Chapter V: Part 5

But is this true, aw pray,
Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor?
But is this true, aw pray,
Mister Mayor?
If it's true, as aw believe,
Ye'll ha'e muckle cause to grieve--
The Duke yor toon will leave,
Mister Mayor!

The Judge, Sir William Scott,
Mr. Mayor, Mister Mayor!
The Judge, Sir William Scott,
Mr. Mayor!
Says, yor wife is much to blame;
And aw think 'twad be ne shame,
To skelp her for the same,
Mister Mayor!

'Tis not the Judge alane,
Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!
'Tis not the Judge alane,
Mr. Mayor!
But the Judge and Jury baith,
Say, she's guilty o' maw faith,
An' so Sir Thomas saith,
Mr. Mayor!

The Duke the Jury towld,
Mister Mayor, Mr. Mayor!
The Duke the Jury towld,
Mr. Mayor!
He went with them to dine,
And surely he did whine,
'Bout his wife, mun, ow'r his wine,
Mr. Mayor!

'Twas sure ne noble deed,
Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!
'Twas sure ne noble deed,
Mr. Mayor!
He shew'd ne mighty sense,
At yor Dame to take offence;
So let his Grace gan hence,
Mr. Mayor!

But there's other folk to blame,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor!
But there's other folk to blame,
Mr. Mayor!
Yor wife has counsell'd with
Wor Vicar, Johnny Smith,
And he's nought, ye knaw, but pith,
Mr. Mayor!

Enjoy life when ye can,
Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!
Enjoy life when ye can,
Mr. Mayor!
Nor let the Brewer Knight,
Nor the Duke, wi' a' his spite,
Say yor wife's no i' the right,
Mr. Mayor!

THE COAL TRADE.

Good people, listen while I sing
The source from whence your comforts spring,
And may each wind that blows still bring
Success unto the Coal Trade?
Who but unusual pleasure feels
To see our fleets of ships and keels!
Newcastle, Sunderland, and Shields,
May ever bless the Coal Trade.

May vultures on the caitiff fly
And gnaw his liver till he die,
Who looks with evil, jealous eye,
Down upon the Coal Trade.
If that should fail, what would ensue?
Sure, ruin and disaster too!
Alas! alas! what could we do,
If 'twere not for the Coal Trade!

What is it gives us cakes of meal?
What is it crams our wames sae weel
With lumps of beef and draughts of ale?
What is't, but just the Coal Trade.
Not Davis' Straits or Greenland oil,
Nor all the wealth springs from the soil,
Could ever make our pots to boil,
Like unto our Coal Trade.

Ye sailors' wives that love a drop
Of stingo fra the brandy shop,
How could you get one single drop,
If it were not for the Coal Trade.
Ye pitmen lads, so blithe and gay,
Who meet to tipple each pay-day,
Down on your marrow bones and pray,
Success unto the Coal Trade!

May Wear and Tyne still draw and pour
Their jet black treasures to the shore,
And we with all our strength will roar,
Success unto the Coal Trade!
Ye owners, masters, sailors a',
Come shout till ye be like to fa';
Your voices raise--huzza! huzza!
We all live by the Coal Trade.

This nation is in duty bound,
To prize those who work under ground,
For 'tis well known this country round
Is kept up by the Coal Trade.
May Wear, and Tyne, and Thames ne'er freeze,
Our ships and keels will pass with ease,
Then Newcastle, Sunderland, and Shields,
Will still uphold the Coal Trade.

I tell the truth, you may depend,
In Durham or Northumberland,
No trade in them could ever stand,
If it were not for the Coal Trade.
The owners know full well, 'tis true,
Without pitmen, keelmen, sailors too,
To Britain they might bid adieu,
If it were not for the Coal Trade.

So to conclude, and make an end
Of these few lines which I have penn'd,
We'll drink a health to all those men
Who carry on the Coal Trade:
To owners, pitmen, keelmen too,
And sailors, who the seas do plough,
Without these men we could not do,
Nor carry on the Coal Trade.

TOM CARR AND WALLER WATSON;

_Or, Tom and Jerry at Home._

Tune--"There was a bold Dragoon."

O Marrow, howay to the toon,
What fun we will ha'e there!
We needn't fear the watchmen now,
Let them come if they dare!
We'll hev a gill and sing a sang,
And through the streets we'll roar a ditty,
For Tom Carr hez ne bizness now
To put us a' neet i' the Kitty.
Whack, fal, &c.

For when he cam before me Lord,
He fand his sel a' wrang,
For tyaken Watson up yen neet
For singing a wee bit sang.
Another chep ca'd Walton te,
Aw own that he was rather murry,
For he tell'd the watchman to be off,
Or else he'd give him Tom and Jurry,
Whack, fal, &c.

The watchman seiz'd him by the neck,
Then up cam other two:
Says Walton. 'Now let go o' me,
Or aw'll let ye knaw just now.'
Then he lifted up his great lang airm,
Me soul he gave him sec a knoller;
But the watchman kept his haud se lang,
He pull'd off Walton's dandy collar.
Whack, fal, &c.

To the watch-house then they dragg'd them off,
Before greet Captain Carr:
Says he, 'What ha'e ye getten here,
Me worthy men o' war?'
Wye, sir, says they, here's twe greet cheps,
The yen aw shure deserves a swingin;
For they've roar'd and shouted thro' the streets,
And wyaken'd a' the folks wi' singin.
Whack, fal, &c.

'Aye, aye,' says Carr, 'aw ken them weel,
Tyek them out o' my seet!
Away wi' them to Mr. Scott,
And keep them there a' neet.'
Says Walton, 'Will ye hear me speak?'
Says Tommy, 'Go you to the devil!'
'Wye, wye,' says Walton, 'never mind,
But surely this is damn'd uncivil.'
Whack, fal, &c.

Then away they went to Mr. Scott,
And fand him varry kind:
Says he, 'Young men, I'll treat ye weel,
Tho' here against your mind.'
'O Sir,' said they, 'you're very good,
But faith this place luiks dark and frightful!'
Says Walton, 'What a sweet perfume!'
Says Watson, 'Lord, it's quite delightful!'
Whack, fal, &c.

But Watson myed Tom Carr to rue,
Before 'twas varry lang:
He had him tried before me Lord,
And Carr fand he was wrang.
Me Lord tell'd Carr he had ne reet
To shop them, e'en had it been lyater,
Until he'd tyen them, first ov a',
Before a Mister Magistrater.
Whack, fal, &c.

Now Tommy Carr may claw his lug,
Th' expences he mun pay:
But still there's nyen that's sorry for't;
'It sarves him reet,' they say.
So howay, lads, let's off to toon,
We'll a' put wor bit better hats on;
And if Tom Carr shops us agyen,
Me sowl! we'll give him Waller Watson.

JOHNNY SC--TT AND TOMMY C--RR.

A DIALOGUE.

_Sc--tt_--Ah! woe's me! what shall I do,
Tommy C--rr, Tommy C--rr?
For I have most cause to rue,
Tommy C--rr!
Though your costs are very great,
Yet much harder is my fate--
I may shut the Kitty gate,
Tommy C--rr!

_C--rr_--I will soon be clear of mine,
Johnny Sc--tt, Johnny Sc--tt!
For I will myself confine,
Johnny Sc--tt!
Just for three short weeks or so,
Up the nineteen steps I'll go,
And be wash'd as white as snow,
Johnny Sc--tt!

_Sc--tt_--Oh! that tyrant of a Judge,
Tommy C--rr, Tommy C--rr!
He has surely had some grudge,
Tommy C--rr!
Can we gain our honest bread,
Now when cut off in full trade,
We who've been so long well fed,
Tommy C--rr!

_C--rr_--Oh! how trifling was our chance,
Johnny Sc--tt, Johnny Sc--tt!
Oh! had Scarlett been at France,
Johnny Sc--tt!
Brougham's help was all we had,
Well he knew our case was bad;
And au'd Bayley frown'd like mad,
Johnny Sc--tt!

_Sc--tt_--I my huckstering shop may let,
Tommy C--rr, Tommy C--rr!
No more customers we'll get,
Tommy C--rr!
Mrs. Sc--tt has room to growl,
There is not one hungry soul
For to buy a penny roll,
Tommy C--rr!

_C--rr_--Let us curse the day and hour,
Johnny Sc--tt, Johnny Sc--tt!
That depriv'd us of our power,
Johnny Sc--tt!
Fam'd Newcastle's rattling boys
Will kick up a thund'ring noise,
And for fun will black our eyes,
Johnny Sc--tt!

TOMMY C--RR IN LIMBO.

Tune--"Scots wha ha'e," &c.

Ye that like a lark or spree!
Ye that's iv the Kitty free!
Now's the time for mirth and glee,
For Tommy is up stairs.
Ye that never yet went wrang--
Ne'er did warse than sing a sang,
Ye that offen had to gan
And visit Mr. Mayor's.

Now then let your joys abound--
Now begin your neetly rounds,
And myek the streets wi' mirth resound.
Since Tommy is up stairs.
Whe before Judge Bayley stood,
For sending Watson into quod?--
Whe wad grace a _frame of Wood_?
But honest Tommy C--r.

And when fou, wi' cronies dear,
Ye'd sally out to Filly Fair,
Whe was sure to meet ye there?
But honest Tommy C--r:
Wiv his beaver round and low,
Little switch, and thick surtou',
Like Satan prowling to and fro,
Seeking to devour.

Whe was sure your sport to marr,
And send ye off to Cabbage Square?
Whe was Judge and Jury there?
But honest Tommy C--r.
Whe wad never tyek yor word?
And if to walk ye'd not afford,
Whe wad strap ye on a board?
But honest Tommy C--r.

THE KITTY PORT ADMIRAL AT THE BENCH; OR, DOGBERRY IN THE SUDS.

_Air--"The Opera Hat."_

Oh the Devil go with you, fat Tom C--r!
Bribe him well, he'll be your counsellor,
Give you courage when at the bar,
And grant you a special favour:
Some folks thowt you were gyen to hell,
And other some to Derry:
But sup the broth you've made yoursel',
There's no one can be sorry.
So the Devil go with you, &c.

'Tis well you leave the scorn of those
You've sent unto the work-house,
For, hangman-like, you'd have cash and clothes,
When their friends were glad of the carcase.
So the Devil, &c.

Bad luck, say I, to your brother brimair!
Your crimes 'twill not half smother;
So go to Stuart's, in Denton-chare,
And prithee choose another.
So the Devil, &c.

For if ever upon the Quay again,
You beg for beef and biscuit,
The sailor lads will surely cry,
Gods! lad, you've sairly miss'd it.
So the Devil, &c.

May the tread-mill turn to a whiskey-shop,
The parrot into a monkey,
And Tom C--r selling fine shirt neck buttons,
Upon a tripe-wife's donkey,
So the Devil, &c.

THE OWL.

Written Feb. 1826.

Tune--X, Y, Z.

Now run away amang the snobs,
An' stangies i' the Garth, man,
An hear about the greet black Owl,
That's let on Cappy's hearth, man--
Of sic a breed, the Deil his sell
Its marrow canna find in Hell!
It hops about wiv its slouch hat,
Can worry mice like wor Tom-cat--
And sic a yarkin blubber heed,
It bangs X, Y, that famous steed,
Or ony thing ye like, man.

Oft frev its nest, in Cabbage Square,
It flaffer'd out at neets, man,
'Mang sic a flock that neetly blare,
And carry crooks and leets, man--
Then prowl'd wor streets in search o' prey,
And if a mouse but cross'd his way,
He quickly had it by the nose,
And pawk'd it off to kuel its toes--
Did Hoo! Hoo! wi' the blubber heed,
That bangs X, Y, that famous steed--
So, Cappy, keep him tight, man.

To tell how Cappy gat this burd,
Aw wad be rather fash'd, man;
Some say that, of its awn accord,
It went to get _white wash'd_, man.
So scrub him, Cap, with a' yor might,
Just nobbit make the lubbart white--
But if yor brushin' winna dee,
There's Waller Watson, Walton, tee,
They'll scrub him as they did before,
And make the bowdy-kite to roar--
If Cappy keeps him tight, man.

St. Nich'las' bells now sweetly ring,
Yor music's sae bewitchin'--
Ye lads in Neil's[12] now louder sing,
And warble weel Hell's Kitchen[13]--
For yor au'd friend is in the trap,
Alang wi' his awn brother, Cap:
Then shout hurra! agyen we're free,
At neets to hev a canny spree;
In gannin hyem, ne mair we'll dreed
The lubbart wi' the chuckle heed--
Mind, Cappy, keep him tight, man.

Footnote 12: A famed public-house at the head of Manor-chare.

Footnote 13: The tap-room of a famed public-house, near the head of Groat market.

LOVELY DELIA.

Tune--"Sleeping Maggie."

Upon the flow'ry banks o' Tyne,
The rose and myrtle may entwine;
But were there every sweet divine,
They wadna a' be like my Delia.
Clear beams the eye o' Delia,
Heaven's in the smile o' Delia;
Nor flowers that blaw, nor falling snaw,
Were e'er sae pure as lovely Delia.

Gently blaw, thou whistlin' wind,
Along the bonny banks o' Tyne,
Where nature every grace combin'd
When she first form'd my life, my Delia!
Clear beams the eye o' Delia,
Heaven's in the smile o' Delia;
Nor flower that blaws, nor winter snaws,
Were e'er sae pure as lovely Delia.

Tho' a' the wee birds round me sing,
To welcome back the blithefu' spring;
Yet a' the music they can bring
Is nae sae sweet's the voice o' Delia.
Clear beams the eye o' Delia,
Heaven's in the smile o' Delia;
Nor flower that blaws, nor drifting snaws,
Were e'er sae pure as my lov'd Delia.

The bonny little playfu' lamb,
That frisks along the verdant plain,
Is nae mair free fra guilty stain,
Than is my life, my love, my Delia.
Clear beams the eye o' Delia,
Heaven's in the smile o' Delia;
Nor flowers that blaw, nor whitest snaw,
Were e'er sae pure as my sweet Delia.

The priests they tell us, all above,
With angels, do delight in love;
Then surely angels must approve
Their image in my lovely Delia.
Clear beams the eye o' Delia,
Heaven's in the smile o' Delia;
Nor flower that blaws, nor new-born snaws,
Were e'er sae pure as lovely Delia.

Truth and kindness ever reigns,
In a' her heart, through a' her veins;
Yet nane shall ken the pleasing pains
I hae endur'd for my sweet Delia.
Heaven's in the smile o' Delia,
Blight's the beam in her dark eye;
Nor flower that blaws, nor virgin snaws,
Were e'er sae pure as my lov'd Delia.

PANDON DEAN.

Tune--"Banks o' Doon."

Farewell, ye fragrant, shady groves!
Farewell, thou charming sylvan scene,
Where partial mem'ry hapless roves--
I bid adieu to Pandon Dean.

I bid ye all a long adieu,
And fare thee well, my lovely Jean;
Thine equal I shall never view,
Whilst far awa' fra Pandon Dean.

The songsters chanting on the spray,
The shrubs and flowers, sae fresh and green,
Increase my heart's tumultuous play,
Which dwells on thee and Pandon Dean.

Though far awa' in foreign lands,
And trackless oceans foam between,
I ne'er shall break those dearest bands
Thou wreath'dst for me in Pandon Dean.

These to my heart shall dearest be,
When sharp afflictions pierce me keen;
'Twill soothe my woes to think on thee,
Thou fairest flower in Pandon Dean.

If Fortune smile, I'll then return,
To deck my love in silken sheen;
And dwell with her just by the burn
That wimples through the bonny Dean.

THE NEWCASTLE HACKNEYS.

The Londoners long for example we've chose,
And imported each fashion as fast as it 'rose;
But the best hit of all, in our awkward approaches,
Is St. Nicholas' Square, and the new hackney coaches.

The ladies have long had advantage of man,
In that easy conveyance, a walking sedan;
Now the tables are turn'd on the opposite side,
For the ladies must walk while the gentlemen ride.

When our beaux are dress'd out for a rout or a ball,
They've nothing to do but a hackney to call--
Consult not the weather, nor muffle their chins--
No danger of breaking, o'er scrapers, their shins.

When a couple's resolv'd on a trip to the church,
Where a lady has sometimes been left in the lurch;
To prevent a misfortune like this, for the future,
Pack up in a hackney your amiable suitor.

When impertinent tradesmen you're likely to meet,
Or a bailiff descry at the end of the street--
Press into your service a hackney and pair,
For the devil himself would not look for you there.

To many things else they'll apply, I've a notion,
They'll even be found to assist your devotion;
The doctors will find them most useful, no doubt on't,
In peopling the world, or to send people out on't.

Then success to the hackneys, and long may they roll--
Of balls and assemblies the life and the soul:
Since so useful they are, and so cheap is the fare,
Pray who would not ride in a carriage and pair?

NEWCASTLE HACKNEY COACHES.

Tune--"The bold Dragoon."

Of a' the toons that's i' the north,
Newcastle bangs them a',
For lady folk and gentlemen,
And every thing that's braw,
A fig for Lunnen i' the South--
But mind now, let's hae nae reproaches,
For they say that Lunnen's hang'd hersel,
Through spite at wor new Hackney Coaches.
Yep! fal der al dal, &c.

Wor toon has grown se big now,
Aw ne'er saw the like before;
Live ye only lang eneugh,
Ye'll see't join'd to Tynemouth shore;
We've our Literinary Sicties,
Shops cramm'd wiv plate and diamond broaches,
But it's ne use telling ony mair,
There's nowt gans doon but Hackney Coaches.
Yep! &c.

Ca-la-de-scoups were yence the rage,
Sedans--were all the go;
But till the noise gets fairly ower,
They may keep them iv a row;
Gang where you will, the talk is still,
At tea or cards why all the rage is,
"Why bless me, sir! have you not seen
Our stylish two-horse Hackney Stages!"
Yep! &c.

A Bond-street lounge tee we might hev,
If 't wasn't for the mud!
A Piccadilly we're gaun to get,
And other streets as good:
Maw sangs! aw think we'll 'clipse them out!
But faith I'd better haud me ditty,
For fear, ye ken, in ganging hyem,
They Hackneyfy me to the Kitty.
Yep! &c.

NEWCASTLE IMPROVEMENTS.

BY R. CHARLTON.

Tune--"Canny Newcassel."

What a cockneyfied toon wor Newcassel hez grown--
Wey aw scarce can believe me awn senses;
Wor canny aud customs for ever ha'e flown,
And there's nowt left ahint for to mense us:
The fashions fra Lunnin are now a' the go,
As there's nowt i' wor toon to content us--
Aw'll not be surpriz'd at wor next 'lection day,
If twe Cockneys put up to 'present us.

Times ha'e been when a body's been axt out to tea,
Or to get a wee bit of a shiver,
Wor hearts were sae leet we ne'er thowt o' the cau'd,
Or the fear o' wet feet plagu'd us niver;
But i' blanket coats now we mun get muffled up,
For fear that the cold should approach us--
And to hinder a spark gettin on to wor breeks,
We mun jump into fine Hackney Coaches.

Aw've seen when we've gyen iv a kind freenly way
To be blithe o'er a jug o' good nappy--
The glass or the horn we shov'd round wi' the pot
For then we were jovial and happy:
But now we mun all hev a glass t' wor sels,
Which plainly appears, on reflection,
We think a' wor neighbours ha'e getten the cl-p,
And are frighten'd we catch the infection.

The very styen pavement they'll not let alyen,
For they've tuen'd up and puttin down gravel;
So now, gentle folks, here's a word i' yor lugs--
Mind think on't whenever you travel;
If in dry dusty weather ye happen to stray,
Ye'll get yor een a' full o' stour, man--
Or, if it be clarty, you're sure for to get
Weel plaister'd byeth 'hint and afore, man.

If a' their improvements aw were for to tell,
Aw might sit here and sing--aye, for ever;
There's the rum weak as watter, i'stead o' the stuff
That was us'd for to burn out wor liver!
Aw's fair seek and tir'd o' the things that aw've sung,
So aw think now aw'll myek a conclusion,
By wishing the cheps iv a helter may swing,
That ha'e brought us to a' this confusion.

COME UP TO THE SCRATCH!

_Or, The Pitman Haggish'd._

BY R. EMERY.

Tune--"Calder Fair."

Now haud yor tongues 'bout Mollinox, or ony o' the trade,
Ye ne'er could say that Kenton Ralph of e'er a chep was flay'd--
Yor Langans and yor Springs may come to Kenton toon iv flocks,
Wor Ralph 'ill smatter a' their ribs, he is sae strang, begox!
Fal de ral, &c.

Wiv Ralph and Luke aw off yen neet for Sandgate on a spree,
And swore Newcassel dandy cheps to fight and myek them flee--
We gat into the Barley Mow wor thropples for to wet,
And sat and drank till fairly fu', alang wi' wood-legg'd Bet.
Fal de ral, &c.

We gat up, for 'twas gettin' lyet, and leaving Sandgate suen,
To Pandon went to hev a quairt before we left the toon;
Some Fawdon lads were in the Boar, carrying on the war,
Wi' Humpy Dick and Black Scotch Peg, a' singin' 'Slush Tom C--rr.'
Fal de ral, &c.

Then gannin hyem by Pilgrim-street, some dandy for to catch,
Twe cheps, half drunk, cam up tiv us, and said, 'Cum t' the scratch!
Here's Lukey kens that aw's a man, and scartin aw disdain,
But come and lick us if ye can--aw'll fight till aw be slain!'
Fal de ral, &c.

They cramm'd a haggish on each fist, or something very like,
Then held them up close to wor fyece, and dar'd us for to strike:
But Lukey, clickin' up his claes, cried, Ralphy, lad, let's run!
Od smash yor luggish heed, how-way--becrike it's Tommy D----n!
Fal de ral, &c.

Poor Lukey ran, but Ralph was left, he couldn't get away,
They pelted him till Watchey cam and ended wor sad fray;
Then Ralphy suen fand Luke agyen; but such a seet, begox!
His nose and fyece was thick o' blood--just like a Bubbly Jock's.
Fal de ral, &c.

Smash! how! dis thou ken Tommy D----n? said Ralphy in a hurry:
Aw seed him fightin' on the stage yen neet in 'Tom and Jurry;'
A grocer chep aw sat beside, tell'd me his nyem in turn,
Wi' Crib, an' Gas, an' a' the rest, and cliver Jemmy B----n.
Fal de ral, &c.

That neet we had a haggish fight, 'tween B----n and D----n sae fine--
Aw roar'd out, Aw'll lay ony brass that Jim ower Tom will shine!
But, wiv his haggish, Tommy suen gav Jemmy such a peg.
He fell smack doon upon the stage--begox, he broke his leg!
Fal de ral, &c.

The next time aw cum ti' the toon, if we fa' in togither,
We'll hev a jill and drink success to B----n and D----n howsever:
Aw own that aw was fairly duen, an' smatter'd varry sair,
But ne'er for want o' haggishes shall Ralph be beaten mair.
Fal de ral, &c.

THE PITMAN'S DREAM;

_Or, A Description of the North Pole_.

BY THE SAME.

Tune--"Newcastle Fair."

Aw dream'd aw was at the North Powl,
It's a fine place a-back o' the muen, man--
Maw sangs! Captain Parry will growl,
For he cannot get tid half sae seun, man:
There aw seed the Queen, Caroline,
And her lass they sae badly did use, man,
Wi' Geordy the Thurd drinking wine,
And the snuffy au'd dyem brushing shoes, man.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

Aw began then to swagger about,
Just to see Castleree aw was itchin',
When Percival gav a greet shout,
Od smash, he's down stairs i' the Kitchen!
Thowt aw, then he's just safe eneugh--
Walking farther, aw meets Bonapartie,
Alang wi' au'd Blucher, sae bluff,
Speaking gabb'rish to poor Captain Starkie.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

Aw gat in to see Robin Hood,
Had twe or three quairts wi' John Nipes, man;
And Wesley, that yence preach'd sae good,
Sat smokin' and praisin' the swipes, man:
Legs of mutton here grows on each tree,
Jack Nipes said, and wasn't mistaken--
When rainin' there's such a bit spree,
For there comes down great fat sides o' bacon.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

Brave Nelson here sells wooden legs,
Iv a shop where aw think he'll get rich in--
Just to see au'd Mahomet aw begs,
But, wi' Thurtell, he's doom'd i' the Kitchen:
Aw seed Billy Shakespeare sae prime,
Of plays he has written greet lots, man--
And there great John Kemble does shine--
Sam. Johnson sups crowdies wi' Scots, man.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

How canny Joe Foster did stare,
As he trotted past me on a donkey,
'Mang lasses still wild as a hare,
And he keeps Jacky Coxon as flonkey:
Ne bishops nor priests here they need,
For the folks they can say their awn pray'rs, man--
But, to myek them work hard for their breed,
They're sent on a mission, doon stairs, man.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

Aw agyen see'd the canny au'd King,
He's a far better chep now than ever--
But, set a' yor fine kings iv a ring,
I still think Fourth Geordy's as clever.
Aw've getten a pass for Doon Stairs,
And if aw see owt there bewitchin',
Wey just think o' me i' yor pray'rs,
And aw'll send an account o' the Kitchen.
Rum ti iddity, &c.

THE PITMAN'S DREAM;

_Or, His Description of the Kitchen_.

BY THE SAME.

Tune--"Hell's Kitchen."

The day was fine, the sun did shine,
Aw thowt aw was preparing
To leave the Powl, myed me repine--
Aw scarce could keep fra blairin';--
A greet balloon was brought me seun,
Twe cheps wi' wings sae switchin',
Wiv it were sent to tyek me doon
To shew me a' the kitchen.
Right fal de ral, &c.

Wiv a' my friends aw had a jill,
King Geordy was quite canty--
Says he--Now eat and drink yor fill,
Doon stairs good things are scanty.
When deun, says aw--Kind folks, fareweel'
Maw Guides their wings are stretchin'--
In the balloon aw off did reel
To see this querish kitchen.
Right fal de ral, &c.

We doon a narrow place did rowl--
As sure as maw nyem's Cranky.
This is the passage in the Powl
That's mention'd by the Yankee:[14]
As we flew on it darker grew,
Wi' such a noise and screechin'--
Greet clouds o' fire we darted through,
And landed in the kitchen.
Right fal de ral, &c.

They use poor folks here warse than beasts--
Greet lots o' Turks and Tartars,
Wi' lawyers, quakers, kings, and priests,
Were phizzin' in a' quarters.
The Jews were bowlting lumps o' pork--
Mahomet, that au'd vixen,
Was toss'd about frae fork to fork,
Wi' Derry in the kitchen.
Right fal de ral, &c.

Fast i' the stocks au'd Neddy sat,
The late Newcassel bellman--
And there was Honour Breet, Bed Watt,
Just gaun the rig hersel', man:
Then farther in, upon a stuel,
Sat Judy Downey stitchin',
She d--n'd me for a greet stark cull,
For comin' to the kitchen.
Right fal de ral, &c.

Aw, wi' the heat and want o' drink,
Was swelter'd myest to deed, man--
When fairly deun and gaun to sink,
Aw was whupt off wi' speed, man.
How aw escap'd aw's puzzled sair,
'Twas like a sudden twitchin'
Aw, like a lairk, flew through the air,
Half roasted, frae the kitchen.
Right fal de ral, &c.

As aw cam doon aw pass'd the meun,
An' her greet burning mountains--
Her turnpike roads aw fand out seun,
Strang beer runs here in fountains:
To hev a sup aw was reet fain,
Wi' some queer cheps thrang ditchin'--
But waken'd then in Percy Main,
A lang way frae the kitchen.
Right fal de ral, &c.

Footnote 14: Alluding to the following extraordinary advertisement which recently made its appearance in the American journals:--

_St. Louis, (Missouri Territory)_

_North America, April 10, A. D. 1818._

"To all the world--I declare the earth to be hollow and habitable within; containing a number of concentric spheres, one within the other, and that their poles are open 12 or 16 degrees. I pledge myself in support of this truth, and am ready to explore the concave, if the world will support and aid me in the undertaking.

JOHN SYMMES," &c. &c.

FAMED FILLY FAIR;

_Or, A Peep into Pilgrim Street_.

Come, Geordy, an' aw'll tell ye, lad, where aw hae been,
In Pilgrim-street, where there's to see an' to be seen,
A great many lasses, and they shew off sic fine airs,
Aw's sure they're all as wild as ony March hares.

Now, d'ye nobut gan there iv next Sunday neet,
About the time o' six o'clock, you'll see the fine seet;
A large show of lasses fine, that drive about there,
They nyem'd it but reet when they ga'd Filly Fair.

Now, one Sunday neet, to the high town aw went,
That aw might get the evening cannily spent:
Among the rabble, sure enough, aw gat there,
And saw the first dresses in fam'd Filly Fair.

There's some lasses, they say, that are so very keen,
That they come to this place just for to be seen;
And, on every wet Sunday, they sit down to prayer,
And think it provoking they're not at the Fair.

Aw enter'd the street with a great deal of glee,
Where the lads and the lasses in flocks aw did see:
The task wad be endless to tell a' what was there,
Aw mean the fine dresses in fam'd Filly Fair.

Aw look'd about all these fine dresses to see,
Aw glowr'd at the lasses, and they glowr'd at me:
So now for a description, I will give to a hair,
Of all the fine things in this fam'd Filly Fair.

There was white gowns, silk spencers, and flounces galore,
And queer monkey jackets aw'd ne'er seen before;
With little drakes' tails, that hing from the hair,
And large ringlets a' curl'd, was in fam'd Filly Fair.

The spencers a' carv'd, wye, with cords of a' kind,
That seem'd just like soulgers afore and behind;
And black silks, and stript silks, and a' silks was there,
And pads, and cat backs were in fam'd Filly Fair.

There was hats like my awn, with fine flee-behint cloaks,
And queer things ahint them, like the pitmen's bait pokes;
And hats myed of muslin, to let in the air,
Besides some wi' high crowns were in fam'd Filly Fair.

The hats were deck'd o'er a' with ribbons and lace,
And lairge cabbage nets were thrawn o'er their face:
Paddysoles too were there, as were monie things mair,
And fine mobbed caps were in fam'd Filly Fair.

There was scarfs of a' kinds, and of every degree;
And little wee bairneys, scarce up to my knee;
With beaux, arm in arm, they were driving thro' there,
'Twas shameful to see them in fam'd Filly Fair.

O, mun! just like a loadstone in this curious place,
For what I hev tell'd you, aw'm sure it's the case--
It's the case of them all that walk about there,
To be talk'd of by strangers in fam'd Filly Fair.

And besides a' the tricks that I cannot explain,
For this kind of rambling I'm sure I disdain:
Take advice, my good lasses, and don't wander there,
Or your character's stain'd by walking the Fair.

This advice now, I hope, you will readily take,
And keep up your character, for your own sake;
It's nought unto me if all night you walk there,
But your name will be blasted by attending the Fair.

T----LY'S BEST BLOOD.

A North Shields Song.--Written in 1820.

While Cartwright, and Wooler, and Cobbett, and all
The souls of the brave attend Liberty's call,
J----n T----ley, the best friend of kings since the flood,
Is ready for slavery to spill his best blood.

A press so licentious--for 'twill tell the truth--
Is truly distressing to T----ley, forsooth:
He's a foe to the Queen, and no wonder he should,
Since he vows for oppressors to spill his best blood.

What an excellent orator in his own way,
Mechanics, Shoemakers, and Joiners do say:
But he does not remember that Drones steal their food,
Were it not for the Becs he would have no best blood.

The Loyalist party consumptive are grown,
Though time-serving T----ley the fact may disown:
And it will not be long--God forbid that it should!
Ere Reform freeze the springs of T----ley's best blood.

THE NEWCASTLE NOODLES.

BY JAMES MORRISON.

Be easy, good folks, for we're all safe enough,
Better fortune seems now to attend us;
And two canny fellows, both lusty and tough,
Have rais'd a new corps to defend us.
Men sound wind and limb, good sighted and stout,
That can fight well, without being daunted;
Free from all diseases, such like as the gout,
And can jump, or be ready when wanted.

CHORUS.

Then if any invaders should dare us to fight,
Let it be on the shore or the river,
Bold Archy the Noodle, and Tommy the Knight,
Will guard and protect us for ever.

The Noodles have ne'er been at battle as yet,
Nor been brought down by scanty provision;
So to try them whenever his worship thinks fit,
He'll find them in famous condition.
In all their manoeuvres there's scarcely a flaw,
They're quite up to the science o' killing;
For the Noodle drill Serjeant's a limb o' the law,
And an old practis'd hand at the drilling.
Then if any invaders, &c.

Misfortunes, however, will sometimes attend,
For one morning, by danger surrounded,
A poor fellow splinter'd his fore-finger end,
And, of course, in the service was wounded.
'Tis true a sair finger's a very bad thing,
But it didn't diminish his beauty;
So the next day he just popp'd his arm in a sling,
And, Briton-like, went upon duty.
Then if any invaders, &c.

They have all been abroad, and as far too as Shields,
But to walk there was no easy matter,
So, for fear that their boots should go down in the heels,
They took the steam boat down the watter.
Their warlike appearance was awfully grand,
When they fired, it sounded like thunder,
Which put all the natives o' Shields to a stand,
And left them for ages to wonder.
Then if any invaders, &c.

What a pity they cannot get medals to buy,
greatly would add to their grandeur;
"There's Waterloo soldiers!" the strangers would cry,
And think Archy was great Alexander.
These mighty Preservers if death cannot save,
But send one or two of them bummin;
The rest o' the Noodles would fire o'er his grave,
And tell the below-folks he's coming.
Then if any invaders, &c.

BRITISH JUSTICE;

_Or, Newcastle Privy Court_.

Come, all ye Britons who delight
In Freedom's sacred cause,
And boast the Triumphs of your Sires,
Of just and equal laws,
Wrung from a Despot's feeble grasp,
List to this tale of mine,
In baseness which you cannot peer,
Since the days o' Lang Syne.

To fam'd Newcastle's Secret Court
A poor unlucky wight
Was, for the sake of Bastardy,
But very lately brought:
Where, tortur'd most ingeniously,
The rogue was made to whine,
As few have been for sporting so,
Since the days of Lang Syne.

In vain the culprit urg'd his cause,
In eloquence of woe;
In vain he urg'd his poverty,
To save him from the blow:
Regardless of his just complaint,
His judges laid the fine,
So great as few poor dogs could pay,
Since the days of Lang Syne.

Now mark the justice of the Judge,
Precisely at the time--
A gentleman was brought to him,
Just for the self same crime;
To whom the Judge, in alter'd tone,
Begg'd he would not repine,
Such ills are common to the rich,
Since the days of Lang Syne.

Suffice it, these two sinners were,
Tho' in the same degree
Of guilt, adjudg'd a fine to pay,
The ratio one to three:
The man of rags was made to pay
Three times a greater fine;
And sunk in misery, sent to think
On the days of Lang Syne.

Thus, Britons, are your laws dispens'd,
Your boasted freedom's gone,
Laid in your predecessors' graves,
Or from the island flown:
No longer Justice holds her seat,
In majesty divine,
In British Courts presiding now,
As in days of Lang Syne.

In vain you strive to wander back
To times of peaceful joy,
In vain you hope times to recall,
Lost in eternity;
No, never shall those scenes return,
No more shall Britain shine,
As she was wont, so splendidly,
I' the days of Lang Syne.

Can then Eternal Justice sleep,
Regardless of the prayer
Of toiling millions sunk in debt,
And driven to despair,
By stern Oppression's iron hand,
Oh! no, the Power Divine
Shall plead our cause as heretofore,
In the days of Lang Syne.

THE MISFORTUNES OF ROGER & HIS WIFE.

BY J. B.

Tune--"Calder Fair."

Last week was wor pay-week, and aw went to the toon,
Alang wi' wor Susy to buy her a new goon;
A sixpence i' my pocket--we cuddent pass the Close,
But went into the Robin Hood and gat worsels a dose.
Wiv a tooral, looral, looral, &c.

Suen after we gat canny, and com alang the Brig,
An' up the Bottle-bank, man, we byeth sae went the rig,
Wi' reelin' and wi' dancin'--"knacking heel and toe,"
Our heads began to rattle where wor feet before did go.

The Half-Muin Lyen we com te, and that wor Susy found,
For ower the stanes she fell, man, that's lyen all around,
A daver, a devisher agyen the metal pump,
And aw, to save poor Susy, got a duckin' i' the sump.

Ower anenst the Dun Cow, there is a place myed reet,
As good for breaking necks, man, as ony i' the street;
Had e'er an inclination been for leading me astray,
I'm conscious that aw'd fund maw end by coming up this way.

The biggest house i' Gyetshead projecting o'er the road,
Dis scarcely leave a footpath to pass on, if you would:
Were it not for the gas leet that's on the other side,
Mony windpipes wad be clos'd, aye, and mony open'd wide.

A little farther up the street, abuin au'd Jackson's Chare,
A neatish bit o' dournament began, as passing there,
For ---- ---- a ---- wi' guise an' shop-board new,
Is cabbaging at Pleasant ---- to patch his Waterloo.

But the worst of a' these evils, is their planning o' the street,
Aye, sic a shem an' bizen, were but decent folks te see't;
For here's a hill, and there's a hill, and here they're pullin' doon,
And here they're buildin' up, (who's fault?) the _only_ fuils i' toon.

Thus onward we were passin', thro' trouble and thro' strife,
Scarce caring what misfortune had Roger and his Wife:
But ere we gan that way agyen, we'll grease our soles and heels,
To scamper down by Sunderland, and up by smoky Sheels.

NEWCASTLE THEATRE IN AN UPROAR,

With the Bear, the Horses, and the Dogs, as principal Performers.

It's ha'e ye seen how crouse and gay
The lads and lasses bent their way,
To see the horses act the play,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre?

There some in silks did proudly shine,
And some were dress'd in caps se fine,
And some on sticks there did recline,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

The belles and beaux of low degree
Were eager this fine sight to see;
And soon as they had got their tea,
They set off for the Theatre.

Then at the gallery door they stood--
Impatient, and in fretful mood;
And many a one, faith, did no good
By coming to the Theatre.

The doors being open'd, on they push'd,
Without distinction they were crush'd;
The cry was, Tumble up you must,
To fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

Next direful shrieks were heard aloud,
Whilst heedless throng'd the busy crowd,
Alike the slothful and the proud
Were driven in the Theatre.

A miller chep I chanc'd to see
Frae out amang the crowd sae blae,
Was running up an entry
Near fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

He'd got his coat torn cross the lap,
My conscience! 'twas a sad mishap;
But others still were worse than that,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

There some their gowns held in their hand,
And others lost their shawls se grand;
And if you crush'd not you might stand,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

The pretty girls, to get a seat,
Crush'd on, wi' hair dress'd up sae neat;
But soon came back, in sic a freet,
Frae fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

Now some got in without their shoes,
And some got in wi' mony a bruise,
And some cam hyem to tell the news,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

Within the pit a brutish chap
Had hit a maiden sic a rap,
'Cause she refus'd to take her hat
Off, in Newcastle Theatre.

They took her home without delay,
When in a fit she fainting lay;
And faith she well may curse the day
That e'er she saw the Theatre.

The boxes, too, were fill'd se fine,
With all the labouring sons of Tyne;
And servant lasses, all divine,
Did beautify the Theatre.

The heat was so excessive great,
That, not to keep the folk too late,
They hurry'd on poor Timour's fate,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

The play was done as it struck ten,
Some greedy folks said, 'twas a shem;
However, they all wet went hyem,
From fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

FAREWELL, ARCHY.

Written in 1820.

Tune--"Chapter of Donkies."

Now, Archy, my boy, drop the civical gown,
For none ever fill'd it with half your renown,
For wisdom and valour so glorious you shine,
You're the pride, boast, and bulwark of old coaly Tyne.
O brave Archy, miraculous Archy!
The pink o' the wise, and the wale o' the brave.

To recount all your virtues a volume 'twould swell,
So we'll just name a few, sir, in which you excel;
Your reign's been eventful, the times have gone mad,
And well might have puzzled more brains than you had;
But sufficient was Archy, well able was Archy,
To crush the sedition and treason of Tyne.

Sure Machiavel's self was a fool to our Mayor,
So honest he seem'd--then he promis'd so fair,
To reform all abuses, give justice to all,
And regulate watchmen, blood-suckers and all.
O specious Archy! legitimate Archy!
The firm, staunch supporter of things as they are.

Then of the Great Meeting,[15] by Jove, what a jest!
The Rads set you down for their chairman at least;
But the yeomen and specials in Court you kept hid,
Then sent off that precious epistle to Sid.
O rare Archy! sly old Archy!
Archy's the boy for the word or the blow!

O thou first of inditers, thou brightest of scribes,
Thy invention how fertile, in infamous lies!
How assassin-like was it to stab in the dark,
And from truth and from justice so far to depart.
O serpent-like Archy! O fiend-like Archy!
O Archy! but that was a damnable deed.

Next you went on a voyage of discovery to Shields,
And got handsomely pepper'd for meddling with keels;
Then for refuge you fled to Northumberland's Arms,
Who till now has defended your paper from harms,
Else down had gone Archy, thy paper, dear Archy,
Down stairs might have gone for the public good.

Then, for raising a riot, and reading the act,
Your honour against all opponents I'll back:
And to crown you with laurels, and finish my song,
You're a Colonel of Noodles, and nine makes a man,
Such as Archy and Cabbage,
Canny Jack Dixon, and thief-taking Tom.

Footnote 15: Held on Newcastle Town Moor, Oct. 11, 1819, relating to the Manchester Massacre.

SIR TOMMY MADE AN ODD FELLOW.

_A Provincial and very popular Song._

I've sung o' Newcassel till black o' the fyess,
Tyne's Muse is as modest as ony;
Tho' oft she comes out in a comical dress--
Here she goes for a lilt at Sir Tommy.
Ye've seen him, nae doubt, wi' his hat on ten hairs,
Then he cuts sic a wonderful caper;
He has long been thought odd, for his kickmashaw airs,
Now he's odd baith by name and by nature.

Let Fame canter on till she's sair i' the hips,
Proclaiming, frae Tynemouth to Stella,
How the sun, moon, and stars a' went into the 'clipse,
When Sir Tommy was made an Odd Fellow.

There's scarce sic a man in a' Newcassel toon,
With the famous Tyne Legion outsetting:
Down at Shields in a fray, they pick'd up sic renoon,
That his nyem will nae mair be forgetten.
Tho' envious at valour, yet a' look asquint,
What heroes in fame e'er surpass'd them?
Wi' Sir Tommy before, and the sailors behint,
It was run! and the devil take the last one!
Let Fame canter on, &c.

A Knight he was dubb'd for sic sarvices brave,
But a Knight without fee is but little:
So they sent him to govern[16] where folks rant and rave,
A station he fit to a tittle.
Grand Master of Orangemen next he was call'd,
Bells rung till the toon was a' quaking;
Now Most Noble Grand of Odd Fellows install'd--
Faicks! it's time a straight-jacket was making.
Let Fame canter on, &c.

That Sir Tommy has wit I wad fain here convince,
He can myek sic a thumping oration,
By which he astonish'd the Legion lang since,
Now he wants to astonish the nation.
By humbug reduc'd, though his head's very lang,
His brains scarce wad balance a feather:
But just nominate him a Parliament man,[17]
Head and brains will take flight a' thegither.
Let Fame canter on, &c.

O sons o' Newcassel! free Burgesses a',
Ne'er be tempted your freedom to barter;
May they hing in tatters to frighten the craws,
If ye budge but an inch frae your Charter.
If ye send up Sir Tommy to London, M. P.
I' the Parliament house to be seated,
Ye may just as weel send Captain Starkey[18] up tee,
Your glory will then be completed.
Let Fame canter on, &c.

Footnote 16: Governor General of the Lunatic House.

Footnote 17: It was reported in the London Papers, that Sir T. B. intended putting up as a Candidate to serve Newcastle in Parliament.

Footnote 18: An eccentric character well known in Newcastle.

WRECKENTON HIRING.

Oh, Lads and Lasses, hither come
To Wreckenton, to see the fun,
And mind ye bring your Sunday shoon,
There'll be rare wark wi' dancing-o.
And Lasses now, without a brag,
Bring pockets like a fiddle bag,
Ye'll get them cramm'd wi' mony a whag
Of pepper-kyek an' scranchim-o.

And Bess put on that bonny goon
Thy mother bought thou at the toon;
That straw-hat wi' the ribbons broon,
They'll a' be buss'd that's coming-o:
Put that reed ribbon round thy waist,
It myeks thou luik sae full o' grace,
Then up the lonnen come in haste,
They'll think thou's com'd frae Lunnen-o.

Ned pat on his Sunday's coat,
His hat and breeches cost a note,
With a new stiff'ner round his throat,
He luikt the very dandy-o:
He thought that he was gaun to choke,
For he'd to gyep before he spoke:
He met Bess at the Royal Oak,
They had baith yell and brandy-o.

Each lad was there wi' his sweetheart,
And a' was ready for a start,
When in com Jack wi' Fanny Smart,
And brought a merry Scraper-o:
Then Ned jump'd up upon his feet,
And on the table myed a seat;
Then bounc'd the Fiddler up a heet,
Saying, 'Play and we will caper-o.'

Now Ned and Bess led off the ball,
'Play Smash the windows,' he did call,
'Keep in yor feet,' says Hitchy Mall,
Learn'd dancers hae sic prancing-o:'
Now Ned was nowther lyeth nor lyem,
And faith he had baith bouk and byen,
Ye wad thought his feet was myed o' styen,
He gav sic thuds wi' dancing-o.

Now Jackey Fanny's hand did seize,
Cry'd, 'Fiddler, tune your strings to please!'
Play, 'Kiss her weel amang the trees,'
She is my darlin', bliss her-o!
Then off they set, wi' sic a smack,
They myed the joints a' bend and crack:
When duen he took her round the neck,
And faith he dident miss her-o.

The fiddler's elbow wagg'd a' neet,
He thought he wad dropt off his seat,
For deil a bit they'd let him eat,
They were sae keen o' dancin'-o.
Some had to strip their coats for heet,
And sarks and shifts were wet wi' sweet!
They cramm'd their guts, for want o' meat,
Wi' ginger-breed and scranchim-o.

Now cocks had crawn an hour or more,
And ower the yell-pot some did snore;
But how they luikt to hear the roar
Of Matt, the King Pit caller-o!
'Smash him!' says Ned, 'he mun be rang,
He's callin' through his sleep, aw's war'n;'
Then shootin' to the door he ran--
'Thou's asleep, thou rousty bawler-o!'

Now they danc'd agyen till it was day,
And then went hyem--but, by the way,
Some of them had rare fun, they say,
And fand it nine months after-o:
Such tricks are play'd by heedless youth;
And though they're common, north and south,
That's nae excuse for breach of truth,
Nor food for wit and laughter-o.

Suen Wreckenton will bear the sway,
Two Members they'll put in, they say;
Then wor Taxes will be duen away,
And we'll a' sing now or never-o:
Backey and Tea will be sae cheap,
Wives will sit up when they sud sleep,
And we'll float in yell at wor Pay-week,
Then Wreckenton for ever-o.

ON RUSSELL THE PEDESTRIAN,

Who walked 101 miles in 23 hours, 56 minutes, and 30 seconds, on the 25th & 26th of July, 1822, on the Newcastle Race course.

Men's talents vary--for wise ends design'd,
_This_ man has strength of body, _that_, of mind;
Each his peculiar art assiduous plies,
And every maxim of improvement tries,
Till he attain perfection by degrees,
And learns to execute his task with ease.

Wilson,[19] desist! and Simpson,[20] take your rest!
Ease and retirement now will suit ye best;
Your brief excursions will excite no more
That admiration which they did before;
Though doubtless ye have both endeavour'd hard,
Perhaps without an adequate reward;
But such laborious journies lay aside,
And if ye can, instead of walking, _ride_.
"Hide your diminish'd heads!" nor vainly talk,
Among your friends, how rapidly you walk:
First in the annals of Pedestrian fame,
Historians now will enter RUSSELL'S name;
Where he will most conspicuously shine,
And long be hail'd--The Hero of the Tyne.
Upon this art he has so much refin'd,
That he leaves all competitors behind.
With buoyant step we've seen him tread the plain,
And hope, ere long, to see him walk again.

Footnote 19: George Wilson, the Blackheath Pedestrian, walked 90 miles in 24 successive hours, on the same ground, on Easter Monday and Tuesday, 1822.

Footnote 20: John Simpson, the Cumberland Pedestrian, attempted to walk 96 miles on the same ground, in the same period of time, on Whit-Monday, and again on the 29th and 30th of July, 1822; in both of which attempts he failed.

ON SIMPSON THE PEDESTRIAN'S FAILURE.

Tune--"Barbary Bell."

Sitting crush'd i' the huddock a' gobbing and talking,
We were mov'd wiv a spoke frae the little Pee Dee;
Ah! Skipper, he says, the auld man 'ill be walking,
So we a' rose together and set off to see.
When we gat to the Moor, he was dodging away, man,
Wi' twe cheps on each side, keeping a' the folks back;
And the bairns running after him, shouting hurra, man,
So we just gat a gliff, for he pass'd in a crack.

Now Barney M'Mullin, his reet hand protector,
With a sprig o' shilelagh preparing the way,
Was stopt on the road by a publican hector,
Who hinted that Barney intended foul play.
If Barney mov'd forward he threaten'd to drop him,
For his walking, he said, put the man off his pace;
But Barney concluded he'd ne right to stop him,
And call'd him a big-gutted rogue to his face.

Every Freeman, says Barney, of land has a small stock,
But to dunch people off is most rascally mean;
Then their rights were protected by bold Tommy Alcock,
Who said he'd a share of the pasture sae green.
When Tommy put on his election-day swagger,
His genteel appearance made Barney's tongue cease;
His speech was sae pointed, it pierc'd like a dagger:
So Barney, poor soul, he departed in peace.

We stopt there a' neet, till weel on i' the morning,
Expecting he still wad keep dodging away;
But he gav us the double, without ony warning,
And hodg'd off the Moor, like a sheep gyen astray.
When he enter'd the tent, we were a' sitting drinking,
It was thought he had come to get something to eat;
But now it appears the poor soul had been thinking
On the best ways and means to obtain a retreat.

It seems the auld man had nae notion o' stopping,
But as to what ail'd him, he knaws best his sel';
For whether he fail'd in his wind, strength, or bottom,
The skipper and I were baith puzzled to tell.
But it's owre and deun, so what signifies talking,
Poor man, he must just lay his fist to the spade:
Let them that think fit make their living by walking,
For his part he's fund it's a very bad trade.

The VICTORY;

or, The CAPTAIN DONE OVER.

Tune--"O the golden days of good Queen Bess."