Chapter VII: Part 7

There was one, half seas over, sang 'Little Tom Horner,'
While some in the streets, on their bellies lay flat;
Another, 'pon turning the Library Corner,
Ran foul of a quaker, and knock'd off his hat.
A full brandy bottle came smack through a window,
And hit on the temple a canty old wife;
"Don't murmur," say they, "were you burnt to a cinder,
"We're able to grant you a pension for life."

Their Gull-eye at London, o'er pudding and roast,
Would bet heavy odds he should fortunate be;
And then after dinner propos'd, as a toast,
"That grass might soon grow upon Newcassel Kee."
But the Treas'ry decision laid vap'ring aside;
"No Branch!" was the cry, so away the Gulls slunk:
Should a Twig be lopp'd off, it can ne'er be deny'd,
But the roots would soon dry, and thus wither its trunk.

So now I've a scheme, if your fancy I hit,
'Twill suit crazy folks, after dancing mad reels;
Instead of a Custom-house Branch, 'twould be fit
That a Branch from the Mad-house be rear'd in North Shields.
We'll laugh at the joke, while experience may learn
The Gulls, for the future, in peace to remain.
By what you have heard, you may also discern,
That premature joy's the forerunner of pain.

THE CUSTOM HOUSE BRANCH.

Tune--"Yo heave O."

The joyous men of North Shields their church bells set a ringing sweet,
And tar-barrels blaz'd, their high rapture for to shew;
Like bears some fell a dancing, like ravens some were singing sweet,
'Poor Jack,' 'Rule Britannia' and 'Yo heave O.'
Some grog were freely quaffing,
Like horses some were laughing;
Their matchless powers in bellowing all eager seem'd to shew;
The Branch, they cried, we've got,
And with it, well we wot,
Fitters, bankers, merchants, soon will follow in a row.

The Newcastle deputation, no doubt on't, swagger'd much, sir,
Expecting our Pilgarlicks soon foiled would have been;
But too hard for them all prov'd the diplomatic Butcher,
Whose tongue, like his gully-knife, is marvellously keen,
Spite of wheedling and of sneering,
Bamboozling and queering,
He to his purpose stuck so firm, so true, and so staunch,
The Town Clerk and his chums,
Stood whistling on their thumbs,
Astonish'd, whilst triumphantly he bore away the Branch.

And now since the Custom House we thus have got translated,
Why longer should the _County Courts_ Newcastle proudly grace?
We wise-ones of North Shields, tho' reckon'd _addle-pated_,
For this pile so magnificent will find a fitter place.
Yon space[32] which----'s skill,
Seems destin'd ne'er to fill
With structures worthy Athens' or Corinth's proudest day;
Yon space! O is it not
The very, very spot
Where the County Courts their splendour so massive should display?

If once our gen'ral committee determine, in full quorum,
The removal of our Courts, the result will fully shew,
That the Lords of the Treasury, and Custos Rotulorum,
(Our high displeasure dreading) will not dare to whisper No.
And when the whim impells,
To eclipse the Dardanelles;
The old Castle of its ancient sight shall straightway take its leave,
To brave the billow's shocks,
On the dread Black Midden rocks,
However for its transit Antiquarians sore may grieve.

Then comes the grand finale, for which our souls we'd barter now;
The Regent and his ministers we'll pester night and day,
Till tranferr'd to us Newcastle sees her revenues and charter too,
And from Heddon streams to Tynemouth bar, Tyne owns our sovereign
sway.
O when our town so famous is,
Big as Hippopotamuses,
We'll strut about the Bank-top quite semi-divine;
The neighbouring coasters all,
Our greatness shall appall,
And their topsails straight they'll lower to the lords of the Tyne.

'Twas thus with idle rumours poor gentlemen delighted,
The honest men of North Shields to fancy gave the rein;
Sad proof that when ambition with folly is united,
Astonishing chimeras oft occupy the brain.
But soon their joy was banish'd,
Soon each illusion vanish'd,
For news arriv'd the Butcher the Branch could not obtain.
Deep, deep in the dumps,
(After playing all his trumps)
Just as branchless as he went he was 'toddling hyem' again,

Newcastle, thou dear canny town! O ever thus defeated
Be every hostile effort thy prosperity to shake;
Long grumbling to thy Custom-house, in gigs and coaches seated,
May the honest men of North Shields their daily journies take,
And, mounted on their _hacks_,
Long, long too, may the _Jacks_
Continue their equestrian skill on Shields road to display;
Tho' oft their tits may stumble,
And o'er the _bows_ they tumble,
Unhurt, still bold, may they remount, and onward bowl away.

Newcastle men, rejoice! O haste, on this occasion,
With many a jovial bumper our whistles let us wet,
Lord Eldon, with Sir William Scott, and all our deputation,
To toast, with acclamations due, O let us not forget:
To them our thanks be tender'd,
Good services they've render'd--
And let us hope in after times, should Branch wars rage again,
In Newcastle 'twill be found,
Such men do then abound,
The commercial pre-eminence still boldly to maintain.

Footnote 32: The New Market Place.

THE MECHANICS' PROCESSION;

_Or, A Trip to South Shields_.

Tune--"The Bold Dragoon."

Let gowks about Odd Fellows brag,
And Foresters se fine--
Unrivall'd the Mechanics stand,
And long will o'er them shine;--
With belts of blue, and hearts so true,
They far outrival every Order--
Their praise is sung by every tongue,
Frae Lunnin toon reet ow'r the Border.
Whack, row de dow, &c.

O had you seen our Nelson lads
When Nunn[33] brought up the news
He said, let us be off to Shields,
Our brothers' hearts to rouse;
Our Tiler drew his sword, and cried,
Let banners wave and loud drums rattle--
Whene'er Mechanics are oppress'd,
They'll find us first to fight their battle!
Whack, row de dow, &c.

Three cheers we gave, when Nunn replied,
Our ALBION lads do crave,
To join the TYNE and COLLINGWOOD,
All danger they would brave;
And each I. G. wad let them see,
Their hearts and souls were in the action,
They'd crush a foe at ev'ry blow,
Until that they had satisfaction.
Whack, row de dow, &c.

The ardour spread from lodge to lodge,
Each brother's heart beat high,
And down the Tyne, in steamers fine,
On rapid wings they fly;--
'Mid cannon's roar along the shore,
Our band struck up our tunes se merry--
So blythe a crew there's been but few,
Since famous Jemmy Johnson's Wherry.
Whack, row de dow, &c.

At Shields we join'd their splendid band,
And march'd in fine array--
Throughout the town, we gain'd renown,
For such a grand display:--
We smack'd their yell, and wish'd success
To each Mechanic's Lodge se clever,
And as we left the brothers cried--
O may our Order live for ever!
Whack, row de dow, &c.

Let's drink to all Mechanics true,
Upon both sides of Tyne
May peace and plenty bless their homes,
And round them long entwine;--
To Simpson te, so kind and free,
Let's give three cheers as loud as thunder--
Till echo'd back from pole to pole,
And all the world admire and wonder!
Whack, row de dow, &c.

Footnote 33: Thomas Nunn, I. G. of the Albion Lodge.

A GIPSY'S SONG.

Here awhile we'll cease from roaming--
Pitch the tents among the broom--
Turn the asses on the common,
And enjoy the afternoon.

Merry shall we be to-day:
What is life devoid of pleasure?
Care from us keep far away,
While Mirth pursues his sprightly measure.

Place all things in decent order,
Budgets, boxes, mugger-ware,
And here encamp'd, on England's border,
We'll remain till Whitsun Fair.

Ease the brutes of panniers' load--
Let them browse among the heather;
Light a fire, and dress some food,
And frankly we shall feast together.

And ALLAN,[34] thou shall screw thy drone,
And play up 'Maggie Lauder' sweetly,
Or 'Money Musk' or 'Dorrington,'
And we will frisk and foot it neatly.

CROWD[35] gain'd applause for many a tune--
Few peer'd him in the High or Lawlan';
But neither he nor SANDY BROWN[36]
Could trill a note like JEMMY ALLAN.

E'en BLAW-LOUD WILLY'S[37] Border airs,
Nor gay nor daft could please the dancer;
But aye to Allan's lilts, at fairs,
The very feet themselves would answer.

Each lad shall take his fav'rite lass,
And dance with her till she be weary,
And warm her with the whisky glass,
And kiss and hug his nut-brown deary.

And when of mirth we've had our will,
Upon the sward love shall entwine us;
Our plighted vows we'll then fulfill,
Without a canting priest to join us.

And when we go our country rounds,
Some trinkets selling, fortunes telling--
Some tink'ring, cooping, casting spoons,
We'll still obtain the ready shilling.

Unto the farm-steads we can hie,
Whene'er our stock of food grows scanty,
And from the hen-roost, bin, or sty,
We'll aye get fresh supplies in plenty.

And when the shepherd goes to sleep,
And on the fell remains the flock,
We'll steal abroad among the sheep,
And take a choice one from the stock.

The clergy take the tenth of swine,
Potatoes, poultry, corn, and hay--
Why should not gipsies, when they dine,
Have a tithe-pig as well as they?

We wish not for great store of wealth,
Nor pomp, nor pride, nor costly dainty;
While blest with liberty and health,
And competence--then we have plenty.

Merry shall we be to-day:
What is life devoid of pleasure?
Care from us keep far away,
While Mirth pursues his sprightly measure.

H. R.

Footnote 34: James Allan, the celebrated Northumberland bagpiper.

Footnote 35: A vagrant piper, who often travelled with gipsies.

Footnote 36: About 45 years ago, a poem appeared in a Kelso newspaper, wherein this person was respectfully noticed, as follows:--

"They brought the piper, Sandy Brown,
Frae Jedburgh to Lochmaben town;
Though whaisling sair and broken down
Auld Sandy seem'd,
His chanter for a pleasing sound
Was still esteem'd."

Footnote 37: An unskilful performer on the bagpipes, who attended the different fairs held in Northumberland.

VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE BURNS' CLUB,

Held at Mr. Wallace's, Nag's Head, Newcastle, Jan. 1817.

The rolling year at length brings forth
The day that gave our poet birth:
O Burns! to testify thy worth,
We're hither met--
Nae genius i' the South, or North
Can match thee yet.

Of ither's rhymes we have enow,
But sic as thine are rare and few--
For aye to nature thou wert true,
Thou bard divine!
Nae poet Scotia ever knew
Could sing sae fine.

With rapture, each returning Spring,
I'll follow thee, on Fancy's wing,
To where the lively linnets sing
In hawthorn shade;
Here oft thy muse, deep pondering,
Sweet sonnets made.

With thee I'll stray by streamlet's side,
And view the bonnie wimpling tide
O'er polish'd pebbles smoothly glide,
Wi' murm'ring sound,
While Nature, in her rustic pride,
Smiles all around.

Or to the fells I'll follow thee,
Where o'er the thistle bums the bee,
And meek-eyed gowans modestly
Their charms disclose,
And where, upon its 'thorney tree,'
Blows the wild rose.

Or to the heath, where fairies meet
In mystic dance with nimble feet,
By moonlight--there the elves I'll greet,
And join their revels;
Or on a 'rag-weed nag', sae fleet,
Fly wi' the devils!

Through fields of beans, with rich perfume,
And o'er the braes o' yellow broom
That gilds the bonny banks o' Doon,
Wi' thee I'll rove,
Where thou, when blest in youthful bloom,
Stray'd with thy love.

When thunder-storms the heav'ns do rend,
Unto Benlomond's top I'll wend,
And view the clouds electric vend
The forked flash!
And hear the pouring rains descend
Wi' dreadful clash!

A fig for meikle bags o' wealth,
If I hae food, and claes, and health,
And thy sweet sangs upon my shelf,
I'll gaily trudge it
Through life, and freely quit the pelf
For Robin's budget.

And when distracting moments teaze me,
Or fell Oppressions grapples seize me,
A lesson frae thy book may ease me,
Sae I may bear
Misfortune's wipes, till death release me
Frae canker'd care. H. R.

A PARODY,

_Written on hearing a Report that the Newcastle and Northumberland Yeomanry Cavalry were to be disbanded._

Tune--"The Soldier's Tear."

Upon Newcastle Moor,
Poor Matthew cast a look,
When he thought on the coming hour,
When his brave Noodle Troop
Would lay their arms down,
No longer them to bear--
The brave defenders of the town--
He wip'd away a tear.

Beside the fatal spot,
Where poor Jane did end her strife,
He said that he would cut his throat,
And end his wretched life--
A life so press'd with care,
No longer could he bear--
So wildly then he tore his hair,
And wip'd away a tear.

He turn'd and left the ground,
Where oft his red, red plume,
Had spread its warlike beauty round,
To the sound of fife and drum;--
But now his glory's fled--
No longer it he'll wear,
But take it quietly from his head,
And wipe away a tear.

No more the Tory ranks
Will glitter in the sun
Nor play at e'en their childish pranks,
With blunderbuss or gun;
For now the doleful knell
Has toll'd their last career,
And, horror-struck, poor Matty Bell,
Who wip'd away a tear.

WM. GREIG.

_Newcastle on Tyne, May twenty-nine._

THOMAS WHITTELL, his Humourous LETTER To good Master MOODY, Razor-setter.

Good Master Moody, my beard being cloudy,
My cheeks, chin, and lips, like moon i' the 'clipse
For want of a wipe--
I send you a razor, if you'll be at leisure
To grind her, and set her, and make her cut better,
You'll e'en light my pipe.[38]

Dear sir, you know little, the case of poor Whittell:
I'm courting, tantivy, if you will believe me--
Now mark what I say:
I'm frank in my proffers, and when I make offers
To kiss the sweet creature, my lips cannot meet her,
My beard stops the way.

You've heard my condition, and now I petition,
That, without omission, with all expedition
You'll give it a strike,
And send it by Tony, he'll pay you the money--
I'll shave and look bonny, and go to my honey,
As snod as you like.

If you do not you'll hip me, my sweetheart will slip me,
And if I should smart for't, and break my brave heart for't,
Are you not to blame?
But if you'll oblige me, as gratitude guides me,
I'll still be your servant, obedient and fervent,
Whilst WHITTELL'S my name.

Footnote 38: This phrase means, the conferring of a favour.

THE NATURAL PHILOSOPHER;

_Or, The Downfall of the Learned Humbugs!_

Tune--"Canny Newcassel."

Oh! hae ye not heard o' this wonderful man,
Perpetual Motion's inventor!
The Sun, Muin, and Stars are a' doon iv his plan,
But take time till it comes frae the prenter!
The last time he lectur'd he tell'd such a tale
'Bout Vibration, Air, and such matter;
He can prove that a washing-tub is not a pail,
And all Isaac Newton's brains batter!

CHORUS.

Then come, great and sma', and hear the downfa'--
For a fa' down it will be for certain--
Of a' the wiseacres and gon'rals, an' a'
That dare to oppose the great Martin;
He'll settle their hash! their necks he will smash,
A' the College-bred gowks he will dazzel;
Ne mair shall false teachers o'er him cut a dash!
They are banish'd frae Canny Newcassel.

He can prove that a turkey-cock is not a Turk!
That a 'tatie is not a pine-apple;
He likewise can prove that boil'd goose is not pork,
And a black horse is not a grey dapple.
A' what he can prove--a' what he can do,
And bother the gon'rals--the wad-be's;
He likewise can prove that a boot's not a shoe,
And his cane's not a sausage frae _Mawbey's_![39]
Then come, great and sma', &c.

His Poems are sublime, tho' nyen o' them rhyme--
Why, he pays no attention to _Morrow_;[40]
Ne matter for that, still he makes them a' chyme,
For he hasn't his phrases to borrow!
Then proceed, mighty man, propagating thy plan,
To enlighten this dark age of reason!
May it spread like a blaze, with thy eloquence fann'd--
To doubt it, I hold it sheer treason.
Then come, great and sma', &c.

Footnote 39: A late famed Sausage-maker in the Old Flesh Market.

Footnote 40: Murray's Grammar.

THE GATESHEAD RADS.

To an old Tune.

T'other day aw was saunt'ring down the New Street,
And had turn'd to gan back, when whe should aw meet,
Reet plump i' the face, but sage Tommy Rav-ly,
Just come frae the council, and looking most gravely.

Wi' Tommy, says aw, what can be the matter?
Your plawd is aw dirt, and your teeth in a chatter;
Has your colleagues in office been using a broom,
And _sooping the dirt all out of the room_?

Now, James, he replied, Pray don't be prosy,
Or sure as you're there, I'll make you quite _nosey_;
I've gotten enough to make me look blue,
Without being bother'd with plebeians like you.

Just think, when the last time in council we met,
We propos'd and appointed our _yellow-hair'd Pet_
To be Justice's clerk, and pocket the fees,
For which he came almost plump down on his knees.

But no sooner did we our backs fairly turn,
Than they (devil take them!) appointed Swinburne,
And laugh'd in their sleeves to think how we'd stare;
But James, you must know, they had better beware.

Now, Tommy, says aw, just keep yoursel' aisy,
For at present aw'm sure that ye look very crazy;
_Make the Quaker your purser, and he'll put ye right,
For aw'm sure that the strings he will keep verra tight._

A sixpence he'll make gan as far as a pound,
So that will be nineteen and sixpence ye've found;
Just leave all to him and W. H. B.,
And no doubt ye will prosper, as shortly ye'll see.

Now come, let's away to the bonny _Blue Bell_,
And there we will drink a quart o' yor yell,
And then aw will tell ye what next ye maun de--
But mind ye say nowse 'bout it coming frae me.

He then made a start, but nowt did he say,
('Tween councillor and plebeian, that's may be the way,)
Till into the house we fairly did stumble,
When, "go cab my lug," he was then verra humble.

Now, Tommy, maw man, aw see nowse that ye've done,
But aw hope ye intend to commence verra soon;
A market we maun hae, an' at the Brig-end--
A place that old _Jacky_ oft dis recommend--

To save us the fash, and aiblins the pain,
Of ganging right o'er unto the High-crane;
And mind what I say, if we want ony peace
During sermon, on Sunday, oppose the police.

At that he did open his eyes verra wide--
Ah, beggar! aw thought aw'd offended his pride;
But nought o' the sort, for he held out his loof--
Now, James, my good fellow, you've said quite enough.

My int'rest, aw'm sure, you always shall hae,
And a job aw will get you on the Sabbath-day;
For some one at the council this day did propose,
That we the dog-fights in Green's Field should oppose.

And Usher was told for to seek out three men,
To assist him on Sundays, and thou shalt be ane;
And 'bout what thou wert saying a motion aw'll bring,
For, doubtless, 'twill prove a _necessary_ thing.

We thank ye, says aw, but d'ye think that ye're right,
In trying to stop us frae seeing a dog-fight;
For maw thoughts about liberty it fairly clogs,
Yet--_we've barking enough wi' twe-fooled dogs_.

Gateshead, March 1, 1836. Y. S.

THE ELECTION DAY.

Tune--"There's nae Luck about the House."

Ye Freemen all, with heart and voice
Your banners wide display--
Bring Hodgson forth, your man of choice,
Upon th' Election-day.

Then fill your glasses, drink your fill,
Drink deeply while you may--
With right good-will, we'll drink and swill
Upon th' Election-day.

But politics are not the stuff
That we care much about--
Nor care, so we get drink enough,
Who's in, or who is out.

Then fill your glasses, drink your fill--
Fill and drink away,
And ev'ry one enjoy the fun
Upon th' Election-day.

Brave Vulcan is our leader bold,
The pride of all good fellows--
He swears the iron shall ne'er grow cold,
While he can blow the bellows.

Then fill your glasses, what's the toast,
To drive dull care away?--
'May ev'ry man be at his post
Upon th' Election-day.'

The landlord next appears in view,
Our second in command,
Encouraging the jovial crew
To drink while they can stand.

Then charge your glasses, noble souls,
The toast without delay--
'May thirsty souls have flowing bowls
Upon th' Election-day.'

Then Hodgson's name aloud proclaim
Victoriously that day;
While he, in honour of his fame,
Will all expences pay.

Then fill your glasses, what's the toast?
Fill and drink away--
'May ev'ry man drink all he can
Upon th' Election-day.'

W. WATSON

MARY DRUE.

By the late T. HOUSTON[41]

On a pleasant April morning,
Wand'ring Tyne's sweet banks along,
Spring with flow'rs the fields adorning,
Woods and groves with birds of song--
Pensive stray'd I; none was nigh me,
When a maid appear'd in view--
Slow she came, or seem'd to fly me--
Heav'ns! 'twas charming Mary Drue.

Long my Mary's charms I gaz'd on,
Long I view'd that nymph complete--
Her bright eyes no form were rais'd on,
But were downcast at her feet:
In her hand a violet blooming
Kiss'd the breeze that gently blew,
And one robe, with folds presuming,
Hid the breast of Mary Drue.

Onward drew the modest maiden,
Heav'nly was her gait and air--
Brighter ne'er that meadow stray'd in,
Never Tyne saw form so fair:
In my breast my heart, wild beating,
With redoubled ardour flew;
From my tongue all speech retreating,
Left me scarce--"dear Mary Drue."

Henry, Henry! have I found you?
(Thus the maid her words address'd,)
And with solitude around you,
Can my Henry here be bless'd?
Woods and streams may yield a pleasure,
But my bliss--'tis all in you--
Love beyond all bounds and measure--
Lov'd at last by Mary Drue!

Told this morn of your disorder,
(Love for me the cause believ'd,)
Soon I sought this river's border,
Where 'tis said you oft have griev'd:
On the river's brink I find you--
Pensive, sad, I find you too;
Leave the world and wealth behind you--
Thou art worlds to Mary Drue!

Sweet as notes from lutes ascending,
To my ear these accents came,
Smiles and looks of love attending,
Touch'd my soul with gen'rous flame:
O'er her charms, disorder'd, stooping--
Rapt'rous sight! divinely new!--
On my breast her head lay drooping,
While I clasp'd sweet Mary Drue.

Footnote 41: Thomas Houston died about the year 1802, or 1803. He was the author of a play, entitled "The Term-day, or Unjust Steward," and of several poems, among which were, "The Progress of Madness," and "A Race to Hell." In the latter piece were given the portraitures of two notorious corn-factors of that day, belonging to this town.--Houston was a native of Ireland, and by trade a brass-founder.

OPENING OF THE NEW MARKETS.

Fill up the cup till the ruby o'erflows it,
Drown ev'ry care in the nectar's rich stream--
If joy's in the goblet, this day will disclose it,
When Trade, Worth, and Beauty, by turns are our theme.
What is, I ask, the toast,
Deepest drunk, honour'd most,
Drunk most devoutly, most honour'd to-day?
What is the pledge that we
Hail first, with three times three?
"Success to our Market!"--Huzza and Huzza!

No longer let London and Liverpool tell us,
Their towns boast of markets so spacious & grand;
We answer, "We pray you, be quiet, good fellows,
We, too, have a Market--the first in the land!"
Fish, flesh, and garden fruits,
Oranges, apples, roots,
There you will find them all, seek what you may;
Honest the dealers, too,
Drink, then, I pray of you--
"Success to the Dealers!"--Huzza and Huzza!

The structure--but why should we speak of its merit?
Enough that we mention the architect's name;
And long may the building, begun with such spirit,
A monument stand of his talents and fame.
Proofs of a master mind,
Talents and taste combin'd,
Are they not every where visible--say?
The architect's pride and boast,
Then be our hearty toast--
"Mr. R. Grainger!"--Huzza and Huzza!

Wreathe the bowl, wreathe it with wit's brightest flow'rs--
Fill, fill it up till the nectar o'erflows;
Never was Burgundy brighter than ours,
Never were eye-beams more sparkling than those.
Surrounded by Beauty's train,
Captives in willing chains,
To eyes that beam witchery, and smiles that betray,
Low at the shrine we bow--
Love claims the homage due--
"The Ladies!--the Ladies!"--Huzza and Huzza!

If spirit, by cost nor by trouble dismay'd--
If bounty unmeted, and free as the dew;
If courtesy, kindness to each one display'd,
May claim our applause, it is owing here now.
Oft in the festive scene,
Courteous and kind he's been,
But never more courteous, more kind than to-day:
Fill then the cup again--
Drain--to the bottom drain--
"His Worship, the Mayor!"--Huzza and Huzza!

THE NEW MARKETS;

_Or, Newcastle Improvements_.

Believe me now, good foke, what I say is not a joke:
Behold, says cousin Isabel, improvement now is visible,
New buildings you espy, airy, spacious, and high,
And trading chaps are moving round to sell or buy.
When trade was at a stand, and the river chok'd wi' sand,
Caus'd the bodies to assemble, the poor to employ;
Then Johnny off packt, up to Lunnon for an act,
And the manager for market-building, Dick's the boy!

CHORUS.

Then Starkey, blaw your reed, ca' the group a' frae the dead,
Jack Coxan and Cull Billy, Judy Dowling, and Blind Willy;
Let the cavalcade move on, with a tune frae Bywell Tom,
Take a view o' wor new city, drink, and then return.

When Colossus he arose, with his Jachin and his Boaz,
His plans of such utility, of splendour and gentility,
Condemn'd was Tommy Gee, and confirm'd was Tommy B.,
And the measure seem'd to reconcile both friends and foes:
Even butchers' crabbed luiks, wi' their meat on silver huiks,
Drop all former animosities, and strut about wi' joy;
For the temple of king Solomon, for grandeur, can't follow, man--
All Europe now may shout aloud, that Dick's the boy!
Then Starkey, &c.

Old houses now beware, how you spoil a street or square,
Whatever ground you bide upon, your fate is soon decided on;
For tumble down you must, like a lump of mouldy crust,
And the Major bell will toll your fate, when all is done;
For the rich have found it out, that a camel, without doubt,
Through a needle-eye can't pass without a pilot or a foy;
The money, though conservative, will find a good preservative--
The Knight of Leazes Terrace, hinnies, Dick's the boy!
Then Starkey, &c.

Fine rows of Paphian bowers, for the fruits, and herbs, and flowers,
The baskets stand, so pretty looking--feet and tripe, a' fit for
cooking--
Fountains fine and pure, that a cripple they may cure,
And babies may get baptism, for ought you know;
There's a clock to tell the time--but I now must stop my rhime,
For the feasting has begun, and each heart seems big with joy;
Then come, enjoy the treat, wi' your legs upon your feet,
Take off your hats, and shout aloud--Brave Dick's the boy!

Then Starkey, blaw your reed, ca' the group a' frae the dead,
Jack Coxon, and Cull Billy, Judy Dowling, and Blind Willy;
Let the cavalcade move on, with a tune frae Bywell Tom,
View Newcassel's famous city, drink, and then go home.

WM. MITFORD.

MORE INNOVATIONS!

Newcastle's sore transmogrified, as every one may see,
But what they've done is nought to that they still intend to dee:
There still remain some sonsy spots, pure relics of our ancient
features,
O' which our canny town shall brag, while bonny Gateshead boasts
sand-beaters.

The scrudg'd up Foot of Pilgrim-street, they surely will not mind,
'Tis such a curiosity--a street without an end;
Should they extend it to the Quay, and show off All Saints' Church
so neatly,
It might look fine, but I'm afraid 'twould spoil the Butcher-bank
completely!

Of pulling down the Butcher-bank it grieves one's heart to speak,
From it down every Quayside-chare there's such a glorious keek;
The shambles, too, a bonny sight, the horse and foot-ways nice
and narrow--
Say what they will, seek through the world, the Butcher-bank is
bad to marrow.

Our fishwives, too, might well complain, forc'd off the hill to move,
Where they so long had squall'd in peace, good fellowship, and love:
The brightest day will have an end, and here the Sandhill's glory
closes,
Now flies and fumes no more will make the gentles stop their ears
and noses.

'Tis said they mean to clear away the houses in the Side,
To set off old St. Nich'las church, so long our greatest pride;
But where's the use of making things so very grand and so amazing,
To bring daft gowks from far and near, to plague us with their gob
and gazing.

The Middle-street's to come down next, and give us better air,
And room to make to hold at once the market and the fair;
Well may Newcastle grieve for this, because in hot or rainy weather,
It look'd so well to see the folks all swelter'd in a hole together.

The Tyne's to run out east and west; and, 'stead of Solway boats,
Our Greenland ships at Carlisle call, and not at Johnny Groat's;
Dull we may be at such a change--eh, certies, lads, haul down
your colours!--
'Twould be no wonder now to see chain-bridges ruin all the scullers.

R. GILCHRIST.

THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE OLD HOUSE IN THE SHIELD-FIELD

_TO JOHN CLAYTON, ESQ._

To fall ne'er enter'd in my head,
So staunch is all my station--
As little dreamt I ere to dread
The ills of innovation.
Who can deny my dignity,
Tho I put little state on,
Outshining sham benignity,
My canny Mr. Clayton?

Long since my roof has rung to song,
And smil'd on gay carouses,
Newcastle then--though now so throng--
Was somewhat scant of houses:
I've stood so long, nor Bourne nor Brand
My days can place a date on,
So even spare me still to stand,
My canny Mr. Clayton.

Newcastle now, like Greece or Rome,
Gives all the world a _mazer_,
And Mister Grainger has become
More like Nebuchadnezzar:
Build houses till ye touch the sun,
Aye work both soon and late on,
But do not try on me such fun,
My canny Mister Clayton.

Yon villas fine--with all their sneers--
Time will not have to hallow,
Ere they have seen one-tenth my years,
Their sites will lie in fallow;
So do not think I envy them,
Though pompously they prate on:
They're sprigs, but I'm a sober stem,
My canny Mister Clayton.

Then say the word, my lease renew,
And win a wreath of glory--
A bard of Tyne will sing of you,
All in my upper story.
Who lays disporting hands on me,
All ills may pour his pate on,
So be advis'd, and let me be,
My canny Mister Clayton.

R. GILCHRIST.

EUPHY'S CORONATION.

Tune--"Arthur M'Bride."

To the Fish-market we are ganning--the queen is proclaim'd!
And Euphy's their choice, for beauty lang fam'd--
They've geen her full pow'r, now she's justly ordain'd;
So they've gyen to crown honest aud Euphy!
The market was crowded the queen for to view--
Euphy sat for promotion, drest up wi' new;
The procession appear'd, bearing the flag--a true blue!
And then they surrounded aud Euphy.

The procession was headed by Barbara Bell,
He was follow'd by chuckle-head Chancellor Kell--
Mally Ogle appear'd, wi' a barrel o' yell,
To drink to the health of aud Euphy.
Honest Blind Willie, tee, gaw them a call--
There was great Bouncing Bet, Billy Hush, and Rag Sall,
The Babe o' the Wood, with Putty-mouth Mall,
A' went to crown honest aud Euphy.

There was a grand invitation for byeth great and sma'--
Her subjects assembled, did loudly hurra!--
She was nobly supported by bauld Dolly Raw,
At the crowning of honest aud Euphy;
But Ralphy the Hawk was in prey for a job,
Wiv his small quarter-staff, wish'd to silence the mob--
He was silenc'd when he gat the beer-barrel tiv his gob,
At the crowning of honest aud Euphy.

Euphy and Madge were the gaze i' the show,
They were lang loudly cheer'd by the famous Jin Bo;--
To preserve peace and order there was barrel-bagg'd Joe,
At the crowning of honest aud Euphy.
To make an oration was the Chancellor's wish,
While his turbot-head sweel'd like a smoking het dish;
Bauld Dolly Raw stopt his gob wi' a cod fish,
At the crowning of honest aud Euphy.

By great Billy Hush, Euphy queen was declar'd!
To move frae the market her subjects prepar'd;
To the auld Custom-house the procession repair'd,
To drink at the cost of aud Euphy.
Fine Barbara Bell grand music did play,
Which elevated the spirits of young Bella G--y,
'Keep your tail up!' she wad sing a' the way,
At the crowning of honest aud Euphy.

To lead off the ball, for the queen they did cry,
To please all her people, she was there to comply;
Peggy Grundy would follow, wi' Big Bob and X Y,
To assist in the dance wi' Queen Euphy.
The dancing was ended, down to dine they a' sat;
Roast beef and pig-cheek--a good swig follow'd that;
The fragments were reserv'd in Chancellor Kell's hat,
At the crowning of honest aud Euphy.

The Chancellor's gob was beginning to swet,
He swill'd it away till he gat ower wet,
He was led to the Tower by young Beagle Bet,
Frae the crowning of honest aud Euphy:
Bella Roy was beginning to produce all her slack--
She was tuen hyem on a barrow, by wise Basket Jack;
The sport was weel relish'd by Billy the Black,
At the crowning of honest aud Euphy.

A speech was now myed frae the queen, i' the chair--
To study their good she would take a great care;
They aw had her blessing--what could she say mair?
God bless the Queen, honest aud Euphy!
Wi' cheers for the Queen, the house oft did ring--
By their humble request she the 'Keel-row' did sing;
They a' happy retir'd, wi' 'God save the King!'
Frae the crowning of honest aud Euphy.

THOMAS MARSHALL.

SANDGATE WIFE'S NURSE SONG.

Tune--"A Sailor's Wife has nought to dee."

A, U, A, my bonny bairn,
A, U, A, upon my airm,
A, U, A--thou suin may learn
To say dada se canny:
Aw wish thy daddy may be weel,
He's lang i' coming frae the keel;
Tho' his black fyesce be like the de'il,
Aw like a kiss frae Johnny.
A, U, A, &c,

Thou really hast thy daddy's chin,
Thou art like him leg and wing,
And aw wi' pleasure can thee sing,
Since thou belangs my Johnny.
Johnny is a clever lad--
Last neet he fuddled aw he had,
This morn he wasn't very bad--
He luik'd as blithe as ony.

Tho' thou's the first, thou's not the last;
Aw mean to hae my bairns fast--
And when this happy time is past,
Aw still will love my Johnny;
For his hair is brown, and see is thine,
Your eyes are grey, and se are mine,
Thy nose is taper'd off se fine--
Thou's like thy daddy Johnny.

Thy canny doup is fat and round,
And, like thy dad, thou's plump and sound,
Thou's worth to me a thousand pound,
Thou's a' together bonny.
When daddy's drunk, he'll tyek a knife,
And threaten sair to tyek my life:
Whe wad not be a keelman's wife,
To have a man like Johnny.

But yonder's daddy coming now,
He links the best amang the crew;
They're a' gaun to the Barley-mow,
My canny, good-like Johnny.
Come, let's go get the bacon fried,
And let us make a clean fireside,
Then on his knee he will thee ride,
When he comes hyem to mammy.

BOLD JACK OF THE JOURNAL.

[Written on reading Mr. Larkin's "Letter to the Protestants of Newcastle," on the subject of "Maria Monk's Awful Disclosures."]

Bold Jack of the _Journal_--
From regions infernal!--
The Catholic Clergy
Would hang or would burn all!

This insolent Tory
Is now in his glory,
And currency gives
To Miss Monk's lying story.

For his blust'rin' and barkin',
And fulsome remarking
Brave, honest Charles Larkin
Has gi'en him a yarkin'.

_Newcastle, Sept, 1836._

STEAM SOUP;

_Or, Cuckoo Jack's Petition._

Tune--"X Y Z."

Let Cocknies brag o' turtle-soup, and Frenchmen o' their frogs, man--
Newcastle soup, such famous stuff, it feeds us fat as hogs man!
Yor Callipee and Callipash, compar'd tiv it, is nobbit trash--
Strang knees and houghs stew'd down to mush, are gobbled up by every
slush;
Wi' pluck an' taties folks are duen, for smoking soup in crowds they
run,
And sup till they are fu', man! Fal de ral, &c.

A skipper and his wife sat down, to give a quairt a try, man,
When something stuck in Mally's throat, and choak'd her very nigh, man:
Poor Mally blair'd, and turn'd quite pale--and out she pull'd a great
rat's tail!
Says Jack, aw'll off to Mr. Mayor, and tell the story tiv a hair--
Aw think it is a shameful joke, to sell such stuff wor Mall to choke--
It's warse than tatie stew, man! Fal de ral, &c.

Whe knaws but these fine dandy cooks hire resurrection faws, man,
To stock them with forbidden flesh, agyen our famous laws, man:
A cook in France, now understand, as sure's the sun inleets wor land,
Did kidnap bairns, an' mince them down, and myed sic pies, that a' the
town
Wad eat nowt else--thowt nowt se fine; they fand him out--then, what a
shine!--
They hang'd him on a tree, man! Fal de ral, &c.

O Willy, man, wor canny king, ye knaw best how to feed us--
Ye ken what we can de at sea, at ony time ye need us;
Cram a' their necks into a loop, that try to cross wor breed wi' soup;
Or gar them pay a heavy fine, that dare unnerve yor tars of Tyne;
Then in the fight we'll loudly cheer, when we're restor'd to flesh and
beer--
Hurra! for England's king, man! Fal de ral, &c.

R. EMERY.

THE SANDGATE LASS ON THE ROPERY BANKS.

Tune--"The Skipper's Wedding."

On the Ropery-banks Jenny was sitting--
She had on a bed-gown just new,
And blithely the lassie was knitting
Wi' yarn of a bonny sky-blue.
The strings of her cap they were hinging,
Se lang, on her shoulders se fine,
And hearty I heard this lass singing--
My bonny keel lad shall be mine.

O wad the keel come down the river,
That I my dear laddie could see,
He whistles and dances se clever,
My bonny keel laddie for me.

Last neet, in amang these green dockings,
He fed me wi' gingerbread spice--
I promis'd to knit him his stockings,
He cuddled and kiss'd me se nice;
He ca'd me his jewel and hinney,
He ca'd me his pet and his bride,
And he swore that I should be his Jenny,
To lie at neets down by his side.
O wad the keel, &c.

That morning forget I will never,
When first I saw him on the Kee,
The 'Keel-row' he whistled se clever,
He won my affections frae me;
His drawers on his doup luik'd se canny,
His keel-hat was cock'd on his head,
And if I'd not getten my Jimmy,
Faith by this time I wad hae been dead.
O wad the keel, &c.

The first time I spoke to my Jimmy--
Now mind ye, it isn't a lee--
My mother had gi'en me a penny,
To get her a penn'orth o' tea;
When a lad i' the street cried out, 'Bessy!'
Says I, 'Hinny, that's not my nyem.'
'Becrike! never mind,' he said, 'lassie,
'To-neet I will see thee safe hyem.'
O wad the keel, &c.

Since then I have been his true-lover,
And lov'd him as dear as my life,
And in spite o' baith father and mother,
I'll suin be my keel-laddie's wife;
How happy we'll be then together,
When he brings hyem his wages to me,
Wiv his bonny bit bairn crying 'Father,'
And another be lying o' my knee.
O wad the keel, &c.

AN OLD AND CURIOUS SONG,

_On the late Mr. R. Clayton being made an Alderman._

Tune--"The Vicar and Moses."

My good Mr. Pun,
We know you like fun,
And also to crack a good joke;
'Tis well known in the nation,
That our Corporation
Has long lain under a cloak.
Fal lal de ral, &c.

But after your year,
How strange 'twill appear,
(Pray Heaven it prove for your good,)
To all the whole nation,
That our Corporation
Will then crouch under a _Hood_.[42]

Now, we poor folks,
Who're not us'd to jokes,
But with the sweets take the bitters--
The folks in our station
Think our Corporation
Has long been outfitted by Fitters.

Oh, Watty! Oh, Watty![43]
Shouldst thou now see _Natty_,
And his clan, how thickly they lay't on;
You'd say, in their order,
Mayor, Commons, Recorder,
Are all now outwitted by _Cl----n_.

From the days of good _Walters_,
To his who makes halters,[44]
Such changes have here taken place,
That from its high station,
Our poor Corporation
Has sunk into abject disgrace.

When the Alderman's gown
Was hawk'd about town,
And none would be found for to lay't on,
Up stepp'd brother Bob,
And settled the job,
And he was dubb'd Alderman _C----n_.

Yet think not, that though such,
He'll quit the Town's Hutch,
Or any thing there let miscarry;
Still there he'll give law,
Rule by his _cat's paw_,
The ever obliging _Old Harry_.

Ye honest electors,
Our faithful protectors,
In you there can never be blame;
As by following the Mayor.
And supporting the chair,
We always must vote for the same.

Ye scum of the bowl,
In vain you may growl,
Like the swinish group in a storm,
Nat will rule the roast,
And still make a boast,
That danger lies not in Reform.[45]

Footnote 42: Alderman Hood.

Footnote 43: Ald. Blackett.

Footnote 44: Ald. Cramlington.

Footnote 45: A few copies of the above song were printed by Mrs. Angus about the year 1795. It was said to have been written by the late Mr. James Davidson, attorney, author of a poem entitled, "Despair in Love, an Imprecatory Prayer;" which was also printed by Mrs. Angus--Sir Matthew White Ridley resigned his office of Magistrate about this time, observing, that "Clayton _up_ stairs, and Clayton _down_ stairs will never do."

NEWCASTLE LANDLORDS.--1834.

Kind friends and acquaintance, attention I claim,
While a few jolly Landlord, in this town, I name;
In alphabet order my song it is penn'd,
And I hope, for joke's sake, it will never offend.

CHORUS.

Then hey for good drinking,
It keeps us from thinking,
We all love a drop in our turn.

_A_ stands for Armfield, a good hearty blade,
Tho' he's left the Nag's Head, still follows his trade;
At the foot of the Market you'll find his new shop,
Where many an old friend still calls in for a drop.

_B_ stands for Burns, of the Theatre-square;
She's an orderly woman--good drink is sold there;
If I wanted a wife, I should readily choose
This amiable widow to govern my house.

_C_ stands for Cant, sign of the Blue Bell,
Who keeps a good house, and good porter doth sell:
Quarrelling or fighting is there seldom seen,--
She's a canty old widow, but rather too keen.

_D_ for Dixon, who once kept the Unicorn--Ho!
And _D_ stands for Dixon, White Hart, you well know;
Then there's Dixon, Quayside, just a little way down--
Were the three fattest landlords in all the whole town.

_E_ stands for Eggleton, Fighting Cocks Inn,
Tho' old, took a young wife, and thought it no sin;
_F_ for Finlay, his shop's corner of Pudding-chare,
And good wine and spirits you'll always get there.

_G_ for Gibson, the Blue-posts, in Pilgrim-street,
Where a few jolly souls oft for harmony meet;
_H_ for Hackworth, in Cowgate, Grey Bull is the sign--
Only taste his good ale--faith, you'll say it's divine.

_H_ stands for Heron, the sign of the Cock;
_H_ for Hall, near Nuns' Gate--keeps a snug oyster-shop;
_H_ stands for Horn, and he's done very weal,
Since he bother-d the heart of sly Mrs. Neil.

_I_ stands for Inns--we've the best in the north--
There's the King's Head, the Queen's Head, the George, and the Turf,
The Old Crown and Thistle, and Miller's, Half Moon,
Well known to the trav'lers who frequent the town.

_K_ stands for Kitchen, Hell's Kitchen 'twas nam'd,
And long for good ale and good spree has been fam'd;
In each parlour, in vestry, or kitchen you'll find
The beer-drawer, Mary, obliging and kind.

_L_ stands for Larkin--he's left the Black Boy,
Once fam'd for _Patlanders_ and true Irish joy;
On the Scotchwood New Road a house he has ta'en,
Where I hope the old soul will get forward again.

_M_ stands for Mitford--he kept the North Pole,
Just over the Leazes--a dull-looking hole;
Now our favourite poet lives at Head of the Side--
Here's success to his muse--long may she preside.

_N_ stands for Newton, sign of the Dolphin,
Who the old house pull'd down, built it up like an inn;
They say he found gold--how much I can't tell;
But never mind that, he's done wonderful well.

_O_ stands for Orton--he keeps the Burnt House,
Once fam'd for the Knights of the Thimble and Goose;
And _O_ stands for Ormston, at Pandon--O rare!--
Temptation enough for young men that go there!

_P_ stands for Pace, sign of the White Swan,
Who, for to oblige, will do all that he can;
A convenient house, when you marketing make,
To pop in and indulge yourself with a beef-steak.

_R_ stands for Ridley and Reed, you all know,
And _R_ stands for Richardson, all in a row;
First, Three Tuns, the Sun, and the Old Rose & Crown,
And their ale's good as any at that part of town.

_S_ for Sayer's, Nag's Head, he keeps good mountain-dew,--
Only taste it, you'll find what I tell you is true;
_S_ for Stokoe, wine-merchant, foot of St. John's Lane;
For good stuff and good measure we'll never complain.

_T_ for Teasdale, the Phoenix, a house fam'd for flip--
_T_ for Teasdale who once kept the sign of the Ship;
And _W_ for Wylam, a place more fam'd still--
Sure you all know the Custom-house on the Sandhill.

Robin Hood, Dog and Cannon, and Tiger for me,
The Peacock, well known to the clerks on the Quay;
The Old Beggar's Opera for _stowrie_, my pet,
Mrs. Richardson's was, and she cannot be bet.

There's the Black Bull and Grey Bull, well known to a few,
Black, White, and Grey Horse, and Flying Horse too;
The Black House, the White House, the Hole-in-the-Wall,
And the Seven Stars, Pandon, if you dare call.

There's the Turk's Head, Nag's Head, and Old Barley Mow,
The Bay Horse, the Pack Horse, and Teasdale's Dun Cow,
The Ship, and the Keel, the Half Moon, and the Sun--
But I think, my good friends, it is time to be done.

Then each landlord and landlady, wish them success,
Town and trade of the Tyne, too--we cannot do less;
And let this be the toast, when we meet to regale--
"May we ne'er want a bumper of Newcastle ale."

W. WATSON.

A NEW SONG FOR BARGE-DAY, 1835.

_Sung on board of the Steward's Steam-boat._

It well may grieve one's heart full sore,
To be in such a movement--
Upon the river, as on shore,
The rage is all improvement:
Once blithe as grigs, our merriment
Is chang'd to meditation,
How we these ills may circumvent--
O what a Corporation!

The Quayside always was too big,
As scullers have attested;
Tant ships, that come with rampant rig,
Against its sides are rested.
Still to extend it in a tift,
They're making preparation,
And Sandgate-midden is to shift--
O what a Corporation!

At Tyne-main once there was a caunch,
And famous sport was found there;
So long it stood--so high and staunch--
All vessels took the ground there;
But, somehow, it has crept away,
By flood or excavation,
And time there you need not delay--
O what a Corporation!

They think to move Bill-point--a spot
So lovely and romantic--
Which has sent many ships to pot,
And set some seamen frantic;
Then many a gowk will run to see,
And stare with admiration,
From Snowdon's Hole to Wincomlee--
O what a Corporation!

How silent once was Wallsend-shore--
Its dulness was a wonder;
Now, from the staiths, full waggons pour
Their coals like distant thunder;
To have restor'd its wonted peace,
In vain our supplication,--
The trade, they say, it will increase--
O what a Corporation!

Where Tynemouth-bar, I understand,
A rock from side to side is,
How well would look a bank of sand,
Not higher than the tide is;
But this, it seems, is not to be--
In spite of my oration,
The Tyne is still to join the sea--
O what a Corporation!

O would the Tyne but cease to flow,
Or, like a small burn, bubble,
There would not be a barge-day now,
Nor we have all this trouble;
But here, alas! we sailing roam
About its conservation,
Instead of sleeping safe at home--
O what a Corporation!

The Moral.

As patriots in public cause,
We never once have swerv'd yet,
And if we have not gain'd applause,
We know we've well deserv'd it:
Who thinks we care for feasting, he
Must be a stupid noddy--
We're, like the Herbage-committee,
An ill-requited body.

ROBERT GILCHRIST.

ST. NICHOLAS' CHURCH.

O bonny church! ye've studden lang,
To mence our canny town;
But I believe ye are sae strang,
Ye never will fa' down:
The architects, wi' a' their wit,
May say that ye will fa';
But let them talk--I'll match ye yet
Against the churches a'.

CHORUS.

Of a' the churches in our land,
Let them be e'er sae braw,
St. Nicholas', of Newcastle town,
Yet fairly bangs them a'.

Lang have ye stood ilk bitter blast,
But langer yet ye'll stand;
And ye have been for ages past,
A pattern for our land:
Your bonny steeple looks sae grand--
The whole world speaks o' ye,
Been a' the crack, for cent'ries back,
And will be when I dee.

'Tis true they've patch'd ye all about
With iron, stone, and wood;
But let them patch--I have a doubt,
They'll do ye little good;
But, to be sure, its making work--
There's plenty lives by ye--
Not only tradesmen and our clerk,
But the greedy black-coats, tee.

Your bonny bells there's nane excels,
In a' the country round;
They ring so sweet, they are a treat
When they play heartsome tunes;
And when all's dark, the people mark
Ye with your fiery eye,
That tells the travellers in the street
The time, as they pass by.

O that King William wad come down,
To see his subjects here,
And view the buildings of our town--
He'd crack o' them, I swear;
But when he saw our canny church,
I think how he'd admire,
To see the arch sprung from each side
That bears the middle spire.

Now, to conclude my little song,
That simple, vocal theme--
I trust, that if I've said aught wrong,
That I will be forgi'en:
Then lang may fam'd St. Nicholas' stand,
Before it does come down,
That, when we dee, our bairns may see
The beauties of our town.

PAGANINI, THE FIDDLER;

_Or, The Pitman's Frolic_.

Tune--"The Kebbuckstane Wedding."

Come, lay up your lugs, and aw'll sing you a sang,
It's nyen o' the best, but it's braw new and funny--
In these weary times, when we're not very thrang,
A stave cheers wor hearts, tho' it brings us ne money:
Aw left Shiney Raw, for Newcassel did steer,
Wi' three or four mair of our neighbours se canny,
Determin'd to gan to the play-house to hear
The King o' the fiddlers, the great Baggy Nanny.
Right fal, &c.

We reach'd the Arcade, rather drouthy and sair--
It's a house full of pastry-cooks, bankers, and drapers--
At the fine fancy fair, how my marrows did stare,
On the muffs, hats, and beavers, se fam'd in the papers;
At Beasley's, where liquor's se cheap and se prime,
A bottle aw purchas'd for maw sweetheart, Fanny,
We drank nowt but brandy--and, when it was time,
We stagger'd away to see great Baggy Nanny.

We gat t' the door, 'mang the crowd we did crush,
Halfway up the stairs I was carried se handy;
The lassie ahint us cried, Push, hinny, push--
Till they squeez'd me as sma' and as smart as a dandy;
We reach'd the stair-heed, nearly smuther'd, indeed--
The gas letters glitter'd, the paintings look'd canny--
Aw clapt mysel' down side a lass o' reet breed,
Maw hinny, says aw, hae ye seen Baggy Nanny.