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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Trusley Hunting Song.

This interesting ballad, which has been more than once printed, recounts the events of a famous day's "sport,"—a run with the hounds,—at Trusley, in Derbyshire; Trusley Hall being one of the seats of the Coke family for many generations. The ballad was written by Tom Handford, a blacksmith at Trusley, who also acted in the capacity of "Whipper-in" to "Squire Coke," who was the last William Coke of Trusley, and who died in 1716. A portrait of Tom Handford was painted by order of Squire Coke, and hung up in the servants' hall at Trusley, with this inscription, written by Mr. Coke—

"This is Tom Handford—Don't you know it?
He was both Smith and Poet!"

A version of this ballad, preserved in MS. by the late D'Ewes Coke, Esq., was furnished to me by that gentleman. It differs in many essential points from the one I now print, both in the names as well as in the construction of the stanzas. The different versions of this and other ballads have doubtless arisen from their having been written down from memory; and the different singers would also, probably, take some little license in altering the words to suit their own particular tastes. I prefer giving the printed version, which is evidently the original one. My copy, which I here give, was "Printed by W. O. in Leadenhall Street," and is of an almost contemporaneous period with the song itself. It is printed broadway on the sheet, in four columns, and has at the head of the first two columns a rude engraving of two huntsmen galloping past a tree, and following a stag and a couple of hounds. It is headed "Princely Diversion: or The Jovial Hunting-Match."

Trusley is a village and parish nearly seven miles from Derby, and about midway between Radbourne and Longford, a seat of the Coke family.

One Valentine's Day in the Morning
Bright Phœbus began to appear
Sir William Cook winded his horn
And was going a Hunting the Hare
Says Handford[55] uncouple your Beagles
And let them go Questing along
For lose her or win her, I must go to Dinner
Or else they will think me long.

Says Handford, I pray now forbear, Sir
And talk not of Dinner so soon
For I've not been a Hunting this Year
And how can you give over by Noon.
Black Sloven shall warm your Bay Robin
And make him go smoaking along
Bonny Dick shall not Gallop so quick
If we light of a Hare that is Strong.

Well, Handford, then said the good Squire
I mean for to show you a Trick
I value no Hedges nor Ditches,
But I'll let you know Bonny Dick;
Then hye for the Clossam Bowfield
We shall get her Ten Thousand to One
There's Wonder, lays hard Thunder
Away, o're away, she is gone.

The Morning was pleasant all o're
So bright and so clear was the Air
We made all the Woods for to Roar
With the Noise of our sweet Harmony.
It was for the space of Three Hours
We held all our Horses to speed
Black Slovin held hard to Bay Robin
But yet could not do the Deed.

It was about Nine in the Morning
We sounded our first Passing Bell
Sir William, pray put up your Horn
For another fresh Hare will do well.
Well, Handford, then said the good Squire
What think you of my Bonny Dick
Do's think thou can make him to retire
Or not for to Gallop so quick?

Faith, Master, I needs must Confess
That I fear I was boasting too soon
But I for another fresh Hare
And you Dick shall have Din'd by Noon.
Well Handford, have at your black Sloven
I'll make him in Purple to Ride
And if he does offer to Tire
I'll certainly Liquor thy Hide.

You'd serve him right well, says Jack Wilson[56]
For he has been taunting at me
I never was beat in the Field
So for a fresh Hare let us see,
For here is some Closses of Corn
See well to your Place e'ry one,
Then Master, pray pull out your Horn
For away, o're away she is gone.

Young Blew-Bell, she cry'd it before
And she cry'd it all over the Lane
And after her twelve Couple more
Thus they Rattled it o're the Plain,
Bonny Dick play'd with his Bridle
And went at a desperate Rate
Come Handford, Pox take you, your Idle,
Must I open you the Gate.

O, Your humble Servant good Master
But I will not Die in your debt,
You shall find Black Sloven go faster
For now he begins for to Sweat.
There's Wonder, and Thunder, and Dido
And Merry Lass sweetly runs on,
There's Younger, Old Ranter, and Rain-Bow
But Beauty, she leads the Van.

She headed them Stoutly and Bravely
Just up into Sutton's[57] Cross Field
Black Sloven began to go heavy
And made a fair Offer to yield.
Jack Wilson came swinging before
So well did Bay Robin maintain
And after him Bonny Dick scour'd,
Black Sloven was Spur'd in Vain.

But he had the Luck and good Chance
For to go now and then by the String,
She led us a dilicate Dance
But as we came the last Ring
A fresh Hare, Duce take her, we Started,
We ne'er was so vexed before,
And e're we could make em forsake her
We run her two Miles or more.

And then we left Sir William Cook
For to ponder upon the Old Hare
Who presently leap'd o're a Brook
And a desperate leap I declare.
He had not got past half a Mile
But this cunning Old Gypsie he spy'd
Was making back to her old File
Then away, o're away, he cry'd,

Away, o're away, my brave Boys,
And he merrily Winded his Horn
Our Beagles all toss'd up their Heads
And they soon made a speedy return,
And drawing just up to a Point
Where this cunning Old Gypsie had gone,
You never saw better Dogs Hunt
For Life underneath the Sun.

Now there was Tantive and Ranter,
They sounded her last Passing Bell,
And Wilson made Moan unto Handford
A Cup of Old Hock will do well
And Handford cry'd Master, ride faster
For now I begin to Cool
With Sweat, all my Cloaths are as wet
As if I had been in some Pool.

Where not these two dainty fine Pusses
They held us from Seven till One,
We scour'd thro Hedges and Bushes
So Merrily they run on.
And as for the Praise of these Hounds
And Horses that Gallops so free,
My Pen would not bring to Bounds
If Time would allow it to be.

Now Gallants, I bid you Farewel
For I fear I your Patience have try'd,
And hie for a Glass of good Ale
That Poetry may be admir'd.
And heres a good Health to the Sportsman
That Hunts with the Horn and Hound,
I hope you'll all pledge for the future
And so let this Health go round.[58]

Squire Frith's Hunting Song.

Another good old Derbyshire hunting song is the following, which relates to a celebrated run with the hounds of "Squire Frith, of Bank Hall," near Chapel-en-le-Frith, in the High Peak. Mr. Samuel Frith was a keen sportsman, and for more than fifty years was one of the most daring and best hunters in the district—one of the roughest and most awkward that could be found anywhere. With regard to the run celebrated in this song, it appears that one December morning, some eighty or ninety years ago, in a keen frost, Mr. Frith turned out his own pack of harriers at Castle Naze Rocks, on the moors near his residence. To the surprise of the Squire, instead of a hare putting off, a fine fox broke covert, and made away to the Moors. The dogs got away after him, and Mr. Frith and his huntsman, Jack Owen, followed over some of the most tremendous ground even of Derbyshire. The fox made off across the moors, skirting Axe-edge,—the highest mountain in the Peak,—to Macclesfield forest; thence by Langley and Gracely woods to Swithingley. From thence he went by Housley and Gawsworth, and at length, after a run of more than forty miles, was killed at Clouds Hill, near Congleton, Mr. Frith and his huntsman being up at the time. Mr. Frith rode a favourite black cob of his called "Black Jack," one of the best fencers in the county,—a quality of essential importance in that district of stone walls and rocks. Bank Hall is about two and a half miles from Chapel-en-le-Frith.

The Derby Ram.

The Blink-Ey'd Cobler.

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.

The Taylor's Ramble,
Or the Blue's Valour Displayed.

Squire Vernon's Fox-Chace.

The Trusley Hunting Song.

Squire Frith's Hunting Song.

The Derby Ram.

The Blink-Ey'd Cobler.

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.

The Taylor's Ramble, Or the Blue's Valour Displayed.

Squire Vernon's Fox-Chace.

The Trusley Hunting Song.

Squire Frith's Hunting Song.

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.

The Taylor's Ramble,
Or the Blue's Valour Displayed.