PREFACE.
Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,
Thinks what ne’er was, nor is, nor e’er shall be.
Pope.
“Give me the writing of all the Ballads, for the people of England, and let who will be their law-giver,” was said by a celebrated orator, in speaking on the manners of the people:—this cheering ray, in behalf of ballad writing, gave rise to the publication of the following pages: for how many of these simple, yet popular effusions, have been lost for want of a repository to give them a chance of living a day beyond the time they were written?—As such, the Summum Bonum of my labours is to rescue from the yawning jaws of oblivion the productions of the Bards of the Tyne; and by so doing, hand them down to future ages as Reliques of Provincial Poetry:—But, conscious of the liability of personal allusions in the generality of provincial poems, the words of the poet have been kept in mind:—
“Curs’d be the verse, how well soe’er it flow,
Which tends to make one worthy man my foe!”
Those who may have expected a matchless collection, and find it inferior to other poetical selections, will please to think of the following Italian proverb:—
“CHI LAVA LA TESTA AL ASINO PERDE IL SAPONE.”
and accept the same from their
Obedient Servant,
THE EDITOR.
Newcastle upon Tyne, August, 1812.
VERSES
ON
NORTHUMBERLAND MINSTRELSY.
BY H.R.
With taste so true, and genius fine,
The blythsome Minsterels of langsyne,
Sung sweetly ’tween the Tweed and Tyne,
Of war and love;
Sounding their melody divine,
Thro’ ev’ry grove.
Northumbria’s waters, woods, and plains,
Her hills and dales, her nymphs and swains,
Her rural sports, in sweetest strains,
The Poets sung;
Till echo, thro’ her wide domains,
Responsive rung.
In witty songs and verses kittle[1],
Who could compare with Thomas Whittle?
The Cambo blade, who to a tittle,
Describ’d each feature;
At painting, too, he varied little
From mother Nature.
Her Pipers also knew the art
To touch the soul, and warm the heart;
Such chearing strains they could impart,
That cank’ring care,
From ev’ry breast away would start,
To pine elsewhere.
When at the harvest, every year,
They play’d, the reapers’ hearts to chear;
The soft-link’d notes, so sweet and clear,
Made labour light;
And many a merry jig, I swear,
They danc’d each night.
[1] Lively.
Old Tyne shall listen to my Tale,
And Echo, down the bordering Vale,
The Liquid Melody prolong.
Akenside.
