  On page 118 I have spoken of the game of foot-ball as played at Derby. Ashborne was also one of the strongholds of this manly game, and in that pleasant little town it has been played from time immemorial, until "put down" by the strong arm of the law—not without much unpleasantness and strenuous opposition—a few years ago. The following song was sung (and I believe written) by Mr. Fawcett, the comedian, at the Ashborne theatre, on the 26th of February, 1821. I'll sing you a song of a neat little place, Where coaches are rolling by day and by night, And in playing at Foot-Ball the people delight. Where health and good humour does always abound, And hospitality's cup flows freely around, Where friendship and harmony are to be found, In the neat little town of Ashborne. Shrove Tuesday, you know, is always the day, When pancake's the prelude, and Foot-Ball's the play, Where upwards and downwards men ready for fun, Like the French at the Battle of Waterloo run. And well may they run like the devil to pay, 'Tis always the case as I have heard say, If a Derbyshire Foot-Ball man comes in the way, In the neat little town of Ashborne. There's Mappleton, Mayfield, Okeover and Thorpe, Can furnish some men that nothing can whop, And Bentley and Tissington always in tune, And Clifton and Sturston are ready as soon. Then there's Snelston and Wyaston, Shirley and all, Who all are good men at brave Whittaker's call; And who come to kick at Paul Gettliffe's Foot-Ball, In the neat little town of Ashborne. The Ball is turn'd up, and the Bull Ring's the place, And as fierce as a bull-dog's is every man's face; Whilst kicking and shouting and howling they run, Until every stitch in the Ball comes undone. There's Faulkner and Smith, Bodge Hand and some more, And deserve a good whopping at every man's door In the neat little town of Ashborne. If they get to the Park the upwards men shout And think all the downwards men put to the rout, But a right about face they soon have to learn, And the upwards men shout and huzza in their turn. Then into Shaw Croft where the bold and the brave, Get a ducking in trying the Foot-Ball to save; For 'tis well known they fear not a watery grave, In defence of the Foot-Ball at Ashborne. If into Church Street should the Ball take its way, The White Hart and Wheat Sheaf will cause some delay, For from tasting their liquor no man can refrain, Till he rolls like the Foot-Ball in Warin's tear-brain. Then they run and they shout, they bawl and they laugh, They kick and huzza, still the liquor they quaff Till another Foot-Ball has been cut into half, By the unfair players of Ashborne. |
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