‘Pray, Mr. Noble, show I the King; Is that the King that I see there? I seed an old chap at Bartlemy fair Look more like a king than that chap there. ‘Well, Mr. King, pray how d’ye do? I gotten for you a bit of a job, Which if you’ll be so kind as to do, I gotten a summat for you in my fob.’ The king he took the lease in hand, To sign it, too, he was likewise willing; And the old chap to make a little amends, He lugg’d out his bag, and gave him a shilling. The king, to carry on the joke, Ordered ten pounds to be paid down; The farmer he stared, but nothing spoke, And stared again, and he scratched his crown. The farmer he stared to see so much money, And to take it up he was likewise willing; But if he’d a known King had got so much money, He danged his wig if he’d gien him that shilling! JONE O’ GREENFIELD’S RAMBLE. [THE county of Lancaster has always been famed for its admirable _patois_ songs; but they are in general the productions of modern authors, and consequently, however popular they may be, are not within the scope of the present work. In the following humorous production, however, we have a composition of the last century. It is the oldest and most popular Lancashire song we have been able to procure; and, unlike most pieces of its class, it is entirely free from grossness and vulgarity.] SAYS Jone to his wife, on a hot summer’s day, ‘I’m resolved i’ Grinfilt no lunger to stay; For I’ll go to Owdham os fast os I can, So fare thee weel, Grinfilt, un fare thee weel, Nan; A soger I’ll be, un brave Owdham I’ll see, Un I’ll ha’e a battle wi’ th’ French.’ ‘Dear Jone,’ then said Nan, un hoo bitterly cried, Wilt be one o’ th’ foote, or tha meons to ride?’ ‘Odsounds! wench, I’ll ride oather ass or a mule, Ere I’ll kewer i’ Grinfilt os black as te dule, Booath clemmink {213} un starvink, un never a fardink, Ecod! it would drive ony mon mad. ‘Aye, Jone, sin’ wi’ coom i’ Grinfilt for t’ dwell, We’n had mony a bare meal, I con vara weel tell.’ ‘Bare meal! ecod! aye, that I vara weel know, There’s bin two days this wick ot we’n had nowt at o: I’m vara near sided, afore I’ll abide it, I’ll feight oather Spanish or French.’ Then says my Aunt Marget, ‘Ah! Jone, thee’rt so hot, I’d ne’er go to Owdham, boh i’ Englond I’d stop.’ ‘It matters nowt, Madge, for to Owdham I’ll go, I’ll naw clam to deeoth, boh sumbry shalt know: Furst Frenchman I find, I’ll tell him meh mind, Un if he’ll naw feight, he shall run.’ Then down th’ broo I coom, for we livent at top, I thowt I’d reach Owdharn ere ever I’d stop; Ecod! heaw they stared when I getten to th’ Mumps, Meh owd hat i’ my hond, un meh clogs full o’stumps; Boh I soon towd um, I’r gooink to Owdham, Un I’d ha’e battle wi’ th’ French.