They saw Great Lights which did amaze them sore,
The like was never seen in any Age before,
They went into their Houses for to Pray,
We must Repent whilst it is call'd to Day.
The Drunken Butcher of Tideswell.
Tideswell is one of the largest and most important villages in the High Peak of Derbyshire, and has been more than once, as will be seen in the present volume, celebrated in song and ballad. It is situated about seven miles from Buxton, and the same from Bakewell, in a highly romantic and wildly picturesque neighbourhood. Its church is a fine building, containing many interesting monuments, among which are those to the Foljambes, Meverells, &c., and one to Bishop Pursglove. The following ballad is the production of William Bennett, the author of "The King of the Peak," "The Cavalier," etc. Of this ballad Mr. Bennett thus spoke in the "Reliquary," in which it appeared:—"The ballad (the subject of which is as well known in the Peak as that Kinder Scout is the highest hill, and Tideswell Church the most stately and beautiful church in it) will perhaps appear a little modernised to some, who have only heard the tale from the mouths of unsober topers, accustomed to use ancient provincial and obsolete words, which not only render the sense less distinguishable, but also mar the flow of the rhythm. I confess, therefore, to having taken some liberties with the grammar, the orthography, and the metre; but in all other respects I have strictly adhered to the original; and my honesty in this respect will be recognized and admitted by many persons to whom these minstrel relics are precious.
"The legend is still so strong in the Peak, that numbers of the inhabitants do not concur in the sensible interpretation put upon the appearance by the Butcher's wife, but pertinaciously believe that the drunken man was beset by an evil spirit, which either ran by his horse's side, or rolled on the ground before him, faster than his horse could gallop, from Peak Forest to the sacred inclosure of Tideswell churchyard, where it disappeared; and many a bold fellow, on a moonlight night, looks anxiously around as he crosses Tideswell Moor, and gives his nag an additional touch of the spur, as he hears the bell of Tideswell Church swinging midnight to the winds, and remembers the tale of the 'Drunken Butcher of Tideswell.'"
Oh, list to me, ye yeomen all,
Who live in dale or down!
My song is of a butcher tall,
Who lived in Tiddeswall town.
In bluff King Harry's merry days,
He slew both sheep and kine;
And drank his fill of nut brown ale,
In lack of good red wine.
Beside the Church this Butcher lived,
Close to its gray old walls;
And envied not, when trade was good,
The Baron in his halls.
No carking cares disturbed his rest,
When off to bed he slunk;
And oft he snored for ten good hours,
Because he got so drunk.
One only sorrow quelled his heart,
As well it might quell mine—
The fear of sprites and grisly ghosts,
Which dance in the moonshine;
Or wander in the cold Churchyard,
Among the dismal tombs;
Where hemlock blossoms in the day,
By night the nightshade blooms.
It chanced upon a summer's day,
When heather-bells were blowing,
Bold Robin crossed o'er Tiddeswall Moor,
And heard the heath-cock crowing:
Well mounted on a forest nag,
He freely rode and fast;
Nor drew a rein, till Sparrow Pit,[4]
And Paislow Moss[5] were past.
Then slowly down the hill he came,
To the Chappelle en le firth,[6]
Where, at the Rose of Lancaster,
He found his friend the Smith:
The Parson, and the Pardoner too,
There took their morning draught;
And when they spied a Brother near,
They all came out and laughed.