The Legend of Hob O' The Stob Hill (Morpeth) by James Service 1834.

 

I've said, and say again, that they who praise,

With such inveterate glee, the good old days,

Are somewhat apt in prejudice to wander,

And treat the present age with less than candour;

But for his  reason should you press your poet,

Hark to his tale, that  probably will show it!

Have you sir, seen a comet? - yes! - she shines

Exactly with the lustre of these lines;

No head, nor fountain of her light, we find,

But she's extremely luminous behind!

So if my story's dark at first - the rhyme

Will sparkle now - and then blaze forth in time,

Spreading around new light on times gone by -

On tales once famed in Border Minstrelsie!

Morpeth's good town is - just as you may know it;

But as it was - the histories don't show it;

My legend will - 'tis local - and 'tis true,

A point that more concerns myself than you,

And how I came by it will prove it such,

Being taken - that is stolen - from the Hutch,

Which all the corporations deeds are held in,

As old and obscure as Meg o' Meldon! -

A huge and ugly oak and iron box,

They keep up stairs, secured by seven vast locks;

But what are locks to antiquarian fingers?

A hint's enough - meanwhile my story lingers.

King John, it seems, had made a desperate kick up,

And the whole nation reel'd and had a hickup;

Now what they quarrel'd for, it matters not,

We care not now, nor did then one jot;

On one side stood the king, and on the other

Was the Lord Morpeth and his younger brother.

In those hot days it was a sort of fashion,

That whatsoe'er the landlord chose to dash on,

The tennant followed, were it for good or evil -

"Go on, I follow - be it to the devil!"

And not a vassal dared his leader's steps shun,

A general rule, but there was one exception.

Hob o' Stob Hill, simpleton by rule,

And wise enough, at least, to seem a fool,

Took, as few wiser men have ever done,

A witty way to cherish number one!

Such beings were and are - who can dispense,

A pound of sound, with half a grain of sense;

Sages look queer, and strange how instinct can

So well supply the place of mind  in man! -

Hob had a wife, one of those gentle dearies

Who ruled with rod of iron - whose chief fear is

Not to be fear'd - who at the altar say,

"I will command"  for "honour and obey."

Now Hobby's was a ticklish situation;

The King commanded him, with half the nation,

To join the Royal banner, - and his lord

Bade Hob against the king to draw his sword;

His wife, with a voice as terrible as either,

Cried, "draw thy sword, I charge thee, Hob, for neither."

"Right!" said the king - "left!" cried the baron, - "halt!"

Roar'd the domestic tyrant, - Hob at fault

Scratch'd his shock head, and rolled his eyes, and cried,

"There's only ae way to please aw," - and died.

Such accidents were not much heeded then;

The king and baron, both in want of men,

Desired the mourning widow out of hand

To furnish one of each, or lose the land.

In those days, would you think it? ladie's money

Could make a bitter bargain sweet as honey.

So Hobby's widow found a match, and he

Went as trooper to the king, - while she

In Hobby's jack, and armed with good broad sword,

Mounted on one eyed mare, and joined her lord! -

"Meg," said the amazon, "keep ye the hoose,

Look to the cows, and watch the cleckin goose;

And, for poor Hobby, tyek the silly creature

On your strang back, and fling him i' the water."

Away she sallied, and to do the job

Maggie approached; when, lo! up started Hob,

Capering as though death had but mad him stronger,

And swore he had but died to live the longer;

Free from his fears, and severed from his wife,

He hoped to lead a semi joyous life.

Alas! how vain are human hopes! the king

Threatened on Morpeth fire and sword to bring.

Then stood the town on t'other side of the river,

And the lord's bailiff then was the land giver;

He caused the freemen, as the king came down,

To save their lives and sacrifice the town.

The patriot freemen quickly fired their houses,

And on their backs bore off their goods and their spouses.

Hobby excepted! - he, with wiser aim,

Struggled to save his cottage from flame,

And kindly offered to his brother freemen,

Ransom for all their goods, except their women.

Not to digress, - this ne'er was his intent,

He took them as a Morpeth compliment!

What that phrase means, authorities don't tell us,

But Hob's words may, - said he, "maw canny fellows,"

"Ye knaw that aw was buckled wiv a marrow,

That kept me like a tyed belaw a harrow,

A naggy, stupid, fulish, yammerin howdie,

A parfit bison, and a huel for crowdie;

She gave me nowt i' plenty but her tongue,

O' that  a Morpeth compliment she flung.

My lord, aw wad na flickered at his order,

Wasn't for a raid of foray o'er the border;

But yens awn sells to whack at yen another,

I see nae gude in't; - then to join tother,

Aw mean the king, - maw certes! when maw wife

In maw awn breeks had met me i' the strife,

She wad hae whumbled me and ta'en maw life.

Ye brainless culls, ye set the town a-lowe,

And what I saved, ye wad hae frae me now,

But tyek whe likes, and let him keep whe can,

Maw part is aye to play the canny man!

Yer aw wise beggars - aw's a cull - but, hark!

A wealthy fuil outweighs a hungry clerk;

Ye die to live in story - when aw died,

It was to live wi' peace abuin maw head;

And when yer story's tell'd in efter day,

Ye maunna think to carry a' the praise,

For on this spot six hunder years hereafter,

Clusters of bonny lasses, wi' loud laughter,

And witching smiles, shall praise the canny skill

And living death o' Hob o' the Stob Hill!"

The Legend Of Cuddy Bell & Nanny Ogle (Mitford) by James Service 1834.

 

In days of yore, before the birth of order,

When rapine was the warden of the border;

When will was law, --- craft, wisdom, --- and strength,

                        right, ---

And the best plea for doing wrong was might!

Those good old times the poets love to paint,

When whip-cord and cold water made a saint,

And turbulence a hero; when the maid

Stabbed her betrayer - if she was betrayed.

Or, if the gentle suitor begged her love,

She sent him to the wars his faith to prove;

When all the honeyed words the lover spoke

Were far less moving than the heads he broke.

Then if he died, or stayed away too long,

The minstrels told his story in song;

And the fair lady stove her grief to smother

For one true love - by wedding another!

Aye! these were times indeed - when if a fair one

Had twenty lovers, yet she could not spare one,

But set them in a chamber all together,

Or in a yard (according to the weather);

Armed them with spears and cudgels, as the case was,

Mounted or not, as more or less the space was;

And he who in this struggle stood the longest,

Whose head was thickest or whose arm was strongest,

And best his rivals thumped or hacked pell-mell,

From every crown cracked champion bore the bell.

Oh! blessed age! oh! dear lamented times!

When theft and homicide were jokes, not crimes;

When burning peels and towns were acts of merit,

And deep revenge became a lad of spirit;

When every eye saw fairies, ghosts, and devils,

Frisk in the moonbeam in their midnight revels.

When Merley ruled in Morpeth's well kept castle,

And plundered and protected many a vassal,

Of one of them a fearful tale is told,

Which, if you dare to listen, I'll unfold.

He was a youth of grace in form and manners,

High Cuddy Bell - or Cuddy of the Stanners,

A study, home-spun, true Northumbrian yeoman,

Who neither fear'd the devil nor a foeman;

Scotchmen he drubbed, as drubbed St. George the dragon,

And loved one woman as he loved a flagon, ---

The daughter of the Parish Clerk of Mitford;

I'll sketch her portrait, though she did not sit for't

In person just below the middle size,

With dark brown hair, and black and sparkling eyes;

A pretty nose, ripe lips, and ruby cheeks;

That neatness, which a well turned mind bespeaks,

Graced her plump person - plump? - at least her bodice

Required tight lacing to make Nan a Goddess.

The Ruins of Mitford Church 1832

One night, when fierce December's drifting snow

Whitened the towers above - the ground below,

When the keen blasts alternate roared and howled,

And thro' the hall strange fire bronzed shadows scowled,

There, midst the wardens, while the black jack danced

Merrily round, had Cuddy sat entranced,

And still had sat, nor cared to sleep a wink,

While tales were yet to tell, or draughts to drink.

But churlish duty roused at length his hosts

From cup and jest, and tales of blood and ghosts,

And sent them growling to their several posts.

Then forth must Cuddy, right reluctant, hie,

To brave and tender mercies of the sky;

And then - oh then! - to love and Nanny true,

Towards Mitford's town with timeless steps he drew.

Of blood and ghosts, I say, their tales had been,

Of wild shrieks heard and hideous faces seen!

Of forms from new made graves beheld to rise,

Grim fleshless things that glared with stony eyes!

Of dancing devils, gibbering and grinning

At wights less prone to praying than to sinning;

And elves and spirits that oft, at midnight's hour,

O'er righteous men themselves have fearful power.

No marvel then that Cuddy held his way,

Brimful of horrors, as a rustic may,

And heard a thousand demons in the woods,

And in the Wansbeck's redly rushing floods.

Sore was the conflict, none, methinks, may doubt,

'Twixt ghastly terrors and sublime brown stout.

Newminster Abbey, early 19th Century.

But when our hero reach'd at length the place

Where the Newminster rear'd its hoary face,

What was his joy to find his Nanny wait,

In such a night, his coming at the gate!

He clasped Nanny gently to his breast,

And fiercely kissed, and boorishly carest.

In vain the tempest work'd its furious will,

The raptured lovers kissed and wander'd still,

And reached at length the foot of the dark hill,

On the south bank above the abbey mill;

And just as glared the castle beacon's gleam,

A dread voice thundered from the rushing stream,

And, "Come, Diablo!" it loudly cried,

And Nanny whisked from Cuddy's shuddering side,

And straight the form, so beautiful before,

A demon's horns, and tail, and talons wore! 

Full in his face she laugh'd with fiendish spite,

And would have torn his eyes out if she might;

But on and fast sped Cuddy like the wind,

And left his phantom sweetheart far behind.

"Oh! Mary! mother!" - thus the frighted swain,

Roar'd to the virgin, - "this was kindly parried;

Thank God, I've found her out before we married."

Tiganiada - The Camp Of The Gypsies, a Romanian Epic Poem.

An English translation of one of Romania's epic poems. Published in 1800 the Tiganiada looks back on a Romanian hero and his struggle with the Ottoman Turks. At the time of publication Romania was being pulled this way and that by Russians, Austro-Hungarians and the Ottomans, after a series of revolutions Romania finally became a recognised country in 1859, although Transylvania still remained part of Hungary, and would do until 1918, Moldavia and Wallachia were united.

During the years of upheaval Romania looked for a national identity, homegrown heroes such as Mircea the Old, Stephen the Great and Michael the Brave were once again lauded, as was an almost forgotten Viovode, Vlad the Impaler. Tiganiada is set during that long hot summer of 1462 with the Ottoman army set to invade, and the only warrior to oppose them, Vlad Tepes and his army of Gypsies.

    TIGANIADA - THE GYPSIAD

     or The Camp Of The Gypsies.

     by Ion Budai-Deleanu

The Argument

"For Vlad Voivode arms the gypsies,

The Fury goads Satan upon them,

Who wishes them evil.

In this way, taking bread for their journey,

From Hungry mirthfully leave

The Gypsy folk straight towards full hearted.

1

Muse! who once to Homer

Sang the Vatrachomyomachia [sic] (Battle Of The Frogs)

Be a bit kind, sing to me, too,

When Vlad Voivode gave theme liberty,

Arms and at length, a farmstead,

Of all the things the gypsy kind did do.

2

[Sing] how the gypsies wished to choose

A Voivode in their country and a helm;

How, forgetting the good life,

They bravely took up arms.

Not only this, but at last dared even to do battle

With the pagan (Ottoman) coltish rabble.

Vlad Viovode

3

How then, by means of a bitter squabble

(Fore they wouldn’t have picked up the bad habit all at once),

They all took flight, each whereto,

Leaving behind country, Voivode, and crown.

But all these things were done

By means of that devilish stupor.

4

For, tho’ he without likeness,

The worst spirit of all, Satan,

Has his dwelling everlastingly in hell

As sustenance for the unextinguished fire,

Yet, furtively, at times, still

Overturning the world, he delects himself.

5

And this particular time, he was goaded

By the cursed Fury (as I say),

Who seeing our gypsy kind

Armed with scythes and bars,

Decided to ruin them by all and any means,

Bringing enmity and strife amongst them.

6

Oh! You, much patient paper, (as paper is always patient)

That on your back, with much good will,

All the wisdom found under the sun

And all the madness carry jointly,

Carry these mine verses, too,

As I give them to you, good and bad.

7

Then let those who know say what they will,

I, along with proud Solomon will say:

Everything is vanity and madness!

For only he of that kind is happy

Who begins to know himself

And the nature of things he perceives.

8

From the northmost bound further out,

High up, in the darkening vault,

There is a place (as it is written)

That the philosophers call chaos,

Where the perpetual battle

Makes elements out of the wild waste.

9

A wicked faerie rules that land,

Who will stand no good thing,

But everything ruins and divides,

Everything shatters, pulverizes that

Which she comes upon, and Fury she is called,

Wicked offspring of father and mother.

A Wicked Fury

10

From thence, looking askance at all,

The Fury sees the villainous

Mob of gypsies armed

With hatchets, hammers, and bars.

Perceiving then what was to happen,

Well-nigh she faints with anger!

The Fury descends to Hell and speaks to Satan, her Father. She tells him that the Gypsies have abandoned their wandering ways and have settled in Wallachia to help Vlad Dracula, to whom they have pledged their allegiance.

Thanking his daughter Satan then ascends from Hell and assumes the guise of a raven. He then pledges his support to the invading Ottomans (pagans).

29

There, from all of the country,

Had gathered the gypsies, big and small,

Abandoning their wandering life

And committing to new circumstances:

No longer to walk from country to country,

Nor to be subject to others’ abasement.

30

For, with this covenant, Vlad Voivode

Had given them land for domains,

So that from this day forward they, too, may be

Like other men and live in order;

And they long counseled among themselves

How these things best should be settled.

31

This time, as well, it was a day of counsel,

The sum of their most learned boyars (irony)

Had gathered all together,

Speaking much words and noisily.

At last, Drăghici made plain the cause

And addressed the gathering in this manner:

32

“Good men! Having lived in this here world,

Much has befallen me, both bad and good,

Much I have seen and done, on purpose and as jokes,

But (I tell you truly) of all those there things,

A thing like this, done either on purpose or for fun,

I have never seen in my whole life.

33

To have a little country! Us, the gypsies . . .

Where we would’a be only us with us!

To have villages, houses, gardens, and fields

And then to have plenty of everything, like others have?

Truly! Beholding things as rare as this,

It’s though I dreamt while wakin’ . . .

34

Well, and what more do we really need

To have us a happy life?

Truly, nothing! Only how much it eats at me

Oh, the thought! Meaning the notion

Of that little moment, the last in my life,

For it would’a woe to die now!

35

I fear only that I’ll never come

To see the gypsies put to order.

Oh! The sweet and dear spring

Of my days, how has it set!

Now would’a be the time to live in that world

As you best please, as your nature invites you!

36

You, youths, take heed

What Old Man Drăghici tells you now:

Make yourself good settlements

And dwell together here;

Be always of one mind and will,

More heartily in time of need.

37

For, if you do not join up hands,

Loving to cleave and come together,

A foreign tongue will soon oppress you,

And you will’a be lost without deliverance.

Nore will you make a folk for yourselves in that world,

But you will be without a country and name.

38

Not only this, but you’ll a be as you was,

As are the cursed Jews, behold! . . .

Who have no country, but live on th’road…

Be the country as poor as it may,

It is sweet when someone can say:

This is my county, I’m from ‘ere! . . .”

I owe a huge debt of thanks to Asymptote and their translation by Carla Baricz.