A phoenix (decorative footer)

VERSES

On a View of Roadley Castle, not far from Wallington, in Northumberland, built by the late worthy Sir Walter Blackett, Bart, with a small Description of its Situation, comprehending Codgy Fort, the Lake, the noted Greenlighton Hill, &c. by Thomas Oliver, of Hallington, Northumberland, taken before the Deer were destroyed in the Park, wherein the Castle stands, soon after the Death of Sir Walter Blackett.

Hutchinson, in his History of Northumberland, appears not to have liked Roadley or Rothley Castle: he finishes his description of it by saying, it would be “pretty enough for the reception of Thomas of Hick-a-thrift, or Jack the Giant Killer.”

There’s Roadley’s ‘cloud capt’ lofty hill,
With humble dales below;
The mighty crags its front do fill,
White as if flect with snow.
These rugged rocks rough Boreas scorn,
Nor blust’ring Æolus dread:
Some as by Noah’s deluge torn,
From their huge massy bed.
Upon its airy summit high,
An antique tower appears,
Who to the stranger passing by,
Seems ag’d a thousand years.
Thus in its melancholy state,
A Windsor’s view commands;
And to defend the brazen gate,
Cæsar and Pompey stands.
Within the compass of an eye,
Sweet rising scenes appear:
There fleecy flocks a feeding by,
With stately herds of deer.
But when with more extended rays,
Your circling eyes you guide:
Nature fresh beauties still displays,
From Blyth to Symmon Side.[43]
Nor far from hence stands Codgy Fort,
Built on a craggy hill;
Where hawks, and daws, and owls resort,
And wild blue pigeons bill.
Bordering, a sloping raggy brake,
Spreading, appears in sight;
A deep extensive, warping lake,[44]
With water birds on flight.
While numbers on the surface float,
Down diving o’er and o’er:
With bumpkins in the pleasure boat,
Launching from shore to shore.
Grey game, and Grouse in num’rous broods,
About Greenlighton Hill;
Where piping Pan his flocks he feeds,
Around that humble vill.
By dawn of day, Mary and Bett,
Hies to the birney knows;
Where blithsome many a morn we’ve met,
At milking of the ewes.
By Maria’s mean courtesy taught,
When flocks did chance to roam;
I wore them to the milking Bought,
And bore her leglin home.

[43] The view is extensive, from here may be seen the Symon Side Hills on one side, to the town of Blyth on the other.

[44] At the foot of the hill on which the castle stands, near the north-west corner of the park, are two fine sheets of water, communicating with each other, called Rothly Ponds. Formerly they were tastefully ornamented by a shrubbery, which was disposed round the margin of the water. A boat and fishing tackling were formerly kept here, and a tent was pitched in the summer near the lakes, where visitants were plentifully regaled by the late generous proprietor, who frequently amused himself at this place. Vide p. 105, v. 2, of Northumberland, 1811.

THE BATTLE OF HUMBLEDOWN HILL.

(By E.W. August 5th, 1791.)

The author of this suggested the idea from reading the verse of Chevy Chace:—

“This vow full well the King perform’d
After, on Humbledown,
In one day fifty Knights were slain
With Lords of great renown.”

In the second volume of Guthrie’s History of Scotland, the battle is fully described.

Sir Swinton was a doughty knight
As ever Scotland bred;
Than Gordon none more brave in fight,
Did ever cross the Tweed.
But deidly feuds subsisted long
Between these valiant twain,
They never met—but straight they fought
With all their martial train.
At last they hied with ilk his band
To Brae of Humbledown,
Where Douglas and his army lay
Wi’ Knights of great renown.
Now baith afore the Douglas stood,
And glowr’d wi’ hatefu’ spite,
And half unsheath’d their shining blades,
And quak’d and burn’d to fight.
Then mighty Douglas leap’d between
To redd the foul debate,
“O Sirs!” he cries, “thrust in your glaives
And quell this rising state.
“For, look you! where the English lies
On yonder tented field,
To morrow’s morn, if right I ween,
We’ll need both sword and sheild.
“Gin we to Scotland mean to go,
Our road lies thro’ yon host;
First spend your fury on the foe,
Then fight—if fight ye must.”
He spake—in sullens baith withdrew,
Now all prepare for fight,
And arms and armour clattering brake
The silence of the night.
In bluid red clouds the Sun arose,
Which saw that fatal day,
Where bretheless on the green hill side
Fu’ many a bra’ Scot lay.
For sair—the English bowmen gall’d
The van—the ungear’d stood,
Nae thirsty shaft e’er reach’d the earth
Unstain’d wi’ Scottish bluid.
Then Sir John Swinton loudly cries
“Bra’ lads! gif we must die,
Follow our cheif, and syne our foes
Shall bear us companie.”
These words when Adam Gordon heard,
He hastens to the place,
“When our dear country claims our aid
Let all our quarrels cease.
“For, mine are gone—most valiant Knight!
And now a boon I crave—
That frae thy noble arm—the meed
Of Knighthood I must have.”
“And mine for aye!”—replies Sir John,
And to his breast him drew;
Then dubb’d him Knight, while deidly flight
Of arrows round them flew.
Then wi’ their men, these valiant twain
Rush’d down the green hill’s side,
And ’mongst their foes, wi’ mortal blows
Their hands in bluid they dy’d.
Like two huge rocks on Bramor’s brow,
When loossen’d fra’ their bed,
That thunder down and overthrow
The pines which crown the glade.
Thus they, thro’ ranks, the Earl of March
And the bold Percies fought,
And bluid and carnage mark’d their path
Where’er they step’d and fought.
At length they’re wi’ their gallant train
By numbers compass’d round,
And fighting fall on heaps of slain,
And stain with gore the ground.
Thus did these valiant cheiftains fall
Who liv’d in mortal strife,
But lock’d in one another’s arms,
Dear friendship clos’d their life.
And now the Scottish lines were broke
Wi’ rout and disarray,
And many a man was lost in [Tweed]
That strove to flee that day.
The mighty Douglas too was ta’en
For ne’er a foot he’d flee,
But first five greevous wounds he got
And also lost an eye.
With Gordon and with Swinton fell
Sir John of Callender,
Sir Ramsay of Dalhousie too,
And Sir Walter Sinclair.
And Roger Gordon likewise died,
Wi’ Walter Scot sae brave,
And many more of note beside
Whom valour cou’d not save.
But past all count, the pris’ners were
Wi’ doughty Douglas ta’en,
Fife, Murray, Angus, Orkney Earls,
Lord Graham and Erskine.
With eighty Knights and many more
Than can ee’ now be told,
All captives led, for ransome sett
By Harry Hotspur bold.
Fra’ Forth to Tweed, a swankie blade
Was then a sight to see,
The co’uter left in half plough’d lidge
Lay rusting in the lee.
God prosper Scotland, let us say,
And grant our wars be done,
And may we ne’er see sic a day
As that of Humbledown.[45]

[45] In the plain beneath the hill and village of Humbledown or Humbleton is a stone pillar, denoting the ground where 10,000 of the Scots, under Earl Douglas, in the reign of King Henry IV, on Holyrood-day, 1402, had a great overthrow, by Henry Lord Percy and George Earl of March. Douglas had entered England about the middle of August, and destroyed and plundered the country as far as Newcastle. On his return to Scotland he was intercepted by Earl Percy, and was obliged to engage on this plain: the battle was so bloody that the lands gained the name of Redriggs, from the slaughter with which they were stained. Among the prisoners were the Earls of Fife, Murray, Angus, Athol, Orkney, and Monteath, the Lords Montgomery and Erskine, and about 80 knights. Douglas received five wounds and lost an eye. Being hotly pursued, in the flight 500 Scots were drowned in the Tweed, the most of their army on this fatal day were left dead, or taken prisoners.

THE LAIDLEY WORM
OF SPINDLESTON-HEUGH.

Virgo jam serpens sinuosa volumina versat,
Mille trahens varios adverso sole colores,
Arrectis horret squamis et sibilat ore;
Arduaque insurgens navem de littore pulsat.

A Song about 550 Years old, made by the old Mountain-bard, Duncan Frasier, living on Cheviot, A.D. 1270.

First printed from an ancient MSS.

BY MR ROBERT LAMBE, VICAR OF NORHAM.

The king is gone from Bambrough Castle,
Long may the princess mourn,
Long may she stand on the castle wall,
Looking for his return.
She has knotted the keys upon a string,
And with her she has them ta’en,
She has cast them o’er her left shoulder,
And to the gate she is gane.
She tripped out, she tripped in,
She tript into the yard;
But it was more for the king’s sake,
Than for the queen’s regard.
It fell out on a day, the king
Brought the queen with him home;
And all the lords, in our country,
To welcome them did come.
Oh! welcome father, the lady cries,
Unto your halls and bowers;
And so are you, my step-mother,
For all that’s here is yours.
A lord said, wond’ring while she spake,
This princess of the North
Surpasses all of female kind
In beauty, and in worth.
The envious queen replied, at least,
You might have excepted me;
In a few hours, I will her bring
Down to a low degree.
I will her liken to a Laidley worm,
That warps about the stone,
And not, till Childly Wynd comes back,
Shall she again be won.
The princess stood at the bower door
Laughing, who could her blame?
But e’er the next day’s sun went down,
A long worm she became.
For seven miles east, for seven miles west,
And seven miles north, and south,
No blade of grass or corn could grow,
So venomous was her mouth.
The milk of seven stately cows,
It was costly her to keep,
Was brought her daily, which she drank
Before she went to sleep.
At this day may be seen the cave,
Which held her folded up,
And the stone trough, the very same
Out of which she did sup.
Word went east, and word went west,
And word is gone over the sea,
That a Laidley worm in Spindleston-Heughs
Would ruin the North Country.
Word went east, and word went west,
And over the sea did go;
The Child de Wynd got wit of it,
Which filled his heart with woe.
He called straight his merry men all,
They thirty were and three:
I wish I were at Spindleston,
This desperate worm to see.
We have no time now here to waste,
Hence quickly let us sail:
My only sister Margaret,
Something, I fear, doth ail.
They built a ship without delay,
With masts of the rown tree,
With flut’ring sails of silk so fine,
And set her on the sea.
They went on board. The wind with speed
Blew them along the deep,
At length they spied an huge square tower
On a rock high and steep.
The sea was smooth, the weather clear,
When they approached nigher,
King Ida’s castle they well knew,
And the banks of Bambroughshire.
The queen look’d out at her bower window,
To see what she could see;
There she espied a gallant ship
Sailing upon the sea.
When she beheld the silken sails,
Full glancing in the sun,
To sink the ship she sent away
Her witch wives every one.
The spells were vain; the hags returned
To the queen in sorrowful mood,
Crying that witches have no power,
Where there is rown-tree wood.
Her last effort, she sent a boat,
Which in the haven lay,
With armed men to board the ship,
But they were driven away.
The worm lept up, the worm lept down,
She plaited round the stone;
And ay as she came to the land
She banged it off again.
The child then ran out of her reach
The ship on Budley-sand;
And jumping into the shallow sea,
Securely got to land.
And now he drew his berry-broad sword,
And laid it on her head;
And swore if she did harm to him
That he would strike her dead.
O! quit thy sword and bend thy bow,
And give me kisses three;
For though I am a poisonous worm,
No hurt I’ll do to thee.
Oh! quit thy sword, and bend thy bow
And give me kisses three;
If I’m not won, e’er the sun go down,
Won I shall never be.
He quitted his sword and bent his bow,
He gave her kisses three;
She crept into a hole a worm,
But out stept a lady.
No cloathing had this lady fine,
To keep her from the cold;
He took his mantle from him about,
And round her did it fold.
He has taken his mantle from him about,
And in it he wrapt her in,
And they are up to Bambrough castle,
As fast as they can win.
His absence and her serpent shape,
The king had long deplored,
He now rejoiced to see them both
Again to him restored.
The queen they wanted, whom they found
All pale, and sore afraid;
Because she knew her power must yield
To Childy Wynd’s, who said,
Woe be to thee, thou wicked witch,
An ill death mayest thou dee;
As thou my sister hast lik’ned,
So lik’ned shalt thou be.
I will turn you into a toad,
That on the ground doth wend;
And won, won, shall thou never be,
Till this world hath an end.
Now on the sand near Ida’s tower,
She crawls a loathsome toad,
And venom spits on every maid
She meets upon her road.
The virgins all of Bambrough town,
Will swear that they have seen
This spiteful toad, of monstrous size,
Whilst walking they have been.
All folks believe within the shire
The story to be true,
And they all run to Spindleston,
The cave and trough to view.
This fact now Duncan Frasier
Of Cheviot, sings in rhyme;
Lest Bambrough-shire-men should forget
Some part of it in time.
An anchor (decorative footer)

THE FISHER LADDIE.

On Bamboroughshire’s rocky shore,
Just as you enter Bowmer Raw,
There lives the bonny fisher lad,
The fisher lad that bangs them a’.
O the bonny fisher lad,
That brings the fishes fra’ the sea;
O the bonny fisher lad,
The fisher lad gat had of me.
My mother sent me out one day,
To gather cockles fra’ the sea;
But I had not been long away,
When the fisher lad gat had of me.
O the bonny, &c.
A sailor I will never marry,
Nor soldier, for he’s got no brass;
But I will have a fisher lad
Because I am a fisher’s lass.
O the bonny, &c.

THE KYE’s COME HOME.

The kye are come hame,
But I see not my hinny,
The kye are come hame,
But I see not my bairn:
I’d rather lose all the kye
Than lose my hinny,
I’d rather lose all the kye
Than lose my bairn.
Fair fac’d is my hinny,
His blue eyes are bonny,
His hair in curl’d ringlets
Hang sweet to the sight;
O mount the old poney,
Seek after my hinny,
And bring to his mammy
Her only delight.

SONG.

A lamentable Ditty made upon the death of a worthy gentleman, named George Stoole, dwelling sometime on Gate-side Moor, and sometime at Newcastle, in Northumberland: with his penitent end. [c. 1610.]

To a delicate Scottish Tune.

Come you lusty Northerne lads,
That are so blith and bonny,
Prepare your hearts to be full sad,
To heare the end of Georgy.
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my bonny love,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my honny;
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my owne deare love,
And God be with my Georgie.
When Georgie to his triall came,
A thousand hearts were sorry,
A thousand lasses wept full sore,
And all for love of Georgie.
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my bonny love,
Heigh-ho, &c.
Some did say he would escape,
Some at his fall did glory:
But these were clownes and fickle friends,
And none that loved Georgy.
Heigh-ho, &c.
Might friends have satisfied the law,
Then Georgie would find many:
Yet bravely did he plead for life,
If mercy might be any.
Heigh-ho, &c.
But when this doughty carle was cast,
He was full sad and sorry:
Yet boldly did he take his death,
So patiently dyde Georgie.
Heigh-ho, &c.
As Georgie went up to the gate,
He tooke his leave of many:
He tooke his leave of his laird’s wife,
Whom he lov’d best of any.
Heigh-ho, &c.
With thousand sighs and heavy looks,
Away from thence he parted,
Where he so often blithe had beene,
Though now so heavy hearted.
Heigh-ho, &c.
He writ a letter with his owne hand,
He thought he writ it bravely:
He sent it to New-castle towne,
To his beloved lady.
Heigh-ho, &c.
Wherein he did at large bewaile,
The occasion of his folly:
Bequeathing life unto the law,
His soule to heaven holy.
Heigh-ho, &c.
Why, lady, leave to weepe for me,
Let not my ending grieve ye:
Prove constant to the man you love,
For I cannot relieve yee.
Heigh-ho, &c.
Out upon thee, Withrington,
And fie upon thee, Phoenix:
Thou hast put downe the doughty one,
That stole the sheepe from Anix.
Heigh-ho, &c.
And fie on all such cruell carles,
Whose crueltie’s so fickle,
To cast away a gentleman
In hatred for so little.
Heigh-ho, &c.
I would I were on yonder hill,
Where I have beene full merry:
My sword and buckeler by my side
To fight till I be weary.
Heigh-ho, &c.
They well should know that tooke me first,
Though whoops be now forsaken:
Had I but freedome, armes, and health,
I’de dye ere I’de be taken.
Heigh-ho, &c.
But law condemns me to my grave,
They have me in their power;
There’s none but Christ that can me save,
At this my dying houre.
Heigh-ho, &c.
He call’d his dearest love to him,
When as his heart was sorry:
And speaking thus with manly heart,
Deare sweeting, pray for Georgie.
Heigh-ho, &c.
He gave to her a piece of gold,
And bade her give’t her bairns:
And oft he kist her rosie lips,
And laid him into her armes.
Heigh-ho, &c.
And coming to the place of death,
He never changed colour,
The more he thought he would look pale,
The more his veines were fuller.
Heigh-ho, &c.
And with a cheereful countenance,
(Being at that time entreated
For to confesse his former life)
These words he straight repeated.
Heigh-ho, &c.
I never stole an ox or cow,
Nor ever murdered any:
But fifty horse I did receive
Of a merchant’s man of Gory.
Heigh-ho, &c.
For which I am condemn’d to dye
Though guiltlesse I stand dying:
Deare gracious God, my soule receive,
For now my life is flying,
Heigh-ho, &c.
The man of death a part did act,
Which grieves me tell the story;
God comfort all are comfortlesse,
And did so well as Georgie.
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, my bonny love,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my bonny;
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, mine own true love,
Sweet Christ receive my Georgie.

EPITAPH
ON
WILLIAM BELL,
LATE A RESIDENT ON GATESHEAD FELL.

By Samuel Barras.

Here lies the corpse of William Bell,
The great good man of Gateshead Fell:
Zealous in his Master’s cause,
A strict observer of his laws:
He liv’d by faith, and not by sight:
With full assurance took his flight,
Unto that sweet delicious coast,
Where hope is in fruition lost.

AN EXCELLENT BALLAD
On the Sickness, Death, and Burial, OF ECKY’s MARE;

Which was made and composed by the late ancient and famous Northern poet, Mr Bernard Rumney, a musician, or country fidler, who lived and died at Rothbury, being about one hundred years old at the time of his death.

Wold you please to hear of a sang of dule,
Of yea sad chance and pittifow case,
Makes the peur man powt through many a pule,
And leuk on mony an unkend face?
Between the Yule but and the Pasch,
In a private place, where as I lay,
I heard ane sigh, and cry, alas!
What shall I outher dea or say?
A man that’s born of a middle-yeard wight,
For wealth or pelth can no be secure;
For he may have enough at night,
And the next morn he may be fow peur.
I speak this by a Northumberland man,
The proverb’s true proves by himself;
Since the horse-couping he began,
He had great cause to crack of wealth.
Of galloways he was well stockt,
What some part first, what some part last;
But I’ll no speak much to his praise,
For some of them gat o’re lang a fast.
Some of them gat a shrowish cast,
Which was nae teaken of much pelth;
But yet he hopes, if life dea last,
To see the day to crack of welth.
But aye the warst cast still comes last,
He had nae geuds left but a Mear,
There was mair diseases did her attend
Nor I can name in half a year.
If Markham he himself was here,
A famous farrier although he be,
It wad set aw his wits astear
To reckon her diseases in their degree.
But her sicknesses we’ll set aside,
Now tauk we of the peur man’s cost,
And how she lev’d, and how she died,
And how his labour aw was lost.
In the winter-time she took a hoast,
And aw whilk while she was noe weell;
But yet her stomach ne’er was lost,
Although she never had her heal.
Now for her feud she went so yare,
An the fiend had been a truss of hey,
She wad a swallowed him and mickle mare,
Bequeen the night but an the dey.
The peur man cries out Armyes aye,
I see that she’s noe like to mend,
She beggers me with haver and hey,
I wish her some untimous end.
Nae sooner pray’d, but as soon heard,
She touck a fawing down behind,
She wad a thousand men a scar’d,
To have felt her how she fill’d the wind.
Her master he went out at night,
Of whilk he had oft mickle need,
He left her neane her bed to right,
Nor neane for to had up her head.
Next day when he came to the town,
He ran to see his mear with speed,
He thought she had fawn in a swoon,
But when he try’d she was cald dead.
It’s ever alas! but what remeed,
Had she play’d me this at Michaelmas,
It wad a studden me in geud steed,
And sav’d me both yeats, hay and grass.
There’s ne’er an elf in aw the town,
That hardly weell can say his creed,
But he will swear a solemn oath,
Crack o’ wealth Ecky’s mear cau’d dead.
Lad, wilt thou for Hob Trumble run?
I ken he will come at my need;
That seun he may take off her skin,
For I mun leeve though she be dead.
Now straight he came with knife in hand,
He flead her fra the top to th’ tail,
He left nae mare skin on her aw
Then wad been a heudin to a flail.
He seld her haill hide for a groat,
So far I let you understand,
And what he did weed he may well weet,
For he bought neither house nor land.
Now have I cassen away my care,
And hope to live to get another;
And night and day shall be my prayer,
The fiend gae down the loaning with her.
Now shall I draw it near an end,
And tauk nae mare of her at least,
But hoping none for to offend,
You shall hear part of her funeral feast.
To her resorted mony a beak,
And birds of sundry sorts of hue;
There was three hundred at the least,
You may believe it to be true.
Sir Ingram Corby he came first there,
With his fair lady clad in black,
And with him swarms there did appear
Of piots hopping at his back.
The carrion craw she was not slack,
Aw cled into her mourning weed,
With her resorted mony a mack
Of greedy kite and hungry gleede.
When they were aw conven’d compleat,
And every yean had taen their place;
So rudely they fell tea their meat,
But nane thought on to say the grace.
Some rip’d her ribs, some pluck’d her face,
Nae bit of her was to be seen;
Sir Ingram Corby in that place,
Himself he pick’d out baith her eyne.
But wait ye what an a chance befel,
When they were at this jolly chear,
Sir William Bark, I can you tell,
He unexpected lighted there.
Put aw the feasters in sike a fear,
Some hopt away, some flew aside,
There was not ane durst come him near,
Nay not sir Corby, nor his bride.
He came not with a single side,
For mony a tike did him attend,
I wait he was no puft we pride,
As you shall hear before I end.
See rudely they fell to the meat,
But napkin, trencher, salt, or knife;
Some to the head, some to the feet,
While banes geud bare there was na strife.
In came there a tike, they cau’d him Grim,
Sea greedily he did her gripe,
But he rave out her belly-rim,
And aw her puddings he made pipe.
Her lights, her liver, but an her tripe,
They lay all trailing upon the green;
They were aw gane with a sudden wipe,
Not any of them was to be seen.
But suddenly begeud a feast,
And after that begeud a fray;
The tikes that were baith weak and least,
They carried aw the bats away.
And they that were of the weaker sort,
They harl’d her through the paddock-peul,
They leugh, and said it was good sport,
When they had drest her like a feule.
Thus have you heard of Ecky’s mear,
How pitifully she made her end;
I write unto you far and near,
Who says her death is no well penn’d.
I leave it to yoursel’s to mend,
That chance the peur man need again;
If it be ill penn’d it is well kend,
I got as little for my ‘pain.’

STANZAS,
Addressed to Northumbria.