The Newcastle Song Book; or, Tyne-Side Songster / Being a Collection of Comic and Satirical Songs, Descriptive of Eccentric Characters, and the Manners and Customs of a Portion of the Labouring Popula
Date: 2012-06-20T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Songs; English -- England -- Newcastle upon Tyne; English language -- Dialects -- England -- Newcastle upon Tyne

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Title: The Newcastle Song Book; or, Tyne-Side Songster

Author: Various

Release date: June 20, 2012 [eBook #40048]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by StevenGibbs, Hazel Batey and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NEWCASTLE SONG BOOK; OR, TYNE-SIDE SONGSTER ***

THE

NEWCASTLE SONG BOOK;

OR,

TYNE-SIDE

BEING A COLLECTION OF

COMIC AND SATIRICAL SONGS,

DESCRIPTIVE OF ECCENTRIC CHARACTERS,

AND THE MANNERS AND CUSTOMS OF A PORTION OF THE

LABOURING POPULATION OF NEWCASTLE AND THE

NEIGHBOURHOOD.

CHIEFLY IN THE NEWCASTLE DIALECT.

Newcastle upon Tyne:

PRINTED AND SOLD BY W. & T. FORDYCE,

No. 15, GREY STREET.

1842.

A period of sixteen years having elapsed since an edition of Local Songs was published in a collective form, and that volume having been for some time out of print, renders almost superfluous any apology in presenting the following collection to the public. During the last few years, so great has been the progress of education amongst the humbler classes of society, that many of those eccentricities so often seized upon by our Local Poets as subjects of humourous satire, are fast disappearing, and ere many more years shall have elapsed, the Songs of our Local Bards will be the only memorials of the peculiar characteristics of this ancient border town.

Should an occasional coarseness of language meet the eye, let not the fastidious reader forget, that such were the modes of expression used by the parties described, and that elegance of language would be as much out of place as are the polished classical sentences of Shenstone's rustics, so often and so justly a theme of censure.

The Publishers beg to tender their best thanks to the several respectable individuals who have so kindly favoured them with the many original pieces which appear in this volume; and regret that the limited space for an address prevents a more personal allusion, than referring the reader to their names in the table of contents.

CONTENTS.

| | Page.
Acrostic on the Death of Blind Willie, | R. Emery | 322
Alarm! or, Lord Fauconberg's March, | | 184
Amphitrite, | R. Gilchrist | 16
April Gowk; or, The Lovers Alarmed, | | 299
Baboon | Armstrong | 23
Barber's News; or, Shields in an Uproar, | J. Shield | 115
Battle of Spitaloo, | | 289
Battle on the Shields Railway, | | 291
Bear Club, | R. Gilchrist | 328
Beggars' Wedding, | | 280
Bessy of Blyth, | H. Robson | 132
Birth-Day of Queen Victoria, | R. Gilchrist | 325
Billy Oliver's Ramble between Benwell & Newcastle, | | 23
Blind Willie Singing, | R. Gilchrist | 104
Blind Willy's Flight | R. Emery | 210
Blind Willie's Death, | | 294
Blind Willie's Epitaph, | R. Gilchrist | 331
Bold Jack of the Journal | H. R. | 244
Bob Cranky's 'Size Sunday, | John Selkirk | 35
Bob Cranky's Leum'nation Neet, | John Shield | 37
Bob Cranky's Account of the Ascent of Mr Sadler's Balloon, from Newcastle, Sep. 1, 1815, | W. Midford | 42
Bob Cranky's Adieu, | John Shield | 45
Bob Fudge's Postscript | | 209
Bold Archy and Blind Willie's Lament on the Death of Capt. Starkey, | R. Gilchrist | 105
Bonassus | Oliver | 119
Bonny Keel Laddie, | | 85
Bonny Clock Fyece, | | 274
Bonny Gyetsiders, | J. Shield | 87
Bonny Keel Laddie, | | 40
British Justice; or, Newcastle Privy Court, | | 170
Broom Busoms | | 259
Burdon's Address to his Cavalry, | Jas. Morrison | 101
Canny Newcassel, | T. Thompson | 5
Canny Sheels, | John Morrison | 75
Cappy, or the Pitman's Dog, | Wm. Midford | 19
Changes on the Tyne, | | 212
Coaly Tyne, | | 79
Coal Trade, | | 146
Cobbler o' Morpeth, (Cholera Morbus,) | J. M'Lellan | 73
Collier's Rant, | | 53
Collier's Keek at the Nation, | R. Gilchrist | 102
Colliers' Pay Week | H. Robson | 122
Come up to the Scratch! or, the Pitman Haggished, | R. Emery | 160
Commit no Nonsense, | | 282
Cookson's Alkali, | | 285
Corn Market, a Lament, | | 269
Coronation Day at Newcastle, | | 201
Coronation Thursday | W. Midford | 203
Custom-house Branch, | | 216
Custom-house Tree, | | 217
Custom-house Branch, | | 218
Dance to thy Daddy, | W. Watson | 261
Death of Bold Archy, | R. Gilchrist | 330
Do li a, | | 281
Donocht-Head, | R. Pickering | 326
Drucken Bella Roy, O!, | | 272
Duchess and Mayoress | | 142
Eagle Steam Packet, | Wm. Midford | 11
Election Day, | W. Watson | 232
Euphy's Coronation, | Thomas Marshall | 241
Farewell to the Tyne, | R. Gilchrist | 140
Famed Filly Fair; or, A Peep into Pilgrim-street, | | 166
Farewell, Archy!, | | 175
Fishwives' Complaint | R. Emery | 71
Friar and the Nun, | | 263
Gateshead Rads, | | 230
Geordy's Disaster | | 296
George the Fourth's Coronation | | 191
Gipsy's Song, | H. Robson | 223
Glister | Armstrong | 10
Golden Horns; or, The General Invitation, | | 193
Green's Balloon, | | 97
Greenwives' Lamentation, | | 70
Half-drowned Skipper, | | 186
Herbage Committee, | R. Gilchrist | 327
Humble Petition of the Old House in the Shieldfield to John Clayton, Esq. | R. Gilchrist | 239
Hydrophobie; or, Skipper and Quaker, | R. Emery | 63
Invitation to the Mansion-house Dinner in Honour of the Coronation | Armstrong | 191
Jemmy Joneson's Whurry, | T. Thompson | 12
Jenny Hoolet: or, Lizzie Mudie's Ghost, | Armstrong | 9
Jesmond Mill, | Phil. Hodgson | 139
Jocker | Nunn | 267
Johnny Sc--tt and Tommy C--rr. A Dialogue, | | 150
Jossy's Nag's Head, | | 297
Keel Row (New) | T. Thompson | 114
Keelman and the Grindstone, | Armstrong | 64
Kelvin Grove.--The Lassie's Answer, | H. Robson | 132
Kitty Port Admiral at the Bench, | | 152
Lass of Wincomblee, | | 329
Little Pee Dee, | | 30
Lizzie Liberty, | H. Robson | 136
Lizzie Mudie's Ghost, | Armstrong | 9
Local Militia-man, | Wm. Midford | 92
Lovely Delia | | 155
Loyal Festivities; or, Novel Scenes at Newcastle, | | 194
Lukey's Dream, | | 265
Mary Drue, | T. Houston | 233
Maw Canny Hinny, | | 41
Masquerade at Newcastle Theatre, | Wm. Midford | 94
Mayor of Bourdeaux; or, Mally's Mistake, | Wm. Midford | 46
Misfortunes of Roger and his Wife, | J. B. | 172
Mechanics' Procession; or, a Trip to South Shields, | R. Emery | 221
Miraculous Well; or, Newcastle Spaw Water, | R. Emery | 321
More Innovations, | R. Gilchrist | 238
Music Hall, | | 275
My Lord 'Size, | John Shield | 17
Nancy Wilkinson, | H. Robson | 96
Nanny of the Tyne | Gibson | 86
Natural Philosopher; or, The Downfall of the Learned Humbugs!, | | 229
Newcastle Fair; or, Pitman drinking Jackey, | | 28
New Keel Row, | T. Thompson | 55
Newcastle Wonders; or, Hackney Coach Customers, | R. Emery | 65
Newcassel Races | W. Watson | 81
Newcastle Signs, | Cecil Pitt | 89
Newgate-street Petition to Mr. Mayor, | | 99
Newcassel Props | Oliver | 110
Newcassel Wonders, | | 111
Newcastle Subscription Mill, | H. Robson | 135
New Fish Market, | Wm. Midford | 137
New Year's Carol for the Fishwives of Newcastle, | M. Ross | 138
Newcastle Assizes (Duchess versus Mayoress); or, A Struggle for Precedence, | | 144
Newcastle Hackneys, | | 157
Newcastle Hackney Coaches | Oliver | 158
Newcastle Improvements, | R. Charlton | 159
Newcastle Noodles, | James Morrison | 168
Newcastle Swineherd's Proclamation, | | 191
Newcastle Theatre in an Uproar, | | 173
Newcastle Worthies, | Wm. Armstrong | 187
Newcastle in an Uproar; or, George the Fourth's Coronation | W. Midford | 198
Newcastle Beer versus Spaw Water; or, The Pitman and Temperance Society, | R. Emery | 303
Newcastle Blunderbuss! or, Travelling Extraordinary, | R. Emery | 316
Newcastle Old Country Gentleman, | | 278
Newcastle Landlords, | W. Watson | 249
New Markets | Oliver | 211
New Markets; or, Newcastle Improvements, | Midford | 236
New Nursery Rhyme, | | 283
New Song for Barge-day, 1835, | R. Gilchrist | 254
North Shields Song, | | 282
Northumberland Free o' Newcassel, | R. Gilchrist | 141
Old Nick's Visit to H-ll's Kitchen, | | 189
Old and curious Song, on the late Mr. R. Clayton being made an Alderman, | | 247
On Simpson the Pedestrian's Failure, | | 181
Opening of the New Markets, | | 235
Owl | R. Emery | 153
Oyster-wife's Petition on the Removal of the Oyster-tub from the Quay, | R. Emery | 257
Paganini, the Fiddler; or, Pitman's Frolic | R. Emery | 256
Pandon Dean, | | 156
Parody on Billy Oliver's Ramble, | | 25
Parody, | | 227
Parson Malthus | | 129
Peggy's Leg | H. R. | 84
Permanent Yeast | John Morrison | 76
Peter Watson, | H. Robson | 133
Petition from the Women of the Vegetable Market to the Mayor of Newcastle, | | 71
Peter Waggy, | H. Robson | 131
Picture of Newcastle; or, George the Fourth's Coronation, | Wm. Midford | 196
Pitman's Revenge against Bonaparte | Shield | 33
Pitman's Skellyscope, | Wm. Midford | 39
Pitman's Ramble; or, Newcastle Finery, | | 77
Pitman's Courtship, | Wm. Midford | 21
Pitman's Dream; or, a Description of the North Pole, | R. Emery | 162
Pitman's Dream; or, a Description of the Kitchen, | R. Emery | 164
Pitman's Pay; or, a Night's Discharge to Care, | Thomas Wilson | 304
Pitman's Ramble | R. Emery | 286
Pitman's Visit to Newcastle on Valentine's Day, | | 317
Politicians, | | 60
Quack Doctors, | | 82
Quayside Shaver, | Wm. Stephenson | 7
Quayside Ditty for February, 1816, | | 66
Russell the Pedestrian, | | 180
Sandgate Wife's Nurse Song | Nunn | 243
Sandgate Pant; or, Jane Jemieson's Ghost, | R. Emery | 324
Sandgate Lass on the Ropery Banks | Nunn | 246
Sandgate Lassie's Lament, | H. Robson | 62
Sandgate Girl's Lamentation, | | 52
Sandhill Monkey, | | 56
Shields Soliloquy, | | 69
Shields Chain Bridge humourously described, | Oliver | 120
Sir Tommy made an Odd Fellow, | R. Gilchrist | 176
Skipper's Wedding, | W. Stephenson | 14
Skipper's Fright | Bailey | 322
Skipper in the Mist | Armstrong | 319
Skipper's Account of the Mechanics' Procession, | R. Emery | 271
Skipper's Mistake | Armstrong | 301
Skipper's Dream, | T. Moor | 58
Skipper's Account of the Orangemen's Procession, | | 59
South Shields Song, | | 281
Spring, | H. Robson | 129
Steam Soup; or, Cuckoo Jack's Petition | R. Emery | 244
Sunderland Jammy's Lamentation, December, 1831, | | 72
Swalwell Hopping | Selkirk | 48
St. Nicholas Church, | Nunn | 254
St. Nicholas' great Bell, | | 264
Thomas Whittell's Humourous Letter to Mr. Moody, | | 228
Thumping Luck, | W. Watson | 260
Till the Tide came in, | H. Robson | 62
Tim Tunbelly | Oliver | 112
T--ly's Best Blood, | | 168
Tom Carr and Waller Watson | Oliver | 148
Tommy Thompson, | R. Gilchrist | 140
Tommy C--rr in Limbo | Oliver | 151
Tyne, | H. Robson | 128
Tyne, | John Gibson | 85
Tyne, | J. Wilson | 277
Tyne Cossacks, | Wm. Midford | 31
Verses written for the Burns Club, 1817, | H. Robson | 225
Victory; or, The Captain done over, | | 182
Voyage to Lunnin, | R. Gilchrist | 107
Walker Pits, | | 279
Water of Tyne, | | 89
Weel may the Keel row, | | 54
Winlaton Hopping, | John Lennard | 50
Wonderful Gutter, | Wm. Midford | 91
Worthy Rector, | | 288
Wreckenton Hiring, | | 178
X-Y-Z at Newcastle Races, 1814, | Wm. Midford | 26

THE

TYNE SONGSTER.

CANNY NEWCASSEL.

'Bout Lunnun aw'd heard ay sic wonderful spokes,
That the streets were a cover'd wi' guineas:
The houses sae fine, an' sic grandees the folks,
Te them huz i' the North were but ninnies.
But aw fand mawsel blonk'd when to Lunnun aw gat,
The folks they a' luik'd wishey washey;
For gowd ye may howk till ye're blind as a bat,
For their streets are like wors—brave and blashy!

'Bout Lunnun then divent ye myek sic a rout,
There's nowse there maw winkers to dazzle:
For a' the fine things ye are gobbin about,
We can marra iv Canny Newcassel.

A Cockney chep show'd me the Thames druvy fyace,
Whilk he said was the pride o' the nation;
And thowt at their shippin aw'd myek a haze-gaze;
But aw whopt maw foot on his noration.
Wi' huz, mun, three hundred ships sail iv a tide,
We think nowse on't, aw'll myek accydavy;
Ye're a gowk if ye din't knaw that the lads o' Tyneside
Are the Jacks that myek famish wor navy.
'Bout Lunnun, &c.

We went big St. Paul's and Westminster to see,
And aw war'nt ye aw thought they luick'd pritty:
And then we'd a keek at the Monument te;
Whilk maw friend ca'd the Pearl o' the City.
Wey hinny, says aw, we've a Shot Tower sae hee,
That biv it ye might scraffle to heaven;
And if on Saint Nicholas ye once cus an e'e,
Ye'd crack on't as lang as ye're livin.
'Bout Lunnun, &c.

We trudg'd to St. James's, for there the King leaves,
Aw war'nt ye a good stare we teuk on't;
By my faicks! it's been built up by Adam's awn neaves,
For it's and as the hills, by the luik on't.
Shem bin ye! says aw, ye should keep the King douse,
Aw speak it without ony malice:
Aw own that wor Mayor rather wants a new house,
But then—wor Infirm'ry's a palace.
'Bout Lunnun, &c.

Ah hinnies! out com the King, while we were there,
His leuks seem'd to say, Bairns, be happy!
Sae down o' my hunkers aw set up a blare,
For God to preserve him frae Nappy:
For Geordy aw'd dee—for my loyalty's trig,
And aw own he's a good leuken mannie;
But if wor Sir Matthew ye buss iv his wig,
By gocks! he wad leuk just as canny.
'Bout Lunnun, &c.

Ah hinnies! about us the lasses did lowp,
Thick as cur'ns in a spice singin hinnie;
Some aud and some hardly fligg'd ower the dowp,
But aw kend what they were by their whinnie:
Ah! mannie, says aw, ye hev mony a tight girl,
But aw'm tell'd they're oft het i' their tappin:
Aw'd cuddle much rather a lass i' the Sworl,
Than the dolls i' the Strand, or i' Wappin.
'Bout Lunnun, &c.

Wiv a' the stravaigin aw wanted a munch,
An' maw thropple was ready to gizen;
So we went tiv a yell-house, and there teuk a lunch,
But the reck'ning, me saul, was a bizon.
Wiv huz i' the North, when aw'm wairsh i' my way,
(But t' knaw wor warm hearts ye yur-sel come)
Aw lift the first latch, and baith man and dame say,
'Cruick your hough, canny man, for ye're welcome!
'Bout Lunnun, &c.

A shilling aw thought at the Play-house aw'd ware,
But aw jump'd there wiv heuk finger'd people;
Me pockets gat ripe'd, an' heerd them na mair
Nor aw cou'd frae Saint Nicholas's steeple.
Dang Lunnun! wor Play-house aw like just as weel,
And wor play-folks aw's sure are as funny;
A shillin's worth sarves me to laugh till aw squeel,
Nae hallion there thrimmels maw money.
'Bout Lunnun, &c.

The loss o' the cotterels aw dinna regaird,
For aw've gettin some white-heft at Lunnun;
Aw've learn'd to prefer me awn canny calf-yaird;
If ye catch me mair frae't ye'll be cunnun.
Aw knaw that the cockneys crack rum-gum-shus chimes
To myek gam of wor bur and wor 'parel;
But honest Blind Willey shall string this iv rhymes,
And we'll sing'd for a Chrissenmas Carol.
'Bout Lunnun, &c.

THE QUAYSIDE SHAVER.

On each market day, sir, the folks to the Quay, sir,
Go flocking with beards they have seven days worn,
And round the small grate, sir, in crowds they all wait, sir,
To get themselves shav'd in a rotative turn.
Old soldiers on sticks, sir, about politics, sir,
Debate—till at length they quite heated are grown;
Nay, nothing escapes, sir, until Madam Scrape, sir,
Cries, 'Gentlemen, who is the next to sit down?

A medley this place is, of those that sell laces,
With fine shirt-neck buttons, and good cabbage nets;
Where match-men, at meeting, give each a kind greeting,
And ask one another how trade with them sets;
Join'd in with Tom Hoggers and little Bob Nackers,
Who wander the streets in their fuddling jills;
And those folks with bags, sir, who buy up old rags, sir,
That deal in fly-cages and paper wind mills.

There pitmen, with baskets, and gay posey waistcoats,
Discourse about nought but whe puts and hews best;
There keelmen just landed, swear, May they be stranded,
If they're not shav'd first, while their keel's at the fest!
With face full of coal dust, would frighten one almost,
Throw off hat and wig, while they usurp the chair;
While others stand looking, and think it provoking,
But, for the insult, to oppose them none dare.

When under the chin, sir, she tucks the cloth in, sir,
Their old quid they'll pop in the pea-jacket cuff;
And while they are sitting, do nought but keep spitting,
And looking around with an air fierce and bluff.
Such tales as go round, sir, would surely confound, sir,
And puzzle the prolific brain of the wise;
But when she prepares, sir, to take off the hairs, sir,
With lather she whitens them up to the eyes.

No sooner the razor is laid on the face, sir,
Than painful distortions take place on the brow;
But if they complain, sir, they'll find it in vain, sir,
She'll tell them, 'there's nought but what Patience can do:'
And as she scrapes round 'em, if she by chance wound 'em,
They'll cry out, as tho' she'd bereav'd them of life,
'Od smash your brains, woman! aw find the blood's comin,
Aw'd rather been shav'd with an aud gully knife!'

For all they can say, sir, she still rasps away, sir,
And sweeps round their jaws the chop torturing tool;
Till they in a pet, sir, request her to whet, sir;
But she gives them for answer, 'Sit still, you pist fool!'
For all their repining, their twisting and twining,
She forward proceeds till she's mown off the hair;
When finish'd, cries, 'There, sir!' then straight from the chair, sir,
They'll jump, crying, 'Daresay you've scrap'd the bone bare!'

THE JENNY HOOLET;

Or, Lizzie Mudie's Ghost.

Sum time since a Skipper was gawn iv his keel,
His heart like a lion, his fyece like the Deil:
He was steering hissel, as he'd oft duin before,
When at au'd Lizzie Mudie's his keel ran ashore.
Fal de ral la, &c.

The skipper was vext when his keel ran ashore,
So for Geordy and Pee Dee he loudly did roar:
They lower'd the sail—but it a' waddent dee;
Sae he click'd up a coal and maist fell'd the Pee Dee.
Fal de ral, &c.

In the midst of their trouble, not knawn what to do,
A voice from the shore gravely cried out, 'Hoo Hoo!'
How now, 'Mister Hoo Hoo! is thou myekin fun,
Or is this the first keel that thou e'er saw agrun?'
Fal de ral, &c.

Agyen it cried 'Hoo! Hoo!' the skipper he stampt,
And sung out for Geordy to heave out the plank:
Iv a raving mad passion he curs'd and he swore,
'Aw'll hoo-hoo thou, thou b—r, when aw cum ashore!'
Fal de ral, &c.

Wiv a coal in each hand, ashore then he went,
To kill Mister Hoo-hoo it was his intent:
But when he gat there, O what his surprize!
When back he cam running—'O Geordy!' he cries.
Fal de ral, &c.

'Wey, whe dis thou think hes been myekin this gam?
Aw'll lay thou my wallet thou'll not guess his nyem;'—
'Is't the Ghost of au'd Lizzie?'—'O no no, thou fool, it
Is nae ghost at all, but—an au'd Jenny Hoolet!'
Fal de ral, &c.

THE GLISTER.

Some time since a Pitman was tyen very bad,
So caw'd his wife Mall te the side of his bed;
'Thou mun run for a doctor, the forst can be fund,
For maw belly's a' wrang, an' aw'm varry fast bund.'

'Wey, man, thou's a fuil, aw ken thou's fast boon,
Wi' thy last bindin munny thou bowt this new goon:
Nae doctor can lowse thou one morsel or crum,
For thou's bun te Tyne Main for this ten month te cum.'

'Aw divent mean that—maw belly's sae sair;
Run fast or aw'll dee lang afore ye get there!'
So away Mally ran to their awn doctor's shop;
'Gie me somethin for Tom, for his belly's stopt up.'

A glister she gat—and nae langer she'd wait,
But straight she ran hyem, an' gat out a clean plate:
'Oh Tommy! maw Tom! ony haud up thy heed!
Here's somethin 'ill mend thou, suppose thou was deed.

Thou mun eat up that haggish, but sup the thin forst;
Aw's freeten'd that stopple it will be the worst,'—
'Oh, Mally! thou'll puzzen poor Tom altogether,
If aw drink aw the thin, an' then eat up the blether.'

He manag'd it a' wiv a great deal to do;
'Oh, Mally! oh, Mally! thou's puzzen'd me now!'
But she tuik nae notice of poor Tommy's pain,
But straight she ran off te the doctor's again.

'O doctor! maw hinny! Tom's tyen'd a' thegether,
He supp'd up the thin, then he eat up the blether:
The blether was tuif, it myest stuck in his thropple;
If he haddent bad teeth he wad eaten the stopple.'

'Oh, woman! you have been in too great a hurry,
Stead of mending your husband, you'll have him to bury:
Stead of making him better, you've sure made him warse,
For you've put in his mouth what should gone up his a—e.'

THE EAGLE STEAM PACKET.

Oh, hae ye heard the wond'rous news?
To hear me sang ye'll not refuse,
Since the new Steam Packet's ta'en a cruise,
An' bore away for Sunderland.

The folks cam flocking ower the keels,
Betwixt Newcassel Key and Sheels,
Before she ply'd her powerful wheels,
To work their way to Sunderland.

The sky was clear, the day was fine,
Their dress an' luggage all in stile;
An' they thought to cut a wond'rous shine,
When they got safe to Sunderland.

Now when they to the Pier drew nigh,
The guns did fire and streamers fly;
In a moment all was hue and cry,
Amang the folks at Sunderland.

There was male and female lean an' fat,
An' some wi' whiskers like a cat;
But a Barber's 'water-proof silk hat'
Was thought the tip at Sunderland.

In pleasures sweet they spent the day,
The short-liv'd moments wing'd away;
When they must haste without delay,
To quit the port of Sunderland.

As on the ocean wide they drew,
A strong North wind against them blew,
And the billows dash'd the windows through:
A woeful trip to Sunderland.

Such howlin, screamin rend the sky,
All in confusion they did lie,
With pain and sickness like to die,
They wish'd they'd ne'er seen Sunderland.

A lady lay beside the door,
Said she had been at sea before,
Where foaming billows loud did roar,
But ne'er had been at Sunderland.

She soon amongst the heap was thrown,
While here and there they sat alone:
Poor Puff had passage up and down,
But none could get from Sunderland.

Some in a corner humm'd their prayers,
While others choak'd the cabin stairs;
And bloody noses, unawares,
Were got in sight of Sunderland.

In vain they strove now to proceed,
So back again they came with speed;
But the passengers were all nigh deed,
When they got back to Sunderland.

Now their dresses fine look'd worse than rags,
While each a safe conveyance begs,
And many had to use their legs,
To travel home from Sunderland.

By this affair your reason guide,
When on the seas you'd wish to ride,
Choose a good strong ship with wind and tide;
And so good bye to Sunderland.

JEMMY JONESON'S WHURRY.

The cavers biv the chimlay reek,
Begox! its all a horney;
For thro' the world aw thowt to keek,
Yen day when aw was corney:
Sae, wiv some varry canny chiels,
All on the hop and murry,
Aw thowt aw'd myek a voyge to Shiels,
Iv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry.

Ye niver see'd the church sae scrudg'd,
As we were there thegither;
An' gentle, simple, throughways rudg'd,
Like burdies of a feather:
Blind Willie, a' wor joys to croon,
Struck up a hey down derry,
An' crouse we left wor canny toon,
Iv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry.

As we push'd off, loak! a' the Key
To me seem'd shuggy-shooin;
An' tho' aw'd niver been at sea,
Aw stuid her like a new-on.
An' when the Malls began their reels,
Aw kick'd maw heels reet murry;
For faix! aw lik'd the voyage to Shiels,
Iv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry.

Quick went wor heels, quick went the oars,
An' where me eyes wur cassin,
It seem'd as if the bizzy shore
Cheer'd canny Tyne i' passin.
What! hes Newcassel now nae end?
Thinks aw it's wond'rous vurry;
Aw thowt I'd like me life to spend
Iv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry.

Tyneside seem'd clad wiv bonny ha's,
An' furnaces sae dunny;
Wey this mun be what Bible ca's,
'The land of milk and honey!'
If a' thor things belang'd tiv me,
Aw'd myek the poor reet murry,
An' gar each heart to sing wiv glee,
Iv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry.

Then on we went, as nice as ouse,
Till nenst au'd Lizzy Moody's;
A whirlwind cam an' myed a' souse,
Like heaps o' babby boodies.
The heykin myed me vurry wauf,
Me heed turn'd duzzy, vurry;
Me leuks, aw'm shure, wad spyen'd a cauf,
Iv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry.

For hyem and bairns, an' maw wife Nan,
Aw yool'd out like a lubbart;
An' when aw thought we a' shud gan
To Davy Jones's cubbart,
The wind bee-baw'd, aw whish'd me squeels,
An' yence mair aw was murry,
For seun we gat a seet o' Shiels,
Frev Jemmy Joneson's Whurry.

Wor Geordies now we thrimmel'd out,
An' tread a' Shiels sae dinny;
Maw faix! it seems a canny sprout,
As big maist as its minny:
Aw smack'd thir yell, aw climb'd thir bree,
The seet was wond'rous, vurry;
Aw lowp'd sic gallant ships to see,
Biv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry.

To Tynemouth then aw thowt aw'd trudge,
To see the folks a' duckin;
Loak! men an' wives together pludg'd,
While hundreds stuid by leukin.
Amang the rest aw cowp'd me creels,
Eh, gox! 'twas funny, vurry:
An' so aw end me voyage to Shiels,
Iv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry.

THE SKIPPER'S WEDDING.

Neighbours, I'm come for to tell ye,
Our Skipper and Mall's to be wed;
And if it be true what they're saying,
Egad we'll be all rarely fed!
They've brought home a shoulder of mutton,
Besides two thumping fat geese,
And when at the fire they're roasting,
We're all to have sops in the greese.
Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

And there will be pies and spice dumplings,
And there will be bacon and peas;
Besides a great lump of beef boiled,
And they may get crowdies who please;
To eat of such good things as these are,
I'm shure you've but seldom the luck;
Besides for to make us some pottage,
There'll be a sheep's head and pluck.
Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

Of sausages there will be plenty,
Black puddings, sheep fat, and neats' tripes;
Besides, for to warm all your noses,
Great store of tobacco and pipes.
A room, they say, there is provided
For us at 'The Old Jacob's Well;'
The bridegroom he went there this morning,
And spoke for a barrel o' yell.
Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

There's sure to be those things I've mention'd,
And many things else; and I learn,
There's white bread and butter and sugar,
To please every bonny young bairn.
Of each dish and glass you'll be welcome
To eat and to drink till you stare;
I've told you what meat's to be at it,
I'll next tell you who's to be there.
Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

Why there will be Peter the hangman,
Who flogs the folks at the cart-tail,
Au'd Bob, with his new sark and ruffle,
Made out of an au'd keel sail!
And Tib on the Quay who sells oysters,
Whose mother oft strove to persuade
Her to keep from the lads, but she wouldn't,
Until she got by them betray'd.
Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

And there will be Sandy the cobbler,
Whose belly's as round as a keg,
And Doll, with her short petticoats,
To display her white stockings and leg;
And Sall, who, when snug in a corner,
A sixpence, they say, won't refuse;
She curs'd when her father was drown'd,
Because he had on his new shoes.
Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

And there will be Sam the quack doctor,
Of skill and profession he'll crack;
And Jack who would fain be a soldier,
But for a great hump on his back;
And Tom in the streets, for his living,
Who grinds razors, scissors, and knives;
And two or three merry old women,
That call "Mugs and doublers, wives!"
Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

But neighbours, I'd almost forgot,
For to tell ye—exactly at one,
The dinner will be on the table,
The music will play till it's done:
When you'll be all heartily welcome,
Of this merry feast for to share;
But if you won't come at this bidding,
Why then you may stay where you are.
Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

THE AMPHITRITE.

Frae Team-Gut to Whitley, wi' coals black and brown,
For the Amphitrite loaded, the keel had gyen down;
But the bullies ower neet gat their gobs sae oft wet,
That the nyem of the ship yen and a' did forget.

For to find out the nyem each bother'd his chops,
And claw'd at his rump fit to murder the lops,—
When the Skipper, wha's guts was beginning to gripe,
Said the paw hoggish luggish was caw'd Empty Kyte.

Frae the Gut to the Point a' the time driving slow,
The bullies kept blairing, 'The Empty Kyte, ho!'
But their blairing was vain, for nae Empty Kyte there,
Tho' they blair'd till their kytes were byeth empty & sair.

Now au'd Slavers, the Skipper, harangu'd a' his men,
Twee mun gan to Newcassel to ax the reet nyem;
But thinking the young one to blame in the matter,
Pee Dee and his Marrow was pack'd 'cross the watter.

Up Shields Road as they trudg'd, wi' their half worn out soals,
Oft b——r—g the Empty Kyte, Skipper, and coals,
At the sign of the Coach they byeth call'd, it befel,
To moan their hard fates, and to swattle some yell.

Here a buck at a surloin hard eating was seen,
And he said that the air myed his appetite keen;—
'Appetite!' cried the bullies, like pole-cats they star'd,
Wide gaping wi' wonder, when loud Cuddy blair'd,

'The Appetite! Geordy, smash! nobbet hear that,
The b——r—g outlandish, cull nyem we forgat;
Bless the Dandy! for had he not tell'd us the nyem,
We might trudg'd to Newcassel byeth weary and lyem.'

Now to Shields back they scamp, & straight frae the keel
Roar'd 'The Appetite, ho!' 'neugh to freighten the deil;
Now they seun fund the ship, cast their coals in a swet,
Still praising the Dandy that day they had met.

Now into the huddock, weel tir'd, they a' gat,
And of Appetite, Empty Kyte, lang they did chat;
When the Skipper fund out, mair wise than a king,
If not the same nyem, they were much the same thing.

MY LORD 'SIZE.

The Jailor, for trial, had brought up a thief,
Whose looks seem'd a passport for Botany Bay;
The lawyers, some with and some wanting a brief,
Around the green table were seated so gay:
Grave jurors and witnesses, waiting a call:
Attornies and clients, more angry than wise,
With strangers and town's-people, throng'd the Guild-hall,
All waiting gaping to see my Lord 'Size.

Oft stretch'd were their necks, oft erected their ears,
Still fancying they heard of the trumpets the sound,
When tidings arriv'd, which dissolv'd them in tears,
That my Lord at the dead-house was then lying drown'd!
Straight left tete a tete were the jailor and thief;
The horror-struck crowd to the dead-house quick hies;
Ev'n the lawyers, forgetful of fee and of brief,
Set off, helter-skelter, to view my Lord 'Size.

And now the Sandhill with the sad tidings rings,
And the tubs of the taties are left to take care;
Fish-women desert their crabs, lobsters, and lings,
And each to the dead-house now runs like a hare.
The glassmen, some naked, some clad, heard the news,
And off they ran smoking, like hot mutton-pies;
Whilst Castle-garth Tailors, like wild Kangaroos,
Came tail-on-end jumping, to see my Lord 'Size.

The dead-house they reach'd, where his Lordship they found,
Pale, stretch'd on a plank, like themselves out of breath;
The Coroner and Jury were seated around,
Most gravely enquiring the cause of his death.
No haste did they seem in, their task to complete,
Aware that from hurry mistakes often rise;
Or wishful, perhaps, of prolonging the treat
Of thus sitting in judgment upon my Lord 'Size.

Now the Mansion-house Butler thus gravely depos'd:—
'My Lord on the terrace seem'd studying his charge;
And when (as I thought) he had got it compos'd,
He went down the stairs and examin'd the barge.
First the stem he survey'd, then inspected the stern,
Then handled the tiller, and look'd mighty wise;
But he made a false step when about to return,
And souse in the water straight tumbled Lord 'Size.'

Now his narrative ended—the Butler retir'd.
Whilst Betty Watt mutt'ring (half drunk) thro' her teeth,
Declar'd, 'In her breest greet consarn it inspir'd,
That my Lord should sae cullishly come by his deeth.'
Next a keelman was call'd on, Bold Archy his name,
Who the book as he kiss d shew'd the whites of his eyes,
Then he cut an odd caper, attention to claim,
And this evidence gave them respecting Lord 'Size:—

'Aw was setting the keel, wi' Dick Stavers and Matt,
An' the Mansion-house stairs we were just alangside,
When we a' three see'd somethin, but didn't ken what,
That was splashing and labbering about i' the tide.
It's a fluiker, ki Dick; No, ki Matt, it's owre big,
It luik'd mair like a skyet when aw furst seed it rise:
Kiv aw—for aw'd gettin a gliff o' the wig—
Ods marcy! wey, marrows, becrike, it's Lord 'Size!

Sae aw huik'd him, and haul'd him suin into the keel,
And o' top o' the huddock aw rowl d him aboot;
An' his belly aw rubb'd, an' a skelp'd his back weel,
But the water he'd drucken it wadn't run oot.
Sae I brought him ashore here, an' doctors, in vain,
Furst this way, then that, to recover him tries;
For ye see there he's lying as deed as a stane,
An' that's a' aw can tell ye about my Lord 'Size.'

Now the Jury for close consultation retir'd:
Some 'Death Accidental' were willing to find;
Some 'God's Visitation' most eager requir'd,
And some were for 'Fell in the River' inclin'd:
But ere on their verdict they all were agreed,
My Lord gave a groan, and wide open'd his eyes;
Then the coach & the trumpeters came with great speed,
And back to the Mansion-house carried Lord 'Size.

CAPPY, OR THE PITMAN'S DOG.

In a town near Newcassel a Pitman did dwell,
Wiv his wife nyemed Peg, a Tom Cat, and himsel;
A dog, called Cappy, he doated upon,
Because he was left him by great uncle Tom:

Weel bred Cappy, famous au'd Cappy,
Cappy's the dog, Tallio, Tallio.

His tail pitcher-handled, his colour jet black,
Just a foot and a half was the length of his back;
His legs seven inches frev shoulders to paws,
And his lugs, like two dockins, hung owre his jaws:
Weel bred Cappy, &c.

For huntin of varmin reet cliver was he,
And the house frev a' robbers his bark wad keep free:
Could byeth fetch and carry; could sit on a stuil;
Or, when frisky, wad hunt water-rats in a puil.
Weel bred Cappy, &c.

As Ralphy to market one morn did repair,
In his hat-band a pipe, and weel kyem'd was his hair,
Owre his arm hung a basket—thus onward he speels,
And enter'd Newcassel wi' Cap at his heels:
Weel bred Cappy, &c.

He hadn't got further than foot of the Side,
Before he fell in with the dog-killing tribe:
When a highwayman fellow slipp'd round in a crack,
And a thump o' the skull laid him flat on his back:
Down went Cappy, &c.

Now Ralphy extonish'd, Cap's fate did repine,
While it's eyes like twee little pearl buttons did shine:
He then spat on his hands, in a fury he grew,
Cries "Gad smash! but awse hev settisfaction o' thou,
For knocking down Cappy," &c.

Then this grim-luiken fellow his bludgeon he rais'd,
When Ralphy ey'd Cappy, and then stood amaz'd:
But, fearing beside him he might be laid down,
Threw him into the basket and bang'd out o' town:
Away went Cappy, &c.

He breethless gat hyem, and when liften the sneck,
His wife exclaim'd 'Ralphy! thou's suin getten back:
'Getten back!' replied Ralphy, 'I wish I'd ne'er gyen,
In Newcassel they're fellin dogs, lasses, and men;
They've knock'd down Cappy, &c.

If aw gan to Newcassel, when comes wor pay week,
Aw'll ken him agyen by the patch on his cheek:
Or if ever he enters wor toon wiv his stick,
We'll thump him about till he's black as au'd Nick,'
For killin au'd Cappy, &c.

Wiv tears in her een Peggy heard his sad tale,
And Ralph, wiv confusion and terror grew pale:
While Cappy's transactions with grief they talk'd o'er,
He crap out o' the basket quite brisk on the floor;
Weel duin Cappy! &c.

THE PITMAN'S COURTSHIP.

Quite soft blew the wind from the west,
The sun faintly shone in the sky,
When Lukey and Bessy sat courting,
As walking I chanc'd to espy.
Unheeded I stole close beside them,
To hear their discourse was my plan;
I listen'd each word they were saying,
When Lukey his courtship began.

Last hoppen thou won up my fancy,
Wi' thy fine silken jacket o' blue;
An' smash! if their Newcassel lyedies
Could marrow the curls o' thy brow.
That day aw whiles danc'd wi' lang Nancy,
She couldn't like thou lift her heel:
Maw Grandy lik'd spice singing hinnies,
Maw comely! aw like thou as weel.

Thou knaws, ever since we were little,
Together we've rang'd through the woods;
At neets hand in hand toddled hyem,
Very oft wi' howl kites and torn duds:
But now we can talk about mairage,
An' lang sair for wor weddin day;
When mairied thou's keep a bit shop,
And sell things in a huikstery way.

And to get us a canny bit leevin,
A' kinds o' fine sweetmeats we'll sell,
Reed herrin, broon syep, and mint candy,
Black pepper, dye sand, and sma' yell;
Spice hunters, pick shafts, farden candles,
Wax dollies, wi' reed leather shoes,
Chalk pussy-cats, fine curly greens,
Paper skyets, penny pies, an' huil-doos.

Aws help thou to tie up the shuggar,
At neets when frae wark aw get lowse;
And wor Dick, that leeves ower by High Whickham,
He'll myek us broom buzzoms for nowse.
Like an image thou's stand ower the counter,
Wi' thy fine muslin cambricker goon;
And to let the folks see thou's a lyedy,
On a cuddy thou's ride to the toon.

There's be matches, pipe clay, and brown dishes,
Canary seeds, raisins, and fegs;
And to please the pit laddies at Easter,
A dish full o' gilty paste-eggs.
Wor neybors, that's snuffers and smokers,
For wor snuff and backey they'll seek;
And to shew them we deal wi' Newcassel,
Twee Blackeys sal mense the door cheek.

So now for Tim Bodkin awse send,
To darn maw silk breeks at the knee,
Thou thy ruffles and frills mun get ready,
Next Whitsunday married we'll be.
Now aw think it's high time to be steppin,
We've sitten tiv aw's about lyem.
So then, wiv a kiss and a cuddle,
These lovers they bent their way hyem.

THE BABOON.

Sum time since, sum wild beasts there cam to the toon,
And in the collection a famous Baboon,
In uniform drest—if my story you're willin
To believe, he gat lowse, and ran te the High Fellin.
Fal de rol la, &c.

Three Pitmen cam up—they were smoking their pipe,
When straight in afore them Jake lowp'd ower the dike:
Ho, Jemmy! smash, marrow! here's a red-coated Jew,
For his fyece is a' hairy, and he hez on nae shoe!

Wey, man, thou's a fuil! for ye divent tell true,
If thou says 'at that fellow was ever a Jew:
Aw'll lay thou a quairt, as sure's my nyem's Jack,
That queer luikin chep's just a Russian Cossack.

He's ne Volunteer, aw ken biv his wauk;
And if he's outlandish, we'll ken biv his tauk:
He's a lang sword ahint him, ye'll see'd when he turns:
Ony luik at his fyece! smash his byens, how he gurns!

Tom flang doon his pipe, and set up a greet yell;
He's owther a spy, or Bonnypairty's awnsell:
Iv a crack the High Fellin was in full hue and cry,
To catch Bonnypairt, or the hairy French spy.

The wives scamper'd off for fear he should bite,
The men-folks and dogs ran te grip him se tight;
If we catch him, said they, he's hev ne lodging here,
Ne, not e'en a drop o' Reed Robin's sma' beer.

BILLY OLIVER'S RAMBLE

Between Benwell and Newcastle.

Me nyem it's Billy Oliver,
Iv Benwell town aw dwell;
And aw's a cliver chep, aw's shure,
Tho' aw de say'd mysel.
Sic an a cliver chep am aw, am aw, am aw,
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

There's not a lad iv a' wur wark,
Can put or hew wi' me;
Nor not a lad iv Benwell toon,
Can coax the lasses se.
Sic an a cliver cliep am aw.

When aw gans tiv Newcassel toon,
Aw myeks mawsel se fine,
Wur neybors stand and stare at me,
And say, 'Eh! what a shine!'
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

And then aw walks wi' sic an air,
That, if the folks hev eyes,
They a'wis think it's sum greet man,
That's cum in i' disguise.
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

And when aw gans down Westgate-street,
And alang biv Denton-chare,
Aw whussels a' the way aw gans,
To myek the people stare.
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

And then aw gans intiv the Cock,
Ca's for a pint o' beer;
And when the lassie comes in wid,
Aw a'wis says, Maw dear!
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

And when aw gets a pint o' beer,
Aw a'wis sings a sang;
For aw've a nice yen aw can sing,
Six an' thorty vairses lang.
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

And if the folks that's i' the house,
Cry, 'Haud yor tongue, ye cull!'
Aw's sure to hev a fight wi' them,
For aw's as strang as ony bull.
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

And when aw've had a fight or twee,
And fairly useless grown;
Aw back, as drunk as aw can be,
To canny Benwell toon.
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

A PARODY ON BILLY OLIVER'S RAMBLE.

My nyem is Willy Dixon,
A Coachmaker to my trade;
And when aw see a Pitman come,
Aw run—because aw's flaid.
Sic an a cliver chep am aw, am aw, am aw.
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

On Pay-day neets aw gan to the Cock,
When the Pitmen's aw gyen hyem,
Then aw begins to rair and sing,
And myek o' them a gyem.
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

Ou Sunday mornings, then, you see,
Aw dress mesel se fine;
And wi' me white drill pantaloons,
Aw cuts a fearful shine.
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

Then what a swagger aw dis cut,
As aw gan alang the street,
But aw's myed se like nut-crackers,
That maw nose and chin they meet.
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

Then when aw gans to see the lass,
It's in the afternoon;
An' then we gans a wauking,
Wi' her fine lustre goon.
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

And as we gan through Jesmond fields,
The lasses gyep and luick,
And efter we get past them a',
They cry, 'Ah! what a buck!'
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

Then efter wandering up and down,
At neet we toddle hyem;
And aw gies her a kiss, you see,
And she cries, 'Fie for shem!'
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

Then aw seeks out my au'd wark claes,
Gets on another sark;
And on Monday morn, at six o'clock,
Gans whisslin off to wark.
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

X Y Z AT NEWCASTLE RACES, 1814;

Or, Pitmen's Luck.

Smash! Jemmy, let us buss, we'll off
And see Newcassel Races;
Set Dick the trapper for some syep,
We'll suin wesh a' wor faces.
There's ne'er a lad iv Percy Main
Be bet this day for five or ten;
Wor pockets lin'd wiv notes and cash,
Amang the cheps we'll cut a dash;
For X Y Z, that bonny steed,
He bangs them a' for pith and speed,
He's sure to win the cup, man.

We reach'd the Moor, wi' sairish tews,
When they were gawn to start, man:
We gav a fellow tuppence each,
To stand upon a cart, man:
The bets flew round frae side to side;
'The field agyen X Y!' they cried:
We'd hardly time to lay them a',
When in he cam—Hurraw! hurraw!
'Gad smash!' says aw, 'X Y's the steed,
He bangs them a' for pith an' speed,
We never see'd the like, man!'

Next, to the tents we hied, to get
Sum stuffin for wor bags, man;
Wi' flesh we gaily pang'd wor hides—
Smok'd nowse but patten shag, man;
While rum an' brandy soak'd each chop,
We'd Jackey an' fine Ginger-pop;
We gat what myed us winkin blin'—
When drunkey aw began te sing—
'Od smash! X Y, that bonny steed,
Thou bangs them a' for pith an' speed,
We never see'd his like, man!'

Next up amang the shows we gat,
Where folks a' stood i' flocks, man,
To see a chep play Bob and Joan,
Upon a wooden box, man;
While bairns and music fill'd the stage,
And some, by gox! were grim wi' age:
When next au'd Grin a powny browt,
Could tell at yence what people thowt!
'Od smash!' says aw, 'if he's the breed
Of X Y Z, that bonny steed,
Thou never see'd his like, man.'

But haud! when we cam to the toon,
What thinks tou we saw there, man?
We saw a Blacky puffin, sweetin,
Suckin in fresh air, man;
They said that he could fell an ox—
His name was fighting Molinox:
But ere he fit another round,
His marrow fell'd him to the ground.
'Od smash!' says aw, 'if thou's sic breed
As X Y Z, that bonny steed,
Thou never see'd his like, man!'

Next 'board a Steamer-boat we gat,
A laddie rang a bell, man;
We haddent sitten varry lang,
Till byeth asleep we fell, man:
But the noise seun myed poor Jemmy start—
He thowt 'twas time to gan to wark,
For pick and hoggers roar'd out he—
And myed sic noise it waken'd me.
'Od smash!' says aw, 'X Y's the steed,
He bangs them a' for pith and speed,
Aw never see'd his like, man!'

When landed, straight off hyem aw gans,
An' thunners at the door, man;
The bairns lap ower the bed wi' fright,
Fell smack upon the floor, man:
But to gaur the wifey haud her tongue,
Show'd her the kelter aw had won:
She with a cinder burnt her toes,
An' little Jacob broke his nose—
The brass aw've getten at the race
Will buy a patch for Jacob's face—
So now my sang is duin, man.

NEWCASTLE FAIR;

Or, The Pitman drinking Jackey.

Ha' ye been at Newcastle Fair,
And did ye see owse o' great Sandy?
Lord bliss us! what wark there was there;
And the folks were drinking of brandy.
Brandy a shilling a glass!
Aw star'd, and thought it was shameful:
Never mind, says aw, canny lass,
Give us yell, and aw'll drink my wame full.
Rum te idity, &c.

Says she, Canny man, the yell's cau'd;
It comes frev a man they caw Mackey,
And by my faith! it's byeth sour and au'd;
Ye'd best hev a drop o' wor Jackey.
Your Jackey! says aw, now what's that?
Aw ne'er heard the nyem o' sic liquor.
English Gin, canny man, that's flat,
And then she set up a great nicker.
Rum te idity, &c.

Says aw, Divent laugh at poor folks,
But gan and bring some o' yur Jackey;
Aw want nyen o' yur jibes or jokes,
I' th' mean time aw'll tyek a bit backey.
Aw just tuik a chew o' pig-tail,
She brought in this Jackey sae funny:
Says she, Sir, that's better than ale,
And held out her hand for the money.
Rum te idity, &c.

There's three-pence to pay, if you please:
Aw star'd and aw gap'd like a ninny;
Od smash thee! aw'll sit at my ease,
And not stir till aw've spent a half ginny.
Aw sat and aw drank till quite blind,
Then aw gat up to gan to the door,
But deil smash a door could aw find!
And fell flat o' maw fyece on the floor.
Rum te idity, &c.

There aw lay for ever sae lang,
And dreamt about rivers and ditches;
When waken'd, was singing this sang—
'Smash, Jackey, thou's wet a' me breeches!'
An' faith! but the sang it was true,
For Jackey had been sae prevailing.
He'd whistled himsel' quickly through,
And the chairs and tables were sailing.
Rum te idity, &c.

Then rising, aw went maw ways hyem,
Aw knock'd at the door, and cry'd Jenny!
Says she, Canny man, is te lyem,
Or been wading in Tyne, maw hinny?
I' troth, she was like for to dee,
And just by the way to relieve her,
The water's been wading through me,
And this Jackey's a gay deceiver.
Rum te idity, &c.

If e'er aw drink Jackey agyen,
May the bitch of a lass, maw adviser,
Lowp alive down maw throat, with a styen
As big as a pulveriser.
Rum te idity, &c.

THE LITTLE PEE DEE.

'Twas between Hebbron and Jarrow,
There cam on a varry strang gale,
The Skipper luik'd out o' the huddock,
Crying, 'Smash, man, lower the sail!
Smash, man, lower the sail!
Or else to the bottom we'll go!
The keel and a' hands wad been lost,
Had it not been for Jemmy Munro.
Fal lal la, &c.

The gale blew stranger and stranger,
When they cam beside the Muck House,
The Skipper cried out—'Jemmy, swing 'er!"
But still was as fear'd as a mouse.
Pee Dee ran to clear the anchor,
'It's raffled!' right loudly he roar'd:—
They a' said the gale wad sink her,
If it wasn't seun thrawn overboard.

The laddie ran sweaten, ran sweaten,
The laddie ran sweaten about;
Till the keel went bump against Jarrow,
And three o' the bullies lap out:
Three o' the bullies lap out,
And left nyen in but little Pee Dee;
Who ran about stamping and crying—
'How! smash, Skipper, what mun aw dee?'

They all shouted out frae the Kee,
'Steer her close in by the shore;
And then thraw the painter to me,
Thou cat-fyec'd son of a whore!'
The lad threw the painter ashore,
They fasten'd her up to the Kee:
But whe knaws how far she meyt gyen,
Had it not been for Little Pee Dee.

Then into the huddock they gat,
And the flesh they began to fry:
They talk'd o' the gale as they sat,
How a' hands were lost—varry nigh.
The Skipper roar'd out for a drink,
Pee Dee ran to bring him the can:
But odsmash, mun! what d'ye think?—
He cowp'd a' the flesh out o' the pan!
Fal lal la, &c.

THE TYNE COSSACKS.

Not long ago, a fray in Shields
And Sunderland began,
'Tween the Seamen and Ship-owners,
How their vessels they should man;
But the Owners stiff, to them were deaf,
Which made the Seamen for to grumble,
For our Tyne Cossacks they soon did send,
The haughty pride of Jack to humble.
Whack row de dow, &c.

A letter being sent, they were
Call'd out without delay;
But the Gen'ral thought he'd try their skill
Before they went away:
So round the Moor he made them scour,
Before him cut such wond'rous capers;
Their praise he sounded high and low,
In all the three Newcassel Papers.
Whack row de dow, &c.

He cries, My lads, you're qualified
To do such wond'rous feats,
That to Shields and Cleadon you must go,
To clear the lanes and streets;
Destroy all those who may oppose
The ships from sailing down the river,
And then our Prince will sure commend
Your deeds in arms, my boys, so clever.
Whack row de dow, &c.

The Butcher cries, if we begin,
We'll surely kill and slay;
The Tanner swore they'd tan their hides,
Before they came away;
A Tailor next, with fear perplext,
Said, he should like no other station,
Than to be the Doctor's waiting man,
If sanction'd by the Corporation.
Whack row de dow, &c.

To Shields they got, tho' much fatigued,
Upon their worn-out hacks,
Some cried, 'The Polish Lancers come!'
And others, 'Tyne's Cossacks!'
By some mishap, the Farrier's cap
Blew off, but met with coolish treatment,
Into a huckster's shop it went—
Now Martin's cap's a tatie beatment.
Whack row de dow, &c.

For several weeks they rode about,
Like poachers seeking game;
The Marines so bold, as I am told,
Had better sight than them;
For every boat that was afloat,
They seiz'd upon with mad-like fury,
And to the bottom sent them straight,
Not asking either Judge or Jury.
Whack row de dow, &c.

The deed was done by this effort,
All opposition gone,
The ardour of the heroes cool'd,
'Cause they were lookers on:
Odsmash! says yen, if e'er agyen
There's ony mair au'd boats to smatter,
We'll hev horses that's web-footed, then
We'll fight byeth on the land and watter.
Whack row de dow, &c.

Now should our Tyne Cossacks e'er have
To face their enemies,
They'll boldly meet them on the land,
Or on the stormy seas.
While the farmers sing, that they, next spring,
At spreading dung will ne'er be idle:
So—success to these Invincibles,
Their long swords, sadle, bridle.
Whack row de dow, &c.

THE PITMAN'S REVENGE

Against Buonaparte.

Ha' ye heard o' these wondrous Dons,
That myeks this mighty fuss, man,
About invading Britain's land?
I vow they're wondrous spruce, man:
But little do the Frenchmen ken
About our loyal Englishmen;
Our Collier lads are for cockades,
And guns to shoot the French, man.
Tol lol de rol, de rol de rol.

Then to parade the Pitmen went,
Wi' hearts byeth stout an' strang, man;
Gad smash the French! we are sae strang,
We'll shoot them every one, man!
Gad smash me sark! if aw wad stick
To tumble them a' down the pit,
As fast as aw could thraw a coal,
Aw'd tumble them a' doon the hole,
An' close her in abuin, man.
Tol lol de rol, &c.

Heads up! says yen, ye silly sow,
Ye dinna mind the word, man:
Eyes right! says Tom, and wi' a dam,
And march off at the word, man:
Did ever mortals see sic brutes,
To order me to lift me cutes!
Ad smash the fuil! he stands and talks,
How can he learn me to walk,
That's walk'd this forty year, man!
Tol lol de rol, &c.

But should the Frenchmen shew their fyece,
Upon our waggon-ways, man,
Then, there upon the road, ye knaw,
We'd myek them end their days, man:
Aye, Bonaparte's sel aw'd tyek,
And thraw him i' the burning heap,
And wi' greet speed aw'd roast him deed;
His marrows, then, aw wad nae heed,
We'd pick out a' their e'en, man.
Tol lol de rol, &c.

Says Willy Dunn to loyal Tom,
Your words are all a joke, man;
For Geordy winna hae your help,
Ye're sic kamstarie folk, man:
Then Willy, lad, we'll rest in peace,
In hopes that a' the wars may cease;
But awse gi'e ye Wull, to understand,
As lang as aw can wield me hand,
There's nyen but George shall reign, man.
Tol lol de rol, &c.

Enough of this hes sure been said,
Cry'd cowardly Willy Dunn, man;
For should the Frenchmen come this way,
We'd be ready for to run, man.
Gad smash you, for a fuil! says Tom,
For if aw could not use me gun,
Aw'd tyek me pick, aw'd hew them doon,
And run and cry, through a' the toon,
God save greet George our King, man!
Tol lol de rol, &c.

BOB CRANKY'S 'SIZE SUNDAY.

Ho'way and aw'll sing thee a tune, man,
'Bout huz seein my Lord at the toon, man:
Aw's seer aw was smart, now
Aw'll lay thee a quart, now,
Nyen them a' cut a dash like Bob Cranky!

When aw pat on maw blue coat that shines sae,
Me jacket wi' posies sae fine, sae,
Maw sark sic sma' threed, man,
Maw pig-tail sae greet, man!
Od smash! what a buck was Bob Cranky!

Blue stockings, white clocks, and reed garters,
Yellow breeks, and me shoon wi' lang quarters,
Aw myed wor bairns cry,
Eh! sarties! ni! ni!
Sic varry fine things had Bob Cranky.

Aw went to au'd Tom's and fand Nancy;
Kiv aw, Lass, thou's myed to my fancy!
Aw like thou as weel
As a stannin pye heel,
Ho'way to thee toon wi' Bob Cranky.

As up Jenny's backside we were bangin,
Ki' Geordy, How! where are ye gannin?
Wey t' see my Lord Sizes,
But ye shanna gan aside us,
For ye're not half sae fine as Bob Cranky.

Ki' Geordy, We leeve i' yen raw, wyet,
I' yen corf we byeth gan belaw, wyet,
At a' things aw've play'd,
And to hew, aw'm not flaid,
Wi' sic in a chep as Bob Cranky.

Bob hez thee at lowpin and flingin,
At the bool, foot-ball, clubby, and swingin:
Can ye jump up and shuffle,
And cross owre the buckle,
When ye dance, like the cliver Bob Cranky.

Thou knaws i' my hoggers and drawers,
Aw'm nyen o' your scarters and clawers:
Frae the trap door bit laddie
T' the spletter his daddie,
Nyen handles the pick like Bob Cranky.

Sae, Geordy, od smash my pit sark!
Thou'd best haud thee whisht about wark,
Or aw'll sobble thee body,
And myek thee nose bloody,
If thou sets up thee gob to Bob Cranky.

Nan laugh'd—to church we gat without 'im;
The great crowd, becrike, how aw hew'd 'em!
Smasht a keel-bully roar'd,
Clear the road! whilk's my Lord?
Half sae high as the noble Bob Cranky.

Aw lup up, and catch'd just a short gliff
O' Lord Trials, the Trumpets and Sheriff,
Wi' the little bit mannies,
Sae fine and sae canny,
Ods heft! what a seet for Bob Cranky!

Then away we set off to the yell-hoose,
Wiv a few hearty lasses an' fellows:
Aw tell'd ower the wig,
Sae curl'd and sae big;
For nyen saw't sae weel as Bob Cranky.

Aw gat drunk, fit, and kick'd up a racket,
Rove me breeks and spoil'd a' me fine jacket;
Nan cry'd and she cuddled,
Maw hinny thou's fuddled,
Ho'way hyem, now me bonny Bob Cranky!

So we stagger'd alang frae the toon, mun,
Whiles gannin, whiles byeth fairly down, mun;
Smash, a banksman or hewer,
No, not a fine viewer,
Durst jaw to the noble Bob Cranky.

What care aw for maw new suit, i' tatters,
Twee blaek een—od smash a' sic matters!
When me Lord comes agyen, mun,
Aw'll strive, ev'ry byen, mun,
To bang a' wor consarn, ki Bob Cranky.

O' the flesh an' breed day, when wor bun, mun,
Aw'll buy claes far bonnier thau thou, mun;
For, od smash my nyavel!
As lang as wor yebble,
Let's keep up the day! ki Bob Cranky.

BOB CRANKY'S LEUM'NATION NEET.

Lord 'Sizes leuks weel in coach shinin',
Whese wig wad let Nan's heed an' mine in;
But a bonnier seet,
Was the Leum'nation neet—
It dazzled the een o' Bob Cranky.

Aboot seven aw gov ower warkin,
Gat beard off, and put a white sark on;
For Newcasslers, thowt aw,
Giff they dinna see me braw,
Will say 'What a gowk is Bob Cranky!'

A ran to the toon without stoppin',
An' fand ilka street like a hoppin;
An' the folks stood sae thick,
Aw sair wish'd for maw pick,
To hew oot a way for Bob Cranky.

The guns then went off frae the Cassel,
Seun windors wur a' in a dazzle;
Ilka place was like day,
Aw then shouted, 'Hurray!
There's plenty an' peace for Bob Cranky!'

Sum windors had pictures sae bonny!
Wi' sma' lamps aw can't tell how mony;
Te count them, aw'm sure,
Wad bother the Viewer—
A greater Goggriffer than Cranky.

Aw see'd croons myed o' lamps blue an' reed,
Whilk aw wad na like to put on my heed!
'G. P. R.' aw see'd next,
For wor Geordy Prince Rex:—
Nyen spelt it sae weel as Bob Cranky.

Sum had anchors of leet high hung up,
To shew folk greet Bonny was deun up;
But, far as aw see, man,
As reet it wad be, man,
To leet up the pick o' Bob Cranky.

A leg of meat sed, 'Doon aw's cummin!'
But sum chep aw suen fand was hummin;
For aw stopp'd bit belaw,
Haudin oot a lang paw,
But mutton cam ne nearer Cranky.

A cask on the Vicar's pump top, man,
Markt 'Plenty an' Peace,' gard me stop, man:
Thinks aw te mesel,
Aw's here get sum yell,
But only cau'd waiter gat Cranky.

Bonny, shav'd biv a bear, was then shot, man;
And biv Auld Nick weel thump'd in a pot, man;
But aw thowt a' the toon
Shuddent lick him when doon,
Tho' he'd a greet spite to Bob Cranky.

Yen Price had the cream o' the bowl, man,
Wi' goold lamps clagg'd close cheek by jowl, man:
It was sick a fine seet,
Aw could glower'd a' neet,
Had fu' been the wame o' Bob Cranky.

Ne mair seed aw till signal gun fired,
Out went the leets, an' hyem aw gat, tired:
Nan ax'd 'bout Leum'nations,
Aw bad her hae patience,
An' first fetch sum flesh to Bob Cranky.

Aw tell'd her what news aw had heerd, man,
That shuggar was sixpence a pund, man;
An' good beef at a groat:—
Then wor Nan clear'd her throat,
An' shooted oot, 'Plenty for Cranky!'

'Twas a' lees—for when Nan gang'd te toon,
An' for yen pund a sixpence pat doon;
Frae shop she was winnin',
When Grosser, deuce bin him!
Teuk a' the cheap shuggar frae Cranky.

But gif Peace brings another gran' neet,
Aw think folk shou'd hae Plenty te eat:
Singin' hinnies, aw'm shoor,
An' strang yell at the door,
Wad better nor candles please Cranky.

Then agyen, what a shem an' a sin!
Te the Pitt dinner nyen ax'd me in:
Yet aw work like a Turk,
Byeth wi' pick, knife, an' fork—
An' whe's mair a Pittite nor Cranky.

Or what could ye a' dee without me,
When cau'd ice and snaw com aboot ye?
Then sair ye wad shiver,
For a' ye're sae cliver,
An' lang for the pick o' Bob Cranky!

THE PITMAN'S SKELLYSCOPE.

Oh! Tommy, lad, howay! aw's myek thou full o' play;
Aw'm sartin that thou'll byeth skip and lowpy-O:
Aw've sic a bonny thing, an' it's myed o' glass an' tin,
An' they say it's nyem's a bonny Gleediscowpy-O.
Skellyscowpy-O, &c.

A gawn alang the Close, a bit laddy cock'd his nose,
An' was keekin throud' aside the Jabel Growpey-O:
Aw fand that he wad sell'd; sae, odsmash! aw'm proud te tell'd!
For twee shillin' bowt his bonny Gleediscowpey-O.

Wey, then aw ran off hyem—Nan thowt me myekin gyem;
Said, my Deavy[1] for a new aw'd had a cowpey-O:
But she gurn'd, aye, like a sweeper, when aw held it tiv her peeper,
See'd church-windors through my bonny Gleediscowpey-O.

Then the bairns they ran like sheep, a' strove to hev a peep,
Frae the audest lass, aye doon to the dowpey-O:
There Dick dang ower Cud, myed his nose gush out o' blood,
As he ran to see the bonny Gleediscowpey-O.

There was dwiney little Peg, not sae nimmel i' the leg,
Ower the three-footed stuil gat sic a cowpey-O;
And Sandy wiv his beak, myed a lump i' mother's cheek,
Climbin up to see the bonny Gleediscowpey-O.

But she held it tiv her e'e, aye, till she could hardly see,
Oh! then aboot the markettin she thowty-O:
Wey, Lukey, man! says she, 'stead o' shuggar, flesh, an' tea,
Thou's fetch'd us hyem thy bonny Gleediscowpey-O.

She struck me wi' surprise while she skelly'd wiv her eyes,
And aw spak as if aw'd gettin a bit rowpey-O.
So, neighbours, tyek a hint, if ye peep ower lang ye'll squint,
For aw think they're reetly nyem'd a Gleediscowpey-O.

[1] A term for the Safety Lamp.

THE BONNY KEEL LADDIE.

Maw bonny keel laddie, maw canny keel laddie,
Maw bonny keel laddie for me, O!
He sits in his keel, as black as the Deil,
And he brings the white money to me, O.

Ha' ye seen owt o' maw canny man,
An' are ye sure he's weel, O?
He's gyen ower land, wiv a stick in his hand,
To help to moor the keel, O.

The canny keel laddie, the bonny keel laddie,
The canny keel laddie for me, O;
He sits in his huddock, and claws his bare buddock,
And brings the white money to me, O.

MAW CANNY HINNY.

Where hest te been, maw canny hinny?
An' where hest te been, maw bonny bairn?
Aw was up an' doon seeking for maw hinny,
Aw was through the toon seekin for maw bairn:
Aw went up the Butcher Bank and doon Grundin Chare,
Caw'd at the Dun Cow, but aw cuddent find thee there.

Where hest te been, maw canny hinny?
An' where hest te been, maw bonny bairn, &c.

Then aw went t' th' Cassel-garth and caw'd on Johnny Fife.
The beer drawer tell'd me she ne'er saw thee in her life.
Where hest te been, &c.

Then aw went into the Three Bulls' Heads, and down the Lang Stairs,
And a' the way alang the Close, as far as Mr. Mayor's.
Where hest te been, &c.

Fra there aw went alang the Brig, and up to Jackson's Chare,
Then back agyen to the Cross Keys, but cuddent find thee there.
Where hest te been, &c.

Then comin out o' Pipergate, aw met wi' Willy Rigg,
Whe tell'd me that he saw the stannen p——n on the Brig
Where hest te been, &c.

Cummin alang the Brig agyen, aw met wi' Cristy Gee,
He tell'd me that he saw thee gannin down Humes's Entery.
Where hest te been, &c.

Where hev aw been! aw seun can tell ye that;
Cummin up the Kee, aw met wi' Peter Pratt;
Meetin Peter Pratt, we met wi' Tommy Wear,
And went to Humes's t' get a gill o' beer.

There's where aw've been, maw canny hinny,
There's where aw've been, maw bonny lamb!
Wast tu up an' down, seekin for thee hinny?
Wast tu up an' down, seekin for thee lamb?

Then aw met yur Ben, and we were like to fight,
And when we cam to Sandgate it was pick night;
Crossin the road, aw met wi' Bobby Swinny.—
Hing on the girdle, let's hev a singin hinny.

A' me sorrow's ower now aw've fund maw hinny;
A' me sorrow's ower now aw've fund maw bairn;
Lang may aw shoot, Maw canny hinny!
Lang may aw shoot, Maw bonny bairn!

BOB CRANKY'S ACCOUNT

Of the Ascent of Mr. Sadler's Balloon, from Newcastle, Sept. 1, 1815.

Ho'way, a' me marrows, big, little, and drest,
The first of a' seets may be seen;
It's the Balloon, man, see greet! aye, faiks! it's ne jest,
Tho' it seems, a' the warld, like a dream.
Aw read iv the papers, by gocks! aw remember,
It's to flee without wings i' the air,
On this varry Friday, the furst of September,
Be it cloudy, wet weather, or fair.

And a man, mun, there means, in this varry Balloon,
Above, 'mang the stars to fly,
And to haud a converse wi' the man i' the moon,
And cockwebs to soop frae the sky.
So we started frae hyem by eight i' the morn,
Byeth faither and mother and son,
But fand a' wor neighbours had started before,
To get in good time for the fun.

The lanes were a' crouded, some riding, some walking,
Aw ne'er see'd the like iv my life;
'Twas bedlam broke oot, aw thowt by their talking,
Every bairn, lad, lass, and the wife.
The folks at the winders a' jeer'd as we past,
An' thowt' a' wor numbers surprisin;
They star'd and they glower'd, and axed in jest,
Are all of ye pitmen a rising?

Aw fand, at the toon, te, the shops a' shut up,
And the streets wi' folks were sae flocken;
The walls wi' Balloon papers sae closely clagg'd up,
Be cavers! it luckt like a hoppen.
A fellow was turnin it a' into a joke,
Another was a' the folks hummin,
While a third said, it was a bag full o' smoke,
That ower wor heeds was a cummin.

To the furst o' these cheps, says aw, Nyen o' yur fun,
Or aw'll lay thee at length on the styens,
Or thy teeth aw'll beat oot, as sure as a gun,
And mevies aw'll chowk ye wi' byens.
To the beak o' the second aw held up me fist,
D—mn! aw'll bray ye as black as a craw,
Aw'll knock oot yur e'e, if aw don't aw'll be kist,
An' mump a' the slack o' yur jaw.

Aw pat them to reets, an' onward aw steer'd,
An' wonder'd the folks aw had see'd,
But a' was palaver that ever aw heurd,
So aw walk'd on as other folk did.
At last aw gat up on the top o' sum sheds,
Biv the help of an au'd crazy lether;
An' ower the tops o' ten thousand folks' heads,
Aw suen gat a gliff o' the blether.

D—mn, a blether aw call it! by gocks, aw am reet,
For o' silk dipt iv leadeater melted
It's myed of, an' Lord! what a wonderful seet,
When the gun tell'd that it was filated.
'Twas just like the boiler at wor Bella Pit,
O'er which were a great cabbage net,
Which fasten'd, by a parcel of strings sae fit,
A corf for the mannie to sit.

As aw sat at me ease aw cud hear a' the folk
Gie their notions about the Balloon;
Aw thowt aw shud brust when aw heurd their strange talk,
Aboot the man's gaun to the moon.
Says yen, iv a whisper, Aw think aw hev heurd
He is carryin a letter to Bonny,
That's ower the sea to flee like a burd;
The thowt, by my jinkers! was funny.

A chep wiv a fyece like a poor country bumpkin,
Sed he heurd, but may hap tisent true,
That the thing whilk they saw was a great silken pumpkin
By me eye, what a lilly-ba-loo!
Another said, Sadler (for that is the nyem
O' the man) may pay dear for his frolic,
When he's up iv the clouds (a stree for his fame!)
His guts may have twangs of the cholic.

The man a' this time the great blether was filling,
Wiv stuff that wad myed a dog sick,
It smelt just as though they were garvage distilling,
Till at length it was full as a tick.
They next strain'd the ropes to keep the thing steady,
Put colley and drams iv the boat;
Then crack went the cannon, to say it was ready,
An' aw see'd the blether afloat.

Not a word was there heurd, a' eyes were a starin,
For the off ganen moment was near:
To see sic a crowd se whisht was amazen,
Aw thowt aw fand palish and queer.
After waitin a wee, aw see'd him come to,
Shaken hands, as aw thowt, wiv his friend;
Of his mountin the corf aw had a full view,
As he sat his ways down at the end.

The ropes were then cut, and upwards he went,
A wavin his flag i' the air;
Ev'ry heed was turn'd up, and a' eye's wur intent
On this comical new flying chair:
It went it's ways up like a lavrick sae hee,
Till it luckt 'bout the size of a skyate;
When in tiv a cloud it was lost t' the e'e,
Aw wisht the man better i' fate.

BOB CRANKY'S ADIEU.

Fareweel, fareweel, maw comely pet!
Aw's forc'd three weeks to leave thee;
Aw's doon for par'ment duty set,
O dinna let it grieve thee!
Maw hinny! wipe them een, sae breet,
That mine wi' love did dazzle;
When tha' heart's sad can mine be leet?
Come, ho'way get a gill o' beer,
Thee heart te cheer:
An' when thou sees me mairch away,
Whiles in, whiles oot
O' step, nae doot,
'Bob Cranky's gane,' thou'lt sobbing say,
'A sowgering to Newcassel!'

Come, dinna, dinna whinge an' whipe,
Like yammering Isbel Macky;
Cheer up, maw hinny! leet thee pipe,
An' tyek a blast o' backy!
It's but for yen an' twenty days,
The folks's een aw'll dazzle.—
Prood, swagg'ring i' maw fine reed claes:
Ods heft! maw pit claes—dis thou hear?
Are warse o' wear;
Mind cloot them weel, when aw's away;
An' a posie goon
Aw'll buy thee soon,
An' thou's drink thy tea—aye, twice a-day,
When aw cum frae Newcassel.

Becrike! aw's up tiv every rig,
Sae dinna doot, maw hinny!
But at the blue styen o' the Brig
Aw'll hae maw mairchin ginny.
A guinea! wuks! sae strange a seet
Maw een wi' joy wad dazzle;
But aw'll hed spent that varry neet
For money, hinny! ower neet to keep,
Wad brick maw sleep:
Sae, smash! aw think't a wiser way,
Wi' flesh an' beer
Mesel to cheer,
The lang three weeks that aw've to stay
A sowgering at Newcassel.

But whisht! the Sairjeant's tongue aw hear,
'Fa' in! fa' in!' he's yelpin:
The fifes are whusslin loud and clear,
And sair the drums they're skelpin.
Fareweel, maw comely! aw mun gang
The Gen'ral's een to dazzle!
But, hinny! if the time seems lang,
An' thou freets about me neet and day;
Then come away,
Seek out the yell-house where aw stay,
An' we'll kiss and cuddle;
An' mony a fuddle
Sall drive the langsome hours away,
When sowgering at Newcassel.

THE MAYOR OF BOURDEAUX;

Or, Mally's Mistake.

As Jackey sat lowsin his buttons,
And rowlin his great backey chow,
The bells o' the toon 'gan to tinkle;
Cries Mally, What's happen'd us now?
Ho! jump and fling off thy au'd neet-cap,
And slip on thy lang-quarter'd shoes,
Ere thou gets hauf way up the Key,
Ye'll meet sum that can tell ye the news.
Fol de rol, &c.

As Mally was puffin an' runnin,
A gentleman's flonkey she met;
'Canny man, ye mun tell us the news,
Or ye'll set wor au'd man i' the pet.'
The Mayor of Bourdeaux, a French noble,
Has com'd to Newcassel with speed:
To neet he sleeps sound at wor Mayor's,
And to morn he'll be at the Queen's Heed.
Fol de rol, &c.

Now Mally thank'd him wiv a curtsey,
And back tiv her Jackey did prance:
'Mary Mordox, a fine Fitter's Leydy's
Com'd ower in a coble frae France.'
'Mary Mordox, a fine Fitter's Leydy!
Ise warrant she's some frolicksome jade,
And com'd to Newcassel for fashions,
Or else to suspect the Coal Trade.'
Fol de rol, &c.

So to Peter's thou's gan i' the mornin,
Gan suin an' thou'll get a good pleyce;
If thou canna get haud of her paw,
Thou mun get a guid luick at her fyece:
And if ye can but get a word at her,
And mind now ye divent think shem,
Say, 'Please, ma'm, they ca' my wife Mary,
Wor next little bairn's be the syem.'
Fol de rol, &c.

So betimes the next mornin he travels,
And up to the Queen's Head he goes,
Where a skinny chep luik'd frev a winder,
Wi' white powther'd wig an' lang nose:
A fine butterflee coat wi' gowld buttons,
A' man! how the folks did hurro;
Aw thowt he'd fled from some toy-shop i' Lunnin,
Or else frae sum grand wax-work show.
Fol de rol, &c.

Smash! Mally, ye've tell'd a big lee,
For a man's not a woman, aw'll swear:
But he hardly had spoken these words,
Till out tumbled a cask o' strang beer:
Like a cat Jackey flang his leg ower,
Ay, like Bacchus he sat at his ease,
Tiv aw's fuddled, odsmash! ye may tauk
Yor French gabberish as lang as ye please.
Fol de rol, &c.

They crush'd sair, but Jack never minded,
Till wi' liquor he'd lowsen'd his bags;
At last a great thrust dang him ower,
He lay a' his lang length on the flags:
Iv an instant Mall seiz'd his pea jacket,
Says she, is thou drunk, or thou's lyem?
The Mayors o' wor box! smash, aw'm fuddled!
O Mally, wilt thou lead me hyem.
Fol de rol, &c.

SWALWELL HOPPING.

Lads! myek a ring,
An' hear huz sing
The sport we had at Swalwell, O;
Wor merry play.
O' the Hoppen day,
Ho'way, marrows! an' aw'll tell ye, O.
The sun shines warm on Whickham bank,
Let's a' lie doon at Dolly's, O;
An' hear 'bout mony a funny prank,
Play'd by the lads at Crowley's, O.

There was Sam, O zoons!
Wiv's pantaloons,
An' gravat up ower his gobby, O;
An' Willy, thou,
Wi' the jacket blue,
Thou was the varry Bobby, O:
There was knack knee'd Mat, wiv's purple suit,
An' hopper-a-s'd Dick, a' yellow, O:
Great Tom was there, wi' H——ple's au'd coat,
An' buck-sheen'd Bob frae Stella, O.

When we wor drest,
It was confest
We shem'd the cheps frae Newcassel, O:
So away we set
To wor toon gyet,
To jeer them a' as they pass'd us, O:
We shouted some, and some dung down;
Lobstrop'lus fellows, we kick'd them, O:
Some culls went hyem, some crush'd to toon,
Some gat aboot by Whickham, O.

The spree com on—
The hat was won
By carrot-pow'd Jenny's Jackey, O:
What a fyace, begok!
Had muckle-mouth'd Jock,
When he twin'd his jaws for the backy, O!
The kilted lasses fell tid, pell mell,
Wi' 'Talli-i-o the grinder,' O—
The smock was gi'en to slavering Nell,
Ye'd dropp'd had ye been behind her, O.

Wor dance began
Wi' buck-tyuth'd Nan,
An' Geordy, thou'd Jen Collin, O;
While the merry Black,
Wi' mony a crack,
Set the tamboureen a rolling, O.
Like wor forge-hammer we bet sae true,
An' shuk Raw's house sae soundly, O:
Tuff canna cum up wi' Crowley's Crew,
Nor thump the tune sae roundly, O.

Then Gyetside Jack,
Wiv's bloody back,
Wad dance wi' goggle-eye'd Mally, O:
But up cam Nick
An' gav him a kick,
And a canny bit kind of a fally, O:
That day a' Hawks's Blacks may rue,—
They gat mony a varry sair clanker, O:
Can they de owse wi' Crowley's Crew,
Frev a needle tiv an anchor, O?

What's that to say
To the bonny fray
We had wi' skipper Robin, O?
The keel bullies a',
Byeth greet an' sma',
Myed a b——rly tide o' the hoppen, O.
Gleed Will cried, Ma-a! up lup au'd Frank,
An' Robin, that marry'd his dowter, O:
We hammer'd their ribs like an anchor shank;
They fand it six weeks efter, O.

Bald pyat Jone Carr
Wad hev a bit spar,
To help his marrows away wid, O;
But poor au'd fellow,
He'd getten ower mellow,
So we doon'd byth him and Davy, O:
Then Petticoat Robin jump'd up agyen,
Wiv's gully to marcykree huz a'
But Willanton Dan laid him flat wiv a styen:
Hurrah! for Crowley's Crew, boys, a'!

Their hash was sattled,
So off they rattled,
An' we jigg'd it up sae hearty, O.
Wi' mony a shiver,
An' lowp sae cliver,
Can Newcassel turn out sic a party, O?
When, wheit dyun ower, the fiddlers went,
We stagger'd a hint sae merry, O;
An thro' wor toon, till fairly spent,
Roar'd—Crowley's Crew an' glory, O!

WINLATON HOPPING.

Ye sons of glee come join with me,
Ye who love mirth and toping, O,
You'll ne'er refuse to hear my muse
Sing of Winlaton fam'd Hopping, O,
To Tenche's Hotel let's retire,
To tipple away so neatly, O:
The fiddle and song you'll sure admire,
Together they sound so sweetly, O.
Tal lal la, &c.

With box and die you'll Sammy spy,
Of late Sword-dancers' Bessy, O—
All patch'd and torn with tail and horn,
Just like a De'il in dressy, O:
But late discharg'd from that employ,
This scheme popp'd in his noddle, O;
Which fill'd his little heart with joy,
And pleas'd blithe Sammy Doddle, O.

Close by the stocks, his dies and box
He rattled away so rarely, O;
Both youth and age did he engage,
Together they play'd so cheerly, O:
While just close by the sticks did fly
At spice on knobs of woody, O:
'How! mind my legs!' the youngsters cry,
'Wey, man, thou's drawn the bloody!' O.

Rang'd in a row, a glorious show
Of spice, and nuts for cracking, O;
With handsome toys for girls and boys,
Grac'd Winlaton fam'd Hopping, O.
Each to the stalls led his dear lass,
And treat her there so sweetly, O;
Then straight retire to drink a glass,
An' shuffle an' cut so neatly, O.

Ye men so wise who knowledge prize,
Let not this scene confound ye, O;
At Winship's door might ye explore
The world a' running round ye, O:
Blithe boys and girls on horse and chair,
Flew round without e'er stopping, O;
Sure Blaydon Races can't compare
With Winlaton fam'd Hopping, O.

The night came on, with dance and song,
Each public-house did jingle, O;
All ranks did swear to banish Care,
The married and the single, O:
They tript away till morning light,
Then slept sound without rocking, O;
Next day got drunk in merry plight,
And jaw'd about the Hopping, O.

At last dull Care his crest did rear,
Our heads he sore did riddle, O;
Till Peacock drew his pipes and blew,
And Tenche he tun'd his fiddle, O;
Then Painter Jack he led the van,
The drum did join in chorus, O,—
The old and young then danc'd and sung,
Dull Care fled far before us, O.

No courtier fine, nor grave divine,
That's got the whole he wishes, O,
Will ever be so blithe as we,
With all their loaves and fishes, O:
Then grant, O Jove! our ardent prayer,
And happy still you'll find us, O;—
Let pining Want and haggard Care,
A day's march keep behind us, O.

THE SANDGATE GIRL'S LAMENTATION.

I was a young maiden truly,
And lived in Sandgate-street;
I thought to marry a good man,
To keep me warm at neet.
Some good-like body, some bonny body,
To be with me at noon;
But last I married a keelman,
And my good days are done.

I thought to marry a parson,
To hear me say my prayers;
But I have married a keelman,
And he kicks me down the stairs.
He's an ugly body, a bubbly body,
An ill-far'd ugly loon;
And I have married a keelman,
And my good days are done.

I thought to marry a dyer,
To dye my apron blue;
And I have married a keelman,
And he makes me sorely rue.
He's an ugly body, a bubbly body,
An ill-far'd ugly loon;
And I have married a keelman,
And my good days are done.

I thought to marry a joiner,
To make me chair and stool;
But I have married a keelman,
And he's a perfect fool.
He's an ugly body, a bubbly body,
An ill-far'd ugly loon;
And I have married a keelman,
And my good days are done.

I thought to marry a sailor,
To bring me sugar and tea;
But I have married a keelman,
And that he lets me see.
He's an ugly body, a bubbly body,
An ill-far'd ugly loon;
And I have married a keelman,
And my good days are done.

THE COLLIER'S RANT.

As me and my marrow was gannin to wark,
We met wi' the De'il, it was in the dark;
I up wi' my pick, it being in the neet,
And knock'd off his horns, likewise his club feet.

Follow the horses, Johnny, my lad, oh!
Follow them through, my canny lad, oh!
Follow the horses, Johnny, my lad, oh!
Oh, lad, lie away, canny lad, oh!

As me and my marrow was putting the tram,
The lowe it went oot, and my marrow went wrang;
You would have laugh'd had you seen the gam,
The de'il gat my marrow, but I gat the tram.
Follow the horses, &c.

Oh, marrow! oh, marrow! what dost thou think?
I've broken my bottle and spilt a' my drink;
I've lost a' my shin-splints amang the greet stanes,
Draw me to the shaft, it's time to gan hame.
Follow the horses, &c.

Oh, marrow! oh, marrow! where hest thou been?
Driving the drift frae the low seam,
Driving the drift frae the low seam:
Haud up the lowe, lad! de'il stop oot thy een!
Follow the horse, &c.

Oh, marrow! oh, marrow! this is wor pay week,
We'll get penny loaves, and drink to our beek;
And we'll fill up our bumper, and round it shall go,
Follow the horses, Johnny lad, oh!
Follow the horses, &c.

There is me horse, and there is me tram;
Twee horns full of greese will myek her to gan;
There is me hoggers, likewise me half shoon,
And smash me heart! marrow, me putting's a' done!
Follow the horses, &c.

WEEL MAY THE KEEL ROW.

As I cam thro' Sandgate, thro' Sandgate, thro' Sandgate,
As I cam thro' Sandgate, I heard a lassie sing,
Weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row,
Weel may the keel row, that my laddie's in.

He wears a blue bonnet, blue bonnet, blue bonnet,
He wears a blue bonnet, a dimple in his chin:
And weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row,
And weel may the keel row that my laddie's in.

THE NEW KEEL ROW.

Whe's like my Johnny,
Sae leish, sae blithe, sae bonny?
He's foremost 'mang the mony
Keel lads o' Coaly Tyne;
He'll set or row sae tightly,
Or in the dance sae sprightly,
He'll cut and shuffle sightly:
'Tis true—were he not mine.

Weel may the keel row,
The keel row, the keel row,
Weel may the keel row,
That my laddie's in:
He wears a blue bonnet,
A bonnet, a bonnet,
He wears a blue bonnet,
A dimple in his chin.

He's nae mair o' learning,
Than tells his weekly earning,
Yet reet frae wrang discerning,
Tho' brave, nae bruiser he:
Tho' he no worth a plack is,
His awn coat on his back is,
And nyen can say that black is
The white o' Johnny's e'e.
Weel may the keel row, &c.

He takes his quairt right dearly,
Each comin' pay-day, nearly,
Then talks O, latin O—cheerly,
Or mavies jaws away;
How caring not a feather,
Nelson and he together,
The springey French did lether.
And gar'd them shab away.
Weel may the keel row, &c.

We're a' kings comparely,
In each I'd spy a fairly,
An' ay wad Johnny barly,
He gets sic bonny bairns:
Go bon, the queen, or misses,
But wad, for Johnny's kisses,
Luik upon as blisses,
Scrimp meals, caff beds, and dairns.
Weel may the keel row, &c.

Wor lads, like their deddy,
To fight the French are ready;
But gie's a peace that's steady,
And breed cheep as langsyne;
May a' the press-gang perish,
Each lass her laddie cherish:
Lang may the Coal Trade flourish
Upon the dingy Tyne.
Weel may the keel row, &c.

Breet Star o' Heaton,
You're ay wor darling sweet on';
May heaven's blessings leet on
Your lyedy, bairns, and ye!
God bless the King and Nation!
Each bravely fill his station:
Our canny Corporation,
Lang may they sing, wi' me,
Weel may the keel row, &c.

THE SANDHILL MONKEY.

A story aw's gaun for to tell,
An' t' ye it may luik varry strange,
It was in a shop on the Sandhill,
When the Craw's Nest was on the Exchange.
A monkey was each day drest soon,
Ahint the coonter he sat i' the shop,
Whe cam in an' their money laid doon,
Jaco straight in the till would it pop.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

A Skipper he cam in yen day,
He coudent help luiking at Jackey,
On the coonter his money did lay,
Saying, 'Please, sir, an ounce of rag backey!'
His money Jack popt in the till,
The Skipper kept luiking at him,
A' the time on his seat he sat still,
And' he luik'd at the Skipper quite grim.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

'Now pray, sir, will ye bear a hand?
For aw maun be at Sheels now this tide—
Now pray be as sharp as ye can,
For wor keel she is at the Keyside;—
Au'd man, are ye deef?' then he cried,
An' intiv a passion he fell,
On the counter lay some ready weigh'd,
Says he, 'Smash! but aw'll help mysel!'
Rum ti iddity, &c.

'Then he tuik up an ounce o' rag backey,
But afore he cud get turn'd about,
Off his seat then upstarted au'd Jackey,
An' catch'd him hard fast by the snout;
He roar'd and he shouted out 'Murder!'
The Maister he see'd a' the fun,
Not wishing the joke to gan farther,
Straight intiv the shop then he run.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

'What's the matter, my canny good man?'
An' he scarcely could keep in the laugh;
'Take this au'd man off me—bear a hand!
For aw think now that's mater aneuf:—
What's the mater, ye ax?—Smash! that's funny!'
(An' he still kept his eye upon Jackey)
'Aw paid yor grandfayther the money,
But he'll not let me hae me backey.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

'Now mind ye, maw canny good man,
If ever thou cums in wor keel,
For the trick thou hes play'd me the day,
Wor Pee Dee shall sobble ye weel;
Eh, for a' yor fine claes I'll engage,
An' for a' ye're a sturdy au'd man,
Tho' he's nobbut twelve years of age,
He shall thresh ye till ye canna gan.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

THE SKIPPER'S DREAM.

T'other day ye mun knaw, wey aw'd had a sup beer;
It ran i' maw heed, and myed me sae queer,
That aw lay doon to sleep i' wor huddock sae snug,
An' dreem'd sic a dreem as gar'd me scart me lug.

Aw dreem'd that the queerest man iver aw see'd,
Cam stumping alang wi' three hats on his heed;
A goon on like a preest, (mind aw's telling ne lees)
An' at his side there was hangin a greet bunch o' kees.

He stares i' maw fyece, and says, 'How d'ye de?'
'Aw's teufish,' says aw, 'canny man, how are ye?'
Then he says, wiv a voice gar'd me trimmle, aw's shure,
'Aw's varry weel, thank ye, but yor day is nigh ower.'

Aw studdies awhile, then says aw, 'Are ye Deeth,
Come here for to wise oot a poor fellow's breeth?'
He says, 'No, aw'm the Pope, cum to try if aw can
Save a vile wretch like ye, fra the nasty Bad Man.'

He said, yen St. Peter gov him them great keys
To let into Hiven wheiver he'd please;
An' if aw'd turn Papish, and giv him a Note,
He'd send me to Hiven, without ony doot.

Then a yel heep o' stuff he talk'd aboot sin,
An' sed he'd forgi' me whativer aw'd deun;
An' if that aw'd murther'd byeth fayther and muther,
For a five shillin peece, wey, aw might kill me bruther.

Says aw, 'Mister Pope, gi's ne mair o' yur tauk,
But oot o' wor huddock aw's beg ye to wauk;
An' if ye divent get oot before aw count Nine,
Byeth ye and yor keys, man, aw'll fling i' the Tyne.'

So aw on tiv me feet wiv a bit iv a skip,
For aw ment for to give him an Orangeman's grip;
But aw waken'd just then in a terrible stew,
An' fand it a dreem as aw've teld ye just now.

THE SKIPPER'S ACCOUNT OF THE ORANGEMEN'S PROCESSION.

Wor keel it lay dry on a sand near the Key,
An' it happen'd as how that aw had nowt te de;
The bells began ringin just when it struck Ten,
An' they sed that it was for the Loyal Orangemen.
Derry down, &c.

Aw on t' the Key iv a deuce iv a hurry,
An' brak byeth me shins cummin ower a whurry;
But aw haddent time to mind them tho' they smarted sare,
For the Purcession was just comin oot iv a chare.
Derry down, &c.

Aw thowt that aw'd seen bonny seets i' my time,
'Mang wor lads that are reckon'd the pride o' the Tyne;
When they get theirsels drest i' wor heed-meetin day,
Wiv a band o' musicianors afore them to play.
Derry down, &c.

But the forst seet aw see'd put maw pipe oot, aw's shure,
'Twas a canny au'd mannie that mairch'd on afore;
Wiv a sword iv his hand, a cock'd hat on his heed,
An' the bonniest new claes on that ever aw see'd.
Derry down, &c.

There was colours, and candles, and gilt things galore,
An' things that aw ne'er see'd the like on afore;
An' sum douce-leukin cheps that war aw dress'd i' black,
But they every yen had a cow's horn on his back.
Derry down, &c.

The fine things they com on se thick and se fast,
That aw cuddent tell what was forst or what last;
An' aw see'd a queer man that the folks call'd a preest,
An' four cheps swettin under a greet goolden kist.
Derry down, &c.

Aw laugh'd, an' aw gurn'd, an' aw gov a greet shoot,
An' aw dang a' the bairns an' the au'd wives aboot;
But maw booels were put in a dismal confloption,
When aw see'd sum cheps cum wiv a bairn's bonny coffin.
Derry down, &c.

Aw was in sad consarnment, as ye may be shure,
For a barryin like this, wey aw ne'er see'd afore;
For the morners war drest up wiv sashes an' ribbins,
An' the band play'd as thof they war gaun tiv a weddin.
Derry down, &c.

Aw says tiv a man, says aw, 'Sor, if ye please,
Can ye tell us whe's deed?' an' he civilly says,
'Whe's deed aw divent knaw, but as far as aw reckin,
It's the De'il or yen Pop that they hev i' thon coffin.'
Derry down, &c.

Aw met wor Pee Dee when aw gat tiv the jail,
He says, 'Let's intiv the chorch, can ye clim o'er the rail?
For there's lasses wi' fine Orange ribbins gaen in,
An' that hatchet-fyec'd wife says they're gannin te sing.'
Derry down, &c.

Aw says te the lad. 'Aw's be in iv a crack!'
But a cunstibbel says, 'Man! yor fyece is se black,
That if ye gan in—it's the truth aw declare,
Ye'll be taen for Au'd Nick, and they'll barry ye there.'
Derry down, &c.

So aw see'd ne mair, but aw hard the folks say,
That they'd cum agyen on sum other day;
So aw said tiv wor lad, 'Wey we've seen a grand seet,
An' we'll drink aw their hilths agyen Setterday neet.'
Derry down, &c.

THE POLITICIANS.

Last Setterday, as we were gannin
Frae Newcassel, Dick Martin and I,
We caw'd at the sign o' the Cannon,
Because we byeth turn'd varry dry.
They were tauking o' reedin the papers,
'Bout Cobbett and his politics,
How fine he exposes the capers
Of Government's comical tricks.

He tauks o' the millions expenses
Browt on us by gannin te war:
But he maun be a man o' greet senses,
Or he cuddent hae reckon'd sae far.
He tauks o' the National Debt,
O' sinequeers, pensions, and such;
Wey, aw think how wor Mally wad fret,
If she'd awn just quarter as much.

Mister Government mun hae greet credit,
Or he ne'er wad get intiv debt;
But they tell yen he hez sike a spirit,
Aw's fish that comes intiv his net,
Says Dick, If aw wanted a shillin,
Want, then, yor certain aw must;
For, if yen was ever sae willin,
Ye divent ken where to seek trust.

We expected that when it cam Peace,
Wor sowgers and sailors reduc'd,
Wor burdens they quickly wad cease,
But, smash! man, we've been sair seduc'd.
Says Dicky, The taxes this year,
Myeks yen cry, iv a rage, Devil hang them!
For the backey an' yell they're sae dear—
Wey, it's just a cologuin amang them.

Good folks! aw wad hev ye beware
Of some that in Parliament sit;
For they're not hauf sae good as they waur,
Sin' that taistrel they caw'd Billy Pitt.
If ye 'loo them te de as they please,
Believe me a'm shure, aye, an' sartin,
They'll bring us syef doon te wor knees!
So ended byeth Dick and Jack Martin.

TILL THE TIDE CAME IN.

While strolling down sweet Sandgate-street,
A man o' war's blade I chanc'd to meet;
To the sign of the Ship I haul'd him in,
To drink a good glass till the tide came in.
Till the tide came in, &c.

I took in tow young Squinting Meg,
Who well in the dance could shake her leg;
My friend haul'd Oyster Mally in,
And we jigg'd them about till the tide came in.
Till the tide came in, &c.

We bows'd away till the break of day,
Then ask'd what shot we had to pay?
You've drank, said the host, nine pints of gin;
So we paid him his due—now the tide was in.
Now the tide was in, &c.

THE SANDGATE LASSIE'S LAMENT.

They've prest my dear Johnny,
Sae sprightly and bonny—
Alack! I shall ne'er mair de weel, O;
The kidnapping squad
Laid hold of my lad
As he was unmooring the keel, O.

O my sweet laddie,
My canny keel laddie,
Sae handsome, sae canty, and free, O;
Had he staid on the Tyne,
Ere now he'd been mine,
But, oh! he's far ower the sea, O.

Should he fall by commotion,
Or sink in the ocean,
(May sic tidings ne'er come to the Kee, O!)
I could ne'er mair be glad,
For the loss of my lad
Wad break my poor heart, and I'd dee, O.
O my sweet laddie, &c.

But should my dear tar
Come safe from the war,
What heart-bounding joy wad I feel, O!
To the Church we wad flee,
And married be,
And again he should row in his keel, O.

O my sweet laddie!
My canny keel laddie!
Sae handsome, sae canty, and free, O!
Though far frae the Tyne,
I still hope he'll be mine,
And live happy as onie can be, O.

HYDROPHOBIE, or the SKIPPER & QUAKER.

As Skipper Carr and Markie Dunn,
Were gannin, drunk, through Sandgate—
A dog bit Mark and off did run,
But sair the poor sowl fand it;
The Skipper in a voice se rough—
Aw warn'd, says he, its mad eneugh—
Howay and get some doctor's stuff,
For fear of Hydrophobie!
Fal de ral, &c.

The doctor dress'd the wound se wide,
And left poor Markie smartin—
Then, for a joke, tells Carr, aside,
Mark wad gan mad for sartin:—
Noo, Skipper, mind, when in yor keel,
Be sure that ye watch Markie weel,
If he begins to bark and squeel,
Depend it's Hydrophobie!
Fal de ral, &c.

For Shields, next day, they sail'd wi' coal,
And teuk on board a Quaker,
Who wish'd to go as far's Dent's Hole,
To see a friend call'd Baker:
The Skipper whisper'd in his ear—
Wor Markie will gan mad, aw fear!
He'll bite us a'—as sure's yor here,
We'll get the Hydrophobie!
Fal de ral, &c.

Said Quack—I hope this can't be true,
Nay, friend, thou art mistaken;
We must not fear what man can do—
Yea! I will stand unshaken!
The Skipper, to complete the farce,
Said, Maister Quaker, what's far warse,
A b——g dog bit Markie's a—e,
And browt on Hydrophobie!
Fal de ral, &c.

Now Markie overheard their talk,
Thinks he, aw'll try the Quaker—
Makes P. D. to the huddock walk,
Of fun to be partaker:
To howl an' bark he wasn't slack,
The Quaker ow'rboard in a crack,
With the fat Skipper on his back,
For fear of Hydrophobie!
Fal de ral, &c.

How P. D. laugh'd to see the two,
Who to be sav'd, were striving—
Mark haul'd them out wi' much ado,
And call'd them culls for diving:—
The Quaker suen was put on shore,
For he was frighten'd verry sore—
The Skipper promis'd never more
To mention Hydrophobie!
Fal de ral, &c.

THE KEELMAN AND THE GRINDSTONE.

Not lang since some keelmen were gaun doon to Sheels,
When a hoop round some froth cam alangside their keel;
The Skipper saw'd first, and he gov a greet shout,
How, b——r, man, Dick, here's a grunstan afloat,
Derry down, &c.

Dick leuk'd, and he thowt that the Skipper was reet,
So they'd hev her ashore, and then sell her that neet:
Then he jump'd on to fetch her—my eyes what a splatter!
Ne grunstan was there, for he fand it was water.
Derry down, &c.

The Skipper astonish'd, quite struck wi' surprise,
He roar'd out to Dickey when he saw him rise—
How, smash, marrow—Dick, ho!—What is thou about?
Come here, mun, and let's hae the grunstan tyen out.
Derry down, &c.

A grunstan! says Dick—wey, ye slavering cull,
Wi' water maw belly and pockets are full;
By the gowkey, aw'll sweer that ye're drunk, daft, or doating—
Its nee grunstan at a', but sum awd iron floating.
Derry down, &c.

NEWCASTLE WONDERS;

Or, Hackney Coach Customers.

Since the Hackneys began in Newcastle to run,
There's some tricks been play'd off which has myed lots o' fun:
For poor folks can ride now, that ne'er rode before,
The expense is se canny, its suen gettin ower.
Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.

Mang the rest o' the jokes was a lad frae the Fell,
Where he lives wiv his feyther, his nyem's Geordy Bell;
For hewin there's nyen can touch Geordy for skill,
When he comes to Newcassel he gets a good gill.
Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.

One day being cramm'd wi' fat flesh and strang beer,
Left some friends at the Cock, and away he did steer,
Wiv his hat on three hairs, through Wheat Market did stride,
When a Coachman cam up, and said—Sir, will ye ride?
Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.

Wey, smash noo—whe's thou, man?—How, what dis thou mean?—
I drive the best coach, sir, that ever was seen.—
To ride iv a coach! Smash, says Geordy, aw's willin'—
Aw'll ride i' yor coach though it cost me ten shillin'!
So Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.

Then into the coach Geordy claver'd wi' speed,
And out at the window he popp'd his greet heed:—
Pray, where shall I drive, sir—please give me the name?
Drive us a' the toon ower, man, an' then drive us hyem!
Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.

Then up and doon street how they rattled alang,
Tiv a chep wi' the news tiv aud Geordy did bang,
'Bout his son in the coach, and for truth, did relate,
He was owther turn'd Mayor, or the great Magistrate!
Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.

Aud Geordy did caper till myestly deun ower,
When Coachee, suen after, drove up to his door—
Young Geordy stept out, caus'd their hopes suen to stagger,
Said he'd paid for a ride just to cut a bit swagger.
Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.

To ride frae Newcassel mun cost ye some brass:
Od smash, now, says Geordy, thou talks like an ass!
For half-a-crown piece thou may ride to the Fell—
An' for eighteen-pence mair, smash, they'll drive ye to H—ll!
Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.

Aud Geordy then thowt there was comfort in store,
For contrivance the coaches nyen could come before:
Poor men that are tied to bad wives needn't stick—
Just tip Coachee the brass an' they're off tiv Au'd Nick.
Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.

QUAYSIDE DITTY,

For February, 1816.

Ah! what's yor news the day, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor?
Ah! what's yor news the day, Mr. Mayor?
The folks of Sheels, they say,
Want wor Custom House away,
And ye canna say them nay, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
And ye canna say them nay, Mr. Mayor.

But dinna let it gan, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Or, ye'll ruin us tiv a man, Mr. Mayor:
They say a Branch 'ill dee,
But next they'll tyek the Tree,
And smash wor canny Kee, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
And smash, &c.

For ah! they're greedy dogs, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
They'd grub us up like hogs, Mr. Mayor:
If the Custom-house they touch,
They wad na scruple much
For to bolt wor very Hutch, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
For to bolt, &c.

Before it be ower lang, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Then ca' up a' yor gang, Mr. Mayor:
Yor Corporation chiels,
They say they're deep as Deils,
And they hate the folk of Sheels, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
And they hate, &c.

Ah! get wor Kee-side Sparks, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Wor Fitters and their Clerks, Mr. Mayor,
To help to bar this stroke—
For, faicks, they are the folk
That canna bide the joke, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
That canna bide, &c.

And egg wor men of news, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Wor Mercury and Hues, Mr. Mayor,
Wi' Solomon the Wise,
Their cause to stigmatize,
And trump wors to the skies, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
And trump wors, &c.

How wad we grieve to see, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
The grass grow on the Kee, Mr. Mayor?
So get the weighty prayers
Of the porters in the chares,
And the wives that sell the wares, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
And the wives, &c.

A Butcher's off frae Sheels, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Wi' the Deevil at his heels, Mr. Mayor:
Faicks, all the way to Lunnin,
Just like a strang tide runnin,
And ah he's deev'lish cunnin, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
And ah he's, &c.

But Nat's as deep as he, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
Send him to Lunnin tee, Mr. Mayor,
He has wit, we may suppose,
Frev his winkers tiv his toes,
Since the Major pull'd his nose, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
Since the Major, &c.

And send amang the gang, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Arm—what d'ye ca' him—STRANG, Mr. Mayor,
Ah! send him, if ye please,
The Treasury to teaze,
He'll tell them heaps o' lees, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
He'll tell them, &c.

If the Sheels folk get the day, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Ah what will Eldon say, Mr. Mayor?
If he has time to spare,
He'll surely blast their prayer,
For the luve of his calf Chare, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
For the luve, &c.

Then just dee a' ye can, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
And follow up the plan, Mr. Mayor,
Else, faicks, ye'll get a spur
In your Corporation fur,
And ye'll plant at Shields wor Burr!!! Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
And ye'll plant at Sheels wor Burr!!! Mr. Mayor.

A SHIELDS SOLILOQUY.

Ah! what's to come on us a' now?
(A Shields gowk was heard, grumbling, to say)
We now find it far ower true,
That Newcassel has getten the day:
They'd only been gulling our folk,
When they sent us down that fine letter;
But aw think 'twas too much a joke,
To tell us we'd getten the better.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

Was't this made our guns fire sae loud?
Did our bells for this ring sae merry?
For this our ships swagger'd sae proud?
Faith, we've been in too big a hurry!
But our Star, they said, could de ought,
And the Treasury quickly would gull—
Our Butcher was clever, we thought;
But aw think he's come hyem like a feul.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

Yet our plan we all thought was good;
For we'd build them large cellars and kees;
It likewise might be understood,
Docks and warehouses tee, if they'd please.
Then we try'd to set in full view,
That the Revenue it would increase;
Especially as we stood now,
When we thought ourselves snugly at peace.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

But the Newcassel folk now, it seems,
Had sent some deep jockies te Lunnin,
And they suen upset all our schemes,
Which we thought se clever and cunnin:
For Big-Wig, who mounts the Wool-sack,
Said, That he plainly saw we were wrang,
Since it had been prov'd in a crack,
By the Jockey, whose Arm they call STRANG.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

But what's warse than losing our Branch,
Is being spoil'd in our grand speculation;
For 'stead of our shining se staunch,
We now meet wi' nought but vexation.
Now certainly we must be wrang,
The Barbers are swearing and raving,
Our faces are all grown se lang,
They'll double the price of our shaving!!!
Rum ti iddity, &c.

THE GREEN-WIVES' LAMENTATION.

Wor Green-stalls on Sandhill, se lang fam'd of yore,
Where Greenwives display'd all their fresh shining store,
Where tubs wi' tatoes their proud crests did rear,
Cabbage, carrots, an' turnips wi' joy did appear.

Wor time on the Sandhill wi' pleasure did glide,
To display all wor wares and to scold was wor pride;
Wor noise did the greet folks of Gotham engage:
By the stalls of the Butchers we're now to be caged.

But think not the Sandhill we'll tamely resign,
By the L—d we will meet an' we'll kick up a shine!
Wor voice we'll extend, and with noise rend the sky,
When from the Sandhill we're compell'd to fly.

With speed, haste assemble the first market-day,
Wor forces we'll marshal in glorious array:
A leader let's choose, a virago so bold,
The word let her give, and we rarely will scold.

From off the Sandhill ere our legions depart,
We will vent all wor spleen, and ease each full heart,
We will scold till no malice or rancour remain,
Then march off wor forces—a large warlike train.

A procession we'll form, wi' wor tubs and wor swills,
And move with slaw steps frae the dear-lov'd Sandhill;
And when the new station our forces obtain,
Well take a good glass and well scorn to complain.

A PETITION

From the Women of the Vegetable Market, to the Mayor of Newcastle.

When away fra the Sandhill, sir, at first that we wur sent,
It was wi' heavy hearts, ye ken, yur Honour, that we went;
But now iv the New Market, sir, we're ev'ry ane admir'd,
And if ye'll nobut cover us, it's all that is desir'd!

Afore your worship judges us, now make a little paws,
And dinna gan to say that we complain without a caws;
For that yur Honour cover'd a' the country wives, yeknow,
But huz, yur awn sweet townswomen, ye let neglected go.

For shem, now hinny, Mr. Mayor, to gan & play yur rigs,
An' cover a' the country girls that com to town wi' pigs;
Wi' butter and wi' eggs too—they are se dousely made;
Ah, you've cover'd every ane of them, sir—iv a slated shade.

Now dinna let folks say that we've ne reet te complain,
When they are a' se snugly plac'd, and we are i' the rain:
Then without ne mair fash, sir, now do yur Honour say,
That ye will nobut cover us—and we will every pray.

THE FISH-WIVES' COMPLAINT,

On their Removal from the Sandhill to the New Fish Market, on the 2d of January, 1826.

The merry day hez getten past,
And we are aw myest broken hearted:
Ye've surely deun for us at last—
Frae Sandhill, noo, ye hev us parted.

Oh! hinnies, Corporation!
A! marcy, Corporation!
Ye hev deun a shemful deed,
To force us frae wor canny station.

It's nee use being iv a rage,
For a' wor pride noo fairly sunk is—
Ye've cramm'd us in a Dandy Cage,
Like yellow-yowlies, bears, and monkies:
O hinnies, &c.

The cau'd East wind blaws i' wor teeth—
With iron bars we are surrounded;
It's better far to suffer deeth,
Than thus to hev wor feelings wounded.
O hinnies, &c.

Wor haddocks, turbot, cod, and ling,
Are lost tiv a' wor friends' inspection;
Genteelish folk from us tyek wing,
For fear of catching some infection.
O hinnies, &c.

O, kind Sir Matt.—ye bonny Star,
Gan to the King, and show this ditty—
Tell him what canny folks we are,
And make him free us frae this Kitty.
O hinnies, &c.

If ye succeed, agyen we'll sing—
Sweet Madge, wor Queen, will ever bless ye;
And poor au'd Jemmy tee, wor King,
With a' us fishwives will caress ye.
O hinnies, &c.

SUNDERLAND JAMMY'S LAMENTATION,

December, 1831.

My sankers! we're all in a fine hobble now,
Since the Cholera com tiv our river;
Aw wadn't hae car'd if 'twas ought that one knew,
But the outlandish nyem myeks one shiver:
Our doctors are all in a deuce of a way.
And some says they've Clannied to wrang us;
But I think we may all curse the Daun o' that day,
That the block-headed Board com amang us.

Some says that Sir Cuddy deserves all the blyem,
For lettin the ships up the watter—
That brought ower the Cholera frev its awn hyem,
And some says that myed little matter;
But as woman's the root of all evil, ye see,
(At least, all my life aw hev thought it,)
Aw rather believe, as it's been tell'd to me,
That it was one Mall Airey (Malaria) that brought it.

This Chol'ra's the queerest thing e'er had a nyem,
If one may believe what they're talking;
It sometimes gets haud o' folks when they're at hyem,
And sometimes when they're out a walking:
Wey, my neybour of eighty, that deed t'other day,
Folks thought that 'twas nature that fail'd him;
But a doctor chep happ'ning to come by that way,
Swore down thump 'twas the Chol'ra that ail'd him.

Thur doctor cheps prent all the lees that they've tell'd;
Ony nonsense—they never will mis't;
My cheek wi' the tuith-wark hez getten all swell'd,
And aw's warn't they'll haed down i' their list:
Aw never was chol'ric, but quiet, aw's sure,
Tho' wi' fear aw's grown sweaty and clammy;
So smoke this wi' brumston to myek all secure,
Aw's your servant, A Sunderland Jammy.

THE COBBLER O' MORPETH—(Cholera Morbus.)

By John M'Lellan.

The Cobbler o' Morpeth myeks sic noise,
He frights the country round, sirs;
That if yen i' the guts hez pain,
By the Plague they think he's doom'd, sirs.
It was but just the tother day,
A Skipper, when at Sheels, sirs,
Drank yell till he cou'd hardly see,
Or ken his head frae heels, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Wi' much ta dee he reach'd his hyem,
But hoo, aw canna tell ye;
When thunnering at the door he cries,
And blubbers out 'Wife Nelly—
Oh Nell, maw guts are varra bad,
Aw'm sartin aw shall dee, now,
For that d——d plague that's killing a',
Th' Cobbler o' Morpeth's in me, now.'
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

'The Cobbler o' Morpeth! whe is he?
Hez he brak frae the jail, now?'—
'Hout no, ye fule, Jack Russ he's caw'd,
An' kills folks by wholesale, now.
Somehow he creeps up the back way;
Aye it's true as deeth, maw Nelly—
For now he's dancin thro' and thro',
And up and down maw belly.'
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Tom sigh'd and moan'd, and kick'd and groan'd,
Wi' mony a writhe and start, sirs,
And swore that for a new lapstane,
The Cobbler had ta'en his heart, sirs.
He blether'd 'Nell, now divent ye hear
His rumbling and his raking,
He twists and twines maw tripes sae sair,
Sure o' them he's wax-ends making.'
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Now Nell aff ran to Doctor Belch,
And tell'd Tom's case in fright, sirs,
Wha gav her stuff whilk varra seun
Set Tommy's guts to right, sirs.
And when that his sad pain was eas'd,
He blam'd nyen but himsel, sirs,
But swore he ne'er agyen at Sheels
Wad drink their d——d new yell, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

CAUTION.

Now, neighbours, divent drink to excess—
A canny sober course steer;
Be cleanly, and be temperate,
And the Cobbler o' Morpeth ne'er fear.
But if he should amang huz come,
To th' Infirm'ry we will send him;
And seun they'll purge his au'd saul out,
If that they cannot mend him.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

CANNY SHEELS.

(By John Morris.)

'Bout Newcassel they've written sae mony fine sangs,
And compar'd their bit place unti Lunnun;
What a shem that 'tiv Sheels not a poet belangs,
For to tell them they lee wi' their funnin.
They may boast o' their shippin without ony doubt,
For there's nyen can deny that they've plenty;
But for every yen they are gobbing about,
Aw'm sure we can shew them, ey twenty!

Let them haud their fule gobs then & brag us ne mair,
With their clarty bit au'd Corporation;
For it's varry weel knawn Sheels pays her full share
For to keep Mister Mayor iv his station.

They hev a bit place where they myek a few shot,
Lunnun's Column tiv it's like a nine-pin;
And St. Nicholas compar'd wi' St. Paul's an' what not,
Wey it's a yuven compar'd tiv a limekiln.
If their Shot Tower sae hee was plac'd on wor Sand End,
'Side wor Light House to scraffle to glory;
Their journey to heaven wad suen hev an end,
For by gox they'd ne'er reach the first story.
Let them haud, &c.

They call their Infirm'ry a place for a king,
To be stow'd 'mang the sick, lyem, and lazy;
If a Sheels man had ventur'd to say sic a thing,
The blind gowks wad a' said he was crazy.
'Bout their Custom House tee they myek a great rout,
That the e'en o' the folk it diz dazzel;
But if a' gans reet Sheels, without ony doubt,
Will suen eclipse that at Canny Newcassel.
Let them haud, &c.

Then they brag they leuk bonny, fresh-colored and gay,
And the Lunnun folk a' wishey washey;
But L——d put it off tiv a far distant day,
That there's one on huz here leuks sae trashy.
Then they boast o' Sir Matthew—but never enquire
If the foundation's good that he stood on;
But if he comes up to wor canny au'd Squire,
Then becrikes he is nowse but a good 'un.
Let them haud, &c.

But the Squire, canny man, he's gyen frae the toon,
And aw'm sure on't the poor sairly miss him;
For oft as aw wauk Pearson's Raw up and doon,
Aw hear the folk cry, Heaven bliss him!
Yet aw hope, an' aw trust, he'll suen find his way hyem,
And aw's sure aw'll be glad to hear tell on't;
For aw've varry oft thowt—did ye ne'er think the syem,
Since he's gyen Sheels hezzent luik't like the sel on't.
Let them haud, &c.

Then lang life to the King and wor awn noble Duik,
May Sheels lang partake of his bounty;
For Newcassel, ye ken, if ye e'er read a buik,
Is at yence byeth a toon and a county.
Northumberland's Duik may still shew his sel there,
But his int'rest frae Sheels ne'er can sever;
So aw'll gie ye just now, shou'd aw ne'er see ye mair,
Wor Duik and wor Duchess for ever!

Let them haud their fule gobs then & brag us ne mair,
Wi' their this, that, and t'other sae cliver;
We'll aw drink as lang's we've a penny to spare,
Here's success to wor awn town for ever!!!

PERMANENT YEAST.

Jack Hume one day cam into toon,
And efter wandering up and doon,
He bought some things, and 'mang the rest,
A bottle of Permanent Yeast.
Fal de ral la, &c.

Now when he'd getten a' things reet,
He was gaun trudging hyem at neet,
When on the road he heard a crack,
An' fand a bullet in his back.
Fal de ral la, &c.

He fell directly on the spot,
For Jack imagin'd he was shot;
Some said he'd liquor in his head,
And others thought that he was dead.
Fal de ral la, &c.

But Jack suen gav a greet groan out,
And after that he com about,
He says, O bring a Doctor here!
Or else aw'll suen be deed, aw fear,
Fal de ral la, &c.

O neighbours, de tyek off maw sark,
And try if ye can find the mark!
They leuk'd, but nought there could be seen,
They wonder'd a' what it had been.
Fal de ral la, &c.

But, howe'er, it cam to pass,
Out of his pocket fell some glass:
Now then, says Jack, it is ne joke,
See there's maw good yeast bottle broke!
Fal de ral la, &c.

A fellow wiser than the rest,
Soon found out it had been the yeast:
Wi' walking Jack had made it work,
The bullet only was the cork.
Fal de ral la, &c.

Now Jackey finding his mistake,
He thought the best plan he could take
Was to be off—he seiz'd his hat,
And ran hyem like a scadded cat.
Fal de ral la, &c.

THE PITMAN'S RAMBLE;

Or, Newcastle Finery,

Ho! lizzen, aw ye neybors roun,
Yor clappers haud and pipes lay doon;
Aw've had a swagger through the toon,
Yen morning aw went suen ti'd.
Ye see, aw fand aw wasn't thrang,
Sae to Newcassel aw wad gang:
Aw's lap't a' up, just like a sang,
And try to put a tune ti'd.

Bad times they'e now, yen weel may say;
Aw've seen when on a market day,
Wiv wor toon's cheps aw'd drink away,
And carry on the war, man:
But now yen staups an' stares aboot,
To see what's strange to carry oot;
Brass letters fassen'd on a cloot,
A unicorn, or star, man.

Ye see, aw thowt they were to sell;
So ax'd the chep, if he cud tell,
What he wad tyek for C and L,
To nail upon maw hen hoose;
But he insisted, smash his crop!
Aw'd like a fule mistyen the shop;
And bad me quickly off te hop,
He'd bowt them for his awn use.

He flang maw hump sae out o' joint,
Sae, smash! aw thowt aw'd hev a pint!
But when aw gat te Peterpoint,
The chep that sells the candy,
The folks luik'd in wiv greedy wish,
He'd bonny siller in a dish;
And just abuin, twee bits o' fish
Was sweeming, fine as can be.

The tyen was like Hob Fewster's cowt,
A' spreckled round about the snout,
They flapp'd their tails aboot like owt,
Quite full o' gamalerie:
And then the munny shin'd sae breet,
The greet Tom Cat wad hev a peep,
And paunder'd tiv he fell asleep;
The silly thing was weary.

Sae farther up aw teuk my cruize,
And luik'd amang the buits and shoes;
Where yen aw thowt they did ill use,
It sweem'd, aye, like a daisy:
Says aw, How! man, what's thou aboot?
Weyu'cum and tyek that slipper oot;
Tho's flay'd away the sammun trout:
Says he, Young man, thou's crazy!

Had aw not been a patient chap,
Aw wad hae fetch'd him sike a rap,
As that which daver'd poor au'd Cap:[2]
But, faith! the Kitty scar'd me:
Sae whisht aw grew; for, efter that,
Iv a lairge glass bowl, byeth round and flat,
Aw spied a maccaroni hat,
But at maw peril dar'd me.

Sae, efter dark, up Pilgrim-street,
The fine Gas Leeters shin'd sae breet,
That if a bonny lass ye meet,
Ye'd ken her varry features:
When pipes are laid, and a' things duen,
They say Newcassel, varry suen,
Will darken, aye, the varry muin,
A' wi' thor fine Gas Leeters.

[2] Alluding to the song call'd 'Cappy, or the Pitman's Dog.'—See page 19.

COALY TYNE.

Tyne River, running rough or smooth,
Makes bread for me and mine;
Of all the rivers, north or south,
There's none like coaly Tyne.

So here's to coaly Tyne, my lads,
Success to coaly Tyne,
Of all the rivers, north or south,
There's none like coaly Tyne.

Long has Tyne's swelling bosom borne
Great riches from the mine,
All by her hardy sons uptorn—
The wealth of coaly Tyne.

Our keelmen brave, with laden keels,
Go sailing down in line,
And with them load the fleet at Shields,
That sails from coaly Tyne.

When Bonaparte the world did sway,
Dutch, Spanish, did combine;
By sea and land proud bent their way,
The sons of coaly Tyne.

The sons of Tyne, in seas of blood,
Trafalgar's fight did join,
When led by dauntless Collingwood,
The hero of the Tyne.

With courage bold, and hearts so true,
Form'd in the British line;
With Wellington, at Waterloo,
Hard fought the sons of Tyne.

When peace, who would be Volunteers?
Or Hero Dandies fine?
Or sham Hussars, or Tirailleurs?—
Disgrace to coaly Tyne.

Or who would be a Tyrant's Guard,
Or shield a libertine?
Let Tyrants meet their due reward,
Ye sons of coaly Tyne.

NEWCASSEL RACES.

It's hae ye heard the ill that's duen?
Or hae ye lost? or hae ye won?
Or hae ye seen what mirth and fun,
At fam'd Newcassel Races, O?
The weather fine, and folks sae gay,
Put on their best, and bent their way
To the Town Moor, to spend the day,
At fam'd Newcassel Races, O.

There shows of all sorts you may view;
Polito's grand collection too;
Such noise and din and lilli-bulloo,
At fam'd Newcassel Races, O.
There some on horses sat astride,
And some in gigs did snugly ride,
With smart young wenches by their side;
Look'd stilish at the Races, O.

A Tailor chep aw chanc'd to spy,
Was sneekin through the crowd sae sly,
For he'd tyen the darling of his eye,
To swagger at the Races, O.
He says, My dear, we'll see the show,
Egad! says she, I do not know,
It looks so vulgar and so low,
We'd better see the Races, O.

One Buck cries, Demme, go the rig!
Got two smart lasses in a gig;
He crack'd his whip, and look'd quite big,
While swagg'rin at the Races, O.
But soon, alas! the gig upset,
An ugly thump they each did get;
Some say, that he his breeches wet,
For fear, when at the Races, O.

The one was lyem'd abuin the knee,
The other freeten'd desp'rately;
"This demm'd unlucky job!" says she,
"Has fairly spoil'd my Races, O!"
He gat them in, wi' some delay,
And te Newcassel bent his way;
But oft, indeed, he curs'd the day,
That e'er he'd seen the Races, O.

Now some were singin songs so fine,
And some were lying drunk like swine,
Some drank porter, others wine;
Rare drinkin at the Races, O!
The wanton wags in corners sat,
Wiv bonny lasses on their lap;
And mony a yen gat tit for tat,
Before they left the Races, O.

Now lads and lasses myed for toon,
And in the road they oft lay doon;
Faith! mony a lassie spoil'd her goon,
A comin frae the Races, O:
Some gat hyem, midst outs and ins,
Some had black eyes and broken shins,
And some lay drunk amang the whins,
A comin frae the Races, O:

Let every one his station mense,
By acting like a man of sense—
'Twill save him mony a pund expense,
When he gans te the Races, O.
Kind friends, I would you all advise,
Good counsel ye should ne'er despise,
The world's opinion always prize,
When ye gan to the Races, O.

THE QUACK DOCTORS.

Wor laureate may sing for his cash,
Of laws, constitution, and proctors,
Contented aw'll blair for a dash
At the slee understrapping quack doctors,
They gob o' their physical skill,
Till their jaws yen might swear they wad rive,
To prove what's alive they can kill,
And what's dead they can suen myek alive.

A' ye wi' the glanders snout-full,
Repair to each wondrous adviser—
For though ye were born a stark fuel,
Depend on't, they'll suen myek ye wiser.
Their physic, they say, in a trice,
Snaps every disease like a towt:
But the best on't all is their advice—
Ye can get it free gratis for nowt.

Wiv a kessle puff'd up to the chin,
Went to see yen, a strapping young doxy,
He examin'd her lugs and her een,
And declar'd her myest dead o' the dropsy.
The lassie he therefore wad tap,
At which she set up a great yell;
When out popp'd a little wee chap
Myest as wise as the doctor's awnsel'.

Next they teuk him a man, whee for fancies,
A' day wad sit silent and sad—
He upheld that he'd lost his reet senses,
And therefore he surely was mad.
But now he gies mony a roar,
Of the doctor's great skill to convince—
If he wasn't a madman before
At least he's been yen ever since.

Last, in hobbled gouty Sir Peter,
To get of his drugs a good doze—
Three days he deep studied his water,
Ere he'd his opinion disclose.
Then proclaim'd that Sir Peet was ower fat,
For the doctor was never mistyen
By my faiks! but he curd him o' that—
Suen Sir Peet left the warld, skin and byen.

Now, he that winn't loyally sing,
May he swing like an ass in a tether,
Good hilth and long life to the King,
To keep us in union together.
The heart iv each Briton he leads
To rejoice i' the fall o' the quacks—
So we'll aye keep the brains i' wor heeds,
And we'll ay hae the flesh on wor backs.

PEGGY'S LEG.

Written on seeing the Leg of a beautiful Female exposed by the wind on Tyne Bridge, March, 1806.

O tak't not amiss while I sing, my Peggy,
O tak't not amiss while I sing,
How rude the wind blew, and expos'd thy neat leggy,
Thy knee and red garten string, my Peggy,
Thy knee and red garten string.

Nor take it amiss while I tell thee, Peggy,
Nor take it amiss while I tell,
How a' my heart felt upon seeing thy leggy;—
I've never sinsyne been mysel', my Peggy,
I've never sinsyne been mysel'.

I think the brisk gale acted right, my Peggy,
I think the brisk gale acted right,
In shewing me, O lovely dear! thy smart leggy—
It was sic a glorious sight, my Peggy,
It was sic a glorious sight.

In troth I'd gan monie a mile, my Peggy,
In troth I'd gan monie a mile,
Again, my dear Charmer, to view thy neat leggy,
And see on thy face a sweet smile, my Peggy,
And see on thy face a sweet smile.

I'm deeply in love wi' thee a', my Peggy,
I'm deeply in love wi' thee a'—
And I'll think on thy face and thy smart buskit leggy,
As lang as I've breath for to draw, my Peggy,
As lang as I've breath for to draw.

BONNY KEEL LADDIE.

Maw bonny keel laddie, maw canny keel laddie,
Maw bonny keel laddie for me, O!
He sits in his keel, as black as the Deil,
And he brings the white money to me, O.

Hae ye seen owt o' maw canny man,
And are ye sure he's weel, O?
He's gyen ower land, wiv a stick in his hand,
To help to moor the keel, O.

The canny keel laddie, the bonny keel laddie,
The canny keel laddie for me, O;
He sits in his huddock, and claws his bare buttock,
And brings the white money to me, O.

THE TYNE.

Roll on thy way, thrice happy Tyne!
Commerce and riches still are thine;
Thy sons in every art shall shine,
And make thee more majestic flow.

The busy crowd that throngs thy sides,
And on thy dusky bosom glides,
With riches swell thy flowing tides,
And bless the soil where thou dost flow.

Thy valiant sons, in days of old,
Led by their chieftains, brave and bold,
Fought not for wealth, or shining gold,
But to defend thy happy shores.

So e'en as they of old have bled,
And oft embrac'd a gory bed,
Thy modern sons, by Patriots led,
Shall rise to shield thy peace-crown'd shores.

Nor art thou blest for this alone,
That long thy sons in arms have shone;
For every art to them is known,
And science, form'd to grace the mind.

Art, curb'd by War in former days,
Has now burst forth in one bright blaze;
And long shall his refulgent rays
Shine bright, and darkness leave behind.

The Muses too, with Freedom crown'd,
Shall on thy happy shores be found,
And fill the air with joyous sound,
Of—War and darkness' overthrow.

Then roll thy way, thrice happy Tyne!
Commerce and riches still are thine!
Thy sons in arts and arms shall shine,
And make thee still majestic flow.

NANNY OF THE TYNE.

Whilst bards, in strains that sweetly flow,
Extol each nymph so fair,
Be mine my Nanny's worth to shew,
Her captivating air.
What swain can gaze without delight
On beauty there so fine?
The Graces all their charms unite
In Nanny of the Tyne.

Far from the noise of giddy courts
The lovely charmer dwells;
Her cot the haunt of harmless sports,
In virtue she excels.
With modesty, good nature join'd,
To form the nymph divine;
And truth, with innocence combin'd,
In Nanny of the Tyne.

Flow on, smooth stream, in murmurs sweet
Glide gently past her cot,
'Tis peace and virtue's calm retreat—
Ye great ones, envied not.
And you, ye fair, whom folly leads
Through all her paths supine,
Tho' drest in pleasure's garb, exceeds
Not Nanny of the Tyne.

Can art to nature e'er compare,
Or win us to believe
But that the frippery of the fair
Was made but to deceive.
Strip from the belle the dress so gay,
Which fashion calls divine,
Will she such loveliness display
As Nanny of the Tyne.

THE BONNY GYETSIDERS.

Tune—"Bob Cranky."

Come, marrows, we've happen'd to meet now,
Sae wor thropples together we'll weet now;
Aw've myed a new sang,
And to sing ye't aw lang,
For it's about the Bonny Gyetsiders.

Of a' the fine Volunteer corpses,
Whether footmen, or ridin' on horses,
'Tween the Tweed and the Tees,
Deil hae them that sees
Sic a corpse as the Bonny Gyetsiders.

Whilk amang them can mairch, turn, an' wheel sae?
Whilk their guns can wise off half sae weel sae?
Nay, for myeking a crack,
Through England aw'll back
The corps of the Bonny Gyetsiders.

When the time for parading nigh hand grows,
A' wesh theirsels clean i' the sleck troughs:
Fling off their black duddies,
Leave hammers and studdies,
And to drill—run the Bonny Gyetsiders.

To Newcassel, for three weeks up-stannin,
On Parmanent Duty they're gannin;
And seun i' the papers
We's read a' the capers
O' the corps o' the Bonny Gyetsiders.

The Newcassel chaps fancy they're clever,
And are vaunting and braggin' for ever;
But they'll find theirsels wrang,
If they think they can bang,
At sowg'rin', the Bonny Gyetsiders.

The Gen'ral shall see they can lowp dykes,
Or mairch thro' whins, lair whooles, and deep sykes;
Nay, to soom (at a pinch)
Through Tyne, waddent flinch
The corps o' the Bonny Gyetsiders.

Some think Billy Pitt's nobbit hummin,
When he tells aboot Bonnepairt cummin;
But come when he may,
He'll lang rue the day
He first meets wi' the Bonny Gyetsiders:

Like an anchor-shank, smash! how they'll clatter 'im,
And turn 'im, and skelp 'im, and batter 'im;
His byens sal, by jing!
Like a frying-pan ring,
When he meets wi' the Bonny Gyetsiders.

Let them yence get 'im into their taings weel,
Nae fear but they'll give him his whaings weel;
And to Hezlett's Pond bring 'im,
And there in chains hing 'im,
What a seet for the Bonny Gyetsiders!

Now, marrows, to shew we're a' loyal,
And that, wi' the King and Blood Royal,
We'll a' soom or sink,
Quairts a-piece let us drink,
To the brave and the Bonny Gyetsiders.

THE WATER OF TYNE.

I cannot get to my love, if I should dee,
The water of Tyne runs between him and me;
And here I must stand, with the tear in my e'e,
Both sighing and sickly my sweetheart to see.

O where is the boatman? my bonny honey!
O where is the boatman? bring him to me—
To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey,
And I will remember the boatman and thee.

O bring me a boatman—I'll give any money,
(And you for your trouble rewarded shall be)
To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey,
Or skull him across that rough river to me.

THE NEWCASTLE SIGNS.

Written by Cecil Pitt, and sung at the Theatre-Royal, Newcastle, by Mr. Scriven, June 4, 1806.

Should the French in Newcastle but dare to appear,
At each sign they would meet with indifferent cheer;
From the Goat and the Hawk, from the Bell and the Waggon,
And the Dog, they would skip, as St. George made the Dragon.

The Billet, the Highlander, Cross Keys, and Sun,
The Eagle and Ships too, would shew 'em some fun;
The Three Kings and Unicorn, Bull's Head and Horse,
Would prove, that the farther they went they'd fare worse.

At the Black House, a strong-Arm, would lay ev'ry man on,
And they'd quickly go off, if they got in the Cannon:
The Nelson and Turk's Head their fears would increase,
And they'd run from the Swan like a parcel of geese.

At the York and the Cumberland, Cornwallis too,
With our Fighting Cocks, sure they'd have plenty to do;
The Nag's Head and Lions would cut such an evil,
And the Angel would drive the whole crew to the devil.

At the World, and the Fountain, the Bridge, Crown and Thistle,
The Bee-Hive, and Tuns, for a drop they might whistle;
With our Prince, or our Crown, should they dare interpose,
They'd prick their French fingers well under the Rose.

At the Half Moon, the Wheat Sheaf, and Old Barley-Mow,
A sup's to be got—if they could but tell how;
If they call'd at the Bull and the Tiger to ravage,
As well as the Black Boy, they'd find 'em quite savage.

At the Ark, and the Anchor, Pack Horse, and Blue Posts,
And the Newmarket Inn, they would find but rough hosts;
The Old Star and Garter, Cock, Anchor, and more,
Would prove, like the Grapes, all most cursedly sour.

The Lion and Lamb, Plough, and Old Robin Hood,
With the Crane House, would check these delighters in blood;
From the Butchers' Arms quick they'd be running away,
And we all know that Shakespeare would shew 'em some play.

At the White Hart, Three Bulls' Heads, the Old Dog and Duck,
If they did not get thrash'd, they'd escape by good luck:
At the Bird in Bush, Metters' Arms, Peacock, they'd fast,
And our King's and Queen's Heads we'll defend till the last.

May the sign of the King ever meet with respect,
And our great Constitution each Briton protect;
And may he who would humble our Old British Crown,
Be hung on a sign-post till I take him down.

THE WONDERFUL GUTTER.

Since Boney was sent to that place owre the sea,
We've had little to talk of, but far less to dee;
But now they're a' saying, we suen will get better,
When yence they begin with the wonderful Gutter,

The great lang Gutter, the wonderful Gutter:
Success to the Gutter! and prosper the Plough!

The way how aw ken—when aw was at the toon,
Aw met Dicky Wise near the Rose and the Croon;
And as Dicky reads papers, and talks aboot Kings,
Wey he's like to ken weel about Gutters and things;
So he talk'd owre the Gutter, &c.

He then a lang story began for to tell,
And said that it often was ca'd a Can-nell;
But he thowt, by a Gutter, aw wad understand,
That's it's cutten reet through a' the Gentlemen's land.
Now that's caw'd a Gutter, &c.

Now, whether the sea's owre big at the West,
Or scanty at Sheels—wey, ye mebby ken best;
For he says they can team, aye, without any bother,
A sup out o' yen, a' the way to the tother,
By the great lang Gutter, &c.

Besides, there'll be bridges, and locks, and lairge keys,
And shippies, to trade wiv eggs, butter, and cheese:
And if they'll not sail weel, for want o' mair force,
They'll myek ne mair fuss, but yoke in a strang horse,
To pull through the Gutter, &c.

Ye ken there's a deal that's lang wanted a myel,
When they start wi' the Gutter 'twill thicken their kyell:
Let wages be high, or be just what they may,
It will certainly help to drive hunger away,
While they work at the Gutter, &c.

There's wor Tyne sammun tee 'ill not ken what's the matter,
When they get a gobful o' briny saut watter;
But if they should gan off, it's cum'd into my nob,
For to myek some amends we mun catch a' the cod,
That sweems down the Gutter, &c.

So come money and friends support Willy Armstrang,
In vent'rin a thoosan ye canna get wrang;
While we get wor breed by the sweet o' wor brow,
Success to the Gutter! and prosper the Plough!
The great lang Gutter, &c.

THE LOCAL MILITIA-MAN.

Tune—"Madam Fag's Gala."

How! marrows, aw'se tip you a sang,
If ye'll nobbit give your attention,
Aw've sarrow'd maw king seven years,
And aw'm now luikin out for the pension.
But when my adventures aw tell,
An' should ye fin reason to doubt it,
An' think it mair than aw deserve,
Aw'se just rest contented without it.
Rum ti idity, &c.

Ye mun ken, when aw first went to drill,
Maw gun aw flang owre maw heed,
Fell'd the chep that stuid close in ahint me,
He lay kickin and sprawlin for deed.
But when wor manuvres we lairn'd,
Wor Cornel o' huz grew se fond, man,
He match'd us gyen four smashing targets,
Close ower ayont Heslop's Pond, man.
Rum ti idity, &c.

We mairch'd off at nine i' the mornin,
And at four we were not quite duin,
While a bite never enter'd our thropples:
Wi' hunger were fit to lie doon.
But wor fellows they tuik sic an aim,
Ye wad thought that they shot for a wager;
And yen chep, the deil pay his hide,
He varra nigh shot the Drum-Major.
Rum ti idity, &c.

Suin efter, 'twas on the Vairge Day,
'Bout the time that wor Cornel was Mayor,
Fra Gyetshead we fir'd ower their heeds,
Myed the fokes in Newcassel to stare.
To Newburn we then bore away,
And embark'd just beside a great Dung-hole,
Wi' biscuit and plenty o' yell,
And wor Adjutant Clerk o' the Bung-hole.
Rum ti idity, &c.

Wor Triangular Lad lowp'd first ashore,
When the folks ran like cows or mad bulls;
Iv a jiffy they cam back to fight us,
Wi' pokers and three-footed stuils.
When they fand he was not Bonnyparty,
Nor nyen ov his sowgers frae France,
The music then started to play,
And we for to caper and dance.
Rum ti idity, &c.

Sic wark as we had efter that,
Wad tyek a lang day for to tell,
How we fronted, an' flankt it, an' maircht
Through the sowgers at Thropley Fell,
At the Play-house we've shin'd mony a time,
Wor scaups a' besmatter-d wi' flour;
But that neet it wad myed the deil gurn,
To see us a' powthert wi' stour.
Rum ti idity, &c.

Yen day we were form'd in a ring,
And wor Cornel said this, 'at ne'er spoke ill,
"Ye your sarvis, my lads, mun transfer
Tiv a core caw'd the Durham Foot Local."
So tiv Sunderland if ye'd but gan,
And see us a' stand in a line,
Ye'd swear that a few finer fellows
Ne'er cam fra the Wear and the Tyne.
Rum ti idity, &c.

MASQUERADE AT NEWCASTLE THEATRE;

Or, The Pitman turned Critic.

As Jemmy the brakesman and me
Was taukin 'bout sentries and drill,
We saw, clagg'd agyen a yek tree,
A fower-square little hand-bill.
Says Jemmy, Now halt tiv aw read her;
When up cam wor canny au'd Sairgan:
Says he, Ye mun come to the Teapot,
On Friday, and get yor dischairge, man.
Tol de rol, &c.

We dress'd worsels smart, cam to toon,
Mister Government paid us wor brass:
Then we swagger'd off to the Hauf Meun,
To rozzel wor nobs wiv a glass.
We sang, smok'd, and fuddled away,
And cut mony a wonderful caper;
Says aw, Smash! howay to the Play,
Or, what some folks ca' a Theater.
Tol de rol, &c.

We ran, and seun fand a good plyace,
Aye, before they'd weel hoisted their leets;
When a lyedy, wi' gauze ower her fyece,
Cam an' tummel'd ower twe o' the seats.
Aw hardly kend what for to say;
But says aw, Div ye fin owse the warse?
Says her neybeur, Pop Folly's the Play,
And Maskamagrady's the Farce.
Tol de rol, &c.

The Players they cam on iv dozens,
Wiv fine dusty buits without spurs;
And they tauk'd about mothers and cousins,
So did Jemmy and me about wors.
We had plenty o' fiddlin and fleutin,
Till the bugles began for to blaw;
Then aw thowt aw heerd wor Major shootin,
Fa' in, my lads! stand in a raw!
Tol de rol, &c.

We then see'd a little smart chap,
Went lowpin and skippin aboot;
Says aw, Smash! thou is up to trap!
For he let the fokes byeth in and out.
There was Fawstaff, a fat luikin fellow,
Wiv a Miss in each airm, being drunkey;
Then a black Lyedy, wiv a numbrella,
A fiddler, a bear, and a monkey.
Tol de rol, &c.

Next cam on a swaggerin blade,
He's humpt o' byeth shouthers an' legs;
A blackymoor, painter by trade,
And o' dancing was myekin his brags:
When a collier cam on, quick as thowt,
Maw sarties! but he gat a pauler;
Says he, Smash! aw'll dance thou for owt;
Then says aw, Five to fower on Kit Swaller!
Tol de rol, &c.

He danc'd the Keel Row to sic tune,
His marrow declar'd he was bet:
Some yell ower Kit's shouthers was slung,
So they byeth had their thropples weel wet.
A lyem sowger cam on wiv twee sticks,
Then a bussy-tail'd pinkey wee Frenchman;
Next a chep, wiv some young lunaticks,
Was wanting the mad-house at Bensham.
Tol de rol, &c.

There was Punch fed his bairn wiv a ladle,
And ga'd some kirn milk for to lyep;
Then he thumpt it till he wasn't yebbel,
Because the poor thing cuddent gyep.
Some were shootin shoe-ties iv a street;
Lang Pat, wiv his last dyin speeches,
Wagg'd hands wiv a lass, that, yen neet,
Tuik seven-pence out o' maw breeches.
Tol de rol, &c.

Then a gentleman's housey tuik feyre,
As the watchman caw'd 'Past ten o'clock!'
The manny fell into the meyre,
And the wife ran away iv her smock.
The Skipper that saddled the cow,
And rid seven miles for the howdy,
Was dancing wiv Jenny Bawloo,
That scadded her gob wiv a crowdy.
Tol de rol, &c.

Then a chep, wiv a show on his back,
Cam and show'd us fine pictures, se funny;
He whupt it a' off in a crack,
Because they wad gether ne money.
To end with, there cam a Balloon,
But some gav it's puddings a slit, man;
For, afore it gat up to the meun,
It emptied itsel i' the pit, man.
Tol de rol, &c.

NANCY WILKINSON.

At Cullercoats, near to the sea,
Lives one I often think upon;
Bewitching is the lovely e'e
Of bonny Nancy Wilkinson.

By Tyne, or Blyth, or Coquet clear,
No swain did ever blink upon
A charmer equal to my dear,
My handsome Nancy Wilkinson.

Sweet cherry cheeks, a lofty brow,
Bright hair, that waves in links upon
A neck, white as the purest snow,
Has comely Nancy Wilkinson.
By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.

Her virtues, like her beauty, rare;
But terms I ne'er can think upon,
Fit to panegyrise my fair,
My constant Nancy Wilkinson.
By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.

For her rich ladies I'd refuse,
With all their shining tinsels on;
None else can wake my slumbering Muse,
But lovely Nancy Wilkinson.
By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.

Aurora, from the Eastern sky,
Her robes the glowing tints upon,
Is not so viewly to mine eye
As modest Nancy Wilkinson.
By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.

Let sordid misers count their wealth,
And guineas guineas clink upon;
All I request of Heav'n is health,
And dear, dear Nancy Wilkinson.
By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.

GREEN'S BALLOON.

[Messrs. Green ascended in their grand Coronation Balloon, from the Nuns' Field, in Newcastle, four times: the first time, on Wednesday, May 11; second time, on Whit-Monday, May 23; third time, on Monday, May 30; and the fourth time, on Race-Thursday, July 14, 1825.]

Tune—"Barbara Bell."

Now just come and listen a while till aw tell, man,
Of a wonderful seet t'other day aw did see:
As aw was gaun trudgen alang by mysel, man,
Aw met wi' wor skipper, aye just on the Key.
O skipper, says aw, mun, wye where are ye gannen?
Says he, come wi' me, for aw's gaun up the toon;
Now just come away, for we munnet stand blabbin,
Or we'll be ower lang for to see the Balloon.
Right fal de, &c.

The balloon, man, says aw, wey aw never heard tell on't,
What kind o' thing is it? now skipper tell me:
Says he, It's a thing that gans up by the sel' on't,
And if ye'll gan to the Nuns' Gate, man, ye'll see.
So to the Nuns' Gate then we went in a hurry,
And when we gat there, man, the folks stood in crowds;
And aw heerd a chep say, he wad be very sorry,
If it went to the meun, reet clean thro' the clouds.
Right fal de, &c.

We stared and luik'd round us, but nought could we see, man,
Till a thing it went up as they fir'd a gun:
Cried the skipper, Aw warnd that's the little Pee-dee, man,
Gyen to tell folks above 'twill be there varry suen.
Then a' iv a sudden it cam ower the house-tops, man,
It was like a hay-stack, and luikt just as big;
Wiv a boat at the tail on't, all tied tid wi' ropes, man,
Begox! it was just like wor awd Sandgate gig.
Right fal de, &c.

And there was two cheps that sat in the inside, man,
Wi' twee little things they kept poweyin her roun';
Just like wor skipper when we've a bad tide, man:
Aw warnd they were fear'd that the thing wad come down;
And still the twee cheps kept poweyin her reet man,
For upwards she went, aye clean ower the toon;
They powey'd till they powey'd her reet out o' seet, man,
That was a' that we saw o' this grand air balloon.
Right fal de, &c.

The skipper cam to me, tuik haud o' my hand, man,
Says, What do ye think o' this seet that's been given?
Says aw, Aw can't tell, but it's a' very grand, man;
Aw wish the cheps byeth safely landed in heaven.
'Twad be a good plan to tyek's up when we're deed, man;
For which way we get there 'twill be a' the syem:
And then for wor Priests we'd stand little need, man:
So me and wor skipper we went wor ways hyem.
Right fal de, &c.

THE NEWGATE-STREET PETITION

TO MR. MAYOR.

Alack! and well-a-day!
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor;
We are all to grief a prey,
Mr. Mayor:
They are pulling Newgate down,
That structure of renown,
Which so long hath graced our town,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

Antiquarians think't a scandal,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor;
It would shock a Goth or Vandal,
They declare:
What! destroy the finest Lion
That ever man set eye on!
'Tis a deed all must cry fie on,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

St. Andrew's Parishioners,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Loud blame the Gaol-Commissioners,
Mr. Mayor;
To pull down a pile so splendid,
Shews their powers are too extended,
And The Act must be amended,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

If Blackett-Street they'd level,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Or with Bond-Street[3] play the devil,
Who would care?
But on Newgate's massive walls,
When Destruction's hammer falls,
For our sympathy it calls,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

'Tis a Pile of ancient standing,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Deep reverence commanding,
Mr. Mayor:
Men of Note and Estimation,
In their course of Elevation,
Have in it held a station,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

'Tis a first-rate kind of College,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Where is taught much useful knowledge,
Mr. Mayor:
When our fortunes "gang aglee,"
If worthy Mr. Gee[4]
Does but on us turn his key,
All's soon well, Mr. Mayor.

In beauty, nought can match it,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor:
Should you think we throw the Hatchet,
Mr. Mayor:
John A——n, with ease,
(In purest Portugueze)
Will convince you, if you please,
To consult him, Mr. Mayor.

He'll prove t'ye, in a trice,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
'Tis a pearl of great price,
Mr. Mayor:
For of ancient wood or stone,
The value—few or none
Can better tell than John,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

Of this Edifice bereft,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
To the Neighbourhood what's left?
Mr. Mayor:
The Nuns' Gate, it is true,
Still rises to our view,
But that Modern Babel, few
Much admire, Mr. Mayor.

True, a building 'tis, unique,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
A charming fancy freak,
Mr. Mayor:
But candour doth impel us,
To own that Strangers tell us,
The Lodge of our Odd Fellows,
They suppos'd it, Mr. Mayor.

Still, if Newgate's doom'd to go,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
To the Carliol Croft—heigh-ho!
Mr. Mayor,
As sure as you're alive,
(And long, sir, may you thrive,)
The shock we'll ne'er survive,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

Then pity our condition,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
And stop its demolition,
Mr. Mayor;
The Commissioners restrain,
From causing us such pain,
And we'll pay and ne'er complain,
The Gaol-Cess, Mr. Mayor.

[3] Now called Prudhoe Street.

[4] The Gaoler.

BURDON'S ADDRESS TO HIS CAVALRY.

A PARODY.

Soldiers whom Newcastle's bred,
View your Cornel at your head,
Who's been call'd out of his bed
To serve his Country.
Now's the time when British Tars
With their Owners are at wars;
And they've sent for us—O Mars!
Assist the Cavalry!

Now, my noble sons of Tyne!
Let your valour nobly shine;
There at last has come a time
To shew your bravery.
But, my lads, be not alarm'd!
You're to fight with men unarm'd!
Who in multitudes have swarm'd—
Before us they must flee!

Then they cry out, every man,
"Cornel, we'll de a' we can!"
So away to Shields they ran:
O what Cavalry!
But they had no call to fight,
The Marines had bet them quite;
And the Cornel's made a Knight,
For the Victory!

THE COLLIER'S KEEK AT THE NATION.

Huz Colliers, for a' they can say,
Hae byeth heads and hearts that are sound—
And if we're but teun i' wor way,
There's few better cheps above ground.
Tom Cavers and me, fra West Moor,
On a kind ov a jollification,
Yen day myed what some folks call a tour,
For a keek at the state o' the nation.

We fand, ere we'd lang been on jaunt,
That the world wasn't gannin sae cliver—
It had gettin a Howdon-Pan cant,
As aw gat once at wor box-dinner.
Monny tyels, tee, we heard, stiff and gleg—
Some laid the world straight as a die—
Some crook'd as a dog's hinder leg,
Or, like wor fitter's nose, all a-wry.

One tell'd me, my heart for to flay,
(Thinking aw knew nought about town)
Out o' my three-and-sixpence a-day,
The King always gat half-a-crown.
Aw said they were fuels not to ken
That aw gat a' the brass me awnsel'—
Ga' wor Peg three white shillins, and then
Laid the rest out on backey and yell!

They blabb'd oot that aw was mistuen—
That maw brains sairly wanted seduction—
Without animal Parliaments seun
We wad a' gan to wreck and construction—
That we'd wrought ower lang for wor lair—
That landlords were styen-hearted tykes—
For their houses and land only fair,
To divide them and live as yen likes!

To bring a' these fine things about
Was as easy as delving aslent is—
Only get some rapscallion sought out,
And to Lunnin sent up to present us.
Thinks aw to mysel' that's weel meant—
There's wor Cuddy owre laith to de good,
We'll hev him to Parliament sent,
Where he'll bray, smash his byens, for his blood.

Then, says aw, Tommy, keep up thy pluck,
We may a' live to honour wor nation—
So here's tiv Au'd England, good luck!
And may each be content in his station.
Huz Colliers, for a' they can say,
Hae byeth heeds and hearts that are sound—
And if we're but teun i' wor way,
There's few better cheps above ground.

BLIND WILLIE SINGING.

Ye gowks that 'bout daft Handel swarm,
Your senses but to harrow—
Steyn deaf to strains that 'myest wad charm
The heart iv a wheelbarrow—
To wor Keyside awhile repair,
Mang Malls and bullies pig in,
To hear encor'd, wi' monie a blair,
Poor au'd Blind Willie's singin'.

To hear fine Sinclair tune his pipes
Is hardly worth a scuddock—
It's blarney fair, and stale as swipes
Kept ower lang i' the huddock.
Byeth Braham and Horn behint the wa'
Might just as weel be swingin,
For a' their squeelin's nought at a'
To au'd Blind Willie singin'.

About "Sir Maffa" lang he sung,
Far into high life keekin'—
Till "Buy Broom Buzzoms" roundly swung,
He gae their lugs a sweepin'.
A stave yence myed Dumb Bet to greet,
Sae fine wi' cat-gut stringin'—
Bold Airchy swore it was a treat
To hear Blind Willie singin'.

Aw've heard it said, Fan Welch, one day,
On pepper'd oysters messin',
Went in to hear him sing and play,
An' get a moral lesson.
She vow'd 'twas hard to haud a heel—
An' thowt (the glass while flingin)
Wi' clarts they should be plaister'd weel
That jeer'd Blind Willie's singin'.

It's fine to hear wor bellman talk—
It's wondrous fine and cheerin'
To hear Bet Watt and Euphy Scott
Scold, fight, or bawl fresh heerin':
To see the keels upon the Tyne,
As thick as hops a' swimmin',
Is fine indeed, but still mair fine
To hear Blind Willie singin'.

Lang may wor Tyneside lads sae true,
In heart byeth blithe an' mellow,
Bestow the praise that's fairly due
To this bluff, honest fellow—
And when he's hamper'd i' the dust,
Still i' wor memory springin',
The times we've run till like to brust
To hear blind Willie singin'.

But may he live to cheer the bobs
That skew the coals to shivers,
Whee like their drink to grip their gobs,
And burn their varry livers.
So, if ye please, aw'll myek an end,
My sang ne farther dingin',
Lest ye may think that aw pretend
To match Blind Willie's singin'.

BOLD ARCHY & BLIND WILLIE'S LAMENT

ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN STARKEY.

"What! is he gyen?" Bold Airchy said,
And moungin' scratch'd his head—
"O can sic waesome news be true?
Is Captain Starkey dead?
Aw's griev'd at heart—push round the can—
Seun empty frae wor hands we'll chuck it—
For now we'll drink wor last to him,
Since he has fairly kick'd the bucket.

My good shag hat ne mair aw'll wave,
His canny fyace to see—
Wor bairns' bairns will sing o' him,
As Gilchrist sings o' me
For O! he was a lad o' wax!
Aw've seen him blithe, an' often mellow—
He might hae faults, but, wi' them a',
We've seldom seen a better fellow.

Yen day they had me drown'd for fun,
Which myed the folks to blair;
Aw myest could wish, for his dear sake,
That aw'd been drown'd for fair.
On monny a day when cannons roar,
Yen loyal heart will then be missin'—
If there be yell, we'll toast his nyem—
If there be nyen, he'll get wor blissin'."

Blind Willie then strumm'd up his kit
Wi' monny a weary drone,
Which Thropler, drunk, and Cuckoo Jack
Byeth answer'd wiv a groan.
"Nice chep! poor chep!" Blind Willie said—
"My heart is pierc'd like onny riddle,
To think aw've liv'd to see him dead—
Aw never mair 'ill play the fiddle.

His gam is up, his pipe is out,
And fairly laid his craw—
His fame 'ill blaw about, just like
Coal dust at Shiney-Raw.
He surely was a joker rare—
What times there'd been for a' the nation,
Had he but liv'd to be a Mayor,
The glory o' wor Corporation.

But he has gi'en us a' the slip,
And gyen for evermore—
Au'd Judy and Jack Coxon tee,
Has gyen awhile before—
And we maun shortly follow them,
An' tyek the bag, my worthy gentles—
Then what 'ill poor Newcassel dee,
Depriv'd of all her ornamentals!

We'll moralize—for dowly thowts,
Are mair wor friends than foes—
For death, like when the tankard's out,
Brings a' things tiv a close.
May we like him, frae grief and toil,
When laid in peace beneath the hether—
Upon the last eternal shore,
A' happy, happy meet together!"

A VOYAGE TO LUNNIN.

Lang years ower meadows, moors, and muck,
I cheerly on did waddle—
So various is the chance o' luck
Between the grave and cradle.
When wark at hyem turn'd rather scant,
I thought 'twas fair humbuggin';
An' so aw even teuk a jaunt,
Faiks, a' the way to Lunnin.

Lord Howick was my chosen ship,
Weel rigg'd byeth stem and quarter,
The maister was a cannie chep—
They ca'd him Jacky Carter.
Wi' heart as free frae guilt as care,
I pack'd up all my duddin,
And shipp'd aboard—the wind blew fair—
Away we sail'd for Lunnin.

Safe ower the bar a-head we tint—
The day was fine and sunny;
And seun we left afar behint,
Wor land o' milk and honey.
But few their dowly thoughts can tyem—
May be the tears were comin'—
Sair griev'd, ne doubt, to pairt wi' hyem,
Though gaun to keek at Lunnin.

Fareweel, Tyne Brig and cannie Kee,
Where aw've seen monny a shangy,
Blind Willie, Captain Starkey tec—
Bold Archy and great Hangy.
Fareweel Shoe Ties, Jack Tate, Whin Bob,
Cull Billy, and Jack Cummin,
Au'd Judy, Jen Bawloo—aw'll sob
Your praises all at Lunnin.

Some such as me the hyke myed sick,
And myed them rue their roamin':
Still forward plung'd wor gallant ship,
And left the water foamin'.
Waes me! but 'tis a bonny seet,
O land o' beef and puddin'!
To see thy tars, in pluck complete,
Haud fair their course for Lunnin!

Hail, Tyneside lads! in collier fleets,
The first in might and motion—
In sunshine days or stormy neets
The lords upon the ocean.
Come England's foes—a countless crew—
Ye'll gie their gobs a scummin',
And myek them a' the day to rue,
They glibb'd their jaws at Lunnin.

I thought mysel a sailor good,
And flired while some lay sprawlin',
Till where the famous Robin Hood
Sends out his calms or squallin'—
'Twas there aw felt aw scarce ken how—
For a' things teuk a bummin',
And myed me wish, wi' retch and spew,
The ship safe moor'd at Lunnin.

As round by Flambrough Head we shot,
Down cam a storm upon us—
Thinks aw, we're fairly gyen to pot—
O dear!—have mercy on us!
Ower northern plains 'twill dowly sound,
And set their eyes a runnin',
When they shall tell that aw was drown'd,
Just gannin up to Lunnin.

To cheer wor hearts in vain they brought
The porter, grog, and toddy—
My head swam round whene'er aw thought
Upon a fat pan-soddy.
"O what the plague fetch'd us frae hyem!"
Some in the glumps were glummin';
I could hae blubber'd, but thought shyem,
While gaun a voyage to Lunnin.

Cross Boston Deeps how we did spin,
Skelp'd on by noisy Boreas,
Up Yarmouth Roads, and seun up Swin,
The water flew before us.
O glorious seet! the Nore's in view—
Like fire and flood we're scuddin':
Ne mair we'll bouk wor boiley now,
But seun be safe at Lunnin.

Hail, bonny Tyames! weel smon thy waves!
A world might flourish bi' them—
And, faiks, they weel deserve the praise
That a' the world gies ti them.
O lang may commerce spread her stores,
Full on thy bosom dinnin'—
Weel worthy thou to lave the shores
O' sic a town as Lunnin.

Seun Black-Wall Point we left astern,
Far ken'd in dismal story—
And Greenwich Towers we now discern,
Au'd England's pride and glory.
Sure Nature's sel inspir'd my staves,
For I began a crunnin',
And blair'd, 'Britannia rule the waves!'
As by we sail'd for Lunnin.

Fornenst the Tower, we made a click,
Where traitors gat their fairins',
And where they say that hallion Dick
Yence scumfish'd two wee bairins.
Hitch, step, and loup, I sprang ashore.
My heart reet full o' funnin'—
And seun forgat the ocean's war,
Amang the joys o' Lunnin.

THE NEWCASSEL PROPS.

Oh, waes me, for wor canny toon,
It canna stand it lang—
The props are tumbling one by one,
The beeldin seun mun gan;
For Deeth o' late has no been blate,
But sent some jovial souls a joggin:
Aw niver griev'd for Jackey Tate,
Nor even little Airchy Loggan.

But when maw lugs was 'lectrified
Wiv Judy Downey's deeth,
Alang wi' Heufy Scott aw cried,
Till byeth was out o' breeth;
For greet and sma', fishwives and a'
Luik'd up tiv her wi' veneration—
If Judy's in the Courts above,
Then for Au'd Nick there'll be nae 'cation.

Next Captain Starkey teuk his stick,
And myed his final bow;
Aw wonder if he's scribblin yet,
Or what he's efter now;
Or if he's drinking gills o' yell,
Or axing pennies to buy bakky—
If not allow'd where Starkey's gyen,
Aw'm sure that he'll be quite unhappy.

Jack Coxon iv a trot went off,
One morning very seun—
Cull Billy said, he'd better stop,
But Deeth cried, Jackey, come!
Oh! few like him could lift their heel,
Or tell what halls were in the county:
Like mony a proud, black-coated chiel',
Jack liv'd upon the parish bounty.

But cheer up, lads, and dinna droop,
Blind Willy's to the fore,
The blythest iv the motley groop,
And fairly worth the score:
O weel aw like to hear him sing,
'Bout au'd Sir Mat. and Dr. Brummel—
If he but lives to see the King,
There's nyen o' Willy's friends need grummel.

Cull Billy, tee, wor lugs to bliss,
Wiv news 'bout t'other warld,
Aw move that, when wor Vicar dees,
The place for him be arl'd;
For aw really think, wiv half his wit,
He'd myek a reet good pulpit knocker:
Aw'll tell ye where the birth wad fit—
He hugs sae close the parish copper.

Another chep, and then aw's duen,
He bangs the tothers far:
Yor mavies wonderin whe aw mean—
Ye gowks, it's Tommy C—r!
When lodgin's scarce, just speak to him,
Yor hapless case he'll surely pity.
He'll 'sist upon your gannin in,
To sup wi' S—tt, and see the Kitty.

NEWCASSEL WONDERS.

Sic wonders there happens iv wor canny toon,
Sae wise and sae witty Newcassel has grown,
That for hummin, and hoaxing, and tyekin folk in,
We'll suen learn the Lunneners far better things.

We've wonderful Knights, and wondrous Hussars,
Wonderful Noodles, and wonderful Mayors;
For as lang as a keel gans down river Tyne,
For wisdom and valour, O A——y, thou'll shine.

We've R——s and V——s, a time-serving crew;
But, says aw to mysel, gie the deevil his due,
For ov priests and excisemen, and limbs o' the law,
There's ten tiv the dozen 'ill gan down belaw.

And whe wad hae thowt now that iver Au'd Nick,
Wiv wor canny toon wad hae gettin sae thick;
That iv Luckley's au'd house he's set up Hell's Kitchen,
Where the tyelyers and snobs find the yell se bewitchin.

There's canny Tom Lid—l, they've myed him a Lord,
For learning his ploughmen to play wi' the sword;
But if ony invaders should Britain assail,
They'll slip off their skins and run to the plough-tail.

We've a Captain of watchmen, he's second to nyen,
He dislikes to see folks gannin quietly hyem;
For if ye but mention the nyem o' Tom C—r,
To the care of Jack S—tt, he'll yor body transfer.

TIM TUNBELLY.

Tune—"Canny Newcassel."

Now lay up your lugs, a' ye freemen that's poor,
And aw'll rhyme without pension or hire—
Come listen, ye dons that keep cows on the Moor,
Though ye couldn't keep them iv a byre—
And a' ye non-freemen, wherever ye be,
Though dame Fortune has myed sic objections,
That you're neither o' Town nor o' Trinity free,
To be brib'd and get drunk at elections.

When aw was but little, aw mind varry weel
That Joe C—k was the friend o' the freemen—
Aw mysel' heerd him say, his professions to seal,
He wad care very little to dee, man.
Corporation corruptions he sair did expose,
And show'd plain whee was rook and whee pigeon
While El——h, the cobbler, in fury arose,
And pummell'd Sir M——w's religion.

Some sly common councilman happen'd to think
That the patriots mebbies had pocket—
So they sent Joe an order for wafers and ink,
And the Custom-house swallow'd the prophet.
Now if ever these worthies should happen to dee,
And Au'd Nick scamper off wiv his booty,
Just imagine yorsels what reformin there'll be,
If belaw there's ne printing nor duty.

But there's honest folk yet now, so dinna be flaid,
Though El——h and Joe has desarted—
For a chep they ca' Tunbelly's ta'en up the trade,
And bizzy he's been sin' he started:
Aboot town-surveyin' he's open'd wor eyes,
And put Tommy Gee into a pickle—
He's gi'en to Jack Proctor a birth i' the skies,
And immortal he's render'd Bob Nichol.

Now, if ony refuse to the freemen their dues,
They're far greater fules than aw thowt them—
Let R——y ne mair stand godfather to cows,
Nor his cousin swear on—till he's bowt them.
Niver mind what the cheps o' the council may say,
He'll seun sattle obstropolous Billy—
Ne mair he'll refuse for a way-leave to pay,
For fear o' the ditch and Tunbelly.

The good that he's deun scarce a volume wad tell,
But there's one thing that will be a wonder—
If Tunbelly losses conceit iv his sel'
Till his head the green sod be laid under.
But we a' hae wor likens, what for shouldn't Tim?
And aw'm shure he a mense to wor town is—
So fill up your glasses once mair to the brim,
And drink to the Newcastle Junius.

THE KEEL ROW.

Weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row,
Weel may the keel row, and better may she speed:
Weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row,
Weel may the keel row, that gets the bairns their breed.

We teuk wor keel up to the dyke,
Up to the dyke, up to the dyke,
We teuk wor keel up to the dyke,
And there we gat her load;
Then sail'd away down to Shields,
Down to Shields, down to Shields,
Then sail'd away down to Shields,
And shipp'd wor coals abroad.
Singing—Weel may the keel row, &c.

Then we row'd away up to the fest,
Up to the fest, up to the fest,
We row'd away up to the fest,
Cheerly every man;
Pat by wor gear and moor'd wor keel,
And moor'd wor keel, and moor'd wor keel,
Pat by wor gear and moor'd wor keel,
Then went and drank wor can,
Singing—Weel may the keel row, &c.

Our canny wives, our clean fireside,
Our bonny bairns, their parents' pride,
Sweet smiles that make life smoothly glide,
We find when we gan hyem:
They'll work for us when we get au'd,
They'll keep us frae the winter's cau'd;
As life declines they'll us uphaud—
When young we uphaud them.
Weel may the keel row, &c.

THE BARBER'S NEWS;

Or, Shields in an Uproar.

Great was the consternation, amazement, and dismay, sir,
Which both in North and South Shields, prevail'd the other day, sir;
Quite panic-struck the natives were, when told by the Barber,
That a terrible Sea Monster had got into the harbour.
"Have you heard the news, sir?" What news, pray, Master Barber?
"Oh a terrible Sea Monster has got into the harbour!"

Now each honest man in Shields—I mean both North and South, sir,
Delighting in occasions to expand their eyes and mouth, sir:
And, fond of seeing marv'lous sights, ne'er staid to get his beard off;
But ran to view the Monster, its arrival when he heard of.
Oh! who could think of shaving when inform'd by the Barber,
That a terrible Sea Monster had got into the harbour.

Each wife pursu'd her husband, and every child its mother,
Lads and lasses, helter skelter, scamper'd after one another;
Shopkeepers and mechanics too, forsook their daily labours,
And ran to gape and stare among their gaping, staring neighbours.
All crowded to the river side, when told by the Barber,
That a terrible Sea Monster had got into the harbour.

It happens very frequently that Barber's news is fiction, sir,
But the wond'rous news this morning was truth, no contradiction, sir;
A something sure enough was there, among the billows flouncing,
Now sinking in the deep profound, now on the surface bouncing.
True as Gazette or Gospel were the tidings of the Barber,
That a terrible Sea Monster had got into the harbour.

Some thought it was a Shark, sir; a Porpus some conceiv'd it;
Some said it was a Grampus, and some a Whale believ'd it;
Some swore it was a Sea Horse, then own'd themselves mistaken,
For, now they'd got a nearer view—'twas certainly a Kraken.
Each sported his opinion from the Parson to the Barber,
Of the terrible Sea Monster they'd gotten in the harbour.

"Belay, belay!" a sailor cried, "What that, this thing a Kraken!
'Tis no more like one, split my jib! than it is a flitch of bacon!
I've often seen a hundred such, all sporting in the Nile, sir,
And you may trust a sailor's word, it is a Crocodile, sir."
Each straight to Jack knocks under, from the Parson to the Barber,
And all agreed a Crocodile had got into the harbour.

Yet greatly Jack's discovery his auditors did shock, sir,
For they dreaded that the Salmon would be eat up by the Croc, sir:
When presently the Crocodile, their consternation crowning,
Rais'd its head above the waves, and cried, "Help! O Lord, I'm drowning!"
Heavens! how their hair, sir, stood on end, from the Parson to the Barber,
To find a speaking Crocodile had got into the harbour.

This dreadful exclamation appall'd both young and old, sir
In the very stoutest hearts, indeed, it made the blood run cold, sir;
Ev'n Jack, the hero of the Nile, it caus'd to quake and tremble,
Until an old wife, sighing, cried, "Alas! 'tis Stephen Kemble!"
Heav'ns! how they all astonish'd were, from the Parson to the Barber,
To find that Stephen Kemble was the Monster in the harbour.

Straight Crocodilish fears gave place to manly gen'rous strife, sir,
Most willingly each lent a hand to save poor Stephen's life, sir;
They dragg'd him gasping to the shore, impatient for his history,
For how he came in that sad plight, to them was quite a mystery.
Tears glisten'd, sir, in every eye, from the Parson to the Barber,
When, swoln to thrice his natural size, they dragg'd him from the harbour.

Now, having roll'd and rubb'd him well an hour upon the beach, sir,
He got upon his legs again, and made a serious speech, sir:
Quoth he, "An ancient proverb says, and true it will be found, sirs,
Those born to prove an airy doom will surely ne'er be drown'd, sirs:
For Fate, sirs, has us all in tow, from the Monarch to the Barber,
Or surely I had breath'd my last this morning in the harbour.

Resolv'd to cross the river, sirs, a sculler did I get into,
May Jonah's evil luck be mine, another when I step into!
Just when we reach'd the deepest part, O horror! there it founders,
And down went poor Pilgarlick amongst the crabs and flounders!
But Fate, that keeps us all in tow, from the Monarch to the Barber,
Ordain'd I should not breathe my last this morning in the harbour.

I've broke down many a stage coach, and many a chaise and gig, sirs;
Once, in passing through a trap-hole, I found myself too big, sirs;
I've been circumstanc'd most oddly, while contesting a hard race, sirs,
But ne'er was half so frighten'd as among the Crabs and Plaice, sirs.
O Fate, sirs, keeps us all in tow, from the Monarch to the Barber,
Or certainly I'd breath'd my last this morning in the harbour.

My friends, for your exertions, my heart o'erflows with gratitude,
O may it prove the last time you find me in that latitude;
God knows with what mischances dire the future may abound, sirs,
But I hope and trust I'm one of those not fated to be drown'd, sirs."
Thus ended his oration, I had it from the Barber;
And drippling, like some River God, he slowly left the harbour.

Ye men of North and South Shields too, God send you all prosperity!
May your commerce ever flourish, your stately ships still crowd the sea:
Unrivall'd in the Coal Trade, till doomsday may you stand, sirs,
And, every hour, fresh wonders your eyes and mouth expand, sirs.
And long may Stephen Kemble live, and never may the Barber
Mistake him for a Monster more, deep floundering in the harbour.

THE BONASSUS.

Tune—"Jemmy Joneson's Whurry."

Let Wombwell, James, and a' the pack
Iv yelpin' curs, beef-eaters,
Ne mair about Bonasses crack,
Them queer, outlandish creturs.
Be dumb, ye leeing, yammering hounds,
Nor wi' yor clavers fash us,
For seun aw'll prove wor canny town
Can boast its awn Bonassus.

It chanc'd when honest Bell was Mayor,
And gat each poor man's blessin—
When cheps like G—e, and Tommy C—r
Gat monny a gratis lesson;
Then Bell refus'd to stand agyen,
Tir'd iv the situation,
And ne awd wife wad tyek the chain
Iv a' wor Corporation.

The folks iv Shields has lang begrudg'd
The Custom-house beside us;
This was the time, they reetly judg'd,
To come sae fine langside us:
They had a chep, W——t was his nyem,
To poor folk rather scurvy,
They sent him up wor heeds to kyem,
And turn us topsy turvy.

He seun began to show his horns,
And treat the poor like vassals—
He sent the apple-wives to mourn
A month iv wor awd Cassel.
The timber marchants will ne mair
Wiv ten-a-penny deave us—
They swear iv W——t's to be wor Mayor,
That i' the dark they'll leave us.

The drapers next he gov a gleece,
'Bout their unruly samples—
Bound ower the clouts to keep the peace,
Wiv strings to the door stanchells.
The tatee-market, iv a tift—
(Ye heuxters a' resent it!
My sarties! but that was a shift,)
To the Parade Ground sent it.

Ye gowks, frae Shields ye've oft slipt up,
When ye had little 'casion,
To see wor snobs their capers cut,
Or Geordy's Coronation;
Now altogether come yence mair,
Wor blissins shall attend ye,
If ye'll but rid us o' wor Mayor,
Iv hackney's back we'll send ye.

SHIELDS CHAIN BRIDGE,

HUMOUROUSLY DESCRIBED BY A PITMAN.

Now, Geordy, my lad, sit as mute as a tyed,
An' aw'll tell ye 'bout Chain Brig at's gaun to be myed;
Aw'll begin at the furst, an' gan on till aw cum
To the end o' my story—and then aw'll be deun.
Some folks tell a plain, simple story at times,
But aw'm nothing like them, aw tell a' things iv rhymes.
Smash, Geordy, sit quiet—keep in thaw great toes,
An' aw'll gan as straight forrat as waggoners goes.

Wey, ye see, the folks thought, i' gaun ower the water,
'Stead o' crossing wi' boats, 'at a Brig wad be better;
So the gentlemen gather'd a great congregation,
The syem as folks de at the heed o' the nation:
Then they some things brought forrat, an' some they put back,
So they sattled a Brig sud be built iv a crack.
'Twasn't lang efter this, aw gat haud iv a paper,
Tell'd the size it should be, just as nice as a taper.

How! says aw to mysel, but they hevent been lang,
Dash! a fellow like me may stite myek up a sang,
Or some such like thing—just to myek a bit fun:
So it's ne seuner said than it's cleverly deun.
Folks thought me a genius when first aw was born—
But what is aw deein?—aw mun tell ye the form
O' this said Iron Brig 'at aw's talking aboot,
When aw pull up me breeches, and blaw out me snout.

Huge abutments o' styen, aw think they are call'd—
When aw com to that word aw was varry near pall'd;
On each side o' the river yen o' thor things is myed,
To fit intiv a hole they howk out wiv a spyed.
Frae the tops o' thor pillars to the edge o' the banks,
Varry strang iron chains, myed o' wrought iron links,
Hingin' ower the house-tops o' byeth sides o' the river,
Thor chains is continued frae pillar to pillar.

Frae the big'uns is hung some inferior in length,
To the bottom of which a foundation of strength
Is fixt, wrought wi' iron, and cover'd wi' styen,
Then surmounted wi' railing—it's deun, skin and byen.
Now, Geordy, what de ye think ov it, my lad?—
Wey, speak—what's the maiter—or ye tyen varry bad?
Or extonishment is it that's sew'd up yor mouth?
But aw divent much wonder, so aw'll tell the real truth.

Aw wonder wor owners disn't see into it,
And myek a Chain Brig for to gan down wor pit.
A! man, but it's cliver—it's use 'ill be great;
For to what lad o' Shields wad the thought not be sweet;
To cross ower the water without danger or fear,
As aw've monny a time deun i' gawn ower the Wear.
When we cross ower the water i' boats we're in danger,
But the hazard is warse tiv a man 'at's a stranger.

While this hang'd ugly sailing o' packets survives,
Were in very great danger o' losing wor lives.
But it's ne use to tell the unnumber'd disasters
Which happen to 'prentices, workmen, and masters,
On crossing the Tyne i' them sma' sculler boats,
Or ony thing else on the water that floats.
At ony rate, the Chain Brig is a far safer plan,
And would save mony lives—contradict it whe can!

Besides, ye knaw, Geordy, it's easier and better
For the canny folks 'at leaves on the banks o' the water,
To walk straight afore them 'stead o' gaun doon the street,
And when they're iv a hurry running doon a' they meet;
Forbye being kept myest an hour in suspense,
By cairts, that sometimes myek a plague of a fence,
Then the folks are a' stopt, tho' they be iv a hurry.

Now, ye blithe lads o' Shields, let it be a' yor glory,
To get this Chain Brig rear'd on high in the air,
Then we'll hae to soom amang steam-boats ne mair:
Smash their great clumsy wheels! aw like nyen o' their wark,
They once cowpt me owerboard, an' aw was wet to the sark;
But catch me gaun ony mair near them again—
If aw de, say aw divent belang Collingwood Main!

THE COLLIERS' PAY WEEK,

BY HENRY ROBSON.

The Baff-week is o'er—no repining—
Pay-Saturday's swift on the wing;
At length the blithe morning comes shining,
When kelter makes colliers sing.
'Tis Spring, and the weather is cheary,
The birds carol sweet on the spray;
Now coal-working lads, trim and airy,
To Newcastle town hie away.

Those married jog on with their hinnies,
Their canny bairns go by their side;
The daughters keep teazing their minnies
For new cloaths to keep up their pride:
They plead—Easter Sunday does fear them,
For if they've got nothing that's new,
The Crow, spiteful bird, will besmear them;
Oh then, what a sight for to view!

The young men, full blithesome and jolly,
March forward, all decently clad;
Some lilting up "Cut-and-dry, Dolly,"
Some singing "The bonny Pit Lad:"
The pranks that were play'd at last binding
Engage some in humourous chat;
Some halt by the way-side on finding
Primroses to place in their hat.

Bob Cranky, Jack Hogg, and Dick Marley,
Bill Hewitt, Luke Carr, and Tom Brown,
In one jolly squad set off early
From Benwell to Newcastle town:
Such hewers as they (none need doubt it)
Ne'er handled a shovel or pick;
In high or low seam they could suit it,
In regions next door to Old Nick.

Some went to buy hats and new jackets,
And others to see a bit fun;
And some wanted leather and tackets,
To cobble their canny pit shoon:
Save the ribbon Dick's dear had requested,
(Aware he had plenty of chink)
There was no other care him infested,
Unless 'twere his care for good drink.

In the morning the dry man advances
To purl-shop to toss off a gill.
Ne'er dreading the ills and mischances
Attending on those who sit still:
The drink, Reason's monitor quelling,
Inflames both the brain and the eyes;
The enchantment commenc'd, there's no telling
When care-drowning tipplers will rise.

O Malt! we acknowledge thy powers,
What good and what ill dost thou brew!
Our good friend in moderate hours—
Our enemy when we get fu':
Could thy vot'ries avoid the fell furies
So often awaken'd by thee,
We should seldom need Judges or Juries
To send folk to Tyburn tree!

At length in Newcastle they centre—
In Hardy's,[5] a house much renown'd,
The jovial company enter,
Where stores of good liquor abound:
As quick as the servants could fill it,
(Till emptied were quarts half a score)
With heart-burning thirst down they swill it,
And thump on the table for more.

While thus in fine cue they are seated,
Young Cock-fighting Ned, from the Fell,[6]
Peep'd in—his "How d'ye?" repeated,
And hop'd they were all very well;
He swore he was pleased to see them—
One rose up to make him sit down,
And join in good fellowship wi' them—
For him they would spend their last crown.

The liquor beginning to warm them,
In friendship the closer they knit,
And tell and hear jokes—and to charm them,
Comes Robin from Denton-bourn pit;
An odd, witty, comical fellow,
At either a jest or a tale,
Especially when he was mellow
With drinking stout Newcastle ale.

With bousing, and laughing, and smoking,
The time slippeth swiftly away,
And while they are ranting and joking,
The church-clock proclaims it mid-day;
And now for black-puddings, long measure,
They go to Tib Trollibag's stand,
And away bear the glossy rich treasure,
With joy, like curl'd bugles in hand.

And now a choice house they agreed on,
Not far from the head of the Quay:
Where they their black puddings might feed on,
And spend the remains of the day;
Where pipers and fiddlers resorted,
To pick up the straggling pence,
And where the pit-lads often sported
Their money at fiddle and dance.

Blind Willie[7] the fiddler sat scraping
In corner just as they went in:
Some Willington callants were shaking
Their feet to his musical din:
Jack vow'd he would have some fine cap'ring,
As soon as their dinner was o'er,
With the lassie that wore the white apron,
Now reeling about on the floor.

Their hungry stomachs being eased,
And gullets well clear'd with a glass,
Jack rose from the table and seized
The hand of the frolicsome lass.
"Maw hinny!" says he, "pray excuse me—
To ask thee to dance aw myek free?"
She replied, "I'd be loth to refuse thee—
Now fiddler play— Jigging for me."

The damsel displays all her graces,
The collier exerts all his power,
They caper in circling paces,
And set at each end of the floor:
He jumps, and his heels knack and rattle—
At turns of the music so sweet,
He makes such a thundering brattle,
The floor seems afraid of his feet.

This couple being seated, rose Bob up,
He wish'd to make one in a jig;
But a Willington lad set his gob up—
O'er him there should none "run the rig;"
For now 'twas his turn for a caper,
And he would dance first as he'd rose;
Bob's passion beginning to vapour,
He twisted his opponent's nose.

The Willington lads, for their Franky,
Jump'd up to revenge the foul deed;
And those in behalf of Bob Cranky
Sprung forward—for now there was need.
Bob canted the form, with a kevel,
As he was exerting his strength;
But he got on the lug such a nevel,
That down came he, all his long length.

Tom Brown, from behind the long table,
Impatient to join in the fight,
Made a spring, some rude foe to disable,
For he was a man of some might:
Misfortune, alas! was attending,
An accident fill'd him with fear;
An old rusty nail his flesh rending,
Oblig'd him to slink in the rear.

When sober, a mild man was Marley,
More apt to join friends than make foes;
But rais'd by the juice of the barley,
He put in some sobbling blows.
And cock-fighting Ned was their Hector,
A courageous fellow and stout—
He stood their bold friend and protector,
And thump'd the opponents about.

All hand-over-head, topsy-turvy,
They struck with fists, elbows, and feet;
A Willington callant, call'd Gurvy,
Was top-tails tost over the seat:
Luke Carr had one eye clos'd entire,
And what is a serio-farce,
Poor Robin was cast on the fire,
His breeks torn and burnt off his a—e.

Oh, Robin! what argued thy speeches?
Disaster now makes thee quite mum;
Thy wit could not save the good breeches
That mencefully cover'd thy bum:
To some slop-shop now thou should be trudging,
And lug out more squandering coins;
For now 'tis too late to be grudging—
Thou cannot go home with bare groins.

How the war-faring companies parted,
The Muse chuseth not to proclaim;
But 'tis thought, that, being rather down-hearted,
They quietly went—"toddling hame."
Now ye collier callants, so clever,
Residing 'tween Tyne and the Wear,
Beware, when you fuddle together,
Of making too free with strong beer.

1805.

[5] Sign of the Black Boy, Great Market.

[6] Gateshead Fell.

[7] William Purvis, a blind fiddler so called.

THE TYNE.

By the Same—Written in 1807.

In Britain's blest island there runs a fine river,
Far fam'd for the ore it conveys from the mine:
Northumbria's pride, and that district doth sever
From Durham's rising hills, and 'tis called—the Tyne.

Flow on, lovely Tyne, undisturb'd be thy motion,
Thy sons hold the threats of proud France in disdain;
As long as thy waters shall mix with the ocean,
The fleets of Old England will govern the main.

Other rivers for fame have by poets been noted
In many a soft-sounding musical line;
But for sailors and coals never one was yet quoted,
Could vie with the choicest of rivers—the Tyne.
Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.

When Collingwood conquer'd our foes so completely,
And gain'd a fine laurel, his brow to entwine;
In order to manage the matter quite neatly,
Mann'd his vessel with tars from the banks of the Tyne.
Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.

Thou dearest of rivers, oft-times have I wander'd
Thy margin along when oppress'd sore with grief,
And thought of thy stream, as it onward meander'd,
The murmuring melody gave me relief.
Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.

From the fragrant wild flowers that blow on thy border,
The playful Zephyrus oft steals an embrace,
And curling thy surface in beauteous order,
The willows bend forward to kiss thy clear face.
Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.

One favour I crave—O kind fortune befriend me!
When downhill I totter, in Nature's decline—
A competent income—if this thou wilt send me,
I'll dwindle out life on the banks of the Tyne.
Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.

THE SPRING.

By the Same.—Written early in May, 1809.

Now the gay feather'd train, in each bush,
Court their mates, and love's melody sing—
The blackbird, the linnet, and thrush,
Make the echoing valleys to ring.

The bird with the crimson-dy'd breast,
From the hamlet has made his remove,
To join his love-song with the rest,
And woo his fond mate in the grove.

The lark, high in ether afloat,
Each morn, as he ushers the day,
Attunes his wild-warbling throat,
And sings his melodious lay.

Yon bank lately cover'd with snow,
Now smiles in the spring's bloomy pride;
And the sweet-scented primroses grow
Near the streamlet's sweet gurgling tide.

To the banks of the Tyne we'll away,
And view the enrapturing scene,
While Flora, the goddess of May,
With her flow'rets bespangles the green.

PARSON MALTHUS.

By the Same.—Written in 1826.

Tune—"Ranting roaring Willie."

Good people, if you'll pay attention,
I'll tell you a comical jest;
The theme I'm about now to mention
Alludes to one Malthus, a priest—
A proud, hypocritical preacher,
Who feeds on tithe-pigs and good wine;
But him I shall prove a false teacher—
Oh, all things have but a time.

Some years ago, through all the nation,
He publish'd a scandalous book—
An Essay about "Population;"
But widely his text he mistook.
From marriage his plan's to restrain all
Poor people who are in their prime,
Lest the earth prove too small to contain all—
Such notions can last but a time.

But the Clergy who're plac'd in snug station,
The Nobles, and such like fine folks,
May continue their multiplication—
What think you, my friends, of such jokes?
What think you of Malthus the Parson,
Who slights each injunction divine,
And laughs while he carries the farce on;—
But all things have but a time.

When the poor folk of hunger are dying,
He deems it no sin in the great,
Their hands to with-hold from supplying
The wretched with victuals to eat!
Such doctrine—sure a great evil—
Becomes not a Christian Divine;
'Tis more like the speech of the Devil;—
But all things have but a time.

Now, my friends, you will readily see
Malthus' argument's not worth a curse;
For to starve the industrious bee,
Is no better than killing the goose.
That he does not believe in the Bible,
His book is a very true sign;
On Sacred Writ 'tis a libel—
Such trash can last but for a time.

Place the drones on one part of our isle,
The industrious class on the other;
There the former may simper and smile,
And bow and scrape each to his brother:
They can neither plough, throw the shuttle,
Nor build with stone and lime;
They'll then get but little to guttle,
And may grow wiser in time.

Ye blithe British lads and ye lasses,
Ne'er heed this daft, whimsical Priest;
Get sweethearts in spite of such asses—
The Bible Plan sure is the best:
Then away go in couples together,
And marry while you're in your prime,
And strive to agree with each other,
For life only lasts a short time!

PETER WAGGY.

By the Same—Written in 1826.

I, when a child, for trinket ware
Would often cry to mam and daddie:
With other trifles, from the fair,
Dad brought me once a Peter Waggy.

Fine dolls, and many things forby,
A gilded coach and little naggie;
But oh, the darling of my eye,
Was little dancing Peter Waggy!

Love of such trifles time destroys—
At length each well-grown lass and laddie
Seeks to be pleas'd with other toys,
Some other sort of Peter Waggy.

A lover came to me at last,
In courting me he ne'er grew faggy;
Now he and I are buckled fast—
He is my darling Peter Waggy.

We've got a boy of beauty rare,
A credit to his mam and daddie;
When I go to Newcastle Fair,
I'll buy my child a Peter Waggy.

BESSY OF BLYTH.

"A VIRTUOUS WOMAN IS MORE PRECIOUS THAN RUBIES."

By the Same.—Written in 1826.

In Cramlington we've bonnie lasses enow,
With checks red as roses, and eyes black or blue;
But Bessy of Blyth I love better than onie—
My heart is still there with my own dear honey.

My uncle says, "Robin, why sure you are mad,
To slight Suky Swan—she's worth money, my lad!"
Dear uncle, says I, I'll ne'er marry for money,
And none will I have but my own dear honey.

Her face I compare to the blush of the morn,
Her breath to the scent of the fresh-blossom'd thorn;
For virtue and sense she's not equall'd by monie—
Few, few can compare with my own dear honey.

As in this world of care there is nought we approve,
Compar'd to the faithful good wife that we love;
To sweeten life's sorrow, the gall mix with honey,
I'll wed my dear Bess, and a fig for their money.

KELVIN GROVE.—THE LASSIE'S ANSWER.

By the Same—Written in 1827.

To Kelvin Grove we'll go, bonnie laddie, O,
Where the sweetest flowers grow, bonnie laddie, O;
With my true-love by my side,
Of a' the flowers the pride,
I'd wander the warld wide, bonnie laddie, O.

When the throstle hails the morn, bonnie laddie, O,
We'll wander by the burn, bonnie laddie, O;
And we'll rest in the alcove,
In bonny Kelvin Grove,
Where first I told my love to my laddie, O.

When thou leav'st thy native home, bonnie laddie, O,
With thee I mean to roam, bonnie laddie, O;
I'll watch thee in the fight,
And guard thee day and night,
That no mishap alight—on my laddie, O.

In the fatal battle-field, bonnie laddie, O,
Shouldst thou thy spirit yield, bonnie laddie, O—
When thy een are clos'd in death,
I'll sigh my latest breath,
And one grave shall hold us baith, bonnie laddie, O.

But kind should Fortune prove, bonnie laddie, O,
And spare us baith to love, bonnie laddie, O:
By the stream again we'll rove,
In bonny Kelvin Grove,
And frae hame nae mair remove, dearest laddie, O.

TO MR. PETER WATSON[8],

WHO LAYS POWERFUL BATS ON THE KNAVES WITH FIRE-SHOVEL HATS ON.

By the Same.—Written in 1824.

O Watson! O Watson! what are you about?
What have you been doing to cause such a rout?
'Tis said you've been giving the Clergy a clout;
Which nobody does deny.

O stop! Watson, stop! O whither?—say whither
Directs your bold genius?—'twould seem you choose rather
To hammer the Parsons, instead of bend leather;
At starting you were not shy.

What tho' the good Clergy for long time have got,
At Easter, fat pullets to put in their pot,
And ta'en from the people full many a groat,
Yet why into this should you pry?

Of matters relating to Church or to State,
'Tis surely not fit you should trouble your pate;
Yet still you keep thumping, with spirit elate,
As if you would maul the whole fry.

I'd have you respect more the Lord's own Anointed,
Who over your conscience to rule are appointed,
And to whom pigs and pullets are sent to be jointed,
And other good things forby.

Repent, then, and quick pay your Easter Dues,
And to guileless Parsons give no more abuse,
Or spiritual comfort to you they'll refuse,
And this may cause you to sigh!

For things are so chang'd since you rang them a peal,
That the Clerk seems afraid through our parish to speel;
For he's look'd on no better than one come to steal;
Which nobody can deny.

The Clerk of St. John's, that he might have good luck,
Employed a brave Noodle, whose nick-name is Pluck,
To collect Easter-pence; but the people had struck—
Few, few were brought to comply.

Now the Parsons to you attach all the blame,
O Watson, for saying they had no just claim!
Thus you've brought on yourself their holy disdain;
Yet you'll fill a niche in the Temple of Fame,
Which nobody will deny.

[8] Peter Watson, of Chester-le-Street, Shoemaker.—This person, for some time, laudably exerted himself to oppose the claims of the Government Clergy to what are called Easter dues or offerings; and by a powerful appeal to the public, succeeded in convincing many that such claims were equally oppressive and unjust, and founded neither in the law nor the gospel.—The late worthy Vicar of Newcastle, Mr. John Smith, actuated with the generous feelings of a Man and a Christian, and with due deference to public opinion, restrained the Clergy in his jurisdiction from collecting these Exactions during the latter years of his life. To him, therefore, and to Peter Watson, in particular, who aroused the public attention to the subject, the inhabitants of Newcastle are indebted for being relieved from this odious, unjust, and oppressive Clerical Tax.

THE NEWCASTLE SUBSCRIPTION MILL.

Tune—"Newcastle Ale."—1814.

While Europe rejoices at Bonny's defeat,
And Cossacks pursue him o'er plain and o'er hill,
On the banks of the Tyne, in a quiet retreat,
I'll write you a ballad about the new Mill,
To be built by subscription, of famous description;
Ye pale-fac'd mechanics, come join in the club,
Whose bowels are yearning at ev'ning and morning,
And you will get plenty of cheap, wholesome grub.

The Millers their spite have already display'd,
And dusty-mouth'd Meal-mongers pettish are grown,
That a plan should be thought of to injure their trade,
A Mill that will grind for one half of the town;
Where, joyful, you'll hie, for wheat or for rye—
There some trusty fellow your meal-bags will fill;
No mixture of chalk[9], your intestines to caulk,
But plain, honest dealing practis'd at the Mill.

There's Puff-cake, the baker, too, cries out "Alack!
If this plan should succeed, I'll have customers few;"
And he whinges and whines as he sets up his back
To twirl his long rolling-pin over the dough:
The theme he resumes, with vexation he fumes,
And deems the projector a deep-scheming elf;
His customers gone, he'll soon be undone,
His mixture compound he may swallow himself.

Of Gripe-grain, the corn-factor, much could be sung,
And of Broad-brim, the Quaker, a guilt-spotted blade,
Who both in a halter deserve to be strung,
For the thousands they've starv'd by the forestalling trade:
But some future time may produce a new rhyme,
Wherein I propose their true features to draw;
Meanwhile ev'ry man give his aid to the plan,
And there'll soon be a down-coming market—Huzza!

[9] About the month of November, 1813, (according to the Courier newspaper) a Victualler for the Navy was convicted in adulterating the biscuit with chalk and Portland stone, and suffered the penalty of a very heavy fine. The audacious fellow afterwards boasted, that he had cleared more money by the practice than the fine amounted to.

LIZZIE LIBERTY.

Tune—"Tibby Fowler i' the Glen."

By the Same.

Sung at a Meeting of Reformers at the Golden Lion Inn, Bigg Market, Newcastle, on the Liberation of Henry Hunt, Esq. in 1822.

There lives a nymph o'er yonder lea,
And O she is a winsome hizzie!
Her name is Lizzie Liberty,
And monie wooers has sweet Lizzie:
She sings and trips along the plain,
Free as the wind glides o'er the water;
O bonny Lizzie Liberty!
Now a' the lads wad fain be at her.

The Men o' France to her advance,
And use all arts to gain her favour;
And Spaniards bold, with hearts of gold,
Vow, if she's to be had, they'll have her;
And daft John Bull, that bleth'ring cull,
About the nymph sets up his chatter;
O bonnie Lizzie Liberty!
Now a' the lads wad fain be at her.

Braw Donald Scot steps forth, I wot,
To win the smiles of this fair lady,
And Irish Pat has promis'd that,
To woo the nymph he'll aye be steady:
Whole Patriot Bands, of foreign lands,
Do fyke and fistle sair about her:
O bonnie Lizzie Liberty!
Nae happiness is felt without her.

THE NEW FISH MARKET.

BY WILLIAM MIDFORD.

Tune—"Scots come o'er the Border."

March! march to the Dandy Fish Market!
See what our Corporation's done for you,
By pillars and paling so nobly surrounded,
And your stone tables all standing before you.

Where's there a river so fam'd in the nation?
Where's the bold tars that so well grace their station?
Coals, fish, and grindstones—we'll through the world bark it—
And now we ha'e gotten a bonny Fish Market,
March! march, &c.

Oh! did the fish ken they'd be caged like a birdie,
(Euphy, the Queen, singing, "Maw canny Geordie,")
They'd pop out their heads then, should ye only watch them,
And call on the fishermen sharply to catch them.
March! march, &c.

Yet all isn't right, tho'—in time you may hear it;
One week is past, and but one cart's come near it:
The loons above stairs preconcerted the order,
And hinder poor bodies to hawk through the border.
March! march, &c.

Gan to the coast—where the fishermen's weeding—
Gan to the fells—where the cuddies are feeding—
Gan to hell's kitchen—should ye have occasion—
Ye'll see hizzies drinking through spite and vexation.
March! march, &c.

Where's Madgie's troops that so well could shout oysters?
Gone to a convent or nunnery cloisters!
Where's the wee shop that once held Jack the Barber?
Gone to make room for the fish brought to harbour!
March! march, &c.

Then hie to the Custom-house, add to your pleasures,
Now you're well cover'd, so toom the new measures:
It ne'er will be finish'd, I'll wager a groat,
Till they've cut a canal to admit five-men boats!
March! march, &c.

A NEW YEAR'S CAROL,

For the Fishwives of Newcastle.

Tune—"Chevy Chase."

God prosper long our noble king,
Our lives and safeties all!
A woeful ditty we may sing
On ev'ry fishwife's stall.

Good Magistrates, it were a sin
That we should rail at you;
Altho' the plaice you've put us in,
Is grating to our view.

If crab-bed looks we should put on,
Or flounder in a pet,
Each fishwife's tub would, very soon,
Be in the kit-ty set.

Sure we are not such simple soles,
Though in your legal net,
But we will haul you o'er the coals,
And play hot cockles yet.

The iron ring in which we're shut,
To make the gudgeons stare,
Will not, says ev'ry scolding slut,
With her-ring e'er compare.

Then ev'ry night, that duly falls,
Fresh water may be seen
All floating round our seats and stalls,
As if we had-ducks been.

But thus shell'd in, as now we are,
Within our corp'rate bounds,
Altho' we may not curse and swear,
We still may cry, Cod-sounds!

Let gentle people carp their fill,
At us, our sprees and pranks;
For tho' we're now turn'd off the Hill,
Themselves may lose their Banks.

JESMOND MILL.

BY PHIL. HODGSON.

To sing of some nymph in her cot,
Each bard will oft flourish his quill:
I'm glad it has fall'n to my lot,
To celebrate Jesmond Mill.

When Spring hither winds her career,
Our trees and our hedges to fill,
Vast oceans of verdure appear,
To charm you at Jesmond Mill.

To plant every rural delight,
Mere Nature has lavish'd her skill;
Here fragrant soft breezes unite,
To wanton round Jesmond Mill.

When silence each evening here dwells,
The birds in their coverts all still;
No music in sweetness excels
The clacking of Jesmond Mill.

Reclin'd by the verge of the stream,
Or stretch'd on the side of the hill,
I'm never in want of a theme,
While learning at Jesmond Mill.

Sure Venus some plot has design'd,
Or why is my heart never still,
Whenever it pops in my mind,
To wander near Jesmond Mill.

My object, ye swains, you will guess,
If ever in love you had skill;
And now I will frankly confess,
'Tis—Jenny of Jesmond Mill.

TOMMY THOMPSON.

Author of 'Canny Newcassel,' 'Jemmy Joneson's Whurry,' &c.

BY ROBERT GILCHRIST.

All ye whom minstrel's strains inspire,
Soft as the sighs of morning—
All ye who sweep the rustic lyre,
Your native hills adorning—
Where genius bids her rays descend
O'er bosoms deep and lonesome—
Let every heart and hand respond
The name of Tommy Thompson.

CHORUS.

His spirit now is soaring bright,
And leaves us dark and dolesome;
O luckless was the fatal night
That lost us Tommy Thompson.

The lyric harp was all his own,
Each mystic art combining—
Which Envy, with unbending frown,
Might hear with unrepining.
The sweetest flower in summer blown,
Was not more blithe and joysome,
Than was the matchless, merry tone,
Which died with Tommy Thompson.
His spirit, &c.

FAREWELL TO THE TYNE.

By the Same.

Farewell, lovely Tyne, in thy soft murmurs flowing,
Adieu to the shades of thy mouldering towers!
And sweet be the flowers on thy wild margin growing,
And sweet be the nymphs that inhabit thy bowers!

And there shall be ties which no distance can sever,
Thou land of our fathers, the dauntless and free;
Tho' the charms of each change smile around me, yet never
Shall the sigh be inconstant that's hallow'd to thee.

Thy full orb of glory will blaze o'er each contest—
Thy sons, e'er renown'd, be the dread of each foe—
Till thy tars chill with fear in the fight or the tempest,
And the pure streams of Heddon have ceas'd more to flow.

May commerce be thine—and from Tynemouth to Stella
May thy dark dingy waters auspiciously roll—
And thy lads in the keels long be jovial and mellow,
With faces as black as the keel or the coal.

O Albion! of worlds thou shalt e'er be the wonder,
Thy tough wooden walls, thy protection and pride,
So long as the bolts of thy cloud-rending thunder
Are hurl'd by the lads on the banks of Tyneside.

NORTHUMBERLAND FREE O' NEWCASSEL.

Composed extempore, on the Duke of Northumberland being presented with the Freedom of Newcastle.

BY THE SAME.

To that far-ken'd and wondrous place, Newcassel town,
Where each thing yen lucks at surprises,
Wiv a head full o' fancies, and heart full o' fun,
Aw'd com'd in to see my Lord Sizes.
In byeth town and country aw glowrin' beheld
Carousin' laird, tenant, an' vassal;
On axin' the cause o' sic joy, aw was tell'd,
'Twas Northumberland free o' Newcassel.

The guns frae the Cassel sent monny a peal—
My hair stood on end, a' confounded—
The folks on Tyne-brig set up monny a squeel,
And the banks o' Tyneside a' resounded.
In the Mute Hall, Judge Bayley roar'd out, "My poor head!—
Gan an' tell them not to myek sic a rattle."
Judge Wood cried out, "No—let them fire us half dead,
Since Northumberland's free o' Newcassel!"

The Duke e'er has been byeth wor glory an' pride,
For dousely he fills up his station;
May he lang live to hearten the lads o' Tyneside,
The glory and pride o' their nation.
Brave Prudhoe[10] triumphant shall plough the wide main,
The hash o' the Yankees he'll sattle;
And ages hereefter but sarve to proclaim
Northumberland free o' Newcassel.

May it please Heav'n to grant that the sweet Flower o' Wales,[11]
Wi' Northumberland's roses entwinin',
May its fragrance shed forth i' celestial gales,
In glory unceasin'ly shinin',
In defence o' wor country, wor laws, an' wor King,
May a Peercy still lead us to battle;
An' monny a brisk lad o' the nyem may there spring
Fra Northumberland, free o' Newcassel.

[10] Baron Prudhoe, of the Royal Navy.

[11] The Duchess of Northumberland.

THE DUCHESS AND MAYORESS.

Written in September, 1819.

Ye Northumberland lads and ye lasses,
Come and see what at Newcastle passes,
Here's a damnable rout,
At a tea and turn out,
And no one knows how to bring matters about.

It seems, at our summer Assizes,
(Or at least so the present surmise is)
The wife of the Mayor
Never offer'd her chair
At the Ball when the Duchess from Alnwick was there.

Then 'tis said, too, by way of addition,
To the Mayoress's turn for sediton,
That, in right of her place,
With her impudent face,
She march'd out to tea at the head of her Grace.

So our vigorous young Lord Lieutenant,
Next day, when the Grand Jury were present,
Disclos'd to their view,
(In enigma, 'tis true)
The plot of the Mayoress and all her d—d crew.

When his health was propos'd as Lieutenant,
He bow'd to the company present;
Then, with tears in his eyes,
And to all their surprize,
"My office, (his Grace said) too heavily lies.

I had firmly imagin'd till now, sirs,
That our county was free from all row, sirs;
But what has occurr'd,
Though I sha'n't say a word,
Till the voice of yourselves and the county is heard.

All at present I wish yon to know is,
That my Duchess and Dame Lady Powis,
Have receiv'd such a blow,
That thy never can go
To your ball, at Newcastle, while things remain so.

A high rank has its weight in the nation,
If you hold it in due estimation;
Then the Duchess and I
For redress must apply,
Tho' at present I mention no name—no, not I.

All I wish is to find out your pleasures,
And hope to avoid all harsh measures;
Yet I always foresaw
This Republican jaw
Would sooner or later produce Martial Law."

Thus ended the young Lord Lieutenant,
When the terrified company present,
Cried, "Name, my Lord, name
Who's to blame—who's to blame;"
But the Duke said, the County must smother the flame.

And the Duchess and he, the next morning,
Fulfill'd my Lord Lieutenant's warning;
Then up before day,
And to Alnwick away,
Their faces have ne'er since been seen to this day.

NEWCASTLE ASSIZES.

DUCHESS versus MAYORESS;

Or, a Struggle for Precedence.

Why, what's a' this about,
Mr. Mayor, Mister Mayor?
Why, what's a' this about,
Mister Mayor?
Yor Worship's wife, they say,
To the Duchess won't give way,
Nor due attention pay,
Mister Mayor!

But is this true, aw pray,
Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor?
But is this true, aw pray,
Mister Mayor?
If it's true, as aw believe,
Ye'll ha'e muckle cause to grieve—
The Duke yor toon will leave,
Mister Mayor!

The Judge, Sir William Scott,
Mr. Mayor, Mister Mayor!
The Judge, Sir William Scott,
Mr. Mayor!
Says, yor wife is much to blame;
And aw think 'twad be ne shame,
To skelp her for the same,
Mister Mayor!

'Tis not the Judge alane,
Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!
'Tis not the Judge alane,
Mr. Mayor!
But the Judge and Jury baith,
Say, she's guilty o' maw faith,
An' so Sir Thomas saith,
Mr. Mayor!

The Duke the Jury towld,
Mister Mayor, Mr. Mayor!
The Duke the Jury towld,
Mr. Mayor!
He went with them to dine,
And surely he did whine,
'Bout his wife, mun, ow'r his wine,
Mr. Mayor!

'Twas sure ne noble deed,
Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!
'Twas sure ne noble deed,
Mr. Mayor!
He shew'd ne mighty sense,
At yor Dame to take offence;
So let his Grace gan hence,
Mr. Mayor!

But there's other folk to blame,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor!
But there's other folk to blame,
Mr. Mayor!
Yor wife has counsell'd with
Wor Vicar, Johnny Smith,
And he's nought, ye knaw, but pith,
Mr. Mayor!

Enjoy life when ye can,
Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!
Enjoy life when ye can,
Mr. Mayor!
Nor let the Brewer Knight,
Nor the Duke, wi' a' his spite,
Say yor wife's no i' the right,
Mr. Mayor!

THE COAL TRADE.

Good people, listen while I sing
The source from whence your comforts spring,
And may each wind that blows still bring
Success unto the Coal Trade?
Who but unusual pleasure feels
To see our fleets of ships and keels!
Newcastle, Sunderland, and Shields,
May ever bless the Coal Trade.

May vultures on the caitiff fly
And gnaw his liver till he die,
Who looks with evil, jealous eye,
Down upon the Coal Trade.
If that should fail, what would ensue?
Sure, ruin and disaster too!
Alas! alas! what could we do,
If 'twere not for the Coal Trade!

What is it gives us cakes of meal?
What is it crams our wames sae weel
With lumps of beef and draughts of ale?
What is't, but just the Coal Trade.
Not Davis' Straits or Greenland oil,
Nor all the wealth springs from the soil,
Could ever make our pots to boil,
Like unto our Coal Trade.

Ye sailors' wives that love a drop
Of stingo fra the brandy shop,
How could you get one single drop,
If it were not for the Coal Trade.
Ye pitmen lads, so blithe and gay,
Who meet to tipple each pay-day,
Down on your marrow bones and pray,
Success unto the Coal Trade!

May Wear and Tyne still draw and pour
Their jet black treasures to the shore,
And we with all our strength will roar,
Success unto the Coal Trade!
Ye owners, masters, sailors a',
Come shout till ye be like to fa';
Your voices raise—huzza! huzza!
We all live by the Coal Trade.

This nation is in duty bound,
To prize those who work under ground,
For 'tis well known this country round
Is kept up by the Coal Trade.
May Wear, and Tyne, and Thames ne'er freeze,
Our ships and keels will pass with ease,
Then Newcastle, Sunderland, and Shields,
Will still uphold the Coal Trade.

I tell the truth, you may depend,
In Durham or Northumberland,
No trade in them could ever stand,
If it were not for the Coal Trade.
The owners know full well, 'tis true,
Without pitmen, keelmen, sailors too,
To Britain they might bid adieu,
If it were not for the Coal Trade.

So to conclude, and make an end
Of these few lines which I have penn'd,
We'll drink a health to all those men
Who carry on the Coal Trade:
To owners, pitmen, keelmen too,
And sailors, who the seas do plough,
Without these men we could not do,
Nor carry on the Coal Trade.

TOM CARR AND WALLER WATSON;

Or, Tom and Jerry at Home.

Tune—"There was a bold Dragoon."

O Marrow, howay to the toon,
What fun we will ha'e there!
We needn't fear the watchmen now,
Let them come if they dare!
We'll hev a gill and sing a sang,
And through the streets we'll roar a ditty,
For Tom Carr hez ne bizness now
To put us a' neet i' the Kitty.
Whack, fal, &c.

For when he cam before me Lord,
He fand his sel a' wrang,
For tyaken Watson up yen neet
For singing a wee bit sang.
Another chep ca'd Walton te,
Aw own that he was rather murry,
For he tell'd the watchman to be off,
Or else he'd give him Tom and Jurry,
Whack, fal, &c.

The watchman seiz'd him by the neck,
Then up cam other two:
Says Walton. 'Now let go o' me,
Or aw'll let ye knaw just now.'
Then he lifted up his great lang airm,
Me soul he gave him sec a knoller;
But the watchman kept his haud se lang,
He pull'd off Walton's dandy collar.
Whack, fal, &c.

To the watch-house then they dragg'd them off,
Before greet Captain Carr:
Says he, 'What ha'e ye getten here,
Me worthy men o' war?'
Wye, sir, says they, here's twe greet cheps,
The yen aw shure deserves a swingin;
For they've roar'd and shouted thro' the streets,
And wyaken'd a' the folks wi' singin.
Whack, fal, &c.

'Aye, aye,' says Carr, 'aw ken them weel,
Tyek them out o' my seet!
Away wi' them to Mr. Scott,
And keep them there a' neet.'
Says Walton, 'Will ye hear me speak?'
Says Tommy, 'Go you to the devil!'
'Wye, wye,' says Walton, 'never mind,
But surely this is damn'd uncivil.'
Whack, fal, &c.

Then away they went to Mr. Scott,
And fand him varry kind:
Says he, 'Young men, I'll treat ye weel,
Tho' here against your mind.'
'O Sir,' said they, 'you're very good,
But faith this place luiks dark and frightful!'
Says Walton, 'What a sweet perfume!'
Says Watson, 'Lord, it's quite delightful!'
Whack, fal, &c.

But Watson myed Tom Carr to rue,
Before 'twas varry lang:
He had him tried before me Lord,
And Carr fand he was wrang.
Me Lord tell'd Carr he had ne reet
To shop them, e'en had it been lyater,
Until he'd tyen them, first ov a',
Before a Mister Magistrater.
Whack, fal, &c.

Now Tommy Carr may claw his lug,
Th' expences he mun pay:
But still there's nyen that's sorry for't;
'It sarves him reet,' they say.
So howay, lads, let's off to toon,
We'll a' put wor bit better hats on;
And if Tom Carr shops us agyen,
Me sowl! we'll give him Waller Watson.

JOHNNY SC—TT AND TOMMY C—RR.

A DIALOGUE.

Sc—tt—Ah! woe's me! what shall I do,
Tommy C—rr, Tommy C—rr?
For I have most cause to rue,
Tommy C—rr!
Though your costs are very great,
Yet much harder is my fate—
I may shut the Kitty gate,
Tommy C—rr!

C—rr—I will soon be clear of mine,
Johnny Sc—tt, Johnny Sc—tt!
For I will myself confine,
Johnny Sc—tt!
Just for three short weeks or so,
Up the nineteen steps I'll go,
And be wash'd as white as snow,
Johnny Sc—tt!

Sc—tt—Oh! that tyrant of a Judge,
Tommy C—rr, Tommy C—rr!
He has surely had some grudge,
Tommy C—rr!
Can we gain our honest bread,
Now when cut off in full trade,
We who've been so long well fed,
Tommy C—rr!

C—rr—Oh! how trifling was our chance,
Johnny Sc—tt, Johnny Sc—tt!
Oh! had Scarlett been at France,
Johnny Sc—tt!
Brougham's help was all we had,
Well he knew our case was bad;
And au'd Bayley frown'd like mad,
Johnny Sc—tt!

Sc—tt—I my huckstering shop may let,
Tommy C—rr, Tommy C—rr!
No more customers we'll get,
Tommy C—rr!
Mrs. Sc—tt has room to growl,
There is not one hungry soul
For to buy a penny roll,
Tommy C—rr!

C—rr—Let us curse the day and hour,
Johnny Sc—tt, Johnny Sc—tt!
That depriv'd us of our power,
Johnny Sc—tt!
Fam'd Newcastle's rattling boys
Will kick up a thund'ring noise,
And for fun will black our eyes,
Johnny Sc—tt!

TOMMY C—RR IN LIMBO.

Tune—"Scots wha ha'e," &c.

Ye that like a lark or spree!
Ye that's iv the Kitty free!
Now's the time for mirth and glee,
For Tommy is up stairs.
Ye that never yet went wrang—
Ne'er did warse than sing a sang,
Ye that offen had to gan
And visit Mr. Mayor's.

Now then let your joys abound—
Now begin your neetly rounds,
And myek the streets wi' mirth resound.
Since Tommy is up stairs.
Whe before Judge Bayley stood,
For sending Watson into quod?—
Whe wad grace a frame of Wood?
But honest Tommy C—r.

And when fou, wi' cronies dear,
Ye'd sally out to Filly Fair,
Whe was sure to meet ye there?
But honest Tommy C—r:
Wiv his beaver round and low,
Little switch, and thick surtou',
Like Satan prowling to and fro,
Seeking to devour.

Whe was sure your sport to marr,
And send ye off to Cabbage Square?
Whe was Judge and Jury there?
But honest Tommy C—r.
Whe wad never tyek yor word?
And if to walk ye'd not afford,
Whe wad strap ye on a board?
But honest Tommy C—r.

The KITTY PORT ADMIRAL at the BENCH;
or, dogberry in the suds.

Air—"The Opera Hat."

Oh the Devil go with you, fat Tom C—r!
Bribe him well, he'll be your counsellor,
Give you courage when at the bar,
And grant you a special favour:
Some folks thowt you were gyen to hell,
And other some to Derry:
But sup the broth you've made yoursel',
There's no one can be sorry.
So the Devil go with you, &c.

'Tis well you leave the scorn of those
You've sent unto the work-house,
For, hangman-like, you'd have cash and clothes,
When their friends were glad of the carcase.
So the Devil, &c.

Bad luck, say I, to your brother brimair!
Your crimes 'twill not half smother;
So go to Stuart's, in Denton-chare,
And prithee choose another.
So the Devil, &c.

For if ever upon the Quay again,
You beg for beef and biscuit,
The sailor lads will surely cry,
Gods! lad, you've sairly miss'd it.
So the Devil, &c.

May the tread-mill turn to a whiskey-shop,
The parrot into a monkey,
And Tom C—r selling fine shirt neck buttons,
Upon a tripe-wife's donkey,
So the Devil, &c.

THE OWL.

Written Feb. 1826.

Tune—X, Y, Z.

Now run away amang the snobs,
An' stangies i' the Garth, man,
An hear about the greet black Owl,
That's let on Cappy's hearth, man—
Of sic a breed, the Deil his sell
Its marrow canna find in Hell!
It hops about wiv its slouch hat,
Can worry mice like wor Tom-cat—
And sic a yarkin blubber heed,
It bangs X, Y, that famous steed,
Or ony thing ye like, man.

Oft frev its nest, in Cabbage Square,
It flaffer'd out at neets, man,
'Mang sic a flock that neetly blare,
And carry crooks and leets, man—
Then prowl'd wor streets in search o' prey,
And if a mouse but cross'd his way,
He quickly had it by the nose,
And pawk'd it off to kuel its toes—
Did Hoo! Hoo! wi' the blubber heed,
That bangs X, Y, that famous steed—
So, Cappy, keep him tight, man.

To tell how Cappy gat this burd,
Aw wad be rather fash'd, man;
Some say that, of its awn accord,
It went to get white wash'd, man.
So scrub him, Cap, with a' yor might,
Just nobbit make the lubbart white—
But if yor brushin' winna dee,
There's Waller Watson, Walton, tee,
They'll scrub him as they did before,
And make the bowdy-kite to roar—
If Cappy keeps him tight, man.

St. Nich'las' bells now sweetly ring,
Yor music's sae bewitchin'—
Ye lads in Neil's[12] now louder sing,
And warble weel Hell's Kitchen[13]—
For yor au'd friend is in the trap,
Alang wi' his awn brother, Cap:
Then shout hurra! agyen we're free,
At neets to hev a canny spree;
In gannin hyem, ne mair we'll dreed
The lubbart wi' the chuckle heed—
Mind, Cappy, keep him tight, man.

[12] A famed public-house at the head of Manor-chare.

[13] The tap-room of a famed public-house, near the head of Groat market.

LOVELY DELIA.

Tune—"Sleeping Maggie."

Upon the flow'ry banks o' Tyne,
The rose and myrtle may entwine;
But were there every sweet divine,
They wadna a' be like my Delia.
Clear beams the eye o' Delia,
Heaven's in the smile o' Delia;
Nor flowers that blaw, nor falling snaw,
Were e'er sae pure as lovely Delia.

Gently blaw, thou whistlin' wind,
Along the bonny banks o' Tyne,
Where nature every grace combin'd
When she first form'd my life, my Delia!
Clear beams the eye o' Delia,
Heaven's in the smile o' Delia;
Nor flower that blaws, nor winter snaws,
Were e'er sae pure as lovely Delia.

Tho' a' the wee birds round me sing,
To welcome back the blithefu' spring;
Yet a' the music they can bring
Is nae sae sweet's the voice o' Delia.
Clear beams the eye o' Delia,
Heaven's in the smile o' Delia;
Nor flower that blaws, nor drifting snaws,
Were e'er sae pure as my lov'd Delia.

The bonny little playfu' lamb,
That frisks along the verdant plain,
Is nae mair free fra guilty stain,
Than is my life, my love, my Delia.
Clear beams the eye o' Delia,
Heaven's in the smile o' Delia;
Nor flowers that blaw, nor whitest snaw,
Were e'er sae pure as my sweet Delia.

The priests they tell us, all above,
With angels, do delight in love;
Then surely angels must approve
Their image in my lovely Delia.
Clear beams the eye o' Delia,
Heaven's in the smile o' Delia;
Nor flower that blaws, nor new-born snaws,
Were e'er sae pure as lovely Delia.

Truth and kindness ever reigns,
In a' her heart, through a' her veins;
Yet nane shall ken the pleasing pains
I hae endur'd for my sweet Delia.
Heaven's in the smile o' Delia,
Blight's the beam in her dark eye;
Nor flower that blaws, nor virgin snaws,
Were e'er sae pure as my lov'd Delia.

PANDON DEAN.

Tune—"Banks o' Doon."

Farewell, ye fragrant, shady groves!
Farewell, thou charming sylvan scene,
Where partial mem'ry hapless roves—
I bid adieu to Pandon Dean.

I bid ye all a long adieu,
And fare thee well, my lovely Jean;
Thine equal I shall never view,
Whilst far awa' fra Pandon Dean.

The songsters chanting on the spray,
The shrubs and flowers, sae fresh and green,
Increase my heart's tumultuous play,
Which dwells on thee and Pandon Dean.

Though far awa' in foreign lands,
And trackless oceans foam between,
I ne'er shall break those dearest bands
Thou wreath'dst for me in Pandon Dean.

These to my heart shall dearest be,
When sharp afflictions pierce me keen;
'Twill soothe my woes to think on thee,
Thou fairest flower in Pandon Dean.

If Fortune smile, I'll then return,
To deck my love in silken sheen;
And dwell with her just by the burn
That wimples through the bonny Dean.

THE NEWCASTLE HACKNEYS.

The Londoners long for example we've chose,
And imported each fashion as fast as it 'rose;
But the best hit of all, in our awkward approaches,
Is St. Nicholas' Square, and the new hackney coaches.

The ladies have long had advantage of man,
In that easy conveyance, a walking sedan;
Now the tables are turn'd on the opposite side,
For the ladies must walk while the gentlemen ride.

When our beaux are dress'd out for a rout or a ball,
They've nothing to do but a hackney to call—
Consult not the weather, nor muffle their chins—
No danger of breaking, o'er scrapers, their shins.

When a couple's resolv'd on a trip to the church,
Where a lady has sometimes been left in the lurch;
To prevent a misfortune like this, for the future,
Pack up in a hackney your amiable suitor.

When impertinent tradesmen you're likely to meet,
Or a bailiff descry at the end of the street—
Press into your service a hackney and pair,
For the devil himself would not look for you there.

To many things else they'll apply, I've a notion,
They'll even be found to assist your devotion;
The doctors will find them most useful, no doubt on't,
In peopling the world, or to send people out on't.

Then success to the hackneys, and long may they roll—
Of balls and assemblies the life and the soul:
Since so useful they are, and so cheap is the fare,
Pray who would not ride in a carriage and pair?

NEWCASTLE HACKNEY COACHES.

Tune—"The bold Dragoon."

Of a' the toons that's i' the north,
Newcastle bangs them a',
For lady folk and gentlemen,
And every thing that's braw,
A fig for Lunnen i' the South—
But mind now, let's hae nae reproaches,
For they say that Lunnen's hang'd hersel,
Through spite at wor new Hackney Coaches.
Yep! fal der al dal, &c.

Wor toon has grown se big now,
Aw ne'er saw the like before;
Live ye only lang eneugh,
Ye'll see't join'd to Tynemouth shore;
We've our Literinary Sicties,
Shops cramm'd wiv plate and diamond broaches,
But it's ne use telling ony mair,
There's nowt gans doon but Hackney Coaches.
Yep! &c.

Ca-la-de-scoups were yence the rage,
Sedans—were all the go;
But till the noise gets fairly ower,
They may keep them iv a row;
Gang where you will, the talk is still,
At tea or cards why all the rage is,
"Why bless me, sir! have you not seen
Our stylish two-horse Hackney Stages!"
Yep! &c.

A Bond-street lounge tee we might hev,
If 't wasn't for the mud!
A Piccadilly we're gaun to get,
And other streets as good:
Maw sangs! aw think we'll 'clipse them out!
But faith I'd better haud me ditty,
For fear, ye ken, in ganging hyem,
They Hackneyfy me to the Kitty.
Yep! &c.

NEWCASTLE IMPROVEMENTS.

BY R. CHARLTON.

Tune—"Canny Newcassel."

What a cockneyfied toon wor Newcassel hez grown—
Wey aw scarce can believe me awn senses;
Wor canny aud customs for ever ha'e flown,
And there's nowt left ahint for to mense us:
The fashions fra Lunnin are now a' the go,
As there's nowt i' wor toon to content us—
Aw'll not be surpriz'd at wor next 'lection day,
If twe Cockneys put up to 'present us.

Times ha'e been when a body's been axt out to tea,
Or to get a wee bit of a shiver,
Wor hearts were sae leet we ne'er thowt o' the cau'd,
Or the fear o' wet feet plagu'd us niver;
But i' blanket coats now we mun get muffled up,
For fear that the cold should approach us—
And to hinder a spark gettin on to wor breeks,
We mun jump into fine Hackney Coaches.

Aw've seen when we've gyen iv a kind freenly way
To be blithe o'er a jug o' good nappy—
The glass or the horn we shov'd round wi' the pot
For then we were jovial and happy:
But now we mun all hev a glass t' wor sels,
Which plainly appears, on reflection,
We think a' wor neighbours ha'e getten the cl-p,
And are frighten'd we catch the infection.

The very styen pavement they'll not let alyen,
For they've tuen'd up and puttin down gravel;
So now, gentle folks, here's a word i' yor lugs—
Mind think on't whenever you travel;
If in dry dusty weather ye happen to stray,
Ye'll get yor een a' full o' stour, man—
Or, if it be clarty, you're sure for to get
Weel plaister'd byeth 'hint and afore, man.

If a' their improvements aw were for to tell,
Aw might sit here and sing—aye, for ever;
There's the rum weak as watter, i'stead o' the stuff
That was us'd for to burn out wor liver!
Aw's fair seek and tir'd o' the things that aw've sung,
So aw think now aw'll myek a conclusion,
By wishing the cheps iv a helter may swing,
That ha'e brought us to a' this confusion.

COME UP TO THE SCRATCH!

Or, The Pitman Haggish'd.

BY R. EMERY.

Tune—"Calder Fair."

Now haud yor tongues 'bout Mollinox, or ony o' the trade,
Ye ne'er could say that Kenton Ralph of e'er a chep was flay'd—
Yor Langans and yor Springs may come to Kenton toon iv flocks,
Wor Ralph 'ill smatter a' their ribs, he is sae strang, begox!
Fal de ral, &c.

Wiv Ralph and Luke aw off yen neet for Sandgate on a spree,
And swore Newcassel dandy cheps to fight and myek them flee—
We gat into the Barley Mow wor thropples for to wet,
And sat and drank till fairly fu', alang wi' wood-legg'd Bet.
Fal de ral, &c.

We gat up, for 'twas gettin' lyet, and leaving Sandgate suen,
To Pandon went to hev a quairt before we left the toon;
Some Fawdon lads were in the Boar, carrying on the war,
Wi' Humpy Dick and Black Scotch Peg, a' singin' 'Slush Tom C—rr.'
Fal de ral, &c.

Then gannin hyem by Pilgrim-street, some dandy for to catch,
Twe cheps, half drunk, cam up tiv us, and said, 'Cum t' the scratch!
Here's Lukey kens that aw's a man, and scartin aw disdain,
But come and lick us if ye can—aw'll fight till aw be slain!'
Fal de ral, &c.

They cramm'd a haggish on each fist, or something very like,
Then held them up close to wor fyece, and dar'd us for to strike:
But Lukey, clickin' up his claes, cried, Ralphy, lad, let's run!
Od smash yor luggish heed, how-way—becrike it's Tommy D——n!
Fal de ral, &c.

Poor Lukey ran, but Ralph was left, he couldn't get away,
They pelted him till Watchey cam and ended wor sad fray;
Then Ralphy suen fand Luke agyen; but such a seet, begox!
His nose and fyece was thick o' blood—just like a Bubbly Jock's.
Fal de ral, &c.

Smash! how! dis thou ken Tommy D——n? said Ralphy in a hurry:
Aw seed him fightin' on the stage yen neet in 'Tom and Jurry;'
A grocer chep aw sat beside, tell'd me his nyem in turn,
Wi' Crib, an' Gas, an' a' the rest, and cliver Jemmy B——n.
Fal de ral, &c.

That neet we had a haggish fight, 'tween B——n and D——n sae fine—
Aw roar'd out, Aw'll lay ony brass that Jim ower Tom will shine!
But, wiv his haggish, Tommy suen gav Jemmy such a peg.
He fell smack doon upon the stage—begox, he broke his leg!
Fal de ral, &c.

The next time aw cum ti' the toon, if we fa' in togither,
We'll hev a jill and drink success to B——n and D——n howsever:
Aw own that aw was fairly duen, an' smatter'd varry sair,
But ne'er for want o' haggishes shall Ralph be beaten mair.
Fal de ral, &c.

THE PITMAN'S DREAM;

Or, A Description of the North Pole.

BY THE SAME.

Tune—"Newcastle Fair."

Aw dream'd aw was at the North Powl,
It's a fine place a-back o' the muen, man—
Maw sangs! Captain Parry will growl,
For he cannot get tid half sae seun, man:
There aw seed the Queen, Caroline,
And her lass they sae badly did use, man,
Wi' Geordy the Thurd drinking wine,
And the snuffy au'd dyem brushing shoes, man.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

Aw began then to swagger about,
Just to see Castleree aw was itchin',
When Percival gav a greet shout,
Od smash, he's down stairs i' the Kitchen!
Thowt aw, then he's just safe eneugh—
Walking farther, aw meets Bonapartie,
Alang wi' au'd Blucher, sae bluff,
Speaking gabb'rish to poor Captain Starkie.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

Aw gat in to see Robin Hood,
Had twe or three quairts wi' John Nipes, man;
And Wesley, that yence preach'd sae good,
Sat smokin' and praisin' the swipes, man:
Legs of mutton here grows on each tree,
Jack Nipes said, and wasn't mistaken—
When rainin' there's such a bit spree,
For there comes down great fat sides o' bacon.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

Brave Nelson here sells wooden legs,
Iv a shop where aw think he'll get rich in—
Just to see au'd Mahomet aw begs,
But, wi' Thurtell, he's doom'd i' the Kitchen:
Aw seed Billy Shakespeare sae prime,
Of plays he has written greet lots, man—
And there great John Kemble does shine—
Sam. Johnson sups crowdies wi' Scots, man.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

How canny Joe Foster did stare,
As he trotted past me on a donkey,
'Mang lasses still wild as a hare,
And he keeps Jacky Coxon as flonkey:
Ne bishops nor priests here they need,
For the folks they can say their awn pray'rs, man—
But, to myek them work hard for their breed,
They're sent on a mission, doon stairs, man.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

Aw agyen see'd the canny au'd King,
He's a far better chep now than ever—
But, set a' yor fine kings iv a ring,
I still think Fourth Geordy's as clever.
Aw've getten a pass for Doon Stairs,
And if aw see owt there bewitchin',
Wey just think o' me i' yor pray'rs,
And aw'll send an account o' the Kitchen.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

THE PITMAN'S DREAM;

Or, His Description of the Kitchen.

BY THE SAME.

Tune—"Hell's Kitchen."

The day was fine, the sun did shine,
Aw thowt aw was preparing
To leave the Powl, myed me repine—
Aw scarce could keep fra blairin';—
A greet balloon was brought me seun,
Twe cheps wi' wings sae switchin',
Wiv it were sent to tyek me doon
To shew me a' the kitchen.
Right fal de ral, &c.

Wiv a' my friends aw had a jill,
King Geordy was quite canty—
Says he—Now eat and drink yor fill,
Doon stairs good things are scanty.
When deun, says aw—Kind folks, fareweel'
Maw Guides their wings are stretchin'—
In the balloon aw off did reel
To see this querish kitchen.
Right fal de ral, &c.

We doon a narrow place did rowl—
As sure as maw nyem's Cranky.
This is the passage in the Powl
That's mention'd by the Yankee:[14]
As we flew on it darker grew,
Wi' such a noise and screechin'—
Greet clouds o' fire we darted through,
And landed in the kitchen.
Right fal de ral, &c.

They use poor folks here warse than beasts—
Greet lots o' Turks and Tartars,
Wi' lawyers, quakers, kings, and priests,
Were phizzin' in a' quarters.
The Jews were bowlting lumps o' pork—
Mahomet, that au'd vixen,
Was toss'd about frae fork to fork,
Wi' Derry in the kitchen.
Right fal de ral, &c.

Fast i' the stocks au'd Neddy sat,
The late Newcassel bellman—
And there was Honour Breet, Bed Watt,
Just gaun the rig hersel', man:
Then farther in, upon a stuel,
Sat Judy Downey stitchin',
She d—n'd me for a greet stark cull,
For comin' to the kitchen.
Right fal de ral, &c.

Aw, wi' the heat and want o' drink,
Was swelter'd myest to deed, man—
When fairly deun and gaun to sink,
Aw was whupt off wi' speed, man.
How aw escap'd aw's puzzled sair,
'Twas like a sudden twitchin'
Aw, like a lairk, flew through the air,
Half roasted, frae the kitchen.
Right fal de ral, &c.

As aw cam doon aw pass'd the meun,
An' her greet burning mountains—
Her turnpike roads aw fand out seun,
Strang beer runs here in fountains:
To hev a sup aw was reet fain,
Wi' some queer cheps thrang ditchin'—
But waken'd then in Percy Main,
A lang way frae the kitchen.
Right fal de ral, &c.

[14] Alluding to the following extraordinary advertisement which recently made its appearance in the American journals:— recently made its appearance in the American journals:—

St. Louis, (Missouri Territory)

North America, April 10, A. D. 1818.

"To all the world—I declare the earth to be hollow and habitable within; containing a number of concentric spheres, one within the other, and that their poles are open 12 or 16 degrees. I pledge myself in support of this truth, and am ready to explore the concave, if the world will support and aid me in the undertaking.

JOHN SYMMES," &c. &c.

FAMED FILLY FAIR;

Or, A Peep into Pilgrim Street.

Come, Geordy, an' aw'll tell ye, lad, where aw hae been,
In Pilgrim-street, where there's to see an' to be seen,
A great many lasses, and they shew off sic fine airs,
Aw's sure they're all as wild as ony March hares.

Now, d'ye nobut gan there iv next Sunday neet,
About the time o' six o'clock, you'll see the fine seet;
A large show of lasses fine, that drive about there,
They nyem'd it but reet when they ga'd Filly Fair.

Now, one Sunday neet, to the high town aw went,
That aw might get the evening cannily spent:
Among the rabble, sure enough, aw gat there,
And saw the first dresses in fam'd Filly Fair.

There's some lasses, they say, that are so very keen,
That they come to this place just for to be seen;
And, on every wet Sunday, they sit down to prayer,
And think it provoking they're not at the Fair.

Aw enter'd the street with a great deal of glee,
Where the lads and the lasses in flocks aw did see:
The task wad be endless to tell a' what was there,
Aw mean the fine dresses in fam'd Filly Fair.

Aw look'd about all these fine dresses to see,
Aw glowr'd at the lasses, and they glowr'd at me:
So now for a description, I will give to a hair,
Of all the fine things in this fam'd Filly Fair.

There was white gowns, silk spencers, and flounces galore,
And queer monkey jackets aw'd ne'er seen before;
With little drakes' tails, that hing from the hair,
And large ringlets a' curl'd, was in fam'd Filly Fair.

The spencers a' carv'd, wye, with cords of a' kind,
That seem'd just like soulgers afore and behind;
And black silks, and stript silks, and a' silks was there,
And pads, and cat backs were in fam'd Filly Fair.

There was hats like my awn, with fine flee-behint cloaks,
And queer things ahint them, like the pitmen's bait pokes;
And hats myed of muslin, to let in the air,
Besides some wi' high crowns were in fam'd Filly Fair.

The hats were deck'd o'er a' with ribbons and lace,
And lairge cabbage nets were thrawn o'er their face:
Paddysoles too were there, as were monie things mair,
And fine mobbed caps were in fam'd Filly Fair.

There was scarfs of a' kinds, and of every degree;
And little wee bairneys, scarce up to my knee;
With beaux, arm in arm, they were driving thro' there,
'Twas shameful to see them in fam'd Filly Fair.

O, mun! just like a loadstone in this curious place,
For what I hev tell'd you, aw'm sure it's the case—
It's the case of them all that walk about there,
To be talk'd of by strangers in fam'd Filly Fair.

And besides a' the tricks that I cannot explain,
For this kind of rambling I'm sure I disdain:
Take advice, my good lasses, and don't wander there,
Or your character's stain'd by walking the Fair.

This advice now, I hope, you will readily take,
And keep up your character, for your own sake;
It's nought unto me if all night you walk there,
But your name will be blasted by attending the Fair.

T——LY'S BEST BLOOD.

A North Shields Song.—Written in 1820.

While Cartwright, and Wooler, and Cobbett, and all
The souls of the brave attend Liberty's call,
J——n T——ley, the best friend of kings since the flood,
Is ready for slavery to spill his best blood.

A press so licentious—for 'twill tell the truth—
Is truly distressing to T——ley, forsooth:
He's a foe to the Queen, and no wonder he should,
Since he vows for oppressors to spill his best blood.

What an excellent orator in his own way,
Mechanics, Shoemakers, and Joiners do say:
But he does not remember that Drones steal their food,
Were it not for the Becs he would have no best blood.

The Loyalist party consumptive are grown,
Though time-serving T——ley the fact may disown:
And it will not be long—God forbid that it should!
Ere Reform freeze the springs of T——ley's best blood.

THE NEWCASTLE NOODLES.

BY JAMES MORRISON.

Be easy, good folks, for we're all safe enough,
Better fortune seems now to attend us;
And two canny fellows, both lusty and tough,
Have rais'd a new corps to defend us.
Men sound wind and limb, good sighted and stout,
That can fight well, without being daunted;
Free from all diseases, such like as the gout,
And can jump, or be ready when wanted.

CHORUS.

Then if any invaders should dare us to fight,
Let it be on the shore or the river,
Bold Archy the Noodle, and Tommy the Knight,
Will guard and protect us for ever.

The Noodles have ne'er been at battle as yet,
Nor been brought down by scanty provision;
So to try them whenever his worship thinks fit,
He'll find them in famous condition.
In all their manœuvres there's scarcely a flaw,
They're quite up to the science o' killing;
For the Noodle drill Serjeant's a limb o' the law,
And an old practis'd hand at the drilling.
Then if any invaders, &c.

Misfortunes, however, will sometimes attend,
For one morning, by danger surrounded,
A poor fellow splinter'd his fore-finger end,
And, of course, in the service was wounded.
'Tis true a sair finger's a very bad thing,
But it didn't diminish his beauty;
So the next day he just popp'd his arm in a sling,
And, Briton-like, went upon duty.
Then if any invaders, &c.

They have all been abroad, and as far too as Shields,
But to walk there was no easy matter,
So, for fear that their boots should go down in the heels,
They took the steam boat down the watter.
Their warlike appearance was awfully grand,
When they fired, it sounded like thunder,
Which put all the natives o' Shields to a stand,
And left them for ages to wonder.
Then if any invaders, &c.

What a pity they cannot get medals to buy,
greatly would add to their grandeur;
"There's Waterloo soldiers!" the strangers would cry,
And think Archy was great Alexander.
These mighty Preservers if death cannot save,
But send one or two of them bummin;
The rest o' the Noodles would fire o'er his grave,
And tell the below-folks he's coming.
Then if any invaders, &c.

BRITISH JUSTICE;

Or, Newcastle Privy Court.

Come, all ye Britons who delight
In Freedom's sacred cause,
And boast the Triumphs of your Sires,
Of just and equal laws,
Wrung from a Despot's feeble grasp,
List to this tale of mine,
In baseness which you cannot peer,
Since the days o' Lang Syne.

To fam'd Newcastle's Secret Court
A poor unlucky wight
Was, for the sake of Bastardy,
But very lately brought:
Where, tortur'd most ingeniously,
The rogue was made to whine,
As few have been for sporting so,
Since the days of Lang Syne.

In vain the culprit urg'd his cause,
In eloquence of woe;
In vain he urg'd his poverty,
To save him from the blow:
Regardless of his just complaint,
His judges laid the fine,
So great as few poor dogs could pay,
Since the days of Lang Syne.

Now mark the justice of the Judge,
Precisely at the time—
A gentleman was brought to him,
Just for the self same crime;
To whom the Judge, in alter'd tone,
Begg'd he would not repine,
Such ills are common to the rich,
Since the days of Lang Syne.

Suffice it, these two sinners were,
Tho' in the same degree
Of guilt, adjudg'd a fine to pay,
The ratio one to three:
The man of rags was made to pay
Three times a greater fine;
And sunk in misery, sent to think
On the days of Lang Syne.

Thus, Britons, are your laws dispens'd,
Your boasted freedom's gone,
Laid in your predecessors' graves,
Or from the island flown:
No longer Justice holds her seat,
In majesty divine,
In British Courts presiding now,
As in days of Lang Syne.

In vain you strive to wander back
To times of peaceful joy,
In vain you hope times to recall,
Lost in eternity;
No, never shall those scenes return,
No more shall Britain shine,
As she was wont, so splendidly,
I' the days of Lang Syne.

Can then Eternal Justice sleep,
Regardless of the prayer
Of toiling millions sunk in debt,
And driven to despair,
By stern Oppression's iron hand,
Oh! no, the Power Divine
Shall plead our cause as heretofore,
In the days of Lang Syne.

THE MISFORTUNES OF ROGER & HIS WIFE.

BY J. B.

Tune—"Calder Fair."

Last week was wor pay-week, and aw went to the toon,
Alang wi' wor Susy to buy her a new goon;
A sixpence i' my pocket—we cuddent pass the Close,
But went into the Robin Hood and gat worsels a dose.
Wiv a tooral, looral, looral, &c.

Suen after we gat canny, and com alang the Brig,
An' up the Bottle-bank, man, we byeth sae went the rig,
Wi' reelin' and wi' dancin'—"knacking heel and toe,"
Our heads began to rattle where wor feet before did go.

The Half-Muin Lyen we com te, and that wor Susy found,
For ower the stanes she fell, man, that's lyen all around,
A daver, a devisher agyen the metal pump,
And aw, to save poor Susy, got a duckin' i' the sump.

Ower anenst the Dun Cow, there is a place myed reet,
As good for breaking necks, man, as ony i' the street;
Had e'er an inclination been for leading me astray,
I'm conscious that aw'd fund maw end by coming up this way.

The biggest house i' Gyetshead projecting o'er the road,
Dis scarcely leave a footpath to pass on, if you would:
Were it not for the gas leet that's on the other side,
Mony windpipes wad be clos'd, aye, and mony open'd wide.

A little farther up the street, abuin au'd Jackson's Chare,
A neatish bit o' dournament began, as passing there,
For —— —— a —— wi' guise an' shop-board new,
Is cabbaging at Pleasant —— to patch his Waterloo.

But the worst of a' these evils, is their planning o' the street,
Aye, sic a shem an' bizen, were but decent folks te see't;
For here's a hill, and there's a hill, and here they're pullin' doon,
And here they're buildin' up, (who's fault?) the only fuils i' toon.

Thus onward we were passin', thro' trouble and thro' strife,
Scarce caring what misfortune had Roger and his Wife:
But ere we gan that way agyen, we'll grease our soles and heels,
To scamper down by Sunderland, and up by smoky Sheels.

NEWCASTLE THEATRE IN AN UPROAR,

With the Bear, the Horses, and the Dogs, as principal Performers.

It's ha'e ye seen how crouse and gay
The lads and lasses bent their way,
To see the horses act the play,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre?

There some in silks did proudly shine,
And some were dress'd in caps se fine,
And some on sticks there did recline,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

The belles and beaux of low degree
Were eager this fine sight to see;
And soon as they had got their tea,
They set off for the Theatre.

Then at the gallery door they stood—
Impatient, and in fretful mood;
And many a one, faith, did no good
By coming to the Theatre.

The doors being open'd, on they push'd,
Without distinction they were crush'd;
The cry was, Tumble up you must,
To fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

Next direful shrieks were heard aloud,
Whilst heedless throng'd the busy crowd,
Alike the slothful and the proud
Were driven in the Theatre.

A miller chep I chanc'd to see
Frae out amang the crowd sae blae,
Was running up an entry
Near fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

He'd got his coat torn cross the lap,
My conscience! 'twas a sad mishap;
But others still were worse than that,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

There some their gowns held in their hand,
And others lost their shawls se grand;
And if you crush'd not you might stand,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

The pretty girls, to get a seat,
Crush'd on, wi' hair dress'd up sae neat;
But soon came back, in sic a freet,
Frae fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

Now some got in without their shoes,
And some got in wi' mony a bruise,
And some cam hyem to tell the news,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

Within the pit a brutish chap
Had hit a maiden sic a rap,
'Cause she refus'd to take her hat
Off, in Newcastle Theatre.

They took her home without delay,
When in a fit she fainting lay;
And faith she well may curse the day
That e'er she saw the Theatre.

The boxes, too, were fill'd se fine,
With all the labouring sons of Tyne;
And servant lasses, all divine,
Did beautify the Theatre.

The heat was so excessive great,
That, not to keep the folk too late,
They hurry'd on poor Timour's fate,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

The play was done as it struck ten,
Some greedy folks said, 'twas a shem;
However, they all wet went hyem,
From fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

FAREWELL, ARCHY.

Written in 1820.

Tune—"Chapter of Donkies."

Now, Archy, my boy, drop the civical gown,
For none ever fill'd it with half your renown,
For wisdom and valour so glorious you shine,
You're the pride, boast, and bulwark of old coaly Tyne.
O brave Archy, miraculous Archy!
The pink o' the wise, and the wale o' the brave.

To recount all your virtues a volume 'twould swell,
So we'll just name a few, sir, in which you excel;
Your reign's been eventful, the times have gone mad,
And well might have puzzled more brains than you had;
But sufficient was Archy, well able was Archy,
To crush the sedition and treason of Tyne.

Sure Machiavel's self was a fool to our Mayor,
So honest he seem'd—then he promis'd so fair,
To reform all abuses, give justice to all,
And regulate watchmen, blood-suckers and all.
O specious Archy! legitimate Archy!
The firm, staunch supporter of things as they are.

Then of the Great Meeting,[15] by Jove, what a jest!
The Rads set you down for their chairman at least;
But the yeomen and specials in Court you kept hid,
Then sent off that precious epistle to Sid.
O rare Archy! sly old Archy!
Archy's the boy for the word or the blow!

O thou first of inditers, thou brightest of scribes,
Thy invention how fertile, in infamous lies!
How assassin-like was it to stab in the dark,
And from truth and from justice so far to depart.
O serpent-like Archy! O fiend-like Archy!
O Archy! but that was a damnable deed.

Next you went on a voyage of discovery to Shields,
And got handsomely pepper'd for meddling with keels;
Then for refuge you fled to Northumberland's Arms,
Who till now has defended your paper from harms,
Else down had gone Archy, thy paper, dear Archy,
Down stairs might have gone for the public good.

Then, for raising a riot, and reading the act,
Your honour against all opponents I'll back:
And to crown you with laurels, and finish my song,
You're a Colonel of Noodles, and nine makes a man,
Such as Archy and Cabbage,
Canny Jack Dixon, and thief-taking Tom.

[15] Held on Newcastle Town Moor, Oct. 11, 1819, relating to the Manchester Massacre.

SIR TOMMY MADE AN ODD FELLOW.

A Provincial and very popular Song.

I've sung o' Newcassel till black o' the fyess,
Tyne's Muse is as modest as ony;
Tho' oft she comes out in a comical dress—
Here she goes for a lilt at Sir Tommy.
Ye've seen him, nae doubt, wi' his hat on ten hairs,
Then he cuts sic a wonderful caper;
He has long been thought odd, for his kickmashaw airs,
Now he's odd baith by name and by nature.

Let Fame canter on till she's sair i' the hips,
Proclaiming, frae Tynemouth to Stella,
How the sun, moon, and stars a' went into the 'clipse,
When Sir Tommy was made an Odd Fellow.

There's scarce sic a man in a' Newcassel toon,
With the famous Tyne Legion outsetting:
Down at Shields in a fray, they pick'd up sic renoon,
That his nyem will nae mair be forgetten.
Tho' envious at valour, yet a' look asquint,
What heroes in fame e'er surpass'd them?
Wi' Sir Tommy before, and the sailors behint,
It was run! and the devil take the last one!
Let Fame canter on, &c.

A Knight he was dubb'd for sic sarvices brave,
But a Knight without fee is but little:
So they sent him to govern[16] where folks rant and rave,
A station he fit to a tittle.
Grand Master of Orangemen next he was call'd,
Bells rung till the toon was a' quaking;
Now Most Noble Grand of Odd Fellows install'd—
Faicks! it's time a straight-jacket was making.
Let Fame canter on, &c.

That Sir Tommy has wit I wad fain here convince,
He can myek sic a thumping oration,
By which he astonish'd the Legion lang since,
Now he wants to astonish the nation.
By humbug reduc'd, though his head's very lang,
His brains scarce wad balance a feather:
But just nominate him a Parliament man,[17]
Head and brains will take flight a' thegither.
Let Fame canter on, &c.

O sons o' Newcassel! free Burgesses a',
Ne'er be tempted your freedom to barter;
May they hing in tatters to frighten the craws,
If ye budge but an inch frae your Charter.
If ye send up Sir Tommy to London, M. P.
I' the Parliament house to be seated,
Ye may just as weel send Captain Starkey[18] up tee,
Your glory will then be completed.
Let Fame canter on, &c.

[16] Governor General of the Lunatic House.

[17] It was reported in the London Papers, that Sir T. B. intended putting up as a Candidate to serve Newcastle in Parliament.

[18] An eccentric character well known in Newcastle.

WRECKENTON HIRING.

Oh, Lads and Lasses, hither come
To Wreckenton, to see the fun,
And mind ye bring your Sunday shoon,
There'll be rare wark wi' dancing-o.
And Lasses now, without a brag,
Bring pockets like a fiddle bag,
Ye'll get them cramm'd wi' mony a whag
Of pepper-kyek an' scranchim-o.

And Bess put on that bonny goon
Thy mother bought thou at the toon;
That straw-hat wi' the ribbons broon,
They'll a' be buss'd that's coming-o:
Put that reed ribbon round thy waist,
It myeks thou luik sae full o' grace,
Then up the lonnen come in haste,
They'll think thou's com'd frae Lunnen-o.

Ned pat on his Sunday's coat,
His hat and breeches cost a note,
With a new stiff'ner round his throat,
He luikt the very dandy-o:
He thought that he was gaun to choke,
For he'd to gyep before he spoke:
He met Bess at the Royal Oak,
They had baith yell and brandy-o.

Each lad was there wi' his sweetheart,
And a' was ready for a start,
When in com Jack wi' Fanny Smart,
And brought a merry Scraper-o:
Then Ned jump'd up upon his feet,
And on the table myed a seat;
Then bounc'd the Fiddler up a heet,
Saying, 'Play and we will caper-o.'

Now Ned and Bess led off the ball,
'Play Smash the windows,' he did call,
'Keep in yor feet,' says Hitchy Mall,
Learn'd dancers hae sic prancing-o:'
Now Ned was nowther lyeth nor lyem,
And faith he had baith bouk and byen,
Ye wad thought his feet was myed o' styen,
He gav sic thuds wi' dancing-o.

Now Jackey Fanny's hand did seize,
Cry'd, 'Fiddler, tune your strings to please!'
Play, 'Kiss her weel amang the trees,'
She is my darlin', bliss her-o!
Then off they set, wi' sic a smack,
They myed the joints a' bend and crack:
When duen he took her round the neck,
And faith he dident miss her-o.

The fiddler's elbow wagg'd a' neet,
He thought he wad dropt off his seat,
For deil a bit they'd let him eat,
They were sae keen o' dancin'-o.
Some had to strip their coats for heet,
And sarks and shifts were wet wi' sweet!
They cramm'd their guts, for want o' meat,
Wi' ginger-breed and scranchim-o.

Now cocks had crawn an hour or more,
And ower the yell-pot some did snore;
But how they luikt to hear the roar
Of Matt, the King Pit caller-o!
'Smash him!' says Ned, 'he mun be rang,
He's callin' through his sleep, aw's war'n;'
Then shootin' to the door he ran—
'Thou's asleep, thou rousty bawler-o!'

Now they danc'd agyen till it was day,
And then went hyem—but, by the way,
Some of them had rare fun, they say,
And fand it nine months after-o:
Such tricks are play'd by heedless youth;
And though they're common, north and south,
That's nae excuse for breach of truth,
Nor food for wit and laughter-o.

Suen Wreckenton will bear the sway,
Two Members they'll put in, they say;
Then wor Taxes will be duen away,
And we'll a' sing now or never-o:
Backey and Tea will be sae cheap,
Wives will sit up when they sud sleep,
And we'll float in yell at wor Pay-week,
Then Wreckenton for ever-o.

ON RUSSELL THE PEDESTRIAN,

Who walked 101 miles in 23 hours, 56 minutes, and 30 seconds, on the 25th & 26th of July, 1822, on the Newcastle Race course.

Men's talents vary—for wise ends design'd,
This man has strength of body, that, of mind;
Each his peculiar art assiduous plies,
And every maxim of improvement tries,
Till he attain perfection by degrees,
And learns to execute his task with ease.

Wilson,[19] desist! and Simpson,[20] take your rest!
Ease and retirement now will suit ye best;
Your brief excursions will excite no more
That admiration which they did before;
Though doubtless ye have both endeavour'd hard,
Perhaps without an adequate reward;
But such laborious journies lay aside,
And if ye can, instead of walking, ride.
"Hide your diminish'd heads!" nor vainly talk,
Among your friends, how rapidly you walk:
First in the annals of Pedestrian fame,
Historians now will enter Russell's name;
Where he will most conspicuously shine,
And long be hail'd—The Hero of the Tyne.
Upon this art he has so much refin'd,
That he leaves all competitors behind.
With buoyant step we've seen him tread the plain,
And hope, ere long, to see him walk again.

[19] George Wilson, the Blackheath Pedestrian, walked 90 miles in 24 successive hours, on the same ground, on Easter Monday and Tuesday, 1822.

[20] John Simpson, the Cumberland Pedestrian, attempted to walk 96 miles on the same ground, in the same period of time, on Whit-Monday, and again on the 29th and 30th of July, 1822; in both of which attempts he failed.

ON SIMPSON THE PEDESTRIAN'S FAILURE.

Tune—"Barbary Bell."

Sitting crush'd i' the huddock a' gobbing and talking,
We were mov'd wiv a spoke frae the little Pee Dee;
Ah! Skipper, he says, the auld man 'ill be walking,
So we a' rose together and set off to see.
When we gat to the Moor, he was dodging away, man,
Wi' twe cheps on each side, keeping a' the folks back;
And the bairns running after him, shouting hurra, man,
So we just gat a gliff, for he pass'd in a crack.

Now Barney M'Mullin, his reet hand protector,
With a sprig o' shilelagh preparing the way,
Was stopt on the road by a publican hector,
Who hinted that Barney intended foul play.
If Barney mov'd forward he threaten'd to drop him,
For his walking, he said, put the man off his pace;
But Barney concluded he'd ne right to stop him,
And call'd him a big-gutted rogue to his face.

Every Freeman, says Barney, of land has a small stock,
But to dunch people off is most rascally mean;
Then their rights were protected by bold Tommy Alcock,
Who said he'd a share of the pasture sae green.
When Tommy put on his election-day swagger,
His genteel appearance made Barney's tongue cease;
His speech was sae pointed, it pierc'd like a dagger:
So Barney, poor soul, he departed in peace.

We stopt there a' neet, till weel on i' the morning,
Expecting he still wad keep dodging away;
But he gav us the double, without ony warning,
And hodg'd off the Moor, like a sheep gyen astray.
When he enter'd the tent, we were a' sitting drinking,
It was thought he had come to get something to eat;
But now it appears the poor soul had been thinking
On the best ways and means to obtain a retreat.

It seems the auld man had nae notion o' stopping,
But as to what ail'd him, he knaws best his sel';
For whether he fail'd in his wind, strength, or bottom,
The skipper and I were baith puzzled to tell.
But it's owre and deun, so what signifies talking,
Poor man, he must just lay his fist to the spade:
Let them that think fit make their living by walking,
For his part he's fund it's a very bad trade.

The VICTORY;
or, The CAPTAIN DONE OVER.

Tune—"O the golden days of good Queen Bess."

It happen'd very lately, (upon my word 'tis true, sir,)
A party at the Peacock supp'd, as I shall shew to you, sir;
The names of those I shall disclose, who form'd this happy party,
Were Waller Watson, Walton too, both honest blades and hearty;
And with them were two friends of theirs, who just had come to town, sir,
Hedges and Ingram are their names, both travellers of renown, sir.
They sang and drank, and drank and sang, till time was wearing late, sir,
Nor ever thought a moment what that night might be their fate, sir:
Near eleven o'clock they sallied out, the night being rather cold, sir,
('Twas on the eighth of April, as we hear the story told, sir,)
They felt it not, for friendship's glass had warm'd their hearts within, sir,
By drinking brandy, rum, or wine, or eke good Holland's gin, sir.

Watson and Ingram both inclin'd to be a little merry, sir,
The others left—to Dean-street they proceeded in a hurry, sir;
When Hedges he sung "Fly not yet," why haste ye so away, sir?
And Ingram promptly answer'd him, by calling out, "Oh! stay," sir.
The Verges of the night were rous'd—demanded why such clatter, sir,
What's all this hound-like noise about? come tell us what's the matter, sir.

Then Walton said, "They're friends of mine, and strangers in the place, sir;"
But this they disregarded quite, and star'd them in the face, sir.
Now Halbert cried out, "Seize them, Ross!—to the watch-house they shall go, sir;
And Master Carr will Kitty them, old friendship for to shew, sir."
Then to the watch-house they were ta'en triumphantly along, sir,
For nothing, as the trial prov'd, but singing Tom Moor's song, sir.

Arriving at the watch-house, where Dogberry sat in state, sir,
The watchmen made false charges out, and did so glibly prate, sir;
Tom cried out, "What d'ye think of this? No defence will I hear, sir,
My servants I will listen to, they've made it plain appear, sir.
Off to the Kitty with them, watch, nor grant one short respite, sirs,
But see that they're completely fast in durance all the night, sirs."

Ye watchmen, for the future, remember Scarlett's dressing, sirs,
The real sound drubbing you've receiv'd may be esteem'd a blessing, sirs:
And should you e'er repeat such acts, vile tyrants as you've been, sirs,
Scarlett against you may appear, and trim you black and green, sirs.
Therefore a warning take in time, leave your infernal tricks, sirs,
As you ere this must clearly find, you've kick'd against the pricks, sirs.

THE ALARM!![21]

Or, Lord Fauconberg's March.

Tune—"Chevy Chace."

God prosper long our noble king,
And noblemen also,
Who valiantly, with sword in hand,
Do guard us from each foe.

No sooner did Lord Fauconberg,
With heart undaunted hear,
Than news to Gotham had been brought,
Which caus'd our Mayor to fear,

Than up he rose, with eyes on fire,
Most dreadful to the view:
"To arms! to arms!" aloud he cried,
And forth his falchion drew.

To arms! to arms! full long and sore
The rattling drums did beat:
To arms in haste each soldier flies,
And scours through every street.

The women shriek and wring their hands,
Their children weep around;
While some, more wise, fast bolt their doors,
And hide them under ground.

The French are at our gates! they cry,
And we shall all be slain;
For Dumourier is at their head,
And that arch-traitor Paine.

In haste drawn up, in fair array,
Our Yorkshire Guards are seen;
And mounted on a jet black steed,
Lord Fauconberg I ween.

And now he gave the word to march,
And valiant foremost rode:
And now he bounds from side to side—
'Twas well the streets were broad.

From Newgate down to the Broad-chare
They march'd with might and main;
Then gallantly they turn'd them round,
And so march'd up again.

Now fill a bumper to the brim,
And drink to Gotham's Mayor;
And when again he hears such news,
May Fauconberg be there.

[21] On the commencement of the impress service, in March, 1793, considerable riots took place at Shields, which were represented, at Newcastle, in a thousand terrific shapes; and a false alarm having been given at the Mansion house, the drums of the York Militia beat to arms; Lord Fauconberg marched that regiment to the house of Rendezvous in the Broad-chare, and then marched back again.

THE HALF-DROWNED SKIPPER.

Air—"Chapter of Donkies."

T'other day up the water aw went in a boat,
Aw brush'd up my trowsers, put on my new coat;
We steer'd up wor boat 'lang side of a keel,
And the luiks o' the Skipper wad frighten'd the Deil.
Fol de rol, &c.

So thinks aw, wi' the keel we'll gan a' the way,
And hear a few words that the skipper may say,
For aw was sure if ought in the keel was deun wrang,
The Skipper wad curse, aye, and call every man.
Fol de rol, &c.

Now we'd just getten up to the fam'd Skinners' Burn,
When the Skipper bawl'd out that the keel was to turn:
Wye he shouted and roar'd like a man hung in chains,
And swore by the keel he would knock out their brains.
Fol de rol, &c.

The little Pee-dee jump'd about on the deck,
And the Skipper roar'd out he wad sure smash his neck;
"What for?" says the Pee-dee, "can one not speak a word?"—
So he gav him a kick—knock'd him plump owerboard.
Fol de rol, &c.

There was nyen o' the bullies e'er lost a bit time,
But flung their great keel-huiks splash into the Tyne;
They brought up the Pee-dee just like a duck'd craw,
And the Skipper, wi' laughin', fell smack ower an' a'.
Fol de rol, &c.

Now the keelmen being tired of their Skipper se brave,
Not one e'er attempted his life for to save;
They hoisted their sail, and we saw no more,
But the half-drown'd Skipper was swimming ashore.
Fol de rol, &c.

THE NEWCASTLE WORTHIES.

BY WM. ARMSTRONG.

Air—"We've aye been provided for."

The praises o' Newcassel aw've lang wish'd to tell,
But now then aw'm determin'd to ha'e a right good spell,
An' shew what noted kiddies frae Newcassel town hes flit,
For it's a'wis been a canny place, an' sae will it yet.

A chep, they call'd him Scott, he liev'd on the banks o' Tyne,
Had a son, that i' the Government he wanted to shine:
By degrees the youth he rose up, now Lord Chancellor does sit,
And he's fill'd his place reet brawly, aye an' sae will he yet.

Of a' the fine Engravers that grace fair Lunnen toon,
Wor Tom Ransom and Bill Harvey bang a' that's up or doon:
The praises frae the 'Cademy they constantly do get;
For their pieces they've got medals, aye an' sae will they yet.

For boxing tee, the Lunnen cheps we'll thresh them i' their turns;
Ony see what science he has lairnt—that noted chep, Jem Burns:
Jem Wallace tee, wor champion, how Tommy Dunn he hit,
But they both good ones ever were, an' sae will they yet.

A vast mair cliver cheps we ha'e, o' some aw'll let ye knaw;
For a strong man, whe could beat bold Airchy wi' his wondrous claw;
When six men tuik him in a boat, her bottom suen he split,
And the hiding that he ga'e them, they've not forgot it yet.

For fiddling tee, now whe is there wor Blind Willie can beat?
Or for dancing whe before Jack Cockson e'er could set their feet?
Cull Billy, only try him now, he'll cap ye wi' his wit;
He's truly wond'rous, ever was, and sae will he yet.

Bob Cruddace, ah, poor soul! he's deed—he had a cliver knack
O' kepping beer, aye three yards off, when he "parish'd the pack!"
And Whin Bob 'bout the militia constantly does swet;
But by cunningness escap'd them, aye an' sae will he yet.

Jack Nicholson, the noble soul, a deal o' breeding shows,
Got a patent frae the King to split sheep heads wi' his nose;
The butchers fearing o' disgrace, a job he ne'er cud get—
But the honour's aye been wi' him, aye, an' sae will it yet.

Of Fishwives tee, that's i' wor toon, up to the present day,
Euphy Scott she is prime minister to Queen Madgie Gray.
The understrappers and descendants maintain that it was fit,
She should rule the market as she lik'd, an' sae will she yet.

Captain Starkey, Pussey Willie, and poor Cuddy Reed,
Lousy Donald and au'd Judy, poor souls! they've a' gyen deed:
But, marrows, keep ye up your hearts, this is not the time to fret,
For their memories hae e'er been up, aye an' say will they yet.

HUMANUM EST ERRARE.

OLD NICK'S VISIT TO H——'S KITCHEN.

Tune—"The King of the Cannibal Islands."

Old Nick, for pastime, took a prance,
And to Newcastle did advance;
At Grainger's buildings just did glance,
And swagger'd away to H——'s Kitchen.
The Kitchen soon was in a roar,
When Nick exclaim'd—I'll pay the score!
So let the drink go round galore—
Which soon laid numbers on the floor:—
Cried Swalwell Pyet—Old Friend, what cheer!
We're heartily glad to see you here—
Nick smack'd the ale, and soon turn'd queer
Among his friends in the Kitchen.

CHORUS.

Then shout hurrah for Ralph's good ale!
O may its virtues never fail—
It made Old Nick to cock his tail,
And stagger about in the Kitchen.

In midst of all the noise and din,
The merry crew came tumbling in,
From Parlour and Cock'd Hat so trim,
To join their friend in the Kitchen:—
First Ramsay Jack, the brokers' hack,
With G——and E——upon his back—
Great Doctor Flash came in a crack!—
Brave Noodle W——n join'd the pack;
And from the Vestry, like a rose,
Came M——ty with the brandy nose,
And B——m dress'd in dandy clothes,
To welcome Nick to the Kitchen.
Then shout hurrah, &c.

Fam'd H——p acted Crook-back'd Dick,
And sung a song to please Old Nick;
Jim W——n smoak'd till S——t turn'd sick,
And they bundled them out of the Kitchen.
Old S——y, too, that gallant tar,
Said when on board a man of war,
He conquer'd Yankee and Lascar,
And knew all countries near and far:
Old Nick then gave a dreadful roar,
With voice just like the grizzly boar,
Brave S——y ran towards the door,
And fled half-dead from the Kitchen!
Then shout hurrah, &c.

Old Wash C——with his dirty paws,
Sat rubbing up his grim old jaws,
And scandalizing without cause,
His dearest friend in the Kitchen.
Jim Colvin and Ned Mushel smart,
Were guzzling beer down by the quart!
Old Snuffy Tom well play'd his part,
He swigg'd away with all his heart.
Old Nick cried, Is my Uncle here?
I long to taste of his good cheer!—
A lump of beef did soon appear,
And they gobbled it up in the Kitchen!
Then shout hurrah, &c.

O hark! cried Nick, the clock strikes one!
So midnight's past—I must be gone;
When I remount my brimstone throne,
I'll oftentimes think of the Kitchen.
Ralph D——d said, before we part—
Come, let us have another quart!
Bob C——r swears 'twill break his heart,
To think you should so soon desert!
But Nick still more impatient grew—
At last he bellow'd out—Adieu!
And, in a moment, off he flew,
'Mid thund'ring chears from the Kitchen!
Then shout hurrah, &c.

On George the Fourth's Coronation.

INVITATION to the MANSION-HOUSE DINNER

IN HONOUR OF THE CORONATION.

Air—"Scots wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled."

Men who have with Mayors fed;
Men whom oft the Mace hath led;
Welcome to your Beef and Bread,
Come and feast to-day.
See yon Ox's buttocks lower;
See yon bags of pudding flour;
Shew your masticating power,
Teeth and Loyalty.

Who can't eat is sure a knave;
Send the scoundrel to his grave;
Who can't drink should be a slave;
Such we ne'er will be.
Who for King and Country's Law
Will cut away and stuff his maw,
Cans will drain, and corks will draw,
Brothers, come with me.

By what's worse than Slavery's chains,
Empty stomachs, gripes, and pains,
We'll eat and drink, until our veins
Swoln like bladders be.
See yon lumps of beef laid low,
Puddings fall at every blow!
Wine in bumpers round shall flow:
Brothers, look to me!

THE NEWCASTLE

SWINEHERD'S PROCLAMATION

O yes! ye swinish Multitude!
To our Newcastle sties repair:
Two whole fat beeves are barbecu'd,
So go and cram your gorges there.

Your mouths will water at the sight;
The oose your unshav'd chops run down;
Your dirty sleeves away will dight
The slobber of tobacco brown.

With cart-grease basted, dredg'd with dust,
The outsides burnt, the insides raw,
Next to some tit bit carrion must
Delight a hog's voracious maw.

Hey! to the Pants, where dribbling wine
And brewer's rot-gut beer distil;
With speed let every greedy swine
Swig what he can—aye, swig his fill.

Then to your grov'ling nature true,
Return to wallow in the mire;
And let the Corporate body view
The consummation they require.

Swineherds expect the brutes that run
To guzzle at their garbage feast,
Should compensate, and make them fun;
So hogs come on and play the beast!

"And grunt, ye pigs, with savage joy,
While stuffing full your craving maws,
Nor care if staves your skulls annoy,
But quickly move your greedy jaws.

While guzzling down your wishy-wash,
Squeak loud with make-believe affection;
And in the puddle kick and splash,
Nor shew one sign of disaffection.

Then, all ye lordly herds laugh loud,
And shake your portly paunches fine;
Shew to your dames the rabble crowd—
And having pray'd, retire to dine.

Then tell how the voracious pigs,
With greedy spite press'd to the trow,
And gave each other loyal digs,
Nor car'd for e'er a waddling sow.

Next sagely argue o'er your wine,
This crew, debas'd beyond compare,
In fact and reason are true swine,
Unlike Corinthian Pillars fair."[22]

Pigstye Court, Sandhill, 12th July, 1821.

[22] The Rich were called the "Corinthian Pillars of Society" by the pensioner Burke; while he termed the Industrious Classes the "Swinish Multitude."

THE GOLDEN HORNS;

Or, The General Invitation.

Come, neighbours, to Robson's let's all hie away,
To see the Ox crown'd with ribbons so gay:
His horns are well gilded, his head bright does shine,
We'll soon get a slice and a horn full of wine.

Some come from afar, as did wise men of old,
To see our King's head branch'd out thus with gold.
Success, then, to horns, when they're gilded so clever;
May the ... wear horns, and wear them for ever.

In praise then of horns let all Newcastle sing;
For he who scorns horns despises his...
Let them boast of their garters, and boast of their stars,
But horns are far better than honours or scars.

Never blush for your horns, then, though low be your station,
Since horns are the pride of the Chief of our nation.
Let them make Lords and Dukes, crown an Ass, if they will,
The order of Horns let it be my theme still.

LOYAL FESTIVITIES;

Or, Novel Scenes at Newcastle.

A POPULAR SONG IN THE NEW FARCE OF THE CORONATION,

As it was performed at Newcastle upon Tyne, on Thursday, July 19th, 1821.

Sung by the "Swinish Multitude," in full Chorus.

The Castle guns were fir'd, and loud
The bells rang in the morning,
To wake the "Swinish Multitude,"
And give the public warning:
That, "as in duty bound," the Mayor,
And loyal Corporation,
Would celebrate, in civic state,
The day of Coronation!

With matchless liberality,
The sums of money voted,
That loyalty might be thereby
Among the herd promoted:
A feast would loyalize the brutes,
Upon this great occasion,
And make them sing, God save the King!
At George's Coronation.

Three royal fountains running beer,
And one to dribble wine, O,
Would make them flock from far and near,
To grunt like loyal swine, O.
Two bullocks roasted whole, 'twas thought,
Would be a grand donation,
To toss among the "rabble rout,"
At George's Coronation!

'Twas done—the bullocks roasted were,
The fountains set a flowing;
While Butchers round, upon the ground,
Huge lumps of beef were throwing:
The loyal Swineherds looking on,
In anxious expectation,
To see each beast enjoy the feast
At George's Coronation!

But what was their surprize to find
The swinish herd refuse it;
How strange! their tastes were so refin'd,
No hog of sense would use it!
Our Gentry now, the loyal few,
Beheld, with consternation,
The scanty stock of loyalty
At George's Coronation!

They saw, with grief, the roasted beef
By saucy swine neglected!
No grateful beast extoll'd the feast,
Nor loyalty respected!
Their swinish nature sure is chang'd—
O what an alteration!
Time was when pigs would grunt and squeel,
To grace a Coronation!

But ah! the brutes display, at last,
The faculty of Reason!
"The age of Chivalry is past!"
(Reflection most unpleasing!)
And, sad to tell, with that is gone
"Othello's occupation!"
All servile reverence for a throne,
And priestly domination!

Then why display this make-believe
Affection and profusion?
Ye can no longer swine deceive,
They see through the delusion.
What then avails this pageantry,
And useless ostentation?
What signifies your loyalty
At George's Coronation!

Had Derry-Down been on the spot,
And view'd the scene before him,
While beef, and bones, and bricks, like shot,
Were flying in terrorem;
He would have star'd, with wild affright,
At such a consummation,
And loudly damn'd the useless farce
Of George's Coronation!

Learn hence, ye Legislators wise,
Ye guardians of our treasures!
The "Swinish Multitude" despise
Your inconsistent measures:
Think not that bayonets will gain
The people's admiration;
Or fix a Monarch on the throne,
By a mock Coronation!

PICTURE OF NEWCASTLE;

Or, George the Fourth's Coronation.

BY WILLIAM MIDFORD.

Tune—"Arthur M'Bride."

The firing of guns, and the ringing of bells,
Rous'd me from my dreams about magical spells;
So I'll draw you a sketch, as we're now by oursel's,
By way of an illustration:
The roads to Newcastle were cover'd almost,
As if Radical thunder[23] had summon'd its host,
Or an enemy's fleet had been seen off the coast,
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

In the streets what a buz among sweethearts and wives,
And children who ne'er rose so soon in their lives;
All higgledy piggledy through other drives,
To view what was in preparation.
The oxen are roasting—outsides a mere crust;
They're stuff'd wi' potatoes, and dredg'd well with dust,
While the turnspits were set as if working o' trust,
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

I next went to view a Boat-race on the Tyne,
For a blue silken flag skill and labour combine;
Gold sovereigns the prizes—to start about nine,
From Walker, with precipitation.
The Greyhound came first, the old Sandgate-shore Gig,
Which went as if chasing a hare, through the Brig.
No doubt but the wives and the lasses were big,
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

Then the Gentlemen walk'd in procession to church;
Not even Dissenters did lag in the porch,
But boldly push'd on, amid ruffles and starch,
To praise and to pray with the nation.
The service being ended, the anthems are sung,
The burnt sacrifice from each service is swung,
When the fountains with wine and strong ale 'gan to run
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

Then a Female Procession, to heighten the scene,
Paraded the streets, with a bust of the Queen;
When her title was plac'd where a crown should have been—
Upon the crane-top was its station.
Then the Ox was beheaded, and held up to view,
As if he'd done something of Cato-street hue:
A soldier that made his appearance did rue,
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

Then with squeezing and tearing began the dispute;
Some held by the Pant, and some grappled the spout,
Till as drunk as a lord, and as wise as a brute,
At this swine-feeding jollification.
They drank out of hats and old shoes, very keen,
The fights they went round, quite amusing the scene;
While some, in mistake, drank "Success to the Queen!"
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

The battle grew hot, as they flung round the beef,
Disgusted, they sought no Commander in chief;
The fires they demolish'd, while brick-bats and beef
Flew like rockets, in mad desperation.
The Butchers, now thinking their lives very sweet,
Soon threw down their gullies, and beat a retreat;
Not wishing to die, just like dogs, in the street,
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

Upon the Sandhill, where the fountain ran wine,
The keelmen, quite eager to taste of the vine,
Had the Crown taken down, which was thrown in the Tyne,
So fix'd was their determination.
There one, tho' stripp'd naked, so great was his drouth,
Made a new-fashion'd sun-dial, pointing due south,
When the ladies at five of the clock set their mouth,
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

Among the arrivals at Mansion-house gates,
Were the bones of the oxen, the spits, and the grates,
With a keelman, in petticoats, scratching his pate,
For a suit from our rich Corporation.
Had the Den[24] been but open, the people might say,
For Kill-pudding Joe, and the burdies of prey,[25]
This sunshine would brought a fine "harvest of hay,"
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

[23] Referring to the Public Meeting on the Town Moor, on the 11th Oct. 1819, where it was supposed, 100,000 were assembled, to take into consideration the proceedings at Manchester.

[24] The House of Correction.

[25] Police Officers.

NEWCASTLE IN AN UPROAR;

Or, George the Fourth's Coronation.

Air—"Come under my Plaidie."

O Jockey, my friend, mun, how last you this evening?
Come in, crook your hough, and let's hear all your news;
It appears to me you have been tramping this morning,
I see by the dust that's so thick on your shoes.
I have been a tramping, I've been at Newcastle,
All the things I have seen there my memory can't bring;
The folks from all parts have rais'd such a noration,
About the Coronation of Geordy the King.

The first thing I saw was two fires for the bullocks—
They hung them both down as it struck twelve at night;
But lang ere day-light was come in on the morning,
Both stuffing and 'tatoes were burnt in their kites.
They turn'd them on spite until burnt like two cinders,
And cut them both up about twelve of the day;
As they lay on the stages, they smok'd just like tinder,
And look'd like two muck-heaps, the people did say.

Then the carvers set to with knives cutting and scraping,
And lumps of fat beef with such vengeance were strew'd,
I dare say they thought that the folks were all gaping,
And believ'd they were feeding a swine multitude.
But the stuff they threw out put the folks in a fury,
Both stones and brick-bats they snatch'd up in a rage;
And a radical troop, thus equipp'd in a hurry,
With vengeance bang'd carvers and beef off the stage.

For the folks being determin'd, the beef would not handle,
Nor gobble it up like a stye full of swine;
For their conscience did whisper it would be a scandal:
So the stuff was refus'd by the sons of the Tyne.
The next thing I saw was a British young sailor,
He pull'd the crown down from the top of the crane;
Although with brick bats he got many a nailor,
Yet he stuck up a label concerning the Queen.

This bill being put up set the crowd in a motion,
They gave three times three when first it was seen;
And loudly did praise the brave tars of the ocean,
Who fought in defence of their much injur'd Queen.
These things being done, it rais'd such a durdem,
The stones and the brick-bats flew up like a cloud:
A poor Tyne Cossack, that belong'd to Tom Burdon,
Was near crush'd to death as he fought with the crowd.

That day in the town was heard no sound of bugles,
And Bold Archy, he too was ne'er seen iv a';
For if that but once he had brought down the Noodles,
They'd been trod under foot like a bundle of straw.
For so bold are the men about canny Newcassel,
No injustice they'll suffer when assembled a':
If the King had been there he'd ne'er worn his gold tassel,
And as to being crown'd, that would ne'er done iv a'.

The things that were flying appear'd like a battle;
So, afraid of being fell'd, as I stood by the folks,
I on shankie nagie away straight did rattle,
To drag down the street the black bones of the ox.
When I came to the Sandhill my eyes I got open'd,
I saw something standing which brightly did shine;
A large wooden Pant, and a crown on the top o't:
When I came to look close it was running red wine,

The folk that were round it appear'd to be growling
And fighting amongst it like so many cats;
While others I saw among mud and dirt rolling,
And drinking the wine out of old lousy hats.
Thinks I to myself, this is all botheration,
It is but a pretext, I know by their scheme,
To pump out what's left of the wealth of the nation,
To swell the fat bags of the Clergy and King.

The next thing I saw that took up my attention,
Was a keelman quite nak'd! he'd no breeches iv a';
Some said he, for fighting, deserv'd well a pension,
But I think that he ought to've been tried by the law.
The wives that were running fell o'er, tappy lappy,
Town serjeants the keelmen did pelt well with glare;
And swore, if they could but catch Tripy and Cappy,
They would tear them to rags at the end of the war.

Then I by this time nigh got into a quarrel;
I argued, but could not the battle decide;
So dreading some person might tear my apparel,
I took my departure unto the Quayside.
In going down the Quay there was such a crushing—
I met with a man of the name of Tom Dale,
He said, into Sandgate the folks were all pushing,
For the Pant on the hill there was running strong ale.

When I got to Sandgate I could not help laughing,
The lasses were running about with the swipes;
And old wives that fell in the gutter were scruffling,
Ne'er minded, but smok'd on their old cutty pipes.
I next took my journey as for as the 'Spital,
To see if ought curious was there to be seen;
But I think that from Sandgate it differed little,
For the folks were all drinking the health of the Queen.

I went to an alehouse, and nearly got fuddled,
For by walking about sae my legs were quite lame;
So on my old pins then away I straight toddled,
And ne'er look'd behind me, but tramp'd away hame.
At Newcastle there have been both horse and boat races,
I have droll things to tell you, if I had but time;
But having to call at some more bits of places,
On some other day I will finish my rhyme.

CORONATION DAY AT NEWCASTLE.

Upon the nineteenth of July
The Castle guns did rend the sky,
St. Nicholas' bells did briskly ring,
And George the Fourth was crown'd our king;
But those possess'd of feelings fine
Will ne'er forget that day on Tyne.

For days, within the 'Spital green,
In ribbands deck'd were Bullocks seen,
And on their horns a royal crown,
To mock some Cuckold of renown:
And all, whose thoughts agree with mine,
Will say he's nearer Thames than Tyne.

Humanity, with pitying gaze,
Beheld the victims fondly graze
Round the infernal furnace pile,
Where one was shortly doom'd to broil,
Purpos'd to feed the humble swine
That dwelt upon the banks of Tyne.

Blush, ye great Rulers of the town,
Behold your nauseous, loathsome boon!
See men, with manners more discreet,
Disgusted, spurn your beastly treat!
And know, all you who term us swine,
That Reason rules the sons of Tyne.

Give heed to this, Worshipful Mayor,
Though we're reduc'd by taxes bare,
Our British bosoms still contain
Hearts sound as his with golden chain!
May Freedom's rays, which brighter shine,
Adorn each manly breast on Tyne.

It adds but little to your praise,
To see your lavish, wasteful ways,
To see a keelman, from his huddock,
Within your wine-trough wash his buttock,
Which ne'er before was drench'd in wine,
But often plung'd in coaly Tyne.

What did your wilful waste avail?
Your fountains running wine and ale?
The bronzed dome, the glitt'ring crown,
Torn by an enrag'd people down?
Who cheering hail'd Queen Caroline,
Borne by the blooming fair on Tyne.

What would an untaught Heathen said,
To see such brutal scenes display'd?
Is this the land, he would reply,
That teaches Christianity?
Such might suit yon wild shores of mine,
But shame Great Britain and the Tyne.

The money wasted on the ground,
Had it been wisely dealt around
Amongst the needy poor, half-starv'd—
A thousand pounds would thousands serv'd;
Extravagance was their design,
Who rul'd Newcastle upon Tyne.

CORONATION THURSDAY—July 19, 1821.

Being the Third[26] Epistle from Bob Fudge to his Cousin Bob in the Country.

Dear Bob—A sad outlaw at length I'm become,
The Tories despise me; the Whigs glump and gloom,
And scowl as they pass, which is something uncivil,
And the Radicals treat me as I would the devil;
And threaten, the next time I make my appearance,
To scourge me completely, with Christian forbearance.
This threat from a party, who ever would bawl
For liberal discussion, is worst of them all;
As my writings, I'm sure, must be wond'rous offences,
When such men are talking about consequences.
But whether the head of the Noodles appear,
Or Lambton, or Typo, with sword or with spear,
To blunt their sharp edges at once on my nob,
I'm determin'd to write to my own dearest Bob.

The Pedlar's descendant[27] may boast in the field,
And the Earl of the North with reluctancy yield,
While Cartwright an excess of freedom may claim—
Perhaps they're all right, since they all are to blame.
The Radicals want more than reason would crave,
They all would be kings, without ever a slave;
And that, my dear Bob, you know never can be—
And as for the Whigs, they love stones more than me.

I dare not maliciously think of the Tory,
No envy his pudding, the Englishman's glory—
He's in, and he's right, and his place is worth keeping,
No wonder he wishes John still to be sleeping;—
And though from stage coffers his wages be taken,
He'd better be paid than the office forsaken.
Without Kings and Clergy, and Commons and Peers,
Together the people would be by the ears;
Equal rights, equal liberties, who would not brave,
Lest an excess of Freedom prove Liberty's grave.

We've the use of our fingers, our tongues, and our eyes,
How then are we fetter'd? the good Tory cries;
And as for the taxes, Judge Bayley can prove
They're the source of our welfare, the things we should love.
Since the days of king Solomon, that wise man of yore,
All kings have had wisdom and riches in store:
And Britain, sublimely renowned in story,
Has become of the world th' admiration and glory,
By the help of our kings, and prime minister Pitt,
Whose names are a match for the Radicals yet.

But stop—to amuse thee I'll give a relation
Of the sights I beheld at the King's Coronation;
Which partly convinc'd me that infidels reign,
Since the head of the church met such hoggish disdain.

The morning was fine when the boats came in sight,
And cannons re-echoed the Tories' delight—
Sandgate heroes huzza'd, till the news, so provoking,
Convinc'd them the watermen only were joking.
"What a d—n'd shame! (cried Archy) such prizes, and never
"A man lying breathless, or drown'd in the river!
"No squabbling, no fighting, no boats sunk—damnation!
"They're fit men to row at a King's Coronation!"

Then from the Quayside to the Sandhill I wander'd,
And smil'd to behold money foolishly squander'd:
A pant rising splendidly, gilded and crown'd,
To run with good wine, in the centre was found,
And fronting St. Nicholas a black roasted beast,
And another in Spital-field, bespoke a grand feast.
Three pants to run ale—'twas a glorious sight!
Two cranes and two scaffolds—the butchers' delight.

From Church now the Mayor and his company ride,
And Bab with the Queen, at the foot of the Side,
Hoisted high on a pole, with a crown on her head—
(And her effigy more than the devil they dread)
The crowd was so dense, and the shouts so astounding,
And nothing but Radical whiskers surrounding;
Which made it becoming to bow to the Queen,
Though a damnable blot on their loyalty, I ween!
Releas'd, they drove gently, their plans to fulfill,
By drinking the king's health upon the Sandhill.
But, to their misfortune, round where it was plac'd,
The crowd was so furious, no Tory could face't;
And high on the gilded dome stood a rude fellow,
With the crown on his head!—people said he was mellow;
But I took him to be some base Radical body,
Who wish'd folk to think that the King was a noddy,
For at the mock gestures of kingly demeanour,
The people bawl'd loudly, and bow'd to his honour;
While many among them cried, Pull the knave down!
Such a bad drunken fellow's not fit for a crown!
He's as good, quoth a keelman, and blew like a porpus,
As the London Mogul, who can drink, wh—e, and rob us.
So near was the danger, the Mayor swoon'd away;
But Archy, more bold as they pranc'd round the fray,
To his comrades cried softly, (but not till past catching)
"What treasonable stuff those damn'd Radicals are hatching!
D'ye see what a mess they have made of the crown,
Go call out the soldiers to pull yon knave down."
"Drive on," quoth the Mayor, by this time come about,
"There's no time to talk while the Philistines are out."
More furious grew Archy, as nearer he drew
The den of corruption, with th' Noodles in view.
"Fetch the soldiers, I say—let the streets swim with blood!
See the crown is insulted, and all that is good,
When erected this morn, what a sight to behold!
'Twas velvet and ermine, and cover'd with gold!
'Tis sacrilege! treason! hell groans at the sight!
Fetch the soldiers, and put the mad rabble to flight:
We crown'd it, and form'd it to dribble with wine,
That the King's health, when drank, might be cheer'd by the swine;
And shall we be bet while we've soldiers to guard us?
No, call them out quickly—the King will reward us."

As he finish'd the sentence, the crown got a fall,
And rapt'rous delight animated them all.
What savage barbarians those English are grown,
To laugh at the fall of a beautiful crown!
'Twas time for the Mayor and poor Archy to fly
From the radical scene to the loyal pig-stye.

To St. Nicholas' Square then I posted away,
Where Typo's high window peep'd over the fray;
And such an Ox roasting was there to be seen!
'Twas a bad loyal meeting for all but the Queen.
The crowd was immense, and their spirits were high,
To honour his Majesty no one durst try.
The scaffold with tipstaves and botchers was clad,
Who blarnied poor folks what fine morsels they had;
And holding the head up, began to huzza,
But a volley of hisses and groans drown'd their jaw:
Though, Thistlewood like, it was something uncivil,
For the head wearing horns was as black as the devil.

St. Nicholas peal'd out as the hisses began,
And seem'd to say, "Loyal bucks, do what you can!"
As fast as the butchers the collops threw out,
The people return'd them with many a shout;
And many a fat lump loyal whiskers besmear'd,
Till brick-bats and fat chops the slaughter stage clear'd.

A crown that look'd lovely, and honoured the crane,
Call'd forth, beyond measure, the public disdain;
The brick-flying tempest redoubled its terror,
And many a poor Tory's heart trembled with horror.
An Officer[28] vent'ring imprudently near,
Receiv'd the same fate as the Coach in the rear;
So high was the Radical sentiment tow'ring,
That public expression was past all enduring.
In vain flew the bricks, save to knock people down,
For the Tories were fled, and too fast was the crown;
At length a bold Tar, in the midst of the fray,
Mounted swiftly, and tore the gilt bauble away;
And put in its place, which was fair to be seen,
"The Queen that Jack lov'd," and cried, "God save the Queen!"
Then off went their hats, and abroad went the roar,
And shook the glass windows along the Tyne shore.
The mangled black carrion was knock'd from the stage,
And dragg'd round the town with republican rage,
Till deposited safely i' th' Mansion-house yard,
Where Archy Mac Syc. is the master black-guard;
From whence, in accordance with Archibald's wish,
It was sunk in the Tyne—to make broth for the fish.
So that Radical bodies were highly to blame,
When they sung their pig sonnets, and cried out, "For shame!"

A few drunken fellows the ale-pants surrounded,
And fought for the wish-wash till nearly half-drowned.
But when the wine dribbled beneath the Exchange,
The people were furious, and sought for revenge,
By drinking "The Queen!" with astounding delight,
While the fine folks above them grew pale at the sight.
But to see a nak'd man holding fast by the spout,
Made the sanctified ladies huzza, clap, and shout.
"Fight away, pigs, (quoth Archy) you make us fine fun!"
But when the pant suffer'd he alter'd his tune.
In Spital-field loyalty had no more boast,
For the Queen rul'd the heart, and the people the roast.

Poor Anvil[29] disgrac'd himself, some people say,
To ask the Mayor leave on the Race-ground to pray;
In fact, after such a deed I should not wonder
But they'll sneak and ask leave, till oblig'd to knock under.

What a "punch"-loving people! in less than an hour,
To see Lambton's horse, they were all on the Moor;
But vex'd that their favourite's courser should lose,
They car'd not to stay till the Races might close.

Returning at length, like a tempest they came,
Which bursts upon Cheviot, and sets it on flame
And levell'd the pants with the spoil of the day,
While a Radical gave them a touch of his lay.
In vain the peace-officers handled their staves,
And entreated the crowd to submit like good slaves;
'Twas the Head of the Church who created the day,
And salvation attended a loyal display!
But passive obedience was basely rejected,
And the Head of the Church very little respected;
Which made Archy again for the horse soldiers shout,
So anxious he seem'd for a Manchester rout:
But, thank their good stars, they go free from the labour
Of drawing their whittles to hamstring a neighbour.

In its socket was sinking the Radical taper,
Ere snugly the mighty ones sat down to supper.
It cost them two thousand, I mean th' Corporation!
What a round sum, dear Bob, for a King's Coronation!
But surely I need not the money begrudge,
For the sight charm'd the heart of thy cousin,

Bob Fudge.

[26] The first Epistle, "Radical Monday," a satirical description of the Town Moor great Meeting on the 11th Oct. 1819.—The second Epistle (unpublished) "Radical Thursday and Whig Wednesday," on the public Meetings held in Newcastle, on those days, for addressing the Queen, &c.

[27] Lord Castlereagh.

[28] A military Officer on horseback in the crowd at the time the Mail Coach passed, decorated in honour of the Coronation, was, together with the Coach, pelted by the populace.

[29] An Independent Methodist Preacher, who, forgetting the commission of his Divine Master to preach the Gospel, even on the highways and hedges, applied in vain to the Mayor, for leave for himself and brethren to hold a camp meeting on the Town Moor. The worthy Magistrate objected, on the ground of injuring the interests of the "church as by law established;" or, more properly speaking, the interests of the established Clergy. Anvil is also celebrated by Bob Fudge, in his First Epistle, entitled "Radical Monday," as one of the orators at the Town Moor great meeting on the 11th October, 1819.

BOB FUDGE'S POSTSCRIPT

To his Account of the great Town Moor Meeting, on Monday, 11th October, 1819.

Since the Meeting, dear Bob, many things have come out,
Which in Gotham have made a most damnable rout:
Mister Mayor at a trifle does not seem to stick,
With the Rads[30] he's been playing Sir Archy Mac Syc.—
While Sidmouth he cramm'd with some Green Bag Supplies,
Which—alas! for his Worship—have turn'd out all lies!
A stark staring Parson,[31] to add to the store,
A budget has sent to the noble Strathmore;
And some other Arch Wag, whom all grace has forsook,
A thumper has palm'd on a great Northern Duke!
Sir Matt, too, so lately the pride of the Tyne,
Against poor old Gotham did also combine;
By supporting Bold Archy's most libellous letter,
He has added another strong link to the fetter!
The rivet he's clos'd, which no mortal can sever,
And set now's the "Bright Star of Heaton" for ever!
But let him beware—for "a Rod is in pickle,"
Which, sooner or later, "his Toby will tickle!"

Both the Houses have rung with the direful alarms,
Of the Rads on the Tyne and the Wear being in arms;
'Tis all a sly hoax—the Alarmists alarming,
For there's not the least symptom of Rising or Arming!

[30] The Radicals, or real Reformers.

[31] Parson Bl—k—n.

BLIND WILLY'S FLIGHT.

Tune—"Betsey Baker."

A whirlwind, of a serious kind,
Did o'er Newcastle blow, sir,
Which gen'ral consternation spread
About a month ago, sir:
It caught Blind Willy in the street,
He mounted like a feather;
His friends, alarm'd, cried out, Alas!
Poor soul! he's gone for ever!
Fal de ral, &c.

But soon our Minstrel gay was seen,
By thousands of the people,
In rapid flight, swift as the kite
Bound o'er Saint Nich'las' steeple;
He pass'd the Shot Tower like a dart,
Turn'd round by Askew's Key, sir,
And down the Tyne he glided fine,
And bolted off to sea, sir.
Fal de ral, &c.

'Tis said that he to London got,
But was forc'd back to Shields, sir,
And up to Swalwell, quick as thought,
Was carried o'er the fields, sir.
Round Axwell Park our roving spark
Was borne amidst the squall, sir,
And swiftly passing Elswick House,
Reach'd Cock-o-lorum Hall, Sir.
Fal de ral, &c.

Thus tempest-toss'd, to Blagdon cross'd,
And hail'd fam'd Heaton's Star, sir—
Then mounting high, did rapid fly
As far as Prestwick Car, sir.
Newcastle next he hover'd o'er,
Quite calmly in the air, sir,
And landing at the Mansion House,
He din'd with Mr. Mayor, Sir.
Fal de ral, &c.

THE NEW MARKETS.

Tune—"Canny Newcassel."

Wey, hinnies, but this is a wonderful scene,
Like some change that yen's seen iv a play-house;
Whe ever wad thowt that the awd Major's dean
Wad hae myed sic a capital weyhouse:
Where the brass hez a' cum fra nebody can tell,
Some says yen thing and some says another—
But whe ever lent Grainger't aw knaw very well,
That they mun have at least had a fother.

About Lunnen then divent ye myek sic a rout,
For there's nowt there maw winkers ti dazzell;
For a bell or a market there isent a doubt
We can bang them at canny Newcassel.

Wor gratitude Grainger or somebody's arl'd,
Yet still, mun, it mykes yen a' shuther,
To see sic a crowd luiking after this warld
Where the Nuns us'd ti luik for the tother.
But see yor awn interest, dinna be blind,
Tyek a shop there whatever yor trade is;
Genteeler company where can ye find
Than wor butchers, green wives, and tripe ladies?
About Lunnen, &c.

Ti see the wires haggle about tripe and sheep-heads,
Or washing their greens at a fountain,
Where the bonny Nuns us'd to be telling their beads,
And had nowt but their sins ti be counting;
There the talented lords o' the cleaver and steel
May be heard on that classical grund, sir,
Loudly chaunting the praise o' their mutton an' veal,
Though they're losing a happney a pund, sir.
About Lunnen, &c.

When them queer Cockney folk cum stravagin this way
(Though aw've lang thowt we'd getten aboon them)
They'll certainly now hae the mense just to say,
That we've clapt an extinguisher on them:
It's ne use contending, they just may shut up,
For it's us can astonish the stranger;
They may brag o' their Lords an' their awd King ti boot,
What's the use on't?—they haven't a Grainger.
About Lunnen, &c.

THE CHANGES ON THE TYNE.

Tune—"Mitford Galloway."

I'll sing you a bit of a ditty,
I hope you will not think it lang,
At least if it tires your patience,
I'll verra suin shorten my sang;
It's all about comical changes,
And new-fangled things on the Tyne,
I've witness'd since aw was a skipper,
And that isn't verra lang syne.

CHORUS.

These are the days of improvement,
We're a' gettin wiser, you see,
The skuilmaister's getting abroad,
And he'll finish us off to a tee.

Baith sides of the Tyne, aw remember,
Were cover'd wi' bonny green fields,
But now there is nought but big furnaces
Down frae Newcastle to Shields;
And what wi' their sulphur and brimstone,
Their vapour, their smoke, and their steam,
The grass is all gaen, and the farmers
Can nowther get butter or cream.
These are the days, &c.

For making their salts and their soda,
They formerly us'd a kail-pot,
With an awd-fashion'd bit of a chimley
They were quite satisfied wi' their lot;
But now Anty Clapham, the Quaker,
Has fill'd a' the folks wi' surprise,
For he's lately built up a lang chimley,
Within a few feet o' the skies!
These are the days, &c.

There's Losh's big chimley at Walker,
Its very awn height makes it shake,
And if Cookson's again tumble ower,
It will make a new quay for the Slake;
To talk of your fine foreign pillars,
It's enough for to make a man sick,
The great tower of Babble compar'd
Wi' wor chimleys is nowt but a stick.
These are the days, &c.

For three-pence to Shields aw remember
In a wherry the folk us'd to gan,
And that was consider'd by many
A very respectable plan;
But now we've got sixpenny steamers,
A stylish conveyance, I'm sure,
For there you've a tune on the fiddle,
And a lie on the sands for an hour.
These are the days, &c.

Then ower the land we'd a whiskey,
Which went twice or thrice in the day,
Which us'd to take all the fine gentry,
And quite in an elegant way;
But now the awd whiskey's neglected,
And nothing but coaches suit us,
Lord help us! there's nothing gans now
But a hyke in the new omnibus.
These are the days, &c.

At one time wor ships were all loaded
Sae canny and snug by the keels,
And then a' wor maisters made money,
And keelmen were a' happy chiels;
But now your fine drops de the business!
Lord bless us! aw never saw such,
Though some of wor owners aw's freeten'd
Hev getten a drop ower much.
These are the days, &c.

And then an aud horse brought a waggon
A' the way frae the pits to the staith,
But now it appears pretty certain,
They'll verra suin dee without baith,
For now their fine steam locomotives
A' other inventions excels,
Aw've only to huik on the waggons,
And they'll bring a ship-load down their sels.
These are the days, &c.

New rail-roads now spring up like mushrooms,
Aw never, maw soul! saw the like,
We'll turn every thing topsy-turvy,
And leave ourselves not a turnpike;
Then horses will live without working,
And never more trot in a team,
And instead of carrying their maisters,
They'll get themsels carried by steam.
These are the days, &c.

Wor ballast-hills now are grown handsome,
And what they call quite pictoresk,
Ne poet can de them half justice
If he writes all his life at his desk;
They're hilly, and howley, and lofty,
Presenting fresh views every turn,
And they'd luik like Vesuvius or Etna,
If we could only get them to burn.
These are the days, &c.

And as for aud canny Newcastle,
It's now quite a wonderful place,
Its New Market, nothing can match it
In elegance, beauty, and grace;
Could our forefathers only just see it,
My eye! they would start wi' surprise,
I fancy I just hear them saying—
"What's come of the buggy pigsties?"
These are the days, &c.

And this is a' duin by one Grainger—
A perfect Goliah in bricks,
He beats Billy Purvis quite hollow
In what ye ca' slight of hand tricks;
He's only to say, "Cock-o-lorum,
Fly Jack, presto, quick and be gane,"
And new houses spring up in an instant—
Of the audins you can't see a stane.
These are the days, &c.

In sculler-boats, not very lang syne,
The Shields folk cross'd ower the Tyne,
But now we have got a big steamer,
And cuts quite a wonderful shine;
And one that we've got down at Scotland,
Delights a' the folks with a ride,
For it gans back and forward sae rapid,
That it just makes a trip in a tide.
These are the days, &c.

I think I've now told you, my hinnies,
The whole of the changes I've seen,
At least a' the whirligig fashions
That I have been able to glean;
So the next time we meet a' together,
Some other improvements I'll get,
And then we shall make worsels happy,
And try a' wor cares to forget.
These are the days, &c.

On the Attempt to remove the Custom House from Newcastle to Shields, in 1816.

THE CUSTOM HOUSE BRANCH.

Tynesiders, give ear, and you quickly shall hear
A strange and a wonderful story,
Of a dreadful uproar upon fam'd Gotham's shore,
Where we've brush'd all to heighten our glory.

On the Quayside, so spruce, stands a great Custom House,
Of Newcastle the pride and birth-right;
Now the sons of Gotham had sworn o'er a dram,
That to Gotham it soon should take flight.

A townsman they sent, on great deeds fully bent,
A son of the knife and the steel, sirs;
And one learn'd in the laws, to argue their cause,
The covenants to sign and to seal, sirs.

To London they came, through the high road to fame,
Their hearts were both merry and staunch:
Of success confident, to the Treasury they went,
And demanded they might have a Branch!

False report (only guess) brought to Gotham success,
Rejoicing, they blaz'd, without doubt;
'Great Rome,' they now say, 'was not built in one day;
'We've the Branch, and we'll soon have the Root!'

While their thoughts were thus big, over Newcastle brig
The Mail came one day, in a hurry:
'What's the news?' say the folk; quick a Briton up spoke,
'No Branch!—so Newcastle be merry.'

'No Branch!' was the cry, re-echoed the sky,
And sent down to Gotham a volley;
Where the prospect is bad, 'for 'tis fear'd they'll run mad,
Or relapse into sad melancholy.

So Gotham beware, and no more lay a snare,
Nor think that Newcastle you'll bend;
Call your advocates home, your cause to bemoan,
And let each his own calling attend.

THE CUSTOM HOUSE TREE, &c.

Tune—"The Quayside Shaver."

Ye folks of Newcassel, so gen'rous, advance,
And listen awhile to my humourous strain;
'Tis not the fag end of a fairy romance,
Nor yet the effect of a crack in the brain:
'Tis a Custom-house Tree, that was planted with care,
And with Newcassel Int'rest well dung'd was the root;
And that all Water Fowls might partake of a share,
They were kindly permitted to taste of the Fruit.

The Sea Gulls of Shields sought a Branch, so applied
To a stately old Drake, of the fresh water breed:
He flutter'd his wings, then he bade them provide
A Memorial, to send off to London with speed.
His pow'rful opinion was soon put in force,
And messengers chose, who, without more delay,
Took flight; while blind Ignorance guided their course,
And they roosted, I'm told, about Ratcliffe Highway.

Meanwhile, with impatience, a Gull took his glass,
And with anxious concern took a squint to the south;
If I don't now behold (may you prove me an ass)
A Gull flying back with a Branch in his mouth.
The news quickly spread; they, in wild consternation,
Burnt tar-barrels, bells ringing, dancing for joy;
A person was sent for to plan the foundation,
While others drank Mrs. Carr's wine-cellar dry.

There was one, half seas over, sang 'Little Tom Horner,'
While some in the streets, on their bellies lay flat;
Another, 'pon turning the Library Corner,
Ran foul of a quaker, and knock'd off his hat.
A full brandy bottle came smack through a window,
And hit on the temple a canty old wife;
"Don't murmur," say they, "were you burnt to a cinder,
"We're able to grant you a pension for life."

Their Gull-eye at London, o'er pudding and roast,
Would bet heavy odds he should fortunate be;
And then after dinner propos'd, as a toast,
"That grass might soon grow upon Newcassel Kee."
But the Treas'ry decision laid vap'ring aside;
"No Branch!" was the cry, so away the Gulls slunk:
Should a Twig be lopp'd off, it can ne'er be deny'd,
But the roots would soon dry, and thus wither its trunk.

So now I've a scheme, if your fancy I hit,
'Twill suit crazy folks, after dancing mad reels;
Instead of a Custom-house Branch, 'twould be fit
That a Branch from the Mad-house be rear'd in North Shields.
We'll laugh at the joke, while experience may learn
The Gulls, for the future, in peace to remain.
By what you have heard, you may also discern,
That premature joy's the forerunner of pain.

THE CUSTOM HOUSE BRANCH.

Tune—"Yo heave O."

The joyous men of North Shields their church bells set a ringing sweet,
And tar-barrels blaz'd, their high rapture for to shew;
Like bears some fell a dancing, like ravens some were singing sweet,
'Poor Jack,' 'Rule Britannia' and 'Yo heave O.'
Some grog were freely quaffing,
Like horses some were laughing;
Their matchless powers in bellowing all eager seem'd to shew;
The Branch, they cried, we've got,
And with it, well we wot,
Fitters, bankers, merchants, soon will follow in a row.

The Newcastle deputation, no doubt on't, swagger'd much, sir,
Expecting our Pilgarlicks soon foiled would have been;
But too hard for them all prov'd the diplomatic Butcher,
Whose tongue, like his gully-knife, is marvellously keen,
Spite of wheedling and of sneering,
Bamboozling and queering,
He to his purpose stuck so firm, so true, and so staunch,
The Town Clerk and his chums,
Stood whistling on their thumbs,
Astonish'd, whilst triumphantly he bore away the Branch.

And now since the Custom House we thus have got translated,
Why longer should the County Courts Newcastle proudly grace?
We wise-ones of North Shields, tho' reckon'd addle-pated,
For this pile so magnificent will find a fitter place.
Yon space[32] which——'s skill,
Seems destin'd ne'er to fill
With structures worthy Athens' or Corinth's proudest day;
Yon space! O is it not
The very, very spot
Where the County Courts their splendour so massive should display?

If once our gen'ral committee determine, in full quorum,
The removal of our Courts, the result will fully shew,
That the Lords of the Treasury, and Custos Rotulorum,
(Our high displeasure dreading) will not dare to whisper No.
And when the whim impells,
To eclipse the Dardanelles;
The old Castle of its ancient sight shall straightway take its leave,
To brave the billow's shocks,
On the dread Black Midden rocks,
However for its transit Antiquarians sore may grieve.

Then comes the grand finale, for which our souls we'd barter now;
The Regent and his ministers we'll pester night and day,
Till tranferr'd to us Newcastle sees her revenues and charter too,
And from Heddon streams to Tynemouth bar, Tyne owns our sovereign sway.
O when our town so famous is,
Big as Hippopotamuses,
We'll strut about the Bank-top quite semi-divine;
The neighbouring coasters all,
Our greatness shall appall,
And their topsails straight they'll lower to the lords of the Tyne.

'Twas thus with idle rumours poor gentlemen delighted,
The honest men of North Shields to fancy gave the rein;
Sad proof that when ambition with folly is united,
Astonishing chimeras oft occupy the brain.
But soon their joy was banish'd,
Soon each illusion vanish'd,
For news arriv'd the Butcher the Branch could not obtain.
Deep, deep in the dumps,
(After playing all his trumps)
Just as branchless as he went he was 'toddling hyem' again,

Newcastle, thou dear canny town! O ever thus defeated
Be every hostile effort thy prosperity to shake;
Long grumbling to thy Custom-house, in gigs and coaches seated,
May the honest men of North Shields their daily journies take,
And, mounted on their hacks,
Long, long too, may the Jacks
Continue their equestrian skill on Shields road to display;
Tho' oft their tits may stumble,
And o'er the bows they tumble,
Unhurt, still bold, may they remount, and onward bowl away.

Newcastle men, rejoice! O haste, on this occasion,
With many a jovial bumper our whistles let us wet,
Lord Eldon, with Sir William Scott, and all our deputation,
To toast, with acclamations due, O let us not forget:
To them our thanks be tender'd,
Good services they've render'd—
And let us hope in after times, should Branch wars rage again,
In Newcastle 'twill be found,
Such men do then abound,
The commercial pre-eminence still boldly to maintain.

[32] The New Market Place.

THE MECHANICS' PROCESSION;

Or, A Trip to South Shields.

Tune—"The Bold Dragoon."

Let gowks about Odd Fellows brag,
And Foresters se fine—
Unrivall'd the Mechanics stand,
And long will o'er them shine;—
With belts of blue, and hearts so true,
They far outrival every Order—
Their praise is sung by every tongue,
Frae Lunnin toon reet ow'r the Border.
Whack, row de dow, &c.

O had you seen our Nelson lads
When Nunn[33] brought up the news
He said, let us be off to Shields,
Our brothers' hearts to rouse;
Our Tiler drew his sword, and cried,
Let banners wave and loud drums rattle—
Whene'er Mechanics are oppress'd,
They'll find us first to fight their battle!
Whack, row de dow, &c.

Three cheers we gave, when Nunn replied,
Our Albion lads do crave,
To join the Tyne and Collingwood,
All danger they would brave;
And each I. G. wad let them see,
Their hearts and souls were in the action,
They'd crush a foe at ev'ry blow,
Until that they had satisfaction.
Whack, row de dow, &c.

The ardour spread from lodge to lodge,
Each brother's heart beat high,
And down the Tyne, in steamers fine,
On rapid wings they fly;—
'Mid cannon's roar along the shore,
Our band struck up our tunes se merry—
So blythe a crew there's been but few,
Since famous Jemmy Johnson's Wherry.
Whack, row de dow, &c.

At Shields we join'd their splendid band,
And march'd in fine array—
Throughout the town, we gain'd renown,
For such a grand display:—
We smack'd their yell, and wish'd success
To each Mechanic's Lodge se clever,
And as we left the brothers cried—
O may our Order live for ever!
Whack, row de dow, &c.

Let's drink to all Mechanics true,
Upon both sides of Tyne
May peace and plenty bless their homes,
And round them long entwine;—
To Simpson te, so kind and free,
Let's give three cheers as loud as thunder—
Till echo'd back from pole to pole,
And all the world admire and wonder!
Whack, row de dow, &c.

[33] Thomas Nunn, I. G. of the Albion Lodge.

A GIPSY'S SONG.

Here awhile we'll cease from roaming—
Pitch the tents among the broom—
Turn the asses on the common,
And enjoy the afternoon.

Merry shall we be to-day:
What is life devoid of pleasure?
Care from us keep far away,
While Mirth pursues his sprightly measure.

Place all things in decent order,
Budgets, boxes, mugger-ware,
And here encamp'd, on England's border,
We'll remain till Whitsun Fair.

Ease the brutes of panniers' load—
Let them browse among the heather;
Light a fire, and dress some food,
And frankly we shall feast together.

And Allan,[34] thou shall screw thy drone,
And play up 'Maggie Lauder' sweetly,
Or 'Money Musk' or 'Dorrington,'
And we will frisk and foot it neatly.

Crowd[35] gain'd applause for many a tune—
Few peer'd him in the High or Lawlan';
But neither he nor Sandy Brown[36]
Could trill a note like Jemmy Allan.

E'en Blaw-loud Willy's[37] Border airs,
Nor gay nor daft could please the dancer;
But aye to Allan's lilts, at fairs,
The very feet themselves would answer.

Each lad shall take his fav'rite lass,
And dance with her till she be weary,
And warm her with the whisky glass,
And kiss and hug his nut-brown deary.

And when of mirth we've had our will,
Upon the sward love shall entwine us;
Our plighted vows we'll then fulfill,
Without a canting priest to join us.

And when we go our country rounds,
Some trinkets selling, fortunes telling—
Some tink'ring, cooping, casting spoons,
We'll still obtain the ready shilling.

Unto the farm-steads we can hie,
Whene'er our stock of food grows scanty,
And from the hen-roost, bin, or sty,
We'll aye get fresh supplies in plenty.

And when the shepherd goes to sleep,
And on the fell remains the flock,
We'll steal abroad among the sheep,
And take a choice one from the stock.

The clergy take the tenth of swine,
Potatoes, poultry, corn, and hay—
Why should not gipsies, when they dine,
Have a tithe-pig as well as they?

We wish not for great store of wealth,
Nor pomp, nor pride, nor costly dainty;
While blest with liberty and health,
And competence—then we have plenty.

Merry shall we be to-day:
What is life devoid of pleasure?
Care from us keep far away,
While Mirth pursues his sprightly measure.

H. R.

[34] James Allan, the celebrated Northumberland bagpiper.

[35] A vagrant piper, who often travelled with gipsies.

[36] About 45 years ago, a poem appeared in a Kelso newspaper, wherein this person was respectfully noticed, as follows:—

"They brought the piper, Sandy Brown,
Frae Jedburgh to Lochmaben town;
Though whaisling sair and broken down
Auld Sandy seem'd,
His chanter for a pleasing sound
Was still esteem'd."

[37] An unskilful performer on the bagpipes, who attended the different fairs held in Northumberland.

VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE BURNS' CLUB,

Held at Mr. Wallace's, Nag's Head, Newcastle, Jan. 1817.

The rolling year at length brings forth
The day that gave our poet birth:
O Burns! to testify thy worth,
We're hither met—
Nae genius i' the South, or North
Can match thee yet.

Of ither's rhymes we have enow,
But sic as thine are rare and few—
For aye to nature thou wert true,
Thou bard divine!
Nae poet Scotia ever knew
Could sing sae fine.

With rapture, each returning Spring,
I'll follow thee, on Fancy's wing,
To where the lively linnets sing
In hawthorn shade;
Here oft thy muse, deep pondering,
Sweet sonnets made.

With thee I'll stray by streamlet's side,
And view the bonnie wimpling tide
O'er polish'd pebbles smoothly glide,
Wi' murm'ring sound,
While Nature, in her rustic pride,
Smiles all around.

Or to the fells I'll follow thee,
Where o'er the thistle bums the bee,
And meek-eyed gowans modestly
Their charms disclose,
And where, upon its 'thorney tree,'
Blows the wild rose.

Or to the heath, where fairies meet
In mystic dance with nimble feet,
By moonlight—there the elves I'll greet,
And join their revels;
Or on a 'rag-weed nag', sae fleet,
Fly wi' the devils!

Through fields of beans, with rich perfume,
And o'er the braes o' yellow broom
That gilds the bonny banks o' Doon,
Wi' thee I'll rove,
Where thou, when blest in youthful bloom,
Stray'd with thy love.

When thunder-storms the heav'ns do rend,
Unto Benlomond's top I'll wend,
And view the clouds electric vend
The forked flash!
And hear the pouring rains descend
Wi' dreadful clash!

A fig for meikle bags o' wealth,
If I hae food, and claes, and health,
And thy sweet sangs upon my shelf,
I'll gaily trudge it
Through life, and freely quit the pelf
For Robin's budget.

And when distracting moments teaze me,
Or fell Oppressions grapples seize me,
A lesson frae thy book may ease me,
Sae I may bear
Misfortune's wipes, till death release me
Frae canker'd care. H. R.

A PARODY,

Written on hearing a Report that the Newcastle and Northumberland Yeomanry Cavalry were to be disbanded.

Tune—"The Soldier's Tear."

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.

Wm. Greig.

Newcastle on Tyne,
May twenty-nine.

Thomas Whittell, his Humourous Letter To good Master Moody, Razor-setter.

Good Master Moody, my beard being cloudy,
My cheeks, chin, and lips, like moon i' the 'clipse
For want of a wipe—
I send you a razor, if you'll be at leisure
To grind her, and set her, and make her cut better,
You'll e'en light my pipe.[38]

Dear sir, you know little, the case of poor Whittell:
I'm courting, tantivy, if you will believe me—
Now mark what I say:
I'm frank in my proffers, and when I make offers
To kiss the sweet creature, my lips cannot meet her,
My beard stops the way.

You've heard my condition, and now I petition,
That, without omission, with all expedition
You'll give it a strike,
And send it by Tony, he'll pay you the money—
I'll shave and look bonny, and go to my honey,
As snod as you like.

If you do not you'll hip me, my sweetheart will slip me,
And if I should smart for't, and break my brave heart for't,
Are you not to blame?
But if you'll oblige me, as gratitude guides me,
I'll still be your servant, obedient and fervent,
Whilst Whittell's my name.

[38] This phrase means, the conferring of a favour.

THE NATURAL PHILOSOPHER;

Or, The Downfall of the Learned Humbugs!

Tune—"Canny Newcassel."

Oh! hae ye not heard o' this wonderful man,
Perpetual Motion's inventor!
The Sun, Muin, and Stars are a' doon iv his plan,
But take time till it comes frae the prenter!
The last time he lectur'd he tell'd such a tale
'Bout Vibration, Air, and such matter;
He can prove that a washing-tub is not a pail,
And all Isaac Newton's brains batter!

CHORUS.

Then come, great and sma', and hear the downfa'—
For a fa' down it will be for certain—
Of a' the wiseacres and gon'rals, an' a'
That dare to oppose the great Martin;
He'll settle their hash! their necks he will smash,
A' the College-bred gowks he will dazzel;
Ne mair shall false teachers o'er him cut a dash!
They are banish'd frae Canny Newcassel.

He can prove that a turkey-cock is not a Turk!
That a 'tatie is not a pine-apple;
He likewise can prove that boil'd goose is not pork,
And a black horse is not a grey dapple.
A' what he can prove—a' what he can do,
And bother the gon'rals—the wad-be's;
He likewise can prove that a boot's not a shoe,
And his cane's not a sausage frae Mawbey's![39]
Then come, great and sma', &c.

His Poems are sublime, tho' nyen o' them rhyme—
Why, he pays no attention to Morrow;[40]
Ne matter for that, still he makes them a' chyme,
For he hasn't his phrases to borrow!
Then proceed, mighty man, propagating thy plan,
To enlighten this dark age of reason!
May it spread like a blaze, with thy eloquence fann'd—
To doubt it, I hold it sheer treason.
Then come, great and sma', &c.

[39] A late famed Sausage-maker in the Old Flesh Market.

[40] Murray's Grammar.

THE GATESHEAD RADS.

To an old Tune.

T'other day aw was saunt'ring down the New Street,
And had turn'd to gan back, when whe should aw meet,
Reet plump i' the face, but sage Tommy Rav-ly,
Just come frae the council, and looking most gravely.

Wi' Tommy, says aw, what can be the matter?
Your plawd is aw dirt, and your teeth in a chatter;
Has your colleagues in office been using a broom,
And sooping the dirt all out of the room?

Now, James, he replied, Pray don't be prosy,
Or sure as you're there, I'll make you quite nosey;
I've gotten enough to make me look blue,
Without being bother'd with plebeians like you.

Just think, when the last time in council we met,
We propos'd and appointed our yellow-hair'd Pet
To be Justice's clerk, and pocket the fees,
For which he came almost plump down on his knees.

But no sooner did we our backs fairly turn,
Than they (devil take them!) appointed Swinburne,
And laugh'd in their sleeves to think how we'd stare;
But James, you must know, they had better beware.

Now, Tommy, says aw, just keep yoursel' aisy,
For at present aw'm sure that ye look very crazy;
Make the Quaker your purser, and he'll put ye right,
For aw'm sure that the strings he will keep verra tight.

A sixpence he'll make gan as far as a pound,
So that will be nineteen and sixpence ye've found;
Just leave all to him and W. H. B.,
And no doubt ye will prosper, as shortly ye'll see.

Now come, let's away to the bonny Blue Bell,
And there we will drink a quart o' yor yell,
And then aw will tell ye what next ye maun de—
But mind ye say nowse 'bout it coming frae me.

He then made a start, but nowt did he say,
('Tween councillor and plebeian, that's may be the way,)
Till into the house we fairly did stumble,
When, "go cab my lug," he was then verra humble.

Now, Tommy, maw man, aw see nowse that ye've done,
But aw hope ye intend to commence verra soon;
A market we maun hae, an' at the Brig-end—
A place that old Jacky oft dis recommend—

To save us the fash, and aiblins the pain,
Of ganging right o'er unto the High-crane;
And mind what I say, if we want ony peace
During sermon, on Sunday, oppose the police.

At that he did open his eyes verra wide—
Ah, beggar! aw thought aw'd offended his pride;
But nought o' the sort, for he held out his loof—
Now, James, my good fellow, you've said quite enough.

My int'rest, aw'm sure, you always shall hae,
And a job aw will get you on the Sabbath-day;
For some one at the council this day did propose,
That we the dog-fights in Green's Field should oppose.

And Usher was told for to seek out three men,
To assist him on Sundays, and thou shalt be ane;
And 'bout what thou wert saying a motion aw'll bring,
For, doubtless, 'twill prove a necessary thing.

We thank ye, says aw, but d'ye think that ye're right,
In trying to stop us frae seeing a dog-fight;
For maw thoughts about liberty it fairly clogs,
Yet—we've barking enough wi' twe-fooled dogs.

Gateshead, March 1, 1836.                       Y. S.

THE ELECTION DAY.

Tune—"There's nae Luck about the House."

Ye Freemen all, with heart and voice
Your banners wide display—
Bring Hodgson forth, your man of choice,
Upon th' Election-day.

Then fill your glasses, drink your fill,
Drink deeply while you may—
With right good-will, we'll drink and swill
Upon th' Election-day.

But politics are not the stuff
That we care much about—
Nor care, so we get drink enough,
Who's in, or who is out.

Then fill your glasses, drink your fill—
Fill and drink away,
And ev'ry one enjoy the fun
Upon th' Election-day.

Brave Vulcan is our leader bold,
The pride of all good fellows—
He swears the iron shall ne'er grow cold,
While he can blow the bellows.

Then fill your glasses, what's the toast,
To drive dull care away?—
'May ev'ry man be at his post
Upon th' Election-day.'

The landlord next appears in view,
Our second in command,
Encouraging the jovial crew
To drink while they can stand.

Then charge your glasses, noble souls,
The toast without delay—
'May thirsty souls have flowing bowls
Upon th' Election-day.'

Then Hodgson's name aloud proclaim
Victoriously that day;
While he, in honour of his fame,
Will all expences pay.

Then fill your glasses, what's the toast?
Fill and drink away—
'May ev'ry man drink all he can
Upon th' Election-day.'

W. Watson

MARY DRUE.

By the late T. Houston[41]

On a pleasant April morning,
Wand'ring Tyne's sweet banks along,
Spring with flow'rs the fields adorning,
Woods and groves with birds of song—
Pensive stray'd I; none was nigh me,
When a maid appear'd in view—
Slow she came, or seem'd to fly me—
Heav'ns! 'twas charming Mary Drue.

Long my Mary's charms I gaz'd on,
Long I view'd that nymph complete—
Her bright eyes no form were rais'd on,
But were downcast at her feet:
In her hand a violet blooming
Kiss'd the breeze that gently blew,
And one robe, with folds presuming,
Hid the breast of Mary Drue.

Onward drew the modest maiden,
Heav'nly was her gait and air—
Brighter ne'er that meadow stray'd in,
Never Tyne saw form so fair:
In my breast my heart, wild beating,
With redoubled ardour flew;
From my tongue all speech retreating,
Left me scarce—"dear Mary Drue."

Henry, Henry! have I found you?
(Thus the maid her words address'd,)
And with solitude around you,
Can my Henry here be bless'd?
Woods and streams may yield a pleasure,
But my bliss—'tis all in you—
Love beyond all bounds and measure—
Lov'd at last by Mary Drue!

Told this morn of your disorder,
(Love for me the cause believ'd,)
Soon I sought this river's border,
Where 'tis said you oft have griev'd:
On the river's brink I find you—
Pensive, sad, I find you too;
Leave the world and wealth behind you—
Thou art worlds to Mary Drue!

Sweet as notes from lutes ascending,
To my ear these accents came,
Smiles and looks of love attending,
Touch'd my soul with gen'rous flame:
O'er her charms, disorder'd, stooping—
Rapt'rous sight! divinely new!—
On my breast her head lay drooping,
While I clasp'd sweet Mary Drue.

[41] Thomas Houston died about the year 1802, or 1803. He was the author of a play, entitled "The Term-day, or Unjust Steward," and of several poems, among which were, "The Progress of Madness," and "A Race to Hell." In the latter piece were given the portraitures of two notorious corn-factors of that day, belonging to this town.—Houston was a native of Ireland, and by trade a brass-founder.

OPENING OF THE NEW MARKETS.

Fill up the cup till the ruby o'erflows it,
Drown ev'ry care in the nectar's rich stream—
If joy's in the goblet, this day will disclose it,
When Trade, Worth, and Beauty, by turns are our theme.
What is, I ask, the toast,
Deepest drunk, honour'd most,
Drunk most devoutly, most honour'd to-day?
What is the pledge that we
Hail first, with three times three?
"Success to our Market!"—Huzza and Huzza!

No longer let London and Liverpool tell us,
Their towns boast of markets so spacious & grand;
We answer, "We pray you, be quiet, good fellows,
We, too, have a Market—the first in the land!"
Fish, flesh, and garden fruits,
Oranges, apples, roots,
There you will find them all, seek what you may;
Honest the dealers, too,
Drink, then, I pray of you—
"Success to the Dealers!"—Huzza and Huzza!

The structure—but why should we speak of its merit?
Enough that we mention the architect's name;
And long may the building, begun with such spirit,
A monument stand of his talents and fame.
Proofs of a master mind,
Talents and taste combin'd,
Are they not every where visible—say?
The architect's pride and boast,
Then be our hearty toast—
"Mr. R. Grainger!"—Huzza and Huzza!

Wreathe the bowl, wreathe it with wit's brightest flow'rs—
Fill, fill it up till the nectar o'erflows;
Never was Burgundy brighter than ours,
Never were eye-beams more sparkling than those.
Surrounded by Beauty's train,
Captives in willing chains,
To eyes that beam witchery, and smiles that betray,
Low at the shrine we bow—
Love claims the homage due—
"The Ladies!—the Ladies!"—Huzza and Huzza!

If spirit, by cost nor by trouble dismay'd—
If bounty unmeted, and free as the dew;
If courtesy, kindness to each one display'd,
May claim our applause, it is owing here now.
Oft in the festive scene,
Courteous and kind he's been,
But never more courteous, more kind than to-day:
Fill then the cup again—
Drain—to the bottom drain—
"His Worship, the Mayor!"—Huzza and Huzza!

THE NEW MARKETS;

Or, Newcastle Improvements.

Believe me now, good foke, what I say is not a joke:
Behold, says cousin Isabel, improvement now is visible,
New buildings you espy, airy, spacious, and high,
And trading chaps are moving round to sell or buy.
When trade was at a stand, and the river chok'd wi' sand,
Caus'd the bodies to assemble, the poor to employ;
Then Johnny off packt, up to Lunnon for an act,
And the manager for market-building, Dick's the boy!

CHORUS.

Then Starkey, blaw your reed, ca' the group a' frae the dead,
Jack Coxan and Cull Billy, Judy Dowling, and Blind Willy;
Let the cavalcade move on, with a tune frae Bywell Tom,
Take a view o' wor new city, drink, and then return.

When Colossus he arose, with his Jachin and his Boaz,
His plans of such utility, of splendour and gentility,
Condemn'd was Tommy Gee, and confirm'd was Tommy B.,
And the measure seem'd to reconcile both friends and foes:
Even butchers' crabbed luiks, wi' their meat on silver huiks,
Drop all former animosities, and strut about wi' joy;
For the temple of king Solomon, for grandeur, can't follow, man—
All Europe now may shout aloud, that Dick's the boy!
Then Starkey, &c.

Old houses now beware, how you spoil a street or square,
Whatever ground you bide upon, your fate is soon decided on;
For tumble down you must, like a lump of mouldy crust,
And the Major bell will toll your fate, when all is done;
For the rich have found it out, that a camel, without doubt,
Through a needle-eye can't pass without a pilot or a foy;
The money, though conservative, will find a good preservative—
The Knight of Leazes Terrace, hinnies, Dick's the boy!
Then Starkey, &c.

Fine rows of Paphian bowers, for the fruits, and herbs, and flowers,
The baskets stand, so pretty looking—feet and tripe, a' fit for cooking—
Fountains fine and pure, that a cripple they may cure,
And babies may get baptism, for ought you know;
There's a clock to tell the time—but I now must stop my rhime,
For the feasting has begun, and each heart seems big with joy;
Then come, enjoy the treat, wi' your legs upon your feet,
Take off your hats, and shout aloud—Brave Dick's the boy!

Then Starkey, blaw your reed, ca' the group a' frae the dead,
Jack Coxon, and Cull Billy, Judy Dowling, and Blind Willy;
Let the cavalcade move on, with a tune frae Bywell Tom,
View Newcassel's famous city, drink, and then go home.

Wm. Mitford.

MORE INNOVATIONS!

Newcastle's sore transmogrified, as every one may see,
But what they've done is nought to that they still intend to dee:
There still remain some sonsy spots, pure relics of our ancient features,
O' which our canny town shall brag, while bonny Gateshead boasts sand-beaters.

The scrudg'd up Foot of Pilgrim-street, they surely will not mind,
'Tis such a curiosity—a street without an end;
Should they extend it to the Quay, and show off All Saints' Church so neatly,
It might look fine, but I'm afraid 'twould spoil the Butcher-bank completely!

Of pulling down the Butcher-bank it grieves one's heart to speak,
From it down every Quayside-chare there's such a glorious keek;
The shambles, too, a bonny sight, the horse and foot-ways nice and narrow—
Say what they will, seek through the world, the Butcher-bank is bad to marrow.

Our fishwives, too, might well complain, forc'd off the hill to move,
Where they so long had squall'd in peace, good fellowship, and love:
The brightest day will have an end, and here the Sandhill's glory closes,
Now flies and fumes no more will make the gentles stop their ears and noses.

'Tis said they mean to clear away the houses in the Side,
To set off old St. Nich'las church, so long our greatest pride;
But where's the use of making things so very grand and so amazing,
To bring daft gowks from far and near, to plague us with their gob and gazing.

The Middle-street's to come down next, and give us better air,
And room to make to hold at once the market and the fair;
Well may Newcastle grieve for this, because in hot or rainy weather,
It look'd so well to see the folks all swelter'd in a hole together.

The Tyne's to run out east and west; and, 'stead of Solway boats,
Our Greenland ships at Carlisle call, and not at Johnny Groat's;
Dull we may be at such a change—eh, certies, lads, haul down your colours!—
'Twould be no wonder now to see chain-bridges ruin all the scullers.

R. Gilchrist.

THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE OLD HOUSE IN THE SHIELD-FIELD

TO JOHN CLAYTON, ESQ.

To fall ne'er enter'd in my head,
So staunch is all my station—
As little dreamt I ere to dread
The ills of innovation.
Who can deny my dignity,
Tho I put little state on,
Outshining sham benignity,
My canny Mr. Clayton?

Long since my roof has rung to song,
And smil'd on gay carouses,
Newcastle then—though now so throng—
Was somewhat scant of houses:
I've stood so long, nor Bourne nor Brand
My days can place a date on,
So even spare me still to stand,
My canny Mr. Clayton.

Newcastle now, like Greece or Rome,
Gives all the world a mazer,
And Mister Grainger has become
More like Nebuchadnezzar:
Build houses till ye touch the sun,
Aye work both soon and late on,
But do not try on me such fun,
My canny Mister Clayton.

Yon villas fine—with all their sneers—
Time will not have to hallow,
Ere they have seen one-tenth my years,
Their sites will lie in fallow;
So do not think I envy them,
Though pompously they prate on:
They're sprigs, but I'm a sober stem,
My canny Mister Clayton.

Then say the word, my lease renew,
And win a wreath of glory—
A bard of Tyne will sing of you,
All in my upper story.
Who lays disporting hands on me,
All ills may pour his pate on,
So be advis'd, and let me be,
My canny Mister Clayton.

R. Gilchrist.

EUPHY'S CORONATION.

Tune—"Arthur M'Bride."

To the Fish-market we are ganning—the queen is proclaim'd!
And Euphy's their choice, for beauty lang fam'd—
They've geen her full pow'r, now she's justly ordain'd;
So they've gyen to crown honest aud Euphy!
The market was crowded the queen for to view—
Euphy sat for promotion, drest up wi' new;
The procession appear'd, bearing the flag—a true blue!
And then they surrounded aud Euphy.

The procession was headed by Barbara Bell,
He was follow'd by chuckle-head Chancellor Kell—
Mally Ogle appear'd, wi' a barrel o' yell,
To drink to the health of aud Euphy.
Honest Blind Willie, tee, gaw them a call—
There was great Bouncing Bet, Billy Hush, and Rag Sall,
The Babe o' the Wood, with Putty-mouth Mall,
A' went to crown honest aud Euphy.

There was a grand invitation for byeth great and sma'—
Her subjects assembled, did loudly hurra!—
She was nobly supported by bauld Dolly Raw,
At the crowning of honest aud Euphy;
But Ralphy the Hawk was in prey for a job,
Wiv his small quarter-staff, wish'd to silence the mob—
He was silenc'd when he gat the beer-barrel tiv his gob,
At the crowning of honest aud Euphy.

Euphy and Madge were the gaze i' the show,
They were lang loudly cheer'd by the famous Jin Bo;—
To preserve peace and order there was barrel-bagg'd Joe,
At the crowning of honest aud Euphy.
To make an oration was the Chancellor's wish,
While his turbot-head sweel'd like a smoking het dish;
Bauld Dolly Raw stopt his gob wi' a cod fish,
At the crowning of honest aud Euphy.

By great Billy Hush, Euphy queen was declar'd!
To move frae the market her subjects prepar'd;
To the auld Custom-house the procession repair'd,
To drink at the cost of aud Euphy.
Fine Barbara Bell grand music did play,
Which elevated the spirits of young Bella G—y,
'Keep your tail up!' she wad sing a' the way,
At the crowning of honest aud Euphy.

To lead off the ball, for the queen they did cry,
To please all her people, she was there to comply;
Peggy Grundy would follow, wi' Big Bob and X Y,
To assist in the dance wi' Queen Euphy.
The dancing was ended, down to dine they a' sat;
Roast beef and pig-cheek—a good swig follow'd that;
The fragments were reserv'd in Chancellor Kell's hat,
At the crowning of honest aud Euphy.

The Chancellor's gob was beginning to swet,
He swill'd it away till he gat ower wet,
He was led to the Tower by young Beagle Bet,
Frae the crowning of honest aud Euphy:
Bella Roy was beginning to produce all her slack—
She was tuen hyem on a barrow, by wise Basket Jack;
The sport was weel relish'd by Billy the Black,
At the crowning of honest aud Euphy.

A speech was now myed frae the queen, i' the chair—
To study their good she would take a great care;
They aw had her blessing—what could she say mair?
God bless the Queen, honest aud Euphy!
Wi' cheers for the Queen, the house oft did ring—
By their humble request she the 'Keel-row' did sing;
They a' happy retir'd, wi' 'God save the King!'
Frae the crowning of honest aud Euphy.

Thomas Marshall.

SANDGATE WIFE'S NURSE SONG.

Tune—"A Sailor's Wife has nought to dee."

A, U, A, my bonny bairn,
A, U, A, upon my airm,
A, U, A—thou suin may learn
To say dada se canny:
Aw wish thy daddy may be weel,
He's lang i' coming frae the keel;
Tho' his black fyesce be like the de'il,
Aw like a kiss frae Johnny.
A, U, A, &c.,

Thou really hast thy daddy's chin,
Thou art like him leg and wing,
And aw wi' pleasure can thee sing,
Since thou belangs my Johnny.
Johnny is a clever lad—
Last neet he fuddled aw he had,
This morn he wasn't very bad—
He luik'd as blithe as ony.

Tho' thou's the first, thou's not the last;
Aw mean to hae my bairns fast—
And when this happy time is past,
Aw still will love my Johnny;
For his hair is brown, and see is thine,
Your eyes are grey, and se are mine,
Thy nose is taper'd off se fine—
Thou's like thy daddy Johnny.

Thy canny doup is fat and round,
And, like thy dad, thou's plump and sound,
Thou's worth to me a thousand pound,
Thou's a' together bonny.
When daddy's drunk, he'll tyek a knife,
And threaten sair to tyek my life:
Whe wad not be a keelman's wife,
To have a man like Johnny.

But yonder's daddy coming now,
He links the best amang the crew;
They're a' gaun to the Barley-mow,
My canny, good-like Johnny.
Come, let's go get the bacon fried,
And let us make a clean fireside,
Then on his knee he will thee ride,
When he comes hyem to mammy.

BOLD JACK OF THE JOURNAL.

[Written on reading Mr. Larkin's "Letter to the Protestants of Newcastle," on the subject of "Maria Monk's Awful Disclosures."]

Bold Jack of the Journal—
From regions infernal!—
The Catholic Clergy
Would hang or would burn all!

This insolent Tory
Is now in his glory,
And currency gives
To Miss Monk's lying story.

For his blust'rin' and barkin',
And fulsome remarking
Brave, honest Charles Larkin
Has gi'en him a yarkin'.

Newcastle, Sept, 1836.

STEAM SOUP;

Or, Cuckoo Jack's Petition.

Tune—"X Y Z."

Let Cocknies brag o' turtle-soup, and Frenchmen o' their frogs, man—
Newcastle soup, such famous stuff, it feeds us fat as hogs man!
Yor Callipee and Callipash, compar'd tiv it, is nobbit trash—
Strang knees and houghs stew'd down to mush, are gobbled up by every slush;
Wi' pluck an' taties folks are duen, for smoking soup in crowds they run,
And sup till they are fu', man! Fal de ral, &c.

A skipper and his wife sat down, to give a quairt a try, man,
When something stuck in Mally's throat, and choak'd her very nigh, man:
Poor Mally blair'd, and turn'd quite pale—and out she pull'd a great rat's tail!
Says Jack, aw'll off to Mr. Mayor, and tell the story tiv a hair—
Aw think it is a shameful joke, to sell such stuff wor Mall to choke—
It's warse than tatie stew, man! Fal de ral, &c.

Whe knaws but these fine dandy cooks hire resurrection faws, man,
To stock them with forbidden flesh, agyen our famous laws, man:
A cook in France, now understand, as sure's the sun inleets wor land,
Did kidnap bairns, an' mince them down, and myed sic pies, that a' the town
Wad eat nowt else—thowt nowt se fine; they fand him out—then, what a shine!—
They hang'd him on a tree, man! Fal de ral, &c.

O Willy, man, wor canny king, ye knaw best how to feed us—
Ye ken what we can de at sea, at ony time ye need us;
Cram a' their necks into a loop, that try to cross wor breed wi' soup;
Or gar them pay a heavy fine, that dare unnerve yor tars of Tyne;
Then in the fight we'll loudly cheer, when we're restor'd to flesh and beer—
Hurra! for England's king, man! Fal de ral, &c.

R. Emery.

THE SANDGATE LASS ON THE ROPERY BANKS.

Tune—"The Skipper's Wedding."

On the Ropery-banks Jenny was sitting—
She had on a bed-gown just new,
And blithely the lassie was knitting
Wi' yarn of a bonny sky-blue.
The strings of her cap they were hinging,
Se lang, on her shoulders se fine,
And hearty I heard this lass singing—
My bonny keel lad shall be mine.

O wad the keel come down the river,
That I my dear laddie could see,
He whistles and dances se clever,
My bonny keel laddie for me.

Last neet, in amang these green dockings,
He fed me wi' gingerbread spice—
I promis'd to knit him his stockings,
He cuddled and kiss'd me se nice;
He ca'd me his jewel and hinney,
He ca'd me his pet and his bride,
And he swore that I should be his Jenny,
To lie at neets down by his side.
O wad the keel, &c.

That morning forget I will never,
When first I saw him on the Kee,
The 'Keel-row' he whistled se clever,
He won my affections frae me;
His drawers on his doup luik'd se canny,
His keel-hat was cock'd on his head,
And if I'd not getten my Jimmy,
Faith by this time I wad hae been dead.
O wad the keel, &c.

The first time I spoke to my Jimmy—
Now mind ye, it isn't a lee—
My mother had gi'en me a penny,
To get her a penn'orth o' tea;
When a lad i' the street cried out, 'Bessy!'
Says I, 'Hinny, that's not my nyem.'
'Becrike! never mind,' he said, 'lassie,
'To-neet I will see thee safe hyem."
O wad the keel, &c.

Since then I have been his true-lover,
And lov'd him as dear as my life,
And in spite o' baith father and mother,
I'll suin be my keel-laddie's wife;
How happy we'll be then together,
When he brings hyem his wages to me,
Wiv his bonny bit bairn crying 'Father,'
And another be lying o' my knee.
O wad the keel, &c.

AN OLD AND CURIOUS SONG,

On the late Mr. R. Clayton being made an Alderman.

Tune—"The Vicar and Moses."

My good Mr. Pun,
We know you like fun,
And also to crack a good joke;
'Tis well known in the nation,
That our Corporation
Has long lain under a cloak.
Fal lal de ral, &c.

But after your year,
How strange 'twill appear,
(Pray Heaven it prove for your good,)
To all the whole nation,
That our Corporation
Will then crouch under a Hood.[42]

Now, we poor folks,
Who're not us'd to jokes,
But with the sweets take the bitters—
The folks in our station
Think our Corporation
Has long been outfitted by Fitters.

Oh, Watty! Oh, Watty![43]
Shouldst thou now see Natty,
And his clan, how thickly they lay't on;
You'd say, in their order,
Mayor, Commons, Recorder,
Are all now outwitted by Cl——n.

From the days of good Walters,
To his who makes halters,[44]
Such changes have here taken place,
That from its high station,
Our poor Corporation
Has sunk into abject disgrace.

When the Alderman's gown
Was hawk'd about town,
And none would be found for to lay't on,
Up stepp'd brother Bob,
And settled the job,
And he was dubb'd Alderman C——n.

Yet think not, that though such,
He'll quit the Town's Hutch,
Or any thing there let miscarry;
Still there he'll give law,
Rule by his cat's paw,
The ever obliging Old Harry.

Ye honest electors,
Our faithful protectors,
In you there can never be blame;
As by following the Mayor.
And supporting the chair,
We always must vote for the same.

Ye scum of the bowl,
In vain you may growl,
Like the swinish group in a storm,
Nat will rule the roast,
And still make a boast,
That danger lies not in Reform.[45]

[42] Alderman Hood.

[43] Ald. Blackett.

[44] Ald. Cramlington.

[45] A few copies of the above song were printed by Mrs. Angus about the year 1795. It was said to have been written by the late Mr. James Davidson, attorney, author of a poem entitled, "Despair in Love, an Imprecatory Prayer;" which was also printed by Mrs. Angus—Sir Matthew White Ridley resigned his office of Magistrate about this time, observing, that "Clayton up stairs, and Clayton down stairs will never do."

NEWCASTLE LANDLORDS.—1834.

Kind friends and acquaintance, attention I claim,
While a few jolly Landlord, in this town, I name;
In alphabet order my song it is penn'd,
And I hope, for joke's sake, it will never offend.

CHORUS.

Then hey for good drinking,
It keeps us from thinking,
We all love a drop in our turn.

A stands for Armfield, a good hearty blade,
Tho' he's left the Nag's Head, still follows his trade;
At the foot of the Market you'll find his new shop,
Where many an old friend still calls in for a drop.

B stands for Burns, of the Theatre-square;
She's an orderly woman—good drink is sold there;
If I wanted a wife, I should readily choose
This amiable widow to govern my house.

C stands for Cant, sign of the Blue Bell,
Who keeps a good house, and good porter doth sell:
Quarrelling or fighting is there seldom seen,—
She's a canty old widow, but rather too keen.

D for Dixon, who once kept the Unicorn—Ho!
And D stands for Dixon, White Hart, you well know;
Then there's Dixon, Quayside, just a little way down—
Were the three fattest landlords in all the whole town.

E stands for Eggleton, Fighting Cocks Inn,
Tho' old, took a young wife, and thought it no sin;
F for Finlay, his shop's corner of Pudding-chare,
And good wine and spirits you'll always get there.

G for Gibson, the Blue-posts, in Pilgrim-street,
Where a few jolly souls oft for harmony meet;
H for Hackworth, in Cowgate, Grey Bull is the sign—
Only taste his good ale—faith, you'll say it's divine.

H stands for Heron, the sign of the Cock;
H for Hall, near Nuns' Gate—keeps a snug oyster-shop;
H stands for Horn, and he's done very weal,
Since he bother-d the heart of sly Mrs. Neil.

I stands for Inns—we've the best in the north—
There's the King's Head, the Queen's Head, the George, and the Turf,
The Old Crown and Thistle, and Miller's, Half Moon,
Well known to the trav'lers who frequent the town.

K stands for Kitchen, Hell's Kitchen 'twas nam'd,
And long for good ale and good spree has been fam'd;
In each parlour, in vestry, or kitchen you'll find
The beer-drawer, Mary, obliging and kind.

L stands for Larkin—he's left the Black Boy,
Once fam'd for Patlanders and true Irish joy;
On the Scotchwood New Road a house he has ta'en,
Where I hope the old soul will get forward again.

M stands for Mitford—he kept the North Pole,
Just over the Leazes—a dull-looking hole;
Now our favourite poet lives at Head of the Side—
Here's success to his muse—long may she preside.

N stands for Newton, sign of the Dolphin,
Who the old house pull'd down, built it up like an inn;
They say he found gold—how much I can't tell;
But never mind that, he's done wonderful well.

O stands for Orton—he keeps the Burnt House,
Once fam'd for the Knights of the Thimble and Goose;
And O stands for Ormston, at Pandon—O rare!—
Temptation enough for young men that go there!

P stands for Pace, sign of the White Swan,
Who, for to oblige, will do all that he can;
A convenient house, when you marketing make,
To pop in and indulge yourself with a beef-steak.

R stands for Ridley and Reed, you all know,
And R stands for Richardson, all in a row;
First, Three Tuns, the Sun, and the Old Rose & Crown,
And their ale's good as any at that part of town.

S for Sayer's, Nag's Head, he keeps good mountain-dew,—
Only taste it, you'll find what I tell you is true;
S for Stokoe, wine-merchant, foot of St. John's Lane;
For good stuff and good measure we'll never complain.

T for Teasdale, the Phœnix, a house fam'd for flip—
T for Teasdale who once kept the sign of the Ship;
And W for Wylam, a place more fam'd still—
Sure you all know the Custom-house on the Sandhill.

Robin Hood, Dog and Cannon, and Tiger for me,
The Peacock, well known to the clerks on the Quay;
The Old Beggar's Opera for stowrie, my pet,
Mrs. Richardson's was, and she cannot be bet.

There's the Black Bull and Grey Bull, well known to a few,
Black, White, and Grey Horse, and Flying Horse too;
The Black House, the White House, the Hole-in-the-Wall,
And the Seven Stars, Pandon, if you dare call.

There's the Turk's Head, Nag's Head, and Old Barley Mow,
The Bay Horse, the Pack Horse, and Teasdale's Dun Cow,
The Ship, and the Keel, the Half Moon, and the Sun—
But I think, my good friends, it is time to be done.

Then each landlord and landlady, wish them success,
Town and trade of the Tyne, too—we cannot do less;
And let this be the toast, when we meet to regale—
"May we ne'er want a bumper of Newcastle ale."

W. Watson.

A NEW SONG FOR BARGE-DAY, 1835.

Sung on board of the Steward's Steam-boat.

It well may grieve one's heart full sore,
To be in such a movement—
Upon the river, as on shore,
The rage is all improvement:
Once blithe as grigs, our merriment
Is chang'd to meditation,
How we these ills may circumvent—
O what a Corporation!

The Quayside always was too big,
As scullers have attested;
Tant ships, that come with rampant rig,
Against its sides are rested.
Still to extend it in a tift,
They're making preparation,
And Sandgate-midden is to shift—
O what a Corporation!

At Tyne-main once there was a caunch,
And famous sport was found there;
So long it stood—so high and staunch—
All vessels took the ground there;
But, somehow, it has crept away,
By flood or excavation,
And time there you need not delay—
O what a Corporation!

They think to move Bill-point—a spot
So lovely and romantic—
Which has sent many ships to pot,
And set some seamen frantic;
Then many a gowk will run to see,
And stare with admiration,
From Snowdon's Hole to Wincomlee—
O what a Corporation!

How silent once was Wallsend-shore—
Its dulness was a wonder;
Now, from the staiths, full waggons pour
Their coals like distant thunder;
To have restor'd its wonted peace,
In vain our supplication,—
The trade, they say, it will increase—
O what a Corporation!

Where Tynemouth-bar, I understand,
A rock from side to side is,
How well would look a bank of sand,
Not higher than the tide is;
But this, it seems, is not to be—
In spite of my oration,
The Tyne is still to join the sea—
O what a Corporation!

O would the Tyne but cease to flow,
Or, like a small burn, bubble,
There would not be a barge-day now,
Nor we have all this trouble;
But here, alas! we sailing roam
About its conservation,
Instead of sleeping safe at home—
O what a Corporation!

The Moral.
As patriots in public cause,
We never once have swerv'd yet,
And if we have not gain'd applause,
We know we've well deserv'd it:
Who thinks we care for feasting, he
Must be a stupid noddy—
We're, like the Herbage-committee,
An ill-requited body.

Robert Gilchrist.

ST. NICHOLAS' CHURCH.

O bonny church! ye've studden lang,
To mence our canny town;
But I believe ye are sae strang,
Ye never will fa' down:
The architects, wi' a' their wit,
May say that ye will fa';
But let them talk—I'll match ye yet
Against the churches a'.

CHORUS.

Of a' the churches in our land,
Let them be e'er sae braw,
St. Nicholas', of Newcastle town,
Yet fairly bangs them a'.

Lang have ye stood ilk bitter blast,
But langer yet ye'll stand;
And ye have been for ages past,
A pattern for our land:
Your bonny steeple looks sae grand—
The whole world speaks o' ye,
Been a' the crack, for cent'ries back,
And will be when I dee.

'Tis true they've patch'd ye all about
With iron, stone, and wood;
But let them patch—I have a doubt,
They'll do ye little good;
But, to be sure, its making work—
There's plenty lives by ye—
Not only tradesmen and our clerk,
But the greedy black-coats, tee.

Your bonny bells there's nane excels,
In a' the country round;
They ring so sweet, they are a treat
When they play heartsome tunes;
And when all's dark, the people mark
Ye with your fiery eye,
That tells the travellers in the street
The time, as they pass by.

O that King William wad come down,
To see his subjects here,
And view the buildings of our town—
He'd crack o' them, I swear;
But when he saw our canny church,
I think how he'd admire,
To see the arch sprung from each side
That bears the middle spire.

Now, to conclude my little song,
That simple, vocal theme—
I trust, that if I've said aught wrong,
That I will be forgi'en:
Then lang may fam'd St. Nicholas' stand,
Before it does come down,
That, when we dee, our bairns may see
The beauties of our town.

PAGANINI, THE FIDDLER;

Or, The Pitman's Frolic.

Tune—"The Kebbuckstane Wedding."

Come, lay up your lugs, and aw'll sing you a sang,
It's nyen o' the best, but it's braw new and funny—
In these weary times, when we're not very thrang,
A stave cheers wor hearts, tho' it brings us ne money:
Aw left Shiney Raw, for Newcassel did steer,
Wi' three or four mair of our neighbours se canny,
Determin'd to gan to the play-house to hear
The King o' the fiddlers, the great Baggy Nanny.
Right fal, &c.

We reach'd the Arcade, rather drouthy and sair—
It's a house full of pastry-cooks, bankers, and drapers—
At the fine fancy fair, how my marrows did stare,
On the muffs, hats, and beavers, se fam'd in the papers;
At Beasley's, where liquor's se cheap and se prime,
A bottle aw purchas'd for maw sweetheart, Fanny,
We drank nowt but brandy—and, when it was time,
We stagger'd away to see great Baggy Nanny.

We gat t' the door, 'mang the crowd we did crush,
Halfway up the stairs I was carried se handy;
The lassie ahint us cried, Push, hinny, push—
Till they squeez'd me as sma' and as smart as a dandy;
We reach'd the stair-heed, nearly smuther'd, indeed—
The gas letters glitter'd, the paintings look'd canny—
Aw clapt mysel' down side a lass o' reet breed,
Maw hinny, says aw, hae ye seen Baggy Nanny.

The lassie she twitter'd, and look'd rather queer,
And said, in this house there is mony a dozen,
They're planted so thick, that there's no sitting here,
They smell so confounded o' cat-gut and rosin;
The curtain flew up, and a lady did squall,
To fine music play'd by a Cockney bit mannie,
Then frae the front seats I suen heard my friends bawl,
Off hats, smash yor brains, here comes great Baggy Nanny.

An outlandish chep suen appear'd on the stage,
And cut as odd capers as wor maister's flonkey,
He skipp'd and he fiddled, as if in a rage—
If he had but a tail, he might pass for a monkey!
Deil smash a good tune could this bowdy-kite play—
His fiddle wad hardly e'en please my aud grannie—
So aw suen join'd my marrows and toddled away,
And wish'd a good neet to the great Baggy Nanny.

On crossing Tyne-brig, how wor lads ran the rig,
At being se silly duen out o' their money,—
Odd bother maw wig, had he play'd us a jig,
We might tell'd them at hyem, we'd seen something quite funny;
But, law be it spoke, and depend it's ne joke—
Yen and a' did agree he was something uncanny,
Though, dark o'er each tree, he before us did flee,
And fiddled us hyem did this great Baggy Nanny.

R. Emery.

THE OYSTER-WIFE'S PETITION,

On the Removal of the Oyster-tub from the Quay.

Tune—"The Bold Dragoon."

Oh! Mister Mayor, it grieves me sair—
Alas! what mun aw dee?
Wor Oyter-tub[46] is doom'd ne mair
To grace Newcassel Kee!
Wor bonny lamp that brunt se breet,
And cheer'd each wintry neet se dreary,
Is gyen, and lots o' canny folks
Will miss it sair when cawd and weary!
Whack, row de dow, &c.

Now, for the sake of her that's gyen,
Just speak the cheering word,
And say, that to wor ancient burth,
Aw suen will be restor'd.
The news wor town wad 'lectrify,
And gar yor nyem to live for ever—
In efter times yor deeds wad shine,
And 'clipse the nyem o' wor Tyne river.
Whack, row de dow, &c.

Had Charley Brandling, bliss his nyem,
Been spar'd to seen this day,
He'd shown the great respect he had
For poor aud Madgie Gray;
Alas! he's gyen;—close to yorsel'
Aw'll stick until aw's satisfied, sir;
When ye look on this good-like fyece,
Maw wishes ne'er can be denied, sir.
Whack, row de dow, &c.

Frae Summer-hill down to the Kee,
Fo'ks kenn'd poor Madgie weel,—
Aw's very sure wor Magistrates
For maw condition feel;
The cellar's ow'r confin'd and damp,—
Restore us to wor canny station,
And bliesings great will leet upon
Wor canny Toon and Corporation.
Whack, row de dow, &c.

R. Emery.

[46] The Oyster-tub alluded to stood on the Quay, nearly opposite to the foot of Grinding-chare. It formed rather an interesting feature in the winter nights, being accompanied by a large blazing lamp, at which sat the owner, attended by several loungers. On the death of old Margery Gray, which took place about October, 1831, this tub was removed, lest the long occupancy of the place should become a freehold, like the little barber's shop which stood at the east end of the Maison de Dieu, and which had originally been only a stall. August, 1833.

BROOM BUSOMS.

If ye want a busom[47] for to sweep your house,
Come to me, my lasses—ye may hae your choose.

Buy broom busoms, buy them when they're new—
Buy broom busoms—better never grew.

If I had a horse, I would have a cart;
If I had a wife, she would take my part.
Buy broom, &c.

Had I but a wife—I care not who she be;
If she be a woman, that's enough for me.
Buy broom, &c.

If she lik'd a drop, her and I'd agree;
If she did not like it, there's the more for me.
Buy broom, &c.

The following Verses, in addition to the above, were often sung by the late Blind Willie, of Newcastle:—

Up the Butcher-bank, and down Byker-chare,
There you'll see the lasses selling brown ware.
Buy broom, &c.

Along the Quayside, stop at Russell's Entry:
There you'll see the beer-drawer, she is standing sentry.
Buy broom, &c.

If you want an oyster for to taste your mouth,
Call at Handy Walker's—he's a bonny youth.
Buy broom, &c.

Call at Mr. Loggie's—he does sell good wine;
There you'll see the beer-drawer—she is very fine.
Buy broom, &c.

If you want an orange, ripe and full of juice,
Gan to Hannah Black, there you'll get your choose.
Buy broom, &c.

Call at Mr. Turner's, at the Queen's Head—
He'll not set you away without a piece of bread.
Buy broom, &c.

Down the river's side, as far as Dent's Hole,
There you'll see the cuckolds working at the coal.
Buy broom, &c.

[47] Besom.

THUMPING LUCK.

Air—"Gang nae mair to yon Town."

Here's thumping luck to yon town,
Let's have a hearty drink upon't,—
O the days I've spent in yon town,
My heart still warms to think upon't;
For monie a happy day I've seen,
With monie a lass so kind and true,—
With hearty chields I've canty been,
And danc'd away till a' was blue.

Here's thumping luck to yon town,
Let's have a hearty drink upon't,—
O the days I've spent in yon town,
My heart still warms to think upon't.

There's famous ale in yon town,
Will make your lips to smack again,
And many a one leaves yon town,
Oft wishes they were back again;
Well shelter'd from the northern blast,
Its spires and turrets proudly rise,
And boats and keels all sailing past
With coals, that half the world supplies.
Here's thumping luck, &c.

There's native bards in yon town,
For wit and humour seldom bet
And they sang sae sweet in yon town,
Good faith, I think I hear them yet:
Such fun in Thompson's voyage to Shields,
In Jimmy Johnson's wherry fine—
Such shaking heels, and dancing reels,
When sailing on the coaly Tyne.
Here's thumping luck, &c.

Amang the rest in yon town,
One Shiels was fam'd for ready wit—
His "Lord Size" half drown'd in yon town,
Good faith I think I hear it yet:
Then Mitford's muse is seldom wrong,
When once he gives the jade a ca',
And Gilchrist, too, for comic song,
Though last, he's not the least of a'.
Here's thumping luck, &c.

May the sun shine bright on yon town,
May its trade and commerce still increase,—
And may all that dwells in yon town
Be blest with fond, domestic peace;
For, let me wander east or west,
North, south, or even o'er the sea,
My native town I'll still love best—
Newcastle is the place for me.
Here's thumping luck, &c.

W. Watson.

DANCE TO THY DADDY.

Tune—"The little Fishy."

Come here, my little Jackey,
Now I've smok'd my backey,
Let's have a bit crackey
Till the boat comes in.

Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,
Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;
Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,
Thou shalt have a fishy when the boat comes in.

Here's thy mother humming,
Like a canny woman,
Yonder comes thy father,
Drunk, he cannot stand.

Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,
Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;
Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,
Thou shalt have a haddock when the boat comes in.

Our Tommy's always fuddling,
He's so fond of ale,—
But he's kind to me—
I hope he'll never fail.

Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,
Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;
Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,
Thou shalt have a codling when the boat comes in.

I like a drop mysel',
When I can get it sly,
And thou, my bonny bairn,
Will lik't as well as I.

Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,
Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;
Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,
Thou shalt have a mack'rel when the boat comes in.

May we get a drop
Oft as we stand in need,
And weel may the keel row
That brings the bairns their bread.

Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,
Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;
Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,
Thou shalt have a salmon, when the boat comes in.

W. Watson.

THE FRIAR AND THE NUN,

A Midnight Colloquy of the Nuns' Field.

Said the Ghost of a Nun to a Friar Grey—
"Dear brother, what changes we've seen!
There's here to be built a New Market, they say,
Which was once, you know, our bleaching green."
Such were the sounds that smote on my ear,
As I stray'd in the Nuns' Field one night,—
And I sat down beneath an old elm-tree to hear,
Though my hair stood on end at the sight.

"There's nought," quoth the Friar, "but heaps of stones,
Where oft I have stray'd as a sinner;
The bell that once warn'd us to vespers and nones,
Now warns Grainger's workmen of dinner.
Alack! sister Anne, a heretic race,
With aprons of blue, or of tartan,—
Red night-caps for hoods, will soon take our place—
But they all will be d——d for certain."

"Dear brother," said she, "only think on this spot,
Where our portion was penance and stripes,
Old men will be crying, 'Hot pies here, all hot,'
And women, 'Black-puddings and tripes.'
Where we walk'd so devoutly, soon those who succeed us,
In all worldly pride will soon strut on,—
Where we utter'd our mournful Aves and Credos,
Will hang rounds of beef and fat mutton."

"Yes, sister," said he, "where we chaunted Te Deum,
And sighed our prayer to the breeze,—
Where we us'd to confess, ere long will we see 'em
A chaunting lewd ditties and glees;
The ground where we stand will be strew'd soon with buyers,
Pursuing their ways so mistaken;
Extinct is the race now of Holy Friars,
Save those who are Fryers of Bacon.

In spite of Sir Andrew, these sinful elves
Will still buy and sell on a Sunday;
But soon they'll be wandering ghosts, like ourselves—
Sic transit gloria mundi."
A low'ring black cloud—most dismal to see—
Now hid the soft moon-beams so bright;
And I rose from beneath an old elm-tree,
For the Ghosts had vanish'd from sight.

ST. NICHOLAS' GREAT BELL.

Oh, have you seen the mighty bell,
That none in England can excel,—
The Tom of Lincoln's but a shell
To the great bell of Saint Nicholas.
Oh, such rare things ne'er was before—
To hear it strike eight miles, or more,
To wake the workmen, when they snore—
Ay, this great bell of Saint Nicholas.

(Spoken)—I say, Patrick, have you been after seeing the great bell that's just gone up to that great lump of a Protestant church?—A big bell, do they call it? by the saints, I thought it was an extinguisher for the light at its ugly mug—A great bell, indeed; by the powers! you know yourself it's only like a skull-cap to my great grandmother's praty pot, that she used to boil kail-cannon in at the harvest.—You are right, Patrick, but still we'll

Drink success to this bell—ding, dong—
That'll wake the folks in country and town,
And their maids to milk their cows in the morn,
The great bell of Saint Nicholas.

Lord, how the people they did run,
When they heard the small bells ring like fun,
Shouting, there's something to be done
At the old church of Saint Nicholas.
The shopkeepers out of their doors did stare
At such a thing, so great and rare,
And the flags were waving in the air,
O'er the great bell of Saint Nicholas.

(Spoken.)—Well, I suppose they will christen it—Hout, man, they christened it yesterday at the foundery, down at Hawks'.—Well, then, they'll have to consecrate it now.—Ay, horses and all—What! consecrate horses, you foolish man! Ay, then they'll be most fit for hearses and mourning coaches.

Drink success to this bell, &c.

And after all the noisy storm,
We've liv'd to see real church reform—
Six horses standing snug and warm,
In the old church of Saint Nicholas.
You should have been at the church,
To have seen the horses in the porch,—
The devil will say—I'm in the lurch,
No use for me at Saint Nicholas.

(Spoken.)—I say, Geordy, did you ever see such a great thing as that before?—Where is it gan' te?—Why, to the church; it's the great bell that was bequeathed by Major Anderson, to flay away the rooks and craws frae the town—to hinder them from building either on churches or exchanges. Ay, ay, but I think it wad ha'e been far better if they'd myed it to flay away poverty frae wor doors, and cast it as a boiler for soup. What say you, Geordy?—It wad, as ye say—but I'll

Drink success, &c.

A drunken cobbler made a vow,
In the Major he would make a shoe,—
And he work'd away till all was blue
In the great bell of Saint Nicholas.
The shoe being made, to the man of leather
The people cried—Well done! O clever,—
You should have a grant to work for ever
In the great bell of Saint Nicholas.

Drink success to this bell, &c.

LUKEY'S DREAM.

Tune—"Caller Fair."

The other neet aw went to bed,
Being weary wi' maw wark, man;
Aw dreamt that Billy Scott was deed—
It's curious to remark, man
Aw thought aw saw his buryin' fair,
And knew the comp'ny a', man—
For a' poor Billy's friends were there,
To see him levelled law, man.

Blind Willie slowly led the band,
As beagle, on the way, man;
A staff he carried in his hand,
And shook his head se grey, man;
At his reet hand was Buggy Jack,
With his hat-brim se broad, man;
And on his left was Bill the Black,
Ti lead him on his road, man.

Big Bob, X. Y. and other two,
That leeves upon the deed, man—
They bore his corpse before the crew,
Expecting to be fee'd, man;
His nyemsyek, Euphy Scott, was there,
Her bonny Geordy, tee, man,
Distress'd—they cried, (this happy pair,)
Ne mair we will him see, man!

Bold Jocker was amang them, tee,
Brave Cuckoo Jack and a', man;
And hairy Tom, the keelman's son,
And bonny Dolly Raw, man;
And Bella Roy, and Tatie Bet,
They cried till out o' breath, man—
For sair these twosome did regret
For canny Billy's deeth, man.

But Hangy luickt above them a',
He is se sma' and lang, man—
And Bobby Knox, the Dog-bank Ox,
Was sobbin' i' the thrang, man;
And Coiner, wi' his swill and shull,
Was squeakin' like a bairn, man,
And knack-knee'd Mat, that drucken fyul,
Like a monkey he did gairn, man.

Tally-i-o, that dirty wretch,
Was then the next I saw, man—
And Peggy Powell, Step-and-fetch,
Was haddin' up her jaw, man—
And frae the Close was Bobby Hush,
Wi' his greet gob se wide, man—
Alang wi' him was Push-Peg-Push,
Lamentin' by his side, man.

And roguish Ralph, and busy Bruce,
That leeves upon their prey, man,
Did not neglect, but did protect
Their friends upon the way, man;
And Jimmy Liddle, drest in black,
Behint them a' did droop, man;
He had a coat on like the Quak's,
That feeds us a' wi' soup, man.

Now, when they got him tiv his grave,
He then began to shout, man;
For Billy being but in a trance,
Bi this time cam about, man:
Then Jocker, wi' a sandy styen,
The coffin split wi' speed, man—
They a' rejoic'd to see agyen
Poor Bill they thought was deed, man.

When a' his friends that round him stood,
Had gettin' him put reet, man,
They a' went tiv the Robin Hood,
To spend a jovial neet, man;
Ne mair for Billy they did weep,
But happy they did seem, man;—
Just then aw waken'd frae my sleep,
And fand it was a dream, man.

JOCKER.

Tune—"O, gin I had her."

Hae ye seen my Jocker,
Hae ye seen my Jocker,
Hae ye' seen my Jocker
Comin' up the Kee?
Wiv his short blue jacket,
Wiv his short blue jacket,
Wiv his short blue jacket,
And his hat agee!

(Spoken.)—Jin. A! lyucka, noo, at clarty Nan, there!—what's she singin' at?

Nan.—What is aw singin' at! What's that ti ye? What it aw singin' at! Ah, wey, noo!—hev aw ti give ower singin' for ye? Ah! wey, noo! there's a platter-fyeced bunter for ye!—there's a smother-bairn w——! there's a pink amang the pissy-beds! Ah! wey, noo!... Ye'd mair need gan hyem, and get the dust wesht off ye. Ah! wey, noo—what's that!

O, maw hinny, Jocker,
O, maw hinny, Jocker,
O, maw hinny, Jocker—
Jocker's the lad for me!
Jocker was a keelman,
Jocker was a keelman,
Jocker was a keelman,
When he follow'd me.

(Spoken.)—But he's exalted now—O, bliss him, aye!—for

He's a porter-pokeman,
He's a porter-pokeman,
He's a porter-pokeman,
Workin' on the Kee.

(Spoken.)—Nan. Assa, Jin—hae ye seen owt o' wor Jocker doon the Kee, there?

Jin.—Ay, aw saw him and Hairy Tom just gan into the Low Crane, there.

Nan.—The Low Crane, ye clarty fa'—whe are ye myekin' yor gam on?

Jin.—Noo, call me a clarty fa', and aw'll plaister yor gob wi' clarts. Ah, wey, noo! whe are ye calling a clarty fa'?

Nan.—Ay! bliss us a', Jin, what are ye gettin' intiv a rage about?

Jin.—Wey, didn't ye ax me if aw'd seen owt o' Jocker doon the Kee, there—and aw teld ye the truth, and ye wadn't believe me.

Nan.—Wey, is he there?

Jin.—Ti be sure he is.

Nan.—Wey, aw'll sit down here till he comes out—then—

O, maw hinny, Jocker, &c.

Jocker was a rover,
Jocker was a rover,
Jocker was a rover,
When he courted me:
But, noo, his tricks are over,
But, noo, his tricks are over,
But, noo, his tricks are over,
He tykes me on his knee.

(Spoken.) Nan.—Ay! here he's comin'; here's maw jewel comin';—come into my airms, my tracle dumplin', and give us a kiss! Where hae ye been? aw been luikin' for ye all ower.

Jocker.—Where hev aw been!—aw've been walkin' up and down the Kee here. Where hae ye been?—aw think ye've been i' the Sun.

Nan.—Wey, maw jewel, aw've just been i' the Custom-house, getting a glass, and aw've com'd down the Key to seek ye, to gan hyem thegither. Assa, Jocker, divent lie se far off is as ye did last neet, for when aw waken'd, aw was a' starving o' caud.

O, maw hinny, Jocker, &c.

THE CORN MARKET.

A LAMENT.

Tune—"The Bold Dragoon."

O hinney Grainger, haud thy hand, thou'll turn us upside doon,
Or faith aw'll send for Mr. Brand, to claw thy curly croon;
For what thou's myed the Major's dean, wor thenks are due, and thou shalt hae them;
But noo the law toon folk complain, thou wants to tyek their Egypt frae them.
Whack, row de dow, &c.

Most folk like the better half, but thou wad swalley all,
Poor-house or Jail may tyek the rest, gie thou but Elswick Hall.
Wor cooncil's cliver, there's ne doot, but they'll find out, tho' rather late on,
How cool the devil walks about, in the smooth shape of J——y C——n.

Thou's getten aw the butcher-meat, the taties, tripe, and greens,
And, not content with this, thou wants to tyek wor corn, it seems;
For Mosley-street and Mercy's sake, sic wicked thowts at once abandon,
Or else wor canny awd law toon, it winna hev a leg to stand on.

The wheel o' fortune will stand still, the bees forsyek the hive,
There'll be ne wark for Sinton's Mill, the White Horse winna drive,
Poor Mrs. F——h and Temperance H——l ne mair need recommend their diet,
The farmers will forget to call, H-ll's Kitchen's very sel' turn quiet.

The Chronicle may doze in peace,—Lord Grainger says, "Sleep on—"
The bugs may tyek another lease, their race is not yet run;
Awd Nichol still may fairly say, frae Hepple's up to Humble's house end,
He feeds a lively host each day, aw'll say, at least, a hundred thousand.

The White Swan seun 'ill be agrund, the Black Boy turn quite pale,
The Black Bull wi' the blow be stunn'd, the Lion hang his tail,
Tom H——n's Cock 'ill craw ne mair, the awd Blue Bell be dumb for ever,—
And', just to myek the Kee-side stare, thou'd better send doon for the river.

Whack, row de dow, &c.

THE SKIPPER'S ACCOUNT OF THE MECHANICS' PROCESSION.

By R. Emery, of the Nelson Lodge, Newcastle.

Tune—"Newcastle Fair."

Cried Mally, Come, Jacky, get ready—
The morning is looking se fine, man;
The bells i' the town are a' ringing,
And the sun it se bonny does shine, man;
The lads and the lasses are runnin',
To se the Mechanics so gay, man,—
To meet the Procession, wi' Mally,
Aw suen cut my stick, and away, man.
Rom ti iddity, &c.

We reach'd the Tyne Brig in a crack,
'Mang croods, like worsels, out o' breeth, man—
The splendor aw cannot describe,
Nor forget till the day o' my deeth, man:
A fine silken banner appear'd,
As big as wor Geordy's keel-sails, man,
A' cover'd wi' doves, ark, and croons,
An' greet hairy men without tails, man.
Rom ti iddity, &c.

A chep like a Duke follow'd next,
Surrounded wi' Nobles se fine, man,
Weel dress'd up in silk robes an' tassels,
An' goold that did glitter and shine, man—
Says aw, that's Prince Albert, aw'll sweer—
An' was just gawn to give him three chears, man,
When Mally cried—De'il stop yor din!—
Becrike! it's the Dey of Algiers, man.
Rom ti iddity, &c.

The members were toss'd off in stile,
In colours of pink, white, and blue, man,—
A tight little chep frae the ranks,
Cried, Jack, hinny, how d'ye do, man?—
What, Newton! says aw, now, what cheer!
Aw thowt ye some 'Squire makin' fun, man,—
There's Armstrang, as trig as a Peer,
But how's my awd friend, Bobby Nunn, man?
Rom ti iddity, &c.

The Hawk, the Northumberland Star,
An' the Magdalen's banners wav'd sweet, man;
But the Chieftain astonish'd them all,
With his braw Highland lads dress'd sae neat, man;
The Nelson appear'd in true blue,
(There canny host Simpson belangs, man,)
An' Petrie walk'd close alangside
O' the chep that writes Newcassel Sangs, man.
Rom ti iddity, &c.

To describe the Flags, Music, an' Stars,
Wad take me to doomsday for sartin;
Let Foresters brag as they like,
But it's all in my eye, Betty Martin.
Wor lads were se pleas'd wi' the seet,
Mechanics they'll be before lang, man,—
So aw's gannin to Simpson's to-neet,
To sing them this canny bit sang, man.
Whit-Monday, 1841.

DRUCKEN BELLA ROY, O!

Tune—"Duncan M'Callaghan."

When Bella's comin' hyem at neet,
And as she's walking doon the street,
The bairns cry out, Whe pawn'd the sheet?
Wey, drucken Bella Roy, O!

Then styens to them gans rattlin', rattlin',
They set off a gallopin', gallopin',
Legs an' arms gan' wallopin', wallopin',
For fear o' Bella Roy, O!

Now, when she gans through the chares,
Each bairn begins, and shouts and blairs,
And cries, as she gans up the stairs,
Where's drucken Bella Roy, O!
Then styens, &c.

Now, if she's had a sup o' beer,
She sets ti wark to curse and swear,
And myeks them run away, for fear,
Frae Drucken Bella Roy, O!
Then styens, &c.

Believe me, friends, these are her words:
She says—Get hyem, ye w——'s birds,
Else aw'll bray ye as flat as t——s,
Cries drucken Bella Roy, O!
Then styens, &c.

She says—Ye have a w——e at hyem,
And if ye'll not let me alyen,
Maw faith, aw'll break your rumple byen,
Says drucken Bella Roy, O!
Then styens, &c.

She'll myek the place like thunner ring,
And down the stairs her things will fling,
And cry—Get out, yor —— thing—
Cries drucken Bella Roy, O!
Then styens, &c.

Then in the house she sits and chats,
The bairns, then, hit her door such bats—
She calls them a' the hellish cats,
Dis drucken Bella Roy, O!
Then styens, &c.

She shouts until she hurts her head,
And then she's forc'd to gan' ti bed,
Which is a piece of straw, down spread
For drucken Bella Roy, O!
Fal, lal, lal, &c.

THE BONNY CLOCK FYECE.

Tune—"The Coal-hole."

O Dick, what's kept ye a' this time?
Aw've fretted sair about ye—
Aw thought that ye'd fa'n in the Tyne,
Then what wad aw duen without ye?
O, hinny, Dolly, sit thee down,
And hear the news aw've brought frae toon:
The Newcassel folks hev catch'd a meun,
And myed it a bonny clock-fyece!

Thou knaws Saint Nicholas' Church, maw pet,
Where we were tied tigither,—
That place, aw knaw, thou'll not forget—
Forget it aw will never:
'Twas there, then, jewel, aw saw the seet,
As aw cam staggering through the street,—
Aw thought it queer, at pick dark neet,
Ti see a fiery clock-fyece.

The folks they stood in flocks about—
Aw cried—How! what's the matter?
Aw glower'd—at last aw gav a shout,
For them to fetch some water.
The Church is a-fire, and very suen
That bonny place will be brunt down.
Ye fyul, says a chep, it's a bonny meun
They've catch'd, and myed it a clock-fyece!

On Monday, when aw gan to wark,
Aw'll shurely tell our banksman,
If we had such a leet at dark,
We never wad break our shanks, man;
Maw marrows and aw'll gan ti the toon,
Ti see if we can catch a muen;—
If we can only coax one doon,
We'll myek't a bonny clock-fyece.

Then if we get it down the pit,
We'll hed stuck on a pole, man;
'Twill tell us hoo wor time gans on,
Likewise to hew wor coal, man.
So noo, maw pet, let's gan ti bed,
And not forget the neet we were wed;
Ti-morn we'll tell our uncle, Ned,
About the bonny clock-fyece.

THE MUSIC HALL.

Old bards have sung how they could boast
Of places that's renown'd,
For bloody battles won and lost,
And royal monarchs crown'd;
But all those deeds this place exceeds—
They in the shade must fall,
Some have declar'd, if but compar'd
To our fam'd Music Hall.

Here zealots join in warm debate,
And for their rites contend—
Here Lark-wing spouts on church and state,
His popery to defend;
With bigot zeal, his country's weal
He vows to have at heart—
Yet 'tis well known, throughout the town,
He plays a knavish part.

Now, from Hibernia's fertile shore
The thund'ring champion comes,
His country's wrongs for to deplore,
With trumpets, fife, and drums;
He tells them, too, he is most true,
Their firm, unshaken friend,
While life Shall last, he will stand fast,
And all their rights defend.

Then champions of another grade—
I mean, of fistic lore—
Deaf Burke, the bouncing gasconade,
Struts o'er the spacious floor,
Who, with great art, performs his part,
In teaching self-defence;
Yet plain I saw, he meant to draw
Fools' shillings, pounds, and pence.

Next comes a man of fangles new—
Of worlds, and moons, and stars—
Who said, Sir Isaac never knew
The Ple-i-ades from Mars
The folks throng'd round from all the town,
And some pronounc'd him clever,
Yet, I've been told, both young and old
Return'd as wise as ever.

Apollo, too, his court here keeps,
With sirens in his train—
Each trembling note of music sweeps
Transport through every vein:
When Orpheus play'd within the shade,
He made the woods resound;
The list'ning beasts forsook the mead,
And stood, like statues, round.

A graver scene my muse has caught,
Where sages, in a row—
Men, by the Holy Spirit taught
The gospel truths t' avow—
Those who have trod, to serve their God,
The shores of foreign land,
At his command, now boldly stand
T' implore a helping hand.

And not unfrequent, as we stray
This wond'rous place to see,
We find it fill'd with ladies gay,
To take a cup of tea;
And many a gent, who is content
With such domestic fare,
Has often sat, in social chat,
And join'd in many a prayer.

Of many more there is one class,
Which merits some attention—
Not Bacchanalians, alas!
For such I would not mention—
But men of brains, the smell of grains
Would strike with detestation,
Who'd keep us dry, and thus decry
All liquors in the nation.

Nay, come what will of good or ill,
Just only make a trial—
If you the owner's pockets fill,
You'll meet with no denial;
And men, I hear, from far and near,
Have given attestation,
So strong a place they cannot trace
In any other nation.

THE TYNE.

Tune—"Banks and Braes o' bonny Doon."

Clear crystal Tyne, sweet smiling stream,
Gay be the flow'rs thy banks along,
For there the darling of my theme
Oft sports thy verdant meads among.
Flow on, sweet Tyne, and gently glide,
And pour thy commerce o'er the main,
May Plenty o'er thy banks preside,
To bless thee with her smiling train.

Green be thy fields, Britannia dear,
With plenty flowing o'er thy land,
But chief the banks of Tyne, for there
I'll often rove, at Love's command,—
There meet my lass upon the green,
And flow'ry garlands for her twine,
While smiling pleasure glads the scene,
Upon the blooming banks of Tyne.

J. Wilson

THE

NEWCASTLE OLD COUNTRY GENTLEMAN.

Air—"Old Country Gentleman."

From wand'ring in a distant land,
An exile had return'd,
And when he saw his own dear stream,
His heart with pleasure burn'd;
The days departed, and their joys,
Came bounding to his breast,
And thus the feelings of his heart
In native strains confess'd:—

Tune—"The Keel Row."

Flow on, majestic river,
Thy rolling course for ever,—
Forget thee will I never,
Whatever fate be mine:

Oft on thy banks I've wander'd,
And on thy beauties ponder'd,
Oh! many an hour I've squander'd
On thy banks, O bonny Tyne!
Flow on, &c.

O Tyne! in thy bright flowing,
There's magic joy bestowing;
I feel thy breezes blowing—
Their perfume is divine.
Flow on, &c.

I've sought thee in the morning,
When crimson clouds are burning,
And thy green hills adorning—
The hills o' bonny Tyne.
Flow on, &c.

When stormy seas were round me,
And distant nations bound me,
In memory still I found thee
A ray of hope divine.
Flow on, &c.

Thy valleys lie before me,
Thy trees are waving o'er me,
My home thou dost restore me
On thy bonny banks, O Tyne!
Flow on, &c.

WALKER PITS.

Tune—"Off she goes."

If I had another penny,
I would have another gill—
I would make the fiddler play
"The bonny Lads of Byker-hill."

Byker-hill and Walker-shore,
Collier lads for evermore!
Byker-hill and Walker-shore,
Collier lads for evermore!

When aw cam to Walker wark,
Aw had ne coat, nor ne pit sark;
But now aw've getten twe or three—
Walker pit's deun weel for me.

Byker-hill and Walker-shore,
Collier lads for evermore!
Byker-hill and Walker-shore,
Collier lads for evermore!

BEGGAR'S WEDDING.

Air—"Quayside Shaver."

When timber-legg'd Harry crook'd Jenny did marry
In fam'd Gateshead town—and, not thinking of blows,
Three ragmen did quarrel about their apparel,
Which oft-times affrighted both small birds and crows;
This resolute prial, fought on battle royal,
Till Jenny spoke this, with hump back and sharp shins:
"Be loving as brothers, as well as the others,
Then we shall get orders for needles and pins!"

The bride-maid, full breasted, she vow'd and protested,
She never saw men at a wedding so rude;
Old Madge, with her matches, top full of her catches,
Swore she would be tipsy e'er they did conclude;
The supper being ended, some part still contended
For wholesome malt liquor to fill up each skin;
Jack Tar, in his jacket, sat close to Doll Flacket,
And swore he'd drink nothing but grog and clear gin.

Black Jack with his fiddle they fix'd in the middle,
Who had not been wash'd since the second of June—
Old Sandy, the piper, told Ned he would stripe her,
If she wouldn't dance while his pipe was in tune:
They play'd them such touches, with wood-legs and crutches—
Old rag-pokes and matches, old songs flew about;
Poor Jack being a stranger, thought his Scratch in danger,
He tenderly begg'd they would give up the rout.

Jack being thus ill-treated, he begg'd to be seated
Upon an old cupboard the landlord had got,—
Like madmen enchanted, they tippled and ranted,
Till down came the fiddler, as if he'd been shot.
They drank gin by noggins, and strong beer by flaggons,
Till they had sufficiently loosen'd each hide,
Then those that were able, retir'd to the stable,
And slept with their nose in each other's backs—e.

DO LI A.

Sung in Newcastle about the Years 1792-3-4.

Fresh I'm come frae Sandgate-street,
Do li, do li,
My best friends here to meet,
Do li a.
Do li th' dil len dol—do li, do li,
Do li th' dil len dol—do li a.

The Black-cuffs are gawn away,
Do li, do li,
And that will be a crying day,
Do li a, &c.
Dolly Coxon's pawn'd her sark,
Do li, do li,
To ride upon the baggage-cart,
Do li a, &c.
The Green-cuffs are coming in,
Do li, do li,
An' that 'll make the lasses sing,
Do li a, &c.

A SOUTH SHIELDS SONG.

The sailors are all at the bar,
They cannot get up to Newcastle,—
The sailors are all at the bar,
They cannot get up to Newcastle.

Up with smoaky Shields,
And hey for bonny Newcastle;
Up with smoaky Shields,
And hey for bonny Newcastle.

A NORTH SHIELDS SONG.

We'll all away to the Law Lights,
And there we'll see the sailors come in;
We'll all away to the Law Lights,
And there we'll see the sailors come in.
There clap your hands and give a shout,
And you'll see the sailors go out;
Clap your hands, and dance and sing,
And you'll see your laddie come in.

COMMIT NO NONSENSE.

An aud chep that had spent a' his life i' the keels,
Taking coals down the river to load ships at Shields,
Had some business, yen day, in Newcastle to do,
And, when there, he'd stop and see a' that was new.

He view'd wor new streets, and was weel pleas'd, no doubt,
He gap'd and he star'd, as he wander'd about;
But still, as he star'd, there was yen thing seem'd queer,
Whilk was plac'd on the walls—"Commit no nuisance here."

The aud boy was not very learned, you see,
And, when young, he had got off his great A, B, C,
And some words he could spell, tho' not sartinly clear,
And his skill made it out—"Commit ne nonsense here."

He knew very little of Tee-total rules,
But thought they might dee very weel amang feuls;
In his wand'ring he thought about getting some beer.
And often he read—"Commit ne nonsense here."

A few pints of beer brought this chep to a stand,
For nature, o'ercharg'd, wanted ease at his hand,—
For this purpose he enter'd a yard,—but, se queer,
Just saw, 'buin his head—"Commit ne nonsense here."

The gurgling stream from the old fellow flow'd,
His ease he enjoy'd myed a notable flood;
But, just in the nick, when he thought a' was clear,
A policeman cries—"Commit no nuisance here."

"Kind sir," says the man—for to speak he scarce durst—
"When aw com in here, aw was ready to burst."
"That's nought," says the policeman, "din't ye see clear,
Daub'd upon the wall—'Commit no nuisance here.'"

The poor soul his flap button'd up in a fright,
The policeman swore that he wad him indite;
But he teuk to his heels, for, says he, aw see clear,
If aw stop onie langer there'll be nonsense here.

A NEW NURSERY RHYME.

This is the Arcade that Grainger built.

This is the Blade, whose only trade, is to keep the
Arcade that Grainger built.

These are the Boys who, making a noise, are kick'd
by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade
that Grainger built.

This is the Horde of Attorneys, who, bored by the
rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by
the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that
Grainger built.

This is the Hat, all cock'd and lac'd—a hat according
to Briggs's taste—paid for by the horde of attorneys
so bored by the rascally boys, who, making a noise, are
kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the
Arcade that Grainger built.

This is Peregrine, pragmatic and prim, who scouted
the hat without any brim—the hat that was all cock'd
and lac'd, according to Briggs' peculiar taste—paid for
by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally boys,
who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade, whose
only trade is to keep the Arcade that Grainger built.

This is Mister Briggs, who makes trowsers and coats,
who abus'd the committee for giving their votes to
Peregrine, so pragmatic and prim, to scout the hat
without any brim; for Briggs deck'd the hat so cock'd
and lac'd,—and he prides himself on his fanciful taste,—paid
for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the
rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by
the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that
Grainger built.

This is Chinaman Reed, who said Briggs was right,
and who wears his unmentionables awfully tight, which
were made by this Briggs, who makes trousers and
coats, who abus'd the committee for giving their votes
to Peregrine, so pragmatic and prim, to scout the hat
without any brim; for Briggs deck'd the hat so cock'd
and lac'd,—and he prides himself on his fanciful taste,—paid
for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally
boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the
blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that
Grainger built.

This is Mister Stable, who did all he was able to
bully poor Reed, who said Briggs was right, and who
wears his unmentionables awfully tight, which were made
by this Briggs, who makes trousers and coats, who
abus'd the committee for giving their votes to Peregrine,
so pragmatic and prim, to scout the hat without
any brim; for Briggs deck'd the hat so cock'd and
lac'd,—and he prides himself on his fanciful taste,—paid
for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally
boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade,
whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that Grainger
built.

This is Mister Seymour, an attorney of note, who—alas!
for the hat—gave the casting vote, and agreed
with Stable, who did all he was able to bully poor
Reed, who said Briggs was right, and who wears his
unmentionables awfully tight, which were made by this
Briggs, who makes trousers and coats, who abus'd the
committee for giving their votes to Peregrine, so pragmatic
and prim, who scouted the hat without any brim—the
unfortunate hat, all cock'd and lac'd, after Briggs's
own peculiar taste—paid for by the horde of attorneys
so bored by the noise of the rascally boys, kick'd out
by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade
that Grainger built.

COOKSON'S ALKALI.

Now haud yor tongues, I'll try my lungs,
And de my best forbye;
My sang is choice, but maw sweet voice
Is spoil'd by Alkali.

CHORUS.

Then let us all, byeth great and small,
Set up a hue and cry;
Else Shields will suin be a' duin broon
By Cookson's Alkali.

Wor fields are bare, they'll grow ne mair
Of barley, wheat, or rye:
A famine now, and pest'lence, too,
Is caus'd by Alkali.

Wor gardens grow just nothing now,
The crops won't multiply;
Wor mouths, it's thowt, will suin hev nowt
But Cookson's Alkali.

Wor ships hev got a sad dry rot,
In spite of "anti-dry;"
For Kyan's wash, and such like trash,
Can't cope wiv Alkali.

Then suin there'll be a shipless sea—
No sail will meet the eye;
Wor masts and spars, and jolly tars
Will strike to Alkali.

Wor houses soon will tummel doon,
And flat as fluicks they'll lie—
They'll cut their sticks, as sure as bricks,
Wi' this sad Alkali.

A man, I swear't, is now half marr'd
Wi' smoke, he's got sae dry;
He's lost his sap, and ruin'd, peer chap,
By Cookson's Alkali.

It's true, indeed, wor wives still breed,—
But, see their tiny fry!—
They're nowt, peer things, but legs and wings,
And all from Alkali.

For dandy blades, and dapper maids,
De nought but sob and sigh;
They're forc'd to pad, their shape's sae bad,
And all wi' Alkali.

Wor wither'd crops, and lantern chops,
Are proofs nyen can deny,
That we are cuik'd, and fairly buik'd,
By Cookson's Alkali.

So, now, farewell to swipes and yell,
And breed and beef, good bye!
We'll get nae mair awd English fare,
For this d——d Alkali.

And when we're gyen, beneath a styen
Wor cawd remains will lie,
A prey, alas! to acid gas,
Produc'd by Alkali.

THE PITMAN'S RAMBLE.

Tune—"The Kebbuckstane Wedding."

BY R. EMERY.

Wor pit was laid in, and but little ti de,
Says aw, Neighbour Dicky, let's off to Newcassel,
Their grand alterations aw's langin' to see,—
hey say, they're se fine, that they'll gar wor een dazzel.
We reach'd the Black House, and we call'd for some beer,
When whe should pop in but the landlord, se handy—
He wish'd us se kindly a happy new year,
And he rosin'd wor gobs with a glass o' French brandy.

We left wor good friend, an' got down to the shop
That has some fine lasses frae Lunnin se clivver,—
Astonish'd, aw star'd till near like for to drop,
At their great panes o' glass that wad cover Tyne river!
Says Dick, it's been myed for greet folk like Lord 'Size—
It belangs to Broad Brim that myed brass at the corner;
At poor folks like us, now, he'll cock up his eyes,
As he sits at the end, there, like Little Jack Horner.

We wheel'd reet about—spied a far finer seet,
As we went to the grocer's, to get some rag backy—
Lairge goold cups an' watches, se bonny and breet,
An' fine Fardin Pants runnin' whisky and jacky!
Aw wish'd aw could get mi gob fair at the spout,
Aw'd pay for a sook o' this liquor se funny,—
Says Dick, the door's bolted to keep the crowd out—
It's a place made to glow'r at, but not to take money.

We down to the Doctor's that lives in the Side,
Who cures folks o' hairy-legg'd monsters, like donkies!
Cull cheps for his worm cakes frae far an' near ride—
Poor pitmen, an' farmers, an' keelmen, an' flonkies;
A chep at the window did offer to swear,
For truth, that this doctor, se clivver an' cunnin',
Did take frae his sister, the very last year,
A worm that wad reach frae Newcassel to Lunnin!!!

At last to the Play-house aw swagger'd wi' Dick,—
They've us'd the King's Airms an' the paintings most shocking,
Yen said, since the house had been kept by Awd Nick,
Wi' humbugs an' lees he'd Newcassel been mocking.
Says aw—Canny man, dis Awd Nick manage here!
That cunnin' black fiend that gav Eve the bad apple!!
Us Ranters will suen frae this place make him sheer,
An' we'll preach in't worsels, then we'll bang Brunswick Chapel!

THE WORTHY RECTOR.

Sung at a Farewell Dinner, given, by his Parishioners, to the Rev. J. Collinson, Rector of Gateshead, previous to his Removal to the Parish of Boldou.

Sec changes now there diz tyek place
In ivry life and station,
Things noo is a' turn'd upside doon,
For little or ne occasion,—
Yen meets wi' acts yen luik'd not for,
That drives yen into sorrow:
We hev a case in point to meet
In this wor canny borro—
Singing, fal, lal, &c.

Last Cursmas time whe wad ha'e thowt
That wor awd priest wad leave us,
And cause sec dowly thowts to cum,
Se very much to grieve us?
We sartly thowt we had him fix'd,
And fassen'd here till death, sors;
Unless he had been prebendized
By Dean-and-Chapter breeth, sors.

His toils an' labours noo we'll loss:—
His sarmons for to syev us
Will all be chang'd, an' varry suin,
For wor new Rector's, Davis.
Aw oney hope an' pray we'll not
Forget our late Protector,—
For thorty yeers he's led our "train,"
An' been wor sowl Director.

For warks an' deeds amang the poor,
For charity an' boonties,
His match, aw think, ye'll not weel find
In this or other coonties:
He's fed the hungry, heal'd the sick,
Wivoot yor grete display, sors;
He wiv his wealth did gyude by stealth—
Lang life to him! aw say, sors.

Yeers creeps upon us a' my frinds,
And he'll suin be an ould un;
And his move frae here, though its not far,
Aw'm sure ye'll think a bowld-un.
Aw trust, at times, we'll see his fyece
At church and parish dinners;
For he's a man that loves the saints,
Yet hates not the poor sinners.

This plate we've gi'en him here to-day,
Wiv a' its shining glister,—
The yen tureen was made by Reid,
The other made by Lister,—
Lang may he live to see them shine,
Like bright and true reflectors,
Reminding priests how laymen prize
Upreet, kind-hearted Rectors.

Noo, fare ye weel, maw canny man,
Yor wife an' a' yor childer;
The score ye hev wad frighten some—
Their senses quite bewilder.
Lang may ye live a happy life,
When ye frae Gyetside sivver:
There's hundreds here will pray to God
To bless ye noo and ivvur.

BATTLE OF SPITALOO.

On the thirtieth day of July
The Chartists did combine,
That they would hold a meeting
At Newcastle upon Tyne;
In spite of Mayor or Magistrates,
They would come up to a man,
But when the Police them attack'd,
They took to their heels and ran.

CHORUS.

At the battle of Spitaloo, my boys,
At the battle of Spitaloo—
The Chartists' colours were taken
At the battle of Spitaloo.

They mairch'd in full procession,
Through most streets of the town,
And they declar'd the Magistrates
Should never put them down;
But of all their boasted courage
About what they would do,
The Police took their colours
At the battle of Spitaloo.

With music, flags, and banners,
And all their empty pride,
The procession of the Chartists
Was soon put to a side;
The worthy Mayor and Magistrates
Did let the Chartists know
That they were masters of the town,
At the battle of Spitaloo.

The Chartists, to the Forth that night,
Turn'd very boldly out,—
But soon they were dispersed,
And all put to the rout:
They laid the failure of their cause
Upon the red and blue,
Because they came against them
At the battle of Spitaloo.

The Chartists and their leaders
Are no more allow'd to meet,
Their threat'ning combinations
Have got the grand defeat,—
The National Convention
Has got the overthrow,
And the Chartists' colours taken
At the battle of Spitaloo.

BATTLE ON THE SHIELDS RAILWAY,

Between a Town Councillor and an Architect, and the Pollis.

Tune—"Cappy's the Dog."

I' the toon of Newcassel James Archbold dis dwell—
He's a slater te trade, and thinks ne small beer on hissel',
And in Gallowgate, just aside the Darn Crook,
Stands his house amang smells that wad make a horse puke.

I' the same toon a chep leeves, of varry great fame,
For building fine houses—John Dobson's his nyem;—
His awn stands in New Bridge Street, by way of example,—
Blaw me if aw think it's a varry good sample.

It happen'd on ——, the —— of November—
A day these two worthies will ever remember;
For Dobson was varry nigh kill'd, I suppose,
And poor Mr. Archbold spoilt all his best clothes.

The twesome to dine with John Sadler had been
At Whitehill-point House, which is weel to be seen,
A ye gan down to Shields; but aw'll begin my narration
With the row that tuik place at the Howden-pan station.

Efter dinner, when each yen his belly had fill'd,
And some of Jack Sadler's wine had been swill'd,
To gan hyem te Newcassel they left Whitehill-house;
But, before they gat hyem, they gat a vast of abuse.

The station they reach'd ere the train had got there,
And they each tuik a ticket, and each paid his fare;
The train it came up, and Dobson gat in,
And was just gawn to start when the row did begin.

Noo, yen of the pollismen placed at the station,
With lang Jemmy Archbold had some altercation—
"Your ticket, sir, I must now have from you?"
"Not before I get in—I'll be d——d if you do."

Upon this the pollisman gave Jemmy a push,
And into the station-house all made a rush,
And Dobson, noo seeing his friend in such guise,
Jump'd out of the carriage, and went in likewise.

But he gat a blow from a wooden hand,
That made him quite sick, and he could not stand,
And then cam another sic skelp on the hede,
Had his sconce not been thick he wad hae been dede,

Now, Dobson at yen time was very handy,
And at schule he payed Tinley of Shields, the great dandy,
And although he now had come to such skaith,
Cried, "Lay by your wood hands and I'll lick ye baith."

But the pollismen said, "Ye baith prisoners are,
And to Shields ye mun gan, as it's not varry far;"
And though now they began to be sick of the lark,
To Shields they teun were, though it was efter dark.

There they saw Mr. Cruddas and Inspector Scott,
The hede of the pollis, wha pitied their lot,
And releas'd and sent them hyem somewhat muddy—
Poor Dobson the warst—he was baith sair and bloody.

The next day, each yen to his 'torney went,
The yen to Parce Fenwick, the other the Sargent,
Crowner Stoker, whe's spectacles myeks him far-seeted—
He's a h-ll of a fellow for getting folk reeted.

A summons they gat—the men cuddent be seen,
The directors detarmin'd the villains to screen,
And what was still warse, and to save their mutton,
Young Tinley tell'd Jackson, they had gone a shutten.

Noo, as the summons cuddent be sarv'd,
And the pollismen punish'd as they deserv'd,
A warran was getten, and Newton, Allan, and all
Were suin in the cellars beneath the Moot-hall.

Noo the justices sat, to hear what they had to say,
And twe cam frae Shields, for to see fair play;
And William Branlen sat on the bench,
Besides Sandy Ildertan, whe still likes a w—ch.

There was doctors, and lawyers, and pollismen too,
And of railway directors there was not a few,
Including Dick Spoor, whe yence din'd with the queen—
Sic a crew in the jury-room never was seen.

Noo the crowner began, and he made a good speech,
Call'd Archbold and Dobson, and, lastly, the Leech,
Whe bound Dobson's hede, yen Mr. John Lang,
Not "the family surgeon," but a rhyme for my sang.

When Archbold was called, he said, with much grace,
That Newton held the lanthorn reet in his fyece,
And spoke in a manner baith rude and absord
To the town-councillor for St. Andrew's West Ward.

Next Dobson appears with his bloody claes,
His hede all bund up, luiking pale, and he says,
As how nyen o' them had getten ower much drink,
As Torney Tinley wanted the justice to think.

Now the crowner being ended, t'other side did begin,
And Tinley he vapour'd, and they swore thick and thin;
But aw'll say ne mair, lest you should be bor'd,
But merely relate, that Jack Tinley was floor'd.

And the justices said, 'twas a shem the directors
Should set twe sic blackguards on the line for inspectors,
And, addressing them byeth, said unto the men,
Yer byeth fined—Allan five pounds, and you, Newton, ten.

Noo, when aw seed the way the thing went,
Thinks aw, the directors are surely content,
And will myek the cheps 'mends, from the way they've been tret,
But the warst of my story it is to come yet.

Ne suiner was't knawn what the verdict was,
Than the railway attorney, he out with the brass,
And, flinging it doon, said, "Much good may it do yee!
Gie me a resait, and set wor pollismen free."

Noo sic wark as this, it is varry shocken,
Folks canna gan te Shields without hevin their hedes brocken,
And aw've myed up ma mind, if aw's not in a hurry,
Te gan in Mitchell's fine boats, or Johnson's fam'd whurry.

Folly Wharf, Nov. 35, 1839.

BLIND WILLIE'S DEATH.[48]

Tune—"Jemmy Joneson's Whurry."

As aw was gannin' up the Side,
Aw met wi' drucken Bella;
She wrung her hands, and sair she cried,
He's gyen at last, poor fellow!
O, hinny Bella! whe is't that's gyen?
Ye gar my blood run chilly.
Wey, hinny, deeth has stopt the breath
O' canny awd Blind Willie.

God keep us, Bella, is that true!
Ye shurely are mistaken?
O, no! aw've left him just a-now,
And he's as deed as bacon.
Aw tied his chaffs, and laid him out—
His flesh just like a jelly—
And sair, sair aw was put about
For canny awd Blind Willie.

Then off went aw as fast as owt,
Ti see poor Willie lyin';—
When aw gat there, maw heart was sair,
Ti see his friends a' sighin'.
Around his bed they hung their heeds,
Just like the droopin' lily;
And aw, with them, did dee the syem
For canny awd Blind Willie.

Ne mair, said aw, we'll hear him sing,
Ne mair he'll play the fiddle;
Ne mair we'll hear him praise the king—
No! No! cried Jimmy Liddle.
The days are past—he's gyen, at last,
Beside his frind, Sir Billy,
That parish chiel', that preach'd se weel—
We'll mourn for him and Willie.

His bonny corpse crowds cam to see,
Which myed the room luik dowly;
And whe was there amang them, tee,
But noisy Yella Yowley;
She through the crowd did crush her way—
Wi' drink she seem'd quite silly—
And on her knees began to pray
For canny awd Blind Willie.

They tell'd us a' to gang away,
Which myed us varry sorry;
But Beagle Bet wad kiss his lips,
Before they did him bury.
He's buried now—he's out o' seet—
Then on his grave se hilly,
Let them that feel take their fareweel
O' canny awd Blind Willie.

[48] Died July 20, 1832.

GEORDY'S DISASTER.

Sum time since a ship that was tyken in coal,
At a place at North Shields they ca' Peggy's Hole,
And the keels a' the neet wad lie alangside,
To be ready next morn to gan up wi' the tide.
Fal, lal, &c.

Noo yen o' the skippers had sie fish-huiks o' claws,
That deil a bit rope cud be kept frae his paws;
For as sune as the men were a' gyen to sleep,
Then on board o' the ship wor Geordy wad creep.
Fal, lal, &c.

And devil a thing could be left on the deck,
But Geordy, as sure as a gun, wad it neck,
And into the huddock wad stow it away,
And gan off to the rope-shop, and sell it next day.
Fal, lal, &c.

Noo the mate o' the ship was determin'd to watch,
To see if he cuddent the thievish rogue catch,—
So to hev a bit fun, an' to give him a freet,
He swore he wad sit up the whole o' that neet.
Fal, lal, &c.

So he gat a lang gun, and for to begin,
A greet clot o' blud and sum poother pat in;
Noo he dident wait lang, for sune ower the bows
I' the muinleet he saw him creep up like a moose.
Fal, lal, &c.

He click'd up a bucket, and was gawn wiv his prize,
When the mate he let flee reet between his twe eyes.
When the skipper found blud all over his fyece,
"Aw's deed!" out he roars, and dropp'd down in the place.
Fal, lal, &c.

Noo the Pee-dee he heard the crack o' the gun,
So he speal'd up the side, and tiv Geordy he run:
"Oh, Geordy! Oh Geordy! just haud up thy heed,
An' tell us, maw hinny, if thou hez gyen deed!"
Fal, lal, &c.

The skipper he groan'd, and kick'd up his heels,
'Gude bye, canny Pee-dee! Gude bye tiv maw keels!
Aw'll never see Mally nor bairns ony mair,
For if aw's not deed, aw's speechless, aw'll swear!"
Fal, lal, &c.

Wiv a greet deal to de they gat him to rise;
But when he gat up, what was his surprise,
When he sought for the hole where the bullet had gyen,
But sought it in vain, for he cuddent find yen.
Fal, lal, &c.

"By gock!" out he roars, "aw ken how it's been—
Sic a comical trick, aw's sure, never was seen;
Faix, bad as it is, it might hev been warse,
It's come in at maw gob, and gyen out at——."
Fal, lal, &c.

JOSSY'S NAG'S HEAD.

Tune—"A rampant Lion is my Sign."

All you who've got an hour to spare,
And wish to spend it merry,
Go not to houses of ill-fame,
Nor sport with Tom and Jerry:
Direct your course to Armfield's house,
Where none the least alarm feels,
Where mirth and fun reign uncontroll'd,
All in Josiah Armfield's.

CHORUS.

Then drink about and merry be,
Let each one fill his station,
And ne'er despise a flowing pot,
When bent on recreation.

In winter, when the weather's cold,
The pinching frost may starve you,
You'll find a fire to your desire,
A buxom lass to serve you:
Her smiles are like the flowers in May,
Her conversation charms weel:
Far be the fellow takes her in,
While selling drink at Armfield's.
Then drink about, &c.

Now should you know the art of war,
The news may lead your mind there;
Or if inclin'd to grace the bar,
Some of your cloth you'll find there:
Mock trials, hot debates go on,
Yet seldom any harm feel,
The counsellors plead your cause for nought,
Law's cheap at Jossy Armfield's.
Then drink about, &c.

Next in the tap-room take a peep,
There's eggs and pie-folk dealing;
Some try their luck at single toss,
And other some are stealing:
The bakky smoke ascends in clouds,
Yet none will say he harm feels;
You'd swear you were near Etna's Mount,
Instead of Jossy Armfield's.
Then drink about, &c.

The sailors sing their dangers o'er,
When sailing on the high seas;
Says Donald frae Fife, "I've left the North,
Where Parry wad lost his ideas."
"Come, d—n!" says Durham lad, "leet my pipe,
And give us nyen o' your yarn reels;
But pay the quart—Ise be the next,
We'll hev a spree at Armfield's."
Then drink about, &c.

There's Baggie Will, he sings all fours;
And faith he sings it rarely;
There's Castle Dean plagues Canny Pit Sark,
And sings, he's lost her fairly;
The Teazer he provokes the flame,
Till a' the house quite warm feels:
The Cobbler chaunts the Cuddy sang,
Half-cock'd, in Jossy Armfield's.
Then drink about, &c.

Box number one's a Tennis Court,
For those of fistic valour;
And should you want to grace the ring,
Must enter as a scholar.
The Hackney drivers stand about,
Until their dowps they warm feel;
Then drink their purl, and march away—
Huzza! for Jossy Armfield.
Then drink about, &c.

THE APRIL GOWK;

Or, THE LOVERS ALARMED.

A CASTLE-GARTH DITTY.

Tune—"Jenny choak'd the Bairn."

Ye worthy friends of April Gowk,
That like a bit o' spree,
Pray lay your jargon a' aside,
And listen unto me;
For love's intrigues disturb the wigs
Of most o' men on earth;
And so, of late, it caught the pate
Of pious Parson Garth.

This worthy man went soon to bed,
Upon the last o' March,
And what his mind was running on,
'Tis needless now to search;
His rib asleep, down stairs he'd creep—
When lo! to his surprise,
A pair of boots, below the seat,
Stood right before his eyes.

He went to rouse his darling spouse,
And said, "You plainly see
There's some one here that wants to make
An April Gowk o' me.
Oh! dress yoursel', do take the bell,
Your petticoat put on:
They're now in quod—I hope to God
It's not my brother John."

He took a stick, and follow'd quick
Unto the lasses' room:
Come out! says she; Come out! says he,
The Kitty is your doom!
While on the bell she did play knell,
Poor Johnny, pale, came forth,
All in dismay, like potters' clay,
Stood pious Parson Garth!

A Chamber Council there was held,
All in this naked plight;
The dire alarm had brought a swarm
O' guardians o' the night:
In vain they strove to gain his love,
His wrath for to appease,
He swore he'd have their boxes search'd,
And cried—Produce the keys!

They nothing found that he could own—
His heart more callous grew,
He tore their caps, destroy'd their hats—
Them on the floor he threw:
Like pilgrims setting out, unshod,
To prison they were sent,
To dread their penance, like the sweep,
Until they should repent.

To free the girls from guilt and shame,
And have the matter clear'd,
Those sweetly serenading "Two-
Foot Carpenters"[49] appear'd.
Tho' Willy cannot get his boots,
For them he does not care—
They won the day!—"none but the brave
Deserve to win the fair."

Should you not know this worthy man—
A man of steady gait,
A pensive look affects as tho'
He'd something in his pate:
Ambition and presumption too
In him have taken birth,
And fix'd a stigma on his name—
"The Hydra of the Garth!"

[49] Cloggers.

THE SKIPPER'S MISTAKE.

Tune—"The Chapter of Accidents."

Two jovial souls, two skippers bold,
For Shields did sail one morning,
In their awd keel, black as the Deil,
All fear and danger scorning.
The sky look'd bright, which prophesied
A fair and glorious day, man;
But such a thick Scotch mist cam on,
They could not see their way, man.
Fal, lal, &c.

They pull'd about, frae reet to left,
Not kennin what to dee, man,
When poor Pee-dee began to fret,
Lest they should drive to sea, man.
Says Geordy, Should wor voyage be lang,
We've little for our guts, man;
There's nowt belaw but half a loaf,
Some tripe, and a nowt's foot, man.
Fal, lal, &c.

They drove as far as Jarrow Slake,
When Geordy bawl'd aloud, man
Smash! marrow, ye hae been at skuel,
Come find our latitude, man;
Gan down into the huddock, Jack,
Fetch up the Reading-Easy—
If we should be far off at sea,
I doubt it winna please ye.
Fal, lal, &c.

They studied hard, byeth lang and sair,
Though nyen o' them could read, man,
When Geordy on a sudden cries,
Aw hev 'er in my heed, man.
Come, let us pray to be kept free
Frae danger and mischance, man;
We're ower the bar!—there's nowt for us
But Holland, Spain, or France, man!
Fal, lal, &c.

At length the day began to clear,
The sun peep'd through the dew, man,
When lo! awd-fashion'd Jarrow Kirk
Stood fair within their view, man.
They laugh'd and crack'd about the joke
Which lately gar'd them quake, man:
They lay, instead of Spain or France,
Quite snug at Jarrow Slake, man.
Fal, lal, &c.

May wealth and commerce still increase,
And bless our native isle, man,
And make each thriving family
In happiness to smile, man.
May vict'ry round Britannia's brow
Her laurels still entwine, man,
The coal-trade flourish more and more
Upon the dingy Tyne, man.
Fal, lal, &c.

NEWCASTLE BEER versus SPAW WATER;

Or, The Pitman and Temperance Society.

BY R. EMERY.

Tune—"Mr. Frost."

As Cousin Jack and I, last pay-day, cam to toon,
We gat to Robin Hood's, wor worldly cares to droon—
And there we spent the day—their yell's byeth cheap and strang—
It's reet to soak yen's clay—hang them that thinks it wrang.
Romti bomti bom, &c.

In stagg'rin' hyem at neet, an' bent upon a spree,
A broad-brim'd chep cam up, and seem'd to talk quite free;—
He said, to drink small beer or brandy was a curse,
It stole away wor brains, an' drain'd each poor man's purse.
Romti bomti bom, &c.

He talk'd 'bout Temp'rance Clubs, that now are a' the go,
And said, if we wad join, we'd ne'er ken want or woe.
We quickly gav consent, wor Friend then led the way,
Reet up to Wilkie's went, amang his cronies gay.
Romti bomti bom, &c.

There some wer fair and fat, some nowt but skin and byen,
And at a tyebble sat a man near twenty styen—
He roar'd out for some drink, which very suen was browt,
And said, My lads, fall tee, and fill yor bags for nowt.
Romti bomti bom, &c.

Aw tried, but smash a drop wad down me weasen gan,
But Broad-brim said, quite slee, Come, drink, friend, if thou can
'Twill purge the body clean, and make ye wond'rous wise,
And, efter ye are deed, ye'll mount abuen the skies.
Romti bomti, &c.

Suen efter this grand speech aw quietly toddled hyem,
And cramm'd some o' their drink into wor canny dyem;
But scarcely had she drunk this liquor so divine,
Till she began to bowk, and sair her jaws did twine.
Romti bomti, &c.

A Doctor suen was brought frae canny Benwell toon,
While Peggy, maw poor lass, was work'd byeth up an' doon;
He fund, when he did tyest, this queer, mischievous stuff,
To be Spaw Water pure, so Peg was safe eneugh.
Romti bomti bom, &c.

When aw gan back to toon, aw'll tell them what aw think—
Aw'll warn wor neighbours round 'gyen their outlandish drink:
Let Quakers gan to Heav'n, an' fill their kites wi' Spaw,
Give me Newcassel Beer, content aw'll stay belaw.
Romti bomti bom, &c.

THE PITMAN'S PAY;

Or, A Night's Discharge to Care.

I sing not here of warriors bold—
Of battles lost or victories won—
Of cities sack'd, or nations sold,
Or any deeds by tyrants done.

I sing the Pitman's plagues and cares—
Their labour hard and lowly cot—
Their homely joys and humble fares—
Their pay-night o'er a foaming pot.

Their week's work done, the coaly craft—
These horny-handed sons of toil
Require a "right gude willie-waught,"
The creaking wheels of life to oil.

See hewers, putters, drivers too,
With pleasure hail this happy day—
All clean wash'd up, their way pursue
To drink, and crack, and get their pay.

The Buck, the Black Horse, and the Keys,
Have witness'd many a comic scene,
Where's yell to cheer and mirth to please,
And drollery that would cure the spleen.

With parched tongues and gyzen'd throats
They reach the place, where barleycorn
Soon down the dusty cavern floats,
From pewter-pot or homely horn.

The dust wash'd down, then comes the care
To find that all is rightly bill'd;
And each to get his hard-earn'd share
From some one in division skill'd.

The money-matters thus decided,
They push the pot more briskly round;
With hearts elate and hobbies strided,
Their cares are all in nappie drown'd.

"Here, lass," says Jack, "help this agyen,
It's better yell than's in the toun;
But then the road's se het it's tyen,
It fizz'd, aw think, as it went doun."

Thus many a foaming pot's requir'd
To quench the dry and dusky spark;
When ev'ry tongue, as if inspir'd,
Wags on about their wives and wark.

The famous feats done in their youth,
At bowling, ball, and clubby-shaw—
Camp-meetings, Ranters, Gospel-truth,
Religion, politics, and law.

With such variety of matter,
Opinions, too, as various quite,
We need not wonder at the clatter,
When ev'ry tongue wags—wrong or right.

The gifted few in lungs and lair
At length, insensibly, divide 'em:
And from a three-legg'd stool or chare
Each draws his favour'd few beside him.

Now let us ev'ry face survey,
Which seems as big with grave debate,
As if each word they had to say
Was pregnant with impending fate.

Mark those in that secluded place
Set snug around the stool of oak,
Labouring at some knotty case,
Envelop'd in tobacco smoke.

These are the pious, faithful few,
Who pierce the dark decrees of fate—
They've read the "Pilgrim's Progress" through,
As well as "Boston's Four-fold state."

They'll point you out the day and hour
When they experienc'd sin forgiven—
Convince you that they're quite secure,
They'll die in peace, and go to heaven.

The moral road's too far about,
They like a surer, shorter cut,
Which frees the end from every doubt,
And saves them many a weary foot.

The first's commensurate with our years,
And must be travell'd day by day;
And to the new-born few appears
A very dull and tedious way.

The other's length solely depends
Upon the time when we begin it;
Get but set out—before life ends—
For all's set right when once we're in it.

They're now debating which is best—
The short-cut votes the others double;
For this good reason, 'mongst the rest,
It really saves a world of trouble.

He that from goodness farthest strays,
Becomes a saint of first degree;
And Ranter Jeremiah says,
"Let bad ones only come to me."

Old Earth-worm soon obeys the call,
Conscious, perhaps, he wanted mending,
For some few flaws from Adam's fall,
Gloss'd o'er by cant and sheer pretending.

Still stick to him afield or home,
The methodistic brush defying,
So that the Ranter's curry-comb
Is now the only means worth trying.

In habits form'd since sixty years,
The hopes of change won't weigh a feather—
Their power so o'er him domineers,
That they and life must end together.

See on their right a gambling few,
Whose every word and look display
A desperate, dark, designing crew,
Intent upon each others' pay.

They're racers, cockers, carders keen,
As ever o'er a tankard met,
Or ever bowl'd a match between
The Popplin Well and Mawvin's yett."

On cock-fight, dog-fight, cuddy-race,
Or pitch and toss, trippet and coit,
Or on a soap-tail'd grunter's chase,
They'll risk the last remaining doit.

They're now at cards, and Gibby Gripe
Is peeping into Harry's hand;
And ev'ry puff blown from his pipe
His party easily understand.

Some for the odd trick pushing hard—'
Some that they lose it pale with fear—
Some betting on the turn-up card—
Some drawing cuts for pints of beer.

Whilst others brawl about Jack's brock,
That all the Chowden dogs can bang;
Or praise "Lang Wilson's" piley cock,
Or Dixon's feats upon the swang.

Here Tom, the pink of bowlers, gain'd
Himself a never-dying name,
By deeds, wherein an ardour reign'd,
Which neither age nor toil could tame.

For labour done, and o'er his dose,
Tom took his place upon the hill;
And at the very evening's close
You faintly saw him bowling still.

All this display of pith and zeal
Was so completely habit grown,
That many an hour from sleep he'd steal
To bowl upon the hill alone.

The night wears late—the wives drop in
To take a peep at what is doing;
For many would not care a pin
To lose at cards a fortnight's hewing.

Poor Will had just his plagues dismiss'd,
And had "Begone, dull Care" begun,
With face as grave as Methodist,
And voice most sadly out of tune;

But soon as e'er he Nelly saw,
With brows a dreadful storm portending,
He dropt at once his under jaw,
As if his mortal race was ending;—

For had the grim destroyer stood,
In all his ghastliness before him,
It could not more have froze his blood,
Nor thrown a deadlier paleness o'er him.

His better half, all fire and tow,
Call'd him a slush—his comrades raff—
Swore that he could a brewing stow,
And after that sipe all the draff.

Will gather'd up his scatter'd powers—
Drew up his fallen chops again—
Seiz'd Nell, and push'd her out of doors,
Then broke forth in this piteous strain:—

"O! Nell, thou's rung me mony a peal,
Nyen, but mysel, could bide thy yammer;
Thy tongue runs like wor pully-wheel,
And dirls my lug like wor smith's hammer.

Thou'll drive me daft, aw often dread,
For now aw's nobbet verra silly,
Just like a geuss cut i' the head,
Like Jemmy Muin or Preacher Willy.

Aw thought wor Nell, when Nelly Dale,
The verra thing to myek me happy;
She curl'd ma hair, or tied ma tail,
And clapt and stroakt ma little Cappy.

But suin as e'er the knot was tied,
And we were yok'd for life together;
When Nell had laugh'd, and minny cried,
And a' was fairly i' the tether;—

Then fierce as fire she seiz'd the breeks,
And round maw heed flew stuils and chairs;
Ma tail hung lowse like candle weeks,—
An awd pit ended Cappy's cares.

Just like wor maisters when we're bun',
If men and lads be varra scant,
They wheedle us wi' yell and fun,
And coax us into what they want.

But myek yor mark, then snuffs and sneers
Suin slop yor gob and lay yor braggin';
When yence yor feet are i' the geers,
Ma soul! they'll keep your painches waggin.

Aw toil ma byens, till through ma clay
They peep, to please ma dowly cavel;
Aw's at the coal wall a' the day,
And nightly i' the waiter level—

Aw hammer on till efternuin,
Wi' weary byens and empty wyem;
Nay, varra oft the pit's just duin
Before aw weel get wannel'd hyem.

But this is a' of little use,
For what aw dee is never reet;
She's like a larm-bell i' the house,
Ding-donging at me day and neet.

If aw sud get ma wark owre suin,
She's flaid to deeth aw've left some byet;
And if aw's till the efternuin,
Aw's drunk because aw is se lyet.

Feed us and cleed us weel she may,
As she gets a'ways money plenty:
For every day, for mony a pay,
Aw've hew'd and putten twee-and-twenty.

'Tis true aw sometimes get a gill—
But then she a'ways gets her grog;
And if aw din't her bottle fill,
Aw's then a skin-flint, snock-drawn dog.

She buys me, te, the warst o' meat,
Bad bullock's liver—houghs and knees
Tough stinking tripe, and awd cow's feet—
Shanks full o' mawks, and half nought cheese.

Of sic she feeds the bairns and me,
The tyesty bits she tyeks hersel';
In whilk ne share nor lot have we,
Excepting sometimes i' the smell.

The crowdy is wor daily dish,
But varra different is their minny's;
For she gets a' her heart can wish
In strang lyac'd tea and singin' hinnies.

Ma canny bairns luik pale and wan,
Their bits and brats are varra scant;
Their mother's feasts rob them o' scran—
For wilfu' waste makes woefu' want.

She peels the taties wi' her teeth,
And spreads the butter wi' her thoom;
She blaws the kail wi' stinking breeth,
Where mawks and caterpillars soom!

She's just a gannin' heap o' muck,
Where durts of a' description muster;
For dishclout serves her apron nuik
As weel as snotter clout and duster!

She lays out punds in manadge things,
Like mony a thriftless, thoughtless bein';
Yet bairns and me, as if we'd wings,
Are a' in rags an' tatters fleein'.

Just mark wor dress—a lapless coat,
With byeth the elbows sticking through—
A hat that never cost a groat—
A neckless shirt—a clog and shoe.

She chalks up scores at a' the shops
Wherever we've a twelvemonth staid;
And when we flit, the landlord stops
Ma sticks till a' the rent be paid.

Aw's ca'd a hen-pick'd, pluckless calf,
For letting her the breeches wear;
And tell'd aw dinna thresh her half—
Wi' mony a bitter jibe and jeer.

'Aw think,' says Dick, 'aw wad her towen,
And verra suin her courage cuil:
Aw'd dook her in wor engine powen,
Then clap her on Repentance stuil.

If that should not her tantrums check,
Aw'd peel her to the varra sark:
Then 'noint her wi' a twig o' yeck,
And efter make her eat the bark.'

Enough like this aw've heard thro' life;
For every body has a plan
To guide a rackle ram-stam wife,
Except the poor tormented man."

Will could not now his feelings stay—
The tear roll'd down his care-worn cheek:
He thrimmell'd out what he'd to pay,
And sobbing said, "my heart will break!"

Here Nanny, modest, mild, and shy,
Took Neddy gently by the sleeve;
"Aw just luik'd in as aw went by—
Is it not, thinks te, time to leave?"

"Now, Nan, what myeks th' fash me here,
Gan hyem and get the bairns to bed;
Thou knaws thou promis'd me ma beer
The verra neet before we wed."

"Hout, hinny, had th' blabbin jaw,
Thou's full o' nought but fun and lees;
At sic a kittle time, ye knaw,
Yen tells ye ony thing to please.

Besides, thou's had enough o' drink,
And mair wad ony myek th' bad;
Aw see thy een begin to blink—
Gan wi' me, like a canny lad."

"O, Nan! thou hez a witching way
O' myekin' me de what thou will;
Thou needs but speak, and aw obey,
Yet there's ne doubt aw's maister still.

But tyest the yell and stop a bit—
Here tyek a seat upon ma knee—
For 'mang the hewers in wor pit
There's nyen hez sic a wife as me.

For if ma top comes badly down,
Or ought else keeps me lang away,
She cheers me wi' the weel-knawn soun'—
'Thou's had a lang and weary day.'

If aw be naggy, Nanny's smile
Suin myeks me blithe as ony lark;
And fit to loup a yett or stile—
Ma varra byens forget to wark.

Ma Nan—ma bairns—ma happy hyem—
Set ower hard labour's bitter pill—
O Providence! but spare me them—
The warld may then wag as it will.

She waits upon me hand and foot—
Aw want for nought that she can gie me—
She fills ma pipe wi patten cut—
Leets it, and hands it kindly to me.

She tells me a' her bits o' news,
Pick'd up the time aw've been away;
And fra ma mouth the cuttie pous
When sleep o'ercomes ma weary clay.

Sae weel she ettles what aw get—
Sae far she a'ways gars it gan—
That nyen can say we are i' debt,
Or want for owther claes or scran.

Then drink about, whe minds a jot—
Let's drown wor cares i' barleycorn—
Here, lass, come bring another pot,
The cawler dissent call to morn."

"Nay, hinny Ned, ne langer stay—
We mun be hyem to little Neddy—
He's just a twel'munth awd to-day,
And will be crying for his deddy.

Aw'll tyek thee hyem a pot o' beer,
A nice clean pipe and backy te—
Thou knaws aw like to hae thee near—
Come, hinny, come, gan hyem wi' me."

Like music's soft and soothing powers
These honey'd sounds drop on his ear:
Or like the warm and fertile showers
That leave the face of nature dear.

Here was the power of woman shown,
When women use it properly—
He threw his pipe and reck'ning down—
"Aw will—aw will gan hyem wi' thee."

At home arriv'd, right cheerfully
She set him in his easy chair—
Clapt little Neddy on his knee,
And bid him see his image there.

The mother pleas'd—the father glad,
Swore Neddy had twee bonny een—
"There ne'er was, Ned, a finer lad;
And, then, he's like thee as a bean.

Aw've luck'd for Wilson a' this day,
To cut th' pig down 'fore it's dark;
But he'll be guzzling at the pay,
And winden on about his wark.

What lengths aw've often heard him gan,
Sweering—and he's not fond of fibbin
'He'll turn his back on ne'er a man
For owther killin pigs or libbin.'

Still Jack's an honest, canty cock,
As ever drain'd the juice of barley;
Aw've knawn him sit myest roun' the clock
Swatt'ling and clatt'ring on wi' Charley.

Now, Deddy, let me ease yor arm;
Gi'e me the bairn, lay down yor pipe,
And get the supper when it's warm—
It's just a bit o' gissy's tripe.

Then come to me, ma little lammy—
Come, thou apple o' ma e'e—
Come, ma Neddy, t' the mammy—
Come, ma darlin'—come to me!"

Here, see a woman truly blest
Beyond the reach of pomp and pride;
Her infant happy at her breast—
Her husband happy by her side.

Then take a lesson, pamper'd wealth,
And learn how little it requires
To make us happy when we've health—
Content—and moderate desires.

"Tha father, Ned, is far frae weel,
He lucks, poor body, varra bad;
A' ower he hez a cawdrife feel,
But thinks it but a waff o' cawd.

Aw've just been ower wi' something warm,
To try to ease the weary coff,
Which baffles byeth the drugs and charm!
And threatens oft to tyek him off.

He says, 'O Nan, ma life thou's spar'd—
The good it's duin me's past beleevin'—
The Lord will richly thee rewaird—
The care o' me will win thee heeven.'

Now as his bottle's nearly tuim,
Mind think me on, when at the town,
To get the drop black beer and rum,
As little else will now gan down.

We mebby may be awd worsel's,
When poverty's cawd blast is blawin';
And want a frien' when nature fyels,
And life her last few threeds is drawin'.

Besides, the bits o' good we dee
The verra happiest moments gie us;
And mun, aw think, still help a wee,
At last, frae awfu' skaith to free us.

Let cant and rant then rave at will
Agyen a' warks—aw here declare it—
We'll still the hungry belly fill,
Se lang as ever we can spare it."

Here, then, we'll leave this happy pair
Their "home affairs" to con and settle;
Their "ways and means" with frugal care,
For marketing next day to ettle.

THE NEWCASTLE BLUNDERBUSS!

Or, TRAVELLING EXTRAORDINARY.

BY R. EMERY.

Tune—"Calder Fair."

Ne mair o' grand inventions brag,
'Bout Steamers and Chain Brigs, man—
Newcassel's sel' still bears the bell,
An' bothers a' their wigs, man:
'Bout Gleediscowpies, silly things,
Ne langer make a fuss, man—
E'en silk Balloons mun bend their croons
To Reidie's Blunderbuss,[50] man.
Fal, de ral, &c.

As Geordy Fash and Dolly Raw
Cam stagg'rin up the Kee, man,
Wi' Teasdale's beer, an' sic like cheer,
They'd rather myed ow'r free, man—
Into this Blunderbuss they gat,
'Side two outlandish chiels, man,
But ere they'd time to leet their pipes,
They fand theirsels i' Shields, man!
Fal, de ral, &c.

Each day on wor Sandhill it stands—
If in tid ye should pop, man,
An' close yor winkers half an hour,
Clean ow'r the sea ye'll hop, man!
The Kee-side Jarvies now may run,
An' barbers' clerks se gay, man—
'Twad be a spree if, fra' wor Kee,
They'd cut to Bot'ny Bay, man!
Fal, de ral, &c.

This grand machine wor Tyne will clean,
An' make it's sand-banks flee, man,
Like Corby Craws ow'r Marsden Rock,
Into the German Sea, man!—
Wor canny Mayor ne pains will spare,
He'll back it out an' out, man,
Till ev'ry nuisance in wor toon
For Shields shall take the route, man.
Fal, de ral, &c.

[50] Omnibusses commenced running between Newcastle and Shields every hour, (from eight o'clock in the morning till eight at night,) Nov. 12, 1832.

A PITMAN'S VISIT TO NEWCASTLE ON VALENTINE'S DAY.

Tune—"Newcastle Fair."

Od smash! marra, where hast thou been,
Aw been luiken for ye a yel hour;
For to tell of a seet aw hae seen,
Sic a seet as aw ne'er saw before:
Aw straight to Newcassel did gan,
And gat in just as it struck ten;
Then through the streets aw quickly ran,
For to get heame suin agyen.
Rum ti idity, &c.

Just as aw was runnin amain!
Aw comes alangside of a shop,
Wi' papers clagg'd on every pane—
To see them aw thought aw wad stop.
But oh! sic reed flames an' sic darts!
And sae mony lovers together;
And sic bonny arrows and hearts—
Od zounds! they were painted quite clever.
Rum ti idity, &c.

Says aw, to a buck in the street,
(You may guess he was drest very fine,)
"What's that thing that's painted complete?"
Says he, "It is a Valentine."
Says aw, "Do ye knaw what they're for,
That they are painted sae smart?"
Then he humm'd and he haw'd like a boar,
And said, "To send to your sweetheart."
Rum ti idity, &c.

Then thinks aw to masell, aw'll hae yen,
To send to my awn dearest hinny:
Aw bowls into the shop like a styen,
When out pops a man very skinny:
Says he, "Sir, pray what do you want?"
Says aw, "Yen o' them things that's bonny;"
When in comes a chep that did cant,
And said, "Aw want one, my dear honey."
Rum ti idity, &c.

That the fellow was Irish I knew,
As suin as to speak he began,
He luik'd at Valentines not a few,
But could not find one to suit Nan:
Says he, "Mind, aw will hev the prattiest."
Says aw, "Ye must knaw that you shan't."
Did he think aw'd be content wi' the dirtiest?
Ma sang! aw did both swear and rant.
Rum ti idity, &c.

When he brought me a clout o' the lug,
He did it sae frisky and gaily,
Says he, "You must know, Mr. Mug,
That I'm a stout bit of shillelah."
Aw brought him another as tough,
It made a' his cheeks for to rattle;
Says he, "I have got quite enough:"
Sae thus we gave ower the brattle.
Rum ti idity, &c.

We went to a yell-house just nigh,
For to get a wee sup o' strang yell;
And then we came back, by and by,
And to luikin at Valentines fell.
And then got as great as could be,
And bought Valentines for to fit, man:
But aw say, without telling a lee,
He met wiv his match in a Pitman.
Rum ti idity, &c.

THE SKIPPER IN THE MIST.

Tune—"Derry down."

Some time since there cam on a very thick fog,
In Lunnin some folks were near lost in a bog;—
A bog, you will say, that's an Irish name—
They got knee deep in mud, and that's just all the same.
Derry down, &c.

Now, during the fog, sir, a Newcassel keel
Was sailing down Tyne to a ship lying at Shields,
The fog cam se thick, skipper off wig and roar'd—
"Aw mun lay by my swape—Geordy, lay by yor oar!
Derry down, &c.

Now, hinnies, my marrows! come tell's what to dee,
Aw's frighten'd wor keel will soon drive out to sea!"
So the men an' their skipper, each sat on his buttock,
An' a council they held, wi' their legs down the huddock.
Derry down, &c.

Says Geordy, "We canna be very far down,
With the wash o' my oar, aw hev just touch'd the grund;
Cheer up, my awd skipper, put on yor awd wig,
We're between the King's Meadows an' Newcassel Brig!"
Derry down, &c.

The skipper, enrag'd, then declar'd he kend better,
For at the same time he had smelt the salt water;
"And there's Marsden Rock, just within a styen thraw,
Aw can see't through the mist, aw'll swear by my reet paw.
Derry down, &c.

The anchor let's drop till the weather it clears,
For fear we be nabb'd by the French privateers!"
The anchor was dropt: when the weather clear'd up,
They soon moor'd their keel at the awd Javil Group.
Derry down, &c.

The skipper was vex'd, and he curs'd and he swore,
That his nose had ne'er led him se far wrang before!
But what most of all did surprise these four people
Was, Marsden Rock chang'd into Gateshead Church Steeple!
Derry down, &c.

THE MIRACULOUS WELL;

Or, NEWCASTLE SPAW WATER.[51]

BY R. EMERY.

Tune—"Rory O'More."

A fig for quack doctors, their pills and their stuff,
Our neighbours of them have been tir'd long enough;
E'en Dinsdale and Croft their pretensions withdraw,
And Harrowgate bends to our Newcassel Spaw:
The halt and the blind, and the grave and the gay,
To drink of the water, in crowds haste away;
And gouty old bachelors thither repair,
With Jews, Turks, and tailors, its virtues to share.

Hurrah for Newcassel!—Newcassel for me!
Where ale is so prime, and the lasses so free:
Your lumps, bumps, and rheumatics vanish like snaw,
By one mighty draught of this wonderful Spaw!

One day Cuddy Willy sat down by the spring,
And fiddled and sang till he made the Dean ring;
Then said to the crowd—My lads, as to the Spaw,
Good whisky improves it, aw verra weel knaw!—
But, if you'll be seated, you'll soon hear me sing
The magical cures that's performed by this spring:—
He cut an odd caper, and thus he began—
First drinking a quart from a rusty tin-can.
Hurrah for Newcassel! &c.

Awd Humpy-back'd Dick, and two or three mair,
Fra Shiney Raw pit to the Well did repair;
He drank of the Spaw, when the hump, in a crack,
Dissolv'd and soon vanish'd frae poor Dicky's back!
Lord bliss us! cried timber-toed tee-total Peg,
If it banishes humps, it might bring forth a leg!
She got to the Well, with the Spaw she made free,
And very soon after poor Peggy had three!!!
Hurrah for Newcassel! &c.

Pure sanctified Betty scarce knew what to think—
Hard might be her fate if she ventur'd to drink—
For most of the lasses that live in Lang Raw,
Have getten the dropsy by tasting the Spaw!
The doctors declare, that at forty weeks' end,
'Twill be in their arms, and the dropsy will mend;
The howdies are wishing the time was well o'er,
For surely such water was ne'er known before.
Hurrah for Newcassel! &c.

A bumper, cried Cuddy, and toasted the Queen,—
Which soon was responded by all on the green,—
May she have a son soon as big's Johnny Fa'—
(There's virtue in wishing while drinking the Spaw).
So now, my good lasses, gan hyem to your wark—
There's danger in wand'ring the Dean in the dark
'Mang trees and awd quarries—I'd have ye beware,
Remember poor Peggy was caught in the snare.
Hurrah for Newcassel! &c.

[51] Some years ago, a spring of water was observed to ooze from the bank at the foot of Sandyford Dean, to which some people attributed medicinal qualities; but it was not generally noticed till the spring of 1841, when its fame spread abroad, and drew the attention of multitudes of people to the spot, many of whom being afflicted with complaints of long standing, after drinking freely of this water, declared themselves cured; and some of the faculty proving its qualities by analyzation, gave it a more favourable report, which caused still greater numbers of invalids, &c. to visit the spring—some with casks and cans, others with jugs and bottles, anxiously waiting for a turn. Whether the benefits said to have been received from this water were real or imaginary, time, the test of all things, will assuredly prove.

THE SKIPPER'S FRIGHT.

Tune—"Skipper Carr and Marky Dunn."

As aw was gannen out yen neet,—
It happen'd in the dark, man,—
A chep cam up ga' me a freet,
'Twas little Skipper Clark, man:
His fyece was white as ony clout,
Says aw, what hae ye been about?
He gyep'd at me, and gav a shout,
O Dick, I've seen the Deil, man!

Awd Nick had twee great goggle eyes,
And horns upon his heed, man,
He had a gob,—aye, sic a size,
It flay'd me near to deed, man!
His eyes were like twee burning coals,
His mouth like one o' wor pit-holes,
His horns were like twee crooked poles,—
Aw'm sure it was the Deil, man!

Aw'd often heard wor preacher tell
That Awd Nick had twee club-feet,—
Thinks aw, aw'll ken the neet mysel',
Whether wor preacher's wrang or reet:
With that aw gav a luik about—
The club-feet was there without a doubt;
And just wi' that he gav a shout—
And aw'm sure it was the Deil, man.

Od smash! says aw, aw've often heard
About this mighty Deil, man,—
Shew me the place where he appear'd,
For aw'd like to see him weel, man?
Then Dick he tuik me to the place,
Where he had seen his awful fyece—
And still he swore it was the case,
That he had seen the Deil, man.

Alang wi' Dick aw hitch'd about
To see this mighty Deil, man,
When just with that Dick gav a shout—
Luik there! thou'll see him weel, man;
But when of him aw'd got a view,
Aw laugh'd till aw was black and blue,
For it was nought but a great black cow
That Dick tuik for the Deil, man.

J. N.

SANDGATE PANT;

Or, JANE JEMIESON'S GHOST.

BY R. EMERY.

Tune—"I'd be a Butterfly."

The bell of St. Ann's toll'd two in the morning,
As brave Skipper Johnson was gawn to the keel—
From the juice of the barley his poor brain was burning—
In search of relief he through Sandgate did reel;
The city was hush, save the keel-bullies' snoring—
The moon faintly gleam'd through the sable-clad sky—
When lo! a poor female her hard fate deploring,
Appear'd near the pant, and thus loudly did cry:—
Ripe Chenee oranges, four for a penny!
Cherry ripe cornberries—taste them and try!

O listen, ye hero of Sandgate and Stella,
Jin Jemieson kens that yor courage is trig,
Go tell Billy Elli to meet me, brave fellow—
Aw'll wait yor return on Newcassel Tyne Brig!—
Oh, marcy! cried Johnson, yor looks gar me shiver!
Maw canny lass, Jin, let me fetch him next tide;
The spectre then frown'd—and he vanish'd for ever,
While Sandgate did ring as she vengefully cried—
Fine Chenee oranges, four for a penny!
Cherry ripe cornberries—taste them and try!

She waits for her lover, each night at this station,
And calls her ripe fruit with a voice loud and clear;
The keel-bullies listen in great consternation—
Tho' snug in their huddocks, they tremble with fear!
She sports round the pant till the cock, in the morning,
Announces the day—then away she does fly
Till midnight's dread hour—thus each maiden's peace scorning,
They start from their couch as they hear her loud cry—
Fine Chenee oranges, four for a penny!
Cherry ripe cornberries—taste them and try!

THE BIRTH-DAY OF QUEEN VICTORIA:

A new Song, intended to be sung on board the Stewards' Barge on Ascension Day, May 24th, 1838.

THOMAS EMERSON HEADLAM, ESQ., MAYOR. JOHN CARR, ESQ., SHERIFF.

Hurrah for Old England, her Queen, and her laws!
Hurrah for all hearts that are true in the cause!
Hurrah for Newcastle! Hurrah for the Mayor!
Hurrah for the Tyne—its banks bustling and fair!
Hurrah for the Freemen, that rouse at each call!
Hurrah for the Stewards, the spirits of all!
Hurrah for the many bright days we have seen!
Hurrah for a bumper—good health to the Queen!

Our Port to keep famous, may Commerce prevail,
And many ships sail with a prosperous gale;
And while the wide stream from sweet Hedwin is roll'd,
May true Conservators each landmark uphold.
The Herbage Committee, with hearts light and gay,
Have leisure from toil to be merry to-day—
Each countenance beaming, in mind all serene,
To drink in a bumper—good health to the Queen.

While foes vainly threaten, and faction may rave,
Our Union Flag still in triumph shall wave;
And whether as few or as many we be,
Like true honest Freemen we still will be free.
The fam'd Corporation of our good old town,
Unsullied, still onward shall bear its renown;
In loyalty ever the foremost we've been,
To drink in a bumper—good health to the Queen.

Hurrah for Old England, her Queen, and her laws!
Hurrah for all hearts that are true in the cause!
Hurrah for Newcastle! Hurrah for the Mayor!
Hurrah for the Tyne—its banks bustling and fair!
Hurrah for the Freemen, that rouse at each call!
Hurrah for the Stewards, the Spirit of all!
Hurrah for the many bright days we have seen!
Hurrah for a bumper—long life to the Queen!
God save the Queen!

R. Gilchrist.

DONOCHT-HEAD.[52]

BY THE LATE GEORGE PICKERING, OF NEWCASTLE.

Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-head,
The snaw drives snelly through the dale,
The Gaber-lunzie tirls my sneck,
And shivering tells his waefu' tale:—

"Cauld is the night, O let me in,
And dinna let your minstrel fa'!
And dinna let his winding-sheet
Be naething but a wreath o' snaw.

Full ninety winters hae I seen,
And pip'd where gor-cocks whirring flew,
And mony a day I've danc'd, I ween,
To lilts which from my drone I blew."

My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cried,
"Get up, gudeman, and let him in;
For weel ye ken the winter night
Was short when he began his din."

My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet,
Ev'n though she bans and scaulds a wee;
But when it's tuned to sorrow's tale,
O, haith it's doubly dear to me.

Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire,
I'll make it bleeze a bonny flame;
Your blood is thin, ye've tint the gait,
Ye should na stray sae far frae hame.

"Nae hame have I, the minstrel said,
Sad party strife o'erturn'd my ha';
And, weeping at the eve of life,
I wander through a wreath o' snaw."

[52] This song comes highly recommended to public notice by the warm commendation of the poet Burns, who, in a letter to his friend, Mr. Thompson, writes—"DONOCHT-HEAD is not mine—I would give ten pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald, and came to the editor of that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it." And Dr. Currie says, respecting this song, that "the author need not have been ashamed to own himself, as it is worthy of the pen of Burns or Macnell."

THE HERBAGE COMMITTEE[53],

(That is, The Jewel of a Committee).

BY R. GILCHRIST.

Not composed over the midnight oil, but amid the noon-day broil of the Barge-day, May 8, 1834.

ADDRESSED TO THE CHAIRMAN.

While others of great deeds may dream,
Yet still commend to me, sir,
A subject rare, and prouder theme,
The Herbage Committee, sir:
This Committee a jewel was,
From truth that never swerv'd sir,
And gain'd much glory and applause,
And well they both deserv'd, sir.

The time has been when bread and cheese
Was wont to be their fare, sir,
What think ye now of turkeys, geese,
A partridge, or a hare, sir!
Well I remind their many joys,
And many happy days, sir,
For O they were the bonny boys
For getting up surveys, sir.

I have seen gallant Mister Woods,
And Mr Grainger, too, sir,
Approach us—though dress'd in our duds—
With an obsequeous bow, sir;
For Martin, Miekle, and Maggall,
Calbreath, friend Charles, and me, sir,
Wanless and Angus, Garrett—all
Were in the Committee, sir!

Who then wad wish to be a Mayor,
Recorder, or Town Clerk, sir?
To serve in office, send me there,
To hear each sage remark, sir;
And O, indeed, I fear it much,
Their like there never will be, sir—
No, never, never more be such
An Herbage Committee, sir.

[53] The Committee were—William Martin, William Miekle, William Maggall, James Calbreath, Charles Stephenson, the Author, William Wanless, William Angus, and William Garrett. Their activity and unanimity were proverbial.

THE BEAR CLUB.

Good dinners to our noble Queen,
And many may she see, sir,
And much I wish she could have seen
The Bear-club Committee, sir:
Her cooks, no doubt, with skill refin'd,
Have cater'd long with care, sir,
But much, I doubt, they ever din'd
Her Majesty of Bears, sir.

'Tis said the Kings of India
Can eat some pretty things, sir;
You need not go so far away
To see the Indian Kings, sir:
The landlord there can at his call
Serve up some pleasant fare, sir—
Mac now has clean eclipsed them all,
And made us eat a Bear, sir.

Some talk about the Esquimaux,
And tell of Cherokees, sir,
Hottentots and Marathas,
And folks in the South Seas, sir;
'Tis said they sometimes cut a swell
In dishes odd and rare, sir,
But we from them will bear the bell,
For we have eat a Bear, sir.

All times have had their men of taste,
Each passing age adorning,
Who, rather than good stuff should waste,
Would eat from night till morning:
To us they must knock under now—
We've given them a scare, sir;
They all could eat a sheep or so,
But we can eat a Bear, sir.

Now as you chance to walk the street,
How every dog will run, sir,
Lest you should roast him for a treat,
And eat him up in fun, sir;
The Quayside horses, loaded well,
Will scamper off like hares, sir,
To see, not Bears all eating men,
But men all eating Bears, sir.

The next time, sir, you eat a Bear,
Grant this my supplication—
Invite to dine our canny Mayor,
And hungry Corporation;
In seeking for a friend like you,
They're looking lean and spare, sir,
So in compassion send them now
The fragments of the Bear, sir.

R. Gilchrist.

THE LASS OF WINCOMBLEE.

Tune—"Nae Luck about the House."

Now all ye lilies hang your heeds,
Ye roses bloom nae mair,
Ye tulips all, put on your weeds,
All, posies may despair.
For not a lass on all Tyneside,
Frae Stella to the sea,
Can marrow Moll the evergreen
Of bonny Wincomblee.
For not a lass, &c.

Her een shine like a davy-lamp,
Or like a summer's day—
Her voice sae like the after-damp,
Near teuk my breath away
Her cherry cheeks like sugar sweet,
Or honey frae the bee;
But sweeter far than byeth o' these
Is Moll of Wincomblee.

Her feet are like twe bits ov cork,
When running iv a reel—
Tiv "Shiver the Rags" and "Off she goes,"
She can cut an' shuffle weel;
Like a lady fine, on Sunday neets
She'll tyek a walk wi' me,
Call at Scrogg House, round Byker fields,
And back by Walker Kee.

When Jinny Pit it has full wark,
We settled for te wed—
The fiddle sal play frae break o' day,
Till we get snug in bed;
Wi' backy and yell ye's hae your fill,
Singin hinnies to your tea—
Wiv a dance we'll finish the merriest neet
Ere was seen at Wincomblee.

Tho' time rolls on, and so it may,
As Tyne rolls to the sea,
Fresh as an evergreen is Moll
Of bonny Wincomblee.

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.

R. Gilchrist.

May 9, 1828.

BLIND WILLIE'S EPITAPH.

Newcastle's now a dowly place—all things seem sore aclite,
For here at last Blind Willie lies, an honest, harmless wight;
Nor wealth nor power now look with scorn on this lone spot of one departed,
For fashion's gay and glaring sun ne'er beam'd on one more happy hearted.

He was the poorest of the poor, yet ne'er complain'd of want,
He neither carried purse nor scrip, and yet was never scant;
Storms thunder'd o'er his hatless head, yet he ne'er once their rage lamented,
His was the lot too few have known—to live content, and die contented.

The Bard who sung of Starkey's death, in tearful strains and true,
And planted on Bold Archy's grave the wreath ta'en from his brow;
His local reed in dust he lays—farewell!—there trill'd its final shiver,—
It has been tun'd in Willie's praise, it now with him lies mute for ever.

R. Gilchrist.

ACROSTIC

On the Death of a celebrated eccentric Character of Newcastle upon Tyne.

B lithe Minstrel of the banks of Tyne,
L o! o'er thy bier, for "auld langsyne,"
I n silent groups, each rolling year,
N orthumbria's sons will drop a tear!
D eath cut thee down—the tyrant scream'd,
W hen thy bright spirit o'er him beam'd!
I n vengeful mood he view'd his claim,
L ost in the triumph of thy name.—
L et Tyne's fam'd sons proclaim afar—
Y ou shall outlive the Morning Star!

R. E.

William Purvis, more generally known by the name of Blind Willy, died on Friday, the 20th July, 1832, aged 80 years.

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Table of Contents

NEWCASTLE SONG BOOK;

CONTENTS.

TYNE SONGSTER.

CANNY NEWCASSEL.

THE QUAYSIDE SHAVER.

THE JENNY HOOLET;

THE GLISTER.

THE EAGLE STEAM PACKET.

JEMMY JONESON'S WHURRY.

THE SKIPPER'S WEDDING.

THE AMPHITRITE.

MY LORD 'SIZE.

CAPPY, OR THE PITMAN'S DOG.

THE PITMAN'S COURTSHIP.

THE BABOON.

BILLY OLIVER'S RAMBLE

A PARODY ON BILLY OLIVER'S RAMBLE.

X Y Z AT NEWCASTLE RACES, 1814;

NEWCASTLE FAIR;

THE LITTLE PEE DEE.

THE TYNE COSSACKS.

THE PITMAN'S REVENGE

BOB CRANKY'S 'SIZE SUNDAY.

BOB CRANKY'S LEUM'NATION NEET.

THE PITMAN'S SKELLYSCOPE.

THE BONNY KEEL LADDIE.

MAW CANNY HINNY.

BOB CRANKY'S ACCOUNT

BOB CRANKY'S ADIEU.

THE MAYOR OF BOURDEAUX;

SWALWELL HOPPING.

WINLATON HOPPING.

THE SANDGATE GIRL'S LAMENTATION.

THE COLLIER'S RANT.

WEEL MAY THE KEEL ROW.

THE NEW KEEL ROW.

THE SANDHILL MONKEY.

THE SKIPPER'S DREAM.

THE SKIPPER'S ACCOUNT OF THE ORANGEMEN'S PROCESSION.

THE POLITICIANS.

TILL THE TIDE CAME IN.

THE SANDGATE LASSIE'S LAMENT.

HYDROPHOBIE, or the SKIPPER & QUAKER.

THE KEELMAN AND THE GRINDSTONE.

NEWCASTLE WONDERS;

QUAYSIDE DITTY,

A SHIELDS SOLILOQUY.

THE GREEN-WIVES' LAMENTATION.

A PETITION

THE FISH-WIVES' COMPLAINT,

SUNDERLAND JAMMY'S LAMENTATION,

THE COBBLER O' MORPETH—(Cholera Morbus.)

CANNY SHEELS.

PERMANENT YEAST.

THE PITMAN'S RAMBLE;

COALY TYNE.

NEWCASSEL RACES.

THE QUACK DOCTORS.

PEGGY'S LEG.

BONNY KEEL LADDIE.

THE TYNE.

NANNY OF THE TYNE.

THE BONNY GYETSIDERS.

THE WATER OF TYNE.

THE NEWCASTLE SIGNS.

THE WONDERFUL GUTTER.

THE LOCAL MILITIA-MAN.

MASQUERADE AT NEWCASTLE THEATRE;

NANCY WILKINSON.

GREEN'S BALLOON.

THE NEWGATE-STREET PETITION

BURDON'S ADDRESS TO HIS CAVALRY.

THE COLLIER'S KEEK AT THE NATION.

BLIND WILLIE SINGING.

BOLD ARCHY & BLIND WILLIE'S LAMENT

A VOYAGE TO LUNNIN.

THE NEWCASSEL PROPS.

NEWCASSEL WONDERS.

TIM TUNBELLY.

THE KEEL ROW.

THE BARBER'S NEWS;

THE BONASSUS.

SHIELDS CHAIN BRIDGE,

THE COLLIERS' PAY WEEK,

THE TYNE.

THE SPRING.

PARSON MALTHUS.

PETER WAGGY.

BESSY OF BLYTH.

KELVIN GROVE.—THE LASSIE'S ANSWER.

TO MR. PETER WATSON[8],

THE NEWCASTLE SUBSCRIPTION MILL.

LIZZIE LIBERTY.

THE NEW FISH MARKET.

A NEW YEAR'S CAROL,

JESMOND MILL.

TOMMY THOMPSON.

FAREWELL TO THE TYNE.

NORTHUMBERLAND FREE O' NEWCASSEL.

THE DUCHESS AND MAYORESS.

NEWCASTLE ASSIZES.

THE COAL TRADE.

TOM CARR AND WALLER WATSON;

JOHNNY SC—TT AND TOMMY C—RR.

TOMMY C—RR IN LIMBO.

The KITTY PORT ADMIRAL at the BENCH;

THE OWL.

LOVELY DELIA.

PANDON DEAN.

THE NEWCASTLE HACKNEYS.

NEWCASTLE HACKNEY COACHES.

NEWCASTLE IMPROVEMENTS.

COME UP TO THE SCRATCH!

THE PITMAN'S DREAM;

THE PITMAN'S DREAM;

FAMED FILLY FAIR;

T——LY'S BEST BLOOD.

THE NEWCASTLE NOODLES.

BRITISH JUSTICE;

THE MISFORTUNES OF ROGER & HIS WIFE.

NEWCASTLE THEATRE IN AN UPROAR,

FAREWELL, ARCHY.

SIR TOMMY MADE AN ODD FELLOW.

WRECKENTON HIRING.

ON RUSSELL THE PEDESTRIAN,

ON SIMPSON THE PEDESTRIAN'S FAILURE.

The VICTORY;

THE ALARM!![21]

THE HALF-DROWNED SKIPPER.

THE NEWCASTLE WORTHIES.

HUMANUM EST ERRARE.

On George the Fourth's Coronation.

SWINEHERD'S PROCLAMATION

THE GOLDEN HORNS;

LOYAL FESTIVITIES;

PICTURE OF NEWCASTLE;

NEWCASTLE IN AN UPROAR;

CORONATION DAY AT NEWCASTLE.

CORONATION THURSDAY—July 19, 1821.

BOB FUDGE'S POSTSCRIPT

BLIND WILLY'S FLIGHT.

THE NEW MARKETS.

THE CHANGES ON THE TYNE.

On the Attempt to remove the Custom House from Newcastle to Shields, in 1816.

THE CUSTOM HOUSE TREE, &c.

THE CUSTOM HOUSE BRANCH.

THE MECHANICS' PROCESSION;

A GIPSY'S SONG.

VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE BURNS' CLUB,

A PARODY,

Thomas Whittell, his Humourous Letter To good Master Moody, Razor-setter.

THE NATURAL PHILOSOPHER;

THE GATESHEAD RADS.

THE ELECTION DAY.

MARY DRUE.

OPENING OF THE NEW MARKETS.

THE NEW MARKETS;

MORE INNOVATIONS!

THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE OLD HOUSE IN THE SHIELD-FIELD

EUPHY'S CORONATION.

SANDGATE WIFE'S NURSE SONG.

BOLD JACK OF THE JOURNAL.

STEAM SOUP;

THE SANDGATE LASS ON THE ROPERY BANKS.

AN OLD AND CURIOUS SONG,

NEWCASTLE LANDLORDS.—1834.

A NEW SONG FOR BARGE-DAY, 1835.

ST. NICHOLAS' CHURCH.

PAGANINI, THE FIDDLER;

THE OYSTER-WIFE'S PETITION,

BROOM BUSOMS.

THUMPING LUCK.

DANCE TO THY DADDY.

THE FRIAR AND THE NUN,

ST. NICHOLAS' GREAT BELL.

LUKEY'S DREAM.

JOCKER.

THE CORN MARKET.

THE SKIPPER'S ACCOUNT OF THE MECHANICS' PROCESSION.

DRUCKEN BELLA ROY, O!

THE BONNY CLOCK FYECE.

THE MUSIC HALL.

THE TYNE.

NEWCASTLE OLD COUNTRY GENTLEMAN.

WALKER PITS.

BEGGAR'S WEDDING.

DO LI A.

A SOUTH SHIELDS SONG.

A NORTH SHIELDS SONG.

COMMIT NO NONSENSE.

A NEW NURSERY RHYME.

COOKSON'S ALKALI.

THE PITMAN'S RAMBLE.

THE WORTHY RECTOR.

BATTLE OF SPITALOO.

BATTLE ON THE SHIELDS RAILWAY,

BLIND WILLIE'S DEATH.[48]

GEORDY'S DISASTER.

JOSSY'S NAG'S HEAD.

THE APRIL GOWK;

THE SKIPPER'S MISTAKE.

NEWCASTLE BEER versus SPAW WATER;

THE PITMAN'S PAY;

THE NEWCASTLE BLUNDERBUSS!

A PITMAN'S VISIT TO NEWCASTLE ON VALENTINE'S DAY.

THE SKIPPER IN THE MIST.

THE MIRACULOUS WELL;

THE SKIPPER'S FRIGHT.

SANDGATE PANT;

THE BIRTH-DAY OF QUEEN VICTORIA:

DONOCHT-HEAD.[52]

THE HERBAGE COMMITTEE[53],

THE BEAR CLUB.

THE LASS OF WINCOMBLEE.

ON THE DEATH OF BOLD ARCHY.

BLIND WILLIE'S EPITAPH.

ACROSTIC

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE