VOL. II.

But now to you the simple sort
Leave off from taking part

And speede apace unto your home,
And to your Prince convart.
Afore that God in wrath doe rise
By Princes furie wrought.

To beate ye downe in fielde by force
And bring ye all to nought
Doe you suppose, a Princes powre
Your Captaines may resist,
There is of you can tell ye no
And if so be they list.

In hir most noble fathers dayes
When he came with his powre
Have ye forgot when ye were up
How eche man took his bower
How often in one yeare ye rose
The Chronicles doth tell,

And yet no boote, ye had no gaine
Although ye did rebel.

You never hard, nor ever read

That Rebelles dyd prevayle

And doe you thinke by dente of sworde
To make your prince to quaile.

Nay make your count, though you do thinke
That many be as you,

Of popishe mynd, yet shall you finde

Their hearts to be full true.

And multitudes that doe beleeve

This love to be full right,
Are ready prest to take hir part
If you will trye hir might.
But better no: returne in time

If you hir grace doe loove
And seeke not iustice as your right,

But doe hir mercie proove.

You cannot poynt, if fielde be fought
The victorie at wyll,

What gaine shall come unto your part
When eche doth other kill?

R

O simple men why should ye thus
Despise the quiet state?

Of this the realme so governed
As you were in of late!

The realmes about so troubled

And you in quiet rest,

Who shall the breakers of the same
Not utterly detest?

And what if that ye should increase
(As God forbid the same)

And princes powre with rebels might
Should runne abrode by fame
Would not the foes that now be still
Then buskell to come in,

When feebled is the land of might
By broyles that ye begin
Their holinesse and yours is like
They seeke but for to raine,
And for your making of their way
You shall of them be slaine,

Therefore take counsell yet in time
Afore yee go to farre,

Your Queene, your realme, and happie state
Above all things prefarre.

For make account, ye shall not bring
The state to you to yeelde,

You shall first fynd the English bloud,

To lie in many a feelde.

The sonne, the father, ye shall bring
With dent of sword to stryke

The brother shall the brother meete

And doe also the lyke.

In princes cause no kith nor kinne
Affinitie nor blood,

Shall staye the subiect to set out

To speed both life and good.
With conscience good and fayth full sure,
Though he be slaine in feelde

Yet shall he as true subiect dye

And so his soule up yeelde

Whereas if you in fielde be slayne
Because ye did rebell

By fact, your slaughter hat the waye
To Devills that are in hell.

Who for because they did arise
Against the Lord of might,
As you doe now against his powre
They lost eternall light

The fatherlesse that ye shall make
And widdowes in their wo

Shall pray your fee in torments great

To be for doing so.

Yea of your own that you shall leave

Shall cursse you for your deedes, When they shall feele the plague to stretch To them, for your yll meedes.

Bethink yourselves and take advice

And speedily repent

Accept the pardon of the Prince

When it to you is sent.

So may you save your bodies yet

Your soules and eke your good,

And stay the Devil that hopes by you
To spill much Christian blood

God save our Queene, and keep in peace
This Island evermore.

So shall we render unto him

Eternall thanks therefore.

MEMOIR OF JAMES BROWN,

The "Durham Poet."

BY JAMES HENRY DIXON, ESQ.

EXTRACTED FROM "HONE'S EVERY-DAY BOOK," WITH CORRECTIONS AND ALTERATIONS,

BY THE AUTHOR.

HIS curious personage was well known, for a long series of years, to the inhabitants of Northumberland and Durham, and we believe few men have figured on the stage of the world, more remarkable for their peculiarities and eccentricities.

Of the early part of James Brown's life, little is known that can be depended upon,

but the compiler of the present article has heard him assert, that he was born at Berwick-upon-Tweed; if this be the case, it is probable he left that town at a very early age, as in his speech, none of the provincialisms of the lower order of inhabitants of Berwick, could be observed, and had he resided there for any length of time, he must have imperceptibly imbibed the vulgar dialect. Certain, however, it is, that when a young man he resided in that "fashionable" part of Newcastle-upon-Tyne called "the Side," where he kept a rag-shop, and was in the habit of attending the fairs in the neighbourhood, with clothes ready-made for sale. During his residence in Newcastle his first wife died; of this person he always spoke in terms of affection, and was known long after her death, to shed tears on her being alluded to. In all probability it was owing to his loss, that his mind became disturbed, and from an industrious tradesmen he became a fanatic. A few years after her decease, he married a Miss Richardson, of Durham, a respectable though a very eccentric character, and who survived him a year. This lady being possessed of a theatre, and some other little property in Durham, he removed to that city to reside.

When Brown first devoted himself to the Muses is uncertain, but about forty-six years ago, he lived in Newcastle, where he styled himself the poet-laureate of that place, and published a poem explanatory of a chapter in the Apocalypse, which was "adorned" with a hideous engraving of a beast with ten horns. Of this plate he always spoke in terms of rapture. We have heard that it was designed by the bard; but as Mr. B., though a poet, never laid any claim to the character

of an artist, it is our belief that he had no hand in its manufacture, but that it was the work of some of those waggish friends who deceived him by their tricks, and rendered his life a pleasure; for their ingenious fictions prevented his dwelling on scenes, by which his existence might have been embittered, and it is but justice to his numerous hoaxers to assert, that without their pecuniary assistance he would have often been in want of common necessaries. Though credulous he was honest; though poor he was possessed of many virtues; and while they laughed at the fancies of the visionary, they respected the man. Brown, once indulged a gentleman in Durham, with a sight of the drawing above alluded to, and on a loud laugh at what the poet esteemed the very perfection of terrific sublimity, Brown told him "he was no christian, or he would not deride a scriptural drawing which the angel Gabriel had approved!"

Brown's poesy was chiefly of a serious nature, (at least it was intended to be so,) levity and satire were not his forte. Like Dante, his imagination was gloomy-he delighted to describe the torments of hell the rattling of the chains, and the screams of the damned; the mount of Sisyphus was his Parnassus, the Styx was his Helicon, and the pale forms that flit by Lethe's billows, the muses that inspired his lay. His poems consisted chiefly of visions, prophecies, and rhapsodies, suggested by some part of the sacred volume, of the contents of which he had an astonishing recollection. When he was at the advanced age of ninety-two, it was almost impossible to quote any passage of scripture to him, without his remembering the book, chapter, and frequently the verse, from whence it was taken. Of his poetry we cannot say any thing in praise; it had "neither rhyme nor reason," it was such as a madman would inscribe on the walls of his cell. His song, like that of the witches in Thalaba, was "an unintelligible song to all but the writer, on whose mind when reading it, to use the words of one of the sweetest of our modern poets, "meaning flashed like strong inspiration." The only two lines in his works that have any thing like meaning in them are

"When men let Satan rule their heart

They do act the devil's part."

Our author's last, and as he esteemed it, his best work-his "monumentum ære perennius," was a pamplet published in Newcastle, in 1820, by Preston and Heaton, at the reasonable price of one shilling; for, unlike his brother bards, Mr. Brown never published in an expensive form. He was convinced that merit would not lie hid though concealed in a pamphlet, but like Terence's beauty, "diu latere non potest," and that nonsense, though printed in quarto with the types of a Davison, would be still unnoticed and neglected. On his once being shown