FOOTNOTES:
[322] An ingenious friend thinks the rhymes Dyand and Lyand ought to be transposed; as the taunt Young man, I think ye're yand, would be very characteristical.
VIII.
THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON.
From an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, with some improvements communicated by a lady as she had heard the same recited in her youth. The full title is, True love requited: Or, the Bailiff's daughter of Islington.
Islington in Norfolk is probably the place here meant.
[Copies of this charming old ballad are found in all the large collections, and two tunes are associated with it.
Percy's suggestion that Islington in Norfolk is referred to is not a probable one, and there seems to be no reason for depriving the better known Islington of the south of the honour of having given birth to the bailiff's daughter. Islington at the time when this ballad was written was a country village quite unconnected with London, and a person who represented "a squier minstrel of Middlesex" made a speech before Queen Elizabeth at Kenilworth in 1575, in which he declared "how the worshipful village of Islington [was] well knooen too bee one of the most auncient and best tounz in England, next to London.">[
There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe,
And he was a squires son;
He loved the bayliffes daughter deare,
That lived in Islington.
Yet she was coye and would not believe 5
That he did love her soe,
Noe nor at any time would she
Any countenance to him showe.
But when his friendes did understand
His fond and foolish minde, 10
They sent him up to faire London
An apprentice for to binde.
And when he had been seven long yeares,
And never his love could see:
Many a teare have I shed for her sake, 15
When she little thought of mee.
Then all the maids of Islington
Went forth to sport and playe,
All but the bayliffes daughter deare;
She secretly stole awaye. 20
She pulled off her gowne of greene,
And put on ragged attire,
And to faire London she would go
Her true love to enquire.
And as she went along the high road, 25
The weather being hot and drye,
She sat her downe upon a green bank,
And her true love came riding bye.
She started up, with a colour soe redd,
Catching hold of his bridle-reine; 30
One penny, one penny, kind sir, she sayd,
Will ease me of much paine.
Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart,
Praye tell me where you were borne.
At Islington, kind sir, sayd shee, 35
Where I have had many a scorne.
I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee,
O tell me, whether you knowe
The bayliffes daughter of Islington,
She is dead, sir, long agoe. 40
If she be dead, then take my horse,
My saddle and bridle also;
For I will into some farr countrye,
Where noe man shall me knowe.
O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe, 45
She standeth by thy side;
She is here alive, she is not dead,
And readye to be thy bride.
O farewell griefe, and welcome joye,
Ten thousand times therefore; 50
For nowe I have founde mine owne true love,
Whom I thought I should never see more.
IX.
THE WILLOW TREE.
A Pastoral Dialogue.
From the small black-letter collection, intitled, The Golden Garland of princely delights; collated with two other copies, and corrected by conjecture.
[Dr. Rimbault gives the melody of this pretty little pastoral on the favourite subject of wearing the willow from a MS. dated 1639 in the Advocate's Library, Edinburgh. It is also to be found in the celebrated Skene MS. in the same library, and again in all the editions of Forbes's Cantus.]
Willy.
How now, shepherde, what meanes that?
Why that willowe in thy hat?
Why thy scarffes of red and yellowe
Turn'd to branches of greene willowe?
Cuddy.
They are chang'd, and so am I; 5
Sorrowes live, but pleasures die:
Phillis hath forsaken mee,
Which makes me weare the willowe-tree.
Willy.
Phillis! shee that lov'd thee long?
Is shee the lass hath done thee wrong? 10
Shee that lov'd thee long and best,
Is her love turn'd to a jest?
Cuddy.
Shee that long true love profest,
She hath robb'd my heart of rest:
For she a new love loves, not mee; 15
Which makes me wear the willowe-tree.
Willy.
Come then, shepherde, let us joine,
Since thy happ is like to mine:
For the maid I thought most true,
Mee hath also bid adieu. 20
Cuddy.
Thy hard happ doth mine appease,
Companye doth sorrowe ease:
Yet, Phillis, still I pine for thee,
And still must weare the willowe-tree.
Willy.
Shepherde, be advis'd by mee, 25
Cast off grief and willowe-tree:
For thy grief brings her content,
She is pleas'd if thou lament.
Cuddy.
Herdsman, I'll be rul'd by thee,
There lyes grief and willowe-tree: 30
Henceforth I will do as they,
And love a new love every day.
X.
THE LADY'S FALL
Is given (with corrections) from the Editor's ancient folio MS.[323] collated with two printed copies in black-letter; one in the British Museum, the other in the Pepys Collection. Its old title is, A lamentable ballad of the Lady's fall. To the tune of, In Pescod time, &c.—The ballad here referred to is preserved in the Muses Library, 8vo. p. 281. It is an allegory or vision, intitled, The Shepherd's Slumber, and opens with some pretty rural images, viz.
"In pescod time when hound to horn
Gives eare till buck be kil'd,
And little lads with pipes of corne
Sate keeping beasts a-field."
"I went to gather strawberries
By woods and groves full fair, &c."
[Mr. Hales thinks it possible that this ballad was written by the same author as The Children in the Wood—"the same facility of language and of rhyme, the same power of pathos, the same extreme simplicity characterise both ballads."
Mr. Chappell says that Chevy Chace was sometimes sung to the tune of In Pescod time, as were the Bride's burial (No. 12), and Lady Isabella's Tragedy (No. 14). The various readings from the original MS. are noted at the foot of the page.]
Marke well my heavy dolefull tale,
You loyall lovers all,
And heedfully beare in your brest,
A gallant ladyes fall.
Long was she wooed, ere shee was wonne, 5
To lead a wedded life,
But folly wrought her overthrowe
Before she was a wife.
Too soone, alas! shee gave consent
And yeelded to his will, 10
Though he protested to be true,
And faithfull to her still.
Shee felt her body altered quite,
Her bright hue waxed pale,
Her lovelye cheeks chang'd color white,[324] 15
Her strength began to fayle.
Soe that with many a sorrowful sigh,[325]
This beauteous ladye milde,
With greeved hart, perceived herselfe
To have conceived with childe.[326] 20
Shee kept it from her parents sight
As close as close might bee,
And soe put on her silken gowne
None might her swelling see.[327]
Unto her lover secretly 25
Her greefe shee did bewray,
And walking with him hand in hand,
These words to him did say;
Behold, quoth shee, a maids distresse[328]
By love brought to thy bowe;[329] 30
Behold I goe with childe by thee,[330]
Tho none thereof doth knowe.
The litle babe springs in my wombe[331]
To heare its fathers voyce,
Lett it not be a bastard called,[332] 35
Sith I made thee my choyce:
[Come, come, my love, perform thy vowe[333]
And wed me out of hand;[333]
O leave me not in this extreme[333]
Of griefe, alas! to stand.][333] 40
Think on thy former promises,
Thy oathes and vowes eche one;[334]
Remember with what bitter teares
To mee thou madest thy moane.
Convay me to some secrett place, 45
And marry me with speede;
Or with thy rapyer end my life,
Ere further shame proceede.[335]
Alacke! my beauteous love, quoth hee,[336]
My joye, and only dear;[337] 50
Which way can I convay thee hence,[338]
When dangers are so near?[339]
Thy friends are all of hye degree,[340]
And I of meane estate;
Full hard it is to gett thee forthe[341] 55
Out of thy fathers gate.[342]
Dread not thy life to save my fame,[343]
For if thou taken bee,[344]
My selfe will step betweene the swords,[345]
And take the harme on mee:[346] 60
Soe shall I scape dishonor quite;[347]
And if I should be slaine[348]
What could they say, but that true love
Had wrought a ladyes bane.[349]
But feare not any further harme; 65
My selfe will soe devise,
That I will ryde away with thee[350]
Unknowen of mortall eyes:
Disguised like some pretty page
Ile meete thee in the darke, 70
And all alone Ile come to thee
Hard by my fathers parke.
And there, quoth hee, Ile meete my deare
If God soe lend me life,
On this day month without all fayle 75
I will make thee my wife.[351]
Then with a sweet and loving kisse,[352]
They parted presentlye,
And att their partinge brinish teares
Stoode in eche others eye, 80
Att length the wished day was come,[353]
On which this beauteous mayd,
With longing eyes, and strange attire,
For her true lover stayd.
When any person shee espyed[354] 85
Come ryding ore the plaine,[355]
She hop'd it was her owne true love:[356]
But all her hopes were vaine.
Then did shee weepe and sore bewayle
Her most unhappy fate; 90
Then did shee speake these woefull words,
As succourless she sate;[357]
O false, forsworne, and faithlesse man,[358]
Disloyall in thy love,
Hast thou forgott thy promise past, 95
And wilt thou perjured prove?
And hast thou now forsaken mee
In this my great distresse,
To end my dayes in open shame,[359]
Which thou mightst well redresse?[360] 100
Woe worth the time I eer believ'd[361]
That flattering tongue of thine:
Wold God that I had never seene
The teares of thy false eyne.
And thus with many a sorrowful sigh,[362] 105
Homewards shee went againe;[363]
Noe rest came in her waterye eyes,
Shee felt such privye paine.[364]
In travail strong shee fell that night,
With many a bitter throwe;[365] 110
What woefull paines shee then did feel,[366]
Doth eche good woman knowe.
Shee called up her waiting mayd,[367]
That lay at her bedds feete,[368]
Who musing at her mistress woe,[369] 115
Began full fast to weepe.
Weepe not, said shee, but shutt the dores,[370]
And windowes round about,[371]
Let none bewray my wretched state,
But keepe all persons out. 120
O mistress, call your mother deare;
Of women you have neede,
And of some skilfull midwifes helpe,[372]
That better may you speed.[373]
Call not my mother for thy life, 125
Nor fetch no woman here;
The midwives helpe comes all too late,
My death I doe not feare.
With that the babe sprang from her wombe
No creature being nye,[374] 130
And with one sighe, which brake her hart,
This gentle dame did dye.[375]
The lovely litle infant younge,[376]
[The mother being dead,][377]
Resigned its new received breath, 135
To him that had it made.
Next morning came her own true love,
Affrighted at the newes,[378]
And he for sorrow slew himselfe,
Whom eche one did accuse. 140
The mother with her new borne babe,
Were laide both in one grave:
Their parents overworne with woe,
No joy thenceforth cold have.[379]
Take heed, you dayntye damsells all, 145
Of flattering words beware,
And to the honour of your name
Have an especial care.[380]
[Too true, alas! this story is,[381]
As many one can tell:[381] 150
By others harmes learne to be wise,[381]
And you shall do full well.][381]