The Book of British Ballads

THE NUT-BROWN MAY D.

To this ballad, printed about the year 1502 in " Arnold's Chronicle," may be fairly assigned a date at least one hundred years earlier. A strong proof of its popularity in the sixteenth century, is the existence of a book in black-letter, wherein the Passion of Christ is arranged to the air of this ballad, the words being parodied after a fashion much in vogue at that time. It was then believed, as it is still occasionally, that religious instruction might be conveyed under the prestige of a popular song: "Thus endeth the boke of the newe not browne mayd vpon the passion of Cryste."-The " Muses' Mercury" introduced the Nut-Brown Mayd to comparatively modern readers in 1707. It is therein given as three hundred years old; and there Prior met with it, and took it as the ground work of his poem, "Henry and Emma." If we find no novelty in an earl's son wooing and winning a lady of high degree, under the disguise of a squire or an outlaw, it should be borne in mind, that we are probably going back to the fountain head, whence many similar fancies have been drawn ; and that, though familiar with imitations, the original is scarcely known to us.

Be it right, or wrong, these men among

On women to complayne,

Affermyng this, how that it is

A labour spent in vayne,

To love them wele; for never a dele

They love a man agayne:

For lete a man do what he can,

Theyr favour to attayne,

Yet, yf a newe do them persue,

Theyr first true lover than

Laboureth for nought: and from her thought
He is a banyshed man.

I say not nay, but that all day

It is bothe writ and sayde,

That womans faith is, as who sayth,

All utterly decayde;

But neverthelesse, ryght good wytnèsse
In this case might be layd,

That they love trewe, and contynew:

Recorde the Nut-brown Mayd:

Which, from her love, (when, her to prove,
He cam to make his mone),
Wolde not depart; for in her herte

She loved but hym alone.

Than, betweine us, lete us discusse

What was all the manere Betwene them two: we wyll also]

Tell all the payne, and fere,

That she was in. Now I begyn,

So that ye me answère;
Wherfore, ye, that present be

I pray you, gyve an eare:

I am the knyght; I come by nyght,
As secret as I can ;

Sayinge, Alas! thus standeth the case,
I am a banyshed man.'

'And I your wyll for to fulfyll

In this wyll not refuse;

Trustyinge to shewe, in wordès few,
That men have an ille use

(To theyr own shame) women to blame,
And causelesse them accuse;
Therfore to you I answere nowe,

All women to excuse,

My owne hart dere, with you what chere?
I pray you, tell anone;

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.'

'It standeth so; a dede is do,
Whereof moche harme shall growe;
My destiny is for to dy

A shamefull deth, I trowe;
Or ellés to flee: the one must bee,
None other way I knowe,
But to withdrawe as an outlawe,
And take me to my bowe.

Wherfore, adue, my owne hart true!
None other rede I can ;

For I must to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.'

O Lord, what is thys worldys blysse, That changeth as the mone! My somers day in lusty may

Is derked before the none.

I here you say, farewell: nay, nay,
We départ not so sone.
Why say ye so? wheder will ye go?

Alas! what have ye done?
All my welfare to sorrowe and care
Sholde chaunge, yf ye were gone;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.'

'I can beleve, it shall you greve,

And somewhat you dystrayne; But, aftyrwarde, your paynes harde Within a day or twayne

Shall sone aslake; and ye shall take

Comfort to you agayne.

And that ye myght from your delyght

No lenger make delay.

Rather than ye sholde thus for me

Be called an yll womàn,

Yet wolde I to the grene wode go,

Alone, a banyshed man.'

'Though it be songe of old and yonge,
That I sholde be to blame,
Theyrs be the charge, that speke so large
In hurtynge of my name:
For I wyll prove, that faythfulle love
It is devoyd of shame;

In your dystresse, and hevynesse,

To part with you the same:
And sure all tho, that do not so,

True lovers are they none;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde,
I love but you alone.'

'I counceyle you, remember howe, It is no maydens lawe,

Nothynge to dout, but to renne out, To wode with an outlàwe:

Why sholde ye nought? for, to make thought, For ye must there in your hand bere

Your labour were in vayne.

And thus I do; and pray you to,

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A bowe, redy to drawe;

And, as a thefe, thus must you lyve,

Ever in drede and awe;

Wherby to you grete barme myght growe;' Yet had I lever than,

That I had to the grene wode go,

Alone, a banyshed man.'

I thinke not nay, but as ye say,
It is no maydens lore:

But love may make me for your sake,
As ye have sayd before,

To come on fote, to hunt, and shote
To gete us mete in store;

For so that I your company

May have, I aske no more:

From which to part, it maketh my hart
As colde as any stone:

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.'

'For an outlawe this is the lawe,

That men hym take and bynde ; Without pytee, hanged to be,

And waver with the wynde.

· Nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go, And I shall tell ye why,

Your appetyght is to be lyght

Of love, I wele espy:

For, lyke as ye have sayed to me,

In lyke wyse hardely

Ye wolde answère whosoever it were,
In way of company.

It is sayd of olde, Sone hote, sone colde;
And so is a woman.

Wherefore I to the wode wyll go,

. Yf

Alone, a banyshed man.'

take hede, yett is no nede

Such wordes to say by me;

For oft ye prayed, and longe assayed,
Or I you loved, perdè:

And though that I of auncestry

A barons daughter be,

Yet have you proved howe I you loved, A squyer of lowe degre;

And ever shall, whatso befall;

To ye therefore anone;

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.'

A barons chylde to be begylde!
It were a cursed dede;
To be felàwe with an outlawe!

Almighty God forbede!

Yet beter were, the pore squyère

Alone to forest yede,

Than ye sholde say another day,

That, by my wycked dede,

Ye were betrayed: wherfore, good mayd,
The best rede that I can,

Is, that I to the grene wode go,
Alone, a bany shed man.'

'Whatever befall, I never shall

Of this thyng you upbrayd: But yf ye go, and leve me so,

Than have ye me betrayed. Remember wele, howe that ye dele; For, yf ye, as ye sayd, Be so unkynde, to leve behynde,

Your love, the Nut-brown Mayd, Trust me truly, that I shall dy

Sone after ye be gone;

For, in my mynde, of all mankynd I love but you alone.'

"Yf that ye went, ye sholde repent;
For in the forest nowe

I have purvayed me of a mayd,
Whom I love more than you;
Another fayrère, than ever ye were,
I dare it wele avowe;

And of you bothe eche sholde le wrothe
With other, as I trowe:

It were myne ese, to lyve in pese ;
So wyll I, yf I can;

Wherfore I to the wode wyll go,

Alone, a banyshed man.'

Though in the wode I undyrstode

Ye had a paramour,

All this may nought remove my thought,
But that I wyll be your:

And she shall fynde me soft, and kynde
And courteys every hour;
Glad to fulfyll all that she wyll

Commaunde me to my power:
For had ye, lo, an hundred mo,
Of them I wolde be one;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.'

'Myne owne dere love, I se the prove
That ye be kynde and true;
Of mayde, and wyfe, in all my lyfe,

The best that ever I knewe.
Be mery and glad, be no more sad,
The case is chaunged newe;
For it were ruthe, that, for your truthe,
Ye sholde have cause to rewe.
Be not dismayed; whatsoever I sayd
To you, whan I began ;

I wyll not to the grene wode go;
I am no banyshed man.'

'These tydings be more gladd to me,
Than to be made a quene,
Yf I were sure they sholde endure:
But it is often sene,

Whan men wyll breke promyse, they speke

The wordès on the splene.

Ye shape some wyle me to begyle,

And stele from me, I wene:

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