Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England Part 23

'We bear the corpse of Giles Collins, An old and true lover of yours.'

'O, lay him down gently, ye six men tall, All on the gra.s.s so green, And to-morrow when the sun goes down, Lady Alice a corpse shall be seen.

'And bury me in Saint Mary's Church, All for my love so true; And make me a garland of marjoram, And of lemon thyme, and rue.'

Giles Collins was buried all in the east, Lady Alice all in the west; And the roses that grew on Giles Collins's grave, They reached Lady Alice's breast.

The priest of the parish he chanced to pa.s.s, And he severed those roses in twain.

Sure never were seen such true lovers before, Nor e'er will there be again.

Ballad: THE FELON SEWE OF ROKEBY AND THE FREERES OF RICHMOND.

[This very curious ballad, or, more properly, metrical romance, was originally published by the late Doctor Whitaker in his History of Craven, from an ancient MS., which was supposed to be unique.

Whitaker's version was transferred to Evan's Old Ballads, the editor of which work introduced some judicious conjectural emendations. In reference to this republication, Dr. Whitaker inserted the following note in the second edition of his History:-

This tale, saith my MS., was known of old to a few families only, and by them held so precious, that it was never intrusted to the memory of the son till the father was on his death-bed. But times are altered, for since the first edition of this work, a certain bookseller [the late Mr. Evans] has printed it verbatim, with little acknowledgment to the first editor. He might have recollected that The Felon Sewe had been already reclaimed PROPERTY VESTED. However, as he is an ingenious and deserving man, this hint shall suffice.--History of Craven, second edition, London, 1812.

When Sir Walter Scott published his poem of Rokeby, Doctor Whitaker discovered that The Felon Sewe was not of such 'exceeding rarity'

as he had been led to suppose; for he was then made acquainted with the fact that another MS. of the 'unique' ballad was preserved in the archives of the Rokeby family. This version was published by Scott, who considered it superior to that printed by Whitaker; and it must undoubtedly be admitted to be more complete, and, in general, more correct. It has also the advantage of being authenticated by the traditions of an ardent family; while of Dr.

Whitaker's version we know nothing more than that it was 'printed from a MS. in his possession.' The readings of the Rokeby MS., however, are not always to be preferred; and in order to produce as full and accurate a version as the materials would yield, the following text has been founded upon a careful collation of both MSS. A few alterations have been adopted, but only when the necessity for them appeared to be self-evident; and the orthography has been rendered tolerably uniform, for there is no good reason why we should have 'sewe,' 'scho,' and 'sike,' in some places, and the more modern forms of 'sow,' 'she,' and 'such,' in others. If the MSS. were correctly transcribed, which we have no ground for doubting, they must both be referred to a much later period than the era when the author flourished. The language of the poem is that of Craven, in Yorks.h.i.+re; and, although the composition is acknowledged on all hands to be one of the reign of Henry VII., the provincialisms of that most interesting mountain district have been so little affected by the spread of education, that the Felon Sewe is at the present day perfectly comprehensible to any Craven peasant, and to such a reader neither note nor glossary is necessary. Dr. Whitaker's explanations are, therefore, few and brief, for he was thoroughly acquainted with the language and the district. Scott, on the contrary, who knew nothing of the dialect, and confounded its pure Saxon with his Lowland Scotch, gives numerous notes, which only display his want of the requisite local knowledge, and are, consequently, calculated to mislead.

The Felon Sewe belongs to the same cla.s.s of compositions as the Hunting of the Hare, reprinted by Weber, and the Tournament of Tottenham, in Percy's Reliques. Scott says that 'the comic romance was a sort of parody upon the usual subjects of minstrel poetry.'

This idea may be extended, for the old comic romances were in many instances not merely 'sorts of parodies,' but real parodies on compositions which were popular in their day, although they have not descended to us. We certainly remember to have met with an old chivalric romance, in which the leading incidents were similar to those of the Felon Sewe.

It may be observed, also, in reference to this poem, that the design is twofold, the ridicule being equally aimed at the minstrels and the clergy. The author was in all probability a follower of Wickliffe. There are many sly satirical allusions to the Romish faith and practices, in which no orthodox Catholic would have ventured to indulge.

Ralph Rokeby, who gave the sow to the Franciscan Friars of Richmond, is believed to have been the Ralph who lived in the reign of Henry VII. Tradition represents the Baron as having been 'a fellow of infinite jest,' and the very man to bestow so valuable a gift on the convent! The Mistress Rokeby of the ballad was, according to the pedigree of the family, a daughter and heiress of Danby, of Yafforth. Friar Theobald cannot be traced, and therefore we may suppose that the monk had some other name; the minstrel author, albeit a Wickliffite, not thinking it quite prudent, perhaps, to introduce a priest in propria persona. The story is told with spirit, and the verse is graceful and flowing.]

FITTE THE FIRSTE.

Ye men that will of aunters wynne, That late within this lande hath bin, Of on I will yow telle; And of a sewe that was sea strang, Alas! that ever scho lived sea lang, For fell folk did scho wele. {13}

Scho was mare than other three, The grizeliest beast that ere mote bee Her hede was greate and graye; Scho was bred in Rokebye woode, Ther war few that thither yoode, {14} But cam belive awaye.

Her walke was endlang Greta syde, Was no barne that colde her byde, That was fra heven or h.e.l.le; {15} Ne never man that had that myght, That ever durst com in her syght, Her force it was sea felle.

Raphe {16} of Rokebye, with full G.o.de wyll, The freers of Richmonde gav her tyll, Full wele to gar thayme fare; Freer Myddeltone by name, Hee was sent to fetch her hame, Yt rewed him syne full sare.

Wyth hym tooke hee wyght men two, Peter of Dale was on of tho, Tother was Bryan of Beare; {17} Thatte wele durst strike wyth swerde and knife, And fyght full manlie for theyr lyfe, What tyme as musters were. {18}

These three men wended at theyr wyll, This wickede sewe gwhyl they cam tyll, Liggand under a tree; Rugg'd and rustic was her here, Scho rase up wyth a felon fere, {19} To fyght agen the three.

Grizely was scho for to meete, Scho rave the earthe up wyth her feete, The barke cam fra' the tree: When Freer Myddeltone her saugh, Wete yow wele hee list not laugh, Full earnestful luik'd hee.

These men of auncestors {20} were so wight, They bound them bauldly for to fyght, And strake at her full sare; Until a kilne they garred her flee, Wolde G.o.d sende thayme the victorye, They wolde aske hym na maire.

The sewe was in the kilne hoile doone, And they wer on the bawke aboone, For hurting of theyr feete; They wer sea sauted {21} wyth this sewe, That 'mang thayme was a stalwarth stewe, The kilne began to reeke!

Durst noe man nighe her wyth his hande, But put a rape downe wyth a wande, And heltered her ful meete; They hauled her furth agen her wyll, Qunyl they cam until a hille, A little fra the streete. {22}

And ther scho made thayme sike a fray, As, had they lived until Domesday, They colde yt nere forgette: Scho brayded upon every syde, And ranne on thayme gapyng ful wyde, For nathing wolde scho lette.

Scho gaf sike hard braydes at the bande That Peter of Dale had in his hande, Hee myght not holde hys feete; Scho chased thayme sea to and fro, The wight men never wer sea woe, Ther mesure was not mete.

Scho bound her boldly to abide, To Peter of Dale scho cam aside, Wyth mony a hideous yelle; Scho gaped sea wide and cryed sea hee, The freer sayd, 'I conjure thee, Thou art a fiend of h.e.l.le!

'Thou art comed hider for sum trayne, I conjure thee to go agayne, Wher thou was wont to dwell.'

He sained hym wyth crosse and creede, Tooke furth a booke, began to reade, In Ste Johan hys gospell.

The sewe scho wolde not Latyne heare, But rudely rushed at the freer, That blynked all his blee; {23} And when scho wolde have takken holde, The freer leapt as I. H. S. wolde, {24} And bealed hym wyth a tree.

Scho was brim as anie beare, For all their meete to laboure there, To thayme yt was noe boote; On tree and bushe that by her stode, Scho venged her as scho wer woode, And rave thayme up by roote.

Hee sayd, 'Alas that I wer freer, I shal bee hugged asunder here, Hard is my destinie!

Wiste my brederen, in this houre, That I was set in sike a stoure, They wolde pray for mee!'

This wicked beaste thatte wrought the woe, Tooke that rape from the other two, And than they fledd all three; They fledd away by Watling streete, They had no succour but their feete, Yt was the maire pittye.

The fielde it was both loste and wonne, The sewe wente hame, and thatte ful soone, To Morton-on-the-Greene.

When Raphe of Rokeby saw the rape, He wist that there had bin debate, Whereat the sewe had beene.

He bade thayme stand out of her waye, For scho had had a sudden fraye, - 'I saw never sewe sea keene, Some new thingis shall wee heare, Of her and Myddeltone the freer, Some battel hath ther beene.'

But all that served him for nought, - Had they not better succour sought, {25} They wer served therfore loe.

Then Mistress Rokebye came anon, And for her brought scho meete ful soone, The sewe cam her untoe.

Scho gav her meete upon the flower; [Scho made a bed beneath a bower, With moss and broom besprent; The sewe was gentle as mote be, Ne rage ne ire flashed fra her e'e, Scho seemed wele content.]

FITTE THE SECONDE.

When Freer Myddeltone com home, Hys breders war ful faine ilchone, And thanked G.o.d for hys lyfe; He told thayme all unto the ende, How hee had foughten wyth a fiende, And lived thro' mickle stryfe.

'Wee gav her battel half a daye, And was faine to flee awaye For saving of oure lyfe; And Peter Dale wolde never blin, But ran as faste as he colde rinn, Till he cam till hys wyfe.'

The Warden sayde, 'I am ful woe That yow sholde bee torment soe, But wee had wyth yow beene!

Had wee bene ther, yowr breders alle, Wee wolde hav garred the warlo {26} falle, That wrought yow all thys teene.'

Freer Myddeltone, he sayde soon, 'Naye, In faythe ye wolde hav ren awaye, When moste misstirre had bin; Ye all can speke safte wordes at home, The fiend wolde ding yow doone ilk on, An yt bee als I wene,

Hee luik'd sea grizely al that nyght.'

The Warden sayde, 'Yon man wol fyght If ye saye ought but G.o.de, Yon guest {27} hath grieved hym sea sore; Holde your tongues, and speake ne more, Hee luiks als hee wer woode.'