Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England Part 13

The auld wife being not asleep, Then something mair was said; 'I'll lay my life,' quo' the silly auld wife, 'There's a man by our dochter's bed, bed; There's a man by our dochter's bed.'

The auld wife she gat owre the bed, To see if the thing was true; But what the wrack took the auld wife's fit?

For into the creel she flew, flew; For into the creel she flew.

The man that was at the chimley-top, Finding the creel was fu', He wrappit the rape round his left shouther, And fast to him he drew, drew: And fast to him he drew.

'O, help! O, help! O, hinny, noo, help!

O, help! O, hinny, do!

For HIM that ye aye wished me at, He's carryin' me off just noo, noo; He's carryin' me off just noo.'

'O! if the foul thief's gotten ye, I wish he may keep his haud; For a' the lee lang winter nicht, Ye'll never lie in your bed, bed; Ye'll never lie in your bed.'

He's towed her up, he's towed her down, He's towed her through an' through; 'O, Gude! a.s.sist,' quo' the silly auld wife, 'For I'm just departin' noo, noo; For I'm just departin' noo.'

He's towed her up, he's towed her down, He's gien her a richt down fa', Till every rib i' the auld wife's side, Played nick nack on the wa', wa'; Played nick nack on the wa'.

O! the blue, the bonny, bonny blue, And I wish the blue may do weel; And every auld wife that's sae jealous o' her dochter, May she get a good keach i' the creel, creel; May she get a good keach i' the creel!

Ballad: THE MERRY BROOMFIELD; OR, THE WEST COUNTRY WAGER.

[This old West-country ballad was one of the broadsides printed at the Aldermary press. We have not met with any older impression, though we have been a.s.sured that there are black-letter copies. In Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border is a ballad called the Broomfield Hill; it is a mere fragment, but is evidently taken from the present ballad, and can be considered only as one of the many modern antiques to be found in that work.]

A n.o.ble young squire that lived in the West, He courted a young lady gay; And as he was merry he put forth a jest, A wager with her he would lay.

'A wager with me,' the young lady replied, 'I pray about what must it be?

If I like the humour you shan't be denied, I love to be merry and free.'

Quoth he, 'I will lay you a hundred pounds, A hundred pounds, aye, and ten, That a maid if you go to the merry Broomfield, That a maid you return not again.'

'I'll lay you that wager,' the lady she said, Then the money she flung down amain; 'To the merry Broomfield I'll go a pure maid, The same I'll return home again.'

He covered her bet in the midst of the hall, With a hundred and ten jolly pounds; And then to his servant he straightway did call, For to bring forth his hawk and his hounds.

A ready obedience the servant did yield, And all was made ready o'er night; Next morning he went to the merry Broomfield, To meet with his love and delight.

Now when he came there, having waited a while, Among the green broom down he lies; The lady came to him, and could not but smile, For sleep then had closed his eyes.

Upon his right hand a gold ring she secured, Drawn from her own fingers so fair; That when he awaked he might be a.s.sured His lady and love had been there.

She left him a posie of pleasant perfume, Then stepped from the place where he lay, Then hid herself close in the besom of broom, To hear what her true love did say.

He wakened and found the gold ring on his hand, Then sorrow of heart he was in; 'My love has been here, I do well understand, And this wager I now shall not win.

'Oh! where was you, my goodly goshawk, The which I have purchased so dear, Why did you not waken me out of my sleep, When the lady, my love, was here?'

'O! with my bells did I ring, master, And eke with my feet did I run; And still did I cry, pray awake! master, She's here now, and soon will be gone.'

'O! where was you, my gallant greyhound, Whose collar is flourished with gold; Why hadst thou not wakened me out of my sleep, When thou didst my lady behold?'

'Dear master, I barked with my mouth when she came, And likewise my collar I shook; And told you that here was the beautiful dame, But no notice of me then you took.'

'O! where wast thou, my servingman, Whom I have clothed so fine?

If you had waked me when she was here, The wager then had been mine.'

In the night you should have slept, master, And kept awake in the day; Had you not been sleeping when hither she came, Then a maid she had not gone away.'

Then home he returned when the wager was lost, With sorrow of heart, I may say; The lady she laughed to find her love crost, - This was upon midsummer-day.

'O, squire! I laid in the bushes concealed, And heard you, when you did complain; And thus I have been to the merry Broomfield, And a maid returned back again.

'Be cheerful! be cheerful! and do not repine, For now 'tis as clear as the sun, The money, the money, the money is mine, The wager I fairly have won.'

Ballad: SIR JOHN BARLEYCORN.

[The West-country ballad of Sir John Barleycorn is very ancient, and being the only version that has ever been sung at English merry-makings and country feasts, can certainly set up a better claim to antiquity than any of the three ballads on the same subject to be found in Evans's Old Ballads; viz., John Barleycorn, The Little Barleycorn, and Mas Mault. Our west-country version bears the greatest resemblance to The Little Barleycorn, but it is very dissimilar to any of the three. Burns altered the old ditty, but on referring to his version it will be seen that his corrections and additions want the simplicity of the original, and certainly cannot be considered improvements. The common ballad does not appear to have been inserted in any of our popular collections. Sir John Barleycorn is very appropriately sung to the tune of Stingo. See Popular Music, p. 305.]

There came three men out of the West, Their victory to try; And they have taken a solemn oath, Poor Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and ploughed him in, And harrowed clods on his head; And then they took a solemn oath, Poor Barleycorn was dead.

There he lay sleeping in the ground, Till rain from the sky did fall: Then Barleycorn sprung up his head, And so amazed them all.

There he remained till Midsummer, And looked both pale and wan; Then Barleycorn he got a beard, And so became a man.

Then they sent men with scythes so sharp, To cut him off at knee; And then poor little Barleycorn, They served him barbarously.

Then they sent men with pitchforks strong To pierce him through the heart; And like a dreadful tragedy, They bound him to a cart.

And then they brought him to a barn, A prisoner to endure; And so they fetched him out again, And laid him on the floor.

Then they set men with holly clubs, To beat the flesh from his bones; But the miller he served him worse than that, For he ground him betwixt two stones.

O! Barleycorn is the choicest grain That ever was sown on land; It will do more than any grain, By the turning of your hand.

It will make a boy into a man, And a man into an a.s.s; It will change your gold into silver, And your silver into bra.s.s.

It will make the huntsman hunt the fox, That never wound his horn; It will bring the tinker to the stocks, That people may him scorn.

It will put sack into a gla.s.s, And claret in the can; And it will cause a man to drink Till he neither can go nor stand.