A bonny swain, blithe Sandy nam’d,
Who’d muckle land and kine,
A lassie lov’d, for beauty fam’d,
Fair Anna of the Tyne.
And thus would Sandy joyous sing,
“Fair maid, O be but mine;
More blest I’d be than laird or king,
With Anna of the Tyne.”
“Kind youth,” she cried, “nae kine or land,
Nor money I’ve in store;
Then cease to ask my humble hand,
Nor wed a maid so poor.”
Yet still would Sandy joyous sing,
“Fair maid, O be but mine;
More blest I’d be than laird or king,
With Anna of the Tyne.”
“For Anna thou art rich in charms,
The wealth of worlds to me;
Then wed, and bless thy lover’s arms.”
She smil’d, and blest was he.
How rapturous then did Sandy sing,
“Now, now, the fair one’s mine;
I am more bless’d then laird or king,
With Anna of the Tyne!”
THE TYNE.
By Henry Robson.—1807.
Henry Robson, the author of this, as also of the Collier’s Pay
Week, see page 38, was born at Benwell, near Newcastle; and is now
residing at the latter place, where, besides the above, he has written
several pieces of poetry, possessing a considerable degree of merit.
In Britain’s blest island there runs a fine river,
Far fam’d for the ore it conveys from the mine:
Northumbria’s pride, and that district doth sever
From Durham’s rising hills, and ’tis called—The Tyne.
Flow on, lovely Tyne, undisturb’d be thy motion,
Thy sons hold the threats of proud France in disdain;
As long as thy waters shall mix with the ocean,
The fleets of Old England will govern the main.
Other rivers for fame have by poets been noted
In many a soft-sounding musical line;
But for sailors and coals never one was yet quoted,
Could vie with the choicest of rivers—the Tyne.
Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.
When Collingwood conquer’d our foes so completely,
And gain’d a fine laurel his brow to entwine;
In order to manage the matter quite neatly,
Mann’d his vessel with tars from the banks of the Tyne.
Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.
Thou dearest of rivers, oft times have I wander’d
Thy margin along when oppressed with grief,
And thought of thy stream, as it onward meander’d,
The murmuring melody gave me relief.
Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.
From the fragrant wild-flowers which blow on thy border
The playful Zephyrus oft steals an embrace,
And curling thy surface in beauteous order,
The willows bend forward to kiss thy clear face.
Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.
One favour I crave—O kind Fortune befriend me—
When downhill I totter, in nature’s decline;—
A competent income—if this thou wilt send me,
I’ll dwindle out life on the banks of the Tyne.
Flow on, lovely Tyne, undisturb’d be thy motion,
Thy sons hold the threats of proud France in disdain;
As long as thy waters shall mix with the ocean,
The fleets of Old England will govern the main.
THE SPRING.
Written the beginning of May, 1809.
BY HENRY ROBSON.
Now the feathered train in each bush,
Court their mates, and love’s melody sing—
The blackbird, the linnet, and thrush,
Make the echoing vallies to ring:
The bird with the crimson-dy’d breast,
From the hamlet has made his remove;
To join his love-song with the rest,
And woo his fond mate in the grove.
The lark, high in æther afloat,
Each morn, at the usher of day,
Attunes his wild-warbling throat,
And sings his melodious lay.
Yon bank lately cover’d with snow,
Now smiles in the spring’s bloomy pride;
And the sweet-scented primroses grow,
Near the streamlet’s sweet-gurgling tide.
To the banks of the Tyne we’ll away,
And view th’ enrapturing scene;
While Flora, the goddess of May,
With her flow’rets bespangles the green.
THE BANKS OF THE TYNE.
BY JAMES WILSON.
James Wilson, the author of this, and the four following
poetical pieces, belonged to Hexham, where he taught school until he
removed to Morpeth, under pecuniary embarrassment: while here,
he found a friend in the late Wallis Ogle, Esq. and was by him conducted
to Cawsey Park School, where he shortly after died. When
at Hexham, he published a volume of Poems printed by T. Angus,
Newcastle, in 1778.
Apollo, your aid I request,
Direct and embellish each line;
With influence warm my breast,
To sing the sweet Banks of the Tyne.
If Phœbus proposes the theme,
Both reason and duty combine,
To pay my respects to the stream,
And honour the Banks of the Tyne.
Here oft with great pleasure I stray,
Nor ever find cause to repine,
While Nature’s rich beauties display
Themselves on the Banks of the Tyne.
Here Liberty’s pleas’d to resort,
Her banners with lustre here shine;
No place, since she left the vile court,
Can please like the Banks of the Tyne.
Her sons are with Liberty fir’d,
Their Freedom they’ll never resign;
But what their forefathers acquir’d,
Defend on the Banks of the Tyne.
The man let me freely explain,
Who would as a senator shine,
’Tis Theron, who holds his domain
Enclos’d by the Banks of the Tyne.
The following Ode, addressed to Sir Walter Blackett, Bart.
was wrote by the Author, on the very Day that the Building
of Hexham Bridge was undertaken.
BY JAMES WILSON.
Ye sacred nine descend,
Aid to my muse O lend,
Whilst I rehearse:
Bind round my head the bays,
My humble genius raise,
And teach me how to praise
Blackett, in verse.
Hard is the task impos’d,
Glorious the end propos’d;
Hark! it succeeds:
Heaven would surely frown,
And with contempt look down,
Should we forget to own
His noble deeds.
Hexham no more shall weep,
At Tyne’s redundant sweep,
And pregnant shore;
Blackett the path will pave,
Which scorns the threat’ning wave,
Where all with joy will have
Safe passage o’er.
See him with ev’ry age,
Soft’ning the bitter rage,
Of Poverty:
As he approaches nigh,
Ope the strong bolts do fly,
To set, with heart-felt joy,
The wretched free.
Titus the great did say,
Gods! I have lost a day:
Fatal mistake;
Blackett more great than he,
Never that day can see,
But numbers chearfully,
Sing for his sake.
May Heaven his life prolong,
To swell the Poet’s song
Till there arise,
One that’s as good as he,
Then let him wafted be,
To spend eternity,
Above the skies.
The following Lines, written on laying the Foundation-stone
of Hexham Bridge, the Author had the Honour to read at
the Head of the Table, at the sumptuous Entertainment given
by Sir Walter Blackett, on the Occasion.
BY JAMES WILSON.
Unsullied mirth attend this feast,
Let joy shine forth in every guest,
And ev’ry face look gay:
Let not a cloud depress the scene,
But all look chearful and serene,
’Tis our rejoicing day.
Come, Joy, with all thy smiling train,
Here take thy rest, securely reign,
See Phœbus shines more bright;
Here will we this great day adorn,
Till Cynthea with her silver horn,
Illuminates the night.
A bridge o’er Tyne! our joy’s complete,
With rapture we its author greet,
Our breasts exult and sing;
This bliss consummates all our care.
Now Hexham and Elysium are,
But two words for one thing.
A SONG,
Composed by MR JAMES WILSON, of Cawsey Park, on Mr
Coughron[57] and Family, leaving Hebron Hill.
(Dated 4th May, 1784.)
To fertile soil, and fragrant air,
Be it, great God, thy will
To guard, with thy parental care,
My friends of Hebron Hill.
In some luxuriant calm retreat,
Where nature may instil
Her choicest charms—there make a seat
For those of Hebron Hill.
Bestow, by thy all-bounteous hand,
The richest turf to till;
And crops increase at thy command,
To those of Hebron Hill.
May providence protect them, there,
And virtue’s vest their will:
And copious comforts ever share,
With those of Hebron Hill.
With friendly neighbours let them live,
Renown’d for wit and skill;
And grace, and glory, amply give,
Those now on Hebron Hill.
My heart expands by lib’ral love,
’Twill with fruition fill,
If pristine powers propitious prove,
To all at Hebron Hill.
HOBBY ELLIOTT.
This song is said to have been written by a Mr James Robson, Stone
Mason, at Thropton, near Rothbury, who was leader of the band
in the Pretender’s Army, in 1715: he wrote a Satyr on Women, and
several other pieces, while confined prisoner at Preston, in Lancashire.
O bonny Hobby Elliott,
O canny Hobby still,
O bonny Hobby Elliott,
Who lives at Harlow-hill:
Had Hobby acted right,
As he has seldom done,
He would have kiss’d his wife,
And let his maid alone.
THE RISING OF THE CLANS IN 1715.
Though this may be considered a Scotch song, yet mentioning
several Northumberland families, warrants its insertion here. Several
notes and particulars illustrating it may be found in the History of
the Rebellion in the year 1715, by Robert Patten, Priest of Allendale,
who, though one of the Rebels, saved his life by being evidence against
his associates, and writing, what he called, An Impartial Account of
the Rebellion.
Little wat ye wha’s coming,
Little wat ye wha’s coming,
Little wat ye wha’s coming,
Long Tommy Lee’s a coming.
Duncan’s coming, Donald’s coming,
Colin’s coming, Ronald’s coming,
Dougal’s coming, Lauchlan’s coming,
Alaster and a’s coming.
Little wat ye wha’s coming,
Jock and Tam and a’s coming.
Borland and his men’s coming,
The Camerons and McLeans’ coming,
The Gordons and McGregors’ coming,
A’ the Dunywastles’ coming,
Little wat ye wha’s coming,
McGilvrey of Drumglass is coming.
Wigton’s coming, Nithsdale’s coming,
Carnwath’s coming, Kenmure’s coming,
Derwentwater and Foster’s coming,
Widdrington and Nairn’s coming.
Little wat ye wha’s coming,
Blyth Cowhill and a’s coming.
The Laird of McIntosh is coming,
McCarbie and McDonald’s coming,
The McKenzies and McPhersons’ coming.
A’ the wild McCraws’ coming.
Little wat ye wha’s coming,
Donald Gun and a’s coming.
They gloom, they glowr, they look sae big,
At ilka stroke they’ll fell a Whig;
They’ll fright the fuds of the Pockpuds,
For mony a buttock bare’s coming.
Little wat ye wha’s coming.
ON THE FIRST REBELLION.—1715.
Mackintosh was a soldier brave,
And of his friends he took his leave,
Towards Northumberland he drew,
Marching along with a jovial crew.
[58]
The lord Derwentwater he did say,
Five hundred guineas he would lay,
To fight the militia, if they would stay,
But they prov’d cowards and ran away.
The earl of Mar did vow and swear,
That if e’er proud Preston he did come near,
Before the right should starve and the wrong stand,
He’d blow them into some foreign land.
The lord Derwentwater he did say,
When he mounted on his dapple grey,
I wish that we were at home with speed,
For I fear we are all betray’d indeed.
Adzounds, said Forster,
[59] never fear,
For the Brunswick army is not near;
If they should come, our valour we’ll show,
We will give them the total overthrow.
The lord Derwentwater then he found,
That Forster drew his left wing round;
I wish I was with my dear wife,
For now I do fear I shall lose my life.
Mackintosh he shook his head,
To see the soldiers there lie dead:
It is not so much for the loss of those,
But I fear we are all took by our foes.
Mackintosh was a valiant soldier,
He carried his musket on his shoulder:
Cock your pistols, draw your rapier,
And damn you, Forster, you are a traitor.
The lord Derwentwater to Forster did say,
Thou hast prov’d our ruin this very day;
Thou hast promised to stand our friend,
But thou hast proved a rogue in the end.
The lord Derwentwater to Litchfield did ride,
In his coach, and attendance by his side;
He swore if he dy’d by the point of a sword,
He’d drink a health to the man he lov’d.
Thou Forster has brought us from our own home,
Leaving our estates for others to come;
Thou treacherous rogue, thou hast betray’d:
We are all ruin’d, lord Derwentwater said.
The lord Derwentwater he was condemn’d,
And near unto his latter end,
And then his lady she did cry,
My dear Derwentwater he must die.
The lord Derwentwater he is dead,
[60]And from his body they took his head;
But Mackintosh and some others are fled,
Who’d set the hat on another man’s head.
A Fragment of a Song, on the Lord of
Derwentwater.
The king has written a broad letter,
And seal’d it up with gold;
And sent it to the lord of Derwentwater,
To read it if he would.
He sent it with no boy, no boy,
Nor yet with e’er a slave;
But he sent it with as good a knight,
As e’er a king could have.
When he read the three first lines,
He then began to smile;
And when he read the three next lines,
The tears began to sile.
VERSES
On a perspective View of Dilston Hall, the Seat of the
unfortunate James, Earl of Derwentwater.
How mournful feeble Nature’s tone,
When Dilston Hall appears:
Where none’s to wait the orphan’s moan,
Nor dry the widow’s tears!
The helpless aged poor survey,
This building as it stands;
In moving anguish heard to say,
(And weeping wring their hands)
The bounteous earl, he is no more,
Who once adorn’d this plain;
Reliev’d the needy at his door,
And freely did sustain.
Here flowing plenty once did reign,
Which gladden’d ev’ry face;
But now, alas! reversed scene,
For owls a dwelling place.
The tim’rous deer hath left the lawn,
The oak a victim falls;
The gentle trav’ler sighs when shewn,
These desolated walls.
Each gen’rous mind emotion feels,
With pious pity mov’d;
No breast its anguish yet conceals,
For one so well belov’d.
Let no unhallow’d tongue, or servile slave,
Their partial clamour vent beyond the grave;
But let the noble Dead his honours wear;
His fault deplore, his virtue still revere:
Tho’ err he did, he finish’d the debate,
With his own blood, and Radclyffe’s fair estate.
The aged farmer, tott’ring o’er the green,
Leans on his staff, recounts the days he’s seen:
Informs the list’ning youth by his record,
How bless’d his roof, how plenteous was his board;
Nor rack’d by Derwent’s hospitable lord.
He stops his tale, involv’d in grief profound;
He sighs, he weeps, and feebly strikes the ground;
Cries, why rehearse these golden days of yore,
Since they to me, to me can be no more!
The clement heart, and curious, often calls
To view the naked park, and stripped walls:
E’en the damp walls their stony tears impart,
As if their master’s wound had pierc’d their heart.
Ye pensive mutes, ’tentive on Dilston wait,
And mourn, eternal Radclyffe’s tragic fate!
HEXHAM WOOD.
In former times where Hexham town doth stand,
A wood there was which cover’d miles of land;
Even all the trees that on the common stood,
Were merely twigs compar’d to this great wood.
In all directions on each side of Tyne,
More boundless than the noted Apennine;
And by some modern authors ’tis agreed,
Some branches of this wood are planted near to Tweed.
These northern parts confess’d it’s balmy shade,
An asylum to those reduced in trade:
Resource they found—the charter was so good,
They were secure if shelter’d by this wood.
In Sherwood Forest many a prank was play’d,
Which thro’ tradition is to us display’d:
Though Hexham could ne’er boast a Robin Hood,
Yet little John did much frequent this wood.
A motley race—the libertine and harlot,
Supplied the place of Stutely and Will Scarlet.
Within the covert of this wood did rove,
The town bred bucks, with sly intrigues of love:
The yielding females felt an equal flame,
To taste love’s joys when near this wood they came;
Nor justice fac’d, nor e’er a penance stood,
The offspring still was call’d by name of wood.
A wood so much renown’d, you may be sure
The Bank of England was’nt thought more secure.
The miser here, his interest found so good,
He quite forgot that wood was only wood!
How fleeting are the joys of all this world,
How soon our hopes are all to Chaos hurl’d:
A storm near equal unto Noah’s flood,
Relentless came, and swept away this wood.
Even not one solid trunk there did remain,
All batter’d remnants scatter’d o’er the plain:
The nymphs lamenting for their dear resort,
This wood is gone, alas! our chief support;
All was confusion both to high and low,
At this most sad and unexpected blow.
Ye empty fops, now take the hint for good,
No more your offspring can be laid to wood.
Hexham, 28th February, 1803.
THE LOYAL HEXHAM VOLUNTEERS.
A NEW SONG.
WRITTEN BY JASPER POTTS.
Britannia scarce had planted the olive on our isle,
Ere French insidious policy our future hopes beguile;
Regardless of their former league, bent on despotic sway,
Each British subject’s property they think to make their prey.
But may each loyal Briton
Now offer hand and heart,
To frustrate their intention,
And humble Bonaparte.
Our island still was loyal when dangers were at hand,
Uniting in one common cause to guard our native land:
Amongst the rest, the gallant sons of Hexham’s worth record,
Our sea girt isle, for to protect, and peace to have restor’d.
And may each faithful subject
Profess the same intent,
Our lives and properties to guard
In peace and sweet content.
The oath that we have taken, which some seem much to fear,
Is the duty of each subject as well as volunteer,
Tho’ we may have no property to fall a prey to France,
Yet for our friends and families our service should advance.
Ye loyal lads of Hexham,
Since danger now appears,
Join the arm’d association
Call’d the Hexham Volunteers.
While Captain Carr commands we will stand firm and true,
His knowledge as an officer will stand a strict review,
In spite of party slander, our oath we will maintain,
Obedient to our officers, and peace for to regain.
And if an opportunity
Of courage for to shew,
I hope the Hexham Volunteers
Will to their oath stand true.
So to conclude these lines I’ve made, I hope you’ll all agree,
And drink a health to Captain Carr, and all his family,
And to our other officers, much praise to whom is due,
And to the Hexham Volunteers, so loyal and so true.
British courage once again
To England peace restore,
And plant the olive in a soil
More lasting than before.
THE JOLLY PARSON.
Doctor Moff once more employs the burden of my song,
He drinks a health to him that’s blest with constitution strong:
He laughs and winks at him that drinks, and he’ll bett five pounds, sir,
He’ll toast his lass, and drink his glass, and tally O the hounds, sir.
And every morn this priest does rise, he does put on his boots, sir,
For chance the hounds may come this way, to join in the pursuit, sir:
He’ll risk a fall, o’er hedge or wall, or nearest the hounds, sir,
And if he can, he leads the van, and tally O the hounds, sir.
Saint Stephen’s day, that holy morn, as he was reading mass sir,
He heard the music of the hounds, the bugles they came past, sir;
He shut the book, his flock forsook, and streight threw off his gown, sir,
He mounts his horse, to join the course, and tally O the hounds, sir.
This parson had a pair to wed, the hounds they came in view sir,
He threw his surplice o’er his head, and bad the pair adieu, sir:
They both did pray, that he might stay, for they were not half bound, sir!
He bid them go to bed that night, he’d tally O the hounds, sir.
What think you of this priest of mine, he’s sure an honest heart, sir,
His praise is worthy of my song, he has neither pride nor art, sir:
He ne’er opprest, the poor distrest, none e’er his praise disowns, sir,
As he thinks’t no crime, at any time, to tally O the hounds, sir.
THE COCKLE PARK EWES’ RAMBLE.
Tune.—John of Badenyon.
PART I.
Or the First Day’s Ride.—March 4th, 1811.
The first of March, from Cockle Park,
A flock of sheep did stray,
Which disappeared in the dark,
And were not miss’d next day;
North west, by north, in zig-zag route,
To their late home did hie,
By innate instinct taught no doubt,
Their yeaning time drew nigh.
[61]
They thirty hours a-head had got,
Upon their tour intent;
On searching ev’ry local spot,
A second day was spent;
The third I mounted—by Priest’s Bridge,
And Heron’s Close I veer’d;
To Harelaw Heights, and Ruffhill Ridge,
And Stanton Steads I steer’d.
To Southwardedge, Doehill, and Rea,
Smallburn, and the Haredean,
Blackpool, Todburn, and Garretlea,
And Horsley Moor I’d been;
At Westerheugh, and Sunnyside,
The Busygap also,
Each collier’s cot, and creeks beside,
High Hezleyhurst, and Low.
On wand’ring westward through Wardshill,
I there found the first three;
And heard the mass amissing still,
Had march’d towards the Lee;
I hir’d the herd, these to retain,
’Till in pursuit I went,
To bring the others back again,
But quickly lost the scent.
True, I some stragglers overtook,
Near Leehead, with their lambs;
And all the rest had cross’d the brook,
But these indulgent dams:
The fugitives fecundity,
Allow’d of no delay;
Yet found it would difficult be,
More to collect that day.
Myself fatigu’d, and found my nag,
Fail of his wonted powers;
For want of food we both did fag,
By trav’ling twelve long hours.
So I resolved then to ride
Home at an easy pace;
A gross of hand-bills to provide,
And hence resume the chase.
PART II.
March 5th, 1811.
Next day to the Thatchmeadows, I
(The forest skirts to scour)
Coldrife, and Quarryhouse pass’d by,
To Newbiggin’s bleak moor:
Bullbush, Blueburn, and Blagdon Brakes,
I carefully did scan;
But none on these extensive tracts,
Were seen by any man.
Ward’s Intake, Hut, and Shepherd’s Shield,
Coldside, and Moralhurst;
By Forestburn, and Meadowfield,
To Holyhill I cours’d:
Hence Lordenshaws, and Garlyside,
Crook, Loaning, Stewardshill;
But disappointments did preside,
O’er expectations still.
By the Sheephurst, to Brockleyhall,
And Turnbull’s steed I steer’d;
And at each peasant’s cot did call,
That in my path appear’d:
To the Two Raws, and Butterknows,
I posted on with speed,
Where I was told some of my ewes
Cross’d Coquet at Craghead.
Resolv’d the south side first to seek,
I rang’d that rocky hill,
’Till I explor’d the ’Squires Peak;
Herd’s House, and Little Mill,
By Wagtailhall, and Sandyheughs,
To Rothbury then did ride;
To feed, refresh, and hear what news;
Then search the other side.
Hence by Knocklaw, and Tumbleton,
And ev’ry scatter’d cot,
Through Debdon Dale—and I anon
By Wintercove did trot,
To Rimside Inn, to bait and bouse;—
From Framlington, Blacksow,
To Flambrohead, and Wholluphouse,
But could not find a ewe.
From Frostyfolds, to Whitefield House,
Chilhope, and Cragend Scars,
Where they and lambs might lurk recluse,
Unless rous’d unawares;—
By Healy, Hope, Lynn, and Woodhead,
To Healycoat I trudg’d,
To Cockshot, Brinkburn, and Todstead,
Where for that night I lodg’d.
PART III.
March 6th, 1811.
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.