The Drowned Lady- Hughes (Wales) learned by his father c. 1800; pub. 1859; Child L b.
[My date. From Thomas Hughes 1859 book, The Scouring of the White Horse. I've included both versions of the ballad found in Hughes 1859 book, The Scouring of the White Horse (See below at the bottom of the page). According to Child, Hughes learned his version from his father, John Hughes of Oxfordshire, editor of the Boscobel Tracts (1830). Hughes father learned the ballad as a boy in Ruthin (Ruthyn), the county town of Denbighshire in north Wales.
This also is related to Child A, "The Miller and the King's Daughter" of 1655.
R. Matteson 2014, 2018]
Lb. 'The Drowned Lady,' The Scouring of the White Horse, p. 161.
1 O was it eke a pheasant cock,
Or eke a pheasant hen,
Or was it the bodye of a fair ladye,
Come swimming down the stream?
2 O it was not a pheasant cock,
Nor eke a pheasant hen,
But it was the bodye of a fair ladye
Came swimming down the stream.
* * * * *
3 And what did he do with her fair bodye?
Fal the lal the lal laral lody
He made it a case for his melodye.
Fal the lal the lal laral lody
4 And what did he do with her legs so strong?
Fal the lal the lal laral lody
He made them a stand for his violon.
Fal the lal the lal laral lody
5 And what did he do with her hair so fine?
Fal the lal the lal laral lody
He made of it strings for his violine.
Fal the lal the lal laral lody
6 And what did he do with her arms so long?
Fal the lal the lal laral lody
He made them bows for his violon.
Fal the lal the lal laral lody
7 And what did he do with her nose so thin?
Fal the lal the lal laral lody
He made it a bridge for his violin.
Fal the lal the lal laral lody
8 And what did he do with her eyes so bright?
Fal the lal the lal laral lody
He made them spectacles to put to his sight.
Fal the lal the lal laral lody
9 And what did he do with her petty toes?
Fal the lal the lal laral lody
He made them a nosegay to put to his nose.
Fal the lal the lal laral lody
--------------------
Child- Additional Notes:
L. b. Some stanzas of this four-line version, with a ludicrous modern supplement, are given in 'The Scouring of the White Horse,' p. 161, as from the Welsh marshes. Five out of the first six verses are there said to be very old indeed, "the rest all patchwork by different hands." Mr. Hughes has kindly informed me that he derived the ballad from his father, who had originally learned it at Ruthyn when a boy. What is material here follows:
1 it was not a pheasant cock,
Nor yet a pheasant hen,
But O it was a lady fair
Came swimming down the stream.
2 An ancient harper passing by
Found this poor lady's body,
To which his pains he did apply
To make a sweet melody.
3 To cat-gut dried he her inside,
He drew out her back-bone,
And made thereof a fiddle sweet
All for to play upon.
4 And all her hair, so long and fair,
That down her back did flow,
he did lay it up with care,
To string his fiddle bow.
5 And what did he with her fingers,
Which were so straight and small?
O he did cut them into pegs,
To screw up his fiddoll.
6 Then forth went he, as it might be,
Upon a summer's day,
And met a goodly company,
Who asked him in to play.
7 Then from her bones he drew such tones
As made their bones to ache,
They sounded so like human groans
Their hearts began to quake.
8 They ordered him in ale to swim,
For sorrow's mighty dry,
And he to share their wassail fare
Essayd right willingly.
9 He laid his fiddle on a shelf
In that old manor-hall,
It played and sung all by itself,
And thus sung this fiddoll:
10 'There sits the squire, my worthy sire,
A-drinking hisself drunk,' etc., etc.
-----------------
Excerpt (pages 159- 163) from: The Scouring of the White Horse: or, The Long Vacation Ramble of a London Clerk
by Thomas Hughes 1859
"The little stiffness which the presence of strangers belonging to the broad-cloth classes had at first created amongst the pastime folk was wearing off, and several songs were started at once from the distant parts of the booth, all of which, save one, came to untimely ends in the course of the first verse or so, leaving the field clear to a ruddy-faced, smock-frocked man, who, with his eyes cast up to the tent-top, droned through his nose the following mournful ditty:—
THE BARKSHIRE TRAGEDY
A varmer he lived in the "West Countree,
Hey-down, bow-down,
A varmer he lived in the West Countree,
And he had daughters one, two, and dree.
And I'll be true to my love,
If my love'll be true to me.
As thay wur walking by the river's brim,
Hey-down, bow-down,
As thay wur walking by the river's brim,
The eldest pushed the youngest in.
And I'll be true &c.
"Oh sister, oh sister, pray gee me thy hand,
Hey-down, &c.
And I'll gee thee both house and land."
And I'll, &c.
"I'll neither gee thee hand nor glove,
Hey down, &c.
Unless thou'lt gee me thine own true love."
And I'll, &c.
So down she sank and away she swam,
Hey down, &e.
Until she came to the miller's dam.
And I'll, &c.
The miller's daughter stood by the door,
Hey-down, &c.
As fair as any gilly-flow-er.
And I'll, &c.
"Oh vather, oh vather, here swims a swan,
Hey-down, &c.
Very much like a drownded gentlewoman."
And I'll, &c.
The miller he fot his pole and hook,
Hey-down, &c.
And he fished the fair maid out of the brook.
And I'll, &c
"Oh miller, I'll gee thee guineas ten,
Hey-down, &c.
If thou'lt fetch me back to my vather again."
And I'll, &c.
The miller he took her guineas ten,
Hey-down, &c.
And he pushed the fair maid in again.
And I'll, &c.
But the Crowner he cum, and the Justice too,
Hey down, &c.
With a hue and a cry and a hulla-balloo.
And I'll, &c.
They hanged the miller beside his own gate,
Hey down, &c. For drowning the varmer's daughter, Kate.
And I'll, &c.
The sister she fled beyond the seas,
Hey-down, &c.
And died an old maid among black savagees.
And I'll, &c.
So I've ended my tale of the West Countree,
[Hey-down, &c.]
And they calls it the Barkshire Trage-dee.
And I'll, &c.
"The Barkshire Tragedy, indeed! Now, Doctor, what have you to tell us about this? "When did it happen? Who was the lady? Was she drowned in the Thames, the Kennett, or where?"
"Oh, I don't know. All I can say is, she was drowned before my time; for I remember hearing the song when I was a little chap in petticoats. But the story seems a common one. There's a north-country ballad founded on it, I know, but I don't remember the name just now."
"'The Bonny Mill-dams of Binnorie,' is not it?" said the long scholar.
"Aye, that's the name, I think."
"Well, it's very odd, for we've got the same story, all but the miller, and his daughter as fair as any gilly-flower (why are millers' daughters always pretty, by the way?), on the Welsh marshes," said the long scholar.
"Then, Sir, I must call on you to sing it. The call is with me at our end of the booth," said the Doctor. "And, Peter, bring me a little cold gin-and-water, and a pipe. If I must breathe smoke-poison, I may as well make it myself, at any rate."
"Well, singing's rather more than I bargained for. However, I suppose I mustn't spoil sport; so here goes."
THE DROWNED LADY
(Qy. another version of the Barhshire Tragedy?)
Oh, it was not a pheasant cock,
Nor yet a pheasant hen,
But oh it was a lady fair
Came swimming down the stream.
An ancient harper passing by
Found this poor lady's body,
To which his pains he did apply
To make a sweet melody.
To cat-gut dried he her inside,
He drew out her back-bone,
And made thereof a fiddle sweet
All for to play upon.
And all her hair so long and fair,
That down her back did flow,
Oh he did lay it up with care,
To string his fiddle bow.
And what did he with her fingers
Which were so straight and small?
Oh, he did cut them into pegs
To screw up his fid-doll.
Then forth went he, as it might be,
Upon a summer's day,
And met a goodly company,
Who asked him in to play.
Then from her bones he drew such tones
As made their bones to ache,
They sounded so like human groans,
Their hearts began to quake.
They ordered him in ale to swim,
For sorrow's mighty dry,
And he to share their wassail fare
Essayd right willingly.
He laid his fiddle on a shelf
In that old manor-hall,
It played and sung all by itself,
And thus sung this fid-doll:—
"There sits the squire, my worthy sire,
A-drinking his-self drunk,
And so did he, ah woe is me!
The day my body sunk.
"There sits my mother, half asleep,
A-taking of her ease,
Her mind is deep, if one might peep,
In her preserves and keys.
"There sits my sister, cruel Joan,
Who last week drownded me;
And there's my love, with heart of stone,
Sits making love to she.
"There sits the Crowner, Uncle Joe,
Which comforteth poor me;
He'll hold his Crowner's quest, I know,
To get his Crowner's fee."
Now when this fiddle thus had spoke
It fell upon the floor,
And into little pieces broke,
No word spoke never more.
"Thank you, Sir," said the Doctor; "that's a queer tune though. I don't know that I ever heard one at all like it. But I shouldn't say all that song was old now."
"Well, I believe you're right. But I can say, as you said of the Barkshire Tragedy, it's all older than my time, for I remember my father singing it just as I've sung it to you as long as I can remember anything."
"And what did he say of it?"
"Well, he said that five out of the first six verses were very old indeed. He had heard them often when he was a child, and always the same words. The rest was all patchwork, he said, by different hands, and he hardly knew which were the old lines, and which new."
"I say," remarked the short scholar, "the Doctor don't seem to be a bad hand at making the smoke-poison."