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 6165l. 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 8000l.

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.