A Selection of Original Songs, Scraps, Etc., by Ned Farmer/The Ranger
The Ranger.
Tune—"The Fine Old English Gentleman."
This song is an attempt to describe a few of the leading points in the character of Mr. John Penson, park keeper, at Trentham Hall, Staffordshire, whose family have had the honour of serving in that capacity since the reign of Elizabeth.
I'll try to paint a portrait, if you'll listen to my lay,
Of a fine Old English specimen, whose locks are silvery grey,
Yet still as young at heart he is, that heart's as free from gall,
(And he's fond of sport of any sort) as the youngest 'mong them all.
He's a fine Old English Forester, one of the olden time.
In days of old, when "Levison," the mighty, and the brave,
An Admiral, bore the British flag triumphant o'er the wave,
As faithful follower was found a "Penson" in his pay,
From whom descends the Forester we sing about to-day.
He's a fine Old English Forester, one of the olden time.
Anon for orders at the hall "the Ranger" may be seen,
As spruce as modern dandy, in his suit of Lincoln green,
And should his noble "Mistress" depart the place that day,
He proudly leads the cavalcade into the Queen's highway.
He's a fine Old English Forester, one of the olden time.
And when the boundary is gained the Ranger makes his bow,
A very ranger like "Salaam," concocted long ago,
Then blows that note peculiar, a proof his lungs are good,
And this evergreen trots back again to his "cottage near the wood."
He's a fine Old English Forester, one of the olden time.
The tuneful lark's gay matin song his early summons sounds,
Then lustily he wends his way o'er Trentham's spacious grounds,
Or mounted, or on foot, he hies around its princely park,
And every person that he meets gets some unique remark,
From this fine Old English Forester, one of the olden time.
Hark! the unerring rifle's ring, the fatal bullets sped,
The forest's antler'd monarch dies, a hole drill'd thro' his head;
In all pertains to woodcraft's art inferior he's to none,
Few, few can kill a buck like him, or carve him when 'tis done,
O, he's a fine Old English Forester, one of the olden time.
There's one great point about him that proves he's thorough bred
His lofty hairless temples and his fine old chisseled head;
I fancy Deerhound's by his side, and mounted on his "Roan,"
I see him now, O long may Death leave his warm heart alone.
For he's a fine Old English Forester, one of the olden time.