The Paisley Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 13, Dec. 1, 1828
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642 THE PAISLEY MAGAZINE. No. 13. DECEMBER 1, 1828 Vol. l ANCIENT BALLADS OF THE NORTH OF SCOTLAND* Touching ballads and ballad-makers so much has been said or sung by various worthy and ingenious spirits within this last half century, that, honestly speaking, we find little remains for us to do than briefly to report to our readers the sum of their learned labours on this interesting topic. For your modern foisonless poetical inventions, called ballads, we care not a doit; but for the old traditionary, romantic, or heroic strain, which, like the shibboleth of free masonry, has lived upon the memory without the intervention of written character, and has been transmitted from sire to son, from generation unto generation, from the remotest times to the present graceless days, we profess a sincere and perfect love. When, therefore, we meet with a goodly volume of ancient ballads, purporting to be for the first time set forth in print, we are ready to hail the choice blessing in these words which an early dramatist puts in the mouth of that wicked and unnatural jade Ragan: As gold is welcome to the covetous eye, As sleepe is welcome to the traveller, As is fresh water to sea-beaten men, Or moist’ned showres unto the parched ground, Or any thing more welcomer than this,† So, and more welcome we repeat to our literary affections, are these poetical monuments of our fathers.—So, and most welcome to us are these volumes, for in honest verity they contain many admirable and most valuable remains of the early song of our native land. Barbour, in his great Gest Historial of the Bruce and his Chivalry, has well expressed in verse, what we could but indifferently have told in homely prose when he says: Storyss to rede ar delitabill, Supposs that thai be nocht bot fabill: Than suld auld storyss that suthfast wer, And thai war said in gud maner, Haive doubill plesance in heryng. The first plesance is the carpyng, And the tothir the suthfastnes, That schawys the thing rycht as it wes: And such thingis that are likand, * ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS OF THE NORTH OF SCOTLAND; hitherto unpublished, with explanatory notes by Peter Buchan, corresponding Member of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland. W. &.D. Laing, and John Stevenson, Edin. 1828. 2 vols. 8vo. † The True Chronicle Historic of King Leir and his three daughters. 643 Tyll mannys herying are plesand. Sincerely believing that most of the auld storyss which are the subjects of our traditionary ballads, are based on fact and suthfastness—and knowing that they generally are said in gud maner, we enjoy in that case the “doubill plesance” which our poet imagines to be so desirable. Few indeed of them we look on as being “nocht bot fabill.” But to minds of choice invention fiction is a source of deep pleasure. “Fabularum narratio cur delectet” is a small section of Dr. Jerome Cardan’s folio “De Subtilitate,”* but we have not time to enter upon his arguments, which, so far as we remember, have little subtility about them on this point. “It is opportune,” says Sir Thomas Browne, “to look back on old times and contemplate our fathers.” Every one according to his liking. The learned physician discoursed on incinerated bones, and funeral urns, choosing to contemplate our forefathers, rather by the modes in which they contrived to make their escape out of the world, and accommodate themselves to their graves, than by their acts and deeds upon life’s stage itself. Our sympathies are more circumscribed. Death bounds them. The line of life is the tether-length of our affections, and beyond it we do not wish to speculate. It is an object of merest indifference to us whether fire, earth, or water receives the untenanted fabric of flesh. The empty cellar has no interest. The drained tun serves no purposes of honest fellowship. When the curtain falls our curiosity ceases. We care not to know whether the king, or the hero, whom we wept to see falling in the senate house or the field, gathers up his legs afterwards, and becomes a new and an ordinary man again in the green-room. We had rather have Yorick, the fellow of infinite jest, alive, and seated with us at the social board, than indulge ourselves in the melancholy humour of Hamlet, with a moralisation on his disinterred skull. Hence, and for many more reasons which we could give, were it not that their exposition would make us tarry too long in the porch, we prefer contemplating our forefathers in that glass which so perfectly represents their mind, manners, habits, customs, moral feelings, virtues, vices, superstitions, and prejudices—their traditionary song—their popular poesy. One many well be excused making this election when the chivalrous Sidney—the erudite Selden, and the patriotic Fletcher, each according to his peculiar idiosyncrasy, has borne testimony on the same behalf. And, in our own day, a greater than these, Sir Walter Scott, has somewhere declared that these old ditties have been to him a source of never-failing inspiration, and that to their influence upon his early feelings the world may stand indebted for those wonderful and gorgeous creations, which have exalted, enlarged, and glorified the literature of this century. Is there one who has dipped into the pages of the Universal Shakespeare, or refreshed his mind by letting it sojourn for a tide with Jonson, Beaumont, Fletcher, Marlow, Marston, Middleton, Webster, Ford, or any of these early dramatists, can be blind to the fact that they all have had a lurking affection for, and a perfect enjoyment in these primitive strains of national poesy. This love of theirs for vulgar minstrelsy breaks out like a gleam of soft sunshine over the dewy grass. The same may be said of all our good poets—of all those who had one smack of natural unsophisticated feeling in their composition. Nay, even poets of the highest order, however much they might scorn these lowly strains as efforts of art, have nevertheless shown how much they admired them by incidentally mentioning their titles or attempting writings in the same vein. Chaucer, if we * Lib. xii, p. 291, Nuremb. 1550. 644 suppose him to be the author of “The Coke’s Tale of Gamelyn,” has left us a true minstrel ballad, worthy of laud and reverence—and in his “Rime of Sir Thopas” a specimen of what he could do, had he turned his mind to the Chivalrous Romance. We question the truth of what some commentators have said as to this latter being written in ridicule of such compositions. It appears to us founded on no sufficient reason. But the poet, true to his description of manners, has wisely laid the interruption given to the Romance of Sir Thopas, on the host of the Tabard, a coarse grained, rough-hewn, merry hearted rouge, That hadde levere a ribaudye Than to here of God, other of seynte Marie, Other to drynke a coppe ful of ale Than to hear ony god tale. None other of the pilgrimers to the shrine of Canterbury wag a tongue in despite of it. But we are libelling the worthy host, for, indeed, though he loved his “coppe,” he loved good tales passing well also, and in fact suggested to his guests this rational mode of spending their time by each one telling in his turn Of aventures that whilom han befalle. We beg his pardon then, though we cannot forgive him, for interrupting Sir Thopas, nor agree with him in calling it a “drafty ryme,” or appreciate it so very vilely as he does, but which, for decency’s sake, we will not mention. Though we will not “praise a rime of Robyn Hode, for as excellent a making as Troylus of Chaucer,” lest we should “straightwise be counted madde therefore,” we must contend for the superior and the living interest which the one has over the other, in as far as our mere feelings are concerned. The one produces the effect on us that the touch of life and blood can only communicate, the other that which exquisite statuary excites in the moral and intellectual of our being. The same with all these old ballads. We feel they are what men say, and do in reality, while with the laboured efforts of poetical genius, we feel that these men say and do only what they may or should, or can be fancied to say or do in certain circumstance. In the one case we hear and see as it were it in our own person—in the other we seem to derive all through the rehearsal of another. In our whole acquaintance with old ballads, we never remember of one which contained above a verse appropriated to the mere descriptive, either as regards human action or external nature. Yet their simple touches are strikingly effective when they do occur, and positively satisfy the mind more than the finely finished pictures which art and genius have combined to elaborate. We cannot better express what we mean than by simply saying that when the sun is said to shine we feel his warmth on our cheek, and see plainly his radiance streaming over meadow, river, and tree—when the rain falls, we both hear and feel it pattering on us—when the wind blows, the veritable sough deafens our ear, and nearly drives us off our feet—when the wood is said to be green, we find ourselves in very sooth “lustily raking under the shaw,” and the same feeling of living presence and reality pervades every slight description these ditties contain.