Ancient Poems [23]
rout has been there, Betwixt our good King and the Lord Delaware: Says Lord Delaware to his Majesty full soon, 'Will it please you, my liege, to grant me a boon?'
'What's your boon,' says the King, 'now let me understand?' 'It's, give me all the poor men we've starving in this land; And without delay, I'll hie me to Lincolnshire, To sow hemp-seed and flax-seed, and hang them all there.
'For with hempen cord it's better to stop each poor man's breath, Than with famine you should see your subjects starve to death.' Up starts a Dutch Lord, who to Delaware did say, 'Thou deserves to be stabbed!' then he turned himself away;
'Thou deserves to be stabbed, and the dogs have thine ears, For insulting our King in this Parliament of peers.' Up sprang a Welsh Lord, the brave Duke of Devonshire, 'In young Delaware's defence, I'll fight this Dutch Lord, my sire;
'For he is in the right, and I'll make it so appear: Him I dare to single combat, for insulting Delaware.' A stage was soon erected, and to combat they went, For to kill, or to be killed, it was either's full intent.
But the very first flourish, when the heralds gave command, The sword of brave Devonshire bent backward on his hand; In suspense he paused awhile, scanned his foe before he strake, Then against the King's armour, his bent sword he brake.
Then he sprang from the stage, to a soldier in the ring, Saying, 'Lend your sword, that to an end this tragedy we bring: Though he's fighting me in armour, while I am fighting bare, Even more than this I'd venture for young Lord Delaware.'
Leaping back on the stage, sword to buckler now resounds, Till he left the Dutch Lord a bleeding in his wounds: This seeing, cries the King to his guards without delay, 'Call Devonshire down, - take the dead man away!'
'No,' says brave Devonshire, 'I've fought him as a man, Since he's dead, I will keep the trophies I have won; For he fought me in your armour, while I fought him bare, And the same you must win back, my liege, if ever you them wear.'
God bless the Church of England, may it prosper on each hand, And also every poor man now starving in this land; And while I pray success may crown our King upon his throne, I'll wish that every poor man may long enjoy his own.
Ballad: LORD BATEMAN.
[THIS is a ludicrously corrupt abridgment of the ballad of LORD BEICHAN, a copy of which will be found inserted amongst the EARLY BALLADS, An. Ed. p. 144. The following grotesque version was published several years ago by Tilt, London, and also, according to the title-page, by Mustapha Syried, Constantinople! under the title of THE LOVING BALLAD OF LORD BATEMAN. It is, however, the only ancient form in which the ballad has existed in print, and is one of the publications mentioned in Thackeray's Catalogue, see ANTE, p. 20. The air printed in Tilt's edition is the one to which the ballad is sung in the South of England, but it is totally different to the Northern tune, which has never been published.]
LORD BATEMAN he was a noble lord, A noble lord of high degree; He shipped himself on board a ship, Some foreign country he would go see.
He sailed east, and he sailed west, Until he came to proud Turkey; Where he was taken, and put to prison, Until his life was almost weary.
And in this prison there grew a tree, It grew so stout, and grew so strong; Where he was chained by the middle, Until his life was almost gone.
This Turk he had one only daughter, The fairest creature my eyes did see; She stole the keys of her father's prison, And swore Lord Bateman she would set free.
'Have you got houses? have you got lands? Or does Northumberland belong to thee? What would you give to the fair young lady That out of prison would set you free?'
'I have got houses, I have got lands, And half Northumberland belongs to me I'll give it all to the fair young lady That out of prison would set me free.'
O! then she took him to her father's hall, And gave to him the best of wine; And every health she drank unto him, 'I wish, Lord Bateman, that you were
'What's your boon,' says the King, 'now let me understand?' 'It's, give me all the poor men we've starving in this land; And without delay, I'll hie me to Lincolnshire, To sow hemp-seed and flax-seed, and hang them all there.
'For with hempen cord it's better to stop each poor man's breath, Than with famine you should see your subjects starve to death.' Up starts a Dutch Lord, who to Delaware did say, 'Thou deserves to be stabbed!' then he turned himself away;
'Thou deserves to be stabbed, and the dogs have thine ears, For insulting our King in this Parliament of peers.' Up sprang a Welsh Lord, the brave Duke of Devonshire, 'In young Delaware's defence, I'll fight this Dutch Lord, my sire;
'For he is in the right, and I'll make it so appear: Him I dare to single combat, for insulting Delaware.' A stage was soon erected, and to combat they went, For to kill, or to be killed, it was either's full intent.
But the very first flourish, when the heralds gave command, The sword of brave Devonshire bent backward on his hand; In suspense he paused awhile, scanned his foe before he strake, Then against the King's armour, his bent sword he brake.
Then he sprang from the stage, to a soldier in the ring, Saying, 'Lend your sword, that to an end this tragedy we bring: Though he's fighting me in armour, while I am fighting bare, Even more than this I'd venture for young Lord Delaware.'
Leaping back on the stage, sword to buckler now resounds, Till he left the Dutch Lord a bleeding in his wounds: This seeing, cries the King to his guards without delay, 'Call Devonshire down, - take the dead man away!'
'No,' says brave Devonshire, 'I've fought him as a man, Since he's dead, I will keep the trophies I have won; For he fought me in your armour, while I fought him bare, And the same you must win back, my liege, if ever you them wear.'
God bless the Church of England, may it prosper on each hand, And also every poor man now starving in this land; And while I pray success may crown our King upon his throne, I'll wish that every poor man may long enjoy his own.
Ballad: LORD BATEMAN.
[THIS is a ludicrously corrupt abridgment of the ballad of LORD BEICHAN, a copy of which will be found inserted amongst the EARLY BALLADS, An. Ed. p. 144. The following grotesque version was published several years ago by Tilt, London, and also, according to the title-page, by Mustapha Syried, Constantinople! under the title of THE LOVING BALLAD OF LORD BATEMAN. It is, however, the only ancient form in which the ballad has existed in print, and is one of the publications mentioned in Thackeray's Catalogue, see ANTE, p. 20. The air printed in Tilt's edition is the one to which the ballad is sung in the South of England, but it is totally different to the Northern tune, which has never been published.]
LORD BATEMAN he was a noble lord, A noble lord of high degree; He shipped himself on board a ship, Some foreign country he would go see.
He sailed east, and he sailed west, Until he came to proud Turkey; Where he was taken, and put to prison, Until his life was almost weary.
And in this prison there grew a tree, It grew so stout, and grew so strong; Where he was chained by the middle, Until his life was almost gone.
This Turk he had one only daughter, The fairest creature my eyes did see; She stole the keys of her father's prison, And swore Lord Bateman she would set free.
'Have you got houses? have you got lands? Or does Northumberland belong to thee? What would you give to the fair young lady That out of prison would set you free?'
'I have got houses, I have got lands, And half Northumberland belongs to me I'll give it all to the fair young lady That out of prison would set me free.'
O! then she took him to her father's hall, And gave to him the best of wine; And every health she drank unto him, 'I wish, Lord Bateman, that you were