Squire Frith's Hunting Song.
Reading edition
Another good old Derbyshire hunting song is the following, which relates to a celebrated run with the hounds of "Squire Frith, of Bank Hall," near Chapel-en-le-Frith, in the High Peak. Mr. Samuel Frith was a keen sportsman, and for more than fifty years was one of the most daring and best hunters in the district—one of the roughest and most awkward that could be found anywhere. With regard to the run celebrated in this song, it appears that one December morning, some eighty or ninety years ago, in a keen frost, Mr. Frith turned out his own pack of harriers at Castle Naze Rocks, on the moors near his residence. To the surprise of the Squire, instead of a hare putting off, a fine fox broke covert, and made away to the Moors. The dogs got away after him, and Mr. Frith and his huntsman, Jack Owen, followed over some of the most tremendous ground even of Derbyshire. The fox made off across the moors, skirting Axe-edge,—the highest mountain in the Peak,—to Macclesfield forest; thence by Langley and Gracely woods to Swithingley. From thence he went by Housley and Gawsworth, and at length, after a run of more than forty miles, was killed at Clouds Hill, near Congleton, Mr. Frith and his huntsman being up at the time. Mr. Frith rode a favourite black cob of his called "Black Jack," one of the best fencers in the county,—a quality of essential importance in that district of stone walls and rocks. Bank Hall is about two and a half miles from Chapel-en-le-Frith.
Hark! hark! brother Sportsmen, what a melodious sound, How the valleys doth echo with the merry-mouthed hound; There's none in this world with Squire Frith can compare, When chasing bold Reynard, or hunting the Hare. Bright Phœbus peeps over yon Eastern hills, And darted his rays through the meadows and fields; On the eighth of December, that memorable morn, We chased bold Reynard with hound and with horn. Then over young Cumrocks like lightning he flew, What a melodious chorus when Reynard's in view; There's nothing like hunting we mortals do know, Then follow, boys, follow, tally-ho! tally-ho! With a staunch and fleet pack, most sagacious and true, What a melodious chorus when Reynard's in view; The hills and the valleys do echo around, With the shouts of the hunter, and cries of the hound. Squire Frith being mounted upon a swift steed, Black Jack, there's but few that can match him for speed; The Squire and his Huntsman no horse-flesh will spare, When chasing bold Reynard, or hunting the Hare. There's Grinder, and Saddler, two dogs of great fame, Hark to Primrose, and Bonny Lass, and Conqueror by name; There's Killman, and Bowman, Ringwood, and Dido, With Lily, and Lady, and Rolly, also. O'er Macclesfield Forest old Reynard did fly, By Tragnell, and Runcorn, and unto Langly; By Shalcross, and Greswark, and unto Swithinly, At his brush close did follow the hounds in full cry. By Shalcross and Greswark we came back again, It was speed that prolonged his life it was plain; Full forty long miles that old creature did return, And he holed in Clown Hills, near to Congleton. Of geese, ducks, and hens, great havoc he's made, And innocent lambs, he has worried the said; There's no barn-door fowls old Reynard did spare, Take care, all ye farmers, of your poultry, take care. Here's a health to all Hunters, wherever they be, To all honest sportsmen of every degree; With a full flowing bowl, we'll drink a health all, To that great and true Sportsman, Squire Frith, of Bank Hall.