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diff --git a/old/53156-0.txt b/old/53156-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index bb9afc2..0000000 --- a/old/53156-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14549 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Rhymes of Northern Bards, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Rhymes of Northern Bards - Being a Curious Collection of Old and New Songs and Poems, - Peculiar to the Counties of Newcastle upon Tyne, - Northumberland, and Durham - -Author: Various - -Editor: John Bell - -Release Date: September 28, 2016 [EBook #53156] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RHYMES OF NORTHERN BARDS *** - - - - -Produced by Jonathan Ingram and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - -Transcriber’s Note: Period and dialect spelling, inconsistent -hyphenation, etc. are preserved as printed. - - - - - RHYMES - OF - _Northern Bards_: - - BEING A CURIOUS - COLLECTION - OF OLD AND NEW - _SONGS AND POEMS_, - - Peculiar to the Counties of - _NEWCASTLE UPON TYNE, - NORTHUMBERLAND, AND DURHAM_. - - EDITED BY JOHN BELL, JUN. - - [Illustration] - - “NORTHUMBRIA’S SONS STAND FORTH, BY ALL CONFEST, - THE FIRST AND FIRMEST OF FAIR FREEDOM’S TRAIN; - EACH BRAVE NORTHUMBRIAN NURSES IN HIS BREAST - THE SACRED SPARK, UNSULLIED BY A STAIN.” - - Newcastle upon Tyne: - Printed for John Bell, by M. Angus & Son, and sold by them, - and other Booksellers in Town. - MDCCCXII. - - - - -LINES _SENT TO THE EDITOR AND PRINTER_. - - - Proceed, ye generous friends of Tyne, - And prosperous be your way; - How happy, would our sons incline - To catch the improving ray! - With heart and hand your friendship join, - Bring Taste and Genius forth; - That all may own Newcastle Town, - Emporium of the North. - - - - -PREFACE. - - - _Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,_ - _Thinks what ne’er was, nor is, nor e’er shall be._ - - POPE. - -“Give me the writing of all the Ballads, for the people of England, and -let who will be their law-giver,” was said by a celebrated orator, in -speaking on the manners of the people:--this cheering ray, in behalf of -ballad writing, gave rise to the publication of the following pages: -for how many of these simple, yet popular effusions, have been lost -for want of a repository to give them a chance of living a day beyond -the time they were written?--As such, the _Summum Bonum_ of my labours -is to rescue from the yawning jaws of oblivion the productions of the -Bards of the Tyne; and by so doing, hand them down to future ages as -Reliques of Provincial Poetry:--But, conscious of the liability of -personal allusions in the generality of provincial poems, the words of -the poet have been kept in mind:-- - - “Curs’d be the verse, how well soe’er it flow, - Which tends to make one _worthy_ man my foe!” - -Those who may have expected a matchless collection, and find it -inferior to other poetical selections, will please to think of the -following Italian proverb:-- - - “CHI LAVA LA TESTA AL ASINO PERDE IL SAPONE.” - -and accept the same from their - - Obedient Servant, - - THE EDITOR. - - _Newcastle upon Tyne, - August, 1812._ - - - - -VERSES ON _NORTHUMBERLAND MINSTRELSY._ - - -BY H.R. - - With taste so true, and genius fine, - The blythsome MINSTERELS of langsyne, - Sung sweetly ’tween the Tweed and Tyne, - Of war and love; - Sounding their melody divine, - Thro’ ev’ry grove. - - Northumbria’s waters, woods, and plains, - Her hills and dales, her nymphs and swains, - Her rural sports, in sweetest strains, - The Poets sung; - Till echo, thro’ her wide domains, - Responsive rung. - - In witty songs and verses _kittle_[1], - Who could compare with THOMAS WHITTLE? - The Cambo blade, who to a tittle, - Describ’d each feature; - At _painting_, too, he varied little - From mother Nature. - - Her PIPERS also knew the art - To touch the soul, and warm the heart; - Such chearing strains they could impart, - That cank’ring care, - From ev’ry breast away would start, - To pine elsewhere. - - When at the harvest, every year, - They play’d, the reapers’ hearts to chear; - The soft-link’d notes, so sweet and clear, - Made labour light; - And many a merry jig, I swear, - They danc’d each night. - -[1] Lively. - -[Illustration] - - _Old Tyne shall listen to my Tale,_ - _And Echo, down the bordering Vale,_ - _The Liquid Melody prolong._ - - AKENSIDE. - - - - -SONGS. - - - - -WEEL MAY THE KEEL ROW. - - - As I cam thro’ Sandgate, thro’ Sandgate, thro’ Sandgate, - As I cam thro’ Sandgate, I heard a lassie sing, - Weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, - Weel may the keel row, that my laddie’s in. - - He wears a blue bonnet, blue bonnet, blue bonnet, - He wears a blue bonnet, a dimple in his chin: - And weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, - And weel may the keel row, that my laddie’s in. - - - - -THE NEW KEEL ROW. - - -_By_ T.T.--_To the old Tune._ - - Whe’s like my Johnny, - Sae leish, sae blithe, sae bonny, - He’s foremost ’mang the mony - Keel lads o’ Coaly Tyne; - - He’ll set or row so tightly, - Or in the dance so sprightly, - He’ll cut and shuffle sightly, - ’Tis true--were he not mine. - - Weel may the keel row, - The keel row, the keel row, - Weel may the keel row, - That my laddie’s in: - He wears a blue bonnet, - A bonnet, a bonnet, - He wears a blue bonnet, - A dimple in his chin. - - He’s ne mair learning, - Than tells his weekly earning, - Yet reet frae wrang discerning, - Tho’ brave, ne bruiser he; - Tho’ he no worth a plack is, - His awn coat on his back is, - And nane can say that black is - The white o’ Johnny’s ee. - - Each pay-day nearly, - He takes his quairt right dearly, - Then talks O, latin O,--cheerly, - Or mavies jaws away; - How caring not a feather, - Nelson and he together, - The springy French did lether, - And gar’d them shab away. - - Were a’ kings comparely, - In each I’d spy a fairly, - An’ ay wad Johnny barly, - He gets sic bonny bairns; - Go bon, the queen, or misses, - But wad for Johnny’s kisses, - Luik upon as blisses, - Scrimp meals, caff beds, and dairns. - - Wour lads, like their deddy, - To fight the French are ready, - But gie’s a peace that’s steady, - And breed cheap as lang syne; - May a’ the press gangs perish, - Each lass her laddy cherish: - Lang may the Coal Trade flourish - Upon the dingy Tyne. - - Breet Star o’ Heaton, - Your ay wour darling sweet’en, - May heaven’s blessings leet on - Your leady, bairns, and ye; - God bless the King and Nation, - Each bravely fill his station, - Our canny _Corporation_, - Lang may they sing wi’ me, - - Weel may the keel row, &c. - - - - -BONNY KEEL LADDIE. - - - My bonny keel laddie, my canny keel laddie, - My bonny keel laddie for me O! - He sits in his keel as black as the deil, - And he brings the white money to me O. - - Ha’ye seen owt o’ my canny man, - An’ are ye shure he’s weel O? - He’s geane o’er land wiv a stick in his hand, - T’ help to moor the keel O. - - The canny keel laddie, the bonny keel laddie, - The canny keel laddie for me O; - He sits in his huddock, and claws his bare buttock, - And brings the white money to me O. - - - - -THE LITTLE P.D. - - - ’Twas between Hebbron and Jarrow, - There cam on a very strang gale, - The skipper look’d out o’ th’ huddock, - Crying, “Smash, man, lower th’ sail! - Smash, man, lower the sail, - Or else to the bottom we’ll go:” - The keel and a’ hands wad been lost, - Had it not been for Jemmy Munro. - Fal lal, &c. - - The gale blew stranger an’ stranger, - When they cam beside the Muck House, - The skipper cry’d out--“Jemmy Swinger,” - But still was as fear’d as a mouse; - P.D. ran to clear th’ anchor, - “It’s raffl’d!” right loudly he roar’d,-- - They a’ said the gale wad sink her, - If it was’nt seun thrawn owrboard. - - The laddy ran sweaten, ran sweaten, - The laddy ran sweaten about; - Till the keel went bump ’gainst Jarrow, - And three o’ th’ bullies lap out; - Three o’ th’ bullies lap out, - And left nyen in but little P.D. - Who ran about stamping and crying-- - “How! smash, Skipper, what mun a’ dee?” - - They all shouted out fra the kee, - Steer her close in by th’ shore; - And then thraw th’ painter to me, - Thou cat feac’d son of a wh--e. - The lad threw the painter ashore, - They fasten’d her up to th’ kee, - But whe knaws how far she meit gane, - Had it not been for little P.D. - - Then into th’ huddock they gat, - And th’ flesh they began to fry, - They talk’d o’ the gale as they sat, - And how a’ hands were lost--very nigh. - The skipper roar’d out for a drink, - P.D. ran to bring him the cann, - But odsmash! mun! what d’ye think?-- - He coup’d a’ the flesh out o’ the pan! - Fal lal, &c. - - - - -MA’ CANNY HINNY. - - - Where hast’te been, ma’ canny hinny? - An where hast’te been, ma’ bonny bairn? - Aw was up and down seekin ma’ hinny, - Aw was thro’ the town seekin for my bairn; - Aw went up the Butcher Bank and down Grundin Chare, - Call’d at the Dun Cow, but aw cuddent find thee there. - - Where hast’te been, ma’ canny hinny? - An where hast’te been, ma’ bonny bairn, &c. - - Then aw went t’ th’ Cassel Garth, and caw’d on Johnny Fife. - The beer drawer tell’d me she ne’er saw thee in her life. - - Where hast’te been, &c. - - Then aw went into the three bulls heads, and down the Lang Stairs, - And a’ the way alang the Close, as far as Mr Mayor’s. - - Where hast’te been, &c. - - Fra there aw went alang the brig, an up t’ Jackson’s Chare, - Then back again t’ the Cross Keys, but cuddent find thee there. - - Where hast’te been, &c. - - Then comin out o’ Pipergate, aw met wi’ Willy Rigg, - Whe tell’d me that he saw thee stannin p----n on the brig. - - Where hast’te been, &c. - - Cummin alang the brig again, aw met wi’ Cristy Gee, - He tell’d me et he saw thee gannin down Humeses entery. - - Where hast’te been, &c. - - Where hev aw been! aw sune can tell ye that; - Cummin up the Key, aw met wi’ Peter Pratt, - Meetin Peter Pratt, we met wi’ Tommy Wear, - An went t’ Humeses t’ get a gill o’ beer. - - There’s where a’ve been, ma’ canny hinny, - There’s where a’ve been, ma’ bonny lam. - Wast’tu up an down seekin for yur hinny? - Wast’tu up an down seeking for yur lam. - - Then aw met yur Ben, an we were like to fight; - An when we cam to Sandgate it was pick night; - Crossin the road, aw met wi’ Bobby Swinny: - Hing on the girdle, let’s hev a singin hinny. - - Aw my sorrow’s ower now, a’ve fund my hinny, - Aw my sorrow’s ower now, a’ve fund my bairn; - Lang may aw shout, ma’ canny hinny, - Lang may aw shout, ma’ bonny bairn. - - - - -DOL LI A. - - -_A Song famous in Newcastle about the Years 1792-3-4._ - - Fresh I’m cum fra Sandgate Street, - Do li, do li, - My best friends here to meet, - Do li a, - Dol li th’ dil len dol, - Do li, do li, - Dol li th’ dil len dol, - Dol li a. - - The Black Cuffs is gawn away, - Do li, do li, - An that will be a crying day. - Do li a, &c. - - Dolly Coxon’s pawn’d her sark, - Do li, do li, - To ride upon the baggage cart. - Do li a, &c. - - The Green Cuffs is cummin in, - Do li, do li, - An that ’ill make the lasses sing. - Do li a, &c. - - - - -THE TYNE. - - -_By J. Gibson, of Newcastle._ - - Roll on thy way, thrice happy Tyne! - Commerce and riches still are thine; - Thy sons in every art shall shine, - And make thee more majestic flow. - - The busy crowd that throngs thy sides, - And on thy dusky bosom glides, - With riches swell thy flowing tides, - And bless the soil were thou dost flow. - - Thy valiant sons, in days of old, - Led by their Chieftains, brave and bold, - Fought not for wealth, or shining gold, - But to defend thy happy shores. - - So e’en as they of old have bled, - And oft embrac’d a gory bed, - Thy modern sons, by Ridleys led, - Shall rise to shield thy peace-crown’d shores. - - Nor art thou blest for this alone, - That long thy sons in arms have shone; - For every art to them is known, - And science, form’d to grace the mind. - - Art, curb’d by War in former days, - Has now burst forth in one bright blaze; - And long shall his refulgent rays - Shine bright, and darkness leave behind. - - The Muses too, with Freedom crown’d, - Shall on thy happy shores be found, - And fill the air with joyous sound - Of--War and Darkness’ overthrow. - - Then roll thy way, thrice happy Tyne! - Commerce and riches still are thine! - Thy sons in arts and arms shall shine, - And make thee still majestic flow. - - - - -BLACKETT’s FIELD. - - -BY J. SHIELD, OF NEWCASTLE. - -Tune--_John Anderson my Jo_. - -On account of the confined limits of the Parade Ground of the Loyal -Newcastle Associated Corps of Volunteer Infantry, it was found -necessary to lock the door during the time of drill, to prevent the -crowd interfering with the evolutions of the corps.--This circumstance -gave rise to the song. - - Near Blackett’s Field, sad hov’ring, - (’Twas but the other day,) - Thus sung a melancholy wight - His pity-moving lay:-- - How comes this alteration strange! - What can the matter be, - That the brave Association Lads - Are under lock and key? - - Ah! lately, on a Sunday, - To dine I hardly staid,-- - But from my beef and pudding ran, - T’ attend the gay parade! - Now I may stay and pick my bones, - From anxious hurry free; - For the brave Association Lads - Are under lock and key! - - A dimpling smile still grac’d my cheek, - Brave D----n when I saw; - ’Twas worth a crown to hear him, too, - Exclaiming ‘_Kiver awa’!_’ - But thus to feast my eyes and ears - No more my lot shall be; - For the brave Association Lads - Are under lock and key! - - To church now, when the bells are heard, - With snail-like pace I creep; - And there, in manner most devout, - Compose myself to sleep! - Thus cheerless pass the ling’ring hours, - So lately fraught with glee, - Ere the brave Association Lads - Were under lock and key! - - For pity’s sake, then, Ridley! - Thy _turnkeys_ straight _discharge_, - And let thy armed Patriots - Again be drill’d _at large_: - So shall my Sunday afternoons, - In _gazing_, joyous flee, - When the brave Association Lads - Ar’n’t under lock, and key! - - Think--urg’d by curiosity, - To climb the Spital walls, - Should any of thy neighbours there, - Sad, break their necks by falls. - O would not such mischances dire - Be justly charg’d on thee, - Who keeps the Association Lads - Thus under lock and key? - - Imagine not thy warriors brave, - To glory who aspire, - Whilst thus _confin’d_ in Blackett’s field, - Their station much admire! - Ah! no; in _Heaton cellars_ they - Would rather chuse to be, - Most jovial, _carrying on the war_, - All under lock and key! - - Whilst War’s horrific clangours - Resound throughout the land, - Still may’st thou, gallant Ridley, - Thy town’s-men brave command: - And, oh! that with your martial toils - Delighted I may be, - Ope wide the door of Blackett’s field; - Then break the lock and key! - - - - -KIVER AWA’. - - - Like the wolves of the forest, ferocious and keen, - The French our blest shores may invade! - But in arms are the _Gotham Invincibles seen_, - And who’s of invasion afraid? - With ardour heroic each bosom inflames, - No dangers impress them with awe; - And merry they seem, when thus----exclaims,-- - “Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’.” - - Ye matrons be cheerful, ye virgins be gay, - Your protectors are valiant and true: - No more feel alarm’d, as your charms you survey, - At what Frenchmen _may venture to do_; - No danger shall reach you, no impudent Gaul, - Shall fill your soft bosoms with awe; - Whilst in tones energetic, thus ---- can bawl,-- - “Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’, Kiver awa”. - - No more let the wight, to misfortune a prey, - For relief to the bottle apply; - But to chace ev’ry painful remembrance away, - To _Parade_ let him instantly hie; - There ----, whilst ardently toiling for fame, - Each thorn from his bosom shall draw: - Ah! who can be sad, when they hear him exclaim,-- - “Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’.” - - Heav’n prosper thee, Gotham! thou famous old town, - Of the Tyne the chief glory and pride: - May thy heroes acquire immortal renown, - In the dread field of Mars, when they’re try’d: - Amongst them, O ne’er may _flincher_ be found; - And that mirth they from _duty_ may draw, - Long, long, through their ranks may these accents resound,-- - “Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’.” - -_November, 1804._ - - - - -BRITANNIA’S VOLUNTEERS. - - -_By S.G. Kemble, Esq. of Newcastle._ - -Tune--The Newcastle Volunteers’ quick March. - - When unprovok’d, when foreign foes, - When danger gave occasion, - Britannia’s Volunteers arose, - To shield her from invasion. - - And still whilst other nations bow, - And lowly seek alliance, - Should France transgress again, they vow - To hurl a bold defiance. - - The Sons of Tyne,--a youthful band,-- - With ardent resolution, - First arm’d to guard their native land, - Their King and Constitution: - - Again, whene’er the cause invites, - Our liberties revering, - To guard those dear, those sacred rights, - They’ll go a volunteering. - - The shepherd now, beneath his shed, - At eve the dance provoking, - Takes up his lov’d neglected reed, - Long days of Peace invoking. - - To plough-shares tho’ our swords we turn, - No more in arms appearing, - With Friendship still our bosoms burn, - Kind actions volunteering. - - - - -JOHN DIGGONS. - - -_By J. Stawpert, of Newcastle._ - -_Tune_--Old England’s Roast Beef. - - John Diggons be I, from a Country Town, - But the name is se lang and se bad to get down, - Tho’ I’ve swallow’d it often both morning and noon, - At present excuse me the pain, - Oh! at present excuse me the pain. - - Father told I, this morning, with quickness to fly, - Away to Newcastle, I ask’d him for why?-- - To learn something there, for her sons now stand high, - They’ve been fighting the French off Cadiz, - They’ve been fighting the French off Cadiz. - - Well, father, says I, but I don’t much like; - For the Frenchmen, they say, are so given to strike, - Yes, unto an Englishman; that’s it, you tyke! - Have you never yet learn’d the _sea phrase_? - Have you never yet learn’d the _sea phrase_? - - Why, as to your _sea frays_, I know not, dear dad, - But frays in our village are oftentimes bad, - And it must be much worse for a poor country lad, - To fight where he can’t run away, - To fight where he can’t run away. - - At last he insisted I’d come to this town, - And get some small knowledge of gaining renown, - Buy myself a blue jacket, and put off the clown, - And fight for my country and king, - And fight for my country and king. - - But coming up street there, I coud’n’t get quick, - The folks on the pavement were standing se thick, - So I turn’d myself round, and lean’d over my stick, - And heard a poor beggar boy sing, - And heard a poor beggar boy sing. - - He sung how that Nelson had lately been shot; - Oh! I verily thought I’d have died on the spot, - For father told I that lead, e’en boiling hot, - Wou’d ne’er take the life of this man, - Wou’d ne’er take the life of this man. - - At length the boy prov’d, e’er he ended his song, - That nature and valour, however so strong, - Must still bow to fate; so poor father was wrong: - And Nelson’s gon--dead after all, - And Nelson’s gon--dead after all. - - But now I’m determin’d, since this is the case, - To write to Lord Collingwood straight for a place, - For they say he’s right fond of a North Country face: - So I may chance to revenge Nelson’s wrongs, - So I may chance to revenge Nelson’s wrongs. - - Adieu, then, my friends, your best wishes I’ll take, - Oh! send them all good for your _Collingwood’s sake_! - For your Country and you his life’s oft been at stake, - Then bless him, and thank his brave Tars! - Then bless him, and thank his brave Tars! - - I’ll say that I left you all singing his praise, - And begging of Neptune more laurels to raise, - That in England you hope he’ll soon wear the green bays, - And be blest with his friends for past toils, - And be blest with his friends for past toils. - - - - -TRAFALGAR’S BATTLE. - - -_By the same._ - -_Tune_--Chapter of Kings. - - In a battle, you know, we Britons are strong; - A battle, my friends, is the theme of my song; - Had it not been for this, and the sake of my king, - No mortal, I am sure, had forc’d me to sing, - And Nelson, that great man, - Who bother’d the Frenchmen, - At Trafalgar’s great battle, and died. - - His mem’ry must be to each Englishman dear, - For his heart in a battle had never met fear: - Should those that are left e’er encounter another, - We may hear something new from our Nelson’s brave Brother. - Who fought with that _great man_, - Who bother’d the Frenchmen, - At Trafalgar’s great battle, and died. - - ’Tis Collingwood he, our Townsman and friend, - May heaven send Angels his life to attend, - To guard him through dangers on Oceans great space, - Returning in Peace may we all see his face. - To bless him, caress him, - In kind words address him, - Ye Britons and _Sons_ of the _Tyne_. - - Though Nelson is dead, yet we ought not to mourn; - The laurels that deck his magnificent Urn, - Are sufficient for mortals that dwell here below; - Let Heaven’s great King other laurels bestow - On him we adore, - Who fought off the shore, - At Trafalgar’s great battle, and died. - - Drink a toast, then, my friends, to his dear honour’d shade, - Each widow, each wife, every matron, and maid, - And though you lament for the loss of his blood, - Drink a health to our own, our brave Collingwood, - Who fought with that _great man_, - That bother’d the Frenchmen, - At Trafalgar’s great battle, and died. - - - - -CHESTER WELL. - - -_By George Pickering, late of Newcastle._ - - Turks, Infidels, Pagans, Jews, Christians, and Tartars, - Kings, Princes, Queens, Nobles, and Bishops, I pray; - Ye Hottentots too, who to neatness are martyrs, - Attend for a while to my wonderful lay. - At Chester, they tell, - Is discover’d a well, - Which eases in man as in beast ev’ry torture; - Hyp, glanders, and evil, - It sends to the devil, - And silence has seal’d up the pestle and mortar. - Oh Chester, Oh Chester! - When maladies pester, - Thy liquid Catholicon eases our pain! - Mad Turks, Jews, Philistines, - Mad Quakers and Christians, - Are dipp’d into peace and good order again. - - No more of old Bath, oh ye medical asses! - With nose-kissing cane, and your full bottom’d wigs; - The Chester Well water in virtue surpasses; - Tho’ Bath cur’d the scab in prince Lud and his pigs. - Since the days of old Adam, - Or Eve, lovely madam, - No well was e’er found fit for drinking till now: - As the liquid ye glut, - ’Tis as sweet as a nut, - While Bath’s an emetic for boar, pig, or sow. - Oh Chester, &c. - - The maiden who flies to her pillow in sorrow, - Who wakes with a sigh to the music of day; - By tasting to-night, may be happy to-morrow, - And warble as blythe as the birds on the spray. - The tear shall cease flowing, - Her heart cease its glowing, - For plighted troth broken, no longer complain; - The bow and the dart, - That occasion’d her smart, - ’Squire Cupid may twang, but their twanging be vain. - Oh Chester, &c. - - And oh let the damsel, whose ringlets appear - To be mournfully silvering over with grey; - Who sees in her glass, with dejection and fear, - That Time’s with’ring hand bids her beauties decay: - Ne’er let her be fretful, - But drink and be cheerful, - The stream both her thirst and her grief shall assuage: - No more let her mourn, - For her bloom shall return, - She shall cast off the sad, sober liv’ry of age. - Oh Chester, &c. - - The gouty old blades who have drank the clear liquid, - Have snapp’d the fir crutches at seventy-seven; - And into the skulls, long incurably stupid, - A portion of good common-sense has been driv’n. - E’en the nose of the sot, - As a heater red hot, - Or a flaming balloon which philosophy rears, - When dipt in the water, - The luminous matter - Goes out with a _hiss_, and the blaze disappears. - Oh Chester, &c. - - Then haste to the Well, both exotic and native, - A dip and a drink all your sorrows will root out; - Ye too who have groan’d ’neath the knife amputative, - Go plunge, and your heads, legs, _et cet’ra_, shall sprout out: - The tribe of empirics, - Shall howl in hysterics, - And man shall untortur’d fall into decay: - The pill and the potion, - The ungent and lotion, - In box and in bottle shall moulder away, - Oh Chester, &c. - - - - -NEWCASTLE BEER. - - -_By John Cunningham._ - - When Fame brought the news of Great Britain’s success, - And told at Olympus each Gallic defeat; - Glad Mars sent by Mercury orders express, - To summon the deities all to a treat: - Blithe Comus was plac’d - To guide the gay feast, - And freely declar’d there was choice of good cheer; - Yet vow’d to his thinking, - For exquisite drinking, - Their nectar was nothing to Newcastle beer. - - The great god of war, to encourage the fun, - And humour the taste of his whimsical guest, - Sent a message that moment to Moor’s[2] for a tun - Of stingo, the stoutest, the brightest and best; - No gods, they all swore, - Regal’d so before, - With liquor so lively, so potent, and clear: - And each deified fellow - Got jovially mellow, - In honour, brave boys, of our Newcastle beer. - - Apollo, perceiving his talents refine, - Repents he drank Helicon water so long; - He bow’d, being ask’d by the musical Nine, - And gave the gay board an extempore song: - But ere he began, - He toss’d off his cann: - There’s nought like good liquor the fancy to clear: - Then sang with great merit, - The flavour and spirit, - His godship had found in our Newcastle beer. - - ’Twas stingo like this made Alcides so bold, - It brac’d up his nerves, and enliven’d his pow’rs; - And his mystical club, that did wonders of old, - Was nothing, my lads, but such liquor as ours. - The horrible crew - That Hercules slew, - Were Poverty--Calumny--Trouble--and Fear: - Such a club would you borrow, - To drive away sorrow, - Apply for a jorum of Newcastle beer. - - Ye youngsters, so diffident, languid, and pale, - Whom love, like the cholic, so rudely infests; - Take a cordial of this, ’twill _probatum_ prevail, - And drive the cur Cupid away from your breasts: - Dull whining despise, - Grow rosy and wise, - Nor longer the jest of good fellows appear; - Bid adieu to your folly, - Get drunk and be jolly, - And smoke o’er a tankard of Newcastle beer. - - Ye fanciful folk, for whom Physic prescribes, - Whom bolus and potion have harrass’d to death! - Ye wretches, whom Law and her ill-looking tribes, - Have hunted about ’till you’re quite out of breath! - Here’s shelter and ease, - No craving for fees, - No danger--no doctor--no bailiff is near! - Your spirits this raises, - It cures your diseases, - There’s freedom and health in our Newcastle beer. - -[2] A great Beer House in Newcastle at that time, kept by Moor, at the -sign of the Sun. - - - - -MY LORD ’SIZE; _Or, Newcastle in an Uproar._ - - -By J. SHIELD, of Newcastle. - - The jailor, for trial, had brought up a thief, - Whose looks seem’d a passport for Botany Bay; - The lawyers, some _with_ and some _wanting_ a brief, - Around the green table were seated so gay: - Grave jurors and witnesses, waiting a call; - Attornies and clients, more angry than wise, - With strangers and town’s-people, throng’d the Guild-Hall,-- - All waiting and gaping to see my _Lord ’Size_. - - Oft stretch’d were their necks, oft erected their ears, - Still fancying they heard of the trumpets the sound, - When tidings arriv’d, which disolv’d them in tears, - That my Lord at the dead-house was then lying drown’d! - Straight left _tête a tête_ were the jailor and thief; - The horror-struck crowd to the dead-house quick hies; - Ev’n the lawyers, forgetful of fee and of brief, - Set off, helter-skelter, to view my _Lord ’Size_. - - And now the Sandhill with the sad tidings rings, - And the _tubs_ of the _taties_ are left to take care; - Fish-women desert their crabs, lobsters, and lings, - And each to the dead-house now runs like a hare. - The Glassmen, some _naked_, some _clad_, heard the news, - And off they ran smoking, like hot mutton-pies; - Whilst Castle-garth Tailors, like wild _Kangaroos_, - Came, _tail-on-end_ jumping, to see my _Lord ’Size_. - - The dead-house they reach’d, where his Lordship they found, - Pale, stretch’d on a plank, like themselves _out of breath_; - The _Crowner_ and Jury were seated around, - Most gravely enquiring the cause of his death. - No haste did they seem in, their task to complete, - Aware that from hurry mistakes often rise; - Or wishful, perhaps, of prolonging the treat - Of thus sitting in judgment upon my _Lord ’Size_. - - Now the Mansion-house Butler thus gravely depos’d:-- - “My Lord on the terrace seem’d studying his _charge_; - And when (as I thought) he had got it compos’d, - He went down the stairs and examin’d the barge. - First the stem he survey’d, then inspected the stern, - Then handled the tiller, and look’d mighty wise; - But he made a false step when about to return, - And souse in the river straight tumbled _Lord ’Size_.” - - Now his narrative ended--the Butler retir’d, - Whilst _Betty Watt_, mut’ring (half drunk) thro’ her teeth, - Declar’d, “in her _breest great consarn_ it inspir’d, - That my Lord should sae _cullishly_ come by his _deeth_.” - Next a keelman was call’d on, _Bold Archy_ his name, - Who the book as he kiss’d shew’d the whites of his eyes; - Then he cut an odd caper, attention to claim, - And this evidence gave them respecting _Lord ’Size_. - - “Aw was _setten_ the keel, wi’ _Dick Stavers_ an’ _Mat_, - An’ the Mansion-hoose Stairs we were just alangside, - When we a’ three _see’d sumthing_, but didn’t ken _what_, - That was _splashing_ and _labbering_ aboot i’ the tide. - “It’s a _fluiker_!” ki Dick; “No,” ki Mat, “it’s owre big, - “It luik’d mair like a _skyat_ when aw furst see’d it rise:” - Kiv aw--for aw’d getten a gliff o’ the wig-- - Odds marcy! Wye, marrows, becrike it’s _Lord ’Size_. - - Sae aw huik’d him an’ hawl’d him suin into the keel, - An’ o’top o’ the huddock aw rowl’d him aboot; - An’ his belly aw rubb’d, an’ aw skelp’d his back weel, - But the wayter he’d drucken it wadn’t run oot. - Sae aw brought him ashore here, an’ doctors, in vain, - Furst _this_ way, then _that_, to recover him tries; - For ye see there he’s lying as _deed_ as a stane,-- - An’ that’s a’ aw can tell ye about my _Lord ’Size_.” - - Now the Jury for close consultation retir’d: - Some “_Death accidental_” were willing to find; - Some “_God’s visitation_” most eager requir’d, - And some were for “_Fell in the river_” inclin’d: - But ere on their verdict they all were agreed, - My Lord gave a groan, and wide open’d his eyes; - Then the coach and the trumpeters came with great speed, - And back to the Mansion-house carried _Lord ’Size_. - - - - -BOB CRANKY’s ’SIZE SUNDAY. - - -_By John Selkirk._ - -Set to Music by THOMAS TRAIN, of Gateshead. - - Ho’way and aw’ll sing thee a tune, mun, - ’Bout huz see’n my Lord at the town, mun, - Aw seer aw was smart, now - Aw’ll lay thee a quart, now - Nyen’ them aw cut a dash like Bob Cranky. - - When aw pat on my blue coat that shines se, - My jacket wi’ posies se fine see, - My sark sic sma’ threed, man, - My pig-tail se greet, man! - Od smash! what a buck was Bob Cranky. - - Blue stockings, white clocks, and reed garters, - Yellow breeks, and my shoon wi’ lang quarters, - Aw myed wour bairns cry, - Eh! sarties! ni! ni! - Sic verra fine things had Bob Cranky. - - Aw went to awd Tom’s and fand Nancy, - Kiv aw, Lass, thou’s myed to my fancy; - Aw like thou as weel - As a stannin pye heel, - Ho’way to the town wi’ Bob Cranky. - - As up Jenny’s backside we were bangin, - Ki’ Geordy, How! where are ye gannin? - Weyt’ see my lord ’Sizes, - But ye shanna gan aside us, - For ye’re not half se fine as Bob Cranky. - - Ki’ Geordy, We leve i’ yen raw, weyet, - I’ yen corf we byeth gan belaw, weyet, - At a’ things aw’ve play’d, - And to hew aw’m not flay’d, - Wi’ sic in a chep as Bob Cranky. - - Bob hez thee at lowpin and flingin, - At the bool, foot-ball, clubby, and swingin: - Can ye jump up and shuffle, - And cross owre the buckle, - When ye dance? like the clever Bob Cranky. - - Thou naws, i’ my hoggars and drawers, - Aw’m nyen o’ your scarters and clawers: - Fra the trap door bit laddy, - T’ the spletter his daddy, - Nyen handles the pick like Bob Cranky. - - So, Geordy, od smash my pit sarik! - Thou’d best had thy whisht about warik, - Or aw’ll sobble thy body, - And myek thy nose bloody, - If thou sets up thy gob to Bob Cranky. - - Nan laugh’d--t’church we gat without ’im; - The greet crowd, becrike, how aw hew’d ’em! - Smasht a keel-bully roar’d, - Clear the road! Whilk’s my lord? - Owse se high as the noble Bob Cranky. - - Aw lup up an’ catch’d just a short gliff - O’ lord trial, the trumpets, and sheriff, - Wi’ the little bit mannies, - Se fine and se canny, - Ods heft! what a seet for Bob Cranky. - - Then away we set off to the yell-house, - Wiv a few hearty lasses and fellows, - Aw tell’d owre the wig, - Se curl’d and se big; - For nyen saw’d se weel as Bob Cranky. - - Aw gat drunk, fit, and kick’d up a racket, - Rove my breeks and spoil’d a’ my fine jacket: - Nan cry’d and she cuddled - My hinny, thou’s fuddled, - Ho’way hyem now, my bonny Bob Cranky. - - So we stagger’d alang fra the town, mun, - Whiles gannin, whiles baith fairly down, mun: - Smash, a banksman or hewer, - No not a fine viewer, - Durst jaw to the noble Bob Cranky. - - What care aw for my new suit, a’ tatters, - Twe black een--od smash a’ sic maters! - When my lord comes agyen, mun, - Aw’l strive every byen, mun, - To bang a’ wor Concern, ki’ Bob Cranky. - - O’ the flesh and breed day when wour bun’, mun, - Aw’l buy clase far bonnyer than thon, mun; - For, od smash my neavel! - As lang as wour yebble, - Let’s keep up the day, ki’ Bob Cranky. - - - - -BOB CRANKY’s COMPLAINT. - - - Odd smash! ’tis hard aw can’t rub dust off, - To see ma lord wi’ wig se fine toss’d off, - But they mak a sang man - Aw can’t tell how lang man, - All myeking a gam o’ Bob Cranky. - - Ma blue coat and pigtail’s my awn, wyet! - And when to Newcassel I gang, wyet! - Aw like to shaw town folks, - Whe se oft ca’ us gowks, - They ar’n’t se fine as Bob Cranky. - - If aw fin the Owther, as sure as a’m Bob, - A’ll mak him sing the wrang side o’ his gob, - A’ll gi’m sic sobbling - A’ll set him hyem hobbling, - For myeking a gam o’ Bob Cranky. - - A’ll myek his noddle as reed as ma garters; - A’ve a lang stick, as weel as lang quarters, - Whilk a’ll lay ow’r his back, - ’Till he swears ne’er to mak - Ony mair sangs o’ Bob Cranky. - - Aw wonder the maist how he did spy, - What was dyun, when nobody was by-- - Some Conj’rer he maun be, - Sic as wi’ Punch aw did see, - Whilk myed the hair stand o’ Bob Cranky. - - Our viewer sez aw can’t de better, - Than send him a story cull letter. - But writing a’ll let rest; - The pik fits ma hand best, - A pen’s owr sma for Bob Cranky. - - Nan, whe a’ll marry or its very lang, - Sez, “Hinny, din’t mind the cull fellow’s sang, - “Gif he dis se agyan, - “Our schyul maister’s pen - “Shall tak pairt wi’ ma bonny Bob Cranky.” - - “Ize warrn’t, gif aw weer my pillease, - “An ma hat myed of very sma strees; - “He’ll be chock full o’ spite, - “An about us will write, - “An say Ize owre fine for Bob Cranky.” - - “Sure, Bobby,” says she, “his head’s got a crack,” - “Ne maiter,” sed I, an gov her a smack. - “Pilleases are tippy, - “Like shugar’s thy lippy, - “And thou shalt be wife to Bob Cranky.” - - The Crankies, farrer back nor I naw, - Hae gyen to Sizes to see trumpets blaw, - Wi’ white sticks, an’ Sheriff, - But warn’t myed a sang of, - Nor laugh’d at, like clever Bob Cranky. - - Lord Sizes cums but yence a year, wyet! - To see his big wig a’ve ne fear, wyat! - So be-crike! while aw leeve, - Thof wi’ lang sangs a’m deav’d, - Me Lord at the church shall see Cranky! - - - - -THE BONNY GEATSIDERS.--1805. - - -Tune--_Bob Cranky_. - - Come marrows, we’ve happen’d to meet now, - Sae our thropples together we’ll weet now; - Aw’ve myed a new sang, - And to sing ye’t aw lang, - For it’s about the Bonny Geatsiders. - - Of a’ the fine Volunteer corpses, - Whether _footmen_, or ridin o’ horses, - ’Tween the Tweed and the Tees, - Deel hae them that sees - Sic a corpse as the Bonny Geatsiders. - - Whilk amang them can mairch, turn, an wheel sae? - Whilk their guns can wise off half sae weel sae? - Nay, for myeking a _crack_, - Through England aw’l back - The Corpse of the Bonny Geatsiders. - - When the time for parading nigh hand grows, - A’wash their sel’s clean i’ the sleek trough; - Fling off their black duddies, - Leave hammers and studdies, - And to drill--run the Bonny Geatsiders. - - To Newcasel, for three weeks up-stannin, - On Permanent Duty they’re gannin; - And sune i’ th’ papers, - We’s read a’ the capers, - O’ the corpse o’ the Bonny Geatsiders. - - The Newcassel chaps fancy they’re clever, - And are vauntin and braggin for ever; - But they’ll find themselves wrang, - If they think they can bang, - At soug’rin, the Bonny Geatsiders. - - The Gen’ral sall see they can loup dykes, - Or mairch through whins, lair whooles, and deep sykes; - Nay, to soom (at a pinch) - Through Tyne, wad’nt flinch - The corpse o’ the Bonny Geatsiders. - - Some think Billy Pitt’s nobbit hummin, - When he tells about Bonnepart cummin; - But come when he may, - He’ll lang rue the day - He first meets wi’ the Bonny Geatsiders. - - Like an anchor shank, smash! how they’ll clatter ’im, - And turn ’im, and skelp ’im, and batter ’im, - His banes sall by pring, - Like a fryin pan ring, - When he meets wi’ the Bonny Geatsiders. - - Let them ance get ’im into their taings weel, - Nae fear but they’ll give ’im his whaings weel; - And to Hazlett’s[3] pond bring ’im, - And there in chains hing ’im; - What a seet for the Bonny Geatsiders! - - Now, marrows, to shew we’re a’ loyal, - And that, wi’ the King and Blood Royal, - We’ll a’ soom or sink, - Quairts a piece let us drink, - To the brave and the Bonny Geatsiders. - -[3] A Pond on Gateshead Fell, so named on account of the Body of Robert -Hazlett being hung in Chains there, September, 1770, for robbing the -Mail. - - - - -BOB CRANKY’s ADIEU. - - -_On going with the Volunteer Association, from Gateshead to Newcastle, -on permanent Duty._ - -By JOHN SHIELD, of Newcastle. - - Fareweel, fareweel, ma comely pet! - Aw’s fourc’d three weeks to leave thee; - Aw’s doon for _parm’ent duty_ set, - O dinna let it grieve thee! - Ma hinny! wipe them e’en, sae breet, - That mine wi’ love did dazzle; - When thy heart’s sad can mine be leet! - Come, ho’way get a jill o’ beer, - Thy heart to cheer: - An’ when thou sees me mairch away, - Whiles in, whiles out - O’ step, nae doot, - “Bob Cranky’s gane--” thou’lt sobbing say, - “A sougering to Newcassel!” - - Come, dinna, dinna whinge and whipe, - Like yammering Isbel Macky; - Cheer up, ma hinny! leet thy pipe, - And take a blast o’ backy! - It’s but for yen and twenty days, - The foulks’s een aw’ll dazzle,-- - Prood, swagg’ring i’ my fine reed claes: - Odds heft! my pit claes--dist thou hear? - Are waurse o’ wear; - Mind cloot them weel, when aw’s away; - An’ a posie gown - Aw’ll buy thee soon, - An’ thou’s drink thy tea--aye, twice a-day, - When aw come frae Newcassel. - - Becrike! aw’s up tiv every rig, - Sae dinna doot, ma hinny! - But at the Blue stane o’ the Brig - Aw’ll ha’e ma mairching Ginny. - A Ginny! wuks! sae strange a seet - Ma een wi’ joy will dazzle; - But aw’ll hed spent that verra neet-- - For money, hinny! owre neet to keep, - Wad brick ma sleep: - Sae, smash! aw thinks’t a wiser way, - Wi’ flesh and beer - Mysel’ to cheer, - The lang three weeks that aw’ve to stay, - A sougering at Newcassel. - - But whisht! the sairgent’s tongue aw hear, - “Fa’ in! fa’ in!” he’s yelpin: - The fifes are whusslin’ lood an’ clear, - An’ sair the drums they’re skelpin. - Fareweel, ma comely! aw mun gang, - The Gen’ral’s een to dazzle; - But, hinny! if the time seems lang, - And thou freets about me neet an’ day; - Then come away, - Seek out the yell-house where aw stay, - An’ we’ll kiss and cuddle; - An’ mony a fuddle - Sall drive the langsome hours away, - When sougering at Newcassel. - - - - -O NO, MY LOVE, NO. - - -_By JOHN SHIELD, of Newcastle._ - - Whilst the dread voice of war thro’ the welkin rebellows, - And aspects undaunted our Volunteers show, - Do you think, O my Delia! to join the brave fellows, - My heart beats impatient? O no, my love, no. - - At the dawn of the day, their warm beds still forsaking, - To scamper thro’ _bogs_, or where prickly _whins_ grow, - When I view them of pastimes so martial partaking, - Do I sicken with envy? O no, my love, no. - - Array’d in full splendour, their arms brightly shining, - On _guard_ or on _picquet_, when proudly they go, - (For the pleasures of _permanent duty_ repining) - Do I sigh to go with them? O no, my love, no. - - Or think you that, eager to quell rude disorder, - What time our brave heroes shall face the dread foe, - I’ve determin’d to serve under Mr Recorder, - In the tip-staff battalion? O no, my love, no. - - What means, my lov’d Delia! that frown, now appearing? - Why, why does your brow such severity show? - And wherefore those glances, so cold and uncheering? - Do you think me a _poltroon_? O no, my love, no. - - Though I wear not a red coat, my honour’s untainted,-- - To Coventry ne’er was I fated to go; - But, whilst with the _plan of removal_ acquainted, - Can I, cruel, desert thee? O no, my love, no. - - Soon war from thy home may a fugitive send thee, - Soon give thee of keels and their huddocks to know; - In the Voyage to Newburn who’ll succour and tend thee; - Shall the task be another’s? O no, my love, no. - - Then wear not my Delia! an aspect so chilling, - Nor doubt that with ardour heroic I glow; - But love’s dear delights shall I barter for _drilling_? - That smile methinks answers,--“O no, my love, no.” - - - - -DELIA’s ANSWER. - - - Whilst the dread voice of war thro’ our island rebellows, - And aspects terrific proud Frenchmen still show, - Do you think, O my Colin! to join our brave fellows - I e’er would forbid you? O no, my love, no. - - At the dawn of the day, my bed cheerly forsaking, - I’d scamper thro’ _bogs_, or where prickly _whins_ grow; - On a view of your martial manœuvres partaking, - I vow ne’er to leave you: O no, my love, no. - - Array’d in full splendour, your arms brightly shining, - On _guard_ or on _picquet_, when proudly you go, - Or on _permanent duty_, do you think that, repining, - I’d sighing reprove you? O no, my love, no. - - Or when you are called to quell rude disorder, - Or with brother heroes shall face the dread foe, - If my honour I trusted to Mr Recorder, - Will he fail to protect me? O no, my love, no. - - What means, then, my Colin! that cold sweat appearing? - Why, why should your brow such timidity show? - And where are those glances so cold and uncheering? - Shall I think you a poltroon? O no, my love, no. - - Then, haste, wear a red coat, while your honour’s untainted, - Or to Coventry you may be fated to go; - And tho’ with the plan of removal acquainted, - I’ll not go to Newburn: O no, my love, no. - - Soon War from my home may a fugitive send me, - And which way, or how, I’m not anxious to know; - For I’ll follow the lads that are arm’d to defend me: - Shall the task be another’s? O no, my love, no. - - Then wear not, my Colin! an aspect so chilling, - Let your breast now with ardour heroic but glow, - Then love’s dear delights will I barter for _drilling_: - You sure can’t refuse me? O no, my love, no. - - - - -THE COLLIERS RANT. - - - As me and my marrow was ganning to wark, - We met with the devil, it was in the dark; - I up with my pick, it being in the neit, - I knock’d off his horns, likewise his club feet. - Follow the horses, Johnny my lad oh! - Follow them through, my canny lad oh! - Follow the horses, Johnny my lad oh! - Oh lad ly away, canny lad oh! - - As me and my marrow was putting the tram, - The lowe it went out, and my marrow went wrang; - You would have laugh’d had you seen the gam, - The deil gat my marrow, but I gat the tram, - Follow the horses, &c. - - Oh! marrow, oh! marrow, what dost thou think? - I’ve broken my bottle, and spilt a’ my drink; - I lost a’ my shin-splints among the great stanes, - Draw me t’ the shaft, it’s time to gan hame. - Follow the horses, &c. - - Oh! marrow, oh! marrow, where hast thou been? - Driving the drift from the low seam, - Driving the drift from the low seam: - Had up the lowe, lad, deil stop out thy een! - Follow the horses, &c. - - Oh! marrow, oh! marrow, this is wor pay week, - We’ll get penny loaves and drink to our beek; - And we’ll fill up our bumper, and round it shall go, - Follow the horses, Johnny lad oh! - Follow the horses, &c. - - There is my horse, and there is my tram; - Twee horns full of greese will make her to gang; - There is my hoggars, likewise my half shoon, - And smash my heart, marrow, my putting’s a’ done. - Follow the horses, Johnny my lad oh! - Follow them through my canny lad oh! - Follow the horses, Johnny my lad oh! - Oh lad ly away, canny lad oh! - - - - -WALKER PITS. - - -_Tune_--Off she goes. - - If I had another penny, - I would have another gill; - I would make the fidlers play - The Bonny Lads of Byker Hill. - Byker Hill and Walker Shore, - Collery lads for ever more; - Byker Hill and Walker Shore, - Collery lads for ever more. - - When I cam to Walker wark, - I had ne coat nor ne pit sark; - But now aw’ve getten twe or three, - Walker pit’s deun weel for me. - Byker Hill and Walker shore, - Collery lads for ever more; - Byker Hill and Walker Shore, - Collery lads for ever more. - - - - -THE BONNY PIT LADDIE. - - - The bonny pit laddie, the cannie pit laddie, - The bonny pit laddie for me, O! - He sits in his hole as black as a coal, - And brings the white siller to me, O! - - The bonny pit laddie, the cannie pit laddie, - The bonny pit laddie for me, O! - He sits on his cracket, and hews in his jacket, - And brings the white siller to me, O! - - - - -THE PITMAN’s REVENGE AGAINST BUONAPARTE. - - - Hae ye heard o’ these wondrous dons, - That make this mighty fuss, man, - About invading Briton’s land? - I vow they’re wondrous spruce, man: - But little do the Frenchmen ken - About our loyal Englishmen; - Our collier lads are for cockades, - And guns to shoot the French, man. - Toll loll de roll de roll de roll. - - Then to parade the pitmen went, - Wi’ hearts both stout and strong, man; - Gad smash the French, we are so strang, - We’ll shoot them ev’ry one, man: - Gad smash me sark if I would stick - To tumble them a’ down the pit, - As fast as I could thraw a coal, - I’d tumble them a’ down the hole, - And close her in aboon, man. - Toll loll, &c. - - Heads up, says one, ye silly sow, - Ye dinna mind the word, man: - Eyes right, says Tom, and wi’ a dam, - And march off at the word, man: - Did ever mortals see sic brutes, - To order me to lift my kutes? - Ad smash the fool, he stands and talks, - How can he learn me to walk, - That’s walk’d this forty year, man? - Toll loll, &c. - - But should the Frenchmen shew their face - Upon our waggon ways, man, - Then there upon the road, you know, - We’d make them end their days, man: - Ay Bonaparte’s sel I’d take, - And throw him in the burning heap, - And with great speed I’d roast him deed; - His marrows then I wad nae heed, - We’d pick out a’ their een, man. - Toll loll, &c. - - Says Willy Dunn to loyal Tom, - Your words are all a joke, man; - For Geordy winna hae your help, - Ye’re sic kamstarie fowk, man: - Then Willy lad, we’ll rest in peace, - In hopes that a’ the wars may cease; - But I’s gie ye, Wull, to understand, - As lang as I can wield my hand, - There’s nane but George shall reign, man. - Toll loll, &c. - - Enough of this has shure been said, - Cry’d Cowardly Willy Dunn, man; - For should the Frenchmen come this way, - We’d be ready for to run, man. - Gad smash you for a fool, says Tom, - For if I could not use my gun, - I’d take my pick, I’d hew them down, - And run and cry through a’ the town, - God save great George our king, man. - Toll loll, &c. - - - - -THE COLLIERS’ PAY WEEK. - - - The Baff week is o’er--no repining-- - Pay-Saturday’s swift on the wing; - At length the blythe morning comes shining, - When kelter makes colliers sing: - ’Tis Spring, and the weather is cheary, - The birds whistle sweet on the spray; - Now coal working lads, trim and airy, - To Newcastle town hie away. - - Those married jog on with their _hinnies_, - Their canny bairns go by their side; - The daughters keep teazing their minnies - For new cloaths to keep up their pride: - They plead--Easter Sunday does fear them, - For, if they have nothing that’s new, - The _Crow_, spiteful bird! will besmear them; - Oh then! what a sight for to view! - - The young men, full blithsome and jolly, - March forward, all decently clad; - Some lilting up, “_Cut-and-dry, Dolly_,” - Some singing, “_The bonny Pit Lad_:” - The pranks that were play’d at last binding - Engage some in humourous chat; - Some halt by the way-side on finding - Primroses to place in their hat. - - Bob Cranky, Jack Hogg, and Dick Marley, - Bill Hewitt, Luke Carr, and Tom Brown, - In one jolly squad set off early - From Benwell to Newcastle town: - Such hewers as they (none need doubt it) - Ne’er handled a shovel or pick; - In high or low seam they could suit it, - In regions next door to Old Nick. - - Some went to buy hats and new jackets, - And others to see a bit fun; - And some wanted leather and tackets - To cobble their canny pit shoon: - Save the ribbon Dick’s dear had requested, - (Aware he had plenty of chink) - There was no other care him infested, - Unless ’twere his care for good drink. - - [In the morning the dry man advances - To purl-shop to toss off a gill, - Ne’er dreading the ills and mischances - Attending on those who _sit still_: - The drink, Reason’s monitor quelling, - Inflames both the brain and the eyes; - The inchantment commenc’d, there’s no telling - When care-drowning tipplers will rise. - - O MALT! we acknowledge thy powers - What _good_ and what _ill_ dost thou brew! - Our good _friend_ in moderate hours-- - Our _enemy_ when we get fu’: - Could thy vot’ries avoid the fell furies - So often awaken’d by thee, - We would seldom need Judges or Juries - To send folk to Tyburn tree!] - - At length in Newcastle they centre-- - In _Hardy’s_,[4] a house much renown’d, - The jovial company enter, - Where stores of good liquor abound: - As quick as the servants could fill it, - (Till emptied was quarts half a score) - With heart-burning thirst down they swill it, - And thump on the table for more. - - While thus in fine cue they are seated, - Young cock-fighting Ned from the Fell[5] - Peep’d in--his “_How dye?_” repeated, - And hop’d they were all very well; - He swore he was pleased to see them-- - One rose up to make him sit down, - And join in good fellowship wi’ them, - For him they would spend their last crown. - - The liquor beginning to warm them, - In friendship the closer they knit, - And tell and hear jokes--and, to charm them, - Comes ROBIN, from Denton-Bourn pit; - An odd witty, comical fellow, - At either a jest or a tale, - Especially when he was mellow - With drinking stout Newcastle ale. - - With bousing, and laughing, and smoking, - The time slippeth swiftly away; - And while they are ranting and joking - The church-clock proclaims it mid-day; - And now for black-puddings, long measure, - They go to TIB TROLLIBAG’S stand, - And away bear the glossy rich treasure, - With joy, like curl’d bugles in hand. - - And now a choice house they agreed on, - Not far from the head of the Quay; - Where they their black puddings might feed on - And spend the remains of the day; - Where pipers and fiddlers resorted, - To pick up the straggling pence, - And where the pit lads often sported - Their money at Fiddle and Dance. - - BLIND WILLIE[6] the fidler sat scraping, - In corner just as they went in: - Some Willington callants were shaking - Their feet to his musical din: - Jack vow’d he would have some fine cap’ring, - As soon as their dinner was o’er, - With the lassie that wore the white apron, - Now reeling about on the floor. - - Their hungry stomachs being eased, - And gullets well clear’d with a glass, - Jack rose from the table and seized - The hand of the frolicsome lass. - “Ma hinny!” says he, “pray excuse me-- - To ask thee to dance I make free.” - She reply’d, “I’d be loth to refuse thee! - Now fiddler play--“Jigging for me.”” - - The damsel displays all her graces, - The collier exerts all his power, - They caper in circling paces, - And _set_ at each end of the floor: - He jumps, and his heels knack and rattle, - At turns of the music so sweet - He makes such a thundering brattle, - The floor seems afraid of his feet. - - This couple being seated, rose Bob up, - He wish’d to make one in a jig; - But a Wellington lad set his gob up,-- - O’er him there should none “_run the rig_.” - For now ’twas his turn for a caper, - And he would dance first as he’d rose; - Bob’s passion beginning to vapour, - He twisted his opponent’s nose. - - The Willington lads, for their Franky, - Jump’d up, to revenge the foul deed; - And those in behalf of Bob Cranky - Sprung forward--for now there was need. - Bob canted the form, with a kevel, - As he was exerting his strength; - But he got on the lug such a _nevel_, - That down he came all his long length. - - Tom Brown, from behind the long table, - Impatient to join in the fight, - Made a spring, some rude foe to disable, - For he was a man of some might: - Misfortune, alas! was attending, - An accident fill’d him with fear; - An old rusty nail his flesh rending, - Oblig’d him to slink in the rear. - - When sober, a mild man was Marley, - More apt to join friends than make foes; - But rais’d by the juice of the barley, - He put in some sobbling blows. - And cock-fighting Ned was their Hector, - A courageous fellow, and stout: - He stood their bold friend and protector, - And thump’d the opponents about. - - All hand-over-head, topsy turvy, - They struck with fists, elbows, and feet, - A Wellington callant, called Gurvy, - Was top-tails tost over the seat: - Luke Carr had one eye clos’d entire; - And what is a serio-farce, - Poor Robin was cast on the fire, - His breeks torn and burnt off his a--e. - - Oh, Robin! what argued thy speeches? - Disaster now makes thee quite mum; - Thy wit could not save the good breeches, - That mencefully cover’d thy bum: - To some slop-shop now thou may go trudging, - And lug out some squandering coins; - For now ’tis too late to be grudging,-- - Thou cannot go home with bare groins. - - How the warfaring companies parted, - The Muse chuseth not to proclaim; - But, ’tis thought, that, being rather down-hearted, - They quietly went--“toddling hame.” - Now ye Collier callants, so clever, - Residing ’tween Tyne and the Wear, - Beware, when you fuddle together, - Of making too free with strong beer. - -[4] Sign of the Black Boy, Groat Market. - -[5] Gateshead Fell. - -[6] William Purvis, a blind fidler so called. - - - - -THE QUAYSIDE SHAVER. - - -Formerly on the Sandhill, and afterwards on the Quay, near the Bridge, -were people (chiefly women) who, in the open street, on market days, -performed the office of Barber. - - On each market day, Sir, the folks to the Quay, Sir, - Go flocking with beards they have seven days worn. - And round the small grate, Sir, in crowds they all wait, Sir, - To get themselves shav’d in a rotative turn; - Old soldiers on sticks, Sir, about politics, Sir, - Debate--till at length they quite heated have grown; - May nothing escape, Sir, until _Madame Scrape_, Sir, - Cries, “Gentlemen, who is the next to sit down?” - - A medley the place is, of those that sell laces, - With fine shirt-neck buttons, and good cabbage nets; - Where match-men, at meeting, give a kind greeting, - And ask one another how trade with them sets: - Join’d in with _Tom Hoggars_ and little _Bob Nackers_, - Who wander the streets in their fuddling gills; - And those folks with bags, Sir, who buy up old rags, Sir, - That deal in fly-cages, and paper windmills. - - There pitmen, with baskets and gay posey waistcoats, - Discourse about nought but whee puts and hews best: - There keelmen, just landed, swear may they be stranded, - If they’re not shav’d first while their keel’s at the _Fest_; - With a face of coal dust, would frighten one almost, - Thro’ off hat and wig, while they usurp the chair; - While others stand looking, and think it provoking, - But, for the insult, to oppose them none dare. - - When under the chin, Sir, she tucks the cloth in, Sir, - Their old quid they’ll pop in the pea-jacket cuff; - And while they are sitting, do nought but keep spitting, - And looking around with an air fierce and bluff: - Such tales as go round, Sir, would be sure to confound, Sir, - And puzzle the prolific brain of the wise; - But when she prepares, Sir, to take off the hair, Sir, - With lather, she whitens them up to the eyes. - - No sooner the razor is laid on the face, Sir, - Then painful distortions take place on the brow; - But if they complain, Sir, they’ll find it in vain, Sir, - She’ll tell them there’s nought but what _Patience_ can do; - And as she scrapes round ’em, if she by chance wound ’em, - They’ll cry out as tho’ she’d bereav’d them of life, - “’Od smash your brains, woman! I find the blood’s coming, - “I’d rather been shav’d with an au’d gully knife!” - - For all they can say, Sir, she still rasps away, Sir, - And sweeps round their jaw, the chop torturing tool; - Till they in a pet, Sir, request her to whet, Sir: - But she gives them for answer, “Sit still you pist fool!” - For all their repining, their twisting and twining, - She forward proceeds till she’s mown off the hair; - When finish’d, cries, “There Sir;” then straight from the chair, Sir, - They’ll jump, crying, “Daresay you’ve scrap’d the bone bare!” - - - - -SWALWELL HOPPING. - - -By J.S. of Gateshead. - -_Tune--“Paddy’s Wedding.”_ - - Lads! myek a ring, - An’ hear huz sing - The sport we had at Swalwell-o; - Wour merry play, - O’ th’ Hoppen day? - Howay! marrows, an’ aw’ll tell you-o. - The sun shines warm on Whickham bank, - Let’s aw lye down at Dolly’s-o, - An’ hear ’bout mony a funny prank - Play’d by the lads at Crowley’s-o. - - There was Sam, O zoons! - Wiv’s pantaloons, - An’ gravat up owre his gobby-o; - An’ Willy, thou, - Wi’ th’ jacket blue, - Thou was the varra Bobby-o: - There was knack knee’d Mat, wiv’s purple suit, - An’ hopper-a--s’d Dick, a’ yellow-o: - Great Tom was there wi’ H--ple’s awd coat, - An’ bucksheen’d Bob fra Stella-o. - - When we wour drest, - It was confest, - We shemm’d the cheps fra Newcassel-o: - So away we set - To wour town gyet, - To jeer them a’ as they pass’d us-o; - We shouted some, and some dung down-- - Lobstrop’lus fellows, we kick’d them-o: - Some culls went hyem, some crush’d to town, - Some gat about by Whickham-o. - - The spree com on-- - The hat was won - By carrot-pow’d Jenny’s Jacky-o: - What a fyess, begok! - Had buckle-mouth’d Jock, - When he twin’d his jaws for the backy-o! - The kilted lasses fell tid pell mell, - Wi’--Tally-i-o the grinder-o-- - The smock was gi’en to slavering Nell; - Ye’d dropp’d had ye been behind her-o. - - Wour dance began, - Awd buck-tyuth’d Nan, - An’, Geordy, thou’d Jen Collin-o: - While the merry black, - Wi’ monny a crack, - Set the tamborine a rolling-o. - Like wour forge hammer we bet se true, - An shuk Raw’s house se soundly-o: - Tuff canna cum up wi’ Crowley’s crew, - Nor thump the tune se roundly-o. - - Then Gyetside Jack, - Wiv’s bloody back, - Wad dance wi’ goggle-ey’d Mally-o; - But up cam Nick, - An’ gav him a kick, - An’ a canny bit kind of a fally-o: - That day a’ Hawk’s blacks may rue,-- - They gat monny a verra sair clanker-o; - Can they de ouse wi’ Crowley’s crew, - Frev a needle tiv a anchor-o? - - What’s that to say - To the bonny fray - We had wi’ skipper Robin-o: - The keel bullies a’, - Byeth great and sma’, - Myed a bu----ly tide o’ the Hoppen-o. - Gleed Will cry’d, _Ma-a!_ up lup awd Frank, - An’ Robin that marry’d his dowter-o: - We hammer’d their ribs like a anchor shark - They fand it six weeks after-o. - - Bald pyet Jone Carr - Wad hev a bit spar, - To help his marrows away wid-o: - But poor awd fellow, - He’d getten ower mellow, - So we down’d byeth him and Davy-o: - Then Petticoat Robin jumpt up agyen, - Wiv’s gully to mercykree huz a’, - But Willanton Dan laid him flat wiv a styen: - Hurro! for Crowley’s crew, boys a’! - - Their hash was sattled, - So off we rattled, - An’ jigg’d it up se hearty-o? - Wi’ monny a shiver, - An’ lowp se clever, - Can Newcassel turn out sec a party-o? - When, wheit dyun ower, the fidlers went, - We stagger’d a hint see merry-o: - An’ thro’ wour town, till fairly spent, - Roar’d--Crowley’s Crew an’ Glory-o! - - - - -THE SANDGATE GIRL’s LAMENTATION. - - - I was a young maiden truly, - And lived in Sandgate street; - I thought to marry a good-man, - To keep me warm at neit. - Some good-like body, some bonny body, - To be with me at noon; - But last I married a keelman, - And my good days are done. - - I thought to marry a parson, - To hear me say my prayers; - But I have married a keelman, - And he kicks me down the stairs. - He’s an ugly body, a bubbly body, - An ill-far’d, ugly loon; - And I have married a keelman, - And my good days are done. - - I thought to marry a dyer, - To die my apron blue; - But I have married a keelman, - And he makes me sorely rue. - He’s an ugly body, a bubbly body, - An ill-far’d, ugly loon; - And I have married a keelman, - And my good days are done. - - I thought to marry a joiner, - To make me chair and stool; - But I have married a keelman, - And he’s a perfect fool. - He’s an ugly body, a bubbly body, - An ill-far’d, ugly loon; - And I have married a keelman, - And my good days are done. - - I thought to marry a sailor, - To bring me sugar and tea; - But I have married a keelman, - And that he lets me see. - He’s an ugly body, a bubbly body, - An ill-far’d, ugly loon; - And I have married a keelman, - And my good days are done. - - - - -_A curious Description of the City of Sandgate_, Wrote some Years ago. - - - My muse took flight the other day, - And rambling carelessly, astray; - I set my thoughts a wand’ring too, - The fleeting rover to pursue. - Yet as she has an itching still, - To mount the great Parnassus hill, - I straightway thither did repair, - But found she never had been there; - That being too divine a place, - For her to chant unhallow’d lays; - When turning quick my eye around - On Tindale’s shore, the wand’rer found, - Where she was taking a survey, - Of all that in her compass lay; - A medley of such objects rose, - Which pen but faintly can disclose; - But being in a merry pin, - And to describe them did begin:-- - - Sandgate’s the devil’s besom sure, - With which oft times he sweeps the floor; - The air’s with glasshouse smoke infected, - Confusion of all kinds collected; - Nothing but murm’ring, noise, and swearing, - Shocks your conscience, grates your hearing. - The women black, red, tawny, grey, - Who seldom go to church to pray; - Who’s sides are ne’er to stays confin’d, - To cramp their natural ease behind. - Nor modestly do they think shame, - To act what I don’t chuse to name; - Nor do they stop, when they think meet, - To act their lewdness in the street; - Whole lots of them do nightly sport, - With black and grey, and every sort: - Oft in a cannhouse you may view, - A gang of this sweet scented crew. - Who when they grow a little mellow, - Begin to sing and swear and bellow; - Like madmen in a rage or fury, - Not fearing either judge or jury; - Nor do I err much when I tell, - They’ve little dread of heav’n or hell. - - The wife her husband thus addresses, - With doubled fist and flowing tresses,-- - “Come, Tom, make haste, let us away, - The tide flows high, we cannot stay.” - “Nay, answers Tom, deel smash my heart! - Let us but have the other quart.” - She then begins to sing a song, - Would frighten any man but Tom,-- - “You idle spendthrift, scant of grace, - I wish I ne’er had seen your face; - A cleanlier lass was never bred, - When I came to your bridal bed. - Had fouth of claiths to clead my back, - But now I’ve scarce a single plack: - You’ve left me bare of bed and claiths, - Deel brust you, by your graceless ways; - And when you’re drunk as you can see, - Come home and curse the bairns and me. - Turn topsy turvy all the house, - And every thing in it abuse; - Throw all the dishes off the shelf, - The platters, dubblers, and the delf. - And set the plates and spoons, in joke, - A flying round the room like smoke: - And when your family’s in need, - And like to starve for want of breed, - You’ll grudge for haver-meal to pay, - To make them crowdies once a day. - These are your pranks, you murd’ring rogue, - That every day you have in vogue; - And if you do not mend your course, - I must go beg--or else do worse.” - Tom out his hand at last did stretch, - “What ails you now? you grumbling bitch, - Peace! or your hide I’ll soundly switch. - Do not I almost ev’ry day, - At the _lang hinney’s_ o’er the way, - See Geordy Jenkin’s wife and you, - Drinking clove waters till you spue! - Go to the devil with your brats, - And vex me not with d----’d pit-rats, - That are not all of my begetting, - But plants of other people’s setting. - Since you have oft, by your confession, - From my embraces made digression, - Go home, G-d d--n your soul, and spin, - Or else, by L--d, I’ll lamb your skin.” - - Thus fast unto destruction hasting, - Their health consuming, money wasting; - They drink, and ne’er for home declare, - Until they’re pockets are quite bare. - Here mangy Scots from banks of Tay, - With scarce a plaid to bear away; - Half-starv’d, they from the frozen North, - Like swarms of locusts, sally forth, - Worse than before, on Pharaoh’s land, - Were sent by the Almighty hand; - Such hardness of their hearts to purge, - And for their wickedness them scourge: - This mugletonian blackguard breed, - Upon our very vitals feed; - And, like the whelps of Juno’s pack, - Of Scots infection bring a smack; - When hither come, they seldom fail - To scrape the scabs from off their tail; - By artful tricks, and well form’d lies, - To skippers or such like, they rise: - And thus get breeches warm to wear, - To hide their a--e that then was bare; - And then set up their crops and talk, - As if they sprung from noble stalk. - - At midnight these, and such like sots, - With noddles full, from stinking pots - Of rank geneva, and of rum, - They raise a scent where’er they come; - Reel, cursing, in a grumbling tone, - In some dark lane, where sun ne’er shone, - But darkness dire, surrounds the place, - An emblem of their foul disgrace: - Oft in a house decay’d with age, - Which scarce will bear the winter’s rage; - Whose crazy outshots threat’ning hing - About their ears, a peal to ring; - They tumble in one common bed, - Where all are there promiscuous laid; - And ten to one, but as they fall, - They break their heads against the wall; - Nor do they mind to choose their wives, - With whom they’re bound to lead their lives; - But to the first they come do keep, - Where, if they’re drunk, they fall asleep. - If not, there’s oft a general horning - Takes place before the next day morning.-- - Gomorrah ne’er could fuller be - Than _Sandgate_ with impiety, - So cramm’d with immorality - Is every one, that if there be - A place on earth resembling hell, - That lot on _Sandgate_ surely fell:-- - Each soul’s as bad as ---- I’ll prove it. - This is _Sandgate_,--can you love it? - - - - -THE CROW’S NEST, _Built on the Top of the Exchange Steeple[7]; with a -Prophecy, by One of the Crows, of what is to happen the Nation, and -particularly the Town of Newcastle._ - - When war’s destructive rage did cease, - In fatal, humbling, _eighty-three_,[8] - And men were blest again with peace, - We wond’rous prodigies did see. - - The Thirteen (once prescribed) States, - Doom’d by the hangman’s cord to die; - Great kings (so th’ will’d all pow’rful fates) - Before them almost prostrate lie. - - Then fair Italia’s classic ground, - And rich Sicilia’s beauteous shore, - With palaces and temples crown’d, - Alas! alas! are now no more[9]. - - But stranger prodigies than these - Appear in Britain’s happy land, - (They say, “that wonders never cease,”) - For North and Fox go hand in hand. - - R--h--d and S--d--ch, of one mind, - And all their mutual wrongs forgive, - (What wonders can be left behind!) - And henceforth like twin brothers live. - - The frenzy seiz’d the feather’d race, - For (now when _Pitt_ would mend the nation) - The crows on Captain Stephenson’s trees, - Sat, settling plans of reformation. - - An aged Rook perch’d on a bough, - With hoary head and jetty wing, - His plumy neighbours round him drew, - And Britain’s fate he thus did sing. - - “Listen, ye Crows, my brethren all, - And hear what my ill-boding mind - Fortells--Britannia soon must fall! - I snuff its ruin in the wind. - - “For kings, by tyranny, have driven - Fair Freedom from Europa’s States; - (Freedom! thou choicest gift of Heaven!) - Then hear the doom fix’d by the fates:-- - - “Since men the heavenly gift despise, - And o’er th’ Atlantic Freedom’s fled, - Plagues, famine, tyranny, and wars shall rise, - And endless woes shall all succeed! - - “Let’s search for th’ ACHANS in the camp, - That thus have caus’d our Israel’s woes; - --Yes, kings, and all the bishop-stamp, - I dread, have been the lurking foes! - - “For never shall the land have peace, - As good Lord George[10], and David say? - Till from our isle we banish these, - And drive such rogues a-cross the sea.” - - The sable crowd croak’d hoarse applause, - And highly charm’d were with th’ oration, - Till one fierce crow their notice draws, - Who thus address’d the feather’d nation:-- - - “Rebels accurs’d!” he frown’d and cried, - “How could you this old traitor hear? - Who thus dare kings and priests deride, - Whom men should worship and revere. - - “I see your doom, ye trait’rous crew!”-- - Th’ impatient throng would hear no more; - With furious bills they at him flew, - And in a moment had him tore---- - - Had he not clapt his wings and fled, - And taken refuge on th’ Exchange; - And from its top he bow’d his head, - And spoke the crowds that round him range:-- - - “Mortals, attend with reverend awe, - Mark well my words, Newcastle people, - I’ll do what yet you never saw, - I build my nest upon this steeple. - - “From this most happy omen, know - What blessings shall to you be given; - What peace and choicest gifts shall flow - From the all-kind, all-bounteous heaven. - - “And first of all shall taxes cease, - Provisions fall, and there shall be - Rich golden crops, the fruits of peace, - And choicest product of the sea. - - “Then polish’d manners shall prevail; - --Would you believe!--but you shall see - Millers no more your corn shall steal; - And doctors cure without a fee. - - “Lawyers by strife shall cease to thrive; - And what’s more strange--aye, is it not? - The milk, and every other tythe, - Shall all be dropt by _Doctor Scott_! - - “Then _Windydrum_ shall cease to sneer, - And _Shorthorn_ shall turn wond’rous civil;[11] - And after them you scarce need fear - To cultivate the very devil! - - “Another prodigy comes next, - (When my nest shall be builded here,) - Parsons shall live up to their text; - And keelmen then shall dread to swear. - - “Fish-women, too, shall then forget - To call their neighbours whores and bitches; - But what is most surprising yet-- - Your Al---- shall ALL be WITCHES.” - -[7] In the year 1783, a pair of crows built their nest upon the vane of -the Exchange, and continued many years to rear their young. - -[8] Alluding to the Peace of 1783, after the American War. - -[9] Alluding to a dreadful earthquake in Italy, which happened shortly -before the publication of this, by which 270 cities and towns were -destroyed, and 200,000 people perished. - -[10] Lord George Gordon, who at this time was very popular. - -[11] Alluding to two persons in Newcastle, noted for their political -principles. - - - - -_The following Song was published in December, 1791 as from One of the -Rooks which then built their Nest on the Vane of the Exchange, and -addressed to the good People of_ BUR-_CASTLE_. - - - Rough roll’d the roaring river’s stream, - And rapid ran the rain, - When Robert Rutter dreamt a dream, - Which rack’d his heart with pain: - He dreamt there was a raging bear - Rush’d from the rugged rocks; - And strutting round with horrid stare, - Breath’d terror to the Brocks[12]. - - But Robert Rutter drew his sword, - And rushing forward right, - The horrid creature’s thrapple gor’d, - And barr’d his rueful spite: - Then stretching forth his brawny arm, - To drag him to the stream, - He grappled grizzle, rough and warm, - Which rouz’d him from his dream. - -[12] Badgers. - - - - -SONS OF THE TYNE.--1805. - - - Attend to my summons, ye _British_ Electors, - ’Tis freedom announces your instant support, - No longer your confidence place in Protectors, - Who pillage your Rights, and of Laws make a sport; - _Britannia_ demands your hearts and your hands, - Away to assist her, the cause is divine. - Come, see - Freedom and Liberty - Nobly exerting the Sons of the _Tyne_. - - ’Twas Liberty gave us our Commerce and Treasure, - She taught us to cultivate Science and Mirth, - To patronize Learning and true social pleasure, - To lighten the heart, and give Jollity birth, - Come, come _Britons_ all, ’tis Liberty’s call, - Away with all speed to her sacred shrine. - Come, see - Freedom and Liberty - Nobly exerting the Sons of the _Tyne_. - - With Freedom all Nations we hold in defiance, - The Glory of _Britain_ o’er Earth she has hurl’d, - And Monarchs despotic, now court our alliance, - The terror of States, and the pride of the World. - Long, long on our Isle, may Liberty smile, - And bless us with _Brunswick’s_ illustrious Line. - Come, see - Freedom and Liberty - Nobly exerting the Sons of the _Tyne_. - - Be happy ye fair ones whom Freedom has given, - The virtue and spirit her cause to maintain, - Whose raiment outvies with the mantle of Heaven, - When _Phœbus_ unclouded, just starts from the Main, - To guard love and beauty, we make it our duty, - To aid their felicity, ever combine; - Come, see - Daughters of Liberty, - Greeting with rapture the Sons of the _Tyne_. - - - - -JESMOND MILL. - - -_By Phill Hodgson, of Newcastle._ - - To sing some nymph in her cot - Each bard will oft flourish his quill: - I’m glad it has fall’n to my lot - To celebrate Jesmond Mill. - - When spring hither winds her career, - Our trees and our hedges to fill, - Vast oceans of verdure appear - To charm you at Jesmond Mill. - - To plant every rural delight - Mere Nature has lavish’d her skill; - Here fragrant soft breezes unite - To wanton round Jesmond Mill. - - When silence each evening here dwells, - The birds in their coverts all still; - No music in sweetness excels - The clacking of Jesmond Mill. - - Reclin’d by the verge of the stream, - Or stretch’d on the side of the hill, - I’m never in want of a theme - While learning at Jesmond Mill. - - Sure Venus some plot has design’d, - Or why is my heart never still, - Whenever it pops in my mind - To wander near Jesmond Mill? - - My object, ye swains, you will guess, - If ever in love you had skill; - And now, I will frankly confess, - ’Tis--Jenny of Jesmond Mill. - - - - -PANDON DEAN. - - -_A Song published in Sept. 1776, under the Name of Rosalinda._ - - When cooling zephyrs wanton play, - Then oft in Pandon Dean I stray; - When sore dispers’d with grief and woe, - Then from a busy world I go; - My mind is calm, my soul serene, - Beneath the Bank in Pandon Dean. - - The feather’d race around me sing, - They make the hills and vallies ring; - My sorrow flies, my grief is gone, - I warble with the tuneful throng; - All, all things wear a pleasing mien, - Beneath the Bank in Pandon Dean. - - At distance stands an ancient tower, - Which ruin threatens every hour; - I’m struck with reverence at the sight, - I pause and gaze with fond delight; - The antique walls do join the scene, - And makes more lovely Pandon Dean. - - Above me stand the towering trees, - While here I feel the gentle breeze; - The water flows by chance around, - And green enamels all the ground: - Which gives new splendour to the scene, - And adds a grace to Pandon Dean. - - But when I mount the rising hill, - And there survey the purling rill, - My eye delighted--but I mourn, - To think of winter’s quick return; - With withering winds and frost so keen, - I sighing leave the Pandon Dean. - - O spare for once a female pen, - And lash licentious wicked men; - Your conscious cheek need never glow, - If you your talents thus bestow: - Scarce fifteen summers have I seen, - Yet dare to sing of Pandon Dean. - - - - -NANNY OF THE TYNE. - - -By J.M. WEDDERBURN, of Newcastle. - -_Set to Music by John Aldridge, Jun. of Newcastle._ - - Whilst bards, in strains that sweetly flow, - Extol each nymph so fair, - Be mine my Nanny’s worth to show-- - Her captivating air. - What swain can gaze without delight - On beauty there so fine? - The Graces all their charms unite - In Nanny of the Tyne. - - Far from the noise of giddy courts - The lovely charmer dwells; - Her cot the haunt of harmless sports, - In virtue she excells. - With modesty, good nature join’d, - To form the nymph divine; - And truth, with innocence combin’d, - In Nanny of the Tyne. - - Flow on, smooth stream, in murmurs sweet - Glide gently past her cot; - ’Tis peace and virtue’s calm retreat,-- - Ye great ones envied not. - And you, ye fair, whom folly leads - Through all her paths supine, - Tho’ drest in pleasure’s garb, exceeds - Not Nanny of the Tyne. - - Can art to nature e’er compare, - Or win us to believe - But that the frippery of the fair - Were made but to deceive. - Strip from the belle the dress so gay, - Which fashion calls divine, - Will she such loveliness display - As Nanny of the Tyne? - - - - -THE BLUE BELL OF GATESHEAD. - - -_By W.B. of Gateshead._ - - Oh! where, and oh where does your bonny lassie dwell? - Oh! where, and oh where does your bonny lassie dwell? - She lives in canny Gateshead, at the sign of the Blue Bell: - And it’s oh! in my heart, but I love my lassie well. - - And what’s best compar’d to the mind of your true love? - And what’s best compar’d to the mind of your true love? - The meekness of a lamb, and th’ innocence of the dove; - These are the true emblems of the mind of her I love. - - In what, and in what does your bonny lass excell? - In what, and in what does your bonny lass excell? - She’s modest as the daisy, sweet as the heather-bell; - And it’s oh! in my heart, I love my lassie well. - - And what wad ye dee to please the maid you love? - And what wad ye dee to please the maid you love? - I’d be a saikless wanderer, and through the wide world rov - Till death clos’d my eyes--to please the maid I love. - - - - -THE NEWCASTLE SIGNS. - - -_Written by Mr CECIL PITT, and sung at the Theatre-Royal, Newcastle, by -Mr SCRIVEN, June 4, 1806._ - - Should the French in Newcastle but dare to appear, - At each sign they would meet with indifferent cheer; - From the Goat, and the Hawk, from the Bell, and the Waggon, - And Dog they would skip, as St George made the Dragon. - - The Billet, the Highlander, Cross Keys, and Sun, - The Eagle, and Ships too, would shew ’em some fun; - The Three Kings and Unicorn, Bull’s Head, and Horse, - Would prove that the farther they went they’d fare worse. - - At the Black House, a _strong-Arm_ would lay ev’ry man on, - And they’d quickly go off, if they got in the Cannon; - The Nelson and Turk’s Head their fears would increase, - And they’d run from the Swan like a parcel of geese. - - At the York, and the Cumberland, Cornwallis too, - With our fighting Cocks, sure they’d find plenty to do; - The Nag’s Head, and Lions, would cut such an evil, - And the Angel would drive the whole crew to the devil. - - At the World, and the Fountain, the Bridge, Crown and Thistle, - The Bee-Hive and Tuns, for a drop they might whistle; - With our Prince, or our Crown, should they dare interpose, - They’d prick their French fingers well under the Rose. - - At the Half-Moon, the Wheat-Sheaf, and Old Barley-Mow, - A sup’s to be got,--if they could but tell how; - If they call’d at the Bull and the Tyger, to ravage, - As well as the Black Boy, they’d find ’em quite savage. - - At the Ark, and the Anchor, Pack Horse, and Blue Posts, - And the Newmarket Inn, they would find but rough hosts; - The Old Star and Garter, Cock, Anchor, and more, - Would prove like the Grapes, all most cursedly sour. - - The Lion and Lamb, Plough, and Old Robin Hood, - With the Crane House, would check these delighters in blood; - From the Butcher’s Arms quick they’d be running away, - And we all know that Shakespear would shew ’em some play. - - At the White Hart, Three Bull’s Heads, the Old Dog and Duck, - If they did not get thrash’d they’d escape by good luck; - At the Bird in the Bush, Metter’s Arms, Peacock, they’d fast, - And our King’s and Queen’s Heads we’ll defend till the last. - - May the sign of the King ever meet with respect, - And our great Constitution each Britain protect; - And may he who would humble our old British Crown, - Be hung on a Sign-post till I take him down. - - - - -THE NEWCASTLE BELLMAN. - - -_As sung by MR NOBLE, at the Theatre Royal, in 1803._ - - Talk no more of brave Nelson, or gallant Sir Sidney, - ’Tis granted they’re Tars of a true British kidney; - And people are curious, such heroes to see, - But neither, are half so much follow’d as Me; - O when, ding dong, ding dong, my Bell goes, - Carts, Barrows, are stopt at the sound; - Each news-loving Porter, straight makes a fill pause, - And wonder-struck, shews the full stretch of his Jaws, - When sonorous I publish all round.---- - -_FIRST CALL._ - -LOST! on Saturday Evening last, between Love Lane and the Long Stairs; -a _Tarrier Dog_, entirely White, with two Brown Ears and a Black Spot -upon his Tail, and answers to the Name of _Shak’em_; the Dog was last -seen at the Entrance of the Close: and has got an ugly Trick of shaking -his Right Ear and Tail as he walks;--is considered to be rather deaf, -as he does not always answer to the first call----Whosoever will bring -him to me shall be handsomely rewarded: and any detaining him after -this Notice, will be prosecuted according to Law.---- - - With Orators sir, e’en senate to grace, - What town’s better stock’d, pray, than this canny place, - Ah! would you, the flow’r of those Orators see? - _Ecce Homo’s_ the word,--you behold him in Me! - O when ding dong, ding dong, my Bell goes, - Shoe-makers with joy catch the sound; - And truly like so many Larks they are found: - Each swiftly descends from his garret on high; - When sonorous I publish all round. - -_SECOND CALL._ - -STOLEN or Strayed, from a field in Pandon Dean, three beautiful _smoke -colour’d Sheep_, marked T.G. justly esteemed the most picturesque -Ornaments of that celebrated Vale.----The Admirers of rural Scenery -hereby offer a _handsome Reward_ to whoever will bring them back to -the Dean, if strayed, or give such information as may convict the -_Mutton-loving Rogues_, who have stolen them. - - The Town Marshal proclaims peace, incomp’rably well, - Few, at calling a Fair, the Sheriff’s Serjeant excell; - But in _Pathos_, the Critics, _mem. con._ do agree, - The Marshal and Serjeant must both yield to Me; - O when ding dong, ding dong, my Bell goes, - Barbers prick up their ears at the sound; - And heedless how half-shaven customers swear, - Come eagerly running my budget to hear, - When sonorous I publish all round. - -_THIRD CALL._ - -FOUND, last Winter, near the Turk’s Head Inn, which has not since been -claimed, _a Lady’s Hat and Wig_, supposed to have been blown off the -Head of the fair Owner whilst in a state of _Indescribability_.----Any -Lady who can prove them to be her Property, may have them again, free -of all Expence; but if not claimed and identified before the first of -April next, they will be sold, and the Money given as a Donation to the -Fever Hospital. - - The Watchmen, ’tis granted, correctly and clever, - Of the hour informs us, and state of the weather; - But doubly delightful, their _calling_ would be, - Were they all wise enough to take lessons from Me; - O when ding dong, ding dong, my Bell goes, - Each Taylor leaps up at the sound; - Off, to hear me, like roe bucks, they scampering set, - So delighted, I’m told, that they _cabbage_ forget, - When sonorous I publish all round. - -_FOURTH CALL._ - -To be sold by Auction, J.M. Auctioneer, a large and choice Collection -of Materials for Sleeping,--consisting of a Quantity of old News; -erroneous and clumsy Statements of recent events; heavy Critiques -on Theatrical Performers and Plays _not_ performed; flat Pieces of -uninteresting Biography; drowsy original Letters; dull Extracts from -a northern _Caput Mortuum_ of Insipidity; a Number of Puns, Jests, -and old Anecdotes, warranted free from Attic Salt, chigramatic Point, -or any other Ingredient capable of rousing Attention or exciting -Risibility; also, a Quantity of pure Tyne Mercury, which possesses -the peculiar Property of never rising in the Barometer of public -Estimation, higher than the Point Ennui.--The Sale to begin every -Monday Evening at Eight o’Clock, and continue till all be sold. - - I’m resolv’d--may I hope you’ll approve of the measure?-- - A short course of Lectures to give, when I’ve leisure; - In order to perfect these Orators’ graces, - Who cry Dying Speeches and Lists of the Races: - But, hark! ding dong, the Prompter’s Bell goes, - I’m electrified by the sound; - Mr Lindoe,[13] your summons I haste to obey, - Yet Gratitude bids me one moment delay-- - Just to thank my kind Patrons all round. - -[13] The then Prompter at the Theatre. - - - - -OXYGEN GAS. - - -_By JOHN SHIELD, of Newcastle, and sung at the Newcastle Theatre Royal_. - - On Rhenish, Medeira, Port, Claret, and Sherry, - Your fulsome eulogiums, bon-vivants, pray spare; - ’Tis granted, when sad, wine can render us merry, - And lighten our bosoms of sorrow and care; - But what vintage can fire us, - Enrapture, inspire us, - As Oxygen? what so delicious to quaff? - It is so animating, - And so titillating, - E’en grey-beards turn frisky, dance, caper, and laugh, - For what can so fire us, &c. - - O wond’rous indeed is this bev’rage ethereal! - The mortal who quaffs it, altho’ a mere clod, - Is straightway transformed to a being ærial, - And moves on earth’s surface in fancy a God. - In a bumper is given - A foretaste of Heaven, - All earthly vexation straight cease to annoy, - Whilst laughing and crying, - And efforts at flying, - Bespeak the soul tost in a tempest of joy. - For what can so fire us, &c. - - Haste, haste to partake on’t, ye men of grave faces, - Ye Quakers, and Methodist parsons likewise; - What tho’ ye seem lost to the flexible graces, - And dormant the risible faculty lies; - One quaff of the vapour - Will cause you to caper, - And swiftly relax your stiff solemniz’d jaws; - You’ll acknowledge the change too, - As pleasing as strange too, - And make the air ring with loud ha! ha! ha! ha’s! - For what can so fire us, &c. - - Let gin, rum, and brandy grow dearer and dearer, - Distillers stop working--no toper will mourn; - Of Gas we can make a delectable cheerer, - Which, nor reddens our noses, nor livers will burn; - Unbeholden to whisky - We’ll drink and get frisky, - Nor fear that to-morrow our temples may ache; - Neither stomach commotions, - Nor camomile potions, - Shall evermore cause us with terror to quake; - For what can so fire us, &c. - - Let the miser’s deep coffers be fill’d to his mind now, - Let the man of ambition with honours abound, - Give the lover his mistress, complying and kind too, - And with laurel let Poets and Heroes be crown’d. - Let all be blest round me, - No envy shall wound me, - Contented and cheerful thro’ life will I pass, - If fortune befriends me, - And constantly sends me - A _quantum sufficit_ of Oxygen Gas. - For what can so fire us, &c. - - - - -THE BARDS OF THE TYNE. - - -_Published in the Tyne Mercury Newspaper, under the Signature of C.P._ -(Charles Purvis.) - -_Tune_--Newcastle Beer. - - Ye sons of Parnassus, whose brains are inspir’d - With envy or madness, dame dullness, or wine, - Who wish to be flatter’d, or prais’d, or admir’d, - Leave thinking, and fly to the banks of the Tyne: - No wit is requir’d - To make you admir’d, - Let doggrel run limping thro’ each crippled line; - No humour degrades, - Nor genius pervades - The verses sublime of our Bards of the Tyne. - - No soft flowing numbers must ravish the senses, - Whose soothing meanders a ditty would stain - A muse with such drowsy materials dispenses, - Whilst Grub-street’s quintessence will squeese from the brain: - How sweetly the strains - Must thrill thro’ the veins, - When Sandgate and Bedlam together combine; - Or “Oxygen Gas,” - From the pipe of an ass, - Rarifies the dence brains of our Bards of the Tyne. - - With rhymers our Theatre’s always surrounded, - Whose Bellman taught lays set the house in a roar: - Common sense stands aghast, thunder-struck and confounded, - While Dullness brays out from its Gall’ry, _Encore!_ - Then, big with applause, - Crack’s Scotch ell of jaws[14] - Sets forth a hoarse bawling, so purely divine, - That hydras or bears - Might prick up their ears, - And howl out in concert with Bards of the Tyne. - -[14] Alluding to the character of Crack, in the farce of the Turnpike -Gate, where Mr Noble performed with true spirit. - - - - -AN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING. - - -_By JAMES STAWPERT_. - - Who’s he that with great _Mercury_ strides, - In imitation’s line, - And, without reason, thus derides - The poets of the Tyne? - - Who, not content with critic’s skill, - That lets no error pass; - In passion’s cup he dips his quill, - And calls his brother--ass. - - I tell thee, Satirist, forbear, - For asses have a trick, - And, if provok’d, ’tis very rare - They’re not inclin’d to kick. - - Now should great Fate ordain it so, - That this poor docile beast, - Whom thou hast term’d so very low, - E’en lowest of the least: - - I say, should ancient Baalam’s steed, - (For so thou nam’st the man) - Tell thee in time to take good heed, - Thy manners rough to scan; - - Or if, like thee, he write with ire, - And ask in angry strains, - What set thy sleepy muse on fire, - Or rous’d thy muddy brains? - - Nay further, should he analize - The words “Oxygen Gas,” - He might make thee a monst’rous size, - E’en, larger than an ass! - - The thought will no great time afford, - Nor needs much Orthodox, - For, take four letters from the word, - It makes thee out an OX. - - I think the appellation suits, - Yet this believe from me, - Had thou not been so fond of brutes, - I’d not made one of thee. - - Adieu then, ancient Egypt’s god, - Or shall I call thee bull? - When next thou handles Satyr’s rod, - Pray write thy name in full. - - For two initials, such as thine, - Might make dame dullness pause, - And simple poets of the Tyne, - Find terms in Nature’s laws. - - By adding _letters_ to the two - Which thou hast late put down; - No, faith, I have not time just now, - And _Modesty_ might frown. - - - - -THE RAREE SHOW MAN. - - -_An Election Song._--(20th September, 1780.) - -_The following Verses, at an Election Song, being rather contrary to -the general Arrangement of this Work, but possessing Novelty, must -plead for its Insertion._ - - Allons, sweet childs, of smooth complexion, - Come see de grande, de rare election, - Me show de hole in much perfection. - Doodle, doodle, doo. - - No congstable on me doth frownee, - In dis Newcastel famous townee, - Vare some veare breaches, some de gounee. - Doodle, doodle, doo. - - But den before dat I do callee, - You give me sixpence, price is smallee; - And den I’ll nothing ask at allee. - Doodle, doodle, doo. - - In fronte, you see de agents coming, - Vast great, much consequence assuming, - Far, farther far, than is becoming. - Doodle, doodle, doo. - - See dere de vulgar _scum_ begin it, - Den next de Sylock _bankiers_ pin it; - Ah dere!--de devil’s selfe is in it. - Doodle, doodle, doo. - - O wonderful! how dey do tumble, - Just like de Jack of cards dey tumble, - De kings, with knaves and duces humble. - Doodle, doodle, doo. - - Dare de parson, lawyer, scrambles, - Dare physic doctors in de shambles, - Vere some do make de long preambles! - Doodle, doodle, doo. - - See all de shop-folks gaping, staring, - Few understanding, fewer caring, - Vether perjury be swearing! - Doodle, doodle, doo. - - Oh bless us! how you slaves are roaring, - Deir cunning patrons stagger snoring, - Inclined pocket trusting more in. - Doodle, doodle, doo. - - Next you do see, from street of tripee, - De Goatside boys, for huzza ripee; - Vith all de lads dat make de pipee. - Doodle, doodle, doo. - - And next you do behold, so stirring, - Like horned cattle in de murrain, - Dose jolly blades dat speak so burring. - Doodle, doodle, doo. - - Dese be good freemen, as dey’re called; - ’Tis not for nothing dey have bauled; - Huzza! till to de poll dey’re hauled! - Doodle, doodle, doo. - - Stand fast--have care--see from de denny, - Come, elbow forth, de gentlemeny, - Vith all de brains--if dey have any. - Doodle, doodle, doo. - - Now den, now den, de bright candidates, - Up top hustings, hope and fear deir fates: - Whilst all de congstables surround de gates. - Doodle, doodle, doo. - - Ay now de mountain be in labour; - Blo, blo de fifee, sound de tabre; - Flash, flash de brade sword and de sabre. - Doodle, doodle, doo. - - For _toute le Monde_ vill see, no doubtee, - Dat someting, noting, vill come outee, - To make de people glore aboutee. - Doodle, doodle, doo. - - If dat brave Monsieur _Bowes_[15] be chosen, - De legs vill dance by score, by dozen, - And all de grande vill call him couzen. - Doodle, doodle, doo. - - Den come again, sweet childs, to-morrow, - Me show you ten hundred joy--no sorrow; - But bring de sixpence, if you borrow. - Doodle, doodle, doo. - -[15] Andrew Robinson Bowes, who gained his election, (1780) though -unsuccessful in the contest on the death of Sir Walter Blackett in -1777. This person came to Newcastle as ensign in the 30th regiment -of foot, quartered in that town; shortly after he married the only -daughter of William Newton, Esq. a lady of fortune; after her death -he married (1777) the Countess of Strathmore, from whom he was -divorced for cruelty, in 1785. He served the office of Sheriff of -Northumberland, 1780; and died in the King’s Bench, 16th January, 1810. - - - - -BARBER’s NEWS: OR, _Shields in an Uproar!!!_ - - -A New Song. - -Tune--“_O the golden Days of good Queen Bess._” - - Great was the consternation, amazement, and dismay, Sir, - Which, both in _North_ and _South Shields_, prevail’d the other day, Sir; - Quite panic-struck the natives were, when told by the barber, - That a terrible _Sea Monster_ had got into the harbour. - “Have you heard the news Sir?” What news, pray master barber? - “Oh a terrible _sea monster_ has got into the harbour!” - - Now each honest man in _Shields_--I mean both North and South, Sir, - Delighting in occasions to expand their eyes and mouth, Sir: - And fond of seeing marv’lous sights, ne’er stay’d to get his beard off; - But ran to view the monster, its arrival, when he heard of. - Oh! who could think of shaving when inform’d by the barber, - That a terrible _Sea Monster_ had got into the harbour. - - Each wife pursu’d her husband, and every child its mother, - Lads and lasses _helter skelter_, scamper’d after one another; - Shopkeepers and mechanics too, forsook their daily labours, - And ran to gape and stare among their gaping staring neighbours. - All crowded to the river side, when told by the barber, - That a terrible _Sea Monster_ had got into the harbour. - - It happens very frequently that _barber’s news_ is _fiction_, Sir, - But the wond’rous news this morning was truth no contradiction, Sir; - A something sure enough was there among the billows flouncing, - Now sinking in the deep profound, now on th’ surface bouncing. - True as Gazette or Gospel were the tidings of the barber, - That a terrible _Sea Monster_ had got into the harbour. - - Some thought it was a _Shark_, Sir, a _Porpus_ some conceived it; - Some said it was a _Grampus_, and some a _Whale_ believ’d it; - Some swore it was a _Sea Horse_, then own’d themselves mistaken, - For, now they’d got a nearer view--’twas certainly _a Kraken_. - Each sported his opinion, from the parson to the barber, - Of the terrible _Sea Monster_ they had got in the harbour. - - “Belay, belay,” a sailor cried, “_what that, this thing_, a _Kraken_! - ’Tis no more like one, split my jib, than it is a flitch of bacon! - I’ve often seen a hundred such, all sporting in the Nile, Sir, - And you may trust a sailor’s word, it is a _Crocodile_, Sir.” - Each strait to Jack _knocks under_, from the parson to the barber, - And all agreed a _Crocodile_ had got into the harbour. - - Yet greatly Jack’s discovery his auditors did shock, Sir, - For they dreaded that the _Salmon_ would be eat up by the Croc. Sir: - When presently the _Crocodile_, their consternation crowning, - Raised its head above the waves, and cried, “_Help! O Lord, I’m - drowning!_” - Heavens! how their hair, Sir, stood on end, from the parson to - the barber; - To find a _Speaking Crocodile_ had got into the harbour. - - This dreadful exclamation appall’d both young and old, Sir, - In the very stoutest hearts, indeed, it made the blood run cold, Sir; - Ev’n _Jack_, the hero of the Nile, it caus’d to quake and tremble, - Until an old wife, sighing, cried “_Alas! ’tis Stephen K----._” - Heav’ns! however all astonish’d, from the parson to the barber, - To find that Stephen K---- was the monster in the harbour. - - Strait crocodilish fears gave place to manly gen’rous strife, Sir, - Most willingly each lent a hand to save poor Stephen’s life, Sir; - They drag’d him gasping to the shore, impatient for his history, - For how he came in that sad plight, to them was quite a mystery. - Tears glisten’d, Sir, in every eye, from the parson to the barber, - When, swoln to thrice his natural _size_, they drag’d him from the - harbour. - - Now having roll’d and rubb’d him well an hour upon the beach, Sir, - He got upon his legs again, and made a serious speech, Sir; - Quoth he, “An ancient proverb says, and true it will be found, Sirs, - Those born to prove an _airy doom_, will surely never be drown’d, Sirs. - For fate, Sirs, has us all in tow, from the monarch to the barber; - Or surely I had breathed my last this morning in the harbour. - - Resolv’d to cross the _River_, Sirs, a Sculler did I get into, - May Jonah’s ill-luck be mine, another when I step into! - Just when we’d reach’d the deepest part, O horror! there it founders, - And down went poor Pillgarlick amongst the Crabs and Flounders! - But fate, that keeps us all in tow, from the monarch to the barber, - Ordain’d I should not breathe my last, this morning in the harbour. - - I’ve broke down many a stage coach, and many a chaise and gig, Sirs, - Once, in passing through a trap-hole, I found myself too big, Sirs, - I’ve been circumstanc’d most oddly, whilst contesting hard a race, Sirs, - But ne’er was half so frighten’d, as amongst the Crabs and Plaise, Sirs. - O fate, Sirs, keeps us all in tow, from the monarch to the barber, - Or certainly I’d breath’d my last, this morning in the harbour. - - My friends, for your exertions, my heart o’erflows with gratitude, - O may it prove the last time, you find me in that latitude; - God knows with what mischances dire, the future may abound, Sirs, - But I hope and trust I’m one of those, not fated to be drown’d, Sirs.” - Thus ended his oration, Sir, I had it from the barber; - And dripping, like some _River God_, he slowly left the harbour. - - Ye men of _North_ and _South Shields_ too, God send ye all prosperity, - May your commerce ever flourish, your stately ships still crowd the sea; - Unrivall’d in the Coal Trade, till doomsday may you stand, Sirs, - And every hour, fresh wonders, your eyes and mouths expand, Sirs. - And long may _Stephen K----_ live, and never may the barber - Mistake him for a monster more, deep floundering in the harbour. - - - - -SONG, _On the Flight of the young Crows, from Newcastle Exchange; with -their Address to the Corporation._ - - - The young brood fairly fledg’d, we may fairly suppose, - Half the world must have heard of our Newcastle CROWS? - How their _daddy_, bold bird! from a rabble got free, - And was fully determin’d a freeman to be! - On the _vane_ of the steeple, upon the Exchange, - Completed his nest, which beholders thought strange: - His bright jetty _consort_ accomplish’d her part, - Nor foes, nor foul weather could alter her heart. - - Their younglings, quite able to take distant flight, - Were told, by their parents, “_Good manners are right_.” - To their freedom admitted--they could do no less, - Than approach their kind patrons, with humble ADDRESS; - To thank them politely, without wanton joke, - For, so learned in _swallow_, they must learn to _croak_.-- - In a trice----as if ÆSOP himself had inspir’d, - They began their address, whilst their hearers admir’d. - - “Ye wise men, and good men, of NEWCASTLE GUILD, - Who suffer’d our father and mother to build---- - High, upon the high pinnacle of your Exchange, - And here see their offspring just ready to range; - To range with sweet freedom, o’er land, and o’er seas, - To eat and to drink, and to _croak_ as we please---- - Accept our plain thanks, while the reasons we clear, - Why some _Merlin_, or _Shipton_, hath sure sent us here. - - “One thousand seven hundred, eighty and three, - For this town, a remarkable æra will be! - All folks will _think_ right, from grave age to smart youth, - Nor priests, nor disciples, _e’er_ wander from TRUTH; - Your rulers be loyal to great George the third, - Each rich man prove honest, and _just_ to his word: - No _fair-trading_ merchant will _smuggle_, or cheat, - No foul gorging glutton _waste_ poor people’s meat. - - “Your fine Sandhill _maidens_ be merry and wise, - From their _crying_ of lemons, to _selling_ of pies; - Your green, and rare fish-women, civil enough, - Your milliners spruce, not so apt to take huff. - Up the SIDE, you’ll hear compliments, happy and free, - Where hot _puddings_, and _haggishes_, plenty shall be: - The silver-smiths, coopers, and tinmen will join - To sound the _reforms_ now produc’d on the TYNE. - - “Your Sandgate smart girls, the gay world will surprise, - Grown _cleanly_, and decent, and _modest_, and wise; - The keelmen, in _manners_, become quite polite, - No _cursing_ at morn, nor _much_ drunk over night! - _Refining_ in language, _improving_ in notes, - Letter _R_ run far smoother, and _glib_ through their throats: - Their Andrews, these sirnames, bear better degrees, - Ralphs, Richardsons, Rogersons, uttered with ease. - - “No tailor will _cabbage_, no draper will _pinch_, - No shoemaker _squeeze_ a full nail from an inch; - No baker, or flourman, be short of his weight, - No forestaller _breed_ low designs in his pate; - No butcher, on _Bank_, keep prices too high, - No hatter, no baker, deceive with a _lie_!---- - But what will stand foremost in public parade, - Newcastle shall furnish a _cheaper_ COAL TRADE! - - “In _politics_, surely, such changes will be, - The people and magistrates _mutual_ agree; - No bribery, no menace, no little whit self, - No pride overbearing, or _impudent_ wealth; - But each _voter_ prove honest to OLD ENGLAND’S laws, - Still prudently guarding fair liberty’s cause! - And so, brother freemen, God bless ye, _adieu!_ - We fly to sage FRANKLIN, and WASHINGTON now.” - - - - -A RARE CURIOSITY: OR, _CROW’S NEST IN GATESHEAD_. A NEW SONG. - - - As Neddy and Betty were walking along, - Each cheerfully joining in dialogue song; - I met them, delighted on Gateshead green hill, - While Betty’s sweet voice charm’d all lads round each mill. - Derry down, &c. - - _BETTY._ - - Indeed, honest Neddy! the news is quite true, - Th’ Sandhill, no longer crow nests we can view; - The downfalling Steeple, and coming down Change, - Oblig’d feather’d builders at distance to range. - Derry down, &c. - - _NEDDY._ - - Does not my fair Betty know perfectly well, - No birds in prognostics black crows can excell? - No sooner their nests on the Sandhill were shewn, - Than public improvements came rapidly on. - Derry down, &c. - - _BETTY._ - - O yes I remember, from _Close_ when they flew, - What crowds of spectators their nests came to view; - When pitched so nicely on top of the vane, - As signals, where Justice and Commerce did reign. - Derry down, &c. - - _NEDDY._ - - It is very true, my dear charmer, indeed, - Spectators beheld vast improvements succeed; - A beautiful Square, named Charlotte the Queen, - New streets, and Assembly Rooms elegant seen. - Derry down, &c. - - _BETTY._ - - O yes, and a Theatre, royal and fine, - Erected, no doubt, for some noble design; - To shew thoughtless mortals of ev’ry degree, - How defaulting they are, how good they should be. - Derry down, &c. - - _NEDDY._ - - From thence, if reflection keeps soberly on, - We’ve the _Free Mason Lodge_, in the style of St John;[16] - Where true wit and humour with charity meet, - And souls are united in union complete. - Derry down, &c. - - _BETTY._ - - I’m calling to mind, what a gipsy once told, - Who came in the crowd the _crow’s nest_ to behold; - “These crows are wise creatures--Trade here will improve, - As sure as the winds can that weather-cock move!” - Derry down, &c. - - _NEDDY._ - - Then Gateshead is lucky, I vow and declare, - Behold, my dear Betty! where now the crows are; - Near Battle Bank foot, their snug nests you may find, - Upon those new chimnies, set free to the wind. - Derry down, &c. - - _BETTY._ - - O wonderful! Neddy, I see them so plain, - Quite opposite now to their former gilt vane; - The _Stamp Office_ chosen, they mean to proceed, - The good folk of Gateshead are lucky indeed. - Derry down, &c. - - _NEDDY._ - - Then let me, dear Betty, meet better luck still, - Come, give me thy heart and thy hand with good will; - You know I am honest, my vows are sincere, - From all the deceits of vile rascals quite clear. - Derry down, &c. - - _BETTY._ - - So many false villains but court to deceive, - We virgins in prudence should slowly believe; - If they can but the punishing laws once escape, - They fear not the devil, his torments, or shape. - Derry down, &c. - - _NEDDY._ - - May all worthy millers grind such rascals down, - Till neither their dust nor their ashes are known; - Here’s my hand, dearest Bett! for life let us join, - Consent--and to morrow my _all_ shall be thine. - Derry down, &c. - - _BETTY._ - - Dear Ned! I believe, and to-morrow shall see, - How blessing and blest honest lovers can be; - _The crow’s nest in Gateshead_ full witness may prove, - That none but vile _fools_ are deceitful in love. - Derry down, down, hey derry down. - -[16] St John’s Lodge, No. 184, Free Masons’ Hall, Low Friar Street, -Newcastle, dedicated October 18th, 1777, was some years after disused -and converted into the Dispensary. - - - - -THE FRENCH INVASION. - - -_Published May 10th, 1794._ - -Some wags, taking advantage of the alarm of invasion in March, 1794, -sent two letters, with the counterfeit signatures of two magistrates -in Northumberland, to the Mayor of Newcastle, stating, that a party of -French had landed on the coast, near Bambrough; this occasioned some -bustle in Newcastle; 270l. reward was afterward offered in vain for the -discovery of the writers. - - “Now fill a bumper to the brim, - “And drink to _Gotham’s mayor_; - “And when again he hears such news, - “May _Fa----berg_ be there.” - - Thus lately in a loyal song, - Sung some right loyal bard; - And righteous too, no doubt was he, - For lo! his prayer was heard. - - News, direful news from BAMBRO’ came, - The _French_ were landed there; - A letter, written with all speed, - Was sent to _Gotham’s mayor_. - - “The crews of three French ships of war, - Have landed in our coast, - Send for _Lord F----berg_,” quoth he, - “Or we shall all be lost. - - “Our bullocks they have ta’en away, - Our cows and sheep besides.” - “O woe betide them,” says our _mayor_, - “They’ll raise the _price_ of HIDES.” - - “Fear not, fear not,” says _F----berg_, - Who now before him stood, - “To guard you I will spend my last, - Last drop of noble blood!” - - On this our _mayor_ began to hold - Erect his drooping head; - “I will not,” quoth _Lord F----berg_, - “This night lay down my head. - - “To guard-house I will hie with speed, - And watch ’till morn appear; - Each _Gothamite_ may soundly sleep, - No cause have they to fear.” - - “Meantime” says _Gotham’s mayor_, “I will - In haste, a letter write - To George our king, some ships to send, - To intercept their flight.” - - To _George_ our king the tidings came, - At London where he lay; - “What! cattle, cattle, sheep indeed!-- - To Windsor haste away; - - “Lock up my pretty little sheep, - My pigs and geese likewise; - No bloody Frenchman shall destroy - What I so dearly prize. - - “Then run tell _Billy Pitt_ to come, - And bring his _brother_ here; - But first call _Tom_ the butler up, - To get me some small beer. - - “How happens _Chat--m_, that no ships - You have sent to the North? - Not one, I’m told, is to be seen - From Thames unto the Forth.” - - “So please you,” bowing low, says _John_, - “I would have sent a few, - But that I thought you’d want them here - Against the next REVIEW.” - - “That’s right, that’s right,” reply’d our king, - “One ship I cannot spare: - And if the _French_ do get their sheep, - Why--_let them take more care_. - - “Example let them take by me, - And they’ll receive no harm; - Shut them all up as I have done, - Upon my Windsor farm.” - - So spake our gracious lord, - And so I end my song; - May heaven from _rots_ preserve his sheep, - And may his life be long! - - - - -BLYTH CAMPS: _Or, the Girl I left behind Me._ - - -In 1795, near Blyth there was an encampment, the troops of which, -consisting of 13 regiments of horse and foot, were reviewed on the 28th -of August, that year, by the Duke of York, in the presence of upwards -of 60,000 spectators. - - I’m lonesome since I left BLYTH camps, - And o’er the moor that’s sedgy; - With heavy thoughts my mind is fill’d, - Since I parted with my Betsy: - Whene’er I turn to view the place, - The tears fall down and blind me; - When I think on the charming grace - Of her I left behind me. - - The hours I remember well, - When first from her they mov’d me; - The burning flames my heart doth tell, - Since first she own’d she lov’d me: - In search of some one fair and gay, - Several doth remind me; - I know my darling loves me well, - Tho’ I left her behind me. - - The bees shall cease to make a store, - The dove become a ranger: - The falling waters cease to roar, - Before I’ll ever change her. - Each mutual promise faithful made, - By her whom tears remind me; - I bless the hours I pass’d away - With her I left behind me. - - My mind her image will retain, - Whether asleep or waking; - I hope to see my love again, - For her my heart is breaking. - If e’er I chance to go that way, - And she has not resign’d me; - I’ll reconcile my mind and stay - With her I left behind me. - - - - -BEAUMONT’s LIGHT HORSE. - - - We march’d from the camps with our hearts full of woe, - On board of the transports we forc’d were to go; - No drums they did beat, nor no trumpets did sound, - In silence and sadness we trudg’d o’er the ground. - - No more on our horses we’ll prance o’er the plain, - For they drive us away like sheep to be slain; - Our friends and acquaintance we leave on the shore, - And we’ll never be seen in Old England more. - - When arm’d, on our horses away we did ride, - All ran to see Beaumont’s Light Horsemen parade; - But all these fine times are with us now all o’er, - For we shall return to Old England no more. - - We listed for horsemen, our country to save, - They told us fine stories of Beaumont the brave; - But now he has sold us to add to his store, - And transported from England to come back no more. - - We mounted our horses and rode through the town, - We hid us in holes, and our guns we laid down; - Now see the Newcastle folks drive away fears, - And now see the brav’ry of their Volunteers. - - God save our noble king, and long may he reign, - And send him brave soldiers, his rights to maintain; - But do not deceive them, keep them on your shore, - That they may defend you ’till time is no more. - - Farewell to all camps, and farewell to all towns, - We go off all footmen, no more like dragoons; - For hard is our fate, and it grieves us full sore, - Then farewell, dear England, we’ll see thee no more. - - Farewell to our wives, and our sweethearts likewise; - Tho’ we’re driven to battle yet we’ll bullets despise; - And if its our fortune to return once again, - We’ll bring store of riches, and bid adieu to the main. - - - - -_A Song in Praise of the_ KEELMEN VOLUNTEERS. On board the Lapwing -Frigate. - - -_Tune_--White Cockade. - - Come fill a bumper to the brim, - And drink success to George our king; - Of France and Spain let’s not be fear’d, - Since our Keel Lads have volunteer’d - To meet the proud and daring foe, - And let the haughty Frenchmen know, - That our Keel Lads are brave and free, - And Neptune’s favourites will be. - - Zephyr, blow your gentle gales, - And fill our Keel Lads’ shiv’ring sails, - And waft them o’er the raging sea; - For our defenders they will be: - Lo! Duncan of the Texel boasts, - Nelson them in the Nile did toast; - The British flag they’re sure to sway, - And Frenchmen take to Norway. - - With spirits heroic and sublime, - Our lads are brought up on the Tyne; - They will our foes with sorrow fill, - When once they sail from Newcastle: - Where bullets fly and cannons roar, - They’ll sweep the seas from shore to shore; - And all the world their wonders tell: - Huzza, Keel Lads of Newcastle! - - - - -THE SONS OF THE TYNE: OR, _British Volunteers_. - - -_Tune_--Hearts of Oak. - - Come cheer up your hearts, my brave sons of the Tyne, - And boldly come forward to enter the line; - Your country it calls you, defend now her right, - Against that invader, who dares you to fight. - Sons of Tyne all advance, - For to humble proud France; - And teach Bonaparte, - Tho’ ever so hearty, - Not t’ insult British valour upon her own shore. - - The proud sons of Spain, too, like fools did attempt, - With a large Armada to make a descent; - But lord Howard convinc’d them, long ere they came near, - That they were not to take the wrong sow by the ear! - Sons of Tyne, &c. - - There was bold Sidney Smith, on the Palestine shore, - Made the _army invincible_ lie all in gore; - When caught in his Mouse Trap[17] at _Acre de John_, - Bonaparte (then Musselman) made a sad moan. - Sons of Tyne, &c. - - The brave Abercromby shed his last drop of blood, - At Alexandria, for his country’s good: - And shall _Corsican Tyranny_ ever come near - To Britannia’s shores?--No! we’ll all volunteer. - Sons of Tyne, &c. - - He threats to invade us, and plunder us too, - And make us a _province_! but that will not do. - If he come, we will shew him a handful of men, - Who will take him in Trap, like Sir Sidney again. - Sons of Tyne, &c. - - Bonaparte’s bravadoes we’ll treat with disdain, - Like the heroes of Britain, who rule on the main; - We will boldly stand forward in Britannia’s cause, - To protect her religion, her liberty and laws. - Sons of Tyne, &c. - -[17] The seamen call the breach made in the walls at St John de Acre, -while Bonaparte was in Egypt, the _Commodore’s Mouse Trap_. - - - - -MARY OF THE TYNE. - - - What pleasure oft ’tis to reveal - The pain or rapture which we feel; - ’Tis bliss while either we impart - Unto a sympathetic heart, - Just like to that sweet heart of thine, - My lovely Mary of the Tyne. - - I lose, when near thee, all my care, - When from thee, I am all despair; - My bosom heaves with anxious pain, - Until I meet with thee again, - What are these adverse pangs of mine, - My lovely Mary of the Tyne? - - Say, is it from thy beauteous face, - Or is it from thy nat’ral grace, - Or is it thy angelic mind, - Or is it ev’ry one combin’d, - Making one sweet form divine, - My lovely Mary of the Tyne? - - Should it be love, thou’dst sure forgive? - That is the food on which I live; - But if thou should’st that bliss deny, - Then must thy faithful lover die; - Or linger out his life supine, - For lovely Mary of the Tyne! - - - - -NEWCASTLE FAIR--October, 1811. - - -_The Pitman a drinking of JACKY._ (English Gin. This liquor has various -names in different parts of the country. At a village in the western -part of Northumberland, the editor heard it called Blue Dick.) - -By J.S. - -_Tune_--Drops of Brandy. - - Ha’ ye been at Newcastle fair, - And did ye see ouse o’ great Sandy? - Lord bliss us! what wark there was there; - And the folks were drinking of brandy. - Brandy, a shilling a glass! - Aw star’d, and thought it was shamful. - Never mind, says aw, canny lass, - Give us yell, and aw’ll drink ma wameful. - Rum te idily, &c. - - Says she, Canny man, the yell’s cawd; - It comes frev a man they ca’ Mackey, - And my faith it’s byeth sour an’ awd; - Ye’d best hev a drop o’ wour jacky. - Your jacky! says I, now what’s that? - I ne’er heard the neame o’ sic liquor. - English gin, canny man, that’s flat. - And then she set up a great nicker. - Rum te idily, &c. - - Says I, divent laugh at poor folks, - But gang and bring some o’ yur jacky; - Aw want neane o’ yur jibes or jokes; - I’ th’ mean time aw’ll tak a bit backy. - Aw just tuke a chew o’ pig tail, - She brought in this jacky se funny: - Says she, Sir, that’s better than ale: - And held out her hand for the money. - Rum te idily, &c. - - There’s three pence to pay, if you please: - Aw star’d an’ aw gap’d like a ninny: - Od smash thee, aw’ll sit at ma ease, - An’ not stir till aw’ve spent a half guinea. - Aw sat an’ aw drank till quite blind, - Then aw’ gat up to gang to the door, - But deel smash a door cou’d aw find, - An’ fell flat o’ ma fyess on the floor. - Rum te idily, &c. - - There aw lay for ever se lang, - And dreamt about rivers and ditches; - When waken’d, was singing this song-- - “Smash, jacky, thou’s wet a’ ma breeches.” - An’ faith! but the sang it was true, - For jacky had been se prevailing, - He’d whistled himsel’ quickly through, - An’ the chairs an’ tables were sailing. - Rum te idily, &c. - - Then rising, aw went ma ways heame, - Aw knock’d at the door, an’ cry’d, Jenny; - Says she, Canny man, is’te lame, - Or been wadin in Tyne, ma hinny? - I’ troth, she was like for to dee, - An’ just by the way to relieve her, - The water’s been wadin through me, - An’ this jacky’s a gay deceiver. - Rum te idily, &c. - - If e’er aw drink jacky again, - May the bitch of a lass, ma adviser, - Loup alive down ma throat, with a stane - As big as a pulveriser. - Rum te idily, &c. - - - - -THE NEWCASTLE BEAUTIES. - - -These beauties must be now of some age, as they are unknown to the -editor. - -_Designed to be sung to the Harpsicord or Spinet, &c._ - - I. - - Tho’ lofty bards sublimer sing, - And boldly tune their lays; - Not less renown attends the string, - Which sounds to beauty’s praise. - Ye muses then lend me your aid, - Whilst I attempt to prove, - That in _Newcastle_ many a maid - Excells the queen of love. - - II. - - Ye bards, forbear your partial lays, - Ye who so lofty sing, - Nor longer only _Venus_ praise, - But here your numbers bring. - No more shall blinded mortals pray, - Or bow before her shrine; - No more in _Cyprus_ seek the bay, - But find it here on _Tyne_. - - III. - - First of yon throng, see _Delia_[18] shine, - That matchless nonpareil! - All eyes confess her form divine, - Such graces round her dwell. - Dame nature has herself outdone, - In that most beauteous fair, - And lavish’d all those charms on one, - Which thousands only share. - - IV. - - Next her, behold the lovely _Cloe_[19], - Ye gods! what killing eyes! - See how her charming ringlets flow, - Where wanton Cupid lies: - The rose, compar’d to her, shall fade, - The lily lose its white: - E’en Sol himself must own the maid, - And shine with beams less bright. - - V. - - Thee, lovely _Cynthia_[20], next we sing, - Charm’d with thy beauteous face, - More blooming than the verdent spring, - Adorn’d with ev’ry grace; - Thy comely shape and genteel air, - Our admiration raise, - Thou stands confess’d a perfect fair, - And worthy all our praise. - - VI. - - Thy mien, sweet _Daphne_[21], next we view, - And as we view, approve; - Thy blooming charms all hearts subdue, - And kindle them to love: - Those charming breasts, and sparkling eyes, - What mortal can oppose? - Still as we gaze, new beauties rise, - And still the passion grows. - - VII. - - Gay _Sylvia_[22] next appears in sight, - Surrounded by her charms, - Her handsome form which shines so bright, - Each youthful bosom warms. - Ye youths withdraw your wishful eyes, - Nor longer on her gaze; - For were your hearts as cold as ice, - Her beams would make them blaze. - - VIII. - - Sweet _Celia_[23] next demands our care, - That lovely nut-brown maid! - Behold her charming flowing hair, - In jetty locks display’d: - She fills each bosom with desire, - So graceful is her mein; - Her comely features all admire, - Where thousand loves are seen. - - IX. - - See _Flavia_[24], the young, the gay, - For graceful air renown’d, - Her mien more bright than flow’ry May, - With ev’ry beauty crown’d. - Her beauteous sister[25] next appears, - Whom wond’rous charms adorn; - The lovely doe each bosom chears, - With beauties like the morn. - - X. - - The next we view is _Julia’s_[26] face, - For comely features lov’d; - Her golden locks still add a grace, - To what all hearts approv’d. - Her friend no less inspires the lay, - The lovely _Danæ_[27] fair, - To whom all tongues their praises pay, - Charm’d with her shape and air. - - XI. - - Thee, _Phœbe_[28], with _Ophelia_[29] join’d, - We can’t too much admire, - Your blooming charms, it must be own’d, - All hearts to love inspire. - To handsome _Pat_[30], and lovely _Stell_[31], - Our praises too belong; - These, who in various charms excel, - Close up the beauteous throng. - - XII. - - As now ador’d you pass your bloom, - Your autumn you may live; - Let me, ye beauteous fair, presume, - This one advice to give; - Virtue pursue--or vain ye’re bright, - _“In vain your eyes may roll;_ - _’Tis true that charms do strike the sight,_ - _But merit wins the soul.”_ - -[18] Miss P----y T----n. - -[19] Miss H----le. - -[20] Miss H----y. - -[21] Miss B----p. - -[22] Miss H----m. - -[23] Miss S----s. - -[24] Miss F----tt - -[25] Miss F----tt. - -[26] Miss H----h. - -[27] Miss J---- B----ll. - -[28] Miss P---- S----t. - -[29] Miss L----s. - -[30] Miss A----n. - -[31] Miss M----y G----n. - - - - -SONG, _On the Address of the Newcastle House of Lords, on turning out -Lord North, and Mr Fox_. - - - When Royal G----e, on new year’s day,[32] - Had told his bishops, great and small, - What our _wise Crows_, last March did say, - “He fear’d Britannia’s sudden fall.” - - For knaves determin’d on his doom; - Two of the worst were _Fox_ and _North_, - These he displac’d, and in their room - Had station’d PITT, and men of worth. - - T’ assuage the sovereign’s grief and care, - And loyal feeling to express, - Imperial London’s duteous mayor, - Approach’d the throne with an address. - - Counties, and towns, and boroughs too, - Throng’d thick, and their addresses paid, - Their prince to undeceive, and shew - How twice ten years he’d been betray’d. - - Newcastle’s mayor, to virtue form’d, - (_Charles_ the upright and the good;) - Whose hands refrain’d, and nobly scorn’d - To stain with _transatlantic_ blood. - - A temperate zeal, he did confess, - Became each lover of his king; - Then all join’d him in an address; - And thousands warmly did it sign. - - A band more true, (what need of words?) - And of all loyal men the flower; - I mean _Ned C----g’s house of lords_, - Who prais’d each minister in power. - - The fancy seiz’d! each noble peer, - Pushing the tankard foaming o’er: - (O had lord _Umbrage_ but been here, - But we shall never see him more!) - - Now fairly sat the sage divan, - And silence call’d to every box. - “Let’s thank our king, aye every man, - For turning out lord _North_ and _Fox_. - - We must confess it’s scarce seven years, - Since we address’d our royal sire; - And beg’d he’d scorn all whiggish fears, - And we would help to blow the fire. - - War’s flame did blaze both far and near, - And Europe’s powers against us join’d: - Our fleets were beat, our armies fled, - We sued for peace, and bought it dear. - - It’s true the whigs, these knavish rogues - All cried, our mischiefs North began: - But what care we for barking dogs; - For _North_ was still _the greatest man_. - - Our empire was too wide and great, - And too unwieldy--and what not! - But _North_, our tailor of the state, - Clip’d it, as _Umbrage_ would a coat. - - A truth from which we scorn to swerve. - _The more we lose, the more we gain_; - And trade and treasures only serve, - To foster pride, and care, and pain. - - But ah, how vain is human hope! - Great _North_ with spendthrift _Fox_ has join’d: - (For this he well deserves a rope) - All fair professions are but wind. - - Come then, my lords, stand forth like men, - The good old cause keep still in view; - And tell the k----g we do condemn - Old knaves, and will support the new.” - - The house then rung with loud applause, - Fists, pipes, and smoke, their joy express. - A committee resolved was - To word, and draw up the address. - - Th’ expence, agreed by numerous votes, - Attending this address of thanks; - Was all to be paid out in notes, - Of Sir James Duncan’s best of banks. - -[32] Alluding to the king’s reply to the b----’s address, usual on the -first day of the year, expressive of a desponding prediction, truly -alarming. - - - - -_THE ADDRESS_ OF SIR J. DUNCAN, AND CO. _Of the Scale de Cross Bank, to -the Ladies, Gentlemen, and Merchants, of Newcastle upon Tyne, and its -Environs._ - - - Sir James Duncan and Co. their kind compliments send - To the public in general, who so befriend - Their laudable endeavour, your gold to exchange, - Yet reluctantly confess, they think it most strange - Their opening a Bank, shou’d be _impudent_ thought, - By those who are strangers to their KERECTER[33], and note, - And flatter themselves, the following reasons will prove - Their right to _be Bankers_, and objections remove. - The title, they presume, will command the esteem - Of those who at a distance, from hence, may have seen - Their elegant Notes; their clothes--they vow, and declare, - In London were made, as you may see by their air; - The skin on Sir _James_, is not so fit as his coat, - And fine Bristol beer washes his throat. - No Newcastle furniture their office degrades, - Sir _James Duncan_ employs no such bungling, vile blades, - As the paltry workmen, in this smokey town, - Whose finery often--has made us Bankers frown. - They are not worth an hundred thousand it’s true, - But supposing they were, cou’d the public, and you - Their friends be assured they wou’d not exceed - Their capital _twice_, when their paper you need, - And _wisely prefer_ it, to hard silver and gold, - Because you don’t _weigh_ it, and it’s much sooner told. - The notes of their brethern they will not refuse, - Let other bankers less _wise_, do that if they chuse; - The public they’ll serve, their cash take, and bills discount, - Except at Change hours, to any amount; - And when profusion and taxes, and of America the loss, - Old England has ruin’d--firm will stand the _Scale Cross_. - The critics our doggrels will sneer at, we suppose, - But _Strap_, who’s a GENIUS, has measur’d them, and knows, - Like a shoe on a last they are fit, and convey - Our intention completely, and it’s needless to say, - Newcastle, Exchange, Tyne, or Commercial Bank,[34] - Must yield to us in writing, as well as in rank, - No knight can they boast--and we his majesty thank. - -_Sir J. Duncan, Hide, Strap, Last, Awl, & Jacob End._ - -SIR JAMES DUNCAN’s NOTES WERE AS FOLLOWS:-- - -[Illustration: CRISPIN. - -No. 89. - -_I Promise to pay Mr Benj. Bulk, or Bearer on Demand the Sum of_ Two -Pence, _Value received_. Seale de Cross Bank, NEWCASTLE, _24 Jany 1784_. - -_For Sir J. Duncan, Hide, Strap, Last, Awl, & Self, Jacob End._ - -Two Pence. - -_Entd Jas Back, No. 89._ - -_N.B. Our Estates liable, and Copper taken._] - -[33] We have observed, at a Coffee-house, that one of our brethren -pronounces this word thus. - -[34] Out of these four banks, only two now remain, (1812) _i.e._, the -Newcastle, and the Tyne. - - - - -_AN ELEGY_, TO THE MEMORY OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LORD RAVENSWORTH. - - -_Who died, January 30th, 1784, Aged 76._ - - Liddell, farewell! to all true Britons dear, - We mourn in heart, and shed the friendly tear: - Yet not for thee our eyes in tears we steep, - Our grief is selfish--for ourselves we weep: - No loss by death the worthy can sustain, - We are the losers--and our loss thy gain. - The rich have lost, by thy lamented end, - The _best_ of neighbours; and the poor a _friend_. - O RAVENSWORTH! thy hospitable door - Receiv’d the wealthy, and reliev’d the poor. - Adorn’d with ev’ry virtue, ev’ry grace - Which nature _e’er_ bestow’d on human race. - Through a long life, example bright thou shone! - By all belov’d:--Now each regrets thou’rt gone! - Thy suff’rings here were weigh’d; nor shall thy death - Be more than ceasing of thy mortal breath; - Thy Master calls, ripe for thy Master’s joy, - Where love and bliss, the upright mind employ. - Speak ye, who knew him best, what man can say, - That LIDDELL could the distant friend betray! - To friendship true, no scandal from his tongue; - To hurt a friend, or do his foe a wrong. - For truth he try’d, enquir’d, and careful sought, - Yet lov’d the man altho’ he diff’rent thought. - Who’s right! be left to that decisive day, - When truth’s bright beams shall shine without allay. - Ne’er sway’d by notions, nor to schemes confin’d, - His breast was open to the honest mind. - Whatever noble warmth could recommend, - The just, the active, and the constant friend; - Whatever great or good we can adore, - Center’d in him--in him alas! no more. - Thus love, peace, joy, with a distinguish’d grace, - Shone thro’ the features of his friendly face. - How near approaches to a life divine, - The man in whom the peaceful virtues shine? - In public charities he foremost stood, - And likewise private----always doing good. - The poor, in him, a friend was sure to find, - And to their wants, his purse he free resign’d. - Such the kind man! May we like him be wise, - Pursue his virtuous steps, and with him reach the prize. - -_T.R._ - - - - -_LINES_ ON THE DEATH OF JOHN, LORD DELAVAL; _Who died, May 17th, -1808.--Aged 80._ - - -By M. Harvey. - - In hollow murmurs o’er the bending reeds - Sorrow’s keen accents sweep across the meads; - And as the grief-charg’d sound moves sad along, - Unstrings the lute, and stills the wood nymph’s song. - O’er all the sad’n’d scene the mournful train, - In keenest anguish, join the solemn strain; - Whilst recollection, with tenacious power, - Thickens the gloom that damps the passing hour. - The many banner’d trump of clarion fame, - Sounds in full chords the blood stain’d warrior’s name, - Echoes to realms remote, and nations far, - The mighty power of man-destroying war. - Deadens with magic force each softer lay, - That throng’d the courts, and made the vallies gay: - While the vain phantom, honour, barbs the wand, - That waves destruction o’er the smiling land. - And ’midst the accents of her harsher lays, - Shall she forget to sound the good man’s praise? - Forbid it, every spark of social love, - That made, through life, his every passion move; - That taught his heart with sympathy to glow, - To stem the torrent of domestic woe. - Whose open hand strew’d o’er the lowly scene, - Plenty’s gay smiles, and joy’s delighted mien; - Whose presence cheer’d, with animating ray, - Life’s highest walks, and made the gay more gay: - Fitted alike to grace the lordly dome, - Or in the cottage make contentment bloom: - Thy virtues, DELAVAL, we long shall mourn, - And wash, with unfeign’d tears, thy hallow’d urn. - No laurel wreath, nor high poetic lays - Need bloom, or live in song to sound thy praise; - For whilst thy loss our keenest sorrow moves, - O’er all the _past_, delighted fancy roves; - Each fond remembrance that reverts to thee, - Tells what our _present_ conduct ought to be; - And points, with heavenward aim, to that Dread Power, - Whose mystic means unfolds the _future_ hour; - Cheers the dark gloom of life’s last setting ray, - And leads us on to everlasting day! - - - - -THE WALLSEND RIFLE CORPS. - - - Of a’ the many bonny corps, - Which now our country nigh fill, - Where can ye shew me sic a corps, - As the bonny Wallsend Rifle? - The bonny Wallsend Rifle, - The canny Wallsend Rifle; - Where can ye shew me sic a corps, - As the bonny Wallsend Rifle? - - Whe loups the dykes, an’ climbs the wa’s, - Then thinks it but a trifle? - Why, naen amang the black-breek’d chaps; - Naen but the Wallsend Rifle. - The bonny, &c. - - They’ve brav’ry aboon the een; - And when on Throckley High Fell, - Th’ Newcastle chaps dar’d not engage; - They tuke the Wallsend Rifle. - The bonny, &c. - - To see them shut, then run, then shut, - And then fall down or lye still: - O wuns! it’s better than a play, - The bonny Wallsend Rifle. - The bonny, &c. - - With bravery to kill the French, - Long may their bosoms high fill: - And long may monny on us sing-- - The bonny Wallsend Rifle. - The bonny, &c. - - - - -SONG. _Written on the King’s Birth-day, 1808._ - - -_Tune_--Sons of the Tyne. - - Come, haste to Newcastle, ye sons of fair Freedom, - You’ll there see a sight that will banish your fears; - A sight that would terrify Bonney, should he come,-- - The sight I allude to’s our brave Volunteers. - - Arrang’d in a row, with the brave Association; - The Gateshead, so gallant, are likewise in line; - Our Volunteers too, the defence of the nation,-- - You likewise will see the bright Legion of Tyne. - - The Sunderland too, with Artillery assemble; - The Shields and the Hexham with ardour appears; - The sight of these heroes would make Bonney tremble, - Could he get a peep at our brave Volunteers. - - Ye fam’d Rifle corps, I must too praise your merit; - You’ll always be ready when glory does call; - The whole fir’d with freedom, with ardour and spirit, - When flank’d by the boys from the End of the Wall.[35] - - You Patriots assembled on this grand occasion, - A sight that’s so noble each wounded mind cheers; - They’ll always be ready to repel invasion, - And merit the title of brave Volunteers. - - May courage and candour still all your minds govern,-- - Your zeal in the pages of history will shine; - Be true to your country and just to your Sovereign, - Ye sons of fair Freedom, of Wear and of Tyne. - -[35] Wallsend. - - - - -THE TOKEN MONGER. A SONG. - - -_Tune_--Erin go bragh. - - The plaint of a mourner, deep sorrow oppress’d with, - Late, as thro’ Dean Street I pass’d, caught my ear; - ’Twas a poor Token Monger, who prudence unbless’d with, - Had receiv’d for _presumption_, a trimming severe. - He gaz’d on the _caution_[36] with wonder dumb founded, - His dear self-importance severely was wounded, - At such a long list of opponents confounded: - The _tokens_ he issued, were tokens of woe. - - Ah well-a-day! said the poor Token Monger, - My project is scouted, my _Mint’s_ at a stand; - Alas! the sweet hope, I must cherish no longer, - Of Jehu-like driving four in hand. - Oh why! e’er in day dreams illusive exulting, - Why did I my neighbours ne’er think of consulting! - Now grief from their _fiat_ so hostile resulting, - Compels me to issue the tokens of woe! - - I’ve sported rare _logic_, I’ve stuck not at _bouncing_, - I’ve prov’d myself rich as a _crœsus_ in _brass_; - I’ve amus’d the whole town with my vaunting and flouncing; - But vain are my labours, the _tokens_ won’t _pass_! - Vain too is thy friendship, dear Butterfly Billy, - Of all my supporters, most noisy and silly; - Wilt thou still take my tokens? sweet daffa-down-dilly: - Oh! those which I issue are tokens of woe! - - Vanity whisper’d me, “John thou art clever, - “Thy neighbours beyond their own noses can’t see;” - I foolishly thought so, but never, oh never, - Was mortal more sadly mistaken than me. - Down from your windows, my friends, snatch your papers, - The ridicule now of all _starers_ and _gapers_; - Some wag I am fearful will give you the _vapours_, - By offering you payment in tokens of woe. - - Join, O ye pay clerks, my loud lamentations, - Come my ill luck sympathetic deplore: - On discount you reckon’d, but such expectations, - Alas! my good friends, you must cherish no more. - Tokens! God help me! why, why should I make them! - Neither will Pitmen or Keelmen now take them; - E’en in their wagers, they scruple to stake them, - Oh! none must I issue but tokens of woe! - - No more of his sorrows the muse hath recorded, - Tho’ tunefully still he bewail’d his sad fate; - For listning no longer enjoyment afforded; - The evening was chilly, the hour it was late. - Ah, thought I, as quick homeward I now was repairing, - ’Tis just with all _wrong-heads_, presumptious and daring, - In their projects, the end with the means never squaring, - Still baffled, they issue the tokens of woe. - -[36] A caution against the tokens, signed by 118 persons, was published -26th November, 1811. - - - - -_The following Dialogue, in bad Prose, was overheard by the Person who -now attempts it in bad Verse._ - - -(December, 1811.) - - “Hey, Jacky, ma honey, hae ye seen the new money, - The money, that’s made, mun, at Newcastle town? - It’s bonie an’ breet, man, an’ tho’ it’s but leet, man, - Folks like it sae weel, that the notes are off flown. - - “I frae the chap got, man, a score for a note, man; - An’ smash me! I thought him a thick headed feul; - T’ gie siller for paper, is sure a queer caper: - We knaw which is better, Jack, we were at skeul.” - - “But, Will, I’ve a notion, you han’t seen the caution,[37] - The grocer folks up i’ their windows hae put; - They say they’ll be broken, if they take a token; - An’ seun that their shops they will hae for to shut.” - - “Why, Jack, sure they’re feulish, to refuse them is cullish, - Why siller, man’s, siller, and paper’s but rags; - And as lang as we knaw that, there’s nane o’ them a’ that - Will make us put paper stead sill i’ wor bags. - - “The bank there of Surtees, ye knaw how it hurt hus; - And, for the five score pund I’d laid by for’t lass, - They’re now off’ring twenty, an thinking it plenty; - Tho’ years ago, Jack, I was starving for’t brass. - - “An Jack i’ the raw, ye very weel knaw, - The loss he cam too, when his house it was brunt: - His kistful of paper, went up in a vapour, - An of his sixscore pund he heard na mair on’t. - - “No, no more their notes, shall they cram down our throats, - When we siller can get, man, to put i’ wour kists: - A f----t for their signing, an cautions sae whining, - Let them who won’t take them, wey, do it that lists.” - -[37] The caution was mostly signed by the grocers of the town; it -having been devised at their trade meeting. - - - - -FOOTY AGAIN THE WALL. - - -_A Song much sung some Years ago, by the Pitmen about Long Benton._ - - Fra Benton Bank, to Benton town, - There’s not a Pitman’s raw: - So when ye get to the Moor Yate, - Play footy again the wa’. - Then hie footy, and how footy, - And footy again the wa’; - And when ye get to the Moor Yate, - Play footy again the wa’. - - The wife went down the Moor Lonnin, - And let her basket fa’; - For when she gat to the Moor Yate, - Play’d footy again the wa’. - Then hie, &c. - - The stoby road’s a stoby place, - And some o’ the stobs are la’; - But still there’s some that’s high enough, - For footy again the wa’. - Then hie, &c. - - The Holy Stone’s a holy place, - The trees are thick and la’; - But they are nought to the Moor Yate, - For footy again the wa’. - Then hie, &c. - - Wapping Square is a bonny place, - The houses are but sma’: - But in them yet there’s room enough, - For footy again the wa’. - Then hie, &c. - - The lady did not like the house, - For the air it was raw; - It was sweeter far at the Moor Yate, - For footy again the wa’. - Then hie, &c. - - Young Cuddy is a bonny lad, - And Robin’s tall and sma’; - But if you come to wour town end, - They’ll footy again the wa’. - Then hie, &c. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN. - -_Fought the 9th of August, 1388._ - -Camden, in his Britannia, page 850, gives the following account -of this battle:--“There happened this year, (1388) at Otterburn, -in Northumberland, a stout engagement between the Scots and -English:--Victory three or four times changing sides, and at last -fixing with the Scots; for Henry Piercy, (for his youthful forwardness, -by-named Hotspur) who commanded the English, was himself taken -prisoner, and lost 1500 of his men; and William Douglass, the Scots -general, fell, with the greatest part of his army; so that never was -there a greater instance of the martial prowess of both nations.” Sir -John Froysart (who lived at that time) gives a full account of this -battle, and says, that it was Earl James Douglass who was the Scottish -general. See _Eachard, Rapin, &c._ - -From an old MSS. - - Yt fell abowght the Lamasse tyde, - Whan husbondes wynne ther haye, - The dowghtye Dowglasse bowynd him to ryde, - In Ynglond to take a praye: - - The yerlle of Fyffe, withowghten stryffe, - He bowynd him over Sulway: - The grete wolde ever together ryde, - That raysse they may rewe for aye. - - Over ‘Ottercap’ hyll they cam in, - And so dowyn by Rodelyffe crage, - Upon Grene ‘Leyton’ they lyghted dowyn, - ’Styrande many a’ stage: - - And boldely brente Northomberlonde, - And haryed many a towyn; - They dyd owr Ynglysh men grete wrange, - To battell that were not bowyn. - - Than spake a berne upon the bent, - Of comforte that was not colde, - And sayd, we have brente Northomberlonde, - We have all welth in holde. - - Now we have haryed all Bamboroweschyre, - All the welth in the worlde have wee, - I rede we ryde to Newe Castell, - So styll and stalwurthlye. - - Upon the morrowe, when it was day, - The standerdes schone fulle bryght; - To the Newe Castell the toke the waye, - And thether they cam fulle ryght. - - Syr Henry Perssye laye at the Newe Castell,[38] - I tell yow withowtten drede; - He had byn a march-man all hys dayes, - And kept Barwyke upon Twede. - - To the Newe Castell when they cam, - The Skottes they cryde on hyght, - Syr Harye Perssye, and thow byste within, - Com to the fylde, and fyght: - - For we have brente Northomberlonde, - Thy erytage good and ryght; - And syne my logeyng I have take, - With my brande dubbyd many a knyght. - - Syr Harye Perssye cam to the walles, - The Skottysh oste for to se; - And sayd, And thou hast brente Northomberlonde, - Full sore it rewyeth me. - - Yf thow hast haryed all Bamboroweschyre, - Thow hast done me grete envye; - For the trespasse thow hast me done, - The tone of us schall dye. - - Where schall I byde the, sayd the Dowglasse, - Or where wylte thow com to me? - “At Otterborne in the hygh way, - Ther mast thow well looged be. - - The roo full rekeless ther sche runnes, - To make the game and glee: - The fawken and the fesaunt both, - Among the holtes on hye. - - Ther mast thow have thy welth at wyll, - Well looged ther mast be; - Yt schall not be long, or I com the tyll,” - Sayd syr Harye Perssye. - - Ther schall I byde the, said the Dowglasse, - By the fayth of my bodye. - Thether schall I com, sayd syr Harye Perssye; - My trowth I plyght to the. - - A pype of wyne he gave them over the walles, - For soth, as I yow saye, - Ther he myed the Dowglasse drynke, - And all hys ost that daye. - - The Dowglasse turnyd hym homewarde agayne, - For soth withowghten naye, - He took hys logeynge at Otterborne - Upon a Wedynsday: - - And ther he pyght hys standerd dowyn, - Hys gettyng more and lesse, - And syne he warned hys men to goo, - To chose ther geldynges gresse. - - A Skottyshe knyght hoved upon the bent, - A wache I dare well saye: - So was he ware on the noble Perssy, - In the dawnyng of the daye. - - He prycked to his pavyleon dore, - As fast as he myght ronne, - Awaken, Dowglasse, cryed the knyght, - For hys love that syttes in trone. - - Awaken, Dowglasse, cryed the knyght, - For thow maste waken wyth wynne; - Yender have I spyed the prowde Perssye, - And seven standardes wyth hym. - - Nay, by my trowth, the Dowglasse sayed, - Yt ys but a fayned taylle: - He durst not loke on my brede banner, - For all Ynglonde so haylle. - - Was I not yesterdaye at the Newe Castell, - That stondes so fayre on Tyne? - For all the men the Perssye had, - He cowde not garr me ones to dyne. - - He stepped owt at hys pavelyon dore, - To loke and yt were lesse; - “Araye yow, lordynges, one and all, - For here bygynnes no peysse. - - The yerlle of Mentaye, thow art my erne, - The fowarde I gyve to thee: - The yerlle of Huntley cawte and kene, - He schall ‘wyth the be.’ - - The lorde of Bowghan in armure bryght, - On the other hand he schall be: - Lorde Jhonstone, and lorde Maxwell, - They to schall be wyth me. - - Swynton fayre fylde upon your pryde, - To batell make yow bowen: - Syr Davy Skotte, syr Water Stewarde, - Syr Jhon of Agurstone.” - -[38] The Scots, in this inroad, lay before Newcastle three days, where -there was an almost continual skirmish. Sir Henry Percy, (with his -brother, had come to Newcastle, on the intelligence of the Scots being -abroad) in one of these skirmishes, lost his pennon or standard; and -pledging himself to redeem it, followed the Scots to Otterburn, where -the battle took place. See _Freysart’s Chronicles_. - - - - -_A FYTTE._ - - - The Perssye came byfore hys oste, - Whych was ever a gentyll knyght, - Upon the Dowglasse lowde can he crye, - I wyll holde that I have hyght: - - For thou haste brente Northomberlonde, - And done me grete envye; - For thys trespasse thow haste me done, - The tone of us schall dye. - - The Dowglasse answerde him agayne, - With grete wurdes upon hye, - And sayd, I have twenty agaynst ‘thy’ one. - Byholde and thow maste see. - - Wyth that the Perssye was grevyd sore, - For soth, as I yow saye: - He lyghted dowyn upon hys foote, - And schoote his horsse clene away. - - Every man sawe that he dyd soo, - That rall was ever in rowght; - Every man schoote hys horsse hym froo, - And lyght hym rowynde abowght. - - This syr Harye Perssye toke the fylde, - For soth, as I yow saye: - Jesu Cryste in heven on hyght - Dyd helpe hym well that daye. - - But nyne thowsande, ther was no moo; - The cronykle wyll not layne: - Forty thowsande Skottes and fowre - That day fowght them agayne. - - But when the battell byganne to joyne, - In hast ther cam a knyght, - The letters fayr furth hath he tayne, - And thus he sayd full ryght: - - My lorde, your father he gretes yow well, - Wyth many a noble knyght; - He desyres yow to byde - That he may see thys fyght. - - The baron of Grastoke ys com owt of the west, - Wyth hym a noble companye; - All they loge at your fathers thys nyght, - And the battell fayne wolde they see. - - For Jesus love, sayd syr Harye Perssye, - That dyed for yow and me, - Wende to my lorde my father agayne, - And saye thow sawe me not wyth yee. - - My trowth ys plyght to yonne Skottysh knyght, - Yt nedes me not to layne, - That I schulde byde hym upon thys bent, - And I have hys trowth agayne: - - And yf that I wynde off thys growende, - For soth onfowghten awaye, - He wolde me call but a kowarde knyght - Yn hys londe another daye. - - Yet had I lever to be rynde and rente, - By Mary that mykell maye, - Then ever my manhood schulde be reprovyd, - Wyth a Skotte another daye. - - Wherfore, schote, archars, for my sake, - And let scharpe arowes flee: - Mynstrells, playe up for your waryson, - And well quyt yt schall be. - - Every man thynke on hys trewe love, - And marke hym to the Trenite: - For to God I make myne avowe - This daye wyll I not fle. - - The blodye harte yn the Dowglas armes,[39] - Hys standerde stode on hye; - That every man myght full well knowe, - By syde stode starres thre. - - The whyte lyon on the Ynglyssh perte, - Forsoth as I yow sayne; - The lucettes and the ‘cressawntes’ both; - The Skottes fowght them agayne. - - Upon sent Andrewe lowde can they crye, - And thrysse they schowte on ayght, - And syne marked them one owr Ynglysshe men, - As I have tolde yow ryght. - - Sent George the bryght, owr ladyes knyght, - To name they were full fayne; - Owr Ynglisshe men they cryde on hyght, - And thrysse the schowtte agayne. - - Wyth that scharpe arowes bygan to flee, - I tell yow in sertayne; - Men of armes byganne to joyne; - Many a dowghty man was ther slayne. - - The Perssye and the Dowglas mette, - That ather of other was fayne; - They ‘swapped’ together whyll that the swette, - Wyth swordes of fine collayne; - - Tyll the bloode from ther bassonettes ranne, - As the roke doth in the rayne. - Yelde the to me, sayd the Dowglas, - Or ellse thow schalt be slayne: - - For I see, by thy bryght bassonet, - Thow arte sum man of myght; - And so I do by thy burnysshed brande, - Thow art an yerle, or elles a knyght. - - By my good faythe, sayd the noble Perssye, - Now haste thou rede full ryght, - Yet wyll I never yelde me to the, - Whyll I may stonde and fyght. - - They swapped together, whyll that they swette, - Wyth swordes scharpe and long; - Ych on other so faste thee beette, - Tyll ther helmes cam in peyses dowyn. - - The Perssye was a man of strength, - I tell yow in thys stounde, - He smote the Dowglas at the swordes length, - That he felle to the growynde. - - The sworde was scharpe and sore can byte, - I tell yow in sertayne; - To the harte he cowde him smyte, - Thus was the Dowglas slayne. - - The stonderdes stode styll on ‘elke’ asyde, - Wyth many a grevous grone; - Ther the fowght the daye, and all the nyght, - And many a dowghty man was slayne. - - Ther was no freke that ther wolde flye, - But styffely in stowre can stond, - Ych one hewyng on other whyll they myght drye, - Wyth many a bayllefull bronde. - - Ther was slayne upon the Skottes syde, - For soth and sertenly, - Syr James a Dowglas ther was slayne, - That daye that he cowde dye. - - The yerlle of Mentaye he was slayne. - Grysely groned uppon the growynd; - Syr Davy Skotte, syr Water Stewarde, - Syr Jhon of Agurstonne. - - Syr Charlles Morrey in that place, - That never a fote wold flee; - Syr Hugh Maxwell, a lorde he was, - Wyth the Dowglasse dyd he dye. - - Ther was slayne upon the Skottes syde, - For soth as I yow saye, - For fowre and forty thowsande Skottes - Went but eyghtene awaye. - - Ther was slayne upon the Ynglysshe syde, - For soth and sertenlye, - A gentyll knyght, syr Jhon ‘Fitzhewe,’ - Yt was the more pety. - - Syr James Harebotell ther was slayne, - For hym ther hartes were sore, - The gentyll ‘Lovell’ ther was slayne, - That the Perssye’s standerd bore. - - Ther was slayne upon the Ynglysshe perte, - For soth as I yow saye; - Of nyne thowsande Ynglysshe men, - Fyve hondert cam awaye: - - The other were slayne in the fylde, - Cryste kepe ther sowlles from wo, - Seying ther was so fewe fryndes - Agaynst so many a foo. - - Then on the morne they mayde them beerys - Of byrch, and haysell graye; - Many a widowe wyth wepyng teyres - Ther makes they fette awaye. - - Thys fraye bygan at Otterborne - Bytwene the nyghte and the daye; - Ther the Dowglas lost hys lyffe, - And the Perssye was lede awaye. - - Then was ther a Scottysh prysoner tayne, - Syr Hewe Montgomery was hys name, - For soth as I yow saye, - He borrowed the Perssye home agayne. - - Now let us all for the Perssye praye, - To Jesu most of myght, - To bryng hys sowlle to the blysse of heven, - For he was a gentyll knyght. - -[39] The armorial ensigns of Douglas were Argent, a Man’s Heart, Gules, -and on a chief Azure three stars of the first. - - - - -THE BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE. - - - It fell and about the Lammas time, - When husband men do win their hay, - Earl DOUGLAS is to the English woods, - And a’ with him to fetch a prey. - - He has chosen the LINDSAYS light, - With them the gallant GORDONS gay, - And the Earl of FYFE withouten strife, - And Sir HUGH MONTGOMERY upon a grey. - - They hae taken Northumberland, - And sae hae they the North-shire, - And the Otter-dale they burnt it hale, - And set it a’ into a fire. - - Out then spack a bonny boy, - That serv’d ane o’ Earl DOUGLAS’ kin; - Methinks I see an English host - A-coming branken us upon. - - If this be true, my little boy, - An it be troth that thou tells me, - The brawest bower in Otterbourne, - This day shall be thy morning fee. - - But if it be false, my little boy, - And but a lie that thou tells me; - On the highest tree that’s in Otterbourne, - With my awin hands I’ll hing thee hie. - - The boy’s taen out his little penknife, - That hanget low down by his gare, - And he gae Earl DOUGLAS a deadly wound, - Alack! a deep wound and a sare. - - Earl DOUGLAS said to Sir HUGH MONTGOMERY, - Tack thou the vanguard o’ the three; - And bury me at yon braken bush, - That stands upon yon lilly lee. - - Then PERCY and MONTGOMERY met, - And weel a wat they war na fain; - They swapped swords, and they twa swat, - And ay the blood ran down between. - - O yield thee, yield thee, PERCY, he said, - Or else I vow I’ll lay thee low. - Whom to shall I yield? said Earl PERCY; - Now that I see it maun be so. - - O yield thee to yon braken bush, - That grows upon yon lilly lee. - As in that bush a bier there be, - For it I’d save thy life and thee. - - I winna yield to a braken bush, - Nor yet will I unto a bier; - But I wad yield to Earl DOUGLAS, - Or Sir HUGH MONTGOMERY, if he was here. - - As soon as he knew it was MONTGOMERY, - He stuck his sword’s point in the ground: - And Sir HUGH MONTGOMERY was a courteous knight, - And he quickly brought him by the hand. - - The deed was done at Otterbourne, - About the breaking o’ the day. - Earl DOUGLAS was buried at the braken bush, - And PERCY led captive away. - - - - -THE HUNTING OF THE CHYVIAT. - - -Percy says this old ballad was wrote by one _Richard Sbeale_, about -the time of Henry VI. in whose reign several James’s were kings of -Scotland. _See his Notes on this Poem._ - - The Persé owt off Northomberlonde, - And a vowe to God mayd he, - That he wold hunte in the mountayns - Of Chyviat within dayes thre; - In the magger of doughté Dogles, - And all that ever with him be. - - The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat, - He sayd he wold kyll, and cary them away. - By my feth, sayd the doughté Doglas agayn, - I wyll let that hontyng yf that I may. - - Then the Persé owt of Bamborowe cam, - With him a myghtee meany; - With fifteen hondrith archares bold, off blood and bone, - The wear chosen owt of shayrs thre. - - This beganne on a Monday at morn, - In Chyviat the hillys so he; - The chyld may rue that ys unborn, - It was the mor pitté. - - The dryvers thorowe the woodes went - For to reas the deare; - Bomen byckarte uppone the bent - With ther browd aras cleare. - - Then the wyld thorowe the woodes went - On every syde shear; - Grea hondes thorowe the grevis glent - For to kyll thear dear. - - The beganne in Chyviat the hyls above, - Yerly on a sonny’tn day; - Be that it drewe to the oware off none - A hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay. - - The blewe a mort uppone the bent, - The semblyd on sydes shear; - To the quyrry then the Persé went - To se the bryttlynge off the deare. - - He sayd, It was the Doglas promys - This day to met me hear; - But I wyste he wold faylle verament: - A great oath the Persé swear. - - At the last a squyar of ‘Northomberlonde,’ - Lookyde at his hande full ny, - He was war ath the doughetie Doglas commynge, - With him a myghtté meany. - - Both with spear, byll, and brande: - Yt was a myghti sight to se, - Hardyar men both off harte nar hande - Wear not in Christiantè. - - The wear twenty hondrith spear-men good, - Withowte any feale; - The wear borne along be the watter a Twyde, - Yth bowndes of Tividale. - - Leave off the brytlyng of the deare, he sayde, - And to your bowys lock ye tayk good heed; - For never sithe ye wear on your mothars borne - Had ye never so mickle ned. - - The dougheti Dogglas on a stede - He rode all his men beforne; - His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede; - A bolder barne was never born. - - Tell me ‘what’ men ye ar, he says, - Or whos men that ye be: - Who gave youe leave to hunte in this - Chyviat chays in the spyt of me? - - The first mane that ever him an answear mayd, - It was the good lord Persé: - We wyll not tell the ‘what’ men we ar, he says, - Nor whos men that we be; - But we will hount hear in this chays - In the spyt of thyne and of the. - - The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat - We have kyld, and cast to carry them away. - Be my troth, sayd the doughté ‘Dogglas’ agayn, - Ther for the ton of us shall de this day. - - Then sayd the doughté Dogglas, - Unto the lord Persé: - To kyll all these giltles men, - Alas! it wear great pitté. - - But, Persé, thowe art a lorde of lande, - I am a yerle callyd within my contrè; - Let all our men uppone a parti stande; - And do the battell off the and of me. - - Now Cristes cors on his crowne, sayd the lord Persé, - Who soever ther to says nay. - Be my troth, doughté Doglas, he says, - Thow shalt never se that day; - - Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar France, - Nor for no man of a woman born, - But and fortune be my chance, - I dar met him on man for on. - - Then bespayke a squyar of Northombarlonde, - Ric. Wytheryngton was his nam; - It shall never be tolde in Sothe Ynglonde, he says, - To kyng Herry the fourth for sham. - - I wat youe byn great lordes twaw, - I am a poor squyar of lande; - I wyll never se my captayne fyght on a fylde, - And stande myselffe, and loocke on, - But whyll I may my weppone welde - I wyll not [fayl] bothe harte and hande. - - That day, that day, that dredfull day, - The first fit here I fynde: - And youe wyll here any mor athe hountyng athe Chyviat, - Yet ys ther more behynd. - - -(_FIT THE SECOND._) - - The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent, - Ther hartes were good yenoughe; - The first off arros that the shote off, - Seven skore spear-men the sloughe. - - Yet byddys the yerle Doglas uppon the bent, - A captayne good yenoughe, - And that was sene verament, - For he wrought them hom both woo and wouche. - - The Doglas pertyd his ost in thre, - Lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde, - With suar speares off myghtté tre, - The cum in on every syde. - - Thrugke our Yngglyshe archery - Gave many a wounde full wyde; - Many a doughete the garde to dy, - Which ganyde them no pryde. - - The Yngglyshe men let thear ‘bowys’ be. - And pulde owt brandes that wer bright; - It was a hevy syght to se - Bryght swordes on basnites lyght. - - Thorowe ryche male, and myne-ye-ple, - Many sterne the stroke done streght: - Many a freyke, that was full fre, - Ther undar foot dyd lyght. - - At last the Doglas and the Persé met, - Lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne; - The swapte togethar tyll the both swat - With swordes that wear of fyn myllan. - - Thes worthé freckys for to fyght - Ther to the wear full fayne, - Tyll the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente, - As ever dyd heal or ran. - - ‘Holde’ the, Persé, sayd the Doglas, - And i feth I shall the brynge, - Wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis - Of Jamy our ‘Scottish’ kynge. - - Thoue shalte have thy ransom fre, - I hight the hear this thinge; - For the manfullyste man yet art thowe, - That ever I conqueryd in filde fightyng. - - Nay, sayd the lorde Persé, - I tolde it the beforne, - That I wolde never yeldyde be - To no man of a woman born. - - With that ther cam an arrowe hastely - Forthe off a myghtté wane, - Hit hathe strekene the yerle Doglas - In at the brest bane. - - Thoroue lyvar and longs bathe - The sharpe arrowe ys gane, - That never after in all his lyffe days - He spayke mo wordes but ane, - That was, Fyghte ye, my myrry men, whyllys ye may, - For my lyff days ben gan. - - The Persé leanyde on his brande, - And sawe the Doglas de; - He tooke the dede mane be the hande, - And sayd, Wo ys me for the! - - To have savyde thy lyffe I wold have pertyde with - My landes for years thre; - For a better man of hart, nare of hande, - Was not in all the north contrè. - - Off all that se a Skottishe knyght, - Was callyd sir Hewe the Monggonbyrry, - He sawe the Doglas to the deth was dyght; - He spendyd a spear a trusti tre: - - He rod uppon a corsiare - Throughe a hondrith archery; - He never stynttyde, nar never blane, - Tyll he cam to the good lorde Persé. - - He set uppone the lorde Persé - A dynte that was full soare; - With a suar spear of a myghtté tre - Clean thorow the body he the Persé ‘bore.’ - - Athe tothar syde, that a man myght se, - A large cloth yard and mare; - Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Cristiantè, - Then that day slain wear ther. - - An archar of Northomberlonde - Say slean was the lord Persé, - He bar a bende bow in his hand, - Was made off trusti tre: - - An arow, that a cloth yarde was lang, - Toth hard stele hayld he; - A dynt that was both sad and soar, - He sat on sir Hewe the Monggonbyrry. - - The dynt yt was both sad and sar, - That he of Monggonbyrry sete; - The swane-fethars, that his arrowe bar, - With his hart blood the wear wete. - - Ther was never a freake wone foot wolde fle, - But still in stour dyd stand, - Heawyng on yche othar, whyll the myght dre, - With many a balfull brande. - - This battell begane in Chyviat,[40] - And owar before the none, - And when even-song bell was rang, - The battell was nat haff done. - - The tooke on ethar hand, - Be the lyght off the mone; - Many had no strength for to stande, - In Chyviat the hillys abone. - - Of fifteen hondrith archars of Ynglonde - Went away but fifti and thre; - Of twenty hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde, - But even five and fifti.[41] - - But all wear slayne Chyviat within: - The had no strengthe to stand on hy: - The chylde may rue that ys unborne, - It was the mor pitté. - - Thear was slayne with the lord Persé, - Sir John of Agerstone, - Sir Rogar the hinde Hartly, - Sir Wyllyam the bolde Hearone. - - Sir Jorg the worthé Lovele, - A knyght of great renowen, - Sir Raff the ryche Rugbè, - With dyntes wear beaten dowene. - - For Wetharrynton my harte was wo, - That ever he slayne shulde be; - For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to, - Yet he knyled and fought on his kny. - - Ther was slayne with the doughti Doglas, - Sir Hewe the Monggonbyrry, - Sir Davy Lwdale that worthè was, - His sisters son was he. - - Sir Charles a Murrè, in that place, - That never a foot wolde fle; - Sir Hewe Maxwell, a lorde he was, - With the Doglas dyd he dey. - - So on the morrowe the mayde them byears - Off birch, and hasell so gray; - Many wedous, with wepyng tears, - Cam to fach ther makys away. - - Tivydale may carpe off care, - Northombarlonde may mayke great mon, - For towe such captayns, as slayne wear thear, - On the march perti shall never be non. - - Word ys commyn to Eddenburrowe - To Jamy the Skottishe kyng, - That dougheti Doglas, lyff tenante of the merches, - He lay slean Chyviot within. - - His handdes dyd he weal and wryng, - He says, Alas, and woe ys me! - Such another captayn Skotland within, - He sayd, yefeth shuld never be. - - Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone - Till the fourth Harry our kyng, - That lord Persé, ‘leyff’-tenante of the merchis, - He lay slayne Chyviat within. - - God have merci on his soll, sayd kyng Harry, - Good lord, yf thy will it be! - I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde, he sayd, - As good as ever was he: - But, Persé, and I brook my lyffe, - Thy deth well quyte shall be. - - As our noble kyng made his avowe, - Lyke a noble prince of renowen, - For the deth of the lord Persé, - He dyde the battel of Hombyll-down:[42] - - Wher syx and thritté Skottish knyghtes - On a day wear beaten down: - Glendale glytteryde on ther armor bryght, - Over castill, towar, and town. - - This was the hontynge off the Chyviat; - That tear begane this spurn: - Old men, that knowen the grownde well yenoughe, - Call it the battell of Otterburn. - - At Otterburn began this spurne - Uppon a Monnyn day: - Ther was the doughté Doglas slean, - The Persé never went away. - - Ther was never a tym on the march partes, - Sen the Doglas and the Persé met, - But yt was mervele, and the rede blude ronne not, - As the reane doys in the stret. - - Jhesue Crist our balys bete, - And to the blys us brynge! - Thus was the hountynge of the Chyviat; - God send us all good endyng! - -[40] The Cheviot, or Tiviot Hills, were formerly the boundary between -England and Scotland. - -[41] The English were the first who took the field, and the last to -quit it. They brought only 1500 to the battle; and the Scotch 2000. The -English kept the field with 53; the Scotch retiring with 55. - -[42] The battle of Hombyll-down, or Humbledon, (a village near Wooler, -in Northumberland) was fought September 14th, 1402, (anno 3, Hen. IV.) -where the English, under the command of the Earl of Northumberland, and -his son Hotspur, gained a complete victory over the Scots. - - - - -THE HUNTING IN CHEVY CHASE. - - -This favourite old ballad is founded on the celebrated battle of -Otterbourne, as there never was a Percy engaged with a Douglas, but at -that time; though the Percy, who commanded at that battle, was not earl -of Northumberland, yet he was heir to that title, though he did not -live to enjoy it. Ben Johnson used to say, he had rather have been the -author of this ballad than of all his works. Sir Philip Sydney says, -(in his Discourse of Poetry) “I never heard the old song of Piercy and -Douglas, that I found not my heart more moved than with a trumpet; -and yet it is sung by some blind crouder, with no rougher voice than -rude style; which being so evil apparelled in the dust and cobweb of -that uncivil age, what would it work trimmed in the gorgeous eloquence -of Pindar?” Addison eulogizes it highly in Nos. 70 and 74 of the -Spectator. And in the second volume of Dryden’s Miscellanies, there may -be found a translation of Chevy Chase into Latin Rhymes, by Henry Bold, -of New College. - - God prosper long our noble king, - Our lives and safeties all; - A woeful hunting once there did - In Chevy Chase befall. - - To drive the deer with hound and horn, - Earl Percy took his way; - The child may rue that is unborn - The hunting of that day. - - The stout earl of Northumberland - A vow to God did make, - His pleasure in the Scottish woods - Three summer’s days to take; - - The chiefest harts in Chevy Chase - To kill and bear away: - These tidings to earl Douglas came, - In Scotland where he lay; - - Who sent earl Percy present word, - He would prevent his sport: - The English earl, not fearing this, - Did to the woods resort, - - With fifteen hundred bowmen bold; - All chosen men of might, - Who knew full well, in time of need, - To aim their shafts aright. - - The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, - To chase the fallow-deer; - On Monday they began to hunt, - When day-light did appear; - - And, long before high-noon, they had - A hundred fat bucks slain; - Then, having din’d, the drovers went - To rouse them up again. - - The bowmen muster’d on the hills, - Well able to endure; - Their backsides all, with special care, - That day were guarded sure. - - The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, - The nimble deer to take, - And with their cries the hills and dales - An echo shrill did make. - - Lord Percy to the quarry went, - To view the slaughter’d deer; - Quoth he, Earl Douglas promised, - This day to meet me here: - - If that I thought he would not come, - No longer would I stay. - With that a brave young gentleman - Thus to the earl did say: - - Lo! yonder doth earl Douglas come, - His men in armour bright; - Full twenty hundred Scottish spears - All marching in our sight; - - All men of pleasant Tividale, - Fast by the river Tweed. - Then cease your sport, earl Percy said, - And take your bows with speed. - - And now with me, my countrymen, - Your courage forth advance; - For never was there champion yet, - In Scotland or in France, - - That ever did on horseback come, - But if mayhap it were, - I durst adventure, man for man, - With him to break a spear. - - Earl Douglas, on a milk-white steed, - Most like a baron bold, - Rode foremost of the company, - Whose armour shone like gold. - - Show me, said he, whose men you be, - That hunt so boldly here; - That, without my consent, do chase, - And kill my fallow deer. - - The man that first did answer make, - Was noble Percy, he; - Who said, We list not to declare, - Nor show whose men we be: - - Yet we will spend our dearest blood, - Thy chiefest hearts to slay. - Then Douglas swore a solemn oath, - And thus in rage did say: - - Ere thus I will outbraved be, - One of us two shall die; - I know thee well, an earl thou art, - Lord Percy, so am I. - - But trust me, Percy, pity it were, - And great offence to kill - Any of these our harmless men, - For they have done no ill. - - Let thou and I the battle try, - And set our men aside. - Accurs’d be he, lord Percy said, - By whom this is deny’d. - - Then stepp’d a gallant ’squire forth, - Witherington was his name, - Who said, I would not have it told - To Henry our king, for shame, - - That e’er my captain fought on foot, - And I stood looking on: - You be two earls, said Witherington, - And I a squire alone: - - I’ll do the best that do I may, - While I have strength to stand; - While I have pow’r to wield my sword, - I’ll fight with heart and hand. - - Our English archers bent their bows, - Their hearts were good and true; - At the first flight of arrows sent, - Full three-score Scots they slew. - - To drive the deer with hound and horn - Earl Douglas had the bent; - A captain mov’d with mickle pride, - The spears to shivers sent. - - They clos’d full fast on every side, - No slackness there was found; - And many a gallant gentleman - Lay gasping on the ground. - - O Christ! it was a grief to see, - And likewise for to hear - The cries of men lying in their gore, - And scatter’d here and there. - - At last these two stout earls did meet, - Like captains of great might; - Like lions mov’d, they laid on load, - And made a cruel fight. - - They fought until they both did sweat, - With swords of temper’d steel; - Until the blood, like drops of rain, - They trickling down did feel. - - Yield thee, lord Percy, Douglas said, - In faith I will thee bring, - Where thou shall high advanced be, - By James our Scotish king: - - Thy ransom I will freely give, - And thus report of thee, - Thou art the most courageous knight - That ever I did see. - - No, Douglas, quoth earl Percy then, - Thy proffer I do scorn; - I will not yield to any Scot - That ever yet was born. - - With that there came an arrow keen, - Out of an English bow, - Which struck earl Douglas to the heart, - A deep and deadly blow: - - Who never spoke more words than these, - “Fight on my merry men all; - For why, my life is at an end, - Lord Percy sees my fall.” - - Then leaving life, earl Percy took - The dead man by the hand, - And said, “Earl Douglas, for thy life - Would I had lost my land! - - O Christ! my very heart doth bleed, - With sorrow for thy sake; - For sure a more renowned knight - Mischance did never take.” - - A knight amongst the Scots there was, - Which saw earl Douglas die, - Who straight in wrath did vow revenge - Upon the earl Percy: - - Sir Hugh Montgomery was he call’d; - Who with a spear most bright, - Well mounted on a gallant steed, - Ran fiercely through the fight; - - And pass’d the English archers all, - Without all dread or fear; - And through earl Percy’s body then - He thrust his hateful spear: - - With such a vehement force and might - He did his body gore, - The spear went through the other side - A large cloth-yard, and more. - - So thus did both these nobles die, - Whose courage none could stain: - An English archer then perceiv’d - The noble earl was slain: - - He had a bow bent in his hand, - Made of a trusty tree; - An arrow of a cloth-yard long - Up to the head drew he: - - Against sir Hugh Montgomery, - So right the shaft he set, - The grey-goose-wing that was thereon - In his heart-blood was wet. - - This fight did last from break of day - Till setting of the sun; - For when they rung the evening-bell - The battle scarce was done. - - With the earl Percy there was slain - Sir John of Ogerton, - Sir Robert Radclyffe, and sir John, - Sir James that bold baron: - - And, with sir George, and good sir James, - Both knights of good account, - Good sir Ralph Raby there was slain, - Whose prowess did surmount. - - For Witherington needs must I wail, - As one in doleful dumps; - For when his legs were smitten off, - He fought upon his stumps. - - And with earl Douglas there was slain - Sir Hugh Montgomery, - Sir Charles Currel, that from the field - One foot would never fly; - - Sir Charles Murrel of Ratcliffe too, - His sister’s son was he; - Sir David Lamb, so well esteem’d, - Yet saved could not be. - - And the lord Maxwell, in likewise, - Did with earl Douglas die: - Of twenty hundred Scottish spears - Scarce fifty-five did fly. - - Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, - Went home but fifty-three: - The rest were slain in Chevy Chase, - Under the greenwood tree. - - Next day did many widows come, - Their husbands to bewail; - They wash’d their wounds in brinish tears - But all would not prevail. - - Their bodies, bath’d in purple blood, - They bore with them away; - They kiss’d them dead a thousand times, - When they were clad in clay. - - This news was brought to Edinburgh, - Where Scotland’s king did reign, - That brave earl Douglas suddenly - Was with an arrow slain. - - O heavy news! king James did say, - Scotland can witness be, - I have not any captain more - Of such account as he. - - Like tidings to king Henry came, - Within as short a space, - That Percy of Northumberland - Was slain in Chevy Chase. - - Now God be with him! said our king, - Sith ’twill no better be; - I trust I have within my realm - Five hundred as good as he. - - Yet shall not Scot nor Scotland say, - But I will vengeance take; - And be revenged on them all, - For brave lord Percy’s sake. - - This vow full well the king perform’d, - After, on Humble-down; - In one day fifty knights were slain, - With lords of great renown; - - And of the rest, of small account, - Did many hundreds die. - Thus ended the hunting of Chevy Chase, - Made by the earl Percy. - - God save the king, and bless the land - In plenty, joy, and peace; - And grant, henceforth, that foul debate - ’Twixt noblemen may cease. - - - - -AN OLD SONG ON THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN. - - - I Have heard of a lilting, at our ewes’ milking, - Lasses a lilting, before the break of day; - But now there’s a moaning, on ilka green loaning, - That our braw forresters are a’ wede away. - - At boughts, in the morning, nae blyth lads are scorning; - The lasses are lonely, dowie, and wae; - Nae daffin, nae gabbin, but sighing and sabbing, - Ilka ane lifts her leglen, and hies her away. - - At e’en at the gloming, nae swankies are roaming, - ’Mong stacks, with the lasses, at bogle to play; - But ilka ane sits dreary, lamenting her deary, - The Flowers of the Forest that are a’ wede away. - - At harrest, at the shearing, nae youngsters are jeering, - The bansters are runkled, lyart, and grey. - At a fair, or a preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching, - Since our braw forresters are a’ wede away. - - O dool for the order, sent our lads to the border: - The English for anes by guile gat the day. - The Flowers of the Forrest, that ay shone the foremost, - The prime of our land, lies cauld in the clay. - - We’ll hear nae mair lilting, at our ewes’ milking, - The women and bairns are dowie, and wae. - Sighing and moaning, on ilka green loaning, - Since our braw forresters are a’ wede away. - - - - -THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST; _Or, Flodden Field_. - - -(Fought September 9th, 1513.) - -This version is made up from various copies of this old ballad -collated, and is of very unequal merit. The stanzas, from the 17th to -the 22d inclusive, compose a dirge of the most beautiful and pathetic -simplicity. The circumstances are happily chosen and combined; and the -language, to those who understand it, is so picturesquely expressive, -that while we read the words, the scene is felt penciled on our -imagination. And it is impossible to peruse it without feeling a high -degree of that pleasing sombre tenderness, which it is the object of -this sort of poetry to produce. - - From Spey to the border, - Was peace and good order; - The sway of our monarch was mild as the May; - Peace he adored, - Whilk Soudrons abhorred, - Our marches they plunder, our wardens they slay. - - ’Gainst LOUIS, our ally, - Their HENRY did sally, - Tho’ JAMES, but in vain, did his herauld advance, - Renouncing alliance, - Denouncing defiance, - To Soudrons, if langer abiding in France. - - Many were the omens, - Our ruin was coming, - E’er the flower of our nation was call’d to array: - Our king at devotion, - St Andrew did caution, - And sigh’d as with sorrow he to him did say,-- - - Sir, in this expedition, - You must have ambition; - From the company of women you shou’d keep away. - When the spectre this declar’d, - It quickly disappear’d; - But where it retired no man could espy. - - The flowers of the nation - Were call’d to their station, - With valiant inclination their banners to display; - To Burrow-Muir resorting; - Their right for supporting, - And there rendevouzing, encamped did lay. - - But another bad omen, - That vengeance was coming; - At midnight, in Edinburgh, a voice loud did cry, - As heraulds, in their station, - With loud proclamation, - Did name all our barons in England to die. - - These words the demon spoke, - At the throne of Plotcock, - It charg’d their appearing, appointing the day: - The provost, in its hearing, - The summons greatly fearing, - Appeal’d to his Maker, the same did deny. - - At this were many griev’d, - As many misbeliev’d; - But forward they march’d to their destiny: - From thence to the border, - They march’d in good order, - The Merse-men and Forrest they join’d the array. - - England’s invasion, - It was their persuasion, - To make restitution for their cruelty; - But O fatal Flodoun! - There came the wo down; - And our royal nation was brought to decay. - - After spoiling and burning, - Many hameward returning, - With our king still the nobles and vassals abide: - To SURREY’S proud vaunting, - He answers but daunting; - The king would await him whatever betide. - - The English advanced - To where they were stanced; - Half-intrenched by nature, the field it so lay: - To fight the English fearing, - And sham’d their retiring; - But alas! unperceived was their subtilty. - - Our Highland battalion, - So forward and valiant, - They broke from their ranks, and they rush’d on to slay: - With hacking and slashing, - And broad swords a-dashing, - Thro’ the front of the English they cut a full way. - - But, alas! to their ruin, - An ambush pursuing, - They were surrounded with numbers too high: - The Merse-men and Forest, - They suff’red the sorest, - Upon the left wing were inclos’d the same way. - - Our men into parties, - The battle in three quarters, - Upon our main body the marksmen did play: - The spearmen were surrounded. - And all were confounded; - The fatal devastation of that woful day! - - Our nobles all ensnared, - Our king he was not spared; - For of that fate he shared, and would not run away; - The whole were intercepted, - That very few escaped - The fatal conflagration of that woful day. - - This set the whole nation - Into grief and vexation: - The widows did weep, and the maidens did say, - Why tarries my lover? - The battle’s surely over? - Is there none left to tell us the fates of the day? - - I’ve heard a lilting, - At our ewes’ milking, - Lasses a-lilting afore the break of day; - But now there’s a moaning, - On ilka green loaning, - Since our bra foresters are a’ wed away. - - At boughts i’ the morning, - Nae blyth lads are scorning; - The lasses are lonely, dowie, and wae; - Nae daffin, nae gabbin, - But sighing and sabbing, - Ilk ane lifts her leglen, and hies her away. - - At e’en in the glomin, - Nae swankeys are roaming, - ’Mang stacks, wi’ the lasses, at bogle to play; - But ilk ane sits dreary, - Lamenting her deary, - The flowers of the Forest that are wed away. - - In herst, at the shearing, - Nae younkers are jeering; - The bansters are lyart, runkled, and grey: - At fairs nor at preaching, - Nae wooing, nae fleeching, - Since our bra’ Foresters are a’ wed away. - - O dool for the order, - Sent our lads to the border! - The English for anes by guile got the day: - The Flowers of the Forest, - That ay shone the foremost, - The prime of our land lies cauld in the clay. - - We’ll hear nae mair lilting, - At our ewes’ milking: - The women and bairns are dowie and wae, - Sighing and moaning, - On ilka green loaning, - Since our bra Foresters are a’ wed away. - - I’ve seen the smiling - Of fortune beguiling; - I’ve felt all her favours, and found her decay: - Sweet is her blessing, - And kind her caressing; - But now it is fled, it is fled far away. - - I’ve seen the forest - Adorned the foremost, - With flowers of the fairest both pleasant and gay: - Sae bonny was their blooming, - Their scent the air perfuming; - But now they are withered, and all gone away. - - I’ve seen the morning, - With gold the hills adorning, - And loud tempests storming before mid-day: - I’ve seen Tweed’s silver streams - Shining i’ the sunny beams, - Grow drumly and dark as it roll’d on the way. - - O fickle fortune! - Why this cruel sporting? - Why this perplexing poor sons of a day? - Thy frowns cannot fear me, - Nor smiles cannot chear me, - Since the Flowers of the Forest are a’ wed away. - - - - -VERSES _ON JAMES THE IVth, OF SCOTLAND_. Who fell at the Battle of -Flodden. - - -Among the various antiquities preserved in the Heralds College, London, -there are the Sword, Dagger, and Turquois Ring, of James the IVth, of -Scotland, slain at the battle of Flodden. - - ’Twas he that rul’d his Country’s heart - With more than Royal sway-- - But Scotland saw her James depart, - And sadden’d at his stay. - - She heard his fate--she wept her grief-- - That James, her own, her darling Chief, - Was gone for evermore. - But this she learnt, that e’er he fell, - (Oh, Men! Oh, Patriots! mark it well) - His Fellow Soldiers round his fall, - Enclos’d him like a living wall, - Mixing their friendly gore. - - Nor was the day of Flodden done, - ’Till they were slaughter’d, one by one, - And this may serve to shew-- - When Kings are Patriots none will fly: - When such a King was doom’d to die, - Oh, who would Death forego? - - - - -THE BATTLE OF REID SQUAIR. - - -(Fought July 7th, 1576.) - - On July seventh, the suthe to say, - At the Reid Squair the tryst was set. - Our wardens they affixt the day, - And as they promist, sae they met: - Allace! that day I’ll neir forzet, - Was sure sae feir’d, and then sae fain, - They cam thair justice for to get, - Will nevir grein to cum again. - - CARMICHAEL was our warden then, - He causit the countrey to convene, - And the laird WATT, that worthy man, - Brocht in his surname weil be sene: - The ARMSTRANGS that ay haif bene - A hardy house, but not a hail; - The ELLIOTTS honours to mentain, - Brought in the laif of LIDDISDALE. - - Then TWIDAIL came to with speid, - The Scheriff brocht the DOUGLAS doun, - With CRANSTANE, GLADSTANE, gude at neid, - Baith Rewls-water and Hawick Town. - BEANGEDDERT bauldly maid him boun, - With all the TRUMBLES strang and stout; - The RUTHIRFUIRDS, with grit renoun, - Convoyit the town of Jedbruch out. - - With other Clanns I can nocht tell, - Because our wairning was nocht wyde, - Be this our folk hes tane the fell, - And plantit pallions thair to byde: - We lukit down the uther syde, - And saw cum briesting owr the brae, - And Sir GEORGE FOSTER was thair gyde, - With fyftene hundrid men and mae. - - It greivt him sair that day I trow, - With Sir JOHN HINROME of Schipsydehouse, - Because we were not men enow, - He counted us not worth a souse; - Sir GEORGE was gentil, meik, and douse, - But he was hail and het as fyre: - But zit for all his cracking crouse, - He rewd the raid of the Reid Squyre. - - To deil with proud men is but pain, - For ether ze maun ficht or flie, - Or els nae answer mack again, - But play the beist, and let him be. - It was nae wondir tho’ he was hie, - Had TYNDALL, REDSDAILE at his hand, - With CUCKSDAILE, GLADSDAILE on the lie, - Auld HEBSRIME and NORTHUMBERLAND. - - Zit was our meeting meik enough, - Begun with mirriness and mows, - And at the brae abune the heugh - The clerk sat doun to call the rows, - And sum for ky and sum for ewis, - Callit in of DANDRIE HOB and JOCK, - I saw cum merching owre the knows, - Fyve hundred FENNICKS in a flock. - - With jack and speir, and bowis all bent, - And warlike weaponis at their will; - Howbeit they wer not weil content, - Zit be me trouth we feird nae ill: - Sum zeid to drink, and sum stude still, - And sum to cards and dyce them sped, - Quhyle on ane Farstein they fyld a bill, - And he was fugitive that fled. - - CARMICHAEL bad them speik out plainly, - And cloke nae cause for ill nor gude, - The uther answering him full vainly, - Begouth to reckon kin and blude, - He raise and rax’d him quhair he stude, - And bade him match him with his marrows; - Then TYNDAL hard these reseuns rude, - And they lute aff a flight of arrows. - - Then was ther nocht but bow and speir, - And ilka man pullit out a brand, - A SCHAFTAN and a FENNICK their, - Gude SYMINGTON was slain frae hand. - The Scotismen cryd on uther to stand, - Frae tyme they saw JOHN ROBSON slain: - Quhat suld they cry! The King’s command - Culd cause nae cowards turn again. - - Up raise the laird to red the cumber, - Quhilk wald not be for all his boist, - Quhat suld we do with sic a number, - Fyve thousand men into an hoist? - Then HENRIE PURDIE proud hes cost, - And verie narrowlie had mischiefd him, - And ther we had our WARDEN lost, - Wart not the grit GOD he relievd him. - - Ane uther throw the breiks him bair, - Quhyle flatlines to the ground he fell: - Then thocht I, we had lost him thair, - Into my heart it struck a knell; - Zit up he raise, the truth to tell, - And laid about him dunts full dour, - His horsemen they faucht stout and snell, - And stude about him in the stour. - - Then raisd the slogan with an schout, - Fy, TYNDALL to it, JEDBRUGH heir; - I trow he was not half sae stout, - But anes his stomach was a steir, - With gun and genzie, bow and spier, - He micht se mony a crakit crown, - But up amang the merchant gier, - They bussie were as we wer doun. - - The swallow-tails frae teckles flew, - Fyve hundred slain into the flicht, - But we had pestellets anew, - And schot amang them as we micht. - With help of GOD the game gade richt, - Frae tyme the foremost of them fell; - Hynd owre the know, without gude-nicht, - They ran with mony a schout and zell. - - And after they had turnd again, - Zit TYNDALL men they turnd again, - And had not bene the merchant packs, - There had bene mae of Scotland slain: - But JESU gif the folk was fain - No put the bussing on thair theis, - And sae they fled with all thair main, - Doun owre the brae lyke clogged beis. - - Sir FRANCIS RUSSEL tane was thair, - And hurt, as we heir men reherse; - Proud WALLINGTOUN was wounded sair, - Albeit he was a Fennick ferss, - But gif ze wald a souldier serche - Amang them all was tane that night, - Was nane sae wordie of our verse - As COLINGWOOD that courteous knight. - - Zung HENRY skapit hame, is hurt, - A souldier schot him with a bow, - Scotland has cause to make great sturt, - For laiming of the Laird of Mow. - The Laird WATT did weil indeid, - His friends stude stoutly by himsell, - With little GLADSTONE, gude in neid, - For GRETEIN kend not gude be ill. - - The SCHERIFF wantit not gude-will, - Howbeit he might not ficht sae fast: - BENJEADERT, HUNDLIE and HUNTHILL, - Three, on they laid well at the last - Except the horsemen of the gaird: - If I could put men to avail, - Nane stoutlier stude out for their laird, - Nor did the lads of LIDDISDALE. - - But little harness had we thair, - But auld BADRULE had on a jack, - And did richt weil, I zou declair, - With all the TRUMBULLS at his back. - Gude EDERSTANE was not to lack, - With KIRTOUN, NEWTOUN, nobill-men. - Thir is ail the specials I haif spack, - Forby them that I could nocht ken. - - Qhua did invent that day of play, - We neid nocht feir to find him sune, - For Sir JOHN FOSTER, I dare weil say, - Maid us that noysome afternune: - Not that I speik precisely out, - That he supposd it wald be perill, - But pryde and breaking out, but dout, - Gart TYNDALL lads begin the quarrell. - - - - -FAIR ‘MABEL’ OF WALLINGTON. - - - When we were silly sisters seven, sisters [we] were so fair. - Five of us were brave knights wives, and died in child-bed sair, - Up then spake fair ‘Mabel’, marry would she nane. - If ever she came in man’s bed the same gate wad she gang. - Make no vows, fair ‘Mabel’, for fear they broken be, - Here’s been the knight of Wallington asking good-will of thee. - Here’s been the knight [of Wallington] mother, asking good-will of me; - Within three-quarters of a year you may come bury me. - - When she came to Wallington, and into Wallington-hall, - There she spy’d her mother dear walking about the wall. - You’re welcome, daughter dear, to thy castle and thy bower. - I thank you kindly, mother, I hope they’ll soon be your’s. - She had not been in Wallington three-quarters and a day, - Till upon the ground she could not walk, she was a weary prey; - She had not been in Wallington three-quarters and a night, - Till on the ground she cou’d not walk, she was a weary ‘wight.’ - - Is there ne’er a boy in this town who’ll win hose and shun, - That will run to fair Pudlington, and bid my mother come? - Up then spake a little boy, near unto [her] a-kin, - Full oft I have your errands gone, but now I will it run. - Then she call’d her waiting-maid to bring up bread and wine: - Eat and drink, thou bonny boy, thou’ll ne’er eat more of mine: - Give my respects to my mother, as [she] ‘sits’ in her chair of stone, - And ask her how she likes the news of seven to have but one. - - Give my love to my brother William, Ralph, and John; - And to my sister Betty fair, and to her white as bone, - And bid her keep her maidenhead, be sure to make much on’t, - For if e’er she come in man’s bed, the same gate will she gang. - Away this little boy is gone as fast as he could run, - When he came where brigs were broke, he lay down and ‘swum.’ - When he saw the lady, he said, Lord may your keeper be! - What news, my pretty boy, ‘hast’ thou to tell to me? - - Your daughter ‘Mabel’ orders me, as you sit in a chair of stone, - To ask you how you like the news of seven to have but one; - Your daughter gives commands as you sit in a chair of ‘state,’ - And bids you come to her sickening, her ‘weary’ lake-wake: - She gives command to her brother William, Ralph, and John; - To her sister Betty fair, and to her white [as] bone, - She bids her keep her maidenhead, besure make much on’t, - For if e’er she come in man’s bed the same gate wou’d she gang. - - She kickt the table with her foot, she kickt it with her knee, - The silver plate into the fire so far she made it flee: - Then she call’d her waiting-maid to bring her riding-hood, - So did she on her stable-groom to bring her ‘stead so good:’ - Go saddle to me the black, go saddle to me the brown, - Go saddle to me the swiftest steed that e’er rid Wallington, - When she came to Wallington, and into Wallington-hall, - There she espy’d her son Fenwick walking about the wall. - - God save you, dear son, Lord may your keeper be! - Where is my daughter fair, that used to walk with thee? - He turn’d his head round about, the tears did fill his eye; - ’Tis a month, he said, since she took her chambers from me. - She went on, and there were in the hall - Four and twenty ladies letting the tears down fall: - Her daughter had a scope into her chest, and into her chin, - All to keep her life till her dear mother came therein. - - Come take the rings off my finger, the skin it is so white, - And give them to my mother dear, for she was all the ‘weight;’ - Come take the rings off my fingers, the veins are so red, - Give them to sir William Fenwick, I’m sure his heart will bleed. - She took out a razor, that was sharp and fine, - And out of her left side she has taken the heir of Wallington, - There is a race in Wallington, and that I rue full sare, - Tho’ the cradle it be full spread up, the bride-bed is left bare. - -[Illustration] - - - - -VERSES - - -_On a View of Roadley Castle, not far from Wallington, in -Northumberland, built by the late worthy Sir Walter Blackett, Bart, -with a small Description of its Situation, comprehending Codgy Fort, -the Lake, the noted Greenlighton Hill, &c. by Thomas Oliver, of -Hallington, Northumberland, taken before the Deer were destroyed in the -Park, wherein the Castle stands, soon after the Death of Sir Walter -Blackett._ - -Hutchinson, in his History of Northumberland, appears not to have -liked Roadley or Rothley Castle: he finishes his description of it -by saying, it would be “pretty enough for the reception of Thomas of -Hick-a-thrift, or Jack the Giant Killer.” - - There’s Roadley’s ‘cloud capt’ lofty hill, - With humble dales below; - The mighty crags its front do fill, - White as if flect with snow. - - These rugged rocks rough Boreas scorn, - Nor blust’ring Æolus dread: - Some as by Noah’s deluge torn, - From their huge massy bed. - - Upon its airy summit high, - An antique tower appears, - Who to the stranger passing by, - Seems ag’d a thousand years. - - Thus in its melancholy state, - A Windsor’s view commands; - And to defend the brazen gate, - Cæsar and Pompey stands. - - Within the compass of an eye, - Sweet rising scenes appear: - There fleecy flocks a feeding by, - With stately herds of deer. - - But when with more extended rays, - Your circling eyes you guide: - Nature fresh beauties still displays, - From Blyth to Symmon Side.[43] - - Nor far from hence stands Codgy Fort, - Built on a craggy hill; - Where hawks, and daws, and owls resort, - And wild blue pigeons bill. - - Bordering, a sloping raggy brake, - Spreading, appears in sight; - A deep extensive, warping lake,[44] - With water birds on flight. - - While numbers on the surface float, - Down diving o’er and o’er: - With bumpkins in the pleasure boat, - Launching from shore to shore. - - Grey game, and Grouse in num’rous broods, - About Greenlighton Hill; - Where piping Pan his flocks he feeds, - Around that humble vill. - - By dawn of day, Mary and Bett, - Hies to the birney knows; - Where blithsome many a morn we’ve met, - At milking of the ewes. - - By Maria’s mean courtesy taught, - When flocks did chance to roam; - I wore them to the milking Bought, - And bore her leglin home. - -[43] The view is extensive, from here may be seen the Symon Side Hills -on one side, to the town of Blyth on the other. - -[44] At the foot of the hill on which the castle stands, near -the north-west corner of the park, are two fine sheets of water, -communicating with each other, called _Rothly Ponds_. Formerly they -were tastefully ornamented by a shrubbery, which was disposed round -the margin of the water. A boat and fishing tackling were formerly -kept here, and a tent was pitched in the summer near the lakes, where -visitants were plentifully regaled by the late generous proprietor, -who frequently amused himself at this place. _Vide_ p. 105, v. 2, of -Northumberland, 1811. - - - - -THE BATTLE OF HUMBLEDOWN HILL. - - -(_By E.W. August 5th, 1791._) - -The author of this suggested the idea from reading the verse of Chevy -Chace:-- - - “This vow full well the King perform’d - After, on Humbledown, - In one day fifty Knights were slain - With Lords of great renown.” - -In the second volume of Guthrie’s History of Scotland, the battle is -fully described. - - Sir Swinton was a doughty knight - As ever Scotland bred; - Than Gordon none more brave in fight, - Did ever cross the Tweed. - - But deidly feuds subsisted long - Between these valiant twain, - They never met--but straight they fought - With all their martial train. - - At last they hied with ilk his band - To Brae of Humbledown, - Where Douglas and his army lay - Wi’ Knights of great renown. - - Now baith afore the Douglas stood, - And glowr’d wi’ hatefu’ spite, - And half unsheath’d their shining blades, - And quak’d and burn’d to fight. - - Then mighty Douglas leap’d between - To redd the foul debate, - “O Sirs!” he cries, “thrust in your glaives - And quell this rising state. - - “For, look you! where the English lies - On yonder tented field, - To morrow’s morn, if right I ween, - We’ll need both sword and sheild. - - “Gin we to Scotland mean to go, - Our road lies thro’ yon host; - First spend your fury on the foe, - Then fight--if fight ye must.” - - He spake--in sullens baith withdrew, - Now all prepare for fight, - And arms and armour clattering brake - The silence of the night. - - In bluid red clouds the Sun arose, - Which saw that fatal day, - Where bretheless on the green hill side - Fu’ many a bra’ Scot lay. - - For sair--the English bowmen gall’d - The van--the ungear’d stood, - Nae thirsty shaft e’er reach’d the earth - Unstain’d wi’ Scottish bluid. - - Then Sir John Swinton loudly cries - “Bra’ lads! gif we must die, - Follow our cheif, and syne our foes - Shall bear us companie.” - - These words when Adam Gordon heard, - He hastens to the place, - “When our dear country claims our aid - Let all our quarrels cease. - - “For, mine are gone--most valiant Knight! - And now a boon I crave-- - That frae thy noble arm--the meed - Of Knighthood I must have.” - - “And mine for aye!”--replies Sir John, - And to his breast him drew; - Then dubb’d him Knight, while deidly flight - Of arrows round them flew. - - Then wi’ their men, these valiant twain - Rush’d down the green hill’s side, - And ’mongst their foes, wi’ mortal blows - Their hands in bluid they dy’d. - - Like two huge rocks on Bramor’s brow, - When loossen’d fra’ their bed, - That thunder down and overthrow - The pines which crown the glade. - - Thus they, thro’ ranks, the Earl of March - And the bold Percies fought, - And bluid and carnage mark’d their path - Where’er they step’d and fought. - - At length they’re wi’ their gallant train - By numbers compass’d round, - And fighting fall on heaps of slain, - And stain with gore the ground. - - Thus did these valiant cheiftains fall - Who liv’d in mortal strife, - But lock’d in one another’s arms, - Dear friendship clos’d their life. - - And now the Scottish lines were broke - Wi’ rout and disarray, - And many a man was lost in [Tweed] - That strove to flee that day. - - The mighty Douglas too was ta’en - For ne’er a foot he’d flee, - But first five greevous wounds he got - And also lost an eye. - - With Gordon and with Swinton fell - Sir John of Callender, - Sir Ramsay of Dalhousie too, - And Sir Walter Sinclair. - - And Roger Gordon likewise died, - Wi’ Walter Scot sae brave, - And many more of note beside - Whom valour cou’d not save. - - But past all count, the pris’ners were - Wi’ doughty Douglas ta’en, - Fife, Murray, Angus, Orkney Earls, - Lord Graham and Erskine. - - With eighty Knights and many more - Than can ee’ now be told, - All captives led, for ransome sett - By Harry Hotspur bold. - - Fra’ Forth to Tweed, a swankie blade - Was then a sight to see, - The co’uter left in half plough’d lidge - Lay rusting in the lee. - - God prosper Scotland, let us say, - And grant our wars be done, - And may we ne’er see sic a day - As that of Humbledown.[45] - -[45] In the plain beneath the hill and village of Humbledown or -Humbleton is a stone pillar, denoting the ground where 10,000 of -the Scots, under Earl Douglas, in the reign of King Henry IV, on -Holyrood-day, 1402, had a great overthrow, by Henry Lord Percy and -George Earl of March. Douglas had entered England about the middle of -August, and destroyed and plundered the country as far as Newcastle. -On his return to Scotland he was intercepted by Earl Percy, and was -obliged to engage on this plain: the battle was so bloody that the -lands gained the name of Redriggs, from the slaughter with which they -were stained. Among the prisoners were the Earls of Fife, Murray, -Angus, Athol, Orkney, and Monteath, the Lords Montgomery and Erskine, -and about 80 knights. Douglas received five wounds and lost an eye. -Being hotly pursued, in the flight 500 Scots were drowned in the Tweed, -the most of their army on this fatal day were left dead, or taken -prisoners. - - - - -THE LAIDLEY WORM _OF SPINDLESTON-HEUGH_. - - - _Virgo jam serpens sinuosa volumina versat,_ - _Mille trahens varios adverso sole colores,_ - _Arrectis horret squamis et sibilat ore;_ - _Arduaque insurgens navem de littore pulsat._ - -A Song about 550 Years old, made by the old Mountain-bard, Duncan -Frasier, living on Cheviot, A.D. 1270. - -_First printed from an ancient MSS._ - -BY MR ROBERT LAMBE, VICAR OF NORHAM. - - The king is gone from Bambrough Castle, - Long may the princess mourn, - Long may she stand on the castle wall, - Looking for his return. - - She has knotted the keys upon a string, - And with her she has them ta’en, - She has cast them o’er her left shoulder, - And to the gate she is gane. - - She tripped out, she tripped in, - She tript into the yard; - But it was more for the king’s sake, - Than for the queen’s regard. - - It fell out on a day, the king - Brought the queen with him home; - And all the lords, in our country, - To welcome them did come. - - Oh! welcome father, the lady cries, - Unto your halls and bowers; - And so are you, my step-mother, - For all that’s here is yours. - - A lord said, wond’ring while she spake, - This princess of the North - Surpasses all of female kind - In beauty, and in worth. - - The envious queen replied, at least, - You might have excepted me; - In a few hours, I will her bring - Down to a low degree. - - I will her liken to a Laidley worm, - That warps about the stone, - And not, till Childly Wynd comes back, - Shall she again be won. - - The princess stood at the bower door - Laughing, who could her blame? - But e’er the next day’s sun went down, - A long worm she became. - - For seven miles east, for seven miles west, - And seven miles north, and south, - No blade of grass or corn could grow, - So venomous was her mouth. - - The milk of seven stately cows, - It was costly her to keep, - Was brought her daily, which she drank - Before she went to sleep. - - At this day may be seen the cave, - Which held her folded up, - And the stone trough, the very same - Out of which she did sup. - - Word went east, and word went west, - And word is gone over the sea, - That a Laidley worm in Spindleston-Heughs - Would ruin the North Country. - - Word went east, and word went west, - And over the sea did go; - The Child de Wynd got wit of it, - Which filled his heart with woe. - - He called straight his merry men all, - They thirty were and three: - I wish I were at Spindleston, - This desperate worm to see. - - We have no time now here to waste, - Hence quickly let us sail: - My only sister Margaret, - Something, I fear, doth ail. - - They built a ship without delay, - With masts of the rown tree, - With flut’ring sails of silk so fine, - And set her on the sea. - - They went on board. The wind with speed - Blew them along the deep, - At length they spied an huge square tower - On a rock high and steep. - - The sea was smooth, the weather clear, - When they approached nigher, - King Ida’s castle they well knew, - And the banks of Bambroughshire. - - The queen look’d out at her bower window, - To see what she could see; - There she espied a gallant ship - Sailing upon the sea. - - When she beheld the silken sails, - Full glancing in the sun, - To sink the ship she sent away - Her witch wives every one. - - The spells were vain; the hags returned - To the queen in sorrowful mood, - Crying that witches have no power, - Where there is rown-tree wood. - - Her last effort, she sent a boat, - Which in the haven lay, - With armed men to board the ship, - But they were driven away. - - The worm lept up, the worm lept down, - She plaited round the stone; - And ay as she came to the land - She banged it off again. - - The child then ran out of her reach - The ship on Budley-sand; - And jumping into the shallow sea, - Securely got to land. - - And now he drew his berry-broad sword, - And laid it on her head; - And swore if she did harm to him - That he would strike her dead. - - O! quit thy sword and bend thy bow, - And give me kisses three; - For though I am a poisonous worm, - No hurt I’ll do to thee. - - Oh! quit thy sword, and bend thy bow - And give me kisses three; - If I’m not won, e’er the sun go down, - Won I shall never be. - - He quitted his sword and bent his bow, - He gave her kisses three; - She crept into a hole a worm, - But out stept a lady. - - No cloathing had this lady fine, - To keep her from the cold; - He took his mantle from him about, - And round her did it fold. - - He has taken his mantle from him about, - And in it he wrapt her in, - And they are up to Bambrough castle, - As fast as they can win. - - His absence and her serpent shape, - The king had long deplored, - He now rejoiced to see them both - Again to him restored. - - The queen they wanted, whom they found - All pale, and sore afraid; - Because she knew her power must yield - To Childy Wynd’s, who said, - - Woe be to thee, thou wicked witch, - An ill death mayest thou dee; - As thou my sister hast lik’ned, - So lik’ned shalt thou be. - - I will turn you into a toad, - That on the ground doth wend; - And won, won, shall thou never be, - Till this world hath an end. - - Now on the sand near Ida’s tower, - She crawls a loathsome toad, - And venom spits on every maid - She meets upon her road. - - The virgins all of Bambrough town, - Will swear that they have seen - This spiteful toad, of monstrous size, - Whilst walking they have been. - - All folks believe within the shire - The story to be true, - And they all run to Spindleston, - The cave and trough to view. - - This fact now Duncan Frasier - Of Cheviot, sings in rhyme; - Lest Bambrough-shire-men should forget - Some part of it in time. - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE FISHER LADDIE. - - - On Bamboroughshire’s rocky shore, - Just as you enter _Bowmer_ Raw, - There lives the bonny fisher lad, - The fisher lad that bangs them a’. - O the bonny fisher lad, - That brings the fishes fra’ the sea; - O the bonny fisher lad, - The fisher lad gat had of me. - - My mother sent me out one day, - To gather cockles fra’ the sea; - But I had not been long away, - When the fisher lad gat had of me. - O the bonny, &c. - - A sailor I will never marry, - Nor soldier, for he’s got no _brass_; - But I will have a fisher lad - Because I am a fisher’s lass. - O the bonny, &c. - - - - -THE KYE’s COME HOME. - - - The kye are come hame, - But I see not my hinny, - The kye are come hame, - But I see not my bairn: - I’d rather lose all the kye - Than lose my hinny, - I’d rather lose all the kye - Than lose my bairn. - - Fair fac’d is my hinny, - His blue eyes are bonny, - His hair in curl’d ringlets - Hang sweet to the sight; - O mount the old poney, - Seek after my hinny, - And bring to his mammy - Her only delight. - - - - -SONG. - - -_A lamentable Ditty made upon the death of a worthy gentleman, named -GEORGE STOOLE, dwelling sometime on Gate-side Moor, and sometime at -Newcastle, in Northumberland: with his penitent end._ [c. 1610.] - -To a delicate Scottish Tune. - - Come you lusty Northerne lads, - That are so blith and bonny, - Prepare your hearts to be full sad, - To heare the end of Georgy. - Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my bonny love, - Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my honny; - Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my owne deare love, - And God be with my Georgie. - - When Georgie to his triall came, - A thousand hearts were sorry, - A thousand lasses wept full sore, - And all for love of Georgie. - Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my bonny love, - Heigh-ho, &c. - - Some did say he would escape, - Some at his fall did glory: - But these were clownes and fickle friends, - And none that loved Georgy. - Heigh-ho, &c. - - Might friends have satisfied the law, - Then Georgie would find many: - Yet bravely did he plead for life, - If mercy might be any. - Heigh-ho, &c. - - But when this doughty carle was cast, - He was full sad and sorry: - Yet boldly did he take his death, - So patiently dyde Georgie. - Heigh-ho, &c. - - As Georgie went up to the gate, - He tooke his leave of many: - He tooke his leave of his laird’s wife, - Whom he lov’d best of any. - Heigh-ho, &c. - - With thousand sighs and heavy looks, - Away from thence he parted, - Where he so often blithe had beene, - Though now so heavy hearted. - Heigh-ho, &c. - - He writ a letter with his owne hand, - He thought he writ it bravely: - He sent it to New-castle towne, - To his beloved lady. - Heigh-ho, &c. - - Wherein he did at large bewaile, - The occasion of his folly: - Bequeathing life unto the law, - His soule to heaven holy. - Heigh-ho, &c. - - Why, lady, leave to weepe for me, - Let not my ending grieve ye: - Prove constant to the man you love, - For I cannot relieve yee. - Heigh-ho, &c. - - Out upon thee, Withrington, - And fie upon thee, Phoenix: - Thou hast put downe the doughty one, - That stole the sheepe from Anix. - Heigh-ho, &c. - - And fie on all such cruell carles, - Whose crueltie’s so fickle, - To cast away a gentleman - In hatred for so little. - Heigh-ho, &c. - - I would I were on yonder hill, - Where I have beene full merry: - My sword and buckeler by my side - To fight till I be weary. - Heigh-ho, &c. - - They well should know that tooke me first, - Though whoops be now forsaken: - Had I but freedome, armes, and health, - I’de dye ere I’de be taken. - Heigh-ho, &c. - - But law condemns me to my grave, - They have me in their power; - There’s none but Christ that can me save, - At this my dying houre. - Heigh-ho, &c. - - He call’d his dearest love to him, - When as his heart was sorry: - And speaking thus with manly heart, - Deare sweeting, pray for Georgie. - Heigh-ho, &c. - - He gave to her a piece of gold, - And bade her give’t her bairns: - And oft he kist her rosie lips, - And laid him into her armes. - Heigh-ho, &c. - - And coming to the place of death, - He never changed colour, - The more he thought he would look pale, - The more his veines were fuller. - Heigh-ho, &c. - - And with a cheereful countenance, - (Being at that time entreated - For to confesse his former life) - These words he straight repeated. - Heigh-ho, &c. - - I never stole an ox or cow, - Nor ever murdered any: - But fifty horse I did receive - Of a merchant’s man of Gory. - Heigh-ho, &c. - - For which I am condemn’d to dye - Though guiltlesse I stand dying: - Deare gracious God, my soule receive, - For now my life is flying, - Heigh-ho, &c. - - The man of death a part did act, - Which grieves me tell the story; - God comfort all are comfortlesse, - And did so well as Georgie. - Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, my bonny love, - Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my bonny; - Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, mine own true love, - Sweet Christ receive my Georgie. - - - - -_EPITAPH_ ON WILLIAM BELL, LATE A RESIDENT ON GATESHEAD FELL. - - -_By Samuel Barras._ - - Here lies the corpse of William Bell, - The great good man of Gateshead Fell: - Zealous in his Master’s cause, - A strict observer of his laws: - He liv’d by faith, and not by sight: - With full assurance took his flight, - Unto that sweet delicious coast, - Where hope is in fruition lost. - - - - -AN EXCELLENT BALLAD _On the Sickness, Death, and Burial_, OF ECKY’s -MARE; - -_Which was made and composed by the late ancient and famous Northern -poet, Mr BERNARD RUMNEY, a musician, or country fidler, who lived and -died at Rothbury, being about one hundred years old at the time of his -death._ - - - Wold you please to hear of a sang of dule, - Of yea sad chance and pittifow case, - Makes the peur man powt through many a pule, - And leuk on mony an unkend face? - - Between the Yule but and the Pasch, - In a private place, where as I lay, - I heard ane sigh, and cry, alas! - What shall I outher dea or say? - - A man that’s born of a middle-yeard wight, - For wealth or pelth can no be secure; - For he may have enough at night, - And the next morn he may be fow peur. - - I speak this by a Northumberland man, - The proverb’s true proves by himself; - Since the horse-couping he began, - He had great cause to crack of wealth. - - Of galloways he was well stockt, - What some part first, what some part last; - But I’ll no speak much to his praise, - For some of them gat o’re lang a fast. - - Some of them gat a shrowish cast, - Which was nae teaken of much pelth; - But yet he hopes, if life dea last, - To see the day to crack of welth. - - But aye the warst cast still comes last, - He had nae geuds left but a Mear, - There was mair diseases did her attend - Nor I can name in half a year. - - If Markham he himself was here, - A famous farrier although he be, - It wad set aw his wits astear - To reckon her diseases in their degree. - - But her sicknesses we’ll set aside, - Now tauk we of the peur man’s cost, - And how she lev’d, and how she died, - And how his labour aw was lost. - - In the winter-time she took a hoast, - And aw whilk while she was noe weell; - But yet her stomach ne’er was lost, - Although she never had her heal. - - Now for her feud she went so yare, - An the fiend had been a truss of hey, - She wad a swallowed him and mickle mare, - Bequeen the night but an the dey. - - The peur man cries out Armyes aye, - I see that she’s noe like to mend, - She beggers me with haver and hey, - I wish her some untimous end. - - Nae sooner pray’d, but as soon heard, - She touck a fawing down behind, - She wad a thousand men a scar’d, - To have felt her how she fill’d the wind. - - Her master he went out at night, - Of whilk he had oft mickle need, - He left her neane her bed to right, - Nor neane for to had up her head. - - Next day when he came to the town, - He ran to see his mear with speed, - He thought she had fawn in a swoon, - But when he try’d she was cald dead. - - It’s ever alas! but what remeed, - Had she play’d me this at Michaelmas, - It wad a studden me in geud steed, - And sav’d me both yeats, hay and grass. - - There’s ne’er an elf in aw the town, - That hardly weell can say his creed, - But he will swear a solemn oath, - Crack o’ wealth Ecky’s mear cau’d dead. - - Lad, wilt thou for Hob Trumble run? - I ken he will come at my need; - That seun he may take off her skin, - For I mun leeve though she be dead. - - Now straight he came with knife in hand, - He flead her fra the top to th’ tail, - He left nae mare skin on her aw - Then wad been a heudin to a flail. - - He seld her haill hide for a groat, - So far I let you understand, - And what he did weed he may well weet, - For he bought neither house nor land. - - Now have I cassen away my care, - And hope to live to get another; - And night and day shall be my prayer, - The fiend gae down the loaning with her. - - Now shall I draw it near an end, - And tauk nae mare of her at least, - But hoping none for to offend, - You shall hear part of her funeral feast. - - To her resorted mony a beak, - And birds of sundry sorts of hue; - There was three hundred at the least, - You may believe it to be true. - - Sir Ingram Corby he came first there, - With his fair lady clad in black, - And with him swarms there did appear - Of piots hopping at his back. - - The carrion craw she was not slack, - Aw cled into her mourning weed, - With her resorted mony a mack - Of greedy kite and hungry gleede. - - When they were aw conven’d compleat, - And every yean had taen their place; - So rudely they fell tea their meat, - But nane thought on to say the grace. - - Some rip’d her ribs, some pluck’d her face, - Nae bit of her was to be seen; - Sir Ingram Corby in that place, - Himself he pick’d out baith her eyne. - - But wait ye what an a chance befel, - When they were at this jolly chear, - Sir William Bark, I can you tell, - He unexpected lighted there. - - Put aw the feasters in sike a fear, - Some hopt away, some flew aside, - There was not ane durst come him near, - Nay not sir Corby, nor his bride. - - He came not with a single side, - For mony a tike did him attend, - I wait he was no puft we pride, - As you shall hear before I end. - - See rudely they fell to the meat, - But napkin, trencher, salt, or knife; - Some to the head, some to the feet, - While banes geud bare there was na strife. - - In came there a tike, they cau’d him Grim, - Sea greedily he did her gripe, - But he rave out her belly-rim, - And aw her puddings he made pipe. - - Her lights, her liver, but an her tripe, - They lay all trailing upon the green; - They were aw gane with a sudden wipe, - Not any of them was to be seen. - - But suddenly begeud a feast, - And after that begeud a fray; - The tikes that were baith weak and least, - They carried aw the bats away. - - And they that were of the weaker sort, - They harl’d her through the paddock-peul, - They leugh, and said it was good sport, - When they had drest her like a feule. - - Thus have you heard of Ecky’s mear, - How pitifully she made her end; - I write unto you far and near, - Who says her death is no well penn’d. - - I leave it to yoursel’s to mend, - That chance the peur man need again; - If it be ill penn’d it is well kend, - I got as little for my ‘pain.’ - - - - -STANZAS, _Addressed to Northumbria_. - - - Old Janus advances all cloathed in white, - And his long-smother’d tempests sends forth; - On the mountains cold bosom, as black as the night, - Sinks the dark rolling clouds of the north. - - In their winding sheets rob’d are the hills and the dales, - And the verdure no longer is seen; - Save where the slow streams wind their way thro’ the vales, - With their margins besprinkled with green. - - On the stump of a thorn, with his bosom of red, - See the robin his thankful notes raise - For his crumbs--by his precepts, oh! may I be led - To give the All-bounteous due praise. - - Hark! the blast sweeps the heath; see the mountain fir bend; - Thick tempests obscure the pale sky; - The fast-gathering drift on the hedge see descend, - And streams of faint lightning flash by. - - Yes, Northumbria, thy climate is cold and severe; - There winter usurps the blithe spring; - And through the wide range of the circling year, - Chilling damps to thy bosom will cling. - - Yet thy health-giving breeze, be it ever so cold, - Knits the nerves of thy children for war; - Whose proud speaking eye in the soldier behold, - And for whose dauntless heart view the tar. - - He bounds o’er thy brooks, and he climbs thy wild rocks, - Health and vigour inhales from the breeze; - Despising in manhood the tempest’s rude shocks, - Fearless quits his dear home for the seas. - - Lo! the canvas it swell’d: from the banks of the Tyne, - The vessel scuds swiftly along; - From his eye independant, see stern valour shine, - As he hums a Northumbrian song. - - Now the battle-day comes, and far, far from his shore, - The squadrons of France meet his eyes; - Unaw’d his proud heart, ’mid the cannons’ loud roar, - He with Collingwood conquers and dies. - - From thy hills, too, at sound of the heart-rousing drum, - Thy war breathing soldier retires; - In lion-like strength seeks the carnage field’s hum, - Fights--blesses thy name--and expires! - - Such, such are the heroes in thy vallies rear’d, - Such, Northumbria, thy children still be: - Proud commerce, from Tyne’s banks in glory uprear’d, - To her breast clasps the lords of the sea. - - Come forward ye dark rolling clouds of the north, - Who shrinks from your blasts but the coward and slave? - Ye nerve the bold sons that Northumbria sends forth, - To fight for her king on Trafalgar’s proud wave. - -_January 2d, 1807._ - -BOTHWELL. - - - - -_THOMAS WHITTLE._ - - -The author of the five succeeding pieces of poetry, a Northumbrian by -birth, and was long resident in the neighbourhood of Cambo, as appears -by the following lines taken from his WHIMSICAL LOVE with ANN DOBSON:-- - - “At Cambo, on a fatal day, - I chanc’d to see and view - This Celia’s face, more fresh than May, - When every blossom’s new; - Like patient Grissel, at her wheel, - Acting the housewife’s part, - My spirits in my veins did reel, - And love danc’d in my heart.” - -As also from the History of Northumberland, (1811) Vol. II, page 221. - -“Cambo was the favourite residence of the ingenious and eccentric -Thomas Whittle, whose comic productions often beguile the long winter -evenings of our rustic Northumbrians. His parents and the place of -his birth are unknown. It is believed that he was the natural son of -a gentleman of fortune, and that he was called Whittle from the place -of his nativity, which some say was in the parish of Shilbottle, and -others in the parish of Ovingham. - -“Though Whittle was a profligate in his life, and sometimes licentious -in his compositions, yet the superior talents he has displayed in his -best productions, sufficiently entitle him to our notice in this work. -His poems and songs have long been perused by the people of the county -with eager admiration and delight, and will probably be a source of -entertainment to many succeeding generations. His Whimsical Love is a -master-piece of its kind; and his Poetic Letter to the Razor-setter, -his satirical Poem on William Carstairs, and his song called the -Mitford Galloway, are replete with wit and humour, and will afford a -mental feast to all who have a taste for comic poetry.” The last of -which was published during his life, with the following old wood cut, -as a head piece to it:-- - -[Illustration: Bidford Galloway.] - - - - -THE MIDFORD GALLOWAY’s RAMBLE. - - -BY THOMAS WHITTLE. - -To the Tune of, _Ranting roaring Willy_. - - The routing the earl of Mar’s forces, - Has given their neighbours supplies; - They’ve stock’d us with Highlanders horses, - Like kileys for madness and size: - The whirligig-maker of Midford - Has gotten one holds such a stear, - He’s had worse work with it, I’ll say for’t - Than Ecky e’er had with his mear. - - The devil ne’er saw such a gelding - As this to be foal’d of a mear; - The size ont’s a shame to be teld on, - And yet it could skip like a deer; - For colour and size (I’m a sinner, - I scorn, as the folks say, to slide,) - ’Twas just like Hob Trumble’s gimmer, - Which he sold for six-pence a side. - - It was a confounded bad liver, - Like Ferry the piper’s old cat; - It ne’er could be brought to behaviour, - Though it has got many a bat; - It had been so spoil’d in up-bringing, - It vext his poor heart every day; - Sometimes with biting and flinging, - And sometimes with running away. - - Perhaps it was brought up a Tory, - And knew the poor man for a Whig; - But just to make short of the story, - I’ll tell you one day what it did: - When business came thicker and thicker, - And would not admit of delay, - As fast as the heels on’t could bicker, - It scamper’d right northward away. - - O’er rocks, over mountains and ditches, - Dike-gutters and hedges it speels; - A courser could never keep stretches - With it for a large share of heels: - From hill unto dale like a fairy, - It hurry’d and pranced along, - While Geordy was in a quandary, - And knew not what way it was gone. - - A day or two after, have at it, - He north in pursuit on’t took chase, - And like a dub-skelper he trotted, - To many strange village and place; - All Rothbury forest he ranged, - From corner to corner like mad, - And still he admired and stranged, - What vengeance was gone with his pad. - - He circled about like a ring-worm, - And follow’d the scent of his nose, - And from Heslyhurst unto Brinkburn, - With Fortune the clothier he goes. - To honest Tom Fawdon’s the fuller, - The rattle-brain’d roisters both went, - Tho’ they made the gelding their colour, - Another thing was their intent. - - Tom Fawdon soon knew what they wanted, - And straightway the table was set, - With bread, butter and cheese it was planted, - And good ale, as well as good meat; - Their grace took but little inditing, - ’Twas short and they had it by heart; - And they took as little inviting, - But strove who should have the fore-start. - - They used no bashful dissembling, - But to in a passion did fall, - The dishes did by them stand trembling, - Their mercy appeared so small: - The butter, the cheese, and the bannocks, - Dissolved like snow in a fresh, - And still as they stuck in their stomachs, - With liquor they did them down wash. - - The Dutch, nor the Welsh, nor wight Wallace, - Did ever like them show their spleen, - The cheese bore the marks of their malice, - Their knives and their teeth were so keen. - Two stone they destroyed, shame be’n them, - And pour’d down their liquor like spouts, - Their guts to hold what they put in them, - Were drest like a pair of strait boots. - - With bellies top-full to the rigging, - I leave them to settle a bit, - ’Till making good use of the midding, - ‘Do’ bring them unto a right set. - Now come we to speak of the gelding, - Who knowing that he did offend, - Stay’d two or three days about Weldon, - To make justice Lisle stand his friend. - - He after that grew so unlucky, - On mischief and ill he was bent, - He prov’d a right North-country jockey, - Still cheating where ever he went. - At many men’s charges he dined, - But never ask’d what was arrear; - Yet no man could get him confined, - So slily himself he did clear. - - The town of Longframlington further - Can give an account what he is, - He came within acting of murder, - As near as a horse could to miss; - For unto a house he went scudding, - And seeing a child all alone, - If Providence had not withstood him, - He’d struck it as dead as a stone. - - The rest of his acts are recorded, - ’Tis nonsense to mention them here; - I’ll go back and fetch Geordy forward, - He’s tarri’d too long I do fear! - From Brinkburn he started and held on, - Directly to Framlington town, - And then to the miller’s at Weldon, - He back o’er the hill tumbled down. - - Not finding the thing that he wanted, - Unto Hedleywood he did trot, - He was tost like a dog in a blanket, - O’er Coquet and back in the boat: - All Framlington fields he sought over, - And from spot to spot he did run, - For fear the grass chanced to cover - His pad, as it once did Tom Thumb. - - Then up to John Alders he drabbeth, - And there all the night did repose, - And then, the next day being Sabbath, - Away he to Whittingham goes; - Where he to revenge the miscarriage - Of his little scatter-brain’d nag, - He went to the clerk of the parish, - To get him expos’d for a vague. - - The clerk he soon set up his cropping, - And made a great bustle and stear; - The church-yard appear’d like a hopping, - The folks drew about so to hear: - He did to a hairs-breadth describe him, - And call’d him again and again, - And Geordy by four-pence did bribe him, - For all the small pains he had ta’n. - - Scarce were the jaw-bones of these asses - Well shut, till a Thrunton-bred lad, - Eas’d Geordy a bit of his crosses, - By bringing him news of his pad: - These tidings his spirit renewed, - No clerk cou’d his courage controul, - But still was resolv’d to pursue it, - Suppose it were to the North pole. - - ’Tis past a man’s giving account on, - What way he traversed with speed, - From Eslington, Whittingham, Thrunton, - He past the Broom-park and Hill-head, - To Learchild, to Barton, to Branton, - And from thence to Mount on the clay, - To Fawdon, the Clinch, and to Glanton, - And several towns mist by the way. - - There’s Lemington, Abberwick, Bolton, - With Woodhall that stands on the fell, - And Titlington’s likewise untold on, - Where Jacob, of old, dig’d his well; - To Harup, to Hidgily and Beanly, - He past unto Callaly mill, - To Brandon, to Ingram, and Reavely, - And Crawley that stands on a hill. - - To Brandon-main, then to the Whitehouse, - To Dickison’s where he made league, - And articled that for a night-house, - To rest a while after fatigue: - He drank a while till he grew mellow, - And then for his chamber did call, - Where sound he may sleep, silly fellow, - His travels wou’d weary us all. - - He had an invincible couple - Of legs, that did bear him well out, - They hung so loose, like a flail-souple, - And cudgel’d his buttocks about; - No man who’d have thought any hallion - Could ever have acted the thing, - Without help of Pacolet’s stallion,[46] - That when the pin turn’d did take wing. - - Next day rising, rigging and starting, - He jogg’d on his journey with speed, - To Bewick, the Lilburns, Coldmartin, - From thence unto Woolerhaugh-head; - To Wooperton, Ilderton, Rodham, - And Rosedon, he scudded like mad, - Nothing fell by the way that withstood him, - Until he had met with his pad. - - Earl was the place where he found him, - A blithe sight for Geordy to see; - But got the whole town to surround him, - Before he his prisoner would be: - Then on his back jumping and prancing, - He swiftly switcht over the plain, - But made him pay dear for his dancing, - E’er he got to Midford again. - -[46] See the history of Valentine and Orson. - - - - -THE INSIPIDS: OR, _The Mistress with her Multitude of Man Servants._ - - -BY THOMAS WHITTLE. - - Of all the Kirkharle bonny lasses, - If they were set round in a ring, - Jane Heymours for beauty surpasses, - She might be a match for a king; - Her cheeks are as red as a cherry, - Her breast is as white as a swan, - She is a blyth lass and a merry, - And her middle is fit for a man. - - The lads are so fond to be at her, - They all run as mad as March hares, - This bonny young lass they do flatter, - And fall at her feet to their prayers: - You never saw keener or stouter, - They’ll not be put off with delay, - Like bull-dogs they still hang about her, - And court her by night and by day. - - Joe Hepple, Will Crudders, Tom Liddle, - With twenty or thirty men more, - If I could their names but unriddle, - At least I might make out two score, - That all cast about for to catch her, - And make her their own during life; - With others that strive to debauch her, - Despairing to make her their wife. - - So many love tokens and fancies - She gets, that to bring them in view, - They’d look like so many romances, - And none could believe they were true. - I only will mention one favour, - And leave you to guess at the rest; - An old kenning Edward Hall gave her, - Of comforts the choicest and best. - - They venture like people for prizes, - And with the same timorous doubt, - She has them of all sorts and sizes, - That’s constantly sneaking about. - Each man speaks her fair, and importunes - In all the best language that’s known; - And happy were he could tell fortunes, - To know if the girl were his own. - - John Robson, Joe Bowman, Will Little, - With her would spend nights over days; - Each glance of her eyes is so smittle, - That all men are catch’d if they gaze: - She strikes them quite thro’ with love stitches, - And many a poor heart she doth fill; - She’s like one of those call’d white witches, - That hurts men and means them no ill. - - John Henderson, that honest weaver, - And mettled Matt Thomson the smith, - Came both from Capheaton to preave her, - And court her with courage and pith. - Ned Oliver too, and Tom Baxter - Spare neither their feet, tongue, or hands, - But strive with the rest to contract her - In compass of conjugal bands. - - Bob Bewick just makes it his calling - Unto her his love to declare; - And some’s of that mind that John Rawling - Would gladly come in for a share. - John Forcing doth praise and commend her, - Above any lass that wears head; - And fain he would be a pretender, - If he had but hopes to come speed. - - Bob Cole strains his wit and invention - And compliments to a degree; - And twenty that I cannot mention - Are all as keen courters as he. - She puts them all into such pickle - They care not what courses they run, - And if (as folks say) she be fickle, - ’Tis twenty to one they’re undone. - - Their loves would fill forty hand wallets, - If they were cramm’d in at both ends; - Their hearts are all sunk like lead pellets, - And very small hopes of amends. - Great dangers on both sides encreases, - Which very destructive may prove; - The lass may be all pull’d to pieces, - Or all the poor lads die for love. - - But that which supports and preserves them, - Their stomachs their best friends do prove; - And ’tis not a little meat serves them - Since they fell so deeply in love. - Their fancies and appetites working, - It made them so sharp and so keen, - The girls mother lost two butter firkins, - They wattell’d away so much cream. - - One day with a good brandy bottle, - Two met her about the Heugh Nebb, - And there their accounts they did settle, - And made all as right as my legg: - The snuff-mill and gloves came in season, - The want of a glass to supply; - They drank the girls first, with good reason, - And then the king’s health by the by. - - The Millers Haugh, Heugh Nebb, and Haystack, - The Flowers, the New Close, and Decoy, - With places whose titles I know not, - Where they met to love and enjoy, - Would be but too far a digression, - And make our fond passions rebell; - But, oh! had these places expression, - What pretty love tales they could tell! - - So many to her bear affection, - And give her such lofty applause, - I’m love-sick to hear the description, - And wish I could see the sweet cause: - ’Tis she that could make all odds even, - And bring many wonders to pass; - I wish all her sweethearts in heaven, - Why I were in bed with the lass! - - - - -SAWNEY OGILBY’s DUEL WITH HIS WIFE. - - -BY THOMAS WHITTLE. - -To the Tune of, _The worst’s past_. - - Good people, give ear to the fatalest duel - That Morpeth e’er saw since it was a town, - Where fire is kindled and has so much fuel, - I wou’d not be he that wou’d quench’t for a crown. - Poor Sawney, as canny a North British hallion, - As e’er crost the border this million of weeks, - Miscarried, and married a Scottish tarpawlin, - That pays his pack-shoulders, and will have the breeks. - - I pity him still when I think of his kindred, - Lord Ogelby was his near cousin of late; - And if he and somebody else had not hinder’d, - He might have been heir unto all his estate. - His stature was small, and his shape like a monkey, - His beard like a bundle of scallions or leeks; - Right bonny he was, but now he’s worn scrunty, - And fully as fit for the horns as the breeks. - - It fell on a day, he may it remember, - Tho’ others rejoyced, yet so did not he, - When tidings was brought that Lisle did surrender, - It grieves me to think on’t, his wife took the gee, - These bitches still itches, and stretches commission, - And if they be crossed they’re still taking peeks, - And Sawney, poor man, he was out of condition, - And hardly well fit for defending the breeks. - - She mutter’d, and moung’d, and looked damn’d misty, - And Sawney said something, as who cou’d forbear? - Then straight she began, and went to’t handfisty, - She whither’d about, and dang down all the gear: - The dishes and dublers went flying like fury, - She broke more that day than would mend in two weeks, - And had it been put to a judge or a jury, - They cou’d not tell whether deserved the breeks. - - But Sawney grew weary, and fain would be civil, - Being auld, and unfeary, and fail’d of his strength, - Then she cowp’d him o’er the kale-pot with a kevil, - And there he lay labouring all his long length. - His body was soddy, and sore he was bruised, - The bark of his shins was all standing in peaks; - No stivat e’er lived was so much misused - As sare as auld Sawney for claiming the breeks. - - The noise was so great all the neighbours did hear them, - She made his scalp ring like the clap of a bell; - But never a soul had the mense to come near them, - Tho’ he shouted murder with many a yell. - She laid on whisky whasky, and held like a steary, - Wight Wallace could hardly have with her kept streaks; - And never gave over until she was weary, - And Sawney was willing to yield her the breeks. - - And now she must still be observ’d like a madam. - She’ll cause him to curvet, and skip like a frog, - And if he refuses she’s ready to scad him, - Poxtake such a life, it wou’d weary a dog. - Ere I were so serv’d, I would see the de’il take her, - I hate both the name and the nature of sneaks; - But if she were mine I would clearly forsake her, - And let her make a kirk and a mill of the breeks. - - - - -SONG ON _WILLIAM CARSTAIRS, SCHOOLMASTER._ - - -BY THOMAS WHITTLE. - - Ye muses nine, if you think fit, - Instruct my pen to write. - Apollo, thou great god of wit, - Come help me to indite. - Let poets, pipers, fidlers come, - In priols,[47] or in pairs, - And echo forth, as with a _drum_, - The praise of Will Carstairs.[48] - - _Imprimus_, then I will proceed - His features to disclose, - And draw a compass from his head - Unto his heels and toes; - Some cunning man come lay a spell, - And keep me from all snares, - That I may keep in compass well, - While I describe Carstairs. - - But first I must his pardon crave, - For making bold and free, - For William was his christian name, - And shall be so for me; - But manners must to rhymes give place, - Or else we spoil our wares; - And _Will_ and _William’s_ all one case, - And equal to Carstairs. - - His face is like the midnight moon - And stars that shine so bright; - His nose is like a flaming fire, - That casts both heat and light; - It sparkles like the Syrian seas - When he gets in his airs, - A clown has not an heart to buy - A beak like Will Carstairs. - - Without a magnifying glass, - His neck you cannot see; - But if you please to let it pass, - It shall be pass’d by me; - His shoulders are compact and strong, - Made up of rounds and squares, - And no small burden e’er could wrong - A back like Will Carstairs’. - - Down from his shoulder-blades there springs - Two arms both stout and strong, - That flap just like a buzzard’s wings - As he marcheth along; - And from those arms there spring two hands, - Well skill’d in magic airs; - And William Lilley’s charter stands - By such as Will Carstairs. - - He has eight sides, I scorn to slide, - I’ll bring them fairly in, - The upperside and underside - Are two for to begin; - There’s backside, foreside, leftside, right-- - I’ll put them down in pairs-- - And inside, outside, which make _eight_, - Belonging to Carstairs. - - Down from his sides there spring two hips - With sturdy well built thighs, - Just like a pair of weeding-clips, - But of a larger size; - His legs they do like supples bend, - When he gets in his airs-- - Right taper’d down from end to end, - Few men can match Carstairs. - - His feet are much like other men’s, - I guess them by the shoe, - They’re neither of the fives nor tens, - But just between the two. - He’ll trip to Scotland in a trice, - For speed he never spares,-- - There’s few can trip it out so nice - As thrifty Will Carstairs. - - He’s near about the standard pitch, - As nature can express-- - They’re lubbers that’s above his size, - And dwarfs that’s any less; - But tho’ he be not quite so tall - To rank ’mong grenadiers, - There’s thousands of marines as small - As little Will Carstairs. - -[47] Priol, _i.e._ three. - -[48] Carstairs, though a poor poet, was vain of his abilities as such. -About the year 1731, Thomas Whittle and he being in a large company -at the Burnt-house in Newcastle, the conversation turned on their -respective merits as disciples of the Muses. A wager was soon bet on -the subject; and it was agreed, that an hour should be allowed for each -of them to write satyrical verses on the other. The two poets were -accordingly placed in separate apartments; and at the expiration of the -time specified, it was determined, by throwing up a halfpenny, which -of the two should first read his lays: it fell to Whittle’s lot; but -before he had got to the end, his competitor was so chagrined, that he -put the concoctions of his less fertile brain in the fire; the wager of -course was won by Whittle’s party. - - - - -THOMAS WHITTLE, HIS HUMOROUS LETTER, TO MASTER MOODY, THE RAZOR-SETTER. - - -_Newcastle on Tyne, May Twenty-nine._ - - Good Master Moody, - My beard being cloudy, - My cheeks, chin, and lips - Like moon i’ the ’clipse, - For want of a wipe: - I’ve sent you a razor, - If you’ll be at leisure - To grind her, and set her, - And make her cut better, - You’ll e’en light my pipe.[49] - - Dear sir, you know little - The case of poor Whittle-- - I’m courting Tantivie, - If you will believe me, - Pray mark what I say: - I’m frank in my proffers, - And when I make offers, - To kiss the sweet creature, - My lips cannot meet her. - My beard stops the way. - - You’ve heard my condition, - And now I petition, - That without omission, - With all expedition, - You’ll give it a _strike_; - And send it by ’Tony, - He’ll pay you the money-- - I’ll shave and look bonny, - And go to my honey, - As snod as you like. - - If you do not you’ll hip me, - My sweetheart will slip me, - And if I should smart for’t, - And break my poor heart for’t - Are you not to blame! - But if you’ll oblige me, - As gratitude guides me, - I’ll still be your servant, - Obedient and fervent, - Whilst WHITTLE’S my name. - -[49] A Northumberland phrase, signifying a particular favour done to -one. - - - - -THE LITTLE PRIEST OF FELTON. - - - The little priest of Felton, - The little priest of Felton, - He kill’d a mouse within his house, - And ne’er a one to help him; - To help him, to help him, - He kill’d a mouse within his house, - And ne’er a one to help him. - - - - -THE FELTON GARLAND. - - -_How a Brick-maker at Felton stole a Woman away by her own Consent, -from her Grandmother._ - -To the Tune of, _Maggy Lauder_. - - There lives a lass in Felton town, - Her name is Jenny Gowen, - With the Brick-man she has play’d the lown, - So wanton she is grown: - The reason why some love the night, - _Incognito_ to revel, - Is they love darkness more than light, - Because their deeds are evil. - - So late at night on Saturday, - He thought all safe as brandy, - He rigg’d and trigg’d, and rid away - Upon John Hinks’s Sandy: - To Haggerston he did pretend, - Some sweetheart there confin’d him; - But he took up, at our town-end, - His cloak-bag on behind him. - - Like as the bird that gay would be, - As fable hath reported, - From each fine bird most cunningly - A feather she extorted: - Then boasting said, How fine I’m grown! - Her painted plumes she shaked, - At which each bird pluck’d off their own, - And left her almost naked. - - With this kind maid it proved so, - Who many things did borrow, - To rig her up from top to toe, - And deck her like queen Flora. - Of one she got a black-silk hood, - Her fond light head to cover, - Likewise a blue cloak, very good, - Her night intrigues to smother. - - Clock stockings she must have (dear wot) - In borrow’d shoes she’s kilted, - Some lent her a blue petticoat, - Both large and bravely quilted. - Of some she got a fine linn-smock, - Lest Peter shou’d grow canty, - And have a stroke at her black joke, - With a tante, rante, tante. - - With borrow’d cane, hat on her head, - To make her still look greater, - She’d make her friends believe indeed, - They were all bought by Peter: - But when she did return again, - In all her boasted grandeur, - Each to their own did lay just claim, - And left her as they fand her. - - But none can guess at their intent, - Why they abroad did swagger, - Some said, to see their friends they went, - Some said, to Buckle Beggar. - Away full four days they stay’d, - I think they took their leisure; - They past for man and wife, some said, - And spent the nights in pleasure. - - When the Black Cock did Sandy see, - There was a joyful meeting, - That night when I thee lent, quoth he, - I wish I had been sleeping: - Thou art abused very sore, - As any creature can be, - And still he cry’d, o’er and o’er, - O woe is me for Sandy! - - Then Sandy, mumbling, made reply, - You were my loving master, - I never did your suit deny, - Nor meet with one disaster, - Till now unknown to yourself, - That I should have this trouble, - Or else for neither love nor pelf, - You’d let me carry double. - - Poor Sandy was with riding daul’d, - He rues he saw their faces, - His back and sides they sorely gaul’d, - He pay’d for their embraces; - But if young Peter’s found her nest, - She’ll rue as well as Sandy; - And if she proves with child, she best - Had tarry’d with her grandy. - - -_How they abused the horse they rid on, and when he married, they went -off in several people’s debts._ - - In second part I will declare - The troubles of poor Sandy; - And how this couple married were, - And how well pleas’d was Grandy. - Now first with Sandy I’ll begin, - Whose legs swell’d to a wonder, - So likewise was his belly rim, - Swell’d like to burst asunder. - - And lest his troubles shou’d increase, - A farrier was provided, - Well skill’d in Markham’s master-piece, - Who in this town resided; - And, to his everlasting fame, - He did exert his cunning, - He bled his legs, and in his wame, - Two tapps he there set running. - - He several med’cines did apply, - Whose virtue was so pure, - That in six weeks, or very nigh, - He made a perfect cure. - And now in all the world besides, - There’s not a sounder creature, - So well he scampers, and he rides, - But never more with Peter. - - Of him I now design to speak, - A Yorkshire born and bred, sir, - He play’d them all a Yorkshire trick, - And then away he fled, sir. - As you shall hear when home he came, - With Jennet upon Sandy, - He to his work return’d again, - And she unto her grandy. - - But long with her she tarry’d not, - Unsettled was her notion, - Just like the pend’lum of a clock, - That’s always in a motion. - I’ll go to service, she did say, - Keep me, you can’t afford it; - So one she got, where was it pray? - E’en where her spark was boarded. - - Now whether ’twas for want of beds, - Or whether ’twas cold weather, - Or whether ’twas to measure legs, - That they lay both together; - But as they smuggl’d for a while, - And gave out they were marry’d, - Till she at length did prove with child, - Then all things were miscarry’d. - - Then he did own his fault was great, - He’d make her satisfaction; - And fearing penance in a sheet, - He’d suffer for that action, - He marry’d her without delay, - And got their nuptial lesson, - Which to confirm they went streightway - To get their grandy’s blessing. - - When in her presence they were come, - She rail’d at them like thunder, - For shame, cries she, what have you done, - That’s brought on you this blunder? - She call’d her slut and brazen fac’d, - Instead of kind caressing, - Our family you have disgrac’d, - Can you expect a blessing? - - But like a stormy winter’s night, - Next morning turns calm weather, - So grandy’s passion soon took flight, - She pray’d that they together - Might live in love and happiness, - Enjoying peace and plenty, - Long may they health and wealth possess, - And pockets ne’er grow empty. - - When they had grandy’s blessing got, - They slily fled away, sir, - He all the bricks did leave unwrought, - And many debts to pay, sir. - Now all good people, warning take, - How you do trust to strangers, - They’ll wheedle you for money’s sake, - And still prove country rangers. - -[Illustration] - - - - -FROM THE SWAINS OF FELTON, TO THE _Shepherds of Lanthernside, -Northumberland_, 1787. - - -_Tune._--General F--r--’s March. - - He’s gone! he’s gone! - The conquering hero’s gone! - To barren lands in Lanthernside, - To sow Lucern upon. - Rejoice ye sons of Lanthernside, and Io pæan sing, - Since land-improving F----r vouchsafes to be your king! - - Lucern! Lucern! - That best of grass Lucern! - Oh! happy swains of Lanthernside, - Be far from you concern; - For now your sterile rocky soil, where stocks are never seen, - Will quickly be converted all, to fields of fruitful green. - - He’ll plant, he’ll plant, - A Colony he’ll plant, - With plants and beasts of various kinds, - Which Lanthernside may want. - With here a hardy plant of Oak, and there a plant of Fir, - And here an English pointer staunch, and there a shepherd’s cur. - - He’ll sail, he’ll sail, - Without a mast or sail, - And gently glide by Lanthernside, - Before a gentle gale. - Your streamlet he will navigate, and bring the flowing tide, - From Warkworth’s hoary Hermitage, to dreary Lanthernside. - - He’ll reign, he’ll reign, - Without despotic sway; - Therefore ye lads of Lanthernside, - His dictates all obey. - Come all ye wanton wenches, with speed unto him haste, - For, tho’ as lewd as Lais, he’ll teach you to be chaste. - - Your game, your game, - He will preserve your game! - For well in that particular, - Abroad is spread his fame! - But [50]Biddlestone will curse the day, to Lanthernside he came, - For sure as bird e’er fell by gun, he will destroy his game. - - Rejoice! rejoice! - Let [51]Felton Park rejoice! - For now its lord is free to roam, - As chance directs his choice. - For F----r like a Briton bold, had circumscrib’d his bounds, - And left him but one single mile, to range in his own grounds. - - He’s gone! he’s gone! - Alas! our hero’s gone! - And left us quite disconsolate, - In Felton town to moan! - Rejoice ye Lanthernsiders, and Io pæan sing, - Since mirth-exciting F----r vouchsafes to be your king. - -[50] Mr S---- of Biddlestone. - -[51] Mr R---- of Felton. - - - - -ON THE DEPARTURE OF MR GREY, OF FELTON, _Who died on Saturday, August -12th, 1775._ - - - On Saturday, - Poor Felton Grey, - Went o’er the hills and far away: - But none can say, - He went away, - Without enquiring _what’s to pay_. - - - - -CARR OF ETAL. - - - God prosper long our noble king, - Our lives and safeties all; - A joyful supper once there did, - In Edinbro’ befal. - - To give the gallant Scot a horn, - Bold _Etal_[52] took his way, - Children to get, which shall be born, - Upon another day. - - Bold Etal of Northumberland, - A vow to God did make, - His pleasure in the Scottish town, - Three summer’s days to take. - - The choicest lips in Edinbro’, - To kiss and bear away; - These tidings reach’d Black Castle’s[53] lord, - In Perthshire where he lay. - - Who sent young Etal present word, - He would prevent his sport; - The Englishman not fearing this, - Did to the town resort. - - In reg’ment spotted leopard like, - Mov’d with superior grace; - And swore he’d take their mistresses, - And kiss before their face. - - Sir Patrick, in a silver vest, - Most like a gallant knight, - Mov’d foremost of the company. - And pleas’d the ladies’ sight. - - Shew me, says he, whose men you be, - Who come so boldly here; - I fain would see that English face, - That I have cause to fear. - - The first man that did answer make, - Was gallant _Etal_ he, - Who said, We list not to disclose, - Or shew whose men we be. - - But we will spend our dearest blood, - Your toasts to bear away: - Sir Pat with anger colour’d red, - And thus in rage did say: - - Ere I will thus outbraved be, - One of us two shall die; - I know thou Carr of Etal art, - Black Castle’s heir am I. - - But trust me, Etal, pity ’twere, - And great offence to kill, - Doory and Swinburn, harmless youths, - For they can do no ill. - - Let you and I the battle try, - And set our men aside: - Accurst be he, bold Etal cried, - By whom this is denied. - - Then stept a noble baron forth, - Lord Linton was his name; - Who said, He would not have it told, - To Scottish men for shame; - - That ere Black Castle fought on foot, - And he stood looking on; - You are two ’squires, lord Linton cried, - And I am an earl’s son. - - I’ll do the best that I can do, - While I have power to stand; - I would not quarrel for a kiss, - But Carr, keep back your hand. - - Then Swinburn clapp’d his hands and laugh’d, - And jeeringly did say, - Stick to ’em Carr, and bear ’em off, - For me I’ll drink away. - - Drinking’s the sport that I like best, - So push the glasses round; - Kiss you the ladies and I’ll drink, - These gallants to the ground. - - Oh what a joy it was to see, - And likewise for to hear, - How Swinburn rattl’d in the van, - And Creighton in the rear. - - They drank full fast from night ’till morn, - No slackness there was found; - And Scots and English hats and wigs, - Lay drunk upon the ground. - -At Callaly, the seat of the Claverings, tradition reports, that while -the workmen were engaged in erecting the castle upon a hill, a little -distance from the scite of the present edifice, they were surprised -every morning to find their former day’s work destroyed, and the whole -impeded by supernatural obstacles, which causing them to watch, they -heard a voice saying:-- - - Callaly castle stands on a height, - It’s up in the day, and down at night: - Build it down on the Shepherd’s Shaw, - There it will stand and never fa’. - -Upon which the building was transferred to the place mentioned, where -it now stands. - -[52] Carr, Esq. of Etal, in the county of Northumberland. - -[53] Sir P. Murray. - - - - -BEDLINGTON TRAGEDY. _A FRAGMENT._ - - - In Bedlington there liv’d a fair, - (With ruby lips, and auburn hair;) - Who dearly priz’d a famous youth, - For generous acts and constant truth; - But she was heir to store of wealth, - No fortune he, but worth himself: - This when her parents understood, - Hoping it would be for her good, - To hinder both their loves intent, - To Stokesley, to an uncle sent; - At parting, many a sigh and tear, - Of love, and truth, thro’ life sincere; - Nor death should part; for from the grave - Short time should the surviver save: - She was not gone a week or more, - Until this young man sicken’d sore, - He sicken’d sore, and heart-broke died, - Which pleas’d her parents’ greedy pride; - Who to another would her wed, - Forgetful what she’d sworn and said. - The eve that he in grave was laid, - Thus to his wife the father said, - A double feed I’ll give my mare, - All other things do thou prepare. - Lay out thy hood and safeguard too, - Ere light for Stokesley I will go; - Before thou seest the morrow night, - Thou’lt surely see thy daughter bright; - And now no fear, he’s dead and gone, - A happy bride we’ll make her soon. - It was now that dread midnight hour, - When restless ghosts their wrongs deplore. - James rode up to her uncle’s door, - With her father’s horse they drest before. - O who is there? the maiden cries: - O it is I, the ghost replies: - The horse, hood, safeguard, come and view, - You’ll find a messenger most true: - Forthwith with me then instant ride, - Nor fear nor ill need you betide. - When all the uncle understood, - Trusting it right and for her good, - Help’d her to mount, but made him swear, - He’d take her to her father dear. - Now when she got him up behind, - They travelled faster then the wind; - That in two hours, or little more, - They came unto her father’s door; - And as they did this great haste make, - He sore complain’d his head did ache; - Her handkerchief she then pull’d out, - And tied the same his head about: - And as she bound it round his head, - My dear, says she, you’re cold as lead; - She saw no shadow of her dear, - But only of herself and mare. - He sets her at her father’s door, - And says, your mare has travelled sore; - So go you in, and as I’m able, - I’ll feed and tend her in your stable. - O who is there? the father cries, - ’Tis I, the lovely maid replies: - Behind young James I’ve hasted here, - As order’d by my parents dear. - Which made the hair stand on his head, - He knowing that the man was dead. - Next in the stable then could he - No living shape of mankind see; - But found his horse all in a sweat, - Which put him in a grievous fret. - -According to the remainder of this old ballad, (which we have been -unable to collect) the daughter sickens, takes to her bed, and -dies, and is buried in the same grave; and, on opening his coffin, -accordingly as the maid had said, her handkerchief was found tied round -his head. - - - - -Hotspur: A BALLAD; _In the Manner of the Ancient Minstrels._ - -BY MR WILLIAM RICHARDSON. - - - The lady sat in leafy bow’r, - Near Royal _Sheene’s_ fair dome; - The Harper, journeying, westward went, - Far, far from friends and home. - - His lyre, in grass-green satchel plac’d, - Hung graceful by his side; - Th’ harmonious strings oft murm’ring rang, - As o’er the heaths he hied. - - In search was he of _Hotspur_ fam’d. - With tidings from his dame, - His fair lady, the lovely _Kate_, - Since chronicled in fame. - - She pin’d the day, she wept the night, - For her dear absent lord; - And days, and weeks, and months flew o’er, - Nor comfort could afford. - - The lady sat by winding Thames, - Near where the wand’rer past; - And him she beckon’d to draw near - And thus the Bard address’d. - - “From whence com’st thou? O! sweet Harper. - From whence com’st thou? Tell me; - From border of the daring Scot? - Art of the North Countrie?” - - “I come not from the fair Scotland; - (Yet near green _Cheviot_ roam;) - From _Aln’s_ sweet, bosky banks I come; - _Northumberland_ my home.” - - “Then freely smite thy sweet, sweet lyre, - Thy lyre of far-spread fame; - The bold Percy--his castle’s there; - Wide swells his warrior name. - - “For thou his harper art I ween; - I see gleam on thy vest, - Thy paly, cusped, silver moon, - The _Saracen’s_ proud crest. - - “His ancestor in fell crusade, - For England’s powerful king, - Fought manfully, and did from thence, - That _Syrian_ trophy bring.” - - With flying touch he swept the strings, - And upward turn’d his eye, - As if the _genius_ of the song, - Inspiring, hover’d nigh. - - His finger caught the master note, - And soon his ardent face - Beam’d, dignified with native fire - Of brave _Northumbria’s_ race. - - He sang the deeds of _Hotspur_ bold, - At blood-stain’d _Otterbourne_: - And eke the feats of valiant _Ralph_, - As furious in his turn. - - Two warrior lords, (and brothers they,) - As e’er drew shining brand; - Nor from the gory field would flinch, - Whilst Valour there might stand. - - And mournful now, he touch’d the harp, - And, grieving, oft he sigh’d - For _Widdrington_, the mightiest chief - That e’er in battle died. - - The _Forster_, _Fenwick_, _Collingwood_, - The _Heron_ of renown, - High in the ranks of Lord Percy, - The war-axe hewed down! - - He sang the acts of other chiefs, - That by the _Reedside_ fell; - The flow’r of val’rous families - That still near _Cheviot_ dwell. - - The heath-hen long, and fallow deer, - Their native heights did quit; - With warrior-blood th’ attainted sward, - Made e’en the gorecock flit! - - The Percies in that vengeful fight, - Both, both were pris’ners ta’en; - But for the Douglas’ dead bodie - Were yielded up again. - - He ceas’d the song, then paused awhile; - Down roll’d the silent tear; - The lady, smit with sympathy, - Could scarce the like forbear. - - Then stifling back the star-like drop, - With woman’s winning voice, - She ask’d if tidings from his lord - Would not his heart rejoice? - - “Perchance,” quoth she, “I may you aid, - (Assuage your troubled breast,) - For oh! methinks the task is good - To comfort the distressed!” - - His kerchief to his furrow’d face - He gently did apply, - And bright and fervent shone his front, - New fire illum’d his eye. - - “But thrice the golden circling sun, - Has rubied yonder east,” - The lady said, “Since news there came - From Shrewsb’ry’s hostile waste. - - “There _Hotspur_ and his valiant band, - Oppos’d to _Tudor’s_ ire, - Encamped lay, and high their hearts - Beat for the conflict dire.” - - So having said, her snowy hand - She plac’d across her brow; - “Lo! down by _Windingshore’s_ dim vale, - A Herald’s coming now.” - - The Herald flew on wings of wind, - Swift to the Royal fane; - “A victory,” he stoutly cried, - “And valiant _Hotspur_ slain!” - - The death-sound pierc’d the Harper’s ear, - And instant on the plain - He dropt,--as light’ning had him struck, - Nor e’er spoke word again. - -_August, 1810._ - -[Illustration] - - - - -LEGEND OF _SEWEN SHIELDS CASTLE._ - - -This legendary ballad is an un-embellished versification of an old -tradition, still current in the vicinity of Sewen Shields Castle, in -Northumberland. - - Nought but some dæmon’s baleful step - For years had pass’d those lands, - Where (all its former grandeur fled) - An ancient castle stands. - - Where many a lord, and many a knight, - And many a baron bold, - The meed of valour oft had won, - Or tale of love had told. - - Once, too, it held Northumbria’s king - In days of former fame: - But now no courteous tenants boasts-- - And Sewen Shields[54] its name. - - And there, too, superstition’s spell - Had cast its gloom around: - And none for years had ever been - Within its precincts found-- - - Till Dixon,[55] young advent’rous swain, - Who fear’d no mortal arm, - Had vow’d to search the site throughout, - And find the hidden charm. - - The morning frown’d: he made th’ attempt; - And darker still it grew: - And, when he reach’d the castle walls, - The owls portentous flew. - - No well-fed porter now was seen - Within the court to wait: - And weeds and mould’ring stones appear’d, - Where stood the lofty gate. - - He cross’d the damp deserted halls: - He spoke--but all in vain; - For Echo, from the ruin’s verge, - Return’d his words again. - - Through many a passage long and dark - His weary steps he bent: - At length a flight of stairs he saw, - And tried the deep descent. - - He felt unwholesome dewy cold, - Yet still pursued his way-- - Resolv’d ’till he had all explor’d, - No more to view the day. - - At length a gleam of light he saw; - A ray of warmth he found: - And down the stairs he quickly was, - And trod upon the ground; - - And soon, within a chamber large, - A blazing fire perceiv’d; - And by its flames a sight he saw, - Which else he’d ne’er believ’d. - - A king and queen, in regal state, - Were there by Morpheus chain’d: - And o’er the train of courtiers too - The same still slumber reign’d. - - And round the fire some faithful dogs - Their fortunes seem’d to share: - And, on a table near, a sword - And horn were placed there. - - As from the scabbard then, with might, - The blade to draw he tries, - As it unsheath’d, with awe he sees - The sleepers all arise. - - Struck with amaze, he put it back.-- - The monarch, pierc’d with woe, - E’er he return’d to death-like sleep, - Thus spoke in accents slow: - - “A curse, O Dixon, light on thee! - Why wast thou ever born? - Why did thou not the sword draw out, - Or wind the bugle horn? - - “On them our wish’d release depends.-- - A cent’ry now must fly, - Before a mortal can again - To break th’ enchantment try.” - - And now, oppress’d by slumbers dire, - He sank, till kinder fate - Should send some knight, who might restore - His former envied state. - - For Dixon, who these wonders saw, - And hope both rais’d and crush’d, - Soon left th’ apartment, as at first, - In solemn silence hush’d. - - And never since, as records say, - Has mortal ventur’d there; - But all, with superstitious dread, - The sleeping king revere. - -[54] Sewen Shields, or Shewing Sheels, about 28 miles west of -Newcastle, is a Roman Castle, 22 yards by 30, having entrances on the -east, south, and west, with a foss on three sides, remarkably bold; and -on the fourth Serverus’s wall. It has had four turrets, one at each -corner. See _Hutton’s Desc. of the Rom. Wall_. - -[55] The name of the shepherd to whom tradition records this -circumstance to have occurred. - - - - -The following old Northumbrian ballad was taken down from the -recitation of a woman eighty years of age, mother to one of the miners -in Alston-moor, by an agent for the lead mines there, and communicated -to the Editor by Robert Surtees, Esquire, of Mainsforth. She had not, -she said, heard it for many years; but when she was a girl, it used to -be sung at merry makings, “till the roof rung again.” - - -_N.B._ This ballad was first printed in Scott’s celebrated Poem of -MARMION, with several valuable notes; for which see the notes to canto -first of that Poem. - - Hoot awa’, lads, hoot awa’, - Ha’ ye heard how the Ridleys, and Thirwalls, and a’, - Ha’ set upon Awbony[56] Featherstonhaugh, - And taken his life at the Deadmanshaugh; - There was Willimoteswick, - And Hardriding Dick, - And Hughie of Hawden, and Will of the Wa’, - I canno’ tell a’, I canno’ tell a’, - And mony a mair that the deil may knaw. - - The auld man went down, but Nicol, his son, - Ran away afore the fight was begun; - And he run, and he run, - And afore they were done, - There was many a Featherston gat sic a stun, - As never was seen since the world begun. - - I canna’ tell a’, I canna’ tell a’; - Some gat a skelp, and some gat a claw; - But they gard the Featherstons haud their jaw,-- - Nicol, and Alick, and a’. - Some gat a hurt, and some gat nane; - Some had harness, and some gat sta’en. - - Ane gat a twist o’ the craig; - Ane gat a bunch o’ the wame; - Symy Haw gat lam’d of a leg, - And syne ran wallowing hame. - - Hoot, hoot, the auld man’s slain outright! - Lay him now wi’ his face down:--he’s a sorrowful sight. - Janet, thou donot, - I’ll lay my best bonnet, - Thou gets a new gude-man afore it be night. - - Hoo away, lads, hoo away, - Wi’s a’ be hangid if we stay. - Tak’ up the dead man, and lay him ahint the bigging; - Here’s the Bailey o’ Haltwhistle, - Wi’ his great bull’s pizzle, - That sup’d up the broo’, and syne--in the piggin. - -[56] The local pronunciation for Albany. - - - - -_The following Lines are cut on a Tombstone in Haltwhistle Church Yard, -Northumberland._ - - - Ihon Redle that som tim did be, - The laird of the Waltoun; - Gon is he out of thes vale of misery, - His bons lies under this ston. - We must beleve be God’s mersy, - Into thes world gave hes son; - Then for to redem al christens, - So Christ haes hes soul woon. - All faithful peple may be faen, - When dath coms, that non can fre: - The bode kept the soul in paen, - Through Christ is set at liberte. - Among blesed compane to remaen, - To slep in Christ nowe is he gon; - Yet stil beleves to hav again, - Though Christ a jouful resurrecshon. - Al frends ma be glad to hear, - When hes soul from paen did go: - Out of this world as doeth appear, - In the year of our Lord, 1562. - -_N.B._ The above John Ridley is supposed to have been brother to -Bishop Ridley, who was burnt at Oxford, October 16th, 1555, he was the -possessor of, and lived at Wall-town, and was one of the ancestors of -the present Sir Matthew White Ridley, of Blagdon, in Northumberland, -M.P. for Newcastle. - - - - -LINES _Written at an Inn, in that very retired and romantic Part of -Northumberland, the Banks of the ALLAN._ - - -BY GEORGE PICKERING. - -_November, 1787._ - - Howl on ye winds, and beat ye rains, - Ye torrents roar o’er yonder linn, - And Allen swell thy rapid stream, - I careless view thee from an Inn. - - The trees that late appear’d so green, - To drop their foliage now begin: - They waft a moral to mine ear, - While pensive sitting at an Inn. - - See winter comes with all his train, - I hear his loud, his arctic din: - Why let him come, I fear him not, - I sit in comfort at an Inn. - - When age, life’s winter, shall appear, - Then reason whispers from within; - Eternity’s our wish’d for home, - The world at best is but an Inn. - - - - -LUCY GRAY OF ALLENDALE. - - - Oh, have you seen the blushing rose, - The blooming pink, or lilly pale, - Fairer than any flow’r that blows - Is Lucy Gray of Allendale. - - Pensive and sad o’er braes and burn, - Where oft the nymph they us’d to hail; - The shepherds now are heard to mourn, - For Lucy Gray of Allendale. - - With her to join the rural dance, - Far have I stray’d o’er hill and dale, - Where, pleas’d, each rustic stole a glance, - At Lucy Gray of Allendale. - - ’Twas underneath yon hawthorn shade, - That first I told the tender tale, - But now low lays the lovely maid, - Sweet Lucy Gray of Allendale. - - Bleak blows the wind, keen beats the rain, - Upon my cottage in the vale; - Long may I mourn, a lonely swain, - For Lucy Gray of Allendale. - - - - -HALTWHISTLE FAIR. - - - The day was quite pleasant, the Fourteenth of May, - When most of the neighbours began to look gay, - Such brushing, and washing, and dressing was there, - And nothing was talk’d of but Haltwhistle Fair. - - You may be quite sure I was pleas’d to the heart, - To think I was going there to act my part; - While pleasure is going, I will have my share, - And see the nice lasses at Haltwhistle Fair. - - Old Hetelwood briskly attended his boat, - And jested the Ladies while they were afloat; - He landed them all with a great deal of care, - And wish’d them all sweethearts at Haltwhistle Fair. - - We enter’d the town with a great deal of glee, - Where hawkers and pedlers in scores you might see: - The task would be endless to tell of the ware - They had put up for sale at Haltwhistle Fair. - - The spade and the shuttle neglected they lay, - The tailor his trimmings and cloth put away, - The smith threw his hammer down--You may lie there, - For this day I’ll make one at Haltwhistle Fair. - - The man in the barn he threw down his flail, - And came to this place for a drink of good ale; - The coal-pits were empty, no person was there, - They went like their neighbours to Haltwhistle Fair. - - Old women on crutches, who hardly could go, - Who had kept their beds for a twelvemonth or so, - With grey beards, whose noddles were hoary or bare, - All came for a look at old Haltwhistle Fair. - - Some people, they say, were so very keen, - As came with a view but to see and be seen, - And got so well pleas’d, they did vow and declare, - They never again would miss Haltwhistle Fair. - - You have heard of Miss Bouncer, without any doubt, - What beauty she is from the head to the foot: - No business whatever had I, I declare, - But to see the dear creature at Haltwhistle Fair. - - I looked about, my dear charmer to see, - I gaz’d at the crowd, and the crowd gaz’d at me; - At length I espy’d her--My dear, are you there? - I’m happy to see you at Haltwhistle Fair. - - While music is going, I will have a dance, - So took in my fair one to caper and prance; - She danc’d a nice jig, keeping time to a hair, - And beat all the lasses at Haltwhistle Fair. - - Miss Bouncer was so very loving and kind, - She smil’d in my face, while she drank up my wine; - Of punch and of cakes, oh my dear had her share, - And I paid expences at Haltwhistle Fair. - - So kind and so loving, what less could I do, - Than buy the dear creature a fairing or two; - Some things that she fancied, I paid for I swear. - Says she, I shall oft think on Haltwhistle Fair. - - With very good judgment, and very good sense, - I brought down my shillings to so many pence: - And sometime near midnight it fell to my share, - To see home Miss Bouncer, from Haltwhistle Fair. - - I will grow very careful, and that you shall see, - To try if Miss Bouncer and me can agree; - Each shilling and sixpence I will hurd up with care, - In hopes for to spend them next Haltwhistle Fair. - - - - -ANNA OF THE TYNE. - - - A bonny swain, blithe Sandy nam’d, - Who’d muckle land and kine, - A lassie lov’d, for beauty fam’d, - Fair Anna of the Tyne. - And thus would Sandy joyous sing, - “Fair maid, O be but mine; - More blest I’d be than laird or king, - With Anna of the Tyne.” - - “Kind youth,” she cried, “nae kine or land, - Nor money I’ve in store; - Then cease to ask my humble hand, - Nor wed a maid so poor.” - Yet still would Sandy joyous sing, - “Fair maid, O be but mine; - More blest I’d be than laird or king, - With Anna of the Tyne.” - - “For Anna thou art rich in charms, - The wealth of worlds to me; - Then wed, and bless thy lover’s arms.” - She smil’d, and blest was he. - How rapturous then did Sandy sing, - “Now, now, the fair one’s mine; - I am more bless’d then laird or king, - With Anna of the Tyne!” - - - - -THE TYNE. - - -_By Henry Robson._--1807. - -Henry Robson, the author of this, as also of the _Collier’s Pay Week_, -see page 38, was born at Benwell, near Newcastle; and is now residing -at the latter place, where, besides the above, he has written several -pieces of poetry, possessing a considerable degree of merit. - - - In Britain’s blest island there runs a fine river, - Far fam’d for the _ore_ it conveys from the mine: - Northumbria’s pride, and that district doth sever - From Durham’s rising hills, and ’tis called--_The Tyne_. - Flow on, lovely Tyne, undisturb’d be thy motion, - Thy sons hold the threats of proud France in disdain; - As long as thy waters shall mix with the ocean, - The fleets of Old England will govern the main. - - Other rivers for fame have by poets been noted - In many a soft-sounding musical line; - But for _sailors_ and _coals_ never one was yet quoted, - Could vie with the choicest of rivers--the Tyne. - Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c. - - When Collingwood conquer’d our foes so completely, - And gain’d a fine laurel his brow to entwine; - In order to manage the matter quite neatly, - Mann’d his vessel with tars from the banks of the Tyne. - Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c. - - Thou dearest of rivers, oft times have I wander’d - Thy margin along when oppressed with grief, - And thought of thy stream, as it onward meander’d, - The murmuring melody gave me relief. - Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c. - - From the fragrant wild-flowers which blow on thy border - The playful Zephyrus oft steals an embrace, - And curling thy surface in beauteous order, - The willows bend forward to kiss thy clear face. - Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c. - - One favour I crave--O kind Fortune befriend me-- - When downhill I totter, in nature’s decline;-- - A competent income--if this thou wilt send me, - I’ll dwindle out life on the banks of the Tyne. - Flow on, lovely Tyne, undisturb’d be thy motion, - Thy sons hold the threats of proud France in disdain; - As long as thy waters shall mix with the ocean, - The fleets of Old England will govern the main. - - - - -THE SPRING. - - -_Written the beginning of May, 1809._ - -BY HENRY ROBSON. - - Now the feathered train in each bush, - Court their mates, and love’s melody sing-- - The blackbird, the linnet, and thrush, - Make the echoing vallies to ring: - - The bird with the crimson-dy’d breast, - From the hamlet has made his remove; - To join his love-song with the rest, - And woo his fond mate in the grove. - - The lark, high in æther afloat, - Each morn, at the usher of day, - Attunes his wild-warbling throat, - And sings his melodious lay. - - Yon bank lately cover’d with snow, - Now smiles in the spring’s bloomy pride; - And the sweet-scented primroses grow, - Near the streamlet’s sweet-gurgling tide. - - To the banks of the Tyne we’ll away, - And view th’ enrapturing scene; - While Flora, the goddess of May, - With her flow’rets bespangles the green. - - - - -THE BANKS OF THE TYNE. - - -BY JAMES WILSON. - -James Wilson, the author of this, and the four following poetical -pieces, belonged to Hexham, where he taught school until he removed to -Morpeth, under pecuniary embarrassment: while here, he found a friend -in the late Wallis Ogle, Esq. and was by him conducted to Cawsey Park -School, where he shortly after died. When at Hexham, he published a -volume of Poems printed by T. Angus, Newcastle, in 1778. - - Apollo, your aid I request, - Direct and embellish each line; - With influence warm my breast, - To sing the sweet Banks of the Tyne. - - If Phœbus proposes the theme, - Both reason and duty combine, - To pay my respects to the stream, - And honour the Banks of the Tyne. - - Here oft with great pleasure I stray, - Nor ever find cause to repine, - While Nature’s rich beauties display - Themselves on the Banks of the Tyne. - - Here Liberty’s pleas’d to resort, - Her banners with lustre here shine; - No place, since she left the vile court, - Can please like the Banks of the Tyne. - - Her sons are with Liberty fir’d, - Their Freedom they’ll never resign; - But what their forefathers acquir’d, - Defend on the Banks of the Tyne. - - The man let me freely explain, - Who would as a senator shine, - ’Tis THERON, who holds his domain - Enclos’d by the Banks of the Tyne. - - - - -_The following ODE, addressed to Sir WALTER BLACKETT, Bart. was wrote -by the Author, on the very Day that the Building of HEXHAM BRIDGE was -undertaken._ - - -BY JAMES WILSON. - - Ye sacred nine descend, - Aid to my muse O lend, - Whilst I rehearse: - Bind round my head the bays, - My humble genius raise, - And teach me how to praise - BLACKETT, in verse. - - Hard is the task impos’d, - Glorious the end propos’d; - Hark! it succeeds: - Heaven would surely frown, - And with contempt look down, - Should we forget to own - His noble deeds. - - _Hexham_ no more shall weep, - At Tyne’s redundant sweep, - And pregnant shore; - _Blackett_ the path will pave, - Which scorns the threat’ning wave, - Where all with joy will have - Safe passage o’er. - - See him with ev’ry age, - Soft’ning the bitter rage, - Of Poverty: - As he approaches nigh, - Ope the strong bolts do fly, - To set, with heart-felt joy, - The wretched free. - - Titus the great did say, - Gods! I have lost a day: - Fatal mistake; - _Blackett_ more great than he, - Never that day can see, - But numbers chearfully, - Sing for his sake. - - May Heaven his life prolong, - To swell the Poet’s song - Till there arise, - One that’s as good as he, - Then let him wafted be, - To spend eternity, - Above the skies. - - - - -_The following Lines, written on laying the Foundation-stone of HEXHAM -BRIDGE, the Author had the Honour to read at the Head of the Table, -at the sumptuous Entertainment given by Sir WALTER BLACKETT, on the -Occasion_. - - -BY JAMES WILSON. - - Unsullied mirth attend this feast, - Let joy shine forth in every guest, - And ev’ry face look gay: - Let not a cloud depress the scene, - But all look chearful and serene, - ’Tis our rejoicing day. - - Come, Joy, with all thy smiling train, - Here take thy rest, securely reign, - See Phœbus shines more bright; - Here will we this great day adorn, - Till Cynthea with her silver horn, - Illuminates the night. - - A bridge o’er Tyne! our joy’s complete, - With rapture we its author greet, - Our breasts exult and sing; - This bliss consummates all our care. - Now Hexham and Elysium are, - But two words for one thing. - - - - -A SONG, _Composed by MR JAMES WILSON, of Cawsey Park, on Mr -Coughron[57] and Family, leaving Hebron Hill_. - - -(Dated 4th May, 1784.) - - To fertile soil, and fragrant air, - Be it, great God, thy will - To guard, with thy parental care, - My friends of Hebron Hill. - - In some luxuriant calm retreat, - Where nature may instil - Her choicest charms--there make a seat - For those of Hebron Hill. - - Bestow, by thy all-bounteous hand, - The richest turf to till; - And crops increase at thy command, - To those of Hebron Hill. - - May providence protect them, there, - And virtue’s vest their will: - And copious comforts ever share, - With those of Hebron Hill. - - With friendly neighbours let them live, - Renown’d for wit and skill; - And grace, and glory, amply give, - Those now on Hebron Hill. - - My heart expands by lib’ral love, - ’Twill with fruition fill, - If pristine powers propitious prove, - To all at Hebron Hill. - -[57] Brother of George Coughron, the celebrated mathematician, who died -at Newcastle, 7th January, 1774, Aged 21. - - - - -HOBBY ELLIOTT. - - -This song is said to have been written by a Mr James Robson, Stone -Mason, at Thropton, near Rothbury, who was leader of the band in the -Pretender’s Army, in 1715: he wrote a Satyr on Women, and several other -pieces, while confined prisoner at Preston, in Lancashire. - - O bonny Hobby Elliott, - O canny Hobby still, - O bonny Hobby Elliott, - Who lives at Harlow-hill: - - Had Hobby acted right, - As he has seldom done, - He would have kiss’d his wife, - And let his maid alone. - - - - -THE RISING OF THE CLANS IN 1715. - - -Though this may be considered a Scotch song, yet mentioning several -Northumberland families, warrants its insertion here. Several notes -and particulars illustrating it may be found in the History of the -Rebellion in the year 1715, by Robert Patten, Priest of Allendale, who, -though one of the Rebels, saved his life by being evidence against his -associates, and writing, what he called, An Impartial Account of the -Rebellion. - - Little wat ye wha’s coming, - Little wat ye wha’s coming, - Little wat ye wha’s coming, - Long Tommy Lee’s a coming. - - Duncan’s coming, Donald’s coming, - Colin’s coming, Ronald’s coming, - Dougal’s coming, Lauchlan’s coming, - Alaster and a’s coming. - Little wat ye wha’s coming, - Jock and Tam and a’s coming. - - Borland and his men’s coming, - The Camerons and McLeans’ coming, - The Gordons and McGregors’ coming, - A’ the Dunywastles’ coming, - Little wat ye wha’s coming, - McGilvrey of Drumglass is coming. - - Wigton’s coming, Nithsdale’s coming, - Carnwath’s coming, Kenmure’s coming, - Derwentwater and Foster’s coming, - Widdrington and Nairn’s coming. - Little wat ye wha’s coming, - Blyth Cowhill and a’s coming. - - The Laird of McIntosh is coming, - McCarbie and McDonald’s coming, - The McKenzies and McPhersons’ coming. - A’ the wild McCraws’ coming. - Little wat ye wha’s coming, - Donald Gun and a’s coming. - - They gloom, they glowr, they look sae big, - At ilka stroke they’ll fell a Whig; - They’ll fright the fuds of the Pockpuds, - For mony a buttock bare’s coming. - Little wat ye wha’s coming. - - - - -ON THE FIRST REBELLION.--1715. - - - Mackintosh was a soldier brave, - And of his friends he took his leave, - Towards Northumberland he drew, - Marching along with a jovial crew.[58] - - The lord Derwentwater he did say, - Five hundred guineas he would lay, - To fight the militia, if they would stay, - But they prov’d cowards and ran away. - - The earl of Mar did vow and swear, - That if e’er proud Preston he did come near, - Before the right should starve and the wrong stand, - He’d blow them into some foreign land. - - The lord Derwentwater he did say, - When he mounted on his dapple grey, - I wish that we were at home with speed, - For I fear we are all betray’d indeed. - - Adzounds, said Forster,[59] never fear, - For the Brunswick army is not near; - If they should come, our valour we’ll show, - We will give them the total overthrow. - - The lord Derwentwater then he found, - That Forster drew his left wing round; - I wish I was with my dear wife, - For now I do fear I shall lose my life. - - Mackintosh he shook his head, - To see the soldiers there lie dead: - It is not so much for the loss of those, - But I fear we are all took by our foes. - - Mackintosh was a valiant soldier, - He carried his musket on his shoulder: - Cock your pistols, draw your rapier, - And damn you, Forster, you are a traitor. - - The lord Derwentwater to Forster did say, - Thou hast prov’d our ruin this very day; - Thou hast promised to stand our friend, - But thou hast proved a rogue in the end. - - The lord Derwentwater to Litchfield did ride, - In his coach, and attendance by his side; - He swore if he dy’d by the point of a sword, - He’d drink a health to the man he lov’d. - - Thou Forster has brought us from our own home, - Leaving our estates for others to come; - Thou treacherous rogue, thou hast betray’d: - We are all ruin’d, lord Derwentwater said. - - The lord Derwentwater he was condemn’d, - And near unto his latter end, - And then his lady she did cry, - My dear Derwentwater he must die. - - The lord Derwentwater he is dead,[60] - And from his body they took his head; - But Mackintosh and some others are fled, - Who’d set the hat on another man’s head. - -[58] Mackintosh’s Battalion consisted of thirteen companies of fifty -men each. - -[59] Thomas Forster, jun. of Etherston, near Belford, in -Northumberland, member of Parliament of the said county, was made -general of the Pretender’s Army; he was taken prisoner at Preston, but -afterwards escaped out of Newgate, 1716. - -[60] James Radclyffe, Earl of Derwentwater, was beheaded on Tower Hill, -24th February, 1715-16. - - - - -_A FRAGMENT of a Song, on the LORD of DERWENTWATER_. - - - The king has written a broad letter, - And seal’d it up with gold; - And sent it to the lord of Derwentwater, - To read it if he would. - - He sent it with no boy, no boy, - Nor yet with e’er a slave; - But he sent it with as good a knight, - As e’er a king could have. - - When he read the three first lines, - He then began to smile; - And when he read the three next lines, - The tears began to sile. - - - - -VERSES _On a perspective View of Dilston Hall, the Seat of the -unfortunate James, Earl of Derwentwater._ - - - How mournful feeble Nature’s tone, - When Dilston Hall appears: - Where none’s to wait the orphan’s moan, - Nor dry the widow’s tears! - - The helpless aged poor survey, - This building as it stands; - In moving anguish heard to say, - (And weeping wring their hands) - - The bounteous earl, he is no more, - Who once adorn’d this plain; - Reliev’d the needy at his door, - And freely did sustain. - - Here flowing plenty once did reign, - Which gladden’d ev’ry face; - But now, alas! reversed scene, - For owls a dwelling place. - - The tim’rous deer hath left the lawn, - The oak a victim falls; - The gentle trav’ler sighs when shewn, - These desolated walls. - - Each gen’rous mind emotion feels, - With pious pity mov’d; - No breast its anguish yet conceals, - For one so well belov’d. - - Let no unhallow’d tongue, or servile slave, - Their partial clamour vent beyond the grave; - But let the noble Dead his honours wear; - His fault deplore, his virtue still revere: - Tho’ err he did, he finish’d the debate, - With his own blood, and Radclyffe’s fair estate. - The aged farmer, tott’ring o’er the green, - Leans on his staff, recounts the days he’s seen: - Informs the list’ning youth by his record, - How bless’d his roof, how plenteous was his board; - Nor rack’d by Derwent’s hospitable lord. - He stops his tale, involv’d in grief profound; - He sighs, he weeps, and feebly strikes the ground; - Cries, why rehearse these golden days of yore, - Since they to me, to me can be no more! - The clement heart, and curious, often calls - To view the naked park, and stripped walls: - E’en the damp walls their stony tears impart, - As if their master’s wound had pierc’d their heart. - Ye pensive mutes, ’tentive on Dilston wait, - And mourn, eternal Radclyffe’s tragic fate! - - - - -HEXHAM WOOD. - - - In former times where Hexham town doth stand, - A wood there was which cover’d miles of land; - Even all the trees that on the common stood, - Were merely twigs compar’d to this great wood. - In all directions on each side of Tyne, - More boundless than the noted Apennine; - And by some modern authors ’tis agreed, - Some branches of this wood are planted near to Tweed. - - These northern parts confess’d it’s balmy shade, - An asylum to those reduced in trade: - Resource they found--the charter was so good, - They were secure if shelter’d by this wood. - In Sherwood Forest many a prank was play’d, - Which thro’ tradition is to us display’d: - Though Hexham could ne’er boast a Robin Hood, - Yet little John did much frequent this wood. - - A motley race--the libertine and harlot, - Supplied the place of Stutely and Will Scarlet. - Within the covert of this wood did rove, - The town bred bucks, with sly intrigues of love: - The yielding females felt an equal flame, - To taste love’s joys when near this wood they came; - Nor justice fac’d, nor e’er a penance stood, - The offspring still was call’d by name of wood. - - A wood so much renown’d, you may be sure - The Bank of England was’nt thought more secure. - The miser here, his interest found so good, - He quite forgot that wood was only wood! - How fleeting are the joys of all this world, - How soon our hopes are all to Chaos hurl’d: - A storm near equal unto Noah’s flood, - Relentless came, and swept away this wood. - - Even not one solid trunk there did remain, - All batter’d remnants scatter’d o’er the plain: - The nymphs lamenting for their dear resort, - This wood is gone, alas! our chief support; - All was confusion both to high and low, - At this most sad and unexpected blow. - Ye empty fops, now take the hint for good, - No more your offspring can be laid to wood. - -_Hexham, 28th February, 1803._ - - - - -THE LOYAL HEXHAM VOLUNTEERS. - - -_A NEW SONG._ - -WRITTEN BY JASPER POTTS. - - Britannia scarce had planted the olive on our isle, - Ere French insidious policy our future hopes beguile; - Regardless of their former league, bent on despotic sway, - Each British subject’s property they think to make their prey. - But may each loyal Briton - Now offer hand and heart, - To frustrate their intention, - And humble Bonaparte. - - Our island still was loyal when dangers were at hand, - Uniting in one common cause to guard our native land: - Amongst the rest, the gallant sons of Hexham’s worth record, - Our sea girt isle, for to protect, and peace to have restor’d. - And may each faithful subject - Profess the same intent, - Our lives and properties to guard - In peace and sweet content. - - The oath that we have taken, which some seem much to fear, - Is the duty of each subject as well as volunteer, - Tho’ we may have no property to fall a prey to France, - Yet for our friends and families our service should advance. - Ye loyal lads of Hexham, - Since danger now appears, - Join the arm’d association - Call’d the Hexham Volunteers. - - While Captain Carr commands we will stand firm and true, - His knowledge as an officer will stand a strict review, - In spite of party slander, our oath we will maintain, - Obedient to our officers, and peace for to regain. - And if an opportunity - Of courage for to shew, - I hope the Hexham Volunteers - Will to their oath stand true. - - So to conclude these lines I’ve made, I hope you’ll all agree, - And drink a health to Captain Carr, and all his family, - And to our other officers, much praise to whom is due, - And to the Hexham Volunteers, so loyal and so true. - British courage once again - To England peace restore, - And plant the olive in a soil - More lasting than before. - - - - -THE JOLLY PARSON. - - - Doctor Moff once more employs the burden of my song, - He drinks a health to him that’s blest with constitution strong: - He laughs and winks at him that drinks, and he’ll bett five pounds, sir, - He’ll toast his lass, and drink his glass, and tally O the hounds, sir. - - And every morn this priest does rise, he does put on his boots, sir, - For chance the hounds may come this way, to join in the pursuit, sir: - He’ll risk a fall, o’er hedge or wall, or nearest the hounds, sir, - And if he can, he leads the van, and tally O the hounds, sir. - - Saint Stephen’s day, that holy morn, as he was reading mass sir, - He heard the music of the hounds, the bugles they came past, sir; - He shut the book, his flock forsook, and streight threw off his gown, - sir, - He mounts his horse, to join the course, and tally O the hounds, sir. - - This parson had a pair to wed, the hounds they came in view sir, - He threw his surplice o’er his head, and bad the pair adieu, sir: - They both did pray, that he might stay, for they were not half bound, - sir! - He bid them go to bed that night, he’d tally O the hounds, sir. - - What think you of this priest of mine, he’s sure an honest heart, sir, - His praise is worthy of my song, he has neither pride nor art, sir: - He ne’er opprest, the poor distrest, none e’er his praise disowns, sir, - As he thinks’t no crime, at any time, to tally O the hounds, sir. - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE COCKLE PARK EWES’ RAMBLE. - -_Tune._--John of Badenyon. - - -PART I. - -_Or the First Day’s Ride.--March 4th, 1811._ - - The first of March, from COCKLE PARK, - A flock of sheep did stray, - Which disappeared in the dark, - And were not miss’d next day; - North west, by north, in zig-zag route, - To their late home did hie, - By innate instinct taught no doubt, - Their yeaning time drew nigh.[61] - - They thirty hours a-head had got, - Upon their tour intent; - On searching ev’ry local spot, - A second day was spent; - The third I mounted--by Priest’s Bridge, - And Heron’s Close I veer’d; - To Harelaw Heights, and Ruffhill Ridge, - And Stanton Steads I steer’d. - - To Southwardedge, Doehill, and Rea, - Smallburn, and the Haredean, - Blackpool, Todburn, and Garretlea, - And Horsley Moor I’d been; - At Westerheugh, and Sunnyside, - The Busygap also, - Each collier’s cot, and creeks beside, - High Hezleyhurst, and Low. - - On wand’ring westward through Wardshill, - I there found the first three; - And heard the mass amissing still, - Had march’d towards the Lee; - I hir’d the herd, these to retain, - ’Till in pursuit I went, - To bring the others back again, - But quickly lost the scent. - - True, I some stragglers overtook, - Near Leehead, with their lambs; - And all the rest had cross’d the brook, - But these indulgent dams: - The fugitives fecundity, - Allow’d of no delay; - Yet found it would difficult be, - More to collect that day. - - Myself fatigu’d, and found my nag, - Fail of his wonted powers; - For want of food we both did fag, - By trav’ling twelve long hours. - So I resolved then to ride - Home at an easy pace; - A gross of hand-bills to provide, - And hence resume the chase. - - -PART II. - -_March 5th, 1811._ - - Next day to the Thatchmeadows, I - (The forest skirts to scour) - Coldrife, and Quarryhouse pass’d by, - To Newbiggin’s bleak moor: - Bullbush, Blueburn, and Blagdon Brakes, - I carefully did scan; - But none on these extensive tracts, - Were seen by any man. - - Ward’s Intake, Hut, and Shepherd’s Shield, - Coldside, and Moralhurst; - By Forestburn, and Meadowfield, - To Holyhill I cours’d: - Hence Lordenshaws, and Garlyside, - Crook, Loaning, Stewardshill; - But disappointments did preside, - O’er expectations still. - - By the Sheephurst, to Brockleyhall, - And Turnbull’s steed I steer’d; - And at each peasant’s cot did call, - That in my path appear’d: - To the Two Raws, and Butterknows, - I posted on with speed, - Where I was told some of my ewes - Cross’d Coquet at Craghead. - - Resolv’d the south side first to seek, - I rang’d that rocky hill, - ’Till I explor’d the ’Squires Peak; - Herd’s House, and Little Mill, - By Wagtailhall, and Sandyheughs, - To Rothbury then did ride; - To feed, refresh, and hear what news; - Then search the other side. - - Hence by Knocklaw, and Tumbleton, - And ev’ry scatter’d cot, - Through Debdon Dale--and I anon - By Wintercove did trot, - To Rimside Inn, to bait and bouse;-- - From Framlington, Blacksow, - To Flambrohead, and Wholluphouse, - But could not find a ewe. - - From Frostyfolds, to Whitefield House, - Chilhope, and Cragend Scars, - Where they and lambs might lurk recluse, - Unless rous’d unawares;-- - By Healy, Hope, Lynn, and Woodhead, - To Healycoat I trudg’d, - To Cockshot, Brinkburn, and Todstead, - Where for that night I lodg’d. - - -PART III. - -_March 6th, 1811._ - - Good fortune still attends the brave, - As at an early hour, - Intelligence a stranger gave, - Where to extend my tour: - I sprung my gelding to full speed, - ’Till I explor’d the spot, - And found by dint of heels my steed - To the rear rank had got. - - First three I found on Thropton Hill, - There basking with their brood; - The rest were seen from Snitter Mill, - Past Cartington to crowd: - From Silverside, by Lorbottle, - To Trewhit Mains I march’d, - By Netherton, through Screnwood Dell, - And Fawdon Fell I search’d. - - To Prendick Peak, and Alnham Moor, - And all adjacent grounds; - O’er Ingram Edge, I stretch’d my tour, - To seek that spacious bounds: - From Revely, Greenshaws, Hartside Hill, - To Linhope Spout with speed; - On Shillmoor Shank found strayers still, - To Rawhope Rig recede. - - To Milkhope, Memmer Kirk, and Haigh, - And Cushet Law I por’d; - To Carlcroft, and Kidlandlea, - Dryhope, and Usway Ford: - The Maiden’s Cross, and Windy Gyle, - And Cheviot’s skirts curv’d round; - To Fleehope--but the front-rank file - At Langlee Ford I found. - - Benighted, where these brutes did browse, - Upon the border bent; - I could not retrogade my ewes, - Some couchant seem’d content: - At the stock-farmer of that place, - For lodgings did enquire, - And there receiv’d a sweet solace, - Next morning to retire. - - I ask’d both master and his men, - For one a-wanting still; - Who all declar’d they did not ken. - Of stray sheep on their hill: - Squads to collect I did remount, - O’er hills and dales I cross’d; - And that one short of my account, - I then gave up for lost. - -[61] It is nothing particular for ewes, at their yeaning time, to -stray: some have been known to travel an hundred miles to their -native place to yean. The author remembers a ewe which had with -others been sold to the southward, and was kept on the Haughs of the -Humber, from which she strayed, and reaching Makendon, on the borders -of Scotland, she travelling about twenty yards within her original -pasture, there squatted and yeaned in half an hour. The owner of the -ewe that travelled so far to yean upon her pristine spot, went the year -following to buy another lot of the same sort, was asked how the last -year’s stock proved, answered, _extraordinary well_, excepting one that -disappeared, which he supposed to be stole. The stocksman said he was -sorry for his loss, which however, he said, he would make good if they -bargained for the present parcel. The bargain was made, and the seller -turned an ewe and lamb, gratis, into the drove, explained the fact, and -the poor ewe had to retread the ground she had twice before travelled -over. - - - - -SONG. - - -_By J.C.--July 5th, 1810._ - - A fair reformation would render this nation, - The richest isle under the sun; - If terms now septennial were turn’d to triennial, - The work would be more than half done. - - Our grand constitution defies diminution, - While honest men handle the helm; - But subject to slav’ry, and sanction’d by knav’ry, - When ravagers rule in the realm. - - A few dying embers of Morpeth, two members - Can send in the senate to sit: - Shields, Alnwick, and Hexham (the truth tends to vex ’em) - United, not one can transmit. - - One man of old Sarum, two members declare him; - Thus burghs, and constituents wane: - Some staple towns none, though Manchester alone, - Near two hundred thousands contain. - - Besides rotten boroughs, the source of our sorrows, - These Cinque-Ports, and sinecures all; - With pensions and places our council disgraces, - Which courts of corruption some call. - - With truth it is told, some freedoms are sold, - And seats traffick’d for at noon day; - The barter’s so bold, that for British gold, - Our code without scruples convey. - - These buyers are bound, seat sellers to mound, - And vote on the ministers’ side; - If he says the crow’s white, or noon day is midnight, - They must by his behests abide. - - In ev’ry debate concerning the state, - These relics of representation, - Majorities gain, and boldly maintain, - Their will is the voice of the nation. - - - - -THE PLOUGHMAN. - - - The ploughman he comes home at night, - When he is wet and weary, - Puts off the wet, puts on the dry, - And goes to bed my deary. - - I will wash the ploughman’s clothes, - I will wash them clean, O; - I will wash the ploughman’s clothes, - And dry them on the green, O. - - The ploughman he comes home fu’ late, - When he wi’ wark is weary; - Dights off his shirt that is se wet; - And supper makes him cheery. - - I will wash the ploughman’s clothes, - I will wash them white, O; - I will wash the ploughman’s clothes, - And dry them on the dyke, O. - - - - -THE FLOWER OF ROTHBURY FOREST. - - - Sweet thro’ the forest, Coquet flows, - And sweet the flowers its banks adorn; - But sweetest far appears my _Rose_, - She’s sure the rose without a thorn. - - Heard you the lilting, - At our kye milking, - Heard you the lilting yesterday; - Heard you the lilting, - At our kye milking; - The flower of the forest is stolen away. - - Tho’ Meadowfield[62] may boast its sweets, - And meadow sweets its fields adorn; - United, all its scents me greets, - Present my _Rose_ without a thorn. - Heard you the lilting, &c. - - Tho’ Flotterton[63] may boast its maids, - And on Twelfth Eve all others scorn: - I envy not their lusty blades, - Present my _Rose_ without a thorn. - Heard you the lilting, &c. - - Tho’ at kye milking, maidens sing, - The forest’s flower is awa’; - I dinna heed, gae tak’ their fling, - For troth she’s stown awa’ wi’ me. - Heard you the lilting, &c. - -[62] Meadowfield, name of a place. - -[63] Maids’ Feast of Flotterton is on Twelfth Even. - - - - -THE PIPER AT CAPHEATON. - - - At Christmas, when the wind blew cauld, - And frost and snaw’s o’er ilka dale, - Robin of Norham lost his way, - And at Capheaton thus did quail:-- - - O whether this is lairdly ha’, - Or poor man’s shield, O let me in; - I’m a poor Piper lost my way, - Unsneck your door and let me in. - - O pity take, and dinna scorn, - Heffell[64] and I will die e’er morn; - I’ll screw my pipes and heartsome play, - And with a sang I’ll weel repay. - - “When cockle shells and silver bells, - And bawds and whores do churches build, - When younkers cease to rant and drink, - And usurers tell their gold in field. - - “When old Sir Humphery[65] rides to Rome, - And preaches in his best array: - When indigo dies red and brown, - Your honor shall be paid your hay.” - - “When Nether Witton is waterless, - And Capheaton without a whin; - Shafto Crag all turn’d to peat and moss, - And cannot bear a foot aboon. - - “When old Sir Humphery rides to Rome, - And preaches in his best array: - When indigo dies red and brown, - Your honor shall be paid your hay.” - -[64] The Piper’s Horse. - -[65] The Roman Catholic Priest. - - - - -MARY GAMAL, _the Vicar of Kirk Whelpington’s Daughter, is gone off with -Nichol Clark, his Servant Man_. - - - It happen’d at good Christmas tide, - When we play’d at the cards; - That some of us were gentlemen, - And other some were lairds. - - While deals were dealt, cards were cut, - And merry we were a’, - And some were waggish, well I wot, - Till in came Charlie Shaw: - - And cried, Ye birds of Whelpington, - Fie shame! such simple wark! - For bonny Mary Gamal’s run - Away wi’ Nicol Clark. - - But had your tongue, gude maister, - And dinna speak sae cruse; - She came willing thro’ your window, - He did na’ break your house. - - Then cry, Ye lairds of Whelpington, &c. - - - - -SONG. - - - About the bush Willy, - About the bee hive, - About the bush Willy, - I’ll meet thee alive. - - Then to my ten shillings, - Add you but a groat, - I’ll go to Newcastle, - And buy a new coat. - - Five and five shillings, - Five and a crown; - Five and five shillings, - Will buy a new gown. - - Five and five shillings, - Five and a groat; - Five and five shillings, - Will buy a new coat. - - - - -THE WATER OF TYNE. - - - I cannot get to my love if I should dee, - The water of Tyne runs between him and me; - And here I must stand with the tear in my e’e, - Both sighing and sickly, my sweetheart to see. - - O where is the boatman, my bonny honey? - O where is the boatman?--bring him to me-- - To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey, - And I will remember the boatman and thee. - - O bring me a boatman--I’ll give any money, - (And you for your trouble rewarded shall be) - To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey, - Or scull him across that rough river to me! - - - - - -ANDREW CARR. - - - As I went to Newcastle, - My journey was not far, - I met with a sailor lad, - Whose name was Andrew Carr. - - And hey for Andrew, Andrew, - Ho for Andrew Carr; - And hey for Andrew, Andrew, - Ho for Andrew Carr. - - Good fortune attend my jewel, - Now he’s sail’d o’er the bar, - And send him back to me, - For I love my Andrew Carr. - And hey for Andrew, Andrew, &c. - - - - -SONG. - - - I went to Black Heddon, - And there I sat down, - I call’d for some liquor, - Which cost half-a-crown. - - The liquor being good, - I fill’d myself fu’; - And could not go home - To my Eppie so true. - - To my Eppie so true, - My Eppie so true, - My Eppie so true, - And could not go home - To my Eppie so true. - - - - -_LINES_ ON JOHN THOMPSON, _Who was hanged on Newcastle Town Moor, for -Horse Stealing, about 20 Years ago._ - - -By ---- Ogle, Schoolmaster, Gateshead. - - John Thompson just now, - Will find it is true, - That thieving is worse than the sword; - In the space of an hour, - He’ll dance on the Moor, - Attach’d to a rope, or a cord. - - - - -THE PITMAN. - - -_By ---- Ogle._ - - Of a pitman we’ll sing, - Who works for the king, - Jovial, good natur’d, and civil; - He’ll work and he’ll sing, - And profit he’ll bring, - From caverns that’s near to the devil. - - To his labour below, - With courage he’ll go, - Upon his pit rope and his crook; - Nor will he once dwell - On the visions of hell, - Nor yet _fash_ his thumb with a book. - - All his wish is good ale, - An’ his claes upon sale, - For a tankard he’ll put ev’ry night: - Let the learned still think, - That a hearty sound drink, - Is a pitman’s most crowned delight. - - - - -A SONG - - -_Written principally by MR GEORGE PICKERING, and sung by a Member of -the Forest Hunt, Newcastle, at the Conclusion of the Season, March -29th, 1786; and afterwards at the Theatre Royal, by Mr Marshall._ - - Since Winter’s keen blast must to Zephyr give place, - We resign, for a season, the joys of the chase; - The cry of the hounds and of hunters must cease, - And puss thro’ the woodlands may ramble in peace; - In peace let her ramble, regardless and free, - Till the horn’s cheerful note shall awake us with glee; - Till October returns, let her frolic and play, - And then we’ll pursue her with “Hark, hark away.” - With hark, hark away, - With hark, hark away, - And then we’ll pursue her with hark, hark away! - - When ting’d were the hills with the crimson of morn, - We jocundly rose to the sound of the horn; - Triumphant its melody swell’d o’er the plain, - While the heath-cover’d mountains re-echo’d the strain: - Hark, hark! was the mandate, we flew like the wind, - And care’s haggard visage was distanc’d behind: - What joys can be equal to those we display, - When we follow the harriers with hark, hark away! - With hark, hark away, &c. - - Like the soldier return’d from a far hostile shore, - Recounting his toils and his victories o’er, - Of the battle’s loud din, where his courage so true, - Obtain’d the green laurel, entwining his brow. - Of chases now past let our narrative be, - Till Winter’s pale hand shall dismantle the tree; - Then, then to the forest exultingly stray, - And cheer the fleet harriers with hark, hark away. - With hark, hark away, &c. - - Then fill up your glasses--yet fill as you chuse, - Here’s a health, brother sportsmen, which none can refuse; - A health that with pleasure our club shall inspire, - While hunting delights, or while hounds we admire:-- - See, see, how I fill it--’tis COLPITTS[66] I toast, - Of our Hunt may he long be the pride and the boast, - And oft may we meet him with joys like to-day, - And long may he lead us with hark, hark away. - With hark, hark away, - With hark, hark away, - And long may he lead us with hark, hark away. - -[66] _George Colpitts_, Esq. of Killingworth, the worthy Master of the -Forest Hunt.--He died October 30th, 1793, universally regretted. - -[Illustration] - - - - -LONG FRAMLINGTON FAIR, (OR TRYST) - - -_Established July 15th, 1803._ - - All lovers of lucre may LAUD the _Lord Mayor_, - Who was the first founder of _Framlington Fair_; - Where mankind now mingle, and merchants too meet, - And all in full muster that magistrate greet: - Here stocksmen and tradesmen both traffic and truck, - And prone speculators pursue their purse-luck; - Here contractors cash into cattle convert, - By buying or barter in mayor Millar’s mart. - - Here coaches and chariots and chaises abound, - With folks of first fashion from fifty miles round; - Here bucks, bloods, and buffoons, belles, buxoms, and beaux, - Bedizen’d with drapery, and French furbelows: - Here young men and maidens in marriage moods meet, - And crowds of quaint coquets bald bachelors cheat; - Here parents and prattlers are sprightly and smart, - And lads league with lasses in mayor Millar’s mart. - - Horn’d cattle, and horses, mules, asses, and swine, - And sheep of all kinds kept ’twixt _Tweed_ and the _Tyne_; - A skilful collection of choice Cheviot rams, - And also the best breed of bleak border lambs; - Hard hogs from the _Highlands_, some long, and some short, - And some sightly samples of Leicester sort; - Some _South Downs_, some _Dishleys_, some _Dorsets_, and _Harts_, - Some _Bedfords_, and _Bakewells_, grace mayor Millar’s marts. - - This marvellous mayor did some patterns produce, - May prove to the public of infinite use;-- - His beasts from the _Dearboughts_[67]--cow-kyloes, and queys, - Did breeders and feeders and butchers surprise; - Nay, set as a cypher the _Long Witton stot_;[68] - And credit confer’d on the _Kintire Scot_, - Who rear’d upon pastures of poor pithless spart, - These magnified monsters in mayor Millar’s mart. - - Their dimensions alive, and their density dead, - He measur’d and weigh’d with the eyes of his head, - From the tip of the tongue to the tip of the tail, - In ells and in inches, exact as a scale, - The girt of the sirloin, the centre and crop, - The breadth of the brisket, the bottom and top; - By practice made perfect, precise, and expert, - Surpris’d all the people in mayor Millar’s mart. - - A caravan crowded, came here from the east, - With _Bengal_ bred bipeds, and _Bot’ney Bay_ beasts; - Stage-tumblers, and walkers upon the slack wire, - And dancing dogs deck’d out in harlequin ’tire; - Eke, eight _British_ badgers brought back in a box, - The big and the beautiful _Berwickshire_ ox; - With all tricks by slight hand of nature and art, - To add to the eclat of mayor Millar’s mart. - - Close by the mayor’s mansion, expos’d are in pens, - A local collection of cocks and of hens; - Ducks, turkies, and pigeons in sunkets are seen, - And pack-sacks presented with grey geese and green: - With well cul’d canaries confin’d close in cages, - And song birds of all sorts and sizes and ages; - Whose quavering chorus both cheer and divert - The cohorts convened at mayor Millar’s mart. - - Here potters, with panniers of Stafford and Delph, - And chests of choice china to shine on the shelf; - Here’s hampers of hardware--plate--polish’d and plain, - With all tin utensils of varnish and stain: - Here’s statues of stucco, Dutch trinkets, and toys, - And bawlers of ballads, of nonsense, and noise! - Here cadgers of commerce, commodities cart, - With hucksters and hawkers, to mayor Millar’s mart. - - From _Morpeth_, _Newcastle_, and _London_ likewise, - The puffers of paste here expose _penny pies_! - With cheese cakes and custards and other confects, - Of rare aromatics, and summer selects: - Scarce kickshaws more costly can be chew’d with chaps, - Yet somewhat less sav’ry than _Silas Swain’s_[69] snaps, - Which powerful perfumes to the palates impart, - Of alamode essence in mayor Millar’s mart. - - Hotels for highflyers, and Inns little worse, - With good entertainment for man and for horse; - Here’s baskets of butter, beef, bacon, bread, beer, - With fleshers, fishmongers, and other choice cheer, - To buoy up the belly, and burnish the back; - Who have ready rhino need nothing to lack;-- - Fairs formerly fam’d now begin to loss heart, - Since all Adam’s offspring prefer Millar’s mart. - -Coquetarious. - -[67] The name of a neighbouring farm. - -[68] The fattest kyloe stot ever killed in the county. - -[69] A Confectioner in that town, a man of considerable humour and fun. - - - - -GO ALL TO COQUET AND WOO. - - - Northumberland lads are handsome squads, - And female affiance must share; - If you wish to wed, betroth to bed, - One cull’d with caution and care. - - I here make free--give ear to me, - The county I’ve scan’d around; - So from the mass select a lass, - Where virtue and beauties abound. - - The lasses of TWEED are deft indeed, - Their garlands give such grace: - The lasses of TILL are sprightly still, - In figure, in fashion, and face. - - The lasses of BREMISH look rather squeamish, - Embellish’d with elegant ease; - The lasses of ALE, for plumage prevail, - Their pomp and appendages please. - - The lasses of ALWIN obey fashion’s call, when - A princess prescribes a new dress; - The lasses of REED, each hair-braids her head, - And apes alamode to excess. - - The lasses of WENSBECK, like dignify’d dames deck, - And their address quite debonair; - The lasses of FOUNT, though pronounc’d paramount, - Can scarce with these comits compare. - - The lasses of PONT, to decorate don’t - Soar yet in the sphere of extremes; - The lasses of ERRING, on fashions conferring, - The decent most dext’rous deem. - - The lasses of TYNE, who peerlessly shine, - Are mirrors of modesty too: - The lasses of COQUET put all in their pocket, - Go all to Coquet and woo! - - So take my advice, tour there in a trice, - These provident paragons view; - So splendid and pretty, so worthy, and witty, - You’ll never have reason to rue. - - - - -THE FRACTIOUS FARMER. _A SONG._--1792. - - - A farmer near Felton, fam’d for vulgar fractions, - Both testy and stubborn in all his transactions; - With fraud and with falsehoods to litigate labours, - A plague to the public, and pest to his neighbours. - - His BULL, this base brigand kept bound by the nose, - In a creek, on the confines of Coquet, that those - Cows which came across (thus decoy’d) to his corn, - The coin of their owners by craft to suborn. - - He marry’d a maid with much money, as stated, - Both handsome, and harmless, yet heartily hated; - Hence hootings, and hissings, and banters beset her, - Because he his handmaid had long lov’d far better. - - One sunday at dinner he saw of a sudden, - A human head hair peeping out of the pudding: - Though his minx mix’d the mass, made his spouse pluck it out, - And likewise submit to a buffetting bout. - - One time when he wanted his fingers to warm, - She fronted the fire, and thought of no harm; - Her seat he upset, and she fell on the floor, - Depriv’d of her senses for more than an hour. - - As he and his harlot one time sat at tea, - To taste a bit toast, his own matron made free; - For which misdemeanor his concubine cog’d her, - And for the offence he unfeelingly flog’d her. - - One afternoon, ent’ring the parlour, he saw, - Expos’d on the carpet, prostrate, a piece straw; - His spouse he suspected for the foul offence, - And snatching the poker, depriv’d her of sense. - - His children he taught with a dutiful grace, - To piss upon _Mammy_, and spit on her face; - And laugh when he lash’d her, ’till sickly and sore, - And in storms and in tempests turn’d her to the door. - - With hunger and hardships, by bruises and blows, - His help-mate is render’d so lank and so low; - She seems to surrender the lease of her life, - And wind up the warfare of a wailing wife. - - - - -SATYR UPON WOMEN. - - -_By Mr James Robson._ - -This song is imperfectly compiled from part of a “Satyr upon Women,” -wrote in Preston prison, in 1715 by Mr James Robson, a freeholder in -Thropton, near Rothbury, Northumberland, at that time a musician in the -rebel army. He sung the Satyr aloud, at an iron barred window looking -into a garden, where a lady and her maid were walking: after the song -was finished, the former says, “That young man seems very severe upon -our sex; but perhaps he is singing more from oppression than pleasure; -go give him that half crown piece,” which the girl gave him through the -grating, at a period when he was at the point of starving. - - All men of high and low degree, - Come listen to my song; - The subject suits both you and me, - With attestations strong: - Therefore I hope you’ll not be nice, - Attention true to pay, - And hence adhere to my advice, - Lest you be led astray. - - Should you to marry be inclin’d, - I charge you to beware; - And caution you to change your mind, - Thus to escape that snare; - Be not decoy’d by age nor youth, - Whose aims are artful all; - But take my word as standard truth, - You here may stand or fall. - - If you should wed one with a dower, - Obedience you must pay; - Or if you marry one who’s poor, - In rags you must array: - If you a blooming beauty wed, - A cuckold you must be; - And if a brunet blight your bed, - You’ll blush when belles you see. - - Should you select a learned lass, - Impertinence must pall; - Or cull one from a vulgar class, - She balderdash will bawl: - If you adopt a daft town’s dame, - Her behests will be bold: - Or coax one of inferior fame, - She’ll curse, carouse, and scold. - - Shun lofty looks, and language loud, - No stripes such tongues can tame; - Fly wanton wenches mirthful mood, - Which counsel can’t reclaim: - A wife of stature tall will dare, - To drag a giant down; - And little women wicked are, - One crop’d strong Samson’s crown. - - Reflect that Adam’s innocence, - Was to Eve’s blunder blind; - Whose crafty crime caus’d to commence, - A curse upon mankind; - So you cannot too cautious be, - Of wormwood mix’d with gall; - Then friends pray be advis’d by me, - To wed with _none at all_! - - - - -TWEED SIDE. - - - On travelling down Tweed side, - I heard an uncouth chit chat; - An old wife thus her neighbour did chide, - May curses confound your cat! - - His plunder I’ll tell you pit pat, - Our hut he inhabits at ease; - He broke into our buffet, - And munch’d up our ewe-milk cheese. - - He lifts up our larder latch, - And he skims all the cream off the milk; - The callans he’ll bite and he’ll scratch, - And the brats of their boiley will bilk. - - No farley to find him so fat, - Beef, bacon, and butter, he eats; - And ne’er hunts for a mouse nor a rat, - But sups upon savory meats. - - He has lunch’d up two large lamb legs, - Of our bannocks he’s not left a bit; - And has scar’d the old hen off her eggs, - And she’s drown’d in the kirn-milk kit. - - He mucks in our mickle meal-chest, - He spews in the cistern of salt; - In our kale-pot and cogies he’s piss’d, - And he mutes too among the malt. - - He has drove a scate fish off the bink, - Which drop’d in the brimstone kan, - And rais’d such a stove and stink - As chok’d our old good man. - - Was it no more damage than that, - The brute must be greatly to blame; - If you take not care of your tom-cat, - He may rely on a lame! - - - - -A SONG, _Pasted upon the Walls, and scattered about the Town of -Rothbury, several Years ago._ - - - Young Solomon, tir’d of a bachelor’s life, - Is resolv’d, by report, on a fat greasy wife, - Though merit might gain him a good natured girl, - Would forfeit his prospect for brazen Miss E---- - - If he wish to be wedded to folly and dirt, - To a lie-loving hussy, and impudent flirt, - Let him take what the captains of Alemouth have left, - And of comfort I warrant he will be bereft. - - If a creature he takes who in muslin would shine, - Poor Solomon must on a red-herring dine; - To buy her fine clothes, and rich tippets of scarlet, - And dress the poor beggar in garbs of a harlot. - - If willing with good cheerful neighbours to spend, - Or a convivial hour with some gay social friend; - To Bo----m’s would go, and therein not to be check’d, - Let him shun the hard fate of a husband hen-peck’d. - - If he wish not to labour with want and disgrace, - Nor to answer demands which will fly in his face, - Nor would open his purse for the debts of another, - Let him think in due time of the case of Poll’s brother. - - If children he’d have, with free use of their frame, - Let him not take a part’ner stiff-jointed and lame; - But let him look out for some wholesome clean girl, - And escape from the clutches of shameful Poll E----. - -_The following ANSWER was handed about at Berwick upon Tweed and the -neighbouring Villages._ - - Ah! pen, ink, and paper, proves pleasing, - To pirates who plunder the fame - Of females, by lewdness and teasing, - Too naughty and nauseous to name. - - A rector, more rude than the rabble, - Compos’d an incendiary song, - More base than a Billingsgate bauble, - And like his stale strumpet stinks strong. - - That seat on a summit for cent’ries - Assigned to sages and saints, - Was kept by those scripture comment’ries - From tete-a-tete, tarnish, and taints. - - But time tells a tragical story, - Of truths well attested by some; - The term has turn’d out transitory, - That bulwarks a brothel become. - - The mansion (I need not to mention) - Affords an affectionate feast, - To vassals of vicious invention, - A pander, two punks, and a priest. - - Their pastimes and sports are pollution, - Each minx is unmarry’d--each man - Prefers to his spouse prostitution - Upon a ’postolical plan. - - By priestcraft the pulpit’s perverted, - The parson’s deprav’d and impure; - With projects profane preconcerted, - A leacherous lout to allure. - - Each cuddles his coney or rabbit, - And pleasantly purr with puss-cats; - Hence with husky harlots cohabit, - And handle a herdling’s old hats. - - When pregnant, the spinster’s exported - Till she spawn her spurious sprouts, - Hence home with due caution escorted - To free the fecundine from flouts. - - At Alnwick, this pious imposter - And Betty have boarded their brats; - Where they keep a female to foster - Their moppets, and Matthew’s pit-rats. - - The quorum confer’d a commission - Upon this canonical quack, - Expecting the learned logician - Contentions would quell garb’d in black. - - This pastor unprick’d with compunction, - His church with unchastity chimes, - And forfeits the fame of his function, - By columns of scandal and crimes. - - Here follows a fatal relation, - By curses and conduct unkind, - (A fact prov’d by clear demonstration) - The brute broke the heart of his hind. - - This curate (kept quite unconnected - With chums who in crowds coalesce) - Was by the whole parish respected, - For piety, prudence, and peace. - - I’m sanction’d to say in the sequel, - His worship, by keeping a wench, - Incurs the contempt of each equal, - His betters, the bar, and the bench. - - Traduce not the strains of a student, - Untaught in a technical style; - Nor pronounce a pupil imprudent, - For truths told on varlets so vile!!! - - - - -SONG. - - - There was five wives at Acomb, - And five wives at Wa’, - And five wives at Fallowfield, - That’s fifteen o’ them a’. - - They’ve druken ale and brandy, - ’Till they are all fu’; - And I cannot get home to - My Eppie I trow, - My Eppie I trow, - My Eppie I trow, - And I cannot get home to - My Eppie I trow. - - The Tyne water’s se deep, that - I cannot wade through; - And I’ve no horse to ride to - My Eppie I trow, - My Eppie I trow, - My Eppie I trow, - And I’ve no horse to ride to - My Eppie I trow. - - In Tyne I hev not a boat, - Nor yet cou’d I row, - Across the deep water to - My Eppie I trow, - My Eppie I trow, - My Eppie I trow, - And I’ve no horse to ride to - My Eppie I trow. - - - - -LITTLE BILLY. - - - Now little Billy is gone to the kirk, - And so merrily he doth sing: - I catch’d the parson in bed with my mother, - But I woud’nt tell it for any thing. - - Thou art a liar, says Mess John, - I never did thy mother no harm: - I never was in her house in my life, - But once or twice for a penorth of barm. - - Thou art a liar, said little Billy, - As sure as thou’rt on thy knees at prayer: - Did’nt I catch thee in bed with my mother, - And did’nt I tumble thee down the stairs. - - Thou art a liar, says Mess John, - Thou shalt be whipp’d with a rod of birk; - And shalt be set in the stocks to morn, - For telling such lies o’ the kirk. - - - - -SAIR FAIL’D HINNY. - - - I was young and lusty, - I was fair and clear; - I was young and lusty, - Many a long year. - Sair fail’d hinny, - Sair fail’d now; - Sair fail’d hinny, - Sin’ I kend thou. - - When I was young and lusty, - I could loup a dyke; - But now at five and sixty, - Cannot do the like. - Sair fail’d hinny, - Sair fail’d now, - Sair fail’d hinny, - Sin’ I kend thou. - - Then said the awd man - To the oak tree; - Sair fail’d is ’e, - Sin’ I kend thee. - Sair fail’d hinny, - Sair fail’d now; - Sair fail’d hinny, - Sin’ I kend thou. - - - - -THE HARE SKIN. - - -BY GEORGE KNIGHT, SHOEMAKER. - -Tune.--_Have you heard of a frolicsome ditty._ - - Come, gentlemen, attend to my ditty, - All you that delight in a gun; - And, if you’ll be silent a minute, - I’ll tell you a rare piece of fun. - Fal lal, &c. - - It was on the tenth of November, - Or else upon Martinmas-day, - A gentleman,[70] who lov’d pastime, - Got a hare-skin well stuff’d with hay. - - Then into the field he convey’d her, - And set her against a hedge-side; - Our gunners were rambling the fields thro’, - So that pussy was quickly espy’d. - - Mr Tindal, the first that espy’d her, - Said that he lov’d a roast hare, - And that he would have her _tit_ supper, - For he for the law did not care. - - The better his purpose to answer, - He charged his gun well with slugs, - And firing right manfully at her, - He _hat_ her betwixt the two lugs. - - But when that he went for to seize her, - He found himself cursedly bit; - And soon flung her down in a passion, - And look’d as if he’d been b----t. - - The next was Will Dunn, our painter, - Who wanted a novelty bit; - And, taking good aim, let fly at her, - And kill’d her stone-dead on her seat. - - When firing, he swore he had maul’d her, - He ne’er miss’d a hare in his life; - And then in great trouble was he, - To get her safe home to his wife. - - The next was John Walker, a tailor, - He thinking poor puss for to nap, - Indeed, he endeavour’d to kill her, - But his gun very often did snap. - - But then making all things in order, - He at her let furiously drive; - Our serjeant was to have her _tit_ supper, - To make them all merry belyve. - - But I think he was damnable saucy, - She ne’er was intended for he; - He must get something else to his cabbage, - For it and hare flesh ’ll ne’er agree. - - The next was Joe Dixon, the barber, - One morning he rose in great haste, - And swore he would have hare _tit_ his supper, - And give all his neighbours a taste. - - When firing, he swore he had kill’d her; - O then in great trouble was he, - How that he might safely convey her, - For fear any body should see. - - The next was John Blythman, esquire; - Indeed he was much to blame, - To kill a hare with a gun is right cruel, - Tho’ gentlefolks may think it game. - - Then Grundy came cursing and swearing, - Which is the chief end of his talk, - He shot her, and swore by his maker, - He’d kill’d her as dead as a mawk. - - But when that he went for to seize her, - And found it a skin stuff’d with hay, - He flung her down in a passion, - And cursed, and so went away. - - Now I’d have you all take care for the future, - And mind very well what I say; - Before that you fire, see the hare run, - Lest it prove a hare skin stuff’d with hay. - - But I think they were all finely tricked, - Beside wasting powder and shot: - Let us have a good drink at the fancy, - So, landlady, fill us the pot. - - Here’s the gentleman’s health that contriv’d it, - For he is a right honest soul; - We’ll laugh and we’ll merrily sing, - When we’re over a full flowing bowl. - Fal lal, &c. - -[70] Mr Peter Confett. - - - - -LIMBO. - - -By the same Author. - -Tune.--_On a time I was great, now little I’m grown._ - - I’ll tell you a story, if you please to attend, - When my heart was afflicted with sorrow, - The song it is new, but it’s absolute true; - It’s for nothing that I did buy or borrow: - But I was sent for to Preston’s one day the last week, - There I little expected with what I did meet, - But the country’s all rogues, and the world is a cheat, - And there they confin’d me in Limbo. - - Like an innocent lamb to the slaughter I went, - Not knowing what was their intention, - But when I came there, O how I did stare, - When I found out their damned invention. - There was Preston the bailiff, Joe Craggs was his bum, - And there they did seize me, as sure as a gun, - Upstairs then they haul’d me into the back room, - And there they confin’d me in Limbo. - - My belly was empty, though my stomach was full, - For to think there how I was _trepanned_, - Preston pull’d out a paper and made a long scrawl, - And he forc’d me to set my hand to’t. - Then I open’d his closet, I got out a pie, - Then I call’d for liquor, while I was a dry, - I knew somebody would pay for’t, but what cared I? - I wasn’t to starve, though in Limbo. - - Another poor fellow there happen’d to be, - Which they had confined in Limbo; - Brother prisoner, says I, how shall we get free, - For want of this thing called rhino? - The poor fellow sat like one was half dead, - Then I gave him claret to dye his nose red; - But I never knew yet how the reck’ning was paid; - I was resolv’d to live well, though in Limbo. - - There was Mr Bum and I, we toss’d it about, - Until we began to grow mellow; - Three bottles of claret he there did me give, - Indeed he’s a jolly good fellow: - Full bumpers of claret went round it is true, - Some drank for vexation till twice they did spew, - I ne’er in my life saw so merry a crew, - As we were when I was in Limbo. - - There was Ralph Jackson, the tanner, he came in by chance, - And did chatter and talk like a parrot; - And likewise Will Bulmer was one of our number, - For he had a mind to drink claret. - Full glasses went round till I could not see, - O then they were all willing I should go free; - But the devil may pay them their reckoning for me, - For now I have got out of Limbo. - - With many a foul step then I stagger’d home, - And it happen’d to be without falling; - I got on my bed, and nothing I said, - But my wife she began with her bawling; - She rung me such a peal, though she’d been not well, - As if she would have rais’d all the devils in hell, - You might have heard her as far as the sound of Bow Bell; - Then I wish’d that I’d stay’d there in Limbo. - - - - -A NEW SONG, _For the Year 1764_. - -BY MR WILLIAM SUTTON. - - - On the banks of the Tees, at Stockton of old, - A castle there was of great fame we are told, - Where the Bishops of Durham were wont to retreat, - And spend all their summers at that gallant seat. - Derry down &c. - - ’Twas once on a time, that King John being there, - The chiefs of Newcastle did thither repair; - Humbly pray’d that his Highness would deign for to grant - Them a charter, of which they were then in great want. - - The King highly pleas’d with the Bishop’s grand treat, - (Abounding in liquors, and all sorts of meat,) - Their prayer he comply’d with, the charter did sign, - Owing then, as ’twas said, to the Bishop’s good wine. - - Old Noll, in his day, out of pious concern, - This castle demolish’d[71], sold all but the barn; - When Nilthorp and Hollis, with two or three more, - Divided the spoils, as they’d oft done before. - - The town still improving, became the delight - Of strangers, and others, so charming its sight, - That a bridge cross the river being lately propos’d, - The cash was subscrib’d, and the bargain soon clos’d. - - The King, Lords, and Commons approving the scheme, - The bridge was begun, and now’s building between[72] - Two counties, when finish’d, no doubt ’twill produce - Fairs, markets for cattle, and all things for use. - - Let us drink then a bumper to Stockton’s success, - May its commerce increasing ne’er meet with distress; - May the people’s endeavours procure them much wealth, - And enjoy all their days the great blessing of health. - Derry down, &c. - -[71] The castle and demesnes were sold during the government of the -common wealth, 1647, for 6165_l._ and soon after was dismantled, and -the materials disposed of. - -[72] The act of parliament for building a bridge, by subscription, was -got in 1761, was immediately begun, and was finished in April, 1771, -and cost about 8000_l._ - - - - -STOCKTON’S COMMENDATION. - - -Tune.--_Sir John Fenwick’s the flower amang them._ - - Come, brave spirits, that love Canary, - And good company are keeping, - From our friends let’s never vary, - Let your muse awake from sleeping: - Bring forth mirth and wise Apollo; - Mark your eyes on a true relation: - Virgil with his pen shall follow, - In ancient Stockton’s commendation. - - Upon the stately river Tees, - A goodly castle there was placed, - Nigh joining to the ocean seas, - Whereby our country was much graced; - Affording rich commodities, - With corn and lead, unto our nation; - Which makes me sing with chearful voice, - Of ancient Stockton’s commendation. - - In sixteen hundred thirty-five, - And about the month of February, - Three Stockton-men they did contrive, - To see their friends, and to be merry: - Part of their names I shall describe, - And place them down in comely fashion; - There was William, John, and Anthony, - Gain’d ancient Stockton commendation. - - To famous Richmond first they came, - And with their friends awhile remained; - Middleham there, that town of fame, - Whereby much credit they obtained: - Being merry on a day, - A challenge came in this same fashion, - A match at football for to play; - But Stockton got the commendation. - - Three Middleham-men appointed were, - And stakes put down on either party; - Stockton-men cast off all fear, - For Bishopric was always hearty. - Then those three Middleham-men did yield, - And for their loss they shew’d vexation; - There was but one came to the field, - And Stockton got the commendation. - - With shouts and cries, in chearful voice, - The country all about them dwelling, - They all did say that very day, - That Stockton-men were far excelling. - When first I did it understand, - It was told to me as true relation; - Then I took my pen and ink in hand, - And writ brave Stockton’s commendation. - - - - -THE NEW WAY OF STOCKTON’S COMMENDATION. - - -TO THE OLD TUNE. - -_By Benjamin Pye, L.L.D._ - -ARCHDEACON OF DURHAM. - - “Upon the stately river Tees, - A noble castle there was placed, - Nigh joining to the ocean seas, - Whereby our country was much graced; - Affording rich commodities, - Of corn and lead unto the nation; - Which makes me sing in cheerful wise, - Of ancient Stockton’s commendation.” - - But now I’ll tell you news prodigious, - My honest friends, be sure remark it, - Our ferries are transform’d to bridges, - And Cleveland trips to Stockton market. - Our causeways rough, and mirey roads, - Shall sink into a navigation, - And Johnny Carr shall sing fine odes, - In modern Stockton’s commendation. - - O what a scene for joy and laughter, - To see, as light as cork or feather, - Our pond’rous lead, and bulky rafter, - Sail down the smooth canal together! - Whilst coal and lime and cheese and butter, - Shall grace our famous navigation; - And we will make a wond’rous clutter, - In modern Stockton’s commendation. - - Our fairs I next will celebrate, - With scores of graziers, hinds and jockeys; - And bumpkins yok’d with Nell and Kate, - Who stare like any pig that stuck is: - Fat horned beasts now line our streets, - Which Aldermen were wont to pace on; - And oxen low, and lambkins bleat, - And all for Stockton’s commendation[73]. - - Our races too deserve a tune, - The northern sportsmen all prefer ’em, - For _Dainty Davy_ here did run - Much better then at York or Durham. - O ’twould take up a swingeing volume, - To sing at large our reputation; - Our bridge, our shambles, cross and column, - All speak fair Stockton’s commendation. - - Fill then your jovial bumpers round, - Join chorus all in Stockton’s glory; - Let us but love our native town, - A fig for patriot, whig, or tory; - Whate’er they say, whate’er they do, - Their aim is but to fleece the nation; - Let us continue firm and true - To honest Stockton’s commendation. - -[73] During the scarcity of change in 1811-12, the people of Stockton -issued out silver tokens of sixpence and twelve-pence value, the only -tokens issued in the county. - - - - -HARK TO WINCHESTER: OR, THE _Yorkshire Volunteers’ Farewell to the good -Folks of Stockton._ - - -_Tune_,--Push about the Jorum. - - Ye Stockton lads and lasses too, - Come listen to my story; - A dismal tale, because ’tis true, - I’ve now to lay before ye: - We must away, our rout is come, - We scarce refrain from tears, O: - Shrill shrieks the fife, rough roars the drum,-- - March, Yorkshire Volunteers, O! - Fal lal lal la ral. - - Yet ere we part, my comrades say, - Come, Stockhore[74], you’re the poet, - If e’er you pen’d a grateful lay, - ’Tis now the time to show it. - Such usage fair in this good town, - We’ve met from age and youth, sirs, - Accept our grateful thanks, and own - A poet sings the truth, sirs. - Fal lal, &c. - - Ye lasses too, of all I see, - The fairest in the nation; - Sweet buds of beauty’s blooming tree, - The top of the creation; - Full many of our lads I ween, - Have got good wives and true, sirs; - I wonder what our leaders mean, - They have not done so too, sirs. - Fal lal, &c. - - Perhaps----but hark! the thund’ring drum, - From love to arms is beating; - Our country calls; we come, we come, - Great George’s praise repeating: - He’s great and good, long may he here - Reign, every bliss possessing; - And long may each true volunteer - Behold him Britain’s blessing. - Fal lal, &c. - - Our valiant Earl shall lead us on - The nearest way to glory, - Bright honour hails her darling son, - And fame records his story. - Dundas commands upon our lists - The second; though on earth, sirs, - No one he’s second to exists, - For courage, sense, and worth, sirs. - Fal lal, &c. - - No venal muse before your view - Next sets a vet’ran bold, sirs, - The praise to merit justly due, - From Paul she cannot hold, sirs, - His valour oft has bore the test, - In war he’s brisk and handy; - His private virtues stand confest, - In short, he’s quite the dandy. - Fal lal, &c. - - Brave Mackarel heads his grenadiers, - They’re just the lads to do it, - And should the Dons, or lank Monsieurs - Come here, he’ll make them rue it: - He’ll roar his thunders, make them flee, - With a tow, row, row, row, ra ra; - And do them o’er by land,----at sea, - As Rodney did Langara. - Fal lal, &c. - - Young Thompson, with his lads so light - Of foot, with hearts of steel, O, - His country’s cause will nobly fight, - And make her foes to feel, O: - For should the frog-fed sons of Gaul - Come capering, _a la Francois_, - My lads, said he, we’ll teach them all - The _Light Bob_ country-dance a. - Fal lal, &c. - - Our leaders all, so brave and bold, - Should I in verse recite a, - A baggage waggon would not hold - The songs that I could write, a: - Their deeds so great, their words so mild, - O take our worst commander, - And to him Cæsar was a child, - And so was Alexander. - Fal lal, &c. - - Such men as these we’ll follow thro’ - The world, and brave all danger; - Each volunteer is firm and true, - His heart’s to fear a stranger.---- - _Good Folks, farewell!_ God bless the king, - With angels centry o’er him, - Now, _Hark, to Winchester!_ we’ll sing, - And push about the Jorum! - Fal lal lal la ral. - -[74] Herbert Stockhore, a private, the pretended author. - - - - -STOCKTON’s COMMENDATION. - - - Ye freeholders of Stockton-town, - Who follow your several occupations, - Once more I’ll sing, and raise my tune, - On flourishing Stockton’s commendations. - - Our bridge with pleasure I behold, - Our shambles gain great approbation; - And neighb’ring towns agree with me, - In singing Stockton’s commendation. - - From East and West the graziers bring - Fat flocks of each denomination; - And o’er a glass they freely sing - Great is Stockton’s commendation. - - Full thirty miles some butchers ride; - Fat goods are their expectation; - At Stockton they are well supplied; - They sing Stockton’s commendation. - - Our shews proclaim a thriving town, - And fortnight-days to admiration, - To see Stockton improve so soon, - Daily to her commendation. - - Our spacious streets each stranger views, - And fairly gives his approbation,-- - Stockton’s the place that I do choose, - So great is Stockton’s commendation. - - Our gardens, orchards, river, plains, - All join to raise our contemplation; - While hand in hand we other join, - In singing Stockton’s commendation. - - Our merchants cast a noble shew, - Rich goods as any in the nation; - Great is their trade with high and low, - Makes them sing Stockton’s commendation. - - All trades shall flourish now I see, - In their several occupation; - And our song shall ever be - Stockton’s lasting commendation. - - Our ships well stor’d with merchandize, - Come trading here from ev’ry nation; - Our neighb’ring towns with goods supply, - Makes them sing Stockton’s commendation. - - Our wool-trade daily does increase, - The staple of the British nation: - And farmers come, with cheerful pace, - To join in Stockton’s commendation. - - Our lead in piles in plenty lie, - Sent by shipping to each nation. - Behold all trades on Stockton smile, - Makes me sing Stockton’s commendation. - - Our races they are fifties three, - Where Darlington, of noble station, - Our Steward he approves to be, - To honour Stockton’s commendation. - - May Darlington be Stockton’s friend, - And Stockton give their approbation - In favour of the House of Vane, - For raising Stockton’s commendation. - - Now, freeholders, I take my leave, - Success to the British nation, - These lines to you I freely give, - In praise of Stockton’s commendation. - - - - -THE BARNARDCASTLE TRAGEDY. - - -Tune--_Constant Anthony_. - - Young men and maidens all, I pray you now attend, - Mark well this tragedy which you find here penn’d; - At Barnardcastle Bridge-end, an honest man lives there, - His calling grinding corn, for which few can compare. - - He had a sister dear, in whom he took delight, - And Atkinson, his man, woo’d her both day and night; - Till thro’ process of time he chained fast her heart, - Which prov’d her overthrow, by Death’s surprising dart. - - False-hearted Atkinson, with his deluding tongue, - And his fair promises, he’s this poor maid undone; - For when he found he’d caught her fast in Cupid’s snare, - Then made he all alike, Betty’s no more his dear. - - Drinking was his delight, his senses sure to dose, - Keeping lewd company, when he should seek repose; - His money being spent, and they would tick no score, - Then with a face of brass, he ask’d poor Bett for more. - - At length he met with one, a serving-maid in town, - Who for good ale and beer would often pawn her gown, - And at all-fours she’d play, as many people know, - A fairer gamester no man could ever show. - - Tom Skelton, ostler at the King’s Arms does dwell, - Who this false Atkinson did all his secrets tell; - He let him understand of a new love he’d got, - And with an oath he swore, she’d keep full the pot. - - Then for the girl they sent, Bett Hardy was her name, - Who to her mistress soon an excuse did frame; - Mistress, I have a friend at the King’s Arms doth stay, - Which I desire to see, before he goes away. - - Then she goes to her friend, who she finds ready there, - Who catch’d her in his arms, how does my only dear? - She says, Boys drink about, and fear no reckonings large, - For she had pawn’d her smock, for to defray the charge. - - They did carouse it off, till they began to warm, - Says Skelton, Make a match, I pray where’s the harm? - Then with a loving kiss they straightway did agree, - But they no money had, to give the priest a fee. - - Quoth Skelton seriously, The priest’s fee is large, - I’ll marry you myself, and save you all the charge; - Then they plight their troth unto each other there, - Went two miles from the town, and go to bed we hear. - - Then when the morning came, by breaking of the day, - He had some corn to grind, he could no longer stay; - My business is in haste, which I to thee do tell; - So took a gentle kiss, and bid his love farewell. - - Now, when he was come home, and at his business there, - His master’s sister came, who was his former dear; - Betty, he said, I’m wed, certainly I protest; - Then she smile’d in his face, Sure you do but jest. - - Then within few days space, his wife unto him went, - And to the sign o’ th’ Last, there she for him sent; - The people of the house, finding what was in hand, - Stept out immediately, and let Betty understand. - - Now this surprising news caus’d her fall in a trance, - Like as if she was dead, no limbs she could advance; - Then her dear brother came, her from the ground he took; - And she spake up and said, O my poor heart is broke. - - Then with all speed they went, for to undo her lace, - Whilst at her nose and mouth her heart’s blood ran apace: - Some stood half dead by her, others for help inquire, - But in a moment’s time her life it did expire. - - False hearted lovers all, let this a warning be, - For it may well be called Betty Howson’s tragedy. - -🖙 The above shews how one John Atkinson, of Morton, near Appleby, -courted Betty Howson, of Barnardcastle Bridge-end; and, after having -gained her affections, forsook her for another; upon which, she broke -her heart and died. - - - - -_A SONG_ IN PRAISE OF THE DURHAM MILITIA. - - -Tune--_The Lillies of France._ - - Militia boys for my theme I now chuse, - (Your aid I implore to assist me, my muse,) - Whilst here I relate of the Durham youths’ fame, - Who chearful appear’d when these new tidings came, - That to Barnardcastle they must march away, - Embody’d to be, without stop or delay. - - What tho’ some cowards have betook them to flight, - And for their king and country scorn for to fight, - Yet we Durham boys, who jovial appear, - Right honest we’ll be, and we’ll banish all fear, - When head of the front, how martial we see - Our Colonel so brave, so gallant, and free. - - Whose generous heart, by experience we know, - Why need we then dread along with him to go? - Then farewell, dear wives, and each kind sweetheart, - Pray do not repine that from you we must part; - But hark! the drums beat, and the fifes sweetly play, - We’re order’d to march now to Richmond straightway. - - Where, clothed in red, and in purple attire, - Our exercise then shall be all our desire, - Which having acquir’d, then we’ll merrily sing, - Success to great George, and the Prussian king, - Likewise loyal Pitt, a statesman so bold, - Who scorns to be false, for interest or gold. - - If then the Monsieurs should with their crafty guile, - E’er dare to molest us on Britain’s fair isle, - We’ll laugh at their fury, and malice so strong, - To Charon below how we’ll hurl them headlong. - Do they think that our muskets useless shall be, - When in numbers great, them advancing we see. - - If they do, they’re mista’en, we’ll boldly proceed; - And conquer or die, ere ignobly we’ll yield; - Then crowned with laurel, (for vent’ring our lives) - Home then we’ll return to our sweethearts and wives, - What joy will be greater, our fame shall abound, - The bells then shall ring, and the trumpets shall sound. - - Let each loyal Briton then fill up his glass, - For to drive care away, so round let it pass, - Drink a health to king George, who sits on his throne, - (Whose power the French to their sorrow have known,) - May the Heavens above preserve him from harm, - And ever defend him from foreign alarm. - - - - -THE LASS OF COCKERTON. - - -Tune--_Low down in the Broom._ - - ’Twas on a summer’s evening, - As I a roving went, - I met a maiden fresh and fair, - That was a milking sent. - Whose lovely look such sweetness spoke, - Divinely fair she shone; - With modest face her dwelling-place, - I found was Cockerton.[75] - - With raptures fir’d, I eager gaz’d, - On this blooming country maid, - My roving eye, in quickest search, - Each graceful charm survey’d. - The more I gaz’d, new wonder rais’d, - And still I thought upon - Those lovely charms, that so alarms - In the Lass of Cockerton. - - Now would the Gods but deign to hear, - An artless lover’s prayer; - This lovely nymph ’bove all I’d ask, - And scorn each other care; - True happiness I’d then possess, - Her love to share alone; - No mortals know what pleasures flow, - With the lass of Cockerton. - -[75] A village near Darlington. - - - - -ROOKHOPE-RYDE. - - -_A Durham Border Song, composed in 1569._ - - Rookhope[76] stands in a pleasant place, - If the false thieves wad let it be; - But away they steal our goods apace, - And ever an ill death may they die! - - And so is the man of Thirlwa’ ’nd Willie-haver, - And all their companies thereabout, - That is minded to do mischief hither, - And at their stealing stands not out. - - But yet we will not slander them all, - For there is of them good enough; - It is a sore consumed tree - That on it bears not one fresh bough. - - Lord God! is not this a pitiful case, - That men dare not drive their goods to t’ fell, - But limmer thieves drives them away, - That fears neither heaven nor hell. - - Lord, send us peace into the realm, - That every man may live on his own! - I trust to God, if it be his will, - That Weardale-men may never be overthrown. - - For great troubles they’ve had in hand, - With borderers pricking hither and thither, - But the greatest fray that e’er they had, - Was with the men of Thirlwa’ ’nd Willie-haver. - - They gather’d together so royally, - The stoutest men and the best in gear; - And he that rade not on a horse, - I wat he rade on a weil-fed mear. - - So in the morning before they came out, - So well I wot they broke their fast, - In the [forenoon they came] unto a bye fell, - Where some of them did eat their last. - - When they had eaten aye and done, - They say’d, some captains here needs must be: - Then they choos’d forth Harry Corbyl, - And ‘Symon Fell,’ and Martin Ridley. - - Then o’er the moss, where as they came, - With many a brank and whew, - One of them would to another say, - I think this day we are men enew. - - For Weardale-men are a journey ta’en, - They are so far out o’er yon fell, - That some ofe them’s with the two earls[77] - And others fast in Barnard-castell. - - There we shall get gear enough, - For there is nane but women at hame; - The sorrowful fend that they can make, - Is loudly cries as they were slain. - - Then in at Rookhope-head they came, - And there they thought tul a’ had their prey; - But they were ’spy’d coming over the Dry-rig, - Soon upon Saint Nicholas’ Day. - - Then in at Rookhope-head they came, - They ran the forest but a mile; - They gather’d together in four hours - Six hundred sheep within a while. - - And horses I trow they gat, - But either ane or twa, - And they gat them all but ane - That belanged to great Rowley. - - That Rowley was the first man that did them spy, - With that he rais’d a mighty cry, - The cry it came down Rookhope-burn, - And spread through Weardale hasteyly. - - Then word came to the bailiff’s house - At the East-gate, where he did dwell, - He had walk’d out to the Smale-burns, - Which stands above the Hanging-well. - - His wife was wae when she hear’d tell, - So well she wist her husband wanted gear, - She gar’d saddle him his horse in haste, - And neither forgot sword, jack, nor spear. - - The bailiff got wit before his gear came, - That such news was in the land; - He was sore troubled in his heart, - That on no earth that he could stand. - - His brother was hurt three days before, - With limmer thieves that did him prick; - Nineteen bloody wounds lay him upon; - What ferly was’t that he lay sick? - - But yet the bailiff shrinked nought, - But fast after them he did hie; - And so did all his neighbours near, - That went to bear him company. - - But when the bailiff was gathered, - And all his company, - They were number’d to never a man, - But forty under fifty. - - The thieves was number’d a hundred men, - I wat they were not of the worst, - That could be choosed out of Thirlwa’ ’nd Willie-haver, - I trow they were the very first. - - But all that was in Rookhope-head, - And all that was i’ Nuketon-cleugh, - Where Weardale-men o’ertook the thieves, - And there they gave them fighting enough. - - So sore they made them fain to flee, - As many was a’ out of land, - And for tul have been at home again, - They would have been in iron bands: - - And for the space of long seven years, - As sore they mighten a’ had their lives; - But there was never one of them - That ever thought to have seen their wives. - - About the time the fray began, - I trow it lasted but an hour, - Till many a man lay weaponless, - And was sore wounded in that stour. - - Also before that hour was done, - Four of the thieves were slain, - Besides all those that wounded were, - And eleven prisoners there was ta’en. - - George Carrick and his brother Edie, - Them two, I wot, they were both slain; - Harry Corbyl, and Lennie Carrick, - Bore them company in their pain. - - One of our Weardale-men was slain, - Rowland Emerson his name hight; - I trust to God his soul is well, - Because he fought unto the right. - - But thus they said, We’ll not depart - While we have one:--Speed back again! - And when they came amongst the dead men, - There they found George Carrick slain. - - And when they found George Carrick slain, - I wot it went well near their heart; - Lord let them never make a better end, - That comes to play them sicken a part. - - I trust in God no more they shal, - Except it be one for a great chance; - For God will punish all those - With a great heavy pestilence. - - Thir limmer thieves they have good hearts, - They never think to be o’erthrown, - Three banners against Weardale-men they bare, - As if the world had been all their own. - - Thir Weardale-men they have good hearts, - They are as stif as any tree, - For, if they’d every one been slain, - Never a foot back man would flee. - - And such a storm amongst them fell, - As I think you never heard the like; - For he that bears his head so high, - He oft-times falls into the dyke. - - And now I do entreat you all, - As many as are present here, - To pray for singer of this song, - For he sings to make blithe your cheer. - -[76] The name of a valley in the north part of the parish of Stanhope, -in Weardale. - -[77] Thomas Percy, earl of Northumberland; and Charles Nevil, earl of -Westmorland.--November, 1569. - - - - -THE SEDGFIELD FROLIC. - - - Come all the gallant brave wenches, - That love strong liquor so well, - And use to fuddle your noses, - Come, listen to what I shall tell: - Your praises abroad I will thunder, - ’Tis pity you should go free, - And the wanton lasses of Sedgfield - Are roaring company. - - Come, landlady, fill us a bumper, - And take no thought for the shot, - It’s a sin, as I hope to be saved, - To part with an empty pot; - Let the glass go merrily round, - Our business is jolly to be, - And the wanton lasses of Sedgfield - Are roaring company. - - Who are they that dare to oppose us, - Since altogether we’re met? - We’ll tipple and fuddle our noses, - Our frolic the more to complete: - For our frolic it is begun, - And we will end it merrily; - And the ranting lasses of Sedgfield - Are roaring company. - - There’s Middleton as brisk as a bottle, - She merrily leads the van, - And Crispe, the butcher’s daughter, - She’ll follow as fast as she can. - There’s the sempstress and her sister, - The rear drive merrily; - And the ranting lasses of Sedgfield - Are roaring company. - - Each one shall here take her quantum, - Thus says brave Middleton; - We’ll drink a health to Peg Trantum, - And merrily we’ll go on; - Let the shot be ever so great, - I’ll speak to my landlady; - And the ranting lasses of Sedgfield - Are roaring company. - - There’s a brave sinking tailor, - That hath a brisk handsome wife, - And she will convey him the flaggon, - To avoid all future strife: - And the baker at the next door, - She will be the landlady; - And the ranting lasses of Sedgfield - Are roaring company. - - There’s Branson, an honest fellow, - He hath sugar enough in store, - If cloves and mace be wanting, - We will boldly run on the score; - For our wanton frolic is begun, - And we’ll end it most merrily; - And the wanton lasses of Sedgfield - Are roaring company. - - Two wives I had almost forgotten, - Whom I must touch in the quick, - Being merry at Mr Branson’s, - They danc’d round the candlestick; - And the tune was “_Juice of the Barley_,” - Which made them dance merrily, - And long did they hold a parley, - And made jolly company. - - In the midst of this great pother, - The backish wife came in, - She was forc’d to be led by another, - Thro’ thick and likewise thin. - And thus they did end their frolick, - Good fellow, I’ll tell to thee, - That the ranting lasses of Sedgfield - Are roaring company. - - - - -BOBBY SHAFTOE. - - - Bobby Shaftoe’s gone to sea, - With silver buckles at his knee; - He’ll come home and marry me, - Bonny Bobby Shaftoe. - - Bobby Shaftoe’s bright and fair, - Combing down his yellow hair, - He’s ma’ ain for ever mair, - Bonny Bobby Shaftoe. - - Bobby Shaftoe’s getten a bairn, - For to dandle in his arm; - In his arm, and on his knee, - Bobby Shaftoe loves me. - Bobby Shaftoe’s gone to sea, &c. - - - - -THE PLEASURES OF SUNDERLAND. - - - In the fine town of Sunderland which stands on a hill, - Which stands on a hill most noble to see, - There’s fishing and fowling all in the same town: - Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me. - - There’s dancing and singing also in the same town, - And many hot scolds there are in the week; - ’Tis pleasant indeed the market to see, - And the young maids that are mild and meek. - - The damsels of Sunderland would, if they could, - Welcome brave sailors, when they come from sea, - Build a fine tower of silver and gold: - Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me. - - The young men of Sunderland are pretty blades, - And when they come in with these handsome maids, - They kiss and embrace, and compliment free: - Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me. - - In Silver-street there lives one Isabel Rod, - She keeps the best ale the town can afford, - For gentlemen to drink till they cannot see: - Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me. - - Sunderland’s a fine place, it shines where it stands, - And the more I look on it the more my heart warms; - And if I was there I would make myself free: - Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me. - - - - -THE FROLICSOME OLD WOMEN OF SUNDERLAND: _Or, The Disappointed Young -Maids._ - - -_Tune_--They’ll marry tho’ threescore and ten. - - You Sunderland lasses draw near, - Sure you are forsaken by men; - But the old women, they - Forget for to play, - But will get married at three score and ten. - - You Sunderland lasses are slow, - And yet there’s good choice of young men; - The old women, they - Do shew you fair play, - They get married at threescore and ten. - - A house that’s within full sea mark, - Is very well accustomed by men; - But better had they - To live honest, I say, - Or get married at threescore and ten. - - There are sailors that are clever young blades, - And keel-bullies like unto them; - You maids that are fair, - Get married this year, - Lest you tarry till threescore and ten. - - The old women carry the day, - They beat both the maids and the men; - To give Sunderland the sway, - For ever and ay, - They’ll marry tho’ threescore and ten. - - - - -SUNDERLAND BRIDGE. - - -_By_ M.W. _of North Shields_. - - Ye sons of Sunderland, with shouts that rival ocean’s roar, - Hail Burdon in his iron boots, who strides from shore to shore! - O may ye firm support each leg, or much, O much I fear, - Poor Rowland may o’erstretch himself in striding ’cross the Wear! - A patent quickly issue out, lest some more bold than he, - Should put on larger iron boots, and stride across the sea! - Then let us pray for speedy peace, lest Frenchmen should come over, - And, fol’wing Burdon’s iron plan, from Calais stride to Dover. - - - - -ELSIE MARLEY, _An Alewife at Picktree, near Chester-le-Street._ - - -To its own Tune. - - Elsie Marley is grown so fine, - She won’t get up to serve her swine, - But lies in bed till eight or nine, - And surely she does take her time. - - And do you ken Elsie Marley, honey? - The wife that sells the barley, honey; - She’s lost her pocket and all her money, - Aback o’ the bush i’ th’ garden, honey. - - Elsie Marley is so neat, - It is hard for one to walk the street, - But every lad and lass they meet, - Cries, do you ken Elsie Marley, honey? - - Elsie Marley wore a straw hat, - Now she’s got a velvet cap, - She may thank Lambton men for that, - Do you ken Elsie Marley, honey. - - Elsie keeps wine, gin, and ale, - In her house below the dale. - Where every tradesman up and down, - Does call and spend his half-a-crown. - - The farmers, as they come that way, - They drink with Elsie every day, - And call the fiddler for to play - The tune of “_Elsie Marley_,” honey. - - The pitmen and the keelmen trim, - They drink bumbo made of gin, - And for to dance they do begin, - The tune of “_Elsie Marley_,” honey. - - The sailors they will call for flip, - As soon as they come from the ship, - And then begin to dance and skip, - To the tune of “_Elsie Marley_,” honey. - - Those gentlemen that go so fine, - They’ll treat her with a bottle of wine, - And freely they’ll sit down and dine - Along with Elsie Marley, honey. - - So to conclude these lines I’ve penn’d, - Hoping there’s none I do offend, - And thus my merry joke doth end, - Concerning Elsie Marley, honey. - And do you ken, &c. - - - - -CHESTER LADS FOR EVER. - - - Thro’ Durham County, fam’d of old, - Thro’ England, be it ever told, - That Chester lads stood forth so bold, - And Chester lads for ever. - - When Frenchmen heard of their intent, - To Bonaparte in haste they sent, - And said, since Chester thus is bent, - We are ruin’d, sirs, for ever. - - O dreadful news! said Bonaparte, - Enough to break each Frenchman’s heart; - But let us try, with all our art, - Those Chester lads to sever. - - Then firmly spoke Monsieur Otto, - The Chester lads you little know, - If them you think to overthrow; - For they will fight for ever. - - Tho’ many millions you have slain, - Yet what you’ve done is all in vain; - You’ll never beat the Chester men, - Nor cope with them--no never. - - The Consul call’d a council straight, - And long and learned the debate; - Each Frenchman tried, with all his weight, - How France he might deliver. - - The issue of this parliament - Was peace--the glorious grand event, - Which gave each British heart content. - And Chester lads for ever!!! - - - - -LUMLEY LEADS TO GLORY. - - Come all ye lads who wish to shine - Bright in Chester story, - Haste to arms, and form the line, - Where Lumley leads to glory. - - Charge the musket, point the lance, - Brave the worst of dangers; - Tell the blustering sons of France, - That Chester fears no strangers. - - Chester, when the lion’s rous’d, - And the flag is rearing, - Always finds her sons dispos’d - To drub the foe that’s daring. - Charge the musket, &c. - - Honor for the brave to share, - Is the noblest booty; - Guard the coast, protect the fair, - For that’s a Briton’s duty. - Charge the musket, &c. - - Beat the drums, the music sound, - Manly and united; - Danger face, maintain your ground, - And see your country righted. - Charge the musket, &c. - - - - -CHESTER VOLUNTEERS. - - -Tune--_There’s na Luck about the House._ - - And are ye sure the tale is true? - Again the news relate, - That Chester is to raise a corps - To fight for king and state. - Then let us fill a bumper full, - To Scarborough’s noble thane, - Who under his protection has - The men of Chester ta’en. - - If Chester men are firm and true, - And by each other stand, - No foreign foe can venture then - To stain our native land. - But if they should assail our coast, - Compell’d by want and need, - When Chester banners are display’d, - They’ll fly from hence with speed. - Then let us fill, &c. - - In former times our Chester youths - Their country’s foes expell’d; - Whose conquering monarch, in those days, - The crowns of Europe held: - Should then the sons of France pretend - With Chester Sons to vie, - If they suppose they’re better men, - E’en let them come and try. - Then let us fill, &c. - - The king our noble father is, - The queen our mother dear; - The prince’s brothers soldiers are, - Whom we shall here revere: - Them we’ll defend with might and main, - Against all sorts of foes; - Should they command to fight like men, - Or aim their treacherous blows. - Then let us fill, &c. - - - - -THE DURHAM VOLUNTEERS. - - -Tune--_Anacreon in Heaven._ - - When Britannia her sons calls to aid her in arms, - And fell war, with its horrors, our island does threat, - The true British feeling each bosom that warms, - Prompts away to the beach, the invader to meet. - And along with the brave, - Who their country will save, - And whose only retreat is a glorious grave. - See each son of Dunelm, and the old winding Wear, - The patriot, the loyal, the brave Volunteer. - - Let the foes of old England unite to enslave - Her free bands, from whose fury so oft they have fled; - We’ll prove, by their ruin who escape the wild wave, - We can fight like our sires, who at Agincourt bled; - Their great deeds we’ll review, - And example pursue, - And prove we’ve the blood of the same race so true. - Determined to save what than life is more dear, - Our country, our laws, march each brave Volunteer. - - Vain boasting Monsieur always lower’d his proud flag, - Whenever he met our bold tars on the sea; - And of conquest on shore let the Corsican brag; - Here the length of their graves their sole conquest shall be! - Let them vapour and threat, - Boast their armies so great, - Old England united can never be beat: - This often prov’d fact each loyal heart cheers, - Of their country’s best guardians, her brave Volunteers. - - The proud Don, through all time, shall his madness deplore, - When his Wealth and his Indies are conquer’d by thee; - And treach’rous Mynheer mourn, a vassal, once more, - From the shackles of which, our brave sires made him free. - Then Mynheer, Don, and Gaul, - We here challenge you all, - And believe British bayonets will your spirits appal; - For your pride to chastise, see a nation appears; - In the van march her loyal, her brave Volunteers! - - Come the day when the foe on our shore dare descend, - Like the lion defending his den, each will feel; - For the world ’gainst our safety in vain will contend, - While fair freedom and courage support their lov’d weal: - And along with the brave, - Who their country will save, - And whose only retreat is a glorious grave, - With the first in the field, ’gainst each foe will appear, - The loyal and patriot sons of the Wear. - -_February, 1805._ - - - - -KING JAMES I. _in the 15th year of his Reign, came to Durham on -Good Friday, April, 1617, where he was kindly received by the Mayor -and Corporation of that loyal City, and, on his Entrance, the Body -Corporate addressed him as follows_:-- - - - Durham’s old city thus salutes her king, - With entertainments such as she can bring; - And cannot wait upon his majesty, - With shew of greatness, but humility, - Makes her express herself in moderate guise: - In this deserted north, far from your eyes; - For your great prelate (James) of late adored, - Her dignities, for which we oft implored - Your highest aid, to give continuance; - And so confirmed by your dread sovereignce: - But what our royal James did grant herein, - Our bishop James hath much oppugnant been. - Small force bears down small power, where force and might - Hath greater strength than equity and right. - The last are only in your breast included: - Subjects’ griefs known, are ne’er from you secluded; - From your most gracious grant we therefore pray, - That the fair sunshine of your brightest day, - Would smile upon your city, whose clear beams - Exhale the troubles of our former streams; - Let not, O Powerful Prince, our ancient state, - For one man’s will, to be depopulate! - - Tho’ one seeks our undoing, yet to you, - All our hearts pray, and all our knees shall bow; - And this dull cell of earth, in which we live, - Unto your name its latest praise shall give; - Confirm our grant, good king! Durham’s old city - Will powerful be, if bless’d with James’s pity. - -The verses being ended, the mayor was placed in rank next before the -sword borne before the king, and bearing the mace of the city all the -way to the Cathedral Church. - - - - -DURHAM OLD WOMEN. - - - As aw was gannin to Durham - Aw met wi’ three jolly brisk women, - Aw ask’d what news at Durham? - They said joyful news is coming: - There’s three sheep’s heads i’ the pot, - A peck o’ peasmeal in the pudding. - They jump’d, laugh’d, and skipp’d at that, - For the joyful days are coming. - Fal la la. - - - - -EPITAPH _On JOHN SIMPSON, of Hamsterly, Woolcomber._ - - -BY ISAAC GARNER. - - While visiting this dark abode, - Here, reader, turn thy wand’ring eyes; - Tread light, for underneath this sod, - SIMPSON, the _Village Poet_, lies. - - The people’s follies, and their vice, - As frequently as he found leisure, - He hunted down (as cats do mice) - In strains of true poetic measure. - - So neatly he his subject hit, - So well he temper’d truth with sense; - The simple marvell’d at his wit, - And wise men seldom took offence. - - His genius and invention such, - From each event he’d something gather; - For nought ’scap’d his satiric touch, - That fairly came within his tether. - - _Nor ’scap’d he death_;--His race is run, - (So fall the witty and the brave!) - His wool is comb’d, his thread is spun; - And daisies flourish round his grave! - - - - -ODE _To the River Darwent._ - - - Lov’d stream, that meanders along, - Where the steps of my infancy stray’d; - When first I attun’d the rude song, - That nature all artless essay’d. - - Though thy borders be stripp’d of each tree, - That smil’d in their vernal array; - Their image still pictures to me, - Thy villagers gambolling gay. - - Nor by fancy shall aught be unseen, - While thy fountains flow murmuring by; - I have danc’d in the Dance on the green, - I have wept with the woe-begun age. - - Thy blessings how many and rare! - Far distant the mildue of health, - Where guilt vainly decorates care, - And wickedness broods over wealth. - - The dress of the body and mind, - For ages exactly the same: - No travel the manners refin’d, - And fashion pass’d by as it came. - - Ah! which of thy sons canst thou boast, - Like Maddison,[78] made to explore: - To give to the silver girt coast, - The worth that was foreign before! - - Each language, each humour, his own, - All Europe was proud to improve; - Whom Belgium sits down to bemoan, - Whom Gallia could listening love. - - Say, when will thou cease to complain? - Oh Darwent, thy destiny cries; - Far off, on the banks of the Seine, - Thy darling, thy _Maddison_--dies! - -[78] Mr Maddison was secretary to the English Ambassador at the -French Court, about the end of the American war: his death was rather -singular; the ambassador had been invited to a large dinner party, -given by some of the members of the French Government; but being -rather ill at the time, he sent his secretary as his deputy, who went -accordingly, and came home extremely ill, and soon after died, with all -the symptoms of being poisoned; a mark of favour which the French had -intended to have paid to the ambassador, had not fortune forbid it! The -circumstances of this curious affair, which made considerable noise at -the time, were never rightly known. - - - - -THE HEXHAMSHIRE LASS. - - - Its hey for the buff and the blue, - Hey for the cap and the feather; - Hey for the bonny lassie true, - That lives in Hexhamshire. - Thro’ by the Saiby Syke, - And o’er the moss and the mire, - I’ll go to see my lass, - Who lives in Hexhamshire. - - Her father lov’d her well, - Her mother lov’d her better; - I love the lass mysel’, - But, alas! I cannot get her. - Thro’ by, &c. - - Oh, this love, this love! - Of this love I am weary! - Sleep I can get none, - For thinking on my deary! - Thro’ by, &c. - - My heart is like to break, - My bosom is on fire; - So well I love the lass - That lives in Hexhamshire. - Thro’ by, &c. - - Her petticoat is silk, - And plaited round with siller; - Her shoes are tied with tape, - She’ll wait ’til I go till her. - Thro’ by, &c. - - Were I where I would be, - I would be beside her; - But here a while I must be, - Whatever may betide her. - Thro’ by, &c. - - Hey for the thick and the thin, - Hey for the mud and the mire; - And hey for the bonny lass - That lives in Hexhamshire. - Thro’ by, &c. - - - - -_The Northumbrian’s Sigh for his native Country._ - - - At home wad I be, - And my supper wad I see, - And marry with a lass - Of my own country. - - If I were at hame, - I wad ne’er return agean, - But marry with a lass - In my own country. - - There’s the oak and the ash, - And the bonny ivy tree; - How canst thou gan away, love, - And leave me? - - O stay, my love, stay, - And do not gang away; - O stay, my love, stay, - Along with me. - - - - -A YOU A, HINNY BURD. - - -For an explanation of this title, see Brand’s Popular Antiquities. - - Its O but I ken well, - A you, hinny burd, - The bonny lass of Benwell; - A you a. - - She’s lang legg’d and mother like, - A you, hinny burd; - See she’s raking up the dyke, - A you a. - - The Quayside for sailors, - A you, hinny burd; - The Castle Garth for Tailors, - A you a. - - The Gateshead Hills for Millers, - A you, hinny burd; - The North Shore for keelers, - A you a. - - There’s Sandgate for aud rags, - A you, hinny burd; - And Gallowgate for trolly bags, - A you a. - - There’s Denton and Kenton, - A you, hinny burd; - And canny Lang Benton, - A you a. - - There’s Tynemouth and Cullercoats, - A you, hinny burd; - And Shields for the sculler boats, - A you a. - - There’s Horton and Holywell, - A you, hinny burd; - And bonny Seaton Delaval, - A you a. - - Hartley Pans for sailors, - A you, hinny burd; - And Bedlington for nailors, - A you a. - - - - -UP THE RAW. - - - Up the raw, ma bonny hinny, - Up the raw, lass, every day; - For shape and colour, ma bonny hinny, - Thou bangs thy mother, ma canny bairn. - - Up the raw, ma bonny hinny, - Thou BANGS THEM A’, lass every day; - Thou’s a’ _clagcanded_, ma bonny hinny, - Thou’s double _japanded_, ma canny bairn. - - For hide and hue, ma bonny hinny, - Thou bangs the crew, my canny bairn; - Up the raw, ma bonny hinny, - Thou bangs them a’, lass, ma canny bairn. - - - - -BROOM BUSOMS. - - -Besoms, so pronounced. - - If ye want a busom, - For to sweep your house; - Come to me, my lasses, - Ye ma ha’ your choose. - Buy broom busoms, - Buy them when they’re new; - Buy broom busoms, - Better never grew. - - If I had a horse, - I would have a cart; - If I had a wife, - She would take my part. - Buy broom busoms, &c. - - Had I but a wife, - I care not who she be; - If she be a woman, - That’s enough for me. - Buy broom busoms, &c. - - If she lik’d a drop, - Her and I’d agree; - If she did not like it, - There’s the more for me. - Buy broom busoms, &c. - -_To the foregoing Verses, BLIND WILLY (the native Minstrel of -Newcastle) has added the following simple Rhymes:--_ - - Up the Butcher Bank, - And down Byker Chare; - There you’ll see the lasses, - Selling brown ware. - Buy broom busoms, &c. - - Along the Quayside, - Stop at Russell’s Entry; - There you’ll see the beer drawer, - She is standing sentry. - Buy broom busoms, &c. - - If you want an oyster, - For to taste your mouth, - Call at Handy Walker’s, - He’s a bonny youth. - Buy broom busoms, &c. - - Call at Mr Loggie’s, - He does sell good wine; - There you’ll see the beer drawer, - She is very fine. - Buy broom busoms, &c. - - If you want an orange, - Ripe and full of juice; - Gan to Hannah Black, - There you’ll get your choose. - Buy broom busoms, &c. - - Call at Mr Turner’s, - At the Queen’s Head; - He’ll not set you away, - Without a piece bread. - Buy broom busoms, &c. - - Down the river side, - As far as Dent’s Hole; - There you’ll see the cuckolds, - Working at the coal. - Buy broom busoms, &c. - - - - -THE WAGGONER. - - - Saw ye owt o’ ma’ lad, - Gang down the waggon way? - His pocket full of money, - And his poke full of hay. - - Aye but he’s a bonny lad, - As ever ye did see; - Tho’ he’s sair pock brocken, - And he’s blind of an e’e. - - There’s ne’er a lad like ma’ lad, - Drives to a staith on Tyne; - Tho’ coal-black on work days, - On holidays he’s fine. - - Ma’ lad’s a bonny lad, - The bonniest I see; - Wiv his fine posey waistcoat, - And buckles at his knee. - - - - -BRANDLING AND RIDLEY. - - - Brandling for ever, and Ridley for aye, - Brandling and Ridley carries the day! - Brandling for ever, and Ridley for aye, - There’s plenty of coals on our waggon way. - - There’s wood for to cut, and coals for to hew, - And the bright star of Heaton will carry us through: - Ridley for ever, and Brandling for aye, - There’s plenty of coals on our waggon way. - - - - -MY LADDIE. - - - My laddie sits owre late up, - My laddie sits owre late up, - My laddie sits owre late up, - With the pint pot and the cup. - - How Johnny cum hame to yur bairn, - How Johnny cum hame to yur bairn, - How Johnny cum hame to yur bairn, - Wiv a rye loaf under yur airm. - - He addles three ha’pence a week, - That’s nobbit a fardin a day; - He sits with a pipe in his cheek, - And he fuddles his money away. - - My laddie is never the near, - My laddie is never the near: - And when I cry out, “Lad, cum hame!” - He calls out again for mair beer. - My laddie sits, &c. - - - - -THE SANDGATE LASSIE’s LAMENT. - - -_BY HENRY ROBSON._ - - They’ve prest my dear Johnny, - Sae sprightly and bonny,-- - Alack! I shall ne’er mair d’ weel, O: - The kidnapping squad, - Laid hold of my lad, - As he was unmooring the keel, O. - O my sweet laddie, - My canny keel laddie, - Sae handsome, sae canty, and free, O; - Had he staid on the Tyne, - Ere now he’d been mine, - But oh! he’s far over the sea, O. - - Should he fall by commotion, - Or sink in the ocean, - (May sick tidings ne’er come to the _Key_, O) - I could ne’er mair be glad, - For the loss of my lad - Wad break my poor heart, and I’d _dee_, O! - O my sweet laddie, &c. - - But should my dear tar - Come safe from the war, - What heart-bounding joy wad I feel, O; - To the church we wad flee, - And married be, - And again he shall row in his keel, O. - O my sweet laddie, &c. - - O my sweet laddie, - My canny keel laddie, - Sae handsome, sae canty, and free, O: - Tho’ far from the Tyne, - I still hope he’ll be mine, - And live happy as any can be, O. - O my sweet laddie, &c. - - - - -THE INVITATION. - - - Neighbours I’m come for to tell ye, our skipper and Moll’s to be wed, - And if it be true what they’re saying, egad we’ll be all rarely fed; - They’ve brought home a shoulder of mutton, besides two thumping fat - geese, - And when at the fire they’re roasting, we’re all to have sops in the - grease. - Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle. - - And there’ll be pies and spice dumplings, and there’ll be bacon and peas; - Besides a great lump of beef boiled, and they may get crowdies who - please: - To eat such good things as these are, I’m sure ye’ve but seldom the luck; - Beside, for to make us some pottage, there’ll be a sheep’s head and a - pluck. - Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle. - - Of sausages there’ll be plenty, black puddings, sheep fat, and neats’ - tripes; - Besides, for to warm all your noses, great store of tobacco and pipes: - A room, they say, there’s provided for us at “The Old Jacob’s Well;” - The bridegroom he went there this morning, and spoke for a barrel o’ - yell. - Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle. - - There’s sure to be those things I’ve mention’d, and many things else, and - I learn, - White bread and butter and sugar, there’s to please every bonny young - bairn: - Of each dish and glass you’ll be welcome to eat and to drink ’till you - stare; - I’ve told you what meat’s to be at it, I’ll tell you next who’s to be - there. - Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle. - - Why there’ll be Peter the hangman, who flogs folks at the cart tail, - And Bob, with his new sark and ruffle, made out of an old _keel sail_! - And Tib on the Quay, who sells oysters, whose mother oft strove to - persuade, - To keep her from the lads, but she would’nt, untill she got by them - betray’d. - Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle. - - And there’ll be Sandy the cobler, whose belly’s as round as a cag, - And Doll, with her short petticoats, to display her white stockings - and leg; - And Sall, who when snug in a corner, a sixpence they say won’t refuse, - She curs’d when her father was drown’d, because he had on his new shoes. - Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle. - - And there’ll be Sam the quack doctor, of skill and profession he’ll - crack; - And Jack who would fain be a soldier, but for a great hump on his back; - And Tom in the streets for his living, who grinds razors, scissars, and - knives; - And two or three merry old women, that calls, “Mugs and dublers, wives.” - Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle. - - But neighbours, I’d almost forgot, for to tell ye exactly at one, - The dinner will be on the table, and music will play ’till its done: - When you’ll be all heartily welcome, of this merry feast for to share, - But if you won’t come at this bidding, why then you may stay where - you are. - Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle. - - - - -A SONG, _written and sung by_ H.F.H. _at the opening of Jarrow -Colliery, September 26th, 1803_. - - - Old _Jarrow_, long-fam’d for monastical lore, - Where Bede, rusty manuscripts search’d o’er and o’er; - Now see us assembl’d, upon her green swa’d, - With faces all smiling, and spirits full glad. - Fal lal de ral la. - - No long chaunt of Friars now steals thro’ her glooms, - No lazy cowl’d monk now her viands consumes; - But chearful the strain which our voices upraise, - And active the man, who partakes of our praise. - Fal lal de ral la. - - Yet still in researches her sons shew their might, - Still labour in darkness to bring good to light: - Thro’ legends and fables the friars explor’d, - Thro’ strata of rubbish the miners have bor’d. - Fal lal de ral la. - - The labours of both with success have been crown’d, - And the miner to Bede is in gratitude bound; - For while ignorance reign’d from the line to the pole, - In convents the nooks preserv’d sciences--_Coal_. - Fal lal de ral la. - - By science and spirit what great deeds are done, - By the union of these, this rich Coal Pit is won: - And safe from their labours, the lads of the mine, - Now foot it away with the girls of the Tyne. - Fal lal de ral la. - - On ship-board soon plac’d, and impel’d by the gale, - For Augusta’s proud towers the produce will sail; - Employment it gives to th’ indust’rous and brave, - And its trade’s the best nurse for the sons of the wave. - Fal lal de ral la. - - Hail, commerce! thou parent of Albion’s weal, - Let Frenchmen still brandish their threatening steel, - To drag thee from England, her sons will not yield, - They’ll carry thee on, yet prepare for the field. - Fal lal de ral la. - - These brave lads around us, their tools will lay down, - And fight for their country, their king, and his crown! - But the Frenchmen destroy’d, or drove back to the main, - They’ll take up the Pick-axe and shovel again. - Fal lal de ral la. - - In union thus ever be commerce and arms, - When a tyrant’s ambition creates it alarms; - And secure in their courage, let Britons still sing, - Britannia triumphant, and God save the king! - Fal lal de ral la. - - Your glasses now fill to the lord of the mine, - And drink him long life in a goblet of wine: - On this joyous day let no bosom be sad, - But bumper it round to “the bonny pit lad.” - Fal lal de ral la. - - - - -A SOUTH SHIELDS SONG _ON THE SAILORS._ - - - The sailors are all at the bar, - They cannot get up to Newcastle; - The sailors are all at the bar, - They cannot get up to Newcastle. - Up with smoky Shields, - And hey for bonny Newcastle; - Up with smoky Shields, - And hey for bonny Newcastle. - - - - -A NORTH SHIELDS SONG. - - - We’ll all away to the Lowlights, - And there we’ll see the sailors come in; - We’ll all away to the Lowlights, - And there we’ll see the sailors come in. - - There clap your hands and give a shout, - And you’ll see the sailors go out; - Clap your hands and dance and sing, - And you’ll see your laddie come in. - - - - -MONKSEATON RACES. - - -_July 1st, 1812._ - -BY A SPECTATOR. - - Six centuries since, some say, a son of South Seaton[79], - Was mulct for a monk he to mummy had beaten; - The prior there pilfer’d the prow of a pig, - And Delaval drub’d well the pillaging prig! - In commemoration of that great event, - Each anniversary in eclat is spent: - Though landlords liege-legates are bound to obey, - That country carousal’s kept up to this day. - - A sum by subscription was quickly collected, - As none to contribute their quota objected; - Half-guineas the highest, the lowest a shilling; - And seamen and landmen were equally willing: - Hence hand-bills were pasted up in public places, - To state both the time and the term of these races; - Explaining the prizes, and pastoral plays, - Prolonging these pastimes the space of three days. - - The stewards instructed the cash to collect, - Kept debtor and creditor scrolls quite correct; - To purchase such prizes as were preconcerted, - The coin was with consummate caution converted; - To furnish out fun for friends, strangers, and neighbours, - These gents to gymnastics gave gratis their labours; - Lest fair play, by precepts, might not be promoted, - From the racing calendar cases they quoted. - - Quaff-cups for quadrupeds accustom’d to courses, - And handsome cart-harness for husbandry horses; - With saddles and bridles for hunters and hacks, - And plate spurs for ponies that pay no _Pitt-tax_: - Spring whips made for mules, and good armour for asses, - And harlequin habits for lads and for lasses; - Gloves, hats, hose, and handkerchiefs, shirts, shifts, and shoes, - To run, gape, or grin for, as candidates choose. - - With multitudes mingled the turf was attended, - Like barley and beans, there the belles and beaux blended; - From town and the country such numbers assembled, - The race-ground a Newcastle meeting resembled; - Which cohorts all creeds and conditions comprised, - And dresses, distinctions, and deserts disguised; - By vintners made vivid, their views became various, - Amusements were many, and mirth multifarious. - - The racers (at _Watson’s_) were regularly enter’d, - And money at booking was formally ventur’d; - A Newmarket rider, rear’d in racing stables, - Conversant in quirks, and acquainted with cabals; - Whose powers of profession were priz’d upon paction, - And principles privately put up to auction: - Some Monkseaton farmers on fraud plac’d affiance, - But saw in the sequel their rotten reliance. - - By bribing that brigand, this son of deception - Receiv’d ready rhino, yet made his election; - This presto, his pupils to peasants prefer’d; - In bilking his brethren, the eft would have err’d! - To gull’d speculators, a vulcan as vile, - Stak’d too with turf-students in tangible style, - Till duped delinquents were doom’d through the day, - Their debts of dishonour on peril to pay. - - Corruption creeps into both commerce and courts, - Then who can repel it from rural resorts? - As all public places are pester’d with prowlers, - The streets are stagnated with stigmatiz’d strollers; - And some sanguine swindlers, though subtile and snug, - Plunge into the pit they for others had dug; - The same at Monkseaton, the mass must admit, - (With self-satisfaction) “_The biters were bit_”!!! - -[79] South Seaton, so called at the time; but afterwards Monk Seaton, -where ---- Delaval, Esq. so completely castigated a covetous capuchin -as to cause his death; for so doing, however, great part of his -possessions were forfeited.--See the _History of Tynemouth_. - - - - -THE ALARM!!! _Or, Lord Fauconberg’s March._ - - -On the commencement of the impress service, in March, 1793, -considerable riots took place at Shields, which were represented at -Newcastle, in a thousand terrific shapes; and a false alarm having been -given at the Mansion House, the drums of the York Militia beat to arms; -Lord Fauconberg marched that regiment to the house of Rendezvous in the -Broad Chare, and then marched back again. - - God prosper long our _warlike_ king, - And noblemen also, - Who valiantly, with sword in hand, - Doth guard us from each foe. - - No sooner did lord Fauconberg, - With heart undaunted, hear - That news to Gotham had been brought, - Which caus’d our mayor to fear. - - Then up he rose, with eyes on fire, - Most dreadful to the view; - To arms! to arms! aloud he cry’d, - And forth his faulchion drew. - - To arms! to arms! full long and sore, - The rattling drums did beat; - To arms! in haste! each soldier flies, - And scours thro’ ev’ry street. - - The women shriek, and wring their hands, - Their children weep around; - Whilst some, more wise, fast bolt their doors, - And hide them under ground. - - The French are at our _gates_, they cry, - And we shall all be slain; - For _Dumourier_ is at their head, - And that arch traitor _Paine_. - - In haste drawn up, in fair array, - Our Yorkshire guards are seen; - And mounted on a jet black stud, - Lord Fauconberg, I ween,-- - - Who bravely gave the word to march, - And furiously did ride; - And prancing first, great Brunswick like, - ’Twas well the streets were wide. - - From Newgate, down to the Broad Chare, - They march’d with might and main; - Then gallantly they turned them round, - And so “_march’d up again_.” - - Then fill a bumper to the brim, - And drink to Gotham’s mayor; - And when again he hears such news, - May Fauconberg be there. - - - - -THE PATRIOT VOLUNTEERS: OR, _Loyally Display’d._ - - -BY CLARINDA. - -In the year 1795, a corps of volunteers were raised in Newcastle, -consisting of one grenadier, one light infantry, and two batallion -companies, they received their colours in the Forth, from Mrs Mayoress, -August 25th, 1795. - - There is not in the world’s terraqueous round, - A better king or constitution found, - Than lov’d Britannia’s sea girt Realms can claim, - As rich in Blessings, as renown’d in Fame; - Her laws, and Social Liberty, design’d, - To perfect happiness, and dignify mankind. - - These to preserve, through each succeeding Age, - Our Patriot Volunteers with zeal engage. - Behold them brilliant on the shores of Tyne, - Newcastle Heroes Gateshead Heroes join! - All free-born Sons, they Freedom’s Rights defend, - And each to each secures a steady Friend! - Whilst snarling Disaffection slinks away, - These HEARTS OF GOLD true loyalty display; - These HEARTS OF GOLD this Standard Truth proclaim, - _Our King and Constitution are the same!_ - - Advance, Brave Men! assert your Country’s Cause, - Exertions only can support her Laws. - For Vigilence, precarious Moments call, - The danger’s obvious, and concerns us All. - A cool supineness, timid hearts may try, - But manly courage must the means supply. - Sue we for Peace? that Peace is surest found, - Where honest fortitude maintains its ground. - - We have at home, alas! some secret foes, - Which, well as Frenchmen, valour must oppose. - Though savage TERRORISTS their Schemes pursue, - And still mislead a blind ungrateful Crew; - Keep ye but firm, the martial Charge to bear, - _Your brave Associates and yourselves revere?_ - Ferocious Monsters must e’er long decline, - And MODERATION draw her equal Line: - So shall ye meet a Nation’s highest praise, - And Love and Beauty crown your future Days; - For Love and Beauty ever wait on Fame, - Each Hero’s glory, and triumphal Claim. - -_Newcastle, Forth House, 1st July, 1795._ - - - - -CULL, _alias_ SILLY BILLY, _Of Newcastle upon Tyne._ - - -This well known character, William Scott, commonly called Cull Billy, a -name known in most parts of the north, is a native of Newcastle, where -he resided along with his mother, a poor old woman, who made her living -by retailing wooden ware; she like her son was an object of distress, -being not above four feet high. - -Billy, poor man, oft excited compassion from his fellow creatures, -while reciting (which he did with a great degree of exactness, and -in such a distinct and clear manner as to surprise many) the Lord’s -Prayer, several other prayers, passages from scripture, &c. to a -numerous audience of boys; but they generally repaid his endeavours for -their welfare with a shower of dirt or stones. - -Oft have they followed him around the streets, beating and hooting him, -as boys hunt a cat or dog; and yet no notice was taken of this, until -one, more compassionate than the rest, stept forward and interceded -for him, in the following lines, which were published in the Newcastle -Chronicle of the 28th of August, 1802, with the signature of J.S. - - Whence those _cries_, my soul that harrow? - Whence those _yells_, that wound my ear? - ’Tis the hapless child of sorrow! - ’Tis poor Billy’s plaint I hear. - Now, in _tatter’d plight_ I see him, - Teazing crowds around him press; - Ah! will none from insult free him? - None his injuries redress? - - Fill’d with many a fearful notion, - Now he utters piercing cries; - Starting now, with sudden motion, - Swiftly thro’ the streets he hies. - Poor, forlorn, and hapless creature, - Victim of insanity! - Sure it speaks a ruthless nature, - To oppress a wretch like thee. - - When, by generous friends protected, - All thy actions told thee mild, - Tho’ by _reason_ undirected, - And the prey of fancies wild. - Of those friends did Heav’n deprive thee, - None, alas! supply’d their place? - And to madness now to drive thee, - Ceaseless strives a cruel race. - - Youth forlorn! tho’ crowds deride thee, - Gentle minds for thee must grieve; - Back to _reason_, wish to guide thee, - And thy ev’ry want relieve, - O from this sad state to snatch thee, - Why delay the _good_ and _kind_? - _Pity_ calls them on to watch thee, - And to tranquilize thy mind. - -Soon after the publication of this, the overseers of the parish of -Saint John’s, (in which parish Billy resided) had him conveyed to their -Poor House, without the walls of Newcastle, where he was kept confined -until the turbulence of his spirit was reduced. - -Several persons have felt the power of Billy’s wit, which on some -occasions has been very severe. Once, when a person of the name of ---- -(not one of the wisest beings of the world) came swaggering out of a -tavern, while Bill was haranguing the mob at the door. “Stand out of -the way!” cries this would-be great man, shaking his cane in the air, -“Stand out of the way! I never give way to fools!” “_But I do_,” cries -Billy, bowing, and instantly stept on the pavement: Mr ---- felt the -severity of this remark, and instantly made off, leaving the spectators -of the transaction almost convulsed with laughter. - - - - -CANNY NEWCASSEL. - - -_By_ T.T. _of Newcastle._ - - ’Bout Lunnun aw’d heard sec wonderful spokes, - That the streets were a’ cover’d wi’ guineas: - The houses se fine, sec grandees the folks, - Te them hus i’ th’ north were but ninnies. - But aw fand ma sel blonk’d when to Lunnun I gat, - The folks they a’ luck’d wishy washy; - For gould ye may howk ’till ye’re blind as a bat, - For their streets are like wors--brave and blashy! - ’Bout Lunnun then, div’nt ye mak sic a rout, - There’s nouse there ma winkers to dazzle, - For a’ the fine things ye are gobbin about, - We can marra iv canny Newcassel. - - A Cockney chep show’d me the Thames’ druvy feace, - Whilk he said was the pride o’ the nation; - And thought at their shippin aw’d maek a haze gaze; - But aw whop’d ma foot on his noration. - Wi’ hus, mun, three hundred ships sail iv a tide, - We think nouse on’t, aw’ll maek accydavy: - Ye’re a gouck if ye din’t knaw that the lads o’ Tyne side, - Are the Jacks that maek famish wor navy. - ’Bout Lunnun, &c. - - We went big St Paul’s and Westminster to see, - And aw warnt ye aw thought they luck’d pretty: - And then we’d a keek at the Monument te, - Whilk ma friend ca’d the pearl o’ the city. - Wey hinny, says aw, we’ve a Shot Tower se hee, - That biv it ye might scraffle to heaven; - And if on Saint Nicholas ye once cus’ an e’e, - Ye’d crack on’t as lang as ye’re livin. - ’Bout Lunnun, &c. - - We trudg’d to St James’s, for there the king lives, - Aw warn’d ye a good stare we teuck on’t; - By my faicks its been built up by Adam’s aun neaves, - For it’s aud as the hills, by the leuk on’t: - Shem bin ye, says I, ye shou’d keep the king douse, - I speak it without ony malice: - Aw own that wor mayor rather wants a new house, - But then wor Infirmary’s a palace. - ’Bout Lunnun, &c. - - Ah hinnies! out cum the king while we were there, - His leuks seem’d to say, Bairns be happy; - So down o’ my hunkers aw set up a blare, - For God to preserve him frae Nappy; - For Geordy aw’d die, for my loyalty’s trig, - And aw own he’s a geud leuken mannie; - But if wor Sir Matthew ye buss iv his wig, - By gocks, he wad just leuk as canny. - ’Bout Lunnun, &c. - - Ah hinnies! about us the lasses did loup, - Thick as curns in a spice singin hinnie; - Some aud, and some hardly flig’d owr the doup, - But aw kend what they were by their whinnie: - A’, mannie, says aw, ye hev mony a tite girl, - But aw’m tell’d they’re oft het i’ their trappin: - Aw’d cuddle much rather a lass i’ the Sworl, - Than the dolls i’ the Strand, or i’ Wappin. - ’Bout Lunnun, &c. - - Wiv a’ the stravaging aw wanted a munch, - An’ ma thropple was ready te gizen; - So we went tiv a yell house, and there teuk a lunch, - But the reck’ning, my saul! was a bizon: - Wiv hus i’ th’ North, when aw’m wairsh i’ my way, - (But te knaw wor warm hearts, ye yur sell come) - Aw lift the first latch, and baith man and dame say, - “Cruck your hough, canny man, for ye’re welcome.” - ’Bout Lunnun, &c. - - A shillin aw thought at the Play-house aw’d ware, - But aw jump’d there wiv heuk-finger’d people; - My pockets gat rip’d, and aw heard ne mair, - Nor aw could frae Saint Nicholas’s steeple. - Dang Lunnan! wor Play-house aw like just as weel, - And wor play-folks aw’s shure are as funny: - A shillin’s worth sarves me to laugh till aw squeel, - Ne hallion there thrimmels ma money. - ’Bout Lunnun, &c. - - The loss o’ the cotterels aw dinna regaird, - For aw’ve getten some white-heft o’ Lunnun; - Aw’ve learn’d to prefer my awn canny calf yaird; - If ye catch me mair fra’t, ye’ll be cunnun. - Aw knaw that the Cockneys crake rum-gum-shus chimes, - To maek gam of wor bur, and wor ’parel; - But honest Blind Willy shall string this iv rhymes, - And aw’ll sing’d for a Christmas Carol. - ’Bout Lunnun, &c. - - - - -CROAKUM REDIVIVUS. - - -_The Crow’s account of Newcastle, on her return to that Town in -January, 1812._ - -ADDRESSED TO A BROTHER CROW. - - “Croney, its now near thirty year, - Since here I saw thy face; - And since that time, my honest bird, - What change _here’s_ taken place. - Gotham, in troth, is alter’d quite; - Here’s nought as ’twas before: - People nor town should I have known, - Had I not heard the BURR.” - - Our steeple’s gone,[80] that lov’d abode, - Where once we loudly croak’d - Advice to Gotham’s aldermen; - And with the freemen jok’d. - Now Gotham, London fashions apes, - They’ve every thing to tempt ye; - Like the city--shops with showy fronts, - And insides poor and empty. - - And then so alter’d is the town, - As well as Gotham’s people; - That not a building here’s the same, - Except Saint Nich’las steeple. - Fam’d steeple! Gotham’s greatest boast, - Long may you here remain, - Whilst other churches are pull’d down, - And built ’gain and again. - - The streets are now so num’rous grown,[81] - E’en Gothamites don’t know them; - So signs they’ve painted ’gainst the walls, - In every nook to shew them.[82] - And such the rage, for naming streets, - That gaps made in th’ Old Wall; - They Heron Street and Forster Street, - Unwittingly do call. - - Th’ old streets were next, not wide enough, - So th’ pants they took away,[83] - To place them in some corner dark, - Where th’ girls could wanton play. - Yet for themselves, they have such fears, - Their road, they ne’er can see; - So they want lamps, from th’ Barras Bridge, - E’en to Saint Peter’s Quay.[84] - - The Crosses too, they’ve taken down,[85] - Tho’ built the other day; - They too, I fancy, did impede, - The great folks in their way. - And next their nostrils delicate, - Can’t bear the smell of meat; - And straight the Butcher’s shops and stalls,[86] - Fly quickly from the street. - - Their foolish pride there’s nought can stop, - Improvement’s _all the go_; - Unseemly’s every thing that’s old, - So all that’s old’s laid low. - Each relique of their sires is gone, - Or got a modern face on: - The poor old Castle,[87]--Gotham’s pride, - A modern cap they place on. - - The Bridge is widen’d,[88] the Quay enlarg’d,[89] - The old Moothall laid low;[90] - And other Court’s,[91] like all their works, - They’ve built here all for show. - Show, show’s the word in Gotham now, - And ev’ry thing that’s new; - From th’ Infirmary,[92] to th’ Children’s School,[93] - A palace is to view. - - The Westgate boasts its palace now,[94] - On the Moor another’s seen;[95] - - And (to please the nabobs of the east) - A Bridge has Pandon Dean:[96] - To see their Church, see they’ve pull’d down, - Many a good and bad house;[97] - There’s one thing more, howe’er, they want, - And that’s a spacious _Mad House_! - - For, when these alterations end, - To tell I’ve not the pow’r; - E’en now their quarreling about, - Th’ improvement of the moor[98] - Yet like the Roman, who for want - Of worlds--from war refrain’d; - Gotham’s changes and improvements, - Will with th’ world’s limits end. - -[80] Exchange steeple taken down, and the Exchange new fronted, 1794. - -[81] Dean Street and Mosley Street formed 1789, Blackett Street, Albion -Street and Albion Place, Collingwood Street, 1809-10, _Forth Street, -Orchard Street, Castle Street, &c. &c. 1811-12_. - -[82] Names of the streets first painted against the walls of each end -of the Streets, 1786. - -[83] The pants in Pilgrim Street removed, 1(Transcriber’s Note: the -rest of the digits of the year are missing from the original printing.). - -[84] A new act proposed for lighting the suburbs, 1811-12. - -[85] Scale de Cross and White Cross taken down, 1807. - -[86] Butcher Market removed, 1807. - -[87] New battlements placed on the Castle, 1812. - -[88] Bridge widened. - -[89] The Quay enlarged opposite to the Exchange, 1811. - -[90] The Moot Hall pulled down, 1809. - -[91] New County Courts erected, 1811-12. - -[92] Infirmary enlarged, 1806. - -[93] Jubilee School built, 1810-11. - -[94] Carpenter’s Meeting House built at the Westgate, 1811-12. - -[95] Grand Stand built, 1800. - -[96] Bridge built over Pandon Dean, 1811-12. - -[97] Buildings in front of St Nicholas church pulled down, 1810-11. - -[98] The improvement of the Moor proposed, 1811-12. - - - - -Some Years ago, while the band of musicians belonging to the Newcastle -Armed Association were practising in one of the apartments of the -Town’s Court, some person stole the Sheriff’s gown, which gave rise to -the following verses:-- - - - ’Tis said that in the good old times - One _Orpheus_ liv’d, a man of rhymes, - And famous on the lyre: - Whene’er the poet sung, the trees - Rush’d from the mountains to the seas, - Or jumpt into the fire. - - But mark what wonders fill our land, - When late th’ _Association-band_ - In this illustrious town, - (For more than ancient fame renown’d) - Display’d their magic pow’rs of sound, - Off mov’d--_the Sheriff’s gown_!!! - - - - -THE ANTIGALLICAN PRIVATEER. - - - The Antigallican’s safe arriv’d, - On board of her with speed we’ll hie; - She’ll soon be fit to sail away; - To the Antigallican haste away. - Haste away, haste away, - To the Antigallican haste away. - - For gold we’ll sail the ocean o’er, - From Britain’s isle to the French shore; - No ships from us shall run away;-- - To the Antigallican haste away. - Haste away, &c. - - The Spaniards too, those cunning knaves, - We’ll take their ships and make them slaves; - Till war’s declar’d we’ll never stay; - To the Antigallican haste away. - Haste away, &c. - - If we should meet with a galloon, - Our own we’ll make her very soon; - Then drums shall beat and music play-- - To the Antigallican haste away. - Haste away, &c. - - Our country calls us all to arms, - To keep us safe from French alarms; - Then let us all her voice obey, - To the Antigallican haste away. - Haste away, &c. - - When we are rich, then home we’ll steer, - And enter Shields with many a cheer; - To meet our friends so blythe and gay; - To the Antigallican haste away. - Haste away, &c. - - To Charlotte’s Head then let’s repair, - We’ll be receiv’d with welcome there; - We’ll enter then without delay; - To the Antigallican haste away. - Haste away, &c. - - - - -A NEW SONG, _On the Opening of Jarrow Colliery, 1803._ - - - Of Temple and King, my friends, let us sing, - And of their Colliery at Jarrow; - Of coals that are good as e’er swam the flood, - For home consumption or far, O. - - They tell us, my friend, there’s coal at Walls-End, - Can scarcely meet with a marrow; - But let them come here, we’ll make it appear, - Coals were not then wrought at Jarrow. - - There is Heaton Main, and Walker by name, - Known to most near and far, O; - I this will maintain in language that’s plain, - There’s none that surpasseth Jarrow; - - Above the Tyne Bridge, its often been said, - Few with these can compare, O; - A good dog was Brag--but hold fast, my lad-- - Nothing they knew then of Jarrow! - - To Temple and King, great wealth may they bring, - From home consumption, or far, O; - May success attend, wherever they send - Their coals, the produce of Jarrow. - - May overmen all, with great and the small, - Ne’er have occasion to sorrow! - May heart, hand, and head, procure them bread, - For wives and children at Jarrow! - - Call another bowl to enliven our soul, - Temple we’ll drink and his marrow; - Three cheers we will give, cry, Long may they live! - The prosp’rous owners of Jarrow. - Call another bowl, &c. - -_East Rainton._ - -L---- - - - - -THE PEACOCK AND THE HEN. - - - All the night over and over, - And all the night over again-- - All the night over and over, - The peacock follows the hen. - - A hen’s a hungry dish, - A goose is hollow within; - There’s no deceit in a pudding; - A pye’s a dainty thing. - - - - -THE TYNE, _A FRAGMENT_. - -BY J.L. - - - O lovely Tyne, thy beauty’s seen, - Meand’ring sweet thy lucid stream-- - Thy banks are woody, fertile, green, - Enliven’d by the solar beam. - - Thy sons are healthy, blooming, strong, - Thy daughters lovely as the spring; - They joyful trip the meads along, - Such joys doth sweet industry bring. - - Adieu, sweet Tyne--a long adieu, - I now must leave thee far behind; - Yet tho’ secluded from my view, - Thoul’t dwell for ever in my mind. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - _Page_ - As I cam thro’ Sandgate, thro’ Sandgate, thro’ Sandgate 5 - - Whe’s like my Johnny _ib._ - - My bonny keel laddie, my canny keel laddie 7 - - ’Twas between Hebbron and Jarrow 8 - - Where hast’te been, ma’ canny hinny 9 - - Fresh I’m cum fra Sandgate Street 10 - - Roll on thy way, thrice happy Tyne 11 - - Near Blackett’s Field, sad hov’ring 12 - - Like wolves of the forest, ferocious and keen 14 - - When unprovok’d, when foreign foes 15 - - John Diggons be I, from a Country Town 16 - - In a battle, you know, we Britons are strong 18 - - Turks, Infidels, Pagans, Jews, Christians and Tartars 19 - - When Fame brought the news of Great Britain’s success 21 - - The jailor, for trial, had brought up a thief 23 - - Ho’way and aw’ll sing thee a tune, mun 25 - - Odd smash! ’tis hard aw can’t rub dust off 27 - - Come marrows, we’ve happen’d to meet now 29 - - Fareweel, fareweel, ma comely pet 31 - - Whilst the dread voice of war thro’ the welkin rebellows 33 - - Whilst the dread voice of war thro’ our island rebellows 34 - - As me and my marrow was ganning to wark 35 - - If I had another penny 36 - - The bonny pit laddie, the cannie pit laddie _ib._ - - Hae ye heard o’ these wond’rous dons 37 - - The Baff week is o’er--no repining-- 38 - - On each market day, Sir, the folks on the Quay, Sir 43 - - Lads! myek a ring 45 - - I was a young maiden truly 48 - - My muse took flight the other day 49 - - When war’s destructive rage did cease 53 - - Rough roll’d the roaring river’s stream 56 - - Attend to my summons, ye _British_ Electors 57 - - To sing some nymph in her cot 58 - - When cooling zephyrs wanton play 59 - - Whilst bards, in strains that sweetly flow 60 - - Oh! where, and oh where does your bonny lassie dwell 61 - - Should the French in Newcastle but dare to appear 62 - - Talk no more of brave Nelson, or gallant Sir Sidney 63 - - On Rhenish, Medeira, Port, Cleret and Sherry 66 - - Ye sons of Parnassus, whose brains are inspir’d 67 - - Who’s he that with great Mercury strides 68 - - Allons, sweet childs, of smooth complexion 70 - - Great was the consternation, amazement and dismay, Sir 73 - - The young brood fairly fledg’d, we may fairly suppose 77 - - As Neddy and Betty were walking along 79 - - Now fill a bumper to the brim 81 - - I’m lonesome since I left Blyth camps 84 - - We march’d from the camps with our hearts full of woe 85 - - Come fill a bumper to the brim 86 - - Come cheer up my hearts, my brave sons of the Tyne 87 - - What pleasure oft ’tis to reveal 88 - - Ha’ ye been at Newcastle fair 89 - - Tho lofty bards sublimer sing 91 - - When Royal Ge--e on new year’s day 94 - - Sir James Duncan and Co their kind compliments send 97 - - Liddell, farewell! to all true Britons dear 99 - - In hollow murmurs o’er the bending reeds 100 - - Of a’ the many bonny corps 101 - - Come, haste to Newcastle, ye sons of fair freedom 102 - - The plaint of a mourner, deep sorrow oppres’d with 103 - - Hey, Jacky, ma honey, hae ye seen the new money 105 - - Fra Benton Bank, to Benton town 106 - - Yt fell abowght the Lamasse tyde 107 - - The Perssye came byfore hys oste 111 - - It fell and about the Lammas time 116 - - The Persé owt off Northomberlonde 118 - - The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent 122 - - God prosper long our noble king 128 - - I have heard of a lilting, at our ewe’s milking 136 - - From Spey to the border 137 - - ’Twas he that rul’d his Country’s heart 142 - - On July seventh, the suthe to say 143 - - When we were silly sisters seven, sisters we were so fair 147 - - There’s Roadley’s ‘cloud capt’ lofty hill 150 - - Sir Swinton was a doughty knight 152 - - The king is gone from Bambrough Castle 156 - - On Bamboroughshire’s rocky shore 161 - - The kye are come hame _ib._ - - Come you lusty Northerne lads 162 - - Here lies the corpse of William Bell 166 - - Wold you please to hear of a sang of dule _ib._ - - Old Janus advances all cloathed in white 171 - - The routing the earl of Mar’s forces 175 - - Of all the Kirkharle bonny lasses 180 - - Good people, give ear to the fatalest duel 184 - - Ye muses nine, if ye think fit 185 - - Good Master Moody 188 - - The little priest of Felton 189 - - There lives a lass in Felton town 190 - - In second part I will declare 192 - - He’s gone! he’s gone 195 - - On Saturday 196 - - God prosper long our noble king 197 - - Callaly Castle stands on a height 199 - - In Bedlington, there liv’d a fair 200 - - The lady sat in leafy bow’r 202 - - Nought but some dæmon’s baleful step 206 - - Hoot awa’, lads hoot awa’ 209 - - Ihon Redle that som tim did be 210 - - Howl on ye winds, and beat ye rains 211 - - Oh, have you seen the blushing rose _ib._ - - The day was quite pleasant, the Fourteenth of May 212 - - A bonny swain blithe Sandy nam’d 214 - - In Britain’s blest insland there runs a fine river 215 - - Now the feather’d train in each bush 216 - - Apollo, your aid I request 217 - - Ye sacred nine descend 218 - - Unsullied mirth attend this feast 219 - - To fertile soil and fragrant air 220 - - O bonny Hobby Elliott 221 - - Little wat ye wha’s coming 222 - - Mackintosh was a soldier brave 223 - - The king has written a broad letter 225 - - How mournful feeble Nature’s tone _ib._ - - In former times where Hexham town doth stand 227 - - Britannia scarce had planted the olive on our isle 228 - - Doctor Moff once more employs the burden of my song 229 - - The first of March, from Cockle Park 231 - - Next day to the Thatchmeadows I 233 - - Good fortune still attends the brave 234 - - A fair reformation would render this nation 236 - - The ploughman he comes home at night 237 - - Sweet thro’ the forest, Coquet flows _ib._ - - At Christmas when the wind blew cauld 238 - - It happen’d at good Christmas tide 239 - - About the bush Willy 240 - - I cannot get to my love if I should dee 241 - - As I went to Newcastle _ib._ - - I went to Black Heddon 242 - - John Thompson, just now _ib._ - - Of a Pitman we’ll sing _ib._ - - Since Winter’s keen blast must to Zephyr give place 243 - - All lovers of lucre may LAUD the _Lord Mayor_ 245 - - Northumberland lads are handsome squads 247 - - A farmer near Felton, fam’d for vulgar fractions 248 - - All men of high and low degree 250 - - On travelling down Tweed-side 251 - - Young Solomon, tir’d of a batchelors life 252 - - Ah! pen, ink, and paper, proves pleasing 253 - - There was five wives at Acomb 256 - - Now little Billy is gone to the kirk 257 - - I was young and lusty _ib._ - - Come, gentlemen attend to my ditty 258 - - I’ll tell you a story, if you please to attend 261 - - On the banks of the Tees, at Stockton of old 262 - - Come, brave spirits, that love Canary 264 - - Upon the stately river Tees 265 - - Ye Stockton lads and lasses too 267 - - Ye freeholders of Stockton town 269 - - Young men and maidens all, I pray you now attend 271 - - Militia boys for my theme I now chuse 274 - - ’Twas on a summer’s evening 275 - - Rookhope stands in a pleasant place 276 - - Come all the gallant brave wenches 281 - - Bobby Shaftoe’s gone to sea 283 - - In the fine town of Sunderland which stands on a hill _ib._ - - You Sunderland lasses draw near 284 - - Ye sons of Sunderland, with shouts that rival ocean’s roar 285 - - Elsie Marley is grown so fine _ib._ - - Thro’ Durham County fam’d of old 287 - - Come all ye lads who wish to shine 288 - - And are ye sure the tale is true _ib._ - - When Britannia her sons calls to aid her in arms 290 - - Durham’s old city thus salutes her king 291 - - As aw was gannin to Durham 292 - - While visiting this dark abode _ib._ - - Lov’d stream, that meanders along 293 - - Its hey for the buff and the blue 294 - - At home wad I be 296 - - Its o but I ken well _ib._ - - Up the raw, ma bonny hinny 297 - - If you want a busom 298 - - Up the Butcher bank 299 - - Saw ye owt o’ ma’ lad 300 - - Brandling for ever, and Ridley for aye _ib._ - - My laddie sits owre late up 301 - - They’ve prest my dear Johnny _ib._ - - Neighbours I’m come for to tell ye, our skipper and Moll’s - to be wed 302 - - Old _Jarrow_, long fam’d for monastical lore 304 - - The sailors are all at the bar 306 - - We’ll all away to the Lowlights _ib._ - - Six centeries since, some say, a son of South Seaton 307 - - God prosper long our _warlike_ king 309 - - There is not in the world’s terraqueous round 310 - - Whence those _cries_, my soul that harrow 312 - - ’Bout Lunnun aw’d heard sec wonderful spokes 314 - - Croney its now near thirty year 316 - - ’Tis said that in the good old times 319 - - The Antigallican’s safe arriv’d 320 - - Of Temple and King, my friends, let us sing 321 - - All the night over and over 322 - - O lovely Tyne, thy beauty’s seen _ib._ - -[Illustration: _Finis_] - -FROM THE PRESS OF M. ANGUS AND SON, NEWCASTLE. - - - - -INDEX. - - - A - - _Page_ - - As I cam thro’ Sandgate, thro’ Sandgate, thro’ Sandgate 5 - - As me and my marrow was ganning to wark 35 - - Attend to my summons, ye _British_ Electors 57 - - Allons, sweet childs, of smooth complexion 70 - - At Neddy and Betty were walking along 79 - - A bonny swain, blithe Sandy nam’d 214 - - Apollo, your aid I request 217 - - A fair reformation would render this nation 236 - - At Christmas when the wind blew cauld 238 - - About the bush Willy 240 - - As I went to Newcastle 241 - - All lovers of lucre may LAUD the _Lord Mayor_ 245 - - A farmer near Felton, fam’d for vulgar fractions 248 - - All men of high and low degree 250 - - Ah! pen, ink, and paper, proves pleasing 253 - - And are ye sure the tale is true 288 - - As aw was gannin to Durham 292 - - At home wad I be 296 - - All the night over and over 322 - - - B - - Britannia scarce had planted the olive on our isle 228 - - Bobby Shaftoe’s gone to sea 283 - - Brandling for ever, and Ridley for aye 300 - - ’Bout Lunaun aw’d heard sec wonderful spokes 314 - - - C - - Come marrows, we’ve happen’d to meet now 29 - - Come fill a bumper to the brim 86 - - Come cheer up my hearts, my brave sons of the Tyne 87 - - Come, haste to Newcastle, ye sons of fair freedom 102 - - Come you lusty Northerne lads 162 - - Callaly Castle stands on a height 199 - - Come, gentlemen attend to my ditty 258 - - Come, brave spirits, that love Canary 264 - - Come all the gallant brave wenches 281 - - Come all ye lads who wish to shine 288 - - Croney its now near thirty year 316 - - - D - - Doctor Moff once more employs the burden of my song 229 - - Durham’s old city thus salutes her king 291 - - - E - - Elsie Marley is grown so fine 285 - - - F - - Fresh I’m cum fra Sandgate Street 10 - - Fareweel, fareweel, ma comely pet 31 - - Fra Beaton Bank, to Benton town 106 - - From Spey to the border 137 - - - G - - Great was the consternation, amazement and dismay, Sir 73 - - God prosper long our noble king 128 - - Good people, give ear to the fatalest duel 184 - - Good Master Moody 188 - - God prosper long our noble king 197 - - Good fortune still attends the brave 234 - - God prosper long our _warlike_ king 309 - - - H - - Ho’way and aw’ll sing thee a tune, man 25 - - Hae ye heard o’ these wondr’ous dons 37 - - Ha’ ye been at Newcastle fair 89 - - Hey, Jacky, ma honey, hae ye seen the new money 105 - - Here lies the corpse of William Bell 166 - - He’s gone! he’s gone 195 - - Hoot awa’, lads hoot awa’ 209 - - Howl on ye winds, and beat ye rains 211 - - How mournful feeble Nature’s tone 225 - - - I - - In a battle, you know, we Britons are strong 18 - - If I had another penny 36 - - I was a young maiden truly 48 - - I’m lonesome since I left Blyth camps 84 - - In hollow murmurs o’er the bending reeds 100 - - It fell and about the Lammas time 116 - - I have heard of a lilting, at our ewe’s milking 136 - - In second part I will declare 192 - - In Bedlington, there liv’d a fair 200 - - Ihon Redle that som tim did be 210 - - In Britain’s blest insland there runs a fine river 215 - - In former times where Hexham town doth stand 227 - - It happen’d at good Christmas tide 239 - - I cannot get to my love if I should dee 241 - - I went to Black Heddon 242 - - I was young and lusty 257 - - I’ll tell you a story, if you please to attend 261 - - In the fine town of Sunderland which stands on a hill 283 - - Its hey for the buff and the blue 294 - - Its O but I ken well 296 - - If you want a busom 298 - - - J - - John Diggons be I, from a Country Town 16 - - John Thompson, just now 242 - - - L - - Like wolves of the forest, ferocious and keen 14 - - Lads! myek a ring 45 - - Liddell, farewell! to all true Britons dear 99 - - Little wat ye wha’s coming 222 - - Lov’d stream, that meanders along 293 - - - M - - My bonny keel laddie, my canny keel laddie 7 - - My muse took flight the other day 49 - - Mackintosh was a soldier brave 223 - - Militia boys for my theme I now chuse 274 - - My laddie sits owre late up 301 - - - N - - Near Blackett’s Field, sad hov’ring 12 - - Now fill a bumper to the brim 81 - - Nought but some demon’s baleful step 206 - - Now the feather’d train in each bush 216 - - Next day to the Thatchmeadows I 233 - - Northumberland lads are handsome squads 247 - - Now little Billy is gone to the kirk 257 - - Neighbours I’m come for to tell ye, our skipper and Moll’s - to be wed 302 - - - O - - Odd smash! ’tis hard aw can’t rub dust off 27 - - On each market day, Sir, the folks on the Quay, Sir 43 - - Oh! where, and oh where does your bonny lassie dwell 61 - - On Rhenish, Medeira, Port, Cleret and Sherry 66 - - Of a’ the many bonny corps 101 - - On July seventh, the suthe to say 143 - - On Saturday 196 - - O bonny Hobby Elliott 221 - - On Bamboroughshire’s rocky shore 161 - - Old Janus advances all cloathed in white 171 - - Of all the Kirkharle bonny lasses 180 - - Oh, have you seen the blushing rose 211 - - Of a Pitman we’ll sing 242 - - On travelling down Tweed-side 251 - - On the banks of the Tees, at Stockton of old 262 - - Old _Jarrow_, long fam’d for monastical lore 304 - - Of Temple and King, my friends, let us sing 321 - - O lovely Tyne, thy beauty’s seen 322 - - - R - - Roll on thy way, thrice happy Tyne 11 - - Rough roll’d the roaring river’s stream 56 - - Rookhope stands in a pleasant place 276 - - - S - - Should the French in Newcastle but dare to appear 62 - - Sir James Duncan and Co. their kind compliments send 97 - - Sir Swinton was a doughty knight 152 - - Sweet thro’ the forest, Coquet flows 237 - - Since Winter’s keen blast must to Zephyr give place 243 - - Saw ye owt o’ ma’ lad 300 - - Six centeries since, some say, a son of South Seaton 307 - - - T - - ’Twas between Hebbron and Jarrow 8 - - Turks, Infidels, Pagans, Jews, Christians and Tartars 19 - - The jailor, for trial, had brought up a thief 23 - - The bonny pit laddie, the cannie pit laddie 36 - - The Baff week is o’er--no repining-- 38 - - To sing some nymph in her cot 58 - - Talk no more of brave Nelson, or gallant Sir Sidney 68 - - The young brood fairly fledg’d, we may fairly suppose 77 - - Tho’ lofty bards sublimer sing 91 - - The plaint of a mourner, deep sorrow oppres’d with 103 - - The Perssye came byfore hys oste 111 - - The Persé owt off Northomberlonde 118 - - The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent 122 - - ’Twas he that rul’d his Country’s heart 142 - - There’s Roadley’s ‘cloud capt’ lofty hill 150 - - The king is gone from Bambrough Castle 156 - - The kye are come hame 161 - - The routing the earl of Mar’s forces 175 - - The little priest of Felton 189 - - There lives a lass in Felton town 190 - - The lady sat in leafy bow’r 202 - - The day was quite pleasant, the Fourteenth of May 212 - - To fertile soil and fragrant air 220 - - The king has written a broad letter 225 - - The first of March, from Cockle Park 231 - - The ploughman he comes home at night 237 - - There was five wives at Acomb 256 - - ’Twas on a summer’s evening 275 - - Thro’ Durham County fam’d of old 287 - - They’ve prest my dear Johnny 301 - - The sailors are all at the bar 306 - - There is not in the world’s terraqueous round 310 - - ’Tis said that in the good old times 319 - - The Antigallican’s safe arriv’d 320 - - - U - - Unsullied mirth attend this feast 219 - - Upon the stately river Tees 265 - - Up the raw, ma bonny hinny 297 - - Up the Butcher bank 299 - - - W - - Whe’s like my Johnny 5 - - Where hast’te been, ma’ canny hinny 9 - - When unprovok’d, when foreign foes 15 - - When Fame brought the news of Great Britain’s success 21 - - Whilst the dread voice of war thro’ the welkin rebellows 33 - - Whilst the dread voice of war thro’ our island rebellows 34 - - When war’s destructive rage did cease 53 - - When cooling zephyrs wanton play 59 - - Whilst bards, in strains that sweetly flow 60 - - Who’s he that with great Mercury strides 68 - - We march’d from the camps with our hearts full of woe 85 - - What pleasure oft ’tis to reveal 88 - - When Royal Ge--e on new year’s day 94 - - When we were silly sisters seven, sisters we were so fair 147 - - Wold you please to hear of a sang of dule 166 - - When Britannia her sons calls to aid her in arms 290 - - While visiting this dark abode 292 - - We’ll all away to the Lowlights 306 - - Whence those _cries_, my soul that harrow 312 - - - Y - - Ye sons of Parnassus, whose brains are inspir’d 67 - - Yt fell abowght the Lamasse tyde 107 - - Ye muses nine, if ye think fit 185 - - Ye sacred nine descend 218 - - Young Solomon, tir’d of a batchelors life 252 - - Ye Stockton lads and lasses too 267 - - Ye freeholders of Stockton town 269 - - Young men and maidens all, I pray you now attend 271 - - You Sunderland lasses draw near 284 - - Ye sons of Sunderland, with shouts that rival ocean’s roar 285 - -[Illustration: _Finis_] - -FROM THE PRESS OF M. 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