A Book of Old Ballads — Complete. Various

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       could get sheaves of competent essays, from any school, dealing with

       such things as the Elizabethan ecclesiastical settlement, but how many

       boys could tell you, even vaguely, what an English home was like, what

       they ate, what coins were used, how their rooms were lit, and what they

       paid their servants?

      In other words, how many history masters ever take the trouble to sketch

       in the great background, the life of the common people? How many even

       realize their existence, except on occasions of national disaster, such as the Black Plague?

      A proper study of the ballads would go a long way towards remedying this

       defect. Thomas Percy, whose Reliques must ever be the main source of our information on all questions connected with ballads, has pointed out that all the great events of the country have, sooner or later, found their way into the country's song-book. But it is not only the resounding names that are celebrated. In the ballads we hear the echoes of the street, the rude laughter and the pointed jests. Sometimes these ring so plainly that they need no explanation. At other times, we have to go to Percy or to some of his successors to realize the true significance of the song.

      For example, the famous ballad "John Anderson my Jo" seems, at first

       sight, to be innocent of any polemical intention. But it was written

       during the Reformation when, as Percy dryly observes, "the Muses were

       deeply engaged in religious controversy." The zeal of the Scottish

       reformers was at its height, and this zeal found vent in many a pasquil

       discharged at Popery. It caused them, indeed, in their frenzy, to

       compose songs which were grossly licentious, and to sing these songs in

       rasping voices to the tunes of some of the most popular hymns in the

       Latin Service.

      "John Anderson my Jo" was such a ballad composed for such an occasion.

       And Percy, who was more qualified than any other man to read between the

       lines, has pointed out that the first stanza contains a satirical

       allusion to the luxury of the popish clergy, while the second, which

       makes an apparently light reference to "seven bairns", is actually

       concerned with the seven sacraments, five of which were the spurious

       offspring of Mother Church.

      Thus it was in a thousand cases. The ballads, even the lightest and most

       blossoming of them, were deep-rooted in the soil of English history. How

       different from anything that we possess to-day! Great causes do not lead

       men to song, nowadays they lead them to write letters to the newspapers.

       A national thanksgiving cannot call forth a single rhyme or a single bar

       of music. Who can remember a solitary verse of thanksgiving, from any of

       our poets, in commemoration of any of the victories of the Great War?

       Who can recall even a fragment of verse in praise of the long-deferred

       coming of Peace?

      Very deeply significant is it that our only method of commemorating

       Armistice Day was by a two minutes silence. No song. No music. Nothing.

       The best thing we could do, we felt, was to keep quiet.

MANDALAY

       Table of Contents

      By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,

       There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;

       For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:

       'Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!'

       Come you back to Mandalay,

       Where the old Flotilla lay:

       Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?

       On the road to Mandalay,

       Where the flyin'-fishes play,

       An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

      'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,

       An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,

       An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,

       An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:

       Bloomin' idol made o' mud--

       Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd--

       Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!

       On the road to Mandalay …

      When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,

       She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing 'Kulla-lo-lo!' With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak. Elephints a-pilin' teak In the sludgy, squdgy creek, Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak! On the road to Mandalay …

      But that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away,

       An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;

       An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:

       'If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught

       else.'

       No! you won't 'eed nothin' else

       But them spicy garlic smells,

       An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;

       On the road to Mandalay …

      I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,

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