Note V.
As an illustration of one of the methods by which traditions are kept up in the country, I insert some verses written by Job Cork, an Uffington man of two generations back, who was a shepherd on White Horse Hill for fifty years.
“It was early one summer’s morn,
The weather fine and very warm,
A stranger to White Horse Hill did go
To view the plains and fields below.
“As he along the hill did ride,
Taking a view on every side,
The which he did so much enjoy
Till a shepherd’s dog did him annoy.
“At length an aged man appeared,
A watching of his fleecy herd,
With threadbare coat and downcast eye,
To which the stranger did draw nigh.
“‘O noble shepherd, can you tell
How long you kept sheep on this hill?’
‘Zeven yeur in Zundays I have been
A shepherd on this hill so green.’
“‘That is a long time, I must own,
You have kept sheep upon this down;
I think that you must have been told
Of things that have been done of old.’
“‘Ah, Zur, I can remember well
The stories the old voke do tell—
Upon this hill which here is seen
Many a battle there have been.
“‘If it is true as I heard zay,
King Gaarge did here the dragon slay,
And down below on yonder hill
They buried him as I heard tell.
“‘If you along the Rudgeway go,
About a mile for aught I know,
There Wayland’s Cave then you may see
Surrounded by a group of trees.
“‘They say that in this cave did dwell
A smith that was invisible;
At last he was found out, they say,
He blew up the place and vlod away.
“‘To Devonshire then he did go,
Full of sorrow, grief, and woe,
Never to return again,
So here I’ll add the shepherd’s name—
“Job Cork.’”
There is no merit in the lines beyond quaintness; but they are written in the sort of jingle which the poor remember; they have lived for fifty years and more, and will probably, in quiet corners of the Vale, outlive the productions of much more celebrated versemakers than Job Cork, though probably they were never reduced into writing until written out at my request.
Job Cork was a village humorist, and stories are still told of his sayings, some of which have a good deal of fun in them; I give one example in the exact words in which it was told to me:—
“One night as Job Cork came off the downs, drough-wet to his very skin, it happened his wife had been a baking. So, when he went to bed, his wife took his leather breeches, and put ’em in the oven to dry ’em. When he woke in the morning he began to feel about for his thengs, and he called out, and zed, ‘Betty, where be mee thengs?’ ‘In the oven,’ zed his wife. Zo he looked in the oven and found his leather breeches all cockled up together like a piece of parchment, and he bawled out, ‘O Lard! O Lard! what be I to do? Was ever man plagued as I be?’ ‘Patience, Job, patience, Job,’ zed his wife; ‘remember thy old namesake, how he was plagued.’ ‘Ah!’ zed the old man, ‘’a was plagued surely; but his wife never baked his breeches.’”
Other shepherds of the Hill have been poets in a rough sort of way. I add one of their home-made songs, as I am anxious to uphold the credit of my countrymen as a tuneful race.
“Come, all you shepherds as minds for to be,
You must have a gallant heart,
You must not be down-hearted,
You must a-bear the smart;
You must a-bear the smart, my boys,
Let it hail or rain or snow,
For there is no ale to be had on the Hill
Where the wintry wind doth blow.
“When I kept sheep on White Horse Hill
My heart began to ache,
My old ewes all hung down their heads,
And my lambs began to bleat.
Then I cheered up with courage bold,
And over the Hill did go,
For there is no ale to be had on the Hill
When the wintry wind doth blow.
“I drive my sheep into the fold,
To keep them safe all night,
For drinking of good ale, my boys,
It is my heart’s delight.
I drove my sheep into the fold,
And homeward I did go,
For there is no ale to be had on the Hill
When the wintry wind doth blow.
“We shepherds are the liveliest lads
As ever trod English ground,
If we drops into an ale-house
We values not a crownd.
We values not a crownd, my boys,
We’ll pay before we go,
For there is no ale to be had on the Hill
When the wintry wind doth blow.”
THE END.