‘Dame, get up and bake your pies,
On Christmas day in the morning:’
‘The requisition,’ he continues, ‘goes on to the Dame to prepare for the feast, and her answer is
‘London Bridge is broken down,
On Christmas day in the morning.’
‘The inference always was, that until the Bridge was rebuilt, some stop would be put to the Dame’s Christmas operations; but why the falling of a part of London Bridge should form part of a Christmas Carol at Newcastle-upon-Tyne, I am at a loss to know.’ This connection has, doubtless, long since been gathered into the ‘wallet which Time carries at his back, wherein he puts alms for oblivion;’ though we may remark, that the history and features of the old Bridge of that famous town had a very close resemblance to that of London; as you may find upon reading the Rev. John Brand’s ‘History and Antiquities of the Town and County of the Town of Newcastle-upon-Tyne.’ London, 1789. 4to. volume i., pages 31-53. The chief points of resemblance between these two Bridges, were, that both were founded in the hidden years of remote antiquity; that in each instance wooden Bridges preceded the stone ones; that to each was attached a Chapel dedicated to St. Thomas; that continual dilapidations and Patents for repair characterised each; that both formed a street of houses, having towers, gates, and drawbridges; and, finally, that in 1771, a violent flood reduced the Bridge of Tyne to the same hapless state as erst marked that of London, when ruinated by the terrible fire of 1757. Such, Mr. Postern, are the words, and such are the very few historical notices that I am able to give you, of a song, of which there is, perhaps, not a single dweller in the Bills of Mortality, who has not heard somewhat; and yet not one of whom can tell you more concerning it, than that they have heard it sung ‘many years ago,’ as the gossiping phrase is. If one might hazard a conjecture concerning it, I should refer its composition to some very ancient date, when London Bridge lying in ruins, the office of Bridge Master was vacant; and his power over the River Lee—for it is doubtless that River which is celebrated in the chorus to this song,—was for a while at an end. But this, although the words and melody of the verses be extremely simple, is all uncertain; and thus, my good Sir, do general traditions float down the stream of Time, without any fixed date; for none regard them as of value enough to record, whilst they are yet known in all their primitive truth. Oh! how many an interesting portion of History has been thus lost! How many a——”
“I am glad,” interrupted my visitor at this part of my apostrophe, “to find that I am not the only Antiquary who is apt to be led away from narrative to rhetoric; and who is sometimes induced to declaim when he set out to describe. But you were speaking of the melody to this song, Mr. Barbican; now I would fain hear it, if it live in your memory.”
“Give me a draught of sack,” said I, taking up the tankard, “and you shall hear it, as well as my feeble voice, now ‘turning again to childish treble,’ Mr. Postern, hath the skill to chaunt it. But look for nothing fine, Mr. Barnaby: here are none of Von Weber’s notes; and, indeed, I know of nothing which so well characterises it, as that fine description of a popular ballad in Twelfth Night:—
‘Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain;
The Spinsters, and the Knitters in the sun,
And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to chaunt it——’”
“Come, my good Sir,” replied Mr. Postern, “no more words on’t, but sing, I pray you.”
“Then listen,” answered I, clearing my throat to reach the treble C, with which the melody commences; “but you must sing a part of it, as it stands in this paper, Master Barnaby, for it begins with the chorus; and so here follows the ancient Music to the Song and Dance of London Bridge is broken down.”