‘No,’ says brave Devonshire, ‘I’ve fought him as a man, Since he’s dead, I will keep the trophies I have won; For he fought me in your armour, while I fought him bare, And the same you must win back, my liege, if ever you them wear.’ God bless the Church of England, may it prosper on each hand, And also every poor man now starving in this land; And while I pray success may crown our King upon his throne, I’ll wish that every poor man may long enjoy his own. LORD BATEMAN. [THIS is a ludicrously corrupt abridgment of the ballad of _Lord Beichan_, a copy of which will be found inserted amongst the _Early Ballads_, An. Ed. p. 144. The following grotesque version was published several years ago by Tilt, London, and also, according to the title-page, by Mustapha Syried, Constantinople! under the title of _The loving Ballad of Lord Bateman_. It is, however, the only ancient form in which the ballad has existed in print, and is one of the publications mentioned in Thackeray’s Catalogue, see _ante_, p. 20. The air printed in Tilt’s edition is the one to which the ballad is sung in the South of England, but it is totally different to the Northern tune, which has never been published.] LORD BATEMAN he was a noble lord, A noble lord of high degree; He shipped himself on board a ship, Some foreign country he would go see. He sailèd east, and he sailèd west, Until he came to proud Turkèy; Where he was taken, and put to prison, Until his life was almost weary. And in this prison there grew a tree, It grew so stout, and grew so strong; Where he was chainèd by the middle, Until his life was almost gone. This Turk he had one only daughter, The fairest creature my eyes did see; She stole the keys of her father’s prison, And swore Lord Bateman she would set free. ‘Have you got houses? have you got lands? Or does Northumberland belong to thee? What would you give to the fair young lady That out of prison would set you free?’ ‘I have got houses, I have got lands, And half Northumberland belongs to me I’ll give it all to the fair young lady That out of prison would set me free.’ O! then she took him to her father’s hall, And gave to him the best of wine; And every health she drank unto him, ‘I wish, Lord Bateman, that you were mine! ‘Now in seven years I’ll make a vow, And seven years I’ll keep it strong, If you’ll wed with no other woman, I will wed with no other man.’ O! then she took him to her father’s harbour, And gave to him a ship of fame; ‘Farewell, farewell to you, Lord Bateman, I’m afraid I ne’er shall see you again.’ Now seven long years are gone and past, And fourteen days, well known to thee; She packed up all her gay clothing, And swore Lord Bateman she would go see.