Book of Old Ballads | Page 7

pasquil discharged at Popery. It caused them, indeed, in their frenzy, to compose songs which were grossly licentious, and to sing these songs in rasping voices to the tunes of some of the most popular hymns in the Latin Service.
"John Anderson my Jo" was such a ballad composed for such an occasion. And Percy, who was more qualified than any other man to read between the lines, has pointed out that the first stanza contains a satirical allusion to the luxury of the popish clergy, while the second, which makes an apparently light reference to "seven bairns", is actually concerned with the seven sacraments, five of which were the spurious offspring of Mother Church.
Thus it was in a thousand cases. The ballads, even the lightest and most blossoming of them, were deep-rooted in the soil of English history. How different from anything that we possess to-day! Great causes do not lead men to song, nowadays they lead them to write letters to the newspapers. A national thanksgiving cannot call forth a single rhyme or a single bar of music. Who can remember a solitary verse of thanksgiving, from any of our poets, in commemoration of any of the victories of the Great War? Who can recall even a fragment of verse in praise of the long-deferred coming of Peace?
Very deeply significant is it that our only method of commemorating Armistice Day was by a two minutes silence. No song. No music. Nothing. The best thing we could do, we felt, was to keep quiet.
[Illustration]
MANDALAY
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,?There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me; For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say: 'Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!' Come you back to Mandalay,?Where the old Flotilla lay:?Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay? On the road to Mandalay,?Where the flyin'-fishes play,?An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,?An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen, An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot, An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:
Bloomin' idol made o' mud--?Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd--?Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud! On the road to Mandalay...
When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow, She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing 'Kulla-lo-lo!' With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak.
Elephints a-pilin' teak?In the sludgy, squdgy creek,?Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak! On the road to Mandalay...
But that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away,?An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay; An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells: 'If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught
else.'?No! you won't 'eed nothin' else?But them spicy garlic smells,?An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells; On the road to Mandalay...
I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones, An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones; Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand, An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
Beefy face an' grubby 'and--?Law! wot do they understand??I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land! On the road to Mandalay ...
Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst, Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst; For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be-- By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
On the road to Mandalay,?Where the old Flotilla lay,?With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay! O the road to Mandalay,?Where the flyin'-fishes play,?An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
[Illustration]
THE FROLICKSOME DUKE
or
THE TINKER'S GOOD FORTUNE
Now as fame does report a young duke keeps a court,?One that pleases his fancy with frolicksome sport:?But amongst all the rest, here is one I protest,?Which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest: A poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground,?As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound.
The Duke said to his men, William, Richard, and Ben,?Take him home to my palace, we'll sport with him then.?O'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd?To the palace, altho' he was poorly arrai'd:?Then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes and hose, And they put him to bed for to take his repose.
Having pull'd off