Early Modern Notes

William Blake, The Little Vagabond

  Dear mother, dear mother, the church is cold,
But the ale-house is healthy and pleasant and warm;
Besides I can tell where I am used well,
Such usage in Heaven will never do well.

  But if at the church they would give us some ale,
And a pleasant fire our souls to regale,
We’d sing and we’d pray all the live-long day,
Nor ever once wish from the church to stray.

  Then the parson might preach, and drink, and sing,
And we’d be as happy as birds in the spring;
And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at church,
Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.

  And God, like a father rejoicing to see
His children as pleasant and happy as he,
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel,
But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel.

(From Songs of Experience (1794).)

Early Stuart Libels is a great online edition of early seventeenth-century political poetry from manuscript sources. Many of the poems have never been published before; others have only been available in obscure collections.

It’s been published by what is probably the best freely available early modern studies e-journal (published in an electronic edition only) out there, Early Modern Literary Studies. The chief editors are a historian and literary scholar, Alastair Bellany and Andrew McRae (the whole thing represents a collaborative effort between History and English).

It’s a high-quality scholarly edition which will be useful for both researchers and teachers; the editors’ commentaries are excellent and the poems are fully annotated, and there’s a very extensive bibliography. Those who aren’t comfortable with working online could simply download the PDF version and print it out in full: in a sense, Print on Demand virtually for free. But if you use it online, it’s searchable by name and source and browsable by a range of subject headings. This is the future of the scholarly edition we’re looking at, folks.

The editors note that “we have been concerned to show that a technically and academically proficient single-volume publication might be achieved in our chosen medium within a comparatively short timescale”.

This edition seeks in many ways to be a pathbreaking endeavour, most noticeably as a single-volume electronic text of early modern verse, and of verse largely inaccessible outside of manuscript archives… Indeed, while late-twentieth-century criticism moved away from privileging canonical works, the bulk of recent electronic publications of early modern literature have focused upon the old canon and upon drama. There is nothing intinsically wrong with disseminating the works of well-known dramatists and other literary figures to the hypertext community. In fact there are great benefits to be gained by widening their accessibility. However, the electronic medium also provides a superb opportunity to offer scholarly editions of works otherwise largely inaccessible or unknown to both the academic community and the layperson alike.

Hear, hear.

I have a mild complaint, which I’ll probably write to them about, that it’s not immediately obvious on landing at the front page that you can browse poems without using the search box (apart from the very large PDF version, I mean). You can do two things, as far as I can see, neither of which are very strongly signposted:

a) go to ‘Full site map’ in the sidebar and click on whichever section takes your fancy, which will give you a list of the poems in that section;

b) click on the ‘Quick Contents’ link in the sidebar to get to the (very good) commentaries, which have a ‘Find in this section’ box at the bottom of the page with a drop-down menu listing the poems in the section (or simply click on the arrows at the top of the pages to navigate page by page), along with links to the other sections. (I’ve just noticed that there is also a tiny ‘view menus’ link at the top of the commentary pages, which takes you straight down to the drop-down menus.)

The editors have taken an admirable approach to maximising accessibility for special needs readers, and once you’ve worked it out (my point being that these things should not have to be worked out: they should be completely obvious to even totally inexperienced web users), the site is in fact extremely easy to navigate. I think they just slipped up a bit on the signposting at the very start.

And it is a wonderful resource.

***

OK, couldn’t resist this one. Because I am a big kid and it’s a fart joke. (They’re not all rude, really, but poetry buffs shouldn’t expect much Great Art.)

The Censure of the Parliament Fart (This page explains).

Never was bestowed such art
Upon the tuning of a Fart.

Downe came grave auntient Sir John Crooke
And redd his message in his booke.
Fearie well, Quoth Sir William Morris, Soe:
But Henry Ludlowes Tayle cry’d Noe.
Up starts one fuller of devotion
Then Eloquence; and said a very ill motion
Not soe neither quoth Sir Henry Jenkin
The Motion was good; but for the stincking
Well quoth Sir Henry Poole it was a bold tricke
To Fart in the nose of the bodie pollitique
Indeed I must confesse quoth Sir Edward Grevill
The matter of it selfe was somewhat uncivill
Thanke God quoth Sir Edward Hungerford
That this Fart proved not a Turdd
Quoth Sir Jerome the lesse there was noe such abuse
Ever offer’d in Poland, or Spruce
Quoth Sir Jerome in folio, I sweare by the Masse
This Fart was enough to have brooke all my Glasse
Indeed quoth Sir John Trevor it gave a fowle knocke
As it lanched forth from his stincking Docke.
I (quoth another) it once soe chanced
That a great Man farted as hee danced.
Well then, quoth Sir William Lower
This fart is noe Ordinance fitt for the Tower.
Quoth Sir Richard Houghton noe Justice of Quorum
But would take it in snuffe to have a fart lett before him.
If it would beare an action quoth Sir Thomas Holcrofte
I would make of this fart a bolt, or a shafte.
Quoth Sir Walter Cope ’twas a fart rarely lett
I would ’tweere sweet enough for my Cabinett.
Such a Fart was never seene
Quoth the Learned Councell of the Queene.
Noe (quoth Mr Pecke I have a President in store
That his Father farted the Session before
Nay then quoth Noy ’twas lawfully done
For this fart was entail’d from father to sonne
Quoth Mr Recorder a word for the cittie
To cutt of the aldermens right weere great pittie.
Well quoth Kitt Brookes wee give you a reason
Though he has right by discent he had not livery & seizin
Ha ha quoth Mr Evans I smell a fee
I’ts a private motion heere’s something for mee
Well saith Mr Moore letts this motion repeale
Whats good for the private is oft ill for comonweale
A good yeare on this fart, quoth gentle Sir Harry
He has caus’d such an Earthquake that my colepitts miscarry
’Tis hard to recall a fart when its out
Quoth     with a loude shoote

(One for all the writers…)

Anne Bradstreet (1612-72), The Author to her Book

Thou ill-form’d offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did’st by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad expos’d to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th’ press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight,
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I wash’d thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run’st more hobbling than is meet.
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun Cloth, i’ th’ house I find.
In this array, ‘mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam.
In Critics’ hands, beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known.
If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none;
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,
Which caus’d her thus to send thee out of door.

Another riposte to Andrew Marvell. Thanks to wolfangel, whose post also led me to The Wondering Minstrels. Looks fun for gentle wandering and picking poems at random.

I just couldn’t resist this one

Coffee In Heaven

   You’ll be greeted
by a nice cup of coffee
when you get to heaven
and strains of angelic harmony.

   But wouldn’t you be devastated
if they only serve decaffeinated
while from the percolators of hell

   your soul was assaulted
by Satan’s fresh espresso smell?

– John Agard

WILLIAM BARNES: ‘Easter Monday’. [from Poems of Rural Life ... First Collection (1866)]

An’ zoo o’ Monday we got drough
Our work betimes, an ax’d a vew
Young vo’k vrom Stowe an’ Coom, an’ zome
Vrom uncle’s down at Grange to come,
An’ they so spry, wi’ merry smiles,
Did beät the path an’ leäp the stiles,
Wi’ two or dree young chaps bezide,
To meet an’ keep up Easter tide:
Vor we’d a-zaid avore, we’d git
Zome friends to come, an’ have a bit
O’ fun wi’ me, an’ Jeäne, an’ Kit,
    Because ‘twer Easter Monday.

An’ there we plaÿ’d away at quaïts,
An’ weigh’d ourzelves wi’ sceäles an’ waïghts;
An’ jump’d to zee who jump’d the spryest,
An’ sprung the vurdest an’ the highest;
An’ rung the bells vor vull an hour,
An’ plaÿ’d at vives ageän the tower.
An’ then we went an’ had a taït,
An’ cousin Sammy wi’ his waïght
Broke off the bar, he wer so fat!
An’ toppled off, an’ vell down flat
Upon his head, an’ squot his hat,
    Because ‘twer Easter Monday.

(From LiOn; see also Easter Zunday)

The Dorsetshire poet
An English linguist extraordinary

Now here’s one I should have posted on International Women’s Day.

When Harvest comes, into the Field we go,
And help to reap the Wheat as well as you;
Or else we go the Ears of Corn to glean;
No Labour scorning, be it e’er so mean;
But in the Work we freely bear a Part,
And what we can, perform with all our Heart.
To get a Living we so willing are,
Our tender Babes unto the Field we bear,
And wrap them in our Cloaths to keep them warm,
While round about we gather up the Corn;
and often unto them our Course do bend,
To keep them save, that nothing them offend:
Our Children that are able bear a share,
In gleaning Corn, such is our frugal Care.
When Night comes on, unto our Home we go,
Our Corn we carry, and our Infant too;
Weary indeed! but ’tis not worth our while
Once to complain, or rest at ev’ry Sitle;
We must make haste, for when we home are come,
We find again our Work has just begun;
So many Things for our Attendance call,
Had we ten hands, we could employ them all.
Our Children put to Bed, with greatest Care
We all Things for your coming home prepare:
You sup, and go to Bed without Delay,
And rest yourselves till the ensuing Day;
While we, alas! but little Sleep can have
Because our froward Children cry and rave;
Yet, without fail, soon as Day-light doth spring,
We in the Field again our work begin,
and there, with all our Strength, our Toil renew,
Till titan’s golden Rays have dry’d the Dew;
Then home we go unto our Children dear,
Dress, feed, and bring them to the Field with Care.
Were this your Case, you justly might complain
That Day and Night you are secure from Pain;
Those mighty Troubles which perplex your Mind,
(thistles before, and Females come behind)
Would vanish soon, encumber’d thus with Care.
What you would have of us we do not know:
We oft take up the Corn that you do mow;
We cut the Peas, and always ready are
In every Work to take our proper Share;
And from the time that Harvest doth begin,
Until the Corn be cut and carry’d in,
Our Toil and Labour’s daily so extreme,
That we have hardly ever Time to Dream.

This extract was posted for Women’s History Month 1999 at Sunshine for Women – an example of a woman’s writing (quite a lot of early modern!) was put up every day for the month. Somehow I managed to miss it when I was looking for stuff on IWD.

You can find the full text of Collier’s poem here.

(Does anyone have a link for the text of the poem to which this was a response, Stephen Duck’s ‘The thresher’s labour’ (1730)? Or any more biographical information about Collier, for that matter?)

I remembered to look up ‘The thresher’s labour’ anyway. While it’s in many ways a great poem about the back-breaking nature of male agricultural labouring work for the ‘Master’, this is what Mary Collier was answering:

Homewards we move, but spent so much with Toil, [150]
We slowly walk, and rest at ev’ry Stile.
Our good expecting Wives, who think we stay,
Got to the Door, soon eye us in the Way.
Then from the Pot the Dumplin’s catch’d in haste,
And homely by its Side the Bacon plac’d.
Supper and Sleep by Morn new Strength supply;
And out we set again, our Work to try;
But not so early quite, nor quite so fast,
As, to our Cost, we did the Morning past.

Soon as the rising Sun has drank the Dew,
Another Scene is open to our View:
Our Master comes, and at his Heels a Throng
Of prattling Females, arm’d with Rake and Prong;

Prepar’d, whilst he is here, to make his Hay;
Or, if he turns his Back, prepar’d to play:
But here, or gone, sure of this Comfort still;
Here’s Company, so they may chat their Fill.
Ah! were their Hands so active as their Tongues,
How nimbly then would move the Rakes and Prongs!

The Grass again is spread upon the Ground, [170]
Till not a vacant Place is to be found;
And while the parching Sun-beams on it shine,
The Hay-makers have Time allow’d to dine.
That soon dispatch’d, they still sit on the Ground;
And the brisk Chat, renew’d, afresh goes round.
All talk at once; but seeming all to fear,
That what they speak, the rest will hardly hear
Till by degrees so high their Notes they strain,
A Stander by can nought distinguish plain.

[...]

And little Labour serves to make the Hay.
Fast as ’tis cut, so kindly shines the Sun, [200]
Turn’d once or twice, the pleasing Work is done.
Next Day the Cocks appear in equal Rows,
Which the glad Master in safe Ricks bestows.