ON THE DEATH OF BOLD ARCHY.

Bold Archy's dead! and long for him will poor Newcastle fret, Her sun of glory has gone down, her brightest star is set: From the Blue Stone to Cawsey Bridge, from Tynemouth Bar and round by Stella, Not one remains to fill the seat left vacant by this honest fellow. The funeral flag hung drooping low as he was carried by, And many gaz'd, and many a tear was wip'd from many an eye; And all did then the truth record;—warm was the heart now still and caller— So lay him softly in the sod, fam'd man of might, and prince of valour! Farewell! farewell! my local harp I'll bury with the brave, And sadly plant my local wreath to flourish on his grave! Both English and outlandish names must one day pass oblivion's portal, But Archy's shall survive them all, and well deserves to be immortal.