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      BONNY MOOR HEN.

You brave lads of Weardale 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.

O this bonny moor hen as it plainly appears,
She belonged to their fathers some hundred 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 to teavel 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.

O the Miners of Weardale they are bred to the game,
They level their pieces and make sure of their aim,
When the shot it goes off, O the powder doth sing,
They are sure take off either 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 so well you may ken,
But to make what they could of the bonny moor hen.

There's the fat men 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.

O these words they were carried to Weardale with speed,
Which made the poor Miners to hang down their heads,
But sent them 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-bailiffs, and gamekeepers too,
They were all ordered to Weardale to fight their way through.

A captain was wanted at the head of the game,
H. Wye of great Oakland was chose for their man,
O his legs were too small and not fit for the stocks,
His scalp not being hard for to suffer the knocks.

O 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 bet many a one,
And when he comes to Weardale he'll do what he can.

O 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,
O 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. H. Wye in a bodily fear,
And back to great Oakland he wished for to steer.

Up spoke the gamekeeper cheer up never fear,
Through Stanhope and Weardale our way we will clear,
In Durham or Oakland it shall never be said,
That by a few Miners our army was paid.

So this army set off straightway as we hear,
And the Miners grand army did quickly appear,
O they fired along till their powder was done,
And then they laid on with butt ends of their guns.

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

O this battle was fought all in Stanhope town,
When the chimnies did reek and the soot it fell down,
Such a battle was never fought in Stanhope before,
And I hope such a battle will ne'er be fought more.

O this bonny moor hen she's gone over the plain,
When summer comes back she will return here again,
They will tip her so neatly that no one can tell,
That every they rifled the bonny moor hen.

O this bonny moor hen she's feathers a new,
She's many fine colours but none of them blue,
O the Miners of Weardale they are all valiant men,
They will fight till they die for their bonny moor hen.

         WOMAN.

Shall I wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair ?
Shall my cheeks look pale with care,
Because another's rosy are ?
Be she fairer than the day
On the flowery meads in May,
If she think not well of me
What care I how fair she be.

Shall a woman's goodness move
Me, to perish for her love ?
Or her worthy merits known
Make me quite forget my own ?
Be she meeker kinder than
The Turtle Dove or Pelican,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be ?

Be she kind, or meek, or fair,
I will never more despair ;
If she love me, this believe :
I will die ere she shall grieve,
If she slight me when I woo,
I will scorn and let her go.
If she be not made for me,
What care I for whom she be ?

Walker, Printer, Durham.
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