Sidor som bilder

The night was cauld, the carle was wat,
And down azont the ingle he sat;
My dochters shoulders he gan to clap,
And cadgily ranted and sang.

"O wow!" quo he, "were I as free,
As first when I saw this countrie,
How blyth and merry wad I bee!
And I wad nevir think lang."
He grew canty, and she grew fain,
But little did her auld minny ken,

What thir slee twa togither were say❜n,

When wooing they were sa thrang.

"And O!" quo he, "ann ze were as black, As evir the crown of your dadyes hat,

Tis I wad lay thee by my back,


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And awa wi' me thou sould gang.'
"And O!" quoth she, ann I were as white,
As evir the snaw lay on the dike,
Ild clead me braw, and lady-like,
And awa with thee Ild gang."

Between the twa was made a plot;
They raise a wee before the cock,
And wyliely they shot the lock,

And fast to the bent are they gane.
Up the morn the auld wife raise,
And at her leisure put on her claiths;
Syne to the servants bed she gaes,

To speir for the silly poor man.

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She gaed to the bed whair the beggar lay,
The strae was cauld, he was away;
She clapt her hands, cryd, “Dulefu' day!
For some of our geir will be gane."


Some ran to coffer, and some to kist,

But nought was stown that could be mist.

She dancid her lane, cryd, "Praise be blest,
I have lodgd a leal poor man.


Ver. 29, the cariine, other copies.

"Since naithings awa, as we can learn,

The kirns to kirn, and milk to earn ;

Gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bairn,
And bid her come quickly ben."

The servant gaed where the dochter lay,
The sheets was cauld, she was away;
And fast to her good wife can say,
"Shes aff with the gaberlunzie man.”

"O fy gar ride, and fy gar rin,
And hast ze, find these traitors agen;
For shees be burnt, and hees be slein,
The wearyfou gaberlunzie man.'
Some rade upo horse, some ran a fit,
The wife was wood, and out o' her wit;

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She could na gang, nor yet could she sit,
But ay did curse and did ban.


Mean time far hind out owre the lee,

For snug in a glen, where nane could see,

The twa, with kindlie sport and glee,

Cut frae a new cheese a whang.


The priving was gude, it pleas'd them baith;

To lo❜e her for ay he gae her his aith;

Quo she, "To leave thee, I will be laith,
My winsome gaberlunzie man.

"O kend my minny I were wi' zou,


Illfardly wad she crook her mou;

Sic a poor man sheld nevir trow,

Aftir the gaberlunzie mon."

"My dear," quo he, " zeer'e zet owre zonge,

And hae na learnt the beggars tonge,


To follow me frae toun to toun,

And carrie the gaberlunzie on."

"Wi' kauk and keel, Ill win zour bread,

And spindles and whorles for them wha need,
Whilk is a gentil trade indeed

The gaberlunzie to carrie—o.


Ill bow my leg and crook my knee,
And draw a black clout owre my ee;
A criple or blind they will cau me,
While we sall sing and be merrie—o."



On Thomas Lord Cromwell.

It is ever the fate of a disgraced minister to be forsaken by his friende and insulted by his enemies, always reckoning among the latter the giddy, inconstant multitude. We have here a spurn at fallen greatness from some angry partisan of declining Popery, who could never forgive the downfall of their Diana, and loss of their craft. The ballad seems to have been composed between the time of Cromwell's commitment to the Tower, June 11, 1540, and that of his being beheaded, July 28, following. A short interval! but Henry's passion for Catherine Howard would admit of no delay. Notwithstanding our libeller, Cromwell had many excellent qualities; his great fault was too much obsequiousness to the arbitrary will of his master; but let it be considered that this master had raised him from obscurity, and that the high-born nobility had shown him the way in every kind of mean and servile compliance. The original copy, printed at London in 1540, is entitled "A newe ballade made of Thomas Crumwel, called Trolle on Away." To it is prefixed this distich by way of burthen,

Trolle on away, trolle on awaye.

Synge heave and howe rombelowe trolle on away,

BOTH man and chylde is glad to here tell
Of that false traytoure Thomas Crumwell,
Now that he is set to learn to spell.

Synge trolle on away.

When fortune lokyd the in thy face,
Thou haddyst fayre tyme, but thou lackydyst grace;
Thy cofers with golde thou fyllydst a pace,

Synge, &c.

Both plate and chalys came to thy fyst,
Thou lockydst them vp where no man wyst,

Tyll in the kynges treasoure suche thinges were myst.


Synge, &c.

Both crust and crumme came thorowe thy handes,
Thy marchaundyse sayled over the sandes,
Therfore nowe thou art layde fast in bandes.

Synge, &c.

Fyrste when Kynge Henry, God saue his Grace!
Perceyud myschefe kyndlyd in thy face,
Then it was tyme to purchase the a place.

Synge, &c.

Hys grace was euer of gentyll nature,
Mouyd with petye, and made the hys seruyture;
But thou, as a wretche, suche thinges dyd procure.



Synge, &c.


Synge, &c.

Thou dyd not remembre, false heretyke,
One God, one fayth, and one kynge catholyke,
For thou hast bene so long a scysmatyke.

Thou woldyst not learne to knowe these thre;

But euer was full of iniquite:

Wherfore all this lande hathe ben troubled with the.

Synge, &c.


All they, that were of the new trycke,
Agaynst the churche thou baddest them stycke;
Wherfore nowe thou hast touchyd the quycke.

Synge, &c.

Both sacramentes and sacramentalles
Thou woldyst not suffre within thy walles;
Nor let vs praye for all chrysten soules.


Synge, &c.

Of what generacyon thou were no tonge can tell,
Whyther of Chayme, or Syschemell,

Or else sent vs frome the deuyll of hell.

Synge, &c.

Thou woldest neuer to vertue applye,

But couetyd euer to clymme to hye,


And nowe haste thou trodden thy shoo awrye.

Synge, &c.

Ver. 32, i. e. Cain, or Ishmael. See below the note, book v. no. iii

stanza 3rd.

Who-so-ener dyd winne thou wolde not lose;
Wherfore all Englande doth hate the, as I suppose,
Bycause thou wast false to the redolent rose.

Synge, &c.

Thou myghtest have learned thy cloth to flocke
Tpon thy gresy fullers stocke;
Wherfore lay downe thy heade vpon this blocke.


Synge, &c.

Yet sane that soule, that God hath bought,
And for thy carcas care thou nought,
Let it suffre payne, as it hath wrought.


Synge, &c.

God saue Kyng Henry with all his power,
And Prynce Edwarde, that goodly flower,
With al hys lordes of great honoure.

Synge trolle on awaye, syng trolle on away.
Hevye and how rombelowe trolle on awaye.

V. 41, Cromwell's father is generally said to have been a blacksmith at Putney, but the author of this ballad would insinuate that either he himself, or some of his ancestors, were fullers by trade.

The foregoing piece gave rise to a poetic controversy, which was carried on through a succession of seven or eight ballads, written for or against Lord Cromwell. These are all preserved in the Archives of the Antiquarian Society, in a large folio Collection of Proclamations, &c., made in the reigns of King Henry VIII, King Edward VI., Queen Mary, Queen Elizabeth, King James I., &c.



This beautiful poem, which is perhaps the first attempt at pastoral writing in our language, is preserved among the "Songs and Sonnettes" of the Earl of Surrey, &c., 4to, in that part of the collection which consists of pieces by "uncertain Auctours." These poems were first published in 1557, ten years after that accomplished nobleman fell a

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