Becrike! aw's up tiv every rig,
Sae dinna doot, maw hinny!
But at the blue styen o' the Brig
Aw'll hae maw mairchin ginny.
A guinea! wuks! sae strange a seet
Maw een wi' joy wad dazzle;
But aw'll hed spent that varry neet
For money, hinny! ower neet to keep,
Wad brick maw sleep:
Sae, smash! aw think't a wiser way,
Wi' flesh an' beer
Mesel to cheer,
The lang three weeks that aw've to stay
A sowgering at Newcassel.
But whisht! the Sairjeant's tongue aw hear,
'Fa' in! fa' in!' he's yelpin:
The fifes are whusslin loud and clear,
And sair the drums they're skelpin.
Fareweel, maw comely! aw mun gang
The Gen'ral's een to dazzle!
But, hinny! if the time seems lang,
An' thou freets about me neet and day;
Then come away,
Seek out the yell-house where aw stay,
An' we'll kiss and cuddle;
An' mony a fuddle
Sall drive the langsome hours away,
When sowgering at Newcassel.
THE MAYOR OF BOURDEAUX;
Or, Mally's Mistake.
As Jackey sat lowsin his buttons,
And rowlin his great backey chow,
The bells o' the toon 'gan to tinkle;
Cries Mally, What's happen'd us now?
Ho! jump and fling off thy au'd neet-cap,
And slip on thy lang-quarter'd shoes,
Ere thou gets hauf way up the Key,
Ye'll meet sum that can tell ye the news.
Fol de rol, &c.
As Mally was puffin an' runnin,
A gentleman's flonkey she met;
'Canny man, ye mun tell us the news,
Or ye'll set wor au'd man i' the pet.'
The Mayor of Bourdeaux, a French noble,
Has com'd to Newcassel with speed:
To neet he sleeps sound at wor Mayor's,
And to morn he'll be at the Queen's Heed.
Fol de rol, &c.
Now Mally thank'd him wiv a curtsey,
And back tiv her Jackey did prance:
'Mary Mordox, a fine Fitter's Leydy's
Com'd ower in a coble frae France.'
'Mary Mordox, a fine Fitter's Leydy!
Ise warrant she's some frolicksome jade,
And com'd to Newcassel for fashions,
Or else to suspect the Coal Trade.'
Fol de rol, &c.
So to Peter's thou's gan i' the mornin,
Gan suin an' thou'll get a good pleyce;
If thou canna get haud of her paw,
Thou mun get a guid luick at her fyece:
And if ye can but get a word at her,
And mind now ye divent think shem,
Say, 'Please, ma'm, they ca' my wife Mary,
Wor next little bairn's be the syem.'
Fol de rol, &c.
So betimes the next mornin he travels,
And up to the Queen's Head he goes,
Where a skinny chep luik'd frev a winder,
Wi' white powther'd wig an' lang nose:
A fine butterflee coat wi' gowld buttons,
A' man! how the folks did hurro;
Aw thowt he'd fled from some toy-shop i' Lunnin,
Or else frae sum grand wax-work show.
Fol de rol, &c.