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.
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?