Read Ebook: A Book of Old Ballads — Complete by Nichols Beverley Editor

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Ebook has 1397 lines and 63777 words, and 28 pages

Unless you can write the words "Now then, boys, all together", at the top of a ballad, it is not really a ballad at all. That may sound a sweeping statement, but it is true.

In the present-day music-halls, although they have fallen from their high estate, we should find a number of these songs which seem destined for immortality. One of these is "Don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore."

Do you remember it?

Don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore! Mrs. Moore, oh don't 'ave any more! Too many double gins Give the ladies double chins, So don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore!

The whole of English "low life" is in that lyric. It is as vivid as a Rowlandson cartoon. How well we know Mrs. Moore! How plainly we see her ... the amiable, coarse-mouthed, generous-hearted tippler, with her elbow on countless counters, her damp coppers clutched in her rough hands, her eyes staring, a little vacantly, about her. Some may think it is a sordid picture, but I am sure that they cannot know Mrs. Moore very well if they think that. They cannot know her bitter struggles, her silent heroisms, nor her sardonic humour.

Lyrics such as these will, I believe, endure long after many of the most renowned and fashionable poets of to-day are forgotten. They all have the same quality, that they can be prefaced by that inspiring sentence, "Now then, boys--all together!" Or to put it another way, as in the ballad of George Barnwell,

All youths of fair England That dwell both far and near, Regard my story that I tell And to my song give ear.

That may sound more dignified, but it amounts to the same thing!

It has always seemed to me that we teach history in the wrong way. We give boys the impression that it is an affair only of kings and queens and great statesmen, of generals and admirals, and such-like bores. Thousands of boys could probably draw you a map of many pettifogging little campaigns, with startling accuracy, but not one in a thousand could tell you what the private soldier carried in his knapsack. You could get sheaves of competent essays, from any school, dealing with such things as the Elizabethan ecclesiastical settlement, but how many boys could tell you, even vaguely, what an English home was like, what they ate, what coins were used, how their rooms were lit, and what they paid their servants?

For example, the famous ballad "John Anderson my Jo" seems, at first sight, to be innocent of any polemical intention. But it was written during the Reformation when, as Percy dryly observes, "the Muses were deeply engaged in religious controversy." The zeal of the Scottish reformers was at its height, and this zeal found vent in many a pasquil discharged at Popery. It caused them, indeed, in their frenzy, to compose songs which were grossly licentious, and to sing these songs in rasping voices to the tunes of some of the most popular hymns in the Latin Service.

"John Anderson my Jo" was such a ballad composed for such an occasion. And Percy, who was more qualified than any other man to read between the lines, has pointed out that the first stanza contains a satirical allusion to the luxury of the popish clergy, while the second, which makes an apparently light reference to "seven bairns", is actually concerned with the seven sacraments, five of which were the spurious offspring of Mother Church.

Thus it was in a thousand cases. The ballads, even the lightest and most blossoming of them, were deep-rooted in the soil of English history. How different from anything that we possess to-day! Great causes do not lead men to song, nowadays they lead them to write letters to the newspapers. A national thanksgiving cannot call forth a single rhyme or a single bar of music. Who can remember a solitary verse of thanksgiving, from any of our poets, in commemoration of any of the victories of the Great War? Who can recall even a fragment of verse in praise of the long-deferred coming of Peace?

Very deeply significant is it that our only method of commemorating Armistice Day was by a two minutes silence. No song. No music. Nothing. The best thing we could do, we felt, was to keep quiet.

MANDALAY

'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen, An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot, An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot: Bloomin' idol made o' mud-- Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd-- Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud! On the road to Mandalay...

But that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away, An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay; An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells: 'If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else.' No! you won't 'eed nothin' else But them spicy garlic smells, An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells; On the road to Mandalay...

I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones, An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones; Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand, An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand? Beefy face an' grubby 'and-- Law! wot do they understand? I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land! On the road to Mandalay ...

THE FROLICKSOME DUKE

THE TINKER'S GOOD FORTUNE

Now as fame does report a young duke keeps a court, One that pleases his fancy with frolicksome sport: But amongst all the rest, here is one I protest, Which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest: A poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground, As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound.

The Duke said to his men, William, Richard, and Ben, Take him home to my palace, we'll sport with him then. O'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd To the palace, altho' he was poorly arrai'd: Then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes and hose, And they put him to bed for to take his repose.

Having pull'd off his shirt, which was all over durt, They did give him clean holland, this was no great hurt: On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown, They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown. In the morning when day, then admiring he lay, For to see the rich chamber both gaudy and gay.

Now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state, Till at last knights and squires they on him did wait; And the chamberling bare, then did likewise declare, He desired to know what apparel he'd ware: The poor tinker amaz'd on the gentleman gaz'd, And admired how he to this honour was rais'd.

Tho' he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit, Which he straitways put on without longer dispute; With a star on his side, which the tinker offt ey'd, And it seem'd for to swell him "no" little with pride; For he said to himself, Where is Joan my sweet wife? Sure she never did see me so fine in her life.

From a convenient place, the right duke his good grace Did observe his behaviour in every case. To a garden of state, on the tinker they wait, Trumpets sounding before him: thought he, this is great: Where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view, With commanders and squires in scarlet and blew.

A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests, He was plac'd at the table above all the rest, In a rich chair "or bed," lin'd with fine crimson red, With a rich golden canopy over his head: As he sat at his meat, the musick play'd sweet, With the choicest of singing his joys to compleat.

While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine, Rich canary with sherry and tent superfine. Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl, Till at last he began for to tumble and roul From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore, Being seven times drunker than ever before.

Then the duke did ordain, they should strip him amain, And restore him his old leather garments again: 'T was a point next the worst, yet perform it they must, And they carry'd him strait, where they found him at first; There he slept all the night, as indeed well he might; But when he did waken, his joys took their flight.

For his glory "to him" so pleasant did seem, That he thought it to be but a meer golden dream; Till at length he was brought to the duke, where he sought For a pardon, as fearing he had set him at nought; But his highness he said, Thou 'rt a jolly bold blade, Such a frolick before I think never was plaid.

Then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak, Which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome joak; Nay, and five-hundred pound, with ten acres of ground, Thou shalt never, said he, range the counteries round, Crying old brass to mend, for I'll be thy good friend, Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess attend.

Then the tinker reply'd, What! must Joan my sweet bride Be a lady in chariots of pleasure to ride? Must we have gold and land ev'ry day at command? Then I shall be a squire I well understand: Well I thank your good grace, and your love I embrace, I was never before in so happy a case.

THE KNIGHT & SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER

There was a shepherd's daughter Came tripping on the waye; And there by chance a knighte shee mett, Which caused her to staye.

Good morrowe to you, beauteous maide, These words pronounced hee: O I shall dye this daye, he sayd, If Ive not my wille of thee.

The Lord forbid, the maide replyde, That you shold waxe so wode! "But for all that shee could do or saye, He wold not be withstood."

Sith you have had your wille of mee, And put me to open shame, Now, if you are a courteous knighte, Tell me what is your name?

Some do call mee Jacke, sweet heart, And some do call mee Jille; But when I come to the kings faire courte They call me Wilfulle Wille.

He sett his foot into the stirrup, And awaye then he did ride; She tuckt her girdle about her middle, And ranne close by his side.

But when she came to the brode water, She sett her brest and swamme; And when she was got out againe, She tooke to her heels and ranne.

He never was the courteous knighte, To saye, faire maide, will ye ride? "And she was ever too loving a maide To saye, sir knighte abide."

When she came to the kings faire courte, She knocked at the ring; So readye was the king himself To let this faire maide in.

Now Christ you save, my gracious liege, Now Christ you save and see, You have a knighte within your courte, This daye hath robbed mee.

What hath he robbed thee of, sweet heart? Of purple or of pall? Or hath he took thy gaye gold ring From off thy finger small?

He hath not robbed mee, my liege, Of purple nor of pall: But he hath gotten my maiden head, Which grieves mee worst of all.

Now if he be a batchelor, His bodye He give to thee; But if he be a married man, High hanged he shall bee.

He brought her downe full fortye pounde, Tyed up withinne a glove: Faire maide, He give the same to thee; Go, seeke thee another love.

O Ile have none of your gold, she sayde, Nor Ile have none of your fee; But your faire bodye I must have, The king hath granted mee.

Sir William ranne and fetched her then Five hundred pound in golde, Saying, faire maide, take this to thee, Thy fault will never be tolde.

Tis not the gold that shall mee tempt, These words then answered shee, But your own bodye I must have, The king hath granted mee.

Would I had dranke the water cleare, When I did drinke the wine, Rather than any shepherds brat Shold bee a ladye of mine!

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