For we can wrestle and fight, my boys, and jump o'er everywhere: Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year. As me and my comrades were setting four or five, Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year. Bad luck to every magistrate that lives in Lincolnsheer;* Success to every poacher that wants to sell a hare; Bad luck to every gamekeeper that will not sell his deer: [the year. Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of SOMERSETSHIRE HUNTING SONG. [THE following song, which is very popular with the peasantry of Somersetshire, is given as a curious specimen of the dialect still spoken in some parts of that county. Though the song is a genuine peasant's ditty, it is heard in other circles, and frequently roared out at hunting dinners. It is here reprinted from a copy communicated by Mr. Sandys.] HERE'S no pleasures can compare THE Wi' the hunting o' the hare, In the morning, in the morning, * In one version this line has been altered, probably by some printer who had a wholesome fear of the Bench of Justices,' into 'Success to every gentleman That lives in Lincolnsheer.' Cho. With our hosses and our hounds, And sing traro, huzza! And sing traro, brave boys, we will foller. And when poor puss arise, Then away from us she flies; And we'll gives her, boys, we'll gives her, Cho. With our hosses, &c. And when poor puss is killed, We'll retires from the field; And we'll count boys, and we'll count On the same good ren to-morrer. Cho. With our hosses and our hounds, &c. THE TROTTING HORSE. [THE common copies of this old highwayman's song are very corrupt. We are indebted for the following version, which contains several emendations, to Mr. W. H. Ainsworth. The song, which may probably be referred to the age of Charles II., is a spirited specimen of its class.] ICAN sport as fine a trotting horse as any swell in town, [crown; To trot you fourteen miles an hour, I'll bet you fifty He is such a one to bend his knees, and tuck his haunches in, [sin. And throw the dust in people's face, and think it not a For to ride away, trot away, Ri, fa lar, la, &c. He has an eye like any hawk, a neck like any swan, span; Kind Nature hath so formed him, he is everything that's good, Aye! everything a man could wish, in bottom, bone, and blood. For to ride away, &c. If you drop therein, he'll nod his head, and boldly walk away, [play; While others kick and bounce about, to him it's only There never was a finer horse e'er went on English ground, He is rising six years old, and is all over right and sound. For to ride away, &c. If any frisk or milling match should call me out of town, I can pass the blades with white cockades, their whiskers hanging down; With large jack-towels round their necks, they think they're first and fast, [are last. But, with their gapers open wide, they find that they Whilst I ride away, &c. If threescore miles I am from home, I darkness never mind, [behind; My friend is gone, and I am left, with pipe and pot Up comes some saucy kiddy, a scampsman on the hot, But ere he pulls the trigger I am off just like a shot. For I ride away, &c. If Fortune e'er should fickle be, and wish to have again That which she so freely gave, I'd give it without pain; I would part with it most freely, and without the least remorse, Only grant to me what God hath gave, my mistress and my horse! That I may ride away, &c. THE SEEDS OF LOVE. [THIS very curious old song is not only a favourite with our peasantry, but, in consequence of having been introduced into the modern dramatic entertainment of The Loan of a Lover, has obtained popularity in higher circles. Its sweetly plaintive tune will be found in Popular Music. The words are quaint, but by no means wanting in beauty; they are, no doubt, corrupted, as we have derived them from common broadsides, the only form in which we have been able to meet with them. The author of the song was Mrs. Fleetwood Habergham, of Habergham, in the county of Lancaster. Ruined by the extravagance, and disgraced by the vices of her husband, she soothed her sorrows,' says Dr. Whitaker, 'by some stanzas yet remembered among the old people of her neighbourhood.'-History of Whalley. Mrs. Habergham died in 1703, and was buried at Padiham.] I SOWED the seeds of love, it was all in the spring, In April, May, and June, likewise, when small birds they do sing; My garden's well planted with flowers everywhere, Yet I had not the liberty to choose for myself the 'flower that I loved so dear. My gardener he stood by, I asked him to choose for me, He chose me the violet, the lily and pink, but those I refused all three; The violet I forsook, because it fades so soon, The lily and the pink I did o'erlook, and I vowed I'd stay till June. In June there's a red rose-bud, and that's the flower for me! But often have I plucked at the red rose-bud till I gained the willow-tree; [twine,The willow-tree will twist, and the willow-tree will O! I wish I was in the dear youth's arms that once had the heart of mine. care, My gardener he stood by, he told me to take great [thorn there; For in the middle of a red rose-bud there grows a sharp I told him I'd take no care till I did feel the smart, And often I plucked at the red rose-bud till I pierced it to the heart. I'll make me a posy of hyssop,-no other I can touch,— That all the world may plainly see I love one flower too much; My garden is run wild! where shall I plant anew— For my bed, that once was covered with thyme, is all overrun with rue?* THE GARDEN-GATE. [ONE of our most pleasing rural ditties. The air is very beautiful. We first heard it sung in Malhamdale, Yorkshire, by Willy Bolton, an old Dales'-minstrel, who accompanied himself on the unionpipes.+] * Dr. Whitaker gives a traditional version of part of this song as follows: The gardener standing by proferred to chuse for me, The pink, the primrose, and the rose, but I refused the three; The primrose I forsook because it came too soon, The violet I o'erlooked, and vowed to wait till June. In June, the red rose sprung, but was no flower for me, I plucked it up, lo! by the stalk, and planted the willow-tree. The willow I must wear with sorrow twined among, That all the world may know I falshood loved too long.' The following account of Billy Bolton may, with propriety, be inserted here:-It was a lovely September day, and the scene was Arncliffe, a retired village in Littondale, one of the most secluded of the Yorkshire dales. While sitting at the open window of the humble hostelrie, we heard what we, at first, thought was a ranter parson, but, on inquiry, were told it was old Billy Bolton reading to a crowd of villagers. Curious to ascertain what the minstrel was reading, we joined the crowd, and found the text-book was a volume of Hume's England, which contained the reign of Elizabeth. Billy read in a clear voice, |