Chapter II: Preface (2)

When sober, a mild man was Marley,
More apt to join friends than make foes;
But rais’d by the juice of the barley,
He put in some sobbling blows.
And cock-fighting Ned was their Hector,
A courageous fellow, and stout:
He stood their bold friend and protector,
And thump’d the opponents about.

All hand-over-head, topsy turvy,
They struck with fists, elbows, and feet,
A Wellington callant, called Gurvy,
Was top-tails tost over the seat:
Luke Carr had one eye clos’d entire;
And what is a serio-farce,
Poor Robin was cast on the fire,
His breeks torn and burnt off his a--e.

Oh, Robin! what argued thy speeches?
Disaster now makes thee quite mum;
Thy wit could not save the good breeches,
That mencefully cover’d thy bum:
To some slop-shop now thou may go trudging,
And lug out some squandering coins;
For now ’tis too late to be grudging,--
Thou cannot go home with bare groins.

How the warfaring companies parted,
The Muse chuseth not to proclaim;
But, ’tis thought, that, being rather down-hearted,
They quietly went--“toddling hame.”
Now ye Collier callants, so clever,
Residing ’tween Tyne and the Wear,
Beware, when you fuddle together,
Of making too free with strong beer.

[4] Sign of the Black Boy, Groat Market.

[5] Gateshead Fell.

[6] William Purvis, a blind fidler so called.

THE QUAYSIDE SHAVER.

Formerly on the Sandhill, and afterwards on the Quay, near the Bridge, were people (chiefly women) who, in the open street, on market days, performed the office of Barber.

On each market day, Sir, the folks to the Quay, Sir,
Go flocking with beards they have seven days worn.
And round the small grate, Sir, in crowds they all wait, Sir,
To get themselves shav’d in a rotative turn;
Old soldiers on sticks, Sir, about politics, Sir,
Debate--till at length they quite heated have grown;
May nothing escape, Sir, until _Madame Scrape_, Sir,
Cries, “Gentlemen, who is the next to sit down?”

A medley the place is, of those that sell laces,
With fine shirt-neck buttons, and good cabbage nets;
Where match-men, at meeting, give a kind greeting,
And ask one another how trade with them sets:
Join’d in with _Tom Hoggars_ and little _Bob Nackers_,
Who wander the streets in their fuddling gills;
And those folks with bags, Sir, who buy up old rags, Sir,
That deal in fly-cages, and paper windmills.

There pitmen, with baskets and gay posey waistcoats,
Discourse about nought but whee puts and hews best:
There keelmen, just landed, swear may they be stranded,
If they’re not shav’d first while their keel’s at the _Fest_;
With a face of coal dust, would frighten one almost,
Thro’ off hat and wig, while they usurp the chair;
While others stand looking, and think it provoking,
But, for the insult, to oppose them none dare.

When under the chin, Sir, she tucks the cloth in, Sir,
Their old quid they’ll pop in the pea-jacket cuff;
And while they are sitting, do nought but keep spitting,
And looking around with an air fierce and bluff:
Such tales as go round, Sir, would be sure to confound, Sir,
And puzzle the prolific brain of the wise;
But when she prepares, Sir, to take off the hair, Sir,
With lather, she whitens them up to the eyes.

No sooner the razor is laid on the face, Sir,
Then painful distortions take place on the brow;
But if they complain, Sir, they’ll find it in vain, Sir,
She’ll tell them there’s nought but what _Patience_ can do;
And as she scrapes round ’em, if she by chance wound ’em,
They’ll cry out as tho’ she’d bereav’d them of life,
“’Od smash your brains, woman! I find the blood’s coming,
“I’d rather been shav’d with an au’d gully knife!”

For all they can say, Sir, she still rasps away, Sir,
And sweeps round their jaw, the chop torturing tool;
Till they in a pet, Sir, request her to whet, Sir:
But she gives them for answer, “Sit still you pist fool!”
For all their repining, their twisting and twining,
She forward proceeds till she’s mown off the hair;
When finish’d, cries, “There Sir;” then straight from the chair, Sir,
They’ll jump, crying, “Daresay you’ve scrap’d the bone bare!”

SWALWELL HOPPING.

By J.S. of Gateshead.

_Tune--“Paddy’s Wedding.”_

Lads! myek a ring,
An’ hear huz sing
The sport we had at Swalwell-o;
Wour merry play,
O’ th’ Hoppen day?
Howay! marrows, an’ aw’ll tell you-o.
The sun shines warm on Whickham bank,
Let’s aw lye down at Dolly’s-o,
An’ hear ’bout mony a funny prank
Play’d by the lads at Crowley’s-o.

There was Sam, O zoons!
Wiv’s pantaloons,
An’ gravat up owre his gobby-o;
An’ Willy, thou,
Wi’ th’ jacket blue,
Thou was the varra Bobby-o:
There was knack knee’d Mat, wiv’s purple suit,
An’ hopper-a--s’d Dick, a’ yellow-o:
Great Tom was there wi’ H--ple’s awd coat,
An’ bucksheen’d Bob fra Stella-o.

When we wour drest,
It was confest,
We shemm’d the cheps fra Newcassel-o:
So away we set
To wour town gyet,
To jeer them a’ as they pass’d us-o;
We shouted some, and some dung down--
Lobstrop’lus fellows, we kick’d them-o:
Some culls went hyem, some crush’d to town,
Some gat about by Whickham-o.

The spree com on--
The hat was won
By carrot-pow’d Jenny’s Jacky-o:
What a fyess, begok!
Had buckle-mouth’d Jock,
When he twin’d his jaws for the backy-o!
The kilted lasses fell tid pell mell,
Wi’--Tally-i-o the grinder-o--
The smock was gi’en to slavering Nell;
Ye’d dropp’d had ye been behind her-o.

Wour dance began,
Awd buck-tyuth’d Nan,
An’, Geordy, thou’d Jen Collin-o:
While the merry black,
Wi’ monny a crack,
Set the tamborine a rolling-o.
Like wour forge hammer we bet se true,
An shuk Raw’s house se soundly-o:
Tuff canna cum up wi’ Crowley’s crew,
Nor thump the tune se roundly-o.

Then Gyetside Jack,
Wiv’s bloody back,
Wad dance wi’ goggle-ey’d Mally-o;
But up cam Nick,
An’ gav him a kick,
An’ a canny bit kind of a fally-o:
That day a’ Hawk’s blacks may rue,--
They gat monny a verra sair clanker-o;
Can they de ouse wi’ Crowley’s crew,
Frev a needle tiv a anchor-o?

What’s that to say
To the bonny fray
We had wi’ skipper Robin-o:
The keel bullies a’,
Byeth great and sma’,
Myed a bu----ly tide o’ the Hoppen-o.
Gleed Will cry’d, _Ma-a!_ up lup awd Frank,
An’ Robin that marry’d his dowter-o:
We hammer’d their ribs like a anchor shark
They fand it six weeks after-o.

Bald pyet Jone Carr
Wad hev a bit spar,
To help his marrows away wid-o:
But poor awd fellow,
He’d getten ower mellow,
So we down’d byeth him and Davy-o:
Then Petticoat Robin jumpt up agyen,
Wiv’s gully to mercykree huz a’,
But Willanton Dan laid him flat wiv a styen:
Hurro! for Crowley’s crew, boys a’!

Their hash was sattled,
So off we rattled,
An’ jigg’d it up se hearty-o?
Wi’ monny a shiver,
An’ lowp se clever,
Can Newcassel turn out sec a party-o?
When, wheit dyun ower, the fidlers went,
We stagger’d a hint see merry-o:
An’ thro’ wour town, till fairly spent,
Roar’d--Crowley’s Crew an’ Glory-o!

THE SANDGATE GIRL’s LAMENTATION.

I was a young maiden truly,
And lived in Sandgate street;
I thought to marry a good-man,
To keep me warm at neit.
Some good-like body, some bonny body,
To be with me at noon;
But last I married a keelman,
And my good days are done.

I thought to marry a parson,
To hear me say my prayers;
But I have married a keelman,
And he kicks me down the stairs.
He’s an ugly body, a bubbly body,
An ill-far’d, ugly loon;
And I have married a keelman,
And my good days are done.

I thought to marry a dyer,
To die my apron blue;
But I have married a keelman,
And he makes me sorely rue.
He’s an ugly body, a bubbly body,
An ill-far’d, ugly loon;
And I have married a keelman,
And my good days are done.

I thought to marry a joiner,
To make me chair and stool;
But I have married a keelman,
And he’s a perfect fool.
He’s an ugly body, a bubbly body,
An ill-far’d, ugly loon;
And I have married a keelman,
And my good days are done.

I thought to marry a sailor,
To bring me sugar and tea;
But I have married a keelman,
And that he lets me see.
He’s an ugly body, a bubbly body,
An ill-far’d, ugly loon;
And I have married a keelman,
And my good days are done.

_A curious Description of the City of Sandgate_, Wrote some Years ago.

My muse took flight the other day,
And rambling carelessly, astray;
I set my thoughts a wand’ring too,
The fleeting rover to pursue.
Yet as she has an itching still,
To mount the great Parnassus hill,
I straightway thither did repair,
But found she never had been there;
That being too divine a place,
For her to chant unhallow’d lays;
When turning quick my eye around
On Tindale’s shore, the wand’rer found,
Where she was taking a survey,
Of all that in her compass lay;
A medley of such objects rose,
Which pen but faintly can disclose;
But being in a merry pin,
And to describe them did begin:--

Sandgate’s the devil’s besom sure,
With which oft times he sweeps the floor;
The air’s with glasshouse smoke infected,
Confusion of all kinds collected;
Nothing but murm’ring, noise, and swearing,
Shocks your conscience, grates your hearing.
The women black, red, tawny, grey,
Who seldom go to church to pray;
Who’s sides are ne’er to stays confin’d,
To cramp their natural ease behind.
Nor modestly do they think shame,
To act what I don’t chuse to name;
Nor do they stop, when they think meet,
To act their lewdness in the street;
Whole lots of them do nightly sport,
With black and grey, and every sort:
Oft in a cannhouse you may view,
A gang of this sweet scented crew.
Who when they grow a little mellow,
Begin to sing and swear and bellow;
Like madmen in a rage or fury,
Not fearing either judge or jury;
Nor do I err much when I tell,
They’ve little dread of heav’n or hell.

The wife her husband thus addresses,
With doubled fist and flowing tresses,--
“Come, Tom, make haste, let us away,
The tide flows high, we cannot stay.”
“Nay, answers Tom, deel smash my heart!
Let us but have the other quart.”
She then begins to sing a song,
Would frighten any man but Tom,--
“You idle spendthrift, scant of grace,
I wish I ne’er had seen your face;
A cleanlier lass was never bred,
When I came to your bridal bed.
Had fouth of claiths to clead my back,
But now I’ve scarce a single plack:
You’ve left me bare of bed and claiths,
Deel brust you, by your graceless ways;
And when you’re drunk as you can see,
Come home and curse the bairns and me.
Turn topsy turvy all the house,
And every thing in it abuse;
Throw all the dishes off the shelf,
The platters, dubblers, and the delf.
And set the plates and spoons, in joke,
A flying round the room like smoke:
And when your family’s in need,
And like to starve for want of breed,
You’ll grudge for haver-meal to pay,
To make them crowdies once a day.
These are your pranks, you murd’ring rogue,
That every day you have in vogue;
And if you do not mend your course,
I must go beg--or else do worse.”
Tom out his hand at last did stretch,
“What ails you now? you grumbling bitch,
Peace! or your hide I’ll soundly switch.
Do not I almost ev’ry day,
At the _lang hinney’s_ o’er the way,
See Geordy Jenkin’s wife and you,
Drinking clove waters till you spue!
Go to the devil with your brats,
And vex me not with d----’d pit-rats,
That are not all of my begetting,
But plants of other people’s setting.
Since you have oft, by your confession,
From my embraces made digression,
Go home, G-d d--n your soul, and spin,
Or else, by L--d, I’ll lamb your skin.”

Thus fast unto destruction hasting,
Their health consuming, money wasting;
They drink, and ne’er for home declare,
Until they’re pockets are quite bare.
Here mangy Scots from banks of Tay,
With scarce a plaid to bear away;
Half-starv’d, they from the frozen North,
Like swarms of locusts, sally forth,
Worse than before, on Pharaoh’s land,
Were sent by the Almighty hand;
Such hardness of their hearts to purge,
And for their wickedness them scourge:
This mugletonian blackguard breed,
Upon our very vitals feed;
And, like the whelps of Juno’s pack,
Of Scots infection bring a smack;
When hither come, they seldom fail
To scrape the scabs from off their tail;
By artful tricks, and well form’d lies,
To skippers or such like, they rise:
And thus get breeches warm to wear,
To hide their a--e that then was bare;
And then set up their crops and talk,
As if they sprung from noble stalk.

At midnight these, and such like sots,
With noddles full, from stinking pots
Of rank geneva, and of rum,
They raise a scent where’er they come;
Reel, cursing, in a grumbling tone,
In some dark lane, where sun ne’er shone,
But darkness dire, surrounds the place,
An emblem of their foul disgrace:
Oft in a house decay’d with age,
Which scarce will bear the winter’s rage;
Whose crazy outshots threat’ning hing
About their ears, a peal to ring;
They tumble in one common bed,
Where all are there promiscuous laid;
And ten to one, but as they fall,
They break their heads against the wall;
Nor do they mind to choose their wives,
With whom they’re bound to lead their lives;
But to the first they come do keep,
Where, if they’re drunk, they fall asleep.
If not, there’s oft a general horning
Takes place before the next day morning.--
Gomorrah ne’er could fuller be
Than _Sandgate_ with impiety,
So cramm’d with immorality
Is every one, that if there be
A place on earth resembling hell,
That lot on _Sandgate_ surely fell:--
Each soul’s as bad as ---- I’ll prove it.
This is _Sandgate_,--can you love it?

THE CROW’S NEST, _Built on the Top of the Exchange Steeple[7]; with a Prophecy, by One of the Crows, of what is to happen the Nation, and particularly the Town of Newcastle._

When war’s destructive rage did cease,
In fatal, humbling, _eighty-three_,[8]
And men were blest again with peace,
We wond’rous prodigies did see.

The Thirteen (once prescribed) States,
Doom’d by the hangman’s cord to die;
Great kings (so th’ will’d all pow’rful fates)
Before them almost prostrate lie.

Then fair Italia’s classic ground,
And rich Sicilia’s beauteous shore,
With palaces and temples crown’d,
Alas! alas! are now no more[9].

But stranger prodigies than these
Appear in Britain’s happy land,
(They say, “that wonders never cease,”)
For North and Fox go hand in hand.

R--h--d and S--d--ch, of one mind,
And all their mutual wrongs forgive,
(What wonders can be left behind!)
And henceforth like twin brothers live.

The frenzy seiz’d the feather’d race,
For (now when _Pitt_ would mend the nation)
The crows on Captain Stephenson’s trees,
Sat, settling plans of reformation.

An aged Rook perch’d on a bough,
With hoary head and jetty wing,
His plumy neighbours round him drew,
And Britain’s fate he thus did sing.

“Listen, ye Crows, my brethren all,
And hear what my ill-boding mind
Fortells--Britannia soon must fall!
I snuff its ruin in the wind.

“For kings, by tyranny, have driven
Fair Freedom from Europa’s States;
(Freedom! thou choicest gift of Heaven!)
Then hear the doom fix’d by the fates:--

“Since men the heavenly gift despise,
And o’er th’ Atlantic Freedom’s fled,
Plagues, famine, tyranny, and wars shall rise,
And endless woes shall all succeed!

“Let’s search for th’ ACHANS in the camp,
That thus have caus’d our Israel’s woes;
--Yes, kings, and all the bishop-stamp,
I dread, have been the lurking foes!

“For never shall the land have peace,
As good Lord George[10], and David say?
Till from our isle we banish these,
And drive such rogues a-cross the sea.”

The sable crowd croak’d hoarse applause,
And highly charm’d were with th’ oration,
Till one fierce crow their notice draws,
Who thus address’d the feather’d nation:--

“Rebels accurs’d!” he frown’d and cried,
“How could you this old traitor hear?
Who thus dare kings and priests deride,
Whom men should worship and revere.

“I see your doom, ye trait’rous crew!”--
Th’ impatient throng would hear no more;
With furious bills they at him flew,
And in a moment had him tore----

Had he not clapt his wings and fled,
And taken refuge on th’ Exchange;
And from its top he bow’d his head,
And spoke the crowds that round him range:--

“Mortals, attend with reverend awe,
Mark well my words, Newcastle people,
I’ll do what yet you never saw,
I build my nest upon this steeple.

“From this most happy omen, know
What blessings shall to you be given;
What peace and choicest gifts shall flow
From the all-kind, all-bounteous heaven.

“And first of all shall taxes cease,
Provisions fall, and there shall be
Rich golden crops, the fruits of peace,
And choicest product of the sea.

“Then polish’d manners shall prevail;
--Would you believe!--but you shall see
Millers no more your corn shall steal;
And doctors cure without a fee.

“Lawyers by strife shall cease to thrive;
And what’s more strange--aye, is it not?
The milk, and every other tythe,
Shall all be dropt by _Doctor Scott_!

“Then _Windydrum_ shall cease to sneer,
And _Shorthorn_ shall turn wond’rous civil;[11]
And after them you scarce need fear
To cultivate the very devil!

“Another prodigy comes next,
(When my nest shall be builded here,)
Parsons shall live up to their text;
And keelmen then shall dread to swear.

“Fish-women, too, shall then forget
To call their neighbours whores and bitches;
But what is most surprising yet--
Your Al---- shall ALL be WITCHES.”

[7] In the year 1783, a pair of crows built their nest upon the vane of the Exchange, and continued many years to rear their young.

[8] Alluding to the Peace of 1783, after the American War.

[9] Alluding to a dreadful earthquake in Italy, which happened shortly before the publication of this, by which 270 cities and towns were destroyed, and 200,000 people perished.

[10] Lord George Gordon, who at this time was very popular.

[11] Alluding to two persons in Newcastle, noted for their political principles.

_The following Song was published in December, 1791 as from One of the Rooks which then built their Nest on the Vane of the Exchange, and addressed to the good People of_ BUR-_CASTLE_.

Rough roll’d the roaring river’s stream,
And rapid ran the rain,
When Robert Rutter dreamt a dream,
Which rack’d his heart with pain:
He dreamt there was a raging bear
Rush’d from the rugged rocks;
And strutting round with horrid stare,
Breath’d terror to the Brocks[12].

But Robert Rutter drew his sword,
And rushing forward right,
The horrid creature’s thrapple gor’d,
And barr’d his rueful spite:
Then stretching forth his brawny arm,
To drag him to the stream,
He grappled grizzle, rough and warm,
Which rouz’d him from his dream.

[12] Badgers.

SONS OF THE TYNE.--1805.

Attend to my summons, ye _British_ Electors,
’Tis freedom announces your instant support,
No longer your confidence place in Protectors,
Who pillage your Rights, and of Laws make a sport;
_Britannia_ demands your hearts and your hands,
Away to assist her, the cause is divine.
Come, see
Freedom and Liberty
Nobly exerting the Sons of the _Tyne_.

’Twas Liberty gave us our Commerce and Treasure,
She taught us to cultivate Science and Mirth,
To patronize Learning and true social pleasure,
To lighten the heart, and give Jollity birth,
Come, come _Britons_ all, ’tis Liberty’s call,
Away with all speed to her sacred shrine.
Come, see
Freedom and Liberty
Nobly exerting the Sons of the _Tyne_.

With Freedom all Nations we hold in defiance,
The Glory of _Britain_ o’er Earth she has hurl’d,
And Monarchs despotic, now court our alliance,
The terror of States, and the pride of the World.
Long, long on our Isle, may Liberty smile,
And bless us with _Brunswick’s_ illustrious Line.
Come, see
Freedom and Liberty
Nobly exerting the Sons of the _Tyne_.

Be happy ye fair ones whom Freedom has given,
The virtue and spirit her cause to maintain,
Whose raiment outvies with the mantle of Heaven,
When _Phœbus_ unclouded, just starts from the Main,
To guard love and beauty, we make it our duty,
To aid their felicity, ever combine;
Come, see
Daughters of Liberty,
Greeting with rapture the Sons of the _Tyne_.

JESMOND MILL.

_By Phill Hodgson, of Newcastle._

To sing some nymph in her cot
Each bard will oft flourish his quill:
I’m glad it has fall’n to my lot
To celebrate Jesmond Mill.

When spring hither winds her career,
Our trees and our hedges to fill,
Vast oceans of verdure appear
To charm you at Jesmond Mill.

To plant every rural delight
Mere Nature has lavish’d her skill;
Here fragrant soft breezes unite
To wanton round Jesmond Mill.

When silence each evening here dwells,
The birds in their coverts all still;
No music in sweetness excels
The clacking of Jesmond Mill.

Reclin’d by the verge of the stream,
Or stretch’d on the side of the hill,
I’m never in want of a theme
While learning at Jesmond Mill.

Sure Venus some plot has design’d,
Or why is my heart never still,
Whenever it pops in my mind
To wander near Jesmond Mill?

My object, ye swains, you will guess,
If ever in love you had skill;
And now, I will frankly confess,
’Tis--Jenny of Jesmond Mill.

PANDON DEAN.

_A Song published in Sept. 1776, under the Name of Rosalinda._

When cooling zephyrs wanton play,
Then oft in Pandon Dean I stray;
When sore dispers’d with grief and woe,
Then from a busy world I go;
My mind is calm, my soul serene,
Beneath the Bank in Pandon Dean.

The feather’d race around me sing,
They make the hills and vallies ring;
My sorrow flies, my grief is gone,
I warble with the tuneful throng;
All, all things wear a pleasing mien,
Beneath the Bank in Pandon Dean.

At distance stands an ancient tower,
Which ruin threatens every hour;
I’m struck with reverence at the sight,
I pause and gaze with fond delight;
The antique walls do join the scene,
And makes more lovely Pandon Dean.

Above me stand the towering trees,
While here I feel the gentle breeze;
The water flows by chance around,
And green enamels all the ground:
Which gives new splendour to the scene,
And adds a grace to Pandon Dean.

But when I mount the rising hill,
And there survey the purling rill,
My eye delighted--but I mourn,
To think of winter’s quick return;
With withering winds and frost so keen,
I sighing leave the Pandon Dean.

O spare for once a female pen,
And lash licentious wicked men;
Your conscious cheek need never glow,
If you your talents thus bestow:
Scarce fifteen summers have I seen,
Yet dare to sing of Pandon Dean.

NANNY OF THE TYNE.

By J.M. WEDDERBURN, of Newcastle.

_Set to Music by John Aldridge, Jun. of Newcastle._

Whilst bards, in strains that sweetly flow,
Extol each nymph so fair,
Be mine my Nanny’s worth to show--
Her captivating air.
What swain can gaze without delight
On beauty there so fine?
The Graces all their charms unite
In Nanny of the Tyne.

Far from the noise of giddy courts
The lovely charmer dwells;
Her cot the haunt of harmless sports,
In virtue she excells.
With modesty, good nature join’d,
To form the nymph divine;
And truth, with innocence combin’d,
In Nanny of the Tyne.

Flow on, smooth stream, in murmurs sweet
Glide gently past her cot;
’Tis peace and virtue’s calm retreat,--
Ye great ones envied not.
And you, ye fair, whom folly leads
Through all her paths supine,
Tho’ drest in pleasure’s garb, exceeds
Not Nanny of the Tyne.

Can art to nature e’er compare,
Or win us to believe
But that the frippery of the fair
Were made but to deceive.
Strip from the belle the dress so gay,
Which fashion calls divine,
Will she such loveliness display
As Nanny of the Tyne?

THE BLUE BELL OF GATESHEAD.

_By W.B. of Gateshead._

Oh! where, and oh where does your bonny lassie dwell?
Oh! where, and oh where does your bonny lassie dwell?
She lives in canny Gateshead, at the sign of the Blue Bell:
And it’s oh! in my heart, but I love my lassie well.

And what’s best compar’d to the mind of your true love?
And what’s best compar’d to the mind of your true love?
The meekness of a lamb, and th’ innocence of the dove;
These are the true emblems of the mind of her I love.

In what, and in what does your bonny lass excell?
In what, and in what does your bonny lass excell?
She’s modest as the daisy, sweet as the heather-bell;
And it’s oh! in my heart, I love my lassie well.

And what wad ye dee to please the maid you love?
And what wad ye dee to please the maid you love?
I’d be a saikless wanderer, and through the wide world rov
Till death clos’d my eyes--to please the maid I love.

THE NEWCASTLE SIGNS.

_Written by Mr CECIL PITT, and sung at the Theatre-Royal, Newcastle, by Mr SCRIVEN, June 4, 1806._

Should the French in Newcastle but dare to appear,
At each sign they would meet with indifferent cheer;
From the Goat, and the Hawk, from the Bell, and the Waggon,
And Dog they would skip, as St George made the Dragon.

The Billet, the Highlander, Cross Keys, and Sun,
The Eagle, and Ships too, would shew ’em some fun;
The Three Kings and Unicorn, Bull’s Head, and Horse,
Would prove that the farther they went they’d fare worse.

At the Black House, a _strong-Arm_ would lay ev’ry man on,
And they’d quickly go off, if they got in the Cannon;
The Nelson and Turk’s Head their fears would increase,
And they’d run from the Swan like a parcel of geese.

At the York, and the Cumberland, Cornwallis too,
With our fighting Cocks, sure they’d find plenty to do;
The Nag’s Head, and Lions, would cut such an evil,
And the Angel would drive the whole crew to the devil.

At the World, and the Fountain, the Bridge, Crown and Thistle,
The Bee-Hive and Tuns, for a drop they might whistle;
With our Prince, or our Crown, should they dare interpose,
They’d prick their French fingers well under the Rose.

At the Half-Moon, the Wheat-Sheaf, and Old Barley-Mow,
A sup’s to be got,--if they could but tell how;
If they call’d at the Bull and the Tyger, to ravage,
As well as the Black Boy, they’d find ’em quite savage.

At the Ark, and the Anchor, Pack Horse, and Blue Posts,
And the Newmarket Inn, they would find but rough hosts;
The Old Star and Garter, Cock, Anchor, and more,
Would prove like the Grapes, all most cursedly sour.

The Lion and Lamb, Plough, and Old Robin Hood,
With the Crane House, would check these delighters in blood;
From the Butcher’s Arms quick they’d be running away,
And we all know that Shakespear would shew ’em some play.

At the White Hart, Three Bull’s Heads, the Old Dog and Duck,
If they did not get thrash’d they’d escape by good luck;
At the Bird in the Bush, Metter’s Arms, Peacock, they’d fast,
And our King’s and Queen’s Heads we’ll defend till the last.

May the sign of the King ever meet with respect,
And our great Constitution each Britain protect;
And may he who would humble our old British Crown,
Be hung on a Sign-post till I take him down.

THE NEWCASTLE BELLMAN.

_As sung by MR NOBLE, at the Theatre Royal, in 1803._

Talk no more of brave Nelson, or gallant Sir Sidney,
’Tis granted they’re Tars of a true British kidney;
And people are curious, such heroes to see,
But neither, are half so much follow’d as Me;
O when, ding dong, ding dong, my Bell goes,
Carts, Barrows, are stopt at the sound;
Each news-loving Porter, straight makes a fill pause,
And wonder-struck, shews the full stretch of his Jaws,
When sonorous I publish all round.----

_FIRST CALL._

LOST! on Saturday Evening last, between Love Lane and the Long Stairs; a _Tarrier Dog_, entirely White, with two Brown Ears and a Black Spot upon his Tail, and answers to the Name of _Shak’em_; the Dog was last seen at the Entrance of the Close: and has got an ugly Trick of shaking his Right Ear and Tail as he walks;--is considered to be rather deaf, as he does not always answer to the first call----Whosoever will bring him to me shall be handsomely rewarded: and any detaining him after this Notice, will be prosecuted according to Law.----

With Orators sir, e’en senate to grace,
What town’s better stock’d, pray, than this canny place,
Ah! would you, the flow’r of those Orators see?
_Ecce Homo’s_ the word,--you behold him in Me!
O when ding dong, ding dong, my Bell goes,
Shoe-makers with joy catch the sound;
And truly like so many Larks they are found:
Each swiftly descends from his garret on high;
When sonorous I publish all round.

_SECOND CALL._

STOLEN or Strayed, from a field in Pandon Dean, three beautiful _smoke colour’d Sheep_, marked T.G. justly esteemed the most picturesque Ornaments of that celebrated Vale.----The Admirers of rural Scenery hereby offer a _handsome Reward_ to whoever will bring them back to the Dean, if strayed, or give such information as may convict the _Mutton-loving Rogues_, who have stolen them.

The Town Marshal proclaims peace, incomp’rably well,
Few, at calling a Fair, the Sheriff’s Serjeant excell;
But in _Pathos_, the Critics, _mem. con._ do agree,
The Marshal and Serjeant must both yield to Me;
O when ding dong, ding dong, my Bell goes,
Barbers prick up their ears at the sound;
And heedless how half-shaven customers swear,
Come eagerly running my budget to hear,
When sonorous I publish all round.

_THIRD CALL._

FOUND, last Winter, near the Turk’s Head Inn, which has not since been claimed, _a Lady’s Hat and Wig_, supposed to have been blown off the Head of the fair Owner whilst in a state of _Indescribability_.----Any Lady who can prove them to be her Property, may have them again, free of all Expence; but if not claimed and identified before the first of April next, they will be sold, and the Money given as a Donation to the Fever Hospital.

The Watchmen, ’tis granted, correctly and clever,
Of the hour informs us, and state of the weather;
But doubly delightful, their _calling_ would be,
Were they all wise enough to take lessons from Me;
O when ding dong, ding dong, my Bell goes,
Each Taylor leaps up at the sound;
Off, to hear me, like roe bucks, they scampering set,
So delighted, I’m told, that they _cabbage_ forget,
When sonorous I publish all round.

_FOURTH CALL._

To be sold by Auction, J.M. Auctioneer, a large and choice Collection of Materials for Sleeping,--consisting of a Quantity of old News; erroneous and clumsy Statements of recent events; heavy Critiques on Theatrical Performers and Plays _not_ performed; flat Pieces of uninteresting Biography; drowsy original Letters; dull Extracts from a northern _Caput Mortuum_ of Insipidity; a Number of Puns, Jests, and old Anecdotes, warranted free from Attic Salt, chigramatic Point, or any other Ingredient capable of rousing Attention or exciting Risibility; also, a Quantity of pure Tyne Mercury, which possesses the peculiar Property of never rising in the Barometer of public Estimation, higher than the Point Ennui.--The Sale to begin every Monday Evening at Eight o’Clock, and continue till all be sold.

I’m resolv’d--may I hope you’ll approve of the measure?--
A short course of Lectures to give, when I’ve leisure;
In order to perfect these Orators’ graces,
Who cry Dying Speeches and Lists of the Races:
But, hark! ding dong, the Prompter’s Bell goes,
I’m electrified by the sound;
Mr Lindoe,[13] your summons I haste to obey,
Yet Gratitude bids me one moment delay--
Just to thank my kind Patrons all round.

[13] The then Prompter at the Theatre.

OXYGEN GAS.

_By JOHN SHIELD, of Newcastle, and sung at the Newcastle Theatre Royal_.

On Rhenish, Medeira, Port, Claret, and Sherry,
Your fulsome eulogiums, bon-vivants, pray spare;
’Tis granted, when sad, wine can render us merry,
And lighten our bosoms of sorrow and care;
But what vintage can fire us,
Enrapture, inspire us,
As Oxygen? what so delicious to quaff?
It is so animating,
And so titillating,
E’en grey-beards turn frisky, dance, caper, and laugh,
For what can so fire us, &c.

O wond’rous indeed is this bev’rage ethereal!
The mortal who quaffs it, altho’ a mere clod,
Is straightway transformed to a being ærial,
And moves on earth’s surface in fancy a God.
In a bumper is given
A foretaste of Heaven,
All earthly vexation straight cease to annoy,
Whilst laughing and crying,
And efforts at flying,
Bespeak the soul tost in a tempest of joy.
For what can so fire us, &c.

Haste, haste to partake on’t, ye men of grave faces,
Ye Quakers, and Methodist parsons likewise;
What tho’ ye seem lost to the flexible graces,
And dormant the risible faculty lies;
One quaff of the vapour
Will cause you to caper,
And swiftly relax your stiff solemniz’d jaws;
You’ll acknowledge the change too,
As pleasing as strange too,
And make the air ring with loud ha! ha! ha! ha’s!
For what can so fire us, &c.

Let gin, rum, and brandy grow dearer and dearer,
Distillers stop working--no toper will mourn;
Of Gas we can make a delectable cheerer,
Which, nor reddens our noses, nor livers will burn;
Unbeholden to whisky
We’ll drink and get frisky,
Nor fear that to-morrow our temples may ache;
Neither stomach commotions,
Nor camomile potions,
Shall evermore cause us with terror to quake;
For what can so fire us, &c.

Let the miser’s deep coffers be fill’d to his mind now,
Let the man of ambition with honours abound,
Give the lover his mistress, complying and kind too,
And with laurel let Poets and Heroes be crown’d.
Let all be blest round me,
No envy shall wound me,
Contented and cheerful thro’ life will I pass,
If fortune befriends me,
And constantly sends me
A _quantum sufficit_ of Oxygen Gas.
For what can so fire us, &c.

THE BARDS OF THE TYNE.

_Published in the Tyne Mercury Newspaper, under the Signature of C.P._ (Charles Purvis.)

_Tune_--Newcastle Beer.

Ye sons of Parnassus, whose brains are inspir’d
With envy or madness, dame dullness, or wine,
Who wish to be flatter’d, or prais’d, or admir’d,
Leave thinking, and fly to the banks of the Tyne:
No wit is requir’d
To make you admir’d,
Let doggrel run limping thro’ each crippled line;
No humour degrades,
Nor genius pervades
The verses sublime of our Bards of the Tyne.

No soft flowing numbers must ravish the senses,
Whose soothing meanders a ditty would stain
A muse with such drowsy materials dispenses,
Whilst Grub-street’s quintessence will squeese from the brain:
How sweetly the strains
Must thrill thro’ the veins,
When Sandgate and Bedlam together combine;
Or “Oxygen Gas,”
From the pipe of an ass,
Rarifies the dence brains of our Bards of the Tyne.

With rhymers our Theatre’s always surrounded,
Whose Bellman taught lays set the house in a roar:
Common sense stands aghast, thunder-struck and confounded,
While Dullness brays out from its Gall’ry, _Encore!_
Then, big with applause,
Crack’s Scotch ell of jaws[14]
Sets forth a hoarse bawling, so purely divine,
That hydras or bears
Might prick up their ears,
And howl out in concert with Bards of the Tyne.

[14] Alluding to the character of Crack, in the farce of the Turnpike Gate, where Mr Noble performed with true spirit.

AN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING.

_By JAMES STAWPERT_.

Who’s he that with great _Mercury_ strides,
In imitation’s line,
And, without reason, thus derides
The poets of the Tyne?

Who, not content with critic’s skill,
That lets no error pass;
In passion’s cup he dips his quill,
And calls his brother--ass.

I tell thee, Satirist, forbear,
For asses have a trick,
And, if provok’d, ’tis very rare
They’re not inclin’d to kick.

Now should great Fate ordain it so,
That this poor docile beast,
Whom thou hast term’d so very low,
E’en lowest of the least:

I say, should ancient Baalam’s steed,
(For so thou nam’st the man)
Tell thee in time to take good heed,
Thy manners rough to scan;

Or if, like thee, he write with ire,
And ask in angry strains,
What set thy sleepy muse on fire,
Or rous’d thy muddy brains?

Nay further, should he analize
The words “Oxygen Gas,”
He might make thee a monst’rous size,
E’en, larger than an ass!

The thought will no great time afford,
Nor needs much Orthodox,
For, take four letters from the word,
It makes thee out an OX.

I think the appellation suits,
Yet this believe from me,
Had thou not been so fond of brutes,
I’d not made one of thee.

Adieu then, ancient Egypt’s god,
Or shall I call thee bull?
When next thou handles Satyr’s rod,
Pray write thy name in full.

For two initials, such as thine,
Might make dame dullness pause,
And simple poets of the Tyne,
Find terms in Nature’s laws.

By adding _letters_ to the two
Which thou hast late put down;
No, faith, I have not time just now,
And _Modesty_ might frown.

THE RAREE SHOW MAN.

_An Election Song._--(20th September, 1780.)

_The following Verses, at an Election Song, being rather contrary to the general Arrangement of this Work, but possessing Novelty, must plead for its Insertion._

Allons, sweet childs, of smooth complexion,
Come see de grande, de rare election,
Me show de hole in much perfection.
Doodle, doodle, doo.

No congstable on me doth frownee,
In dis Newcastel famous townee,
Vare some veare breaches, some de gounee.
Doodle, doodle, doo.

But den before dat I do callee,
You give me sixpence, price is smallee;
And den I’ll nothing ask at allee.
Doodle, doodle, doo.

In fronte, you see de agents coming,
Vast great, much consequence assuming,
Far, farther far, than is becoming.
Doodle, doodle, doo.

See dere de vulgar _scum_ begin it,
Den next de Sylock _bankiers_ pin it;
Ah dere!--de devil’s selfe is in it.
Doodle, doodle, doo.

O wonderful! how dey do tumble,
Just like de Jack of cards dey tumble,
De kings, with knaves and duces humble.
Doodle, doodle, doo.

Dare de parson, lawyer, scrambles,
Dare physic doctors in de shambles,
Vere some do make de long preambles!
Doodle, doodle, doo.

See all de shop-folks gaping, staring,
Few understanding, fewer caring,
Vether perjury be swearing!
Doodle, doodle, doo.

Oh bless us! how you slaves are roaring,
Deir cunning patrons stagger snoring,
Inclined pocket trusting more in.
Doodle, doodle, doo.

Next you do see, from street of tripee,
De Goatside boys, for huzza ripee;
Vith all de lads dat make de pipee.
Doodle, doodle, doo.

And next you do behold, so stirring,
Like horned cattle in de murrain,
Dose jolly blades dat speak so burring.
Doodle, doodle, doo.

Dese be good freemen, as dey’re called;
’Tis not for nothing dey have bauled;
Huzza! till to de poll dey’re hauled!
Doodle, doodle, doo.

Stand fast--have care--see from de denny,
Come, elbow forth, de gentlemeny,
Vith all de brains--if dey have any.
Doodle, doodle, doo.

Now den, now den, de bright candidates,
Up top hustings, hope and fear deir fates:
Whilst all de congstables surround de gates.
Doodle, doodle, doo.

Ay now de mountain be in labour;
Blo, blo de fifee, sound de tabre;
Flash, flash de brade sword and de sabre.
Doodle, doodle, doo.

For _toute le Monde_ vill see, no doubtee,
Dat someting, noting, vill come outee,
To make de people glore aboutee.
Doodle, doodle, doo.

If dat brave Monsieur _Bowes_[15] be chosen,
De legs vill dance by score, by dozen,
And all de grande vill call him couzen.
Doodle, doodle, doo.

Den come again, sweet childs, to-morrow,
Me show you ten hundred joy--no sorrow;
But bring de sixpence, if you borrow.
Doodle, doodle, doo.

[15] Andrew Robinson Bowes, who gained his election, (1780) though unsuccessful in the contest on the death of Sir Walter Blackett in 1777. This person came to Newcastle as ensign in the 30th regiment of foot, quartered in that town; shortly after he married the only daughter of William Newton, Esq. a lady of fortune; after her death he married (1777) the Countess of Strathmore, from whom he was divorced for cruelty, in 1785. He served the office of Sheriff of Northumberland, 1780; and died in the King’s Bench, 16th January, 1810.

BARBER’s NEWS: OR, _Shields in an Uproar!!!_

A New Song.

Tune--“_O the golden Days of good Queen Bess._”

Great was the consternation, amazement, and dismay, Sir,
Which, both in _North_ and _South Shields_, prevail’d the other day, Sir;
Quite panic-struck the natives were, when told by the barber,
That a terrible _Sea Monster_ had got into the harbour.
“Have you heard the news Sir?” What news, pray master barber?
“Oh a terrible _sea monster_ has got into the harbour!”

Now each honest man in _Shields_--I mean both North and South, Sir,
Delighting in occasions to expand their eyes and mouth, Sir:
And fond of seeing marv’lous sights, ne’er stay’d to get his beard off;
But ran to view the monster, its arrival, when he heard of.
Oh! who could think of shaving when inform’d by the barber,
That a terrible _Sea Monster_ had got into the harbour.

Each wife pursu’d her husband, and every child its mother,
Lads and lasses _helter skelter_, scamper’d after one another;
Shopkeepers and mechanics too, forsook their daily labours,
And ran to gape and stare among their gaping staring neighbours.
All crowded to the river side, when told by the barber,
That a terrible _Sea Monster_ had got into the harbour.

It happens very frequently that _barber’s news_ is _fiction_, Sir,
But the wond’rous news this morning was truth no contradiction, Sir;
A something sure enough was there among the billows flouncing,
Now sinking in the deep profound, now on th’ surface bouncing.
True as Gazette or Gospel were the tidings of the barber,
That a terrible _Sea Monster_ had got into the harbour.

Some thought it was a _Shark_, Sir, a _Porpus_ some conceived it;
Some said it was a _Grampus_, and some a _Whale_ believ’d it;
Some swore it was a _Sea Horse_, then own’d themselves mistaken,
For, now they’d got a nearer view--’twas certainly _a Kraken_.
Each sported his opinion, from the parson to the barber,
Of the terrible _Sea Monster_ they had got in the harbour.

“Belay, belay,” a sailor cried, “_what that, this thing_, a _Kraken_!
’Tis no more like one, split my jib, than it is a flitch of bacon!
I’ve often seen a hundred such, all sporting in the Nile, Sir,
And you may trust a sailor’s word, it is a _Crocodile_, Sir.”
Each strait to Jack _knocks under_, from the parson to the barber,
And all agreed a _Crocodile_ had got into the harbour.

Yet greatly Jack’s discovery his auditors did shock, Sir,
For they dreaded that the _Salmon_ would be eat up by the Croc. Sir:
When presently the _Crocodile_, their consternation crowning,
Raised its head above the waves, and cried, “_Help! O Lord, I’m
drowning!_”
Heavens! how their hair, Sir, stood on end, from the parson to
the barber;
To find a _Speaking Crocodile_ had got into the harbour.

This dreadful exclamation appall’d both young and old, Sir,
In the very stoutest hearts, indeed, it made the blood run cold, Sir;
Ev’n _Jack_, the hero of the Nile, it caus’d to quake and tremble,
Until an old wife, sighing, cried “_Alas! ’tis Stephen K----._”
Heav’ns! however all astonish’d, from the parson to the barber,
To find that Stephen K---- was the monster in the harbour.

Strait crocodilish fears gave place to manly gen’rous strife, Sir,
Most willingly each lent a hand to save poor Stephen’s life, Sir;
They drag’d him gasping to the shore, impatient for his history,
For how he came in that sad plight, to them was quite a mystery.
Tears glisten’d, Sir, in every eye, from the parson to the barber,
When, swoln to thrice his natural _size_, they drag’d him from the
harbour.

Now having roll’d and rubb’d him well an hour upon the beach, Sir,
He got upon his legs again, and made a serious speech, Sir;
Quoth he, “An ancient proverb says, and true it will be found, Sirs,
Those born to prove an _airy doom_, will surely never be drown’d, Sirs.
For fate, Sirs, has us all in tow, from the monarch to the barber;
Or surely I had breathed my last this morning in the harbour.

Resolv’d to cross the _River_, Sirs, a Sculler did I get into,
May Jonah’s ill-luck be mine, another when I step into!
Just when we’d reach’d the deepest part, O horror! there it founders,
And down went poor Pillgarlick amongst the Crabs and Flounders!
But fate, that keeps us all in tow, from the monarch to the barber,
Ordain’d I should not breathe my last, this morning in the harbour.

I’ve broke down many a stage coach, and many a chaise and gig, Sirs,
Once, in passing through a trap-hole, I found myself too big, Sirs,
I’ve been circumstanc’d most oddly, whilst contesting hard a race, Sirs,
But ne’er was half so frighten’d, as amongst the Crabs and Plaise, Sirs.
O fate, Sirs, keeps us all in tow, from the monarch to the barber,
Or certainly I’d breath’d my last, this morning in the harbour.

My friends, for your exertions, my heart o’erflows with gratitude,
O may it prove the last time, you find me in that latitude;
God knows with what mischances dire, the future may abound, Sirs,
But I hope and trust I’m one of those, not fated to be drown’d, Sirs.”
Thus ended his oration, Sir, I had it from the barber;
And dripping, like some _River God_, he slowly left the harbour.

Ye men of _North_ and _South Shields_ too, God send ye all prosperity,
May your commerce ever flourish, your stately ships still crowd the sea;
Unrivall’d in the Coal Trade, till doomsday may you stand, Sirs,
And every hour, fresh wonders, your eyes and mouths expand, Sirs.
And long may _Stephen K----_ live, and never may the barber
Mistake him for a monster more, deep floundering in the harbour.

SONG, _On the Flight of the young Crows, from Newcastle Exchange; with their Address to the Corporation._

The young brood fairly fledg’d, we may fairly suppose,
Half the world must have heard of our Newcastle CROWS?
How their _daddy_, bold bird! from a rabble got free,
And was fully determin’d a freeman to be!
On the _vane_ of the steeple, upon the Exchange,
Completed his nest, which beholders thought strange:
His bright jetty _consort_ accomplish’d her part,
Nor foes, nor foul weather could alter her heart.

Their younglings, quite able to take distant flight,
Were told, by their parents, “_Good manners are right_.”
To their freedom admitted--they could do no less,
Than approach their kind patrons, with humble ADDRESS;
To thank them politely, without wanton joke,
For, so learned in _swallow_, they must learn to _croak_.--
In a trice----as if ÆSOP himself had inspir’d,
They began their address, whilst their hearers admir’d.

“Ye wise men, and good men, of NEWCASTLE GUILD,
Who suffer’d our father and mother to build----
High, upon the high pinnacle of your Exchange,
And here see their offspring just ready to range;
To range with sweet freedom, o’er land, and o’er seas,
To eat and to drink, and to _croak_ as we please----
Accept our plain thanks, while the reasons we clear,
Why some _Merlin_, or _Shipton_, hath sure sent us here.

“One thousand seven hundred, eighty and three,
For this town, a remarkable æra will be!
All folks will _think_ right, from grave age to smart youth,
Nor priests, nor disciples, _e’er_ wander from TRUTH;
Your rulers be loyal to great George the third,
Each rich man prove honest, and _just_ to his word:
No _fair-trading_ merchant will _smuggle_, or cheat,
No foul gorging glutton _waste_ poor people’s meat.

“Your fine Sandhill _maidens_ be merry and wise,
From their _crying_ of lemons, to _selling_ of pies;
Your green, and rare fish-women, civil enough,
Your milliners spruce, not so apt to take huff.
Up the SIDE, you’ll hear compliments, happy and free,
Where hot _puddings_, and _haggishes_, plenty shall be:
The silver-smiths, coopers, and tinmen will join
To sound the _reforms_ now produc’d on the TYNE.

“Your Sandgate smart girls, the gay world will surprise,
Grown _cleanly_, and decent, and _modest_, and wise;
The keelmen, in _manners_, become quite polite,
No _cursing_ at morn, nor _much_ drunk over night!
_Refining_ in language, _improving_ in notes,
Letter _R_ run far smoother, and _glib_ through their throats:
Their Andrews, these sirnames, bear better degrees,
Ralphs, Richardsons, Rogersons, uttered with ease.

“No tailor will _cabbage_, no draper will _pinch_,
No shoemaker _squeeze_ a full nail from an inch;
No baker, or flourman, be short of his weight,
No forestaller _breed_ low designs in his pate;
No butcher, on _Bank_, keep prices too high,
No hatter, no baker, deceive with a _lie_!----
But what will stand foremost in public parade,
Newcastle shall furnish a _cheaper_ COAL TRADE!

“In _politics_, surely, such changes will be,
The people and magistrates _mutual_ agree;
No bribery, no menace, no little whit self,
No pride overbearing, or _impudent_ wealth;
But each _voter_ prove honest to OLD ENGLAND’S laws,
Still prudently guarding fair liberty’s cause!
And so, brother freemen, God bless ye, _adieu!_
We fly to sage FRANKLIN, and WASHINGTON now.”

A RARE CURIOSITY: OR, _CROW’S NEST IN GATESHEAD_. A NEW SONG.

As Neddy and Betty were walking along,
Each cheerfully joining in dialogue song;
I met them, delighted on Gateshead green hill,
While Betty’s sweet voice charm’d all lads round each mill.
Derry down, &c.

_BETTY._

Indeed, honest Neddy! the news is quite true,
Th’ Sandhill, no longer crow nests we can view;
The downfalling Steeple, and coming down Change,
Oblig’d feather’d builders at distance to range.
Derry down, &c.

_NEDDY._

Does not my fair Betty know perfectly well,
No birds in prognostics black crows can excell?
No sooner their nests on the Sandhill were shewn,
Than public improvements came rapidly on.
Derry down, &c.

_BETTY._

O yes I remember, from _Close_ when they flew,
What crowds of spectators their nests came to view;
When pitched so nicely on top of the vane,
As signals, where Justice and Commerce did reign.
Derry down, &c.

_NEDDY._

It is very true, my dear charmer, indeed,
Spectators beheld vast improvements succeed;
A beautiful Square, named Charlotte the Queen,
New streets, and Assembly Rooms elegant seen.
Derry down, &c.

_BETTY._

O yes, and a Theatre, royal and fine,
Erected, no doubt, for some noble design;
To shew thoughtless mortals of ev’ry degree,
How defaulting they are, how good they should be.
Derry down, &c.

_NEDDY._

From thence, if reflection keeps soberly on,
We’ve the _Free Mason Lodge_, in the style of St John;[16]
Where true wit and humour with charity meet,
And souls are united in union complete.
Derry down, &c.

_BETTY._

I’m calling to mind, what a gipsy once told,
Who came in the crowd the _crow’s nest_ to behold;
“These crows are wise creatures--Trade here will improve,
As sure as the winds can that weather-cock move!”
Derry down, &c.

_NEDDY._

Then Gateshead is lucky, I vow and declare,
Behold, my dear Betty! where now the crows are;
Near Battle Bank foot, their snug nests you may find,
Upon those new chimnies, set free to the wind.
Derry down, &c.

_BETTY._

O wonderful! Neddy, I see them so plain,
Quite opposite now to their former gilt vane;
The _Stamp Office_ chosen, they mean to proceed,
The good folk of Gateshead are lucky indeed.
Derry down, &c.

_NEDDY._

Then let me, dear Betty, meet better luck still,
Come, give me thy heart and thy hand with good will;
You know I am honest, my vows are sincere,
From all the deceits of vile rascals quite clear.
Derry down, &c.

_BETTY._

So many false villains but court to deceive,
We virgins in prudence should slowly believe;
If they can but the punishing laws once escape,
They fear not the devil, his torments, or shape.
Derry down, &c.

_NEDDY._

May all worthy millers grind such rascals down,
Till neither their dust nor their ashes are known;
Here’s my hand, dearest Bett! for life let us join,
Consent--and to morrow my _all_ shall be thine.
Derry down, &c.

_BETTY._

Dear Ned! I believe, and to-morrow shall see,
How blessing and blest honest lovers can be;
_The crow’s nest in Gateshead_ full witness may prove,
That none but vile _fools_ are deceitful in love.
Derry down, down, hey derry down.

[16] St John’s Lodge, No. 184, Free Masons’ Hall, Low Friar Street, Newcastle, dedicated October 18th, 1777, was some years after disused and converted into the Dispensary.

THE FRENCH INVASION.

_Published May 10th, 1794._