Subject: The Insipids
From:
*#1 PEASANT*
Date: 26 Mar 02 - 07:43 PM
The Insipids:
Or, The Mistress with Her Multitude of Man Servants
by: Thomas Whittel Of all the Kirkharle bonny lasses,
If they were set round in a ring,
Jane Heymours for beauty surpasses,
She might be a match for a kng;
Her cheeks are as red as a cherry,
Her breast is as white as a swan,
She is a blyth lass and a merry,
And her middle is fit for a man. The lads are so fond to be at her,
They run all as mad as March hares,
This bonny young lass they do flatter,
And fall at her feet to their prayers:
You never saw keener or stouter,
They'll not be put off with delay,
Like bull-doggs they still hang about her,
And court her by night and by day. Jo Hepple, Will Crudders, Tom Liddle,
With twenty or thirty men more,
If I could their names but unriddle,
At least I might make out two score,
That all cast about for to catch her,
And make her their own during life;
With others that strive to debauch her,
Despairing to make her their wife. So many love tokens and fancies
She gets, that to bring them in view,
They's look like so many romances,
And none could believe they were true.
I only will mention on favour,
And leave you to guess at the rest;
An old kenning Edward Hall gave her,
Of comforts the choicest and best. They venture like people for prizes,
And with the same timorous doubt,
She has them of all sorts and sizes,
That's constantly sneaking about.
Each man speaks her fair, and importunes
In all the best language that's known;
And happy were he could tell fortunes,
To know if the girl were his own. John Robson, Jo Bowman, Will Little,
With her would spend night's over days;
Each glance of her eyes is so smittle,
That all men are catch'd if they gaze:
She strikes them quite thro' with love stiches,
And many (a) poor heart she doth fill;
She's like one of those call'd white witches,
That hurts men and means them no ill. John Henderson, that honest weaver,
And metled Matt Thomson the smith,
Came both from Capheaton to preave her,
And court her with courage and pith.
Ned Oliver to, and Tom Baxter
Spare neither their feet, tongue, or hands,
But strive with the rest ot contract her
In compass o fconjugal bands. Bob Bewick just makes it his calling
Unto her his love to declare;
And some's of that mind that John Rawling
Would gladly come in for a share.
John Forcing doth praise and commend her,
Above any lass that wears head;
And fain he would be a pretender,
If he had but hopes to come speed. Bob Cole strains his wit and invention
And compliments to a degree;
And twenty that I cannot mention
Are all as keen courters as he.
She puts them all into such pickle
They care not what courses they run,
And if (as folk says) she be fickle,
'Tis twenty to one they're undone. Their loves would fill forty hand wallets,
If they were cramm'd in at both ends;
Theirhearts are all sunk like lead pellets,
And very small hopes of amends.
Great dangers on both sides encreases,
Which very destructive may prove;
The lass may be all bull'd to pieces,
Or all the poor lads die for love. But that which supports nad preserves them,
Their stomachs their best friends do prove;
And 'tis not a little meat serves them
Since they fell so deeply in love.
Their fancies and appetites working,
It made them so sharp and so keen,
The girls mother lost two butter firkins,
They wattell'd away so much cream One day with a good brandy bottle,
Two met her about the Heugh Nebb,
And there their accounts they did settle,
And made all as right as my legg:
The snuff-mill and gloves came in season,
The want of a glass to supply;
They drank the girls first, with good reason,
And then the kings health by the by. The millers Haugh, Heugh Nebb, and Haystack,
The Flowers, the New Close, and Decoy,
With places whose titles I know not,
Where they met to love and enjoy,
Would b but too far a digression,
And make our fond passions rebell;
But, oh! had these places espression,
What pretty love tales they could tell! So many to her bear affection,
And give her such lofty applause,
I'm love-sick to hear the description,
And wish I could see the sweet cause:
'Tis she that could make all odds even,
And bring many wonders to pass;
I wish all here sweethearts in heaven,
Why I were in bed with the lass! -Source: The Northumberland Garland;or Newcastle Nightingale., Joseph Ritson,
Newcastle, MDCCXCIII , Harding and Wright, London,1809.
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