THE NEWCASTLE BEAUTIES.

These beauties must be now of some age, as they are unknown to the editor.

Designed to be sung to the Harpsicord or Spinet, &c.

Tho’ lofty bards sublimer sing,

And boldly tune their lays;

Not less renown attends the string,

Which sounds to beauty’s praise.

Ye muses then lend me your aid,

Whilst I attempt to prove,

That in Newcastle many a maid

Excells the queen of love.

II.

Ye bards, forbear your partial lays,

Ye who so lofty sing,

Nor longer only Venus praise,

But here your numbers bring.

No more shall blinded mortals pray,

Or bow before her shrine;

No more in Cyprus seek the bay,

But find it here on Tyne.

III.

First of yon throng, see Delia[18] shine,

That matchless nonpareil!

All eyes confess her form divine,

Such graces round her dwell.

Dame nature has herself outdone,

In that most beauteous fair,

And lavish’d all those charms on one,

Which thousands only share.

IV.

Next her, behold the lovely Cloe[19],

Ye gods! what killing eyes!

See how her charming ringlets flow,

Where wanton Cupid lies:

The rose, compar’d to her, shall fade,

The lily lose its white:

E’en Sol himself must own the maid,

And shine with beams less bright.

Thee, lovely Cynthia[20], next we sing,

Charm’d with thy beauteous face,

More blooming than the verdent spring,

Adorn’d with ev’ry grace;

Thy comely shape and genteel air,

Our admiration raise,

Thou stands confess’d a perfect fair,

And worthy all our praise.

VI.

Thy mien, sweet Daphne[21], next we view,

And as we view, approve;

Thy blooming charms all hearts subdue,

And kindle them to love:

Those charming breasts, and sparkling eyes,

What mortal can oppose?

Still as we gaze, new beauties rise,

And still the passion grows.

VII.

Gay Sylvia[22] next appears in sight,

Surrounded by her charms,

Her handsome form which shines so bright,

Each youthful bosom warms.

Ye youths withdraw your wishful eyes,

Nor longer on her gaze;

For were your hearts as cold as ice,

Her beams would make them blaze.

VIII.

Sweet Celia[23] next demands our care,

That lovely nut-brown maid!

Behold her charming flowing hair,

In jetty locks display’d:

She fills each bosom with desire,

So graceful is her mein;

Her comely features all admire,

Where thousand loves are seen.

IX.

See Flavia[24], the young, the gay,

For graceful air renown’d,

Her mien more bright than flow’ry May,

With ev’ry beauty crown’d.

Her beauteous sister [25] next appears,

Whom wond’rous charms adorn;

The lovely doe each bosom chears,

With beauties like the morn.

The next we view is Julia’s[26] face,

For comely features lov’d;

Her golden locks still add a grace,

To what all hearts approv’d.

Her friend no less inspires the lay,

The lovely Danæ[27] fair,

To whom all tongues their praises pay,

Charm’d with her shape and air.

XI.

Thee, Phœbe[28], with Ophelia[29] join’d,

We can’t too much admire,

Your blooming charms, it must be own’d,

All hearts to love inspire.

To handsome Pat[30], and lovely Stell[31],

Our praises too belong;

These, who in various charms excel,

Close up the beauteous throng.

XII.

As now ador’d you pass your bloom,

Your autumn you may live;

Let me, ye beauteous fair, presume,

This one advice to give;

Virtue pursue—or vain ye’re bright,

“In vain your eyes may roll;

’Tis true that charms do strike the sight,

But merit wins the soul.”

[18] Miss P——y T——n.

[19] Miss H——le.

[20] Miss H——y.

[21] Miss B——p.

[22] Miss H——m.

[23] Miss S——s.

[24] Miss F——tt

[25] Miss F——tt.

[26] Miss H——h.

[27] Miss J—— B——ll.

[28] Miss P—— S——t.

[29] Miss L——s.

[30] Miss A——n.

[31] Miss M——y G——n.

SONG,
On the Address of the Newcastle House of Lords, on turning out Lord North, and Mr Fox.

When Royal G——e, on new year’s day,[32]

Had told his bishops, great and small,

What our wise Crows, last March did say,

“He fear’d Britannia’s sudden fall.”

For knaves determin’d on his doom;

Two of the worst were Fox and North,

These he displac’d, and in their room

Had station’d Pitt, and men of worth.

T’ assuage the sovereign’s grief and care,

And loyal feeling to express,

Imperial London’s duteous mayor,

Approach’d the throne with an address.

Counties, and towns, and boroughs too,

Throng’d thick, and their addresses paid,

Their prince to undeceive, and shew

How twice ten years he’d been betray’d.

Newcastle’s mayor, to virtue form’d,

(Charles the upright and the good;)

Whose hands refrain’d, and nobly scorn’d

To stain with transatlantic blood.

A temperate zeal, he did confess,

Became each lover of his king;

Then all join’d him in an address;

And thousands warmly did it sign.

A band more true, (what need of words?)

And of all loyal men the flower;

I mean Ned C——g’s house of lords,

Who prais’d each minister in power.

The fancy seiz’d! each noble peer,

Pushing the tankard foaming o’er:

(O had lord Umbrage but been here,

But we shall never see him more!)

Now fairly sat the sage divan,

And silence call’d to every box.

“Let’s thank our king, aye every man,

For turning out lord North and Fox.

We must confess it’s scarce seven years,

Since we address’d our royal sire;

And beg’d he’d scorn all whiggish fears,

And we would help to blow the fire.

War’s flame did blaze both far and near,

And Europe’s powers against us join’d:

Our fleets were beat, our armies fled,

We sued for peace, and bought it dear.

It’s true the whigs, these knavish rogues

All cried, our mischiefs North began:

But what care we for barking dogs;

For North was still the greatest man.

Our empire was too wide and great,

And too unwieldy—and what not!

But North, our tailor of the state,

Clip’d it, as Umbrage would a coat.

A truth from which we scorn to swerve.

The more we lose, the more we gain;

And trade and treasures only serve,

To foster pride, and care, and pain.

But ah, how vain is human hope!

Great North with spendthrift Fox has join’d:

(For this he well deserves a rope)

All fair professions are but wind.

Come then, my lords, stand forth like men,

The good old cause keep still in view;

And tell the k——g we do condemn

Old knaves, and will support the new.”

The house then rung with loud applause,

Fists, pipes, and smoke, their joy express.

A committee resolved was

To word, and draw up the address.

Th’ expence, agreed by numerous votes,

Attending this address of thanks;

Was all to be paid out in notes,

Of Sir James Duncan’s best of banks.

[32] Alluding to the king’s reply to the b——’s address, usual on the first day of the year, expressive of a desponding prediction, truly alarming.

THE ADDRESS
OF
SIR J. DUNCAN, AND CO.

Of the Scale de Cross Bank, to the Ladies, Gentlemen, and Merchants, of Newcastle upon Tyne, and its Environs.

Sir James Duncan and Co. their kind compliments send

To the public in general, who so befriend

Their laudable endeavour, your gold to exchange,

Yet reluctantly confess, they think it most strange

Their opening a Bank, shou’d be impudent thought,

By those who are strangers to their KERECTER [33], and note,

And flatter themselves, the following reasons will prove

Their right to be Bankers, and objections remove.

The title, they presume, will command the esteem

Of those who at a distance, from hence, may have seen

Their elegant Notes; their clothes—they vow, and declare,

In London were made, as you may see by their air;

The skin on Sir James, is not so fit as his coat,

And fine Bristol beer washes his throat.

No Newcastle furniture their office degrades,

Sir James Duncan employs no such bungling, vile blades,

As the paltry workmen, in this smokey town,

Whose finery often—has made us Bankers frown.

They are not worth an hundred thousand it’s true,

But supposing they were, cou’d the public, and you

Their friends be assured they wou’d not exceed

Their capital twice, when their paper you need,

And wisely prefer it, to hard silver and gold,

Because you don’t weigh it, and it’s much sooner told.

The notes of their brethern they will not refuse,

Let other bankers less wise, do that if they chuse;

The public they’ll serve, their cash take, and bills discount,

Except at Change hours, to any amount;

And when profusion and taxes, and of America the loss,

Old England has ruin’d—firm will stand the Scale Cross.

The critics our doggrels will sneer at, we suppose,

But Strap, who’s a GENIUS, has measur’d them, and knows,

Like a shoe on a last they are fit, and convey

Our intention completely, and it’s needless to say,

Newcastle, Exchange, Tyne, or Commercial Bank,[34]

Must yield to us in writing, as well as in rank,

No knight can they boast—and we his majesty thank.

Sir J. Duncan, Hide, Strap, Last, Awl, & Jacob End.

SIR JAMES DUNCAN’s NOTES WERE AS FOLLOWS:—

CRISPIN.

No. 89.

I Promise to pay Mr Benj. Bulk, or Bearer on Demand the Sum of Two Pence, Value received. Seale de Cross Bank, Newcastle, 24 Jany 1784. For Sir J. Duncan, Hide, Strap, Last, Awl, & Self, Jacob End.

Two Pence.

Entd Jas Back, No. 89.

N.B. Our Estates liable, and Copper taken.

[33] We have observed, at a Coffee-house, that one of our brethren pronounces this word thus.

[34] Out of these four banks, only two now remain, (1812) i.e., the Newcastle, and the Tyne.

AN ELEGY,
TO THE MEMORY OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE
LORD RAVENSWORTH.

Who died, January 30th, 1784, Aged 76.

Liddell, farewell! to all true Britons dear,

We mourn in heart, and shed the friendly tear:

Yet not for thee our eyes in tears we steep,

Our grief is selfish—for ourselves we weep:

No loss by death the worthy can sustain,

We are the losers—and our loss thy gain.

The rich have lost, by thy lamented end,

The best of neighbours; and the poor a friend.

O Ravensworth! thy hospitable door

Receiv’d the wealthy, and reliev’d the poor.

Adorn’d with ev’ry virtue, ev’ry grace

Which nature e’er bestow’d on human race.

Through a long life, example bright thou shone!

By all belov’d:—Now each regrets thou’rt gone!

Thy suff’rings here were weigh’d; nor shall thy death

Be more than ceasing of thy mortal breath;

Thy Master calls, ripe for thy Master’s joy,

Where love and bliss, the upright mind employ.

Speak ye, who knew him best, what man can say,

That Liddell could the distant friend betray!

To friendship true, no scandal from his tongue;

To hurt a friend, or do his foe a wrong.

For truth he try’d, enquir’d, and careful sought,

Yet lov’d the man altho’ he diff’rent thought.

Who’s right! be left to that decisive day,

When truth’s bright beams shall shine without allay.

Ne’er sway’d by notions, nor to schemes confin’d,

His breast was open to the honest mind.

Whatever noble warmth could recommend,

The just, the active, and the constant friend;

Whatever great or good we can adore,

Center’d in him—in him alas! no more.

Thus love, peace, joy, with a distinguish’d grace,

Shone thro’ the features of his friendly face.

How near approaches to a life divine,

The man in whom the peaceful virtues shine?

In public charities he foremost stood,

And likewise private——always doing good.

The poor, in him, a friend was sure to find,

And to their wants, his purse he free resign’d.

Such the kind man! May we like him be wise,

Pursue his virtuous steps, and with him reach the prize.

T.R.

LINES
ON THE DEATH OF
JOHN, LORD DELAVAL;

Who died, May 17th, 1808.—Aged 80.

By M. Harvey.

In hollow murmurs o’er the bending reeds

Sorrow’s keen accents sweep across the meads;

And as the grief-charg’d sound moves sad along,

Unstrings the lute, and stills the wood nymph’s song.

O’er all the sad’n’d scene the mournful train,

In keenest anguish, join the solemn strain;

Whilst recollection, with tenacious power,

Thickens the gloom that damps the passing hour.

The many banner’d trump of clarion fame,

Sounds in full chords the blood stain’d warrior’s name,

Echoes to realms remote, and nations far,

The mighty power of man-destroying war.

Deadens with magic force each softer lay,

That throng’d the courts, and made the vallies gay:

While the vain phantom, honour, barbs the wand,

That waves destruction o’er the smiling land.

And ’midst the accents of her harsher lays,

Shall she forget to sound the good man’s praise?

Forbid it, every spark of social love,

That made, through life, his every passion move;

That taught his heart with sympathy to glow,

To stem the torrent of domestic woe.

Whose open hand strew’d o’er the lowly scene,

Plenty’s gay smiles, and joy’s delighted mien;

Whose presence cheer’d, with animating ray,

Life’s highest walks, and made the gay more gay:

Fitted alike to grace the lordly dome,

Or in the cottage make contentment bloom:

Thy virtues, Delaval, we long shall mourn,

And wash, with unfeign’d tears, thy hallow’d urn.

No laurel wreath, nor high poetic lays

Need bloom, or live in song to sound thy praise;

For whilst thy loss our keenest sorrow moves,

O’er all the past, delighted fancy roves;

Each fond remembrance that reverts to thee,

Tells what our present conduct ought to be;

And points, with heavenward aim, to that Dread Power,

Whose mystic means unfolds the future hour;

Cheers the dark gloom of life’s last setting ray,

And leads us on to everlasting day!