I canna’ tell a’, I canna’ tell a’; Some gat a skelp, and some gat a claw; But they gard the Featherstons haud their jaw,-- Nicol, and Alick, and a’. Some gat a hurt, and some gat nane; Some had harness, and some gat sta’en. Ane gat a twist o’ the craig; Ane gat a bunch o’ the wame; Symy Haw gat lam’d of a leg, And syne ran wallowing hame. Hoot, hoot, the auld man’s slain outright! Lay him now wi’ his face down:--he’s a sorrowful sight. Janet, thou donot, I’ll lay my best bonnet, Thou gets a new gude-man afore it be night. Hoo away, lads, hoo away, Wi’s a’ be hangid if we stay. Tak’ up the dead man, and lay him ahint the bigging; Here’s the Bailey o’ Haltwhistle, Wi’ his great bull’s pizzle, That sup’d up the broo’, and syne--in the piggin. [56] The local pronunciation for Albany. _The following Lines are cut on a Tombstone in Haltwhistle Church Yard, Northumberland._ Ihon Redle that som tim did be, The laird of the Waltoun; Gon is he out of thes vale of misery, His bons lies under this ston. We must beleve be God’s mersy, Into thes world gave hes son; Then for to redem al christens, So Christ haes hes soul woon. All faithful peple may be faen, When dath coms, that non can fre: The bode kept the soul in paen, Through Christ is set at liberte. Among blesed compane to remaen, To slep in Christ nowe is he gon; Yet stil beleves to hav again, Though Christ a jouful resurrecshon. Al frends ma be glad to hear, When hes soul from paen did go: Out of this world as doeth appear, In the year of our Lord, 1562. _N.B._ The above John Ridley is supposed to have been brother to Bishop Ridley, who was burnt at Oxford, October 16th, 1555, he was the possessor of, and lived at Wall-town, and was one of the ancestors of the present Sir Matthew White Ridley, of Blagdon, in Northumberland, M.P. for Newcastle. LINES _Written at an Inn, in that very retired and romantic Part of Northumberland, the Banks of the ALLAN._ BY GEORGE PICKERING. _November, 1787._ Howl on ye winds, and beat ye rains, Ye torrents roar o’er yonder linn, And Allen swell thy rapid stream, I careless view thee from an Inn. The trees that late appear’d so green, To drop their foliage now begin: They waft a moral to mine ear, While pensive sitting at an Inn. See winter comes with all his train, I hear his loud, his arctic din: Why let him come, I fear him not, I sit in comfort at an Inn. When age, life’s winter, shall appear, Then reason whispers from within; Eternity’s our wish’d for home, The world at best is but an Inn. LUCY GRAY OF ALLENDALE. Oh, have you seen the blushing rose, The blooming pink, or lilly pale, Fairer than any flow’r that blows Is Lucy Gray of Allendale.