[48] Carstairs, though a poor poet, was vain of his abilities as such. About the year 1731, Thomas Whittle and he being in a large company at the Burnt-house in Newcastle, the conversation turned on their respective merits as disciples of the Muses. A wager was soon bet on the subject; and it was agreed, that an hour should be allowed for each of them to write satyrical verses on the other. The two poets were accordingly placed in separate apartments; and at the expiration of the time specified, it was determined, by throwing up a halfpenny, which of the two should first read his lays: it fell to Whittle’s lot; but before he had got to the end, his competitor was so chagrined, that he put the concoctions of his less fertile brain in the fire; the wager of course was won by Whittle’s party. THOMAS WHITTLE, HIS HUMOROUS LETTER, TO MASTER MOODY, THE RAZOR-SETTER. _Newcastle on Tyne, May Twenty-nine._ Good Master Moody, My beard being cloudy, My cheeks, chin, and lips Like moon i’ the ’clipse, For want of a wipe: I’ve sent you a razor, If you’ll be at leisure To grind her, and set her, And make her cut better, You’ll e’en light my pipe.[49] Dear sir, you know little The case of poor Whittle-- I’m courting Tantivie, If you will believe me, Pray mark what I say: I’m frank in my proffers, And when I make offers, To kiss the sweet creature, My lips cannot meet her. My beard stops the way. You’ve heard my condition, And now I petition, That without omission, With all expedition, You’ll give it a _strike_; And send it by ’Tony, He’ll pay you the money-- I’ll shave and look bonny, And go to my honey, As snod as you like. If you do not you’ll hip me, My sweetheart will slip me, And if I should smart for’t, And break my poor heart for’t Are you not to blame! But if you’ll oblige me, As gratitude guides me, I’ll still be your servant, Obedient and fervent, Whilst WHITTLE’S my name. [49] A Northumberland phrase, signifying a particular favour done to one. THE LITTLE PRIEST OF FELTON. The little priest of Felton, The little priest of Felton, He kill’d a mouse within his house, And ne’er a one to help him; To help him, to help him, He kill’d a mouse within his house, And ne’er a one to help him. THE FELTON GARLAND. _How a Brick-maker at Felton stole a Woman away by her own Consent, from her Grandmother._ To the Tune of, _Maggy Lauder_. There lives a lass in Felton town, Her name is Jenny Gowen, With the Brick-man she has play’d the lown, So wanton she is grown: The reason why some love the night, _Incognito_ to revel, Is they love darkness more than light, Because their deeds are evil.