The Loving Ballad of Lord Bateman

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Charles Dickens and William Makepeace Thackeray, Illustrated by
George Cruikshank
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Title: The Loving Ballad of Lord Bateman
Author: Charles Dickens and William Makepeace Thackeray
Release Date: April 14, 2005 [eBook #15618]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
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THE LOVING BALLAD OF LORD BATEMAN.
ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
London
Charles Tilt, Fleet Street
and Mustapha Syried,
Constantinople

MDCCCXXXIX
Warning to the Public
CONCERNING
THE LOVING BALLAD OF LORD BATEMAN.
In some collection of old English Ballads there is an ancient ditty
which I am told bears some remote and distant resemblance to the
following Epic Poem. I beg to quote the emphatic language of my
estimable friend (if he will allow me to call him so), the Black Bear in
Piccadilly, and to assure all to whom these presents may come, that
"_I_ am the original." This affecting legend is given in the following
pages precisely as I have frequently heard it sung on Saturday nights,
outside a house of general refreshment (familiarly termed a wine vaults)
at Battle-bridge. The singer is a young gentleman who can scarcely
have numbered nineteen summers, and who before his last visit to the
treadmill, where he was erroneously incarcerated for six months as a
vagrant (being unfortunately mistaken for another gentleman), had a
very melodious and plaintive tone of voice, which, though it is now
somewhat impaired by gruel and such a getting up stairs for so long a
period, I hope shortly to find restored. I have taken down the words
from his own mouth at different periods, and have been careful to
preserve his pronunciation, together with the air to which he does so
much justice. Of his execution of it, however, and the intense
melancholy which he communicates to such passages of the song as are
most susceptible of such an expression, I am unfortunately unable to
convey to the reader an adequate idea, though I may hint that the effect
seems to me to be in part produced by the long and mournful drawl on
the last two or three words of each verse.
I had intended to have dedicated my imperfect illustrations of this
beautiful Romance to the young gentleman in question. As I cannot
find, however, that he is known among his friends by any other name
than "The Tripe-skewer," which I cannot but consider as a soubriquet,
or nick-name; and as I feel that it would be neither respectful nor
proper to address him publicly by that title, I have been compelled to

forego the pleasure. If this should meet his eye, will he pardon my
humble attempt to embellish with the pencil the sweet ideas to which
he gives such feeling utterance? And will he believe me to remain his
devoted admirer,
GEORGE CRUIKSHANK?
P.S.--The above is not my writing, nor the notes either, nor am I on
familiar terms (but quite the contrary) with the Black Bear.
Nevertheless I admit the accuracy of the statement relative to the public
singer whose name is unknown, and concur generally in the sentiments
above expressed relative to him.
[Illustration: (signature: George Cruikshank)]
[Illustration: Musical Score]
The Loving Ballad Of Lord Bateman.
I.
Lord Bateman vos a noble Lord,
A noble Lord of high degree;
He
shipped his-self all aboard of a ship,
Some foreign country for to
see.[1]
For the notes to this beautiful Poem, see the end of the work.
[Illustration: Lord Bateman as he appeared previous to his
embarkation.]
[Illustration: The Turk's only daughter approaches to mitigate the
sufferings of Lord Bateman!--]
II.
He sail-ed east, he sail-ed vest,
Until he come to famed Tur-key,

Vere he vos taken, and put to prisin,
Until his life was quite wea-ry.

III.
All in this prisin there grew a tree,
O! there it grew so stout and
strong,
Vere he vos chain-ed all by the middle
Until his life vos
almost gone.
[Illustration: The Turk's daughter expresses a wish as Lord Bateman
was hers.]
IV.
This Turk[2] he had one ounly darter,
The fairest my two eyes e'er
see,
She steele the keys of her father's prisin,
And swore Lord
Bateman she would let go free.
V.
O she took him to her father's cellar,
And guv to him the best of vine;

And ev'ry holth she