Most folk like the better half, but thou wad swalley all,
Poor-house or Jail may tyek the rest, gie thou but Elswick Hall.
Wor cooncil's cliver, there's ne doot, but they'll find out, tho' rather late on,
How cool the devil walks about, in the smooth shape of J——y C——n.
Thou's getten aw the butcher-meat, the taties, tripe, and greens,
And, not content with this, thou wants to tyek wor corn, it seems;
For Mosley-street and Mercy's sake, sic wicked thowts at once abandon,
Or else wor canny awd law toon, it winna hev a leg to stand on.
The wheel o' fortune will stand still, the bees forsyek the hive,
There'll be ne wark for Sinton's Mill, the White Horse winna drive,
Poor Mrs. F——h and Temperance H——l ne mair need recommend their diet,
The farmers will forget to call, H-ll's Kitchen's very sel' turn quiet.
The Chronicle may doze in peace,—Lord Grainger says, "Sleep on—"
The bugs may tyek another lease, their race is not yet run;
Awd Nichol still may fairly say, frae Hepple's up to Humble's house end,
He feeds a lively host each day, aw'll say, at least, a hundred thousand.
The White Swan seun 'ill be agrund, the Black Boy turn quite pale,
The Black Bull wi' the blow be stunn'd, the Lion hang his tail,
Tom H——n's Cock 'ill craw ne mair, the awd Blue Bell be dumb for ever,—
And', just to myek the Kee-side stare, thou'd better send doon for the river.
Whack, row de dow, &c.
THE SKIPPER'S ACCOUNT OF THE MECHANICS' PROCESSION.
By R. Emery, of the Nelson Lodge, Newcastle.
Tune—"Newcastle Fair."