66

Many modern French poets and critics think that our English madness regularly returns with the month of November, and that suicides in that month are as plentiful as strawberries in June, or blackberries in September. It is our 'sky" that does it, if we are to believe the French theory, and Waterloo-bridge was built on purpose to accommodate ladies and gentlemen afflicted with the national malady, and to render suicide both facile and agreeable. “Oh, Bedlam!" exclaims Auguste Barbier, in his "Lazare:"

"Oh Bedlam! monument de crainte et de douleur
D'autres pénétreront plus avant dans ta masse;
Quant à moi, je ne puis que détourner la face,
Et dire que ton temple aux antres étouffans
Est digne pour ses dieux d'avoir de tels enfans,
Et que le ciel brumeux de la sombre Angleterre
Peut servir largement de dôme au sanctuaire."

Leaving the French to their joke, and declining to speculate whether English madness be not perhaps the consequence of that great wit of which Pope speaks:

"Great wit to madness surely is allied,

And thin partitions do their bounds divide,"

in which case the English nation might bear the gibes of their continental friends with more equanimity for the sake of the compliment involved; the following specimens of our ancient and modern lyrics of madness may be permitted to speak for themselves

THE MAD MAID'S SONG.

ROBERT HERRICK, born 1591.

GOOD-MORROW to the day so fair,
Good-morrow, sir, to you;
Good-morrow to mine own torn hair,
Bedabbled all with dew.

Good-morrow to this primrose too;
Good-morrow to each maid,

That will with flowers the tomb bestrew
Wherein my love is laid.

Ah, woe is me-woe, woe is me,
Alack and well-a-day!

For pity, sir, find out that bee
Which bore my love away.

I'll seek him in your bonnet brave;
I'll seek him in your eyes;

Nay, now I think they 've made his grave
In the bed of strawberries.

I'll seek him there, I know ere this
The cold, cold earth doth shake him;

But I will go, or send a kiss

By you, sir, to awake him.

Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,
He knows well who do love him,
And who with green turfs rear his head,
And who so rudely move him.

He's soft and tender, pray take heed;
With bands of cowslips bind him,
And bring him home; but 'tis decreed
That I shall never find him.

THE MAD LOVER.

ALEXANDER BROME, born 1620, died 1666.

I HAVE been in love, and in debt, and in drink—
This many and many year;

And those three are plagues enough, one would think,
For one poor mortal to bear.

'Twas drink made me fall into love,

And love made me run into debt;

And though I have struggled, and struggled and strove, I cannot get out of them yet.

There's nothing but money can cure me,

And rid me of all my pain;

'Twill pay all my debts,

And remove all my lets;

And my mistress that cannot endure me,
Will love me, and love me again :
Then I'll fall to loving and drinking again.

THE MAD SHEPHERDESS.

My lodging is on the cold ground,
And very hard is my fare;
But that which troubles me most is
The unkindness of my dear;

Yet still I cry, O turn love,

And I prithee, love, turn to me,
For thou art the man that I long for,
And alack! what remedy!

I'll crown thee with a garland of straw then,
And I'll marry thee with a rush ring,

My frozen hopes shall thaw then,

And merrily we will sing;

O turn to me my dear love,

And I prithee, love, turn to me,

For thou art the man who alone canst

Procure my liberty.

But if thou wilt harden thy heart still,
And be deaf to my pitiful moan!
Then I must endure the smart still,
And lie in my straw all alone;

Yet still I cry, O turn love,

And I prithee, love, turn to me,

For thou art the man that alone art

The cause of my misery.

This song, of which the air is claimed both by the Scotch and the Irish, and which has been rendered familiar to modern ears, by the beautiful version in Moore's Irish Melodies -"Believe me if all those endearing young charms"-was introduced into Davenant's Comedy of "The Rivals," 1668; but is probably still older. The phrase to "marry with a rush ring," is introduced in the ancient ballad of "The Winchester Wedding:"

"And Tommy was loving to Kitty,

And wedded her with a rush ring."

Meaning a marriage without the rites of religion, and to be dissolved at the will of the parties as easily as a rush ring may be broken.

TOM A BEDLAM, OR MAD TOM.

WILLIAM BASSE; from "The English Dancing Master," 1651.

FORTH from my dark and dismal cell,

Or from the dark abyss of hell,

Mad Tom is come, to view the world again,
To see if he can cure his distemper'd brain.
Fears and cares oppress my soul!
Hark! how the angry furies howl;
Pluto laughs, and Proserpine is glad,
To see poor angry Tom of Bedlam bad.

Thro' the world I wander night and day,
To find my straggling senses;
In angry mood I meet old Time,

With his pentateuch of tenses.

When me he spies, away he flies,

For time will stay for no man:
In vain with cries I rend the skies,
For pity is not common.

Cold and comfortless I lie,

Help! help! or else I die.

Hark! I hear Apollo's team,

The carman 'gins to whistle,
Chaste Dian' bends her bow.

And the boar begins to bristle.

Come, Vulcan, with tools and with tackle,
And knock off my troublesome shackle;
Bid Charles make ready his wain,

To bring me my senses again.

Last night I heard the dog-star bark;
Mars met Venus in the dark;
Limping Vulcan beat an iron bar,
And furiously made at the god of war.

Mars, with his weapon, laid about;
Limping Vulcan had got the gout;

His broad horns did so hang in his light,
That he could not see to aim his blows aright.

Mercury, the nimble post of heaven,
Stood still to see the quarrel;
Barrel-belly'd Bacchus, giant like,

Bestrode a strong beer barrel ;

To me he drank whole butts,

Until he burst his guts;

But mine were ne'er the wider.

Poor Tom is very dry;

A little drink for charity.

Hark! I hear Actæon's hounds,

The huntsman's whoop and hallo;
Ringwood, Rockwood, Jowler, Bowman,
All the chase do follow.

The man in the moon drinks claret,
Eats powder'd beef, turnip, and carrot;

But a cup of old Malaga sack

Will fire the bush at his back.

The words of the latter half of this song are not now sung. Another song, set by George Bayden, also called 'Mad Tom,' has been 'stitched upon it."-CHAPPELL.