affections. It celebrates some event which the universal heart clings
to, which, for joy or sorrow, awaken the memories of every mind." Hence
we learn the history of a nation's heart from their songs as we learn
their martial history from their armor.

The oldest song, set to music, which is now known is the following:


"Summer is y-comen in,
Loude sing cuckoo:
Groweth seed,
And bloweth mead,
And springeth the wood now;
Sing Cuckoo!
Ewe bleateth after lamb,
Lowth after calf cow;
Bullock starteth,
Buck resteth
Merry sing cuckoo!
Cuckoo, Cuckoo!
Well sings thou cuckoo!
Ne swick thou never now."


The old ballads seem to have no paternity. They spring up like flowers,
spontaneously. Most of them are of unknown date and unknown authorship.
The structure, language, and spelling of many have been so modified, by
successive reciters, that their original form is now lost. We have a
short summary of King Arthur's history, the great hero of romance, in a
comparatively modern ballad. I will quote it: