Whatever theory be ultimately accepted, it is certain that the popular love-poetry of southern nations, such as it has been received direct from peasant lips, is not the least precious gift we owe to the untaught, uncultured poet, who after having been for long ages ignored or despised, is now raised to his rightful place near the throne of his illustrious brother, the perfect lettered poet. Pan sits unrebuked by the side of Apollo.
These introductory remarks are meant to do no more than to show the principal landmarks of folk-poetry. The subject is a wide one, as they best know who have given it the most careful attention. In the following essays, I have dealt with a few of its less familiar aspects. I would, in conclusion, express my gratitude to the indefatigable excavators of popular lore whose large labours have made my small work possible, and to all who have helped, whether by furnishing unedited specimens or by procuring copies of rare books. My cordial thanks are also due to the editors and publishers of the _Cornhill Magazine_, _Fraser's Magazine_, the _National Review_, the _British Quarterly Review_, the _Revue Internationale_, the _Antiquary_, and the _Record_ and _Journal_ of the Folk-lore Society, for leave to reprint such part of this book as had appeared in those publications.
Sire cuens, j'ai vielé Devant vous, en vostre osté; Si ne m'avez, riens doné, Ne mes gages aquité C'est vilanie;
Foi que doi Sainte Marie! Ainc ne vos sievrai je mie, M'aumosniere est mal garnie Et ma malle mal farsie.
Sire cuens, quar comandez De moi vostre volonté. Sire, s'il vous vient à gré Un beau don car me donez Par cortoisie. Talent ai, n'en dotez mie, De r'aler à ma mesnie. Quant vois borse desgarnie, Ma feme ne me rit mie.
Ains me dit: Sire Engelé En quel terre avez esté, Qui n'avez rien conquesté Aval la ville? Vez com vostre male plie, Ele est bien de vent farsie. Honi soit qui a envie D'estre en vostre compaignie.
Quant je vieng à mon hosté Et ma feme a regardé Derier moi le sac enflé, Et ge qui sui bien paré De robe grise, Sachiez qu'ele a tot jus mise La quenoille, sans faintise. Elle me rit par franchise, Les deux bras au col me lie.
Ma feme va destrousser Ma male, sanz demorer. Mon garçon va abruver Mon cheval et conreer. Ma pucele va tuer Deux chapons por deporter A la sause aillie;