False Lambkin- Belfast Monthly Magazine 1812
[This is a poem based on the ballad text]
False Lambkin
The Belfast Monthly Magazine, Vol. 9, No. 50 (Sep. 30, 1812), pp. 217-219
ORIGINAL POETRY
For the Belfast Monthly Magazine.
THE old Ballad " False Lambkin" was one of the favourites of my childhood; the more so, perhaps, as I never could obtain the whole of it connectedly, and, from this circumstance, an air of mystery might have made it more interesting. The apprehensions of the Lord of the castle, for the safety, in his absence, of his Lady; of whom, tradition says, Lambkin was a discarded lover; her confidence in the security of the castle; the baseness and cruelty of the nurse, heightened by Lambkin's unwillingness to murder the child; the-lustre of the lady's mantle, of power to illume the darkness of the night; the silver basin which was to receive her blood; the return of the father to his surviving child, and her description of the bloody scene. These united ideas of magnificence, compassion, and horror, forcibly struck my infantile imagination, and left an impression not to be obliterated by improved taste, and ripened judgment, which might be expected to reject the wild story, and the miserable verses which relate it.
Not having been able to trace this tale amongst the preserved reliques of ancient poetry, I have been induced to attempt to string the incidents together, though, perhaps, in lines little better than the original.
MIRA.
FALSE LAMBKIN.
O, WHY does the Baron still linger here,
So sadly beside his Ladye gay,
While his red-roan charger champs the bit,
And seems in haste to speed away?
And why falls the tear down his manly cheek,
As fast as the dew-drop falls on the rose,
And why does his bosom heave and swell,
Like the stormy sea when she ebbs and flows?
In vain his Ladye looks up with a smile,
And with herlily hand dries the tear;
The Baron is brave, and the Baron is strong,
And why should his noble heart know fear?
But what does it 'vail that he's brave and he's strong,
When he cannot his Lady-love defend?
For his Sovereign Liege has called him away,
And his Sovereign's will he must attend.
Rocky and wild the mountain frowns,
His castle lies in the valley below,
And dark and drear is the pathless wood
Which stretches along the mountain's brow.
The castle gates are strong and well barr'd,
No open foe the castle can win;
But treacherous guilt pray find a pass,
And let false, cruel Lambkin in.
But why shuns Lambkin the steps of men,
And why does he hide in the pathless wood;
Why will not time his vengeance calm,
Why thirsts he for that Ladye's blood?
O, dearly, dearly, once Lambkin lov'd
The Baron's beauteous Ladye bright,
A virgin then in her father's hall,
And the praise of many a gallant knight.
She scorn'd Lambkin's love-the Baron came,
And sweet were the smiles which his suit approv'd;
O how can fell hatred fill that breast,
Which once with fondest passion lov'd!
Dark vapours arise in Lambkin's soul,
And they settle upon his lowering brow
And often to pierce that bosom so fair
He meditates the fatal blow.
O! never before did I leave thee, love
With such a sad, misgiving heart,
Heaven save thee, and my children dear,
While from you I am forced to part.
" O! beware thee of that fatal wood,
that fatal wood where Lambkin lies-
Beware thee, lest in evil hour
Thy foe the castle should surprise!"
Sadly smil'd that Ladye fair,
And faultering were her words of cheer,
Yet she said, " My Lord, and dearest love,
"Let not thy noble heart know fear.
"The castle gates are strong, and well barr'd,
No open foe the castle can win,
Nor round the walls is there found a pass
Could let the wiliest traitor in.
"And I'll hie me to my western tower,
No force, no fraud, can reach me there,
There will I wait for thy return,
And cherish hope, and banish fear."
The Baron could no longer stay,
He mounted on his red-roan steed,
And many a look he cast behind,
While his very heart seemed to bleed.
No force, no fraud, the castle gates
Attempted for full many a day,
Though still within the pathless wood
Couceal'd false cruel Lambkin lay.
Yet oft he tampered with the nurse,
That nurs'd the young Lord on her knee;
The young lad was as pretty a babe
As ever mother could wish to see.
She hearken'd to false Lambkin's words,
She look'd upon false Lambkin's gold,
And her own kind Ladye's dear heart's blood,
To cruel Lambkin she has sold.
It was at the dead time of the night,
When sleep had seal'd up every eye,
Then might you hear without the walls,
False Lambkin's footsteps stealing nigh.
Then might you hear, with stealing step,
False nurse, the castle walls within,
Undo the bar, unlock the gate,
And let false, cruel Lambkin in.
" In the western turret my Ladye lies,
Nor will she come down till morning hour,
Nor all your strength, nor all your craft,
Can ever win my Ladye's bower,"
" O nurse, how shall we wyle her down
From out her western tower so high?
For if the morning finds me here,
Both you and I must surely die."
" At the morning hour my Lord will come,
And in her bower my Ladye will wait,
Till she hears his red-roan charger's tramp,
Till she hears him ring at the castle gate
" Then, Lambkin, take thy knife so sharp,
And pierce the young Lord's dainty skin,
Thus shalt thou wyle his mother down,
And then thy vengeance thou shalt win."
" Oh pity, Oh pity !" then , Lambkin cry'd,
I could not stain with his heart's blood the ground;
How sweetly he sleeps, how sweetly he smiles!-
The pretty baby I cannot wound !"
"No pity, no pity !" then cry'd the nurse,
" Let not our plans by pity be cross'd-
Why do you tremble, and look so pale
Be quick, be quick-or all is lost !"
" Oh Nurse, what ails my little son,
What pain disturbs his gentle rest ?
0, why does my baby shriek so loud?-
0, take, O take him to your breast !"
"Oh , Ladye dear, nor breast, nor pap,
Your little son will take from me;
O, Ladye dear, come quickly down,
And dandle him upon your knee."
i The night is dark, the fire is out,
No lamp burns in my western tower,
Steep are the stairs, I cannot come down,
I must abide till morning hour."
" O, Ladye, you have three mantles fine,
With diamonds deck'd, of lustre bright,
Take one of them, come to your child,
The mantle fine shall give you light."
Then down she came, that Ladye fair,
And only thought of her baby's harm,
But ere the lowest step she reach'd,
False Lambkin caught her by the arm.
O, spare my life," the Ladye cry'd,
"M y gold and jewels I'll give to thee,
O, spare my life till morning hour,
My fair young daughter thy bride shall be."
" Your gold and jewels shall never be mine,
No daughter of yours my bride shall be,'
But your daughter the silver basin shall hold,
To catch your blood while it flows so free."
" O, daughter, daughter, come not down--
0, watch from the turret, my daughter dear;
0, leave not thy bower till morning light,
For then thy father will be here."
The young daughter staid till morning light,
Then she heard her father rap loud at the ring,
And, oh, there was none but his daughter dear
To open the castle and let him in.
"O , father, father, blame not me,
False nurse, .and false Lambkin, the castle did win,
0, father, father, cover your eyes-
O, my dear father, do not come in !"
" For blood is about you wherever you turn,
And blood has stain'd your castle hall,
Your little son in his cradle lies dead,
And my dearest mother lies dead by the wall!"
He spoke not a word, he shed not a tear,
For his heart it was burning, his brain it was dry !
He look'd on his Ladye's clay-cold cheek,
He look'd on his baby's death-shut eye.
He hasted away, and wild was his speed,
His men followed fast to the pathless wood,
And there false Lambkin soon they found,
And his hands were red with that Ladye's blood.
Oh, high was the gallow's where false Lambkin hung,
And fierce blaz'd the fire on the mountain's side,
And the false, false nurse was burnt in that fire,
And the wind her ashes blew far and wide.
Remarks on the Poem of "False Lambkin"
by G. F.
The Belfast Monthly Magazine, Vol. 9, No. 52 (Nov. 30, 1812), p. 374
To the Proprietors of the Belfast Magazine.
ALTHOUGH I am not so fortunate as to possess any talents to enable me to soar to the flowery regions of poetry, yet I am always highly gratified by reading a good poem. I have been both amused and instructed by many poems which have appeared in your pages; but can- dour obliges me to confess that you have frequently published poems which were unworthy to appear in the pages of the Belfast Maga- zine. In the latter list I must place "False Lambkin," as I have seldom met with a poem which so strongly excited my disapprobation. The ori- ginal poein of " False Lambkin" was probably unworthy of preservation; but an imitation of it now, when in- creased knowledge may be suppos- ed to have improved and rtfined the taste and imagination, is highly re- prehensible. Some poems,' although far from being good, may be tolerated, for the moral or political sentiments they may convey; but I am mauc mis, taken if " False Lambkin" will be found to contain one good idea ; and it is equally worthless whether we consider it in a poetical or a moral point of view. The signature of " Mira" leads me to suppose that c" False Lamb-" kin" was written by a female; but very few females could reconcile the following lines with their ideas of propriety and morality :
" 0 ! spare my life till morning hour,
" My fair young daughter thy bride shall be."
If "False Lambkin" was such a monster of cruelty and wickedness as he is represented, no mother would sacrifice her daughter by making her marry him, even thouah it were to save her own life; but admitting that the offtr of her daughter was only a contrivance to save her life, it was certainly dishonourable to have resource to such a subterfuge. Perhaps it may be said that I do not make sufficient allowance for the "poet's licence;" but the most unlimited licence never warranted a poet to write nonsense. Indeed of late it has become the fashion of modern versifiers to revive tales of the nursery, and to the disgrace of the nineteenth century, we have to hear,
Long winded tales,
Of halls, and knights, and feats of arms;
Or moonlight revels of the fairy glade;
Or hags, that suckle an infernal brood,
And ply in caves th' unutterable trade
'Midst fiends and spectres, quench the moon in blood,
Yell in the midnight storm, or ride the infuriate flood."
Or perhaps wishing to degrade the public taste still lower, our poetasters seek to amuse with the "riddle's quaint device," romantic tales of "faultless monsters," or monsters guilty of every crimne, instead of endeavouring to soar to higher poetic objects, and to instruct by such poems as will render the names of Gray and Goldsmith invaluable to every admirer of good poetry.
G.F.
Ballygarvagh