A Selection of Original Songs, Scraps, Etc., by Ned Farmer (3rd ed.)/The Legend of Nettleford
The Legend of Nettleford.
A ghost story.
Being a full, true, and faithful account of a dread and fearful apparition, which for a length of time served to horrify and "flight from its propriety," that otherwise very quiet and peaceful village; together with a correct and detailed narrative of the startling and truly appalling consequences which grew out of, and were attendant upon, the wild and reckless daring of one Anthony Crump, of that ilk, the which ill-advised temerity, and ungovernable spirit of adventure, he (the said Anthony) still lives bitterly to deplore.
The village of Nettleford long hath been know
As haying a fine Norman church of its own,
And a castle in ruins, though some folks declare
That the ruins are terribly out of repair;
Be that as it may,
There is one thing to say,
You don't see such ruins, mind, every day.
'Bout a mile from the castle, near Cossington Wood,
Is the site where an old Roman monastery stood;
And, cover'd all over with blackthorns and briars,
Is the place where they buried the monks and the friars;
And there is not a doubt
(From what I can make out
While they lived, they lived well, and got awfully stout.
If you turn to the right, and keep on half a mile,
Down the Bleeding Oak Lane, you will come to a stile,
Which, when you've got over (right easy to do),
A black and white half-timber*d house meets your view:
That is Clapperton Grange,
And 'twas there that a strange
And terrible spectre at night used to range.
Yes, here did a ghost walk, and always at night;
And always by moonlight, and always in white;
Besides, it walked lame, the which proved beyond doubt
'Twas the ghost of some person who died of the gout,
On which murmurers said,
With a shake of the head,
"Blair's gout pills were fine, but they'd not cure the dead."
The oldest inhabitant, nicknamed "Deaf Daniel,"
Remembered a man with his legs wrapped in flannel,
Who once lived at the Grange; and could further remember
That he died very rich, and he died in December.
It was he, that was plain,
And he'd come back again,
To look after some gold that he hid in a drain.
The Grange now stood empty, and had done for years;
Some deterr'd by high rental, and some by their fears;
Its last tenant. Job Spinks, long ago, it was said.
Saw the ghost, when at once in wild terror he fled;
And so anxious was he
From the ghost to get free.
That he ne'er paid his rent—but that's nothing to me.
The matter at length grew decidedly serious,
It frightened Mark Mobbs till he went quite delirious,
Though some people say, and a many folks think.
That it was not so much the alarm as the drink!
But the bravest and best
Who by daylight would jest,
After dark were as timid and alarmed as the rest.
And so it became quite the country's talk,
For no end of people had seen the ghost walk;
There were Rogers and Martin, Bill Gibbs and George Gore,
Besides Philip Parslow, who'd seen it before!
So the villagers met
To see how they might get
Out of what hurt them worse than the National Debt.
Now whoever knows Nettleford knows the "Three Crowns,"
Nearly opposite Frampton's, and next door to Brown's;
And just round the comer, three doors from the pump,
Lives the pride of old Nettleford, Anthony Crump;
In stature but small,
But that's nothing at all,
For the greatest hearts often to little folks fall.
The meeting was crowded, and Anthony there;
Bob Belthard, the blacksmith, was called to the chair,
Who took it, and stated for why they'd assembled.
At which more than one in the company trembled;
Says Belthard, says he,
"If I might make so free,
I consider all ghosts as mere fiddle-de-dee."
"What are taken," says Belthard, "for spirits and ghosts,
For the most part turn out either donkeys or posts,
Or some fool with a sheet on; this Grange ghost you'll see
Is all "bosh," as I'll prove, if you'll leave it to me."
But the villagers said,
As they listen'd with dread,
They didn't think Belthard was right in his head.
Still Belthard continued, "Is any one here
Whose heart, like my own, is a stranger to fear!
Let him hold his right hand up." Cried Crump, "Look at me!
And the man you inquire for at once you shall see."
"Hurrah!" cried the smith,
"He's a real bit of pith,
And precisely the man I should like to go with."
The meeting was frantic with joy as they gazed
On these two noble spirits, but most were amazed
At the courage evinced by brave Anthony Crump,
Who lived round the comer, three doors from the pump;
He, majestic and stern,
Said to Belthard, "I burn
With desire to watch singly; come, give me first turn."
"You're on!" said the blacksmith ; "this evening, alone,
To the ghost and the village your pluck shall be shown."
"I don't know about that," said brave Crump; "how's the moon?
Don't you fancy to-night would be rather too soon?"
But the meeting cried, "No!
It's the right time to go,
And you're certain to see him." Crump merely said "Oh!"
The party broke up, and the village was glad,
And said what a nice pleasant meeting they'd had;
That Crump was a "brick," and they always had known it;
And as to "white feather," he never had shown it.
While this clamour went on,
Where is Anthony gone?
Towards home to think over the blacksmith's "You're on!"
How many a man, in the heat of debate,
Has uttered some words he repented too late;
So Anthony now, when his spirit got cool,
Had a kind of a notion he'd acted the fool.
He felt sorely dismay'd
At the promise he'd made,
And, if truth must be spoken, was rather afraid.
The wild excitement of the hour
Was losing fast its hold and power;
And Crump now thought
That village honours, local fame,
And even Valour's courted name,
Were dearly bought
By reckless deeds and bold exploits,
(As meeting ghosts on moonlight nights),
And he could see
That lots of people could be found,
Who dwelt within the church bells' sound,
More fit than he
For such encounters; and 'twas plain
The meeting should be call'd again,
To reconsider
His proposition: "For," said he,
"My children fatherless may be—
My wife a 'widder.'"
Thus did his martial soul recoil;
But only, mark ye, for a while;
For Courage now
Came to the rescue, and exclaimed,
"Shall Crump of Nettleford be shamed,
Or break his vow?"
"Rather than that," brave Crump replies,
"Come all the ghosts before my eyes
That ever haunted
This wicked world since it was made;
I say again. Let all parade,
I'll not be daunted."
To the wife of his bosom, he next wends his way,
With a kind of misgiving as to what she might say,
For Matilda, his uxor, as often we find,
Had a way, as she called it, of "speaking her mind!"
When she saw with affright,
That her husband looked white,
She said, "Anthony Crump, you have been and got 'tight,'"
"Matilda," he said, in a dolorous tone,
"I am going to the Grange, love, and going alone,
To dispose of the question, and that on the spot,
Whether what haunts the Grange is a real ghost or not"
His wife, with asperity, answered him thus,
"I don't see at all that it matters to us
If the ghost that you speak of is false or is true,
Though it's haunting the Grange, man, it doesn't haunt you."
"What you say, my Matilda, no doubt is a fact,
But I've given my word, and I cannot retract.
Should I fall, as I may do—for Fate has no rule—
Send Ann to her aunt's, and let Bob go to school.
Now, leave me my darling," he said, with a smile,
I wish to think o'er my affairs for awhile;
Oh, Matilda, remember, I've not made my will,
But it doesn't much matter, as my property's nil."
Wives are obedient creatures ever,
Contradicting husbands never,
So his rib went off", as she was told,
Saying, "Ah! you'll catch a pretty cold."
Crump, to his thoughts thus left alone,
(What those thoughts were shall ne'er be known),
Did what I think you'll all admire,
Lighted his pipe, and raked the fire;
Ensconced him in his old arm chair,
Drew his lean fingers through his hair,
Took at the glowing bars a stare,
And hoped the ghost would not be there.
He muses, sleeps, and dreams that he
Nine mortal ghosts at once can see,
Some tall, some short, some stout, some slim,
And all with sticks, approaching him;
They strike, and loud doth bold Crump scream,
And wakes to find it was a dream;
His wife calls out, "Why, Crump, 's that you?
Come up to bed, you stupid, do!"
But part, from out the old church tower,
The clock tells forth the midnight hour:
'Tis twelve o'clock,
Which hearing, Anthony did start,
And 'gainst his ribs his noble heart
Did bump and knock:
As to the door his neighbours came,
Calling the valiant Crump by name;
"'Tis time for starting!"
List to that wild exulting shout!
The noble Anthony turns out;
And now they're parting.
Said Anthony, "My valued friends,
Howe'er this night's adventure ends,
Which perhaps may sever
Myself and you for evermore,
You will not follow, I implore;"
They all said, "Never!"
To each of this devoted band
He bids farewell, and gives his hand,
Then wends his way;
And as his form fades from their sight,
Towards the Grange, they shout "Good-night!"
And then, "Hooray!"
Not Quixote, when knighted, or Sancho, his squire,
E'er felt for adventure their hearts beating higher
Than did Anthony now, save 'alack! and alack!
A burning desire to turn round and go back.
And a man must be bold
Who turns out in the cold,
To look out for a ghost which he's bound to behold.
One Curtius, a Roman, at least so 'tis said,
Jumped down a vast chasm, which closed o'er his head;
But the leap that he took down that yawning abyss,
(As a daring exploit), was as nothing to this.
For no one would dare,
I should think, to compare
The Roman's rash jump
To the daring of Crump;
Besides people say,
And maintain to this day,
"'Twas no credit to Curtius; for his horse ran away."
A man's not expected to go his best pace
When he has to meet danger, and that face to face;
And the ghost Crump might meet would, for all he knew, take him,
And double him up, and another ghost make him;
So he walked rather slow;
Mind you, fair heel and toe,
And quite ready, if called on, to "right about" go.
Thus with care he approaches the Grange, when he hears,
Or fancies he does (for 'tis strange how men's fears
Lend an echo to nothing), a strange sort of noise,
Which rather made Anthony open his eyes;
And distinct on his ear
Sounds of footsteps draw near,
And bold Anthony listens, and trembles with fear.
The object approaches, whatever it be;
Crump shivers and shakes, and goes weak in the knee;
The dread sounds get plainer, the footsteps come on;
Crump's bolted—the Hero of Nettleford's gone!
We've heard about ghosts, and we've read about others,
From "Hamlet's papa," to the "Corsican Brothers;"
But among all the party, I firmly suspect,
Not one e'er produced such a startling effect.
Poor Anthony runs till he's clean out of breath;
'Tis useless disguising, he's frighten'd to death!
And the villagers all, in a body, turn out,
Having heard in the distance Crump's maniac shout.
Crump was speechless with fear,
As his neighbours drew near;
Which beholding, they fled, leaving Crump in the rear.
The village affrighted, uprose as one man,
Got the fire engine out, a most praiseworthy plan;
And rung the bells backwards, which I don't admire,
As it led to the notion the church was on fire.
In the midst of the row
Came up Belthard, I vow,
Saying, "I've seen the ghost—it's Job Pilkington's Cow!
And so it turned out ; the old cow's back was sore
From a hurt she received at Bob Repton's barn door,
And the Cow Leech had plastered the place up quite neat
With some wool, and some pitch, and a piece of old sheet;
And she, beyond doubt,
It was, wandering about.
Who believers in ghosts had thus put to the rout.
But where is bold Anthony Crump all this while?
He lies knock'd out of time against Calloway's stile;
They shake him, and pinch him, but Crump never stirr'd,
Till the blacksmith said, "Crump, it was me that you heard';"
Then he opened his eyes
With a look of surprise.
Saying, "Honour, now, Belthard; you're not telling fibs?"
"Far from it, my friend," replied Belthard; "I went
Just to see if you really had said what you meant.
And was coming to say so, when, 'Murder!' you cried,
And went off like a racehorse; that can't be denied,"
Neighbour kindness displa'd;
Crump to bed was convey'd.
But I shall not repeat the remarks his wife made.
The joy of the natives was past all belief;
The tidings they heard gave them perfect relief;
The ghost was a cow! and, Oh! glorious reality!
No phamtom infested that charming locality.
But they'll never have done.
Who in earnest, or fun
Still chaff Crump with "There's footsteps; now, Anthony, run!"
Moral.
Dear Reader, if ever you hear of a ghost,
(And nursemaids and imbeciles talk 'bout them most),
Nip such stories at once in the bud, for you'll find
They lay terrible hold on the juvenile mind;
Nor, when they get older, can Reason quite clear
The brain of the poison thus planted by Fear;
And 'tis strange with what fondness the memory clings
To the morbid enjoyment of unexplained things.
Then, if true, as folks talk,
That a ghost can but walk,
One has only to run,
Their intention to balk;
While there's not upon record,
(For all they assert),
The name of one person
A ghost ever hurt!