Come hark you well, my masters, pray can you me tellWhich is the nearest road unto the beggar's wells?There's Shoobottams of Womfords, and Bessicks in the Flash,There's ropemakers of Mansfield, and Dales of bordbast.There's Sigsmore and Staysmore, and Clackmore so rough,There's Winster and Cotsworth, and merry Locksclough;There's Longnor and Buxton, and outerside the shade,From thence you may go to Leechurch[94]and call at the west gaites.There's Caldon and Caulton, there's the waterfall and grinn,And these are four of the foulest places that ever man was in;There's Haymore by Ashbourn, and then to the Peak Hills,For Wool and Lead is the chiefest thing that the country yields.There's Oaker[95]Hall and Blesford Hall,[96]and Mappleton in the sands,There's Thorpe Cloud and Bentley, and at Tissington lies good land;There's Parrich[97]and Braston,[98]there's Bradburn and Wet Wilnn,[99]There's Hopton and Carsdale, Park Nook and Pusses Inn.[100]There's Middleton and Cromford, and so to Gosley bank,And if you taste of Wirksworth ale it's sure to make you drunk;There's Hognaston and Atlow, and Atlor in the fall,And from thence you may go to Bradley, and there's a pretty hall.There's Marston and Mugginton and Allestree and Quarn,And in that pretty country there does grow good corn;There's Donington and Diseworth, and Breedon-on-the-Hill,And from thence you go to Newton, and so to the King's Mills.There's Mackworth and Marton,[101]and so to the Nun's Green,There's Harehill and Hogdeston, a little way between;There's Longford and Mammaton, and so to Harton forge,And from thence you may go to Tidbury,[102]and in at the old George.There's Foston and Roston, and so to Darley moor,There's Yeavely and Radgley, and thence you may be sureFor why I did ramble to the far end of the town,And there's a pretty landlady that keeps the Rose and Crown.At Ellaston and Wooton, and at Stanton there's good ale,And from thence you may go to Swinsor and Pantons in the Dale;There's Crumpwood and Prestwood, and Rosemary hill,There's Wotten Lodge and Alton Lodge, and so on to the Wire Mill.There's Alton and Farley, and Rempstone so high,There's Cheadle and Oakamoor is a little hard by;There's Quicksall and Rosley[103]and Camebridge beyond,And from thence you may go to Utcetter,[104]and there lies good land.There's Eaton and Crapnidge and Perwolt in the clay,There's Stramshall and Bramshall and merry Loxley,There's Overton and Netherton, and Bramest and Fole,There's Leechurch and Park Hall, and Checkley-in-the-hole.There's Dubberidge and Blyfield, and so to Coloten Green,There's Boslem[105]and Handley[106]green a little way between,For potmen and great carriers they bear the bell away,But the old stock of Borleyash is quite gone to decay.
Come hark you well, my masters, pray can you me tellWhich is the nearest road unto the beggar's wells?There's Shoobottams of Womfords, and Bessicks in the Flash,There's ropemakers of Mansfield, and Dales of bordbast.
There's Sigsmore and Staysmore, and Clackmore so rough,There's Winster and Cotsworth, and merry Locksclough;There's Longnor and Buxton, and outerside the shade,From thence you may go to Leechurch[94]and call at the west gaites.
There's Caldon and Caulton, there's the waterfall and grinn,And these are four of the foulest places that ever man was in;There's Haymore by Ashbourn, and then to the Peak Hills,For Wool and Lead is the chiefest thing that the country yields.
There's Oaker[95]Hall and Blesford Hall,[96]and Mappleton in the sands,There's Thorpe Cloud and Bentley, and at Tissington lies good land;There's Parrich[97]and Braston,[98]there's Bradburn and Wet Wilnn,[99]There's Hopton and Carsdale, Park Nook and Pusses Inn.[100]
There's Middleton and Cromford, and so to Gosley bank,And if you taste of Wirksworth ale it's sure to make you drunk;There's Hognaston and Atlow, and Atlor in the fall,And from thence you may go to Bradley, and there's a pretty hall.
There's Marston and Mugginton and Allestree and Quarn,And in that pretty country there does grow good corn;There's Donington and Diseworth, and Breedon-on-the-Hill,And from thence you go to Newton, and so to the King's Mills.
There's Mackworth and Marton,[101]and so to the Nun's Green,There's Harehill and Hogdeston, a little way between;There's Longford and Mammaton, and so to Harton forge,And from thence you may go to Tidbury,[102]and in at the old George.
There's Foston and Roston, and so to Darley moor,There's Yeavely and Radgley, and thence you may be sureFor why I did ramble to the far end of the town,And there's a pretty landlady that keeps the Rose and Crown.
At Ellaston and Wooton, and at Stanton there's good ale,And from thence you may go to Swinsor and Pantons in the Dale;There's Crumpwood and Prestwood, and Rosemary hill,There's Wotten Lodge and Alton Lodge, and so on to the Wire Mill.
There's Alton and Farley, and Rempstone so high,There's Cheadle and Oakamoor is a little hard by;There's Quicksall and Rosley[103]and Camebridge beyond,And from thence you may go to Utcetter,[104]and there lies good land.
There's Eaton and Crapnidge and Perwolt in the clay,There's Stramshall and Bramshall and merry Loxley,There's Overton and Netherton, and Bramest and Fole,There's Leechurch and Park Hall, and Checkley-in-the-hole.
There's Dubberidge and Blyfield, and so to Coloten Green,There's Boslem[105]and Handley[106]green a little way between,For potmen and great carriers they bear the bell away,But the old stock of Borleyash is quite gone to decay.
In the middle of last century as brutal and cold-blooded a murder as ever disgraced the annals of this kingdom was perpetrated in the Winnats (a corruption of "wind gates") at Castleton, the victims being a young gentleman and lady of "gentle," if not of "noble," blood, on their wedding-day, and the murderers being five miners of the place. The following ballad, the production, in his early days, of my late brother, the Rev. Arthur George Jewitt,[107]was printed by him in his "Wanderings of Memory," in 1815. The following explanatory note appears in "Wanderings of Memory:"—
"In the year 1768,[108]a young gentleman and lady, each mounted on a fine horse, but unattended by any servants, had been up to the Chapel of Peak Forest to be married, (as being extra-parochial, the Vicar at that time exercised the same privilege as the parson of Gretna Green, and married any couple that came to him, without making anyimpertinent enquiries concerning them,) and on their return, wishing to take Castleton in their way home, and being strangers in the country, found themselves benighted at the Winnats." "Here they were seized by five miners, dragged into a barn, robbed of a great sum of money, and then murdered. In vain the lady sought them to spare her husband; vainly he strove to defend his wife. While one part of them were employed in cutting the gentleman's throat, another of the villains, stepping behind the lady, struck a pick-axe into her head, which instantly killed her. Their horses were found, some days after, with their saddles and bridles still on them, in that great waste called Peak Forest; and Eldon Hole was examined for their riders, but without effect. They were then taken to Chatsworth, (the Duke of Devonshire being Lord of the Manor,) and ran there as 'waifs,' but never were claimed, and it is said the saddles are yet preserved there. This murder, thus perpetrated in silence, though committed by so large a company, remained a secret till the death of the last of the murderers; but Heaven, ever watchful to punish such horrid wretches, rendered the fate of all the five singularly awful. One, named Nicholas Cock, fell down one of the Winnats, and was killed on the spot. John Bradshaw, another of the murderers, was crushed to death by a stone which fell upon him near the place where the poor victims were buried. A third, named Thomas Hall, became a suicide; a fourth, Francis Butler, after many attempts to destroy himself, died raging mad; and the fifth, after experiencing all the torments of remorse and despair which an ill-spent life can inflict on a sinner's death-bed, could not expire till he had disclosed the particulars of the horrid deed."
Christians, to my tragic dittyDeign to lend a patient ear,If your breasts e'er heav'd with pity,Now prepare to shed a tear.Once there lived a tender virgin,Virtuous, fair, and young was she,Daughter of a wealthy lordling,But a haughty man was he.Many suitors, rich and mighty,For this beauteous damsel strove,But she all their offers slighted,None could wake her soul to love.One alone, of manners noble,Yet with slender fortune blessed,Caus'd this lady's bosom trouble,Raised the flame within her breast.Mutual was the blissful passion,Stronger and stronger still it grew;Henry liv'd but for his Clara,Clara but her Henry knew.But, alas! their bliss how transient,Earthly joy but leads to care:Henry sought her haughty parentAnd implor'd his daughter fair—Dar'd to ask the wealthy lordling,For the damsel's willing hand,—Pleaded with respectful fervour,Who could his request withstand?Clara's father,—he withstood it,He the ardent suit denied,—To a house so poor, though noble,Never would he be allied.Bade him seek a love more equal,Banish Clara from his mind,For he should no more behold her,—She,—poor maid, he close confin'd.Hapless Henry, thus rejected,Lost, unfriended, and forlorn,Wretched, sad, by all neglected,His fond heart with anguish torn.Then, to crown his bosom's sorrow,News was whisper'd in his ear,Clara on the coming morrow,Would a lordling's bride appear.Wild, distracted, mad with phrenzy,To the father's house he flew,There determin'd to behold her,And to breathe his last adieu.Joyous on the nuptial even,Round the sparkling festal board,With a crowd of guests carousing,Sat this rich and haughty lord.Left a moment unattended,Clara soon that moment seiz'd,First to heav'n her sire commended,Then fled from home, tho' weeping, pleas'd.Henry gain'd the castle portal,A footstep Clara's fears alarm'd;She stops,—she lists,—they came,—fast panting,Henry caught her in his arms.Now no time for fond endearments,Swift on wings of love they fled;Till from father's house far distant,Father's frowns no more they dread.Then before the sacred altar,They in wedlock join'd their hands:Long their souls had been unitedIn indissoluble bands.Now with virtuous rapture burning,Whilst fond hope encreas'd the flame;Tow'rds their home again returning,To this lonesome place they came.Christian, shall I close my story?Words can never tell the tale;—To relate a scene so bloody,All the pow'rs of language fail.In that glen so dark and dismal,Five ruffians met this youthful pair;Long the lover bravely struggled,Fought to save his bride so fair.But at last, o'erpowr'd and breathless,Faint he sinks beneath their pow'r:Joyful shouts the demon Murder,In this gloomy midnight hour.Bids them not to rest with plunder,But their souls with rage inspires,All their dark and flinty bosoms,With infernal malice fires.High they lift the murd'rous weapon,Wretches, hear ye not her cries?High they lift the murd'rous weapon?Lo! her love, her husband dies!Rocks, why stood ye so unmoved?Earth, why op'dst thou not thy womb?Lightnings, tempests, did ye slumber?Scap'd these hell-hounds instant doom?High they lift the murd'rous weapon,Who can 'bide her piercing shriek?'Tis done——the dale is wrapt in silence,On their hands her life-blood reeks.Dark and darker grows the welkin,Through the dale the whirlwind howls;On its head the black cloud low'ring,Threat'ning now, the grey rock scowls.Conscience, where are now thine arrows?Does the murd'rer feel the smart?Death and Grave, where are your terrors?Written in the murd'rer's heart.Yes, he sees their ghastly spectresEver rising on his view;Eyes wide glaring,—face distorted,Quiv'ring lips of livid hue.Ever sees the life-blood flowing,Ever feels the reeking stream,Ever hearshislast weak groaning,Mingled withherdying scream.Christians, I have told my ditty,If you shudder not with fear,If your breasts can glow with pity,Can you now withhold a tear?
Christians, to my tragic dittyDeign to lend a patient ear,If your breasts e'er heav'd with pity,Now prepare to shed a tear.
Once there lived a tender virgin,Virtuous, fair, and young was she,Daughter of a wealthy lordling,But a haughty man was he.
Many suitors, rich and mighty,For this beauteous damsel strove,But she all their offers slighted,None could wake her soul to love.
One alone, of manners noble,Yet with slender fortune blessed,Caus'd this lady's bosom trouble,Raised the flame within her breast.
Mutual was the blissful passion,Stronger and stronger still it grew;Henry liv'd but for his Clara,Clara but her Henry knew.
But, alas! their bliss how transient,Earthly joy but leads to care:Henry sought her haughty parentAnd implor'd his daughter fair—
Dar'd to ask the wealthy lordling,For the damsel's willing hand,—Pleaded with respectful fervour,Who could his request withstand?
Clara's father,—he withstood it,He the ardent suit denied,—To a house so poor, though noble,Never would he be allied.
Bade him seek a love more equal,Banish Clara from his mind,For he should no more behold her,—She,—poor maid, he close confin'd.
Hapless Henry, thus rejected,Lost, unfriended, and forlorn,Wretched, sad, by all neglected,His fond heart with anguish torn.
Then, to crown his bosom's sorrow,News was whisper'd in his ear,Clara on the coming morrow,Would a lordling's bride appear.
Wild, distracted, mad with phrenzy,To the father's house he flew,There determin'd to behold her,And to breathe his last adieu.
Joyous on the nuptial even,Round the sparkling festal board,With a crowd of guests carousing,Sat this rich and haughty lord.
Left a moment unattended,Clara soon that moment seiz'd,First to heav'n her sire commended,Then fled from home, tho' weeping, pleas'd.
Henry gain'd the castle portal,A footstep Clara's fears alarm'd;She stops,—she lists,—they came,—fast panting,Henry caught her in his arms.
Now no time for fond endearments,Swift on wings of love they fled;Till from father's house far distant,Father's frowns no more they dread.
Then before the sacred altar,They in wedlock join'd their hands:Long their souls had been unitedIn indissoluble bands.
Now with virtuous rapture burning,Whilst fond hope encreas'd the flame;Tow'rds their home again returning,To this lonesome place they came.
Christian, shall I close my story?Words can never tell the tale;—To relate a scene so bloody,All the pow'rs of language fail.
In that glen so dark and dismal,Five ruffians met this youthful pair;Long the lover bravely struggled,Fought to save his bride so fair.
But at last, o'erpowr'd and breathless,Faint he sinks beneath their pow'r:Joyful shouts the demon Murder,In this gloomy midnight hour.
Bids them not to rest with plunder,But their souls with rage inspires,All their dark and flinty bosoms,With infernal malice fires.
High they lift the murd'rous weapon,Wretches, hear ye not her cries?High they lift the murd'rous weapon?Lo! her love, her husband dies!
Rocks, why stood ye so unmoved?Earth, why op'dst thou not thy womb?Lightnings, tempests, did ye slumber?Scap'd these hell-hounds instant doom?
High they lift the murd'rous weapon,Who can 'bide her piercing shriek?'Tis done——the dale is wrapt in silence,On their hands her life-blood reeks.
Dark and darker grows the welkin,Through the dale the whirlwind howls;On its head the black cloud low'ring,Threat'ning now, the grey rock scowls.
Conscience, where are now thine arrows?Does the murd'rer feel the smart?Death and Grave, where are your terrors?Written in the murd'rer's heart.
Yes, he sees their ghastly spectresEver rising on his view;Eyes wide glaring,—face distorted,Quiv'ring lips of livid hue.
Ever sees the life-blood flowing,Ever feels the reeking stream,Ever hearshislast weak groaning,Mingled withherdying scream.
Christians, I have told my ditty,If you shudder not with fear,If your breasts can glow with pity,Can you now withhold a tear?
For the following curious old Derbyshire song I am indebted to my good friend James Orchard Halliwell, F.S.A. It occurs in Playford's "Musical Companion," printed in 1673, and has not, so far as I am aware, been reprinted till now. "Honest John Playford," who was a printer as well as clerk of the Temple Church, London, published several of the most famous music-books of his day, and which at the present time are of the most service of any in determining the dates and names of tunes to which the old ballads, &c., were sung. In 1651 he published "A Musical Banquet, in three books, consisting of Lessons for the Lyra Viol, Allmains, and Sarabands, choice Catches and Rounds, &c.;" and again with the title, "A Banquet of Musick, set forth in three several varieties of Musick: first, Lessons for the Lyra Violl; the second, Ayres and Jiggs for the Violin; the third, Rounds and Catches: all which are fitted to the capacity of young practitioners in Music." Among his many other publications, his most famous was "The English Dancing Master, or Plaine and Easie Rules for the Dancing of Country Dances, with the Tune to each Dance," which passed through many editions, with additional tunes, &c. The "Musical Companion" was first published in 1673, and from this edition the following "Gipsies Song" and music are taken. The work contained two hundred and eighteen compositions, of which one hundred and forty-three were catches and rounds, and the remainder glees, airs, part-songs, &c. This work was highly popular, and between the years 1673 and 1730 it passed through ten editions.
The "Gipsies' Song" here given was for two voices, and was composed by Robert Johnson.
Music
Music
[Listen]
Lyrics:From the famous Peak ofDarby,and the Devil's A—that's hard by;where we yearly make our musters;There theGypsiesthrong in clusters.Be not frighted with our fashion,though we seem a tatter'd Nation;We account our Raggs our Riches,so our tricks exceed our stitches:Give us Bacon, Rinds of Walnuts,Shells of Cockels and of Small Nuts:Ribonds, Bells, and Saffron Linnin;And all the World is ours to win in.
Lyrics:
From the famous Peak ofDarby,and the Devil's A—that's hard by;where we yearly make our musters;There theGypsiesthrong in clusters.Be not frighted with our fashion,though we seem a tatter'd Nation;We account our Raggs our Riches,so our tricks exceed our stitches:Give us Bacon, Rinds of Walnuts,Shells of Cockels and of Small Nuts:Ribonds, Bells, and Saffron Linnin;And all the World is ours to win in.
The following ballad, recounting the droll mistake made by a woman at Spondon, near Derby, who thoughtgreentea was to be boiled asgreens, and eaten accordingly as "cabbage and bacon," was printed in the "spirit of English wit," in 1809. Ittells its own tale. It may be well to remark that flax was, some years ago, much grown in this part of Derbyshire: some meadows at Duffield through which the turnpike road passes, are still known by the name ofFlax-holmes.
'Twas more than fifty years ago,In Spondon's simple village,Spondon, in Derbyshire, I trow,Well known for useful tillage.There dwelt a pair of simple souls—The husband a flax-dresser;His wife dressed victuals for his jowls,And darn'd his hose—God bless her.Now these poor folks had got a friend,Who dwelt in London city;And oft some present he would sendTo John and dame, in pity.Now, reader, if you'll backwards turn,And read this tale's beginning,Full half-a-century you'll learnThis story has been spinning.Now near that time, you must be told,Tea first came into fashion;Tea, which oft made a husband scold,And bounce about in passion.At least, 'mongst those of middling lifeIt made a hideous riot;To have a gay tea-drinking wife,A man could ne'er be quiet.'Twas thought as bad as now, I ween,—A sin since then grown bigger,—Were a man's wife, by guzzling gin,To cut a reeling figure.But London, who drank tea the first,Grew reconcil'd unto it;And, though 'twas thought of crimes the worst,The ladies still would do it.Now, reader, the flax-dresser's friend(The flax-dresser of Spondon)Thought a good pound of tea he'd sendTo please them both from London.But he forgot, good man, I trow,That in this favoured nation,Good things, or bad, still travel slow,Like cow-inoculation.Nor ever dreamt, you may believe,That they had no more notionWhat was the gift they did receive,Than of the Western Ocean.So when it came, long ponder'd theyHow 'twas to be devour'd;They wish'd he'd sent some hint to say,For they were quite o'erpower'd.At length, right well they both agreed'Twere best it should be taken,By way of greens, when next they'd need,With some of their fat bacon.Next day arrived, the flax-man's wifeSet on her sauce-pan flattish,Popp'd in the tea, then took a knifeAnd cut some bacon fattish.The bacon soon enough was done,But still the tea, so evil,Kept very tough—the clock struck One;She wish'd it at the devil.For at the hour of noon each day,These humble friends of labourTook their plain meal—nor only they,For so did every neighbour.Finding it hard, though tasted oft,She bawl'd out like a sinner,"This cursed stuff will ne'er be soft,So, John! come down to dinner."
'Twas more than fifty years ago,In Spondon's simple village,Spondon, in Derbyshire, I trow,Well known for useful tillage.
There dwelt a pair of simple souls—The husband a flax-dresser;His wife dressed victuals for his jowls,And darn'd his hose—God bless her.
Now these poor folks had got a friend,Who dwelt in London city;And oft some present he would sendTo John and dame, in pity.
Now, reader, if you'll backwards turn,And read this tale's beginning,Full half-a-century you'll learnThis story has been spinning.
Now near that time, you must be told,Tea first came into fashion;Tea, which oft made a husband scold,And bounce about in passion.
At least, 'mongst those of middling lifeIt made a hideous riot;To have a gay tea-drinking wife,A man could ne'er be quiet.
'Twas thought as bad as now, I ween,—A sin since then grown bigger,—Were a man's wife, by guzzling gin,To cut a reeling figure.
But London, who drank tea the first,Grew reconcil'd unto it;And, though 'twas thought of crimes the worst,The ladies still would do it.
Now, reader, the flax-dresser's friend(The flax-dresser of Spondon)Thought a good pound of tea he'd sendTo please them both from London.
But he forgot, good man, I trow,That in this favoured nation,Good things, or bad, still travel slow,Like cow-inoculation.
Nor ever dreamt, you may believe,That they had no more notionWhat was the gift they did receive,Than of the Western Ocean.
So when it came, long ponder'd theyHow 'twas to be devour'd;They wish'd he'd sent some hint to say,For they were quite o'erpower'd.
At length, right well they both agreed'Twere best it should be taken,By way of greens, when next they'd need,With some of their fat bacon.
Next day arrived, the flax-man's wifeSet on her sauce-pan flattish,Popp'd in the tea, then took a knifeAnd cut some bacon fattish.
The bacon soon enough was done,But still the tea, so evil,Kept very tough—the clock struck One;She wish'd it at the devil.
For at the hour of noon each day,These humble friends of labourTook their plain meal—nor only they,For so did every neighbour.
Finding it hard, though tasted oft,She bawl'd out like a sinner,"This cursed stuff will ne'er be soft,So, John! come down to dinner."
On page 118 I have spoken of the game of foot-ball as played at Derby. Ashborne was also one of the strongholds of this manly game, and in that pleasant little town it has been played from time immemorial, until "put down" by the strong arm of the law—not without much unpleasantness and strenuous opposition—a few years ago. The following song was sung (and I believe written) by Mr. Fawcett, the comedian, at the Ashborne theatre, on the 26th of February, 1821.
I'll sing you a song of a neat little place,Top full of good humour and beauty and grace;Where coaches are rolling by day and by night,And in playing at Foot-Ball the people delight.Where health and good humour does always abound,And hospitality's cup flows freely around,Where friendship and harmony are to be found,In the neat little town of Ashborne.Shrove Tuesday, you know, is always the day,When pancake's the prelude, and Foot-Ball's the play,Where upwards and downwards men ready for fun,Like the French at the Battle of Waterloo run.And well may they run like the devil to pay,'Tis always the case as I have heard say,If a Derbyshire Foot-Ball man comes in the way,In the neat little town of Ashborne.There's Mappleton, Mayfield, Okeover and Thorpe,Can furnish some men that nothing can whop,And Bentley and Tissington always in tune,And Clifton and Sturston are ready as soon.Then there's Snelston and Wyaston, Shirley and all,Who all are good men at brave Whittaker's call;And who come to kick at Paul Gettliffe's Foot-Ball,In the neat little town of Ashborne.The Ball is turn'd up, and the Bull Ring's the place,And as fierce as a bull-dog's is every man's face;Whilst kicking and shouting and howling they run,Until every stitch in the Ball comes undone.There's Faulkner and Smith, Bodge Hand and some more,Who hide it and hug it and kick it so sore,And deserve a good whopping at every man's doorIn the neat little town of Ashborne.If they get to the Park the upwards men shoutAnd think all the downwards men put to the rout,But a right about face they soon have to learn,And the upwards men shout and huzza in their turn.Then into Shaw Croft where the bold and the brave,Get a ducking in trying the Foot-Ball to save;For 'tis well known they fear not a watery grave,In defence of the Foot-Ball at Ashborne.If into Church Street should the Ball take its way,The White Hart and Wheat Sheaf will cause some delay,For from tasting their liquor no man can refrain,Till he rolls like the Foot-Ball in Warin's tear-brain.Then they run and they shout, they bawl and they laugh,They kick and huzza, still the liquor they quaffTill another Foot-Ball has been cut into half,By the unfair players of Ashborne.
I'll sing you a song of a neat little place,Top full of good humour and beauty and grace;Where coaches are rolling by day and by night,And in playing at Foot-Ball the people delight.Where health and good humour does always abound,And hospitality's cup flows freely around,Where friendship and harmony are to be found,In the neat little town of Ashborne.
Shrove Tuesday, you know, is always the day,When pancake's the prelude, and Foot-Ball's the play,Where upwards and downwards men ready for fun,Like the French at the Battle of Waterloo run.And well may they run like the devil to pay,'Tis always the case as I have heard say,If a Derbyshire Foot-Ball man comes in the way,In the neat little town of Ashborne.
There's Mappleton, Mayfield, Okeover and Thorpe,Can furnish some men that nothing can whop,And Bentley and Tissington always in tune,And Clifton and Sturston are ready as soon.Then there's Snelston and Wyaston, Shirley and all,Who all are good men at brave Whittaker's call;And who come to kick at Paul Gettliffe's Foot-Ball,In the neat little town of Ashborne.
The Ball is turn'd up, and the Bull Ring's the place,And as fierce as a bull-dog's is every man's face;Whilst kicking and shouting and howling they run,Until every stitch in the Ball comes undone.There's Faulkner and Smith, Bodge Hand and some more,Who hide it and hug it and kick it so sore,And deserve a good whopping at every man's doorIn the neat little town of Ashborne.
If they get to the Park the upwards men shoutAnd think all the downwards men put to the rout,But a right about face they soon have to learn,And the upwards men shout and huzza in their turn.Then into Shaw Croft where the bold and the brave,Get a ducking in trying the Foot-Ball to save;For 'tis well known they fear not a watery grave,In defence of the Foot-Ball at Ashborne.
If into Church Street should the Ball take its way,The White Hart and Wheat Sheaf will cause some delay,For from tasting their liquor no man can refrain,Till he rolls like the Foot-Ball in Warin's tear-brain.Then they run and they shout, they bawl and they laugh,They kick and huzza, still the liquor they quaffTill another Foot-Ball has been cut into half,By the unfair players of Ashborne.
The following admirable ballad, the production of the Rev. W. R. Bell, formerly curate of Bakewell, is founded partly onfacts, and partly onlocal traditions. The unfortunate hero of the story was the Rev. Robert Lomas, Incumbent of Monyash, who was found dead, as described in the ballad, on the 12th of October, 1776. The scene of the ballad comprises the towns of Bakewell andMonyash, and the mountainous country between them, the western part of which—that bordering on Lathkiln and Harlow Dales—being one of the most romantic districts of the Peak. The ballad first appeared in the "Reliquary," in 1864.
The Parson of Monyash, late one eve,Sat in his old oak arm-chair;And a playful flame in the low turf fireOft-times shewed him sitting there.What was it that made that kind-hearted manSit pensively there alone?Did other men's sorrows make sad his heart?Or, say—a glimpse of his own?Black dark was that night and stormy withal,It rained as 'twould rain a sea;And round and within the old Parsonage houseThe wind moaned piteously.Still sat he deep musing till midnight hour,And then in a waking dream—He quailed to hear mid the tempest a crash,And eke a wild piercing scream.O mercy! cried he, with faltering breath,What sounds are these which I hear?May evil be far from both me and mine!Good Lord, be thou to us near!No longer sat he in that old arm-chair,But prayed and lay down in bed;And strove hard to sleep, and not hear the stormThat scowled and raged o'er his head.But sleep seldom comes when 'tis most desired,And least to a troubled mind;And the Parson lay wake long time, I ween,Ere soft repose he could find.As the dark hours of night passed slowly on,He slept as weary man will;But light was his sleep, and broken his rest,And sad his fore-dread of ill.Thus restless he lay, and at early dawnHe dream'd that he fell amain,Down—down an abyss of fathomless depth,Loud shrieking for help in vain.He woke up at once with a sudden shock,And threw out his arms wide-spread;"Good heavens!" he gasped, "what ill-omen is this?Where am I—with quick or dead?"Right well was he pleased to find 'twas a dream—That still he was safe and sound:With the last shades of night, fear passed away,And joy once again came round.The morning was calm, and the storm was hushed,Nor wind nor rain swept the sky;And betimes he arose, for bound was heTo Bakewell that day to hie.Old Hugh brought his horse to the garden gate,And saw him all safe astride;"Good-bye!" quoth the Parson; quoth Hugh, "good-bye!I wish you a pleasant ride!"Forth rode he across the lone trackless moor,His thoughts on his errand bentAnd hoped he right soon to come back againThe very same way he went.The journey to Bakewell he safely madeA little before mid-day:But Vicar and people were all at church,[109]Where they were oft wont to pray."I'll put up my beast," quoth the Parson, "here,At the White Horse hostelry;[110]And go up to Church, that when prayers are done,The Vicar I there may see."But ere he could reach the Old Newark door,[111]Both Priest and people were gone;And the Vicar to soothe a dying man,To Over-Haddon sped on.'Twas three past noon when the Vicar came back,The Parson he asked to dine,And time stole a march on the heedless guest,Six struck as he sat at wine.Up rose he from table and took his leave,Quite startled to find it late;He called for his horse at the hostelry,And homeward was soon agate.As he rode up the hill, past All Saints' Church,The moon just one glance bestowed,And the wierd-like form of the old Stone Cross,In the Church-yard, dimly shewed.Still higher and higher he climbed the hill,Yet more and more dark it grew;The drizzling rain became sleet as he climbed,And the wind more keenly blew.Ah! thick was the mist on the moor that night,Poor wight, he had lost his way!The north-east wind blowing strong on his right,To the left had made him stray.And now he was close to lone Haddon Grove,Bewildered upon the moor;Slow leading his horse that followed behind,Himself groping on before.Still onward and leeward, at last he cameTo the edge of Harlow Dale;From his cave[112]the Lathkil a warning roared,But louder then howled the gale.On the brink of Fox Torr the doomed man stood,And tugged the bridle in vain;His horse would not move—then quick started back,And, snap, went each bridle-rein!Then headlong fell he o'er the lofty cliff,He shrieked, and sank in the gloom;Down—down to the bottom he swiftly sped,And death was his dreadful doom.The dead man lay cold on the blood-stained rocks—The darkness did him enshroud;—And the owls high up in the ivy-clad Torr,Bewailed him all night full loud.O little thought they in the old thatched cot,Hard by the Parsonage gate;Their master they never again should see,Nor ope to him soon nor late!"This night is no better than last," quoth Hugh,"And master has not come back;I hope he is hale and safe housed with friends,And has of good cheer no lack."Quoth Betty, "I liked not his morning ride—I fear he's in evil plight—A Friday's venture's, no luck! I've heard say,God help him if out this night."At dawn of next day, old Betty went forthTo milk the cow in the shed;—And saw him sitting upon a large stone,All pale, and mute—with bare head.But a moment she turned her eyes away,A fall she heard and a groan;She looked again, but, no Parson was there,He'd vanished from off the stone!Soon spread the dread tale through Monyash town—They made a great hue and cry;And some off to this place—and some to that,To seek the lost man did hie.Bad tidings from Bakewell—no Parson there—No parson could else be found;'Twas noon, yet no tidings—they still searched on,And missed they no likely ground.At last the searchers went into the Dale,And there at the foot of Fox Torr—They found the Parson, all cold and dead,'Mong the rocks all stained with gore.They took up his corse—and six stalwart men,Slowly bore it along the Dale;And they laid the dead in his house that night,And many did him bewail.When time had passed over—a day or twain,They buried him in the grave;And his bones now rest in the lone Churchyard,Till doomsday them thence shall crave.O dread was the death of that luckless man—Not soon will it be forgot;The dismal story—for ages to come—Will often be told, I wot.You may not now see in Monyash townThe deadman's sear tuft of grass;But still it is there, in memory stored,And thence it never shall pass.You may not now find Fox Torr by that name,The swain thus knows it no more;But pointing thereat from the Lathkil grot,He'll shew you the Parson's Torr.And now, my dear friends, what more need I say?I've told you the story through:—If you've in the least been pleased with my song,Then I am well-pleased with you.
The Parson of Monyash, late one eve,Sat in his old oak arm-chair;And a playful flame in the low turf fireOft-times shewed him sitting there.
What was it that made that kind-hearted manSit pensively there alone?Did other men's sorrows make sad his heart?Or, say—a glimpse of his own?
Black dark was that night and stormy withal,It rained as 'twould rain a sea;And round and within the old Parsonage houseThe wind moaned piteously.
Still sat he deep musing till midnight hour,And then in a waking dream—He quailed to hear mid the tempest a crash,And eke a wild piercing scream.
O mercy! cried he, with faltering breath,What sounds are these which I hear?May evil be far from both me and mine!Good Lord, be thou to us near!
No longer sat he in that old arm-chair,But prayed and lay down in bed;And strove hard to sleep, and not hear the stormThat scowled and raged o'er his head.
But sleep seldom comes when 'tis most desired,And least to a troubled mind;And the Parson lay wake long time, I ween,Ere soft repose he could find.
As the dark hours of night passed slowly on,He slept as weary man will;But light was his sleep, and broken his rest,And sad his fore-dread of ill.
Thus restless he lay, and at early dawnHe dream'd that he fell amain,Down—down an abyss of fathomless depth,Loud shrieking for help in vain.
He woke up at once with a sudden shock,And threw out his arms wide-spread;"Good heavens!" he gasped, "what ill-omen is this?Where am I—with quick or dead?"
Right well was he pleased to find 'twas a dream—That still he was safe and sound:With the last shades of night, fear passed away,And joy once again came round.
The morning was calm, and the storm was hushed,Nor wind nor rain swept the sky;And betimes he arose, for bound was heTo Bakewell that day to hie.
Old Hugh brought his horse to the garden gate,And saw him all safe astride;"Good-bye!" quoth the Parson; quoth Hugh, "good-bye!I wish you a pleasant ride!"
Forth rode he across the lone trackless moor,His thoughts on his errand bentAnd hoped he right soon to come back againThe very same way he went.
The journey to Bakewell he safely madeA little before mid-day:But Vicar and people were all at church,[109]Where they were oft wont to pray.
"I'll put up my beast," quoth the Parson, "here,At the White Horse hostelry;[110]And go up to Church, that when prayers are done,The Vicar I there may see."
But ere he could reach the Old Newark door,[111]Both Priest and people were gone;And the Vicar to soothe a dying man,To Over-Haddon sped on.
'Twas three past noon when the Vicar came back,The Parson he asked to dine,And time stole a march on the heedless guest,Six struck as he sat at wine.
Up rose he from table and took his leave,Quite startled to find it late;He called for his horse at the hostelry,And homeward was soon agate.
As he rode up the hill, past All Saints' Church,The moon just one glance bestowed,And the wierd-like form of the old Stone Cross,In the Church-yard, dimly shewed.
Still higher and higher he climbed the hill,Yet more and more dark it grew;The drizzling rain became sleet as he climbed,And the wind more keenly blew.
Ah! thick was the mist on the moor that night,Poor wight, he had lost his way!The north-east wind blowing strong on his right,To the left had made him stray.
And now he was close to lone Haddon Grove,Bewildered upon the moor;Slow leading his horse that followed behind,Himself groping on before.
Still onward and leeward, at last he cameTo the edge of Harlow Dale;From his cave[112]the Lathkil a warning roared,But louder then howled the gale.
On the brink of Fox Torr the doomed man stood,And tugged the bridle in vain;His horse would not move—then quick started back,And, snap, went each bridle-rein!
Then headlong fell he o'er the lofty cliff,He shrieked, and sank in the gloom;Down—down to the bottom he swiftly sped,And death was his dreadful doom.
The dead man lay cold on the blood-stained rocks—The darkness did him enshroud;—And the owls high up in the ivy-clad Torr,Bewailed him all night full loud.
O little thought they in the old thatched cot,Hard by the Parsonage gate;Their master they never again should see,Nor ope to him soon nor late!
"This night is no better than last," quoth Hugh,"And master has not come back;I hope he is hale and safe housed with friends,And has of good cheer no lack."
Quoth Betty, "I liked not his morning ride—I fear he's in evil plight—A Friday's venture's, no luck! I've heard say,God help him if out this night."
At dawn of next day, old Betty went forthTo milk the cow in the shed;—And saw him sitting upon a large stone,All pale, and mute—with bare head.
But a moment she turned her eyes away,A fall she heard and a groan;She looked again, but, no Parson was there,He'd vanished from off the stone!
Soon spread the dread tale through Monyash town—They made a great hue and cry;And some off to this place—and some to that,To seek the lost man did hie.
Bad tidings from Bakewell—no Parson there—No parson could else be found;'Twas noon, yet no tidings—they still searched on,And missed they no likely ground.
At last the searchers went into the Dale,And there at the foot of Fox Torr—They found the Parson, all cold and dead,'Mong the rocks all stained with gore.
They took up his corse—and six stalwart men,Slowly bore it along the Dale;And they laid the dead in his house that night,And many did him bewail.
When time had passed over—a day or twain,They buried him in the grave;And his bones now rest in the lone Churchyard,Till doomsday them thence shall crave.
O dread was the death of that luckless man—Not soon will it be forgot;The dismal story—for ages to come—Will often be told, I wot.
You may not now see in Monyash townThe deadman's sear tuft of grass;But still it is there, in memory stored,And thence it never shall pass.
You may not now find Fox Torr by that name,The swain thus knows it no more;But pointing thereat from the Lathkil grot,He'll shew you the Parson's Torr.
And now, my dear friends, what more need I say?I've told you the story through:—If you've in the least been pleased with my song,Then I am well-pleased with you.
⁂ In the following Index the titles of the Ballads are given inSmall Capitals, and the first lines initalics.