[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.

(decorative footer)

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.