The Lincolnshire Poacher

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Title:     The Lincolnshire Poacher
Author: Anonymous (Poetry's author) [More Titles by Anonymous (Poetry's author)]

[This very old ditty has been transformed into the dialects of Somersetshire, Northamptonshire, and Leicestershire; but it properly belongs to Lincolnshire. Nor is this the only liberty that his been taken with it. The original tune is that of a Lancashire air, well known as The Manchester Angel; but a florid modern tune has been substituted. The Lincolnshire Poacher was a favourite ditty with George IV., and it is said that he often had it sung for his amusement by a band of Berkshire ploughmen. He also commanded it to be sung at his harvest-homes, but we believe it was always on such occasions sung to the 'playhouse tune,' and not to the genuine music. It is often very difficult to trace the locality of countrymen's songs, in consequence of the licence adopted by printers of changing the names of places to suit their own neighbourhoods; but there is no such difficulty about The Lincolnshire Poacher. The oldest copy we have seen, printed at York about 1776, reads 'Lincolnshire,' and it is only in very modern copies that the venue is removed to other counties. In the Somersetshire version the local vernacular is skilfully substituted for that of the original; but the deception may, nevertheless, be very easily detected.]

When I was bound apprentice, in famous Lincolnsheer,
Full well I served my master for more than seven year,
Till I took up with poaching, as you shall quickly hear:-
Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.

As me and my comrades were setting of a snare,
'Twas then we seed the gamekeeper--for him we did not care,
For we can wrestle and fight, my boys, and jump o'er everywhere:-
Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.

As me and my comrades were setting four or five,
And taking on him up again, we caught the hare alive;
We caught the hare alive, my boys, and through the woods did
steer:-
Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.

Bad luck to every magistrate that lives in Lincolnsheer; {1}
Success to every poacher that wants to sell a hare;
Bad luck to every gamekeeper that will not sell his deer:-
Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.

Footnote:{1}In one version this line has been altered, probably by some printer who had a wholesome fear of the 'Bench of Justices,' into -

'Success to every gentleman
That lives in Lincolnsheer.'

[The end]
Anonymous's poem: Lincolnshire Poacher

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