Be happy ye fair ones whom Freedom has given, The virtue and spirit her cause to maintain, Whose raiment outvies with the mantle of Heaven, When _Phœbus_ unclouded, just starts from the Main, To guard love and beauty, we make it our duty, To aid their felicity, ever combine; Come, see Daughters of Liberty, Greeting with rapture the Sons of the _Tyne_. JESMOND MILL. _By Phill Hodgson, of Newcastle._ To sing some nymph in her cot Each bard will oft flourish his quill: I’m glad it has fall’n to my lot To celebrate Jesmond Mill. When spring hither winds her career, Our trees and our hedges to fill, Vast oceans of verdure appear To charm you at Jesmond Mill. To plant every rural delight Mere Nature has lavish’d her skill; Here fragrant soft breezes unite To wanton round Jesmond Mill. When silence each evening here dwells, The birds in their coverts all still; No music in sweetness excels The clacking of Jesmond Mill. Reclin’d by the verge of the stream, Or stretch’d on the side of the hill, I’m never in want of a theme While learning at Jesmond Mill. Sure Venus some plot has design’d, Or why is my heart never still, Whenever it pops in my mind To wander near Jesmond Mill? My object, ye swains, you will guess, If ever in love you had skill; And now, I will frankly confess, ’Tis--Jenny of Jesmond Mill. PANDON DEAN. _A Song published in Sept. 1776, under the Name of Rosalinda._ When cooling zephyrs wanton play, Then oft in Pandon Dean I stray; When sore dispers’d with grief and woe, Then from a busy world I go; My mind is calm, my soul serene, Beneath the Bank in Pandon Dean. The feather’d race around me sing, They make the hills and vallies ring; My sorrow flies, my grief is gone, I warble with the tuneful throng; All, all things wear a pleasing mien, Beneath the Bank in Pandon Dean. At distance stands an ancient tower, Which ruin threatens every hour; I’m struck with reverence at the sight, I pause and gaze with fond delight; The antique walls do join the scene, And makes more lovely Pandon Dean. Above me stand the towering trees, While here I feel the gentle breeze; The water flows by chance around, And green enamels all the ground: Which gives new splendour to the scene, And adds a grace to Pandon Dean. But when I mount the rising hill, And there survey the purling rill, My eye delighted--but I mourn, To think of winter’s quick return; With withering winds and frost so keen, I sighing leave the Pandon Dean. O spare for once a female pen, And lash licentious wicked men; Your conscious cheek need never glow, If you your talents thus bestow: Scarce fifteen summers have I seen, Yet dare to sing of Pandon Dean. NANNY OF THE TYNE. By J.M. WEDDERBURN, of Newcastle. _Set to Music by John Aldridge, Jun. of Newcastle._