Miscellaneous Transcribed Ballads from W. B. Olson

The God of love that sits above,
And knows me, and knows me,
How sorrowful I do serve:
Grant my request that at the least
She show me, she show me,
Some pity when I deserve.
That every brawl may turn to bliss,
To joy with all that joyfull is,
Do this may dear and bind me
For ever and ever your own,
And as you here do find me,
So let your love be shown:
For till I hear this unity,
I languish in extremity.

[First of 5 verses in London Times, Nov. 17, 1958. This is all that I copied many years ago. Spelling has obviously been modernized.]

["The Gods of Love", untitled in Harvard/Osborne/Bray Lute MS, without tune. Long s converted to modern form]

[ as transcribed by Peter J. Seng in Tudor Songs and Ballads from MS Cotton Vespasian, A 25, with corrections by Bruce Olson. -- gl ]

The gods off loue yt sytts a bove
  & knowe me & knowe me
    howe sorroffull I do serue
Graunt my request yt at the least
  she showe me she showe me
    somme pytty whan I deserve/
that every brawle may turne to blys
  to Joy wt all that Joyfull ys
ffor ever & ever yor owne
   And as yow here doe ffynd me
    so let yor love be showne/
ffor till I here this vnytye [have this unity? her this untye?
  I langwyshe in extremytye/

As yett I have a folle to save [fool?
  vpryghtly/ vpryghtly
    thoe trubled wt dyspare
I cannot ffynd/ to sett my mynde
  so lyghtlye so slyghtly
    as dye beffore yow be there [?

But syns I must nedes yow provoke
  come slake the thurst sta-/a[=ai]d by ye strok [?
that whan my hart ys taynted
  the sorroful syghts {or syghs} may tell
yowe myght have bene aquaynted
  wt one that loved yow well
none have I tolde the jeX dye [X= thorn or st? what does it mean
  that none but yowe can remedye

Those cursed eyes that weare the spiyes [makes no sense
  to ffynd ye to ffynd ye/
    are blubbered now wt teares
And eake the head that ffancy lead
  to mynde ye to mynde ye
    ys ffraght wt deadly ffeares
and every parte ffrom topp to towe
  compellyth the hart to blede ffor woe
    alas let pytty move yowe
some remedy sone to send me
  & knowynge howe well to love yowe
    yor selffe vvochesaffe to lende me/ [?
I wyll nott bost the vyctory
  but yelde me to yor curtesye

I reade of olde what hath bene tolde
  ffull truly/ffull truly
    off ladys long agoe
whose pyttyffull harts have played yer parts [thorner = thier
  as dewly as dewly [duly?
    as ever good wyll colde shewe
And yowe therffore that knowe my case
  reffuse me not but grant me grace
    that I may say & holde me in one try-/u[ie,= iu]phe & truthe
  Even as yt hath bene tolde me
    so my godd lady dothe
shall yow wynn the vyctory
  wt ffor yor curtesye

wt curtesye nowe s[no, t]o bende so bowe [low?
  to speed me to speed me
    as answeryth my desyre
As I wylbe yf ever I see
  yow nede me ye nede me
    as redy whan yow requyre
Unworthy thoe to come so nye
  that passynge showe that ffedes myne eye
yet shall I dye wt owt ytt
  yff pytty be not in yow
    butt sure I do not dowt yt
nor any thynge yow can doe
to whome I do co-/m[note]yftt & shall [mm or mfor]
  my selffe to worke yor wyll wt all/


A Dittie to the tune of Welshe Syddanen, made to the Queenes maj. Eliz. by Lodov. Lloyd

Flee stately Juno Samos fro, from Delos straight Diana go;
Minerva Athens must for sake, Sydanen Queen your seat must take;
Sidanen conquers kinges with quil;
Sidanen governs states at wil;
Sidanen feares her foes with pen;
With pens Sidanen conquers men.

Sibill must from Cuma flee; in Egipt Isis may not be;
Thy Trojan seat Caesa shun; thy fame from Greece Penelope is won;
With Judithes swordm with delores mace,
Sidanen sittes in sacred place;
With Graces three, with Muses nine,
Sydanen deth like Phebus shine.

Lett Lucrece lurke, lett Helene blushe; Atlanta kneel on knee to this;
Lett Sapho serve, lett Dido yelde; Sidanen wynes the same in fielde.
In Rome Cornelia bare the belle,
Sidanen doth Cornelia excelle;
In Ethiope floorisht Sabaes, fame,
Sidanen farr surmountes th same.

Through Afrike spredd Zenobias name; all Asia Semiramis fame;
In Seitha soile by bluddy blade, Tomris queen great conquest made:
Sidanen, crwell Centaurs kilde;
Sidanen, Syrens sleight hath spilde;
Sidanen, clensde Augeas stall
Sidanen, wrought Stymphalides all.

On seas doth Neptune serve her beck; on earth doth Folus tend her deck.
In field doth Mars her fame defend, in skies doth Jove her state comend.
The Sone, the moone, the starres conteste
Sidanen must the skies posesse;
Earth, water, fire, and also aire
With Echo, sownde Sidanen faire.

In woodes the Dryades dawnce for ioye; on hilles the Oriades skippes xxx ?
In fieldes the Fawnes and Satyrs plaie; on fludds the Nayades thus do fine
Sidanen fedd on Pailes papp;
Sidanen lulde in Junos lapp;
Sidanen taught in Vestas towre;
Sidanen nurst in Venus bowre.

With godis Pandora is her name, with men Pamphila is the same,
Yet when she is Pansophia staild?, in Bryttain she Sidanen cauld:
From Brutus steme, from Dardass line
Sidanen is a Phoenix fine;
From Cambers sede, from Hector's deed
Sidanen princely doth exceed.

The Eagles youth I wish this Queen, Acanthus like to flourish green
As Serpents do ease their skin, so she being old may young begin;
In ioyful days? with Nestors yeres,
I wishe to her and to her peeres,
That when Sidanen dieth I crave
Mausolus tombe she maye have.


From Samuel Egerton Brydges, The British Bibliographer, I, 1810, and there from a manuscript in Bridges' possession. H. E. Rollins pointed out this song in Analytical Index to the Ballad Entries, #249. Brydges' MS is now Folger Shakespeare Library MS V.a. 198. Brydges transcript is as accurate as I can ascertain, as my ability to read the MS does not approach Brydges'. A later and longer version headed only "Made by Lodovicke Lloyd:", a copy of c 1604-10, is in Folger Shakespeare Lib. MS V.a. 399. I noted in Folk Music Journal, London, 1976, that the tune is better known as "Sedany" or "Dargason," a tune in The Dancing Master, from 1651. See in my note reference to use of tune in Wales as 'Melody of Cynwyd", and my speculation as to origin. I regret that I have come up with nothing further in subsequent years. "Sedany" appears to be just an English rendition of the Welsh name "Sidanen". See Chappell, PMOT and Simpson, BBBM, on the tune, but neither note Lloyd's song above.

A mery Ballet of the Hathorne tre,
to be songe after Donkin Dargeson

It was a maide of my countre
As she came by a hathorne-tre
As full of flowers, as might be seen,
She merveld to se the tre so grene

At last she asked of this tre:
"Howe came this freshnes unto the?
And every braunche so faire & cleane?
I mervaile that thou growe so grene.

The tre maid answere by and by:
"I have good causse to growe triumphantly;
The swetest dew that ever be sene
Doth fall on me and kepe my grene.

"Yea," quothe the maid, "but where thou growe,
Thou stande at hande for every blowe,
Of every man for to be seen;
I mervaile that thou growe so grene."

"Though many one takemflowers from me,
& manye a branche out of my tre,
I have such store, they wyll not be sene,
For more & my tredges growe grene."

"But how, and they chaunce to cut the downe
And carry thie braunches in to the towne?
Then will they never no more be sene
To grow againe so freshe & grene."

"Thoughe that you do, yt ys no boote,
Withoute they cut me to the roote;
Next yere againe I will be sene
To bude my branches freshe and grene."

"And you, fair maide, canne not do so;
For yf you let youre maidhode goe,
Then will yt never no more be sene
As I with my braunches can growe grene."

The maide with that begane to blushe,
And turned her from the hathorne bushe.
She thought herdelffe so faire & clene,
Her bewtie styll would ever growe grene."

What with she harde this marvelous dowbte,
She wandered styll then all aboute;
Suspecting still what she would wene,
Her maidheade lost would never be seen.

With many a sighe she went her waye,
To se howe she maide her self so gay,
To walke, to se, and to be sene,
An so out-faced the hathorne grene.

Besides all that yt put her in feare
To talke with companye anye where,
For feare to lose the thing that shuld be sene
To grow as were the hathorn grene.

But after this never I could here
Of this faire mayden any where,
That ever she was in forest sene,
To talke againe of the hathorne grene.

G. Poete [Peele?]

[Note 'e' and 'o' are difficult to distinguish in MSS of this and later times, in fact cannot be distinguished at all in many MS pieces, sometimes to as late as 1700. If this ballad is by Peele, it is a very early one of his.]

Text from BL MS Cotton Vesp. A.25, via K. Boeddeker's article 'Englische Lieder und Balladen aus dem 16. Jahrhundert', Jahrbuch fur romanische und englische Sprache, N. F. II, 1875. Expurgated and incomplete in Chappell's PMOT. The date of this ballad is probably several months earlier than L. Lloyd's song above. A traditional version collected without tune, about 1825, is "The Hawthorn Green", p. 4 in E. B. Lyle's Andrew Crafurd's Collection of Ballads and Songs 1975. [I had been misinformed as to Emily Lyle's first name and misquoted it as Eleanor in a letter as an addendum to my note on "Sedany" in Folk Music Journal, 1980.] A poor traditional version, which I suspect was learned from Chappell's PMOT, is "The Hawthorn Bush", p. 15 in Fred Hammer's Garners Gay, EFDSS, 1968.

A pleasante new sonnge,
called the carmans whistle:
to the tune of neighbor Roberte.

In a pleasant morninge,
in the merrie month of may,
Amounge the frutefull meadowes,
a youngman tooke his way;
and gazinge rounde aboute him
what pleasures he could see,
he spied a proper maidden
vnder an oaken tree.

Comely was her countenaunce,
and lovely was her lookes;
seeminge that wanton Venus
had write her in her bookes;
many a smirking smile she lente
amidst those meaddoes greene;
the which he well perceaved,
yet was of her vnseene.

At length she changed her smilinge
into a sighing sonnge,
bewailing her bad fortune
that she was a maide so lonnge;
for many one more yonger,
quoth she, hath lonnge bene wed;
yet do I feare that I shall die,
and keepe my maidenhed.

My fathers rich and welthie
and hath no child but I;
yet want I still a husband
to keepe me companie.
my yeares are younge and tender;
and I am fair withall;
yet is there nere a youngman
will comfort me at all.

This youngman which listned
and marked her greevous mone,
was sorrie for to see her
sit musing all alone
he nimblie lepte vnto her
which made the maide to start;
But when he did embbrace her,
it ioyed her wofull harte.

Fair maide, quoth he, whie mourn you?
what meanes your heavie chere?
Be ruld by me, I pray you,
and to my wordes give care:
a pleasante note ile tell yoy
your sadnes to expell.
good sir, how do you call it?
the truth unto me tell.

Tis called the carmans whistell,
a note so sweete and good,
It will turne a womans sadnes
into a merrie moode.
good sir, then let me hear it,
if so it be no harme.
Doute not, quoth he, faire maiden,
ile kepe you in my arme.

But first let me intreate you
with patience to attende,
till I have brought my musike
unto a perfect end.
If I may heare you whistle,
quoth she, I will be still.
and think, so I molest you
tis sore against my will.

When he to her had whistled
a merrie note or two,
she was so blith and pleasant
she knew not what to doe.
Quoth she: of all the musike
that I ever know,
the carmans plesant whistle
shall for my monie go.

Good sir, quoth she, I pray you
who made this pleasante game?
Quoth he, a gentle carman
did make it for his dame.
And she was well contented
with him to beare a parte,
godes blessinge, quoth the maiden,
light one the carmans harte.

For never was I pleased
more better in my life
then with the carmans whistle
which pleaseth maide and wiffe.
and, sir, I do beseech you,
however I do speed,
to let me hear you whistle,
when I do stand in need.

Quoth he: farewell, faire maiden,
and as you like this sporte,
so of the carmans whistle
I pray you give reporte.
good sir, quoth she, I thanke you
for this your taken paine;
but when shall we, I pray you,
meete in this place againe?

Quoth he at any season,
by day or els by night,
commend the carmans whistle
for pleasure and delight;
and counte me slack and slothfull,
if twice you send for me.
I faith then, quoth the maiden,
ile give thee kisses three.


[The tune, "Oh, neighbour Robert", is equivalent to "Lord Willoughby"] [MS Rawl. poet. 185, c 1590, via W. Bolle's article 'Das Liederbuch MS. Rawlinson Poet. 185', Archiv fur dan Studium der Neuren Srachen und Literaturen, 1905. For comparison below is a 17th century version.]

The Combers Whistle,
or, The Sports of the Spring.
Tune of, The Carmans Whistle

All in a pleasant Morning
in the Merry Month of May;
Walking the fragrant Meadows
where the Comber took his way:
And viewing round about him
whereas he did remain
At length he spied a fair Maid
upon the flowery Plain.

So cheerful was her countenance
and lovely to behold
She seem'd as if that Venus fair
was of the selfsame Mold
And many a smirk and smile she gave
all in the Meadows green;
I could compare her unto none
but unto Love's fair Queen.

At length she turned her smiling
into a love-sick song.
Lamenting of her woful chance
she staid a Maid so long:
There's many that are younger
then I, that have been wed;
Yet still I fear that I shall dye,
and keep my Maiden-head.

My father's rich and wealthy,
and hath no Child but I;
But still I want a Husband
to keep me company.
My years are young and tender
and I am fair and tall,
Yet there is never a young man
will comfort me at all.

The blossoms of my beauty,
I think, may well invite
Some Batchelor of fortune good
to take me for his right:
For why I dare presume it,
there's few doth me excell,
As it is manifest and plain
to all that know me well.

How happy are those Virgins all
that in the City throng.
For they have Sweet-hearts plenty,
and ne'r live single long;
Which makes me grieve so sadly
that yet I am not sped;
For in plain terms, to tell you true,
I long for to be wed.

This Comber he stood listening
to hear her make such moan,
His heart was sorely grieved
to see her all alone:
He quickly stept unto her,
and with a joyfull cheer,
Quoth he fair maid, I chanced
your mournful Song to hear.

And now I'm come to ease you
of all your grief and pain;
For why, I well can please you,
by Whistling of a strain.
Quoth shee I long to hear it
so well that you can play;
Then prithee go about it straight,
because I hate delay.

Then he pull'd forth his Whistle
and plaid a note or two;
The Maid she was so over-joy'd,
she knew not what to do.
and well she was contented
with him to bear a part:
A blessing said this Maiden fair,
light on this Combers heart.

Quoth she, I prithee tell me,
where did'st thou learn this game.
It was a young brisk Journey-man
that make it for his Dame,
With which he oft did please her,
and shee to him did say
And charg'd him that he should not see
the Whistle made away.

Then she did him desire
one other Tune to play
Which made her so admire,
she thus to him did say:
Of all the pleasant Musick
that ever I did know
The Comber's merry Whistle
shall for my money go.

when shall we two meet again
for pleasure and delight,
At any time or season,
by day, or eke by night:
Then count me very slothful,
if that you send for me,
When as I fail to meet my Dear:
so take these Kisses three.

With Allowance, Ro. L'Estrange.

F. Coles, T. Vere, J. Wright,
and J. Clarke [1674-1679]

[Source as 1st above, Bolle. poet. 185]

A new Ballad of Mother Watkins ale.

As Watkine walked by the way,
he met a las, and made her stay.
faire maide, quoth he, go you with me,
and Watkins ale I will give the.
She did not him denie,
but went forth merely,
and thanked him hartely,
for his good merry tale.
Watkin perceaving than,
that she did love a man,
with pleasant talk began
to walke along the dale
They slipped aside cleane out of sight;
what they did more, let Venus wright;
but as it seemed by poettes tale,
he gave her well of Watkins ale.

She said to Watkin lovingly:
whate ale is this which comes soe free?
tys Watkings ale, doe you not know,
tys now abroach, and layd full low.
yf Watkings ale be such,
I cannot drink too much,
I like so well the touch,
It is worthy of good sale:
Suger and claret wine,
malmsey and musketdine,
there tast is not so fine
as my sweet Watkings ale.
Watking, give me more of the same,
I like so well of this same game:
Ambroso with his fine flood,
nor Nextus drinke seeme halfe so good.

The mylkmayde went home merely,
and sunge for ioy with mirth and gle,
that she had sped of Watkings ale;
but marke the sequall of my tale:
ere fortye weekes was past,
this maide she went vnlaste;
she sweld beneath the waste,
her kirtle grew to shorte.
she sighed and sayde: alas!
how comes this geare to pass?
I am not as I was,
all spoyld is our sporte,
So lonng he fishe snaps at the baite,
she taken is by subtell sleyght,
Watkins ale and pleasant sporte,
that brought one in fooles paradice.

Where got you this? her mother saide.
at Watkings ale, whereas I stayde.
Is watkins ale of such force,
my daughter must goe seeke a nurce.
Watkins ale was so stronng,
I think it went not wronnge;
well spiced with pech lonnge,
Beaten in morter well,
hys ale most pleasant is;
with many a loving kisse,
he strikes to hit or miss,
my Watkings did excell.
Of Watking ale I tooke a pull,
that I have drunke my belly full;
the proverbe old, as I do thinke:
such ale I brew, such must I drinke.

Hath Watkings ale thus me betrayde,
I can no longer be a maide;
our maides and younge men storm at me,
as though the like could never be.
take heed, you silly fooles,
deale not in Venus scholes,
nor yet with Watkins tooles;
his ale full strong will rise.
buy not, before you cheape;
looke in time, before you leape.
Argoes was slayne a sleape
with all his hundred eyes.
My frend Watking hath such a lure,
he will your hartes to love procure,
and tell you many a faire tale,
tyll he hath given you of his ale.

Watking, my love from me is gone;
now for his sake I will trust none.
I may bewaile my great mishapp,
I have to shew within my lapp.
when my sweete babie crye,
I may singe lullabye.
she therefor hath this; why,
you lassis, consider,
make you no scorne at me;
you doe not know, perdie,
what chaunce maye fortune thee,
when you playe to gether.
my Watkinge was a livelie lade,
I was my owne that Watkinge had;
thus have you hard my merye tale.
I thanke Watkinge for his good ale.

[From Robert Lemon's Catalogue of a Collection of Printed Broadsides, 1866.]

A mery new Song.

Wherein is shewed the sorrowful Cudgelling of the Cobbler of
Colchester, and the great fault he committed against his wife,
for which he suffered hard penance.
To a pleasant new tune called Trill lill.

Walking abroad not long agoe,
it was my chance to spye
A Cobbler's wife, with crabbed looke,
how she her strength did trie.
A cudgell great she had in hand,
both round and tough withall,
The which about her husband's pate
she broke in pieces small;
So that the man to crye began,
with voice both sharpe and shrill.
But banging him round about
With courage strong and stout,
Have with you, my harts trill lill.

His sides she made both black and blew,
his head and nose did bleede,
And round about his cobling stoole
she made him trot with speede.
Upon his knees full oft he fell
her pardon for to praye;
But thwack and thwack, without remorce,
* * * * * *

Good people, quoth the Cobler then,
I pray you take some paine
To save me from my angry wife,
or els I shal be slaine.
The proudest scab in place, quoth she,
can do it if he dare;
And he shal beare a broken pate
from hence by Jisse I sweare.
With that againe she goes amain
to work on him her will,
And ever she cryeth as on him she fleyth,
Have with you, my harts trill lill.

Now cobler, quoth this cruel queene
tell me, and do not lye,
How thou dost like the eating of
my * * * * * apple pye.
Oh wife, saide he, the woorst to me
that ever I did taste
I will beware while I doo live
how I doo make such waste.
* * * * *

To save his life some then
for feare she would him kill,
Where banging him round about
With courage strong and stout,
She cryed my hartes trill lill.

Now, fie for shame, what doo you meane,
your husband thus to bang?
'Tis better beare some blowes, she saide,
then hensfort he should hang.
A jewell he did breake and spoyle,
which I esteemed deere;
That I will not forgive the same,
no, not this twenty yeere,
You need not blame, though I should lame
the olde knave for his ill.
Then banging him round about,
With courage strong and stout,
She cried my harts trill lill.

Beleeve me, quoth the Cobbler then,
this thing is nothing so;
For eating of an apple Pye
she hath wrought me this woe,
And tasting of a custard small
which she in store did keepe:
She hath misusde me as you see,
and made me thus to weepe,
And in despight she takes delight
to plague me at her will,
And ever she crieth when on me she filieth,
Have with you my harts trill lill.

Gwyp with a murrain, sir, she saide,
Must your old choppes be fed
With custards and with apple pyes;
A rope come stretch your head.
I'le teach you take the Rye bread loafe
and know the Essex cheese
Is fitter for your rotten teeth
than any one of these.
* * * *
to course him * *
And ever she cried as on him she flyeth,
Have with you, my harts trill lill.

And though, quothe she, indifferent well
thy carkasse I did bumme,
Yet from thy cranion greedy guts
I'll fetch from every crumme.
With that she did a feather take,
and in his throate it thruste,
Then up he cast the apple Pye
and laid it in the dust.
The Dog, quoth she, shall eat it free
ere that thy guts shall fill,
And ever she cried as on him she flyed
Have with you my hartes trill lill.

Loe, heere the spitefull nature plaine
wherewith she was possest;
For never was there any man
like to the cobler drest,
Who made an oath while he did live
such wisdome to apply,
He would take heed how he did eate,
or touch an apple pye.
Least with his wife he fell at strife

And felt her froward will:
Who evermore cryeth, when on him she flieth,
Have with you my harts trill lill.


At London, Printed for Andrew White,
and are to be sold at his shop at the Royal exchange, over
against the Conduit in Cornhill.
Andrew White entered two ballads only, both in 1591, and neither is this one. Perhaps this poor production drove him out of the business. This ballad was probably suggested by a ballad beginning "By west oflate as I did walk" in BL MS Cotton Vesp. A.25. H. E. Rollins, AI 1740, suggests an entry of Aug. 15, 1590, 'A merynewe ieste of a wife that threst her husband with a ffleale,' as that for the latter ballad. If we changed flail to cudgel this would be "The Cobler of Colchester", and closer to the correct date than "By west of late".

[Strange: A version among most of the other of Collier's forgeries is in Folger Shakespeare Library MS. V.a. 339. He there added in his faked old hand, 'incomplete, in my other book'. What other book? His Blackletter Broadside Ballads, with "Cobler of Colchester" wasn't issued until 1868. He noted the song among the others in his MS in Extracts ... II, 1849, with no mention of incompleteness there.]

From R. Keele's Carolles, c 1550, via Chambers and Sidgwick, Early English Lyrics, #151. Cho: My heart of gold as true as steel,
As I me leaned to a bough,
In faith but if ye love me well,
Lord, so Robin lough!

My lady went to Canterbury,
The saint to be her boot;
She met with Kate of Malmsbury:
Why sleepest thou in an apple root? (note 1)

Nine mile to Michaelmas,
Our dame began to brew;
Michael set his mare to grass,
Lord, so fast it snew!

For you, love, I brake my glass,
Your gown is furred with blue;
The devil is dead, for there I was;
Iwis it is full true. (note 2)

And if ye sleep, the cock will crow,
True heart, think what I say;
Jackanapes will make a mow,
Look, who dare say him nay?

I pray you have me now in mind,
I tell you of the matter;
He blew his horn against the wind;
The crow goeth to the water.

You I tell you mickle more;
The cat lieth in the cradle;
I pray you keep true heart in store;
A penny for a ladle.

I swear by Sainte Katherine of Kent,
The goose goeth to the green;
All our dogges tail is brent,
It is not as I ween.

Tirlery lorpin, the laverock sang,
So merrily pipes the sparrow,
The cow brake loose, the rope ran home,
Sir, God give you good-morrow!

One verse and chorus are found in a song in Pamelia, p. 31, 1609 [Also in Lant MS]

Vt, re, me, fa, sol, la,
la, fo, fa, me, re, vt.
Hey downe downe, Hey downe downe,
hey down, hey down, downa.

My heart of gold as true as steele
as I me leant vnto the boweres,
but if my Lady louve me well,
Lord so Robin lowres,
heaue and hoe Rumbelo, (note 3)
hey trolo troly lo,
hey torly trolly hey
hey trolo troly lo,
hey torly trolly hey

My Ladies gone to Canterbury,
S. Thomas be her boote.
She met with Kate of Malmsbury,
why weepst thou maple roote
O sleepst thou or wakst thou Ieffry Cooke,
the rost it burnes,
turne round about about,
the rost it burnes,
turne round about about,

Note 1: Parody of line from a lost song. 'Sleepest thou, wakest thou, Geffrey Coke?' is a line in what appears to be a medley in The Four Elements, 1519. Note that Ravenscroft recognized the parody line and quoted the original in Pamelia after it.

Note 2: It is common in songs of lies to assure the truth of it.

Note 3: According to a line in Hickscorner, 1513-16, Rumbelo was three miles outside of hell, and this is all I've ever found out about the land of Rumbelo.

Long before Pamelia was printed an immitation appeared. A Stationers' Register entry of Sept. 18, 1579 is "Jone came over London bridge and told me all this geere", which is undoubtable the song below, and the reason for this will appear further on. Printed by H. Boeddeker, Jahrbuch, 1875, and in Reliquiae Antiquiae, I. p. 239.

Newes! newes! newes! newes!
Ye never herd so many newes!

A... ....vpon a strawe [Line missing ]
Gudlyng of my cow
Ther came to me a jake-dawe,
Newes! News!

Our dame mylked the mares talle,
The cate was lykyng the potte;
Our mayd came out wit a flayle,
And layd hor vnder fotte.
Newes! News!

In ther came our next neyghbur,
Frome whens, I can not tell;
But ther begane a hard scouer,
Haw yow any musterd to sell?
Newes! News!

. A cowe had stolyn a clase away,
And put hor in a sake;
Forsoth I sel no puddynges to day,
Maysters, what do you lake?
Newes! News!

Robyne ys gon to Huntyngton
To bye our gose a flayle;
Lyke spip, my yongst son.
Was huntyng of a snalle.
Newes! News!

Our maid John was her to-morrowe,
I wote not where she for wend;
Our cate lyet syke,
And takyte gret sorow.

The song following is from a single sheet song with music. BUCEM notes 2 issues, c 1705, and c 1710, but I don't know which this one is.

Gossip Joan.

Good morrow, Gossip Joan;
Where have yu been a walking,
I have for yu at ho-------------me,
A Budget full of ta---lking,
Gossip Joan.

My Sparrrow is flown away,
And will no more come to me,
I've broke a Glass today,
The price it will undo me,
Gossip Joan.

I've lost a Harry Groat, [*]
Was left me by my Granny;
I cannot find it out,
Tho' i've search'd in ery cranny,
Gossip Joan.

My Goose has lay'd away,
I know not what's the reason;
My Hen has hatch'd to day,
A week before the Season,
Gossip Joan.

I've lost my wedding Ring,
Was make of Silver Gilded,
And drink would please a King,
The whorish Cat has spill'd it,
Gossip Joan.

My Duck has eat a Snail,
And is not that a wonder,
The Horns bud out at Tail,
And split her Rump a sunder,
Gossip Joan.

My Husband he was drunk,
And all the Night lay snoring;
I told him in the Morn,
That he had bin a Whoring,
Gossip Joan.

My Pocket is cut off,
Twas full of Sugar-Candy:
I cannot stop my cough,
Without a Gill of Brandy,
Gossip Joan.

Oh! I am sick at Heart,
I pray give me some Ginger,
I cannot sneeze nor fart,
Therefore put up your Finger,
Gossip Joan.

O! Pity, Pity me!
Or I shall go distracted,
I've cry'd till I cant see,
To think how things are acted,
Gossip Joan.

Lets to the Gin-shop go,
And wash down all my sorrow,
My Griefs in part yu know,
The rest I'll tell to morrow,
Gossip Joan

* Harry Groat - groat, worth fourpence, and this one coined in time of K. Henry (Harry) VIII. [What was a 'Granams' groat?]

Note for fitting song to tune: 'o' in 'home' in the first verse, and the vowel in corresponding position in subsequent verses, are spread over the 6th to 10th measures. Also "Talk---ing" in the first verse uses a whole measure.

There is a copy of this song, without the seventh verse above, entitled "The Woman's Complaint to her Neighbor" in Pills to Purge Melancholy, VI, p. 315, 1720, with a different (and poor) tune. A six verse traditional version without tune is in Alfred Williams' Folk-Songs of the Upper Thames, p. 41-2, 1923. It has an expurgated version of the verse that was omitted in the Pills copy. With a tune is a seven verse traditional text in Frank Purslow's Marrow Bones, p. 37, 1965. Incomplete copy with tune in Wm. Chappell's PMOT.

Another single sheet song, "A 2d visit to Gossip Joan" (with same tune as that above) commences:

I told thee Gossip Joan,
I'd call again tomorrow,

but this doesn't seem to me to be on a par with that above. There are three issues of this, and one them says the words are by Mr. A. Bradley. There is an immitation of "Gossip Joan" entitled "The Gossips", set to music in Calliope, p. 289, 1788.

Gregory Blount of Isenfir (Greg Lindahl)