Ancient Poems [61]
ALL THE NEW COMERS TAKING APART.
The next I do call in, The prodigal son is he; By spending of his gold He's come to poverty.
But though he all has spent, Again he'll wield the plow, And sing right merrily As any of us now. (41)
Next comes a skipper bold, He'll do his part right weel - A clever blade I'm told As ever pozed a keel.
He is a bonny lad, As you must understand; It's he can dance on deck, And you'll see him dance on land.
To join us in this play Here comes a jolly dog, Who's sober all the day - If he can get no grog.
But though he likes his grog, As all his friends do say, He always likes it best When other people pay.
Last I come in myself, The leader of this crew; And if you'd know my name, My name it is 'True Blue.'
HERE THE BESSY GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.
My mother was burnt for a witch, My father was hanged on a tree, And it's because I'm a fool There's nobody meddled wi' me.
THE DANCE NOW COMMENCES. IT IS AN INGENIOUS PERFORMANCE, AND THE SWORDS OF THE ACTORS ARE PLACED IN A VARIETY OF GRACEFUL POSITIONS, SO AS TO FORM STARS, HEARTS, SQUARES, CIRCLES, &C. &C. THE DANCE IS SO ELABORATE THAT IT REQUIRES FREQUENT REHEARSALS, A QUICK EYE, AND A STRICT ADHERENCE TO TIME AND TUNE. BEFORE IT CONCLUDES, GRACE AND ELEGANCE HAVE GIVEN PLACE TO DISORDER, AND AT LAST ALL THE ACTORS ARE SEEN FIGHTING. THE PARISH CLERGYMAN RUSHES IN TO PREVENT BLOODSHED, AND RECEIVES A DEATH-BLOW. WHILE ON THE GROUND, THE ACTORS WALK ROUND THE BODY, AND SING AS FOLLOWS, TO A SLOW, PSALM-LIKE TUNE:-
Alas! our parson's dead, And on the ground is laid; Some of us will suffer for't, Young men, I'm sore afraid.
I'm sure 'twas none of me, I'm clear of THAT crime; 'Twas him that follows me That drew his sword so fine.
I'm sure it was NOT me, I'm clear of the fact; 'Twas him that follows me That did this dreadful act.
I'm sure 'twas none of me, Who say't be villains all; For both my eyes were closed When this good priest did fall.
THE BESSY SINGS -
Cheer up, cheer up, my bonny lads, And be of courage brave, We'll take him to his church, And bury him in the grave.
THE CAPTAIN SPEAKS IN A SORT OF RECITATIVE -
Oh, for a doctor, A ten pound doctor, oh.
ENTER DOCTOR.
DOCTOR. Here I am, I. CAPTAIN. Doctor, what's your fee? DOCTOR. Ten pounds is my fee!
But nine pounds nineteen shillings eleven pence three farthings I will take from thee.
THE BESSY. There's ge-ne-ro-si-ty!
THE DOCTOR SINGS -
I'm a doctor, a doctor rare, Who travels much at home; My famous pills they cure all ills, Past, present, and to come.
My famous pills who'd be without, They cure the plague, the sickness (42) and gout, Anything but a love-sick maid; If YOU'RE one, my dear, you're beyond my aid!
HERE THE DOCTOR OCCASIONALLY SALUTES ONE OF THE FAIR SPECTATORS; HE THEN TAKES OUT HIS SNUFF-BOX, WHICH IS ALWAYS OF VERY CAPACIOUS DIMENSIONS (A SORT OF MINIATURE WARMING-PAN), AND EMPTIES THE CONTENTS (FLOUR OR MEAL) ON THE CLERGYMAN'S FACE, SINGING AT THE TIME -
Take a little of my nif-naf, Put it on your tif-taf; Parson rise up and preach again, The doctor says you are not slain.
THE CLERGYMAN HERE SNEEZES SEVERAL TIMES, AND GRADUALLY RECOVERS, AND ALL SHAKE HIM BY THE HAND.
THE CEREMONY TERMINATES BY THE CAPTAIN SINGING -
Our play is at an end, And now we'll taste your cheer; We wish you a merry Christmas, And a happy new year. THE BESSY. And your pockets full of brass, And your cellars full of beer!
A GENERAL DANCE CONCLUDES THE PLAY.
Ballad: THE MASKERS' SONG.
[IN the Yorkshire dales the young men are in the habit of going about at Christmas time in grotesque masks, and of performing in the farm-houses a sort of rude drama, accompanied by singing and music. (43) The maskers have wooden swords, and the performance is an evening one. The following version of their introductory song was taken down literally from the recitation of a young besom- maker, now residing at Linton in Craven, who for some years past has himself been one of these rustic
The next I do call in, The prodigal son is he; By spending of his gold He's come to poverty.
But though he all has spent, Again he'll wield the plow, And sing right merrily As any of us now. (41)
Next comes a skipper bold, He'll do his part right weel - A clever blade I'm told As ever pozed a keel.
He is a bonny lad, As you must understand; It's he can dance on deck, And you'll see him dance on land.
To join us in this play Here comes a jolly dog, Who's sober all the day - If he can get no grog.
But though he likes his grog, As all his friends do say, He always likes it best When other people pay.
Last I come in myself, The leader of this crew; And if you'd know my name, My name it is 'True Blue.'
HERE THE BESSY GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.
My mother was burnt for a witch, My father was hanged on a tree, And it's because I'm a fool There's nobody meddled wi' me.
THE DANCE NOW COMMENCES. IT IS AN INGENIOUS PERFORMANCE, AND THE SWORDS OF THE ACTORS ARE PLACED IN A VARIETY OF GRACEFUL POSITIONS, SO AS TO FORM STARS, HEARTS, SQUARES, CIRCLES, &C. &C. THE DANCE IS SO ELABORATE THAT IT REQUIRES FREQUENT REHEARSALS, A QUICK EYE, AND A STRICT ADHERENCE TO TIME AND TUNE. BEFORE IT CONCLUDES, GRACE AND ELEGANCE HAVE GIVEN PLACE TO DISORDER, AND AT LAST ALL THE ACTORS ARE SEEN FIGHTING. THE PARISH CLERGYMAN RUSHES IN TO PREVENT BLOODSHED, AND RECEIVES A DEATH-BLOW. WHILE ON THE GROUND, THE ACTORS WALK ROUND THE BODY, AND SING AS FOLLOWS, TO A SLOW, PSALM-LIKE TUNE:-
Alas! our parson's dead, And on the ground is laid; Some of us will suffer for't, Young men, I'm sore afraid.
I'm sure 'twas none of me, I'm clear of THAT crime; 'Twas him that follows me That drew his sword so fine.
I'm sure it was NOT me, I'm clear of the fact; 'Twas him that follows me That did this dreadful act.
I'm sure 'twas none of me, Who say't be villains all; For both my eyes were closed When this good priest did fall.
THE BESSY SINGS -
Cheer up, cheer up, my bonny lads, And be of courage brave, We'll take him to his church, And bury him in the grave.
THE CAPTAIN SPEAKS IN A SORT OF RECITATIVE -
Oh, for a doctor, A ten pound doctor, oh.
ENTER DOCTOR.
DOCTOR. Here I am, I. CAPTAIN. Doctor, what's your fee? DOCTOR. Ten pounds is my fee!
But nine pounds nineteen shillings eleven pence three farthings I will take from thee.
THE BESSY. There's ge-ne-ro-si-ty!
THE DOCTOR SINGS -
I'm a doctor, a doctor rare, Who travels much at home; My famous pills they cure all ills, Past, present, and to come.
My famous pills who'd be without, They cure the plague, the sickness (42) and gout, Anything but a love-sick maid; If YOU'RE one, my dear, you're beyond my aid!
HERE THE DOCTOR OCCASIONALLY SALUTES ONE OF THE FAIR SPECTATORS; HE THEN TAKES OUT HIS SNUFF-BOX, WHICH IS ALWAYS OF VERY CAPACIOUS DIMENSIONS (A SORT OF MINIATURE WARMING-PAN), AND EMPTIES THE CONTENTS (FLOUR OR MEAL) ON THE CLERGYMAN'S FACE, SINGING AT THE TIME -
Take a little of my nif-naf, Put it on your tif-taf; Parson rise up and preach again, The doctor says you are not slain.
THE CLERGYMAN HERE SNEEZES SEVERAL TIMES, AND GRADUALLY RECOVERS, AND ALL SHAKE HIM BY THE HAND.
THE CEREMONY TERMINATES BY THE CAPTAIN SINGING -
Our play is at an end, And now we'll taste your cheer; We wish you a merry Christmas, And a happy new year. THE BESSY. And your pockets full of brass, And your cellars full of beer!
A GENERAL DANCE CONCLUDES THE PLAY.
Ballad: THE MASKERS' SONG.
[IN the Yorkshire dales the young men are in the habit of going about at Christmas time in grotesque masks, and of performing in the farm-houses a sort of rude drama, accompanied by singing and music. (43) The maskers have wooden swords, and the performance is an evening one. The following version of their introductory song was taken down literally from the recitation of a young besom- maker, now residing at Linton in Craven, who for some years past has himself been one of these rustic