Johnson and the Colonel- Henderson (NS) 1919; 1928 Mackenzie A
[From: The Quest of the Ballad by William Roy Mackenzie, 1919. In Quest, it is attributed to John Thomas Matheson. The following text (see immediately below) preceded the ballad text. When it was reprinted in Ballads and Sea Songs from Nova Scotia (also by Mackenzie in 1928) as his version A, he attributes it to John Henderson. Unless they are the same person (no info is supplied by Mackenzie) something is amiss. The ballad is very rare and not found by any other collector in North America.
On page 60 Mackenzie says this about the informant: The first of these was given to me by John Henderson of Tatamagouch, Colchester County, a veteran who had sung this song and many others in his youth, but who when he tried to go beyond the first verse of "Andrew Lammie" for me, was estopped by the weariness and the mere oblivion of a hundred years.
R. Matteson 2012, 2015]
The Quest of the Ballad by William Roy Mackenzie:
My discussion of the Nova Scotian versions of the old English and Scottish ballads is beginning to exhibit signs of plethora, but it must be still further expanded to include a very interesting version of "Young Johnson." This is not, so far as I can discover, one of the ballads that were widely current in the good old singing days, but it used to be sung by a favored few, and one of these few was John Thomas Matheson. John Thomas himself made this incautious admission to me one afternoon, and for many a day after he most bitterly regretted his indiscretion. He had, to be sure, sung ballads in the early days of his thoughtless youth, but even then he had been interested in his function of entertainer rather than in the intrinsic merit of his songs, and the intervening years which knew not the ballads had pretty thoroughly crowded out the recollection of them from his mind.
Furthermore, John Thomas was a procrastinator, not of the domestic garden variety, but of a rare and splendid orchid-like species hard to find even in this world of delays. He was, to speak allegorically, procrastination itself personified and incarnate. When I called on him I executed the final steps of my journey over a narrow, swaying board that had been placed to connect the framework for the floor of a porch which he had begun six years before, and which he was still daily planning to complete. And I have known him, after a week of comparative leisure, to light his lantern at eleven o'clock on Saturday night and proceed to the urgent business of shingling his barn, rejoicing in the inward assurance that the stroke of twelve would usher in the holy Sabbath, when we must neither work nor play.
Thus it may be seen that I had made no appreciable progress towards the capture of "Young Johnson" when I extorted from John Thomas the admission that he might be able to think up a few verses if he were given his time. With most singers this is the formal prelude to an almost immediate rendition of the ballad in question, but, coming from John Thomas, it had no more significance than a tale told by an idiot. The sight of a palpable and business-like pad of writing-paper filled him with a vague but unendurable alarm, and I might have had to resign the ballad definitely if I had not chanced by luck to hit upon the only device that would, in all probability, ever have proved successful.
A little distance up the road from John Thomas's unfinished home and imperfectly shingled barn lived a school girl who had found special favor in the sight of the old man, and she cheerfully and confidently guaranteed to procure the ballad for me if I would leave the whole matter of negotiations to her. Consequently, when John Thomas looked hopefully across the road one morning for his usual greeting from his young friend he was met with a request for a song named "Young Johnson," and the following morning, when he was reassuring himself that he had cunningly disposed of the whole matter, he was asked to name the hour after school at which he could most conveniently repeat the song. Day in and day out my accomplice reminded him of the song as Desdemona reminded Othello of the suit of Michael Cassio, and partly through despair at the prospect of an endless persecution and partly through a kindly desire to win approbation from the child whom he delighted to honor, he finally repeated the following version, which was triumphantly copied out and delivered to me by my ally: [text follows]
YOUNG JOHNSTONE
(Child, No. 88)
The two interesting texts found in Nova Scotia differ markedly in form, and are obviously derived from two distinct traditions. Version A does not follow any of the Child versions closely, nor does it seem to have been influenced by the altered text in Pinkerton's Select Scottish Ballads (I, 69), the free version in Chambers's Twelve Romantic scottish Ballads (p. 293). In the absence the dream, and in the description of the hawk, hound and steed (coloured, respectively, dark gray, light gray, and milk-white) it is reminiscent of child C, but in most respects it is very unlike that version. As for Version B, it is clearly enough a variant of child D, which begins: "Johnstone Hey and young Caldwell." It has the same dreams of swine and the bride's bed, and of lions and ravens (the latter strangely transformed, through the medium of corbies, corbet), and the same evasive explanation from the slayer, to account for his absence, that he has been at "yon state house" -- a corruption of "you slate
house" in Child D. Here is a curroius composite of influence in the lines
I have been at yon state house,
Learning young Clark to write.
In Child B Johnstone tells his sister,
I hae been at school, sister,
Learning young clercks to sing
repeating the explanation, later, to his sweetheart. In child D he tells his mother, his sister, and his sweetheart, in answer to their successive questions,
O I hae been at yon new slate house
Hearing the clergy speak.
Johnson and the Colonel- From the singing and recitation of John Henderson, Tatamagouche, Colchester County (printed, Quest, pp. 120-124).
As Johnson and the young Colonel
Together were drinking wine,
Says Johnson to the young Colonel,
"If you'll marry my sister, I'll marry thine."
"No, I'll not marry your sister,
Nor shall you marry mine,
For I will keep her for a miss
As I go through the town."
Young Johnson has drawn his broad bright sword
Which hung low down to the ground,
And he has given the young Colonel
A deep and deadly wound.
Then mounting on his milk-white steed,
He swiftly rode away
Until he came to his sister's house
Long, long ere the break of day.
"Alight, alight, young Johnson," she said,
"And take a silent sleep,
For you have crossed wide wide waters,
Which are both wide and deep."
"I cannot light, I cannot light,
Nor neither sleep can I,
For I have killed the young Colonel,
And for it I did fly."
"O have you killed the young Colonel?
O woe be unto thee!
To-morrow's morn at eight o'clock
It's hanged you shall be."
"O hold your tongue, you cruel woman,
O hold your tongue," said he,
"How can I trust to a strange lady
If I cannot trust to thee?"
He's mounted on his nimble steed
And swiftly rode away,
Until he carne to his own true love
Long, long ere break of day.
"Alight, alight, young Johnson," she said,
"And take a silent sleep,
For you have crossed the stormy waters,
Which are both wide and deep."
"I can't alight, I cannot stop,
Nor either sleep can I,
For I have killed the young Colonel
And for it I must fly."
"O have you killed my brother?" she said,
"O what shall now be done?
But come into my chamber,
I'll secure you from all harm."
She's locked up his hawks
And she's locked up his hounds,
And she's locked up the nimble steed
That bore him from the ground.
She's locked one, she's locked two,
She's locked three or four,
And then she stood for his life-guard
Behind the entry door.
On looking east and looking west
She happened for to see
Four and twenty of the King's Life Guards
Come riding merrily.
"O did you see young Johnson?" they said,
"Or did he pass by this way?
For he has killed the young Colonel,
And for it he did fly."
"What color was his hawk?" she said,
"And what color was his hound?
And what color was his nimble steed
That bore him from the ground?"
"A dark gray was his hawk," they said,
"And a light gray was his hound,
And a milk-white was the nimble steed
That bore him from the ground."
"Then ride away, O ride away
And quickly ride, I pray;
Or I fear he'll be out of London Town
Long, long ere the dawn of day."
She went into his chamber
For to tell him what she had done,
And he has pierced his lovely dear
That ne'er did him any wrong.
Young Johnson being in a silent sleep
And dreaming they were near
He has drawn his bright broad shining sword
And pierced his lovely dear.
"What cause for this, dear Johnson" she said,
"O what is this you've done?
For you have pierced your dearest dear
That ne'er did you any wrong.
"O can you live? O can you live?
Can you live but one single half hour
And all the doctors in London Town
Shall be within your bower."
"I cannot live, I cannot live!
O how can I live" said she,
"For don't you see my very heart's blood
Come trickling down from my knee?
"O ride away, you ride away,
And quickly get over the plain,
And never let it once enter your mind
That your own true love you've slain."