The Ballad of the Jew's Daughter

One of my favorite folk songs goes like this (sorry, I can't find a recording):

As I walked out one holiday,


The flakes of snow did fall,

And all the children in the school


Were out a-playing ball.

A little boy threw his ball so high,

He threw his ball so low,


He threw it in a dusky garden


Among the blades of snow.

Out came the neighbor’s youngest daughter


All dressed in fairy green.


“Come in, come in, my lad,” she said,


“You may have your ball again.”

She took him by his little white arm,

and led him through the hall

She took him in a little dark room,

where no one could hear him call.

She sat him down in a golden chair

She fed him with sugar and sweet

She laid him down on a dusty board,

And stabbed him like a sheep.

Pray put my Bible at my head,

My prayer-book at my feet,

And if any of my playmates should call for me,

Pray tell them I'm dead and asleep.

Some take hold of locks of hair

And others the soles of his feet

And drag him down in a deep dry-well

Fifteen fathoms deep.

Some take hold of locks of hair

And others the sole of his feet

And drag him down in a deep dry-well

Where weary travelers sleep.

I love that the murder is so completely unmotivated here. Is she angry about the ball? Is she a serial killer? Is she a fairy or a witch (that sinister green)? And who are the mysterious “others” who show up to get rid of the body?

Recently, reading Percy's Reliques of Ancient English Poetry (which I recommend to anyone interested in the history of English poetry) I found that the original of this song is much less mysterious. The “lady” is a Jew's daughter, and naturally she kills the child because she hates Christians and wants their blood. The song is based on the historical case of a 13th-century child murder which was blamed on a dozen of (coincidentally) the richest Jews in England and supposedly witnessed by ALL the Jews in England. Here's the original, and although too explicit for my taste, it has some lovely cruel parts. 

 

The rain rins doun through Mirry-land toune,
Sae dois it doune the Pa;
Sae dois the lads of Mirry-land toune,
Whan they play at the ba.

Than out and cam the Jewis dochter,
Says, Will ye cum in and dine?
'I winnae cum in, I cannae cum in,
Without my play-feres nine.'

Scho powd an apple reid and white,
To intice the young thing in:
Scho powd an apple white and reid,
And that the sweit bairne did win.

And scho has taine out a little pen-knife,
And low down by her gair;
Scho has twin'd the yong thing and his life,
A word he nevir spak mair.

And out and cam the thick, thick bluid,
And out and cam the thin,
And out and cam the bonny herts bluid;
Thair was nae life left in.

Scho laid him on a dressing-borde,
And drest him like a swine,
And laughing said, Gae nou and pley
With your sweit play-feres nine.

Scho rowd him in a cake of lead,
Bade him lie stil and sleip;
Scho cast him in a deip draw-well,
Was fifty fadom deip.

Whan bells wer rung, and mass was sung,
And every lady went hame,
Than ilka lady had her yong sonne,
Bot Lady Helen had nane.

Scho rowd hir mantil hir about,
And sair, sair gan she weip,
And she ran into the Jewis castel,
Whan they wer all asleip.

'My bonny Sir Hew, my pretty Sir Hew,
I pray thee to me speik:'
'O lady, rinn to the deip draw-well,
Gin ye your sonne wad seik.'

Lady Helen ran to the deip draw-well,
And knelt upon her kne:
'My bonny Sir Hew, an ye be here,
I pray thee speik to me.'

'The lead is wondrous heavy, mither,
The well is wondrous deip;
A keen pen-knife sticks in my hert,
A word I dounae speik.

'Gae hame, gae hame, my mither deir,
Fetch me my windling sheet,
And at the back o Mirry-land toun,
It's thair we twa sall meet.'

Poetic Meter and Poetic Form

I'd like to recommend the book Poetic Meter and Poetic Form. This should not be your first book on poetry; it's for the person who already knows that the Petrarchan sonnet differs from the Shakespearian one, but doesn't quite see why it matters. The book was written in a modern age, but with a traditionalist spirit. Some quotes:

The art of poetry is the art of knowing language and people equally well. To do something to the reader is the end of poetry; a poem is less a notation on a page or a sequence of uttered sounds than a shaped and measured formal effect that impinges upon a reader or hearer.

The approximation of structures of reasoning to the shape of the rhyme scheme is one of the most difficult acts in English poetry: indeed, only a few masters of the sonnet in English have managed always to avoid meaningless rhyming.

The notion that convention shows a lack of feeling, and that a poet attains “sincerity” by disregarding convention, is opposed to all the facts of literary experience and history. The individual talent is speechless without the conventions. And without an almost equal understanding of them, the audience, for all its intelligence and good will, hears nothing. “The innocent eye sees nothing.”

And it includes good lessons for the prose writer as well

 A principle governing all events which occur in time is that the middle of the event is the least interesting part, the beginning the next more interesting, and the end the most interesting. Instead of “He is a fool, in my opinion,” say, “He is, in my opinion, a fool.”

Captain, captive

Captain, captive
Of your fate
Fast asleep
On the bed you made
Dream away
Wake up late

–Samuel Menashe