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.

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._

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

FROM THE PRESS OF M. ANGUS AND SON, NEWCASTLE.