Thomas Lough - the Bard of Derwent

There is a dam upon the fell,
Far off from field and wood,
Which burst, and rushing down the dell
Was called "The Ramshaw Flood."

An incident which Thomas Lough
Made famous in a poem,
Though he, poor soul, so badly off,
Had neither house nor home.

And yet he was a genius great,
Still many live that know it,
An artist, clever to create,
A fiddler and a poet.

But, O! erratic was his course, -
He loved to much the drink,
He trod his course from bad to worse,
And never seemed to think.

Ramshaw Flood

Now I begin to sing or tell.
What in those modern days befel,
How mossy waters, sticks, and sods.
Or direful wrecks sent by the gods,
With double fury thunder'd down
Upon the folks of Ramshaw Town.

A dam was built by Mr. Bell
Upon the rough and rugged fell;
Of Architects he was the best,
And was with powerful genius blest,
But mortal works are weak and vain,
Opposed to tempests, floods, and rain—

With ill fate, how short time stands,
The proudest piles of mortal hands!
But I must now to you rehearse,
How streams did rise with vexed force,
Raised by the summer's rains,
That swept the hills and boggy plains.

Rookhope waters, far and near,
Did augment their watery store,
And peat pots spewed forth their rills,
Loud roaring down the stoney hills.
It thundered loud from pole to pole,
Lightning flash'd and tempests roll'd,

With cracks and sulph'rous roarings loud.
Dark torrents rush'd from every cloud.
The thunders rag'd with awful sound,
And lightning blaz'd along the ground;
Dread and awful for to view
The flame like wreaths of sulphur blew.

The storm in watery torrents fell
That did ten thousands streamlets swell,
That rough and dark did chafe and roar
Through mossy reeds and rushes tore,
Did from the mud, huge eels bring,
Among the heather, bent, and ling,

The thunder, shocks shook highest hills,
While like a deluge, sluic'd the fells.
It was a dire—tremendous sight,
This second deluge, at midnight,
Huge logs, and rocks, were rent away,
While nought could stand its vengeful sway—

The flood like gulfs and channels tore,
And from deep veins raised lumps of ore;
Like mighty waves, the waters curl'd,
Roaring like a delug'd world—
Such noise and tumult it did make,
The mighty globe did seem to shake.

Had pyramids been near the mound,
The fiook had shak'd them to the ground.
It was when men lay fast asleep,
And some with wine their cares did steep.
A night of tempest and dark gloom,
That threaten'd dread impending doom:

When men did rest from toils below,
In sleep forgot love, debts, and woe,
When mossy floods and storms came down,
And burst far west of Ramshaw Town;
The mound was raised, the dam gave way,
And to its seat it bid good day.

More loud than thunder was its heaves,
Rocks, sods, were whelmed 'neath the waves,
The flood, with fury, did augment
A mile above the house of Dent.
Brave Dent, he was a hearty blade,
And never let his heart be sad;

Of queer stories he had plenty,
And o'er a tankard few more canty,
But social glee, strong ale, or sporting,
Cannot bar out stern misfortune.
The wife she prophesied aloud
That late or soon would be a flood;

She oft warn'd Bell and Dent the same,
But warning would not take in time,
To raise the dam's broad watery gate
And save the dam from unlucky fate,
The wife had dream'd strange prodigies,
How birds flew backwards in the skies!

How howlets! strange it open day,
Upon the chimney tops did lay!
How unlucky magpies, far and near,
In flocks did whistle through the air;
How fiery horse, in the air did fling !
How storms and floods the winds did bring,

How sturdy oaks were overblown,
And gloomy spectres, dark! did frown;
How dogs howled from the bills,
With unlucky cries and yells ;
How storms o'er Boltslow did appear,
That did gloomy tempests bear,

That swept the mounds and dam away,
Did all in wide destruction lay—.
(When women's counsels they are wise,
Men, their counsels, oft despise)
So, by these gloomy, dark portents,
Did threat unlucky, dread events.

Dent's dog first heard the bursting roar,
And gave three howls upon the floor;
Now as he sat smoking by the fire,
Against his peace the floods conspire.
The waters rushed with yeasty roar,
Like tides broke in upon the floor—

Dark, deep, and rough it did extend,
Dent thought the world was at an end!
He reasoned short, and thought the gods,
Would not destroy the world with sods,
Or with huge rocks, or waters dark,
Dent took the hint from Noah's Ark.

Now, the muse, has hardly power
To tell this dreary wild uproar:
To sing how chairs and cutty stools,
Were whirled among the frothy pools,
And how Dent's watch fell from the tacket,
Loud and brisk, 'neath water knacked -

How his tobacco, favourite store,
Was wreck'd, like whirlwinds, out of door.
Two pounds, sooth, of weed the prime,
The best of Cuba's sunny clime,
And two canaries that could charm
The coldest hearts and make them warm,

They both could sing in sweetest choir,
With warbling notes that did inspire
The gloomy heart, and cheer the breast
When with love or debt oppress'd.
They Dent at night did charm, delight,
He fed them oft with sugar white,

They various tricks did understand,
At his voice and, mild command,
They in a cage, large, built of wood,
Both were rolled in the flood,
And left him grieved, in dark forelorn,
His birds of music he did mourn;

Where'er he wandered, mus'd, or went,
The loss did wound the mind of Dent.
Like a cloud his mind o'erspread,
He sweetest music thought was dead,
Like the harper, Ovid sings,
That with life could touch the strings;

How, in a river he was drown'd,
And banks with mournful strains resound;
So the birds sung mournful breath,
Till they sunk down to watery death.
Now sing direful strains of woe,
What watery mountains did below;

How they rag'd with fury down
Upon the folk of Ramshaw Town.
Peat-logs, like stacks of hay were Whirl'd,
Rocks, trees, just like a delug'd world;
But what will floods or tides obey?
A garden soil was swept away,

And reared in with foaming shock,
Into a cellar scooped from the rock;
With rising swell the boiling deep
Raised Fairbrigg's floor when fast asleep.
He slowly rais'd his slumb'ring eyes
And thought he saw or dreampt of seas;

He thought him sailing on the main,
But soon he felt the truth too plain;
For, delug'd in it he stood,
And naked roll'd him in the flood;
Then, with might his life to save,
He breasted each opposing wave;

But by a Smith humane and good,
He was extracted from the flood;
And got him clothes and whiskey warm,
Soon him removed safe from harm.
His son, in this wild mossy sea -
To save his life leap't on a tree:

And from a watery death did screen,
Safe lodg'd among the branches green.
Ulysses in the days of old,
When sea-monsters round him howl'd
Then, on a marble rock he sprung,
With arms close to the fig-tree clung;

And saw the monsters gape beneath,
Whose shaggy jaws were dens of death;
With brazen teeth and nostrils wide,
That did suck in and spout the tide;
With joy he saw the dark blue sea,
And monsters balked of their prey;

So Fairbrigg, on the plain tree high,
His heart did leap with thankful joy,
And view'd below the mossy flood,
Huge rocks, trees, and logs of wood,
Bad fortune sometimes turns to good,
Two veins were bared by the flood,

And whirl'd huge rocks and soil away.
Quite left two veins exposed to day,
Huge mossy ore, like silver bright,
That filled the miners with delight;
Large pieces shined along the ground,
Like a new Potosi found?

Well mixed with silver, useful gain.
The flood had ploughed up from the vein,
Places like a blazing pile,
That made the miners blithe to smile
At orey treasures of the earth,
That give to trade quick life and birth,

And spar congealed in the rocks,
As white as lasses' summer smocks;
And blooming spar, like flowers bright,
That paint the meadows with delight.
The ores—the treasures of the vein,
Are sent abroad, down over the main,

To far Eastern climes serene,
Afar from northern blasts so keen.
Now on the flood, was heaved presses,
Gowns and smocks and other dresses;
And what more strange did come to pass,
On the flood was swept a lass,

A fiddle tin, of hugest strength,
For size and thickness, width and length;
With brass and sulphur she was glued,
Her tones were saturn, rough, and loud;
Folk ought to feel for each other,
Whether neighbour, friend, or brother;

Or think upon each other's woes
That's felt sharp fortunes kicks and blows.
Think on the loss of loaves, and goods,
Wrecked by earthquakes, storms, or floods,
Some recompence for to augment,
And not forget the loss of Dent;

His tobacco's gone, his favourite store,
His birds of music sing no more.

orey = containing ore

canty = lively, brisk

Potosi = city in Bolivia, popularly considered to be on a mountain made of silver ore

tacket = a nail or tack

fiook = ???