THE MIDFORD GALLOWAY’s RAMBLE.
BY THOMAS WHITTLE.
To the Tune of, Ranting roaring Willy.
The routing the earl of Mar’s forces,
Has given their neighbours supplies;
They’ve stock’d us with Highlanders horses,
Like kileys for madness and size:
The whirligig-maker of Midford
Has gotten one holds such a stear,
He’s had worse work with it, I’ll say for’t
Than Ecky e’er had with his mear.
The devil ne’er saw such a gelding
As this to be foal’d of a mear;
The size ont’s a shame to be teld on,
And yet it could skip like a deer;
For colour and size (I’m a sinner,
I scorn, as the folks say, to slide,)
’Twas just like Hob Trumble’s gimmer,
Which he sold for six-pence a side.
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,
And sometimes with running away.
Perhaps it was brought up a Tory,
And knew the poor man for a Whig;
But just to make short of the story,
I’ll tell you one day what it did:
When business came thicker and thicker,
And would not admit of delay,
As fast as the heels on’t could bicker,
It scamper’d right northward away.
O’er rocks, over mountains and ditches,
Dike-gutters and hedges it speels;
A courser could never keep stretches
With it for a large share of heels:
From hill unto dale like a fairy,
It hurry’d and pranced along,
While Geordy was in a quandary,
And knew not what way it was gone.
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,
What vengeance was gone with his pad.
He circled about like a ring-worm,
And follow’d the scent of his nose,
And from Heslyhurst unto Brinkburn,
With Fortune the clothier he goes.
To honest Tom Fawdon’s the fuller,
The rattle-brain’d roisters both went,
Tho’ they made the gelding their colour,
Another thing was their intent.
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,
But strove who should have the fore-start.
They used no bashful dissembling,
But to in a passion did fall,
The dishes did by them stand trembling,
Their mercy appeared so small:
The butter, the cheese, and the bannocks,
Dissolved like snow in a fresh,
And still as they stuck in their stomachs,
With liquor they did them down wash.
The Dutch, nor the Welsh, nor wight Wallace,
Did ever like them show their spleen,
The cheese bore the marks of their malice,
Their knives and their teeth were so keen.
Two stone they destroyed, shame be’n them,
And pour’d down their liquor like spouts,
Their guts to hold what they put in them,
Were drest like a pair of strait boots.
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,
To make justice Lisle stand his friend.
He after that grew so unlucky,
On mischief and ill he was bent,
He prov’d a right North-country jockey,
Still cheating where ever he went.
At many men’s charges he dined,
But never ask’d what was arrear;
Yet no man could get him confined,
So slily himself he did clear.
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,
He’d struck it as dead as a stone.
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,
He back o’er the hill tumbled down.
Not finding the thing that he wanted,
Unto Hedleywood he did trot,
He was tost like a dog in a blanket,
O’er Coquet and back in the boat:
All Framlington fields he sought over,
And from spot to spot he did run,
For fear the grass chanced to cover
His pad, as it once did Tom Thumb.
Then up to John Alders he drabbeth,
And there all the night did repose,
And then, the next day being Sabbath,
Away he to Whittingham goes;
Where he to revenge the miscarriage
Of his little scatter-brain’d nag,
He went to the clerk of the parish,
To get him expos’d for a vague.
The clerk he soon set up his cropping,
And made a great bustle and stear;
The church-yard appear’d like a hopping,
The folks drew about so to hear:
He did to a hairs-breadth describe him,
And call’d him again and again,
And Geordy by four-pence did bribe him,
For all the small pains he had ta’n.
Scarce were the jaw-bones of these asses
Well shut, till a Thrunton-bred lad,
Eas’d Geordy a bit of his crosses,
By bringing him news of his pad:
These tidings his spirit renewed,
No clerk cou’d his courage controul,
But still was resolv’d to pursue it,
Suppose it were to the North pole.
’Tis past a man’s giving account on,
What way he traversed with speed,
From Eslington, Whittingham, Thrunton,
He past the Broom-park and Hill-head,
To Learchild, to Barton, to Branton,
And from thence to Mount on the clay,
To Fawdon, the Clinch, and to Glanton,
And several towns mist by the way.
There’s Lemington, Abberwick, Bolton,
With Woodhall that stands on the fell,
And Titlington’s likewise untold on,
Where Jacob, of old, dig’d his well;
To Harup, to Hidgily and Beanly,
He past unto Callaly mill,
To Brandon, to Ingram, and Reavely,
And Crawley that stands on a hill.
To Brandon-main, then to the Whitehouse,
To Dickison’s where he made league,
And articled that for a night-house,
To rest a while after fatigue:
He drank a while till he grew mellow,
And then for his chamber did call,
Where sound he may sleep, silly fellow,
His travels wou’d weary us all.
He had an invincible couple
Of legs, that did bear him well out,
They hung so loose, like a flail-souple,
And cudgel’d his buttocks about;
No man who’d have thought any hallion
Could ever have acted the thing,
Without help of Pacolet’s stallion,[46]
That when the pin turn’d did take wing.
Next day rising, rigging and starting,
He jogg’d on his journey with speed,
To Bewick, the Lilburns, Coldmartin,
From thence unto Woolerhaugh-head;
To Wooperton, Ilderton, Rodham,
And Rosedon, he scudded like mad,
Nothing fell by the way that withstood him,
Until he had met with his pad.
Earl was the place where he found him,
A blithe sight for Geordy to see;
But got the whole town to surround him,
Before he his prisoner would be:
Then on his back jumping and prancing,
He swiftly switcht over the plain,
But made him pay dear for his dancing,
E’er he got to Midford again.
[46] See the history of Valentine and Orson.
THE INSIPIDS:
OR,
The Mistress with her Multitude of Man Servants.
BY THOMAS WHITTLE.
Of all the Kirkharle bonny lasses,
If they were set round in a ring,
Jane Heymours for beauty surpasses,
She might be a match for a king;
Her cheeks are as red as a cherry,
Her breast is as white as a swan,
She is a blyth lass and a merry,
And her middle is fit for a man.
The lads are so fond to be at her,
They all run as mad as March hares,
This bonny young lass they do flatter,
And fall at her feet to their prayers:
You never saw keener or stouter,
They’ll not be put off with delay,
Like bull-dogs they still hang about her,
And court her by night and by day.
Joe Hepple, Will Crudders, Tom Liddle,
With twenty or thirty men more,
If I could their names but unriddle,
At least I might make out two score,
That all cast about for to catch her,
And make her their own during life;
With others that strive to debauch her,
Despairing to make her their wife.
So many love tokens and fancies
She gets, that to bring them in view,
They’d look like so many romances,
And none could believe they were true.
I only will mention one favour,
And leave you to guess at the rest;
An old kenning Edward Hall gave her,
Of comforts the choicest and best.
They venture like people for prizes,
And with the same timorous doubt,
She has them of all sorts and sizes,
That’s constantly sneaking about.
Each man speaks her fair, and importunes
In all the best language that’s known;
And happy were he could tell fortunes,
To know if the girl were his own.
John Robson, Joe Bowman, Will Little,
With her would spend nights over days;
Each glance of her eyes is so smittle,
That all men are catch’d if they gaze:
She strikes them quite thro’ with love stitches,
And many a poor heart she doth fill;
She’s like one of those call’d white witches,
That hurts men and means them no ill.
John Henderson, that honest weaver,
And mettled Matt Thomson the smith,
Came both from Capheaton to preave her,
And court her with courage and pith.
Ned Oliver too, and Tom Baxter
Spare neither their feet, tongue, or hands,
But strive with the rest to contract her
In compass of conjugal bands.
Bob Bewick just makes it his calling
Unto her his love to declare;
And some’s of that mind that John Rawling
Would gladly come in for a share.
John Forcing doth praise and commend her,
Above any lass that wears head;
And fain he would be a pretender,
If he had but hopes to come speed.
Bob Cole strains his wit and invention
And compliments to a degree;
And twenty that I cannot mention
Are all as keen courters as he.
She puts them all into such pickle
They care not what courses they run,
And if (as folks say) she be fickle,
’Tis twenty to one they’re undone.
Their loves would fill forty hand wallets,
If they were cramm’d in at both ends;
Their hearts are all sunk like lead pellets,
And very small hopes of amends.
Great dangers on both sides encreases,
Which very destructive may prove;
The lass may be all pull’d to pieces,
Or all the poor lads die for love.
But that which supports and preserves them,
Their stomachs their best friends do prove;
And ’tis not a little meat serves them
Since they fell so deeply in love.
Their fancies and appetites working,
It made them so sharp and so keen,
The girls mother lost two butter firkins,
They wattell’d away so much cream.
One day with a good brandy bottle,
Two met her about the Heugh Nebb,
And there their accounts they did settle,
And made all as right as my legg:
The snuff-mill and gloves came in season,
The want of a glass to supply;
They drank the girls first, with good reason,
And then the king’s health by the by.
The Millers Haugh, Heugh Nebb, and Haystack,
The Flowers, the New Close, and Decoy,
With places whose titles I know not,
Where they met to love and enjoy,
Would be but too far a digression,
And make our fond passions rebell;
But, oh! had these places expression,
What pretty love tales they could tell!
So many to her bear affection,
And give her such lofty applause,
I’m love-sick to hear the description,
And wish I could see the sweet cause:
’Tis she that could make all odds even,
And bring many wonders to pass;
I wish all her sweethearts in heaven,
Why I were in bed with the lass!