%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> M. Harry whobals mon to M. Camel / greetes, Him wyshing hally bread, to feare all ragyng spreetes. Beard, Richard University of California - Santa Barbara The Early Modern Center English Broadside Ballad Archive (EBBA) Director Patricia Fumerton Associate Director Carl G Stahmer 1551-1551 Early Modern Center, University of California Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, CA 10/18/2018 36289

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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

S90433 HOe bin nod yo mast Cammell sur, by gys I trow ye byn: / For Steuen Steple twode yer marks, that yo han brought fro Lyn. Society of Antiquaries of London - Broadsides Editor none none none none Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. 1: 29 M. Harry whobals mon to M. Camel / greetes, Him wyshing hally bread, to feare all ragyng spreetes. M. Harry Whobal's man to M. Camel greets, Him wishing holy bread, to fear all raging sprites. Beard, Richard 1551-1551

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 Early Modern Center Ballad Project Keyword Taxonomy advice affliction / health alcohol Americas animals / nature Bible / biblical figures buildings / architecture catastrophe children class clothing / appearance country / nation crime death economics / commerce entertainments family Featured 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 groups royalty rural life servitude sex / sexuality supernatural / magic travel trickery / deceit urban life vice violence virtue vulgar humor youth / age Library of Congress Subject Heading Taxonomy 10/18/2018 Santa Barbara, California, United States of America Ballads, English 17th century Broadsides, England 17th century 10/18/2018 2:54:40 PM XBallad Sintura, Maria Created XML Version of Ballad 10/18/2018 2:54:40 PM Transcription Supervisor McCants, Kristen Transcription of ballad manuscript 10/18/2018 2:54:40 PM Double-Key Comparison and Merging McCants, Kristen Transcription of ballad manuscript 10/18/2018 2:54:40 PM Transcriptionist Two Raychawdhuri, Anita Transcription of ballad manuscript 10/18/2018 2:54:40 PM Transcriptionist One Messner, Milena Transcription of ballad manuscript 8/23/2017 Bibliographer Kristen McCants Initial Ballad Catalogue Record Created 7/9/2018 Checker Kristen McCants Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 7/9/2018 Checker Kristen McCants Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 12/6/2017 Checker Kristen McCants Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 12/6/2017 Checker Kristen McCants Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 12/6/2017 Checker Kristen McCants Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 12/6/2017 Checker Kristen McCants Edited Ballad Catalogue Record
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HOe bin nod yo mast Cammell sur, by gys I trow ye byn: For Steven Steple twode yer marks, that yo han brought from Lyn. Sur, an yo woden herken me, Ile tell yo all the troth, My mastur Harry Whoball sur, is to to shamefull wrothe, Woth yore hye maship, for a byll that yo han ryten late: For int ye rayle apon ym sore, as he wor nod yer mate. Yo wost nod whad yo wenten about, for heez a gentmon borne: And yeery day doz hunt te deare, an yomen weare is whorne. Hee kylles grey gooses mony tymes, an yo their teyles shon weare: For heele nod han yore voxteile sur, its meete for yo to beare. An yore none selfe shon neede yor flap to fray the bussing flyes, Vrom blowing maggots: but a trowes, yo wonnod bleare yore eyes Woth ryting any godly thing, ne weele yor bucke to plye: For hit dooz seeme, yo set yor mynde apont but naughtylye. But lest yo drinken out yer eyen, when zommer waxes whot. Whyle wodder ryten in yor nome, yore nose is in the pot. Bynnod yo dronken quite alout. yo han tane Jacke for gyll, Ye slaundorne fery mony sur, that woden yo none yll. Sur, mastur Churchyard haz no bels, but yo don neede a Lacky, Some Morryon boye to hold ye up, for drinke is to to nappye. My mastur cowde nod weele beleve that yo sur worne a mon: For case yo sen yo ben a Beaste, and lyke a fengeaunce won. Hyt peeres that yo han naught, he says, but fengeaunce in yor braines: For case yo lien, an han no thonke, an putten men to paines. Mast Choploche, chop yo hally watur? an why nod hally breade? Wode ye hod chopt the sonny caks, that yo in Lyn han leade. For sur, my mastur merbles moch, whad mad yor braynes to crowe, That when yo hadden raylen ynow, wo Churchyard an wom mo: To gyn a yene to rayle on him, that yo ne see ne knew, As won that furst haz dronken alout, an gynnes a yene to brew. My mastur plize his bussinesse, bout fortye moyle be yend, An when a hard yor folysh byll, haz me to London send, To ash yor maship whats te case, that yo so braggen an bosten: As won that yeat an honest nome in all yor life neare losten. To sclaundren won that gnawes ye nod, nor scant offe yo haz harde: Soffe lately when a mon en Lyn, yor qualistries declarde, An lost of all to preine ye sur, a wisement butter take: (Bew 'are yo laft alone? indeede, yor storme will soone aslake) An ten my mastur woll forgie yore rashnesse, I yo shone, An yo won stynt by this: and let all honest things alone. Fareweele mast Camell thus, for I a don myn arnde: The which my master Whoball haz me streytly warnd. I syre yo bin nod spleasde, for I a sed non ill: But whad my master dyd me charge, to sen yo tyll. By yore none At yore maunding. Ar yo desiring for to lurne my nome, tough hit be rude: I wood hit shone, an yo wood sweare, yo wodden nod me delude. See ore my riting yeery whyt, an note an marke ye, that A childe dooze furste the letters lurne, an then taks words therat. A mon of wisedame, as yo bin, may knowe that children all Ar brought from spealing for to reade, an wooder things wothall: Deny nod this to be the best an rudest swort, and than Bee like to them, beginning furst, as weele as yere ye con. Ye then shon yo pike out my nome, an yore none selfe parceaven A pratty thing the which is int, an now hearof we leaven. Arrogant foke won nod do this, but yo I won nod blome: Desiring yo to rede tees last twolve rowes, an lurne my nome.