by Albert Jack
Eventually a man was paid £100, a ridiculous amount of money for the time, to act as executioner, but he insisted on remaining anonymous.
The killing of a king was hugely contentious, and the murder of the man divinely chosen to rule made the perfect ghoulish subject for a nursery rhyme. Although the execution was watched by thousands, including the famous diarist Samuel Pepys, few accounts of it survive to this day. It was common practice for the head of a person convicted of treason to be held up, following their decapitation, and shown to the crowd with the words: ‘Behold the head of a traitor!’ When Charles’s head was exhibited, the words were not used, and unlike the carnival atmosphere at any normal execution, the mood of the crowd was sombre. Hearts really were ready to burst. Various strange phenomena were later recorded in relation to the execution: a beached whale at Dover died within an hour of Charles himself; a falling star appeared that night over Whitehall; and a man who had said the king deserved to die had his eyes pecked out by crows, or so it was said.
As I Was Going to St Ives
AS I was going to St Ives,
I met a man with seven wives,
And every wife had seven sacks,
And every sack had seven cats,
And every cat had seven kits;
Kits, cats, sacks, wives,
How many were going to St Ives?
Another popular riddle posing as a nursery rhyme (see also Flour of England and In Marble Walls as White as Milk), this one sets out to remind children that commonsense is even more valuable than applied mathematics. Although the earliest version of the rhyme was published in 1730, a similar riddle appears in the Rhind Mathematical Papyrus, dating from around 1650 bc. On hearing the riddle, many have fallen into the obvious trap – insisting that the answer is found by multiplying the number seven. The repetition of seven, a magical number in many cultures (see Solomon Grundy), seems to emphasize this, seven wives, seven sacks, seven cats and seven kittens multiplied together equalling 2,401, not including the man accompanying them all. But in fact the answer is one – the narrator himself. Because if you were going to St Ives and met all these people on your way, then presumably they are all coming back from St Ives, not going there. There’s also a clue in the name Ives – ‘I’ (‘I’ve’) or ‘Me’.
Baa, Baa, Black Sheep
BAA, baa, black sheep,
Have you any wool?
Yes, sir, yes, sir,
Three bags full;
One for the master,
One for the dame,
And one for the little boy
Who lives down the lane.
Some researchers believe this rhyme was written simply to encourage young children to imitate the sounds of animals when they are learning how to talk. But there’s a far more interesting and historic background to the poem. The version we all grew up with was in fact altered to make it more pleasant for young ears. The poem had a different last line until at least 1765, when it was included in Mother Goose Melody, published by John Newbery. The last line originally went like this: ‘And none for the little boy who cries in the lane.’
The surprising story behind this rhyme starts, unsurprisingly enough, with sheep. Sheep have been extremely valuable to the English economy for well over a thousand years. The wool trade in England was already thriving by August 1086 when the Domesday Book recorded that many flocks across the country numbered more than two thousand sheep. By the late twelfth century, sheep farming was big business and towns such as Guildford, Northampton, Lincoln and York had become thriving centres of production. By 1260, some flocks consisted of as many as seven or eight thousand sheep, each tended by a dozen full-time shepherds, and English wool was regarded as the best in the world. But as the cloth workers of Belgium and France were far more skilled than the English at producing the finished article, much of the wool produced was exported to Europe where the raw material was dyed and woven into high-quality cloth.
When Edward I (the Plantagenet king also known as ‘Longshanks’ – see Doctor Foster) returned from his crusading in 1272 to be crowned king, he set about the type of reforms his father, Henry III, had been unable to achieve. England had a growing number of wealthy wool merchants, chiefly in the form of the monasteries, and, thanks to the quality and reliability of English wool, an increasing number of eager buyers in the Italians and the Flemish, who dominated European business at the time. Naturally this also led to a growing number of traders and exporters and a great deal of money flowing into England on a regular basis. This, in turn, meant Edward was able to impose new taxes on the exports of wool to fund his military campaigns and keep the royal coffers topped up. In 1275, the Great Custom was introduced in the shape of a royal tax of six shillings and eight pence per wool sack – approximately one-third of the price of each sack. It was this wool tax that is said to be the basis of ‘Baa, Baa, Black Sheep’: one-third of the price of each sack must go to the king (the master), two-thirds to the Church or the monasteries (the dame), and none to the actual shepherd (the little boy who cries in the lane). Rather than being a gentle song about sharing things out fairly, it’s a bitter reflection on how unfair things have always been for working folk throughout history.
Note: The black sheep of the family is generally regarded as a disgrace, different from the other members and with a rogue element implied. For thousands of years, a black lamb in a flock was always the unpopular one as its fleece could not be dyed and was therefore less valuable than those of the white lambs. It would therefore have been regarded as an unlucky omen, its presence disruptive to the rest of the flock. Thomas Bastard (yes, his real name) wrote a poem, published in 1598, in which he presents the black sheep as a predator: ‘Till now I thought the proverbe did but jest, which said a black sheepe was a biting beaste.’ And in 1892 Rudyard Kipling included in one of his own poems (‘Gentleman-Rankers’) the line ‘We’re little black sheep who’ve gone astray, Baa-aa-aa!’, recalling both the rhyme and the proverbial waywardness of its woolly subject.
During this period of great success (for the ruling classes at any rate), England’s export of wool nearly doubled from 24,000 sacks to 47,000 sacks per year, and the money raised largely funded the Hundred Years’ War with the French that dominated the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. To this day, the Lord Speaker in the House of Lords (successor to the Lord Chancellor’s role) sits on a sack made of wool, first introduced during the fourteenth century by the third consecutive Edward to rule England, Edward III.
Bessy Bell and Mary Gray
BESSY Bell and Mary Gray,
They were two bonnie lasses:
They built their house upon the lea,
And covered it with rushes.
Bessy kept the garden gate
And Mary kept the pantry;
Bessy always had to wait,
While Mary lived in plenty.
It seems immediately obvious that the subjects of this rhyme must be history’s best-known Mary and Bessy – Henry VIII’s two daughters, Mary and Elizabeth (Bessy). After Elizabeth’s mother, Anne Boleyn, was executed in 1536, the two-year-old princess was declared illegitimate and sent away from court to live in the country. But she remained in constant danger, as she grew up, from her jealous elder sister, Mary. Once Mary had become queen in 1553, she even had ‘Bessy’ thrown into the Tower of London on trumped-up charges of treason. And so there she waited, by the garden gate, while Queen Mary lived in style. But the waiting was over three years later when, in 1558, Mary died and Elizabeth was finally able to claim the throne of England for herself.
However, there is another story behind this rhyme and it’s not an English one. The version we know is in fact based on a rather longer Scottish ballad called ‘The Twa Lasses’. Its opening verses tell a different tale:
They theekit ower wi’ rashes green,
They theekit ower wi’ heather;
But the pest cam’ frae the burrows-town,
And slew them baith thegither.
They t
hocht to lie in Methven kirk-yard,
Amang their noble kin,
But they maun lie in Dranoch-haugh
To biek fornent the sun.
(There are many more verses, but you get the gist.) Meanwhile, the 1822 edition of Archaeologia Scotica: Transactions of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland cites a letter written to John Swinton Esquire on 21 June 1781 by Major Augustine Barry of Lednock:
Dear Sir,
According to your desire, I have sent you the best account I can of Bessie Bell and Mary Gray.
When I first came to Lednock, I was shewn, in part of my ground (called the Dranoch-haugh), a heap of stones almost covered with briers, thorns and fern, which they assured me was the burial place of Bessie Bell and Mary Gray.
The tradition of the country relating to these ladies is that Mary Gray’s father was laird of Lednock and Bessie Bell’s of Kinvaid, a place in this neighbourhood. That they were both very handsome and an intimate friendship subsisted between them and that while Miss Bell was on a visit to Miss Gray the Plague broke out, in the year 1666. In order to avoid which they built themselves a bower about three quarters of a mile west from Lednock House, in a very retired and romantic place called Burnbraes, on the side of Beanchie-burn. Here they lived for some time, but the Plague raging with great fury, they caught the infection (it is said) from a young gentleman who was in love with them both. He used to bring them their provisions. They died in this bower and were buried in the Dranoch-haugh at the foot of a brae of the same name near to the bank of the river Almond. The burial place lies about half a mile west from the present house of Lednock.
I have removed all the rubbish from this little spot of classic ground, enclosed it with a wall, planted it round with flowering shrubs, made up the grave double and fixed a stone in the wall on which are engraved the names of Bessie Bell and Mary Gray.
This account reflects the traditional tale told in the area, although the date of the events is more likely to be 1645 – when plague struck Perth and its environs, including Lednock. Interestingly, plague did not reach Scotland in either 1665 or 1666 thanks, mainly, to the Scots closing their borders and banning trade with London, effectively quarantining the entire country. Apart from that, there is nothing to say that the story doesn’t have some basis in fact, and it remains widely believed. To this day, incurable romantics still make the pilgrimage to the grave, where they read the simple inscription: ‘Bessie Bell and Mary Gray –They lived, they loved, they died’.
The Big Ship Sails on the Ally-Ally-Oh
THE big ship sails on the ally-ally-oh,
The ally-ally-oh, the ally-ally-oh;
The big ship sails on the ally-ally-oh,
On the last day of September.
The captain said it will never, never do,
Never, never do, never, never do;
The captain said it will never, never do,
On the last day of September.
The big ship sank to the bottom of the sea,
The bottom of the sea, the bottom of the sea;
The big ship sank to the bottom of the sea,
On the last day of September.
We all dip our heads in the deep blue sea,
The deep blue sea, the deep blue sea;
We all dip our heads in the deep blue sea,
On the last day of September.
This rhyme, usually sung by children during skipping games, is thought to have been inspired by the building of the Manchester Ship Canal (hence ‘alley’ or ally-ally-oh), first used in 1894 to enable huge trading vessels (big ships) into the centre of Manchester via the port of Liverpool. This created the unusual sight of massive steam ships pulling into the centre of a city far from the sea. The last day of September marks the end of the fair weather of summer and the start of the winter storms, which could spell disaster for any ship (The big ship sank to the bottom of the sea).
The final verse suggests a watery end for the crew of a shipwrecked vessel (We all dip our heads in the deep blue sea). Hence ‘dipping’ is most likely a euphemism for drowning, but it also has an echo of another kind of dipping –part of the ancient rituals of the communities who live and make their living by the sea. In Catholic countries, holy statues are still often carried down to the port on special days and dipped (along with the more enthusiastic worshippers) in the waves in order to seek protection against shipwreck and disaster in the year to come.
The Blind Men and the Elephant
IT was six men of Indostan,
To learning much inclined,
Who went to see the Elephant,
Though all of them were blind,
That each by observation
Might satisfy his mind.
The First approached the Elephant,
And happening to fall
Against his broad and sturdy side,
At once began to bawl:
‘Bless me, it seems the Elephant
Is very like a wall.’
The Second, feeling of the tusk,
Cried, ‘Ho! What have we here,
So very round and smooth and sharp?
To me ’tis mighty clear
This wonder of an elephant
Is very like a spear.’
The Third approached the animal,
And happening to take
The squirming trunk within his hands,
Thus boldly up and spake:
‘I see,’ quoth he, ‘the Elephant
Is very like a snake.’
The Fourth reached out an eager hand,
And felt about the knee.
‘What most this wondrous beast is like
Is mighty plain,’ quoth he;
‘’Tis clear enough the Elephant
Is very like a tree!’
The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear,
Said, ‘E’en the blindest man
Can tell what this resembles most;
Deny the fact who can,
This marvel of an Elephant
Is very like a fan.’
The Sixth no sooner had begun
About the beast to grope,
Than, seizing on the swinging tail
That fell within his scope;
‘I see,’ quoth he, ‘the Elephant
Is very like a rope!’
And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right
And all were in the wrong.
Moral:
So oft in theologic wars
The disputants, I ween,
Rail on in utter ignorance
Of what each other means
And prate about an Elephant
Not one of them has seen.
‘The Blind Men and the Elephant’ was published in 1873 as part of a collection of rhymes and poems by John Godfrey Saxe. Saxe (1816-87) based his moral tale – more of a parable in the guise of a rhyme – upon a story of Indian origin that he called a ‘Hindoo Fable’. It is probably quite ancient in origin, as similar tales are told in other religions, including Buddhism, Sufism, Islam and Jainism. In each, the number of blind men varies and sometimes they are not blind at all, but men in a darkened room with an elephant (clearly the only elephant in a room not to be ignored). The Hindu version of the tale goes something like this:
One day three blind men met, as usual, and sat under their favourite tree, talking about many things. All of a sudden, one of them said, ‘I have heard that an elephant is a strange creature.’ Another replied, ‘Yes, it is too bad we are blind and do not have the good fortune to see this strange beast.’ But the third said, ‘Why do we need to see? Just to feel it would be wonderful.’ At that moment, a passing merchant with a group of elephants came conveniently along and overheard their conversation. ‘You fellows,’ he called, ‘if you really want to feel an elephant then come with me.’ The three blind men were surprised but very h
appy. Taking each other by the hand, they quickly followed the merchant and began to speak excitedly about how the animal would feel and how they would form an image of it in their minds.
When they reached the elephants, the merchant told two of them to sit on the ground and wait while he led the first man to one of the beasts. With an outstretched arm, the man touched one of the elephant’s front legs and then the other, stroking each from top to bottom. ‘So,’ he said, ‘the strange animal is just like that.’ Then the second man was led to the elephant. With an outstretched arm, he touched the creature on the trunk, stroking it up and down and from side to side. ‘Ah, so now I know, I truly know!’ he cried. The third man encountered the elephant’s tail and wagged it from side to side. ‘That’s it,’ he said, ‘now I know too.’
The three blind men thanked the merchant and returned to their spot under the tree, each one excited about what he had learned. The first man said, ‘This strange animal is just like two big trees without any branches.’ Luckily, he was unable to see the expressions on his friends’ faces, for they were horrified. ‘No, no!’ they cried in disbelief at what they had just heard. The second man then said, ‘This animal is like a snake, long, strong and flexible.’ ‘What!’ exclaimed the third man. ‘You are both quite wrong. The elephant resembles a fly whisk, swishing from side to side.’
They argued about this for days, each insisting that he alone was correct, and of course – as Saxe points out in the conclusion to his rhyme – all three of them were partly in the right / and all of them were wrong. The moral is that nobody can claim to fully understand a subject until they have grasped – in this case, quite literally – the whole thing. Even then, it is never possible to know the full truth about something, simply because everyone, however knowledgeable or experienced, will view it in a different way. Hence, on a deeper level, the elephant can be seen as reality, and we are all the blind men, each of us able to perceive only a tiny part of a much greater whole.