NATURAL HISTORY OF SUNN1NGH1LL. 



151 



Walk round about an oak with great ragged horns; 



And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle, 



And makes mileh kine yield blood; and shakes a chain 



In a most hideous and dreadful manner. 



You have heard of such a spirit, and well you know, 



The superstitious, idle-headed, , 



Received, and did deliver to our age, 



This tale of Heme the hunter, for a truth." 



Now this was purported to bo spoken in the time of Henry the Fourth, 

 and was written by a person who probably well knew that the legend was 

 as old as that at all events; but in the ballad which follows, it will be 

 seen that Henry the Eighth is the king spoken of. Whether this is a 

 real anachronism, or a mistake in the number of the king, I do not know, 

 but give the ballad as in the original. 



HERNE, THE MIGHTY HUNTER. 



A FOREST BALLAD OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY. 



Hakry the Eighth, a noble prince, 



Sat on the English throne, 

 And had a pleasant hunting-seat, 



By name of Swinley, known. 



Near Tower-hill the mansion stood, 



With lofty oaks around; 

 Within the park, the chase, and wood, 



The noble deer abound. 



Venison was what the king preferred, 

 Oft sent his warrants down, 



To kill the fattest of the herd, 

 And send them up to town. 



To disobey the royal will 

 Was little less than treason, 



His stern command they must fulfil, 

 Through all the summer season. 



At Swinley dwelt a yeoman bold, 

 Will Heine, the mighty hunter, 



In scarlet clad, and laced with gold : 

 In speech no man was blunter. 



No lord or duke dared cheer a hound, 



For fear of him in red; 

 But to the king, unto the ground 



Heme bent his haughty head. 



He'd shot a stag, for miles and miles 

 Where hounds in vain had sought, 



And never stopped for gates or styles, 

 Or e'er of danger thought. 



Full sixteen hands his courser stood, 



No better in the field; 

 And as to speed, and bone, and blood, 



To none would ever yield. 



To church or chapel he ne'er went, 

 Would rather curse than pray; 



Nor flesh refused in holy Lent, 

 Nor kept the sabbath-day. 



King's warrants came on Sunday morn, 



Six bucks to take and slay; 

 Heine took his horse, his gun, and horn, 



And hasted far away. 



Then took his stand beneath a thorn, 



Aud blew a mighty blast; 

 Swift at the sound of his shrill horn 



Six keepers galloped fast. 



All dressed in green, aud mounted well, 



With rifles at their side; 

 "Why sound your horn, we pray thee tell?" 



Each keeper loudly cried. 



"I sound the horn," he roughly said, 

 "That you might present be, 



And of the herd to shoot six head, 

 Under the greenwood tree." 



The keepers, in reply, demurred, 



Because 't was Sabbath-day, 

 And that the work might be deferred 



They earnestly did pray. 



Heme then iuto a passion flew, 



And swore he 'd represent 

 The treason of the dastard crew, 



Unless with him they went. 



Religious faith to fear gave way; 



In vain the bells did chime, 

 And chiming loud, did seem to say — 



"To church, 'tis now the time!" 



