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THE BALLAD
CONTENTS
âBonny Barbara Allenâ âSir Patrick Spensâ âLord Randalâ âThe Three Ravensâ âHenry Martinâ
âExpostulation and Replyâ - William Wordsworth âLa Belle Dame Sans Merciâ - John Keats
âThis Weird Estateâ - Kathleen Jamie âBallad of a Heroâ - Kate Tempest NOTES The first group of ballads here are old folk ballads. They are all part of a collection of traditional Scottish and English ballads that was made in the late nineteenth century by Francis Child. Many of the poemâs in Childâs collection probably go back to at least the sixteenth century, and some are almost certainly much older. The subject matter of these ballads ranged from the historical and political to the romantic and tragic to the religious and even the supernatural. Most of these ballads were also set to music. All of these ballads exist in different forms, and with different music written at times up even to the present day (see course website for an example). The Child Ballads is evidence of a strong vogue in the the nineteenth century for ballads and folk tales. The second group of ballads is evidence of this Romantic fashion for ballads, which included William Wordsworthâs and Samuel Taylor Coleridgeâs long project in the âvoiceâ of the working-class man - the Lyrical Ballads , of which Wordsworthâs âExpostulation and Replyââ, included here, was a part. You might also know the much longer âThe Rime of the Ancyent Marinereâ by Coleridge. The third group includes two contemporary ballads: a poem by the Scottish poet Kathleen Jamie which is indebted to the long poetic, musical and folk tradition of the ballad, and âBallad of a Heroâ by performance poet Kate Tempest. QUESTIONS ⢠What kinds of narratives do you find in these ballads? What is the subject matter? ⢠What does the ballad do with narrative? How do these narratives develop? ⢠What kinds of poetic voice do you find here? Who speaks in these poems? ⢠Are there features that these ballads all share? Any interesting differences? ⢠How has the ballad changed over time? Does the subject matter change? ⢠What can you say about the form of the ballad?
Bonnie Barbara Allan Child Ballad 84 It was in and about the Martinmas time,^1 When the green leaves were a falling, That Sir John Graeme, in the West Country, Fell in love with Barbara Allan. He sent his men down through the town, To the place where she was dwelling: âO haste and come to my master dear, Gin ye be Barbara Allan.â O hooly, hooly rose she up,^2 To the place where he was lying, 10 And when she drew the curtain by, âYoung man, I think youâre dying.â And when she drew the curtain by, âYoung man, I think youâre dying.â âO itâs Iâm sick, and very, very sick, And âtis aâ for Barbara Allan:â âO the better for me yeâs never be, Thoâ your heartâs blood were a spilling. âO dinna ye mind, young man,â said she,^3 âWhen ye was in the tavern a drinking, 20 That ye made the healths gae round and round,^4 And slighted Barbara Allan?â He turnâd his face unto the wall, And death was with him dealing: âAdieu, adieu , my dear friends all,^5 And death was with him dealing: (^1) Martinmas : St. Martinâs Day, 11 November. The time of the annual slaughter of cattle for the winter. (^2) hooly, hooly : slowly, slowly (^3) dinna ye mind : donât you remember (^4) To make the healths go round: to drink toasts to everyone. (^5) Adieu : goodbye
Child Ballad 58 The Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens THE king sits in Dumferling toune, Drinking the blude-reid wine: âO whar will I get guid sailor, To sail this schip of mine?â Up and spak an eldern knicht, Sat at the kingâs richt kne: âSir Patrick Spence is the best sailor That sails upon the se.â The king has written a braid letter, And signâd it wiâ 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. âO wha is this has don this deid, This ill deid don to me, To send me out this time oâ the yeir, To sail upon the se! âMak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, Our guid schip sails the morne:â âO say na sae, my master deir, For I feir a deadlie storme. âLate late yestreen I saw the new moone, Wiâ the auld moone in hir arme, And I feir, I feir, my master deir, That we will cum to harme.â O our Scots nables wer richt laith To weet their cork-heild schoone; Bot lang owre aâ the play wer playd, Their hats they swam aboone. The Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens^6 THE king sits in Dunfermline town, Drinking the blood-red wine: âO where will I get good sailor, To sail this ship of mine?â Up and spake an elder knight, Sat at the kingâs right knee: âSir Patrick Spence is the best sailor That sails upon the sea.â The king has written a broad letter, And signed it wiâ his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, Was walking on the sand. The first line that Sir Patrick read, A loud laugh laughed he; The next line that Sir Patrick read, The tear blinded his ee. [eye] âO who is this has done this deed, This ill deed done to me, To send me out this time oâ the year, To sail upon the sea! âMake haste, make haste, my merry men all, Our good ship sails the morn:â âO say not so, my master dear, For I fear a deadly storm. âLate late yesterday evening I saw the new moon, With the old moone in her arm, And I fear, I fear, my dear master, That we will come to harm.â O our Scots nobles were right loath To wet their cork-heeled shoes; Bot long before all the play was played, Their hats they swam above. (^6) This is a version of the poem with the Scots of the original anglicised.
O lang, lang may their ladies sit, Wiâ thair fans into their hand, Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence Cum sailing to the land. O lang, lang may the ladies stand, Wiâ thair gold kems in their hair, Waiting for thair ain deir lords, For theyâll se thame na mair. Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour, Itâs fiftie fadom deip, And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence, Wiâ the Scots lords at his feit. O long, long may their ladies sit, With their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spence Come sailing to the land. O long, long may the ladies stand, With their gold combs in their hair, Waiting for their own dear lords, For theyâll see them no more. Have over, have over, to Aberdour, Itâs fifty fathoms deep, And there lies good Sir Patrick Spence, With the Scots lords at his feet.
'My gold and my silver; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, an I fain wad lie down.' 'What d'ye leave to your brother, Lord Randal, my son? What d'ye leave to your brother, my handsome young man?' 'My houses and my lands; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.' 'What d'ye leave to your true-love, Lord Randal my son? What d'ye leave to your true-love, my handsome young man?' 'I leave her hell and fire; mother, make my bed soon, For Iâm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.' 40
The Three Ravens Child Ballad 26 There were three ravens sat on a tree, Down, a down, heigh down, heigh down They were as black as they might be. With a down, derry derry derry down down Then one of them said to his mate, 'Where shall we our breakfast take?' 'Down in yonder green field, There lies a knight slain under his shield. 'His hounds they lie down at his feet, So well they can their master keep. 'His hawks they fly so eagerly, There's no fowl dare come him nigh.' | nigh: near Down there comes a fallow doe, As great with young as she might go. | great with young: pregnant She lift up his bloody head, And kissed his wounds that were so red. She got him up upon her back, And carried him to earthen lake. She buried him before the prime, She was dead herself âere even-song time. | âere: before God send every gentleman, Such hawks, such hounds, and such a leman. | leman: lover
With broadside and broadside and at it they went For fully two hours or three, 30 Till Henry Martin gave to her the deathshot, And straight to the bottom went she. Bad news, bad news, to old England came, Bad news to fair London Town, There's been a rich vessel and she's cast away, And all of the merry men drown'd.
Expostulation and Reply âWHY, William, on that old grey stone, Thus for the length of half a day, Why, William, sit you thus alone, And dream your time away? âWhere are your books?âthat light bequeathed 5 To Beings else forlorn and blind! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed From dead men to their kind. âYou look round on your Mother Earth, As if she for no purpose bore you; 10 As if you were her first-born birth, And none had lived before you!â One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, When life was sweet, I knew not why, To me my good friend Matthew spake, 15 And thus I made reply: âThe eyeâit cannot choose but see; We cannot bid the ear be still; Our bodies feel, whereâer they be, Against, or with our will. 20 âNor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness. âThink you, âmid all this mighty sum 25 Of things for ever speaking, That nothing of itself will come, But we must still be seeking? ââThen ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I may, 30 I sit upon this old grey stone, And dream my time away.â William Wordsworth (from Lyrical Ballads , 1798)
She took me to her elfin grot, And there she gaz'd and sighed deep, 30 And there I shut her wild sad eyes So kiss'd to sleep. And there we slumber'd on the moss, And there I dream'd, ah woe betide!â The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill side. I saw pale kings, and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; Who cry'dââLa Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!â 40 I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam, With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke, and found me here, On the cold hillâs side. And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing. John Keats (1819/1820)
This Weird Estate The kintra drawn on this auld cairt sânae sae fremmit as it seems but a kingdom ye micht gang tae in Elfyn-ballads an dreams whaur the wildwid growes aa briars an thorns an springs aa blue-red rin an years o hard-wrocht traivelin maun be tholed afore ye win intae a clearing, whaur fower bare trees gaird ilkane a gate â
- at lang an last yeâll ken yersel laird o this weird estate Kathleen Jamie (1962 â ) Glossary of Scots: kintra â country auld â old sânae â is not sae - so fremmit â strange / foreign micht â might gang â go tae â to an â and whaur â where wildwid â wildwood aa â all rin â run wrocht â wrought traivelin â travelling maun â must tholed â endured afore - before intae â into fower â 4 gaird â guard ilkane â each one lang an last â long last ken â know laird - lord
Heâs drinking more than ever son, Before, he never cried. But now, 30 I wake at night and feel Him shaking by my side. He spoke to me at last my son! He turned to me in tears, I held him close and kissed his face And asked him what he feared. He said itâs getting darker, It hasnât disappeared, And I can see it sharper Now the sand and smoke have cleared. 40 There was this kid heâd got to know, Young boy. Just turned eighteen, Bright and kind, his name was Joe, He kept his rifle clean. Joeâs girlfriend was expecting, Joe loved to joke and laugh, Joe marched in front of your old man, As they patrolled a path. Everything was quiet until They heard the dreaded blast. 50 The man that marched in front of Joe Was completely blown apart. Some shrapnel hit Joe in the face, Gouged both eyes at once, The last thing those eyes ever saw Was the man in front: Limbs and flesh and bone and blood, Torn up and thrown around, And after that â just blackness. The taste, the stink, the sound. 60
I tell you this my son because I know what youâll be like, As soon as youâve grown old enough Youâll want to go and fight. In whatever battle needs you, Youâll pledge your blood and bone, Not in the name of good or evil - But in the name of home. Your dad believes in fighting. He fights for you and I, 70 But the men that send the armies in Will never hear him cry. I donât support the war my son, I donât believe itâs right, But I do support the soldiers who Go off to war to fight. Troops just like your daddy son, Soldiers through and through, Who wear their uniform with pride, And do what theyâre told to do. 80 When youâre grown, my sweet, my love, Please donât go fighting wars, But fight the men that start them Or fight a cause thatâs yours. It seems so full of honour, yes, So valiant, so bold, But the men that send the armies in Send them in for gold, Or they send them in for oil, And they tell us itâs for Britain, 90 But the men come home like Daddy, And spend their days just drinking.
