Transcriber's Notes
Printer errors as well as inconsistencies in punctuation and diacriticals have been corrected without note. Inconsistencies in song titles as listed in the [Contents] and the [Alphabetical Index] have been left as they appear in the original.
Click on the [Listen] link to download and listen to an MP3 file of the music, and on the [XML] link to download the notation in MusicXML format. If you are reading this e-book in a format other than HTML, you may not be able to use these links. The [Note] link will lead to the appropriate song number in the [Notes on the Songs] section.
SONGS
OF THE WEST
FOLK SONGS OF DEVON & CORNWALL
COLLECTED FROM THE MOUTHS OF THE PEOPLE
BY
S. BARING-GOULD, M.A.
H. FLEETWOOD SHEPPARD, M.A.
AND
F.W. BUSSELL, MUS. DOC. D.D.
UNDER THE MUSICAL EDITORSHIP OF
CECIL J. SHARP
PRINCIPAL OF THE HAMPSTEAD CONSERVATOIRE
FIFTH EDITION IN ONE VOLUME
METHUEN & CO. LTD.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
| Originally issued in Four Parts in | 1890 |
| First Published in One Volume in | 1892 |
| New and Revised Edition October | 1905 |
| Reprinted April | 1913 |
TO
THE MEMORY OF
THE LATE
D. RADFORD, Esq., J.P.,
OF MOUNT TAVY,
AT WHOSE HOSPITABLE TABLE THE
MAKING OF THIS COLLECTION
WAS FIRST PLANNED
ALSO
TO THAT OF
THE REV. H. FLEETWOOD SHEPPARD, M.A.,
MY FELLOW WORKER IN THIS FIELD FOR TWELVE YEARS
[CONTENTS]
[ALPHABETICAL INDEX OF SONGS]
[PREFACE]
IN this Edition of "Songs of the West," some considerable changes have been made. When the first edition was issued, we had to catch the public taste, and to humour it. Accordingly the choruses were arranged in four parts, and some of the Songs were set as duets and quartettes. But now that real interest in Folk airs has been awakened, we have discarded this feature.
Moreover, a good many accompanists complained that the arrangements were too elaborate, except for very skilled pianoforte players. We have now simplified the settings.
Then, we have omitted twenty-two songs, and have supplied their places with others, either because the others are intrinsically better, or that they have earlier and more characteristic melodies, or again because the songs though sung by the people, did not seem to us to have been productions of the folk-muse.
Again, when our first edition was published, modal melodies were not appreciated, and we had regretfully to put many aside and introduce more of the airs of a modern character. Public taste is a little healthier now, and musicians have multiplied who can value these early melodies. Consequently we have not felt the same reserve now that we did in 1889.
[INTRODUCTION]
DOROTHY OSBORNE, in a letter to Sir William Temple, in 1653, thus describes her daily home life. "The heat of the day is spent in reading or working, and about six or seven o'clock I walk out into a common that lies hard by the house, where a great many young wenches keep sheep or cows, and sit in the shade singing ballads. I go to them and compare their voices and beauties to some ancient shepherdesses that I have read of, and find a vast difference there; but trust me these are as innocent as those could be. I talk to them, and find they want nothing to make them the happiest people in the world but the knowledge that they are so. Most commonly, when we are in the midst of our discourse, one looks about her, and spies her cows going into the corn, and then away they all run as if they had wings to their heels." ("Letters of Dorothy Osborne," London, 1888, p. 103.)
Before that Sir Thomas Overbury, in his "Character of a Milkmaid," had written: "She dares go alone and unfold her sheep in the night, and fears no manner of ill, because she means none: yet, to say truth, she is never alone, she is still accompanied with old songs, honest thoughts, and prayers, but short ones."
During the reign of Queen Mary, the Princess Elizabeth was kept under close guard and restraint, but was suffered to walk in the palace grounds. "In this situation," says Holinshed, "no marvel if she, hearing upon a time, out of her garden at Woodstock, a certain milkmaid singing pleasantlie, wished herself to be a milkmaid as she was; saying that her case was better, and life merrier." So Viola, in Fletcher's play, "The Coxcombe," 1647:
"Would to God, my father
Had lived like one of these, and bred me up
To milk, and do as they do! Methinks 'tis
A life that I would chuse, if I were now
To tell my time again, above a prince's."
The milkmaid, and the girls guarding sheep and cows are things of the past, and with them have largely departed their old ballads and songs. Tusser, in his "Points on Huswifry," in 1570, recommends the country housewife to select her maids from those who sing at their work as being usually the most painstaking and the best.
"Such servants are oftenest painsfull and good,
That sing at their labours, like birds in a wood."
Nowadays, domestic servants sing nothing but hymns, and the use of ballads and folksongs has died out among farm girls, and these are to be recovered only where there are village industries as basket weaving, glove sewing, and the like.
But the old men sing their ancient ditties, or did so till within the last fifty years. Now they are no longer called on for them, but they remember them, and with a little persuasion can be induced to render them up. When I was a boy, I was wont to ride over and about Dartmoor, and to put up at little village taverns. There I was sure in the evening to hear one or two men sing, and should it be a pay day, sing hour after hour, one song following another with little intermission.
There was an institution at mines and quarries called a fetching. It occurred every fortnight. The men left work early, and went to the changing room; stone jars of ale were brought thither from the nearest public house. Each man filled his mug, and each in turn, before emptying it, was required to sing. On such occasions many a fine old ballad was to be picked up. There was also the farm-supper after harvest, at which the workmen sang. Now the suppers have been discontinued. Ringer's feasts, happily, still remain, and at them a good old ditty may be heard. But most of the old singers with their traditional ballads set to ancient modal melodies have passed away.
In "Poems, etc.," by Henry Incledon Johns, published by subscription, Devonport, 1832, is the following interesting passage. He is describing a night spent in an inn on the borders of Dartmoor; he met farmers and labourers. "One of the party I observed never took any share in the conversation, but appeared to have been invited there for the sole purpose of singing to them. He sang a great number of ballads, making up in loudness for what he lacked in melody. I thought it betrayed rather a want of courtesy that his auditors continued to talk while he sang, and no less remarkable, that they never expressed either applause or disapprobation of his strains. Now and then, one or two of them would join in a line of chorus, but it seemed to be done in a sort of parenthesis, and the thread of the conversation was immediately resumed as vehemently as ever.... I gleaned the following scraps of the border minstrelsy of Dartmoor:
'There was an old man as blind as blind could be,
He swore he saw the fox go up a great tree.'
'There was one among them all
That's slender, fair and tall,
With a black and rolling eye,
And a skin of lily dye.'
'A bonny lass I courted full many a long day,
And dearly I loved to be in her sweet company.'
(The lover then describes the progress of his suit, which proves unsuccessful, and concludes thus:—)
'Go, dig me a pit, that is long, large, and deep,
And I'll lay myself down, and take a long sleep.
And that's the way to forget her.'
"The air to the latter was rather plaintive, and from the lips of some siren might have been entitled to an encore, but the voice which now gave it utterance only added another to many previous proofs that the English are not a musical people. The minstrel was in appearance one of the most athletic men I have ever seen, and although seventy-five years of age, would still, as I subsequently learnt, perform a day's work better than most of the young men of the parish. He was a pauper, but in great respect among the neighbouring rustics for his vocal powers. His auditory were moor-farmers with countenances as rugged and weather-beaten as the rocks among which they live."
It is not a little interesting to know that some seventy years after this recorded evening we were able to recover two of the songs which Mr. Johns gives somewhat inaccurately; and both are included in this collection. The first is "[The Three Jovial Welshmen]," No. 75; and the last is "[The False Bride]," No. 97.
One of my old singers, James Olver, was the son of very strict Wesleyans. When he was a boy, he was allowed to hear no music save psalm and hymn tunes. But he was wont to creep out of his window at night, and start away to the tavern where the miners congregated, and listen to and heap up in his memory the songs he there heard. As these were forbidden fruit they were all the more dearly prized and surely remembered, and when he was a white-haired old man, he poured them out to us.
Some forty or fifty years ago, it was customary when the corn was cut, for the young men of a parish to agree together, and without telling the farmer of their intention, to invade his harvest field, work all night and stack his corn, whilst he slept. It was allowed to leak out who had done him this favour, and in return, he invited them with their lasses to sup and dance and make merry in a lighted barn. Then famous old songs were sung. But all that good feeling is at an end, and in its place exists a rankling hostility between the tiller of the soil and his employer. Blame assuredly attaches to the farmer for this condition of affairs, in that he has done away with the farmhouse festivities in which workmen and employer took part.
One evening in 1888, I was dining with the late Mr. Daniel Radford, of Mount Tavy, when the conversation turned to old Devonshire songs. Some of those present knew "[Widdecombe Fair]," others remembered "[Arscott of Tetcott]"; and all had heard many and various songs sung at Hunt-suppers, at harvest and sheep-shearing feasts. My host turned to me and said: "It is a sad thing that our folk-music should perish. I wish you would set to work and collect it—gather up the fragments that remain before all is lost!"
I undertook the task. I found that it was of little use going to most farmers and yeoman. They sang the compositions of Hooke, Hudson, and Dibden. But I learned that there were two notable old singing men at South Brent, and I was aware that there was one moorland singing farmer at Belstone, I was informed of this by J.D. Prickman, Esq., of Okehampton. This man, Harry Westaway, knew many old songs. Moreover, in my own neighbourhood was a totally illiterate hedger, in fact, he could neither read nor write. He enjoyed no little local celebrity as a song-man. His name was James Parsons, aged seventy-four, and a son of a still more famous singer called "The Singing-machine," and grandson of another of the same fame. In fact, the profession of song-man was hereditary in the family. At every country entertainment, in olden times, at the public-house almost nightly, for more than a century, one of these men of the Parsons' family had not failed to attend, to sing as required for the entertainment of the company. The repertoire of the grandfather had descended to old James. For how many generations before him the profession had been followed I could not learn. James Parsons' ballad tunes were of an early and archaic character. In fact, with few exceptions his melodies were in the Gregorian modes. At one time Parsons and a man named Voysey were working on the fringe of Dartmoor, and met in the evening at the moorland tavern. Parsons boasted of the number of songs he knew, and Voysey promised to give him a glass of ale for every fresh one he sang. Parsons started with "The Outlandish Knight," one song streamed forth after another, one glass after another was emptied, and these men sat up the whole night, till the sun rose, and the song-man's store was not then exhausted, but Voysey's pocket was. I could hardly credit this tale when told me, so I questioned Voysey, who had worked for my father and was working for me. He laughed and confirmed the tale. "I ought to remember it," he said, "for he cleared me clean out."
Many a pleasant evening have I spent with old Parsons, he in the settle, sitting over the hall fire, I taking down the words of his ballads, Mr. Sheppard or Mr. Bussell noting down his melodies.
But one day I heard that an accident had befallen Parsons. In cutting "spears," i.e., pegs for thatching, on his knee he had cut into the joint; and the village doctor told me he feared Parsons at his age would never get over it. I sent for Mr. Bussell, and said to him: "We shall lose our old singer, before we have quite drained him. Come with me, and we will visit his cottage, and see what more we can get from him." We went, and very pleased he was to sing to us from his bed. "[Old Wichet]," No. 30, was one of the songs we then acquired from him. Happily, the sturdy constitution of the man caused his recovery, and he lived on for three years after this accident.
One day in November, I got a letter from the Vicar of South Brent, in which he informed me that Robert Hard, a crippled stone-breaker there, and one of my song-men, was growing very feeble. Without delay I took the train, and arrived at South Brent Vicarage, just as the party had finished breakfast. "Now," said I to the Vicar, "Lend me your drawing room and the piano, and send for old Hard."
The stone breaker arrived, and I spent almost the whole day, that is, till the dusk of evening fell, taking down his songs and melodies. From him then, I had "The Cuckoo," that I have published in my "Garland of Country Songs." A month later, poor old Hard was found dead in a snowdrift by the roadside.
I had enlisted the services of such excellent musicians as the late Rev. H. Fleetwood Sheppard, of Thurnscoe, Yorkshire, and Mr., now the Rev. Doctor Bussell, Mus. Doc., and Vice-principal of Brazennose College, Oxford, and we worked at collecting, at South Brent, where besides Robert Hard, was John Helmore, a miller, who died in the Ivy Bridge Workhouse in 1900; also at Belstone, and we worked through the length and breadth of Dartmoor. James Coaker,[1] a blind man of 89, in the heart of the moor, very infirm, and able to leave his bed for a few hours of the day only, was unable to sing, but could recite the words of ballads; but Mr. J. Webb, captain of a mine hard by, knew his tunes, and could very sweetly pipe them. On Blackdown, Mary Tavy, lived a mason, Samuel Fone, he died in 1898. He had an almost inexhaustible supply. Further songs were yielded by a singing blacksmith, John Woodrich, of Woolacott Moor, Thrushleton, commonly known as "Ginger Jack"; also by Roger Luxton, of Halwell, by James Olver, Tanner, Launceston, a native of S. Kewe, Cornwall; by John Masters, of Bradstone, aged 83; by William Rice and John Rickards, both of Lamerton; by William Friend, labourer, Lydford; Edmund Fry, thatcher, a native of Lezant, Cornwall; Roger Hannaford, Widdecombe; Will and Roger Huggins, Lydford; W. Bickle, Bridestowe; Matthew Baker, a poor cripple, Lew Down; John Dingle, Coryton; J. Peake, tanner, Liskeard; and Mr. S. Gilbert, the aged innkeeper of the "Falcon," Mawgan, in Pyder. More were obtained from old singers at Two Bridges and Post Bridge on Dartmoor, from others at Chagford, at Holne, and at South Brent. From others again at Menheniot, Cornwall, and at Fowey. Some songs taken down from moor men on Dartmoor, in or about 1868, were sent me by W. Crossing, Esq., who knows Dartmoor better than any man living; others by T.S. Cayzer, Esq., taken down in 1849. Miss Bidder, of Stoke Flemming, most kindly searched her neighbourhood for old women who knew ancient songs, and sent me what she obtained. We had several rare old melodies from Sally Satterley,[2] now dead, of Huccaby Bridge, Dartmoor. She had acquired them from her father, a crippled fiddler.
Of the vast quantities of tunes that we have collected, perhaps a third are very good, a third are good, and the remainder indifferent. The singers are almost invariably illiterate and aged, and when they die the tradition will be lost, for the present generation will have nothing to do with these songs, especially such as are modal, and supplant them with the vulgarest music hall compositions. The melodies are far more precious than the words, and we have been more concerned to rescue these than the words, which are often common-place, and may frequently be found on broadside ballad sheets. The words are less frequently of home growth than the airs, and over and over again we came upon ballads already in print, but not to the tunes to which they are sung elsewhere. There are, in fact, only a few, such as "Cupid's Garden," "Bold General Wolf," "Lord Thomas and the Fair Eleanor," "Barbara Allen," "Outward Bound," "The Mermaid," that retain the melodies to which sung in other parts of England. But, "[Tobacco is an Indian Weed]," "Joans' Ale is New," "[The Fox]," and many others have tunes to which sung in Devon and Cornwall that are quite different and local. A remarkable instance is that of "[Sweet Nightingale]." This appeared in 1761 with music by Dr. Arne. The words travelled down to Cornwall, not so Arne's tune, and they were there set to an entirely independent melody. Then again, when a tune did travel West, and was heard by some of the peasant singers, if it did not commend itself to their taste, they altered it, perhaps quite unconsciously into a form more satisfactory to their minds. I have given a very curious example of this, "[Upon a Sunday Morning]."
Our folk music is a veritable moraine of rolled and ground fragments from musical strata far away. It contains melodies of all centuries from the days of the minstrels down to the present time, all thrown together in one heap. It must be borne well in mind that to the rustic singer, melody is everything. It was so in the days before Elizabeth. The people then did not want harmony; to them harmony is quite a modern invention and need.
At the present day, we are so accustomed to choral and concerted music that we have come to care little for formal melody, and Wagner has taught us to be content with musical phrases alone. Melody is a musical idea worked out in successive notes of our scale. Modern music is constructed in but two of the seven diatonic modes, in which melodies may be cast, the major and the minor; with the result that the modern ear entertains no appreciation of an air that is not in the Ionian scale, the "tonus lascivus" of the ancients.
The jongleur or minstrel had but the rudest of instruments; the peasant singer had none at all. What interest he can create, what effect he can produce, must be through melody alone. Now, I venture to assert that the folk music of the English peasantry has been surpassingly rich in melodiousness, and that no tune has had a chance of living and being transmitted from generation to generation, unless it have a distinct individuality in it, in a word, contains a melodious idea. Moreover, not having been framed only in the common major or minor key, it is abundantly varied. It has been a well-spring from which hitherto we have not drawn.
In former times, that strongly defined dividing line which separates the cultured from the uncultured did not exist. The music of the peasant was also the music of the court; the ballad was the delight of the cottager and of the noble lady in her bower. But the separation began, in music, in the Elizabethan days; in ballads, in those of James I., when nearly every old ballad was re-written to fresh metres, unsingable to the traditional airs. The skilled musician scorned folk melodies, and revelled in counter-point.
It is a mistake to suppose that all mediæval music was in the Gregorian modes other than our major and minor. Even in the 13th century, the modern major mode was used, so that some of our traditional airs, which seem to be modern may really be old.
M. Tiersot notes that among the melodies extant of three trouvères of the Thirteenth century, a certain number are modern in character. Of twenty-two airs by the Chatelain de Coucy, three are frankly in the major; five others in the 7th or the 8th tone, give the impression of the major. Of nine melodies by the King of Navarre, four are in the major, a fifth in the 7th tone, is of the same nature as those of De Coucy. Of thirty-four chansons by Adam de la Hall, twenty-one are in the major.
The folk airs that we give in our collection may not please at first, certainly will not please all; but when once a relish for them has been acquired, then hearers will turn with weariness from the ordinary concert hall feebleness, as we turn from the twaddle of a vacuous female. We have found it necessary to take down all the variants of the same air that we have come across.
M. Bourgault Ducoudray, in his introduction to "Mélodies populaires de Basse Bretagne," Paris, 1885, says: "When a song has been transmitted from mouth to mouth, without having been fixed by notation, it is exposed to alterations. One is sometimes obliged to collect as many as twenty variants of the same air, before finding one that is good. This is the greatest difficulty to the seeker; it is as hard to lay the hand on the veritable typal form of a melody as it is to meet with an intact specimen among the shells that have been rolled on the sea shore." When a party of singers is assembled, or when one man sings a succession of ballads, the memory becomes troubled; the first few melodies are given correctly, but after that, the airs become deflected and influenced by the airs last sung. At Two Bridges one old singer, G. Kerswell, after giving us "The Bell-ringers," sang us half-a-dozen ballads but the melody of the bells went through them all, and vitiated them all so as to render them worthless. On another occasion, we took down four or five airs all beginning alike, because one singer had impressed this beginning on the minds of the others. At another time, when this impression was worn off, they would sing correctly, and then the beginnings would be different. Experience taught us never to take down too much at one sitting.
In a very few years all this heritage of traditional folk music will be gone; and this is the supreme moment at which such a collection can be made. Already, nearly every one of my old singers from whom these melodies were gathered, is dead. They are passing away everywhere. Few counties of England have been worked. Sussex has been well explored by the late Rev. John Broadwood, and then by Miss Lucy Broadwood[3]; Yorkshire, by Mr. Frank Kidson; Northumberland, by Dr. Collingwood Bruce and Mr. John Stokoe. Mr. Cecil Sharp is now engaged on Somersetshire, and Dr. Vaughan Williams on Essex. Who will undertake Lincolnshire, Dorset, Hampshire, and other counties? The purely agricultural districts are most auriferous. In manufacturing counties modern music has driven out the traditional folk melodies.
With regard to the approximate dates of the airs we give, all that we can say is that such as are in the ancient modes are not later than the reign of James I. How much more ancient they may be, it is impossible to determine. The melodies of the Handel and Arne, and then those of the Hooke and Dibden periods can be at once detected. Some few of the melodies we have taken down were certainly originally in one or other of the ancient modes, but in process of time have been subjected to alteration, to accommodate them to the modern ear.
Although some seventy per cent. of the airs noted from the very old singers are modal, we have not given too many of these, as the popular taste is not sufficiently educated to relish them. But such as can not perceive the beauty of the tunes that go, for instance, to "[The Trees they are so high]," in the rarely used Phrygian mode, "[Flora, the Flower of the West]," in F, "[Henry Martyn]," "[On a May morning so early]," etc., are indeed to be pitied. We have not been able to give those lengthy ballads, such as, "The Outlandish Knight," "The Brown Girl," "By the Banks of Green Willow," "The Baffled Knight," "William and the Shepherd's Daughter," "Captain Ward," "The Golden Glove," "The Maid and the Box," "The Death of Queen Jane," etc., which are too long to be sung and listened to with patience now-a-days.
In some instances we have set other words to a ballad tune, as [XXXVI]. One of my old singers said to me concerning this ballad, "When my little sister, now dead, these twenty years, was a child, and went up from Exeter to London with me in a carrier's van, Lor bless'y, afore railways was invented, I mind that she sang this here ballet in the waggon all the way up. We was three days about it. She was then about six years old." The ballet, by the way, is not particularly choice and suitable for a child or a grown-up girl to sing, according to our ideas.
In giving these songs to the public, we have been scrupulous to publish the airs precisely as noted down, choosing among the variants those which commended themselves to us as the soundest. But we have not been so careful with regard to the words. These are sometimes in a fragmentary condition, or are coarse, contain double entendres, or else are mere doggerel. Accordingly, we have re-written the songs wherever it was not possible to present them in their original form. This was done by the Scotch. Many an old ballad is gross, and many a broadside is common-place. Songs that were thought witty in the Caroline and early Georgian epochs, are no longer sufferable; and broadside ballads are in many cases vulgarised versions of earlier ballads that have been lost in their original forms.
What a change has taken place in public feeling with regard to decency may be judged by the way in which Addison speaks of D'Urfey in "The Guardian," 1713, No. 29. "A judicious author, some years since, published a collection of sonnets, which he very successfully called "Laugh and be Fat; or, Pills to purge Melancholy." I can not sufficiently admire the facetious title of these volumes, and must censure the world of ingratitude, while they are so negligent in rewarding the jocose labours of my friend, Mr. D'Urfey, who was so large a contributor to this treatise, and to whose numerous productions so many rural squires in the remotest parts of the island are obliged for the dignity and state which corpulency gives them." And again, in No. 67, "I must heartily recommend to all young ladies, my disciples, the case of my old friend, who has often made their grand-mothers merry, and whose sonnets have perhaps lulled to sleep many a present toast, when she lay in her cradle." Why—D'Urfey's Pills must now-a-days be kept under lock and key. The fun so commended by the pious and grave Addison is filth of the most revolting description. And yet the grand-mothers of the ladies of his day, according to him, were wont to sing them over the cradles of their grand-children!
So when a "Collection of Old Ballads" was published 1723-5, the Editor, after giving a series of historical and serious pieces, in a later volume apologises to the ladies for their gravity, and for their special delectation furnishes an appendix of songs that are simply dirty.
A good many of the ditties in favour with our rural song-men, are, it must be admitted, of the D'Urfey type; and what is more some of the very worst are sung to the daintiest early melodies. Two courses lay open to us. One that adopted Dr. Barrett and Mr. Kidson to print the words exactly as given on the broadsides, with asterisks for the undesirable stanzas. But this would simply have killed the songs. No one would care to warble what was fragmentary. On the other hand, there is that adopted by the Scotch and Irish collectors, which consists in re-writing or modifying where objectionable or common-place. This has been the course we have pursued. It seemed a pity to consign the lovely old melodies to the antiquary's library, by publishing them with words which were fatal to the success of the songs in the drawing room or the concert hall. We resolved where the old words were good, or tolerable, to retain them. Where bad, to re-write, adhering as closely as possible to the original. Where the songs were mere broadside ballads, we have had no scruple in doing this, for we give reference to the press-mark in the British Museum, where the original text may be found. But the broadside itself is often a debased form of a fine early ballad. The broadside publishers were wont to pay a shilling to any ballad mongers who could furnish them with a new ditty. These men were destitute of the poetic faculty and illiterate, and they contented themselves with taking old ballads and recomposing them, so as to give to them a semblance of novelty, sufficient to qualify their authors to claim the usual fee. Here are some lines by one of the fraternity:
"I'm Billy Nuts wot always cuts
A dash through all the town, sir,
With lit'rary men, my clever pen
In grammar gains renown, sir,
In song, and catch, and ditty.
And then to each, with dying speech
I do excite their pity.
So all agree to welcome me,
With drum and fife and whiols, (sic for viols)
A cause my name stands fast in fame,
The Bard of Seven Dials."
(B.M., 11,621, K. 4)
Our object was not to furnish a volume for consultation by the musical antiquary alone, but to resuscitate, and to popularise the traditional music of the English people. As, however, to the antiquary everything is important, exactly as obtained, uncleansed from rust and unpolished, I have deposited a copy of the songs and ballads with their music exactly as taken down, for reference, in the Municipal Free Library, Plymouth.
The Rev. H.F. Sheppard, who worked with me for twelve years in rescuing these old songs, and in bringing them before the public, is now no more. A new edition has been called for, and in this some exclusions and some additions have been made. We do not think that the pieces we have removed are not good, but that we are able to supply their places with others that are better. Mr. Sheppard entertained a very strong objection to arranging any song he had not himself "pricked down" from the lips of the singers, and as Mr. Bussell had noted down hundreds as well, these, for the most part, had to be laid on one side. Mr. Sheppard was, doubtless, right in his assertion, that unless he had himself heard the song sung, he could not catch its special character, and so render it justly.
Acting on the advice of Mr. Cecil Sharp, of the Conservatoire, Hampstead, who has kindly undertaken the musical editorship of this edition, I have introduced several interesting ballads and songs that, for the reason above given, were excluded from the first. Mr. F. Kidson has kindly afforded us information relative to such songs as he has come across in Yorkshire.
In conclusion I give a few particulars relative to the Rev. H.F. Sheppard, my fellow-worker, and Mr. D. Radford, the instigator of the collection, both of whom have passed away.
Henry Fleetwood Sheppard was a graduate of Trinity Hall, Cambridge, and had been appointed Travelling Batchelor to the University. Through the whole of his clerical career he was closely associated with sacred music, especially with Plain-song, of which he was an enthusiastic admirer. As precentor of the Doncaster Choral Union from 1864 to 1884, he became the pioneer of improved church music in that part of Yorkshire. In the year 1868 he was presented to the Rectory of Thurnscoe, which at that time was an agricultural village numbering about 180 inhabitants, where he remained until 1898, when he resigned his living on account of his advancing years which precluded his coping satisfactorily with the population swelling to 3,366 souls, owing to the opening of coal mines in the parish. In 1888, as already intimated, he was associated along with myself in the collection of Devon and Cornish folk songs.
When he resigned the incumbency of Thurnscoe, he retired to Oxford, where, in his declining years, he might, at his leisure, dip into those store houses of classical and musical literature in which his soul delighted.
Three days before Christmas, 1901, a slight stroke of paralysis gave warning of possibly serious mischief. A sudden and fatal collapse ensued on S. John's Day, without further warning. He was laid to rest at Oxford on New Year's Eve. An inscription in the Vestry wall at Thurnscoe, was cut by one who was in Mr. Sheppard's choir for nearly forty years before his death. "Pray for the peace of Henry Fleetwood Sheppard, Rector of this Parish Church, 1868-1898, who went to rest, December 27th, 1901, aged 77 years."
Mr. Daniel Radford, of Mount Tavy, was an enthusiastic lover of all that pertained to his county. He knew that a number of traditional songs and ballads still floated about, and he saw clearly that unless these were at once collected, they would be lost irretrievably, and he pressed on me the advisability of making a collection, and of setting about it at once. I began to do so in 1888, and continued at it, working hard for twelve years, assisted by Mr. Sheppard and Mr. Bussell. Mr. Radford was one for whom I entertained the deepest affection, inspired by his high character; and I knew that what he judged to be advisable should be undertaken in no perfunctory way.
Mr. Radford died January 3rd, 1900, at the age of seventy-two, and was buried in Lydford churchyard. The beautiful rood-screen in the church has been erected by his sons to his memory.
In the collection, the music initialed H.F.S. has the accompaniment arranged for the piano by Mr. Sheppard, that initialed C.J.S. by Mr. C.J. Sharp; that F.W.B. by Dr. Bussell.
[No 1 BY CHANCE IT WAS]
H.F.S.
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1
By chance it was I met my love,
It did me much surprise,
Down by a shady myrtle grove,
Just as the sun did rise.
The birds they sang right gloriously,
And pleasant was the air;
And there was none, save she and I,
Among the flowers fair.
2
In dewy grass and green we walk'd,
She timid was and coy;
"How can'st thou choose but pity me,
My pretty pearl, my joy?
How comes it that thou stroll'st this way?
Sweet maiden, tell me true,
Before bright Phœbus' glittering ray
Has supped the morning dew?"
3
"I go to tend the flocks I love
The ewes and tender lambs,
That pasture by the myrtle grove,
That gambol by their dams;
There I enjoy a pure content
At dawning of the day,"
Then, hand in hand, we lovers went
To see the flock at play.
4
And as we wended down the road,
I said to her, "Sweet Maid,
Three years I in my place abode
And three more must be stayed.
The three that I am bound so fast,
O fairest wait for me.
And when the weary years are past
Then married we will be."
5
"Three years are long, three times too long,
Too lengthy the delay."
O then I answered in my song,
"Hope wastes them quick away.
Where love is fervent, fain and fast,
And knoweth not decay.
There nimbly fleet the seasons past
Accounted as one day."
[No 2 THE HUNTING OF ARSCOTT OF TETCOTT]
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
In the month of November, in the year fifty-two,
Three jolly Fox-hunters, all Sons of the Blue,
They rode from Pencarrow, not fearing a wet coat,
To take their diversion with Arscott of Tetcott.
Sing fol-de-rol, lol-de-rol, la-de, heigh-ho!
Sing fol-de-rol, lol-de-rol, la-de, heigh-ho!
2
The day-light was dawning, right radiant the morn,
When Arscott of Tetcott he winded his horn;
He blew such a flourish, so loud in the hall,
The rafters re-sounded, and danced to the call.
Sing fol-de-rol, &c.
3
In the kitchen the servants, in kennel the hounds,
In the stable the horses were roused by the sounds,
On Black-Bird in saddle sat Arscott, "To day
I will show you good sport, lads, Hark! follow, away!"
Sing fol-de-rol, &c.
4
They tried in the coppice, from Becket to Thorn,
There were Ringwood and Rally, and Princess and Scorn;
Then out bounded Reynard, away they all went,
With the wind in their tails, on a beautiful scent.
Sing fol-de-rol, &c.
5
"Hark, Vulcan!" said Arscott, "The best of good hounds!
Heigh Venus!" he shouted, "How nimbly she bounds!
And nothing re-echoes so sweet in the valley,
As the music of Rattler, of Fill-pot, and Rally."
Sing fol-de-rol, &c.
6
They hunted o'er fallow, o'er field and on moor,
And never a hound, man or horse would give o'er.
Sly Reynard kept distance for many a mile,
And no one dismounted for gate or for stile.
Sing fol-de-rol, &c.
7
"How far do you make it?" said Simon, the Son,
"The day that's declining will shortly be done."
"We'll follow till Doom's day," quoth Arscott. Before
They hear the Atlantic with menacing roar.
Sing fol-de-rol, &c.
8
Thro' Whitstone and Poundstock, St. Gennys they run,
As a fireball, red, in the sea set the sun.
Then out on Penkenner—a leap, and they go,
Full five hundred feet to the ocean be-low.
Sing fol-de-rol, &c.
9
When the full moon is shining as clear as the day,
John Arscott still hunteth the country, they say;
You may see him on Black-Bird, and hear, in full cry
The pack from Pencarrow to Dazard go by.
Sing fol-de-rol, &c.
10
When the tempest is howling, his horn you may hear,
And the bay of his hounds in their headlong career;
For Arscott of Tetcott loves hunting so well,
That he breaks for the pastime from Heaven—or Hell.
Sing fol-de-rol, &c.
[No 3 UPON A SUNDAY MORNING]
H.F.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
Upon a Sunday morning, when Spring was in its prime,
Along the Church-lane tripping, I heard the Church-bells chime,
And there encountered Reuben, astride upon the stile,
He blocked the way, so saucy, upon his lips a smile.
2
Upon a Sunday morning, there came a rush of bells,
The wind was music-laden, in changeful fall and swells;
He would not let me over, he held, he made me stay,
And promise I would meet him again at close of day.
3
Upon a Sunday evening, the ringers in the tower,
Were practising their changes, they rang for full an hour;
And Reuben by me walking, would never let me go,
Until a Yes I answered, he would not take a No.
4
Again a Sunday morning, and Reuben stands by me,
Not now in lane, but chancel, where all the folks may see.
A golden ring he offers, as to his side I cling,
O happy Sunday morning, for us the Church-bells ring.
[No 4 THE TREES THEY ARE SO HIGH]
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
All the trees they are so high,
The leaves they are so green,
The day is past and gone, sweet-heart,
That you and I have seen.
It is cold winter's night,
You and I must bide alone:
Whilst my pretty lad is young
And is growing.
2
In a garden as I walked,
I heard them laugh and call;
There were four and twenty playing there,
They played with bat and ball.
O the rain on the roof,
Here and I must make my moan:
Whilst my pretty lad is young
And is growing.
3
I listened in the garden,
I looked o'er the wall;
Amidst five and twenty gallants there
My love exceeded all.
O the wind on the thatch,
Here and I alone must weep:
Whilst my pretty lad is young
And is growing.
4
O father, father dear,
Great wrong to me is done,
That I should married be this day,
Before the set of sun.
At the huffle of the gale,
Here I toss and cannot sleep:
Whilst my pretty lad is young
And is growing.
5[4]
My daughter, daughter dear,
If better be, more fit,
I'll send him to the court awhile,
To point his pretty wit.
But the snow, snowflakes fall,
O and I am chill as dead:
Whilst my pretty lad is young
And is growing.
6[5]
To let the lovely ladies know
They may not touch and taste,
I'll bind a bunch of ribbons red
About his little waist.
But the raven hoarsely croaks,
And I shiver in my bed;
Whilst my pretty lad is young
And is growing.
7
I married was, alas,
A lady high to be,
In court and stall and stately hall,
And bower of tapestry,
But the bell did only knell,
And I shuddered as one cold:
When I wed the pretty lad
Not done growing.
8
At seventeen he wedded was,
A father at eighteen,
At nineteen his face was white as milk,
And then his grave was green;
And the daisies were outspread,
And buttercups of gold,
O'er my pretty lad so young
Now ceased growing.
[No 5 PARSON HOGG]
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
Mess Parson Hogg shall now maintain,
The burden of my song, Sir,
A single life, perforce he led,
Of constitution strong, Sir.
Sing, tally-ho! sing, tally-ho!
Sing, tally-ho! why zounds, Sir,
He mounts his mare, to hunt the hare,
Sing tally-ho! the hounds, Sir.
2
And every day he goes to Mass,
He first draws on the boot, Sir,
That should the beagles chance to pass,
He might join in pursuit, Sir!
Sing tally-ho! &c.
3
That Parson little loveth prayer,
And Pater, night and morn, Sir,
For bell and book, hath little care
But dearly loves the horn, Sir.
Sing tally-ho! &c.
4
S. Stephen's Day, this holy man
He went a pair to wed, Sir,
When as the Service he began
Puss by the Church-yard sped, Sir.
Sing tally-ho! &c.
5
He shut his book, Come on, he said,
I'll pray and bless no more, Sir,
He drew his surplice o'er his head
And started for the door, Sir
Sing tally-ho! &c.
6
In pulpit Parson Hogg was strong,
He preached without a book, Sir,
And to the point, and never long,
And this the text he took, Sir,
"O tally-ho! O tally-ho!
Dearly beloved—zounds, Sir
I mount my mare to hunt the hare,
Singing tally-ho! the hounds, Sir!"
[No 6 “COLD BLOWS THE WIND, SWEET-HEART”]
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
"Cold blows the wind of night, sweet-heart,
Cold are the drops of rain;
The very first love that ever I had,
In green-wood he was slain.
2
"I'll do as much for my true-love
As any fair maiden may;
I'll sit and mourn upon his grave
A twelvemonth and a day."
3
A twelvemonth and a day being up,
The ghost began to speak;
"Why sit you here by my grave-side
From dusk till dawning break?"
4
"O think upon the garden, love,
Where you and I did walk.
The fairest flower that blossomed there
Is withered on its stalk."
5
"What is it that you want of me,
And will not let me sleep?
Your salten tears they trickle down
My winding sheet to steep."
6
"Oh I will now redeem the pledge
The pledge that once I gave;
A kiss from off thy lily white lips
Is all of you I crave."
7
"Cold are my lips in death, sweet-heart,
My breath is earthy strong.
If you do touch my clay-cold lips,
Your time will not be long."
8
Then through the mould he heaved his head,
And through the herbage green.
There fell a frosted bramble leaf,
It came their lips between.
9
"Now if you were not true in word,
As now I know you be,
I'd tear you as the withered leaves,
Are torn from off the tree.
10
"And well for you that bramble-leaf
Betwixt our lips was flung.
The living to the living hold,
Dead to the dead belong."
[No 7 THE SPRIG OF THYME]
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
In my garden grew plenty of Thyme,
It would flourish by night and by day;
O'er the wall came a lad, he took all that I had,
And stole my thyme away.
2
My garden with heartsease was bright,
The pansy so pied and so gay;
One slipped through the gate, and alas! cruel fate,
My heartsease took away.
3
My garden grew self-heal and balm,
And speedwell that's blue for an hour,
Then blossoms again, O grievous my pain!
I'm plundered of each flower.
4
There grows in my garden the rue,
And Love-lies-a-bleeding droops there,
The hyssop and myrrh, the teazle and burr,
In place of blossoms fair.
5
The willow with branches that weep,
The thorn and the cypress tree,
O why were the seeds of such dolorous weeds,
Thus scattered there by thee?
[No 8 ROVING JACK]
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
Young Jack he was a journey-man
That roved from town to town,
And when he'd done a job of work,
He lightly sat him down.
With his kit upon his shoulder, and
A grafting knife in hand,
He roved the country round about,
A merry journey-man.
2
And when he came to Exeter,
The maidens leaped for joy;
Said one and all, both short and tall,
Here comes a gallant boy.
The lady dropt her needle, and
The maid her frying-pan,
Each plainly told her mother, that
She loved the journey-man.
3
He had not been in Exeter,
The days were barely three,
Before the Mayor, his sweet daughter.
She loved him desperately;
She bid him to her mother's house,
She took him by the hand,
Said she, "My dearest mother, see
I love the journey-man!"
4
Now out on thee, thou silly maid!
Such folly speak no more:
How can'st thou love a roving man,
Thou ne'er hast seen before?
"O mother sweet, I do entreat,
I love him all I can;
Around the country glad I'll rove
With this young journey-man.
5
"He need no more to trudge afoot,
He'll travel coach and pair;
My wealth with me—or poverty
With him, content I'll share."
Now fill the horn with barleycorn,
And flowing fill the can:
Here let us toast the Mayor's daughter
And the roving journey-man.
[No 9 BRIXHAM TOWN]
H.F.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
All ye that love to hear
Music performed in air,
Pray listen, and give ear,
To what I shall perpend.
Concerning music, who'd,—
If rightly understood—
Not find 'twould do him good
To hearken and attend.
2
In Brixham town so rare
For singing sweet and fair,
Few can with us compare,
We bear away the bell.
Extolled up and down
By men of high renown,
We go from town to town;
And none can us excell.
3
There's a man in Brixham town
Of office, and in gown,
Strove to put singing down,
Which most of men adore.
For House of God unmeet,
The voice and organ sweet!
When pious men do meet,
To praise their God before.
4
Go question Holy writ,
And you will find in it,
That seemly 'tis and fit,
To praise and hymn the Lord.
On cymbal and on lute,
On organ and on flute,
With voices sweet, that suit;
All in a fair concord.
5
In Samuel you may read
How one was troubled,
Was troubled indeed,
Who crown and sceptre bore;
An evil spirit lay
On his mind both night and day,
That would not go away,
And vexed him very sore.
6
Then up and uttered one,
Said, "Jesse hath a son,
Of singers next to none;
David his name they say."
"So send for David, fleet,
To make me music sweet,
That the spirit may retreat,
And go from me away."
7
Now when that David, he
King Saul had come to see,
And playèd merrily.
Upon his stringèd harp,
The Devil in all speed,
With music ill agreed,
From Saul the King, he fleed,
Impatient to depart.
8
Now there be creatures three
As you may plainly see
With music can't agree
Upon this very earth
The swine, the fool, the ass,
And so we let it pass
And sing, O Lord, thy praise
Whilst we have breath.
9
So now, my friends, adieu!
I hope that all of you
Will pull most strong and true,
In strain to serve the Lord.
God prosper us, that we
Like angels may agree,
In singing merrily
In tune and in accord.
[No 10 GREEN BROOM]
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
There was an old man lived out in the wood,
His trade was a-cutting of Broom, green Broom;
He had but one son without thrift, without good,
Who lay in his bed till 'twas noon, bright noon.
2
The old man awoke, one morning and spoke,
He swore he would fire the room, that room,
If his John would not rise and open his eyes,
And away to the wood to cut Broom, green Broom.
3
So Johnny arose, and he slipped on his clothes,
And away to the wood to cut Broom, green Broom,
He sharpened his knives, for once he contrives
To cut a great bundle of Broom, green Broom.
4
When Johnny passed under a lady's fine house,
Passed under a lady's fine room, fine room,
She called to her maid, "Go fetch me," she said,
"Go fetch me the boy that sells Broom, green Broom."
5
When Johnny came into the lady's fine house,
And stood in the lady's fine room, fine room,
"Young Johnny," she said, "Will you give up your trade,
And marry a lady in bloom, full bloom?"
6
Johnny gave his consent, and to church they both went,
And he wedded the lady in bloom, full bloom.
At market and fair, all folks do declare,
There is none like the Boy that sold Broom, green Broom.
[No 11 AS JOHNNY WALKED OUT]
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
As Johnny walked out one day
It was a summer morn,
Himself he laid beneath the shade
All of a twisted thorn,
And as he there lay lazily
A shepherdess pass'd by;
And 'twas down in yonder valley, love,
Where the water glideth by.
2
"O have you seen a pretty ewe
That hath a tender lamb,
A strayed from the orchard glade
That little one and dam?"
"O pretty maid" he answered,
"They passed as here I lie!"
And 'twas down in yonder valley, love,
Where the water glideth by.
3[6]
She wandered o'er the country wide
The sheep she could not find;
And many times she did upbraid
Young Johnny in her mind.
She sought in leafy forest green
She sought them low and high,
And 'twas down in yonder valley, love,
Where the water glideth by.
4
"Oh silly maid," young Johnny said,
"Alone why did you seek?"
Her heart was full of anger, and
The flush was in her cheek.
"Where one alone availeth not,
There two your sheep may spie,
And 'tis down in yonder valley, love,
Where the water glideth by."
5
vThen lo! they both forgot their quest,
They found what neither sought,
Two loving hearts long kept apart
Together now were brought.
He found the words he long had lacked,
He found and held her eye;
And 'twas down in yonder valley, love,
Where the water glideth by.
6[7]
Now married were this loving pair,
And joined in holy band,
No more they go a seeking sheep,
Together hand in hand.
Around her feet play children sweet,
Beneath the summer sky,
And 'tis down in yonder valley, love,
Where the water glideth by.
[No 12 THE MILLER AND HIS SONS]
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
There was a miller, as you shall hear,
Long time he lived in Devonshire,
He was took sick and deadly ill,
And had no time to write his will!
He was took sick and deadly ill,
And had no time to write his will.
2
So he call'd up his eldest son,
Said he, "My glass is almost run.
If I to thee my mill shall give,
Tell me what toll thou'lt take to live?"
3
"Father," said he, "My name is Jack,
From every bushel I'll take a peck.
From every grist that I do grind,
That I may thus good living find."
4
"Thou art a fool," the old man said,
"Thou hast not half acquired thy trade.
My mill to thee I ne'er will give
For by such toll no man can live."
5
Then he call'd up his second son,
Said he, "My glass is almost run.
If I to thee my mill shall make,
Tell me what toll to live thou'lt take?"
6
"Father you know my name is Ralph,
From every bushel I'll take a half
From every grist that I do grind,
That I may thus a living find."
7
"Thou art a fool," the old man said;
"Thou hast not half acquired thy trade.
My mill to thee I will not give,
For by such toll no man may live."
8
Then he call'd up his youngest son,
Says he, "My glass is almost run.
If I to thee my mill shall make
Tell me what toll, to live, thou'lt take?"
9
"Father I am your youngest boy.
In taking toll is all my joy.
Before I would good living lack,
I'd take the whole—forswear the sack."
10
"Thou art the boy," the old man said,
"For thou hast full acquired the trade.
The mill is thine," the old man cried,
He laugh'd, gave up the ghost, and died.
[No 13 ORMOND THE BRAVE]
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
I am Ormond the brave, did ye never hear of me?
Who lately was driven from my own country.
They tried me, condemned me, they plundered my estate,
For being so loyal to Queen Anne the Great,
Crying, O! I am Ormond, you know.
2
O to vict'ry I led, and I vanquished every foe,
Some do call me James Butler, I'm Ormond, you know,
I am Queen Anne's darling, and old England's delight,
A friend to the Church, in Fanatic's despite,
Crying, O! I am Ormond, you know.
3
Then awake Devon dogs, and arise you Cornish cats,
And follow me a chasing the Hanoverian rats,
They shall fly from the country, we'll guard the British throne,
Have no German electors with a king, sirs, of our own.
Crying, O! I am Ormond, you know.
4
O I wronged not my country as Scottish peers do,
Nor my soldiers defrauded, of that which is their due.
All such deeds I do abhor, by the powers that are above,
I've bequeath'd all my fortune to the country I love.
Crying, O! I am Ormond, you know.
[No 14 SIR JOHN BARLEYCORN]
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
There came three men from out the West
Their victory to try;
And they have ta'en a solemn oath,
Poor Barleycorn should die.
With a Ri-fol-lol-riddle-diddle-dol
Ri fol, ri fol dee.
2
They took a plough and ploughed him in,
Clods harrowed on his head;
And then they took a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.
With a Ri-fol &c.
3
There he lay sleeping in the ground
Till rain did on him fall;
Then Barleycorn sprung up his head,
And so amazed them all.
With a Ri-fol &c.
4
There he remained till Midsummer
And look'd both pale and wan;
Then Barleycorn he got a beard
And so became a man.
With a Ri-fol &c.
5
Then they sent men with scythes so sharp
To cut him off at knee;
And then poor Johnny Barleycorn
They served most barbarouslie.
With a Ri-fol &c.
6
Then they sent men with pitch forks strong
To pierce him through the heart;
And like a doleful Tragedy
They bound him in a cart.
With a Ri-fol &c.
7
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.
With a Ri-fol &c.
8
Then they set men with holly clubs,
To beat the flesh from th' bones;
But the miller served him worse than that
He ground him 'twixt two stones.
With a Ri-fol &c.
9
O! Barleycorn is the choicest grain
That 'ere was sown on land
It will do more than any grain,
By the turning of your hand.
With a Ri-fol &c.
10
It will make a boy into a man,
A man into an ass;
To silver it will change your gold,
Your silver into brass.
With a Ri-fol &c.
11
It will make the huntsman hunt the fox,
That never wound a horn;
It will bring the tinker to the stocks
That people may him scorn.
With a Ri-fol &c.
12
O! Barleycorn is th' choicest grain,
That e'er was sown on land.
And it will cause a man to drink
Till he neither can go nor stand.
With a Ri-fol &c.
[No 15 SWEET NIGHTINGALE]
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
My sweet-heart, come along.
Don't you hear the fond song
The sweet notes of the Nightingale flow?
Don't you hear the fond tale,
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in the valleys below?
2
Pretty Betty, don't fail,
For I'll carry your pail
Safe home to your cot as we go;
You shall hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in the valleys below.
3
Pray let me alone,
I have hands of my own,
Along with you Sir, I'll not go,
To hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in the valleys below.
4
Pray sit yourself down
With me on the ground,
On this bank where the primroses grow,
You shall hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in the valleys below.
5
The couple agreed,
And were married with speed,
And soon to the church they did go;
No more is she afraid
For to walk in the shade,
Nor sit in those valleys below.
[No 16 WIDDECOMBE FAIR]
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
"Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me your grey mare,
All along, down along, out along, lee.
For I want for to go to Widdecombe Fair,
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon,
Harry Hawk, old Uncle Tom Cobbley and all,"
CHORUS: Old Uncle Tom Cobbley and all.
2
"And when shall I see again my grey mare?"
All along, &c.
"By Friday soon, or Saturday noon,
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, &c."
3
Then Friday came, and Saturday noon,
All along, &c.
But Tom Pearce's old mare hath not trotted home,
Wi' Bill Brewer, &c.
4
So Tom Pearce he got up to the top o' the hill
All along, &c.
And he seed his old mare down a making her will
Wi' Bill Brewer, &c.
5
So Tom Pearce's old mare, her took sick and died.
All along, &c.
And Tom he sat down on a stone, and he cried
Wi' Bill Brewer, &c.
6
But this isn't the end o' this shocking affair,
All along, &c.
Nor, though they be dead, of the horrid career
Of Bill Brewer, &c.
7
When the wind whistles cold on the moor of a night
All along, &c.
Tom Pearce's old mare doth appear, gashly white,
Wi' Bill Brewer, &c.
8
And all the long night be heard skirling and groans,
All along, &c.
From Tom Pearce's old mare in her rattling bones,
And from Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon,
Harry Hawk, old Uncle Tom Cobbley and all.
CHORUS: Old Uncle Tom Cobbley and all.
[No 17 YE MAIDENS PRETTY]
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
Ye maidens pretty
In town and city,
I pray you pity
My mournful strain.
A maiden weeping,
Her night-watch keeping,
In grief unsleeping
Makes her complain:
In tower I languish
In cold and sadness,
Heart full of anguish,
Eye full of tear.
Whilst glades are ringing
With maidens singing,
Sweet roses bringing
To crown the year.
2
Thro' hills and vallies
Thro' shaded alleys,
And pleached palis—
Ading of grove;
Among fair bowers,
Midst fragrant flowers,
Pass sunny hours,
And sing of love.
In tower I languish, &c.
3
My cruel father
Gave straitest order,
By watch and warder,
I barr'd should be.
All in my chamber,
High out of danger,
From eye of ranger,
In misery.
In tower I languish, &c.
4
Enclosed in mortar,
By wall and water,
A luckless daughter
All white and wan;
Till day is breaking
My bed forsaking,
I all night waking
Sing like the swan.
In tower I languish,
In cold and sadness,
Heart full of anguish,
Eye full of tear,
Whilst glades are ringing
With maidens singing
Sweet roses bringing,
To crown the year.
[No 18 THE SILLY OLD MAN]
H.F.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
Aw! Come now, I'll sing you a song,
'Tis a song of right merry intent,
Concerning a silly old man,
Who went for to pay his rent,
Singing, Too-ra-la-loo-ra-loo.
2
And as this here silly old man,
Was riding along the lane,
A Gentleman thief overtook him,
Saying "Well over-taken old man."
3
"What! well over-taken, do'y say?"
"Yes, well over-taken," quoth he.
"No, no," said the silly old man.
"I don't want thy company.
4
"I am only a silly old man,
I farm but a parcel of ground.
And I am going to the landlord to pay,
My rent which is just forty pound."
5
"But supposing a highway-man stopped you?
For the rascals are many, men say,
And take all the money from off you
As you ride on the king's highway?"
6
"What! supposing some fellow should stop me?
Why badly the thief would be sped.
For the money I carry about me
In the quilt o' my saddle is hid."
7
And as they were riding along,
Along and along the green lane,
The Gentleman thief rode afore him
And summoned the old man to stand.
8
But the old man was crafty and cunning,
As, I wot, in the world there be many,
Pitched his saddle clean over the hedge,
Saying, "Fetch'n if thou would'st have any,"
Singing, Too-ra-la-loo-ra-loo.
9
Then the thief being thirsty for gold,
And eager to get at his bags,
He dra'ed out his rusty old sword,
And chopped up the saddle to rags.
10
The old man slipped off his old mare,
And mounted the thief's horse astride,
Clapp'd spur, and put him in a gallop,
Saying "I, without teaching, can ride."
11
When he to his landlord's had come,
That old man was almost a-spent,
Says he, "Landlord, provide me a room.
I be come for to pay up my rent."
12
He opened the thief, his portmantle
And there was a sight to behold,
There were five hundred pounds in silver,
And five hundred pounds in gold.
13
And as he was on his way home,
And riding along the same lane,
He seed—his silly old mare,
Tied up to the hedge by the mane.
14
He loosed his old mare from the hedge,
As she of the grass there did crib,
He gi'ed her a whack o' the broad o' the back,
Saying "Follow me home, old Tib."
15
Aw! When to his home he were come
His daughter he dress'd like a duchess,
And his ol' woman kicked and she capered for joy,
And at Christmas danced jigs on her crutches.
Singing, Too-ra-la-loo-ra-loo.
[No 19 THE MONTHS OF THE YEAR]
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
First comes January
When the sun lies very low;
I see in the farmer's yard
The cattle feed on stro';
The weather being so cold
While the snow lies on the ground,
There will be another change of moon
Before the year comes round.
2
Next is February,
So early in the spring;
The Farmer ploughs the fallows
The rooks their nests begin.
The little lambs appearing
Now frisk in pretty play.
I think upon the increase,
And thank my God, to-day.
3
March it is the next month,
So cold and hard and drear.
Prepare we now for harvest,
By brewing of strong beer.
God grant that we who labour,
May see the reaping come,
And drink and dance and welcome
The happy Harvest Home.
4
Next of Months is April,
When early in the morn
The cheery farmer soweth
To right and left the corn.
The gallant team come after,
A-smoothing of the land.
May Heaven the Farmer prosper
Whate'er he takes in hand.
5
In May I go a walking
To hear the linnets sing.
The blackbird and the throstle
A-praising God the King.
It cheers the heart to hear them
To see the leaves unfold,
The meadows scattered over
With buttercups of gold.
6
Full early in the morning
Awakes the summer sun,
The month of June arriving,
The cold and night are done,
The Cuckoo is a fine bird
She whistles as she flies,
And as she whistles, Cuckoo,
The bluer grow the skies.
7
Six months I now have named,
The seventh is July.
Come lads and lasses gather
The scented hay to dry,
All full of mirth and gladness
To turn it in the sun,
And never cease till daylight sets
And all the work is done.
8
August brings the harvest,
The reapers now advance,
Against their shining sickles
The field stands little chance.
Well done! exclaims the farmer.
This day is all men's friend.
We'll drink and feast in plenty
When we the harvest end.
9
By middle of September,
The rake is laid aside.
The horses wear the breeching
Rich dressing to provide,
All things to do in season,
Me-thinks is just and right.
Now summer season's over
The frosts begin at night.
10
October leads in winter.
The leaves begin to fall.
The trees will soon be naked
No flowers left at all.
The frosts will bite them sharply
The Elm alone is green.
In orchard piles of apples red
For cyder press are seen.
11
The eleventh month, November,
The nights are cold and long,
By day we're felling timber,
And spend the night in song.
In cozy chimney corner
We take our toast and ale,
And kiss and tease the maidens,
Or tell a merry tale.
12
Then comes dark December,
The last of months in turn.
With holly, box, and laurel,
We house and Church adorn.
So now, to end my story,
I wish you all good cheer.
A merry, happy Christmas,
A prosperous New Year.
[No 20 THE CHIMNEY SWEEP]
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
Oh! sweep chimney, sweep!
You maidens shake off sleep
If you my cry can follow.
I climb the chimney top,
Without ladder without rope;
Aye and there! aye and there! aye and there you shall hear me halloo!
2
Arise! maids, arise!
Unseal and rub your eyes.
Arise and do your duty.
I summon yet again
And do not me disdain,
That my call—that my call—that my calling's poor and sooty.
3
Behold! here I stand!
With brush and scrape in hand.
As a soldier that stands on his sentry.
I work for the better sort,
And well they pay me for't.
O I work, O I work, O I work for the best of gentry.
4
Oh! sweep chimney, sweep!
The hours onward creep.
As the lark I am alert, I
Clear away, and take
The smut that others make.
O I clean, O I clean, O I clean what others dirty.
[No 21 THE SAUCY SAILOR]
(For two Voices)
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
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He: "Come my fairest, come my dearest
Love with me.
Come and you shall wed a sailor
From the sea."
She: Faith I want none of your sailors,
I must say.
So begone you saucy creature.
So begone from me, I pray.
2
"You are ragged, you are dirty,
Smell of tar.
Get you gone to foreign countries,
Hence afar."
He: "If I'm ragged, if I'm dirty,
Of tar I smell,
Yet there's silver in my pockets,
And of gold, a store as well."
3
She: "Now I see the shining silver,
See the gold;
Down I kneel, and very humbly
Hands will fold;
Saying O forgive the folly
From me fell,
Tarry, dirty, ragged sailors,
I love more than words can tell."
4
He: "Do not think, you changeful maiden,
I am mad.
That I'll take you, when there's others
To be had.
Not the outside coat and waistcoat
Make the man.
You have lost the chance that offered.
Maidens snap—when e'er you can."
[No 22 BLUE MUSLIN]
(For two Voices)
H.F.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
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"O will you accept of the mus-e-lin so blue,
To wear all in the morning, and to dabble in the dew?"
"No, I will not accept of the mus-e-lin so blue,
To wear all in the morning, and to dabble in the dew,
Nor I'll walk, nor I'll talk with you."
2
"O will you accept of the pretty silver pin,
To pin your golden hair with the fine mus-e-lin?"
"No, I will not accept of the pretty silver pin,
To pin my golden hair with the fine mus-e-lin.
Nor I'll walk, nor I'll talk with you."
3
"O will you accept of a pair of shoes of cork,
The one is made in London, the other's made in York?"
"No, I will not accept of a pair of shoes of cork,
The one that's made in London, the other's made in York,
Nor I'll walk, nor I'll talk with you."
4
"O will you accept of the keys of Canterbury,
That all the bells of England may ring, and make us merry?"
"No, I will not accept of the keys of Canterbury,
That all the bells of England may ring, and make us merry,
Nor I'll walk, nor I'll talk with you."
5
"O will you accept of a kiss from loving heart;
That we may join together and never more may part?"
"Yes, I will accept of a kiss from loving heart,
That we may join together and never more may part,
And I'll walk, and I'll talk with you."
"When you might you would not;
Now you will you shall not,
So fare you well, my dark eyed Sue."
The song then turns back in reverse order, with the "shoes of cork" the "Silver pin" and the "blue muslin," always with to each "When you could you would not," &c.
[No 23 THE DEATH OF PARKER]
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
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Ye Powers above protect the Widow,
And with pity look on me!
O help me, help me out of trouble
And out of my calamity.
For by the death of my brave Parker
Fortune to me has prov'd unkind.
Tho' doomed by law his death to suffer,
I can not cast him from my mind.
2
O Parker was the truest husband,
Best of friends, whom I love dear.
Yet when he was a-called to suffer,
To him I might not then draw near.
Again I ask'd, again I pleaded,
Three times entreating, all in vain,
They ever that request refused me,
And ordered me ashore again.
3
The yellow flag I saw was flying,
A signal for my love to die,
The gun was fir'd, as was requir'd
To hang him on the yardarm high.
The boatswain did his best endeavour,
I on the shore was put straightway,
There I tarried, watching, weeping,
My husband's corpse to bear away.
4
Then farewell Parker best belov-ed
That was once the Navy's pride.
And since we might not die together,
We separate henceforth abide.
His sorrows now are past and over,
Now he resteth free from pain.
Grant O God his soul may enter,
Where one day we may meet again.
[No 24 THE HAL-AN-TOW or
HELSTON FURRY DANCE]
Arranged by J. Matthews.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
Robin Hood and little John
They both are gone to the fair, O!
And we will to the merry green-wood,
To see what they do there O!
And for to chase, O, to chase the buck and doe!
With Hal-an-tow, jolly rumble, O, to chase the buck and doe!
CHORUS. And we were up as soon as the day,
For to fetch the Summer home, O!
The Summer, and the May,
Now the Winter is a gone, O!
2
Where are those Spaniards,
That make so great a boast, O!
Why, they shall eat the grey goose feathers,
And we will eat the roast, O!
In every land, O, the land where'er we go,
With Hal-an-tow, jolly rumble O, the land where'er we go.
CHORUS. And we were up, &c.
3
As for that good Knight, S. George,
S. George he was a Knight, O!
Of all the knights in Christendom!
S. George he is the right, O!
In every land, O! the land where'er we go,
With Hal-an-tow, jolly rumble, O, the land where'er we go.
CHORUS. And we were up, &c.
4
God bless Aunt Mary Moses[8]
And all her power and might, O!
And send us peace in merry England,
Send peace by day and night, O!
To merry England, O! both now and ever mo'
With Hal-an-tow, jolly rumble, O, both now and ever mo!
CHORUS. And we were up, &c.
[No 25 BLOW AWAY YE MORNING BREEZES]
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
Blow away, ye morning breezes,
Blow, ye winds, Heigh-ho!
Blow away the morning kisses,
Blow, blow, blow.
"O thou shalt rue the very hour,
That e'er thou knew'st the man,
For I will bake the wheaten flour,
And thou shalt bake the bran."
CHORUS. Blow away, ye morning breezes, &c.
2
"O thou shalt sorrow thro' thy soul
Thou stood'st to him so near.
For thou shalt drink the puddle foul,
And I the crystal clear."
CHORUS. Blow away ye morning breezes, &c.
3
"O thou shalt rue that e'er thou wo'ld
Behold a love of mine.
For thou shalt sup the water cold,
But I will sup red wine."
CHORUS. Blow away ye morning breezes, &c.
4
"Thou shalt lament in grief and doubt,
Thou spake'st with him at all,
For thou shalt wear the sorry clout,
And I the purple pall."
CHORUS. Blow away ye morning breezes, &c.
5
"O thou shalt curse thy day of birth,
And curse thy dam and sire,
For I shall warm me at the hearth,
And thou shalt feed the fire."
CHORUS. Blow away ye morning breezes, &c.
Note. In the original of the above Ballad each verse is repeated with the variation of "I shall not," for "I shall" &c. thus after the first verse comes,
I shall not rue the very hour
That e'er I knew the man
But I will bake the wheaten flour
And thou shalt bake the bran.
It seems unnecessary to print these repetitions.
[No 26 THE HEARTY GOOD FELLOW]
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
I saddled my horse, and away I did ride
Till I came to an ale-house hard by the road-side,
I call'd for a pot of ale frothing and brown,
And close by the fireside I sat myself down,
Singing, whack, fal-de-dee, whack, fal-de-dee!
And I in my pocket had ONE PENNY.
2
I saw there two gentlemen playing at dice,
They took me to be some nobleman nice.
With my swagger, and rapier, and countenance bold,
They thought that my pockets were well lined with gold,
Singing, whack, fal-de-dee, whack, fal-de-dee!
And I in my pocket had ONE PENNY.
3
"A hearty good fellow," they said, "loveth play."
"That lies with the stakes, pretty sirs, that you lay."
Then one said "A guinea," but I said "Five Pound,"
The bet it was taken—no money laid down,
Singing, whack, fal-de-dee, whack, fal-de-dee!
And I in my pocket had ONE PENNY.
4
I took up the dice, and I threw them the main,
It was my good fortune, that evening, to gain;
If they had a won, sirs, there'd been a loud curse,
When I threw in naught save a moneyless purse.
Singing, whack, fal-de-dee, whack, fal-de-dee!
And I in my pocket had ONE PENNY.
5
Was ever a mortal a quarter as glad,
With the little of money at first that I had!
A hearty good fellow, as most men opine
I am; so my neighbours pray pour out the wine,
Singing, whack, fal-de-dee, whack, fal-de-dee!
And I in my pocket had FIVE POUNDS, free.
6
I tarried all night, and I parted next day,
Thinks I to myself, I'll be jogging away!
I asked of the landlady what was my bill,
"O naught save a kiss of your lips, if you will."
Singing, whack, fal-de-dee, whack, fal-de-dee!
And I in my pocket had FIVE POUNDS, free.
[No 27 THE BONNY BUNCH OF ROSES]
H.F.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
Beside the rolling ocean
One morning in the month of June,
The feathered warbling songsters
Were sweetly changing note and tune.
I overheard a damsel fair
Complain in words of bitter woe,
With tear on cheek, she thus did speak,
O for the bonny Bunch of Roses, O!
2
Then up and spake her lover
And grasped the maiden by the hand,
Have patience, fairest, patience!
A legion I will soon command.
I'll raise ten thousand soldiers brave
Thro' pain and peril I will go
A branch will break, for thy sweet sake,
A branch of the bonny Bunch of Roses, O!
3
Then sadly said his mother,
As tough as truest heart of oak,
That stem that bears the roses,
And is not easy bent or broke
Thy father he essayed it first
And now in France his head lies low;
For sharpest thorn, is ever borne
O by the bonny Bunch of Roses, O!
4
He raised a mighty army
And many nobles joined his throng
With pipe and banner flying
To pluck the rose, he march'd along:
The stem he found was far too tough
And piercing sharp, the thorn, I trow.
No blossom he rent from the tree
All of the bonny Bunch of Roses, O!
5
O mother, dearest mother!
I lie upon my dying bed,
And like my gallant father
Must hide an uncrowned, humbled head.
Let none henceforth essay to touch
That rose so red, or full of woe,
With bleeding hand he'll fly the Land
The land of the bonny Bunch of Roses, O!
[No 28 THE LAST OF THE SINGERS]
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
I reckon the days is departed,
When folks 'ud a listened to me,
And I feels like as one broken-hearted,
A-thinking o' what used to be.
And I don't know as much be amended,
Than was in them merry old Times,
When, wi' pipes and good ale, folks attended,
To me and my purty old rhymes,
CHORUS: To me and my purty old rhymes.
2
'Tis true, I be cruel asthmatic
I've lost every tooth i' my head;
And my limbs be that crim'd wi' rheumatic
D'rsay I were better in bed.
Oh my! all the world be for reading
Newspapers, and books and what not;
Sure—'tis only conceitedness breeding,
And the old singing man is forgot.
CHORUS: And the old singing man is forgot.
3
I reckon that wi' my brown fiddle
I'd go from this cottage to that;
All the youngsters 'ud dance in the middle,
Their pulses and feet, pit-a-pat.
I cu'd zing, if you'd stand me the liquor,
All the night, and 'ud never give o'er
My voice—I don't deny it getting thicker,
But never exhausting my store.
CHORUS: But never exhausting my store.
4
'Tis politics now is the fashion
As sets folks about by the ear.
And slops makes the poorest of lushing,
No zinging for me wi'out beer.
I reckon the days be departed
For such jolly gaffers as I,
Folks never will be so light-hearted
As they was in the days that's gone by.
CHORUS: As they was in the days that's gone by.
5
O Lor! what wi' their edication,
And me—neither cypher nor write;
But in zinging the best in the nation
And give the whole parish delight.
I be going, I reckon, full mellow
To lay in the Churchyard my head;
So say—God be wi' you, old fellow!
The last o' the Zingers is dead.
CHORUS: The last o' the Zingers is dead.
[No 29 THE TYTHE PIG]
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
All you that love a bit of fun, come listen here awhile,
I'll tell you of a droll affair, will cause you all to smile.
The Parson dress'd, all in his best,
Cock'd hat and bushy wig,
He went into a farmer's house, to choose a sucking pig.
Good morning, said the Parson; good morning, sir, to you!
I'm come to take a sucking pig, a pig that is my due.
2
Then went the farmer to the stye, amongst the piglings small,
He chose the very wee-est pig, the wee-est of them all;
But when the Parson saw the choice,
How he did stamp and roar!
He snorted loud, he shook his wig, he almost-cursed and swore.
Good morning &c.
3
O then out spake the Farmer, Since my offer you refuse
Pray step into the stye yourself, that you may pick and choose.
So to the stye the Priest did hie,
And there without ado,
The old sow ran with open mouth, and grunting at him flew.
Good morning &c.
4
She caught him by the breeches black, that loudly he did cry
O help me! help me from the sow! or surely I shall die.
The little pigs his waistcoat tore,
His stockings and his shoes,
The Farmer said, with bow and smile, You're welcome, sir, to choose.
Good morning &c.
5
Away the Parson scamper'd home, as fast as he could run,
His wife was standing at the door, expecting his return,
But when she saw him in such plight
She fainted clean away,
Alas! alas! the Parson said, I bitter rue this day.
Good morning &c.
6
Go fetch me down a suit of clothes, a sponge and soap, I pray,
And bring me, too, my greasy wig, and rub me down with hay.
Another time, I won't be nice,
When a gathering my dues;
Another time in sucking pigs, I will not pick and choose.
Good morning, said the Parson, good morning, sirs, to you,
I will not pick a sucking pig—I leave the choice to you.
[No 30 OLD WICHET]
C.J.S.
[[audio/mpeg]] [[XML]] [[Note]]
1
I went into my stable to see what I might see,
And there I saw three horses stand, by one, by two, by three.
I call'd unto my loving wife, and "Coming Sir!" said she,
"O what do these three horses here without the leave of me?"
"Why, old fool, blind fool! can't you very well see,
That these are three milking cows my mother sent to me?"
"Hey boys! Fill the cup! Milking cows with saddles up,
The like was never known, the like was never known."
Old Wichet went a noodle out, a noodle he came home.
2
I went into the kitchen, to see what I might see,
And there I saw three swords hung up, by one, by two, by three.
I call'd unto my loving wife, and "Coming Sir!" said she,
"O what do these three swords hang here without the leave of me?"
"Why, old fool, blind fool! can't you very well see,
That these are three toasting forks, my mother sent to me?"
"Hey boys! Well done! Toasting forks with scabbards on!
The like," &c.
3
I went into the pantry, to see what I might see,
And there I saw three pair of boots, by one, by two, by three.
I called unto my loving wife, and "Coming Sir!" said she,
"O what do these three pair of boots without the leave of me?"
"Why, old fool, blind fool! can't you very well see,
That these are three pudding bags, my mother sent to me?"
"Hey boys! Well done! Pudding bags with steel spurs on,
The like," &c.
4
I went into the dairy, to see what I might see,
And there I saw three beavers, by one, by two, by three.
I call'd unto my kind wife, and "Coming Sir!" said she,
"O what do these three beavers here without the leave of me?"
"Why, old fool, blind fool! can't you very well see,
That these are three milking pails, my mother sent to me?"
"Hey boys! Well done! Milking pails with ribbons on,
The like," &c.
5
I went into the chamber, to see what I might see,
And there I saw three men in bed, by one, by two, by three.
I called unto my kind wife, and "Coming Sir!" said she,
"O why sleep here three gentlemen without the leave of me?"
"Why old fool, blind fool! can't you very well see,
That these are three milking maids, my mother sent to me?"
"Hey boys! Well done! Milking maids with beards on,
The like," &c.
6
I went about the chamber, as quick as quick might be,
I kicked the three men down the stairs, by one, by two, by three.
"Without your hats and boots be off, your horses leave and flee,
Your purses 'neath your pillows left; they too belong to me.
Why old wife, blind wife! can't you very well see,
That these are three highwaymen from justice hid by thee?"
"Hey boys! purses left! knaves they be, and away are flown.
The like was never known, the like was never known."
Old Wichet went a noodle out, a wise man he came home.
[No 31 JAN’S COURTSHIP]
C.J.S.
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1
Come hither, son Jan! since thou art a man,
I'll gi'e the best counsel in life,
Come, sit down by me, and my story shall be,
I'll tell how to get thee a wife.
Iss, I will! man, I will!
Zure I will!
I'll tell how to get thee a wife! Iss, I will!
2
Thy self thou must dress in thy Sunday-go-best;
They'll at first turn away and be shy.
But boldly, kiss each purty maid that thou see'st,
They'll call thee their Love, by-and-bye.
Iss, they will! man, they will!
Zure they will!
They'll call thee their love by-and-bye! Iss, they will!
3
So a courting Jan goes in his holiday clothes,
All trim, nothing ragged and torn,
From his hat to his hose; with a sweet yellow rose,
He looked like a gentleman born.
Iss, he did! man he did!
Zure he did!
He looked like a gentleman born! Iss he did!
4
The first pretty lass that Jan did see pass,
A farmer's fat daughter called Grace.
He'd scarce said 'How do?' and a kind word or two,
Her fetched him a slap in the face.
Iss, her did! man, her did!
Zure her did!
Her fetched him a slap in the face! Iss, her did!
5
As Jan, never fearing o' nothing at all
Was walking adown by the locks,
He kiss'd the parson's wife, which stirred up a strife
And Jan was put into the stocks.
Iss, he was! man, he was!
Zure he was!
And Jan was put into the stocks! Iss, he was!
6
'If this be the way, how to get me a wife,'
Quoth Jan, 'I will never have none.
I'd rather live single the whole of my life
And home to my mammy I'll run.
Iss, I will! man, I will
Zure I will!
And home to my mammy I'll run! Iss, I will.'
[No 32 THE DROWNED LOVER]
H.F.S.
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1
As I was a-walking down by the sea-shore,
Where the winds whistled high, and the waters did roar,
Where the winds whistled high, and the waves raged around,
I heard a fair maid make a pitiful sound,
Crying, O! my love is drowned!
My love must I deplore!
And I never, O! never
Shall see my love more!
2
I never a nobler, a truer did see
A lion in courage, but gentle to me,
An eye like an eagle, a heart like a dove,
And the song that he sang me was ever of love.
Now I cry, O! my love is drowned!
My love must I deplore!
And I never, O! never
Shall see my love more!
3
He is sunk in the waters, there lies he asleep,
I will plunge there as well, I will kiss his cold feet,
I will kiss the white lips, once coral-like red,
And die at his side, for my true love is dead.
Now I cry, O! my love is drowned.
My love must I deplore
And I never, O! never
Shall see my love more!
[No 33 CHILDE THE HUNTER]
C.J.S.
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1
Come, listen all, both great and small
To you a tale I'll tell,
What on this bleak and barren moor,
In ancient days befell.
It so befell, as I've heard tell,
There came the hunter Childe,
All day he chased on heath and waste,
On Dart-a-moor so wild.
2
The winds did blow, then fell the snow,
He chased on Fox-tor mire;
He lost his way, and saw the day,
And winter's sun expire.
Cold blew the blast, the snow fell fast,
And darker grew the night;
He wandered high, he wandered low,
And nowhere saw a light.
3
In darkness blind, he could not find
Where he escape might gain,
Long time he tried, no track espied,
His labours all in vain.
His knife he drew, his horse he slew,
As on the ground it lay;
He cut full deep, therein to creep,
And tarry till the day.
4
The winds did blow, fast fell the snow,
And darker grew the night,
Then well he wot, he hope might not
Again to see the light.
So with his finger dipp'd in blood,
He scrabbled on the stones,—
"This is my will, God it fulfil,
And buried be my bones.
5
"Whoe'er he be that findeth me
And brings me to a grave,
The lands that now to me belong,
In Plymstock he shall have."
There was a cross erected then,
In memory of his name;
And there it stands, in wild waste lands,
To testify the same.
[No 34 THE COTTAGE THATCHED WITH STRAW]
F.W.B.
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1
In the days of yore, there sat at his door,
An old farmer and thus sang he,
'With my pipe and my glass, I wish every class
On the earth were as well as me!'
For he en-vi-ed not any man his lot,
The richest, the proudest, he saw,
For he had home-brew'd—brown bread,
And a cottage well thatch'd with straw,
A cottage well thatch'd with straw,
And a cottage well thatch'd with straw;
For he had home-brew'd, brown bread,
And a cottage well thatch'd with straw.
2
'My dear old dad this snug cottage had,
And he got it, I'll tell you how.
He won it, I wot, with the best coin got,
With the sweat of an honest brow.
Then says my old dad, Be careful lad
To keep out of the lawyer's claw.
So you'll have home-brew'd—brown bread,
And a cottage well thatch'd with straw.
A cottage well thatch'd with straw, &c.
3
'The ragged, the torn, from my door I don't turn,
But I give them a crust of brown;
And a drop of good ale, my lad, without fail,
For to wash the brown crust down.
Tho' rich I may be, it may chance to me,
That misfortune should spoil my store,
So—I'd lack home-brew'd—brown bread,
And a cottage well thatch'd with straw,
A cottage well thatch'd with straw, &c.
4
'Then in frost and snow to the Church I go,
No matter the weather how.
And the service and prayer that I put up there,
Is to Him who speeds the plough.
Sunday saints, i' feck, who cheat all the week,
With a ranting and a canting jaw,
Not for them is my home-brew'd—brown bread,
And my cottage well thatch'd with straw.
My cottage well thatch'd with straw
My cottage well thatch'd with straw.
Not for them is my home-brew'd—brown bread,
And my cottage well thatch'd with straw.'
[No 35 CICELY SWEET]
C.J.S.
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1
He: Cicely sweet, the morn is fair,
Wilt thou drive me to despair?
Oft have I sued in vain
And now I'm come again,
Wilt thou be mine, or Yes or No?
Wilt thou be mine, or No?
She: Prithee, Simon quit thy suit,
All thy pains will yield no fruit;
Go booby, get a sack,
To stop thy ceaseless clack.
Go for a booby, go, go, go!
Go for a booby, go!
2
He: Cicely sweet, if thou'lt love me,
Mother'll do a deal for thee.
Her'd rather sell her cow,
Than I should die for thou.
Wilt thou be mine, or Yes or No?
Wilt thou be mine, or No?
She: Mother thine had best by half,
Keep her cow and sell her calf;
No, never for a crown;
Will I marry with a clown;
Go for a booby, go, go, go!
Go for a booby, go!
3
He: Cicely sweet, you do me wrong,
My legs be straight, my arms be strong
I'll carry thee about,
Thou'lt go no more afoot,
Wilt thou be mine or Yes, or No?
Wilt thou be mine, or No?
She: Keep thy arms to fight in fray,
Keep thy legs to run away;
Ne'er will I—as I'm a lass,
Care to ride upon an ass.
Go for a booby, go, go, go!
Go for a booby, go!
[No 36 A SWEET PRETTY MAIDEN SAT UNDER A TREE]
H.F.S.
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1
A sweet pretty maiden sat under a tree,
She sighed and said, 'Oh! that I married might be,
My daddy is so crabbed and my mammy is so cross,
That a husband for certain could never be worse.'
2
Young Johnny he heard what the damsel did say.
He came to her side, and said smiling, 'Today
I have a little cottage and I have a little horse
I have a pleasant temper that will not grow worse.
3
'If you will be mine, and to that will agree,
We'll travel together in sweet amity.
There never will be wrangle, there never can be strife,
Between a good husband and his pretty wife.'
4
The maiden replied, 'I am not very sure,
That fond matrimony my trouble will cure,
From daddy and from mammy I quickly run away
And go into service for a year and a day.
5
'The ring that you hold is a link in a chain,
Will fetter my freedom, my tongue will restrain
I cannot run away, and I never shall be free,
So take your kind offer to others than me.'
[No 37 THE WHITE COCKADE]
C.J.S.
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1
Alas! my love's enlisted,
He wears a white cockade,
He is as gay a gallant,
As any roving blade.
He's gone the king a serving,
The white cockade to wear,
Whilst my poor heart is breaking,
For the love to him I bear.
2
"Leave off your grief and sorrow,
And quit this doleful strain,
The white cockade adorns me
Whilst marching o'er the plain.
When I return I'll marry,
By this cockade I swear.
Your heart from grief must rally,
And my departure bear."
3
"Fair maid, I bring bad tidings."
So did the Sergeant say;
"Your love was slain in battle,
He sends you this to-day,
The white cockade he flourished
Now dabbled in his gore.
With his last kiss he sends it,
The white cockade he wore."
4
She spoke no word—her tears,
They fell a salten flood;
And from the draggled ribbons
Washed out the stains of blood.
"O mother I am dying!
And when in grave I'm laid,
Upon my bosom, mother!
Then pin the white cockade."
[No 38 THE SAILOR’S FAREWELL]
C.J.S.
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1
Farewell! farewell, my Polly dear!
A thousand times adieu!
'Tis sad to part; but never fear,
Your sailor will be true.
And must I go, and leave you so—
While thund'ring billows roar?
I am afraid, my own sweet maid,
Your face I'll see no more.
2
The weavers and the tailors
Are snoring fast asleep,
While we poor 'jolly sailors'
Are tossing on the deep:
Are tossing on the deep, dear girl,
In tempest rage and foam;
When seas run high, and dark the sky,
We think on those at home.
3
When Jack's ashore, safe home once more,
We lead a merry life;
With pipe and glass, and buxom lass,
A sweetheart or a wife;
We call for liquor merrily,
We spend our money free,
And when our money's spent and gone,
Again we go to sea.
4
You'll not know where I am, dear girl,
But when I'm on the sea,
My secret thoughts I will unfurl
In letters home to thee.
The secrets, aye! of heart, I say,
And best of my good will.
My body may lay just where it may
My heart is with you still.
[No 39 A MAIDEN SAT A WEEPING]
C.J.S.
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A maiden sat a-weeping
Down by the sea shore,
What ails my pretty mistress?
What ails my pretty mistress?
And makes her heart sore!
2
Because I am a-weary,
A-weary in mind,
No comfort, and no pleasure, love,
No comfort, and no pleasure, love,
Henceforth can I find.
3
I'll spread my sail of silver,
I'll loose my rope of silk,
My mast is of the cypress-tree,
My mast is of the cypress-tree,
My track is as milk.
4
I'll spread my sail of silver
I'll steer toward the sun
And thou, false love wilt weep for me,
And thou, false love wilt weep for me,
For me—when I am gone.
[No 40 THE BLUE KERCHIEF]
F.W.B.
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1
I saw a sweet maiden trip over the lea,
Her eyes were as loadstones attracting of me.
Her cheeks were the roses, that Cupid lurks in,
With a bonny blue kerchief tied under her chin.
2
O where are you going, my fair pretty maid?
O whither so swift through the dew drops? I said,
I go to my mother, kind sir, for to spin.
O the bonny blue kerchief tied under her chin.
3[9]
Why wear you that kerchief tied over your head?
'Tis the country girls' fashion, kind sir, then she said.
And the fashion young maidens will always be in
So I wear a blue kerchief tied under my chin.
4
To kiss her sweet lips then I sought to begin,
O nay Sir! she said, 'ere a kiss you would win,
Pray show me a ring, tho' of gold the most thin.
O slyest blue kerchief tied under the chin!
5
Why wear a blue kerchief, sweet maiden, I said,
Because the blue colour is one not to fade,
As a sailor's blue jacket who fights for the king,
So's my bonny blue kerchief tied under the chin.
6
The love that I value is certain to last,
Not fading and changing, but ever set fast,
That only the colour, my love sir to win,
So goodbye from the kerchief tied under the chin.
[No 41 COME TO MY WINDOW]
C.J.S.
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Come to my window, my Love, O my Love,
Come to my window, my Dear.
For my mammy is asleep,
And my daddy snoreth deep,
Then come, e'er the day-light appear.
2
Come to my window, my Love, O my Love,
Come to my window, I pray.
O the hours so quickly pass,
And the dew falls on the grass.
Dear Love come, e'er dawneth the day.
3
Come to my window, my Love, O my Love,
Come or my heart strings will break.
For the night is speeding by,
Soon will morning streak the sky,
And my dad and my mam will awake.
4
Come to my window, my Love, O my Love,
Come e'er the stars cease to shine.
For my heart is full of fears,
And my voice is chok'd with tears,
I am Thine, O thou know'st I am Thine.
[No 42 TOMMY A’ LYNN]
C.J.S.
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1
Tommy a' Lynn was a Dutchman born,
His head was bald and his chin was shorn;
He wore a cap made of rabbit's skin
With the skin side out and the wool within.
All to my tooth and my link-a-lum-lee
Tommy a ranter and a rover,
Tommy a bone of my stover,
Brew, screw, rivet the tin,
O a rare old man was Tommy a' Lynn.
2
Tommy a' Lynn had no boots to put on,
But two calves hides with the hair all gone.
They were split at the side and the water ran in,
I must wear wet feet, said Tommy a' Lynn.
All to my tooth, &c.
3
Tommy a' Lynn has a hunting gone.
A saddle of urchin's skins he put on.
The urchin's prickles were sharp as a pin,
I've got a sore seat, said Tommy a' Lynn.
All to my tooth, &c.
4
Tommy a' Lynn has a hunting gone.
A bridle of mouse tails has he put on.
The bridle broke and the horse ran away,
I'm not well bridled, said Tommy, to-day.
All to my tooth, &c.[10]
5
Tom a' Lynn's daughter, she sat on the stair,
O Father I fancy I'm wondrous fair!
The stairs they broke, and the maid fell in,
You're fair enough now, said Tommy a' Lynn.
All to my tooth, &c.
6
Tommy a' Lynn, his wife and her mother
They all fell into the fire together.
Ow yow! said the upper-most, I've a hot skin,
It's hotter below! said Tommy a' Lynn.
All to my tooth, &c.
[No 43 THE GREEN BUSHES]
H.F.S.
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1
As I was a walking one morning in May,
To hear the birds whistle, see lambkins at play,
I spied a fair damsel, O sweetly sang she—
'Down by the green bushes he thinks to meet me.'
2
'O where are you going, my sweet pretty maid?'
'My lover I'm seeking, kind sir', she said.
'Shall I be your lover, and will you agree,
To forsake the old love, and forgather with me?
3
'I'll buy you fine beavers, a gay silken gown,
With furbelowed petticoats flounced to the ground,
If you'll leave your old love, and following me,
Forsake the green bushes, where he waits for thee?'
4
'Quick, let us be moving, from under the trees,
Quick, let us be moving, kind sir, if you please;
For yonder my true love is coming, I see,
Down by the green bushes he thinks to meet me.'
5
The old love arrived, the maiden was gone
He sighed very deeply, he sighed all alone,
'She is on with another, before off with me,
So, adieu ye green bushes for ever!' said he.
6
'I'll be as a schoolboy, I'll frolic and play,
No false hearted maiden shall trouble my day,
Untroubled at night, I will slumber and snore,
So, adieu, ye green bushes! I'll fool it no more.'
[No 44 THE BROKEN TOKEN]
C.J.S.
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One summer evening, a maiden fair
Was walking forth in the balmy air,
She met a sailor upon the way;
'Maiden stay' he whispered,
'Maiden stay' he whispered
'O pretty maiden, stay!'
2
'Why art thou walking abroad alone?
The stars are shining, the day is done,'
O then her tears they began to flow;
For a dark eyed sailor,
For a dark eyed sailor
Had filled her heart with woe.
3
'Three years are pass'd since he left this land,
A ring of gold he took off my hand,
He broke the token, a half to keep,
Half he bade me treasure,
Half he bade me treasure,
Then crossed the briny deep.'
4
'O drive him damsel from out your mind,
For men are changeful as is the wind,
And love, inconstant will quickly grow
Cold as winter morning
Cold as winter morning
When lands are white with snow.'
5
'Above the snow is the holly seen,
In bitter blast it abideth green,
And blood-red drops it as berries bears
So my aching bosom,
So my aching bosom,
Its truth and sorrow wears.'
6
Then half the ring did the sailor show,
Away with weeping and sorrow now!
'In bands of marriage united we
Like the broken Token
Like the broken Token
In one shall welded be.'
[No 45 THE MOLE-CATCHER.]
C.J.S.
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1
A mole-catcher am I, and that is my trade,
I potters about wi' my spunt and my spade,
On a moon-shiny night, O! 'tis my delight,
A-catching o' moles.
2
The traps that I set for the mole in his run,
There's never a night, sirs, but I catches one.
On a moon-shiny night, O! 'tis my delight,
A-catching o' moles.
3
Along of the lanes as by night-time I go,
There's things that I see, as the folks don't know,
On a moon-shiny night, &c.
4
There's frolic and lark in the field and the park,
For others than moles will be out in the dark,
On a moon-shiny night, &c.
5
The maiden by day that's too modest to speak
Is gadding abroad, by the night all the week,
On a moon-shiny night, &c.
6
The 'prentice who should be a lying in bed
Is rambling over the meadows instead,
On a moon-shiny night, &c.
7[11]
I light on the poacher wi' sniggle and snare,
But that I'll not peach he is surely aware,
On a moon-shiny night, &c.
8
The doctor and lawyer as drunk as a dog,
Are wallowing into a ditch or a bog,
On a moon-shiny night, &c.
9
There's many a sight; and there's many a sound
Wot maketh me laugh as I'm making my round,
On a moon-shiny night, &c.
10
But nothing I sez for I'm mum as a bell,
You certainly know that no tales will I tell,
On a moon-shiny night, O! 'tis my delight,
A-catching o' moles
Not human souls.
[No 46 THE KEENLY LODE]
C.J.S.
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1
Old Uncle Pengerric a Captain was,
A dowser shrewd was he;
Who feathered his nest from the keenly lode
That ruined you and me.
The Captain was traversing Brandy Moor,
With hazel twig in hand,
The hazel twisted and turned about
And brought him to a stand.
CHORUS. Oh! the keenly lode, the keenly lode
Of bâlls the best, my boys;
Old Uncle Pengerric very well know'd
How to feather his nest, my boys.
2
Old Uncle Pengerric so big did brag
Of ore in Brandy Bâll,
"Come fork out your money my Christian friends,
Your fortunes treble all."
Now Uncle was reckoned a preacher stout,
A burning and shining light.
The people all said, "What he has in head
Will surely turn out right."
CHORUS. Oh! the keenly lode, &c.
3
The Company floated, the Shares up paid,
The gold came flowing in.
He set up a whim, and began to sink
For the keenly lode of tin.
He had not burrowed but five foot six
'Ere he came to a buried hoss.
Said Uncle Pengerric, "No fault of mine,
Tho't turn out some one's loss."
CHORUS. Oh! the keenly lode, &c.
4
The shaft descended, but ne'er a grain
Of ore was brought to ground.
And presently Uncle Pengerric too,
Was not in Cornwall found.
But wherever he goes, and whenever he talks,
He says:—"The rod told true,
It brought to me luck, but it turn'd and struck
At nought but an old horse-shoe."
CHORUS. Oh! the keenly lode, &c.
Note: A Keenly Lode is a Lode that promises well.
A Bâll is the Cornish for a mine.
[No 47 MAY-DAY CAROL]
C.J.S.
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1
Awake, ye pretty maids, awake,
Refreshed from drowsy dream,
And haste to dairy house, and take
For us a dish of cream.
2
If not a dish of yellow cream,
Then give us kisses three;
The woodland bower is white with flower,
And green is every tree.
3
A branch of May we bear about
Before the door it stands;
There's not a sprout unbudded out,
The work of God's own hands.
4
Awake, awake ye pretty maids,
And take the May-bush in,
Or 'twill be gone ere tomorrow morn,
And you'll have none within.
5
Throughout the night, before the light,
There fell the dew or rain,
It twinkles bright on May bush white,
It sparkles on the plain.
6
The heavenly gates are open wide
To let escape the dew,
And heavenly grace falls on each place
It drops on us and you.
7
The life of man is but a span,
He blossoms as a flower,
He makes no stay, is here to-day,
And vanish'd in an hour.[12]
8
My song is done, I must be gone,
Nor make a longer stay.
God bless you all, both great and small,
And send you gladsome May.
[No 48 THE LOVER’S TASKS]
C.J.S.
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1
He: O buy me, my Lady, a cambric shirt
Whilst every grove rings with a merry antine (antienne
anthem)
And stitch it without any needle work
And thou shalt be a true lover of mine.
2
O thou must wash it in yonder well,
Whilst every grove &c.
Where never a drop of water in fell,
And thou shalt &c.
3
And thou must bleach it on yonder grass,
Whilst every grove &c.
Where never a foot or hoof did pass.
And thou shalt &c.
4
And thou must hang it upon a white thorn,
Whilst every grove &c.
That never blossom'd since Adam was born
And thou shalt &c.
5
And when these works are finished and done
Whilst every grove &c.
I'll take and marry thee under the sun.
And thou shalt &c.
6[13]
She: Thou must buy for me an acre of land,
Whilst every grove &c.
Between the salt sea and the yellow sand
And thou shalt &c.
7
Thou must plough it o'er with a horses horn
Whilst every grove &c.
And sow it over with a pepper corn,
And thou shalt &c.
8
Thou must reap it, too, with a piece of leather,
Whilst every grove &c.
And bind it up with a peacock's feather,
And thou shalt &c.
9
Thou must take it up in a bottomless sack,
Whilst every grove &c.
And bear it to the mill on a butterfly's back.
And thou shalt &c.
10
And when these works are finished and done
Whilst every grove &c.
I'll take and marry thee under the sun.
And thou shalt &c.
[No 49 LULLABY]
H.F.S.
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1
Sleep, baby sleep!
Dad is not nigh,
Tossed on the deep,
Lul-lul-a-by!
Moon shining bright,
Dropping of dew.
Owls hoot all night
To-whit! to-whoo!
2
Sleep, baby sleep!
Dad is away,
Tossed on the deep,
Looking for day.
In the hedge row
Glow-worms alight,
Rivulets flow,
All through the night.
3
Sleep, baby sleep!
Dad is afar,
Tossed on the deep,
Watching a star.
Clock going—tick,
Tack—in the dark.
On the hearth-brick,
Dies the last spark.
4
Sleep, baby sleep!
What! not a wink!
Dad on the deep,
What will he think?
Baby dear, soon
Daddy will come,
Bringing red shoon
For baby at home.