Scho rowd hir mantil hir about, My bonny sir Hew, my pretty sir Hew, I pray thee to me speik: 'O lady, rinn to the deip draw-well 35 The lead is wondrous heavy, mither, The well is wondrous deip, A keen pen knife sticks in my hert, Gae hame, gae hame, my mither deir, And at the back o' Mirry-land toun, 45 50 IV. Sir Cauline. THIS old romantic tale was preserved in the Editor's folio MS., but in so very defective and mutilated a condition (not from any chasm in the MS., but from great omission in the transcript, probably copied from the faulty recitation of some illiterate minstrel), that it was necessary to supply several stanzas in the first part, and still more in the second, to connect and complete the story... There is something peculiar in the metre of this old ballad: it is not unusual to meet with redundant stanzas of six lines; but the occasional insertion of a double third or fourth line, as ver. 31, 44, &c. is an irregularity I do not remember to have seen elsewhere. It may be proper to inform the reader before he comes to Pt. 2. v. 110, 111, that the ROUND TABLE was not peculiar to the reign of K. Arthur, but was common in all the ages of chivalry. The proclaiming a great tournament (probably with some peculiar solemnities) was called "holding a Round Table." Dugdale tells us, that the great baron Roger de Mortimer "having procured the honour of knighthood to be conferred 'on his three sons' by K. Edw. I. he, at his own costs, caused a tourneament to be held at Kenilworth; where he sumptuously entertained an hundred knights, and as many ladies, for three days; the like whereof was never before in England; and there began the ROUND TABLE (SO called by reason that the place wherein they practised those feats was environed with a strong wall made in a round form). And upon the fourth day, the golden lion, in sign of triumph, being yielded to him, he carried it (with all the company) to Warwick.". It may further be added, that Matthew Paris frequently calls jousts and tournaments Hastiludia Mensæ Rotunda. As to what will be observed in this ballad of the art of healing being practised by a young princess, it is no more than what is usual in all the old romances, and was conformable to real manners: it being a practice derived from the earliest times among all the Gothic and Celtic nations, for women, even of the highest rank, to exercise the art of surgery. In the Northern Chronicles we always find the young damsels stanching the wounds of their lovers, and the wives those of their husbands1. And even so late as the time of Q. Elizabeth, it is mentioned among the accomplishments of the ladies of her court, that the "eldest of them are skilful in 1 See Northern Antiquities, &c., vol. i. p. 318; vol. ii. p. 100; Mémoires de la Chevalerie, tom. i. p. 44. surgery." See Harrison's Description of England, prefixed to Holingshed's Chronicle, &c. THE FIRST PART. IN Ireland, ferr over the sea, There dwelleth a bonnye kinge; And with him a yong and comlye knighte, Men call him syr Cauline. The kinge had a ladye to his daughter, 5 In fashyon she hath no peere; And princely wightes that ladye wooed One while he spred his armes him fro, And aye! but I winne that ladyes love, And whan our parish-masse was done, Then aunswerde him a courteous knighte, Sir Cauline is sicke, and like to dye Fetche me downe my daughter deere, She is a leeche fulle fine: Goc take him doughe, and the baken bread, Lothe I were him to tine. Fair Christabelle to his chaumber goes, 35 O well, she sayth, how doth my lord? Nowe ryse up wightlye, man, for shame, For if you wold comfort me with a kisse, Then were I brought from bale to blisse, 45 No lenger wold I lye. Sir knighte, my father is a kinge, I am his onlye heire; I never can be youre fere. O ladye, thou art a kinges daughtèr, Alas! and well you knowe, syr knighte, 50 Upon Eldridge hill there groweth a thorne, 60 3909 And dare ye, syr knighte, wake there all nighte For the Eldridge knighte, so mickle of mighte, And never man bare life awaye, But he did him scath and scorne. That knighte he is a foul paynìm, And large of limb and bone; 65 And but if heaven may be thy speede, 70 Nowe on the Eldridge hilles Ile walke2, And Ile either bring you a ready tokèn, The lady is gone to her own chaumbère, Unto midnight, that the moone did rise, 80 Then a lightsome bugle heard he blowe Over the bents soe browne: Quoth hee, If cryance come till my heart, 85 And soone he spyde on the mores so broad, A ladye bright his brydle led, Clad in a fayre kyrtèll: 2 Perhaps wake, as in ver. 61. 3 This line is restored from the folio MS. |