H - The English and Scottish popular ballads, volume 4 (of 5) - 299

H

a. Sent Rev. S. Baring-Gould by Mrs Gibbons, daughter of the late Sir W. L. Trelawney, as she remembered it sung by her nurse, Elizabeth Doidge, a woman of the neighborhood of Brentor, about 1828. b. Obtained by the same from John Woodrich, blacksmith, parish of Thrustleton, as heard from his grandmother about 1848. c. By the same, from Anne Roberts, Scobbeter.

‘Cold blows the wind tonight, sweet-heart,

Cold are the drops of rain;

The very first love that ever I had

In greenwood he was slain.

‘I’ll do as much for my sweet-heart

As any young woman may;

I’ll sit and mourn on his grave-side

A twelve-month and a day.’

A twelve-month and a day being up,

The ghost began to speak:

‘Why sit you here by my grave-side

And will not let me sleep?

‘What is it that you want of me,

Or what of me would have?’

‘A kiss from off your lily-white lips,

And that is all I crave!’

‘Cold are my lips in death, sweet-heart,

My breath is earthy strong;

To gain a kiss of my cold lips,

Your time would not be long.

‘If you were not my own sweet-heart,

As now I know you be,

I’d tear you as the withered leaves

That grew on yonder tree.’

‘O don’t you mind the garden, love,

Where you and I did walk?

The fairest flower that blossomd there

Is withered on the stalk.

* * * * * *

‘And now I’ve mourned upon his grave

A twelvemonth and a day,

We’ll set our sails before the wind

And so we’ll sail away.’

Cold blows the wind to-night, my love,

Cold are the drops of rain;

The very first love that ever I had

In greenwood he was slain.

‘I’ll do as much for my true-love

As any young woman may;

I’ll sit and mourn upon his grave

A twelve-month and a day.’

When a twelve-month and a day were up,

His body straight arose:

‘What brings you weeping oer my grave

That I get no repose?’

‘O think upon the garden, love,

Where you and I did walk;

The fairest flower that blossomd there

Is withered on the stalk.

‘The stalk will bear no leaves, sweet-heart.

The flower will neer return,

And my true-love is dead, is dead,

And I do naught but mourn.’

‘What is it that you want of me

And will not let me sleep?

Your salten tears they trickle down

And wet my winding-sheet.’

‘What is it that I want of thee,

O what of thee in grave?

A kiss from off your lily-white lips,

And that is all I crave.’

‘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.’

‘Cold though your lips in death, sweet-heart,

One kiss is all I crave;

I care not, if I kiss but thee,

That I should share thy grave.’

‘Go fetch me a light from dungeon deep,

Wring water from a stone,

And likewise milk from a maiden’s breast

That never maid hath none. (Read babe had.)

* * * * * *

‘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.’

‘It’s for to meet the falling drops,

Cold fall the drops of rain;

The last true-love, etc.

‘I’ll do as much for my fair love

As any,’ etc.

The rest “almost exactly” as b.

‘Charles Graeme,’ Buchan’s Ballads of the North of Scotland, I, 89, Motherwell’s MS., p. 624, begins with stanzas which belong to this ballad. What follows after the third, or just possibly the sixth, stanza reads as if some contributor had been diverting himself with an imposition on the editor’s simplicity. Buchan himself remarks in a note, p. 299: “There seems to be a very great inconsistency manifested throughout the whole of this ballad in the lady’s behavior towards the ghost of her departed lover. Perhaps she wished to sit and sigh alone, undisturbed with visits from the inhabitants of the grave.” (Translated by Gerhard, p. 63.)

‘Cauld, cauld blaws the winter night,

Sair beats the heavy rain;

Young Charles Graeme’s the lad I love,

In greenwood he lies slain.

‘But I will do for Charles Graeme

What other maidens may;

I’ll sit and harp upon his grave

A twelvemonth and a day.’

She harped a’ the live-lang night,

The saut tears she did weep,

Till at the hour o one o’clock

His ghost began to peep.

Pale and deadly was his cheek,

And pale, pale was his chin;

And how and hollow were his een,

No light appeard therein.

‘Why sit ye here, ye maiden fair,

To mourn sae sair for me?’

‘I am sae sick, and very love-sick,

Aye foot I cannot jee.

‘Sae well’s I loved young Charles Graeme,

I kent he loved me;

My very heart’s now like to break

For his sweet companie.’

‘Will ye hae an apple, lady,

And I will sheave it sma?’

‘I am sae sick, and very love-sick,

I cannot eat at a’.’

‘Will ye hae the wine, lady,

And I will drain it sma?’

‘I am sae sick, and very love-sick,

I cannot drink at a’.

‘See ye not my father’s castle,

Well covered ower wi tin?

There’s nane has sic an anxious wish

As I hae to be in.’

‘O hame, fair maid, ye’se quickly won,

But this request grant me;

When ye are safe in downbed laid,

That I may sleep wi thee.’

‘If hame again, sir, I could win,

I’ll this request grant thee;

When I am safe in downbed laid,

This night ye’se sleep wi me.’

Then he poud up a birken bow,

Pat it in her right han,

And they are to yon castle fair,

As fast as they coud gang.

When they came to yon castle fair,

It was piled round about;

She slipped in and bolted the yetts,

Says, Ghaists may stand thereout.

Then he vanishd frae her sight

In the twinkling o an ee;

Says, Let never ane a woman trust

Sae much as I’ve done thee.

80. Old Robin of Portingale.

P. 240, 513 a, III, 514. Mabillon cites Balderic’s history of the first crusade, whose words are: “Multi etiam de gente plebeia crucem sibi divinitus innatam jactando ostentabant, quod et idem quædam ex mulierculis præsumpserunt; hoc enim falsum deprehensum est omnino. Multi vero ferrum callidum instar crucis sibi adhibuerunt, vel peste jactantiæ, vel bonæ suæ voluntatis ostentatione.” Migne, Patrologiæ Curs. Compl., tom. clxvi, col. 1070.

A man who is looking forward to a pilgrimage to the Holy Land wishes to have the cross burned into his right shoulder, since then, though he should be stript of his clothes, the cross would remain: Miracula S. Thomæ, Auctore Benedicto, Robertson, Materials for the History of Thomas Becket, II, 175. The branding of the cross in the flesh must have become common, since it was forbidden by the canon law. In some editions of the Sarum Missal, a warning is inserted in the Servitium Peregrinorum: “Combustio crucis in carne peregrinis euntibus Hierusalem prohibitum est in lege, secundum jura canonica, sub pœna excommunicationis majoris.” Sarum Missal, Burntisland, 1867, col. 856*. (Cited by Cutts, Scenes and Characters of the Middle Ages, p. 167.)

81. Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard.

P. 242 ff. F, which Jamieson says he received from Scotland, happens to have been preserved at Abbotsford. Since Jamieson made a considerable number of small changes, the original text is now given here.

“Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy,” No 133 c, Abbotsford; in the handwriting of James Hogg.

‘I have a towr in Dalesberry,

Whilk now is dearly dight,

And I will gie it to young Musgrave,

To lodge wi me a night.’

‘To lodge wi thee a night, fair lady,

Wad breed baith sorrow and strife;

For I see by the rings on your fingers

Ye’re good Lord Barnaby’s wife.’

‘Lord Barnaby’s wife although I be,

Yet what is that to thee?

For we’l beguile him for this ae night;

He’s on to fair Dundee.

‘Come here, come here, my little foot-page,

This guinea I will give thee,

If ye will keep thir secrets closs

Tween young Musgrave an me.

‘But here hae I a little pen-knife,

Hings low down by my gare;

If ye dinna keep thir secrets closs,

Ye’l find it wonder sair.’

Then she’s taen him to her chamber,

An down in her arms lay he;

The boy koost off his hose an shoon

An ran for fair Dundee.

When he came to the wan water,

He slackd his bow an swam,

An when he wan to growan gress

Set down his feet an ran.

And whan he came to fair Dundee,

Could nouther rap nor ca,

But set his braid bow to his breast

An merrily jumpd the wa.

‘O waken ye, waken ye, my good lord,

Waken, an come away!’

‘What ails, what ails my wee foot-page

He cry’s sae lang or day?

‘O is my towers burnt, my boy?

Or is my castle won?

Or has the lady that I loe best

Brought me a daughter or son?’

‘Your halls are safe, your towers are safe

An free frae all alarms;

But oh, the lady that ye loe best

Lyes sound i Musgrave’s arms.’

‘Gae saddle me the black,’ he cry’d,

‘Gae saddle me the gray;

Gae saddle me the milk-white steed,

To hie me out the way.’

‘O lady, I heard a wee horn tout,

An it blew wonder clear,

An ay the turnin o the note

Was, Barnaby will be here!

‘I thought I heard a wee horn blaw,

An it blew loud an hie,

An ay at ilka turn it said,

Away, Musgrave, away!’

‘Lye still, my dear, lye still, my dear,

Ye keep me frae the cold!

For it is but my father’s shepherds,

Drivin there flocks to the fold.’

Up they lookit, an down they lay,

An they’re fa’n sound asleep;

Till up start good Lord Barnaby,

Just closs at their bed-feet.

‘How do ye like my bed, Musgrave?

An how like ye my sheets?

An how like ye my fair lady,

Lyes in your arms an sleeps?’

‘Weel I like your bed, my lord,

An weel I like your sheets;

But ill like I your fair lady,

Lyes in my arms an sleeps.

‘You got your wale o se’en sisters,

An I got mine o five;

So take ye mine, an I’s take thine,

An we nae mair shall strive.’

‘O my woman’s the best woman

That ever brake world’s bread,

But your woman’s the worst woman

That ever drew coat oer head.

‘I have two swords in my scabbart,

They are baith sharp an clear;

Take ye the best, and I the worst,

An we’l end the matter here.

‘But up an arm thee, young Musgrave,

We’l try it hand to hand;

It’s neer be said o Lord Barnaby

He struck at a naked man.’

The first stroke that young Musgrave got,

It was baith deep an sair,

An down he fell at Barnaby’s feet,

An word spak never mair.

‘A grave! a grave!’ Lord Barnaby cry’d,

‘A grave to lay them in!

My lady shall lye on the sunny side,

Because of her noble kin.’

But O how sorry was that good lord,

For a’ his angry mood,

When he espy’d his ain young son

All weltering in his blood!

The following copy was kindly communicated to me by Mr David MacRitchie, Honorary Secretary of the Gypsy Lore Society, in advance of its publication in the Journal of the society. While it preserves the framework of the story, it differs very considerably in details from all the printed copies. It is evidently of the same origin as some of the Scottish versions (all of which seem to derive from print), though it has no marked resemblance to the actual form of any particular one of these. Some peculiarities are plausibly attributable to dim or imperfect recollection. Thus, the ball-play of D, E, etc., is turned into a ball. Lord Barnard is made a king, and the page the king’s brother (neither of which changes is an improvement). We may observe that in J Lord Barnabas is at the king’s court, and in I Sir Grove is Lord Bengwill’s brother; but these points are not decisive, and the changes may be purely arbitrary. 4 shows traces of E 5 and F 3; 8 may have been suggested by something like G 4; and the last line of 14 looks like a corruption of G 29. This involves the supposition that the source of the ballad was a version somewhat different from any hitherto recovered; but ‘Little Musgrave’ is one of the best known of all ballads, and the variants must have been innumerable. On the whole, 1–8, 14, present a free treatment of ill-remembered matter; 9–13 are fairly well preserved; compare E 13–17.