Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

Peace nowe, hee sayd, good faire Ellen,
Bee of good cheere, I praye!
And the bridale and the churchinge bothe
Shall be upon one daye.

§ 123. The King and the Miller of Mansfield. It has been a favourite subject with our English balladmakers, to represent our kings conversing either by accident or design with the meanest of their subjects. Of the former kind, besides this song of the King and the Miller, we have King Henry and the Soldier; King James I. and the Tinker; K. William III. and the Forester, &c. Of the latter sort are K. Alfred and the Shepherd; K. Edward IV. and the Tanner; K. Henry VIII. and the Cobbler, &c.--This is a piece of great antiquity, being written before the time of Edward IV.; and for its genuine humour, diverting incidents, and faithful picture of rustic raanners, is infinitely superior to all that have been

since written in imitation of it.

Part the First.

HENRY, our royall king, would ride a hunting To the greene forest so pleasant and faire, To see the harts skipping, and dainty does tripping:

Unto merry Sherwood his nobles repaire; Hawke and hound were unbound, all things prepar'd

For the game, in the same, with good regard. Alla long summers day rode the king pleasantly, With all his princes and nobles eche one; Chasing the hart and hind, and the bucke gallantlye, [home. Till the darke evening forced all to turne Then, at last, riding fast, he had lost quite All his lords in the wood, late in the night. Wandering thus wearilye, all alone, up and downe,

With a rude miller he mett at the last :

Asking the ready way unto faire Nottingham: Sir, quoth the miller, I mean not to jest, Yet I think, what I thinke sooth for to say, You doe not lightlye ride out of your way. Why, what dost thou think of me, quoth our king merrily,

Passing thy judgment on me so briefe? Good faith, said the miller, I mean not to flatter thee;

I guess thee to be but some gentleman thiefe; Stand thee backe, in the darke; light notadowne, Lest I presently cracke thy knaves crowne. Thou dost abuse me much, quoth the king, sayI am a gentleman; lodging I lacke. [ing thus; Thou hast not, quoth the miller, one groat in thy purse;

All thy inheritance hanges on thy backe.
I have gold to discharge all that I call;
If it be forty pence, I will pay all.

If thou beest a true man, then quoth the miller, I sweare by my toll-dish I'll lodge thee all night.

Here's my hand, quoth the king, that was lever. Nay, soft, quoth the miller, thou mayst be a sprite.

Better I'll know thee, ere hands we will shake; With none but honest men hands will I take. Thus they went all along unto the miller's house; [souse: Where they were seething of puddings and The miller first entered in, after him went the king,

Never came hee in soe smoakye a house. Now, quoth he, let me see here what you are. Quoth our king, Look your fill, and do not spare. I like well thy countenance, thou hast an ho[lye. With my son Richard this night thou shalt Quoth his wife, By my troth, it is a handsome youth,

nest face;

Yet its best, husband, to deal warilye. Art thou no runaway, prythee, youth, tell? Shew me thy passport, and all shal be well. Then our king presentlye, making lowe cour

tesye

With his hatt in his hand, thus he did say: I have no passport, nor never was servitor,

But a poor courtyer rode out of my way: And for your kindness here offered to mee, I will requite you in everye degree. Then to the miller his wife whispered secretlye, Saying, It seemeth this youth's of good kin, Both by his apparel, and eke by his manners;

To turne him out, certainlye, were a great sin. Yea, quoth hee, you may see, he hath some grace, When he doth speake to his betters in place. Well, quo' the miller's wife, young man, ye 're welcome here;

And, though I say it, well lodged shall be: Fresh straw will I have laid on thy bed so brave, And good brown hempen sheets likewise,

quoth shee.

Aye, quoth the good man, and when that is Thou shalt lye with no worse than our own done, [sonne.

Nay, first, quoth Richard, goode-fellowe, tell

me true,

Hast thou noe creepers within thy gay hose?
Or art thou not troubled with the scabbado?
I pray, quoth the king, what creatures are
those?

Art thou not lowsy, nor scabby? quoth he
If thou beest, surely thou lyest not with mee.
This caus'd the king suddenlye to laugh most
heartilye,

Till the tears trickled fast downe from his eyes. Then to their supper were they set orderlye,

With hot bag-puddings, and good apple-pyes, Nappy ale, good and stale, in a brown bowle, Which did about the board merrily trowle. Here, quoth the miller, good fellow, I drink to thee,

[blocks in formation]

Wife, quoth the miller, fetch me forth Lightfoote,

And of his sweetnesse a little we'll taste. A faire ven'son pastye brought she out presentlye. [waste: Eate, quoth the miller, but, sir, make no Here's dainty Lightfoote! In faith, said the I never before cate so dainty a thing. [king, I wis, quoth Richard, no dainty at all it is, For we do eat of it everye day. [like to this? In what place, sayd our king, may be bought We never pay pennye for itt, by my fay: From merry Sherwood we fetch it home here; Now and then we make bold with our king's deer.

Then I thinke, sayd our king, that it is venison. Eche foole, quoth Richard, full well may know that:

Never are we without two or three in the roof,
Very well fleshed, and excellent fat:
But prythee, say nothing wherever thou goe;
We would not for two pence the king should

it knowe.

Doubt not, then sayd the king, my promised

secresve:

The king shall never know more on't for me. A cup of lambs-wool they dranke unto him And to their beds they past presentlie. [then, The nobles, next morning, went all up and downe,

For to seeke out the king in every towne. At last, at the millers cott, soone they espy'd him out,

As he was mounting upon his faire steede; To whom they came presently, falling down on their knee;

Which made the millers heart wofully bleede: Shaking and quaking, before him he stood, Thinking he should have been hang'd by the

rood.

The king perceiving him fearfully trembling,

Drew forthe his sword, but nothing he sed. The miller downe did fall, crying before them all, [head:

Doubting the king would have cut off his But he, his kind courtesy for to requite, Gaye him great living, and dubb'd him a knight.

Part the Second. WHENAS Our royall king was come home from Nottingham,

And with his nobles at Westminster lay; Recounting the sports and pastimes they had In this late progress along on the way; [taken Of them all, great and small, he did protest, The miller of Mansfield's sport liked him best. And now, my lords, quoth the king, I am determined,

Against St. George's next sumptuous feast, That this old miller, our new-confirmed knight, With his son Richard, shall here be my guest: For, in this merriment, 'tis my desire To talke with the jolly knight, and the young squire,

[blocks in formation]

senger,

And grant your ladye her owne hearts desire; And to your sonne Richard good fortune and happiness;

That sweet, gentle, and gallant young squire! Our king greets you well, and thus he doth say, You must come to the court on St. Georges day. Therefore, in any case, faile not to be in place. I wis, quoth the miller, this is an odd jest: What should we doe there? faith, I am halfe afraid. [least.

I doubt, quoth Richard, to be hang'd at the Nay, quoth the messenger, you doe mistake; Our king he provides a great feast for your sake. Then sayd the miller, By my troth, messenger,

Thou hast contented my worshippe full well. Hold, here are three farthings, to quite thy gen

tleness

For these happy tydings which thou dost tell. Let me see, heare thou mee; tell to our king, We'll wait on his mastershipp in everye thing. The pursuivant smiled at their simplicitye,

And, making many leggs, tooke their reward; And his leave taking with great humilitye,

To the kings court againe he repair'd'; Shewing unto his grace, merry and free, The knightes most liberall gift and bountie. When he was gone away, thus gan the miller say:

Now must we needs be brave, tho' we spend Here come expences and charges indeed!

all we have;

For of new garments we have great need : Of horses and serving-men we must have store, With bridles and saddles, and twenty things

more.

Tushe! sir John, quoth his wife, why should you frett or frown?

You shall ne'er be att no charges for mee; For I will turn and trim up my old russet gowne, With every thing else as fine as may bee: And on our mill-horses swift we will ride, With pillowes and pannells as we shall provide. In this most stately sort rode they unto the court, Their jolly son Richard rode foremost of all; Who set up, for good hap, a cocks feather in his cap,

And so they jetted downe to the king's hall; The merry old miller with hands on his side; His wife like maid Marian did mince at that tide. The king and his nobles, that heard of their coming,

Meeting this gallant knight with his brave

traine;

[lady; Welcome, sir knighte, quoth he, with your gay Good sir John Cockle, once welcome againe:

[blocks in formation]

That wast my own bed-fellowe, well it I wot. Yea, sir, quoth Richard, and by the same token, Thou with thy farting didst make the bed hot. Thou whoreson unhappy knave, then quoth the knight,

Speak cleanly to our king, or else go sh*t*. The king and his courtiers laugh at this heartily, While the king taketh them both by the hand; With the court dames' and maids, like to the queen of spades,

The miller's wife did so orderly stand, A milkmaids courtesye at every word; And downe all the folkes were set to the board.

There the king royally, in princelye majestye, Sate at his dinner with joy and delight; When they had eaten well, then he to jesting fell,

And in a bowle of wine dranke to the knight: Here's to you both, in wine, ale, and beer; Thanking you heartilye for my good cheer. Quoth sir John Cockle, I'll pledge you a pottle, Were it the best ale in Nottinghamshire. But then, said our king, now I think of a thing, Some of your Lightfoot I would we had here. Ho! ho! quoth Richard, full well I may say it, 'Tis knavery to eate it, and then to betray it. Why art thou angry? quoth our king merrilye; In faith, I take it now very unkind : I thought thou wouldst pledge me in ale and wine heartily.

Quoth Dicke, You are like to stay till I have
din'd:

You feed us with twatling dishes so small;
Zounds, a black pudding is better than all.

Aye, marry, quoth our king, that were a daintye thing,

Could a man get but one here for to eat. With that Dick straight arose, and pluck'd one from his hose,

Which with heat of his breech gan for to

[blocks in formation]
[ocr errors]

Then sir John Cockle the king called unto him, And of merry Sherwood made him o'erseer; And gave him out of hand three hundred pound yearlye;

Take heed now you steal no more of my deer; And once a quarter let's here have your view; And now, sir John Cockle, I bid you adieu.

§ 124. The Witches' Song. From Ben Jonson's Masque of Queens, presented at Whitehall, Feb. 2, 1609.

It is true, this song of the Witches, falling from the learned pen of Ben Jonson, is rather an extract from the various incantations of classic antiquity, than a display of the opinions of our own vulgar. But let it be observed, that a parcel of learned wiseacres had just before busied themselves on this subject, with our British Solomon, James I., at their head; and these had so ransacked all writers, ancient and modern, and so blended and kneaded together the several superstitions of different times and nations, that those of genuine English growth could no longer be traced out and distinguished.

By good luck the whimsical belief of fairies and goblins could furnish no pretences for torturing our fellowcreatures, and therefore we have this handed down to us pure and unsophisticated.

1 Witch.

I HAVE beene all day looking after A raven feeding upon a quarter; And, soone as she turn'd her back to the south; I snatch'd this morsell out of her mouth.

2 Witch.

I have beene gathering wolves haires,
The mad dogges foame, and adders eares;
The spurging of a dead man's eyes:
And all since the evening starre did rise.
3 Witch.

I last night lay all alone

O' the ground, to heare the mandrake grone; And pluckt him up, though he grew full low: And, as I had done, the cocke did crow.

4 Witch.

And I h' beene chusing out this scull,
From charnel houses that were full,
From private grots and publike pits:
And frighted a sexton out of his wits.
5 Witch.

Under a cradle I did creepe

By day, and when the childe was a-sleepe
At night, I suck'd the breath; and rose,
And pluck'd the nodding nurse by the nose.
6 Witch.

I had a dagger: what did I with that?
Killed an infant to have his fat:
A piper it got, at a church-ale:
I bade him again blow wind i' the taile.
7 Witch.

A murderer yonder was hung in chaines;
The sunne and the wind had shrunke his veines:
I bit off a sinew; I clipp'd his haire;
I brought off his ragges, that danc'd i̇' the ayre

8 Witch.
The scrich-owles egges, and the feathers blacke,
The bloud of the frogge, and the bone in his
backe,

I have been getting; and made of his skin
A purset, to keep sir Cranion in.

9 Witch.

And I ha' been plucking (plants among)
Hemlock, henbane, adders tongue,
Night-shade, moone-wort, libbards bane;
And twise by the dogges was like to be tane.
10 Witch.

I from the jaws of a gardiner's bitch
Did snatch these bones, and then leap'd the ditch:
Yet went I back to the house againe,
Kill'd the blacke cat, and here is the braine.
11 Witch.

I went to the toade, breeds under the wall,
I charmed him out, and he came at my call;
I scratch'd out the eyes of the owle before;
I tore the batts wings: what would you have

more?

Dame.

Yes: I have brought, to helpe your vows,
Horned poppie, cypresse boughes,
The fig-tree wild that grows on tombes,
And juice that from the larch-tree comes,
The basiliskes bloud, and the vipers skin;
And now our orgies let's begin.

Witness those rings and roundelayes
Of theirs, which yet remaine;
Were footed in queen Maries dayes
On many a grassy playne.
But since of late Elizabeth

And later James came in ;
They never danc'd on any heath,
As when the time had been.
By which wee note the fairies

Were of the old profession;
Their songs were Ave Maries,

Their dances were procession.
But now, alas! they all are dead,
Or gone beyond the seas,
Or farther for religion fled,

Or else they take their ease.
A tell-tale in their company

They never could endure;
And whoso kept not secretly
Their mirth, was punish'd sure:
It was a just and Christian deed

To pinch such blacke and blue :
O how the common-welth doth need
Such justices as you!

Now they have left our quarters;
A Register they have,
Who can preserve their charters;
A man both wise and grave.
An hundred of their merry pranks
By one that I could name
Are kept in store; con twenty thanks
To William for the same.
To William Churne of Staffordshire,
Give laud and praises due,

§ 125. The Fairies Farewell.
This humorous old song fell from the hand of the witty
Dr. CORBET, afterwards bishop of Norwich, &c. In
his Poetica Stromata it is called "A proper new Bal-
Jad, intituled, The Fairies Farewell, or God-a-mercy
Will: to be sung or whistled to the tune of the Mea-For all the fairies evidence
dow Brow, by the learned; by the unlearned, to the
tune of Fortune."

Who every meale can mend your cheare
With tales both old and true;
To William all give audience,
And pray yee for his noddle;

FAREWELL, rewards and Fairies!

Good housewives now may say; For now foule sluts in dairies

Doe fare as well as they;

And though they sweepe their hearths no less
Than mayds were wont to doe,
Yet who of late for cleanliness

Finds six-pence in her shoe?
Lament, lament, old abbies,

The fairies lost command!

They did but change priests babies,

But some have chang'd your land:
And all your children stoln from thence
Are now growne Puritanes,

Who live as changelings ever since,
For love of your demaines.

At morning and at evening both
You merry were and glad,
So little care of sleepe and sloth
These prettie ladies had.

When Tom came home from labour,
Or Ciss to milking rose,
Then merrily went their tabour,
And nimbly went their toes,

Were lost, if it were addle.

§ 126. Unfading Beauty.

This little beautiful Sounet is reprinted from a small volume of "Poems by THOMAS CAREW, Esq. One of the gentlemen of the privie-chamber, and sewer in ordinary to his majesty Charles I. Lond. 1640." This elegant, and almost forgotten writer, whose poems have been deservedly revived, died in the prime of his age, in 1639.

In the original follows a third stanza, which, not being of general application, nor of equal merit, I have ventured to omit.

HEE that loves a rosie cheeke,

Or corall lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek

Fuell to maintaine his fires;
As old time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.
But a smooth and stedfaste mind,

Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combin'd,

Kindle never-dying fires;
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheekes, or lips, or eyes.

§ 127. Song. The Sky-Lark. SHENSTONE.
Go, tuneful bird, that gladd'st the skies,
To Daphne's window speed thy way;
And there on quiv'ring pinions rise,
And there thy vocal art display.

And if she deign thy notes to hear,

And if she praise thy matin song, Tell her, the sounds that soothe her ear To Damon's native plains belong. Tell her, in livelier plumes array'd,

The bird from Indian groves may shine; But ask the lovely, partial maid,

Where are his notes compar'd with thine? Then bid her treat yon witless beau

And all his flaunting race with scorn;
And lend an ear to Damon's woe,
Who sings her praise, and sings forlorn.

BEATTIE.

§ 128. The Hermit. AT the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove

'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain reclin'd, A hermit his nightly complaint thus began: Though mournful his numbers, his soul was resign'd;

He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man. "Ah! why, thus abandon'd to darkness and woe, Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad

strain?

For spring shall return, and a lover bestow;

And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet, if pity inspire thee, O cease not thy lay! Mourn, sweetest companion! man calls thee

to mourn:

O soothe him whose pleasures, like thine, pass away!

Full quickly they pass, but they never return! "Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky, The moon, half extinct, a dim crescent displays;

But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high She shone, and the planets were lost in her

blaze.

[blocks in formation]

For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew.

Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn; Kind Nature the embryo-blossom shall save: But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn? O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?"

§ 129. A Pastoral Ballad. In Four Parts. SHENSTONE.

1. ABSENCE.

YE shepherds so cheerful and gay,
Whose flocks never carelessly roam;
Should Corydon's happen to stray,
O call the poor wanderers home.
Allow me to muse and to sigh,

Nor talk of the change that ye find;
None, once, was so watchful as I:

-I have left my dear Phillis behind. Now I know what it is to have strove

With the torture of doubt and desire; What it is to admire and to love,

And to leave her we love and admire. Ah, lead forth my flock in the morn,

And the damps of each evening repel : Alas! I am faint and forlorn :

-I have bade my dear Phillis farewell. Since Phillis vouchsaf'd me a look,

I never once dream'd of my vine:
May I lose both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine!
I priz'd every hour that went by,
Beyond all that had pleas'd me before;
But now they are pass'd, and I sigh,
And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.
But why do I languish in vain?

Why wander thus pensively here?
O, why did I come from the plain,
Where I fed on the smiles of my dear?
They tell me, my favorite maid,

The pride of that valley, is flown;
Alas! where with her I have stray'd,
I could wander with pleasure alone.
When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at heart!
my
Yet I thought, but it might not be so,
She gaz'd, as I slowly withdrew;
'Twas with pain when she saw me depart.

My path I could hardly discern ; So sweetly she bade me adieu,

I thought that she bade me return. The pilgrim that journeys all day

To visit some far-distant shrine,
If he bear but a relique away,

Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus, widely remov'd from the fair,
Soft hope is the relique I bear,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
And my solace wherever I go.

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small]
« AnteriorContinuar »