Historic England listing: Pottergate Pant
Keys to the past: Pottergate Pant
This is believed to be the site of the earliest pant in Alnwick, which existed in 1611, but the structure pictured dates from 1790. It was also referred to as the "Low Pant" to distinguish it from St Michael's, or the "High Pant".
The local paper reported that "It is chiefly notorious as the scene of disgraceful brawling and drunkenness in our times, and as the centre of abominable nuisances which will be most easily obviated by its removal and the erection in its stead of a smaller pant, which at the same time will be more ornamental and in better taste".
Resource entry for file: pants lament.png
ORIGINAL POETRY. THE PANT’S LAMENT. “Tf you have tears, prepare to shed them now.” 4 Shakespearey ’Twas at the foot of ancient Pottergate : Pelted the rain, and ran the gutters brown, Yea, loud and wild and like a river in spate The water of the rain came rolling down, And oh! the street was in a fearful state ; But this might have been said of the whole town— From broken spouts the windy streams let fly, Splashed, soused, and drenched the hapless passer-by. The morn had risen, its grey delightless light Was filter’d thro’ the mist and murky air, Revealing the Low Pant, a dismal sight, Squat, huge, stuck round with bills and posters rare, = Bills of all kues, green, red, blue, yellow, white= An ugly sight, that makes the stranger stare— A sight by all the Local Board confess’d Tho nighimare of the visions of their rest. This saw I, and behold! while I did gaae, The voice of that great Pant thro’ the cold morn Came clear and mournful, and with much amaze I heard these accents dreary and forlorn ; © Ah, woe is me! for fallen on evil days And evil tongues, [ am the general acorn. It was not so when in a style so dainty I first was builded by the Four-and-Twenty : “T then could boasta grace, a fascination, That charm’d beholders, were they ne’er so cold. Ah! why this scorn this change, this sad mutation ? My aspect ie not changed, tho’ I grow old. Why should I now be brought to desolation By Board-of-Health men desperate and bold ? Strong is my frame; my fountain faileth never ; And my lead cistern’s just as good as ever. “‘My watering-trough holds water pure and clear, As many a milch cow, many a cart-horse knows: That trough, from old associations dear, Horses and cows will both be loth to lose.’” (To look into the trouzh I ventured near, With timorous foot and finger-guarded nose. Three kittens and two puppies had been drown’d in it, And other filth might also have been found in it.) “Many an abusive word on me they waste, And every budding school-miss in her teens Floutsme Good now, whats elegance? what's taste? Can anybody tell me what it means ? Why pull me down in such a furious haste Because some artist-critic intervenos And, fall of fine-spun theories esthetic, Dubs me a hideous hulk in mood splenetic ? “Oh, but they think, it seems, I stop the way, Am out of keeping, and quite spoil the street ! Sure, I’ve ne’er stopped the carts this many a day: I'm of opinion that my style is neat, Let your new-fangled folks think what they may ; And as for tkese new buildings, sure, ’tis meet That they should be pnil’d down rather than I— They’re new, I’m eld, mine’s the priority, “Tis they don’t harmonize with me, you'll find! T've quiet tastes, and I like nothing new. I; does not seem, to my old-fashioned mind, Critics with common sense have much to do ; And, as for style and taste, I am inclined To lay down this as the most rational view— Ponder my words, ye critics, o’er and o’ er— A piinp should be a pump and nothing more, “T’m one of the old school, and I was bred Before these new ideas had come up What's Art? Your rich man may rerplex his head About it: but my drink’s not for Acs cup ; I fili for poorer foiks who can't be fed On such-like notions—give them bite and sup, Whisky, potatoes, and no more they need, = That’s all the Art they care for, ‘tis indeed. “ Ah, what avails to talk of things like these ? My days are nearly done, the hour is fast Approaching when my cruel enemies Will say, ‘There! the old Pant is down at last; So perish all such hideosities !” And terms opprobrious at my corpse they’ll cast. Sweet Pottergate, farewell! Oh me! this grief Rends my old heart, and there is no relief. “ Sons of the Tunnel, rich-brogued Irishmen, Ye worthy scions of the O's and Mac’s, How often have ye hurtled round me when Shillelaghs fit to give heroic thwacks Were brandished in your vigorous fists, and then ¥e hit each other's crowns tremendous cracks ! Did ye not prise me, boys, when after fray My water washed your sanguine stains awa y ? “ Sons of the Tunnel, oft with rapture keen T’ve eyed your gamesome ways. Condemn’d I am To view no more the animated scene _ When frisks and frolics each Hibernian lamb Around my trough, and echoes loud, I weea, The far-resounding oath that rhymes with cram. T've look’d my last your pleasing sports upon; Farewell, my children, I will soon be gone. “Ye too, wild flowers of Erin, nymphs, O ye That near the foot of Pottergate do dwell, Dishevell’d dames of fluent speech and free, Bright natives of this region, fare ye well! No more your poor old friend, n> more, ah me! Shall hear the shrill-edged scream, the wild-giv’n yell, i. When®ye hold high debate this site around, When nails grow eager, and when words aboynd. « Farewell, my foes! for I have many a foe, Yes, many a foo that should have been my friend : Some live close by, and some by name I know. Painters ehall pass, ani architects shall end, The lawyer and the merchant both shall And even doctors unto Time shall bend. Since for an old-established Pant they knew me, To Time they might have ‘eft it to undome, “A new erection on my site must rise ‘When of my pile shall not remain a stone ; But later Boards may newer plans devise, And it, like me, be doom’d and overthrown, Grow arearier still, ye death-presaging skies ! Dreary am I, and helpless, and alone. Rain on, ye clouds! my parting moan is o’er : I that have spoken once will speak no more.’’ Bust pines words eat T astonish’d heard im morn of tempest and d i I own that I am but a so1 y taed | aes ans "tis coo tee hie U here indits me, ‘riends, 'gainst that ici Theard the words; and what T heal T wren)? Swans sing before their death: then why not grant Such strains may issue from a death-doom'd Pant ?
ORIGINAL POETRY. THE PANT’S LAMENT.
“If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.” Shakespeare
'Twas at the foot of ancient Pottergate :
Pelted the rain, and ran the gutters brown,
Yea, loud and wild and like a river in spate
The water of the rain came rolling down,
And oh! the street was in a fearful state ;
But this might have been said of the whole town—
From broken spouts the windy streams let fly,
Splashed, soused, and drenched the hapless passer-by.
The morn had risen, its grey delightless light
Was filter’d thro’ the mist and murky air,
Revealing the Low Pant, a dismal sight,
Squat, huge, stack round with bills and posters rare, :
Bills of all hues, green, red, blue, yellow, white—
An ugly sight, that makes the stranger stare—
A sight by all the Local Board confess’d
The nightmare of the visions of their rest.
This saw I, and behold! while I did gaze,
The voice of that great Pant thro’ the cold morn
Came clear and mournful, and with much amaze
I heard these accents dreary and forlorn :
"Ah, woe is me! for fallen on evil days
And evil tongues, I am the general scorn.
It was not so when in a style so dainty
I first was builded by the Four-and-Twenty :
“I then could boast a grace, a fascination,
That charm’d beholders, were they ne’er so cold.
Ah! why this scorn this change, this sad mutation ?
My aspect is not changed, tho’ I grow old.
Why should I now be brought to desolation
By Board-of-Health men desperate and bold ?
Strong is my frame; my fountain faileth never ;
And my lead cistern’s just as good as ever.
“‘My watering-trough holds water pure and clear,
As many a milch cow, many a cart-horse knows:
That trough, from old associations dear,
Horses and cows will both be loth to lose.’”
(To look into the trough I ventured near,
With timorous foot and finger-guarded nose.
Three kittens and two puppies had been drown'd in it,
And other filth might also have been found in it.)
“Many an abusive word on me they waste,
And every budding school-miss in her teens
Flouts me Good now, whats elegance? what's taste?
Can anybody tell me what it means ?
Why pull me down in such a furious haste
Because some artist-critic intervenes
And, fall of fine-spun theories esthetic,
Dubs me a hideous hulk in mood splenetic ?
“Oh, but they think, it seems, I stop the way,
Am out of keeping, and quite spoil the street !
Sure, I’ve ne’er stopped the carts this many a day:
I’m of opinion that my style is neat,
Let your new-fangled folks think what they may ;
And as for these new buildings, sure, ’tis meet
That they should be pull’d down rather than I—
They’re new, I’m old, mine’s the priority,
“Tis they don’t harmonize with me, you'll find!
I've quiet tastes, and I like nothing new.
I; does not seem, to my old-fashioned mind,
Critics with common sense have much to do ;
And, as for style and taste, I am inclined
To lay down this as the most rational view—
Ponder my words, ye critics, o’er and o’ er—
A pump sould be a pump and nothing more,
“‘I’m one of the old school, and I was bred
Before these new ideas had come up
What’s Art? Your rich man may perplex his head
About it: but my drink’s not for Acs cup ;
I fili for poorer foiks who can’t be fed
On such-like notions—give them bite and sup,
Whisky, potatoes, and no more they need, =
That’s all the Art they care for, ‘tis indeed.
“ Ah, what avails to talk of things like these ?
My days are nearly done, the hour is fast
Approaching when my cruel enemies
Will say. ‘There! the old Pant is down at last;
So perish all such hideosities ! ’
And terms opprobrious at my corpse they’ll cast.
Sweet Po te, farewell! Oh me! this grief
Rends my old heart, and there is no relief.
“ Sons of the Tunnel, rich-brogued Irishmen,
Ye worthy scions of the O's and Mac’s,
How often have ye hurtled round me when
Shillelaghs fit to give heroic thwacks
Were brandished in your vigorous fists, and then
Ye hit each other's crowns tremendous cracks !
Did ye not prize me, boys, when after a fray
My water washed your sanguine stains away ?
“Sons of the Tunnel, oft with rapture keen
I’ve eyed your gamesome ways. Condemn’d I am
To view no more the animated scene —
When frisks and frolics each Hibernian lamb
Around my trough, and echoes loud, I weea,
The far-resounding oath that rhymes with cram.
I've look'd my last your pleasing sports upon;
Farewell, my children, I will soon be gone.
“Ye too, wild flowers of Erin, nymphs, O ye
That near the foot of Pottergate do dwell,
Dishevell’d dames of fluent speech and free,
Bright natives of this region, fare ye well!
No more your poor old friend, no more, ah me !
Shall hear the shrill-edged scream, the wild-giv’n yell
When ye hold high debate this site around,
When nails grow eager, and when words abound.
“Farewell, my foes! for I have many a foe,
Yes, many a foe that should have been my friend :
Some live close by, and some by name I know,
Painters shall pass, and architects shall and,
The lawyer and the merchant both shall
And even doctors unto ‘Time shall et
Since for an old-established Pant they knew me
To Time they might have ‘eft it to undo me, ’
“A new erection on my site must rise
When of my pile shall not remain a stone -
But later Boards may newer plans devise, ”
And it, like me, be doom'd and overthrown
Grow drearier still, ye death-presaging skies !
Dreary am I, and helpless, and alone.
Rain on, ye clouds! my parting moan is o’er:
I that have spoken once will speak no more.’’
Such were the words that I astonish’d heard
On that dim morn of tempest and dead light.
I own that I am but a sorry bard ;
But 'tis no faible what I here indite
Let me, kind friends, ’gainst that suspicicion guard
I heard the words; and what I heard I write
Swans sing before their death: then why not grant
Such strains may issue from a death-doom'd Pant ? ”
A joint project by Alnwick Chamber of Trade, Alnwick Civic Society, and others to identify, assess, preserve / enhance and promote Alnwick pants.
Pottergate Pant New
Pottergate Pant Old
Pottergate Pant with urinal