In the hamlet of Tunstead, one mile south of Whaley Bridge, is preserved an old skull, about which many strange yarns have been related, the truth of which we cannot endorse, but the prestige of the skull still continues among the inhabitants of the neighbouring hamlet and farmhouses. If the country people may be believed, DICKY,(as the skull is called) has by no way declined in power, of good and evil influence. Everyone in the Combs Valley believed that it was by Dicky's influence and objection to new fangled ideas that the bridge which was being erected by the L.N.W.R railway company across the road, passing Dicky's residence was swallowed up in a quicksand. The railway company and contractors battled against the malignant influence for a long time, but were eventually compelled to give way, and not only remove the bridge to some distance away, but construct a new highway, at considerable expense, for over a quarter of a mile. Various traditions have been given, relating the skull, but the most faithful history of Dicky is found in the following ballad, which was written by the late William Bennett.
Ned Dickson's a yeoman, right Derbyshire bred
That's strong in the arm and awake in the head,
He's gone for a soldier across the salt sea,
To serve Henri quatre with Lord Willoughbie.
And now a bold trooper Ned Dickson doth ride,
with pistol in holster and sword by his side
With breastplate and backplate of glistening steel,
And a plume in his morion and a spur on his heel.
At Ivry he fought in the Huguenot war,
and followed the white plume of him at Navarre,
Of Henri Le Roi, when he burst like a flood,
through the ranks of the leaguers in glory and blood.
Hurrah now for Henry, and Lord Willoughbie,
Hurrah for old England, the pride of the sea
For pikemen, for bowmen, for cavalry too
Show the Leaguerers what Englishmen's prowess can do.
When the battle was hottest Ned Dickson was there
and spurred hard his charger the honour to share,
Three times did he rescue, brave Lord Willoughbie,
when struck from his horse in that famous melee.
At length hte bold trooper was wounded so sore,
that he fell from his charger,all covered ingore.
All night on the field, in his blood did he lie,
and thought of his home, and the summons to die.
But death did not come, he was found yet alive,
though his comrades believed he would never survive
His wounds were examined, the surgeons best art,
was exerted to save such a valourous heart.
His life was preserved, but his strength was all gone,
He rode not, he walkednot, he stood not alone;
his battles were finished, his story was o'er
All ended war's pageant, he must see it no more.
Then homeward he wended across the blue sea,
and stood on the shores of his native countree,
But so wasted in body, so ghastly and wan,
No friends would have known Ned, the winsome young man.
He got to his homestead, at Tunstead Millton,
where the Derbyshire hills, on the valleys looked down
Old Kinder he saw in the distance appear,
And Chinley and Southead and Coburn draw near.
Eccles Pike too, and Combs, on whose bold rocky head
the Romans his rampart in old times had spread,
Now lay all around him, his eye glistning bright,
as he slowly surveyed such familiar sight.
Then he entered the house, his cousin was there,
Who, if Ned should die, would become his sole heir;
He stood, but no word of kind welcome had he
and at last said, "It seems Jack thou knowest not me".
"Who art thou?, I know thee not"answered the man
While his dark eye,the soldier did hastily scan.
"Why I am Ned Dickson your kinsman I throw,
come back from the wars, to the flail and the plough".
"My cousin, Ned Dickson thou liest", he cried,
"He was killed in the wars as is well certified";
"Moreover Ned Dickson was comely to view,
and thou art a lat that wind would blow through".
"Natheless I'm Ned Dickson, Jack Johnson", he said,
"though wounded full sorely, thou'll find I'm not dead;
and this is my homestead, and thou art my man,
and these are my lands, deny it who can".
"Sayest thou so, cousin Ned, well I think it be thee;
after all that we've heard that thou'rt dead over sea,
but alas thou art changed man, nay privee don't stand,
just take thine own couch-chair, and give us thine hand".
Then Johnson and wife were right fain of their 'cus',
he shook Dickson's hand, and she gave him a 'bus'.
And soon came good eating and drinking to boot,
'Til at last they had compassed, the length of Ned's foot.
Night grew on apace, and they got him to bed,
Jack carried his feet, and his wife held his head;
he had the best chamber, with rushes all strewn,
And through the closed casement,he gazed at the moon.
Not long did he lie, ere he fell fast asleep,
while his kinsfolk outside, close vigil did keep,
They heard his loud snores, and entered his room,
In silence and darkness and death was his doom.
They strangled the soldier, as helpless he lay, and carried him outside before it was day;
In the paddock hard by, they buried him deep,
And there cousin did sleep for a while,and no word,
of his death or his absense, the murderers heard.
All people believed he was killed in the fight,
And Jack Jackson is heir to the land in his right.
But a year had not passed when one wintry night
That the storm rack was hiding the moon from their sight.
Honest Jack and his helpmate cowered over the lumb
His visage was sad and her clacker was dumb.
"What's that in the nook, Jack", she suddenly cried,
And shaking with terror, they clearly espied,
The head of Ned Dickson upright on the stone,
As wan and as ghastly, as when he was done.
Many years passed away, and murderers fell,
by just retribution as ancient folk tell.
By a blow from her husband, the woman was killed,
By a fall of an old, Jacl Johnson's blood spiklled.
But the head of Ned Dickson, still stood in the nook,
though they tried to remove it by bell and by book,
Though wasted of skin and of flesh, still the skull,
Will remain at its post 'til it's weird be full.
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