Category: History

Fantasticks June

I had not forgotten, just got a little behind with my homework this month.

Here is June from that strange work, Fantasticks, by Nicholas Breton, first published in 1626 and out of print for many a long year. I have been altruistically (lovely word) copying it out, month by month, since, when was it?

The word Bagge below means wine-skin, and I am told that a Tassell is a male hawking bird of some kind. Perhaps someone else could tell me exactly what kind.

JUNE

It is now June and the Hay-makers are mustered to make an army for the field, where not alwayes in order, they march under the Bagge and the Bottle, and betwixt the Forke and the Rake, there is seene great force of armes: Now doth the broad Oke comfort the weary Laborer, while under his shady Boughes he sits singing to his bread and cheese: the Hay-cocke is the Poore mans Lodging, and the fresh River is his gracious Neighbor: Now the Faulcon and the Tassell try their wings at the Partridge, and the fat Bucke fils the great pasty: the trees are all in their rich aray: but the seely Sheep is turned out of his coat: the Roses and sweet Herbes put the Distiller to his cunning, while the greene apples on the tree are ready for the great bellied wives: Now begins the Hare to gather up her heeles, and the Foxe lookes about him, for feare of the Hound: the Hooke and the Sickle are making ready for harvest: the Medow grounds gape for raine, and the Corne in the eare begins to harden: and the little Lads make Pipes of the straw, and they that cannot dance, will yet bee hopping: the Ayre now groweth somewhat warme, and the Coole winds are very comfortable: the Sayler now makes merry passage, and the nimble Foot-man runnes with pleasure: In briefe, I thus conclude, I hold it a sweet season, the senses perfume and the spirits comfort.

Farewell.

A pome about magic

I had a boy cousin (still do, come to that)
Whose whole world was, for him, a machine.
While the rest of us played on our bikes in the sun,
He took his to pieces – and not just for fun –
Testing modifications. Would this version run?
With occasional sweets in between.

 

 

 

One Christmas he had an old wireless set
Which he proudly displayed on the floor.
He’d removed all the parts and dismantled its case;
Examined each valve, disconnected the base.
Then (magic!) restored ev’ry one to its place;
Switched it on and it functioned once more!

French stick to French

It’s more reminiscent of Canute the Great Dane at the seaside than Francois the Small Froggy at the Elyssee – the way our near-neighbours are constantly trying to purge their Latin tongue of anglicisations, as you might say; and even now are resisting the demand for their seats of learning to teach in English.

We of course have always delighted in importing all their trash, ever since 1066 at least. But usually the words have been mangled beyond recognition – except among the incurably pure who still stay at ‘otels and drink ‘erb tea. More respectful folk, like the Danes, continue to make an effort to pronounce French words properly but score zero po-ang for their efforts.

But our most endearing trait (both t’s sounded) is to dub so many not-quite-British things ‘French’. My favourites include: bed, cricket, disease, fry, knickers and letter. If you will pardon my French…………

By any other name

Seein’ as ‘ow my youngest is due to add Number Nine to the Janus clan in the Autumn, I feel qualified to comment on the theme of naming children, further aroused by the Beeb:  http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-21229475.

Auntie (possibly wishing to avoid some nasty social aspersions being cast) seems to have missed out a very widespread reason for countries restricting the choice of names – RELIGION. Some countries allocate days to ‘holy’ names – so if you are born on 25th December you automatically become Christos/Christina (!); and although I confess to knowing almost nothing about Islam law, I have the impression that babies are only given ‘approved’ names.

What surprises me is that Denmark – otherwise notoriously free of constraint in almost every imaginable respect – has its own list, outside which a child may not be named. The religion or what’s left of it, is Lutheran but its tentacles still reach into daily life by awarding Spring days off work for General Prayer, Ascension and Whitsun respectively, promoting the Confirmation industry among greedy teens and, yes, forbidding one to ‘christen’ a baby with the Liverpool cup-winning team. So there’s the rub – what a pity their holiness doesn’t extend beyond their sanctified monikers!

In Britain of course the rich and famous persist in giving their offspring silly names, often of dubious gender and provenance, like themselves in many cases. But relax, friends, it’s all cyclical and soon the Johns and Joans will be rife amongst us again.

May – Fantasticks

You May (Huh?) have been wondering where Nicholas Breton’s portrait is, since it’s now the second of the month.

Nicholas Breton expected dripping clouds in May

Well, here it is, copied from his Fantasticks, published in 1626 and now out of print.

May

It is now May, and the sweetnesse of the Aire refresheth every spirit: the sunny beames bring forth faire Blossomes, and the dripping Clouds water Floraes great garden: the male Deere puts out the velvet head, and the pagged Doe is neere her fawning: The Sparhawke now is drawne out of the mew, and the Fowler makes ready his whistle for the Quaile: the Larke sets the morning watch, and the evening the Nightingale: the Barges like Bowers keep the streames of the sweet Rivers, and the Mackrell with the Shad are taken prisoners in the Sea: the tall young Oke is cut downe for the Maypole: the Sithe and the Sickle are the Mowers furniture, and Fayre weather make the Labourer merry: the Physitian now prescribes the cold Whey, and the Apothecary gathers the dew for a medecine: Butter & Sage make the wholsome breakfast, but fresh cheese and creame are meat for a dainty mouth: and the Strawbery and the Pescod want no price in the market: the Chicken and the Ducke are fatned for the market, and many a Goslin never lives to be Goose. It is the moneth wherein Nature hath her full of mirth, and the Senses are filled with delights. I conclude, It is from the Heavens a Grace, & to the Earth a Gladnesse.
Farewell.

A few learned observations:
Pagged means pregnant.
Sparhwake is sparrow-hawk.
Sithe is a scythe.
Nor was it usual in his time to use apostrophes with nouns in the genitive. (kindly remember you heard that here first)

Both Shad and Strawberry seasons are in full swing here, (Asparagus too), no sign of fresh peas yet.

Now is the Winter of our discontent…

…made glorious Summer by this son of York.

One of the best first lines ever written IMO.

I always thought the last Plantagenet  had suffered from a bad  press, although by heritage I had to support his nemesis Henry Tudr (it is so,  how it is spelled, only the English need extra vowels).

Well, just to show I’m not totally prejudiced, I joined the Richard 111 society (American Branch) this year and now get access to all the latest goings-on around  the car park.

Where was I?  Yes, discontent, well there must be some as a result of the April Poetry Competition, which  unlike modern playground games will only have one winner.  A fine crop of entries  from many of the usual suspects plus a few from some expert prevaricators.  I liked them all, especially Soutie’s pairing of poem and picture, but most of all I liked this little gem from Bilby:

Sunshine

Harsh lover
are you warming someone else’s land
And sucking moisture from the sand?
with lizards gaping in the heat
and lifting legs to cool their feet.

Absent lover
There’s a Tequila sunrise when you set
and bodies sunsick, slick with sweat;
swaying, dancing, heat skin-deep,
dreaming sunlight when they sleep.

Fickle lover
leaving, teasing,
warming, disappearing, freezing.
constancy is not your style
but, oh, please linger for a while!

Well done Bilby!  Now set us another one for May.

 

 

Cry ‘God for Harry, England and St George’!

And raise a glass for William Shakespeare too, despite the misery he has inflicted on school-children for centuries. For today is our National Day. The Harry I refer to is of course Mr Rednapp, the architect of Spurs’ excellent season and now the undertaker for QPR. Because that’s what being English is all about. Highs and lows. Effortless superiority, born of experience unequalled among other tribes of man. They come and go, but like old Father Thames, the English go on for ever. Cheers!

Pull the other one

If you want an exercise in suspending belief, try this:  http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-22152700

Allegedly the ultra-orthodox Jews, despite thousands of years of practice, are still unable to find out how to procreate and need a book to help them. “We wanted to give people a sense of not only where to put their sexual organs, but where to put their arms and legs,” the author says. “If you have never seen a movie, never read a book, how are you supposed to know what you do?” Well, sir, as a former schoolboy in the late ’40s and ’50s, I can’t remember my contemporaries ever being uncertain about the positions employed, despite a total lack of access to films or books on the subject. You put the right one in, the right one out, the right one in and you shake it all about. You do the okey kokey and you turn around. That’s what it’s all about. Remember, son?

Go forth and multiply, I say.

Mad Men – London-style

The old memory reacted to this portrait of Dylan Thomas by reminding me that when I joined the Kit Kat team at Rowntrees, his son, Llew was a copy-writer at JWT in Berkeley Square, W1. I chatted with him in the penthouse bar during my ‘induction’ visit in 1965 – a day-trip by Pullman from York which revealed some of the inner sancta of the agency and the luminaries who populated them.

Continue reading “Mad Men – London-style”