may be;
'Twill make a man that he shall thinke
  that Jone's as good as my Lady: [3
It will enrich the palest face
  and with rubies it adorne,
Yet you shall thinke it no disgrace,
  this little Barly-Corne.

'Twill make your gossips merry
  when they their liquor see-- [4
"Hey, we shall ne'er be weary,
  sweet gossip, here's to thee!"
'Twill make the country yeoman
  the courtier for to scorne,
And talk of law-suits o'er a can
  with this little Barly-Corne.

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 candlelight
  that shineth in the horne,
Yet he will stumble the way aright,
  this little Barly-Corne.

'Twill make a miser a prodigall,
  and shew himselfe kind hearted;
'Twill make him never grieve at all,
  that from his coyne hath parted;
'Twill make a shepheard to mistake
  his sheepe before a storme;
'Twill make the poet to excell;
  this little Barly-Corne.

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 [i.e., pregnant
It will make a man that he
  shall sleepe all night profoundly,
And make a man, what e'er he be,
  goe about his business roundly.

Thus the Barly-Corne hath power
  even for to change our nature,
And make a shrew, within an houre,
  prove a kindhearted creature:
And therefore here, I say againe,
  let no man tak't in scorne
That I the vertues do proclaime
  of the little Barly-Corne.

1: Dr. Lambe, conjuror, etc., killed by mob, June 14, 1628, as related in ZN1874.
2: The ballad on Bank's marvelous horse, Moracco, was entered in the Stationers' Register on Nov. 14, 1595, (Rollin's AI #2430) but is not extant]
3: "Ione is as good as my lady"- broadside expansion of Tho. Campion's song is ZN2335.
4: Gossips' drink was ale or wine. See ZN509, 712, 2120, 2561.

[Song, no title, chorus first, 1460-90. Doll=warm, mull; doty
=foolish; poll=head]

Doll thy ale, doll, doll thy ale, doll!
Ale make many a man to have a doty poll.

Ale make many a man to stick at a brere;
Ale make many a man to ly in the miere;
And ale make many a man to slepe by the fire.
   With a doll!

Ale make many a man to strombel at a stone;
Ale make many a man to go dronken home;
And ale mke many a man to breke his tone.
   With a doll!

Ale make many a man to draw his knife;
Ale make many man to make grete strife;
And ale make a man to bete his wife.
   With a doll!

Ale make many a man to wet his chekes;
Ale make many a man to make his hed have knokkes;
And ale make many a man to sit in the stokkes;
   With a doll!

Ale make many a man to rine over the falows;
Ale make many a man to swere by God and Allhalows;
And ale make many a man to hang upon the galows.
   With a doll!

Go to Index
[A. C. mery tayles, #62, 1526] There was a man that married a woman which had great riches and beauty. Howbeit, she had such an impediment of nature that she was dumb and could not speak, which thing made him full oft to be right pensive and sad. Wherefore upon a day he walked alone right heavy in heart, thinking upon his wife, there came one to him and asked him what was the cause of his heaviness - which answered that it was only because his wife was born dumb. To whom this other said; 'I shall show ye soon a remedy and a medicine therefore that is thus - Go take an aspen leaf and lay it under her tongue this night, she being asleep, and I warrant thee she shall speake on the morrow." Which man, being glad of this medicine, prepared therefore and gathered aspen leaves whereof he laid three of them under her tongue when she was asleep. And upon the morrow when he himself waked, he - deririous to know how his medicine wrought - being in bed with her demanded of her how she did. And suddenly she answered and said: "I beshrew your heart for waking me so early!" And so by virture of that medicine she was restored to her speech. But, in conclusion, her speech so increased day by day, and she was so cursed of conditions that every day she brawled and chided with her husband so much that at the last he was more vexed and had much more trouble and disease with her shrewd words than he had before when she was dumb. Wherefore, as he walked another time alone, he happened to meet again with the same person that taught him the said medicine, and said to him this wise: "Sir, ye taught me a medicind but late to make my dumb wife to speak, bidding me lay an aspen leaf under her tongue when she slept. And I laid three aspen leaves there - wherefore, now she speaketh. But yet she speaketh so much and so shrewdly that I am more weary of her now than I was before when she was dumb. Whereefore, I pray you teach me a medicine to modify her that she speak not so much." This other answerand said thus: "Sir, I am a devil of hell, but I am one of them that have least power there, albeit yet I have power to make a woman speak. But yet if a woman begin once to speak, I nor all the devils in hell that have the most power be not able to make a woman to be still, nor to cause her to leave her speaking. By this tale ye may note that a man oftimes desireth and coveteth too much that thing that oft turneth to his displeasure. ...........................
As a folksong it's Laws Q5, Roud #434. The 17th century broadside is here: Click for text

There are several 19th century copies on the Bodleian Ballads website under the title "The Dumb Wife".

[Another, from the Maitland Folio MS, II]

And quhen I did hir pray 
In license for to sitt
That is the neirest way
To putt hir by hir witt
God knawis ye drerie Lyff
I had sen scho was dum
Off ane gud quyet wyff
Is now ane feind begun
Hir speitche but sessioun
Butt ryme or ressoun
New deiffs vp all ye hous
Allace yis day yat I may say
That eure scho spak sa crous

Blame thy selff quod he
That gaiff hir superflew
Thow laid in leifis thrie
Quhair and mycht bene enew
Had thow don as I bad
Or now thow sould haue seine
Weill temperet toung betwene
Bot quha may later ane wyfe to clatter
Syne na man can convert hir
The minest wyff yat euer tuik lyff
Will warie sum wordis and start hir.

Quod he tak quhat I haiff
and leif hir as ye fand hir
Allace wuod he ye raiff
I dar not cum neirhand hir
I am devill butt douyy
First language learnit her till
I dar not be sa stoutt
To bid hir hald hir still
Fra scho delyte to fecht & flytt
I dar not with her mell
Scho will speik out haue y na doutt
Off all ye devilis in hell.

The leist deuill yat is in hell
Can gif and wyff hir toung
The gritest I yow tell
Cannot do make her dum
Fra scho begin to clatter
Scho will claver quhat scho pleis
Whe devillis can nawayis latt hir
Guid man tak you the waneis
Thocht nighbouris aboutt wis hir toung outt
It dois yame not availl
I say for me scho will chyde will scho die
Scho is best with litill daill

Quod he than tell me plane
Quhat counsaill best ye call
Wuod he gang hame agane
For it is ill over all
Latt thy wyff speik hir fill
Sen scho pairt was borne
For wyffis will haud yair will
Thocht ye and I had sworne
Quhat wuer hir happin hir toung is hir wapin
To speik whan quha may latt hir
Quha may ganestand or contramand
Ane crabit wyff to clatter.

This yai departit plane
The feind flew ouer and hill
The guidman hame agane
And with his wyff baid still
Quod he now I preseave
Thair is na leid in Land
That hes as I wald haiff
His wyff at his command
Fra thine furth ay he leit hir say
And neuer was offendit
Bot as hir wourdis maid quyet bourdis
Quhill death yair dayis endit.

[There follows another, with more elaborate beginning, and very much like the jestbook version above. Next a broadside ballad of c 1680.]

The Dumb Maid:
Or, the Young Gallant Trappan'd.

A Young Man did unto her a Wooing come,
But she pretended much that she was Dumb;
But when they both in Marriage-bands were ty'd,
The Doctors Skill was likewise with her try'd;
The Doctor he set her Tongue on the Run,
She chatters now, and never will have done.

To a new tune called, Dum, Dum. Dum.
OR, I would I were in my own Countrey.

All you that pass along,
Give ear unto my Song,
Concerning a Youth
    that was young, young, young:
And of a Maiden fair,
Few with her might compare,
But alack, and alas, she
    was Dumb, dumb, dumb.

She was beauteous, fresh, and gay
Like the pleasant flowers in May,
And her Cheeks was as round
    as a Plum, plum, plum:
She was neat in every part,
And she stole away his heart,
But alack, and alas, she
    was Dumb, dumb, dumb.

At length this Country Blade,
Wedded this prety Maid,
And he kindly Conducted
    her home, home, home:
Thus in her Beauty bright,
Lay all his whole Delight,
But alack, and alas, she
    was Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Now will I plainly show
What work this Maid could do
Which a patren may be,
    for girls young, young, young:
O she both day and night,
In working took delight,
But alack, and alas, she
    was Dumb, dumb, dumb.

She could Brew & she could bake,
She could wash, wring, and shake,
She could sweep the House
    with a broom, broom, broom;
She could Knit and Sow, & Spin,
And do any such like thing
But alack, and alas, she
    was Dumb, dumb, dumb.

But at last this man did go
The Doctors skil to know,
Saying, Sir can you cure
    a Woman of the Dumb:
O it is the easiest part
That belong unto my art,
For to cure a Woman,
    of the dumb, dumb, dumb.

To the Doctor he did her bring,
And he cut her chatering string,
And he set her Tongue on
    the run, run, run:
In the morning she did rise,
And she fill'd his house with cries,
And she rattled in his ears
    like a drum, drum, drum.

To the Doctor he did go,
With his heart well fill'd with woe
Crying Doctor I am
    undone, done, done:
Now she's turn'd a scolding Wife,
And I am weary of my Life,
Nor I cannot make her hold
Her tongue, tongue, tongue.

The Doctor thus did say,
When she went from my away,
She was perfectly Cured of
    the dumb, dumb, dumb.
But it's beyond the Art of man,
Let him do the best he can,
For to make a scolding Woman
    hold her tongue, tongue, tongue.

So as you to me came,
Reurn you back again,
And take you the Oyl,
    of Hazel strong:
With it anoint her body round,
when she makes the house to sound,
So perhaps you may charm
    her tongue, tongue, tongue.

Traditional versions (Laws Q5, Roud #434) seem to stem from the 19th century version of "The Dumb Wife" on the Bodleian Ballads website. Go to Index
[The earliest song version of a tale in 'Le Moyen de Parvenir', Percy Folio MS, c 1625-40, See Roud #149 for about 50 versions]

The sea Crabb.

Itt: was a man of Affrica had a ffaire wiffe,
ffairest that euer I saw the dayes of my liffe:
with a ging, boyes, ginge! ginge, boyes, ging!
tarradidle, ffarradidle, ging, boyes, ging!

The goodwiffe was bigbellyed, & with a lad,
& euer shee longed ffor a sea crabbe.
ginge &c.

The goodman rise in the morning, & put on his hose,
he went to the sea syde, & ffollowed his nose.
ginge &c.

Sais, "god speed, ffisherman, sayling on the sea,
hast thou any crabbs in thy bote for to sell mee?"
ging &c.

"I haue Crabbs in my bote, one, tow, or three;
I haue Crabbs in thy bote for to sell thee."
ginge &c.

The good man went home, & ere he wist,
& put the Crabb in the Chamber pot where his wiffe pist.
ging &c.

The good wiffe, she went to doe as shee was wont;
vp start the Crabfish, & catcht her by the Cunt.
ging &c.

"Alas! quoth the goodwiffe, "That euer I was borne,
the devil is in the pispott, & has got me on his horne,"
ging &c.

"If thou be a crabb or crabfish by kind,
thoule let thy hold goe with a blast of cold wind."
ging &c.

The good man laid to his mouth, & began to blowe,
thinkeing therby that they Crab wold lett goe.
ging &c.

"Alas!" quoth the good man, "that euer I came hither,
he has ioyned my wiffes tayle & my nose together!"
ging &c.

They good man called his neighbors in with great wonder,
to part his wiues tayle & his nose assunder.
ging &c.

[The earliest traditional text, 1823]

Our gude wife's wi' bairn, and that's of a lad,
And sho's ta'en a greenin' for a fish crab.
With my hey jing, &c.

Up gat our gudeman, and cleekit to his claithes.
And he's awa' to the sea-side, trippin' on his taes.
With my hey jing, &c.

"Haue ye ony crab-fish?" -- "One, two, three."
"Tippence is the price o' them gin you and I'll agree."
With my hey jing, &c.

He's pu'd out his purse, and bought the biggest ane,
He's put it in his nicht mutch, and he's come toddlin' hame.
With my hey jing, &c.

He wadna put it on the dresser, for fylin' a' the dishes,
But he put it in the cnamber pat, where our gude wife --.
With my hey jing, &c.

Up gat the gude wife, an' for to mak' her dam,
Up gat the crab-fish, and took her by the wame.
With my hey jing, &c.

Up gat the gudeman, to redd the fish's claws,
Up gat the crab-fish, and took him by the nose.
With my hey jing, &c.

Steve Roud's folk song index list about 50 traditional versions as Roud #149.

From C. K. Sharpe's A Ballad Book, 1823, comes the following version:

The Crab

Our gude wife's wi' bairn, and that's of a lad,
And sho's ta'en a grennin' for a fish crab,
With my hey jing, &c.

Up gat our gudeman, and cleekit to his claithes,
And he's awa' to the sea-side, trippin' on his taes.
With my hey jing, &c.

"Have ye ony crab-fish?"--"one, two, three."
"Tipence is the price o' them gin you and I'll agree."
With my hey jing, &c.

He's pu'd out his purse, and bought the biggest ane,
He's put it in his nicht mutch, and he's come toddlin' hame.
With my hey jing, &c.

He wadna put it on the dresser, for fylin' a' the dishes,
But he pat it in the chalmer pat, whee our gude wife-- [pishes]
With my hey jing, &c.

Up gat the guid wife, an' for to mak' her dam,
Up gat the crab-fish, and took her be the wame.
With my hey jing, &c.

Up gat the gudeman, to redd the fish's claws,
Up gat the crab-fish, and took him by the nose,
With my hey jing, &c.

Go to Index

Kissing at the Window

From 'A. C. Mery Talys', #26 [A Hundred Merry Tales, 1526.]

Of the gentleman that bare the siege board on his neck.

A chandler, being a widower dwelling at Holborne Bridge in London, had a fair daughter whom a young gentleman of Davy's Inn wooed greatly to have his pleasure of her -- which, by long suit to her made, at the last granted him and 'pointed him to come upon a night to her father's house in the evening and she would convey him into her chamber secretly, which was an inner chamber within her father's chamber. So, she according to the 'pointment, all thing was performed so that he lay with her all night and made good cheer till about four o'clock in the morning -- at which time it fortuned this young gentleman fell a-coughing, which came upon him so sore that he could not refrain.

This young wench, then fearing her father that lay in the next chamber, bad him go put his head in the draught [privy] lest that her father should hear him -- which, after her counsel, rose in his shift and so did. But then, because of the savour of the draught, it caused him to cough much more and louder, that the wench's father heard him and asked of his daughter what man was that that coughed in her chamber.

She answered and said, "Nobody." But yet ever this young man coughed still more and more, whom the father hearing said: "By God's body, whore, thou liest. I will see who is there-" and rose out of his bed.

This wench, perceiving her father rising, came to the gentleman and said: "Take heed, sir, to yourself. My father cometh." This gentleman, suddenly therewith abashed, would have pulled his head out of the draught hole-- which was so very strait [tight] for his head that he pulled the siege board [toilet seat] up therewith. And with it hanging about his neck, he ran upon the father (being an old man, gave him a great fall and bare him down and hurt his arm) and opened the doors and ran into the street with the draught board about his neck towards Davy's Inn as fast as he could.

This wench for fear ran out of her father's house and came not there a month after.

The song version, however, seems to survive only in a late rather expurgated version, "A New and Favourite Song called - Kissing at the Window". 11 verses, commencing "I will sing of a lass and her name it was Nell". 'Haly, Printer South Main Street, Cork', Library of Congress, and that and others on the Bodleian Ballads website. Click This one may find as "The Bonny Wee Window" (Laws O18, Roud# 989) in the Digital Tradition database and elsewhere.

Go to Index



    Of that Renowned Champion the                  

Duke of GRAFTON,

    Who was slain at the siege of Cork, and Royally interred in Westminster-Abby.

To the Tune of, fond Boy: Or, Loves a sweet Passion.        Licensed according to Order

[One woodcut about 3/4 of sheet width showing horse-drawn open hearse bearing a body.]

As two men was walking down by the Sea side,
And the rare D. of Grafton was shot in his side,
They stepped unto him, and thus they did say,
Oh the rare D. of Grafton is now cast away:
They sent him to Portsmouth, with Royal Renown,
And from thence to fair London, being near the crown,

They divided his bowels, and laid at his feet,
Whilst they imbalmed his body with spices so sweet,
Six weeks together they kept him from the clay,
While the nobles appointed his Funeral Day,
twelve lords went before him, six bore him to th' ground
While Drums & trumpets did solemnly sound.

In Westminster-Abbey, it's now called by name,
the rare Duke of Grafton was buried in frame,
they sighed and sobbed, and spent their whole day.
While our Gracious Queen Mary came weeping away,
When the rare Duke of Grafton lay deep in the clay,
then his souldiers went wandering every way.

[Second column]

Besides the whole Nation did seem for to mourn,
Which great Lamentation his Funeral Urn,
for this our brave Heroe, who dy'd in the field,
His stout noble spirit would never once yield,
Unto the proud foe, who withj fear straight did quake,
When that he in their sights his bright sword did but shake.

But Death that grim King now hath took him away,
(And left us in sorrow and sadness this day)
And sent him a while for to lie in the dust,
till Angels shall place him with saints 'monst the Just,
then let the brave Actions and deeds be extol'd,
Of the stout Duke of Grafton that champion so bold.

His brave Noble men with King William did go,
to fight and bring down the proud insolent foe,
they made both the French and the Irish to yield,
And run, leaving thousands of slain in the field,
Where ever they came, the poor Teagues they did kill,
to avenge the brave Grafton's dear blood they did spill.

Printed for Charles Bates at the Sun and Bible in Py-Corner.

In conjunction with the English folk song "Six (or, Three) Dukes went a- fishing" (or, "the Duke of Bedford"), Roud #78, Lucy Broadwood reprinted the 1st, 2nd, 3rd and 5th (of six) verses of "The Noble Funeral of the Renowned Champion the Duke of Grafton" in JFSS #12, p. 179 (1908) from a defective broadside in the British Library (BL 1876 f.1). In an article 'Which Noble Duke?' in Folk Music Journal, 1965, Mary Rowland gave those verses and additional readings from the defective broadside. Given above is a complete copy from a copy of the broadside ballad.

The connection of the Duke of Bedford with the song is a bit of a puzzle. (I dismiss Lucy broadwood's speculation that it has to do with William De La Pole, 1450, as just speculation.) Much in the same style is a broadside ballad of 1586, commencing "We goe to brave buildings of fayre brick and stone", "The poore peoples complaint.. benefactor, the worthy Earl of Bedford". But this is an elegy rather than a description of a funeral.

Ca' Hawkie through the watter.

Hawkie is a bonny coo,
Though she's loth to wade the watter;
While she waits the work'll stand,
So ca' Hawkie through the water.

   Ca' Hawkie, Ca' Hawkie, 
   Ca' Hawkie through the water,
   Hawkie is a sweir beast, 
   And Hawkie winn-na wade the watter.

Hawkie is a pretty coo,
All the children do adore her,
For whe gives them all the milk;
There is none they prize above her.
  Ca' Hawkie &c.

Girls, be not too nice or coy,
If your sweetheart wants to marry,
Ne'er say nayk, but quickly comply,
As 'tos hazardous to tarry.
  Ca' Hawkie &c.

Now, young maids, my counsel take,
Since that it can be no better,
Cast off baith your hose and shoon,
And safely drive her through the water.
  Ca' Hawkie &c.
Play S2:CAHAWK- Ca' Hawkie through the water.

Time's Alteration; Or,
The Old Man's rehearsall, what brave days he knew,
A great while agone, when his Old Cap was new.

To the tune of Ile nere be drunke againe.

When this old cap was new,
'Tis since two hundred yeere;
No malice then we knew,
But all things plentie were:
All friendship now decayes
(Believe me, this is true),
Which was not in those dayes
When this old cap was new.

The nobles of our land
Were much edlighted then
To have at their command
A crue of lustie men;
Which by their coates were knowne,
Of tawnie, red, or blue,
With crests on their sleeves showne,
When this old cap was new.

Now pride hath banisht all,
Unto our land's reproach,
When he whose meanes is small
Maintains both horse and coach;
Instead of an hundred men,
The coach allows but two;
This was no thought on then
When this old cap was new.

Good hospitalitie
Was cherisht then of many;
Now poore men starve and die,
And are not helpt by any:
For charitie waxeth cold,
And love is found in few:
This was not in time of old
When this old cap was new.

Where-ever you travel'd then,
You might meet on the way
Brave knights and gentlemen
Clad in their countrey gray,
That courteous would appeare,
And kindly welcome you:
Nor Puritans then were
When this old cap was new.

Our ladies in those dayes
In civill habit went,
Broad-cloth was then worth prayse,
And gave the best content:
French fashions then wer scorn'd,
Fond fangles then none knew,
Then modiestie women adorn'd,
When this old cap was new.

The second part
To the same tune.

A man might then behold
At Christmas, in each hall,
Good fires to curbe the cold,
And meat for great and small;
The neighbors were friendly bidden,
And all had welcome true;
The poore from the gates were not chidden
When this old cap was new.

Black-jakes to every man
Were fill'd with wine and beere;
No pewter pot nor kanne
In those dayes did appeare:
Good cheare in a noble-man's house
Was counted a seemely shew;
We wanted not brawne nor sowse
When this old cap was new.

We tooke not such delight
In cups of silver fine;
None under the degree of a knight
In plate drunke beere or wine:
Now each mechanicall man
Hath a cup-boord of plate, for a shew,
Which was a rare thing then
When this old cap was new.

Then briberie was unborne,
No simonie men did use,
Christians did usurie scorne,
Devis'd among the Jewes:
Then Lawyers to be feed
At that time hardly knew;
For man with man agreed
When this old cap was new.

No captaine then carowst,
Nor spent poore souldiers' pay;
The were not so abus'd,
As they are at this day:
Of seven dayes they make eight,
To keep them from their due:
Poore souldiers had their right
When this old cap was new.

Which made them forward still
To goe, although not prest:
And going with good will,
Their fortunes were the best;
Our English then in fight
Did forraine foes subdue,
And forst them all to flight
When this old cap was new.

Good save our gracious King,
And send him long to live;
Lord, mischiefe on hem bring
That will not theire almes give,
But seeke to rob the poore
Of that which is their due:
This was not in time of yore
When this old cap was new.

Play: B348- Old Simon the king

[From Whitaker's North Countrie Ballads, 1921

When this old hat was new

Oh, what a poor old man am I,
Come listen to my song,
Provision it is twice as dear
As that when I was young,
As that when I was young, my boys,
And youth stood on my brow,
Oh, how we used to dance and sing
When this old hat was new.
When this old hat was new, my boys,
When this old hat was new
Oh what a swaggering blade was I
When this old hat was new.

Oh, when the goodman of the house,
He did his table grace,
Us servants then did come in
And took our proper place;
The good wife, with a modest face,
Gave every one his due;
And that was in my youthful days,
When this old hat was new.
When this, etc.

Oh, when the harvest did come on
We all went out to shear;
We spent our time in merriment,
With laughter and good cheer.
And when we got our corn all cut
And thrown upon a mow,
The shearers' grog went merrily round,
When this old hat was new.
When this, etc.

Oh, when the Romans of this land
They did their commons give,
'Twas unto those that were their foes
And that they might live;
They live content, they pay their rent,
Their taxes are but few,
And that was in my youthful days
When this old hat was new.
When this, etc,

It's near to four-score years ago,
The truth I do declare;
Oh, how they took each other's words,
And thought it very fair;
Nae bonds nor bill was then required,
Then words were a' so true;
And that was in my youthful days,
When this old hat was new.
When this, etc.

[From J. Ritson's 'The Bishopric Garland', 1784]

A New Song Made on Alice Marley,
An Alewife, at *****, near Chester.

Elsie Marley is grown so fine,
She won't get up to serve her swine,
But lies in bed till eight or nine,
And surely she does take her time.
        And do you ken Elsie Marley, honey?
        The wife who sells the barley, honey;
        She won't get up to serve her swine,
        And do you ken Elsie Marley, honey.

Elsie Marley is so neat,
It is hard for one to walk the street,
But every lad and lass they meet,
Cries do you ken Elsie Marley, honey?

Elsie Marley wore a straw hat,
But now she's gotten a velvet cap,
She may thank the Lambton lads for that,
Do you ken Elsie Marley, honey?

Elsie keeps wine, gin and ale,
In her house below the dale,
Where every tradesman up and down,
Does call and spend his half-a-crown.

The farmers as they come that way,
They drink with Elsie every day,
And call the fiddler for to play
The tune of Elsie Marley, honey.

The pitmen and the keelmen trim,
They drink bumbo made of gin
And for to dance they do begin
The tune of Elsie Marley, honey.

The sailors they will call for flip,
As soon as they come from the ship,
And then begin to dance and skip,
To the tune of Elsie Marley, honey.

Those gentlemen that go so fine,
They'll treat her with a bottle of wine,
And freely they'll sit down and dine
Along with Elsie Marley, honey.

So to conclude these lines I've penned
Hoping there's none I do offend
And thus my merry joke doth end
Concerning Elsie Marley, honey.

Play: S2- ELSIEMR, Alcy Marly See the Opie's 'The Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes' for notes on the song. Roud #3065.

Nancy Dawson

Of all the girls in our town,
The black, the fair, the red, the brown,
That prance and dance it up and down,
   There's none like Nancy Dawson.
Her easy mien, her shape so neat,
She foots, she trips, she looks so sweet,
Her very motion's so complete,
   I die for Nancy Dawson.

See how she comes to give surprise,
With joy and pleasure in her eyes,
To give delight she always tries,
   So means my Nancy Dawson;
Was there no task t'obstruct the way
No Shuter bold, nor House so gay,
A Bet of fifty Pounds I'd lay,
   That I gain'd Nancy Dawson.

See how the Opera takes a run,
Exceeding Hamlet, Lear, and Lun,
Tho' in it there would be no fun,
  Was it not for Nancy Dawson.
Though Beard and Brent charm every night [James Beard
And Female Peachum's justly right,    [characters in the -
And Filch and Lockit please the sight [Beggar's Opera
   'Tis kept up by Nancy Dawson.

See little Davy strut and puff
Pox on the Opera and such stuff
My house is never full enough,
   A curse on Nancy Dawson
Though Gxxxxxk he has had his day [David Garrick] 
And forc'd the Town his laws t'obey
Now Johnny Rich is come in play
   With the help of Nancy Dawson.
     by G. A. Stevens, (1657-60)

Play: B318 Nancy Dawson
    :T1.HTM- T022A, Piss upon the Grass
    :T1.HTM- T022B, Miss Dawson's Hornpipe

Child of Ell/ Bold Soldier/ Earl Brand

The full tale runs something like this: Young man wishes to elope with his lady love. Her father (or guardian uncle) disapproves of him, and lock her in. He rescues her [breaking locks and bolts in one version] and they leave on horseback. Father (uncle) follows with 7 sons (cousins). Young man kills all jsi lady love's brothers (cousins) in swordfight. He readies to attack father (uncle), but she begs him to hold his hand. She says father (uncle) may get her more brothers (cousins), but she'll never get another father (uncle). He desists and peace is made between survivors, and couple proceeds to get married.

Here's the "Child of Ell" fragment from the Percy folio MS.

Sayce "Christ thee saue, good child of Ell!
christ saue thee & thy stedde!

"my father sayes he will noe Meate,
nor his drinke shall doe him noe good,
till he haue slaine the child of Ell
& haue seene his hafts blood."

I wold I were in my sadle sett,
& a Mile sout of the towne,
I did not care for your father
& all his merrymen!

I wold I were in my sadle sett,
& a little space him froe,
I did not care for your father
& all that long him to!"

he leaned ore his saddle bow
to kisse this Lady good;
the teares that went them 2 betweene
were blend water & blood.

he sett himselfe on one good steed,
this lady of one palfray.
& sett his little horne to his mouth,
& roundlie he rode away.

he had not ridden past a mile,
a mile out of the towne,
her father was readye with her 7 brether,
he said, "sett thou my daughter downe!
for it ill beseemes thee, thou false churles sonne,
to carry her forth of this towne!"

"but thou lyest, Sir John the Knight!
thou now dost Lye of me;
a knight me gott, & a lady me bore;
soe neuer did none by thee.

but light now downe, myy lady gay,
light down & hold my horsse,
whilst I & your father & your brether
doe play vs at this crosse;

but light mow downe, my owne trew love,
& meekly hold my steede,
whilst your father [& your brether] bold

Cf. preceeding. The following ballad was entered in the Stationers' Register on Sept. 5, 1631.

A constant Wife, a kinde Wife,
A louing Wife, and a fine Wife,
Which giues content unto a mans life.

To the tune of Lie lulling beyond thee.

Young men and maids lend me your aids,
to sing of my deare Sweeting:
It showes how Fortune hath betrayd's
and often spoild our meeting.
She likely was for to be rich,
and I a man but meanly,
Wharefore her friends at me did grutch,
and vsde me most vnkindly.

Her constancy I wll declare,
wherein she proued loyall:
But few with her that will compare
when they are put to tryall.
Her friends against her did contend,
because she lent me fauour,
They said, I quickly all would spend,
if that I might but haue her.

They did conuey her from my sight,
because she should exempt me;
I could not find my hearts delight,
which sore did discontent me.
I traueld over craggy rockes,
ore mountaine, hills, and valleys,
But she was kept from me with lockes,
onely through spight and malice.

But Loue that conquers Kings and Queens,
herin did shew vs fauour,
It brought to passe, and wrought the meanes,
in what place I I should haue her.
She had an Vncle did detaine,
and keepe her presence from me:
Whom I was very like t'haue slaine,
because he so did wrong me.

I boldly came where he did dwell,
and asked for my Sweeting:
Theyn said of her they could not tell,
which was to me sad greeting.
But presently shee heard my voyce,
and call['d] me at her windor. [sic]
O I would come to thee my choise,
but doors and lockes doe hinder.

Whereat amazed I did stand,
to heare her make that answer:
I drew my sword into my hand,
and straight the house did enter,
And then I made the lockes to flie,
and doores in pieces shatter:
I vow'd to haue her company,
and quickly I came at her.

Her Vncle and some of his men,
did after present follow:
Who said I should ne'r out againe,
but in my blood should wallow:
But with some hurt done on both sides,
I brought my Sweet-heart from them,
Young men to win yourselues such Brides,
fight for to ouercome them.

Then ioyn'd we hands in Hymens bands
to loue and liue together,
She lov'd me not for house nor lands,
for I had none of either.
Her loue was pure, and doth endure,
and so shall mine for euer:
Till death doth vs so much iniure,
as part vs from each other.

The second part, to the same tune.

With hand and heart I will impart,
the praises of my Sweeting,
Now welcome ioyes, and farewell smart,
blest be the time of meeting
Wih my Sweet-heart and onely Deare,
in whom is all my pleasure.
The like of her doth not appeare,
she is so blest a treasure.

Oh happy be the time and houre,
that ere I saw her feature:
Sure heauens blisse on me did showre,
to send me such a creature.
She is so pleasing to my minde,
the like was neuer any,
She's vertuous, wise and very kinde,
she farre surpasseth many.

Her comely feature may compare
with any in Towne or Citie,
For courtesie she is most rare,
likewise she is full of pitie.
No vertue that can giue content
to any eartly creature,
But God to her the same hath sent,
to please the will of Nature.

Her golden locks like threads of gold,
her eyes like stars doe glister,
Her cheekes like Rose and Lillies fould,
she may be Venus sister.
Shee hath a handsome dumpled chin,
her necke shines like the chrystall:
Her like hath seldome times been seene,
she seemeth so celestiall.

Her armes and shoulders are compleat
her brests like Alabaster;
Her waist and body is as neat,
there's none that ere surpast her,
Her eloquence giues such content
to all that heare her phrases,
The freely they'll giue their consents
to yeeld her earthly praises.

Her Lilly hand is at command,
to doe me any seruice:
And quickly she will vnderstand
a matter whatsoere it is.
If I bid goe shee will not stay,
to worke any displeasure,
But presently she goes her way,
And is not this a treasure.

Her parts blow Ile not descry,
but theym are verry neat ones,
A dainty foot and leg, and thigh,
as caan be made of flesh and bones.
Shee is so perfect in her parts,
than many were inflamed,
On her they wholly set their hearts,
and at her fully aimed.

Thus to conclude and end my song,
I wish well to the Female,
Or else I sure should doe them wrong,
and proue my selfe a tell-tale.
Young men adue, be kind [and true,]
vnto your onely Sweeting.
Observe your time, you need not rue,
nor curse the hour of meeting.

London Printed for F. C. [Francis Coles]

Play: B284- Lye lulling beyond thee

Go to Index

Cf. preceeding

The Master-piece of Love-Songs.

[by Abraham Miles, "The Bold Soldier/ Dragoon", Laws M27]

A Dialogue betwixt a bold Keeper and a Lady gay,
He woo'd his Lords Daughter and carried the day,
But soon after marriage was forc'd for to fight,
With his Lord and six gentlemen for his own right,
He cut them, and hew'd them, and paid them with blows,
And made them his friends that before were his foes.

To the tune of, The week before Easter, the days long and clear. [Traditional, but no 17th century tune for 'The Week before Easter.]

It was a bold keeper
that chased the deer,
Of a stouter bold spirit,
you never did hear.
And he loved a lady
of beauty most clear,
And now you shall hear of his wooing.

O pitty fair lady,
the suit which I move,
For I'm deep in affection,
and tossed in love:
For you are the Lady,
the turtle and dove,
Wheron I have cast my affection.

O keeper forbear,
I shall thus answer thee,
I am a match for a lord
of a high degree,
For my birth and yours,
they not equal be,
Therefore keeper forbear your wooing.

This repulse it maketh,
me sadly to grieve,
And true 'tis we all came
from Adam and Eve,
One loving word to my life,
is a reprieve;
Though I am linked fast in Cupid's prison.

O why should you say
you're a prisoner to me,
O hold forbear keeper
for that may not be:
We both may have matches
fitter for each degree;
Then forbear, and take this for an answer!

No not for an answer,
that I shall it take,
And yet this denial,
make my heart break,
And I shall lay down,
my life at the stake
To obtain the favour of my lady.

It is a meer madness
your life to lay down,
What will people say?
there's and end of a clown;
That past many dangers
till fortune did frown;
And now died a pretended lover.

The name of a clown
in my heart I do scorn,
Being noble descended
And a gentleman born
Yet I am a keeper
that must be forlorn;
Except you can love me fair lady.

Well keeper I perceive
thou hast a good heart
Well thou art compacted,
in every part,
If my lord did know
we should suffer smart,
My father would be so offended.

Lady if you will consent
to be my bride,
I will gird my sword
and buckler by my side;
and then to the church
in private we'l ride:
Where we will be married fair lady.

She then gave consent
and away they did ride,
The valiant bold keeper,
and his lovely bride,
Not fearing of danger
what ever betide
For she was a valiant young lady.

Being married, they turn'd
back speedily,
And riding along
her father did espy;
Alack quoth the lady
one or both shall die,
Fear nothing quoth the keeper, fair lady.

The lord he came posting
so fast as he could hie,
And six lusty gentlemen
for company,
Quoth he to the keeper
villain thou shalt dye
For deluding away my fair daughter.

Come on, quoth the keeper,
'tis no time to prattle
I see by your sword
your prepar'd for battle:
With his sword and buckler
he made them to rattle:
The lady did hold the horse for the keeper.

He cut them and hew'd them
on the place he did stand;
O then, quothe the lord
bold keeper hold thy hand;
If you'l give your daughter
thirty thousand in land
You shall not dye by the hand of the keeper.

Keeper, quoth the lady
'tis too small a portion:
Peace, quoth the lord, daughter
let your will be done;
I will love thy husband,
and thee ever own,
Thus a keeper gained a fair lady.
By Abraham Miles

Printed for John Clark, William Thackeray, and Thomas Passinger. [1684-6].

This seems to be the earliest extant copy, but Miles time was the two decades earlier. There are many copies of this broadside, all later than that above, and without the attribution to Miles. The text here is from a loose sheet in the Pepys library, first published in 1987. If you think the language of this piece seems stilted, I can only say that that is Abraham Miles for you.

This seems to be the earliest extant copy, but Miles time was the two decades earlier. There are many copies of this broadside, all later than that above, and without the attribution to Miles. The text here is from a loose sheet in the Pepys library, first published in 1987. If you think the language of this piece seems stilted, I can only say that that is Abraham Miles for you.

Another version has the hero a sailor, "The Seaman's Renown", Roxburghe Ballads, VII, P. 559.

In a nonsense medley in the first English songbook, Bassus, 1530, we have the line: "tomlyn whether go yow now.

The song of "Thom of lyn" was mentioned in The Complaynt of Scotland, 1549, but no text was given.

In Moros' medley in W. Wager's play, The Longer Thou Livest, 1569, we have the single verse:

Tom-a-lin and his wife and his wife's mother,
They went over a bridge together;
The bridge was broken and they fell in.
The devil go with you all, quoth Tom-a-lin.

[from J. Ritson's The North Country Chorister, 1810]

Tommy Linn

Tommy Linn is a Sotchman born,
His head is bald, and his beard is shorn,
He has a cap made of a hare skin;
An elder man is Tommy Linn.

Tommy Linn has no boots to put on,
But two calves skins, and the hair it was on;
They are open at the side and the water goes in;
Unwholesome boots, says Tommy Linn.

Tommy Linn has a mare of the gray,
Lam'd of all four, as I hear say;
It has the farcy all over the skin:
It's a running yade, says Tommy Linn.

Tommy Linn no bridle had to put on,
But two mouses tails, and them he put on;
Tommy Linn had no saddle to put on,
But two urchin skins, and them he put on.

Tommy Linn went to yonder hall,
Went hipping and skipping among them all;
They ask'd what made him come so boldly in,
I'm come a wooing, says Tommy Linn.

Tommy Linn went to church to be wed,
The bride followed after, she hung down her head;
She hung down her cheeks, she hung down her chin;
This is a gloomy quean, say Tommy Linn.

Tommy Linns daughter sat on the 'stair',
Oh, dear father, gin I be not fair!
They stairs they broke, and she fell in;
Your are fair enough now, say Tommy Linn.

Tommy Linns daughter sat on the 'brig',
Oh, dear father, gin I be not trig!
The bridge it broke, and she fell in,
You are trig enough now, say Tommy Linn.

Tommy Linn, and his wife, and his wifes mother,
They all fell into the fire together;
They that lay undermost got a hot skin;
We are not enough, say Tommy Linn.

[From The Universal Songster, I, p. 416, 1828.]

Tutheree OO, and Tan.

[by] C. Dibdin

In Dundee there lived a carl, fu' blithe and merry;
    In Dundee there lived a bonny carl;
A scolding spousy was his lot,
Wha mugg'd hersel' and often got
        Tutheree oo, and tan.

She led him a life fu' wae and weary,
    Till the carl he vowed himsel' he'd hang;
And would have done't, but thought him first,
Of ends, a rope's end was the worst.
        Tutheree oo, and tan.

This carl's wife she did na' play her hubby fairly,
    Else was Andrew Macintosh belied,
She made her husband's heart ache through,
And then she made his head ache too.
        Tutheree oo, and tan.

Wife, said he, of life I'ze tired, and will gang drown me,
    She replied, gude wives ne'er contradict;
But should my spirit come, said he;
O, I'm quite spirit-proof, said she.
        Tutheree oo, and tan.

At the pond, said he, if my poor heart should fail me,
    Will you run behind, and push me in?
Says she a hard part 'tis to play,
But 'tis my duty to obey!
        Tutheree oo, and tan.

By a pond he stood that was deep full a fathom,
    On a hill stood she-- the word he gave;
Down galloping she came, when he
Just stepped aside, and in popp'd she.
        Tutheree oo, and tan.

[From the Shirburn MS via Clark's Shirburn Ballads

A merry new ballad, of a countrye wench and a clowne.

To a fine tune

All in a garden greene,
  where late I layde me downe
Vppon a banke of camemeyle,
where I sawe vpon a style,
  sitting, a countrey Clowne,
howldinge within his armes
  a comelye countrey mayde:
courting her with all his skyll,
working her vnto his will,
  Thus to her he sayd:-
'Kisse me in kindness,
    'sweet hart' quoth he.
'Syr, not for twenty 
    'good pounds,' quoth she.
He sayd 'Saye no soe.'
She sayd 'Let me goe.'
'Staye, sweet hart,' quoth he.
'Fye! how you ruffle me.'
'What a lyfe is this:-
'Lord, how I love thee,
'sweet hart,' quoth she.
'Fye for shame, I saye:
'take your hand awaye.'
'Sweet,' quoth he, 'be styll;
'Though against thy will,
   'I must haue a Kysse.
'Sweete, I'le forsake my holde
  'yf thow will tarrye styll;
'And here I make a vowe to thee
'thow shalt not be toucht, for me,
  'more then thy good will.'
'Hands off, for shame!' she sayd,
  'In fayth, yow are to blame.
'Yf any body should vs see,
'what a blemish would it be
  'to my honest name.'
'Syt but a lyttle,
   'by me, on this style;
'and I will bringe thee
   'on thy way a mile.'
There she sate her downe
by this lovely Clowne.
'Sweete!' quoth he,
'Wilt thow wed with me?'
  'No! good fayth, not I~'
'Let me but laye
'my hand upon thy knee.'
'Fye!' quoth the bony lasse,
'That may not be.'
'Sweete come kisse me then.'
'Mauydes must kisse no men:
'Fye! for shame I say.'
'yf yow say me nay,
   'Then for love I dye.'

'Lord, how yow hurt my hand;
  'for god's sake let me goe:
'By my fayth and my troth,
'I did little thinke, forsooth!
  'yow would haue servd me so.'
'Graunt me my suite;' quoth he,
  'and then I'le let the goe:
'I praye thee, doe me not denye,
'gentle sweeting, but say I!'
  Styll she answered 'No!'
'Let me but lay
   my hand vpon thy knee.'
'No! let me goe.
    'I must be gone,' quoth she.
'If my mother knew
'that I were with yow,
'Woe should be my part.'
'Stay!' quoth he, 'sweet hart!
   'she shall never know.'
Then did he carrye her
  behynd a tree.
What they did there
  is unknown to me;
But I hard her say,
when she caame awaye,
making low curtsye,
'Once again,' quoth she,
   'kysse me ere yow goe.'

 Then the[y] went hand in hand,
  a furlong and more;
Where, as hey parted lovinglye
She put her finger in the eye,
  and did weepe full sore.
Sighing, 'Sweet hart,' whe sayd,
  'Since now yow haue me won
'To yeeld and let you haue your will,
'if yow would not love me styll,
  'I were quite vndone.'
'Sweete!' then quoth he,
   'I pray thee be content.'
'If this be knowne,' quoth she,
   'I am sure I shall be shent.'
'Hie thee home,' quoth he,
'for I dow sware to thee
'long it shall not be
'ere I come to thee
   'to hear what yow wilt saye.'
Lore, how her colour
  went and came for shame.
As other mayds
  having done the same.
Though they make a showe,
and say often 'No!'
they will take it, tho
    they crye 'fye away!'

PLAY: B007 in file BM0


Morag/Marion (Scots) or Moreen/Maureen (Irish) na Ghiberlain

'The Charms of Melody', #33, Dublin, c 1800, reprints a song sung as Epilogue to J. S. Dodd's play, 'The New Rehearsal', 1777. The song is "Larry O'Shaughnessy's Tour Thro' Dublin', in which each verse is sung to a new tune. The verse commencing "I to a Masquerade went" was to be sung to "Maureen-na Gibberlaun". Much Earlier tune is: "More W Inghean Ghiberlan" in Oswald's 'Curious Collection', 1740, and 'Caledonian Pocket Companion', bk. 1, c 1743, "Muire 'N Inghean Ghiberlan" in the MacFarlane MSS, c 1740. Capt. S. Fraser in 'The Airs and Melodies Peculiar to the Highlands of Scotland and the Isles',1816, gives a version of tune as "Mor Nighean a' Ghiobarlain", which he translates to "Marion, the Gaberlunzie man's daughter". His setting of the tune is poor. We also have a different tune, "Moar Nein I Giberlan" in Aird's 'Airs', II, #166, 1782. [no other copy or title known to me] Different yet again is a very popular tune, under a most unfamiliar title, "Moirin Ni Ghiberlain", in J. Walker, Historical Remains of the Irish Bards, 2nd ed. 1818. This would appear to be the source of the identification in O'Neill's, 'The Music of Ireland' #277, of the Scots' tune, the "The Gimblet" Oswald's CPC bk. 10, also "Old Lea Rig"), but cited by O'Neill only by Irish titles (Little Mary Cullinan, Rose Tree). Maybe this is another: A bawdy song to "Push about the Jorum" is "The Summer Morn", p. 49 in Legman's edition of 'The Merry Muses of Caledonia", 1799/1800. G. Legman notes p. 177, that Burns gave the tune in his holograph as "The Tither Morn" (song and tune SMM #345). But this is "The Moreen" for Thomas Moore's "The Minstrel Boy" and is given from a MS of 1787 as "Moreen" in the Complete Petrie collection as #1067. The Song: From D. I. Harker's 'Songs from the Manuscript Collection of John Bell', Surtees Society, 1985. Mallie's Gaberlan Malie she's a raking blade, She's travell'd all this country round She's traveled England over, but never was her bottom found Her first lad was a Cobbler, As he Sat working at his s[t]ool He gave a wink to Malie, and loudly on him she did call She say[s] my jolly Cobbler, I take ye for to be the man That's fit to set the cap upon my auld Malie's Gabralan O yes indeed & that I can and he pulls out his pegginal [pegging awl He laid it into Malie's hand And she took it over small He laid it into Mallie's hand, and it was more than she could span She whap't it to the bottom o' my auld Malie's Gaberalan The next he was a weaver that weav'd the orange & the blue He danc'd a jig to Mallie that none of all the rest could do The shuttle went so nimbly Hee pick'd it in from end to end Hee ne'r could find the bottom o' my auld Malie's Gaberlan We'll weigh her Anchor fairly, we neither will fear rock nor sand We'll cleanse her bottom clearly --O my auld Mallie's Gaberlan Other texts, Roud #7269: "Mairins Giberlin" 'The Greig-Duncan Folk Song Collection', (VII) #1434 (noted 1905): "Marie from Gippursland", 'Tinkers and Travelers', by Sharon Gmelch, Dublin, 1975. [Song collected by Pat and Jim Carroll, 1973-5] [See Roud # 7269 for phono version of this] I don't have "The Jolly Weaver" version in JIFSS #4, 20. The song above is similar to "Black Joke" (in the Scarce Songs 1 file), and is of about the same date. Was one modeled on the other? Play T1:T015A- More W Inghean Ghiberlan T1:T015B- Muire 'N Inghean Ghiberlan T1:T015C- Moar Nein I Giberlan The 'Irish' tune under earlier titles: Play T1:T024A- The Gimblet [Scots tune] T1:T024B- Rose Tree [Irish title] Maybe: T1:T030A- The Moreen T1:T030B- Moreen T1:T030C- The Tither Morn From The Scots Musical Musuem, V, #411, 1796. Song and tune contributed by Robert Burns.

Tam Lin

O I forbid you, maidens a' That wear gowd or your hair, To come or gae by Carterhaugh, For young Tam Lin is there. There's nane that gaes by Carterhaugh But that they leave him a wad; Either their rings, or green mantles, Or else hteir maidenhead. Janet has belted her green kirtle, A little aboon her knee, And she has broded her yellow hair A little aboon her bree. And she's awa to Carterhaugh As fast as she can hie, Where she came to Carterrhaugh Tom-Lin was at the well. And there she fand his steed standing But away was himsel, Sha had na pu'd a a double rose A rose but only twa, Till up then started young Tam-Lin, Says, Lady, thou's pu' nae mae. Why pu's thou the rose, Janet, And why breaks thou the wand! Or why comes thou to Carterhaugh Withoutten my command? Carterhaugh it is my ain, My daddie gave it to me. I'll come and gang to Carterhaugh And ask nae leave of thee, Janet has kilted her green kirtle, A little aboon her knee. And she has snooded her yellow hair, A little aboon her bree, And she is to her father's ha, As fast as she can hie. Four and twenty ladies fair, Were playing at the ba, And out then cam the fair Janet, Ance the flower amang them a'. Four and twenty ladies fair, Were paying at the chess, And out then cam the fair Janet, As green as onie glass. Out then spak an auld grey knight, Lay o'er the castle wa'. And says, Alas, fair Janet for thee, But we'll be blamed a'. Haud your tongue, ye auld fac'd knight, Some ill death may ye die, Father my bairn on whom I will, I'll father nane on thee. Out then spak her father dear, And he spak meek and mild, And ever alas, sweet Janet, he says, I think thou goes wi' child. It that I gae wi' child father, Mysel mun bear the blame: There's ne'er a laird about your ha, Shall get the bairn's name. If my Love was an earthly knight, As he's an elfin Grey; I wad na gie my ain true-love For nae lord that ye hae. The steed that my true-love rides on, Is lighter than the wind; Wi' siller he is shod before, Wi' burning gowd behind. Janet has kilted her green kirtle A little aboon her knee; And she has snooded her yellow hair A little aboon her brie; Ane she's awa to Carterhaugh As fast as she can hie When she cam to Carterhaugh, Tam-Lin was at the well; And there she's fand his steed standing, But away was himsel, She had na pu'd a double rose, A rose but only twa, Till up then started young Tam-Lin, Says, Lady thou pu's nae mair Why pu's thou the rose, Janet, Amang the groves sae green, And a' to kill the bonie babe That we gat us between. O tell me, tell me, Tam-Lin she says, For's sake that died on tree, If e'er ye was in holy chapel, Or Christendom did see. Roxburgh he was my grandfatther, Took me with him to bide And ance it fell upon a day That wae did me betide, And ance it fell upon a day, A cauld day and a snell. When we were frae the hunting come That frae my horse I fell. The queen o' Fairies she caught me, In yon green hill to dwell, And pleasant is the fairy-land; But, an eerie tale to tell! Ay the end of seven years We pay a tiend to hell. I am sae fair and fu' o' flesh I'm fear'd it be mysel. But the night is Halloween, lady, The morn is Hallowday; Then win me, win me, and ye will, For weel I wat ye may. Just at the mirk and midnight hur' The fairy folk will ride; And they that wad their truelove win, At Milecross they maun bide. But how shall I thee ken Tam-Lin, Or how my truelove know.[?] Amang sae mony unco knights, The like I never saw. O first let pass the black Lady, And syne let past the brown; But quickly run to the milk white steed, Pu ye his rider down. For I'll rode on the milk-white steed, And ay nearest the town. Because I was an earthly knight They gie me that renown. My right hand will be glov'd lady, My left hand will be bare Crokt up shall my bonnet be, And kaim'd down shall my hair, And thae's the takens I give thee, Nae doubt I will be there. They'll turn me in your arms lady Into an esp and adder, But hald me fast and fear me not, I am your bairn's father. They'll turn me to a bear sae grim, And then a lion bold, But hold me fast and fear me not, As ye shall love your child. Again they'll turn me in your arms, To a red het gaud of airn. But hold me fast and fear me not, I'll do to you nae harm. And last they'll turn me in your arms, Into the burning lead; The throw me into well water, O throw me in wi' speed. And then I'll be in your ain true love, I'll turn a naked knight. Then cover me wi' your green mantle, And cover me out o' fight. Gloomy, gloomy was the night, And eerie was the way, As fair Jenny in her green mantle To Milecross she did gae. About the middle o' the night, She heard the bridles ring; This lady was as glad at that As any earthly thing. First she let the black pass by, And syne she let the brown; But quickly she ran to the milk white sted, And pu'd the rider down. Sae weel she minded what he did say And young Taam Lin did win; Syne cover'd him wi' her green mantle As blythe's a bird in spring. Out then spak the queen o' fairies, Out of a bush o broom; Them that has gotten young Tam Lin, Has gotten s stately groom. For she' ta'en awa the boniest knight In a' my companie, But had I kend Tam Lin, she says, What now this night I see. I wad hae taen out thy twa grey een, And put in twa een o' tree. ............................... Play: S2.ABC- TAMLIN
[From a songbook of 1819]

Jeanie's Black Ee.

The sun raise so rosey, the grey hills adorning,
    Light sprung the lavrock and mounted sae high;
When true to the tryst o' blythe May's dewy morning,
    My Jeanie cam linking out owre the green lea.
        To mark her impatience
        I crap 'mang the brakens,
    Aft, aft to the kend gate she turn'd her black ee;
        The lying down dowylie,
        Sigh'd by eht willow tree,
'Ha me mohatel na dousku me.'*

Saft thro' the green birks I sta' to my jewel,
    Streik'd on sprin's carpet aneath the saugh tree;
'Think na, dear lassie, thy Willie's been cruel--'
    'Ha me mohatel na dousku me.'
        Wi' love's warm sensations
        I've mark'd your impatience,
    Lang hid 'mang the brakens I watch'd your black ee;
        You're no sleeping, pawkie Jean,
        Open thy lovely een---'
'Ha me mohatel na dousku me.'

'Bright is the whin's bloom, ilk green knowe adorning,
    Sweet is the primrose bespangl'd wi' dew;
Yonder comes Peggy to welcome May morning,
    Dark wave her haffet-locks o'er her white brow.
        O, light, light she's dancing deen,
        On the smooth gowany green,
    Barefit and kilted half up to her knee;
        While Jeanie is sleeping still,
        I'll rin and sport my fill.'
'I was asleep, and ye've waken'd me.'

        'I'll rin and whirl her round;
        Jeanie is sleeping sound;
Kiss her and clasp her fast, nae ane can see;
        Sweet, sweet's her hinny mou!'--
        'Will, I'm no sleeping now;
I was asleep, but ye wakened me.'
         Laughing till like to drap,
        Swith to my Jean I lap,
Kiss'd her ripe roses and bless'd her black ee;
        And ay since whane'er we met,
        Sing, for the sound is sweet,
'Ha me mohatel na dousku me.'

* 'I am asleep and don't waken me.'

[I don't know what is wrong with that last verse. I've seen Hector MacNeill credited with the song here, but haven't verified it. The burden line here is the title of the tune. The tune was known under various phonetic Gaelic spellings, both Scots and Irish, and under the English title of "Past twelve/ one O'Clock on a Cold Frosty Morning". I haven't found the song from which the English title is taken. The strange title "Thamma Hulla" for Thomas Moore's song 'Like the bright lamp,' in the third issue of Irish Melodies [1810] is from Smollet Holden's 'A Collection of Old Established Irish Quick and Slow Tunes', c 1805. The earliest known copy of the tune is in a Scots manuscript, c 1710. Many Scots and Irish copies of the tune are listed in the Irish Tunes Index at (as "I am asleep"). According to Nicholas Carolan in the 1986 reprint of the Neals' 'A Collection of the Most Celebrated Irish Tunes', extant texts are not as old as the tune.]

How do we get from the first tune below to Francis McPeake's
"Will you go lassie go"? Evolution.

First tune, 1740. No verses of that date known:
  Play S2: BRAESBAL1- Braes o' Balquhidder

Dance "Braes o' Balquhidder", to the 1740 calls as follows:

FIRST Couple Right hands across with 2nd Couple quite round and
cast off 2nd Couple's place. first Couple right hands across with
3rd Couple and cast off quite round, and cast off below them.
Lead up to the left, and cast off; down thire[?] the 3rd Couple,
and cast up. SETT across & turn. Lead out at the sides, & turn in
the middle.

Here's what Jack Campin discovered in a rare book of 1796, song
and tune: 

The Braes o' Bowhether. 

Now the day's growin' lang lass, 
an' sweet shines the weather,
an' we'll owre a' the hills,
to the Braes o' Bowhether.
Amang the Glens an' Rashy dens,
I'll prize thee without measure,
Within my arms, wi' a' thy charms,
I'll clasp my lovely treasure,
In sweetest Love, our time will move,
wi' mair than earthly pleasure;
By the little limpid streams,
On the Braes o' Bowhether.

An' I'll ay loe thee dearly,
Ilk day wes' forgather,
Syne we'll row on the fog,
By the Braes o' Bowhether;
To Pipe or Flute, when time will suit,
We'll dance like ony feather,
An', skip the knowes where Claver grows,
or stray amang the Heather;
Ay free frae strife in sic a life,
There, weary shall we never,
By the limpid little streams,
On the Braes o' Bowhether.

Play S2:BRAESBAL2- The Braes o' Bowhether
     S2:BRAESBAL4- Braes o' Balquhidder
Robert Tannahil seems to have known a bit of the old song, but he
either didn't know, or didn't like it's tune. From Graham's
'Songs of Scotland' we get Robert Tannahill's "The Braes of

Will you go lassie, go,
To the Braes o' Balquhidder?
Where the blaeberries grow,
'Mang the bonnie bloomin' heather;
Where the deer and the rae,
Lightly bounding together,
Sport the lang summer day
'Mang the braes o' Balquhidder,
[Cho:] Will you go lassie go,
To the braes o' Balquhidder?
Where the blaeberries grow,
'Mang the bonnie bloomin' heather.

I will twine thee a bower
By the clear siller fountain,
An' I'll cover it o'er
Wi' the flowers o' the mountain:
I will range through the wilds,
An' the deep glens sae dreary,
An' return wi' their spoils
To the bower o' my deary.
Will ye go, &c.
When the rude winty win'
Idly raves round our dwellin',
An' the roar o' the linn
On the night breeze is swellin',
Sae merrily we'll sing,
As the storm rattles o'er us,
Till the dear sheeling ring
Wi' the light liltin' chorus.
Will ye go, &c.

Now the summer time is in prime,
Wi' the flowers richly bloomin',
An' the wild mountain thyme
A' the moorlands perfumin',
To our dear native scenes
Let us journey together,
Where glad innocence reigns
'Mang the braes o' Balquhidder.
Will ye go, &c.

Graham said the tune was in Capt. Fraser's 'Highland Melodies',
1816, #77, with slight differenes from that (later) in R. A.
Smith's 'Scottish Minstrel' I, p. 49 (I don't have). 

Capt. Fraser's heading to the tune is: 

Bochuidear      Balquhidder. As performed by Major Logan

Play S2: BRAESBAL3-Bochuidear...Balquhidder. 

(Jimmy McPeake) 1. Oh, the summer time is coming, And the trees are sweetly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme grows around the blooming heather. [Cho: Will you go, lassie, go? And we'll all go together To pull wild mountain thyme All around the blooming heather, Will you go lassie, go? 2. I will build my love a bower By yon clear and crystal fountain, And on it I will pile All the flowers of the mountain. 3. If my true love, she won't have me, I will surely find another To pull wild mountain thyme All around the blooming heather. 4. Oh, the summer time is coming And the trees are sweetly blooming And the wild mountain thyme Grows around the blooming heather. Transcribed by Sondra Stigen