X.

The wicked unkle being seized, And charged with his transgression, His mind and conscience was so teazed, He made a full confession. The justice sent him to the jail, Where he is closely guarded, And next assizes will not fail Of being well rewarded.

BOWES TRAGEDY;[141] OR, A PATTERN OF

TRUE LOVE.

Roger Wrightson, at the sign of the King's Head, in Bowes, in the N. R. of Yorkshire, courted widow Railton's daughter, at the sign of the George in the same town, and has done more than a year. On Shrove Tuesday, 1715, he fell sick, and languished till Sunday next but one following, and after saying three times, "Martha, Martha, come away," then died.

Poor Martha (for that was the maid's name whom he courted) Railton, though privately, took heavily on all that time, and only had declared to her sister and mother that if he died she could not live. An honest friend is unworthily blamed for doing what I[142] would have done myself had I known it; for Martha Railton begged of him to go and see young Roger, and tell him she would gladly come and see him, if he thought fit (knowing all his father's family was against her). Roger answered, "Nay, nay, T--my, our folks will be mad; but tell her I hope I shall recover." Well, the poor lass, almost dead in sorrow, first sent an orange, but Roger's mother sent it back; yet about three days before his death Martha went. His mother was so civil as to leave her by his bedside, and ordered her daughter Hannah to come away, but she would not. Poor Martha wanted only to speak three words to him, and (although she stayed two hours) yet Hannah would not let her have an opportunity, and so, in a sorrowful manner, she left him. Her book was her constant work Friday, Saturday, and Sunday; and she would oft say to herself, "Oh! you Hannah! if he dyes my heart will burst." So on the same Sunday se'night, at five o'clock in the afternoon, the bell was tolled for him, and upon the first toll, Martha lay by her book, got her mother in her arms, with, "Oh! dear mother, he's dead, I cannot live." About three minutes after Thomas Petty went in and desired her to be more easy. Her answer was, "Nay, now my heart is burst!" And so, in mournful cries and prayers, was fainter and fainter, for about three hours, and seemed to breathe her last; but her mother and another girl of the town shrieked aloud, and so called her back again (as they term it), and, in amazed manner, distorted with convulsion fits (just as it is described in Dr. Taylor's "Holy Living and Dying"), stayed her spirit ten or twelve hours longer, and then she died.

At last things was brought to this issue, to be buried both in one grave, and the corpse met at the church gate, but Hannah objected against their being buried together, as also she did at her being laid first in the grave; but was answered that a bride has to go first to bed. She, being asked why she should be so proud and inhumane, answered, that she said, "Martha might have taken fairer on, or have been hanged." But oh, the loud mourning of friends on both sides at the corpse meeting, and more at the grave; wherein first she was decently laid, and then he. In the parish register of Bowes is the following entry:--"Rodger Wrightson, junr., and Martha Railton, both of Bowes, buried in one grave. He died of a Fever, and upon tolling his passing Bell, she cry'd out 'My heart is broke,' and in a Few hours expired, purely (or supposed, _interlined in a different hand_) thro' Love. March 15, 1714-5, aged about 20 years each."

Tune of "_Queen Dido_."

Good Christian people, pray attend To what I do in sorrow sing, My bleeding heart is like to rend, At the sad tydings which I bring; Of a young couple, whom cruel fate Designed to be unfortunate.[143]

Let Carthage Queen be now no more The subject of your mournful song; Nor such odd tales which heretofore, Did so amuse the teeming throng; Since the sad story which I'll tell, All other tragedys excel.

Yorkshire, the ancient town of Bowes,[144] Of late did Roger Wrightson dwell, He courted Martha Railton, who[145] In virtuous works did most excel; Yet Roger's friends would not agree, That he to her should married be.

Their love continued one whole year, Full sore against their parents' will; But when he found them so severe, His royal heart began to chill; And last Shrove Tuesday took his bed, With grief and woe encompassed.

Thus he continued twelve days space, In anguish and in grief of mind; And no sweet rest in any case, This ardent lover's heart could find; But languish'd in a train of grief, Which pierced his heart beyond relief.

Martha, with anxious thoughts possest A private messuage to him sent, Acquainting him she could not rest,[146] Until she had seen her loving friend; His answer was, "Nay, nay, my dear, Our folks will angry be I fear."

Full frought with grief, she took no rest, But spent her time in pain and fear, Until few days before his death, She sent an orange to her dear; But 's cruel mother, in disdain, Did send the orange back again.

Three days before her lover dy'd, Poor Martha, with a bleeding heart, To see her dying lover hy'd, In hopes to ease him of his smart; Where she's conducted to the bed, In which this faithful young man laid.

Where she with doleful cries beheld, Her fainting lover in despair; Which did her heart with sorrow fill,[147] Small was the comfort she had there; Tho' his mother show'd her great respect, His sister did her much reject.

She staid two hours with her dear, In hopes for to declare her mind; But Hannah Wrightson stood so near, No time to do it she could find: So that being almost dead with grief, Away she went without relief.

Tears from her eyes did flow amain, And she full oft wo'd sighing say, "My constant love, alas! is slain, And to pale death become a prey; Oh! Hannah, Hannah, thou art base; Thy pride will turn to foul disgrace."

She spent her time in godly prayers, And quiet rest from her did fly, She to her friends full oft declares, She could not live if he did dye; Thus she continued till the bell, Began to sound his fatal knell.

And when she heard the dismal sound, Her godly book she cast away, With bitter cries would pierce the ground, Her fainting heart began to decay; She to her pensive mother said, "I cannot live now he is dead."

Then after three short minutes' space, As she in sorrow groaning lay, A gentleman[148] did her embrace, And mildly unto her did say, "Dear melting soul, be not so sad, But let your passions be allayed."

Her answer was, "My heart is burst, My span of life is near an end; My love from me by death is forced, My grief no soul can comprehend." Then her poor heart did soon wax faint, When she had ended her complaint.

For three hours' space, as in a trance, This broken-hearted creature lay, Her mother wailing her mischance, To pacify her did essay; But all in vain, for strength being past, She seemingly did breathe her last.

Her mother, thinking she was dead, Began to shriek and cry amain, And heavy lamentations made, Which call'd her spirit back again, To be an object of hard fate, And give to grief a longer date.

Distorted with convulsions, she In dreadful manner gasping lay, Of twelve long hours no moment free, Her bitter groans did all dismay; Then her poor heart being sadly broke, Submitted to the fatal stroke.

When things were to this issue brought, Both in one grave were to be laid; But flinty-hearted Hannah thought, By stubborn means for to persuade, Their friends and neighbours from the same, For which she surely was to blame.

And being ask'd the reason why, Such base objections she did make; She answered thus scornfully, In words not fit for Billingsgate: "She might have taken fairer on, Or else be hang'd." Oh, heart of stone!

What hell-born fury had possest, Thy vile inhumane spirit thus? What swelling rage was in thy breast, That could occasion this disgust, And make thee show such spleen and rage, Which life can't cure nor death assuage?

Sure some of Satan's minor imps Ordained were to be thy guide; To act the part of sordid pimps, And fill thy heart with haughty pride; But take this caveat once for all, Such dev'lish pride must have a fall.

But when to church the corpse was brought, And both of them met at the gate, What mournful tears by friends were shed, When that, alas! it was too late! When they in silent grave were laid, A constant youth and constant maid.[149]

You parents all, both far and near, By this sad story warning take, Not to your children be severe, When they their choice in love do make; Let not the love of cursed gold, True lovers from their loves withhold!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 141: Mallet's _Edwin and Emma_ is founded on this ballad. See his "Ballads and Songs," edited by F. Dinsdale, esq., LL.D., F.S.A.]

[Footnote 142: The author of the ballad, whom the late Mr. Denham, of Piersebridge, learnt from his father, was the then master of Bowes grammar-school. His name does not appear.]

[Footnote 143: This verse is not in Mr. Bell's copy, in his "Ballads and Songs of the Peasantry of England."]

[Footnote 144: "Remote in Yorkshire, near to Bowes."--BELL.]

[Footnote 145: Bell has "whose;" and the following line reads thus:--

"Repute for virtue did excel." ]

[Footnote 146:

"Now anxious Martha sore distress'd, A private message did him send, Lamenting that she could not rest."--BELL. ]

[Footnote 147:

"At which her heart with sorrow filled."--BELL. ]

[Footnote 148: Thomas Petty, previously mentioned.]

[Footnote 149:

"Instead of pleasing marriage-bed."--BELL. ]

THE DONCASTER VOLUNTEERS.[150]

WRITTEN, ABOUT A.D. 1757, BY

JOHN ELLERKER, ESQ.

TO RICHARD TURBUTT, ESQ.

Worthy Sir,--He who sits down to write anything for the public benefit, without fixing on the person to whom he shall dedicate it, knows little of the art of authorizing, for perhaps when he has finished his work he may not know any person to whom the subject may be agreeable, or that has generosity enough to pay for washing the clean ruffles he is obliged to put on when he waits on him to implore his protection. But I generally take another way, and make my Patron before I begin my work, and suit the subject according to his capacity and genius. As, for example, if I write a book of History and Politics, I have Mr. Alderman Smith[151] for that; if of Love and Gallantry, who can be so good a judge as your neighbour Mr. Taylor; if of Wit and Humour, I have Mr. Alderman Cave[152] in my eye; if of Sobriety and Temperance, no one can be so proper as the Rev. Mr. Willatts;[153] if I write in praise of and recommend the practice of Generosity, Public Spirit, and Patriotism, and urge the indispensable duty of a good subject, not only to hazard his fortune, but even his person, for the good of his country, no man can be so proper as RICHARD TURBUTT, esq.,[154] as all those virtues are conspicuous in him in the highest degree. It is for this reason I humbly lay the inclosed lines at your feet, and implore your patronage of them. Should I say any more in your praise it would offend your known modesty, which has always been remarkably impatient at hearing yourself praised, even for those things for which some people (otherwise greedy of praise) would think they deserved no praise at all. But, to be serious with you, I wish this trifle may divert you during your unhappy confinement. To make you and your young ladies laugh, it will more than answer the most sanguine expectations of, &c. &c. JOHN ELLERKER.[155]

Non tali auxilio, nec defensoribus istis Tempus eget.

When Britain's arms by War's fell chance Were baffled by the arms of France, And LOUIS threat'ned in bravado, T' invade us with a huge armado, Not of your men-of-war, but floats Of lighters and flat-bottom'd boats, To fill the land with blood and slaughter, And ravish ev'ry wife and daughter; Of our Religion to deprive us, And send us to their priests to shrive us, To change our leather shoes for wood ones, (For heretics, like us, too good ones,) To carbonade our pigs and ducklings, And fricasee our babes and sucklings, To make us keep a scarlet whore, Who kept so many whores before; To make our parsons mend their lives, And leave their own for laymen's wives; Nay, more, (the worst of papist bands) To re-assume the abbeylands: When all our military Hectors (Well paid to be the land's protectors) For all their vapouring and boasts, Dreaded to see them on our coasts; When ev'ry man was sore amaz'd, And on each other hurried gaz'd; When ev'ry fearful thing was fear'd, And not one glimpse of hope appear'd, To save us from impending ruin, Which these French scoundrels were a brewing, At DONCASTER a troop stepp'd forth, All men of dignity and worth, With wrath and indignation fir'd, (By Mars himself, no doubt, inspir'd,) With minds most valorous and willing, Regardless of their pay--a shilling, Offer'd themselves to fight our battles, And to protect our goods and chattels. To four times four their number mounted,[156] Tho' each a thousand shou'd be counted; Soon as 'twas known they were assembled, The king of France look'd pale and trembled, Recall'd his army from the strand, And drew his lighters all to land. This, soon as mighty FRED'RICK knew, (For quick their fame to Prussia flew,) That king, who all the world must own Has soldiers good as most are known, Said, "Give me sixteen such as these, I'll sack Vienna when I please." O Doncaster! blest corporation, Whose sons add glory to the nation, May Peace and Plenty still attend you, And neighbouring lords their venison send you. But hark! I hear the beat of drum, See here with links[157] the heroes come. Lo, in the front three men of laws, All stedfast for the good old cause. And first see STOVIN,[158] best of men, Equal to brandish sword or pen, Ready, for our defence, to shed His dearest blood, or black, or red. Whilom, commission'd to maintain Fair lady Peace in counties twain, But leaves her now and Themis' bench, To volunteer against the French. His rival next in either skill, See waddling master JOSEPH GILL![159] With no less martial rage inspir'd, Nor yet with tedious marches tir'd, His aid may be depended on; None will suspect he'll ever run, Three times the courage he possesses Of common men, who three times less is, And reason good, for he affords Three times the mark for guns or swords. Happy the man in an attack Who safe shall stand behind his back. BOWER,[160] the third, not least in fame, Though last the Muse records his name; Where's the attorney that can wear Cockade with a more graceful air? See how the maids' and widows' glances Centre in him, as he advances. Tho' with his manly beauteous face He captivates each wishing lass, Heedless he slights her painted charms, Nothing his heart but glory warms, Nor stickles[161] he for filthy riches From scouring drains or emptying ditches, Nor hates the pope and all his power More firmly does his namesake Bower.[162] Of surgeons next a valiant pair Practised in blood and wounds appear. Or say we shou'd their titles vary And call each an apothecary. As both they're fam'd for equal skill, Licenc'd as both to cure or kill. To specify each doughty wight, This MIDDLETON, that FARRER[163] hight, But when invasion or rebelling Shall call them from their peaceful dwelling, From gun-shot wounds good heav'n defend 'em! And to their shops back quickly send 'em. For, when they're absent, who shall draw A rotten stump from aching jaw? Who can from cholic pains relieve us? Who purges or who clysters give us? When fevers burn and agues shake us, Who then shall febrifuges make us? And when the itch invades each joint, With brimstone who so well anoint? If either pox should then assail us, Who have we left then can avail us? Who then will with a grave oration Prognosticate a suppuration? Or, when it comes, can right discuss The laudability of pus? Who then luxations shall reduce? Who bathrum, or who vectis use? And who the poor deluded maid With hand obstetric timely aid? That hand devoted to oppose Great GEORGE'S[164] and his country's foes? For there's no man, I'm sure, in all The town, can shake an urinal, Or know, like them, by Galen's rules, The consequence of fetid stools. Think not physicians I despise, Doctors indeed I duly prize; Doctors so call'd are those I drive at, Their ignorance I can't connive at. Kind reader pardon this digression, And I will shorten the procession. But say, what youth is he that follows? Oh! he's a favourite of Apollo's, Who, for our good, in time of need, Forsakes his fav'rite Muse and reed; And boldly owning Britain's quarrels, Tho' crown'd with bays will gather laurels. Say, MILLER,[165] why did'st thou supplant Me of that fame I so much want? Had'st thou not wrote I might have worn Those laurels which thy head adorn. Say, dost thou not thy castor grace With a cockade as well as lace? Adorn thy active feet so curious With buckles set with diamonds spurious? And by Euterpe's influence With flute traverse[166] pick up the pence? Have you not for the fall of France Now introduc'd the Pyrrhic dance, Which e'en our girls to arms will train, And make them fight like modern men? Nay, in York News most fairly worded I've read you, gentlemen, recorded. Could not emoluments like these Thy mind, ambitious minstrel, please? O! be thy song for ever curst, You've gain'd the prize by starting first. To equal thee let me aspire, For tho' I envy, I admire. Ten worthies yet remain unsung, Fit subjects for the pen or tongue Of Homer's self, had he been living. But now of any bard surviving, To sound their fame in lofty verse, And sound his own by sounding their's. Go on, great souls, and never flinch, Your leader[167] ne'er will fly an inch. Be active in your country's cause, Protect her freedom, guard her laws. Fight for the honour of your country, Nor once forget his honor's bounty: Let the remembrance of his claret,[168] In each engagement rouse you spirit; Support yourselves, in each attack, With hopes of more frontiniac. If broken, rally quick again, Your sure reward is more champagne. Never forgetting once to boast That you're his beauteous lady's toast;[169] But let it be your chief support To think what sway he bears at court.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 150: From a MS. _penes_ James Falconar, esq., F. S. A., Doncaster.]

[Footnote 151: William Smith, alderman; buried, Nov. 13, 1760.]

[Footnote 152: Peter Cave, mayor 1748-9; buried, June 4, 1782.]

[Footnote 153: The Rev. Lionel Willatts, rector of Sprotbrough, son of Charles Willatts, rector of Plumtree, Notts, and Castiliana his wife, daughter of Lionel Copley, esq., of Wadworth and Sprotbrough; buried, at Doncaster, May 20, 1760.]

[Footnote 154: Mr. Turbutt was of a family at Mount St. John, near Thirsk, Yorkshire. He resided for several years at Doncaster, where he died, 3 Sept. 1758, æt. 68. He was the great grandfather of Gladwin Turbutt, esq., now (1860) of Ogston hall, Derbyshire. His "young ladies" were Frances, afterwards wife of John Woodyeare, esq., of Crookhill, near Doncaster, and Eleanor, who became the wife of Lieut. General Sowerby.]

[Footnote 155: Mr. Ellerker was of a good family, descended from Ralph Ellerker, of Youlton, Yorkshire. He was some time a solicitor in the Inner Temple, London, and died, at Doncaster, March 25, 1774, aged 82. (JACKSON'S _Hist. St. George's Church, Doncaster_, pp. 76, 77.)]

[Footnote 156: 1757. "The militia raised.--Sixteen inhabitants of Doncaster entered as volunteers."--MILLER'S _Hist. Doncaster_, p. 183.]

[Footnote 157: Alluding to their exercising by torchlight.]

[Footnote 158: James Stovin, esq., of Whitgift, a justice of the peace for the counties of York and Lincoln, died at Sprotbrough hall, where he then resided, 26 July, 1789, and was buried at Rossington. He was son of George Stovin, of Crowle and Winterton, the Lincolnshire antiquary. On the 11 Dec. 1771, he was appointed town-clerk of Doncaster, an office which he resigned on the 12 Jan. 1778. He was also clerk of the court of sewers from 1757 to 1775.]

[Footnote 159: Probably, "Mr. Joseph Gill, Gent.," who was buried, March 19, 1763.]

[Footnote 160: Freeman Bower, esq., of Bawtry and Maltby, co. York, born 15 Nov. 1732; died 29 July, 1786; a justice of the peace for the West Riding of Yorkshire, &c; was educated for the law, and practised for a few years as an attorney, but on inheriting some family property he discontinued that profession. On several occasions he acted as marshal to his uncle Mr. Baron Perrott, when on circuit. He is said to have been a handsome man, and of an hospitable, convivial disposition.]

[Footnote 161: Contends, strives for. Alluding to the contest between Mr. Stovin and Mr. Gill for the office of clerk to the commissioners of sewers for the level of Hatfield chace, which had become vacant by the death of Mr. Burden, and to which Mr. Stovin was elected, 5 Feb. 1757.]

[Footnote 162: Alluding to Bower, once a popish priest, the author of the "Lives of the Popes."]

[Footnote 163: Henry Farrer, of Doncaster, a surgeon and apothecary in extensive practice for nearly fifty years, son of John Farrer, A.M., rector of Hemsworth, descended from the Farrers of Ewood, co. York, died 7 June, 1789, aged 69. (See _Mon. Ins_. JACKSON'S _St. George's Church_, p. 107.)]

[Footnote 164: George II.]

[Footnote 165: Mr., afterwards Dr., Edward Miller, the organist of Doncaster, and author of the History of that Town. He composed a song to a warlike tune, and a dance to the same tune, in which were introduced several parts of a soldier's manual exercise. He died Sept. 13, 1807, aged 72. See account of him in JACKSON'S _St. George's Church_, pp. 58-96.]

[Footnote 166: Flauta Traversa, the Italian name for a German flute.]

[Footnote 167: The marquess of Rockingham.]

[Footnote 168: The marquess of Rockingham invited them all to his residence, Wentworth house, where they drank French wine till they were unable to get home.]

[Footnote 169: The marchioness of Rockingham drank their healths by the name of _her_ volunteers.]

THE YORKSHIRE HORSE-DEALERS.

Bane ta Claapam town-end lived an oud Yorkshire tike, Who i' dealing i' horseflesh hed ne'er met his like; 'Twor his pride that i' aw the hard bargains he'd hit, He'd bit a girt monny, but nivver bin bit.

This oud Tommy Towers[170] (bi that naam he wor knaan) Hed an oud carrion tit that wor sheer skin an' baan; Ta hev killed him for t' curs wad hev bin quite as well, But 'twor Tommy's opinion he'd dee on himsel!

Well! yan Abey Muggins,[171] a neighborin cheat, Thowt ta diddle oud Tommy wad be a girt treat; Hee'd a horse, too, 'twor war than oud Tommy's, ye see, Fort' neet afore that hee'd thowt proper to dee!

Thinks Abey, t' oud codger'll nivver smoak t' trick, I'll swop wi' him my poor deead horse for his wick, An' if Tommy I nobbut can happen ta trap, 'Twill be a fine feather i' Aberram cap!

Soa ta Tommy he goas, an' the question he pops: "Betwin thy horse and mine, prithee, Tommy, what swops? What wilt gi' me ta boot? for mine's t' better horse still?" "Nout," says Tommy, "I'll swop ivven hands, an' ye will!"

Abey preached a lang time about summat ta boot, Insistin' that his war the liveliest brute; But Tommy stuck fast where he first had begun, Till Abey shook hands, and sed, "Well, Tommy, done!"

"O! Tommy," sed Abey, "I'ze sorry for thee, I thowt thou'd a hadden mair white i' thy ee; Good luck's wi' thy bargin, for my horse is deead." "Hey!" says Tommy, "my lad, soa is min, an' it's fleead!"

Soa Tommy got t' better of t' bargin, a vast, An' cam' off wi' a Yorkshireman's triumph at last; For thof 'twixt deead horses there's not mitch ta choose, Yet Tommy war richer by t' hide an' fower shooes.[172]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 170: The descendants of Tommy Towers were resident at Clapham till within a very recent period, and used to take great pleasure in relating the adventure of their progenitor. The village of Clapham is in the West Riding of Yorkshire, on the high road between Skipton and Kendal.]

[Footnote 171: Abey Muggins is thought to be a _sobriquet_ for a then Clapham innkeeper.]

[Footnote 172: This song obtained great popularity a few years ago from the admirable singing of Emery, and is still a favourite. Mr. Hailstone's copy concludes each verse with "Derry down, &c."]

BILL BROWN, THE POACHER.

In seventeen hundred and sixty-nine As plainly doth appear then, A bloody scene was felt most keen Till death it did draw near then; Of poor Bill Brown, of Brightside Town, A lad of well known fame then, Who took delight, both day and night, To trace the timid hare then.

With wires strong they march'd along, Unto brave Thriberg town then, With nut-brown ale that ne'er did fail, And many a health went round then; Bright luna bright did shine that night, To the woods they did repair then, True as the sun their dogs did run, To trace the lofty hare then.

A lofty breeze amongst the trees, With shining he came on them, Like Cain he stood seeking for blood, With his bayonet and his gun then; Then he did charge with shot quite large, George Miller did him spy then; This rogue's intent was fully bent, One of us poor lads should die then.

His cruel hand he did command That instant for to fire then, And so with strife took poor Brown's life, Which once he thought entire then. His blood aloud for vengeance cried, The keeper he came on then, Like cruel Cain up to him came, And so renew'd his wounds then.

Now this dear soul ne'er did control, Nor think that man no ill then; But to Dalton Brook his mind was struck, While his clear blood did spill then; For help he cried, but was denied, No one there nigh him stood then; And there he lay till break of day, Dogs licking his dear blood then.

Farewell dear heart, now we must part, From wife and children dear then; Pity my doom, it was too soon, That ever I came here then; Farewell unto the brave dear lads Whoever range the fields then, This cruel man's murdering hand, Has caused me for to yield then.

In grief and pain till death it came, To embrace his dear soul then, Who took its flight to heaven straight, Where no man can control them. The country round heard of the sound, Of poor Brown's blood being spilt then, 'Twas put in vogue to find the rogue, That justice might be done then.

With irons strong they march'd along Unto York castle fair then; In a dark cell was doom'd to dwell, Till the judge he did appear then; George Miller bold, as I've been told, Deny it here who can then, He ne'er was loth to take his oath, Brown was a murder'd man then.

There was a man who there did stand, Whose heart did shake amain then; But gold did fly they can't deny, Or at Tyburn he'd been hung then. They'd ne'er been bold to hear it told To hear of Shirtly's doom then. The judge put it off to God on high, Or they might have judged him soon then.

There was brave Ned Greaves never did fail, To crown poor Bill Brown's name then, George Miller brave defies each knave, That travels o'er the plain then; With sword and gun now we will run, Though the law it doth maintain them, Yet poor Brown's blood lost in the wood For vengeance cries amain then.

THE ROMANBY TRAGEDY.

The remorseless tragedy on which this ballad is founded took place upwards of a century ago. In the village of Romanby, near Northallerton, there resided a desperate band of coiners, whose respectability and cunning concealment precluded all possibility of suspicion as to their proceedings. The victim of their revenge was Mary Ward, the servant of one of those ruffians. Having obtained an accidental view of some secret apartments appropriated to their treasonable practices, she unguardedly communicated her knowledge to an acquaintance, which reaching her master's ears, he determined to destroy her. The most plausible story, time, and means were selected for this purpose. On a Sunday evening, after sunset, an unknown personage on horseback arrived at her master's mansion, half equipped, to give colour to his alleged haste, and stated that he was dispatched for Mary, as _her mother was dying_. She lingered to ask her master's permission, but he feigned sleep, and she departed without his leave. On the table of her room was her Bible, opened at these remarkable words in Job, "They shall seek me in the morning, and shall not find me; and where I am, they shall not come." Her home was at the distance of eight miles from Romanby, and Morton bridge, hard by the heath where she was murdered, is the traditionary scene of her nocturnal revisitings. The impression of her re-appearance is only poetically assumed, for there is too much of what Coleridge would term "the divinity of nature" around Morton bridge, to warrant its association with supernatural mysteries.

Oh! sights are seen, and sounds are heard, On Morton bridge, at night, When to the woods the cheerful birds Have ta'en their silent flight.

When through the mantle of the sky No cheering moonbeams delve, And the far village clock hath told The midnight hour of twelve.

Then o'er the lonely path is heard The sigh of sable trees, With deadly moan of suff'ring strife Borne on the solemn breeze--

For Mary's spirit wanders there, In snowy robe array'd, To tell each trembling villager Where sleeps the murder'd maid.

It was a Sabbath's eve of love, When nature seem'd more holy; And nought in life was dull, but she, Whose look was melancholy.

She lean'd her tear-stain'd cheek of health Upon her lily arm; Poor, hapless girl! she could not tell What caus'd her wild alarm.

Around the roses of her face Her flaxen ringlets fell; No lovelier bosom than her own Could guiltless sorrow swell!

The Holy Book before her lay, That boon to mortals given, To teach the way from weeping earth To ever-glorious heaven;

And Mary read prophetic words, That whisper'd of her doom:-- "Oh! they will search for me, but where I am, they cannot come!"

The tears forsook her gentle eyes, And wet the sacred lore; And such a terror shook her frame, She ne'er had known before.

She ceas'd to weep, but deeper gloom Her tearless musing brought; And darker wan'd the evening hour, And darker Mary's thought.

The sun, he set behind the hills, And threw his fading fire On mountain, rock, and village home, And lit the distant spire.

(Sweet fane of truth and mercy! where The tombs of other years Dis-course of virtuous life and hope, And tell of by-gone tears!)

It was a night of nature's calm, For earth and sky were still; And childhood's revelry was o'er, Upon the daisied hill.

The alehouse, with its gilded sign Hung on the beechen bough, Was mute within, and tranquilly The hamlet-stream did flow.

The room where sat this grieving girl Was one of ancient years; Its antique state was well display'd To conjure up her fears;

With massy walls of sable oak, And roof of quaint design, And lattic'd window, darkly hid By rose and eglantine.

The summer moon now sweetly shone All softly and serene; She clos'd the casement tremblingly Upon the beauteous scene.

Above that carved mantle hung, Clad in the garb of gloom, A painting of rich feudal state,-- An old baronial room.

The Norman windows scarcely cast A light upon the wall, Where shone the shields of warrior knights Within the lonely hall.

And, pendent from each rusty nail, Helmet and steely dress, With bright and gilded morion, To grace that dim recess.

Then Mary thought upon each tale Of terrible romance;-- The lady in the lonely tower-- The murderer's deadly glance--

And moon-lit groves in pathless woods, Where shadows nightly sped; Her fancy could not leave the realms Of darkness and the dead.

There stood a messenger without, Beside her master's gate, Who, till his thirsty horse had drunk, Would hardly deign to wait.

The mansion rung with Mary's name, For dreadful news he bore-- A dying mother wish'd to look Upon her child once more.

The words were, "Haste, ere life be gone;" Then was she quickly plac'd Behind him on the hurrying steed Which soon the woods retrac'd.

Now they have pass'd o'er Morton bridge, While smil'd the moon above Upon the ruffian and his prey-- The hawk and harmless dove.

The towering elms divide their tops; And now a dismal heath Proclaims her "final doom" is near The awful hour of death!

The villain check'd his weary horse, And spoke of trust betray'd; And Mary's heart grew sick with fright, As, answering, thus she said--

"Oh! kill me not until I see My mother's face again! Ride on, in mercy, horseman, ride, And let us reach the lane!

"There slay me by my mother's door, And I will pray for thee; For she shall find her daughter's corse"-- "No, girl, it cannot be.

"This heath thou shalt not cross, for soon Its earth will hide thy form; That babbling tongue of thine shall make A morsel for the worm!"

She leap'd upon the ling-clad heath, And, nerv'd with phrensied fear, Pursued her slippery way across, Until the wood was near.

But nearer still two fiends appear'd, Like hunters of the fawn, Who cast their cumb'ring cloaks away, Beside that forest lone;

And bounded swifter than the maid, Who nearly 'scap'd their wrath, For well she knew that woody glade, And every hoary path.

Obscur'd by oak and hazel bush, Where milk maid's merry song Had often charm'd her lover's ear, Who blest her silv'ry tongue.

But Mary miss'd the woodland stile-- The hedge-row was not high; She gain'd its prickly top, and now Her murderers were nigh.

A slender tree her fingers caught-- It bent beneath her weight; 'Twas false as love and Mary's fate! Deceiving as the night!

She fell--and villagers relate No more of Mary's hour, But how she rose with deadly might, And, with a maniac's power,

Fought with her murd'rers till they broke Her slender arm in twain; But none could e'er discover where The maiden's corse was lain.

When wand'ring by that noiseless wood, Forsaken by the bee, Each rev'rend chronicler displays The bent and treach'rous tree.

Pointing the barkless spot to view, Which Mary's hand embrac'd, They shake their hoary locks, and say, "It ne'er can be effac'd!"

ARMTHORPE BELLS.[173]

I sing the church of ARMTHORPE town,[174] That stands upon a hill, And all who in the Fly[175] come down May see it if they will.

But there to them it doth appear An humble barn, tho' neat, I wish the rector every year Had it choke full of wheat.

I only mean, supposing it A very barn indeed; I'm sure he'd give thereof what's fit To them who stand in need.

The steeple then, you may presume, Is not like that of GRANTHAM, For bells and chimes there was no room, And now they do not want them.

In vain the Quakers it abuse, And with their canting flout it, Calling this church a steeple-house, There's no such thing about it.

Altho' no steeple doth appear, Yet bells they're not without, High hung in air, aloft they are, But where? Ah! there's the doubt.

How this can be, for you to tell Requires somewhat to think on; And yet they serve the folks as well As would Great Tom of Lincoln.

The architect, a silly man, (And artist too--God wot;) Some say, when up he drew his plan, The steeple he forgot.

But that was not the cause of it, Our wiser rector fancies; 'Twas not the builder's lack of wit, But want of the finances.

To rectify this great neglect, Before the cash was spent all, An useful thing he did erect, Both cheap and ornamental.

For he a simple wall did raise Upon the west-end gable, And I must own, unto his praise, It stands yet firm and stable.

And of his skill to give some proof, Which he'd not done before: He built it up above the roof, Some six feet high or more.

Of this, from north to south th' extent Was full as long as high, For doing which his wise intent I'll tell you bye and bye.

Two holes quite thro' this wall were seen Like windows in a garret, That two small bells might hang therein, For passengers to stare at.

But how to get these bells--alas! Much jangling did create, Much ale, and much tobacco, was Consum'd in the debate.

One wiser than the rest propos'd To draw up a petition, Begging SIR GEORGE[176] would be dispos'd To pity their condition.

That he would kindly grant this boon, Unto his tenants all, The dinner-bell that calls at noon The vassals to his hall.

When to sir George they did impart, How much they stood in need, He said he'd give't, with all his heart, And sent it them with speed.

Their need by this being half supply'd, They wanted now but one, But that, with judgment great, they cried, Should have a shriller tone.

One thought upon a tavern bell, Another on a miller's, A third thought one would do as well That tinkles on a thill-horse.

"A fine one's in the Angel bar,"[177] Says one, "and I can steal it, If on the bible you'll all swear You never will reveal it."

The clerk, a simple tailor, cry'd He'd never touch the string, Or whatsoever else they ty'd To the accursed thing.

The tailor's speech did for some time Put all in great combustion, They said it was no greater crime To steal a bell than fustian.

Here they had stuck, had it not been For what I shall relate, A gift to them quite unforeseen Which was decreed by fate.

A neighb'ring corp'rate town,[178] who found Their crier's bell too small, To get one with a deeper sound Had call'd a common-hall.

The mayor, for th' honor of the place, Commendably was zealous, And of whate'er might it disgrace Was equally as jealous.

Said, "Gentlemen and brethren dear, You need not now be told That this here town for many a year Look'd very mean and old.

"But so magnificent is grown, As know ye all full well; That quality from London town Choose here to come and dwell.

"Our Mansion-house, inside and out, So elegant doth rise, That, in the nation round-about, 'Tis mention'd with surprize.

"Of precious time 'twould be a loss, Should I make long preambles Of pavements, lamps, and butter-cross, And of our butchers' shambles.

"But here the new-built gaol, I own,[179] Ought not to be forgotten, A sweeter place in all the town No one would choose to rot in.

"Yet notwithstanding all our pains, Our judgment and expence, Yet wanting much, one thing remains Of weighty consequence.

"For what avails our large gilt mace, Our full-furr'd purple gowns? Our scarlet fiddlers' noted race, And lord-like pack of hounds?[180]

"What, tho' our huntsman's clothed well, In coat of grass-green plush,[181] Whene'er I see our crier's bell, I vow it makes me blush.

"Whene'er we're sitting in this hall, The sound on't makes me sick, For 'tis a great burlesque on all Our body politic.

"No dignity's thereby convey'd, No harmony decorous, I marvel much no order's made It shan't be rung before us.

"Then, gentlemen, with decent pride, At this our solemn sitting, Let us agree that we provide A bell our town befitting."

The court agreed; a bell was bought, With more melodious tongue, How much it cost I have forgot, But to this day 'tis rung.

Th' offensive bell was laid aside, Like statesmen when discarded, And in a stable did reside, Entirely disregarded.

Soon did the news of this event, Reach Armthorpe you may swear. From whence two leading men were sent To treat with Mr. Mayor.

Whom they approach'd with awkward bow, And then with sly address They told his worship, "That as how-- They were in great distress."

Said,--"A great work we have in hand, In which we've been too rash, For now it all is at a stand, Only for want of cash.

"A bell we want, a small one too. Would make our business right, A second-handed bell would do, Did we know where to buy't."

By this time he smelt out their drift, And gen'rous as a king, Said,--"We have one--to you we'll giv't,-- 'Twill be the very thing.

"And I'm well pleased, I do protest, To save you so much charge, But, I suppose, tho' you know best, Our bell will be too large."

The bell was fetch'd at his command, (A sight to them most pleasing,) Of which to them, with but one hand, He livery gave and seizin.

The joy they did at this conceive They could not well conceal, For as they bow'd, and took their leave, They rang a tingling peal.

Full fast then homeward they did hie, (Almost as quick as thought,) Nor was their speed retarded by The weight of what they brought.

But when the town they did descry, They rung their bell aloud, Which their success did signify To the desponding crowd.

The townsmen bless'd at the event, And at their hearts full glad, Quickly return'd the compliment, By ringing that they had.

So when a ship a fort salutes, No sooner have they done, The fort, to obviate all disputes, Returns them gun for gun.

Jason, who brought the golden fleece Upon the good ship Argo, Was not more welcom'd home than these, Tho' they did not so far go.

Both bells were in triumphant state, With many a rustic grin, Conducted to the church-yard gate And introduc'd therein.

Where in the shade of two spread yews, Like Baucis and Philemon, Was told at large the joyful news, To many a listning yeoman.

There wanted not to mount them high A windlass or a gable, For any lad that stood thereby To run them up was able.

The bells, at last, were safely hung In their respective holes, At weddings, where they both are rung, At deaths, the largest tolls.

At first they various ways did try In vain, to make them speak, At last they did succeed, and by _Un tour de mechanique_.

The clerk right wisely did foresee. By virtue of his post, That he of their good company Was like to have the most.

To keep society alive, And that they still might please, Wish'd that some way he could contrive, T' enjoy the same with ease.

For this he cudgelled his brains, At length this happy thought Occurr'd,--which, with small cost and pains, He to perfection brought.

He found two yard-long sticks would do, Which might from westward come, When each had been well fixed to It's _tintinabulum_.

Two strings, for ropes,[182] a name too great, From these sticks might depend, And by two holes made thro' the slate, Into the church descend.

That he, when sitting on his breech, (In either hand a string) By giving an alternate twitch, With ease might make them ring.

A great example here is seen, Of the mechanic-power, Nor has there yet adopted been A better to this hour.