  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, 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. |
|
