THE CINDER KING
Who is it that sits in the kitchen and weeps,
While tick goes the clock, and the tabby-cat sleeps,—
That watches the grate, without ceasing to spy
Whether purses or coffins will out of it fly?
’Tis Betty; who saw the false tailor, Bob Scott,
Lead a bride to the altar, which bride she was not.
’Tis Betty, determined love from her to fling,
And woo, for his riches, the dark Cinder-King.
Now spent tallow-candle-grease fattened the soil,
And the blue-burning lamp had half wasted its oil,
And the black-beetle boldly came crawling from far,
And the red coals were sinking beneath the third bar;
When “one!” struck the clock—and instead of the bird
Who used to sing cuckoo whene’er the clock stirred,
Out burst a grim raven, and uttered “caw! caw!”
While Puss, though she woke, durst not put forth a claw.
Then the jack fell a-going as if one should sup,
Then the earth rocked as though it would swallow one up;
With fuel from Hell, a strange coal-scuttle came,
And a self-handled poker made fearful the flame.
A cinder shot from it, of size to amaze,
With a bounce, such as Betty ne’er heard in her days,
Thrice, serpent-like, hissed as its heat fled away,
And, lo! something dark in a vast coffin lay!
“Come, Betty,” quoth croaking that nondescript thing,
“Come, bless the fond arms of your true Cinder-King!
Three more Kings, my brothers, are waiting to greet ye,
Who—don’t take it ill—must at four o’clock eat ye.
“My darling! it must be, do make up your mind;
We element brothers, united, and kind,
Have a feast and a wedding, each night of our lives,
So constantly sup on each other’s new wives.”
In vain squalled the cook-maid, and prayed not to wed;
Cinder crunched in her mouth, cinder rained on her head.
She sank in the coffin with cinders strewn o’er,
And coffin nor Betty saw man any more.
Modern, anon.
THE FROLICKSOME DUKE; OR,
THE TINKER’S GOOD FORTUNE
Now, as fame does report, a young Duke keeps a Court,
One that pleases his fancy with frolicksome sport:
But amongst all the rest, here is one, I protest,
Which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest:
A poor Tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground,
As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound.
The Duke said to his men, “William, Richard, and Ben,
Take him home to my palace; we’ll sport with him then.”
O’er a horse he was laid, and with care soon conveyed
To the palace, altho’ he was poorly arrai’d:
Then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes, and hose,
And they put him to bed for to take his repose.
Having pulled off his shirt, which was all over durt,
They did give him clean holland, this was no great hurt:
On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown,
They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown.
In the morning, when day, then admiring he lay,
For to see the rich chamber, both gaudy and gay.
Now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state,
Till at last Knights and Squires they on him did wait;
And the chamberling bare, then did likewise declare,
He desired to know what apparel he’d ware:
The poor Tinker amazed, on the gentleman gazed,
And admired how he to this honour was raised.
Tho’ he seemed something mute, yet he chose a rich suit,
Which he straitways put on without longer dispute;
With a star on his side, which the Tinker off’t eyed,
And it seemed for to swell him no little with pride;
For he said to himself, “Where is Joan my sweet wife?
Sure she never did see me so fine in her life.”
From a convenient place, the right Duke, his good grace,
Did observe his behaviour in every case.
To a garden of state, on the Tinker they wait,
Trumpets sounding before him: thought he, “This is great!”
Where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view,
With Commanders and Squires in scarlet and blew.
A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests,
He was placed at the table above all the rest,
In a rich chair or bed lined with fine crimson red,
With a rich golden canopy over his head:
As he sat at his meat, the musick played sweet,
With the choicest of singing his joys to compleat.
While the Tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine,
Rich canary, with sherry and tent superfine.
Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl.
Till at last he began for to tumble and roul
From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore,
Being seven times drunker than ever before.
Then the Duke did ordain, they should strip him amain,
And restore him his old leather garments again:
’T was a point next the worst, yet perform it they must,
And they carryed him strait where they found him at first:
Then he slept all the night, as indeed well he might;
But when he did waken, his joys took their flight.
For his glory to him so pleasant did seem,
That he thought it to be but a meer golden dream;
Till at length he was brought to the Duke, where he sought
For a pardon, as fearing he had set him at nought:
But his Highness he said, “Thou’rt a jolly bold blade:
Such a frolick before, I think, never was plaid.”
Then his Highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak,
Which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome joak:
Nay, and five-hundred pound, with ten acres of ground:
“Thou shalt never,” said he, “range the counteries round,
Crying ‘old brass to mend,’ for I’ll be thy good friend,
Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my Duchess attend.”
Then the Tinker replyed; “What! must Joan my sweet bride
Be a Lady in chariots of pleasure to ride?
Must we have gold and land ev’ry day at command?
Then I shall be a Squire, I well understand:
Well I thank your good grace, and your love I embrace;
I was never before in so happy a case!”
KING JAMES THE FIRST AND THE TINKLER
And now, to be brief, let’s pass over the rest,
Who seldom or never were given to jest,
And come to King Jamie, the first of our throne,
A pleasanter Monarch sure never was known.
As he was a-hunting the swift fallow-deer,
He dropped all his nobles; and when he got clear,
In hope of some pastime away he did ride,
Till he came to an alehouse, hard by a wood-side.
And there with a Tinkler he happened to meet,
And him in kind sort he so freely did greet:
“Pray thee, good fellow, what hast in thy jug,
Which under thy arm thou dost lovingly hug?”
“By the mass!” quoth the Tinkler, “it’s nappy brown ale,
And for to drink to thee, friend, I will not fail;
For although thy jacket looks gallant and fine,
I think that my twopence as good is as thine.”
“By my soul! honest fellow, the truth thou hast spoke,”
And straight he sat down with the Tinkler to joke;
They drank to the King, and they pledged to each other;
Who’d seen ’em had thought they were brother and brother.
As they were a-drinking the King pleased to say,
“What news, honest fellow? come tell me, I pray?”
“There’s nothing of news, beyond that I hear
The King’s on the border a-chasing the deer.
“And truly I wish I so happy may be
Whilst he is a-hunting the King I might see;
For although I’ve travelled the land many ways
I never have yet seen a King in my days.”
The King, with a hearty brisk laughter, replied
“I tell thee, good fellow, if thou canst but ride,
Thou shalt get up behind me, and I will thee bring
To the presence of Jamie, thy sovereign King.”
“But he’ll be surrounded with nobles so gay,
And how shall we tell him from them, sir, I pray?”
“Thou’lt easily ken him when once thou art there;
The King will be covered, his nobles all bare.”
He got up behind him and likewise his sack,
His budget of leather, and tools at his back;
They rode till they came to the merry Greenwood,
His nobles came round him, bareheaded they stood.
The Tinkler then seeing so many appear,
He slily did whisper the King in his ear;
Saying, “They’re all clothed so gloriously gay,
But which amongst them is the King, sir, I pray?”
The King did with hearty good laughter, reply,
“By my soul! my good fellow, it’s thou or it’s I!
The rest are bareheaded, uncovered all round”—
With his bag and his budget he fell to the ground,
Like one that was frightened quite out of his wits,
Then on his knees he instantly gets,
Beseeching for mercy; the King to him said,
“Thou art a good fellow, so be not afraid.
“Come, tell thy name.” “I am John of the Dale,
A mender of kettles, a lover of ale.”
“Rise up, Sir John, I will honour thee here,—
I make thee a Knight of three thousand a year!”
This was a good thing for the Tinkler indeed;
Then unto the Court he was sent for with speed,
Where great store of pleasure and pastime was seen,
In the royal presence of King and of Queen.
Sir John of the Dale he has land, he has fee,
At the Court of the King who so happy as he?
Yet still in his hall hangs the Tinkler’s old sack,
And the budget of tools which he bore at his back.
KING ALFRED AND THE SHEPHERD
PART I—WHEREIN KING ALFRED FIGHTS FOR
HIS DINNER
In elder time there was of yore,
When gibes of churlish glee
Were used among our country carles,
Tho’ no such thing now be:
The which King Alfred liking well,
Forsook his stately Court,
And in disguise unknown went forth
To see that jovial sport;
How Dick and Tom in clouted shoon,
And coats of russet grey,
Esteemed themselves more brave than them
That went in golden ray.
In garments fit for such a life
The good King Alfred went,
Ragged and torn as from his back
The beggar his clothes had rent.
A sword and buckler good and strong,
To give Jack Sauce a rap;
And on his head, instead of a crown,
He wore a Monmouth cap.
Thus coasting thorough Somersetshire:
Near Newton-Court he met
A shepherd swain of lusty limb,
That up and down did jet:
He wore a bonnet of good grey,
Close-buttoned to his chin;
And at his back a leather scrip,
With much good meat therein.
“God speed, good Shepherd,” quoth the King
“I come to be thy guest,
To taste of thy good victuals here,
And drink that’s of the best.
“Thy scrip, I know hath cheer good store”:
“What then?” the Shepherd said,
“Thou seem’st to be some sturdy thief,
And mak’st me sore afraid.
“Yet if thou wilt thy dinner win,
Thy sword and buckler take:
And, if thou canst, into my scrip
Therewith an entrance make.
“I tell thee, roister, it hath store
Of beef and bacon fat,
With sheaves of barley-bread to make
Thy chaps to water at!
“Here stands my bottle, here my bag,
If thou canst win them, roister;
Against thy sword and buckler here,
My sheep-hook is my master.”
“Benedicite!” quoth our good King
“It never shall be said,
That Alfred, of the Shepherd’s hook,
Will stand a whit afraid.”
So foundly thus they both fell to ‘t,
And giving bang for bang;
At ev’ry blow the Shepherd gave
King Alfred’s sword cried twang!
His buckler proved his chiefest fence;
For still the Shepherd’s hook
Was that the which King Alfred could
In no good manner brook.
At last, when they had fought four hours,
And it grew just midday,
And wearied both, with right good will,
Desired each other’s stay:
“A truce, I crave,” quoth Alfred then
“Good Shepherd, hold thy hand,
A sturdier fellow than thyself
Lives not within the land!”
“Nor a lustier roister than thou art,”
The churlish Shepherd said;
“To tell thee plain, thy thievish look
Now makes my heart afraid.
“Else sure thou art some prodigal,
Which hast consumed thy store,
And now com’st wand’ring in this place
To rob and steal for more.”
“Deem not of me, then,” quoth our King,
“Good Shepherd, in this sort.
A gentleman well known I am
In good King Alfred’s Court.”
PART II—WHEREIN KING ALFRED BECOMES
A SHEPHERD
“The Devil thou art!” the Shepherd said,
“Thou go’st in rags all torn;
Thou rather seem’st, I think, to be
Some beggar basely born.
“But if thou wilt mend thy estate,
And here a shepherd be;
At night, to Gillian, my sweet wife,
Thou shalt go home with me:
“For she’s as good a toothless dame
As mumbleth on brown bread;
Where thou shalt lie in hurden sheets,
Upon a fresh straw bed.
“Of whig and whey we have good store,
And keep good pease-straw fire;
And now and then good barley cakes,
As better days require.
“But for my master, which is Chief
And Lord of Newton-Court,
He keeps, I say, his shepherd swains
In far more braver sort;
“We there have curds and clouted cream
Of red cow’s morning milk;
And now and then fine buttered cakes
As soft as any silk.
“Of beef and reifed bacon store,
That is most fat and greasy,
We have likewise, to feed our chaps
And make them glib and easy.
“Thus if thou wilt my man become,
This usage thou shalt have;
If not, adieu; go hang thyself;
And so farewell, Sir Knave.”
King Alfred hearing of this glee
The churlish Shepherd said,
Was well content to be his man;
So they a bargain made;
A penny round the Shepherd gave
In earnest of this match,
To keep his sheep in field and fold,
As shepherds use to watch.
His wages shall be full ten groats,
For service of a year,
Yet was it not his use, old lad,
To hire a man so dear:
“For, did the King himself,” quoth he,
“Unto my cottage come,
He should not, for a twelve-month’s pay,
Receive a greater sum.”
PART III—WHEREIN KING ALFRED BURNS THE CAKES
Hereat the bonny King grew blithe,
To hear the clownish jest;
How silly sots, as custom is,
Do descant at the best.
But not to spoil the foolish sport,
He was content, good King,
To fit the Shepherd’s humour right
In ev’ry kind of thing.
A sheep-hook then, with Patch his dog,
And tar-box by his side;
He, with his master, cheek by jowl,
Unto old Gillian hied,
Into whose sight no sooner come,
“Whom have you here?” quoth she,
“A fellow, I doubt, will cut our throats,
So like a knave looks he.”
“Not so, old Dame,” quoth Alfred straight,
“Of me you need not fear;
My master hired me for ten groats,
To serve you one whole year:
“So, good Dame Gillian, grant me leave
Within your house to stay;
For, by St. Anne, do what you can,
I will not yet away.”
Her churlish usage pleased him still,
And put him to such proof,
That he at night was almost choked
Within that smoky roof.
But as he sat with smiling cheer
The event of all to see,
His dame brought forth a piece of dough
Which in the fire throws she.
Where lying on the hearth to bake,
By chance, the cake did burn:
“What! canst thou not, thou lout,” quoth she,
“Take pains the same to turn?
“Thou art more quick to take it out,
And eat it up half dough,
Than thus to stay till’t be enough,
And so thy manners show!
“But serve me such another trick,
I’ll thwack thee on the snout:”
Which made the patient King, poor man,
Of her to stand in doubt.
PART IV—WHEREIN KING ALFRED BLOWS HIS
BUGLE-HORN
But, to be brief, to bed they went
The old man and his wife;
But never such a lodging had
King Alfred in his life!
For he was laid in white sheep’s wool,
New-pulled from tanned fells;
And o’er his head hanged spiders’ webs
As if they had been bells.
“Is this the country guise?” thought he,
“Then here I will not stay,
But hence be gone, as soon as breaks
The peeping of next day!”
The cackling hens and geese kept roost,
And perched at his side;
Where, at the last, the watchful cock
Made known the morning tide.
Then up got Alfred, with his horn,
And blew so long a blast,
That it made Gillian and her groom,
In bed, full sore aghast.
“Arise,” quoth she, “We are undone!
This night we lodged have,
At unawares, within our house,
A false dissembling knave.
“Rise! husband, rise! he’ll cut our throats!
He calleth for his mates.
I’d give, old Will, our good cade lamb,
He would depart our gates!”
But still King Alfred blew his horn,
Before them, more and more,
Till that an hundred Lords and Knights
All lighted at the door.
Who cried, “All hail! all hail, good King!
Long have we sought your Grace!”
“And here you find, my merry men all,
Your Sov’reign in this place.”
“We surely must be hanged up both,
Old Gillian, I much fear,”
The Shepherd said, “for using thus,
Our good King Alfred here.”
“Oh, pardon, my Liege!” quoth Gillian then,
“For my husband, and for me.
By these ten bones, I never thought
The same that now I see!”
“And by my hook,” the Shepherd said,
“An oath both good and true!
Before this time, O noble King,
I ne’er your Highness knew!
“Then pardon me and my old wife,
That we may after say,
When first you came into our house,
It was a happy day.”
“It shall be done,” said Alfred straight,
“And Gillian, thy old dame,
For this her churlish using me,
Deserveth not much blame;
“For ’tis thy country guise, I see,
To be thus bluntish still,
And where the plainest meaning is,
Remains the smallest ill.
“And, Master, lo! I tell thee now;
For thy late manhood shown,
A thousand wethers I’ll bestow
Upon thee, for thy own;
“And pasture-ground, as much as will
Suffice to feed them all:
And this thy cottage, I will change
Into a stately hall.”
“And for the same, as duty binds,”
The Shepherd said, “good King,
A milk-white lamb, once ev’ry year,
I’ll to your Highness bring:
“And Gillian, my wife, likewise,
Of wool to make you coats,
Will give you as much at New Year’s tide,
As shall be worth ten groats.
“And in your praise my bag-pipes shall
Sound sweetly once a year,
How Alfred, our renowned King,
Most kindly hath been here.”
“Thanks, Shepherd, thanks,” quoth he again:
“The next time I come hither,
My Lords with me, here in this house,
Will all be merry together.”