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THE SEVEN FORESTERS OF CHATSWORTH,

AN ANCIENT DERBYSHIRE BALLAD.

[IN presenting this somewhat rude but curious ballad to the reader, it may be proper to observe, that those who profess to be charmed with truth only, and would wish one to swear to the certainty of a song, will learn with pleasure, perhaps, that tradition has recited, or sung, I know not which, this singular legend for centuries, in the beautiful vale of Derwent, in Derbyshire. It is a tale current in the county. The projecting rock in Chatsworth wood, still bearing the name of the Shouter's Stone, is pointed out by the peasantry as the place on which this famous and successful Outlaw stood and shouted. It overhangs a wild and winding footpath in the Preserve, and in former times, before the wood became so luxuriant, commanded a fine view of the valley, in the midst of which stands Chatsworth-house, the favourite mansion of the ancient and noble family of Cavendish. In the house itself, this tale has sought sanctuary. There is a painting from no less a hand than that of Prince Nicolas, in which a portion of the tradition is sought to be embodied; but the illustrious artist has, with poetical licence, put a gilded horn in the outlaw's hand; and, with a departure from the story, which all lovers of oral literature will deplore, has given to the cavern below a couple of outlaws, who rouse and bestir themselves to the sound of their leader's horn. The ancient oaks of Chatsworth are to be found every where in the valley; and, perhaps, no oaks in England, except those in Sherwood forest, can claim to be their coevals,—they are upwards of a thousand years old.

Chatsworth has many other attractions. The Flower Garden of the beautiful and unfortunate Queen of Scotland, a plat of earth elevated on a squat tower, and guarded with a foss, stands on the banks of the Derwent, within a stone's throw of the house. All around, the hills ascend and recede in woody or naked magnificence; and, indeed, the grandeur of nature is such, that the beautiful mansion is diminished in the contemplation.

Some sculpture, from no common hands, adorns the hall. A statue of Buonaparte's mother, by Canova, has a matron-like simplicity and stateliness; an Endymion, which Chantrey says is one of the most exquisite works of the Roman sculptor, will presently become its companion. A figure from the hand of Chantrey himself may soon be expected to join them.

Moderate rents, a wealthy tenantry, and a happy peasantry, will endear the name of the present generous Duke of Devonshire to many who may not feel the charms of his paintings, his statues, his books, and the rare curiosities of his museum. ̧

An attempt was made to abate the occasional provincialism of the ballad, but the experiment threatened to ravel the entire web, and it was not persisted in.]

1.

The sun had risen above the mist,
The boughs in dew were dreeping ;
Seven foresters sat on Chatsworth bank
And sung while roes were leaping.

2.

Alas! sung one, for Chatsworth oaks,
Their heads are bald and hoary,

They droop in fullness of honour and fame,
They have had their time of glory.

3.

No stately tree in old merry England
Can match their antique grandeur;
Tradition can tell of no time when they
Tower'd not in pride and splendour.

4.

How fair they stand amid their green land,
The sock or share ne'er pain'd them;

Not a bough or leaf have been shred from their strength,
Nor the woodman's axe profaned them.

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Cleeding, a word still used in the north of England; cloathing, apparel. South

of Germany, kleidung; Islandic, klaede; Teutonic, kleed.

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37.

And now I feast on the ptarmigan,
And then I taste the pheasant;

But my supper is of the Chatsworth fawn
Which my love dresses pleasant.

38.

But to-morrow I feast on yon bonny roebuck;
'Tis time I stay'd his bounding;

He twang'd his string-like the swallow it sung,
All shrilly and sharply sounding.

39.

By my grandsire's bow, said a forester then,
By my shafts which fly so yarely,

And by all the skill of my strong right hand,
Good Outlaw thou lords it rarely.

40.

Seest thou yon tree, yon lonely tree,
Whose bough the Derwent's laving?-
Upon its top, thou gallant Outlaw,
Thou'lt be hung to feed the raven.

41.

So short as the time this sharp shaft flies,
And strikes yon golden pheasant-
There-thy time is meted, so bid farewell
To these greenwoods wild and pleasant.

42.

The Outlaw langh'd; good fellow, he said,
My sword's too sure a servant

To suffer that tree to bear such fruit,
While it stands on the Derwent.

43.

She would scorn my might, my own true love,
And the mother would weep that bore me,
If I stay'd my step for such strength as thine,
Or seven such churls before me.

44.

I have made my way with this little brown sword,
Where the war-steeds rush'd the throngest;
I have saved my breast with this little brown sword,
When the strife was at the strongest.

45.

It guarded me well in bonny Scotland,

When the Scotts and Graemes fought fervent;
And the steel that saved me by gentle Nith,
May do the same by Derwent.

46.

Fair fall thee, Outlaw, for that word;
Oh! Nith, thou gentle river,

When a bairn, I flew along thy banks,

As an arrow from the quiver.

47.

The roebucks run upon thy braes
Without a watch or warden ;

And the tongue that calls thee a gentle stream
Is dear to Geordie Gordon.

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