The Book of English Folk Tales

by Sybil Marshall

  ‘Hast thou not heard, now, Henry Hunt,

  As thou hast sailed by day and by night.

  Of a Scottish rover on the seas?

  Men call him Sir Andrew Barton, knight!’

  Then ever he sighed, and said, ‘Alas!

  With a grieved mind, and wellaway!

  But over-well I know that wight,

  I was his prisoner yesterday.

  As I was sailing upon the sea,

  A Bourdeaux voyage for to fare;

  To his hatchboard he clasped me.

  And robbed me of all my merchant ware:

  And mickle debts, God wot, I owe.

  And every man will have his own;

  And am I now to London bound.

  Of our gracious king to beg a boon.’

  ‘That shall not need,’ Lord Howard says;

  ‘Let me but once that robber see,

  For every penny ta’en thee fro

  It shall be doubled shillings three.’

  ‘Now God forfend,’ the merchant said,

  ‘That you should see so far amiss!

  God keep you out of that traitor’s hands!

  Full little ye wot what a man he is.

  He is brass within, and steel without.

  With beams on his topcastle strong;

  And eighteen pieces of ordinance

  He carried on each side along:

  And he hath a pinnace dearly dight,

  St Andrew’s cross that is his guide;

  His pinnace beareth ninescore men.

  And fifteen cannons on each side.

  Were ye twenty ships, and he but one;

  I swear by kirk, and bower, and hall;

  He would overcome them every one.

  If once his beams they do down fall.’

  This is cold comfort,’ says my lord.

  To welcome a stranger thus to the sea:

  Yet I’ll bring him and his ship to the shore.

  Or to Scotland he shall carry me.’

  Then a noble gunner you must have.

  And he must aim well with his ee.

  And sink his pinnace into the sea.

  Or else he never o’ercome will be:

  And if you chance his ship to board.

  This counsel I must give withal.

  Let no man to his topcastle go

  To strive to let his beams down fall.

  And seven pieces of ordinance,

  I pray your honour lend to me.

  On each side of my ship along,

  And I will lead you on the sea.

  A glass I’ll set, that may be seen.

  Whether you sail by day or night;

  And tomorrow, I swear, by nine of the clock

  You shall meet with Sir Andrew Barton, knight.’

  The Second Part

  The merchant set my lord a glass

  So well apparent in his sight.

  And on the morrow, by nine of the clock,

  He showed him Sir Andrew Barton knight.

  His hatchboard it was gilt with gold.

  So dearly dight it dazzled the ee:

  ‘Now by my faith,’ Lord Howard says,

  This is a gallant sight to see.

  Take in your ancients, standards eke,

  So close that no man may them see;

  And put me forth a white willow wand,

  As merchants use to sail the sea.’

  But they stirred neither top, nor mast;

  Stoutly they passed Sir Andrew by.

  ‘What English churls are yonder,’ he said,

  ‘That can so little courtesy?

  Now by the rood, three years and more

  I have been admiral over the sea;

  And never an English nor Portingall

  Without my leave can pass this way.’

  Then called he forth his stout pinnace;

  ‘Fetch back yond pedlar now to me:

  I swear by the mass, yon English churls

  Shall all hang at my main-mast tree.’

  With that the pinnace it shot off.

  Full well Lord Howard might it ken;

  For it struck down my lord’s fore-mast.

  And killed fourteen of his men.

  ‘Come hither, Simon,’ says my lord,

  ‘Look that thy word be true, thou said;

  For at my main-mast thou shalt hang.

  If thou miss thy mark one shilling bread.’

  Simon was old, but his heart it was bold;

  His ordinance he laid right low;

  He put in chain full nine yards long.

  With other great shot less and moe;

  And he let go his great gun’s shot:

  So well he settled it with his ee.

  The first sight that Sir Andrew saw.

  He see his pinnace sunk in the sea.

  And when he saw his pinnace sunk,

  Lord, how his heart with rage did swell!

  ‘Now cut my ropes, it is time to be gone;

  I’ll fetch yond pedlars back mysell.’

  When my lord saw Sir Andrew loose.

  Within his heart he was full fain:

  ‘Now spread your ancients, strike up your drums,

  Sound all your trumpets out amain.’

  ‘Fight on, my men,’ Sir Andrew says,

  ‘Well howsoever this gear will sway;

  It is my Lord Admiral of England,

  Is come to see me on the sea.’

  Simon had a son, who shot right well.

  That did Sir Andrew mickle scare;

  In at his deck he gave a shot.

  Killed threescore of his men of war.

  Then Henry Hunt with rigour hot

  Came bravely on the other side.

  Soon he drove down his fore-mast tree.

  And killed fourscore men beside.

  ‘Now, out alas!’ Sir Andrew cried,

  ‘What may a man now think, or say?

  Yonder merchant thief, that pierceth me.

  He was my prisoner yesterday.

  Come hither to me, thou Gordon good.

  That aye wast ready at my call:

  I will give thee three hundred marks.

  If thou wilt let my beams down fall.’

  Lord Howard he then called in haste,

  ‘Horseley, see thou be true in stead;

  For thou shalt at the main-mast hang.

  If thou miss twelvescore one penny bread.’

  Then Gordon swarved the main-mast tree.

  He swarved it with might and main;

  But Horseley with a bearing arrow.

  Struck the Gordon through the brain;

  And he fell into the hatches again.

  And sore his deadly wound did bleed:

  Then word went through Sir Andrew’s men,

  How that the Gordon he was dead.

  ‘Come hither to me, James Hambilton,

  Thou art my only sister’s son,

  If thou wilt let my beams down fall,

  Six hundred nobles thou hast won.’

  With that he swarved the main-mast tree.

  He swarved it with nimble art;

  But Horseley with a broad arrow

  Pierced the Hambilton through the heart:

  And down he fell upon the deck.

  That with his blood did stream amain:

  Then every Scot cried, ‘Wellaway!

  Alas! a comely youth is slain.’

  All woebegone was Sir Andrew then.

  With grief and rage his heart did swell:

  ‘Go fetch me forth my armour of proof.

  For I will to the topcastle mysell.

  Go fetch me forth my armour of proof;

  That gilded is with gold so clear:

  God be with my brother John of Barton!

  Against the Portingalls he is ware;

  And when he had on this armour of proof.

  He was a gallant sight to see:

  Ah! ne’er didst thou meet with living wight.

  My dear brother, could cope wit
h thee.’

  ‘Come hither, Horseley,’ said my lord,

  ‘And look your shaft that it go right.

  Shoot a good shot in time of need.

  And for it thou shalt be made a knight.’

  ‘I’ll shoot my best,’ quoth Horseley then,

  ‘Your honour shall see, with might and main;

  But if I were hanged at your main-mast,

  I have now left but arrows twain.’

  Sir Andrew he did swarve the tree.

  With right good will he swarved then:

  Upon his breast did Horseley hit.

  But the arrow bounded back again.

  Then Horseley spied a privy place

  With a perfect eye in a secret part;

  Under the spole of his right arm

  He smote Sir Andrew to the heart.

  ‘Fight on, my men.’ Sir Andrew says,

  ‘A little I’m hurt, but yet not slain;

  I’ll but lie down and bleed a while.

  And then I’ll rise and fight again.

  Fight on, my men,’ Sir Andrew says,

  ‘And never flinch before the foe;

  And stand fast by St Andrew’s cross

  Until you hear my whistle blow.’

  They never heard his whistle blow –

  Which made their hearts wax sore adread:

  Then Horseley said, ‘Aboard, my lord.

  For well I wot Sir Andrew’s dead.’

  They boarded then his noble ship.

  They boarded it with might and main;

  Eighteen score Scots alive they found.

  The rest were either maimed or slain.

  Lord Howard took a sword in hand.

  And off he smote Sir Andrew’s head,

  ‘I must have left England many a day.

  If thou wert alive as thou art dead.’

  He caused his body to be cast

  Over the hatchboard into the sea,

  And about his middle three hundred crowns:

  ‘Wherever thou land this will bury thee.’

  Thus from the wars Lord Howard came.

  And back he sailed o’er the main.

  With mickle joy and triumphing

  Into Thames mouth he came again.

  Lord Howard then a letter wrote.

  And sealed it with seal and ring;

  ‘Such a noble prize have I brought to your grace.

  As never did subject to a king:

  ‘Sir Andrew’s ship I bring with me;

  A braver ship was never none:

  Now hath your grace two ships of war.

  Before in England was but one.’

  King Henry’s grace with royal cheer

  Welcomed the noble Howard home,

  ‘And where,’ said he, ‘is this rover stout.

  That I myself may give the doom?’

  ‘The rover, he is safe, my liege,

  Full many a fathom in the sea;

  If he were alive as he is dead,

  I must have left England many a day:

  And your grace may thank four men i’ the ship

  For the victory we have won.

  These are William Horseley, Henry Hunt,

  And Peter Simon, and his son.’

  To Henry Hunt, the king then said,

  ‘In lieu of what was from thee ta’en,

  A noble a day now thou shalt have.

  Sir Andrew’s jewels and his chain.

  And Horseley, thou shalt be a knight,

  And lands and livings shalt have store;

  Howard shall be Earl Surrey hight

  As Howards erst have been before.

  Now, Peter Simon, thou art old,

  I will maintain thee and thy son:

  And the men shall have five hundred marks

  For the good service they have done.’

  Then in came the queen with ladies fair

  To see Sir Andrew Barton, knight:

  They weened that he were brought on shore.

  And thought to have seen a gallant sight.

  But when they see his deadly face.

  And eyes so hollow in his head,

  ‘I would give,’ quoth the king, ‘a thousand marks.

  This man were alive as he is dead:

  Yet for the manful part he played.

  Which fought so well with heart and hand.

  His men shall have twelvepence a day.

  Till they come to my brother king’s high land.’

  Nine Days’ Wonders

  This is a group of miscellaneous tales, more likely to be remembered locally than to pass into the national body of folk-remembered stories, though ‘The Boar of Eskdale’ belongs also to the latter category.

  T’Girt Dog of Ennerdale

  No supernatural beast, this hound, but certainly one that gave the district for miles around a topic of conversation that lasted well beyond the span of its life.

  One morning in the spring of 1810 a Cumbrian shepherd going out to his sheep on the fells above Ennerdale Water was met by a sight that every sheep-farmer dreads. During the night, his flock had been savaged by a sheep-worrying dog. It did not take the shepherd long to understand the seriousness of the threat that confronted him. A true sheep-worrier does not content himself with picking off one sheep and making a meal of it. Like a fox in a poultry yard, he seems to kill for the sake of killing, laying out half-a-dozen at a time, taking bites from still-living animals, tearing out jugular veins and carousing, vampire-like, on the hot blood of his victims.

  The presence of such a canine-vampire in their midst is a great worry to hill farmers at any time; but a glance at the mangled remains of the dog’s feast told the first farmer that there was something out-of-the-ordinary about this one. The scatter of pathetic woolly corpses comprised the pick of his flock, the fattest, youngest and healthiest ewes and the most promising lambs.

  Next night, it was the turn of another flock – and another – and another. Every farmer in the district was alerted, and all the usual means of tracking down and disposing of the raider put into immediate operation, but it soon became evident that they were up against something quite out of the ordinary, this time. Whatever it was that was taking the sheep, it had more intelligence and cunning than they were used to even in the most sagacious dogs they reared and trained.

  For one thing, it never attacked the same flock on two nights together. There was simply no knowing where to expect its depredations next, for it ranged over wide distances and raided valley and fell flocks alike. His taste was only for the very best, so it was always the pick of the flock that fell to him, and never did a sheep he once attacked recover from it. The creature hunted only at night, and search as they might during the daytime, they could never get a clue as to the place where he was lying up.

  Then, at last, one morning a shepherd caught sight of him at early dawn, running down a fine ram – which in itself is unusual. He was, said the shepherd, a very large, smooth-coated creature with a tawny hide like a lion patterned with dark grey, tiger-like stripes. Some said it was only a dog, and gave their considered opinion that it was a cross between a mastiff and a greyhound, though nobody in the whole region had ever heard of the existence of such a dog. Others opined that it was a supernatural beast, or at least an unnatural one, and no ordinary canine flesh and blood. In farmhouse and cottage, in inn and village shop, there was no other topic of conversation, as week after week went by, and still the killings went on. The old shook their heads in sad bewilderment, because for once their experience gave them nothing to go on, from which to offer advice to the sorely tried farmers and shepherds. The women, normally so calm and competent where any kind of animal was concerned, lost their imperturbability and started in superstitious fear at a sudden movement behind a wall in the dusk, or a shadow that they had never noticed before. As for the children, they went in terror of their lives, and clung to their mothers’ skirts in a way not at all in keeping with the normal ways of the sturdy young of the dalesmen.


  The sightings of the brute at dawn continued, as shepherds kept up their vigil, but these only served to refresh wonder and renew fear. He seemed to be everywhere at once, travelling with amazing speed from one place to another far distant. The shepherds who reported the sightings agreed on two main points besides that of his actual appearances – he was never heard to utter a sound of any kind, and those who got near enough to him to set their faithful, intelligent collies on him all had the same experience of seeing their own dogs cringe with upraised hackles, for no ordinary dog would touch him.

  The spring wore into summer, and the squads of watchers out on the hills at night grew in number and in vigilance. They manned every possible vantage point night after night, till they were all bone-weary and dispirited – and yet the brute managed to select his breakfast somewhere or other almost beneath the very muzzles of the guns lying in wait for him. The women grew hollow-eyed with staying up at night too, to cook for and feed men who had been out all night as well as all day on the fells, and demanded meals at unearthly hours. Children pined inside all the warm summer days, terrified to venture out to play or pick flowers, lest they should meet ‘t’girt dog’ and find that it had other tastes besides that for a fat lamb. It was obvious that more coordinated attempts would have to be made to deal with the situation.

  Most of the better-off farmers kept a hound or two of their own, which they put together to form a handy if ragged pack for the ever-popular sport of fox-hunting. They got the pack together, and found their quarry. The tawny-grey beast sloped off in front of them, running with great speed and sagacity, and gave them a splendid run, apparently enjoying it as much as they were. Then, suddenly, he appeared to be tired of the game, and halting in his tracks, turned and faced his pursuers. The farmers then had the frustrating and humiliating experience of watching their prized hounds brake, scuffle and halt with raised hackles and bared teeth, while the stranger dealt with the foremost one so neatly and conclusively that the rest turned tail and waited for no more.

  It was at this juncture that somebody suggested poison. Try everything’ had to be the rule. So carcases were duly prepared, and baits left temptingly here, there and everywhere; but what temptation were such cold collations to ‘an epicure used for so long to having his feasts still smoking hot with life’? He left them severely alone, and continued to pick and choose among the flocks at his leisure and pleasure.

  At the end of July, it was estimated that already some two hundred prize sheep had fallen to ‘t’girt dog’. Flagging zeal must be whipped up again. A wealthy sheep-farmer offered a reward of ten pounds sterling to the man who could put an end to the robber. This brought a new brand of hunter into the field – the idle, good-for-nothing loafer who until now had regarded the farmers’ and shepherds’ woes as none of his business and, apart from giving unwanted advice, had stood aside watching the discomfiture of his betters in sardonic glee. But as he most probably had a gun, and knew how to use it when on his own poaching expeditions, he regarded himself as a very likely recipient of the £10 bounty. It was surprising how many of his kind there were, and with everybody else who possessed a gun of any sort, they took to the hills night and day – especially as some other worthy had the complementary idea of setting up a fund to supply food and drink to the valiant dog-hunters.