Ancient Poems [74]
he stared to see so much money, And to take it up he was likewise willing; But if he'd a known King had got so much money, He danged his wig if he'd gien him that shilling!
Ballad: JONE O' GREENFIELD'S RAMBLE.
[THE county of Lancaster has always been famed for its admirable PATOIS songs; but they are in general the productions of modern authors, and consequently, however popular they may be, are not within the scope of the present work. In the following humorous production, however, we have a composition of the last century. It is the oldest and most popular Lancashire song we have been able to procure; and, unlike most pieces of its class, it is entirely free from grossness and vulgarity.]
SAYS Jone to his wife, on a hot summer's day, 'I'm resolved i' Grinfilt no lunger to stay; For I'll go to Owdham os fast os I can, So fare thee weel, Grinfilt, un fare thee weel, Nan; A soger I'll be, un brave Owdham I'll see, Un I'll ha'e a battle wi' th' French.'
'Dear Jone,' then said Nan, un hoo bitterly cried, Wilt be one o' th' foote, or tha meons to ride?' 'Odsounds! wench, I'll ride oather ass or a mule, Ere I'll kewer i' Grinfilt os black as te dule, Booath clemmink (58) un starvink, un never a fardink, Ecod! it would drive ony mon mad.
'Aye, Jone, sin' wi' coom i' Grinfilt for t' dwell, We'n had mony a bare meal, I con vara weel tell.' 'Bare meal! ecod! aye, that I vara weel know, There's bin two days this wick ot we'n had nowt at o: I'm vara near sided, afore I'll abide it, I'll feight oather Spanish or French.'
Then says my Aunt Marget, 'Ah! Jone, thee'rt so hot, I'd ne'er go to Owdham, boh i' Englond I'd stop.' 'It matters nowt, Madge, for to Owdham I'll go, I'll naw clam to deeoth, boh sumbry shalt know: Furst Frenchman I find, I'll tell him meh mind, Un if he'll naw feight, he shall run.'
Then down th' broo I coom, for we livent at top, I thowt I'd reach Owdharn ere ever I'd stop; Ecod! heaw they stared when I getten to th' Mumps, Meh owd hat i' my hond, un meh clogs full o'stumps; Boh I soon towd um, I'r gooink to Owdham, Un I'd ha'e battle wi' th' French.
I kept eendway thro' th' lone, un to Owdham I went, I ask'd a recruit if te'd made up their keawnt? 'No, no, honest lad' (for he tawked like a king), 'Go wi' meh thro' the street, un thee I will bring Where, if theaw'rt willink, theaw may ha'e a shillink.' Ecod! I thowt this wur rare news.
He browt me to th' pleck where te measurn their height, Un if they bin height, there's nowt said about weight; I retched me, un stretched me, un never did flinch, Says th' mon, 'I believe theaw 'rt meh lad to an inch.' I thowt this'll do, I'st ha'e guineas enow, Ecod! Owdham, brave Owdham for me.
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 NOTTINGHAMSHIRE POACHER'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.
Ballad: JONE O' GREENFIELD'S RAMBLE.
[THE county of Lancaster has always been famed for its admirable PATOIS songs; but they are in general the productions of modern authors, and consequently, however popular they may be, are not within the scope of the present work. In the following humorous production, however, we have a composition of the last century. It is the oldest and most popular Lancashire song we have been able to procure; and, unlike most pieces of its class, it is entirely free from grossness and vulgarity.]
SAYS Jone to his wife, on a hot summer's day, 'I'm resolved i' Grinfilt no lunger to stay; For I'll go to Owdham os fast os I can, So fare thee weel, Grinfilt, un fare thee weel, Nan; A soger I'll be, un brave Owdham I'll see, Un I'll ha'e a battle wi' th' French.'
'Dear Jone,' then said Nan, un hoo bitterly cried, Wilt be one o' th' foote, or tha meons to ride?' 'Odsounds! wench, I'll ride oather ass or a mule, Ere I'll kewer i' Grinfilt os black as te dule, Booath clemmink (58) un starvink, un never a fardink, Ecod! it would drive ony mon mad.
'Aye, Jone, sin' wi' coom i' Grinfilt for t' dwell, We'n had mony a bare meal, I con vara weel tell.' 'Bare meal! ecod! aye, that I vara weel know, There's bin two days this wick ot we'n had nowt at o: I'm vara near sided, afore I'll abide it, I'll feight oather Spanish or French.'
Then says my Aunt Marget, 'Ah! Jone, thee'rt so hot, I'd ne'er go to Owdham, boh i' Englond I'd stop.' 'It matters nowt, Madge, for to Owdham I'll go, I'll naw clam to deeoth, boh sumbry shalt know: Furst Frenchman I find, I'll tell him meh mind, Un if he'll naw feight, he shall run.'
Then down th' broo I coom, for we livent at top, I thowt I'd reach Owdharn ere ever I'd stop; Ecod! heaw they stared when I getten to th' Mumps, Meh owd hat i' my hond, un meh clogs full o'stumps; Boh I soon towd um, I'r gooink to Owdham, Un I'd ha'e battle wi' th' French.
I kept eendway thro' th' lone, un to Owdham I went, I ask'd a recruit if te'd made up their keawnt? 'No, no, honest lad' (for he tawked like a king), 'Go wi' meh thro' the street, un thee I will bring Where, if theaw'rt willink, theaw may ha'e a shillink.' Ecod! I thowt this wur rare news.
He browt me to th' pleck where te measurn their height, Un if they bin height, there's nowt said about weight; I retched me, un stretched me, un never did flinch, Says th' mon, 'I believe theaw 'rt meh lad to an inch.' I thowt this'll do, I'st ha'e guineas enow, Ecod! Owdham, brave Owdham for me.
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 NOTTINGHAMSHIRE POACHER'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.