Chapter IX: Part 9

God keep us, Bella, is that true!
Ye shurely are mistaken?
O, no! aw've left him just a-now,
And he's as deed as bacon.
Aw tied his chaffs, and laid him out--
His flesh just like a jelly--
And sair, sair aw was put about
For canny awd Blind Willie.

Then off went aw as fast as owt,
Ti see poor Willie lyin';--
When aw gat there, maw heart was sair,
Ti see his friends a' sighin'.
Around his bed they hung their heeds,
Just like the droopin' lily;
And aw, with them, did dee the syem
For canny awd Blind Willie.

Ne mair, said aw, we'll hear him sing,
Ne mair he'll play the fiddle;
Ne mair we'll hear him praise the king--
No! No! cried Jimmy Liddle.
The days are past--he's gyen, at last,
Beside his frind, Sir Billy,
That parish chiel', that preach'd se weel--
We'll mourn for him and Willie.

His bonny corpse crowds cam to see,
Which myed the room luik dowly;
And whe was there amang them, tee,
But noisy Yella Yowley;
She through the crowd did crush her way--
Wi' drink she seem'd quite silly--
And on her knees began to pray
For canny awd Blind Willie.

They tell'd us a' to gang away,
Which myed us varry sorry;
But Beagle Bet wad kiss his lips,
Before they did him bury.
He's buried now--he's out o' seet--
Then on his grave se hilly,
Let them that feel take their fareweel
O' canny awd Blind Willie.

Footnote 48: Died July 20, 1832.

GEORDY'S DISASTER.

Sum time since a ship that was tyken in coal,
At a place at North Shields they ca' Peggy's Hole,
And the keels a' the neet wad lie alangside,
To be ready next morn to gan up wi' the tide.
Fal, lal, &c.

Noo yen o' the skippers had sie fish-huiks o' claws,
That deil a bit rope cud be kept frae his paws;
For as sune as the men were a' gyen to sleep,
Then on board o' the ship wor Geordy wad creep.
Fal, lal, &c.

And devil a thing could be left on the deck,
But Geordy, as sure as a gun, wad it neck,
And into the huddock wad stow it away,
And gan off to the rope-shop, and sell it next day.
Fal, lal, &c.

Noo the mate o' the ship was determin'd to watch,
To see if he cuddent the thievish rogue catch,--
So to hev a bit fun, an' to give him a freet,
He swore he wad sit up the whole o' that neet.
Fal, lal, &c.

So he gat a lang gun, and for to begin,
A greet clot o' blud and sum poother pat in;
Noo he dident wait lang, for sune ower the bows
I' the muinleet he saw him creep up like a moose.
Fal, lal, &c.

He click'd up a bucket, and was gawn wiv his prize,
When the mate he let flee reet between his twe eyes.
When the skipper found blud all over his fyece,
"Aw's deed!" out he roars, and dropp'd down in the place.
Fal, lal, &c.

Noo the Pee-dee he heard the crack o' the gun,
So he speal'd up the side, and tiv Geordy he run:
"Oh, Geordy! Oh Geordy! just haud up thy heed,
An' tell us, maw hinny, if thou hez gyen deed!"
Fal, lal, &c.

The skipper he groan'd, and kick'd up his heels,
"Gude bye, canny Pee-dee! Gude bye tiv maw keels!
Aw'll never see Mally nor bairns ony mair,
For if aw's not deed, aw's speechless, aw'll swear!"
Fal, lal, &c.

Wiv a greet deal to de they gat him to rise;
But when he gat up, what was his surprise,
When he sought for the hole where the bullet had gyen,
But sought it in vain, for he cuddent find yen.
Fal, lal, &c.

"By gock!" out he roars, "aw ken how it's been--
Sic a comical trick, aw's sure, never was seen;
Faix, bad as it is, it might hev been warse,
It's come in at maw gob, and gyen out at----."
Fal, lal, &c.

JOSSY'S NAG'S HEAD.

Tune--"A rampant Lion is my Sign."

All you who've got an hour to spare,
And wish to spend it merry,
Go not to houses of ill-fame,
Nor sport with Tom and Jerry:
Direct your course to Armfield's house,
Where none the least alarm feels,
Where mirth and fun reign uncontroll'd,
All in Josiah Armfield's.

CHORUS.

Then drink about and merry be,
Let each one fill his station,
And ne'er despise a flowing pot,
When bent on recreation.

In winter, when the weather's cold,
The pinching frost may starve you,
You'll find a fire to your desire,
A buxom lass to serve you:
Her smiles are like the flowers in May,
Her conversation charms weel:
Far be the fellow takes her in,
While selling drink at Armfield's.
Then drink about, &c.

Now should you know the art of war,
The news may lead your mind there;
Or if inclin'd to grace the bar,
Some of your cloth you'll find there:
Mock trials, hot debates go on,
Yet seldom any harm feel,
The counsellors plead your cause for nought,
Law's cheap at Jossy Armfield's.
Then drink about, &c.

Next in the tap-room take a peep,
There's eggs and pie-folk dealing;
Some try their luck at single toss,
And other some are stealing:
The bakky smoke ascends in clouds,
Yet none will say he harm feels;
You'd swear you were near Etna's Mount,
Instead of Jossy Armfield's.
Then drink about, &c.

The sailors sing their dangers o'er,
When sailing on the high seas;
Says Donald frae Fife, "I've left the North,
Where Parry wad lost his ideas."
"Come, d--n!" says Durham lad, "leet my pipe,
And give us nyen o' your yarn reels;
But pay the quart--Ise be the next,
We'll hev a spree at Armfield's."
Then drink about, &c.

There's Baggie Will, he sings all fours;
And faith he sings it rarely;
There's Castle Dean plagues Canny Pit Sark,
And sings, he's lost her fairly;
The Teazer he provokes the flame,
Till a' the house quite warm feels:
The Cobbler chaunts the Cuddy sang,
Half-cock'd, in Jossy Armfield's.
Then drink about, &c.

Box number one's a Tennis Court,
For those of fistic valour;
And should you want to grace the ring,
Must enter as a scholar.
The Hackney drivers stand about,
Until their dowps they warm feel;
Then drink their purl, and march away--
Huzza! for Jossy Armfield.
Then drink about, &c.

THE APRIL GOWK;

Or, THE LOVERS ALARMED.

A CASTLE-GARTH DITTY.

Tune--"Jenny choak'd the Bairn."

Ye worthy friends of April Gowk,
That like a bit o' spree,
Pray lay your jargon a' aside,
And listen unto me;
For love's intrigues disturb the wigs
Of most o' men on earth;
And so, of late, it caught the pate
Of pious Parson Garth.

This worthy man went soon to bed,
Upon the last o' March,
And what his mind was running on,
'Tis needless now to search;
His rib asleep, down stairs he'd creep--
When lo! to his surprise,
A pair of boots, below the seat,
Stood right before his eyes.

He went to rouse his darling spouse,
And said, "You plainly see
There's some one here that wants to make
An April Gowk o' me.
Oh! dress yoursel', do take the bell,
Your petticoat put on:
They're now in quod--I hope to God
It's not my brother John."

He took a stick, and follow'd quick
Unto the lasses' room:
Come out! says she; Come out! says he,
The Kitty is your doom!
While on the bell she did play knell,
Poor Johnny, pale, came forth,
All in dismay, like potters' clay,
Stood pious Parson Garth!

A Chamber Council there was held,
All in this naked plight;
The dire alarm had brought a swarm
O' guardians o' the night:
In vain they strove to gain his love,
His wrath for to appease,
He swore he'd have their boxes search'd,
And cried--Produce the keys!

They nothing found that he could own--
His heart more callous grew,
He tore their caps, destroy'd their hats--
Them on the floor he threw:
Like pilgrims setting out, unshod,
To prison they were sent,
To dread their penance, like the sweep,
Until they should repent.

To free the girls from guilt and shame,
And have the matter clear'd,
Those sweetly serenading "Two-
Foot Carpenters"[49] appear'd.
Tho' Willy cannot get his boots,
For them he does not care--
They won the day!--"none but the brave
Deserve to win the fair."

Should you not know this worthy man--
A man of steady gait,
A pensive look affects as tho'
He'd something in his pate:
Ambition and presumption too
In him have taken birth,
And fix'd a stigma on his name--
"The Hydra of the Garth!"

Footnote 49: Cloggers.

THE SKIPPER'S MISTAKE.

Tune--"The Chapter of Accidents."

Two jovial souls, two skippers bold,
For Shields did sail one morning,
In their awd keel, black as the Deil,
All fear and danger scorning.
The sky look'd bright, which prophesied
A fair and glorious day, man;
But such a thick Scotch mist cam on,
They could not see their way, man.
Fal, lal, &c.

They pull'd about, frae reet to left,
Not kennin what to dee, man,
When poor Pee-dee began to fret,
Lest they should drive to sea, man.
Says Geordy, Should wor voyage be lang,
We've little for our guts, man;
There's nowt belaw but half a loaf,
Some tripe, and a nowt's foot, man.
Fal, lal, &c.

They drove as far as Jarrow Slake,
When Geordy bawl'd aloud, man
Smash! marrow, ye hae been at skuel,
Come find our latitude, man;
Gan down into the huddock, Jack,
Fetch up the Reading-Easy--
If we should be far off at sea,
I doubt it winna please ye.
Fal, lal, &c.

They studied hard, byeth lang and sair,
Though nyen o' them could read, man,
When Geordy on a sudden cries,
Aw hev 'er in my heed, man.
Come, let us pray to be kept free
Frae danger and mischance, man;
We're ower the bar!--there's nowt for us
But Holland, Spain, or France, man!
Fal, lal, &c.

At length the day began to clear,
The sun peep'd through the dew, man,
When lo! awd-fashion'd Jarrow Kirk
Stood fair within their view, man.
They laugh'd and crack'd about the joke
Which lately gar'd them quake, man:
They lay, instead of Spain or France,
Quite snug at Jarrow Slake, man.
Fal, lal, &c.

May wealth and commerce still increase,
And bless our native isle, man,
And make each thriving family
In happiness to smile, man.
May vict'ry round Britannia's brow
Her laurels still entwine, man,
The coal-trade flourish more and more
Upon the dingy Tyne, man.
Fal, lal, &c.

NEWCASTLE BEER versus SPAW WATER;

_Or, The Pitman and Temperance Society_.

BY R. EMERY.

Tune--"Mr. Frost."

As Cousin Jack and I, last pay-day, cam to toon,
We gat to ROBIN HOOD'S, wor worldly cares to droon--
And there we spent the day--their yell's byeth cheap and strang--
It's reet to soak yen's clay--hang them that thinks it wrang.
Romti bomti bom, &c.

In stagg'rin' hyem at neet, an' bent upon a spree,
A broad-brim'd chep cam up, and seem'd to talk quite free;--
He said, to drink small beer or brandy was a curse,
It stole away wor brains, an' drain'd each poor man's purse.
Romti bomti bom, &c.

He talk'd 'bout TEMP'RANCE CLUBS, that now are a' the go,
And said, if we wad join, we'd ne'er ken want or woe.
We quickly gav consent, wor Friend then led the way,
Reet up to Wilkie's went, amang his cronies gay.
Romti bomti bom, &c.

There some wer fair and fat, some nowt but skin and byen,
And at a tyebble sat a man near twenty styen--
He roar'd out for some drink, which very suen was browt,
And said, My lads, fall tee, and fill yor bags for nowt.
Romti bomti bom, &c.

Aw tried, but smash a drop wad down me weasen gan,
But Broad-brim said, quite slee, Come, drink, friend, if thou can
'Twill purge the body clean, and make ye wond'rous wise,
And, efter ye are deed, ye'll mount abuen the skies.
Romti bomti, &c.

Suen efter this grand speech aw quietly toddled hyem,
And cramm'd some o' their drink into wor canny dyem;
But scarcely had she drunk this liquor so divine,
Till she began to bowk, and sair her jaws did twine.
Romti bomti, &c.

A Doctor suen was brought frae canny Benwell toon,
While Peggy, maw poor lass, was work'd byeth up an' doon;
He fund, when he did tyest, this queer, mischievous stuff,
To be Spaw Water pure, so Peg was safe eneugh.
Romti bomti bom, &c.

When aw gan back to toon, aw'll tell them what aw think--
Aw'll warn wor neighbours round 'gyen their outlandish drink:
Let Quakers gan to Heav'n, an' fill their kites wi' Spaw,
Give me Newcassel Beer, content aw'll stay belaw.
Romti bomti bom, &c.

THE PITMAN'S PAY;

_Or, A Night's Discharge to Care_.

I sing not here of warriors bold--
Of battles lost or victories won--
Of cities sack'd, or nations sold,
Or any deeds by tyrants done.

I sing the Pitman's plagues and cares--
Their labour hard and lowly cot--
Their homely joys and humble fares--
Their _pay-night_ o'er a foaming pot.

Their week's work done, the coaly craft--
These horny-handed sons of toil
Require a "right gude willie-waught,"
The creaking wheels of life to oil.

See _hewers_, _putters_, _drivers_ too,
With pleasure hail this happy day--
All clean _wash'd up_, their way pursue
To drink, and crack, and get their _pay_.

The _Buck_, the _Black Horse_, and the _Keys_,
Have witness'd many a comic scene,
Where's yell to cheer and mirth to please,
And drollery that would cure the spleen.

With parched tongues and gyzen'd throats
They reach the place, where barleycorn
Soon down the dusty cavern floats,
From pewter-pot or homely horn.

The dust wash'd down, then comes the care
To find that all is rightly bill'd;
And each to get his hard-earn'd share
From some one in division skill'd.

The money-matters thus decided,
They push the pot more briskly round;
With hearts elate and hobbies strided,
Their cares are all in nappie drown'd.

"Here, lass," says Jack, "help this agyen,
It's better yell than's in the toun;
But then the road's se het it's tyen,
It fizz'd, aw think, as it went doun."

Thus many a foaming pot's requir'd
To quench the dry and dusky spark;
When ev'ry tongue, as if inspir'd,
Wags on about their wives and wark.

The famous feats done in their youth,
At _bowling_, _ball_, and _clubby-shaw_--
_Camp-meetings_, _Ranters_, _Gospel-truth_,
_Religion_, _politics_, and _law_.

With such variety of matter,
Opinions, too, as various quite,
We need not wonder at the clatter,
When ev'ry tongue wags--wrong or right.

The gifted few in lungs and lair
At length, insensibly, divide 'em:
And from a three-legg'd stool or chare
Each draws his favour'd few beside him.

Now let us ev'ry face survey,
Which seems as big with grave debate,
As if each word they had to say
Was pregnant with impending fate.

Mark those in that secluded place
Set snug around the stool of oak,
Labouring at some knotty case,
Envelop'd in tobacco smoke.

These are the pious, faithful few,
Who pierce the dark decrees of fate--
They've read the "Pilgrim's Progress" through,
As well as "Boston's Four-fold state."

They'll point you out the day and hour
When they experienc'd sin forgiven--
Convince you that they're quite secure,
They'll die in peace, and go to heaven.

The moral road's too far about,
They like a surer, shorter _cut_,
Which frees the _end_ from every doubt,
And saves them many a weary foot.

The _first's_ commensurate with our years,
And must be travell'd day by day;
And to the new-born few appears
A very dull and tedious way.

The _other's_ length solely depends
Upon the time when we begin _it_;
Get but set out--before life ends--
For all's set _right_ when once we're _in_ it.

They're now debating which is best--
The _short-cut_ votes the _others_ double;
For this good reason, 'mongst the rest,
_It_ really saves a world of trouble.

He that from goodness farthest strays,
Becomes a saint of first degree;
And Ranter Jeremiah says,
"Let bad ones _only_ come to me."

Old _Earth-worm_ soon obeys the call,
Conscious, perhaps, he wanted mending,
For some few flaws from Adam's fall,
Gloss'd o'er by cant and sheer pretending.

Still stick to him afield or home,
The methodistic _brush_ defying,
So that the Ranter's _curry-comb_
Is now the only means worth trying.

In habits form'd since sixty years,
The hopes of change won't weigh a feather--
Their power so o'er him domineers,
That they and life must end together.

See on their right a gambling few,
Whose every word and look display
A desperate, dark, designing crew,
Intent upon each others' _pay_.

They're _racers, cockers, carders_ keen,
As ever o'er a tankard met,
Or ever bowl'd a match between
The _Popplin Well_ and _Mawvin's yett_.

On _cock-fight_, _dog-fight_, _cuddy-race_,
Or _pitch_ and _toss_, _trippet_ and _coit_,
Or on a _soap-tail'd grunter's chase_,
They'll risk the last remaining doit.

They're now at cards, and Gibby Gripe
Is peeping into Harry's hand;
And ev'ry puff blown from his pipe
His party easily understand.

Some for the odd trick pushing hard--'
Some that they lose it pale with fear--
Some betting on the turn-up card--
Some drawing cuts for pints of beer.

Whilst others brawl about _Jack's_ brock,
That all the Chowden dogs can bang;
Or praise "_Lang Wilson's_" piley cock,
Or _Dixon's_ feats upon the swang.

Here _Tom_, the pink of bowlers, gain'd
Himself a never-dying name,
By deeds, wherein an ardour reign'd,
Which neither _age_ nor _toil_ could tame.

For labour done, and o'er his dose,
Tom took his place upon the hill;
And at the very evening's close
You faintly saw him bowling still.

All this display of pith and zeal
Was so completely habit grown,
That many an hour from sleep he'd steal
To bowl upon the hill alone.

The night wears late--the wives drop in
To take a peep at what is doing;
For many would not care a pin
To lose at cards a fortnight's hewing.

Poor Will had just his plagues dismiss'd,
And had "Begone, dull Care" begun,
With _face_ as grave as Methodist,
And _voice_ most sadly out of tune;

But soon as e'er he Nelly saw,
With brows a dreadful storm portending,
He dropt at once his under jaw,
As if his mortal race was ending;--

For had the grim destroyer stood,
In all his ghastliness before him,
It could not more have froze his blood,
Nor thrown a deadlier paleness o'er him.

His better half, all fire and tow,
Call'd him a slush--his comrades raff--
Swore that he could a brewing stow,
And after that sipe all the draff.

Will gather'd up his scatter'd powers--
Drew up his fallen chops again--
Seiz'd Nell, and push'd her out of doors,
Then broke forth in this piteous strain:--

"O! Nell, thou's rung me mony a peal,
Nyen, but mysel, could bide thy yammer;
Thy tongue runs like wor pully-wheel,
And dirls my lug like wor smith's hammer.

Thou'll drive me daft, aw often dread,
For now aw's nobbet verra silly,
Just like a geuss cut i' the head,
Like _Jemmy Muin_ or _Preacher Willy_.

Aw thought wor Nell, when Nelly Dale,
The verra thing to myek me happy;
She curl'd ma hair, or tied ma tail,
And clapt and stroakt ma little Cappy.

But suin as e'er the knot was tied,
And we were yok'd for life together;
When Nell had laugh'd, and minny cried,
And a' was fairly i' the tether;--

Then fierce as fire she seiz'd the breeks,
And round maw heed flew stuils and chairs;
Ma tail hung lowse like candle weeks,--
An awd pit ended Cappy's cares.

Just like wor maisters when we're bun',
If men and lads be varra scant,
They wheedle us wi' yell and fun,
And coax us into what they want.

But myek yor mark, then snuffs and sneers
Suin slop yor gob and lay yor braggin';
When yence yor feet are i' the geers,
Ma soul! they'll keep your painches waggin.

Aw toil ma byens, till through ma clay
They peep, to please ma dowly cavel;
Aw's at the coal wall a' the day,
And nightly i' the waiter level--

Aw hammer on till efternuin,
Wi' weary byens and empty wyem;
Nay, varra oft the pit's just duin
Before aw weel get wannel'd hyem.

But this is a' of little use,
For what aw dee is never reet;
She's like a larm-bell i' the house,
Ding-donging at me day and neet.

If aw sud get ma wark owre suin,
She's flaid to deeth aw've left some byet;
And if aw's till the efternuin,
Aw's drunk because aw is se lyet.

Feed us and cleed us weel she may,
As she gets a'ways money plenty:
For every day, for mony a pay,
Aw've hew'd and putten twee-and-twenty.

'Tis true aw sometimes get a gill--
But then she a'ways gets her grog;
And if aw din't her bottle fill,
Aw's then a skin-flint, snock-drawn dog.

She buys me, te, the warst o' meat,
Bad bullock's liver--houghs and knees
Tough stinking tripe, and awd cow's feet--
Shanks full o' mawks, and half nought cheese.

Of sic she feeds the bairns and me,
The tyesty bits she tyeks hersel';
In whilk ne share nor lot have we,
Excepting sometimes i' the smell.

The crowdy is wor daily dish,
But varra different is their minny's;
For she gets a' her heart can wish
In strang lyac'd tea and singin' hinnies.

Ma canny bairns luik pale and wan,
Their bits and brats are varra scant;
Their mother's feasts rob them o' scran--
For wilfu' waste makes woefu' want.

She peels the taties wi' her teeth,
And spreads the butter wi' her thoom;
She blaws the kail wi' stinking breeth,
Where mawks and caterpillars soom!

She's just a gannin' heap o' muck,
Where _durts_ of a' description muster;
For _dishclout_ serves her _apron nuik_
As weel as _snotter clout_ and _duster_!

She lays out punds in _manadge_ things,
Like mony a thriftless, thoughtless bein';
Yet bairns and me, as if we'd wings,
Are a' in rags an' tatters fleein'.

Just mark wor _dress_--a _lapless coat_,
With byeth the _elbows_ sticking through--
A _hat_ that never cost a _groat_--
A _neckless shirt_--a _clog_ and _shoe_.

She chalks up _scores_ at a' the shops
Wherever we've a twelvemonth staid;
And when we flit, the landlord stops
Ma _sticks_ till a' the rent be paid.

Aw's ca'd a hen-pick'd, pluckless calf,
For letting her the breeches wear;
And tell'd aw dinna thresh her half--
Wi' mony a bitter jibe and jeer.

'Aw think,' says Dick, 'aw wad her towen,
And verra suin her courage cuil:
Aw'd dook her in wor engine powen,
Then clap her on Repentance stuil.

If that should not her tantrums check,
Aw'd _peel_ her to the varra _sark_:
Then 'noint her wi' a _twig o' yeck_,
And efter make her _eat_ the bark.'

Enough like this aw've heard thro' life;
For every body has a plan
To guide a rackle ram-stam wife,
Except the poor tormented man."

Will could not now his feelings stay--
The tear roll'd down his care-worn cheek:
He thrimmell'd out what he'd to pay,
And sobbing said, "my heart will break!"

Here Nanny, modest, mild, and shy,
Took Neddy gently by the sleeve;
"Aw just luik'd in as aw went by--
Is it not, thinks te, time to leave?"

"Now, Nan, what myeks th' fash me here,
Gan hyem and get the bairns to bed;
Thou knaws thou promis'd me ma beer
The verra neet before we wed."

"Hout, hinny, had th' blabbin jaw,
Thou's full o' nought but fun and lees;
At sic a _kittle time_, ye knaw,
Yen tells ye ony thing to please.

Besides, thou's had enough o' drink,
And mair wad ony myek th' bad;
Aw see thy een begin to blink--
Gan wi' me, like a canny lad."

"O, Nan! thou hez a witching way
O' myekin' me de what thou will;
Thou needs but speak, and aw obey,
Yet there's ne doubt aw's maister still.

But tyest the yell and stop a bit--
Here tyek a seat upon ma knee--
For 'mang the hewers in wor pit
There's nyen hez sic a wife as me.

For if ma top comes badly down,
Or ought else keeps me lang away,
She cheers me wi' the weel-knawn soun'--
'Thou's had a lang and weary day.'

If aw be naggy, Nanny's smile
Suin myeks me blithe as ony lark;
And fit to loup a yett or stile--
Ma varra byens forget to wark.

Ma Nan--ma bairns--ma happy hyem--
Set ower hard labour's bitter pill--
O Providence! but spare me them--
The warld may then wag as it will.

She waits upon me hand and foot--
Aw want for nought that she can gie me--
She fills ma pipe wi patten cut--
Leets it, and hands it kindly to me.

She tells me a' her bits o' news,
Pick'd up the time aw've been away;
And fra ma mouth the cuttie pous
When sleep o'ercomes ma weary clay.

Sae weel she ettles what aw get--
Sae far she a'ways gars it gan--
That nyen can say we are i' debt,
Or want for owther claes or scran.

Then drink about, whe minds a jot--
Let's drown wor cares i' barleycorn--
Here, lass, come bring another pot,
The _cawler_ dissent _call_ to morn."

"Nay, hinny Ned, ne langer stay--
We mun be hyem to little Neddy--
He's just a twel'munth awd to-day,
And will be crying for his deddy.

Aw'll tyek thee hyem a pot o' beer,
A nice clean pipe and backy te--
Thou knaws aw like to hae thee near--
Come, hinny, come, gan hyem wi' me."

Like music's soft and soothing powers
These honey'd sounds drop on his ear:
Or like the warm and fertile showers
That leave the face of nature dear.

Here was the power of woman shown,
When women use it properly--
He threw his pipe and reck'ning down--
"Aw will--aw will gan hyem wi' thee."

At home arriv'd, right cheerfully
She set him in his easy chair--
Clapt little Neddy on his knee,
And bid him see his image there.

The mother pleas'd--the father glad,
Swore Neddy had twee bonny een--
"There ne'er was, Ned, a finer lad;
And, then, he's like thee as a bean.

Aw've luck'd for _Wilson_ a' this day,
To cut th' pig down 'fore it's dark;
But he'll be guzzling at the pay,
And winden on about his wark.

What lengths aw've often heard him gan,
Sweering--and he's not fond of fibbin
'He'll turn his back on ne'er a man
For owther killin pigs or libbin.'

Still _Jack's_ an honest, canty cock,
As ever drain'd the juice of barley;
Aw've knawn him sit myest roun' the clock
Swatt'ling and clatt'ring on wi' _Charley_.

Now, Deddy, let me ease yor arm;
Gi'e me the bairn, lay down yor pipe,
And get the supper when it's warm--
It's just a bit o' gissy's tripe.

Then come to me, ma little lammy--
Come, thou apple o' ma e'e--
Come, ma Neddy, t' the mammy--
Come, ma darlin'--come to me!"

Here, see a woman truly blest
Beyond the reach of pomp and pride;
Her _infant_ happy at her breast--
Her _husband_ happy by her side.

Then take a lesson, pamper'd wealth,
And learn how little it requires
To make us happy when we've health--
Content--and moderate desires.

"Tha father, Ned, is far frae weel,
He lucks, poor body, varra bad;
A' ower he hez a cawdrife feel,
But thinks it but a waff o' cawd.

Aw've just been ower wi' something warm,
To try to ease the weary coff,
Which baffles byeth the _drugs_ and _charm_!
And threatens oft to tyek him off.

He says, 'O Nan, ma life thou's spar'd--
The good it's duin me's past beleevin'--
The Lord will richly thee rewaird--
The care o' me will win thee heeven.'

Now as his bottle's nearly tuim,
Mind think me on, when at the town,
To get the drop black beer and rum,
As little else will now gan down.

We mebby may be awd worsel's,
When poverty's cawd blast is blawin';
And want a frien' when nature fyels,
And life her last few threeds is drawin'.

Besides, the bits o' good we dee
The verra happiest moments gie us;
And mun, aw think, still help a wee,
At last, frae awfu' skaith to free us.

Let cant and rant then rave at will
Agyen a' warks--aw here declare it--
We'll still the hungry belly fill,
Se lang as ever we can spare it."

Here, then, we'll leave this happy pair
Their "home affairs" to con and settle;
Their "ways and means" with frugal care,
For marketing next day to ettle.

THE NEWCASTLE BLUNDERBUSS!

Or, TRAVELLING EXTRAORDINARY.

BY R. EMERY.

Tune--"Calder Fair."

Ne mair o' grand inventions brag,
'Bout Steamers and Chain Brigs, man--
Newcassel's sel' still bears the bell,
An' bothers a' their wigs, man:
'Bout Gleediscowpies, silly things,
Ne langer make a fuss, man--
E'en silk Balloons mun bend their croons
To Reidie's Blunderbuss,[50] man.
Fal, de ral, &c.

As Geordy Fash and Dolly Raw
Cam stagg'rin up the Kee, man,
Wi' Teasdale's beer, an' sic like cheer,
They'd rather myed ow'r free, man--
Into this Blunderbuss they gat,
'Side two outlandish chiels, man,
But ere they'd time to leet their pipes,
They fand theirsels i' Shields, man!
Fal, de ral, &c.

Each day on wor Sandhill it stands--
If in tid ye should pop, man,
An' close yor winkers half an hour,
Clean ow'r the sea ye'll hop, man!
The Kee-side Jarvies now may run,
An' barbers' clerks se gay, man--
'Twad be a spree if, fra' wor Kee,
They'd cut to Bot'ny Bay, man!
Fal, de ral, &c.

This grand machine wor Tyne will clean,
An' make it's sand-banks flee, man,
Like Corby Craws ow'r Marsden Rock,
Into the German Sea, man!--
Wor canny Mayor ne pains will spare,
He'll back it out an' out, man,
Till ev'ry nuisance in wor toon
For Shields shall take the route, man.
Fal, de ral, &c.

Footnote 50: Omnibusses commenced running between Newcastle and Shields every hour, (from eight o'clock in the morning till eight at night,) Nov. 12, 1832.

A PITMAN'S VISIT TO NEWCASTLE ON VALENTINE'S DAY.

Tune--"Newcastle Fair."

Od smash! marra, where hast thou been,
Aw been luiken for ye a yel hour;
For to tell of a seet aw hae seen,
Sic a seet as aw ne'er saw before:
Aw straight to Newcassel did gan,
And gat in just as it struck ten;
Then through the streets aw quickly ran,
For to get heame suin agyen.
Rum ti idity, &c.

Just as aw was runnin amain!
Aw comes alangside of a shop,
Wi' papers clagg'd on every pane--
To see them aw thought aw wad stop.
But oh! sic reed flames an' sic darts!
And sae mony lovers together;
And sic bonny arrows and hearts--
Od zounds! they were painted quite clever.
Rum ti idity, &c.

Says aw, to a buck in the street,
(You may guess he was drest very fine,)
"What's that thing that's painted complete?"
Says he, "It is a Valentine."
Says aw, "Do ye knaw what they're for,
That they are painted sae smart?"
Then he humm'd and he haw'd like a boar,
And said, "To send to your sweetheart."
Rum ti idity, &c.

Then thinks aw to masell, aw'll hae yen,
To send to my awn dearest hinny:
Aw bowls into the shop like a styen,
When out pops a man very skinny:
Says he, "Sir, pray what do you want?"
Says aw, "Yen o' them things that's bonny;"
When in comes a chep that did cant,
And said, "Aw want one, my dear honey."
Rum ti idity, &c.

That the fellow was Irish I knew,
As suin as to speak he began,
He luik'd at Valentines not a few,
But could not find one to suit Nan:
Says he, "Mind, aw will hev the prattiest."
Says aw, "Ye must knaw that you shan't."
Did he think aw'd be content wi' the dirtiest?
Ma sang! aw did both swear and rant.
Rum ti idity, &c.

When he brought me a clout o' the lug,
He did it sae frisky and gaily,
Says he, "You must know, Mr. Mug,
That I'm a stout bit of shillelah."
Aw brought him another as tough,
It made a' his cheeks for to rattle;
Says he, "I have got quite enough:"
Sae thus we gave ower the brattle.
Rum ti idity, &c.

We went to a yell-house just nigh,
For to get a wee sup o' strang yell;
And then we came back, by and by,
And to luikin at Valentines fell.
And then got as great as could be,
And bought Valentines for to fit, man:
But aw say, without telling a lee,
He met wiv his match in a Pitman.
Rum ti idity, &c.

THE SKIPPER IN THE MIST.

Tune--"Derry down."

Some time since there cam on a very thick fog,
In Lunnin some folks were near lost in a bog;--
A bog, you will say, that's an Irish name--
They got knee deep in mud, and that's just all the same.
Derry down, &c.

Now, during the fog, sir, a Newcassel keel
Was sailing down Tyne to a ship lying at Shields,
The fog cam se thick, skipper off wig and roar'd--
"Aw mun lay by my swape--Geordy, lay by yor oar!
Derry down, &c.

Now, hinnies, my marrows! come tell's what to dee,
Aw's frighten'd wor keel will soon drive out to sea!"
So the men an' their skipper, each sat on his buttock,
An' a council they held, wi' their legs down the huddock.
Derry down, &c.

Says Geordy, "We canna be very far down,
With the wash o' my oar, aw hev just touch'd the grund;
Cheer up, my awd skipper, put on yor awd wig,
We're between the King's Meadows an' Newcassel Brig!"
Derry down, &c.

The skipper, enrag'd, then declar'd he kend better,
For at the same time he had smelt the salt water;
"And there's Marsden Rock, just within a styen thraw,
Aw can see't through the mist, aw'll swear by my reet paw.
Derry down, &c.

The anchor let's drop till the weather it clears,
For fear we be nabb'd by the French privateers!"
The anchor was dropt: when the weather clear'd up,
They soon moor'd their keel at the awd Javil Group.
Derry down, &c.

The skipper was vex'd, and he curs'd and he swore,
That his nose had ne'er led him se far wrang before!
But what most of all did surprise these four people
Was, Marsden Rock chang'd into Gateshead Church Steeple!
Derry down, &c.

THE MIRACULOUS WELL;

Or, NEWCASTLE SPAW WATER.[51]

BY R. EMERY.

Tune--"Rory O'More."

A fig for quack doctors, their pills and their stuff,
Our neighbours of them have been tir'd long enough;
E'en Dinsdale and Croft their pretensions withdraw,
And Harrowgate bends to our Newcassel Spaw:
The halt and the blind, and the grave and the gay,
To drink of the water, in crowds haste away;
And gouty old bachelors thither repair,
With Jews, Turks, and tailors, its virtues to share.

Hurrah for Newcassel!--Newcassel for me!
Where ale is so prime, and the lasses so free:
Your lumps, bumps, and rheumatics vanish like snaw,
By one mighty draught of this wonderful Spaw!

One day Cuddy Willy sat down by the spring,
And fiddled and sang till he made the Dean ring;
Then said to the crowd--My lads, as to the Spaw,
Good whisky improves it, aw verra weel knaw!--
But, if you'll be seated, you'll soon hear me sing
The magical cures that's performed by this spring:--
He cut an odd caper, and thus he began--
First drinking a quart from a rusty tin-can.
Hurrah for Newcassel! &c.

Awd Humpy-back'd Dick, and two or three mair,
Fra Shiney Raw pit to the Well did repair;
He drank of the Spaw, when the hump, in a crack,
Dissolv'd and soon vanish'd frae poor Dicky's back!
Lord bliss us! cried timber-toed tee-total Peg,
If it banishes humps, it might bring forth a leg!
She got to the Well, with the Spaw she made free,
And very soon after poor Peggy had three!!!
Hurrah for Newcassel! &c.

Pure sanctified Betty scarce knew what to think--
Hard might be her fate if she ventur'd to drink--
For most of the lasses that live in Lang Raw,
Have getten the dropsy by tasting the Spaw!
The doctors declare, that at forty weeks' end,
'Twill be in their arms, and the dropsy will mend;
The howdies are wishing the time was well o'er,
For surely such water was ne'er known before.
Hurrah for Newcassel! &c.

A bumper, cried Cuddy, and toasted the Queen,--
Which soon was responded by all on the green,--
May she have a son soon as big's Johnny Fa'--
(There's virtue in wishing while drinking the Spaw).
So now, my good lasses, gan hyem to your wark--
There's danger in wand'ring the Dean in the dark
'Mang trees and awd quarries--I'd have ye beware,
Remember poor Peggy was caught in the snare.
Hurrah for Newcassel! &c.

Footnote 51: Some years ago, a spring of water was observed to ooze from the bank at the foot of Sandyford Dean, to which some people attributed medicinal qualities; but it was not generally noticed till the spring of 1841, when its fame spread abroad, and drew the attention of multitudes of people to the spot, many of whom being afflicted with complaints of long standing, after drinking freely of this water, declared themselves cured; and some of the faculty proving its qualities by analyzation, gave it a more favourable report, which caused still greater numbers of invalids, &c. to visit the spring--some with casks and cans, others with jugs and bottles, anxiously waiting for a turn. Whether the benefits said to have been received from this water were real or imaginary, time, the test of all things, will assuredly prove.

THE SKIPPER'S FRIGHT.

Tune--"Skipper Carr and Marky Dunn."

As aw was gannen out yen neet,--
It happen'd in the dark, man,--
A chep cam up ga' me a freet,
'Twas little Skipper Clark, man:
His fyece was white as ony clout,
Says aw, what hae ye been about?
He gyep'd at me, and gav a shout,
O Dick, I've seen the Deil, man!

Awd Nick had twee great goggle eyes,
And horns upon his heed, man,
He had a gob,--aye, sic a size,
It flay'd me near to deed, man!
His eyes were like twee burning coals,
His mouth like one o' wor pit-holes,
His horns were like twee crooked poles,--
Aw'm sure it was the Deil, man!

Aw'd often heard wor preacher tell
That Awd Nick had twee club-feet,--
Thinks aw, aw'll ken the neet mysel',
Whether wor preacher's wrang or reet:
With that aw gav a luik about--
The club-feet was there without a doubt;
And just wi' that he gav a shout--
And aw'm sure it was the Deil, man.

Od smash! says aw, aw've often heard
About this mighty Deil, man,--
Shew me the place where he appear'd,
For aw'd like to see him weel, man?
Then Dick he tuik me to the place,
Where he had seen his awful fyece--
And still he swore it was the case,
That he had seen the Deil, man.

Alang wi' Dick aw hitch'd about
To see this mighty Deil, man,
When just with that Dick gav a shout--
Luik there! thou'll see him weel, man;
But when of him aw'd got a view,
Aw laugh'd till aw was black and blue,
For it was nought but a great black cow
That Dick tuik for the Deil, man.

J. N.

SANDGATE PANT;

Or, JANE JEMIESON'S GHOST.

BY R. EMERY.

Tune--"I'd be a Butterfly."

The bell of St. Ann's toll'd two in the morning,
As brave Skipper Johnson was gawn to the keel--
From the juice of the barley his poor brain was burning--
In search of relief he through Sandgate did reel;
The city was hush, save the keel-bullies' snoring--
The moon faintly gleam'd through the sable-clad sky--
When lo! a poor female her hard fate deploring,
Appear'd near the pant, and thus loudly did cry:--
Ripe Chenee oranges, four for a penny!
Cherry ripe cornberries--taste them and try!

O listen, ye hero of Sandgate and Stella,
Jin Jemieson kens that yor courage is trig,
Go tell Billy Elli to meet me, brave fellow--
Aw'll wait yor return on Newcassel Tyne Brig!--
Oh, marcy! cried Johnson, yor looks gar me shiver!
Maw canny lass, Jin, let me fetch him next tide;
The spectre then frown'd--and he vanish'd for ever,
While Sandgate did ring as she vengefully cried--
Fine Chenee oranges, four for a penny!
Cherry ripe cornberries--taste them and try!

She waits for her lover, each night at this station,
And calls her ripe fruit with a voice loud and clear;
The keel-bullies listen in great consternation--
Tho' snug in their huddocks, they tremble with fear!
She sports round the pant till the cock, in the morning,
Announces the day--then away she does fly
Till midnight's dread hour--thus each maiden's peace scorning,
They start from their couch as they hear her loud cry--
Fine Chenee oranges, four for a penny!
Cherry ripe cornberries--taste them and try!

THE BIRTH-DAY OF QUEEN VICTORIA:

A new Song, intended to be sung on board the Stewards' Barge on Ascension Day, May 24th, 1838.

THOMAS EMERSON HEADLAM, ESQ., MAYOR. JOHN CARR, ESQ., SHERIFF.

Hurrah for Old England, her Queen, and her laws!
Hurrah for all hearts that are true in the cause!
Hurrah for Newcastle! Hurrah for the Mayor!
Hurrah for the Tyne--its banks bustling and fair!
Hurrah for the Freemen, that rouse at each call!
Hurrah for the Stewards, the spirits of all!
Hurrah for the many bright days we have seen!
Hurrah for a bumper--good health to the Queen!

Our Port to keep famous, may Commerce prevail,
And many ships sail with a prosperous gale;
And while the wide stream from sweet Hedwin is roll'd,
May true Conservators each landmark uphold.
The Herbage Committee, with hearts light and gay,
Have leisure from toil to be merry to-day--
Each countenance beaming, in mind all serene,
To drink in a bumper--good health to the Queen.

While foes vainly threaten, and faction may rave,
Our Union Flag still in triumph shall wave;
And whether as few or as many we be,
Like true honest Freemen we still will be free.
The fam'd Corporation of our good old town,
Unsullied, still onward shall bear its renown;
In loyalty ever the foremost we've been,
To drink in a bumper--good health to the Queen.

Hurrah for Old England, her Queen, and her laws!
Hurrah for all hearts that are true in the cause!
Hurrah for Newcastle! Hurrah for the Mayor!
Hurrah for the Tyne--its banks bustling and fair!
Hurrah for the Freemen, that rouse at each call!
Hurrah for the Stewards, the Spirit of all!
Hurrah for the many bright days we have seen!
Hurrah for a bumper--long life to the Queen!
_God save the Queen!_

R. GILCHRIST.

DONOCHT-HEAD.[52]

BY THE LATE GEORGE PICKERING, OF NEWCASTLE.

Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-head,
The snaw drives snelly through the dale,
The Gaber-lunzie tirls my sneck,
And shivering tells his waefu' tale:--

"Cauld is the night, O let me in,
And dinna let your minstrel fa'!
And dinna let his winding-sheet
Be naething but a wreath o' snaw.

Full ninety winters hae I seen,
And pip'd where gor-cocks whirring flew,
And mony a day I've danc'd, I ween,
To lilts which from my drone I blew."

My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cried,
"Get up, gudeman, and let him in;
For weel ye ken the winter night
Was short when he began his din."

My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet,
Ev'n though she bans and scaulds a wee;
But when it's tuned to sorrow's tale,
O, haith it's doubly dear to me.

Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire,
I'll make it bleeze a bonny flame;
Your blood is thin, ye've tint the gait,
Ye should na stray sae far frae hame.

"Nae hame have I, the minstrel said,
Sad party strife o'erturn'd my ha';
And, weeping at the eve of life,
I wander through a wreath o' snaw."

Footnote 52: This song comes highly recommended to public notice by the warm commendation of the poet Burns, who, in a letter to his friend, Mr. Thompson, writes--"DONOCHT-HEAD is not mine--I would give ten pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald, and came to the editor of that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it." And Dr. Currie says, respecting this song, that "the author need not have been ashamed to own himself, as it is worthy of the pen of Burns or Macnell."

THE HERBAGE COMMITTEE[53],

(That is, The Jewel of a Committee).

BY R. GILCHRIST.

_Not composed over the midnight oil, but amid the noon-day broil of the Barge-day, May 8, 1834._

ADDRESSED TO THE CHAIRMAN.

While others of great deeds may dream,
Yet still commend to me, sir,
A subject rare, and prouder theme,
The Herbage Committee, sir:
This Committee a jewel was,
From truth that never swerv'd sir,
And gain'd much glory and applause,
And well they both deserv'd, sir.

The time has been when bread and cheese
Was wont to be their fare, sir,
What think ye now of turkeys, geese,
A partridge, or a hare, sir!
Well I remind their many joys,
And many happy days, sir,
For O they were the bonny boys
For getting up surveys, sir.

I have seen gallant Mister Woods,
And Mr Grainger, too, sir,
Approach us--though dress'd in our duds--
With an obsequeous bow, sir;
For MARTIN, MIEKLE, and MAGGALL,
CALBREATH, friend CHARLES, and me, sir,
WANLESS and ANGUS, GARRETT--all
Were in the Committee, sir!

Who then wad wish to be a Mayor,
Recorder, or Town Clerk, sir?
To serve in office, send me there,
To hear each sage remark, sir;
And O, indeed, I fear it much,
Their like there never will be, sir--
No, never, never more be such
An Herbage Committee, sir.

Footnote: 53 The Committee were--William Martin, William Miekle, William Maggall, James Calbreath, Charles Stephenson, the Author, William Wanless, William Angus, and William Garrett. Their activity and unanimity were proverbial.

THE BEAR CLUB.

Good dinners to our noble Queen,
And many may she see, sir,
And much I wish she could have seen
The Bear-club Committee, sir:
Her cooks, no doubt, with skill refin'd,
Have cater'd long with care, sir,
But much, I doubt, they ever din'd
Her Majesty of Bears, sir.

'Tis said the Kings of India
Can eat some pretty things, sir;
You need not go so far away
To see the _Indian Kings_, sir:
The landlord there can at his call
Serve up some pleasant fare, sir--
_Mac_ now has clean eclipsed them all,
And made us eat a Bear, sir.

Some talk about the Esquimaux,
And tell of Cherokees, sir,
Hottentots and Marathas,
And folks in the South Seas, sir;
'Tis said they sometimes cut a swell
In dishes odd and rare, sir,
But we from them will bear the bell,
For we have eat a Bear, sir.

All times have had their men of taste,
Each passing age adorning,
Who, rather than good stuff should waste,
Would eat from night till morning:
To us they must knock under now--
We've given them a scare, sir;
They all could eat a sheep or so,
But we can eat a Bear, sir.

Now as you chance to walk the street,
How every dog will run, sir,
Lest you should roast him for a treat,
And eat him up in fun, sir;
The Quayside horses, loaded well,
Will scamper off like hares, sir,
To see, not Bears all eating men,
But men all eating Bears, sir.

The next time, sir, you eat a Bear,
Grant this my supplication--
Invite to dine our canny Mayor,
And hungry Corporation;
In seeking for a friend like you,
They're looking lean and spare, sir,
So in compassion send them now
The fragments of the Bear, sir.

_R. Gilchrist._

THE LASS OF WINCOMBLEE.

Tune--"Nae Luck about the House."

Now all ye lilies hang your heeds,
Ye roses bloom nae mair,
Ye tulips all, put on your weeds,
All, posies may despair.
For not a lass on all Tyneside,
Frae Stella to the sea,
Can marrow Moll the evergreen
Of bonny Wincomblee.
For not a lass, &c.

Her een shine like a davy-lamp,
Or like a summer's day--
Her voice sae like the after-damp,
Near teuk my breath away
Her cherry cheeks like sugar sweet,
Or honey frae the bee;
But sweeter far than byeth o' these
Is Moll of Wincomblee.

Her feet are like twe bits ov cork,
When running iv a reel--
Tiv "Shiver the Rags" and "Off she goes,"
She can cut an' shuffle weel;
Like a lady fine, on Sunday neets
She'll tyek a walk wi' me,
Call at Scrogg House, round Byker fields,
And back by Walker Kee.

When Jinny Pit it has full wark,
We settled for te wed--
The fiddle sal play frae break o' day,
Till we get snug in bed;
Wi' backy and yell ye's hae your fill,
Singin hinnies to your tea--
Wiv a dance we'll finish the merriest neet
Ere was seen at Wincomblee.

Tho' time rolls on, and so it may,
As Tyne rolls to the sea,
Fresh as an evergreen is Moll
Of bonny Wincomblee.

ON THE DEATH OF BOLD ARCHY.

Bold Archy's dead! and long for him will poor Newcastle fret,
Her sun of glory has gone down, her brightest star is set:
From the _Blue Stone_ to _Cawsey Bridge_, from _Tynemouth Bar_ and
round by _Stella_,
Not one remains to fill the seat left vacant by this honest fellow.

The funeral flag hung drooping low as he was carried by,
And many gaz'd, and many a tear was wip'd from many an eye;
And all did then the truth record;--warm was the heart now still
and caller--
So lay him softly in the sod, fam'd man of might, and prince of valour!

Farewell! farewell! my local harp I'll bury with the brave,
And sadly plant my local wreath to flourish on his grave!
Both English and outlandish names must one day pass oblivion's portal,
But Archy's shall survive them all, and well deserves to be immortal.

R. GILCHRIST.

_May 9, 1828._

BLIND WILLIE'S EPITAPH.

Newcastle's now a dowly place--all things seem sore aclite,
For here at last Blind Willie lies, an honest, harmless wight;
Nor wealth nor power now look with scorn on this lone spot of
one departed,
For fashion's gay and glaring sun ne'er beam'd on one more
happy hearted.

He was the poorest of the poor, yet ne'er complain'd of want,
He neither carried purse nor scrip, and yet was never scant;
Storms thunder'd o'er his hatless head, yet he ne'er once their
rage lamented,
His was the lot too few have known--to live content, and die contented.

The Bard who sung of Starkey's death, in tearful strains and true,
And planted on Bold Archy's grave the wreath ta'en from his brow;
His local reed in dust he lays--farewell!--there trill'd its
final shiver,--
It has been tun'd in Willie's praise, it now with him lies mute
for ever.

_R. Gilchrist._

ACROSTIC

_On the Death of a celebrated eccentric Character of Newcastle upon Tyne._

=B=lithe Minstrel of the banks of Tyne,
=L=o! o'er thy bier, for "auld langsyne,"
=I=n silent groups, each rolling year,
=N=orthumbria's sons will drop a tear!
=D=eath cut thee down--the tyrant scream'd,
=W=hen thy bright spirit o'er him beam'd!
=I=n vengeful mood he view'd his claim,
=L=ost in the triumph of thy name.--
=L=et Tyne's fam'd sons proclaim afar--
=Y=ou shall outlive the Morning Star!

R. E.

William Purvis, more generally known by the name of BLIND WILLY, died on Friday, the 20th July, 1832, aged 80 years.

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