Resolved, That the ballads set forth in the parchment manuscript, known as the Shadwell folio, are genuine old English ballads, composed by English balladists, and illustrating most correctly life in Chicago in Ancient Times, which is to say, before the fire.

Resolved, That the parchment cover of said folio is, in our opinion, neither pigskin nor sheep, but genuine calf, and undoubtedly the pelt of the original fatted calf celebrated in Shakespeare’s play of the “Prodigal Son.”

Resolved, That we hail with pride these indisputable proofs that our refinement and culture had an ancestry, and that our present civilization did not spring, as ribald scoffers have alleged, mushroom-like from the sties and wallows of the prairies.

  Resolved, That we get these ballads printed in an edition of not
  to exceed 500 copies, and at a cost of $50 per copy, or, at least,
  at a price beyond the capability of the hoy polloi.

Field then proceeded to review the contents of the fictitious folio, taking the precaution to premise his remarks and extracts with the statement that “it must not be surmised that all the poems in this Shadwell folio are purely local; quite a number treat of historical subjects.”  Of the poems in the first half of “The Shadwell Folio” I am able to give one of the most interesting in fac-simile, premising that, although this did not see the light of print until October, 1888, it was written in an early month of 1887.

On pages 19 and 20 of the folio, according to Field, we get a “pleasant glimpse of the rare old time” in the ballad entitled: 

[Illustration:  “THE ALLIAUNCE”.

  Come hither, gossip, let us sit
      beneath this plaisaunt vine;
  I fain wolde counsel thee a bit
      whiles that we sip our wine.

  The air is cool and we can hear
      the voicing of the kine
  come from the pasture lot anear
      the styes where grunt the swine.

  See how that Tom, my sone, doth fare
      with posies in his hands—­
  Methinks he minds to mend him where
      thy dochter waiting stands.

  Boys will be boys and girls be girls
      for Godde hath willed it soe;
  Thy dochter Tib hath goodly curles—­
      my Toms none fole, I trom.

  His evening chores ben all to-done,
      and she hath fed the pigges,
  and now the village green upon
      they daunce and sing their jigges.

  His squeaking crowd the fiddler plies,
      And Tom and Tib can see
  The babies in echoders eyes—­
      saye, neighbour, shall it bee?

  Nould give Frank in goodly store—­
      that I; in sooth, ne can;
  but I have steers and hoggs gillore—­
      and thats what makes the man!

  Your family trees and blade be naught
      In these progressive years—­
  The only blode that counts (goes?) for aught
      Is blode of piggs and steeres!