BALLAD OF DICK AND THE DEVIL.
Looking over some of your back numbers, I find (No. 11. p. 172.) an inquiry concerning a ballad with this title. I have never met with it in print, but remember some lines picked up in nursery days from an old nurse who was a native of "the dales." These I think have probably formed a part of this composition. The woman's name was curiously enough Martha Kendal; and, in all probability, her forebears had migrated from that place into Yorkshire:—
"Robin a devil he sware a vow.
He swore by the sticks[2] in hell—
By the yelding that crackles to mak the low[3],
That warms his namsack[4] weel.
"He leaped on his beast, and he rode with heaste,
To mak his black oath good;
'Twas the Lord's Day, and the folk did pray
And the priest in cancel stood.
"The door was wide, and in does he ride,
In his clanking gear so gay;
A long keen brand he held in his hand,
Our Dickon for to slay.
"But Dickon goodhap he was not there,
And Robin he rode in vain,
And the men got up that were kneeling in prayer,
To take him by might and main.
"Rob swung his sword, his steed he spurred,
He plunged right through the thrang.
But the stout smith Jock, with his old mother's crutch[5],
He gave him a woundy bang.
"So hard he smote the iron pot,
It came down plume and all;
Then with bare head away Robin sped,
And himself was fit to fall.
"Robin a devil he way'd[6] him home,
And if for his foes he seek,
I think that again he will not come
To late[7] them in Kendal kirk."[8]
Y.A.C.