Chapter V: Introduction: ix (4)

The current tradition in Derbyshire concerning Little John is that he was born at Hathersage, in that county; that he was a man of immense stature, and of wonderful strength and prowess; that he was withal of mild and gentle temperament, of affectionate disposition, and faithful in his attachments; that after the death of Robin Hood at Kirklees, which he took deeply to heart, he was so dispirited that he sank under the loss, and having by great exertion succeeded in reaching the place of his birth, (Hathersage,) he was welcomed by his friends and old associates, who begged him to tarry with them for the rest of his life; that he had just strength enough left to point out the place in the churchyard where he wished to be buried, and to give them instructions for his burial; that he told them in three days he should die, and desired that his bow and cap should be hung up in the church; that on the third day he died, in a small cottage still standing, where, it is said, his length was so great when dead and "laid out," that his feet came outside the door; that he was buried where he had directed, his cap and bow being hung in the chancel of the church; that the people drave his last arrow into the ground near his grave, and that it took root and grew up into a tree. It is asserted that until within the last sixty or seventy years, his cap--a green cloth one--still hung high in the chancel, but was then taken away by some people from Yorkshire, who also despoiled his grave, and took away the thigh bones, which were found to be of immense length. The grave, which is marked by two small upright stones, one at the head and the other at the foot, measures about ten feet in length. In 1728 it was opened, and bones of an enormous size found in it. Some years ago it was again opened, and a thigh bone measuring thirty-two inches taken away from it.

In reference to this tradition it will no doubt be interesting to give the accompanying fac-simile of the writing of Elias Ashmole, copied from his MSS. at Oxford, (who was born in 1617,) and who there says--

"Little John lyes buried in Hatherseech Church yard within 3
miles fro Castleton in High Peake with one Stone set up at
his head and another at his Feete, but a large distance
betweene them. They say a part of his bow hangs up in the
said Church Neere Grindleford Bridge are Robin Hoods 2
Pricks."

The following ballad, founded on a part of this tradition, was written by Mr. William Haines, and appeared in "The Reliquary," vol. II., page 11. Several other ballads relating to Little John might well be given in this volume, but the two I have selected--his first acquaintance with Robin Hood, and his death and burial--will be sufficient to show their character. The others must be deferred for a future work.

When Robin Hood, by guile betrayed,
In Kirklees' cloister died,
Silent his merry men dispersed,
And never more allied.

Some passed unknown, or pardon got,
And peaceful callings sought,
Beyond the seas while others fled,
And 'gainst the Paynim fought.

And Little John, as lonely through
Their vacant haunts he strode,
Repented sadness in his soul
Had e'er of old abode.

As there beneath an oak his limbs
Repose long failing found,
A shape thrice warned him in a dream,
To shun St. Michael's ground.

Affrighted, from the sward he starts--
Deep shone the guardian night!
The moon the woods bowed motionless
With plenitude of light.

St. Michael's road, presaging nought,
Leal John yestreen had ta'en;
But now another way he chose,
Lest there he should be slain.

Northward, compelling soon his steps,
Across the Tweed he hied;
Thence sea and land to traverse far,
A long and cheerless tide.

For aye his heart in greenwood was,
Wherever he might be;
Till pleasing rose resolve once more
The forests fair to see.

Yet bootless he retraced deject
Each loved resort at last;
The birds were mute, the leafless wold
Held drearily the blast.

And as again John wandered wide,
A fog so dense did fall,
He could not see nor hill nor tree;
It clos'd him like a wall.

That dismal night he roamed lost,
Exhausted, sick, and cold:
The morn was long ere it was light,
And long the vapour rolled.

On every side came mighty stones
About a barren moor;
No roof nor pale might be descried,
As spread that waste forlore.

At length 'mid wreathing fog-smoke swam
The sun's blanch'd disc on high;
Mantled the ashy mists around;
Grew wide the rover's eye.

When, singing blithe as he approached,
A shepherd boy met John:
"Pray tell to me," the outlaw cried,
"What ground I here am on?"

"St. Michael's, gallant yeomen, this,"
The boy made prompt reply;
"From yonder, Hathersage church-spire,
May'st plainly now espy."

"There hast thou knelled," said Little John,
"The solemn bell for me;
But Christ thee save, my bonny lad;
Aye lucky shalt thou be!"

He had not many steps advanced,
When in the vale appeared
The Church, and eke the village sweet,
His foot had vainly feared.

Descending, welcome straight he finds
The ruddy hearth before:
Cried young and old, "Among us dwell,
And weary roam no more!"

Said Little John, "No, never hence
Shall I fare forth again;
But that abode is yet to found,
Wherein I must remain."

He led them to the churchyard frore,
And digg'd therein a grave:
"Three days," said he, "and neighbours, this
The little inn I crave.

Without a coffin or a shroud
Inter me, I you pray,
And o'er my corse, as now yclad,
The greensward lightly lay."

The morn ensued, as John foretold,
He never rose to greet;
His bread upon the board was brought,
Beside it stayed his seat.

They laid him in the grave which he
With his own hands had made,
And overspread the fragrant sod,
As he had wished and said.

His bow was in the chancel hung;
His last good bolt they drave
Down to the nocke, its measured length,
Westward fro' the grave.

And root and bud this shaft put forth,
When Spring returned anon;
It grew a tree, and threw a shade
Where slept staunch Little John.

_The Lay of the Buckstone._

The following excellent ballad has been collected from the _disjecta membra_ of the forest minstrelsy of the High Peak, and arranged in its present form, by my friend Mr. William Bennett, of Chapel-en-le-Frith. Mr. Bennett considers, and with good reason, that it has originally formed two distinct ballads, one relating to a contention and fight between Robin Hood and the keepers of Peak Forest, and the other to a match with the long-bow between him and the Foresters. This ballad has been printed in "The Reliquary," vol. I., page 101.

'Tis merry in the high Peak Forest,
Out upon the lea;
'Tis merry in the shady frith,
Where birds are whistling free:
The heather blooms on Lady low;
O'er Combs[21] the wind blows dree;
And the dappled deer are feeding there,
Under the Greenwood tree.

"Now why amort, bold Robin Hood!
And a buck so near at hand:
'Tis easier far to cleave his crown
Than a peeled willow wand.
A nobler herd ne'er saw I run,
Three hundred head and mo:
The King won't miss a hart o' grease,
If thou use thy good yew bow."

"My bow's unstrung, Brian the Bearward!
So much the worse for thee:
Thou elder likest the twang of the string,
Than the deftest minstrelsy:
Thou prizest the swish of an arrow keen,
When the mark is a buck of head;
And liefer than tripping o'er the sward,
Thou wouldst see the Quarry dead."

"Ay, dead and buried," quoth the Bearward,
"In the grave of a venison pie:
And so wouldst thou, or men thee wrong;
For all thou talk'st so high:
But if thou durst not fly a shaft,
As well as I would fly mine,
Tend thou my bear, and lend thy bow;
I'll swop my trade for thine."

The Bearward strung the bow and shot
Four hundred feet him fro:
And hit a good fat buck, which fell,
Nor lack'd a second blow.
"Well shot, shot well," bold Robin cried,
"Thou'rt of the greenwood free;
At stable stand, or wanlass drift,
Thou need'st no lere from me."

Then they were ware of six wight yeomen,
That lusty were, and tall,
Come marching up from Fairfield[22] side,
Beneath the archer's wall;
All clad in Lincoln green were they;
And on their right arms wore
A silver shield, which, in its field,
A lion passant bore.

"Good morrow, good fellows!" the foremost said,
"You are got to work eftsoon,
I pray do you hold of the crown in chief,
Or follow the Lady Moon?
Of stout King Richard the lion's heart
Ye should be liegemen good,
To break his laws, and kill his deer,
Within his own greenwood."

"Thou liest now, thou proud spoken keeper!
Forever I say thou dost lie:
Neither forest walk, nor deer are the King's,
As I will well abye.
To John of Mortaigne, the deer belong;
To John of Mortaigne and _me_;
And my share I'll take, when it me lists,
Despite of him or thee."

"Why who art thou, thou bold tongued traitor!
That durst thus mate with me;
And claim one half of the Prince's deer,
Despite of his sovereignty?
I trou thou'rt one of the Bearward's men,
By keeping his company;
And I'll make thee dance like a bear from France,
If thy tongue not the kinder be."

Then on he rushed, with his staff uprais'd,
And dealt bold Robin a blow;
But he was ware, and stopped him there,
With his long and tough yew bow.
And Robin put his Horn to his mouth,
And blew both loud and shrill;
And soon appeared five wight yeomen
Come running down the hill.

The first was a man hight Little John,
A yeoman good and tall;
The next Will Scarlet of gentle blood,
Bred up in bower and hall;
The third, the minstrel, Alan a Dale,
So well with the harp sang he;
The fourth was stalwart Clym o' the Clough,
And William of Cloudeslie.

"Now, hold your hands," bold Robin cried,
"Stand by and see fair play;
And the keeper and I will try this bout,
And see who'll win the day.
The Bearward shall lay the dainty buck
On this mossy boulder stone;
And he that fairly knocks down his foe,
The fat buck shall have won."

"A match, a match," cried the yeomen all,
"Whoever shall say it nay,
'Tis better ye two should fight it out,
Than all should join in the fray:
So handle your staves, and to it like men,
As it may no better be;
And he that first brings his man to ground,
Shall gain the victory."

Then Ralph the Ranger squared his staff,
And gloured on Robin the while;
The outlaw's staff lay loose in his hands,
And he scarce forbore to smile.
They stood together like Brothers twain,
Good men at their hands and tall;
But each seemed loth to begin the strife,
Lest he first should have the fall.

And round and round each pressed his man,
Before he could get a blow;
So well on guard, each kept his ward,
As they traversed to and fro.
With feint and dodge each tried to draw,
His wary foeman forth;
But both were cool, and cautious too;
Like the good men of the north.

Bold Robin first his staff let fly,
(The challenger was he,)
And for the honor of his craft,
He must not dastard be.
Woe worth the while he dealt the blow,
His staff had scarcely flown;
When Ralph's came dead athwart his head,
And well nigh cracked his crown.

He backward gave a step or two,
But not one whit dismayed;
Though now the Keeper's quarter staff
About his shoulders played:
His eye was keen, his hand was true,
As well the Keeper found;
For his staff did knap the Keeper's cap,
And bring him to the ground.

"The buck is mine," the outlaw said,
"Unless thou lik'st to try
Which of us twain upon the ground,
Can best make arrow fly.
For kingly blood ye tend the frith;
Ye ought to shoot right well:
For mine own hand will I draw a bow,
And see who bears the bell."

"A match, a match!" cried the yeomen all,
"Whoever shall say it nay;
Good men ye are if ye shoot a shaft,
As ye've handled the staff this day.
So fix your mark, and choose your ground,
And it may no better be;
And he that first cleaves the willow wand,
Shall gain the victory."

"No willow wand will we have," quoth Robin,
"But the Buck's dead glassy eye;
And we'll shoot the length of the archer's wall,[23]
Seven hundred feet or nigh.
So Bearward lay the deer adown
On yon mossy boulder stone;
And he who lodges a shaft in his eye,
The fat buck shall have won."

The buck was laid on the boulder stone,
With his head towards the east;
And the yeomen tall, with their bows in hand,
To win the guerdon press'd;
The Keeper first with wary eye,
Took long and careful aim;
And hit the buck right yeomanly
In the middle of his wame.

"Well shot, well shot," bold Robin cried,
(But the outlaw laughed the while,)
"Right woodmanly that shaft is placed;
But a miss is as good as a mile."
With careless aim he drew his bow,
And let his arrow fly;
And lodged the shaft, both hard and fast,
In the dead buck's glassy eye.

So Robin he won the dainty Buck,
By the side of the archer's wall;
And left the tale to be sung or said
In Tower, and Bower, and Hall.
The old gray wall still stands on the hill,
Though the archer's marks are gone;
And the Boulder Rock is still kept in mind,
By the name of old Buckstone.

FOOTNOTES:

[21] Combs Moss, one of the highest hills in the neighbourhood, between Chapel-en-le-Frith and Buxton.

[22] A large village closely adjoining Buxton.

[23] In a copy of an ancient map made at the time of the enclosure of the wastes and commons in the parish of Chapel-en-le-Frith, (part of the ancient Forest of the High Peak,) in the year 1707, an old wall is traced, which is still a boundary fence of the wild moor called Combs Moss. This wall is named on the map "the Archer's Wall," and the length of it is traditionally called "Robin Hood's Marks."

_Sir Richard Whittington's Advancement:_

_Being an Historical Account of his Education, Unexpected Fortune, Charity, &c._

The rhyme and the story of "Whittington and his Cat" are perhaps as well known as any ballads in the language. Sir Richard Whittington, or "Dick Whittington," as he is commonly called, was of the same family as the De Whittingtons, Lords of Whittington, near Chesterfield, Derbyshire. He was, it is stated, youngest son of a Sir William Whittington. In 1393, when he must have been about forty years of age, he became a member of the Mercers' Company, and was, it is said, besides being a Mercer, a Merchant Adventurer. He was also about this year an Alderman, and also Sheriff, of London. In 1397 he was appointed Lord Mayor of London, by writ from Richard II., to serve in place of the deceased Lord Mayor. In 1398, in 1406, and again in 1419, he was elected to and served the office of Lord Mayor. Whittington married Alice, daughter of Sir Hugh Fitzwarren and Maude his wife. He died in 1423. Besides being "_thrice Lord Mayor of London_," his body was, it seems, _thrice_ buried in the church he had himself erected,--St. Michael Paternoster: first, by his executors, who erected a monument over his remains; secondly, in the reign of Edward VI., when the minister, thinking that probably some great riches had been buried with him, had his body taken up and despoiled of its leaden covering; and, thirdly, in the reign of Mary, when the parishioners were compelled to again take him up, re-enclose him in lead, and re-erect the monument over his remains. At the great fire of London, in 1666, both church and monument were destroyed. His memory has been well preserved in the popular mind by ballad and story and tradition; and his noble charities and his munificent acts, of which so many evidences remain in London, form a prouder and more enduring monument than the one which the fire destroyed.

The following version of the ballad is perhaps the one most generally known:--

Here must I tell the praise
Of worthy Whittington,
Known to be in his days
Thrice lord-mayor of London.

But of poor parentage
Born was he, as we hear,
And in his tender age
Bred up in Lancashire.

Poorly to London then,
Came up this simple lad;
Where, with a merchant-man,
Soon he a dwelling had;

And in a kitchen plac'd,
A scullion for to be;
Where a long time he pass'd
In labour drudgingly.

His daily service was
Turning at the fire;
And to scour pots of brass,
For a poor scullion's hire:

Meat and drink all his pay,
Of coin he had no store;
Therefore to run away,
In secret thought he bore.

So from the merchant-man
Whittington secretly
Towards his country ran,
To purchase liberty.

But as he went along,
In a fair summer's morn,
London's bells sweetly rung
"Whittington back return:"

Evermore sounding so,
"Turn, again, Whittington;
For thou, in time, shalt grow
Lord-mayor of London."

Whereupon, back again
Whittington came with speed,
A servant to remain,
As the Lord had decreed.

Still blessed be the bells,
This was his daily song;
"This my good fortune tells,
Most sweetly have they rung.

If God so favour me,
I will not prove unkind;
London my love shall see,
And my large bounties find."

But, see his happy chance!
This scullion had a cat,
Which did his state advance,
And by it wealth he gat.

His master ventur'd forth,
To a land far unknown,
With merchandize of worth,
As is in stories shown:

Whittington had no more
But this poor cat as then,
Which to the ship he bore,
Like a brave valiant man.

"Vent'ring the same," quoth he,
"I may get store of gold,
And mayor of London be,
As the bells have me told."

Whittington's merchandise,
Carried to a land
Troubled with rats and mice,
As they did understand;

The king of the country there,
As he at dinner sat,
Daily remain'd in fear
Of many a mouse and rat.

Meat that on trenchers lay,
No way they could keep safe;
But by rats bore away,
Fearing no wand or staff;

Whereupon, soon they brought
Whittington's nimble cat;
Which by the king was bought,
Heaps of gold given for that.

Home again came these men,
With their ship laden so;
Whittington's wealth began
By this cat thus to grow:

Scullion's life he forsook,
To be a merchant good,
And soon began to look
How well his credit stood.

After that, he was chose
Sheriff of the city here,
And then full quickly rose
Higher, as did appear:

For, to the city's praise,
Sir Richard Whittington
Came to be in his days,
Thrice mayor of London.

More his fame to advance,
Thousands he lent the king,
To maintain war in France,
Glory from thence to bring.

And after, at a feast
Which he the king did make,
He burnt the bonds all in jest,
And would no money take.

Ten thousand pounds he gave
To his prince willingly;
And would no penny have
For this kind courtesy.

As God thus made him great,
So he would daily see
Poor people fed with meat,
To shew his charity:

Prisoners poor cherish'd were,
Widows sweet comfort found:
Good deeds, both far and near,
Of him do still resound.

Whittington's College is
One of his charities;
Record reporteth this
To lasting memories.

Newgate he builded fair,
For prisoners to lie in;
Christ-church he did repair,
Christian love for to win.

Many more such like deeds
Were done by Whittington;
Which joy and comfort breeds,
To such as look thereon.

_The Derbyshire Miller._

I have not as yet been able to recover the whole of the words of this ballad. The following fragment was written by Mr. Chappell, from the singing of Mr. Charles Sloman, and is all I have respecting it:--

[Music:

The miller he caught the maid by the toe;
What d'ye call this, my dearest?
The miller he caught the maid by the toe;
What d'ye call this, my dearest?
Oh! this is my toe, near to my shoe sole.
Thy toe on my territory.
I'm the maid of the mill, and the corn grinds well.]

_Tideswell in an Uproar,_

_Or the Prince in the Town, and the Devil in the Church._

One Sunday in 1806 the Prince of Wales, afterwards George IV., passed through Tideswell, in the High Peak, and stopped to change horses at the principal inn of the place. The circumstance caused, as was only natural, considerable excitement in the place, which culminated in not only the whole of the congregation of the parish church, but also the clergyman himself, and his clerk, forsaking the service to see him pass. This circumstance gave rise to much merriment, and more than one ballad was the result. The following is the best:--

Declare, O Muse, what demon 'twas
Crept into Tideswell Church,
And tempted pious folk to leave
Their parson in the lurch.

What caused this strange disaster, say,
What did the scene provoke?
At which the men unborn will laugh,
At which the living joke!

The Prince of Wales, great George's Heir,
To roam once took a freak;
And as the fates did so decree,
He journey'd through the Peak.

But, ah! my Prince, thy journey turn'd
The Sabbath into fun day;
And Tideswell Lads will ne'er forget,
Thy trav'ling on a Sunday.

The Ringers somehow gain'd a hint,
Their loyalty be praised!
That George would come that way, so got
The Bells already rais'd.

The Prince arrived, then loudest shouts
Thro' Tideswell streets soon rang;
The loyal clappers strait fell down,
With many a merry bang.

To Pulpit high, just then the Priest,
His sacred gown had thrust;
And, strange coincidence! his Text
"In Princes put no trust."

With Man of God they all agreed,
Till bells went clitter clatter;
When expectation did them feed,
But not with heavenly matter.

The congregation, demon rous'd,
Arose with one accord;
And, shameful, put their trust in Prince,
And left the living Lord.

They helter skelter sought the door,
The Church did them disgorge;
With fiercest fury, then they flew,
Like Dragons to the "George."

As through Churchyard with tumult dire
And wild uproar they fled;
Confusion was so great, some thought
They would have rais'd the Dead.

The Parson cried, with loudest lungs,
"For love of God, pray stay!"
But love of Prince more prevalent,
Soon hied them fast away.

The Demon hov'ring o'er their heads,
Exulted as they pass'd;
"Friend Belzebub," the Parson cried,
"Thou'st got a Prize at last."

The Clerk then to his master said,
"We're left behind complete;
What harm if we start off for Prince,
And run the second heat?"

The Parson with good Capon lin'd,
Then ran with middling haste;
Spare Clerk, was at his rear, who knew,
"Amen," should come the last.

Amidst the mob, they soon descried
The Prince, Great Britain's Heir;
Then with the Mob they both did join,
And play'd at gape and stare.

Their wish the sovereign People show,
Impress'd with one accord;
It was to turn themselves to beasts,
And draw their future Lord.

The Prince put forth what's filled with sense,
It was his Royal sconce:
Insisted they should act like men,
And break their rules for once.

Steeds more appropriate being brought,
Huzzas formed parting speech;
The Prince drove on and people went
To swig with Mrs. Leech.

Thy Flock's frail error, Reverend Sir,
Did serve a loyal dish up;
For which, if Prince has any grace,
He'll surely make thee Bishop.

Another short piece on this same subject may be added:

Ye Tideswellites, can this be true,
Which Fame's loud Trumpet brings;
That ye the Cambrian Prince to view,
Forsook the King of kings?

That ye, when swiftly rattling wheels
Proclaimed his Highness near;
Trode almost on each other's heels,
To leave the House of Prayer?

Another time adopt this plan,
Lest ye be left i' th' lurch;
Place at the end o' th' Town a man
To ask him into th' church!

_The Derby Ram._

The origin of this popular old ballad has yet to be ascertained. At present it has puzzled more heads than one, and its elucidation must be left to future research. Its principal characteristic is its bold extravagance. Derby and Derby people have, however, I know by references to allusions to it, been fond of their Ram for more than a century. How much older it is than that time is difficult to say. There are several versions of the ballad: the one I here give is, however, the most complete I have met with. The "Derby Ram" has been set as a glee by Dr. Callcott, and is still sung with much applause at public dinners in the town. So popular, indeed, is the Ram in the district, that a few years ago--in 1855--the First Regiment of Derbyshire Militia, whose barracks and head quarters are at Derby, carrying out the idea of the Welsh Fusileers with their goat, attached a fine Ram to the staff of the regiment. So well trained was he, and so evidently proud of his post, that he marched with a stately step in front of the band as they marched day by day through the town while up for training, and attracted quite as much notice as any drum-major ever did. More than this, a political periodical, a kind of provincial _Charivarri_, has been issued under the title of the "Derby Ram," which is supposed to butt at party doings, and at local abuses of various kinds; and I write this note with a steel pen which bears the extraordinary name stamped upon it of the "Derby Ram pen!"

As I was going to Darby, Sir,
All on a market day,
I met the finest Ram, Sir,
That ever was fed on hay.
Daddle-i-day, daddle-i-day,
Fal-de-ral, fal-de-ral, daddle-i-day.

This Ram was fat behind, Sir,
This Ram was fat before,
This Ram was ten yards high, Sir,
Indeed he was no more.
Daddle-i-day, &c.

The Wool upon his back, Sir,
Reached up unto the sky,
The Eagles made their nests there, Sir,
For I heard the young ones cry.
Daddle-i-day, &c.

The Wool upon his belly, Sir,
It dragged upon the ground,
It was sold in Darby town, Sir,
For forty thousand pound.[24]
Daddle-i-day, &c.

The space between his horns, Sir,
Was as far as a man could reach,
And there they built a pulpit
For the Parson there to preach.
Daddle-i-day, &c.

The teeth that were in his mouth, Sir,
Were like a regiment of men;
And the tongue that hung between them, Sir,
Would have dined them twice and again.
Daddle-i-day, &c.

This Ram jumped o'er a wall, Sir,
His tail caught on a briar,
It reached from Darby town, Sir,
All into Leicestershire.
Daddle-i-day, &c.

And of this tail so long, Sir,
'Twas ten miles and an ell,
They made a goodly rope, Sir,
To toll the market bell.
Daddle-i-day, &c.

This Ram had four legs to walk on, Sir,
This Ram had four legs to stand,
And every leg he had, Sir,
Stood on an acre of land.[25]
Daddle-i-day, &c.

The Butcher that killed this Ram, Sir,
Was drownded in the blood,
And the boy that held the pail, Sir,
Was carried away in the flood.[26]
Daddle-i-day, &c.

All the maids in Darby, Sir,
Came begging for his horns,
To take them to coopers,
To make them milking gawns.[27]
Daddle-i-day, &c.

The little boys of Darby, Sir,
They came to beg his eyes,
To kick about the streets, Sir,
For they were football[28] size.
Daddle-i-day, &c.

The tanner that tanned its hide, Sir,
Would never be poor any more,
For when he had tanned and retched[29] it,
It covered all Sinfin Moor.[30]
Daddle-i-day, &c.

The Jaws that were in his head, Sir,
They were so fine and thin,
They were sold to a Methodist Parson,
For a pulpit to preach in.[31]
Daddle-i-day, &c.

Indeed, Sir, this is true, Sir,
I never was taught to lie,
And had you been to Darby, Sir,
You'd have seen it as well as I.[32]
Daddle-i-day, daddle-i-day,
Fal-de-ral, fal-de-ral, daddle-i-day.

FOOTNOTES:

[24] Another version has--

"The Wool upon his back, Sir,
Was worth a thousand pound,
The Wool upon his belly, Sir,
It trailed upon the ground."

[25] Another version says--

"And every time he shifted them,
He covered an acre of land."

[26] Another version has--

"And all the people of Darby
Were carried away in the flood."

[27] "Gawn" is a provincialism for pail,--a milk pail.

[28] Football was essentially a Derby game, and was played every year, frequently with highly disastrous consequences, until put down by the authorities a few years back. On Shrove Tuesday business was entirely suspended, and the townspeople being divided into two parties,--All Saints and St. Peters,--the ball was, at noon, thrown from the Town Hall to the densely packed masses in the market-place, the two parties each trying to "goal" it at their respective places. The fight--for it was nothing less--continued for many hours, and sewers, brook-courses, and even rivers, were invaded, and scores of people who were fortunate enough not to get killed or lamed, were stripped of their clothing in the fray.

[29] Stretched,--_i.e._, fastened it down with pegs to dry.

[30] Sinfin Moor is a few miles from Derby. It is a place where, in former times, Derby races were held. Another version says "Swinscoe Moor," which is in the neighbourhood of Ashborne.

[31] I take it that this verse is a later addition to the song, put in, probably, by some singer who was antagonistic to Methodism. It does not appear in most of the versions I have collected.

[32] Another version says--

"And if you go to Darby, Sir,
You may eat a bit of the pie."

_The Blink-Ey'd Cobler._

The plot of the ballad of "The Blink Eyed Cobler," is the old story of a young gentleman falling in love with a servant, seducing her, promising to marry her, the marriage prevented by the "cruel father," a disguise adopted, the father giving a dowry to the supposed Cobbler so as to induce him to marry her, and in the end the happy reconciliation of all the parties. The ballad is here given from a broad-sheet in my own collection. It is printed broad-way of the paper, in four columns, and has a wood-cut at the head, of a lady and her waiting-woman before a looking-glass, and a gentleman standing in the room with them. It occurs also in other forms.

All you that delight in merriment,
Come listen to my song,
It is very new and certain true,
You need not tarry long,
Before you laugh your belly full,
Therefore be pleas'd to stay,
I hope that you will be pleased,
Before you go away.
It's of a knight in Derbyshire,
Who had a handsome son,
He kept a handsome chambermaid,
Who had his favour won;
They dearly lov'd each other,
Being full of sport and play,

Having seduced this "handsome chambermaid," and she having told him that she is likely to become a mother, the ballad goes on--

He cries love be contented,
(This is what must be said,)
And do not let my father know,
For on Sunday we will wed.
But mind how cruel fortune,
Their fate did seem to force,
The old man stood in the corner,
And heard the whole discourse.
Next morn he call'd the maid,
Likewise the youth his son,
And with a smiling sneering look,
The story thus begun.
He said I wish you both much joy,
You are to wed on Sunday,
But I'd have you be rul'd by me,
And put it off till Monday.
'Twill be but one day longer,
With that he laugh'd outright,
But I'm resolv'd to part you both,
For fear it should be to-night.
He paid the girl her wages,
And home he then her sent,
And confin'd him to his chamber,
In tears for to lament.
Next morning unto London,
Along with a sturdy guide,
To his uncle's house on Cornhill,
He sent him to abide.
But as they rode along the way,
He said unto the guide
I'll give thee twenty guineas
To let me step aside.
Because this very morning,
One word my father said,
The same I do remember,
And keep it in my head.
The guide straightway gave consent,
And he went to his sweetheart Sue,
Then told to her the story,
And what he design'd to do.
Disguis'd like a poor cobler,
With a long rusty beard,
With a leather coat not worth a groat,
To his father's house he steer'd.
He knocked boldly at the door,
And when his father came,
He said, sir, be you such a one?
He answered, yes, the same,
He cry'd, I understand your son,
Wanton tricks has play'd,
Unknown to your worship,
Along with your chambermaid.
I understand some money
With her you are freely to give,
To help to keep the child and she,
So long as they do live.
Now I am an honest cobler,
Who do live here just by,
For fifty pounds I'll marry her,
If that will but satisfy.
The old man answer'd, before
The money I do pay,
I'll see her fairly marry'd,
And give her myself away.
With all my heart, the cobler
Unto the old man did say,
With that he fetch'd the fifty pounds,
And the bargain he made straightway.
And when they came unto the church,
As we do understand,
The old man strutted boldly,
Then took her by the hand,
Crying, heavens bless you from above,
And send you long to live,
And as a token of my love,
This fifty pounds I give.
They parted very friendly,
The old man home he went,
The bride and bridegroom rode away,
To London by consent.
Where she was fairly brought to bed,
With joy and much content,
A letter into the country,
To his father then he sent,
Sir, I think it is my duty,
And am bound to acquaint thee,
That there is a lady in this city,
Who has fallen in love with me.
Five thousand pounds a year she,
All in good house and land,
That if you're willing for the match,
Come to London out of hand.
The old man got his coach ready,
And up to London came,
For to view this charming lady,
Who was of birth and fame.
Then coming to his brother's house,
This beauty for to view,
He little thought this beauty bright,
Was his old servant Sue.
With gold and silver spangles,
She was bedeck'd all round,
The noise of her portion being told,
For so many thousand pounds.
The old man took his son aside,
And thus to him did say,
Take my advice and marry her,
My dearest child this day.
That morning they were marry'd,
And dinner being done,
The old man being mellow,
The story thus begun.
He said dear son I'll tell you,
And nothing but what is true,
A poor blinking one ey'd cobler,
Has wedded thy sweetheart Sue.
The young man went a little aside.
As I to you confess,
And then within a short time,
He put on his cobler's dress.
Then taking Susan by the hand,
They fell on their bended knees,
Saying, pardon, honoured father,
Pardon if you please.
For I am John the cobler,
And this is my sweetheart Sue,
O pardon us, dear father,
Because we tell you true.
If you are the cobler, said the old man,
Who had the blinking eye,
Thou'st cobl'd me of a thousand pounds
And a pox on thy policy.
The uncle he persuaded him,
So did all the guests,
The old man fell a laughing,
Saying, "'tis but a merry jest,"
That I cannot be angry,
Then straight these words did say,
I pray fetch me the fiddlers,
And so let's dance away.
Now we may see the old and rich,
Are bit by policy,
For beauty, wit, and good manners,
Beyond all riches be.
So here's a good health to the cobler,
With another to handsome Sue,
Let every one drink off his glass,
Without any more ado.

_A Strange Banquet;_

_Or the Devil's Entertainment by Cook Laurel, at the Peak in Derby-shire; with an Account of the several Dishes served to Table._

To the tune of _Cook Laurel, &c._

Cook Laurel, or Cock Lorel, as he is variously called, was a notorious rogue in the thirteenth or fourteenth century, and is not unfrequently alluded to by the old writers. Lorel, or Laurel, was a word signifying a rascal,--a bad, low, worthless fellow; and _Cock_ Lorel would therefore denote an arch-rogue, a very prince of rascals! _Lorel's den_ was a place of resort, no doubt, for thieves and sharpers, and "lazy lorel," which is an expression even now not unfrequently heard, means an idle, worthless fellow. A curious little tract, entitled "Cocke Lorrell's Bote," was printed by Wynken de Worde; and this "Cock Lorel's Boat" is mentioned in a MS. poem of _Doctor Double Ale_, in the Bodleian Library, and in other writings. In it persons of various classes, including the minstrels, are summoned to go on board his ship of Fools. In Rowland's "Martin Markhall, his Defence and Answer to the Bellman of London" (1610), Cock Lorrell stands second only in the list of rogues there given, and is thus described: "After him succeded, by the generall council, one Cock Lorrell, the most notorious knave that ever lived. By trade he was a tinker, often carrying a pan and hammer for show; but when he came to a good booty he would cast his profession in a ditch, and play the padder."[33]

The ballad of Cock Lorrell is introduced in Ben Jonson's masque of the "Gipsies Metamorphosed," and in "Pills to purge Melancholy." The copy I here give I have copied from the original broad-sheet in the Roxburghe Collection in the British Museum. It is in some parts exceedingly coarse in its wording, and is therefore unfit to be given entire. It will be seen that Cock Lorrell, the prince of rogues, invites his Satanic Majesty to Castleton, in the High Peak of Derbyshire, to dinner, and the dishes served up for the occasion are people of various disreputable callings and hypocritical habits, against whom the shafts of the writer are levelled.

The broad-sheet from which the ballad is here copied, is printed in black letter, and has an engraving of the banquet at the head. It is "Licensed and entered according to order. London: Printed by and for W. O. and A. M. ...to be sold by J. Deacon, at the Angel in Guiltspur Street." It begins:--

Cook Lawrel would have the Devil his guest,
and bid him home to Peak to dinner,
Where fiend never had such a feast,
prepared at the charge of a sinner.
With a hey down, down adown, down.

His stomach was quesie, he came thither coached,
the joggings had caused his cruets to rise,
To help which he call'd for a Puritan poach'd,
that used to turn up the white of his eyes.
With a hey down, &c.

And so he recovered unto his wish;
he sat him down and began to eat:
A Promooter[34] in plumb broth was the first dish,
his own privy-kitchen had no such meat.
With a hey down, &c.

Yet though with (it) he much was taken,
upon a sudden he shifted his trencher
As soon as he spied the Bawd[35] and bacon,
by which you may know the Devil's a wencher.
With a hey down, &c.

Six pickled Taylors sliced and cut
with Semsters[36] and Tire-woman,[37] fit for his pallet,
With Feather-men and Perfumers, put
some twelve in a charger, to make a grand sallet.[38]
With a hey down, &c.

A rich fat Usurer stewed in his marrow,
with him a Lawyer's head and green sawce

were the next dishes; usurers and lawyers, in those days, being common subjects for satire.

Then carbanado'd[39] and cook'd with pains
was brought up a Serjent's cloven face,
The sawce was made of a Yeoman's brains
that had been beaten out with his mace.
With a hey down, &c.

Two roasted Sheriffs came whole to the Board,
the feast had nothing been without them,
Both living and dead were foxed and fur'd,
and their chains like Sassages hung about them.
With a hey down, &c.

The next dish was the Mayor of the Town,
with pudding of maintenance[40] put in his belly,
Like a goose in her feathers, in his gown
with a couple of Hinch boys[41] boyl'd to jelly.
With a hey down, &c.

Then came the over-worn Justice of Peace,
with Clerks like gizzards stuck under each arm,
And warrants like Sippets,[42] lay in his own grease,
set over a chafing dish to be kept warm.
With a hey down, &c.

In the next four verses, other "dainty dishes" were served up. Then followed--

The jewel of a time-server for a fish,
a Constable sowced, with vinegar by
Two Alderman-lobsters laid in a dish
a Deputy-tart and Church-warden pye.[43]
With a hey down, &c.

All which devoured, then for a close
he did for a draught of _Derby_[44] call,
He heaved the vessel up to his nose,
and never left till he'd drank up all.
With a hey down, &c.

Then from the table he gave a start
where banquet and whine was not to seek--

And thus the banquet ended. The ballad closes with the assertion that from this feast the common name of the cavern at Castleton, where it is said to have taken place, is derived.

FOOTNOTES:

[33] A foot-pad.

[34] A _promooter_, was an informer.

[35] A provincialism for hare.

[36] A sempstress.

[37] A milliner.

[38] This verse is evidently altogether a shaft levelled against the follies of fashion and foppery of the time, and against those who made it their trade to promote them.

[39] _Carbanado_, a steak cut crossways for broiling.

[40] The "Cap of Maintenance" was a mark of dignity: the "Pudding of Maintenance" is evidently a severe satirical allusion to the fondness for good living of corporate functionaries.

[41] Hench boy,--a page; an attendant on a nobleman or dignitary.

[42] Small thin pieces of bread soaked in gravy or broth.

[43] _Warden_ was a large baking pear. "Warden pies" were very favourite dishes, and are frequently to be found alluded to by the old writers. The wit of "_Church_-warden pie" is very obvious.

[44] Derby ale.

_The Taylor's Ramble,_

_Or the Blue's Valour Displayed._

This ballad I print from a MS. copy of full fifty years old, in my own collection. I am not aware that it has ever before been printed. To another copy in the Bateman Collection, (which differs in the wording, though not in the sense, in many places, and in which the sixth verse is wanting,) is appended this note: "The Tailor's name was Eyre, and this curious exploit was performed on the 19th January, 1797."

Come all you gallant heroes of courage stout and bold,
And I'll tell you of a Taylor that would not be controld;
It happened in Derbyshire, as you may understand,
Five troops of the cavelry to take this noble man.

So now I do begin to tell you of the fun,
Full twenty miles that morning this Taylor he had run,
And when he came to Ashford,[45] the people they did cry,
Make haste, my jovel lad, for your enimies are nigh.

This Taylor was a mighty man, a man of wonderous size,
And when he came to Entcliff[46] hill, you would have thought he
would have reached the skies;
And when he did climb those rocks that was so wonderous high,
The cavelry came all round, and the Taylor they did spy.

They loaded their Pistols with Powder and with Ball,
All for to take this Taylor that was both stout and tall;
He was near four feet high, and a mighty man indeed,
Youl'd a laugh'd to have seen the cavelry ride after him full speed.

In lighting from their horses, their valour for to shew,
Five of them upon the ground this Taylor he did throw;
They being sore afrighted, saying, we would shoot him if we durst,
But their Carbines would not fire, for their Balls they had put
in first.

Their Captain, as Commander, he ordered ranks to form,
All for to take this Taylor, and Entcliff rocks to storm;
Prime and load then was the word their captain he did cry,
Chear up, my jovel lads, let us conquerors be or die.

These valiants being reinforced, they took the Taylor bold,
And guarded him to Bakewell,[47] the truth I will unfold:
At the White Horse Inn in Bakewell, as you may understand,
Full fifty of their troops to guard this noble man.

The Battle being over, the Taylor they have won,
And this is the first prank our cavelry has done;
I'll tell you the truth, they cannot refuse,
They are ten times worse than the run away blues.

Here's a health unto the Taylor, of courage stout and bold,
And by our noble cavelry he scorns to be controld;
If he'd but had his goose, his bodkin, and his shears,
He would soon have cleared Bakewell of those Derby Volunteers.

FOOTNOTES:

[45] Ashford-in-the-Water, a considerable village and parish, three miles from Bakewell, in the High Peak of Derbyshire.

[46] Endcliff, or Entcliffe, is about a mile from Bakewell, on the way to Ashford.

[47] Bakewell is a town of considerable importance in the High Peak, about twenty-five miles from Derby, and twelve from Buxton.

_Squire Vernon's Fox-Chace._

This ballad, one of the most popular of our hunting songs, relates to the noble old Derbyshire family of Vernon, in olden times of Haddon Hall, but for several generations of Sudbury Hall, in the same county, which family is now represented by the Right Hon. Lord Vernon, whose seat Sudbury Hall is. "Squire Vernon," of this ballad, was George Vernon, an ancestor of Lord Vernon, and was, like his namesake and ancestor of old, George Vernon of Haddon, (father of the celebrated Dorothy Vernon,) who acquired and deserved the name of the "King of the Peak," remarkably fond of hunting, and kept a capital pack of hounds. The copy I here give I print from a very scarce broad-sheet in my own collection. It is in two columns, with two curious little wood-cuts at the head.

One morning last winter to Shirley Park[48] came,
A noble brave Sportsman George Vernon by name
Resolved over hedges and ditches to fly,
Came a hunting the Fox--bold Reynard must die.

It was early in the morning before it was light,
Where a great many Gentlemen appointed to meet,
To meet 'Squire Vernon of honour and fame,
His Hounds they bring glory and honour to his name.

Hoke cross him and wind him: Tom Mullins he cry'd,
I warrant we shall unkennel him by the South side,
Let us draw to the cover that lies on the South,
Bold Reynard lies there, Trouler doubles his Mouth.

Cries, loo, hark to Trouler that never fails,
Do you hear how young Snowball does challenge the train
There are Fowler and Royal two brave hounds,
They'll find out bold Reynard if he lies above ground.

Hark, rogues, together, while Juno comes in,
There's Lady and Lambert likewise little Trim,
There's Pleasant and Careless, a bitch that runs fleet,
But loo, hark to little Justice, for she sets you to right.

There is Jovial and Frolick, and Vigour besides,
There is Dido the best bitch that ever was try'd,
There is Tospot and Bumper and Virgin I say,
There is fifty-four couple that run every day.

Mr. Walker then over the cover did stand,
He hollow'd most clearly with horn in his hand,
Cries, loo, hark together, we'll storm Reynard's fort,
And if cover he breaks, we'll tear his old coat.

Loo, hark rogues together, the scent it lies warm,
Mr. Walker and Tom Mullins both concert with horn,
Tantwivee, tantwivee, the horn they did sound,
They alarmed the country for above a mile round.

Tom Mullins the huntsman his whip he did crack,
Cries, loo, hark to little Careless, that leedeth the pack,
These words made Jack Wooley, that was whipper in,
To hollow most clearly, loo, hark rogues, hark in.

The hounds they did rally and flourish about,
Bold Reynard broke cover, Tom Mullins did shout,
Over Wheyersome[49] common away he did trim,
Then so merrily run by the Tinker's inn.[50]

Then for Blakeley Oldhurst but the door was stop'd there
Then bold Reynard was forc'd to take Staffordshire,
Then he crossed the river Dove I declare,
And straight for Durintwoods, for great cover was there.

But the hounds they pursu'd him so hot in the chace,
Which Reynard perceiving would not take the place,
Then he took Weaver hill,[51] which was a pleasant thing,
To hear the wood echo, and the College hall ring.

Tom Mullins was mounted on a trusty bay,
Over hedges and ditches the devil would play,
Up rocks and high mountains so merrily did climb,
Cries, hark to little Careless she runs him like wind.

Then for the New Buildings away he did steer,
I thought we should run him all round Staffordshire,
But we briskly pursu'd him with Hound and with Horn,
And we forced him back again by the Tyth Barn.

'Squire Vernon was mounted upon Golden Dun,
He leaped with courage and like fury did run,
Mr. Walker was on a gelding so free,
He maintained the Chace and kept him company.

'Squire Vernon's a Sportsman 'tis very well known,
He rid swiftly all day, you'd have thought he had flown,
'Squire Brown rid a gelding that run very fleet,
He may challenge the country to carry his weight.

'Squire Boothby of Ashbourn[52] rid over the plain,
Expecting every minute bold Reynard was slain,
He rid with great courage all the day through,
He was rarely well mounted upon his True Blue.

Mr. Boothby of Bradford who never was cast,
But in all the whole course he rallied at last,
Mr. Gretion, of Langford,[53] he bravely came in,
He was rarely well mounted on Tearing Robin.

Mr. Walker did hollow cry'd sentence is past,
Here is Trouler and Snowball puts up at the last,
Come, Gentlemen, ride, for the game is our own,
Now the old hounds puts up I find Reynard is blown.

The Sportsmen they rid at a desperate rate,
As if they had run for a Thousand pound plate,
No hedges could turn them, nor wall could them set,
For the choicest of Sportsmen in England were met.

The hounds they did rally and briskly pursue,
Do you hear little Careless, she runs him in view,
Fifty miles in four hours which is a great ride.
But in Wooton[54] old park bold Reynard he died.

And for Jack Wooley we'll not him forget,
He rid with great courage and ne'er fear'd his neck,
No hedges or walls could turn him again,
He came in that same minute that Reynard was slain.

The Sportsmen came in every one at the last,
The hounds they run briskly not one that was cast,
Let's Ring Reynard's farewell with a horn that sounds clear
You've not heard such an hollow this hundred year.

All pastime in hunting here doth command,
There's the Otter by water the Deer upon land,
Here hunting is pleasant the Stag's noble Chace,
To the animal Reynard all ought to give place.

Come Gentlemen Sportsmen, where'er you be,
All you that love hunting draw near unto me,
The Chace is now ended, you've heard Reynards fall,
So here's a health to 'Squire Vernon of Sidbury Hall.

FOOTNOTES:

[48] Shirley Park.--Shirley, a village and parish, lies about ten miles from Derby, and three and a half from Ashborne. From it the noble family of Shirley, Viscount Tamworth and Earl of Ferrars, takes its name. It has, however, long ceased to be the seat of the Shirleys.

[49] Wyaston.

[50] Tinker's Inn is a hamlet about a mile and a half from Osmaston-by-Ashborne.

[51] The Weaver Hills are among the highest in Staffordshire, lying about midway between Alton Towers and Ilam Hall.

[52] "Squire Boothby of Ashborne" and "Mr. Boothby of Bradford," were of the family of the Boothbys of Ashborne Hall, a family connected by marriage with the Vernons. The present Dowager Lady Vernon was a Miss Boothby.

[53] Longford, about two miles from Shirley. Longford Hall is now the residence of the Hon. E. K. Coke.

[54] Wooton is under the Weaver Hills, on the side next Alton.

"Wooton-under-Weaver,
Where God comes never,"

is a common, though not very complimentary, saying regarding this place.

_The Trusley Hunting Song._