A Book of Old Ballads — Complete. Various

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      KING ESTMERE BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY FAIR ROSAMOND THE BOY AND THE MANTLE KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID MAY COLLIN THOMAS THE RHYMER YOUNG BEICHAN CLERK COLVILL GIL MORRICE CHILD WATERS THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER HYND HORN THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON THE THREE RAVENS THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL

FOREWORD

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      By

      Beverley Nichols

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      These poems are the very essence of the British spirit. They are, to

       literature, what the bloom of the heather is to the Scot, and the

       smell of the sea to the Englishman. All that is beautiful in the old

       word "patriotism" … a word which, of late, has been twisted to such

       ignoble purposes … is latent in these gay and full-blooded measures.

      But it is not only for these reasons that they are so valuable to the

       modern spirit. It is rather for their tonic qualities that they should

       be prescribed in 1934. The post-war vintage of poetry is the thinnest

       and the most watery that England has ever produced. But here, in these

       ballads, are great draughts of poetry which have lost none of their

       sparkle and none of their bouquet.

      It is worth while asking ourselves why this should be--why these poems

       should "keep", apparently for ever, when the average modern poem turns

       sour overnight. And though all generalizations are dangerous I believe

       there is one which explains our problem, a very simple one … namely,

       that the eyes of the old ballad-singers were turned outwards, while the

       eyes of the modern lyric-writer are turned inwards.

      The authors of the old ballads wrote when the world was young, and

       infinitely exciting, when nobody knew what mystery might not lie on the

       other side of the hill, when the moon was a golden lamp, lit by a

       personal God, when giants and monsters stalked, without the slightest

       doubt, in the valleys over the river. In such a world, what could a man

       do but stare about him, with bright eyes, searching the horizon, while

       his heart beat fast in the rhythm of a song?

      But now--the mysteries have gone. We know, all too well, what lies on

       the other side of the hill. The scientists have long ago puffed out,

       scornfully, the golden lamp of the night … leaving us in the uttermost

       darkness. The giants and the monsters have either skulked away or have

       been tamed, and are engaged in writing their memoirs for the popular

       press. And so, in a world where everything is known (and nothing

       understood), the modern lyric-writer wearily averts his eyes, and stares

       into his own heart.

      That way madness lies. All madmen are ferocious egotists, and so are all

       modern lyric-writers. That is the first and most vital difference

       between these ballads and their modern counterparts. The old

       ballad-singers hardly ever used the first person singular. The modern

       lyric-writer hardly ever uses anything else.

II

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      This is really such an important point that it is worth labouring.

      Why is ballad-making a lost art? That it is a lost art there can be no question. Nobody who is painfully acquainted with the rambling, egotistical pieces of dreary versification, passing for modern "ballads", will deny it.

      Ballad-making is a lost art for a very simple reason. Which is, that we

       are all, nowadays, too sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought to

       receive emotions directly, without self-consciousness. If we are

       wounded, we are no longer able to sing a song about a clean sword, and a

       great cause, and a black enemy, and a waving flag. No--we must needs go

       into long descriptions of our pain, and abstruse calculations about its

       effect upon our souls.

      It is not "we" who have changed. It is life that has changed. "We" are

       still men, with the same legs, arms and eyes as our ancestors. But life

       has so twisted things that there are no longer any clean swords nor

       great causes, nor black enemies. And the flags do not know which way to

       flutter, so contrary are the winds of the modern world. All is doubt.

       And doubt's colour is grey.

      Grey is no colour for a ballad. Ballads are woven from stuff of

       primitive hue … the red blood gushing, the gold sun shining, the green

       grass growing, the white snow falling. Never will you find grey in a

       ballad. You will find the black of the night and the raven's wing,

       and the silver of a thousand stars. You will find the blue of many

       summer skies. But you will not find grey.

III

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      That is why ballad-making is a lost art. Or almost a lost art. For even

       in this odd and musty world of phantoms which we call the twentieth