“You’ll find some of this lettuce and watercress eat well with your beef, Sir,” said he, pushing across a dish.
“Thank you, Sir,” said I; “I find that watching the games makes one very hungry.”
“The air, Sir, all the downs air,” said the Doctor; “I call them Doctor Downs. Do more for the appetite in six hours than I can in a week. Here, Peter, get this gentleman some of your mistress’s walnut pickles.”
And then the good-natured Doctor fell to upon his beef again, and chatted away with the scholars and me, and soon made me feel myself quite at home. I own that I had done my neighbours a little injustice; for they were pleasant enough when the ice was once broken, and I daresay didn’t mean to be rude after all.
As soon as I had finished my supper, the shorter of the scholars handed me a large cigar, the first whiff of which gave me a high idea of the taste of my contemporaries of the upper classes in the matter of tobacco.
Just then the verse of a song, in which two or three men were joining, rose from the other end of the tent, from amidst the hum of voices.
“I wish those fellows would sing out,” said the short scholar; “I can’t make out more than a word or two.”
“You wouldn’t be any the wiser if you could,” said the other; “we have ceased to be a singing nation. The people have lost the good old ballads, and have got nothing in their place.”
“How do you know?” said the short scholar; “I should like to hear for myself, at any rate.”
“What sort of ballads do you mean, Sir?” said I to the long scholar.
“Why, those in the Robin Hood Garland, for instance,” said he. “Songs written for the people, about their heroes, and, I believe, by the people. There’s nothing of the sort now.”
“What do you say to ‘There’s a Good Time Coming’?” asked the short scholar.
“Well, it’s the best of them, I believe,” said the other; “but you know it was written by Mackay, an LL.D. Besides, it’s essentially a town song.”
“It’s a tip-top one, at any rate,” said the short scholar; “I wish I could write such another.”
“What I say, is, that the popular songs now are written by litterateurs in London, Is there any life or go in ‘Woodman spare that Tree,’ or ‘The Old Arm-Chair’? and they are better than the slip-slop sentimental stuff most in vogue.”
“What a discontented old bird you are!” said the short scholar; “you’re never pleased with any product of this enlightened century.”
“Let the century get a character, then; when it does, we shall get some good staves. I’m not particular; a brave story, or a quaint story, or a funny story, in good rough verse, that’s all I ask for. But, where to find one? Here’s the Doctor for umpire. I say, Doctor, don’t you agree with me, now?”
“Not quite,” said the Doctor, looking up from his cold beef. “I dare say you wouldn’t think them worth much; but there are plenty of ballads sung about which you never hear.”
“What! real modern ballads, written by some of the masses, in this century, for instance? Where did you ever hear one, Doctor? What are they like, now?”
“Well, my work takes me a good deal about in queer places, and at queer times, amongst the country folk, and I hear plenty of them. Will one about Lord Nelson suit you? There’s an old patient of mine at the next table who owns a little coal wharf on the canal; he fell into the lock one night, broke his arm, and was nearly drowned, and I attended him. He takes a trip in the barges now and then, which makes him fancy himself half a sailor. I dare say I can set him off, if he hasn’t had too much beer.”
So the Doctor walked over to a lower table, and spoke to a grisly-headed old man in a velveteen coat and waistcoat, and a blue birdseye-neckerchief, who seemed pleased, and drew his sleeve across his mouth, and cleared his throat. Then there was a rapping on the table, and the old bargee began in a rumbling bass voice: —
THE DEATH OF LORD NELSON
Come all you gallant seamen as unites a meeting,
Attend to these lines I be going to relate,
And when you have heard them ’twill move you with pity
To think how Lord Nelson he met with his fate.
For he was a bold and undaunted commander
As ever did sail on the ocean so wide;
He made both the French and the Spaniard surrender
By always a-pouring into them a broadside.
One hundred engagements ’twas he had been into,
And ne’er in his life was he known to be beat,
Though he’d lost an arm, likewise a right eye, boys,
No power upon earth ever could him defeat.
His age at his death it was forty and seven;
And as long as I breathe, his great praises I’ll sing;
The whole navigation was given up to him,
Because he was loyal and true to his king.
Then up steps the doctor in a very great hurry,
And unto Lord Nelson these words did he say:
“Indeed, then, my Lord, it is I’m very sorry,
To see you here lying and bleeding this way.”
“No matter, no matter whatever about me,
My time it is come, I’m almost at the worst;
But here’s my gallant seamen a-fighting so boldly,
Discharge off your duty to all of them first.”
Then with a loud voice he calls out to his captain,
“Pray let me, sir, hear how the battle does go,
For I think our great guns do continue to rattle,
Though death is approaching I firmly do know.”
“The antagonist’s ship has gone down to the bottom,
Eighteen we have captive and brought them on board,
Four more we have blown quite out of the ocean,
And that is the news I have brought you, my Lord.”
Come all you gallant seamen as unites a meeting,
Always let Lord Nelson’s memory go round,
For it is your duty, when you unites a meeting,
Because he was loyal and true to the crownd.
And now to conclude and finish these verses,
“My time it is come; kiss me, Hardy,” he cried.
Now thousands go with you, and ten thousand blessings
For gallant Lord Nelson in battle who died.
Mourn, England, mourn, mourn and complain,
For the loss of Lord Nelson, who died on the main.
The short scholar was in raptures; he shouted in the chorus; he banged the table till he upset and broke his tumbler, which the vigilant landlady from behind the casks duly noted, and scored up to him.
I worked away at my note-book, and managed to get all the song, except one verse between the second and third, which I couldn’t catch.
“Bravo, Doctor! Here, waiter, get me another tumbler, and some more gin-punch. What a stunning call. Couldn’t the old bird give us another bit of history? It’s as good as reading ‘Southey’s Life,’ and much funnier,” rattled away the short scholar.
“What a quaint old grisly party it is!” said the long scholar; “I shall stand him a pot of beer.”
“Well, he won’t object to that,” said the Doctor, working away at the beef and pickles.
“Here, waiter, take a pot of beer, with my compliments, over to that gentleman,” said the long scholar, pointing to the old bargeman, “and say how much obliged we are to him for his song.”
So Peter trotted across with the liquor, and the old man telegraphed his acknowledgments.
“By the way, Doctor,” said the short scholar, “as you seem to know a good deal about these things, can you tell me what ‘Vicar of Bray’ means? I saw two men quarrelling just after the games, and it was all their wives could do to keep them from fighting, and I heard it was because one had called the other ‘Vicar of Bray.’”
“It means ‘turn-coat’ in Berkshire,” answered the Doctor. “I didn’t think they used the name now; but I remember the time when it was the common term of reproach. I dare say you know Bray, gentlemen?”
“I should think so,” said the short scholar; “pretty village just below Maidenhead. I pulled by it on my way to town last June.”
“Yes, and it’s hard on such a pretty village to have had such a bad parson,” said the Doctor.
“I say, Doctor, give us the ‘Vicar of Bray,’ now, it will set off some of the singing birds at the other end of the booth; I can see they’re getting into prime piping order.”
“Very good, if you like it,” said the Doctor, pushing away his plate, and taking a finishing pull at his pewter, “only the song is in print, I know, somewhere; so you mustn’t think you’ve found much of a prize, Sir,” added he to me, for my use of pencil and note-book hadn’t escaped him.
“No, Sir,” said I; “but I should like to hear it, of all things.”
So the Doctor, without further preface, began in his jolly clear voice —
THE VICAR OF BRAY
In good King Charles’s golden days,
When loyalty had no harm in’t,
A zealous High-Church man I was,
And so I gained preferment.
To teach my flock I never missed:
Kings were by God appointed;
And they are damned who dare resist,
Or touch the Lord’s anointed.
Chorus.– And this is law, I will maintain
Until my dying day, sir,
That whatsoever king shall reign,
I’ll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.
When Royal James obtained the throne,
And Popery grew in fashion,
The Penal Laws I hooted down,
And read the Declaration;
The Church of Rome I found would fit
Full well my constitution:
And I had been a Jesuit;
But for the Revolution.
And this is law, &c.
When William, our deliverer, came
To heal the nation’s grievance,
Then I turned cat-in-pan again,
And swore to him allegiance;
Old principles I did revoke,
Set conscience at a distance,
Passive obedience was a joke,
A jest was non-resistance.
And this is law, &c.
When glorious Anne became our queen,
The Church of England’s glory,
Another face of things was seen,
And I became a Tory.
Occasional Conformist case!
I damned such moderation;
And thought the Church in danger was
By such prevarication.
And this is law, &c.
When George in pudding-time came o’er
And moderate men looked big, sir,
My principles I changed once more,
And so became a Whig, sir.
And thus preferment I procured
From our Faith’s great Defender;
And almost every day abjured
The Pope and the Pretender.
For this is law, &c.
The illustrious House of Hanover,
And Protestant Succession,
By these I lustily will swear
While they can keep possession;
For in my faith and loyalty
I never once will falter,
But George my king shall ever be,
Except the times do alter.
For this is law, &c.
The short scholar was right as to the effect of the Doctor’s song. It was hailed with rapturous applause by the lower tables, though you would have said, to look at them, that scarcely a man of the audience, except those close round the singer, could have appreciated it. People don’t always like best what they fully understand; and I don’t know which is the greatest mistake, to fancy yourself above your audience, or to try to come down to them. The little stiffness which the presence of strangers belonging to the broad-cloth classes had at first created amongst the pastime folk was wearing off, and several songs were started at once from the distant parts of the booth, all of which, save one, came to untimely ends in the course of the first verse or so, leaving the field clear to a ruddy-faced, smock-frocked man, who, with his eyes cast up to the tent-top, droned through his nose the following mournful ditty: —
THE BARKSHIRE TRAGEDY
A varmer he lived in the West Countree,
Hey-down, bow-down,
A varmer he lived in the West Countree,
And he had daughters one, two, and dree.
And I’ll be true to my love,
If my love’ll be true to me.
As thay wur walking by the river’s brim,
Hey-down, bow-down,
As thay wur walking by the river’s brim,
The eldest pushed the youngest in.
And I’ll be true, &c.
“Oh sister, oh sister, pray gee me thy hand,
Hey-down, &c.
And I’ll gee thee both house and land.”
And I’ll, &c.
“I’ll neither gee thee hand nor glove,
Hey-down, &c.
Unless thou’lt gee me thine own true love.”
And I’ll, &c.
So down she sank and away she swam,
Hey-down, &c.
Until she came to the miller’s dam.
And I’ll, &c.
The miller’s daughter stood by the door,
Hey-down, &c.
As fair as any gilly-flow-èr.
And I’ll, &c.
“Oh vather, oh vather, here swims a swan,
Hey-down, &c.
Very much like a drownded gentlewomàn.”
And I’ll, &c.
The miller he fot his pole and hook,
Hey-down, &c.
And he fished the fair maid out of the brook.
And I’ll, &c.
“Oh miller, I’ll gee thee guineas ten,
Hey-down, &c.
If thou’lt fetch me back to my vather again.”
And I’ll, &c.
The miller he took her guineas ten,
Hey-down, &c.
And he pushed the fair maid in again.
And I’ll, &c.
But the Crowner he cum, and the Justice too,
Hey-down, &c.
With a hue and a cry and a hulla-balloo.
And I’ll, &c.
They hanged the miller beside his own gate,
Hey-down, &c.
For drowning the varmer’s daughter, Kate.
And I’ll, &c.
The sister she fled beyond the seas,
Hey-down, &c.
And died an old maid among black savageès.
And I’ll, &c.
So I’ve ended my tale of the West Countree,
And they calls it the Barkshire Trage-dèe.
And I’ll, &c.
“The Barkshire Tragedy, indeed! Now, Doctor, what have you to tell us about this? When did it happen? Who was the lady? Was she drowned in the Thames, the Kennet, or where?”
“Oh, I don’t know. All I can say is, she was drowned before my time; for I remember hearing the song when I was a little chap in petticoats. But the story seems a common one. There’s a north-country ballad founded on it, I know, but I don’t remember the name just now.”
“‘The Bonny Mill-dams of Binnorie,’ is not it?” said the long scholar.
“Aye, that’s the name, I think.”
“Well, it’s very odd, for we’ve got the same story, all but the miller, and his daughter as fair as any gilly-flower (why are millers’ daughters always pretty, by the way?), on the Welsh marshes,” said the long scholar.
“Then, Sir, I must call on you to sing it. The call is with me at our end of the booth,” said the Doctor. “And, Peter, bring me a little cold gin-and-water, and a pipe. If I must breathe smoke-poison, I may as well make it myself, at any rate.”
“Well, singing’s rather more than I bargained for. However, I suppose I mustn’t spoil sport; so here goes.”
THE DROWNED LADY
Qy. another version of the Barkshire Tragedy?
Oh, it was not a pheasant cock,
Nor yet a pheasant hen,
But oh it was a lady fair
Came swimming down the stream.
An ancient harper passing by
Found this poor lady’s body,
To which his pains he did apply
To make a sweet melòdy.
To cat-gut dried he her inside,
He drew out her back-bone,
And made thereof a fiddle sweet
All for to play upon.
And all her hair so long and fair,
That down her back did flow,
Oh he did lay it up with care,
To string his fiddle bow.
And what did he with her fingers
Which were so straight and small?
Oh, he did cut them into pegs
To screw up his fid-dòll.
Then forth went he, as it might be,
Upon a summer’s day,
And met a goodly company,
Who asked him in to play.
Then from her bones he drew such tones
As made their bones to ache,
They sounded so like human groans,
Their hearts began to quake.
They ordered him in ale to swim,
For sorrow’s mighty dry,
And he to share their wassail fare
Essayd right willingly.
He laid his fiddle on a shelf
In that old manor-hall,
It played and sung all by itself,
And thus sung this fid-dòll: —
“There sits the squire, my worthy sire,
A-drinking hisself drunk,
And so did he, ah woe is me!
The day my body sunk.
“There sits my mother, half asleep,
A-taking of her ease,
Her mind is deep, if one might peep,
In her preserves and keys.
“There sits my sister, cruel Joan,
Who last week drownded me;
And there’s my love, with heart of stone,
Sits making love to she.
“There sits the Crowner, Uncle Joe,
Which comforteth poor me;
He’ll hold his Crowner’s quest, I know,
To get his Crowner’s fee.”
Now when this fiddle thus had spoke
It fell upon the floor,
And into little pieces broke,
No word spoke never more.
“Thank you, Sir,” said the Doctor; “that’s a queer tune though. I don’t know that I ever heard one at all like it. But I shouldn’t say all that song was old now.”
“Well, I believe you’re right. But I can say, as you said of the Barkshire Tragedy, it’s all older than my time, for I remember my father singing it just as I’ve sung it to you as long as I can remember any thing.”
“And what did he say of it?”
“Well, he said that five out of the first six verses were very old indeed. He had heard them often when he was a child, and always the same words. The rest was all patch-work, he said, by different hands, and he hardly knew which were the old lines, and which new.”
“I say,” remarked the short scholar, “the Doctor don’t seem to be a bad hand at making the smoke-poison.”
The Doctor blew out a long white cloud, and was about to reply, when a brawny young carter, at a distant table, took his pipe from his lips, and, in answer to the urgings of his neighbours, trolled out the following little piece of sentiment: —
CUPID’S GARDEN
As I wur in Cu-bit’s gardin
Not mwoar nor haf an hour,
’Twur ther I zeed two may-dens
Zittin under Cu-bit’s bower,
A-gatherin of sweet jassa-mine,
The lilly and the rose.
These be the fairest flowers
As in the gardin grows.
I vondly stepped to one o’ them,
These words to her I zays,
“Be you engaged to arra young man,
Come tell to me, I prays.”
“I beant engaged to narra young man,
I solemnly declare;
I aims to live a may-den,
And still the lau-rel wear.”
Zays I, “My stars and gar-ters!
This here’s a pretty go,
Vor a vine young mayd as never wos
To sar’ all mankind zo.”
But the t’other young may-den looked sly at me,
And vrom her zeat she risn,
Zays she, “Let thee and I go our own waay,
And we’ll let she go shis’n.”
“Oh, I say, that beats all!” said the short scholar, with a shout of laughter. “I must have the words somehow. Let’s see, how did he begin? something about Cubit. What a rum notion to call Cupid, Cubit. What was it, Doctor?”
“You shouldn’t laugh, really, Sir, at our west-country sentiment,” said the Doctor, with astounding gravity. “I don’t think I can conscientiously help you to the words, when I know you’ll only be making fun of them at some wine-party. They are meant for malt drinkers, not for wine drinkers.”
“Fudge, Doctor. Come, now, give us the words, or I shall have to go over and ask the performer for them.”
“I think I can give you them,” said I, looking up from my note-book.
“What a thing it is to write shorthand!” said the Doctor, glancing at my hieroglyphics; “we don’t learn that sort of thing down in these parts.”
“I wonder we haven’t had more sentimental songs,” said the long scholar; “I suppose there are plenty of love-stories going about?”
“Oh yes, plenty,” said the Doctor; “mostly ballads telling how rich young heiresses disdained all good matches, for the sake of a sailor boy with tarry trousers, or a seductive fogger, thereby provoking their cruel match-making parents. For instance: —
“Says the daughter to the mother, “Your art is all in vain,
For Dukes and Lords and Earls alike their riches I disdain;
I’d rather live a humble life, and my time I would employ
Increasing nature’s prospects, with my bonny labouring boy.””
“What on earth can ‘increasing nature’s prospects’ mean?” asked the long scholar.
“How can I tell?” said the Doctor, laughing; “I don’t pretend to construe; I only give you the words. But you must allow the moral to be good. It runs: —
“Success to every labouring boy that ploughs and hoes the ground,
For when his work is over, his home he will enjoy;
So happy is the girl that gets a bonny labouring boy.”
“Let’s see,” said the short scholar, “we’ve had specimens of patriotic, legendary, and sentimental ditties; but how about drinking songs? All tuneful nations, since the world began, have sung the praises of good liquor.”
“I don’t know that we have many drinking songs,” said the Doctor; “I suppose it takes wine, or spirits at any rate, to make a man write such stuff as ‘the glasses sparkle,’ or ‘a bumper of Burgundy.’ The bucolic muse only gets smallish beer. But we must see what we can do for you.” So the Doctor beckoned to Peter, and sent him off to the lower tables with a pot of beer, the speedy result of which mission was the following song: —
TOVEY’S TAP. – Air, “Derry down.”
Owld Tovey once brewed a barrel o’ beer,
For he wur a man as lovèd good cheer,
And zays he, “I’ll jest ax a veaw o’ my vriends
To come and try how the likker spends.”36
Derry down, &c.
There’s long Tom Ockle, he shall be one,
And little Jack Smith, who’s as round as a tun,
And owld Gaarge Mabbutt, who’s allus a-dry,
I’ll warn’d thay’ll make good company.
Derry down, &c.
The barrell wur tapped, and the beer runned well,
How much they vour drenked I never heard tell;
But zome how or other they one and all
Did zwear as how the drenk wur small.
Derry down, &c.
Owld Tovey at this did look main scrow;37
Zays he, “My vriends, I’d hev’ee to kneow
That my beer has made ’ee as drunk as pegs,
And not one o’ you dree can kip on his legs.”
Derry down, &c.
They left the house, and the path they tuk,
Athert the meadow as leads to the bruk;
And you plainly med zee as every man
Had a pair o’ crooked stockings an.
Derry down, &c.
Zays Mabbott to Ockle, “Owld Tovey wur zurly;”
Zays Ockle to Mabbott, “I’m uncommon purly;38
Be mindful, I zay, vor yer missuses’ zakes,
Which o’ them two narrer bridges you takes.”
Derry down, &c.
“The bruk is main deep,” Gaarge Mabbott then zaid,
As he looked at the water, and scratted his yead;
“And I owns I should ’mazinly like for to know
Auver which o’ thay bridges you aims vor to go.”
Derry down, &c.
“’Tis a akkerdish place to crass in the night,
And to stand here till marnin’ wouldn’t be right;
’T’ain’t a mossell o’ use to bide stabbleing39 here,
Zo let’s go back and vinish the barrel o’ beer.”
Derry down, &c.
“A good cast, Doctor;” said the long scholar; “but you’ve raised the wrong fish. That isn’t what my friend here meant by a drinking song. He expects a bucolic rendering of one of Moore’s songs, and you serve him out a queer pot-house tale. Is there no enthusiasm for good drink amongst you?”
“I wish there were less,” said the Doctor, with a sigh; “at any rate, less consumption of bad drink. Tippling is our great curse, as it is that of all England; but there’s less of it than there used to be. But for a drinking song such as you mean, I’m at fault. The nearest approach to it that I know of is a song of which I only remember two lines. They run —
“Sartinly the sixpenny’s the very best I’ve see’d yet,
I do not like the fourpenny, nor yet the intermediate.
“But even here you see, though the poet was meditating on drink, it was in a practical rather than an enthusiastic spirit.”
Just then, a stout old yeoman entered the booth, dressed in a broad straight-cut brown coat with metal buttons, drab breeches, and mahogany tops; and, marching up to the bar, ordered a glass of brandy and water; while his drink was being prepared, he stood with his back to our table, talking to the landlord.
“We’re in luck,” said the Doctor in a low voice, pointing to the new-comer with the end of his pipe; “if he stays, we shall have the best old song in all the west country, sung as it should be.”
“Who is he?” asked the short scholar.
“An old Gloucestershire farmer from Sutherup way, famous for his breed of sheep. He must be near seventy, and has twelve miles to ride home to-night, and won’t think so much of it as you or I would.”
“He looks a tough old blade.”
“You may say that. But he isn’t the man he was, for he has lived pretty hard. He used to be a famous wrestler; and one day, many years ago, an Ilsley dealer came down to buy his flock of two-year olds. They drank six bottles of port over the deal, and got it all straight out except the odd sheep, but they couldn’t make out, cipher it how they would, who the odd sheep belonged to; so they agreed to wrestle for the odd sheep in the farmer’s kitchen, and somehow both of them got hurt, and the old boy has never gone quite right since.”
“What an old sponge! six bottles of port between two of them! no wonder they couldn’t do their sum.”
“Ah, we mustn’t judge of the men of his time by our rules,” said the Doctor; “it was part of a yeoman’s creed in those days to send his friends off drunk, and to be carried to bed himself by his fogger and carter, or else to sleep under his kitchen-table. They lived hard enough, and misused a deal of good liquor meant to strengthen man’s heart, following the example of their betters; but they had their good points. That old man, now, is the best master in all his neighbourhood; and he and the parson keep up the wages in the winter, and never let a man go to the house who will work.”
The old farmer turned round, glass in hand, and came and sat down at the table. “Your sarvant, gen’l’men,” said be, taking off his broad-brimmed beaver. “Why, Doctor,” he went on, recognizing our friend, and holding out his great bony hand, “be main glad to zee ’ee.”
“Thank you, farmer,” said the Doctor, returning the grip; “we haven’t met this long while; I’m glad to see you wearing so well.”
“Yes, I be pretty-feteish, thank God,” said the farmer. “Your health, sir, and gen’l’men.”
After a little judicious talk on the day’s sport, the Doctor suddenly began, “Now, farmer, you must do us a favour, and give us your famous old Gloucestershire song. I’ve been telling all our friends here about it, and they’re keen to hear it.”
“’Spose you means Gaarge Ridler?” said the farmer.
“Of course,” said the Doctor.
“Well, I don’t know as I’ve zung these score o’ months,” said the farmer, “but hows’mever, if you wants it, here goes.” So the farmer finished his brandy and water, cleared his throat, balanced himself on the hind legs of his chair, cast up his eyes and began —
Thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns,
Thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns.
“What’s he saying – what language?” whispered the tall scholar.
“Mad old party,” murmured the short scholar.
“Hush,” whispered the Doctor; “that’s the orthodox way to begin; don’t put him out.”
I couldn’t tell what in the world to write, but the farmer went on with growing emphasis —
Thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns,
Thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns, THAAY S, T, W, U, N, S.
There was a moment’s pause, during which the Doctor had much difficulty in keeping order; then the farmer got fairly under weigh, and went on —
Thaay stwuns that built Gaarge Ridler’s oven
Oh, thaay cum vrom the Blakeney Quaar,
And Gaarge he wur a jolly owld man,
And his yead did graw above his yare.
One thing in Gaarge Ridler I must commend,
And I hold it vor a notable thing:
He made his braags avoore he died,
As wi’ any dree brothers his zons zhou’d zing.
Ther’ wur Dick the treble, and Jack the mean,
Let every mon zing in his auwn pleace,
And Gaarge he wur the elder brother,
And there-voore he would zing the base.
Droo’ aal the world, owld Gaarge would bwoast,
Commend me to merry owld England mwoast,
While vools gwoes scamblin’ vur and nigh,
We bides at whoam, my dog and I.
Ov their furrin tongues let travellers brag,
Wi’ their vifteen neames vor a puddin’ bag,
Two tongues I knows ne’er towld a lie,
And their wearers be my dog and I.
My dog has got his maaster’s nose,
To smell a knave droo silken hose;
But when good company I spy,
“Welcome,” quoth my dog and I.
When I hev dree sixpences under my thumb,
Oh then I be welcome wherever I cum;
But when I hev none, O then I pass by;
’Tis poverty pearts good company.
When I gwoes dead, as it may hap,
My grave shall be under the good yeal-tap,
Wi’ vaulded earmes ther’ wool I lie,
Cheek by jowl my dog and I.
Just as the farmer was finishing the song, Master George, with Joe and one or two more behind him, came in. He took up the last verse, and rolled it out as he came up towards our table, and a lot of the rest joined in with him; even the over-worked Peter, I could see stopping for a moment to shout that he would be buried under the tap; I dare say he meant it, only I think he would like it to be always running.
Master George knew most of the people, and made us all merrier even than we were before; and in the next half-hour or so, for which time we stayed in the booth, I should think there must have been a dozen more songs sung. However, I shall only give the one which seemed to be the greatest favourite, for I find that this chapter is running very long. This song was sung by a queer little man, with a twisted face, and a lurcher dog between his knees, who I believe was an earth stopper. He called it
BUTTERMILK JACK
Ther wur an owld ’oman as had but one son,
And thay lived together as you med zee;
And they’d nought but an owld hen as wanted to sett,
Yet somehow a landlord he fain would be.
“Oh, I’ve been and begged me some buttermilk, mother,
Off of an owld ’oman as has girt store;
And I shall well rewarded be,
Vor she’s g’in me haf a gallon or mwore.
“Oh mother, my buttermilk I will sell,
And all for a penny as you med zee;
And with my penny then I will buy eggs,
Vor I shall have seven for my pennèy.
“Oh mother, I’ll set them all under our hen,
And seven cock chickens might chance for to be;
But seven cock chickens or seven cap hens,
There’ll be seven half-crownds for me.
“Oh, I’ll go carry them to market, mother,
And nothing but vine volk shall I zee;
And with my money then I will buy land,
Zo as a landlord I med be.”
“Oh my dear zon, wilt thee know me,
When thee hast gotten great store of wealth?”
“Oh, my dear mother, how shall I know thee,
When I shall hardly know my own self?”
With that the owld ’oman she flew in a passion,
And dashed her son Jack up agin the wall,
And his head caught the shelf where the buttermilk stood,
So down came the buttermilk, pitcher and all.
Zo aal you as has got an old hen for to sett,
Both by night and by day mind you has her well watched,
Lest you should be like unto Buttermilk Jack,
To reckon your chickens before thay are hatched.
“Well, I must be moving,” said the Doctor at last, looking at his watch; “how do you get home, Mr. Hurst?”
“Bless us! near nine o’clock,” said Joe, following the Doctor’s example; “oh, I ride myself, and my friend here talks of going behind.”
“Better not ride double, the night’s dark,” said the Doctor, hoisting on his overcoat with Peter’s help. “If he likes to take his luck in my gig, I can put him down at your gate. What do you say, Sir?”
I thankfully accepted; for I didn’t at all like the notion of riding behind Joe on the chestnut, and I can’t think how I could ever have been such a fool as to say I would do it. The Doctor had two bright lamps to his gig, which gave us glimpses of the closed booths and camping places of the people who were going to stay on the hill all night, as we drove out of the Castle. I suggested that it must be very bad for the people sleeping out up there.