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."