Part 27 (1/2)

BY ROBERT GILCHRIST.

All ye whom minstrel's strains inspire, Soft as the sighs of morning-- All ye who sweep the rustic lyre, Your native hills adorning-- Where genius bids her rays descend O'er bosoms deep and lonesome-- Let every heart and hand respond The name of Tommy Thompson.

CHORUS.

His spirit now is soaring bright, And leaves us dark and dolesome; O luckless was the fatal night That lost us Tommy Thompson.

The lyric harp was all his own, Each mystic art combining-- Which Envy, with unbending frown, Might hear with unrepining.

The sweetest flower in summer blown, Was not more blithe and joysome, Than was the matchless, merry tone, Which died with Tommy Thompson.

His spirit, &c.

FAREWELL TO THE TYNE.

By the Same.

Farewell, lovely Tyne, in thy soft murmurs flowing, Adieu to the shades of thy mouldering towers!

And sweet be the flowers on thy wild margin growing, And sweet be the nymphs that inhabit thy bowers!

And there shall be ties which no distance can sever, Thou land of our fathers, the dauntless and free; Tho' the charms of each change smile around me, yet never Shall the sigh be inconstant that's hallow'd to thee.

Thy full orb of glory will blaze o'er each contest-- Thy sons, e'er renown'd, be the dread of each foe-- Till thy tars chill with fear in the fight or the tempest, And the pure streams of Heddon have ceas'd more to flow.

May commerce be thine--and from Tynemouth to Stella May thy dark dingy waters auspiciously roll-- And thy lads in the keels long be jovial and mellow, With faces as black as the keel or the coal.

O Albion! of worlds thou shalt e'er be the wonder, Thy tough wooden walls, thy protection and pride, So long as the bolts of thy cloud-rending thunder Are hurl'd by the lads on the banks of Tyneside.

NORTHUMBERLAND FREE O' NEWCa.s.sEL.

Composed extempore, on the Duke of Northumberland being presented with the Freedom of Newcastle.

BY THE SAME.

To that far-ken'd and wondrous place, Newca.s.sel town, Where each thing yen lucks at surprises, Wiv a head full o' fancies, and heart full o' fun, Aw'd com'd in to see my Lord Sizes.

In byeth town and country aw glowrin' beheld Carousin' laird, tenant, an' va.s.sal; On axin' the cause o' sic joy, aw was tell'd, 'Twas Northumberland free o' Newca.s.sel.

The guns frae the Ca.s.sel sent monny a peal-- My hair stood on end, a' confounded-- The folks on Tyne-brig set up monny a squeel, And the banks o' Tyneside a' resounded.

In the Mute Hall, Judge Bayley roar'd out, ”My poor head!-- Gan an' tell them not to myek sic a rattle.”

Judge Wood cried out, ”No--let them fire us half dead, Since Northumberland's free o' Newca.s.sel!”

The Duke e'er has been byeth wor glory an' pride, For dousely he fills up his station; May he lang live to hearten the lads o' Tyneside, The glory and pride o' their nation.