Chapter III: Part 3

Was't this made our guns fire sae loud?
Did our bells for this ring sae merry?
For this our ships swagger'd sae proud?
Faith, we've been in too big a hurry!
But our STAR, they said, could de ought,
And the Treasury quickly would gull--
Our Butcher was clever, we thought;
But aw think he's come hyem like a feul.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

Yet our plan we all thought was good;
For we'd build them large cellars and kees;
It likewise might be understood,
Docks and warehouses tee, if they'd please.
Then we try'd to set in full view,
That the Revenue it would increase;
Especially as we stood now,
When we thought ourselves snugly at peace.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

But the Newcassel folk now, it seems,
Had sent some deep jockies te Lunnin,
And they suen upset all our schemes,
Which we thought se clever and cunnin:
For BIG-WIG, who mounts the Wool-sack,
Said, That he plainly saw we were wrang,
Since it had been prov'd in a crack,
By the _Jockey_, whose ARM they call STRANG.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

But what's warse than losing our Branch,
Is being spoil'd in our grand speculation;
For 'stead of our shining se staunch,
We now meet wi' nought but vexation.
Now certainly we must be wrang,
The Barbers are swearing and raving,
Our faces are all grown se lang,
They'll double the price of our shaving!!!
Rum ti iddity, &c.

THE GREEN-WIVES' LAMENTATION.

Wor Green-stalls on Sandhill, se lang fam'd of yore,
Where Greenwives display'd all their fresh shining store,
Where tubs wi' tatoes their proud crests did rear,
Cabbage, carrots, an' turnips wi' joy did appear.

Wor time on the Sandhill wi' pleasure did glide,
To display all wor wares and to scold was wor pride;
Wor noise did the greet folks of Gotham engage:
By the stalls of the Butchers we're now to be caged.

But think not the Sandhill we'll tamely resign,
By the L--d we will meet an' we'll kick up a shine!
Wor voice we'll extend, and with noise rend the sky,
When from the Sandhill we're compell'd to fly.

With speed, haste assemble the first market-day,
Wor forces we'll marshal in glorious array:
A leader let's choose, a virago so bold,
The word let her give, and we rarely will scold.

From off the Sandhill ere our legions depart,
We will vent all wor spleen, and ease each full heart,
We will scold till no malice or rancour remain,
Then march off wor forces--a large warlike train.

A procession we'll form, wi' wor tubs and wor swills,
And move with slaw steps frae the dear-lov'd Sandhill;
And when the new station our forces obtain,
Well take a good glass and well scorn to complain.

A PETITION

_From the Women of the Vegetable Market, to the Mayor of Newcastle._

When away fra the Sandhill, sir, at first that we wur sent,
It was wi' heavy hearts, ye ken, yur Honour, that we went;
But now iv the New Market, sir, we're ev'ry ane admir'd,
And if ye'll nobut _cover_ us, it's all that is desir'd!

Afore your worship judges us, now make a little _paws_,
And dinna gan to say that we complain without a _caws_;
For that yur Honour _cover'd_ a' the country wives, yeknow,
But huz, yur awn sweet townswomen, ye let neglected go.

For shem, now hinny, Mr. Mayor, to gan & play yur rigs,
An' cover a' the country girls that com to town wi' pigs;
Wi' butter and wi' eggs too--they are se dousely made;
Ah, you've _cover'd_ every ane of them, sir--iv a slated shade.

Now dinna let folks say that we've ne reet te complain,
When they are a' se snugly plac'd, and we are i' the rain:
Then without ne mair fash, sir, now do yur Honour say,
That ye will nobut _cover_ us--and we will every pray.

THE FISH-WIVES' COMPLAINT,

_On their Removal from the Sandhill to the New Fish Market, on the 2d of January, 1826._

The merry day hez getten past,
And we are aw myest broken hearted:
Ye've surely deun for us at last--
Frae Sandhill, noo, ye hev us parted.

Oh! hinnies, Corporation!
A! marcy, Corporation!
Ye hev deun a shemful deed,
To force us frae wor canny station.

It's nee use being iv a rage,
For a' wor pride noo fairly sunk is--
Ye've cramm'd us in a Dandy Cage,
Like yellow-yowlies, bears, and monkies:
O hinnies, &c.

The cau'd East wind blaws i' wor teeth--
With iron bars we are surrounded;
It's better far to suffer deeth,
Than thus to hev wor feelings wounded.
O hinnies, &c.

Wor haddocks, turbot, cod, and ling,
Are lost tiv a' wor friends' inspection;
Genteelish folk from us tyek wing,
For fear of catching some infection.
O hinnies, &c.

O, kind Sir Matt.--ye bonny Star,
Gan to the King, and show this ditty--
Tell him what canny folks we are,
And make him free us frae this Kitty.
O hinnies, &c.

If ye succeed, agyen we'll sing--
Sweet Madge, wor Queen, will ever bless ye;
And poor au'd Jemmy tee, wor King,
With a' us fishwives will caress ye.
O hinnies, &c.

SUNDERLAND JAMMY'S LAMENTATION,

_December, 1831._

My sankers! we're all in a fine hobble now,
Since the Cholera com tiv our river;
Aw wadn't hae car'd if 'twas ought that one knew,
But the outlandish nyem myeks one shiver:
Our doctors are all in a deuce of a way.
And some says they've _Clannied_ to wrang us;
But I think we may all curse the _Daun_ o' that day,
That the _block_-headed _Board_ com amang us.

Some says that Sir Cuddy deserves all the blyem,
For lettin the ships up the watter--
That brought ower the Cholera frev its awn hyem,
And some says that myed little matter;
But as woman's the root of all evil, ye see,
(At least, all my life aw hev thought it,)
Aw rather believe, as it's been tell'd to me,
That it was one _Mall Airey_ (Malaria) that brought it.

This Chol'ra's the queerest thing e'er had a nyem,
If one may believe what they're talking;
It sometimes gets haud o' folks when they're at hyem,
And sometimes when they're out a walking:
Wey, my neybour of eighty, that deed t'other day,
Folks thought that 'twas nature that fail'd him;
But a doctor chep happ'ning to come by that way,
Swore down thump 'twas the Chol'ra that ail'd him.

Thur doctor cheps prent all the lees that they've tell'd;
Ony nonsense--they never will mis't;
My cheek wi' the tuith-wark hez getten all swell'd,
And aw's warn't they'll haed down i' their list:
Aw never was _chol'ric_, but quiet, aw's sure,
Tho' wi' fear aw's grown sweaty and clammy;
So smoke this wi' brumston to myek all secure,
Aw's your servant, A SUNDERLAND JAMMY.

THE COBBLER O' MORPETH--(_Cholera Morbus._)

_By John M'Lellan._

The Cobbler o' Morpeth myeks sic noise,
He frights the country round, sirs;
That if yen i' the guts hez pain,
By the Plague they think he's doom'd, sirs.
It was but just the tother day,
A Skipper, when at Sheels, sirs,
Drank yell till he cou'd hardly see,
Or ken his head frae heels, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Wi' much ta dee he reach'd his hyem,
But hoo, aw canna tell ye;
When thunnering at the door he cries,
And blubbers out 'Wife Nelly--
Oh Nell, maw guts are varra bad,
Aw'm sartin aw shall dee, now,
For that d----d plague that's killing a',
Th' Cobbler o' Morpeth's in me, now.'
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

'The Cobbler o' Morpeth! whe is he?
Hez he brak frae the jail, now?'--
'Hout no, ye fule, Jack Russ he's caw'd,
An' kills folks by wholesale, now.
Somehow he creeps up the back way;
Aye it's true as deeth, maw Nelly--
For now he's dancin thro' and thro',
And up and down maw belly.'
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Tom sigh'd and moan'd, and kick'd and groan'd,
Wi' mony a writhe and start, sirs,
And swore that for a new _lapstane_,
The Cobbler had ta'en his heart, sirs.
He blether'd 'Nell, now divent ye hear
His rumbling and his raking,
He twists and twines maw tripes sae sair,
Sure o' them he's _wax-ends_ making.'
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Now Nell aff ran to Doctor Belch,
And tell'd Tom's case in fright, sirs,
Wha gav her stuff whilk varra seun
Set Tommy's guts to right, sirs.
And when that his sad pain was eas'd,
He blam'd nyen but himsel, sirs,
But swore he ne'er agyen at Sheels
Wad drink their d----d new yell, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

CAUTION.
Now, neighbours, divent drink to excess--
A canny sober course steer;
Be cleanly, and be temperate,
And the Cobbler o' Morpeth ne'er fear.
But if he should amang huz come,
To th' Infirm'ry we will send him;
And seun they'll purge his au'd saul out,
If that they cannot mend him.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

CANNY SHEELS.

(_By John Morris._)

'Bout Newcassel they've written sae mony fine sangs,
And compar'd their bit place unti Lunnun;
What a shem that 'tiv Sheels not a poet belangs,
For to tell them they lee wi' their funnin.
They may boast o' their shippin without ony doubt,
For there's nyen can deny that they've plenty;
But for every yen they are gobbing about,
Aw'm sure we can shew them, ey twenty!

Let them haud their fule gobs then & brag us ne mair,
With their clarty bit au'd Corporation;
For it's varry weel knawn Sheels pays her full share
For to keep Mister Mayor iv his station.

They hev a bit place where they myek a few shot,
Lunnun's Column tiv it's like a nine-pin;
And St. Nicholas compar'd wi' St. Paul's an' what not,
Wey it's a yuven compar'd tiv a limekiln.
If their Shot Tower sae hee was plac'd on wor Sand End,
'Side wor Light House to scraffle to glory;
Their journey to heaven wad suen hev an end,
For by gox they'd ne'er reach the first story.
Let them haud, &c.

They call their Infirm'ry a place for a king,
To be stow'd 'mang the sick, lyem, and lazy;
If a Sheels man had ventur'd to say sic a thing,
The blind gowks wad a' said he was crazy.
'Bout their Custom House tee they myek a great rout,
That the e'en o' the folk it diz dazzel;
But if a' gans reet Sheels, without ony doubt,
Will suen eclipse that at Canny Newcassel.
Let them haud, &c.

Then they brag they leuk bonny, fresh-colored and gay,
And the Lunnun folk a' wishey washey;
But L----d put it off tiv a far distant day,
That there's one on huz here leuks sae trashy.
Then they boast o' Sir Matthew--but never enquire
If the foundation's good that he stood on;
But if he comes up to wor canny au'd Squire,
Then becrikes he is nowse but a good 'un.
Let them haud, &c.

But the Squire, canny man, he's gyen frae the toon,
And aw'm sure on't the poor sairly miss him;
For oft as aw wauk Pearson's Raw up and doon,
Aw hear the folk cry, Heaven bliss him!
Yet aw hope, an' aw trust, he'll suen find his way hyem,
And aw's sure aw'll be glad to hear tell on't;
For aw've varry oft thowt--did ye ne'er think the syem,
Since he's gyen Sheels hezzent luik't like the sel on't.
Let them haud, &c.

Then lang life to the King and wor awn noble Duik,
May Sheels lang partake of his bounty;
For Newcassel, ye ken, if ye e'er read a buik,
Is at yence byeth a toon and a county.
Northumberland's Duik may still shew his sel there,
But his int'rest frae Sheels ne'er can sever;
So aw'll gie ye just now, shou'd aw ne'er see ye mair,
Wor Duik and wor Duchess for ever!

Let them haud their fule gobs then & brag us ne mair,
Wi' their this, that, and t'other sae cliver;
We'll aw drink as lang's we've a penny to spare,
Here's success to wor awn town for ever!!!

PERMANENT YEAST.

Jack Hume one day cam into toon,
And efter wandering up and doon,
He bought some things, and 'mang the rest,
A bottle of Permanent Yeast.
Fal de ral la, &c.

Now when he'd getten a' things reet,
He was gaun trudging hyem at neet,
When on the road he heard a crack,
An' fand a bullet in his back.
Fal de ral la, &c.

He fell directly on the spot,
For Jack imagin'd he was shot;
Some said he'd liquor in his head,
And others thought that he was dead.
Fal de ral la, &c.

But Jack suen gav a greet groan out,
And after that he com about,
He says, O bring a Doctor here!
Or else aw'll suen be deed, aw fear,
Fal de ral la, &c.

O neighbours, de tyek off maw sark,
And try if ye can find the mark!
They leuk'd, but nought there could be seen,
They wonder'd a' what it had been.
Fal de ral la, &c.

But, howe'er, it cam to pass,
Out of his pocket fell some glass:
Now then, says Jack, it is ne joke,
See there's maw good yeast bottle broke!
Fal de ral la, &c.

A fellow wiser than the rest,
Soon found out it had been the yeast:
Wi' walking Jack had made it work,
The bullet only was the cork.
Fal de ral la, &c.

Now Jackey finding his mistake,
He thought the best plan he could take
Was to be off--he seiz'd his hat,
And ran hyem like a scadded cat.
Fal de ral la, &c.

THE PITMAN'S RAMBLE;

_Or, Newcastle Finery,_

Ho! lizzen, aw ye neybors roun,
Yor clappers haud and pipes lay doon;
Aw've had a swagger through the toon,
Yen morning aw went suen ti'd.
Ye see, aw fand aw wasn't thrang,
Sae to Newcassel aw wad gang:
Aw's lap't a' up, just like a sang,
And try to put a tune ti'd.

Bad times they'e now, yen weel may say;
Aw've seen when on a market day,
Wiv wor toon's cheps aw'd drink away,
And carry on the war, man:
But now yen staups an' stares aboot,
To see what's strange to carry oot;
Brass letters fassen'd on a cloot,
A unicorn, or star, man.

Ye see, aw thowt they were to sell;
So ax'd the chep, if he cud tell,
What he wad tyek for C and L,
To nail upon maw hen hoose;
But he insisted, smash his crop!
Aw'd like a fule mistyen the shop;
And bad me quickly off te hop,
He'd bowt them for his awn use.

He flang maw hump sae out o' joint,
Sae, smash! aw thowt aw'd hev a pint!
But when aw gat te Peterpoint,
The chep that sells the candy,
The folks luik'd in wiv greedy wish,
He'd bonny siller in a dish;
And just abuin, twee bits o' fish
Was sweeming, fine as can be.

The tyen was like Hob Fewster's cowt,
A' spreckled round about the snout,
They flapp'd their tails aboot like owt,
Quite full o' gamalerie:
And then the munny shin'd sae breet,
The greet Tom Cat wad hev a peep,
And paunder'd tiv he fell asleep;
The silly thing was weary.

Sae farther up aw teuk my cruize,
And luik'd amang the buits and shoes;
Where yen aw thowt they did ill use,
It sweem'd, aye, like a daisy:
Says aw, How! man, what's thou aboot?
Weyu'cum and tyek that slipper oot;
Tho's flay'd away the sammun trout:
Says he, Young man, thou's crazy!

Had aw not been a patient chap,
Aw wad hae fetch'd him sike a rap,
As that which daver'd poor au'd Cap:[2]
But, faith! the Kitty scar'd me:
Sae whisht aw grew; for, efter that,
Iv a lairge glass bowl, byeth round and flat,
Aw spied a maccaroni hat,
But at maw peril dar'd me.

Sae, efter dark, up Pilgrim-street,
The fine Gas Leeters shin'd sae breet,
That if a bonny lass ye meet,
Ye'd ken her varry features:
When pipes are laid, and a' things duen,
They say Newcassel, varry suen,
Will darken, aye, the varry muin,
A' wi' thor fine Gas Leeters.

Footnote 2: Alluding to the song call'd 'Cappy, or the Pitman's Dog.'--See page 19.

COALY TYNE.

Tyne River, running rough or smooth,
Makes bread for me and mine;
Of all the rivers, north or south,
There's none like coaly Tyne.

So here's to coaly Tyne, my lads,
Success to coaly Tyne,
Of all the rivers, north or south,
There's none like coaly Tyne.

Long has Tyne's swelling bosom borne
Great riches from the mine,
All by her hardy sons uptorn--
The wealth of coaly Tyne.

Our keelmen brave, with laden keels,
Go sailing down in line,
And with them load the fleet at Shields,
That sails from coaly Tyne.

When Bonaparte the world did sway,
Dutch, Spanish, did combine;
By sea and land proud bent their way,
The sons of coaly Tyne.

The sons of Tyne, in seas of blood,
Trafalgar's fight did join,
When led by dauntless Collingwood,
The hero of the Tyne.

With courage bold, and hearts so true,
Form'd in the British line;
With Wellington, at Waterloo,
Hard fought the sons of Tyne.

When peace, who would be Volunteers?
Or Hero Dandies fine?
Or sham Hussars, or Tirailleurs?--
Disgrace to coaly Tyne.

Or who would be a Tyrant's Guard,
Or shield a libertine?
Let Tyrants meet their due reward,
Ye sons of coaly Tyne.

NEWCASSEL RACES.

It's hae ye heard the ill that's duen?
Or hae ye lost? or hae ye won?
Or hae ye seen what mirth and fun,
At fam'd Newcassel Races, O?
The weather fine, and folks sae gay,
Put on their best, and bent their way
To the Town Moor, to spend the day,
At fam'd Newcassel Races, O.

There shows of all sorts you may view;
Polito's grand collection too;
Such noise and din and lilli-bulloo,
At fam'd Newcassel Races, O.
There some on horses sat astride,
And some in gigs did snugly ride,
With smart young wenches by their side;
Look'd stilish at the Races, O.

A Tailor chep aw chanc'd to spy,
Was sneekin through the crowd sae sly,
For he'd tyen the darling of his eye,
To swagger at the Races, O.
He says, My dear, we'll see the show,
Egad! says she, I do not know,
It looks so vulgar and so low,
We'd better see the Races, O.

One Buck cries, Demme, go the rig!
Got two smart lasses in a gig;
He crack'd his whip, and look'd quite big,
While swagg'rin at the Races, O.
But soon, alas! the gig upset,
An ugly thump they each did get;
Some say, that he his breeches wet,
For fear, when at the Races, O.

The one was lyem'd abuin the knee,
The other freeten'd desp'rately;
"This demm'd unlucky job!" says she,
"Has fairly spoil'd my Races, O!"
He gat them in, wi' some delay,
And te Newcassel bent his way;
But oft, indeed, he curs'd the day,
That e'er he'd seen the Races, O.

Now some were singin songs so fine,
And some were lying drunk like swine,
Some drank porter, others wine;
Rare drinkin at the Races, O!
The wanton wags in corners sat,
Wiv bonny lasses on their lap;
And mony a yen gat tit for tat,
Before they left the Races, O.

Now lads and lasses myed for toon,
And in the road they oft lay doon;
Faith! mony a lassie spoil'd her goon,
A comin frae the Races, O:
Some gat hyem, midst outs and ins,
Some had black eyes and broken shins,
And some lay drunk amang the whins,
A comin frae the Races, O:

Let every one his station mense,
By acting like a man of sense--
'Twill save him mony a pund expense,
When he gans te the Races, O.
Kind friends, I would you all advise,
Good counsel ye should ne'er despise,
The world's opinion always prize,
When ye gan to the Races, O.

THE QUACK DOCTORS.

Wor laureate may sing for his cash,
Of laws, constitution, and proctors,
Contented aw'll blair for a dash
At the slee understrapping quack doctors,
They gob o' their physical skill,
Till their jaws yen might swear they wad rive,
To prove what's alive they can kill,
And what's dead they can suen myek alive.

A' ye wi' the glanders snout-full,
Repair to each wondrous adviser--
For though ye were born a stark fuel,
Depend on't, they'll suen myek ye wiser.
Their physic, they say, in a trice,
Snaps every disease like a towt:
But the best on't all is their advice--
Ye can get it free gratis for nowt.

Wiv a kessle puff'd up to the chin,
Went to see yen, a strapping young doxy,
He examin'd her lugs and her een,
And declar'd her myest dead o' the dropsy.
The lassie he therefore wad tap,
At which she set up a great yell;
When out popp'd a little wee chap
Myest as wise as the doctor's awnsel'.

Next they teuk him a man, whee for fancies,
A' day wad sit silent and sad--
He upheld that he'd lost his reet senses,
And therefore he surely was mad.
But now he gies mony a roar,
Of the doctor's great skill to convince--
If he wasn't a madman before
At least he's been yen ever since.

Last, in hobbled gouty Sir Peter,
To get of his drugs a good doze--
Three days he deep studied his water,
Ere he'd his opinion disclose.
Then proclaim'd that Sir Peet was ower fat,
For the doctor was never mistyen
By my faiks! but he curd him o' that--
Suen Sir Peet left the warld, skin and byen.

Now, he that winn't loyally sing,
May he swing like an ass in a tether,
Good hilth and long life to the King,
To keep us in union together.
The heart iv each Briton he leads
To rejoice i' the fall o' the quacks--
So we'll aye keep the brains i' wor heeds,
And we'll ay hae the flesh on wor backs.

PEGGY'S LEG.

_Written on seeing the Leg of a beautiful Female exposed by the wind on Tyne Bridge, March, 1806._

O tak't not amiss while I sing, my Peggy,
O tak't not amiss while I sing,
How rude the wind blew, and expos'd thy neat leggy,
Thy knee and red garten string, my Peggy,
Thy knee and red garten string.

Nor take it amiss while I tell thee, Peggy,
Nor take it amiss while I tell,
How a' my heart felt upon seeing thy leggy;--
I've never sinsyne been mysel', my Peggy,
I've never sinsyne been mysel'.

I think the brisk gale acted right, my Peggy,
I think the brisk gale acted right,
In shewing me, O lovely dear! thy smart leggy--
It was sic a glorious sight, my Peggy,
It was sic a glorious sight.

In troth I'd gan monie a mile, my Peggy,
In troth I'd gan monie a mile,
Again, my dear Charmer, to view thy neat leggy,
And see on thy face a sweet smile, my Peggy,
And see on thy face a sweet smile.

I'm deeply in love wi' thee a', my Peggy,
I'm deeply in love wi' thee a'--
And I'll think on thy face and thy smart buskit leggy,
As lang as I've breath for to draw, my Peggy,
As lang as I've breath for to draw.

BONNY KEEL LADDIE.

Maw bonny keel laddie, maw canny keel laddie,
Maw bonny keel laddie for me, O!
He sits in his keel, as black as the Deil,
And he brings the white money to me, O.

Hae ye seen owt o' maw canny man,
And are ye sure he's weel, O?
He's gyen ower land, wiv a stick in his hand,
To help to moor the keel, O.

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

THE TYNE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NANNY OF THE TYNE.

Whilst bards, in strains that sweetly flow,
Extol each nymph so fair,
Be mine my Nanny's worth to shew,
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 excels.
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
Was 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 BONNY GYETSIDERS.

Tune--"Bob Cranky."

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

Of a' the fine Volunteer corpses,
Whether footmen, or ridin' on horses,
'Tween the Tweed and the Tees,
Deil hae them that sees
Sic a corpse as the Bonny Gyetsiders.

Whilk amang them can mairch, turn, an' wheel sae?
Whilk their guns can wise off half sae weel sae?
Nay, for myeking a _crack_,
Through England aw'll back
The corps of the Bonny Gyetsiders.

When the time for parading nigh hand grows,
A' wesh theirsels clean i' the sleck troughs:
Fling off their black duddies,
Leave hammers and studdies,
And to drill--run the Bonny Gyetsiders.

To Newcassel, for three weeks up-stannin,
On Parmanent Duty they're gannin;
And seun i' the papers
We's read a' the capers
O' the corps o' the Bonny Gyetsiders.

The Newcassel chaps fancy they're clever,
And are vaunting and braggin' for ever;
But they'll find theirsels wrang,
If they think they can bang,
At sowg'rin', the Bonny Gyetsiders.

The Gen'ral shall see they can lowp dykes,
Or mairch thro' whins, lair whooles, and deep sykes;
Nay, to soom (at a pinch)
Through Tyne, waddent flinch
The corps o' the Bonny Gyetsiders.

Some think Billy Pitt's nobbit hummin,
When he tells aboot Bonnepairt cummin;
But come when he may,
He'll lang rue the day
He first meets wi' the Bonny Gyetsiders:

Like an anchor-shank, smash! how they'll clatter 'im,
And turn 'im, and skelp 'im, and batter 'im;
His byens sal, by jing!
Like a frying-pan ring,
When he meets wi' the Bonny Gyetsiders.

Let them yence get 'im into their taings weel,
Nae fear but they'll give him his whaings weel;
And to Hezlett's Pond bring 'im,
And there in chains hing 'im,
What a seet for the Bonny Gyetsiders!

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

THE WATER OF TYNE.

I cannot get to my love, if I should dee,
The water of Tyne runs between him and me;
And here I must stand, with the tear in my e'e,
Both sighing and sickly my sweetheart to see.

O where is the boatman? my bonny honey!
O where is the boatman? bring him to me--
To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey,
And I will remember the boatman and thee.

O bring me a boatman--I'll give any money,
(And you for your trouble rewarded shall be)
To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey,
Or skull him across that rough river to me.

THE NEWCASTLE SIGNS.

Written by 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 the 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 have 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 Tiger 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 Butchers' Arms quick they'd be running away,
And we all know that Shakespeare would shew 'em some _play_.

At the White Hart, Three Bulls' Heads, the Old Dog and Duck,
If they did not get thrash'd, they'd escape by good luck:
At the Bird in Bush, Metters' 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 Briton protect;
And may he who would humble our Old British Crown,
Be hung on a sign-post till I take him down.

THE WONDERFUL GUTTER.

Since Boney was sent to that place owre the sea,
We've had little to talk of, but far less to dee;
But now they're a' saying, we suen will get better,
When yence they begin with the wonderful Gutter,

The great lang Gutter, the wonderful Gutter:
Success to the Gutter! and prosper the Plough!

The way how aw ken--when aw was at the toon,
Aw met Dicky Wise near the Rose and the Croon;
And as Dicky reads papers, and talks aboot Kings,
Wey he's like to ken weel about Gutters and things;
So he talk'd owre the Gutter, &c.

He then a lang story began for to tell,
And said that it often was ca'd a Can-nell;
But he thowt, by a Gutter, aw wad understand,
That's it's cutten reet through a' the Gentlemen's land.
Now that's caw'd a Gutter, &c.

Now, whether the sea's owre big at the West,
Or scanty at Sheels--wey, ye mebby ken best;
For he says they can team, aye, without any bother,
A sup out o' yen, a' the way to the tother,
By the great lang Gutter, &c.

Besides, there'll be bridges, and locks, and lairge keys,
And shippies, to trade wiv eggs, butter, and cheese:
And if they'll not sail weel, for want o' mair force,
They'll myek ne mair fuss, but yoke in a strang horse,
To pull through the Gutter, &c.

Ye ken there's a deal that's lang wanted a myel,
When they start wi' the Gutter 'twill thicken their kyell:
Let wages be high, or be just what they may,
It will certainly help to drive hunger away,
While they work at the Gutter, &c.

There's wor Tyne sammun tee 'ill not ken what's the matter,
When they get a gobful o' briny saut watter;
But if they should gan off, it's cum'd into my nob,
For to myek some amends we mun catch a' the cod,
That sweems down the Gutter, &c.

So come money and friends support Willy Armstrang,
In vent'rin a thoosan ye canna get wrang;
While we get wor breed by the sweet o' wor brow,
Success to the Gutter! and prosper the Plough!
The great lang Gutter, &c.

THE LOCAL MILITIA-MAN.

Tune--"Madam Fag's Gala."

How! marrows, aw'se tip you a sang,
If ye'll nobbit give your attention,
Aw've sarrow'd maw king seven years,
And aw'm now luikin out for the pension.
But when my adventures aw tell,
An' should ye fin reason to doubt it,
An' think it mair than aw deserve,
Aw'se just rest contented without it.
Rum ti idity, &c.

Ye mun ken, when aw first went to drill,
Maw gun aw flang owre maw heed,
Fell'd the chep that stuid close in ahint me,
He lay kickin and sprawlin for deed.
But when wor manuvres we lairn'd,
Wor Cornel o' huz grew se fond, man,
He match'd us gyen four smashing targets,
Close ower ayont Heslop's Pond, man.
Rum ti idity, &c.

We mairch'd off at nine i' the mornin,
And at four we were not quite duin,
While a bite never enter'd our thropples:
Wi' hunger were fit to lie doon.
But wor fellows they tuik sic an aim,
Ye wad thought that they shot for a wager;
And yen chep, the deil pay his hide,
He varra nigh shot the Drum-Major.
Rum ti idity, &c.

Suin efter, 'twas on the Vairge Day,
'Bout the time that wor Cornel was Mayor,
Fra Gyetshead we fir'd ower their heeds,
Myed the fokes in Newcassel to stare.
To Newburn we then bore away,
And embark'd just beside a great Dung-hole,
Wi' biscuit and plenty o' yell,
And wor Adjutant Clerk o' the Bung-hole.
Rum ti idity, &c.

Wor Triangular Lad lowp'd first ashore,
When the folks ran like cows or mad bulls;
Iv a jiffy they cam back to fight us,
Wi' pokers and three-footed stuils.
When they fand he was not Bonnyparty,
Nor nyen ov his sowgers frae France,
The music then started to play,
And we for to caper and dance.
Rum ti idity, &c.

Sic wark as we had efter that,
Wad tyek a lang day for to tell,
How we fronted, an' flankt it, an' maircht
Through the sowgers at Thropley Fell,
At the Play-house we've shin'd mony a time,
Wor scaups a' besmatter-d wi' flour;
But that neet it wad myed the deil gurn,
To see us a' powthert wi' stour.
Rum ti idity, &c.

Yen day we were form'd in a ring,
And wor Cornel said this, 'at ne'er spoke ill,
"Ye your sarvis, my lads, mun transfer
Tiv a core caw'd the Durham Foot Local."
So tiv Sunderland if ye'd but gan,
And see us a' stand in a line,
Ye'd swear that a few finer fellows
Ne'er cam fra the Wear and the Tyne.
Rum ti idity, &c.

MASQUERADE AT NEWCASTLE THEATRE;

_Or, The Pitman turned Critic_.

As Jemmy the brakesman and me
Was taukin 'bout sentries and drill,
We saw, clagg'd agyen a yek tree,
A fower-square little hand-bill.
Says Jemmy, Now halt tiv aw read her;
When up cam wor canny au'd Sairgan:
Says he, Ye mun come to the Teapot,
On Friday, and get yor dischairge, man.
Tol de rol, &c.

We dress'd worsels smart, cam to toon,
Mister Government paid us wor brass:
Then we swagger'd off to the Hauf Meun,
To rozzel wor nobs wiv a glass.
We sang, smok'd, and fuddled away,
And cut mony a wonderful caper;
Says aw, Smash! howay to the Play,
Or, what some folks ca' a Theater.
Tol de rol, &c.

We ran, and seun fand a good plyace,
Aye, before they'd weel hoisted their leets;
When a lyedy, wi' gauze ower her fyece,
Cam an' tummel'd ower twe o' the seats.
Aw hardly kend what for to say;
But says aw, Div ye fin owse the warse?
Says her neybeur, Pop Folly's the Play,
And Maskamagrady's the Farce.
Tol de rol, &c.

The Players they cam on iv dozens,
Wiv fine dusty buits without spurs;
And they tauk'd about mothers and cousins,
So did Jemmy and me about wors.
We had plenty o' fiddlin and fleutin,
Till the bugles began for to blaw;
Then aw thowt aw heerd wor Major shootin,
Fa' in, my lads! stand in a raw!
Tol de rol, &c.

We then see'd a little smart chap,
Went lowpin and skippin aboot;
Says aw, Smash! thou is up to trap!
For he let the fokes byeth in and out.
There was Fawstaff, a fat luikin fellow,
Wiv a Miss in each airm, being drunkey;
Then a black Lyedy, wiv a numbrella,
A fiddler, a bear, and a monkey.
Tol de rol, &c.

Next cam on a swaggerin blade,
He's humpt o' byeth shouthers an' legs;
A blackymoor, painter by trade,
And o' dancing was myekin his brags:
When a collier cam on, quick as thowt,
Maw sarties! but he gat a pauler;
Says he, Smash! aw'll dance thou for owt;
Then says aw, Five to fower on Kit Swaller!
Tol de rol, &c.

He danc'd the Keel Row to sic tune,
His marrow declar'd he was bet:
Some yell ower Kit's shouthers was slung,
So they byeth had their thropples weel wet.
A lyem sowger cam on wiv twee sticks,
Then a bussy-tail'd pinkey wee Frenchman;
Next a chep, wiv some young lunaticks,
Was wanting the mad-house at Bensham.
Tol de rol, &c.

There was Punch fed his bairn wiv a ladle,
And ga'd some kirn milk for to lyep;
Then he thumpt it till he wasn't yebbel,
Because the poor thing cuddent gyep.
Some were shootin shoe-ties iv a street;
Lang Pat, wiv his last dyin speeches,
Wagg'd hands wiv a lass, that, yen neet,
Tuik seven-pence out o' maw breeches.
Tol de rol, &c.

Then a gentleman's housey tuik feyre,
As the watchman caw'd 'Past ten o'clock!'
The manny fell into the meyre,
And the wife ran away iv her smock.
The Skipper that saddled the cow,
And rid seven miles for the howdy,
Was dancing wiv Jenny Bawloo,
That scadded her gob wiv a crowdy.
Tol de rol, &c.

Then a chep, wiv a show on his back,
Cam and show'd us fine pictures, se funny;
He whupt it a' off in a crack,
Because they wad gether ne money.
To end with, there cam a Balloon,
But some gav it's puddings a slit, man;
For, afore it gat up to the meun,
It emptied itsel i' the pit, man.
Tol de rol, &c.

NANCY WILKINSON.

At Cullercoats, near to the sea,
Lives one I often think upon;
Bewitching is the lovely e'e
Of bonny Nancy Wilkinson.

By Tyne, or Blyth, or Coquet clear,
No swain did ever blink upon
A charmer equal to my dear,
My handsome Nancy Wilkinson.

Sweet cherry cheeks, a lofty brow,
Bright hair, that waves in links upon
A neck, white as the purest snow,
Has comely Nancy Wilkinson.
By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.

Her virtues, like her beauty, rare;
But terms I ne'er can think upon,
Fit to panegyrise my fair,
My constant Nancy Wilkinson.
By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.

For her rich ladies I'd refuse,
With all their shining tinsels on;
None else can wake my slumbering Muse,
But lovely Nancy Wilkinson.
By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.

Aurora, from the Eastern sky,
Her robes the glowing tints upon,
Is not so viewly to mine eye
As modest Nancy Wilkinson.
By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.

Let sordid misers count their wealth,
And guineas guineas clink upon;
All I request of Heav'n is health,
And dear, dear Nancy Wilkinson.
By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.

GREEN'S BALLOON.

[Messrs. Green ascended in their grand Coronation Balloon, from the Nuns' Field, in Newcastle, four times: the first time, on Wednesday, May 11; second time, on Whit-Monday, May 23; third time, on Monday, May 30; and the fourth time, on Race-Thursday, July 14, 1825.]

Tune--"Barbara Bell."

Now just come and listen a while till aw tell, man,
Of a wonderful seet t'other day aw did see:
As aw was gaun trudgen alang by mysel, man,
Aw met wi' wor skipper, aye just on the Key.
O skipper, says aw, mun, wye where are ye gannen?
Says he, come wi' me, for aw's gaun up the toon;
Now just come away, for we munnet stand blabbin,
Or we'll be ower lang for to see the Balloon.
Right fal de, &c.

The balloon, man, says aw, wey aw never heard tell on't,
What kind o' thing is it? now skipper tell me:
Says he, It's a thing that gans up by the sel' on't,
And if ye'll gan to the Nuns' Gate, man, ye'll see.
So to the Nuns' Gate then we went in a hurry,
And when we gat there, man, the folks stood in crowds;
And aw heerd a chep say, he wad be very sorry,
If it went to the meun, reet clean thro' the clouds.
Right fal de, &c.

We stared and luik'd round us, but nought could we see, man,
Till a thing it went up as they fir'd a gun:
Cried the skipper, Aw warnd that's the little Pee-dee, man,
Gyen to tell folks above 'twill be there varry suen.
Then a' iv a sudden it cam ower the house-tops, man,
It was like a hay-stack, and luikt just as big;
Wiv a boat at the tail on't, all tied tid wi' ropes, man,
Begox! it was just like wor awd Sandgate gig.
Right fal de, &c.

And there was two cheps that sat in the inside, man,
Wi' twee little things they kept poweyin her roun';
Just like wor skipper when we've a bad tide, man:
Aw warnd they were fear'd that the thing wad come down;
And still the twee cheps kept poweyin her reet man,
For upwards she went, aye clean ower the toon;
They powey'd till they powey'd her reet out o' seet, man,
That was a' that we saw o' this grand air balloon.
Right fal de, &c.

The skipper cam to me, tuik haud o' my hand, man,
Says, What do ye think o' this seet that's been given?
Says aw, Aw can't tell, but it's a' very grand, man;
Aw wish the cheps byeth safely landed in heaven.
'Twad be a good plan to tyek's up when we're deed, man;
For which way we get there 'twill be a' the syem:
And then for wor Priests we'd stand little need, man:
So me and wor skipper we went wor ways hyem.
Right fal de, &c.

THE NEWGATE-STREET PETITION

TO MR. MAYOR.

Alack! and well-a-day!
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor;
We are all to grief a prey,
Mr. Mayor:
They are pulling NEWGATE down,
That structure of renown,
Which so long hath graced our town,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

Antiquarians think't a scandal,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor;
It would shock a Goth or Vandal,
They declare:
What! destroy the finest _Lion_
That ever man set eye on!
'Tis a deed all must cry fie on,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

St. Andrew's Parishioners,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Loud blame the Gaol-Commissioners,
Mr. Mayor;
To pull down a pile so splendid,
Shews their powers are too extended,
And _The Act_ must be amended,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

If _Blackett-Street_ they'd level,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Or with _Bond-Street_[3] play the devil,
Who would care?
But on _Newgate's_ massive walls,
When Destruction's hammer falls,
For our sympathy it calls,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

'Tis a Pile of ancient standing,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Deep reverence commanding,
Mr. Mayor:
Men of _Note_ and _Estimation_,
In their course of _Elevation_,
Have in it held a station,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

'Tis a first-rate kind of College,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Where is taught much useful knowledge,
Mr. Mayor:
When our fortunes "gang aglee,"
If worthy Mr. Gee[4]
Does but on us turn his key,
All's soon well, Mr. Mayor.

In beauty, nought can match it,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor:
Should you think we _throw the Hatchet_,
Mr. Mayor:
John A----n, with ease,
(In purest _Portugueze_)
Will convince you, if you please,
To consult him, Mr. Mayor.

He'll prove t'ye, in a trice,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
'Tis a pearl of great price,
Mr. Mayor:
For of ancient wood or stone,
The value--few or none
Can better tell than John,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

Of this Edifice bereft,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
To the Neighbourhood what's left?
Mr. Mayor:
The _Nuns' Gate_, it is true,
Still rises to our view,
But that Modern Babel, few
Much admire, Mr. Mayor.

True, a building 'tis, _unique_,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
A charming _fancy freak_,
Mr. Mayor:
But candour doth impel us,
To own that Strangers tell us,
The _Lodge_ of our _Odd Fellows_,
They suppos'd it, Mr. Mayor.

Still, if _Newgate's_ doom'd to go,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
To the _Carliol Croft_--heigh-ho!
Mr. Mayor,
As sure as you're alive,
(And long, sir, may you thrive,)
The shock we'll ne'er survive,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

Then pity our condition,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
And stop its demolition,
Mr. Mayor;
The Commissioners restrain,
From causing us such pain,
And we'll pay and ne'er complain,
The _Gaol-Cess_, Mr. Mayor.

Footnote 3: Now called Prudhoe Street.

Footnote 4: The Gaoler.

BURDON'S ADDRESS TO HIS CAVALRY.

_A PARODY._

Soldiers whom Newcastle's bred,
View your Cornel at your head,
Who's been call'd out of his bed
To serve his Country.
Now's the time when British Tars
With their Owners are at wars;
And they've sent for us--O Mars!
Assist the Cavalry!

Now, my noble sons of Tyne!
Let your valour nobly shine;
There at last has come a time
To shew your bravery.
But, my lads, be not alarm'd!
You're to fight with men unarm'd!
Who in multitudes have swarm'd--
Before us they must flee!

Then they cry out, every man,
"Cornel, we'll de a' we can!"
So away to Shields they ran:
O what Cavalry!
But they had no call to fight,
The Marines had bet them quite;
And the Cornel's made a Knight,
For the Victory!

THE COLLIER'S KEEK AT THE NATION.

Huz Colliers, for a' they can say,
Hae byeth heads and hearts that are sound--
And if we're but teun i' wor way,
There's few better cheps above ground.
Tom Cavers and me, fra West Moor,
On a kind ov a jollification,
Yen day myed what some folks call a tour,
For a keek at the state o' the nation.

We fand, ere we'd lang been on jaunt,
That the world wasn't gannin sae cliver--
It had gettin a Howdon-Pan cant,
As aw gat once at wor box-dinner.
Monny tyels, tee, we heard, stiff and gleg--
Some laid the world straight as a die--
Some crook'd as a dog's hinder leg,
Or, like wor fitter's nose, all a-wry.

One tell'd me, my heart for to flay,
(Thinking aw knew nought about town)
Out o' my three-and-sixpence a-day,
The King always gat half-a-crown.
Aw said they were fuels not to ken
That aw gat a' the brass me awnsel'--
Ga' wor Peg three white shillins, and then
Laid the rest out on backey and yell!

They blabb'd oot that aw was mistuen--
That maw brains sairly wanted _seduction_--
Without _animal_ Parliaments _seun_
We wad a' gan to wreck and _construction_--
That we'd wrought ower lang for wor lair--
That landlords were styen-hearted tykes--
For their houses and land only fair,
To divide them and live as yen likes!

To bring a' these fine things about
Was as easy as delving aslent is--
Only get some rapscallion sought out,
And to Lunnin sent up to present us.
Thinks aw to mysel' that's weel meant--
There's wor Cuddy owre laith to de good,
We'll hev him to Parliament sent,
Where he'll bray, smash his byens, for his blood.

Then, says aw, Tommy, keep up thy pluck,
We may a' live to honour wor nation--
So here's tiv Au'd England, good luck!
And may each be content in his station.
Huz Colliers, for a' they can say,
Hae byeth heeds and hearts that are sound--
And if we're but teun i' wor way,
There's few better cheps above ground.

BLIND WILLIE SINGING.

Ye gowks that 'bout daft Handel swarm,
Your senses but to harrow--
Steyn deaf to strains that 'myest wad charm
The heart iv a wheelbarrow--
To wor Keyside awhile repair,
Mang Malls and bullies pig in,
To hear encor'd, wi' monie a blair,
Poor au'd Blind Willie's singin'.

To hear fine Sinclair tune his pipes
Is hardly worth a scuddock--
It's blarney fair, and stale as swipes
Kept ower lang i' the huddock.
Byeth Braham and Horn behint the wa'
Might just as weel be swingin,
For a' their squeelin's nought at a'
To au'd Blind Willie singin'.

About "_Sir Maffa_" lang he sung,
Far into high life keekin'--
Till "_Buy Broom Buzzoms_" roundly swung,
He gae their lugs a sweepin'.
A stave yence myed _Dumb Bet_ to greet,
Sae fine wi' cat-gut stringin'--
_Bold Airchy_ swore it was a treat
To hear Blind Willie singin'.

Aw've heard it said, _Fan Welch_, one day,
On pepper'd oysters messin',
Went in to hear him sing and play,
An' get a moral lesson.
She vow'd 'twas hard to haud a heel--
An' thowt (the glass while flingin)
Wi' clarts they should be plaister'd weel
That jeer'd Blind Willie's singin'.

It's fine to hear wor bellman talk--
It's wondrous fine and cheerin'
To hear _Bet Watt_ and _Euphy Scott_
Scold, fight, or bawl fresh heerin':
To see the keels upon the Tyne,
As thick as hops a' swimmin',
Is fine indeed, but still mair fine
To hear Blind Willie singin'.

Lang may wor Tyneside lads sae true,
In heart byeth blithe an' mellow,
Bestow the praise that's fairly due
To this bluff, honest fellow--
And when he's hamper'd i' the dust,
Still i' wor memory springin',
The times we've run till like to brust
To hear blind Willie singin'.

But may he live to cheer the _bobs_
That skew the coals to shivers,
Whee like their drink to grip their gobs,
And burn their varry livers.
So, if ye please, aw'll myek an end,
My sang ne farther dingin',
Lest ye may think that aw pretend
To match Blind Willie's singin'.

BOLD ARCHY & BLIND WILLIE'S LAMENT

ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN STARKEY.

"What! is he gyen?" _Bold Airchy_ said,
And moungin' scratch'd his head--
"O can sic waesome news be true?
Is Captain Starkey dead?
Aw's griev'd at heart--push round the can--
Seun empty frae wor hands we'll chuck it--
For now we'll drink wor last to him,
Since he has fairly kick'd the bucket.

My good shag hat ne mair aw'll wave,
His canny fyace to see--
Wor bairns' bairns will sing o' him,
As Gilchrist sings o' me
For O! he was a lad o' wax!
Aw've seen him blithe, an' often mellow--
He might hae faults, but, wi' them a',
We've seldom seen a better fellow.

Yen day they had me drown'd for fun,
Which myed the folks to blair;
Aw myest could wish, for his dear sake,
That aw'd been drown'd for fair.
On monny a day when cannons roar,
Yen loyal heart will then be missin'--
If there be yell, we'll toast his nyem--
If there be nyen, he'll get wor blissin'."

_Blind Willie_ then strumm'd up his kit
Wi' monny a weary drone,
Which _Thropler_, drunk, and _Cuckoo Jack_
Byeth answer'd wiv a groan.
"Nice chep! poor chep!" Blind Willie said--
"My heart is pierc'd like onny riddle,
To think aw've liv'd to see him dead--
Aw never mair 'ill play the fiddle.

His gam is up, his pipe is out,
And fairly laid his craw--
His fame 'ill blaw about, just like
Coal dust at Shiney-Raw.
He surely was a joker rare--
What times there'd been for a' the nation,
Had he but liv'd to be a Mayor,
The glory o' wor Corporation.