I kept eendway thro’ th’ lone, un to Owdham I went, I ask’d a recruit if te’d made up their keawnt? ‘No, no, honest lad’ (for he tawked like a king), ‘Go wi’ meh thro’ the street, un thee I will bring Where, if theaw’rt willink, theaw may ha’e a shillink.’ Ecod! I thowt this wur rare news. He browt me to th’ pleck where te measurn their height, Un if they bin height, there’s nowt said about weight; I retched me, un stretched me, un never did flinch, Says th’ mon, ‘I believe theaw ’rt meh lad to an inch.’ I thowt this’ll do, I’st ha’e guineas enow, Ecod! Owdham, brave Owdham for me. So fare thee weel, Grinfilt, a soger I’m made, I’n getten new shoon, un a rare cockade; I’ll feight for Owd Englond os hard os I con, Oather French, Dutch, or Spanish, to me it’s o one, I’ll make ’em to stare like a new-started hare, Un I’ll tell ’em fro’ Owdham I coom. THORNEHAGH-MOOR WOODS. A CELEBRATED NOTTINGHAMSHIRE POACHER’S SONG. [NOTTINGHAMSHIRE was, in the olden day, famous in song for the achievements of Robin Hood and his merry men. In our times the reckless daring of the heroes of the ‘greenwood tree’ has descended to the poachers of the county, who have also found poets to proclaim and exult over _their_ lawless exploits; and in _Thornehagh-Moor Woods_ we have a specimen of one of these rude, but mischievous and exciting lyrics. The air is beautiful, and of a lively character; and will be found in _Popular Music_. There is it prevalent idea that the song is not the production of an ordinary ballad-writer, but was written about the middle of the last century by a gentleman of rank and education, who, detesting the English game-laws, adopted a too successful mode of inspiring the peasantry with a love of poaching. The song finds locality in the village of Thornehagh, in the hundred of Newark. The common, or Moor-fields, was inclosed about 1797, and is now no longer called by the ancient designation. It contains eight hundred acres. The manor of Thornehagh is the property of the ancient family of Nevile, who have a residence on the estate.] IN Thornehagh-Moor woods, in Nottinghamshire, Fol de rol, la re, right fol laddie, dee; In Robin Hood’s bold Nottinghamshire, Fol de rol, la re da; Three keepers’ houses stood three-square, And about a mile from each other they were;— Their orders were to look after the deer. Fol de rol, la re da. I went out with my dogs one night,— The moon shone clear, and the stars gave light; Over hedges and ditches, and steyls With my two dogs close at my heels, To catch a fine buck in Thornehagh-Moor fields. Oh! that night we had bad luck, One of my very best dogs was stuck; He came to me both breeding and lame,— Right sorry was I to see the same,— He was not able to follow the game.