SAINTE GILES OF BUTTERBIE,

His Holie Legende.

HE following admirable local song, has appeared in print, in two publications, viz. in Hone's Table Book, and in Prest's London Singer's Penny Magazine, the editor of which latter publication, has thought proper to ascribe its authorship, to two gentlemen who formerly resided in the city of Durham-it is however very doubtful, whether either of those gentlemen, had any thing to do with concocting this most ludicrous production. Of the song, judging from a M.S. in the possession of a correspondent, the copy in the Magazine, appears to be the best, and we accordingly give it, in preference to the one in the Table Book; to which work however, we are indebted for an account, of the presumed origin of so authentic a piece of Legendary History. "In the slang of Durham," says Mr. Hone, a Butterby Church goer is one who does not frequent any church; and when such an one is asked "What church have you attended to day?" the customary answer is "I have been attending service at Butterby." [A hamlet, about three miles distant, from the city of Durham.] Butterby church has been dedicated to St. Giles, (i. e. St. Giles â Scroggins), and several articles have been written, and privately circulated, descriptive of the architecture of this imaginary edifice; every arch has had its due meed of approbation, and its Saint has been exalted in song. A legend has been written-I beg pardon, found in one of the vaults of Bear park, containing an account of divers miracles performed by St. Giles; which legend is no doubt as worthy of credit, and equally true, as some of Alban Butler's."-Hone's Table Book, page 366. The following reprint of "the Legende" with its notes, annotations, &c., has been edited for our Table Book, by a gentleman well known in the Antiquarian world, who is the correspondent above alluded to, and is also, a Member of the Percy Society.

SAINTE GILES HIS HOLIE LEGENDE.

WRITTEN IN LATIN BY FATHER PETER, MONKE OF BEAVPAIRE, AND DONE INTO INGLISH THIS YEAR OF REDEMPTION 1555, BY MAISTER JOHN WALTON, SCHOOLMAISTER, SAINTE MAGDALENE HER CHAPEL YARD, DVRHAM: AND DEDICATED TO OVR GOOD QUEEN MARY, WHOM GOD LONG PRESERVE.

Sainte Giles, his description, and strange appearance.

His birthe

and manie wagers thereonne. His discoverie

by a holie Pryor, and the good man's

hearing of celestial musick.

The fears and prayers

of the holie man, and his cautious approach

DID ye ne'er hear of St. Giles,

The sainte of famed Butterbie steeple?
There ne'er was his like seen for miles,
Pardie, he astonied the people!

His face was as red as the sun,

His eyne were a couple of sloes, sir,
His bellie was big as a tun,

And he had a huge bottle nose, sir,
O what a strange fellow was he!

Of woman he never was born,

And wagers have been laid upon it!
They found him at Fynchale one morn,
Wrapp'd up in an old hood and bonnet:
The pryor was taking his rounds,

As he was wont after his brick-fast,
He heard most celestial sounds,

And saw something in a tree stick fast,
Like a bundle of dirty old clothes.

Quite frightened, he fell on his knees,
And said aves five,2 and ten credos,
When the thing in the tree, gave a sneeze,

And out popp'd a hand, and then three toes:

Judging from the first verse of the original, which is all we have seen, Walton" appears, to have made a free translation-it is as follows:

"Maister

to the

Sainte, whom he interrogateth, as followeth

in the next stave.

The Pryor's

speech, and the stern reply of the babie Sainte, which for its

finis, containeth

a threat

of combustion.

The Pryor's amazement and compliance.

Ste Giles becomes an apte and diligent fryar, in due time.

His sanctitiehis exorcisms, and somewhat unsaintlie advice to the sinner, which, I pray the

lector may not follow.

Now, when he got out of his fainte,

He approached, with demeanour most humble,
When, what should he see but the sainte,
Not a copper
1 the worse for his tumble,
But lying all sound wind and limb. 2

Says the pryor, "From whence did you come,
Or how got you into my garden ?"

But the babie said nothing but mum

And for the prieste cared not a farden:
At length, the sainte opened his gobbe,

And said, "I'm from heaven, d'ye see, sir,
Now don't stand there scratching your nobbe,
But help me down out of the tree, sir,
Or I'll soon set your Abbey a-blaze!

The pryor stood quite in a maze,

To hear such an infant so queerly call,
So he fell on his knees, and gave praise
To our Ladie, for so great a miracle:
Sainte Giles from the bush then he tooke,
And led him away to the priorie;
Where for years he stuck close to his booke,
A holie and sanctified fryar, he

Was thought by the good folks around.

In sanctitie he passed his years, 4

Once or twice exorcised a demoniac;
And, to quiet his doubts and his fears,

Applied to a flask of old Cogniac;
To heaven he shewed the road faire,

And, if he saw sinner look glum or sad,
He'd tell him to drive away care,

And say,
"Take a swig of good rum, my lad,
And it will soon give your soul ease."

1 "Not an angel." M.S. in the possession of the executors of the late J. Catnach, Esq. of London.

2" Wind and limb." "This line is not found in some of the old MSS. and is probably a modern interpolation." Note, in a copy of Prest's work, formerly in the possession of Thomas Cribb. Esq., M.P.R.

3" So humbling himself."-Hone's copy.

4 Hone "Days." An evident mistake.

His diverse miracles, and especially, his turning the Were

to the right about

O magnum opus, incredibile, et inexplicabile!

Ye Sainte rambleth to Butterbie, his visit

to the well, and his benison thereonne.

The wondrous effect, of the benison on the well, and the multitudinous

pilgrimages thereto,

in consequence

thereof.

In miracles too the sainte dealt,

And some may be seen to this minute;
At his bidding he'd make a rock melt,

1

Tho' the devil himself might be in it:

One evening when rambling out,

Boh! Were's winding stream stopp'd the rover,

So he told it to turn round about,

And let him go quietly over,

And the river that instant, complied!2

To Butterbie often he'd stray,

And sometimes look in at the well,3 sir;
And if you'll attend to the lay,

How it came by its virtues I'll tell, sir ;
One morning, as wont, the sainte call'd,
And being tremendously fainte then,
He drank of the lymphe till he stall'd,
And out spake the reverend sainte then,
"My blessing be on thee for aye!"

Thus saying, he bent his way home,

Now mark the event which has followed,
The fount has from that time, become

A cure for sick folk-for it's hallowed:
And many a pilgrim goes there,

From many a far distant part, sir,
And, piously uttering a prayer,

Blesses the sainte's pious heart, sir,

That gave to the fount so much grace.

At Fynchale, his saintship did dwell,
Till the devil got into the cloister,

1 Var. lect. "Tho' Saint Sathanas."-Hone's copy.

2 In the neighbourhood of the Nab End, a place in the environs of the City of Durham, it is evident, that the Were, has at some period, changed its course-the old channel of the stream, may be distinctly traced, Whether this event occurred at the bidding of Saint Giles, we leave to the Antiqnary and Geologist to determine.

3 There are three mineral springs at Butterby, one called "The Sweet Spring" is a clear water, slightly impregnated with carbonate of lime, the second is the "Salt Water Spring," and the other is the "Sulphur Well," which is probably the one alluded to in the Legend, as it is much frequented, and deemed highly efficacious in cutaneous affections.

VOL. II.

4" The Stuff."-Hone's copy.
2 E

Ye Sainte quitteth Fynchale perforce, and

voweth as to the destroyers

thereof, that he will serve them

out!

He buildeth a kirke at Butterbie,

wherein he endeth his daies, in the odour of sanctitie, after a

well spent life.

Of his burial by the monkes after his decease, which happened in the Holie season of Lente.

And left the bare walls as a shell,

And gulp'd the fat monkes like an oyster:
So the sainte was enforced to quit,1

But swore he'd the fell legions all amuse,
And pay back their coin every whit,

Tho his hide should be flayed like Bartholemew's,
And red as Sainte Dunstan's red nose.

Another kirke straight he erected,

And for holiness, one which famed much is, 2
Where sinners and saintes were protected,

And kept out of Beelzebub's clutches:

And thus in the eve of his days,

He still paternosters and avēs sung,

His lungs were worn threadbare with praise,

Till death, who slays pryors, rest gave his tongue,
And sent him to sing in the spheres!

It would be too long to tell here,

Of how, when and where, the monkes buried him;
Suffice it to say, it seems clear,

To regions of bliss angels hurried him. 3
His odd life by death was made even,

He popp'd off, on one of Lente Sundaies,
His corse was to miracles given,

And his quiristers sung "De profundis
Clamaví, að te Domine!"

Finis coronat opus.

Explycit I. W.

1 "So forced his warm quarters to quit,”—Prest's copy. We, here, prefer the reading of Hone.

2" Which for its Sanctity, famed much is."-Hone. Though there is no church at Butterby now, yet in days of old, there were a church and hospital there, dedicated to Saint Leonard. They stood in a field adjoining the ancient moated manor house. Many stone coffins, vases for holy water, &c., have been dug up at different times.-See View of Durham, Hoggett, Durham, 1824. Page 89.

3 “ That somewhere or other, they curried him.”—Hone.