THE BALLADS AND SONGS
OF YORKSHIRE,

TRANSCRIBED FROM PRIVATE MANUSCRIPTS, RARE BROADSIDES,
AND SCARCE PUBLICATIONS; WITH NOTES
AND A GLOSSARY.

BY

C. J. DAVISON INGLEDEW, M.A., Ph.D., F.G.H.S.

AUTHOR OF "THE HISTORY OF NORTH ALLERTON."

LONDON:

BELL AND DALDY, 186, FLEET STREET
1860.

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

THE EARL OF CARLISLE, K. G.

This Work

IS, WITH PERMISSION, MOST RESPECTFULLY
DEDICATED

BY THE EDITOR.

PREFACE.

The present work is a selection from the Ballads and Songs of my native county, and I trust the publication may not be deemed an unacceptable offering. In a polished age like the present, I am sensible that many of the productions of our county bards will require great allowances to be made for them. Yet have they, for the most part, a pleasing simplicity, and artless grace, which, in the opinion of such writers as Addison, Dryden, Percy, and others, have been thought to compensate for the want of higher beauties; and, in the words of the latter, "If they do not dazzle the imagination, they are frequently found to interest the heart."

Wherever I have had an opportunity, I have collated my copies with the earliest editions, retaining in the notes, in many places, the different readings, the text in modern editions being materially changed and frequently deteriorated. I have omitted pieces from the pens of Scott, Wordsworth, Rogers, and other modern writers, whose works may be assumed to be in the reader's possession. Another class, the last dying confessions of criminals, &c., have been, with few exceptions, left out, as more appropriate for a separate volume. I trust, however, in what is retained will be found every variety:—

"From grave to gay, from lively to severe."

And should the reader receive one half the pleasure in perusing the contents, that has been afforded in collecting, I shall be perfectly satisfied.

In the notes prefixed to the Ballads and Songs, I have acknowledged my obligations to the friends who have so kindly assisted me, but cannot allow this opportunity to pass without again expressing my sincere thanks to Edward Hailstone, esq., F.S.A., Charles Jackson, esq., and others who have manifested so great an interest in the work.

North Allerton,
May, 1860.

CONTENTS.

THE BALLADS AND SONGS OF
YORKSHIRE.

THE DIRGE OF OFFA.

By the Rev. Mr. Ball.

This ballad is supposed to be written by Mordrid, chief of the bards, in the reign of Edwin, king of Northumberland, whose son Offa was slain in the battle of Hatfield Wood, near Doncaster, A.D. 633. It concludes with the words of the bard. Rapin says, on Hatfield Heath a bloody battle was fought between Ceadwalla, king of the Britons, and Penda, the Pagan king of Mercia, against Edwin, the first Christian king of Northumberland, in which Edwin and Offrido his eldest son were slain.

See my son, my Offa, dies!

He who could chase his father's foes!

Where shall the king now close his eyes?

Where but in the tomb of woes.

'Tis there thy stony couch is laid,

And there the wearied king may rest—

But will not Penda's threats invade

The quiet of the monarch's breast?

No—my son shall quell his rage—

What have I said?—ah me, undone;

Ne'er shall the parent's snowy age

Recall the tender name of son!

O would that I for thee had died,

Nor liv'd to wail thy piteous case!

Who dar'd defy those looks of pride,

That mark the chiefs of Wyba's race!

But, O my son, I little knew

What pow'r was in that arm of might!

That weeds of such a baleful hue

The laurel's beauteous wreath should blight!

Yes, my son, the shaft that thee

Transfix'd, hath drawn thy father's fate!

O how will Hengist weep to see

The woes that on his line await!

To see my Offa's latest pangs,

As wild in death he bites the shore!

A savage wolf, with bloody fangs,

The lamb's unspotted bosom tore!

Who never knew to give offence,

But to revenge his father's wrong!—

Some abler arm convey him hence,

And bear a father's love along!

Alas! this tongue is all too weak

The last sad duties to perform!

These feeble arms their task forsake!

Else should they rise in wrathful storm.

Against the ruthless rebel's head

Who dared such laurels to destroy;

To bid each virtue's hope lie dead!

And crush a parent's only joy!

Inter him by yon ivy tow'r,

And raise the note of deepest dole!

Ne'er should a friend in deathful hour,

Forget the chief of gen'rous soul:

And o'er the grave erect a stone,

His worth and lineage high to tell:

And, by the faithful cross be shown

That in the faith of Christ he fell!

Hail! valiant chiefs of Hatfield Wood!

Ne'er may your blooming honours cease!

That with unequal strength withstood

Th' invader of your country's peace.

Now, round this head let darkness fall!

Descend, ye shafts of thund'rous hail!

Ne'er shall be said, in Edwy's hall

That troubled ghost was heard to wail!—

Then, with his feeble arm, the fire

Into the thickest battle flies,

To die, was all the chiefs desire;

Oppress'd with wounds and grief, he dies.

And let the future soul of rhime,

If chance he cons of Edwy's praise,

As high his quiv'ring fingers climb,

Record, that Mordrid pour'd the lays!

ATHELGIVA.

A LEGENDARY TALE OF WHITBY ABBEY.

By William Watkins.

Oswy, king of Northumberland, being engaged in war with Penda, the Pagan king of Mercia, he vowed that, should he come off victorious, his daughter should dedicate herself to the service of God by a life of celibacy, and that he would give twelve of his mansions for the erection of monasteries. Being successful, Oswy, in order to fulfil his vow, placed his daughter Ethelfleda, then scarcely a year old, as a nun in the monastery called Hertesie (Stag Island), of which Lady Hilda, niece of Edwin, first Christian king of Northumberland, was abbess; and having procured ten hides of land, in the place called Streanshalle (Whitby), built there in 657, a monastery for men and women of the Benedictine order, which was dedicated to St. Peter, and Lady Hilda appointed the first abbess. This lady was so famous for her sanctity that she attained the name of St. Hilda, and the monastery, though dedicated to St. Peter, is generally called after her. This abbey continued to flourish till about the year 867, when a party of Danes, under Hinguar and Hubba, landed at Dunsley Bay, the Dunus Sinus of Ptolemy, plundered the country around, and amongst other depredations entirely destroyed the monastery. About this period the tale is supposed to commence; the succeeding incidents are all fictitious, and were dictated to the author, in some measure, by the romantic situation of the abbey, (magnificent in ruin,) which is exceedingly proper for such events.

This monastery lay in ruins till after the conquest, when king William assigned Whitby to Hugh de Abrincis, who disposed of the place to William de Percy, by whom the monastery was refounded about 1074, and dedicated to St. Peter and St. Hilda. In the reign of Henry VIII. this house shared the fate of the other monastic establishments; and its yearly revenues, according to Dugdale, were £437 2s. 9d.; and £505 9s. 1d., according to Speed.

"Here mayst thou rest, my sister dear,

Securely here abide;

Here royal Edelfleda lived,

Here pious Hilda died.

"Here peace and quiet ever dwell:

Here fear no rude alarms;

Nor here is heard the trumpet's sound,

Nor here the din of arms!"

With voice compos'd and look serene,

(Whilst her soft hand he press'd,)

The maid, who trembled on his arm,

Young Edwy thus address'd.

Blue gleam'd the steel in Edwy's hand,

The warrior's vest he bore:

For now the Danes, by Hubba led,

Had ravaged half the shore.

His summons at the abbey gate

The ready porter hears;

And soon, in veil and holy garb,

The abbess kind appears.

"O take this virgin to thy care,

Good angels be your guard;

And may the saints in heaven above

That pious care reward.

"For we by fierce barbarian hands

Are driven from our home;

And three long days and nights forlorn,

The dreary waste we roam.

"But I must go—these towers to save;

Beneath the evening shade,

I haste to seek Earl Osrick's pow'r,

And call Lord Redwald's aid."

He said—and turn'd his ready foot;

The abbess nought replies;

But, with a look that spoke her grief,

To heaven upcast her eyes.

Then, turning to the stranger dame,

"O welcome to this place;

For never Whitby's holy fane

Did fairer maiden grace."

And true she said—for on her cheek

Was seen young beauty's bloom,

Though grief, with slow and wasting stealth,

Did then her prime consume.

Her shape was all that thought can frame,

Of elegance and grace;

And heav'n the beauties of her mind

Reflected in her face.

"My daughter, lay aside thy fears,"

Again the matron cry'd,

"No Danish ravishers come here—"

—Again the virgin sigh'd.

The abbess saw, the abbess knew,

'Twas love that shook her breast;

And thus, in accents soft and mild,

The mournful maid addrest,

"My daughter dear, as to thy friend

Be all thy care confest;

I see 'tis love disturbs thy mind,

And wish to give thee rest.

"But hark! I hear the vesper bell,

Now summons us to prayer;

That duty done, with needful food

Thy wasted strength repair."

But now the pitying mournful muse

Of Edwy's hap shall tell;

And what amid his nightly walk

That gallant youth befell.

For journeying by the bank of Esk

He took his lonely way;

And now through showers of driving rain

His erring footsteps stray.

At length, from far, a glimmering light

Trembled among the trees:

And entering soon a moss-built hut,

A holy man he sees.

"O father, deign a luckless youth

This night with thee to shield;

I am no robber, though my arm

This deadly weapon wield."

"I fear no robber, stranger, here,

For I have nought to lose;

And thou mayst safely through the night

In this poor cell repose.

"And thou art welcome to my hut,"

The holy man replied;

"Still welcome here is he whom fate

Has left without a guide.

"Whence and what art thou, gentle youth?"

The noble Edwy said,

"I go to rouse Earl Osrick's power,

And seek Lord Redwald's aid.

"My father is a wealthy lord,

Who now with Alfred stays;

And me he left to guard his seat,

Whilst he his duty pays.

"But vain the hope—in dead of night

The cruel spoiler came;

And o'er each neighb'ring castle threw

The wide-devouring flame.

"To shun its rage, at early dawn,

I with my sister fled;

And Whitby's abbey now affords

A shelter to her head.

"Whilst I, to hasten promised aids,

Range wildly through the night,

And, with impatient mind, expect

The morning's friendly light."

Thus Edwy spoke; and wondering, gazed

Upon his hermit host,

For in his form beam'd manly grace,

Untouch'd by age's frost.

The hermit sigh'd and thus he said;—

"Know, there was once a day,

This tale of thine would fire my heart,

And bid me join thy way.

"But luckless love dejects my soul,

And casts my spirits down;

Thou seest the wretch of woman's pride,

Of follies not my own.

"I once amid my sovereign's train

Was a distinguish'd youth,

But blighted is my former fame,

By Sorrow's cankering tooth.

"When Ethelred the crown did hold,

I to this district came;

And then a fair and matchless maid

First raised in me a flame.

"Her father was a noble lord

Of an illustrious race,

Who join'd to rustic honesty

The courtier's gentle race.

"'Twas then I told my artless tale,

By love alone inspired;

For never was my honest speech

In flattering guise attired.

"At first she heard, or seem'd to hear,

The voice of tender love;

But soon, the ficklest of her sex,

Did she deceitful prove.

"She drove me scornful from her sight,

Rejected and disdain'd;

In vain did words for pity plead,

In vain my looks complain'd.

"How could that breast which pity fill'd,

Ever relentless be?

How could that face which smiled on all,

Have ever frowns for me?

"Since that fell hour, I in this cell

Have lived recluse from man;

And twice ten months have pass'd since I

The hermit's life began."

"O stain to honour!" Edwy cry'd;

"O foul disgrace to arms!

What, when thy country claims thy aid,

And shakes with war's alarms!

"Canst thou, inglorious, here remain,

And strive thyself to hide;

Assume the monkish coward life,

All for a woman's pride?"

With louder voice and warmer look,

His hermit host rejoin'd;

"Think'st thou, vain youth, the chains of fear

Could here a warrior bind?

"Know, boy, thou seest Hermanrick here;

Well vers'd in war's alarms;

A name once not unknown to fame,

Nor unrenown'd in arms.

"O, Athelgiva! (yet too dear)

Did I thy danger know:

Yet would I fly to thy relief,

And crush th' invading foe."

With fluster'd cheek, young Edwy turn'd,

At Athelgiva's name;

And, "Gracious powers! it must be he!"

He cries, "it is the same!

"I know full well, I have not now

More of thy tale to learn;

I heard this morn, ere from the wave

You could the sun discern.

"My sister loves thee, gallant youth,

By all the saints on high!

She wept last night, when thy hard fate

She told with many a sigh.

"Forgive her, then, and in her cause