ROOKHOPE-RYDE.

’Twas on a summer’s evening,

As I a roving went,

I met a maiden fresh and fair,

That was a milking sent.

Whose lovely look such sweetness spoke,

Divinely fair she shone;

With modest face her dwelling-place,

I found was Cockerton.[75]

With raptures fir’d, I eager gaz’d,

On this blooming country maid,

My roving eye, in quickest search,

Each graceful charm survey’d.

The more I gaz’d, new wonder rais’d,

And still I thought upon

Those lovely charms, that so alarms

In the Lass of Cockerton.

Now would the Gods but deign to hear,

An artless lover’s prayer;

This lovely nymph ’bove all I’d ask,

And scorn each other care;

True happiness I’d then possess,

Her love to share alone;

No mortals know what pleasures flow,

With the lass of Cockerton.

Rookhope [76] stands in a pleasant place,

If the false thieves wad let it be;

But away they steal our goods apace,

And ever an ill death may they die!

And so is the man of Thirlwa’ ’nd Willie-haver,

And all their companies thereabout,

That is minded to do mischief hither,

And at their stealing stands not out.

But yet we will not slander them all,

For there is of them good enough;

It is a sore consumed tree

That on it bears not one fresh bough.

Lord God! is not this a pitiful case,

That men dare not drive their goods to t’ fell,

But limmer thieves drives them away,

That fears neither heaven nor hell.

Lord, send us peace into the realm,

That every man may live on his own!

I trust to God, if it be his will,

That Weardale-men may never be overthrown.

For great troubles they’ve had in hand,

With borderers pricking hither and thither,

But the greatest fray that e’er they had,

Was with the men of Thirlwa’ ’nd Willie-haver.

They gather’d together so royally,

The stoutest men and the best in gear;

And he that rade not on a horse,

I wat he rade on a weil-fed mear.

So in the morning before they came out,

So well I wot they broke their fast,

In the [forenoon they came] unto a bye fell,

Where some of them did eat their last.

When they had eaten aye and done,

They say’d, some captains here needs must be:

Then they choos’d forth Harry Corbyl,

And ‘Symon Fell,’ and Martin Ridley.

Then o’er the moss, where as they came,

With many a brank and whew,

One of them would to another say,

I think this day we are men enew.

For Weardale-men are a journey ta’en,

They are so far out o’er yon fell,

That some ofe them’s with the two earls [77]

And others fast in Barnard-castell.

There we shall get gear enough,

For there is nane but women at hame;

The sorrowful fend that they can make,

Is loudly cries as they were slain.

Then in at Rookhope-head they came,

And there they thought tul a’ had their prey;

But they were ’spy’d coming over the Dry-rig,

Soon upon Saint Nicholas’ Day.

Then in at Rookhope-head they came,

They ran the forest but a mile;

They gather’d together in four hours

Six hundred sheep within a while.

And horses I trow they gat,

But either ane or twa,

And they gat them all but ane

That belanged to great Rowley.

That Rowley was the first man that did them spy,

With that he rais’d a mighty cry,

The cry it came down Rookhope-burn,

And spread through Weardale hasteyly.

Then word came to the bailiff’s house

At the East-gate, where he did dwell,

He had walk’d out to the Smale-burns,

Which stands above the Hanging-well.

His wife was wae when she hear’d tell,

So well she wist her husband wanted gear,

She gar’d saddle him his horse in haste,

And neither forgot sword, jack, nor spear.

The bailiff got wit before his gear came,

That such news was in the land;

He was sore troubled in his heart,

That on no earth that he could stand.

His brother was hurt three days before,

With limmer thieves that did him prick;

Nineteen bloody wounds lay him upon;

What ferly was’t that he lay sick?

But yet the bailiff shrinked nought,

But fast after them he did hie;

And so did all his neighbours near,

That went to bear him company.

But when the bailiff was gathered,

And all his company,

They were number’d to never a man,

But forty under fifty.

The thieves was number’d a hundred men,

I wat they were not of the worst,

That could be choosed out of Thirlwa’ ’nd Willie-haver,

I trow they were the very first.

But all that was in Rookhope-head,

And all that was i’ Nuketon-cleugh,

Where Weardale-men o’ertook the thieves,

And there they gave them fighting enough.

So sore they made them fain to flee,

As many was a’ out of land,

And for tul have been at home again,

They would have been in iron bands:

And for the space of long seven years,

As sore they mighten a’ had their lives;

But there was never one of them

That ever thought to have seen their wives.

About the time the fray began,

I trow it lasted but an hour,

Till many a man lay weaponless,

And was sore wounded in that stour.

Also before that hour was done,

Four of the thieves were slain,

Besides all those that wounded were,

And eleven prisoners there was ta’en.

George Carrick and his brother Edie,

Them two, I wot, they were both slain;

Harry Corbyl, and Lennie Carrick,

Bore them company in their pain.

One of our Weardale-men was slain,

Rowland Emerson his name hight;

I trust to God his soul is well,

Because he fought unto the right.

But thus they said, We’ll not depart

While we have one:—Speed back again!

And when they came amongst the dead men,

There they found George Carrick slain.

And when they found George Carrick slain,

I wot it went well near their heart;

Lord let them never make a better end,

That comes to play them sicken a part.

I trust in God no more they shal,

Except it be one for a great chance;

For God will punish all those

With a great heavy pestilence.

Thir limmer thieves they have good hearts,

They never think to be o’erthrown,

Three banners against Weardale-men they bare,

As if the world had been all their own.

Thir Weardale-men they have good hearts,

They are as stif as any tree,

For, if they’d every one been slain,

Never a foot back man would flee.

And such a storm amongst them fell,

As I think you never heard the like;

For he that bears his head so high,

He oft-times falls into the dyke.

And now I do entreat you all,

As many as are present here,

To pray for singer of this song,

For he sings to make blithe your cheer.

Come all the gallant brave wenches,

That love strong liquor so well,

And use to fuddle your noses,

Come, listen to what I shall tell:

Your praises abroad I will thunder,

’Tis pity you should go free,

And the wanton lasses of Sedgfield

Are roaring company.

Come, landlady, fill us a bumper,

And take no thought for the shot,

It’s a sin, as I hope to be saved,

To part with an empty pot;

Let the glass go merrily round,

Our business is jolly to be,

And the wanton lasses of Sedgfield

Are roaring company.

Who are they that dare to oppose us,

Since altogether we’re met?

We’ll tipple and fuddle our noses,

Our frolic the more to complete:

For our frolic it is begun,

And we will end it merrily;

And the ranting lasses of Sedgfield

Are roaring company.

There’s Middleton as brisk as a bottle,

She merrily leads the van,

And Crispe, the butcher’s daughter,

She’ll follow as fast as she can.

There’s the sempstress and her sister,

The rear drive merrily;

And the ranting lasses of Sedgfield

Are roaring company.

Each one shall here take her quantum,

Thus says brave Middleton;

We’ll drink a health to Peg Trantum,

And merrily we’ll go on;

Let the shot be ever so great,

I’ll speak to my landlady;

And the ranting lasses of Sedgfield

Are roaring company.

There’s a brave sinking tailor,

That hath a brisk handsome wife,

And she will convey him the flaggon,

To avoid all future strife:

And the baker at the next door,

She will be the landlady;

And the ranting lasses of Sedgfield

Are roaring company.

There’s Branson, an honest fellow,

He hath sugar enough in store,

If cloves and mace be wanting,

We will boldly run on the score;

For our wanton frolic is begun,

And we’ll end it most merrily;

And the wanton lasses of Sedgfield

Are roaring company.

Two wives I had almost forgotten,

Whom I must touch in the quick,

Being merry at Mr Branson’s,

They danc’d round the candlestick;

And the tune was “Juice of the Barley,”

Which made them dance merrily,

And long did they hold a parley,

And made jolly company.

In the midst of this great pother,

The backish wife came in,

She was forc’d to be led by another,

Thro’ thick and likewise thin.

And thus they did end their frolick,

Good fellow, I’ll tell to thee,

That the ranting lasses of Sedgfield

Are roaring company.

Bobby Shaftoe’s gone to sea,

With silver buckles at his knee;

He’ll come home and marry me,

Bonny Bobby Shaftoe.

Bobby Shaftoe’s bright and fair,

Combing down his yellow hair,

He’s ma’ ain for ever mair,

Bonny Bobby Shaftoe.

Bobby Shaftoe’s getten a bairn,

For to dandle in his arm;

In his arm, and on his knee,

Bobby Shaftoe loves me.

Bobby Shaftoe’s gone to sea, &c.

In the fine town of Sunderland which stands on a hill,

Which stands on a hill most noble to see,

There’s fishing and fowling all in the same town:

Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me.

There’s dancing and singing also in the same town,

And many hot scolds there are in the week;

’Tis pleasant indeed the market to see,

And the young maids that are mild and meek.

The damsels of Sunderland would, if they could,

Welcome brave sailors, when they come from sea,

Build a fine tower of silver and gold:

Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me.

The young men of Sunderland are pretty blades,

And when they come in with these handsome maids,

They kiss and embrace, and compliment free:

Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me.

In Silver-street there lives one Isabel Rod,

She keeps the best ale the town can afford,

For gentlemen to drink till they cannot see:

Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me.

Sunderland’s a fine place, it shines where it stands,

And the more I look on it the more my heart warms;

And if I was there I would make myself free:

Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me.

You Sunderland lasses draw near,

Sure you are forsaken by men;

But the old women, they

Forget for to play,

But will get married at three score and ten.

You Sunderland lasses are slow,

And yet there’s good choice of young men;

The old women, they

Do shew you fair play,

They get married at threescore and ten.

A house that’s within full sea mark,

Is very well accustomed by men;

But better had they

To live honest, I say,

Or get married at threescore and ten.

There are sailors that are clever young blades,

And keel-bullies like unto them;

You maids that are fair,

Get married this year,

Lest you tarry till threescore and ten.

The old women carry the day,

They beat both the maids and the men;

To give Sunderland the sway,

For ever and ay,

They’ll marry tho’ threescore and ten.

Ye sons of Sunderland, with shouts that rival ocean’s roar,

Hail Burdon in his iron boots, who strides from shore to shore!

O may ye firm support each leg, or much, O much I fear,

Poor Rowland may o’erstretch himself in striding ’cross the Wear!

A patent quickly issue out, lest some more bold than he,

Should put on larger iron boots, and stride across the sea!

Then let us pray for speedy peace, lest Frenchmen should come over,

And, fol’wing Burdon’s iron plan, from Calais stride to Dover.

Elsie Marley is grown so fine,

She won’t get up to serve her swine,

But lies in bed till eight or nine,

And surely she does take her time.

And do you ken Elsie Marley, honey?

The wife that sells the barley, honey;

She’s lost her pocket and all her money,

Aback o’ the bush i’ th’ garden, honey.

Elsie Marley is so neat,

It is hard for one to walk the street,

But every lad and lass they meet,

Cries, do you ken Elsie Marley, honey?

Elsie Marley wore a straw hat,

Now she’s got a velvet cap,

She may thank Lambton men for that,

Do you ken Elsie Marley, honey.

Elsie keeps wine, gin, and ale,

In her house below the dale.

Where every tradesman up and down,

Does call and spend his half-a-crown.

The farmers, as they come that way,

They drink with Elsie every day,

And call the fiddler for to play

The tune of “Elsie Marley,” honey.

The pitmen and the keelmen trim,

They drink bumbo made of gin,

And for to dance they do begin,

The tune of “Elsie Marley,” honey.

The sailors they will call for flip,

As soon as they come from the ship,

And then begin to dance and skip,

To the tune of “Elsie Marley,” honey.

Those gentlemen that go so fine,

They’ll treat her with a bottle of wine,

And freely they’ll sit down and dine

Along with Elsie Marley, honey.

So to conclude these lines I’ve penn’d,

Hoping there’s none I do offend,

And thus my merry joke doth end,

Concerning Elsie Marley, honey.

And do you ken, &c.

Thro’ Durham County, fam’d of old,

Thro’ England, be it ever told,

That Chester lads stood forth so bold,

And Chester lads for ever.

When Frenchmen heard of their intent,

To Bonaparte in haste they sent,

And said, since Chester thus is bent,

We are ruin’d, sirs, for ever.

O dreadful news! said Bonaparte,

Enough to break each Frenchman’s heart;

But let us try, with all our art,

Those Chester lads to sever.

Then firmly spoke Monsieur Otto,

The Chester lads you little know,

If them you think to overthrow;

For they will fight for ever.

Tho’ many millions you have slain,

Yet what you’ve done is all in vain;

You’ll never beat the Chester men,

Nor cope with them—no never.

The Consul call’d a council straight,

And long and learned the debate;

Each Frenchman tried, with all his weight,

How France he might deliver.

The issue of this parliament

Was peace—the glorious grand event,

Which gave each British heart content.

And Chester lads for ever!!!

Come all ye lads who wish to shine

Bright in Chester story,

Haste to arms, and form the line,

Where Lumley leads to glory.

Charge the musket, point the lance,

Brave the worst of dangers;

Tell the blustering sons of France,

That Chester fears no strangers.

Chester, when the lion’s rous’d,

And the flag is rearing,

Always finds her sons dispos’d

To drub the foe that’s daring.

Charge the musket, &c.

Honor for the brave to share,

Is the noblest booty;

Guard the coast, protect the fair,

For that’s a Briton’s duty.

Charge the musket, &c.

Beat the drums, the music sound,

Manly and united;

Danger face, maintain your ground,

And see your country righted.

Charge the musket, &c.

And are ye sure the tale is true?

Again the news relate,

That Chester is to raise a corps

To fight for king and state.

Then let us fill a bumper full,

To Scarborough’s noble thane,

Who under his protection has

The men of Chester ta’en.

If Chester men are firm and true,

And by each other stand,

No foreign foe can venture then

To stain our native land.

But if they should assail our coast,

Compell’d by want and need,

When Chester banners are display’d,

They’ll fly from hence with speed.

Then let us fill, &c.

In former times our Chester youths

Their country’s foes expell’d;

Whose conquering monarch, in those days,

The crowns of Europe held:

Should then the sons of France pretend

With Chester Sons to vie,

If they suppose they’re better men,

E’en let them come and try.

Then let us fill, &c.

The king our noble father is,

The queen our mother dear;

The prince’s brothers soldiers are,

Whom we shall here revere:

Them we’ll defend with might and main,

Against all sorts of foes;

Should they command to fight like men,

Or aim their treacherous blows.

Then let us fill, &c.

When Britannia her sons calls to aid her in arms,

And fell war, with its horrors, our island does threat,

The true British feeling each bosom that warms,

Prompts away to the beach, the invader to meet.

And along with the brave,

Who their country will save,

And whose only retreat is a glorious grave.

See each son of Dunelm, and the old winding Wear,

The patriot, the loyal, the brave Volunteer.

Let the foes of old England unite to enslave

Her free bands, from whose fury so oft they have fled;

We’ll prove, by their ruin who escape the wild wave,

We can fight like our sires, who at Agincourt bled;

Their great deeds we’ll review,

And example pursue,

And prove we’ve the blood of the same race so true.

Determined to save what than life is more dear,

Our country, our laws, march each brave Volunteer.

Vain boasting Monsieur always lower’d his proud flag,

Whenever he met our bold tars on the sea;

And of conquest on shore let the Corsican brag;

Here the length of their graves their sole conquest shall be!

Let them vapour and threat,

Boast their armies so great,

Old England united can never be beat:

This often prov’d fact each loyal heart cheers,

Of their country’s best guardians, her brave Volunteers.

The proud Don, through all time, shall his madness deplore,

When his Wealth and his Indies are conquer’d by thee;

And treach’rous Mynheer mourn, a vassal, once more,

From the shackles of which, our brave sires made him free.

Then Mynheer, Don, and Gaul,

We here challenge you all,

And believe British bayonets will your spirits appal;

For your pride to chastise, see a nation appears;

In the van march her loyal, her brave Volunteers!

Come the day when the foe on our shore dare descend,

Like the lion defending his den, each will feel;

For the world ’gainst our safety in vain will contend,

While fair freedom and courage support their lov’d weal:

And along with the brave,

Who their country will save,

And whose only retreat is a glorious grave,

With the first in the field, ’gainst each foe will appear,

The loyal and patriot sons of the Wear.

Durham’s old city thus salutes her king,

With entertainments such as she can bring;

And cannot wait upon his majesty,

With shew of greatness, but humility,

Makes her express herself in moderate guise:

In this deserted north, far from your eyes;

For your great prelate (James) of late adored,

Her dignities, for which we oft implored

Your highest aid, to give continuance;

And so confirmed by your dread sovereignce:

But what our royal James did grant herein,

Our bishop James hath much oppugnant been.

Small force bears down small power, where force and might

Hath greater strength than equity and right.

The last are only in your breast included:

Subjects’ griefs known, are ne’er from you secluded;

From your most gracious grant we therefore pray,

That the fair sunshine of your brightest day,

Would smile upon your city, whose clear beams

Exhale the troubles of our former streams;

Let not, O Powerful Prince, our ancient state,

For one man’s will, to be depopulate!

Tho’ one seeks our undoing, yet to you,

All our hearts pray, and all our knees shall bow;

And this dull cell of earth, in which we live,

Unto your name its latest praise shall give;

Confirm our grant, good king! Durham’s old city

Will powerful be, if bless’d with James’s pity.

As aw was gannin to Durham

Aw met wi’ three jolly brisk women,

Aw ask’d what news at Durham?

They said joyful news is coming:

There’s three sheep’s heads i’ the pot,

A peck o’ peasmeal in the pudding.

They jump’d, laugh’d, and skipp’d at that,

For the joyful days are coming.

Fal la la.

While visiting this dark abode,

Here, reader, turn thy wand’ring eyes;

Tread light, for underneath this sod,

Simpson, the Village Poet, lies.

The people’s follies, and their vice,

As frequently as he found leisure,

He hunted down (as cats do mice)

In strains of true poetic measure.

So neatly he his subject hit,

So well he temper’d truth with sense;

The simple marvell’d at his wit,

And wise men seldom took offence.

His genius and invention such,

From each event he’d something gather;

For nought ’scap’d his satiric touch,

That fairly came within his tether.

Nor ’scap’d he death;—His race is run,

(So fall the witty and the brave!)

His wool is comb’d, his thread is spun;

And daisies flourish round his grave!

Lov’d stream, that meanders along,

Where the steps of my infancy stray’d;

When first I attun’d the rude song,

That nature all artless essay’d.

Though thy borders be stripp’d of each tree,

That smil’d in their vernal array;

Their image still pictures to me,

Thy villagers gambolling gay.

Nor by fancy shall aught be unseen,

While thy fountains flow murmuring by;

I have danc’d in the Dance on the green,

I have wept with the woe-begun age.

Thy blessings how many and rare!

Far distant the mildue of health,

Where guilt vainly decorates care,

And wickedness broods over wealth.

The dress of the body and mind,

For ages exactly the same:

No travel the manners refin’d,

And fashion pass’d by as it came.

Ah! which of thy sons canst thou boast,

Like Maddison,[78] made to explore:

To give to the silver girt coast,

The worth that was foreign before!

Each language, each humour, his own,

All Europe was proud to improve;

Whom Belgium sits down to bemoan,

Whom Gallia could listening love.

Say, when will thou cease to complain?

Oh Darwent, thy destiny cries;

Far off, on the banks of the Seine,

Thy darling, thy Maddison—dies!

Its hey for the buff and the blue,

Hey for the cap and the feather;

Hey for the bonny lassie true,

That lives in Hexhamshire.

Thro’ by the Saiby Syke,

And o’er the moss and the mire,

I’ll go to see my lass,

Who lives in Hexhamshire.

Her father lov’d her well,

Her mother lov’d her better;

I love the lass mysel’,

But, alas! I cannot get her.

Thro’ by, &c.

Oh, this love, this love!

Of this love I am weary!

Sleep I can get none,

For thinking on my deary!

Thro’ by, &c.

My heart is like to break,

My bosom is on fire;

So well I love the lass

That lives in Hexhamshire.

Thro’ by, &c.

Her petticoat is silk,

And plaited round with siller;

Her shoes are tied with tape,

She’ll wait ’til I go till her.

Thro’ by, &c.

Were I where I would be,

I would be beside her;

But here a while I must be,

Whatever may betide her.

Thro’ by, &c.

Hey for the thick and the thin,

Hey for the mud and the mire;

And hey for the bonny lass

That lives in Hexhamshire.

Thro’ by, &c.

ROOKHOPE-RYDE.

THE SEDGFIELD FROLIC.

BOBBY SHAFTOE.

THE PLEASURES OF SUNDERLAND.

THE FROLICSOME OLD WOMEN OF SUNDERLAND:
Or, The Disappointed Young Maids.

SUNDERLAND BRIDGE.

ELSIE MARLEY,
An Alewife at Picktree, near Chester-le-Street.

CHESTER LADS FOR EVER.

LUMLEY LEADS TO GLORY.

CHESTER VOLUNTEERS.

THE DURHAM VOLUNTEERS.

DURHAM OLD WOMEN.

EPITAPH
On John Simpson, of Hamsterly, Woolcomber.

ODE
To the River Darwent.

THE HEXHAMSHIRE LASS.

The Northumbrian’s Sigh for his native Country.

ROOKHOPE-RYDE.

THE SEDGFIELD FROLIC.

BOBBY SHAFTOE.

THE PLEASURES OF SUNDERLAND.

THE FROLICSOME OLD WOMEN OF SUNDERLAND: Or, The Disappointed Young Maids.

SUNDERLAND BRIDGE.

ELSIE MARLEY, An Alewife at Picktree, near Chester-le-Street.

CHESTER LADS FOR EVER.

LUMLEY LEADS TO GLORY.

CHESTER VOLUNTEERS.

THE DURHAM VOLUNTEERS.

DURHAM OLD WOMEN.

EPITAPH On John Simpson, of Hamsterly, Woolcomber.

ODE To the River Darwent.

THE HEXHAMSHIRE LASS.

The Northumbrian’s Sigh for his native Country.

THE FROLICSOME OLD WOMEN OF SUNDERLAND:
Or, The Disappointed Young Maids.

ELSIE MARLEY,
An Alewife at Picktree, near Chester-le-Street.

EPITAPH
On John Simpson, of Hamsterly, Woolcomber.

ODE
To the River Darwent.