From The Songs and Ballads of Cumberland edited by Sidney Gilpin (London: Geo. Routledge and Sons, 1866):

JOHN WOODCOCK GRAVES.
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL FRAGMENT.

...Nearly forty years have now wasted away since John Peel and I sat in a snug parlour at Caldbeck among the Cumbrian mountains. We were then both in the hey-day of manhood, and hunters of the olden fashion; meeting the night before to arrange earth stopping; and in the morning to take the best part of the hunt—the drag over the mountains in the mist—while fashionable hunters still lay in the blankets. Large flakes of snow fell that evening. We sat by the fireside hunting over again many a good run, and recalling the feats of each particular hound, or narrow neck-break 'scapes, when a flaxen-haired daughter of mine came in saying, "Father, what do they say to what granny sings?" Granny was singing to sleep my eldest son—now a leading barrister in Hobart Town—with a very old rant called Bonnie (or Cannie) Annie. The pen and ink for hunting appointments being on the table, the idea of writing a song to this old air forced itself upon me, and thus was produced, impromptu, D'ye ken John Peel with his coat so gray. Immediately after I sung it to poor Peel who smiled through a stream of tears which fell down his manly cheeks; and I well remember saying to him in a joking style, "By Jove, Peel, you'll be sung when we're both run to earth."

As to John Peel's general character I can say little. He was of a very limited education beyond hunting. But no wile of a fox or hare could evade his scrutiny; and business of any shape was utterly neglected, often to cost far beyond the first loss. Indeed this neglect extended to the paternal duties in his family. I believe he would not have left the drag of a fox on the impending death of a child, or any other earthly event. An excellent rider, I saw him once on a moor put up a fresh hare and ride till he caught her with his whip. You may know that he was six feet and more, and of a form and gait quite surprising, but his face and head somewhat insignificant. A clever sculptor told me that he once followed, admiring him, a whole market day before he discovered who he was....

Peel was generous as every true sportsman ever must be. He was free with the glass "at the heel of the hunt;" but a better heart never throbbed in man. His honour was never once questioned in his life-time. In the latter part of his life his estate was embarrassed, but the right sort in all Cumberland called a meet some years since, and before parting they sang John Peel in full chorus, closing by presenting him with a handsome gratuity which empowered him to shake off his encumbrances, and die with a "hark tally-ho!"

SONGS BY JOHN WOODCOCK GRAVES.

D'YE KEN JOHN PEEL?

[AIR: "Bonnie (or Cannie) Annie."—The history of this celebrated hunting song is very curious, as will be seen by reference to the interesting autobiographical sketch of its author. Thirty years since no person could walk through the streets of Carlisle, without hearing some one or other either whistling the air, or singing the song. Since then its popularity has spread far and wide. It has been chanted wherever English hunters have penetrated in the world. It was heard in the soldiers' camps at the siege of Lucknow, and was lately sung before the Prince of Wales. Stray copies, and generally imperfect ones, have got into the newspapers; but it now appears for the first time in a general collection. The hunt is supposed to commence at Low Denton-holme, near Caldbeck—thence across a rugged stretch of country in a south-easterly direction—and bold reynard is finally run into on the heights of Scratchmere Scar, near Lazonby.—The old rant of "Bonnie Annie" is obsolete.]

D'YE ken John Peel with his coat so gray?
D'ye ken John Peel at the break of the day?
D'ye ken John Peel when he's far, far away,
With his hounds and his horn in the morning?

[CHORUS] 'Twas the sound of his horn call'd me from my bed,
And the cry of his hounds has me oft-times led;
For Peel's view holloa would 'waken the dead,
Or a fox from his lair in the morning.

D'ye ken that bitch whose tongue is death?
D'ye ken her sons of peerless faith?
D'ye ken that a fox with his last breath
Curs'd them all as he died in the morning?

'Twas the sound of his horn, &c.

Yes, I ken John Peel and auld Ruby, too,
Ranter and Royal and Bellman as true;*
From the drag to the chase, from the chase to the view,
From the view to the death in the morning.

'Twas the sound of his horn, &c.

And I've follow'd John Peel both often and far,
O'er the rasper-fence and the gate and the bar,
From Low Denton-holme up to Scratchmere Scar,
When we vied for the brush in the morning.

'Twas the sound of his horn, &c.

Then, here's to John Peel with my heart and soul,
Come fill—fill to him another strong bowl:
And we'll follow John Peel thro' fair and thro' foul
While we're wak'd by his horn in the morning.

'Twas the sound of his horn, &c.

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* These were the real names of the hounds which Peel in his old age said were the very best he ever had or saw. —J. W. G.