Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England Part 25

Then the piper he screwed up his bags, And the girls began shaking their rags; First up jumped old Mother Crewe, Two stockings, and never a shoe.

Her nose was crooked and long, Which she could easily reach with her tongue; And a hump on her back she did not lack, But you should take no notice of that; And her mouth stood all awry, And she never was heard to lie, For she had been dumb from her birth; So she nodded consent to the mirth, For honour of Arthur O'Bradley.

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

Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Then the parson led off at the top, Some danced, while others did hop; While some ran foul of the wall, And others down backwards did fall.

There was lead up and down, figure in, Four hands across, then back again.

So in dancing they spent the whole night, Till bright Phoebus appeared in their sight; When each had a kiss of the bride, And hopped home to his own fire-side: Well pleased was Arthur O'Bradley!

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

Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Ballad: THE PAINFUL PLOUGH.

[This is one of our oldest agricultural ditties, and maintains its popularity to the present hour. It is called for at merry-makings and feasts in every part of the country. The tune is in the minor key, and of a pleasing character.]

'Come, all you jolly ploughmen, of courage stout and bold, That labour all the winter in stormy winds, and cold; To clothe the fields with plenty, your farm-yards to renew, To crown them with contentment, behold the painful plough!'

'Hold! ploughman,' said the gardener, 'don't count your trade with ours, Walk through the garden, and view the early flowers; Also the curious border and pleasant walks go view, - There's none such peace and plenty performed by the plough!'

'Hold! gardener,' said the ploughman, 'my calling don't despise, Each man for his living upon his trade relies; Were it not for the ploughman, both rich and poor would rue, For we are all dependent upon the painful plough.

'Adam in the garden was sent to keep it right, But the length of time he stayed there, I believe it was one night; Yet of his own labour, I call it not his due, Soon he lost his garden, and went to hold the plough.

'For Adam was a ploughman when ploughing first begun, The next that did succeed him was Cain, the eldest son; Some of the generation this calling now pursue; That bread may not be wanting, remains the painful plough.

Samson was the strongest man, and Solomon was wise, Alexander for to conquer 'twas all his daily prise; King David was valiant, and many thousands slew, Yet none of these brave heroes could live without the plough!

Behold the wealthy merchant, that trades in foreign seas, And brings home gold and treasure for those who live at ease; With fine silks and spices, and fruits also, too, They are brought from the Indies by virtue of the plough.

'For they must have bread, biscuit, rice pudding, flour and peas, To feed the jolly sailors as they sail o'er the seas; And the man that brings them will own to what is true, He cannot sail the ocean without the painful plough!

'I hope there's none offended at me for singing this, For it is not intended for anything amiss.

If you consider rightly, you'll find what I say is true, For all that you can mention depends upon the plough.'

Ballad: THE USEFUL PLOW; OR, THE PLOUGH'S PRAISE.

[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.

Ballad: THE FARMER'S SON.

[This song, familiar to the dwellers in the dales of Yorks.h.i.+re, was published in 1729, in the Vocal Miscellany; a collection of about four hundred celebrated songs. As the Miscellany was merely an anthology of songs already well known, the date of this song must have been sometime anterior to 1729. It was republished in the British Musical Miscellany, or the Delightful Grove, 1796, and in a few other old song books. It was evidently founded on an old black-letter dialogue preserved in the Roxburgh collection, called A Mad Kinde of Wooing; or, a Dialogue between Will the Simple and Nan the Subtill, with their loving argument. To the tune of the New Dance at the Red Bull Playhouse. Printed by the a.s.signees of Thomas Symc.o.c.k.]

'Sweet Nelly! my heart's delight!

Be loving, and do not slight The proffer I make, for modesty's sake:- I honour your beauty bright.

For love, I profess, I can do no less, Thou hast my favour won: And since I see your modesty, I pray agree, and fancy me, Though I'm but a farmer's son.

'No! I am a lady gay, 'Tis very well known I may Have men of renown, in country or town; So! Roger, without delay, Court Bridget or Sue, Kate, Nancy, or Prue, Their loves will soon be won; But don't you dare to speak me fair, As if I were at my last prayer, To marry a farmer's son.'

'My father has riches' store, Two hundred a year, and more; Beside sheep and cows, carts, harrows, and ploughs; His age is above threescore.

And when he does die, then merrily I Shall have what he has won; Both land and kine, all shall be thine, If thou'lt incline, and wilt be mine, And marry a farmer's son.'

'A fig for your cattle and corn!

Your proffered love I scorn!

'Tis known very well, my name is Nell, And you're but a b.u.mpkin born.'

'Well! since it is so, away I will go, - And I hope no harm is done; Farewell, adieu!--I hope to woo As good as you,--and win her, too, Though I'm but a farmer's son.'

'Be not in such haste,' quoth she, 'Perhaps we may still agree; For, man, I protest I was but in jest!

Come, prythee sit down by me; For thou art the man that verily can Win me, if e'er I'm won; Both straight and tall, genteel withal; Therefore, I shall be at your call, To marry a farmer's son.'

'Dear lady! believe me now I solemnly swear and vow, No lords in their lives take pleasure in wives, Like fellows that drive the plough: For whatever they gain with labour and pain, They don't with 't to harlots run, As courtiers do. I never knew A London beau that could outdo A country farmer's son.'

Ballad: THE FARMER'S BOY.

[Mr Denham of Piersbridge, who communicates the following, says-- 'there is no question that the Farmer's Boy is a very ancient song; it is highly popular amongst the north country lads and la.s.ses.'

The date of the composition may probably be referred to the commencement of the last century, when there prevailed amongst the ballad-mongers a great rage for Farmers' Sons, Plough Boys, Milk Maids, Farmers' Boys, &c. &c. The song is popular all over the country, and there are numerous printed copies, ancient and modern.]

The sun had set behind yon hills, Across yon dreary moor, Weary and lame, a boy there came Up to a farmer's door: 'Can you tell me if any there be That will give me employ, To plow and sow, and reap and mow, And be a farmer's boy?