English Literature for Boys and Girls. H. E. Marshall

Sonnets. But many people helped to make the ballads. I do not mean that twenty or thirty people sat down together and said, "Let us make a ballad." That would not have been possible. But, perhaps, one man heard a story and put it into verse. Another then heard it and added something to it. Still another and another heard, repeated, added to, or altered it in one way or another. Sometimes the story was made better by the process, sometimes it was spoiled. But who those men were who made and altered the ballads, we do not know. They were simply "the people."

      One whole group of ballads tells of the wonderful deeds of Robin Hood. Who Robin Hood was we do not certainly know, nor does it matter much. Legend has made him a man of gentle birth who had lost his lands and money, and who had fled to the woods as an outlaw. Stories gradually gathered round his name as they had gathered round the name of Arthur, and he came to be looked upon as the champion of the people against the Norman tyrants.

      Robin was a robber, but a robber as courtly as any knight. His enemies were the rich and great, his friends were the poor and oppressed.

      "For I never yet hurt any man

       That honest is and true;

       But those that give their minds to live

       Upon other men's due.

      I never hurt the husbandmen

       That used to till the ground;

       Nor spill their blood that range the wood

       To follow hawk or hound.

      My chiefest spite to clergy is

       Who in those days bear a great sway;

       With friars and monks with their fine sprunks

       I make my chiefest prey."

      The last time we heard of monks and priests they were the friends of the people, doing their best to teach them and make them happy. Now we find that they are looked upon as enemies. And the monasteries, which at the beginning had been like lamps of light set in a dark country, had themselves become centers of darkness and idleness.

      But although Robin fought against the clergy, the friars and monks who did wrong, he did not fight against religion.

      "A good manner then had Robin;

       In land where that he were,

       Every day ere he would dine,

       Three masses would he hear.

      The one in worship of the Father,

       And another of the Holy Ghost,

       The third of Our Dear Lady,

       That he loved all the most.

      Robin loved Our Dear Lady,

       For doubt of deadly sin,

       Would he never do company harm

       That any woman was in."

      And Robin himself tells his followers:—

      "But look ye do not husbandman harm

       That tilleth with his plough.

      No more ye shall no good yeoman

       That walketh by green wood shaw,

       Nor no knight nor no squire

       That will be good fellow.

      These bishops and these archbishops,

       Ye shall them beat and bind,

       The high sheriff of Nottingham,

       Him hold ye in your mind."

      The great idea of the Robin Hood ballads is the victory of the poor and oppressed over the rich and powerful, the triumph of the lawless over the law-givers. Because of this, and because we like Robin much better than the Sheriff of Nottingham, his chief enemy, we are not to think that the poor were always right and the rulers always wrong. There were many good men among the despised monks and friars, bishops and archbishops. But there were, too, many evils in the land, and some of the laws pressed sorely on the people. Yet they were never without a voice.

      The Robin Hood ballads are full of humor; they are full, too, of

       English outdoor life, of hunting and fighting.

      Of quite another style is the ballad of Sir Patrick Spens. That takes us away from the green, leafy woods and dells of England to the wild, rocky coast of Scotland. It takes us from the singing of birds to the roar of the waves. The story goes that the King wanted a good sailor to sail across the sea. Then an old knight says to him that the best sailor that ever sailed the sea is Sir Patrick Spens.

      So the King writes a letter bidding Sir Patrick make ready. At first he is pleased to get a letter from the King, but when he has read what is in it his face grows sad and angry too.

      "Who has done me this evil deed?" he cries, "to send me out to sea in such weather?"

      Sir Patrick is very unwilling to go. But the King has commanded, so he and his men set forth. A great storm comes upon them and the ship is wrecked. All the men are drowned, and the ladies who sit at home waiting their husbands' return wait in vain.

      There are many versions of this ballad, but I give you here one

       of the shortest and perhaps the most beautiful.

       "The king sits in Dumferling toune

       Drinking the blude reid wine:

       'O whar will I get a guid sailor,

       To sail this schip of mine?'

      Up and spak an eldern knicht,

       Sat at the king's richt kne:

       'Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor

       That sails upon the se.'

      The king has written a braid letter,

       And signed it wi his hand,

       And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,

       Was walking on the sand.

      The first line that Sir Patrick red,

       A loud lauch lauched he;

       The next line that Sir Patrick red,

       The teir blinded his ee.

      'O wha is this has done this deed,

       This ill deed don to me,

       To send me out this time o' the yeir,

       To sail upon the se?

      'Mak hast, mak hast, my merry men all,

       Our guid schip sails the morne.'

       'Oh, say na sae, my master deir,

       For I feir a deadlie storme.

      'Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone,

       Wi the auld moone in her arme,

       And I feir, I feir, my deir master,

       That we will cum to harme.'

      O, our Scots nobles wer richt laith

       To weet their cork-heild schoone;

       Bot lang owre a' the play wer played

       Thair hats they swam aboone.

      O lang, lang, may their ladies sit,

       Wi their fans into their hand,

       Or eir they see Sir Patrick Spence

       Cum sailing to the land.

      O lang, lang, may the ladies stand,

       Wi their gold kaims in their hair,

       Waiting for their ain deir lords,

       For they'll see them na mair.

      Haf ower, haf ower to Aberdour, It's fiftie fadom deip, And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence. Wi the Scots lords at his feit." And now, just to end this chapter, let me give you one more poem. It is the earliest English song that is known. It is a spring song, and it is so full of the sunny green of fresh young