Lucern! Lucern! That best of grass Lucern! Oh! happy swains of Lanthernside, Be far from you concern; For now your sterile rocky soil, where stocks are never seen, Will quickly be converted all, to fields of fruitful green. He’ll plant, he’ll plant, A Colony he’ll plant, With plants and beasts of various kinds, Which Lanthernside may want. With here a hardy plant of Oak, and there a plant of Fir, And here an English pointer staunch, and there a shepherd’s cur. He’ll sail, he’ll sail, Without a mast or sail, And gently glide by Lanthernside, Before a gentle gale. Your streamlet he will navigate, and bring the flowing tide, From Warkworth’s hoary Hermitage, to dreary Lanthernside. He’ll reign, he’ll reign, Without despotic sway; Therefore ye lads of Lanthernside, His dictates all obey. Come all ye wanton wenches, with speed unto him haste, For, tho’ as lewd as Lais, he’ll teach you to be chaste. Your game, your game, He will preserve your game! For well in that particular, Abroad is spread his fame! But [50]Biddlestone will curse the day, to Lanthernside he came, For sure as bird e’er fell by gun, he will destroy his game. Rejoice! rejoice! Let [51]Felton Park rejoice! For now its lord is free to roam, As chance directs his choice. For F----r like a Briton bold, had circumscrib’d his bounds, And left him but one single mile, to range in his own grounds. He’s gone! he’s gone! Alas! our hero’s gone! And left us quite disconsolate, In Felton town to moan! Rejoice ye Lanthernsiders, and Io pæan sing, Since mirth-exciting F----r vouchsafes to be your king. [50] Mr S---- of Biddlestone. [51] Mr R---- of Felton. ON THE DEPARTURE OF MR GREY, OF FELTON, _Who died on Saturday, August 12th, 1775._ On Saturday, Poor Felton Grey, Went o’er the hills and far away: But none can say, He went away, Without enquiring _what’s to pay_. CARR OF ETAL. God prosper long our noble king, Our lives and safeties all; A joyful supper once there did, In Edinbro’ befal. To give the gallant Scot a horn, Bold _Etal_[52] took his way, Children to get, which shall be born, Upon another day. Bold Etal of Northumberland, A vow to God did make, His pleasure in the Scottish town, Three summer’s days to take. The choicest lips in Edinbro’, To kiss and bear away; These tidings reach’d Black Castle’s[53] lord, In Perthshire where he lay. Who sent young Etal present word, He would prevent his sport; The Englishman not fearing this, Did to the town resort.