Chapter V: Preface (5)

[Footnote 167: The marquess of Rockingham.]

[Footnote 168: The marquess of Rockingham invited them all to his residence, Wentworth house, where they drank French wine till they were unable to get home.]

[Footnote 169: The marchioness of Rockingham drank their healths by the name of _her_ volunteers.]

THE YORKSHIRE HORSE-DEALERS.

Bane ta Claapam town-end lived an oud Yorkshire tike,
Who i' dealing i' horseflesh hed ne'er met his like;
'Twor his pride that i' aw the hard bargains he'd hit,
He'd bit a girt monny, but nivver bin bit.

This oud Tommy Towers[170] (bi that naam he wor knaan)
Hed an oud carrion tit that wor sheer skin an' baan;
Ta hev killed him for t' curs wad hev bin quite as well,
But 'twor Tommy's opinion he'd dee on himsel!

Well! yan Abey Muggins,[171] a neighborin cheat,
Thowt ta diddle oud Tommy wad be a girt treat;
Hee'd a horse, too, 'twor war than oud Tommy's, ye see,
Fort' neet afore that hee'd thowt proper to dee!

Thinks Abey, t' oud codger'll nivver smoak t' trick,
I'll swop wi' him my poor deead horse for his wick,
An' if Tommy I nobbut can happen ta trap,
'Twill be a fine feather i' Aberram cap!

Soa ta Tommy he goas, an' the question he pops:
"Betwin thy horse and mine, prithee, Tommy, what swops?
What wilt gi' me ta boot? for mine's t' better horse still?"
"Nout," says Tommy, "I'll swop ivven hands, an' ye will!"

Abey preached a lang time about summat ta boot,
Insistin' that his war the liveliest brute;
But Tommy stuck fast where he first had begun,
Till Abey shook hands, and sed, "Well, Tommy, done!"

"O! Tommy," sed Abey, "I'ze sorry for thee,
I thowt thou'd a hadden mair white i' thy ee;
Good luck's wi' thy bargin, for my horse is deead."
"Hey!" says Tommy, "my lad, soa is min, an' it's fleead!"

Soa Tommy got t' better of t' bargin, a vast,
An' cam' off wi' a Yorkshireman's triumph at last;
For thof 'twixt deead horses there's not mitch ta choose,
Yet Tommy war richer by t' hide an' fower shooes.[172]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 170: The descendants of Tommy Towers were resident at Clapham till within a very recent period, and used to take great pleasure in relating the adventure of their progenitor. The village of Clapham is in the West Riding of Yorkshire, on the high road between Skipton and Kendal.]

[Footnote 171: Abey Muggins is thought to be a _sobriquet_ for a then Clapham innkeeper.]

[Footnote 172: This song obtained great popularity a few years ago from the admirable singing of Emery, and is still a favourite. Mr. Hailstone's copy concludes each verse with "Derry down, &c."]

BILL BROWN, THE POACHER.

In seventeen hundred and sixty-nine
As plainly doth appear then,
A bloody scene was felt most keen
Till death it did draw near then;
Of poor Bill Brown, of Brightside Town,
A lad of well known fame then,
Who took delight, both day and night,
To trace the timid hare then.

With wires strong they march'd along,
Unto brave Thriberg town then,
With nut-brown ale that ne'er did fail,
And many a health went round then;
Bright luna bright did shine that night,
To the woods they did repair then,
True as the sun their dogs did run,
To trace the lofty hare then.

A lofty breeze amongst the trees,
With shining he came on them,
Like Cain he stood seeking for blood,
With his bayonet and his gun then;
Then he did charge with shot quite large,
George Miller did him spy then;
This rogue's intent was fully bent,
One of us poor lads should die then.

His cruel hand he did command
That instant for to fire then,
And so with strife took poor Brown's life,
Which once he thought entire then.
His blood aloud for vengeance cried,
The keeper he came on then,
Like cruel Cain up to him came,
And so renew'd his wounds then.

Now this dear soul ne'er did control,
Nor think that man no ill then;
But to Dalton Brook his mind was struck,
While his clear blood did spill then;
For help he cried, but was denied,
No one there nigh him stood then;
And there he lay till break of day,
Dogs licking his dear blood then.

Farewell dear heart, now we must part,
From wife and children dear then;
Pity my doom, it was too soon,
That ever I came here then;
Farewell unto the brave dear lads
Whoever range the fields then,
This cruel man's murdering hand,
Has caused me for to yield then.

In grief and pain till death it came,
To embrace his dear soul then,
Who took its flight to heaven straight,
Where no man can control them.
The country round heard of the sound,
Of poor Brown's blood being spilt then,
'Twas put in vogue to find the rogue,
That justice might be done then.

With irons strong they march'd along
Unto York castle fair then;
In a dark cell was doom'd to dwell,
Till the judge he did appear then;
George Miller bold, as I've been told,
Deny it here who can then,
He ne'er was loth to take his oath,
Brown was a murder'd man then.

There was a man who there did stand,
Whose heart did shake amain then;
But gold did fly they can't deny,
Or at Tyburn he'd been hung then.
They'd ne'er been bold to hear it told
To hear of Shirtly's doom then.
The judge put it off to God on high,
Or they might have judged him soon then.

There was brave Ned Greaves never did fail,
To crown poor Bill Brown's name then,
George Miller brave defies each knave,
That travels o'er the plain then;
With sword and gun now we will run,
Though the law it doth maintain them,
Yet poor Brown's blood lost in the wood
For vengeance cries amain then.

THE ROMANBY TRAGEDY.

The remorseless tragedy on which this ballad is founded took place upwards of a century ago. In the village of Romanby, near Northallerton, there resided a desperate band of coiners, whose respectability and cunning concealment precluded all possibility of suspicion as to their proceedings. The victim of their revenge was Mary Ward, the servant of one of those ruffians. Having obtained an accidental view of some secret apartments appropriated to their treasonable practices, she unguardedly communicated her knowledge to an acquaintance, which reaching her master's ears, he determined to destroy her. The most plausible story, time, and means were selected for this purpose. On a Sunday evening, after sunset, an unknown personage on horseback arrived at her master's mansion, half equipped, to give colour to his alleged haste, and stated that he was dispatched for Mary, as _her mother was dying_. She lingered to ask her master's permission, but he feigned sleep, and she departed without his leave. On the table of her room was her Bible, opened at these remarkable words in Job, "They shall seek me in the morning, and shall not find me; and where I am, they shall not come." Her home was at the distance of eight miles from Romanby, and Morton bridge, hard by the heath where she was murdered, is the traditionary scene of her nocturnal revisitings. The impression of her re-appearance is only poetically assumed, for there is too much of what Coleridge would term "the divinity of nature" around Morton bridge, to warrant its association with supernatural mysteries.

Oh! sights are seen, and sounds are heard,
On Morton bridge, at night,
When to the woods the cheerful birds
Have ta'en their silent flight.

When through the mantle of the sky
No cheering moonbeams delve,
And the far village clock hath told
The midnight hour of twelve.

Then o'er the lonely path is heard
The sigh of sable trees,
With deadly moan of suff'ring strife
Borne on the solemn breeze--

For Mary's spirit wanders there,
In snowy robe array'd,
To tell each trembling villager
Where sleeps the murder'd maid.

It was a Sabbath's eve of love,
When nature seem'd more holy;
And nought in life was dull, but she,
Whose look was melancholy.

She lean'd her tear-stain'd cheek of health
Upon her lily arm;
Poor, hapless girl! she could not tell
What caus'd her wild alarm.

Around the roses of her face
Her flaxen ringlets fell;
No lovelier bosom than her own
Could guiltless sorrow swell!

The Holy Book before her lay,
That boon to mortals given,
To teach the way from weeping earth
To ever-glorious heaven;

And Mary read prophetic words,
That whisper'd of her doom:--
"Oh! they will search for me, but where
I am, they cannot come!"

The tears forsook her gentle eyes,
And wet the sacred lore;
And such a terror shook her frame,
She ne'er had known before.

She ceas'd to weep, but deeper gloom
Her tearless musing brought;
And darker wan'd the evening hour,
And darker Mary's thought.

The sun, he set behind the hills,
And threw his fading fire
On mountain, rock, and village home,
And lit the distant spire.

(Sweet fane of truth and mercy! where
The tombs of other years
Dis-course of virtuous life and hope,
And tell of by-gone tears!)

It was a night of nature's calm,
For earth and sky were still;
And childhood's revelry was o'er,
Upon the daisied hill.

The alehouse, with its gilded sign
Hung on the beechen bough,
Was mute within, and tranquilly
The hamlet-stream did flow.

The room where sat this grieving girl
Was one of ancient years;
Its antique state was well display'd
To conjure up her fears;

With massy walls of sable oak,
And roof of quaint design,
And lattic'd window, darkly hid
By rose and eglantine.

The summer moon now sweetly shone
All softly and serene;
She clos'd the casement tremblingly
Upon the beauteous scene.

Above that carved mantle hung,
Clad in the garb of gloom,
A painting of rich feudal state,--
An old baronial room.

The Norman windows scarcely cast
A light upon the wall,
Where shone the shields of warrior knights
Within the lonely hall.

And, pendent from each rusty nail,
Helmet and steely dress,
With bright and gilded morion,
To grace that dim recess.

Then Mary thought upon each tale
Of terrible romance;--
The lady in the lonely tower--
The murderer's deadly glance--

And moon-lit groves in pathless woods,
Where shadows nightly sped;
Her fancy could not leave the realms
Of darkness and the dead.

There stood a messenger without,
Beside her master's gate,
Who, till his thirsty horse had drunk,
Would hardly deign to wait.

The mansion rung with Mary's name,
For dreadful news he bore--
A dying mother wish'd to look
Upon her child once more.

The words were, "Haste, ere life be gone;"
Then was she quickly plac'd
Behind him on the hurrying steed
Which soon the woods retrac'd.

Now they have pass'd o'er Morton bridge,
While smil'd the moon above
Upon the ruffian and his prey--
The hawk and harmless dove.

The towering elms divide their tops;
And now a dismal heath
Proclaims her "final doom" is near
The awful hour of death!

The villain check'd his weary horse,
And spoke of trust betray'd;
And Mary's heart grew sick with fright,
As, answering, thus she said--

"Oh! kill me not until I see
My mother's face again!
Ride on, in mercy, horseman, ride,
And let us reach the lane!

"There slay me by my mother's door,
And I will pray for thee;
For she shall find her daughter's corse"--
"No, girl, it cannot be.

"This heath thou shalt not cross, for soon
Its earth will hide thy form;
That babbling tongue of thine shall make
A morsel for the worm!"

She leap'd upon the ling-clad heath,
And, nerv'd with phrensied fear,
Pursued her slippery way across,
Until the wood was near.

But nearer still two fiends appear'd,
Like hunters of the fawn,
Who cast their cumb'ring cloaks away,
Beside that forest lone;

And bounded swifter than the maid,
Who nearly 'scap'd their wrath,
For well she knew that woody glade,
And every hoary path.

Obscur'd by oak and hazel bush,
Where milk maid's merry song
Had often charm'd her lover's ear,
Who blest her silv'ry tongue.

But Mary miss'd the woodland stile--
The hedge-row was not high;
She gain'd its prickly top, and now
Her murderers were nigh.

A slender tree her fingers caught--
It bent beneath her weight;
'Twas false as love and Mary's fate!
Deceiving as the night!

She fell--and villagers relate
No more of Mary's hour,
But how she rose with deadly might,
And, with a maniac's power,

Fought with her murd'rers till they broke
Her slender arm in twain;
But none could e'er discover where
The maiden's corse was lain.

When wand'ring by that noiseless wood,
Forsaken by the bee,
Each rev'rend chronicler displays
The bent and treach'rous tree.

Pointing the barkless spot to view,
Which Mary's hand embrac'd,
They shake their hoary locks, and say,
"It ne'er can be effac'd!"

ARMTHORPE BELLS.[173]

I.

I sing the church of ARMTHORPE town,[174]
That stands upon a hill,
And all who in the Fly[175] come down
May see it if they will.

II.

But there to them it doth appear
An humble barn, tho' neat,
I wish the rector every year
Had it choke full of wheat.

III.

I only mean, supposing it
A very barn indeed;
I'm sure he'd give thereof what's fit
To them who stand in need.

IV.

The steeple then, you may presume,
Is not like that of GRANTHAM,
For bells and chimes there was no room,
And now they do not want them.

V.

In vain the Quakers it abuse,
And with their canting flout it,
Calling this church a steeple-house,
There's no such thing about it.

VI.

Altho' no steeple doth appear,
Yet bells they're not without,
High hung in air, aloft they are,
But where? Ah! there's the doubt.

VII.

How this can be, for you to tell
Requires somewhat to think on;
And yet they serve the folks as well
As would Great Tom of Lincoln.

VIII.

The architect, a silly man,
(And artist too--God wot;)
Some say, when up he drew his plan,
The steeple he forgot.

IX.

But that was not the cause of it,
Our wiser rector fancies;
'Twas not the builder's lack of wit,
But want of the finances.

X.

To rectify this great neglect,
Before the cash was spent all,
An useful thing he did erect,
Both cheap and ornamental.

XI.

For he a simple wall did raise
Upon the west-end gable,
And I must own, unto his praise,
It stands yet firm and stable.

XII.

And of his skill to give some proof,
Which he'd not done before:
He built it up above the roof,
Some six feet high or more.

XIII.

Of this, from north to south th' extent
Was full as long as high,
For doing which his wise intent
I'll tell you bye and bye.

XIV.

Two holes quite thro' this wall were seen
Like windows in a garret,
That two small bells might hang therein,
For passengers to stare at.

XV.

But how to get these bells--alas!
Much jangling did create,
Much ale, and much tobacco, was
Consum'd in the debate.

XVI.

One wiser than the rest propos'd
To draw up a petition,
Begging SIR GEORGE[176] would be dispos'd
To pity their condition.

XVII.

That he would kindly grant this boon,
Unto his tenants all,
The dinner-bell that calls at noon
The vassals to his hall.

XVIII.

When to sir George they did impart,
How much they stood in need,
He said he'd give't, with all his heart,
And sent it them with speed.

XIX.

Their need by this being half supply'd,
They wanted now but one,
But that, with judgment great, they cried,
Should have a shriller tone.

XX.

One thought upon a tavern bell,
Another on a miller's,
A third thought one would do as well
That tinkles on a thill-horse.

XXI.

"A fine one's in the Angel bar,"[177]
Says one, "and I can steal it,
If on the bible you'll all swear
You never will reveal it."

XXII.

The clerk, a simple tailor, cry'd
He'd never touch the string,
Or whatsoever else they ty'd
To the accursed thing.

XXIII.

The tailor's speech did for some time
Put all in great combustion,
They said it was no greater crime
To steal a bell than fustian.

XXIV.

Here they had stuck, had it not been
For what I shall relate,
A gift to them quite unforeseen
Which was decreed by fate.

XXV.

A neighb'ring corp'rate town,[178] who found
Their crier's bell too small,
To get one with a deeper sound
Had call'd a common-hall.

XXVI.

The mayor, for th' honor of the place,
Commendably was zealous,
And of whate'er might it disgrace
Was equally as jealous.

XXVII.

Said, "Gentlemen and brethren dear,
You need not now be told
That this here town for many a year
Look'd very mean and old.

XXVIII.

"But so magnificent is grown,
As know ye all full well;
That quality from London town
Choose here to come and dwell.

XXIX.

"Our Mansion-house, inside and out,
So elegant doth rise,
That, in the nation round-about,
'Tis mention'd with surprize.

XXX.

"Of precious time 'twould be a loss,
Should I make long preambles
Of pavements, lamps, and butter-cross,
And of our butchers' shambles.

XXXI.

"But here the new-built gaol, I own,[179]
Ought not to be forgotten,
A sweeter place in all the town
No one would choose to rot in.

XXXII.

"Yet notwithstanding all our pains,
Our judgment and expence,
Yet wanting much, one thing remains
Of weighty consequence.

XXXIII.

"For what avails our large gilt mace,
Our full-furr'd purple gowns?
Our scarlet fiddlers' noted race,
And lord-like pack of hounds?[180]

XXXIV.

"What, tho' our huntsman's clothed well,
In coat of grass-green plush,[181]
Whene'er I see our crier's bell,
I vow it makes me blush.

XXXV.

"Whene'er we're sitting in this hall,
The sound on't makes me sick,
For 'tis a great burlesque on all
Our body politic.

XXXVI.

"No dignity's thereby convey'd,
No harmony decorous,
I marvel much no order's made
It shan't be rung before us.

XXXVII.

"Then, gentlemen, with decent pride,
At this our solemn sitting,
Let us agree that we provide
A bell our town befitting."

XXXVIII.

The court agreed; a bell was bought,
With more melodious tongue,
How much it cost I have forgot,
But to this day 'tis rung.

XXXIX.

Th' offensive bell was laid aside,
Like statesmen when discarded,
And in a stable did reside,
Entirely disregarded.

XL.

Soon did the news of this event,
Reach Armthorpe you may swear.
From whence two leading men were sent
To treat with Mr. Mayor.

XLI.

Whom they approach'd with awkward bow,
And then with sly address
They told his worship, "That as how--
They were in great distress."

XLII.

Said,--"A great work we have in hand,
In which we've been too rash,
For now it all is at a stand,
Only for want of cash.

XLIII.

"A bell we want, a small one too.
Would make our business right,
A second-handed bell would do,
Did we know where to buy't."

XLIV.

By this time he smelt out their drift,
And gen'rous as a king,
Said,--"We have one--to you we'll giv't,--
'Twill be the very thing.

XLV.

"And I'm well pleased, I do protest,
To save you so much charge,
But, I suppose, tho' you know best,
Our bell will be too large."

XLVI.

The bell was fetch'd at his command,
(A sight to them most pleasing,)
Of which to them, with but one hand,
He livery gave and seizin.

XLVII.

The joy they did at this conceive
They could not well conceal,
For as they bow'd, and took their leave,
They rang a tingling peal.

XLVIII.

Full fast then homeward they did hie,
(Almost as quick as thought,)
Nor was their speed retarded by
The weight of what they brought.

XLIX.

But when the town they did descry,
They rung their bell aloud,
Which their success did signify
To the desponding crowd.

L.

The townsmen bless'd at the event,
And at their hearts full glad,
Quickly return'd the compliment,
By ringing that they had.

LI.

So when a ship a fort salutes,
No sooner have they done,
The fort, to obviate all disputes,
Returns them gun for gun.

LII.

Jason, who brought the golden fleece
Upon the good ship Argo,
Was not more welcom'd home than these,
Tho' they did not so far go.

LIII.

Both bells were in triumphant state,
With many a rustic grin,
Conducted to the church-yard gate
And introduc'd therein.

LIV.

Where in the shade of two spread yews,
Like Baucis and Philemon,
Was told at large the joyful news,
To many a listning yeoman.

LV.

There wanted not to mount them high
A windlass or a gable,
For any lad that stood thereby
To run them up was able.

LVI.

The bells, at last, were safely hung
In their respective holes,
At weddings, where they both are rung,
At deaths, the largest tolls.

LVII.

At first they various ways did try
In vain, to make them speak,
At last they did succeed, and by
_Un tour de mechanique_.

LVIII.

The clerk right wisely did foresee.
By virtue of his post,
That he of their good company
Was like to have the most.

LIX.

To keep society alive,
And that they still might please,
Wish'd that some way he could contrive,
T' enjoy the same with ease.

LX.

For this he cudgelled his brains,
At length this happy thought
Occurr'd,--which, with small cost and pains,
He to perfection brought.

LXI.

He found two yard-long sticks would do,
Which might from westward come,
When each had been well fixed to
It's _tintinabulum_.

LXII.

Two strings, for ropes,[182] a name too great,
From these sticks might depend,
And by two holes made thro' the slate,
Into the church descend.

LXIII.

That he, when sitting on his breech,
(In either hand a string)
By giving an alternate twitch,
With ease might make them ring.

LXIV.

A great example here is seen,
Of the mechanic-power,
Nor has there yet adopted been
A better to this hour.

LXV.

Here critics may cry out with spite,
Lord! how these verses jingle!
But, otherwise, how could I write
On bells that only tingle?

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 173: From a MS. _penes_ Rev. H. J. Branson, M. A., Rector of Armthorpe. It is not now known with certainty to whom we are to attribute the authorship of these lines. They appeared in the "_Yorkshire Journal_," of Saturday January 19, 1788, a newspaper at that period printed and published at Doncaster, by Thomas Sanderson. In introducing the subject he says, "The following Ballad on Armthorpe Bells was wrote some years ago, supposed by a gentleman of this town, sometime since deceased, and were sent to Mr. Anstey, author of the _Bath Guide_, nephew to the Rev. Christopher Anstey, the then rector of Armthorpe. They were for some time handed about in manuscript, but having never appeared in public may not prove unacceptable to our readers; and we hope the vein of wit and humour, which runs through the whole poem, will sufficiently apologize for its length." Who the gentleman thus alluded to was we are unable to state. An impression has prevailed that they were written by Mr. Anstey, the author of the _Bath Guide_; but, in the absence of any positive evidence to that effect, we must assume that the proprietor of the _Yorkshire Journal_, writing in 1788, when the subject would be fresh and talked about, is more likely to be correct in the statement above made. Mr. Christopher Anstey, the poet, was born 31 Oct. 1724, and died 3 Aug. 1805. The Rev. Christopher Anstey, rector of Armthorpe from about 1771 to 1784, died June 17, 1784, aged 73, and was buried at Doncaster.]

[Footnote 174: Armthorpe is a village, situated in an agricultural district, about three miles south-east of Doncaster. An account of it at length may be read in Hunter's able work, the "History of South Yorkshire." The place lay close to the confines of the ancient Chace of Hatfield, and once formed a valuable part of the possessions of the monks of the abbey of Roche. At the dissolution of the abbey the manor of Armthorpe came to the crown. In 3 James I. the king granted it to sir Robert Swyft, of Tristrop, (now Streetthorpe,) knt. The family of Cooke, of Wheatley, had a good estate here, most of which sir George Cooke, bart. sold, in 1804, to John Walbanke Childers, esq., of Cantley, in whose family it remains. The church is dedicated to St. Mary. Dr. Miller, in his "History of Doncaster," 1803, briefly remarks that it was then "a very small mean building, with one bell hanging on the outside of it, and nothing worth noticing within." Hunter, in 1828, remarks that it is a small building of one pace, with two bells hanging in a kind of pent-house on the roof, and is a fair specimen of what the original churches of the smaller country parishes must have been. "This," he says, "is the only instance of a church without a tower in the deanery." The living is a rectory in the gift of the crown, and is now held by the Rev. H. J. Branson, M.A., who was presented thereto, by Lord Chancellor Brougham, in 1834.]

[Footnote 175: THE FLY was the name of a coach that commenced running, in the year 1768, from Leeds to London, during the winter season, and performed its journey in two days and a half, at that period considered very expeditious travelling. Probably it derived its name from this extraordinary swiftness. The advertisement of this coach, inserted in the _Leeds Intelligencer_, of January 3, 1769, after stating the fares, the places from whence it set out, &c. &c., concludes in the usual manner, viz. "Performed (_if God permit_) by Messrs. Stokes, Benton and Co;" from this expression coaches, in those days, were by some irreverently styled "God-permits." As far back as 1669 a coach called the "Flying Coach" went from Oxford to London in one day. Perhaps any vehicle became entitled to the appellation that could go along at a moderate trot. In 1791 were advertised "New Flying Stage-Waggons."]

[Footnote 176: Sir George Cooke, of Wheatley; probably the seventh baronet, 1766-1823.]

[Footnote 177: The Angel Inn, at Doncaster, upon the site of which stands the Guild-Hall.]

[Footnote 178: Doncaster.]

[Footnote 179: This passage helps to furnish a clue to the period about which these lines were probably written. Miller (Hist. Doncaster, p. 184), under 1767, says that "a new gaol was built;" and again, under 1778 (p. 185), he says that "the old gaol was taken down and a new one erected."]

[Footnote 180: In addition to the "lordlike" luxury of a pack of hounds, in which the _old_ corporation of Doncaster formerly indulged, that highly respectable body, after the manner of the Royal COLE, of convivial memory, when they "called for their bowl," (which they not unfrequently did,) possessed also the king-like privilege of summoning their "fiddlers three." They maintained, as a part of their regular establishment, three musicians, called waits, who were clothed in scarlet liveries, and played at feasts, balls, &c., and walked in the procession to church. In former times they used to go about the town, during the night, playing a single tune on various instruments at the doors of the principal inhabitants; an office which seems to have answered the same purpose as that of watchman, to which they afterwards gave place.]

[Footnote 181: In 1762 the huntsman had "a frock of blue shagg, faced with red,"--the colours of the corporation's livery.]

[Footnote 182: The low common was enclosed about 1671, when an allotment of 1 acre 16 poles was given, in lieu of land appropriated from time immemorial to the finding of church bell-ropes, and is let to the highest bidder.]

PAUL JONES, THE CUMBERLAND MILITIA,

AND SCARBROUGH VOLUNTEERS.[183]

The inhabitants of the Yorkshire coast were frequently, about the year 1779, thrown into a state of alarm by that intrepid Anglo-American buccanier, Paul Jones. This man had formerly been in the service of the earl of Selkirk, whence he was expelled with disgrace, and having repaired to America he volunteered to make a descent on the British coast. Being entrusted with the command of a privateer, he effected a landing at Whitehaven, and set fire to some shipping in the arbour. He sailed for Scotland, where he landed on the estate of the earl of Selkirk, and plundered his lordship's house of all the plate. These services insured his promotion, and procured him the command of the Bon Homme Richard, and the Alliance, each of 40 guns; the Pallas, of 32 guns; and the Vengeance, armed brig. With this force he made many valuable captures, insulted the coast of Ireland, and even threatened the city of Edinburgh. On Monday, the 20th Sept. 1779, an express arrived at Bridlington, from the bailiffs of Scarborough, with intelligence that an enemy was cruising off the coast. On Thursday a valuable fleet of British merchantmen from the Baltic, under the convoy of the Serapis, Capt. Pearson, of 44 guns, and the Countess of Scarborough, Capt. Piercy, of 22 guns, hove in sight, and were chased by the enemy. The first care of Capt. Pearson was to place himself between the enemy and his convoy; by which manoeuvre he enabled the whole of the merchantmen to escape into the port of Scarborough. About half-past seven o'clock the thunder of the cannon announced that an engagement had commenced; the battle raged with unabated fury for two hours, when at length Capt. Pearson, who was engaged by the two largest of the enemy's ships, was compelled to surrender. Capt. Piercy, after a long and gallant defence, was in the end obliged to strike to the Pallas. The enemy purchased the victory at a prodigious price, more than 300 men being killed or wounded in the Richard alone, which vessel received so much injury, that she sunk next day with many of the wounded on board.

Capt. Pearson afterwards received the honour of knighthood; and the freedom of the borough of Scarborough was presented to him and his gallant colleague, Capt. Piercy, in two boxes of "heart of oak," ornamented with silver.

Come each loyal Briton of courage so bold,
As annals can show you would ne'er be controul'd,
It vexes my patience I'm sure night and day,
To think how that traitor Paul Jones got away.
Derry down, &c.

As soon as this rebel near our shore did come,
From all parts of the town the inhabitants run,
They all stood amazed his fire to see,
But this never daunted our brave militia.

Our two noble colonels they straight gave command,
Brave Lowther[184] and Fleming,[185] two parliament men,
They marched thro' the ranks, and to the men did say,
"Brave boys, have your arms in good order, we pray."

Our brave officers all, of every degree,
Took care every man provided should be,
With powder and ball, then each took command,
Said, "Boys, for the honour of Cumberland."

Then strait we on guard to the Spaws sent with speed,
To prevent Paul's landing, in case there was need;
They call him Paul Jones, but his name is John Paul,
And if ever we catch him he shall pay for all.

The Serapis and Countess of Scarbrough brave,
Five hours and a half they did bravely behave;
Only two against six the whole time in the fight,
And so with reluctance was forcèd to strike.

In Whitehaven this brat served his time to the sea,
He was born and bred in the shire of Galloway;
He liv'd with lord Selkirk a servant some time,
But committing murder to goal was confined.

He was try'd for the same, and condemned to die,
But broke his confinement, by means cunningly;
A traitor he stands for th' American cause,
And join'd with the French for to pull down our laws.

The inhabitants of Scarbrough to work strait did fall,
In order to protect them from all such as Paul,
And rais'd up a volunteer company with speed,
To defend the town in case there was need.

So now they are provided with every thing new,
Their hearts they are good, and their clothing is blue,
They'll join our militia without dread or fear,
For to flog Jackey Paul, should he chance to come here.

I wish every city and town would with speed,
Raise a volunteer company in time of such need;
To assist our militia round the British land,
And imitate Scarbrough who has laid them a plan.

So here is a health for to drink great and small,
Success to our militia and volunteers all,
May they all prove loyal and true to their king,
And all such as Paul in a halter soon swing.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 183: From a broadside in the Roxburgh collection. Another, on this event, is published by J. Forth of Pocklington.]

[Footnote 184: Sir James Lowther, bart., of Laleham, Middlesex, son-in-law to the earl of Bute, lieut. and custos rotulorum of Cumberland and Westmoreland, and alderman of Carlisle.]

[Footnote 185: Sir Michael le Fleming, bart., M.P. for Westmoreland.]

A NEW FOX-HUNTING SONG.[186]

COMPOSED BY W. S. KENRICK, AND J. BURTELL.

The Chase run by the Cleveland Fox Hounds, on Saturday the 29th day of January, 1785.

Ye hardy sons of chace give ear,
All listen to my song;
'Tis of a hunt perform'd this year,
That will be talk'd of long,
When a hunting we do go, oho, oho, oho,
And a hunting we will go, oho, oho, oho,
And a hunting we will go, oho, oho, oho,
With the huntsman, Tally, oh.

On Weary Bank, ye know the same,
Unkenell'd was the fox;
Who led us, and our hounds of fame,
O'er mountains, moors, and rocks,
When a hunting we do go, &c.

'Twas Craythorn first swift reynard made,
To Limton then did fly;
Full speed pursu'd each hearty blade,
And join'd in jovial cry,
With the huntsman Tally ho, &c.

To Worsal next he took his flight,
Escape us he would fain;
To Picton next with all his might,
To Craythorn back again,
With the huntsman Tally ho, &c.

To Weary Bank then takes his course,
Thro' Fanny Bell's gill flies;
In Seymour Car strains all his force,
His utmost vigour tries,
With the huntsman Tally oh, &c.

To Tanton, Nunthorp, next he flies,
O'er Langbrough Rig goes he;
He scours like light'ning o'er the meads,
More swift fox could not be,
Nor with a huntsman better match'd, &c.

To Newton, then to Roseberry,
To Hutton Lockerass gill;
To Lownsdale, o'er Court Moor go we,
From thence to Kildale Mill,
With the huntsman Tally ho, &c.

By this our zeal was not subdu'd,
All crosses were in vain;
To Kildale reynard we pursu'd,
To Lownsdale back again,
With the huntsman Tally ho, &c.

By Percy Cross, and Sleddale too,
And Pilly Rig full fast,
As fox could run to Skylderskew,
And Lockwood Beck he past,
With the huntsman Tally ho, &c.

By Freebrough Hill he takes his way,
By Danby Lodge also;
With ardour we pursue our prey,
As swift as hounds could go,
With the huntsman Tally ho, &c.

By Coal Pits and o'er Stonegate Moor,
To Scayling reynard ran;
Was such a fox e'er seen before?
His equal show who can!
When a hunting we do go, &c.

To Barnby now by Ugthorpe Mill,
And Mickleby likewise;
To Ellerby, to Hinderwell,
Still stubborn reynard flies,
With the huntsman Tally ho, &c.

The huntsman now with other three,[187]
And reynard you'll suppose;
Ten couple of hounds of high degree,
One field now did inclose,
With the huntsman Tally ho, &c.

But now our chace draws near an end,
No longer we'll intrude;
For on the cliff, rejoice, my friend,
Swift reynard there we view'd,
With the huntsman Tally ho, &c.

Sure such a chace must wonder raise,
And had I time to sing,
The huntsman's deeds who merits praise,
Would make the vallies ring,
When a hunting we do go, &c.

Come, sportsmen, all your glasses fill,
And let the toast go round;
May each foxhunter flourish still
In health and strength abound,
When a hunting we do go, &c.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 186: From a broadside in the Roxburgh collection.]

[Footnote 187: Thomas Cole, huntsman; the Rev. George Davison, rector of Cockfield, co. Durham; Christopher Rowntree, junr; and William Stockdale.]

AN HONEST YORKSHIRE-MAN.

Ah iz i' truth a country youth,
Neean us'd teea Lunnon fashions;
Yet vartue guides, an' still presides,
Ower all mah steps an' passions.
Neea coortly leear, bud all sinceere,
Neea bribe shall ivver blinnd me;
If thoo can like a Yorkshire tike,
A rooague thoo'll nivver finnd me.

Thof envy's tung, seea slimlee hung,
Wad lee aboot oor county,
Neea men o' t' eearth booast greter wurth,
Or mare extend ther boounty.
Oor northern breeze wi' uz agrees,
An' does for wark weel fit uz;
I' public cares, an' luve affairs,
Wi' honour we acquit uz.

Seea gret a maund is ne'er confiand,
Tiv onny shire or nation;
They geean meeast praise weea weel displays
A leearned iddicasion.
Whahl rancour rolls i' lahtle souls,
By shallo views dissarning,
They're nobbut wise 'at owlus prize
Gud manners, sense, and leearnin.[188]

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 188: The above first appeared in a Ballad-opera, entitled _A Wonder or, An Honest Yorkshire-man_, by Henry Carey; performed at the theatres with universal applause. London, printed for Ed. Cooke, 8vo. 1736. The second edition was entitled _The Honest Yorkshire-man_. London, printed for L. Gilliver and J. Clarke, 12mo. 1736. See Notes and Queries, 2nd S. IX. 126.]

SPENCE BROUGHTON.

Who was hung at York for robbing the mail on the 14th of April, 1792.

To you my dear companions,
Accept these lines I pray;
A most impartial trial
Has occupied this day.
'Tis from your dying Broughton
To show his wretched fate,
I hope you'll make reformation
Before it is too late.

The loss of your companion
Does grieve my heart full sore,
And I know that my fair Ellen
Will my wretched fate deplore.
I think on those happy hours
That now are past and gone,
Now poor unhappy Broughton
Does wish he had ne'er been born.

One day in Saint James's
With large and swelling pride,
Each man had a flash woman
Walking by his side;
At night we did retire
Unto some ball or play,
In these unhappy pleasures
How time did pass away.

Brought up in wicked habit,
Which brings me now in fear,
How little did I think
My time would be so near;
For now I'm overtaken,
Condemned and cast to die,
Exposed a sad example
To all that does pass by.

O that I had but gone
To some far-distant clime,
A gibbet post, poor Broughton,
Would never have been mine;
But alas, for all such wishes,
Such wishes are in vain,
Alas! it is but folly
And madness to complain.

One night I tried to slumber
And close my weeping eyes,
I heard a foot approach
Which struck me with surprise;
I listened for a moment,
A voice made this reply,
"Prepare thyself, Spence Broughton,
To-morrow you must die."

O awful was the messenger
And dismal was the sound,
Like a man that was distracted
I rolled upon the ground;
My tears they fell in torrents,
With anguish I was torn;
I am poor unhappy Broughton,
I wish I had ne'er been born.

Farewell, my wife and children,
To you I do bid adieu,
I never should have come to this
Had I staid at home with you.
I hope thro' my Redeemer
To gain the happy shore,
Farewell! farewell! farewell for ever,
Spence Broughton soon will be no more.

THE YORKSHIRE KNIGHT; OR, THE

FORTUNATE FARMER'S DAUGHTER.[189]

IN THREE PARTS.

_Part I_. Showing how a noble knight was riding by a farmer's house when his wife was in travail. The knight, knowing the signs and planets, looking on a book, read that the farmer's daughter that was born that hour was to be his bride. And how the cruel knight got the child from her parents, and flung it into a river; but, by good fortune, the child was taken up by a poor fisherman alive, who brought her home and kept her till she was eleven years old.

_Part II_. How the fisherman was in an inn with some gentlemen, the knight being one of the company; and seeing this young girl come in, he asked the fisherman if she was his own daughter, who told the story of his taking her up, &c. How the knight got the poor girl away, and contrived her death a second time, and how he was prevented.

_Part III_. How the knight contrived her death the third time; but her life was saved by showing the knight a ring that he flung into the sea, which the knight seeing, found it was in vain to strive against fortune, so married her.

[Footnote 189: A favourite chap-book history, sometimes called "The Yorkshire Garland;" or, "The Cruel Knight, and the Fortunate Farmer's Daughter." See a broadside in Rox. coll.]