THE FELTON GARLAND.
How a Brick-maker at Felton stole a Woman away by her own Consent, from her Grandmother.
To the Tune of, Maggy Lauder.
There lives a lass in Felton town,
Her name is Jenny Gowen,
With the Brick-man she has play’d the lown,
So wanton she is grown:
The reason why some love the night,
Incognito to revel,
Is they love darkness more than light,
Because their deeds are evil.
So late at night on Saturday,
He thought all safe as brandy,
He rigg’d and trigg’d, and rid away
Upon John Hinks’s Sandy:
To Haggerston he did pretend,
Some sweetheart there confin’d him;
But he took up, at our town-end,
His cloak-bag on behind him.
Like as the bird that gay would be,
As fable hath reported,
From each fine bird most cunningly
A feather she extorted:
Then boasting said, How fine I’m grown!
Her painted plumes she shaked,
At which each bird pluck’d off their own,
And left her almost naked.
With this kind maid it proved so,
Who many things did borrow,
To rig her up from top to toe,
And deck her like queen Flora.
Of one she got a black-silk hood,
Her fond light head to cover,
Likewise a blue cloak, very good,
Her night intrigues to smother.
Clock stockings she must have (dear wot)
In borrow’d shoes she’s kilted,
Some lent her a blue petticoat,
Both large and bravely quilted.
Of some she got a fine linn-smock,
Lest Peter shou’d grow canty,
And have a stroke at her black joke,
With a tante, rante, tante.
With borrow’d cane, hat on her head,
To make her still look greater,
She’d make her friends believe indeed,
They were all bought by Peter:
But when she did return again,
In all her boasted grandeur,
Each to their own did lay just claim,
And left her as they fand her.
But none can guess at their intent,
Why they abroad did swagger,
Some said, to see their friends they went,
Some said, to Buckle Beggar.
Away full four days they stay’d,
I think they took their leisure;
They past for man and wife, some said,
And spent the nights in pleasure.
When the Black Cock did Sandy see,
There was a joyful meeting,
That night when I thee lent, quoth he,
I wish I had been sleeping:
Thou art abused very sore,
As any creature can be,
And still he cry’d, o’er and o’er,
O woe is me for Sandy!
Then Sandy, mumbling, made reply,
You were my loving master,
I never did your suit deny,
Nor meet with one disaster,
Till now unknown to yourself,
That I should have this trouble,
Or else for neither love nor pelf,
You’d let me carry double.
Poor Sandy was with riding daul’d,
He rues he saw their faces,
His back and sides they sorely gaul’d,
He pay’d for their embraces;
But if young Peter’s found her nest,
She’ll rue as well as Sandy;
And if she proves with child, she best
Had tarry’d with her grandy.
How they abused the horse they rid on, and when he married, they went off in several people’s debts.
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.
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.