'Twas three past noon when the vicar came back,

The parson he asked to dine;

And time stole a march on the heedless guest

Six struck as he sat at his wine.

Up rose he from table, and took his leave,

Quite startled to find it late;

He called for his horse at the hostelry,
And homeward was soon agate.

As he rode up the hill, past All Saints' Church,
The moon just one glance bestowed,

And the weird-like form of the old stone cross
In the churchyard dimly showed.

Still higher and higher he climbed the hill,

Yet more and more dark it grew;

The drizzling rain became sheet as he climbed,
And the wind more keenly blew.

Ah! thick was the mist on the moor that night

Poor wight! he had lost his way!

The north-east wind blowing strong on his right,

To the left had made him stray.

And now he was close to lone Haddon Grove,

Bewildered upon the moor;

Slow leading his horse that followed behind,
Himself groping on before.

Still onward and leeward, at last he came

To the edge of Harlow Dale;

From his cave Latkil* a warning roared,

But louder then howled the gale.

On the brink of Fox Torr the doomed man stood,

And tugged the bridle in vain;

But his horse would not move; then quick started back,

And snap went each bridle rein!

Then headlong fell he o'er the lofty cliff:

He shrieked and sank in the gloom;

Down, down to the bottom he swiftly sped,
And death was his dreadful doom.

*The Latkil is a noted trout-stream, and flows out of a cavern opposite the Torr.

The dead man lay cold on the bloop-stained rocks—
The darkness did him enshroud;

And the owls high up in the ivy-clad Torr
Bewailed him all night full loud.

Oh, little they thought in the old thatched cot,

Hard by the parsonage gate,

Their master they never again should see,

Nor ope to him soon or late.

"This night is no better than last," quoth Hugh,
"And master has not come back;

I hope he is hale, and safe housed with friends,
And has of good cheer no lack."

Quoth Betty, "I liked not his morning ride;
I fear he's in evil plight;

A Friday's venture's no luck, I've heard say—
God help him if out this night."

At dawn of next day old Betty went forth

To milk the cow in the shed,

And saw him sitting upon a large stone,
All pale and mute, with bare head!

But a moment she turned her eyes away,

A fall she heard and a groan;

She looked again, but no parson was there

He'd vanished from off the stone!

Soon spread the dread tale through Monyash town

They made a great hue and cry;

And some off to this place and some to that

To seek the lost man did hie.

Bad tidings from Bakewell-no parson there-

No parson could else be found;

'Twas noon, yet no tidings-they still searched on, And missed they no likely ground.

At last the searchers went into the dale:
And there at the foot of Fox Torr
They found the parson, all cold and dead,
'Mong the rocks all stained with gore.

They took up his corse, and six stalwart men
Slowly bore it along the dale;

And they laid the dead in his house that night,
And many did him bewail.

When time had passed over-a day or twain,

They buried him in the grave;

And his bones now rest in the lone churchyard
Till doomsday them thence shall crave.

Oh, dread was the death of the luckless man,

Not soon will it be forgot;

The dismal story, for ages to come,

Will often be told, I wot.

You may not now see in Monyash town

The dead man's sear tuft of grass;

But still it is there in memory stored,
And thence it never shall pass.

You may not now find Fox Torr by that name-
The swain thus knows it no more;

But pointing thereat from Latkil grot,
He'll show you the Parson's Torr.

A ROLLICKING SONG ON REVOLUTION.

[This song, commemorating the Revolution of 1688, was a favorite ditty at Derbyshire village-feasts, in the latter years of the last century and the early years of the present. It is emphatic, if not poetical.]

Let every honest heart rejoice

Within this British station;

Give thanks to God with soul and voice,

For His blessings to this nation.

Let each true Protestant agree

To celebrate this jubilee,

The downfall of the popery

And glorious Revolution.

'Tis full one hundred years, I say,

The fifth day of November,
King William landed at Torbay—
Great cause for to remember-

And when he dare not show his face,
He England left in full disgrace;
King William then enjoyed his place

In the glorious Revolution.

No popish, nor no tyrant king,

Again shall ever rule us;

Since now the scales they are quite turned,

They never more shall fool us.

Therefore let every loyal soul,
Whose heart is free without control,
Pledge him in a flowing bowl,
That loves the Revolution.

Now, Devonshire in All Saints' lies;
Although his bones are rotten,
His glorious fame will ever rise,
And never be forgotten.

I hope his soul to Heaven is gone,

While here on earth so brightly shone,

Not only him, but every one

Who formed the Revolution.

Now to conclude and make an end

Of this most faithful story,

No honest man it can offend,

And that is all my glory.

May God protect our gracious King,

While rogues and thieves in halters swing;

And with a flowing bowl we'll sing

To the glorious Revolution.

THE TAILOR'S RAMBLE.

[The hero of this song, Eyre by name, says Mr. Pendleton in his History of Derbyshire, revealed by his valiant feat in 1797 the falsity of the adage that a tailor is only the ninth part of a man.]

Come all you gallant heroes, of courage stout and bold,
And I'll tell you of a Taylor that would not be control'd;
It happened in Derbyshire, as you may understand,
Five troops of the cavelry to take this noble man.