Lord Ronald in Italy- Carrington 1886 Essays in the Study of Folk Songs
[This is the second and longer article by Carrington who is now Evelyn Lilian Hazeldine Carrington Martinengo-Cesaresco (contessa). The second section (The Theft Of A Shroud) which does not deal with Lord Ronald (Randal) had been left off.
R. Matteson 2014]
Essays in the Study of Folk-songs
By Evelyn Lilian Hazeldine Carrington Martinengo-Cesaresco (contessa) [not proofed]
THE DIFFUSION OF BALLADS.
I.—Lord Ronald In Italy.
Several causes have combined to give the professional minstrel a more tenacious hold on life in Italy , than in France or Germany or England. One. of them is, that Italian culture has always been less dependent on education—or what the English poor call "book-learning" — than the culture of those countries.
To this day you may count upon finding a blind ballad-singer in every Italian city. The connection of blindness with popular songs is a noteworthy thing. It is not, perhaps, a great exaggeration to say that, had there been no blind folks in the world, there would have been few ballads. Who knows, indeed, but that Homer would not have earned his bread by bread-making instead of by enchanting the children and wise men of all after-ages, had he not been "one who followed a guide? " Every one remembers how it was the singing of a "blinde crowder, with no rougher voice than rude style," that moved the heroic heart of Sidney more than the blare of trumpets. Every one may not know that in the East of Europe and in Armenia, "blinde crowders " still wander from village to village, carrying, wheresoever they go, the songs of a former day and the news of the latest hour; acting, after a fashion, as professors of history and " special correspondents," and keeping alive the sentiment of nationality under circumstances in which, except for their agency, it must almost without a doubt have expired.'
When the Austrians occupied Trebinje in the Herzegovina, they forbade the playing of the "guzla," the little stringed instrument which accompanies the ballads; but the ballads will not be forgotten. Proscription does not kill a song. What kills it sometimes, if it have a political sense, is the fulfilment of the hopes it expresses; then it may die a natural death. I hunted all over Naples for some one who could sing a song which every Neapolitan, man and boy, hummed through the year when the Redshirts brought freedom: Camicia rossa, camicia ardente. It seemed that there was not one who still knew it. Just as I was on the point of giving up the search, a blind man was produced out of a tavern at Posilippo; a poor creature in threadbare clothes, holding a wretched violin. He sang the words with spirit and pathos; he is old, however, and perhaps the knowledge of them will not survive him.
Our present business is not with songs of a national or local interest, but with those which can hardly be said to belong to any country in particular. And, first of all, we have to go back to a certain Camillo, detto il Bianchino cieco fiorentitto, who sang ballads at Verona in the year 1629, and who had printed for the greater diffusion of his fame a sort of rhymed advertisement containing the first few lines of some twenty songs that belonged to his repertory. Last but one of these samples stands the following:
"Dov1 andastu jersera,
Figlioul mio ricco, savio e gentil;
Dov* andastu jersera?"
"When I come to look at it," adds Camillo, "this is too long; it ought to have been the first to be sung" —alluding,of course, to the song, not to the sample.
Later in the same century, the ballad mentioned above had the honour of being cited before a more polite audience than that which was probably in the habit of listening to the blind Florentine. On the 24th of September 1656, Canon Lorenzo Panciatichi reminded his fellow-academicians of the Crusca of what he called "a fine observation" that had been made regarding the song:
"Dov' andastu a cena figlioul mio
Ricco, savio, e gentile?
The observation (continued the Canon) turned on the answer the son makes to the mother when she asks him what his sweetheart gave him for supper. "She gave me," says the son, " u/i angtiilla arrosto cotta nel peutolin delC olio" The idea of a roasted eel cooked in an oil pipkin offended the academical sense of the fitness of things; it had therefore been proposed to say instead that the eel was hashed:
"Madonna Madre,
II cuore sta male,
Per un anguilla in guazzetto."
. Had we nothing to guide us beyond these fragments, there could be no question but that in this Italian ballad we might safely recognise one of the most spirited pieces in the whole range of popular literature —the song of Lord Ronald, otherwise Rowlande, or Randal, or "Billy, my son:"
"O where hae ye been, Lord Ronald, my son?
O where hae ye been, my handsome young man?"
"I hae been to the wood; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."
"Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Ronald, my son?
Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?"
"I dined wi' my love; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."
"What gat ye to dinner, Lord Ronald, my son?
What gat ye to dinner, my handsome young man?"
"I gat eels boil'd in broo; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."
"And where are your bloodhounds, Lord Ronald, my son?
And where arc your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?"
"O they swell'd and they died; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down,"
"01 fear ye are poison'd, Lord Ronald, my son!
O I fear ye are poison'd, my handsome young man!"
"O yes, I am poison'd! mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain would lie down."
This version, which I quote from Mr Allingham's
Ballad Book (1864), ends here; so does that given by
Sir Walter Scott in the Border Minstrelsy. There is,
however, another version which goes on:
"What will ye leave to your father, Lord Ronald, my son? What will ye leave to your father, my handsome young man?" "Baith my houses and land ; mither, mak' my bed sune For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun."
"What will ye leave to your brither, Lord Ronald, my son? What will ye leave to your brither, my handsome young man?"' "My horse and my saddle; mither, male* my bed sune, For Fm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun."
"What will ye leave to your sister, Lord Ronald, my son? What will ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?" "Baith my gold box and rings; mither, mak' my bed sune,For I'm sick at the heart, and 1 fain wad lie doun."
"What will ye leave to your true love, Lord Ronald, my son? What will ye leave to your true love, my handsome young man?" "The tow and the halter, for to hang on yon tree, And let her hang there for the poisoning ov me."
Lord Ronald has already been met with, though somewhat disguised, both in Germany and in Sweden, but his appearance two hundred and fifty years ago at Verona has a peculiar interest attached to it. That England shares most of her songs with the Northern nations is a fact familiar to all; but, unless I am mistaken, this is almost the first time of discovering a purely popular British ballad in an Italian dress.
It so happens that to the fragments quoted by Camillo and the Canon can be added the complete story as sung at the present date in Tuscany, Venetia, and Lombardy. Professor d'Ancona has taken pains to collate the slightly different texts, because fewItalian folk-songs now extant can be traced even as far back as the seventeenth century. The learned Professor, whose great antiquarian services are well known, does not seem to be aware that the song has currency out of Italy. The best version is one set down from word of mouth in the district of Como, and of this I subjoin a literal rendering:
"Where were you yester eve? My son, beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
Where were you yester eve?"
"I with my love abode;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
I with my love abode;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What supper gave she you? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What supper gave she you?"
"I supped on roasted eel;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick;
I supped on roasted eel;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"And did you eat it all? My son, beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
And did you eat it all?"
"Only the half I eat;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
Only the half I eat;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"Where went the other half? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
Where went the other half?"
"I gave it to the dog;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
I gave it to the dog;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die?"
"What did you with the dog? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What did you with the dog?"
"It died upon the way;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
It died upon the way;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"Poisoned it must have been! My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
Poisoned it must have been I"
"Quick for the doctor send;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
Quick for the doctor send;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die.
"Wherefore the doctor call? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
Wherefore the doctor call?"
'"That he may visit me;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
That he may visit me;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"Quick for the parson send;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
'Quick for the parson send; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"Wherefore the parson call? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
Wherefore the parson call?"
"So that 1 may confess;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
So that I may confess;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"Send for the notary;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
Send for the notary;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"Why call the notary? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
Why call the notary?"
"To make my testament;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
To make my testament;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What to your mother leave? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What to your mother leave?"
"To her my palace goes;
0 lady mother, my heart is very sick:
To her my palace goes;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What to your brothers leave? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What to your brothers leave?"
"To them the coach and team; O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
To them the coach and team; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What to your sisters leave? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What to your sisters leave?"
"A dower to marry them;
0 lady mother, my heart is very sick:
A dower to marry them;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What to your servants leave? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What to your servants leave?"
"The road to go to Mass;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
The road to go to Mass;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What leave you to your tomb? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What leave you to your tomb?"
"Masses seven score and ten; O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
Masses seven score and ten; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What leave you to your love?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What leave you to your love?"
"The tree to hang her on;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
The tree to hang her on;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
At first sight it would seem that the supreme dramatic element of the English song—the circumstance that the mother does not know, but only suspects, with increasing conviction, the presence of foul play —is weakened in the Lombard ballad by the refrain, "Alas, alas, that I should have to die." But a little more reflection will show that this is essentially of the nature of an aside. In many instances the office of the burden in old ballads resembles that of the chorus in a Greek play: it is designed to suggest to the audience a clue to the events enacting which is not possessed by the dramatis persona—at least not by all of them.
In the northern songs, Lord Ronald is a murdered child: a character in which he likewise figures in the Scotch lay of "The Croodlin Doo." This is the Swedish variant:
"Where hast thou been so long, my little daughter?" "I have been to Bcenne to see my brother;
Alas! how I suffer."
"What gave they thee to eat, my little daughter?" "Roast eel and pepper, my step-mother. .
Alas! how I suffer."
"What didst thou do with the bones, my little daughter?" "I threw them to the dogs, my step-mother.
Alas! how 1 suffer."
"What happened to the dogs, my little daughter?" '" Their bodies went to pieces, my step-mother.
Alas! how I suffer." "What dost thou wish for thy father, my little daughter?" "Good grain in the grange, my step-mother.
Alas ! how I suffer."
"What dost thou wish for thy brother, my little daughter?" "A big ship to sail in, my step-mother.
Alas! how I suffer."
"What dost thou wish for thy sister, my little daughter?" "Coffers and caskets of gold, my step-mother.
Alas! how I suffer."
"What dost thou wish for thy step-mother, my little daughter?' "The chains of hell, step-mother.
Alas! how I suffer."
"What dost thou wish for thy nurse, my little daughter?" "The same hell, my nurse.
Alas ! how I suffer,"
A point connected with the diffusion of ballads is the extraordinarily wide adoption of certain conventional forms. One of these is the form of testamentary instructions by means of which the plot of a song is worked up to its climax. It reappears in the "Cruel Brother"—which, I suppose, is altogether to be regarded as of the Roland type:
"O what would ye leave to your father, dear?"
With a heigh-ho I and a lily gay.
"The milk-white steed that brought me here,
As the primrose spreads so sweetly,
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"What would ye give to your mother, dear?
With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay. "My wedding shift which I do wear,"
As the primrose spreads so sweetly.
"But she must wash it very clean,"
With a heigh-ho I and a lily gay,
* For my heart's blood sticks in every seam,
As the primrose spreads so sweetly.
"What would ye give to your sister Anne?"
With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay.
"My gay gold ring and my feathered fan,"
As the primrose spreads so sweetly.
"What would ye give to your brother John?"
With a heigh-ho I and a lily gay.
"A rope and a gallows to hang him on!"
As the primrose spreads so sweetly.
uWhat would ye give to your brother John's wife?"
With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay. "Grief and sorrow to end her life!"
As the primrose spreads so sweetly.
"What would ye give to your own true lover?"
With a heigh-ho I and a lily gay.
"My dying kiss, and my love for ever!"
As the primrose spreads so sweetly.
The Portuguese ballad of " Helena," which has not much in common with " Lord Roland "—except that it is a story of treachery—is brought into relation with it by its bequests. Helena is a blameless wife whom a cruel mother-in-law first encourages to pay a visit to her parents, and then represents to her husband as having run away from him in his absence. No sooner has he returned from his journey than he rides irate after his wife. When he arrives he is met by the news that a son is born to him, but unappeased he orders the young mother to rise from her bed and follow him. She obeys, saying that in a well-ordered marriage it is the husband who commands; only, before she goes, she kisses her son and bids her mother tell him of these kisses when he grows up. Then her husband takes her to a high mountain, where the agony of death comes upon her. The husband asks: "To whom leavest thou thy jewels?" She answers: "To my sister; if thou wilt permit it." "To whom leavest thou thy cross and the stones of thy necklace?" "The cross I leave to my mother; surely she will pray for me; she will not care to have the stones, thou canst keep them—if to another thou givest them, better than I, let her adorn herself with them." "Thy substance, to whom leavest thou?" "To thee, my husband; God grant it may profit thee." "To whom leavest thou thy son, that he may be well brought up?" "To thy mother, and may it please God that he should make himself loved of her." "Not to that dog," cries the husband, his eyes at last opened, "she might well kill him. Leave him rather to thy mother, who will bring him up well; she will know how to wash him with her tears, and she will take the coif from her head to swaddle him."
A strange, wild Roumanian song, translated by Mr C. F. Keary {Nineteenth Century, No. lxviii.), closes with a list of " gifts " of the same character:
"But mother, oh mother, say how
Shall I speak, and what name call him now?"
"My beloved, my step-son,
My heart's love, my cherished one."
"And her, O my mother, what word
Shall I give her, what name?"
"My step-daughter, abhorred,
The whole world's shame."
"Then, my mother, what shall I take him?
What gift shall I make him?"
"A handkerchief fine, little daughter,
Bread of white wheat for thy loved one to eat,
And a glass of wine, my daughter."
"And what shall I take her, little mother,
What gift shall 1 make her t"
"A kerchief of thorns', little daughter;
A loaf of black bread for her whom he wed,
And a cup of poison, my daugher."
Before parting with " Lord Ronald " it should be noticed that the song clearly travelled in song-shape, not simply as a popular tradition; and that its different adaptators have been still more faithful to the shape than to the substance. It is not so easy to decide whether the victim was originally a child or a lover, whether the north or the south has preserved the more correct version. Some crime of the middle ages may have been the foundation of the ballad ; on the other hand it is conceivable that it formed part of the enormous accumulation of literary odds and ends brought to Europe from the east, by pilgrims and crusaders. Stories that, as we know them, seem distinctly mediaeval, such as Boccaccio's " Falcon," have been traced to India. If a collection were made of the ballads now sung by no more widely extended class than the three thousand ballad singers inscribed in the last census of the North-Western Provinces and Oude, what a priceless boon would not be conferred upon the student of comparative folk-lore! We cannot arrive at a certainty even in regard to the minor question of whether Lord Ronald made his appearance first in England or in Italy. The English and Italian songs bear a closer affinity to each other than is possessed by either towards the Swedish variant. Supposing the one to be directly derived from the other—a supposition which in this case does not seem improbable—the Italian was most likely the original. There was a steady migration into England of Italian literature, literate and probably also illiterate, from the thirteenth to the sixteenth century, The English ballad-singers may have been as much on the look-out for a new, orally communicated song from foreign parts, as Chaucer was for a poem of Petrarch's or a tale of Boccaccio's.