For they had another game in hand

which was to pawn those pretty creatures;
Creatures, creatures, loving loving creatures
which was (sic.) so charming fair and pretty
The Men sneak'd away and nothing did pay
and was not, was not that a pity?

Though if out of the door they entered first
and left them tipling there behind
Those innocent maids did not mistrust
that Batchelors could be so unkind;
Quoth Susan, I know they're gone to buy
the fairings which we do require
And they will return I know for why
they do our youthful charms admire,
Therefore, therefore, stay a little longer
and I will sing a pleasant Ditty

But when they found they were catch'd in the pound
they sigh'd and weep'd, the more's the pity.

Now finding the men returned no more
and that the good people would not trust
They presently call'd to know the score

it chanc'd to be fifteen shillings just:
Poor Kate had but five pence in her purse
but Sue had a crown besides a guinney;
And since the case had happened thus

poor soul she paid it e'ry penny;
Penny, penny, e'ry, e'ry penny
tho' with a sad and doleful Ditty

Said she for this I had not a Kiss
and was not, was not that a pity?

NOTTINGHAM GOOSE FAIR.

The following ballad was written about the year 1820, by Mr. James Robertson, a favourite comedian on the Nottingham boards of the old theatre in St. Mary's Gate, under the management of Mr. Manley. His "benefit" always took place in Goose Fair week, when he sang this song. He also painted a "drop curtain" of the Market Place at Goose Fair :

Dicky Jones to Goose Fair went,
With Kate from Clifton Hill,

The Wilford Ferryman he was sent

With Grace from Bobber' Mill.

Grace's cheeks were red, her eyes were black,

And tight was ever rag;

Sam's shoes were near two inches thick,

With here and there a brag.

But I'll put up at "The Crown."

Past Peter's Church and up Peck Lane
Lyd and Simon led the van,

They halted a bit, then on again,

The steerings had began. (sic.)

The crowd was thick, but they burst through,
To the Market Place getting nearer;
Yet Hague bawls out, "I've lost my shoe,"
But nobody would hear her.

At Chapel Bar the game began,

They drank hot ale and gin; Grace's face was like the rising sun

And Sam felt warm within.

Yet Hague's tongue hopt jogging on;
Crowds of folk did thrust:

Says she, "That's buck's no waistcoat on,
He's too well known to trust."

Lions and Tigers, four and five,

Were painted outside shows;

Mr, Punch too was all alive,

Cries "show 'em in. Off she goes.

For twopence friends walk in you ought:"

They all then walked away.

Says Grace, "You've shown us so much for nought, Ecod we will not pay."

At Playhouse then they perch'd aloft,

With shouts the place did ring:

"Hats off! hats off!" they cried so soft,

Then sang "God save the King.” Young Grace kept laughing all along, Nor ceased till all was o'er,

When Jemmy sung his comic song,

They all cried out "nancore."

The playhouse o'er they went in pairs;

"Let's peaceably depart."

Tom Forth he led them down "Long Stairs,"

For Sneinton ball-room start.

Here they paid and took their places,

But awkwardly did stand;

Sammy tried to shuffle wi' Grace,

But turned out a two needle hand.

The Ferryman then backed two couple,
And reeled about with Sall,

He singled again with Sally Hornbuckle,

Then set again to Nell.

He then flew up the middle,

And hopp'd about with Kit,

His pumps just touched Greg Morley's fiddle,
And smash'd it bit from bit.

Sam stared, his hair stood quite erect,
And Grace's sun went down;

Jem Thompson says, "We must collect,"
And so said Sammy Brown,
Sixpence a piece paid ev'ry one,

Then left Greg Morley's room.

Sammy whisper'd to his cousin John,

He'd "mind better for't time to come."

"Good night," says Cis; "Good night," says Ris;
"Good night," says Harry to Doll,

"Good night," says Nan, "Good night," says John,
"Good night," says every one.

They cuddl'd, and kiss'd their faces,

And were they much to blame?

A SONG OF THE NOTTINGHAM LACE TRADE.

In the year 1825, when Heathcoat's patent expired, there was a rage for building lace frames, and for a time the workmen earned from £4 to £7 a week. When the panic came, which resulted in the ruin of many persons, the workmen thus sang of the times and circumstances they had recently passed through :

With rum and gin, and brandy, O, we made the people stare,
And horse and gig so handy, O, to take the morning air;
And then with single-breasted coats, and spanking new top boots,
And pockets lined with one pound notes, we were the merry shoots.
The bobbin and the carriage hands, they scarcely would look down,
Or bend their portly bodies, for to pick up half-a-crown;
And if it had but lasted long, think they wouldn't stoop

To
poor
beefsteaks and onions, but they'd dine on turtle soup.
The cobbler left his soles and heels, and wouldn't be so mean
As to stick to wax and tatching ends, but bought a twist machine.
The tailor left his board and goose, the miller left his grist,
Tag-rag and bob-tail all got loose, to get into the twist.

And servants left the mop and broom, and wouldn't go to place,
But set their dainty hands to purl and mend the lace.
But to tell the long and short of it, and so to end my song,
Amongst so many twisters, they twisted it too strong.

SWEET KATE OF ARNO VALE.

The following song appeared in the Old Sailor's Jolly Boat, and was initialed "S. M." (Samuel Mullens) :

:

Let courtiers sigh for beauties high,
Who flaunt in rich brocade;

No borrowed charms my bosom warms,

I love a country maid.

The bloom that glows upon her cheeks
Might make the rose look pale,

But richer charms adorn the mind
Of Kate of Arno Vale.

Her modest smiles and gentle mein,

Serenest joys impart ;

And every look and word display

Her pure and loving heart.

Her mother's eyes with rapture beam
When love and hope prevail,

Because she knows that truth adorns
Sweet Kate of Arno Vale.

The cot in which my fathers dwelt,
With rural plenty stored,
Will soon possess whate'er I wish

When Kate adorns my board.
Her gentle voice to me will sound
Like music on the gale;

And oh what bliss, her lips to kiss,

Sweet Kate of Arno Vale.

THE MAID OF ARNO'S DEAD.

BY SAMUEL MULLENS.

The rosebud droops in Arno Vale,
The lily hangs its head;

A mournful tale swells on the gale,
"The Maid of Arno's dead!"

Twelve maidens bright, in virgin white,

Her early death bewail,

As slowly to her grave they bear

The Maid of Arno Vale.

The light that trembled in her eye,
The bloom her features wore,
May wake affection's fondest sigh,
But will not charm us more.
There's silence in her mother's cot;
Alas! how changed the tale!
Her merry voice made all rejoice;
Sweet Maid of Arno Vale.

Yet she was lovely in her death,
And like a flower exhaled;
No passion wild her breast defiled,
Where hope and peace prevailed.
Light on her heart the turf shall lie,
And fragrance load the gale
Where lilies wave above her grave,
The Maid of Arno Vale.

B