Come forth, come forth, my maidens, the air is calm and cool,
And the violet blue far down ye’ll view, reflected in the pool;
The violets and the roses, and the jasmines all together,
We’ll bind in garlands on the brow of the strong and lovely wether.
Come forth, come forth, &c.
Come forth, come forth, my maidens, we’ll gather myrtle boughs,
And we all shall learn, from the dews of the fern, if our lads will keep their vows
If the wether be still, as we dance on the hill, and the dew hangs sweet on the flowers,
Then we’ll kiss off the dew, for our lovers are true, and the Baptist’s blessing is ours.
Come forth, come forth, &c.
Come forth, come forth, my maidens, ’tis the day of good St. John,
It is the Baptist’s morning that breaks the hills upon;
And let us all go forth together, while the blessed day is new,
To dress with flowers the snow-white wether, ere the sun has dried the dew.
Come forth, come forth, &c.
There are too many obvious traces of the fact to doubt its truth, that the making of bonfires, and the leaping through them, are vestiges of the ancient worship of the heathen god Bal; and therefore, it is, with propriety, that the editor of “Times’s Telescope,” adduces a recent occurrence from Hitchin’s “History of Cornwall,” as a probable remnant of pagan superstition in that county. He presumes that the vulgar notion which gave rise to it, was derived from the druidical sacrifices of beasts. “An ignorant old farmer in Cornwall, having met with some severe losses in his cattle, about the year 1800, was much afflicted with his misfortunes. To stop the growing evil, he applied to the farriers in his neighbourhood, but unfortunately he applied in vain. The malady still continuing, and all remedies failing, he thought it necessary to have recourse to some extraordinary measure. Accordingly, on consulting with some of his neighbours, equally ignorant with himself, and evidently not less barbarous, they recalled to their recollections a tale, which tradition had handed down from remote antiquity, that the calamity would not cease until he had actually burned alive the finest calf which he had upon his farm; but that, when this sacrifice was made, the murrain would afflict his cattle no more. The old farmer, influenced by this counsel, resolved immediately on reducing it to practice; that, by making the detestable experiment, he might secure an advantage, which the whisperers of tradition, and the advice of his neighbours, had conspired to assure him would follow. He accordingly called several of his friends together, on an appointed day, and having lighted a large fire, brought forth his best calf; and, without ceremony or remorse, pushed it into the flames. The innocent victim, on feeling the intolerable heat, endeavoured to escape; but this was in vain. The barbarians that surrounded the fire were armed with pitchforks, or pikes, as in Cornwall they are generally called; and, as the burning victim endeavoured to escape from death, with these instruments of cruelty the wretches pushed back the tortured animal into the flames. In this state, amidst the wounds of pitchforks, the shouts of unfeeling ignorance and cruelty, and the corrosion of flames, the dying victim poured out its expiring groan, and was consumed to ashes. It is scarcely possible to reflect on this instance of superstitious barbarity, without tracing a kind of resemblance between it, and the ancient sacrifices of the Druids. This calf was sacrificed to fortune, or good luck, to avert impending calamity, and to ensure future prosperity, and was selected by the farmer as the finest among his herd.” Every intelligent native of Cornwall will perceive, that this extract from the history of his county, is here made for the purpose of shaming the brutally ignorant, if it be possible, into humanity.
To conclude the present notices rather pleasantly, a little poem is subjoined, which shows that the superstition respecting the St. John’s wort is not confined to England; it is a version of some lines transcribed from a German almanac:—
The St. John’s Wort.
The young maid stole through the cottage door,
And blushed as she sought the plant of pow’r;—
“Thou silver glow-worm, O lend me thy light,
I must gather the mystic St. John’s-wort to-night.
The wonderful herb, whose leaf will decide
If the coming year shall make me a bride.”
And the glow-worm came
With its silvery flame,
And sparkled and shone
Thro’ the night of St. John,
And soon has the young maid her love-knot tied.
With noiseless tread
To her chamber she sped,
Where the spectral moon her white beams shed:—
“Bloom here—bloom here, thou plant of pow’r,
To deck the young bride in her bridal hour!”
But it drooped its head that plant of power,
And died the mute death of the voiceless flower
And a withered wreath on the ground it lay,
More meet for a burial than bridal day.
And when a year was past away,
All pale on her bier the young maid lay
And the glow-worm came
With its silvery flame,
And sparkled and shone
Thro’ the night of St. John,
And they closed the cold grave o’er the maid’s cold clay.
It would be easy, and perhaps more agreeable to the editor than to his readers, to accumulate many other notices concerning the usages on this day; let it suffice, however, that we know enough to be assured, that knowledge is engendering good sense, and that the superstitions of our ancestors will in no long time have passed away for ever. Be it the business of their posterity to hasten their decay.