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: 

  Of Brutus’ blood, in Brittane born,
    King Arthur I am to name: 
  Through Christendome and Heathynesse
    Well known is my worthy fame. 
  In Jesus Christ I doe beleeve;
    I am a Christyan born: 
  The Father, Sone and Holy Gost
    One God I doe adore. 
  In the four hundreed nintieth yeere
    Over Brittaine I did rayne,
  After my Savior Christ his byrth: 
    What time I did maintaine. 
  The fellowshippe of the table round
    Soe famous in those days;
  Whereatt a hundred noble Knights
    And thirty sat alwayes;
  Who for their deeds and martiall feates,
    As bookes dou yet record,
  Amongst all other nations
    Wer feared through the world. 
  And in the castle of Tayntagill,
    King Uther me begate
  Of Agyana, a bewtyous ladye,
    And come of hie estate. 
  And when I was fifteen yeer old,
    Then was I crowned Kinge;
  All Brittaine that was att an uprore
    I did to quiett bring
  And drove the Saxons from the realme,
    Who had oppressed this land;
  All Scotland then throughe manly feates
    I conquered with my hand. 
  Ireland, Denmarke, Norway,
    These countryes won I all
  Iseland, Getheland and Swothland;
    And mad their kings my thrall
  I conquered all Galya,
    That now is called France;
  And slew the hardye Froll in Field
    My honor to advance,
  And the ugly gyant Dynabus
    Soe terrible to vewe,
  That in Saint Barnard’s Mount did lye,
    By force of armes, I slew;
  And Lucyus, the emperor of Rome
    I brought to deadly wracke;
  And a thousand more of noble knightes
    For feare did turn their backe;
  Five kings of “Haynims” I did kill
    Amidst that bloody strife;
  Besides the Grecian emperor
    Who also lost his liffe. 
  Whose carcasse I did send to Rome
    Cladd pourlye on a beete;
  And afterward I past Mount Joye
    The next approaching yeer. 
  Then I came to Rome where I was mett