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.