Essays in the Study of Folk-Songs (1886) Part 18

"Why call the notary?

My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, Why call the notary?"

"To make my testament; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: To make my testament; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"What to your mother leave?

My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, What to your mother leave?"

"To her my palace goes; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: To her my palace goes; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"What to your brothers leave?

My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, What to your brothers leave?"

"To them the coach and team; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: To them the coach and team; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"What to your sisters leave?

My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, What to your sisters leave?"

"A dower to marry them; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: A dower to marry them; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"What to your servants leave?

My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, What to your servants leave?"

"The road to go to Ma.s.s; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: The road to go to Ma.s.s; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"What leave you to your tomb?

My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, What leave you to your tomb?"

"Ma.s.ses seven score and ten; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: Ma.s.ses seven score and ten; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"What leave you to your love?

My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, What leave you to your love?"

"The tree to hang her on; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: The tree to hang her on; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

At first sight it would seem that the supreme dramatic element of the English song--the circ.u.mstance that the mother does not know, but only suspects, with increasing conviction, the presence of foul play--is weakened in the Lombard ballad by the refrain, "Alas, alas, that I should have to die." But a little more reflection will show that this is essentially of the nature of an _aside_. In many instances the office of the burden in old ballads resembles that of the chorus in a Greek play: it is designed to suggest to the audience a clue to the events enacting which is not possessed by the _dramatis personae_--at least not by all of them.

In the northern songs, Lord Ronald is a murdered child: a character in which he likewise figures in the Scotch lay of "The Croodlin Doo."

This is the Swedish variant:

"Where hast thou been so long, my little daughter?"

"I have been to B[oe]nne to see my brother; Alas! how I suffer."

"What gave they thee to eat, my little daughter?"

"Roast eel and pepper, my step-mother.

Alas! how I suffer."

"What didst thou do with the bones, my little daughter?"

"I threw them to the dogs, my step-mother.

Alas! how I suffer."

"What happened to the dogs, my little daughter?"

"Their bodies went to pieces, my step-mother.

Alas! how I suffer."

"What dost thou wish for thy father, my little daughter?"

"Good grain in the grange, my step-mother.

Alas! how I suffer."

"What dost thou wish for thy brother, my little daughter?"

"A big ship to sail in, my step-mother.

Alas! how I suffer."

"What dost thou wish for thy sister, my little daughter?"

"Coffers and caskets of gold, my step-mother.

Alas! how I suffer."

"What dost thou wish for thy step-mother, my little daughter?"

"The chains of h.e.l.l, step-mother.

Alas! how I suffer."

"What dost thou wish for thy nurse, my little daughter?"

"The same h.e.l.l, my nurse.

Alas! how I suffer."

A point connected with the diffusion of ballads is the extraordinarily wide adoption of certain conventional forms. One of these is the form of testamentary instructions by means of which the plot of a song is worked up to its climax. It reappears in the "Cruel Brother"--which, I suppose, is altogether to be regarded as of the Roland type:

"O what would ye leave to your father, dear?"

_With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay._ "The milk-white steed that brought me here,"

_As the primrose spreads so sweetly._

"What would ye give to your mother, dear?"

_With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay._ "My wedding shift which I do wear,"

_As the primrose spreads so sweetly._

"But she must wash it very clean,"

_With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_, "For my heart's blood sticks in every seam,"

_As the primrose spreads so sweetly_.

"What would ye give to your sister Anne?"

_With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay._ "My gay gold ring and my feathered fan,"

_As the primrose spreads so sweetly_.

"What would ye give to your brother John?"

_With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay._ "A rope and a gallows to hang him on!"

_As the primrose spreads so sweetly_.

"What would ye give to your brother John's wife?"

_With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay._ "Grief and sorrow to end her life!"

_As the primrose spreads so sweetly_.

"What would ye give to your own true lover?"

_With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay._ "My dying kiss, and my love for ever!"

_As the primrose spreads so sweetly_.

The Portuguese ballad of "Helena," which has not much in common with "Lord Roland"--except that it is a story of treachery--is brought into relation with it by its bequests. Helena is a blameless wife whom a cruel mother-in-law first encourages to pay a visit to her parents, and then represents to her husband as having run away from him in his absence. No sooner has he returned from his journey than he rides irate after his wife. When he arrives he is met by the news that a son is born to him, but unappeased he orders the young mother to rise from her bed and follow him. She obeys, saying that in a well-ordered marriage it is the husband who commands; only, before she goes, she kisses her son and bids her mother tell him of these kisses when he grows up. Then her husband takes her to a high mountain, where the agony of death comes upon her. The husband asks: "To whom leavest thou thy jewels?" She answers: "To my sister; if thou wilt permit it."