Chapter X: Part III (1)

Merry once again is England,
Civil warfare is forgot;
Now another Charles is reigning
Plenty smiles in hall and cot.

Spring is like a present angel;
Loosened waters leap in light:
Flowers are springing, birds are singing,
All the world is glad and bright.

May, the blue-eyed bloomy creature,
From God's presence yearly sent,
Works with sweet ethereal fingers,
Till both heaven and earth are blent.

Lovliest is a rural village
In the May-time of the year;
With its hall, its woods and waters,
Verdant slopes, and herds of deer.

And in one, joy is exultant--
For this day the manly heir
Of Sir Francis Leke is wedded--
Wedded too, his daughter fair.

Age rejoices; in the Mansion
Rural hinds find wassail cheer;
And bright troops of Knights and Ladies,
Crowd the Hall from far and near.

Who is this in weeds unseemly,
Half a man that seems, half beast,
Who obtrudes himself unbidden
On the merry marriage feast?

Hermit is he, or some Pilgrim,
Entering boldly his own cell?
No,--he lacks those ancient symbols,
Sandal-shoon, and scallop shell.

All the youngsters titter; anger
Flushes cheeks austere and cold:
Whilst the aged look complacent
On a beggar that is bold.

"Bear this Ring unto your Mistress,"
To a Page Sir Francis cried;
And his words emphatic uttered
Rung throughout the dwelling wide.

One there is--an age-blind servant--
Who in darkness sits apart--
Carried forth to feel the sunshine--
She has heard him in her heart;

And in agony of gladness,
At that voice so long desired,
She has loudly named her Master--
And then instantly expired.

Pensive in her room, the Matron
Grieved--but distant from the crowd;
She would not with selfish sorrow
Their bright countenances cloud.

There her Ring receiving; Lucy
Knew the sender of her gift,
And, it seemed, by feet unaided,
To him she descended swift.

There upon the rugged stranger,
Gazed, with momentary check,
Gazed, but for a passing moment,
And then fell upon his neck.

Twice ten weary summers absent;
By his faithful wife deplored;
Like Ulysses to his Consort,
Good Sir Francis is restored.

'Tis a time of double gladness--
Never was a scene like this;
Joy o'erflows the Hall, the Village--
'Tis a time of boundless bliss!

Clothed as instantly became him,
Of Vile Skins all disarrayed,
In his old Paternal Mansion
He is honoured and obeyed.

All he prayed for to the Virgin,
She has granted him and more;
Not to die, his own beholding,
First, when on his native shore.

Added years of happy ending,
Are accorded him of right;
'Midst a cloud of friends descending,
In a sunset warm and bright.

_The True Lover's Knot Untied:_

_Being the right path whereby to advise princely Virgins how to behave themselves, by the example of the renowned Princess the Lady Arabella, and the second son of the Lord Seymour, late Earl of Hertford._

The beautiful, much-injured, and ill-fated Lady Arabella of this touching ballad, whose sole crime was that she was born a Stuart, was the daughter of Elizabeth Cavendish of Chatsworth, in Derbyshire, by her husband Charles Stuart, Earl of Lennox, who was brother to Lord Darnley, the husband of the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots. She was grand-daughter of Sir William Cavendish of Chatsworth, and of his wife, the celebrated "Bess of Hardwick," afterwards Countess of Shrewsbury.

The incidents of the life of this young, beautiful, and accomplished lady, which form one of the most touching episodes in our history,--the jealous eye with which Elizabeth looked upon her from her birth,--the careful watch set over her by Cecil,--the trials of Raleigh and his friends,--her troubles with her aunt (Mary, Countess of Shrewsbury),--her being placed under restraint,--her marriage with Seymour,--her seizure, imprisonment, sufferings, and death as a hopeless lunatic in the Tower of London, where she had been thrown by her cousin, James the First,--are all matters of history, and invest her life with a sad and melancholy interest.

As the autograph signature of this ill-starred but lovely and exemplary young lady is but little known, I append a fac-simile,

which no doubt will add to the interest of the following ballad. The ballad was sung to the tune of "The Frog Galliard."

As I to Ireland did pass,
I saw a ship at anchor lay,
Another ship likewise there was,
Which from fair England took her way.

This ship that sail'd from fair England,
Unknown unto our gracious king,
The lord chief justice did command,
That they to London should her bring.

I then drew near and saw more plain,
Lady Arabella in distress,
She wrung her hands, and wept amain,
Bewailing of her heaviness.

When near fair London Tower she came,
Whereas her landing place should be,
The king and queen with all their train,
Did meet this lady gallantly.

"How now, Arabella," said our good king,
Unto this lady straight did say,
"Who hath first try'd thee to this thing,
That you from England took your way?"

"None but myself, my gracious liege,
"These ten long years I have been in love,
With the lord Seymour's second son,
The earl of Hertford, so we prove:

"Full many a hundred pound I had
In goods and livings in the land,
Yet I have lands us to maintain,
So much your grace doth understand.

"My lands and livings so well known
Unto your books of majesty,
Amount to twelvescore pounds a week,
Besides what I do give," quoth she.

"In gallant Derbyshire likewise,
I ninescore beadsmen maintain there,
With hats and gowns and house-rent free,
And every man five marks a year.

"I never raised rent," said she,
"Nor yet oppress'd the tenant poor,
I never did take bribes for fines,
For why, I had enough before.

"Whom of your nobles will do so,
For to maintain the commonalty?
Such multitudes would never grow,
Nor be such store of poverty.

"I would I had a milk-maid been,
Or born of some more low degree,
Then I might have lov'd where I liked,
And no man could have hinder'd me.

"Or would I were some yeoman's child,
For to receive my portion now,
According unto my degree,
As other virgins whom I know.

"The highest branch that soars aloft,
Needs must beshade the myrtle-tree,
Needs must the shadow of them both,
Shadow the third in his degree.

"But when the tree is cut and gone,
And from the ground is bore away,
The lowest tree that there doth stand,
In time may grow as high as they.

"Once too I might have been a queen,
But that I ever did deny,
I knew your grace had right to th' crown,
Before Elizabeth did die.

"You of the eldest sister came,
I of the second in degree,
The earl of Hertford of the third,
A man of royal blood was he.

"And so good night, my sovereign liege,
Since in the Tower I must lie,
I hope your Grace will condescend,
That I may have my liberty."

"Lady Arabella," said the king,
"I to your freedom would consent,
If you would turn and go to church,
There to receive the sacrament.

And so good night, Arabella fair,"
Our king replied to her again,
"I will take council of my nobility,
That you your freedom may obtain."

"Once more to prison must I go,"
Lady Arabella then did say,
"To leave my love breeds all my woe,
The which will bring my life's decay.

"Love is a knot none can unknit,
Fancy a liking of the heart,
Him whom I love I can't forget,
Tho' from his presence I must part.

"The meanest people enjoy their mates,
But I was born unhappily,
For being cross'd by cruel fates,
I want both love and liberty.

"But death I hope will end the strife,
Farewel, farewel, my love," quoth she,
"Once I had thought to have been thy wife,
But now am forc'd to part with thee."

At this sad meeting she had cause,
In heart and mind to grieve full sore,
After that time Arabella fair,
Did never see lord Seymour more.

_An Address to "Dickie."_

At a farm-house at Tunstead, near Chapel-en-le-Frith, a human skull, about which hangs many a strange story, has for several generations--indeed "time out of mind"--been preserved. There are some curious traditions connected with this skull, which is popularly known as "Dickie," or "Dicky o' Tunsted." How it first came to the farm is a complete mystery. All that is known is that it has been there for many generations, and always occupies the same position in the window-seat of the house. No matter what changes take place in the other occupiers of the house, Dicky holds his own against all comers, and remains quietly ensconced in his favourite place. It is firmly and persistently believed that so long as Dick remains in the house, unburied, everything will go on well and prosperously, but that if he is buried, or "discommoded," unpleasant consequences will assuredly follow. On more than one occasion he has been put "out of sight," but tempests have arisen and injured the building, deaths have ensued, cattle have been diseased and died off, or crops have failed, until the people have been humbled, and restored him to his proper place. One of the crowning triumphs of Dickie's power is said to have been evinced over the formation of the new Buxton and Whaley Bridge line of railway. He seems to have held the project in thorough hatred, and let no opportunity pass of doing damage. Whenever there was a land slip or a sinking, or whenever any mishap to man, beast, or line happened, the credit was at once given to Dickie, and he was sought to be propitiated in a variety of ways.

Hutchinson, who wrote "A Tour through the High Peak" in 1807, thus speaks of the skull, and of the supernatural powers attributed to it:--"Having heard a singular account of a human skull being preserved in a house at Tunstead, near the above place, and which was said to be haunted, curiosity induced me to deviate a little, for the purpose of making some enquiries respecting these _natural_ or _super_ natural appearances. That there are three parts of a human skull in the house is certain, and which I traced to have remained on the premises for near two centuries past, during all the revolutions of owners and tenants in that time. As to the truth of the supernatural appearance, it is not my design either to affirm or contradict, though I have been informed by a creditable person, a Mr. Adam Fox, who was brought up in the house, that he has not only repeatedly heard singular noises, and observed very singular circumstances, but can produce fifty persons, within the parish, who have seen an apparition at this place. He has often found the doors opening to his hand--the servants have been repeatedly called up in the morning--many good offices have been done by the apparition, at different times;--and, in fact, it is looked upon more as a guardian spirit than a terror to the family, never disturbing them but in case of an approaching death of a relation or neighbour, and showing its resentment only when spoken of with disrespect, or when its own awful memorial of mortality is removed. For twice within the memory of man the skull has been taken from the premises,--once on building the present house on the site of the old one, and another time when it was buried in Chapel churchyard;--but there was no peace! no rest! it must be replaced! Venerable time carries a report that one of two coheiresses residing here was murdered, and declared, in her last moments, that her bones should remain on the place for ever.[90] On this head the candid reader will think for himself; my duty is only faithfully to relate what I have been told. However, the circumstance of the skull being traced to have remained on the premises during the changes of different tenants and purchasers for near two centuries, must be a subject well worth the antiquarian's research, and often more than the investigation of a bust or a coin!"

The following clever _Address to "Dickie"_ was written by Mr. Samuel Laycock, and first appeared in the _Buxton Advertiser_.

Neaw, Dickie, be quiet wi' thee, lad,
An' let navvies an' railways a be;
Mon, tha shouldn't do soa,--it's to' bad,
What harm are they doin' to thee?
Deod folk shouldn't meddle at o',
But leov o' these matters to th' wick;
They'll see they're done gradeley, aw know,--
Dos' t' yer what aw say to thee, Dick?

Neaw dunna go spoil 'em i' th' dark
What's cost so mich labber an' thowt;
Iv tha'll let 'em go on wi' their wark,
Tha shall ride deawn to Buxton for nowt;
An' be a "director" too, mon;
Get thi beef an' thi bottles o' wine,
An' mak' as much brass as tha con
Eawt o' th' London an' North Western line.

Awm surproised, Dick, at thee bein' here;
Heaw is it tha'rt noan i' thi grave?
Ar' t' come eawt o' gettin' thi beer,
Or havin' a bit ov a shave?
But _that's_ noan thi business, aw deawt,
For tha hasn't a hair o' thi yed;
Hast a woife an' some childer abeawt?
When tha'rn living up here wurt wed?

Neaw, spake, or else let it a be,
An' dunna be lookin' soa shy;
Tha needn't be freeten'd o' me,
Aw shall say nowt abeawt it, not I!
It'll noan matter mich iv aw do,
I can do thee no harm iv aw tell,
Mon there's moor folk nor thee bin a foo',
Aw've a woife an some childer misel'.

Heaw's business below; is it slack?
Dos' t' yer? aw'm noan chaffin thee, mon'
But aw reckon 'at when tha goes back
Tha'll do me o' th' hurt as tha con.
Neaw dunna do, that's a good lad,
For awm freeten'd to deoth very nee,
An' ewar Betty, poor lass, hoo'd go mad
Iv aw wur to happen to dee!

When aw'n ceawer'd upo' th' hearston' awhoam,
Aw'm inclined, very often, to boast;
An' aw'n noan hawve as feart as some,
But aw don't loike to talke to a ghost.
So, Dickie, aw've written this song,
An' aw trust it'll find thee o' reet;
Look it o'er when tha'rt noan very throng,
An' tha'll greatly obleege me,--good neet.

P.S.--Iv tha'rt wantin' to send a reply,
Aw can gi'e thee mi place ov abode,
It's reet under Dukinfilt sky,
At thirty-nine, Cheetham Hill road.
Aw'm awfully freeten'd dos t' see,
Or else aw'd invite thee to come,
An' ewar Betty, hoo's softer nor me,
So aw'd _raythar_ tha'd tarry awhoam.

FOOTNOTE:

[90] On examining the parts of the skull, they did not appear to be the least decayed.

_The Driving of the Deer._

This admirable ballad, founded on an old Derbyshire tradition, is by my friend Mr. William Bennett, of whom I have before spoken. The Peverels were, as a part of the immense possessions given to them by William the Conqueror, owners of the tract of country comprising the Honour and Forest of the High Peak. Their stronghold was the castle at Castleton. The "Lord's seat" mentioned in the ballad is a mountain separating Rushop Edge from the valley of Edale. The view from here, where Peverel used to alight from his horse to watch the progress of the chace, says Mr. Bennett, "is magnificent; perhaps one of the finest in north Derbyshire, as from its summit you may see the Pennine chain of Cheshire, Derbyshire, and Staffordshire, with many of the lovely valleys which lie among the hills. Westward, you look down upon the valley of Chapel-en-le-Frith, the eastern part of which contains the ancient manor of Bowdon. To realize the following ballad, my readers must imagine the Lord of the Peak, William Peverel, with a number of his knights and gentlemen, on the Lord's Seat, preparing for the chace, when they hear the bugle blast which informs the proud baron that some audacious sportsmen are in chase of the deer within his forest. We may picture to ourselves the astonishment and indignation of the Norman prince, and his fierce determination to pounce upon the trespassers and punish them with all the severity of the cruel forest law. Well was it for all parties that he was attended by his brother Payne Peverel, the lord of Whittington, who was one of the noblest sons of chivalry, and whose presence prevented an affray which in all probability would have been fatal to many. Payne Peverel had previous to this time exhibited a grand pageant at Castleton, accompanied by a tournament held in the meadows below the castle, when he gave away his daughter to the knight who most distinguished himself on that occasion."

Lord Peverel stood on the Lordis Seat,
And an angry man was he;
For he heard the sound of a hunter's horn
Slow winding up the lea.
He look'd to north, he look'd to south,
And east and west look'd he;
And "Holy Cross!" the fierce Norman cried,
"Who hunts in my country?

Belike they think the Peverel dead,
Or far from forest walk;
Woe worth their hunting, they shall find
Abroad is still the Hawk."
Again he looked where Helldon Hill
Joins with the Konying's Dale;
And then once more the bugle blast
Came swelling along the gale.

"Mount, mount and ride!" the baron cried,
"The sound comes o'er the Edge,
By Perry dale, or Gautriss side,
My knightly spurs I pledge.
These outlaws, who now drive my deer,
Shall sooth our quarry be;
And he who reaches first the hounds
Shall win a guerdon free."

Each knight and squire soon sat in selle,
And urged his horse to speed,
And Peverel, first among the rout,
Proved his horse good at need.
Adown the slope, along the flat,
Against the hill they ride,
Nor pull a rein 'till every steed
Stands fast on Gautriss side.

"Hold hard! They're here," the Peverel said,
And upward held his hand,
While all his meany kept behind,
Awaiting their lord's command;
And westward, on the Bolt-edge Moor,
Beyond the rocky height,
Both hounds and hunters, men and horse,
And deer were all in sight.

Said then the baron, "Who are these
Who fear not Peverel's sword
Nor forest laws." Outspoke a squire,
"Of Bowdon he's the lord;
Sir Bruno, hight, a Franklin brave,
One of the Saxon swine
Who feasts each day on fat fed beef,
And guzzles ale, not wine."

"What stirs the sodden headed knave
To make his pastime here?"
Cried Peverel, "and thus dare to brave
Him whom the king doth fear?
Ride down the villains, horse and man;
Would we were armed to-day,
No Saxon chine should bear its head
Forth from the bloody fray."

Up spoke his frere, Payne Peverel, then,
Of Whittington lord was he,
And said, "Fair Sir, for ruth and grace
This slaughter may not be.
The Saxon's lands are widely spread,
And he holds them in capité,
And claims three days with hawk and hound
To wind his bugle free."

"Beshrew his horn, and beshrew his heart,
In my forest he may not ride:
If he kills a deer, by the Conqueror's bow
By forest law he shall bide.
Ride on, Sir Payne, and tell the churl
He must cease his hunting cheer,
And come to the knee of his suzerain lord
Awaiting his presence here.

Ride with him, sirs, some two or three,
And bring him hither straight:
'Twere best for him to come at once
Than cause his lord to wait.
There are trees in the forest strong enow
To bear the madman's corse,
And he shall hang on the highest bough
If hither he comes perforce."

Sir Payne rode swiftly cross the dale,
Followed by gentles three,
Nor stayed his horse 'till he had reached
The hunter's company:
And then he said, "Fair sirs, ye ride
And drive our deer as free
As if the land were all your own
And not in forestry.

Lord Peverel yonder waits your ease,
To know how this may be;
Since he is lord of the forest wide,
And will no trespass see.
He bids you, as your suzerain lord,
Forthwith to come to his knee,
And as his liegeman humbly stand,
And answer him truthfully."

"No man of his," cried the Franklin, "then
Am I, as he knows full well,
Though within the bounds of his forest walk
It likes me sooth to dwell.
My manor of Bowdon, I hold in chief
From good King Harry I trow;
And to him alone will I homage pay
And make my fealty vow."

"Beware, Sir Franklin," cried Sir Payne,
"Beware how thou play the fool!
To brave the ire of thy suzerain lord
Will lead to direful dule.
Come on with me, and make thy peace,
Better do that than worse;
He'll hang thee on the forest tree
If we take thee hence perforce."

"Take me you can't while I have thews,
And these have bows and spears,"
Cried the brave Franklin. "Threaten him
Who the Lord Peverel fears.
We've broke no forest law to-day;
Our hunting here's my right;
And only ye can force me hence
If strongest in the fight."

Each hunter then upraised his spear,
Or twanged his good yew bow,
While cloth yard shafts from every sheaf
Glinted a threatening shew.
And back Payne Peverel reined his horse,
And, as he rode away,
Cried, "Fare ye well, this day of sport
Will breed a bloody day."

Well was it for the Saxons then
The Normans rode unarmed,
Or they had scantly left that field
And homeward gone unharmed.
Lord Peverel viewed their bows and spears,
And marked their strong array,
And grimly smiled, and softly said,
"We'll right this wrong some day."

But e'er that day, for fearful crime,
The Peverel fled the land,
And lost his pride of place, and eke
His lordship and command.
For Ranulph Earl of Chester's death,
By him most foully wrought,
He fled fair England's realm for aye,
And other regions sought.

Where, so 'tis writ, a monk he turned,
And penance dreed so sore,
That all the holy brotherhood
Quailed at the pains he bore.
And yet the haughty Norman blood
No sign of dolour showed;
But bore all stoutly to the last,
And died beneath the rood.

So Heaven receive his soul at last,
He was a warrior brave;
And Pope and priest were joined in mass
His guilty soul to save.
For Holy Church and Kingly Crown
He was ever a champion true;
For chivalry and ladies' grace
Chiváler foiál et preux.

_The Ashupton Garland,_

_OR A DAY IN THE WOODLANDS;_

_Showing how a "righte merrie companie" went forth to seek a diversion in the Woodlands, aud what befell them there._

To a pleasant Northern Tune.

Ashopton is a small village, but little known away from its own neighbourhood, in the vale of the river Ashop, in the chapelry of Derwent, in the High Peak. This very clever ballad was written on occasion of what was evidently an extremely happy pic-nic party, held there not many years ago. It is one of the best modern ballads I have seen.

In summer time when leaves were green,
With a hey derry down, you shall see;
James Oakes he called his merry men all,
Unto the green-wood tree.

James Oakes he was a worthy squire,
Full six feet high he stood;
No braver chief the forest rang'd,
Since the days of Robin Hood.

Then some came East, and some came West,
And Southrons there came three;
Such a jovial band of fine fellows,
You never more shall see.

Nor fairer Maidens ever tripp'd,
Than bore them companie;
The wood-nymphs peep'd, in wonder all,
As they were passing by.

There was Sally of Riddings with her wit so sly,
That young men's hearts beguil'd;
And wilding Meg, with the hazel eye,
And sweet maid-Marian mild.

Then came blithe Helen of Osgarthorpe,
With her sister, as you shall know;
Two fairer maids in Sheffield town
Did ne'er set foot I trow.

Maid-Marian's sister too was there,
And a merry little minx was she;
And they were merry merry maidens all,
When under the greenwood tree.

Then followed straight a matron dame,
That summers more had seen;
Her kindly eye did sparkle bright,
And she seemed the woodland queen.

James Oakes the elder he went first,
As captain of the band;
Bill Graham of Skiers was by his side,
And they shouted, "For merry England!"

Sylvester next, that rover bold,
(Some called him little John,)
With Bob the tall, from London town,
As you shall hear anon.

Two stalworth blades, sworn friends, were there,
Jem Oakes, and Asho'er Will;
They wanted only a good cross-bow,
The Queen's fat deer to kill.

Then came Nick Milnes, that smart young man,
Of fifteen winters old;
With Charley Oakes, a proper young man,
Of courage stout and bold.

Next Tom of Riddings, the rural swain,
(Their Allen-a-dale was he,)
Came tripping o'er the heather bell,
As blithe as blithe could be.

Good Lord it was a pleasant sight,
To see them all on a row;
With every man his good cigar,
And his little bag hanging low.

Bill Graham, of Skiers, he then stepped forth,
All buskined up to the knee;
And he swore by all the fair maids there,
Their champion he would be.

When this the Captain he did hear,
To Bill up stepped he;
And thus he said before the face
Of that goodly companie:--

"The devil a drop, thou proud fellow!
Of my whiskey shalt thou see,
Until thy courage here be tried--
Thou shalt not go scot-free."

"By my troth," cried Bill "thourt a gallant knight,
And worthy of me for thy squire,
And I'll show thee how for a lady I'll fight,
If thoul't meet me in good Yorkshire."

When sweet maid-Marian this did hear,
With a hey down down and a derry;
Her rosy cheek did bleach with fear,
But sweet Meg it made merry.

"A boon, a boon," cried little John,
"I'm sick, and fain would see,
What thou hast got in thy leather bottel,
I pray thee show to me."

"Come hither, come hither, thou fine fellow,
Hold up thy head again;
I've that within my leather bottel,
That shall not breed thee pain."

Then the Captain took little John by the hand,
And they sat them under the tree;
"If we drink water while this doth last,
Then an ill death may we dee."

Then little John he rose up once more,
Renewed with mirth and glee;
And eke with a bound, he danced a round,
In sight of that companie.

These fine fellows all, did then take hands,
And danced about the green tree;
"For six merry men, for seven merry men,
For nine merry men we be."

Then on they walked the rocks among,
All on a midsummer day;
Every youth with a maiden by his side,
While the birds sang from each spray.

With kirtle tucked up to the knee,
The maidens far did go;
And Bob the tall to each and all,
Great courtesie did show.

Some plucked the green leaf, some the rose,
As to _Kinder-Scout_ they sped;
Or wiled away the sweet summer's day,
At lovely _Derwent-Head_.

And some did shout, and some did sing,
With the heart so blithe and merry;
And some adown the hill did roll,
With a hey derry down, down derry.

And ever and anon they'd sit,
On a mossy bank to rest;
While the bag and the whiskey glass went round,
With the ringing glass and jest.

Then some among the heather strayed,
Springing the bonny Moor-hen;
And some did climb the green hills' side,
Or roam in the tangled glen.

The blackbird tried his golden bill,
His sooty love to greet;
Upon the bough, the throstle cock,
Did carol blithe and sweet.

And when the dews began to fall,
And the glowworm's lamp to shine,
To _Ashupton_ Inn they did repair,
In order for to dine.

Then on the board did smoke roast beef,
With pasties hot and cold;
And many a right good stomach showed,
And many a tale was told.

And when the table it was cleared,
And landlord brought them wine;
He swore, that never there before,
Such a companie did dine!

So a health to the Queene, and long may she reign,
And Albert long live he;
Push the glass about,--old _Kinder-Scout_,
We'll drink long life to thee.

And here's a health to those fine fellows,
And to all those maidens merry;
May each take a heart from the _Ashupton-hills_,
Singing hey derry down, down derry!

And here's a health unto James Oakes!
And many a year may he
Rise up, and call his merry men all,
Unto the greenwood tree.

_Derbyshire Hills._

James Bannard, "a Wandering Poet, in his 74th year," is the writer of the following lines, which he says at the heading of the broad-sheet from which I reprint it, are "Views and reflections taken from Solomon's Temple, near Buxton." Of Bannard I know nothing, farther than that he was a poor man, and eked out his living by selling these verses "at the 'Cottage of Content,' Buxton."

At length my wand'ring feet have brought
Me on this Derby Hill;
Where my sweet muse and fancy both
May sit and take their fill.

Although I've trod the stage of life
Past seventy years and three:
'Tis the first time that ever I
These Derby Hills did see.

Reader, before I now proceed,
I pray you will excuse;
Your pardon humbly I do beg,
Intruding with my muse.

Born in an humble state of life,
Grammar I could not attain;
But from the school of Nature I,
Did all my learning gain.

As on this eminence I stand,
And view the Landscape round,
Here hills and dales, rivers and rocks,
Most sweetly do abound.

Mark how the glorious setting sun
Fair Buxton Town displays;
Buxton whose healing streams and air,
Give hope for length of days.

The next that did attract the muse
Was the fine noble Church,
Where sinners every Sabbath day
Their wicked hearts should search.

What numbers there already lie,
Now sleeping at its feet;
Waiting the great and awful day,
When they their Judge must meet.

Their dust then joins its better part,
I hope in realms above;
And all its dross be pressed away,
By the Redeemer's love.

The fine Hotels I next remarked,
The walks and lawns so gay,
Where gentry their amusements take,
In this sweet month of May.

To Solomon's Temple I repaired,
To take a wider view;
And as I was a stranger there,
All things appeared new.

How dare the wicked infidel
Say that there is no God?
These mountains high and these firm rocks
May crumble at His nod.

In Him I live, in Him I move,
In Him I have my being;
In Him I on this mount now stand
And paint this beauteous scene.

Brierlow and Foxlow I remark'd,
Haddon and Croome likewise;
But Axedge overcap'd them all,
And struck me with surprise.

The Lover's Leap likewise I view'd,
Shootingslow did appear;
The Cat-and-Fiddle I have seen
But I was never there.

Chee Tor, Bakewell, and Matlock too,
Likewise the Diamond Hill;
The Shivering Tor for to describe
Is far beyond my skill.

Now from this mount I do descend
Into the vale below,
From whence the River Wye doth spring,
And sweetly on doth flow.

For to describe the beauties all,
Display'd in Derbyshire;
Instead of musing for one day,
Methinks 'twould take a year.

Having seen seventy years and three,
My days are not a few;
I may expect in a short time,
To bid this world adieu.

May blessings rest on all your heads,
Ye rich, likewise ye poor;
Something forebodes within my mind,
I must see these Derby Hills no more.

_Derbyshire Dales._

Having given some lines on "Derbyshire Hills," by a "Wandering poet" totally unknown to fame, it will be well to follow it by others on "Derbyshire Dales," by one whose name is known throughout the length and breadth of the land--Eliza Cooke.

I sigh for the land where the orange-tree flingeth
Its prodigal bloom on the myrtle below;
Where the moonlight is warm, and the gondolier singeth,
And clear waters take up the strain as they go.

Oh! fond is the longing, and rapt is the vision
That stirs up my soul over Italy's tales;
But the _present_ was bright as the _far-off_ Elysian,
When I roved in the sun-flood through Derbyshire Dales.

There was joy for my eye, there was balm for my breathing;
Green branches above me--blue streams at my side:
The hand of Creation seemed proudly bequeathing
The beauty reserved for a festival tide.

I was bound, like a child, by some magical story,
Forgetting the "South" and "Ionian Vales;"
And felt that dear England had temples of Glory,
Where any might worship, in Derbyshire Dales.

Sweet pass of the "Dove!" 'mid rock, river, and dingle,
How great is thy charm for the wanderer's breast!
With thy moss-girdled towers and foam-jewelled shingle,
Thy mountains of might, and thy valleys of rest.

I gazed on thy wonders--lone, silent, adoring,
I bent at the altar whose "fire never pales:"
The Great Father was with me--Devotion was pouring
Its holiest praises in Derbyshire Dales.

Wild glen of dark "Taddington"--rich in thy robing
Of forest-green cloak, with grey lacing bedight;
How I lingered to watch the red Western rays probing
Thy leaf-mantled bosom with lances of light!

And "Monsal," thou mine of Arcadian treasure,
Need we seek for "Greek Islands" and spice-laden gales,
While a Tempe like thee of enchantment and pleasure
May be found in our own native Derbyshire Dales?

There is much in my Past bearing way-marks and flowers,
The purest and rarest in odour and bloom;
There are beings and breathings, and places and hours,
Still trailing in roses o'er Memory's tomb.

And when I shall count o'er the bliss that's departed,
And Old Age be telling its garrulous tales,
Those days will be first when the kind and true-hearted
Were nursing my spirit in Derbyshire Dales.

_A RHAPSODY_

_On the Peak of Derbyshire._

The following exquisite lines by my late highly-gifted father,[91] on the land he loved so well,--the glorious district of the Peak of Derbyshire,--may well claim a place in this part of my present volume. I give them, not as being the most favourable example I could choose of his style, but as being the most appropriate for my present purpose.

O, give me the land where the wild thyme grows,
The heathery dales among;
Where Sol's own flow'er with crimson eye
Creeps the sun-burnt banks along!
Where the beetling Tor hangs over the dell,
While its pinnacles pierce the sky,
And its foot is laved by the waters pure,
Of the lively murmuring Wye;
Oh! give me the land, where the crimson heather,
The thyme and the bilberry grow together.

O! where upon earth is another land
So green, so fine, so fair?
Can any within Old England's bounds
With this heathery land compare?
The mountain air, the crystal springs,
Where health has established her throne,
The flood-swollen torrent, the bright cascade,
Belong to this land alone;
O! give me the land where grow together
The marj'ram, cistus, and purple heather.

Oxford may boast of its hundred spires,
Its colleges, halls, and towers;
Built in an ague-producing marsh,
Are the Muses' and Learning's bowers;
O! tell me not of the sluggish stream,
Too lazy to creep along;
Too dull to inspire a poet's dream!
This is not the land of song!
No! give me the land where grow together
The cistus, the thyme, and the purple heather.

FOOTNOTE:

[91] Author of the "History of Buxton," "History of Lincoln," &c., &c.

_The Derby Hero._

The two following productions of some local muse, written in the year 1822, are intended to do honour to a young pedestrian of Derby, who no doubt was thought famous in those days of foot-racing and pugilism.

Of all your modern Heroes
That rank so high in fame,
There's one that takes the lead of all,
Young Wantling is his name;
For when he takes the field
So nimbly he doth run,
His feet is at the destin'd mark
Ere the race is well begun!
Fol de rol, &c.

This youth's been lately tried
Against a man of great renown,
And to run the Stafford hero
He was back'd for fifty pounds;
O he is the bravest lad
That ever eyes did see,
For he won the race quite easy,
When the bets were five to three!
Fol de rol, &c.

Now ye men of sporting talent
I would have you all to know,
On the eighteenth day of March
You've a chance to see him go,
For this Hero he is match'd to run
Three hundred yards we're told,
Against the Stafford Bragger
For one hundred guineas in gold!
Fol de rol, &c.

Then keep your spirits up, my lads,
For he will show the way,
He is as swift as Mercury,
And is sure to win the day;
For Wantling's of such good mettle,
And his honour is as good,
He is sure not to deceive you,
As some other Runners would.
Fol de rol, &c.

Of all the Runners now in vogue
Young Wantling takes the lead;
You would think him jealous of the wind
When you view him in his speed:
He will make that Braggadocia
Afraid to show his face,
To be beat by an apprentice boy--
It will be such disgrace.
Fol de rol, &c.

We've another Hero on the list
That runs but now and then,
But he's well known upon the turf
By the name of Little Ben;
He's lately been to try his strength
Some miles from Derby town,
And there he well confirmed his name
As a youth of some renown.
Fol de rol, &c.

Then drink success to Derby town,
For it stands high in fame,
Its lads will yield to none,
For they're Chickens of true Game;
Their strength has oft been tried
By men both far and near,
But they never yet was beat,
For their hearts are void of fear.
Fol de rol, &c.

_A New Song_

_On the great Foot Race that was contested on the London Road, near Derby, on the 18th day of March, 1822, betwixt Jas. Wantling, of Derby, and Shaw, the Staffordshire Hero, for 2 Hundred Guineas._

The eighteenth day of March
Will long be handed down,
When thousands came from far
Into famed Derby town,
To see the great Foot Race
For one hundred guineas aside,
Betwixt Shaw, the Stafford Hero,
And Wantling, Derby's pride!
Fol de rol, &c.

Now the time is come
That these Heroes try their skill,
Whilst numbers flock together
Offering to lay who will;
Large sums are laid around
Ere they begin to run,
And mingled sounds you hear
Crying I take your bet--done, done.
Fol de rol, &c.

And now you see them striving
Which shall get the first,
Straining each nerve and muscle
Till their veins are almost burst;
But Wantling takes the lead,
And labours hard to gain
The money for his friends,
And establish his own fame.
Fol de rol, &c.

The race it soon was over,
Whilst women, men, and boys
Cried "Wantling still for ever!"
In shouts that rend the skies.
His name this day is raised,
As a Runner of great fame,
For Shaw, the Stafford Hero,
Has been beat by him again!
Fol de rol, &c.

All ye wise men of Staffordshire,
Who back'd Shaw on that day,
Having ventured all your money,
Leaving none your shots to pay,
Be wiser for the future,
If again you chance to come,
And bring more money with you,
Lest you go empty home.
Fol de rol, &c.

Then let us drink the Hero's health,
Whilst Fame proclaims his name,
May he never sell his honour
For the sake of sordid gain:
All base attempts to bias him
With scorn from him be hurl'd,
Then he will rise a wonder,
And astonish all the world.
Fol de rol, &c.

But let us act with honour,
And not run the Hero down,
Although he lost the race,
He's a claim to great renown;
For Shaw and his supporters
Have acted manly parts,
And any thing contrary
Is quite foreign to their hearts.
Fol de rol, &c.

_ON THE DEATH OF THE LATE_

_Rev. Bache Thornhill, M.A.,_

_Perpetual Curate of Winster, Ashford, and Longstone._

Mr. Thornhill, on whose death through accident the following verses were written, was son of Bache Thornhill, Esq., of Stanton in the Peak. He was a man of refined tastes, fond of antiquarian pursuits, and was highly esteemed in the county of Derby. He was M.A. of St. John's College, Cambridge, where he was a fellow-student with Sir Robert Peel, with whom to the period of his untimely death he kept up an intimate friendship. On the 13th of December, 1827, Mr. Thornhill was accidentally shot by the discharge of the fowling-piece of a friend. He lingered until the 27th, when he died, at the age of forty-two. He was buried at Youlgreave, the coffin bearing the inscription--"Rev. Bache Thornhill, Vicar of Winster, and Vice-Vicar of Ashford and Longstone, died the 27th day of December, 1827; aged forty-two."

The writer of these verses was John Brimlow, of Winster. Brimlow had been a soldier in Colonel Thornhill's regiment, under which gallant officer he served in Egypt. He afterwards suffered from opthalmia, became blind, and got a precarious livelihood by rambling about the country with a basket, gathering "rags and bones." The verses are here reprinted from a broad-sheet.

As I sat musing by the fire
I heard some people say
A dreadful accident has befel
A worthy man this day.

Then I got up, went out of door
For to see, and likewise hear,
On every tongue enquiry sat,
And, in many an eye, a tear,

Saying our worthy Pastor he has fall'n,
Oh! how hard has been his lot,
By accident a gun went off,
And this good man was shot.

The rich, the poor, in groups they meet,
Their sorrow for to express,
Saying if fifty come there will be none like Bache
To those that are in distress.

For he was a friend to every one,
To all alike was kind,
He was the same to rich and poor,
Likewise sick, lame, or blind.

Oh! cruel Fate, what have we done,
That this good man should fall,
But the die was cast, and the thing is past,
And there must be an end to all.

But, hark! a messenger has just arrived,
Glad tidings doth he bring,
This good man he is still alive,
Oh! let us praise the King of kings.

Rejoice, my friends, he better gets,
For the Lord has heard our prayer,
And He has promised when a few does meet
That He always will be there.

But adieu, vain hope, thou art for ever fled,
For this good man is no more,
For he is now numbered amongst the dead,
So adieu, adieu, farewell for evermore.

JOHN BRIMLOW, Winster.

_A Journey into the Peak._

_TO SIR ASTON COKAINE._

Charles Cotton, the "honoured friend" of good old Izaac Walton, and of most of the celebrated men of his day, was born at Beresford Hall, on the banks of his

"----beloved Nymph! fair Dove,
Princess of Rivers,"

whose praises he has sung, and whose beauties he has rendered immortal by his pen, and by his fishing-house, dedicated to lovers of the angle. He was the only child of Charles Cotton, Esq., by Olive, daughter of Sir John Stanhope, of Elvaston Castle, near Derby (ancestor of the Earl of Harrington, and of the same family as the Earl of Chesterfield, Earl Stanhope, &c.) He married, first, Isabella, daughter of Sir Thomas Hutchinson, of Owthorpe; and, second, the widowed Countess of Ardglass (daughter of Sir William Russel, of Strensham). He died in 1687.

Charles Cotton was a profuse writer. Among his principal works are the second part of "The Complete Angler," "The Wonders of the Peak," "Virgil Travestie," "Moral Philosophy of the Stoics," "The Planter's Manual," "Life of the Duke of Espernon," "The Commentaries of De Montluc," "The Complete Gamester," "The Fair One of Tunis," "Burlesque upon Burlesque," "Montaigne's Essays," &c., &c. After his death, a collection of "Poems on several Occasions," by Charles Cotton, was published.

The following characteristic lines I here print from the original MS. copy, in my own possession. The volume of manuscript is of the highest interest, and is in the autograph writing of Charles Cotton himself. It is entitled, in his own writing, "Charles Cotton, His Verses," and is in folio, in the old binding with clasps. This volume is described in Sir Harris Nicholas' Life of Cotton, attached to his edition of the Complete Angler. It contains some pieces not printed, and others very different from those in his "Poems on Several Occasions," printed surreptitiously after his death in 1689. The following varies in many parts from the copy printed in the volume alluded to.

S'R,
Coming home into this frozen Clime,
Grown cold, and almost senselesse, as my rythme,
I found, that Winter's bold impetuous rage
Prevented time and antidated age:
For, in my veins did nought but crystall dwell,
Each hair was frozen to an iceicle.
My flesh was marble, so that, as I went,
I did appear a walking monument.
'T might have been judged, rather than marble, flint,
Had there been any spark of fier in't.
My mother looking back (to bid good night)
Was metamorphos'd, like the Sodomite.
Like Sinons horse, our horses were become,
And, since they could not go, they slided home.
The hills were hard to such a qualitie,
So beyond Reason in Philosophie;
If Pegasus had kickt at one of those,
Homer's Odysses had been writ in prose.
These are strange stories, S'r, to you, who sweat
Under the warm Sun's comfortable heat;
Whose happy seat of Pooley farre outvies
The fabled pleasures of blest Paradise.
Whose Canaan fills your hous with wyne and oyl,
Till't crack with burdens of a fruitful soil.
Which hous, if it were plac't above the sphear,
Would be a palace fit for Jupiter.
The humble chappell for religious Rites,
The inner rooms for honest, free delights,
And Providence, that these miscarrie, loth,
Has plac't the Tower a centinell to both:
So that there's nothing wanting to improve
Either your pietie, or peace, or love.
Without, you have the pleasure of ye woods,
Fair plains, sweet meadows, and transparent flouds,
With all that's good, and excellent, beside
The tempting apples by Euphrates' side.
But, that, which does above all these aspire,
Is Delphos, brought from Greece to Warwick-shire.
But Oh! ungodly Hodge! that valu'd not
The saving juice o'th' ænigmaticke pot.
Whose charming virtue made mee to forget
T'enquire of Fate, else I had stayed there yet.
Nor had I then once dar'd to venture on
The cutting ayr of this our Freezland zone.
But once again, Dear Sir, I mean to come
And learn to thank, as to be troublesome.

Another "Journey into the Peak" by Charles Cotton, which is but little known, is the following, which is an admirable specimen of his style. It is entitled an

_Epistle to John Bradshaw, Esq._

From _Porto Nova_ as pale wretches go,
To swing on fatal _Tripus_, even so
My dearest Friend, I went last day from thee,
Whilst for five Miles, the figure of that Tree
Was ever in my guilty Fancy's eye,
As if in earnest I'd been doom'd to die
For, what deserv'd it, so unworthily
Stealing so early, _Jack_, away from thee.
And that which (as't well might) encreas'd my fear,
Was the ill luck of my vile Chariotier,
Who drove so nicely too, t'increase my dread,
As if his Horses with my vital thread
Had Harness'd been, which being, alas! so weak
He fear'd might snap, and would not it should break,
Till he himself the honour had to do't
With one thrice stronger, and my neck to boot.
Thus far in hanging posture then I went,
(And sting of Conscience is a punishment
On Earth they say the greatest, and some tell
It is moreo'er the onely one in Hell,
The Worm that never dies being alone
The thing they call endless Damnation:)
But leaving that unto the Wise that made it,
And knowing best the Gulf, can best evade it,
I'll tell you, that being pass'd through _Highgate_, there
I was saluted by the Countrey Air,
With such a pleasing Gale, as made me smell
The _Peak_ it self; nor is't a Miracle,
For all that pass that _Portico_ this way
Are _Transontani_, as the Courtiers say;
Which suppos'd true, one then may boldly speak,
That all of th' North-side _High-gate_ are i'th' _Peak_;
And so to hanging when I thought to come,
Wak'd from the Dream, I found my self at home.

Wonder not then if I, in such a case
So over-joy'd, forgot thee for a space;
And but a little space, for, by this light,
I thought on thee again ten times e'er night;
Though when the night was come, I then indeed
Thought all on one of whom I'd greater need:
But being now cur'd of that Malady,
I'm at full leisure to remember thee,
And (which I'm sure you long to know) set forth
In Northern Song, my Journey to the North.

Know then with Horses twain, one sound, one lame,
On _Sunday's_ Eve I to St. _Alban's_ came,
Where, finding by my Body's lusty state
I could not hold out home at that slow rate,
I found a Coach-man, who, my case bemoaning,
With three stout Geldings, and one able Stoning,
For eight good Pounds did bravely undertake,
Or for my own, or for my Money's sake,
Through thick and thin, fall out what could befall,
To bring me safe and sound to _Basford[92]-hall_.
Which having drank upon, he bid good-night,
And (Heaven forgive us) with the Morning's light,
Not fearing God, nor his Vice-gerent Constable,
We roundly rowling were the Road to _Dunstable_,
Which, as they chim'd to Prayers, we trotted through,
And 'fore elev'n ten minutes came unto
The Town that _Brickhill_ height, where we did rest,
And din'd indifferent well both man and beast.
'Twixt two and four to _Stratford_, 'twas well driven,
And came to _Tocester_ to lodge at Even
Next day we din'd at _Dunchurch_, and did lie
That night four miles on our side _Coventry_.
_Tuesday_ at Noon at _Lichfield_ Town we baited,
But there some friends, who long that hour had waited,
So long detain'd me, that my Chariotier
Could drive that night but to _Uttoxiter_.
And there the _Wedn'sday_, being Market-day,
I was constrain'd with some kind Lads to stay
Tippling till afternoon, which made it night
When from my Hero's Tower I saw the light
Of her Flambeaux, and fanci'd as we drave
Each rising Hillock was a swelling wave,
And that I swimming was in _Neptune'_ spight
To my long long'd-for Harbour of delight.
And now I'm here set down again in peace,
After my troubles, business, Voyages,
The same dull Northern clod I was before,
Gravely enquiring how Ewes are a Score,
How the Hay-Harvest, and the Corn was got,
And if or no there's like to be a Rot;
Just the same Sot I was e'er I remov'd,
Nor by my travel, nor the Court improv'd;
The same old fashion'd Squire, no whit refin'd,
And shall be wiser when the Devil's blind:
But find all here too in the self-same state,
And now begin to live at the old rate,
To bub old Ale, which nonsense does create,
Write leud Epistles, and sometimes translate
Old Tales of Tubs, of _Guyenne_, and _Provence_,
And keep a clutter with th'old Blades of _France_,
As _D'Avenant_ did with those of _Lombardy_, }
Which any will receive, but none will buy, }
And that has set _H.B._[93] and me awry. }
My River still through the same Chanel glides,
Clear from the Tumult, Salt, and dirt of Tides,
And my poor Fishing-house, my Seat's best grace,
Stands firm and faithfull in the self-same place
I left it four months since, and ten to one
I go a Fishing e'er two days are gone:
So that (my Friend) I nothing want but thee
To make me happy as I'd wish to be;
And sure a day will come I shall be bless'd
In his enjoyment whom my heart loves best;
Which when it comes will raise me above men
Greater than crowned Monarchs are, and then
I'll not exchange my Cottage for _White_-hall,
_Windsor_, the _Lauvre_, or th' _Escurial_.

FOOTNOTES:

[92] Beresford Hall, Dove Dale, his residence.

[93] "Henry Brome at the Gun in St. Paul's Churchyard," who published many of Cotton's works.

_Hugh Stenson and Molly Green._

The following ballad has not, as far as I am aware, been "in print" before. I here give it from a MS. copy in my own possession. The Duke of Devonshire alluded to in the ballad as having acted so nobly in saving the life of "his countryman," Hugh Stenson, was, I presume, William, fourth Duke of Devonshire, who was Lord Lieutenant of Ireland in 1756.

Then oh, Hugh Stenson is my name,
From Ashborne in the Peak I came,
And at the age of seventeen
I fell in love with Molly Green.