'Well, Mr. King, pray how d'ye do?
I gotten for you a bit of a job,
Which if you'll be so kind as to do,
I gotten a summat for you in my fob.'

The king he took the lease in hand,

To sign it, too, he was likewise willing; And the old chap to make a little amends, He lugg'd out his bag, and gave him a shilling. The king, to carry on the joke,

Ordered ten pounds to be paid down; The farmer he stared, but nothing spoke,

And stared again, and he scratched his crown. The farmer 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!

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* 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 i̇' 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 Owdham 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;

Famished. The line in which this word occurs exhibits one of the most striking peculiarities of the Lancashire dialect, which is, that in words ending in ing, the termination is changed into ink. Ex. gr., for starving, starvink, farthing, fardink.

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.

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

a prevalent idea that the song is not the production of an ordinary ballad-writer, but was written about the middle of the last cen tury 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 The manor of Thornehagh is the property of the ancient family of Nevile, who have a residence on the estate.]

acres.

IN

N 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 bleeding 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!
very best game I ever did see,

The

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!

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 has 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 The Lincolnshire 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 Lincoln

sheer,

Full well I served my master for more than seven year, Till I took up with poaching, as you shall quickly [the year.

hear :Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of

As me and my comrades were setting of a snare, 'Twas then we seed the gamekeeper-for him we did not care,