  BY H.R. With taste so true, and genius fine, The blythsome Minsterels of langsyne, Sung sweetly ’tween the Tweed and Tyne, Of war and love; Sounding their melody divine, Thro’ ev’ry grove. Northumbria’s waters, woods, and plains, Her hills and dales, her nymphs and swains, Her rural sports, in sweetest strains, The Poets sung; Till echo, thro’ her wide domains, Responsive rung. In witty songs and verses kittle Who could compare with Thomas Whittle? The Cambo blade, who to a tittle, Describ’d each feature; At painting, too, he varied little From mother Nature. Her Pipers also knew the art To touch the soul, and warm the heart; Such chearing strains they could impart, That cank’ring care, From ev’ry breast away would start, To pine elsewhere. When at the harvest, every year, They play’d, the reapers’ hearts to chear; The soft-link’d notes, so sweet and clear, Made labour light; And many a merry jig, I swear, They danc’d each night. Crest Old Tyne shall listen to my Tale, And Echo, down the bordering Vale, The Liquid Melody prolong. Akenside. (decorative line)
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