Our merchants cast a noble shew, Rich goods as any in the nation; Great is their trade with high and low, Makes them sing Stockton’s commendation. All trades shall flourish now I see, In their several occupation; And our song shall ever be Stockton’s lasting commendation. Our ships well stor’d with merchandize, Come trading here from ev’ry nation; Our neighb’ring towns with goods supply, Makes them sing Stockton’s commendation. Our wool-trade daily does increase, The staple of the British nation: And farmers come, with cheerful pace, To join in Stockton’s commendation. Our lead in piles in plenty lie, Sent by shipping to each nation. Behold all trades on Stockton smile, Makes me sing Stockton’s commendation. Our races they are fifties three, Where Darlington, of noble station, Our Steward he approves to be, To honour Stockton’s commendation. May Darlington be Stockton’s friend, And Stockton give their approbation In favour of the House of Vane, For raising Stockton’s commendation. Now, freeholders, I take my leave, Success to the British nation, These lines to you I freely give, In praise of Stockton’s commendation. THE BARNARDCASTLE TRAGEDY. Tune--_Constant Anthony_. Young men and maidens all, I pray you now attend, Mark well this tragedy which you find here penn’d; At Barnardcastle Bridge-end, an honest man lives there, His calling grinding corn, for which few can compare. He had a sister dear, in whom he took delight, And Atkinson, his man, woo’d her both day and night; Till thro’ process of time he chained fast her heart, Which prov’d her overthrow, by Death’s surprising dart. False-hearted Atkinson, with his deluding tongue, And his fair promises, he’s this poor maid undone; For when he found he’d caught her fast in Cupid’s snare, Then made he all alike, Betty’s no more his dear. Drinking was his delight, his senses sure to dose, Keeping lewd company, when he should seek repose; His money being spent, and they would tick no score, Then with a face of brass, he ask’d poor Bett for more. At length he met with one, a serving-maid in town, Who for good ale and beer would often pawn her gown, And at all-fours she’d play, as many people know, A fairer gamester no man could ever show. Tom Skelton, ostler at the King’s Arms does dwell, Who this false Atkinson did all his secrets tell; He let him understand of a new love he’d got, And with an oath he swore, she’d keep full the pot. Then for the girl they sent, Bett Hardy was her name, Who to her mistress soon an excuse did frame; Mistress, I have a friend at the King’s Arms doth stay, Which I desire to see, before he goes away.