The Salamanca Corpus: a collection of Songs (1827)


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The Salamanca Corpus: A Collection of Songs (1827)

Author: Anonymous

Text type: Verse

Date of composition: 1827

Editions: 1827, c1842

Source text:

Anonymous. 1827. A Collection of Songs, Comic, Satirical, and Descriptive, chiefly in the Newcastle Dialect, and Illustrative of the Language and Manners of the Common People on the Banks of the Tyne and Neighbourhood. New Castle upon Tyne: John Marshall.


Access and transcription: December 2013

Number of words: 52,437

Dialect represented: Northumberland

Produced by María F. García-Bermejo Giner

Copyright © 2013– DING, The Salamanca Corpus, Universidad de Salamanca





Comic, Satirical, and Descriptive,



And illustrative of the Language and Manners of the Common

People on the Banks of the Tyne and Neighbourhood.








In editing a more extended collection of local Songs, descriptive of the language and manners of the common People of Newcastle upon Tyne and the Neighbourhood, the Editor claims little merit beyond that of giving to what some will designate “airy nothings, a local habitation and a name.” One important consequence of the general diffusion of education, among the labouring classes has been to destroy, in great part, that marked difference of character which formerly existed between the higher and lower grades of civilized society; and nothing perhaps has contributed more to this purpose than the publication, from time to time, of those local Songs, so familiar in their phraseology to the comprehension and understanding of all classes, in which the peculiarities of each are forcibly depicted, and in some cases humourously caricatured.

Those who are best acquainted with, and have been most observant of, the language and manners of the common people of this part of the kingdom will, it is presumed, admit that their general character has fully kept pace with the means of improvement presented to them, and that they are, generally speaking, better informed and more intelligent than those of their own class in most other parts of the country.

Our Keelmen and Pitmen have generally been the common subjects of satire for our local Poets; but, in attempting to describe the character of these useful bodies of men, the Poets appear often to have claimed their privilege, and given, instead of faithful portraits, only rude caricatures;—delineations not characteristic of the Keelmen and Pitmen of the present day.

One thing worthy of notice is, that a very striking difference exists between our Keelmen and Pitmen, both in moral and physical character. The former, a hardy


race of men, pursue an employment congenial to their health and muscular strength, possess strong feelings of independence, and have shewn, on some important occasions, that they are not easily subdued; whilst, on the other hand, our Pitmen, who labour under ground, in an atmosphere generally contaminated with noxious vapours, seldom arrive at the common stature of men, and at an early period of life put on the appearance of age and decrepitude —Servile in their habits and manners, they possess little of that self-respect and feeling of independence which generally characterise the Keelmen, and too often become the dupes of illiterate, “penny- hunting hypocrites,” the apostles of the most degrading superstitions—the result of which must necessarily be, the deterioration of their moral character.

A few words on what is called the Newcastle Dialect must suffice. This being a border town, was, before the union of the two kingdoms, subject to continual incursions from the Scotch; and after the union great numbers of them settled here. The historians of the town tell us that most of our keelmen were originally from Scotland. This accounts for our dialect and accent being in great part Scottish. What is called the bur, or forcible guttural pronunciation of the letter r, k not, as has been commonly thought, peculiar to Newcastle; it is observable in several other places in Northumberland, in some parts of Scotland, and is quite the fashionable pronunciation in Paris, whence it is thought to have been originally derived. Some of our gentry who, in this respect, affect to ape the dialect of their more southern neighbours, drop the letter altogether in their pronunciation, and instead of gridrion will talk glibly of the gidion, oast beef, &c. The clear and forcible pronunciation of this letter has been ably pointed out as a peculiar beauty of our language, by the celebrated lecturer, Mr. Thelwall.

Newcastle, Dec 16, 1826.

The Contents

Weel may the Keel Row 5

Weel may the Keel row that gets the Bairns their Breed 97

New Keel Row, by Thomas Thompsom 5

Canny Newcassel Ditto 7

Jemmy Joneson’s Whurry Ditto 10

Newcastle Election Song Ditto 12

Bonny Keel Laddie 13

Maw Canny Hinny 14

Little Pee Dee 15

Amphitrite, by Robert Gilchrist 16

Jenny H owlet, or Lizzie Mudie’s Ghost, by Do. 17

The Collier’s Keek at the Nation, by Ditto 83

Blind Willie Singing, by Ditto 85

Bold Airchy and Blind Willie’s Lament on the

Death of Capt. Starkey, by Ditto 87

The Quack Doctors, by Ditto 88

A Voyage to Lunnin, by Ditto 90

Tommy Thompson, by Ditto 128

Farewell to the Tyne, by Ditto 129

Northumberland Free o’ Newcassel, by Ditto 130

Coaly Tyne 18

Tyne, (The) by John Gibson 20

Nanny of the Tyne 21

Bob Cranky’s Adieu, by John Shield 22

Bonny Gyetsiders, by Ditto 23

My Lord ‘Size, by Ditto 98

Barber’s News, or Shields in an Uproar, by Ditto 101

O no, my Love, no, by Ditto 105
Bob Cranky’s ‘Size Sunday, by John Selkirk 25

Bob Cranky’s ‘Leumnation Neet 28

Swalwell Hopping 30

Winlaton Hopping, by John Lennard 33

Skipper’s Wedding 35

Newcastle Fair 37

Quayside Shaver 39

Sandgate Girl’s Lamentation 41

Water of Tyne 42

Newastle Signs, by Cecil Pitt ib

Collier’s Rant 44

Pitman’s Revenge against Bonaparte 45

Pitman’s Courtship, by William Midford 47

Cappy, or the Pitman’s Dog Ditto 49

X Y Z at Newcastle Races Ditto 50

Eagle Steam Packet Ditto 53

Wonderful Gutter Ditto 54

Tyne Cossacks Ditto 56

Pitman’s Ramble, Ditto 58

Pitman’s Skellyscope Ditto 60

Loyal Militia Man Ditto 61

Masquerade at Newcastle Theatre, Ditto 63

New Fish Market Ditto 125

St. Crispin’s Procession Ditto 160

St. Crispin’s Volunteers, by Ditto l61

Kitty Port Admiral at the Bench, by Do. 141

Newcastle Races, by Wm. Watson 66

The Glister 68

The Baboon 69

Till the Tide comes in 70

Sandgate Lassie’s Lament 16

The Politicians, by T. R. Valentine 71

Billy Oliver’s Ramble 74

Bob Cranky’s Account of Sadler’s Balloon 75

Green’s Balloon 78

Newgate Street Petition to Mr. Mayor 80


Newcassel Props 93

Newcassel Wonders 95

Tim Tunbelly 96

Bonassus (The) 106

Shields’ Chain Bridge 108

Collier’ Pay Week, by Henry Robson 110

Tyne (The) by Do. 116

The Spring by Do. 117

Parson Malthus by Do 118

Peter Waggy by Do. 119

Bessy of Blyth by Do. 120

To Anna by Do. 121

Nancy Wilkinson by Do. 73

Lassie's Answer to Kelvin Grove by Do. ibid

To Mr Peter Watson 122

Fishwives’ Complaint, by R. Emery 124

Come up to the Scratch, by Do. 152

Pitman’s Dream, by Do. 154

Description of the Kitchen, by Do. 156

Hydrophobie, by Do. 158

Newcastle Wonders, or Hackney Coach Customers 149 New Year’s Carol for the Fishwives, by Mr. Ross 126 Jesmond Mill, by Phil. Hodgson 127

Duchess and Mayoress 131

Newcastle Assizes—Duchess v. Mayoress 183

The Coal Trade 135

Tom Carr and Waller Watson 137

Johnny Scott and Tommy Carr, a Dialogue 139

The Owl 142

Lovely Delia 144

Pandon Dean 145

Nanny of the Tyne 146

Newcastle Hackneys 147

Newcastle Hackney Coaches 148

Newcastle Improvements, by R. Charlton 151

Famed Filly Fair 163

Tinley’s best Blood—a North Shields Song 166

Newcastle Noodles, by James Morrison ibid

Burdon’s Address to his Cavalry, by Do. 83

Vicar’s Loyal Address 168

Newcastle Privy Court 170

Misfortunes of Roger and his Wife 172

Newcastle Theatre in an Uproar 173

Farewell, Archy 175

Sir Tommy made an Odd Fellow 177

Wreckington Hiring 178

On Russell the Pedestrian 181

Simpson the Pedestrian’s Failure 182

The Victory, or the Captain done over 183

The Alarm, or Lord Fauconberg’s March 185

Sunday Eve, or Lord Fauconberg’s Heel 187

The Half Drowned Skipper 195

Keelmen and the Grindstone, by Wm. Armstrong 165

Newcastle Worthies, by Ditto 196

Invitation to the Mansien-house Dinner in honour of the Coronation 198

Newcastle Swineherds’ Proclamation 199

The Golden Horns, or the General Invitation 201

Loyal Festivities, or Novel Scenes at Newcastle ibid

Picture of Newcastle 204

Newcastle in an Uproar 206

Coronation Day at Newcastle 209

Coronation Thursday 211

Attempt to Remove the Custom-House, in 1816 218

Quayside Ditty, for February, 1816 219

The Custom House Tree, &c. 221

The Custom House Branch 223

Bob Fudge’s Postscript 226

To the Independent Free Burgesses of Newcastle 227


AS I cam thro’ Sandgate, thro’ Sandgate, thro’ Sandgate,

As I cam thro’ Sandgate, I heard a lassie sing—

Weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row,

Weel may the keel row that my laddie’s in.

He wears a blue bonnet, blue bonnet, blue bonnet,

He wears a blue bonnet, a dimple in his chin:

And weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row,

And weel may the keel row that my laddie’s in.



WHE’s like my Johnny,

Sae leish, sae blithe, sae bonny!

He’s foremost ’mang the monny

Keel lads o’ Coaly Tyne;

He’ll set or row sae tightly,

Or in the dance, sae sprightly,

He’ll cut and shuffle sightly,

‘Tis true—were he not mine.



Weel may the keel row,

The keel row, the keel row,

Weel may the keel row

That my laddie’s in:

He wears a blue bonnet,

A bonnet, a bonnet,

He wears a blue bonnet,

A dimple in his chin.

He’s nae mair o’ learning,

Than tells his weekly earning,

Yet reet frae wrang discerning,

Tho’ brave, nae bruiser he;

Tho’ he no worth a plack is,

His awn coat on his back is,

And nane can say that black is

The white o’ Johnny’s e’e.

He takes his’quairt right dearly,

Each comin’ pay-day, nearly,

Then talks O, latin O,—cheerly,

Or mavies jaws away;

How caring not a feather,

Nelson and he together,

The springey French did lether,

And gar’d them shab away.

Were a’ kings comparely.

In each I’d spy a fairly,

An’ ay wad Johnny barly,

He gets sic bonny bairns:

Go bon! the queen, or misses,

But wad, for Johnny’s kisses,

Luik upon, as blisses,

Scrimp meals, caff beds, and dairns.


Wour lads, like their deddy,

To fight the French are ready;

But gie’s a peace that’s steady,

And breed cheap as lang syne;

May a’ the press-gang- parish,

Each lass her laddy charish:

Lang may the Coal Trade flourish

Upon the dingy Tyne.

Breet Star o’ Heaton,

You’re ay wor darling sweet-on’;

May heaven’s blessings leet on

Your lyedy, bairns, and ye!

God bless the King and Nation

Each bravely fill his station:

Our canny Corporation,

Lang may they sing, wi’ me,

Weel may the keel row, &c.

‘BOUT Lunnun aw’d heerd ay sec wonderful spokes,

That the streets were a’ cover’d wi’ guineas:

The houses sae fine, an’ sec grandees the folks,

Te them huz i’ th North were but ninnies.

But aw fand maw sel blonk’d when to Lunnun aw gat,

The folks they a’ luick’d wishy washy;

For gowld ye may howk till ye’re blind as a bat,

For their streets are like wors—brave and blashy!

‘Bout Lunnun then divent ye myek sic a rout,

There’s nowse there maw winkers to dazzle;

For a’ the fine things ye are gobbin about

We can marra iv Canny Newcassel.

A Cockney chep show’d me the Tyerns’ druvy fyace,

Whilk he said was the pride o’ the nation;

And thought at their shippin aw’d myek a haze-gaze;

But aw whop’d maw foot on his noration.


Wi’ huz, mun, three hundred ships sail iv a tide,

We think nowse on’t, aw’ll myek accydavy:

Ye’re a gowk if ye din’t knaw that the lads o’ Tyne-side

Are the Jacks that myek famish wor Navy.

‘Bout Lunnun, &c.

We went big St. Paul’s and Westminster to see,

And aw war’nt ye aw thought they luick’d pritty:

And then we’d a keek at the Monument te;

Whilk maw friend ca’d the Pearl o’ the City.

Wey hinny, says aw, we’ve a Shot Tower sae hee,

That biv it ye might scraffle to heaven;

And if on Saint Nicholas ye once cus an e’e,

Ye’d crack on’t as lang as ye’re livin.

‘Bout Lunnun, &c.

We trudg’d to St. James’s, for there the King lives,

Aw warn’d ye a good stare we tyuk on’t;

By my faicks! it’s been built up by Adam’s awn neeves,

For it’s aud as the hills, by the leuk on’t.

Shem bin ye! says aw, ye should keep the King douse,

Aw speak it without ony malice:

Aw own that wor Mayor rather wants a new house,

But then—wor Infirm’ry’s a palace.

‘Bout Lunnun, &c.
Ah hinnies! out com the King, while we were there,

His leuks seem’d to say, Bairns, be happy!

Sae down o’ my hunkers aw set up a blare,

For God to preserve him frae Nappy:

For Geordy aw’d dee—for my loyalty’s trig,

And aw own he’s a geud leuken mannie;

But if wor Sir Matthew ye buss iv his wig,

By gocks! he wad leuk just as canny.

‘Bout Lunnun, &c.
Ah hinnies! about us the lasses did lowp,

Thick as curns in a spice singin hinnie;

Some aud, and some hardly flig’d ower the dowp,

But aw kend what they were by their whinnie:


Ah! maniue, says aw, ye hev monny a tight girl,

But aw’m tell’d they’re oft het i’ their trappin!

Aw’d cuddle much rather a last i’ the Sworl,

Than the dolls i’ the Strand, or i’ Wappin

‘Bout Lunnnn, &c.

Wiv a’ the stravagin aw wanted a munch,

An’ maw thropple was ready to gizen;

So we went tiv a yell-house, and there tyuk a lunch,

But the reck’ning, me saul! was a bizon.

Wiv huz i’ the North, when aw’m wairsh i’ my way,

(But t’ knaw wor warm hearts ye yur sell come)

Aw lift the first latch, and baith man and dame say,

“Cruck your hough, canny man, for ye’re welcome.”

‘Bout Lunnun, &c.

A shilling aw thought at the Play-house aw’d ware,

But aw jump’d’ there wiv heuk finger’d people;

Me pockets gat rip’d, an’ aw heerd them ne mair

Nor I could fra Saint Nicholas’s steeple.

Dang Lunnun! wor Play-house aw like just as weel,

And wor play-folk aw’s sure sure as funny:

A shillin’s worth sarves me to laugh till aw squeel,

Nae hallion there thrimmels maw money.

‘Bout Lunnun, &c.

The loss o’ the cotterels aw dinna regaird,

For aw’ve getten some white-heft o’ Lunnun;

Aw’ve learn’d to prefer my awn canny calf-yaird;

If ye catch me mair fra’t ye’ll be cunnun.

Aw knaw that the Cockneys crack rum-gum-shus chimes,

To myek gam of wor bur and wor ‘parel;

But honest Blind Willey shall string this iv rhymes,

And we’ll sing’d for a Chrissenmas Carol.

‘Bout Lunnun, &c.


WHEI, Cavers, biv the chimlay reek,

Begox! It’s all a horney;

For thro’ the world aw wisht to keek,

Yen day when aw was corney:

Sae, wiv some varry canny chiels,

All on the hop, an’ murry,

Aw thowt aw’d myek a voyge to Shiels,

Iv Jemmy Joneson’s Whurry.

Ye niver see’d the Church sae scrudg’d,

As we wur there thegither;

An’ gentle, semple, throughways nudg’d,

Like burdies of a feather:

Blind Willie, a’ wor joys to croon.

Struck up a hey down derry;

An’ crouse we left wor canny toon,

Iv Jemmy Joneson’s Whurry.

As we push’d off, loak! a’ the Key

To me seem’d shuggy-shooin:

An’ tho’ aw’d niver been at sea,

Aw stuid her like a new-on’.

And when the Malls began their reels,

Aw kick’d maw heels reet murry;

For faix! aw lik’d the voyge to Shiels,

Iv Jemmy Joneson’s Whurry.

Quick went wor heels, quick went the oars

An’ where me eyes wur cassin,

It seem’d as if the bizzy shores

Cheer’d canny Tyne i’ passin.

What! hez Newcassel now nae end?

Thinks aw, it’s wondrous, vurry;

Aw thowt aw’d like me life to spend

Iv Jemmy Joneson’s Whurry.


Tyne-side seem’d clad wiv bonny ha’s,

An’ furnaces sae dunny;

Wey this mun be what Bible ca’s,

“The land ov milk and honey!”

If a’ thor things belang’d tiv I,

Aw’d myek the poor reet murry;

An’ cheer the folks i’ gannin by,

Iv Jemmy Joneson’s Whurry.

Then on we went, as nice as owse,

Till nenst au’d Lizzy Moody’s;

A whirlwind cam an’ myed a’ souse,

Like heaps o’ babby boodles.

The heykin myed me vurry wauf,

Me heed turn’d duzzy, vurry;

Me leuks, aw’m shure, wad spyen’d a cauf,

Iv Jemmy Joneson’s Whurry.

For hyem an’ bairns, an’ maw wife Nan,

Aw yool’d oot like a lubbart;

An’ when aw thowt we a’ shud gan

To Davy Jones’s cubbart,

The wind bee-baw’d—aw whish’d me squeels,

An’ yence mair a’ was murry;

For seun we gat a seet o’ Shiels,

Frev Jemmy Joneson’s Whurry.

Wor Geordies now we thrimmel’d oot,

An’ tread a’ Shiels sae dinny;

Maw faix! it seems a canny sprout,

As big maist as its minny;

Aw smack’d thir yell, aw climb’d thir bree,

The seet was wondrous, vurry;

Aw lowp’d sec gallant ships to see,

Biv Jemmy Joneson’s Whurry.

To Tynemouth then aw thowt aw’d trudge,

To see the folks a’ duckin;

Loak! men an’ wives togither pludg’d,

While hundreds stood by luikin.


Amang the rest aw cowp’d me creels,

Eh, gox! ’twas funny, vurry:

An’ so aw end me voyge to Shiels,

Iv Jemmy Joneson’s Whurry.


Sung by the author, at the Election Dinner, at the Turk’s Head Inn, Bigg-Market, on Saturday, Oct. 10, 1812.

WHEN joy wakes the Muse, though her accents are glowing,

Yet wildly and hurried they swell thro' the lay:

While ardour less warm might, in lines softly flowing,

Give voice to our feelings, and hail this proud day.

Hail, Ellison, Senator! what title greater

Could call forth thy energies, all thy mind’s force?

Be thou as a Star, which, responsive to Nature,

Both chears and illumines our path in its course.

When won by thy eloquence, warm’d to emotion,

The Citizens cheer’d thee with plaudits of zeal;

Each greeting voice swore thee an oath of devotion,

Thy talents, thy life, to the national weal.

While Wellington, leading the soldiers of Britain,

Eclipses the glories of Greece and of Rome,

Old England might smile’ midst the dangers that threaten,

Did nought vex or bias our Councils at home.

A tool to no party, a slave to no passion.

No wishes but those which from loyalty spring;

Unmov’d by the breeze of political fashion,

His meed the applause of his Country and King,

Thus Statesmen should be, and our country would flourish,

Still prouder would stand on the records of Fame—

Nor shadows one doubt the warm wishes we cherish,

Such merits will blazon our Ellison’s name.


Hail, Ridley! the Muse, which, in rude local verses,

Oft sung of thy Sire, bids her greetings be thine;

With Ellison’s worth she thy worth too rehearses,

And both your proud names in one wreath would entwine.

Alike high in honour, both ardently glowing

With Patriot Zeal, in Britannia’s cause;

Both proud of the source whence your honours are flowing,

Our Town’s smiling Commerce, its Rights and its Laws.

May health give you powers to keep pace with your spirit;

And while in the Senate you worthily shine,

As Burgesses, Patrons, alike may you merit

The blessings of every Cottage on Tyne.
MAW bonny keel laddie, maw canny keel laddie,

Maw bonny keel laddie for me, O!

He sits in his keel, as black as the Deil,

And he brings the white money to me, O.

Ha’ ye seen owt o’ maw canny man,

An’ are ye sure he’s weel, O?

He’s geane ower land’ wiv a stick in his hand,

To help to moor the keel, O.

The canny keel laddie, the bonny keel laddie,

The canny keel laddie for me, O;

He sits in his huddock, and claws his bare buttock,

And brings the white money to me, O.

WHERE hest te been, maw canny hinny?

An’ where hest te been, maw bonny bairn?

Aw was up and down, seekin for maw hinny,

Aw was thro’ the town seekin for maw bairn:

Aw went up the Butcher Bank and down Grundin Chare,

Call’d at the Dun Cow, but aw cuddent find thee there.

Where hest te been, maw canny hinny?

An’ where hest te been, maw bonny bairn, &c.

Then aw went t’ th’ Cassel-garth, and caw’d on Johnny Fife,

The beer-drawer tail’d me she ne’er saw thee in her life.

Where hest te been, &c.

Then aw went into the Three Bulls’ Heads, and down the Lang Stairs,

And a’ the way alang the Close, as far as. Mr Mayor’s.

Where hest te been, &c.

Fra there aw went alang the Brig, and up to Jackson’s Chare,

Then back agyen to the Cross Keys, but cuddent find thee there.

Where hest te been, &c.
Then comin out o’ Pipergate, aw met wi’ Willy Rigg,

Whe tell’d me that he saw thee stannen p—hin on the

Brig. Where hest te been, &c.
Comin alang the Brig agyen, aw met wi’ Cristy Gee,

He tell’d me et he saw thee gannin down Humeses


Where hest te been, &c.

Where hev aw been! aw seun can tell ye that;

Comin up the Kee, aw met wi’ Peter Pratt;

Meetin Peter Pratt, we met wi’ Tommy Wear,

And went to Humeses t’ get a jill o’ beer.

There’s where aw’ve been, maw canny hinny,

There’s where aw’ve been, maw bonny lamb!

Wast tu up an’ down seekin for thee hinny?

Wast tu up and down seekin for thee lamb?

Then aw met yur Ben, and we were like to fight,

And when we cam to Sandgate it was pick night:

Crossin the road, aw met wi’ Bobby Swinny.—

Hing on the girdle, let’s hev a singin hinny.

Aw me sorrow’s ower, now aw’ve fund maw hinny;

Aw me sorrow’s ower, now aw’ve fund maw bairn;

Lang may aw shout, Maw canny hinny!

Lang may aw shout, Maw bonny bairn!

‘TWAS between Hebbron and Jarrow,

There cam on a varry strang gale,

The Skipper luik’d out o’ the huddock,

Crying “Smash, man, lower the sail!

“Smash, man, lower the sail!

“Or else to the bottom we'll go!”

The keel and a’ hands wad been lost,

Had it not been for Jemmy Munro.

Fal lal, &c.

The gale blew stranger an’ stranger,

When they cam beside the Muck Hoose,

The Skipper cry’d outJemmy, swing ‘er!

But still was as fear'd as a moose.

Pee Dee ran to clear the anchor,

“It’s raffled!” right loudly he roar’d:

They a’ said the gale wad sink her,

If it was n’t seun thrawn owerboard.

The laddie ran sweaten, ran sweaten,

The laddie ran sweaten aboot;

Till the keel went bump against Jarrow,

And three o’ the bullies lap oot:

Three o’ the bullies lap out,

And left nyen m but little Pee Dee;

Who ran about stamping and crying—

“How! smash, Skipper, what man aw dee?

They all shouted out fra the Kee,

“Steer her close in by the shore;

And then thraw the painter to me,

“Thou cat-fyaced son of a whore

“The lad threw the painter ashore,

They fasten’d her up to the Kee:

But whe knawa how far she might gyen,

Had it not been for little Pee Dee.

Then into the huddock they gat,

And the flesh they began to fry:

The talk’d o’ the gale as they sat,

How a’ hands were lost—very nigh.

The Skipper roar’d out for a drink,

Pee Dee ran to bring him the can:

But odsmash! mun, what d’ye think ?—

He cowp’d a’ the flesh out o’ the pan!

Fal lal, &c.

FRA Team Gut to Whitley, wi’ coals black and brown,

For the Amphitrite loaded, the keel had com’d down;

But the bullies ower neet had their gobs sae oft wet,

That the nyem o’ the ship yen and a’ did forget.
To find out the nyem now each worried his chops,

And claw’d at his hips, fit to murder the lops—

When the Skipper, whe hungry was always most bright,

Swore the pawhegger luggish was call’d Empty Kite.

Fra the Point round the Girt, a’ the time sailin’ slow,

Each bully kept bawling “The Empty Kite, ho!”

But their blairin’ was vain, for nae Empty Kite there,

Tho’ they blair’d till their kites were byeth empty and sair.


A’ slaverin’, the Skipper ca’d Geordy and Jem,

For to gan to Newcassel and ax the reet nyem;

The youngest he thought myest to blame in this bore,

So Pee Dee and his marrow were e’en pack’d ashore.

Up Shields Road as they trudg’d in their myest worn-out soles,
Oft cursin’ the Empty Kite, Skipper, and coals;

At the sign o’ the Coach they byeth ca’d, it befell,

To mourn their hard case, an’ to swattle some yell.
Here a buck at a sirloin hard eating was seen,

Which he said wi’ the air myed his appetite keen:

“Appetite!” cried the bullies—like maislins they star’d,

Wide gyepin’ wi’ wonder, till “Crikes!” Jemmy blair’d.

“The Appetite, Geordy! smash dis thou hear that?

The very outlandish, cull nyem we forgat

Bliss the Dandy! for had he not tell’d us the nyem,

To Newcassel we’d wander’d byeth weary and lyem!”

To Shields back they canter’d, and seun, fra the keel,

Rair’d “The Appetite, ho!” ‘neuf to frighten the deil

Thus they fund out the ship, cast their coals in a swet,

Still praisin’ the dandy that day they had met

Then into the huddock, weel tir’d, they all gat,

And of Empty Kite, Appetite, lang they did chat:

When the Skipper discover’d, mair wise than a king,

Tho’ not the syem word, they were much the syem thing



SUM time since, a Skipper was gawn iv his keel,

His heart like a lion, his fyace like the Deil:

He was steering his-sel, as he’d oft duin before,

When at au’d Lizzie Mudie’s his keel ran ashore.

Fal de ral la, &c.

The Skipper was vext when his keel gat ashore

So for Geordy and Pee Dee he loudly did roar:

They lower’d the sail—but it a’ waddent dee;

Sae he click’d up a coal, and maist fell’d the Pee Dee

Fal de ral la, &c.

In the midst of their trouble, not knaw’n what to do,

A voice from the shore gravely cried out, Hoo! Hoo!

How now, Mister Hoo Hoo! is thou myekin fun?

Or is this the first keel that thou e’er saw agrun’?

Fal de ral la, &c.

Agyen it cried “Hoo! Hoo!” the Skipper he stampt,

And sung out for Geordy to heave out a plank:

Iv a raving mad passion he curs’d and he swore,

Aw’ll hoo-hoo thou, thou b—r, when aw cum ashore!

Fal de ral la, &c.

Wiv a coal in each hand, ashore then he went,

To kill Mister Hoo-hoo it was his intent:

But when he gat there, O what his surprize!

When back he cam running—O, Geordy! he cries.

Fal de ral la, &c.

Wey, whe dis thou think hez been myekin this gam?

Aw’ll lay thou my wallet thou’ll not guess his nyem:

“It’s the Ghost of au’d Lizzie!” O no, no, thou fool, it

Is nae Ghost at all, but—an au’d Jenny Howlet!

Fal de ral la, &c.


Tune——“Auld Lang Syne.”

TYNE river, running rough or smooth,

Makes bread for me and mine;

Of all the rivers, north or south,

There’s none like coaly Tyne.


So here’s to coaly Tyne, my lads,

Success to coaly Tyne;

Of all the rivers, north or south,

There’s none like coaly Tyne.


Long has Tyne’s swelling bosom borne

Great riches from the mine,

All by her hardy sons uptorn—

The wealth of coaly Tyne.

Our keelmen brave, with laden keels,

Go sailing down in line,

And with them load the fleet at Shields,

That sails from coaly Tyne.

When Bonaparte the world did sway,

Dutch, Spanish did combine;

By sea and land proud bent their way,

The sons of coaly Tyne.

The sons of Tyne, in seas of blood,

Trafalgar’s fight did join,

When led by dauntless Collingwood,

The hero of the Tyne.

With courage bold, and hearts so true,

Form’d in the British line;

With Wellington, at Waterloo,

Hard fought the sons of Tyne.

When peace, who would be Volunteers?

Or Hero Dandies fine?

Or sham Hussars, or Tirailleurs?—

Disgrace to coaly Tyne.

Or who would be a Tyrant's Guard,

Or shield a libertine?

Let Tyrants meet their due reward,

Ye sons of coaly Tyne.

Let us unite, with all our might,

Protect Queen Caroline;

For her will fight, both day and night,

The sons of coaly Tyne.*

*This Song was written during the Trial of the Queen, in 1820.



ROLL on thy way, thrice happy Tyne!

Commerce and riches still are thine;

Thy sons in every art shall shine,

And make thee more majestic flow.

The busy crowd that throngs thy sides,

And on thy dusky bosom glides,

With riches swell thy flowing tides,

And bless the soil where thou dost flow.

Thy valiant sons, in days of old,

Led by their Chieftains, brave and bold,

Fought not for wealth, or shining gold,

But to defend thy happy shores.

So e’en as they of old have bled,

And oft embrac’d a gory bed,

Thy modern sons, by Patriots led,

Shall rise to shield thy peace-crown’d shores.

Nor art thou blest for this alone,

That long thy sons in arms have shone;

For every art to them is known,

And science, form’d to grace the mind.

Art, curbed by War in former days,

Has now burst forth in one bright blaze;

And long shall his refulgent rays

Shine bright, and darkness leave behind.

The Muses too, with Freedom crown’d.

Shall on thy happy shores be found,

And fill the air with joyous sound,

Of—War and darkness’ overthrow.

Then roll thy way, thrice happy Tyne!

Commerce and riches still are thine!

Thy sons in arts and arms shall shine,

And make thee still majestic flow.


WHILST bards, in strains that sweetly flow,

Extol each nymph so fair,

Be mine my Nanny's worth to shew,

Her captivating air.

What swain can gaze without delight

On beauty there so fine?

The Graces all their charms unite

In Nanny of the Tyne.
Far from the noise of giddy courts

The lovely charmer dwells;

Her cot the haunt of harmless sports,

In virtue she excells.

With modesty, good nature join’d,

To form the nymph divine;

And truth, with innocence combin’d,

In Nanny of the Tyne.

Flow on, smooth stream, in murmurs sweet

Glide gently past her cot,

‘Tis peace and virtue's calm retreat,—

Ye great ones, envied not.

And you, ye fair, whom folly leads

Through all her paths supine,

Tho’ drest in pleasure's garb, exceeds

Not Nanny of the Tyne.

Can art to nature e’er compare,

Or win us to believe’

But that the frippery of the fair

Was made but to deceive.

Strip from the belle the dress so gay,

Which fashion calls divine,

Will she such loveliness display

As Nanny of the Tyne.



FAREWEEL, fareweel, maw comely pet!

Aw’s fourc’d three weeks to leave thee;

Aw’s doon for parm’ent duty set,

O dinna let it grieve thee!

Maw hinny! wipe them een, sae breet,

That mine wi’ love did dazzle;

When tha heart’s sad can mine be leet?

Come, ho’way get a jill o’ beer

Thee heart to cheer:

An’ when thou sees me mairch away,

Whiles in, whiles oot

O’ step, nae doot,

“Bob Cranky’s gane,” thou’lt sobbing say,

“A sowgering to Newcassel!”

Come, dinna, dinna whinge an' whipe,

Like yammering Isbel Mackey ;

Cheer up, maw hinny! leet thee pipe,

And tyek a blast o’ backy!

It’s but for yen an’ twenty days,

The folks’s een aw’ll dazzle,—

Prood, swagg’ring i’ maw fine reed claes:

Ods heft! maw pit claes—dist thou hear?

Are waurse o’ wear;

Mind cloot them weel when aw’s away;

An’ a posie goon

Aw’ll buy thee soon,

An’ thou’s drink thee tea—aye, twice a-day,

When aw come fra Newcassel.

Becrike! aw’s up tiv every rig,

Sae dinna doot, maw hinny!

But at the blue styen o’ the Brig

Aw’ll ha’e maw mairchin guinea.


A guinea! wuks! sae strange a seet,

Maw een wi' joy wad dazzle;

But aw’ll hed spent that verra neet—

For money, hinny! owre neet to keep,

Wad brick maw sleep:

Sae, smash! aw think't a wiser way,

Wi’ flesh an’ beer

Mesel’ to cheer,

The lang three weeks that aw’ve to stay,

A sowgering at Newcassel.

But whisht! the Sairjeant's tongue aw hear,

“Fa’ in! fa’ in !” he’s yelpin:

The fifes are whuslin’ lood an’ clear,

An’ sair the drums they’re skelpin.

Fareweel, maw comely! aw mun gang,

The Gen’ral’s een to dazzle!

But, hinny! if the time seems lang,

An’ thou freets aboot me neet an’ day ;

Then come away,

Seek out the yell-house where aw stay,

An’ we’ll kiss an’ cuddle;

An’ monny a fuddle

Sall drive the langsome hoars away,

When sowgering at Newcassel.


Time—“Bob Cranky.”

COME, marrows, we’ve happen’d to meet now,

Sae wor thropples together well weet now;

Aw’ve myed a new sang,

And to sing ye’t aw lang,

For it's about the Bonny Gyetsiders.
Of a’ the fine Volunteer corpses,

Whether footmen, or ridin’ o' horses,

‘Tween the Tweed and the Tees,

Deel hae them that sees

Sic a corpse as the Bonny Gyetsiders.
Whilk amang them can mairch, turn, an’ wheel sae?

Whilk their guns can wise off half sae weel sae ?

Nay, for myeking a crack,

Through England aw’ll back

The corps of the Bonny Gyetsiders.

When the time for parading nigh hand grows,

A’ wesh theirsels clean i’ the sleck troughs:

Fling off their black duddies,

Leave hammers and studdies,

And to drill—run the Bonny Gyetsiders.

To Newcassel, for three weeks up-stannin,

On Parmanent Duty they’re gannin;

And seun i’ the papers

We’s read a’ the capers

O' the corps o’ the Bonny Gyetsiders.
The Newcassel chaps fancy they're clever,

And are vauntin’ and braggin’ for ever;

But they'll find theirsels wrang,

If they think they can bang,

At sowg’rin’, the Bonny Gyetsiders.

The Gen’ral sall see they can lowp dykes,

Or mairch thro’ whins, lair whooles, and deep sykes;

Nay, to soom (at a pinch)

Through Tyne, waddent flinch .

The corps o’ the Bonny Gyetsiders.

Some think Billy Pitt’s nobbit hummin,

When he tells aboot Bonnepairt cummin;

But come when he may,

He’ll lang rue the day

He first meets wi’ the Bonny Gyetsiders;
Like an anchor shank, smash! how they’ll clatter ‘im,

And turn ‘im, and skelp ‘im, and batter ‘im;

His byens sall, by jing!

Like a fryin-pan ring,

When he meets wi’ the Bonny Gyetsiders.
Let them yence get ‘im into their taings weel,

Nae fear but they’ll give ‘im his whaings weel;

And to Hezlett's Pond bring ‘im,

And there in chains hing ‘im:

What a seet for the Bonny Gyetsiders !
Now, marrows, to shew we’re a’ loyal,

And that, wi’ the King and Blood Royal,

We’ll a’ soom or sink,

Quairts a piece let us drink,

To the brave and the Bonny Gyetsiders.


HO’WAY and aw’ll sing thee a tune, man,

‘Bout huz seein’ my Lord at the toon, man:

Aw’s seer aw was smart, now

Aw’ll lay thee a quart, now,

Nyen them aw cut a dash like Bob Cranky.
When aw pat on maw blue coat that shines sae,

Me jacket wi’ posies sae fine, see,

Maw sark sic sma’ threed, man,

Maw pig-tail sae greet, man!

Odsmash! what a buck was Bob Cranky.
Blue stockings, white clocks, and reed garters,

Yellow breeks, and me shoon wi' lang quarters,

Aw myed wor bairns cry,

Eh! Sarties! ni! ni!

Sic varry fine things had Bob Cranky.
Aw went to au'd Tom's and fand Nancy;

Kiv aw, Lass, thou’s myed to me fancy!

Aw like thou as weel

As a stannin-pye heel,

Ho’way to the town wi’ Bob Cranky.

As up Jenny’s backside we were bangin’,

Ki’ Geordy, How! where are ye gannin’?

Wey t’ see me Lord 'Sizes,

But ye shanna gan aside us,

For ye’re not half sae fine as Bob Cranky.

Ki’ Geordy, We leeve i’ yen raw, wyet,

I’ yen corf we byeth gan belaw, wyet,

At aw things aw’ve play’d,

And to hew, aw’m not flay’d,

Wi’ sic in a chep as Bob Cranky.
Bob hez thee at lowpin and flingin,

At the bool, foot-ball, clubby, and swingin:

Can ye jump up and shuffle,

And cross owre the buckle,

When ye dance? like the clever Bob Cranky.
Thou knaws, i’ my hoggars and drawers,

Aw’m nyen o’ your scarters and clawers:

Fra the trap door bit laddie

T’ the spletter his daddie,

Nyen handles the pick like Bob Cranky.
Sae, Geordy, od smash my pit sarik!

Thou’d best haud thee whisht about warik,

Or aw’ll sobble thee body,

And myek thee nose bloody,

If thou sets up thee gob to Bob Cranky.
Nan laugh’d—to church we gat without ‘im;

The great crowd, becrike, how aw hew’d ‘em!

Smasht a keel-bully roar’d,

Clear the road! whilk’s my Lord?

Owse sae high as the noble Bob Cranky.

Aw lup up, and catch’d just a short gliff

O’ Lord Trials, the Trumpets and Sheriff,

Wi’ the little bit mannies,

Sae fine and sae canny,

Ods heft! what a 'seet for Bob Cranky!

Then away we set off to the yell-house,

Wiv a few hearty lasses an’ fellows:

Aw tell’d ower the wig,

Sae curl’d and sae big;

For nyen saw’t sae weel as Bob Cranky.
Aw gat drunk, fit, and kick’d up a racket,

Rove me breeks and spoil’d a’ me fine jacket;

Nan cry’d and she cuddled,

Maw hinny, thou’s fuddled,

Ho’way hyem, now, me bonny Bob Cranky!
So we stagger’d alang fra the toon, mun,

Whiles gannin, whiles byeth fairly doon, mun;

Smash, a banksman or hewer,

No, not a fine viewer,

Durst jaw to the noble Bob Cranky.

What care aw for maw new suit, a’ tatters,

Twee black een—od smash a’ sic matters!

When me Lord comes agyen, mun,

Aw’ll strive, ev’ry byen, mun,

To bang a’ wor consarn, ki Bob Cranky.

O’ the flesh an' breed day, when wor bun, mun,

Aw’ll buy claes far bonnier than thon, mun;

For, od smash my nyavel!

As lang as wour yebble,

Let’s keep up the day! ki’ Bob Cranky.

For the Victory obtained at Waterloo.

LORD Sizes leuks weel in coach shinin’

Whose wig wad let Nan’s heed an’ mine in;

But a bonnier seet,

Was the Leum’nation neet,—

It dazzled the een o’ Bob Cranky,
Aboot seven aw gov ower warkin,

Gat beard off, an’ put a white sark on;

For Newcasslers, thowt aw,

Gif they dinn’t see me braw,

Will say, “What a gowk is Bob Cranky!”
Aw ran to the toon without stoppin’,

An’ fand ilka street like a hoppin;

An’ the folk stud sae thick,

Aw sair wish’d for maw pick,

To hew oot a way for Bob Cranky.
The guns then went off fra the cassel,

Seun windors wur a’ in a dazzle;

Ilka place was like day,

Aw then shooted, Hurray!

There’s ‘Plenty an’ Peace’ for Bob Cranky!”
Some windors had pictures sae bonny!

Wi’ sma’ lamps aw can’t tell how monny;

Te count them, aw’m shure,

Wad bother the Viewer—

A greater Goggriffer than Cranky.
Aw see’d croons myed o’ lamps blue an’ reed,

Whilk aw wad na like put on me heed!

“G. P. R.” aw see’d nex,

For our Geordy Prince Rex;—

Nyen spelt it sae weel as Bob Cranky.
Some had anchors of leet high hung up,

To shew folk greet Bonny was deun up;

But, far as aw see, man,

As reet it wad be, man,

Te leet up the pick o’ Bob Cranky.

A leg of meat sed, Doon aw’s cummin!

But some chep aw seun fand was hummin;

For aw stopp’d bit belaw,

Haudin oot a Iang paw,

But mutton cam ne nearer Cranky.

A cask on the Vicar’s pump top, man,

Markt Plenty an Peace” gard me stop, man:

Thinks aw te me sel,

Awse here get some yel,

But only cau’d waiter gat Cranky.
Bonny, shav’d be a bear, was then shot, man;

And be au’d Nick weel thump’d in a pot, man ;

But aw thowt a’ the toon

Shuddent lick him when doon,

Tho’ he’d a greet spite to Bob Cranky.
Yen Price had the cream o’ the bowl, man,

Wi’ goold lamps clagg’d close cheek by jowl, man:

It was sic a fíne seet,

Aw cou’d glower’d a’ neet,

Had fu’ been the wame o’ Bob Cranky.
Ne mair see'd aw till signal gun fired,

Out went the leets, an’ hyem aw gat, tired;

Nan ax’d ‘boot Leum’nations,

Aw bade her hae patience,

An’ first fetch some flesh te Bob Cranky.
Aw tell’d her what news aw had heerd, man,

That Shuggar was sixpence a pund, man,

An’ good beef at a groat:—

Then oor Nan clear’d her throat,

An shooted oot, Plenty for Cranky!”
Twas a’ lees—for when Nan gang’d te toon,

An’ for yen pund a sixpence pat doon;

Fra shop she was winnin’,

When Grosser, deuce bin him!

Teuk a’ the cheap shuggar fra Cranky.
But gif Peace brings another gran’ neet,

Aw think folk shou'd hae Plenty te eat

Singin’ hinnys, aw'm shoor,

An strang yell at the door,

Wad better nor candles please Cranky.
Then agyen, what a shem an’ a sin!

Te the Pit Dinner nyen ax'd me in:

Yet aw work like a Turk,

Byeth wi’ pick, knife, and fork,—

An’ whese mair a Pittite nor Cranky?
Or what cou’d ye a’ de without me,

When cau’d ice an’ snaw com about ye?

Then sair ye wad shiver,

For a’ ye’re sae cliver,

An’ lang for the pick o’ Bob Cranky!


LADS! myek a ring,

An’ hear huz sing

The sport we had at Swalwell-o;

Wour merry play,

O’ the Hoppen day,

Ho’way, marrows! an’ aw’ll tell ye-o.

The sun shines warm on Whickham bank

Let’s a’ lie down at Dolly’s-o;

And hear ‘bout monny a funny prank,

Play’d by the lads at Crowley’s-o.

There was Sam, O zoons!

Wiv’s pantaloons,

An’ gravat up owre his gobby-o;

An’ Willy, thou,

Wi’ thee jacket blue,

Thou was the varry bobby-o:

There was knack-knee’d Mat, wiv’s purple suit,

An’ hopper-a-s’d Dick, a’ yellow-o:

Great Tom was there, wi’ Hepple's awd coat,

An’ buck-sheen’d Bob frae Stella-o.

When we wor drest,

It was confest

We shem’d the cheps fra Newcassel-o:

So away we set,

To wour toon gyet,

To jeer them a’ as they pass’d us-o.

We shooted some, and some dung doon;

Lobstrop’lus fellows, we kick’d them-o:

Some culls went hyem, some crush'd to toon,

Some gat aboot by Whickham-o.

The spree com on—

The hat was won

By carrot-pow’d Jenny’s Jacky-o:

What a fyace begok!

Had buckle-mouth’d Jock,

When he twin'd his jaws for the backy-o!

The kilted lasses fell tid, pell mell,

Wi’ Tally-i-o the grinder”-o—

The smock was gi’en to slavering Nell;

Ye’d dropp’d had ye been behind her-o.

Wour dance began,

With buck-tyuth’d Nan;

An’, Geordy, thou’d Jen Collin-o:

While the merry Black,

Wi’ monny a crack,

Set the Tambourine a rolling-o.

Like wour forge-hammer, we bet sae true,

An’ shuk Raw’s house sae soundly-o:

Tuff canna cum up wi’ Crowley’s crew,

Nor thump the tune sae roundly-o.

Then Gyetside Jack,

Wiv’s bloody back,

Wad dance wi goggle-eye’d Mally-o:

But up cam Nick

An’ gave him a kick,

And a canny bit kind of a fally-o:

That day a’ Hawks’s blacks may rue,—

They gat monny a varry sair clanker-o:

Can they de owse wi’ Crowley’s crew,

Frev a needle tiv an anchor- o?

What’s that to say

To the bonny fray

We had wi skipper Robbin-o?

The keel-bullies a’,

Byeth great an’ sma’,

Myed a b——rly tide o’ the hoppen-o.

Gleed Will cried, Ma-a! up lup aud Frank,

An’ Robbin that marry’d his dowter-o:

We hammer’d their ribs like an anchor shank;

They fand it six weeks efter-o.

Bald Pyat Jone Carr

Wad hev a bit spar,

To help his marrows away wid-o;

But, poor au’d fellow,

He’d getten ower mellow,

So we down’d byeth him and Davy-o:

Then Petticoat Robbin jump’d up agyen,

Wiv’s gully to marcykree huz a’,

But Willanton Dan laid him flat wiv a styen:

Hurraw! for Crowley’s crew, boys a’!

Their hash was sattled,

So off they rattled.

And jigg’d it up sae hearty-o,

Wi’ monny a shiver,

An’ lowp sae clever,

Can Newcassel turn out sec a party-o?

When, wheyt dyun ower, the fiddlers went,

We stagger’d a-hint sae merry-o:

An’ thro’ wour toon, till fairly spent,

Roar’d—Crowley’s Crew an’ glory-o!



YE sons of glee, come join with me,

Ye who love mirth and topping-o,

You’ll ne’er refuse to hear my Muse

Sing of Winlaton fam'd Hopping-o.

To Tenche’s Hotel let’s retire,

To tipple away so neatly-o:

The fiddle and song you’ll sure admire,

Together they sound so sweetly-o.

Tal, lal, &c.
With box and die you'll Sammy spy,

Of late Sword-Dancers' Bessy-o—

All patch’d and torn, with tail and horn,

Just like a De’il in dress’y-o:

But late discharg’d from that employ,

This scheme popp’d in his noddle-o;

Which fill’d his little heart with joy,

And pleas’d blithe Sammy Doddle-o.

Tal, lal, &c.

Close by the stocks, his dice and box

He rattled away so rarely-o;

Both youth and age did he engage,

Together they play’d so chearly-o:

While just close by the sticks did fly

At spice on knobs of woody-o;

“How! mind maw legs!” the youngsters cry,

“Wey, man, thou’s drawn the bloody!”-o.

Tal, lal, &c.

Rang’d in a row, a glorious show,

Of spice, and nuts for cracking-o;

With handsome toys, for girls and boys,

Grac’d Winlaton fam’d Hopping-o.

Each to the stalls led his dear lass,

And treat her there so sweetly-o;

Then straight retir’d to drink a glass,

And shuffle and cut so neatly-o.

Tal, lal, &c.
Ye men so wise, who knowledge prize,

Let not this scene confound ye-o;

At Winship’s door might ye explore

The world a’ running round ye-o:

Blithe boys and girls, on horse an’ chair,

Flew round, without e’er stopping-o;

Sure Blaydon Races can’t compare

With Winlaton fam’d Hopping-o.

Tal, lal, &c.
The night came on, with dance and song

Each public-house did jingle-o;

All ranks did swear to banish cars,

The married and the single-o:

They tript away till morning light,

Then slept sound without rocking-o;

Next day got drunk, in merry plight,

And jaw’d about the Hopping-o.

Tal, lal, &c.
At last dull Care his crest did rear,

Our heads he sore did riddle-o;

Till Peacock drew his pipes and blew,

And Tenche he tun’d his fiddle-o:

Then Painter Jack he led the van,

The dram did join in chorus-o,—

The old and young then danc’d and sung,

Dull Care fled far before us-o.

Tal, lal, &c.
No courtier fine, nor grave divine,

That’s got the whole he wishes-o,

Will ever be so blithe as we,

With all their loaves and fishes-o:

Then grant, O Jove! oui; ardent prayer,

And happy still you’ll find us-o ;—

Let pining Want and haggard Care,

A day’s march keep behind us-o.

Tal, lal, &c.


NEIGHBOURS, I’m come for to tell ye,

Our Skipper and Moll’s to be wed;

And if it be true what they're saying,

Egad, we’ll be all rarely fed!

They’ve brought home a shoulder of mutton,

Besides two thumping fat geese,

And when at the fire they’re roasting,

We’re all to have sops in the greese.

Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

And there will be pies and spice dumplings

And there will be bacon and peas;

Besides a great lump of beef boiled,

And they may get crowdies who please,

To eat of such good things as these are,

I’m sure you’ve but seldom the luck;

Besides, for to make us some pottage,

There’ll be a sheep’s head and a pluck.

Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle.

Of sausages there will be plenty,

Black puddings, sheep fat, and neats’ tripes;

Besides, for to warm all your noses,

Great store of tobacco and pipes.

A room, they say, there is provided

For us at “The Old Jacob’s Well

The bridegroom he went there this morning,

And spoke for a barrel o’ yell.

Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

There’s sure to be those things I’ve mention’d,

And many things else; and I learn,

There’s white bread and butter and shuggar,

To please every bonny young bairn.

Of each dish and glass you’ll be welcome

To eat and to drink till you stare:—

I’ve told you what meat’s to be at it,

I’ll next tell you who’s to be there.

Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle.
Why there will be Peter the hangman,

Who flogs the folks at the cart tail.

And Bob, with his new sark and ruffle,

Made out of an old keel sail!

And Tib on the Quay who sells oysters,

Whose mother oft strove to persuade

Her to keep from the lads, but she wouldn’t,

Until she got by them betray’d.

Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle.

And there will be Sandy the cobbler,

Whose belly’s as round as a keg,

And Doll with her short petticoats,

To display her white stockings and leg;

And Sall, who when snug in a corner,

A sixpence they say won’t refuse;

She curs’d when her father was drown’d,

Because he had on his new shoes.

Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle.


And there will be Sam the quack doctor,

Of skill and profession he’ll crack;

And Jack who would fain be a soldier,

But for a great hump on his back;

And Tom in the streets, for his living,

Who grinds razors, scissors, and knives;

And two or three merry old women,

That call “Mugs and doublers, wives!”

Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

But neighbours, I’d almost forgot

For to tell ye—exactly at one

The dinner will be on the table,

And music will play till its done:

When you’ll be all heartily welcome,

Of this merry feast for to share:

But if you wont come at this bidding,

Why then—you may stay where you are.

Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle.

Or, the Pitman drinking Jackey,

HA’ ye been at Newcastle Fair,

And did you see owse o’ great Sandy?

Lord bliss us! what wark there was there;

And the folks were drinking of brandy.

Brandy a shilling a glass!

Aw star’d, and thought it was shameful,

Never mind, says aw, canny lass,

Give us yell, and aw’ll drink me wame-full.

Rum te idily, &c.
Says she, Canny man, the yell’s cau’d;

It comes frev a man they caw Mackey,

And by my faith! It’s byeth sour and au’d;

Ye’d best hev a drop o’ wour Jackey.

Your Jackey! says I, now what’s that?

Aw ne’er heerd the nyem o’ sic liquor.

English gin, canny man, that’s flat!

And then she set up a great nicker.

Rum te idily, &c.

Says I, Divent laugh at poor folks,

But gang and bring some o’ yor Jackey;

Aw want nyen o’ yur jibes or jokes:

I’ th’ mean time aw’ll tyek a bit backy.

Aw just tyuk a chew o’ pig tail,

When she fetch’d in the Jackey sae funny:

Says she, Sir, that’s better than ale,

And held out her hand for the money.

Rum ti idily, &c.

There’s threepence to pay, if you please:

Aw star’d an’ aw gyep’d like a ninny:

Odsmash thee! aw’ll sit at me ease,

An’ not stir till aw’ve spent a half-guinea.

Aw sat an’ aw drank, till quite blind,

Then aw gat up to gang to the door,

But deel smash a door cou'd aw find!

An’ fell flat o’ maw fyace on the floor.

Rum te idily, &c.
There aw lay for ever sae lang,

And dreamt about rivers and ditches;

When wyaken’d, was singing this sang—

“Smash, Jackey, thou’s wet a’ me breeches!”

An’faith! but the sang it was true,

For Jackey had been sae prevailing,

He’d whistled himsel’ quickly through,

An’ the chairs an’ tyables were sailing.

Rum te idily, &c.
Then rising, aw went maw ways hyem,

Aw knock’d at the door, and cry’d, Jenny!

Says she, Canny man, is te lyem,

Or been wading in Tyne, maw hinny?


I’ troth, she was like for to dee,

An’ just by the way to relieve her,—

The water’s been wading through me,

An’ this Jackey’s a gay deceiver.

Rum te idily, &c.

If e’er aw drink Jackey agyen,

May the bitch of a lass, maw adviser,

Lowp alive down maw throaty with a styen

As big as a pulveriser.

Rum te idily, &c.
ON each market day, sir, the folks to the Quay, sir,

Go flocking with beards they have seven days worn,

And round the small grate, sir, in crowds they all wait, sir,
To get themselves shav'd in a rotative turn.

Old soldiers on sticks, sir, about politics, sir,

Debate—till at length they quite heated are grown;

Nay, nothing escapes, sir, until Madam Scrape, sir,

Cries, Gentlemen, who is the next to sit down?”

A medley the place is, of those that sell laces,

With fine shirt-neck buttons, and good cabbage nets;

Where match-men, at meeting, give each a kind greeting,

And ask one another how trade with them sets;

Join’d in with Tom Hoggers and little Bobbynackers,

Who wander the streets in their fuddling jills;

And those folks with bags, sir, who buy up old rags, sir,

That deal in fly-cages and paper windmills.

There pitmen, with baskets and gay posey waistcoats,

Discourse about nought but whe puts and hews best:

There keelmen just landed, swear, May they be stranded,

If they’re not shav’d first, while their keel’s at the fest!

With face full of coal dust, would frighten one almost,

Throw off hat and wig while they usurp the chair;

While others stand looking, and think it provoking,

But, for the insult, to oppose them none dare.

When under the chin, sir, she tucks the cloth in, sir,

Their old quid they’ll pop in the pea-jacket cuff;

And while they are sitting, do nought but keep spitting,

And looking around, with an air fierce and bluff.

Such tales as go round, sir, would surely confound, sir,

And puzzle the prolific brain of the wise:

But when she prepares, sir, to take off the hairs, sir,

With lather she whitens them up to the eyes.

No sooner the razor is laid on the face, sir,

Than painful distortions take place on the brow;

But if they complain, sir, they’ll find it in vain, sir,

She’ll tell them “there’s nought but what Patience can do:”

And as she scrapes round 'em, if she by chance wound 'em,

They’ll cry out, as tho’ she’d bereav’d them of life,

‘’Odsmash your brains, woman! aw find the blood’s comin,

‘Aw’d rather been shav’d with an au’d gully knife!’

For all they can say, sir, she still rasps away, sir,

And sweeps round their jaws the chop turturing tool;

Till they in a pet, sir, request her to whet, sir;

But she gives them for answer, ‘Sit still, you pist fool!’

For all their repining, their twisting and twining,

She forward proceeds till she's mown off the hair;

When finish’d, cries, ‘There, sir!’ then straight from the chair, sir,

They’ll jump, crying, ‘Daresay you’ve scrap’d the bone bare!”


I WAS a young maiden truly,

And lived in Sandgate-street;

I thought to marry a good man,

To keep me warm at neet.

Some good-like body, some bonny body,

To be with me at noon;

But last I married a keel man,

And my good days are done.
I thought to marry a parson,

To hear me say my prayers;

But I have married a keelman,

And he kicks me down the stairs.

He’s an ugly body, a bubbly body,

An ill-far’d, ugly loon;

And I have married a keelman,

And my good days are done.

I thought to marry a dyer,

To dye my apron blue;

But I have married a keelman,

And he makes me sorely rue.

He’s an ugly body, a bubbly body,

An ill-far’d, ugly loon;

And I have married a keelman,

And my good days are done.

I thought to marry a joiner,

To make me chair and stool;

But I have married a keelman,

And he’s a perfect fool.

He’s an ugly body, a bubbly body,

An ill-far'd, ugly loon;

And I have married a keelman,

And my good days are done.

I thought to marry a sailor,

To bring me sugar and tea;

But I have married a keelman,

And that he lets me see.

He’s an ugly body, a bubbly body,

An ill-far’d, ugly loon;

And I have married a keelman,

And my good days are done.


I Cannot get to my love, if I should dee,

The water of Tyne runs between him and me;

And here I must stand, with the tear in my e’e,

Both sighing and sickly my sweetheart to see.

O where is the boatman? my bonny honey!

O where is the boatman? bring him to me—

To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey,

And I will remember the boatman and thee.

O bring me a boatman— I’ll give any money,

(And you for your trouble rewarded shall be)

To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey,

Or skull him across that rough river to me.


Written by Cecil Pitt, and sung at the Theatre-Royal, Newcastle, By Mr. Scriven,

June 4, 1806.

SHOULD the French in Newcastle but dare to appear,

At each sign they would meet with indifferent chear;

From the Goat and the Hawk, from the Bell and the Waggon,

And Dog, they would skip, as St. George made the Dragon.
The Billet, the Highlander, Cross Keys, and Sun,

The Eagle, and Ships too, would shew’em some fun;

The Three Kings and Unicorn, Bull’s Head and Horse,

Would prove, that the farther they went they’d fare worse.

At the Black House, a strong-Arm, would lay ev’ry man on,

And they’d quickly go off, if they got in the Cannon:

The Nelson and Turk's Head their fears would increase,

And they’d run from the Swan like a parcel of geese.

At the York and the Cumberland, Cornwallis too,

With our Fighting Cocks, sure they’d find plenty to do;

The Nag’s Head, and Lions would cut such an evil,

And the Angel would drive the whole crew to the devil.

At the World, and the Fountain, the Bridge, Crown and Thistle,

The Bee-Hive, and Tuns, for a drop they might whistle;

With our Prince, or our Crown, should they dare interpose,

They’d prick their French fingers well under the Rose.

At the Half Moon, the Wheat-Sheaf, and Old Barley-Mow,

A sup’s to be got—if they could but tell how;

If they call’d at the Bull and the Tyger, to ravage,

As well as the Black Boy, they’d find’em quite savage.

At the Ark, and the Anchor, Pack Horse, and Blue Posts,

And the Newmarket Inn, they would find but rough hosts;

The Old Star and Garter, Cock, Anchor, and more,

Would prove, like the Grapes, all most cursedly sour.

The Lion and Lamb, Plough, and Old Robin Hood,

With the Crane House, would check these delighters

in blood;
From the Butchers’ Arms quick they’d be running away,

And we all know that Shakespeare would shew ‘em some play.

At the White Hart, Three Bulls’ Heads, the Old Dog and Duck,

If they did not get thrash’d, they’d escape by good luck:

At the Bird in Bush, Metters’ Arms, Peacock, they’d fast,

And our King’s and Queen’s Heads we’ll defend till the last.

May the sign of the King ever meet with respect,

And our great Constitution each Briton protect;

And may he who would humble our old British Crown,

Be hung on a Sign-post till I take him down.


AS me and my marrow was gannin to wark,

We met with the Devil, it was in the dark;

I up with my pick, it being in the neet,

And knock'd off his horns, likewise his club feet.
Follow the horses, Johnny my lad, oh!

Follow them through, my canny lad, oh!

Follow the horses, Johnny my lad, oh!

Oh, lad, lie away, canny lad, oh!

As me and my marrow was putting the tram,

The lowe it went out, and my marrow went wrang;

You would have laugh’d had you seen the gam,

The Deil gat my marrow, but I gat the tram.

Follow the horses, &c.
Oh! marrow, oh! marrow, what dost thou think?

I’ve broken my bottle, and spilt a’ my drink;

I’ve lost a’ my shin-splints amang the great stanes,

Draw me te the shaft, it’s time to gan hame.

Follow the horses, &c.
Oh, marrow! oh, marrow! where hest thou been?

Driving the drift from the low seam,

Driving the drift from the low seam;

Haud up the lowe, lad! deil stop out thy een!

Follow the horses, &c.

Oh, marrow! oh, marrow! this is wor pay week,

We’ll get penny loaves, and drink to our beek;

And we’ll fill up our bumper, and round it shall go,

Follow the horses, Johnny lad, oh!

Follow the horses, &c.

There is my horse, and there is my tram;

Twee horns full of greese will myek her to gan;

There is me hoggars, likewise me half shoon,

And smash me heart, marrow, me putting’s a’ done!

Follow the horses, Johnny my lad, oh!

Follow them through, my canny lad, oh!

Follow the horses, Johnny my lad, oh!

Oh, lad, lie away! canny lad, oh!



HA’E ye heerd o’ these wondrous Dons,

That myeks this mighty fuss, man,

About invading Britain’s land?

I vow they’re wondrous spruce, man:

But little do the Frenchmen ken

About our loyal Englishmen;

Our Collier lads are for cockades,

And guns to shoot the French, man.

Toll loll de roll, de roll de roll.
Then to parade the pitmen went,

Wi’ hearts byeth stout and strong, man;

Gad smash the French! we are sae strang,

We’ll shoot them every one, man!

Gad smash me sark! if aw would stick

To tumble them a’ down the pit:

As fast as aw could thraw a coal,

Aw’d tumble them a’ down the hole,

And close her in aboon, man.

Toll loll, &c.

Heeds up! says one, ye silly sow,

Ye dinna mind the word, man:

Eyes right! says Tom, and wi’ a dam,

And march off at the word, man:

Did ever mortals see sic brutes,

To order me to lift my cutes?

Ad smash the fool! he stands and talks,

How can he learn me to walk,

That’s walk’d this forty year, man!

Toll loll, &c.

But should the Frenchmen shew their face

Upon our waggon-ways, man,

Then, there upon the road, you know,

We’d myek them end their days, man:

Aye, Bonaparte’s sel aw’d tyek,

And throw him in the burning heap,

And with great speed aw’d roast him deed;

His marrows, then, aw wad nae heed,

We’d pick out a’ their een, man.

Toll loll, &c.

Says Willy Dunn to loyal Tom,

Your words are all a joke, man;

For Geordy winna hae your help,

Ye’re sic kamstarie folk, man:

Then, Willy, lad, we’ll rest in peace,

In hopes that a’ the wars may cease;

But awse gi’e ye, Wull, to understand,

As lang as aw can wield me hand,

There’s nyen but George shall reign, man.

Toll loll, &c.

Enough of this has shure been said,

Cry’d cowardly Willy Dunn, man;

For should the Frenchmen come this way,

We’d be ready for to run, man.

Gad smash you, for a fool! says Tom,

For if aw could not use me gun,

Aw’d tyek me pick, aw’d hew them doon,

And run and cry, through a’ the toon,

God save greet George our king, man!

Toll loll, &c.


By William Midford.

QUITE soft blew the wind from the west,

The sun faintly shone in the sky,

When Lukey and Bessy sat courting,

As walking I chanc’d to espy.

Unheeded I stole close beside them,

To hear their discourse was my plan;

I listen’d each word they were saying,

When Lukey his courtship began.
Last hoppen thou won up me fancy,

Wi’ thy fine silken jacket o’ blue;

An’ smash! if their Newcassel lyedies

Cou’d marrow the curls o’ thy brow.

That day aw whiles danc’d wi’ lang Nancy,

She couldn’t like thou lift her heel:

My Grandy lik’d spice singing hinnies,

Maw comely! aw like thou as weel.


Thou knawst, ever since we were little,

Together we’ve rang'd through the woods;

At neets hand in hand toddled hyem,

Varry oft wi’ howl kites and torn duds:

But now we can tauk about mairage,

An’ lang sair for wor weddin day:

When mairied thou’s keep a bit shop,

An’ sell things in a huikstery way.

An’ to get us a canny bit leeven,

A’ kinds o’ fine sweetmeats we’ll sell,

Reed herrin, broon syep, and mint candy,

Black pepper, dye-sand, an’ sma’ yell;

Spice hunters, pick shafts, farden candles,

Wax dollies wi’ reed leather shoes,

Chalk pussy-cats, fine curly greens,

Paper skyets, penny pies, an’ huil-doos.

Awse help thou to tie up thy shuggar,

At neets when fra wark aw get lowse;

An’ wor Dick, that leeves ower by HighWhickham,

He’ll myek us broom buzzoms for nowse.

Like an image thou’s stand ower the coonter,

Wi’ thy fine muslin, cambricker goon;

An’ to let the fokes see thou’s a lyedy,

On a cuddy thou's ride to the toon.

There’s be matches, pipe clay, and broon dishes,

Canary seed, raisins, and fegs;

And, to please the pit laddies at Easter,

A dish full o’ giltey paste eggs.

Wor neybors, that’s snuffers an’ smokers,

For wor snuff and backey they’ll seek;

An’ to shew them we deal wi’ Newcassel,

Twee Blackeys sal mense the dor cheek.

So now for Tim Bodkin awse send,

To darn my silk breeks at the knee;

Thou thy ruffles an’ frills mun get ready,

Next Whissunday mairied we’ll be.

Now aw think it’s high time to be steppin,

We’ve sitten tiv aw’s about lyem.

So then, wiv a kiss and a cuddle,

These lovers they bent their ways hyem.


By the same.

IN a town near Newcassel a Pitman did dwell,

Wiv his wife nyemed Peg, a Tom Cat, and himsel;

A Dog, called Cappy, he doated upon,

Because he was left him by great uncle Tom:

Weel bred Cappy, famous au’d Cappy,

Cappy’s the dog, Tallio, Tallio.

His tail pitcher-handled, his colour jet black.

Just a foot and a half was the length of his back ;

His legs seven inches frev shoulders to paws,

And his legs like twee dockins hung owre his jaws:

Weel bred Cappy, &c.

For huntin of varmin reet clever was he,

And the house frev a’ robbers his bark wad keep free:

Cou’d byeth fetch and carry—could sit on a stuil;

Or, when frisky, wad hunt waiter rats in a puil.

Weel bred Cappy, &c.
As Ralphy to market one morn did repair,

In his hat-band a pipe, and weel kyem’d was his hair,

Owre his airm-hung a basket—thus onward he speels,

And enter’d Newcassel wi’ Cap at his heels:

Weel bred Cappy, &c.
He haddent got farther than foot o’ the Side,

Before he fell in with the dog-killing tribe:

When a highwayman-fellow slipp’d round in a crack,

And a thump o’ the skull laid him flat on his back;

Down went Cappy, &c.
Now Ralphy, exlonish’d, Cap’s fate did repine,

While it’s eyes like twee little pyerl buttons did shine:

He then spat on his hands, in a fury he grew,

Cries, “Gad smash! but awse hev settisfaction o’ thou,

“For knocking down Cappy,” &c.
Then this grim luikin fellow his bludgeon he rais’d,

When Ralphy eye'd Cappy, and then stood amaz’d:

But, fearin’ beside him he might be laid doon,

Threw him into the basket and bang'd out o’ toon;

Away went Cappy, &c.
He breethless gat hyem, and when lifting the sneck,

His wife exclaim’d, ‘Ralphy, thou’s suin ge’ttin back:’

‘Gettin back!’ replied Ralphy, ‘I wish I’d ne’er gyen,

In Newcassel they're fellin dogs, lasses, and men;

‘They’ve knock'd down Cappy! &c.

‘If aw gan to Newcassel, when comes wor pay week,

‘Aw’ll ken him agyen by the patch on his cheek :

‘Or if ever he enters wor toon wiv his stick,

We’ll thump him about till he’s black as au’d Nick,

‘For killin au’d Cappy,’&c.

Wiv tears in her een Peggy heard his sad tale,

And Ralph wiv confusion and terrow grew pale:

While Cappy’s transactions with grief they talk’d o’er,

He crap out o’ the basket, quite brisk o’ the floor;

Weel duin, Cappy! &c.



By the same.

SMASH! Jemmy, let us buss, weel off

And see Newcassel Races;

Set Dick the Trapper for some syep,

We’ll suin wesh a’ wor faces.

There’s ne’er a lad in Percy Main

Be bet this day for five or ten;
Wor packets lin’d wiv notes an’ cash,

Amang the cheps we’ll cut a dash:

For X Y Z, that bonny steed,

He bangs them a’ for pith and speed,

He’s sure to win the Cup, man.
We reach’d the Moor, wi’ sairish tews,

When they were gawn to start, man:

We gav a fellow tuppence each,

To stand upon a cart, man:

The bets flew round fra side to side;

“The field agyen X Y!” they cried:

We’d hardly time to lay them a’,

When in he cam—Hurraw! hurraw!

“Gad smash!” says aw, “ X Y’s the steed,

“He bangs them a’ for pith an’ speed,

“We never see’d the like, man!”
Next, to the tents we hied, to get

Some stuffin for wor bags, man;

Wi’ flesh we gaily pang’d wor hides—

Smoak’d nowse but patten shag, man:

While rum and brandy soak’d each chop,

We’d Jackey an’ fine Ginger Pop;

We gat what myed us winkin blin'—

When drunkey aw began to sing—

“Od smash! X Y, that bonny steed,

“Thou bangs them a’ for pith an’ speed,

“We never see’d the like, man!”
Next up amang the shows we gat,

Where folks a’ stood i’ flocks, man,

To see a chep play Bob and Joan,

Upon a wooden box, man;

While bairns and music fill’d the stage,

An’ some, by gox! were grim wi’ age:

When next au’d grin a pony brought,

Could tell at yence what people thowt!


“Od smash I” says aw, “if he’s the breed

“Of X Y Z, that bonny steed,

“Thou never see’d his like, man!”

But haud! when we cam to the toon,

What thinks tou we saw there, man?

We see’d a Blacky puffin, sweetin,

Sucking in fresh air, man;

They said that he could fell an ox—

His name was fighting Molinox:

But ere he fit another round,

His marrow fell’d him te the ground.

“Od smash!” says aw, “if thou’s sic breed

“As X Y Z, that bonny steed,

“Thou never see'd his like, man!”
Next ‘board the Steemer Boat we gat,

A laddie rang a bell, man;

We haddent sitten varry lang,

Till byeth asleep we fell, man:

But the noise seun myed poor Jemmy start—

He thowt ‘twas time to gan to wark,

For pick and boggers roar'd out he—

And myed sic noise it waken’d me.

“Od smash!” says aw, “X Y’s the steed,

“He bangs them a’ for pith and speed,

“Aw never see’d his like, man!”
When landed, straight off hyem aw gans,

An’ thunners at the door, man;

The bairns lap ower the bed wi' fright,

Fell smack upon the floor, man:

But to gar the wifey haud her tongue,

Show’d her the kelter aw had won:

She with a cinder brunt her toes,

An’ little Jacob broke his nose—

The brass aw’ve getten at the Race,

Will buy a patch for Jacob’s faee,—

So now my sang is duin, man.


By the same.

OH, ha’e ye heard the wondrous news?

To hear my sang ye’ll not refuse,

Since the new Steam Packet’s ta’en a cruise,

An’ bore away for Sunderland.

The folks cam flockin ower the keels,

Betwixt Newcassel Key an’ Sheels,

Before she ply’d her powerful wheels,

To work their way to Sunderland.

The sky was clear, the day was fine,

Their dress an’ luggage all in stile;

An’ they thought to cut a wondrous shine,

When they got safe to Sunderland.

Now when they to the Pier drew nigh,

The guns did fire and streamers fly;

In a moment all was hue and cry

Amang the folks at Sunderland.

There was male and female, lean an’ fat.

An’ some wi’ whiskers like a cat;

But a Barber’s ‘water-proof silk hat’

Was thought the tip at Sunderland.

In pleasures sweet they spent the day,

The short-liv’d moments wing’d away;

When they must haste, without delay,

To quit the port of Sunderland.

As on the ocean wide they drew,

A strong North wind against them blew,

And the billows dash'd the windows through:

A woeful trip to Sunderland!

Such howlin, screamin rend the sky,

All in confusion they did lie,

With pain and sickness like to die,

They wish’d they’d ne’er seen Sunderland.

A Lady lay beside the door.

Said, she had been at sea before,

Where foaming billows round did roar,

But ne’er had been at Sunderland:

She soon amongst the heap was thrown,

While here and there they sat alone:

Poor Puff had passage up and down,

But none could get from Sunderland.

Some in a corner humm’d their prayers,

While others choak’d the cabin stairs;

And bloody noses, unawares,

Were got in sight of Sunderland:

In vain they strove now to proceed,

So back again they came with speed;

But the passengers were all nigh deed,

When they got back to Sunderland.

Now their dresses fine look’d worse than rags,

While each a safe conveyance begs;

And many had to use their legs.

To travel home from Sunderland.

By this affair your reason guide.

When on the seas you’d wish to ride,

Choose a good strong ship, with wind and tide;

And so good bye to Sunderland.


By the Same.

SINCE Boney was sent to that place owre the sea.

We’ve had little to talk of, but far less to dee;

But now they’re a’ sayin, we seun will get better,

When yence they begin with the wonderful Gutter,

The greet lang Gutter, the wonderful Gutter:

Success to the Gutter! and prosper the Plough!

The way how aw ken—when aw was at the toon

Aw met Dicky Wise near the Rose and the Croon;

And as Dicky reads papers, and talks aboot Kings,

Wey he’s like to ken weel aboot Gutters and things;

So he talk’d owre the Gutter, &c.
He then a lang story began for to tell,

And said that it often was ca’d a Cannéll;

But he thowt, by a Gutter, aw wad understand,

That it’s cutten reet through a’ the Gentlemen’s land.

Now that’s caw’d a Gutter, &c.
Now, whether the sea’s owre big at the West,

Or scanty at Sheels—wey, ye mebby ken best;

For he says they can team, aye, without any bother,

A sup out o’ yen, a’ the way to the tother,

By the greet lang Gutter, &c.
Besides there’ll be bridges, and locks, and lairge keys,

And shippies, to trade wiv eggs, butter, and cheese:

And if they’ll not sail weel, for went o’mair force,

They’ll myek ne mair fuss, but yoke in a strang horse,

To pull through the Gutter, &c.
Ye ken there’s a deal that’s lang wanted a myel,

When they start wi’ the Gutter ‘twill thicken their kyell:

Let wages be high, or be just what they may,

It will certainly help to drive hunger away.

While they work at the Gutter, &c.
There’s wor Tyne sammun tee ‘ill not ken what’s the matter,

When they get a gobful o’ briny saut watter;

But if they should gan off, it’s cum’d into my nob,

For to myek sum amends we roun catch a’ the cod,

That sweems down the Gutter, &c.

So cum money and friends support Willy Airmstrang;

In vent’rin a thoosan ye canna get wrang;

While we get wor breed by the sweet o’ wor broo,

Success to the Gutter! and prosper the Plough!

The greet lang Gutter! the wonderful Gutter!

Success to the Gutter! and prosper the Plough!


By the same.

NOT long ago, a fray in Shields

And Sunderland began,

‘Tween the Seamen and Ship-owners,

How their vessels they should man;

But the Owners stiff, to them were deaf,

Which made the Seamen for to grumble,

For our Tyne Cossacks they soon did send.

The haughty pride of Jack to humble.

Whack row de dow, &c.
A letter being sent, they were

Call’d out, without delay;

But the Gen’ral thought he’d try their skill

Before they went away:

So round the Moor he made them scour,

Before him cut such wondrous capers;

Their praise he sounded high and low,

In all the three Newcassel papers.

He cries, My lads, you’re qualified

To do such wondrous feats,

That to Shields and Cleadon you must go,

To clear the lanes and streets;

Destroy all those who may oppose

The ships from sailing down the River,

And then our Prince will sure commend

Your deeds in arms, my boys, so clever.

The Butcher cries, If we begin,

We’ll surely kill and slay;

The Tanner swore they’d tan their hides

Before they came away:

A Taylor next, with fear perplext,

Said, he should like no other station,

Than to be the Doctor’s waiting man,

If sanction’d by the Corporation.

Te Shields they got, tho’ much fatigued,

Upon their worn-out hacks,

Some cried, “The Polish Lancers come!”

And others, “Tyne’s Cossacks!”

By some mishap, the Farrier’s cap

Blew off, but met with coolish treatment,

Into a huckster’s shop it went,—

Now Martin’s cap’s a tatie beatment.

For several weeks they rode about,

Like poachers seeking game;

The Marines so bold, as I am told.

Had better sight than them;

For every boat that was afloat,

They seiz’d upon with mad-like fury,

And to the bottom sent them straight,

Not asking either Judge or Jury.

The deed was done by this effort,

All opposition gone,

The ardour of the heroes cool’d,

’Cause they were lookers on:

Odsmash! says yen, if e’er agyen

There’s ony mair au’d boats to smatter,

We’ll hev horses that’s web-footed, then

We’ll fight byeth on the land and watter.

Now should our Tyne Cossacks e’er have

To face their enemies,

They’ll boldly meet them on the land,

Or on the stormy seas.

While the farmers sing, that they, next spring,

At spreading dung will ne'er be idle:

So—success to these Invincibles,

Their long swords, saddle, bridle.

Whack row de dow.


By the Same.

HO! lizzen, a’ ye neybors roun,

Yor clappers haud and pipes lay doon;

Aw’ve had a swagger through the toon,

Yen morning aw went suin ti’d.

Ye see, aw fand aw wasn’t thrang,

Se to Newcassel aw wad gang:—

Awse lapt a’ up, just like a sang,

An’ try te put a tune ti’d.
Bad times they’re now, yen weel may say;

Aw’ve seen, when on a market day,

Wiv wor toon’s cheps aw’d drink away,

An’ carry on the war, man:

But now yen staups an’ stares aboot,

To see what’s strange te carry oot;

Brass letters fassen’d on a cloot,

A unicorn, or star, man.

Ye see, aw thowt they wer te sell;

So ax’d the chep, if he cud tell,

What he wad tyek for C an’ L,

To nail upon maw hen hoose:

But he insisted, smash his crop!

Aw’d like a fuil mistyen the Shop;

An’ bad me quickly off te hop,

He’d bowt them for his awn use.

He flang maw hump sae out o' joint,

Sae, smash! aw thowt aw’d hev a pint!

But when aw gat te Peterpoint,

The chep that sells the candy,

The folks luik’d in wiv greedy wish,

He’d bonny siller iv a dish;

An’ just abuin, twee bits o’ fish

Was sweemin, fine as can be.

The tyen was like Hob Fewster’s cowt,

A’ spreckled round aboot the snout;

They flapp’d their tails aboot like owt,

Quite full o’ gamalerie:

An’ then the munny shin’d sae breet,

The greet Tom Cat wad hev a peep,

And paunder’d tiv he fell asleep;

The silly thing was weary.

Sae farther up aw teuk my cruize,

And luik’d amang the buits and shoes;

Where yen aw thowt they did ill use,

It sweem’d, aye, like a daisy:

Says aw, How! man, what's thou aboot?

Wey, cum an’ tyek that slipper oot;

Thou’s flay’d away thy sammun trout:

Says he, Young man, thou’s crazy!

Had aw not been a patient chap,

Aw wad hae fetch’d him sike a rap

As that which daver’d poor au’d Cap;*

But, faith! the Kitty scar’d me:

*Alluding to the song called Cappy, or the Pitman’s Dog

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