Reliques of Ancient English Poetry/Volume 3/Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard
For other versions of this work, see Little Musgrove and the Lady Barnet.
XI.
Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard.
This ballad is ancient, and has been popular: we find it quoted in many old plays. See Beaum. and Fletcher’s Knight of the Burning Pestle . 4to. 1613. Act 5. The Varietie, a comedy, 12mo, 1649. Act 4. &c. In Sir William Davenant’s play, The Witts, A. 3, a gallant thus boasts of himself,
“Limber and sound! besides I sing Musgrave,“And for Chevy-chace no lark comes near me.
In the Pepys Collection is an imitation of this old song, in a different measure, by a more modern pen, with many alterations, but evidently for the worse.
This is given from an old printed copy in the British Museum, corrected in part by the Editor’s folio manuscript.
As it fell out on a highe holye daye, As many bee in the yeare,When yong men and maides together do goe Their masses and mattins to heare,
5Little Musgràve came to the church door, The priest was at the mass;But he had more mind of the fine womèn, Then he had of our Ladyes grace.
And some of them were clad in greene,10 And others were clad in pall;And then came in my lord Barnardes wife, The fairest among them all.
Shee cast an eye on little Musgràve, As bright as the summer sunne:15O then bethought him little Musgràve, This ladyes heart I have wonne.
Quoth she, I have loved thee, little Musgràve, Fulle long and manye a daye.So have I loved you, ladye faire,20 Yet word I never durst saye.
I have a bower at Bucklesford-Bury, Full daintilye bedight,If thoult wend thither, my little Musgràve, Thoust lig in mine armes all night.
25Quoth hee, I thanke yee, ladye faire, This kindness yee shew to mee;And whether it be to my weale or woe, This night will I lig with thee.
All this beheard a tiney foot-page,30 By his ladyes coach as he ranne:Quoth he, thoughe I am my ladyes page, Yet Ime my lord Barnardes manne.
My lord Barnàrd shall knowe of this Although I lose a limbe.35And ever whereas the bridges were broke, He layd hin downe to swimme.
Asleep or awake, thou lord Barnàrd, As thou art a man of life,Lo! this same night at Bucklesford-Bury40 Little Musgraves abed with thy wife.
If it be trewe, thou tiney foot-page, This tale thou hast told to mee,Then all my lands in Bucklesford-Bury I freelye will give to thee.
45But and it be a lye, thou tiney foot-page, This tale thou hast told to mee,On the highest tree in Bucklesford-Bury All hanged shalt thou bee.
Rise up, rise up, my merry men all,50 And saddle to me my steede;This night must I to Bucklesford-Bury; God wott, I had never more neede.
Then some they whistled, and some they sang, And some did loudlye saye,55Whenever lord Barnardes horne it blewe Awaye, Musgràve, away.
Methinkes I hear the throstle cocke, Methinkes I heare the jaye,Methinkes I heare lord Barnardes horne;60 I would I were awaye.
Lye still, lye still, thou little Musgràve, And huggle me from the cold;For it is but some shephardes boye A whistling his sheepe to the fold.
65Is not thy hawke upon the pearche, Thy horse eating corne and haye?And thou a gaye ladye within thine armes: And wouldst thou be awaye?
With that lord Barnard came to the dore,70 And lighted upon a stone;And he pulled out three silver keyes, And opened the dores eche one.
He lifted up the coverlett, He lifted up the sheete;70How now, how now, thou little Musgràve, Dost find my gaye ladye sweete?
I find her sweete, quoth little Musgràve, The more is my griefe and paine;Ide gladlye give three hundred poundes80 That I were on yonder plaine.
Arise, arise, thou little Musgràve, And put thy cloathes nowe on,It shall never be said in my countree, That I killed a naked man.
85I have two swordes in one scabbàrde, Full deare they cost my purse;And thou shalt have the best of them, And I will have the worse.
The first stroke that little Musgrave strucke,90 He hurt lord Barnard sore;The next stroke that lord Barnard strucke, Little Musgrave never strucke more.
With that bespake the ladye faire, In bed whereas she laye,95Althoughe thou art dead, my little Musgràve, Yet for thee I will praye:
And wishe well to thy soule will I, So long as I have life;So will I not do for thee, Barnàrd,100 Thoughe I am thy wedded wife.
He cut her pappes from off her brest; Great pitye it was to seeSome drops of this fair ladyes bloode Run trickling downe her knee.
105Wo worth, wo worth ye, my merrye men all, You never were borne for my goode:Why did you not offer to stay my hande, When you see me wax so woode?
For I have slaine the fairest sir knighte,110 That ever rode on a steede;So have I done the fairest ladyè, That ever ware womans weede.
A grave, a grave, lord Barnard cryde, To putt these lovers in;But lay my ladye o’ the upper hande, For shee comes o’ the better kin.
XII.
The Ew-bughts Marion.
A Scottish Song.
This sonnet is said to be of great antiquity: that and it’s simplicity of sentiment have recommended it to a place here.
Will ze gae to the ew-bughts, Marion, And wear it in the sheip wi’ mee?The sun shines sweit, my Marion, But nae half sae sweit as thee.5O Marion’s a bonnie lass; And the blyth blinks in her ee:And fain wad I marrie Marion, Gin Marion wad marrie mee.