%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> Sir Hugh and the Maiden. University of California - Santa Barbara The Early Modern Center Director Patricia Fumerton ?-? Early Modern Center, University of California Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, CA 04/27/2011 30984

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Patricia Fumerton Early Modern Center - English Department University of California Santa Barbara, CA 93105 United States of America EMail: pfumer@english.ucsb.edu

S124359 NERE to Carleile there dwells a Knight / Of gode and comlye meine, Roxburghe Ballads Editor None None None None Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. 3: 269 Sir Hugh and the Maiden. Sir Hugh and the Maiden. Sir Hugh and the Maiden. ?-?

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 Early Modern Center Ballad Project Keyword Taxonomy advice affliction/ health alcohol animals/ nature Bible/ biblical figures buildings/ architecture catastrophe children class clothing/ appearance country/ nation crime death economics/ commerce entertainments family folklore gender holidays/ seasons infidelity labor/ craft law London love maritime marriage military/ war monstrosity mythology/ Classical news nobility/ court politics/ government procreation punishment race/ ethnicity religious concepts religious figures religious types & sects royalty rural life servitude sex/ sexuality supernatural/ magic The New World travel trickery/ deceit urban life vice violence virtue vulgarities/ crass humor youth/ age Library of Congress Subject Heading Taxonomy 4/27/2011 Santa Barbara, California, United States of America infidelity marriage nobility/ court trickery/ deceit violence Ballads, English 17th century Broadsides, England 17th century 4/27/2011 12:38:42 PM XBallad Mellon, Gillian Created XML Version of Ballad 4/27/2011 12:38:42 PM Transcription Supervisor McAbee, Kristina, Nebeker, Eric Transcription of ballad manuscript 4/27/2011 12:38:42 PM Double-Key Comparison and Merging Batchelor, Gordon Transcription of ballad manuscript 4/27/2011 12:38:42 PM Transcriptionist Two Meyer, Shannon Transcription of ballad manuscript 4/27/2011 12:38:42 PM Transcriptionist One Zusky, Catherine Transcription of ballad manuscript 2/5/2009 Checker Shannon Meyer Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 11/22/2010 Checker Grafals Michael Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 11/22/2010 Checker Grafals Michael Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 11/22/2010 Checker Grafals Michael Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 11/22/2010 Checker Grafals Michael Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 1/14/2009 Bibliographer Meghan Fadel Initial Ballad Catalogue Record Created
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NERE to Carleile there dwells a Knight Of gode and comlye meine, If I this storie tell aright, And folkes take what I meane. His Castle is as faire a one As any in the Lande, And round about bedight with Towers, Nere Engishe wood did stande. Sir Hugh this Knight was called, A bold Knights son was he, That ever faut with shynand brande, Or ever bent on a knee. His Ladie was of goodly make, Her Chekes were of redde and white, A comlier face was never sene With glimmering eyn so brighte. Her Fathir he had many a Tower, Of Lynage proude was he, And many a house with costly Bowere, He geide for a Dowrie. Ella she keeped a false woman, For that was our Ladies name, A falser woman shure never was borne, Than into this Castle came. She would have layne by her ain Master, If she thought he wold not say naye, For she wished to ruin her gode Ladie, And get her a turned away. So traitory Stories she often wolde telle, Her Mystress to undo, Which coming to the Knights heering, Did cause him very sore wo. He writhed his minde baithe backe and fro, And aie he doubled his brow, For he wished to ha that wily Knight Who crackened his wifes false vow. And He offered to them, whoever wolde telle Who this Knight sholde be That wroght him wrothe in his Castle, Sholde have lande and golden fee, Gladd was the Maiden when she did finde The Knight was stricken with baile, Then slilye she hyed her till his Bowere, And spake her falsing tail. I come frae your Wife as I ha life, Your Wife who is false to thee, And if I mayeste tell what I ha sene, I sertenly killed sholde be. Speik on, speik on my maiden dear, Be it truei thou telleist to mee, A Boone thou shalle ha, and to boote I wille grant Much Goulde and goode Cuntrie. O nere wille I slepe till I ha wreked My Sweards pointe in his bluide, The micklest Vilane that ever has wente Tween this and Engish wood. O Sir, quoth the Maiden, he is nae Knight, But a Man of lowe degree, And when the Sunne is slepein owre the hill, At thy Ladyes Bowre Window hell be. Ycladd in your best graine doublet And your hode he is bedight, To make the folke thinke he is Sir Hugh, And not a stranger knight.
Now anger and crumpling jeelousie Did our Knights harte torment, He swore to the Maiden by the Holy-roode, That his fere he wolde ha brent. Helle tak thee thou carlish thiefe, To nighte I wroken shall be, Bathe of The and my aine false wife, That I once loved tenderlie. The Knight he striken his heid and his briest, And moned most wofullye, He grindled his teeth and rolled his eyn, And jumpted most myghtilie. For many a wondrous syhe he guide, His hart was grieved so, The case of which he thoughe twas truei, As you shalle speedelye knoe. Then away sped the Maiden, like a braide arrowe Shotten frae a trustie Bowe, For liken till, whilk alway dothe scathe Where ever it may goe. She sped to her Mystresse her for to telle, Her Mystresse once so deere, A false leasinge taile of her owne dear Knight, Which you shalle quicklye heere. O Ladie quoth she, what I speik to thee Leeve it is very truei, This eene thy Knight at eventide I trowe another will wou. O wo till you quoth the Knights Ladie, Grammercye on your soulle, If it be false what I this day trow, You shalle dye ere the Curfeu knowles. O Ladie deere as I hope to ha feere, The howre I am going to dye, It is not false, but true as I live, What I ha telled to thee. And more, at nicht they ha agreede In youre best bower to meete, To passe the time unkenned to you, And brok with kisses sweete. Faire Ella was greeved to the hartes life, And sore perplexed was she, She vowede to Saint Johne that if it be so I sertanelye wroken will bee. Heere sayde the Maiden tak my cleadinge, And till youre little bowere hye, For there you will witte what is doinge Thrueghe the windowe secretlye. The suthe hadd changedd ether cleadinge, The Mystresse the Maidens did weare, And proud was the false one so bedecked All in her Ladyes geer. This wicked jaide had theretoe biddenn One more of her varletts vile, To go to her Ladyes little bowere And murdeir her the while. When it was darke the menn did cum, As the Maiden telled to theye, For theye were as wicked as she herselle In the wylles of lecherye They all beene com and the Knyghte also, Under the greene woode Tre, He stopped awhile with his Sweard in his hand, Till he his fere mighte see.
The Maiden to the windowe did goe, To stande there for awhile And showe her face to the carlish man, The Knighte for to begyle. The Knight when he saw his Ladyes face, He at the carlish man flue, And he strickened him with his Sweard edge, And thrusten him threugh and through. Lye there and die sayde the angrie Knight, Whose Lege-man ever ye bee, Such mickle nere went on earth, As two like you and shee. At the same tyme all in the bowere, The like was doinge also But instead of the Mistresse the man didd strike The Maiden a wofull blow. Sir Hugh cummin in to catche his wife, Astounded he was to see That she was all bluidye, and on the Ground Moning most pitioueslye. But when he kenned that it was the Maiden Y Busked in his Ladies Geere, Where is my fere, what man is this, Some traitorye I do feere. Ha mercye, ha mercye, sayde the Maiden, On my poore dyeinge Shrive, For I am the wickedeste of woman, That ever was borne alive. Forgive, forgive before I die, And I will tell you all, I do forgive you you wicked maiden, As ever came in a Hall. O then, Sir Knighte, your Ladye deer The Carle was to have Slayne, In hope that when you lost your fere I shoulde ha beene your aine. Or if she had not killed been, I wanted to torment Your harte, with falsinge tailles of her, And so to ha her brent. The Ladye all this while stoode bye, Busked in the Maids attyre, Nor could she speik a single motte, She choked so with ire. Here tak thy Ladye good Sir Hugh, For a truere one nere can bee, There is never a Knighte in all Englande Has one fairer or maire comelie. The Knighte he clasped her in his arms, My Wife, my sweete Ladie, See this vyle Maidden getteth the pane She meened for you and me. Mayeste alwayes syke luck the willye have, My prayers shalle alway bee, That themselfes maye alyke be catcheatt In their on treachorye.