Book of Old Ballads
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Selected by Beverly Nichols >> Book of Old Ballads
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Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair,
Edward, Edward;
Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair,
Sum other dule ze drie, O.
O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
Mither, mither:
O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
Alas! and wae is mee, O!
And quhatten penance wul ze drie for that,
Edward, Edward?
And quhatten penance will ze drie for that?
My deir son, now tell mee, O.
He set my feit in zonder boat,
Mither, mither:
He set my feit in zonder boat,
And He fare ovir the sea, O.
And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha',
Edward, Edward?
And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha',
That were sae fair to see, O?
He let thame stand til they doun fa',
Mither, mither:
He let thame stand til they doun fa',
For here nevir mair maun I bee, O.
And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife,
Edward, Edward?
And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife,
Quhan ze gang ovir the sea, O?
The warldis room, let thame beg throw life,
Mither, mither;
The warldis room, let thame beg throw life,
For thame nevir mair wul I see, O.
And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir,
Edward, Edward?
And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir?
My deir son, now tell me, O.
The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir,
Mither, mither:
The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir,
Sic counseils ze gave to me, O.
KING LEIR & HIS THREE DAUGHTERS
King Leir once ruled in this land
With princely power and peace;
And had all things with hearts content,
That might his joys increase.
Amongst those things that nature gave,
Three daughters fair had he,
So princely seeming beautiful,
As fairer could not be.
So on a time it pleas'd the king
A question thus to move,
Which of his daughters to his grace
Could shew the dearest love:
For to my age you bring content,
Quoth he, then let me hear,
Which of you three in plighted troth
The kindest will appear.
To whom the eldest thus began;
Dear father, mind, quoth she,
Before your face, to do you good,
My blood shall render'd be:
And for your sake my bleeding heart
Shall here be cut in twain,
Ere that I see your reverend age
The smallest grief sustain.
And so will I, the second said;
Dear father, for your sake,
The worst of all extremities
I'll gently undertake:
And serve your highness night and day
With diligence and love;
That sweet content and quietness
Discomforts may remove.
In doing so, you glad my soul,
The aged king reply'd;
But what sayst thou, my youngest girl,
How is thy love ally'd?
My love (quoth young Cordelia then)
Which to your grace I owe,
Shall be the duty of a child,
And that is all I'll show.
And wilt thou shew no more, quoth he,
Than doth thy duty bind?
I well perceive thy love is small,
When as no more I find.
Henceforth I banish thee my court,
Thou art no child of mine;
Nor any part of this my realm
By favour shall be thine.
Thy elder sisters loves are more
Then well I can demand,
To whom I equally bestow
My kingdome and my land,
My pompal state and all my goods,
That lovingly I may
With those thy sisters be maintain'd
Until my dying day.
Thus flattering speeches won renown,
By these two sisters here;
The third had causeless banishment,
Yet was her love more dear:
For poor Cordelia patiently
Went wandring up and down,
Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid,
Through many an English town:
Untill at last in famous France
She gentler fortunes found;
Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd
The fairest on the ground:
Where when the king her virtues heard,
And this fair lady seen,
With full consent of all his court
He made his wife and queen.
Her father king Leir this while
With his two daughters staid:
Forgetful of their promis'd loves,
Full soon the same decay'd;
And living in queen Ragan's court,
The eldest of the twain,
She took from him his chiefest means,
And most of all his train.
For whereas twenty men were wont
To wait with bended knee:
She gave allowance but to ten,
And after scarce to three;
Nay, one she thought too much for him;
So took she all away,
In hope that in her court, good king,
He would no longer stay.
Am I rewarded thus, quoth he,
In giving all I have
Unto my children, and to beg
For what I lately gave?
I'll go unto my Gonorell:
My second child, I know,
Will be more kind and pitiful,
And will relieve my woe.
Full fast he hies then to her court;
Where when she heard his moan
Return'd him answer, That she griev'd
That all his means were gone:
But no way could relieve his wants;
Yet if that he would stay
Within her kitchen, he should have
What scullions gave away.
When he had heard, with bitter tears,
He made his answer then;
In what I did let me be made
Example to all men.
I will return again, quoth he,
Unto my Ragan's court;
She will not use me thus, I hope,
But in a kinder sort.
Where when he came, she gave command
To drive him thence away:
When he was well within her court
(She said) he would not stay.
Then back again to Gonorell
The woeful king did hie,
That in her kitchen he might have
What scullion boy set by.
But there of that he was deny'd,
Which she had promis'd late:
For once refusing, he should not
Come after to her gate.
Thus twixt his daughters, for relief
He wandred up and down;
Being glad to feed on beggars food,
That lately wore a crown.
And calling to remembrance then
His youngest daughters words,
That said the duty of a child
Was all that love affords:
But doubting to repair to her,
Whom he had banish'd so,
Grew frantick mad; for in his mind
He bore the wounds of woe:
Which made him rend his milk-white locks,
And tresses from his head,
And all with blood bestain his cheeks,
With age and honour spread.
To hills and woods and watry founts
He made his hourly moan,
Till hills and woods and sensless things,
Did seem to sigh and groan.
Even thus possest with discontents,
He passed o're to France,
In hopes from fair Cordelia there,
To find some gentler chance;
Most virtuous dame! which when she heard,
Of this her father's grief,
As duty bound, she quickly sent
Him comfort and relief:
And by a train of noble peers,
In brave and gallant sort,
She gave in charge he should be brought
To Aganippus' court;
Whose royal king, with noble mind
So freely gave consent,
To muster up his knights at arms,
To fame and courage bent.
And so to England came with speed,
To repossesse king Leir
And drive his daughters from their thrones
By his Cordelia dear.
Where she, true-hearted noble queen,
Was in the battel slain;
Yet he, good king, in his old days,
Possest his crown again.
But when he heard Cordelia's death,
Who died indeed for love
Of her dear father, in whose cause
She did this battle move;
He swooning fell upon her breast,
From whence he never parted:
But on her bosom left his life,
That was so truly hearted.
The lords and nobles when they saw
The end of these events,
The other sisters unto death
They doomed by consents;
And being dead, their crowns they left
Unto the next of kin:
Thus have you seen the fall of pride,
And disobedient sin.
[Illustration]
HYND HORN
"Hynde Horn's bound, love, and Hynde Horn's free;
Whare was ye born? or frae what cuntrie?"
"In gude greenwud whare I was born,
And all my friends left me forlorn.
"I gave my love a gay gowd wand,
That was to rule oure all Scotland.
"My love gave me a silver ring,
That was to rule abune aw thing.
"Whan that ring keeps new in hue,
Ye may ken that your love loves you.
"Whan that ring turns pale and wan,
Ye may ken that your love loves anither man."
He hoisted up his sails, and away sailed he
Till he cam to a foreign cuntree.
Whan he lookit to his ring, it was turnd pale and wan;
Says, I wish I war at hame again.
He hoisted up his sails, and hame sailed he
Until he cam till his ain cuntree.
The first ane that he met with,
It was with a puir auld beggar-man.
"What news? what news, my puir auld man?
What news hae ye got to tell to me?"
"Na news, na news," the puir man did say,
"But this is our queen's wedding-day."
"Ye'll lend me your begging-weed,
And I'll lend you my riding-steed."
"My begging-weed is na for thee,
Your riding-steed is na for me."
He has changed wi the puir auld beggar-man.
"What is the way that ye use to gae?
And what are the words that ye beg wi?"
"Whan ye come to yon high hill,
Ye'll draw your bent bow nigh until.
"Whan ye come to yon town-end,
Ye'll lat your bent bow low fall doun.
"Ye'll seek meat for St Peter, ask for St Paul,
And seek for the sake of your Hynde Horn all.
"But tak ye frae nane o them aw
Till ye get frae the bonnie bride hersel O."
Whan he cam to yon high hill,
He drew his bent bow nigh until.
And when he cam to yon toun-end,
He loot his bent bow low fall doun.
He sought for St Peter, he askd for St Paul,
And he sought for the sake of his Hynde Horn all.
But he took na frae ane o them aw
Till he got frae the bonnie bride hersel O.
The bride cam tripping doun the stair,
Wi the scales o red gowd on her hair.
Wi a glass o red wine in her hand,
To gie to the puir beggar-man.
Out he drank his glass o wine,
Into it he dropt the ring.
"Got ye't by sea, or got ye't by land,
Or got ye't aff a drownd man's hand?"
"I got na't by sea, I got na't by land,
Nor gat I it aff a drownd man's hand;
"But I got it at my wooing,
And I'll gie it to your wedding."
"I'll tak the scales o gowd frae my head,
I'll follow you, and beg my bread.
"I'll tak the scales o gowd frae my hair,
I'll follow you for evermair."
She has tane the scales o gowd frae her head,
She's followed him, to beg her bread.
She has tane the scales o gowd frae her hair,
And she has followd him evermair.
Atween the kitchen and the ha,
There he loot his cloutie cloak fa.
The red gowd shined oure them aw,
And the bride frae the bridegroom was stown awa.
JOHN BROWN'S BODY
Old John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave,
Because he fought for Freedom and the stricken Negro slave;
Old John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave,
But his soul is marching on.
_Chorus_
Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
His soul is marching on.
He was a noble martyr, was Old John Brown the true;
His little patriot band into a noble army grew;
He was a noble martyr, was Old John Brown the true,
And his soul is marching on.
'Twas not till John Brown lost his life, arose in all its might,
The army of the Union men that won the fearful fight;
But tho' the glad event, oh! it never met his sight,
Still his soul is marching on.
John Brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above,
Where live the happy spirits in their harmony and love,
John Brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above,
And his soul is marching on.
TIPPERARY
Up to mighty London came an Irishman one day,
As the streets are paved with gold, sure everyone was gay;
Singing songs of Piccadilly, Strand and Leicester Square,
Till Paddy got excited, then he shouted to them there:--
_Chorus_
"It's a long way to Tipperary,
It's a long way to go;
It's a long way to Tipperary,
To the sweetest girl I know!
Good-bye Piccadilly,
Farewell, Leicester Square,
It's a long, long way to Tipperary,
But my heart's right there!"
Paddy wrote a letter to his Irish Molly O',
Saying, "Should you not receive it, write and let me know!
"If I make mistakes in 'spelling,' Molly dear,' said he,
"Remember it's the pen that's bad, don't lay the blame on me."
Molly wrote a neat reply to Irish Paddy O',
Saying, "Mike Maloney wants to marry me, and so
Leave the Strand and Piccadilly, or you'll be to blame,
For love has fairly drove me silly--hoping you're the same!"
THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON
There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe,
And he was a squires son:
He loved the bayliffes daughter deare,
That lived in Islington.
Yet she was coye, and would not believe
That he did love her soe,
Noe nor at any time would she
Any countenance to him showe.
But when his friendes did understand
His fond and foolish minde,
They sent him up to faire London
An apprentice for to binde.
And when he had been seven long yeares,
And never his love could see:
Many a teare have I shed for her sake,
When she little thought of mee.
Then all the maids of Islington
Went forth to sport and playe,
All but the bayliffes daughter deare;
She secretly stole awaye.
She pulled off her gowne of greene,
And put on ragged attire,
And to faire London she would goe
Her true love to enquire.
And as she went along the high road,
The weather being hot and drye,
She sat her downe upon a green bank,
And her true love came riding bye.
She started up, with a colour soe redd,
Catching hold of his bridle-reine;
One penny, one penny, kind Sir, she sayd,
Will ease me of much paine.
Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart,
Praye tell me where you were borne:
At Islington, kind Sir, sayd shee,
Where I have had many a scorne.
I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee,
O tell me, whether you knowe
The bayliffes daughter of Islington:
She is dead, Sir, long agoe.
If she be dead, then take my horse,
My saddle and bridle also;
For I will into some far countrye,
Where noe man shall me knowe.
O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe,
She standeth by thy side;
She is here alive, she is not dead,
And readye to be thy bride.
O farewell griefe, and welcome joye,
Ten thousand times therefore;
For nowe I have founde mine owne true love,
Whom I thought I should never see more.
THE THREE RAVENS
There were three rauens sat on a tree,
Downe a downe, hay down, hay downe
There were three rauens sat on a tree,
With a downe
There were three rauens sat on a tree,
They were as blacke as they might be
With a downe derrie, derrie, derrie, downe, downe
The one of them said to his mate,
"Where shall we our breakefast take?"
"Downe in yonder greene field,
There lies a knight slain vnder his shield.
"His hounds they lie downe at his feete,
So well they can their master keepe.
"His haukes they flie so eagerly,
There's no fowle dare him come nie."
Downe there comes a fallow doe,
As great with yong as she might goe.
She lift up his bloudy hed,
And kist his wounds that were so red.
She got him up upon her backe,
And carried him to earthen lake.
She buried him before the prime,
She was dead herselfe ere even-song time.
God send every gentleman,
Such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman.
THE GABERLUNZIE MAN
The pauky auld Carle come ovir the lee
Wi' mony good-eens and days to mee,
Saying, Good wife, for zour courtesie,
Will ze lodge a silly poor man?
The night was cauld, the carle was wat,
And down azont the ingle he sat;
My dochtors shoulders he gan to clap,
And cadgily ranted and sang.
O wow! quo he, were I as free,
As first when I saw this countrie,
How blyth and merry wad I bee!
And I wad nevir think lang.
He grew canty, and she grew fain;
But little did her auld minny ken
What thir slee twa togither were say'n,
When wooing they were sa thrang.
And O! quo he, ann ze were as black,
As evir the crown of your dadyes hat,
Tis I wad lay thee by my backe,
And awa wi' me thou sould gang.
And O! quoth she, ann I were as white,
As evir the snaw lay on the dike,
Ild dead me braw, and lady-like,
And awa with thee Ild gang.
Between them twa was made a plot;
They raise a wee before the cock,
And wyliely they shot the lock,
And fast to the bent are they gane.
Up the morn the auld wife raise,
And at her leisure put on her claiths,
Syne to the servants bed she gaes
To speir for the silly poor man.
She gaed to the bed, whair the beggar lay,
The strae was cauld, he was away,
She clapt her hands, cryd, Dulefu' day!
For some of our geir will be gane.
Some ran to coffer, and some to kist,
But nought was stown that could be mist.
She dancid her lane, cryd, Praise be blest,
I have lodgd a leal poor man.
Since naithings awa, as we can learn,
The kirns to kirn, and milk to earn,
Gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bairn,
And bid her come quickly ben.
The servant gaed where the dochter lay,
The sheets was cauld, she was away,
And fast to her goodwife can say,
Shes aff with the gaberlunzie-man.
O fy gar ride, and fy gar rin,
And haste ze, find these traitors agen;
For shees be burnt, and hees be slein,
The wearyfou gaberlunzie-man.
Some rade upo horse, some ran a fit
The wife was wood, and out o' her wit;
She could na gang, nor yet could sit,
But ay did curse and did ban.
Mean time far hind out owre the lee,
For snug in a glen, where nane could see,
The twa, with kindlie sport and glee
Cut frae a new cheese a whang.
The priving was gude, it pleas'd them baith,
To lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith.
Quo she, to leave thee, I will laith,
My winsome gaberlunzie-man.
O kend my minny I were wi' zou,
Illfardly wad she crook her mou,
Sic a poor man sheld nevir trow,
Aftir the gaberlunzie-mon.
My dear, quo he, zee're zet owre zonge;
And hae na learnt the beggars tonge,
To follow me frae toun to toun,
And carrie the gaberlunzie on.
Wi' kauk and keel, Ill win zour bread,
And spindles and whorles for them wha need,
Whilk is a gentil trade indeed
The gaberlunzie to carrie--o.
Ill bow my leg and crook my knee,
And draw a black clout owre my ee,
A criple or blind they will cau me:
While we sail sing and be merrie--o.
THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
There lived a wife at Usher's Well,
And a wealthy wife was she;
She had three stout and stalwart sons,
And sent them oer the sea.
They hadna been a week from her,
A week but barely ane,
Whan word came to the carline wife
That her three sons were gane.
They hadna been a week from her,
A week but barely three,
Whan word came to the carlin wife
That her sons she'd never see.
"I wish the wind may never cease,
Nor fashes in the flood,
Till my three sons come hame to me,
In earthly flesh and blood."
It fell about the Martinmass,
When nights are lang and mirk,
The carlin wife's three sons came hame,
And their hats were o the birk.
It neither grew in syke nor ditch,
Nor yet in ony sheugh;
But at the gates o Paradise,
That birk grew fair eneugh.
* * * * *
"Blow up the fire, my maidens,
Bring water from the well;
For a' my house shall feast this night,
Since my three sons are well."
And she has made to them a bed,
She's made it large and wide,
And she's taen her mantle her about,
Sat down at the bed-side.
* * * * *
Up then crew the red, red cock,
And up and crew the gray;
The eldest to the youngest said,
'Tis time we were away.
The cock he hadna crawd but once,
And clappd his wings at a',
When the youngest to the eldest said,
Brother, we must awa.
"The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,
The channerin worm doth chide;
Gin we be mist out o our place,
A sair pain we maun bide.
"Fare ye weel, my mother dear!
Fareweel to barn and byre!
And fare ye weel, the bonny lass
That kindles my mother's fire!"
THE LYE
Goe, soule, the bodies guest,
Upon a thanklesse arrant;
Feare not to touche the best,
The truth shall be thy warrant:
Goe, since I needs must dye,
And give the world the lye.
Goe tell the court, it glowes
And shines like rotten wood;
Goe tell the church it showes
What's good, and doth no good:
If church and court reply,
Then give them both the lye.
Tell potentates they live
Acting by others actions;
Not lov'd unlesse they give,
Not strong but by their factions;
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lye.
Tell men of high condition,
That rule affairs of state,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practise onely hate;
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lye.
Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who in their greatest cost
Seek nothing but commending;
And if they make reply,
Spare not to give the lye.
Tell zeale, it lacks devotion;
Tell love, it is but lust;
Tell time, it is but motion;
Tell flesh, it is but dust;
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lye.
Tell age, it daily wasteth;
Tell honour, how it alters:
Tell beauty, how she blasteth;
Tell favour, how she falters;
And as they shall reply,
Give each of them the lye.
Tell wit, how much it wrangles
In tickle points of nicenesse;
Tell wisedome, she entangles
Herselfe in over-wisenesse;
And if they do reply,
Straight give them both the lye.
Tell physicke of her boldnesse;
Tell skill, it is pretension;
Tell charity of coldness;
Tell law, it is contention;
And as they yield reply,
So give them still the lye.
Tell fortune of her blindnesse;
Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindnesse;
Tell justice of delay:
And if they dare reply,
Then give them all the lye.
Tell arts, they have no soundnesse,
But vary by esteeming;
Tell schooles, they want profoundnesse;
And stand too much on seeming:
If arts and schooles reply.
Give arts and schooles the lye.
Tell faith, it's fled the citie;
Tell how the countrey erreth;
Tell, manhood shakes off pitie;
Tell, vertue least preferreth:
And, if they doe reply,
Spare not to give the lye.
So, when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing,
Although to give the lye
Deserves no less than stabbing,
Yet stab at thee who will,
No stab the soule can kill.
THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
I.
He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
And murdered in her bed.
He walked amongst the Trial Men
In a suit of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay;
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.
I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
With sails of silver by.
I walked, with other souls in pain,
Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
_"That fellow's got to swing."_
Dear Christ! the very prison walls
Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
My pain I could not feel.
I only knew what hunted thought
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved,
And so he had to die.
* * * * *
Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word.
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.
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