Chapter III: Preface (3)

Some wags, taking advantage of the alarm of invasion in March, 1794, sent two letters, with the counterfeit signatures of two magistrates in Northumberland, to the Mayor of Newcastle, stating, that a party of French had landed on the coast, near Bambrough; this occasioned some bustle in Newcastle; 270l. reward was afterward offered in vain for the discovery of the writers.

“Now fill a bumper to the brim,
“And drink to _Gotham’s mayor_;
“And when again he hears such news,
“May _Fa----berg_ be there.”

Thus lately in a loyal song,
Sung some right loyal bard;
And righteous too, no doubt was he,
For lo! his prayer was heard.

News, direful news from BAMBRO’ came,
The _French_ were landed there;
A letter, written with all speed,
Was sent to _Gotham’s mayor_.

“The crews of three French ships of war,
Have landed in our coast,
Send for _Lord F----berg_,” quoth he,
“Or we shall all be lost.

“Our bullocks they have ta’en away,
Our cows and sheep besides.”
“O woe betide them,” says our _mayor_,
“They’ll raise the _price_ of HIDES.”

“Fear not, fear not,” says _F----berg_,
Who now before him stood,
“To guard you I will spend my last,
Last drop of noble blood!”

On this our _mayor_ began to hold
Erect his drooping head;
“I will not,” quoth _Lord F----berg_,
“This night lay down my head.

“To guard-house I will hie with speed,
And watch ’till morn appear;
Each _Gothamite_ may soundly sleep,
No cause have they to fear.”

“Meantime” says _Gotham’s mayor_, “I will
In haste, a letter write
To George our king, some ships to send,
To intercept their flight.”

To _George_ our king the tidings came,
At London where he lay;
“What! cattle, cattle, sheep indeed!--
To Windsor haste away;

“Lock up my pretty little sheep,
My pigs and geese likewise;
No bloody Frenchman shall destroy
What I so dearly prize.

“Then run tell _Billy Pitt_ to come,
And bring his _brother_ here;
But first call _Tom_ the butler up,
To get me some small beer.

“How happens _Chat--m_, that no ships
You have sent to the North?
Not one, I’m told, is to be seen
From Thames unto the Forth.”

“So please you,” bowing low, says _John_,
“I would have sent a few,
But that I thought you’d want them here
Against the next REVIEW.”

“That’s right, that’s right,” reply’d our king,
“One ship I cannot spare:
And if the _French_ do get their sheep,
Why--_let them take more care_.

“Example let them take by me,
And they’ll receive no harm;
Shut them all up as I have done,
Upon my Windsor farm.”

So spake our gracious lord,
And so I end my song;
May heaven from _rots_ preserve his sheep,
And may his life be long!

BLYTH CAMPS: _Or, the Girl I left behind Me._

In 1795, near Blyth there was an encampment, the troops of which, consisting of 13 regiments of horse and foot, were reviewed on the 28th of August, that year, by the Duke of York, in the presence of upwards of 60,000 spectators.

I’m lonesome since I left BLYTH camps,
And o’er the moor that’s sedgy;
With heavy thoughts my mind is fill’d,
Since I parted with my Betsy:
Whene’er I turn to view the place,
The tears fall down and blind me;
When I think on the charming grace
Of her I left behind me.

The hours I remember well,
When first from her they mov’d me;
The burning flames my heart doth tell,
Since first she own’d she lov’d me:
In search of some one fair and gay,
Several doth remind me;
I know my darling loves me well,
Tho’ I left her behind me.

The bees shall cease to make a store,
The dove become a ranger:
The falling waters cease to roar,
Before I’ll ever change her.
Each mutual promise faithful made,
By her whom tears remind me;
I bless the hours I pass’d away
With her I left behind me.

My mind her image will retain,
Whether asleep or waking;
I hope to see my love again,
For her my heart is breaking.
If e’er I chance to go that way,
And she has not resign’d me;
I’ll reconcile my mind and stay
With her I left behind me.

BEAUMONT’s LIGHT HORSE.

We march’d from the camps with our hearts full of woe,
On board of the transports we forc’d were to go;
No drums they did beat, nor no trumpets did sound,
In silence and sadness we trudg’d o’er the ground.

No more on our horses we’ll prance o’er the plain,
For they drive us away like sheep to be slain;
Our friends and acquaintance we leave on the shore,
And we’ll never be seen in Old England more.

When arm’d, on our horses away we did ride,
All ran to see Beaumont’s Light Horsemen parade;
But all these fine times are with us now all o’er,
For we shall return to Old England no more.

We listed for horsemen, our country to save,
They told us fine stories of Beaumont the brave;
But now he has sold us to add to his store,
And transported from England to come back no more.

We mounted our horses and rode through the town,
We hid us in holes, and our guns we laid down;
Now see the Newcastle folks drive away fears,
And now see the brav’ry of their Volunteers.

God save our noble king, and long may he reign,
And send him brave soldiers, his rights to maintain;
But do not deceive them, keep them on your shore,
That they may defend you ’till time is no more.

Farewell to all camps, and farewell to all towns,
We go off all footmen, no more like dragoons;
For hard is our fate, and it grieves us full sore,
Then farewell, dear England, we’ll see thee no more.

Farewell to our wives, and our sweethearts likewise;
Tho’ we’re driven to battle yet we’ll bullets despise;
And if its our fortune to return once again,
We’ll bring store of riches, and bid adieu to the main.

_A Song in Praise of the_ KEELMEN VOLUNTEERS. On board the Lapwing Frigate.

_Tune_--White Cockade.

Come fill a bumper to the brim,
And drink success to George our king;
Of France and Spain let’s not be fear’d,
Since our Keel Lads have volunteer’d
To meet the proud and daring foe,
And let the haughty Frenchmen know,
That our Keel Lads are brave and free,
And Neptune’s favourites will be.

Zephyr, blow your gentle gales,
And fill our Keel Lads’ shiv’ring sails,
And waft them o’er the raging sea;
For our defenders they will be:
Lo! Duncan of the Texel boasts,
Nelson them in the Nile did toast;
The British flag they’re sure to sway,
And Frenchmen take to Norway.

With spirits heroic and sublime,
Our lads are brought up on the Tyne;
They will our foes with sorrow fill,
When once they sail from Newcastle:
Where bullets fly and cannons roar,
They’ll sweep the seas from shore to shore;
And all the world their wonders tell:
Huzza, Keel Lads of Newcastle!

THE SONS OF THE TYNE: OR, _British Volunteers_.

_Tune_--Hearts of Oak.

Come cheer up your hearts, my brave sons of the Tyne,
And boldly come forward to enter the line;
Your country it calls you, defend now her right,
Against that invader, who dares you to fight.
Sons of Tyne all advance,
For to humble proud France;
And teach Bonaparte,
Tho’ ever so hearty,
Not t’ insult British valour upon her own shore.

The proud sons of Spain, too, like fools did attempt,
With a large Armada to make a descent;
But lord Howard convinc’d them, long ere they came near,
That they were not to take the wrong sow by the ear!
Sons of Tyne, &c.

There was bold Sidney Smith, on the Palestine shore,
Made the _army invincible_ lie all in gore;
When caught in his Mouse Trap[17] at _Acre de John_,
Bonaparte (then Musselman) made a sad moan.
Sons of Tyne, &c.

The brave Abercromby shed his last drop of blood,
At Alexandria, for his country’s good:
And shall _Corsican Tyranny_ ever come near
To Britannia’s shores?--No! we’ll all volunteer.
Sons of Tyne, &c.

He threats to invade us, and plunder us too,
And make us a _province_! but that will not do.
If he come, we will shew him a handful of men,
Who will take him in Trap, like Sir Sidney again.
Sons of Tyne, &c.

Bonaparte’s bravadoes we’ll treat with disdain,
Like the heroes of Britain, who rule on the main;
We will boldly stand forward in Britannia’s cause,
To protect her religion, her liberty and laws.
Sons of Tyne, &c.

[17] The seamen call the breach made in the walls at St John de Acre, while Bonaparte was in Egypt, the _Commodore’s Mouse Trap_.

MARY OF THE TYNE.

What pleasure oft ’tis to reveal
The pain or rapture which we feel;
’Tis bliss while either we impart
Unto a sympathetic heart,
Just like to that sweet heart of thine,
My lovely Mary of the Tyne.

I lose, when near thee, all my care,
When from thee, I am all despair;
My bosom heaves with anxious pain,
Until I meet with thee again,
What are these adverse pangs of mine,
My lovely Mary of the Tyne?

Say, is it from thy beauteous face,
Or is it from thy nat’ral grace,
Or is it thy angelic mind,
Or is it ev’ry one combin’d,
Making one sweet form divine,
My lovely Mary of the Tyne?

Should it be love, thou’dst sure forgive?
That is the food on which I live;
But if thou should’st that bliss deny,
Then must thy faithful lover die;
Or linger out his life supine,
For lovely Mary of the Tyne!

NEWCASTLE FAIR--October, 1811.

_The Pitman a drinking of JACKY._ (English Gin. This liquor has various names in different parts of the country. At a village in the western part of Northumberland, the editor heard it called Blue Dick.)

By J.S.

_Tune_--Drops of Brandy.

Ha’ ye been at Newcastle fair,
And did ye see ouse o’ great Sandy?
Lord bliss us! what wark there was there;
And the folks were drinking of brandy.
Brandy, a shilling a glass!
Aw star’d, and thought it was shamful.
Never mind, says aw, canny lass,
Give us yell, and aw’ll drink ma wameful.
Rum te idily, &c.

Says she, Canny man, the yell’s cawd;
It comes frev a man they ca’ Mackey,
And my faith it’s byeth sour an’ awd;
Ye’d best hev a drop o’ wour jacky.
Your jacky! says I, now what’s that?
I ne’er heard the neame o’ sic liquor.
English gin, canny man, that’s flat.
And then she set up a great nicker.
Rum te idily, &c.

Says I, divent laugh at poor folks,
But gang and bring some o’ yur jacky;
Aw want neane o’ yur jibes or jokes;
I’ th’ mean time aw’ll tak a bit backy.
Aw just tuke a chew o’ pig tail,
She brought in this jacky se funny:
Says she, Sir, that’s better than ale:
And held out her hand for the money.
Rum te idily, &c.

There’s three pence to pay, if you please:
Aw star’d an’ aw gap’d like a ninny:
Od smash thee, aw’ll sit at ma ease,
An’ not stir till aw’ve spent a half guinea.
Aw sat an’ aw drank till quite blind,
Then aw’ gat up to gang to the door,
But deel smash a door cou’d aw find,
An’ fell flat o’ ma fyess on the floor.
Rum te idily, &c.

There aw lay for ever se lang,
And dreamt about rivers and ditches;
When waken’d, was singing this song--
“Smash, jacky, thou’s wet a’ ma breeches.”
An’ faith! but the sang it was true,
For jacky had been se prevailing,
He’d whistled himsel’ quickly through,
An’ the chairs an’ tables were sailing.
Rum te idily, &c.

Then rising, aw went ma ways heame,
Aw knock’d at the door, an’ cry’d, Jenny;
Says she, Canny man, is’te lame,
Or been wadin in Tyne, ma hinny?
I’ troth, she was like for to dee,
An’ just by the way to relieve her,
The water’s been wadin through me,
An’ this jacky’s a gay deceiver.
Rum te idily, &c.

If e’er aw drink jacky again,
May the bitch of a lass, ma adviser,
Loup alive down ma throat, with a stane
As big as a pulveriser.
Rum te idily, &c.

THE NEWCASTLE BEAUTIES.

These beauties must be now of some age, as they are unknown to the editor.

_Designed to be sung to the Harpsicord or Spinet, &c._

I.

Tho’ lofty bards sublimer sing,
And boldly tune their lays;
Not less renown attends the string,
Which sounds to beauty’s praise.
Ye muses then lend me your aid,
Whilst I attempt to prove,
That in _Newcastle_ many a maid
Excells the queen of love.

II.

Ye bards, forbear your partial lays,
Ye who so lofty sing,
Nor longer only _Venus_ praise,
But here your numbers bring.
No more shall blinded mortals pray,
Or bow before her shrine;
No more in _Cyprus_ seek the bay,
But find it here on _Tyne_.

III.

First of yon throng, see _Delia_[18] shine,
That matchless nonpareil!
All eyes confess her form divine,
Such graces round her dwell.
Dame nature has herself outdone,
In that most beauteous fair,
And lavish’d all those charms on one,
Which thousands only share.

IV.

Next her, behold the lovely _Cloe_[19],
Ye gods! what killing eyes!
See how her charming ringlets flow,
Where wanton Cupid lies:
The rose, compar’d to her, shall fade,
The lily lose its white:
E’en Sol himself must own the maid,
And shine with beams less bright.

V.

Thee, lovely _Cynthia_[20], next we sing,
Charm’d with thy beauteous face,
More blooming than the verdent spring,
Adorn’d with ev’ry grace;
Thy comely shape and genteel air,
Our admiration raise,
Thou stands confess’d a perfect fair,
And worthy all our praise.

VI.

Thy mien, sweet _Daphne_[21], next we view,
And as we view, approve;
Thy blooming charms all hearts subdue,
And kindle them to love:
Those charming breasts, and sparkling eyes,
What mortal can oppose?
Still as we gaze, new beauties rise,
And still the passion grows.

VII.

Gay _Sylvia_[22] next appears in sight,
Surrounded by her charms,
Her handsome form which shines so bright,
Each youthful bosom warms.
Ye youths withdraw your wishful eyes,
Nor longer on her gaze;
For were your hearts as cold as ice,
Her beams would make them blaze.

VIII.

Sweet _Celia_[23] next demands our care,
That lovely nut-brown maid!
Behold her charming flowing hair,
In jetty locks display’d:
She fills each bosom with desire,
So graceful is her mein;
Her comely features all admire,
Where thousand loves are seen.

IX.

See _Flavia_[24], the young, the gay,
For graceful air renown’d,
Her mien more bright than flow’ry May,
With ev’ry beauty crown’d.
Her beauteous sister[25] next appears,
Whom wond’rous charms adorn;
The lovely doe each bosom chears,
With beauties like the morn.

X.

The next we view is _Julia’s_[26] face,
For comely features lov’d;
Her golden locks still add a grace,
To what all hearts approv’d.
Her friend no less inspires the lay,
The lovely _Danæ_[27] fair,
To whom all tongues their praises pay,
Charm’d with her shape and air.

XI.

Thee, _Phœbe_[28], with _Ophelia_[29] join’d,
We can’t too much admire,
Your blooming charms, it must be own’d,
All hearts to love inspire.
To handsome _Pat_[30], and lovely _Stell_[31],
Our praises too belong;
These, who in various charms excel,
Close up the beauteous throng.

XII.

As now ador’d you pass your bloom,
Your autumn you may live;
Let me, ye beauteous fair, presume,
This one advice to give;
Virtue pursue--or vain ye’re bright,
_“In vain your eyes may roll;_
_’Tis true that charms do strike the sight,_
_But merit wins the soul.”_

[18] Miss P----y T----n.

[19] Miss H----le.

[20] Miss H----y.

[21] Miss B----p.

[22] Miss H----m.

[23] Miss S----s.

[24] Miss F----tt

[25] Miss F----tt.

[26] Miss H----h.

[27] Miss J---- B----ll.

[28] Miss P---- S----t.

[29] Miss L----s.

[30] Miss A----n.

[31] Miss M----y G----n.

SONG, _On the Address of the Newcastle House of Lords, on turning out Lord North, and Mr Fox_.

When Royal G----e, on new year’s day,[32]
Had told his bishops, great and small,
What our _wise Crows_, last March did say,
“He fear’d Britannia’s sudden fall.”

For knaves determin’d on his doom;
Two of the worst were _Fox_ and _North_,
These he displac’d, and in their room
Had station’d PITT, and men of worth.

T’ assuage the sovereign’s grief and care,
And loyal feeling to express,
Imperial London’s duteous mayor,
Approach’d the throne with an address.

Counties, and towns, and boroughs too,
Throng’d thick, and their addresses paid,
Their prince to undeceive, and shew
How twice ten years he’d been betray’d.

Newcastle’s mayor, to virtue form’d,
(_Charles_ the upright and the good;)
Whose hands refrain’d, and nobly scorn’d
To stain with _transatlantic_ blood.

A temperate zeal, he did confess,
Became each lover of his king;
Then all join’d him in an address;
And thousands warmly did it sign.

A band more true, (what need of words?)
And of all loyal men the flower;
I mean _Ned C----g’s house of lords_,
Who prais’d each minister in power.

The fancy seiz’d! each noble peer,
Pushing the tankard foaming o’er:
(O had lord _Umbrage_ but been here,
But we shall never see him more!)

Now fairly sat the sage divan,
And silence call’d to every box.
“Let’s thank our king, aye every man,
For turning out lord _North_ and _Fox_.

We must confess it’s scarce seven years,
Since we address’d our royal sire;
And beg’d he’d scorn all whiggish fears,
And we would help to blow the fire.

War’s flame did blaze both far and near,
And Europe’s powers against us join’d:
Our fleets were beat, our armies fled,
We sued for peace, and bought it dear.

It’s true the whigs, these knavish rogues
All cried, our mischiefs North began:
But what care we for barking dogs;
For _North_ was still _the greatest man_.

Our empire was too wide and great,
And too unwieldy--and what not!
But _North_, our tailor of the state,
Clip’d it, as _Umbrage_ would a coat.

A truth from which we scorn to swerve.
_The more we lose, the more we gain_;
And trade and treasures only serve,
To foster pride, and care, and pain.

But ah, how vain is human hope!
Great _North_ with spendthrift _Fox_ has join’d:
(For this he well deserves a rope)
All fair professions are but wind.

Come then, my lords, stand forth like men,
The good old cause keep still in view;
And tell the k----g we do condemn
Old knaves, and will support the new.”

The house then rung with loud applause,
Fists, pipes, and smoke, their joy express.
A committee resolved was
To word, and draw up the address.

Th’ expence, agreed by numerous votes,
Attending this address of thanks;
Was all to be paid out in notes,
Of Sir James Duncan’s best of banks.

[32] Alluding to the king’s reply to the b----’s address, usual on the first day of the year, expressive of a desponding prediction, truly alarming.

_THE ADDRESS_ OF SIR J. DUNCAN, AND CO. _Of the Scale de Cross Bank, to the Ladies, Gentlemen, and Merchants, of Newcastle upon Tyne, and its Environs._

Sir James Duncan and Co. their kind compliments send
To the public in general, who so befriend
Their laudable endeavour, your gold to exchange,
Yet reluctantly confess, they think it most strange
Their opening a Bank, shou’d be _impudent_ thought,
By those who are strangers to their KERECTER[33], and note,
And flatter themselves, the following reasons will prove
Their right to _be Bankers_, and objections remove.
The title, they presume, will command the esteem
Of those who at a distance, from hence, may have seen
Their elegant Notes; their clothes--they vow, and declare,
In London were made, as you may see by their air;
The skin on Sir _James_, is not so fit as his coat,
And fine Bristol beer washes his throat.
No Newcastle furniture their office degrades,
Sir _James Duncan_ employs no such bungling, vile blades,
As the paltry workmen, in this smokey town,
Whose finery often--has made us Bankers frown.
They are not worth an hundred thousand it’s true,
But supposing they were, cou’d the public, and you
Their friends be assured they wou’d not exceed
Their capital _twice_, when their paper you need,
And _wisely prefer_ it, to hard silver and gold,
Because you don’t _weigh_ it, and it’s much sooner told.
The notes of their brethern they will not refuse,
Let other bankers less _wise_, do that if they chuse;
The public they’ll serve, their cash take, and bills discount,
Except at Change hours, to any amount;
And when profusion and taxes, and of America the loss,
Old England has ruin’d--firm will stand the _Scale Cross_.
The critics our doggrels will sneer at, we suppose,
But _Strap_, who’s a GENIUS, has measur’d them, and knows,
Like a shoe on a last they are fit, and convey
Our intention completely, and it’s needless to say,
Newcastle, Exchange, Tyne, or Commercial Bank,[34]
Must yield to us in writing, as well as in rank,
No knight can they boast--and we his majesty thank.

_Sir J. Duncan, Hide, Strap, Last, Awl, & Jacob End._

SIR JAMES DUNCAN’s NOTES WERE AS FOLLOWS:--

No. 89.

_I Promise to pay Mr Benj. Bulk, or Bearer on Demand the Sum of_ Two Pence, _Value received_. Seale de Cross Bank, NEWCASTLE, _24 Jany 1784_.

_For Sir J. Duncan, Hide, Strap, Last, Awl, & Self, Jacob End._

Two Pence.

_Entd Jas Back, No. 89._

_N.B. Our Estates liable, and Copper taken._]

[33] We have observed, at a Coffee-house, that one of our brethren pronounces this word thus.

[34] Out of these four banks, only two now remain, (1812) _i.e._, the Newcastle, and the Tyne.

_AN ELEGY_, TO THE MEMORY OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LORD RAVENSWORTH.

_Who died, January 30th, 1784, Aged 76._

Liddell, farewell! to all true Britons dear,
We mourn in heart, and shed the friendly tear:
Yet not for thee our eyes in tears we steep,
Our grief is selfish--for ourselves we weep:
No loss by death the worthy can sustain,
We are the losers--and our loss thy gain.
The rich have lost, by thy lamented end,
The _best_ of neighbours; and the poor a _friend_.
O RAVENSWORTH! thy hospitable door
Receiv’d the wealthy, and reliev’d the poor.
Adorn’d with ev’ry virtue, ev’ry grace
Which nature _e’er_ bestow’d on human race.
Through a long life, example bright thou shone!
By all belov’d:--Now each regrets thou’rt gone!
Thy suff’rings here were weigh’d; nor shall thy death
Be more than ceasing of thy mortal breath;
Thy Master calls, ripe for thy Master’s joy,
Where love and bliss, the upright mind employ.
Speak ye, who knew him best, what man can say,
That LIDDELL could the distant friend betray!
To friendship true, no scandal from his tongue;
To hurt a friend, or do his foe a wrong.
For truth he try’d, enquir’d, and careful sought,
Yet lov’d the man altho’ he diff’rent thought.
Who’s right! be left to that decisive day,
When truth’s bright beams shall shine without allay.
Ne’er sway’d by notions, nor to schemes confin’d,
His breast was open to the honest mind.
Whatever noble warmth could recommend,
The just, the active, and the constant friend;
Whatever great or good we can adore,
Center’d in him--in him alas! no more.
Thus love, peace, joy, with a distinguish’d grace,
Shone thro’ the features of his friendly face.
How near approaches to a life divine,
The man in whom the peaceful virtues shine?
In public charities he foremost stood,
And likewise private----always doing good.
The poor, in him, a friend was sure to find,
And to their wants, his purse he free resign’d.
Such the kind man! May we like him be wise,
Pursue his virtuous steps, and with him reach the prize.

_T.R._

_LINES_ ON THE DEATH OF JOHN, LORD DELAVAL; _Who died, May 17th, 1808.--Aged 80._

By M. Harvey.

In hollow murmurs o’er the bending reeds
Sorrow’s keen accents sweep across the meads;
And as the grief-charg’d sound moves sad along,
Unstrings the lute, and stills the wood nymph’s song.
O’er all the sad’n’d scene the mournful train,
In keenest anguish, join the solemn strain;
Whilst recollection, with tenacious power,
Thickens the gloom that damps the passing hour.
The many banner’d trump of clarion fame,
Sounds in full chords the blood stain’d warrior’s name,
Echoes to realms remote, and nations far,
The mighty power of man-destroying war.
Deadens with magic force each softer lay,
That throng’d the courts, and made the vallies gay:
While the vain phantom, honour, barbs the wand,
That waves destruction o’er the smiling land.
And ’midst the accents of her harsher lays,
Shall she forget to sound the good man’s praise?
Forbid it, every spark of social love,
That made, through life, his every passion move;
That taught his heart with sympathy to glow,
To stem the torrent of domestic woe.
Whose open hand strew’d o’er the lowly scene,
Plenty’s gay smiles, and joy’s delighted mien;
Whose presence cheer’d, with animating ray,
Life’s highest walks, and made the gay more gay:
Fitted alike to grace the lordly dome,
Or in the cottage make contentment bloom:
Thy virtues, DELAVAL, we long shall mourn,
And wash, with unfeign’d tears, thy hallow’d urn.
No laurel wreath, nor high poetic lays
Need bloom, or live in song to sound thy praise;
For whilst thy loss our keenest sorrow moves,
O’er all the _past_, delighted fancy roves;
Each fond remembrance that reverts to thee,
Tells what our _present_ conduct ought to be;
And points, with heavenward aim, to that Dread Power,
Whose mystic means unfolds the _future_ hour;
Cheers the dark gloom of life’s last setting ray,
And leads us on to everlasting day!

THE WALLSEND RIFLE CORPS.

Of a’ the many bonny corps,
Which now our country nigh fill,
Where can ye shew me sic a corps,
As the bonny Wallsend Rifle?
The bonny Wallsend Rifle,
The canny Wallsend Rifle;
Where can ye shew me sic a corps,
As the bonny Wallsend Rifle?

Whe loups the dykes, an’ climbs the wa’s,
Then thinks it but a trifle?
Why, naen amang the black-breek’d chaps;
Naen but the Wallsend Rifle.
The bonny, &c.

They’ve brav’ry aboon the een;
And when on Throckley High Fell,
Th’ Newcastle chaps dar’d not engage;
They tuke the Wallsend Rifle.
The bonny, &c.

To see them shut, then run, then shut,
And then fall down or lye still:
O wuns! it’s better than a play,
The bonny Wallsend Rifle.
The bonny, &c.

With bravery to kill the French,
Long may their bosoms high fill:
And long may monny on us sing--
The bonny Wallsend Rifle.
The bonny, &c.

SONG. _Written on the King’s Birth-day, 1808._

_Tune_--Sons of the Tyne.

Come, haste to Newcastle, ye sons of fair Freedom,
You’ll there see a sight that will banish your fears;
A sight that would terrify Bonney, should he come,--
The sight I allude to’s our brave Volunteers.

Arrang’d in a row, with the brave Association;
The Gateshead, so gallant, are likewise in line;
Our Volunteers too, the defence of the nation,--
You likewise will see the bright Legion of Tyne.

The Sunderland too, with Artillery assemble;
The Shields and the Hexham with ardour appears;
The sight of these heroes would make Bonney tremble,
Could he get a peep at our brave Volunteers.

Ye fam’d Rifle corps, I must too praise your merit;
You’ll always be ready when glory does call;
The whole fir’d with freedom, with ardour and spirit,
When flank’d by the boys from the End of the Wall.[35]

You Patriots assembled on this grand occasion,
A sight that’s so noble each wounded mind cheers;
They’ll always be ready to repel invasion,
And merit the title of brave Volunteers.

May courage and candour still all your minds govern,--
Your zeal in the pages of history will shine;
Be true to your country and just to your Sovereign,
Ye sons of fair Freedom, of Wear and of Tyne.

[35] Wallsend.

THE TOKEN MONGER. A SONG.

_Tune_--Erin go bragh.

The plaint of a mourner, deep sorrow oppress’d with,
Late, as thro’ Dean Street I pass’d, caught my ear;
’Twas a poor Token Monger, who prudence unbless’d with,
Had receiv’d for _presumption_, a trimming severe.
He gaz’d on the _caution_[36] with wonder dumb founded,
His dear self-importance severely was wounded,
At such a long list of opponents confounded:
The _tokens_ he issued, were tokens of woe.

Ah well-a-day! said the poor Token Monger,
My project is scouted, my _Mint’s_ at a stand;
Alas! the sweet hope, I must cherish no longer,
Of Jehu-like driving four in hand.
Oh why! e’er in day dreams illusive exulting,
Why did I my neighbours ne’er think of consulting!
Now grief from their _fiat_ so hostile resulting,
Compels me to issue the tokens of woe!

I’ve sported rare _logic_, I’ve stuck not at _bouncing_,
I’ve prov’d myself rich as a _crœsus_ in _brass_;
I’ve amus’d the whole town with my vaunting and flouncing;
But vain are my labours, the _tokens_ won’t _pass_!
Vain too is thy friendship, dear Butterfly Billy,
Of all my supporters, most noisy and silly;
Wilt thou still take my tokens? sweet daffa-down-dilly:
Oh! those which I issue are tokens of woe!

Vanity whisper’d me, “John thou art clever,
“Thy neighbours beyond their own noses can’t see;”
I foolishly thought so, but never, oh never,
Was mortal more sadly mistaken than me.
Down from your windows, my friends, snatch your papers,
The ridicule now of all _starers_ and _gapers_;
Some wag I am fearful will give you the _vapours_,
By offering you payment in tokens of woe.

Join, O ye pay clerks, my loud lamentations,
Come my ill luck sympathetic deplore:
On discount you reckon’d, but such expectations,
Alas! my good friends, you must cherish no more.
Tokens! God help me! why, why should I make them!
Neither will Pitmen or Keelmen now take them;
E’en in their wagers, they scruple to stake them,
Oh! none must I issue but tokens of woe!

No more of his sorrows the muse hath recorded,
Tho’ tunefully still he bewail’d his sad fate;
For listning no longer enjoyment afforded;
The evening was chilly, the hour it was late.
Ah, thought I, as quick homeward I now was repairing,
’Tis just with all _wrong-heads_, presumptious and daring,
In their projects, the end with the means never squaring,
Still baffled, they issue the tokens of woe.

[36] A caution against the tokens, signed by 118 persons, was published 26th November, 1811.

_The following Dialogue, in bad Prose, was overheard by the Person who now attempts it in bad Verse._

(December, 1811.)

“Hey, Jacky, ma honey, hae ye seen the new money,
The money, that’s made, mun, at Newcastle town?
It’s bonie an’ breet, man, an’ tho’ it’s but leet, man,
Folks like it sae weel, that the notes are off flown.

“I frae the chap got, man, a score for a note, man;
An’ smash me! I thought him a thick headed feul;
T’ gie siller for paper, is sure a queer caper:
We knaw which is better, Jack, we were at skeul.”

“But, Will, I’ve a notion, you han’t seen the caution,[37]
The grocer folks up i’ their windows hae put;
They say they’ll be broken, if they take a token;
An’ seun that their shops they will hae for to shut.”

“Why, Jack, sure they’re feulish, to refuse them is cullish,
Why siller, man’s, siller, and paper’s but rags;
And as lang as we knaw that, there’s nane o’ them a’ that
Will make us put paper stead sill i’ wor bags.

“The bank there of Surtees, ye knaw how it hurt hus;
And, for the five score pund I’d laid by for’t lass,
They’re now off’ring twenty, an thinking it plenty;
Tho’ years ago, Jack, I was starving for’t brass.

“An Jack i’ the raw, ye very weel knaw,
The loss he cam too, when his house it was brunt:
His kistful of paper, went up in a vapour,
An of his sixscore pund he heard na mair on’t.

“No, no more their notes, shall they cram down our throats,
When we siller can get, man, to put i’ wour kists:
A f----t for their signing, an cautions sae whining,
Let them who won’t take them, wey, do it that lists.”

[37] The caution was mostly signed by the grocers of the town; it having been devised at their trade meeting.

FOOTY AGAIN THE WALL.

_A Song much sung some Years ago, by the Pitmen about Long Benton._

Fra Benton Bank, to Benton town,
There’s not a Pitman’s raw:
So when ye get to the Moor Yate,
Play footy again the wa’.
Then hie footy, and how footy,
And footy again the wa’;
And when ye get to the Moor Yate,
Play footy again the wa’.

The wife went down the Moor Lonnin,
And let her basket fa’;
For when she gat to the Moor Yate,
Play’d footy again the wa’.
Then hie, &c.

The stoby road’s a stoby place,
And some o’ the stobs are la’;
But still there’s some that’s high enough,
For footy again the wa’.
Then hie, &c.

The Holy Stone’s a holy place,
The trees are thick and la’;
But they are nought to the Moor Yate,
For footy again the wa’.
Then hie, &c.

Wapping Square is a bonny place,
The houses are but sma’:
But in them yet there’s room enough,
For footy again the wa’.
Then hie, &c.

The lady did not like the house,
For the air it was raw;
It was sweeter far at the Moor Yate,
For footy again the wa’.
Then hie, &c.

Young Cuddy is a bonny lad,
And Robin’s tall and sma’;
But if you come to wour town end,
They’ll footy again the wa’.
Then hie, &c.

THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN.

_Fought the 9th of August, 1388._

Camden, in his Britannia, page 850, gives the following account of this battle:--“There happened this year, (1388) at Otterburn, in Northumberland, a stout engagement between the Scots and English:--Victory three or four times changing sides, and at last fixing with the Scots; for Henry Piercy, (for his youthful forwardness, by-named Hotspur) who commanded the English, was himself taken prisoner, and lost 1500 of his men; and William Douglass, the Scots general, fell, with the greatest part of his army; so that never was there a greater instance of the martial prowess of both nations.” Sir John Froysart (who lived at that time) gives a full account of this battle, and says, that it was Earl James Douglass who was the Scottish general. See _Eachard, Rapin, &c._

From an old MSS.

Yt fell abowght the Lamasse tyde,
Whan husbondes wynne ther haye,
The dowghtye Dowglasse bowynd him to ryde,
In Ynglond to take a praye:

The yerlle of Fyffe, withowghten stryffe,
He bowynd him over Sulway:
The grete wolde ever together ryde,
That raysse they may rewe for aye.

Over ‘Ottercap’ hyll they cam in,
And so dowyn by Rodelyffe crage,
Upon Grene ‘Leyton’ they lyghted dowyn,
’Styrande many a’ stage:

And boldely brente Northomberlonde,
And haryed many a towyn;
They dyd owr Ynglysh men grete wrange,
To battell that were not bowyn.

Than spake a berne upon the bent,
Of comforte that was not colde,
And sayd, we have brente Northomberlonde,
We have all welth in holde.

Now we have haryed all Bamboroweschyre,
All the welth in the worlde have wee,
I rede we ryde to Newe Castell,
So styll and stalwurthlye.

Upon the morrowe, when it was day,
The standerdes schone fulle bryght;
To the Newe Castell the toke the waye,
And thether they cam fulle ryght.

Syr Henry Perssye laye at the Newe Castell,[38]
I tell yow withowtten drede;
He had byn a march-man all hys dayes,
And kept Barwyke upon Twede.

To the Newe Castell when they cam,
The Skottes they cryde on hyght,
Syr Harye Perssye, and thow byste within,
Com to the fylde, and fyght:

For we have brente Northomberlonde,
Thy erytage good and ryght;
And syne my logeyng I have take,
With my brande dubbyd many a knyght.

Syr Harye Perssye cam to the walles,
The Skottysh oste for to se;
And sayd, And thou hast brente Northomberlonde,
Full sore it rewyeth me.

Yf thow hast haryed all Bamboroweschyre,
Thow hast done me grete envye;
For the trespasse thow hast me done,
The tone of us schall dye.

Where schall I byde the, sayd the Dowglasse,
Or where wylte thow com to me?
“At Otterborne in the hygh way,
Ther mast thow well looged be.

The roo full rekeless ther sche runnes,
To make the game and glee:
The fawken and the fesaunt both,
Among the holtes on hye.

Ther mast thow have thy welth at wyll,
Well looged ther mast be;
Yt schall not be long, or I com the tyll,”
Sayd syr Harye Perssye.

Ther schall I byde the, said the Dowglasse,
By the fayth of my bodye.
Thether schall I com, sayd syr Harye Perssye;
My trowth I plyght to the.

A pype of wyne he gave them over the walles,
For soth, as I yow saye,
Ther he myed the Dowglasse drynke,
And all hys ost that daye.

The Dowglasse turnyd hym homewarde agayne,
For soth withowghten naye,
He took hys logeynge at Otterborne
Upon a Wedynsday:

And ther he pyght hys standerd dowyn,
Hys gettyng more and lesse,
And syne he warned hys men to goo,
To chose ther geldynges gresse.

A Skottyshe knyght hoved upon the bent,
A wache I dare well saye:
So was he ware on the noble Perssy,
In the dawnyng of the daye.

He prycked to his pavyleon dore,
As fast as he myght ronne,
Awaken, Dowglasse, cryed the knyght,
For hys love that syttes in trone.

Awaken, Dowglasse, cryed the knyght,
For thow maste waken wyth wynne;
Yender have I spyed the prowde Perssye,
And seven standardes wyth hym.

Nay, by my trowth, the Dowglasse sayed,
Yt ys but a fayned taylle:
He durst not loke on my brede banner,
For all Ynglonde so haylle.

Was I not yesterdaye at the Newe Castell,
That stondes so fayre on Tyne?
For all the men the Perssye had,
He cowde not garr me ones to dyne.

He stepped owt at hys pavelyon dore,
To loke and yt were lesse;
“Araye yow, lordynges, one and all,
For here bygynnes no peysse.

The yerlle of Mentaye, thow art my erne,
The fowarde I gyve to thee:
The yerlle of Huntley cawte and kene,
He schall ‘wyth the be.’

The lorde of Bowghan in armure bryght,
On the other hand he schall be:
Lorde Jhonstone, and lorde Maxwell,
They to schall be wyth me.

Swynton fayre fylde upon your pryde,
To batell make yow bowen:
Syr Davy Skotte, syr Water Stewarde,
Syr Jhon of Agurstone.”

[38] The Scots, in this inroad, lay before Newcastle three days, where there was an almost continual skirmish. Sir Henry Percy, (with his brother, had come to Newcastle, on the intelligence of the Scots being abroad) in one of these skirmishes, lost his pennon or standard; and pledging himself to redeem it, followed the Scots to Otterburn, where the battle took place. See _Freysart’s Chronicles_.

_A FYTTE._

The Perssye came byfore hys oste,
Whych was ever a gentyll knyght,
Upon the Dowglasse lowde can he crye,
I wyll holde that I have hyght:

For thou haste brente Northomberlonde,
And done me grete envye;
For thys trespasse thow haste me done,
The tone of us schall dye.

The Dowglasse answerde him agayne,
With grete wurdes upon hye,
And sayd, I have twenty agaynst ‘thy’ one.
Byholde and thow maste see.

Wyth that the Perssye was grevyd sore,
For soth, as I yow saye:
He lyghted dowyn upon hys foote,
And schoote his horsse clene away.

Every man sawe that he dyd soo,
That rall was ever in rowght;
Every man schoote hys horsse hym froo,
And lyght hym rowynde abowght.

This syr Harye Perssye toke the fylde,
For soth, as I yow saye:
Jesu Cryste in heven on hyght
Dyd helpe hym well that daye.

But nyne thowsande, ther was no moo;
The cronykle wyll not layne:
Forty thowsande Skottes and fowre
That day fowght them agayne.

But when the battell byganne to joyne,
In hast ther cam a knyght,
The letters fayr furth hath he tayne,
And thus he sayd full ryght:

My lorde, your father he gretes yow well,
Wyth many a noble knyght;
He desyres yow to byde
That he may see thys fyght.

The baron of Grastoke ys com owt of the west,
Wyth hym a noble companye;
All they loge at your fathers thys nyght,
And the battell fayne wolde they see.

For Jesus love, sayd syr Harye Perssye,
That dyed for yow and me,
Wende to my lorde my father agayne,
And saye thow sawe me not wyth yee.

My trowth ys plyght to yonne Skottysh knyght,
Yt nedes me not to layne,
That I schulde byde hym upon thys bent,
And I have hys trowth agayne:

And yf that I wynde off thys growende,
For soth onfowghten awaye,
He wolde me call but a kowarde knyght
Yn hys londe another daye.

Yet had I lever to be rynde and rente,
By Mary that mykell maye,
Then ever my manhood schulde be reprovyd,
Wyth a Skotte another daye.

Wherfore, schote, archars, for my sake,
And let scharpe arowes flee:
Mynstrells, playe up for your waryson,
And well quyt yt schall be.

Every man thynke on hys trewe love,
And marke hym to the Trenite:
For to God I make myne avowe
This daye wyll I not fle.

The blodye harte yn the Dowglas armes,[39]
Hys standerde stode on hye;
That every man myght full well knowe,
By syde stode starres thre.

The whyte lyon on the Ynglyssh perte,
Forsoth as I yow sayne;
The lucettes and the ‘cressawntes’ both;
The Skottes fowght them agayne.

Upon sent Andrewe lowde can they crye,
And thrysse they schowte on ayght,
And syne marked them one owr Ynglysshe men,
As I have tolde yow ryght.

Sent George the bryght, owr ladyes knyght,
To name they were full fayne;
Owr Ynglisshe men they cryde on hyght,
And thrysse the schowtte agayne.

Wyth that scharpe arowes bygan to flee,
I tell yow in sertayne;
Men of armes byganne to joyne;
Many a dowghty man was ther slayne.

The Perssye and the Dowglas mette,
That ather of other was fayne;
They ‘swapped’ together whyll that the swette,
Wyth swordes of fine collayne;

Tyll the bloode from ther bassonettes ranne,
As the roke doth in the rayne.
Yelde the to me, sayd the Dowglas,
Or ellse thow schalt be slayne:

For I see, by thy bryght bassonet,
Thow arte sum man of myght;
And so I do by thy burnysshed brande,
Thow art an yerle, or elles a knyght.

By my good faythe, sayd the noble Perssye,
Now haste thou rede full ryght,
Yet wyll I never yelde me to the,
Whyll I may stonde and fyght.

They swapped together, whyll that they swette,
Wyth swordes scharpe and long;
Ych on other so faste thee beette,
Tyll ther helmes cam in peyses dowyn.

The Perssye was a man of strength,
I tell yow in thys stounde,
He smote the Dowglas at the swordes length,
That he felle to the growynde.

The sworde was scharpe and sore can byte,
I tell yow in sertayne;
To the harte he cowde him smyte,
Thus was the Dowglas slayne.

The stonderdes stode styll on ‘elke’ asyde,
Wyth many a grevous grone;
Ther the fowght the daye, and all the nyght,
And many a dowghty man was slayne.

Ther was no freke that ther wolde flye,
But styffely in stowre can stond,
Ych one hewyng on other whyll they myght drye,
Wyth many a bayllefull bronde.

Ther was slayne upon the Skottes syde,
For soth and sertenly,
Syr James a Dowglas ther was slayne,
That daye that he cowde dye.

The yerlle of Mentaye he was slayne.
Grysely groned uppon the growynd;
Syr Davy Skotte, syr Water Stewarde,
Syr Jhon of Agurstonne.

Syr Charlles Morrey in that place,
That never a fote wold flee;
Syr Hugh Maxwell, a lorde he was,
Wyth the Dowglasse dyd he dye.

Ther was slayne upon the Skottes syde,
For soth as I yow saye,
For fowre and forty thowsande Skottes
Went but eyghtene awaye.

Ther was slayne upon the Ynglysshe syde,
For soth and sertenlye,
A gentyll knyght, syr Jhon ‘Fitzhewe,’
Yt was the more pety.

Syr James Harebotell ther was slayne,
For hym ther hartes were sore,
The gentyll ‘Lovell’ ther was slayne,
That the Perssye’s standerd bore.

Ther was slayne upon the Ynglysshe perte,
For soth as I yow saye;
Of nyne thowsande Ynglysshe men,
Fyve hondert cam awaye:

The other were slayne in the fylde,
Cryste kepe ther sowlles from wo,
Seying ther was so fewe fryndes
Agaynst so many a foo.

Then on the morne they mayde them beerys
Of byrch, and haysell graye;
Many a widowe wyth wepyng teyres
Ther makes they fette awaye.

Thys fraye bygan at Otterborne
Bytwene the nyghte and the daye;
Ther the Dowglas lost hys lyffe,
And the Perssye was lede awaye.

Then was ther a Scottysh prysoner tayne,
Syr Hewe Montgomery was hys name,
For soth as I yow saye,
He borrowed the Perssye home agayne.

Now let us all for the Perssye praye,
To Jesu most of myght,
To bryng hys sowlle to the blysse of heven,
For he was a gentyll knyght.

[39] The armorial ensigns of Douglas were Argent, a Man’s Heart, Gules, and on a chief Azure three stars of the first.

THE BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE.

It fell and about the Lammas time,
When husband men do win their hay,
Earl DOUGLAS is to the English woods,
And a’ with him to fetch a prey.

He has chosen the LINDSAYS light,
With them the gallant GORDONS gay,
And the Earl of FYFE withouten strife,
And Sir HUGH MONTGOMERY upon a grey.

They hae taken Northumberland,
And sae hae they the North-shire,
And the Otter-dale they burnt it hale,
And set it a’ into a fire.

Out then spack a bonny boy,
That serv’d ane o’ Earl DOUGLAS’ kin;
Methinks I see an English host
A-coming branken us upon.

If this be true, my little boy,
An it be troth that thou tells me,
The brawest bower in Otterbourne,
This day shall be thy morning fee.

But if it be false, my little boy,
And but a lie that thou tells me;
On the highest tree that’s in Otterbourne,
With my awin hands I’ll hing thee hie.

The boy’s taen out his little penknife,
That hanget low down by his gare,
And he gae Earl DOUGLAS a deadly wound,
Alack! a deep wound and a sare.

Earl DOUGLAS said to Sir HUGH MONTGOMERY,
Tack thou the vanguard o’ the three;
And bury me at yon braken bush,
That stands upon yon lilly lee.

Then PERCY and MONTGOMERY met,
And weel a wat they war na fain;
They swapped swords, and they twa swat,
And ay the blood ran down between.

O yield thee, yield thee, PERCY, he said,
Or else I vow I’ll lay thee low.
Whom to shall I yield? said Earl PERCY;
Now that I see it maun be so.

O yield thee to yon braken bush,
That grows upon yon lilly lee.
As in that bush a bier there be,
For it I’d save thy life and thee.

I winna yield to a braken bush,
Nor yet will I unto a bier;
But I wad yield to Earl DOUGLAS,
Or Sir HUGH MONTGOMERY, if he was here.

As soon as he knew it was MONTGOMERY,
He stuck his sword’s point in the ground:
And Sir HUGH MONTGOMERY was a courteous knight,
And he quickly brought him by the hand.

The deed was done at Otterbourne,
About the breaking o’ the day.
Earl DOUGLAS was buried at the braken bush,
And PERCY led captive away.

THE HUNTING OF THE CHYVIAT.

Percy says this old ballad was wrote by one _Richard Sbeale_, about the time of Henry VI. in whose reign several James’s were kings of Scotland. _See his Notes on this Poem._

The Persé owt off Northomberlonde,
And a vowe to God mayd he,
That he wold hunte in the mountayns
Of Chyviat within dayes thre;
In the magger of doughté Dogles,
And all that ever with him be.

The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat,
He sayd he wold kyll, and cary them away.
By my feth, sayd the doughté Doglas agayn,
I wyll let that hontyng yf that I may.

Then the Persé owt of Bamborowe cam,
With him a myghtee meany;
With fifteen hondrith archares bold, off blood and bone,
The wear chosen owt of shayrs thre.

This beganne on a Monday at morn,
In Chyviat the hillys so he;
The chyld may rue that ys unborn,
It was the mor pitté.

The dryvers thorowe the woodes went
For to reas the deare;
Bomen byckarte uppone the bent
With ther browd aras cleare.

Then the wyld thorowe the woodes went
On every syde shear;
Grea hondes thorowe the grevis glent
For to kyll thear dear.

The beganne in Chyviat the hyls above,
Yerly on a sonny’tn day;
Be that it drewe to the oware off none
A hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay.

The blewe a mort uppone the bent,
The semblyd on sydes shear;
To the quyrry then the Persé went
To se the bryttlynge off the deare.

He sayd, It was the Doglas promys
This day to met me hear;
But I wyste he wold faylle verament:
A great oath the Persé swear.

At the last a squyar of ‘Northomberlonde,’
Lookyde at his hande full ny,
He was war ath the doughetie Doglas commynge,
With him a myghtté meany.

Both with spear, byll, and brande:
Yt was a myghti sight to se,
Hardyar men both off harte nar hande
Wear not in Christiantè.

The wear twenty hondrith spear-men good,
Withowte any feale;
The wear borne along be the watter a Twyde,
Yth bowndes of Tividale.

Leave off the brytlyng of the deare, he sayde,
And to your bowys lock ye tayk good heed;
For never sithe ye wear on your mothars borne
Had ye never so mickle ned.

The dougheti Dogglas on a stede
He rode all his men beforne;
His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede;
A bolder barne was never born.

Tell me ‘what’ men ye ar, he says,
Or whos men that ye be:
Who gave youe leave to hunte in this
Chyviat chays in the spyt of me?

The first mane that ever him an answear mayd,
It was the good lord Persé:
We wyll not tell the ‘what’ men we ar, he says,
Nor whos men that we be;
But we will hount hear in this chays
In the spyt of thyne and of the.

The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat
We have kyld, and cast to carry them away.
Be my troth, sayd the doughté ‘Dogglas’ agayn,
Ther for the ton of us shall de this day.

Then sayd the doughté Dogglas,
Unto the lord Persé:
To kyll all these giltles men,
Alas! it wear great pitté.

But, Persé, thowe art a lorde of lande,
I am a yerle callyd within my contrè;
Let all our men uppone a parti stande;
And do the battell off the and of me.

Now Cristes cors on his crowne, sayd the lord Persé,
Who soever ther to says nay.
Be my troth, doughté Doglas, he says,
Thow shalt never se that day;

Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar France,
Nor for no man of a woman born,
But and fortune be my chance,
I dar met him on man for on.

Then bespayke a squyar of Northombarlonde,
Ric. Wytheryngton was his nam;
It shall never be tolde in Sothe Ynglonde, he says,
To kyng Herry the fourth for sham.

I wat youe byn great lordes twaw,
I am a poor squyar of lande;
I wyll never se my captayne fyght on a fylde,
And stande myselffe, and loocke on,
But whyll I may my weppone welde
I wyll not [fayl] bothe harte and hande.

That day, that day, that dredfull day,
The first fit here I fynde:
And youe wyll here any mor athe hountyng athe Chyviat,
Yet ys ther more behynd.

(_FIT THE SECOND._)

The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent,
Ther hartes were good yenoughe;
The first off arros that the shote off,
Seven skore spear-men the sloughe.

Yet byddys the yerle Doglas uppon the bent,
A captayne good yenoughe,
And that was sene verament,
For he wrought them hom both woo and wouche.

The Doglas pertyd his ost in thre,
Lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde,
With suar speares off myghtté tre,
The cum in on every syde.

Thrugke our Yngglyshe archery
Gave many a wounde full wyde;
Many a doughete the garde to dy,
Which ganyde them no pryde.

The Yngglyshe men let thear ‘bowys’ be.
And pulde owt brandes that wer bright;
It was a hevy syght to se
Bryght swordes on basnites lyght.

Thorowe ryche male, and myne-ye-ple,
Many sterne the stroke done streght:
Many a freyke, that was full fre,
Ther undar foot dyd lyght.

At last the Doglas and the Persé met,
Lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne;
The swapte togethar tyll the both swat
With swordes that wear of fyn myllan.