Halliwell: Popular Rhymes and Nursery Tales

/ p.258 /

XI.—NURSERY-SONGS.
The earliest and simplest form in which the nursery song appears is the lullaby, which may be defined a gentle song used for the purpose of inducing sleep. The term was generally, though not exclusively, confined to nurses:

Philomel, with melody
Sing in our sweet lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby.

The etymology is to be sought for in the verb lull, to sing gently, which Douce thinks is connected with lalew or lallh. One of the earliest nursery lullabies that have descended to our day occurs in the play of Philotimus, 1583:

Trylle the ball againe my Jacke,
And be contente to make some play,
And I will lull thee on my lappe,
With hey be bird now say not nay.

Another is introduced into the comedy of Patient Grissel, printed in the year 1603:

Hush, hush, hush, hush!
And I dance mine own child,
And I dance mine own child,
Hush, hush, hush, hush!

BILLY, MY SON. The following lines are very common in the English nursery, and resemble the popular German ditty of Grandmother Addercook, inserted in the Knaben Wunderhorn, and translated by Dr. Jamieson in the Illustrations of Northern Antiquities. The ballad of the Crowden Doo, Chambers, p. 205, bears, however, a far greater similarity to the German song. Compare, also / p.259 / the ballad of Willie Doo, in Buchan's Ancient Songs, ii. 179.

Where have you been to-day, Billy, my son?
Where have you been to-day, my only man?
I've been a wooing, mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm sick at heart, and fain would lay down.

What have you ate to-day, Billy, my son?
What have you ate to-day, my only man?
I've ate eel-pie, mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm sick at heart, and shall die before noon.

It is said there is some kind of a fairy legend connected with these lines, Billy having probably been visited by his mermaid mother. Nothing at all satisfactory has, however, yet been produced. It appears to bear a slight analogy to the old ballad, "Where have you been all the day, my boy Willie," printed from a version obtained from Suffolk, in the Nursery Rhymes of England, p. 146;*

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* Another version was obtained from Yorkshire:

Where have you been all the day,

My boy Billy?
Where have you been all the day,

My boy Billy?
I have been all the day
Courting of a lady gay:
Although she is a young thing,
And just come from her mammy!
Is she fit to be thy love,

My boy Billy?
She is as fit to be my love,
As my hand is for my glove,
Although she is, &c.
Is she fit to be thy wife,

My boy Billy?
She is as fit to be my wife,
As my blade is for my knife;
Although she is, &c.
How old may she be,

My boy Billy?
Twice six, twice seven,
Twice twenty and eleven:
Although she is, &c.
---------------------------

and on this account we may here / p.260 / insert a copy of the pretty Scottish ballad, Tammy's Courtship:

Oh, where ha' ye been a' day,

My boy Tammy?

Where ha' ye been a' day,

My boy Tammy?

I've been by burn and flow'ry brae,
Meadow green and mountain gray,
Courting o' this young thing,

Just come frae her mammy.

And where gat ye that young thing.

My boy Tammy?

And where gat ye that young thing,

My boy Tammy?

I gat her down in yonder how,
Smiling on a broomy knowe,
Herding ae wee lamb and ewe

For her poor mammy.

What said you to the bonny bairn,

My boy Tammy?

What said you to the bonny bairn,

My boy Tammy?

I praised her een sae lovely blue,
Her dimpled cheek and cherry mou' ;
I preed it aft, as ye may trow—

She said she'd tell her mammy.

I held her to my beating breast,

My young, my smiling lammy;

I held her to my beating breast,

My young, my smiling lammy:

I hae a house, it cost me dear,
I've wealth o' plenishing and gear,
Ye'se get it a', war't ten times mair,

Gin ye will leave your mammy.

The smile gaed aff her bonny face,

I maunna leave my mammy;

The smile gaed aff her bonny face,

I maunna leave my mammy:

She's gi'en me meat, she's gi'en me claise,
She's been my comfort a' my days;
My father's death brought mony waes—

I canna leave my mammy.

/ p.261 /

We'll tak' her hame, and mak' her fain,

My ain kind-hearted lammy;

We'll tak' her hame, and mak' her fain,

My ain kind-hearted lammy:

We'll gie her meat, we'll gie her claise,
We'll be her comfort a' her days;
The wee thing gi'es her han', and says—

There! gang and ask my mammy.

Has she been to the kirk wi' thee,

My boy Tammy?

Has she been to the kirk wi' thee,

My boy Tammy?

She's been to kirk wi' me,
And the tear was in her e'e;
But, oh! she's but a young thing,

Just come frae her mammy!

The ballad of Lord Randal, printed by Sir Walter Scott, may, after all, furnish the true solution to the meaning of our nursery rhyme, and I am therefore induced to insert a version of it still popular in Scotland, in which the hero of the song is styled Laird Rowland:

Ah! where have you been, Lairde Rowlande, my son?
Ah! where have you been, &c.

I've been in the wild-woods,
Mither, mak my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi' hunting,
And faine would lie down.

Oh! you've been at your true love's, Lairde Rowlande, my son!
Oh! you've been at your true love's, &c.

I've been at my true love's,
Mither, mak my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi' hunting,
And faine would lie down.

What got you to dinner, Lairde Rowlande, my son?
What got you to dinner, &c.

I got eels boil'd in brue,
Mither, mak my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi' hunting,
And faine would lie down.

/ p.262 /

What's become of your Warden, Lairde Rowlande, my son?
What's become of your Warden, &c.

He died in the muirlands,
Mither, mak my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi' hunting,
And faine would lie down.

What's become of your stag-hounds, Lairde Rowlande, my son?
What's become of your stag-hounds, &c.

They swelled and they died!
Mither, mak my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi' hunting,
And faine would lie down.

The fable or plot of this seems to be, that Lord Rowlande, upon a visit at the castle of his mistress, has been poisoned by the drugged viands at the table of her father, who was averse to her marriage with the lord. Finding himself weary, and conscious that he is poisoned, he returns to his home, and wishes to retire to his chamber without raising in his mother any suspicions of the state of his body and mind. This may be gathered from his short and evasive answers, and the importunate entreaties with which he requests his mother to prepare his chamber.
In Swedish there are two distinct versions: one, the Child's Last Wishes, in Geijer and Afzelius, iii. 13, beginning—

Hvar har du varit så länge,
Dotter, liten kind?
Jag har varit hos min Amma,
Kär styf-moder min!
För aj aj! ondt hafver jag — jag!

Where hast thou been so long now,
My sweet wee little child?
Sure with my nurse I've tarried,
My own step-mother mild!
For oh! oh! sore pains have I—I!

The second is in Afzelius, ii. 90, under the same title, and beginning—

/ p.263 /

Hvar har du va't så länge,
Lilla dotter kind?
Jag har va't i Bänne,
Hos broderen min!
Aj, aj, ondt hafver jag, jag!

Where hast thou been so long now,
Wee little daughter fine?
In Bänne have I tarried,
With brother mine!
Oh! oh! sore pains have I—I!

Both are sung to exquisitely melancholy melodies.
Dr. Jamieson makes some very just observations on this ballad, and the importance of tracing this class of tales. "That any of the Scotch, English, and German copies of the same tale have been borrowed or translated from another, seems very improbable; and it would now be in vain to attempt to ascertain what it originally was, or in what age it was produced. It has had the good fortune in every country to get possession of the nursery, a circumstance which, from the enthusiasm and curiousity of young imaginations, and the communicative volubility of little tongues, has insured its preservation. Indeed, many curious relics of past times are preserved in the games and rhymes found amongst children, which are on that account by no means beneath the notice of the curious traveller, who will be surprised to find, after the lapse of so many ages, and so many changes of place, language, and manners, how little these differ among different nations of the same original stock, who have been so long divided and estranged from each other."

MY COCK LILY-COCK An inferior version of the following, which was obtained from Essex, is printed in Mr. Chambers's Popular Rhymes of Scotland, ed. 1847, p.190. A Swedish version, or rather a variation, in Lilja, p.17, commences / p.264 / as follows: "I served a farmer for four years, and he paid me with a hen. 'Skrock, skrock!' said my hen. I served a farmer for four years, and he paid me with a cock. 'Kucklilo!' said my cock. 'Skrock, skrock!' said my hen, &c."

I had a cock, and a cock lov'd me,
And I fed my cock under a hollow tree;
My cock cried—cock-cock-coo—
Every body loves their cock, and I love my cock too!

I had a hen, and a hen lov'd me,
And I fed my hen under a hollow tree;
My hen went—chickle-chackle, chickle-chackle—
My cock cried—cock-cock-coo—
Every body loves their cock, and I love my cock too!

I had a goose, and a goose lov'd me,
And I fed my goose under a hollow tree;
     My goose went—qua'k, qua'k—
     My hen went—chickle-chackle, chickle-chackle—
        My cock cried—cock-cock-coo—
Every body loves their cock, and I love my cock too!

I had a duck, and a duck lov'd me,
And I fed my duck under a hollow tree;
     My duck went—quack, quack, quack—
     My goose went—qua'k, qua'k—
     My hen went—chickle-chackle, chickle-chackle—
        My cock cried—cock-cock-coo—
Every body loves their cock, and I love my cock too!

I had a drake, and a drake lov'd me,
And I fed my drake under a hollow tree;
     My drake went—ca-qua; ca-qua; ca-qua—
     My duck went—quack, quack, quack—
     My goose went—qua'k, qua'k, qua'k—
     My hen went—chickle-chackle, chickle-chackle—
        My cock cried—cock-cock-coo—
Every body loves their cock, and I love my cock too!

I had a cat, and a cat lov'd me,
And I fed my cat under a hollow tree;
My cat went—miow, miow, miow—
My drake went—ca-qua; ca-qua; ca-qua—

/ p.265 /

     My duck went—quack, quack, quack—
     My goose went—qua'k, qua'k, qua'k—
     My hen went—chickle-chackle, chickle-chackle—
        My cock cried—cock-cock-coo—
Every body loves their cock, and I love my cock too!

I had a dog, &c. My dog went—bow, wow, wow—

I had a cow, &c. My cow went—moo, moo, moo—

I had a sheep, &c. My sheep went—baa, baa, baa—

I had a donkey, &c. My donkey went—hi-haugh, hi-haugh—

I had a horse, &c.; My horse went—whin-neigh-h-h-h-h—

I had a pig, and a pig lov'd me,
And I fed my pig under a hollow tree;
      And my pig went—hoogh, hoogh, hoogh—
      My horse went—whin-neigh-h-h-h-h—
      My donkey went—hi-haugh, hi-haugh—
      My sheep went—baa, baa, baa—
      My cow went—moo, moo, moo—
      My dog went—bow, wow, wow—
      My cat went—miow, miow, miow—
      My drake went—ca-qua; ca-qua; ca-qua—
      My duck went—quack, quack, quack—
      My goose went—qua'k, qua'k, qua'k—
      My hen went—chickle-chackle, chickle-chackle—
          My cock cried—cock-cock-coo—
Every body loves their cock, and I love my cock too!

And so the pig—grunted,
The horse—neigh'd,
The donkey—bray'd,
The sheep—bleated,
The cow—low'd,
The dog—bark'd,
The cat—mew'd,
The drake—quackled,
The duck—cackled,
The goose—gobbled,
The hen—chuckled,
The cock—crow'd—

And my cock cried—cock-cock-coo!—
Every body loves their cock, and I love my cock too!

/ p.266 /

JACK SPRAT. Fragments of this tale are common in the nursery, but I have only met with one copy of the following poem, which appears to be of some antiquity, although it is here printed from a modern chap-book:

Jack Sprat could eat no fat,
     His wife could eat no lean,
And so between them both,
     They licked the platter clean.
Jack eat all the lean,
     Joan eat all the fat,
The bone they picked clean,
     Then gave it to the cat.
When Jack Sprat was young,
     He dressed very smart,
He courted Joan Cole,
     And he gained her heart.
In his fine leather doublet,
     And old greasy hat,
Oh, what a smart fellow
     Was little Jack Sprat!
Joan Cole had a hole
     In her petticoat,
Jack Sprat, to get a patch,
     Gave her a groat;
The groat bought a patch,
     Which stopped the hole,
"I thank you, Jack Sprat,"
     Says little Joan Cole.
Jack Sprat was the bridegroom,
     Joan Cole was the bride,
Jack said, from the church,
     His Joan home should ride.
But no coach could take her,
     The lane was so narrow,
Said Jack, then I'll take her
     Home in a wheelbarrow.
Jack Sprat was wheeling
     His wife by the ditch,

/ p.267 /

The barrow turned over,
     And in she did pitch;
Says Jack, she'll be drown'd,
     But Joan did reply,
I don 't think I shall,
     For the ditch is quite dry.
Jack brought home his Joan,
     And she sat in a chair,
When in came his cat,
     That had got but one ear.
Says Joan, I'm come home, Puss,
     Pray, how do you do?
The cat wagg'd her tail,
     And said nothing but "mew."
Jack Sprat took his gun,
     And went to the brook,
He shot at the drake,
     But he killed the duck.
He brought it to Joan,
     Who a fire did make
To roast the fat duck,
     While Jack went for the drake.
The drake was swimming
     With his curly tail,
Jack Sprat came to shoot him,
     But happened to fail;
He let off his gun,
     But missing his mark,
The drake flew away,
     Crying, "Quack, quack, quack."
Jack Sprat to live pretty,
     Now bought him a pig,
It was not very little,
     It was not very big;
It was not very lean,
     It was not very fat,
It will serve for a grunter
     For little Jack Sprat.
Then Joan went to market
     To buy her some fowls,
She bought a jackdaw
     And a couple of owls.

/ p.268 /

The owls they were white,
     The jackdaw was black,
They'll make a rare breed,
     Says little Joan Sprat.
Jack Sprat bought a cow,
     His Joan for to please,
For Joan she could make
     Both butter and cheese;
Or pancakes or puddings,
     Without any fat:
A notable housewife
     Was little Joan Sprat.
Joan Sprat went to brewing
     A barrel of ale,
She put in some hops
     That it might not turn stale;
But as for the malt,
     She forgot to put that,
This is brave sober liquor,
     Said little Jack Sprat.
Jack Sprat went to market,
     And bought him a mare,
She was lame of three legs,
     And as blind as she could stare;
Her ribs they were bare,
     For the mare had no fat,
She looks like a racer,
     Says little Jack Sprat.
Jack and Joan went abroad,
     Puss took care of the house,
She caught a large rat
     And a very small mouse:
She caught a small mouse,
     And a very large rat;
You're an excellent hunter,
     Says little Jack Sprat.
Now I have told you the story
     Of little Jack Sprat,
And little Joan Cole,
     And the poor one-ear'd cat.
Now Jack loved Joan,
     And good things he taught her.

/ p.269 /

Then she gave him a son,
     Then after a daughter.
Now Jack has got rich
     And has plenty of pelf;
If you know any more,
     You may tell it yourself.

DABBLING IN THE DEW. The following pretty ballad appears to be a humorous imitation of an Elizabethan eclogue-song. Its style guarantees its antiquity:

Oh, where are you going,
     My pretty maiden fair,
With your red rosy cheeks,
     And your coal-black hair?
I'm going a-milking,
     Kind sir, says she;
And it's dabbling in the dew,
     Where you'll find me.

May I go with you,
My pretty maiden fair, &c.
Oh, you may go with me,
Kind sir, says she, &c.

If I should chance to kiss you,
My pretty maiden fair, &c.
The wind may take it off again,
Kind sir, says she, &c.

If I should chance to lay you down,
My pretty maiden fair, &c.
Then you must pick me up again,
Kind sir, says she, &c.

If I should chance to run away,
My pretty maiden fair, &c.
The De'el may then run away wi' you,
Kind sir, says she, &c.

And what is your father,
My pretty maiden fair, &c.
My father is a farmer,
Kind sir, says she, &c.

/ p.270 /

And what is your mother,
My pretty maiden fair, &c.
My mother is a dairy-maid,
Kind sir, says she, &c.

And what is your sweetheart,
My pretty maiden fair, &c.
William the carpenter,
Kind sir, says, she, &c.

There was an old couple, and they were poor,

Fa la, fa la la lee!

They lived in a house that had but one door;
Oh! what a poor couple were they.

The old man once he went far from his home,

Fa la, fa la la lee!

The old woman afraid was to stay alone,
Oh! what a weak woman was she.

The old man he came home at last,

Fa la, fa la la lee!

And found the windows and door all fast.
Oh! what is the matter? quoth he.

Oh ! I have been sick since you have been gone;

Fa la, fa la la lee!

If you'd been in the garden you'd heard me groan;
Oh! I'm sorry for that, quoth he.

I have a request to make unto thee;

Fa la, fa la la lee!

To pluck me an apple from yonder tree.
Ay, that will I, marry, quoth he.

The old man tried to get up in the tree,

Fa la, fa la la lee!

But the ladder it fell, and down tumbled he.
That's cleverly done! said she.

HEY DIDDLE DIDDLE!*

Hey diddle diddle,
The cat scraped the fiddle,
The cow jump'd over the moon;

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* The above ingenious translation and remarks were communicated by Mr. George Burges.
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/ p.271 /

The little dog bayed
To see such sports played,
And the dish ran away with the spoon.

'Ad' adhla, dhla d' ade,
PwV galh luran etribe,
BouV de mhnhn uperephda'
Kunidion d' eklagxen, au, au,
Paidian g' orwn toiande,
Kai torunhn
"Efuge kardopos labwn.

The unmeaning "Hey diddle diddle" is a corruption of the very intelligible 'Ad' adhla, dhla d' ade, which is literally "Sing words not clear, and Sing words clear;" with which may be compared a Sibylline verse in Greek, Dhlos ar' ouk eti dhloV' adhla de panta ta Dhlou.

TOMMY LINN.

Tommy Linn is a Scotchman born,
His head is bald and his beard is shorn;
He has a cap made of a hare skin,
An alderman is Tommy Linn.

Tommy Linn has no boots to put on,
But two calves' skins, and the hair it was on.
They are open at the side and the water goes in:
Unwholesome boots, says Tommy Linn.

Tommy Linn no bridle had to put on,
But two mouse's tails that he put on;
Tommy Linn had no saddle to put on,
But two urchin skins, and them he put on.

Tommy Linn's daughter sat on the stair,
Oh, dear father, gin I be not fair?
The stairs they broke, and she fell in,
You're fair enough now, says Tommy Linn.

Tommy Linn had no watch to put on,
So he scooped out a turnip to make himself one;
He caught a cricket, and put it within;
It's my own ticker, says Tommy Linn.

Tommy Linn, his wife, and wife's mother,
They all fell into the fire together;

/ p.272 /

Oh, said the topmost, I've got a hot skin:
It's hotter below, says Tommy Linn.

An immense variety of songs and catches relating to Tommy Linn are known throughout the country. The air of Thom of Lyn is one of those mentioned in the Complaynt of Scotland, 1549. See Chambers, p.192, who gives a Scotch version of the above song. The song itself is quoted in Wager's play, 'The longer thou livest the more foole thou art,' written about the year 1560. Dr. Leyden conjectures that the hero is the same with Tamlene, who is introduced into a well-known fairy ballad published by Sir W. Scott.

THE BEGGARS OF RATCLIFFE FAIR.

As I went to Ratcliffe Fair, there I met with a jolly beggáre,
Jolly beggáre, and his name was John, and his wife's name was Jumping Joan;
So there was John and Jumping Joan,
Merry companions every one.

As I went to Ratcliffe Fair, there I met with a jolly beggáre,
Jolly beggáre, and his name was Richard, and his wife's name was Mrs. Ap Richard;
        So there was Richard, and Mrs. Ap Richard,
        And there was John and Jumping Joan,
        Merry companions every one.

As I went to Ratcliffe Fair, there I met with a jolly beggáre,
Jolly beggáre, and his name was Robert, and his wife's name was Mrs. Ap Robert;
        So there was Robert and Mrs. Ap Robert,
        And there was Richard, and Mrs. Ap Richard,
        And there was John and Jumping Joan,
        Merry companions every one.

As I went to Ratcliffe Fair, there I met with a jolly beggáre,
Jolly beggáre, and his name was Rice, and his wife's name was Mrs. Ap Rice;
        So there was Rice and Mrs. Ap Rice,
        And there was Richard, and Mrs. Ap Richard,
        And there was Robert and Mrs. Ap Robert,
        And there was John and Jumping Joan,
        Merry companions every one.

/ p.273 /

As I went to Ratcliffe Fair, there I met with a jolly beggáre,
Jolly beggáre, and his name was Jones, and his wife's name was Mrs. Ap Jones;
        So there was Jones and Mrs. Ap Jones,
        And there was Rice and Mrs. Ap Rice,
        And there was Robert and Mrs. Ap Robert,
        And there was Richard, and Mrs. Ap Richard,
        And there was John and Jumping Joan,
        Merry companions every one.

As I went to Ratcliffe Fair, there I met with a jolly beggáre,
Jolly beggáre, and his name was Lloyd, and his wife's name was Mrs. Ap Lloyd;
        So there was Lloyd and Mrs. Ap Lloyd,
        And there was Jones and Mrs. Ap Jones,
        And there was Rice and Mrs. Ap Rice,
        And there was Robert and Mrs. Ap Robert,
        And there was Richard, and Mrs. Ap Richard,
        And there was John and Jumping Joan,
        Merry companions every one.

As I went to Ratcliffe Fair, there I met with a jolly beggáre,
Jolly beggáre, and his name was Owen, and his wife's name was Mrs. Ap Owen;
        So there was Owen and Mrs. Ap Owen,
        And there was Lloyd and Mrs. Ap Lloyd,
        And there was Jones and Mrs. Ap Jones,
        And there was Rice and Mrs. Ap Rice,
        And there was Robert and Mrs. Ap Robert,
        And there was Richard, and Mrs. Ap Richard,
        And there was John and Jumping Joan,
        Merry companions every one.

As I went to Ratcliffe Fair, there I met with a jolly beggáre,
Jolly beggáre, and his name was Lewin, and his wife's name was Mrs. Ap Lewin;
        So there was Lewin and Mrs. Ap Lewin,
        And there was Owen and Mrs. Ap Owen,
        And there was Lloyd and Mrs. Ap Lloyd,
        And there was Jones and Mrs. Ap Jones,
        And there was Rice and Mrs. Ap Rice,
        And there was Robert and Mrs. Ap Robert,
        And there was Richard, and Mrs. Ap Richard,
        And there was John and Jumping Joan,
        Merry companions every one.

/ p.274 /

As I went to Ratcliffe Fair, there I met with a jolly beggáre,
Jolly beggáre, and his name was Shenkyn, and his wife's name was Mrs. Ap Shenkyn;
        So there was Shenkyn and Mrs. Ap Shenkyn,
        And there was Lewin and Mrs. Ap Lewin,
        And there was Owen and Mrs. Ap Owen,
        And there was Lloyd and Mrs. Ap Lloyd,
        And there was Jones and Mrs. Ap Jones,
        And there was Rice and Mrs. Ap Rice,
        And there was Robert and Mrs. Ap Robert,
        And there was Richard, and Mrs. Ap Richard,
        And there was John and Jumping Joan,
        Merry companions every one.

As I went to Ratcliffe Fair, there I met with a jolly beggáre,
Jolly beggáre, and his name was Howell, and his wife's name was Mrs. Ap Howell;
        So there was Howell and Mrs. Ap Howell,
        And there was Shenkyn and Mrs. Ap Shenkyn,
        And there was Lewin and Mrs. Ap Lewin,
        And there was Owen and Mrs. Ap Owen,
        And there was Lloyd and Mrs. Ap Lloyd,
        And there was Jones and Mrs. Ap Jones,
        And there was Rice and Mrs. Ap Rice,
        And there was Robert and Mrs. Ap Robert,
        And there was Richard, and Mrs. Ap Richard,
        And there was John and Jumping Joan,
        Merry companions every one.

This singular accumulative tale produces great amusement amongst children when rapidly repeated. Mr. Chambers, p. 197, has given a Scotch version, very different from the above, commencing—

The first time that I gaed to Coudingham fair,
I fell in with a jolly beggar;
The beggar's name O it was Harry,
And he had a wife, and they ca'd her Mary:
       O Mary and Harry, and Harry and Mary,
       And Janet and John,
       That's the beggars one by one;
       But now I will gie you them pair by pair,
       All the brave beggars of Coudingham fair.

/ p.275 /

CONCLUSION.
      OUR collection of vernacular scraps, which, like the "brave beggars of Coudingham fair," have been gathered from the lanes and by-ways, is now brought to a conclusion. They are, it must be confessed, but literary vagrants at the best; but they breathe of country freshness, and may impart some of their spirit to our languishing home-life. The cottage without its traditional literature is but a poor feature in the landscape that is loved by the poet. The legend or antique rhyme enamating from its door expresses a characteristic he would not willingly see perish. It may be that little of this now remains in England, but the minutest indications should be carefully chronicled ere they disappear.
      Many of the fragments in the preceding pages are, in fact, rather indications of what formerly existed than complete specimens of their class. It is beyond a doubt that, two centuries ago, our rural districts were rich in all kinds of popular and traditional literature, in legends and ancient rhymes. Unfortunately, the antiquaries of the old school considered such matters beneath their notice; and instead of conferring a very important benefit on literature by preserving them, occupied a great portion of their time in essays of very questionable utility. It thus happened that allusions in our poets, intelligible enough in those days, became enigmas when the memory of these trifles disappeared. We should fall into a similar error did we neglect those which still remain, merely because their value is not / p.276 / always immediately apparent, or be alarmed at a suggestion that we are "suckling fools, and chronicling small beer."
      Let us hope the reader may view these trifles with more indulgence, and enlist his sympathies with our own; for if literary value is insisted upon as the sole use of their publication, the critic may require an abler apologist. He may refuse to admit the importance of preserving a large collection for the sake of the few which may illustrate the works of our ancient authors. But we trust this opinion will not be general; that their natural simplicity will compensate in some respects for deficiency of literary elegance; and that the universal and absorbing prevalence of one pursuit has not put to flight all kindly memory of the recreations of a happier age:

The sports of childhood's roseate dawn
Have passed from our hearts like the dew-gems from morn:
We have parted with marbles—we own not a ball,
And are deaf to the hail of a "whoop and a call."
But there's an old game that we all keep up,
When we've drank much deeper from life's mixed cup;
Youth may have vanished, and manhood come round,
Yet how busy we are on "Tom Tidler's ground
Looking for gold and silver!"

FINIS.

C. AND J. ADLARD, PRINTERS, BARTHOLOMEW CLOSE.