As aw was gannin to Durham Aw met wi’ three jolly brisk women, Aw ask’d what news at Durham? They said joyful news is coming: There’s three sheep’s heads i’ the pot, A peck o’ peasmeal in the pudding. They jump’d, laugh’d, and skipp’d at that, For the joyful days are coming. Fal la la. EPITAPH _On JOHN SIMPSON, of Hamsterly, Woolcomber._ BY ISAAC GARNER. While visiting this dark abode, Here, reader, turn thy wand’ring eyes; Tread light, for underneath this sod, SIMPSON, the _Village Poet_, lies. The people’s follies, and their vice, As frequently as he found leisure, He hunted down (as cats do mice) In strains of true poetic measure. So neatly he his subject hit, So well he temper’d truth with sense; The simple marvell’d at his wit, And wise men seldom took offence. His genius and invention such, From each event he’d something gather; For nought ’scap’d his satiric touch, That fairly came within his tether. _Nor ’scap’d he death_;--His race is run, (So fall the witty and the brave!) His wool is comb’d, his thread is spun; And daisies flourish round his grave! ODE _To the River Darwent._ Lov’d stream, that meanders along, Where the steps of my infancy stray’d; When first I attun’d the rude song, That nature all artless essay’d. Though thy borders be stripp’d of each tree, That smil’d in their vernal array; Their image still pictures to me, Thy villagers gambolling gay. Nor by fancy shall aught be unseen, While thy fountains flow murmuring by; I have danc’d in the Dance on the green, I have wept with the woe-begun age. Thy blessings how many and rare! Far distant the mildue of health, Where guilt vainly decorates care, And wickedness broods over wealth. The dress of the body and mind, For ages exactly the same: No travel the manners refin’d, And fashion pass’d by as it came. Ah! which of thy sons canst thou boast, Like Maddison,[78] made to explore: To give to the silver girt coast, The worth that was foreign before! Each language, each humour, his own, All Europe was proud to improve; Whom Belgium sits down to bemoan, Whom Gallia could listening love. Say, when will thou cease to complain? Oh Darwent, thy destiny cries; Far off, on the banks of the Seine, Thy darling, thy _Maddison_--dies!