True, a building 'tis, unique,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
A charming fancy freak,
Mr. Mayor:
But candour doth impel us,
To own that Strangers tell us,
The Lodge of our Odd Fellows,
They suppos'd it, Mr. Mayor.
Still, if Newgate's doom'd to go,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
To the Carliol Croft—heigh-ho!
Mr. Mayor,
As sure as you're alive,
(And long, sir, may you thrive,)
The shock we'll ne'er survive,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
Then pity our condition,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
And stop its demolition,
Mr. Mayor;
The Commissioners restrain,
From causing us such pain,
And we'll pay and ne'er complain,
The Gaol-Cess, Mr. Mayor.
[3] Now called Prudhoe Street.
[4] The Gaoler.
BURDON'S ADDRESS TO HIS CAVALRY.
A PARODY.
Soldiers whom Newcastle's bred,
View your Cornel at your head,
Who's been call'd out of his bed
To serve his Country.
Now's the time when British Tars
With their Owners are at wars;
And they've sent for us—O Mars!
Assist the Cavalry!
Now, my noble sons of Tyne!
Let your valour nobly shine;
There at last has come a time
To shew your bravery.
But, my lads, be not alarm'd!
You're to fight with men unarm'd!
Who in multitudes have swarm'd—
Before us they must flee!