Part 17
To know if your present sweetheart will marry you, let an unmarried woman take the bladebone of a shoulder of lamb, and borrowing a penknife, without on any account mentioning the purpose for which it is required, stick it through the bone when she goes to bed for nine nights in different places, repeating the following lines each time:
'Tis not this bone I mean to stick, But my love's heart I mean to prick, Wishing him neither rest nor sleep, Until he comes to me to speak.
Accordingly at the end of the nine days, or shortly afterwards, he will ask for something to put to a wound he will have met with during the time he was thus charmed. Another method is also employed for the same object. On a Friday morning, fasting, write on four pieces of paper the names of three persons you like best, and also the name of Death, fold them up, wear them in your bosom all day, and at night shake them up in your left shoe, going to bed backwards; take out one with your left hand, and the other with your right, throw three of them out of the shoe, and in the morning whichever name remains in the shoe is that of your future husband. If Death is left, you will not marry any of them.
VERVAIN.
The herb vervain was formerly held of great efficacy against witchcraft, and in various diseases. Sir W. Scott mentions a popular rhyme, supposed to be addressed to a young woman by the devil, who attempted to seduce her in the shape of a handsome young man:
Gin you wish to be leman mine, Leave off the St. John's wort and the vervine.
By his repugnance to these sacred plants, his mistress discovered the cloven foot. Many ceremonies were used in gathering it. "You must observe," says Gerard, "Mother Bumbies rules to take just so many knots or sprigs, and no more, least it fall out so that it do you no good, if you catch no harme by it; many odde olde wives' fables are written of vervaine, tending to witchcraft and sorcerie, which you may reade elsewhere, for I am not willing to trouble your eares with reporting such trifles as honest eares abhorre to heare." An old English poem on the virtue of herbs, of the fourteenth century, says:
As we redyn, gaderyd most hym be With iij. pater-noster and iij. ave, Fastand, thow the wedir be grylle, Be-twen mydde March and mydde Aprille, And [gh]et awysyd moste the be, That the sonne be in ariete.
A magical MS. in the Chetham Library at Manchester, of the time of Queen Elizabeth, furnishes us with a poetical prayer used in gathering this herb:
All hele, thou holy herb vervin, Growing on the ground; In the mount of Calvary There was thou found; Thou helpest many a greife, And stenchest many a wound. In the name of sweet Jesus, I take thee from the ground. O Lord, effect the same That I doe now goe about.
The following lines, according to this authority, were to be said when pulling it:
In the name of God, on Mount Olivet First I thee found; In the name of Jesus I pull thee from the ground.
Two hogsheads full of money were concealed in a subterraneous vault at Penyard Castle, in Herefordshire. A farmer undertook to drag them from their hiding-place, a matter of no small difficulty, for they were protected by preternatural power. To accomplish his object, he took twenty steers to draw down the iron doors of the vault in which the hogsheads were deposited. The door was partially opened, and a jackdaw was seen perched on one of the casks. The farmer was overjoyed at the prospect of success, and as soon as he saw the casks, he exclaimed, "I believe I shall have it." The door immediately closed with a loud clang, and a voice in the air exclaimed—
Had it not been For your quicken-tree goad, And your yew-tree pin, You and your cattle Had all been drawn in!
The belief that the quicken-tree is of great efficacy against the power of witches is still in force in the North of England. The yew-tree was formerly employed in witchcraft, a practice alluded to in Macbeth:
Liver of blaspheming Jew, Gall of goats, and slips of yew, Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse.
FINGER-NAILS.
There is a superstition, says Forby, ii. 411, respecting cutting the nails, and some days are considered more lucky for this operation than others. To cut them on a Tuesday is thought particularly auspicious. Indeed if we are to believe an old rhyming saw on this subject, every day of the week is endowed with its several and peculiar virtue, if the nails are invariably cut on that day and no other. The lines are as follow:
Cut them on Monday, you cut them for health; Cut them on Tuesday, you cut them for wealth; Cut them on Wednesday, you cut them for news; Cut them on Thursday, a new pair of shoes; Cut them on Friday, you cut them for sorrow; Cut them on Saturday, see your true love to-morrow; Cut them on Sunday, the devil will be with you all the week.
The following divination-rhymes refer to the _gifts_, or white spots on the nails, beginning with the thumb, and going on regularly to the little finger. The last gift will show the destiny of the operator _pro tempore_,—
A gift—a friend—a foe— A journey—to go.
DAYS OF BIRTH.
Monday's child is fair in face, Tuesday's child is full of grace, Wednesday's child is full of woe, Thursday's child has far to go, Friday's child is loving and giving, Saturday's child works hard for its living; And a child that's born on Christmas day Is fair and wise, good and gay.
COLOURS.
Colour-superstitions, though rapidly disappearing, still obtain in the remote rural districts. The following lines were obtained from the East of England:
Blue is true, Yellow's jealous, Green's forsaken, Red's brazen, White is love, And black is death!
THE MAN IN THE MOON.
The Man in the Moon Sups his sowins with a cutty-spoon.
A Northumberland dish called _sowins_, is composed of the coarse parts of oatmeal, which are put into a tub, and covered with water, and then allowed to stand till it turns sour. A portion of it is then taken out, and sapped with milk. It may easily be imagined that this is a substance not very accessible to the movements of a cutty or very small spoon.
Grimm, Deutsche Mythologie, p. 412, informs us that there are three legends connected with the Man in the Moon; the first, that this personage was Isaac carrying a bundle of sticks for his own sacrifice; the second, that he was Cain; and the other, which is taken from the history of the Sabbath-breaker, as related in the Book of Numbers. The last is still generally current in this country, and is alluded to by Chaucer, and many early writers. The second is mentioned by Dante, Inferno, xx., Cain sacrificing to the Lord _thorns_, the most wretched production of the ground,—
——chè già tiene 'l confine D'amenduo gli emisperi, e tocca l'onda Sotto Sibilia, Caino e le spine.
It appears that sowins were not the only food of the lunary inhabitant, for it is related by children he once favoured middle-earth with his presence, and took a fancy to some pease-porridge, which he was in such a hurry to devour that he scalded his mouth:
The Man in the Moon Came tumbling down, And asked his way to Norwich; He went by the south, And burnt his mouth With supping hot pease-porridge.
His chief beverage, as everybody knows, was claret:
The Man in the Moon drinks claret, But he is a dull Jack-a-Dandy; Would he know a sheep's head from a carrot, He should learn to drink cyder and brandy.
Another old ballad commences,—
The Man in the Moon drinks claret, With powder-beef, turnip, and carrot.
X.—CUSTOM-RHYMES.
It is greatly to be feared that, notwithstanding the efforts made within the last few years by individuals who have desired to see the resuscitation of the merry sports and customs of old England, the spirit which formerly characterised them is not to be recovered. The mechanical spirit of the age has thrown a degree of ridicule over observances which have not been without use in their day; and might even now be rendered beneficial to the public, were it possible to exclude the influence which tells the humbler subject such matters are below his regard. Yet it must be confessed that most of our ancient customs are only suited to the thinly-populated rural districts, where charity, goodwill, and friendship may be delicately cultivated under the plea of their observance.
CHRISTMAS.
Ha wish ye a merry Chresamas, An a happy new year, A pantry full a' good rost beef, An a barril full a' beer.
To these lines we may add the following north-country nursery song:
Now Christmas is come, and now Pappy's come home, Wi' a pegtop for Tammie, a hussif for Sue; A new bag o' marbles for Dick; and for Joan, A workbox; for Phoebe a bow for her shoe: For Cecily singing a humming-top comes, For dull drowsie Marie a sleeping-top meet; For Ben, Ned, and Harry, a fife and two drums, For Jennie a box of nice sugar-plums sweet.
CHRISTMAS MUMMERS' PLAY.
A rude drama is performed at Christmas by the guisers or mummers in most parts of England and Scotland, but the versions are extremely numerous, and no less than six copies have reached me differing materially from each other. In the following copy, which is the most perfect one I have been able to procure, the _dramatis personæ_ consist of a Fool, St. George, Slasher, a Doctor, Prince of Paradine, King of Egypt, Hector, Beelzebub, and little Devil Doubt. I am informed that this drama is occasionally acted at Easter as well as at Christmas.
_Enter_ Actors.
_Fool._ Room, room, brave gallants, give us room to sport, For in this room we wish for to resort, Resort, and to repeat to you our merry rhyme, For remember, good sirs, this is Christmas time! The time to cut up goose-pies now doth appear, So we are come to act our merry Christmas here; At the sound of the trumpet and beat of the drum, Make room, brave gentlemen, and let our actors come! We are the merry actors that traverse the street, We are the merry actors that fight for our meat; We are the merry actors that show pleasant play. Step in, St. George, thou champion, and clear the way.
_Enter_ ST. GEORGE.
_St. George._ I am St. George, who from old England sprung, My famous name throughout the world hath rung; Many bloody deeds and wonders have I made known, And made the tyrants tremble on their throne. I followed a fair lady to a giant's gate, Confined in dungeon deep to meet her fate; Then I resolved, with true knight-errantry. To burst the door, and set the prisoner free; When a giant almost struck me dead, But by my valour I cut off his head. I've searched the world all round and round, But a man to equal me I never found.
_Enter_ SLASHER.
_Slasher._ I am a valiant soldier, and Slasher is my name, With sword and buckler by my side I hope to win the game; And for to fight with me I see thou art not able, So with my trusty broad-sword I soon will thee disable!
_St. George._ Disable! disable! it lies not in thy power, For with my glittering sword and spear I soon will thee devour. Stand off, Slasher! let no more be said, For if I draw my sword, I'm sure to break thy head!
_Slasher._ How can'st thou break my head? Since it is made of iron, And my body's made of steel; My hands and feet of knuckle-bone: I challenge thee to field.
[_They fight, and_ Slasher _is wounded. Exit_ St. George.
_Enter_ FOOL.
_Fool._ Alas! alas! my chiefest son is slain! What must I do to raise him up again? Here he lies in the presence of you all, I'll lovingly for a doctor call! (_Aloud._) A doctor! a doctor! ten pounds for a doctor! I'll go and fetch a doctor. [_Going._
_Enter_ DOCTOR.
_Doctor._ Here am I.
_Fool._ Are you the doctor?
_Doctor._ Yes, that you may plainly see, By my art and activity.
_Fool._ Well, what's your fee to cure this man?
_Doctor._ Ten pounds is my fee; but Jack, if thou be an honest man, I'll only take five of thee.
_Fool._ You'll be wondrous cunning if you get any (_aside_). Well how far have you travelled in doctrineship?
_Doctor._ From Italy, Titaly, High Germany, France, and Spain, And now am returned to cure the diseases in old England again.
_Fool._ So far, and no further?
_Doctor._ O yes! a great deal further.
_Fool._ How far?
_Doctor._ From the fireside cupboard, upstairs and into bed.
_Fool._ What diseases can you cure?
_Doctor._ All sorts.
_Fool._ What's all sorts?
_Doctor._ The itch, the pitch, the palsy, and the gout. If a man gets nineteen devils in his skull, I'll cast twenty of them out. I have in my pockets crutches for lame ducks, spectacles for blind humble-bees, pack-saddles and panniers for grasshoppers, and plaisters for broken-backed mice. I cured Sir Harry of a hang-nail, almost fifty-five yards long; surely I can cure this poor man. Here, Jack, take a little out of my bottle, And let it run down thy throttle; If thou be not quite slain, Rise, Jack, and fight again. [Slasher _rises_.
_Slasher._ Oh, my back!
_Fool._ What's amiss with thy back?
_Slasher._ My back it is wounded, And my heart is confounded, To be struck out of seven senses into four score; The like was never seen in Old England before.
_Enter_ ST. GEORGE.
Oh, hark! St. George, I hear the silver trumpet sound, That summons us from off this bloody ground; Down yonder is the way (_pointing_). Farewell, St. George, we can no longer stay.
[_Exeunt_ Slasher, Doctor, _and_ Fool.
_St. George._ I am St. George, that noble champion bold, And with my trusty sword I won ten thousand pounds in gold; 'Twas I that fought the fiery dragon, and brought him to the slaughter, And by those means I won the King of Egypt's daughter.
_Enter_ PRINCE OF PARADINE.
_Prince._ I am Black Prince of Paradine, born of high renown; Soon I will fetch St. George's lofty courage down. Before St. George shall be received by me, St. George shall die to all eternity!
_St. George._ Stand off, thou black Morocco dog, Or by my sword, thou'lt die; I'll pierce thy body full of holes, And make thy buttons fly.
_Prince._ Draw out thy sword and slay, Pull out thy purse and pay; For I will have a recompense Before I go away.
_St. George._ Now, Prince of Paradine, where have you been? And what fine sights, pray, have you seen? Dost think that no man of thy age Dares such a black as thee engage? Lay down thy sword; take up to me a spear, And then I'll fight thee without dread or fear.
[_They fight, and_ Prince of Paradine _is slain._
_St. George._ Now Prince of Paradine is dead, And all his joys entirely fled; Take him, and give him to the flies, And never more come near mine eyes.
_Enter_ KING OF EGYPT.
_King._ I am the King of Egypt, as plainly doth appear; I'm come to seek my son, my son, and only heir.
_St. George._ He is slain.
_King._ Who did him slay, who did him kill, And on the ground his precious blood did spill?
_St. George._ I did him slay, I did him kill, And on the ground his precious blood did spill! Please you, my liege, my honour to maintain, Had you been there, you might have fared the same.
_King._ Cursed Christian! what is this thou'st done? Thou hast ruined me, and slain my only son.
_St. George._ He gave me a challenge, why should I it deny? How high he was, but see how low he lies!
_King._ O Hector! Hector! help me with speed, For in my life I never stood more need!
_Enter_ HECTOR.
And stand not there with sword in hand, But rise and fight at my command!
_Hector._ Yes, yes, my liege, I will obey, And by my sword I hope to win the day; If that be he who doth stand there, That slew my master's son and heir; If he be sprung from royal blood, I'll make it run like Noah's flood!
_St. George._ Hold, Hector! do not be so hot, For here thou knowest not who thou'st got, For I can tame thee of thy pride, And lay thine anger, too, aside; Inch thee, and cut thee as small as flies, And send thee over the sea to make mince-pies; Mince-pies hot, and mince-pies cold, I'll send thee to Black Sam before thou'rt three days old.
_Hector._ How canst thou tame me of my pride, And lay mine anger, too, aside? Inch me, and cut me as small as flies, Send me over the sea to make mince-pies? Mince-pies hot, mince-pies cold; How canst thou send me to Black Sam before I'm three days old? Since my head is made of iron, My body's made of steel, My hands and feet of knuckle-bone, I challenge thee to field.
[_They fight, and_ Hector _is wounded._
I am a valiant knight, and Hector is my name, Many bloody battles have I fought, and always won the same; But from St. George I received this bloody wound. (_A trumpet sounds._) Hark, hark! I hear the silver trumpet sound, Down yonder is the way (_pointing_). Farewell, St. George, I can no longer stay. [_Exit._
_Enter_ FOOL.
_St. George._ He comes from post, old Bold Ben.
_Fool._ Why, master, did ever I take you to be my friend?
_St. George._ Why, Jack, did ever I do thee any harm?
_Fool._ Thou proud saucy coxcomb, begone!
_St. George._ A coxcomb! I defy that name! With a sword thou ought to be stabbed for the same.
_Fool._ To be stabbed is the least I fear! Appoint your time and place, I'll meet you there.
_St. George._ I'll cross the water at the hour of five, And meet you there, sir, if I be alive. [_Exit._
_Enter_ BEELZEBUB. Here come I, Beelzebub, And over my shoulders I carry my club; And in my hand a dripping-pan, And I think myself a jolly old man; And if you don't believe what I say, Enter in, Devil Doubt, and clear the way.
_Enter_ DEVIL DOUBT. Here come I, little Devil Doubt, If you do not give me money, I'll sweep you all out: Money I want, and money I crave; If you do not give me money I'll sweep you all to the grave.
NEW YEAR'S DAY.
God bless the master of this house, The mistress also, And all the little children That round the table go; And all your kin and kinsmen, That dwell both far and near; I wish you a merry Christmas, And a happy new year.
_Wassel or Wassal._—A remnant of this part of our Saxon manners still exists at Yarmouth, and strange to say, in no other part of the Isle of Wight. On the first day of the new year the children collect together and sing wassel or wassal through the streets; the following is their song (see p. 249):
Wassal, wassal, to our town! The cup is white and the ale is brown; The cup is made of the ashen tree, And so is the ale of the good barley; Little maid, little maid, turn the pin, Open the door and let us come in; God be here, God be there. I wish you all a happy new year!
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
The following verses are said to be in some way or other connected with the amusements of this festival. They refer probably to the choosing the king and the queen on Twelfth-night:
Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender's green, When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen: Who told you so, dilly dilly, who told you so? 'Twas mine own heart, dilly dilly, that told me so.
Call up your men, dilly dilly, set them to work, Some with a rake, dilly dilly, some with a fork; Some to make hay, dilly dilly, some to thresh corn, Whilst you and I, dilly dilly, keep ourselves warm.
If you should die, dilly dilly, as it may hap, You shall be buried, dilly dilly, under the tap; Who told you so, dilly dilly, pray tell me why? That you might drink, dilly dilly, when you are dry.
Another version may be given for the sake of adding the traditional tune to which it was sung:
[Illustration: Song with musical symbols, shown here as an Abc-notation; see Transcriber's Note.]
Title: Lavender blue. Time signature: 6/8. Default note length: 1/16. Key: C.
c2 c2 d2 c2 _B A G F Lavender blue, fiddle faddle,
f2 e2 d2 c3 Lavender green.
c2 c2 d2 c2 _B A G F When I am king, fiddle faddle,
G2 G2 A2 G3 You shall be queen.
c2 e2 d2 c2 A A A A Call up your men, fiddle faddle;
c2 e2 d2 c3 Set them to work—
c2 =B2 A2 G2 C C C C Some with a rake, fiddle faddle—
c2 d2 =B2 c3 Some with a fork—
c2 c2 c2 c2 _B A G F Some to make hay, fiddle faddle—
f2 e2 d2 c3 Some to the farm,
c2 c2 d2 c2 _B A G F Whilst you and I, fiddle faddle
f2 A2 G2 F3 Keep ourselves warm.
CATHERNING.
Catharine and Clement, be here, be here, Some of your apples, and some of your beer: Some for Peter, and some for Paul, And some for Him that made us all: Clement was a good man, For his sake give us some, Not of the worst, but some of the best, And God will send your soul to rest.
These lines are sung by the children of Worcestershire on St. Catharine's day, when they go round to the farmhouses collecting apples and beer for a festival. This is no doubt the relic of a Popish custom; and the Dean of Worcester informs me that the Chapter have a practice of preparing a rich bowl of wine and spices, called the "Cathern bowl," for the inhabitants of the college precincts upon that day.
VALENTINE'S DAY.
In the western counties, the children, decked with the wreaths and true-lover's knots presented to them, gaily adorn one of their number as their chief, and march from house to house, singing—
Good morrow to you, Valentine! Curl your locks as I do mine; Two before and three behind; Good morrow to you, Valentine!
They commence in many places as early as six o'clock in the morning, and intermingle the cry, "To-morrow is come!" Afterwards they make merry with their collections. At Islip, co. Oxon, I have heard the children sing the following when collecting pence on this day:
Good morrow, Valentine! I be thine and thou be'st mine, So please give me a Valentine!
And likewise the following:
Good morrow, Valentine, God bless you ever! If you'll be true to me, I'll be the like to thee; Old England for ever!
Schoolboys have a very uncomplimentary way of presenting each other with these poetical memorials:
Peep, fool, peep, What do you think to see? Every one has a valentine, And here's one for thee!