Of a blind beggar's daughter most bright,
That late was betroth-ed unto a young knight;
All the discourse thereof you did see;
But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee.
Within a gorgeous palace most brave,
Adorn-ed with all the cost they could have,
This wedding was kept most sumptuousl-ie,
And all for the credit of pretty Bessee.
All kind of dainties, and delicates sweet
Were bought for the banquet, as it was most meet;
Partridge, and plover, and venison most free,
Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee.
This marriage through England was spread by report,
So that a great number thereto did resort
Of nobles and gentles in every degree;
And all for the fame of pretty Bessee.
To church then went this gallant young knight,
His bride followed after, an angel most bright,
With gay troops of ladies, the like ne'er was seen
As went with sweet Bessy of Bethnal Green.
This marriage being sol-emniz-ed then,
With music performed by the skilfullest men,
The nobles and gentles sate down at that tide,
Each one admiring the beautiful bride.
Now, after the sumptuous dinner was done,
To talk and to reason a number begun;
They talked of the blind beggar's daughter most bright,
And what with his daughter he gave to the knight.
Then spake the nobles, "Much marvel have we,
This jolly blind beggar we cannot here see."
"My lords," quoth the bride, "my father's so base,
He is loth with his presence these states to disgrace."
"The praise of a woman in question to bring
Before her own face, were a flattering thing;
But we think thy father's baseness," quoth they,
"Might by thy beauty be clean put away."
They had no sooner these pleasant words spoke,
But in comes the beggar clad in a silk cloak;
A fair velvet cap and a feather had he,
And now a musician forsooth he would be.
He had a dainty lute under his arm,
He touch-ed the strings, which made such a charm,
Says, "Please you to hear any music of me,
I'll sing you a song of pretty Bessee."
With that his lute he twang-ed straightway,
And thereon began most sweetly to play;
And after that lessons were played two or three,
He strained out this song most delicatel-ie.
"A poor beggar's daughter did dwell on a green,
Who for her fairness might well be a queen:
A blithe bonny lass, and a dainty was she,
And many one call-ed her pretty Bessee.
"Her father he had no goods, nor no land,
But begged for a penny all day with his hand;
And yet to her marriage he gave thousands three,
And still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee.
"And if any one here her birth do disdain,
Her father is ready, with might and with main,
To prove she is come of a noble degree,
Therefore never flout at pretty Bessee."
With that the lords and the company round
With hearty laughter were ready to swound.
At last said the lords, "Full well we may see,
The bride and the beggar's beholden to thee."
On this the bride all blushing did rise,
The pearly drops standing within her fair eyes.
"O pardon my father, grave nobles," quoth she,
"That through blind affection thus doteth on me."
"If this be thy father," the nobles did say,
"Well may he be proud of this happy day;
Yet by his countenance well may we see,
His birth and his fortune did never agree:
"And therefore, blind man, we bid thee bewray,
(And look that the truth thou to us do say)
Thy birth and thy parentage, what it may be;
For the love that thou bearest to pretty Bessee."
"Then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one,
One song more to sing, and then I have done;
And if that it may not win good report,
Then do not give me a groat for my sport.
"Sir Simon de Montfort my subject shall be;
Once chief of all the great barons was he,
Yet fortune so cruel this lord did abase,
Now lost and forgotten are he and his race.
"When the barons in arms did King Henry oppose,
Sir Simon de Montfort their leader they chose;
A leader of courage undaunted was he,
And oft-times he made their bold enemies flee.
"At length in the battle on Evesham plain,
The barons were routed, and Montfort was slain;
Most fatal that battle did prove unto thee,
Though thou wast not born then, my pretty Bessee!
"Along with the nobles, that fell at that tide,
His eldest son Henry, who fought by his side,
Was felled by a blow he received in the fight:
A blow that deprived him for ever of sight.
"Among the dead bodies all lifeless he lay,
Till evening drew on of the following day.
When by a young lady discovered was he;
And this was thy mother, my pretty Bessee!
"A baron's fair daughter stept forth in the night
To search for her father, who fell in the fight,
And seeing young Montfort, where gasping he lay,
Was mov-ed with pity, and brought him away.
"In secret she nursed him, and swag-ed his pain,
While he through the realm was believed to be slain:
At length his fair bride she consented to be,
And made him glad father of pretty Bessee.
"And now, lest our foes our lives should betray,
We cloth-ed ourselves in beggar's array;
Her jewels she sold, and hither came we:
All our comfort and care was our pretty Bessee.
"And here have we liv-ed in fortune's despite,
Though poor, yet contented with humble delight:
Full forty winters thus have I been
A silly blind beggar of Bethnal Green.
"And here noble lord-es, is ended the song
Of one that once to your own rank did belong:
And thus have you learn-ed a secret from me,
That ne'er had been known but for pretty Bessee."
Now when the fair company every one,
Had heard the strange tale in the song he had shown,
They all were amaz-ed, as well they might be,
Both at the blind beggar, and pretty Bessee.
With that the fair bride they all did embrace,
Saying, "Sure thou art come of an honourable race,
Thy father likewise is of noble degree,
And thou art well worthy a lady to be."
Thus was the feast ended with joy and delight,
A bridegroom most happy then was the young knight,
In joy and felicity long liv-ed he,
All with his fair lady, the pretty Bessee.
THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON.
There was a youth, and a well-beloved youth,
And he was a squire's son:
He loved the bailiffs daughter dear,
That lived in Islington.
Yet she was coy, and would not believe
That he did love her so;
No, nor at any time would she
Any countenance to him show.
But when his friends did understand
His fond and foolish mind,
They sent him up to fair Lond-on
An apprentice for to bind.
And when he had been seven long years,
And never his love could see:
"Many a tear have I shed for her sake,
When she little thought of me."
Then all the maids of Islington
Went forth to sport and play,
All but the bailiff's daughter dear;
She secretly stole away.
She pull-ed off her gown of green,
And put on ragged attire,
And to fair London she would go
Her true love to inquire.
And as she went along the high road,
The weather being hot and dry,
She sat her down upon a green bank,
And her true love came riding by.
She started up, with a colour so red,
Catching hold of his bridle-rein;
"One penny, one penny, kind sir," she said,
"Will ease me of much pain."—
"Before I give you one penny, sweetheart,
Pray tell me where you were born."—
"At Islington, kind sir," said she,
"Where I have had many a scorn."—
"I pr'ythee, sweetheart, then tell to me,
O tell me, whether you know
The bailiffs daughter of Islington."—
"She is dead, sir, long ago."—
"If she be dead, then take my horse,
My saddle and bridle also;
For I will into some far countrie,
Where no man shall me know."—
"O stay, O stay, thou goodly youth,
She standeth by thy side:
She is here alive, she is not dead,—
And ready to be thy bride."—
"O farewell grief, and welcome joy,
Ten thousand times therefore!
For now I have found mine own true love,
Whom I thought I should never see more."
BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY.
In Scarlet town, where I was born,
There was a fair maid dwellin',
Made every youth cry, Well away!
Her name was Barbara Allen.
All in the merry month of May,
When green buds they were swellin',
Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay
For love of Barbara Allen.
He sent his man unto her then,
To the town where she was dwellin';
"You must come to my master dear,
Gif your name be Barbara Allen.
"For death is printed on his face,
And o'er his heart is stealin':
Then haste away to comfort him,
O lovely Barbara Allen."
Though death be printed on his face
And o'er his heart is stealin',
Yet little better shall he be
For bonny Barbara Allen.
So slowly, slowly, she came up,
And slowly she came nigh him;
And all she said, when there she came,
"Young man, I think y'are dying."
He turned his face unto her straight,
With deadly sorrow sighing;
"O lovely maid, come pity me,
I'm on my deathbed lying."—
"If on your deathbed you do lie,
What needs the tale you are tellin';
I cannot keep you from your death:
Farewell," said Barbara Allen.
He turned his face unto the wall,
As deadly pangs he fell in:
"Adieu! adieu! adieu to you all!
Adieu to Barbara Allen!"
As she was walking o'er the fields,
She heard the bell a knellin';
And every stroke did seem to say,—
UNWORTHY BARBARA ALLEN.
She turned her body round about,
And spied the corpse a coming:
"Lay down, lay down the corpse," she said,
"That I may look upon him."
With scornful eye she look-ed down,
Her cheek with laughter swellin';
Whilst all her friends cried out amain,
UNWORTHY BARBARA ALLEN.
When he was dead, and laid in grave,
Her heart was struck with sorrow,
"O mother, mother, make my bed,
For I shall die to-morrow!
"Hard-hearted creature him to slight,
Who lov-ed me so dearly:
O that I had been more kind to him,
When he was alive and near me!"
She, on her deathbed as she lay,
Begged to be buried by him;
And sore repented of the day,
That she did e'er deny him.
"Farewell," she said, "ye maidens all,
And shun the fault I fell in:
Henceforth take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barbara Allen."
SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST.
There came a ghost to Margaret's door,
With many a grievous groan,
And aye he tirl-ed at the pin;
But answer made she none.
"Is this my father Philip?
Or is't my brother John?
Or is't my true love Willie,
From Scotland new come home?"
"'Tis not thy father Philip;
Nor yet thy brother John:
But 'tis thy true love Willie
From Scotland new come home.
"O sweet Margret! O dear Margret!
I pray thee speak to me:
Give me my faith and troth, Margret,
As I gave it to thee."
"Thy faith and troth thou'se never get,
Of me shalt never win,
Till that thou come within my bower,
And kiss my cheek and chin."
"If I should come within thy bower,
I am no earthly man:
And should I kiss thy rosy lip,
Thy days will not be lang.
"O sweet Margret, O dear Margret,
I pray thee speak to me:
Give me my faith and troth, Margret,
As I gave it to thee."—
"Thy faith and troth thou'se never get,
Of me shalt never win,
Till thou take me to yon kirkyard,
And wed me with a ring."—
"My bones are buried in a kirkyard
Afar beyond the sea,
And it is but my sprite, Margret,
That's speaking now to thee."
She stretch-ed out her lily-white hand,
As for to do her best:
"Hae there your faith and troth, Willie,
God send your soul good rest!"
Now she has kilted her robes of green,
A piece below her knee:
And a' the live-lang winter night
The dead corpse followed she.
"Is there any room at your head, Willie?
Or any room at your feet?
Or any room at your side, Willie,
Wherein that I may creep?"
"There's nae room at my head, Margret,
There's nae room at my feet,
There's nae room at my side, Margret,
My coffin is made so meet."
Then up and crew the red red cock,
And up then crew the gray:
"'Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Margret,
That I were gane away."
No more the ghost to Margret said,
But, with a grievous groan,
Evanished in a cloud of mist,
And left her all alone.
"O stay, my only true love, stay!"
The constant Margret cried:
Wan grew her cheeks, she closed her een,
Stretched her saft limbs, and died.