Ande ye fryare hee ate, ande ye fryare hee dronke, Quithe hys relyckes ande myssall lore: Nowe thys daie wals a daie off wassell keppt, And ryche and rare wals ye feste prepardde Ande ye fyelde ande ye floode baythe yyeldedd yere Toe grace ye festalle daie; And ye wynnes fro Espagne wyche longe hadde layne, Botte fyrst ande fayrest offe al ye feste, Bye Syr Delavalle pryzd moste dere, Ye reke fro ye fyre sore hongerdde ye fryare, Ande thuss thoughte ye fryare als he sate, I wot tys noe synn ytts hede toe wynne, forre a pygges hede."—INSCRIPTION. Gyffe I mote ryghte cunnynglie; Quahat want ye, quahat want ye thoue jollie fryare, Quahat lack ye, quahat lack ye, thoue jollie fryare;- Three wearye legues fro ye Pryorye Ive com synne ye sonne hathe smylde onne ye sea. Nowe naye, nowe naye, thoue halie fryare, Syr Delavalles moode ys notte forre ye Roode, Ande hee cares nott toe shryve hys synne; And schoulde hee retorne quithe hys hoorde and horne, Forre Chryste hys sak nowe saie nott naie, Botte openne ye portalle toe mee; Ande 1 wylle donne a ryche beny zonne Forre thye gentlesse ande cortesye :— Ysse goddelesse knycghte ys ane churche hatynge wyghte, Toe fylche hymme ne knaverie. Quithe yatt hee toke hys lethernne poke, Ande whettedde hys knyfe soe shene, Ande hee patyentlye sate atte ye kytchenne yate Yenne quithe meikle drede cutte offe ye boares hede, Yenne ye fryare hee nymblie footedde ye swerde, Forre ance quithynne yttes sacredde shrynne, Botte hie thee faste quithe thye outmoste haste, Nowe Chryste ye save, quehene ye vylleins sawe, Bye Masse ande bye Roode gyffe thys boone ys quith They wyst ande grie yatte wytcherie stoode, Thoue shalte perryshe bye sorcerie. Y'enne quycklie ye portalle wals opennd wyde, Syr Delavalles hal wals made free, Hadde donne ye featouse dede⚫ Ynne sore dystraughte ye fryare they soucghte Toe helpe y'em ynne yere nede. Theye soucghte and soucghte ande lang theye soucghte, Ande ye table wals spredde forre ye fryare quithe Ne fryare ne hede cold fynde, spede, Ande he fesstedde ryghte plentyfullie: Dydde a fryare wyghte everre lack off myghte Quhenne hee token chepe hostelrye ? The Times, Forre fryare ande hede farre oer ye mede, Were scuddynge ytte lyk ye wynde: St. Oswyn's tomb was at Tynemouth Priory. Ye sunne wals hyghe yane hys journeye flyghte, Quithe hys knychtes ande ladyes pronde: Ye bagoypes y'sonde ande ye jeste went rorde, Botte meikle, botte meikle wals ye rage, Quehenne ye tale wals tolde offe ye dede sos bolde, Ande howe ynne destraucghte ye moncke they soucghte, Now rycghtlie y wyss Syr Delavalle knewe, Bye mye knycghthoode I vowe hee schalle derelye rue, Ande awaie flewe ye knycghte, lyk ane egle's flychte, Ande faste and faste Syr Delavalle rodde, Ande ye knycghte wals awar offe a fryare talle, ranne, Ye wrathe of fe ye knycghte toe eschewe. Botte staie, botte staie, thou fryare knave, Quatte thoue haste ynne yatte leatherne poke, Now Chryste ye save, sayde ye fryare knave, Thoue lyest! thoue lyest! thoue knavyshe preste, Ye knycghte hee toke ye leatherne poke, Ande hys boare's hede dydde espie, And stylle ye reke fro ye scotchedde cheke, Goddeswotte! botte hadde ye seene ye fryare, Quehenne ye knycghte drewe outte ye rekynge snoutte, Botte ye knycghte hee bangedde ye fryare aboutte, And hee bette hym als hee rolledde onne ye swerde, Tylle ye fryare dydde loudlie roare: Ne mote hee spare ye fryare maire, Y'anne Mahounde onne easterene shore.† Nowe tak ye yatte ye dogge offe ane moncke, Nowe tak ye yatte fro mee; Ande awaie rodde ye knycghte, ynne grete delycghte, Atte hys fete offe flagellrie; There is an old picturesque fishing town, called Callercoats, in the direct road between the seat of the Delavals and Tynemouth abbey. ↑ The whipping described in this ballad was performed within about three quarters of a mile from the entrance of the Abbey, within hearing and sight of the astonished "halie monckes." Ere thone wynnste thye dere countrie. Ande onne ye spotte quehere ye ruthless dede Al fayre toe see ynne masonrie, Als talle als ane oakenne treene, Thoue moste sette a stonne quithe a legende thereonne, Ye masses maiste gryevedde Syr Delavalle sore, Hee thrummelldde hys bede, ande bente hys hede, ye shore, Ye Ladye Delavalle ance maire smylde, Ande sange tylle herre wene onne herre knee, Ne gryevedde hee maire offe hys dolorres sayre, Atte Werkeworthe castelle, quilke proudlie lookes Ye Percye gretedde ye borderre knycghte, Nowe at thys daye quihile yeres rolle onne Ye stonne doth stande onne ye syiente londe Yatte ane horrydde dede forre a pygge hys hede ON THE ABOVE LEGEND. To the Editor. The legend of "Syr Delavalle. and the Moncke' is "owre true a tale. The stone syr Delavalle was compelled to erect in commemoration of this "horryd dede " is (or rather the shattered remains of its shaft are) still lying close to a neat farmhouse, called Monkhouse, supposed to be built on the identical spot on which the "flagellrie" was effected, and is often bent over by the devout lovers of monkish antiquity. The poem was found amongst the papers of an ingenious friend, who took pleasure in collecting such rhymes; but as he has been dead many years, I have no means of ascertaining at what period it was written, or whether it was the original channel through which the story has come down to posterity. I have some confused recollection, that I heard it stated my friend got this, and several similar ballads, from a very old man who resided at a romantic village, at a short distance from Tynemouth Priory, called "Holywell." It is possible that there may be some account of its source among my lamented friend's papers, but as they are very multitudinous and in a confused mass, I have never had courage te look regularly through them. There are several other poems of the like description. the labour of copying which I may be induced to undergo should I find that this is within the range of the Table Book. London, April 14, 1827. ALPHA This sketch, in the pocket-book of an artist, suddenly startled recollection to the April of my life-the season of sunshine hopes, and stormy fears-when each hour was a birth-time of thought, and every new scene was the birth-place of a new feeling. The drawing carried me back to an October morning in 1797, when I eagerly set off on an errand to Boughtonhill, near Canterbury, for the sake of seeing the country on that side of Chatham for the first time. The day was cloudy, with gales of wind. I reached Chatham-hill, and stood close to this sign, looking over the flood of the Medway to the Nore, intently peering for a further sea-view. Flashes of fire suddenly gleamed in the dim distance, and I heard the report of cannon. Until then, such sounds from the bosom of the watery element were unknown to me, and they came upon my ear with indescribable solemnity. We were at war with France; and supposing there was a battle between two fleets off the coast, my heart beat high; my thoughts were anxious, and my eyes strained with the hope of catching something of the scene I imagined. The firing was from the fleet at the Nore, in expectation of a royal review. The king was then proceeding from Greenwich to Sheerness, VOL. I.-20. the admiralty, to go on board the Dutch in the royal yacht, attended by the lords of ships captured by lord Duncan, at the battle of Camperdown. On my return to Chatham, the sign of "the Star" was surrounded by sailors, who, with their shipmates inside the house, were drinking grog out of pewter-pots and earthen basins, and vociferating "Rule Britannia." The following year, on the evening of a glorious summer's day, I found refuge in this house from the greatest storm I had then seen. and peals of thunder from the sea. It came with gusts of wind ing at the bow-window, I watched the Standlightning sheeting the horizon, making visible the buried objects in the black gloom, and forking fearfully down, while the rain fell in torrents, and the trees bent before the furious tempest like rushes. The elements quickly ceased their strife, the moon broke out, and in a few minutes there was The "Star" in war time was the constant scene of naval and military orgies, and therefore rather :epelled than courted other visitants. It is now a respectable inn and a stage for the refreshment of coach travellers. During a hasty trip to Canterbury a short time ago, Mr. Samuel Williams stopped there long enough to select its sign, and the character of the view beyond it, as a bit" for his pencil, which I, in turn, seized on, and he has engraved it as a decoration for the Table Book. My readers were instructed at the outset of the work that, if they allowed me to please myself, we might all be pleased in turn. If I am sometimes not their most faithful, I am never otherwise than their most sincere servant; and therefore I add that I am not always gratified by what gratifies generally, and I have, in this instance, presented a small matter of my particular liking. I would have done better if I could. There are times when my mind fails and breaks down suddenly when I can no more think or write than a cripple can run at other times it carries me off from what I ought to do, and sets me to something the very negative to what I wish. I then become, as it were, possessed; an untamable spirit has its will of me in spite of myself: what I have omitted, or done, in the present instance, illustrates the fact. GREENGROCERS' DEVICES. For the Table Book. Dear Sir,-In my wanderings through the metropolis at this season, I observe an Garrick Plays. No. XVII. From the "Parliament of Bees;" further Extracts.] Oberon. Flora, a Bee. Ober. A female Bee! thy character? Present it to great Oberon's love. Ober. Honey dews refresh thy meads. Cowslips spring with golden heads; May thy lilies taller grow, Thy violets fuller sweetness owe; Oberon holds a Court, in which he sentences the Wasp, the Drone, and the Humble-bee, for divers offences against the Commonwealth of Bees. Oberon. Prorex, his Viceroy; and other Pro. And whither must these flies be sent ? agreeable and refreshing novelty, an inge- Poor travellers) there lies a grove, nious contrivance to make mustard and cress seeds grow in pleasant forms over vessels and basketwork, covered on their exterior with wet flannel, wherein the seeds are deposited, and take root and grow, to adorn the table or recess. The most curious which struck me, consisted of a "hedgehog"-a doll's head looking out of its vernally-growing clothes-a "Jack in the green -a Dutch cheese in "a bower". "Paul Pry" and "Pompey's pillar." If greengrocers proceed in these devices, their ingenuity may suggest a rivalry of signs of a more lasting nature, suitable to the shop windows of other tradesmen. Yours, truly, April 30, 1827. J. R. With whom the Sun's so out of love, Half-cleft with thunder. To this grove Culprits. Some merey, Jove! Ober. You should have cried so in your youth, When Chronos and his daughter 'Truth Sojourn'd among you; when you spent |