The Milking-Pail

Ye nymphs and sylvan gods,

That love green fields and woods,

When spring newly-born herself does adorn,

With flowers and blooming buds:

Come sing in the praise, while flocks do graze,

On yonder pleasant vale,

Of those that choose to milk their ewes,

And in cold dews, with clouted shoes,

To carry the milking-pail.

You goddess of the morn,

With blushes you adorn,

And take the fresh air, whilst linnets prepare

A concert on each green thorn;

The blackbird and thrush on every bush,

And the charming nightingale,

In merry vein, their throats do strain

To entertain, the jolly train

Of those of the milking-pail.

When cold bleak winds do roar,

And flowers will spring no more,

The fields that were seen so pleasant and green,

With winter all candied o'er,

See now the town lass, with her white face,

And her lips so deadly pale;

But it is not so, with those that go

Through frost and snow, with cheeks that glow,

And carry the milking-pail.

The country lad is free

From fears and jealousy,

Whilst upon the green he oft is seen,

With his lass upon his knee.

With kisses most sweet he doth her so treat,

And swears her charms won't fail;

But the London lass, in every place,

With brazen face, despises the grace

Of those of the milking-pail.

The Miller and His Sons

There was a crafty miller, and he

Had lusty sons, one, two, and three:

He called them all, and asked their will,

If that to them he left his mill.

He called first to his eldest son,

Saying, 'My life is almost run;

If I to you this mill do make,

What toll do you intend to take?'

'Father,' said he, 'my name is Jack;

Out of a bushel I'll take a peck,

From every bushel that I grind,

That I may a good living find.'

'Thou art a fool!' the old man said,

'Thou hast not well learned thy trade;

This mill to thee I ne'er will give,

For by such toll no man can live.'

He called for his middlemost son,

Saying, 'My life is almost run;

If I to you this mill do make,

What toll do you intend to take?'

'Father,' says he, 'my name is Ralph;

Out of a bushel I'll take a half,

From every bushel that I grind,

That I may a good living find.'

'Thou art a fool!' the old man said,

'Thou hast not well learned thy trade;

This mill to thee I ne'er will give,

For by such toll no man can live.'

He called for his youngest son,

Saying, 'My life is almost run;

If I to you this mill do make,

What toll do you intend to take?'

'Father,' said he, 'I'm your only boy,

For taking toll is all my joy!

Before I will a good living lack,

I'll take it all, and forswear the sack!'

'Thou art my boy!' the old man said,

'For thou hast right well learned thy trade;

This mill to thee I give,' he cried, -

And then he turned up his toes and died.

The Messenger of Mortality; or Life and Death Contrasted in a Dialogue Betwixt Death and a Lady

Death.

Fair lady, lay your costly robes aside,

No longer may you glory in your pride;

Take leave of all your carnal vain delight,

I'm come to summon you away this night!

Lady.

What bold attempt is this? pray let me know

From whence you come, and whither I must go?

Must I, who am a lady, stoop or bow

To such a pale-faced visage? Who art thou?

Death.

Do you not know me? well! I tell thee, then,

It's I that conquer all the sons of men!

No pitch of honour from my dart is free;

My name is Death! have you not heard of me?

Lady.

Yes! I have heard of thee time after time,

But being in the glory of my prime,

I did not think you would have called so soon.

Why must my morning sun go down at noon?

Death.

Talk not of noon! you may as well be mute;

This is no time at all for to dispute:

Your riches, garments, gold, and jewels brave,

Houses and lands must all new owners have;

Though thy vain heart to riches was inclined,

Yet thou must die and leave them all behind.

Lady.

My heart is cold; I tremble at the news;

There's bags of gold, if thou wilt me excuse,

And seize on them, and finish thou the strife

Of those that are aweary of their life.

Are there not many bound in prison strong,

In bitter grief of soul have languished long,

Who could but find the grave a place of rest,

From all the grief in which they are oppressed?

Besides, there's many with a hoary head,

And palsy joints, by which their joys are fled;

Release thou them whose sorrows are so great,

But spare my life to have a longer date.

Death.

Though some by age be full of grief and pain,

Yet their appointed time they must remain:

I come to none before their warrant's sealed,

And when it is, they must submit and yield.

I take no bribe, believe me, this is true;

Prepare yourself to go; I'm come for you.

Lady.

Death, be not so severe, let me obtain

A little longer time to live and reign!

Fain would I stay if thou my life will spare;

I have a daughter beautiful and fair,

I'd live to see her wed whom I adore:

Grant me but this and I will ask no more.

Death.

This is a slender frivolous excuse;

I have you fast, and will not let you loose;

Leave her to Providence, for you must go

Along with me, whether you will or no;

I, Death, command the King to leave his crown,

And at my feet he lays his sceptre down!

Then if to kings I don't this favour give,

But cut them off, can you expect to live

Beyond the limits of your time and space!

No! I must send you to another place.

Lady.

You learned doctors, now express your skill,

And let not Death of me obtain his will;

Prepare your cordials, let me comfort find,

My gold shall fly like chaff before the wind.

Death.

Forbear to call, their skill will never do,

They are but mortals here as well as you:

I give the fatal wound, my dart is sure,

And far beyond the doctor's skill to cure.

How freely can you let your riches fly

To purchase life, rather than yield to die!

But while you flourish here with all your store,

You will not give one penny to the poor;

Though in God's name their suit to you they make,

You would not spare one penny for His sake!

The Lord beheld wherein you did amiss,

And calls you hence to give account for this!

Lady.

Oh! heavy news! must I no longer stay?

How shall I stand in the great judgment-day?

(Down from her eyes the crystal tears did flow:

She said), None knows what I do undergo:

Upon my bed of sorrow here I lie;

My carnal life makes me afraid to die.

My sins, alas! are many, gross and foul,

Oh, righteous Lord! have mercy on my soul!

And though I do deserve thy righteous frown,

Yet pardon, Lord, and pour a blessing down.

(Then with a dying sigh her heart did break,

And did the pleasures of this world forsake.)

Thus may we see the high and mighty fall,

For cruel Death shows no respect at all

To any one of high or low degree

Great men submit to Death as well as we.

Though they are gay, their life is but a span -

A lump of clay - so vile a creature's man.

Then happy those whom Christ has made his care,

Who die in the Lord, and ever blessed are.

The grave's the market-place where all men meet,

Both rich and poor, as well as small and great.

If life were merchandise that gold could buy,

The rich would live, the poor alone would die.

Mummers' Song; or, The Poor Old Horse.

[The rustic actor who sings the following song is dressed as an old horse, and at the end of every verse the jaws are snapped in chorus. It is a very old composition, and is now printed for the first time. The 'old horse' is, probably, of Scandinavian origin, - a reminiscence of Odin's Sleipnor.]

You gentlemen and sportsmen,

And men of courage bold,

All you that's got a good horse,

Take care of him when he is old;

Then put him in your stable,

And keep him there so warm;

Give him good corn and hay,

Pray let him take no harm.

Poor old horse! poor old horse!

Once I had my clothing

Of linsey-woolsey fine,

My tail and mane of length,

And my body it did shine;

But now I'm growing old,

And my nature does decay,

My master frowns upon me,

These words I heard him say, -

Poor old horse! poor old horse!

These pretty little shoulders,

That once were plump and round,

They are decayed and rotten, -

I'm afraid they are not sound.

Likewise these little nimble legs,

That have run many miles,

Over hedges, over ditches,

Over valleys, gates, and stiles.

Poor old horse! poor old horse!

I used to be kept

On the best corn and hay

That in fields could be grown,

Or in any meadows gay;

But now, alas! it's not so, -

There's no such food at all!

I'm forced to nip the short grass

That grows beneath your wall.

Poor old horse! poor old horse!

I used to be kept up

All in a stable warm,

To keep my tender body

From any cold or harm;

But now I'm turned out

In the open fields to go,

To face all kinds of weather,

The wind, cold, frost, and snow.

Poor old horse! poor old horse!

My hide unto the huntsman

So freely I would give,

My body to the hounds,

For I'd rather die than live:

So shoot him, whip him, strip him,

To the huntsman let him go;

For he's neither fit to ride upon,

Nor in any team to draw.

Poor old horse! you must die!

The New-Mown Hay

As I walked forth one summer's morn,

Hard by a river's side,

Where yellow cowslips did adorn

The blushing field with pride;

I spied a damsel on the grass,

More blooming than the may;

Her looks the Queen of Love surpassed,

Among the new-mown hay.

I said, 'Good morning, pretty maid,

How came you here so soon?'

'To keep my father's sheep,' she said,

'The thing that must be done:

While they are feeding 'mong the dew,

To pass the time away,

I sit me down to knit or sew,

Among the new-mown hay.'

Delighted with her simple tale,

I sat down by her side;

With vows of love I did prevail

On her to be my bride:

In strains of simple melody,

She sung a rural lay;

The little lambs stood listening by,

Among the new-mown hay.

Then to the church they went with speed,

And Hymen joined them there;

No more her ewes and lambs to feed,

For she's a lady fair:

A lord he was that married her,

To town they came straightway:

She may bless the day he spied her there,

Among the new-mown hay.

The Sweet Nightingale; or, Down in Those Valleys Below

[This curious ditty, which may be confidently assigned to the seventeenth century, is said to be a translation from the ancient Cornish tongue. We first heard it in Germany, in the pleasure- gardens of the Marienberg, on the Moselle. The singers were four Cornish miners, who were at that time, 1854, employed at some lead mines near the town of Zell. The leader or 'Captain,' John Stocker, said that the song was an established favourite with the lead miners of Cornwall and Devonshire, and was always sung on the pay-days, and at the wakes; and that his grandfather, who died thirty years before, at the age of a hundred years, used to sing the song, and say that it was very old. Stocker promised to make a copy of it, but there was no opportunity of procuring it before we left Germany. The following version has been supplied by a gentleman in Plymouth, who writes:-

I have had a great deal of trouble about The Valley Below. It is not in print. I first met with one person who knew one part, then with another person who knew another part, but nobody could sing the whole. At last, chance directed me to an old man at work on the roads, and he sung and recited it throughout, not exactly, however, as I send it, for I was obliged to supply a little here and there, but only where a bad rhyme, or rather none at all, made it evident what the real rhyme was. I have read it over to a mining gentleman at Truro, and he says 'It is pretty near the way we sing it.'

'My sweetheart, come along!

Don't you hear the fond song,

The sweet notes of the nightingale flow?

Don't you hear the fond tale

Of the sweet nightingale,

As she sings in those valleys below?

So be not afraid

To walk in the shade,

Nor yet in those valleys below,

Nor yet in those valleys below.

'Pretty Betsy, don't fail,

For I'll carry your pail,

Safe home to your cot as we go;

You shall hear the fond tale

Of the sweet nightingale,

As she sings in those valleys below.'

But she was afraid

To walk in the shade,

To walk in those valleys below,

To walk in those valleys below.

'Pray let me alone,

I have hands of my own;

Along with you I will not go,

To hear the fond tale

Of the sweet nightingale,

As she sings in those valleys below;

For I am afraid

To walk in the shade,

To walk in those valleys below,

To walk in those valleys below.'

'Pray sit yourself down

With me on the ground,

On this bank where sweet primroses grow;

You shall hear the fond tale

Of the sweet nightingale,

As she sings in those valleys below;

So be not afraid

To walk in the shade,

Nor yet in those valleys below,

Nor yet in those valleys below.'

This couple agreed;

They were married with speed,

And soon to the church they did go.

She was no more afraid

For to walk in the shade,

Nor yet in those valleys below:

Nor to hear the fond tale

Of the sweet nightingale,

As she sung in those valleys below,

As she sung in those valleys below.

The Nobleman's Generous Kindness

To the tune of The Two English Travellers.

[This still popular ballad is entitled in the modern copies, The Nobleman and Thraster; or, The Generous Gift. There is a copy preserved in the Roxburgh Collection, with which our version has been collated. It is taken from a broadside printed by Robert Marchbank, in the Custom-house Entry, Newcastle.]

A Nobleman lived in a village of late,

Hard by a poor thrasher, whose charge it was great;

For he had seven children, and most of them small,

And nought but his labour to support them withal.

He never was given to idle and lurk,

For this nobleman saw him go daily to work,

With his flail and his bag, and his bottle of beer,

As cheerful as those that have hundreds a year.

Thus careful, and constant, each morning he went,

Unto his daily labour with joy and content;

So jocular and jolly he'd whistle and sing,

As blithe and as brisk as the birds in the spring.

One morning, this nobleman taking a walk,

He met this poor man, and he freely did talk;

He asked him [at first] many questions at large,

And then began talking concerning his charge.

'Thou hast many children, I very well know,

Thy labour is hard, and thy wages are low,

And yet thou art cheerful; I pray tell me true,

How can you maintain them as well as you do?'

'I carefully carry home what I do earn,

My daily expenses by this I do learn;

And find it is possible, though we be poor,

To still keep the ravenous wolf from the door.

'I reap and I mow, and I harrow and sow,

Sometimes a hedging and ditching I go;

No work comes amiss, for I thrash, and I plough,

Thus my bread I do earn by the sweat of my brow.

'My wife she is willing to pull in a yoke,

We live like two lambs, nor each other provoke;

We both of us strive, like the labouring ant,

And do our endeavours to keep us from want.

'And when I come home from my labour at night,

To my wife and my children, in whom I delight;

To see them come round me with prattling noise, -

Now these are the riches a poor man enjoys.

'Though I am as weary as weary may be,

The youngest I commonly dance on my knee;

I find that content is a moderate feast,

I never repine at my lot in the least.'

Now the nobleman hearing what he did say,

Was pleased, and invited him home the next day;

His wife and his children he charged him to bring;

In token of favour he gave him a ring.

He thanked his honour, and taking his leave,

He went to his wife, who would hardly believe

But this same story himself he might raise;

Yet seeing the ring she was [lost] in amaze.

Betimes in the morning the good wife she arose,

And made them all fine, in the best of their clothes;

The good man with his good wife, and children small,

They all went to dine at the nobleman's hall.

But when they came there, as truth does report,

All things were prepared in a plentiful sort;

And they at the nobleman's table did dine,

With all kinds of dainties, and plenty of wine.

The feast being over, he soon let them know,

That he then intended on them to bestow

A farm-house, with thirty good acres of land;

And gave them the writings then, with his own hand.

'Because thou art careful, and good to thy wife,

I'll make thy days happy the rest of thy life;

It shall be for ever, for thee and thy heirs,

Because I beheld thy industrious cares.'

No tongue then is able in full to express

The depth of their joy, and true thankfulness;

With many a curtsey, and bow to the ground, -

Such noblemen there are but few to be found.

Old Adam

Both sexes give ear to my fancy,

While in praise of dear woman I sing;

Confined not to Moll, Sue, or Nancy,

But mates from a beggar to king.

When old Adam first was created,

And lord of the universe crowned,

His happiness was not completed,

Until that an helpmate was found.

He'd all things in food that were wanting

To keep and support him through life;

He'd horses and foxes for hunting,

Which some men love better than wife.

He'd a garden so planted by nature,

Man cannot produce in his life;

But yet the all-wise great Creator

Still saw that he wanted a wife.

Then Adam he laid in a slumber,

And there he lost part of his side;

And when he awoke, with a wonder,

Beheld his most beautiful bride!

In transport he gazed upon her,

His happiness now was complete!

He praised his bountiful donor,

Who thus had bestowed him a mate.

She was not took out of his head, sir,

To reign and triumph over man;

Nor was she took out of his feet, sir,

By man to be trampled upon.

But she was took out of his side, sir,

His equal and partner to be;

But as they're united in one, sir,

The man is the top of the tree.

Then let not the fair be despised

By man, as she's part of himself;

For woman by Adam was prized

More than the whole globe full of wealth.

Man without a woman's a beggar,

Suppose the whole world he possessed;

And the beggar that's got a good woman,

With more than the world he is blest.

There Was an Old Man Came Over the Lea

There was an old man came over the Lea,

Ha-ha-ha-ha! but I won't have him.

He came over the Lea,

A-courting to me,

With his grey beard newly-shaven.

My mother she bid me open the door:

I opened the door,

And he fell on the floor.

My mother she bid me set him a stool:

I set him a stool,

And he looked like a fool.

My mother she bid me give him some beer:

I gave him some beer,

And he thought it good cheer.

My mother she bid me cut him some bread:

I cut him some bread,

And I threw't at his head.

My mother she bid me light him to bed.

I lit him to bed,

And wished he were dead.

My mother she bid me tell him to rise:

I told him to rise,

And he opened his eyes.

My mother she bid me take him to church:

I took him to church,

And left him in the lurch;

With his grey beard newly-shaven.

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