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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-8859-1
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOVING BALLAD OF LORD BATEMAN***
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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.
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A noble Lord of high degree;
He shipped his-self all aboard of a ship,
Some foreign country for to see.[1]*
Until he come to famed Tur-key,
Vere he vos taken, and put to prisin,
Until his life was quite wea-ry.
O! there it grew so stout and strong,
Vere he vos chain-ed all by the middle
Until his life vos almost gone.
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.
And guv to him the best of vine;
And ev'ry holth she dronk unto him,
Vos, "I vish Lord Bateman as you vos mine!"[3]
And does Northumberland belong to thee?
And what would you give to the fair young lady
As out of prisin would let you go free?"
And half Northumberland belongs to me;
And I vill give it all to the fair young lady
As out of prisin vould let me go free."
For sevin long years, and keep it strong,[4]
That if you'll ved no other voman,
O I vill v-e-ed no other man."
And guv to him a ship of fame,
Saying, "Farevell, Farevell to you, Lord Bateman,
I fear I ne-e-ever shall see you agen."
And fourteen days vell known to me;[5]
She packed up all her gay clouthing,
And swore Lord Bateman she would go see.
How bouldly then she rang the bell,
"Who's there! who's there!" cries the proud young porter,
"O come, unto me pray quickly tell."
And is his lordship here vithin?"
"O Yes! O yes!" cries the proud young porter;
"He's just now takin' his young bride in."
And a bottle of the wery best vine,
And not forgettin' the fair young lady
As did release him ven close confine."
O! avay and avay and avay vent he,[6]
Until he come to Lord Bateman's charmber,
Ven he vent down on his bended knee.
Vot news, vot news, come tell to me?"
"O there is the fairest young lady
As ever my two eyes did see.
And on one finger she has got three:
Vith as much gay gould about her middle
As would buy half Northumberlee.
And a bottle of the wery best vine,
And not forgettin' the fair young lady
As did release you ven close confine."
And broke his sword in splinters three,[8]
Saying, "I vill give half my father's land
If so be as Sophia[9] has crossed the sea."
Who never vos heerd to speak so free:[10]
Sayin, "You'll not forget my ounly darter,
If so be as Sophia has crossed the sea."
But she's neither the better nor the vorse for me;
She came to me with a horse and saddle,
But she may go home in a coach and three."
With both their hearts so full of glee,
Saying, "I vill roam no more to foreign countries
Now that Sophia has crossed the sea."[11]
NOTES.
The reader is here in six words artfully made acquainted with Lord Bateman's character and temperament.—Of a roving, wandering, and unsettled spirit, his Lordship left his native country, bound he knew not whither. Some foreign country he wished to see, and that was the extent of his desire; any foreign country would answer his purpose—all foreign countries were alike to him. He was a citizen of the world, and upon the world of waters, sustained by the daring and reckless impulses of his heart, he boldly launched. For anything, from pitch-and-toss upwards to manslaughter, his Lordship was prepared. Lord Bateman's character at this time, and his expedition, would appear to Have borne a striking resemblance to those of Lord Byron.
And all that mote to luxury invite.
Without a sigh he left to cross the brine,
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth's central line.
The poet has here, by that bold license which only genius can venture upon, surmounted the extreme difficulty of introducing any particular Turk, by assuming a fore-gone conclusion in the reader's mind, and adverting in a casual, careless way to a Turk unknown, as to an old acquaintance. "This Turk he had—" We have heard of no Turk before, and yet this familiar introduction satisfies us at once that we know him well. He was a pirate, no doubt, of a cruel and savage disposition, entertaining a hatred of the Christian race, and accustomed to garnish his trees and vines with such stray professors of Christianity as happened to fall into his hands. "This Turk he had—" is a master-stroke—a truly Shakspearian touch. There are few things like it in the language.
Vos, "I vish Lord Bateman as you vos mine!"
A most affecting illustration of the sweetest simplicity, the purest artlessness, and holiest affections of woman's gentle nature. Bred up among the rough and savage crowds which thronged her father's lawless halls, and meeting with no responsive or kindred spirit among those fierce barbarians (many of whom, however, touched by her surpassing charms, though insensible to her virtues and mental endowments, had vainly sought her hand in marriage), this young creature had spent the greater part of her life in the solitude of her own apartments, or in contemplating the charms of nature arrayed in all the luxury of eastern voluptuousness. At length she
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