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Yet as she has an itching still,
To mount the great Parnassus hill,
I straightway thither did repair,
But found she never had been there;
That being too divine a place,
For her to chant unhallow’d lays;
When turning quick my eye around
On Tindale’s shore, the wand’rer found,
Where she was taking a survey,
Of all that in her compass lay;
A medley of such objects rose,
Which pen but faintly can disclose;
But being in a merry pin,
Do not I almost ev’ry day,
At the _lang hinney’s_ o’er the way,
See Geordy Jenkin’s wife and you,
Drinking clove waters till you spue!
Go to the devil with your brats,
And vex me not with d----’d pit-rats,
That are not all of my begetting,
Here mangy Scots from banks of Tay,
With scarce a plaid to bear away;
Half-starv’d, they from the frozen North,
Like swarms of locusts, sally forth,
Worse than before, on Pharaoh’s land,
Were sent by the Almighty hand;
Such hardness of their hearts to purge,
This mugletonian blackguard breed,
Upon our very vitals feed;
And, like the whelps of Juno’s pack,
Of Scots infection bring a smack;
When hither come, they seldom fail
To scrape the scabs from off their tail;
By artful tricks, and well form’d lies,
At midnight these, and such like sots,
With noddles full, from stinking pots
Of rank geneva, and of rum,
They raise a scent where’er they come;
Reel, cursing, in a grumbling tone,
In some dark lane, where sun ne’er shone,
But darkness dire, surrounds the place,
Oft in a house decay’d with age,
Which scarce will bear the winter’s rage;
Whose crazy outshots threat’ning hing
About their ears, a peal to ring;
They tumble in one common bed,
Where all are there promiscuous laid;
And ten to one, but as they fall,
They break their heads against the wall;
Nor do they mind to choose their wives,
With whom they’re bound to lead their lives;
But to the first they come do keep,
If not, there’s oft a general horning
Takes place before the next day morning.--
Gomorrah ne’er could fuller be
Than _Sandgate_ with impiety,
So cramm’d with immorality
Is every one, that if there be
A place on earth resembling hell,
Haste, haste to partake on’t, ye men of grave faces,
Ye Quakers, and Methodist parsons likewise;
What tho’ ye seem lost to the flexible graces,
And dormant the risible faculty lies;
One quaff of the vapour
Will cause you to caper,
And swiftly relax your stiff solemniz’d jaws;
You’ll acknowledge the change too,
As pleasing as strange too,
And make the air ring with loud ha! ha! ha! ha’s!
Common sense stands aghast, thunder-struck and confounded,
While Dullness brays out from its Gall’ry, _Encore!_
Then, big with applause,
Crack’s Scotch ell of jaws[14]
Sets forth a hoarse bawling, so purely divine,
That hydras or bears
Might prick up their ears,
And howl out in concert with Bards of the Tyne.
I lose, when near thee, all my care,
When from thee, I am all despair;
My bosom heaves with anxious pain,
Until I meet with thee again,
What are these adverse pangs of mine,
My lovely Mary of the Tyne?
Zit was our meeting meik enough,
Begun with mirriness and mows,
And at the brae abune the heugh
The clerk sat doun to call the rows,
And sum for ky and sum for ewis,
Callit in of DANDRIE HOB and JOCK,
I saw cum merching owre the knows,
Up raise the laird to red the cumber,
Quhilk wald not be for all his boist,
Quhat suld we do with sic a number,
Fyve thousand men into an hoist?
Then HENRIE PURDIE proud hes cost,
And verie narrowlie had mischiefd him,
And ther we had our WARDEN lost,
Then raisd the slogan with an schout,
Fy, TYNDALL to it, JEDBRUGH heir;
I trow he was not half sae stout,
But anes his stomach was a steir,
With gun and genzie, bow and spier,
He micht se mony a crakit crown,
But up amang the merchant gier,
Sir FRANCIS RUSSEL tane was thair,
And hurt, as we heir men reherse;
Proud WALLINGTOUN was wounded sair,
Albeit he was a Fennick ferss,
But gif ze wald a souldier serche
Amang them all was tane that night,
Was nane sae wordie of our verse
It was a confounded bad liver,
Like Ferry the piper’s old cat;
It ne’er could be brought to behaviour,
Though it has got many a bat;
It had been so spoil’d in up-bringing,
It vext his poor heart every day;
Sometimes with biting and flinging,
A day or two after, have at it,
He north in pursuit on’t took chase,
And like a dub-skelper he trotted,
To many strange village and place;
All Rothbury forest he ranged,
From corner to corner like mad,
And still he admired and stranged,
Tom Fawdon soon knew what they wanted,
And straightway the table was set,
With bread, butter and cheese it was planted,
And good ale, as well as good meat;
Their grace took but little inditing,
’Twas short and they had it by heart;
And they took as little inviting,
With bellies top-full to the rigging,
I leave them to settle a bit,
’Till making good use of the midding,
‘Do’ bring them unto a right set.
Now come we to speak of the gelding,
Who knowing that he did offend,
Stay’d two or three days about Weldon,
The town of Longframlington further
Can give an account what he is,
He came within acting of murder,
As near as a horse could to miss;
For unto a house he went scudding,
And seeing a child all alone,
If Providence had not withstood him,
The rest of his acts are recorded,
’Tis nonsense to mention them here;
I’ll go back and fetch Geordy forward,
He’s tarri’d too long I do fear!
From Brinkburn he started and held on,
Directly to Framlington town,
And then to the miller’s at Weldon,