Across the river lay the village of Mayneld, where the
landlord of the inn was killed in a quarrel with Prince Charlie's men in
their retreat from Derby for resisting their demands, and higher up the
country a farmer had been killed because he declined to give up his
horse. They were not nearly so orderly as they retreated towards the
north, for they cleared both provisions and valuables from the country
on both sides of the roads. A cottage at Mayneld was pointed out to us
as having once upon a time been inhabited by Thomas, or Tom Moore,
Ireland's great poet, whose popularity was as great in England as in his
native country, and who died in 1852 at the age of seventy-three years.
The cottage was at that time surrounded by woods and fields, and no
doubt the sound of Ashbourne Church bells, as it floated in the air,
suggested to him one of his sweetest and saddest songs:
Those evening bells! those evening bells,
How many a tale their music tells
Of youth and home and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime.
Those joyous hours are passed away,
And many a heart that then was gay
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.
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