« PreviousContinue »
LORD BATEMAN. (This is a ludicrously corrupt abridgment of the ballad of Lord Beichan, a copy of which will be found inserted amongst the Early Ballads, An. Ed. p. 144. The following grotesque version was published several years ago by Tilt, London, and also, according to the title-page, by Mustapha Syried, Constantinople ! under the title of The loving Ballad of Lord Bateman. It is, how. ever, the only ancient form in which the ballad has existed in print, and is one of the publications mentioned in Thackeray's Catalogue, see ante, p. 240. The air printed in Tilt's edition is the one to which the ballad is sung in the South of England, but it is totally different to the Northern tune, which has never been published.]
ORD BATEMAN he was a noble lord,
A noble lord of high degree;
Some foreign country he would go see.
Until he came to proud Turkèy;
Until his life was almost wearý.
It grew so stout, and grew so strong;
Until his life was almost gone.
The fai rest creature my eyes did see;
And sworie Lord Bateman she would set free
houses? have you got lands?
give to the fair young lady
And half Northumberlaz d belongs to me
Eset me free.'
That out of pris
O! then she took him to her father's hall,
And gave to him the best of wine; And every health she drank unto him,
'I wish, Lord Bateman, that you were mine! Now in seven years I'll make a vow,
And seven years I'll keep it strong, If you'll wed with no other woman,
I will wed with no other man.' 0! then she took him to her father's harbour,
And gave to him a ship of fame; 'Farewell
, farewell to you, Lord Bateman, I'm afraid I ne'er shall see you again.' Now seven long years are gone and past,
And fourteen days, well known to thee; She packed up all her gay clothing,
And swore Lord Bateman she would go see. But when she came to Lord Bateman's castle,
So boldly she rang the bell; "Who's there? who's there? cried the proud portèr,
" Who's there? unto me come tell.' :0! is this Lord Bateman's castle?
Or is his Lordship here within ?
· He's just now taken his new bride in.' 0! tell him to send me a slice of bread,
And a bottle of the best wine;
Who did release him when close confine.'
Away, away, and away went he,
Down on his bended knees fell he.
what news, my proud young porter ? What news hast thou brought unto me?' There is the fairest of all
creatures That ever my two eyes did see!
She has got rings on every finger,
And round one of them she has got three,
As would buy all Northumberlea.
send her a slice of bread,
Who did release you when close confine.
And broke his sword in splinters three;
If Sophia has crossed the sea.'
Who never was heard to speak so free,
If Sophia has crossed the sea.'
She's neither the better nor worse for me;
She may go back in her coach and three.'
And sang, with heart so full of glee,
Now since Sophia has crossed the sea.'
THE GOLDEN GLOVE ;
OR, THE SQUIRE OF TAMWORTH.
[This is a very popular ballad, and sung in every part of England. It is traditionally reported to be founded on an incident which occurred in the reign of Elizabeth. It has been published in the broadside form from the commencement of the eighteenth cen. tury, but is no doubt much older. It does not appear to have been previously inserted in any collection.]
A WEALTHY young squire of Tamworth, we hear,
a And for to marry her it was his intent, All friends and relations gave their consent. The time was appointed for the wedding-day, A young
farmer chosen to give her away; As soon as the farmer the young lady did spy, He inflamèd her heart; “O, my heart! she did cry. She turned from the squire, but nothing she said, Instead of being married she took to her bed; The thought of the farmer soon run in her mind, A
way for to have him she quickly did find. Coat, waistcoat, and breeches she then did put on, And a hunting she went with her dog and her gun; She hunted all round where the farmer did dwell, Because in her heart she did love him full well : She oftentimes fired, but nothing she killed, At length the young farmer came into the field; And to discourse with him it was her intent, With her dog and her gun to meet him she went.
I thought you had been at the wedding,' she cried, To wait on the squire, and give him his bride.' 'No, sir,' said the farmer, “if the truth I I'll not give her away, for I love her too well.'
Suppose that the lady should grant you her love,
gave him a glove that was flowered with gold,
The farmer was pleased when he heard of the news,
love.' 'It's already granted, I will be your bride; I love the sweet breath of a farmer,' she cried. • I'll be mistress of my dairy, and milking my cow, While my jolly brisk farmer is whistling at plough.' And when she was married she told of her fun, How she went a hunting with her dog and gun: “And now I've got him so fast in my snare, I'll enjoy him for ever, I vow and declare !
KING JAMES I. AND THE TINKLER. *
(TRADITIONAL.) [The ballad of King James I. and the Tinkler was probably written either in, or shortly after, the reign of the monarch who is the hero. The incident recorded is said to be a fact, though the locality is doubtful. By some the scene is laid at Norwood, in Surrey ; by others in some part of the English border. The ballad is alluded to by Percy, but is not inserted either in the Reliques, or in any other popular collection. It is to be found only in a few broadsides and chap-books of modern date. The present version is a traditional one, taken down, as here given, from the recital of the late Francis King. It is much superior to the
* A tinker is still called a tinkler in the north of England. † This poor minstrel was born at the village of Rylstone, in Craven, the scene of Wordsworth's White Doe of Rylstome. King was always called the Skipton Minstrel ;' and he merited that name, for he was not a mere player of jigs and country dances, but a singer of heroic ballads, carrying his hearers back to the days of chivalry and royal adventure, when the King of England called up Cheshire and Lancashire to fight the King of France, and monarchs sought the greenwood tree, and hob-a-nobbed with tinkers, knighting these Johns of the Dale as a matter of poetical justice and high sovereign prerogative. Francis King was a character. His physiognomy was striking and peculiar; and, although there was nothing of the rogue in its expression, for an honester fellow never breathed, he might have sat for Wordsworth's • Peter Bell.' He combined in a rare degree the qualities of the mime and the minstrel, and his old jokes, and older ballads and songs, always ensured him a hearty welcome. He was lame, in consequence of one