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Fair Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, • Oft have you called your Emmeline
And aye her heart was woe,

Your darling and your joye;
While iwixt her love and the carlish knighte 0! let not then your harsh resolves
Past many a baneful blowe.

Your Emmeline destroye.'

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This touching ballad is copied from “Motherwell's Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern." Its origin is

there traced to an unhappy accident, that occurred in the family of the Somervilles, of which we quote the account recorded :-" This year 1589, in the moneth of July, ther falls out a sad accident, as a further warning that God was displeased with the familie. The servant, with his two sones, William, Master of Somervil, and John, his brother, went with the horses to ane shott of land, called the prety shott, directly opposite the front of the house, where there was some meadow ground for grassing the horses, and willowes to shaddow themselves from the heat. They had not long continued in this place, when the Master of Somervil, after some litle rest, awakeing from his sleep, and finding his pistolles, that lay hard by him, wett with the dew, he began to rub and dry them, when, unhappily, one of them went off the ratch, being lying upon his knee, and the muzel turned side-ways, the ball strocke his brother John directly in the head and killed him outright, soe that his sorrowful brother never had one word from him, albeit he begged it with many teares.” This, or some such melancholy incident, undoubtedly gave rise to the ballad. In some versions, one brother is purposely slain by the other ; but in all, the noble and forgiving spirit of the victim, and the horror and remorse of the survivor make the strong points.

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THERE were twa brothers at the scule, • Tak ye aff my Holland sark,
And when they got awa'--

And rive it gair by gair,
It's Will ye play at the stane-chucking, And row it in my bluidy wounds,
Or will ye play at the ba',

And they'll ne'er bleed nae mair.'
Or will ye gae up to yon hill head?
And there we'll warsell a fa’.'

He's taken aff his Holland sark,

And torn it gair by gair ; • I winna play at the stane-chucking,

He's row it in his bluidy wounds,
Nor will I play at the ba',

But they bleed ay mair and mair.
But I'll gae up to yon bonnie green hill,
And there we'll warsell a fa’'

• Tak now aff my green sleiding, They warsled up, they warsled down,

And row me saftly in ;
Till John fell to the ground;

And tak me up to yon kirk style,
A dirk fell out of William's pouch,

Where the grass grows fair and green.' And gave John a deadly wound.

He's taken aff the green sleiding, • O lift me up upon your back,

And rowed him softly in ;
Take me to yon well fair,

He's laid him down by yon kirk style,
And wash my bluidy wounds o'er and o'er,

Whare the grass grows

fair and green. And they'll ne'er bleed nae mair.' He's lifted his brother upon his back, • What will ye say to your father dear, Ta'en him to yon well fair ;

When ye gae hame at e'en ?' He's washed his bluidy wounds o'er and o'er, I'll say ye're lying at yon kirk style, But they bleed ay mair and mair.

Whare the grass grows fair and green.'

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O no, O no, my brother dear,

• It is the blude of my gay goss hawk, O you must not say so;

He wadna flee for nie.' But say, that I am gane to a foreign land, O thy hawks blude was ne'er sae red, Whare nae man does me know.'

Nor e'er sae dear to me;

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thy hounds blude was ne'er sae red,

Nor e'er sae dear to me; O what blude 's this

upon your hand ? O dear tell to me.'

She turned hersel' right round about,

And her heart burst into three : • My ae best son is deid and

gane, And my tother ane I'll ne'er see.'



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MR. HALL has arranged this beautiful and interesting ballad, partly from the copy published by Dr.

Percy in his “ Reliques of Ancient English Poetry,” and partly from a black letter copy preserved in the folio collection at the British Museum. The latter bears this title—" The Rarest Ballad that ever was seen of the Blind Beggar's daughter of Bednall Green. Printed by and for W. Onley ; and are to be sold by C. Bates at the sign of the sun and bible in Pye corner. Dr. Percy gives the reign of Queen Elizabeth as the date of its composition ; but how far the story is founded on fact is matter of uncertainty. We know from history that Simon de Montfort, the Earl of Leicester, and his eldest son Henry, were both killed at the battle of Evesham, fought August 4, 1265, whilst heading the barons, and that the family became extinct. Probably some such event, as that described, did actually occur during the civil wars, and the author has only used the poet's license in attributing it to well-known personages. This ballad derives additional interest from having furnished Sheridan Knowles with a subject for a drama.



Shee went till shee' came to Stratford-le

Bow; Itt was a blind beggar, had long lost his Then knew she not whither, nor which way sight,

to goe : He had a faire daughter most pleasant and with teares shee lamented her hard desbright,

tinie, And many a gallant brave suitor had shee, So sadd and so heavy was pretty Bessee. For none was soe comelye as pretty Bessee.

Shee kept on her journey untill it was day, And though shee was of favor most faire,

And went unto Rumford along the hye way; Yett seeing she was but a poor beggars

Where at the Queenes armes entertained heyre,

was shee: Ofancyent housekeepers despised was shee,

So faire and wel favoured was pretty Bessee. Whose sonnes came as suitors to prettye Bessee.

Shee had not been there one month to an Wherefore in great sorrow faire Bessee did end, say,

But master and mistress and all was her Good father, and mother, let me goe away, friend: To seeke out my fortune, wherever itt bee.' And every brave gallant, that once did her The suite then they granted to pretty see, Bessee.

Was straight-way in love with pretty

Bessee. Then Bessee, that was of bewtye soe bright, All cladd in gray russett, and late in the Great gifts they did send her of silver and night,

gold, From father and mother alone parted shee; And in their songs daylye her love was exWho sighed and sobbed for

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pretty Bessee.


Her bewtye was blazed in every degree ;
Soe faire and soe comely was pretty Bessee.

My shippes shall bring home rych jewels

for thee, And I will for ever love pretty Bessee.'

Then Bessee shee sighed, and thus shee

did say,

The young men of Rumford in her had their

joy; She shew'd herself curteous, but never too

coye ; And at their commandment still wold she

bee; Soe faire and soe comelye was pretty Bessee.

• My father and mother I meane to obey ; First gett theyr good will, and be faithful

to mee, And you shall enjoye your pretty Bessee.'

seene ;

Foure suitors att once unto her did goe;

To every one this answer shee made ; They craved her favor, but still she sayd Wherefore unto her they joyfullye sayd, • Noe;

• This thing to fulfill wee all doe agree; I would not wish gentles 10 marry with But where dwells thy father, my pretty mee.'

Yett ever they honored pretty Bessee.
The first of them was a gallant young

My father,' quoth shee, “is plaine to be knight,

The silly blind beggar of Bednall-greene, And he came unto her disguisde in the

That daylye sits begging for charitie, night;

He is the good father of pretty Bessee. The second a gentleman of good degree, Who wooed and sued for pretty Bessee.

• His markes and his tokens are known full

well; A merchant of London, whose wealth was not small,

He always is led with a dogg and a bell : Was then the third suitor, and

A silly olde man, God knoweth, is hee, proper

Yett hee is the father of pretty Bessee.' withall : Her master's own sonne the fourth man must bee,

Nay then,' quoth the merchant, thou art

not for mee: Who swore he would dye for pretty Bessee.

Nor,' quoth the innholder, “my wiffe And, if thou wilt marry with mee,' quoth

shalt not bee :' the knight,

"I lothe,' said the gentle, a beggars degree, * Ile make thee a lady with joy and delight; And therefore, adewe, my pretty Bessee!' My heart's so inthralled by thy fair bewtie, Then grant me thy favour, my pretty Why then,' quoth the knight, "hap better Bessee.'

or worse,

I waighe not true love by the waight of the The gentleman sayd, Come, marry with

pursse, mee,

And bewtye is bewtye in every degree; In silks and in velvets my Bessee shall bee: Then welcome to me, my pretty Bessee. My heart lives distressed: O heare me,' quoth hee;

• With thee to thy father forthwith will I • And grant me thy love, my pretty Bessee.' goe.'

• Nay soft,' quoth his kinsmen, it must not Let me be thy husband,' the merchant did say,

A poor beggars daughter noe ladye shall • Thou shalt live in London both gallant bee,

Then take thy adewe of pretty Bessee.'

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be soe;

and gay ;

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