THE DRUNKEN BUTCHER OF TIDESWELL.
    BY WILLIAM BENNETT, ESQ.
Author of “The King of the Peak,” etc., etc., etc.

The Ballad I now have the pleasure of presenting to the readers
of the “RELIQUARY” (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 round, 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, lift to me, ye yeomen all,
Who live in dale or down!
My song is of a butcher tall,
Who lived in Tiddleswall town.
In bluff King Harry's merry days,
He slew both sheep and kine;
And drank hi fill of nut brown ale,
In lack of good red wine.

Beside teh 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 distrurbed his rest,
When off to bed he slunk;
And oft he snored for ten good hours,
Because he got so drunk.

One only sorry 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,
Both Robing crossed oe'r Tiddleswall 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,
And Paislow Moss were past.

Then slowly down the hill he came,
To the Chappelle en le firth;
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.

"Now draw they rein, thou jolly Butcher;
How far hast thou to ride?"
"To Waylee-Bridge, to Simon the Tanner,
To sell this good cow-hide."
"Thou shalt not go one foot ayont,
'Till thou light and sup with me;
And when thou'st emptied my measure of liquor,
I'll have a measure wi' thee."

"Oh no, oh no, thou drouthy Smith!
I cannot tarry to-day:
The Wife, she gave me a charge to keep;
And I durst not say her nay."
"What likes o' that, said the Parson then,
If thou'st sworn, thou'st ne'er to rue:
Thou may'st keep they pledge, and drink thy stoup,
As an honest man e'en may do."

"Oh no, oh no, thou jolly Parson!
I cannot tarry, I say;
I was drunk last night, and if I tarry,
I'se be drunk again to-day."
"What likes, what likes, cried the Pardoner then,
Why tellest thou that to me?
Thou may'st e'en get thee drunk this blessed night;
And well shrived for both thou shalt be."

Then down got the Butcher from his horse,
I wot full fain was he;
And he drank 'till the summer sun was set,
In that jolly company:
He drank 'till the summer sun wen down,
And the stars began to shine;
And his greasy noddle, was dazed and addle,
With the nut brown ale and wine.

Then up arose those four mad fellow;
And joing hand in hand,
They danced around the hostel floor,
And sung, tho' they scarcel could stand,
"We've aye been drunk on yester night;
And drunk the night before;
And sae we're drunk again to-night,
If we never get drunk any more."

Bold Robing the Butcher was horsed and away;
And a drunken wight was he;
For sometimes his blood-red eyes saw double;
And then he could sca'tly see.
The forest trees, to his wildered sense,
Resang the jovial song.

Then up he sped over Paislow Moss,
And down by the Chamber Knowle:
And there he was scared into mortal fear
By the hooting of a barn owl:
And on he rode, by the Forest Wall,
Where the deer browsed silently;
And up the Slack, 'till, on Tiddeswall Moor,
His horse stood fair and free.

Just then the moon, from behind the rack,
Burst out into open view;
And on the sward and purple heath
Broad light and shadow threw;
And there the Butcher, whose heart beat quick,
With fear of Gramarye,
Fast by his side, as he did ride,
A foul phantom did espy.

Uprose the fell of his head, uprose
The hood which his head did shroud;
And ll his teeth did chatter and girn,
And he cried both long and loud;
And his horse's flank, with his spur he struck,
As he never had struck before;
And away he galloped, with might and main,
Across the barren moor.

But ever as fast as the Butcher rode,
The Ghost did grimly glide:
Now down on the earth before his horse,
Then fast his rein beside:
O'er stock and rock, and stone and pit,
O'er hill and dale and down,
'Till Robin the Butcher gain his door-stone,
In Tiddeswall's good old town.

"Oh, what thee ails, thou drunken Butcher?"
Said his Wife, as he sank down;
"And what thee ails, thou drunken Butcher?"
Cried one-half of the Town.
"I have seen a Ghost, it hath raced my horse,
For three good miles and more;
And it vanished withing the Churchyard wall,
As I sank down at the door."

"Beshrew thy heart, for a drunken beast!"
Cried his Wise, as she held him there;
"Beshrew thy hear, for a drunken beast,
And a coward, with heart of hare.
No Ghost hath raced thy horse to-night;
Nor evened his wit with thine:
The Ghost was thy shadow, thou drunken wretch!
I would the Ghost were mine."