A harvest home song.
Tune, Where The Bee Sucks
[This favourite song, copied from a chap-book called The Whistling
Ploughman, published at the commencement of the present century, is
written in imitation of Ariel's song, in the Tempest. It is
probably taken from some defunct ballad-opera.]
- Now our work's done, thus we feast,
- After labour comes our rest;
- Joy shall reign in every breast,
- And right welcome is each guest:
- After harvest merrily,
- Merrily, merrily, will we sing now,
- After the harvest that heaps up the mow.
- Now the plowman he shall plow,
- And shall whistle as he go,
- Whether it be fair or blow,
- For another barley mow,
- O'er the furrow merrily:
- Merrily, merrily, will we sing now,
- After the harvest, the fruit of the plow.
- Toil and plenty, toil and ease,
- Still the husbandman he sees;
- Whether when the winter freeze,
- Or in summer's gentle breeze;
- Still he labours merrily,
- Merrily, merrily, after the plow,
- He looks to the harvest, that gives us the mow.
A celebrated Nottinghamshire poacher's song.
[Nottinghamshire was, in the olden day, famous in song for the
achievements of Robin Hood and his merry men. In our times the
reckless daring of the heroes of the 'greenwood tree' has descended
to the poachers of the county, who have also found poets to
proclaim and exult over their lawless exploits; and in
Thornehagh-Moor Woods
we have a specimen of one of these rude, but mischievous
and exciting lyrics. The air is beautiful, and of a lively
character; and will be found in
Popular Music. There is a
prevalent idea that the song is not the production of an ordinary
ballad-writer, but was written about the middle of the last century
by a gentleman of rank and education, who, detesting the English
game-laws, adopted a too successful mode of inspiring the peasantry
with a love of poaching. The song finds locality in the village of
Thornehagh, in the hundred of Newark. The common, or Moor-fields,
was inclosed about 1797, and is now no longer called by the ancient
designation. It contains eight hundred acres. The manor of
Thornehagh is the property of the ancient family of Nevile, who
have a residence on the estate.]
- In Thornehagh-Moor woods, in Nottinghamshire,
- Fol de rol, la re, right fol laddie, dee;
- In Robin Hood's bold Nottinghamshire,
- Fol de rol, la re da;
- Three keepers' houses stood three-square,
- And about a mile from each other they were; -
- Their orders were to look after the deer.
- Fol de rol, la re da.
- I went out with my dogs one night, -
- The moon shone clear, and the stars gave light;
- Over hedges and ditches, and steyls
- With my two dogs close at my heels,
- To catch a fine buck in Thornehagh-Moor fields.
- Oh! that night we had bad luck,
- One of my very best dogs was stuck;
- He came to me both breeding and lame, -
- Right sorry was I to see the same, -
- He was not able to follow the game.
- I searched his wounds, and found them slight,
- Some keeper has done this out of spite;
- But I'll take my pike-staff, - that's the plan!
- I'll range the woods till I find the man,
- And I'll tan his hide right well, - if I can!
- I ranged the woods and groves all night,
- I ranged the woods till it proved daylight;
- The very first thing that then I found,
- Was a good fat buck that lay dead on the ground;
- I knew my dogs gave him his death-wound.
- I hired a butcher to skin the game,
- Likewise another to sell the same;
- The very first buck he offered for sale,
- Was to an old [hag] that sold bad ale,
- And she sent us three poor lads to gaol.
- The quarter sessions we soon espied,
- At which we all were for to be tried;
- The Chairman laughed the matter to scorn,
- He said the old woman was all forsworn,
- And unto pieces she ought to be torn.
- The sessions are over, and we are clear!
- The sessions are over, and we sit here,
- Singing fol de rol, la re da!
- The very best game I ever did see,
- Is a buck or a deer, but a deer for me!
- In Thornehagh-Moor woods this night we'll be!
- Fol de rol, la re da!
[This song is a mere adaptation of
Smoking Spiritualized.
The earliest copy of the abridgment we have been able to
meet with, is published in D'Urfey's Pills to Purge Melancholy,
1719; but whether we are indebted for it to the author of the
original poem, or to 'that bright genius, Tom D'Urfey,' as Burns
calls him, we are not able to determine. The song has always been
popular. The tune is in Popular Music.]
- Tobacco's but an Indian weed,
- Grows green in the morn, cut down at eve;
- It shows our decay,
- We are but clay;
- Think of this when you smoke tobacco!
- The pipe that is so lily white,
- Wherein so many take delight,
- It's broken with a touch, -
- Man's life is such;
- Think of this when you take tobacco!
- The pipe that is so foul within,
- It shows man's soul is stained with sin;
- It doth require
- To be purged with fire;
- Think of this when you smoke tobacco!
- The dust that from the pipe doth fall,
- It shows we are nothing but dust at all;
- For we came from the dust,
- And return we must;
- Think of this when you smoke tobacco!
- The ashes that are left behind,
- Do serve to put us all in mind
- That unto dust
- Return we must;
- Think of this when you take tobacco!
- The smoke that does so high ascend,
- Shows that man's life must have an end;
- The vapour's gone, -
- Man's life is done;
- Think of this when you take tobacco!
An ould Border dittie. (Traditional.)
[The following song was taken down from recitation in 1847. Of its
history nothing is known; but we are strongly inclined to believe
that it may be assigned to the early part of the seventeenth
century, and that it relates to the visit of Prince Charles and
Buckingham, under the assumed names of Jack and Tom, to Spain, in
1623. Some curious references to the adventures of the Prince and
his companion, on their masquerading tour, will be found in
Halliwell's Letters of the Kings of England, vol. ii.]
- I'm a north countrie-man, in Redesdale born,
- Where our land lies lea, and grows ne corn, -
- And such two lads to my house never com,
- As them two lads called Jack and Tom!
- Now, Jack and Tom, they're going to the sea;
- I wish them both in good companie!
- They're going to seek their fortunes ayont the wide sea,
- Far, far away frae their oan countrie!
- They mounted their horses, and rode over the moor,
- Till they came to a house, when they rapped at the door;
- And out came Jockey, the hostler-man.
- 'D'ye brew ony ale? D'ye sell ony beer?
- Or have ye ony lodgings for strangers here?'
- 'Ne, we brew ne ale, nor we sell ne beer,
- Nor we have ne lodgings for strangers here.'
- So he bolted the door, and bade them begone,
- For there was ne lodgings there for poor Jack and Tom.
- They mounted their horses, and rode over the plain; -
- Dark was the night, and down fell the rain;
- Till a twinkling light they happened to spy,
- And a castle and a house they were close by.
- They rode up to the house, and they rapped at the door,
- And out came Jockey, the hosteler.
- 'D'ye brew ony ale? D'ye sell ony beer?
- Or have ye ony lodgings for strangers here?'
- 'Yes, we have brewed ale this fifty lang year,
- And we have got lodgings for strangers here.'
- So the roast to the fire, and the pot hung on,
- 'Twas all to accommodate poor Jack and Tom.
- When supper was over, and all was sided down,
- The glasses of wine did go merrily roun'.
- 'Here is to thee, Jack, and here is to thee,
- And all the bonny lasses in our countrie!'
- 'Here is to thee, Tom, and here is to thee,
- And look they may leuk for thee and me!'
- 'Twas early next morning, before the break of day,
- They mounted their horses, and so they rode away.
- Poor Jack, he died upon a far foreign shore,
- And Tom, he was never, never heard of more!
Am Ancient Cornish Song.
[This song, said to be translated from the Cornish, 'was taken
down,' says Mr. Sandys, 'from the recital of a modern Corypheus, or
leader of a parish choir,' who assigned to it a very remote, but
indefinite, antiquity.]
- As Tom was a-walking one fine summer's morn,
- When the dazies and goldcups the fields did adorn;
- He met Cozen Mal, with a tub on her head,
- Says Tom, 'Cozen Mal, you might speak if you we'd.'
- But Mal stamped along, and appeared to be shy,
- And Tom singed out, 'Zounds! I'll knaw of thee why?'
- So back he tore a'ter, in a terrible fuss,
- And axed cozen Mal, 'What's the reason of thus?'
- 'Tom Treloar,' cried out Mal, 'I'll nothing do wi' 'ee,
- Go to Fanny Trembaa, she do knaw how I'm shy;
- Tom, this here t'other daa, down the hill thee didst stap,
- And dab'd a great doat fig in Fan Trembaa's lap.'
- 'As for Fanny Trembaa, I ne'er taalked wi' her twice,
- And gived her a doat fig, they are so very nice;
- So I'll tell thee, I went to the fear t'other day,
- And the doat figs I boft, why I saved them away.'
- Says Mal, 'Tom Treloar, ef that be the caase,
- May the Lord bless for ever that sweet pretty faace;
- Ef thee'st give me thy doat figs thee'st boft in the fear,
- I'll swear to thee now, thee shu'st marry me here.'
[The common copies of this old highwayman's song are very corrupt.
We are indebted for the following version, which contains several
emendations, to Mr. W. H. Ainsworth. The song, which may probably
be referred to the age of Charles II., is a spirited specimen of
its class.]
- I can sport as fine a trotting horse as any swell in town,
- To trot you fourteen miles an hour, I'll bet you fifty crown;
- He is such a one to bend his knees, and tuck his haunches in,
- And throw the dust in people's face, and think it not a sin.
- For to ride away, trot away,
- Ri, fa lar, la, &c.
- He has an eye like any hawk, a neck like any swan,
- A foot light as the stag's, the while his back is scarce a span;
- Kind Nature hath so formed him, he is everything that's good, -
- Aye! everything a man could wish, in bottom, bone, and blood.
- For to ride away, &c.
- If you drop therein, he'll nod his head, and boldly walk away,
- While others kick and bounce about, to him it's only play;
- There never was a finer horse e'er went on English ground,
- He is rising six years old, and is all over right and sound.
- For to ride away, &c.
- If any frisk or milling match should call me out of town,
- I can pass the blades with white cockades, their whiskers hanging down;
- With large jack-towels round their necks, they think they're first and fast,
- But, with their gapers open wide, they find that they are last.
- Whilst I ride away, &c.
- If threescore miles I am from home, I darkness never mind,
- My friend is gone, and I am left, with pipe and pot behind;
- Up comes some saucy kiddy, a scampsman on the hot,
- But ere he pulls the trigger I am off just like a shot.
- For I ride away, &c.
- If Fortune e'er should fickle be, and wish to have again
- That which she so freely gave, I'd give it without pain;
- I would part with it most freely, and without the least remorse,
- Only grant to me what God hath gave, my mistress and my horse!
- That I may ride away, &c.
[The common editions of this popular song inform us that it is
taken 'from an Old Ballad,' alluding probably to the dialogue given
at page 44. This song is quoted by Farquhar.]
- A Country life is sweet!
- In moderate cold and heat,
- To walk in the air, how pleasant and fair!
- In every field of wheat,
- The fairest of flowers adorning the bowers,
- And every meadow's brow;
- To that I say, no courtier may
- Compare with they who clothe in grey,
- And follow the useful plow.
- They rise with the morning lark,
- And labour till almost dark;
- Then folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep;
- While every pleasant park
- Next morning is ringing with birds that are singing,
- On each green, tender bough.
- With what content, and merriment,
- Their days are spent, whose minds are bent
- To follow the useful plow.
- The gallant that dresses fine,
- And drinks his bottles of wine,
- Were he to be tried, his feathers of pride,
- Which deck and adorn his back,
- Are tailors' and mercers', and other men dressers,
- For which they do dun them now.
- But Ralph and Will no compters fill
- For tailor's bill, or garments still,
- But follow the useful plow.
- Their hundreds, without remorse,
- Some spend to keep dogs and horse,
- Who never would give, as long as they live,
- Not two-pence to help the poor;
- Their wives are neglected, and harlots respected;
- This grieves the nation now;
- But 'tis not so with us that go
- Where pleasures flow, to reap and mow,
- And follow the useful plow.
[The following verses were copied by John Clare, the
Northamptonshire peasant, from a ms. on the fly-leaves of an old
book in the possession of a poor man, entitled The World's Best
Wealth: A Collection of Choice Councils in Verse and Prose.
Printed for A. Bettesworth, at the Red Lion in Paternoster-Row.
1720. They were written in a 'crabbed, quaint hand, and difficult
to decipher.' Clare remitted the poem (along with the original
ms.) to Montgomery, the author of The World Before the Flood, &c.
&c., by whom it was published in the Sheffield Iris. Montgomery's
criticism is as follows:- 'Long as the poem appears to the eye, it
will abundantly repay the trouble of perusal, being full of
condensed and admirable thought, as well as diversified with
exuberant imagery, and embellished with peculiar felicity of
language: the moral points in the closing couplets of the stanzas
are often powerfully enforced.' Most readers will agree in the
justice of these remarks. The poem was, probably, as Clare
supposes, written about the commencement of the 18th century; and
the unknown author appears to have been deeply imbued with the
spirit of the popular devotional writers of the preceding century,
as Herbert, Quarles, &c., but seems to have modelled his smoother
and more elegant versification after that of the poetic school of
his own times.]
'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.' - Solomon.
- What are life's joys and gains?
- What pleasures crowd its ways,
- That man should take such pains
- To seek them all his days?
- Sift this untoward strife
- On which thy mind is bent,
- See if this chaff of life
- Is worth the trouble spent.
- Is pride thy heart's desire?
- Is power thy climbing aim?
- Is love thy folly's fire?
- Is wealth thy restless game?
- Pride, power, love, wealth and all,
- Time's touchstone shall destroy,
- And, like base coin, prove all
- Vain substitutes for joy.
- Dost think that pride exalts
- Thyself in other's eyes,
- And hides thy folly's faults,
- Which reason will despise?
- Dost strut, and turn, and stride,
- Like walking weathercocks?
- The shadow by thy side
- Becomes thy ape, and mocks.
- Dost think that power's disguise
- Can make thee mighty seem?
- It may in folly's eyes,
- But not in worth's esteem:
- When all that thou canst ask,
- And all that she can give,
- Is but a paltry mask
- Which tyants wear and live.
- Go, let thy fancies range
- And ramble where they may;
- View power in every change,
- And what is the display?
- - The country magistrate,
- The lowest shade in power,
- To rulers of the state,
- The meteors of an hour: -
- View all, and mark the end
- Of every proud extreme,
- Where flattery turns a friend,
- And counterfeits esteem;
- Where worth is aped in show,
- That doth her name purloin,
- Like toys of golden glow
- That's sold for copper coin.
- Ambition's haughty nod,
- With fancies may deceive,
- Nay, tell thee thou'rt a god, -
- And wilt thou such believe?
- Go, bid the seas be dry,
- Go, hold earth like a ball,
- Or throw her fancies by,
- For God can do it all.
- Dost thou possess the dower
- Of laws to spare or kill?
- Call it not heav'nly power
- When but a tyrant's will;
- Know what a God will do,
- And know thyself a fool,
- Nor tyrant-like pursue
- Where He alone should rule.
- Dost think, when wealth is won,
- Thy heart has its desire?
- Hold ice up to the sun,
- And wax before the fire;
- Nor triumph o'er the reign
- Which they so soon resign;
- In this world weigh the gain,
- Insurance safe is thine.
- Dost think life's peace secure
- In houses and in land?
- Go, read the fairy lure
- To twist a cord of sand;
- Lodge stones upon the sky,
- Hold water in a sieve,
- Nor give such tales the lie,
- And still thine own believe.
- Whoso with riches deals,
- And thinks peace bought and sold,
- Will find them slippery eels,
- That slide the firmest hold:
- Though sweet as sleep with health,
- Thy lulling luck may be,
- Pride may o'erstride thy wealth,
- And check prosperity.
- Dost think that beauty's power,
- Life's sweetest pleasure gives?
- Go, pluck the summer flower,
- And see how long it lives:
- Behold, the rays glide on,
- Along the summer plain,
- Ere thou canst say, they're gone, -
- And measure beauty's reign.
- Look on the brightest eye,
- Nor teach it to be proud,
- But view the clearest sky
- And thou shalt find a cloud;
- Nor call each face ye meet
- An angel's, 'cause it's fair,
- But look beneath your feet,
- And think of what ye are.
- Who thinks that love doth live
- In beauty's tempting show,
- Shall find his hopes ungive,
- And melt in reason's thaw;
- Who thinks that pleasure lies
- In every fairy bower,
- Shall oft, to his surprise,
- Find poison in the flower.
- Dost lawless pleasures grasp?
- Judge not thou deal'st in joy;
- Its flowers but hide the asp,
- Thy revels to destroy:
- Who trusts a harlot's smile,
- And by her wiles is led,
- Plays with a sword the while,
- Hung dropping o'er his head.
- Dost doubt my warning song?
- Then doubt the sun gives light,
- Doubt truth to teach thee wrong,
- And wrong alone as right;
- And live as lives the knave,
- Intrigue's deceiving guest,
- Be tyrant, or be slave,
- As suits thy ends the best.
- Or pause amid thy toils,
- For visions won and lost,
- And count the fancied spoils,
- If e'er they quit the cost;
- And if they still possess
- Thy mind, as worthy things,
- Pick straws with Bedlam Bess,
- And call them diamond rings.
- Thy folly's past advice,
- Thy heart's already won,
- Thy fall's above all price,
- So go, and be undone;
- For all who thus prefer
- The seeming great for small,
- Shall make wine vinegar,
- And sweetest honey gall.
- Wouldst heed the truths I sing,
- To profit wherewithal,
- Clip folly's wanton wing,
- And keep her within call:
- I've little else to give,
- What thou canst easy try,
- The lesson how to live,
- Is but to learn to die.
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Ancient Poems, Ballads and Songs