  This interesting ballad, which has been more than once printed, recounts the events of a famous day's "sport,"—a run with the hounds,—at Trusley, in Derbyshire; Trusley Hall being one of the seats of the Coke family for many generations. The ballad was written by Tom Handford, a blacksmith at Trusley, who also acted in the capacity of "Whipper-in" to "Squire Coke," who was the last William Coke of Trusley, and who died in 1716. A portrait of Tom Handford was painted by order of Squire Coke, and hung up in "This is Tom Handford—Don't you know it? He was both Smith and Poet!" A version of this ballad, preserved in MS. by the late D'Ewes Coke, Esq., was furnished to me by that gentleman. It differs in many essential points from the one I now print, both in the names as well as in the construction of the stanzas. The different versions of this and other ballads have doubtless arisen from their having been written down from memory; and the different singers would also, probably, take some little license in altering the words to suit their own particular tastes. I prefer giving the printed version, which is evidently the original one. My copy, which I here give, was "Printed by W. O. in Leadenhall Street," and is of an almost contemporaneous period with the song itself. It is printed broadway on the sheet, in four columns, and has at the head of the first two columns a rude engraving of two huntsmen galloping past a tree, and following a stag and a couple of hounds. It is headed "Princely Diversion: or The Jovial Hunting-Match." Trusley is a village and parish nearly seven miles from Derby, and about midway between Radbourne and Longford, a seat of the Coke family. One Valentine's Day in the Morning Bright Phoebus began to appear Sir William Cook winded his horn And was going a Hunting the Hare Says Handford And let them go Questing along For lose her or win her, I must go to Dinner Or else they will think me long. Says Handford, I pray now forbear, Sir For I've not been a Hunting this Year And how can you give over by Noon. Black Sloven shall warm your Bay Robin And make him go smoaking along Bonny Dick shall not Gallop so quick If we light of a Hare that is Strong. Well, Handford, then said the good Squire I mean for to show you a Trick I value no Hedges nor Ditches, But I'll let you know Bonny Dick; Then hye for the Clossam Bowfield We shall get her Ten Thousand to One There's Wonder, lays hard Thunder Away, o're away, she is gone. The Morning was pleasant all o're So bright and so clear was the Air We made all the Woods for to Roar With the Noise of our sweet Harmony. It was for the space of Three Hours We held all our Horses to speed Black Slovin held hard to Bay Robin But yet could not do the Deed. It was about Nine in the Morning We sounded our first Passing Bell Sir William, pray put up your Horn For another fresh Hare will do well. Well, Handford, then said the good Squire What think you of my Bonny Dick Do's think thou can make him to retire Faith, Master, I needs must Confess That I fear I was boasting too soon But I for another fresh Hare And you Dick shall have Din'd by Noon. Well Handford, have at your black Sloven I'll make him in Purple to Ride And if he does offer to Tire I'll certainly Liquor thy Hide. You'd serve him right well, says Jack Wilson For he has been taunting at me I never was beat in the Field So for a fresh Hare let us see, For here is some Closses of Corn See well to your Place e'ry one, Then Master, pray pull out your Horn For away, o're away she is gone. Young Blew-Bell, she cry'd it before And she cry'd it all over the Lane And after her twelve Couple more Thus they Rattled it o're the Plain, Bonny Dick play'd with his Bridle And went at a desperate Rate Come Handford, Pox take you, your Idle, Must I open you the Gate. O, Your humble Servant good Master You shall find Black Sloven go faster For now he begins for to Sweat. There's Wonder, and Thunder, and Dido And Merry Lass sweetly runs on, There's Younger, Old Ranter, and Rain-Bow But Beauty, she leads the Van. She headed them Stoutly and Bravely Just up into Sutton's Black Sloven began to go heavy And made a fair Offer to yield. Jack Wilson came swinging before So well did Bay Robin maintain And after him Bonny Dick scour'd, Black Sloven was Spur'd in Vain. But he had the Luck and good Chance For to go now and then by the String, She led us a dilicate Dance But as we came the last Ring A fresh Hare, Duce take her, we Started, We ne'er was so vexed before, And e're we could make em forsake her We run her two Miles or more. And then we left Sir William Cook For to ponder upon the Old Hare Who presently leap'd o're a Brook He had not got past half a Mile But this cunning Old Gypsie he spy'd Was making back to her old File Then away, o're away, he cry'd, Away, o're away, my brave Boys, And he merrily Winded his Horn Our Beagles all toss'd up their Heads And they soon made a speedy return, And drawing just up to a Point Where this cunning Old Gypsie had gone, You never saw better Dogs Hunt For Life underneath the Sun. Now there was Tantive and Ranter, They sounded her last Passing Bell, And Wilson made Moan unto Handford A Cup of Old Hock will do well And Handford cry'd Master, ride faster For now I begin to Cool With Sweat, all my Cloaths are as wet As if I had been in some Pool. Where not these two dainty fine Pusses They held us from Seven till One, We scour'd thro Hedges and Bushes So Merrily they run on. And as for the Praise of these Hounds And Horses that Gallops so free, My Pen would not bring to Bounds Now Gallants, I bid you Farewel For I fear I your Patience have try'd, And hie for a Glass of good Ale That Poetry may be admir'd. And heres a good Health to the Sportsman That Hunts with the Horn and Hound, I hope you'll all pledge for the future And so let this Health go round. |
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