Why, lady, leave to weepe for me, Let not my ending grieve ye: Prove constant to the man you love, For I cannot relieve yee. Heigh-ho, &c. Out upon thee, Withrington, And fie upon thee, Phoenix: Thou hast put downe the doughty one, That stole the sheepe from Anix. Heigh-ho, &c. And fie on all such cruell carles, Whose crueltie’s so fickle, To cast away a gentleman In hatred for so little. Heigh-ho, &c. I would I were on yonder hill, Where I have beene full merry: My sword and buckeler by my side To fight till I be weary. Heigh-ho, &c. They well should know that tooke me first, Though whoops be now forsaken: Had I but freedome, armes, and health, I’de dye ere I’de be taken. Heigh-ho, &c. But law condemns me to my grave, They have me in their power; There’s none but Christ that can me save, At this my dying houre. Heigh-ho, &c. He call’d his dearest love to him, When as his heart was sorry: And speaking thus with manly heart, Deare sweeting, pray for Georgie. Heigh-ho, &c. He gave to her a piece of gold, And bade her give’t her bairns: And oft he kist her rosie lips, And laid him into her armes. Heigh-ho, &c. And coming to the place of death, He never changed colour, The more he thought he would look pale, The more his veines were fuller. Heigh-ho, &c. And with a cheereful countenance, (Being at that time entreated For to confesse his former life) These words he straight repeated. Heigh-ho, &c. I never stole an ox or cow, Nor ever murdered any: But fifty horse I did receive Of a merchant’s man of Gory. Heigh-ho, &c. For which I am condemn’d to dye Though guiltlesse I stand dying: Deare gracious God, my soule receive, For now my life is flying, Heigh-ho, &c. The man of death a part did act, Which grieves me tell the story; God comfort all are comfortlesse, And did so well as Georgie. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, my bonny love, Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my bonny; Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, mine own true love, Sweet Christ receive my Georgie. _EPITAPH_ ON WILLIAM BELL, LATE A RESIDENT ON GATESHEAD FELL. _By Samuel Barras._ Here lies the corpse of William Bell, The great good man of Gateshead Fell: Zealous in his Master’s cause, A strict observer of his laws: He liv’d by faith, and not by sight: With full assurance took his flight, Unto that sweet delicious coast, Where hope is in fruition lost. AN EXCELLENT BALLAD _On the Sickness, Death, and Burial_, OF ECKY’s MARE; _Which was made and composed by the late ancient and famous Northern poet, Mr BERNARD RUMNEY, a musician, or country fidler, who lived and died at Rothbury, being about one hundred years old at the time of his death._