Chapter IX: Part III: March 6th, 1811 (1)

Good fortune still attends the brave,
As at an early hour,
Intelligence a stranger gave,
Where to extend my tour:
I sprung my gelding to full speed,
’Till I explor’d the spot,
And found by dint of heels my steed
To the rear rank had got.

First three I found on Thropton Hill,
There basking with their brood;
The rest were seen from Snitter Mill,
Past Cartington to crowd:
From Silverside, by Lorbottle,
To Trewhit Mains I march’d,
By Netherton, through Screnwood Dell,
And Fawdon Fell I search’d.

To Prendick Peak, and Alnham Moor,
And all adjacent grounds;
O’er Ingram Edge, I stretch’d my tour,
To seek that spacious bounds:
From Revely, Greenshaws, Hartside Hill,
To Linhope Spout with speed;
On Shillmoor Shank found strayers still,
To Rawhope Rig recede.

To Milkhope, Memmer Kirk, and Haigh,
And Cushet Law I por’d;
To Carlcroft, and Kidlandlea,
Dryhope, and Usway Ford:
The Maiden’s Cross, and Windy Gyle,
And Cheviot’s skirts curv’d round;
To Fleehope--but the front-rank file
At Langlee Ford I found.

Benighted, where these brutes did browse,
Upon the border bent;
I could not retrogade my ewes,
Some couchant seem’d content:
At the stock-farmer of that place,
For lodgings did enquire,
And there receiv’d a sweet solace,
Next morning to retire.

I ask’d both master and his men,
For one a-wanting still;
Who all declar’d they did not ken.
Of stray sheep on their hill:
Squads to collect I did remount,
O’er hills and dales I cross’d;
And that one short of my account,
I then gave up for lost.

[61] It is nothing particular for ewes, at their yeaning time, to stray: some have been known to travel an hundred miles to their native place to yean. The author remembers a ewe which had with others been sold to the southward, and was kept on the Haughs of the Humber, from which she strayed, and reaching Makendon, on the borders of Scotland, she travelling about twenty yards within her original pasture, there squatted and yeaned in half an hour. The owner of the ewe that travelled so far to yean upon her pristine spot, went the year following to buy another lot of the same sort, was asked how the last year’s stock proved, answered, _extraordinary well_, excepting one that disappeared, which he supposed to be stole. The stocksman said he was sorry for his loss, which however, he said, he would make good if they bargained for the present parcel. The bargain was made, and the seller turned an ewe and lamb, gratis, into the drove, explained the fact, and the poor ewe had to retread the ground she had twice before travelled over.

SONG.

_By J.C.--July 5th, 1810._

A fair reformation would render this nation,
The richest isle under the sun;
If terms now septennial were turn’d to triennial,
The work would be more than half done.

Our grand constitution defies diminution,
While honest men handle the helm;
But subject to slav’ry, and sanction’d by knav’ry,
When ravagers rule in the realm.

A few dying embers of Morpeth, two members
Can send in the senate to sit:
Shields, Alnwick, and Hexham (the truth tends to vex ’em)
United, not one can transmit.

One man of old Sarum, two members declare him;
Thus burghs, and constituents wane:
Some staple towns none, though Manchester alone,
Near two hundred thousands contain.

Besides rotten boroughs, the source of our sorrows,
These Cinque-Ports, and sinecures all;
With pensions and places our council disgraces,
Which courts of corruption some call.

With truth it is told, some freedoms are sold,
And seats traffick’d for at noon day;
The barter’s so bold, that for British gold,
Our code without scruples convey.

These buyers are bound, seat sellers to mound,
And vote on the ministers’ side;
If he says the crow’s white, or noon day is midnight,
They must by his behests abide.

In ev’ry debate concerning the state,
These relics of representation,
Majorities gain, and boldly maintain,
Their will is the voice of the nation.

THE PLOUGHMAN.

The ploughman he comes home at night,
When he is wet and weary,
Puts off the wet, puts on the dry,
And goes to bed my deary.

I will wash the ploughman’s clothes,
I will wash them clean, O;
I will wash the ploughman’s clothes,
And dry them on the green, O.

The ploughman he comes home fu’ late,
When he wi’ wark is weary;
Dights off his shirt that is se wet;
And supper makes him cheery.

I will wash the ploughman’s clothes,
I will wash them white, O;
I will wash the ploughman’s clothes,
And dry them on the dyke, O.

THE FLOWER OF ROTHBURY FOREST.

Sweet thro’ the forest, Coquet flows,
And sweet the flowers its banks adorn;
But sweetest far appears my _Rose_,
She’s sure the rose without a thorn.

Heard you the lilting,
At our kye milking,
Heard you the lilting yesterday;
Heard you the lilting,
At our kye milking;
The flower of the forest is stolen away.

Tho’ Meadowfield[62] may boast its sweets,
And meadow sweets its fields adorn;
United, all its scents me greets,
Present my _Rose_ without a thorn.
Heard you the lilting, &c.

Tho’ Flotterton[63] may boast its maids,
And on Twelfth Eve all others scorn:
I envy not their lusty blades,
Present my _Rose_ without a thorn.
Heard you the lilting, &c.

Tho’ at kye milking, maidens sing,
The forest’s flower is awa’;
I dinna heed, gae tak’ their fling,
For troth she’s stown awa’ wi’ me.
Heard you the lilting, &c.

[62] Meadowfield, name of a place.

[63] Maids’ Feast of Flotterton is on Twelfth Even.

THE PIPER AT CAPHEATON.

At Christmas, when the wind blew cauld,
And frost and snaw’s o’er ilka dale,
Robin of Norham lost his way,
And at Capheaton thus did quail:--

O whether this is lairdly ha’,
Or poor man’s shield, O let me in;
I’m a poor Piper lost my way,
Unsneck your door and let me in.

O pity take, and dinna scorn,
Heffell[64] and I will die e’er morn;
I’ll screw my pipes and heartsome play,
And with a sang I’ll weel repay.

“When cockle shells and silver bells,
And bawds and whores do churches build,
When younkers cease to rant and drink,
And usurers tell their gold in field.

“When old Sir Humphery[65] rides to Rome,
And preaches in his best array:
When indigo dies red and brown,
Your honor shall be paid your hay.”

“When Nether Witton is waterless,
And Capheaton without a whin;
Shafto Crag all turn’d to peat and moss,
And cannot bear a foot aboon.

“When old Sir Humphery rides to Rome,
And preaches in his best array:
When indigo dies red and brown,
Your honor shall be paid your hay.”

[64] The Piper’s Horse.

[65] The Roman Catholic Priest.

MARY GAMAL, _the Vicar of Kirk Whelpington’s Daughter, is gone off with Nichol Clark, his Servant Man_.

It happen’d at good Christmas tide,
When we play’d at the cards;
That some of us were gentlemen,
And other some were lairds.

While deals were dealt, cards were cut,
And merry we were a’,
And some were waggish, well I wot,
Till in came Charlie Shaw:

And cried, Ye birds of Whelpington,
Fie shame! such simple wark!
For bonny Mary Gamal’s run
Away wi’ Nicol Clark.

But had your tongue, gude maister,
And dinna speak sae cruse;
She came willing thro’ your window,
He did na’ break your house.

Then cry, Ye lairds of Whelpington, &c.

SONG.

About the bush Willy,
About the bee hive,
About the bush Willy,
I’ll meet thee alive.

Then to my ten shillings,
Add you but a groat,
I’ll go to Newcastle,
And buy a new coat.

Five and five shillings,
Five and a crown;
Five and five shillings,
Will buy a new gown.

Five and five shillings,
Five and a groat;
Five and five shillings,
Will buy a new coat.

THE WATER OF TYNE.

I cannot get to my love if I should dee,
The water of Tyne runs between him and me;
And here I must stand with the tear in my e’e,
Both sighing and sickly, my sweetheart to see.

O where is the boatman, my bonny honey?
O where is the boatman?--bring him to me--
To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey,
And I will remember the boatman and thee.

O bring me a boatman--I’ll give any money,
(And you for your trouble rewarded shall be)
To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey,
Or scull him across that rough river to me!

ANDREW CARR.

As I went to Newcastle,
My journey was not far,
I met with a sailor lad,
Whose name was Andrew Carr.

And hey for Andrew, Andrew,
Ho for Andrew Carr;
And hey for Andrew, Andrew,
Ho for Andrew Carr.

Good fortune attend my jewel,
Now he’s sail’d o’er the bar,
And send him back to me,
For I love my Andrew Carr.
And hey for Andrew, Andrew, &c.

SONG.

I went to Black Heddon,
And there I sat down,
I call’d for some liquor,
Which cost half-a-crown.

The liquor being good,
I fill’d myself fu’;
And could not go home
To my Eppie so true.

To my Eppie so true,
My Eppie so true,
My Eppie so true,
And could not go home
To my Eppie so true.

_LINES_ ON JOHN THOMPSON, _Who was hanged on Newcastle Town Moor, for Horse Stealing, about 20 Years ago._

By ---- Ogle, Schoolmaster, Gateshead.

John Thompson just now,
Will find it is true,
That thieving is worse than the sword;
In the space of an hour,
He’ll dance on the Moor,
Attach’d to a rope, or a cord.

THE PITMAN.

_By ---- Ogle._

Of a pitman we’ll sing,
Who works for the king,
Jovial, good natur’d, and civil;
He’ll work and he’ll sing,
And profit he’ll bring,
From caverns that’s near to the devil.

To his labour below,
With courage he’ll go,
Upon his pit rope and his crook;
Nor will he once dwell
On the visions of hell,
Nor yet _fash_ his thumb with a book.

All his wish is good ale,
An’ his claes upon sale,
For a tankard he’ll put ev’ry night:
Let the learned still think,
That a hearty sound drink,
Is a pitman’s most crowned delight.

A SONG

_Written principally by MR GEORGE PICKERING, and sung by a Member of the Forest Hunt, Newcastle, at the Conclusion of the Season, March 29th, 1786; and afterwards at the Theatre Royal, by Mr Marshall._

Since Winter’s keen blast must to Zephyr give place,
We resign, for a season, the joys of the chase;
The cry of the hounds and of hunters must cease,
And puss thro’ the woodlands may ramble in peace;
In peace let her ramble, regardless and free,
Till the horn’s cheerful note shall awake us with glee;
Till October returns, let her frolic and play,
And then we’ll pursue her with “Hark, hark away.”
With hark, hark away,
With hark, hark away,
And then we’ll pursue her with hark, hark away!

When ting’d were the hills with the crimson of morn,
We jocundly rose to the sound of the horn;
Triumphant its melody swell’d o’er the plain,
While the heath-cover’d mountains re-echo’d the strain:
Hark, hark! was the mandate, we flew like the wind,
And care’s haggard visage was distanc’d behind:
What joys can be equal to those we display,
When we follow the harriers with hark, hark away!
With hark, hark away, &c.

Like the soldier return’d from a far hostile shore,
Recounting his toils and his victories o’er,
Of the battle’s loud din, where his courage so true,
Obtain’d the green laurel, entwining his brow.
Of chases now past let our narrative be,
Till Winter’s pale hand shall dismantle the tree;
Then, then to the forest exultingly stray,
And cheer the fleet harriers with hark, hark away.
With hark, hark away, &c.

Then fill up your glasses--yet fill as you chuse,
Here’s a health, brother sportsmen, which none can refuse;
A health that with pleasure our club shall inspire,
While hunting delights, or while hounds we admire:--
See, see, how I fill it--’tis COLPITTS[66] I toast,
Of our Hunt may he long be the pride and the boast,
And oft may we meet him with joys like to-day,
And long may he lead us with hark, hark away.
With hark, hark away,
With hark, hark away,
And long may he lead us with hark, hark away.

[66] _George Colpitts_, Esq. of Killingworth, the worthy Master of the Forest Hunt.--He died October 30th, 1793, universally regretted.

LONG FRAMLINGTON FAIR, (OR TRYST)

_Established July 15th, 1803._

All lovers of lucre may LAUD the _Lord Mayor_,
Who was the first founder of _Framlington Fair_;
Where mankind now mingle, and merchants too meet,
And all in full muster that magistrate greet:
Here stocksmen and tradesmen both traffic and truck,
And prone speculators pursue their purse-luck;
Here contractors cash into cattle convert,
By buying or barter in mayor Millar’s mart.

Here coaches and chariots and chaises abound,
With folks of first fashion from fifty miles round;
Here bucks, bloods, and buffoons, belles, buxoms, and beaux,
Bedizen’d with drapery, and French furbelows:
Here young men and maidens in marriage moods meet,
And crowds of quaint coquets bald bachelors cheat;
Here parents and prattlers are sprightly and smart,
And lads league with lasses in mayor Millar’s mart.

Horn’d cattle, and horses, mules, asses, and swine,
And sheep of all kinds kept ’twixt _Tweed_ and the _Tyne_;
A skilful collection of choice Cheviot rams,
And also the best breed of bleak border lambs;
Hard hogs from the _Highlands_, some long, and some short,
And some sightly samples of Leicester sort;
Some _South Downs_, some _Dishleys_, some _Dorsets_, and _Harts_,
Some _Bedfords_, and _Bakewells_, grace mayor Millar’s marts.

This marvellous mayor did some patterns produce,
May prove to the public of infinite use;--
His beasts from the _Dearboughts_[67]--cow-kyloes, and queys,
Did breeders and feeders and butchers surprise;
Nay, set as a cypher the _Long Witton stot_;[68]
And credit confer’d on the _Kintire Scot_,
Who rear’d upon pastures of poor pithless spart,
These magnified monsters in mayor Millar’s mart.

Their dimensions alive, and their density dead,
He measur’d and weigh’d with the eyes of his head,
From the tip of the tongue to the tip of the tail,
In ells and in inches, exact as a scale,
The girt of the sirloin, the centre and crop,
The breadth of the brisket, the bottom and top;
By practice made perfect, precise, and expert,
Surpris’d all the people in mayor Millar’s mart.

A caravan crowded, came here from the east,
With _Bengal_ bred bipeds, and _Bot’ney Bay_ beasts;
Stage-tumblers, and walkers upon the slack wire,
And dancing dogs deck’d out in harlequin ’tire;
Eke, eight _British_ badgers brought back in a box,
The big and the beautiful _Berwickshire_ ox;
With all tricks by slight hand of nature and art,
To add to the eclat of mayor Millar’s mart.

Close by the mayor’s mansion, expos’d are in pens,
A local collection of cocks and of hens;
Ducks, turkies, and pigeons in sunkets are seen,
And pack-sacks presented with grey geese and green:
With well cul’d canaries confin’d close in cages,
And song birds of all sorts and sizes and ages;
Whose quavering chorus both cheer and divert
The cohorts convened at mayor Millar’s mart.

Here potters, with panniers of Stafford and Delph,
And chests of choice china to shine on the shelf;
Here’s hampers of hardware--plate--polish’d and plain,
With all tin utensils of varnish and stain:
Here’s statues of stucco, Dutch trinkets, and toys,
And bawlers of ballads, of nonsense, and noise!
Here cadgers of commerce, commodities cart,
With hucksters and hawkers, to mayor Millar’s mart.

From _Morpeth_, _Newcastle_, and _London_ likewise,
The puffers of paste here expose _penny pies_!
With cheese cakes and custards and other confects,
Of rare aromatics, and summer selects:
Scarce kickshaws more costly can be chew’d with chaps,
Yet somewhat less sav’ry than _Silas Swain’s_[69] snaps,
Which powerful perfumes to the palates impart,
Of alamode essence in mayor Millar’s mart.

Hotels for highflyers, and Inns little worse,
With good entertainment for man and for horse;
Here’s baskets of butter, beef, bacon, bread, beer,
With fleshers, fishmongers, and other choice cheer,
To buoy up the belly, and burnish the back;
Who have ready rhino need nothing to lack;--
Fairs formerly fam’d now begin to loss heart,
Since all Adam’s offspring prefer Millar’s mart.

Coquetarious.

[67] The name of a neighbouring farm.

[68] The fattest kyloe stot ever killed in the county.

[69] A Confectioner in that town, a man of considerable humour and fun.

GO ALL TO COQUET AND WOO.

Northumberland lads are handsome squads,
And female affiance must share;
If you wish to wed, betroth to bed,
One cull’d with caution and care.

I here make free--give ear to me,
The county I’ve scan’d around;
So from the mass select a lass,
Where virtue and beauties abound.

The lasses of TWEED are deft indeed,
Their garlands give such grace:
The lasses of TILL are sprightly still,
In figure, in fashion, and face.

The lasses of BREMISH look rather squeamish,
Embellish’d with elegant ease;
The lasses of ALE, for plumage prevail,
Their pomp and appendages please.

The lasses of ALWIN obey fashion’s call, when
A princess prescribes a new dress;
The lasses of REED, each hair-braids her head,
And apes alamode to excess.

The lasses of WENSBECK, like dignify’d dames deck,
And their address quite debonair;
The lasses of FOUNT, though pronounc’d paramount,
Can scarce with these comits compare.

The lasses of PONT, to decorate don’t
Soar yet in the sphere of extremes;
The lasses of ERRING, on fashions conferring,
The decent most dext’rous deem.

The lasses of TYNE, who peerlessly shine,
Are mirrors of modesty too:
The lasses of COQUET put all in their pocket,
Go all to Coquet and woo!

So take my advice, tour there in a trice,
These provident paragons view;
So splendid and pretty, so worthy, and witty,
You’ll never have reason to rue.

THE FRACTIOUS FARMER. _A SONG._--1792.

A farmer near Felton, fam’d for vulgar fractions,
Both testy and stubborn in all his transactions;
With fraud and with falsehoods to litigate labours,
A plague to the public, and pest to his neighbours.

His BULL, this base brigand kept bound by the nose,
In a creek, on the confines of Coquet, that those
Cows which came across (thus decoy’d) to his corn,
The coin of their owners by craft to suborn.

He marry’d a maid with much money, as stated,
Both handsome, and harmless, yet heartily hated;
Hence hootings, and hissings, and banters beset her,
Because he his handmaid had long lov’d far better.

One sunday at dinner he saw of a sudden,
A human head hair peeping out of the pudding:
Though his minx mix’d the mass, made his spouse pluck it out,
And likewise submit to a buffetting bout.

One time when he wanted his fingers to warm,
She fronted the fire, and thought of no harm;
Her seat he upset, and she fell on the floor,
Depriv’d of her senses for more than an hour.

As he and his harlot one time sat at tea,
To taste a bit toast, his own matron made free;
For which misdemeanor his concubine cog’d her,
And for the offence he unfeelingly flog’d her.

One afternoon, ent’ring the parlour, he saw,
Expos’d on the carpet, prostrate, a piece straw;
His spouse he suspected for the foul offence,
And snatching the poker, depriv’d her of sense.

His children he taught with a dutiful grace,
To piss upon _Mammy_, and spit on her face;
And laugh when he lash’d her, ’till sickly and sore,
And in storms and in tempests turn’d her to the door.

With hunger and hardships, by bruises and blows,
His help-mate is render’d so lank and so low;
She seems to surrender the lease of her life,
And wind up the warfare of a wailing wife.

SATYR UPON WOMEN.

_By Mr James Robson._

This song is imperfectly compiled from part of a “Satyr upon Women,” wrote in Preston prison, in 1715 by Mr James Robson, a freeholder in Thropton, near Rothbury, Northumberland, at that time a musician in the rebel army. He sung the Satyr aloud, at an iron barred window looking into a garden, where a lady and her maid were walking: after the song was finished, the former says, “That young man seems very severe upon our sex; but perhaps he is singing more from oppression than pleasure; go give him that half crown piece,” which the girl gave him through the grating, at a period when he was at the point of starving.

All men of high and low degree,
Come listen to my song;
The subject suits both you and me,
With attestations strong:
Therefore I hope you’ll not be nice,
Attention true to pay,
And hence adhere to my advice,
Lest you be led astray.

Should you to marry be inclin’d,
I charge you to beware;
And caution you to change your mind,
Thus to escape that snare;
Be not decoy’d by age nor youth,
Whose aims are artful all;
But take my word as standard truth,
You here may stand or fall.

If you should wed one with a dower,
Obedience you must pay;
Or if you marry one who’s poor,
In rags you must array:
If you a blooming beauty wed,
A cuckold you must be;
And if a brunet blight your bed,
You’ll blush when belles you see.

Should you select a learned lass,
Impertinence must pall;
Or cull one from a vulgar class,
She balderdash will bawl:
If you adopt a daft town’s dame,
Her behests will be bold:
Or coax one of inferior fame,
She’ll curse, carouse, and scold.

Shun lofty looks, and language loud,
No stripes such tongues can tame;
Fly wanton wenches mirthful mood,
Which counsel can’t reclaim:
A wife of stature tall will dare,
To drag a giant down;
And little women wicked are,
One crop’d strong Samson’s crown.

Reflect that Adam’s innocence,
Was to Eve’s blunder blind;
Whose crafty crime caus’d to commence,
A curse upon mankind;
So you cannot too cautious be,
Of wormwood mix’d with gall;
Then friends pray be advis’d by me,
To wed with _none at all_!

TWEED SIDE.

On travelling down Tweed side,
I heard an uncouth chit chat;
An old wife thus her neighbour did chide,
May curses confound your cat!

His plunder I’ll tell you pit pat,
Our hut he inhabits at ease;
He broke into our buffet,
And munch’d up our ewe-milk cheese.

He lifts up our larder latch,
And he skims all the cream off the milk;
The callans he’ll bite and he’ll scratch,
And the brats of their boiley will bilk.

No farley to find him so fat,
Beef, bacon, and butter, he eats;
And ne’er hunts for a mouse nor a rat,
But sups upon savory meats.

He has lunch’d up two large lamb legs,
Of our bannocks he’s not left a bit;
And has scar’d the old hen off her eggs,
And she’s drown’d in the kirn-milk kit.

He mucks in our mickle meal-chest,
He spews in the cistern of salt;
In our kale-pot and cogies he’s piss’d,
And he mutes too among the malt.

He has drove a scate fish off the bink,
Which drop’d in the brimstone kan,
And rais’d such a stove and stink
As chok’d our old good man.

Was it no more damage than that,
The brute must be greatly to blame;
If you take not care of your tom-cat,
He may rely on a lame!

A SONG, _Pasted upon the Walls, and scattered about the Town of Rothbury, several Years ago._

Young Solomon, tir’d of a bachelor’s life,
Is resolv’d, by report, on a fat greasy wife,
Though merit might gain him a good natured girl,
Would forfeit his prospect for brazen Miss E----

If he wish to be wedded to folly and dirt,
To a lie-loving hussy, and impudent flirt,
Let him take what the captains of Alemouth have left,
And of comfort I warrant he will be bereft.

If a creature he takes who in muslin would shine,
Poor Solomon must on a red-herring dine;
To buy her fine clothes, and rich tippets of scarlet,
And dress the poor beggar in garbs of a harlot.

If willing with good cheerful neighbours to spend,
Or a convivial hour with some gay social friend;
To Bo----m’s would go, and therein not to be check’d,
Let him shun the hard fate of a husband hen-peck’d.

If he wish not to labour with want and disgrace,
Nor to answer demands which will fly in his face,
Nor would open his purse for the debts of another,
Let him think in due time of the case of Poll’s brother.

If children he’d have, with free use of their frame,
Let him not take a part’ner stiff-jointed and lame;
But let him look out for some wholesome clean girl,
And escape from the clutches of shameful Poll E----.

_The following ANSWER was handed about at Berwick upon Tweed and the neighbouring Villages._

Ah! pen, ink, and paper, proves pleasing,
To pirates who plunder the fame
Of females, by lewdness and teasing,
Too naughty and nauseous to name.

A rector, more rude than the rabble,
Compos’d an incendiary song,
More base than a Billingsgate bauble,
And like his stale strumpet stinks strong.

That seat on a summit for cent’ries
Assigned to sages and saints,
Was kept by those scripture comment’ries
From tete-a-tete, tarnish, and taints.

But time tells a tragical story,
Of truths well attested by some;
The term has turn’d out transitory,
That bulwarks a brothel become.

The mansion (I need not to mention)
Affords an affectionate feast,
To vassals of vicious invention,
A pander, two punks, and a priest.

Their pastimes and sports are pollution,
Each minx is unmarry’d--each man
Prefers to his spouse prostitution
Upon a ’postolical plan.

By priestcraft the pulpit’s perverted,
The parson’s deprav’d and impure;
With projects profane preconcerted,
A leacherous lout to allure.

Each cuddles his coney or rabbit,
And pleasantly purr with puss-cats;
Hence with husky harlots cohabit,
And handle a herdling’s old hats.

When pregnant, the spinster’s exported
Till she spawn her spurious sprouts,
Hence home with due caution escorted
To free the fecundine from flouts.

At Alnwick, this pious imposter
And Betty have boarded their brats;
Where they keep a female to foster
Their moppets, and Matthew’s pit-rats.

The quorum confer’d a commission
Upon this canonical quack,
Expecting the learned logician
Contentions would quell garb’d in black.

This pastor unprick’d with compunction,
His church with unchastity chimes,
And forfeits the fame of his function,
By columns of scandal and crimes.

Here follows a fatal relation,
By curses and conduct unkind,
(A fact prov’d by clear demonstration)
The brute broke the heart of his hind.

This curate (kept quite unconnected
With chums who in crowds coalesce)
Was by the whole parish respected,
For piety, prudence, and peace.

I’m sanction’d to say in the sequel,
His worship, by keeping a wench,
Incurs the contempt of each equal,
His betters, the bar, and the bench.

Traduce not the strains of a student,
Untaught in a technical style;
Nor pronounce a pupil imprudent,
For truths told on varlets so vile!!!

SONG.

There was five wives at Acomb,
And five wives at Wa’,
And five wives at Fallowfield,
That’s fifteen o’ them a’.

They’ve druken ale and brandy,
’Till they are all fu’;
And I cannot get home to
My Eppie I trow,
My Eppie I trow,
My Eppie I trow,
And I cannot get home to
My Eppie I trow.

The Tyne water’s se deep, that
I cannot wade through;
And I’ve no horse to ride to
My Eppie I trow,
My Eppie I trow,
My Eppie I trow,
And I’ve no horse to ride to
My Eppie I trow.

In Tyne I hev not a boat,
Nor yet cou’d I row,
Across the deep water to
My Eppie I trow,
My Eppie I trow,
My Eppie I trow,
And I’ve no horse to ride to
My Eppie I trow.

LITTLE BILLY.

Now little Billy is gone to the kirk,
And so merrily he doth sing:
I catch’d the parson in bed with my mother,
But I woud’nt tell it for any thing.

Thou art a liar, says Mess John,
I never did thy mother no harm:
I never was in her house in my life,
But once or twice for a penorth of barm.

Thou art a liar, said little Billy,
As sure as thou’rt on thy knees at prayer:
Did’nt I catch thee in bed with my mother,
And did’nt I tumble thee down the stairs.

Thou art a liar, says Mess John,
Thou shalt be whipp’d with a rod of birk;
And shalt be set in the stocks to morn,
For telling such lies o’ the kirk.

SAIR FAIL’D HINNY.

I was young and lusty,
I was fair and clear;
I was young and lusty,
Many a long year.
Sair fail’d hinny,
Sair fail’d now;
Sair fail’d hinny,
Sin’ I kend thou.

When I was young and lusty,
I could loup a dyke;
But now at five and sixty,
Cannot do the like.
Sair fail’d hinny,
Sair fail’d now,
Sair fail’d hinny,
Sin’ I kend thou.

Then said the awd man
To the oak tree;
Sair fail’d is ’e,
Sin’ I kend thee.
Sair fail’d hinny,
Sair fail’d now;
Sair fail’d hinny,
Sin’ I kend thou.

THE HARE SKIN.

BY GEORGE KNIGHT, SHOEMAKER.

Tune.--_Have you heard of a frolicsome ditty._

Come, gentlemen, attend to my ditty,
All you that delight in a gun;
And, if you’ll be silent a minute,
I’ll tell you a rare piece of fun.
Fal lal, &c.

It was on the tenth of November,
Or else upon Martinmas-day,
A gentleman,[70] who lov’d pastime,
Got a hare-skin well stuff’d with hay.

Then into the field he convey’d her,
And set her against a hedge-side;
Our gunners were rambling the fields thro’,
So that pussy was quickly espy’d.

Mr Tindal, the first that espy’d her,
Said that he lov’d a roast hare,
And that he would have her _tit_ supper,
For he for the law did not care.

The better his purpose to answer,
He charged his gun well with slugs,
And firing right manfully at her,
He _hat_ her betwixt the two lugs.

But when that he went for to seize her,
He found himself cursedly bit;
And soon flung her down in a passion,
And look’d as if he’d been b----t.

The next was Will Dunn, our painter,
Who wanted a novelty bit;
And, taking good aim, let fly at her,
And kill’d her stone-dead on her seat.

When firing, he swore he had maul’d her,
He ne’er miss’d a hare in his life;
And then in great trouble was he,
To get her safe home to his wife.

The next was John Walker, a tailor,
He thinking poor puss for to nap,
Indeed, he endeavour’d to kill her,
But his gun very often did snap.

But then making all things in order,
He at her let furiously drive;
Our serjeant was to have her _tit_ supper,
To make them all merry belyve.

But I think he was damnable saucy,
She ne’er was intended for he;
He must get something else to his cabbage,
For it and hare flesh ’ll ne’er agree.

The next was Joe Dixon, the barber,
One morning he rose in great haste,
And swore he would have hare _tit_ his supper,
And give all his neighbours a taste.

When firing, he swore he had kill’d her;
O then in great trouble was he,
How that he might safely convey her,
For fear any body should see.

The next was John Blythman, esquire;
Indeed he was much to blame,
To kill a hare with a gun is right cruel,
Tho’ gentlefolks may think it game.

Then Grundy came cursing and swearing,
Which is the chief end of his talk,
He shot her, and swore by his maker,
He’d kill’d her as dead as a mawk.

But when that he went for to seize her,
And found it a skin stuff’d with hay,
He flung her down in a passion,
And cursed, and so went away.

Now I’d have you all take care for the future,
And mind very well what I say;
Before that you fire, see the hare run,
Lest it prove a hare skin stuff’d with hay.

But I think they were all finely tricked,
Beside wasting powder and shot:
Let us have a good drink at the fancy,
So, landlady, fill us the pot.

Here’s the gentleman’s health that contriv’d it,
For he is a right honest soul;
We’ll laugh and we’ll merrily sing,
When we’re over a full flowing bowl.
Fal lal, &c.

[70] Mr Peter Confett.

LIMBO.

By the same Author.

Tune.--_On a time I was great, now little I’m grown._

I’ll tell you a story, if you please to attend,
When my heart was afflicted with sorrow,
The song it is new, but it’s absolute true;
It’s for nothing that I did buy or borrow:
But I was sent for to Preston’s one day the last week,
There I little expected with what I did meet,
But the country’s all rogues, and the world is a cheat,
And there they confin’d me in Limbo.

Like an innocent lamb to the slaughter I went,
Not knowing what was their intention,
But when I came there, O how I did stare,
When I found out their damned invention.
There was Preston the bailiff, Joe Craggs was his bum,
And there they did seize me, as sure as a gun,
Upstairs then they haul’d me into the back room,
And there they confin’d me in Limbo.

My belly was empty, though my stomach was full,
For to think there how I was _trepanned_,
Preston pull’d out a paper and made a long scrawl,
And he forc’d me to set my hand to’t.
Then I open’d his closet, I got out a pie,
Then I call’d for liquor, while I was a dry,
I knew somebody would pay for’t, but what cared I?
I wasn’t to starve, though in Limbo.

Another poor fellow there happen’d to be,
Which they had confined in Limbo;
Brother prisoner, says I, how shall we get free,
For want of this thing called rhino?
The poor fellow sat like one was half dead,
Then I gave him claret to dye his nose red;
But I never knew yet how the reck’ning was paid;
I was resolv’d to live well, though in Limbo.

There was Mr Bum and I, we toss’d it about,
Until we began to grow mellow;
Three bottles of claret he there did me give,
Indeed he’s a jolly good fellow:
Full bumpers of claret went round it is true,
Some drank for vexation till twice they did spew,
I ne’er in my life saw so merry a crew,
As we were when I was in Limbo.

There was Ralph Jackson, the tanner, he came in by chance,
And did chatter and talk like a parrot;
And likewise Will Bulmer was one of our number,
For he had a mind to drink claret.
Full glasses went round till I could not see,
O then they were all willing I should go free;
But the devil may pay them their reckoning for me,
For now I have got out of Limbo.

With many a foul step then I stagger’d home,
And it happen’d to be without falling;
I got on my bed, and nothing I said,
But my wife she began with her bawling;
She rung me such a peal, though she’d been not well,
As if she would have rais’d all the devils in hell,
You might have heard her as far as the sound of Bow Bell;
Then I wish’d that I’d stay’d there in Limbo.

A NEW SONG, _For the Year 1764_.

BY MR WILLIAM SUTTON.

On the banks of the Tees, at Stockton of old,
A castle there was of great fame we are told,
Where the Bishops of Durham were wont to retreat,
And spend all their summers at that gallant seat.
Derry down &c.

’Twas once on a time, that King John being there,
The chiefs of Newcastle did thither repair;
Humbly pray’d that his Highness would deign for to grant
Them a charter, of which they were then in great want.

The King highly pleas’d with the Bishop’s grand treat,
(Abounding in liquors, and all sorts of meat,)
Their prayer he comply’d with, the charter did sign,
Owing then, as ’twas said, to the Bishop’s good wine.

Old Noll, in his day, out of pious concern,
This castle demolish’d[71], sold all but the barn;
When Nilthorp and Hollis, with two or three more,
Divided the spoils, as they’d oft done before.

The town still improving, became the delight
Of strangers, and others, so charming its sight,
That a bridge cross the river being lately propos’d,
The cash was subscrib’d, and the bargain soon clos’d.

The King, Lords, and Commons approving the scheme,
The bridge was begun, and now’s building between[72]
Two counties, when finish’d, no doubt ’twill produce
Fairs, markets for cattle, and all things for use.

Let us drink then a bumper to Stockton’s success,
May its commerce increasing ne’er meet with distress;
May the people’s endeavours procure them much wealth,
And enjoy all their days the great blessing of health.
Derry down, &c.

[71] The castle and demesnes were sold during the government of the common wealth, 1647, for 6165_l._ and soon after was dismantled, and the materials disposed of.

[72] The act of parliament for building a bridge, by subscription, was got in 1761, was immediately begun, and was finished in April, 1771, and cost about 8000_l._

STOCKTON’S COMMENDATION.

Tune.--_Sir John Fenwick’s the flower amang them._

Come, brave spirits, that love Canary,
And good company are keeping,
From our friends let’s never vary,
Let your muse awake from sleeping:
Bring forth mirth and wise Apollo;
Mark your eyes on a true relation:
Virgil with his pen shall follow,
In ancient Stockton’s commendation.

Upon the stately river Tees,
A goodly castle there was placed,
Nigh joining to the ocean seas,
Whereby our country was much graced;
Affording rich commodities,
With corn and lead, unto our nation;
Which makes me sing with chearful voice,
Of ancient Stockton’s commendation.

In sixteen hundred thirty-five,
And about the month of February,
Three Stockton-men they did contrive,
To see their friends, and to be merry:
Part of their names I shall describe,
And place them down in comely fashion;
There was William, John, and Anthony,
Gain’d ancient Stockton commendation.

To famous Richmond first they came,
And with their friends awhile remained;
Middleham there, that town of fame,
Whereby much credit they obtained:
Being merry on a day,
A challenge came in this same fashion,
A match at football for to play;
But Stockton got the commendation.

Three Middleham-men appointed were,
And stakes put down on either party;
Stockton-men cast off all fear,
For Bishopric was always hearty.
Then those three Middleham-men did yield,
And for their loss they shew’d vexation;
There was but one came to the field,
And Stockton got the commendation.

With shouts and cries, in chearful voice,
The country all about them dwelling,
They all did say that very day,
That Stockton-men were far excelling.
When first I did it understand,
It was told to me as true relation;
Then I took my pen and ink in hand,
And writ brave Stockton’s commendation.

THE NEW WAY OF STOCKTON’S COMMENDATION.

TO THE OLD TUNE.

_By Benjamin Pye, L.L.D._

ARCHDEACON OF DURHAM.

“Upon the stately river Tees,
A noble castle there was placed,
Nigh joining to the ocean seas,
Whereby our country was much graced;
Affording rich commodities,
Of corn and lead unto the nation;
Which makes me sing in cheerful wise,
Of ancient Stockton’s commendation.”

But now I’ll tell you news prodigious,
My honest friends, be sure remark it,
Our ferries are transform’d to bridges,
And Cleveland trips to Stockton market.
Our causeways rough, and mirey roads,
Shall sink into a navigation,
And Johnny Carr shall sing fine odes,
In modern Stockton’s commendation.

O what a scene for joy and laughter,
To see, as light as cork or feather,
Our pond’rous lead, and bulky rafter,
Sail down the smooth canal together!
Whilst coal and lime and cheese and butter,
Shall grace our famous navigation;
And we will make a wond’rous clutter,
In modern Stockton’s commendation.

Our fairs I next will celebrate,
With scores of graziers, hinds and jockeys;
And bumpkins yok’d with Nell and Kate,
Who stare like any pig that stuck is:
Fat horned beasts now line our streets,
Which Aldermen were wont to pace on;
And oxen low, and lambkins bleat,
And all for Stockton’s commendation[73].

Our races too deserve a tune,
The northern sportsmen all prefer ’em,
For _Dainty Davy_ here did run
Much better then at York or Durham.
O ’twould take up a swingeing volume,
To sing at large our reputation;
Our bridge, our shambles, cross and column,
All speak fair Stockton’s commendation.

Fill then your jovial bumpers round,
Join chorus all in Stockton’s glory;
Let us but love our native town,
A fig for patriot, whig, or tory;
Whate’er they say, whate’er they do,
Their aim is but to fleece the nation;
Let us continue firm and true
To honest Stockton’s commendation.

[73] During the scarcity of change in 1811-12, the people of Stockton issued out silver tokens of sixpence and twelve-pence value, the only tokens issued in the county.

HARK TO WINCHESTER: OR, THE _Yorkshire Volunteers’ Farewell to the good Folks of Stockton._

_Tune_,--Push about the Jorum.

Ye Stockton lads and lasses too,
Come listen to my story;
A dismal tale, because ’tis true,
I’ve now to lay before ye:
We must away, our rout is come,
We scarce refrain from tears, O:
Shrill shrieks the fife, rough roars the drum,--
March, Yorkshire Volunteers, O!
Fal lal lal la ral.

Yet ere we part, my comrades say,
Come, Stockhore[74], you’re the poet,
If e’er you pen’d a grateful lay,
’Tis now the time to show it.
Such usage fair in this good town,
We’ve met from age and youth, sirs,
Accept our grateful thanks, and own
A poet sings the truth, sirs.
Fal lal, &c.

Ye lasses too, of all I see,
The fairest in the nation;
Sweet buds of beauty’s blooming tree,
The top of the creation;
Full many of our lads I ween,
Have got good wives and true, sirs;
I wonder what our leaders mean,
They have not done so too, sirs.
Fal lal, &c.

Perhaps----but hark! the thund’ring drum,
From love to arms is beating;
Our country calls; we come, we come,
Great George’s praise repeating:
He’s great and good, long may he here
Reign, every bliss possessing;
And long may each true volunteer
Behold him Britain’s blessing.
Fal lal, &c.

Our valiant Earl shall lead us on
The nearest way to glory,
Bright honour hails her darling son,
And fame records his story.
Dundas commands upon our lists
The second; though on earth, sirs,
No one he’s second to exists,
For courage, sense, and worth, sirs.
Fal lal, &c.

No venal muse before your view
Next sets a vet’ran bold, sirs,
The praise to merit justly due,
From Paul she cannot hold, sirs,
His valour oft has bore the test,
In war he’s brisk and handy;
His private virtues stand confest,
In short, he’s quite the dandy.
Fal lal, &c.

Brave Mackarel heads his grenadiers,
They’re just the lads to do it,
And should the Dons, or lank Monsieurs
Come here, he’ll make them rue it:
He’ll roar his thunders, make them flee,
With a tow, row, row, row, ra ra;
And do them o’er by land,----at sea,
As Rodney did Langara.
Fal lal, &c.

Young Thompson, with his lads so light
Of foot, with hearts of steel, O,
His country’s cause will nobly fight,
And make her foes to feel, O:
For should the frog-fed sons of Gaul
Come capering, _a la Francois_,
My lads, said he, we’ll teach them all
The _Light Bob_ country-dance a.
Fal lal, &c.

Our leaders all, so brave and bold,
Should I in verse recite a,
A baggage waggon would not hold
The songs that I could write, a:
Their deeds so great, their words so mild,
O take our worst commander,
And to him Cæsar was a child,
And so was Alexander.
Fal lal, &c.

Such men as these we’ll follow thro’
The world, and brave all danger;
Each volunteer is firm and true,
His heart’s to fear a stranger.----
_Good Folks, farewell!_ God bless the king,
With angels centry o’er him,
Now, _Hark, to Winchester!_ we’ll sing,
And push about the Jorum!
Fal lal lal la ral.

[74] Herbert Stockhore, a private, the pretended author.

STOCKTON’s COMMENDATION.

Ye freeholders of Stockton-town,
Who follow your several occupations,
Once more I’ll sing, and raise my tune,
On flourishing Stockton’s commendations.

Our bridge with pleasure I behold,
Our shambles gain great approbation;
And neighb’ring towns agree with me,
In singing Stockton’s commendation.

From East and West the graziers bring
Fat flocks of each denomination;
And o’er a glass they freely sing
Great is Stockton’s commendation.

Full thirty miles some butchers ride;
Fat goods are their expectation;
At Stockton they are well supplied;
They sing Stockton’s commendation.

Our shews proclaim a thriving town,
And fortnight-days to admiration,
To see Stockton improve so soon,
Daily to her commendation.

Our spacious streets each stranger views,
And fairly gives his approbation,--
Stockton’s the place that I do choose,
So great is Stockton’s commendation.

Our gardens, orchards, river, plains,
All join to raise our contemplation;
While hand in hand we other join,
In singing Stockton’s commendation.

Our merchants cast a noble shew,
Rich goods as any in the nation;
Great is their trade with high and low,
Makes them sing Stockton’s commendation.

All trades shall flourish now I see,
In their several occupation;
And our song shall ever be
Stockton’s lasting commendation.

Our ships well stor’d with merchandize,
Come trading here from ev’ry nation;
Our neighb’ring towns with goods supply,
Makes them sing Stockton’s commendation.

Our wool-trade daily does increase,
The staple of the British nation:
And farmers come, with cheerful pace,
To join in Stockton’s commendation.

Our lead in piles in plenty lie,
Sent by shipping to each nation.
Behold all trades on Stockton smile,
Makes me sing Stockton’s commendation.

Our races they are fifties three,
Where Darlington, of noble station,
Our Steward he approves to be,
To honour Stockton’s commendation.

May Darlington be Stockton’s friend,
And Stockton give their approbation
In favour of the House of Vane,
For raising Stockton’s commendation.

Now, freeholders, I take my leave,
Success to the British nation,
These lines to you I freely give,
In praise of Stockton’s commendation.

THE BARNARDCASTLE TRAGEDY.

Tune--_Constant Anthony_.

Young men and maidens all, I pray you now attend,
Mark well this tragedy which you find here penn’d;
At Barnardcastle Bridge-end, an honest man lives there,
His calling grinding corn, for which few can compare.

He had a sister dear, in whom he took delight,
And Atkinson, his man, woo’d her both day and night;
Till thro’ process of time he chained fast her heart,
Which prov’d her overthrow, by Death’s surprising dart.

False-hearted Atkinson, with his deluding tongue,
And his fair promises, he’s this poor maid undone;
For when he found he’d caught her fast in Cupid’s snare,
Then made he all alike, Betty’s no more his dear.

Drinking was his delight, his senses sure to dose,
Keeping lewd company, when he should seek repose;
His money being spent, and they would tick no score,
Then with a face of brass, he ask’d poor Bett for more.

At length he met with one, a serving-maid in town,
Who for good ale and beer would often pawn her gown,
And at all-fours she’d play, as many people know,
A fairer gamester no man could ever show.

Tom Skelton, ostler at the King’s Arms does dwell,
Who this false Atkinson did all his secrets tell;
He let him understand of a new love he’d got,
And with an oath he swore, she’d keep full the pot.

Then for the girl they sent, Bett Hardy was her name,
Who to her mistress soon an excuse did frame;
Mistress, I have a friend at the King’s Arms doth stay,
Which I desire to see, before he goes away.

Then she goes to her friend, who she finds ready there,
Who catch’d her in his arms, how does my only dear?
She says, Boys drink about, and fear no reckonings large,
For she had pawn’d her smock, for to defray the charge.

They did carouse it off, till they began to warm,
Says Skelton, Make a match, I pray where’s the harm?
Then with a loving kiss they straightway did agree,
But they no money had, to give the priest a fee.

Quoth Skelton seriously, The priest’s fee is large,
I’ll marry you myself, and save you all the charge;
Then they plight their troth unto each other there,
Went two miles from the town, and go to bed we hear.

Then when the morning came, by breaking of the day,
He had some corn to grind, he could no longer stay;
My business is in haste, which I to thee do tell;
So took a gentle kiss, and bid his love farewell.

Now, when he was come home, and at his business there,
His master’s sister came, who was his former dear;
Betty, he said, I’m wed, certainly I protest;
Then she smile’d in his face, Sure you do but jest.

Then within few days space, his wife unto him went,
And to the sign o’ th’ Last, there she for him sent;
The people of the house, finding what was in hand,
Stept out immediately, and let Betty understand.

Now this surprising news caus’d her fall in a trance,
Like as if she was dead, no limbs she could advance;
Then her dear brother came, her from the ground he took;
And she spake up and said, O my poor heart is broke.

Then with all speed they went, for to undo her lace,
Whilst at her nose and mouth her heart’s blood ran apace:
Some stood half dead by her, others for help inquire,
But in a moment’s time her life it did expire.

False hearted lovers all, let this a warning be,
For it may well be called Betty Howson’s tragedy.

🖙 The above shews how one John Atkinson, of Morton, near Appleby, courted Betty Howson, of Barnardcastle Bridge-end; and, after having gained her affections, forsook her for another; upon which, she broke her heart and died.

_A SONG_ IN PRAISE OF THE DURHAM MILITIA.

Tune--_The Lillies of France._

Militia boys for my theme I now chuse,
(Your aid I implore to assist me, my muse,)
Whilst here I relate of the Durham youths’ fame,
Who chearful appear’d when these new tidings came,
That to Barnardcastle they must march away,
Embody’d to be, without stop or delay.

What tho’ some cowards have betook them to flight,
And for their king and country scorn for to fight,
Yet we Durham boys, who jovial appear,
Right honest we’ll be, and we’ll banish all fear,
When head of the front, how martial we see
Our Colonel so brave, so gallant, and free.

Whose generous heart, by experience we know,
Why need we then dread along with him to go?
Then farewell, dear wives, and each kind sweetheart,
Pray do not repine that from you we must part;
But hark! the drums beat, and the fifes sweetly play,
We’re order’d to march now to Richmond straightway.

Where, clothed in red, and in purple attire,
Our exercise then shall be all our desire,
Which having acquir’d, then we’ll merrily sing,
Success to great George, and the Prussian king,
Likewise loyal Pitt, a statesman so bold,
Who scorns to be false, for interest or gold.

If then the Monsieurs should with their crafty guile,
E’er dare to molest us on Britain’s fair isle,
We’ll laugh at their fury, and malice so strong,
To Charon below how we’ll hurl them headlong.
Do they think that our muskets useless shall be,
When in numbers great, them advancing we see.

If they do, they’re mista’en, we’ll boldly proceed;
And conquer or die, ere ignobly we’ll yield;
Then crowned with laurel, (for vent’ring our lives)
Home then we’ll return to our sweethearts and wives,
What joy will be greater, our fame shall abound,
The bells then shall ring, and the trumpets shall sound.

Let each loyal Briton then fill up his glass,
For to drive care away, so round let it pass,
Drink a health to king George, who sits on his throne,
(Whose power the French to their sorrow have known,)
May the Heavens above preserve him from harm,
And ever defend him from foreign alarm.

THE LASS OF COCKERTON.

Tune--_Low down in the Broom._

’Twas on a summer’s evening,
As I a roving went,
I met a maiden fresh and fair,
That was a milking sent.
Whose lovely look such sweetness spoke,
Divinely fair she shone;
With modest face her dwelling-place,
I found was Cockerton.[75]

With raptures fir’d, I eager gaz’d,
On this blooming country maid,
My roving eye, in quickest search,
Each graceful charm survey’d.
The more I gaz’d, new wonder rais’d,
And still I thought upon
Those lovely charms, that so alarms
In the Lass of Cockerton.