Ye gowks, frae Shields ye've oft slipt up,
When ye had little 'casion,
To see wor snobs their capers cut,
Or Geordy's Coronation;
Now altogether come yence mair,
Wor blissins shall attend ye,
If ye'll but rid us o' wor Mayor,
Iv hackney's back we'll send ye.
SHIELDS CHAIN BRIDGE,
HUMOUROUSLY DESCRIBED BY A PITMAN.
Now, Geordy, my lad, sit as mute as a tyed,
An' aw'll tell ye 'bout Chain Brig at's gaun to be myed;
Aw'll begin at the furst, an' gan on till aw cum
To the end o' my story—and then aw'll be deun.
Some folks tell a plain, simple story at times,
But aw'm nothing like them, aw tell a' things iv rhymes.
Smash, Geordy, sit quiet—keep in thaw great toes,
An' aw'll gan as straight forrat as waggoners goes.
Wey, ye see, the folks thought, i' gaun ower the water,
'Stead o' crossing wi' boats, 'at a Brig wad be better;
So the gentlemen gather'd a great congregation,
The syem as folks de at the heed o' the nation:
Then they some things brought forrat, an' some they put back,
So they sattled a Brig sud be built iv a crack.
'Twasn't lang efter this, aw gat haud iv a paper,
Tell'd the size it should be, just as nice as a taper.
How! says aw to mysel, but they hevent been lang,
Dash! a fellow like me may stite myek up a sang,
Or some such like thing—just to myek a bit fun:
So it's ne seuner said than it's cleverly deun.
Folks thought me a genius when first aw was born—
But what is aw deein?—aw mun tell ye the form
O' this said Iron Brig 'at aw's talking aboot,
When aw pull up me breeches, and blaw out me snout.
Huge abutments o' styen, aw think they are call'd—
When aw com to that word aw was varry near pall'd;
On each side o' the river yen o' thor things is myed,
To fit intiv a hole they howk out wiv a spyed.
Frae the tops o' thor pillars to the edge o' the banks,
Varry strang iron chains, myed o' wrought iron links,
Hingin' ower the house-tops o' byeth sides o' the river,
Thor chains is continued frae pillar to pillar.
Frae the big'uns is hung some inferior in length,
To the bottom of which a foundation of strength
Is fixt, wrought wi' iron, and cover'd wi' styen,
Then surmounted wi' railing—it's deun, skin and byen.
Now, Geordy, what de ye think ov it, my lad?—
Wey, speak—what's the maiter—or ye tyen varry bad?
Or extonishment is it that's sew'd up yor mouth?
But aw divent much wonder, so aw'll tell the real truth.
Aw wonder wor owners disn't see into it,
And myek a Chain Brig for to gan down wor pit.
A! man, but it's cliver—it's use 'ill be great;
For to what lad o' Shields wad the thought not be sweet;
To cross ower the water without danger or fear,
As aw've monny a time deun i' gawn ower the Wear.
When we cross ower the water i' boats we're in danger,
But the hazard is warse tiv a man 'at's a stranger.