ON

NORTHUMBERLAND MINSTRELST.

BY H. R.

WITH taste so true, and genius fine,
The blythsome MINSTRELS 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.

• Lively.

WEEL MAY THE KEEL ROW.

AS I cam thro' Sandgate, thro' Sandgate, thro' Sandgate,
As I cam thro' Sandgate, I heard a lassie sing,

Weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row,
Weel may the keel
row, that my laddie's in.

He wears a blue bonnet, blue bonnet, blue bonnet,
He wears a blue bonnet, a dimple in his chin:
And weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row,
And weel may the keel row, that my laddie's in.

WHE's like my Johnny,

Sae leish, sae blithe, sae bonny,
He's foremost 'mang the mony
Keel lads o' Coaly Tyne;

A

Wour lads, like their deddy,
To fight the French are ready,
But gie's a peace that's steady,

And breed cheap as lang syne;
May a' the press gangs perish,
Each lass her laddy cherish :
Lang may the Coal Trade flourish
Upon the dingy Tyne.

Breet Star o' Heaton,

Your ay wour darling sweet'en,
May heaven's blessings leet on
Your leady, bairns, and ye;
God bless the King and Nation,
Each bravely fill his station,
Our canny Corporation,

Lang may they sing wi' me,

Weel may the keel row, &c.

BONNY KEEL LADDIE.

MY bonny keel laddie, my canny keel laddie,
My bonny keel laddie for me O!

He sits in his keel as black as the deil,

And he brings the white money to me O.

Ha'ye seen owt o' my canny man,
An' are ye shure he's weel O?

He's geane o'er land wiv a stick in his hand,
T'help to moor the keel O.

The canny keel laddie, the bonny keel laddie,

The canny keel laddie for me O;

He sits in his huddock, and claws his bare buttock, cabin And brings the white money to me O.

THE LITTLE P. D.

"TWAS between Hebbron and Jarrow,
There cam on a very strang gale,
The skipper look'd out o' th' huddock,
Crying, "Smash, man, lower th' sail!
Smash, man, lower the sail,

Or else to the bottom we'll go :"
The keel and a' hands wad been lost,
Had it not been for Jemmy Munro.

Fal lal, &c.

The gale blew stranger an' stranger,

When they cam beside the Muck House, The skipper cry'd out-" Jemmy Swinger," But still was as fear'd as a mouse;

P. D. ran to clear th' anchor,

"It's raff'd !" right loudly he roar'd,— They a' said the gale wad sink her,

If it was'nt seun thrawn owrboard.

The laddy ran sweaten, ran sweaten,
The laddy ran sweaten about;
Till the keel went bump 'gainst Jarrow,
And three o' th' bullies lap out;
Three o' th' bullies lap out,

And left nyen in but little P. D.
Who ran about stamping and crying-
"How! smash, Skipper, what mun a' dee?"

They all shouted out fra the kee,
Steer her close in by th' shore;
And then thraw th' painter to me,
Thou cat feac'd son of a wh-e.
The lad threw the painter ashore,

They fasten'd her up to th' kee,
But whe knaws how far she meit gane,
Had it not been for little P. D.

Then into th' huddock they gat,
And th' flesh they began to fry,