Upon Newcastle Moor,
Poor Matthew cast a look,
When he thought on the coming hour,
When his brave Noodle Troop
Would lay their arms down,
No longer them to bear—
The brave defenders of the town—
He wip'd away a tear.
Beside the fatal spot,
Where poor Jane did end her strife,
He said that he would cut his throat,
And end his wretched life—
A life so press'd with care,
No longer could he bear—
So wildly then he tore his hair,
And wip'd away a tear.
He turn'd and left the ground,
Where oft his red, red plume,
Had spread its warlike beauty round,
To the sound of fife and drum;—
But now his glory's fled—
No longer it he'll wear,
But take it quietly from his head,
And wipe away a tear.
No more the Tory ranks
Will glitter in the sun
Nor play at e'en their childish pranks,
With blunderbuss or gun;
For now the doleful knell
Has toll'd their last career,
And, horror-struck, poor Matty Bell,
Who wip'd away a tear.
Wm. Greig.
Newcastle on Tyne,
May twenty-nine.
Thomas Whittell, his Humourous Letter To good Master Moody, Razor-setter.
Good Master Moody, my beard being cloudy,
My cheeks, chin, and lips, like moon i' the 'clipse
For want of a wipe—
I send 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.[38]