Down at Howtown we met with Joe Bowman at dawn,
The grey hills echoed back the glad sound of his horn,
And the charm of its note sent the mist far away
And the fox to his lair at the dawn of the day.

Chorus
When the fire’s on the hearth and good cheer abounds
We’ll drink to Joe Bowman and his Ullswater hounds,
For we’ll never forget how he woke us at dawn
With the crack of his whip and the sound of his horn.

Then with steps that were light and with hearts that were gay
To a right smickle spot we all hasten away,
The voice of Joe Bowman, how it rings like a bell
As he cast off his hounds by the side of Swarth Fell.

The shout of the hunters it startled the stag
As the fox came to view on the lofty Brook crag,
“Tally-Ho” cried Joe Bowman “the hounds are away,
O’er the hills let us follow their musical bay”.

The shout of the hunter’s it startled the stag
Master Reynard was anxious his brush for to keep,
So he followed the wind oe’r the high mountain steep,
Past the deep silent tarn to the bright running beck,
Where he hoped by his cunning to give us a check.

Though he took us oe’r Kidsey we held to his track,
For we hunted my lads with the Ullswater Pack
Who caught the fox and effected a kill,
By the silvery stream of the bonny Ramps Gill.

Now his head’s on the crook and the bowl is below,
And we‘re gathered around by the fires warming glow,
Our songs they are merry, our choruses high,
As we drink to the hunters who joined in the cry.

The shout of the hunters it startled the stag,
As the fox came to view on the lofty Brook Crag,
“Tally-Ho” We’re away, o’er the rise and the fell,
Joe Bowman, kit Farrar, Will Milcrest and all.

Dr G.F Walker of Southport

* * * * * * *

A “revised” version was subsequently produced but by this time the original version had “taken root”, below is the revised version.

Joe Bowman

We’re away to the meet and a hunting we’ll go,
For no sound is as sweet as the glad Tally-ho,
With the Patterdale hounds we travel along
Awakening the country with laughter and song,
When to Howtown we came with Joe Bowman at dawn;
The glad hills echoed back the glad sound of his horn
The charm of its note sent the mist far away,
While the foxes to cover ran off in dismay.

Chorus
When the fire’s on the hearth and good cheer abounds,
We’ll think of Joe Bowman and his Ullswater hounds,
For we’ll never forget how he woke us at morn
With the crack of his whip and the sound of his horn.

Then with steps that are light and with hearts beating high
A right smittle spot we all hastened to try,
The voice of Joe Bowman rang out like a bell
As he cast off his hounds by the side of Swarthfell.
The shout of the hunters it startled the stag
As the fox came to view on the lofty Brock Crag.
Now the hounds are away and a hunting we go,
While the distant hills echo our glad tally-ho.

Master Reynard said now “If my brush I would keep
I must follow the wind o’er the high mountain steep,
Past the deep silent tarn, to the bright running beck,
Where I’ll try with my cunning to give them a check”
The old hunting parson would follow with glee
If he thought the next parish would pay for the spree,
And ere once again to my fells I retire,
“I’ll call on the Master, the jolly old Squire”

But his plans were in vain and we held to his track
For Truman and Towler were leading the pack,
Who caught up the fox and effected a kill
By the silvery stream of the bonny Ramps Ghyll
Now his head’s on the crook and the bowl is below
And we’re gathered around by the fires warming glow,
Our songs they are merry, our choruses high,
As we drink to the hunters who join in the cry.

(Perhaps he should not have tinkered with it!)

* * * * * * *

In Reminiscences of Joe Bowman (Skelton, 1921) it is claimed the following song was a favourite of Bowman’s ...

What a Merry, Merry, Jovial Cry

See Bowler how he drives the quest,
Of all our hounds he is the best,
He’ll son deprive her of her rest
Hark, Linkin’s drawing nigh,
Take time brave boys, “Hark Dunster, Hark
See how, see how, hark to him hark”
Hark, hark, together, she darrels through yon heather
As light as any feather-what a merry, merry jovial cry.

I see her climbing up yon hill
Through yon gap unto the fell,
She does not all her sport excel;
Yon crag she’s just gone by.
Up yon road, across yon trod
By yon hedge side she’s running wide
“Hark, hark unto her” See how they due pursue her,
Right up yon hill they view her, what a merry, merry jovial cry.

Now, what’s to do, we’re at a loss,
She’s up yon field or else across;
Come try your hounds around the moss
“Ill warrant that they’ll hit her by.
“Dashwood, that’s it” right through yon pit,
I hear a shout”Whats is’t about?”
Its “Hark, hark to Rally” she’s hit her up yon valley,
O, what a pleasant sally, what a merry, merry jovial cry.

She won’t last long, look o’er the lea
They’re viewing her hard down by yon tree;
Make haste, run hie, I plainly see
They will kill her very soon.
Down by yon wall right through yon hole,
Run hie thee Ned “War dead, war dead”
Go hop it is all over, they have killed her in yon clover
By gum, she’s been a rover, what a merry, merry jovial cry.