[78] Mr Maddison was secretary to the English Ambassador at the French Court, about the end of the American war: his death was rather singular; the ambassador had been invited to a large dinner party, given by some of the members of the French Government; but being rather ill at the time, he sent his secretary as his deputy, who went accordingly, and came home extremely ill, and soon after died, with all the symptoms of being poisoned; a mark of favour which the French had intended to have paid to the ambassador, had not fortune forbid it! The circumstances of this curious affair, which made considerable noise at the time, were never rightly known. THE HEXHAMSHIRE LASS. Its hey for the buff and the blue, Hey for the cap and the feather; Hey for the bonny lassie true, That lives in Hexhamshire. Thro’ by the Saiby Syke, And o’er the moss and the mire, I’ll go to see my lass, Who lives in Hexhamshire. Her father lov’d her well, Her mother lov’d her better; I love the lass mysel’, But, alas! I cannot get her. Thro’ by, &c. Oh, this love, this love! Of this love I am weary! Sleep I can get none, For thinking on my deary! Thro’ by, &c. My heart is like to break, My bosom is on fire; So well I love the lass That lives in Hexhamshire. Thro’ by, &c. Her petticoat is silk, And plaited round with siller; Her shoes are tied with tape, She’ll wait ’til I go till her. Thro’ by, &c. Were I where I would be, I would be beside her; But here a while I must be, Whatever may betide her. Thro’ by, &c. Hey for the thick and the thin, Hey for the mud and the mire; And hey for the bonny lass That lives in Hexhamshire. Thro’ by, &c. _The Northumbrian’s Sigh for his native Country._ At home wad I be, And my supper wad I see, And marry with a lass Of my own country. If I were at hame, I wad ne’er return agean, But marry with a lass In my own country. There’s the oak and the ash, And the bonny ivy tree; How canst thou gan away, love, And leave me? O stay, my love, stay, And do not gang away; O stay, my love, stay, Along with me. A YOU A, HINNY BURD. For an explanation of this title, see Brand’s Popular Antiquities. Its O but I ken well, A you, hinny burd, The bonny lass of Benwell; A you a. She’s lang legg’d and mother like, A you, hinny burd; See she’s raking up the dyke, A you a. The Quayside for sailors, A you, hinny burd; The Castle Garth for Tailors, A you a. The Gateshead Hills for Millers, A you, hinny burd; The North Shore for keelers, A you a. There’s Sandgate for aud rags, A you, hinny burd; And Gallowgate for trolly bags, A you a.