  The following admirable ballad, the production of the Rev. W. R. Bell, formerly curate of Bakewell, is founded partly on facts, and partly on local traditions. The unfortunate hero of the story was the Rev. Robert Lomas, Incumbent of Monyash, who was found dead, as described in the ballad, on the 12th of October, 1776. The scene of the ballad comprises the towns of Bakewell and The Parson of Monyash, late one eve, Sat in his old oak arm-chair; And a playful flame in the low turf fire Oft-times shewed him sitting there. What was it that made that kind-hearted man Sit pensively there alone? Did other men's sorrows make sad his heart? Or, say—a glimpse of his own? Black dark was that night and stormy withal, It rained as 'twould rain a sea; And round and within the old Parsonage house The wind moaned piteously. Still sat he deep musing till midnight hour, And then in a waking dream— He quailed to hear mid the tempest a crash, And eke a wild piercing scream. O mercy! cried he, with faltering breath, What sounds are these which I hear? May evil be far from both me and mine! Good Lord, be thou to us near! No longer sat he in that old arm-chair, But prayed and lay down in bed; And strove hard to sleep, and not hear the storm But sleep seldom comes when 'tis most desired, And least to a troubled mind; And the Parson lay wake long time, I ween, Ere soft repose he could find. As the dark hours of night passed slowly on, He slept as weary man will; But light was his sleep, and broken his rest, And sad his fore-dread of ill. Thus restless he lay, and at early dawn He dream'd that he fell amain, Down—down an abyss of fathomless depth, Loud shrieking for help in vain. He woke up at once with a sudden shock, And threw out his arms wide-spread; "Good heavens!" he gasped, "what ill-omen is this? Where am I—with quick or dead?" Right well was he pleased to find 'twas a dream— That still he was safe and sound: With the last shades of night, fear passed away, And joy once again came round. The morning was calm, and the storm was hushed, Nor wind nor rain swept the sky; And betimes he arose, for bound was he To Bakewell that day to hie. Old Hugh brought his horse to the garden gate, And saw him all safe astride; "Good-bye!" quoth the Parson; quoth Hugh, "good-bye! Forth rode he across the lone trackless moor, His thoughts on his errand bent And hoped he right soon to come back again The very same way he went. The journey to Bakewell he safely made A little before mid-day: But Vicar and people were all at church, Where they were oft wont to pray. "I'll put up my beast," quoth the Parson, "here, At the White Horse hostelry; And go up to Church, that when prayers are done, The Vicar I there may see." But ere he could reach the Old Newark door, Both Priest and people were gone; And the Vicar to soothe a dying man, To Over-Haddon sped on. 'Twas three past noon when the Vicar came back, The Parson he asked to dine, And time stole a march on the heedless guest, Six struck as he sat at wine. Up rose he from table and took his leave, Quite startled to find it late; He called for his horse at the hostelry, As he rode up the hill, past All Saints' Church, The moon just one glance bestowed, And the wierd-like form of the old Stone Cross, In the Church-yard, dimly shewed. Still higher and higher he climbed the hill, Yet more and more dark it grew; The drizzling rain became sleet as he climbed, And the wind more keenly blew. Ah! thick was the mist on the moor that night, Poor wight, he had lost his way! The north-east wind blowing strong on his right, To the left had made him stray. And now he was close to lone Haddon Grove, Bewildered upon the moor; Slow leading his horse that followed behind, Himself groping on before. Still onward and leeward, at last he came To the edge of Harlow Dale; From his cave But louder then howled the gale. On the brink of Fox Torr the doomed man stood, And tugged the bridle in vain; His horse would not move—then quick started back, Then headlong fell he o'er the lofty cliff, He shrieked, and sank in the gloom; Down—down to the bottom he swiftly sped, And death was his dreadful doom. The dead man lay cold on the blood-stained rocks— The darkness did him enshroud;— And the owls high up in the ivy-clad Torr, Bewailed him all night full loud. O little thought they in the old thatched cot, Hard by the Parsonage gate; Their master they never again should see, Nor ope to him soon nor late! "This night is no better than last," quoth Hugh, "And master has not come back; I hope he is hale and safe housed with friends, And has of good cheer no lack." Quoth Betty, "I liked not his morning ride— I fear he's in evil plight— A Friday's venture's, no luck! I've heard say, God help him if out this night." At dawn of next day, old Betty went forth To milk the cow in the shed;— And saw him sitting upon a large stone, All pale, and mute—with bare head. But a moment she turned her eyes away, She looked again, but, no Parson was there, He'd vanished from off the stone! Soon spread the dread tale through Monyash town— They made a great hue and cry; And some off to this place—and some to that, To seek the lost man did hie. Bad tidings from Bakewell—no Parson there— No parson could else be found; 'Twas noon, yet no tidings—they still searched on, And missed they no likely ground. At last the searchers went into the Dale, And there at the foot of Fox Torr— They found the Parson, all cold and dead, 'Mong the rocks all stained with gore. They took up his corse—and six stalwart men, Slowly bore it along the Dale; And they laid the dead in his house that night, And many did him bewail. When time had passed over—a day or twain, They buried him in the grave; And his bones now rest in the lone Churchyard, Till doomsday them thence shall crave. O dread was the death of that luckless man— Not soon will it be forgot; The dismal story—for ages to come— You may not now see in Monyash town The deadman's sear tuft of grass; But still it is there, in memory stored, And thence it never shall pass. You may not now find Fox Torr by that name, The swain thus knows it no more; But pointing thereat from the Lathkil grot, He'll shew you the Parson's Torr. And now, my dear friends, what more need I say? I've told you the story through:— If you've in the least been pleased with my song, Then I am well-pleased with you. |
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