I sigh for the land where the orange-tree flingeth
Its prodigal bloom on the myrtle below;
Where the moonlight is warm, and the gondolier singeth,
And clear waters take up the strain as they go.
Oh! fond is the longing, and rapt is the vision
That stirs up my soul over Italy's tales;
But the present was bright as the far-off Elysian,
When I roved in the sun-flood through Derbyshire Dales.
There was joy for my eye, there was balm for my breathing;
Green branches above me—blue streams at my side:
The hand of Creation seemed proudly bequeathing
The beauty reserved for a festival tide.
I was bound, like a child, by some magical story,
Forgetting the "South" and "Ionian Vales;"
And felt that dear England had temples of Glory,
Where any might worship, in Derbyshire Dales.
Sweet pass of the "Dove!" 'mid rock, river, and dingle,
How great is thy charm for the wanderer's breast!
With thy moss-girdled towers and foam-jewelled shingle,
Thy mountains of might, and thy valleys of rest.
I gazed on thy wonders—lone, silent, adoring,
I bent at the altar whose "fire never pales:"
The Great Father was with me—Devotion was pouring
Its holiest praises in Derbyshire Dales.
Wild glen of dark "Taddington"—rich in thy robing
Of forest-green cloak, with grey lacing bedight;
How I lingered to watch the red Western rays probing
Thy leaf-mantled bosom with lances of light!
And "Monsal," thou mine of Arcadian treasure,
Need we seek for "Greek Islands" and spice-laden gales,
While a Tempe like thee of enchantment and pleasure
May be found in our own native Derbyshire Dales?
There is much in my Past bearing way-marks and flowers,
The purest and rarest in odour and bloom;
There are beings and breathings, and places and hours,
Still trailing in roses o'er Memory's tomb.
And when I shall count o'er the bliss that's departed,
And Old Age be telling its garrulous tales,
Those days will be first when the kind and true-hearted
Were nursing my spirit in Derbyshire Dales.
A RHAPSODY
On the Peak of Derbyshire.
The following exquisite lines by my late highly-gifted father,[91]
on the land he loved so well,—the glorious district of the Peak
of Derbyshire,—may well claim a place in this part of my
present volume. I give them, not as being the most favourable example
I could choose of his style, but as being the most appropriate for my
present purpose.
O, give me the land where the wild thyme grows,
The heathery dales among;
Where Sol's own flow'er with crimson eye
Creeps the sun-burnt banks along!
Where the beetling Tor hangs over the dell,
While its pinnacles pierce the sky,
And its foot is laved by the waters pure,
Of the lively murmuring Wye;
Oh! give me the land, where the crimson heather,
The thyme and the bilberry grow together.
O! where upon earth is another land
So green, so fine, so fair?
Can any within Old England's bounds
With this heathery land compare?
The mountain air, the crystal springs,
Where health has established her throne,
The flood-swollen torrent, the bright cascade,
Belong to this land alone;
O! give me the land where grow together
The marj'ram, cistus, and purple heather.
Oxford may boast of its hundred spires,
Its colleges, halls, and towers;
Built in an ague-producing marsh,
Are the Muses' and Learning's bowers;
O! tell me not of the sluggish stream,
Too lazy to creep along;
Too dull to inspire a poet's dream!
This is not the land of song!
No! give me the land where grow together
The cistus, the thyme, and the purple heather.
The Derby Hero.
The two following productions of some local muse, written in
the year 1822, are intended to do honour to a young pedestrian
of Derby, who no doubt was thought famous in those
days of foot-racing and pugilism.
Of all your modern Heroes
That rank so high in fame,
There's one that takes the lead of all,
Young Wantling is his name;
For when he takes the field
So nimbly he doth run,
His feet is at the destin'd mark
Ere the race is well begun!
Fol de rol, &c.
This youth's been lately tried
Against a man of great renown,
And to run the Stafford hero
He was back'd for fifty pounds;
O he is the bravest lad
That ever eyes did see,
For he won the race quite easy,
When the bets were five to three!
Fol de rol, &c.
Now ye men of sporting talent
I would have you all to know,
On the eighteenth day of March
You've a chance to see him go,
For this Hero he is match'd to run
Three hundred yards we're told,
Against the Stafford Bragger
For one hundred guineas in gold!
Fol de rol, &c.
Then keep your spirits up, my lads,
For he will show the way,
He is as swift as Mercury,
And is sure to win the day;
For Wantling's of such good mettle,
And his honour is as good,
He is sure not to deceive you,
As some other Runners would.
Fol de rol, &c.
Of all the Runners now in vogue
Young Wantling takes the lead;
You would think him jealous of the wind
When you view him in his speed:
He will make that Braggadocia
Afraid to show his face,
To be beat by an apprentice boy—
It will be such disgrace.
Fol de rol, &c.
We've another Hero on the list
That runs but now and then,
But he's well known upon the turf
By the name of Little Ben;
He's lately been to try his strength
Some miles from Derby town,
And there he well confirmed his name
As a youth of some renown.
Fol de rol, &c.
Then drink success to Derby town,
For it stands high in fame,
Its lads will yield to none,
For they're Chickens of true Game;
Their strength has oft been tried
By men both far and near,
But they never yet was beat,
For their hearts are void of fear.
Fol de rol, &c.
A New Song
On the great Foot Race that was contested on the
London Road, near Derby, on the 18th day of
March, 1822, betwixt Jas. Wantling, of Derby,
and Shaw, the Staffordshire Hero, for 2 Hundred
Guineas.
The eighteenth day of March
Will long be handed down,
When thousands came from far
Into famed Derby town,
To see the great Foot Race
For one hundred guineas aside,
Betwixt Shaw, the Stafford Hero,
And Wantling, Derby's pride!
Fol de rol, &c.
Now the time is come
That these Heroes try their skill,
Whilst numbers flock together
Offering to lay who will;
Large sums are laid around
Ere they begin to run,
And mingled sounds you hear
Crying I take your bet—done, done.
Fol de rol, &c.
And now you see them striving
Which shall get the first,
Straining each nerve and muscle
Till their veins are almost burst;
But Wantling takes the lead,
And labours hard to gain
The money for his friends,
And establish his own fame.
Fol de rol, &c.
The race it soon was over,
Whilst women, men, and boys
Cried "Wantling still for ever!"
In shouts that rend the skies.
His name this day is raised,
As a Runner of great fame,
For Shaw, the Stafford Hero,
Has been beat by him again!
Fol de rol, &c.
All ye wise men of Staffordshire,
Who back'd Shaw on that day,
Having ventured all your money,
Leaving none your shots to pay,
Be wiser for the future,
If again you chance to come,
And bring more money with you,
Lest you go empty home.
Fol de rol, &c.
Then let us drink the Hero's health,
Whilst Fame proclaims his name,
May he never sell his honour
For the sake of sordid gain:
All base attempts to bias him
With scorn from him be hurl'd,
Then he will rise a wonder,
And astonish all the world.
Fol de rol, &c.
But let us act with honour,
And not run the Hero down,
Although he lost the race,
He's a claim to great renown;
For Shaw and his supporters
Have acted manly parts,
And any thing contrary
Is quite foreign to their hearts.
Fol de rol, &c.
ON THE DEATH OF THE LATE
Rev. Bache Thornhill, M.A.,
Perpetual Curate of Winster, Ashford, and Longstone.
Mr. Thornhill, on whose death through accident the
following verses were written, was son of Bache Thornhill,
Esq., of Stanton in the Peak. He was a man of refined
tastes, fond of antiquarian pursuits, and was highly esteemed in the
county of Derby. He was M.A. of St. John's College, Cambridge,
where he was a fellow-student with Sir Robert Peel, with whom to the
period of his untimely death he kept up an intimate friendship. On
the 13th of December, 1827, Mr. Thornhill was accidentally shot by
the discharge of the fowling-piece of a friend. He lingered until the
27th, when he died, at the age of forty-two. He was buried at Youlgreave,
the coffin bearing the inscription—"Rev. Bache Thornhill,
Vicar of Winster, and Vice-Vicar of Ashford and Longstone, died the
27th day of December, 1827; aged forty-two."
The writer of these verses was John Brimlow, of Winster. Brimlow
had been a soldier in Colonel Thornhill's regiment, under which gallant
officer he served in Egypt. He afterwards suffered from opthalmia,
became blind, and got a precarious livelihood by rambling about the
country with a basket, gathering "rags and bones." The verses are
here reprinted from a broad-sheet.
As I sat musing by the fire
I heard some people say
A dreadful accident has befel
A worthy man this day.
Then I got up, went out of door
For to see, and likewise hear,
On every tongue enquiry sat,
And, in many an eye, a tear,
Saying our worthy Pastor he has fall'n,
Oh! how hard has been his lot,
By accident a gun went off,
And this good man was shot.
The rich, the poor, in groups they meet,
Their sorrow for to express,
Saying if fifty come there will be none like Bache
To those that are in distress.
For he was a friend to every one,
To all alike was kind,
He was the same to rich and poor,
Likewise sick, lame, or blind.
Oh! cruel Fate, what have we done,
That this good man should fall,
But the die was cast, and the thing is past,
And there must be an end to all.
But, hark! a messenger has just arrived,
Glad tidings doth he bring,
This good man he is still alive,
Oh! let us praise the King of kings.
Rejoice, my friends, he better gets,
For the Lord has heard our prayer,
And He has promised when a few does meet
That He always will be there.
But adieu, vain hope, thou art for ever fled,
For this good man is no more,
For he is now numbered amongst the dead,
So adieu, adieu, farewell for evermore.
A Journey into the Peak.
TO SIR ASTON COKAINE.
Charles Cotton, the "honoured friend" of good old
Izaac Walton, and of most of the celebrated men of his day,
was born at Beresford Hall, on the banks of his
"——beloved Nymph! fair Dove,
Princess of Rivers,"
whose praises he has sung, and whose beauties he has rendered immortal
by his pen, and by his fishing-house, dedicated to lovers of the
angle. He was the only child of Charles Cotton, Esq., by Olive,
daughter of Sir John Stanhope, of Elvaston Castle, near Derby (ancestor
of the Earl of Harrington, and of the same family as the Earl of
Chesterfield, Earl Stanhope, &c.) He married, first, Isabella, daughter
of Sir Thomas Hutchinson, of Owthorpe; and, second, the widowed
Countess of Ardglass (daughter of Sir William Russel, of Strensham).
He died in 1687.
Charles Cotton was a profuse writer. Among his principal works
are the second part of "The Complete Angler," "The Wonders of
the Peak," "Virgil Travestie," "Moral Philosophy of the Stoics,"
"The Planter's Manual," "Life of the Duke of Espernon," "The
Commentaries of De Montluc," "The Complete Gamester," "The
Fair One of Tunis," "Burlesque upon Burlesque," "Montaigne's
Essays," &c., &c. After his death, a collection of "Poems on several
Occasions," by Charles Cotton, was published.
The following characteristic lines I here print from the original MS.
copy, in my own possession. The volume of manuscript is of the
highest interest, and is in the autograph writing of Charles Cotton himself.
It is entitled, in his own writing, "Charles Cotton, His Verses,"
and is in folio, in the old binding with clasps. This volume is described
in Sir Harris Nicholas' Life of Cotton, attached to his edition of the
Complete Angler. It contains some pieces not printed, and others very
different from those in his "Poems on Several Occasions," printed surreptitiously
after his death in 1689. The following varies in many parts
from the copy printed in the volume alluded to.
S'r,
Coming home into this frozen Clime,
Grown cold, and almost senselesse, as my rythme,
I found, that Winter's bold impetuous rage
Prevented time and antidated age:
For, in my veins did nought but crystall dwell,
Each hair was frozen to an iceicle.
My flesh was marble, so that, as I went,
I did appear a walking monument.
'T might have been judged, rather than marble, flint,
Had there been any spark of fier in't.
My mother looking back (to bid good night)
Was metamorphos'd, like the Sodomite.
Like Sinons horse, our horses were become,
And, since they could not go, they slided home.
The hills were hard to such a qualitie,
So beyond Reason in Philosophie;
If Pegasus had kickt at one of those,
Homer's Odysses had been writ in prose.
These are strange stories, S'r, to you, who sweat
Under the warm Sun's comfortable heat;
Whose happy seat of Pooley farre outvies
The fabled pleasures of blest Paradise.
Whose Canaan fills your hous with wyne and oyl,
Till't crack with burdens of a fruitful soil.
Which hous, if it were plac't above the sphear,
Would be a palace fit for Jupiter.
The humble chappell for religious Rites,
The inner rooms for honest, free delights,
And Providence, that these miscarrie, loth,
Has plac't the Tower a centinell to both:
So that there's nothing wanting to improve
Either your pietie, or peace, or love.
Without, you have the pleasure of ye woods,
Fair plains, sweet meadows, and transparent flouds,
With all that's good, and excellent, beside
The tempting apples by Euphrates' side.
But, that, which does above all these aspire,
Is Delphos, brought from Greece to Warwick-shire.
But Oh! ungodly Hodge! that valu'd not
The saving juice o'th' ænigmaticke pot.
Whose charming virtue made mee to forget
T'enquire of Fate, else I had stayed there yet.
Nor had I then once dar'd to venture on
The cutting ayr of this our Freezland zone.
But once again, Dear Sir, I mean to come
And learn to thank, as to be troublesome.
Another "Journey into the Peak" by Charles Cotton, which is but
little known, is the following, which is an admirable specimen of his
style. It is entitled an
Epistle to John Bradshaw, Esq.
From Porto Nova as pale wretches go,
To swing on fatal Tripus, even so
My dearest Friend, I went last day from thee,
Whilst for five Miles, the figure of that Tree
Was ever in my guilty Fancy's eye,
As if in earnest I'd been doom'd to die
For, what deserv'd it, so unworthily
Stealing so early, Jack, away from thee.
And that which (as't well might) encreas'd my fear,
Was the ill luck of my vile Chariotier,
Who drove so nicely too, t'increase my dread,
As if his Horses with my vital thread
Had Harness'd been, which being, alas! so weak
He fear'd might snap, and would not it should break,
Till he himself the honour had to do't
With one thrice stronger, and my neck to boot.
Thus far in hanging posture then I went,
(And sting of Conscience is a punishment
On Earth they say the greatest, and some tell
It is moreo'er the onely one in Hell,
The Worm that never dies being alone
The thing they call endless Damnation:)
But leaving that unto the Wise that made it,
And knowing best the Gulf, can best evade it,
I'll tell you, that being pass'd through Highgate, there
I was saluted by the Countrey Air,
With such a pleasing Gale, as made me smell
The Peak it self; nor is't a Miracle,
For all that pass that Portico this way
Are Transontani, as the Courtiers say;
Which suppos'd true, one then may boldly speak,
That all of th' North-side High-gate are i'th' Peak;
And so to hanging when I thought to come,
Wak'd from the Dream, I found my self at home.
Wonder not then if I, in such a case
So over-joy'd, forgot thee for a space;
And but a little space, for, by this light,
I thought on thee again ten times e'er night;
Though when the night was come, I then indeed
Thought all on one of whom I'd greater need:
But being now cur'd of that Malady,
I'm at full leisure to remember thee,
And (which I'm sure you long to know) set forth
In Northern Song, my Journey to the North.
Know then with Horses twain, one sound, one lame,
On Sunday's Eve I to St. Alban's came,
Where, finding by my Body's lusty state
I could not hold out home at that slow rate,
I found a Coach-man, who, my case bemoaning,
With three stout Geldings, and one able Stoning,
For eight good Pounds did bravely undertake,
Or for my own, or for my Money's sake,
Through thick and thin, fall out what could befall,
To bring me safe and sound to Basford[92]-hall.
Which having drank upon, he bid good-night,
And (Heaven forgive us) with the Morning's light,
Not fearing God, nor his Vice-gerent Constable,
We roundly rowling were the Road to Dunstable,
Which, as they chim'd to Prayers, we trotted through,
And 'fore elev'n ten minutes came unto
The Town that Brickhill height, where we did rest,
And din'd indifferent well both man and beast.
'Twixt two and four to Stratford, 'twas well driven,
And came to Tocester to lodge at Even
Next day we din'd at Dunchurch, and did lie
That night four miles on our side Coventry.
Tuesday at Noon at Lichfield Town we baited,
But there some friends, who long that hour had waited,
So long detain'd me, that my Chariotier
Could drive that night but to Uttoxiter.
And there the Wedn'sday, being Market-day,
I was constrain'd with some kind Lads to stay
Tippling till afternoon, which made it night
When from my Hero's Tower I saw the light
Of her Flambeaux, and fanci'd as we drave
Each rising Hillock was a swelling wave,
And that I swimming was in Neptune' spight
To my long long'd-for Harbour of delight.
And now I'm here set down again in peace,
After my troubles, business, Voyages,
The same dull Northern clod I was before,
Gravely enquiring how Ewes are a Score,
How the Hay-Harvest, and the Corn was got,
And if or no there's like to be a Rot;
Just the same Sot I was e'er I remov'd,
Nor by my travel, nor the Court improv'd;
The same old fashion'd Squire, no whit refin'd,
And shall be wiser when the Devil's blind:
But find all here too in the self-same state,
And now begin to live at the old rate,
To bub old Ale, which nonsense does create,
Write leud Epistles, and sometimes translate
Old Tales of Tubs, of Guyenne, and Provence,
And keep a clutter with th'old Blades of France,
As D'Avenant did with those of Lombardy,
Which any will receive, but none will buy,
And that has set H.B.[93] and me awry. |
} |
My River still through the same Chanel glides,
Clear from the Tumult, Salt, and dirt of Tides,
And my poor Fishing-house, my Seat's best grace,
Stands firm and faithfull in the self-same place
I left it four months since, and ten to one
I go a Fishing e'er two days are gone:
So that (my Friend) I nothing want but thee
To make me happy as I'd wish to be;
And sure a day will come I shall be bless'd
In his enjoyment whom my heart loves best;
Which when it comes will raise me above men
Greater than crowned Monarchs are, and then
I'll not exchange my Cottage for White-hall,
Windsor, the Lauvre, or th' Escurial.
Hugh Stenson and Molly Green.
The following ballad has not, as far as I am aware, been "in
print" before. I here give it from a MS. copy in my own
possession. The Duke of Devonshire alluded to in the ballad
as having acted so nobly in saving the life of "his countryman," Hugh
Stenson, was, I presume, William, fourth Duke of Devonshire, who
was Lord Lieutenant of Ireland in 1756.
Then oh, Hugh Stenson is my name,
From Ashborne in the Peak I came,
And at the age of seventeen
I fell in love with Molly Green.
She is a beauty I do declare,
She came from Highchurch in Shropshire;
She was an angel in my eye,
Which caused me from my colours to fly.
Long time I courted her for her love,
But she would never constant prove;
A thought then I did entertain,
To cross the roaring ocean main.
But when I was upon the seas,
I could not have one moment's ease;
For she was daily in my sigh,
Which made me from my colours to fly.
But when I did return again,
I went unto this youthful dame,
Desiring she would not disdain
A bleeding heart and dying swain.
"Stenson," said she, "I pray forbear,
I know that you a deserter are,
And if my parents come to know,
They sure would prove your overthrow."
When I heard she made this reply,
I from her arms did swiftly fly,
And with a kiss I took my leave,
Although I'm bound a captive slave.
At Woolaton near Nottingham
I put my trust in a false man,
I took him for my friend to be,
But he, like Judas, betrayed me.
Then a court marshall there was call'd,
And I was brought amongst them all,
And for deserting they did me try,
And they condemned me for to die.
Oh Lord, oh Lord, it grieved me sore
To lay my bones on an Irish shore;
One General Pearcey he did cry,
"It's by the Law that you must die."
From January to July
Upon the boards and stones I did lie,
Praying to Heavens both night and day
To take this thread of life away.
Oh then bespoke the President,
Hoping of me for to repent,
"I have done the best for you I can,
But O you are a dying man."
Twenty-five days I had to live,
And bread and water I did receive;
The Clergyman came twice a day,
And for my soul did daily pray.
But at that time from England came
The Duke of Devonshire by name,
Our Lord Lieutenant for to be,
And he from death did set me free.
And when this Lord appeared in land,
I wrote to him with my own hand,
Desiring that his Grace would save
A dying mortal from the grave.
But when he looked these lines upon,
And saw I was his own countryman,
He said, "I'll ease him of his care,
And send him home into Derbyshire."
Oh then he gave a strict command
For to release me out of hand;
A free discharge to me he gave,
And so his Grace my life did save.
So whilst I live I'm in duty bound
To kneel and pray upon the ground,
That when I die without control,
Sweet Jesus may receive my soul.
You soldiers all, where e'er you be,
And hear of this my misery,
I beg you'll warning take by me,
And so I end my tragedy.
Finis.
The Beggar's Ramble.
There are at least three or four different versions of the
"Ramble;" or rather I should say there are at least three
or four different metrical "Rambles" through Derbyshire, of
this character. I give two. The first I reprint from a broad-sheet, and
the second from an old MS. copy, both in my own collection. The
allusions to places, persons, inns, &c., in the county, are curious and
interesting.
Hark ye well, my neighbours all, and pray now can you tell
Which is the nearest way unto the Begger's Well?
There is Eaton, and Toten, and Brancot on the hill,
There's Beggerly Beeston, and lousy Chilwell.
There's Trowel, and there's Cosel, from there to Cimberly Knowl,
I would have call'd at Watnall, but I thought it would not do,
There's Beaver, and there's Hansley, & so for Perkin Wood,
I meant to have call'd at Selson, but there ale is not good.
There's Snelson green, and Pinstone green, and Blackwell old hall,
An old place where I had lived I had a mind to call;
I got a good refreshment, and something else beside,
So turning up the closes, South Normanton I 'spied.
There's Blackwell, and there's Newton, from there to Marrot Moor,
There's Tipshall, and there's Hardstaff, where I had been before,
I cross o'er Hardstaff Common, from there to Pilsley lane
Where once a noted butcher lived, Geo. Holland was his name.
There's Wingfield, and Tupton, from there to the Claycross,
From there I went to Chesterfield,—was almost cut to loss,
There's Asher, and there's Firbeck, and Stretton on the hill,
There's Hickam, and Oakerthorpe, and so for Wiremill.
There's Brankenfield, & Wessenton, from there to Morat Moor,
There's Pentrich, and Alfreton, where I had been before,
There's Swanick, and Ripley, then to the hillocks I came,
From there to Denby Common, for to see old Dolly Green.
There's Denby and Bottlebrook, from there to the Lane ends,
From there I went to Horseley, in hopes to meet a friend,
So turning down Coxbench, I made a sudden stop,
Thinks I I'll up the closes go, for Potters of th' hill top.
In Woodhouse lane, as I've been told, they used to get good coal,
And Stansby is a pretty place, and so for the Dob hole,
There's the Justice room, and Smalley Bell, likewise the Rose and Crown,
And at Morley Smithey, I've been told there lives one Saml. Brown.
There's Morley, and Stansby, and so for Lockey Grange,
There's Spondon and Ockbrook, and so for Chaddeson came;
There's Ferby, and Breadsall, and so for Alestree,
From there to Little Eaton went, George Milward for to see.
There's Duffield down by Derwent side, & Milford, in a line,
There's Belper, and there's Shottle, if I can get there in time;
There's Turnditch, and Kirk Ireton, and so for Cross-in hand,
And when I got to Wardgate, I was almost at a stand.
There's Hollington and Middleton by Youlgrave I've heard tell,
There's Bonsal and there's Winster, from and to Bakewell,
There's Wardlemire & Uckler, from there to Hoyland came,
And when that I did thither get, I began to feel quite lame.
There's Calver, & there's Rowsley, that most delightful place,
From there went to Chatsworth, the mansion of his Grace;
There's Darley Dale, & Matlock, where I once stopt a week,
There's Cromford, & Wirksworth, & Ashbourn in the Peak.
There's Ashbourn Green, & Hognaston, and so for Atlow-win,
Then on by Shepherd Folly, and from there to Ginglers' Inn.
There's Yeldersly, and Alderwasley, and Langley, and Longford,
There's Brailford, and Mugington, and Weston Underwood.
There's Quarndon, and Markeaton, oft times I have heard tell,
From there I went to Kedleston, where there is a useful well;
And at Windy Mill, I do sure you very pleasant looks,
If you will only stop and drink with Honest Puss-in-Boots.
There's Darley by Derby, for that is a shady bower,
And Derby is a county town; there's handsome Micklover.
There's Litlover, and Mackworth, and so for Etwell I went,
Until at last I did arrive at Burton-upon-Trent.
There's Findon, and Repton, and Ashton also,
And there's another little place, I think they call Shardlow;
There's Elvaston, and Allvaston, I have travelled o'er and o'er,
There's wind mills and south mills, and Barrow-upon-Soar.
There's Swarston Bridge and Smalley Bridge, as plain it doth appear,
There's Keyworth, and Hathenturns, that lieth very near,
There's Sheepshead, and Thingstun, and Whitrick also
Across the Sherwood Forest, and from there to Loughborough.
There's Gotham rare for wisdom, and Bunny's rare for game,
There's Clifton Grove and Rudington, Wilford down the lane;
There's Cropwell, and there's Ratliffe, and Bridgeford on the hill,
There's Gunthorpe, and Calthorpe, and Overington Mill.
There's Southwell, and Westhorpe, and Eperston so green,
There's Lowtom and Burton Joice, and Bulcott lies between,
There's Lambley, and Woodborough, from there to Calverton,
And there's a place at Arnold, they call it Foxen Den.
There's Redhill and Maperly hills, from there to Thornywood,
Where once a noted robber lived, his name was Robin Hood;
There's Gedling, and Carlton, as plainly it does appear,
There's Keyworth, and Hatherturns, that lieth very near.
There's Lenton, and Radford, and so for Bobber's Mill,
There's Hyson Green, and Basford, and so for Sinder hill;
There's Broxter, and there's Nuttel, and Greasley lieth nigh,
There's Giltbrook, and Newthorpe, from there to Beggerley.
There's Moregreen and Nether Green, where lives a man of sport,
And Eastwood is a pretty place of trade and resort;
And at Langley Mill I stopt a while, to see a noble fight,
And when I came to Brunsley Gin, thinks I I'll light my pipe.
There's Oldacre and Bentley, and so for the lime kilns,
There's Woodend, and Heaner, and famous Tag Hill,
There's Lee lane, and Marpole, where lives one Mr. Clay,
There's Shipley, and Shipley wood, and so for Cotnermay.
And there's another little place, if I am not mistaken,
I think some people call it Mapley by name,
There's Little Hallam, and Hilson, and so for Gallows Inn,
And when I came to Sandacre I was looken very thin.
There's Stapleford, and Risley, and Dracott also,
At last I came to Breaston, where I wish'd for long ago,
So I hope these lines which I have wrote no one they will offend,
For at every door there stands a whore, at Leak Town end.
The Beggar's Ramble.