Chapter VIII: Part 8

The lassie she twitter'd, and look'd rather queer,
And said, in this house there is mony a dozen,
They're planted so thick, that there's no sitting here,
They smell so confounded o' cat-gut and rosin;
The curtain flew up, and a lady did squall,
To fine music play'd by a Cockney bit mannie,
Then frae the front seats I suen heard my friends bawl,
Off hats, smash yor brains, here comes great Baggy Nanny.

An outlandish chep suen appear'd on the stage,
And cut as odd capers as wor maister's flonkey,
He skipp'd and he fiddled, as if in a rage--
If he had but a tail, he might pass for a monkey!
Deil smash a good tune could this bowdy-kite play--
His fiddle wad hardly e'en please my aud grannie--
So aw suen join'd my marrows and toddled away,
And wish'd a good neet to the great Baggy Nanny.

On crossing Tyne-brig, how wor lads ran the rig,
At being se silly duen out o' their money,--
Odd bother maw wig, had he play'd us a jig,
We might tell'd them at hyem, we'd seen something quite funny;
But, law be it spoke, and depend it's ne joke--
Yen and a' did agree he was something uncanny,
Though, dark o'er each tree, he before us did flee,
And fiddled us hyem did this great Baggy Nanny.

R. EMERY.

THE OYSTER-WIFE'S PETITION,

_On the Removal of the Oyster-tub from the Quay_.

Tune--"The Bold Dragoon."

Oh! Mister Mayor, it grieves me sair--
Alas! what mun aw dee?
Wor Oyter-tub[46] is doom'd ne mair
To grace Newcassel Kee!
Wor bonny lamp that brunt se breet,
And cheer'd each wintry neet se dreary,
Is gyen, and lots o' canny folks
Will miss it sair when cawd and weary!
Whack, row de dow, &c.

Now, for the sake of her that's gyen,
Just speak the cheering word,
And say, that to wor ancient burth,
Aw suen will be restor'd.
The news wor town wad 'lectrify,
And gar yor nyem to live for ever--
In efter times yor deeds wad shine,
And 'clipse the nyem o' wor Tyne river.
Whack, row de dow, &c.

Had Charley Brandling, bliss his nyem,
Been spar'd to seen this day,
He'd shown the great respect he had
For poor aud Madgie Gray;
Alas! he's gyen;--close to yorsel'
Aw'll stick until aw's satisfied, sir;
When ye look on this good-like fyece,
Maw wishes ne'er can be denied, sir.
Whack, row de dow, &c.

Frae Summer-hill down to the Kee,
Fo'ks kenn'd poor Madgie weel,--
Aw's very sure wor Magistrates
For maw condition feel;
The cellar's ow'r confin'd and damp,--
Restore us to wor canny station,
And bliesings great will leet upon
Wor canny Toon and Corporation.
Whack, row de dow, &c.

R. EMERY.

Footnote 46: The Oyster-tub alluded to stood on the Quay, nearly opposite to the foot of Grinding-chare. It formed rather an interesting feature in the winter nights, being accompanied by a large blazing lamp, at which sat the owner, attended by several loungers. On the death of old Margery Gray, which took place about October, 1831, this tub was removed, lest the long occupancy of the place should become a freehold, like the little barber's shop which stood at the east end of the _Maison de Dieu_, and which had originally been only a stall. _August, 1833._

BROOM BUSOMS.

If ye want a busom[47] for to sweep your house,
Come to me, my lasses--ye may hae your choose.

Buy broom busoms, buy them when they're new--
Buy broom busoms--better never grew.

If I had a horse, I would have a cart;
If I had a wife, she would take my part.
Buy broom, &c.

Had I but a wife--I care not who she be;
If she be a woman, that's enough for me.
Buy broom, &c.

If she lik'd a drop, her and I'd agree;
If she did not like it, there's the more for me.
Buy broom, &c.

* * * * *

_The following Verses, in addition to the above, were often sung by the late Blind Willie, of Newcastle:--_

Up the Butcher-bank, and down Byker-chare,
There you'll see the lasses selling brown ware.
Buy broom, &c.

Along the Quayside, stop at Russell's Entry:
There you'll see the beer-drawer, she is standing sentry.
Buy broom, &c.

If you want an oyster for to taste your mouth,
Call at Handy Walker's--he's a bonny youth.
Buy broom, &c.

Call at Mr. Loggie's--he does sell good wine;
There you'll see the beer-drawer--she is very fine.
Buy broom, &c.

If you want an orange, ripe and full of juice,
Gan to Hannah Black, there you'll get your choose.
Buy broom, &c.

Call at Mr. Turner's, at the Queen's Head--
He'll not set you away without a piece of bread.
Buy broom, &c.

Down the river's side, as far as Dent's Hole,
There you'll see the cuckolds working at the coal.
Buy broom, &c.

Footnote 47: Besom.

THUMPING LUCK.

Air--"Gang nae mair to yon Town."

Here's thumping luck to yon town,
Let's have a hearty drink upon't,--
O the days I've spent in yon town,
My heart still warms to think upon't;
For monie a happy day I've seen,
With monie a lass so kind and true,--
With hearty chields I've canty been,
And danc'd away till a' was blue.

Here's thumping luck to yon town,
Let's have a hearty drink upon't,--
O the days I've spent in yon town,
My heart still warms to think upon't.

There's famous ale in yon town,
Will make your lips to smack again,
And many a one leaves yon town,
Oft wishes they were back again;
Well shelter'd from the northern blast,
Its spires and turrets proudly rise,
And boats and keels all sailing past
With coals, that half the world supplies.
Here's thumping luck, &c.

There's native bards in yon town,
For wit and humour seldom bet
And they sang sae sweet in yon town,
Good faith, I think I hear them yet:
Such fun in Thompson's voyage to Shields,
In Jimmy Johnson's wherry fine--
Such shaking heels, and dancing reels,
When sailing on the coaly Tyne.
Here's thumping luck, &c.

Amang the rest in yon town,
One Shiels was fam'd for ready wit--
His "Lord Size" half drown'd in yon town,
Good faith I think I hear it yet:
Then Mitford's muse is seldom wrong,
When once he gives the jade a ca',
And Gilchrist, too, for comic song,
Though last, he's not the least of a'.
Here's thumping luck, &c.

May the sun shine bright on yon town,
May its trade and commerce still increase,--
And may all that dwells in yon town
Be blest with fond, domestic peace;
For, let me wander east or west,
North, south, or even o'er the sea,
My native town I'll still love best--
NEWCASTLE is the place for me.
Here's thumping luck, &c.

W. WATSON.

DANCE TO THY DADDY.

Tune--"The little Fishy."

Come here, my little Jackey,
Now I've smok'd my backey,
Let's have a bit crackey
Till the boat comes in.

Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,
Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;
Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,
Thou shalt have a fishy when the boat comes in.

Here's thy mother humming,
Like a canny woman,
Yonder comes thy father,
Drunk, he cannot stand.

Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,
Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;
Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,
Thou shalt have a haddock when the boat comes in.

Our Tommy's always fuddling,
He's so fond of ale,--
But he's kind to me--
I hope he'll never fail.

Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,
Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;
Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,
Thou shalt have a codling when the boat comes in.

I like a drop mysel',
When I can get it sly,
And thou, my bonny bairn,
Will lik't as well as I.

Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,
Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;
Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,
Thou shalt have a mack'rel when the boat comes in.

May we get a drop
Oft as we stand in need,
And weel may the keel row
That brings the bairns their bread.

Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,
Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;
Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,
Thou shalt have a salmon, when the boat comes in.

W. WATSON.

THE FRIAR AND THE NUN,

_A Midnight Colloquy of the Nuns' Field_.

Said the Ghost of a Nun to a Friar Grey--
"Dear brother, what changes we've seen!
There's here to be built a New Market, they say,
Which was once, you know, our bleaching green."
Such were the sounds that smote on my ear,
As I stray'd in the Nuns' Field one night,--
And I sat down beneath an old elm-tree to hear,
Though my hair stood on end at the sight.

"There's nought," quoth the Friar, "but heaps of stones,
Where oft I have stray'd as a sinner;
The bell that once warn'd us to vespers and nones,
Now warns Grainger's workmen of dinner.
Alack! sister Anne, a heretic race,
With aprons of blue, or of tartan,--
Red night-caps for hoods, will soon take our place--
But they all will be d----d for certain."

"Dear brother," said she, "only think on this spot,
Where our portion was penance and stripes,
Old men will be crying, 'Hot pies here, all hot,'
And women, 'Black-puddings and tripes.'
Where we walk'd so devoutly, soon those who succeed us,
In all worldly pride will soon strut on,--
Where we utter'd our mournful _Aves_ and _Credos_,
Will hang rounds of beef and fat mutton."

"Yes, sister," said he, "where we chaunted _Te Deum_,
And sighed our prayer to the breeze,--
Where we us'd to confess, ere long will we see 'em
A chaunting lewd ditties and glees;
The ground where we stand will be strew'd soon with buyers,
Pursuing their ways so mistaken;
Extinct is the race now of Holy Friars,
Save those who are Fryers of Bacon.

In spite of Sir Andrew, these sinful elves
Will still buy and sell on a Sunday;
But soon they'll be wandering ghosts, like ourselves--
_Sic transit gloria mundi_."
A low'ring black cloud--most dismal to see--
Now hid the soft moon-beams so bright;
And I rose from beneath an old elm-tree,
For the Ghosts had vanish'd from sight.

ST. NICHOLAS' GREAT BELL.

Oh, have you seen the mighty bell,
That none in England can excel,--
The Tom of Lincoln's but a shell
To the great bell of Saint Nicholas.
Oh, such rare things ne'er was before--
To hear it strike eight miles, or more,
To wake the workmen, when they snore--
Ay, this great bell of Saint Nicholas.

(_Spoken_)--I say, Patrick, have you been after seeing the great bell that's just gone up to that great lump of a Protestant church?--A big bell, do they call it? by the saints, I thought it was an extinguisher for the light at its ugly mug--A great bell, indeed; by the powers! you know yourself it's only like a skull-cap to my great grandmother's praty pot, that she used to boil kail-cannon in at the harvest.--You are right, Patrick, but still we'll

Drink success to this bell--ding, dong--
That'll wake the folks in country and town,
And their maids to milk their cows in the morn,
The great bell of Saint Nicholas.

Lord, how the people they did run,
When they heard the small bells ring like fun,
Shouting, there's something to be done
At the old church of Saint Nicholas.
The shopkeepers out of their doors did stare
At such a thing, so great and rare,
And the flags were waving in the air,
O'er the great bell of Saint Nicholas.

(Spoken.)--Well, I suppose they will christen it--Hout, man, they christened it yesterday at the foundery, down at Hawks'.--Well, then, they'll have to consecrate it now.--Ay, horses and all--What! consecrate horses, you foolish man! Ay, then they'll be most fit for hearses and mourning coaches.

Drink success to this bell, &c.

And after all the noisy storm,
We've liv'd to see real church reform--
Six horses standing snug and warm,
In the old church of Saint Nicholas.
You should have been at the church,
To have seen the horses in the porch,--
The devil will say--I'm in the lurch,
No use for me at Saint Nicholas.

(Spoken.)--I say, Geordy, did you ever see such a great thing as that before?--Where is it gan' te?--Why, to the church; it's the great bell that was bequeathed by Major Anderson, to flay away the rooks and craws frae the town--to hinder them from building either on churches or exchanges. Ay, ay, but I think it wad ha'e been far better if they'd myed it to flay away poverty frae wor doors, and cast it as a boiler for soup. What say you, Geordy?--It wad, as ye say--but I'll

Drink success, &c.

A drunken cobbler made a vow,
In the Major he would make a shoe,--
And he work'd away till all was blue
In the great bell of Saint Nicholas.
The shoe being made, to the man of leather
The people cried--Well done! O clever,--
You should have a grant to work for ever
In the great bell of Saint Nicholas.

Drink success to this bell, &c.

LUKEY'S DREAM.

Tune--"Caller Fair."

The other neet aw went to bed,
Being weary wi' maw wark, man;
Aw dreamt that Billy Scott was deed--
It's curious to remark, man
Aw thought aw saw his buryin' fair,
And knew the comp'ny a', man--
For a' poor Billy's friends were there,
To see him levelled law, man.

Blind Willie slowly led the band,
As beagle, on the way, man;
A staff he carried in his hand,
And shook his head se grey, man;
At his reet hand was Buggy Jack,
With his hat-brim se broad, man;
And on his left was Bill the Black,
Ti lead him on his road, man.

Big Bob, X. Y. and other two,
That leeves upon the deed, man--
They bore his corpse before the crew,
Expecting to be fee'd, man;
His nyemsyek, Euphy Scott, was there,
Her bonny Geordy, tee, man,
Distress'd--they cried, (this happy pair,)
Ne mair we will him see, man!

Bold Jocker was amang them, tee,
Brave Cuckoo Jack and a', man;
And hairy Tom, the keelman's son,
And bonny Dolly Raw, man;
And Bella Roy, and Tatie Bet,
They cried till out o' breath, man--
For sair these twosome did regret
For canny Billy's deeth, man.

But Hangy luickt above them a',
He is se sma' and lang, man--
And Bobby Knox, the Dog-bank Ox,
Was sobbin' i' the thrang, man;
And Coiner, wi' his swill and shull,
Was squeakin' like a bairn, man,
And knack-knee'd Mat, that drucken fyul,
Like a monkey he did gairn, man.

Tally-i-o, that dirty wretch,
Was then the next I saw, man--
And Peggy Powell, Step-and-fetch,
Was haddin' up her jaw, man--
And frae the Close was Bobby Hush,
Wi' his greet gob se wide, man--
Alang wi' him was Push-Peg-Push,
Lamentin' by his side, man.

And roguish Ralph, and busy Bruce,
That leeves upon their prey, man,
Did not neglect, but did protect
Their friends upon the way, man;
And Jimmy Liddle, drest in black,
Behint them a' did droop, man;
He had a coat on like the Quak's,
That feeds us a' wi' soup, man.

Now, when they got him tiv his grave,
He then began to shout, man;
For Billy being but in a trance,
Bi this time cam about, man:
Then Jocker, wi' a sandy styen,
The coffin split wi' speed, man--
They a' rejoic'd to see agyen
Poor Bill they thought was deed, man.

When a' his friends that round him stood,
Had gettin' him put reet, man,
They a' went tiv the Robin Hood,
To spend a jovial neet, man;
Ne mair for Billy they did weep,
But happy they did seem, man;--
Just then aw waken'd frae my sleep,
And fand it was a dream, man.

JOCKER.

Tune--"O, gin I had her."

Hae ye seen my Jocker,
Hae ye seen my Jocker,
Hae ye' seen my Jocker
Comin' up the Kee?
Wiv his short blue jacket,
Wiv his short blue jacket,
Wiv his short blue jacket,
And his hat agee!

(Spoken.)--JIN. A! lyucka, noo, at clarty Nan, there!--what's she singin' at?

NAN.--What is aw singin' at! What's that ti ye? What it aw singin' at! Ah, wey, noo!--hev aw ti give ower singin' for ye? Ah! wey, noo! there's a platter-fyeced bunter for ye!--there's a smother-bairn w----! there's a pink amang the pissy-beds! Ah! wey, noo!... Ye'd mair need gan hyem, and get the dust wesht off ye. Ah! wey, noo--what's that!

O, maw hinny, Jocker,
O, maw hinny, Jocker,
O, maw hinny, Jocker--
Jocker's the lad for me!
Jocker was a keelman,
Jocker was a keelman,
Jocker was a keelman,
When he follow'd me.

(Spoken.)--But he's exalted now--O, bliss him, aye!--for

He's a porter-pokeman,
He's a porter-pokeman,
He's a porter-pokeman,
Workin' on the Kee.

(Spoken.)--NAN. Assa, Jin--hae ye seen owt o' wor Jocker doon the Kee, there?

JIN.--Ay, aw saw him and Hairy Tom just gan into the Low Crane, there.

NAN.--The Low Crane, ye clarty fa'--whe are ye myekin' yor gam on?

JIN.--Noo, call me a clarty fa', and aw'll plaister yor gob wi' clarts. Ah, wey, noo! whe are ye calling a clarty fa'?

NAN.--Ay! bliss us a', Jin, what are ye gettin' intiv a rage about?

JIN.--Wey, didn't ye ax me if aw'd seen owt o' Jocker doon the Kee, there--and aw teld ye the truth, and ye wadn't believe me.

NAN.--Wey, is he there?

JIN.--Ti be sure he is.

NAN.--Wey, aw'll sit down here till he comes out--then--

O, maw hinny, Jocker, &c.

Jocker was a rover,
Jocker was a rover,
Jocker was a rover,
When he courted me:
But, noo, his tricks are over,
But, noo, his tricks are over,
But, noo, his tricks are over,
He tykes me on his knee.

(Spoken.) NAN.--Ay! here he's comin'; here's maw jewel comin';--come into my airms, my tracle dumplin', and give us a kiss! Where hae ye been? aw been luikin' for ye all ower.

JOCKER.--Where hev aw been!--aw've been walkin' up and down the Kee here. Where hae ye been?--aw think ye've been i' the Sun.

NAN.--Wey, maw jewel, aw've just been i' the Custom-house, getting a glass, and aw've com'd down the Key to seek ye, to gan hyem thegither. Assa, Jocker, divent lie se far off is as ye did last neet, for when aw waken'd, aw was a' starving o' caud.

O, maw hinny, Jocker, &c.

THE CORN MARKET.

_A LAMENT._

Tune--"The Bold Dragoon."

O hinney Grainger, haud thy hand, thou'll turn us upside doon,
Or faith aw'll send for Mr. Brand, to claw thy curly croon;
For what thou's myed the Major's dean, wor thenks are due, and thou
shalt hae them;
But noo the law toon folk complain, thou wants to tyek their Egypt frae
them.
Whack, row de dow, &c.

Most folk like the better half, but thou wad swalley all,
Poor-house or Jail may tyek the rest, gie thou but Elswick Hall.
Wor cooncil's cliver, there's ne doot, but they'll find out, tho'
rather late on,
How cool the devil walks about, in the smooth shape of J----y C----n.

Thou's getten aw the butcher-meat, the taties, tripe, and greens,
And, not content with this, thou wants to tyek wor corn, it seems;
For Mosley-street and Mercy's sake, sic wicked thowts at once abandon,
Or else wor canny awd law toon, it winna hev a leg to stand on.

The wheel o' fortune will stand still, the bees forsyek the hive,
There'll be ne wark for Sinton's Mill, the White Horse winna drive,
Poor Mrs. F----h and Temperance H----l ne mair need recommend
their diet,
The farmers will forget to call, H-ll's Kitchen's very sel' turn quiet.

The Chronicle may doze in peace,--Lord Grainger says, "Sleep on--"
The bugs may tyek another lease, their race is not yet run;
Awd Nichol still may fairly say, frae Hepple's up to Humble's house
end,
He feeds a lively host each day, aw'll say, at least, a hundred
thousand.

The White Swan seun 'ill be agrund, the Black Boy turn quite pale,
The Black Bull wi' the blow be stunn'd, the Lion hang his tail,
Tom H----n's Cock 'ill craw ne mair, the awd Blue Bell be dumb for
ever,--
And', just to myek the Kee-side stare, thou'd better send doon for
the river.
Whack, row de dow, &c.

THE SKIPPER'S ACCOUNT OF THE MECHANICS' PROCESSION.

By R. EMERY, of the Nelson Lodge, Newcastle.

Tune--"_Newcastle Fair._"

Cried Mally, Come, Jacky, get ready--
The morning is looking se fine, man;
The bells i' the town are a' ringing,
And the sun it se bonny does shine, man;
The lads and the lasses are runnin',
To se the Mechanics so gay, man,--
To meet the Procession, wi' Mally,
Aw suen cut my stick, and away, man.
Rom ti iddity, &c.

We reach'd the Tyne Brig in a crack,
'Mang croods, like worsels, out o' breeth, man--
The splendor aw cannot describe,
Nor forget till the day o' my deeth, man:
A fine silken banner appear'd,
As big as wor Geordy's keel-sails, man,
A' cover'd wi' doves, ark, and croons,
An' greet hairy men without tails, man.
Rom ti iddity, &c.

A chep like a Duke follow'd next,
Surrounded wi' Nobles se fine, man,
Weel dress'd up in silk robes an' tassels,
An' goold that did glitter and shine, man--
Says aw, that's Prince Albert, aw'll sweer--
An' was just gawn to give him three chears, man,
When Mally cried--De'il stop yor din!--
Becrike! it's the Dey of Algiers, man.
Rom ti iddity, &c.

The members were toss'd off in stile,
In colours of pink, white, and blue, man,--
A tight little chep frae the ranks,
Cried, Jack, hinny, how d'ye do, man?--
What, Newton! says aw, now, what cheer!
Aw thowt ye some 'Squire makin' fun, man,--
There's Armstrang, as trig as a Peer,
But how's my awd friend, Bobby Nunn, man?
Rom ti iddity, &c.

The Hawk, the Northumberland Star,
An' the Magdalen's banners wav'd sweet, man;
But the Chieftain astonish'd them all,
With his braw Highland lads dress'd sae neat, man;
The Nelson appear'd in true blue,
(There canny host Simpson belangs, man,)
An' Petrie walk'd close alangside
O' the chep that writes Newcassel Sangs, man.
Rom ti iddity, &c.

To describe the Flags, Music, an' Stars,
Wad take me to doomsday for sartin;
Let Foresters brag as they like,
But it's all in my eye, Betty Martin.
Wor lads were se pleas'd wi' the seet,
Mechanics they'll be before lang, man,--
So aw's gannin to Simpson's to-neet,
To sing them this canny bit sang, man.

_Whit-Monday, 1841._

DRUCKEN BELLA ROY, O!

Tune--"Duncan M'Callaghan."

When Bella's comin' hyem at neet,
And as she's walking doon the street,
The bairns cry out, Whe pawn'd the sheet?
Wey, drucken Bella Roy, O!

Then styens to them gans rattlin', rattlin',
They set off a gallopin', gallopin',
Legs an' arms gan' wallopin', wallopin',
For fear o' Bella Roy, O!

Now, when she gans through the chares,
Each bairn begins, and shouts and blairs,
And cries, as she gans up the stairs,
Where's drucken Bella Roy, O!
Then styens, &c.

Now, if she's had a sup o' beer,
She sets ti wark to curse and swear,
And myeks them run away, for fear,
Frae Drucken Bella Roy, O!
Then styens, &c.

Believe me, friends, these are her words:
She says--Get hyem, ye w----'s birds,
Else aw'll bray ye as flat as t----s,
Cries drucken Bella Roy, O!
Then styens, &c.

She says--Ye have a w----e at hyem,
And if ye'll not let me alyen,
Maw faith, aw'll break your rumple byen,
Says drucken Bella Roy, O!
Then styens, &c.

She'll myek the place like thunner ring,
And down the stairs her things will fling,
And cry--Get out, yor ---- thing--
Cries drucken Bella Roy, O!
Then styens, &c.

Then in the house she sits and chats,
The bairns, then, hit her door such bats--
She calls them a' the hellish cats,
Dis drucken Bella Roy, O!
Then styens, &c.

She shouts until she hurts her head,
And then she's forc'd to gan' ti bed,
Which is a piece of straw, down spread
For drucken Bella Roy, O!
Fal, lal, lal, &c.

THE BONNY CLOCK FYECE.

Tune--"The Coal-hole."

O Dick, what's kept ye a' this time?
Aw've fretted sair about ye--
Aw thought that ye'd fa'n in the Tyne,
Then what wad aw duen without ye?
O, hinny, Dolly, sit thee down,
And hear the news aw've brought frae toon:
The Newcassel folks hev catch'd a meun,
And myed it a bonny clock-fyece!

Thou knaws Saint Nicholas' Church, maw pet,
Where we were tied tigither,--
That place, aw knaw, thou'll not forget--
Forget it aw will never:
'Twas there, then, jewel, aw saw the seet,
As aw cam staggering through the street,--
Aw thought it queer, at pick dark neet,
Ti see a fiery clock-fyece.

The folks they stood in flocks about--
Aw cried--How! what's the matter?
Aw glower'd--at last aw gav a shout,
For them to fetch some water.
The Church is a-fire, and very suen
That bonny place will be brunt down.
Ye fyul, says a chep, it's a bonny meun
They've catch'd, and myed it a clock-fyece!

On Monday, when aw gan to wark,
Aw'll shurely tell our banksman,
If we had such a leet at dark,
We never wad break our shanks, man;
Maw marrows and aw'll gan ti the toon,
Ti see if we can catch a muen;--
If we can only coax one doon,
We'll myek't a bonny clock-fyece.

Then if we get it down the pit,
We'll hed stuck on a pole, man;
'Twill tell us hoo wor time gans on,
Likewise to hew wor coal, man.
So noo, maw pet, let's gan ti bed,
And not forget the neet we were wed;
Ti-morn we'll tell our uncle, Ned,
About the bonny clock-fyece.

THE MUSIC HALL.

Old bards have sung how they could boast
Of places that's renown'd,
For bloody battles won and lost,
And royal monarchs crown'd;
But all those deeds this place exceeds--
They in the shade must fall,
Some have declar'd, if but compar'd
To our fam'd Music Hall.

Here zealots join in warm debate,
And for their rites contend--
Here Lark-wing spouts on church and state,
His popery to defend;
With bigot zeal, his country's weal
He vows to have at heart--
Yet 'tis well known, throughout the town,
He plays a knavish part.

Now, from Hibernia's fertile shore
The thund'ring champion comes,
His country's wrongs for to deplore,
With trumpets, fife, and drums;
He tells them, too, he is most true,
Their firm, unshaken friend,
While life Shall last, he will stand fast,
And all their rights defend.

Then champions of another grade--
I mean, of fistic lore--
Deaf Burke, the bouncing gasconade,
Struts o'er the spacious floor,
Who, with great art, performs his part,
In teaching self-defence;
Yet plain I saw, he meant to draw
Fools' shillings, pounds, and pence.

Next comes a man of fangles new--
Of worlds, and moons, and stars--
Who said, Sir Isaac never knew
The Ple-i-ades from Mars
The folks throng'd round from all the town,
And some pronounc'd him clever,
Yet, I've been told, both young and old
Return'd as wise as ever.

Apollo, too, his court here keeps,
With sirens in his train--
Each trembling note of music sweeps
Transport through every vein:
When Orpheus play'd within the shade,
He made the woods resound;
The list'ning beasts forsook the mead,
And stood, like statues, round.

A graver scene my muse has caught,
Where sages, in a row--
Men, by the Holy Spirit taught
The gospel truths t' avow--
Those who have trod, to serve their God,
The shores of foreign land,
At his command, now boldly stand
T' implore a helping hand.

And not unfrequent, as we stray
This wond'rous place to see,
We find it fill'd with ladies gay,
To take a cup of tea;
And many a gent, who is content
With such domestic fare,
Has often sat, in social chat,
And join'd in many a prayer.

Of many more there is one class,
Which merits some attention--
Not Bacchanalians, alas!
For such I would not mention--
But men of brains, the smell of grains
Would strike with detestation,
Who'd keep us dry, and thus decry
All liquors in the nation.

Nay, come what will of good or ill,
Just only make a trial--
If you the owner's pockets fill,
You'll meet with no denial;
And men, I hear, from far and near,
Have given attestation,
So strong a place they cannot trace
In any other nation.

THE TYNE.

Tune--"Banks and Braes o' bonny Doon."

Clear crystal Tyne, sweet smiling stream,
Gay be the flow'rs thy banks along,
For there the darling of my theme
Oft sports thy verdant meads among.
Flow on, sweet Tyne, and gently glide,
And pour thy commerce o'er the main,
May Plenty o'er thy banks preside,
To bless thee with her smiling train.

Green be thy fields, Britannia dear,
With plenty flowing o'er thy land,
But chief the banks of Tyne, for there
I'll often rove, at Love's command,--
There meet my lass upon the green,
And flow'ry garlands for her twine,
While smiling pleasure glads the scene,
Upon the blooming banks of Tyne.

J. WILSON

THE NEWCASTLE OLD COUNTRY GENTLEMAN.

Air--"Old Country Gentleman."

From wand'ring in a distant land,
An exile had return'd,
And when he saw his own dear stream,
His heart with pleasure burn'd;
The days departed, and their joys,
Came bounding to his breast,
And thus the feelings of his heart
In native strains confess'd:--

Tune--"The Keel Row."

Flow on, majestic river,
Thy rolling course for ever,--
Forget thee will I never,
Whatever fate be mine:

Oft on thy banks I've wander'd,
And on thy beauties ponder'd,
Oh! many an hour I've squander'd
On thy banks, O bonny Tyne!
Flow on, &c.

O Tyne! in thy bright flowing,
There's magic joy bestowing;
I feel thy breezes blowing--
Their perfume is divine.
Flow on, &c.

I've sought thee in the morning,
When crimson clouds are burning,
And thy green hills adorning--
The hills o' bonny Tyne.
Flow on, &c.

When stormy seas were round me,
And distant nations bound me,
In memory still I found thee
A ray of hope divine.
Flow on, &c.

Thy valleys lie before me,
Thy trees are waving o'er me,
My home thou dost restore me
On thy bonny banks, O Tyne!
Flow on, &c.

WALKER PITS.

Tune--"Off she goes."

If I had another penny,
I would have another gill--
I would make the fiddler play
"The bonny Lads of Byker-hill."

Byker-hill and Walker-shore,
Collier lads for evermore!
Byker-hill and Walker-shore,
Collier lads for evermore!

When aw cam to Walker wark,
Aw had ne coat, nor ne pit sark;
But now aw've getten twe or three--
Walker pit's deun weel for me.

Byker-hill and Walker-shore,
Collier lads for evermore!
Byker-hill and Walker-shore,
Collier lads for evermore!

BEGGAR'S WEDDING.

Air--"Quayside Shaver."

When timber-legg'd Harry crook'd Jenny did marry
In fam'd Gateshead town--and, not thinking of blows,
Three ragmen did quarrel about their apparel,
Which oft-times affrighted both small birds and crows;
This resolute prial, fought on battle royal,
Till Jenny spoke this, with hump back and sharp shins:
"Be loving as brothers, as well as the others,
Then we shall get orders for needles and pins!"

The bride-maid, full breasted, she vow'd and protested,
She never saw men at a wedding so rude;
Old Madge, with her matches, top full of her catches,
Swore she would be tipsy e'er they did conclude;
The supper being ended, some part still contended
For wholesome malt liquor to fill up each skin;
Jack Tar, in his jacket, sat close to Doll Flacket,
And swore he'd drink nothing but grog and clear gin.

Black Jack with his fiddle they fix'd in the middle,
Who had not been wash'd since the second of June--
Old Sandy, the piper, told Ned he would stripe her,
If she wouldn't dance while his pipe was in tune:
They play'd them such touches, with wood-legs and crutches--
Old rag-pokes and matches, old songs flew about;
Poor Jack being a stranger, thought his Scratch in danger,
He tenderly begg'd they would give up the rout.

Jack being thus ill-treated, he begg'd to be seated
Upon an old cupboard the landlord had got,--
Like madmen enchanted, they tippled and ranted,
Till down came the fiddler, as if he'd been shot.
They drank gin by noggins, and strong beer by flaggons,
Till they had sufficiently loosen'd each hide,
Then those that were able, retir'd to the stable,
And slept with their nose in each other's backs--e.

DO LI A.

_Sung in Newcastle about the Years 1792-3-4._

Fresh I'm come frae Sandgate-street,
Do li, do li,
My best friends here to meet,
Do li a.
Do li th' dil len dol--do li, do li,
Do li th' dil len dol--do li a.

The Black-cuffs are gawn away,
Do li, do li,
And that will be a crying day,
Do li a, &c.
Dolly Coxon's pawn'd her sark,
Do li, do li,
To ride upon the baggage-cart,
Do li a, &c.
The Green-cuffs are coming in,
Do li, do li,
An' that 'll make the lasses sing,
Do li a, &c.

A SOUTH SHIELDS SONG.

The sailors are all at the bar,
They cannot get up to Newcastle,--
The sailors are all at the bar,
They cannot get up to Newcastle.

Up with smoaky Shields,
And hey for bonny Newcastle;
Up with smoaky Shields,
And hey for bonny Newcastle.

A NORTH SHIELDS SONG.

We'll all away to the Law Lights,
And there we'll see the sailors come in;
We'll all away to the Law Lights,
And there we'll see the sailors come in.
There clap your hands and give a shout,
And you'll see the sailors go out;
Clap your hands, and dance and sing,
And you'll see your laddie come in.

COMMIT NO NONSENSE.

An aud chep that had spent a' his life i' the keels,
Taking coals down the river to load ships at Shields,
Had some business, yen day, in Newcastle to do,
And, when there, he'd stop and see a' that was new.

He view'd wor new streets, and was weel pleas'd, no doubt,
He gap'd and he star'd, as he wander'd about;
But still, as he star'd, there was yen thing seem'd queer,
Whilk was plac'd on the walls--"Commit no nuisance here."

The aud boy was not very learned, you see,
And, when young, he had got off his great A, B, C,
And some words he could spell, tho' not sartinly clear,
And his skill made it out--"Commit ne nonsense here."

He knew very little of Tee-total rules,
But thought they might dee very weel amang feuls;
In his wand'ring he thought about getting some beer.
And often he read--"Commit ne nonsense here."

A few pints of beer brought this chep to a stand,
For nature, o'ercharg'd, wanted ease at his hand,--
For this purpose he enter'd a yard,--but, se queer,
Just saw, 'buin his head--"Commit ne nonsense here."

The gurgling stream from the old fellow flow'd,
His ease he enjoy'd myed a notable flood;
But, just in the nick, when he thought a' was clear,
A policeman cries--"Commit no nuisance here."

"Kind sir," says the man--for to speak he scarce durst--
"When aw com in here, aw was ready to burst."
"That's nought," says the policeman, "din't ye see clear,
Daub'd upon the wall--'Commit no nuisance here.'"

The poor soul his flap button'd up in a fright,
The policeman swore that he wad him indite;
But he teuk to his heels, for, says he, aw see clear,
If aw stop onie langer there'll be nonsense here.

A NEW NURSERY RHYME.

This is the _Arcade_ that Grainger built.

This is the _Blade_, whose only trade, is to keep the
Arcade that Grainger built.

These are the _Boys_ who, making a noise, are kick'd
by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade
that Grainger built.

This is the _Horde_ of Attorneys, who, bored by the
rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by
the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that
Grainger built.

This is the _Hat_, all cock'd and lac'd--a hat according
to Briggs's taste--paid for by the horde of attorneys
so bored by the rascally boys, who, making a noise, are
kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the
Arcade that Grainger built.

This is _Peregrine_, pragmatic and prim, who scouted
the hat without any brim--the hat that was all cock'd
and lac'd, according to Briggs' peculiar taste--paid for
by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally boys,
who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade, whose
only trade is to keep the Arcade that Grainger built.

This is _Mister Briggs_, who makes trowsers and coats,
who abus'd the committee for giving their votes to
Peregrine, so pragmatic and prim, to scout the hat
without any brim; for Briggs deck'd the hat so cock'd
and lac'd,--and he prides himself on his fanciful taste,--paid
for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the
rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by
the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that
Grainger built.

This is _Chinaman Reed_, who said Briggs was right,
and who wears his unmentionables awfully tight, which
were made by this Briggs, who makes trousers and
coats, who abus'd the committee for giving their votes
to Peregrine, so pragmatic and prim, to scout the hat
without any brim; for Briggs deck'd the hat so cock'd
and lac'd,--and he prides himself on his fanciful taste,--paid
for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally
boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the
blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that
Grainger built.

This is _Mister Stable_, who did all he was able to
bully poor Reed, who said Briggs was right, and who
wears his unmentionables awfully tight, which were made
by this Briggs, who makes trousers and coats, who
abus'd the committee for giving their votes to Peregrine,
so pragmatic and prim, to scout the hat without
any brim; for Briggs deck'd the hat so cock'd and
lac'd,--and he prides himself on his fanciful taste,--paid
for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally
boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade,
whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that Grainger
built.

This is _Mister Seymour_, an attorney of note, who--alas!
for the hat--gave the casting vote, and agreed
with Stable, who did all he was able to bully poor
Reed, who said Briggs was right, and who wears his
unmentionables awfully tight, which were made by this
Briggs, who makes trousers and coats, who abus'd the
committee for giving their votes to Peregrine, so pragmatic
and prim, who scouted the hat without any brim--the
unfortunate hat, all cock'd and lac'd, after Briggs's
own peculiar taste--paid for by the horde of attorneys
so bored by the noise of the rascally boys, kick'd out
by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade
that Grainger built.

COOKSON'S ALKALI.

Now haud yor tongues, I'll try my lungs,
And de my best forbye;
My sang is choice, but maw sweet voice
Is spoil'd by Alkali.

CHORUS.

Then let us all, byeth great and small,
Set up a hue and cry;
Else Shields will suin be a' duin broon
By Cookson's Alkali.

Wor fields are bare, they'll grow ne mair
Of barley, wheat, or rye:
A famine now, and pest'lence, too,
Is caus'd by Alkali.

Wor gardens grow just nothing now,
The crops won't multiply;
Wor mouths, it's thowt, will suin hev nowt
But Cookson's Alkali.

Wor ships hev got a sad dry rot,
In spite of "anti-dry;"
For Kyan's wash, and such like trash,
Can't cope wiv Alkali.

Then suin there'll be a shipless sea--
No sail will meet the eye;
Wor masts and spars, and jolly tars
Will strike to Alkali.

Wor houses soon will tummel doon,
And flat as fluicks they'll lie--
They'll cut their sticks, as sure as bricks,
Wi' this sad Alkali.

A man, I swear't, is now half marr'd
Wi' smoke, he's got sae dry;
He's lost his sap, and ruin'd, peer chap,
By Cookson's Alkali.

It's true, indeed, wor wives still breed,--
But, see their tiny fry!--
They're nowt, peer things, but legs and wings,
And all from Alkali.

For dandy blades, and dapper maids,
De nought but sob and sigh;
They're forc'd to pad, their shape's sae bad,
And all wi' Alkali.

Wor wither'd crops, and lantern chops,
Are proofs nyen can deny,
That we are cuik'd, and fairly buik'd,
By Cookson's Alkali.

So, now, farewell to swipes and yell,
And breed and beef, good bye!
We'll get nae mair awd English fare,
For this d----d Alkali.

And when we're gyen, beneath a styen
Wor cawd remains will lie,
A prey, alas! to acid gas,
Produc'd by Alkali.

THE PITMAN'S RAMBLE.

Tune--"The Kebbuckstane Wedding."

BY R. EMERY.

Wor pit was laid in, and but little ti de,
Says aw, Neighbour Dicky, let's off to Newcassel,
Their grand alterations aw's langin' to see,--
hey say, they're se fine, that they'll gar wor een dazzel.
We reach'd the _Black House_, and we call'd for some beer,
When whe should pop in but the landlord, se handy--
He wish'd us se kindly a happy new year,
And he rosin'd wor gobs with a glass o' French brandy.

We left wor good friend, an' got down to the _shop_
That has some fine lasses frae Lunnin se clivver,--
Astonish'd, aw star'd till near like for to drop,
At their great panes o' glass that wad cover Tyne river!
Says Dick, it's been myed for greet folk like Lord 'Size--
It belangs to Broad Brim that myed brass at the _corner_;
At poor folks like us, now, he'll cock up his eyes,
As he sits at the end, there, like Little Jack Horner.

We wheel'd reet about--spied a far finer seet,
As we went to the grocer's, to get some rag backy--
Lairge goold cups an' watches, se bonny and breet,
An' fine _Fardin Pants_ runnin' whisky and jacky!
Aw wish'd aw could get mi gob fair at the spout,
Aw'd pay for a sook o' this liquor se funny,--
Says Dick, the door's bolted to keep the crowd out--
It's a place made to glow'r at, but not to take money.

We down to the _Doctor's_ that lives in the Side,
Who cures folks o' hairy-legg'd monsters, like donkies!
Cull cheps for his worm cakes frae far an' near ride--
Poor pitmen, an' farmers, an' keelmen, an' flonkies;
A chep at the window did offer to swear,
For truth, that this doctor, se clivver an' cunnin',
Did take frae his sister, the very last year,
A worm that wad reach frae Newcassel to Lunnin!!!

At last to the Play-house aw swagger'd wi' Dick,--
They've us'd the King's Airms an' the paintings most shocking,
Yen said, since the house had been kept by _Awd Nick_,
Wi' humbugs an' lees he'd Newcassel been mocking.
Says aw--Canny man, dis Awd Nick manage here!
That cunnin' black fiend that gav Eve the bad apple!!
Us Ranters will suen frae this place make him sheer,
An' we'll preach in't worsels, then we'll bang Brunswick Chapel!

THE WORTHY RECTOR.

Sung at a Farewell Dinner, given, by his Parishioners, to the Rev. J. COLLINSON, Rector of Gateshead, previous to his Removal to the Parish of Boldou.

Sec changes now there diz tyek place
In ivry life and station,
Things noo is a' turn'd upside doon,
For little or ne occasion,--
Yen meets wi' acts yen luik'd not for,
That drives yen into sorrow:
We hev a case in point to meet
In this wor canny borro--
Singing, fal, lal, &c.

Last Cursmas time whe wad ha'e thowt
That wor awd priest wad leave us,
And cause sec dowly thowts to cum,
Se very much to grieve us?
We sartly thowt we had him fix'd,
And fassen'd here till death, sors;
Unless he had been prebendized
By Dean-and-Chapter breeth, sors.

His toils an' labours noo we'll loss:--
His sarmons for to syev us
Will all be chang'd, an' varry suin,
For wor new Rector's, Davis.
Aw oney hope an' pray we'll not
Forget our late Protector,--
For thorty yeers he's led our "train,"
An' been wor _sowl_ Director.

For warks an' deeds amang the poor,
For charity an' boonties,
His match, aw think, ye'll not weel find
In this or other coonties:
He's fed the hungry, heal'd the sick,
Wivoot yor grete display, sors;
He wiv his wealth did gyude by stealth--
Lang life to him! aw say, sors.

Yeers creeps upon us a' my frinds,
And he'll suin be an ould un;
And his move frae here, though its not far,
Aw'm sure ye'll think a _bowld-un_.
Aw trust, at times, we'll see his fyece
At church and parish dinners;
For he's a man that loves the saints,
Yet hates not the poor sinners.

This plate we've gi'en him here to-day,
Wiv a' its shining glister,--
The yen tureen was made by Reid,
The other made by Lister,--
Lang may he live to see them shine,
Like bright and true reflectors,
Reminding priests how laymen prize
Upreet, kind-hearted Rectors.

Noo, fare ye weel, maw canny man,
Yor wife an' a' yor childer;
The score ye hev wad frighten some--
Their senses quite bewilder.
Lang may ye live a happy life,
When ye frae Gyetside sivver:
There's hundreds here will pray to God
To bless ye noo and ivvur.

BATTLE OF SPITALOO.

On the thirtieth day of July
The Chartists did combine,
That they would hold a meeting
At Newcastle upon Tyne;
In spite of Mayor or Magistrates,
They would come up to a man,
But when the Police them attack'd,
They took to their heels and ran.

CHORUS.

At the battle of Spitaloo, my boys,
At the battle of Spitaloo--
The Chartists' colours were taken
At the battle of Spitaloo.

They mairch'd in full procession,
Through most streets of the town,
And they declar'd the Magistrates
Should never put them down;
But of all their boasted courage
About what they would do,
The Police took their colours
At the battle of Spitaloo.

With music, flags, and banners,
And all their empty pride,
The procession of the Chartists
Was soon put to a side;
The worthy Mayor and Magistrates
Did let the Chartists know
That they were masters of the town,
At the battle of Spitaloo.

The Chartists, to the Forth that night,
Turn'd very boldly out,--
But soon they were dispersed,
And all put to the rout:
They laid the failure of their cause
Upon the red and blue,
Because they came against them
At the battle of Spitaloo.

The Chartists and their leaders
Are no more allow'd to meet,
Their threat'ning combinations
Have got the grand defeat,--
The National Convention
Has got the overthrow,
And the Chartists' colours taken
At the battle of Spitaloo.

BATTLE ON THE SHIELDS RAILWAY,

_Between a Town Councillor and an Architect, and the Pollis._

Tune--"Cappy's the Dog."

I' the toon of Newcassel James Archbold dis dwell--
He's a slater te trade, and thinks ne small beer on hissel',
And in Gallowgate, just aside the Darn Crook,
Stands his house amang smells that wad make a horse puke.

I' the same toon a chep leeves, of varry great fame,
For building fine houses--John Dobson's his nyem;--
His awn stands in New Bridge Street, by way of example,--
Blaw me if aw think it's a varry good sample.

It happen'd on ----, the ---- of November--
A day these two worthies will ever remember;
For Dobson was varry nigh kill'd, I suppose,
And poor Mr. Archbold spoilt all his best clothes.

The twesome to dine with John Sadler had been
At Whitehill-point House, which is weel to be seen,
A ye gan down to Shields; but aw'll begin my narration
With the row that tuik place at the Howden-pan station.

Efter dinner, when each yen his belly had fill'd,
And some of Jack Sadler's wine had been swill'd,
To gan hyem te Newcassel they left Whitehill-house;
But, before they gat hyem, they gat a vast of abuse.

The station they reach'd ere the train had got there,
And they each tuik a ticket, and each paid his fare;
The train it came up, and Dobson gat in,
And was just gawn to start when the row did begin.

Noo, yen of the pollismen placed at the station,
With lang Jemmy Archbold had some altercation--
"Your ticket, sir, I must now have from you?"
"Not before I get in--I'll be d----d if you do."

Upon this the pollisman gave Jemmy a push,
And into the station-house all made a rush,
And Dobson, noo seeing his friend in such guise,
Jump'd out of the carriage, and went in likewise.

But he gat a blow from a wooden hand,
That made him quite sick, and he could not stand,
And then cam another sic skelp on the hede,
Had his sconce not been thick he wad hae been dede,

Now, Dobson at yen time was very handy,
And at schule he payed Tinley of Shields, the great dandy,
And although he now had come to such skaith,
Cried, "Lay by your wood hands and I'll lick ye baith."

But the pollismen said, "Ye baith prisoners are,
And to Shields ye mun gan, as it's not varry far;"
And though now they began to be sick of the lark,
To Shields they teun were, though it was efter dark.

There they saw Mr. Cruddas and Inspector Scott,
The hede of the pollis, wha pitied their lot,
And releas'd and sent them hyem somewhat muddy--
Poor Dobson the warst--he was baith sair and bloody.

The next day, each yen to his 'torney went,
The yen to Parce Fenwick, the other the Sargent,
Crowner Stoker, whe's spectacles myeks him far-seeted--
He's a h-ll of a fellow for getting folk reeted.

A summons they gat--the men cuddent be seen,
The directors detarmin'd the villains to screen,
And what was still warse, and to save their mutton,
Young Tinley tell'd Jackson, they had gone a shutten.

Noo, as the summons cuddent be sarv'd,
And the pollismen punish'd as they deserv'd,
A warran was getten, and Newton, Allan, and all
Were suin in the cellars beneath the Moot-hall.

Noo the justices sat, to hear what they had to say,
And twe cam frae Shields, for to see fair play;
And William Branlen sat on the bench,
Besides Sandy Ildertan, whe still likes a w--ch.

There was doctors, and lawyers, and pollismen too,
And of railway directors there was not a few,
Including Dick Spoor, whe yence din'd with the queen--
Sic a crew in the jury-room never was seen.

Noo the crowner began, and he made a good speech,
Call'd Archbold and Dobson, and, lastly, the Leech,
Whe bound Dobson's hede, yen Mr. John Lang,
Not "the family surgeon," but a rhyme for my sang.

When Archbold was called, he said, with much grace,
That Newton held the lanthorn reet in his fyece,
And spoke in a manner baith rude and absord
To the town-councillor for St. Andrew's West Ward.

Next Dobson appears with his bloody claes,
His hede all bund up, luiking pale, and he says,
As how nyen o' them had getten ower much drink,
As Torney Tinley wanted the justice to think.

Now the crowner being ended, t'other side did begin,
And Tinley he vapour'd, and they swore thick and thin;
But aw'll say ne mair, lest you should be bor'd,
But merely relate, that Jack Tinley was floor'd.

And the justices said, 'twas a shem the directors
Should set twe sic blackguards on the line for inspectors,
And, addressing them byeth, said unto the men,
Yer byeth fined--Allan five pounds, and you, Newton, ten.

Noo, when aw seed the way the thing went,
Thinks aw, the directors are surely content,
And will myek the cheps 'mends, from the way they've been tret,
But the warst of my story it is to come yet.

Ne suiner was't knawn what the verdict was,
Than the railway attorney, he out with the brass,
And, flinging it doon, said, "Much good may it do yee!
Gie me a resait, and set wor pollismen free."

Noo sic wark as this, it is varry shocken,
Folks canna gan te Shields without hevin their hedes brocken,
And aw've myed up ma mind, if aw's not in a hurry,
Te gan in Mitchell's fine boats, or Johnson's fam'd whurry.

_Folly Wharf, Nov. 35, 1839._

BLIND WILLIE'S DEATH.[48]

Tune--"Jemmy Joneson's Whurry."

As aw was gannin' up the Side,
Aw met wi' drucken Bella;
She wrung her hands, and sair she cried,
He's gyen at last, poor fellow!
O, hinny Bella! whe is't that's gyen?
Ye gar my blood run chilly.
Wey, hinny, deeth has stopt the breath
O' canny awd Blind Willie.