And ‘Go on Edward!’’
The same species of satire is now and then visited upon the ‘Troubadour Songs,’ which have become so afflictingly common of late years. Some of these we have already given; and we find them on the increase in England. We have before us, from the London press of Tilt and Bogue, ‘Sir Whystleton Mugges, a Metrical Romaunte, in three Fyttes,’ with copious notes. A stanza or two will suffice as a specimen. The knightly hero, it needs only to premise, has been jilted by his fair ‘ladye-love,’ who retires to her boudoir, while the knight walks off in despair:
‘Hys herte beat high and quycke;
Forth to his tygere he did call,
‘Bring me my palfrey from his stall,
For I moste cotte my stycke!’
‘Ye stede was brought, ye knyghte jomped up,
He woulde not even stay to sup,
But swyft he rode away;
Still groanynge as he went along,