XVII. Old Tom of Bedlam. MAD SONG THE FIRST.............................................
It is worth attention, that the English have more songs and ballads on the
subject of madness, than any of their neighbours. Whether there be any truth in the
insinuation, that we are more liable to this calamity than other nations, or that our
native gloominess hath peculiarly recommended subjects of this cast to our writers;
we certainly do not find the same in the printed collections of French, Italian songs,
&c.
Out of a much larger quantity, we have selected half a dozen mad songs for
these volumes. The three first are originals in their respective kinds; the merit of the
three last is chiefly that of imitation. They were written at considerable intervals of
time; but we have here grouped them together, that the reader may the better examine
their comparative merits. He may consider them as so many trials of skill in a very
peculiar subject, as the contest of so many rivals to shoot with the bow of Ulysses.
The two first were probably written about the beginning of the last century; the third
about the middle of it; the fourth and sixth towards the end; and the fifth within the
eighteenth century.
This is given from the Editor's folio MS. compared with two or three old
printed copies.-- With regard to the author of this old rhapsody, in Walton'sComplete
Angler, cap. 3, is a song in praise of angling, which the author says was made at his
request "by Mr. William Basse, one that has made the choice songs ofThe Hunter in
his Career, and ofTom of Bedlam, and many others of note," p. 84. See Sir John
Hawkins's curious edition, 8vo. of that excellent old book.
FORTH from my sad and darksome cell,
Or from the deepe abysse of hell,
Mad Tom is come into the world againe
To see if he can cure his distempered braine.
Feares and cares oppresse my soule;
Harke, howe the angrye Fureys houle!
Pluto laughes, and Proserpine is gladd
To see poore naked Tom of Bedlam madd.
Through the world I wander night and day
To seeke my straggling senses,
In an angrye moode I mett old Time,
With his pentarchye of tenses:
When me he spyed,
Away he hyed,
For time will stay for no man
In vaine with cryes
I rent the skyes,
For pity is not common.
Cold and comfortless I lye:
Helpe, oh helpe! or else I dye!
Harke! I heare Apollo's teame,
The carman 'gins to whistle;