Poems of the Week: Ballads
I'll return, later, to the question of conversational poetry and satire, but for a little relief--and a discussion that can lead eventually to Hopkins--let us turn to the ballad.
Ballads are story telling poems or songs written in rhyming quatrains, alternating lines of 4 and 3 stresses. Sometimes these shorter lines are combined into a longer line known as a fourteener, because if it ends blunt with a masculine rhyme, it has 14 syllables. Here, to illustrate the form, are the first three lines of a famous literary specimen by Oscar Wilde:
He did not wear his scarlet coat for blood and wine are red
And blood and wine were on his hands when they found him with the dead
The poor dead woman whom he loved and murdered in her bed.
I described this as a literary specimen, because many ballads are rather subliterary or folkish. This very popular English and Scottish form was taken to America and it thrived in Appalachia. In describing ballads as subliterary I do not at all mean any disrespect. They can be quite sophisticated in narrative technique. A primitive pop ballad often tells the whole story from beginning to end, while a good ballad has boiled down the essence to the point that the listener can be confused if he has not heard the song before.
Let's take an early one. This version of Barbara Allen was collected and possibly prettified by Bishop Percy. As I recall, it is the version sung by that great patriotic songster, Peter Seeger.
- In Scarlet Town where I was born
There was a fair maid dwelling
Made every youth cry 'Well-a-day'
Her name was Barbara Allen - 'Twas in the merry month of May
When the green buds they were swelling
Sweet William on his death-bed lay
For the love of Barbara AllenHe sent his servant to the town
To the place where she was dwelling
Said, Master, he bid you to him
If your name be Barbara AllenThen slowly slowly she got up
And slowly when she nighed him
And when she drew the curtain back
Said, Young man, I think you're dyingOh yes I'm sick, I'm very very sick
And I never can be better
Until I have the love of one
The love of Barbara AllenThen slowly slowly she got up
And he trembled like an aspen
'Tis vain 'tis vain, young man, Said she
To fain for Barbara AllenShe walked out in a green green field
She heard his death bells knelling
At every toll they seemed to say
Cold-hearted Barbara AllenHer eyes looked east, her eyes looked west
She saw his pale corpse coming
Said, Bearers oh bearers, pray put him down
So I may look upon himThe more she looked the more she grieved
Until she burst out crying
O bearers, o bearers, pray take him away
For I am now a-dyingOh father, oh father, go dig my grave
Go dig it deep and narrow
Sweet William he died for me today
I'll die for him tomorrowThey buried her in the old churchyard
Sweet William's grave was nigh her
And from his heart grew a red red rose
And from her heart a briarThey grew and they grew the old churchyard wall
Till they couldn't grow no higher
Until they tied a true lovers' knot
The red rose and the briar
"Barbara Allen" is not especially useful for a discussion of narrative clarity, because the tradition is obscure. There is a theory I read years ago in an academic volume, that as cultures progress songs become more articulate and coherent. More articulate in the sense that it is important to understand what words are being sung, and coherent in the sense of a clear narrative presentation. A lot of African songs consist of the repetition of nonsense sounds, poorly articulated, interpolated with statements like, "Building me a boat today, unhunh, building me a boat. Contrast this with the Psalms and then contrast the Psalms with, say, the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite, a beautifully constructed narrative. I think it was actually the late Allan Lomax who argued that British Ballads take this one step beyond--as by the way, Pindar does and the writers of Greek tragedy in their lyrics--and you can take the narrative background for granted and either suppress boring transitional details or not fill in the picture because the singer is concentrating on other things. Take this early song, not strictly a ballad, though if we leave out the exclamations it has the form, "Edward", which we all had to read in college. It is absolutely chilling. We don't know exactly what mon's plot was but it is Macbethian in its evil. Why dois your brand sae drap wi' bluid, Edward, Edward? Why dois your brand sae drap wi' bluid? And why sae sad gang ye, O? O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid, Mither, mither, O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid, And I had nae mair bot hee, O. Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, Edward, Edward, Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, My deir son I tell thee, O. O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid, Mither, mither, O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid, That erst was sae fair and frie, O. Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair, Edward, Edward, Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair, Sum other dule ye drie, O. O, I hae killed my fadir deir, Mither, mither, O, I hae killed my fadir deir, Alas, and wae is mee, O. And whatten penance wul ye drie for that, Edward, Edward? And whatten penance will ye drie for that? My deir son, now tell me, O. Ile set my feit in yonder boat, Mither, mither, Il set my feit in yonder boat, And Ile fare ovir the sea, O. And what wul ye doe wi' your towirs and your ha', Edward, Edward? And what wul ye doe wi' your towirs and your ha', That were sae fair to see, O? Ile let thame stand tul they doun fa', Mither, mither, Ile let thame stand tul they doun fa', For here nevir mair maun I bee, O. And what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife, Edward, Edward? And what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife, Whan ye gang ovir the sea, O? The warldis room, late them beg thrae life, Mither, mither, The warldis room, let them beg thrae life, For thame nevir mair wul I see, O. And what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir, Edward, Edward? And what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir? My deir son, now tell mee, O. The curse of hell frae me sall ye beir, Mither, mither, The curse of hell frae me sall ye beir, Sic counseils ye gave to me, O.
Another favorite of min.
Johnie Armstrong
THERE dwelt a man in faire Westmerland, Ionn Armestrong men did him call, He had nither lands nor rents coming in, Yet he kept eight score men in his hall. He had horse and harness for them all, Goodly steeds were all milke-white; O the golden bands an about their necks, And their weapons, they were all alike. Newes then was brought unto the king That there was sicke a won as hee, That liv d lyke a bold out-law, And robb d all the north country. The king he writt an a letter then, A letter which was large and long; He sign d it with his owne hand, And he promised to doe him no wrong. When this letter came Ionn untill, His heart it was as blythe as birds on the tree: ‘Never was I sent for before any king, My father, my grandfather, nor none but mee. ‘And if wee goe the king before, I would we went most orderly; Every man of you shall have his scarlet cloak, Laced with silver laces three. ‘Every won of you shall have his velvett coat, Laced with silver lace so white; O the golden bands an about your necks, Black hatts, white feathers, all alyke.’ By the morrow morninge at ten of the clock, Towards Edenburough gon was hee, And with him all his eight score men; Good lord, it was a goodly sight for to see! When Ionn came befower the king, He fell downe on his knee; ‘O pardon, my soveraigne leige,’ he said, ‘O pardon my eight score men and mee!’ ‘Thou shalt have no pardon, thou traytor strong, For thy eight score men nor thee; For to-morrow morning by ten of the clock, Both thou and them shall hang on the gallow-tree.’ But Ionn looke’d over his left shoulder, Good Lord, what a grevious look looked hee! Saying, Asking grace of a graceles face-+--+- Why there is none for you nor me. But Ionn had a bright sword by his side, And it was made of the mettle so free, That had not the king, stept his foot aside, He had smitten his head from his faire bodd . Saying, Fight on, my merry men all, And see that none of you be taine; For rather then men shall say we were hange’d, Let them report how we were slaine. Then, God wott, faire Eddenburrough rose, And so besett poore Ionn rounde, That fowerscore and tenn of Ionn s best men Lay gasping all upon the ground. Then like a mad man Ionn laide about, And like a mad man then fought hee, Untill a falce Scot came Ionn behinde, And runn him through the faire boddee. Saying, Fight on, my merry men all, And see that none of you be taine; For I will stand by and bleed but awhile, And then will I come and fight againe. Newes then was brought to young Ionn Armestrong, As he stood by his nurses knee, Who vowed if ere he live’d for to be a man, O the treacherous Scots revengd hee’d be.
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"a good ballad has boiled down the essence to the point that the listener can be confused if he has not heard the song before."
That is certainly true of this version of Barbara Allen, which gives her no motive for her rejection of her would-be lover. I have heard other versions in which she does not have a motive (anger at the man for having snubbed her a long time earlier when toasting the women of the town). Do scholars believe that the longer version is older and someone, as you said, "boiled down the essence," or is the longer version a later attempt to fill in the gaps?
Sorry - "other versions in which she does have a motive." The errant "not" made my post confusing.
"Barbara Allen" is not especially useful for a discussion of narrative clarity, because the tradition is obscure. There is a theory I read years ago in an academic volume, that as cultures progress songs become more articulate and coherent. More articulate in the sense that it is important to understand what words are being sung, and coherent in the sense of a clear narrative presentation. A lot of African songs consist of the repetition of nonsense sounds, poorly articulated, interpolated with statements like, "Building me a boat today, unhunh, building me a boat. Contrast this with the Psalms and then contrast the Psalms with, say, the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite, a beautifully constructed narrative. I think it was actually the late Allan Lomax who argued that British Ballads take this one step beyond--as by the way, Pindar does and the writers of Greek tragedy in their lyrics--and you can take the narrative background for granted and either suppress boring transitional details or not fill in the picture because the singer is concentrating on other things.
Take this early song, not strictly a ballad, though if we leave out the exclamations it has the form, "Edward", which we all had to read in college. It is absolutely chilling. We don't know exactly what mon's plot was but it is Macbethian in its evil.
Why dois your brand sae drap wi' bluid,
Edward, Edward?
Why dois your brand sae drap wi' bluid?
And why sae sad gang ye, O?
O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
Mither, mither,
O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
And I had nae mair bot hee, O.
Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
Edward, Edward,
Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
My deir son I tell thee, O.
O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
Mither, mither,
O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
That erst was sae fair and frie, O.
Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair,
Edward, Edward,
Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair,
Sum other dule ye drie, O.
O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
Mither, mither,
O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
Alas, and wae is mee, O.
And whatten penance wul ye drie for that,
Edward, Edward?
And whatten penance will ye drie for that?
My deir son, now tell me, O.
Ile set my feit in yonder boat,
Mither, mither,
Il set my feit in yonder boat,
And Ile fare ovir the sea, O.
And what wul ye doe wi' your towirs and your ha',
Edward, Edward?
And what wul ye doe wi' your towirs and your ha',
That were sae fair to see, O?
Ile let thame stand tul they doun fa',
Mither, mither,
Ile let thame stand tul they doun fa',
For here nevir mair maun I bee, O.
And what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife,
Edward, Edward?
And what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife,
Whan ye gang ovir the sea, O?
The warldis room, late them beg thrae life,
Mither, mither,
The warldis room, let them beg thrae life,
For thame nevir mair wul I see, O.
And what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir,
Edward, Edward?
And what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir?
My deir son, now tell mee, O.
The curse of hell frae me sall ye beir,
Mither, mither,
The curse of hell frae me sall ye beir,
Sic counseils ye gave to me, O.
Barbara Allen is a true folk ballad in that it was much older than when it was first reduced to writing. Like any oral tradition, there are probably thousands of variations on the remaining theme of unrequited love which the old philosopher, Fritz Wilhelmsen, once told a full classs of undergraduates in Dallas, was the worst thing that could ever happen to a young man. But when or if it does occur in the full bloom of life, a young man might as well learn to sing about it as cry about it ---- he can always learn to drink whiskey over it as he grows older.
"Edward" has always connect in my mind with the nearly 2000 line poem German poem Meier Helmbrecht written by the wandering poet Wernher der Gartänere. Helmbrecht is a farm boy outfitted by his parents to become a knight, his parents aspiring for him to transcend his class. He becomes a robber knight and meets a tragic end, cast out by the very parents who implored him to attempt to exit the farming class and become a knight.
Edwards sword, the hawk and the horse and the discourse about obligations hint at the knightly in a very unknightly context. The last lines more than suggest the evil of the mother as the prime mover.
Many people think it is much older than when first set down, but there is a paucity of references. The last lines tell us that the mother played a part but they do not give her motive. The obvious assumption is that she disliked her husband and wanted her son to kill him and take his place, though not in an incestuous sense. The song gains dramatic power, however, by leaving the details out.
I added "Johnie Armstrong," always one of my favorites. In the future, I'll just insert links on many of these.
I'd like you all to observe a certain looseness of meter, e.g., the number of lines with two unstressed syllables in a row, especially at the beginning of a line:
When the green buds they were swelling
For the love of Barbara Allen
This license is partly a matter of singing, which can cover up a multitude of metrical sins, but also it is a natural part of English verse, going back to Anglo-Saxon times, when what counted were the number of stressed syllables per line and a pattern of repeated sounds, especially initial consonants.
This looseness is most apparent in comic verse, especially doggerel and limericks, as in this chestnut:
There was an old man of Tobago,
Who lived on rice, gruel and sago
Till, much to his bliss,
His physician said this -
To a leg, sir, of mutton you may go.
AND
There was a young man of Japan,
Who wrote verses that never would scan.
When asked why this was,
He said:"It's because
I always try to get as many syllables into the last line as I possibly can."
I've been swamped lately and haven't been able to ready Johnie Armstrong yet, but the limerick about the man from Japan was a laugh-out-loud one for me and my wife. Thanks for that!
There is a very fine rendering of a different version of the "Edward" ballad on an album from last year by June Tabor and Oysterband. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XILzqPc5P5g) It's referenced as Child No. 13, "from the singing of Jeannie Robertson of Aberdeen," and has the beautiful line, "O lady mother, my lady mother" -- a phrase which is probably a hate crime in Canada and may be one here soon as well. The album as a whole is wonderful, in a Fairport Convention "Liege and Lief" sort of way (high praise to my mind but not to everyone's taste), but I would be interested in recommendations from readers who know more about traditional renderings of our English and Scotch-Irish ballads and their American re-embodiments. I'm familiar with Elizabeth LaPrelle's fine versions of "mountain" ballads, but one more rendition of Shady Grove on clawhammer banjo and I may slit my throat.
Thanks to Marc Brainich for the information. I'll check out the video. I listened to a lot of "folk" music in the 60's, attended concerts, had friends in the business. What I grew up on, however, was quite different. My father loved the last minstrel, Richard Dyer Bennet, especially his renditions of the Scottish and Irish songs arranged by Beethoven, and Kathleen Ferrier's beautiful recordings of English songs like "Blow the Wind Southerly." Interestingly, I no longer even own any 60's folk records--though I sometimes wish I had some Tom Paxton--but I do have CDs of Dyer Bennet and Ferrier. My wife and I also have played to death our old vinyl recordings of Alfred Deller doing Elizabethan music and songs from Shakespeare.
Let me add for those seeking sound recordings of British Isles ballads that there are several preserving first-rate traditional, nonprofessional singers. I own a CD of ballads and other songs by Jeannie Robertson, whom Mr. Brainich mentioned, and I highly recommend it. She was a great Scots singer who belonged to the traveling people or tinkers--the British Isles' equivalent of gypsies. She sings unaccompanied on this particular disc. Caution: her Scots is muckle braid. The recordings of Alfred Deller that Dr. Fleming mentions have also been well-transfered to available CDs--except for the Shakespeare songs, alas. Too bad, for to my mind no one has performed that repertoire better. Look for The Three Ravens by the Deller Consort, which merges at least two originally vinyl albums and includes a lovely rendition of the "Edward" cognate, "Lord Rendall" as well as "Barbara Allen". And now I recall a recording I used to own and probably shall again, the Folk-Legacy set of songs sung to gut-strung (as I recall), fretless banjo by Frank Proffitt of Beach Mountain, North Carolina, which includes a murder ballad he passed on, via a recording by a friend of his, to a slick folk trio in the 1950s, "Tom Dooley".