Proscription does not kill a song. What kills it sometimes, if it have a political sense, is the fulfilment of the hopes it expresses; then it may die a natural death. I hunted all over Naples for some one who could sing a song which every Neapolitan, man and boy, hummed through the year when the Redshirts brought freedom: _Camicia rossa, camicia ardente_. It seemed that there was not one who still knew it. Just as I was on the point of giving up the search, a blind man was produced out of a tavern at Posilippo; a poor creature in threadbare clothes, holding a wretched violin. He sang the words with spirit and pathos; he is old, however, and perhaps the knowledge of them will not survive him.

Our present business is not with songs of a national or local interest, but with those which can hardly be said to belong to any country in particular. And, first of all, we have to go back to a certain _Camillo, detto il Bianchino cieco fiorentino_, who sang ballads at Verona in the year 1629, and who had printed for the greater diffusion of his fame a sort of rhymed advertis.e.m.e.nt containing the first few lines of some twenty songs that belonged to his repertory. Last but one of these samples stands the following:

"Dov' andastu jersera, Figlioul mio ricco, savio e gentil; Dov' andastu jersera?"

"When I come to look at it," adds Camillo, "this is too long; it ought to have been the first to be sung"--alluding, of course, to the song, not to the sample.

Later in the same century, the ballad mentioned above had the honour of being cited before a more polite audience than that which was probably in the habit of listening to the blind Florentine. On the 24th of September 1656, Canon Lorenzo Panciatichi reminded his fellow-academicians of the Crusca of what he called "a fine observation" that had been made regarding the song:

"Dov' andastu a cena figlioul mio Ricco, savio, e gentile?"

The observation (continued the Canon) turned on the answer the son makes to the mother when she asks him what his sweetheart gave him for supper. "She gave me," says the son, "_un' anguilla arrosto cotta nel pentolin dell' olio_." The idea of a roasted eel cooked in an oil pipkin offended the academical sense of the fitness of things; it had therefore been proposed to say instead that the eel was hashed:

"Madonna Madre, Il cuore sta male, Per un anguilla in guazzetto."

Had we nothing to guide us beyond these fragments, there could be no question but that in this Italian ballad we might safely recognise one of the most spirited pieces in the whole range of popular literature--the song of Lord Ronald, otherwise Rowlande, or Randal, or "Billy, my son:"

"O where hae ye been, Lord Ronald, my son?

O where hae ye been, my handsome young man?"

"I hae been to the wood; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."

"Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Ronald, my son?

Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?"

"I dined wi' my love; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."

"What gat ye to dinner, Lord Ronald, my son?

What gat ye to dinner, my handsome young man?"

"I gat eels boil'd in broo; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."

"And where are your bloodhounds, Lord Ronald, my son?

And where are your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?"

"O they swell'd and they died; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."

"O I fear ye are poison'd, Lord Ronald, my son!

O I fear ye are poison'd, my handsome young man!"

"O yes, I am poison'd! mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain would lie down."

This version, which I quote from Mr Allingham's _Ballad Book_ (1864), ends here; so does that given by Sir Walter Scott in the _Border Minstrelsy_. There is, however, another version which goes on:

"What will ye leave to your father, Lord Ronald, my son?

What will ye leave to your father, my handsome young man?"

"Baith my houses and land; mither, mak' my bed sune For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun."

"What will ye leave to your brither, Lord Ronald, my son?

What will ye leave to your brither, my handsome young man?"

"My horse and my saddle; mither, mak' my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun."

"What will ye leave to your sister, Lord Ronald, my son?

What will ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?"

"Baith my gold box and rings; mither, mak' my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun."

"What will ye leave to your true love, Lord Ronald, my son?

What will ye leave to your true love, my handsome young man?"

"The tow and the halter, for to hang on yon tree, And let her hang there for the poisoning o' me."

Lord Ronald has already been met with, though somewhat disguised, both in Germany and in Sweden, but his appearance two hundred and fifty years ago at Verona has a peculiar interest attached to it. That England shares most of her songs with the Northern nations is a fact familiar to all; but, unless I am mistaken, this is almost the first time of discovering a purely popular British ballad in an Italian dress.

It so happens that to the fragments quoted by Camillo and the Canon can be added the complete story as sung at the present date in Tuscany, Venetia, and Lombardy. Professor d'Ancona has taken pains to collate the slightly different texts, because few Italian folk-songs now extant can be traced even as far back as the seventeenth century.

The learned Professor, whose great antiquarian services are well known, does not seem to be aware that the song has currency out of Italy. The best version is one set down from word of mouth in the district of Como, and of this I subjoin a literal rendering:

"Where were you yester eve?

My son, beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, Where were you yester eve?"

"I with my love abode; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: I with my love abode; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"What supper gave she you?

My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, What supper gave she you?"

"I supped on roasted eel; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: I supped on roasted eel; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"And did you eat it all?

My son, beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, And did you eat it all?"

"Only the half I eat; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: Only the half I eat; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"Where went the other half?

My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, Where went the other half?"

"I gave it to the dog; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: I gave it to the dog; Alas, alas, that I should have to die?"

"What did you with the dog?

My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, What did you with the dog?"

"It died upon the way; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: It died upon the way; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"Poisoned it must have been!

My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, Poisoned it must have been!"

"Quick for the doctor send; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: Quick for the doctor send; Alas, alas, that I should have to die.

"Wherefore the doctor call?

My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, Wherefore the doctor call?"

"That he may visit me; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: That he may visit me; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"Quick for the parson send; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: Quick for the parson send; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"Wherefore the parson call?

My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, Wherefore the parson call?"

"So that I may confess; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: So that I may confess; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"Send for the notary; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: Send for the notary; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."