Gents Mag 1825 part 1 p.489

Gents Mag 1825 part 1 p.489




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	list, 2nd qtr 19th century

	Gentleman's Magazine 1825 part 1 p.489
Earl of Derwentwater poem
	Song on the Death of Lord Derwentwater Westmoreland, May 12. Mr. URBAN, THE following is an Old Song on the death of RATCLIFFE, Earl of DERWENTWATER, who was beheaded as a Traitor, on Tower-hill, Feb. 24, 1716. It was one of the most popular in its day, in the North of England, for a long period after the event which it records had taken place. I took it down from the dictation of an old person who learned it from her father. In its oral descent, from generation to generation, it had got a little corrupted. But a poetical friend of mine has assisted me in restoring it to something like poetical propriety. My dictator could not go further than the 17th verse, and supposed that it ended there; which seemed defective. The four last verses are now added to give a finish. There is a pathetic simplicity in the song at once affecting and interesting; and which renders it, I think, deserving of preservation in your columns. G.H. King George he did a letter write, And sealed it up with gold, And sent it to Lord Derwentwater, To read it if he could. He sent his letter by no post, He sent it by no page; But sent it by a gallant Knight, As e'er did combat wage. The first line that my Lord look'd on, Struck him with strong surprise: The second more alarming still, Made tears fall from his eyes. He called up his stable groom, Saying, 'Saddle me well my steed; For I must up to London go, Of me there seems great need.' His lady hearing what he said, As she in child-bed lay, Cry'd, 'My dear Lord, pray, make your will, Before you go away.' 'I'll leave to thee, my eldest son, My house and my land; I'll leave to thee my younger son, Ten thousand pounds in hand. 'I'll leave to thee, my lady gay, My lawful married wife, A third part of my whole estate, To keep thee a lady's life.' He knelt him down by her bed-side, And kissed her lips so sweet; The words that pass'd, alas, presaged! They never more should meet. Again he call'd his stable groom, Saying, 'Bring me out my steed, For I must up to London go, With instant haste and speed.' He took the reins into his hand, Which shook with fear and dread; The rings from off his fingers drop't; His nose gush'd out and bled. He had but ridden miles two or three, When stumbling fell his steed; 'Ill omens these,' Derwentwater said, 'That I for James must bleed!' As he rode up Westminster-street, In sight of the White Hall; the lords and ladies of London town, A traitor they did him call.
	'A traitor!'

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