SAWNEY OGILBY’s DUEL WITH HIS WIFE.
BY THOMAS WHITTLE.
To the Tune of, The worst’s past.
Good people, give ear to the fatalest duel
That Morpeth e’er saw since it was a town,
Where fire is kindled and has so much fuel,
I wou’d not be he that wou’d quench’t for a crown.
Poor Sawney, as canny a North British hallion,
As e’er crost the border this million of weeks,
Miscarried, and married a Scottish tarpawlin,
That pays his pack-shoulders, and will have the breeks.
I pity him still when I think of his kindred,
Lord Ogelby was his near cousin of late;
And if he and somebody else had not hinder’d,
He might have been heir unto all his estate.
His stature was small, and his shape like a monkey,
His beard like a bundle of scallions or leeks;
Right bonny he was, but now he’s worn scrunty,
And fully as fit for the horns as the breeks.
It fell on a day, he may it remember,
Tho’ others rejoyced, yet so did not he,
When tidings was brought that Lisle did surrender,
It grieves me to think on’t, his wife took the gee,
These bitches still itches, and stretches commission,
And if they be crossed they’re still taking peeks,
And Sawney, poor man, he was out of condition,
And hardly well fit for defending the breeks.
She mutter’d, and moung’d, and looked damn’d misty,
And Sawney said something, as who cou’d forbear?
Then straight she began, and went to’t handfisty,
She whither’d about, and dang down all the gear:
The dishes and dublers went flying like fury,
She broke more that day than would mend in two weeks,
And had it been put to a judge or a jury,
They cou’d not tell whether deserved the breeks.
But Sawney grew weary, and fain would be civil,
Being auld, and unfeary, and fail’d of his strength,
Then she cowp’d him o’er the kale-pot with a kevil,
And there he lay labouring all his long length.
His body was soddy, and sore he was bruised,
The bark of his shins was all standing in peaks;
No stivat e’er lived was so much misused
As sare as auld Sawney for claiming the breeks.
The noise was so great all the neighbours did hear them,
She made his scalp ring like the clap of a bell;
But never a soul had the mense to come near them,
Tho’ he shouted murder with many a yell.
She laid on whisky whasky, and held like a steary,
Wight Wallace could hardly have with her kept streaks;
And never gave over until she was weary,
And Sawney was willing to yield her the breeks.
And now she must still be observ’d like a madam.
She’ll cause him to curvet, and skip like a frog,
And if he refuses she’s ready to scad him,
Poxtake such a life, it wou’d weary a dog.
Ere I were so serv’d, I would see the de’il take her,
I hate both the name and the nature of sneaks;
But if she were mine I would clearly forsake her,
And let her make a kirk and a mill of the breeks.
SONG
ON
WILLIAM CARSTAIRS, SCHOOLMASTER.
BY THOMAS WHITTLE.
Ye muses nine, if you think fit,
Instruct my pen to write.
Apollo, thou great god of wit,
Come help me to indite.
Let poets, pipers, fidlers come,
In priols,[47] or in pairs,
And echo forth, as with a drum,
The praise of Will Carstairs.[48]
Imprimus, then I will proceed
His features to disclose,
And draw a compass from his head
Unto his heels and toes;
Some cunning man come lay a spell,
And keep me from all snares,
That I may keep in compass well,
While I describe Carstairs.
But first I must his pardon crave,
For making bold and free,
For William was his christian name,
And shall be so for me;
But manners must to rhymes give place,
Or else we spoil our wares;
And Will and William’s all one case,
And equal to Carstairs.
His face is like the midnight moon
And stars that shine so bright;
His nose is like a flaming fire,
That casts both heat and light;
It sparkles like the Syrian seas
When he gets in his airs,
A clown has not an heart to buy
A beak like Will Carstairs.
Without a magnifying glass,
His neck you cannot see;
But if you please to let it pass,
It shall be pass’d by me;
His shoulders are compact and strong,
Made up of rounds and squares,
And no small burden e’er could wrong
A back like Will Carstairs’.
Down from his shoulder-blades there springs
Two arms both stout and strong,
That flap just like a buzzard’s wings
As he marcheth along;
And from those arms there spring two hands,
Well skill’d in magic airs;
And William Lilley’s charter stands
By such as Will Carstairs.
He has eight sides, I scorn to slide,
I’ll bring them fairly in,
The upperside and underside
Are two for to begin;
There’s backside, foreside, leftside, right—
I’ll put them down in pairs—
And inside, outside, which make eight,
Belonging to Carstairs.
Down from his sides there spring two hips
With sturdy well built thighs,
Just like a pair of weeding-clips,
But of a larger size;
His legs they do like supples bend,
When he gets in his airs—
Right taper’d down from end to end,
Few men can match Carstairs.
His feet are much like other men’s,
I guess them by the shoe,
They’re neither of the fives nor tens,
But just between the two.
He’ll trip to Scotland in a trice,
For speed he never spares,—
There’s few can trip it out so nice
As thrifty Will Carstairs.
He’s near about the standard pitch,
As nature can express—
They’re lubbers that’s above his size,
And dwarfs that’s any less;
But tho’ he be not quite so tall
To rank ’mong grenadiers,
There’s thousands of marines as small
As little Will Carstairs.
[47] Priol, i.e. three.
[48] Carstairs, though a poor poet, was vain of his abilities as such. About the year 1731, Thomas Whittle and he being in a large company at the Burnt-house in Newcastle, the conversation turned on their respective merits as disciples of the Muses. A wager was soon bet on the subject; and it was agreed, that an hour should be allowed for each of them to write satyrical verses on the other. The two poets were accordingly placed in separate apartments; and at the expiration of the time specified, it was determined, by throwing up a halfpenny, which of the two should first read his lays: it fell to Whittle’s lot; but before he had got to the end, his competitor was so chagrined, that he put the concoctions of his less fertile brain in the fire; the wager of course was won by Whittle’s party.
THOMAS WHITTLE, HIS HUMOROUS LETTER,
TO MASTER MOODY, THE RAZOR-SETTER.
Newcastle on Tyne, May Twenty-nine.
Good Master Moody,
My beard being cloudy,
My cheeks, chin, and lips
Like moon i’ the ’clipse,
For want of a wipe:
I’ve sent you a razor,
If you’ll be at leisure
To grind her, and set her,
And make her cut better,
You’ll e’en light my pipe.[49]
Dear sir, you know little
The case of poor Whittle—
I’m courting Tantivie,
If you will believe me,
Pray mark what I say:
I’m frank in my proffers,
And when I make offers,
To kiss the sweet creature,
My lips cannot meet her.
My beard stops the way.
You’ve heard my condition,
And now I petition,
That without omission,
With all expedition,
You’ll give it a strike;
And send it by ’Tony,
He’ll pay you the money—
I’ll shave and look bonny,
And go to my honey,
As snod as you like.
If you do not you’ll hip me,
My sweetheart will slip me,
And if I should smart for’t,
And break my poor heart for’t
Are you not to blame!
But if you’ll oblige me,
As gratitude guides me,
I’ll still be your servant,
Obedient and fervent,
Whilst Whittle’s my name.
[49] A Northumberland phrase, signifying a particular favour done to one.