Lyr Add: The Bonny Moor Hen

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: The Bonny Moor Hen
From: GUEST
Date: 01 Apr 00 - 04:07 PM

X:1
T:The Bonny Moorhen or Muirhen
Q:1/4=120
L:1/8
M:6/8
K:Em
E|D A AB2A|G E E E3|G A G (BA) B|G D DD2D|G F G A G A|\
A B d .e2d|(BA) B D B A| G E EE2||\
(B/d/)|e d e {g}f2e|d B B B2d|d e d f e (f/e/)|d A AA2A|\
B A B B A G|A B de2d|(BA) B d B A|G E EE2|]

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: The Bonny Moor Hen
From: GUEST,Bruce O.
Date: 01 Apr 00 - 02:50 PM

Neither the song above nor "The Bonny Moorhen" in James Hogg's 'Jacobite Relics', I, #77, 1819 is the original erotic song of "The Bonny Moorhen", although both borrow a little from it. There's a traditional Irish version of it in Hugh Shields' 'Shamrock, Rose and Thistle'. Perhaps Murray on Saltspring could favour us with a better copy of the Scots original, which is probably of about 1765.

Subject: The Bonny Moor Hen
From: Conrad Bladey (Peasant- Inactive)
Date: 01 Apr 00 - 10:03 AM

The  Bonny Moor Hen
 

You brave lads of Wearedale, I pray lend an ear,
The account of a battle you quickly shall hear,
That was fought by the miners so well you may ken,
By claiming a right to their bonny moor hen.

Oh this bonny moor hen, as it plainly appears,
She belonged to their fathers some hundreds of years;
But the miners of Weardale are all valiant men,
They will fight till they die for their bonny moor hen.

These industrious miners that walk in their clogs,
They suit them to travel o'er mountains and bogs;
When the bonny moor hen she mounts up in the air,
They will bring her down neatly, I vow and declare.

Oh the miners in Weardale, they are bred to the game,
They level their pieces and make sure of their aim;
When the shot it goes off--Oh, the powder doth sing,
They are sure to take off, either a leg or a wing.

Now, the times being hard and provisions being dear,
The miners were starving almost we do hear;
They had nought to depend on, se well you may ken,
But to make what they could of the bonny moor hen.

There's the fat man of Oakland and Durham the same,
Lay claim to the moors, likewise to the game;
They sent word to the miners they'd have them to ken
They would stop them from shooting the bonny moor hen.

Of these words they were carried to Weardale with speed,
Which made the poor miners to hang down their heads;
But sent then an answer, they would have them to ken,
They would fight till they died for their bonny moor hen.

When this answer it came to the gentlemen's ears,
An army was risen, it quickly appears;
Land-stewards, bum- bailifs, and game-keepers too.
Were all ordered to Weardale to fight their way through.

A captain was wanted at the head of the clan;
H. Wye, of great Oakland was cahosen fortheir man;
Oh, his legs were too small, and not fit for the stocks,
His scalp not being hard for to suffer the knocks.

Oh, this captain he had  a black bitch of his own,
That was taught by the master 'twas very well known;
By the help of his bitch he'd met many a one,
And when he comes to Weardale he'll do what he can.

Oh, this captain says. I am but a stranger here,
My bitch and myself is a match for a deer;
Either beggars or tinkers, she will pull off their bags,
And if that will not do she will rive them to rags.

So this army set out from high Oakland we hear,
H. Wye in the front and black bitch in the rear;
On they marched to Wolsingham, then made a halt,
And concerning the battle began to consult.

They heard that the miners grand army was strong.
The captain that led them was full six feet long;
That put Mr. Wye in a bodily fear,
And back to great Oakland he wish'd for to steer.

Up spoke the game-keepers: Cheer up never fear,
Through Stanhope and Weardale our wayy we will clear;
In Durham or Oakland it shall never be said,
That by a few miners our army was paid.

So the army set off straightway, as we hear,
And the miners'  grand army did quickly appear;
Oh, they fired along till their powdere was done,
And then they laid on with the but-ends of their guns.

They dismounted the riders straightway on the plain,
H. Wye and black bitch in the battle were slain;
Oh they that ran fastest got first out of town,
And away they went home with their tails hanging down.

Oh this battle was fought all in Stanhope town,
When the chimneys did reek and the soot it fell down;
Such a battle was ne'er fought in Stanhope before,
And I hope such a battle will ne'er be fought more.

Oh this bonny moor hen, she's gone oe'r the plain,
When summer comes back she'll return here again;
They will tip her so neatly, that no on'll ken
That ever they rivall'd the bonny moor hen.

Oh this bonny moor hen, she has feathers anew,
She has  many fine colours, but none of them blue;
Oh the miners of Weardale, they are all valiant men,
They will fight till they die forthe bonny moor hen.

-Old Inns and Taverns of Durham, Frank Graham, 1966
This story is about an incident started in 1797 when
the Bishop of Durham issued a notice against poachers on
his moors.  The Men of Weardale considered hunting on
the moor their ancient right.  In 1818 a group of the Bishop's
men came to arrest  the most well known poachers.  Two poachers
were arrested. They were taken to the Black Bull inn.
When the local people heard of this a large croud formed and
a battle occured.  The Bishop's men were defeated.  The
ballad is thought to have been written by a local schoolmaster..