The Dun Cow.

"Tis certain, that the Dun cow's milk,
Clothes the prebend's wives all in silk;
But this indeed is plain to me,

The Dun cow herself is a shame to see.

HESE lines are bad enough, but they are ancient, and the Dun cow figured in Hutchinson, v. 2, p. 226, is truly "a shame to see." The present Dun cow which ornaments the west corner tower of the east transept was done by John Purday, a mason in South street.

The story of the Dun cow must be familiar to every inhabitant of the county of Durham. St. Cuthbert (the patron saint)

on his death-bed, ordered his brethren rather to take his bones up and fly, than stay and submit to the yoke of "wicked schismatics.” And "bishop Eardulph and abbot Edrid, did take and carry away the body of St. Cuthbert from Holy Island, southward, and fled seven years from town to town, by reason of the great persecution and slaughter of the Pagans and Danes."

O'er northern mountain, marsh and moor,

From sea to sea, from shore to shore,

Seven years St. Cuthbert's corpse they bore.

After many wanderings, it was at last revealed unto Eadmer, a virtuous man, that he should be carried to Dunholme, and there be received into a place of rest. But being again distressed, because they were ignorant where Dunholme was, as they were going, a woman, that lacked her cow, did call aloud to her companion; to know if she had not seen her cow; who answered with a loud voice, that her cow was in Dunholme, (a happy and heavenly echo to the distressed monks, who by that means had intelligence, that they were near their journey's end), where they should find a resting place for the body of the saint. And thereupon with great joy and gladness, they brought his body to Dunholme in the year 995 which was inculta tellus, a barbarous and rude place, replenished with nothing but thorns, and thick woods, save only in the midst, where the Church now standeth, which was plain and commodious for such a purpose.

He chose his lordly seat at last,
Where his Cathedral huge and vast,
Looks down upon the Wear.

Bishoprick Garland.

Epistle

ORIGINALLY ADDRESSED

TO ROBERT BOYD, ESQ.,

APRIL 26th, 1840.

OW over auld Keildar's wild muirs

The breezes blaw saft frae the west;
Spring pranks midst her blossoms and flowers,
An' th' fields in their verdure new drest.

The lav'rocks are up in the sky, Saluting the sun's glorious beams; And the fisher is casting the fly

In North Tyne's meandering streams.

There's breckans at Deadwater Well,
And vi'lets at Hesleyside Ha',
The peewits on Hareshaw's brown Fell,
And the blasts o' grim winter awa.

I'm off in a whirlwind o' vapour;
On "Tractors metallic" I'm gone,
Wi' my creel, reel an' angle, sae taper,
-Away to the streams o' Falstone.

There, far frae the town's busy bustle,
O'er the gay daisied haughs will I roam,
And list to the song of the throstle,

Where blue-bells and wild roses bloom.

So welcome! the hawthorn and hazel,
The ivy-girt elm and "Witch tree;"
I hate the streets dirdum and dazzle,
-Rocks, rivers, and wild-woods for me.

All hail to the moorlands and mosses;
To the lads wi' their collies and kent,
And to a' the Tyneside's winsome lasses
Wha lightly bound over the bent.

And hail to the hill and the heather,

The heathcock and whistling curlew,
Once more I shall hear the shrill plover,
And the days o' life's morning renew.

They may talk of "Arabian bowers,"
And "Myrtle groves" over the sea;
Give me my Northumbria's wild flowers,
And the hills o' my native countrie!

I have fish'd in the Coquet sae clear,
The Brownie, the Breamish and Reed;
I have try'd the Kale, Wansbeck and Wear,
And tackled the trouts o' the Tweed.

I have rov'd on the braes o' fam'd Yarrow,
I have travers'd the Tiviot and Tay ;-
Thrawn the flie in the Devon and Dee,
And mony a stream farther away.

And now in the North Tyne's trouty river,
My skill piscatorial I try,

Wi' "the heuk and the hair," I'm still clever,

So laugh, and look out for "a Fry."

Elswick Villas,

Newcastle,

BISHOP WALCHER.

R. ROXBY.

THE death of Walcher, Bishop of Durham, was predicted by a man named Eardulf, who rose from the dead at Ravensworth, for that purpose. Whilst his friends were attending his funeral, he suddenly started bolt upright, and after the company were recovered from their fright by a proper quantity of holy water he proceeded to relate to them all that he had seen and heard during a trance of twelve hours. He saw several of his former acquaintance in Paradise ("beatis in sedibus florigeris ") and was an eye witness of the torments which were preparing for several incorrigible sinners yet living.—Surtees.

FRANK STOKOE.

N the early part of the last century, there lived at Chesterwood, near Haydon-bridge, a man of the name of Frank Stokoe, a person of gigantic stature-great personal strength-an expert swordsman, and, when to these qualifications we add those of fearless courage and independency of mind, we have a character of the most formidable kind:-a good friend or a dangerous enemy. He held possession of the moor country for several miles around-partly as his own

property, and partly at a very low rent, from the Derwentwater family, and such was the terror of his name in the ears of all marauders, that his cattle remained untouched, while those of his less fortunate neighbours were driven off. He also kept a pack of hounds for his own pleasure, and when a Hexham keeper ordered him to get rid of them-his reply was, "Come and take them," a request with which that functionary did not think proper to comply.

In the early part of his life, the lives and property of the Border people were entrusted to the care of certain country gentlemen— called county keepers, appointed by government for that purpose. At this time the south Tyne was entrusted to William Lowes, of Williamoteswick castle, whilst the north Tyne was under the care of Leehall, of Leehall, near Bellingham. These two worthies instead of protecting their respective charges, thought proper to quarrel, and for several years the whole of this part of the country was kept in a continual uproar with their feud. Many personal encounters took place, in all of which it is evident that Leehall had the better in point of courage, as Lowes invariably saved his life by the fleetness of his steed. At one time he was so near his end that an old woman saved him by shutting a gate in the face of Leehall-(having opened it to let Lowes through) his horse being nearly spent with galloping from Haltwhistle hotly pursued by his rival. He reached his castle before Leehall could recover himself. At an encounter near Bellingham, Lowes had his horse killed by a stab made at his thigh, and only escaped by throwing himself upon a horse standing near. This circumstance is thus alluded to in an old ballad on the subject, now lost, evidently written by a follower of Lowes

Oh had Leehall but been a man

As he was never ne'an

He wad have stabbed the rider

And letten the horse alean.