Pop Goes the Weasel: The Secret Meanings of Nursery Rhymes
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Largely thanks to Malory, the legend of King Arthur was integral to the medieval conception of English history, but with the waning of the Middle Ages came a lessening of belief in the story. While the stories continued to be popular, their truth was disputed. The sixteenth-century humanist scholar Polydore Vergil famously rejected the idea of a post-Roman Arthurian empire, calling it a fabrication –much to the horror of Welsh and English antiquarians.
This nursery rhyme, with its down-to-earth king and queen, would seem to stem from this period. After all, far from being a heroic figure of high chivalry – as portrayed by Malory – this goodly king is now a thief. Arthur’s famous banquets, where no one could eat until a marvel had occurred (from headless knights and damsels in distress to visions of the Holy Grail), have turned into a slapstick pudding-making and –eating session. Guinevere, rather than being the mysterious, beautiful queen and object of forbidden love, is demoted to a penny-pinching housewife, thriftily frying up the remains of the pudding for breakfast. It’s hard not to feel that the author of the rhyme must have heard the Arthurian legends one time too many. Opening with When good King Arthur ruled this land, this rhyme mocks both the high-flown poetry of he Morte d’Arthur and wistfulness for ye goode olde days that almost certainly never were.
Goosie, Goosie Gander
GOOSIE, goosie gander,
Whither shall I wander?
Upstairs, downstairs
And in my lady’s chamber.
There I met an old man
Who wouldn’t say his prayers;
I took him by the left leg
And threw him down the stairs.
The origins of this rhyme are believed to date back to sixteenth-century England and the Papist purge. Many noble families, particularly in the north, became publicly Protestant but remained privately Catholic. This was treason because Queen Elizabeth was head of the Protestant Church of England and Roman Catholicism was outlawed. Most manor houses had their own private chapels, and priests would often be smuggled in to conduct services. It was a very dangerous business as everyone caught would be certain of the severest penalties. But since, for a committed Catholic, not christening your new baby or dying unconfessed and without last rites was to pretty much guarantee eternal damnation, many thought it worth the risk.
Goosie gander represents the priest. Like the Catholic Church, geese have traditionally been associated with Rome – in fact, ever since the honking of the geese at Juno’s temple in Rome alerted Marcus Manlius Capitolinus that the Gauls were invading in 390 bc. As all Roman Catholic priests are male, he is a gander – a male goose.
A family’s Catholic leanings were often a relatively open secret and the authorities were more than likely to carry out spot checks and sudden raids on their homes (Whither shall I wander?). What they were looking for were the ingenious secret rooms, commonly called priest-holes, that many Catholics had built within their houses. These were as well hidden as possible – often concealed within a bedroom, possibly that of the lady of the house, with access confined to that particular room – since the queen’s forces were notorious for looking everywhere (Upstairs, downstairs/And in my lady’s chamber), pulling the house apart in the process.
If they found a priest-hole complete with a priest inside it, one test was to make him swear allegiance to the queen as head of the Church. This was something a true Catholic priest couldn’t do (There I met an old man/Who wouldn’t say his prayers). This refusal was tantamount to treason and left the authorities free to punish him as they saw fit (I took him by the left leg/And threw him down the stairs). The violence of the last line was just a precursor of the much nastier things (torture, hanging, drawing and quartering) that were inevitably to follow. To play ‘Find the Priest’ was the sixteenth-century children’s version of today’s bloodthirsty shoot-’em-up computer games – only this game was all too real (see Oranges and Lemons).
The Grand old Duke of York
THE Grand old Duke of York,
He had ten thousand men.
He marched them up to the top of the hill
And he marched them down again.
And when they were up, they were up;
And when they were down, they were down.
And when they were only halfway up,
They were neither up nor down.
The Duke of York has historically been the title of the reigning monarch’s second son, the Prince of Wales being that of the firstborn, and so the Grand Old Duke of York could have been any of them down the years. But investigation into English military history narrows down the search to just one candidate – Prince Frederick (1763-1827), son of ‘mad’ King George III and whose elder brother is the subject of another well-known rhyme (see Georgie Porgie). Indeed, both brothers have starred in more than their fair share of rhymes.
One theory, popular in Yorkshire, relates to the purchase of Allerton Castle, a grade one listed Gothic mansion close to Harrogate, by Prince Frederick in 1786. This Duke of York had much of the place rebuilt before selling it soon afterwards in 1789. Part of his programme of renovation was the construction of what he called his Temple of Victory – named after the Roman temple on the Palatine Hill in Rome – on the top of a 200-foot hill clearly visible for miles around. To this day, travellers can see the Temple as they drive along the A1 between Harrogate and York. Local legend has it that the worker-ant-like activity of the duke’s men carrying materials up and down the hill inspired the famous rhyme.
A more convincing argument pinpointing Prince Frederick’s claim to be the Grand Old Duke has been traced to the French Revolutionary Wars (1792-1802). In 1793, he was appointed field marshal and given a simple brief –invade France! Never a great military leader, however, Frederick failed to win the trust and confidence of his men and, despite a small victory over French forces at Beaumont in April 1794, he was trounced at Tourcoing in May and consequently relieved of his position. The hill he is supposed to have marched his men up and down before having them accidentally slaughtered is thought to be Mont Cassell, in northern France, standing nearly 600 feet above the Flanders coastal plain.
But that wasn’t the end of the military career of the Grand Old Duke of York, as he was back in action five years later, in 1799, this time having been appointed commander-in-chief of the British forces by his less than sane father. In 1799, he was sent to join allied Russian forces to invade Holland. However, soon after the Duke of York arrived upon the scene, both discipline and morale among his men crumbled. The duke’s lack of military experience as a field commander was apparent and, after he signed the Convention of Alkmaar on 10 October that year, a humiliating withdrawal was ordered.
Some researchers believe that ‘The Grand Old Duke of York’ was written to mock Frederick’s hapless campaigns, in which many a hill would no doubt have been climbed, although he is now remembered in a more positive way – for his later wide-ranging reforms of the British forces that introduced the training and structural improvements that, in turn, paved the way for the military successes of Admiral Nelson and the Duke of Wellington. Under Frederick’s overall command, these two military heroes eventually crushed Napoleon and his imperial fleet and army at Trafalgar (1805) and Waterloo (1815) respectively.
But there is another Duke of York who also fits the profile – James II, second son of King Charles I (see Rock-a-Bye, Baby). This theory centres on the Glorious Revolution of 1688 when the king marched his army from London to Salisbury Plain to confront William of Orange, only to discover many of his closest allies, including the Duke of Marlborough, had switched allegiance and were now lined up on the side of the Dutch invader. This surprise discovery caused King James to beat a hasty retreat (He marched them down again), or so the story goes. The nursery rhyme neatly demotes the greatly disliked, openly Catholic king back to his former title, much as his own actions did.
I wonder what future nursery rhymes might be influenced by our own present royal family. Let’s face it, the current Duke of Yo
rk, Prince Andrew, might have been a bit of a lad when he was younger, but it is looking increasingly likely that the future Duke of York, Prince Harry, may eclipse all who went before. Here’s to interesting times!
Hark, Hark, the Dogs Do Bark
HARK, hark, the dogs do bark,
The beggars are coming to town;
Some in rags
And some in jags
And one in a velvet gown.
This rhyme is generally thought to be about the destitution caused by the Dissolution of the Monasteries during the 1530s (see Little Jack Horner). The displacement of so many monks and nuns, and all the other folk who relied upon them either for a living or for charity, led to tens of thousands of homeless people wandering from town to town and city to city, in search of food and shelter. Between 1531 and 1598, laws were passed that laid down severe punishment for vagrants, including whipping, branding, enforced slavery and even execution for a second offence. The rhyme is thought to relate directly to these groups of people and their uninvited appearance in an otherwise peaceful hamlet or village. If this is the case, then the words are self-explanatory (jags being tatty items of clothing, or ‘jagged’ clothes, rather than luxury motor vehicles).
In 1572, Elizabeth I’s government finally acknowledged that there were genuine cases of poverty and began to distinguish between the ‘dishonest poor’ and the ‘impotent [i.e. powerless] poor’. Local magistrates were given the authority to start collecting a ‘poor tax’, which was used to provide workhouses, hospitals for the poor and doss houses. An effective piece of legislation, it was a forerunner of the modern welfare state that helped substantially to reduce poverty over the next two centuries until the Poor Law Act replaced it in 1834.
There is another theory about the origins of the rhyme that could have some basis in fact. During the seventeenth century, the English and the Dutch were generally at loggerheads over trade routes and control of the sea, as the four trade wars between 1652 and 1684, the Anglo-Dutch Wars, would suggest. So when the Dutch took over the English throne, this time in the person of William of Orange in the Glorious Revolution of 1688, some people were furious and they wanted everyone to know about it (Hark, hark, the dogs do bark).
The Beghards were a religious group originating in Europe, including the Netherlands, during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Members lived a monastic lifestyle and were usually of humble origin or fallen on hard times. With such associations, it is easy to see how ‘Beghard’ would have become a derogatory term, the word ‘beggar’ stemming from it. Hence the English, who had long held the Dutch in great contempt, insulted them by likening their people to tramps and vagrants by calling them Beghards or beggars. It is therefore highly possible that the nursery rhyme evolved from a countrywide hue and cry as William of Orange, the man in a velvet gown, marched his band of Dutch ‘Beghards’ through the towns and villages to victory over James II.
Hector Protector
HECTOR Protector was dressed all in green,
Hector Protector was sent to the queen;
The queen did not like him
And nor did the king,
So Hector Protector was sent back again.
At first glance, it would be fair to assume that the real Hector Protector would be one of the more famous Lord Protectors of England, the title given to the head of state standing in for the monarch or replacing the monarch altogether, as during the latter years of the English Commonwealth (1649-60). The best-known Protector was Oliver Cromwell (see Hickory, Dickory, Dock), but he was known for not liking the queen and the king, rather than their not liking him.
There is another, far more likely, candidate in Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York (1411-60). The fifteenth century was a time of great turmoil in England. When Richard arrived on the political scene, the Hundred Years’ War with France (1337-1453) was still being fought (with Joan of Arc causing trouble all over the place), skirmishes with the Scots, Welsh and Irish were breaking out along the borders, and the Wars of the Roses (1455-87), between the Yorkists and Lancastrians, were just around the corner (see Hey Diddle Diddle), sparked off by events that were about to unfold. The two central figures during this time were King Henry VI (1421-71), of the House of Lancaster, and his arch-rival, the Duke of York. For his part in a plot against Henry V, Richard’s father had been stripped of his land and titles, and executed. When his uncle, the previous Duke of York, who had remained loyal to the Crown, died heroically on the battlefield of Agincourt a few months later in 1415, the young Richard was permitted to inherit his titles and estates. When Henry V was succeeded by his son, Henry VI, the duke and the new king had a turbulent relationship right from the beginning. In a clear snub, Richard was left out of the king’s first council, formed in 1439.
Over the years that followed, Richard staked out his own claim to the throne, via lineage from his great-grandfather, Edward III, and when that failed he declared his loyalty to the king in a bid to become his rightful heir. Unfortunately for Richard’s plans, Henry VI was married to the formidable Margaret of Anjou. The queen had steered clear of affairs of state until the Duke of York started to pose an active threat to her husband, at which point she tried her utmost to block him at every turn (The queen did not like him / And nor did the king).
Then in 1453 King Henry suffered a complete mental breakdown, possibly brought on by the news of the defeat of his army at the Battle of Castillon. Richard seized his chance and insisted on forming a Great Council, after which the king’s supporters were banished to the Tower of London. Despite strong opposition from Margaret of Anjou, the Duke of York was then appointed Protector of the Realm and Chief Councillor.
But, within two years and with the help of his queen, King Henry had made a full recovery, released his allies from the Tower, reversed most of Richard’s actions and sent him back to Yorkshire (So Hector Protector was sent back again). Predictably, Richard then wasted little time in raising an army and succeeded in arresting Henry at the Battle of St Albans on 2 May 1455, although the king was soon released after agreeing to grant York and his supporters a major role in future affairs of state.
Then trouble flared up again, coming to a crunch at the Battle of Ludford Bridge in 1459, and Richard was again banished, this time to Ireland. With her husband once again held prisoner – captured by Richard’s ally the Earl of Warwick at the Battle of Northampton in 1460, effectively rendering Richard and Warwick rulers of the country – the queen decided to take over and began to raise her own army in Wales and in the north of England. When her soldiers confronted the Duke of York – who had sneaked back from exile and proclaimed himself king – at the Battle of Wakefield (1460), they captured the duke, his son and his brother-in-law the Earl of Salisbury. All three were executed the following day and the former Protector’s head was then displayed upon the gates of the city of York.
Despite his grisly demise, York must have had a genuine claim to the throne as his son Edward became king of England only a few months later, on 4 March 1461, after Henry VI had succumbed to another bout of madness. Queen Margaret fought bravely on until the Battle of Tewkesbury on 4 May 1471, where she was defeated and her son, her chosen heir to the throne, was killed. Margaret had gained a reputation as a ruthless and aggressive warrior but with the news of her husband’s murder in the Tower of London on 21 May 1471 and with her son dead, her spirit was crushed and she languished in captivity until she was ransomed by the French king. Only then did she finally return to Anjou, in France, dying in 1482.
And that is the story of the real Hector the Protector, although these days he is better known in his guise of a cartoon dolphin designed to teach children how to use the internet safely.
Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush
HERE we go round the mulberry bush,
The mulberry bush, the mulberry bush;
Here we go round the mulberry bush,
On a cold and frosty morning.
This is the way we wash our clothes,
> Wash our clothes, wash our clothes;
This is the way we wash our clothes,
On a cold and frosty morning.
This is the way we iron our clothes,
Iron our clothes, iron our clothes;
This is the way we iron our clothes,
On a cold and frosty morning.
This is the way we scrub the floor,
Scrub the floor, scrub the floor;
This is the way we scrub the floor,
On a cold and frosty morning.
This is the way we mend our clothes,
Mend our clothes, mend our clothes;
This is the way we mend our clothes,
On a cold and frosty morning.
This is the way we sweep the house,
Sweep the house, sweep the house;
This is the way we sweep the house,
On a cold and frosty morning.
This is the way we bake our bread,
Bake our bread, bake our bread;
This is the way we bake our bread,