The Salamanca Corpus: The Bishoprick Garland or a Collection of Legends, Songs, Ballads, &c. …(1834)

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Play Bill, April 1, 1791.
AVING now trespassed largely on the sufferance of the general reader, and even run the risk of being considered wearisome by those whose local feelings render their patience more enduring, the GARLAND draws to a conclusion, with a few Sayings belonging to the Bishoprick, a few unrecorded Epitaphs, and a Ballad which will make ample amends for many of the trifling articles, which have appeared in the foregoing pages.



Where never straight tree stood.

The prevailing South Western gales have full sweep over the Manor of Evenwood, and the few trees that appear there, are generally stunted and mishapen.

Rain in April—rain in May,

Or Mainsforth farewell to corn and hay.

Mainsforth stands on a dry gravelly soil, and requires frequent moisture.

To take Darnton trod—which is the road south—is said figuratively of any one who wishes to elude pursuit.
I’ve been as far south as Sedgefield, where they call strea, straw!


Walter Balcanquall, Dean of Durham, fled with precipitation on the Scott’s army entering the Bishoprick.

Surtees, v. 1, p. xcvi.


Brackenbury, vide page 4.


Garlands are still used in some of the remote villages of the county, and precede the funeral processions of unmarried females. They are afterwards suspended in the Chancel.

“A Garland fresh and fair,

Of lillies there was made;

In sign of her virginitie,

And on her coffin laid.”



The turbulent Republican, of the family of Thickly, in the County of Durham.
Lay Lilburn here, and lay John here-a-bout,

For if they both fall in, they’ll both fall out.


Here lies Robert Trollop,*

Who made yon stones roll up;

When death took his soul up,

His body fill’d this hole up.

Here lies Cooper, all alone,

Matthew is dead, the base is gone.
Said to be written on old Matthew Cooper, Clerk, M.A., one of the petit canons, and singing men of the Cathedral.
Pray for the soule of gentle John,

If ye please ye may, or let it alone—

‘Tis all one.
Under this Thorn tree,

Lies honest Barnabee;

But where he is gone,

* He is said to have been the Architect of the Exchange at Newcastle. But there are different readings; and he is also said to have made these stones roll up—as the builder of Gateshead Church. There is still a burial place at Gateshead, which belonged to the Trollops, who were masons for many generations.

To Heaven or Hell—

[I freely do own]

That I cannot tell.
He was a Proctor at Durham, and died 18th March, 1634.

Here lies John Lively, Vicar of Kelloe,

He had seven daughters, and never a fellow.
This is equivocal, and may apply in two ways; either that he had no male issue, or that he had no equal, [or fellow] for learning in the diocese.
On the death of the wife of a respectable Bookseller, of Sunderland.
From fate there’s no defence,

Death call’d her hence—

In youth’s full pride;

Could virtue save

From an untimely grave,

She had not died.

Cunningham’s MSS.


On William Pudsey, whose mother was a daughter of Lord
Scroope, of Bolton, who was “nobly descended of ye mother, but nott of [ye] sire.”*
A Scroope in condition,

A Clifford † in face,

A Nevill in voice,

An Evers in pace.


Good Lord of thy mercy,

Take my good lady D’arcy ‡

Unto her heavenly throne;

That I little Frank,

May sit in my rank

And keep a good house of my own.

* From an ancient Calender in the possession of Mr. John Rawling Wilson, of Newcastle; formerly belonging to the Pudseys, of Barforth.

† Fair Rosamond was a Clifford.
‡ Lady D’arcy, who was the second wife of Sir William Bowes, of Biddic, and widow of Godfrey Foljambe, of Walton, Co. Derby, Esq., on whose state she had a large jointure, married thirdly, Lord D’arcy, of Aston. She was a puritan, and entertained many godly ministers. The next in the entail, who thought she had lived long enough,
“The jointur’d widow long survives,”
went to see her, and was invited to dinner, when she desired him to say grace; and with the attitude of a starch’d puritan, after the usual pause, he expressed his wishes graciously as above.
Who was murthered in the arms of his leman, in his bower at Houghton-le-Spring, 1311.
Pray for the sowle of Sir John-le-Spring,

When the black Monks sing—

And the vesper bells ring;

Pray for the sprite of a murdered Knight,

Pray for the sowle of Sir John-le-Spring.

He fell not, when before the ...............

The waning crescent fled,

When the Martyr’s palm and golden crown

Reward Christ’s soldier dead.

He fell not in the battling field,

Beneath St. George’s banner bright,

When the pealing cry of victory—

Might cheer the sowle of a dying Knight;

But at dead of night, in the soft moonlight,

In his garden bower—he lay;

And the dew of sleep, did his eye-lids steep

In the arms of his leman gay.

And by murderous hand, and bloody brand,

In that guilty bower—

With his paramour,

Did his sowle from his body fleet,

And through mist and mirk, and moonlight gray,

Was forc’d away from the bleeding clay,

To the dreaded judgment seat.
In the southern aisle, his coat of mail,

Hangs o’er his marble shrine:

And his tilting spear is rusting there,

His helm, and his gaberdine.

And aye the mass priest, sings his song,

And patters many a prayer;

And the chaunting bell tolls loud and long,

And aye, the lamp burns there.

And still, when that guilty night returns,

On the eve of St. Barnaby bright,

The dying taper faintly burns—

With a wan and a wavering light.

And the clammy midnight dew breaks forth

Like drops of agony,

From the marble dank, and the armories clank,

Affrights the priest on his knee.

And high overhead, with shivering tread,

Unearthly footsteps pass;

For the spirits of air, are gathering there,

And mock the holy mass.

Lordlings, mind how your vows you keep,

And kiss no leman gay;

For he that sinks in sin to sleep,

May never wake to pray.


Judge not sinner as thou art,

Commune with thy sinful heart—

And watch, for thou knowest not the hour;

And to Jesus bright, and Mary of might,

Pray for the sowle of the murder’d Knight,

That died in his moonlight bower.



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