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

Thomas Whittell, his Humourous Letter To good Master Moody, Razor-setter.

---

Good Master Moody, my beard being cloudy,
My cheeks, chin, and lips, like moon i' the 'clipse
For want of a wipe—
I send you a razor, if you'll be at leisure
To grind her, and set her, and make her cut better,
You'll e'en light my pipe.[38]

Dear sir, you know little, the case of poor Whittell:
I'm courting, tantivy, if you will believe me—
Now mark what I say:
I'm frank in my proffers, and when I make offers
To kiss the sweet creature, my lips cannot meet her,
My beard stops the way.

You've heard my condition, and now I petition,
That, without omission, with all expedition
You'll give it a strike,
And send it by Tony, he'll pay you the money—
I'll shave and look bonny, and go to my honey,
As snod as you like.

If you do not you'll hip me, my sweetheart will slip me,
And if I should smart for't, and break my brave heart for't,
Are you not to blame?
But if you'll oblige me, as gratitude guides me,
I'll still be your servant, obedient and fervent,
Whilst Whittell's my name.

[38] This phrase means, the conferring of a favour.

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THE NATURAL PHILOSOPHER;

Or, The Downfall of the Learned Humbugs!

Tune—"Canny Newcassel."

Oh! hae ye not heard o' this wonderful man,
Perpetual Motion's inventor!
The Sun, Muin, and Stars are a' doon iv his plan,
But take time till it comes frae the prenter!
The last time he lectur'd he tell'd such a tale
'Bout Vibration, Air, and such matter;
He can prove that a washing-tub is not a pail,
And all Isaac Newton's brains batter!

CHORUS.

Then come, great and sma', and hear the downfa'—
For a fa' down it will be for certain—
Of a' the wiseacres and gon'rals, an' a'
That dare to oppose the great Martin;
He'll settle their hash! their necks he will smash,
A' the College-bred gowks he will dazzel;
Ne mair shall false teachers o'er him cut a dash!
They are banish'd frae Canny Newcassel.

He can prove that a turkey-cock is not a Turk!
That a 'tatie is not a pine-apple;
He likewise can prove that boil'd goose is not pork,
And a black horse is not a grey dapple.
A' what he can prove—a' what he can do,
And bother the gon'rals—the wad-be's;
He likewise can prove that a boot's not a shoe,
And his cane's not a sausage frae Mawbey's![39]
Then come, great and sma', &c.

His Poems are sublime, tho' nyen o' them rhyme—
Why, he pays no attention to Morrow;[40]
Ne matter for that, still he makes them a' chyme,
For he hasn't his phrases to borrow!
Then proceed, mighty man, propagating thy plan,
To enlighten this dark age of reason!
May it spread like a blaze, with thy eloquence fann'd—
To doubt it, I hold it sheer treason.
Then come, great and sma', &c.

[39] A late famed Sausage-maker in the Old Flesh Market.

[40] Murray's Grammar.

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THE GATESHEAD RADS.

To an old Tune.

T'other day aw was saunt'ring down the New Street,
And had turn'd to gan back, when whe should aw meet,
Reet plump i' the face, but sage Tommy Rav-ly,
Just come frae the council, and looking most gravely.

Wi' Tommy, says aw, what can be the matter?
Your plawd is aw dirt, and your teeth in a chatter;
Has your colleagues in office been using a broom,
And sooping the dirt all out of the room?

Now, James, he replied, Pray don't be prosy,
Or sure as you're there, I'll make you quite nosey;
I've gotten enough to make me look blue,
Without being bother'd with plebeians like you.

Just think, when the last time in council we met,
We propos'd and appointed our yellow-hair'd Pet
To be Justice's clerk, and pocket the fees,
For which he came almost plump down on his knees.

But no sooner did we our backs fairly turn,
Than they (devil take them!) appointed Swinburne,
And laugh'd in their sleeves to think how we'd stare;
But James, you must know, they had better beware.

Now, Tommy, says aw, just keep yoursel' aisy,
For at present aw'm sure that ye look very crazy;
Make the Quaker your purser, and he'll put ye right,
For aw'm sure that the strings he will keep verra tight.

A sixpence he'll make gan as far as a pound,
So that will be nineteen and sixpence ye've found;
Just leave all to him and W. H. B.,
And no doubt ye will prosper, as shortly ye'll see.

Now come, let's away to the bonny Blue Bell,
And there we will drink a quart o' yor yell,
And then aw will tell ye what next ye maun de—
But mind ye say nowse 'bout it coming frae me.

He then made a start, but nowt did he say,
('Tween councillor and plebeian, that's may be the way,)
Till into the house we fairly did stumble,
When, "go cab my lug," he was then verra humble.

Now, Tommy, maw man, aw see nowse that ye've done,
But aw hope ye intend to commence verra soon;
A market we maun hae, an' at the Brig-end—
A place that old Jacky oft dis recommend—

To save us the fash, and aiblins the pain,
Of ganging right o'er unto the High-crane;
And mind what I say, if we want ony peace
During sermon, on Sunday, oppose the police.

At that he did open his eyes verra wide—
Ah, beggar! aw thought aw'd offended his pride;
But nought o' the sort, for he held out his loof—
Now, James, my good fellow, you've said quite enough.

My int'rest, aw'm sure, you always shall hae,
And a job aw will get you on the Sabbath-day;
For some one at the council this day did propose,
That we the dog-fights in Green's Field should oppose.

And Usher was told for to seek out three men,
To assist him on Sundays, and thou shalt be ane;
And 'bout what thou wert saying a motion aw'll bring,
For, doubtless, 'twill prove a necessary thing.

We thank ye, says aw, but d'ye think that ye're right,
In trying to stop us frae seeing a dog-fight;
For maw thoughts about liberty it fairly clogs,
Yet—we've barking enough wi' twe-fooled dogs.

Gateshead, March 1, 1836. Y. S.

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THE ELECTION DAY.

Tune—"There's nae Luck about the House."

Ye Freemen all, with heart and voice
Your banners wide display—
Bring Hodgson forth, your man of choice,
Upon th' Election-day.

Then fill your glasses, drink your fill,
Drink deeply while you may—
With right good-will, we'll drink and swill
Upon th' Election-day.

But politics are not the stuff
That we care much about—
Nor care, so we get drink enough,
Who's in, or who is out.

Then fill your glasses, drink your fill—
Fill and drink away,
And ev'ry one enjoy the fun
Upon th' Election-day.

Brave Vulcan is our leader bold,
The pride of all good fellows—
He swears the iron shall ne'er grow cold,
While he can blow the bellows.

Then fill your glasses, what's the toast,
To drive dull care away?—
'May ev'ry man be at his post
Upon th' Election-day.'

The landlord next appears in view,
Our second in command,
Encouraging the jovial crew
To drink while they can stand.

Then charge your glasses, noble souls,
The toast without delay—
'May thirsty souls have flowing bowls
Upon th' Election-day.'

Then Hodgson's name aloud proclaim
Victoriously that day;
While he, in honour of his fame,
Will all expences pay.

Then fill your glasses, what's the toast?
Fill and drink away—
'May ev'ry man drink all he can
Upon th' Election-day.'

W. Watson

---

MARY DRUE.

By the late T. Houston[41]

On a pleasant April morning,
Wand'ring Tyne's sweet banks along,
Spring with flow'rs the fields adorning,
Woods and groves with birds of song—
Pensive stray'd I; none was nigh me,
When a maid appear'd in view—
Slow she came, or seem'd to fly me—
Heav'ns! 'twas charming Mary Drue.

Long my Mary's charms I gaz'd on,
Long I view'd that nymph complete—
Her bright eyes no form were rais'd on,
But were downcast at her feet:
In her hand a violet blooming
Kiss'd the breeze that gently blew,
And one robe, with folds presuming,
Hid the breast of Mary Drue.

Onward drew the modest maiden,
Heav'nly was her gait and air—
Brighter ne'er that meadow stray'd in,
Never Tyne saw form so fair:
In my breast my heart, wild beating,
With redoubled ardour flew;
From my tongue all speech retreating,
Left me scarce—"dear Mary Drue."

Henry, Henry! have I found you?
(Thus the maid her words address'd,)
And with solitude around you,
Can my Henry here be bless'd?
Woods and streams may yield a pleasure,
But my bliss—'tis all in you—
Love beyond all bounds and measure—
Lov'd at last by Mary Drue!

Told this morn of your disorder,
(Love for me the cause believ'd,)
Soon I sought this river's border,
Where 'tis said you oft have griev'd:
On the river's brink I find you—
Pensive, sad, I find you too;
Leave the world and wealth behind you—
Thou art worlds to Mary Drue!

Sweet as notes from lutes ascending,
To my ear these accents came,
Smiles and looks of love attending,
Touch'd my soul with gen'rous flame:
O'er her charms, disorder'd, stooping—
Rapt'rous sight! divinely new!—
On my breast her head lay drooping,
While I clasp'd sweet Mary Drue.

[41] Thomas Houston died about the year 1802, or 1803. He was the author of a play, entitled "The Term-day, or Unjust Steward," and of several poems, among which were, "The Progress of Madness," and "A Race to Hell." In the latter piece were given the portraitures of two notorious corn-factors of that day, belonging to this town.—Houston was a native of Ireland, and by trade a brass-founder.

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OPENING OF THE NEW MARKETS.

Fill up the cup till the ruby o'erflows it,
Drown ev'ry care in the nectar's rich stream—
If joy's in the goblet, this day will disclose it,
When Trade, Worth, and Beauty, by turns are our theme.
What is, I ask, the toast,
Deepest drunk, honour'd most,
Drunk most devoutly, most honour'd to-day?
What is the pledge that we
Hail first, with three times three?
"Success to our Market!"—Huzza and Huzza!

No longer let London and Liverpool tell us,
Their towns boast of markets so spacious & grand;
We answer, "We pray you, be quiet, good fellows,
We, too, have a Market—the first in the land!"
Fish, flesh, and garden fruits,
Oranges, apples, roots,
There you will find them all, seek what you may;
Honest the dealers, too,
Drink, then, I pray of you—
"Success to the Dealers!"—Huzza and Huzza!

The structure—but why should we speak of its merit?
Enough that we mention the architect's name;
And long may the building, begun with such spirit,
A monument stand of his talents and fame.
Proofs of a master mind,
Talents and taste combin'd,
Are they not every where visible—say?
The architect's pride and boast,
Then be our hearty toast—
"Mr. R. Grainger!"—Huzza and Huzza!

Wreathe the bowl, wreathe it with wit's brightest flow'rs—
Fill, fill it up till the nectar o'erflows;
Never was Burgundy brighter than ours,
Never were eye-beams more sparkling than those.
Surrounded by Beauty's train,
Captives in willing chains,
To eyes that beam witchery, and smiles that betray,
Low at the shrine we bow—
Love claims the homage due—
"The Ladies!—the Ladies!"—Huzza and Huzza!

If spirit, by cost nor by trouble dismay'd—
If bounty unmeted, and free as the dew;
If courtesy, kindness to each one display'd,
May claim our applause, it is owing here now.
Oft in the festive scene,
Courteous and kind he's been,
But never more courteous, more kind than to-day:
Fill then the cup again—
Drain—to the bottom drain—
"His Worship, the Mayor!"—Huzza and Huzza!

---

THE NEW MARKETS;

Or, Newcastle Improvements.

Believe me now, good foke, what I say is not a joke:
Behold, says cousin Isabel, improvement now is visible,
New buildings you espy, airy, spacious, and high,
And trading chaps are moving round to sell or buy.
When trade was at a stand, and the river chok'd wi' sand,
Caus'd the bodies to assemble, the poor to employ;
Then Johnny off packt, up to Lunnon for an act,
And the manager for market-building, Dick's the boy!

CHORUS.

Then Starkey, blaw your reed, ca' the group a' frae the dead,
Jack Coxan and Cull Billy, Judy Dowling, and Blind Willy;
Let the cavalcade move on, with a tune frae Bywell Tom,
Take a view o' wor new city, drink, and then return.

When Colossus he arose, with his Jachin and his Boaz,
His plans of such utility, of splendour and gentility,
Condemn'd was Tommy Gee, and confirm'd was Tommy B.,
And the measure seem'd to reconcile both friends and foes:
Even butchers' crabbed luiks, wi' their meat on silver huiks,
Drop all former animosities, and strut about wi' joy;
For the temple of king Solomon, for grandeur, can't follow, man—
All Europe now may shout aloud, that Dick's the boy!
Then Starkey, &c.

Old houses now beware, how you spoil a street or square,
Whatever ground you bide upon, your fate is soon decided on;
For tumble down you must, like a lump of mouldy crust,
And the Major bell will toll your fate, when all is done;
For the rich have found it out, that a camel, without doubt,
Through a needle-eye can't pass without a pilot or a foy;
The money, though conservative, will find a good preservative—
The Knight of Leazes Terrace, hinnies, Dick's the boy!
Then Starkey, &c.

Fine rows of Paphian bowers, for the fruits, and herbs, and flowers,
The baskets stand, so pretty looking—feet and tripe, a' fit for cooking—
Fountains fine and pure, that a cripple they may cure,
And babies may get baptism, for ought you know;
There's a clock to tell the time—but I now must stop my rhime,
For the feasting has begun, and each heart seems big with joy;
Then come, enjoy the treat, wi' your legs upon your feet,
Take off your hats, and shout aloud—Brave Dick's the boy!

Then Starkey, blaw your reed, ca' the group a' frae the dead,
Jack Coxon, and Cull Billy, Judy Dowling, and Blind Willy;
Let the cavalcade move on, with a tune frae Bywell Tom,
View Newcassel's famous city, drink, and then go home.

Wm. Mitford.

---

MORE INNOVATIONS!

Newcastle's sore transmogrified, as every one may see,
But what they've done is nought to that they still intend to dee:
There still remain some sonsy spots, pure relics of our ancient features,
O' which our canny town shall brag, while bonny Gateshead boasts sand-beaters.

The scrudg'd up Foot of Pilgrim-street, they surely will not mind,
'Tis such a curiosity—a street without an end;
Should they extend it to the Quay, and show off All Saints' Church so neatly,
It might look fine, but I'm afraid 'twould spoil the Butcher-bank completely!

Of pulling down the Butcher-bank it grieves one's heart to speak,
From it down every Quayside-chare there's such a glorious keek;
The shambles, too, a bonny sight, the horse and foot-ways nice and narrow—
Say what they will, seek through the world, the Butcher-bank is bad to marrow.

Our fishwives, too, might well complain, forc'd off the hill to move,
Where they so long had squall'd in peace, good fellowship, and love:
The brightest day will have an end, and here the Sandhill's glory closes,
Now flies and fumes no more will make the gentles stop their ears and noses.

'Tis said they mean to clear away the houses in the Side,
To set off old St. Nich'las church, so long our greatest pride;
But where's the use of making things so very grand and so amazing,
To bring daft gowks from far and near, to plague us with their gob and gazing.

The Middle-street's to come down next, and give us better air,
And room to make to hold at once the market and the fair;
Well may Newcastle grieve for this, because in hot or rainy weather,
It look'd so well to see the folks all swelter'd in a hole together.

The Tyne's to run out east and west; and, 'stead of Solway boats,
Our Greenland ships at Carlisle call, and not at Johnny Groat's;
Dull we may be at such a change—eh, certies, lads, haul down your colours!—
'Twould be no wonder now to see chain-bridges ruin all the scullers.

R. Gilchrist.

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THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE OLD HOUSE IN THE SHIELD-FIELD

TO JOHN CLAYTON, ESQ.

To fall ne'er enter'd in my head,
So staunch is all my station—
As little dreamt I ere to dread
The ills of innovation.
Who can deny my dignity,
Tho I put little state on,
Outshining sham benignity,
My canny Mr. Clayton?

Long since my roof has rung to song,
And smil'd on gay carouses,
Newcastle then—though now so throng—
Was somewhat scant of houses:
I've stood so long, nor Bourne nor Brand
My days can place a date on,
So even spare me still to stand,
My canny Mr. Clayton.

Newcastle now, like Greece or Rome,
Gives all the world a mazer,
And Mister Grainger has become
More like Nebuchadnezzar:
Build houses till ye touch the sun,
Aye work both soon and late on,
But do not try on me such fun,
My canny Mister Clayton.

Yon villas fine—with all their sneers—
Time will not have to hallow,
Ere they have seen one-tenth my years,
Their sites will lie in fallow;
So do not think I envy them,
Though pompously they prate on:
They're sprigs, but I'm a sober stem,
My canny Mister Clayton.

Then say the word, my lease renew,
And win a wreath of glory—
A bard of Tyne will sing of you,
All in my upper story.
Who lays disporting hands on me,
All ills may pour his pate on,
So be advis'd, and let me be,
My canny Mister Clayton.

R. Gilchrist.

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EUPHY'S CORONATION.

Tune—"Arthur M'Bride."

To the Fish-market we are ganning—the queen is proclaim'd!
And Euphy's their choice, for beauty lang fam'd—
They've geen her full pow'r, now she's justly ordain'd;
So they've gyen to crown honest aud Euphy!
The market was crowded the queen for to view—
Euphy sat for promotion, drest up wi' new;
The procession appear'd, bearing the flag—a true blue!
And then they surrounded aud Euphy.

The procession was headed by Barbara Bell,
He was follow'd by chuckle-head Chancellor Kell—
Mally Ogle appear'd, wi' a barrel o' yell,
To drink to the health of aud Euphy.
Honest Blind Willie, tee, gaw them a call—
There was great Bouncing Bet, Billy Hush, and Rag Sall,
The Babe o' the Wood, with Putty-mouth Mall,
A' went to crown honest aud Euphy.

There was a grand invitation for byeth great and sma'—
Her subjects assembled, did loudly hurra!—
She was nobly supported by bauld Dolly Raw,
At the crowning of honest aud Euphy;
But Ralphy the Hawk was in prey for a job,
Wiv his small quarter-staff, wish'd to silence the mob—
He was silenc'd when he gat the beer-barrel tiv his gob,
At the crowning of honest aud Euphy.

Euphy and Madge were the gaze i' the show,
They were lang loudly cheer'd by the famous Jin Bo;—
To preserve peace and order there was barrel-bagg'd Joe,
At the crowning of honest aud Euphy.
To make an oration was the Chancellor's wish,
While his turbot-head sweel'd like a smoking het dish;
Bauld Dolly Raw stopt his gob wi' a cod fish,
At the crowning of honest aud Euphy.

By great Billy Hush, Euphy queen was declar'd!
To move frae the market her subjects prepar'd;
To the auld Custom-house the procession repair'd,
To drink at the cost of aud Euphy.
Fine Barbara Bell grand music did play,
Which elevated the spirits of young Bella G—y,
'Keep your tail up!' she wad sing a' the way,
At the crowning of honest aud Euphy.

To lead off the ball, for the queen they did cry,
To please all her people, she was there to comply;
Peggy Grundy would follow, wi' Big Bob and X Y,
To assist in the dance wi' Queen Euphy.
The dancing was ended, down to dine they a' sat;
Roast beef and pig-cheek—a good swig follow'd that;
The fragments were reserv'd in Chancellor Kell's hat,
At the crowning of honest aud Euphy.

The Chancellor's gob was beginning to swet,
He swill'd it away till he gat ower wet,
He was led to the Tower by young Beagle Bet,
Frae the crowning of honest aud Euphy:
Bella Roy was beginning to produce all her slack—
She was tuen hyem on a barrow, by wise Basket Jack;
The sport was weel relish'd by Billy the Black,
At the crowning of honest aud Euphy.

A speech was now myed frae the queen, i' the chair—
To study their good she would take a great care;
They aw had her blessing—what could she say mair?
God bless the Queen, honest aud Euphy!
Wi' cheers for the Queen, the house oft did ring—
By their humble request she the 'Keel-row' did sing;
They a' happy retir'd, wi' 'God save the King!'
Frae the crowning of honest aud Euphy.

Thomas Marshall.

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SANDGATE WIFE'S NURSE SONG.

Tune—"A Sailor's Wife has nought to dee."

A, U, A, my bonny bairn,
A, U, A, upon my airm,
A, U, A—thou suin may learn
To say dada se canny:
Aw wish thy daddy may be weel,
He's lang i' coming frae the keel;
Tho' his black fyesce be like the de'il,
Aw like a kiss frae Johnny.
A, U, A, &c.,

Thou really hast thy daddy's chin,
Thou art like him leg and wing,
And aw wi' pleasure can thee sing,
Since thou belangs my Johnny.
Johnny is a clever lad—
Last neet he fuddled aw he had,
This morn he wasn't very bad—
He luik'd as blithe as ony.

Tho' thou's the first, thou's not the last;
Aw mean to hae my bairns fast—
And when this happy time is past,
Aw still will love my Johnny;
For his hair is brown, and see is thine,
Your eyes are grey, and se are mine,
Thy nose is taper'd off se fine—
Thou's like thy daddy Johnny.

Thy canny doup is fat and round,
And, like thy dad, thou's plump and sound,
Thou's worth to me a thousand pound,
Thou's a' together bonny.
When daddy's drunk, he'll tyek a knife,
And threaten sair to tyek my life:
Whe wad not be a keelman's wife,
To have a man like Johnny.

But yonder's daddy coming now,
He links the best amang the crew;
They're a' gaun to the Barley-mow,
My canny, good-like Johnny.
Come, let's go get the bacon fried,
And let us make a clean fireside,
Then on his knee he will thee ride,
When he comes hyem to mammy.

---

BOLD JACK OF THE JOURNAL.

[Written on reading Mr. Larkin's "Letter to the Protestants of Newcastle," on the subject of "Maria Monk's Awful Disclosures.">[

Bold Jack of the Journal—
From regions infernal!—
The Catholic Clergy
Would hang or would burn all!

This insolent Tory
Is now in his glory,
And currency gives
To Miss Monk's lying story.

For his blust'rin' and barkin',
And fulsome remarking
Brave, honest Charles Larkin
Has gi'en him a yarkin'.

Newcastle, Sept, 1836.

---

STEAM SOUP;

Or, Cuckoo Jack's Petition.

Tune—"X Y Z."

Let Cocknies brag o' turtle-soup, and Frenchmen o' their frogs, man—
Newcastle soup, such famous stuff, it feeds us fat as hogs man!
Yor Callipee and Callipash, compar'd tiv it, is nobbit trash—
Strang knees and houghs stew'd down to mush, are gobbled up by every slush;
Wi' pluck an' taties folks are duen, for smoking soup in crowds they run,
And sup till they are fu', man! Fal de ral, &c.

A skipper and his wife sat down, to give a quairt a try, man,
When something stuck in Mally's throat, and choak'd her very nigh, man:
Poor Mally blair'd, and turn'd quite pale—and out she pull'd a great rat's tail!
Says Jack, aw'll off to Mr. Mayor, and tell the story tiv a hair—
Aw think it is a shameful joke, to sell such stuff wor Mall to choke—
It's warse than tatie stew, man! Fal de ral, &c.

Whe knaws but these fine dandy cooks hire resurrection faws, man,
To stock them with forbidden flesh, agyen our famous laws, man:
A cook in France, now understand, as sure's the sun inleets wor land,
Did kidnap bairns, an' mince them down, and myed sic pies, that a' the town
Wad eat nowt else—thowt nowt se fine; they fand him out—then, what a shine!—
They hang'd him on a tree, man! Fal de ral, &c.

O Willy, man, wor canny king, ye knaw best how to feed us—
Ye ken what we can de at sea, at ony time ye need us;
Cram a' their necks into a loop, that try to cross wor breed wi' soup;
Or gar them pay a heavy fine, that dare unnerve yor tars of Tyne;
Then in the fight we'll loudly cheer, when we're restor'd to flesh and beer—
Hurra! for England's king, man! Fal de ral, &c.

R. Emery.

---

THE SANDGATE LASS ON THE ROPERY BANKS.

Tune—"The Skipper's Wedding."

On the Ropery-banks Jenny was sitting—
She had on a bed-gown just new,
And blithely the lassie was knitting
Wi' yarn of a bonny sky-blue.
The strings of her cap they were hinging,
Se lang, on her shoulders se fine,
And hearty I heard this lass singing—
My bonny keel lad shall be mine.

O wad the keel come down the river,
That I my dear laddie could see,
He whistles and dances se clever,
My bonny keel laddie for me.

Last neet, in amang these green dockings,
He fed me wi' gingerbread spice—
I promis'd to knit him his stockings,
He cuddled and kiss'd me se nice;
He ca'd me his jewel and hinney,
He ca'd me his pet and his bride,
And he swore that I should be his Jenny,
To lie at neets down by his side.
O wad the keel, &c.

That morning forget I will never,
When first I saw him on the Kee,
The 'Keel-row' he whistled se clever,
He won my affections frae me;
His drawers on his doup luik'd se canny,
His keel-hat was cock'd on his head,
And if I'd not getten my Jimmy,
Faith by this time I wad hae been dead.
O wad the keel, &c.

The first time I spoke to my Jimmy—
Now mind ye, it isn't a lee—
My mother had gi'en me a penny,
To get her a penn'orth o' tea;
When a lad i' the street cried out, 'Bessy!'
Says I, 'Hinny, that's not my nyem.'
'Becrike! never mind,' he said, 'lassie,
'To-neet I will see thee safe hyem."
O wad the keel, &c.

Since then I have been his true-lover,
And lov'd him as dear as my life,
And in spite o' baith father and mother,
I'll suin be my keel-laddie's wife;
How happy we'll be then together,
When he brings hyem his wages to me,
Wiv his bonny bit bairn crying 'Father,'
And another be lying o' my knee.
O wad the keel, &c.

---

AN OLD AND CURIOUS SONG,

On the late Mr. R. Clayton being made an Alderman.

Tune—"The Vicar and Moses."

My good Mr. Pun,
We know you like fun,
And also to crack a good joke;
'Tis well known in the nation,
That our Corporation
Has long lain under a cloak.
Fal lal de ral, &c.

But after your year,
How strange 'twill appear,
(Pray Heaven it prove for your good,)
To all the whole nation,
That our Corporation
Will then crouch under a Hood.[42]

Now, we poor folks,
Who're not us'd to jokes,
But with the sweets take the bitters—
The folks in our station
Think our Corporation
Has long been outfitted by Fitters.

Oh, Watty! Oh, Watty![43]
Shouldst thou now see Natty,
And his clan, how thickly they lay't on;
You'd say, in their order,
Mayor, Commons, Recorder,
Are all now outwitted by Cl——n.

From the days of good Walters,
To his who makes halters,[44]
Such changes have here taken place,
That from its high station,
Our poor Corporation
Has sunk into abject disgrace.

When the Alderman's gown
Was hawk'd about town,
And none would be found for to lay't on,
Up stepp'd brother Bob,
And settled the job,
And he was dubb'd Alderman C——n.

Yet think not, that though such,
He'll quit the Town's Hutch,
Or any thing there let miscarry;
Still there he'll give law,
Rule by his cat's paw,
The ever obliging Old Harry.

Ye honest electors,
Our faithful protectors,
In you there can never be blame;
As by following the Mayor.
And supporting the chair,
We always must vote for the same.

Ye scum of the bowl,
In vain you may growl,
Like the swinish group in a storm,
Nat will rule the roast,
And still make a boast,
That danger lies not in Reform.[45]

[42] Alderman Hood.

[43] Ald. Blackett.

[44] Ald. Cramlington.

[45] A few copies of the above song were printed by Mrs. Angus about the year 1795. It was said to have been written by the late Mr. James Davidson, attorney, author of a poem entitled, "Despair in Love, an Imprecatory Prayer;" which was also printed by Mrs. Angus—Sir Matthew White Ridley resigned his office of Magistrate about this time, observing, that "Clayton up stairs, and Clayton down stairs will never do."

---

NEWCASTLE LANDLORDS.—1834.

Kind friends and acquaintance, attention I claim,
While a few jolly Landlord, in this town, I name;
In alphabet order my song it is penn'd,
And I hope, for joke's sake, it will never offend.

CHORUS.

Then hey for good drinking,
It keeps us from thinking,
We all love a drop in our turn.

A stands for Armfield, a good hearty blade,
Tho' he's left the Nag's Head, still follows his trade;
At the foot of the Market you'll find his new shop,
Where many an old friend still calls in for a drop.

B stands for Burns, of the Theatre-square;
She's an orderly woman—good drink is sold there;
If I wanted a wife, I should readily choose
This amiable widow to govern my house.

C stands for Cant, sign of the Blue Bell,
Who keeps a good house, and good porter doth sell:
Quarrelling or fighting is there seldom seen,—
She's a canty old widow, but rather too keen.

D for Dixon, who once kept the Unicorn—Ho!
And D stands for Dixon, White Hart, you well know;
Then there's Dixon, Quayside, just a little way down—
Were the three fattest landlords in all the whole town.

E stands for Eggleton, Fighting Cocks Inn,
Tho' old, took a young wife, and thought it no sin;
F for Finlay, his shop's corner of Pudding-chare,
And good wine and spirits you'll always get there.

G for Gibson, the Blue-posts, in Pilgrim-street,
Where a few jolly souls oft for harmony meet;
H for Hackworth, in Cowgate, Grey Bull is the sign—
Only taste his good ale—faith, you'll say it's divine.

H stands for Heron, the sign of the Cock;
H for Hall, near Nuns' Gate—keeps a snug oyster-shop;
H stands for Horn, and he's done very weal,
Since he bother-d the heart of sly Mrs. Neil.

I stands for Inns—we've the best in the north—
There's the King's Head, the Queen's Head, the George, and the Turf,
The Old Crown and Thistle, and Miller's, Half Moon,
Well known to the trav'lers who frequent the town.

K stands for Kitchen, Hell's Kitchen 'twas nam'd,
And long for good ale and good spree has been fam'd;
In each parlour, in vestry, or kitchen you'll find
The beer-drawer, Mary, obliging and kind.

L stands for Larkin—he's left the Black Boy,
Once fam'd for Patlanders and true Irish joy;
On the Scotchwood New Road a house he has ta'en,
Where I hope the old soul will get forward again.

M stands for Mitford—he kept the North Pole,
Just over the Leazes—a dull-looking hole;
Now our favourite poet lives at Head of the Side—
Here's success to his muse—long may she preside.

N stands for Newton, sign of the Dolphin,
Who the old house pull'd down, built it up like an inn;
They say he found gold—how much I can't tell;
But never mind that, he's done wonderful well.

O stands for Orton—he keeps the Burnt House,
Once fam'd for the Knights of the Thimble and Goose;
And O stands for Ormston, at Pandon—O rare!—
Temptation enough for young men that go there!

P stands for Pace, sign of the White Swan,
Who, for to oblige, will do all that he can;
A convenient house, when you marketing make,
To pop in and indulge yourself with a beef-steak.

R stands for Ridley and Reed, you all know,
And R stands for Richardson, all in a row;
First, Three Tuns, the Sun, and the Old Rose & Crown,
And their ale's good as any at that part of town.

S for Sayer's, Nag's Head, he keeps good mountain-dew,—
Only taste it, you'll find what I tell you is true;
S for Stokoe, wine-merchant, foot of St. John's Lane;
For good stuff and good measure we'll never complain.

T for Teasdale, the Phœnix, a house fam'd for flip—
T for Teasdale who once kept the sign of the Ship;
And W for Wylam, a place more fam'd still—
Sure you all know the Custom-house on the Sandhill.

Robin Hood, Dog and Cannon, and Tiger for me,
The Peacock, well known to the clerks on the Quay;
The Old Beggar's Opera for stowrie, my pet,
Mrs. Richardson's was, and she cannot be bet.

There's the Black Bull and Grey Bull, well known to a few,
Black, White, and Grey Horse, and Flying Horse too;
The Black House, the White House, the Hole-in-the-Wall,
And the Seven Stars, Pandon, if you dare call.

There's the Turk's Head, Nag's Head, and Old Barley Mow,
The Bay Horse, the Pack Horse, and Teasdale's Dun Cow,
The Ship, and the Keel, the Half Moon, and the Sun—
But I think, my good friends, it is time to be done.

Then each landlord and landlady, wish them success,
Town and trade of the Tyne, too—we cannot do less;
And let this be the toast, when we meet to regale—
"May we ne'er want a bumper of Newcastle ale."

W. Watson.

---

A NEW SONG FOR BARGE-DAY, 1835.

Sung on board of the Steward's Steam-boat.

It well may grieve one's heart full sore,
To be in such a movement—
Upon the river, as on shore,
The rage is all improvement:
Once blithe as grigs, our merriment
Is chang'd to meditation,
How we these ills may circumvent—
O what a Corporation!

The Quayside always was too big,
As scullers have attested;
Tant ships, that come with rampant rig,
Against its sides are rested.
Still to extend it in a tift,
They're making preparation,
And Sandgate-midden is to shift—
O what a Corporation!

At Tyne-main once there was a caunch,
And famous sport was found there;
So long it stood—so high and staunch—
All vessels took the ground there;
But, somehow, it has crept away,
By flood or excavation,
And time there you need not delay—
O what a Corporation!

They think to move Bill-point—a spot
So lovely and romantic—
Which has sent many ships to pot,
And set some seamen frantic;
Then many a gowk will run to see,
And stare with admiration,
From Snowdon's Hole to Wincomlee—
O what a Corporation!

How silent once was Wallsend-shore—
Its dulness was a wonder;
Now, from the staiths, full waggons pour
Their coals like distant thunder;
To have restor'd its wonted peace,
In vain our supplication,—
The trade, they say, it will increase—
O what a Corporation!

Where Tynemouth-bar, I understand,
A rock from side to side is,
How well would look a bank of sand,
Not higher than the tide is;
But this, it seems, is not to be—
In spite of my oration,
The Tyne is still to join the sea—
O what a Corporation!

O would the Tyne but cease to flow,
Or, like a small burn, bubble,
There would not be a barge-day now,
Nor we have all this trouble;
But here, alas! we sailing roam
About its conservation,
Instead of sleeping safe at home—
O what a Corporation!

The Moral.
As patriots in public cause,
We never once have swerv'd yet,
And if we have not gain'd applause,
We know we've well deserv'd it:
Who thinks we care for feasting, he
Must be a stupid noddy—
We're, like the Herbage-committee,
An ill-requited body.

Robert Gilchrist.

---

ST. NICHOLAS' CHURCH.

O bonny church! ye've studden lang,
To mence our canny town;
But I believe ye are sae strang,
Ye never will fa' down:
The architects, wi' a' their wit,
May say that ye will fa';
But let them talk—I'll match ye yet
Against the churches a'.

CHORUS.

Of a' the churches in our land,
Let them be e'er sae braw,
St. Nicholas', of Newcastle town,
Yet fairly bangs them a'.

Lang have ye stood ilk bitter blast,
But langer yet ye'll stand;
And ye have been for ages past,
A pattern for our land:
Your bonny steeple looks sae grand—
The whole world speaks o' ye,
Been a' the crack, for cent'ries back,
And will be when I dee.

'Tis true they've patch'd ye all about
With iron, stone, and wood;
But let them patch—I have a doubt,
They'll do ye little good;
But, to be sure, its making work—
There's plenty lives by ye—
Not only tradesmen and our clerk,
But the greedy black-coats, tee.

Your bonny bells there's nane excels,
In a' the country round;
They ring so sweet, they are a treat
When they play heartsome tunes;
And when all's dark, the people mark
Ye with your fiery eye,
That tells the travellers in the street
The time, as they pass by.

O that King William wad come down,
To see his subjects here,
And view the buildings of our town—
He'd crack o' them, I swear;
But when he saw our canny church,
I think how he'd admire,
To see the arch sprung from each side
That bears the middle spire.

Now, to conclude my little song,
That simple, vocal theme—
I trust, that if I've said aught wrong,
That I will be forgi'en:
Then lang may fam'd St. Nicholas' stand,
Before it does come down,
That, when we dee, our bairns may see
The beauties of our town.

---

PAGANINI, THE FIDDLER;

Or, The Pitman's Frolic.

Tune—"The Kebbuckstane Wedding."

Come, lay up your lugs, and aw'll sing you a sang,
It's nyen o' the best, but it's braw new and funny—
In these weary times, when we're not very thrang,
A stave cheers wor hearts, tho' it brings us ne money:
Aw left Shiney Raw, for Newcassel did steer,
Wi' three or four mair of our neighbours se canny,
Determin'd to gan to the play-house to hear
The King o' the fiddlers, the great Baggy Nanny.
Right fal, &c.

We reach'd the Arcade, rather drouthy and sair—
It's a house full of pastry-cooks, bankers, and drapers—
At the fine fancy fair, how my marrows did stare,
On the muffs, hats, and beavers, se fam'd in the papers;
At Beasley's, where liquor's se cheap and se prime,
A bottle aw purchas'd for maw sweetheart, Fanny,
We drank nowt but brandy—and, when it was time,
We stagger'd away to see great Baggy Nanny.

We gat t' the door, 'mang the crowd we did crush,
Halfway up the stairs I was carried se handy;
The lassie ahint us cried, Push, hinny, push—
Till they squeez'd me as sma' and as smart as a dandy;
We reach'd the stair-heed, nearly smuther'd, indeed—
The gas letters glitter'd, the paintings look'd canny—
Aw clapt mysel' down side a lass o' reet breed,
Maw hinny, says aw, hae ye seen Baggy Nanny.

The lassie she twitter'd, and look'd rather queer,
And said, in this house there is mony a dozen,
They're planted so thick, that there's no sitting here,
They smell so confounded o' cat-gut and rosin;
The curtain flew up, and a lady did squall,
To fine music play'd by a Cockney bit mannie,
Then frae the front seats I suen heard my friends bawl,
Off hats, smash yor brains, here comes great Baggy Nanny.

An outlandish chep suen appear'd on the stage,
And cut as odd capers as wor maister's flonkey,
He skipp'd and he fiddled, as if in a rage—
If he had but a tail, he might pass for a monkey!
Deil smash a good tune could this bowdy-kite play—
His fiddle wad hardly e'en please my aud grannie—
So aw suen join'd my marrows and toddled away,
And wish'd a good neet to the great Baggy Nanny.

On crossing Tyne-brig, how wor lads ran the rig,
At being se silly duen out o' their money,—
Odd bother maw wig, had he play'd us a jig,
We might tell'd them at hyem, we'd seen something quite funny;
But, law be it spoke, and depend it's ne joke—
Yen and a' did agree he was something uncanny,
Though, dark o'er each tree, he before us did flee,
And fiddled us hyem did this great Baggy Nanny.

R. Emery.

---

THE OYSTER-WIFE'S PETITION,

On the Removal of the Oyster-tub from the Quay.

Tune—"The Bold Dragoon."

Oh! Mister Mayor, it grieves me sair—
Alas! what mun aw dee?
Wor Oyter-tub[46] is doom'd ne mair
To grace Newcassel Kee!
Wor bonny lamp that brunt se breet,
And cheer'd each wintry neet se dreary,
Is gyen, and lots o' canny folks
Will miss it sair when cawd and weary!
Whack, row de dow, &c.

Now, for the sake of her that's gyen,
Just speak the cheering word,
And say, that to wor ancient burth,
Aw suen will be restor'd.
The news wor town wad 'lectrify,
And gar yor nyem to live for ever—
In efter times yor deeds wad shine,
And 'clipse the nyem o' wor Tyne river.
Whack, row de dow, &c.

Had Charley Brandling, bliss his nyem,
Been spar'd to seen this day,
He'd shown the great respect he had
For poor aud Madgie Gray;
Alas! he's gyen;—close to yorsel'
Aw'll stick until aw's satisfied, sir;
When ye look on this good-like fyece,
Maw wishes ne'er can be denied, sir.
Whack, row de dow, &c.

Frae Summer-hill down to the Kee,
Fo'ks kenn'd poor Madgie weel,—
Aw's very sure wor Magistrates
For maw condition feel;
The cellar's ow'r confin'd and damp,—
Restore us to wor canny station,
And bliesings great will leet upon
Wor canny Toon and Corporation.
Whack, row de dow, &c.

R. Emery.

[46] The Oyster-tub alluded to stood on the Quay, nearly opposite to the foot of Grinding-chare. It formed rather an interesting feature in the winter nights, being accompanied by a large blazing lamp, at which sat the owner, attended by several loungers. On the death of old Margery Gray, which took place about October, 1831, this tub was removed, lest the long occupancy of the place should become a freehold, like the little barber's shop which stood at the east end of the Maison de Dieu, and which had originally been only a stall. August, 1833.

---

BROOM BUSOMS.

If ye want a busom[47] for to sweep your house,
Come to me, my lasses—ye may hae your choose.

Buy broom busoms, buy them when they're new—
Buy broom busoms—better never grew.

If I had a horse, I would have a cart;
If I had a wife, she would take my part.
Buy broom, &c.

Had I but a wife—I care not who she be;
If she be a woman, that's enough for me.
Buy broom, &c.

If she lik'd a drop, her and I'd agree;
If she did not like it, there's the more for me.
Buy broom, &c.

---

The following Verses, in addition to the above, were often sung by the late Blind Willie, of Newcastle:—

Up the Butcher-bank, and down Byker-chare,
There you'll see the lasses selling brown ware.
Buy broom, &c.

Along the Quayside, stop at Russell's Entry:
There you'll see the beer-drawer, she is standing sentry.
Buy broom, &c.

If you want an oyster for to taste your mouth,
Call at Handy Walker's—he's a bonny youth.
Buy broom, &c.

Call at Mr. Loggie's—he does sell good wine;
There you'll see the beer-drawer—she is very fine.
Buy broom, &c.

If you want an orange, ripe and full of juice,
Gan to Hannah Black, there you'll get your choose.
Buy broom, &c.

Call at Mr. Turner's, at the Queen's Head—
He'll not set you away without a piece of bread.
Buy broom, &c.

Down the river's side, as far as Dent's Hole,
There you'll see the cuckolds working at the coal.
Buy broom, &c.

[47] Besom.

---

THUMPING LUCK.

Air—"Gang nae mair to yon Town."

Here's thumping luck to yon town,
Let's have a hearty drink upon't,—
O the days I've spent in yon town,
My heart still warms to think upon't;
For monie a happy day I've seen,
With monie a lass so kind and true,—
With hearty chields I've canty been,
And danc'd away till a' was blue.

Here's thumping luck to yon town,
Let's have a hearty drink upon't,—
O the days I've spent in yon town,
My heart still warms to think upon't.

There's famous ale in yon town,
Will make your lips to smack again,
And many a one leaves yon town,
Oft wishes they were back again;
Well shelter'd from the northern blast,
Its spires and turrets proudly rise,
And boats and keels all sailing past
With coals, that half the world supplies.
Here's thumping luck, &c.

There's native bards in yon town,
For wit and humour seldom bet
And they sang sae sweet in yon town,
Good faith, I think I hear them yet:
Such fun in Thompson's voyage to Shields,
In Jimmy Johnson's wherry fine—
Such shaking heels, and dancing reels,
When sailing on the coaly Tyne.
Here's thumping luck, &c.

Amang the rest in yon town,
One Shiels was fam'd for ready wit—
His "Lord Size" half drown'd in yon town,
Good faith I think I hear it yet:
Then Mitford's muse is seldom wrong,
When once he gives the jade a ca',
And Gilchrist, too, for comic song,
Though last, he's not the least of a'.
Here's thumping luck, &c.

May the sun shine bright on yon town,
May its trade and commerce still increase,—
And may all that dwells in yon town
Be blest with fond, domestic peace;
For, let me wander east or west,
North, south, or even o'er the sea,
My native town I'll still love best—
Newcastle is the place for me.
Here's thumping luck, &c.

W. Watson.

---

DANCE TO THY DADDY.

Tune—"The little Fishy."

Come here, my little Jackey,
Now I've smok'd my backey,
Let's have a bit crackey
Till the boat comes in.

Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,
Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;
Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,
Thou shalt have a fishy when the boat comes in.

Here's thy mother humming,
Like a canny woman,
Yonder comes thy father,
Drunk, he cannot stand.

Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,
Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;
Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,
Thou shalt have a haddock when the boat comes in.

Our Tommy's always fuddling,
He's so fond of ale,—
But he's kind to me—
I hope he'll never fail.

Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,
Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;
Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,
Thou shalt have a codling when the boat comes in.

I like a drop mysel',
When I can get it sly,
And thou, my bonny bairn,
Will lik't as well as I.

Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,
Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;
Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,
Thou shalt have a mack'rel when the boat comes in.

May we get a drop
Oft as we stand in need,
And weel may the keel row
That brings the bairns their bread.

Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,
Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;
Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,
Thou shalt have a salmon, when the boat comes in.

W. Watson.

---

THE FRIAR AND THE NUN,

A Midnight Colloquy of the Nuns' Field.

Said the Ghost of a Nun to a Friar Grey—
"Dear brother, what changes we've seen!
There's here to be built a New Market, they say,
Which was once, you know, our bleaching green."
Such were the sounds that smote on my ear,
As I stray'd in the Nuns' Field one night,—
And I sat down beneath an old elm-tree to hear,
Though my hair stood on end at the sight.

"There's nought," quoth the Friar, "but heaps of stones,
Where oft I have stray'd as a sinner;
The bell that once warn'd us to vespers and nones,
Now warns Grainger's workmen of dinner.
Alack! sister Anne, a heretic race,
With aprons of blue, or of tartan,—
Red night-caps for hoods, will soon take our place—
But they all will be d——d for certain."

"Dear brother," said she, "only think on this spot,
Where our portion was penance and stripes,
Old men will be crying, 'Hot pies here, all hot,'
And women, 'Black-puddings and tripes.'
Where we walk'd so devoutly, soon those who succeed us,
In all worldly pride will soon strut on,—
Where we utter'd our mournful Aves and Credos,
Will hang rounds of beef and fat mutton."

"Yes, sister," said he, "where we chaunted Te Deum,
And sighed our prayer to the breeze,—
Where we us'd to confess, ere long will we see 'em
A chaunting lewd ditties and glees;
The ground where we stand will be strew'd soon with buyers,
Pursuing their ways so mistaken;
Extinct is the race now of Holy Friars,
Save those who are Fryers of Bacon.

In spite of Sir Andrew, these sinful elves
Will still buy and sell on a Sunday;
But soon they'll be wandering ghosts, like ourselves—
Sic transit gloria mundi."
A low'ring black cloud—most dismal to see—
Now hid the soft moon-beams so bright;
And I rose from beneath an old elm-tree,
For the Ghosts had vanish'd from sight.

---

ST. NICHOLAS' GREAT BELL.

Oh, have you seen the mighty bell,
That none in England can excel,—
The Tom of Lincoln's but a shell
To the great bell of Saint Nicholas.
Oh, such rare things ne'er was before—
To hear it strike eight miles, or more,
To wake the workmen, when they snore—
Ay, this great bell of Saint Nicholas.

(Spoken)—I say, Patrick, have you been after seeing the great bell that's just gone up to that great lump of a Protestant church?—A big bell, do they call it? by the saints, I thought it was an extinguisher for the light at its ugly mug—A great bell, indeed; by the powers! you know yourself it's only like a skull-cap to my great grandmother's praty pot, that she used to boil kail-cannon in at the harvest.—You are right, Patrick, but still we'll

Drink success to this bell—ding, dong—
That'll wake the folks in country and town,
And their maids to milk their cows in the morn,
The great bell of Saint Nicholas.

Lord, how the people they did run,
When they heard the small bells ring like fun,
Shouting, there's something to be done
At the old church of Saint Nicholas.
The shopkeepers out of their doors did stare
At such a thing, so great and rare,
And the flags were waving in the air,
O'er the great bell of Saint Nicholas.

(Spoken.)—Well, I suppose they will christen it—Hout, man, they christened it yesterday at the foundery, down at Hawks'.—Well, then, they'll have to consecrate it now.—Ay, horses and all—What! consecrate horses, you foolish man! Ay, then they'll be most fit for hearses and mourning coaches.

Drink success to this bell, &c.

And after all the noisy storm,
We've liv'd to see real church reform—
Six horses standing snug and warm,
In the old church of Saint Nicholas.
You should have been at the church,
To have seen the horses in the porch,—
The devil will say—I'm in the lurch,
No use for me at Saint Nicholas.

(Spoken.)—I say, Geordy, did you ever see such a great thing as that before?—Where is it gan' te?—Why, to the church; it's the great bell that was bequeathed by Major Anderson, to flay away the rooks and craws frae the town—to hinder them from building either on churches or exchanges. Ay, ay, but I think it wad ha'e been far better if they'd myed it to flay away poverty frae wor doors, and cast it as a boiler for soup. What say you, Geordy?—It wad, as ye say—but I'll

Drink success, &c.

A drunken cobbler made a vow,
In the Major he would make a shoe,—
And he work'd away till all was blue
In the great bell of Saint Nicholas.
The shoe being made, to the man of leather
The people cried—Well done! O clever,—
You should have a grant to work for ever
In the great bell of Saint Nicholas.

Drink success to this bell, &c.

---

LUKEY'S DREAM.

Tune—"Caller Fair."

The other neet aw went to bed,
Being weary wi' maw wark, man;
Aw dreamt that Billy Scott was deed—
It's curious to remark, man
Aw thought aw saw his buryin' fair,
And knew the comp'ny a', man—
For a' poor Billy's friends were there,
To see him levelled law, man.

Blind Willie slowly led the band,
As beagle, on the way, man;
A staff he carried in his hand,
And shook his head se grey, man;
At his reet hand was Buggy Jack,
With his hat-brim se broad, man;
And on his left was Bill the Black,
Ti lead him on his road, man.

Big Bob, X. Y. and other two,
That leeves upon the deed, man—
They bore his corpse before the crew,
Expecting to be fee'd, man;
His nyemsyek, Euphy Scott, was there,
Her bonny Geordy, tee, man,
Distress'd—they cried, (this happy pair,)
Ne mair we will him see, man!

Bold Jocker was amang them, tee,
Brave Cuckoo Jack and a', man;
And hairy Tom, the keelman's son,
And bonny Dolly Raw, man;
And Bella Roy, and Tatie Bet,
They cried till out o' breath, man—
For sair these twosome did regret
For canny Billy's deeth, man.

But Hangy luickt above them a',
He is se sma' and lang, man—
And Bobby Knox, the Dog-bank Ox,
Was sobbin' i' the thrang, man;
And Coiner, wi' his swill and shull,
Was squeakin' like a bairn, man,
And knack-knee'd Mat, that drucken fyul,
Like a monkey he did gairn, man.

Tally-i-o, that dirty wretch,
Was then the next I saw, man—
And Peggy Powell, Step-and-fetch,
Was haddin' up her jaw, man—
And frae the Close was Bobby Hush,
Wi' his greet gob se wide, man—
Alang wi' him was Push-Peg-Push,
Lamentin' by his side, man.

And roguish Ralph, and busy Bruce,
That leeves upon their prey, man,
Did not neglect, but did protect
Their friends upon the way, man;
And Jimmy Liddle, drest in black,
Behint them a' did droop, man;
He had a coat on like the Quak's,
That feeds us a' wi' soup, man.

Now, when they got him tiv his grave,
He then began to shout, man;
For Billy being but in a trance,
Bi this time cam about, man:
Then Jocker, wi' a sandy styen,
The coffin split wi' speed, man—
They a' rejoic'd to see agyen
Poor Bill they thought was deed, man.

When a' his friends that round him stood,
Had gettin' him put reet, man,
They a' went tiv the Robin Hood,
To spend a jovial neet, man;
Ne mair for Billy they did weep,
But happy they did seem, man;—
Just then aw waken'd frae my sleep,
And fand it was a dream, man.

---

JOCKER.

Tune—"O, gin I had her."

Hae ye seen my Jocker,
Hae ye seen my Jocker,
Hae ye' seen my Jocker
Comin' up the Kee?
Wiv his short blue jacket,
Wiv his short blue jacket,
Wiv his short blue jacket,
And his hat agee!

(Spoken.)—Jin. A! lyucka, noo, at clarty Nan, there!—what's she singin' at?

Nan.—What is aw singin' at! What's that ti ye? What it aw singin' at! Ah, wey, noo!—hev aw ti give ower singin' for ye? Ah! wey, noo! there's a platter-fyeced bunter for ye!—there's a smother-bairn w——! there's a pink amang the pissy-beds! Ah! wey, noo!... Ye'd mair need gan hyem, and get the dust wesht off ye. Ah! wey, noo—what's that!

O, maw hinny, Jocker,
O, maw hinny, Jocker,
O, maw hinny, Jocker—
Jocker's the lad for me!
Jocker was a keelman,
Jocker was a keelman,
Jocker was a keelman,
When he follow'd me.

(Spoken.)—But he's exalted now—O, bliss him, aye!—for

He's a porter-pokeman,
He's a porter-pokeman,
He's a porter-pokeman,
Workin' on the Kee.

(Spoken.)—Nan. Assa, Jin—hae ye seen owt o' wor Jocker doon the Kee, there?

Jin.—Ay, aw saw him and Hairy Tom just gan into the Low Crane, there.

Nan.—The Low Crane, ye clarty fa'—whe are ye myekin' yor gam on?

Jin.—Noo, call me a clarty fa', and aw'll plaister yor gob wi' clarts. Ah, wey, noo! whe are ye calling a clarty fa'?

Nan.—Ay! bliss us a', Jin, what are ye gettin' intiv a rage about?

Jin.—Wey, didn't ye ax me if aw'd seen owt o' Jocker doon the Kee, there—and aw teld ye the truth, and ye wadn't believe me.

Nan.—Wey, is he there?

Jin.—Ti be sure he is.

Nan.—Wey, aw'll sit down here till he comes out—then—

O, maw hinny, Jocker, &c.

Jocker was a rover,
Jocker was a rover,
Jocker was a rover,
When he courted me:
But, noo, his tricks are over,
But, noo, his tricks are over,
But, noo, his tricks are over,
He tykes me on his knee.

(Spoken.) Nan.—Ay! here he's comin'; here's maw jewel comin';—come into my airms, my tracle dumplin', and give us a kiss! Where hae ye been? aw been luikin' for ye all ower.

Jocker.—Where hev aw been!—aw've been walkin' up and down the Kee here. Where hae ye been?—aw think ye've been i' the Sun.

Nan.—Wey, maw jewel, aw've just been i' the Custom-house, getting a glass, and aw've com'd down the Key to seek ye, to gan hyem thegither. Assa, Jocker, divent lie se far off is as ye did last neet, for when aw waken'd, aw was a' starving o' caud.

O, maw hinny, Jocker, &c.

---

THE CORN MARKET.

A LAMENT.

Tune—"The Bold Dragoon."

O hinney Grainger, haud thy hand, thou'll turn us upside doon,
Or faith aw'll send for Mr. Brand, to claw thy curly croon;
For what thou's myed the Major's dean, wor thenks are due, and thou shalt hae them;
But noo the law toon folk complain, thou wants to tyek their Egypt frae them.
Whack, row de dow, &c.

Most folk like the better half, but thou wad swalley all,
Poor-house or Jail may tyek the rest, gie thou but Elswick Hall.
Wor cooncil's cliver, there's ne doot, but they'll find out, tho' rather late on,
How cool the devil walks about, in the smooth shape of J——y C——n.

Thou's getten aw the butcher-meat, the taties, tripe, and greens,
And, not content with this, thou wants to tyek wor corn, it seems;
For Mosley-street and Mercy's sake, sic wicked thowts at once abandon,
Or else wor canny awd law toon, it winna hev a leg to stand on.

The wheel o' fortune will stand still, the bees forsyek the hive,
There'll be ne wark for Sinton's Mill, the White Horse winna drive,
Poor Mrs. F——h and Temperance H——l ne mair need recommend their diet,
The farmers will forget to call, H-ll's Kitchen's very sel' turn quiet.

The Chronicle may doze in peace,—Lord Grainger says, "Sleep on—"
The bugs may tyek another lease, their race is not yet run;
Awd Nichol still may fairly say, frae Hepple's up to Humble's house end,
He feeds a lively host each day, aw'll say, at least, a hundred thousand.

The White Swan seun 'ill be agrund, the Black Boy turn quite pale,
The Black Bull wi' the blow be stunn'd, the Lion hang his tail,
Tom H——n's Cock 'ill craw ne mair, the awd Blue Bell be dumb for ever,—
And', just to myek the Kee-side stare, thou'd better send doon for the river.

Whack, row de dow, &c.

---

THE SKIPPER'S ACCOUNT OF THE MECHANICS' PROCESSION.

By R. Emery, of the Nelson Lodge, Newcastle.

Tune—"Newcastle Fair."

Cried Mally, Come, Jacky, get ready—
The morning is looking se fine, man;
The bells i' the town are a' ringing,
And the sun it se bonny does shine, man;
The lads and the lasses are runnin',
To se the Mechanics so gay, man,—
To meet the Procession, wi' Mally,
Aw suen cut my stick, and away, man.
Rom ti iddity, &c.

We reach'd the Tyne Brig in a crack,
'Mang croods, like worsels, out o' breeth, man—
The splendor aw cannot describe,
Nor forget till the day o' my deeth, man:
A fine silken banner appear'd,
As big as wor Geordy's keel-sails, man,
A' cover'd wi' doves, ark, and croons,
An' greet hairy men without tails, man.
Rom ti iddity, &c.

A chep like a Duke follow'd next,
Surrounded wi' Nobles se fine, man,
Weel dress'd up in silk robes an' tassels,
An' goold that did glitter and shine, man—
Says aw, that's Prince Albert, aw'll sweer—
An' was just gawn to give him three chears, man,
When Mally cried—De'il stop yor din!—
Becrike! it's the Dey of Algiers, man.
Rom ti iddity, &c.

The members were toss'd off in stile,
In colours of pink, white, and blue, man,—
A tight little chep frae the ranks,
Cried, Jack, hinny, how d'ye do, man?—
What, Newton! says aw, now, what cheer!
Aw thowt ye some 'Squire makin' fun, man,—
There's Armstrang, as trig as a Peer,
But how's my awd friend, Bobby Nunn, man?
Rom ti iddity, &c.

The Hawk, the Northumberland Star,
An' the Magdalen's banners wav'd sweet, man;
But the Chieftain astonish'd them all,
With his braw Highland lads dress'd sae neat, man;
The Nelson appear'd in true blue,
(There canny host Simpson belangs, man,)
An' Petrie walk'd close alangside
O' the chep that writes Newcassel Sangs, man.
Rom ti iddity, &c.

To describe the Flags, Music, an' Stars,
Wad take me to doomsday for sartin;
Let Foresters brag as they like,
But it's all in my eye, Betty Martin.
Wor lads were se pleas'd wi' the seet,
Mechanics they'll be before lang, man,—
So aw's gannin to Simpson's to-neet,
To sing them this canny bit sang, man.
Whit-Monday, 1841.

---

DRUCKEN BELLA ROY, O!

Tune—"Duncan M'Callaghan."

When Bella's comin' hyem at neet,
And as she's walking doon the street,
The bairns cry out, Whe pawn'd the sheet?
Wey, drucken Bella Roy, O!

Then styens to them gans rattlin', rattlin',
They set off a gallopin', gallopin',
Legs an' arms gan' wallopin', wallopin',
For fear o' Bella Roy, O!

Now, when she gans through the chares,
Each bairn begins, and shouts and blairs,
And cries, as she gans up the stairs,
Where's drucken Bella Roy, O!
Then styens, &c.

Now, if she's had a sup o' beer,
She sets ti wark to curse and swear,
And myeks them run away, for fear,
Frae Drucken Bella Roy, O!
Then styens, &c.

Believe me, friends, these are her words:
She says—Get hyem, ye w——'s birds,
Else aw'll bray ye as flat as t——s,
Cries drucken Bella Roy, O!
Then styens, &c.

She says—Ye have a w——e at hyem,
And if ye'll not let me alyen,
Maw faith, aw'll break your rumple byen,
Says drucken Bella Roy, O!
Then styens, &c.

She'll myek the place like thunner ring,
And down the stairs her things will fling,
And cry—Get out, yor —— thing—
Cries drucken Bella Roy, O!
Then styens, &c.

Then in the house she sits and chats,
The bairns, then, hit her door such bats—
She calls them a' the hellish cats,
Dis drucken Bella Roy, O!
Then styens, &c.

She shouts until she hurts her head,
And then she's forc'd to gan' ti bed,
Which is a piece of straw, down spread
For drucken Bella Roy, O!
Fal, lal, lal, &c.

---

THE BONNY CLOCK FYECE.

Tune—"The Coal-hole."

O Dick, what's kept ye a' this time?
Aw've fretted sair about ye—
Aw thought that ye'd fa'n in the Tyne,
Then what wad aw duen without ye?
O, hinny, Dolly, sit thee down,
And hear the news aw've brought frae toon:
The Newcassel folks hev catch'd a meun,
And myed it a bonny clock-fyece!

Thou knaws Saint Nicholas' Church, maw pet,
Where we were tied tigither,—
That place, aw knaw, thou'll not forget—
Forget it aw will never:
'Twas there, then, jewel, aw saw the seet,
As aw cam staggering through the street,—
Aw thought it queer, at pick dark neet,
Ti see a fiery clock-fyece.

The folks they stood in flocks about—
Aw cried—How! what's the matter?
Aw glower'd—at last aw gav a shout,
For them to fetch some water.
The Church is a-fire, and very suen
That bonny place will be brunt down.
Ye fyul, says a chep, it's a bonny meun
They've catch'd, and myed it a clock-fyece!

On Monday, when aw gan to wark,
Aw'll shurely tell our banksman,
If we had such a leet at dark,
We never wad break our shanks, man;
Maw marrows and aw'll gan ti the toon,
Ti see if we can catch a muen;—
If we can only coax one doon,
We'll myek't a bonny clock-fyece.

Then if we get it down the pit,
We'll hed stuck on a pole, man;
'Twill tell us hoo wor time gans on,
Likewise to hew wor coal, man.
So noo, maw pet, let's gan ti bed,
And not forget the neet we were wed;
Ti-morn we'll tell our uncle, Ned,
About the bonny clock-fyece.

---

THE MUSIC HALL.

Old bards have sung how they could boast
Of places that's renown'd,
For bloody battles won and lost,
And royal monarchs crown'd;
But all those deeds this place exceeds—
They in the shade must fall,
Some have declar'd, if but compar'd
To our fam'd Music Hall.

Here zealots join in warm debate,
And for their rites contend—
Here Lark-wing spouts on church and state,
His popery to defend;
With bigot zeal, his country's weal
He vows to have at heart—
Yet 'tis well known, throughout the town,
He plays a knavish part.

Now, from Hibernia's fertile shore
The thund'ring champion comes,
His country's wrongs for to deplore,
With trumpets, fife, and drums;
He tells them, too, he is most true,
Their firm, unshaken friend,
While life Shall last, he will stand fast,
And all their rights defend.

Then champions of another grade—
I mean, of fistic lore—
Deaf Burke, the bouncing gasconade,
Struts o'er the spacious floor,
Who, with great art, performs his part,
In teaching self-defence;
Yet plain I saw, he meant to draw
Fools' shillings, pounds, and pence.

Next comes a man of fangles new—
Of worlds, and moons, and stars—
Who said, Sir Isaac never knew
The Ple-i-ades from Mars
The folks throng'd round from all the town,
And some pronounc'd him clever,
Yet, I've been told, both young and old
Return'd as wise as ever.

Apollo, too, his court here keeps,
With sirens in his train—
Each trembling note of music sweeps
Transport through every vein:
When Orpheus play'd within the shade,
He made the woods resound;
The list'ning beasts forsook the mead,
And stood, like statues, round.

A graver scene my muse has caught,
Where sages, in a row—
Men, by the Holy Spirit taught
The gospel truths t' avow—
Those who have trod, to serve their God,
The shores of foreign land,
At his command, now boldly stand
T' implore a helping hand.

And not unfrequent, as we stray
This wond'rous place to see,
We find it fill'd with ladies gay,
To take a cup of tea;
And many a gent, who is content
With such domestic fare,
Has often sat, in social chat,
And join'd in many a prayer.

Of many more there is one class,
Which merits some attention—
Not Bacchanalians, alas!
For such I would not mention—
But men of brains, the smell of grains
Would strike with detestation,
Who'd keep us dry, and thus decry
All liquors in the nation.

Nay, come what will of good or ill,
Just only make a trial—
If you the owner's pockets fill,
You'll meet with no denial;
And men, I hear, from far and near,
Have given attestation,
So strong a place they cannot trace
In any other nation.

---

THE TYNE.

Tune—"Banks and Braes o' bonny Doon."

Clear crystal Tyne, sweet smiling stream,
Gay be the flow'rs thy banks along,
For there the darling of my theme
Oft sports thy verdant meads among.
Flow on, sweet Tyne, and gently glide,
And pour thy commerce o'er the main,
May Plenty o'er thy banks preside,
To bless thee with her smiling train.

Green be thy fields, Britannia dear,
With plenty flowing o'er thy land,
But chief the banks of Tyne, for there
I'll often rove, at Love's command,—
There meet my lass upon the green,
And flow'ry garlands for her twine,
While smiling pleasure glads the scene,
Upon the blooming banks of Tyne.

J. Wilson

---

THE

NEWCASTLE OLD COUNTRY GENTLEMAN.

Air—"Old Country Gentleman."

From wand'ring in a distant land,
An exile had return'd,
And when he saw his own dear stream,
His heart with pleasure burn'd;
The days departed, and their joys,
Came bounding to his breast,
And thus the feelings of his heart
In native strains confess'd:—

Tune—"The Keel Row."

Flow on, majestic river,
Thy rolling course for ever,—
Forget thee will I never,
Whatever fate be mine:

Oft on thy banks I've wander'd,
And on thy beauties ponder'd,
Oh! many an hour I've squander'd
On thy banks, O bonny Tyne!
Flow on, &c.

O Tyne! in thy bright flowing,
There's magic joy bestowing;
I feel thy breezes blowing—
Their perfume is divine.
Flow on, &c.

I've sought thee in the morning,
When crimson clouds are burning,
And thy green hills adorning—
The hills o' bonny Tyne.
Flow on, &c.

When stormy seas were round me,
And distant nations bound me,
In memory still I found thee
A ray of hope divine.
Flow on, &c.

Thy valleys lie before me,
Thy trees are waving o'er me,
My home thou dost restore me
On thy bonny banks, O Tyne!
Flow on, &c.

---

WALKER PITS.

Tune—"Off she goes."

If I had another penny,
I would have another gill—
I would make the fiddler play
"The bonny Lads of Byker-hill."

Byker-hill and Walker-shore,
Collier lads for evermore!
Byker-hill and Walker-shore,
Collier lads for evermore!

When aw cam to Walker wark,
Aw had ne coat, nor ne pit sark;
But now aw've getten twe or three—
Walker pit's deun weel for me.

Byker-hill and Walker-shore,
Collier lads for evermore!
Byker-hill and Walker-shore,
Collier lads for evermore!

---

BEGGAR'S WEDDING.

Air—"Quayside Shaver."

When timber-legg'd Harry crook'd Jenny did marry
In fam'd Gateshead town—and, not thinking of blows,
Three ragmen did quarrel about their apparel,
Which oft-times affrighted both small birds and crows;
This resolute prial, fought on battle royal,
Till Jenny spoke this, with hump back and sharp shins:
"Be loving as brothers, as well as the others,
Then we shall get orders for needles and pins!"

The bride-maid, full breasted, she vow'd and protested,
She never saw men at a wedding so rude;
Old Madge, with her matches, top full of her catches,
Swore she would be tipsy e'er they did conclude;
The supper being ended, some part still contended
For wholesome malt liquor to fill up each skin;
Jack Tar, in his jacket, sat close to Doll Flacket,
And swore he'd drink nothing but grog and clear gin.

Black Jack with his fiddle they fix'd in the middle,
Who had not been wash'd since the second of June—
Old Sandy, the piper, told Ned he would stripe her,
If she wouldn't dance while his pipe was in tune:
They play'd them such touches, with wood-legs and crutches—
Old rag-pokes and matches, old songs flew about;
Poor Jack being a stranger, thought his Scratch in danger,
He tenderly begg'd they would give up the rout.

Jack being thus ill-treated, he begg'd to be seated
Upon an old cupboard the landlord had got,—
Like madmen enchanted, they tippled and ranted,
Till down came the fiddler, as if he'd been shot.
They drank gin by noggins, and strong beer by flaggons,
Till they had sufficiently loosen'd each hide,
Then those that were able, retir'd to the stable,
And slept with their nose in each other's backs—e.

---

DO LI A.

Sung in Newcastle about the Years 1792-3-4.

Fresh I'm come frae Sandgate-street,
Do li, do li,
My best friends here to meet,
Do li a.
Do li th' dil len dol—do li, do li,
Do li th' dil len dol—do li a.

The Black-cuffs are gawn away,
Do li, do li,
And that will be a crying day,
Do li a, &c.
Dolly Coxon's pawn'd her sark,
Do li, do li,
To ride upon the baggage-cart,
Do li a, &c.
The Green-cuffs are coming in,
Do li, do li,
An' that 'll make the lasses sing,
Do li a, &c.

---

A SOUTH SHIELDS SONG.

The sailors are all at the bar,
They cannot get up to Newcastle,—
The sailors are all at the bar,
They cannot get up to Newcastle.

Up with smoaky Shields,
And hey for bonny Newcastle;
Up with smoaky Shields,
And hey for bonny Newcastle.

---

A NORTH SHIELDS SONG.

We'll all away to the Law Lights,
And there we'll see the sailors come in;
We'll all away to the Law Lights,
And there we'll see the sailors come in.
There clap your hands and give a shout,
And you'll see the sailors go out;
Clap your hands, and dance and sing,
And you'll see your laddie come in.

---

COMMIT NO NONSENSE.

An aud chep that had spent a' his life i' the keels,
Taking coals down the river to load ships at Shields,
Had some business, yen day, in Newcastle to do,
And, when there, he'd stop and see a' that was new.

He view'd wor new streets, and was weel pleas'd, no doubt,
He gap'd and he star'd, as he wander'd about;
But still, as he star'd, there was yen thing seem'd queer,
Whilk was plac'd on the walls—"Commit no nuisance here."

The aud boy was not very learned, you see,
And, when young, he had got off his great A, B, C,
And some words he could spell, tho' not sartinly clear,
And his skill made it out—"Commit ne nonsense here."

He knew very little of Tee-total rules,
But thought they might dee very weel amang feuls;
In his wand'ring he thought about getting some beer.
And often he read—"Commit ne nonsense here."

A few pints of beer brought this chep to a stand,
For nature, o'ercharg'd, wanted ease at his hand,—
For this purpose he enter'd a yard,—but, se queer,
Just saw, 'buin his head—"Commit ne nonsense here."

The gurgling stream from the old fellow flow'd,
His ease he enjoy'd myed a notable flood;
But, just in the nick, when he thought a' was clear,
A policeman cries—"Commit no nuisance here."

"Kind sir," says the man—for to speak he scarce durst—
"When aw com in here, aw was ready to burst."
"That's nought," says the policeman, "din't ye see clear,
Daub'd upon the wall—'Commit no nuisance here.'"

The poor soul his flap button'd up in a fright,
The policeman swore that he wad him indite;
But he teuk to his heels, for, says he, aw see clear,
If aw stop onie langer there'll be nonsense here.

---

A NEW NURSERY RHYME.

This is the Arcade that Grainger built.

This is the Blade, whose only trade, is to keep the
Arcade that Grainger built.

These are the Boys who, making a noise, are kick'd
by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade
that Grainger built.

This is the Horde of Attorneys, who, bored by the
rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by
the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that
Grainger built.

This is the Hat, all cock'd and lac'd—a hat according
to Briggs's taste—paid for by the horde of attorneys
so bored by the rascally boys, who, making a noise, are
kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the
Arcade that Grainger built.

This is Peregrine, pragmatic and prim, who scouted
the hat without any brim—the hat that was all cock'd
and lac'd, according to Briggs' peculiar taste—paid for
by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally boys,
who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade, whose
only trade is to keep the Arcade that Grainger built.

This is Mister Briggs, who makes trowsers and coats,
who abus'd the committee for giving their votes to
Peregrine, so pragmatic and prim, to scout the hat
without any brim; for Briggs deck'd the hat so cock'd
and lac'd,—and he prides himself on his fanciful taste,—paid
for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the
rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by
the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that
Grainger built.

This is Chinaman Reed, who said Briggs was right,
and who wears his unmentionables awfully tight, which
were made by this Briggs, who makes trousers and
coats, who abus'd the committee for giving their votes
to Peregrine, so pragmatic and prim, to scout the hat
without any brim; for Briggs deck'd the hat so cock'd
and lac'd,—and he prides himself on his fanciful taste,—paid
for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally
boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the
blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that
Grainger built.

This is Mister Stable, who did all he was able to
bully poor Reed, who said Briggs was right, and who
wears his unmentionables awfully tight, which were made
by this Briggs, who makes trousers and coats, who
abus'd the committee for giving their votes to Peregrine,
so pragmatic and prim, to scout the hat without
any brim; for Briggs deck'd the hat so cock'd and
lac'd,—and he prides himself on his fanciful taste,—paid
for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally
boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade,
whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that Grainger
built.

This is Mister Seymour, an attorney of note, who—alas!
for the hat—gave the casting vote, and agreed
with Stable, who did all he was able to bully poor
Reed, who said Briggs was right, and who wears his
unmentionables awfully tight, which were made by this
Briggs, who makes trousers and coats, who abus'd the
committee for giving their votes to Peregrine, so pragmatic
and prim, who scouted the hat without any brim—the
unfortunate hat, all cock'd and lac'd, after Briggs's
own peculiar taste—paid for by the horde of attorneys
so bored by the noise of the rascally boys, kick'd out
by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade
that Grainger built.

---

COOKSON'S ALKALI.

Now haud yor tongues, I'll try my lungs,
And de my best forbye;
My sang is choice, but maw sweet voice
Is spoil'd by Alkali.

CHORUS.

Then let us all, byeth great and small,
Set up a hue and cry;
Else Shields will suin be a' duin broon
By Cookson's Alkali.

Wor fields are bare, they'll grow ne mair
Of barley, wheat, or rye:
A famine now, and pest'lence, too,
Is caus'd by Alkali.

Wor gardens grow just nothing now,
The crops won't multiply;
Wor mouths, it's thowt, will suin hev nowt
But Cookson's Alkali.

Wor ships hev got a sad dry rot,
In spite of "anti-dry;"
For Kyan's wash, and such like trash,
Can't cope wiv Alkali.

Then suin there'll be a shipless sea—
No sail will meet the eye;
Wor masts and spars, and jolly tars
Will strike to Alkali.

Wor houses soon will tummel doon,
And flat as fluicks they'll lie—
They'll cut their sticks, as sure as bricks,
Wi' this sad Alkali.

A man, I swear't, is now half marr'd
Wi' smoke, he's got sae dry;
He's lost his sap, and ruin'd, peer chap,
By Cookson's Alkali.

It's true, indeed, wor wives still breed,—
But, see their tiny fry!—
They're nowt, peer things, but legs and wings,
And all from Alkali.

For dandy blades, and dapper maids,
De nought but sob and sigh;
They're forc'd to pad, their shape's sae bad,
And all wi' Alkali.

Wor wither'd crops, and lantern chops,
Are proofs nyen can deny,
That we are cuik'd, and fairly buik'd,
By Cookson's Alkali.

So, now, farewell to swipes and yell,
And breed and beef, good bye!
We'll get nae mair awd English fare,
For this d——d Alkali.

And when we're gyen, beneath a styen
Wor cawd remains will lie,
A prey, alas! to acid gas,
Produc'd by Alkali.

---

THE PITMAN'S RAMBLE.

Tune—"The Kebbuckstane Wedding."

BY R. EMERY.

Wor pit was laid in, and but little ti de,
Says aw, Neighbour Dicky, let's off to Newcassel,
Their grand alterations aw's langin' to see,—
hey say, they're se fine, that they'll gar wor een dazzel.
We reach'd the Black House, and we call'd for some beer,
When whe should pop in but the landlord, se handy—
He wish'd us se kindly a happy new year,
And he rosin'd wor gobs with a glass o' French brandy.

We left wor good friend, an' got down to the shop
That has some fine lasses frae Lunnin se clivver,—
Astonish'd, aw star'd till near like for to drop,
At their great panes o' glass that wad cover Tyne river!
Says Dick, it's been myed for greet folk like Lord 'Size—
It belangs to Broad Brim that myed brass at the corner;
At poor folks like us, now, he'll cock up his eyes,
As he sits at the end, there, like Little Jack Horner.

We wheel'd reet about—spied a far finer seet,
As we went to the grocer's, to get some rag backy—
Lairge goold cups an' watches, se bonny and breet,
An' fine Fardin Pants runnin' whisky and jacky!
Aw wish'd aw could get mi gob fair at the spout,
Aw'd pay for a sook o' this liquor se funny,—
Says Dick, the door's bolted to keep the crowd out—
It's a place made to glow'r at, but not to take money.

We down to the Doctor's that lives in the Side,
Who cures folks o' hairy-legg'd monsters, like donkies!
Cull cheps for his worm cakes frae far an' near ride—
Poor pitmen, an' farmers, an' keelmen, an' flonkies;
A chep at the window did offer to swear,
For truth, that this doctor, se clivver an' cunnin',
Did take frae his sister, the very last year,
A worm that wad reach frae Newcassel to Lunnin!!!

At last to the Play-house aw swagger'd wi' Dick,—
They've us'd the King's Airms an' the paintings most shocking,
Yen said, since the house had been kept by Awd Nick,
Wi' humbugs an' lees he'd Newcassel been mocking.
Says aw—Canny man, dis Awd Nick manage here!
That cunnin' black fiend that gav Eve the bad apple!!
Us Ranters will suen frae this place make him sheer,
An' we'll preach in't worsels, then we'll bang Brunswick Chapel!

---

THE WORTHY RECTOR.

Sung at a Farewell Dinner, given, by his Parishioners, to the Rev. J. Collinson, Rector of Gateshead, previous to his Removal to the Parish of Boldou.

Sec changes now there diz tyek place
In ivry life and station,
Things noo is a' turn'd upside doon,
For little or ne occasion,—
Yen meets wi' acts yen luik'd not for,
That drives yen into sorrow:
We hev a case in point to meet
In this wor canny borro—
Singing, fal, lal, &c.

Last Cursmas time whe wad ha'e thowt
That wor awd priest wad leave us,
And cause sec dowly thowts to cum,
Se very much to grieve us?
We sartly thowt we had him fix'd,
And fassen'd here till death, sors;
Unless he had been prebendized
By Dean-and-Chapter breeth, sors.

His toils an' labours noo we'll loss:—
His sarmons for to syev us
Will all be chang'd, an' varry suin,
For wor new Rector's, Davis.
Aw oney hope an' pray we'll not
Forget our late Protector,—
For thorty yeers he's led our "train,"
An' been wor sowl Director.

For warks an' deeds amang the poor,
For charity an' boonties,
His match, aw think, ye'll not weel find
In this or other coonties:
He's fed the hungry, heal'd the sick,
Wivoot yor grete display, sors;
He wiv his wealth did gyude by stealth—
Lang life to him! aw say, sors.

Yeers creeps upon us a' my frinds,
And he'll suin be an ould un;
And his move frae here, though its not far,
Aw'm sure ye'll think a bowld-un.
Aw trust, at times, we'll see his fyece
At church and parish dinners;
For he's a man that loves the saints,
Yet hates not the poor sinners.

This plate we've gi'en him here to-day,
Wiv a' its shining glister,—
The yen tureen was made by Reid,
The other made by Lister,—
Lang may he live to see them shine,
Like bright and true reflectors,
Reminding priests how laymen prize
Upreet, kind-hearted Rectors.

Noo, fare ye weel, maw canny man,
Yor wife an' a' yor childer;
The score ye hev wad frighten some—
Their senses quite bewilder.
Lang may ye live a happy life,
When ye frae Gyetside sivver:
There's hundreds here will pray to God
To bless ye noo and ivvur.

---

BATTLE OF SPITALOO.

On the thirtieth day of July
The Chartists did combine,
That they would hold a meeting
At Newcastle upon Tyne;
In spite of Mayor or Magistrates,
They would come up to a man,
But when the Police them attack'd,
They took to their heels and ran.

CHORUS.

At the battle of Spitaloo, my boys,
At the battle of Spitaloo—
The Chartists' colours were taken
At the battle of Spitaloo.

They mairch'd in full procession,
Through most streets of the town,
And they declar'd the Magistrates
Should never put them down;
But of all their boasted courage
About what they would do,
The Police took their colours
At the battle of Spitaloo.

With music, flags, and banners,
And all their empty pride,
The procession of the Chartists
Was soon put to a side;
The worthy Mayor and Magistrates
Did let the Chartists know
That they were masters of the town,
At the battle of Spitaloo.

The Chartists, to the Forth that night,
Turn'd very boldly out,—
But soon they were dispersed,
And all put to the rout:
They laid the failure of their cause
Upon the red and blue,
Because they came against them
At the battle of Spitaloo.

The Chartists and their leaders
Are no more allow'd to meet,
Their threat'ning combinations
Have got the grand defeat,—
The National Convention
Has got the overthrow,
And the Chartists' colours taken
At the battle of Spitaloo.

---

BATTLE ON THE SHIELDS RAILWAY,

Between a Town Councillor and an Architect, and the Pollis.

Tune—"Cappy's the Dog."

I' the toon of Newcassel James Archbold dis dwell—
He's a slater te trade, and thinks ne small beer on hissel',
And in Gallowgate, just aside the Darn Crook,
Stands his house amang smells that wad make a horse puke.

I' the same toon a chep leeves, of varry great fame,
For building fine houses—John Dobson's his nyem;—
His awn stands in New Bridge Street, by way of example,—
Blaw me if aw think it's a varry good sample.

It happen'd on ——, the —— of November—
A day these two worthies will ever remember;
For Dobson was varry nigh kill'd, I suppose,
And poor Mr. Archbold spoilt all his best clothes.

The twesome to dine with John Sadler had been
At Whitehill-point House, which is weel to be seen,
A ye gan down to Shields; but aw'll begin my narration
With the row that tuik place at the Howden-pan station.

Efter dinner, when each yen his belly had fill'd,
And some of Jack Sadler's wine had been swill'd,
To gan hyem te Newcassel they left Whitehill-house;
But, before they gat hyem, they gat a vast of abuse.

The station they reach'd ere the train had got there,
And they each tuik a ticket, and each paid his fare;
The train it came up, and Dobson gat in,
And was just gawn to start when the row did begin.

Noo, yen of the pollismen placed at the station,
With lang Jemmy Archbold had some altercation—
"Your ticket, sir, I must now have from you?"
"Not before I get in—I'll be d——d if you do."

Upon this the pollisman gave Jemmy a push,
And into the station-house all made a rush,
And Dobson, noo seeing his friend in such guise,
Jump'd out of the carriage, and went in likewise.

But he gat a blow from a wooden hand,
That made him quite sick, and he could not stand,
And then cam another sic skelp on the hede,
Had his sconce not been thick he wad hae been dede,

Now, Dobson at yen time was very handy,
And at schule he payed Tinley of Shields, the great dandy,
And although he now had come to such skaith,
Cried, "Lay by your wood hands and I'll lick ye baith."

But the pollismen said, "Ye baith prisoners are,
And to Shields ye mun gan, as it's not varry far;"
And though now they began to be sick of the lark,
To Shields they teun were, though it was efter dark.

There they saw Mr. Cruddas and Inspector Scott,
The hede of the pollis, wha pitied their lot,
And releas'd and sent them hyem somewhat muddy—
Poor Dobson the warst—he was baith sair and bloody.

The next day, each yen to his 'torney went,
The yen to Parce Fenwick, the other the Sargent,
Crowner Stoker, whe's spectacles myeks him far-seeted—
He's a h-ll of a fellow for getting folk reeted.

A summons they gat—the men cuddent be seen,
The directors detarmin'd the villains to screen,
And what was still warse, and to save their mutton,
Young Tinley tell'd Jackson, they had gone a shutten.

Noo, as the summons cuddent be sarv'd,
And the pollismen punish'd as they deserv'd,
A warran was getten, and Newton, Allan, and all
Were suin in the cellars beneath the Moot-hall.

Noo the justices sat, to hear what they had to say,
And twe cam frae Shields, for to see fair play;
And William Branlen sat on the bench,
Besides Sandy Ildertan, whe still likes a w—ch.

There was doctors, and lawyers, and pollismen too,
And of railway directors there was not a few,
Including Dick Spoor, whe yence din'd with the queen—
Sic a crew in the jury-room never was seen.

Noo the crowner began, and he made a good speech,
Call'd Archbold and Dobson, and, lastly, the Leech,
Whe bound Dobson's hede, yen Mr. John Lang,
Not "the family surgeon," but a rhyme for my sang.

When Archbold was called, he said, with much grace,
That Newton held the lanthorn reet in his fyece,
And spoke in a manner baith rude and absord
To the town-councillor for St. Andrew's West Ward.

Next Dobson appears with his bloody claes,
His hede all bund up, luiking pale, and he says,
As how nyen o' them had getten ower much drink,
As Torney Tinley wanted the justice to think.

Now the crowner being ended, t'other side did begin,
And Tinley he vapour'd, and they swore thick and thin;
But aw'll say ne mair, lest you should be bor'd,
But merely relate, that Jack Tinley was floor'd.

And the justices said, 'twas a shem the directors
Should set twe sic blackguards on the line for inspectors,
And, addressing them byeth, said unto the men,
Yer byeth fined—Allan five pounds, and you, Newton, ten.

Noo, when aw seed the way the thing went,
Thinks aw, the directors are surely content,
And will myek the cheps 'mends, from the way they've been tret,
But the warst of my story it is to come yet.

Ne suiner was't knawn what the verdict was,
Than the railway attorney, he out with the brass,
And, flinging it doon, said, "Much good may it do yee!
Gie me a resait, and set wor pollismen free."

Noo sic wark as this, it is varry shocken,
Folks canna gan te Shields without hevin their hedes brocken,
And aw've myed up ma mind, if aw's not in a hurry,
Te gan in Mitchell's fine boats, or Johnson's fam'd whurry.

Folly Wharf, Nov. 35, 1839.

---

BLIND WILLIE'S DEATH.[48]

Tune—"Jemmy Joneson's Whurry."

As aw was gannin' up the Side,
Aw met wi' drucken Bella;
She wrung her hands, and sair she cried,
He's gyen at last, poor fellow!
O, hinny Bella! whe is't that's gyen?
Ye gar my blood run chilly.
Wey, hinny, deeth has stopt the breath
O' canny awd Blind Willie.

God keep us, Bella, is that true!
Ye shurely are mistaken?
O, no! aw've left him just a-now,
And he's as deed as bacon.
Aw tied his chaffs, and laid him out—
His flesh just like a jelly—
And sair, sair aw was put about
For canny awd Blind Willie.

Then off went aw as fast as owt,
Ti see poor Willie lyin';—
When aw gat there, maw heart was sair,
Ti see his friends a' sighin'.
Around his bed they hung their heeds,
Just like the droopin' lily;
And aw, with them, did dee the syem
For canny awd Blind Willie.

Ne mair, said aw, we'll hear him sing,
Ne mair he'll play the fiddle;
Ne mair we'll hear him praise the king—
No! No! cried Jimmy Liddle.
The days are past—he's gyen, at last,
Beside his frind, Sir Billy,
That parish chiel', that preach'd se weel—
We'll mourn for him and Willie.

His bonny corpse crowds cam to see,
Which myed the room luik dowly;
And whe was there amang them, tee,
But noisy Yella Yowley;
She through the crowd did crush her way—
Wi' drink she seem'd quite silly—
And on her knees began to pray
For canny awd Blind Willie.

They tell'd us a' to gang away,
Which myed us varry sorry;
But Beagle Bet wad kiss his lips,
Before they did him bury.
He's buried now—he's out o' seet—
Then on his grave se hilly,
Let them that feel take their fareweel
O' canny awd Blind Willie.

[48] Died July 20, 1832.

---

GEORDY'S DISASTER.

Sum time since a ship that was tyken in coal,
At a place at North Shields they ca' Peggy's Hole,
And the keels a' the neet wad lie alangside,
To be ready next morn to gan up wi' the tide.
Fal, lal, &c.

Noo yen o' the skippers had sie fish-huiks o' claws,
That deil a bit rope cud be kept frae his paws;
For as sune as the men were a' gyen to sleep,
Then on board o' the ship wor Geordy wad creep.
Fal, lal, &c.

And devil a thing could be left on the deck,
But Geordy, as sure as a gun, wad it neck,
And into the huddock wad stow it away,
And gan off to the rope-shop, and sell it next day.
Fal, lal, &c.

Noo the mate o' the ship was determin'd to watch,
To see if he cuddent the thievish rogue catch,—
So to hev a bit fun, an' to give him a freet,
He swore he wad sit up the whole o' that neet.
Fal, lal, &c.

So he gat a lang gun, and for to begin,
A greet clot o' blud and sum poother pat in;
Noo he dident wait lang, for sune ower the bows
I' the muinleet he saw him creep up like a moose.
Fal, lal, &c.

He click'd up a bucket, and was gawn wiv his prize,
When the mate he let flee reet between his twe eyes.
When the skipper found blud all over his fyece,
"Aw's deed!" out he roars, and dropp'd down in the place.
Fal, lal, &c.

Noo the Pee-dee he heard the crack o' the gun,
So he speal'd up the side, and tiv Geordy he run:
"Oh, Geordy! Oh Geordy! just haud up thy heed,
An' tell us, maw hinny, if thou hez gyen deed!"
Fal, lal, &c.

The skipper he groan'd, and kick'd up his heels,
'Gude bye, canny Pee-dee! Gude bye tiv maw keels!
Aw'll never see Mally nor bairns ony mair,
For if aw's not deed, aw's speechless, aw'll swear!"
Fal, lal, &c.

Wiv a greet deal to de they gat him to rise;
But when he gat up, what was his surprise,
When he sought for the hole where the bullet had gyen,
But sought it in vain, for he cuddent find yen.
Fal, lal, &c.

"By gock!" out he roars, "aw ken how it's been—
Sic a comical trick, aw's sure, never was seen;
Faix, bad as it is, it might hev been warse,
It's come in at maw gob, and gyen out at——."
Fal, lal, &c.

---

JOSSY'S NAG'S HEAD.

Tune—"A rampant Lion is my Sign."

All you who've got an hour to spare,
And wish to spend it merry,
Go not to houses of ill-fame,
Nor sport with Tom and Jerry:
Direct your course to Armfield's house,
Where none the least alarm feels,
Where mirth and fun reign uncontroll'd,
All in Josiah Armfield's.

CHORUS.

Then drink about and merry be,
Let each one fill his station,
And ne'er despise a flowing pot,
When bent on recreation.

In winter, when the weather's cold,
The pinching frost may starve you,
You'll find a fire to your desire,
A buxom lass to serve you:
Her smiles are like the flowers in May,
Her conversation charms weel:
Far be the fellow takes her in,
While selling drink at Armfield's.
Then drink about, &c.

Now should you know the art of war,
The news may lead your mind there;
Or if inclin'd to grace the bar,
Some of your cloth you'll find there:
Mock trials, hot debates go on,
Yet seldom any harm feel,
The counsellors plead your cause for nought,
Law's cheap at Jossy Armfield's.
Then drink about, &c.

Next in the tap-room take a peep,
There's eggs and pie-folk dealing;
Some try their luck at single toss,
And other some are stealing:
The bakky smoke ascends in clouds,
Yet none will say he harm feels;
You'd swear you were near Etna's Mount,
Instead of Jossy Armfield's.
Then drink about, &c.

The sailors sing their dangers o'er,
When sailing on the high seas;
Says Donald frae Fife, "I've left the North,
Where Parry wad lost his ideas."
"Come, d—n!" says Durham lad, "leet my pipe,
And give us nyen o' your yarn reels;
But pay the quart—Ise be the next,
We'll hev a spree at Armfield's."
Then drink about, &c.

There's Baggie Will, he sings all fours;
And faith he sings it rarely;
There's Castle Dean plagues Canny Pit Sark,
And sings, he's lost her fairly;
The Teazer he provokes the flame,
Till a' the house quite warm feels:
The Cobbler chaunts the Cuddy sang,
Half-cock'd, in Jossy Armfield's.
Then drink about, &c.

Box number one's a Tennis Court,
For those of fistic valour;
And should you want to grace the ring,
Must enter as a scholar.
The Hackney drivers stand about,
Until their dowps they warm feel;
Then drink their purl, and march away—
Huzza! for Jossy Armfield.
Then drink about, &c.

---

THE APRIL GOWK;

Or, THE LOVERS ALARMED.

A CASTLE-GARTH DITTY.

Tune—"Jenny choak'd the Bairn."

Ye worthy friends of April Gowk,
That like a bit o' spree,
Pray lay your jargon a' aside,
And listen unto me;
For love's intrigues disturb the wigs
Of most o' men on earth;
And so, of late, it caught the pate
Of pious Parson Garth.

This worthy man went soon to bed,
Upon the last o' March,
And what his mind was running on,
'Tis needless now to search;
His rib asleep, down stairs he'd creep—
When lo! to his surprise,
A pair of boots, below the seat,
Stood right before his eyes.

He went to rouse his darling spouse,
And said, "You plainly see
There's some one here that wants to make
An April Gowk o' me.
Oh! dress yoursel', do take the bell,
Your petticoat put on:
They're now in quod—I hope to God
It's not my brother John."

He took a stick, and follow'd quick
Unto the lasses' room:
Come out! says she; Come out! says he,
The Kitty is your doom!
While on the bell she did play knell,
Poor Johnny, pale, came forth,
All in dismay, like potters' clay,
Stood pious Parson Garth!

A Chamber Council there was held,
All in this naked plight;
The dire alarm had brought a swarm
O' guardians o' the night:
In vain they strove to gain his love,
His wrath for to appease,
He swore he'd have their boxes search'd,
And cried—Produce the keys!

They nothing found that he could own—
His heart more callous grew,
He tore their caps, destroy'd their hats—
Them on the floor he threw:
Like pilgrims setting out, unshod,
To prison they were sent,
To dread their penance, like the sweep,
Until they should repent.

To free the girls from guilt and shame,
And have the matter clear'd,
Those sweetly serenading "Two-
Foot Carpenters"[49] appear'd.
Tho' Willy cannot get his boots,
For them he does not care—
They won the day!—"none but the brave
Deserve to win the fair."

Should you not know this worthy man—
A man of steady gait,
A pensive look affects as tho'
He'd something in his pate:
Ambition and presumption too
In him have taken birth,
And fix'd a stigma on his name—
"The Hydra of the Garth!"

[49] Cloggers.

---

THE SKIPPER'S MISTAKE.

Tune—"The Chapter of Accidents."

Two jovial souls, two skippers bold,
For Shields did sail one morning,
In their awd keel, black as the Deil,
All fear and danger scorning.
The sky look'd bright, which prophesied
A fair and glorious day, man;
But such a thick Scotch mist cam on,
They could not see their way, man.
Fal, lal, &c.

They pull'd about, frae reet to left,
Not kennin what to dee, man,
When poor Pee-dee began to fret,
Lest they should drive to sea, man.
Says Geordy, Should wor voyage be lang,
We've little for our guts, man;
There's nowt belaw but half a loaf,
Some tripe, and a nowt's foot, man.
Fal, lal, &c.

They drove as far as Jarrow Slake,
When Geordy bawl'd aloud, man
Smash! marrow, ye hae been at skuel,
Come find our latitude, man;
Gan down into the huddock, Jack,
Fetch up the Reading-Easy—
If we should be far off at sea,
I doubt it winna please ye.
Fal, lal, &c.

They studied hard, byeth lang and sair,
Though nyen o' them could read, man,
When Geordy on a sudden cries,
Aw hev 'er in my heed, man.
Come, let us pray to be kept free
Frae danger and mischance, man;
We're ower the bar!—there's nowt for us
But Holland, Spain, or France, man!
Fal, lal, &c.

At length the day began to clear,
The sun peep'd through the dew, man,
When lo! awd-fashion'd Jarrow Kirk
Stood fair within their view, man.
They laugh'd and crack'd about the joke
Which lately gar'd them quake, man:
They lay, instead of Spain or France,
Quite snug at Jarrow Slake, man.
Fal, lal, &c.

May wealth and commerce still increase,
And bless our native isle, man,
And make each thriving family
In happiness to smile, man.
May vict'ry round Britannia's brow
Her laurels still entwine, man,
The coal-trade flourish more and more
Upon the dingy Tyne, man.
Fal, lal, &c.

---

NEWCASTLE BEER versus SPAW WATER;

Or, The Pitman and Temperance Society.

BY R. EMERY.

Tune—"Mr. Frost."

As Cousin Jack and I, last pay-day, cam to toon,
We gat to Robin Hood's, wor worldly cares to droon—
And there we spent the day—their yell's byeth cheap and strang—
It's reet to soak yen's clay—hang them that thinks it wrang.
Romti bomti bom, &c.

In stagg'rin' hyem at neet, an' bent upon a spree,
A broad-brim'd chep cam up, and seem'd to talk quite free;—
He said, to drink small beer or brandy was a curse,
It stole away wor brains, an' drain'd each poor man's purse.
Romti bomti bom, &c.

He talk'd 'bout Temp'rance Clubs, that now are a' the go,
And said, if we wad join, we'd ne'er ken want or woe.
We quickly gav consent, wor Friend then led the way,
Reet up to Wilkie's went, amang his cronies gay.
Romti bomti bom, &c.

There some wer fair and fat, some nowt but skin and byen,
And at a tyebble sat a man near twenty styen—
He roar'd out for some drink, which very suen was browt,
And said, My lads, fall tee, and fill yor bags for nowt.
Romti bomti bom, &c.

Aw tried, but smash a drop wad down me weasen gan,
But Broad-brim said, quite slee, Come, drink, friend, if thou can
'Twill purge the body clean, and make ye wond'rous wise,
And, efter ye are deed, ye'll mount abuen the skies.
Romti bomti, &c.

Suen efter this grand speech aw quietly toddled hyem,
And cramm'd some o' their drink into wor canny dyem;
But scarcely had she drunk this liquor so divine,
Till she began to bowk, and sair her jaws did twine.
Romti bomti, &c.

A Doctor suen was brought frae canny Benwell toon,
While Peggy, maw poor lass, was work'd byeth up an' doon;
He fund, when he did tyest, this queer, mischievous stuff,
To be Spaw Water pure, so Peg was safe eneugh.
Romti bomti bom, &c.

When aw gan back to toon, aw'll tell them what aw think—
Aw'll warn wor neighbours round 'gyen their outlandish drink:
Let Quakers gan to Heav'n, an' fill their kites wi' Spaw,
Give me Newcassel Beer, content aw'll stay belaw.
Romti bomti bom, &c.

---

THE PITMAN'S PAY;

Or, A Night's Discharge to Care.

I sing not here of warriors bold—
Of battles lost or victories won—
Of cities sack'd, or nations sold,
Or any deeds by tyrants done.

I sing the Pitman's plagues and cares—
Their labour hard and lowly cot—
Their homely joys and humble fares—
Their pay-night o'er a foaming pot.

Their week's work done, the coaly craft—
These horny-handed sons of toil
Require a "right gude willie-waught,"
The creaking wheels of life to oil.

See hewers, putters, drivers too,
With pleasure hail this happy day—
All clean wash'd up, their way pursue
To drink, and crack, and get their pay.

The Buck, the Black Horse, and the Keys,
Have witness'd many a comic scene,
Where's yell to cheer and mirth to please,
And drollery that would cure the spleen.

With parched tongues and gyzen'd throats
They reach the place, where barleycorn
Soon down the dusty cavern floats,
From pewter-pot or homely horn.

The dust wash'd down, then comes the care
To find that all is rightly bill'd;
And each to get his hard-earn'd share
From some one in division skill'd.

The money-matters thus decided,
They push the pot more briskly round;
With hearts elate and hobbies strided,
Their cares are all in nappie drown'd.

"Here, lass," says Jack, "help this agyen,
It's better yell than's in the toun;
But then the road's se het it's tyen,
It fizz'd, aw think, as it went doun."

Thus many a foaming pot's requir'd
To quench the dry and dusky spark;
When ev'ry tongue, as if inspir'd,
Wags on about their wives and wark.

The famous feats done in their youth,
At bowling, ball, and clubby-shaw—
Camp-meetings, Ranters, Gospel-truth,
Religion, politics, and law.

With such variety of matter,
Opinions, too, as various quite,
We need not wonder at the clatter,
When ev'ry tongue wags—wrong or right.

The gifted few in lungs and lair
At length, insensibly, divide 'em:
And from a three-legg'd stool or chare
Each draws his favour'd few beside him.

Now let us ev'ry face survey,
Which seems as big with grave debate,
As if each word they had to say
Was pregnant with impending fate.

Mark those in that secluded place
Set snug around the stool of oak,
Labouring at some knotty case,
Envelop'd in tobacco smoke.

These are the pious, faithful few,
Who pierce the dark decrees of fate—
They've read the "Pilgrim's Progress" through,
As well as "Boston's Four-fold state."

They'll point you out the day and hour
When they experienc'd sin forgiven—
Convince you that they're quite secure,
They'll die in peace, and go to heaven.

The moral road's too far about,
They like a surer, shorter cut,
Which frees the end from every doubt,
And saves them many a weary foot.

The first's commensurate with our years,
And must be travell'd day by day;
And to the new-born few appears
A very dull and tedious way.

The other's length solely depends
Upon the time when we begin it;
Get but set out—before life ends—
For all's set right when once we're in it.

They're now debating which is best—
The short-cut votes the others double;
For this good reason, 'mongst the rest,
It really saves a world of trouble.

He that from goodness farthest strays,
Becomes a saint of first degree;
And Ranter Jeremiah says,
"Let bad ones only come to me."

Old Earth-worm soon obeys the call,
Conscious, perhaps, he wanted mending,
For some few flaws from Adam's fall,
Gloss'd o'er by cant and sheer pretending.

Still stick to him afield or home,
The methodistic brush defying,
So that the Ranter's curry-comb
Is now the only means worth trying.

In habits form'd since sixty years,
The hopes of change won't weigh a feather—
Their power so o'er him domineers,
That they and life must end together.

See on their right a gambling few,
Whose every word and look display
A desperate, dark, designing crew,
Intent upon each others' pay.

They're racers, cockers, carders keen,
As ever o'er a tankard met,
Or ever bowl'd a match between
The Popplin Well and Mawvin's yett."

On cock-fight, dog-fight, cuddy-race,
Or pitch and toss, trippet and coit,
Or on a soap-tail'd grunter's chase,
They'll risk the last remaining doit.

They're now at cards, and Gibby Gripe
Is peeping into Harry's hand;
And ev'ry puff blown from his pipe
His party easily understand.

Some for the odd trick pushing hard—'
Some that they lose it pale with fear—
Some betting on the turn-up card—
Some drawing cuts for pints of beer.

Whilst others brawl about Jack's brock,
That all the Chowden dogs can bang;
Or praise "Lang Wilson's" piley cock,
Or Dixon's feats upon the swang.

Here Tom, the pink of bowlers, gain'd
Himself a never-dying name,
By deeds, wherein an ardour reign'd,
Which neither age nor toil could tame.

For labour done, and o'er his dose,
Tom took his place upon the hill;
And at the very evening's close
You faintly saw him bowling still.

All this display of pith and zeal
Was so completely habit grown,
That many an hour from sleep he'd steal
To bowl upon the hill alone.

The night wears late—the wives drop in
To take a peep at what is doing;
For many would not care a pin
To lose at cards a fortnight's hewing.

Poor Will had just his plagues dismiss'd,
And had "Begone, dull Care" begun,
With face as grave as Methodist,
And voice most sadly out of tune;

But soon as e'er he Nelly saw,
With brows a dreadful storm portending,
He dropt at once his under jaw,
As if his mortal race was ending;—

For had the grim destroyer stood,
In all his ghastliness before him,
It could not more have froze his blood,
Nor thrown a deadlier paleness o'er him.

His better half, all fire and tow,
Call'd him a slush—his comrades raff—
Swore that he could a brewing stow,
And after that sipe all the draff.

Will gather'd up his scatter'd powers—
Drew up his fallen chops again—
Seiz'd Nell, and push'd her out of doors,
Then broke forth in this piteous strain:—

"O! Nell, thou's rung me mony a peal,
Nyen, but mysel, could bide thy yammer;
Thy tongue runs like wor pully-wheel,
And dirls my lug like wor smith's hammer.

Thou'll drive me daft, aw often dread,
For now aw's nobbet verra silly,
Just like a geuss cut i' the head,
Like Jemmy Muin or Preacher Willy.

Aw thought wor Nell, when Nelly Dale,
The verra thing to myek me happy;
She curl'd ma hair, or tied ma tail,
And clapt and stroakt ma little Cappy.

But suin as e'er the knot was tied,
And we were yok'd for life together;
When Nell had laugh'd, and minny cried,
And a' was fairly i' the tether;—

Then fierce as fire she seiz'd the breeks,
And round maw heed flew stuils and chairs;
Ma tail hung lowse like candle weeks,—
An awd pit ended Cappy's cares.

Just like wor maisters when we're bun',
If men and lads be varra scant,
They wheedle us wi' yell and fun,
And coax us into what they want.

But myek yor mark, then snuffs and sneers
Suin slop yor gob and lay yor braggin';
When yence yor feet are i' the geers,
Ma soul! they'll keep your painches waggin.

Aw toil ma byens, till through ma clay
They peep, to please ma dowly cavel;
Aw's at the coal wall a' the day,
And nightly i' the waiter level—

Aw hammer on till efternuin,
Wi' weary byens and empty wyem;
Nay, varra oft the pit's just duin
Before aw weel get wannel'd hyem.

But this is a' of little use,
For what aw dee is never reet;
She's like a larm-bell i' the house,
Ding-donging at me day and neet.

If aw sud get ma wark owre suin,
She's flaid to deeth aw've left some byet;
And if aw's till the efternuin,
Aw's drunk because aw is se lyet.

Feed us and cleed us weel she may,
As she gets a'ways money plenty:
For every day, for mony a pay,
Aw've hew'd and putten twee-and-twenty.

'Tis true aw sometimes get a gill—
But then she a'ways gets her grog;
And if aw din't her bottle fill,
Aw's then a skin-flint, snock-drawn dog.

She buys me, te, the warst o' meat,
Bad bullock's liver—houghs and knees
Tough stinking tripe, and awd cow's feet—
Shanks full o' mawks, and half nought cheese.

Of sic she feeds the bairns and me,
The tyesty bits she tyeks hersel';
In whilk ne share nor lot have we,
Excepting sometimes i' the smell.

The crowdy is wor daily dish,
But varra different is their minny's;
For she gets a' her heart can wish
In strang lyac'd tea and singin' hinnies.

Ma canny bairns luik pale and wan,
Their bits and brats are varra scant;
Their mother's feasts rob them o' scran—
For wilfu' waste makes woefu' want.

She peels the taties wi' her teeth,
And spreads the butter wi' her thoom;
She blaws the kail wi' stinking breeth,
Where mawks and caterpillars soom!

She's just a gannin' heap o' muck,
Where durts of a' description muster;
For dishclout serves her apron nuik
As weel as snotter clout and duster!

She lays out punds in manadge things,
Like mony a thriftless, thoughtless bein';
Yet bairns and me, as if we'd wings,
Are a' in rags an' tatters fleein'.

Just mark wor dress—a lapless coat,
With byeth the elbows sticking through—
A hat that never cost a groat—
A neckless shirt—a clog and shoe.

She chalks up scores at a' the shops
Wherever we've a twelvemonth staid;
And when we flit, the landlord stops
Ma sticks till a' the rent be paid.

Aw's ca'd a hen-pick'd, pluckless calf,
For letting her the breeches wear;
And tell'd aw dinna thresh her half—
Wi' mony a bitter jibe and jeer.

'Aw think,' says Dick, 'aw wad her towen,
And verra suin her courage cuil:
Aw'd dook her in wor engine powen,
Then clap her on Repentance stuil.

If that should not her tantrums check,
Aw'd peel her to the varra sark:
Then 'noint her wi' a twig o' yeck,
And efter make her eat the bark.'

Enough like this aw've heard thro' life;
For every body has a plan
To guide a rackle ram-stam wife,
Except the poor tormented man."

Will could not now his feelings stay—
The tear roll'd down his care-worn cheek:
He thrimmell'd out what he'd to pay,
And sobbing said, "my heart will break!"

Here Nanny, modest, mild, and shy,
Took Neddy gently by the sleeve;
"Aw just luik'd in as aw went by—
Is it not, thinks te, time to leave?"

"Now, Nan, what myeks th' fash me here,
Gan hyem and get the bairns to bed;
Thou knaws thou promis'd me ma beer
The verra neet before we wed."

"Hout, hinny, had th' blabbin jaw,
Thou's full o' nought but fun and lees;
At sic a kittle time, ye knaw,
Yen tells ye ony thing to please.

Besides, thou's had enough o' drink,
And mair wad ony myek th' bad;
Aw see thy een begin to blink—
Gan wi' me, like a canny lad."

"O, Nan! thou hez a witching way
O' myekin' me de what thou will;
Thou needs but speak, and aw obey,
Yet there's ne doubt aw's maister still.

But tyest the yell and stop a bit—
Here tyek a seat upon ma knee—
For 'mang the hewers in wor pit
There's nyen hez sic a wife as me.

For if ma top comes badly down,
Or ought else keeps me lang away,
She cheers me wi' the weel-knawn soun'—
'Thou's had a lang and weary day.'

If aw be naggy, Nanny's smile
Suin myeks me blithe as ony lark;
And fit to loup a yett or stile—
Ma varra byens forget to wark.

Ma Nan—ma bairns—ma happy hyem—
Set ower hard labour's bitter pill—
O Providence! but spare me them—
The warld may then wag as it will.

She waits upon me hand and foot—
Aw want for nought that she can gie me—
She fills ma pipe wi patten cut—
Leets it, and hands it kindly to me.

She tells me a' her bits o' news,
Pick'd up the time aw've been away;
And fra ma mouth the cuttie pous
When sleep o'ercomes ma weary clay.

Sae weel she ettles what aw get—
Sae far she a'ways gars it gan—
That nyen can say we are i' debt,
Or want for owther claes or scran.

Then drink about, whe minds a jot—
Let's drown wor cares i' barleycorn—
Here, lass, come bring another pot,
The cawler dissent call to morn."

"Nay, hinny Ned, ne langer stay—
We mun be hyem to little Neddy—
He's just a twel'munth awd to-day,
And will be crying for his deddy.

Aw'll tyek thee hyem a pot o' beer,
A nice clean pipe and backy te—
Thou knaws aw like to hae thee near—
Come, hinny, come, gan hyem wi' me."

Like music's soft and soothing powers
These honey'd sounds drop on his ear:
Or like the warm and fertile showers
That leave the face of nature dear.

Here was the power of woman shown,
When women use it properly—
He threw his pipe and reck'ning down—
"Aw will—aw will gan hyem wi' thee."

At home arriv'd, right cheerfully
She set him in his easy chair—
Clapt little Neddy on his knee,
And bid him see his image there.

The mother pleas'd—the father glad,
Swore Neddy had twee bonny een—
"There ne'er was, Ned, a finer lad;
And, then, he's like thee as a bean.

Aw've luck'd for Wilson a' this day,
To cut th' pig down 'fore it's dark;
But he'll be guzzling at the pay,
And winden on about his wark.

What lengths aw've often heard him gan,
Sweering—and he's not fond of fibbin
'He'll turn his back on ne'er a man
For owther killin pigs or libbin.'

Still Jack's an honest, canty cock,
As ever drain'd the juice of barley;
Aw've knawn him sit myest roun' the clock
Swatt'ling and clatt'ring on wi' Charley.

Now, Deddy, let me ease yor arm;
Gi'e me the bairn, lay down yor pipe,
And get the supper when it's warm—
It's just a bit o' gissy's tripe.

Then come to me, ma little lammy—
Come, thou apple o' ma e'e—
Come, ma Neddy, t' the mammy—
Come, ma darlin'—come to me!"

Here, see a woman truly blest
Beyond the reach of pomp and pride;
Her infant happy at her breast—
Her husband happy by her side.

Then take a lesson, pamper'd wealth,
And learn how little it requires
To make us happy when we've health—
Content—and moderate desires.

"Tha father, Ned, is far frae weel,
He lucks, poor body, varra bad;
A' ower he hez a cawdrife feel,
But thinks it but a waff o' cawd.

Aw've just been ower wi' something warm,
To try to ease the weary coff,
Which baffles byeth the drugs and charm!
And threatens oft to tyek him off.

He says, 'O Nan, ma life thou's spar'd—
The good it's duin me's past beleevin'—
The Lord will richly thee rewaird—
The care o' me will win thee heeven.'

Now as his bottle's nearly tuim,
Mind think me on, when at the town,
To get the drop black beer and rum,
As little else will now gan down.

We mebby may be awd worsel's,
When poverty's cawd blast is blawin';
And want a frien' when nature fyels,
And life her last few threeds is drawin'.

Besides, the bits o' good we dee
The verra happiest moments gie us;
And mun, aw think, still help a wee,
At last, frae awfu' skaith to free us.

Let cant and rant then rave at will
Agyen a' warks—aw here declare it—
We'll still the hungry belly fill,
Se lang as ever we can spare it."

Here, then, we'll leave this happy pair
Their "home affairs" to con and settle;
Their "ways and means" with frugal care,
For marketing next day to ettle.

---

THE NEWCASTLE BLUNDERBUSS!

Or, TRAVELLING EXTRAORDINARY.

BY R. EMERY.

Tune—"Calder Fair."

Ne mair o' grand inventions brag,
'Bout Steamers and Chain Brigs, man—
Newcassel's sel' still bears the bell,
An' bothers a' their wigs, man:
'Bout Gleediscowpies, silly things,
Ne langer make a fuss, man—
E'en silk Balloons mun bend their croons
To Reidie's Blunderbuss,[50] man.
Fal, de ral, &c.

As Geordy Fash and Dolly Raw
Cam stagg'rin up the Kee, man,
Wi' Teasdale's beer, an' sic like cheer,
They'd rather myed ow'r free, man—
Into this Blunderbuss they gat,
'Side two outlandish chiels, man,
But ere they'd time to leet their pipes,
They fand theirsels i' Shields, man!
Fal, de ral, &c.

Each day on wor Sandhill it stands—
If in tid ye should pop, man,
An' close yor winkers half an hour,
Clean ow'r the sea ye'll hop, man!
The Kee-side Jarvies now may run,
An' barbers' clerks se gay, man—
'Twad be a spree if, fra' wor Kee,
They'd cut to Bot'ny Bay, man!
Fal, de ral, &c.

This grand machine wor Tyne will clean,
An' make it's sand-banks flee, man,
Like Corby Craws ow'r Marsden Rock,
Into the German Sea, man!—
Wor canny Mayor ne pains will spare,
He'll back it out an' out, man,
Till ev'ry nuisance in wor toon
For Shields shall take the route, man.
Fal, de ral, &c.

[50] Omnibusses commenced running between Newcastle and Shields every hour, (from eight o'clock in the morning till eight at night,) Nov. 12, 1832.

---

A PITMAN'S VISIT TO NEWCASTLE ON VALENTINE'S DAY.

Tune—"Newcastle Fair."

Od smash! marra, where hast thou been,
Aw been luiken for ye a yel hour;
For to tell of a seet aw hae seen,
Sic a seet as aw ne'er saw before:
Aw straight to Newcassel did gan,
And gat in just as it struck ten;
Then through the streets aw quickly ran,
For to get heame suin agyen.
Rum ti idity, &c.

Just as aw was runnin amain!
Aw comes alangside of a shop,
Wi' papers clagg'd on every pane—
To see them aw thought aw wad stop.
But oh! sic reed flames an' sic darts!
And sae mony lovers together;
And sic bonny arrows and hearts—
Od zounds! they were painted quite clever.
Rum ti idity, &c.

Says aw, to a buck in the street,
(You may guess he was drest very fine,)
"What's that thing that's painted complete?"
Says he, "It is a Valentine."
Says aw, "Do ye knaw what they're for,
That they are painted sae smart?"
Then he humm'd and he haw'd like a boar,
And said, "To send to your sweetheart."
Rum ti idity, &c.

Then thinks aw to masell, aw'll hae yen,
To send to my awn dearest hinny:
Aw bowls into the shop like a styen,
When out pops a man very skinny:
Says he, "Sir, pray what do you want?"
Says aw, "Yen o' them things that's bonny;"
When in comes a chep that did cant,
And said, "Aw want one, my dear honey."
Rum ti idity, &c.

That the fellow was Irish I knew,
As suin as to speak he began,
He luik'd at Valentines not a few,
But could not find one to suit Nan:
Says he, "Mind, aw will hev the prattiest."
Says aw, "Ye must knaw that you shan't."
Did he think aw'd be content wi' the dirtiest?
Ma sang! aw did both swear and rant.
Rum ti idity, &c.

When he brought me a clout o' the lug,
He did it sae frisky and gaily,
Says he, "You must know, Mr. Mug,
That I'm a stout bit of shillelah."
Aw brought him another as tough,
It made a' his cheeks for to rattle;
Says he, "I have got quite enough:"
Sae thus we gave ower the brattle.
Rum ti idity, &c.

We went to a yell-house just nigh,
For to get a wee sup o' strang yell;
And then we came back, by and by,
And to luikin at Valentines fell.
And then got as great as could be,
And bought Valentines for to fit, man:
But aw say, without telling a lee,
He met wiv his match in a Pitman.
Rum ti idity, &c.

---

THE SKIPPER IN THE MIST.

Tune—"Derry down."

Some time since there cam on a very thick fog,
In Lunnin some folks were near lost in a bog;—
A bog, you will say, that's an Irish name—
They got knee deep in mud, and that's just all the same.
Derry down, &c.

Now, during the fog, sir, a Newcassel keel
Was sailing down Tyne to a ship lying at Shields,
The fog cam se thick, skipper off wig and roar'd—
"Aw mun lay by my swape—Geordy, lay by yor oar!
Derry down, &c.

Now, hinnies, my marrows! come tell's what to dee,
Aw's frighten'd wor keel will soon drive out to sea!"
So the men an' their skipper, each sat on his buttock,
An' a council they held, wi' their legs down the huddock.
Derry down, &c.

Says Geordy, "We canna be very far down,
With the wash o' my oar, aw hev just touch'd the grund;
Cheer up, my awd skipper, put on yor awd wig,
We're between the King's Meadows an' Newcassel Brig!"
Derry down, &c.

The skipper, enrag'd, then declar'd he kend better,
For at the same time he had smelt the salt water;
"And there's Marsden Rock, just within a styen thraw,
Aw can see't through the mist, aw'll swear by my reet paw.
Derry down, &c.

The anchor let's drop till the weather it clears,
For fear we be nabb'd by the French privateers!"
The anchor was dropt: when the weather clear'd up,
They soon moor'd their keel at the awd Javil Group.
Derry down, &c.

The skipper was vex'd, and he curs'd and he swore,
That his nose had ne'er led him se far wrang before!
But what most of all did surprise these four people
Was, Marsden Rock chang'd into Gateshead Church Steeple!
Derry down, &c.

---

THE MIRACULOUS WELL;

Or, NEWCASTLE SPAW WATER.[51]

BY R. EMERY.

Tune—"Rory O'More."

A fig for quack doctors, their pills and their stuff,
Our neighbours of them have been tir'd long enough;
E'en Dinsdale and Croft their pretensions withdraw,
And Harrowgate bends to our Newcassel Spaw:
The halt and the blind, and the grave and the gay,
To drink of the water, in crowds haste away;
And gouty old bachelors thither repair,
With Jews, Turks, and tailors, its virtues to share.

Hurrah for Newcassel!—Newcassel for me!
Where ale is so prime, and the lasses so free:
Your lumps, bumps, and rheumatics vanish like snaw,
By one mighty draught of this wonderful Spaw!

One day Cuddy Willy sat down by the spring,
And fiddled and sang till he made the Dean ring;
Then said to the crowd—My lads, as to the Spaw,
Good whisky improves it, aw verra weel knaw!—
But, if you'll be seated, you'll soon hear me sing
The magical cures that's performed by this spring:—
He cut an odd caper, and thus he began—
First drinking a quart from a rusty tin-can.
Hurrah for Newcassel! &c.

Awd Humpy-back'd Dick, and two or three mair,
Fra Shiney Raw pit to the Well did repair;
He drank of the Spaw, when the hump, in a crack,
Dissolv'd and soon vanish'd frae poor Dicky's back!
Lord bliss us! cried timber-toed tee-total Peg,
If it banishes humps, it might bring forth a leg!
She got to the Well, with the Spaw she made free,
And very soon after poor Peggy had three!!!
Hurrah for Newcassel! &c.

Pure sanctified Betty scarce knew what to think—
Hard might be her fate if she ventur'd to drink—
For most of the lasses that live in Lang Raw,
Have getten the dropsy by tasting the Spaw!
The doctors declare, that at forty weeks' end,
'Twill be in their arms, and the dropsy will mend;
The howdies are wishing the time was well o'er,
For surely such water was ne'er known before.
Hurrah for Newcassel! &c.

A bumper, cried Cuddy, and toasted the Queen,—
Which soon was responded by all on the green,—
May she have a son soon as big's Johnny Fa'—
(There's virtue in wishing while drinking the Spaw).
So now, my good lasses, gan hyem to your wark—
There's danger in wand'ring the Dean in the dark
'Mang trees and awd quarries—I'd have ye beware,
Remember poor Peggy was caught in the snare.
Hurrah for Newcassel! &c.

[51] Some years ago, a spring of water was observed to ooze from the bank at the foot of Sandyford Dean, to which some people attributed medicinal qualities; but it was not generally noticed till the spring of 1841, when its fame spread abroad, and drew the attention of multitudes of people to the spot, many of whom being afflicted with complaints of long standing, after drinking freely of this water, declared themselves cured; and some of the faculty proving its qualities by analyzation, gave it a more favourable report, which caused still greater numbers of invalids, &c. to visit the spring—some with casks and cans, others with jugs and bottles, anxiously waiting for a turn. Whether the benefits said to have been received from this water were real or imaginary, time, the test of all things, will assuredly prove.

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THE SKIPPER'S FRIGHT.

Tune—"Skipper Carr and Marky Dunn."

As aw was gannen out yen neet,—
It happen'd in the dark, man,—
A chep cam up ga' me a freet,
'Twas little Skipper Clark, man:
His fyece was white as ony clout,
Says aw, what hae ye been about?
He gyep'd at me, and gav a shout,
O Dick, I've seen the Deil, man!

Awd Nick had twee great goggle eyes,
And horns upon his heed, man,
He had a gob,—aye, sic a size,
It flay'd me near to deed, man!
His eyes were like twee burning coals,
His mouth like one o' wor pit-holes,
His horns were like twee crooked poles,—
Aw'm sure it was the Deil, man!

Aw'd often heard wor preacher tell
That Awd Nick had twee club-feet,—
Thinks aw, aw'll ken the neet mysel',
Whether wor preacher's wrang or reet:
With that aw gav a luik about—
The club-feet was there without a doubt;
And just wi' that he gav a shout—
And aw'm sure it was the Deil, man.

Od smash! says aw, aw've often heard
About this mighty Deil, man,—
Shew me the place where he appear'd,
For aw'd like to see him weel, man?
Then Dick he tuik me to the place,
Where he had seen his awful fyece—
And still he swore it was the case,
That he had seen the Deil, man.

Alang wi' Dick aw hitch'd about
To see this mighty Deil, man,
When just with that Dick gav a shout—
Luik there! thou'll see him weel, man;
But when of him aw'd got a view,
Aw laugh'd till aw was black and blue,
For it was nought but a great black cow
That Dick tuik for the Deil, man.

J. N.

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SANDGATE PANT;

Or, JANE JEMIESON'S GHOST.

BY R. EMERY.

Tune—"I'd be a Butterfly."

The bell of St. Ann's toll'd two in the morning,
As brave Skipper Johnson was gawn to the keel—
From the juice of the barley his poor brain was burning—
In search of relief he through Sandgate did reel;
The city was hush, save the keel-bullies' snoring—
The moon faintly gleam'd through the sable-clad sky—
When lo! a poor female her hard fate deploring,
Appear'd near the pant, and thus loudly did cry:—
Ripe Chenee oranges, four for a penny!
Cherry ripe cornberries—taste them and try!

O listen, ye hero of Sandgate and Stella,
Jin Jemieson kens that yor courage is trig,
Go tell Billy Elli to meet me, brave fellow—
Aw'll wait yor return on Newcassel Tyne Brig!—
Oh, marcy! cried Johnson, yor looks gar me shiver!
Maw canny lass, Jin, let me fetch him next tide;
The spectre then frown'd—and he vanish'd for ever,
While Sandgate did ring as she vengefully cried—
Fine Chenee oranges, four for a penny!
Cherry ripe cornberries—taste them and try!

She waits for her lover, each night at this station,
And calls her ripe fruit with a voice loud and clear;
The keel-bullies listen in great consternation—
Tho' snug in their huddocks, they tremble with fear!
She sports round the pant till the cock, in the morning,
Announces the day—then away she does fly
Till midnight's dread hour—thus each maiden's peace scorning,
They start from their couch as they hear her loud cry—
Fine Chenee oranges, four for a penny!
Cherry ripe cornberries—taste them and try!

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THE BIRTH-DAY OF QUEEN VICTORIA:

A new Song, intended to be sung on board the Stewards' Barge on Ascension Day, May 24th, 1838.

THOMAS EMERSON HEADLAM, ESQ., MAYOR. JOHN CARR, ESQ., SHERIFF.

Hurrah for Old England, her Queen, and her laws!
Hurrah for all hearts that are true in the cause!
Hurrah for Newcastle! Hurrah for the Mayor!
Hurrah for the Tyne—its banks bustling and fair!
Hurrah for the Freemen, that rouse at each call!
Hurrah for the Stewards, the spirits of all!
Hurrah for the many bright days we have seen!
Hurrah for a bumper—good health to the Queen!

Our Port to keep famous, may Commerce prevail,
And many ships sail with a prosperous gale;
And while the wide stream from sweet Hedwin is roll'd,
May true Conservators each landmark uphold.
The Herbage Committee, with hearts light and gay,
Have leisure from toil to be merry to-day—
Each countenance beaming, in mind all serene,
To drink in a bumper—good health to the Queen.

While foes vainly threaten, and faction may rave,
Our Union Flag still in triumph shall wave;
And whether as few or as many we be,
Like true honest Freemen we still will be free.
The fam'd Corporation of our good old town,
Unsullied, still onward shall bear its renown;
In loyalty ever the foremost we've been,
To drink in a bumper—good health to the Queen.

Hurrah for Old England, her Queen, and her laws!
Hurrah for all hearts that are true in the cause!
Hurrah for Newcastle! Hurrah for the Mayor!
Hurrah for the Tyne—its banks bustling and fair!
Hurrah for the Freemen, that rouse at each call!
Hurrah for the Stewards, the Spirit of all!
Hurrah for the many bright days we have seen!
Hurrah for a bumper—long life to the Queen!
God save the Queen!

R. Gilchrist.

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DONOCHT-HEAD.[52]

BY THE LATE GEORGE PICKERING, OF NEWCASTLE.

Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-head,
The snaw drives snelly through the dale,
The Gaber-lunzie tirls my sneck,
And shivering tells his waefu' tale:—

"Cauld is the night, O let me in,
And dinna let your minstrel fa'!
And dinna let his winding-sheet
Be naething but a wreath o' snaw.

Full ninety winters hae I seen,
And pip'd where gor-cocks whirring flew,
And mony a day I've danc'd, I ween,
To lilts which from my drone I blew."

My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cried,
"Get up, gudeman, and let him in;
For weel ye ken the winter night
Was short when he began his din."

My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet,
Ev'n though she bans and scaulds a wee;
But when it's tuned to sorrow's tale,
O, haith it's doubly dear to me.

Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire,
I'll make it bleeze a bonny flame;
Your blood is thin, ye've tint the gait,
Ye should na stray sae far frae hame.

"Nae hame have I, the minstrel said,
Sad party strife o'erturn'd my ha';
And, weeping at the eve of life,
I wander through a wreath o' snaw."

[52] This song comes highly recommended to public notice by the warm commendation of the poet Burns, who, in a letter to his friend, Mr. Thompson, writes—"DONOCHT-HEAD is not mine—I would give ten pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald, and came to the editor of that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it." And Dr. Currie says, respecting this song, that "the author need not have been ashamed to own himself, as it is worthy of the pen of Burns or Macnell."

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THE HERBAGE COMMITTEE[53],

(That is, The Jewel of a Committee).

BY R. GILCHRIST.

Not composed over the midnight oil, but amid the noon-day broil of the Barge-day, May 8, 1834.

ADDRESSED TO THE CHAIRMAN.

While others of great deeds may dream,
Yet still commend to me, sir,
A subject rare, and prouder theme,
The Herbage Committee, sir:
This Committee a jewel was,
From truth that never swerv'd sir,
And gain'd much glory and applause,
And well they both deserv'd, sir.

The time has been when bread and cheese
Was wont to be their fare, sir,
What think ye now of turkeys, geese,
A partridge, or a hare, sir!
Well I remind their many joys,
And many happy days, sir,
For O they were the bonny boys
For getting up surveys, sir.

I have seen gallant Mister Woods,
And Mr Grainger, too, sir,
Approach us—though dress'd in our duds—
With an obsequeous bow, sir;
For Martin, Miekle, and Maggall,
Calbreath, friend Charles, and me, sir,
Wanless and Angus, Garrett—all
Were in the Committee, sir!

Who then wad wish to be a Mayor,
Recorder, or Town Clerk, sir?
To serve in office, send me there,
To hear each sage remark, sir;
And O, indeed, I fear it much,
Their like there never will be, sir—
No, never, never more be such
An Herbage Committee, sir.

[53] The Committee were—William Martin, William Miekle, William Maggall, James Calbreath, Charles Stephenson, the Author, William Wanless, William Angus, and William Garrett. Their activity and unanimity were proverbial.

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THE BEAR CLUB.

Good dinners to our noble Queen,
And many may she see, sir,
And much I wish she could have seen
The Bear-club Committee, sir:
Her cooks, no doubt, with skill refin'd,
Have cater'd long with care, sir,
But much, I doubt, they ever din'd
Her Majesty of Bears, sir.

'Tis said the Kings of India
Can eat some pretty things, sir;
You need not go so far away
To see the Indian Kings, sir:
The landlord there can at his call
Serve up some pleasant fare, sir—
Mac now has clean eclipsed them all,
And made us eat a Bear, sir.

Some talk about the Esquimaux,
And tell of Cherokees, sir,
Hottentots and Marathas,
And folks in the South Seas, sir;
'Tis said they sometimes cut a swell
In dishes odd and rare, sir,
But we from them will bear the bell,
For we have eat a Bear, sir.

All times have had their men of taste,
Each passing age adorning,
Who, rather than good stuff should waste,
Would eat from night till morning:
To us they must knock under now—
We've given them a scare, sir;
They all could eat a sheep or so,
But we can eat a Bear, sir.

Now as you chance to walk the street,
How every dog will run, sir,
Lest you should roast him for a treat,
And eat him up in fun, sir;
The Quayside horses, loaded well,
Will scamper off like hares, sir,
To see, not Bears all eating men,
But men all eating Bears, sir.

The next time, sir, you eat a Bear,
Grant this my supplication—
Invite to dine our canny Mayor,
And hungry Corporation;
In seeking for a friend like you,
They're looking lean and spare, sir,
So in compassion send them now
The fragments of the Bear, sir.

R. Gilchrist.

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THE LASS OF WINCOMBLEE.

Tune—"Nae Luck about the House."

Now all ye lilies hang your heeds,
Ye roses bloom nae mair,
Ye tulips all, put on your weeds,
All, posies may despair.
For not a lass on all Tyneside,
Frae Stella to the sea,
Can marrow Moll the evergreen
Of bonny Wincomblee.
For not a lass, &c.

Her een shine like a davy-lamp,
Or like a summer's day—
Her voice sae like the after-damp,
Near teuk my breath away
Her cherry cheeks like sugar sweet,
Or honey frae the bee;
But sweeter far than byeth o' these
Is Moll of Wincomblee.

Her feet are like twe bits ov cork,
When running iv a reel—
Tiv "Shiver the Rags" and "Off she goes,"
She can cut an' shuffle weel;
Like a lady fine, on Sunday neets
She'll tyek a walk wi' me,
Call at Scrogg House, round Byker fields,
And back by Walker Kee.

When Jinny Pit it has full wark,
We settled for te wed—
The fiddle sal play frae break o' day,
Till we get snug in bed;
Wi' backy and yell ye's hae your fill,
Singin hinnies to your tea—
Wiv a dance we'll finish the merriest neet
Ere was seen at Wincomblee.

Tho' time rolls on, and so it may,
As Tyne rolls to the sea,
Fresh as an evergreen is Moll
Of bonny Wincomblee.

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ON THE DEATH OF BOLD ARCHY.

Bold Archy's dead! and long for him will poor Newcastle fret,
Her sun of glory has gone down, her brightest star is set:
From the Blue Stone to Cawsey Bridge, from Tynemouth Bar and round by Stella,
Not one remains to fill the seat left vacant by this honest fellow.

The funeral flag hung drooping low as he was carried by,
And many gaz'd, and many a tear was wip'd from many an eye;
And all did then the truth record;—warm was the heart now still and caller—
So lay him softly in the sod, fam'd man of might, and prince of valour!

Farewell! farewell! my local harp I'll bury with the brave,
And sadly plant my local wreath to flourish on his grave!
Both English and outlandish names must one day pass oblivion's portal,
But Archy's shall survive them all, and well deserves to be immortal.

R. Gilchrist.

May 9, 1828.

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BLIND WILLIE'S EPITAPH.

Newcastle's now a dowly place—all things seem sore aclite,
For here at last Blind Willie lies, an honest, harmless wight;
Nor wealth nor power now look with scorn on this lone spot of one departed,
For fashion's gay and glaring sun ne'er beam'd on one more happy hearted.

He was the poorest of the poor, yet ne'er complain'd of want,
He neither carried purse nor scrip, and yet was never scant;
Storms thunder'd o'er his hatless head, yet he ne'er once their rage lamented,
His was the lot too few have known—to live content, and die contented.

The Bard who sung of Starkey's death, in tearful strains and true,
And planted on Bold Archy's grave the wreath ta'en from his brow;
His local reed in dust he lays—farewell!—there trill'd its final shiver,—
It has been tun'd in Willie's praise, it now with him lies mute for ever.

R. Gilchrist.

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ACROSTIC

On the Death of a celebrated eccentric Character of Newcastle upon Tyne.

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B lithe Minstrel of the banks of Tyne,
L o! o'er thy bier, for "auld langsyne,"
I n silent groups, each rolling year,
N orthumbria's sons will drop a tear!
D eath cut thee down—the tyrant scream'd,
W hen thy bright spirit o'er him beam'd!
I n vengeful mood he view'd his claim,
L ost in the triumph of thy name.—
L et Tyne's fam'd sons proclaim afar—
Y ou shall outlive the Morning Star!

R. E.

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William Purvis, more generally known by the name of Blind Willy, died on Friday, the 20th July, 1832, aged 80 years.

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