# Traditional Tales of the English and Scottish Peasantry/The Seven Foresters of Chatsworth

THE
SEVEN FORESTERS OF CHATSWORTH.
AN ANCIENT DERBYSHIRE BALLAD.
In presenting this somewhat rude but curious ballad to the reader, it may be proper to observe that those who profess to be charmed with truth only, and would wish one to swear to the certainty of a song, will learn with pleasure, perhaps, that tradition has recited, or sung, I know not which, this singular legend, for centuries, in the beautiful vale of Derwent, in Derbyshire. It is a tale current in the county. The projecting rock in Chatsworth wood, still bearing the name of the Shouter's Stone, is pointed out by the peasantry as the place on which this famous and successful outlaw stood and shouted. It overhangs a wild and winding footpath in the preserve, and in former times, before the wood became so luxuriant, commanded a fine view of the valley, in the midst of which stands Chatsworth House, the favourite mansion of the ancient and noble family of Cavendish. In the house itself, this tale has sought sanctuary. There is a painting from no less a hand than that of Prince Nicolas, in which a portion of the tradition is sought to be embodied; but the illustrious artist has, with poetical license, put a gilded horn in the outlaw's hand; and with a departure from the story, which all lovers of oral literature will deplore, has given to the cavern below a couple of outlaws, who rouse and bestir themselves to the sound of their leader's horn. The ancient oaks of Chatsworth are to be found everywhere in the valley; and, perhaps, no oaks in England, except those in Sherwood Forest, can claim to be their coevals—they are upwards of a thousand years old.
Chatsworth has many other attractions. The flower garden of the beautiful and unfortunate Queen of Scotland, a plat of earth elevated on a squat tower, and guarded with a fosse, stands on the banks of the Derwent, within a stone's-throw of the house. All around, the hills ascend and recede ​in woody or naked magnificence; and indeed the grandeur of Nature is such, that the beautiful mansion is diminished in the contemplation.
An attempt was made to abate the occasional provincialism of the ballad, but the experiment threatened to ravel the entire web, and it was not persisted in.
BALLAD.
The sun had risen above the mist, The boughs in dew were dreeping; Seven foresters sat on Chatsworth bank, And sung while roes were leaping.
"Alas!" sung one, "for Chatsworth oaks, Their heads are bald and hoary, They droop in fulness of honour and fame, They have had their time of glory.
"No stately tree in old merry England Can match their antique grandeur; Tradition can tell of no time when they Towered not in pride and splendour.
"How fair they stand amid their green land, The sock or share ne'er pained them; Not a bough or leaf have been shred from their strength, Nor the woodman's axe profaned them."
"Green," sung another, "were they that hour When Scotland's loveliest woman, And saddest queen in the sweet twilight, Aneath their boughs was roamin'.
"And ever the Derwent lilies her tears In their silver tops were catching, As she looked to the cold and faithless north, Till her eyes waxed dim with watching."
"Be mute now," the third forester said, "The dame who fledged mine arrow With the cygnet's wing, has a whiter hand Than the fairest maid on Yarrow."
Loud laughed the forester fourth, and sung, "Say not thy maid's the fair one; On the banks of Dove there dwells my love, A beauteous and a rare one."
"Now cease your singing," the fifth one said, "And choose of shafts the longest, And seek the bucks on Chatsworth chase, Where the lady-bracken's strongest.
"Let every bow be strung, and smite The fattest and the fairest; Lord Devonshire will taste our cheer, Of England's lords the rarest."
​ "String them with speed," the sixth man said, "For low down in the forest There runs a deer I long to smite, With bitter shafts the sorest.
"The bucks bound blythe on Chatsworth lea, Where brackens grow the greenest; The pheasant's safe 'neath Chatsworth oaks, When the tempest sweeps the keenest.
"The fawn is fain as it sucks its dam, The bird is blythe when hatching; Saint George! such game was never seen, With seven such fellows watching.
"In the wild wood of fair Dove dwells An outlaw, young and handsome; A sight of him on Chatsworth bank Were worth a prince's ransom.
"He slew the deer on Hardwick Hill, And left the keeper sleeping The sleep of death; late—late yestreen I heard his widow weeping.
"Now bend your bows, and choose your shafts"— His string at his touch went sighing; "The outlaw comes—now, now at his breast Let seven broad shafts be flying."
The outlaw came—with a song he came— Green was his gallant cleeding; A horn at his belt, in his hand the bow That set the roebucks bleeding.
The outlaw came—with a song he came— O'er a brow more brent and bonny The pheasant plume ne'er danced and shone, In a summer morning sunny.
The outlaw came—at his belt a blade, Broad, short and sharp, was gleamin'; Free was his step, as one who had ruled Among knights and lovely women.
See, by his shadow in the stream He loves to look and linger, And wave his mantle richly flowered By a white and witching finger.
"Now, shall I hit him where yon gay plume Of the Chatsworth pheasant's glancing; Or shall I smite his shapely limbs That charm our maidens dancing?"
"Hold! hold!" a northern forester said, "'Twill be told from Trent to Yarrow, How the true-love song of a gentle outlaw Was stayed by a churl's arrow."
​"It shall never be said," quoth the forester then, "That the song of a red deer reaver Could charm the bow that my grandsire bent On the banks of Guadalquiver."
And a shaft he laid, as he spoke, to the string, When the outlaw's song came falling As sweet on his ear, as the wind when it comes Through the fragrant woodlands calling.
There each man stood, with his good bow bent, And his shaft plucked from the quiver: While thus then sung that gallant outlaw, Till rung both rock and river:
"Oh! bonny Chatsworth, and fair Chatsworth, Thy bucks go merrily bounding; Aneath your green oaks, as the herds flew past, How oft have my shafts been sounding!
"It is sweet to meet with the one we love, When the night is nigh the hoarest; It is sweet to bend the bow as she bids, On the proud prey of the forest.
"One fair dame loves the cittern's sound, When the words of love are winging; But my fair one's music's the outlaw's horn, And his bow-string sharply singing.
"She waves her hand—her little white hand, 'Tis a spell to each who sees her; One glance of her eye—and I snatch my bow, And let fly my shafts to please her.
"I bring the lark from the morning cloud, When its song is at the sweetest; I stay the deer upon Chatsworth lea, When its flight is at the fleetest.
"There's magic in the wave of her hand, And her dark eye rains those glances, Which fill the best and the wisest hearts With love's sweet influences.
"Her locks are brown—blight berry brown, O'er her temples white descending; And her neck is like the neck of the swan, As her way through heaven she's wending.
"How I have won my way to her heart Is past all men's discernin'; For she is lofty, and I am low, My lovely Julia Vernon."
He turned him right and round about, With a step both long and lordly; When he was aware of those foresters bold, And he bore him wondrous proudly.
​"Good morrow, good fellows!" all fearless he said, "Was your supper spread so sparely; Or is to feast some sweet young dame, That you bend your bows so early?
"The world is wide, and the world is broad, There's fish in the smallest river; Deer leap on the hill—fowls fly in the air— Was, is, and will be ever.
"And now I feast on the ptarmigan, And then I taste the pheasant; And my supper is of the Chatsworth fawn, Which my love dresses pleasant.
"But to-morrow I feast on yon bonny roebuck; 'Tis time I stayed his bounding." He twanged his string—like the swallow it sung, All shrilly and sharply sounding.
"By my grandsire's bow," said a forester then, "By my shafts which fly so yarely, And by all the skill of my strong right hand, Good outlaw, thou lords it rarely.
"Seest thou yon tree, yon lonely tree, Whose bough the Derwent's laving? Upon its top, thou gallant outlaw, Thou'lt be hung to feed the raven.
"So short as the time this sharp shaft flies, And strikes yon golden pheasant— There—thy time is meted, so bid farewell To these greenwoods wild and pleasant."
The outlaw laughed. "Good fellow," he said, "My sword's too sure a servant To suffer that tree to bear such fruit, While it stands on the Derwent.
"She would scorn my might, my own true love, And the mother would weep that bore me If I stayed my step for such strength as thine, Or seven such churls before me.
"I have made my way with this little brown sword Where the war-steeds rushed the throngest; I have saved my breast with this little brown sword, When the strife was at the strongest.
"It guarded me well in bonny Scotland, When the Scotts and Graemes fought fervent And the steel that saved me by gentle Nith, May do the same by Derwent."
"Fair fall thee, outlaw, for that word! Oh, Nith! thou gentle river, When a bairn, I flew along thy banks As an arrow from the quiver.
​"The roebucks run upon thy braes Without a watch or warden; And the tongue that calls thee a gentle stream Is dear to Geordie Gordon."
The outlaw smiled. "'Tis a soldier's saye That the Gordons, blythe and ready, Ne'er stooped the plumes of their basnets bright Save to a lovesome lady."
"Now by Saint Allan," the forester said, "And the saint who slew the dragon; And by this hand that wields the brand, As wight as it tooms the flagon;
"It shall never be told of the Gordons' name, Of a name so high and lordly, That I took a gallant outlaw in the toil, And hanged him base and cowardly.
"I'll give thee the law of Lord Nithisdale, A good lord of the border; So take thy bow, thou gallant outlaw, And set thy shafts in order.
"And we will go each one to his stance, With bows and arrows ready; And thou shalt climb up Chatsworth bank, Where the wood is wild and shady.
"And thou shalt stand on yon rough red rock, With woodbine hung and bracken; And shout three times o'er Derwent Vale, Till all the echoes waken.
"Then loose thy shafts, and slay a buck Fit for a monarch's larders; And carry him free from Chatsworth Park, In spite of seven warders.
"Do this and live, and I do vow By the white hand of my mother, I'll smite him low who runs ere thou shout, Were he Saint Andrew's brother."
The outlaw smiled. "Good Gordon," he said, "I'll shout both high and gaily; And smite a buck, and carry him off: 'Tis the work I'm bowne to daily."
The outlaw stood upon Chatsworth rock, Like light his looks did gladden; The sun was shining on Bakewell Edge, And on the heights of Haddon.
The outlaw stood upon Chatsworth rock. He looked to vale and mountain, And gave a shout so shrill, the swans Sprung up from stream and fountain.
​The outlaw stood upon Chatsworth rock. And shouted shrill and gaily; Till the dun deer leaped from brake and bower, Two miles down Derwent Valley
The outlaw stood upon Chatsworth rock, Looking o'er the vale so narrow; And his voice flew fleet as away from the string Starts off the thirsty arrow.
And loudly it rung in Haddon Wood, Where the deer in pairs were dernan: And loudly it rung in Haddon Hall, And up rose Julia Vernon.
"If ever I heard my true love's voice, 'Tis now through my bowers ringing; His voice is sweet as the wild bird's note, When the buds bloom to its singing.
"For well I know my true love's voice, It sounds so gay and clearly: An angel's voice in a maiden's ear Would ne'er drop down so dearly."
She took her green robe in a hand White as the opening lily, And the morning sun and the lovely maid Looked down on Chatsworth Valley.
Around the brow of the high green hill The sun's fair beams were twining, And bend and fall of the Derwent stream In golden light were shining.
The silver smoke from Chatsworth tower, Like a pennon broad went streaming, And gushed against the morning sky, And all the vale was gleaming.
She gave one look on the broad green land, And back her tresses sheddin', With her snowy neck, and her bonnie blue eyes, Came down from the hill of Haddon.
She saw the wild dove start from its bower, And heard the green boughs crashing; And saw the wild deer leap from its lair, And heard the deep stream dashing.
And then she saw her own true Jove Bound past by bush and hollow; And after him seven armed men With many a shout and hollo.
​"Oh! had I but thy bow, my love, And seven good arrows by me, I'd make the fiercest of thy foes Bleed ere they could come nigh thee.
"Oh! had I but thy sword, my love, Thy sword so brown and ready, I'd meet thy foes on Chatsworth bank, Among the woodlands shady."
On high she held her white white hands In wild and deep devotion, And locks and lips, and lith and limb, Were shivering with emotion.
"Nay, stay the chase," said a forester then, "For when the lion's roaring The hound may hide. May the raven catch The eagle in his soaring?
"Farewell, my bow, that could send a shaft, As the levin leaves the thunder! A lady looks down from Haddon height Has snapt thy strength asunder.
"A lady looks down from Haddon height, O'er all men's hearts she's lordin'; Who harms a hair of her true love's head Makes a foe of Geordie Gordon."
The bank was steep—down the outlaw sprung, The greenwood wide resounded; The wall was high—like a hunted hart O'er it he fleetly bounded.
And when he saw his love he sunk His dark glance in obeisance: "Comes my love forth to charm the morn, And bless it with her presence?
"How sweet is Haddon Hill to me, Where silver streams are twining! My love excels the morning star, And shines while the sun is shining.
"She and the sun, and all that's sweet, Smile when the grass is hoarest; And here at her white feet I lay The proud buck of the forest.
"Now, farewell, Chatsworth's woodlands green, Where fallow-deer are dernan; For dearer than the world to me
* ↑ Cleeding, a word still used in the north of England; clothing, apparel. South of Germany, kleidung; Icelandic, klaede; Teutonic, kleed.
* ↑ Dernan, concealing. "Abusing and harming his Majesty's good subjects by their darned (concealed) stouths."—Arts of James I. of England. Anglo-Saxon, dearn-an.
* ↑ Lith, joint. Anglo-Saxon, lith.