The damsel displays all her graces,
The collier exerts all his power,
They caper in circling paces,
And set at each end of the floor:
He jumps, and his heels knack and rattle—
At turns of the music so sweet,
He makes such a thundering brattle,
The floor seems afraid of his feet.
This couple being seated, rose Bob up,
He wish'd to make one in a jig;
But a Willington lad set his gob up—
O'er him there should none "run the rig;"
For now 'twas his turn for a caper,
And he would dance first as he'd rose;
Bob's passion beginning to vapour,
He twisted his opponent's nose.
The Willington lads, for their Franky,
Jump'd up to revenge the foul deed;
And those in behalf of Bob Cranky
Sprung forward—for now there was need.
Bob canted the form, with a kevel,
As he was exerting his strength;
But he got on the lug such a nevel,
That down came he, all his long length.
Tom Brown, from behind the long table,
Impatient to join in the fight,
Made a spring, some rude foe to disable,
For he was a man of some might:
Misfortune, alas! was attending,
An accident fill'd him with fear;
An old rusty nail his flesh rending,
Oblig'd him to slink in the rear.
When sober, a mild man was Marley,
More apt to join friends than make foes;
But rais'd by the juice of the barley,
He put in some sobbling blows.
And cock-fighting Ned was their Hector,
A courageous fellow and stout—
He stood their bold friend and protector,
And thump'd the opponents about.
All hand-over-head, topsy-turvy,
They struck with fists, elbows, and feet;
A Willington callant, call'd Gurvy,
Was top-tails tost over the seat:
Luke Carr had one eye clos'd entire,
And what is a serio-farce,
Poor Robin was cast on the fire,
His breeks torn and burnt off his a—e.
Oh, Robin! what argued thy speeches?
Disaster now makes thee quite mum;
Thy wit could not save the good breeches
That mencefully cover'd thy bum:
To some slop-shop now thou should be trudging,
And lug out more squandering coins;
For now 'tis too late to be grudging—
Thou cannot go home with bare groins.
How the war-faring companies parted,
The Muse chuseth not to proclaim;
But 'tis thought, that, being rather down-hearted,
They quietly went—"toddling hame."
Now ye collier callants, so clever,
Residing 'tween Tyne and the Wear,
Beware, when you fuddle together,
Of making too free with strong beer.
1805.
[5] Sign of the Black Boy, Great Market.