On meads and lawns we trip like fauns,
Like fillies, kids, and lambs;

We have no twinge to make us cringe,
Or crinkle in the hams;
When the day is spent,
With one consent,
Again we all agree,
To caper and skip it,
Trample and trip it,
Under the greenwood tree.

SIR JOHN BARLEYCORN.

From "The English Dancing-Master; or, Plain and Easy Rules for Country Dances," 1651.

As I went through the North country,

I heard a merry meeting;

A pleasant toy, and full of joy,

Two noblemen were greeting.

And as they walked forth to shoot,
Upon a summer's day,
They met another nobleman,

With whom they had a fray.

His name was Sir John Barleycorn,
He dwelt down in a dale;

Who had a kinsman dwelt him nigh,
They called him Thomas Good-ale.

Another named Richard Beer,
Was ready at that time;

Another worthy knight was there,

Call'd Sir William White-wine.

Some of them fought in a black-jack,
Some of them in a can;

But the chiefest in a black pot,
Like a worthy nobleman.

Sir Barleycorn fought in a bowl,

Who won the victory;

Which made them all to fume and swear

That Barleycorn should die.

Some said "kill him," some said "drown,"
Others wished to hang him high,

For as many as follow Barley-corn,
Shall surely beggars die.

Then with a plough they ploughed him up,
And this they did devise,

To bury him quick within the earth,
And swore he should not rise.

And with a pitchfork that was sharp,
They rent him to the heart,

And like a thief for treason vile,
They bound him in a cart.

And tending him with weapons strong,
Unto the town they hie,

And straight they mow'd him in a mow,
And there they let him lie.

Then he lay groaning by the walls,
Till all his wounds were sore;
At length they took him up again,
And cast him on the floor.

They hired two men with holly clubs,
To beat at him at once;

They thwacked so hard on Barley-corn
That flesh fell from his bones.

And then they took him up again,
To fulfil women's mind,
They dusted and they sifted him,
'Till he was almost blind.

And then they knit him in a sack,
Which grieved him full sore;
'They steep'd him in a vat, God wot,
For three days' space and more.

And then they took him up again,
And laid him for to dry,
They cast him on a chamber-floor,
And swore that he should die.

They rubbed him and stirrèd him,
And oft did toil and turn,

The malt-man likewise vowed his death,
His body he would burn.

They pulled and hauled him up in spite, And threw him on a kiln,

And dried him o'er a fire bright,"

The more to work their will.

All you good wives that brew good ale,
God keep you from all teen,

But if you put too much water in,

The devil put out your eyne!

This ballad, of which a modern version, slightly altered from the above by Robert Burns, has become more popular than its prototype, was originally sung to the tune of "Stingo,” or "Oyle of Barley." The same tune was afterwards called "Cold and Raw."

"This tune," says Sir John Hawkins, in his History of Music, "was greatly admired by Queen Mary, the consort of King William; and she once affronted Purcell by requesting to have it sung to her, he being present. The story is as follows:-The Queen having a mind, one afternoon, to be entertained with music, sent to Mr. Gosling, then one of her Chapel, and afterwards Sub-Dean of St. Paul's, to Henry Purcell, and to Mrs. Arabella Hunt, who had a very fine voice, and an admirable hand on the lute, with a request to attend her. They obeyed her commands. Mr. Gosling and Mrs. Hunt sang several compositions of Purcell, who accompanied them on the harpsichord. At length, the Queen, beginning to grow tired, asked Mrs. Hunt if she could not sing the ballad of 'Cold and Raw;' Mrs. Hunt answered, yes, and sung it to her lute. Purcell was all the while sitting at the harpsichord, unemployed, and not a little nettled at the Queen's preference of a vulgar ballad to his music, but seeing her Majesty delighted with this tune, he determined that she should hear it upon another occasion; and, accordingly, in the next birth-day song; viz.-that for the year 1692, he composed an air to the words 'May her bright example chace vice in troops out of the land,' the bass whereof is the tune to Cold and Raw.'"

THE FAIRY QUEEN.

From "Percy's Reliques."

COME, follow, follow me,
You, fairy elves that be:
Which circle on the green,

Come, follow Mab your queen.
Hand in hand let's dance around,
For this place is fairy ground.

When mortals are at rest,
And snoring in their nest;
Unheard, and unespied,

Through key-holes we do glide;
Over tables, stools, and shelves,
We trip it with our fairy elves.

And, if the house be foul
With platter, dish, and bowl,
Up stairs we nimbly creep,
And find the sluts asleep :

There we pinch their arms and thighs;
None escapes, nor none espies.