In second part I will declare
The troubles of poor Sandy;
And how this couple married were,
And how well pleas’d was Grandy.
Now first with Sandy I’ll begin,
Whose legs swell’d to a wonder,
So likewise was his belly rim,
Swell’d like to burst asunder.
And lest his troubles shou’d increase,
A farrier was provided,
Well skill’d in Markham’s master-piece,
Who in this town resided;
And, to his everlasting fame,
He did exert his cunning,
He bled his legs, and in his wame,
Two tapps he there set running.
He several med’cines did apply,
Whose virtue was so pure,
That in six weeks, or very nigh,
He made a perfect cure.
And now in all the world besides,
There’s not a sounder creature,
So well he scampers, and he rides,
But never more with Peter.
Of him I now design to speak,
A Yorkshire born and bred, sir,
He play’d them all a Yorkshire trick,
And then away he fled, sir.
As you shall hear when home he came,
With Jennet upon Sandy,
He to his work return’d again,
And she unto her grandy.
But long with her she tarry’d not,
Unsettled was her notion,
Just like the pend’lum of a clock,
That’s always in a motion.
I’ll go to service, she did say,
Keep me, you can’t afford it;
So one she got, where was it pray?
E’en where her spark was boarded.
Now whether ’twas for want of beds,
Or whether ’twas cold weather,
Or whether ’twas to measure legs,
That they lay both together;
But as they smuggl’d for a while,
And gave out they were marry’d,
Till she at length did prove with child,
Then all things were miscarry’d.
Then he did own his fault was great,
He’d make her satisfaction;
And fearing penance in a sheet,
He’d suffer for that action,
He marry’d her without delay,
And got their nuptial lesson,
Which to confirm they went streightway
To get their grandy’s blessing.
When in her presence they were come,
She rail’d at them like thunder,
For shame, cries she, what have you done,
That’s brought on you this blunder?
She call’d her slut and brazen fac’d,
Instead of kind caressing,
Our family you have disgrac’d,
Can you expect a blessing?
But like a stormy winter’s night,
Next morning turns calm weather,
So grandy’s passion soon took flight,
She pray’d that they together
Might live in love and happiness,
Enjoying peace and plenty,
Long may they health and wealth possess,
And pockets ne’er grow empty.
When they had grandy’s blessing got,
They slily fled away, sir,
He all the bricks did leave unwrought,
And many debts to pay, sir.
Now all good people, warning take,
How you do trust to strangers,
They’ll wheedle you for money’s sake,
And still prove country rangers.
Flowers (decorative footer)

FROM THE
SWAINS OF FELTON,
TO THE
Shepherds of Lanthernside, Northumberland, 1787.

Tune.—General F—r—’s March.

He’s gone! he’s gone!
The conquering hero’s gone!
To barren lands in Lanthernside,
To sow Lucern upon.
Rejoice ye sons of Lanthernside, and Io pæan sing,
Since land-improving F——r vouchsafes to be your king!
Lucern! Lucern!
That best of grass Lucern!
Oh! happy swains of Lanthernside,
Be far from you concern;
For now your sterile rocky soil, where stocks are never seen,
Will quickly be converted all, to fields of fruitful green.
He’ll plant, he’ll plant,
A Colony he’ll plant,
With plants and beasts of various kinds,
Which Lanthernside may want.
With here a hardy plant of Oak, and there a plant of Fir,
And here an English pointer staunch, and there a shepherd’s cur.
He’ll sail, he’ll sail,
Without a mast or sail,
And gently glide by Lanthernside,
Before a gentle gale.
Your streamlet he will navigate, and bring the flowing tide,
From Warkworth’s hoary Hermitage, to dreary Lanthernside.
He’ll reign, he’ll reign,
Without despotic sway;
Therefore ye lads of Lanthernside,
His dictates all obey.
Come all ye wanton wenches, with speed unto him haste,
For, tho’ as lewd as Lais, he’ll teach you to be chaste.
Your game, your game,
He will preserve your game!
For well in that particular,
Abroad is spread his fame!
But [50]Biddlestone will curse the day, to Lanthernside he came,
For sure as bird e’er fell by gun, he will destroy his game.
Rejoice! rejoice!
Let [51]Felton Park rejoice!
For now its lord is free to roam,
As chance directs his choice.
For F——r like a Briton bold, had circumscrib’d his bounds,
And left him but one single mile, to range in his own grounds.
He’s gone! he’s gone!
Alas! our hero’s gone!
And left us quite disconsolate,
In Felton town to moan!
Rejoice ye Lanthernsiders, and Io pæan sing,
Since mirth-exciting F——r vouchsafes to be your king.

[50] Mr S—— of Biddlestone.

[51] Mr R—— of Felton.

ON THE
DEPARTURE OF Mr GREY, OF FELTON,
Who died on Saturday, August 12th, 1775.

On Saturday,
Poor Felton Grey,
Went o’er the hills and far away:
But none can say,
He went away,
Without enquiring what’s to pay.

CARR OF ETAL.

God prosper long our noble king,
Our lives and safeties all;
A joyful supper once there did,
In Edinbro’ befal.
To give the gallant Scot a horn,
Bold Etal[52] took his way,
Children to get, which shall be born,
Upon another day.
Bold Etal of Northumberland,
A vow to God did make,
His pleasure in the Scottish town,
Three summer’s days to take.
The choicest lips in Edinbro’,
To kiss and bear away;
These tidings reach’d Black Castle’s[53] lord,
In Perthshire where he lay.
Who sent young Etal present word,
He would prevent his sport;
The Englishman not fearing this,
Did to the town resort.
In reg’ment spotted leopard like,
Mov’d with superior grace;
And swore he’d take their mistresses,
And kiss before their face.
Sir Patrick, in a silver vest,
Most like a gallant knight,
Mov’d foremost of the company.
And pleas’d the ladies’ sight.
Shew me, says he, whose men you be,
Who come so boldly here;
I fain would see that English face,
That I have cause to fear.
The first man that did answer make,
Was gallant Etal he,
Who said, We list not to disclose,
Or shew whose men we be.
But we will spend our dearest blood,
Your toasts to bear away:
Sir Pat with anger colour’d red,
And thus in rage did say:
Ere I will thus outbraved be,
One of us two shall die;
I know thou Carr of Etal art,
Black Castle’s heir am I.
But trust me, Etal, pity ’twere,
And great offence to kill,
Doory and Swinburn, harmless youths,
For they can do no ill.
Let you and I the battle try,
And set our men aside:
Accurst be he, bold Etal cried,
By whom this is denied.
Then stept a noble baron forth,
Lord Linton was his name;
Who said, He would not have it told,
To Scottish men for shame;
That ere Black Castle fought on foot,
And he stood looking on;
You are two ’squires, lord Linton cried,
And I am an earl’s son.
I’ll do the best that I can do,
While I have power to stand;
I would not quarrel for a kiss,
But Carr, keep back your hand.
Then Swinburn clapp’d his hands and laugh’d,
And jeeringly did say,
Stick to ’em Carr, and bear ’em off,
For me I’ll drink away.
Drinking’s the sport that I like best,
So push the glasses round;
Kiss you the ladies and I’ll drink,
These gallants to the ground.
Oh what a joy it was to see,
And likewise for to hear,
How Swinburn rattl’d in the van,
And Creighton in the rear.
They drank full fast from night ’till morn,
No slackness there was found;
And Scots and English hats and wigs,
Lay drunk upon the ground.

At Callaly, the seat of the Claverings, tradition reports, that while the workmen were engaged in erecting the castle upon a hill, a little distance from the scite of the present edifice, they were surprised every morning to find their former day’s work destroyed, and the whole impeded by supernatural obstacles, which causing them to watch, they heard a voice saying:—

Callaly castle stands on a height,
It’s up in the day, and down at night:
Build it down on the Shepherd’s Shaw,
There it will stand and never fa’.

Upon which the building was transferred to the place mentioned, where it now stands.

[52] Carr, Esq. of Etal, in the county of Northumberland.

[53] Sir P. Murray.

BEDLINGTON TRAGEDY.
A FRAGMENT.

In Bedlington there liv’d a fair,
(With ruby lips, and auburn hair;)
Who dearly priz’d a famous youth,
For generous acts and constant truth;
But she was heir to store of wealth,
No fortune he, but worth himself:
This when her parents understood,
Hoping it would be for her good,
To hinder both their loves intent,
To Stokesley, to an uncle sent;
At parting, many a sigh and tear,
Of love, and truth, thro’ life sincere;
Nor death should part; for from the grave
Short time should the surviver save:
She was not gone a week or more,
Until this young man sicken’d sore,
He sicken’d sore, and heart-broke died,
Which pleas’d her parents’ greedy pride;
Who to another would her wed,
Forgetful what she’d sworn and said.
The eve that he in grave was laid,
Thus to his wife the father said,
A double feed I’ll give my mare,
All other things do thou prepare.
Lay out thy hood and safeguard too,
Ere light for Stokesley I will go;
Before thou seest the morrow night,
Thou’lt surely see thy daughter bright;
And now no fear, he’s dead and gone,
A happy bride we’ll make her soon.
It was now that dread midnight hour,
When restless ghosts their wrongs deplore.
James rode up to her uncle’s door,
With her father’s horse they drest before.
O who is there? the maiden cries:
O it is I, the ghost replies:
The horse, hood, safeguard, come and view,
You’ll find a messenger most true:
Forthwith with me then instant ride,
Nor fear nor ill need you betide.
When all the uncle understood,
Trusting it right and for her good,
Help’d her to mount, but made him swear,
He’d take her to her father dear.
Now when she got him up behind,
They travelled faster then the wind;
That in two hours, or little more,
They came unto her father’s door;
And as they did this great haste make,
He sore complain’d his head did ache;
Her handkerchief she then pull’d out,
And tied the same his head about:
And as she bound it round his head,
My dear, says she, you’re cold as lead;
She saw no shadow of her dear,
But only of herself and mare.
He sets her at her father’s door,
And says, your mare has travelled sore;
So go you in, and as I’m able,
I’ll feed and tend her in your stable.
O who is there? the father cries,
’Tis I, the lovely maid replies:
Behind young James I’ve hasted here,
As order’d by my parents dear.
Which made the hair stand on his head,
He knowing that the man was dead.
Next in the stable then could he
No living shape of mankind see;
But found his horse all in a sweat,
Which put him in a grievous fret.

According to the remainder of this old ballad, (which we have been unable to collect) the daughter sickens, takes to her bed, and dies, and is buried in the same grave; and, on opening his coffin, accordingly as the maid had said, her handkerchief was found tied round his head.

Hotspur: A BALLAD;
In the Manner of the Ancient Minstrels.

BY MR WILLIAM RICHARDSON.

The lady sat in leafy bow’r,
Near Royal Sheene’s fair dome;
The Harper, journeying, westward went,
Far, far from friends and home.
His lyre, in grass-green satchel plac’d,
Hung graceful by his side;
Th’ harmonious strings oft murm’ring rang,
As o’er the heaths he hied.
In search was he of Hotspur fam’d.
With tidings from his dame,
His fair lady, the lovely Kate,
Since chronicled in fame.
She pin’d the day, she wept the night,
For her dear absent lord;
And days, and weeks, and months flew o’er,
Nor comfort could afford.
The lady sat by winding Thames,
Near where the wand’rer past;
And him she beckon’d to draw near
And thus the Bard address’d.
“From whence com’st thou? O! sweet Harper.
From whence com’st thou? Tell me;
From border of the daring Scot?
Art of the North Countrie?”
“I come not from the fair Scotland;
(Yet near green Cheviot roam;)
From Aln’s sweet, bosky banks I come;
Northumberland my home.”
“Then freely smite thy sweet, sweet lyre,
Thy lyre of far-spread fame;
The bold Percy—his castle’s there;
Wide swells his warrior name.
“For thou his harper art I ween;
I see gleam on thy vest,
Thy paly, cusped, silver moon,
The Saracen’s proud crest.
“His ancestor in fell crusade,
For England’s powerful king,
Fought manfully, and did from thence,
That Syrian trophy bring.”
With flying touch he swept the strings,
And upward turn’d his eye,
As if the genius of the song,
Inspiring, hover’d nigh.
His finger caught the master note,
And soon his ardent face
Beam’d, dignified with native fire
Of brave Northumbria’s race.
He sang the deeds of Hotspur bold,
At blood-stain’d Otterbourne:
And eke the feats of valiant Ralph,
As furious in his turn.
Two warrior lords, (and brothers they,)
As e’er drew shining brand;
Nor from the gory field would flinch,
Whilst Valour there might stand.
And mournful now, he touch’d the harp,
And, grieving, oft he sigh’d
For Widdrington, the mightiest chief
That e’er in battle died.
The Forster, Fenwick, Collingwood,
The Heron of renown,
High in the ranks of Lord Percy,
The war-axe hewed down!
He sang the acts of other chiefs,
That by the Reedside fell;
The flow’r of val’rous families
That still near Cheviot dwell.
The heath-hen long, and fallow deer,
Their native heights did quit;
With warrior-blood th’ attainted sward,
Made e’en the gorecock flit!
The Percies in that vengeful fight,
Both, both were pris’ners ta’en;
But for the Douglas’ dead bodie
Were yielded up again.
He ceas’d the song, then paused awhile;
Down roll’d the silent tear;
The lady, smit with sympathy,
Could scarce the like forbear.
Then stifling back the star-like drop,
With woman’s winning voice,
She ask’d if tidings from his lord
Would not his heart rejoice?
“Perchance,” quoth she, “I may you aid,
(Assuage your troubled breast,)
For oh! methinks the task is good
To comfort the distressed!”
His kerchief to his furrow’d face
He gently did apply,
And bright and fervent shone his front,
New fire illum’d his eye.
“But thrice the golden circling sun,
Has rubied yonder east,”
The lady said, “Since news there came
From Shrewsb’ry’s hostile waste.
“There Hotspur and his valiant band,
Oppos’d to Tudor’s ire,
Encamped lay, and high their hearts
Beat for the conflict dire.”
So having said, her snowy hand
She plac’d across her brow;
“Lo! down by Windingshore’s dim vale,
A Herald’s coming now.”
The Herald flew on wings of wind,
Swift to the Royal fane;
“A victory,” he stoutly cried,
“And valiant Hotspur slain!”
The death-sound pierc’d the Harper’s ear,
And instant on the plain
He dropt,—as light’ning had him struck,
Nor e’er spoke word again.

August, 1810.

Vase of flowers (decorative footer)

LEGEND
OF
SEWEN SHIELDS CASTLE.

This legendary ballad is an un-embellished versification of an old tradition, still current in the vicinity of Sewen Shields Castle, in Northumberland.

Nought but some dæmon’s baleful step
For years had pass’d those lands,
Where (all its former grandeur fled)
An ancient castle stands.
Where many a lord, and many a knight,
And many a baron bold,
The meed of valour oft had won,
Or tale of love had told.
Once, too, it held Northumbria’s king
In days of former fame:
But now no courteous tenants boasts—
And Sewen Shields[54] its name.
And there, too, superstition’s spell
Had cast its gloom around:
And none for years had ever been
Within its precincts found—
Till Dixon,[55] young advent’rous swain,
Who fear’d no mortal arm,
Had vow’d to search the site throughout,
And find the hidden charm.
The morning frown’d: he made th’ attempt;
And darker still it grew:
And, when he reach’d the castle walls,
The owls portentous flew.
No well-fed porter now was seen
Within the court to wait:
And weeds and mould’ring stones appear’d,
Where stood the lofty gate.
He cross’d the damp deserted halls:
He spoke—but all in vain;
For Echo, from the ruin’s verge,
Return’d his words again.
Through many a passage long and dark
His weary steps he bent:
At length a flight of stairs he saw,
And tried the deep descent.
He felt unwholesome dewy cold,
Yet still pursued his way—
Resolv’d ’till he had all explor’d,
No more to view the day.
At length a gleam of light he saw;
A ray of warmth he found:
And down the stairs he quickly was,
And trod upon the ground;
And soon, within a chamber large,
A blazing fire perceiv’d;
And by its flames a sight he saw,
Which else he’d ne’er believ’d.
A king and queen, in regal state,
Were there by Morpheus chain’d:
And o’er the train of courtiers too
The same still slumber reign’d.
And round the fire some faithful dogs
Their fortunes seem’d to share:
And, on a table near, a sword
And horn were placed there.
As from the scabbard then, with might,
The blade to draw he tries,
As it unsheath’d, with awe he sees
The sleepers all arise.
Struck with amaze, he put it back.—
The monarch, pierc’d with woe,
E’er he return’d to death-like sleep,
Thus spoke in accents slow:
“A curse, O Dixon, light on thee!
Why wast thou ever born?
Why did thou not the sword draw out,
Or wind the bugle horn?
“On them our wish’d release depends.—
A cent’ry now must fly,
Before a mortal can again
To break th’ enchantment try.”
And now, oppress’d by slumbers dire,
He sank, till kinder fate
Should send some knight, who might restore
His former envied state.
For Dixon, who these wonders saw,
And hope both rais’d and crush’d,
Soon left th’ apartment, as at first,
In solemn silence hush’d.
And never since, as records say,
Has mortal ventur’d there;
But all, with superstitious dread,
The sleeping king revere.

[54] Sewen Shields, or Shewing Sheels, about 28 miles west of Newcastle, is a Roman Castle, 22 yards by 30, having entrances on the east, south, and west, with a foss on three sides, remarkably bold; and on the fourth Serverus’s wall. It has had four turrets, one at each corner. See Hutton’s Desc. of the Rom. Wall.

[55] The name of the shepherd to whom tradition records this circumstance to have occurred.

The following old Northumbrian ballad was taken down from the recitation of a woman eighty years of age, mother to one of the miners in Alston-moor, by an agent for the lead mines there, and communicated to the Editor by Robert Surtees, Esquire, of Mainsforth. She had not, she said, heard it for many years; but when she was a girl, it used to be sung at merry makings, “till the roof rung again.”

N.B. This ballad was first printed in Scott’s celebrated Poem of MARMION, with several valuable notes; for which see the notes to canto first of that Poem.

Hoot awa’, lads, hoot awa’,
Ha’ ye heard how the Ridleys, and Thirwalls, and a’,
Ha’ set upon Awbony[56] Featherstonhaugh,
And taken his life at the Deadmanshaugh;
There was Willimoteswick,
And Hardriding Dick,
And Hughie of Hawden, and Will of the Wa’,
I canno’ tell a’, I canno’ tell a’,
And mony a mair that the deil may knaw.
The auld man went down, but Nicol, his son,
Ran away afore the fight was begun;
And he run, and he run,
And afore they were done,
There was many a Featherston gat sic a stun,
As never was seen since the world begun.
I canna’ tell a’, I canna’ tell a’;
Some gat a skelp, and some gat a claw;
But they gard the Featherstons haud their jaw,—
Nicol, and Alick, and a’.
Some gat a hurt, and some gat nane;
Some had harness, and some gat sta’en.
Ane gat a twist o’ the craig;
Ane gat a bunch o’ the wame;
Symy Haw gat lam’d of a leg,
And syne ran wallowing hame.
Hoot, hoot, the auld man’s slain outright!
Lay him now wi’ his face down:—he’s a sorrowful sight.
Janet, thou donot,
I’ll lay my best bonnet,
Thou gets a new gude-man afore it be night.
Hoo away, lads, hoo away,
Wi’s a’ be hangid if we stay.
Tak’ up the dead man, and lay him ahint the bigging;
Here’s the Bailey o’ Haltwhistle,
Wi’ his great bull’s pizzle,
That sup’d up the broo’, and syne—in the piggin.

[56] The local pronunciation for Albany.

The following Lines are cut on a Tombstone in Haltwhistle Church Yard, Northumberland.

Ihon Redle that som tim did be,
The laird of the Waltoun;
Gon is he out of thes vale of misery,
His bons lies under this ston.
We must beleve be God’s mersy,
Into thes world gave hes son;
Then for to redem al christens,
So Christ haes hes soul woon.
All faithful peple may be faen,
When dath coms, that non can fre:
The bode kept the soul in paen,
Through Christ is set at liberte.
Among blesed compane to remaen,
To slep in Christ nowe is he gon;
Yet stil beleves to hav again,
Though Christ a jouful resurrecshon.
Al frends ma be glad to hear,
When hes soul from paen did go:
Out of this world as doeth appear,
In the year of our Lord, 1562.

N.B. The above John Ridley is supposed to have been brother to Bishop Ridley, who was burnt at Oxford, October 16th, 1555, he was the possessor of, and lived at Wall-town, and was one of the ancestors of the present Sir Matthew White Ridley, of Blagdon, in Northumberland, M.P. for Newcastle.

LINES
Written at an Inn, in that very retired and romantic Part of Northumberland, the Banks of the ALLAN.

BY GEORGE PICKERING.

November, 1787.

Howl on ye winds, and beat ye rains,
Ye torrents roar o’er yonder linn,
And Allen swell thy rapid stream,
I careless view thee from an Inn.
The trees that late appear’d so green,
To drop their foliage now begin:
They waft a moral to mine ear,
While pensive sitting at an Inn.
See winter comes with all his train,
I hear his loud, his arctic din:
Why let him come, I fear him not,
I sit in comfort at an Inn.
When age, life’s winter, shall appear,
Then reason whispers from within;
Eternity’s our wish’d for home,
The world at best is but an Inn.

LUCY GRAY OF ALLENDALE.

Oh, have you seen the blushing rose,
The blooming pink, or lilly pale,
Fairer than any flow’r that blows
Is Lucy Gray of Allendale.
Pensive and sad o’er braes and burn,
Where oft the nymph they us’d to hail;
The shepherds now are heard to mourn,
For Lucy Gray of Allendale.
With her to join the rural dance,
Far have I stray’d o’er hill and dale,
Where, pleas’d, each rustic stole a glance,
At Lucy Gray of Allendale.
’Twas underneath yon hawthorn shade,
That first I told the tender tale,
But now low lays the lovely maid,
Sweet Lucy Gray of Allendale.
Bleak blows the wind, keen beats the rain,
Upon my cottage in the vale;
Long may I mourn, a lonely swain,
For Lucy Gray of Allendale.

HALTWHISTLE FAIR.

The day was quite pleasant, the Fourteenth of May,
When most of the neighbours began to look gay,
Such brushing, and washing, and dressing was there,
And nothing was talk’d of but Haltwhistle Fair.
You may be quite sure I was pleas’d to the heart,
To think I was going there to act my part;
While pleasure is going, I will have my share,
And see the nice lasses at Haltwhistle Fair.
Old Hetelwood briskly attended his boat,
And jested the Ladies while they were afloat;
He landed them all with a great deal of care,
And wish’d them all sweethearts at Haltwhistle Fair.
We enter’d the town with a great deal of glee,
Where hawkers and pedlers in scores you might see:
The task would be endless to tell of the ware
They had put up for sale at Haltwhistle Fair.
The spade and the shuttle neglected they lay,
The tailor his trimmings and cloth put away,
The smith threw his hammer down—You may lie there,
For this day I’ll make one at Haltwhistle Fair.
The man in the barn he threw down his flail,
And came to this place for a drink of good ale;
The coal-pits were empty, no person was there,
They went like their neighbours to Haltwhistle Fair.
Old women on crutches, who hardly could go,
Who had kept their beds for a twelvemonth or so,
With grey beards, whose noddles were hoary or bare,
All came for a look at old Haltwhistle Fair.
Some people, they say, were so very keen,
As came with a view but to see and be seen,
And got so well pleas’d, they did vow and declare,
They never again would miss Haltwhistle Fair.
You have heard of Miss Bouncer, without any doubt,
What beauty she is from the head to the foot:
No business whatever had I, I declare,
But to see the dear creature at Haltwhistle Fair.
I looked about, my dear charmer to see,
I gaz’d at the crowd, and the crowd gaz’d at me;
At length I espy’d her—My dear, are you there?
I’m happy to see you at Haltwhistle Fair.
While music is going, I will have a dance,
So took in my fair one to caper and prance;
She danc’d a nice jig, keeping time to a hair,
And beat all the lasses at Haltwhistle Fair.
Miss Bouncer was so very loving and kind,
She smil’d in my face, while she drank up my wine;
Of punch and of cakes, oh my dear had her share,
And I paid expences at Haltwhistle Fair.
So kind and so loving, what less could I do,
Than buy the dear creature a fairing or two;
Some things that she fancied, I paid for I swear.
Says she, I shall oft think on Haltwhistle Fair.
With very good judgment, and very good sense,
I brought down my shillings to so many pence:
And sometime near midnight it fell to my share,
To see home Miss Bouncer, from Haltwhistle Fair.
I will grow very careful, and that you shall see,
To try if Miss Bouncer and me can agree;
Each shilling and sixpence I will hurd up with care,
In hopes for to spend them next Haltwhistle Fair.

ANNA OF THE TYNE.