With taste so true, and genius fine, The blythsome MINSTERELS of langsyne, Sung sweetly ’tween the Tweed and Tyne, Of war and love; Sounding their melody divine, Thro’ ev’ry grove. Northumbria’s waters, woods, and plains, Her hills and dales, her nymphs and swains, Her rural sports, in sweetest strains, The Poets sung; Till echo, thro’ her wide domains, Responsive rung. In witty songs and verses _kittle_[1], Who could compare with THOMAS WHITTLE? The Cambo blade, who to a tittle, Describ’d each feature; At _painting_, too, he varied little From mother Nature. Her PIPERS also knew the art To touch the soul, and warm the heart; Such chearing strains they could impart, That cank’ring care, From ev’ry breast away would start, To pine elsewhere. When at the harvest, every year, They play’d, the reapers’ hearts to chear; The soft-link’d notes, so sweet and clear, Made labour light; And many a merry jig, I swear, They danc’d each night. [1] Lively. [Illustration] _Old Tyne shall listen to my Tale,_ _And Echo, down the bordering Vale,_ _The Liquid Melody prolong._ AKENSIDE. SONGS. WEEL MAY THE KEEL ROW. As I cam thro’ Sandgate, thro’ Sandgate, thro’ Sandgate, As I cam thro’ Sandgate, I heard a lassie sing, Weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, Weel may the keel row, that my laddie’s in. He wears a blue bonnet, blue bonnet, blue bonnet, He wears a blue bonnet, a dimple in his chin: And weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, And weel may the keel row, that my laddie’s in. THE NEW KEEL ROW. _By_ T.T.--_To the old Tune._ Whe’s like my Johnny, Sae leish, sae blithe, sae bonny, He’s foremost ’mang the mony Keel lads o’ Coaly Tyne; He’ll set or row so tightly, Or in the dance so sprightly, He’ll cut and shuffle sightly, ’Tis true--were he not mine. Weel may the keel row, The keel row, the keel row, Weel may the keel row, That my laddie’s in: He wears a blue bonnet, A bonnet, a bonnet, He wears a blue bonnet, A dimple in his chin. He’s ne mair learning, Than tells his weekly earning, Yet reet frae wrang discerning, Tho’ brave, ne bruiser he; Tho’ he no worth a plack is, His awn coat on his back is, And nane can say that black is The white o’ Johnny’s ee. Each pay-day nearly, He takes his quairt right dearly, Then talks O, latin O,--cheerly, Or mavies jaws away; How caring not a feather, Nelson and he together, The springy French did lether, And gar’d them shab away.