_LINES_ ON JOHN THOMPSON, _Who was hanged on Newcastle Town Moor, for Horse Stealing, about 20 Years ago._
John Thompson just now, Will find it is true, That thieving is worse than the sword; In the space of an hour, He’ll dance on the Moor, Attach’d to a rope, or a cord.
Of a pitman we’ll sing, Who works for the king, Jovial, good natur’d, and civil; He’ll work and he’ll sing, And profit he’ll bring, From caverns that’s near to the devil.
To his labour below, With courage he’ll go, Upon his pit rope and his crook; Nor will he once dwell On the visions of hell, Nor yet _fash_ his thumb with a book.
All his wish is good ale, An’ his claes upon sale, For a tankard he’ll put ev’ry night: Let the learned still think, That a hearty sound drink, Is a pitman’s most crowned delight.
_Written principally by MR GEORGE PICKERING, and sung by a Member of the Forest Hunt, Newcastle, at the Conclusion of the Season, March 29th, 1786; and afterwards at the Theatre Royal, by Mr Marshall._
Since Winter’s keen blast must to Zephyr give place, We resign, for a season, the joys of the chase; The cry of the hounds and of hunters must cease, And puss thro’ the woodlands may ramble in peace; In peace let her ramble, regardless and free, Till the horn’s cheerful note shall awake us with glee; Till October returns, let her frolic and play, And then we’ll pursue her with “Hark, hark away.” With hark, hark away, With hark, hark away, And then we’ll pursue her with hark, hark away!
When ting’d were the hills with the crimson of morn, We jocundly rose to the sound of the horn; Triumphant its melody swell’d o’er the plain, While the heath-cover’d mountains re-echo’d the strain: Hark, hark! was the mandate, we flew like the wind, And care’s haggard visage was distanc’d behind: What joys can be equal to those we display, When we follow the harriers with hark, hark away! With hark, hark away, &c.
Like the soldier return’d from a far hostile shore, Recounting his toils and his victories o’er, Of the battle’s loud din, where his courage so true, Obtain’d the green laurel, entwining his brow. Of chases now past let our narrative be, Till Winter’s pale hand shall dismantle the tree; Then, then to the forest exultingly stray, And cheer the fleet harriers with hark, hark away. With hark, hark away, &c.