The Newcastle Song Book; or, Tyne-Side Songster / Being a Collection of Comic and Satirical Songs, Descriptive of Eccentric Characters, and the Manners and Customs of a Portion of the Labouring Population of Newcastle and the Neighbourhood

by Various

THE NEW KEEL ROW.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

THE SANDHILL MONKEY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

THE SKIPPER'S DREAM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

THE POLITICIANS.

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

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

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

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

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

---

TILL THE TIDE CAME IN.

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

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

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

---

THE SANDGATE LASSIE'S LAMENT.

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

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

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

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

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

---

HYDROPHOBIE, or the SKIPPER & QUAKER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

THE KEELMAN AND THE GRINDSTONE.

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

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

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

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

---

NEWCASTLE WONDERS;

Or, Hackney Coach Customers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

QUAYSIDE DITTY,

For February, 1816.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

A SHIELDS SOLILOQUY.

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

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

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

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

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

---

THE GREEN-WIVES' LAMENTATION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

A PETITION

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

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

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

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

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

---

THE FISH-WIVES' COMPLAINT,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

SUNDERLAND JAMMY'S LAMENTATION,

December, 1831.

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

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

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

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

---

THE COBBLER O' MORPETH—(Cholera Morbus.)

By John M'Lellan.

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

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

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

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

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

CAUTION.

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

---

CANNY SHEELS.

(By John Morris.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

PERMANENT YEAST.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

THE PITMAN'S RAMBLE;

Or, Newcastle Finery,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

COALY TYNE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

NEWCASSEL RACES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

THE QUACK DOCTORS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

PEGGY'S LEG.

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

BONNY KEEL LADDIE.

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

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

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

---

THE TYNE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

NANNY OF THE TYNE.

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

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

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

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

---

THE BONNY GYETSIDERS.

Tune—"Bob Cranky."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

THE WATER OF TYNE.

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

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

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

---

THE NEWCASTLE SIGNS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

THE WONDERFUL GUTTER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

THE LOCAL MILITIA-MAN.

Tune—"Madam Fag's Gala."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

MASQUERADE AT NEWCASTLE THEATRE;

Or, The Pitman turned Critic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

NANCY WILKINSON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

GREEN'S BALLOON.

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

Tune—"Barbara Bell."

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

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

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

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

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

---

THE NEWGATE-STREET PETITION

TO MR. MAYOR.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[3] Now called Prudhoe Street.

[4] The Gaoler.

---

BURDON'S ADDRESS TO HIS CAVALRY.

A PARODY.

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

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

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

---

THE COLLIER'S KEEK AT THE NATION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

BLIND WILLIE SINGING.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

BOLD ARCHY & BLIND WILLIE'S LAMENT

ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN STARKEY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

A VOYAGE TO LUNNIN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

THE NEWCASSEL PROPS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

NEWCASSEL WONDERS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

TIM TUNBELLY.

Tune—"Canny Newcassel."

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

THE KEEL ROW.

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

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

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

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

---

THE BARBER'S NEWS;

Or, Shields in an Uproar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

THE BONASSUS.

Tune—"Jemmy Joneson's Whurry."

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

SHIELDS CHAIN BRIDGE,

HUMOUROUSLY DESCRIBED BY A PITMAN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

THE COLLIERS' PAY WEEK,

BY HENRY ROBSON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1805.

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

[6] Gateshead Fell.

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

---

THE TYNE.

By the Same—Written in 1807.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

THE SPRING.

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

PARSON MALTHUS.

By the Same.—Written in 1826.

Tune—"Ranting roaring Willie."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

PETER WAGGY.

By the Same—Written in 1826.

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

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

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

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

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

---

BESSY OF BLYTH.

"A VIRTUOUS WOMAN IS MORE PRECIOUS THAN RUBIES."

By the Same.—Written in 1826.

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

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

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

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

---

KELVIN GROVE.—THE LASSIE'S ANSWER.

By the Same—Written in 1827.

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

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

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

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

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

---

TO MR. PETER WATSON[8],

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

By the Same.—Written in 1824.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

THE NEWCASTLE SUBSCRIPTION MILL.

Tune—"Newcastle Ale."—1814.

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

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

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

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

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

---

LIZZIE LIBERTY.

Tune—"Tibby Fowler i' the Glen."

By the Same.

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

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

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

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

---

THE NEW FISH MARKET.

BY WILLIAM MIDFORD.

Tune—"Scots come o'er the Border."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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