Tune—"The Quayside Shaver."
Ye folks of Newcassel, so gen'rous, advance,
And listen awhile to my humourous strain;
'Tis not the fag end of a fairy romance,
Nor yet the effect of a crack in the brain:
'Tis a Custom-house Tree, that was planted with care,
And with Newcassel Int'rest well dung'd was the root;
And that all Water Fowls might partake of a share,
They were kindly permitted to taste of the Fruit.
The Sea Gulls of Shields sought a Branch, so applied
To a stately old Drake, of the fresh water breed:
He flutter'd his wings, then he bade them provide
A Memorial, to send off to London with speed.
His pow'rful opinion was soon put in force,
And messengers chose, who, without more delay,
Took flight; while blind Ignorance guided their course,
And they roosted, I'm told, about Ratcliffe Highway.
Meanwhile, with impatience, a Gull took his glass,
And with anxious concern took a squint to the south;
If I don't now behold (may you prove me an ass)
A Gull flying back with a Branch in his mouth.
The news quickly spread; they, in wild consternation,
Burnt tar-barrels, bells ringing, dancing for joy;
A person was sent for to plan the foundation,
While others drank Mrs. Carr's wine-cellar dry.
There was one, half seas over, sang 'Little Tom Horner,'
While some in the streets, on their bellies lay flat;
Another, 'pon turning the Library Corner,
Ran foul of a quaker, and knock'd off his hat.
A full brandy bottle came smack through a window,
And hit on the temple a canty old wife;
"Don't murmur," say they, "were you burnt to a cinder,
"We're able to grant you a pension for life."
Their Gull-eye at London, o'er pudding and roast,
Would bet heavy odds he should fortunate be;
And then after dinner propos'd, as a toast,
"That grass might soon grow upon Newcassel Kee."
But the Treas'ry decision laid vap'ring aside;
"No Branch!" was the cry, so away the Gulls slunk:
Should a Twig be lopp'd off, it can ne'er be deny'd,
But the roots would soon dry, and thus wither its trunk.
So now I've a scheme, if your fancy I hit,
'Twill suit crazy folks, after dancing mad reels;
Instead of a Custom-house Branch, 'twould be fit
That a Branch from the Mad-house be rear'd in North Shields.
We'll laugh at the joke, while experience may learn
The Gulls, for the future, in peace to remain.
By what you have heard, you may also discern,
That premature joy's the forerunner of pain.
THE CUSTOM HOUSE BRANCH.
Tune—"Yo heave O."