Bad luck to every magistrate that lives in Lincolnsheer; [217]
Success to every poacher that wants to sell a hare;
Bad luck to every gamekeeper that will not sell his deer:—
Oh! ’tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.
SOMERSETSHIRE HUNTING SONG.
[This 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.]
There’s no pleasures can compare
Wi’ the hunting o’ the hare,
In the morning, in the morning,
In fine and pleasant weather.
Cho. With our hosses and our hounds,
We will scamps it o’er the grounds,
And sing traro, huzza!
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,
One thundering and loud holler!
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 bosses 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.]
I can sport as fine a trotting horse as any swell in town,
To trot you fourteen miles an hour, I’ll bet you fifty crown;
He is such a one to bend his knees, and tuck his haunches in,
And throw the dust in people’s face, and think it not a sin.
For to ride away, trot away,
Ri, fa lar, la, &c.