Paving and Lighting, A NEW SONG.

☞I sing of Asses:——(A Motto of my own.)

Two Jack-Asses, (the Father, and his Son,)
Who, after work, on Nun's-Green us'd to run
Exactly like two Bards;—the other day
Stood in a muse;—and then began to bray
With human voice;—For Balaam's breed were they.

Quoth old Ned, to his Lad;—"I have been told,
Nun's-Green, my little dear, is to be sold
To pave, and light, old Derby; (fulsome town!)
And save the Poor from laying money down.
Now is it fair, that you and I should be
Depriv'd of our just Rights, and Property?
It is an Insult on the Jack-Ass kind,
Who have possess'd this Green, time out of mind;
And in Co-partnership with Pigs and Geese
(A truly ancient, honorable race!)
Enjoy'd a bit o' mouth, and Common run,
Quite down from John of Ghent, to you my son.

"Say little David, why the devil should Asses
Find fault with dirty ways, and narrow passes?
These wild Projectors, are the Asses foes,
For pavements, boy, will only hurt our toes;
And when the town's improv'd, in proud array
We poor Jack-Asses, shall be driven away!
No panniers then, forsooth, must there be seen,
So let us all unite to keep Nun's-Green."

The youthful Ass, brim full of spiteful Ire,
Prick'd up his ears; and answer'd thus, his Sire,
"This shall not be;—this shall not come to pass;
They shall not rob us of our lawful grass!
And if to Parliament the Knaves should stray,
We'll throw Petitions in the Robbers' way."

So saying, young David, on all fours bent,
To Lawyer Goose, for pious counsel went:
Quill took his fee, (the life and soul of Law)
Then heard the Case; and thus, unscrew'd his jaw:
"You must petition, Sir; and every creature
That is aggriev'd, must put his pen to paper:

"As hunters' pudding, we most toothsome find,
The more with currants or with plumbs, 'tis lin'd;
So your Petition will disturb their dreams,
The more 'tis stuff'd, with any kind of names."

"Thank ye," quoth he; "my business now is done;
Back to my Daddy, and Nun's-Green I'll run;"
So saying, swift he flew; and Edward found
All at his ease; and rolling on the ground:
The scrawl he read; and all compos'dly then,
Stretch'd forth his hoofs; and 'twixt them held his pen,
The paper sign'd, and after him the Geese,
And Pigs, aggriev'd;—fill'd up each vacant space.
Yet not enough, to please his craving maw,
And answer all the good intents of Law,
Young David did a glorious thought reveal;
"That Rats, and Mice, would suffer by the Sale!
And by destroying Swamps, and wholesome Bogs,
It must invade the property of Frogs!
So these amongst the rest, as I divine
Should be solicited, forthwith to sign."

"Right;" said old Ned, "you reason well, my son;
Directly to the dikes, and gutters run;
And if you cannot there, get names enough,
Employ some Rat to canvass every sough."

Away he went;—away, away, went he;
Out came my Lady Froggy, who but she!
Smirk'd at the paper, nibb'd her crow quill pen,
Then sign'd her name against these naughty men.

Next to the Mice, young David went with speed;
Poor little souls, they could not write or read!
But well inclin'd, to stop, these horrid scenes,
Employ'd the Jack-Ass, to write down their names.

Now David got the whole, engross'd on skins,
Forming a pile, much higher than one's shins!
And when roll'd up, upon his back 'twas ty'd,
Who, then for London went, in stately pride!

But here's the Rub;—when Parliament, serene,
Consider'd well, the business of Nun's-Green;
And by each house, most clearly understood,
That 'twas a Plan, design'd for Public Good,
They curs'd the names, and laugh'd at all the rigs,
Contriv'd by Asses, Geese, Frogs, Mice, and Pigs.

Paving and Lighting,
A NEW SONG.

God prosper long fair Derby Town,
And may it still be free;
From hellish plots of every kind,
Against its liberty.

A juncto formed of wicked men,
Though rich its true they be,
They'd rob the poor of Common-right,
That they may go shot free.

The Prebyterians Jesuit like,
The established Church took in;
To do the drudgery of their work,
And trudged through thick and thin.

Poor silly men to be misled,
By that deceitful race;
That would cut your throat behind your back,
But smile before your face.

From the Town-hall they issue forth,
With Eunuch at their head;
Lazarus the Banker followed him,
You'd have thought they wanted bread.

Next one from beggar's blood that sprung,
To opulence grown is he;
And struts along with iron rod,
And swears you shan't be free.

A tawny Smith was of the gang,
And others as well as he;
They've neither house nor land in town,
Yet want your property.

A brazen face with empty skull,
In Dibden's Tour well known;
That cares not what he does or says,
So that the poor's o'erthrown.

Sly Foxes too with silly hopes,
Expect to have their share;
Of all the Common-right you have,
Their pockets for to spare.

Lo! deep in thought as Tragic Muse,
With dagger to stab behind;
Lo! another as bad as he,
And much of the same kind.

The Scribbling kind with parchment roll,
For you to sign away,
The Right you have upon Nun's-Green,
Their charges to defray.

There are many others of the gang,
As bad as bad can be;
That lie, fawn, and threat, and use deceit,
To get your property.

Old Shot-bag he has chang'd about,
That his Mills may go shot-free;
Some others too have done the same,
Such worthless men there be.

But all's a blank that they have done,
If you but true will be;
To the first promise that was made,
The friends to liberty.

Now Mundy's join'd with Parker Coke,
And others of renown;
Those tyrants for to circumvent,
To save this goodly town.

Those veterans that have stood the brunt,
Of many a well fought day;
Will always cheer you in the front,
And shew you the right way.

For to be free as Britons ought,
And have a right to be;
In spite of these tyrannic fools,
That want your liberty.

The Nun's-Green Rangers,
Or the Triple Alliance. Consisting of an Old Sergeant, a Tinker, and a Bear.

Come listen to me, neighbours all, attend unto my story,
My song concerns not Church or King, neither Whig nor Tory;
But my Ballad is to caution you, against the machinations,
Of those who mean t' impose on you by false insinuations.
Bow, wow, wow.

There's JEMMY PAD, that Irish Lad, who heads the clan of faction,
Swears by the Holy Poker now, he'll make us all distraction,
To keep Nun's Green that precious Land, for his own dear advantage,
He means by lies to dupe you all, and GOBBLE up the Pasturage.
Bow, wow, wow.

Good Twenty Pounds a year, this son of a Teague Sir,
Of lawful British money is regularly paid Sir,
For driving the Poor Geese, from the Land their inheritance,
Whereby he addeth Riches to Irish Impertinence.
Bow, wow, wow.

There's TINKER JOE comes next, because next in colour,
He tells you all he'll make a speech, but alas, he's no Scholar;
He'll talk of Lords and Baronets his Juvenile connections,
By mending all their Pots and Pans, he's gained their affections.
Bow, wow, wow.

To claim your attention more, he'll talk about the Parliament,
And say how many Members, old Ruby Face has thither sent,
That his interest is great in affairs of the nation,
Though still Baboon of Nottingham, Nun's Green shall be his station.
Bow, wow, wow.

OROONOKO next presents himself, t' engage your attention,
As oft' before the Bear has done, with many a vile intention,
By blasts and oaths to lead you all, against your common senses,
For tho' almost an Ideot, he'll forge some false Pretences.
Bow, wow, wow.

But none of you've forgot, the sixteenth of September,
Th' exalted part he then perform'd, you all must well remember;
By such a wretch you'll ne'er be led, against your inclinations,
Who persecutes the poor man with Game Informations.
Bow, wow, wow.

Then join neighbours all, without hesitation,
Resist these Imposters, without exceptation,
May all of us with one accord, oppose this host of evil,
And send Sergeant Pad and Co. to Canvas with the D—l.
Bow, wow, wow.

A Birch Rod for the Presbytarians.
A NEW SONG.

This ballad, printed from the original broad-sheet in my possession, is another of the series to which I have alluded as being connected with the sale of Nun's Green, Derby. It is printed in two columns, with a wood-cut at its head representing a Highlander playing on the bag-pipes.

Good neighbours all, both great and small,
Of high and low degree;
Let's straight unite, ourselves to fight,
Against this presbytree.

If you'll but trace this hellish race,
Thro' every stage of life;
Where e'er they be you'll plainly see,
Nought but discord and strife.

If you'll history read your hearts will bleed,
To hear of their transactions;
For king and church have suffered much,
By their damn hellish factions.

Must we be opprest by this vile nest,
Who strives us to enslave;
Such is their spleen to sell Nun's Green,
The town to light and pave.

They do not care who the burden bear,
Such is their tyranny;
To enforce the tax on others' backs,
Whilst they themselves go free.

I wish all such Aldermen and folks like them,
Was forc'd to change their situation;
And that Greenland hulks for their vile bulks,
Might for ever be their station.

Proud oppulence with impudence,
As he struts along the streets;
Swears by his God with his iron rod,
He'll beat down all he meets.

There's shufling Charles both grins and snarles,
And where he can he'll bite;
For this last mishap he'll surely snap,
Except he's musseld tight.

There's Jemmy Twichit did both scrub and fidge it,
His head he roll'd about;
He stampt and swore he'd come there no more,
When he found the bill thrown out.

They blam'd old George that did not discharge,
His duty as he ought;
And his addle pate that cou'd not relate,
What kind of a bill he'd brought.

The wigs got a fall, I wish they ne'er may rise,
But henceforth for the future, may learn to be more wise;
And ne'er persume to sit in chairs, nor honoured be with Town affairs,
But stay at home and say their prayers, & not over us tyrannize.

Pray God above from this earth remove,
This vile deceitful crew,
And send them hence for their offence,
Where they may receive their due.

God bless Mundy and Cooke, on them we look,
As two from heaven sent;
To set us free from tyranny,
And serve in Parliament.

Lost and Dead.

In the parish register of Chapel-en-le-Frith is the sad entry of the burial of a child which was found dead in the neighbourhood—"S. Sept. 20, 1656. A poor child found dead in y^e Forest." The following ballad, from the pen of Mr. Henry Kirke, is founded on this circumstance. It has not before been printed.

The fire burns brightly upon the hearth,
And dances and crackles with glee;
And the cottar's wife sits before the blaze,
But the child—ah, where is she.

The cottar's hand is on the latch,
And he stands by the opened door,
And his wife she kisses his sunburnt cheek,
But his child he shall see no more.

"She is gone out to play," the dame replied,
"And will soon be back again;"
But their hearts felt heavy, they knew not why
And ach'd sorely as if with pain.

And soon the gude wife on the ample board
Has spread out the frugal fare,
But a mist rose up in the cottar's eyes
As he gazed on that empty chair.

And he started up from his chair and cried,
"I can stay no longer here,
I must go and find my own bonnie child,
For my heart aches sore wi' fear."

And he wandered around from house to house,
Across the weary wild;
And his heart grew heavier every step,
For no one had seen his child.

The night had drawn her curtains dark,
And every star shone clear;
But still he followed his fruitless search,
Half dead with fatigue and fear.

Through brake and copse of the forest drear
He followed his weary way,
Till the rosy light of the morning sun
Told the dawn of another day.

It bathed his face in gladsome light
With the stream of its glorious ray,
It seemed but to mock his saddened heart,
And he turned with a sigh away;

He turned away down a mossy dell,
Where the sunbeams danced and smiled,
And there midst the fern and the mossy cups
The father found his child.

One little arm beneath its head
On the mossy bank was laid,
And the sunbeams lighted its little face,
And the wind with its tresses played.

A smile still lingered on those sweet lips,
Which seemed as by sleep untied,
But the father's heart grew cold as he looked,
For he knew it had smiled—as it died.

Song.

As a satirical attack on some members of the choir of All Saints Church, Derby, in the last century, the following verses are clever. All Saints is the principal church in Derby, and its choir has generally had the reputation of being at least tolerably good. I prefer leaving the blanks in the names of the parties, still unfilled. The broad-sheet from which I here reprint it is in my own collection.

When Apollo thinks fit to handle his Lyre,
The sweet Vocal Muses take place;
The Treble and Counter repair to their Choir,
Attended with Tenor and Bass.

II.

As Mortals below—the high Gods will be aping
In all their sublime Occupations;
They love to be Singing and Piping and Scraping
To assist your devout Congregation.

III.

Thus to raise our Devotion and stop all Complaints,
(As ev'ry Man knows it's his duty)
We've compleated our Choir at the Church of All Saints;
That God may be worship'd in Beauty.

IV.

Whoever comes in it can't help but admire
A Worship so Solomn and goodly;
Such Voices were sure never heard from a Choir,
As those that are led by Will. D—d—y.

Sam. D—d—y's sweet Counter Will's Treble excells,
Well strengthen'd with Roger's strong Bass
Each softning each like a good Peal of Bells,
Were C—b—y's fine Tenor takes place.

VI.

Neither Paul's nor King's Chapel can boast of such Voices,
Nor can our grand Op'ras come near 'em;
When on 'em I think, how my Spirit rejoices!
Then what must it do when I hear 'em!

VII.

Tho' their Parts are all charming how much his Excels,
Adorning the Vocal Profession!
Their Treble I mean, that so quavers and swells,
Enchanting beyond all Expression!

VIII.

By the Doctor's fine Treble how well they are led,
Whose Expression all hearers admire;
O'er topping his Fellows at least by the Head,
So well he ennobles the Choir.

IX.

Altho' in the Choir he so Eminent stands,
Yet still ith' Orchestra he's greater:
With his Fiddle excelling the greatest of Hands,
So bountiful to him is Nature!

With this he can irritate all that is quick,
(Such Pow'r have his Taste and his Tone!)
For he ev'ry thing moves but his long Fiddle-Stick,
None like him before was yet known.

XI.

So useful a Hand (without Doubt) was ne'er born,
For Concerts, Assembly and Ball;
He can turn to the Fiddle, Bass Trumpet, or Horne,
Yet equally great upon all.

XII.

For here his Expressions so full I must own,
We ne'er were so fiddled before;
But then his fine Taste, Execution and Tone,
Delight us a Thousand Times more.

XIII.

Where lives that grave mortal so strangely supine,
So Senseless and stupidly lazy;
In hearing such Hands himself to confine,
And not like his Brother, grow crazy?

XIV.

To hear such sweet Hands who wou'd not but give,
Or spend the best part of his Rental;
At so charming a Place as Derby to live,
With such Vocal and such Instrumental?

XV.

And this is the Reason your strolling Italians,
(As it happen'd, we know, to'ther Day)
At Derby are treated like Tatter—de Mallions,
When unheard they went weeping away.

Finis.

N.B. Speedily will be published, a Particular Account of the great Abilities of each of these Famous Singers, wherein will be shewn their Ignorance and Impudence in attempting such Things as Solo and Verse Anthems by Dr. Greene, Boyce, Nares, &c. Oratorio Songs and Chorusses by Mr. Handel, &c., &c., It being well known to every Person who has the least Ear to Music, that they are not capable of decently singing a Bar in any such Compositions. Mr. W—— some time since absolutely discharged them from making Use of any thing but the Old Psalm Tunes. The scandalous Behaviour of D——, and C——, on this occasion shall be particularly pointed out.

Sir Francis Leke;
OR THE POWER OF LOVE.
A Derbyshire Catholic Legend of Cromwell's time.

The Lekes, or Leakes, of Sutton-in-Scarsdale, Derbyshire, derived their descent from Alan de Leka, of Leak in Nottinghamshire, who was living in 1141. The first of the family who settled at Sutton was William, a younger son of Sir John Leke of Gotham, in the early part of the fifteenth century; and the manor was acquired by a marriage with the heiress of the Hilarys, who took the name of Gray, and who inherited it from Robert de Hareston, Lord of Sutton. Sir Francis Leake, the fourth in descent from William above-named, married a co-heiress of Swift, and was succeeded by his son Francis, who in 1611 was created a baronet. In 1642 he was created Lord Deincourt of Sutton, and in 1645, Earl of Scarsdale. These titles became, however, extinct in 1736, by the death of Nicholas, the fourth Earl, and the last of the family. His lordship took an active part in the Civil Wars; and Lysons, speaking of him, says in 1643, (the beginning of April) "Lord Deincourt began to fortify his house at Sutton. Sir John Gell sent his brother, Colonel Thomas Gell, with five hundred men and three pieces of ordnance to besiege it. Lord Deincourt was summoned, but refused to surrender, and for some time obstinately defended himself. The house was taken, and Lord Deincourt and his men made prisoners. The works were demolished, and Lord Deincourt set at liberty, on giving his word that he would repair to Derby within eight days and submit himself to the Parliament. Sir John Gell observes that the forfeiture of his word on this occasion was revenged by the garrison at Bolsover, who some time afterwards, when that castle was in the hands of the Parliament, plundered Lord Deincourt's house at Sutton. In 1645 Lord Deincourt was created Earl of Scarsdale. Having rendered himself very obnoxious to the Parliament by his exertions in the royal cause during the Civil War, his estates were sequestered, and, as he refused to compound, they were sold. His son procured some friends to be the purchasers, he paying the sum of £18,000, fixed by the Parliamentary Commissioners as the composition." His lordship felt so deeply the execution of his royal master, Charles the First, that he clothed himself in sackcloth, and, causing his grave to be dug some years before his death, laid himself in it, it is said, every Friday for divine meditation and prayer.

The following ballad, embodying a tradition concerning Sir Francis Leke, is by Richard Howitt, one of the "worthies" of Derbyshire, of which county I am proud to say he is a native.

Part I.

"O, say not so, Sir Francis,
Breathe not such woe to me:—
Broad and pleasant are your lands,
And your Hall is fair to see.

Faithful servants have you many,
Fortune fair on you attends;
Nor hath Knight in all the Island,
Braver followers or friends.

With the Court you are a favourite—
Yet your King shall righted be:
In his hour of deadly peril
Can you from your monarch flee?

Look upon your blooming children,
Flowers of Heaven newly blown!
Here renewed behold your Lucy,
And that boy is all your own.

Shall we in these dread commotions,
Neither need your arm nor mind,
Where shall I behold defender,
Where shall these a Father find?

How I thought you loved us! Never
Lightly could such love decline;
Nor could you to idly voyage,
All the wealth of life resign!"

——"Lucy! this is only torture—
Here I may no longer pause—
Long I for my King have battled—
Now we've neither King nor laws.

With our shrewd exultant Victor,
Bootless now were strife of steel;
Looking on my bleeding country
Can I for her cease to feel?

All the land is grown outrageous:
Honour, worth, are hunted down:
Demons mock at our religion—
Idiots trample on the Crown.

Roaming o'er the billowy ocean,
Peace may greet me here unknown;
And, returning, civil tempests
May be fairly overblown.

Should aught menacing approach you,
To your noble Brothers, look:
Danger! did they ever dread it?
Insult! did they ever brook?

Guard your precious life, my Lucy!
Need I say—not your's alone!
Present—absent—living—dying—
I am—fear not—all your own!"

Starting from her arms, Sir Francis
Quick his noble steed bestrode:
And, with manly face averted,
Forward—seaward—fleetly rode.

Soon his vessell, anchor weighing,
To the sails the winds were true;
And with sad, not weak, delaying,
He bade his native land adieu!

Part II.

Far amidst the western ocean,
Lies a small and pleasant isle;
Fair with everlasting verdure,
Bright with summer's endless smile.

There o'er one, all sadly musing
Sweets distil from spicy trees;
Yet, though all around is blooming,
Nothing cheers him that he sees.

Lonely in sweet groves of myrtle,
Sad amongst the orange bloom;
Nothing cheers his drooping spirit,
Nothing dissipates his gloom.

Twice ten years he there has wandered,
Nor one human face has seen;
Moving like a silent shadow,
Rocks have his companions been.

Clad in skins of beasts; like serpents
Wild, is his unheeded hair;
Yet through lines of deep dejection,
His once manly face is fair.

As from gathered flowers, the odour
Never wholly dies away,—
Of the warrior, and the scholar,
Intimations round him play.

Nurtured in the camp, the college,
Never can his soul be void;
In the busy past his spirit,
Heart, and mind, must be employed.

Lists he yet the stirring battle,
Lists he victory's rending shout?
Tranquil is the isle, the ocean,
Pain within him, peace without.

Yes! he oft-times hears the trumpet,
Captains' shouting, horses' neigh!
Till before the horrid stillness,
All the tumult dies away.

And is this the courtly warrior,
Gallant, gay Sir Francis Leke?
He, the same!—who shunning discord,
Found a peace he did not seek?

Bravely sailed he from Old England,
Boldly with adventurous prow;
From the horrors of that voyage
He alone is living now.

To his bravery owes he being—
Last to quit the groaning deck—
In his fight his comrades perished—
Days he floated on the wreck.

Till this lone and lovely island,
Cheered him with refreshing bloom;
Saved him from the ravening ocean,
To a sad and lingering doom.

In a cave has he his dwelling,
High, o'erlooking wide the main,
Where he feeds in painful being,
Longings infinite and vain.

Nightly there he burns a beacon;
Often there the day he spends;
And towards his native country
Wistful gaze o'er ocean sends.

There a cross has he erected—
Near to which an altar stands,
Humble growth of feelings holy
Reared by his unaided hands.

Truly needs he prove a Christian,
Thus cut off from all his kind;
Firmest faith he needs in Heaven;
And boundless fortitude of mind.

Store he needs of endless knowledge,
His unvaried hours to cheer;
Furnished with sublime resources
For this solitude austere.

Still the isle is very lovely—
Never yet in Poet's mind,
Haunt of Peri, realm of faéry,
Was more lavishly divined.

Lovely as the Primal Garden,
In the light of Sabbath blest;
Human love alone is wanting
In this Eden of the West.

Leap from rocks the living waters:
Hang delicious fruits around:
And all birds of gorgeous plumage
Fill the air with happy sound.

Painful is to him its beauty—
Sad the splendour of the sun;
To the odorous air he utters
Sorrow that is never done:—

"Blest was I beyond all blessing!
"In my wife and children blest:
"In my friends and in my fortune—
"Yet in peace I could not rest.

"Never in his prosperous greatness,
"Can himself the wisest trust;
"God has weighed and found me wanting—
"And the punishment is just."

Oft before the cross, the altar,
Murmuring prayer he sinks to rest;
To his God, and to his Saviour—
And the Virgin Mother blest.

And for love unto the Virgin
Finds in Heaven his prayer chief grace!
"Mary, Mother, me deliver,
"From the horrors of this place!

"Others crave more worldly guerdon—
"Wealth, or fame, or station high;
"Love I seek—to see my country—
"My own people—and to die!"

Praying thus, old legends tell us,
Scarce his eyes in sleep were sealed;
When, O, happy inward vision,
To him was his home revealed.

There his patrimonial mansion,
He beheld in moonlight sleep,
Saw with joy though mystery veiled it—
Sadness and a silence deep.

And, O miracle of gladness!
More, those ancient legends say,
Was permitted him to witness,
Waking, in the open day.

In his old church-porch awaking—
Trance, or voyage all unknown;
O'er his own domains he wandered—
Saw, and knew them for his own.

Had chance Voyagers beheld him,
In a trance, who slumbering bore,
By some heavenly impulse, guided
Him unto his native shore?

Not so—says the holy legend—
Force of penitential prayer—
And the love he bore the Virgin—
Won for him that transit fair.

Spare the legend for its beauty—
Carp not—what is it to you
If the letter is a fable?
In its spirit it is true.

Leave we unto old tradition
That which its dim mist sublimes,
Nor submit the ancient spirit
To the light of later times!

See! before his welcome threshold!
Once again, Sir Francis stand:
Oh! the transport,—it is real!—
He is in his native land!