Part 21
Well! that maey be thickey suppoashal’s o’ thine; But fath! ’tis noa mazedish condudle o’ mine! Noa—soa sartin as thickey there place es Kearn Braey, The Franchmen be coaming to car us awey. They’ve five hundred great sheps, and mashes of men, And sich powars of cannons, as ever was sen! But the worstest of ale (sez a man cum’d from Famuth), They have swared to burn ale from Tol Ped’n to Plemuth; And to force ale the people, boath Chrestians and Jews, For to live upon quilkins and pagetopooes; And moar too than thickey, they’ll hitch in a roap Every soual that weant pray to the Devel and Poap! Thof I beant quite soa rich-like in cuyn as a squire, Yet I’ve soam little cob-shans, Jan Trudle! dedst hire? Soa for doubting, cheeld lookey! I’ve steev’d et, oak farm, And “fast bind it, fast find it,” weant do one noa harm. Soa for doubting cheeld vean! (as I tould tha afoar) I’ve squadg’d et down ninety good fathoms and moar, In a drang, where ould scratch, ef ha ever inclin’d et, Might sclau ale his claws off afoar he wud find et. For the outlandish Pagans, in caze they do landey, Will go drifting for cuyn, like excise-men for brandey; But ef ever they smill out the pleace where I’ve poat et, May my corps like a pelchard be saleted and goated!
Jan Trudle.
Why then zounds! let ’em coam, ef soo be they’ve a mind Thee hast shanks for to skeyce with thy fardle behind. Thee maeyest scamp wi’ the wemmen and cheldren, thee goose! And the oather gret gaukums that take the same coose. And may ale the [27]big thunder-bolts up in the clouds Tumble down ’pon my body, and squat ’em to jouds, May I broyle like grain-tin in a blowing-house fire, ’Tell I’m rud as the smith makes the pieces of ire; Ef I weant be shut ded, afoar enny soap-meagar, Shall slavify me like a blackey-moor negar, And make me ate quilkins and pagetepooes, And worship the Devel and wear woaden shoes! [28] Noa fath! by the sperit and soal of my body, I’d rather be toarn’d to a hoddymandoddy! Doan’t stand, tha’ great lutterpooch! chewing tha thumb; For they’ll get a mayn dousting when ever they coam!
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN GRACEY PENROSE AND MALLY TREVISKY.
Gracey.
Faith and trath then, I b’leve, in ten parishes round, Sickey roage, sichey vellan, es nat to ba found!
Mally.
Whot’s tha fussing, un Gracey! long wetha, cheel vean?
Gracey.
A fussing aketha! od splet es ould braeane! Our Martin’s cum’d hum, cheeld, so drunk as a beast, So cross as the gallish from Perranzan veast, A kicking, a tottering, a cussin, and swearing, So hard as the stomses a tarving and tearing.
Mally.
Naver mind et, un Gracey!—cheeld, put en to bed: Aal slepe ale the lecker away from hes head.
Gracey.
I wudden go neast an to fang the King’s crown; For a swears, ef I speke t’un, aal cleave my skull down. Thee never in aal thy born days, fath and shoar, Dedst behould sickey mazegerry pattick afore. Why a scatt all to midjans and jouds for the nons A cloam buzza of scale milk about on the scons; And a catch’d up a shoul for to steve me outright; And I run’d away ready to fainty for fright. Loard! tell ma, un Mally! what shall I do by an— For zountikins! death! I’m affeared to go nigh an.
Mally.
I know what I’d gee’n, ef sa bee ’twor my caze: I’d scatt the ould chacks an, I’d trem an, un Grace!
Gracey.
I’m affear’d a ma life to go nigh the ould vellan, Else, please father, I bleve I should parfectly kell an, But I’ll never no more be so bauld and abus’d: My arms here like bazam the roage have abruis’d! I made for hes supper a muggetty pye; But a shant clunk a croom ate, I wish a may die!
Mally.
I tould thee, afore that the job was adone, That theedst find out tha odds ate so sure as a gun: But thee wusent hark to me for doubting, for why, Becase thee didst know en much better than I? But I know’d the trem aan before thee hads got an, And tould thee a mashes of stories about an. But thee answered so toytish, and skrink’d up tha noze, A gissing ’twas gret stramming lyes I suppoze. There’s one of es pranks I shall always remembar, (’Twill be dree years agon come the ighth of Novembar), I’d two purty young mabyers as eyes cou’d behould, So fat as the butter, just ighteen weeks ould: They were picking about in town-place for meat: So I hove down some pellase among mon to eat; When who but your man cum’d a tottering along, So drunk that I thoft he wud fale in the dung: Aleft fale hes hoggan-bag jest by the door; So I caal’d to the man (as one would to be sure) Says I: “Martin! dust hire, cheeld? cum take up tha bag;” “Arra, (sezza) for what art a caleing me dog!” An a run’d forth, tha roage, an nar better nar wus, Nact the mabyers both stef with a geart maur of fusse. Like anow ef I eadnt got hasty’s away, He’d adone as a ded by Jan Rose t’other day; When a got in his tantrums, a wilful ould devil, And slam’d the poor soal in the head with a kebbal.
Gracey.
When the cyder is run’d away every drap, ’Tis too late to be thinkene of plugging the tap: And marriage must go as the Loard doth ordain: Yet ef I’d know’d the coose aan, un Mally, cheel vean? Ef I’d known the coose aan but nine weeks ago I’d never ha had the ould vellan, I know. But a vow’d and a swared that ef I’d be hes wife, I never should want all the days of my life; And a broft me a nakin and corn-save from Preen— En ma conscience, thoft I, I shall live like a Queen! But tes plagy provoking, adsplet hes ould head! To be pooted and slopt so! I wish a were dead! Why a spent half hes fangings last Saturday night: Like anow, by this time, tes gone every dyte. But I’ll tame the ould deval afore et es long— Ef I caant wa ma vistes I will wa ma tonge!
CHRISTMAS CAROLS.
Some of us remember when it was a custom, in the parishes of West Cornwall, for a few elderly persons to meet in Church, late on Christmas Eve, and sing till after midnight, a good number of cheerful, quaint old carols, which were quite different from the solemn Christmas hymns that have supplanted them.
The favourite carols, for the most part contained such legends as are preserved in the Mysteries, or Old Miracle Plays, which continued to be performed in the western parishes, on Sunday afternoons, down to Elizabeth’s reign or later. Others may have been derived from the Apocryphal Gospels.
Such, for instance, are the circumstances referred to in the Cherry-tree carol, beginning with
“Joseph was an old man, an old man was he, When he wedded Mary, in the land of Galilee, When Joseph and Mary walked in the garden good, There were cherries and berries as red as the blood.”
And the Holy-well, which thus begins:—
“As it fell out, one May morning, And upon one bright holiday, Sweet Jesus asked of His dear mother, If He might go out to play.”
Many other examples might be given of these legendary pieces, which are now almost forgotten.
We were delighted, however, last Christmas, to hear a few youngsters singing in Penzance streets the pleasant one called the Sunny Bank, or the Three Ships, which is also very old.
Among those of special interest may be noticed “In those Twelve Days,” “The Joys of Mary,” and “Man’s Duty.” Slightly different versions of these are common here and in Wales; and according to Mr. W. Sandys, there is a Breton song, as old as the fifth century, in the dialect of Cornouaille, called “Ar Rannou,” or “Les Series,” arranged as a dialogue between a Druid and his disciple on their ancient maxims and rites, which is similar in idea and construction to “In those Twelve Days,” or “What is that which is but one?”
The early missionaries engrafted on this ancient Armorican poem a Latin hymn, in the same form, where the series of twelve subjects is connected with the Christian religion and agrees with those of the carol,
“What is that which is but one?”
At the end of each verse in the Druid’s Song, the Latin hymn, and the three last-mentioned carols, all the previous subjects are repeated in the style of “The House that Jack built.” The whole piece can be constructed from the last verse. That of “In those Twelve Days,” is given as an example:—
“In those TWELVE days, and in those twelve days, let us be glad, For God of His power hath all things made.
What are they that are but twelve? Twelve Apostles Christ did choose To preach the Gospel to the Jews. And in those twelve days, &c.
Eleven thousand virgins did partake, And suffered death for Jesu’s sake.
Ten commandments God hath given, Use them well, and go to Heaven.
Nine degrees of angels high, Which praise God continually.
Eight beatitudes are given, Use them well, and go to Heaven.
Seven days in the week have we, Six to work and the seventh holy.
Six ages this world shall last, Five of them are gone and past.
Five senses we have to tell, God grant us grace to use them well.
Four Gospels written true— John, Luke, Mark, and Matthew.
Three persons in the Trinity, The Father, Son, and Ghost Holy.
Two Testaments, as we are told, The one is New, the other Old.
We have but One God alone, In Heaven above sits on His throne. And in those twelve days,” &c.
Old country folk may still be often heard chanting this ancient effusion, with all its repetitions. It is more frequently, however, recited or taught to children as a kind of pious exercise for their memories at Christmastide.
Cornish people have been famous for their carols from an early date. Scawen says:—“They had them at several times, especially at Christmas, which they solemnly sung, and sometimes used in their churches, after prayers, the burthen of them being ‘Nowell, Nowell, good news, good news, of the Gospel.’”
These old joyful Christmas songs have long held their own—thanks to their wonderfully interesting legends and their lively tunes, that seem like the echoes of merry peals of bells.
ANCIENT MIDSUMMER CUSTOMS.
Our bonfires, torches, and tar-barrels, with the peculiar hand-in-hand dance around the blazing piles, remind us of ancient times when similar customs were regarded as sacred rites by our forefathers; and it would seem as if some vestiges of these time-honoured religious notions were still connected with Midsummer bonfires in the minds of old-fashioned people, living in remote and primitive districts, where the good folks still believe that dancing in a ring over the embers, around a bonfire, or leaping (singly) through the flames, is calculated to ensure good luck to the performers, and to serve as a protection from witchcraft and other malign influences during the ensuing year.
Many years ago, on Midsummer’s eve, when it became dusk, very old people in the West country would hobble away to some high ground, whence they obtained a view of the most prominent hills, such as Bartinney, Chapel Carn-brea, Sancras Bickan, Castle-an-dinas, Trecrobben, Carn Galvar, St. Ann’s Bickan, and many other beacon hills far away to north and east, which vied with each other in their Midsummer’s blaze. Some of them anxiously watched for a sight of the first fire. From its position, with respect to them, they drew a presage of good or bad luck. If first beheld in the east it was a good sign. There are now but few bonfires seen on the western heights; yet we have observed that Tregonan, Godolphin, and Carn Marth hills, with others away towards Redruth, still retain their Baal fires. We would gladly go many miles to see the weird-looking yet picturesque dancers around the flames on a carn, or high hill top, as we have beheld them some thirty years ago.
We are sorry to find that another pleasing Midsummer’s observance, which also appears to be ancient, has almost died out. Yet within the memory of many who would not like to be called old, or even aged, on a Midsummer’s eve, long before sunset, groups of girls, of from ten to twenty years of age, neatly dressed and decked with garlands, wreaths, or chaplets of flowers, would be seen dancing in the streets.
One favourite mode of adornment was to sew or pin on the skirt of a white dress, rows of laurel-leaves, often spangled with gold leaf. Before Midsummer small wooden hoops were in great demand, to be wreathed with green boughs and flowers for garlands, to be worn over one shoulder and under the opposite arm. Towards sunset, groups of graceful damsels, joined by their brothers, friends or lovers, would be seen “threading the needle,” playing at “kiss-in-the-ring,” or simply dancing along, every here and there from Chyandour to Alverton, from the Quay to Caunsehead, as the upper part of the town used then to be called, perhaps with more propriety than Causewayhead.
And here, at Caunsehead, this innocent pastime was most generally observed and lingered longest.
THE “HILLA.”
From the ideas of old folks respecting this distemper, one may conjecture that its Cornish name meant some kind of spirit which had, for the time, taken a material form. Forty years or more ago, an old farmer of Sancreed, who had been a noted hurler when in his prime, told me that in his younger days, when hurling matches came off between Sancras and some neighbouring parish almost every Sunday afternoon, he seldom missed a game, and if the silver ball came into his hands it seldom left them until he brought it to Sancras churchtown. When hard pressed, as they always were on arriving near the “gold” (goal) the cry of “Gare teag” (fair play) “for Sancras boys” would be heard for a mile or more from churchtown, and put them in heart for their last run; while St. Just men would be calling “One and ale (all) for Santusters,” as they came down round the Bickan to cut off their opponents, if they could, as their last hope. But that they could seldom do. Then, after resting awhile, with his comrades, he steered his course for Sellan, where he lived with an uncle, or grandfather, one old Uter Bossence. “I can’t say how long we stayed in the comfortable old public house, I’m sure,” said the hurler, “for we were all so happy together and loath to part; those from a distance just stepped in, had a drink, and away; at such times, too, the usually quiet old inn would wake up an be all alive for a bit. Then the ‘tenders’ (waiters) on coming into the rooms with pewter flagons of foaming ale would sing out, ‘The bird in hand, my dears; we can’t stay to use the chalk!’ A fluttering bird with his legs grasped by a hand, was painted on the old signboard, and under this picture the couplet:—
‘A bird in hand is better fare Than two that in the bushes are.’”
The old man went on to say how every now and then, he got piskey-led on his way home to Sellan. As sure as he missed the church-road he would be led miles about, round and round the same field, ere he could find it again. If he left the field he seldom knew where he was again before the break o’ day, and then was most likely to find himself near Brane Rings (Caer Brane) instead of on the other side of churchtown. Near the Rings piskey would leave him, laughing like nothing else but a piskey!
When once inside the Castle enclosure, he lay down and slept soundly till sunrise or after. For everybody knew that anywhere within the Rings on Brane hill, the same as at Bartinney, nothing evil that wanders the earth by night could harm them. They meant spirits of the Bucka-boo (dhu) tribe. Small people (fairies) are friendly to man and beast, unless interfered with, and Brane Rings was one of their haunts.
If he wanted to get home early and tried to break through the fog, which always surrounds a piskey, he would oftener find himself in broad daylight, down by Chappel Uny than over in Sellan. Sometimes, however, when by bad luck the ball was carried off to another parish, he was ready, on returning homeward, to drop down and sleep in a pool of water. “At such times,” said he, “I tumbled into the first house I came by, no matter where ’twas, for in these times, a Bossence was home anywhere in Sancras or Santust either.” Just as soon as he lay down—whether in bed, among the hay, or elsewhere,—the Hilla would be on him and lay with such a dead weight that he could neither move hand nor foot, nor call for help if it were to save his life, which seemed to be almost squeezed out of him sometimes. When the Hilla left he came to himself and found all about him wet with sweat. “And I felt as sore,” said the old hurler in conclusion, “as if I’d ben thrashed with a thrashal on a barn-boards; then, when I cud, I stretched myself in the sunshine on the bare ground, for there’s nothing like the sun and earth for healing the bruises in one’s flesh and getting the pain out of one’s bones; and I’m sure as I’m speakan to thee, my son, that the Hilla was nothan else but the same cussed piskey, in another form; and older and wiser people say the same thing.”
Only a few weeks since an elderly native of St. Just told me he had often heard his father say that people who were subject to the Hilla, or feared it, were in the habit of taking to bed with them a couple of forks, one of which was placed on either side within reach of the hand. If the troubled person could stretch his or her arms, or only one arm, and touch a fork with one finger even, that instant the Hilla would decamp; for this sprite, like all other evil ones, feared cold iron so much that the Hilla-ridden never had the chance to stab the thing.
The elder St. Just man did not know for certain about the Hilla’s form, as it was never seen; yet, from the feeling on the breast, or whatever it was, people said it was a great hairy thing which lay on them with a dead weight that almost stopped their breathing.
The “Stag” is a lighter creature of the same class. People whose rest has only been slightly troubled say they only had the “Stag” and not the “Hilla,” by good luck.
THE ANCIENT CORNISH LANGUAGE IN THE COLONIES.
Cornishmen’s clannish propensities are well known and are most apparent when they meet in foreign lands. At the gold-fields of Australia, as elsewhere, they stand by and support each other “through thick and thin.” Cornishmen are also preferred for many kinds of work which require some degree of engineering skill, and they seldom undertake any employment for which they are incompetent. Consequently, many persons from other shires who have never been west of the Tamar try to pass themselves off as Cornishmen, and sometimes succeed in being received into the fellowship of “One and All.” If, however, the stranger be suspected of “sailing under false colours,” when they are all in familiar chat about nothing in particular, “Cousin Jackey” will take occasion to say to the new chum “My dear; ded ’e ever see a duck klunk a gay?” If the stranger be up to the intent of the question he will probably reply, “Learn thy granny to lap ashes,” which is the West Country equivalent for teaching the same venerable dame to suck eggs; but, if ignorant of what the question means, he is given to understand that they regard him as an interloper and will be no more deceived by him than a duck can be made to klunk (swallow) a gay (fragment of broken crockery.)
The proverbial saying of “nobody ever saw a duck klunk a gay”—meaning that no one will be deceived beyond a certain point—may be puzzling to some Cornish readers as well as to strangers; those, however, who are country-born and bred remember that when children they often left the table with their meals unfinished and ran out with their morsels in their hands and their “gays” in their pockets, eager to join their playmates in the town-place; and how the village ducks—knowing the childrens’ custom—gathered around them to pick up the crumbs, or to snatch the food from the childrens’ hands, and the urchins often tossed them a “gay,” which the greedy fowl gobble up and drop, one after the other, but never swallow. It is a comical sight to see how the ducks, on having discovered the cheat, look askaunt at the “didjan” of broken clome, shaking their tails and quacking in anger or scorn the while.
The Gileadites’ Shibboleth served much the same purpose in the times of the Judges of Israel as the old proverb does to-day among Cornishmen abroad. (Judges xii chap., 5 and 6 verses.)
The usual test above-mentioned fails sometimes, chiefly from young Cornishmen making comrades of strangers, as they are apt to do for short spells, in which case they have other tests for the next opportunity, but all turn on the same idea—that of using words only understood by themselves. One more will serve as an example.
A Cornishman will come behind the stranger who wishes to pass for a genuine Cornubian and say, quite natural-like, “Mate! there’s a green myryan on thy nudack.” The venomous bite or sting of a green myryan (ant) being much dreaded, a Cornishman would either put his hand to the nape of his neck, to brush it off, or show in some way that he understood the meaning—looking “as dazed as a duck against (on hearing) thunder” the while.
ACCORDING HOW ET MAY DROP.
Shortly after Jackey came a-courting, one Sunday afternoon, his sweetheart placed on the board all she required for making a heavy cake. Last thing, before mixing flour and cream, she took a hearty pinch of snuff and wiped her fingers on her “touser.” Whilst making the cake, she said to Jackey, “thee hast been courtan me now for years, off and on, and always promised thee west marry me soon; now west a marry me before Christmas?” Whilst the woman was talking and working up the cake, Jackey noticed a snuffy drop quivering on the tip of her nose. “Can’t tell thee yet,” Jackey replied, “es accordan how a may drop.” An instant after he stamped away to the door, and turning round, called out, “No! I’ll neither marry thee before Christmas nor after, nor eat any more cakes of thy makean.” How it dropped was made plain enough by Jackey’s behaviour.
CORNISH WORDS IN USE.
“SA! SA!”