Tynesiders, give ear, and you quickly shall hear
A strange and a wonderful story,
Of a dreadful uproar upon fam'd Gotham's shore,
Where we've brush'd all to heighten our glory.
On the Quayside, so spruce, stands a great Custom House,
Of Newcastle the pride and birth-right;
Now the sons of Gotham had sworn o'er a dram,
That to Gotham it soon should take flight.
A townsman they sent, on great deeds fully bent,
A son of the knife and the steel, sirs;
And one learn'd in the laws, to argue their cause,
The covenants to sign and to seal, sirs.
To London they came, through the high road to fame,
Their hearts were both merry and staunch:
Of success confident, to the Treasury they went,
And demanded they might have a Branch!
False report (only guess) brought to Gotham success,
Rejoicing, they blaz'd, without doubt;
'Great Rome,' they now say, 'was not built in one day;
'We've the Branch, and we'll soon have the Root!'
While their thoughts were thus big, over Newcastle brig
The Mail came one day, in a hurry:
'What's the news?' say the folk; quick a Briton up spoke,
'No Branch!—so Newcastle be merry.'
'No Branch!' was the cry, re-echoed the sky,
And sent down to Gotham a volley;
Where the prospect is bad, 'for 'tis fear'd they'll run mad,
Or relapse into sad melancholy.
So Gotham beware, and no more lay a snare,
Nor think that Newcastle you'll bend;
Call your advocates home, your cause to bemoan,
And let each his own calling attend.