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Good Lord! I'm undone, thy face I would shun,
I've anger'd my God, and displeased his Son;

I dare not come nigh thy great Majesty,

Oh! where shall I hide my poor soul when I die?

Thy vengeance I dread on my guilty head,
All hopes of thy mercy from me now are fled;
My poor sinful soul is filthy and foul,

And terror and horror in my conscience roll.

The shame of my race, and mankind's disgrace,
My actions all over were wicked and base;
No devil in hell, that from glory fell,
Can now with my blood-guilty soul parallel.

Her affections I drew; how could I embrue
My hands in her blood? Oh! my God I do rue
The curst hellish deed, I made her to bleed,
That never did wrong in thought, word, or deed.

I used my whole art, 'till I stole her heart;
I swore to befriend her, and still take her part;
Thus by my treachery she was beguil'd,

Which made her weep sorely, but I only smil❜d.

With sighs and with groans, with tears and with moans,
She uttered such plaints as would soften flint stones;
Oh! where shall I hide my shame, oft she cry'd,
Dear sir, take some pity, and for me provide.

I feared she'd breed strife 'twixt me and my wife,
And that all my friends would lead me a sad life;
Then Satan likewise did join each surmise,

And made me an hellish contrivance devise.

I promised her fair that I would take care
Of her and her infant, and all things prepare
At Hartlepool town, where she should lie down ;
Poor soul she believ'd me, as always she'd done.

Thus wickedly bent, with her then I went,
She little expecting my bloody intent;
We then drank some ale, and I did prevail
With her to walk out, which she did without fail.

We then took our way to the brink of the sea,
And there like a fury to her I did say ;
You impudent wretch that covets my store,
I'm fully resolved you shall plague me no more.

She dreading her fate, alas! when too late,
Did call out for mercy, whilst I did her beat,
With the whip in my hand; she not able to stand,
Ran backwards and fell from the rock to the strand.


In hopes that the sea would wash her away,
I hastened homewards without more delay,
But was taken soon, to have my sad doom,
And must perish shamefully just in my bloom.

Which makes my heart ache, and ready to break,
I pray, my dear Saviour, some pity now take
On sinners the worst, lewd, bloody, and curst,
Who owns his damnation both righteous and just.

But oh! my God, why should my Saviour die,
If not to save sinners as heinous as I ?
Then come cart and rope, both strangle and choke,
For in my Redeemer I still trust and hope.

Let all men beware, when married they are,
Lewd women are surely a dangerous snare;
Then love your own wives; those men only thrive
That are the most pious and chaste in their lives.

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When Edward England's sceptre sway'd,

Edward the third, I should have said;

At court one jovial holy-day,

The nobles brisk, the ladies gay;

Music and dancing fir'd each part,

Swift mov'd the leg, quick beat the heart.

Just in the middle of a tune

Of minuet, or of rigadoon;

Which of the two most authors doubt,

Nor have I time to make it out;

A garter dropt, they all agree

From off a Countess' bended knee!

The King with th' odd adventure pleas'd
Stoop'd low, and quick the trophy seiz'd!
"Let this the badge of knighthood be!
This the reward of chivalry!"

He said; her face the Countess veil'd,
And in a blush her pride conceal'd.
But now if when my verse is said,

Ill thoughts should rise in critic's head,
Hear but the Garter's own defence-
"Honi soit qui mal y pense."

My reason for inserting the above is, its local authorship, and the difficulty

of obtaining the works of the gallant knight.-J. L. S.



This Club was formed for social purposes in or about the year 1840, and was set on foot by two or three "comrades in arms"* who met at the Black Bull Hotel, on St. Stephen's Day. It continued to exist until 1850, when its last Anniversary was held, on which occasion the following poetical account of the Club's institution and history, written by MR. EDWARD HARE, of Northallerton, was recited by that gentleman. The poem has been inserted because it alludes to persons and customs well known in Northallerton at that time, and is, on that account, a valuable link in the history of the town.

A Club known far and wide to night will meet ;
Yclept, "the Union Hunt," in the broad street
Of old Northallerton, so famed of yore,
Where oftentimes this Club has met before;
At the old hostel with the "Black Bull" sign,
As sure as fate these jovial boys will dine.
Blow high, blow low, naught keepeth them away,
On this the evening of their festal day.

Small its beginning, when ten years ago,
It may be twelve-or more--for aught I know,
On Great St. Stephen's morn, some two or three
Met at the Bull, determined on a spree-
What it should be they scarce could hit upon;
First, this was said-then that--at last one said,
"No sport like hunting†-let us off, and try
How well and fast our gallant hounds can fly.

The first hare caught, we'll have her straight sent home,
And cook'd for dinner, ready when we come
Back to the Bull, where we can take our ease,
Con o'er the day's exploits-or what we please."

A grand idea-sure a better plan

Ne'er emanated from the brain of man

They all agreed it was the very thing,

And soon our Nimrods bold were on the wing.

They sallied forth on that eventful day

With spirits high, and eager for the fray.

They hunted long-they ranged far and near ;

Each bush was beat-each fence and coppice sere ;

But all in vain, alas! no game they found,

Although they travelled o'er some miles of ground.
Truth must be told, and truth I now declare,

They nabb'd not one poor solitary hare.

Returning home with appetites as keen
As if they fasting all that day had been;
They call'd to mind what any one may see,
In a most useful work on cookery.

"First catch your hare," you epicurean sinner,
"Then have her dressed as you like for dinner."

* Messrs. J. Horner, T. P. Peckett, and H. Dowson. Mr. Ainsley (Castle Hills), Mr. Wm. Robinson, and Mr. J. Linton joined the Club soon after its formation.

+ St. Stephen's Day gave a traditionary license to hunt, provided permission was first obtained from the owners of land over which the huntsmen would pass.

"First catch your hare," I say, "or else the cook Will not have much occasion for the book."

Something they must have, though, on which to feed,
For they were faint and spiritless indeed;
Not long they wait,—a glorious dish of tripe
Put all to rights--and then the glass and pipe
Beguil'd the flying hours, and mirth and song
Fill'd up the time, nor seemed the evening long.
But feasts, howe'er prolonged, must have an end,
And so had theirs ;--then friend shook hand with friend,
Each heart elate with friendship and good cheer;
They vow'd to meet again another year.

And meet they did, with numbers much increased,
To celebrate once more their annual feast ;
But wiser grown than what they were before,
Lest the same scene should be enacted o'er.
No game, no dinner--ah! a direful sound
To hunters' ears-for all the party round
Beefsteaks were ordered at the hour of Five,
They'd all be there for certain—if alive.

They started forth-a set of "out-and-outs";
They made the welkin ring with joyous shouts,
What game they took I do not now remember,
On day the twenty-sixth of that December.
If game was scarce, they'd lots of fun and glee,
Keen was the weather-keen as keen could be ;
Keen too their appetites and sharp, and when
The steaks appeared, they quitted them like men.
Mountains went down before these hunters bold,
What else they did, must all remain untold;
For here my grey-goose quill her wing must lower,
"Sic' flights as these are far beyond her power."

The steaks, et cetera, vanished-then the mirth
To which are prone all joyous sons of earth;
A jolly fellow in the chair they placed
(And well that chair he ever since has grac'd—
"Long may he fill it-distant be the day
When he will cease to do so ") all will say.
The Chairman* rises-now the game begun,
The morning's toils enhance the evening's fun.
Well sped the winged hours 'mid joy profound,
Mirth, jest and laughter, and the song went round;
None thought of home-all were so merry there,
And loud they joined in "Begone dull care,"
Sung by the jovial Vice,† and who but he
Can give it with such tuneful harmony-
My feeble muse unequal is to tell.

The many songs they sung, and sung so well,
The jokes they uttered, and the stories good
I fain would put on record, if I could;
Yet all the while stern Time kept moving on,
Till grey-eyed morning bid them to be gone.
And, parting with reluctance, all declar'd

They'd meet again next year—should they be spar'd.

*Mr. Henry Dowson was chairman in 1840.

+ Probably Mr. Smith, landlord of the "Black Bull."

And now so well establish'd was the feast
Of fam'd St. Stephen, that-next time, at least,
A score was added to the jovial crew,

All honest fellows-of the right sort too.
The tripe and steaks-old friends-had disappear'd,
And in their place, renown'd Sir-loin uprear'd
His noble front, to English hearts so dear,
The savoury haunch, and oceans of good cheer;
And thus they met, where they had met before.

And now, again, behold us here once more,
While mem'ry takes a retrospective view

Of scenes long past, and friends whom once we knew ;
And whilst we hold them in remembrance dear,

We pay the passing tribute of a tear,

With grateful hearts to that all-gracious Power,
Whose arm has stay'd us to the present hour.
E'er since our earliest dawn of life began
From feeble, helpless infancy, to man-
No word of discord ever caused a jar,

Nor ill-timed joke burst forth our mirth to mar.
Long may we live to muster at the Bull,
And may our pockets, like our hearts, be full;
And while we meet, still let our motto be,
"Peace and good-fellowship, and harmony."*



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.

* I am indebted for permission to print the foregoing well-written poem to Mr. W. R. Smithson, of Northallerton, in whose Almanac it first appeared.-J. L. S. +Vide" Ballads and Songs of Yorkshire," pages 164 to 171.

The clock in the tower of Ainderby Church.

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