The Haymaker's Song

In the merry month of June,

In the prime time of the year;

Down in yonder meadows

There runs a river clear:

And many a little fish

Doth in that river play;

And many a lad, and many a lass,

Go abroad a-making hay.

In come the jolly mowers,

To mow the meadows down;

With budget and with bottle

Of ale, both stout and brown,

All labouring men of courage bold

Come here their strength to try;

They sweat and blow, and cut and mow,

For the grass cuts very dry.

Here's nimble Ben and Tom,

With pitchfork, and with rake;

Here's Molly, Liz, and Susan,

Come here their hay to make.

While sweet, jug, jug, jug!

The nightingale doth sing,

From morning unto even-song,

As they are hay-making.

And when that bright day faded,

And the sun was going down,

There was a merry piper

Approached from the town:

He pulled out his pipe and tabor,

So sweetly he did play,

Which made all lay down their rakes,

And leave off making hay.

Then joining in a dance,

They jig it o'er the green;

Though tired with their labour,

No one less was seen.

But sporting like some fairies,

Their dance they did pursue,

In leading up, and casting off,

Till morning was in view.

And when that bright daylight,

The morning it was come,

They lay down and rested

Till the rising of the sun:

Till the rising of the sun,

When the merry larks do sing,

And each lad did rise and take his lass,

And away to hay-making.

The Helstone Furry-Day Song

Robin Hood and Little John,

They both are gone to the fair, O!

And we will go to the merry green-wood,

To see what they do there, O!

And for to chase, O!

To chase the buck and doe.

With ha-lan-tow, rumble, O!

For we were up as soon as any day, O!

And for to fetch the summer home,

The summer and the may, O!

For summer is a-come, O!

And winter is a-gone, O!

Where are those Spaniards

That make so great a boast, O?

They shall eat the grey goose feather,

And we will eat the roast, O!

In every land, O!

The land where'er we go.

With ha-lan-tow, &c

As for Saint George, O!

Saint George he was a knight, O!

Of all the knights in Christendom,

Saint George is the right, O!

In every land, O!

The land where'er we go.

With ha-lan-tow, &c.

The Hitchin May-Day Song

Remember us poor Mayers all!

And thus do we begin

To lead our lives in righteousness,

Or else we die in sin.

We have been rambling all the night,

And almost all the day;

And now returned back again,

We have brought you a branch of May.

A branch of May we have brought you,

And at your door it stands;

It is but a sprout,

But it's well budded out

By the work of our Lord's hand.

The hedges and trees they are so green,

As green as any leek;

Our heavenly Father he watered them

With his heavenly dew so sweet.

The heavenly gates are open wide,

Our paths are beaten plain;

And if a man be not too far gone,

He may return again.

The life of man is but a span,

It flourishes like a flower;

We are here to-day, and gone to-morrow,

And we are dead in an hour.

The moon shines bright, and the stars give a light,

A little before it is day;

So God bless you all, both great and small,

And send you a joyful May!

---

Robin Hood's Hill

[Ritson speaks of a Robin Hood's Hill near Gloucester, and of a 'foolish song' about it. Whether this is the song to which he alludes we cannot determine. We find it in Notes and Queries, where it is stated to be printed from a MS. of the latter part of the last century, and described as a song well known in the district to which it refers.]

Ye bards who extol the gay valleys and glades,

The jessamine bowers, and amorous shades,

Who prospects so rural can boast at your will,

Yet never once mentioned sweet 'Robin Hood's Hill.'

This spot, which of nature displays every smile,

From famed Glo'ster city is distanced two mile,

Of which you a view may obtain at your will,

From the sweet rural summit of 'Robin Hood's Hill.'

Where a clear crystal spring does incessantly flow,

To supply and refresh the fair valley below;

No dog-star's brisk heat e'er diminished the rill

Which sweetly doth prattle on 'Robin Hood's Hill.'

Here, gazing around, you find objects still new,

Of Severn's sweet windings, how pleasing the view,

Whose stream with the fruits of blessed commerce doth fill

The sweet-smelling vale beneath 'Robin Hood's Hill.'

This hill, though so lofty, yet fertile and rare,

Few valleys can with it for herbage compare;

Some far greater bard should his lyre and his quill

Direct to the praise of sweet 'Robin Hood's Hill.'

Here lads and gay lasses in couples resort,

For sweet rural pastime and innocent sport;

Sure pleasures ne'er flowed from gay nature or skill,

Like those that are found on sweet 'Robin Hood's Hill.'

Had I all the riches of matchless Peru,

To revel in splendour as emperors do,

I'd forfeit the whole with a hearty good will,

To dwell in a cottage on 'Robin Hood's Hill.'

Then, poets, record my loved theme in your lays:

First view; - then you'll own that 'tis worthy of praise;

Nay, Envy herself must acknowledge it still,

That no spot's so delightful as 'Robin Hood's Hill.'

---

The Yorkshire Horse-Dealer

[This ludicrous and genuine Yorkshire song, the production of some unknown country minstrel, obtained considerable popularity a few years ago from the admirable singing of Emery. The incidents actually occurred at the close of the last century, and some of the descendants of 'Tommy Towers' were resident at Clapham till within a very recent period, and used to take great delight in relating the laughable adventure of their progenitor. Abey Muggins is understood to be a sobriquet for a then Clapham innkeeper. The village of Clapham is in the west of Yorkshire, on the high road between Skipton and Kendal.]

Bane ta Claapam town-gate lived an ond Yorkshire tike,

Who i' dealing i' horseflesh hed ne'er met his like;

'Twor his pride that i' aw the hard bargains he'd hit,

He'd bit a girt monny, but nivver bin bit.

This ond Tommy Towers (bi that naam he wor knaan),

Hed an oud carrion tit that wor sheer skin an' baan;

Ta hev killed him for t' curs wad hev bin quite as well,

But 'twor Tommy opinion he'd dee on himsel!

Well! yan Abey Muggins, a neighborin cheat,

Thowt ta diddle ond Tommy wad be a girt treat;

Hee'd a horse, too, 'twor war than ond Tommy's, ye see,

Fort' neet afore that hee'd thowt proper ta dee!

Thinks Abey, t' oud codger 'll nivver smoak t' trick,

I'll swop wi' him my poor deead horse for his wick, (56)

An' if Tommy I nobbut can happen ta trap,

'Twill be a fine feather i' Aberram cap!

Soa to Tommy he goas, an' the question he pops:

'Betwin thy horse and mine, prithee, Tommy, what swops?

What wilt gi' me ta boot? for mine's t'better horse still!'

'Nout,' says Tommy, 'I'll swop ivven hands, an' ye will.'

Abey preaached a lang time about summat ta boot,

Insistin' that his war the liveliest brute;

But Tommy stuck fast where he first had begun,

Till Abey shook hands, and sed, 'Well, Tommy, done!

'O! Tommy,' sed Abey, 'I'ze sorry for thee,

I thowt thou'd a hadden mair white i' thy ee;

Good luck's wi' thy bargin, for my horse is deead.'

'Hey!' says Tommy, 'my lad, soa is min, an it's fleead?'

Soa Tommy got t' better of t' bargin, a vast,

An' cam off wi' a Yorkshireman's triumph at last;

For thof 'twixt deead horses there's not mitch to choose,

Yet Tommy war richer by t' hide an' fower shooes.

---

A Dialogue Between the Husbandman and the Servingman

[This traditional version of the preceding ancient dialogue has long been popular at country festivals. At a harvest-home feast at Selborne, in Hampshire, in 1836, we heard it recited by two countrymen, who gave it with considerable humour, and dramatic effect. It was delivered in a sort of chant, or recitative. Davies Gilbert published a very similar copy in his Ancient Christman Carols. In the modern printed editions, which are almost identical with ours, the term 'servantman' has been substituted for the more ancient designation.]

Servingman.

Well met, my brother friend, all at this highway end,

So simple all alone, as you can,

I pray you tell to me, what may your calling be,

Are you not a servingman?

Husbandman.

No, no, my brother dear, what makes you to inquire

Of any such a thing at my hand?

Indeed I shall not feign, but I will tell you plain,

I am a downright husbandman.

Servingman.

If a husbandman you be, then go along with me,

And quickly you shall see out of hand,

How in a little space I will help you to a place,

Where you may be a servingman.

Husbandman.

Kind sir! I 'turn you thanks for your intelligence,

These things I receive at your hand;

But something pray now show, that first I may plainly know

The pleasures of a servingman.

Servingman.

Why a servingman has pleasure beyond all sort of measure,

With his hawk on his fist, as he does stand;

For the game that he does kill, and the meat that does him fill,

Are pleasures for the servingman.

Husbandman.

And my pleasure's more than that, to see my oxen fat,

And a good stock of hay by them stand;

My plowing and my sowing, my reaping and my mowing,

Are pleasures for the husbandman.

Servingman.

Why it is a gallant thing to ride out with a king,

With a lord, duke, or any such man;

To hear the horns to blow, and see the hounds all in a row,

That is pleasure for the servingman.

Husbandman.

But my pleasure's more I know, to see my corn to grow,

So thriving all over my land;

And, therefore, I do mean, with my plowing with my team,

To keep myself a husbandman.

Servingman.

Why the diet that we eat is the choicest of all meat,

Such as pig, goose, capon, and swan;

Our pastry is so fine, we drink sugar in our wine,

That is living for the servingman.

Husbandman.

Talk not of goose nor capon, give me good beef or bacon,

And good bread and cheese, now at hand;

With pudding, brawn, and souse, all in a farmer's house,

That is living for the husbandman.

Servingman.

Why the clothing that we wear is delicate and rare,

With our coat, lace, buckles, and band;

Our shirts are white as milk, and our stockings they are silk,

That is clothing for a servingman.

Husbandman.

But I value not a hair your delicate fine wear,

Such as gold is laced upon;

Give me a good grey coat, and in my purse a groat,

That is clothing for the husbandman.

Servingman.

Kind sir! it would be bad if none could be had

Those tables for to wait upon;

There is no lord, duke, nor squire, nor member for the shire,

Can do without a servingman.

Husbandman.

But, Jack! it would be worse if there was none of us

To follow the plowing of the land;

There is neither king, lord, nor squire, nor member for the shire,

Can do without the husbandman.

Servingman.

Kind sir! I must confess't, and I humbly protest

I will give you the uppermost hand;

Although your labour's painful, and mine it is so very gainful,

I wish I were a husbandman.

Husbandman.

So come now, let us all, both great as well as small,

Pray for the grain of our land;

And let us, whatsoever, do all our best endeavour,

For to maintain the good husbandman.

---

King James I and the Tinkler (Traditional)

[This ballad of King James I and the Tinkler was probably written either in, or shortly after, the reign of the monarch who is the hero. The incident recorded is said to be a fact, though the locality is doubtful. By some the scene is laid at Norwood, in Surrey; by others in some part of the English border. The ballad is alluded to by Percy, but is not inserted either in the Reliques, or in any other popular collection. It is to be found only in a few broadsides and chap-books of modern date. The present version is a traditional one, taken down, as here given, from the recital of the late Francis King. (6) It is much superior to the common broadside edition with which it has been collated, and from which the thirteenth and fifteenth verses were obtained. The ballad is very popular on the Border, and in the dales of Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Craven. The late Robert Anderson, the Cumbrian bard, represents Deavie, in his song of the Clay Daubin, as singing The King and the Tinkler.]

And now, to be brief, let's pass over the rest,

Who seldom or never were given to jest,

And come to King Jamie, the first of our throne,

A pleasanter monarch sure never was known.

As he was a hunting the swift fallow-deer,

He dropped all his nobles; and when he got clear,

In hope of some pastime away he did ride,

Till he came to an alehouse, hard by a wood-side.

And there with a tinkler he happened to meet,

And him in kind sort he so freely did greet:

'Pray thee, good fellow, what hast in thy jug,

Which under thy arm thou dost lovingly hug?'

'By the mass!' quoth the tinkler, 'it's nappy brown ale,

And for to drink to thee, friend, I will not fail;

For although thy jacket looks gallant and fine,

I think that my twopence as good is as thine.'

'By my soul! honest fellow, the truth thou hast spoke,'

And straight he sat down with the tinkler to joke;

They drank to the King, and they pledged to each other;

Who'd seen 'em had thought they were brother and brother.

As they were a-drinking the King pleased to say,

'What news, honest fellow? come tell me, I pray?'

'There's nothing of news, beyond that I hear

The King's on the border a-chasing the deer.

'And truly I wish I so happy may be

Whilst he is a hunting the King I might see;

For although I've travelled the land many ways

I never have yet seen a King in my days.'

The King, with a hearty brisk laughter, replied,

'I tell thee, good fellow, if thou canst but ride,

Thou shalt get up behind me, and I will thee bring

To the presence of Jamie, thy sovereign King.'

'But he'll be surrounded with nobles so gay,

And how shall we tell him from them, sir, I pray?'

'Thou'lt easily ken him when once thou art there;

The King will be covered, his nobles all bare.'

He got up behind him and likewise his sack,

His budget of leather, and tools at his back;

They rode till they came to the merry greenwood,

His nobles came round him, bareheaded they stood.

The tinkler then seeing so many appear,

He slily did whisper the King in his ear:

Saying, 'They're all clothed so gloriously gay,

But which amongst them is the King, sir, I pray?'

The King did with hearty good laughter, reply,

'By my soul! my good fellow, it's thou or it's I!

The rest are bareheaded, uncovered all round.' -

With his bag and his budget he fell to the ground,

Like one that was frightened quite out of his wits,

Then on his knees he instantly gets,

Beseeching for mercy; the King to him said,

'Thou art a good fellow, so be not afraid.

'Come, tell thy name?' 'I am John of the Dale,

A mender of kettles, a lover of ale.'

'Rise up, Sir John, I will honour thee here, -

I make thee a knight of three thousand a year!'

This was a good thing for the tinkler indeed;

Then unto the court he was sent for with speed,

Where great store of pleasure and pastime was seen,

In the royal presence of King and of Queen.

Sir John of the Dale he has land, he has fee,

At the court of the king who so happy as he?

Yet still in his hall hangs the tinkler's old sack,

And the budget of tools which he bore at his back.

---

The Death of Queen Jane (Traditional)

[We have seen an old printed copy of this ballad, which was written probably about the date of the event it records, 1537. Our version was taken down from the singing of a young gipsy girl, to whom it had descended orally through two generations. She could not recollect the whole of it. In Miss Strickland's Lives of the Queens of England, we find the following passage: 'An English ballad is extant, which, dwelling on the elaborate mourning of Queen Jane's ladies, informs the world, in a line of pure bathos,

In black were her ladies, and black were their faces.'

Miss Strickland does not appear to have seen the ballad to which she refers; and as we are not aware of the existence of any other ballad on the subject, we presume that her line of 'pure bathos' is merely a corruption of one of the ensuing verses.]

Queen Jane was in travail

For six weeks or more,

Till the women grew tired,

And fain would give o'er.

'O women! O women!

Good wives if ye be,

Go, send for King Henrie,

And bring him to me.'

King Henrie was sent for,

He came with all speed,

In a gownd of green velvet

From heel to the head.

'King Henrie! King Henrie!

If kind Henrie you be,

Send for a surgeon,

And bring him to me.'

The surgeon was sent for,

He came with all speed,

In a gownd of black velvet

From heel to the head.

He gave her rich caudle,

But the death-sleep slept she.

Then her right side was opened,

And the babe was set free.

The babe it was christened,

And put out and nursed,

While the royal Queen Jane

She lay cold in the dust.

---

So black was the mourning,

And white were the wands,

Yellow, yellow the torches,

They bore in their hands.

The bells they were muffled,

And mournful did play,

While the royal Queen Jane

She lay cold in the clay.

Six knights and six lords

Bore her corpse through the grounds;

Six dukes followed after,

In black mourning gownds.

The flower of Old England

Was laid in cold clay,

Whilst the royal King Henrie

Came weeping away.

---

Joan's Ale Was New

[Ours is the common version of this popular song; it varies considerably from the one given by D'Urfey, in the Pills To Purge Melancholy. From the names of Nolly and Joan and the allusion to ale, we are inclined to consider the song as a lampoon levelled at Cromwell, and his wife, whom the Royalist party nick-named 'Joan.' The Protector's acquaintances (depicted as low and vulgar tradesmen) are here humorously represented paying him a congratulatory visit on his change of fortune, and regaling themselves with the 'Brewer's' ale. The song is mentioned in Thackeray's Catalogue, under the title of JOAN'S ALE'S NEW; which may be regarded as circumstantial evidence in favour of our hypothesis. The air is published in Popular Misic, accompanying three stanzas of a version copied from the Douce collection. The first verse in Mr. Chappell's book runs as follows:-

There was a jovial tinker,

Who was a good ale drinker,

He never was a shrinker,

Believe me this is true;

And he came from the Weald of Kent,

When all his money was gone and spent,

Which made him look like a Jack a-lent.

And Joan's ale is new, my boys,

And Joan's ale is new.]

There were six jovial tradesmen,

And they all sat down to drinking,

For they were a jovial crew;

They sat themselves down to be merry;

And they called for a bottle of sherry,

You're welcome as the hills, says Nolly,

While Joan's ale is new, brave boys,

While Joan's ale is new.

The first that came in was a soldier,

With his firelock over his shoulder,

Sure no one could be bolder,

And a long broad-sword he drew:

He swore he would fight for England's ground,

Before the nation should be run down;

He boldly drank their healths all round,

While Joan's ale was new.

The next that came in was a hatter,

Sure no one could be blacker,

And he began to chatter,

Among the jovial crew:

He threw his hat upon the ground,

And swore every man should spend his pound,

And boldly drank their hearths all round,

While Joan's ale was new.

The next that came in was a dyer,

And he sat himself down by the fire,

For it was his heart's desire

To drink with the jovial crew:

He told the landlord to his face,

The chimney-corner should be his place,

And there he'd sit and dye his face,

While Joan's ale was new.

The next that came in was a tinker,

And he was no small beer drinker,

And he was no strong ale shrinker,

Among the jovial crew:

For his brass nails were made of metal,

And he swore he'd go and mend a kettle,

Good heart, how his hammer and nails did rattle,

When Joan's ale was new!

The next that came in was a tailor,

With his bodkin, shears, and thimble,

He swore he would be nimble

Among the jovial crew:

They sat and they called for ale so stout,

Till the poor tailor was almost broke,

And was forced to go and pawn his coat,

While Joan's ale was new.

The next that came in was a ragman,

With his rag-bag over his shoulder,

Sure no one could be bolder

Among the jovial crew.

They sat and called for pots and glasses,

Till they were all drunk as asses,

And burnt the old ragman's bag to ashes,

While Joan's ale was new.

---

Jockey to the Fair

[A version of this song, not quite so accurate as the following was published from an old broadside in Notes and Queries, vol. vii., p. 49, where it is described as a 'very celebrated Gloucestershire ballad.' But Gloucestershire is not exclusively entitled to the honour of this genuine old country song, which is well known in Westmoreland and other counties. 'Jockey' songs constitute a distinct and numerous class, and belong for the most part to the middle of the last century, when Jockey and Jenny were formidable rivals to the Strephons and Chloes of the artificial school of pastoral poetry. The author of this song, whoever he was, drew upon real rural life, and not upon its fashionable masquerade. We have been unable to trace the exact date of this ditty, which still enjoys in some districts a wide popularity. It is not to be found in any of several large collections of Ranelagh and Vauxhall songs, and other anthologies, which we have examined. From the christian names of the lovers, it might be supposed to be of Scotch or Border origin; but Jockey to the Fair is not confined to the North; indeed it is much better known, and more frequently sung, in the South and West.]

'Twas on the morn of sweet May-day,

When nature painted all things gay,

Taught birds to sing, and lambs to play,

And gild the meadows fair;

Young Jockey, early in the dawn,

Arose and tripped it o'er the lawn;

His Sunday clothes the youth put on,

For Jenny had vowed away to run

With Jockey to the fair;

For Jenny had vowed, &c.

The cheerful parish bells had rung,

With eager steps he trudged along,

While flowery garlands round him hung,

Which shepherds use to wear;

He tapped the window; 'Haste, my dear!'

Jenny impatient cried, 'Who's there?'

''Tis I, my love, and no one near;

Step gently down, you've nought to fear,

With Jockey to the fair.'

Step gently down, &c.

'My dad and mam are fast asleep,

My brother's up, and with the sheep;

And will you still your promise keep,

Which I have heard you swear?

And will you ever constant prove?'

'I will, by all the powers above,

And ne'er deceive my charming dove;

Dispel these doubts, and haste, my love,

With Jockey to the fair.'

Dispel, &c.

'Behold, the ring,' the shepherd cried;

'Will Jenny be my charming bride?

Let Cupid be our happy guide,

And Hymen meet us there.'

Then Jockey did his vows renew;

He would be constant, would he true,

His word was pledged; away she flew,

O'er cowslips tipped with balmy dew,

With Jockey to the fair.

O'er cowslips, &c.

In raptures meet the joyful throng;

Their gay companions, blithe and young,

Each join the dance, each raise the song,

To hail the happy pair.

In turns there's none so loud as they,

They bless the kind propitious day,

The smiling morn of blooming May,

When lovely Jenny ran away

With Jockey to the fair.

When lovely, &c.

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