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 neit.

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 die my apron blue;

But 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.

A curious Description of the City of Sandgate,
Wrote some Years ago.

My muse took flight the other day,

And rambling carelessly, astray;

I set my thoughts a wand’ring too,

The fleeting rover to pursue.

Yet as she has an itching still,

To mount the great Parnassus hill,

I straightway thither did repair,

But found she never had been there;

That being too divine a place,

For her to chant unhallow’d lays;

When turning quick my eye around

On Tindale’s shore, the wand’rer found,

Where she was taking a survey,

Of all that in her compass lay;

A medley of such objects rose,

Which pen but faintly can disclose;

But being in a merry pin,

And to describe them did begin:—

Sandgate’s the devil’s besom sure,

With which oft times he sweeps the floor;

The air’s with glasshouse smoke infected,

Confusion of all kinds collected;

Nothing but murm’ring, noise, and swearing,

Shocks your conscience, grates your hearing.

The women black, red, tawny, grey,

Who seldom go to church to pray;

Who’s sides are ne’er to stays confin’d,

To cramp their natural ease behind.

Nor modestly do they think shame,

To act what I don’t chuse to name;

Nor do they stop, when they think meet,

To act their lewdness in the street;

Whole lots of them do nightly sport,

With black and grey, and every sort:

Oft in a cannhouse you may view,

A gang of this sweet scented crew.

Who when they grow a little mellow,

Begin to sing and swear and bellow;

Like madmen in a rage or fury,

Not fearing either judge or jury;

Nor do I err much when I tell,

They’ve little dread of heav’n or hell.

The wife her husband thus addresses,

With doubled fist and flowing tresses,—

“Come, Tom, make haste, let us away,

The tide flows high, we cannot stay.”

“Nay, answers Tom, deel smash my heart!

Let us but have the other quart.”

She then begins to sing a song,

Would frighten any man but Tom,—

“You idle spendthrift, scant of grace,

I wish I ne’er had seen your face;

A cleanlier lass was never bred,

When I came to your bridal bed.

Had fouth of claiths to clead my back,

But now I’ve scarce a single plack:

You’ve left me bare of bed and claiths,

Deel brust you, by your graceless ways;

And when you’re drunk as you can see,

Come home and curse the bairns and me.

Turn topsy turvy all the house,

And every thing in it abuse;

Throw all the dishes off the shelf,

The platters, dubblers, and the delf.

And set the plates and spoons, in joke,

A flying round the room like smoke:

And when your family’s in need,

And like to starve for want of breed,

You’ll grudge for haver-meal to pay,

To make them crowdies once a day.

These are your pranks, you murd’ring rogue,

That every day you have in vogue;

And if you do not mend your course,

I must go beg—or else do worse.”

Tom out his hand at last did stretch,

“What ails you now? you grumbling bitch,

Peace! or your hide I’ll soundly switch.

Do not I almost ev’ry day,

At the lang hinney’s o’er the way,

See Geordy Jenkin’s wife and you,

Drinking clove waters till you spue!

Go to the devil with your brats,

And vex me not with d——’d pit-rats,

That are not all of my begetting,

But plants of other people’s setting.

Since you have oft, by your confession,

From my embraces made digression,

Go home, G-d d—n your soul, and spin,

Or else, by L—d, I’ll lamb your skin.”

Thus fast unto destruction hasting,

Their health consuming, money wasting;

They drink, and ne’er for home declare,

Until they’re pockets are quite bare.

Here mangy Scots from banks of Tay,

With scarce a plaid to bear away;

Half-starv’d, they from the frozen North,

Like swarms of locusts, sally forth,

Worse than before, on Pharaoh’s land,

Were sent by the Almighty hand;

Such hardness of their hearts to purge,

And for their wickedness them scourge:

This mugletonian blackguard breed,

Upon our very vitals feed;

And, like the whelps of Juno’s pack,

Of Scots infection bring a smack;

When hither come, they seldom fail

To scrape the scabs from off their tail;

By artful tricks, and well form’d lies,

To skippers or such like, they rise:

And thus get breeches warm to wear,

To hide their a—e that then was bare;

And then set up their crops and talk,

As if they sprung from noble stalk.

At midnight these, and such like sots,

With noddles full, from stinking pots

Of rank geneva, and of rum,

They raise a scent where’er they come;

Reel, cursing, in a grumbling tone,

In some dark lane, where sun ne’er shone,

But darkness dire, surrounds the place,

An emblem of their foul disgrace:

Oft in a house decay’d with age,

Which scarce will bear the winter’s rage;

Whose crazy outshots threat’ning hing

About their ears, a peal to ring;

They tumble in one common bed,

Where all are there promiscuous laid;

And ten to one, but as they fall,

They break their heads against the wall;

Nor do they mind to choose their wives,

With whom they’re bound to lead their lives;

But to the first they come do keep,

Where, if they’re drunk, they fall asleep.

If not, there’s oft a general horning

Takes place before the next day morning.—

Gomorrah ne’er could fuller be

Than Sandgate with impiety,

So cramm’d with immorality

Is every one, that if there be

A place on earth resembling hell,

That lot on Sandgate surely fell:—

Each soul’s as bad as —— I’ll prove it.

This is Sandgate,—can you love it?