Stood at the Cross from time immemorial down till 1815, when it was “wantonly and maliciously tumbled down and broken” by a pafty of young fellows who were “out for a spree” one night. William Muir, the Birdston poet, thus laments the circumstance: -

Lang was thou station’d at the cross,
An’ stood fu’ big, upright, an’ doss.
How lang, record is at a loss,
I dread to ken.
Thou’rt aulder far than Joseph’s close,
Poor auld cross stane.

When thou was set upo’ thy feet,
To look about to ilka street,
The bodies thought thee as complete
Frae en’ to en’
As that braw steeple, ev’ry whit,
Poor auld cross stane.

Whar now will glowrin’ bodies stop,
To see a sale for public roup,
O’ ‘‘carts an* harrows, growing crop?”
In letters plain,
On thee they were a’ plaistered up,
Poor auld cross stane.

Bairns ran about thee at their games,
An* cry’d on ane anither’s names,
They lik’d thee letter than their hames,
Thou was their den;
But fate’s deprived them now, it seems,
O’ the cross stane.

Ye baillies, if ye’re worth a bubble,
Spare nae expense, and spare nae trouble,
To catch the sacrilegious rabble,
An mak’ them fain,
Awa* in convict ships to hobble,
Frae the cross stane.