New rail-roads now spring up like mushrooms,
Aw never, maw soul! saw the like,
We'll turn every thing topsy-turvy,
And leave ourselves not a turnpike;
Then horses will live without working,
And never more trot in a team,
And instead of carrying their maisters,
They'll get themsels carried by steam.
These are the days, &c.
Wor ballast-hills now are grown handsome,
And what they call quite pictoresk,
Ne poet can de them half justice
If he writes all his life at his desk;
They're hilly, and howley, and lofty,
Presenting fresh views every turn,
And they'd luik like Vesuvius or Etna,
If we could only get them to burn.
These are the days, &c.
And as for aud canny Newcastle,
It's now quite a wonderful place,
Its New Market, nothing can match it
In elegance, beauty, and grace;
Could our forefathers only just see it,
My eye! they would start wi' surprise,
I fancy I just hear them saying—
"What's come of the buggy pigsties?"
These are the days, &c.
And this is a' duin by one Grainger—
A perfect Goliah in bricks,
He beats Billy Purvis quite hollow
In what ye ca' slight of hand tricks;
He's only to say, "Cock-o-lorum,
Fly Jack, presto, quick and be gane,"
And new houses spring up in an instant—
Of the audins you can't see a stane.
These are the days, &c.
In sculler-boats, not very lang syne,
The Shields folk cross'd ower the Tyne,
But now we have got a big steamer,
And cuts quite a wonderful shine;
And one that we've got down at Scotland,
Delights a' the folks with a ride,
For it gans back and forward sae rapid,
That it just makes a trip in a tide.
These are the days, &c.
I think I've now told you, my hinnies,
The whole of the changes I've seen,
At least a' the whirligig fashions
That I have been able to glean;
So the next time we meet a' together,
Some other improvements I'll get,
And then we shall make worsels happy,
And try a' wor cares to forget.
These are the days, &c.
On the Attempt to remove the Custom House from Newcastle to Shields, in 1816.
THE CUSTOM HOUSE BRANCH.