IN Wakefield there lives a jolly pinder,
In Wakefield, all on a green;
'There is neither knight nor squire,' said the pinder,
'Nor baron that is so bold,
Dare make a trespasse to the town of Wakefield,
But his pledge goes to the pinfold.'
All this beheard three witty young men,
'Twas Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John;
With that they spied the jolly pinder,
As he sate under a thorn.
'Now turn again, turn again,' said the pinder,
'For a wrong way have you gone;
For you have forsaken the king his highway,
And made a path over the corn.'
'Oh, that were great shame,' said jolly Robin,
`We being three, and thou but one':
The pinder leapt back then thirty good foot,
'Twas thirty good foot and one.
He leaned his back fast unto a thorn,
And his foot unto a stone,
And there he fought a long summer's day,
A summer's day so long,
Till that their swords, on their broad bucklers,
Were broken fast unto their hands.
……………………………..
'Hold thy hand, hold thy hand,' said Robin Hood,
'And my merry men every one;
For this is one of the best pinders
That ever I try'd with sword.
'And wilt thou forsake thy pinder his craft,
And live in the green wood with me?'
……………………………..
'At Michaelmas next my covenant comes out,
When every man gathers his fee;
I'le take my blew blade all in my hand,
And plod to the green wood with thee.'
'Hast thou either meat or drink,' said Robin Hood,
'For my merry men and me?'
……………………………..
'I have both bread and beef,' said the pinder,
'And good ale of the best';
'And that is meat good enough,'
said Robin Hood, For such unbidden guest.
O wilt thou forsake the pinder his craft
And go to the green wood with me?
'Thou shalt have a livery twice in the year,
The one green, the other brown shall be.'
'If Michaelmas day were once come and gone,
And my master had paid me my fee,
Then would I set as little by him
As my master doth set by me.'
He. BE it right or wrong, these men among
On women do complain;
Affirming this, how that it is
A labour spent in vain,
To love them well; for never a deal
They love a man again:
For let a man do what he can,
Their favour to attain,
Yet, if a new do them pursue,
Their first true lover then
Laboureth for nought; for from their thought
He is a banished man.
She. I say not nay, but that all day
It is both written and said,
That woman's faith is, as who saith,
All utterly decayed;
But, nevertheless, right good witness
In this case might be laid,
That they love true, and continue:
Record the Nut-brown Maid:
Which, when her love came, her to prove,
To her to make his moan,
Would not depart; for in her heart
She loved but him alone.
He. Then between us let us discuss
What was all the manner
Between them two: we will also
Tell all the pain, and fear,
That she was in. Now I begin,
So that ye me answer;
Wherefore, all ye, that present be,
I pray you give an ear.
'I am the knight; I come by night,
As secret as I can;
Saying, alas! thus standeth the case,
I am a banished man.'
She. And I your will for to fulfil
In this will not refuse;
Trustying to show, in words few,
That men have an ill use
(To their own shame) women to blame,
And causeless them accuse;
Therefore to you I answer now,
All women to excuse,
Mine own heart dear, with you what cheer
I pray you, tell anon;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.
He. It standeth so; a deed is done
Whereof great harm shall grow:
My destiny is for to die
A shameful death, I trow;
Or else to flee. The one must be;
None other way I know,
But to withdraw as an outlaw,
And take me to my bow.
Wherefore adieu, my own heart true!
None other rede I can:
For I must to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.
She. O Lord, what is this worldis bliss,
That changeth as the moon!
My summer's day in lusty May
Is derked before the noon.
I hear you say, farewell: Nay, nay,
We depart not so soon,
Why say ye so? whither will ye go?
Alas! what have you done?
All my welfare to sorrow and care
Should change, if you were gone;
For in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.
He. I can believe, it shall you grieve,
And somewhat you distrain;
But, afterward, your paines hard
Within a day or twain
Shall soon aslake; and ye shall take
Comfort to you again.
Why should ye ought? for to make thought,
Your labour were in vain.
And thus I do; and pray you to,
As hartely, as I can;
For I must to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.
She. Now, sith that ye have showed to me
The secret of your mind,
I shall be plain to you again,
Like as ye shall me find.
Sith it is so, that ye will go,
I will not live behind;
Shall never be said, the Nut-brown Maid
Was to her love unkind:
Make you ready, for so am I,
Although it were anone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind,
I love but you alone.
He. Yet I you rede to take good heed
What men will think, and say:
Of young and old it shall be told,
That ye be gone away,
Your wanton will for to fulfil,
In green-wood you to play;
And that ye might for your delight
No longer make delay.
Rather than ye should thus for me
Be called an ill woman,
Yet would I to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.
She. Though it be sung of old and young,
That I should be to blame,
Theirs be the charge, that speak so large
In hurting of my name:
For I will prove that faithful love
It is devoid of shame;
In your distress, and heaviness,
To part with you, the same:
And sure all those, that do not so,
True lovers are they none;
For, in my mind, of all mankind,
I love but you alone.
He. I counsel you, Remember how,
It is no maiden's law,
Nothing to doubt, but to run out
To wood with an outlaw:
For ye must there in your hand bear
A bow, ready to draw,
And, as a thief, thus must you live,
Ever in dread and awe;
Whereby to you great harm might grow:
Yet had I liever than,
That I did to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.
She. I think not nay, but as ye say,
It is no maiden's lore:
But love may make me for your sake,
As I have said before,
To come on foot, to hunt, and shoot
To get us meat in store;
For so that I your company
May have, I ask no more:
From which to part, it maketh my heart
As cold as any stone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.
He. For an outlaw this is the law,
That men him take and bind;
Without pitie, hanged to be,
And waver with the wind.
If I had need (as God forbid!)
What socours could ye find?
Forsooth, I trow, ye and your bow
For fear would draw behind:
And no marvel; for little avail
Were in your counsel then:
Wherefore I will to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.
She. Right well know ye that woman be
But feeble for to fight;
No womanhede it is indeed
To be bold as a knight:
Yet, in such fear if that ye were
With enemies day or night,
I would withstand, with bow in hand,
To grieve them as I might,
And you to save; as women have
From death men many one;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.
He. Yet take good heed; for ever I dread
That ye could not sustain
The thorny ways, the deep valleys,
The snow, the frost, the rain,
The cold, the heat: for dry, or wet,
We must lodge on the plain;
And, us above, no other roof
But a brake bush, or twain:
Which soon should grieve you, I believe,
And ye would gladly than
That I had to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.
She. Sith I have here been partynere
With you of joy and bliss,
I must also part of your woe
Endure, as reason is:
Yet am I sure of one pleasure;
And shortly, it is this:
That, where ye be, me seemeth, parde,
I could not fare amiss.
Without more speech, I you beseech
That we were soon agone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone.
He. If you go thyder, ye must consider,
When ye have lust to dine,
There shall no meat be for you gete,
Neither beer, ale, nor wine;
No slakes clean, to lie between,
Made of thread and twine;
None other house but leaves and boughs,
To cover your head and mine,
Lo, mine heart sweet, this evil diete
Should make you pale and wan;
Wherefore I will to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.
She. Among the wild deer, such an archere
As men say that ye be,
Ne may not fail of good vitayle,
Where is so great plente:
And water clear of the rivere
Shall be full sweet to me;
With which in hele I shall right wele
Endure, as ye shall see;
And, or we go, a bed or two
I can provide anone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone.
He. Lo yet, before, ye must do more,
If ye will go with me:
As cut your hair up by your ear,
Your kirtle by the knee;
With bow in hand, for to withstand
Your enemies, if need be:
And this same night before daylight.
To woodward will I flee.
If that ye will all this fulfil,
Do it shortly as ye can:
Else will I to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.
She. I shall as now do more for you
Than 'longeth to womanhede;
To shote my hair, a bow to bear,
To shoot in time of need.
O my sweet mother, before all other
For you I have most dread!
But now, adieu! I must ensue,
Where fortune doth me lead.
All this make ye: Now let us flee;
The day cometh fast upon;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.
He. Nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go,
And I shall tell you why,
Your appetite is to be light
Of love, I well espy:
For, like as ye have said to me,
In likewise hardily
Ye would answere whosoever it were,
In way of company.
It is said of old, Soon hot, soon cold;
And so is a woman.
Wherefore I to the wood will go,
Alone, a banished man.
She. If ye take heed, it is no need
Such words to say by me;
For oft ye prayed, and long assayed,
Or I loved you, parde
And though that I of ancestry
A baron's daughter be,
Yet have you proved how I you loved,
A squire of low degree;
And ever shall, whatso befall;
To die therefore anone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.
He. A baron's child to be beguil'd!
It were a cursed deed;
To be felawe with an outlaw!
Almighty God forbid!
Yet better were the poor squyere
Alone to forest yede,
Than ye shall say another day,
That, by my cursed rede,
Ye were betrayed: Wherefore, good maid,
The best rede that I can,
Is, that I to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.
She. Whatever befall, I never shall
Of this thing be upbraid:
But if ye go, and leave me so,
Then have ye me betrayed.
Remember you well, how that ye deal;
For, if ye, as ye said,
Be so unkind, to leave behind,
Your love, the Nut-brown Maid,
Trust me truly, that I shall die
Soon after ye be gone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.
He. If that ye went, ye should repent;
For in the forest now
I have purvayed me of a maid,
Whom I love more than you;
Another more fair than ever ye were,
I dare it well avow;
And of you both each should be wroth
With other, as I trow:
It were mine ease to live in peace;
So will I, if I can;
Wherefore I to the wood will go,
Alone, a banished man.
She. Though in the wood I understood
Ye had a paramour,
All this may nought remove my thought,
But that I will be yours:
And she shall find me soft and kind,
And courteous every hour;
Glad to fulfil all that she will
Command me to my power:
For had ye, lo, an hundred mo,
Yet would I be that one,
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.
He. Mine own dear love, I see the prove
That ye be kind and true;
Of maid, and wife, in all my life,
The best that ever I knew.
Be merry and glad, be no more sad,
The case is changed new;
For it were ruth, that, for your truth,
Ye should have cause to rue.
Be not dismayed; whatsoever I said
To you when I began;
I will not to the green-wood go; I am no banished man.
She. These tidings be more glad to me,
Than to be made a queen,
If I were sure they should endure;
But it is often seen,
When men will break promise, they speak
The wordis on the spleen.
Ye shape some wile me to beguile,
And steal from me, I ween:
Then were the case worse than it was,
And I more wobegone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.
He. Ye shall not need further to dread;
I will not disparage
You (God defend), sith ye descend
Of so great lineage.
Now understand; to Westmoreland,
Which is my heritage,
I will you bring; and with a ring,
By way of marriage
I will you take, and lady make,
As shortly as I can.
Thus have you won an Erle's son,
And not a banished man.
Here may ye see, that woman be
In love, meek, kind, and stable:
Let never man reprove them than,
Or call them variable;
But rather pray God that we may
To them be comfortable;
Which sometimes proveth such, as He loveth,
If they be charitable.
For sith men would that women should
Be meek to them each one;
Much more ought they to God obey,
And serve but Him alone.
FOUR and twenty bonny boys
Were playing at the ba';
Then up and started sweet Sir Hugh,
The flower amang them a'.
He hit the ba' a kick wi's fit,
And kept it wi' his knee,
That up into the Jew's window
He gart the bonny ba' flee.
'Cast doun the ba' to me, fair maid,
Cast doun the ba' to me ';
'O ne'er a bit o' the ba' ye get
Till ye cum up to me.
'Cum up, sweet Hugh, cum up, dear Hugh,
Cum up and get the ba'';
'I canna cum, I darna cum,
Without my playferes twa.'
'Cum up, sweet Hugh, cum up, dear Hugh,
Cum up and play wi' me';
I canna cum, I darna cum,
Without my playferes three.'
She's gane into the Jew's garden,
Where the grass grew lang and green;
She pow'd an apple red and white,
To wyle the young thing in.
She wyl'd him into ae chamber,
She wyl'd him into twa;
She wyl'd him to her ain chamber,
The fairest o' them a'.
She laid him on a dressing-board
Where she did sometimes dine;
She put a penknife in his heart
And dressed him like a swine.
Then out and cam the thick, thick blude,
Then out and cam the thin;
Then out and cam the bonny heart's blude,
Where a' the life lay in.
She row'd him in a cake of lead,
Bad him lie still and sleep;
She cast him into the Jew's draw-well,
Was fifty fadom deep.
She's tane her mantle about her head,
Her pike-staff in her hand;
And prayed Heaven to be her guide
Unto some uncouth land.
His mither she cam to the Jew's castle,
And there ran thryse about:
'O sweet Sir Hugh, gif ye be here,
I pray ye to me speak.'
She cam into the Jew's garden,
And there ran thryse about:
'O sweet Sir Hugh, gif ye be here,
I pray ye to me speak.'
She cam unto the Jew's draw-well,
And there ran thryse about:
'O sweet Sir Hugh, gif ye be here,
I pray ye to me speak.'
'How can I speak, how dare I speak,
How can I speak to thee?
The Jew's penknife sticks in my heart,
I canna speak to thee.
'Gang hame, gang hame, O mither dear,
And shape my winding-sheet,
And at the birks of Mirryland town
There you and I shall meet.'
When bells were rung and Mass was sung,
And a' men bound for bed,
Every mither had her son,
But sweet Sir Hugh was dead.
THERE come seven gypsies on a day,
Oh, but they sang bonny, O!
And they sang so sweet, and they sang so clear,
Down cam the earl's ladie, O.
They gave to her the nutmeg,
And they gave to her the ginger;
But she gave to them a far better thing,
The seven gold rings off her fingers.
When the earl he did come home,
Enquiring for his ladie,
One of the servants made this reply,
'She's awa with the gypsie laddie.'
'Come saddle for me the brown,' he said,
'For the black was ne'er so speedy,
And I will travel night and day
Till I find out my ladie.'
'Will you come home, my dear?' he said,
Oh will you come home, my honey?
And by the point of my broad sword,
A hand I'll ne'er lay on you.'
'Last night I lay on a good feather-bed,
And my own wedded lord beside me,
And to-night I'll lie in the ash-corner,
With the gypsies all around me.
'They took off my high-heeled shoes,
That were made of Spanish leather,
And I have put on coarse Lowland brogues,
To trip it o'er the heather.'
'The Earl of Cashan is lying sick;
Not one hair I'm sorry;
I'd rather have a kiss from his fair lady's lips
Than all his gold and his money.'
THERE were three ladies play'd at the ba',
With a hey, hey, an' a lilly gay.
Bye cam three lords an' woo'd them a',
Whan the roses smelled sae sweetly.
The first o' them was clad in yellow:
'O fair May, will ye be my marrow?'
Whan the roses smelled sae sweetly.
The niest o' them was clad i' ried:
O fair May, will ye be my bride?'
The thrid o' them was clad i' green:
He said, 'O fair May, will ye be my queen?'
LITHE and listen, gentlemen,
To sing a song I will begin:
It is of a lord of faire Scotland,
Which was the unthrifty heir of Linne.
His father was a right good lord,
His mother a lady of high degree;
But they, alas! were dead, him froe,
And he lov'd keeping companie.
To spend the day with merry cheer,
To drinke and revell every night,
To card and dice from eve to morne,
It was, I weep, his heart's delight.
To ride, to run, to rant, to roar,
To alwaye spend and never spare,
I wot, an' it were the king himself,
Of gold and fee he mote be bare.
So fares the unthrifty lord of Linne
Till all his gold is gone and spent;
And he maun sell his lands so broad,
His house, and lands, and all his rent.
His father had a keen stewarde,
And John o' the Scales was called he:
But John is become a gentel-man,
And John has got both gold and fee.
Says, Welcome, welcome, lord of Linne,
Let nought disturb thy merry cheer;
If thou wilt sell thy lands soe broad,
Good store of gold I 'll give thee here.
My gold is gone, my money is spent;
My land now take it unto thee:
Give me the gold, good John o' the Scales,
And thine for aye my land shall be.
Then John he did him to record draw,
And John he cast him a gods-pennie;
But for every pound that John agreed,
The land, I wis, was well worth three.
He told him the gold upon the bord,
He was right glad his land to win:
The gold is thine, the land is mine,
And now I'll be the lord of Linne.
Thus he bath sold his land so broad,
Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne,
All but a poor and lonesome lodge,
That stood far off in a lonely glen.
For so he to his father hight.
My son, when I am gone, said he,
Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad,
And thou wilt spend thy gold so free:
But swear me now upon the roode,
That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend;
For when all the world doth frown on thee,
Thou there shalt find a faithful friend.
The heir of Linne is full of gold:
And come with me, my friends, said he,
Let 's drinke, and rant, and merry make,
And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee.
They ranted, drank, and merry made,
Till all his gold it waxed thin;
And then his friends they slunk away;
They left the unthrifty heir of Linne.
He had never a penny left in his purse,
Never a penny left but three,
And one was brass, another was lead,
And another it was white money.
'Now well-aday,' said the heir of Linne,
'Now well-aday, and woe is me,
For when I was the lord of Linne,
I never wanted gold nor fee.
'But many a trusty friend have I,
And why should I feel dole or care?
I'll borrow of them all by turns,
So need I not be never bare.'
But one, I wis, was not at home;
Anther had payd his gold away;
Another call'd him thriftless loon,
And bade him sharply wend his way.
Now well-aday, said the heir of Linne,
Now well-aday, and woe is me!
For when I had my lands so broad,
On me they liv'd right merrilee.
To beg my bread from door to door
I wis, it were a burning shame:
To rob and steal it were a sin:
To work my limbs I cannot frame.
Now I'll away to that lonesome lodge,
For there my father bade me wend;
When all the world should frown on me,
I there shold find a trusty friend.
Away then hied the heir of Linne
O'er hill and holt and moor and fen,
Untill he came to the lonesome lodge,
That stud so lowe in a lonely glenne.
He looked up, he looked down,
In hope some comfort for to win:
But bare and lothly were the walls.
Here's sorry cheer, quo' the heir of Linne.
The little window dim and dark
Was hung with ivy, brere, and yew;
No shimmering sun here ever shone;
No wholesome breeze here ever blew.
Nor chair, nor table he mote spy,
No cheerful hearth, no welcome bed,
Nought save a rope with a running noose,
That dangling hung up o'er his head.
And over it in broad letters,
These words were written so plain to see:
'Ah! graceless wretch, hast spent thine all,
And brought thyself to penurie?
'And this my boding mind misgave
I therefore left this trusty friend
Let it now shield thy foule disgrace,
And all thy shame and sorrows end.'
Sorely shent wi' this rebuke,
Sorely shent was the heir of Lime;
His heart, I wis, was near to burst
With guilt and sorrow, shame and sin.
Never a word spake the heir of Lime,
Never a word he spake but three:
'This is a trusty friend indeed,
And is right welcome unto me'
Then round his neck the cord he drew,
And sprang aloft with his bodie:
When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine,
And to the ground came tumbing he.
Astonished lay the heir of Linne
Nor knewe if he were live or dead:
At length he looked, and saw a bill,
And in it a key of gold so redd.
He took the bill, and lookt it on,
Strait good comfort found he there:
It told him of a hole in the wall,
In which there stood three chests in-fere.
Two were full of the beaten gold,
The third was full of white money;
And over them in broad letters
These words were written so plain to see:
'Once more, my son, I set thee clear;
Amend thy life and follies past;
For but thou amend thee of thy life,
That rope must be thy end at last.'
And let it be,' said the heir of Linne;
'And let it be, but if I amend:
For here I will make mine avow,
This read shall guide me to the end.'
Away then went with a merry cheer,
Away then went the heir of Linne;
I wis, he neither ceas'd nor stayed,
Till John o' the Scales' house he did win.
And when he came to John o' the Scales,
Up at the window then looked he:
There sate three lords upon a row,
Were drinking of the wine so free.
And John himself sate at the bord-head,
Because now lord of Linne was he.
'I pray thee,' he said, 'good John o' the Scales,
One forty pence for to lend me.'
'Away, away, thou thriftless loone;
Away, away, this may not be:
For a curse upon my head he said,
If ever I trust thee one pennie.'
Then bespake the heir of Linne,
To John o' the Scales' wife then spake he:
'Madame, some alms on me bestow,
I pray for sweet saint Charitie.'
'Away, away, thou thriftless loone,
I swear thou gettest no alms of me;
For if we shold hang any losel here,
The first we would begin with thee.'
Then bespake a good fellowe,
Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord;
Sayd, 'Turn again, thou heir of Linne;
Some time thou wast a well good Lord:
'Some time a good fellow thou hast been,
And sparedst not thy gold and fee:
Therefore I'll lend thee forty pence,
And other forty if need be.
'And ever, I pray thee, John o' the Scales,
To let him sit in thy companie:
For well I wot thou hadst his land,
And a good bargain it was to thee.'
Up then spake him John o' the Scales,
All hot he answered him againe:
'Now a curse upon my head, he said,
But I did lose by that bargaine.
'And here I proffer thee, heir of Linne,
Before these lords so fair and free,
Thou shalt have it back again better cheap,
By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee.
'I draw you to record, lords, he said.
With that he cast him a god's pennie:
Now by my fay, sayd the heir of Linne,
And here, good John, is thy money.'
And he pull'd forth three bags of gold,
And layd them down upon the board:
All woebegone was John o' the Scales,
Soe sheet he could say never a word.
He told him forth the good red gold,
He told it forth with mickle dinne,
The gold is thine, the land is mine,
And now I'm again the lord of Linne.
Sayes, 'Have thou here, thou good fellowe,
Forty pence thou didst lend me:
Now I am again the lord of Linne,
And forty pounds I will give thee.
'I'll make thee keeper of my forest,
Both of the wild deere and the tame;
For unless I reward thy bounteous heart,
I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame.'
'Now well-aday!' sayth John o' the Scales:
'Now well-aday! and woe is my life!'
'Yesterday I was lady of Linne,
Now I'm but John o' the Scales his wife.'
'Now fare thee well, said the heir of Linne;
Farewell now, John o' the Scales, said he.
A curse light on me, if ever again
I bring my lands in jeopardy.'
AN old song made by an aged old pate,
Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a greats estate,
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate,
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate;
Like an old courtier of the queen's
And the queen's old courtier.
With an old lady, whose anger one word assuages;
They every quarter paid their old servants their wages,
And never knew what belong'd to coachman, footmen, nor pages,
But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges;
Like an old courtier…
With an old study fill'd full of learned old books,
With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks.
With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks,
And an old kitchen, that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks:
Like an old courtier…
With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns and bows,
With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewde blows,
And an old frize coat to cover his worship's trunk hose,
And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose;
Like an old courtier…
With a good old fashion, when Christmasse was come,
To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum,
With good chear enough to furnish every old room,
And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb,
Like an old courtier…
With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds,
That never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds,
Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds,
And when he dyed gave every child a thousand good pounds;
Like an old courtier…
But to his eldest son his house and land he assign'd,
Charging him in his will to keep the old bountifull mind,
To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind:
But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclin'd;
Like a young courtier of the king's
And the king's young courtier.
Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land,
Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command,
And takes up a thousand pound upon his father's land,
And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go nor stand;
Like a young courtier…
With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare,
Who never knew what belong'd to good housekeeping, or care,
Who buyes gaudy-color'd fans to play with wanton air,
And seven or eight different dressings of other women's hair;
Like a young courtier…
With a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood,
Hung round with new pictures, that do the poor no good,
With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood,
And a new smooth shovelboard, whereon no victuals ne'er stood;
Like a young courtier…
With a new study, stuft full of pamphlets, and plays,
And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays,
With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days,
And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws, and toys;
Like a young courtier…
With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on,
On a new journey to London straight we all must begone,
And leave none to keep house, but our new porter John,
Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone;
Like a young courtier…
With a new gentleman-usher, whose carriage is compleat,
With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat,
With a waiting-gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat,
Who when her lady has din'd, lets the servants not eat;
Like a young courtier…
With new titles of honour bought with his father's old gold,
For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors are sold;
And this is the course most of our new gallants hold,
Which makes that good house-keeping is now grown so cold,
Among the young courtiers of the king,
Among the king's young courtiers.
LONG the proud Spaniards had vaunted to conquer us,
Threatning our country with fyer and sword;
Often preparing their navy most sumptuous
With as great plenty as Spain could afford.
Dub a dub, dub a dub, thus strike their drums;
Tantara, tantara, the Englishman comes.
To the seas presentlye went our lord admiral,
With knights couragious and captains full good;
The brave Earl of Essex, a prosperous general,
With him prepared to pass the salt flood.
At Plymouth speedilye, took they ship valiantlye,
Braver ships never were seen under sayle,
With their fair colours spread, and streamers o'er their head.
Now bragging Spaniards, take heed of your tayle.
Unto Cales cunninglye, came we most speedilye,
Where the kinges navy securelye did ryde;
Being upon their backs, piercing their butts of sacks,
Ere any Spaniards our coming descryde.
Great was the crying, the running and ryding,
Which at that season was made in that place;
The beacons were fyred, as need then required;
To hyde their great treasure they had little space.
There you might see their ships, how they were fyred fast,
And how their men drowned themselves in the sea;
There you might hear them cry, wayle and weep piteously,
When they saw no shift to 'scape thence away.
The great St. Philip, the pryde of the Spaniards,
Was burnt to the bottom, and sunk in the sea;
But the St. Andrew, and eke the St. Matthew,
Wee took in fight manfullye and brought away.
The Earl of Essex, most valiant and hardye,
With horsemen and footmen march'd up to the town;
The Spanyards, which saw them, were greatly alarmed,
Did fly for their savegard, and durst not come down.
Now, quoth the noble Earl, courage my soldiers all,
Fight and be valiant, the spoil you shall have;
And be well rewarded all from the great to the small;
But look that the women and children you save.
The Spaniards at that sight, thinking it vain to fight,
Hung upp flags of truce and yielded the towne;
Wee marched in presentlye, decking the walls on hye,
With English colours which purchas'd renowne.
Entering the houses then, of the most richest men,
For gold and treasure we searched eche day;
In some places we did find, pyes baking left behind,
Meate at fire rosting, and folkes run away.
Full of rich merchandize, every shop catch'd our eyes,
Damasks and sattens and velvets full fayre:
Which soldiers measur'd out by the length of their swords;
Of all commodities eche had a share.
Thus Cales was taken, and our brave general
March'd to the market-place, where he did stand:
There many prisoners fell to our several shares,
Many crav'd mercye, and mercye they fannd.
When our brave general saw they delayed all,
And would not ransome their towne as they said,
With their fair wanscots, their presses and bedsteds,
Their joint-stools and tables a fire we made;
And when the town burned all in a flame,
With tara, tantara, away we all came.
THERE was a youth, a well-beloved youth,
And he was a squire's son;
He loved the bayliffe's 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 faire London
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 bayliffe's daughter dear;
She secretly stole away.
She pulled off her gown of green,
And put on ragged attire,
And to faire London she would go
Her true love to enquire.
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 bye.
She started up, with a colour so redd,
Catching hold of his bridle-reine;
One penny, one penny, kind sir, she said,
Will ease me of much pain.
Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart,
Pray tell me where you were born.
At Islington, kind sir, said she,
Where I have had many a scorn.
I prythe, sweet-heart, then tell to me,
O tell me, whether you know,
The bayliffe's 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 unto some far country,
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.
GOD prosper long our noble King,
Our lives and safeties all!
A woeful Hunting once there did
In Chevy Chase befall.
To drive the deer, with hound and horn,
Earl Percy took the way;
The child may rue, that is unborn,
The hunting of that day!
The stout Earl of Northumberland
A vow to God did make,
His pleasure in the Scottish woods,
Three summer days to take;
The chiefest harts in Chevy Chase,
To kill and bear away.
These tidings to Earl Douglas came
In Scotland, where he lay.
Who sent Earl Percy present word,
He would prevent his sport.
The English Earl, not fearing that,
Did to the woods resort
With fifteen hundred bowmen bold,
All chosen men of might,
Who knew full well, in time of need,
To aim their shafts aright.
The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran,
To chase the fallow deer.
On Monday, they began to hunt,
Ere daylight did appear;
And long before high noon they had
A hundred fat bucks slain:
Then, having dined, the drovers went
To rouse the deer again.
The hounds ran swiftly through the woods,
The nimble deer to take,
That with their cries the hills and dales
An echo shrill did make.
Lord Percy, to the quarry went,
To view the slaughtered deer,
Quoth he, 'Earl Douglas promised
This day to meet me here:
'But if I thought he would not come,
No longer would I stay!'
With that, a brave young gentleman,
Thus to the Earl did say:
'Lo! yonder doth Earl Douglas come!
His men in armour bright!
Full twenty hundred Scottish spears
All marching in our sight!
'All pleasant men of Tividale,
Fast by the river Tweed.'
'O, cease your sports!' Earl Percy said,
And take your bows with speed;
'And now with me, my countrymen,
Your courage forth advance;
For there was never champion yet,
In Scotland, nor in France,
'That ever did on horseback come;
And, if my hap it were,
I durst encounter man for man,
With him to break a spear!'
Earl Douglas, on his milk-white steed,
Most like a baron bold,
Rode foremost of his company,
Whose armour shone like gold.
'Show me,' said he, whose men you be,
That hunt so boldly here?
That, without my consent, do chase
And kill my fallow deer?'
The first man that did answer make,
Was noble Percy he,
Who said, 'We list not to declare,
Nor show, whose men we be:
'Yet we will spend our dearest blood
Thy chiefest harts to slay.'
Then Douglas swore a solemn oath,
And thus in rage did say:
'Ere thus I will outbraved be,
One of us two shall die:
I know thee well! An earl thou art,
Lord Percy. So am I.
'But, trust me, Percy, pity it were,
And great offence, to kill
Any of these, our guiltless men!
For they have done no ill.
'Let thou and I, the battle try;
And set our men aside.'
'Accursed be he,' Earl Percy said,
'By whom it is denied!'
Then stepped a gallant squire forth,
Witherington was his name,
Who said, 'I would not have it told
To Henry our king, for shame,
'That e'er my Captain fought on foot,
And I stood looking on.
You be two earls,' quoth Witherington,
'And I a squire alone.
'I'll do the best that do I may,
While I have power to stand:
While I have power to wield my sword,
I'll fight with heart and hand.'
Our English archers bent their bows,
Their hearts were good and true.
At the first flight of arrows sent,
Full fourscore Scots they slew.
'To drive the deer with hound and horn!'
Douglas bade on the bent.
Two captains moved, with mickle might,
Their spears to shivers went.
They closed full fast on every side;
No slackness there was found:
But many a gallant gentleman
Lay gasping on the ground.
O, Christ! it was a grief to see,
And likewise for to hear,
The cries of men lying in their gore,
And scattered here and there.
At last, these two stout earls did meet.
Like captains of great might,
Like lions wood, they laid on load,
And made a cruel fight:
They fought, until they both did sweat,
With swords of tempered steel,
Till blood adown their cheeks, like rain,
They trickling down did feel.
'Yield thee, O Percy,' Douglas said,
'In faith! I will thee bring,
Where thou shalt high advanced be,
By James, our Scottish King!
'Thy ransom I will freely give!
And this report of thee,
"Thou art the most courageous knight
That ever I did see!"'
'No, Douglas,' quoth Earl Percy then,
Thy proffer I do scorn;
I will not yield to any Scot
That ever yet was born!'
With that, there came an arrow keen
Out of an English bow,
Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart,
A deep and deadly blow.
Who never said more words than these,
'Fight on, my merry men all!
For why? My life is at an end,
Lord Percy sees my fall!'
Then leaving life, Earl Percy took
The dead man by the hand,
Who said, 'Earl Douglas, for thy sake,
Would I had lost my land!
'O, Christ! my very heart doth bleed
For sorrow, for thy sake,
For, sure, a more redoubted knight
Mischance could never take!'
A knight, amongst the Scots there was,
Which saw Earl Douglas die;
Who straight in heart did vow revenge
Upon the Lord Percy.
Sir Hugh Montgomery was he called;
Who, with a spear most bright,
Well mounted on a gallant steed,
Ran fiercely through the fight.
And passed the English archers all,
Without or dread or fear;
And through Earl Percy's body then
He thrust his hateful spear.
With such a vehement force and might,
He did his body gore:
The staff ran through the other side,
A large cloth-yard and more.
Thus did both those nobles die,
Whose courage none could stain.
An English archer then perceived
The noble earl was slain.
He had a good bow in his hand,
Made of a trusty tree.
An arrow of a cloth-yard long,
Up to the head drew he.
Against Sir Hugh Montgomery,
So right the shaft he set;
The grey-goose wing that was thereon,
In his heart's blood was wet.
This fight did last from break of day
Till setting of the sun:
For when they rang the evening bell,
The battle scarce was done.
With stout Earl Percy there were slain
Sir John of Egerton,
Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,
Sir James, that bold Baron.
And with Sir George and stout Sir James,
Both Knights of good account,
Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain,
Whose prowess did surmount.
For Witherington needs must I wail,
As one in doleful dumps,
For when his legs were smitten off,
He fought upon his stumps.
And with Earl Douglas there were slain
Sir Hugh Montgomery;
And Sir Charles Murray, that from field
One foot would never flee.
Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too,
His sister's son was he:
Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed,
But saved he could not be.
And the Lord Maxwell, in like case,
Did with Earl Douglas die.
Of twenty hundred Scottish spears
Scarce fifty-five did fly.
Of fifteen hundred Englishmen,
Went home but fifty-three;
The rest in Chevy Chase were slain,
Under the greenwood tree.
Next day did many widows come
Their husbands to bewail:
They washed their wounds in brinish tears;
But all would not prevail!
Their bodies, bathed in purple blood,
They bore with them away.
They kissed them, dead, a thousand times,
Ere they were clad in clay.
The news was brought to Edinborough,
Where Scotland's King did reign,
That brave Earl Douglas suddenly
Was with an arrow slain.
'O, heavy news!' King James did say,
Scotland may witness be,
I have not any captain more
Of such account as he!'
Like tidings to King Henry came,
Within as short a space,
That Percy of Northumberland,
Was slain in Chevy Chase.
'Now, God be with him!' said our king,
Sith it will no better be;
I trust I have, within my realm,
Five hundred as good as he!
'Yet shall not Scots, nor Scotland, say
But I will vengeance take;
And be revenged on them all,
For brave Earl Percy's sake.'
This vow the king did well perform
After, on Humbledown,
In one day fifty knights were slain,
With lords of great renown;
And of the rest, of small account,
Did many thousands die.
Thus endeth the hunting in Chevy Chase,
Made by the Earl Percy.
God save our king; and bless this land
With plenty, joy, and peace!
And grant henceforth, that foul debate
'Twixt noblemen may cease!
FAIR stood the wind for France
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main,
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,
Landed King Harry.
And taking many a fort,
Furnish'd in warlike sort
March'd towards Agincourt
In happy hour;
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stopp'd his way,
Where the French gen'ral lay
With all his power.
Which in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide
To the King sending;
Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vile
Yet with an angry smile,
Their fall portending.
And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then,
Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazed.
Yet, have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun
By fame been raised.
And for myself, quoth he,
This my full rest shall be,
England ne'er mourn for me,
Nor more esteem me.
Victor I will remain,
Or on this earth lie slain,
Never shall she sustain
Loss to redeem me.
Poictiers and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell,
No less our skill is,
Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat,
Lop'd the French lilies.
The Duke of York so dread,
The eager vanward led;
With the main Henry sped,
Amongst his henchmen.
Excester had the rear,
A braver man not there,
O Lord, how hot they were
On the false Frenchmen!
They now to fight are gone,
Armour on armour shone,
Drum now to drum did groan,
To hear, was wonder;
That with cries they make,
The very earth did shake,
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham,
Which did the signal aim
To our hid forces:
When from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery
Stuck the French horses.
With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stung
Piercing the weather;
None from his fellow starts,
But playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts,
Stuck close together.
When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilbows drew,
And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardy;
Arms were from shoulders sent,
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went,
Our men were hardy.
This while our noble king,
His broad sword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding,
As to o'erwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent
Bruised his helmet.
Glo'ster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,
With his brave brother;
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight
Scarce such another.
Warwick in blood did wade,
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,
Still as they ran up;
Suffolk his axe did ply,
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,
Ferrers and Fanhope.
Upon Saint Crispin's day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry;
O when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?
AGINCOURT, Agincourt!
Know ye not Agincourt,
Where English slew and hurt
All their French foemen?
With their pikes and bills brown,
How the French were beat down,
Shot by our Bowmen?
Agincourt, Agincourt!
Know ye not Agincourt,
Never to be forgot,
Or known to no men?
Where English cloth-yard arrows
Killed the French like tame sparrows,
Slain by our Bowmen?
Agincourt, Agincourt!
Know ye not Agincourt?
English of every sort,
High men and low men,
Fought that day wondrous well,
All our old stories tell,
Thanks to our Bowmen!
Agincourt, Agincourt!
Know ye not Agincourt?
Where our fifth Harry taught
Frenchmen to know men:
And, when the day was done,
Thousands there fell to one
Good English Bowman!
Agincourt, Agincourt!
Know ye not Agincourt?
Dear was the vict'ry bought
By fifty yeomen.
Ask any English wench,
They were worth all the French,
Rare English Bowmen!
WHEN icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail;
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl
Tu-whit!
Tu-who! A merry note!
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all about the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw;
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl
Tu-whit!
Tu-who! A merry note!
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
Brow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh, ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh, ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember'd not.
Heigh, ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh, ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
FEAR no more the heat o' the sun
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flash
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
UNDER the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall he see
No enemy,
But winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to lie i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleas'd with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall he see
No enemy,
But winter and rough weather.
WHO is Sylvia? what is she,
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she;
The heaven such grace did lend her,
That she might admired be.
Is she kind as she is fair?
For beauty lives with kindness,
Love doth to her eyes repair,
To help him of his blindness,
And, being help'd, inhabits there.
Then to Sylvia let us sing,
That Sylvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling:
To her let us garlands bring.
COME away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it;
My part of death no one so true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O, where
Sad true lover ne'er find my grave
To weep there.
FULL fathom five thy father lies:
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Hark! now I hear them,—
Ding, dong, bell.
How should I your true love know
From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff,
And his sandal shoon.
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.
White his shroud as the mountain snow,
Larded with sweet flowers;
Which bewept to the grave did go
With true-love showers.
And will he not come again?
And will he not come again?
No, no, he is dead:
Go to thy death-bed:
He never will come again.
His beard was as white as snow,
All flaxen was his poll:
He is gone, he is gone,
And we cast away moan:
God ha' mercy on his soul!
WHEN daisies pied and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver-white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
Cuckoo;
Cuckoo, cuckoo: O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
Cuckob;
Cuckoo, cuckoo: O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!
IT was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That o'er the green cornfield did pass
In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding:
Sweet lovers love the spring.
Between the acres of the rye,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
These pretty country folks would lie,
In spring time, etc.
This carol they began that hour,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
How that a life was but a flower
In spring time, etc.
And therefore take the present time,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino;
For love is crowned with the prime
In spring time, etc.
O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear; your true love 's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.
What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.
ORPHEUS with his lute made trees,
And the mountain tops that freeze,
Bow themselves when he did sing:
To his music plants and flowers
Ever sprung; as sun and showers
There had made a lasting spring.
Every thing that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,
Hung their heads, and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art,
Killing-care and grief-of-heart
Fall asleep, or hearing, die.
LAWN as white as driven snow;
Cypress black as e'er was crow;
Gloves as sweet as damask roses;
Masks for faces and for noses;
Bugle bracelet, necklace amber,
Perfume for a lady's chamber;
Golden quoifs and stomachers,
For my lads to give their dears:
Pins and poking-sticks of steel,
What maids lack from head to heel:
Come buy of me, come; come buy, come buy;
Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry:
Come buy.
AND let me the canakin clink, clink;
And let me the canakin clink:
A soldier's a man;
A life's but a span;
Why, then, let a soldier drink.
King Stephen was a worthy peer,
His breeches cost him but a crown;
He held them sixpence all too dear,
With that he call'd the tailor lown.
He was a wight of high renown,
And thou art but of low degree:
'Tis pride that pulls the country down;
Then take thine auld cloak about thee.
DOUBT thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.
WHERE the bee sucks, there lurk I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
SIGH no more, ladies, sigh no more;
Men were deceivers ever;
One foot in sea, and one on shore;
To one thing constant never;
Then sigh not so,
But let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny;
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into, Hey nonny, nonny.
Sing no more ditties, sing no mo
Of dumps so dull and heavy;
The fraud of men was ever so,
Since summer first was leavy,
Then sigh not so,
But let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny;
Converting all your sounds of woe,
Into, Hey nonny, nonny.
WHEN daffodils begin to peer,
With heigh! the doxy over the dale,
Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year;
For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.