As also from the History of Northumberland, (1811) Vol. II, page 221. “Cambo was the favourite residence of the ingenious and eccentric Thomas Whittle, whose comic productions often beguile the long winter evenings of our rustic Northumbrians. His parents and the place of his birth are unknown. It is believed that he was the natural son of a gentleman of fortune, and that he was called Whittle from the place of his nativity, which some say was in the parish of Shilbottle, and others in the parish of Ovingham. “Though Whittle was a profligate in his life, and sometimes licentious in his compositions, yet the superior talents he has displayed in his best productions, sufficiently entitle him to our notice in this work. His poems and songs have long been perused by the people of the county with eager admiration and delight, and will probably be a source of entertainment to many succeeding generations. His Whimsical Love is a master-piece of its kind; and his Poetic Letter to the Razor-setter, his satirical Poem on William Carstairs, and his song called the Mitford Galloway, are replete with wit and humour, and will afford a mental feast to all who have a taste for comic poetry.” The last of which was published during his life, with the following old wood cut, as a head piece to it:-- [Illustration: Bidford Galloway.] THE MIDFORD GALLOWAY’s RAMBLE. BY THOMAS WHITTLE. To the Tune of, _Ranting roaring Willy_. The routing the earl of Mar’s forces, Has given their neighbours supplies; They’ve stock’d us with Highlanders horses, Like kileys for madness and size: The whirligig-maker of Midford Has gotten one holds such a stear, He’s had worse work with it, I’ll say for’t Than Ecky e’er had with his mear. The devil ne’er saw such a gelding As this to be foal’d of a mear; The size ont’s a shame to be teld on, And yet it could skip like a deer; For colour and size (I’m a sinner, I scorn, as the folks say, to slide,) ’Twas just like Hob Trumble’s gimmer, Which he sold for six-pence a side. It was a confounded bad liver, Like Ferry the piper’s old cat; It ne’er could be brought to behaviour, Though it has got many a bat; It had been so spoil’d in up-bringing, It vext his poor heart every day; Sometimes with biting and flinging, And sometimes with running away. Perhaps it was brought up a Tory, And knew the poor man for a Whig; But just to make short of the story, I’ll tell you one day what it did: When business came thicker and thicker, And would not admit of delay, As fast as the heels on’t could bicker, It scamper’d right northward away. O’er rocks, over mountains and ditches, Dike-gutters and hedges it speels; A courser could never keep stretches With it for a large share of heels: From hill unto dale like a fairy, It hurry’d and pranced along, While Geordy was in a quandary, And knew not what way it was gone.