☞I sing of Asses:——(A Motto of my own.)TwoJack-Asses, (theFather, and hisSon,)Who, after work, onNun's-Greenus'd to runExactly like twoBards;—the other dayStood in amuse;—and then began to brayWith human voice;—ForBalaam'sbreed were they.Quothold Ned, to hisLad;—"I have been told,Nun's-Green, my little dear, is to be soldTo pave, and light, old Derby; (fulsome town!)And save thePoorfromlaying money down.Now is itfair, that you and I should beDepriv'd of our justRights, andProperty?It is anInsulton theJack-Asskind,Who have possess'd thisGreen, time out of mind;And in Co-partnership withPigsandGeese(A truly ancient, honorable race!)Enjoy'd abit o' mouth, and Common run,Quite down fromJohn of Ghent, to you my son."Say littleDavid, why the devil shouldAssesFind fault withdirtyways, andnarrowpasses?These wildProjectors, are theAssesfoes,Forpavements, boy, will only hurt ourtoes;And when the town's improv'd, in proud arrayWe poorJack-Asses, shall be driven away!Nopanniersthen, forsooth, must there be seen,So let us alluniteto keepNun's-Green."The youthfulAss, brim full ofspitefulIre,Prick'd up his ears; and answer'dthus, hisSire,"This shall not be;—this shall not come to pass;They shall not rob us of ourlawful grass!And if to Parliament theKnavesshould stray,We'll throwPetitionsin theRobbers'way."So saying, youngDavid, on all fours bent,ToLawyer Goose, for pious counsel went:Quilltook hisfee, (thelifeandsoulof Law)Then heard theCase; andthus, unscrew'd his jaw:"You mustpetition, Sir; and every creatureThat isaggriev'd, must put hispentopaper:"As hunters'pudding, we most toothsome find,The more withcurrantsor withplumbs, 'tis lin'd;So yourPetitionwill disturb their dreams,The more 'tis stuff'd, withany kind of names.""Thank ye," quoth he; "my business now is done;Back to myDaddy, andNun's-GreenI'll run;"So saying, swift he flew; andEdwardfoundAll at his ease; and rolling on the ground:Thescrawlhe read; and all compos'dly then,Stretch'd forth his hoofs; and 'twixt them held his pen,The paper sign'd, and after him theGeese,AndPigs, aggriev'd;—fill'd up each vacant space.Yet not enough, to please his craving maw,And answer all the goodintentsof Law,YoungDaviddid agloriousthought reveal;"ThatRats, andMice, would suffer by theSale!And by destroyingSwamps, andwholesome Bogs,It must invade thepropertyofFrogs!Sotheseamongst the rest, as I divineShould be solicited, forthwith tosign.""Right;" said oldNed, "you reason well, my son;Directly to thedikes, andguttersrun;And if you cannot there, getnamesenough,Employ someRatto canvass everysough."Away he went;—away, away, went he;Out came my LadyFroggy, who but she!Smirk'd at thepaper, nibb'd her crow quill pen,Then sign'd hernameagainst thesenaughty men.Next to theMice, youngDavidwent with speed;Poor little souls, they could notwriteorread!But well inclin'd, to stop, thesehorrid scenes,Employ'd theJack-Ass, to write down their names.NowDavidgot the whole, engross'd on skins,Forming a pile, much higher than one's shins!And when roll'd up, upon his back 'twas ty'd,Who, then forLondonwent, instately pride!But here's theRub;—when Parliament, serene,Consider'dwell, the business ofNun's-Green;And byeachhouse, most clearly understood,That 'twas a Plan, design'd forPublic Good,They curs'd thenames, and laugh'd at all therigs,Contriv'd by Asses, Geese, Frogs, Mice, and Pigs.
☞I sing of Asses:——(A Motto of my own.)
TwoJack-Asses, (theFather, and hisSon,)Who, after work, onNun's-Greenus'd to runExactly like twoBards;—the other dayStood in amuse;—and then began to brayWith human voice;—ForBalaam'sbreed were they.
Quothold Ned, to hisLad;—"I have been told,Nun's-Green, my little dear, is to be soldTo pave, and light, old Derby; (fulsome town!)And save thePoorfromlaying money down.Now is itfair, that you and I should beDepriv'd of our justRights, andProperty?It is anInsulton theJack-Asskind,Who have possess'd thisGreen, time out of mind;And in Co-partnership withPigsandGeese(A truly ancient, honorable race!)Enjoy'd abit o' mouth, and Common run,Quite down fromJohn of Ghent, to you my son.
"Say littleDavid, why the devil shouldAssesFind fault withdirtyways, andnarrowpasses?These wildProjectors, are theAssesfoes,Forpavements, boy, will only hurt ourtoes;And when the town's improv'd, in proud arrayWe poorJack-Asses, shall be driven away!Nopanniersthen, forsooth, must there be seen,So let us alluniteto keepNun's-Green."
The youthfulAss, brim full ofspitefulIre,Prick'd up his ears; and answer'dthus, hisSire,"This shall not be;—this shall not come to pass;They shall not rob us of ourlawful grass!And if to Parliament theKnavesshould stray,We'll throwPetitionsin theRobbers'way."
So saying, youngDavid, on all fours bent,ToLawyer Goose, for pious counsel went:Quilltook hisfee, (thelifeandsoulof Law)Then heard theCase; andthus, unscrew'd his jaw:"You mustpetition, Sir; and every creatureThat isaggriev'd, must put hispentopaper:
"As hunters'pudding, we most toothsome find,The more withcurrantsor withplumbs, 'tis lin'd;So yourPetitionwill disturb their dreams,The more 'tis stuff'd, withany kind of names."
"Thank ye," quoth he; "my business now is done;Back to myDaddy, andNun's-GreenI'll run;"So saying, swift he flew; andEdwardfoundAll at his ease; and rolling on the ground:Thescrawlhe read; and all compos'dly then,Stretch'd forth his hoofs; and 'twixt them held his pen,The paper sign'd, and after him theGeese,AndPigs, aggriev'd;—fill'd up each vacant space.Yet not enough, to please his craving maw,And answer all the goodintentsof Law,YoungDaviddid agloriousthought reveal;"ThatRats, andMice, would suffer by theSale!And by destroyingSwamps, andwholesome Bogs,It must invade thepropertyofFrogs!Sotheseamongst the rest, as I divineShould be solicited, forthwith tosign."
"Right;" said oldNed, "you reason well, my son;Directly to thedikes, andguttersrun;And if you cannot there, getnamesenough,Employ someRatto canvass everysough."
Away he went;—away, away, went he;Out came my LadyFroggy, who but she!Smirk'd at thepaper, nibb'd her crow quill pen,Then sign'd hernameagainst thesenaughty men.
Next to theMice, youngDavidwent with speed;Poor little souls, they could notwriteorread!But well inclin'd, to stop, thesehorrid scenes,Employ'd theJack-Ass, to write down their names.
NowDavidgot the whole, engross'd on skins,Forming a pile, much higher than one's shins!And when roll'd up, upon his back 'twas ty'd,Who, then forLondonwent, instately pride!
But here's theRub;—when Parliament, serene,Consider'dwell, the business ofNun's-Green;And byeachhouse, most clearly understood,That 'twas a Plan, design'd forPublic Good,They curs'd thenames, and laugh'd at all therigs,Contriv'd by Asses, Geese, Frogs, Mice, and Pigs.
To the tune of Chivy Chase.
God prosper long fairDerbyTown,And may it still be free;From hellish plots of every kind,Against its liberty.A juncto formed of wicked men,Though rich its true they be,They'd rob the poor of Common-right,That they may go shot free.The Prebyterians Jesuit like,The established Church took in;To do the drudgery of their work,And trudged through thick and thin.Poor silly men to be misled,By that deceitful race;That would cut your throat behind your back,But smile before your face.From the Town-hall they issue forth,WithEunuchat their head;Lazarus the Banker followed him,You'd have thought they wanted bread.Next one from beggar's blood that sprung,To opulence grown is he;Andstrutsalong with iron rod,And swears you shan't be free.A tawnySmithwas of the gang,And others as well as he;They've neither house nor land in town,Yet want your property.A brazen face with empty skull,In Dibden's Tour well known;That cares not what he does or says,So that the poor's o'erthrown.SlyFoxestoo with sillyhopes,Expect to have their share;Of all the Common-right you have,Their pockets for to spare.Lo! deep in thought as Tragic Muse,With dagger to stab behind;Lo! another as bad as he,And much of the same kind.The Scribbling kind with parchment roll,For you to sign away,The Right you have uponNun's-Green,Their charges to defray.There are many others of the gang,As bad as bad can be;That lie, fawn, and threat, and use deceit,To get your property.OldShot-baghe has chang'd about,That his Mills may go shot-free;Some others too have done the same,Such worthless men there be.But all's a blank that they have done,If you but true will be;To the first promise that was made,The friends to liberty.Now Mundy's join'd with Parker Coke,And others of renown;Those tyrants for to circumvent,To save this goodly town.Those veterans that have stood the brunt,Of many a well fought day;Will always cheer you in the front,And shew you the right way.For to be free as Britons ought,And have a right to be;In spite of these tyrannic fools,That want your liberty.
God prosper long fairDerbyTown,And may it still be free;From hellish plots of every kind,Against its liberty.
A juncto formed of wicked men,Though rich its true they be,They'd rob the poor of Common-right,That they may go shot free.
The Prebyterians Jesuit like,The established Church took in;To do the drudgery of their work,And trudged through thick and thin.
Poor silly men to be misled,By that deceitful race;That would cut your throat behind your back,But smile before your face.
From the Town-hall they issue forth,WithEunuchat their head;Lazarus the Banker followed him,You'd have thought they wanted bread.
Next one from beggar's blood that sprung,To opulence grown is he;Andstrutsalong with iron rod,And swears you shan't be free.
A tawnySmithwas of the gang,And others as well as he;They've neither house nor land in town,Yet want your property.
A brazen face with empty skull,In Dibden's Tour well known;That cares not what he does or says,So that the poor's o'erthrown.
SlyFoxestoo with sillyhopes,Expect to have their share;Of all the Common-right you have,Their pockets for to spare.
Lo! deep in thought as Tragic Muse,With dagger to stab behind;Lo! another as bad as he,And much of the same kind.
The Scribbling kind with parchment roll,For you to sign away,The Right you have uponNun's-Green,Their charges to defray.
There are many others of the gang,As bad as bad can be;That lie, fawn, and threat, and use deceit,To get your property.
OldShot-baghe has chang'd about,That his Mills may go shot-free;Some others too have done the same,Such worthless men there be.
But all's a blank that they have done,If you but true will be;To the first promise that was made,The friends to liberty.
Now Mundy's join'd with Parker Coke,And others of renown;Those tyrants for to circumvent,To save this goodly town.
Those veterans that have stood the brunt,Of many a well fought day;Will always cheer you in the front,And shew you the right way.
For to be free as Britons ought,And have a right to be;In spite of these tyrannic fools,That want your liberty.
Tune—Bow, Wow, Wow.[89]
Come listen to me, neighbours all, attend unto my story,My song concerns notChurchorKing, neitherWhignorTory;But my Ballad is to caution you, against the machinations,Of those who mean t' impose on you by false insinuations.Bow, wow, wow.There's JEMMY PAD, thatIrish Lad, who heads the clan of faction,Swears by theHoly Pokernow, he'll make us all distraction,To keep Nun's Green thatpreciousLand, for his owndearadvantage,He means by lies to dupe you all, and GOBBLE up the Pasturage.Bow, wow, wow.Good Twenty Pounds a year, this son of a Teague Sir,Of lawful British money is regularly paid Sir,For driving the Poor Geese, from the Land their inheritance,Whereby he addeth Riches toIrish Impertinence.Bow, wow, wow.There's TINKER JOE comes next, because next in colour,He tells you all he'll make a speech, but alas, he's no Scholar;He'll talk of Lords and Baronets his Juvenile connections,By mending all their Pots and Pans, he's gained their affections.Bow, wow, wow.To claim your attention more, he'll talk about the Parliament,And say how many Members, oldRuby Facehas thither sent,That his interest is great in affairs of the nation,Though stillBaboonof Nottingham,Nun's Greenshall be his station.Bow, wow, wow.OROONOKO next presents himself, t' engage your attention,As oft' before theBearhas done, with many a vile intention,By blasts and oaths to lead you all, against your common senses,For tho' almost an Ideot, he'll forge some false Pretences.Bow, wow, wow.But none of you've forgot, thesixteenthofSeptember,Th' exalted part he then perform'd, you all must well remember;By such a wretch you'll ne'er be led, against your inclinations,Who persecutes the poor man withGame Informations.Bow, wow, wow.Then join neighbours all, without hesitation,Resist these Imposters, without exceptation,May all of us with one accord, oppose this host of evil,And send Sergeant Pad and Co. to Canvas with the D—l.Bow, wow, wow.
Come listen to me, neighbours all, attend unto my story,My song concerns notChurchorKing, neitherWhignorTory;But my Ballad is to caution you, against the machinations,Of those who mean t' impose on you by false insinuations.Bow, wow, wow.
There's JEMMY PAD, thatIrish Lad, who heads the clan of faction,Swears by theHoly Pokernow, he'll make us all distraction,To keep Nun's Green thatpreciousLand, for his owndearadvantage,He means by lies to dupe you all, and GOBBLE up the Pasturage.Bow, wow, wow.
Good Twenty Pounds a year, this son of a Teague Sir,Of lawful British money is regularly paid Sir,For driving the Poor Geese, from the Land their inheritance,Whereby he addeth Riches toIrish Impertinence.Bow, wow, wow.
There's TINKER JOE comes next, because next in colour,He tells you all he'll make a speech, but alas, he's no Scholar;He'll talk of Lords and Baronets his Juvenile connections,By mending all their Pots and Pans, he's gained their affections.Bow, wow, wow.
To claim your attention more, he'll talk about the Parliament,And say how many Members, oldRuby Facehas thither sent,That his interest is great in affairs of the nation,Though stillBaboonof Nottingham,Nun's Greenshall be his station.Bow, wow, wow.
OROONOKO next presents himself, t' engage your attention,As oft' before theBearhas done, with many a vile intention,By blasts and oaths to lead you all, against your common senses,For tho' almost an Ideot, he'll forge some false Pretences.Bow, wow, wow.
But none of you've forgot, thesixteenthofSeptember,Th' exalted part he then perform'd, you all must well remember;By such a wretch you'll ne'er be led, against your inclinations,Who persecutes the poor man withGame Informations.Bow, wow, wow.
Then join neighbours all, without hesitation,Resist these Imposters, without exceptation,May all of us with one accord, oppose this host of evil,And send Sergeant Pad and Co. to Canvas with the D—l.Bow, wow, wow.
Tune of "Chevy Chace."
This ballad, printed from the original broad-sheet in my possession, is another of the series to which I have alluded as being connected with the sale of Nun's Green, Derby. It is printed in two columns, with a wood-cut at its head representing a Highlander playing on the bag-pipes.
Good neighbours all, both great and small,Of high and low degree;Let's straight unite, ourselves to fight,Against thispresbytree.If you'll but trace this hellish race,Thro' every stage of life;Where e'er they be you'll plainly see,Nought but discord and strife.If you'll history read your hearts will bleed,To hear of their transactions;Forkingandchurchhave suffered much,By their damn hellish factions.Must we be opprest by this vile nest,Who strives us to enslave;Such is their spleen to sellNun's Green,The town to light and pave.They do not care who the burden bear,Such is their tyranny;To enforce the tax on others' backs,Whilst they themselves go free.I wish all such Aldermen and folks like them,Was forc'd to change their situation;And that Greenland hulks for their vile bulks,Might for ever be their station.Proud oppulence with impudence,As he struts along the streets;Swears by his God with his iron rod,He'll beat down all he meets.There's shufling Charles both grins and snarles,And where he can he'll bite;For this last mishap he'll surely snap,Except he's musseld tight.There's Jemmy Twichit did both scrub and fidge it,His head he roll'd about;He stampt and swore he'd come there no more,When he found the bill thrown out.They blam'd old George that did not discharge,His duty as he ought;And his addle pate that cou'd not relate,What kind of a bill he'd brought.The wigs got a fall, I wish they ne'er may rise,But henceforth for the future, may learn to be more wise;And ne'er persume to sit in chairs, nor honoured be with Town affairs,But stay at home and say their prayers, & not over us tyrannize.Pray God above from this earth remove,This vile deceitful crew,And send them hence for their offence,Where they may receive their due.God blessMundyandCooke, on them we look,As two from heaven sent;To set us free from tyranny,And serve in Parliament.
Good neighbours all, both great and small,Of high and low degree;Let's straight unite, ourselves to fight,Against thispresbytree.
If you'll but trace this hellish race,Thro' every stage of life;Where e'er they be you'll plainly see,Nought but discord and strife.
If you'll history read your hearts will bleed,To hear of their transactions;Forkingandchurchhave suffered much,By their damn hellish factions.
Must we be opprest by this vile nest,Who strives us to enslave;Such is their spleen to sellNun's Green,The town to light and pave.
They do not care who the burden bear,Such is their tyranny;To enforce the tax on others' backs,Whilst they themselves go free.
I wish all such Aldermen and folks like them,Was forc'd to change their situation;And that Greenland hulks for their vile bulks,Might for ever be their station.
Proud oppulence with impudence,As he struts along the streets;Swears by his God with his iron rod,He'll beat down all he meets.
There's shufling Charles both grins and snarles,And where he can he'll bite;For this last mishap he'll surely snap,Except he's musseld tight.
There's Jemmy Twichit did both scrub and fidge it,His head he roll'd about;He stampt and swore he'd come there no more,When he found the bill thrown out.
They blam'd old George that did not discharge,His duty as he ought;And his addle pate that cou'd not relate,What kind of a bill he'd brought.
The wigs got a fall, I wish they ne'er may rise,But henceforth for the future, may learn to be more wise;And ne'er persume to sit in chairs, nor honoured be with Town affairs,But stay at home and say their prayers, & not over us tyrannize.
Pray God above from this earth remove,This vile deceitful crew,And send them hence for their offence,Where they may receive their due.
God blessMundyandCooke, on them we look,As two from heaven sent;To set us free from tyranny,And serve in Parliament.
In the parish register of Chapel-en-le-Frith is the sad entry of the burial of a child which was found dead in the neighbourhood—"S. Sept. 20, 1656. A poor child found dead in yeForest." The following ballad, from the pen of Mr. Henry Kirke, is founded on this circumstance. It has not before been printed.
The fire burns brightly upon the hearth,And dances and crackles with glee;And the cottar's wife sits before the blaze,But the child—ah, where is she.The cottar's hand is on the latch,And he stands by the opened door,And his wife she kisses his sunburnt cheek,But his child he shall see no more."She is gone out to play," the dame replied,"And will soon be back again;"But their hearts felt heavy, they knew not whyAnd ach'd sorely as if with pain.And soon the gude wife on the ample boardHas spread out the frugal fare,But a mist rose up in the cottar's eyesAs he gazed on that empty chair.And he started up from his chair and cried,"I can stay no longer here,I must go and find my own bonnie child,For my heart aches sore wi' fear."And he wandered around from house to house,Across the weary wild;And his heart grew heavier every step,For no one had seen his child.The night had drawn her curtains dark,And every star shone clear;But still he followed his fruitless search,Half dead with fatigue and fear.Through brake and copse of the forest drearHe followed his weary way,Till the rosy light of the morning sunTold the dawn of another day.It bathed his face in gladsome lightWith the stream of its glorious ray,It seemed but to mock his saddened heart,And he turned with a sigh away;He turned away down a mossy dell,Where the sunbeams danced and smiled,And there midst the fern and the mossy cupsThe father found his child.One little arm beneath its headOn the mossy bank was laid,And the sunbeams lighted its little face,And the wind with its tresses played.A smile still lingered on those sweet lips,Which seemed as by sleep untied,But the father's heart grew cold as he looked,For he knew it had smiled—as it died.
The fire burns brightly upon the hearth,And dances and crackles with glee;And the cottar's wife sits before the blaze,But the child—ah, where is she.
The cottar's hand is on the latch,And he stands by the opened door,And his wife she kisses his sunburnt cheek,But his child he shall see no more.
"She is gone out to play," the dame replied,"And will soon be back again;"But their hearts felt heavy, they knew not whyAnd ach'd sorely as if with pain.
And soon the gude wife on the ample boardHas spread out the frugal fare,But a mist rose up in the cottar's eyesAs he gazed on that empty chair.
And he started up from his chair and cried,"I can stay no longer here,I must go and find my own bonnie child,For my heart aches sore wi' fear."
And he wandered around from house to house,Across the weary wild;And his heart grew heavier every step,For no one had seen his child.
The night had drawn her curtains dark,And every star shone clear;But still he followed his fruitless search,Half dead with fatigue and fear.
Through brake and copse of the forest drearHe followed his weary way,Till the rosy light of the morning sunTold the dawn of another day.
It bathed his face in gladsome lightWith the stream of its glorious ray,It seemed but to mock his saddened heart,And he turned with a sigh away;
He turned away down a mossy dell,Where the sunbeams danced and smiled,And there midst the fern and the mossy cupsThe father found his child.
One little arm beneath its headOn the mossy bank was laid,And the sunbeams lighted its little face,And the wind with its tresses played.
A smile still lingered on those sweet lips,Which seemed as by sleep untied,But the father's heart grew cold as he looked,For he knew it had smiled—as it died.
Tune—"Vicar and Moses."
As a satirical attack on some members of the choir of All Saints Church, Derby, in the last century, the following verses are clever. All Saints is the principal church in Derby, and its choir has generally had the reputation of being at least tolerably good. I prefer leaving the blanks in the names of the parties, still unfilled. The broad-sheet from which I here reprint it is in my own collection.
I.When Apollo thinks fit to handle his Lyre,The sweet Vocal Muses take place;TheTrebleandCounterrepair to their Choir,Attended withTenorandBass.II.As Mortals below—the high Gods will be apingIn all their sublime Occupations;They love to beSingingandPipingandScrapingTo assist your devout Congregation.III.Thus to raise our Devotion and stop all Complaints,(As ev'ry Man knows it's his duty)We've compleated our Choir at the Church ofAll Saints;That God may be worship'd inBeauty.IV.Whoever comes in it can't help but admireA Worship so Solomn and goodly;Such Voices were sure never heard from a Choir,As those that are led byWill. D—d—y.V.Sam. D—d—y'ssweetCounter Will's Trebleexcells,Well strengthen'd withRoger'sstrongBassEach softning each like a good Peal of Bells,WereC—b—y'sfineTenortakes place.VI.NeitherPaul'snorKing's Chapelcan boast of such Voices,Nor can our grandOp'rascome near 'em;When on 'em I think, how my Spirit rejoices!Then what must it do when I hear 'em!VII.Tho' their Parts are all charming how much his Excels,Adorning the Vocal Profession!TheirTrebleI mean, that so quavers and swells,Enchanting beyond all Expression!VIII.By theDoctor'sfineTreblehow well they are led,Whose Expression all hearers admire;O'er topping his Fellows at least by theHead,So well he ennobles theChoir.IX.Altho' in theChoirhe soEminentstands,Yet still ith'Orchestrahe's greater:With hisFiddleexcelling the greatest of Hands,So bountiful to him is Nature!X.With this he canirritateall that is quick,(Such Pow'r have his Taste and his Tone!)For he ev'ry thing moves but his long Fiddle-Stick,None like him before was yet known.XI.So useful a Hand (without Doubt) was ne'er born,ForConcerts,AssemblyandBall;He can turn to theFiddle,Bass Trumpet, orHorne,Yet equallygreatupon all.XII.Forherehis Expressions sofullI must own,We ne'er were so fiddled before;But then his fineTaste,ExecutionandTone,Delight us a Thousand Times more.XIII.Where lives that grave mortal so strangely supine,So Senseless and stupidly lazy;In hearing such Hands himself to confine,And not like his Brother, growcrazy?XIV.To hear such sweet Hands who wou'd not but give,Or spend the best part of his Rental;At so charming a Place asDerbyto live,With suchVocaland suchInstrumental?XV.And this is the Reason your strollingItalians,(As it happen'd, we know, to'ther Day)AtDerbyare treated like Tatter—de Mallions,Whenunheardthey went weeping away.Finis.
I.
When Apollo thinks fit to handle his Lyre,The sweet Vocal Muses take place;TheTrebleandCounterrepair to their Choir,Attended withTenorandBass.
II.
As Mortals below—the high Gods will be apingIn all their sublime Occupations;They love to beSingingandPipingandScrapingTo assist your devout Congregation.
III.
Thus to raise our Devotion and stop all Complaints,(As ev'ry Man knows it's his duty)We've compleated our Choir at the Church ofAll Saints;That God may be worship'd inBeauty.
IV.
Whoever comes in it can't help but admireA Worship so Solomn and goodly;Such Voices were sure never heard from a Choir,As those that are led byWill. D—d—y.
V.
Sam. D—d—y'ssweetCounter Will's Trebleexcells,Well strengthen'd withRoger'sstrongBassEach softning each like a good Peal of Bells,WereC—b—y'sfineTenortakes place.
VI.
NeitherPaul'snorKing's Chapelcan boast of such Voices,Nor can our grandOp'rascome near 'em;When on 'em I think, how my Spirit rejoices!Then what must it do when I hear 'em!
VII.
Tho' their Parts are all charming how much his Excels,Adorning the Vocal Profession!TheirTrebleI mean, that so quavers and swells,Enchanting beyond all Expression!
VIII.
By theDoctor'sfineTreblehow well they are led,Whose Expression all hearers admire;O'er topping his Fellows at least by theHead,So well he ennobles theChoir.
IX.
Altho' in theChoirhe soEminentstands,Yet still ith'Orchestrahe's greater:With hisFiddleexcelling the greatest of Hands,So bountiful to him is Nature!
X.
With this he canirritateall that is quick,(Such Pow'r have his Taste and his Tone!)For he ev'ry thing moves but his long Fiddle-Stick,None like him before was yet known.
XI.
So useful a Hand (without Doubt) was ne'er born,ForConcerts,AssemblyandBall;He can turn to theFiddle,Bass Trumpet, orHorne,Yet equallygreatupon all.
XII.
Forherehis Expressions sofullI must own,We ne'er were so fiddled before;But then his fineTaste,ExecutionandTone,Delight us a Thousand Times more.
XIII.
Where lives that grave mortal so strangely supine,So Senseless and stupidly lazy;In hearing such Hands himself to confine,And not like his Brother, growcrazy?
XIV.
To hear such sweet Hands who wou'd not but give,Or spend the best part of his Rental;At so charming a Place asDerbyto live,With suchVocaland suchInstrumental?
XV.
And this is the Reason your strollingItalians,(As it happen'd, we know, to'ther Day)AtDerbyare treated like Tatter—de Mallions,Whenunheardthey went weeping away.
Finis.
N.B. Speedily will be published, a Particular Account of the great Abilities of each of these FamousSingers, wherein will be shewn their Ignorance and Impudence in attempting such Things as Solo and Verse Anthems by Dr.Greene,Boyce,Nares, &c. Oratorio Songs and Chorusses by Mr. Handel, &c., &c., It being well known to every Person who has the least Ear to Music, that they are not capable ofdecentlysinging a Bar in any such Compositions. Mr. W—— some time since absolutely discharged them from making Use of any thing but the Old Psalm Tunes. The scandalous Behaviour ofD——, andC——, on this occasion shall be particularly pointed out.
The Lekes, or Leakes, of Sutton-in-Scarsdale, Derbyshire, derived their descent from Alan de Leka, of Leak in Nottinghamshire, who was living in 1141. The first of the family who settled at Sutton was William, a younger son of Sir John Leke of Gotham, in the early part of the fifteenth century; and the manor was acquired by a marriage with the heiress of the Hilarys, who took the name of Gray, and who inherited it from Robert de Hareston, Lord of Sutton. Sir Francis Leake, the fourth in descent from William above-named, married a co-heiress of Swift, and was succeeded by his son Francis, who in 1611 was created a baronet. In 1642 he was created Lord Deincourt of Sutton, and in 1645, Earl of Scarsdale. These titles became, however, extinct in 1736, by the death of Nicholas, the fourth Earl, and the last of the family. His lordship took an active part in the Civil Wars; and Lysons, speaking of him, says in 1643, (the beginning of April) "Lord Deincourt began to fortify his house at Sutton. Sir John Gell sent his brother, Colonel Thomas Gell, with five hundred men and three pieces of ordnance to besiege it. Lord Deincourt was summoned, but refused to surrender, and for some time obstinately defended himself. The house was taken, and Lord Deincourt and his men made prisoners. The works were demolished, and Lord Deincourt set at liberty, on giving his word that he would repair to Derby within eight days and submit himself to the Parliament. Sir John Gell observes that the forfeiture of his word on this occasion was revenged by the garrison at Bolsover, who some time afterwards, when that castle was in the hands of the Parliament, plundered Lord Deincourt's house at Sutton. In 1645 Lord Deincourt was created Earl of Scarsdale. Having rendered himself very obnoxious to the Parliament by his exertions in the royal cause during the Civil War, hisestates were sequestered, and, as he refused to compound, they were sold. His son procured some friends to be the purchasers, he paying the sum of £18,000, fixed by the Parliamentary Commissioners as the composition." His lordship felt so deeply the execution of his royal master, Charles the First, that he clothed himself in sackcloth, and, causing his grave to be dug some years before his death, laid himself in it, it is said, every Friday for divine meditation and prayer.
The following ballad, embodying a tradition concerning Sir Francis Leke, is by Richard Howitt, one of the "worthies" of Derbyshire, of which county I am proud to say he is a native.
"O, say not so, Sir Francis,Breathe not such woe to me:—Broad and pleasant are your lands,And your Hall is fair to see.Faithful servants have you many,Fortune fair on you attends;Nor hath Knight in all the Island,Braver followers or friends.With the Court you are a favourite—Yet your King shall righted be:In his hour of deadly perilCan you from your monarch flee?Look upon your blooming children,Flowers of Heaven newly blown!Here renewed behold your Lucy,And that boy is all your own.Shall we in these dread commotions,Neither need your arm nor mind,Where shall I behold defender,Where shall these a Father find?How I thought you loved us! NeverLightly could such love decline;Nor could you to idly voyage,All the wealth of life resign!"——"Lucy! this is only torture—Here I may no longer pause—Long I for my King have battled—Now we've neither King nor laws.With our shrewd exultant Victor,Bootless now were strife of steel;Looking on my bleeding countryCan I for her cease to feel?All the land is grown outrageous:Honour, worth, are hunted down:Demons mock at our religion—Idiots trample on the Crown.Roaming o'er the billowy ocean,Peace may greet me here unknown;And, returning, civil tempestsMay be fairly overblown.Should aught menacing approach you,To your noble Brothers, look:Danger! did they ever dread it?Insult! did they ever brook?Guard your precious life, my Lucy!Need I say—not your's alone!Present—absent—living—dying—I am—fear not—all your own!"Starting from her arms, Sir FrancisQuick his noble steed bestrode:And, with manly face averted,Forward—seaward—fleetly rode.Soon his vessell, anchor weighing,To the sails the winds were true;And with sad, not weak, delaying,He bade his native land adieu!
"O, say not so, Sir Francis,Breathe not such woe to me:—Broad and pleasant are your lands,And your Hall is fair to see.
Faithful servants have you many,Fortune fair on you attends;Nor hath Knight in all the Island,Braver followers or friends.
With the Court you are a favourite—Yet your King shall righted be:In his hour of deadly perilCan you from your monarch flee?
Look upon your blooming children,Flowers of Heaven newly blown!Here renewed behold your Lucy,And that boy is all your own.
Shall we in these dread commotions,Neither need your arm nor mind,Where shall I behold defender,Where shall these a Father find?
How I thought you loved us! NeverLightly could such love decline;Nor could you to idly voyage,All the wealth of life resign!"
——"Lucy! this is only torture—Here I may no longer pause—Long I for my King have battled—Now we've neither King nor laws.
With our shrewd exultant Victor,Bootless now were strife of steel;Looking on my bleeding countryCan I for her cease to feel?
All the land is grown outrageous:Honour, worth, are hunted down:Demons mock at our religion—Idiots trample on the Crown.
Roaming o'er the billowy ocean,Peace may greet me here unknown;And, returning, civil tempestsMay be fairly overblown.
Should aught menacing approach you,To your noble Brothers, look:Danger! did they ever dread it?Insult! did they ever brook?
Guard your precious life, my Lucy!Need I say—not your's alone!Present—absent—living—dying—I am—fear not—all your own!"
Starting from her arms, Sir FrancisQuick his noble steed bestrode:And, with manly face averted,Forward—seaward—fleetly rode.
Soon his vessell, anchor weighing,To the sails the winds were true;And with sad, not weak, delaying,He bade his native land adieu!
Far amidst the western ocean,Lies a small and pleasant isle;Fair with everlasting verdure,Bright with summer's endless smile.There o'er one, all sadly musingSweets distil from spicy trees;Yet, though all around is blooming,Nothing cheers him that he sees.Lonely in sweet groves of myrtle,Sad amongst the orange bloom;Nothing cheers his drooping spirit,Nothing dissipates his gloom.Twice ten years he there has wandered,Nor one human face has seen;Moving like a silent shadow,Rocks have his companions been.Clad in skins of beasts; like serpentsWild, is his unheeded hair;Yet through lines of deep dejection,His once manly face is fair.As from gathered flowers, the odourNever wholly dies away,—Of the warrior, and the scholar,Intimations round him play.Nurtured in the camp, the college,Never can his soul be void;In the busy past his spirit,Heart, and mind, must be employed.Lists he yet the stirring battle,Lists he victory's rending shout?Tranquil is the isle, the ocean,Pain within him, peace without.Yes! he oft-times hears the trumpet,Captains' shouting, horses' neigh!Till before the horrid stillness,All the tumult dies away.And is this the courtly warrior,Gallant, gay Sir Francis Leke?He, the same!—who shunning discord,Found a peace he did not seek?Bravely sailed he from Old England,Boldly with adventurous prow;From the horrors of that voyageHe alone is living now.To his bravery owes he being—Last to quit the groaning deck—In his fight his comrades perished—Days he floated on the wreck.Till this lone and lovely island,Cheered him with refreshing bloom;Saved him from the ravening ocean,To a sad and lingering doom.In a cave has he his dwelling,High, o'erlooking wide the main,Where he feeds in painful being,Longings infinite and vain.Nightly there he burns a beacon;Often there the day he spends;And towards his native countryWistful gaze o'er ocean sends.There a cross has he erected—Near to which an altar stands,Humble growth of feelings holyReared by his unaided hands.Truly needs he prove a Christian,Thus cut off from all his kind;Firmest faith he needs in Heaven;And boundless fortitude of mind.Store he needs of endless knowledge,His unvaried hours to cheer;Furnished with sublime resourcesFor this solitude austere.Still the isle is very lovely—Never yet in Poet's mind,Haunt of Peri, realm of faéry,Was more lavishly divined.Lovely as the Primal Garden,In the light of Sabbath blest;Human love alone is wantingIn this Eden of the West.Leap from rocks the living waters:Hang delicious fruits around:And all birds of gorgeous plumageFill the air with happy sound.Painful is to him its beauty—Sad the splendour of the sun;To the odorous air he uttersSorrow that is never done:—"Blest was I beyond all blessing!"In my wife and children blest:"In my friends and in my fortune—"Yet in peace I could not rest."Never in his prosperous greatness,"Can himself the wisest trust;"God has weighed and found me wanting—"And the punishment is just."Oft before the cross, the altar,Murmuring prayer he sinks to rest;To his God, and to his Saviour—And the Virgin Mother blest.And for love unto the VirginFinds in Heaven his prayer chief grace!"Mary, Mother, me deliver,"From the horrors of this place!"Others crave more worldly guerdon—"Wealth, or fame, or station high;"Love I seek—to see my country—"My own people—and to die!"Praying thus, old legends tell us,Scarce his eyes in sleep were sealed;When, O, happy inward vision,To him was his home revealed.There his patrimonial mansion,He beheld in moonlight sleep,Saw with joy though mystery veiled it—Sadness and a silence deep.And, O miracle of gladness!More, those ancient legends say,Was permitted him to witness,Waking, in the open day.In his old church-porch awaking—Trance, or voyage all unknown;O'er his own domains he wandered—Saw, and knew them for his own.Had chance Voyagers beheld him,In a trance, who slumbering bore,By some heavenly impulse, guidedHim unto his native shore?Not so—says the holy legend—Force of penitential prayer—And the love he bore the Virgin—Won for him that transit fair.Spare the legend for its beauty—Carp not—what is it to youIf the letter is a fable?In its spirit it is true.Leave we unto old traditionThat which its dim mist sublimes,Nor submit the ancient spiritTo the light of later times!See! before his welcome threshold!Once again, Sir Francis stand:Oh! the transport,—it is real!—He is in his native land!
Far amidst the western ocean,Lies a small and pleasant isle;Fair with everlasting verdure,Bright with summer's endless smile.
There o'er one, all sadly musingSweets distil from spicy trees;Yet, though all around is blooming,Nothing cheers him that he sees.
Lonely in sweet groves of myrtle,Sad amongst the orange bloom;Nothing cheers his drooping spirit,Nothing dissipates his gloom.
Twice ten years he there has wandered,Nor one human face has seen;Moving like a silent shadow,Rocks have his companions been.
Clad in skins of beasts; like serpentsWild, is his unheeded hair;Yet through lines of deep dejection,His once manly face is fair.
As from gathered flowers, the odourNever wholly dies away,—Of the warrior, and the scholar,Intimations round him play.
Nurtured in the camp, the college,Never can his soul be void;In the busy past his spirit,Heart, and mind, must be employed.
Lists he yet the stirring battle,Lists he victory's rending shout?Tranquil is the isle, the ocean,Pain within him, peace without.
Yes! he oft-times hears the trumpet,Captains' shouting, horses' neigh!Till before the horrid stillness,All the tumult dies away.
And is this the courtly warrior,Gallant, gay Sir Francis Leke?He, the same!—who shunning discord,Found a peace he did not seek?
Bravely sailed he from Old England,Boldly with adventurous prow;From the horrors of that voyageHe alone is living now.
To his bravery owes he being—Last to quit the groaning deck—In his fight his comrades perished—Days he floated on the wreck.
Till this lone and lovely island,Cheered him with refreshing bloom;Saved him from the ravening ocean,To a sad and lingering doom.
In a cave has he his dwelling,High, o'erlooking wide the main,Where he feeds in painful being,Longings infinite and vain.
Nightly there he burns a beacon;Often there the day he spends;And towards his native countryWistful gaze o'er ocean sends.
There a cross has he erected—Near to which an altar stands,Humble growth of feelings holyReared by his unaided hands.
Truly needs he prove a Christian,Thus cut off from all his kind;Firmest faith he needs in Heaven;And boundless fortitude of mind.
Store he needs of endless knowledge,His unvaried hours to cheer;Furnished with sublime resourcesFor this solitude austere.
Still the isle is very lovely—Never yet in Poet's mind,Haunt of Peri, realm of faéry,Was more lavishly divined.
Lovely as the Primal Garden,In the light of Sabbath blest;Human love alone is wantingIn this Eden of the West.
Leap from rocks the living waters:Hang delicious fruits around:And all birds of gorgeous plumageFill the air with happy sound.
Painful is to him its beauty—Sad the splendour of the sun;To the odorous air he uttersSorrow that is never done:—
"Blest was I beyond all blessing!"In my wife and children blest:"In my friends and in my fortune—"Yet in peace I could not rest.
"Never in his prosperous greatness,"Can himself the wisest trust;"God has weighed and found me wanting—"And the punishment is just."
Oft before the cross, the altar,Murmuring prayer he sinks to rest;To his God, and to his Saviour—And the Virgin Mother blest.
And for love unto the VirginFinds in Heaven his prayer chief grace!"Mary, Mother, me deliver,"From the horrors of this place!
"Others crave more worldly guerdon—"Wealth, or fame, or station high;"Love I seek—to see my country—"My own people—and to die!"
Praying thus, old legends tell us,Scarce his eyes in sleep were sealed;When, O, happy inward vision,To him was his home revealed.
There his patrimonial mansion,He beheld in moonlight sleep,Saw with joy though mystery veiled it—Sadness and a silence deep.
And, O miracle of gladness!More, those ancient legends say,Was permitted him to witness,Waking, in the open day.
In his old church-porch awaking—Trance, or voyage all unknown;O'er his own domains he wandered—Saw, and knew them for his own.
Had chance Voyagers beheld him,In a trance, who slumbering bore,By some heavenly impulse, guidedHim unto his native shore?
Not so—says the holy legend—Force of penitential prayer—And the love he bore the Virgin—Won for him that transit fair.
Spare the legend for its beauty—Carp not—what is it to youIf the letter is a fable?In its spirit it is true.
Leave we unto old traditionThat which its dim mist sublimes,Nor submit the ancient spiritTo the light of later times!
See! before his welcome threshold!Once again, Sir Francis stand:Oh! the transport,—it is real!—He is in his native land!