Chapter V: Preface (5)

I never stole an ox or cow,
Nor ever murdered any:
But fifty horse I did receive
Of a merchant’s man of Gory.
Heigh-ho, &c.

For which I am condemn’d to dye
Though guiltlesse I stand dying:
Deare gracious God, my soule receive,
For now my life is flying,
Heigh-ho, &c.

The man of death a part did act,
Which grieves me tell the story;
God comfort all are comfortlesse,
And did so well as Georgie.
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, my bonny love,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my bonny;
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, mine own true love,
Sweet Christ receive my Georgie.

_EPITAPH_ ON WILLIAM BELL, LATE A RESIDENT ON GATESHEAD FELL.

_By Samuel Barras._

Here lies the corpse of William Bell,
The great good man of Gateshead Fell:
Zealous in his Master’s cause,
A strict observer of his laws:
He liv’d by faith, and not by sight:
With full assurance took his flight,
Unto that sweet delicious coast,
Where hope is in fruition lost.

AN EXCELLENT BALLAD _On the Sickness, Death, and Burial_, OF ECKY’s MARE;

_Which was made and composed by the late ancient and famous Northern poet, Mr BERNARD RUMNEY, a musician, or country fidler, who lived and died at Rothbury, being about one hundred years old at the time of his death._

Wold you please to hear of a sang of dule,
Of yea sad chance and pittifow case,
Makes the peur man powt through many a pule,
And leuk on mony an unkend face?

Between the Yule but and the Pasch,
In a private place, where as I lay,
I heard ane sigh, and cry, alas!
What shall I outher dea or say?

A man that’s born of a middle-yeard wight,
For wealth or pelth can no be secure;
For he may have enough at night,
And the next morn he may be fow peur.

I speak this by a Northumberland man,
The proverb’s true proves by himself;
Since the horse-couping he began,
He had great cause to crack of wealth.

Of galloways he was well stockt,
What some part first, what some part last;
But I’ll no speak much to his praise,
For some of them gat o’re lang a fast.

Some of them gat a shrowish cast,
Which was nae teaken of much pelth;
But yet he hopes, if life dea last,
To see the day to crack of welth.

But aye the warst cast still comes last,
He had nae geuds left but a Mear,
There was mair diseases did her attend
Nor I can name in half a year.

If Markham he himself was here,
A famous farrier although he be,
It wad set aw his wits astear
To reckon her diseases in their degree.

But her sicknesses we’ll set aside,
Now tauk we of the peur man’s cost,
And how she lev’d, and how she died,
And how his labour aw was lost.

In the winter-time she took a hoast,
And aw whilk while she was noe weell;
But yet her stomach ne’er was lost,
Although she never had her heal.

Now for her feud she went so yare,
An the fiend had been a truss of hey,
She wad a swallowed him and mickle mare,
Bequeen the night but an the dey.

The peur man cries out Armyes aye,
I see that she’s noe like to mend,
She beggers me with haver and hey,
I wish her some untimous end.

Nae sooner pray’d, but as soon heard,
She touck a fawing down behind,
She wad a thousand men a scar’d,
To have felt her how she fill’d the wind.

Her master he went out at night,
Of whilk he had oft mickle need,
He left her neane her bed to right,
Nor neane for to had up her head.

Next day when he came to the town,
He ran to see his mear with speed,
He thought she had fawn in a swoon,
But when he try’d she was cald dead.

It’s ever alas! but what remeed,
Had she play’d me this at Michaelmas,
It wad a studden me in geud steed,
And sav’d me both yeats, hay and grass.

There’s ne’er an elf in aw the town,
That hardly weell can say his creed,
But he will swear a solemn oath,
Crack o’ wealth Ecky’s mear cau’d dead.

Lad, wilt thou for Hob Trumble run?
I ken he will come at my need;
That seun he may take off her skin,
For I mun leeve though she be dead.

Now straight he came with knife in hand,
He flead her fra the top to th’ tail,
He left nae mare skin on her aw
Then wad been a heudin to a flail.

He seld her haill hide for a groat,
So far I let you understand,
And what he did weed he may well weet,
For he bought neither house nor land.

Now have I cassen away my care,
And hope to live to get another;
And night and day shall be my prayer,
The fiend gae down the loaning with her.

Now shall I draw it near an end,
And tauk nae mare of her at least,
But hoping none for to offend,
You shall hear part of her funeral feast.

To her resorted mony a beak,
And birds of sundry sorts of hue;
There was three hundred at the least,
You may believe it to be true.

Sir Ingram Corby he came first there,
With his fair lady clad in black,
And with him swarms there did appear
Of piots hopping at his back.

The carrion craw she was not slack,
Aw cled into her mourning weed,
With her resorted mony a mack
Of greedy kite and hungry gleede.

When they were aw conven’d compleat,
And every yean had taen their place;
So rudely they fell tea their meat,
But nane thought on to say the grace.

Some rip’d her ribs, some pluck’d her face,
Nae bit of her was to be seen;
Sir Ingram Corby in that place,
Himself he pick’d out baith her eyne.

But wait ye what an a chance befel,
When they were at this jolly chear,
Sir William Bark, I can you tell,
He unexpected lighted there.

Put aw the feasters in sike a fear,
Some hopt away, some flew aside,
There was not ane durst come him near,
Nay not sir Corby, nor his bride.

He came not with a single side,
For mony a tike did him attend,
I wait he was no puft we pride,
As you shall hear before I end.

See rudely they fell to the meat,
But napkin, trencher, salt, or knife;
Some to the head, some to the feet,
While banes geud bare there was na strife.

In came there a tike, they cau’d him Grim,
Sea greedily he did her gripe,
But he rave out her belly-rim,
And aw her puddings he made pipe.

Her lights, her liver, but an her tripe,
They lay all trailing upon the green;
They were aw gane with a sudden wipe,
Not any of them was to be seen.

But suddenly begeud a feast,
And after that begeud a fray;
The tikes that were baith weak and least,
They carried aw the bats away.

And they that were of the weaker sort,
They harl’d her through the paddock-peul,
They leugh, and said it was good sport,
When they had drest her like a feule.

Thus have you heard of Ecky’s mear,
How pitifully she made her end;
I write unto you far and near,
Who says her death is no well penn’d.

I leave it to yoursel’s to mend,
That chance the peur man need again;
If it be ill penn’d it is well kend,
I got as little for my ‘pain.’

STANZAS, _Addressed to Northumbria_.

Old Janus advances all cloathed in white,
And his long-smother’d tempests sends forth;
On the mountains cold bosom, as black as the night,
Sinks the dark rolling clouds of the north.

In their winding sheets rob’d are the hills and the dales,
And the verdure no longer is seen;
Save where the slow streams wind their way thro’ the vales,
With their margins besprinkled with green.

On the stump of a thorn, with his bosom of red,
See the robin his thankful notes raise
For his crumbs--by his precepts, oh! may I be led
To give the All-bounteous due praise.

Hark! the blast sweeps the heath; see the mountain fir bend;
Thick tempests obscure the pale sky;
The fast-gathering drift on the hedge see descend,
And streams of faint lightning flash by.

Yes, Northumbria, thy climate is cold and severe;
There winter usurps the blithe spring;
And through the wide range of the circling year,
Chilling damps to thy bosom will cling.

Yet thy health-giving breeze, be it ever so cold,
Knits the nerves of thy children for war;
Whose proud speaking eye in the soldier behold,
And for whose dauntless heart view the tar.

He bounds o’er thy brooks, and he climbs thy wild rocks,
Health and vigour inhales from the breeze;
Despising in manhood the tempest’s rude shocks,
Fearless quits his dear home for the seas.

Lo! the canvas it swell’d: from the banks of the Tyne,
The vessel scuds swiftly along;
From his eye independant, see stern valour shine,
As he hums a Northumbrian song.

Now the battle-day comes, and far, far from his shore,
The squadrons of France meet his eyes;
Unaw’d his proud heart, ’mid the cannons’ loud roar,
He with Collingwood conquers and dies.

From thy hills, too, at sound of the heart-rousing drum,
Thy war breathing soldier retires;
In lion-like strength seeks the carnage field’s hum,
Fights--blesses thy name--and expires!

Such, such are the heroes in thy vallies rear’d,
Such, Northumbria, thy children still be:
Proud commerce, from Tyne’s banks in glory uprear’d,
To her breast clasps the lords of the sea.

Come forward ye dark rolling clouds of the north,
Who shrinks from your blasts but the coward and slave?
Ye nerve the bold sons that Northumbria sends forth,
To fight for her king on Trafalgar’s proud wave.

_January 2d, 1807._

BOTHWELL.

_THOMAS WHITTLE._

The author of the five succeeding pieces of poetry, a Northumbrian by birth, and was long resident in the neighbourhood of Cambo, as appears by the following lines taken from his WHIMSICAL LOVE with ANN DOBSON:--

“At Cambo, on a fatal day,
I chanc’d to see and view
This Celia’s face, more fresh than May,
When every blossom’s new;
Like patient Grissel, at her wheel,
Acting the housewife’s part,
My spirits in my veins did reel,
And love danc’d in my heart.”

As also from the History of Northumberland, (1811) Vol. II, page 221.

“Cambo was the favourite residence of the ingenious and eccentric Thomas Whittle, whose comic productions often beguile the long winter evenings of our rustic Northumbrians. His parents and the place of his birth are unknown. It is believed that he was the natural son of a gentleman of fortune, and that he was called Whittle from the place of his nativity, which some say was in the parish of Shilbottle, and others in the parish of Ovingham.

“Though Whittle was a profligate in his life, and sometimes licentious in his compositions, yet the superior talents he has displayed in his best productions, sufficiently entitle him to our notice in this work. His poems and songs have long been perused by the people of the county with eager admiration and delight, and will probably be a source of entertainment to many succeeding generations. His Whimsical Love is a master-piece of its kind; and his Poetic Letter to the Razor-setter, his satirical Poem on William Carstairs, and his song called the Mitford Galloway, are replete with wit and humour, and will afford a mental feast to all who have a taste for comic poetry.” The last of which was published during his life, with the following old wood cut, as a head piece to it:--

THE MIDFORD GALLOWAY’s RAMBLE.

BY THOMAS WHITTLE.

To the Tune of, _Ranting roaring Willy_.

The routing the earl of Mar’s forces,
Has given their neighbours supplies;
They’ve stock’d us with Highlanders horses,
Like kileys for madness and size:
The whirligig-maker of Midford
Has gotten one holds such a stear,
He’s had worse work with it, I’ll say for’t
Than Ecky e’er had with his mear.

The devil ne’er saw such a gelding
As this to be foal’d of a mear;
The size ont’s a shame to be teld on,
And yet it could skip like a deer;
For colour and size (I’m a sinner,
I scorn, as the folks say, to slide,)
’Twas just like Hob Trumble’s gimmer,
Which he sold for six-pence a side.

It was a confounded bad liver,
Like Ferry the piper’s old cat;
It ne’er could be brought to behaviour,
Though it has got many a bat;
It had been so spoil’d in up-bringing,
It vext his poor heart every day;
Sometimes with biting and flinging,
And sometimes with running away.

Perhaps it was brought up a Tory,
And knew the poor man for a Whig;
But just to make short of the story,
I’ll tell you one day what it did:
When business came thicker and thicker,
And would not admit of delay,
As fast as the heels on’t could bicker,
It scamper’d right northward away.

O’er rocks, over mountains and ditches,
Dike-gutters and hedges it speels;
A courser could never keep stretches
With it for a large share of heels:
From hill unto dale like a fairy,
It hurry’d and pranced along,
While Geordy was in a quandary,
And knew not what way it was gone.

A day or two after, have at it,
He north in pursuit on’t took chase,
And like a dub-skelper he trotted,
To many strange village and place;
All Rothbury forest he ranged,
From corner to corner like mad,
And still he admired and stranged,
What vengeance was gone with his pad.

He circled about like a ring-worm,
And follow’d the scent of his nose,
And from Heslyhurst unto Brinkburn,
With Fortune the clothier he goes.
To honest Tom Fawdon’s the fuller,
The rattle-brain’d roisters both went,
Tho’ they made the gelding their colour,
Another thing was their intent.

Tom Fawdon soon knew what they wanted,
And straightway the table was set,
With bread, butter and cheese it was planted,
And good ale, as well as good meat;
Their grace took but little inditing,
’Twas short and they had it by heart;
And they took as little inviting,
But strove who should have the fore-start.

They used no bashful dissembling,
But to in a passion did fall,
The dishes did by them stand trembling,
Their mercy appeared so small:
The butter, the cheese, and the bannocks,
Dissolved like snow in a fresh,
And still as they stuck in their stomachs,
With liquor they did them down wash.

The Dutch, nor the Welsh, nor wight Wallace,
Did ever like them show their spleen,
The cheese bore the marks of their malice,
Their knives and their teeth were so keen.
Two stone they destroyed, shame be’n them,
And pour’d down their liquor like spouts,
Their guts to hold what they put in them,
Were drest like a pair of strait boots.

With bellies top-full to the rigging,
I leave them to settle a bit,
’Till making good use of the midding,
‘Do’ bring them unto a right set.
Now come we to speak of the gelding,
Who knowing that he did offend,
Stay’d two or three days about Weldon,
To make justice Lisle stand his friend.

He after that grew so unlucky,
On mischief and ill he was bent,
He prov’d a right North-country jockey,
Still cheating where ever he went.
At many men’s charges he dined,
But never ask’d what was arrear;
Yet no man could get him confined,
So slily himself he did clear.

The town of Longframlington further
Can give an account what he is,
He came within acting of murder,
As near as a horse could to miss;
For unto a house he went scudding,
And seeing a child all alone,
If Providence had not withstood him,
He’d struck it as dead as a stone.

The rest of his acts are recorded,
’Tis nonsense to mention them here;
I’ll go back and fetch Geordy forward,
He’s tarri’d too long I do fear!
From Brinkburn he started and held on,
Directly to Framlington town,
And then to the miller’s at Weldon,
He back o’er the hill tumbled down.

Not finding the thing that he wanted,
Unto Hedleywood he did trot,
He was tost like a dog in a blanket,
O’er Coquet and back in the boat:
All Framlington fields he sought over,
And from spot to spot he did run,
For fear the grass chanced to cover
His pad, as it once did Tom Thumb.

Then up to John Alders he drabbeth,
And there all the night did repose,
And then, the next day being Sabbath,
Away he to Whittingham goes;
Where he to revenge the miscarriage
Of his little scatter-brain’d nag,
He went to the clerk of the parish,
To get him expos’d for a vague.

The clerk he soon set up his cropping,
And made a great bustle and stear;
The church-yard appear’d like a hopping,
The folks drew about so to hear:
He did to a hairs-breadth describe him,
And call’d him again and again,
And Geordy by four-pence did bribe him,
For all the small pains he had ta’n.

Scarce were the jaw-bones of these asses
Well shut, till a Thrunton-bred lad,
Eas’d Geordy a bit of his crosses,
By bringing him news of his pad:
These tidings his spirit renewed,
No clerk cou’d his courage controul,
But still was resolv’d to pursue it,
Suppose it were to the North pole.

’Tis past a man’s giving account on,
What way he traversed with speed,
From Eslington, Whittingham, Thrunton,
He past the Broom-park and Hill-head,
To Learchild, to Barton, to Branton,
And from thence to Mount on the clay,
To Fawdon, the Clinch, and to Glanton,
And several towns mist by the way.

There’s Lemington, Abberwick, Bolton,
With Woodhall that stands on the fell,
And Titlington’s likewise untold on,
Where Jacob, of old, dig’d his well;
To Harup, to Hidgily and Beanly,
He past unto Callaly mill,
To Brandon, to Ingram, and Reavely,
And Crawley that stands on a hill.

To Brandon-main, then to the Whitehouse,
To Dickison’s where he made league,
And articled that for a night-house,
To rest a while after fatigue:
He drank a while till he grew mellow,
And then for his chamber did call,
Where sound he may sleep, silly fellow,
His travels wou’d weary us all.

He had an invincible couple
Of legs, that did bear him well out,
They hung so loose, like a flail-souple,
And cudgel’d his buttocks about;
No man who’d have thought any hallion
Could ever have acted the thing,
Without help of Pacolet’s stallion,[46]
That when the pin turn’d did take wing.

Next day rising, rigging and starting,
He jogg’d on his journey with speed,
To Bewick, the Lilburns, Coldmartin,
From thence unto Woolerhaugh-head;
To Wooperton, Ilderton, Rodham,
And Rosedon, he scudded like mad,
Nothing fell by the way that withstood him,
Until he had met with his pad.

Earl was the place where he found him,
A blithe sight for Geordy to see;
But got the whole town to surround him,
Before he his prisoner would be:
Then on his back jumping and prancing,
He swiftly switcht over the plain,
But made him pay dear for his dancing,
E’er he got to Midford again.

[46] See the history of Valentine and Orson.

THE INSIPIDS: OR, _The Mistress with her Multitude of Man Servants._

BY THOMAS WHITTLE.

Of all the Kirkharle bonny lasses,
If they were set round in a ring,
Jane Heymours for beauty surpasses,
She might be a match for a king;
Her cheeks are as red as a cherry,
Her breast is as white as a swan,
She is a blyth lass and a merry,
And her middle is fit for a man.

The lads are so fond to be at her,
They all run as mad as March hares,
This bonny young lass they do flatter,
And fall at her feet to their prayers:
You never saw keener or stouter,
They’ll not be put off with delay,
Like bull-dogs they still hang about her,
And court her by night and by day.

Joe Hepple, Will Crudders, Tom Liddle,
With twenty or thirty men more,
If I could their names but unriddle,
At least I might make out two score,
That all cast about for to catch her,
And make her their own during life;
With others that strive to debauch her,
Despairing to make her their wife.

So many love tokens and fancies
She gets, that to bring them in view,
They’d look like so many romances,
And none could believe they were true.
I only will mention one favour,
And leave you to guess at the rest;
An old kenning Edward Hall gave her,
Of comforts the choicest and best.

They venture like people for prizes,
And with the same timorous doubt,
She has them of all sorts and sizes,
That’s constantly sneaking about.
Each man speaks her fair, and importunes
In all the best language that’s known;
And happy were he could tell fortunes,
To know if the girl were his own.

John Robson, Joe Bowman, Will Little,
With her would spend nights over days;
Each glance of her eyes is so smittle,
That all men are catch’d if they gaze:
She strikes them quite thro’ with love stitches,
And many a poor heart she doth fill;
She’s like one of those call’d white witches,
That hurts men and means them no ill.

John Henderson, that honest weaver,
And mettled Matt Thomson the smith,
Came both from Capheaton to preave her,
And court her with courage and pith.
Ned Oliver too, and Tom Baxter
Spare neither their feet, tongue, or hands,
But strive with the rest to contract her
In compass of conjugal bands.

Bob Bewick just makes it his calling
Unto her his love to declare;
And some’s of that mind that John Rawling
Would gladly come in for a share.
John Forcing doth praise and commend her,
Above any lass that wears head;
And fain he would be a pretender,
If he had but hopes to come speed.

Bob Cole strains his wit and invention
And compliments to a degree;
And twenty that I cannot mention
Are all as keen courters as he.
She puts them all into such pickle
They care not what courses they run,
And if (as folks say) she be fickle,
’Tis twenty to one they’re undone.

Their loves would fill forty hand wallets,
If they were cramm’d in at both ends;
Their hearts are all sunk like lead pellets,
And very small hopes of amends.
Great dangers on both sides encreases,
Which very destructive may prove;
The lass may be all pull’d to pieces,
Or all the poor lads die for love.

But that which supports and preserves them,
Their stomachs their best friends do prove;
And ’tis not a little meat serves them
Since they fell so deeply in love.
Their fancies and appetites working,
It made them so sharp and so keen,
The girls mother lost two butter firkins,
They wattell’d away so much cream.

One day with a good brandy bottle,
Two met her about the Heugh Nebb,
And there their accounts they did settle,
And made all as right as my legg:
The snuff-mill and gloves came in season,
The want of a glass to supply;
They drank the girls first, with good reason,
And then the king’s health by the by.

The Millers Haugh, Heugh Nebb, and Haystack,
The Flowers, the New Close, and Decoy,
With places whose titles I know not,
Where they met to love and enjoy,
Would be but too far a digression,
And make our fond passions rebell;
But, oh! had these places expression,
What pretty love tales they could tell!

So many to her bear affection,
And give her such lofty applause,
I’m love-sick to hear the description,
And wish I could see the sweet cause:
’Tis she that could make all odds even,
And bring many wonders to pass;
I wish all her sweethearts in heaven,
Why I were in bed with the lass!

SAWNEY OGILBY’s DUEL WITH HIS WIFE.

BY THOMAS WHITTLE.

To the Tune of, _The worst’s past_.

Good people, give ear to the fatalest duel
That Morpeth e’er saw since it was a town,
Where fire is kindled and has so much fuel,
I wou’d not be he that wou’d quench’t for a crown.
Poor Sawney, as canny a North British hallion,
As e’er crost the border this million of weeks,
Miscarried, and married a Scottish tarpawlin,
That pays his pack-shoulders, and will have the breeks.

I pity him still when I think of his kindred,
Lord Ogelby was his near cousin of late;
And if he and somebody else had not hinder’d,
He might have been heir unto all his estate.
His stature was small, and his shape like a monkey,
His beard like a bundle of scallions or leeks;
Right bonny he was, but now he’s worn scrunty,
And fully as fit for the horns as the breeks.

It fell on a day, he may it remember,
Tho’ others rejoyced, yet so did not he,
When tidings was brought that Lisle did surrender,
It grieves me to think on’t, his wife took the gee,
These bitches still itches, and stretches commission,
And if they be crossed they’re still taking peeks,
And Sawney, poor man, he was out of condition,
And hardly well fit for defending the breeks.

She mutter’d, and moung’d, and looked damn’d misty,
And Sawney said something, as who cou’d forbear?
Then straight she began, and went to’t handfisty,
She whither’d about, and dang down all the gear:
The dishes and dublers went flying like fury,
She broke more that day than would mend in two weeks,
And had it been put to a judge or a jury,
They cou’d not tell whether deserved the breeks.

But Sawney grew weary, and fain would be civil,
Being auld, and unfeary, and fail’d of his strength,
Then she cowp’d him o’er the kale-pot with a kevil,
And there he lay labouring all his long length.
His body was soddy, and sore he was bruised,
The bark of his shins was all standing in peaks;
No stivat e’er lived was so much misused
As sare as auld Sawney for claiming the breeks.

The noise was so great all the neighbours did hear them,
She made his scalp ring like the clap of a bell;
But never a soul had the mense to come near them,
Tho’ he shouted murder with many a yell.
She laid on whisky whasky, and held like a steary,
Wight Wallace could hardly have with her kept streaks;
And never gave over until she was weary,
And Sawney was willing to yield her the breeks.

And now she must still be observ’d like a madam.
She’ll cause him to curvet, and skip like a frog,
And if he refuses she’s ready to scad him,
Poxtake such a life, it wou’d weary a dog.
Ere I were so serv’d, I would see the de’il take her,
I hate both the name and the nature of sneaks;
But if she were mine I would clearly forsake her,
And let her make a kirk and a mill of the breeks.

SONG ON _WILLIAM CARSTAIRS, SCHOOLMASTER._

BY THOMAS WHITTLE.

Ye muses nine, if you think fit,
Instruct my pen to write.
Apollo, thou great god of wit,
Come help me to indite.
Let poets, pipers, fidlers come,
In priols,[47] or in pairs,
And echo forth, as with a _drum_,
The praise of Will Carstairs.[48]

_Imprimus_, then I will proceed
His features to disclose,
And draw a compass from his head
Unto his heels and toes;
Some cunning man come lay a spell,
And keep me from all snares,
That I may keep in compass well,
While I describe Carstairs.

But first I must his pardon crave,
For making bold and free,
For William was his christian name,
And shall be so for me;
But manners must to rhymes give place,
Or else we spoil our wares;
And _Will_ and _William’s_ all one case,
And equal to Carstairs.

His face is like the midnight moon
And stars that shine so bright;
His nose is like a flaming fire,
That casts both heat and light;
It sparkles like the Syrian seas
When he gets in his airs,
A clown has not an heart to buy
A beak like Will Carstairs.

Without a magnifying glass,
His neck you cannot see;
But if you please to let it pass,
It shall be pass’d by me;
His shoulders are compact and strong,
Made up of rounds and squares,
And no small burden e’er could wrong
A back like Will Carstairs’.

Down from his shoulder-blades there springs
Two arms both stout and strong,
That flap just like a buzzard’s wings
As he marcheth along;
And from those arms there spring two hands,
Well skill’d in magic airs;
And William Lilley’s charter stands
By such as Will Carstairs.

He has eight sides, I scorn to slide,
I’ll bring them fairly in,
The upperside and underside
Are two for to begin;
There’s backside, foreside, leftside, right--
I’ll put them down in pairs--
And inside, outside, which make _eight_,
Belonging to Carstairs.

Down from his sides there spring two hips
With sturdy well built thighs,
Just like a pair of weeding-clips,
But of a larger size;
His legs they do like supples bend,
When he gets in his airs--
Right taper’d down from end to end,
Few men can match Carstairs.

His feet are much like other men’s,
I guess them by the shoe,
They’re neither of the fives nor tens,
But just between the two.
He’ll trip to Scotland in a trice,
For speed he never spares,--
There’s few can trip it out so nice
As thrifty Will Carstairs.

He’s near about the standard pitch,
As nature can express--
They’re lubbers that’s above his size,
And dwarfs that’s any less;
But tho’ he be not quite so tall
To rank ’mong grenadiers,
There’s thousands of marines as small
As little Will Carstairs.

[47] Priol, _i.e._ three.

[48] Carstairs, though a poor poet, was vain of his abilities as such. About the year 1731, Thomas Whittle and he being in a large company at the Burnt-house in Newcastle, the conversation turned on their respective merits as disciples of the Muses. A wager was soon bet on the subject; and it was agreed, that an hour should be allowed for each of them to write satyrical verses on the other. The two poets were accordingly placed in separate apartments; and at the expiration of the time specified, it was determined, by throwing up a halfpenny, which of the two should first read his lays: it fell to Whittle’s lot; but before he had got to the end, his competitor was so chagrined, that he put the concoctions of his less fertile brain in the fire; the wager of course was won by Whittle’s party.

THOMAS WHITTLE, HIS HUMOROUS LETTER, TO MASTER MOODY, THE RAZOR-SETTER.

_Newcastle on Tyne, May Twenty-nine._

Good Master Moody,
My beard being cloudy,
My cheeks, chin, and lips
Like moon i’ the ’clipse,
For want of a wipe:
I’ve sent you a razor,
If you’ll be at leisure
To grind her, and set her,
And make her cut better,
You’ll e’en light my pipe.[49]

Dear sir, you know little
The case of poor Whittle--
I’m courting Tantivie,
If you will believe me,
Pray mark what I say:
I’m frank in my proffers,
And when I make offers,
To kiss the sweet creature,
My lips cannot meet her.
My beard stops the way.

You’ve heard my condition,
And now I petition,
That without omission,
With all expedition,
You’ll give it a _strike_;
And send it by ’Tony,
He’ll pay you the money--
I’ll shave and look bonny,
And go to my honey,
As snod as you like.

If you do not you’ll hip me,
My sweetheart will slip me,
And if I should smart for’t,
And break my poor heart for’t
Are you not to blame!
But if you’ll oblige me,
As gratitude guides me,
I’ll still be your servant,
Obedient and fervent,
Whilst WHITTLE’S my name.

[49] A Northumberland phrase, signifying a particular favour done to one.

THE LITTLE PRIEST OF FELTON.

The little priest of Felton,
The little priest of Felton,
He kill’d a mouse within his house,
And ne’er a one to help him;
To help him, to help him,
He kill’d a mouse within his house,
And ne’er a one to help him.

THE FELTON GARLAND.

_How a Brick-maker at Felton stole a Woman away by her own Consent, from her Grandmother._

To the Tune of, _Maggy Lauder_.

There lives a lass in Felton town,
Her name is Jenny Gowen,
With the Brick-man she has play’d the lown,
So wanton she is grown:
The reason why some love the night,
_Incognito_ to revel,
Is they love darkness more than light,
Because their deeds are evil.

So late at night on Saturday,
He thought all safe as brandy,
He rigg’d and trigg’d, and rid away
Upon John Hinks’s Sandy:
To Haggerston he did pretend,
Some sweetheart there confin’d him;
But he took up, at our town-end,
His cloak-bag on behind him.

Like as the bird that gay would be,
As fable hath reported,
From each fine bird most cunningly
A feather she extorted:
Then boasting said, How fine I’m grown!
Her painted plumes she shaked,
At which each bird pluck’d off their own,
And left her almost naked.

With this kind maid it proved so,
Who many things did borrow,
To rig her up from top to toe,
And deck her like queen Flora.
Of one she got a black-silk hood,
Her fond light head to cover,
Likewise a blue cloak, very good,
Her night intrigues to smother.

Clock stockings she must have (dear wot)
In borrow’d shoes she’s kilted,
Some lent her a blue petticoat,
Both large and bravely quilted.
Of some she got a fine linn-smock,
Lest Peter shou’d grow canty,
And have a stroke at her black joke,
With a tante, rante, tante.

With borrow’d cane, hat on her head,
To make her still look greater,
She’d make her friends believe indeed,
They were all bought by Peter:
But when she did return again,
In all her boasted grandeur,
Each to their own did lay just claim,
And left her as they fand her.

But none can guess at their intent,
Why they abroad did swagger,
Some said, to see their friends they went,
Some said, to Buckle Beggar.
Away full four days they stay’d,
I think they took their leisure;
They past for man and wife, some said,
And spent the nights in pleasure.

When the Black Cock did Sandy see,
There was a joyful meeting,
That night when I thee lent, quoth he,
I wish I had been sleeping:
Thou art abused very sore,
As any creature can be,
And still he cry’d, o’er and o’er,
O woe is me for Sandy!

Then Sandy, mumbling, made reply,
You were my loving master,
I never did your suit deny,
Nor meet with one disaster,
Till now unknown to yourself,
That I should have this trouble,
Or else for neither love nor pelf,
You’d let me carry double.

Poor Sandy was with riding daul’d,
He rues he saw their faces,
His back and sides they sorely gaul’d,
He pay’d for their embraces;
But if young Peter’s found her nest,
She’ll rue as well as Sandy;
And if she proves with child, she best
Had tarry’d with her grandy.

_How they abused the horse they rid on, and when he married, they went off in several people’s debts._

In second part I will declare
The troubles of poor Sandy;
And how this couple married were,
And how well pleas’d was Grandy.
Now first with Sandy I’ll begin,
Whose legs swell’d to a wonder,
So likewise was his belly rim,
Swell’d like to burst asunder.

And lest his troubles shou’d increase,
A farrier was provided,
Well skill’d in Markham’s master-piece,
Who in this town resided;
And, to his everlasting fame,
He did exert his cunning,
He bled his legs, and in his wame,
Two tapps he there set running.

He several med’cines did apply,
Whose virtue was so pure,
That in six weeks, or very nigh,
He made a perfect cure.
And now in all the world besides,
There’s not a sounder creature,
So well he scampers, and he rides,
But never more with Peter.

Of him I now design to speak,
A Yorkshire born and bred, sir,
He play’d them all a Yorkshire trick,
And then away he fled, sir.
As you shall hear when home he came,
With Jennet upon Sandy,
He to his work return’d again,
And she unto her grandy.

But long with her she tarry’d not,
Unsettled was her notion,
Just like the pend’lum of a clock,
That’s always in a motion.
I’ll go to service, she did say,
Keep me, you can’t afford it;
So one she got, where was it pray?
E’en where her spark was boarded.

Now whether ’twas for want of beds,
Or whether ’twas cold weather,
Or whether ’twas to measure legs,
That they lay both together;
But as they smuggl’d for a while,
And gave out they were marry’d,
Till she at length did prove with child,
Then all things were miscarry’d.

Then he did own his fault was great,
He’d make her satisfaction;
And fearing penance in a sheet,
He’d suffer for that action,
He marry’d her without delay,
And got their nuptial lesson,
Which to confirm they went streightway
To get their grandy’s blessing.

When in her presence they were come,
She rail’d at them like thunder,
For shame, cries she, what have you done,
That’s brought on you this blunder?
She call’d her slut and brazen fac’d,
Instead of kind caressing,
Our family you have disgrac’d,
Can you expect a blessing?

But like a stormy winter’s night,
Next morning turns calm weather,
So grandy’s passion soon took flight,
She pray’d that they together
Might live in love and happiness,
Enjoying peace and plenty,
Long may they health and wealth possess,
And pockets ne’er grow empty.

When they had grandy’s blessing got,
They slily fled away, sir,
He all the bricks did leave unwrought,
And many debts to pay, sir.
Now all good people, warning take,
How you do trust to strangers,
They’ll wheedle you for money’s sake,
And still prove country rangers.

FROM THE SWAINS OF FELTON, TO THE _Shepherds of Lanthernside, Northumberland_, 1787.

_Tune._--General F--r--’s March.

He’s gone! he’s gone!
The conquering hero’s gone!
To barren lands in Lanthernside,
To sow Lucern upon.
Rejoice ye sons of Lanthernside, and Io pæan sing,
Since land-improving F----r vouchsafes to be your king!

Lucern! Lucern!
That best of grass Lucern!
Oh! happy swains of Lanthernside,
Be far from you concern;
For now your sterile rocky soil, where stocks are never seen,
Will quickly be converted all, to fields of fruitful green.

He’ll plant, he’ll plant,
A Colony he’ll plant,
With plants and beasts of various kinds,
Which Lanthernside may want.
With here a hardy plant of Oak, and there a plant of Fir,
And here an English pointer staunch, and there a shepherd’s cur.

He’ll sail, he’ll sail,
Without a mast or sail,
And gently glide by Lanthernside,
Before a gentle gale.
Your streamlet he will navigate, and bring the flowing tide,
From Warkworth’s hoary Hermitage, to dreary Lanthernside.

He’ll reign, he’ll reign,
Without despotic sway;
Therefore ye lads of Lanthernside,
His dictates all obey.
Come all ye wanton wenches, with speed unto him haste,
For, tho’ as lewd as Lais, he’ll teach you to be chaste.

Your game, your game,
He will preserve your game!
For well in that particular,
Abroad is spread his fame!
But [50]Biddlestone will curse the day, to Lanthernside he came,
For sure as bird e’er fell by gun, he will destroy his game.

Rejoice! rejoice!
Let [51]Felton Park rejoice!
For now its lord is free to roam,
As chance directs his choice.
For F----r like a Briton bold, had circumscrib’d his bounds,
And left him but one single mile, to range in his own grounds.

He’s gone! he’s gone!
Alas! our hero’s gone!
And left us quite disconsolate,
In Felton town to moan!
Rejoice ye Lanthernsiders, and Io pæan sing,
Since mirth-exciting F----r vouchsafes to be your king.

[50] Mr S---- of Biddlestone.

[51] Mr R---- of Felton.

ON THE DEPARTURE OF MR GREY, OF FELTON, _Who died on Saturday, August 12th, 1775._

On Saturday,
Poor Felton Grey,
Went o’er the hills and far away:
But none can say,
He went away,
Without enquiring _what’s to pay_.

CARR OF ETAL.

God prosper long our noble king,
Our lives and safeties all;
A joyful supper once there did,
In Edinbro’ befal.

To give the gallant Scot a horn,
Bold _Etal_[52] took his way,
Children to get, which shall be born,
Upon another day.

Bold Etal of Northumberland,
A vow to God did make,
His pleasure in the Scottish town,
Three summer’s days to take.

The choicest lips in Edinbro’,
To kiss and bear away;
These tidings reach’d Black Castle’s[53] lord,
In Perthshire where he lay.

Who sent young Etal present word,
He would prevent his sport;
The Englishman not fearing this,
Did to the town resort.

In reg’ment spotted leopard like,
Mov’d with superior grace;
And swore he’d take their mistresses,
And kiss before their face.

Sir Patrick, in a silver vest,
Most like a gallant knight,
Mov’d foremost of the company.
And pleas’d the ladies’ sight.

Shew me, says he, whose men you be,
Who come so boldly here;
I fain would see that English face,
That I have cause to fear.

The first man that did answer make,
Was gallant _Etal_ he,
Who said, We list not to disclose,
Or shew whose men we be.

But we will spend our dearest blood,
Your toasts to bear away:
Sir Pat with anger colour’d red,
And thus in rage did say:

Ere I will thus outbraved be,
One of us two shall die;
I know thou Carr of Etal art,
Black Castle’s heir am I.

But trust me, Etal, pity ’twere,
And great offence to kill,
Doory and Swinburn, harmless youths,
For they can do no ill.

Let you and I the battle try,
And set our men aside:
Accurst be he, bold Etal cried,
By whom this is denied.

Then stept a noble baron forth,
Lord Linton was his name;
Who said, He would not have it told,
To Scottish men for shame;

That ere Black Castle fought on foot,
And he stood looking on;
You are two ’squires, lord Linton cried,
And I am an earl’s son.

I’ll do the best that I can do,
While I have power to stand;
I would not quarrel for a kiss,
But Carr, keep back your hand.

Then Swinburn clapp’d his hands and laugh’d,
And jeeringly did say,
Stick to ’em Carr, and bear ’em off,
For me I’ll drink away.

Drinking’s the sport that I like best,
So push the glasses round;
Kiss you the ladies and I’ll drink,
These gallants to the ground.

Oh what a joy it was to see,
And likewise for to hear,
How Swinburn rattl’d in the van,
And Creighton in the rear.

They drank full fast from night ’till morn,
No slackness there was found;
And Scots and English hats and wigs,
Lay drunk upon the ground.

At Callaly, the seat of the Claverings, tradition reports, that while the workmen were engaged in erecting the castle upon a hill, a little distance from the scite of the present edifice, they were surprised every morning to find their former day’s work destroyed, and the whole impeded by supernatural obstacles, which causing them to watch, they heard a voice saying:--

Callaly castle stands on a height,
It’s up in the day, and down at night:
Build it down on the Shepherd’s Shaw,
There it will stand and never fa’.

Upon which the building was transferred to the place mentioned, where it now stands.

[52] Carr, Esq. of Etal, in the county of Northumberland.

[53] Sir P. Murray.

BEDLINGTON TRAGEDY. _A FRAGMENT._

In Bedlington there liv’d a fair,
(With ruby lips, and auburn hair;)
Who dearly priz’d a famous youth,
For generous acts and constant truth;
But she was heir to store of wealth,
No fortune he, but worth himself:
This when her parents understood,
Hoping it would be for her good,
To hinder both their loves intent,
To Stokesley, to an uncle sent;
At parting, many a sigh and tear,
Of love, and truth, thro’ life sincere;
Nor death should part; for from the grave
Short time should the surviver save:
She was not gone a week or more,
Until this young man sicken’d sore,
He sicken’d sore, and heart-broke died,
Which pleas’d her parents’ greedy pride;
Who to another would her wed,
Forgetful what she’d sworn and said.
The eve that he in grave was laid,
Thus to his wife the father said,
A double feed I’ll give my mare,
All other things do thou prepare.
Lay out thy hood and safeguard too,
Ere light for Stokesley I will go;
Before thou seest the morrow night,
Thou’lt surely see thy daughter bright;
And now no fear, he’s dead and gone,
A happy bride we’ll make her soon.
It was now that dread midnight hour,
When restless ghosts their wrongs deplore.
James rode up to her uncle’s door,
With her father’s horse they drest before.
O who is there? the maiden cries:
O it is I, the ghost replies:
The horse, hood, safeguard, come and view,
You’ll find a messenger most true:
Forthwith with me then instant ride,
Nor fear nor ill need you betide.
When all the uncle understood,
Trusting it right and for her good,
Help’d her to mount, but made him swear,
He’d take her to her father dear.
Now when she got him up behind,
They travelled faster then the wind;
That in two hours, or little more,
They came unto her father’s door;
And as they did this great haste make,
He sore complain’d his head did ache;
Her handkerchief she then pull’d out,
And tied the same his head about:
And as she bound it round his head,
My dear, says she, you’re cold as lead;
She saw no shadow of her dear,
But only of herself and mare.
He sets her at her father’s door,
And says, your mare has travelled sore;
So go you in, and as I’m able,
I’ll feed and tend her in your stable.
O who is there? the father cries,
’Tis I, the lovely maid replies:
Behind young James I’ve hasted here,
As order’d by my parents dear.
Which made the hair stand on his head,
He knowing that the man was dead.
Next in the stable then could he
No living shape of mankind see;
But found his horse all in a sweat,
Which put him in a grievous fret.

According to the remainder of this old ballad, (which we have been unable to collect) the daughter sickens, takes to her bed, and dies, and is buried in the same grave; and, on opening his coffin, accordingly as the maid had said, her handkerchief was found tied round his head.

Hotspur: A BALLAD; _In the Manner of the Ancient Minstrels._

BY MR WILLIAM RICHARDSON.

The lady sat in leafy bow’r,
Near Royal _Sheene’s_ fair dome;
The Harper, journeying, westward went,
Far, far from friends and home.

His lyre, in grass-green satchel plac’d,
Hung graceful by his side;
Th’ harmonious strings oft murm’ring rang,
As o’er the heaths he hied.

In search was he of _Hotspur_ fam’d.
With tidings from his dame,
His fair lady, the lovely _Kate_,
Since chronicled in fame.

She pin’d the day, she wept the night,
For her dear absent lord;
And days, and weeks, and months flew o’er,
Nor comfort could afford.

The lady sat by winding Thames,
Near where the wand’rer past;
And him she beckon’d to draw near
And thus the Bard address’d.

“From whence com’st thou? O! sweet Harper.
From whence com’st thou? Tell me;
From border of the daring Scot?
Art of the North Countrie?”

“I come not from the fair Scotland;
(Yet near green _Cheviot_ roam;)
From _Aln’s_ sweet, bosky banks I come;
_Northumberland_ my home.”

“Then freely smite thy sweet, sweet lyre,
Thy lyre of far-spread fame;
The bold Percy--his castle’s there;
Wide swells his warrior name.

“For thou his harper art I ween;
I see gleam on thy vest,
Thy paly, cusped, silver moon,
The _Saracen’s_ proud crest.

“His ancestor in fell crusade,
For England’s powerful king,
Fought manfully, and did from thence,
That _Syrian_ trophy bring.”

With flying touch he swept the strings,
And upward turn’d his eye,
As if the _genius_ of the song,
Inspiring, hover’d nigh.

His finger caught the master note,
And soon his ardent face
Beam’d, dignified with native fire
Of brave _Northumbria’s_ race.

He sang the deeds of _Hotspur_ bold,
At blood-stain’d _Otterbourne_:
And eke the feats of valiant _Ralph_,
As furious in his turn.

Two warrior lords, (and brothers they,)
As e’er drew shining brand;
Nor from the gory field would flinch,
Whilst Valour there might stand.

And mournful now, he touch’d the harp,
And, grieving, oft he sigh’d
For _Widdrington_, the mightiest chief
That e’er in battle died.

The _Forster_, _Fenwick_, _Collingwood_,
The _Heron_ of renown,
High in the ranks of Lord Percy,
The war-axe hewed down!

He sang the acts of other chiefs,
That by the _Reedside_ fell;
The flow’r of val’rous families
That still near _Cheviot_ dwell.

The heath-hen long, and fallow deer,
Their native heights did quit;
With warrior-blood th’ attainted sward,
Made e’en the gorecock flit!

The Percies in that vengeful fight,
Both, both were pris’ners ta’en;
But for the Douglas’ dead bodie
Were yielded up again.

He ceas’d the song, then paused awhile;
Down roll’d the silent tear;
The lady, smit with sympathy,
Could scarce the like forbear.

Then stifling back the star-like drop,
With woman’s winning voice,
She ask’d if tidings from his lord
Would not his heart rejoice?

“Perchance,” quoth she, “I may you aid,
(Assuage your troubled breast,)
For oh! methinks the task is good
To comfort the distressed!”

His kerchief to his furrow’d face
He gently did apply,
And bright and fervent shone his front,
New fire illum’d his eye.

“But thrice the golden circling sun,
Has rubied yonder east,”
The lady said, “Since news there came
From Shrewsb’ry’s hostile waste.

“There _Hotspur_ and his valiant band,
Oppos’d to _Tudor’s_ ire,
Encamped lay, and high their hearts
Beat for the conflict dire.”

So having said, her snowy hand
She plac’d across her brow;
“Lo! down by _Windingshore’s_ dim vale,
A Herald’s coming now.”

The Herald flew on wings of wind,
Swift to the Royal fane;
“A victory,” he stoutly cried,
“And valiant _Hotspur_ slain!”

The death-sound pierc’d the Harper’s ear,
And instant on the plain
He dropt,--as light’ning had him struck,
Nor e’er spoke word again.

_August, 1810._

LEGEND OF _SEWEN SHIELDS CASTLE._

This legendary ballad is an un-embellished versification of an old tradition, still current in the vicinity of Sewen Shields Castle, in Northumberland.

Nought but some dæmon’s baleful step
For years had pass’d those lands,
Where (all its former grandeur fled)
An ancient castle stands.

Where many a lord, and many a knight,
And many a baron bold,
The meed of valour oft had won,
Or tale of love had told.

Once, too, it held Northumbria’s king
In days of former fame:
But now no courteous tenants boasts--
And Sewen Shields[54] its name.

And there, too, superstition’s spell
Had cast its gloom around:
And none for years had ever been
Within its precincts found--

Till Dixon,[55] young advent’rous swain,
Who fear’d no mortal arm,
Had vow’d to search the site throughout,
And find the hidden charm.

The morning frown’d: he made th’ attempt;
And darker still it grew:
And, when he reach’d the castle walls,
The owls portentous flew.

No well-fed porter now was seen
Within the court to wait:
And weeds and mould’ring stones appear’d,
Where stood the lofty gate.

He cross’d the damp deserted halls:
He spoke--but all in vain;
For Echo, from the ruin’s verge,
Return’d his words again.

Through many a passage long and dark
His weary steps he bent:
At length a flight of stairs he saw,
And tried the deep descent.

He felt unwholesome dewy cold,
Yet still pursued his way--
Resolv’d ’till he had all explor’d,
No more to view the day.

At length a gleam of light he saw;
A ray of warmth he found:
And down the stairs he quickly was,
And trod upon the ground;

And soon, within a chamber large,
A blazing fire perceiv’d;
And by its flames a sight he saw,
Which else he’d ne’er believ’d.

A king and queen, in regal state,
Were there by Morpheus chain’d:
And o’er the train of courtiers too
The same still slumber reign’d.

And round the fire some faithful dogs
Their fortunes seem’d to share:
And, on a table near, a sword
And horn were placed there.

As from the scabbard then, with might,
The blade to draw he tries,
As it unsheath’d, with awe he sees
The sleepers all arise.

Struck with amaze, he put it back.--
The monarch, pierc’d with woe,
E’er he return’d to death-like sleep,
Thus spoke in accents slow: