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And theye have had justes and tournamentes,
And have feasted o'er and o'er;
And merrylie merrylie have they rejoic'd,
For the victorye of Cuton Moore.

But manye a sighe adds to the wynde,
And manye a teare to the show're,
And many a bleedyng hearte hath broke,
For the battle of Cuton Moore.

And manye's the wydowe alle forlorne,
And helplesse orphan poore,

And manye's the mayden that sall rue
The victorye of Cuton Moore.

The ladye Alice is layde in her grave,
And a colde stone markes the site;
And many's the mayde like her dothe dye,
Cause kynges and nobles wyll fighte.

The ladye Alice is layde full lowe,

And her mayden teares doe poure,

The manye's the wretche with them sall weepe,
For the victorye of Cuton Moore.

The holye prieste doth weepe as he syngs

Hys masses o'er and o'er;

And alle for the soules of them that were slayne,

At the battle of Cuton Moore.

LINES ON VIEWING THE RUINS OF THE PRIORY OF MOUNT GRACE,

NEAR NORTHALLERTON,

BY SIR JOHN SCOTT BYERLEY, F.R.S.L.

Ye gloomy vaults, ye hoary cells,

Ye cloister'd domes, in ruins great,
Where sad and mournful silence dwells,
How well instruct ye by your fate!

Thus every human pride and boast,
Shall soon or later meet decay;
In dark oblivion sunk and lost,
The idle pageant of a day.

Ah! what is life! a passing hour!

A fleeting dream of fancied joy!
No constant blessing in our power,
But dullest repetitions cloy.

How frail, how weak, is human art,

By works like these to raise a name !
What empty vapors swell the heart!

On what strange plans we build for fame!

'Tis virtue only laughs at age,

And soars beyond the reach of time,
Mocks at the tyrant's fiercest rage,

For ever awfully sublime.

DESCRIPTIVE POEM ON

THE CASTLE HILLS,

BY MISS A. CROSFIELD,

A.D. 1746.

(Inscribed to Miss Lambton, of Biddick.)

Accept, dear nymph, the tribute of my lays,
Fair patron of my muse, and of the theme;
The theme, my native shades, the Castle-hills,*
From whose aspiring heights amaz'd I view
Thy beauties, Albion! thy romantic scenes,
Thy future navies, and thy fleecy wealth:
Stretch'd in the amphitheatre below,
Landscape on landscape strikes the dazzled eye,
Floods, villas, golden acres, pastures fair,
And nodding groves, in sweet confusion lie;
'Till faintly shining from yon distant hills,
Thy silver spires Eboracum arise,

And Studley just presents her magic charms;
In bolder colours Richmond lifts her head,
And Aske's high tower, aspiring to the sky,
While close behind, the western Alps advance,
Proud that their beacons rous'd their sleepy sons,
And blaz'd security about the isle.

Eastward I turn, and view thy awful heights,
Stupendous Hambleton: thy dreadful wilds,
Thy gilded cliffs, and blue expanded side,
At once infusing horror and delight:
The hills beneath, comparatively low,

Exalt their flowery tops to grace thy triumph;

'Till Cotcliff rising conscious of her charms,
Lifts her embowering head, and nobly shews us
Merit can shine, though in the shade of greatness.
Now laughing Ceres re-assumes the plains,
And meadows grow with variegated dyes.
And now North Allerton, so fam'd of yore,
Confusedly shews herself the sport of time.
Alas how fallen, yon old tower† proclaims,
Yon ruined tower, by William's bounty great,
Once held the mitred barons of the north:
Still round the town its ancient glories lye,
Still Brompton, once the famous Herbert's seat,
And Romanby, ennobled by its name,
Shine its satellites in fainter brightness:
Still the old Friarage shews its bending walls,
Its swelling terras, and encircling trench;

And northward stretch'd the Scot-pit-fields appear,
And Standard Hill, sad monuments of war;
'Twas there the pride of gallant Scotland fell,
And there the warlike Prelate calmly brave,

*The history of Allerton Castle will be found in the body of this work. The then remains of the Episcopal Palace.

Probably Lord Herbert, of Cherbury, the greatest philosopher of his age.

Smil'd on superior strength, and greatly join'd
The golden mitre with the laurel wreath.

Fain would the muse digress and sing the man,
Who nobly fir'd by this divine example,
Durst, even in times degenerate as these,
Appear the champion of his faith and country;
Oh! wond'rous excellence! unshaken zeal !
Whom power can't bias nor preferment change.
But stop, my muse-stop thy audacious flight!
His virtues soar above the height of praise,
And shall with primitive refulgence shine,
When nature falls, and death itself shall die.*
Now, lost in thought, I leave the dazzling height,
And seek retirement in the groves below;
Sweet shades! where oft contemplating I rove,
And mourn the gilded follies of the world;

Sweet shades! how shall I sing your peaceful charms!
Come, my Maria, thou shalt be my muse,
Dear patron of the lovely scenes I paint,
And in thy self far lovelier than them all:
Come, my Maria, bless me with thy goodness,
Thy presence can inspire, when all the nine
And bright Apollo tune the lyre in vain :
How oft, my friend, in these alluring shades,
With fair Eliza, sister of thy merit,

We spent sweet hours (too swiftly snatched away!)
In social friendship's ever blooming charms;

O happy hours! when three united hearts,

With gen'rous ardour, planned each others peace,
Sooth'd every care and check'd each rising weakness.
Come, my Maria, let us range the plain,

And trace the winding of yon awful trench,
Which in its circling arms did once contain
The burnish'd conqneror of a yielding world;
Upon this plain the Roman Eagle wav'd,
And here the great Petilius dreadful stood, †
While poor Brigantes, from their utmost bounds,
Trembled beneath the horrors of his sword.
The brave Agricola, whose wisdom beam'd
A double lustre on triumphant Rome,
Perhaps encamp'd his hardy veterans here,
When in the daring march they northward bent,
And conquering all before him, drove thy sons,
Fierce Caledonia! to their inmost mountains.
Nor honour'd less were these auspicious fields,
When proud with great Britannia's sons they shone,
And gleam'd destruction on the rebel bands;
Here Wade, with every gen'rous virtue bless'd,
Inspir'd humanity and courage round him;
Here Wentworth, great in cabinet and field,

Assumed the port of Mars; and Huske too here,

With Cholmley, gallantly display'd that fire,

Which sav'd on Falkirk's field their suffering country.

Nor be the foreign chiefs, my muse, forgot;

Britain must always honour a Nassau

That name alone can strike her foes with terror.

*This perhaps too flattering picture is supposed to have been intended for Dr. Herring, Archbishop of York, afterwards of Canterbury.

+There is no authority for believing that Petilius ever encamped at Northallerton.

Great Swertzenberg must here command a place;
Brave heroes! you convinc'd a doubting world
That, even then, the Dutch rewarded virtue.
Now smiling peace again illumes the plain,
And gives a humbler, but happier scene:
Now nibbling flocks and lowing heifers stray,

Where late white tents and glittering arms were rang'd;
The thrush succeeds the thunder of the drum,

The flowers rise blooming from their trampled beds,
And lavish nature pours out all her charms.

Hail happy Liberty! Celestial maid!

Thy influence brightens all our smiling scenes,
Adds joy to joy and warms the expanded bosom :
Hail happy Liberty! our noblest pride!
Peace dwells within our walls, and plenteousness
Proclaims around thy ever gentle sway:

Long may'st thou reign the guardian of this Isle !
Long warm her future sons to acts of greatness!
Long may the nations envy Britain's freedom!
Thy gift, great Cumberland! be thine the praise.

A POEM IN

PRAISE OF
OF YORKSHIRE ALE,

BY GILES MORRINGTON,

A.D. 1697.

Bacchus having call'd a Parliament of late,
For to consult about some things of state,
Nearly concerning the honour of his court,
To th' Sun behind th' Exchange they did resort;
Where being met and many things that time
Concerning the adulterating wine,

And other liquors; selling of ale in muggs;
Silver tankards, black pots, and little juggs;
Strong beer in rabits, and cheating penny cans,
Three pipes for twopence and such like trepans :
Vintner's small bottles, silver mouth'd black-jacks,
Papers of sugar, with such like cheating knacks;
Biskets, Luke olives, anchoves, caveare,

Neats tongues, West-phalia-hambs, and such like chear,
Crabs, lobsters, collar-beefe, cold pullets, oysters,

And such like stuffe, which makes young men turn roysters,
And many other things were then debated,

And bills past upon the cases stated;

And all things ready for adjournment, then

Stood up one of the Northern Country men,

A boon good fellow, and a lover of strong ale,

Whose tongue well steep'd in sack, begun his tale :

My bully rocks, I've been experienc'd long
In most of liquors that is counted strong:
Of claret, white-wine, and Canary sack,
Renish and Malago, I've had no lack;
Sider, perry, metheglin, and sherbet ;
Coffee, and mead, with punch and chocolet :
Rum and tea, Azora wine, Mederry,
Vin-de-Paree, brag, wine with rosemary :
Stepony, vsquebath, besides all these,
Aqua cælestis, cinnamon, hearts-ease:
Brave rosa solis, and other liquors fine,
Rasburry wine, pur-royal, and shampine,
Malmsey and viper wine, all these I pass:
Frontineack, with excellent ipocras:
Lac'd coffee, twist, old Pharoah, and old hoc,
Juniper, brandy, and wine de Langue-dock.
Mum, cherry wine, langoon and lemonad,
Sherry, and Port a Port, both white and red,
Pomgranate, mirtle, and isop-wine I know,
Ipres and Orleance, Coos, and eke Anjow,
Burgundian-wine, cœcubum, sage and must,
Fennel and worm-wood wine have past my gust,
Hydromel, mulsom, wine boiled with southern-wood,
Opimium, Samirna, and Biæon good;

Temetum, Lora, and brave Muskadel,

Rumney and nectar too that doth excell:
Silcilian, Naples, and Loraine wine,
Moravia, Malta, and Corsica fine;
Tent, Muskatine, brandy, and Alicant,
Of all these liquors I've had no scant,
And several others, but none do I find,

Like humming Northern Ale to please my mind;
It's pleasant to the taste, strong and mellow,

He that affects it not is no boon fellow;

He that in this drink doth let his senses swim,
There's neither wind nor storm will pierce on him.
It warms in winter, in summer opes the pores,
'Twill make a sovereign salve 'gainst cuts and sores;
It ripens wit, exhilerates the mind,

Makes friends of foes, and foes of friends full kind :
It's physical for old men, warms their blood,
It's spirit makes the cowards courage good:
The tatter'd beggar, being warm'd with ale,
Nor rain, hail, frost, nor snow can him assail :
He's a good man with him can then compare,
It makes a 'prentice great as the Lord Mayor;
The labouring man that toils all day full sore,
A pot of ale at night does him restore,
And makes him all his toils and pains forget,
And for another day-work he's then fit,

There's more in drinking ale sure than we wot,
For most ingenious artists love a pot:

Nay, amorous ladies it will pleasure too,

Make frozen maids, and nuns, and

The thing you know: Soldiers and Gownmen,

Rich and poor, old and young, lame and sound men,
May such advantage reap by drinking ale,
As should I tell, you'd think it but a tale.
Mistake me not, custom, I mean not tho',

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