Chapter X: Part III: March 6th, 1811 (2)

Now would the Gods but deign to hear,
An artless lover’s prayer;
This lovely nymph ’bove all I’d ask,
And scorn each other care;
True happiness I’d then possess,
Her love to share alone;
No mortals know what pleasures flow,
With the lass of Cockerton.

[75] A village near Darlington.

ROOKHOPE-RYDE.

_A Durham Border Song, composed in 1569._

Rookhope[76] stands in a pleasant place,
If the false thieves wad let it be;
But away they steal our goods apace,
And ever an ill death may they die!

And so is the man of Thirlwa’ ’nd Willie-haver,
And all their companies thereabout,
That is minded to do mischief hither,
And at their stealing stands not out.

But yet we will not slander them all,
For there is of them good enough;
It is a sore consumed tree
That on it bears not one fresh bough.

Lord God! is not this a pitiful case,
That men dare not drive their goods to t’ fell,
But limmer thieves drives them away,
That fears neither heaven nor hell.

Lord, send us peace into the realm,
That every man may live on his own!
I trust to God, if it be his will,
That Weardale-men may never be overthrown.

For great troubles they’ve had in hand,
With borderers pricking hither and thither,
But the greatest fray that e’er they had,
Was with the men of Thirlwa’ ’nd Willie-haver.

They gather’d together so royally,
The stoutest men and the best in gear;
And he that rade not on a horse,
I wat he rade on a weil-fed mear.

So in the morning before they came out,
So well I wot they broke their fast,
In the [forenoon they came] unto a bye fell,
Where some of them did eat their last.

When they had eaten aye and done,
They say’d, some captains here needs must be:
Then they choos’d forth Harry Corbyl,
And ‘Symon Fell,’ and Martin Ridley.

Then o’er the moss, where as they came,
With many a brank and whew,
One of them would to another say,
I think this day we are men enew.

For Weardale-men are a journey ta’en,
They are so far out o’er yon fell,
That some ofe them’s with the two earls[77]
And others fast in Barnard-castell.

There we shall get gear enough,
For there is nane but women at hame;
The sorrowful fend that they can make,
Is loudly cries as they were slain.

Then in at Rookhope-head they came,
And there they thought tul a’ had their prey;
But they were ’spy’d coming over the Dry-rig,
Soon upon Saint Nicholas’ Day.

Then in at Rookhope-head they came,
They ran the forest but a mile;
They gather’d together in four hours
Six hundred sheep within a while.

And horses I trow they gat,
But either ane or twa,
And they gat them all but ane
That belanged to great Rowley.

That Rowley was the first man that did them spy,
With that he rais’d a mighty cry,
The cry it came down Rookhope-burn,
And spread through Weardale hasteyly.

Then word came to the bailiff’s house
At the East-gate, where he did dwell,
He had walk’d out to the Smale-burns,
Which stands above the Hanging-well.

His wife was wae when she hear’d tell,
So well she wist her husband wanted gear,
She gar’d saddle him his horse in haste,
And neither forgot sword, jack, nor spear.

The bailiff got wit before his gear came,
That such news was in the land;
He was sore troubled in his heart,
That on no earth that he could stand.

His brother was hurt three days before,
With limmer thieves that did him prick;
Nineteen bloody wounds lay him upon;
What ferly was’t that he lay sick?

But yet the bailiff shrinked nought,
But fast after them he did hie;
And so did all his neighbours near,
That went to bear him company.

But when the bailiff was gathered,
And all his company,
They were number’d to never a man,
But forty under fifty.

The thieves was number’d a hundred men,
I wat they were not of the worst,
That could be choosed out of Thirlwa’ ’nd Willie-haver,
I trow they were the very first.

But all that was in Rookhope-head,
And all that was i’ Nuketon-cleugh,
Where Weardale-men o’ertook the thieves,
And there they gave them fighting enough.

So sore they made them fain to flee,
As many was a’ out of land,
And for tul have been at home again,
They would have been in iron bands:

And for the space of long seven years,
As sore they mighten a’ had their lives;
But there was never one of them
That ever thought to have seen their wives.

About the time the fray began,
I trow it lasted but an hour,
Till many a man lay weaponless,
And was sore wounded in that stour.

Also before that hour was done,
Four of the thieves were slain,
Besides all those that wounded were,
And eleven prisoners there was ta’en.

George Carrick and his brother Edie,
Them two, I wot, they were both slain;
Harry Corbyl, and Lennie Carrick,
Bore them company in their pain.

One of our Weardale-men was slain,
Rowland Emerson his name hight;
I trust to God his soul is well,
Because he fought unto the right.

But thus they said, We’ll not depart
While we have one:--Speed back again!
And when they came amongst the dead men,
There they found George Carrick slain.

And when they found George Carrick slain,
I wot it went well near their heart;
Lord let them never make a better end,
That comes to play them sicken a part.

I trust in God no more they shal,
Except it be one for a great chance;
For God will punish all those
With a great heavy pestilence.

Thir limmer thieves they have good hearts,
They never think to be o’erthrown,
Three banners against Weardale-men they bare,
As if the world had been all their own.

Thir Weardale-men they have good hearts,
They are as stif as any tree,
For, if they’d every one been slain,
Never a foot back man would flee.

And such a storm amongst them fell,
As I think you never heard the like;
For he that bears his head so high,
He oft-times falls into the dyke.

And now I do entreat you all,
As many as are present here,
To pray for singer of this song,
For he sings to make blithe your cheer.

[76] The name of a valley in the north part of the parish of Stanhope, in Weardale.

[77] Thomas Percy, earl of Northumberland; and Charles Nevil, earl of Westmorland.--November, 1569.

THE SEDGFIELD FROLIC.

Come all the gallant brave wenches,
That love strong liquor so well,
And use to fuddle your noses,
Come, listen to what I shall tell:
Your praises abroad I will thunder,
’Tis pity you should go free,
And the wanton lasses of Sedgfield
Are roaring company.

Come, landlady, fill us a bumper,
And take no thought for the shot,
It’s a sin, as I hope to be saved,
To part with an empty pot;
Let the glass go merrily round,
Our business is jolly to be,
And the wanton lasses of Sedgfield
Are roaring company.

Who are they that dare to oppose us,
Since altogether we’re met?
We’ll tipple and fuddle our noses,
Our frolic the more to complete:
For our frolic it is begun,
And we will end it merrily;
And the ranting lasses of Sedgfield
Are roaring company.

There’s Middleton as brisk as a bottle,
She merrily leads the van,
And Crispe, the butcher’s daughter,
She’ll follow as fast as she can.
There’s the sempstress and her sister,
The rear drive merrily;
And the ranting lasses of Sedgfield
Are roaring company.

Each one shall here take her quantum,
Thus says brave Middleton;
We’ll drink a health to Peg Trantum,
And merrily we’ll go on;
Let the shot be ever so great,
I’ll speak to my landlady;
And the ranting lasses of Sedgfield
Are roaring company.

There’s a brave sinking tailor,
That hath a brisk handsome wife,
And she will convey him the flaggon,
To avoid all future strife:
And the baker at the next door,
She will be the landlady;
And the ranting lasses of Sedgfield
Are roaring company.

There’s Branson, an honest fellow,
He hath sugar enough in store,
If cloves and mace be wanting,
We will boldly run on the score;
For our wanton frolic is begun,
And we’ll end it most merrily;
And the wanton lasses of Sedgfield
Are roaring company.

Two wives I had almost forgotten,
Whom I must touch in the quick,
Being merry at Mr Branson’s,
They danc’d round the candlestick;
And the tune was “_Juice of the Barley_,”
Which made them dance merrily,
And long did they hold a parley,
And made jolly company.

In the midst of this great pother,
The backish wife came in,
She was forc’d to be led by another,
Thro’ thick and likewise thin.
And thus they did end their frolick,
Good fellow, I’ll tell to thee,
That the ranting lasses of Sedgfield
Are roaring company.

BOBBY SHAFTOE.

Bobby Shaftoe’s gone to sea,
With silver buckles at his knee;
He’ll come home and marry me,
Bonny Bobby Shaftoe.

Bobby Shaftoe’s bright and fair,
Combing down his yellow hair,
He’s ma’ ain for ever mair,
Bonny Bobby Shaftoe.

Bobby Shaftoe’s getten a bairn,
For to dandle in his arm;
In his arm, and on his knee,
Bobby Shaftoe loves me.
Bobby Shaftoe’s gone to sea, &c.

THE PLEASURES OF SUNDERLAND.

In the fine town of Sunderland which stands on a hill,
Which stands on a hill most noble to see,
There’s fishing and fowling all in the same town:
Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me.

There’s dancing and singing also in the same town,
And many hot scolds there are in the week;
’Tis pleasant indeed the market to see,
And the young maids that are mild and meek.

The damsels of Sunderland would, if they could,
Welcome brave sailors, when they come from sea,
Build a fine tower of silver and gold:
Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me.

The young men of Sunderland are pretty blades,
And when they come in with these handsome maids,
They kiss and embrace, and compliment free:
Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me.

In Silver-street there lives one Isabel Rod,
She keeps the best ale the town can afford,
For gentlemen to drink till they cannot see:
Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me.

Sunderland’s a fine place, it shines where it stands,
And the more I look on it the more my heart warms;
And if I was there I would make myself free:
Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me.

THE FROLICSOME OLD WOMEN OF SUNDERLAND: _Or, The Disappointed Young Maids._

_Tune_--They’ll marry tho’ threescore and ten.

You Sunderland lasses draw near,
Sure you are forsaken by men;
But the old women, they
Forget for to play,
But will get married at three score and ten.

You Sunderland lasses are slow,
And yet there’s good choice of young men;
The old women, they
Do shew you fair play,
They get married at threescore and ten.

A house that’s within full sea mark,
Is very well accustomed by men;
But better had they
To live honest, I say,
Or get married at threescore and ten.

There are sailors that are clever young blades,
And keel-bullies like unto them;
You maids that are fair,
Get married this year,
Lest you tarry till threescore and ten.

The old women carry the day,
They beat both the maids and the men;
To give Sunderland the sway,
For ever and ay,
They’ll marry tho’ threescore and ten.

SUNDERLAND BRIDGE.

_By_ M.W. _of North Shields_.

Ye sons of Sunderland, with shouts that rival ocean’s roar,
Hail Burdon in his iron boots, who strides from shore to shore!
O may ye firm support each leg, or much, O much I fear,
Poor Rowland may o’erstretch himself in striding ’cross the Wear!
A patent quickly issue out, lest some more bold than he,
Should put on larger iron boots, and stride across the sea!
Then let us pray for speedy peace, lest Frenchmen should come over,
And, fol’wing Burdon’s iron plan, from Calais stride to Dover.

ELSIE MARLEY, _An Alewife at Picktree, near Chester-le-Street._

To its own Tune.

Elsie Marley is grown so fine,
She won’t get up to serve her swine,
But lies in bed till eight or nine,
And surely she does take her time.

And do you ken Elsie Marley, honey?
The wife that sells the barley, honey;
She’s lost her pocket and all her money,
Aback o’ the bush i’ th’ garden, honey.

Elsie Marley is so neat,
It is hard for one to walk the street,
But every lad and lass they meet,
Cries, do you ken Elsie Marley, honey?

Elsie Marley wore a straw hat,
Now she’s got a velvet cap,
She may thank Lambton men for that,
Do you ken Elsie Marley, honey.

Elsie keeps wine, gin, and ale,
In her house below the dale.
Where every tradesman up and down,
Does call and spend his half-a-crown.

The farmers, as they come that way,
They drink with Elsie every day,
And call the fiddler for to play
The tune of “_Elsie Marley_,” honey.

The pitmen and the keelmen trim,
They drink bumbo made of gin,
And for to dance they do begin,
The tune of “_Elsie Marley_,” honey.

The sailors they will call for flip,
As soon as they come from the ship,
And then begin to dance and skip,
To the tune of “_Elsie Marley_,” honey.

Those gentlemen that go so fine,
They’ll treat her with a bottle of wine,
And freely they’ll sit down and dine
Along with Elsie Marley, honey.

So to conclude these lines I’ve penn’d,
Hoping there’s none I do offend,
And thus my merry joke doth end,
Concerning Elsie Marley, honey.
And do you ken, &c.

CHESTER LADS FOR EVER.

Thro’ Durham County, fam’d of old,
Thro’ England, be it ever told,
That Chester lads stood forth so bold,
And Chester lads for ever.

When Frenchmen heard of their intent,
To Bonaparte in haste they sent,
And said, since Chester thus is bent,
We are ruin’d, sirs, for ever.

O dreadful news! said Bonaparte,
Enough to break each Frenchman’s heart;
But let us try, with all our art,
Those Chester lads to sever.

Then firmly spoke Monsieur Otto,
The Chester lads you little know,
If them you think to overthrow;
For they will fight for ever.

Tho’ many millions you have slain,
Yet what you’ve done is all in vain;
You’ll never beat the Chester men,
Nor cope with them--no never.

The Consul call’d a council straight,
And long and learned the debate;
Each Frenchman tried, with all his weight,
How France he might deliver.

The issue of this parliament
Was peace--the glorious grand event,
Which gave each British heart content.
And Chester lads for ever!!!

LUMLEY LEADS TO GLORY.

Come all ye lads who wish to shine
Bright in Chester story,
Haste to arms, and form the line,
Where Lumley leads to glory.

Charge the musket, point the lance,
Brave the worst of dangers;
Tell the blustering sons of France,
That Chester fears no strangers.

Chester, when the lion’s rous’d,
And the flag is rearing,
Always finds her sons dispos’d
To drub the foe that’s daring.
Charge the musket, &c.

Honor for the brave to share,
Is the noblest booty;
Guard the coast, protect the fair,
For that’s a Briton’s duty.
Charge the musket, &c.

Beat the drums, the music sound,
Manly and united;
Danger face, maintain your ground,
And see your country righted.
Charge the musket, &c.

CHESTER VOLUNTEERS.

Tune--_There’s na Luck about the House._

And are ye sure the tale is true?
Again the news relate,
That Chester is to raise a corps
To fight for king and state.
Then let us fill a bumper full,
To Scarborough’s noble thane,
Who under his protection has
The men of Chester ta’en.

If Chester men are firm and true,
And by each other stand,
No foreign foe can venture then
To stain our native land.
But if they should assail our coast,
Compell’d by want and need,
When Chester banners are display’d,
They’ll fly from hence with speed.
Then let us fill, &c.

In former times our Chester youths
Their country’s foes expell’d;
Whose conquering monarch, in those days,
The crowns of Europe held:
Should then the sons of France pretend
With Chester Sons to vie,
If they suppose they’re better men,
E’en let them come and try.
Then let us fill, &c.

The king our noble father is,
The queen our mother dear;
The prince’s brothers soldiers are,
Whom we shall here revere:
Them we’ll defend with might and main,
Against all sorts of foes;
Should they command to fight like men,
Or aim their treacherous blows.
Then let us fill, &c.

THE DURHAM VOLUNTEERS.

Tune--_Anacreon in Heaven._

When Britannia her sons calls to aid her in arms,
And fell war, with its horrors, our island does threat,
The true British feeling each bosom that warms,
Prompts away to the beach, the invader to meet.
And along with the brave,
Who their country will save,
And whose only retreat is a glorious grave.
See each son of Dunelm, and the old winding Wear,
The patriot, the loyal, the brave Volunteer.

Let the foes of old England unite to enslave
Her free bands, from whose fury so oft they have fled;
We’ll prove, by their ruin who escape the wild wave,
We can fight like our sires, who at Agincourt bled;
Their great deeds we’ll review,
And example pursue,
And prove we’ve the blood of the same race so true.
Determined to save what than life is more dear,
Our country, our laws, march each brave Volunteer.

Vain boasting Monsieur always lower’d his proud flag,
Whenever he met our bold tars on the sea;
And of conquest on shore let the Corsican brag;
Here the length of their graves their sole conquest shall be!
Let them vapour and threat,
Boast their armies so great,
Old England united can never be beat:
This often prov’d fact each loyal heart cheers,
Of their country’s best guardians, her brave Volunteers.

The proud Don, through all time, shall his madness deplore,
When his Wealth and his Indies are conquer’d by thee;
And treach’rous Mynheer mourn, a vassal, once more,
From the shackles of which, our brave sires made him free.
Then Mynheer, Don, and Gaul,
We here challenge you all,
And believe British bayonets will your spirits appal;
For your pride to chastise, see a nation appears;
In the van march her loyal, her brave Volunteers!

Come the day when the foe on our shore dare descend,
Like the lion defending his den, each will feel;
For the world ’gainst our safety in vain will contend,
While fair freedom and courage support their lov’d weal:
And along with the brave,
Who their country will save,
And whose only retreat is a glorious grave,
With the first in the field, ’gainst each foe will appear,
The loyal and patriot sons of the Wear.

_February, 1805._

KING JAMES I. _in the 15th year of his Reign, came to Durham on Good Friday, April, 1617, where he was kindly received by the Mayor and Corporation of that loyal City, and, on his Entrance, the Body Corporate addressed him as follows_:--

Durham’s old city thus salutes her king,
With entertainments such as she can bring;
And cannot wait upon his majesty,
With shew of greatness, but humility,
Makes her express herself in moderate guise:
In this deserted north, far from your eyes;
For your great prelate (James) of late adored,
Her dignities, for which we oft implored
Your highest aid, to give continuance;
And so confirmed by your dread sovereignce:
But what our royal James did grant herein,
Our bishop James hath much oppugnant been.
Small force bears down small power, where force and might
Hath greater strength than equity and right.
The last are only in your breast included:
Subjects’ griefs known, are ne’er from you secluded;
From your most gracious grant we therefore pray,
That the fair sunshine of your brightest day,
Would smile upon your city, whose clear beams
Exhale the troubles of our former streams;
Let not, O Powerful Prince, our ancient state,
For one man’s will, to be depopulate!

Tho’ one seeks our undoing, yet to you,
All our hearts pray, and all our knees shall bow;
And this dull cell of earth, in which we live,
Unto your name its latest praise shall give;
Confirm our grant, good king! Durham’s old city
Will powerful be, if bless’d with James’s pity.

The verses being ended, the mayor was placed in rank next before the sword borne before the king, and bearing the mace of the city all the way to the Cathedral Church.

DURHAM OLD WOMEN.

As aw was gannin to Durham
Aw met wi’ three jolly brisk women,
Aw ask’d what news at Durham?
They said joyful news is coming:
There’s three sheep’s heads i’ the pot,
A peck o’ peasmeal in the pudding.
They jump’d, laugh’d, and skipp’d at that,
For the joyful days are coming.
Fal la la.

EPITAPH _On JOHN SIMPSON, of Hamsterly, Woolcomber._

BY ISAAC GARNER.

While visiting this dark abode,
Here, reader, turn thy wand’ring eyes;
Tread light, for underneath this sod,
SIMPSON, the _Village Poet_, lies.

The people’s follies, and their vice,
As frequently as he found leisure,
He hunted down (as cats do mice)
In strains of true poetic measure.

So neatly he his subject hit,
So well he temper’d truth with sense;
The simple marvell’d at his wit,
And wise men seldom took offence.

His genius and invention such,
From each event he’d something gather;
For nought ’scap’d his satiric touch,
That fairly came within his tether.

_Nor ’scap’d he death_;--His race is run,
(So fall the witty and the brave!)
His wool is comb’d, his thread is spun;
And daisies flourish round his grave!

ODE _To the River Darwent._

Lov’d stream, that meanders along,
Where the steps of my infancy stray’d;
When first I attun’d the rude song,
That nature all artless essay’d.

Though thy borders be stripp’d of each tree,
That smil’d in their vernal array;
Their image still pictures to me,
Thy villagers gambolling gay.

Nor by fancy shall aught be unseen,
While thy fountains flow murmuring by;
I have danc’d in the Dance on the green,
I have wept with the woe-begun age.

Thy blessings how many and rare!
Far distant the mildue of health,
Where guilt vainly decorates care,
And wickedness broods over wealth.

The dress of the body and mind,
For ages exactly the same:
No travel the manners refin’d,
And fashion pass’d by as it came.

Ah! which of thy sons canst thou boast,
Like Maddison,[78] made to explore:
To give to the silver girt coast,
The worth that was foreign before!

Each language, each humour, his own,
All Europe was proud to improve;
Whom Belgium sits down to bemoan,
Whom Gallia could listening love.

Say, when will thou cease to complain?
Oh Darwent, thy destiny cries;
Far off, on the banks of the Seine,
Thy darling, thy _Maddison_--dies!

[78] Mr Maddison was secretary to the English Ambassador at the French Court, about the end of the American war: his death was rather singular; the ambassador had been invited to a large dinner party, given by some of the members of the French Government; but being rather ill at the time, he sent his secretary as his deputy, who went accordingly, and came home extremely ill, and soon after died, with all the symptoms of being poisoned; a mark of favour which the French had intended to have paid to the ambassador, had not fortune forbid it! The circumstances of this curious affair, which made considerable noise at the time, were never rightly known.

THE HEXHAMSHIRE LASS.

Its hey for the buff and the blue,
Hey for the cap and the feather;
Hey for the bonny lassie true,
That lives in Hexhamshire.
Thro’ by the Saiby Syke,
And o’er the moss and the mire,
I’ll go to see my lass,
Who lives in Hexhamshire.

Her father lov’d her well,
Her mother lov’d her better;
I love the lass mysel’,
But, alas! I cannot get her.
Thro’ by, &c.

Oh, this love, this love!
Of this love I am weary!
Sleep I can get none,
For thinking on my deary!
Thro’ by, &c.

My heart is like to break,
My bosom is on fire;
So well I love the lass
That lives in Hexhamshire.
Thro’ by, &c.

Her petticoat is silk,
And plaited round with siller;
Her shoes are tied with tape,
She’ll wait ’til I go till her.
Thro’ by, &c.

Were I where I would be,
I would be beside her;
But here a while I must be,
Whatever may betide her.
Thro’ by, &c.

Hey for the thick and the thin,
Hey for the mud and the mire;
And hey for the bonny lass
That lives in Hexhamshire.
Thro’ by, &c.

_The Northumbrian’s Sigh for his native Country._

At home wad I be,
And my supper wad I see,
And marry with a lass
Of my own country.

If I were at hame,
I wad ne’er return agean,
But marry with a lass
In my own country.

There’s the oak and the ash,
And the bonny ivy tree;
How canst thou gan away, love,
And leave me?

O stay, my love, stay,
And do not gang away;
O stay, my love, stay,
Along with me.

A YOU A, HINNY BURD.

For an explanation of this title, see Brand’s Popular Antiquities.

Its O but I ken well,
A you, hinny burd,
The bonny lass of Benwell;
A you a.

She’s lang legg’d and mother like,
A you, hinny burd;
See she’s raking up the dyke,
A you a.

The Quayside for sailors,
A you, hinny burd;
The Castle Garth for Tailors,
A you a.

The Gateshead Hills for Millers,
A you, hinny burd;
The North Shore for keelers,
A you a.

There’s Sandgate for aud rags,
A you, hinny burd;
And Gallowgate for trolly bags,
A you a.

There’s Denton and Kenton,
A you, hinny burd;
And canny Lang Benton,
A you a.

There’s Tynemouth and Cullercoats,
A you, hinny burd;
And Shields for the sculler boats,
A you a.

There’s Horton and Holywell,
A you, hinny burd;
And bonny Seaton Delaval,
A you a.

Hartley Pans for sailors,
A you, hinny burd;
And Bedlington for nailors,
A you a.

UP THE RAW.

Up the raw, ma bonny hinny,
Up the raw, lass, every day;
For shape and colour, ma bonny hinny,
Thou bangs thy mother, ma canny bairn.

Up the raw, ma bonny hinny,
Thou BANGS THEM A’, lass every day;
Thou’s a’ _clagcanded_, ma bonny hinny,
Thou’s double _japanded_, ma canny bairn.

For hide and hue, ma bonny hinny,
Thou bangs the crew, my canny bairn;
Up the raw, ma bonny hinny,
Thou bangs them a’, lass, ma canny bairn.

BROOM BUSOMS.

Besoms, so pronounced.

If ye want a busom,
For to sweep your house;
Come to me, my lasses,
Ye ma ha’ your choose.
Buy broom busoms,
Buy them when they’re new;
Buy broom busoms,
Better never grew.

If I had a horse,
I would have a cart;
If I had a wife,
She would take my part.
Buy broom busoms, &c.

Had I but a wife,
I care not who she be;
If she be a woman,
That’s enough for me.
Buy broom busoms, &c.

If she lik’d a drop,
Her and I’d agree;
If she did not like it,
There’s the more for me.
Buy broom busoms, &c.

_To the foregoing Verses, BLIND WILLY (the native Minstrel of Newcastle) has added the following simple Rhymes:--_

Up the Butcher Bank,
And down Byker Chare;
There you’ll see the lasses,
Selling brown ware.
Buy broom busoms, &c.

Along the Quayside,
Stop at Russell’s Entry;
There you’ll see the beer drawer,
She is standing sentry.
Buy broom busoms, &c.

If you want an oyster,
For to taste your mouth,
Call at Handy Walker’s,
He’s a bonny youth.
Buy broom busoms, &c.

Call at Mr Loggie’s,
He does sell good wine;
There you’ll see the beer drawer,
She is very fine.
Buy broom busoms, &c.

If you want an orange,
Ripe and full of juice;
Gan to Hannah Black,
There you’ll get your choose.
Buy broom busoms, &c.

Call at Mr Turner’s,
At the Queen’s Head;
He’ll not set you away,
Without a piece bread.
Buy broom busoms, &c.

Down the river side,
As far as Dent’s Hole;
There you’ll see the cuckolds,
Working at the coal.
Buy broom busoms, &c.

THE WAGGONER.

Saw ye owt o’ ma’ lad,
Gang down the waggon way?
His pocket full of money,
And his poke full of hay.

Aye but he’s a bonny lad,
As ever ye did see;
Tho’ he’s sair pock brocken,
And he’s blind of an e’e.

There’s ne’er a lad like ma’ lad,
Drives to a staith on Tyne;
Tho’ coal-black on work days,
On holidays he’s fine.

Ma’ lad’s a bonny lad,
The bonniest I see;
Wiv his fine posey waistcoat,
And buckles at his knee.

BRANDLING AND RIDLEY.

Brandling for ever, and Ridley for aye,
Brandling and Ridley carries the day!
Brandling for ever, and Ridley for aye,
There’s plenty of coals on our waggon way.

There’s wood for to cut, and coals for to hew,
And the bright star of Heaton will carry us through:
Ridley for ever, and Brandling for aye,
There’s plenty of coals on our waggon way.

MY LADDIE.

My laddie sits owre late up,
My laddie sits owre late up,
My laddie sits owre late up,
With the pint pot and the cup.

How Johnny cum hame to yur bairn,
How Johnny cum hame to yur bairn,
How Johnny cum hame to yur bairn,
Wiv a rye loaf under yur airm.

He addles three ha’pence a week,
That’s nobbit a fardin a day;
He sits with a pipe in his cheek,
And he fuddles his money away.

My laddie is never the near,
My laddie is never the near:
And when I cry out, “Lad, cum hame!”
He calls out again for mair beer.
My laddie sits, &c.

THE SANDGATE LASSIE’s LAMENT.

_BY HENRY ROBSON._

They’ve prest my dear Johnny,
Sae sprightly and bonny,--
Alack! I shall ne’er mair d’ weel, O:
The kidnapping squad,
Laid hold of my lad,
As he was unmooring the keel, O.
O my sweet laddie,
My canny keel laddie,
Sae handsome, sae canty, and free, O;
Had he staid on the Tyne,
Ere now he’d been mine,
But oh! he’s far over the sea, O.

Should he fall by commotion,
Or sink in the ocean,
(May sick tidings ne’er come to the _Key_, O)
I could ne’er mair be glad,
For the loss of my lad
Wad break my poor heart, and I’d _dee_, O!
O my sweet laddie, &c.

But should my dear tar
Come safe from the war,
What heart-bounding joy wad I feel, O;
To the church we wad flee,
And married be,
And again he shall row in his keel, O.
O my sweet laddie, &c.

O my sweet laddie,
My canny keel laddie,
Sae handsome, sae canty, and free, O:
Tho’ far from the Tyne,
I still hope he’ll be mine,
And live happy as any can be, O.
O my sweet laddie, &c.

THE INVITATION.

Neighbours I’m come for to tell ye, our skipper and Moll’s to be wed,
And if it be true what they’re saying, egad we’ll be all rarely fed;
They’ve brought home a shoulder of mutton, besides two thumping fat
geese,
And when at the fire they’re roasting, we’re all to have sops in the
grease.
Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle.

And there’ll be pies and spice dumplings, and there’ll be bacon and peas;
Besides a great lump of beef boiled, and they may get crowdies who
please:
To eat such good things as these are, I’m sure ye’ve but seldom the luck;
Beside, for to make us some pottage, there’ll be a sheep’s head and a
pluck.
Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle.

Of sausages there’ll be plenty, black puddings, sheep fat, and neats’
tripes;
Besides, for to warm all your noses, great store of tobacco and pipes:
A room, they say, there’s provided for us at “The Old Jacob’s Well;”
The bridegroom he went there this morning, and spoke for a barrel o’
yell.
Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle.

There’s sure to be those things I’ve mention’d, and many things else, and
I learn,
White bread and butter and sugar, there’s to please every bonny young
bairn:
Of each dish and glass you’ll be welcome to eat and to drink ’till you
stare;
I’ve told you what meat’s to be at it, I’ll tell you next who’s to be
there.
Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle.

Why there’ll be Peter the hangman, who flogs folks at the cart tail,
And Bob, with his new sark and ruffle, made out of an old _keel sail_!
And Tib on the Quay, who sells oysters, whose mother oft strove to
persuade,
To keep her from the lads, but she would’nt, untill she got by them
betray’d.
Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle.

And there’ll be Sandy the cobler, whose belly’s as round as a cag,
And Doll, with her short petticoats, to display her white stockings
and leg;
And Sall, who when snug in a corner, a sixpence they say won’t refuse,
She curs’d when her father was drown’d, because he had on his new shoes.
Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle.

And there’ll be Sam the quack doctor, of skill and profession he’ll
crack;
And Jack who would fain be a soldier, but for a great hump on his back;
And Tom in the streets for his living, who grinds razors, scissars, and
knives;
And two or three merry old women, that calls, “Mugs and dublers, wives.”
Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle.

But neighbours, I’d almost forgot, for to tell ye exactly at one,
The dinner will be on the table, and music will play ’till its done:
When you’ll be all heartily welcome, of this merry feast for to share,
But if you won’t come at this bidding, why then you may stay where
you are.
Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle.

A SONG, _written and sung by_ H.F.H. _at the opening of Jarrow Colliery, September 26th, 1803_.

Old _Jarrow_, long-fam’d for monastical lore,
Where Bede, rusty manuscripts search’d o’er and o’er;
Now see us assembl’d, upon her green swa’d,
With faces all smiling, and spirits full glad.
Fal lal de ral la.

No long chaunt of Friars now steals thro’ her glooms,
No lazy cowl’d monk now her viands consumes;
But chearful the strain which our voices upraise,
And active the man, who partakes of our praise.
Fal lal de ral la.

Yet still in researches her sons shew their might,
Still labour in darkness to bring good to light:
Thro’ legends and fables the friars explor’d,
Thro’ strata of rubbish the miners have bor’d.
Fal lal de ral la.

The labours of both with success have been crown’d,
And the miner to Bede is in gratitude bound;
For while ignorance reign’d from the line to the pole,
In convents the nooks preserv’d sciences--_Coal_.
Fal lal de ral la.

By science and spirit what great deeds are done,
By the union of these, this rich Coal Pit is won:
And safe from their labours, the lads of the mine,
Now foot it away with the girls of the Tyne.
Fal lal de ral la.

On ship-board soon plac’d, and impel’d by the gale,
For Augusta’s proud towers the produce will sail;
Employment it gives to th’ indust’rous and brave,
And its trade’s the best nurse for the sons of the wave.
Fal lal de ral la.

Hail, commerce! thou parent of Albion’s weal,
Let Frenchmen still brandish their threatening steel,
To drag thee from England, her sons will not yield,
They’ll carry thee on, yet prepare for the field.
Fal lal de ral la.

These brave lads around us, their tools will lay down,
And fight for their country, their king, and his crown!
But the Frenchmen destroy’d, or drove back to the main,
They’ll take up the Pick-axe and shovel again.
Fal lal de ral la.

In union thus ever be commerce and arms,
When a tyrant’s ambition creates it alarms;
And secure in their courage, let Britons still sing,
Britannia triumphant, and God save the king!
Fal lal de ral la.

Your glasses now fill to the lord of the mine,
And drink him long life in a goblet of wine:
On this joyous day let no bosom be sad,
But bumper it round to “the bonny pit lad.”
Fal lal de ral la.

A SOUTH SHIELDS SONG _ON THE SAILORS._

The sailors are all at the bar,
They cannot get up to Newcastle;
The sailors are all at the bar,
They cannot get up to Newcastle.
Up with smoky Shields,
And hey for bonny Newcastle;
Up with smoky Shields,
And hey for bonny Newcastle.

A NORTH SHIELDS SONG.

We’ll all away to the Lowlights,
And there we’ll see the sailors come in;
We’ll all away to the Lowlights,
And there we’ll see the sailors come in.

There clap your hands and give a shout,
And you’ll see the sailors go out;
Clap your hands and dance and sing,
And you’ll see your laddie come in.

MONKSEATON RACES.

_July 1st, 1812._

BY A SPECTATOR.

Six centuries since, some say, a son of South Seaton[79],
Was mulct for a monk he to mummy had beaten;
The prior there pilfer’d the prow of a pig,
And Delaval drub’d well the pillaging prig!
In commemoration of that great event,
Each anniversary in eclat is spent:
Though landlords liege-legates are bound to obey,
That country carousal’s kept up to this day.

A sum by subscription was quickly collected,
As none to contribute their quota objected;
Half-guineas the highest, the lowest a shilling;
And seamen and landmen were equally willing:
Hence hand-bills were pasted up in public places,
To state both the time and the term of these races;
Explaining the prizes, and pastoral plays,
Prolonging these pastimes the space of three days.

The stewards instructed the cash to collect,
Kept debtor and creditor scrolls quite correct;
To purchase such prizes as were preconcerted,
The coin was with consummate caution converted;
To furnish out fun for friends, strangers, and neighbours,
These gents to gymnastics gave gratis their labours;
Lest fair play, by precepts, might not be promoted,
From the racing calendar cases they quoted.

Quaff-cups for quadrupeds accustom’d to courses,
And handsome cart-harness for husbandry horses;
With saddles and bridles for hunters and hacks,
And plate spurs for ponies that pay no _Pitt-tax_:
Spring whips made for mules, and good armour for asses,
And harlequin habits for lads and for lasses;
Gloves, hats, hose, and handkerchiefs, shirts, shifts, and shoes,
To run, gape, or grin for, as candidates choose.

With multitudes mingled the turf was attended,
Like barley and beans, there the belles and beaux blended;
From town and the country such numbers assembled,
The race-ground a Newcastle meeting resembled;
Which cohorts all creeds and conditions comprised,
And dresses, distinctions, and deserts disguised;
By vintners made vivid, their views became various,
Amusements were many, and mirth multifarious.

The racers (at _Watson’s_) were regularly enter’d,
And money at booking was formally ventur’d;
A Newmarket rider, rear’d in racing stables,
Conversant in quirks, and acquainted with cabals;
Whose powers of profession were priz’d upon paction,
And principles privately put up to auction:
Some Monkseaton farmers on fraud plac’d affiance,
But saw in the sequel their rotten reliance.

By bribing that brigand, this son of deception
Receiv’d ready rhino, yet made his election;
This presto, his pupils to peasants prefer’d;
In bilking his brethren, the eft would have err’d!
To gull’d speculators, a vulcan as vile,
Stak’d too with turf-students in tangible style,
Till duped delinquents were doom’d through the day,
Their debts of dishonour on peril to pay.

Corruption creeps into both commerce and courts,
Then who can repel it from rural resorts?
As all public places are pester’d with prowlers,
The streets are stagnated with stigmatiz’d strollers;
And some sanguine swindlers, though subtile and snug,
Plunge into the pit they for others had dug;
The same at Monkseaton, the mass must admit,
(With self-satisfaction) “_The biters were bit_”!!!

[79] South Seaton, so called at the time; but afterwards Monk Seaton, where ---- Delaval, Esq. so completely castigated a covetous capuchin as to cause his death; for so doing, however, great part of his possessions were forfeited.--See the _History of Tynemouth_.

THE ALARM!!! _Or, Lord Fauconberg’s March._

On the commencement of the impress service, in March, 1793, considerable riots took place at Shields, which were represented at Newcastle, in a thousand terrific shapes; and a false alarm having been given at the Mansion House, the drums of the York Militia beat to arms; Lord Fauconberg marched that regiment to the house of Rendezvous in the Broad Chare, and then marched back again.

God prosper long our _warlike_ king,
And noblemen also,
Who valiantly, with sword in hand,
Doth guard us from each foe.

No sooner did lord Fauconberg,
With heart undaunted, hear
That news to Gotham had been brought,
Which caus’d our mayor to fear.

Then up he rose, with eyes on fire,
Most dreadful to the view;
To arms! to arms! aloud he cry’d,
And forth his faulchion drew.

To arms! to arms! full long and sore,
The rattling drums did beat;
To arms! in haste! each soldier flies,
And scours thro’ ev’ry street.

The women shriek, and wring their hands,
Their children weep around;
Whilst some, more wise, fast bolt their doors,
And hide them under ground.

The French are at our _gates_, they cry,
And we shall all be slain;
For _Dumourier_ is at their head,
And that arch traitor _Paine_.

In haste drawn up, in fair array,
Our Yorkshire guards are seen;
And mounted on a jet black stud,
Lord Fauconberg, I ween,--

Who bravely gave the word to march,
And furiously did ride;
And prancing first, great Brunswick like,
’Twas well the streets were wide.

From Newgate, down to the Broad Chare,
They march’d with might and main;
Then gallantly they turned them round,
And so “_march’d up again_.”

Then fill a bumper to the brim,
And drink to Gotham’s mayor;
And when again he hears such news,
May Fauconberg be there.

THE PATRIOT VOLUNTEERS: OR, _Loyally Display’d._

BY CLARINDA.

In the year 1795, a corps of volunteers were raised in Newcastle, consisting of one grenadier, one light infantry, and two batallion companies, they received their colours in the Forth, from Mrs Mayoress, August 25th, 1795.

There is not in the world’s terraqueous round,
A better king or constitution found,
Than lov’d Britannia’s sea girt Realms can claim,
As rich in Blessings, as renown’d in Fame;
Her laws, and Social Liberty, design’d,
To perfect happiness, and dignify mankind.

These to preserve, through each succeeding Age,
Our Patriot Volunteers with zeal engage.
Behold them brilliant on the shores of Tyne,
Newcastle Heroes Gateshead Heroes join!
All free-born Sons, they Freedom’s Rights defend,
And each to each secures a steady Friend!
Whilst snarling Disaffection slinks away,
These HEARTS OF GOLD true loyalty display;
These HEARTS OF GOLD this Standard Truth proclaim,
_Our King and Constitution are the same!_

Advance, Brave Men! assert your Country’s Cause,
Exertions only can support her Laws.
For Vigilence, precarious Moments call,
The danger’s obvious, and concerns us All.
A cool supineness, timid hearts may try,
But manly courage must the means supply.
Sue we for Peace? that Peace is surest found,
Where honest fortitude maintains its ground.

We have at home, alas! some secret foes,
Which, well as Frenchmen, valour must oppose.
Though savage TERRORISTS their Schemes pursue,
And still mislead a blind ungrateful Crew;
Keep ye but firm, the martial Charge to bear,
_Your brave Associates and yourselves revere?_
Ferocious Monsters must e’er long decline,
And MODERATION draw her equal Line:
So shall ye meet a Nation’s highest praise,
And Love and Beauty crown your future Days;
For Love and Beauty ever wait on Fame,
Each Hero’s glory, and triumphal Claim.

_Newcastle, Forth House, 1st July, 1795._

CULL, _alias_ SILLY BILLY, _Of Newcastle upon Tyne._

This well known character, William Scott, commonly called Cull Billy, a name known in most parts of the north, is a native of Newcastle, where he resided along with his mother, a poor old woman, who made her living by retailing wooden ware; she like her son was an object of distress, being not above four feet high.

Billy, poor man, oft excited compassion from his fellow creatures, while reciting (which he did with a great degree of exactness, and in such a distinct and clear manner as to surprise many) the Lord’s Prayer, several other prayers, passages from scripture, &c. to a numerous audience of boys; but they generally repaid his endeavours for their welfare with a shower of dirt or stones.

Oft have they followed him around the streets, beating and hooting him, as boys hunt a cat or dog; and yet no notice was taken of this, until one, more compassionate than the rest, stept forward and interceded for him, in the following lines, which were published in the Newcastle Chronicle of the 28th of August, 1802, with the signature of J.S.

Whence those _cries_, my soul that harrow?
Whence those _yells_, that wound my ear?
’Tis the hapless child of sorrow!
’Tis poor Billy’s plaint I hear.
Now, in _tatter’d plight_ I see him,
Teazing crowds around him press;
Ah! will none from insult free him?
None his injuries redress?

Fill’d with many a fearful notion,
Now he utters piercing cries;
Starting now, with sudden motion,
Swiftly thro’ the streets he hies.
Poor, forlorn, and hapless creature,
Victim of insanity!
Sure it speaks a ruthless nature,
To oppress a wretch like thee.

When, by generous friends protected,
All thy actions told thee mild,
Tho’ by _reason_ undirected,
And the prey of fancies wild.
Of those friends did Heav’n deprive thee,
None, alas! supply’d their place?
And to madness now to drive thee,
Ceaseless strives a cruel race.

Youth forlorn! tho’ crowds deride thee,
Gentle minds for thee must grieve;
Back to _reason_, wish to guide thee,
And thy ev’ry want relieve,
O from this sad state to snatch thee,
Why delay the _good_ and _kind_?
_Pity_ calls them on to watch thee,
And to tranquilize thy mind.

Soon after the publication of this, the overseers of the parish of Saint John’s, (in which parish Billy resided) had him conveyed to their Poor House, without the walls of Newcastle, where he was kept confined until the turbulence of his spirit was reduced.

Several persons have felt the power of Billy’s wit, which on some occasions has been very severe. Once, when a person of the name of ---- (not one of the wisest beings of the world) came swaggering out of a tavern, while Bill was haranguing the mob at the door. “Stand out of the way!” cries this would-be great man, shaking his cane in the air, “Stand out of the way! I never give way to fools!” “_But I do_,” cries Billy, bowing, and instantly stept on the pavement: Mr ---- felt the severity of this remark, and instantly made off, leaving the spectators of the transaction almost convulsed with laughter.

CANNY NEWCASSEL.

_By_ T.T. _of Newcastle._

’Bout Lunnun aw’d heard sec wonderful spokes,
That the streets were a’ cover’d wi’ guineas:
The houses se fine, sec grandees the folks,
Te them hus i’ th’ north were but ninnies.
But aw fand ma sel blonk’d when to Lunnun I gat,
The folks they a’ luck’d wishy washy;
For gould ye may howk ’till ye’re blind as a bat,
For their streets are like wors--brave and blashy!
’Bout Lunnun then, div’nt ye mak sic a rout,
There’s nouse there ma winkers to dazzle,
For a’ the fine things ye are gobbin about,
We can marra iv canny Newcassel.

A Cockney chep show’d me the Thames’ druvy feace,
Whilk he said was the pride o’ the nation;
And thought at their shippin aw’d maek a haze gaze;
But aw whop’d ma foot on his noration.
Wi’ hus, mun, three hundred ships sail iv a tide,
We think nouse on’t, aw’ll maek accydavy:
Ye’re a gouck if ye din’t knaw that the lads o’ Tyne side,
Are the Jacks that maek famish wor navy.
’Bout Lunnun, &c.

We went big St Paul’s and Westminster to see,
And aw warnt ye aw thought they luck’d pretty:
And then we’d a keek at the Monument te,
Whilk ma friend ca’d the pearl o’ the city.
Wey hinny, says aw, we’ve a Shot Tower se hee,
That biv it ye might scraffle to heaven;
And if on Saint Nicholas ye once cus’ an e’e,
Ye’d crack on’t as lang as ye’re livin.
’Bout Lunnun, &c.

We trudg’d to St James’s, for there the king lives,
Aw warn’d ye a good stare we teuck on’t;
By my faicks its been built up by Adam’s aun neaves,
For it’s aud as the hills, by the leuk on’t:
Shem bin ye, says I, ye shou’d keep the king douse,
I speak it without ony malice:
Aw own that wor mayor rather wants a new house,
But then wor Infirmary’s a palace.
’Bout Lunnun, &c.

Ah hinnies! out cum the king while we were there,
His leuks seem’d to say, Bairns be happy;
So down o’ my hunkers aw set up a blare,
For God to preserve him frae Nappy;
For Geordy aw’d die, for my loyalty’s trig,
And aw own he’s a geud leuken mannie;
But if wor Sir Matthew ye buss iv his wig,
By gocks, he wad just leuk as canny.
’Bout Lunnun, &c.

Ah hinnies! about us the lasses did loup,
Thick as curns in a spice singin hinnie;
Some aud, and some hardly flig’d owr the doup,
But aw kend what they were by their whinnie:
A’, mannie, says aw, ye hev mony a tite girl,
But aw’m tell’d they’re oft het i’ their trappin:
Aw’d cuddle much rather a lass i’ the Sworl,
Than the dolls i’ the Strand, or i’ Wappin.
’Bout Lunnun, &c.

Wiv a’ the stravaging aw wanted a munch,
An’ ma thropple was ready te gizen;
So we went tiv a yell house, and there teuk a lunch,
But the reck’ning, my saul! was a bizon:
Wiv hus i’ th’ North, when aw’m wairsh i’ my way,
(But te knaw wor warm hearts, ye yur sell come)
Aw lift the first latch, and baith man and dame say,
“Cruck your hough, canny man, for ye’re welcome.”
’Bout Lunnun, &c.

A shillin aw thought at the Play-house aw’d ware,
But aw jump’d there wiv heuk-finger’d people;
My pockets gat rip’d, and aw heard ne mair,
Nor aw could frae Saint Nicholas’s steeple.
Dang Lunnan! wor Play-house aw like just as weel,
And wor play-folks aw’s shure are as funny:
A shillin’s worth sarves me to laugh till aw squeel,
Ne hallion there thrimmels ma money.
’Bout Lunnun, &c.

The loss o’ the cotterels aw dinna regaird,
For aw’ve getten some white-heft o’ Lunnun;
Aw’ve learn’d to prefer my awn canny calf yaird;
If ye catch me mair fra’t, ye’ll be cunnun.
Aw knaw that the Cockneys crake rum-gum-shus chimes,
To maek gam of wor bur, and wor ’parel;
But honest Blind Willy shall string this iv rhymes,
And aw’ll sing’d for a Christmas Carol.
’Bout Lunnun, &c.

CROAKUM REDIVIVUS.

_The Crow’s account of Newcastle, on her return to that Town in January, 1812._

ADDRESSED TO A BROTHER CROW.

“Croney, its now near thirty year,
Since here I saw thy face;
And since that time, my honest bird,
What change _here’s_ taken place.
Gotham, in troth, is alter’d quite;
Here’s nought as ’twas before:
People nor town should I have known,
Had I not heard the BURR.”

Our steeple’s gone,[80] that lov’d abode,
Where once we loudly croak’d
Advice to Gotham’s aldermen;
And with the freemen jok’d.
Now Gotham, London fashions apes,
They’ve every thing to tempt ye;
Like the city--shops with showy fronts,
And insides poor and empty.

And then so alter’d is the town,
As well as Gotham’s people;
That not a building here’s the same,
Except Saint Nich’las steeple.
Fam’d steeple! Gotham’s greatest boast,
Long may you here remain,
Whilst other churches are pull’d down,
And built ’gain and again.

The streets are now so num’rous grown,[81]
E’en Gothamites don’t know them;
So signs they’ve painted ’gainst the walls,
In every nook to shew them.[82]
And such the rage, for naming streets,
That gaps made in th’ Old Wall;
They Heron Street and Forster Street,
Unwittingly do call.

Th’ old streets were next, not wide enough,
So th’ pants they took away,[83]
To place them in some corner dark,
Where th’ girls could wanton play.
Yet for themselves, they have such fears,
Their road, they ne’er can see;
So they want lamps, from th’ Barras Bridge,
E’en to Saint Peter’s Quay.[84]