In former times where Hexham town doth stand,

A wood there was which cover’d miles of land;

Even all the trees that on the common stood,

Were merely twigs compar’d to this great wood.

In all directions on each side of Tyne,

More boundless than the noted Apennine;

And by some modern authors ’tis agreed,

Some branches of this wood are planted near to Tweed.

These northern parts confess’d it’s balmy shade,

An asylum to those reduced in trade:

Resource they found—the charter was so good,

They were secure if shelter’d by this wood.

In Sherwood Forest many a prank was play’d,

Which thro’ tradition is to us display’d:

Though Hexham could ne’er boast a Robin Hood,

Yet little John did much frequent this wood.

A motley race—the libertine and harlot,

Supplied the place of Stutely and Will Scarlet.

Within the covert of this wood did rove,

The town bred bucks, with sly intrigues of love:

The yielding females felt an equal flame,

To taste love’s joys when near this wood they came;

Nor justice fac’d, nor e’er a penance stood,

The offspring still was call’d by name of wood.

A wood so much renown’d, you may be sure

The Bank of England was’nt thought more secure.

The miser here, his interest found so good,

He quite forgot that wood was only wood!

How fleeting are the joys of all this world,

How soon our hopes are all to Chaos hurl’d:

A storm near equal unto Noah’s flood,

Relentless came, and swept away this wood.

Even not one solid trunk there did remain,

All batter’d remnants scatter’d o’er the plain:

The nymphs lamenting for their dear resort,

This wood is gone, alas! our chief support;

All was confusion both to high and low,

At this most sad and unexpected blow.

Ye empty fops, now take the hint for good,

No more your offspring can be laid to wood.