Of Street “Ballads on a Subject.”
There is a class of ballads which may with perfect propriety be called street ballads, as they are written by street authors for street singing (or chaunting) and street sale. These effusions, however, are known in the trade by a title appropriate enough—“Ballads on a Subject.” The most successful workers in this branch of the profession, are the men I have already described among the patterers and chaunters.
The “Ballads on a Subject” are always on a political, criminal, or exciting public event, or one that has interested the public, and the celerity with which one of them is written, and then sung in the streets, is in the spirit of “these railroad times.” After any great event, “a ballad on the subject” is often enough written, printed, and sung in the street, in little more than an hour. Such was the case with a song “in honour,” it was announced, “of Lord John Russell’s resignation.” Of course there is no time for either the correction of the rhymes or of the press; but this is regarded as of little consequence—while an early “start” with a new topic is of great consequence, I am assured; “yes, indeed, both for the sake of meals and rents.” If, however, the songs were ever so carefully revised, their sale would not be greater.
I need not treat this branch of our street literature at any great length, as specimens of the “Ballad on a Subject” will be found in many of the preceding statements of paper-workers.
It will have struck the reader that all the street lays quoted as popular have a sort of burthen or jingle at the end of each verse. I was corrected, however, by a street chaunter for speaking of this burthen as a jingle. “It’s a chorus, sir,” he said. “In a proper ballad on a subject, there’s often twelve verses, none of them under eight lines,—and there’s a four-line chorus to every verse; and, if it’s the right sort, it’ll sell the ballad.” I was told, on all hands, that it was not the words that ever “made a ballad, but the subject; and, more than the subject,—the chorus; and, far more than either,—the tune!” Indeed, many of the street-singers of ballads on a subject have as supreme a contempt for words as can be felt by any modern composer. To select a tune for a ballad, however, is a matter of deep deliberation. To adapt the ballad to a tune too common or popular is injudicious; for then, I was told, any one can sing it—boys and all. To select a more elaborate and less-known air, however appropriate, may not be pleasing to some of the members of “the school” of ballad-singers, who may feel it to be beyond their vocal powers; neither may it be relished by the critical in street song, whose approving criticism induces them to purchase as well as to admire.
The license enjoyed by the court jesters, and, in some respects, by the minstrels of old, is certainly enjoyed, undiminished, by the street-writers and singers of ballads on a subject. They are unsparing satirists, who, with a rare impartiality, lash all classes and all creeds, as well as any individual. One man, upon whose information I can rely, told me that, eleven years ago, he himself had “worked,” in town and country, 23 different songs at the same period and on the same subject—the marriage of the Queen. They all “sold,”—but the most profitable was one “as sung by Prince Albert in character.” It was to the air of the “Dusty Miller;” and “it was good,” said the ballad-man, “because we could easily dress up to the character given to Albert.” I quote a verse:
“Here I am in rags
From the land of All-dirt,
To marry England’s Queen,
And my name it is Prince Albert.”
“And what’s more, sir,” continued my informant, “not very long after the honeymoon, the Duchess of L—— drove up in her carriage to the printer’s, and bought all the songs in honour of Victoria’s wedding, and gave a sovereign for them and wouldn’t take the change. It was a duchess. Why I’m sure about it—though I can’t say whether it were the Duchess of L—— or S——; for didn’t the printer, like an honest man, when he’d stopped the price of the papers, hand over to us chaps the balance to drink, and didn’t we drink it! There can’t be a mistake about that.”
Of street ballads on political subjects, or upon themes which have interested the whole general public, I need not cite additional instances. There are, however, other subjects, which, though not regarded as of great interest by the whole body of the people are still eventful among certain classes, and for them the street author and ballad-singer cater.
I first give a specimen of a ballad on a Theatrical Subject. The best I find, in a large collection of these street effusions, is entitled “Jenny Lind and Poet B.” After describing how Mr. Bunn “flew to Sweden” and engaged Miss Lind, the poet proceeds,—the tune being “Lucy Long”:
“After Jenny sign’d the paper,
She repented what she’d done,
And said she must have been a cake,
To be tempted by A. Bunn.
The English tongue she must decline,
It was such awkward stuff,
And we find ’mongst our darling dames,
That one tongue’s quite enough.
CHORUS.
So take your time Miss Jenny,
Oh, take your time Miss Lind,
You’re only to raise your voice,
John Bull, will raise the wind.
Says Alfred in the public eye,
My name you shan’t degrade,
So birds that can and won’t sing
Why in course they must be made
This put Miss Jenny’s pipe out,
Says Bunn your tricks I see,
Altho’ you are a Nightingale,
You shan’t play larks with me.
The Poet said he’d seek the law,
No chance away he’d throw;
Says Jenny if you think I’ll come,
You’ll find it is no go!
When a bird-catcher named ‘Lummy’
With independence big,
Pounced down upon the Nightingale,
And with her hopp’d the twig!”
I am inclined to think—though I know it to be an unusual case—that in this theatrical ballad the street poet was what is tenderly called a “plagiarist.” I was assured by a chaunter that it was written by a street author,—but probably the chaunter was himself in error or forgetfulness.
Next, there is the Ballad on a Civic Subject. In the old times the Lord Mayor had his laureate. This writer, known as “poet to the City of London,” eulogised all lord mayors, and glorified all civic pageants. That of the 9th November, especially, “lived in Settle’s numbers, one day more,”—but Elkanah Settle was the last of such scribes. After his death, the city eschewed a poet. The office has now descended to the street bard, who annually celebrates the great ceremony. I cite two stanzas and the chorus from the latest of these civic Odes:
“Now Farncombe’s out and Musgrove’s in,
And grand is his position,
Because he will be made a king,
At the Hyde Park Exhibition;
A feast he’ll order at Guildhall,
For hypocrites and sinners,
And he has sent Jack Forester to Rome,
To invite the Pope to dinner!
A day like this we never saw,
The truth I am confessing,
Batty’s astonishing menagerie,
Is in the great procession;
There’s lions, tigers, bears and wolves,
To please each smiling feature,
And elephants in harness drawing
Drury Lane Theatre!
CHORUS.
“It is not as it used to be,
Cut on so gay and thrifty,
The funny Lord Mayor’s Show to see,
In eighteen hundred and fifty.”
There is, beside the descriptions of ballads above cited, the Ballad Local. One of these is headed the “Queer Doings in Leather-lane,” and is on a subject concerning which street-sellers generally express themselves strongly—Sunday trading. The endeavour to stop street trading (generally) in Leather-lane, with its injurious results to the shopkeepers, has been already mentioned. The ballad on this local subject presents a personality now, happily, almost confined to the street writers:
“A rummy saintly lot is there,
A domineering crew,
A Butcher, and a Baker,
And an Undertaker too,
Besides a cove who deals in wood,
And makes his bundles small,
And looks as black on Sunday
As the Undertaker’s pall.
CHORUS.
You must not buy, you must not sell,
Oh! is it not a shame?
It is a shocking place to dwell,
About sweet Leather Lane.
The Butcher does not like to hear
His neighbours holloa, buy!
Although he on the Sunday
Sells a little on the sly;
And the Coffin Maker struts along
Just like the great Lord Mayor,
To bury folks on Sundays,
Instead of going to prayers.”
There are yet three themes of these street songs, of which, though they have been alluded to, no specimens have been given. I now supply them. The first is the election ballad. I quote two stanzas from “Middlesex and Victory! or, Grosvenor and Osborne for ever!”
“Now Osborne is the man
To struggle for your rights,
He will vote against the Bishops,
You know, both day and night,
He will strive to crush the Poor Law Bill,
And that with all his might,
And he will never give his vote
To part a man from his wife.
CHORUS.
Then cheer Osborne and Lord Grosvenor,
Cheer them with three times three,
For they beat the soldier, Tommy Wood,
And gained the victory.
I have not forgot Lord Grosvenor,
Who nobly stood the test,
For the electors of great Middlesex
I know he’ll do his best;
He will pull old Nosey o’er the coals,
And lay him on his back,
And he swears that little Bob’s head
He will shove into a rat trap.”
Then come the “elegies.” Of three of these I cite the opening stanza. That on the “Death of Queen Adelaide” has for an illustration a figure of Britannia leaning on her shield, with the “Muse of History,” (as I presume from her attributes,) at Britannia’s feet. In the distance is the setting sun:
“Old England may weep, her bright hopes are fled,
The friend of the poor is no more;
For Adelaide now is numbered with the dead,
And her loss we shall sadly deplore.
For though noble her birth, and high was her station
The poor of this nation will miss her,
For their wants she relieved without ostentation,
But now she is gone, God bless her!
God bless her! God bless her!
But now she is gone, God bless her!”
The elegy on the “Death of the Right Honourable Sir Robert Peel, Bart. M.P.,” is set off with a very fair portrait of that statesman.
“Britannia! Britannia! what makes thee complain,
O why so in sorrow relenting,
Old England is lost, we are borne down in pain,
And the nation in grief is lamenting,
That excellent man—the pride of the land,
Whom every virtue possessed him,
Is gone to that Home, from whence no one returns,
Our dear friend, Sir Robert, God rest him.”
The verses which bewail the “Death of H. R. H. the Duke of Cambridge,” and which are adorned with the same illustration as those upon Queen Adelaide, begin
“Oh! death, thou art severe, and never seems contented,
Prince Adolphus Frederick is summoned away,
The death of Royal Cambridge in sorrow lamented,
Like the good Sir Robert Peel, he no longer could stay;
His virtues were good, and noble was his actions,
His presence at all places caused much attraction,
Britannia for her loss is driven to distraction,
Royal Cambridge, we’ll behold thee no more!”
The third class of street-ballads relates to “fires.” The one I quote, “On the Awful Fire at B. Caunt’s, in St. Martin’s-lane,” is preceded by an engraving of a lady and a cavalier, the lady pointing to a column surmounted by an urn. I again give the first stanza:
“I will unfold a tale of sorrow,
List, you tender parents dear,
It will thrill each breast with horror,
When the dreadful tale you hear.
Early on last Wednesday morning,
A raging fire as we may see,
Did occur, most sad and awful,
Between the hours of two and three.”
In a subsequent stanza are four lines, not without some rough pathos, and adapted to move the feelings of a street audience. The writer is alluding to the grief of the parents who had lost two children by a terrible death:
“No more their smiles they’ll be beholding,
No more their pretty faces see,
No more to their bosoms will they fold them,
Oh! what must their feelings be.”
I find no difference in style between the ballads on a subject of to-day, and the oldest which I could obtain a sight of, which were sung in the present generation—except that these poems now begin far less frequently with what at one time was as common as an invocation to the Muse—the invitation to good Christians to attend to the singer. One on the Sloanes, however, opens in the old fashion:
“Come all good Christians and give attention,
Unto these lines I will unfold,
With heartfelt feelings to you I’ll mention,
I’m sure ’twill make your blood run cold.”
I now conclude this account of street-ballads on a subject with two verses from one on the subject of “The Glorious Fight for the Championship of England.” The celebration of these once-popular encounters is, as I have already stated, one of the points in which the modern ballad-man emulates his ancient brother minstrel:
“On the ninth day of September,
Eighteen hundred and forty five,
From London down to Nottingham
The roads were all alive;
Oh! such a sight was never seen,
Believe me it is so,
Tens of thousands went to see the fight,
With Caunt and Bendigo.
And near to Newport Pagnell,
Those men did strip so fine,
Ben Caunt stood six feet two and a half,
And Bendigo five foot nine;
Ben Caunt, a giant did appear,
And made the claret flow,
And he seemed fully determined
Soon to conquer Bendigo.
CHORUS.
With their hit away and slash away,
So manfully you see,
Ben Caunt has lost and Bendigo
Has gained the victory.”