Chapter VI: Part 6

It happen'd very lately, (upon my word 'tis true, sir,)
A party at the Peacock supp'd, as I shall shew to you, sir;
The names of those I shall disclose, who form'd this happy party,
Were Waller Watson, Walton too, both honest blades and hearty;
And with them were two friends of theirs, who just had come to
town, sir,
Hedges and Ingram are their names, both travellers of renown, sir.

They sang and drank, and drank and sang, till time was wearing late,
sir,
Nor ever thought a moment what that night might be their fate, sir:
Near eleven o'clock they sallied out, the night being rather cold, sir,
('Twas on the eighth of April, as we hear the story told, sir,)
They felt it not, for friendship's glass had warm'd their hearts
within, sir,
By drinking brandy, rum, or wine, or eke good Holland's gin, sir.

Watson and Ingram both inclin'd to be a little merry, sir,
The others left--to Dean-street they proceeded in a hurry, sir;
When Hedges he sung "Fly not yet," why haste ye so away, sir?
And Ingram promptly answer'd him, by calling out, "Oh! stay," sir.
The _Verges_ of the night were rous'd--demanded why such
clatter, sir,
What's all this hound-like noise about? come tell us what's the
matter, sir.

Then Walton said, "They're friends of mine, and strangers in the
place, sir;"
But this they disregarded quite, and star'd them in the face, sir.
Now Halbert cried out, "Seize them, Ross!--to the watch-house they
shall go, sir;
And Master Carr will _Kitty_ them, old friendship for to shew, sir."
Then to the watch-house they were ta'en triumphantly along, sir,
For nothing, as the trial prov'd, but singing Tom Moor's song, sir.

Arriving at the watch-house, where Dogberry sat in state, sir,
The watchmen made false charges out, and did so glibly prate, sir;
Tom cried out, "What d'ye think of this? No defence will I hear, sir,
_My servants_ I will listen to, they've made it plain appear, sir.
Off to the _Kitty_ with them, watch, nor grant one short respite,
sirs,
But see that they're completely fast in durance all the night, sirs."

Ye watchmen, for the future, remember Scarlett's dressing, sirs,
The real sound drubbing you've receiv'd may be esteem'd a blessing,
sirs:
And should you e'er repeat such acts, vile tyrants as you've been,
sirs,
Scarlett against you may appear, and trim you black and green, sirs.
Therefore a warning take in time, leave your infernal tricks, sirs,
As you ere this must clearly find, you've kick'd against the
pricks, sirs.

THE ALARM!![21]

_Or, Lord Fauconberg's March._

Tune--"Chevy Chace."

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

No sooner did Lord Fauconberg,
With heart undaunted hear,
Than news to Gotham had been brought,
Which caus'd our Mayor to fear,

Than up he rose, with eyes on fire,
Most dreadful to the view:
"To arms! to arms!" aloud he cried,
And forth his falchion drew.

To arms! to arms! full long and sore
The rattling drums did beat:
To arms in haste each soldier flies,
And scours through every street.

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

The French are at our gates! they cry,
And we shall all be slain;
For Dumourier is at their head,
And that arch-traitor Paine.

In haste drawn up, in fair array,
Our Yorkshire Guards are seen;
And mounted on a jet black steed,
Lord Fauconberg I ween.

And now he gave the word to march,
And valiant foremost rode:
And now he bounds from side to side--
'Twas well the streets were broad.

From Newgate down to the Broad-chare
They march'd with might and main;
Then gallantly they turn'd them round,
And so march'd up again.

Now fill a bumper to the brim,
And drink to Gotham's Mayor;
And when again he hears such news,
May Fauconberg be there.

Footnote 21: On the commencement of the impress service, in March, 1793, considerable riots took place at Shields, which were represented, at Newcastle, in a thousand terrific shapes; and a false alarm having been given at the Mansion house, the drums of the York Militia beat to arms; Lord Fauconberg marched that regiment to the house of Rendezvous in the Broad-chare, and then marched back again.

THE HALF-DROWNED SKIPPER.

Air--"Chapter of Donkies."

T'other day up the water aw went in a boat,
Aw brush'd up my trowsers, put on my new coat;
We steer'd up wor boat 'lang side of a keel,
And the luiks o' the Skipper wad frighten'd the Deil.
Fol de rol, &c.

So thinks aw, wi' the keel we'll gan a' the way,
And hear a few words that the skipper may say,
For aw was sure if ought in the keel was deun wrang,
The Skipper wad curse, aye, and call every man.
Fol de rol, &c.

Now we'd just getten up to the fam'd Skinners' Burn,
When the Skipper bawl'd out that the keel was to turn:
Wye he shouted and roar'd like a man hung in chains,
And swore by the keel he would knock out their brains.
Fol de rol, &c.

The little Pee-dee jump'd about on the deck,
And the Skipper roar'd out he wad sure smash his neck;
"What for?" says the Pee-dee, "can one not speak a word?"--
So he gav him a kick--knock'd him plump owerboard.
Fol de rol, &c.

There was nyen o' the bullies e'er lost a bit time,
But flung their great keel-huiks splash into the Tyne;
They brought up the Pee-dee just like a duck'd craw,
And the Skipper, wi' laughin', fell smack ower an' a'.
Fol de rol, &c.

Now the keelmen being tired of their Skipper se brave,
Not one e'er attempted his life for to save;
They hoisted their sail, and we saw no more,
But the half-drown'd Skipper was swimming ashore.
Fol de rol, &c.

THE NEWCASTLE WORTHIES.

BY WM. ARMSTRONG.

Air--"We've aye been provided for."

The praises o' Newcassel aw've lang wish'd to tell,
But now then aw'm determin'd to ha'e a right good spell,
An' shew what noted _kiddies_ frae Newcassel town hes flit,
For it's a'wis been a canny place, an' sae will it yet.

A chep, they call'd him Scott, he liev'd on the banks o' Tyne,
Had a son, that i' the Government he wanted to shine:
By degrees the youth he rose up, now Lord Chancellor does sit,
And he's fill'd his place reet brawly, aye an' sae will he yet.

Of a' the fine Engravers that grace fair Lunnen toon,
Wor Tom Ransom and Bill Harvey bang a' that's up or doon:
The praises frae the 'Cademy they constantly do get;
For their pieces they've got medals, aye an' sae will they yet.

For boxing tee, the Lunnen cheps we'll thresh them i' their turns;
Ony see what science he has lairnt--that noted chep, Jem Burns:
Jem Wallace tee, wor champion, how Tommy Dunn he hit,
But they both good ones ever were, an' sae will they yet.

A vast mair cliver cheps we ha'e, o' some aw'll let ye knaw;
For a strong man, whe could beat bold Airchy wi' his wondrous claw;
When six men tuik him in a boat, her bottom suen he split,
And the hiding that he ga'e them, they've not forgot it yet.

For fiddling tee, now whe is there wor Blind Willie can beat?
Or for dancing whe before Jack Cockson e'er could set their feet?
Cull Billy, only try him now, he'll cap ye wi' his wit;
He's truly wond'rous, ever was, and sae will he yet.

Bob Cruddace, ah, poor soul! he's deed--he had a cliver knack
O' kepping beer, aye three yards off, when he "parish'd the pack!"
And Whin Bob 'bout the militia constantly does swet;
But by cunningness escap'd them, aye an' sae will he yet.

Jack Nicholson, the noble soul, a deal o' breeding shows,
Got a patent frae the King to split sheep heads wi' his nose;
The butchers fearing o' disgrace, a job he ne'er cud get--
But the honour's aye been wi' him, aye, an' sae will it yet.

Of Fishwives tee, that's i' wor toon, up to the present day,
Euphy Scott she is prime minister to Queen Madgie Gray.
The understrappers and descendants maintain that it was fit,
She should rule the market as she lik'd, an' sae will she yet.

Captain Starkey, Pussey Willie, and poor Cuddy Reed,
Lousy Donald and au'd Judy, poor souls! they've a' gyen deed:
But, marrows, keep ye up your hearts, this is not the time to fret,
For their memories hae e'er been up, aye an' say will they yet.

_HUMANUM EST ERRARE._

* * * * *

OLD NICK'S VISIT TO H----'S KITCHEN.

Tune--"The King of the Cannibal Islands."

Old Nick, for pastime, took a prance,
And to Newcastle did advance;
At Grainger's buildings just did glance,
And swagger'd away to H----'s Kitchen.
The Kitchen soon was in a roar,
When Nick exclaim'd--I'll pay the score!
So let the drink go round galore--
Which soon laid numbers on the floor:--
Cried Swalwell Pyet--Old Friend, what cheer!
We're heartily glad to see you here--
Nick smack'd the ale, and soon turn'd queer
Among his friends in the Kitchen.

CHORUS.

Then shout hurrah for Ralph's good ale!
O may its virtues never fail--
It made Old Nick to cock his tail,
And stagger about in the Kitchen.

In midst of all the noise and din,
The merry crew came tumbling in,
From Parlour and Cock'd Hat so trim,
To join their friend in the Kitchen:--
First Ramsay Jack, the brokers' hack,
With G---- and E---- upon his back--
Great Doctor Flash came in a crack!--
Brave Noodle W----n join'd the pack;
And from the Vestry, like a rose,
Came M----ty with the brandy nose,
And B----m dress'd in dandy clothes,
To welcome Nick to the Kitchen.
Then shout hurrah, &c.

Fam'd H----p acted Crook-back'd Dick,
And sung a song to please Old Nick;
Jim W----n smoak'd till S----t turn'd sick,
And they bundled them out of the Kitchen.
Old S----y, too, that gallant tar,
Said when on board a man of war,
He conquer'd Yankee and Lascar,
And knew all countries near and far:
Old Nick then gave a dreadful roar,
With voice just like the grizzly boar,
Brave S----y ran towards the door,
And fled half-dead from the Kitchen!
Then shout hurrah, &c.

Old Wash C---- with his dirty paws,
Sat rubbing up his grim old jaws,
And scandalizing without cause,
His dearest friend in the Kitchen.
Jim Colvin and Ned Mushel smart,
Were guzzling beer down by the quart!
Old Snuffy Tom well play'd his part,
He swigg'd away with all his heart.
Old Nick cried, Is my Uncle here?
I long to taste of his good cheer!--
A lump of beef did soon appear,
And they gobbled it up in the Kitchen!
Then shout hurrah, &c.

O hark! cried Nick, the clock strikes one!
So midnight's past--I must be gone;
When I remount my brimstone throne,
I'll oftentimes think of the Kitchen.
Ralph D----d said, before we part--
Come, let us have another quart!
Bob C----r swears 'twill break his heart,
To think you should so soon desert!
But Nick still more impatient grew--
At last he bellow'd out--Adieu!
And, in a moment, off he flew,
'Mid thund'ring chears from the Kitchen!
Then shout hurrah, &c.

On George the Fourth's Coronation.

INVITATION to the MANSION-HOUSE DINNER IN HONOUR OF THE CORONATION.

Air--"Scots wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled."

Men who have with Mayors fed;
Men whom oft the Mace hath led;
Welcome to your Beef and Bread,
Come and feast to-day.
See yon Ox's buttocks lower;
See yon bags of pudding flour;
Shew your masticating power,
Teeth and Loyalty.

Who can't eat is sure a knave;
Send the scoundrel to his grave;
Who can't drink should be a slave;
Such we ne'er will be.
Who for King and Country's Law
Will cut away and stuff his maw,
Cans will drain, and corks will draw,
Brothers, come with me.

By what's worse than Slavery's chains,
Empty stomachs, gripes, and pains,
We'll eat and drink, until our veins
Swoln like bladders be.
See yon lumps of beef laid low,
Puddings fall at every blow!
Wine in bumpers round shall flow:
Brothers, look to me!

THE NEWCASTLE SWINEHERD'S PROCLAMATION

O yes! ye swinish Multitude!
To our Newcastle sties repair:
Two whole fat beeves are barbecu'd,
So go and cram your gorges there.

Your mouths will water at the sight;
The oose your unshav'd chops run down;
Your dirty sleeves away will dight
The slobber of tobacco brown.

With cart-grease basted, dredg'd with dust,
The outsides burnt, the insides raw,
Next to some tit bit carrion must
Delight a hog's voracious maw.

Hey! to the Pants, where dribbling wine
And brewer's rot-gut beer distil;
With speed let every greedy swine
Swig what he can--aye, swig his fill.

Then to your grov'ling nature true,
Return to wallow in the mire;
And let the Corporate body view
The consummation they require.

Swineherds expect the brutes that run
To guzzle at their garbage feast,
Should compensate, and make them fun;
So hogs come on and play the beast!

"And grunt, ye pigs, with savage joy,
While stuffing full your craving maws,
Nor care if staves your skulls annoy,
But quickly move your greedy jaws.

While guzzling down your wishy-wash,
Squeak loud with _make-believe_ affection;
And in the puddle kick and splash,
Nor shew one sign of disaffection.

Then, all ye lordly herds laugh loud,
And shake your portly paunches fine;
Shew to your dames the rabble crowd--
And having pray'd, retire to dine.

Then tell how the voracious pigs,
With greedy spite press'd to the _trow_,
And gave each other loyal digs,
Nor car'd for e'er a waddling sow.

Next sagely argue o'er your wine,
This crew, debas'd beyond compare,
In fact and reason are true swine,
Unlike Corinthian Pillars fair."[22]

_Pigstye Court, Sandhill, 12th July, 1821._

Footnote 22: The Rich were called the "Corinthian Pillars of Society" by the pensioner Burke; while he termed the Industrious Classes the "Swinish Multitude."

THE GOLDEN HORNS;

_Or, The General Invitation_.

Come, neighbours, to Robson's let's all hie away,
To see the Ox crown'd with ribbons so gay:
His horns are well gilded, his head bright does shine,
We'll soon get a slice and a horn full of wine.

Some come from afar, as did wise men of old,
To see our King's head branch'd out thus with gold.
Success, then, to horns, when they're gilded so clever;
May the ... wear horns, and wear them for ever.

In praise then of horns let all Newcastle sing;
For he who scorns horns despises his ...
Let them boast of their garters, and boast of their stars,
But horns are far better than honours or scars.

Never blush for your horns, then, though low be your station,
Since horns are the pride of the _Chief_ of our nation.
Let them make Lords and Dukes, crown an _Ass_, if they will,
The order of Horns let it be my theme still.

LOYAL FESTIVITIES;

_Or, Novel Scenes at Newcastle_.

A POPULAR SONG IN THE NEW FARCE OF THE CORONATION,

As it was performed at Newcastle upon Tyne, on Thursday, July 19th, 1821.

Sung by the "Swinish Multitude," in full Chorus.

The Castle guns were fir'd, and loud
The bells rang in the morning,
To wake the "Swinish Multitude,"
And give the public warning:
That, "as in duty bound," the Mayor,
And loyal Corporation,
Would celebrate, in civic state,
The day of Coronation!

With matchless liberality,
The sums of money voted,
That loyalty might be thereby
Among the herd promoted:
A feast would loyalize the brutes,
Upon this great occasion,
And make them sing, God save the King!
At George's Coronation.

Three royal fountains running beer,
And one to dribble wine, O,
Would make them flock from far and near,
To grunt like loyal swine, O.
Two bullocks roasted whole, 'twas thought,
Would be a grand donation,
To toss among the "rabble rout,"
At George's Coronation!

'Twas done--the bullocks roasted were,
The fountains set a flowing;
While Butchers round, upon the ground,
Huge lumps of beef were throwing:
The loyal Swineherds looking on,
In anxious expectation,
To see each beast enjoy the feast
At George's Coronation!

But what was their surprize to find
The swinish herd refuse it;
How strange! their tastes were so refin'd,
No hog of sense would use it!
Our Gentry now, the loyal few,
Beheld, with consternation,
The scanty stock of loyalty
At George's Coronation!

They saw, with grief, the roasted beef
By saucy swine neglected!
No grateful beast extoll'd the feast,
Nor loyalty respected!
Their swinish nature sure is chang'd--
O what an alteration!
Time was when pigs would grunt and squeel,
To grace a Coronation!

But ah! the brutes display, at last,
The faculty of Reason!
"The age of Chivalry is past!"
(Reflection most unpleasing!)
And, sad to tell, with that is gone
"Othello's occupation!"
All servile reverence for a throne,
And priestly domination!

Then why display this make-believe
Affection and profusion?
Ye can no longer swine deceive,
They see through the delusion.
What then avails this pageantry,
And useless ostentation?
What signifies your loyalty
At George's Coronation!

Had Derry-Down been on the spot,
And view'd the scene before him,
While beef, and bones, and bricks, like shot,
Were flying _in terrorem_;
He would have star'd, with wild affright,
At such a consummation,
And loudly damn'd the useless farce
Of George's Coronation!

Learn hence, ye Legislators wise,
Ye guardians of our treasures!
The "Swinish Multitude" despise
Your inconsistent measures:
Think not that bayonets will gain
The people's admiration;
Or fix a Monarch on the throne,
By a mock Coronation!

PICTURE OF NEWCASTLE;

_Or, George the Fourth's Coronation_.

BY WILLIAM MIDFORD.

Tune--"Arthur M'Bride."

The firing of guns, and the ringing of bells,
Rous'd me from my dreams about magical spells;
So I'll draw you a sketch, as we're now by oursel's,
By way of an illustration:
The roads to Newcastle were cover'd almost,
As if Radical thunder[23] had summon'd its host,
Or an enemy's fleet had been seen off the coast,
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

In the streets what a buz among sweethearts and wives,
And children who ne'er rose so soon in their lives;
All higgledy piggledy through other drives,
To view what was in preparation.
The oxen are roasting--outsides a mere crust;
They're stuff'd wi' potatoes, and dredg'd well with dust,
While the turnspits were set as if working o' trust,
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

I next went to view a Boat-race on the Tyne,
For a blue silken flag skill and labour combine;
Gold sovereigns the prizes--to start about nine,
From Walker, with precipitation.
The Greyhound came first, the old Sandgate-shore Gig,
Which went as if chasing a hare, through the Brig.
No doubt but the wives and the lasses were big,
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

Then the Gentlemen walk'd in procession to church;
Not even Dissenters did lag in the porch,
But boldly push'd on, amid ruffles and starch,
To praise and to pray with the nation.
The service being ended, the anthems are sung,
The burnt sacrifice from each service is swung,
When the fountains with wine and strong ale 'gan to run
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

Then a Female Procession, to heighten the scene,
Paraded the streets, with a bust of the Queen;
When her title was plac'd where a crown should have been--
Upon the crane-top was its station.
Then the Ox was beheaded, and held up to view,
As if he'd done something of Cato-street hue:
A soldier that made his appearance did rue,
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

Then with squeezing and tearing began the dispute;
Some held by the Pant, and some grappled the spout,
Till as drunk as a lord, and as wise as a brute,
At this swine-feeding jollification.
They drank out of hats and old shoes, very keen,
The fights they went round, quite amusing the scene;
While some, in mistake, drank "Success to the Queen!"
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

The battle grew hot, as they flung round the beef,
Disgusted, they sought no Commander in chief;
The fires they demolish'd, while brick-bats and beef
Flew like rockets, in mad desperation.
The Butchers, now thinking their lives very sweet,
Soon threw down their gullies, and beat a retreat;
Not wishing to die, just like dogs, in the street,
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

Upon the Sandhill, where the fountain ran wine,
The keelmen, quite eager to taste of the vine,
Had the Crown taken down, which was thrown in the Tyne,
So fix'd was their determination.
There one, tho' stripp'd naked, so great was his drouth,
Made a new-fashion'd sun-dial, pointing due south,
When the ladies at five of the clock set their mouth,
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

Among the arrivals at Mansion-house gates,
Were the bones of the oxen, the spits, and the grates,
With a keelman, in petticoats, scratching his pate,
For a suit from our rich Corporation.
Had the _Den_[24] been but open, the people might say,
For Kill-pudding Joe, and the burdies of prey,[25]
This sunshine would brought a fine "harvest of hay,"
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

Footnote 23: Referring to the Public Meeting on the Town Moor, on the 11th Oct. 1819, where it was supposed, 100,000 were assembled, to take into consideration the proceedings at Manchester.

Footnote 24: The House of Correction.

Footnote 25: Police Officers.

NEWCASTLE IN AN UPROAR;

_Or, George the Fourth's Coronation._

Air--"Come under my Plaidie."

O Jockey, my friend, mun, how last you this evening?
Come in, crook your hough, and let's hear all your news;
It appears to me you have been tramping this morning,
I see by the dust that's so thick on your shoes.
I have been a tramping, I've been at Newcastle,
All the things I have seen there my memory can't bring;
The folks from all parts have rais'd such a noration,
About the Coronation of Geordy the King.

The first thing I saw was two fires for the bullocks--
They hung them both down as it struck twelve at night;
But lang ere day-light was come in on the morning,
Both stuffing and 'tatoes were burnt in their kites.
They turn'd them on spite until burnt like two cinders,
And cut them both up about twelve of the day;
As they lay on the stages, they smok'd just like tinder,
And look'd like two muck-heaps, the people did say.

Then the carvers set to with knives cutting and scraping,
And lumps of fat beef with such vengeance were strew'd,
I dare say they thought that the folks were all gaping,
And believ'd they were feeding a swine multitude.
But the stuff they threw out put the folks in a fury,
Both stones and brick-bats they snatch'd up in a rage;
And a radical troop, thus equipp'd in a hurry,
With vengeance bang'd carvers and beef off the stage.

For the folks being determin'd, the beef would not handle,
Nor gobble it up like a stye full of swine;
For their conscience did whisper it would be a scandal:
So the stuff was refus'd by the sons of the Tyne.
The next thing I saw was a British young sailor,
He pull'd the crown down from the top of the crane;
Although with brick bats he got many a nailor,
Yet he stuck up a label concerning the Queen.

This bill being put up set the crowd in a motion,
They gave three times three when first it was seen;
And loudly did praise the brave tars of the ocean,
Who fought in defence of their much injur'd Queen.
These things being done, it rais'd such a durdem,
The stones and the brick-bats flew up like a cloud:
A poor Tyne Cossack, that belong'd to Tom Burdon,
Was near crush'd to death as he fought with the crowd.

That day in the town was heard no sound of bugles,
And Bold Archy, he too was ne'er seen iv a';
For if that but once he had brought down the Noodles,
They'd been trod under foot like a bundle of straw.
For so bold are the men about canny Newcassel,
No injustice they'll suffer when assembled a':
If the King had been there he'd ne'er worn his gold tassel,
And as to being crown'd, that would ne'er done iv a'.

The things that were flying appear'd like a battle;
So, afraid of being fell'd, as I stood by the folks,
I on shankie nagie away straight did rattle,
To drag down the street the black bones of the ox.
When I came to the Sandhill my eyes I got open'd,
I saw something standing which brightly did shine;
A large wooden Pant, and a crown on the top o't:
When I came to look close it was running red wine,

The folk that were round it appear'd to be growling
And fighting amongst it like so many cats;
While others I saw among mud and dirt rolling,
And drinking the wine out of old lousy hats.
Thinks I to myself, this is all botheration,
It is but a pretext, I know by their scheme,
To pump out what's left of the wealth of the nation,
To swell the fat bags of the Clergy and King.

The next thing I saw that took up my attention,
Was a keelman quite nak'd! he'd no breeches iv a';
Some said he, for fighting, deserv'd well a pension,
But I think that he ought to've been tried by the law.
The wives that were running fell o'er, tappy lappy,
Town serjeants the keelmen did pelt well with glare;
And swore, if they could but catch Tripy and Cappy,
They would tear them to rags at the end of the war.

Then I by this time nigh got into a quarrel;
I argued, but could not the battle decide;
So dreading some person might tear my apparel,
I took my departure unto the Quayside.
In going down the Quay there was such a crushing--
I met with a man of the name of Tom Dale,
He said, into Sandgate the folks were all pushing,
For the Pant on the hill there was running strong ale.

When I got to Sandgate I could not help laughing,
The lasses were running about with the swipes;
And old wives that fell in the gutter were scruffling,
Ne'er minded, but smok'd on their old cutty pipes.
I next took my journey as for as the 'Spital,
To see if ought curious was there to be seen;
But I think that from Sandgate it differed little,
For the folks were all drinking the health of the Queen.

I went to an alehouse, and nearly got fuddled,
For by walking about sae my legs were quite lame;
So on my old pins then away I straight toddled,
And ne'er look'd behind me, but tramp'd away hame.
At Newcastle there have been both horse and boat races,
I have droll things to tell you, if I had but time;
But having to call at some more bits of places,
On some other day I will finish my rhyme.

CORONATION DAY AT NEWCASTLE.

Upon the nineteenth of July
The Castle guns did rend the sky,
St. Nicholas' bells did briskly ring,
And George the Fourth was crown'd our king;
But those possess'd of feelings fine
Will ne'er forget that day on Tyne.

For days, within the 'Spital green,
In ribbands deck'd were Bullocks seen,
And on their horns a royal crown,
To mock some Cuckold of renown:
And all, whose thoughts agree with mine,
Will say he's nearer Thames than Tyne.

Humanity, with pitying gaze,
Beheld the victims fondly graze
Round the infernal furnace pile,
Where one was shortly doom'd to broil,
Purpos'd to feed the humble swine
That dwelt upon the banks of Tyne.

Blush, ye great Rulers of the town,
Behold your nauseous, loathsome boon!
See men, with manners more discreet,
Disgusted, spurn your beastly treat!
And know, all you who term us swine,
That Reason rules the sons of Tyne.

Give heed to this, Worshipful Mayor,
Though we're reduc'd by taxes bare,
Our British bosoms still contain
Hearts sound as his with golden chain!
May Freedom's rays, which brighter shine,
Adorn each manly breast on Tyne.

It adds but little to your praise,
To see your lavish, wasteful ways,
To see a keelman, from his huddock,
Within your wine-trough wash his buttock,
Which ne'er before was drench'd in wine,
But often plung'd in coaly Tyne.

What did your wilful waste avail?
Your fountains running wine and ale?
The bronzed dome, the glitt'ring crown,
Torn by an enrag'd people down?
Who cheering hail'd Queen Caroline,
Borne by the blooming fair on Tyne.

What would an untaught Heathen said,
To see such brutal scenes display'd?
Is this the land, he would reply,
That teaches Christianity?
Such might suit yon wild shores of mine,
But shame Great Britain and the Tyne.

The money wasted on the ground,
Had it been wisely dealt around
Amongst the needy poor, half-starv'd--
A thousand pounds would thousands serv'd;
Extravagance was their design,
Who rul'd Newcastle upon Tyne.

CORONATION THURSDAY--JULY 19, 1821.

Being the Third[26] Epistle from Bob Fudge to his Cousin Bob in the Country.

Dear Bob--A sad outlaw at length I'm become,
The Tories despise me; the Whigs glump and gloom,
And scowl as they pass, which is something uncivil,
And the Radicals treat me as I would the devil;
And threaten, the next time I make my appearance,
To scourge me completely, with Christian forbearance.
This threat from a party, who ever would bawl
For liberal discussion, is worst of them all;
As my writings, I'm sure, must be wond'rous offences,
When such men are talking about consequences.
But whether the head of the Noodles appear,
Or Lambton, or Typo, with sword or with spear,
To blunt their sharp edges at once on my nob,
I'm determin'd to write to my own dearest Bob.

The Pedlar's descendant[27] may boast in the field,
And the Earl of the North with reluctancy yield,
While Cartwright an excess of freedom may claim--
Perhaps they're all right, since they all are to blame.
The Radicals want more than reason would crave,
They all would be kings, without ever a slave;
And that, my dear Bob, you know never can be--
And as for the Whigs, they love stones more than me.

I dare not maliciously think of the Tory,
No envy his pudding, the Englishman's glory--
He's in, and he's right, and his place is worth keeping,
No wonder he wishes John still to be sleeping;--
And though from stage coffers his wages be taken,
He'd better be paid than the office forsaken.
Without Kings and Clergy, and Commons and Peers,
Together the people would be by the ears;
Equal rights, equal liberties, who would not brave,
Lest an excess of Freedom prove Liberty's grave.

We've the use of our fingers, our tongues, and our eyes,
How then are we fetter'd? the good Tory cries;
And as for the taxes, Judge Bayley can prove
They're the source of our welfare, the things we should love.
Since the days of king Solomon, that wise man of yore,
All kings have had wisdom and riches in store:
And Britain, sublimely renowned in story,
Has become of the world th' admiration and glory,
By the help of our kings, and prime minister Pitt,
Whose names are a match for the Radicals yet.

But stop--to amuse thee I'll give a relation
Of the sights I beheld at the King's Coronation;
Which partly convinc'd me that infidels reign,
Since the head of the church met such hoggish disdain.

The morning was fine when the boats came in sight,
And cannons re-echoed the Tories' delight--
Sandgate heroes huzza'd, till the news, so provoking,
Convinc'd them the watermen only were joking.
"What a d--n'd shame! (cried Archy) such prizes, and never
A man lying breathless, or drown'd in the river!
No squabbling, no fighting, no boats sunk--damnation!
They're fit men to row at a King's Coronation!"

Then from the Quayside to the Sandhill I wander'd,
And smil'd to behold money foolishly squander'd:
A pant rising splendidly, gilded and crown'd,
To run with good wine, in the centre was found,
And fronting St. Nicholas a black roasted beast,
And another in Spital-field, bespoke a grand feast.
Three pants to run ale--'twas a glorious sight!
Two cranes and two scaffolds--the butchers' delight.

From Church now the Mayor and his company ride,
And Bab with the Queen, at the foot of the Side,
Hoisted high on a pole, with a crown on her head--
(And her effigy more than the devil they dread)
The crowd was so dense, and the shouts so astounding,
And nothing but Radical whiskers surrounding;
Which made it becoming to bow to the Queen,
Though a damnable blot on their loyalty, I ween!
Releas'd, they drove gently, their plans to fulfill,
By drinking the king's health upon the Sandhill.
But, to their misfortune, round where it was plac'd,
The crowd was so furious, no Tory could face't;
And high on the gilded dome stood a rude fellow,
With the crown on his head!--people said he was mellow;
But I took him to be some base Radical body,
Who wish'd folk to think that the King was a noddy,
For at the mock gestures of kingly demeanour,
The people bawl'd loudly, and bow'd to his honour;
While many among them cried, Pull the knave down!
Such a bad drunken fellow's not fit for a crown!
He's as good, quoth a keelman, and blew like a porpus,
As the London Mogul, who can drink, wh--e, and rob us.
So near was the danger, the Mayor swoon'd away;
But Archy, more bold as they pranc'd round the fray,
To his comrades cried softly, (but not till past catching)
"What treasonable stuff those damn'd Radicals are hatching!
D'ye see what a mess they have made of the crown,
Go call out the soldiers to pull yon knave down."
"Drive on," quoth the Mayor, by this time come about,
"There's no time to talk while the Philistines are out."
More furious grew Archy, as nearer he drew
The den of corruption, with th' Noodles in view.
"Fetch the soldiers, I say--let the streets swim with blood!
See the crown is insulted, and all that is good,
When erected this morn, what a sight to behold!
'Twas velvet and ermine, and cover'd with gold!
'Tis sacrilege! treason! hell groans at the sight!
Fetch the soldiers, and put the mad rabble to flight:
We crown'd it, and form'd it to dribble with wine,
That the King's health, when drank, might be cheer'd by the swine;
And shall we be bet while we've soldiers to guard us?
No, call them out quickly--the King will reward us."

As he finish'd the sentence, the crown got a fall,
And rapt'rous delight animated them all.
What savage barbarians those English are grown,
To laugh at the fall of a beautiful crown!
'Twas time for the Mayor and poor Archy to fly
From the radical scene to the loyal pig-stye.

To St. Nicholas' Square then I posted away,
Where Typo's high window peep'd over the fray;
And such an Ox roasting was there to be seen!
'Twas a bad loyal meeting for all but the Queen.
The crowd was immense, and their spirits were high,
To honour his Majesty no one durst try.
The scaffold with tipstaves and botchers was clad,
Who blarnied poor folks what fine morsels they had;
And holding the head up, began to huzza,
But a volley of hisses and groans drown'd their _jaw_:
Though, Thistlewood like, it was something uncivil,
For the head wearing horns was as black as the devil.

St. Nicholas peal'd out as the hisses began,
And seem'd to say, "Loyal bucks, do what you can!"
As fast as the butchers the collops threw out,
The people return'd them with many a shout;
And many a fat lump loyal whiskers besmear'd,
Till brick-bats and fat chops the slaughter stage clear'd.

A crown that look'd lovely, and honoured the crane,
Call'd forth, beyond measure, the public disdain;
The brick-flying tempest redoubled its terror,
And many a poor Tory's heart trembled with horror.
An Officer[28] vent'ring imprudently near,
Receiv'd the same fate as the Coach in the rear;
So high was the Radical sentiment tow'ring,
That public expression was past all enduring.
In vain flew the bricks, save to knock people down,
For the Tories were fled, and too fast was the crown;
At length a bold Tar, in the midst of the fray,
Mounted swiftly, and tore the gilt bauble away;
And put in its place, which was fair to be seen,
"The Queen that Jack lov'd," and cried, "God save the Queen!"
Then off went their hats, and abroad went the roar,
And shook the glass windows along the Tyne shore.
The mangled black carrion was knock'd from the stage,
And dragg'd round the town with republican rage,
Till deposited safely i' th' Mansion-house yard,
Where Archy Mac Syc. is the master black-guard;
From whence, in accordance with Archibald's wish,
It was sunk in the Tyne--to make broth for the fish.
So that Radical bodies were highly to blame,
When they sung their pig sonnets, and cried out, "For shame!"

A few drunken fellows the ale-pants surrounded,
And fought for the _wish-wash_ till nearly half-drowned.
But when the wine dribbled beneath the Exchange,
The people were furious, and sought for revenge,
By drinking "The Queen!" with astounding delight,
While the fine folks above them grew pale at the sight.
But to see a nak'd man holding fast by the spout,
Made the sanctified ladies huzza, clap, and shout.
"Fight away, pigs, (quoth Archy) you make us fine fun!"
But when the pant suffer'd he alter'd his tune.
In Spital-field loyalty had no more boast,
For the Queen rul'd the heart, and the people the roast.

Poor Anvil[29] disgrac'd himself, some people say,
To ask the Mayor leave on the Race-ground to pray;
In fact, after such a deed I should not wonder
But they'll sneak and ask leave, till oblig'd to knock under.

What a "punch"-loving people! in less than an hour,
To see Lambton's horse, they were all on the Moor;
But vex'd that their favourite's courser should lose,
They car'd not to stay till the Races might close.

Returning at length, like a tempest they came,
Which bursts upon Cheviot, and sets it on flame
And levell'd the pants with the spoil of the day,
While a Radical gave them a touch of his lay.
In vain the peace-officers handled their staves,
And entreated the crowd to submit like good slaves;
'Twas the Head of the Church who created the day,
And salvation attended a loyal display!
But passive obedience was basely rejected,
And the Head of the Church very little respected;
Which made Archy again for the horse soldiers shout,
So anxious he seem'd for a Manchester rout:
But, thank their good stars, they go free from the labour
Of drawing their whittles to hamstring a neighbour.

In its socket was sinking the Radical taper,
Ere snugly the mighty ones sat down to supper.
It cost them two thousand, I mean th' Corporation!
What a round sum, dear Bob, for a King's Coronation!
But surely I need not the money begrudge,
For the sight charm'd the heart of thy cousin,

BOB FUDGE.

Footnote 26: The first Epistle, "Radical Monday," a satirical description of the Town Moor great Meeting on the 11th Oct. 1819.--The second Epistle (unpublished) "Radical Thursday and Whig Wednesday," on the public Meetings held in Newcastle, on those days, for addressing the Queen, &c.

Footnote 27: Lord Castlereagh.

Footnote 28: A military Officer on horseback in the crowd at the time the Mail Coach passed, decorated in honour of the Coronation, was, together with the Coach, pelted by the populace.

Footnote 29: An Independent Methodist Preacher, who, forgetting the commission of his Divine Master to preach the Gospel, even on the highways and hedges, applied in vain to the Mayor, for leave for himself and brethren to hold a camp meeting on the Town Moor. The worthy Magistrate objected, on the ground of injuring the _interests_ of the "church as by law established;" or, more properly speaking, the interests of the established Clergy. Anvil is also celebrated by Bob Fudge, in his First Epistle, entitled "Radical Monday," as one of the orators at the Town Moor great meeting on the 11th October, 1819.

BOB FUDGE'S POSTSCRIPT

_To his Account of the great Town Moor Meeting, on Monday, 11th October, 1819._

Since the Meeting, dear Bob, many things have come out,
Which in Gotham have made a most damnable rout:
Mister Mayor at a trifle does not seem to stick,
With the RADS[30] he's been playing _Sir Archy Mac Syc._--
While Sidmouth he cramm'd with some _Green Bag Supplies_,
Which--alas! for his Worship--have turn'd out _all lies_!
_A stark staring Parson_,[31] to add to the store,
A budget has sent to the noble Strathmore;
And some other Arch Wag, whom all grace has forsook,
A _thumper_ has palm'd on a great Northern Duke!
Sir Matt, too, so lately the pride of the Tyne,
Against poor old Gotham did also combine;
By supporting _Bold Archy's_ most libellous letter,
He has added another strong link to the fetter!
The rivet he's clos'd, which no mortal can sever,
And set now's the "_Bright Star of Heaton_" for ever!
But let him beware--for "_a Rod is in pickle_,"
Which, sooner or later, "_his Toby will tickle!_"

Both the Houses have rung with the direful alarms,
Of the RADS on the Tyne and the Wear being in arms;
'Tis all a sly hoax--the _Alarmists alarming_,
For there's not the least symptom of _Rising_ or _Arming_!

Footnote 30: The Radicals, or real Reformers.

Footnote 31: Parson Bl--k--n.

BLIND WILLY'S FLIGHT.

Tune--"Betsey Baker."

A whirlwind, of a serious kind,
Did o'er Newcastle blow, sir,
Which gen'ral consternation spread
About a month ago, sir:
It caught Blind Willy in the street,
He mounted like a feather;
His friends, alarm'd, cried out, Alas!
Poor soul! he's gone for ever!
Fal de ral, &c.

But soon our Minstrel gay was seen,
By thousands of the people,
In rapid flight, swift as the kite
Bound o'er Saint Nich'las' steeple;
He pass'd the Shot Tower like a dart,
Turn'd round by Askew's Key, sir,
And down the Tyne he glided fine,
And bolted off to sea, sir.
Fal de ral, &c.

'Tis said that he to London got,
But was forc'd back to Shields, sir,
And up to Swalwell, quick as thought,
Was carried o'er the fields, sir.
Round Axwell Park our roving spark
Was borne amidst the squall, sir,
And swiftly passing Elswick House,
Reach'd Cock-o-lorum Hall, Sir.
Fal de ral, &c.

Thus tempest-toss'd, to Blagdon cross'd,
And hail'd fam'd Heaton's Star, sir--
Then mounting high, did rapid fly
As far as Prestwick Car, sir.
Newcastle next he hover'd o'er,
Quite calmly in the air, sir,
And landing at the Mansion House,
He din'd with Mr. Mayor, Sir.
Fal de ral, &c.

THE NEW MARKETS.

Tune--"Canny Newcassel."

Wey, hinnies, but this is a wonderful scene,
Like some change that yen's seen iv a play-house;
Whe ever wad thowt that the awd Major's dean
Wad hae myed sic a capital weyhouse:
Where the brass hez a' cum fra nebody can tell,
Some says yen thing and some says another--
But whe ever lent Grainger't aw knaw very well,
That they mun have at least had a fother.

About Lunnen then divent ye myek sic a rout,
For there's nowt there maw winkers ti dazzell;
For a bell or a market there isent a doubt
We can bang them at canny Newcassel.

Wor gratitude Grainger or somebody's arl'd,
Yet still, mun, it mykes yen a' shuther,
To see sic a crowd luiking after this warld
Where the Nuns us'd ti luik for the tother.
But see yor awn interest, dinna be blind,
Tyek a shop there whatever yor trade is;
Genteeler company where can ye find
Than wor butchers, green wives, and tripe ladies?
About Lunnen, &c.

Ti see the wires haggle about tripe and sheep-heads,
Or washing their greens at a fountain,
Where the bonny Nuns us'd to be telling their beads,
And had nowt but their sins ti be counting;
There the talented lords o' the cleaver and steel
May be heard on that classical grund, sir,
Loudly chaunting the praise o' their mutton an' veal,
Though they're losing a happney a pund, sir.
About Lunnen, &c.

When them queer Cockney folk cum stravagin this way
(Though aw've lang thowt we'd getten aboon them)
They'll certainly now hae the mense just to say,
That we've clapt an extinguisher on them:
It's ne use contending, they just may shut up,
For it's us can astonish the stranger;
They may brag o' their Lords an' their awd King ti boot,
What's the use on't?--they haven't a Grainger.
About Lunnen, &c.

THE CHANGES ON THE TYNE.

Tune--"Mitford Galloway."

I'll sing you a bit of a ditty,
I hope you will not think it lang,
At least if it tires your patience,
I'll verra suin shorten my sang;
It's all about comical changes,
And new-fangled things on the Tyne,
I've witness'd since aw was a skipper,
And that isn't verra lang syne.

CHORUS.

These are the days of improvement,
We're a' gettin wiser, you see,
The skuilmaister's getting abroad,
And he'll finish us off to a tee.

Baith sides of the Tyne, aw remember,
Were cover'd wi' bonny green fields,
But now there is nought but big furnaces
Down frae Newcastle to Shields;
And what wi' their sulphur and brimstone,
Their vapour, their smoke, and their steam,
The grass is all gaen, and the farmers
Can nowther get butter or cream.
These are the days, &c.

For making their salts and their soda,
They formerly us'd a kail-pot,
With an awd-fashion'd bit of a chimley
They were quite satisfied wi' their lot;
But now Anty Clapham, the Quaker,
Has fill'd a' the folks wi' surprise,
For he's lately built up a lang chimley,
Within a few feet o' the skies!
These are the days, &c.

There's Losh's big chimley at Walker,
Its very awn height makes it shake,
And if Cookson's again tumble ower,
It will make a new quay for the Slake;
To talk of your fine foreign pillars,
It's enough for to make a man sick,
The great tower of _Babble_ compar'd
Wi' wor chimleys is nowt but a stick.
These are the days, &c.

For three-pence to Shields aw remember
In a wherry the folk us'd to gan,
And that was consider'd by many
A very respectable plan;
But now we've got sixpenny steamers,
A stylish conveyance, I'm sure,
For there you've a tune on the fiddle,
And a lie on the sands for an hour.
These are the days, &c.

Then ower the land we'd a whiskey,
Which went twice or thrice in the day,
Which us'd to take all the fine gentry,
And quite in an elegant way;
But now the awd whiskey's neglected,
And nothing but coaches suit us,
Lord help us! there's nothing gans now
But a hyke in the new omnibus.
These are the days, &c.

At one time wor ships were all loaded
Sae canny and snug by the keels,
And then a' wor maisters made money,
And keelmen were a' happy chiels;
But now your fine drops de the business!
Lord bless us! aw never saw such,
Though some of wor owners aw's freeten'd
Hev getten a _drop_ ower much.
These are the days, &c.

And then an aud horse brought a waggon
A' the way frae the pits to the staith,
But now it appears pretty certain,
They'll verra suin dee without baith,
For now their fine steam locomotives
A' other inventions excels,
Aw've only to huik on the waggons,
And they'll bring a ship-load down their sels.
These are the days, &c.

New rail-roads now spring up like mushrooms,
Aw never, maw soul! saw the like,
We'll turn every thing topsy-turvy,
And leave ourselves not a turnpike;
Then horses will live without working,
And never more trot in a team,
And instead of carrying their maisters,
They'll get themsels carried by steam.
These are the days, &c.

Wor ballast-hills now are grown handsome,
And what they call quite pictoresk,
Ne poet can de them half justice
If he writes all his life at his desk;
They're hilly, and howley, and lofty,
Presenting fresh views every turn,
And they'd luik like Vesuvius or Etna,
If we could only get them to burn.
These are the days, &c.

And as for aud canny Newcastle,
It's now quite a wonderful place,
Its New Market, nothing can match it
In elegance, beauty, and grace;
Could our forefathers only just see it,
My eye! they would start wi' surprise,
I fancy I just hear them saying--
"What's come of the buggy pigsties?"
These are the days, &c.

And this is a' duin by one Grainger--
A perfect Goliah in bricks,
He beats Billy Purvis quite hollow
In what ye ca' slight of hand tricks;
He's only to say, "Cock-o-lorum,
Fly Jack, presto, quick and be gane,"
And new houses spring up in an instant--
Of the audins you can't see a stane.
These are the days, &c.

In sculler-boats, not very lang syne,
The Shields folk cross'd ower the Tyne,
But now we have got a big steamer,
And cuts quite a wonderful shine;
And one that we've got down at Scotland,
Delights a' the folks with a ride,
For it gans back and forward sae rapid,
That it just makes a trip in a tide.
These are the days, &c.

I think I've now told you, my hinnies,
The whole of the changes I've seen,
At least a' the whirligig fashions
That I have been able to glean;
So the next time we meet a' together,
Some other improvements I'll get,
And then we shall make worsels happy,
And try a' wor cares to forget.
These are the days, &c.

=On the Attempt to remove the Custom House from Newcastle to Shields, in 1816.=

THE CUSTOM HOUSE BRANCH.

Tynesiders, give ear, and you quickly shall hear
A strange and a wonderful story,
Of a dreadful uproar upon fam'd Gotham's shore,
Where we've brush'd all to heighten our glory.

On the Quayside, so spruce, stands a great Custom House,
Of Newcastle the pride and birth-right;
Now the sons of Gotham had sworn o'er a dram,
That to Gotham it soon should take flight.

A townsman they sent, on great deeds fully bent,
A son of the knife and the steel, sirs;
And one learn'd in the laws, to argue their cause,
The covenants to sign and to seal, sirs.

To London they came, through the high road to fame,
Their hearts were both merry and staunch:
Of success confident, to the Treasury they went,
And demanded they might have a Branch!

False report (only guess) brought to Gotham success,
Rejoicing, they blaz'd, without doubt;
'Great Rome,' they now say, 'was not built in one day;
'We've the Branch, and we'll soon have the Root!'

While their thoughts were thus big, over Newcastle brig
The Mail came one day, in a hurry:
'What's the news?' say the folk; quick a Briton up spoke,
'No Branch!--so Newcastle be merry.'

'No Branch!' was the cry, re-echoed the sky,
And sent down to Gotham a volley;
Where the prospect is bad, 'for 'tis fear'd they'll run mad,
Or relapse into sad melancholy.

So Gotham beware, and no more lay a snare,
Nor think that Newcastle you'll bend;
Call your advocates home, your cause to bemoan,
And let each his own calling attend.

THE CUSTOM HOUSE TREE, &c.

Tune--"The Quayside Shaver."

Ye folks of Newcassel, so gen'rous, advance,
And listen awhile to my humourous strain;
'Tis not the fag end of a fairy romance,
Nor yet the effect of a crack in the brain:
'Tis a Custom-house Tree, that was planted with care,
And with Newcassel Int'rest well dung'd was the root;
And that all Water Fowls might partake of a share,
They were kindly permitted to taste of the Fruit.

The Sea Gulls of Shields sought a Branch, so applied
To a stately old Drake, of the fresh water breed:
He flutter'd his wings, then he bade them provide
A Memorial, to send off to London with speed.
His pow'rful opinion was soon put in force,
And messengers chose, who, without more delay,
Took flight; while blind Ignorance guided their course,
And they roosted, I'm told, about Ratcliffe Highway.

Meanwhile, with impatience, a Gull took his glass,
And with anxious concern took a squint to the south;
If I don't now behold (may you prove me an ass)
A Gull flying back with a Branch in his mouth.
The news quickly spread; they, in wild consternation,
Burnt tar-barrels, bells ringing, dancing for joy;
A person was sent for to plan the foundation,
While others drank Mrs. Carr's wine-cellar dry.