But he forgot, good man, I trow, That in this favoured nation, Good things, or bad, still travel slow, Like cow-inoculation.
Nor ever dreamt, you may believe, That they had no more notion What was the gift they did receive, Than of the Western Ocean.
So when it came, long ponder'd they How 'twas to be devour'd; They wish'd he'd sent some hint to say, For they were quite o'erpower'd.
At length, right well they both agreed 'Twere best it should be taken, By way of greens, when next they'd need, With some of their fat bacon.
Next day arrived, the flax-man's wife Set on her sauce-pan flattish, Popp'd in the tea, then took a knife And cut some bacon fattish.
The bacon soon enough was done, But still the tea, so evil, Kept very tough--the clock struck One; She wish'd it at the devil.
For at the hour of noon each day, These humble friends of labour Took their plain meal--nor only they, For so did every neighbour.
Finding it hard, though tasted oft, She bawl'd out like a sinner, "This cursed stuff will ne'er be soft, So, John! come down to dinner."
On page 118 I have spoken of the game of foot-ball as played at Derby. Ashborne was also one of the strongholds of this manly game, and in that pleasant little town it has been played from time immemorial, until "put down" by the strong arm of the law--not without much unpleasantness and strenuous opposition--a few years ago. The following song was sung (and I believe written) by Mr. Fawcett, the comedian, at the Ashborne theatre, on the 26th of February, 1821.
I'll sing you a song of a neat little place, Top full of good humour and beauty and grace; Where coaches are rolling by day and by night, And in playing at Foot-Ball the people delight. Where health and good humour does always abound, And hospitality's cup flows freely around, Where friendship and harmony are to be found, In the neat little town of Ashborne.
Shrove Tuesday, you know, is always the day, When pancake's the prelude, and Foot-Ball's the play, Where upwards and downwards men ready for fun, Like the French at the Battle of Waterloo run. And well may they run like the devil to pay, 'Tis always the case as I have heard say, If a Derbyshire Foot-Ball man comes in the way, In the neat little town of Ashborne.