Hi,

This heavily rewritten print version comes from an unknown informant who sent a letter to the editor which was printed in The Table Book, Volume 1, p. 129 by William Hone. The informant lived on Grange-road Bermondsey (London Borough of Southwark, in south London), and dated his letter Jan. 8, 1827.

What interesting is his notes which date the print version (Outlandish Knight) of John Pitts (London printer 1765- 1844), who he talked with about the ballad, back to c.1802 and further back to the late 1700s as printed by Pitt's employer John Marshall, son of printer Richard Marshall (d. 1779):

AN INEDITED BALLAD.

To the Editor.

Dear Sir, —A friend of mine, who resided for some years on the borders, used to amuse himself by collecting old ballads, printed on halfpenny sheets, and hawked up and down by itinerant minstrels. In his common-place book I found one, entitled "The Outlandish Knight," evidently, from the style, of considerable antiquity, which appears to have escaped the notice of Percy, and other collectors. Since then I have met with a printed one, from the popular press of Mr. Pitts, the six-yards for-a-penny song-publisher, who informs me that he has printed it "ever since he was a printer, and that Mr. Marshall, his predecessor, printed it before him." The ballad has not improved by circulating amongst Mr. Pitts's friends; for the heroine, who has no name given her in my friend's copy, is in Mr. Pitts's called "Polly;" and there are expressions contra bonos more. These I have expunged; and, to render the ballad more complete, added a few stanzas, wherein I have endeavoured to preserve.

Outlandish Knight- "Six go true, The seventh askew."

An outlandish knight from the north lands came,
And he came a wooing to me;
He told me he'd take me unto the north lands,
And I should his fair bride be.

A broad, broad shield did this strange knight wield.
Whereon did the red-cross shine,
Yet never, I ween, had that strange knight been
In the fields of Palestine.

And out and spake this strange knight,
This knight of the north countrie,
O, maiden fair, with the raven hair,
Thou shalt at my bidding be.

Thy sire he is from home, ladye,
For he hath a journey gone,
And his shaggy blood-hound is sleeping sound,
Beside the postern stone.

Go, bring me some of thy fatber's gold,
And some of thy mother's fee,
And steeds twain of the best, in the stalls that rest;
Where they stand thirty and three.

She mounted her on her milk-white steed.
And he on a dapple grey,
And they forward did ride, till they reacb'd the sea-side,
Three hours before it was day.

Then out and spake this strange knight,
This knight of the north countrie,
O, maiden fair, with the raven hair,
Do thou at my bidding be.

Alight thee, maid, from thy milk-white steed.
And deliver it unto me;
Six maids have I drown'd, where the billows sound,
And the seventh one thou shalt be.

But first pull off thy kirtle fine,
And deliver it unto me;
Thy kirtle of green is too rich, I ween,
To rot in the salt, salt sea,

Pull off, pull off thy silken shoon,
And deliver them unto me;
Methinks that they are too fine and gay
To rot in the salt, salt sea.

Pull off, pull off thy bonnie green plaid.
That floats in the breeze so free;
It is woven fine with the silver twine,
And comely it is to see.

If I must pull off my bonnie' green plaid,
O turn thy back to me;
And gaze on the sun which has just begun
To peer o'er the salt, salt sea.

He turn'd his back on the damoselle
And gaz'd on the bright sunbeam-
She grasp'd him tight with her arms so white,
And plung'd him into the stream.

Lie there, sir knight, thou false-hearted wight,
Lie there instead of me;
Six damsels fair thou hast drown'd there,
But the seventh has drowned thee.

That ocean wave was the false one's grave,
For he sunk right hastily;
Though with dying voice faint, he pray'd to his saint,
And utter'd an Ave Marie.

No mass was said for that false knight dead,
No convent bell did toll;
But he went to his rest, unshriv'd and unblest-
Heaven's mercy on his soul!

She mounted her on her dapple-grey steed,
And led the steed milk-white;
She rode till she reach'd her father's hall,
Three hours before the night.

The parrot, hung in the lattice so high,
To the lady then did say,
Some ruffian, I fear, has led thee from home,
For thou hast been long away.

Do not prattle, my pretty bird,
Do not tell tales of me;
And thy cage shall be made of the glittering gold,
Instead of the greenwood tree.

The earl as he sat in his turret high,
On hearing the parrot did say,
What ails thee, what ails thee, my pretty bird?
Thou hast prattled the live-long day.

Well may I prattle, the parrot replied,
And call, brave earl, on thee;
For the cat has well nigh reach'd the lattice so high,
And her eyes are fix'd on me.

Well turn'd, well turn'd, my pretty bird,
Well turn'd, well turn'd for me;
Thy cage shall be made of the glittering gold,
Instead of the greenwood tree.

* * * *

Richie