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DON'T YOU KNOW YOUR OLD SWEETHEART THE BEST? (Bob Coltman) You think I'm a beggar'? Look closer at me, Little brown, won't you try your eyes? You can smell the salt of the sea on me, And the mists of paradise, my love. Don't you know your old sweetheart the best? It's a wonderful wedding you have laid on, I never seen nothing so fine, Your father pawned his whole house for you, He wouldn't when you was mine, my love. Don't you know your old sweetheart the best? Where'd you get that ring, beggarman? You must have stole it from a dead man's hand. I never, I never, I got it from you, When you told me you'd be true, my love. Don't you know your old sweetheart the best? Oh hush, my love, and the tears rolled down, I can't give you nothing but bread, For here I'm to marry another man, And darling, I thought you were dead, my love. Don't you know your old sweetheart the best? In a trade with a savvy old beggarman I swapped his old clothes with my new, I swapped his old clothes with my new, For to clothe a fine lady like you, my love. Don't you know your old sweetheart the best? The bridegroom put on his hat and coat And stepped upon the stair, But when he reached to the altarfront His pretty little bride wasn't there, my love. Don't she know her old sweetheart the best? The bridegroom's sitting alone tonight, Hanging his handsome head, While me and my darling Angeline A-sharing a woodland bed, my love. Don't I know my old sweetheart the best? Hind Horn, No. 17 This is the survivor of one of the great old stories, exactly the sort of cante-fable with which the old jongleurs would scratch for a living, stretching the story as long as they could in hopes of pay by the yard. It was the soap opera of its time. There must be some truth in the stereotype of the x threadbare minstrel, ragged and hungry, his lute cracking and warping in the summer heat, the winter chill, the spring damp, having nowhere to lay his head but the tussock by the roadside, or fighting the hounds for a little straw and a grudged place next to some smoky kitchen fire. But then there were the other minstrels, the more settled types, more or less musical civil servants, with tenure and security: the 14th-century hi-fi set, needing only to perform something like this to ensure that patronage would continue. Child runs the story down like a rabbit throughout Europe and into Romania, Greece and Russia. The variants differ widely in detail, but a fair summary is this: Hind Horn serves the King seven years, falling in love with his daughter meanwhile. She has given him a jeweled ring; as long as the stone keeps its color he will know she is faithful, but if it gets pale, their romance is on the rocks. Everything is going fine when suddenly Hind Horn angers the King and is banished to sea indefinitely. Seven years a sailor, he sees his ring grow pale. He makes for home, changes clothes with a beggar from whom he hears of his love's wedding plans. But she has been dilly-dallying, refusing to go to bed with the groom till she hears from Hind Horn (cheers). Horn, at the wedding, reveals himself to his lady and the song collapses into a happy ending; I prolonged it into a gypsy-style elopement because it's such a grand climax that it shouldn't be rushed. @token @wedding Child #17 filename[ HNDHORN6 SOF Feb07 |
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