Chapter IV: Part 4

But he has gi'en us a' the slip,
And gyen for evermore--
_Au'd Judy_ and _Jack Coxon_ tee,
Has gyen awhile before--
And we maun shortly follow them,
An' tyek the bag, my worthy gentles--
Then what 'ill poor Newcassel dee,
Depriv'd of all her ornamentals!

We'll moralize--for dowly thowts,
Are mair wor friends than foes--
For death, like when the tankard's out,
Brings a' things tiv a close.
May we like him, frae grief and toil,
When laid in peace beneath the hether--
Upon the last eternal shore,
A' happy, happy meet together!"

A VOYAGE TO LUNNIN.

Lang years ower meadows, moors, and muck,
I cheerly on did waddle--
So various is the chance o' luck
Between the grave and cradle.
When wark at hyem turn'd rather scant,
I thought 'twas fair humbuggin';
An' so aw even teuk a jaunt,
Faiks, a' the way to Lunnin.

_Lord Howick_ was my chosen ship,
Weel rigg'd byeth stem and quarter,
The maister was a cannie chep--
They ca'd him Jacky Carter.
Wi' heart as free frae guilt as care,
I pack'd up all my duddin,
And shipp'd aboard--the wind blew fair--
Away we sail'd for Lunnin.

Safe ower the bar a-head we tint--
The day was fine and sunny;
And seun we left afar behint,
Wor land o' milk and honey.
But few their dowly thoughts can tyem--
May be the tears were comin'--
Sair griev'd, ne doubt, to pairt wi' hyem,
Though gaun to keek at Lunnin.

Fareweel, Tyne Brig and cannie Kee,
Where aw've seen monny a shangy,
Blind Willie, Captain Starkey tec--
Bold Archy and great Hangy.
Fareweel Shoe Ties, Jack Tate, Whin Bob,
Cull Billy, and Jack Cummin,
Au'd Judy, Jen Bawloo--aw'll sob
Your praises all at Lunnin.

Some such as me the hyke myed sick,
And myed them rue their roamin':
Still forward plung'd wor gallant ship,
And left the water foamin'.
Waes me! but 'tis a bonny seet,
O land o' beef and puddin'!
To see thy tars, in pluck complete,
Haud fair their course for Lunnin!

Hail, Tyneside lads! in collier fleets,
The first in might and motion--
In sunshine days or stormy neets
The lords upon the ocean.
Come England's foes--a countless crew--
Ye'll gie their gobs a scummin',
And myek them a' the day to rue,
They glibb'd their jaws at Lunnin.

I thought mysel a sailor good,
And flired while some lay sprawlin',
Till where the famous Robin Hood
Sends out his calms or squallin'--
'Twas there aw felt aw scarce ken how--
For a' things teuk a bummin',
And myed me wish, wi' retch and spew,
The ship safe moor'd at Lunnin.

As round by Flambrough Head we shot,
Down cam a storm upon us--
Thinks aw, we're fairly gyen to pot--
O dear!--have mercy on us!
Ower northern plains 'twill dowly sound,
And set their eyes a runnin',
When they shall tell that aw was drown'd,
Just gannin up to Lunnin.

To cheer wor hearts in vain they brought
The porter, grog, and toddy--
My head swam round whene'er aw thought
Upon a fat pan-soddy.
"O what the plague fetch'd us frae hyem!"
Some in the glumps were glummin';
I could hae blubber'd, but thought shyem,
While gaun a voyage to Lunnin.

Cross Boston Deeps how we did spin,
Skelp'd on by noisy Boreas,
Up Yarmouth Roads, and seun up Swin,
The water flew before us.
O glorious seet! the Nore's in view--
Like fire and flood we're scuddin':
Ne mair we'll bouk wor boiley now,
But seun be safe at Lunnin.

Hail, bonny Tyames! weel smon thy waves!
A world might flourish bi' them--
And, faiks, they weel deserve the praise
That a' the world gies ti them.
O lang may commerce spread her stores,
Full on thy bosom dinnin'--
Weel worthy thou to lave the shores
O' sic a town as Lunnin.

Seun Black-Wall Point we left astern,
Far ken'd in dismal story--
And Greenwich Towers we now discern,
Au'd England's pride and glory.
Sure Nature's sel inspir'd my staves,
For I began a crunnin',
And blair'd, 'Britannia rule the waves!'
As by we sail'd for Lunnin.

Fornenst the Tower, we made a click,
Where traitors gat their fairins',
And where they say that hallion Dick
Yence scumfish'd two wee bairins.
Hitch, step, and loup, I sprang ashore.
My heart reet full o' funnin'--
And seun forgat the ocean's war,
Amang the joys o' Lunnin.

THE NEWCASSEL PROPS.

Oh, waes me, for wor canny toon,
It canna stand it lang--
The props are tumbling one by one,
The beeldin seun mun gan;
For Deeth o' late has no been blate,
But sent some jovial souls a joggin:
Aw niver griev'd for Jackey Tate,
Nor even little Airchy Loggan.

But when maw lugs was 'lectrified
Wiv Judy Downey's deeth,
Alang wi' Heufy Scott aw cried,
Till byeth was out o' breeth;
For greet and sma', fishwives and a'
Luik'd up tiv her wi' veneration--
If Judy's in the Courts above,
Then for Au'd Nick there'll be nae 'cation.

Next Captain Starkey teuk his stick,
And myed his final bow;
Aw wonder if he's scribblin yet,
Or what he's efter now;
Or if he's drinking gills o' yell,
Or axing pennies to buy bakky--
If not allow'd where Starkey's gyen,
Aw'm sure that he'll be quite unhappy.

Jack Coxon iv a trot went off,
One morning very seun--
Cull Billy said, he'd better stop,
But Deeth cried, Jackey, come!
Oh! few like him could lift their heel,
Or tell what halls were in the county:
Like mony a proud, black-coated chiel',
Jack liv'd upon the parish bounty.

But cheer up, lads, and dinna droop,
Blind Willy's to the fore,
The blythest iv the motley groop,
And fairly worth the score:
O weel aw like to hear him sing,
'Bout au'd Sir Mat. and Dr. Brummel--
If he but lives to see the King,
There's nyen o' Willy's friends need grummel.

Cull Billy, tee, wor lugs to bliss,
Wiv news 'bout t'other warld,
Aw move that, when wor Vicar dees,
The place for him be arl'd;
For aw really think, wiv half his wit,
He'd myek a reet good pulpit knocker:
Aw'll tell ye where the birth wad fit--
He hugs sae close the parish copper.

Another chep, and then aw's duen,
He bangs the tothers far:
Yor mavies wonderin whe aw mean--
Ye gowks, it's Tommy C--r!
When lodgin's scarce, just speak to him,
Yor hapless case he'll surely pity.
He'll 'sist upon your gannin in,
To sup wi' S--tt, and see the Kitty.

NEWCASSEL WONDERS.

Sic wonders there happens iv wor canny toon,
Sae wise and sae witty Newcassel has grown,
That for hummin, and hoaxing, and tyekin folk in,
We'll suen learn the Lunneners far better things.

We've wonderful Knights, and wondrous Hussars,
Wonderful Noodles, and wonderful Mayors;
For as lang as a keel gans down river Tyne,
For wisdom and valour, O A----y, thou'll shine.

We've R----s and V----s, a time-serving crew;
But, says aw to mysel, gie the deevil his due,
For ov priests and excisemen, and limbs o' the law,
There's ten tiv the dozen 'ill gan down belaw.

And whe wad hae thowt now that iver Au'd Nick,
Wiv wor canny toon wad hae gettin sae thick;
That iv Luckley's au'd house he's set up Hell's Kitchen,
Where the tyelyers and snobs find the yell se bewitchin.

There's canny Tom Lid--l, they've myed him a Lord,
For learning his ploughmen to play wi' the sword;
But if ony invaders should Britain assail,
They'll slip off their skins and run to the plough-tail.

We've a Captain of watchmen, he's second to nyen,
He dislikes to see folks gannin quietly hyem;
For if ye but mention the nyem o' Tom C--r,
To the care of Jack S--tt, he'll yor body transfer.

TIM TUNBELLY.

Tune--"Canny Newcassel."

Now lay up your lugs, a' ye freemen that's poor,
And aw'll rhyme without pension or hire--
Come listen, ye dons that keep cows on the Moor,
Though ye couldn't keep them iv a byre--
And a' ye non-freemen, wherever ye be,
Though dame Fortune has myed sic objections,
That you're neither o' Town nor o' Trinity free,
To be brib'd and get drunk at elections.

When aw was but little, aw mind varry weel
That Joe C--k was the friend o' the freemen--
Aw mysel' heerd him say, his professions to seal,
He wad care very little to dee, man.
Corporation corruptions he sair did expose,
And show'd plain whee was rook and whee pigeon
While El----h, the cobbler, in fury arose,
And pummell'd Sir M----w's religion.

Some sly common councilman happen'd to think
That the patriots mebbies had pocket--
So they sent Joe an order for wafers and ink,
And the Custom-house swallow'd the prophet.
Now if ever these worthies should happen to dee,
And Au'd Nick scamper off wiv his booty,
Just imagine yorsels what reformin there'll be,
If belaw there's ne _printing_ nor _duty_.

But there's honest folk yet now, so dinna be flaid,
Though El----h and Joe has desarted--
For a chep they ca' Tunbelly's ta'en up the trade,
And bizzy he's been sin' he started:
Aboot town-surveyin' he's open'd wor eyes,
And put Tommy Gee into a pickle--
He's gi'en to Jack Proctor a birth i' the skies,
And immortal he's render'd Bob Nichol.

Now, if ony refuse to the freemen their dues,
They're far greater fules than aw thowt them--
Let R----y ne mair stand godfather to cows,
Nor his cousin swear on--till he's bowt them.
Niver mind what the cheps o' the council may say,
He'll seun sattle obstropolous Billy--
Ne mair he'll refuse for a way-leave to pay,
For fear o' the ditch and Tunbelly.

The good that he's deun scarce a volume wad tell,
But there's one thing that will be a wonder--
If Tunbelly losses conceit iv his sel'
Till his head the green sod be laid under.
But we a' hae wor likens, what for shouldn't Tim?
And aw'm shure he a mense to wor town is--
So fill up your glasses once mair to the brim,
And drink to the Newcastle JUNIUS.

THE KEEL ROW.

Weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row,
Weel may the keel row, and better may she speed:
Weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row,
Weel may the keel row, that gets the bairns their breed.

We teuk wor keel up to the dyke,
Up to the dyke, up to the dyke,
We teuk wor keel up to the dyke,
And there we gat her load;
Then sail'd away down to Shields,
Down to Shields, down to Shields,
Then sail'd away down to Shields,
And shipp'd wor coals abroad.
Singing--Weel may the keel row, &c.

Then we row'd away up to the fest,
Up to the fest, up to the fest,
We row'd away up to the fest,
Cheerly every man;
Pat by wor gear and moor'd wor keel,
And moor'd wor keel, and moor'd wor keel,
Pat by wor gear and moor'd wor keel,
Then went and drank wor can,
Singing--Weel may the keel row, &c.

Our canny wives, our clean fireside,
Our bonny bairns, their parents' pride,
Sweet smiles that make life smoothly glide,
We find when we gan hyem:
They'll work for us when we get au'd,
They'll keep us frae the winter's cau'd;
As life declines they'll us uphaud--
When young we uphaud them.
Weel may the keel row, &c.

THE BARBER'S NEWS;

_Or, Shields in an Uproar._

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 staid 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 the 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 conceiv'd 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'd gotten 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 straight 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,
Rais'd 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 Kemble!"
Heav'ns! how they all astonish'd were, from the Parson to the Barber,
To find that Stephen Kemble was the Monster in the harbour.

Straight Crocodilish fears gave place to manly gen'rous strife, sir,
Most willingly each lent a hand to save poor Stephen's life, sir;
They dragg'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 dragg'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 ne'er be drown'd, sirs:
For Fate, sirs, has us all in tow, from the Monarch to the Barber,
Or surely I had breath'd my last this morning in the harbour.

Resolv'd to cross the river, sirs, a sculler did I get into,
May Jonah's evil luck be mine, another when I step into!
Just when we reach'd the deepest part, O horror! there it founders,
And down went poor Pilgarlick 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, while contesting a hard race, sirs,
But ne'er was half so frighten'd as among the Crabs and Plaice, 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, I had it from the Barber;
And drippling, like some River God, he slowly left the harbour.

Ye men of North and South Shields too, God send you 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 mouth expand, sirs.
And long may Stephen Kemble live, and never may the Barber
Mistake him for a Monster more, deep floundering in the harbour.

THE BONASSUS.

Tune--"Jemmy Joneson's Whurry."

Let Wombwell, James, and a' the pack
Iv yelpin' curs, beef-eaters,
Ne mair about Bonasses crack,
Them queer, outlandish creturs.
Be dumb, ye leeing, yammering hounds,
Nor wi' yor clavers fash us,
For seun aw'll prove wor canny town
Can boast its awn Bonassus.

It chanc'd when honest Bell was Mayor,
And gat each poor man's blessin--
When cheps like G--e, and Tommy C--r
Gat monny a gratis lesson;
Then Bell refus'd to stand agyen,
Tir'd iv the situation,
And ne awd wife wad tyek the chain
Iv a' wor Corporation.

The folks iv Shields has lang begrudg'd
The Custom-house beside us;
This was the time, they reetly judg'd,
To come sae fine langside us:
They had a chep, W----t was his nyem,
To poor folk rather scurvy,
They sent him up wor heeds to kyem,
And turn us topsy turvy.

He seun began to show his horns,
And treat the poor like vassals--
He sent the apple-wives to mourn
A month iv wor awd Cassel.
The _timber marchants_ will ne mair
Wiv ten-a-penny deave us--
They swear iv W----t's to be wor Mayor,
That i' the dark they'll leave us.

The drapers next he gov a gleece,
'Bout their unruly samples--
Bound ower the clouts to keep the peace,
Wiv strings to the door stanchells.
The tatee-market, iv a tift--
(Ye heuxters a' resent it!
My sarties! but that was a shift,)
To the Parade Ground sent it.

Ye gowks, frae Shields ye've oft slipt up,
When ye had little 'casion,
To see wor snobs their capers cut,
Or Geordy's Coronation;
Now altogether come yence mair,
Wor blissins shall attend ye,
If ye'll but rid us o' wor Mayor,
Iv hackney's back we'll send ye.

SHIELDS CHAIN BRIDGE,

HUMOUROUSLY DESCRIBED BY A PITMAN.

Now, Geordy, my lad, sit as mute as a tyed,
An' aw'll tell ye 'bout Chain Brig at's gaun to be myed;
Aw'll begin at the furst, an' gan on till aw cum
To the end o' my story--and then aw'll be deun.
Some folks tell a plain, simple story at times,
But aw'm nothing like them, aw tell a' things iv rhymes.
Smash, Geordy, sit quiet--keep in thaw great toes,
An' aw'll gan as straight forrat as waggoners goes.

Wey, ye see, the folks thought, i' gaun ower the water,
'Stead o' crossing wi' boats, 'at a Brig wad be better;
So the gentlemen gather'd a great congregation,
The syem as folks de at the heed o' the nation:
Then they some things brought forrat, an' some they put back,
So they sattled a Brig sud be built iv a crack.
'Twasn't lang efter this, aw gat haud iv a paper,
Tell'd the size it should be, just as nice as a taper.

How! says aw to mysel, but they hevent been lang,
Dash! a fellow like me may stite myek up a sang,
Or some such like thing--just to myek a bit fun:
So it's ne seuner said than it's cleverly deun.
Folks thought me a genius when first aw was born--
But what is aw deein?--aw mun tell ye the form
O' this said Iron Brig 'at aw's talking aboot,
When aw pull up me breeches, and blaw out me snout.

Huge abutments o' styen, aw think they are call'd--
When aw com to that word aw was varry near pall'd;
On each side o' the river yen o' thor things is myed,
To fit intiv a hole they howk out wiv a spyed.
Frae the tops o' thor pillars to the edge o' the banks,
Varry strang iron chains, myed o' wrought iron links,
Hingin' ower the house-tops o' byeth sides o' the river,
Thor chains is continued frae pillar to pillar.

Frae the big'uns is hung some inferior in length,
To the bottom of which a foundation of strength
Is fixt, wrought wi' iron, and cover'd wi' styen,
Then surmounted wi' railing--it's deun, skin and byen.
Now, Geordy, what de ye think ov it, my lad?--
Wey, speak--what's the maiter--or ye tyen varry bad?
Or extonishment is it that's sew'd up yor mouth?
But aw divent much wonder, so aw'll tell the real truth.

Aw wonder wor owners disn't see into it,
And myek a Chain Brig for to gan down wor pit.
A! man, but it's cliver--it's use 'ill be great;
For to what lad o' Shields wad the thought not be sweet;
To cross ower the water without danger or fear,
As aw've monny a time deun i' gawn ower the Wear.
When we cross ower the water i' boats we're in danger,
But the hazard is warse tiv a man 'at's a stranger.

While this hang'd ugly sailing o' packets survives,
Were in very great danger o' losing wor lives.
But it's ne use to tell the unnumber'd disasters
Which happen to 'prentices, workmen, and masters,
On crossing the Tyne i' them sma' sculler boats,
Or ony thing else on the water that floats.
At ony rate, the Chain Brig is a far safer plan,
And would save mony lives--contradict it whe can!

Besides, ye knaw, Geordy, it's easier and better
For the canny folks 'at leaves on the banks o' the water,
To walk straight afore them 'stead o' gaun doon the street,
And when they're iv a hurry running doon a' they meet;
Forbye being kept myest an hour in suspense,
By cairts, that sometimes myek a plague of a fence,
Then the folks are a' stopt, tho' they be iv a hurry.

Now, ye blithe lads o' Shields, let it be a' yor glory,
To get this Chain Brig rear'd on high in the air,
Then we'll hae to soom amang steam-boats ne mair:
Smash their great clumsy wheels! aw like nyen o' their wark,
They once cowpt me owerboard, an' aw was wet to the sark;
But catch me gaun ony mair near them again--
If aw de, say aw divent belang Collingwood Main!

THE COLLIERS' PAY WEEK,

BY HENRY ROBSON.

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

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

The young men, full blithesome and jolly,
March forward, all decently clad;
Some lilting up "Cut-and-dry, Dolly,"
Some singing "The bonny Pit Lad:"
The pranks that were play'd at last binding
Engage some in humourous chat;
Some halt by the way-side on finding
Primroses to place in their hat.

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

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

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

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

At length in Newcastle they centre--
In Hardy's,[5] a house much renown'd,
The jovial company enter,
Where stores of good liquor abound:
As quick as the servants could fill it,
(Till emptied were quarts half a score)
With heart-burning thirst down they swill it,
And thump on the table for more.

While thus in fine cue they are seated,
Young Cock-fighting Ned, from the Fell,[6]
Peep'd in--his "How d'ye?" repeated,
And hop'd they were all very well;
He swore he was pleased to see them--
One rose up to make him sit down,
And join in good fellowship wi' them--
For him they would spend their last crown.

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

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

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

Blind Willie[7] the fiddler sat scraping
In corner just as they went in:
Some Willington callants were shaking
Their feet to his musical din:
Jack vow'd he would have some fine cap'ring,
As soon as their dinner was o'er,
With the lassie that wore the white apron,
Now reeling about on the floor.

Their hungry stomachs being eased,
And gullets well clear'd with a glass,
Jack rose from the table and seized
The hand of the frolicsome lass.
"Maw hinny!" says he, "pray excuse me--
To ask thee to dance aw myek free?"
She replied, "I'd be loth to refuse thee--
Now fiddler play--"Jigging for me."

The damsel displays all her graces,
The collier exerts all his power,
They caper in circling paces,
And _set_ at each end of the floor:
He jumps, and his heels knack and rattle--
At turns of the music so sweet,
He makes such a thundering brattle,
The floor seems afraid of his feet.

This couple being seated, rose Bob up,
He wish'd to make one in a jig;
But a Willington lad set his gob up--
O'er him there should none "run the rig;"
For now 'twas his turn for a caper,
And he would dance first as he'd rose;
Bob's passion beginning to vapour,
He twisted his opponent's nose.

The Willington lads, for their Franky,
Jump'd up to revenge the foul deed;
And those in behalf of Bob Cranky
Sprung forward--for now there was need.
Bob canted the form, with a kevel,
As he was exerting his strength;
But he got on the lug such a nevel,
That down came he, all his long length.

Tom Brown, from behind the long table,
Impatient to join in the fight,
Made a spring, some rude foe to disable,
For he was a man of some might:
Misfortune, alas! was attending,
An accident fill'd him with fear;
An old rusty nail his flesh rending,
Oblig'd him to slink in the rear.

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

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

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

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

1805.

Footnote 5: Sign of the Black Boy, Great Market.

Footnote 6: Gateshead Fell.

Footnote 7: William Purvis, a blind fiddler so called.

THE TYNE.

By the Same--Written in 1807.

In Britain's blest island there runs a fine river,
Far fam'd for the ore it conveys from the mine:
Northumbria's pride, and that district doth sever
From Durham's rising hills, and 'tis called--the Tyne.

Flow on, lovely Tyne, undisturb'd be thy motion,
Thy sons hold the threats of proud France in disdain;
As long as thy waters shall mix with the ocean,
The fleets of Old England will govern the main.

Other rivers for fame have by poets been noted
In many a soft-sounding musical line;
But for sailors and coals never one was yet quoted,
Could vie with the choicest of rivers--the Tyne.
Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.

When Collingwood conquer'd our foes so completely,
And gain'd a fine laurel, his brow to entwine;
In order to manage the matter quite neatly,
Mann'd his vessel with tars from the banks of the Tyne.
Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.

Thou dearest of rivers, oft-times have I wander'd
Thy margin along when oppress'd sore with grief,
And thought of thy stream, as it onward meander'd,
The murmuring melody gave me relief.
Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.

From the fragrant wild flowers that blow on thy border,
The playful Zephyrus oft steals an embrace,
And curling thy surface in beauteous order,
The willows bend forward to kiss thy clear face.
Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.

One favour I crave--O kind fortune befriend me!
When downhill I totter, in Nature's decline--
A competent income--if this thou wilt send me,
I'll dwindle out life on the banks of the Tyne.
Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.

THE SPRING.

By the Same.--Written early in May, 1809.

Now the gay feather'd train, in each bush,
Court their mates, and love's melody sing--
The blackbird, the linnet, and thrush,
Make the echoing valleys to ring.

The bird with the crimson-dy'd breast,
From the hamlet has made his remove,
To join his love-song with the rest,
And woo his fond mate in the grove.

The lark, high in ether afloat,
Each morn, as he ushers the day,
Attunes his wild-warbling throat,
And sings his melodious lay.

Yon bank lately cover'd with snow,
Now smiles in the spring's bloomy pride;
And the sweet-scented primroses grow
Near the streamlet's sweet gurgling tide.

To the banks of the Tyne we'll away,
And view the enrapturing scene,
While Flora, the goddess of May,
With her flow'rets bespangles the green.

PARSON MALTHUS.

By the Same.--Written in 1826.

Tune--"Ranting roaring Willie."

Good people, if you'll pay attention,
I'll tell you a comical jest;
The theme I'm about now to mention
Alludes to one Malthus, a priest--
A proud, hypocritical preacher,
Who feeds on tithe-pigs and good wine;
But him I shall prove a false teacher--
Oh, all things have but a time.

Some years ago, through all the nation,
He publish'd a scandalous book--
An Essay about "POPULATION;"
But widely his text he mistook.
From marriage his plan's to restrain all
Poor people who are in their prime,
Lest the earth prove too small to contain all--
Such notions can last but a time.

But the Clergy who're plac'd in snug station,
The Nobles, and such like fine folks,
May continue their multiplication--
What think you, my friends, of such jokes?
What think you of Malthus the Parson,
Who slights each injunction divine,
And laughs while he carries the farce on;--
But all things have but a time.

When the poor folk of hunger are dying,
He deems it no sin in the _great_,
Their hands to with-hold from supplying
The wretched with victuals to eat!
Such doctrine--sure a great evil--
Becomes not a Christian Divine;
'Tis more like the speech of the Devil;--
But all things have but a time.

Now, my friends, you will readily see
Malthus' argument's not worth a curse;
For to starve the industrious bee,
Is no better than killing the goose.
That he does not believe in the Bible,
His book is a very true sign;
On Sacred Writ 'tis a libel--
Such trash can last but for a time.

Place the drones on one part of our isle,
The industrious class on the other;
There the former may simper and smile,
And bow and scrape each to his brother:
They can neither plough, throw the shuttle,
Nor build with stone and lime;
They'll then get but little to guttle,
And may grow wiser in time.

Ye blithe British lads and ye lasses,
Ne'er heed this daft, whimsical Priest;
Get sweethearts in spite of such asses--
The BIBLE PLAN sure is the best:
Then away go in couples together,
And marry while you're in your prime,
And strive to agree with each other,
For life only lasts a short time!

PETER WAGGY.

By the Same--Written in 1826.

I, when a child, for trinket ware
Would often cry to mam and daddie:
With other trifles, from the fair,
Dad brought me once a Peter Waggy.

Fine dolls, and many things forby,
A gilded coach and little naggie;
But oh, the darling of my eye,
Was little dancing Peter Waggy!

Love of such trifles time destroys--
At length each well-grown lass and laddie
Seeks to be pleas'd with other toys,
Some other sort of Peter Waggy.

A lover came to me at last,
In courting me he ne'er grew faggy;
Now he and I are buckled fast--
He is my darling Peter Waggy.

We've got a boy of beauty rare,
A credit to his mam and daddie;
When I go to Newcastle Fair,
I'll buy my child a Peter Waggy.

BESSY OF BLYTH.

"A VIRTUOUS WOMAN IS MORE PRECIOUS THAN RUBIES."

By the Same.--Written in 1826.

In Cramlington we've bonnie lasses enow,
With checks red as roses, and eyes black or blue;
But Bessy of Blyth I love better than onie--
My heart is still there with my own dear honey.

My uncle says, "Robin, why sure you are mad,
To slight Suky Swan--she's worth money, my lad!"
Dear uncle, says I, I'll ne'er marry for money,
And none will I have but my own dear honey.

Her face I compare to the blush of the morn,
Her breath to the scent of the fresh-blossom'd thorn;
For virtue and sense she's not equall'd by monie--
Few, few can compare with my own dear honey.

As in this world of care there is nought we approve,
Compar'd to the faithful good wife that we love;
To sweeten life's sorrow, the gall mix with honey,
I'll wed my dear Bess, and a fig for their money.

KELVIN GROVE.--THE LASSIE'S ANSWER.

By the Same--Written in 1827.

To Kelvin Grove we'll go, bonnie laddie, O,
Where the sweetest flowers grow, bonnie laddie, O;
With my true-love by my side,
Of a' the flowers the pride,
I'd wander the warld wide, bonnie laddie, O.

When the throstle hails the morn, bonnie laddie, O,
We'll wander by the burn, bonnie laddie, O;
And we'll rest in the alcove,
In bonny Kelvin Grove,
Where first I told my love to my laddie, O.

When thou leav'st thy native home, bonnie laddie, O,
With thee I mean to roam, bonnie laddie, O;
I'll watch thee in the fight,
And guard thee day and night,
That no mishap alight--on my laddie, O.

In the fatal battle-field, bonnie laddie, O,
Shouldst thou thy spirit yield, bonnie laddie, O--
When thy een are clos'd in death,
I'll sigh my latest breath,
And one grave shall hold us baith, bonnie laddie, O.

But kind should Fortune prove, bonnie laddie, O,
And spare us baith to love, bonnie laddie, O:
By the stream again we'll rove,
In bonny Kelvin Grove,
And frae hame nae mair remove, dearest laddie, O.

TO MR. PETER WATSON[8], WHO LAYS POWERFUL BATS ON THE KNAVES WITH FIRE-SHOVEL HATS ON.

By the Same.--Written in 1824.

O Watson! O Watson! what are you about?
What have you been doing to cause such a rout?
'Tis said you've been giving the Clergy a clout;
Which nobody does deny.

O stop! Watson, stop! O whither?--say whither
Directs your bold genius?--'twould seem you choose rather
To hammer the Parsons, instead of bend leather;
At starting you were not shy.

What tho' the good Clergy for long time have got,
At Easter, fat pullets to put in their pot,
And ta'en from the people full many a groat,
Yet why into this should you pry?

Of matters relating to Church or to State,
'Tis surely not fit you should trouble your pate;
Yet still you keep thumping, with spirit elate,
As if you would maul the whole fry.

I'd have you respect more the _Lord's_ own _Anointed_,
Who over your conscience to rule are appointed,
And to whom pigs and pullets are sent to be jointed,
And other good things forby.

Repent, then, and quick pay your EASTER DUES,
And to _guileless_ Parsons give no more abuse,
Or spiritual comfort to you they'll refuse,
And this may cause you to sigh!

For things are so chang'd since you rang them a peal,
That the Clerk seems afraid through our parish to speel;
For he's look'd on no better than one come to steal;
Which nobody can deny.

The Clerk of St. John's, that he might have good luck,
Employed a brave Noodle, whose nick-name is _Pluck_,
To collect Easter-pence; but the people had struck--
Few, few were brought to comply.

Now the Parsons to you attach all the blame,
O Watson, for saying they had no just claim!
Thus you've brought on yourself their _holy_ disdain;
Yet you'll fill a niche in the Temple of Fame,
Which nobody will deny.

Footnote 8: Peter Watson, of Chester-le-Street, Shoemaker.--This person, for some time, laudably exerted himself to oppose the claims of the Government Clergy to what are called Easter dues or offerings; and by a powerful appeal to the public, succeeded in convincing many that such claims were equally oppressive and unjust, and founded neither in the law nor the gospel.--The late worthy Vicar of Newcastle, Mr. John Smith, actuated with the generous feelings of a Man and a Christian, and with due deference to public opinion, restrained the Clergy in his jurisdiction from collecting these Exactions during the latter years of his life. To him, therefore, and to Peter Watson, in particular, who aroused the public attention to the subject, the inhabitants of Newcastle are indebted for being relieved from this odious, unjust, and oppressive Clerical Tax.

THE NEWCASTLE SUBSCRIPTION MILL.

Tune--"Newcastle Ale."--1814.

While Europe rejoices at Bonny's defeat,
And Cossacks pursue him o'er plain and o'er hill,
On the banks of the Tyne, in a quiet retreat,
I'll write you a ballad about the new Mill,
To be built by subscription, of famous description;
Ye pale-fac'd mechanics, come join in the club,
Whose bowels are yearning at ev'ning and morning,
And you will get plenty of cheap, wholesome grub.

The Millers their spite have already display'd,
And dusty-mouth'd Meal-mongers pettish are grown,
That a plan should be thought of to injure their trade,
A Mill that will grind for one half of the town;
Where, joyful, you'll hie, for wheat or for rye--
There some trusty fellow your meal-bags will fill;
No mixture of chalk[9], your intestines to caulk,
But plain, honest dealing practis'd at the Mill.

There's Puff-cake, the baker, too, cries out "Alack!
If this plan should succeed, I'll have customers few;"
And he whinges and whines as he sets up his back
To twirl his long rolling-pin over the dough:
The theme he resumes, with vexation he fumes,
And deems the projector a deep-scheming elf;
His customers gone, he'll soon be undone,
His mixture compound he may swallow himself.

Of Gripe-grain, the corn-factor, much could be sung,
And of Broad-brim, the Quaker, a guilt-spotted blade,
Who both in a halter deserve to be strung,
For the thousands they've starv'd by the forestalling trade:
But some future time may produce a new rhyme,
Wherein I propose their true features to draw;
Meanwhile ev'ry man give his aid to the plan,
And there'll soon be a down-coming market--Huzza!

Footnote 9: About the month of November, 1813, (according to the Courier newspaper) a Victualler for the Navy was convicted in adulterating the biscuit with chalk and Portland stone, and suffered the penalty of a very heavy fine. The audacious fellow afterwards boasted, that he had cleared more money by the practice than the fine amounted to.

LIZZIE LIBERTY.

Tune--"Tibby Fowler i' the Glen."

_By the Same._

Sung at a Meeting of Reformers at the Golden Lion Inn, Bigg Market, Newcastle, on the Liberation of Henry Hunt, Esq. in 1822.

There lives a nymph o'er yonder lea,
And O she is a winsome hizzie!
Her name is Lizzie Liberty,
And monie wooers has sweet Lizzie:
She sings and trips along the plain,
Free as the wind glides o'er the water;
O bonny Lizzie Liberty!
Now a' the lads wad fain be at her.

The Men o' France to her advance,
And use all arts to gain her favour;
And Spaniards bold, with hearts of gold,
Vow, if she's to be had, they'll have her;
And daft John Bull, that bleth'ring cull,
About the nymph sets up his chatter;
O bonnie Lizzie Liberty!
Now a' the lads wad fain be at her.

Braw Donald Scot steps forth, I wot,
To win the smiles of this fair lady,
And Irish Pat has promis'd that,
To woo the nymph he'll aye be steady:
Whole Patriot Bands, of foreign lands,
Do fyke and fistle sair about her:
O bonnie Lizzie Liberty!
Nae happiness is felt without her.

THE NEW FISH MARKET.

BY WILLIAM MIDFORD.

Tune--"Scots come o'er the Border."

March! march to the Dandy Fish Market!
See what our Corporation's done for you,
By pillars and paling so nobly surrounded,
And your stone tables all standing before you.

Where's there a river so fam'd in the nation?
Where's the bold tars that so well grace their station?
Coals, fish, and grindstones--we'll through the world bark it--
And now we ha'e gotten a bonny Fish Market,
March! march, &c.

Oh! did the fish ken they'd be caged like a birdie,
(Euphy, the Queen, singing, "Maw canny Geordie,")
They'd pop out their heads then, should ye only watch them,
And call on the fishermen sharply to catch them.
March! march, &c.

Yet all isn't right, tho'--in time you may hear it;
One week is past, and but one cart's come near it:
The loons above stairs preconcerted the order,
And hinder poor bodies to hawk through the border.
March! march, &c.

Gan to the coast--where the fishermen's weeding--
Gan to the fells--where the cuddies are feeding--
Gan to hell's kitchen--should ye have occasion--
Ye'll see hizzies drinking through spite and vexation.
March! march, &c.

Where's Madgie's troops that so well could shout oysters?
Gone to a convent or nunnery cloisters!
Where's the wee shop that once held Jack the Barber?
Gone to make room for the fish brought to harbour!
March! march, &c.

Then hie to the Custom-house, add to your pleasures,
Now you're well cover'd, so toom the new measures:
It ne'er will be finish'd, I'll wager a groat,
Till they've cut a canal to admit five-men boats!
March! march, &c.

A NEW YEAR'S CAROL,

_For the Fishwives of Newcastle._

Tune--"Chevy Chase."

God prosper long our noble king,
Our lives and safeties all!
A woeful ditty we may sing
On ev'ry fishwife's stall.

Good Magistrates, it were a sin
That we should _rail_ at you;
Altho' the _plaice_ you've put us in,
Is _grating_ to our view.

If _crab_-bed looks we should put on,
Or _flounder_ in a pet,
Each fishwife's _tub_ would, very soon,
Be in the _kit_-ty set.

Sure we are not such simple _soles_,
Though in your legal _net_,
But we will haul you _o'er the coals_,
And play _hot cockles_ yet.

The iron ring in which we're shut,
To make the _gudgeons_ stare,
Will not, says ev'ry scolding slut,
With _her-ring_ e'er compare.

Then ev'ry night, that duly falls,
_Fresh water_ may be seen
All floating round our seats and stalls,
As if we _had-ducks_ been.

But thus _shell'd_ in, as now we are,
Within our corp'rate bounds,
Altho' we may not curse and swear,
We still may cry, _Cod-sounds_!

Let gentle people _carp_ their fill,
At us, our sprees and pranks;
For tho' we're now turn'd off the _Hill_,
Themselves may lose their _Banks_.

JESMOND MILL.

BY PHIL. HODGSON.

To sing of 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.

TOMMY THOMPSON.

Author of 'Canny Newcassel,' 'Jemmy Joneson's Whurry,' &c.

BY ROBERT GILCHRIST.

All ye whom minstrel's strains inspire,
Soft as the sighs of morning--
All ye who sweep the rustic lyre,
Your native hills adorning--
Where genius bids her rays descend
O'er bosoms deep and lonesome--
Let every heart and hand respond
The name of Tommy Thompson.

CHORUS.

His spirit now is soaring bright,
And leaves us dark and dolesome;
O luckless was the fatal night
That lost us Tommy Thompson.

The lyric harp was all his own,
Each mystic art combining--
Which Envy, with unbending frown,
Might hear with unrepining.
The sweetest flower in summer blown,
Was not more blithe and joysome,
Than was the matchless, merry tone,
Which died with Tommy Thompson.
His spirit, &c.

FAREWELL TO THE TYNE.

By the Same.

Farewell, lovely Tyne, in thy soft murmurs flowing,
Adieu to the shades of thy mouldering towers!
And sweet be the flowers on thy wild margin growing,
And sweet be the nymphs that inhabit thy bowers!

And there shall be ties which no distance can sever,
Thou land of our fathers, the dauntless and free;
Tho' the charms of each change smile around me, yet never
Shall the sigh be inconstant that's hallow'd to thee.

Thy full orb of glory will blaze o'er each contest--
Thy sons, e'er renown'd, be the dread of each foe--
Till thy tars chill with fear in the fight or the tempest,
And the pure streams of Heddon have ceas'd more to flow.

May commerce be thine--and from Tynemouth to Stella
May thy dark dingy waters auspiciously roll--
And thy lads in the keels long be jovial and mellow,
With faces as black as the keel or the coal.

O Albion! of worlds thou shalt e'er be the wonder,
Thy tough wooden walls, thy protection and pride,
So long as the bolts of thy cloud-rending thunder
Are hurl'd by the lads on the banks of Tyneside.

NORTHUMBERLAND FREE O' NEWCASSEL.

Composed extempore, on the Duke of Northumberland being presented with the Freedom of Newcastle.

BY THE SAME.

To that far-ken'd and wondrous place, Newcassel town,
Where each thing yen lucks at surprises,
Wiv a head full o' fancies, and heart full o' fun,
Aw'd com'd in to see my Lord Sizes.
In byeth town and country aw glowrin' beheld
Carousin' laird, tenant, an' vassal;
On axin' the cause o' sic joy, aw was tell'd,
'Twas Northumberland free o' Newcassel.

The guns frae the Cassel sent monny a peal--
My hair stood on end, a' confounded--
The folks on Tyne-brig set up monny a squeel,
And the banks o' Tyneside a' resounded.
In the Mute Hall, Judge Bayley roar'd out, "My poor head!--
Gan an' tell them not to myek sic a rattle."
Judge Wood cried out, "No--let them fire us half dead,
Since Northumberland's free o' Newcassel!"

The Duke e'er has been byeth wor glory an' pride,
For dousely he fills up his station;
May he lang live to hearten the lads o' Tyneside,
The glory and pride o' their nation.
Brave Prudhoe[10] triumphant shall plough the wide main,
The hash o' the Yankees he'll sattle;
And ages hereefter but sarve to proclaim
Northumberland free o' Newcassel.

May it please Heav'n to grant that the sweet Flower o' Wales,[11]
Wi' Northumberland's roses entwinin',
May its fragrance shed forth i' celestial gales,
In glory unceasin'ly shinin',
In defence o' wor country, wor laws, an' wor King,
May a _Peercy_ still lead us to battle;
An' monny a brisk lad o' the nyem may there spring
Fra Northumberland, free o' Newcassel.

Footnote 10: Baron Prudhoe, of the Royal Navy.

Footnote 11: The Duchess of Northumberland.

THE DUCHESS AND MAYORESS.

Written in September, 1819.

Ye Northumberland lads and ye lasses,
Come and see what at Newcastle passes,
Here's a damnable rout,
At a tea and turn out,
And no one knows how to bring matters about.

It seems, at our summer Assizes,
(Or at least so the present surmise is)
The wife of the Mayor
Never offer'd her chair
At the Ball when the Duchess from Alnwick was there.

Then 'tis said, too, by way of addition,
To the Mayoress's turn for sediton,
That, in right of her place,
With her impudent face,
She march'd out to tea at the head of her Grace.

So our vigorous young Lord Lieutenant,
Next day, when the Grand Jury were present,
Disclos'd to their view,
(In enigma, 'tis true)
The plot of the Mayoress and all her d--d crew.

When his health was propos'd as Lieutenant,
He bow'd to the company present;
Then, with tears in his eyes,
And to all their surprize,
"My office, (his Grace said) too heavily lies.

I had firmly imagin'd till now, sirs,
That our county was free from all row, sirs;
But what has occurr'd,
Though I sha'n't say a word,
Till the voice of yourselves and the county is heard.

All at present I wish yon to know is,
That my Duchess and Dame Lady Powis,
Have receiv'd such a blow,
That thy never can go
To your ball, at Newcastle, while things remain so.

A high rank has its weight in the nation,
If you hold it in due estimation;
Then the Duchess and I
For redress must apply,
Tho' at present I mention no name--no, not I.

All I wish is to find out your pleasures,
And hope to avoid all harsh measures;
Yet I always foresaw
This Republican jaw
Would sooner or later produce Martial Law."

Thus ended the young Lord Lieutenant,
When the terrified company present,
Cried, "Name, my Lord, name
Who's to blame--who's to blame;"
But the Duke said, the County must smother the flame.

And the Duchess and he, the next morning,
Fulfill'd my Lord Lieutenant's warning;
Then up before day,
And to Alnwick away,
Their faces have ne'er since been seen to this day.

NEWCASTLE ASSIZES.

DUCHESS _versus_ MAYORESS;

_Or, a Struggle for Precedence_.

Why, what's a' this about,
Mr. Mayor, Mister Mayor?
Why, what's a' this about,
Mister Mayor?
Yor Worship's wife, they say,
To the Duchess won't give way,
Nor due attention pay,
Mister Mayor!