第58章

LONG Preston Peg to proud Preston went, To see the Scotch rebels it was her intent.

A noble Scotch lord, as he passed by, On this Yorkshire damsel did soon cast an eye.

He called to his servant, which on him did wait, 'Go down to yon girl who stands in the gate, That sings with a voice so soft and so sweet, And in my name do her lovingly greet.'

Ballad: THE SWEET NIGHTINGALE; OR, DOWN IN THOSE VALLEYS BELOW.

AN ANCIENT CORNISH SONG.

[THIS curious ditty, which may be confidently assigned to the seventeenth century, is said to be a translation from the ancient Cornish tongue. We first heard it in Germany, in the pleasure-gardens of the Marienberg, on the Moselle. The singers were four Cornish miners, who were at that time, 1854, employed at some lead mines near the town of Zell. The leader or 'Captain,' John Stocker, said that the song was an established favourite with the lead miners of Cornwall and Devonshire, and was always sung on the pay-days, and at the wakes; and that his grandfather, who died thirty years before, at the age of a hundred years, used to sing the song, and say that it was very old. Stocker promised to make a copy of it, but there was no opportunity of procuring it before we left Germany. The following version has been supplied by a gentleman in Plymouth, who writes:-I have had a great deal of trouble about THE VALLEY BELOW. It is not in print. I first met with one person who knew one part, then with another person who knew another part, but nobody could sing the whole. At last, chance directed me to an old man at work on the roads, and he sung and recited it throughout, not exactly, however, as I send it, for I was obliged to supply a little here and there, but only where a bad rhyme, or rather none at all, made it evident what the real rhyme was. I have read it over to a mining gentleman at Truro, and he says 'It is pretty near the way we sing it.'

The tune is plaintive and original.]

'MY sweetheart, come along!

Don't you hear the fond song, The sweet notes of the nightingale flow?

Don't you hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sings in those valleys below?

So be not afraid To walk in the shade, Nor yet in those valleys below, Nor yet in those valleys below.

'Pretty Betsy, don't fail, For I'll carry your pail, Safe home to your cot as we go;You shall hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sings in those valleys below.'

But she was afraid To walk in the shade, To walk in those valleys below, To walk in those valleys below.

'Pray let me alone, I have hands of my own;Along with you I will not go, To hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sings in those valleys below;For I am afraid To walk in the shade, To walk in those valleys below, To walk in those valleys below.'

'Pray sit yourself down With me on the ground, On this bank where sweet primroses grow;You shall hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sings in those valleys below;So be not afraid To walk in the shade, Nor yet in those valleys below, Nor yet in those valleys below.'

This couple agreed;

They were married with speed, And soon to the church they did go.

She was no more afraid For to walk in the shade, Nor yet in those valleys below:

Nor to hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sung in those valleys below, As she sung in those valleys below.

Ballad: THE OLD MAN AND HIS THREE SONS.

[THIS traditional ditty, founded upon the old ballad inserted ANTE, p. 124, is current as a nursery song in the North of England.]

THERE was an old man, and sons he had three, Wind well, Lion, good hunter.

A friar he being one of the three, With pleasure he ranged the north country, For he was a jovial hunter.

As he went to the woods some pastime to see, Wind well, Lion, good hunter, He spied a fair lady under a tree, Sighing and moaning mournfully.

He was a jovial hunter.

'What are you doing, my fair lady!'

Wind well, Lion, good hunter.

'I'm frightened, the wild boar he will kill me, He has worried my lord, and wounded thirty, As thou art a jovial hunter.'

Then the friar he put his horn to his mouth, Wind well, Lion, good hunter.

And he blew a blast, east, west, north, and south, And the wild boar from his den he came forth Unto the jovial hunter.

Ballad: A BEGGING WE WILL GO.

[THE authorship of this song is attributed to Richard Brome - (he who once 'performed a servant's faithful part' for Ben Jonson) - in a black-letter copy in the Bagford Collection, where it is entitled THE BEGGARS' CHORUS IN THE 'JOVIAL CREW,' TO AN EXCELLENT NEW TUNE.

No such chorus, however, appears in the play, which was produced at the Cock-pit in 1641; and the probability is, as Mr. Chappell conjectures, that it was only interpolated in the performance. It is sometimes called THE JOVIAL BEGGAR. The tune has been from time to time introduced into several ballad operas; and the song, says Mr. Chappell, who publishes the air in his POPULAR MUSIC, 'is the prototype of many others, such as A BOWLING WE WILL GO, A FISHINGWE WILL GO, A HAWKING WE WILL GO, and A FISHING WE WILL GO. The last named is still popular with those who take delight in hunting, and the air is now scarcely known by any other title.]

THERE was a jovial beggar, He had a wooden leg, Lame from his cradle, And forced for to beg.

And a begging we will go, we'll go, we'll go;And a begging we will go!

A bag for his oatmeal, Another for his salt;And a pair of crutches, To show that he can halt.

And a begging, &c..

A bag for his wheat, Another for his rye;A little bottle by his side, To drink when he's a-dry.

And a begging, &c.

Seven years I begged For my old Master Wild, He taught me to beg When I was but a child.

And a begging, &c.

I begged for my master, And got him store of pelf;But now, Jove be praised!

I'm begging for myself.

And a begging, &c.

In a hollow tree I live, and pay no rent;Providence provides for me, And I am well content.

And a begging, &c.

Of all the occupations, A beggar's life's the best;For whene'er he's weary, He'll lay him down and rest.

And a begging, &c.

I fear no plots against me, I live in open cell;Then who would be a king When beggars live so well?

And a begging we will go, we'll go, we'll go;And a begging we will go!