Arthur o'Bradley's Wedding

And some singing Arthur-a-Bradley.

See you not Pierce the piper.

All in the merry month of May.

Come, neighbours, and listen awhile,

If ever you wished to smile,

Or hear a true story of old,

Attend to what I now unfold!

'Tis of a lad whose fame did resound

Through every village and town around,

For fun, for frolic, and for whim,

None ever was to equal him,

And his name was Arthur O'Bradley!

O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!

Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Now, Arthur being stout and bold,

And near upon thirty years old,

He needs a wooing would go,

To get him a helpmate, you know.

So, gaining young Dolly's consent,

Next to be married they went;

And to make himself noble appear,

He mounted the old padded mare;

He chose her because she was blood,

And the prime of his old daddy's stud.

She was wind-galled, spavined, and blind,

And had lost a near leg behind;

She was cropped, and docked, and fired,

And seldom, if ever, was tired,

She had such an abundance of bone;

So he called her his high-bred roan,

A credit to Arthur O'Bradley!

O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!

Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Then he packed up his drudgery hose,

And put on his holiday clothes;

His coat was of scarlet so fine,

Full trimmed with buttons behind;

Two sleeves it had it is true,

One yellow, the other was blue,

And the cuffs and the capes were of green,

And the longest that ever were seen;

His hat, though greasy and tore,

Cocked up with a feather before,

And under his chin it was tied,

With a strip from an old cow's hide;

His breeches three times had been turned,

And two holes through the left side were burned;

Two boots he had, but not kin,

One leather, the other was tin;

And for stirrups he had two patten rings,

Tied fast to the girth with two strings;

Yet he wanted a good saddle cloth,

Which long had been eat by the moth.

'Twas a sad misfortune, you'll say,

But still he looked gallant and gay,

And his name it was Arthur O'Bradley!

O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!

Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Thus accoutred, away he did ride,

While Dolly she walked by his side;

Till coming up to the church door,

In the midst of five thousand or more,

Then from the old mare he did alight,

Which put the clerk in a fright;

And the parson so fumbled and shook,

That presently down dropped his book.

Then Arthur began for to sing,

And made the whole church to ring;

Crying, 'Dolly, my dear, come hither,

And let us be tacked together;

For the honour of Arthur O'Bradley!'

O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!

Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Then the vicar discharged his duty,

Without either reward or fee,

Declaring no money he'd have;

And poor Arthur he'd none to give:

So, to make him a little amends,

He invited him home with his friends,

To have a sweet kiss at the bride,

And eat a good dinner beside.

The dishes, though few, were good,

And the sweetest of animal food:

First, a roast guinea-pig and a bantam,

A sheep's head stewed in a lanthorn,

Two calves' feet, and a bull's trotter,

The fore and hind leg of an otter,

With craw-fish, cockles, and crabs,

Lump-fish, limpets, and dabs,

Red herrings and sprats, by dozens,

To feast all their uncles and cousins;

Who seemed well pleased with their treat,

And heartily they did all eat,

For the honour of Arthur O'Bradley!

O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!

Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Now, the guests being well satisfied,

The fragments were laid on one side,

When Arthur, to make their hearts merry,

Brought ale, and parkin, (31) and perry;

When Timothy Twig stept in,

With his pipe, and a pipkin of gin.

A lad that was pleasant and jolly,

And scorned to meet melancholy;

He would chant and pipe so well,

No youth could him excel.

Not Pan the god of the swains,

Could ever produce such strains;

But Arthur, being first in the throng,

He swore he would sing the first song,

And one that was pleasant and jolly:

And that should be 'Hence, Melancholy!'

'Now give me a dance,' quoth Doll,

'Come, Jeffrery, play up Mad Moll,

'Tis time to be merry and frisky, -

But first I must have some more whiskey.'

'Oh! you're right,' says Arthur, 'my love!

My daffy-down-dilly! my dove!

My everything! my wife!

I ne'er was so pleased in my life,

Since my name it was Arthur O'Bradley!'

O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!

Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Then the piper he screwed up his bags,

And the girls began shaking their rags;

First up jumped old Mother Crewe,

Two stockings, and never a shoe.

Her nose was crooked and long,

Which she could easily reach with her tongue;

And a hump on her back she did not lack,

But you should take no notice of that;

And her mouth stood all awry,

And she never was heard to lie,

For she had been dumb from her birth;

So she nodded consent to the mirth,

For honour of Arthur O'Bradley.

O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!

Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

Then the parson led off at the top,

Some danced, while others did hop;

While some ran foul of the wall,

And others down backwards did fall.

There was lead up and down, figure in,

Four hands across, then back again.

So in dancing they spent the whole night,

Till bright Phoebus appeared in their sight;

When each had a kiss of the bride,

And hopped home to his own fire-side:

Well pleased was Arthur O'Bradley!

O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!

Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!

The Brave Earl Brand and the King of England's Daughter (Traditional)

O did you ever hear of the brave Earl Brand,

Hey lillie, ho lillie lallie;

His courted the king's daughter o' fair England,

I' the brave nights so early!

She was scarcely fifteen years that tide,

When sae boldly she came to his bed-side,

'O, Earl Brand, how fain wad I see

A pack of hounds let loose on the lea.'

'O, lady fair, I have no steed but one,

But thou shalt ride and I will run.'

'O, Earl Brand, but my father has two,

And thou shalt have the best of tho'.'

Now they have ridden o'er moss and moor,

And they have met neither rich nor poor;

Till at last they met with old Carl Hood,

He's aye for ill, and never for good.

'Now Earl Brand, an ye love me,

Slay this old Carl and gar him dee.'

'O, lady fair, but that would be sair,

To slay an auld Carl that wears grey hair.

'My own lady fair, I'll not do that,

I'll pay him his fee . . . . . . '

'O, where have ye ridden this lee lang day,

And where have ye stown this fair lady away?'

'I have not ridden this lee lang day,

Nor yet have I stown this lady away;

'For she is, I trow, my sick sister,

Whom I have been bringing fra' Winchester.'

'If she's been sick, and nigh to dead,

What makes her wear the ribbon so red?

'If she's been sick, and like to die,

What makes her wear the gold sae high?'

When came the Carl to the lady's yett,

He rudely, rudely rapped thereat.

'Now where is the lady of this hall?'

'She's out with her maids a playing at the ball.'

'Ha, ha, ha! ye are all mista'en,

Ye may count your maidens owre again.

'I met her far beyond the lea

With the young Earl Brand his leman to be.'

Her father of his best men armed fifteen,

And they're ridden after them bidene.

The lady looked owre her left shoulder then,

Says, 'O Earl Brand we are both of us ta'en.'

'If they come on me one by one,

You may stand by till the fights be done;

'But if they come on me one and all,

You may stand by and see me fall.'

They came upon him one by one,

Till fourteen battles he has won;

And fourteen men he has them slain,

Each after each upon the plain.

But the fifteenth man behind stole round,

And dealt him a deep and a deadly wound.

Though he was wounded to the deid,

He set his lady on her steed.

They rode till they came to the river Doune,

And there they lighted to wash his wound.

'O, Earl Brand, I see your heart's blood!'

'It's nothing but the glent and my scarlet hood.'

They rode till they came to his mother's yett,

So faint and feebly he rapped thereat.

'O, my son's slain, he is falling to swoon,

And it's all for the sake of an English loon.'

'O, say not so, my dearest mother,

But marry her to my youngest brother -

'To a maiden true he'll give his hand,

Hey lillie, ho lillie lallie.

To the king's daughter o' fair England,

To a prize that was won by a slain brother's brand,

I' the brave nights so early!'

The Merry Broomfield; or, The West Country Water

A noble young squire that lived in the West,

He courted a young lady gay;

And as he was merry he put forth a jest,

A wager with her he would lay.

'A wager with me,' the young lady replied,

'I pray about what must it be?

If I like the humour you shan't be denied,

I love to be merry and free.'

Quoth he, 'I will lay you a hundred pounds,

A hundred pounds, aye, and ten,

That a maid if you go to the merry Broomfield,

That a maid you return not again.'

'I'll lay you that wager,' the lady she said,

Then the money she flung down amain;

'To the merry Broomfield I'll go a pure maid,

The same I'll return home again.'

He covered her bet in the midst of the hall,

With a hundred and ten jolly pounds;

And then to his servant he straightway did call,

For to bring forth his hawk and his hounds.

A ready obedience the servant did yield,

And all was made ready o'er night;

Next morning he went to the merry Broomfield,

To meet with his love and delight.

Now when he came there, having waited a while,

Among the green broom down he lies;

The lady came to him, and could not but smile,

For sleep then had closed his eyes.

Upon his right hand a gold ring she secured,

Drawn from her own fingers so fair;

That when he awaked he might be assured

His lady and love had been there.

She left him a posie of pleasant perfume,

Then stepped from the place where he lay,

Then hid herself close in the besom of broom,

To hear what her true love did say.

He wakened and found the gold ring on his hand,

Then sorrow of heart he was in;

'My love has been here, I do well understand,

And this wager I now shall not win.

'Oh! where was you, my goodly goshawk,

The which I have purchased so dear,

Why did you not waken me out of my sleep,

When the lady, my love, was here?'

'O! with my bells did I ring, master,

And eke with my feet did I run;

And still did I cry, pray awake! master,

She's here now, and soon will be gone.'

'O! where was you, my gallant greyhound,

Whose collar is flourished with gold;

Why hadst thou not wakened me out of my sleep,

When thou didst my lady behold?'

'Dear master, I barked with my mouth when she came,

And likewise my collar I shook;

And told you that here was the beautiful dame,

But no notice of me then you took.'

'O! where wast thou, my servingman,

Whom I have clothed so fine?

If you had waked me when she was here,

The wager then had been mine.'

'In the night you should have slept, master,

And kept awake in the day;

Had you not been sleeping when hither she came,

Then a maid she had not gone away.'

Then home he returned when the wager was lost,

With sorrow of heart, I may say;

The lady she laughed to find her love crost, -

This was upon midsummer-day.

'O, squire! I laid in the bushes concealed,

And heard you, when you did complain;

And thus I have been to the merry Broomfield,

And a maid returned back again.

'Be cheerful! be cheerful! and do not repine,

For now 'tis as clear as the sun,

The money, the money, the money is mine,

The wager I fairly have won.'

The Carrion Crow

The carrion crow is a sexton bold,
He raketh the dead from out of the mould.

The carrion crow he sat upon an oak,

And he spied an old tailor a cutting out a cloak.

Heigho! the carrion crow.

The carrion crow he began for to rave,

And he called the tailor a lousy knave!

Heigho! the carrion crow.

'Wife, go fetch me my arrow and my bow,

I'll have a shot at that carrion crow.'

Heigho! the carrion crow.

The tailor he shot, and he missed his mark,

But he shot the old sow through the heart.

Heigho! the carrion crow.

'Wife, go fetch me some treacle in a spoon,

For the old sow's in a terrible swoon!'

Heigho! the carrion crow.

The old sow died, and the bells they did toll,

And the little pigs prayed for the old sow's soul!

Heigho! the carrion crow.

'Never mind,' said the tailor, 'I don't care a flea,

There'll be still black-puddings, souse, and chitterlings for me.'

Heigho! the carrion crow.

The Wandering Young Gentlewoman; or, Catskin

Part I

You fathers and mothers, and children also,

Draw near unto me, and soon you shall know

The sense of my ditty, and I dare to say,

The like's not been heard of this many a day.

The subject which to you I am to relate,

It is of a young squire of vast estate;

The first dear infant his wife did him bear,

It was a young daughter of beauty most rare.

He said to his wife, 'Had this child been a boy,

'Twould have pleased me better, and increased my joy,

If the next be the same sort, I declare,

Of what I'm possessed it shall have no share.'

In twelve months' time after, this woman, we hear,

Had another daughter of beauty most clear;

And when that he knew it was but a female,

Into a bitter passion he presently fell,

Saying, 'Since this is of the same sort as the first,

In my habitation she shall not be nursed;

Pray let her be sent into the countrie,

For where I am, truly, this child shall not be.'

With tears his dear wife unto him did say,

'Husband, be contented, I'll send her away.'

Then to the countrie with speed her did send,

For to be brought up by one was her friend.

Although that her father he hated her so,

He a good education on her did bestow;

And with a gold locket, and robes of the best,

This slighted young damsel was commonly dressed.

And when unto stature this damsel was grown,

And found from her father she had no love shown,

She cried, 'Before I will lay under his frown,

I'm resolved to travel the country around.'

Part II

But now mark, good people, the cream of the jest,

In what sort of manner this creature was dressed;

With cat-skins she made her a robe, I declare,

The which for her covering she daily did wear.

Her own rich attire, and jewels beside,

Then up in a bundle by her they were tied,

And to seek her fortune she wandered away;

And when she had travelled a cold winter's day,

In the evening-tide she came to a town,

Where at a knight's door she sat herself down,

For to rest herself, who was tired sore; -

This noble knight's lady then came to the door.

This fair creature seeing in such sort of dress,

The lady unto her these words did express:

'Whence camest thou, girl, and what wouldst thou have?'

She said, 'A night's rest in your stable I crave.'

The lady said to her, 'I'll grant thy desire,

Come into the kitchen, and stand by the fire.'

Then she thanked the lady, and went in with haste;

And there she was gazed on from highest to least.

And, being well warmed, her hunger was great,

They gave her a plate of good food for to eat,

And then to an outhouse this creature was led,

Where with fresh straw she soon made her a bed.

And when in the morning the daylight she saw,

Her riches and jewels she hid in the straw;

And, being very cold, she then did retire

Into the kitchen, and stood by the fire.

The cook said, 'My lady hath promised that thee

Shall be as a scullion to wait upon me;

What say'st thou girl, art thou willing to bide?'

'With all my heart truly,' to him she replied.

To work at her needle she could very well,

And for raising of paste few could her excel;

She being so handy, the cook's heart did win,

And then she was called by the name of Catskin.

Part III

The lady a son had both comely and tall,

Who oftentimes used to be at a ball

A mile out of town; and one evening-tide,

To dance at this ball away he did ride.

Catskin said to his mother, 'Pray, madam, let me

Go after your son now, this ball for to see.'

With that in a passion this lady she grew,

And struck her with the ladle, and broke it in two.

On being thus served she quick got away,

And in her rich garments herself did array;

And then to this ball she with speed did retire,

Where she danced so bravely that all did admire.

The sport being done, the young squire did say,

'Young lady, where do you live? tell me, I pray.'

Her answer was to him, 'Sir, that I will tell, -

At the sign of the broken ladle I dwell.'

She being very nimble, got home first, 'tis said,

And in her catskin robes she soon was arrayed;

And into the kitchen again she did go,

But where she had been they did none of them know.

Next night this young squire, to give him content,

To dance at this ball again forth he went.

She said, 'Pray let me go this ball for to view.'

Then she struck with the skimmer, and broke it in two.

Then out of the doors she ran full of heaviness,

And in her rich garments herself soon did dress;

And to this ball ran away with all speed,

Where to see her dancing all wondered indeed.

The ball being ended, the young squire said,

'Where is it you live?' She again answered,

'Sir, because you ask me, account I will give,

At the sign of the broken skimmer I live.'

Being dark when she left him, she homeward did hie,

And in her catskin robes she was dressed presently,

And into the kitchen amongst them she went,

But where she had been they were all innocent.

When the squire dame home, and found Catskin there,

He was in amaze and began for to swear;

'For two nights at the ball has been a lady,

The sweetest of beauties that ever I did see.

'She was the best dancer in all the whole place,

And very much like our Catskin in the face;

Had she not been dressed in that costly degree,

I should have swore it was Catskin's body.

Next night to the ball he did go once more,

And she asked his mother to go as before,

Who, having a basin of water in hand,

She threw it at Catskin, as I understand.

Shaking her wet ears, out of doors she did run,

And dressed herself when this thing she had done.

To the ball once more she then went her ways;

To see her fine dancing they all gave her praise.

And having concluded, the young squire said he,

'From whence might you come, pray, lady, tell me?'

Her answer was, 'Sir, you shall soon know the same,

From the sign of the basin of water I came.'

Then homeward she hurried, as fast as could be;

This young squire then was resolved to see

Whereto she belonged, and, following Catskin,

Into an old straw house he saw her creep in.

He said, 'O brave Catskin, I find it is thee,

Who these three nights together has so charmed me;

Thou'rt the sweetest of creatures my eyes e'er beheld,

With joy and content my heart now is filled.

'Thou art our cook's scullion, but as I have life,

Grant me but thy love, and I'll make thee my wife,

And thou shalt have maids for to be at thy call.'

'Sir, that cannot be, I've no portion at all.'

'Thy beauty's a portion, my joy and my dear,

I prize it far better than thousands a year,

And to have my friends' consent I have got a trick,

I'll go to my bed, and feign myself sick.

'There no one shall tend me but thee I profess;

So one day or another in thy richest dress,

Thou shalt be clad, and if my parents come nigh,

I'll tell them 'tis for thee that sick I do lie.'

Part IV

Thus having consulted, this couple parted.

Next day this young squire he took to his bed;

And when his dear parents this thing both perceived,

For fear of his death they were right sorely grieved.

To tend him they send for a nurse speedily,

He said, 'None but Catskin my nurse now shall be.'

His parents said, 'No, son.' He said, 'But she shall,

Or else I'll have none for to nurse me at all.'

His parents both wondered to hear him say thus,

That no one but Catskin must be his nurse;

So then his dear parents their son to content,

Up into his chamber poor Catskin they sent.

Sweet cordials and other rich things were prepared,

Which between this young couple were equally shared;

And when all alone they in each other's arms,

Enjoyed one another in love's pleasant charms.

And at length on a time poor Catskin, 'tis said,

In her rich attire again was arrayed,

And when that his mother to the chamber drew near,

Then much like a goddess did Catskin appear;

Which caused her to stare, and thus for to say,

'What young lady is this, come tell me, I pray?'

He said, 'It is Catskin for whom sick I lie,

And except I do have her with speed I shall die.'

His mother then hastened to call up the knight,

Who ran up to see this amazing great sight;

He said, 'Is this Catskin we held in such scorn?

I ne'er saw a finer dame since I was born.'

The old knight he said to her, 'I prithee tell me,

From whence thou didst come and of what family?'

Then who were her parents she gave them to know,

And what was the cause of her wandering so.

The young squire he cried, 'If you will save my life,

Pray grant this young creature she may be my wife.'

His father replied, 'Thy life for to save,

If you have agreed, my consent you may have.'

Next day, with great triumph and joy as we hear,

There were many coaches came far and near;

Then much like a goddess dressed in rich array,

Catskin was married to the squire that day.

For several days this wedding did last,

Where was many a topping and gallant repast,

And for joy the bells rung out all over the town,

And bottles of canary rolled merrily round.

When Catskin was married, her fame for to raise,

Who saw her modest carriage they all gave her praise;

Thus her charming beauty the squire did win;

And who lives so great now as he and Catskin.

Part V

Now in the fifth part I'll endeavour to show,

How things with her parents and sister did go;

Her mother and sister of life are bereft,

And now all alone the old squire is left.

Who hearing his daughter was married so brave,

He said, 'In my noddle a fancy I have;

Dressed like a poor man now a journey I'll make,

And see if she on me some pity will take.'

Then dressed like a beggar he went to her gate,

Where stood his daughter, who looked very great;

He cried, 'Noble lady, a poor man I be,

And am now forced to crave charity.'

With a blush she asked him from whence that he came;

And with that he told her, and likewise his name.

She cried 'I'm your daughter, whom you slighted so,

Yet, nevertheless, to you kindness I'll show.

'Through mercy the Lord hath provided for me;

Pray, father, come in and sit down then,' said she.

Then the best provisions the house could afford,

For to make him welcome was set on the board.

She said, 'You are welcome, feed hearty, I pray,

And, if you are willing, with me you shall stay,

So long as you live.' Then he made this reply:

'I only am come now thy love for to try.

'Through mercy, my dear child, I'm rich and not poor,

I have gold and silver enough now in store;

And for this love which at thy hands I have found,

For thy portion I'll give thee ten thousand pound.'

So in a few days after, as I understand,

This man he went home, and sold off all his land,

And ten thousand pounds to his daughter did give,

And now altogether in love they do live.

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