Chapter I: Preface (1)

_Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,_
_Thinks what ne’er was, nor is, nor e’er shall be._

POPE.

“Give me the writing of all the Ballads, for the people of England, and let who will be their law-giver,” was said by a celebrated orator, in speaking on the manners of the people:--this cheering ray, in behalf of ballad writing, gave rise to the publication of the following pages: for how many of these simple, yet popular effusions, have been lost for want of a repository to give them a chance of living a day beyond the time they were written?--As such, the _Summum Bonum_ of my labours is to rescue from the yawning jaws of oblivion the productions of the Bards of the Tyne; and by so doing, hand them down to future ages as Reliques of Provincial Poetry:--But, conscious of the liability of personal allusions in the generality of provincial poems, the words of the poet have been kept in mind:--

“Curs’d be the verse, how well soe’er it flow,
Which tends to make one _worthy_ man my foe!”

Those who may have expected a matchless collection, and find it inferior to other poetical selections, will please to think of the following Italian proverb:--

“CHI LAVA LA TESTA AL ASINO PERDE IL SAPONE.”

and accept the same from their

Obedient Servant,

THE EDITOR.

_Newcastle upon Tyne,
August, 1812._

VERSES ON _NORTHUMBERLAND MINSTRELSY._

BY H.R.

With taste so true, and genius fine,
The blythsome MINSTERELS of langsyne,
Sung sweetly ’tween the Tweed and Tyne,
Of war and love;
Sounding their melody divine,
Thro’ ev’ry grove.

Northumbria’s waters, woods, and plains,
Her hills and dales, her nymphs and swains,
Her rural sports, in sweetest strains,
The Poets sung;
Till echo, thro’ her wide domains,
Responsive rung.

In witty songs and verses _kittle_[1],
Who could compare with THOMAS WHITTLE?
The Cambo blade, who to a tittle,
Describ’d each feature;
At _painting_, too, he varied little
From mother Nature.

Her PIPERS also knew the art
To touch the soul, and warm the heart;
Such chearing strains they could impart,
That cank’ring care,
From ev’ry breast away would start,
To pine elsewhere.

When at the harvest, every year,
They play’d, the reapers’ hearts to chear;
The soft-link’d notes, so sweet and clear,
Made labour light;
And many a merry jig, I swear,
They danc’d each night.

[1] Lively.

_Old Tyne shall listen to my Tale,_
_And Echo, down the bordering Vale,_
_The Liquid Melody prolong._

AKENSIDE.

SONGS.

WEEL MAY THE KEEL ROW.

As I cam thro’ Sandgate, thro’ Sandgate, thro’ Sandgate,
As I cam thro’ Sandgate, I heard a lassie sing,
Weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row,
Weel may the keel row, that my laddie’s in.

He wears a blue bonnet, blue bonnet, blue bonnet,
He wears a blue bonnet, a dimple in his chin:
And weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row,
And weel may the keel row, that my laddie’s in.

THE NEW KEEL ROW.

_By_ T.T.--_To the old Tune._

Whe’s like my Johnny,
Sae leish, sae blithe, sae bonny,
He’s foremost ’mang the mony
Keel lads o’ Coaly Tyne;

He’ll set or row so tightly,
Or in the dance so sprightly,
He’ll cut and shuffle sightly,
’Tis true--were he not mine.

Weel may the keel row,
The keel row, the keel row,
Weel may the keel row,
That my laddie’s in:
He wears a blue bonnet,
A bonnet, a bonnet,
He wears a blue bonnet,
A dimple in his chin.

He’s ne mair learning,
Than tells his weekly earning,
Yet reet frae wrang discerning,
Tho’ brave, ne bruiser he;
Tho’ he no worth a plack is,
His awn coat on his back is,
And nane can say that black is
The white o’ Johnny’s ee.

Each pay-day nearly,
He takes his quairt right dearly,
Then talks O, latin O,--cheerly,
Or mavies jaws away;
How caring not a feather,
Nelson and he together,
The springy French did lether,
And gar’d them shab away.

Were a’ kings comparely,
In each I’d spy a fairly,
An’ ay wad Johnny barly,
He gets sic bonny bairns;
Go bon, the queen, or misses,
But wad for Johnny’s kisses,
Luik upon as blisses,
Scrimp meals, caff beds, and dairns.

Wour lads, like their deddy,
To fight the French are ready,
But gie’s a peace that’s steady,
And breed cheap as lang syne;
May a’ the press gangs perish,
Each lass her laddy cherish:
Lang may the Coal Trade flourish
Upon the dingy Tyne.

Breet Star o’ Heaton,
Your ay wour darling sweet’en,
May heaven’s blessings leet on
Your leady, bairns, and ye;
God bless the King and Nation,
Each bravely fill his station,
Our canny _Corporation_,
Lang may they sing wi’ me,

Weel may the keel row, &c.

BONNY KEEL LADDIE.

My bonny keel laddie, my canny keel laddie,
My bonny keel laddie for me O!
He sits in his keel as black as the deil,
And he brings the white money to me O.

Ha’ye seen owt o’ my canny man,
An’ are ye shure he’s weel O?
He’s geane o’er land wiv a stick in his hand,
T’ help to moor the keel O.

The canny keel laddie, the bonny keel laddie,
The canny keel laddie for me O;
He sits in his huddock, and claws his bare buttock,
And brings the white money to me O.

THE LITTLE P.D.

’Twas between Hebbron and Jarrow,
There cam on a very strang gale,
The skipper look’d out o’ th’ huddock,
Crying, “Smash, man, lower th’ sail!
Smash, man, lower the sail,
Or else to the bottom we’ll go:”
The keel and a’ hands wad been lost,
Had it not been for Jemmy Munro.
Fal lal, &c.

The gale blew stranger an’ stranger,
When they cam beside the Muck House,
The skipper cry’d out--“Jemmy Swinger,”
But still was as fear’d as a mouse;
P.D. ran to clear th’ anchor,
“It’s raffl’d!” right loudly he roar’d,--
They a’ said the gale wad sink her,
If it was’nt seun thrawn owrboard.

The laddy ran sweaten, ran sweaten,
The laddy ran sweaten about;
Till the keel went bump ’gainst Jarrow,
And three o’ th’ bullies lap out;
Three o’ th’ bullies lap out,
And left nyen in but little P.D.
Who ran about stamping and crying--
“How! smash, Skipper, what mun a’ dee?”

They all shouted out fra the kee,
Steer her close in by th’ shore;
And then thraw th’ painter to me,
Thou cat feac’d son of a wh--e.
The lad threw the painter ashore,
They fasten’d her up to th’ kee,
But whe knaws how far she meit gane,
Had it not been for little P.D.

Then into th’ huddock they gat,
And th’ flesh they began to fry,
They talk’d o’ the gale as they sat,
And how a’ hands were lost--very nigh.
The skipper roar’d out for a drink,
P.D. ran to bring him the cann,
But odsmash! mun! what d’ye think?--
He coup’d a’ the flesh out o’ the pan!
Fal lal, &c.

MA’ CANNY HINNY.

Where hast’te been, ma’ canny hinny?
An where hast’te been, ma’ bonny bairn?
Aw was up and down seekin ma’ hinny,
Aw was thro’ the town seekin for my bairn;
Aw went up the Butcher Bank and down Grundin Chare,
Call’d at the Dun Cow, but aw cuddent find thee there.

Where hast’te been, ma’ canny hinny?
An where hast’te been, ma’ bonny bairn, &c.

Then aw went t’ th’ Cassel Garth, and caw’d on Johnny Fife.
The beer drawer tell’d me she ne’er saw thee in her life.

Where hast’te been, &c.

Then aw went into the three bulls heads, and down the Lang Stairs,
And a’ the way alang the Close, as far as Mr Mayor’s.

Where hast’te been, &c.

Fra there aw went alang the brig, an up t’ Jackson’s Chare,
Then back again t’ the Cross Keys, but cuddent find thee there.

Where hast’te been, &c.

Then comin out o’ Pipergate, aw met wi’ Willy Rigg,
Whe tell’d me that he saw thee stannin p----n on the brig.

Where hast’te been, &c.

Cummin alang the brig again, aw met wi’ Cristy Gee,
He tell’d me et he saw thee gannin down Humeses entery.

Where hast’te been, &c.

Where hev aw been! aw sune can tell ye that;
Cummin up the Key, aw met wi’ Peter Pratt,
Meetin Peter Pratt, we met wi’ Tommy Wear,
An went t’ Humeses t’ get a gill o’ beer.

There’s where a’ve been, ma’ canny hinny,
There’s where a’ve been, ma’ bonny lam.
Wast’tu up an down seekin for yur hinny?
Wast’tu up an down seeking for yur lam.

Then aw met yur Ben, an we were like to fight;
An when we cam to Sandgate it was pick night;
Crossin the road, aw met wi’ Bobby Swinny:
Hing on the girdle, let’s hev a singin hinny.

Aw my sorrow’s ower now, a’ve fund my hinny,
Aw my sorrow’s ower now, a’ve fund my bairn;
Lang may aw shout, ma’ canny hinny,
Lang may aw shout, ma’ bonny bairn.

DOL LI A.

_A Song famous in Newcastle about the Years 1792-3-4._

Fresh I’m cum fra Sandgate Street,
Do li, do li,
My best friends here to meet,
Do li a,
Dol li th’ dil len dol,
Do li, do li,
Dol li th’ dil len dol,
Dol li a.

The Black Cuffs is gawn away,
Do li, do li,
An that will be a crying day.
Do li a, &c.

Dolly Coxon’s pawn’d her sark,
Do li, do li,
To ride upon the baggage cart.
Do li a, &c.

The Green Cuffs is cummin in,
Do li, do li,
An that ’ill make the lasses sing.
Do li a, &c.

THE TYNE.

_By J. Gibson, of Newcastle._

Roll on thy way, thrice happy Tyne!
Commerce and riches still are thine;
Thy sons in every art shall shine,
And make thee more majestic flow.

The busy crowd that throngs thy sides,
And on thy dusky bosom glides,
With riches swell thy flowing tides,
And bless the soil were thou dost flow.

Thy valiant sons, in days of old,
Led by their Chieftains, brave and bold,
Fought not for wealth, or shining gold,
But to defend thy happy shores.

So e’en as they of old have bled,
And oft embrac’d a gory bed,
Thy modern sons, by Ridleys led,
Shall rise to shield thy peace-crown’d shores.

Nor art thou blest for this alone,
That long thy sons in arms have shone;
For every art to them is known,
And science, form’d to grace the mind.

Art, curb’d by War in former days,
Has now burst forth in one bright blaze;
And long shall his refulgent rays
Shine bright, and darkness leave behind.

The Muses too, with Freedom crown’d,
Shall on thy happy shores be found,
And fill the air with joyous sound
Of--War and Darkness’ overthrow.

Then roll thy way, thrice happy Tyne!
Commerce and riches still are thine!
Thy sons in arts and arms shall shine,
And make thee still majestic flow.

BLACKETT’s FIELD.

BY J. SHIELD, OF NEWCASTLE.

Tune--_John Anderson my Jo_.

On account of the confined limits of the Parade Ground of the Loyal Newcastle Associated Corps of Volunteer Infantry, it was found necessary to lock the door during the time of drill, to prevent the crowd interfering with the evolutions of the corps.--This circumstance gave rise to the song.

Near Blackett’s Field, sad hov’ring,
(’Twas but the other day,)
Thus sung a melancholy wight
His pity-moving lay:--
How comes this alteration strange!
What can the matter be,
That the brave Association Lads
Are under lock and key?

Ah! lately, on a Sunday,
To dine I hardly staid,--
But from my beef and pudding ran,
T’ attend the gay parade!
Now I may stay and pick my bones,
From anxious hurry free;
For the brave Association Lads
Are under lock and key!

A dimpling smile still grac’d my cheek,
Brave D----n when I saw;
’Twas worth a crown to hear him, too,
Exclaiming ‘_Kiver awa’!_’
But thus to feast my eyes and ears
No more my lot shall be;
For the brave Association Lads
Are under lock and key!

To church now, when the bells are heard,
With snail-like pace I creep;
And there, in manner most devout,
Compose myself to sleep!
Thus cheerless pass the ling’ring hours,
So lately fraught with glee,
Ere the brave Association Lads
Were under lock and key!

For pity’s sake, then, Ridley!
Thy _turnkeys_ straight _discharge_,
And let thy armed Patriots
Again be drill’d _at large_:
So shall my Sunday afternoons,
In _gazing_, joyous flee,
When the brave Association Lads
Ar’n’t under lock, and key!

Think--urg’d by curiosity,
To climb the Spital walls,
Should any of thy neighbours there,
Sad, break their necks by falls.
O would not such mischances dire
Be justly charg’d on thee,
Who keeps the Association Lads
Thus under lock and key?

Imagine not thy warriors brave,
To glory who aspire,
Whilst thus _confin’d_ in Blackett’s field,
Their station much admire!
Ah! no; in _Heaton cellars_ they
Would rather chuse to be,
Most jovial, _carrying on the war_,
All under lock and key!

Whilst War’s horrific clangours
Resound throughout the land,
Still may’st thou, gallant Ridley,
Thy town’s-men brave command:
And, oh! that with your martial toils
Delighted I may be,
Ope wide the door of Blackett’s field;
Then break the lock and key!

KIVER AWA’.

Like the wolves of the forest, ferocious and keen,
The French our blest shores may invade!
But in arms are the _Gotham Invincibles seen_,
And who’s of invasion afraid?
With ardour heroic each bosom inflames,
No dangers impress them with awe;
And merry they seem, when thus----exclaims,--
“Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’.”

Ye matrons be cheerful, ye virgins be gay,
Your protectors are valiant and true:
No more feel alarm’d, as your charms you survey,
At what Frenchmen _may venture to do_;
No danger shall reach you, no impudent Gaul,
Shall fill your soft bosoms with awe;
Whilst in tones energetic, thus ---- can bawl,--
“Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’, Kiver awa”.

No more let the wight, to misfortune a prey,
For relief to the bottle apply;
But to chace ev’ry painful remembrance away,
To _Parade_ let him instantly hie;
There ----, whilst ardently toiling for fame,
Each thorn from his bosom shall draw:
Ah! who can be sad, when they hear him exclaim,--
“Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’.”

Heav’n prosper thee, Gotham! thou famous old town,
Of the Tyne the chief glory and pride:
May thy heroes acquire immortal renown,
In the dread field of Mars, when they’re try’d:
Amongst them, O ne’er may _flincher_ be found;
And that mirth they from _duty_ may draw,
Long, long, through their ranks may these accents resound,--
“Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’.”

_November, 1804._

BRITANNIA’S VOLUNTEERS.

_By S.G. Kemble, Esq. of Newcastle._

Tune--The Newcastle Volunteers’ quick March.

When unprovok’d, when foreign foes,
When danger gave occasion,
Britannia’s Volunteers arose,
To shield her from invasion.

And still whilst other nations bow,
And lowly seek alliance,
Should France transgress again, they vow
To hurl a bold defiance.

The Sons of Tyne,--a youthful band,--
With ardent resolution,
First arm’d to guard their native land,
Their King and Constitution:

Again, whene’er the cause invites,
Our liberties revering,
To guard those dear, those sacred rights,
They’ll go a volunteering.

The shepherd now, beneath his shed,
At eve the dance provoking,
Takes up his lov’d neglected reed,
Long days of Peace invoking.

To plough-shares tho’ our swords we turn,
No more in arms appearing,
With Friendship still our bosoms burn,
Kind actions volunteering.

JOHN DIGGONS.

_By J. Stawpert, of Newcastle._

_Tune_--Old England’s Roast Beef.

John Diggons be I, from a Country Town,
But the name is se lang and se bad to get down,
Tho’ I’ve swallow’d it often both morning and noon,
At present excuse me the pain,
Oh! at present excuse me the pain.

Father told I, this morning, with quickness to fly,
Away to Newcastle, I ask’d him for why?--
To learn something there, for her sons now stand high,
They’ve been fighting the French off Cadiz,
They’ve been fighting the French off Cadiz.

Well, father, says I, but I don’t much like;
For the Frenchmen, they say, are so given to strike,
Yes, unto an Englishman; that’s it, you tyke!
Have you never yet learn’d the _sea phrase_?
Have you never yet learn’d the _sea phrase_?

Why, as to your _sea frays_, I know not, dear dad,
But frays in our village are oftentimes bad,
And it must be much worse for a poor country lad,
To fight where he can’t run away,
To fight where he can’t run away.

At last he insisted I’d come to this town,
And get some small knowledge of gaining renown,
Buy myself a blue jacket, and put off the clown,
And fight for my country and king,
And fight for my country and king.

But coming up street there, I coud’n’t get quick,
The folks on the pavement were standing se thick,
So I turn’d myself round, and lean’d over my stick,
And heard a poor beggar boy sing,
And heard a poor beggar boy sing.

He sung how that Nelson had lately been shot;
Oh! I verily thought I’d have died on the spot,
For father told I that lead, e’en boiling hot,
Wou’d ne’er take the life of this man,
Wou’d ne’er take the life of this man.

At length the boy prov’d, e’er he ended his song,
That nature and valour, however so strong,
Must still bow to fate; so poor father was wrong:
And Nelson’s gon--dead after all,
And Nelson’s gon--dead after all.

But now I’m determin’d, since this is the case,
To write to Lord Collingwood straight for a place,
For they say he’s right fond of a North Country face:
So I may chance to revenge Nelson’s wrongs,
So I may chance to revenge Nelson’s wrongs.

Adieu, then, my friends, your best wishes I’ll take,
Oh! send them all good for your _Collingwood’s sake_!
For your Country and you his life’s oft been at stake,
Then bless him, and thank his brave Tars!
Then bless him, and thank his brave Tars!

I’ll say that I left you all singing his praise,
And begging of Neptune more laurels to raise,
That in England you hope he’ll soon wear the green bays,
And be blest with his friends for past toils,
And be blest with his friends for past toils.

TRAFALGAR’S BATTLE.

_By the same._

_Tune_--Chapter of Kings.

In a battle, you know, we Britons are strong;
A battle, my friends, is the theme of my song;
Had it not been for this, and the sake of my king,
No mortal, I am sure, had forc’d me to sing,
And Nelson, that great man,
Who bother’d the Frenchmen,
At Trafalgar’s great battle, and died.

His mem’ry must be to each Englishman dear,
For his heart in a battle had never met fear:
Should those that are left e’er encounter another,
We may hear something new from our Nelson’s brave Brother.
Who fought with that _great man_,
Who bother’d the Frenchmen,
At Trafalgar’s great battle, and died.

’Tis Collingwood he, our Townsman and friend,
May heaven send Angels his life to attend,
To guard him through dangers on Oceans great space,
Returning in Peace may we all see his face.
To bless him, caress him,
In kind words address him,
Ye Britons and _Sons_ of the _Tyne_.

Though Nelson is dead, yet we ought not to mourn;
The laurels that deck his magnificent Urn,
Are sufficient for mortals that dwell here below;
Let Heaven’s great King other laurels bestow
On him we adore,
Who fought off the shore,
At Trafalgar’s great battle, and died.

Drink a toast, then, my friends, to his dear honour’d shade,
Each widow, each wife, every matron, and maid,
And though you lament for the loss of his blood,
Drink a health to our own, our brave Collingwood,
Who fought with that _great man_,
That bother’d the Frenchmen,
At Trafalgar’s great battle, and died.

CHESTER WELL.

_By George Pickering, late of Newcastle._

Turks, Infidels, Pagans, Jews, Christians, and Tartars,
Kings, Princes, Queens, Nobles, and Bishops, I pray;
Ye Hottentots too, who to neatness are martyrs,
Attend for a while to my wonderful lay.
At Chester, they tell,
Is discover’d a well,
Which eases in man as in beast ev’ry torture;
Hyp, glanders, and evil,
It sends to the devil,
And silence has seal’d up the pestle and mortar.
Oh Chester, Oh Chester!
When maladies pester,
Thy liquid Catholicon eases our pain!
Mad Turks, Jews, Philistines,
Mad Quakers and Christians,
Are dipp’d into peace and good order again.

No more of old Bath, oh ye medical asses!
With nose-kissing cane, and your full bottom’d wigs;
The Chester Well water in virtue surpasses;
Tho’ Bath cur’d the scab in prince Lud and his pigs.
Since the days of old Adam,
Or Eve, lovely madam,
No well was e’er found fit for drinking till now:
As the liquid ye glut,
’Tis as sweet as a nut,
While Bath’s an emetic for boar, pig, or sow.
Oh Chester, &c.

The maiden who flies to her pillow in sorrow,
Who wakes with a sigh to the music of day;
By tasting to-night, may be happy to-morrow,
And warble as blythe as the birds on the spray.
The tear shall cease flowing,
Her heart cease its glowing,
For plighted troth broken, no longer complain;
The bow and the dart,
That occasion’d her smart,
’Squire Cupid may twang, but their twanging be vain.
Oh Chester, &c.

And oh let the damsel, whose ringlets appear
To be mournfully silvering over with grey;
Who sees in her glass, with dejection and fear,
That Time’s with’ring hand bids her beauties decay:
Ne’er let her be fretful,
But drink and be cheerful,
The stream both her thirst and her grief shall assuage:
No more let her mourn,
For her bloom shall return,
She shall cast off the sad, sober liv’ry of age.
Oh Chester, &c.

The gouty old blades who have drank the clear liquid,
Have snapp’d the fir crutches at seventy-seven;
And into the skulls, long incurably stupid,
A portion of good common-sense has been driv’n.
E’en the nose of the sot,
As a heater red hot,
Or a flaming balloon which philosophy rears,
When dipt in the water,
The luminous matter
Goes out with a _hiss_, and the blaze disappears.
Oh Chester, &c.

Then haste to the Well, both exotic and native,
A dip and a drink all your sorrows will root out;
Ye too who have groan’d ’neath the knife amputative,
Go plunge, and your heads, legs, _et cet’ra_, shall sprout out:
The tribe of empirics,
Shall howl in hysterics,
And man shall untortur’d fall into decay:
The pill and the potion,
The ungent and lotion,
In box and in bottle shall moulder away,
Oh Chester, &c.

NEWCASTLE BEER.

_By John Cunningham._

When Fame brought the news of Great Britain’s success,
And told at Olympus each Gallic defeat;
Glad Mars sent by Mercury orders express,
To summon the deities all to a treat:
Blithe Comus was plac’d
To guide the gay feast,
And freely declar’d there was choice of good cheer;
Yet vow’d to his thinking,
For exquisite drinking,
Their nectar was nothing to Newcastle beer.

The great god of war, to encourage the fun,
And humour the taste of his whimsical guest,
Sent a message that moment to Moor’s[2] for a tun
Of stingo, the stoutest, the brightest and best;
No gods, they all swore,
Regal’d so before,
With liquor so lively, so potent, and clear:
And each deified fellow
Got jovially mellow,
In honour, brave boys, of our Newcastle beer.

Apollo, perceiving his talents refine,
Repents he drank Helicon water so long;
He bow’d, being ask’d by the musical Nine,
And gave the gay board an extempore song:
But ere he began,
He toss’d off his cann:
There’s nought like good liquor the fancy to clear:
Then sang with great merit,
The flavour and spirit,
His godship had found in our Newcastle beer.

’Twas stingo like this made Alcides so bold,
It brac’d up his nerves, and enliven’d his pow’rs;
And his mystical club, that did wonders of old,
Was nothing, my lads, but such liquor as ours.
The horrible crew
That Hercules slew,
Were Poverty--Calumny--Trouble--and Fear:
Such a club would you borrow,
To drive away sorrow,
Apply for a jorum of Newcastle beer.

Ye youngsters, so diffident, languid, and pale,
Whom love, like the cholic, so rudely infests;
Take a cordial of this, ’twill _probatum_ prevail,
And drive the cur Cupid away from your breasts:
Dull whining despise,
Grow rosy and wise,
Nor longer the jest of good fellows appear;
Bid adieu to your folly,
Get drunk and be jolly,
And smoke o’er a tankard of Newcastle beer.

Ye fanciful folk, for whom Physic prescribes,
Whom bolus and potion have harrass’d to death!
Ye wretches, whom Law and her ill-looking tribes,
Have hunted about ’till you’re quite out of breath!
Here’s shelter and ease,
No craving for fees,
No danger--no doctor--no bailiff is near!
Your spirits this raises,
It cures your diseases,
There’s freedom and health in our Newcastle beer.

[2] A great Beer House in Newcastle at that time, kept by Moor, at the sign of the Sun.

MY LORD ’SIZE; _Or, Newcastle in an Uproar._

By J. SHIELD, of Newcastle.

The jailor, for trial, had brought up a thief,
Whose looks seem’d a passport for Botany Bay;
The lawyers, some _with_ and some _wanting_ a brief,
Around the green table were seated so gay:
Grave jurors and witnesses, waiting a call;
Attornies and clients, more angry than wise,
With strangers and town’s-people, throng’d the Guild-Hall,--
All waiting and gaping to see my _Lord ’Size_.

Oft stretch’d were their necks, oft erected their ears,
Still fancying they heard of the trumpets the sound,
When tidings arriv’d, which disolv’d them in tears,
That my Lord at the dead-house was then lying drown’d!
Straight left _tête a tête_ were the jailor and thief;
The horror-struck crowd to the dead-house quick hies;
Ev’n the lawyers, forgetful of fee and of brief,
Set off, helter-skelter, to view my _Lord ’Size_.

And now the Sandhill with the sad tidings rings,
And the _tubs_ of the _taties_ are left to take care;
Fish-women desert their crabs, lobsters, and lings,
And each to the dead-house now runs like a hare.
The Glassmen, some _naked_, some _clad_, heard the news,
And off they ran smoking, like hot mutton-pies;
Whilst Castle-garth Tailors, like wild _Kangaroos_,
Came, _tail-on-end_ jumping, to see my _Lord ’Size_.

The dead-house they reach’d, where his Lordship they found,
Pale, stretch’d on a plank, like themselves _out of breath_;
The _Crowner_ and Jury were seated around,
Most gravely enquiring the cause of his death.
No haste did they seem in, their task to complete,
Aware that from hurry mistakes often rise;
Or wishful, perhaps, of prolonging the treat
Of thus sitting in judgment upon my _Lord ’Size_.

Now the Mansion-house Butler thus gravely depos’d:--
“My Lord on the terrace seem’d studying his _charge_;
And when (as I thought) he had got it compos’d,
He went down the stairs and examin’d the barge.
First the stem he survey’d, then inspected the stern,
Then handled the tiller, and look’d mighty wise;
But he made a false step when about to return,
And souse in the river straight tumbled _Lord ’Size_.”

Now his narrative ended--the Butler retir’d,
Whilst _Betty Watt_, mut’ring (half drunk) thro’ her teeth,
Declar’d, “in her _breest great consarn_ it inspir’d,
That my Lord should sae _cullishly_ come by his _deeth_.”
Next a keelman was call’d on, _Bold Archy_ his name,
Who the book as he kiss’d shew’d the whites of his eyes;
Then he cut an odd caper, attention to claim,
And this evidence gave them respecting _Lord ’Size_.

“Aw was _setten_ the keel, wi’ _Dick Stavers_ an’ _Mat_,
An’ the Mansion-hoose Stairs we were just alangside,
When we a’ three _see’d sumthing_, but didn’t ken _what_,
That was _splashing_ and _labbering_ aboot i’ the tide.
“It’s a _fluiker_!” ki Dick; “No,” ki Mat, “it’s owre big,
“It luik’d mair like a _skyat_ when aw furst see’d it rise:”
Kiv aw--for aw’d getten a gliff o’ the wig--
Odds marcy! Wye, marrows, becrike it’s _Lord ’Size_.

Sae aw huik’d him an’ hawl’d him suin into the keel,
An’ o’top o’ the huddock aw rowl’d him aboot;
An’ his belly aw rubb’d, an’ aw skelp’d his back weel,
But the wayter he’d drucken it wadn’t run oot.
Sae aw brought him ashore here, an’ doctors, in vain,
Furst _this_ way, then _that_, to recover him tries;
For ye see there he’s lying as _deed_ as a stane,--
An’ that’s a’ aw can tell ye about my _Lord ’Size_.”

Now the Jury for close consultation retir’d:
Some “_Death accidental_” were willing to find;
Some “_God’s visitation_” most eager requir’d,
And some were for “_Fell in the river_” inclin’d:
But ere on their verdict they all were agreed,
My Lord gave a groan, and wide open’d his eyes;
Then the coach and the trumpeters came with great speed,
And back to the Mansion-house carried _Lord ’Size_.

BOB CRANKY’s ’SIZE SUNDAY.

_By John Selkirk._

Set to Music by THOMAS TRAIN, of Gateshead.

Ho’way and aw’ll sing thee a tune, mun,
’Bout huz see’n my Lord at the town, mun,
Aw seer aw was smart, now
Aw’ll lay thee a quart, now
Nyen’ them aw cut a dash like Bob Cranky.

When aw pat on my blue coat that shines se,
My jacket wi’ posies se fine see,
My sark sic sma’ threed, man,
My pig-tail se greet, man!
Od smash! what a buck was Bob Cranky.

Blue stockings, white clocks, and reed garters,
Yellow breeks, and my shoon wi’ lang quarters,
Aw myed wour bairns cry,
Eh! sarties! ni! ni!
Sic verra fine things had Bob Cranky.

Aw went to awd Tom’s and fand Nancy,
Kiv aw, Lass, thou’s myed to my fancy;
Aw like thou as weel
As a stannin pye heel,
Ho’way to the town wi’ Bob Cranky.

As up Jenny’s backside we were bangin,
Ki’ Geordy, How! where are ye gannin?
Weyt’ see my lord ’Sizes,
But ye shanna gan aside us,
For ye’re not half se fine as Bob Cranky.

Ki’ Geordy, We leve i’ yen raw, weyet,
I’ yen corf we byeth gan belaw, weyet,
At a’ things aw’ve play’d,
And to hew aw’m not flay’d,
Wi’ sic in a chep as Bob Cranky.

Bob hez thee at lowpin and flingin,
At the bool, foot-ball, clubby, and swingin:
Can ye jump up and shuffle,
And cross owre the buckle,
When ye dance? like the clever Bob Cranky.

Thou naws, i’ my hoggars and drawers,
Aw’m nyen o’ your scarters and clawers:
Fra the trap door bit laddy,
T’ the spletter his daddy,
Nyen handles the pick like Bob Cranky.

So, Geordy, od smash my pit sarik!
Thou’d best had thy whisht about warik,
Or aw’ll sobble thy body,
And myek thy nose bloody,
If thou sets up thy gob to Bob Cranky.

Nan laugh’d--t’church we gat without ’im;
The greet crowd, becrike, how aw hew’d ’em!
Smasht a keel-bully roar’d,
Clear the road! Whilk’s my lord?
Owse se high as the noble Bob Cranky.

Aw lup up an’ catch’d just a short gliff
O’ lord trial, the trumpets, and sheriff,
Wi’ the little bit mannies,
Se fine and se canny,
Ods heft! what a seet for Bob Cranky.

Then away we set off to the yell-house,
Wiv a few hearty lasses and fellows,
Aw tell’d owre the wig,
Se curl’d and se big;
For nyen saw’d se weel as Bob Cranky.

Aw gat drunk, fit, and kick’d up a racket,
Rove my breeks and spoil’d a’ my fine jacket:
Nan cry’d and she cuddled
My hinny, thou’s fuddled,
Ho’way hyem now, my bonny Bob Cranky.

So we stagger’d alang fra the town, mun,
Whiles gannin, whiles baith fairly down, mun:
Smash, a banksman or hewer,
No not a fine viewer,
Durst jaw to the noble Bob Cranky.

What care aw for my new suit, a’ tatters,
Twe black een--od smash a’ sic maters!
When my lord comes agyen, mun,
Aw’l strive every byen, mun,
To bang a’ wor Concern, ki’ Bob Cranky.

O’ the flesh and breed day when wour bun’, mun,
Aw’l buy clase far bonnyer than thon, mun;
For, od smash my neavel!
As lang as wour yebble,
Let’s keep up the day, ki’ Bob Cranky.

BOB CRANKY’s COMPLAINT.

Odd smash! ’tis hard aw can’t rub dust off,
To see ma lord wi’ wig se fine toss’d off,
But they mak a sang man
Aw can’t tell how lang man,
All myeking a gam o’ Bob Cranky.

Ma blue coat and pigtail’s my awn, wyet!
And when to Newcassel I gang, wyet!
Aw like to shaw town folks,
Whe se oft ca’ us gowks,
They ar’n’t se fine as Bob Cranky.

If aw fin the Owther, as sure as a’m Bob,
A’ll mak him sing the wrang side o’ his gob,
A’ll gi’m sic sobbling
A’ll set him hyem hobbling,
For myeking a gam o’ Bob Cranky.

A’ll myek his noddle as reed as ma garters;
A’ve a lang stick, as weel as lang quarters,
Whilk a’ll lay ow’r his back,
’Till he swears ne’er to mak
Ony mair sangs o’ Bob Cranky.

Aw wonder the maist how he did spy,
What was dyun, when nobody was by--
Some Conj’rer he maun be,
Sic as wi’ Punch aw did see,
Whilk myed the hair stand o’ Bob Cranky.

Our viewer sez aw can’t de better,
Than send him a story cull letter.
But writing a’ll let rest;
The pik fits ma hand best,
A pen’s owr sma for Bob Cranky.

Nan, whe a’ll marry or its very lang,
Sez, “Hinny, din’t mind the cull fellow’s sang,
“Gif he dis se agyan,
“Our schyul maister’s pen
“Shall tak pairt wi’ ma bonny Bob Cranky.”

“Ize warrn’t, gif aw weer my pillease,
“An ma hat myed of very sma strees;
“He’ll be chock full o’ spite,
“An about us will write,
“An say Ize owre fine for Bob Cranky.”

“Sure, Bobby,” says she, “his head’s got a crack,”
“Ne maiter,” sed I, an gov her a smack.
“Pilleases are tippy,
“Like shugar’s thy lippy,
“And thou shalt be wife to Bob Cranky.”

The Crankies, farrer back nor I naw,
Hae gyen to Sizes to see trumpets blaw,
Wi’ white sticks, an’ Sheriff,
But warn’t myed a sang of,
Nor laugh’d at, like clever Bob Cranky.

Lord Sizes cums but yence a year, wyet!
To see his big wig a’ve ne fear, wyat!
So be-crike! while aw leeve,
Thof wi’ lang sangs a’m deav’d,
Me Lord at the church shall see Cranky!

THE BONNY GEATSIDERS.--1805.

Tune--_Bob Cranky_.

Come marrows, we’ve happen’d to meet now,
Sae our thropples together we’ll weet now;
Aw’ve myed a new sang,
And to sing ye’t aw lang,
For it’s about the Bonny Geatsiders.

Of a’ the fine Volunteer corpses,
Whether _footmen_, or ridin o’ horses,
’Tween the Tweed and the Tees,
Deel hae them that sees
Sic a corpse as the Bonny Geatsiders.

Whilk amang them can mairch, turn, an wheel sae?
Whilk their guns can wise off half sae weel sae?
Nay, for myeking a _crack_,
Through England aw’l back
The Corpse of the Bonny Geatsiders.

When the time for parading nigh hand grows,
A’wash their sel’s clean i’ the sleek trough;
Fling off their black duddies,
Leave hammers and studdies,
And to drill--run the Bonny Geatsiders.

To Newcasel, for three weeks up-stannin,
On Permanent Duty they’re gannin;
And sune i’ th’ papers,
We’s read a’ the capers,
O’ the corpse o’ the Bonny Geatsiders.

The Newcassel chaps fancy they’re clever,
And are vauntin and braggin for ever;
But they’ll find themselves wrang,
If they think they can bang,
At soug’rin, the Bonny Geatsiders.

The Gen’ral sall see they can loup dykes,
Or mairch through whins, lair whooles, and deep sykes;
Nay, to soom (at a pinch)
Through Tyne, wad’nt flinch
The corpse o’ the Bonny Geatsiders.

Some think Billy Pitt’s nobbit hummin,
When he tells about Bonnepart cummin;
But come when he may,
He’ll lang rue the day
He first meets wi’ the Bonny Geatsiders.

Like an anchor shank, smash! how they’ll clatter ’im,
And turn ’im, and skelp ’im, and batter ’im,
His banes sall by pring,
Like a fryin pan ring,
When he meets wi’ the Bonny Geatsiders.

Let them ance get ’im into their taings weel,
Nae fear but they’ll give ’im his whaings weel;
And to Hazlett’s[3] pond bring ’im,
And there in chains hing ’im;
What a seet for the Bonny Geatsiders!

Now, marrows, to shew we’re a’ loyal,
And that, wi’ the King and Blood Royal,
We’ll a’ soom or sink,
Quairts a piece let us drink,
To the brave and the Bonny Geatsiders.

[3] A Pond on Gateshead Fell, so named on account of the Body of Robert Hazlett being hung in Chains there, September, 1770, for robbing the Mail.

BOB CRANKY’s ADIEU.

_On going with the Volunteer Association, from Gateshead to Newcastle, on permanent Duty._

By JOHN SHIELD, of Newcastle.

Fareweel, fareweel, ma comely pet!
Aw’s fourc’d three weeks to leave thee;
Aw’s doon for _parm’ent duty_ set,
O dinna let it grieve thee!
Ma hinny! wipe them e’en, sae breet,
That mine wi’ love did dazzle;
When thy heart’s sad can mine be leet!
Come, ho’way get a jill o’ beer,
Thy heart to cheer:
An’ when thou sees me mairch away,
Whiles in, whiles out
O’ step, nae doot,
“Bob Cranky’s gane--” thou’lt sobbing say,
“A sougering to Newcassel!”

Come, dinna, dinna whinge and whipe,
Like yammering Isbel Macky;
Cheer up, ma hinny! leet thy pipe,
And take a blast o’ backy!
It’s but for yen and twenty days,
The foulks’s een aw’ll dazzle,--
Prood, swagg’ring i’ my fine reed claes:
Odds heft! my pit claes--dist thou hear?
Are waurse o’ wear;
Mind cloot them weel, when aw’s away;
An’ a posie gown
Aw’ll buy thee soon,
An’ thou’s drink thy tea--aye, twice a-day,
When aw come frae Newcassel.

Becrike! aw’s up tiv every rig,
Sae dinna doot, ma hinny!
But at the Blue stane o’ the Brig
Aw’ll ha’e ma mairching Ginny.
A Ginny! wuks! sae strange a seet
Ma een wi’ joy will dazzle;
But aw’ll hed spent that verra neet--
For money, hinny! owre neet to keep,
Wad brick ma sleep:
Sae, smash! aw thinks’t a wiser way,
Wi’ flesh and beer
Mysel’ to cheer,
The lang three weeks that aw’ve to stay,
A sougering at Newcassel.

But whisht! the sairgent’s tongue aw hear,
“Fa’ in! fa’ in!” he’s yelpin:
The fifes are whusslin’ lood an’ clear,
An’ sair the drums they’re skelpin.
Fareweel, ma comely! aw mun gang,
The Gen’ral’s een to dazzle;
But, hinny! if the time seems lang,
And thou freets about me neet an’ 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 sougering at Newcassel.

O NO, MY LOVE, NO.

_By JOHN SHIELD, of Newcastle._

Whilst the dread voice of war thro’ the welkin rebellows,
And aspects undaunted our Volunteers show,
Do you think, O my Delia! to join the brave fellows,
My heart beats impatient? O no, my love, no.

At the dawn of the day, their warm beds still forsaking,
To scamper thro’ _bogs_, or where prickly _whins_ grow,
When I view them of pastimes so martial partaking,
Do I sicken with envy? O no, my love, no.

Array’d in full splendour, their arms brightly shining,
On _guard_ or on _picquet_, when proudly they go,
(For the pleasures of _permanent duty_ repining)
Do I sigh to go with them? O no, my love, no.

Or think you that, eager to quell rude disorder,
What time our brave heroes shall face the dread foe,
I’ve determin’d to serve under Mr Recorder,
In the tip-staff battalion? O no, my love, no.

What means, my lov’d Delia! that frown, now appearing?
Why, why does your brow such severity show?
And wherefore those glances, so cold and uncheering?
Do you think me a _poltroon_? O no, my love, no.

Though I wear not a red coat, my honour’s untainted,--
To Coventry ne’er was I fated to go;
But, whilst with the _plan of removal_ acquainted,
Can I, cruel, desert thee? O no, my love, no.

Soon war from thy home may a fugitive send thee,
Soon give thee of keels and their huddocks to know;
In the Voyage to Newburn who’ll succour and tend thee;
Shall the task be another’s? O no, my love, no.

Then wear not my Delia! an aspect so chilling,
Nor doubt that with ardour heroic I glow;
But love’s dear delights shall I barter for _drilling_?
That smile methinks answers,--“O no, my love, no.”

DELIA’s ANSWER.

Whilst the dread voice of war thro’ our island rebellows,
And aspects terrific proud Frenchmen still show,
Do you think, O my Colin! to join our brave fellows
I e’er would forbid you? O no, my love, no.

At the dawn of the day, my bed cheerly forsaking,
I’d scamper thro’ _bogs_, or where prickly _whins_ grow;
On a view of your martial manœuvres partaking,
I vow ne’er to leave you: O no, my love, no.

Array’d in full splendour, your arms brightly shining,
On _guard_ or on _picquet_, when proudly you go,
Or on _permanent duty_, do you think that, repining,
I’d sighing reprove you? O no, my love, no.

Or when you are called to quell rude disorder,
Or with brother heroes shall face the dread foe,
If my honour I trusted to Mr Recorder,
Will he fail to protect me? O no, my love, no.

What means, then, my Colin! that cold sweat appearing?
Why, why should your brow such timidity show?
And where are those glances so cold and uncheering?
Shall I think you a poltroon? O no, my love, no.

Then, haste, wear a red coat, while your honour’s untainted,
Or to Coventry you may be fated to go;
And tho’ with the plan of removal acquainted,
I’ll not go to Newburn: O no, my love, no.

Soon War from my home may a fugitive send me,
And which way, or how, I’m not anxious to know;
For I’ll follow the lads that are arm’d to defend me:
Shall the task be another’s? O no, my love, no.

Then wear not, my Colin! an aspect so chilling,
Let your breast now with ardour heroic but glow,
Then love’s dear delights will I barter for _drilling_:
You sure can’t refuse me? O no, my love, no.

THE COLLIERS RANT.

As me and my marrow was ganning to wark,
We met with the devil, it was in the dark;
I up with my pick, it being in the neit,
I knock’d off his horns, likewise his club feet.
Follow the horses, Johnny my lad oh!
Follow them through, my canny lad oh!
Follow the horses, Johnny my lad oh!
Oh lad ly away, canny lad oh!

As me and my marrow was putting the tram,
The lowe it went out, and my marrow went wrang;
You would have laugh’d had you seen the gam,
The deil gat my marrow, but I gat the tram,
Follow the horses, &c.

Oh! marrow, oh! marrow, what dost thou think?
I’ve broken my bottle, and spilt a’ my drink;
I lost a’ my shin-splints among the great stanes,
Draw me t’ the shaft, it’s time to gan hame.
Follow the horses, &c.

Oh! marrow, oh! marrow, where hast thou been?
Driving the drift from the low seam,
Driving the drift from the low seam:
Had up the lowe, lad, deil stop out thy een!
Follow the horses, &c.

Oh! marrow, oh! marrow, this is wor pay week,
We’ll get penny loaves and drink to our beek;
And we’ll fill up our bumper, and round it shall go,
Follow the horses, Johnny lad oh!
Follow the horses, &c.

There is my horse, and there is my tram;
Twee horns full of greese will make her to gang;
There is my hoggars, likewise my half shoon,
And smash my heart, marrow, my putting’s a’ done.
Follow the horses, Johnny my lad oh!
Follow them through my canny lad oh!
Follow the horses, Johnny my lad oh!
Oh lad ly away, canny lad oh!

WALKER PITS.

_Tune_--Off she goes.

If I had another penny,
I would have another gill;
I would make the fidlers play
The Bonny Lads of Byker Hill.
Byker Hill and Walker Shore,
Collery lads for ever more;
Byker Hill and Walker Shore,
Collery lads for ever more.

When I cam to Walker wark,
I had ne coat nor ne pit sark;
But now aw’ve getten twe or three,
Walker pit’s deun weel for me.
Byker Hill and Walker shore,
Collery lads for ever more;
Byker Hill and Walker Shore,
Collery lads for ever more.

THE BONNY PIT LADDIE.

The bonny pit laddie, the cannie pit laddie,
The bonny pit laddie for me, O!
He sits in his hole as black as a coal,
And brings the white siller to me, O!

The bonny pit laddie, the cannie pit laddie,
The bonny pit laddie for me, O!
He sits on his cracket, and hews in his jacket,
And brings the white siller to me, O!

THE PITMAN’s REVENGE AGAINST BUONAPARTE.

Hae ye heard o’ these wondrous dons,
That make this mighty fuss, man,
About invading Briton’s land?
I vow they’re wondrous spruce, man:
But little do the Frenchmen ken
About our loyal Englishmen;
Our collier lads are for cockades,
And guns to shoot the French, man.
Toll loll de roll de roll de roll.

Then to parade the pitmen went,
Wi’ hearts both stout and strong, man;
Gad smash the French, we are so strang,
We’ll shoot them ev’ry one, man:
Gad smash me sark if I would stick
To tumble them a’ down the pit,
As fast as I could thraw a coal,
I’d tumble them a’ down the hole,
And close her in aboon, man.
Toll loll, &c.

Heads up, says one, ye silly sow,
Ye dinna mind the word, man:
Eyes right, says Tom, and wi’ a dam,
And march off at the word, man:
Did ever mortals see sic brutes,
To order me to lift my kutes?
Ad smash the fool, he stands and talks,
How can he learn me to walk,
That’s walk’d this forty year, man?
Toll loll, &c.

But should the Frenchmen shew their face
Upon our waggon ways, man,
Then there upon the road, you know,
We’d make them end their days, man:
Ay Bonaparte’s sel I’d take,
And throw him in the burning heap,
And with great speed I’d roast him deed;
His marrows then I wad nae heed,
We’d pick out a’ their een, man.
Toll loll, &c.

Says Willy Dunn to loyal Tom,
Your words are all a joke, man;
For Geordy winna hae your help,
Ye’re sic kamstarie fowk, man:
Then Willy lad, we’ll rest in peace,
In hopes that a’ the wars may cease;
But I’s gie ye, Wull, to understand,
As lang as I can wield my hand,
There’s nane but George shall reign, man.
Toll loll, &c.

Enough of this has shure been said,
Cry’d Cowardly Willy Dunn, man;
For should the Frenchmen come this way,
We’d be ready for to run, man.
Gad smash you for a fool, says Tom,
For if I could not use my gun,
I’d take my pick, I’d hew them down,
And run and cry through a’ the town,
God save great George our king, man.
Toll loll, &c.

THE COLLIERS’ PAY WEEK.

The Baff week is o’er--no repining--
Pay-Saturday’s swift on the wing;
At length the blythe morning comes shining,
When kelter makes colliers sing:
’Tis Spring, and the weather is cheary,
The birds whistle sweet on the spray;
Now coal working lads, trim and airy,
To Newcastle town hie away.

Those married jog on with their _hinnies_,
Their canny bairns go by their side;
The daughters keep teazing their minnies
For new cloaths to keep up their pride:
They plead--Easter Sunday does fear them,
For, if they have nothing that’s new,
The _Crow_, spiteful bird! will besmear them;
Oh then! what a sight for to view!

The young men, full blithsome and jolly,
March forward, all decently clad;
Some lilting up, “_Cut-and-dry, Dolly_,”
Some singing, “_The bonny Pit Lad_:”
The pranks that were play’d at last binding
Engage some in humourous chat;
Some halt by the way-side on finding
Primroses to place in their hat.

Bob Cranky, Jack Hogg, and Dick Marley,
Bill Hewitt, Luke Carr, and Tom Brown,
In one jolly squad set off early
From Benwell to Newcastle town:
Such hewers as they (none need doubt it)
Ne’er handled a shovel or pick;
In high or low seam they could suit it,
In regions next door to Old Nick.

Some went to buy hats and new jackets,
And others to see a bit fun;
And some wanted leather and tackets
To cobble their canny pit shoon:
Save the ribbon Dick’s dear had requested,
(Aware he had plenty of chink)
There was no other care him infested,
Unless ’twere his care for good drink.

[In the morning the dry man advances
To purl-shop to toss off a gill,
Ne’er dreading the ills and mischances
Attending on those who _sit still_:
The drink, Reason’s monitor quelling,
Inflames both the brain and the eyes;
The inchantment commenc’d, there’s no telling
When care-drowning tipplers will rise.

O MALT! we acknowledge thy powers
What _good_ and what _ill_ dost thou brew!
Our good _friend_ in moderate hours--
Our _enemy_ when we get fu’:
Could thy vot’ries avoid the fell furies
So often awaken’d by thee,
We would seldom need Judges or Juries
To send folk to Tyburn tree!]

At length in Newcastle they centre--
In _Hardy’s_,[4] a house much renown’d,
The jovial company enter,
Where stores of good liquor abound:
As quick as the servants could fill it,
(Till emptied was quarts half a score)
With heart-burning thirst down they swill it,
And thump on the table for more.

While thus in fine cue they are seated,
Young cock-fighting Ned from the Fell[5]
Peep’d in--his “_How dye?_” repeated,
And hop’d they were all very well;
He swore he was pleased to see them--
One rose up to make him sit down,
And join in good fellowship wi’ them,
For him they would spend their last crown.

The liquor beginning to warm them,
In friendship the closer they knit,
And tell and hear jokes--and, to charm them,
Comes ROBIN, from Denton-Bourn pit;
An odd witty, comical fellow,
At either a jest or a tale,
Especially when he was mellow
With drinking stout Newcastle ale.

With bousing, and laughing, and smoking,
The time slippeth swiftly away;
And while they are ranting and joking
The church-clock proclaims it mid-day;
And now for black-puddings, long measure,
They go to TIB TROLLIBAG’S stand,
And away bear the glossy rich treasure,
With joy, like curl’d bugles in hand.

And now a choice house they agreed on,
Not far from the head of the Quay;
Where they their black puddings might feed on
And spend the remains of the day;
Where pipers and fiddlers resorted,
To pick up the straggling pence,
And where the pit lads often sported
Their money at Fiddle and Dance.

BLIND WILLIE[6] the fidler sat scraping,
In corner just as they went in:
Some Willington callants were shaking
Their feet to his musical din:
Jack vow’d he would have some fine cap’ring,
As soon as their dinner was o’er,
With the lassie that wore the white apron,
Now reeling about on the floor.

Their hungry stomachs being eased,
And gullets well clear’d with a glass,
Jack rose from the table and seized
The hand of the frolicsome lass.
“Ma hinny!” says he, “pray excuse me--
To ask thee to dance I make free.”
She reply’d, “I’d be loth to refuse thee!
Now fiddler play--“Jigging for me.””

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 Wellington 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 he came 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.