A PARODY,

Upon Newcastle Moor, Poor Matthew cast a look, When he thought on the coming hour, When his brave Noodle Troop Would lay their arms down, No longer them to bear— The brave defenders of the town— He wip'd away a tear. Beside the fatal spot, Where poor Jane did end her strife, He said that he would cut his throat, And end his wretched life— A life so press'd with care, No longer could he bear— So wildly then he tore his hair, And wip'd away a tear. He turn'd and left the ground, Where oft his red, red plume, Had spread its warlike beauty round, To the sound of fife and drum;— But now his glory's fled— No longer it he'll wear, But take it quietly from his head, And wipe away a tear. No more the Tory ranks Will glitter in the sun Nor play at e'en their childish pranks, With blunderbuss or gun; For now the doleful knell Has toll'd their last career, And, horror-struck, poor Matty Bell, Who wip'd away a tear.