Bad tidings from Bakewell—no Parson there—
No parson could else be found;
'Twas noon, yet no tidings—they still searched on,
And missed they no likely ground.
At last the searchers went into the Dale,
And there at the foot of Fox Torr—
They found the Parson, all cold and dead,
'Mong the rocks all stained with gore.
They took up his corse—and six stalwart men,
Slowly bore it along the Dale;
And they laid the dead in his house that night,
And many did him bewail.
When time had passed over—a day or twain,
They buried him in the grave;
And his bones now rest in the lone Churchyard,
Till doomsday them thence shall crave.
O dread was the death of that luckless man—
Not soon will it be forgot;
The dismal story—for ages to come—
Will often be told, I wot.
You may not now see in Monyash town
The deadman's sear tuft of grass;
But still it is there, in memory stored,
And thence it never shall pass.
You may not now find Fox Torr by that name,
The swain thus knows it no more;
But pointing thereat from the Lathkil grot,
He'll shew you the Parson's Torr.
And now, my dear friends, what more need I say?
I've told you the story through:—
If you've in the least been pleased with my song,
Then I am well-pleased with you.