So fare thee weel, Grinfilt, a soger I'm made, I'n getten new shoon, un a rare cockade;I'll feight for Owd Englond os hard os I con, Oather French, Dutch, or Spanish, to me it's o one, I'll make 'em to stare like a new-started hare, Un I'll tell 'em fro' Owdham I coom.
Ballad: THORNEHAGH-MOOR WOODS. A CELEBRATED NOTTINGHAMSHIREPOACHER'S SONG.
[NOTTINGHAMSHIRE was, in the olden day, famous in song for the achievements of Robin Hood and his merry men. In our times the reckless daring of the heroes of the 'greenwood tree' has descended to the poachers of the county, who have also found poets to proclaim and exult over THEIR lawless exploits; and in THORNEHAGH-MOOR WOODS we have a specimen of one of these rude, but mischievous and exciting lyrics. The air is beautiful, and of a lively character; and will be found in POPULAR MUSIC. There is it prevalent idea that the song is not the production of an ordinary ballad-writer, but was written about the middle of the last century by a gentleman of rank and education, who, detesting the English game-laws, adopted a too successful mode of inspiring the peasantry with a love of poaching. The song finds locality in the village of Thornehagh, in the hundred of Newark. The common, or Moor-fields, was inclosed about 1797, and is now no longer called by the ancient designation. It contains eight hundred acres. The manor of Thornehagh is the property of the ancient family of Nevile, who have a residence on the estate.]
IN Thornehagh-Moor woods, in Nottinghamshire, Fol de rol, la re, right fol laddie, dee;In Robin Hood's bold Nottinghamshire, Fol de rol, la re da;Three keepers' houses stood three-square, And about a mile from each other they were; -Their orders were to look after the deer.
Fol de rol, la re da.
I went out with my dogs one night, -
The moon shone clear, and the stars gave light;Over hedges and ditches, and steyls With my two dogs close at my heels, To catch a fine buck in Thornehagh-Moor fields.
Oh! that night we had bad luck, One of my very best dogs was stuck;He came to me both breeding and lame, -
Right sorry was I to see the same, -
He was not able to follow the game.
I searched his wounds, and found them slight, Some keeper has done this out of spite;But I'll take my pike-staff, - that's the plan!
I'll range the woods till I find the man, And I'll tan his hide right well, - if I can!
I ranged the woods and groves all night, I ranged the woods till it proved daylight;The very first thing that then I found, Was a good fat buck that lay dead on the ground;I knew my dogs gave him his death-wound.
I hired a butcher to skin the game, Likewise another to sell the same;The very first buck he offered for sale, Was to an old [hag] that sold bad ale, And she sent us three poor lads to gaol.
The quarter sessions we soon espied, At which we all were for to be tried;The Chairman laughed the matter to scorn, He said the old woman was all forsworn, And unto pieces she ought to be torn.
The sessions are over, and we are clear!
The sessions are over, and we sit here, Singing fol de rol, la re da!
The very best game I ever did see, Is a buck or a deer, but a deer for me!
In Thornehagh-Moor woods this night we'll be!
Fol de rol, la re da!
Ballad: THE LINCOLNSHIRE POACHER.
[THIS very old ditty has been transformed into the dialects of Somersetshire, Northamptonshire, and Leicestershire; but it properly belongs to Lincolnshire. Nor is this the only liberty that his been taken with it. The original tune is that of a Lancashire air, well known as THE MANCHESTER ANGEL; but a florid modern tune has been substituted. THE LINCOLNSHIRE POACHER was a favourite ditty with George IV., and it is said that he often had it sung for his amusement by a band of Berkshire ploughmen. He also commanded it to be sung at his harvest-homes, but we believe it was always on such occasions sung to the 'playhouse tune,' and not to the genuine music. It is often very difficult to trace the locality of countrymen's songs, in consequence of the licence adopted by printers of changing the names of places to suit their own neighbourhoods; but there is no such difficulty about THELINCOLNSHIRE POACHER. The oldest copy we have seen, printed at York about 1776, reads 'Lincolnshire,' and it is only in very modern copies that the venue is removed to other counties. In the Somersetshire version the local vernacular is skilfully substituted for that of the original; but the deception may, nevertheless, be very easily detected.]
WHEN I was bound apprentice, in famous Lincolnsheer, Full well I served my master for more than seven year, Till I took up with poaching, as you shall quickly hear:-Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.
As me and my comrades were setting of a snare, 'Twas then we seed the gamekeeper - for him we did not care, For we can wrestle and fight, my boys, and jump o'er everywhere:-Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.
As me and my comrades were setting four or five, And taking on him up again, we caught the hare alive;We caught the hare alive, my boys, and through the woods did steer:-Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.
Bad luck to every magistrate that lives in Lincolnsheer; Success to every poacher that wants to sell a hare;Bad luck to every gamekeeper that will not sell his deer:-Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.
Ballad: SOMERSETSHIRE HUNTING SONG.
[THIS following song, which is very popular with the peasantry of Somersetshire, is given as a curious specimen of the dialect still spoken in some parts of that county. Though the song is a genuine peasant's ditty, it is heard in other circles, and frequently roared out at hunting dinners. It is here reprinted from a copy communicated by Mr. Sandys.]
THERE'S no pleasures can compare Wi' the hunting o' the hare, In the morning, in the morning, In fine and pleasant weather.
CHO. With our hosses and our hounds, We will scamps it o'er the grounds, And sing traro, huzza!
And sing traro, huzza!
