Chapter XI: Ballads and Poems

The ballads of Northumberland, as all true ballads should do,
partake of the characteristics of the district which is their home.
As we should expect, they treat chiefly of warlike themes, of the
chieftain’s doughty deeds, the moss-trooper’s daring and skill, of
the knight’s courtesies and gallant feats of arms, and the feuds of
rival clans; in fact, they portray for us vividly the time of which
they treat, and in a few graphic touches bring before us the very
spirit of the period. In direct and simple phrases the narrative
proceeds, giving with rare power just the necessary expression to
the tale.

These ballads fall naturally into three main divisions. The
historical ballad is at its best in the famous “Chevy-Chase,” which
has been the delight of gentle and simple for centuries; and the
oft-quoted declaration of Sir Philip Sidney concerning it still
finds an echo in our own day.

Of the two best known versions of the ballad, the one here given is
the more poetical by far; the other, however, contains the account
of the courage of Hugh Widdrington which has made the gallant
squire immortal.

The latter version is as evidently English as the former is
Scottish; or rather, each has grown to its present form as the
reciters exercised their art to please an English or a Scottish
audience. In the one version it is Douglas who takes the offensive,
and challenges Percy, waiting for him at Otterbourne; in the other
we are told that
“The stout Erle of Northumberland A vow to God did make, His pleasure
in the Scottish woods Three summer days to take.”

On the death of Douglas—
“Erle Percy took The dead man by the hand, And said, ‘Erle Douglas,
for thy life Would I had lost my land!’”

When the battle is over,
“Next day did many widdowes come Their husbands to bewayle; Their
bodyes bathed in purple blood They bore with them away; They kist
them dead a thousand times Ere they were cladd in clay.”

It was neither of these versions, however, that so moved the heart
of gallant Sidney, but a much older one, beginning
“The Perse owt off Northomberlande And a vow to God made he, That he
wold hunt in the mountayns Off Chyviat within days iii.”

Other historical ballads are “The Rising of the North,” “The Raid
of the Reidswire,” “Flodden Field,” “Homildon Hils” and “Hedgeley
Moor.”

The next division may be termed semi-historical; that is, they
treat of events which actually happened, but which have chiefly a
local interest; and these may therefore be said to be more truly
Northumbrian than any others. Such are “Jock o’ the Side,” “Johnnie
Armstrong,” “Hobbie Noble” and “The Death of Parcy Reed.”

Of the third class, the romantic ballads, we have not so rich a
store; yet “The Gay Goss-hawk,” the “Nut-browne Mayde” and the
touchingly beautiful “Barthram’s Dirge” may stand amongst the best
of their kind.

“The Gay Gross-hawk” is one of those delightful and imaginative
productions of which there are so many examples, in which birds and
hounds share their lords’ and ladies’ secrets, and serve them
staunchly in hours of peril; they belong to the times when fairies
were still seen holding their moonlight revels, when witches
exercised their baleful arts, and fearsome dragons wore still to be
met and conquered—“and if you do not believe it,” said Dr. Spence
Watson, “I am sorry for you!”

The “Nut-browne Mayde” is supposed to have been a Lady Margaret
Percy, who lived in the reign of Henry VIII.; and the lover to whom
she was so faithful, notwithstanding his trial of her love by
declaring that he was an outlaw, and “must to the greenwood go,
alone, a banished man,” was Henry Clifford, son of the Earl of
Westmoreland. The inordinate length of this ballad forbade its
inclusion in the present selection; I am sensible that that
selection may appear somewhat meagre, but only want of space has
prevented the inclusion of others that many of my readers would
doubtless have been glad to see.

Of songs in dialect, Joe Wilson’s “Aw wish yor Muthor wad cum!”
stands easily first; and the other, “Sair feyl’d, hinny!” is given
as an example of the Northumbrian muse in another mood.

In conclusion, let me say that of the modern verse every example is
from the pen of a Northumbrian.
CHEVY CHASE I.
It fell about the Lammas tide, When muir-men win their hay, The
doughty Douglas bound him to ride Into England to drive a prey.
He chose the Gordons and the Graemes, With them the Lindsays, light
and gay; But the Jardines would not with them ride, And they rue it
to this day.
And he has burned the dales o’ Tyne, And part o’ Bamburghshire; And
three good towers on Reidswire fells He left them all on fire.
And he marched up to New Castel, And rode it round about; “O wha’s
the lord of this castel? Or wha’s the lady o’t?”
And up spake proud Lord Percy then, And O! but he spake hie! “O I’m
the lord of this castel, My wife’s the lady gay.”
“If thou art the lord of this castel, Sae weel it pleases me! For ere
I cross the Border fells, The tane of us sall die.”
He took a lang spere in his hand Shod wi’ the metal free, And for to
meet the Douglas there He rode right furiouslie!
But oh! how pale his lady looked Frae off the castle wa’, When down
before the Scottish speare She saw proud Percy fa’!
“Had we twa been upon the green, And never an eye to see, I wad hae
had you, flesh and fell, But your sword shall gae wi’ me.”
“But gae ye up to Otterbourne And wait there dayis three, And if I
come not ere three dayis end, A fause knight ca’ ye me.”
“The Otterbourne’s a bonnie burn, ’Tis pleasant there to be; But
there is naught at Otterbourne To feed my men and me.
“The deer rins wild on hill and dale, The birds fly wild frae tree to
tree, But there is neither bread nor kale To feed my men and me.
“Yet I will stay at Otterbourne Where you sall welcome be; And if ye
come not at three dayis end A fause lord I’ll call thee.”
“Thither will I come,” proud Percy said, “By the might of Our Ladye!”
“Thither will I bide thee,” said the Douglas, “My troth I plight to
thee.”
They lighted high on Otterbourne, Upon the bent sae brown; They
lighted high on Otterbourne And threw their pallions down.
And he that had a bonnie boy, Sent out his horse to grass; And he
that had not a bonnie boy, His ain servant he was.
And up then spake a little foot-page, Before the peep o’ dawn— “O
waken, waken ye, my good lord, The Percy is hard at hand!”
“Ye lee, ye lee, ye leear loud! Sae loud I hear ye lee! For Percy had
not men yestreen To dight my men and me!”
“But I hae dreamed a dreary dream, Beyond the Isle of Skye; I saw a
dead man win a fight, An’ I think that man was I.”
He belted on his gude braid-sword, And to the field he ran; But he
forgot his helmet good, That should have kept his brain.
When Percy wi’ the Douglas met I wat he was fu’ fain! They swakked
their swords till sair they swat, The blude ran down like rain.
But Percy, with his gude braid-sword, That could sae sharply wound,
Has stricken Douglas on the brow, Till he fell to the ground.
Then he called on his little foot-page And said, “Run speedilie, And
fetch my ain dear sister’s son, Sir Hugh Montgomerie.”
“My nephew good,” the Douglas said, “What recks the death of ane?
Last night I dreamed a dreary dream, And I ken the day’s thy ain.
“My wound is deep, I fain wad sleep; Take thou the vanguard of the
three, And hide me by the bracken bush That grows on yonder lilye
lea.
“O bury me by the bracken bush, Beneath the bloomin’ brier; Let never
a living mortal ken That ever a kindly Scot lies here.”
He lifted up that noble lord, Wi’ the saut tear in his e’e; He hid
him in the bracken bush That his merrie men might not see.
The moon was clear, the day drew near, The speres in flinders flew,
And mony a gallant Englishman Ere day the Scotsmen slew.
The Gordons gude, in English blude They steeped their hose and shoon;
The Lindsays flew like fire about Till a’ the fray was dune.
The Percy and Montgomerie met, And either of other was fain; They
swakkèd swords, and sair they swat, And the blude ran doun like rain.
“Now yield thee, yield thee, Percy!” he cried; “Or else will I lay
thee low.” “To whom sall I yield?” quoth Erle Percy, “Sin I see it
maun be so.”
“Thou shalt not yield to lord or loon, Nor yet shalt thou yield to
me, But thou shalt yield to the bracken bush That grows on yon lilye
lea.”
“I will not yield to a bracken bush; Nor yet will I yield to a brier;
But I would yield to Erle Douglas, Or Hugh Montgomerie if he were
here.”
As soon as he knew it was Montgomerie He stuck his sword’s-point in
the gronde; The Montgomerie was a courteous knight, And quickly took
him by the honde.
This deed was done at the Otterbourne, About the breaking of the day;
Erle Douglas was buried at the bracken bush. And the Percy led
captive away.
JOCK O’ THE SIDE.
Now Liddesdale has ridden a raid, But I wat they had better hae staid
at hame; For Michael o’ Winfield he is dead, And Jock o’ the Side is
prisoner ta’en.
For Mangerton house Lady Downie has gane, Her coats she has kilted up
to her knee; And down the water wi’ speed she rins, While tears in
spates fa’ fast frae her e’e.
Then up and spoke our guid auld laird— “What news, what news, sister
Downie, to me?” “Bad news, bad news, for Michael is killed, And they
hae taken my son Johnnie.”
“Ne’er fear, sister Downie,” quo’ Mangerton, “I have yokes of owsen,
twenty and three, My barns, my byres, and my faulds a’ weel filled,
I’ll part wi’ them a’ ere Johnnie shall dee.
“Three men I’ll send to set him free, A’ harnessed wi’ the best o’
steel; The English loons may hear, and drie The weight o’ their
braid-swords to feel.
“The Laird’s Jock ane, the Laird’s Wat twa, O Hobbie Noble, thou ane
maun be! Thy coat is blue, thou has been true Since England banished
thee to me.”
Now Hobbie was an English man, In Bewcastle dale was bred and born;
But his misdeeds they were so great, They banished him ne’er to
return.
Laird Mangerton them orders gave, “Your horses the wrang way maun be
shod; Like gentlemen ye maunna seem, But look like corn-cadgers ga’en
the road.
“Your armour gude ye maunna show, Nor yet appear like men of weir; As
country lads be a’ array’d, Wi’ branks and brecham on each mare.”
Sae their horses are the wrang way shod, And Hobbie has mounted his
gray sae fine; Jock his lively bay, Wat’s on his white horse behind.
And on they rode for the water of Tyne.
At the Cholerford they a’ light doun, And there wi’ the help o’ the
light o’ the moon, A tree they cut, wi’ fifteen nogs on each side, To
climb up the wa’ of Newcastle toun,
But when they cam’ to Newcastle toun, And were alighted at the wa’
They fand their tree three ells ower laigh, They fand their stick
baith short and sma’.
Then up and spak the Laird’s ain Jock, “There’s naething for’t; the
gates we maun force.” But when they cam’ the gate untill, A proud
porter withstood baith men and horse.
His neck in twa the Armstrangs wrung; With fute or hand he ne’er
played pa! His life and his keys at once they hae ta’en, And cast the
body ahint the wa’.
Now sune they reach Newcastle jail, And to the prisoner thus they
call: “Sleeps thou, or wakes thou, Jock o’ the Side, Or art thou
weary of thy thrall?”
Jock answered thus, wi’ doleful tone, “Aft, aft I wake—I seldom
sleep; But wha’s this kens my name sae weel, And thus to ease my wae
does seek.”
Then out and spake the gude Laird’s Jock, “Now fear ye na’, my
billie,” quo’ he; “For here are the Laird’s Jock, the Laird’s Wat,
And Hobbie Noble, come to set thee free.”
“Now haud thy tongue, my gude Laird’s Jock, For ever, alas! this
canna be; For if a’ Liddesdale were here the night, The morn’s the
day that I maun dee.”
“Full fifteen stane o’ Spanish iron They hae laid a’ right sair or
me; Wi’ locks and keys I am fast bound Into this dungeon dark and
dreirie!”
“Fear ye nae that,” quo’ the Laird’s Jock; “A faint heart ne’er won a
fair ladie; Work thou within, we’ll work without, And I’ll be sworn
we’ll set thee free.”
The first strong door that they cam’ at, They loosed it without a
key; The next chain’d door that they cam’ at They gar’d it a’ to
flinders flee.
The prisoner now upon his back The Laird’s Jock has gotten up fu’
hie; And down the stair, him, irons and a’, Wi’ nae sma’ speid and
joy brings he.
“Now Jock, my man,” quo Hobbie Noble, “Some o’ his weight ye may lay
on me.” “I wat weel no,” quo’ the Laird’s ain Jock; “I count him
lighter than a flee.”
Sae out at the gates they a’ are gane, The prisoner’s set on
horseback hie; And now wi’ speed they’re ta’en the gate, While ilk
ane jokes fu’ wantonlie.
“O Jock! sae winsomely ’s ye ride, Wi’ baith your feet upon ae side;
Sae weel ye’re harnessed, and sae trig, In troth ye sit like ony
bride!”
The night, tho’ wat, they didna mind, But hied them on fu’ merrilie
Until they cam’ to Cholerford brae, Where the water ran baith deep
and hie.
But when they came to Cholerford, There they met with an auld man,
Says, “Honest man, will the water ride? Tell us in haste, if that ye
can.”
“I wat weel no,” quo’ the gude auld man; “I hae lived here thirty
years and three, And I ne’er yet saw the Tyne sae big, Nor running
anes sae like a sea.”
Then out and spake the Laird’s Saft Wat, The greatest coward in the
companie; “Now halt, now halt, we needna try’t, The day is come we a’
maun dee.”
“Puir faint-hearted thief!” cried the Laird’s ain Jock, “There’ll nae
man die but him that’s fey; I’ll guide ye a’ right safely thro’, Lift
ye the prisoner on ahint me.”
Wi’ that the water they hae ta’en; By anes and twas they a’ swam
thro’; “Here we are a’ safe,” quo’ the Laird’s Jock, “And puir faint
Wat, what think ye now?”
They scarce the other brae had won When twenty men they saw pursue;
Frae Newcastle toun they had been sent, A’ English lads baith stout
and true.
But when the land-serjeant the water saw, “It winna ride, my lads,”
says he; Then cried aloud—“The prisoner take, But leave the fetters,
I pray, to me.”
“I wat weel no,” quo’ the Laird’s Jock; “I’ll keep them a’; shoon to
my mare they’ll be. My gude bay mare—for I am sure She has bought
them a’ right dear frae thee.”
Sae now they are on to Liddesdale, E’en as fast as they could them
hie; The prisoner is brought to his ain fireside, And there o’ his
airns they mak’ him free.
“Now, Jock, ma billie,” quo’ a’ the three, “The day is com’d thou was
to dee. But thou’s as weel at thy ain ingle-side, Now sitting, I
think ’twixt thou and me.”
BARTHRAM’S DIRGE.
They shot him dead at the Nine-stane Rig, Beside the Headless Cross,
And they left him lying in his blood, Upon the moor and moss.
They made a bier of the broken bough The sauch and the aspin grey,
And they bore him to the Lady Chapel, And waked him there all day.
A lady came to that lonely bower, And threw her robes aside; She tore
her ling lang yellow hair, And knelt at Barthram’s side.
She bathed him in the Lady-Well, His wounds sae deep and sair; And
she plaited a garland for his breast, And a garland for his hair.
They rowed him in a lily sheet And bare him to his earth; And the
Grey Friars sung the dead man’s mass As they passed the Chapel garth.
They buried him at the mirk midnight, When the dew fell cold and
still, When the aspin grey forgot to play, And the mist clung to the
hill.
They dug his grave but a bare foot deep, By the edge of the
Nine-stane Burn, And they covered him o’er with the heather-flower,
The moss and the lady-fern.
A Grey Friar staid upon the grave, And sang till the morning tide;
And a friar shall sing for Barthram’s soul While the Headless Cross
shall bide.
THE FAIR FLOWER OF NORTHUMBERLAND
It was a knight in Scotland born, (Follow, my love, come over the
strand) Was taken pris’ner and left forlorn, Even by the good Earl of
Northumberland.
Then was he cast in prison strong, (Follow, my love, come over the
strand) Where he could not walk nor lie along, Even by the good Earl
of Northumberland.
And as in sorrow thus he lay, (Follow, my love, come over the strand)
The Earl’s sweet daughter passed that way, And she the fair flower of
Northumberland.
And passing by, like an angel bright, (Follow, my love, come over the
strand) The prisoner had of her a sight, And she the fair flower of
Northumberland.
And aloud to her this knight did cry, (Follow, my love, come over the
strand) The salt tears standing in her eye, And she the fair flower
of Northumberland.
“Fair lady,” he said, “take pity on me, (Follow, my love, come over
the strand) And let me not in prison dee, And you the fair flower of
Northumberland.”
“Fair sir, how should I take pity on thee, (Follow, my love, come
over the strand) Thou being a foe to our countrie, And I the fair
flower of Northumberland?”
“Fair lady, I am no foe,” he said, (Follow, my love, come over the
strand) “Through thy sweet love here was I stayed, And thou the fair
flower of Northumberland.”
“Why shouldst thou come here for love of me, (Follow, my love, come
over the strand) Having wife and bairns in thy own countrie, And I
the fair flower of Northumberland?”
“I swear by the Blessed Trinity, (Follow, my love, come over the
strand) That neither wife nor bairns have I, And thou the fair flower
of Northumberland.”
“If courteously thou wilt set me free, (Follow, my love, come over
the strand) I vow that I will marry thee, And thou the fair flower of
Northumberland.
“Thou shalt be lady of castles and towers, (Follow, my love, come
over the strand) And sit like a queen in princely bowers, Even thou
the fair flower of Northumberland.”
Then parted hence this lady gay, (Follow, my love, come over the
strand) And got her father’s ring away, And she the fair flower of
Northumberland.
Likewise much gold got she by sleight, (Follow, my love, come over
the strand) And all to help this forlorn knight, And she the fair
flower of Northumberland.
Two gallant steeds both good and able, (Follow, my love, come over
the strand), She likewise took out of the stable, And she the fair
flower of Northumberland.
And to the goaler she sent the ring, (Follow, my love, come over the
strand) Who the knight from prison forth did bring, To meet the fair
flower of Northumberland.
This token set the prisoner free, (Follow, my love, come over the
strand) Who straight went to this fair ladye, And she the fair flower
of Northumberland.
A gallant steed he did bestride, (Follow, my love, come over the
strand) And with the lady away did ride, And she the fair flower of
Northumberland.
They rode till they came to a water clear, (Follow, my love, come
over the strand) “Good sir, how shall I follow you here, And I the
fair flower of Northumberland?
“The water is rough and wonderful deep, (Follow, my love, come over
the strand) And on my saddle I shall not keep, And I the fair flower
of Northumberland?
“Fear not the ford, fair lady,” quoth he, (Follow, my love, come over
the strand) “For long I cannot stay for thee, Even thou the fair
flower of Northumberland.”
The lady prickt her gallant steed, (Follow, my love, come over the
strand) And over the water swam with speed, Even she the fair flower
of Northumberland.
From top to toe all wet was she, (Follow, my love, come over the
strand) “This have I done for love of thee, Even I the fair flower of
Northumberland.”
Thus rode she all one winter’s night. (Follow, my love, come over the
strand) Till Edenborough they saw in sight, The fairest town in all
Scotland.
“Now I have a wife and children five, (Follow, my love, come over the
strand) In Edenborough they be alive, And thou the fair flower of
Northumberland.
“And if thou wilt not give thy hand, (Follow, my love, come over the
strand) Then get thee home to fair England, And thou the fair flower
of Northumberland
“This favour thou shalt have, to boot, (Follow, my love, come over
the strand) I’ll have thy horse; go thou on foot, Even thou the fair
flower of Northumberland.”
“O false and faithless knight,” quoth she; (Follow, my love, come
over the strand) “And canst thou deal so bad with me, Even I the fair
flower of Northumberland?”
He took her from her stately steed, (Follow, my love, come over the
strand) And left her there in extreme need, And she the fair flower
of Northumberland.
Then she sat down full heavily, (Follow, my love, come over the
strand) At length two knights came riding by, And she the fair flower
of Northumberland.
Two gallant knights of fair England, (Follow, my love, come over the
strand) And there they found her on the strand, Even she the fair
flower of Northumberland.
She fell down humbly on her knee, (Follow, my love, come over the
strand) Crying, “Courteous knights, take pity on me, Even I the fair
flower of Northumberland.
“I have offended my father dear, (Follow, my love, come over the
strand) For a false knight that brought me here, Even I the fair
flower of Northumberland.”
They took her up beside them then, (Follow, my love, come over the
strand) And brought her to her father again, And she the fair flower
of Northumberland.
Now all you fair maids, be warned by me, (Follow, my love, come over
the strand) Scots never were true, nor ever will be, To lord, nor
lady, nor fair England.
WHITTINGHAM FAIR.
Are you going to Whittingham Fair (Parsley, sage, rosemary, and
thyme), Remember me to one that lives there, For once she was a true
lover of mine.
Tell her to make me a cambric shirt, (Parsley, sage, rosemary, and
thyme), Without any seam or needlework, Then she shall be a true
lover of mine.
Tell her to wash it in yonder well, (Parsley, sage, rosemary, and
thyme), Where never spring water or rain ever fell, And she shall be
a true lover of mine.
Tell her to dry it on yonder thorn, (Parsley, sage, rosemary, and
thyme), Which never bore blossom since Adam was born. Then she shall
be a true lover of mine.
Now he has asked me questions three, (Parsley, sage, rosemary, and
thyme), I hope he’ll answer as many for me, Before he shall be a true
lover of mine.
Tell him to buy me an acre of land, (Parsley, sage, rosemary, and
thyme), Betwixt the salt water and the sea sand, Then he shall be a
true lover of mine.
Tell him to plough it with a ram’s horn. (Parsley, sage, rosemary,
and thyme), And sow it all over with one pepper corn. And he shall be
a true lover of mine.
Tell him to shear’t with a sickle of leather, (Parsley, sage,
rosemary, and thyme), And bind it up with a peacock feather, And he
shall be a true lover of mine.
Tell him to thrash it on yonder wall, (Parsley, sage, rosemary, and
thyme), And never let one corn of it fall, Then he shall be a true
lover of mine.
When he has done and finished his work, (Parsley, sage, rosemary, and
thyme), O tell him to come and he’ll have his shirt, And he shall be
a true lover of mine.
O THE OAK AND THE ASH.
A North country mayde up to London had strayed, Although with her
nature it did not agree. Which made her repent, and often lament,
Still wishing again in the North for to be. “O the Oak and the Ash
and the bonny Ivy tree, They are all growing green in my North
Countrie!”
“O fain wad I be in the North Countrie Where the lads and the lasses
are all making hay; O there wad I see what is pleasant to me,— A
mischief ’light on them enticed me away! O the Oak and the Ash and
the bonny Ivy tree, They are all growing green in my North Countrie!”
“Then farewell my father, and farewell my mother, Until I do see you
I nothing but mourn; Remembering my brothers, my sisters, and others—
In less than a year I hope to return. O the Oak and the Ash and the
bonny Ivy tree. They are all growing green in my North Countrie!”
SAIR FEYL’D, HINNY!
“Sair feyl’d, hinny! Sair feyl’d now, Sair feyl’d, hinny, Sin’ aw
ken’d thou. Aw was young and lusty, Aw was fair and clear; Aw was
young and lusty Mony a lang year. Sair feyl’d, hinny! Sair feyl’d
now; Sair feyl’d, hinny, Sin’ aw ken’d thou.
“When aw was young and lusty Aw cud lowp u dyke; But now aw’m aud and
still. Aw can hardly stop a syke. Sair feyl’d, hinny! Sair feyl’d
now, Sair feyl’d hinny, Sin’ aw ken’d thou.
“When aw was five and twenty Aw was brave an bauld. Now at five an’
sixty Aw’m byeth stiff an’ cauld. Sair feyl’d, hinny! Sair feyl’d
now. Sair feyl’d, hinny, Sin’ aw ken’d thou”
Thus said the aud man To the oak tree; “Sair feyl’d is aw Sin’ aw
kenn’d thee! Sair feyl’d, hinny! Sair feyl’d now; Sair feyl’d, hinny,
Sin’ aw ken’d thou.”
AW WISH YOE MUTHER WAD CUM!
“Cum, Geordy, haud the bairn, Aw’s sure aw’ll not stop lang, Aw’d
tyek the jewl me-sel, But really aw’s not strang. Thor’s flooer and
coals te get, The hoose-torns thor not deun, So haud the bairn for
fairs, Ye’re often deun’d for fun!”
Then Geordy held the bairn, But sair agyen his will, The poor bit
thing wes gud, But Geordy had ne skill, He haddint its muther’s ways,
He sat both stiff an’ num,— Before five minutes wes past He wished
its muther wad cum!
His wife had scarcely gyen, The bairn begun te squall, Wi’ hikin’t up
an’ doon He’d let the poor thing fall, It waddent haud its tung, Tho’
sum aud teun he’d hum,— ‘Jack an’ Gill went up a hill’— “Aw wish yor
muther wad cum!”
“What weary toil,” says he, “This nursin bairns mun be, A bit on’t’s
weel eneuf, Ay, quite eneuf for me; Te keep a crying bairn, It may be
grand te sum, A day’s wark’s not as bad— Aw wish yor muther wad cum.
“Men seldom give a thowt Te what thor wives indure, Aw thowt she’d
nowt te de But clean the hoose, aw’s sure. Or myek me dinner an’ tea—
It’s startin’ te chow its thumb, The poor thing wants its tit, Aw
wish yor muther wad cum.”
What a selfish world this is, Thor’s nowt mair se than man; He laffs
at wummin’s toil, And winnet nurse his awn;— It’s startin’ te cry
agyen, Aw see tuts throo its gum, Maw little bit pet, dinnet fret,—
Aw wish yor muther wad cum.
“But kindness dis a vast. It’s ne use gettin’ vext. It winnet please
the bairn, Or ease a mind perplext. At last—its gyen te sleep, Me
wife’ll not say aw’s num, She’ll think aw’s a real gud norse, Aw wish
yor muther wud cum!”
_Joe Wilson_
THE AULD FISHER’S LAST WISH
The morn is grey, and green the brae, the wind is frae the wast
Before the gale the snaw-white clouds are drivin’ light and fast; The
airly sun is glintin’ forth, owre hill, and dell, and plain, And
Coquet’s streams are glitterin’, as they run frae muir to main.
At Dewshill wood the mavis sings beside her birken nest, At Halystane
the laverock springs upon his breezy quest; Wi’ eydent e’e, aboon the
craigs, the gled is high in air, Beneath brent Brinkburn’s shadowed
cliff the fox lies in his lair.
There’s joy at merry Thristlehaugh tie new-mown hay to win; The busy
bees at Todstead-shaw are bringing honey in; The trouts they loup in
ilka stream, the birds on ilka tree; Auld Coquet-side is Coquet
still—but there’s nae place for me!
My sun is set, my eyne are wet, cauld poortith now is mine; Nae mair
I’ll range by Coquet-side and thraw the gleesome line; Nae mair I’ll
see her bonnie stream in spring-bright raiment drest, Save in the
dream that stirs the heart when the weary e’e’s at rest.
Oh! were my limbs as ance they were, to jink across the green. And
were my heart as light again as sometime it has been, And could my
fortunes blink again as erst when youth was sweet, Then Coquet—hap
what might beside—we’d no be lang to meet’
Or had I but the cushat’s wing, where’er I list to flee, And wi’ a
wish, might wend my way owre hill, and dale, and lea. ’Tis there I’d
fauld that weary wing, there gaze my latest gaze. Content to see thee
ance again—then sleep beside thy braes!
—_Thomas Doublerday_.
A SONNET.
Go, take thine angle, and with practised line. Light as the gossamer,
the current sweep; And if thou failest in the calm, still deep, In
the rough eddy may a prize be thine. Say thou’rt unlucky where the
sunbeams shine; Beneath the shadow, where the waters creep Perchance
the monarch of the brook shall leap— For fate is ever better than
design.
Still persevere; the giddiest breeze that blows, For thee may blow
with fame and fortune rife. Be prosperous; and what reck if it arose
Out of some pebble with the stream at strife, Or that the light wind
dallied with the boughs? Thou art successful.—Such is human life!
—_Thomas Doubleday_.
A VISION OF JOYOUS-GARDE.
“And so sir Launcelot brought sir Tristan and La Beate Isoud unto
Joyous-gard, the which was his owne castle that hee had wonne with
his owne hands.”—_Malory_.
“Bamburgh ... the great rock-fortress that was known to the Celts as
Dinguardi, and was to figure in Arthurian romance as Joyous Garde ...
“—_C.J. Bates_ (History of Northumberland).
I wandered under winter stars The lone Northumbrian shore; And
night lay deep in silence on the sea. Save where, unceasingly,
Among the pillared scaurs Of perilous Farnes, wild waves for ever
more Breaking in foam, Sounded as some far strife through the
star-haunted gloam.
Before me, looming through the night, Darker than night’s sad
heart, King Ida’s castle on the sheer crag set Waked darker sorrow
yet Within me for the light, Beauty, and might of old loves rent
apart, Time-broken, spent, And strewn as old dead winds among the
salt-sea bent.
Till, dreaming of the glittering days, And eves with beauty
starred, Time fell from me as some night-cloud withdrawn, And in
enchanted dawn, All in a golden haze, I saw the gleaming towers of
Joyous Garde In splendour rise, Tall, pinnacled, and white to my
dream-laden eyes.
While thither, as in days of old, Launcelot homeward came,
War-wearied, and yet wearier of the strife Of love that tore his
life;
Burning, beneath the cold Armour of steel, a never-dying flame: The
fierce desire Consuming honour’s gold on the heart’s altar fire!
And thither in great love he brought The fugitives of love, Isoud
and Tristram fleeing from King Mark. One day ’twixt dark and dark
These lovers, by fate caught In love’s bright web, dreamed with
blue skies above Of love no tide Of wavering life may part, or
death’s swift sea divide.
But Launcelot, in their bliss forlorn, Fled from the laughter clear
Of happy lovers, and love’s silent noon; All night beneath the moon
He strode, his spirit torn For Guenevere! All night on Guenevere He
cried aloud Unto the moonlit foam and every windy cloud.

Then faded, quivering, from my sight The memory-woven dream. The
towers of Joyous Garde shall never more Lighten that desolate
shore; No longe’r through the night Wrestling with love, beneath
the pale moon gleam That anguished form!— But keen with snow and
wind, and loud with gathering storm.
_—Wilfrid W. Gibson_.
(In “The Northern Counties Magazine,” March, 1901).
MY NORTH COUNTRIE.
O though here fair blows the rose, and the woodbine waves on high,
And oak, and elm, and bracken fronds enrich the rolling lea, And
winds, as if in Arcady, breathe joy as they go by, Yet I yearn and I
pine for my North Countrie!
I leave the drowsing South, and in thought I northward fly, And walk
the stretching moors that fringe the ever-calling sea, And am
gladdened as the gales that are so bitter-sweet rush by. While grey
clouds sweetly darken o’er my North Countrie.
For there’s music in the storms, and there’s colour in the shades,
And joy e’en in the grief so widely brooding o’er the sea; And larger
thoughts have birth amid the moors and lonely glades And reedy mounds
and sands of my North Countrie!
—_Thomas Runciman_.

ANDREW REID & COMPANY. LIMITED, PRINTERS AND PUBLISHERS, NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.