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.