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Surry Triumphant

or The Kentish-Mens Defeat. A New Ballad; Being a Parody on Chevy-Chace [by John Duncombe]

Duncombe, John (1729-1786)

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SURRY TRIUMPHANT:

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SURRY TRIUMPHANT:

OR THE Kentish-Mens Defeat.

God prosper long our harvest-work,
Our rakes and hay-carts all!
An ill-tim'd cricket match there did
At Bishopsbourn befall.

To bat and bowl with might and main
Two Nobles took their way;
The hay may rue, that is unhous'd,
The batting of that day.

The active Earl of Tankerville
An even bet did make,
That in Bourn paddock he would cause
Kent's chiefest hands to quake;

To see the Surry cricketers
Out-bat them and out-bowl.
To Dorset's Duke the tidings came,
All in the park of Knowle:

Who sent his Lordship present word,
He would prevent his sport.
The Surry Earl, not fearing this,
Did to East Kent resort;

With ten more masters of the bat,
All chosen men of might,
Who knew full well, in time of need,
To aim or block aright.

[From Marsh and Weald, their hay-forks left,
To Bourn the rustics hied,
From Romney, Cranbrook, Tenterden,
And Darent's verdant side:

Gentle and simple, 'squires and clerks,
With many a lady fair,
Fam'd Thanet, Fowell's beauteous bride,
And graceful Sondes were there.]

The Surry sportsmen chose the ground,
The ball did swiftly fly;
On Monday they began to play,
Before the grass was dry;

And long ere supper-time they did
Near fourscore notches gain;
Then having slept, they, in their turn,
Stopp'd, caught, and bowl'd amain.

The fieldmen, station'd on the lawn,
Well able to endure,
Their loins with snow-white sattin vests
That day had guarded sure.

Full fast the Kentish wickets fell,
While Higham house and mill,
And Barham's upland down, with shouts
Did make an echo shrill.

Sir Horace Man from the dinner went,
To view the tender ground;
Quoth he, “This last untoward shower
“Our stumps has almost drown'd:

“If that I thought, 'twould not be dry,
“No longer would I play.”
With that, a shrewd young gentleman
Thus to the Knight did say:

“Lo! yonder doth the sun appear,
“And soon will shine forth bright,
“The level lawn and slippery ground
“All drying in our sight;

“Not bating ev'n the river banks
“Fast by yon pleasant mead.”
“Then cease disputing,” Lumpey said,
“And take your bats with speed:

“And now with me, my countrymen,
“Let all your skill be shown,
“For never was there bowler yet,
“In Kent or Surry known,

“That ever did a bale dislodge,
“Since first I play'd a match,
“But I durst wager, hand for hand,
“With him to bowl or catch.”

Young Dorset, like a Baron bold,
His jetty hair undrest,
Ran foremost of the company,
Clad in a milk-white vest:

“Shew me,” he said, “one spot that's dry,
“Where we can safely run;
“Or else, with my consent, we'll wait
“To-morrow's rising sun.”

The man that first did answer make
Was noble Tankerville;
Who said, “To play, I do declare,
“There only wants the will:

“Move but the stumps, a spot I'll find
“As dry as Farley's board.”
“Our records,” quoth the Knight, “for this
“No precedent afford.

“Ere thus I will out-braved be,
“All hazards I'll defy:
“I know thee well, an Earl thou art;
“And so not yet am I.

“But trust me, Charles, it pity were,
“And great offence, to kill
“With colds or sprains, these harmless men,
“For they have done no ill.

“Let us at single wicket play,
“And set our men aside.”
“Run out be he,” reply'd the Earl,
“By whom this is deny'd!”

Then stept a gallant 'squire forth,
Bartholomew was his name,
Vho said, “I would not have it told
“On Clandon down for shame,

“That Tankerville e'er play'd alone,
“And I stood looking on:
“You are a Knight, Sir, you an Earl,
“And I a vicar's son:

“I'll do the best that do I may,
“While I have pow'r to stand;
“While I have pow'r to wield my bat,
“I'll play with heart and hand.”

The Surry bowlers bent their backs,
Their aims were good and true,
And every ball that 'scap'd the bat,
A wicket overthrew.

To drive the ball beyond the booths,
Duke Dorset had the bent;
Woods, mov'd at length with mickle pride,
The stumps to shivers sent.

They ran full fast on every side,
No slackness there was found;
And many a ball that mounted high,
Ne'er lighted on the ground.

In truth, it was a grief to see,
And likewise for to hear,
The cries of odds that offer'd were,
And slighted every where.

At last, Sir Horace took the field,
A batter of great might;
Mov'd like a lion, he awhile
Put Surry in a fright:

He swung, 'till both his arms did ach,
His bat of season'd wood,
'Till down his azure sleeves the sweat
Ran trickling like a flood.

“Hedge now thy bets,” said Tankerville,
“I'll then report of thee,
“That thou art the most prudent Knight
“That ever I did see.”

Then to the Earl the Knight reply'd,
“Thy counsel I do scorn;
“I with no Surry-man will hedge,
“That ever yet was born.”

With that, there came a ball most keen,
Out of a Surry hand,
He struck it full, it mounted high,
But, ah! ne'er reach'd the land.

Sir Horace spoke no words but these,
“Play on, my merry men all;
“For why, my inning's at an end;
“The Earl has caught my ball.”

Then by the hand his Lordship took
This hero of the match,
And said, “Sir Horace, for thy bets
“Would I had miss'd my catch!

“In sooth, my very heart doth bleed
“With sorrow for thy sake;
“For sure, a more good-temper'd Knight
“A match did never make.”

A 'Squire of Western Kent there was,
Who saw his friend out-caught,
And straight did vow revenge on him
Who this mischance had wrought:

A Templar he, who, in his turn,
Soon as the Earl did strike,
Ran swiftly from his stopping-place,
And gave him like for like.

Full sharp and rapid was the ball,
Yet, without dread, or fear,
He caught it at arm's length, and straight,
Return'd it in the air:

With such a vehement force and might,
It struck his callous hand,
The sound re-echo'd round the ring,
Through every booth and stand.

So thus were both these heroes caught,
Whose spirit none could doubt.
A Surry 'Squire, who saw, with grief,
The Earl so quickly out,

Soon as the Templar, with his bat,
Made of a trusty tree,
Gave such a stroke, as, had it 'scap'd,
Had surely gain'd him three;

Against this well-intended ball
His hand so rightly held,
That, ere the foe could ground his bat,
His ardour Lewis quell'd.

This game did last from Monday morn
Till Wednesday afternoon,
For when Bell Harry rung to prayers,
The batting scarce was done.

With good Sir Horace, there was beat
Hussey of Ashford town,
Davis, for stops and catches fam'd,
A worthy Canon's son;

And with the Mays, both Tom and Dick,
Two hands of good account,
Simmons was beat, and Miller too,
Whose bowling did surmount.

For Wood of Seale needs must I wail,
As one in doleful dumps,
For if he e'er should play again,
It must be on his stumps

And with the Earl the conquering bat
Bartholomew did wield,
And slender Lewis, who, though sick,
Would never leave the field.

White, Yalding, Woods, and Stevens too,
As Lumpey better known,
Palmer, for batting well esteem'd,
Childs, Francis, and 'Squire Stone.

Of byes and overthrows but three,
The Kentish heroes gain'd,
And Surry victor on the score,
Twice seventy-five remain'd.

Of near three hundred notches made
By Surry, eight were byes;
The rest were balls, which, boldly struck,
Re-echo'd to the skies!

Their husbands woful case that night
Did many wives bewail,
Their labour, time, and money lost,
But all would not prevail.

Their sun-burnt cheeks, though bath'd in sweat,
They kiss'd, and wash'd them clean,
And to that fatal paddock begg'd
They ne'er would go again.

To Sevenoak town this news was brought,
Where Dorset has his seat,
That, on the Nalebourn's banks, his Grace
Had met with a defeat.

“O heavy news!” the Rector said,
“The Vine can witness be,
“We have not any cricketer
“Of such account as he.”

Like tidings, in a shorter space,
To Barham's Rector came,
That in Bourn-paddock knightly Mann
Had fairly lost the game.

“Now rest his bat,” the Doctor said,
“Sith 'twill no better be;
“I trust we have, in Bishopsbourn,
“Five hands as good as he.

“Yet Surry-men shall never say,
“But Kent return will make,
“And catch or bowl them out at length,
“For her Lieutenant's sake.”

This vow full well did Kent perform,
After, on Sev'noak Vine;
With six not in, the game was won,
Though White got fifty-nine:

For Miller, Wood, and Dorset then
Display'd their wonted skill:
Thus ended the fam'd match of Bourn,
Won by Earl Tankerville.

God save the King, and bless the land
With plenty and increase;
And grant henceforth that idle games
In harvest-time may cease!

FINIS.

All the words in Italics are taken from Chevy-Chace.

The Master of the Ordinary.

At Canterbury Cathedral.

One of this poor man's legs was bound up, and it is feared must undergo an amputation. As the stanza here parodied has been injudiciously substituted in the later copies of Chevy Chace, printed in 1524, the sense at the same time being so burlesqued, that the Spectator dared not quote it, the original stanza, in which that absurdity is avoided, is here added, from the “old ballad of Otterburn,” printed in the reign of Henry VI, together with a parody, that the reader may take his choice.

Original.

For Witherington my heart was woe,
That ever he slain should be;
For when both his legs were hewn in two,
Yet he kneel'd, and fought on his knee.

Parody.

For bare-footed Wood my heart was woe,
That his leg bound up should be,
For if both his legs should be cut off,
He would kneel, and catch on his knee.