A day or two after, have at it, He north in pursuit on’t took chase, And like a dub-skelper he trotted, To many strange village and place; All Rothbury forest he ranged, From corner to corner like mad, And still he admired and stranged, What vengeance was gone with his pad. He circled about like a ring-worm, And follow’d the scent of his nose, And from Heslyhurst unto Brinkburn, With Fortune the clothier he goes. To honest Tom Fawdon’s the fuller, The rattle-brain’d roisters both went, Tho’ they made the gelding their colour, Another thing was their intent. Tom Fawdon soon knew what they wanted, And straightway the table was set, With bread, butter and cheese it was planted, And good ale, as well as good meat; Their grace took but little inditing, ’Twas short and they had it by heart; And they took as little inviting, But strove who should have the fore-start. They used no bashful dissembling, But to in a passion did fall, The dishes did by them stand trembling, Their mercy appeared so small: The butter, the cheese, and the bannocks, Dissolved like snow in a fresh, And still as they stuck in their stomachs, With liquor they did them down wash. The Dutch, nor the Welsh, nor wight Wallace, Did ever like them show their spleen, The cheese bore the marks of their malice, Their knives and their teeth were so keen. Two stone they destroyed, shame be’n them, And pour’d down their liquor like spouts, Their guts to hold what they put in them, Were drest like a pair of strait boots. With bellies top-full to the rigging, I leave them to settle a bit, ’Till making good use of the midding, ‘Do’ bring them unto a right set. Now come we to speak of the gelding, Who knowing that he did offend, Stay’d two or three days about Weldon, To make justice Lisle stand his friend. He after that grew so unlucky, On mischief and ill he was bent, He prov’d a right North-country jockey, Still cheating where ever he went. At many men’s charges he dined, But never ask’d what was arrear; Yet no man could get him confined, So slily himself he did clear. The town of Longframlington further Can give an account what he is, He came within acting of murder, As near as a horse could to miss; For unto a house he went scudding, And seeing a child all alone, If Providence had not withstood him, He’d struck it as dead as a stone. The rest of his acts are recorded, ’Tis nonsense to mention them here; I’ll go back and fetch Geordy forward, He’s tarri’d too long I do fear! From Brinkburn he started and held on, Directly to Framlington town, And then to the miller’s at Weldon, He back o’er the hill tumbled down.