Part 19
The fifth of November, Since I can remember, Gunpowder treason and plot: This was the day the plot was contriv'd, To blow up the King and Parliament alive; But God's mercy did prevent To save our King and his Parliament. A stick and a stake For King James's sake! If you won't give me one, I'll take two, The better for me, And the worse for you!
This is the Oxfordshire song chanted by the boys when collecting sticks for the bonfire, and it is considered quite lawful to appropriate any old wood they can lay their hands on after the recitation of these lines. If it happen that a crusty chuff prevents them, the threatening finale is too often fulfilled. The operation is called _going a progging_, but whether this is a mere corruption of _prigging_, or whether _progging_ means collecting sticks (_brog_, Scot. Bor.), I am unable to decide. In some places they shout, previously to the burning of the effigy of Guy Fawkes—
A penn'orth of bread to feed the Pope, A penn'orth of cheese to choke him; A pint of beer to wash it down, And a good old faggot to burn him.
The metropolis and its neighbourhood are still annually visited by subdued vestiges of the old customs of the bonfire-day. Numerous parties of boys parade the streets with effigies of Guy Fawkes, but pence, not antipopery, is the object of the exhibition, and the evening fires have generally been exchanged for the mischievous practice of annoying passengers with squibs and crackers. The spirit and necessity of the display have expired, and the lover of old customs had better be contented to hear of it in history; even although the special service for the day, still retained in our Prayer-book, may tend to recognise the propriety of external rejoicings.
BARBERS' FORFEITS.
—— laws for all faults, But faults so countenanc'd, that the strong statutes Stand like _the forfeits in a barber's shop_, As much in mock as mark.
Steevens and Henley, in their notes on Shakespeare, bear testimony to the fact that barbers were accustomed to expose in their shops a list of forfeits for misbehaviour, which were "as much in mock as mark," because the barber had no authority of himself to enforce them, and they were in some respects of a ludicrous nature. "Barbers' forfeits," says Forby, in his Vocabulary of East Anglia, p. 119, "exist to this day in some, perhaps in many, village shops. They are penalties for handling the razors, &c., offences very likely to be committed by lounging clowns, waiting for their turn to be scraped on a Saturday night or Sunday morning. They are still, as of old, 'more in mock than mark.' Certainly more mischief might be done two hundred years ago, when the barber was also a surgeon."
Dr. Kenrick[55] was the first to publish a copy of _barbers' forfeits_, and, as I do not observe it in any recent edition of Shakespeare, I here present the reader with the following homely verses obtained by the Doctor in Yorkshire:
[Footnote 55: Review of Johnson's Shakespeare, 1765, p. 42.]
_Rules for seemly Behaviour._
First come, first serve—then come not late; And when arrived, keep your state; For he who from these rules shall swerve, Must pay the _forfeits_—so observe.
Who enters here with boots and spurs, Must keep his nook, for if he stirs, And give with armed heel a kick, A pint he pays for ev'ry prick.
Who rudely takes another's turn, A forfeit mug may manners learn.
Who reverentless shall swear or curse, Must lug seven farthings from his purse.
Who checks the barber in his tale, Must pay for each a pot of ale.
Who will or cannot miss his hat While trimming, pays a pint for that.
And he who can or will not pay, Shall hence be sent half-trimm'd away, For will he nill he, if in fault He forfeit must in meal or malt. But mark, who is alreads in drink, The cannikin must never clink!
It is not improbable that these lines had been partly modernized from an older original before they reached Dr. Kenrick, but Steevens was certainly too precipitate in pronouncing them to be forgeries. Their authenticity is placed beyond a doubt by the testimony of my late friend, Major Moor, who, in his Suffolk Words, p. 133, informs us that he had seen a version of these rules at the tonsor's, of Alderton, near the sea.
COCKLE-BREAD.
My granny is sick, and now is dead,[56] And we'll go mould some cockle-bread; Up with my heels and down with my head, And this is the way to mould cockle-bread.
[Footnote 56: Another version says, "and I wish she was dead, that I may go mould," &c., which, if correct, may be supposed to mean, "My granny is ill, and I wish she was dead, that I may use a charm for obtaining a husband."]
A very old practice of young women, moving as if they were kneading dough, and repeating the above lines, which are sometimes varied thus:
Cockeldy bread, mistley cake, When you do that for our sake.
The entire explanation of this, which is not worth giving here, may be seen in Thoms's Anecdotes and Traditions, p. 95. An allusion to cockle-bread occurs as early as 1595, in Peele's singular play of the Old Wives Tale.
A DRINKING CUSTOM.
A pie sat on a pear tree, A pie sat on a pear tree, A pie sat on a pear tree, Heigh ho! heigh ho! heigh ho!
These lines are sung by a person at the table after dinner. His next neighbour then sings "Once so merrily hopped she," during which the first singer is obliged to drink a bumper; and should he be unable to empty his glass before the last line is sung, he must begin again till he succeeds. The next line is "Twice so merrily hopped she," sung by the next person under a similar arrangement, and so on; beginning again after "Thrice so merrily hopped she, heigh ho! heigh ho! heigh ho!" till the ceremony has been repeated around the table. It is to be hoped so absurd a practice is not now in fashion.
When a boy finds anything, and another sees him stoop for it, if the latter cries _halves_ before he has picked it up, he is, by schoolboy law, entitled to half of it. This right may, however, be negatived, if the finder cries out first—
Ricket, racket, find it, tack it, And niver give it to the aunder.
Or, sometimes the following:
No halfers, Findee, keepee; Lossee, seekee.
Boys leaving the schoolroom are accustomed to shout—
Those that go my way, butter and eggs, Those that go your way, chop off their legs.
A sort of persuasive inducement, I suppose, for them to follow the speaker for the sake of forming a party for a game.
XI.—NURSERY-SONGS.
The earliest and simplest form in which the nursery song appears is the lullaby, which may be defined a gentle song used for the purpose of inducing sleep. The term was generally, though not exclusively, confined to nurses:
Philomel, with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby.
The etymology is to be sought for in the verb _lull_, to sing gently, which Douce thinks is connected with λαλεω or λάλλη. One of the earliest nursery lullabies that have descended to our day occurs in the play of Philotimus, 1583:
Trylle the ball againe my Jacke, And be contente to make some play, And I will lull thee on my lappe, With hey be bird now say not nay.
Another is introduced into the comedy of Patient Grissel, printed in the year 1603:
Hush, hush, hush, hush! And I dance mine own child, And I dance mine own child, Hush, hush, hush, hush!
BILLY, MY SON.
The following lines are very common in the English nursery, and resemble the popular German ditty of Grandmother Addercook, inserted in the Knaben Wunderhorn, and translated by Dr. Jamieson in the Illustrations of Northern Antiquities. The ballad of the Crowden Doo, Chambers, p. 205, bears, however, a far greater similarity to the German song. Compare, also, the ballad of Willie Doo, in Buchan's Ancient Songs, ii. 179.
Where have you been to-day, Billy, my son? Where have you been to-day, my only man? I've been a wooing, mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick at heart, and fain would lay down.
What have you ate to-day, Billy, my son? What have you ate to-day, my only man? I've ate eel-pie, mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick at heart, and shall die before noon.
It is said there is some kind of a fairy legend connected with these lines, Billy having probably been visited by his mermaid mother. Nothing at all satisfactory has, however, yet been produced. It appears to bear a slight analogy to the old ballad, "Where have you been all the day, my boy Willie," printed from a version obtained from Suffolk, in the Nursery Rhymes of England, p. 146;[57] and on this account we may here insert a copy of the pretty Scottish ballad, Tammy's Courtship:
Oh, where ha' ye been a' day, My boy Tammy? Where ha' ye been a' day, My boy Tammy? I've been by burn and flow'ry brae, Meadow green and mountain gray, Courting o' this young thing, Just come frae her mammy.
And where gat ye that young thing, My boy Tammy? And where gat ye that young thing, My boy Tammy? I gat her down in yonder how, Smiling on a broomy knowe, Herding ae wee lamb and ewe For her poor mammy.
What said you to the bonny bairn, My boy Tammy? What said you to the bonny bairn, My boy Tammy? I praised her een sae lovely blue, Her dimpled cheek and cherry mou'; I preed it aft, as ye may trow— She said she'd tell her mammy.
I held her to my beating breast, My young, my smiling lammy; I held her to my beating breast, My young, my smiling lammy: I hae a house, it cost me dear, I've wealth o' plenishing and gear, Ye'se get it a', war't ten times mair, Gin ye will leave your mammy.
The smile gaed aff her bonny face, I maunna leave my mammy; The smile gaed aff her bonny face, I maunna leave my mammy: She's gi'en me meat, she's gi'en me claise, She's been my comfort a' my days; My father's death brought mony waes— I canna leave my mammy.
We'll tak' her hame, and mak' her fain, My ain kind-hearted lammy; We'll tak' her hame, and mak' her fain, My ain kind-hearted lammy: We'll gie her meat, we'll gie her claise, We'll be her comfort a' her days; The wee thing gi'es her han', and says— There! gang and ask my mammy.
Has she been to the kirk wi' thee, My boy Tammy? Has she been to the kirk wi' thee, My boy Tammy? She's been to kirk wi' me, And the tear was in her e'e; But, oh! she's but a young thing, Just come frae her mammy!
[Footnote 57: Another version was obtained from Yorkshire:
Where have you been all the day, My boy Billy? Where have you been all the day, My boy Billy?
I have been all the day Courting of a lady gay; Although she is a young thing, And just come from her mammy!
Is she fit to be thy love, My boy Billy? She is as fit to be my love, As my hand is for my glove, Although she is, &c.
Is she fit to be thy wife, My boy Billy? She is as fit to be my wife, As my blade is for my knife; Although she is, &c.
How old may she be, My boy Billy? Twice six, twice seven, Twice twenty and eleven; Although she is, &c.]
The ballad of Lord Randal, printed by Sir Walter Scott, may, after all, furnish the true solution to the meaning of our nursery rhyme, and I am therefore induced to insert a version of it still popular in Scotland, in which the hero of the song is styled Laird Rowland:
Ah! where have you been, Lairde Rowlande, my son? Ah! where have you been, &c. I've been in the wild-woods, Mither, mak my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, And faine would lie down.
Oh! you've been at your true love's, Lairde Rowlande, my son! Oh! you've been at your true love's, &c. I've been at my true love's, Mither, mak my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, And faine would lie down.
What got you to dinner, Lairde Rowlande, my son? What got you to dinner, &c. I got eels boil'd in brue, Mither, mak my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, And faine would lie down.
What's become of your Warden, Lairde Rowlande, my son? What's become of your Warden, &c. He died in the muirlands, Mither, mak my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, And faine would lie down.
What's become of your stag-hounds, Lairde Rowlande, my son? What's become of your stag-hounds, &c. They swelled and they died! Mither, mak my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, And faine would lie down.
The fable or plot of this seems to be, that Lord Rowlande, upon a visit at the castle of his mistress, has been poisoned by the drugged viands at the table of her father, who was averse to her marriage with the lord. Finding himself weary, and conscious that he is poisoned, he returns to his home, and wishes to retire to his chamber without raising in his mother any suspicions of the state of his body and mind. This may be gathered from his short and evasive answers, and the importunate entreaties with which he requests his mother to prepare his chamber.
In Swedish there are two distinct versions: one, the Child's Last Wishes, in Geijer and Afzelius, iii. 13, beginning—
Hvar har du varit så länge, Dotter, liten kind? Jag har varit hos min Amma, Kär styf-moder min! För aj aj! ondt hafver jag—jag!
Where hast thou been so long now, My sweet wee little child? Sure with my nurse I've tarried, My own step-mother mild! For oh! oh! sore pains have I—I!
The second is in Afzelius, ii. 90, under the same title, and beginning—
Hvar har du va't så länge, Lilla dotter kind? Jag har va't i Bänne, Hos broderen min! Aj, aj, ondt hafver jag, jag!
Where hast thou been so long now, Wee little daughter fine? In Bänne have I tarried, With brother mine! Oh! oh! sore pains have I—I!
Both are sung to exquisitely melancholy melodies.
Dr. Jamieson makes some very just observations on this ballad, and the importance of tracing this class of tales. "That any of the Scotch, English, and German copies of the same tale have been borrowed or translated from another, seems very improbable; and it would now be in vain to attempt to ascertain what it originally was, or in what age it was produced. It has had the good fortune in every country to get possession of the nursery, a circumstance which, from the enthusiasm and curiosity of young imaginations, and the communicative volubility of little tongues, has insured its preservation. Indeed, many curious relics of past times are preserved in the games and rhymes found amongst children, which are on that account by no means beneath the notice of the curious traveller, who will be surprised to find, after the lapse of so many ages, and so many changes of place, language, and manners, how little these differ among different nations of the same original stock, who have been so long divided and estranged from each other."
MY COCK LILY-COCK.
An inferior version of the following, which was obtained from Essex, is printed in Mr. Chambers's Popular Rhymes of Scotland, ed. 1847, p. 190. A Swedish version, or rather a variation, in Lilja, p. 17, commences as follows: "I served a farmer for four years, and he paid me with a hen. 'Skrock, skrock!' said my hen. I served a farmer for four years, and he paid me with a cock. 'Kucklilo!' said my cock. 'Skrock, skrock!' said my hen, &c."
I had a cock, and a cock lov'd me, And I fed my cock under a hollow tree; My cock cried—cock-cock-coo— Every body loves their cock, and I love my cock too!
I had a hen, and a hen lov'd me, And I fed my hen under a hollow tree; My hen went—chickle-chackle, chickle-chackle— My cock cried—cock-cock-coo— Every body loves their cock, and I love my cock too!
I had a goose, and a goose lov'd me, And I fed my goose under a hollow tree; My goose went—qua'k, qua'k— My hen went—chickle-chackle, chickle-chackle— My cock cried—cock-cock-coo— Every body loves their cock, and I love my cock too!
I had a duck, and a duck lov'd me, And I fed my duck under a hollow tree; My duck went—quack, quack, quack— My goose went—qua'k, qua'k— My hen went—chickle-chackle, chickle-chackle— My cock cried—cock-cock-coo— Every body loves their cock, and I love my cock too!
I had a drake, and a drake lov'd me, And I fed my drake under a hollow tree; My drake went—ca-qua, ca-qua, ca-qua— My duck went—quack, quack, quack— My goose went—qua'k, qua'k, qua'k— My hen went—chickle-chackle, chickle-chackle— My cock cried—cock-cock-coo— Every body loves their cock, and I love my cock too!
I had a cat, and a cat lov'd me, And I fed my cat under a hollow tree; My cat went—miow, miow, miow— My drake went—ca-qua, ca-qua, ca-qua— My duck went—quack, quack, quack— My goose went—qua'k, qua'k, qua'k— My hen went—chickle-chackle, chickle-chackle— My cock cried—cock-cock-coo— Every body loves their cock, and I love my cock too!
I had a dog, &c. My dog went—bow, wow, wow— I had a cow, &c. My cow went—moo, moo, moo— I had a sheep, &c. My sheep went—baa, baa, baa— I had a donkey, &c. My donkey went—hi-haugh, hi-haugh— I had a horse, &c.; My horse went—whin-neigh-h-h-h-h—
I had a pig, and a pig lov'd me, And I fed my pig under a hollow tree; And my pig went—hoogh, hoogh, hoogh— My horse went—whin-neigh-h-h-h-h— My donkey went—hi-haugh, hi-haugh— My sheep went—baa, baa, baa— My cow went—moo, moo, moo— My dog went—bow, wow, wow— My cat went—miow, miow, miow— My drake went—ca-qua, ca-qua, ca-qua— My duck went—quack, quack, quack— My goose went—qua'k, qua'k, qua'k— My hen went—chickle-chackle, chickle-chackle— My cock cried—cock-cock-coo— Every body loves their cock, and I love my cock too!
And so the pig—grunted, The horse—neigh'd, The donkey—bray'd, The sheep—bleated, The cow—low'd, The dog—bark'd, The cat—mew'd, The drake—quackled, The duck—cackled, The goose—gobbled, The hen—chuckled, The cock—crow'd— And my cock cried—cock-cock-coo!— Every body loves their cock, and I love my cock too!
JACK SPRAT.
Fragments of this tale are common in the nursery, but I have only met with one copy of the following poem, which appears to be of some antiquity, although it is here printed from a modern chap-book:
Jack Sprat could eat no fat, His wife could eat no lean, And so between them both, They licked the platter clean. Jack eat all the lean, Joan eat all the fat, The bone they picked clean, Then gave it to the cat.
When Jack Sprat was young, He dressed very smart, He courted Joan Cole, And he gained her heart. In his fine leather doublet, And old greasy hat, Oh, what a smart fellow Was little Jack Sprat!
Joan Cole had a hole In her petticoat, Jack Sprat, to get a patch, Gave her a groat; The groat bought a patch, Which stopped the hole, "I thank you, Jack Sprat," Says little Joan Cole.
Jack Sprat was the bridegroom, Joan Cole was the bride, Jack said, from the church, His Joan home should ride. But no coach could take her, The lane was so narrow, Said Jack, then I'll take her Home in a wheelbarrow.
Jack Sprat was wheeling His wife by the ditch, The barrow turned over, And in she did pitch; Says Jack, she'll be drown'd, But Joan did reply, I don't think I shall, For the ditch is quite dry.
Jack brought home his Joan, And she sat in a chair, When in came his cat, That had got but one ear. Says Joan, I'm come home, Puss, Pray, how do you do? The cat wagg'd her tail, And said nothing but "mew."
Jack Sprat took his gun, And went to the brook, He shot at the drake, But he killed the duck. He brought it to Joan, Who a fire did make To roast the fat duck, While Jack went for the drake.
The drake was swimming With his curly tail, Jack Sprat came to shoot him, But happened to fail; He let off his gun, But missing his mark, The drake flew away, Crying, "Quack, quack, quack."
Jack Sprat to live pretty, Now bought him a pig, It was not very little, It was not very big; It was not very lean, It was not very fat, It will serve for a grunter For little Jack Sprat.
Then Joan went to market To buy her some fowls, She bought a jackdaw And a couple of owls. The owls they were white, The jackdaw was black, They'll make a rare breed, Says little Joan Sprat.
Jack Sprat bought a cow, His Joan for to please, For Joan she could make Both butter and cheese; Or pancakes or puddings, Without any fat: A notable housewife Was little Joan Sprat.
Joan Sprat went to brewing A barrel of ale, She put in some hops That it might not turn stale; But as for the malt, She forgot to put that, This is brave sober liquor, Said little Jack Sprat.
Jack Sprat went to market, And bought him a mare, She was lame of three legs, And as blind as she could stare; Her ribs they were bare, For the mare had no fat, She looks like a racer, Says little Jack Sprat.
Jack and Joan went abroad, Puss took care of the house, She caught a large rat And a very small mouse: She caught a small mouse, And a very large rat; You're an excellent hunter, Says little Jack Sprat.
Now I have told you the story Of little Jack Sprat, And little Joan Cole, And the poor one-ear'd cat. Now Jack loved Joan, And good things he taught her, Then she gave him a son, Then after a daughter.
Now Jack has got rich And has plenty of pelf; If you know any more, You may tell it yourself.
DABBLING IN THE DEW.
The following pretty ballad appears to be a humorous imitation of an Elizabethan eclogue-song. Its style guarantees its antiquity:
Oh, where are you going, My pretty maiden fair, With your red rosy cheeks, And your coal-black hair?
I'm going a-milking, Kind sir, says she; And it's dabbling in the dew, Where you'll find me.
May I go with you, My pretty maiden fair, &c. Oh, you may go with me, Kind sir, says she, &c.
If I should chance to kiss you, My pretty maiden fair, &c. The wind may take it off again, Kind sir, says she, &c.
If I should chance to lay you down, My pretty maiden fair, &c. Then you must pick me up again, Kind sir, says she, &c.
If I should chance to run away, My pretty maiden fair, &c. The De'el may then run away wi' you, Kind sir, says she, &c.
And what is your father, My pretty maiden fair, &c. My father is a farmer, Kind sir, says she, &c.