Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England Part 24

The Warden waged {28} on the morne, Two boldest men that ever wer borne, I weyne, or ere shall bee: Tone was Gilbert Griffin sonne, Ful mickle wors.h.i.+p hadde hee wonne, Both by land and sea.

Tother a b.a.s.t.a.r.d sonne of Spaine, Mony a Sarazin hadde hee slaine; Hys dint hadde garred thayme dye.

Theis men the battel undertoke Agen the sewe, as saythe the boke, And sealed securitye,

That they shold boldly bide and fyghte, And scomfit her in maine and myghte, Or therfor sholde they dye.

The Warden sealed toe thayme againe, And sayde, 'If ye in fielde be slaine, This condition make I:

'Wee shall for yow praye, syng, and reade, Until Domesdaye wyth heartye speede, With al our progenie.'

Then the lettres wer wele made, The bondes wer bounde wyth seales brade, As deeds of arms sholde bee.

Theise men-at-arms thatte wer sea wight, And wyth theire armour burnished bryght, They went the sewe toe see.

Scho made at thayme sike a roare, That for her they fear it sore, And almaiste bounde to flee.

Scho cam runnyng thayme agayne, And saw the b.a.s.t.a.r.de sonne of Spaine, Hee brayded owt hys brande; Ful spiteouslie at her hee strake, Yet for the fence that he colde make, Scho strake it fro hys hande, And rave asander half hys sheelde, And bare hym backwerde in the fielde, Hee mought not her gainstande.

Scho wolde hav riven hys privich geare, But Gilbert wyth hys swerde of warre, Hee strake at her ful strang.

In her shouther hee held the swerde; Than was Gilbert sore afearde, When the blade brak in tw.a.n.g.

And whan in hande hee had her ta'en, Scho toke hym by the shouther bane, And held her hold ful faste; Scho strave sea stifflie in thatte stoure, Scho byt thro' ale hys rich armoure, Till bloud cam owt at laste.

Than Gilbert grieved was sea sare, That hee rave off the hyde of haire; The flesh cam fra the bane, And wyth force hee held her ther, And wanne her worthilie in warre, And band her hym alane;

And lifte her on a horse sea hee, Into two panyers made of a tree, And toe Richmond anon.

When they sawe the felon come, They sange merrilye Te Deum!

The freers evrich one.

They thankyd G.o.d and Saynte Frauncis, That they had wonne the beaste of pris, And nere a man was sleyne: There never didde man more manlye, The Knyght Marone, or Sir Guye, Nor Louis of Lothraine.

If yow wyl any more of thys, I' the fryarie at Richmond {29} written yt is, In parchment gude and fyne, How Freer Myddeltone sea hende, Att Greta Bridge conjured a fiende, In lykeness of a swyne.

Yt is wel knowen toe manie a man, That Freer Theobald was warden than, And thys fel in hys tyme.

And Chryst thayme bles both ferre and nere, Al that for solas this doe here, And hym that made the ryme.

Raphe of Rokeby wid ful G.o.de wyl, The freers of Richmond gav her tyll, This sewe toe mende ther fare; Freer Myddeltone by name, He wold bring the felon hame, That rewed hym sine ful sare.

Ballad: ARTHUR O'BRADLEY'S WEDDING.

[In the ballad called Robin Hood, his Birth, Breeding, Valour and Marriage, occurs the following line:-

And some singing Arthur-a-Bradley.

Antiquaries are by no means agreed as to what is the song of Arthur-a-Bradley, there alluded to, for it so happens that there are no less than three different songs about this same Arthur-a- Bradley. Ritson gives one of them in his Robin Hood, commencing thus:-

See you not Pierce the piper.

He took it from a black-letter copy in a private collection, compared with, and very much corrected by, a copy contained in An Antidote against Melancholy, made up in pills compounded of witty Ballads, jovial Songs, and merry Catches, 1661. Ritson quotes another, and apparently much more modern song on the same subject, and to the same tune, beginning, -

All in the merry month of May.

It is a miserable composition, as may be seen by referring to a copy preserved in the third volume of the Roxburgh Ballads. There is another song, the one given by us, which appears to be as ancient as any of those of which Arthur O'Bradley is the hero, and from its subject being a wedding, as also from its being the only Arthur O'Bradley song that we have been enabled to trace in broadside and chap-books of the last century, we are induced to believe that it may be the song mentioned in the old ballad, which is supposed to have been written in the reign of Charles I. An obscure music publisher, who about thirty years ago resided in the Metropolis, brought out an edition of Arthur O'Bradley's Wedding, with the prefix 'Written by Mr. Taylor.' This Mr. Taylor was, however, only a low comedian of the day, and the ascribed authors.h.i.+p was a mere trick on the publisher's part to increase the sale of the song. We are not able to give any account of the hero, but from his being alluded to by so many of our old writers, he was, perhaps, not altogether a fict.i.tious personage. Ben Jonson names him in one of his plays, and he is also mentioned in Dekker's Honest Wh.o.r.e. Of one of the tunes mentioned in the song, viz., Hence, Melancholy! we can give no account; the other,--Mad Moll, may be found in Playford's Dancing-Master, 1698: it is the same tune as the one known by the names of Yellow Stockings and the Virgin Queen, the latter t.i.tle seeming to connect it with Queen Elizabeth, as the name of Mad Moll does with the history of Mary, who was subject to mental aberration. The words of Mad Moll are not known to exist, but probably consisted of some fulsome panegyric on the virgin queen, at the expense of her unpopular sister. From the mention of Hence, Melancholy, and Mad Moll, it is presumed that they were both popular favourites when Arthur O'Bradley's Wedding was written. A good deal of vulgar grossness has been at different times introduced into this song, which seems in this respect to be as elastic as the French chanson, Cadet Rouselle, which is always being altered, and of which there are no two copies alike. The tune of Arthur O'Bradley is given by Mr.

Chappell in his Popular Music.]

Come, neighbours, and listen awhile, If ever you wished to smile, Or hear a true story of old, Attend to what I now unfold!

'Tis of a lad whose fame did resound Through every village and town around, For fun, for frolic, and for whim, None ever was to equal him, And his name was Arthur O'Bradley!

O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!

Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Now, Arthur being stout and bold, And near upon thirty years old, He needs a wooing would go, To get him a helpmate, you know.

So, gaining young Dolly's consent, Next to be married they went; And to make himself n.o.ble appear, He mounted the old padded mare; He chose her because she was blood, And the prime of his old daddy's stud.

She was wind-galled, spavined, and blind, And had lost a near leg behind; She was cropped, and docked, and fired, And seldom, if ever, was tired, She had such an abundance of bone; So he called her his high-bred roan, A credit to Arthur O'Bradley!

O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!

Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Then he packed up his drudgery hose, And put on his holiday clothes; His coat was of scarlet so fine, Full trimmed with b.u.t.tons behind; Two sleeves it had it is true, One yellow, the other was blue, And the cuffs and the capes were of green, And the longest that ever were seen; His hat, though greasy and tore, c.o.c.ked up with a feather before, And under his chin it was tied, With a strip from an old cow's hide; His breeches three times had been turned, And two holes through the left side were burned; Two boots he had, but not kin, One leather, the other was tin; And for stirrups he had two patten rings, Tied fast to the girth with two strings; Yet he wanted a good saddle cloth, Which long had been eat by the moth.

'Twas a sad misfortune, you'll say, But still he looked gallant and gay, And his name it was Arthur O'Bradley!

O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!

Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Thus accoutred, away he did ride, While Dolly she walked by his side; Till coming up to the church door, In the midst of five thousand or more, Then from the old mare he did alight, Which put the clerk in a fright; And the parson so fumbled and shook, That presently down dropped his book.

Then Arthur began for to sing, And made the whole church to ring; Crying, 'Dolly, my dear, come hither, And let us be tacked together; For the honour of Arthur O'Bradley!'

O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!

Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Then the vicar discharged his duty, Without either reward or fee, Declaring no money he'd have; And poor Arthur he'd none to give: So, to make him a little amends, He invited him home with his friends, To have a sweet kiss at the bride, And eat a good dinner beside.

The dishes, though few, were good, And the sweetest of animal food: First, a roast guinea-pig and a bantam, A sheep's head stewed in a lanthorn, {30} Two calves' feet, and a bull's trotter, The fore and hind leg of an otter, With craw-fish, c.o.c.kles, and crabs, Lump-fish, limpets, and dabs, Red herrings and sprats, by dozens, To feast all their uncles and cousins; Who seemed well pleased with their treat, And heartily they did all eat, For the honour of Arthur O'Bradley!

O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!

Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Now, the guests being well satisfied, The fragments were laid on one side, When Arthur, to make their hearts merry, Brought ale, and parkin, {31} and perry; When Timothy Twig stept in, With his pipe, and a pipkin of gin.

A lad that was pleasant and jolly, And scorned to meet melancholy; He would chant and pipe so well, No youth could him excel.

Not Pan the G.o.d of the swains, Could ever produce such strains; But Arthur, being first in the throng, He swore he would sing the first song, And one that was pleasant and jolly: And that should be 'Hence, Melancholy!'

'Now give me a dance,' quoth Doll, 'Come, Jeffrery, play up Mad Moll, 'Tis time to be merry and frisky, - But first I must have some more whiskey.'

'Oh! you're right,' says Arthur, 'my love!

My daffy-down-dilly! my dove!

My everything! my wife!

I ne'er was so pleased in my life, Since my name it was Arthur O'Bradley!'

O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!

Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!