The Salamanca Corpus: a collection of Songs (1827)


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. See page 49.

Sae whisht aw grew; for, efter that,

Iv a lairge glass bowl, byeth round an’ flat,

Aw spy’d a maccaroni hat,

But at maw peril dar’d me.

Sae, efter dark, up Pilgrim-street,

The fine Gas Leeters shin’d sae breet,

That if a bonny lass ye meet,

Ye’d ken her varry features:

When pipes are laid, and a’ things duin,

They say Newcassel, varry suin,

Will darken, aye, the varry muin,

A’ wi’ thor fine Gas Leeters.


By the Same.

OH! Tommy, lad, howay! aw’s myek thou full o’ play;

Aw’m sartin that thou’ll byeth skip an’ lowpey o:

Aw’ve sike a bonny thing, an’ it’s myed o’ glass an’ tin,

An’ they say it's nyem’s a bonny Gleediscowpey o.

Skellyscowpey o, &c.
A gawn alang the Close, a bit laddy cock’d his nose,

An’ was keekin throu’d, aside the Jabel Growpey o:

Aw fand that he wad sell’d; se, odsmash! aw’m prood te tell’d!

For twee shillin bowt his bonny Gleediscowpey o.

Wey, then aw ran off hyem—Nan thought me myekin gyem;

Said, My Deavy* for a new aw’d had a cowpey o:

But she gurn’d, aye, like a sweeper, when aw held it tiv her peeper,

See’d church winders thro’ my bonny Gleediscowpey o.

*A term for the new invented Safety Lamp.

Then the bairns they ran like sheep, a’ strove to hev a peep,

Fra the awdest lass, aye, down to the dowpey o:

There Dick dang ower Cud, myed his nose gash out o’ blood,

As he ran to see the bonny Gleediscowpey o.

There was dwiney little Peg, not se nimmel i’ the leg,

Ower the three-footed stuil gat sic a cowpey o;

And Sandy, wiv his beak, myed a lump i’ mother’s cheek,

Climbin up to see the bonny Gleediscowpey o.

But she held it tiv her e’e, aye, till she cud hardly see,

Oh! then aboot the marketin she thowty o:

Wey, Lukey, man! says she, 'stead o’ shuggar, flesh, an’ tea,

Thou’s fetch’d us hyem thy bonny Gleediscowpey o.

She struck me wi’ surprise, while she skelly'd wiv her eyes,

An’ aw spak as if I'd gettin a bit rowpey o.

So, neybors, tyek a hint, if ye peep ower lang ye’ll squint,

For aw think they're reetly nyem’d, a Gleediscowpey o.


Tune—“Madam Fig’s Gala.

By the Same.

HOW! Marrows, I’se tip you a sang,

If ye’ll nobbit give your attention,

Aw’ve sarrow’d my king seven years,

And I’m now luikin out for the pension.

But when my adventures aw tell,

An’ should ye fin reason to doubt it,

An’ think it mair than aw deserve,

Aw’se just rest contented without it.

Rum ti idity, &c.

Ye mun ken, when aw first went to drill,

My gun aw flang ower my heed,

Fell’d the chep that stuid close in a-hint me,

He lay kickin and sprawlin for deed.

But when wor manuvers we lairn’d,

Wor Cornel o’ huz grew se fond, man,

He match’d us gyen four smashing targets,

Close ower ayont Heslop’s Pond, man.

Rum ti idity, &c.
We maircht off at nine i’ the mornin,

And at four we were not quite duin,

While a bite never enter’d wor thropples;

Wi’ hunger were fit to lie doon.

But wor fellows they tuik sic an aim,

Ye wad thought that they shot for a wager;

And yen chep, the deel pay his hide,

He varra nigh shot the Drum-Major.

Rum ti idity, &c.

Suin efter, ’twas on the Vairge Day,

‘Bout the time ‘at wor Cornel was Mayor,

Fra Gyetshead we fir’d ower their heeds,

Myed the fokes in Newcassel to stare.

To Newburn we then bore away,

An’ embark’d close aside a great Dung-hole,

Wi’ biscuit an’ plenty o’ yell,

An’ wor Adjutant Clerk o’ the Bung-hole.

Rum ti idity, &c.

Wor Triangler Lad lowp’d first ashore,

When the folkes ran like cows or mad bulls;

Iv a jiffy they cam back to fight us,

Wi’ pokers an’ three-footed stuils.

When they fand he was not Bonnyparty,

Nor nyen ov his sowgers fra France,

The music then started to play,

And we, for to caper and dance.

Rum ti idity, &c.
Sic wark as we had efter that,

Wad tyek a lang day for to tell,

How we fronted, an’ flankt it, an’ maircht

Through the sowgers at Thropley Fell.

At the Play-house we’ve shin’d mony a time

Wor scaups aw besmatter’d wi’ flour;

But that neet it wad myed the Deel gurn,

To see us a’ pouthert wi’ stour.

Rum ti idity, &c.
Yen day we were form’d in a ring,

An’ wor Cornel said this, ‘at ne’er spoke ill,

“Ye your servis, my lads, mun transfer

“Tiv a core caw’d the Durham foot Local.”

So tiv Sunderland if ye’d but gan,

An’ see us a’ stand in a line,

Ye’d swear that a few finer fellows

Ne’er cam fra the Wear and the Tyne.

Rum ti idity, &c.


Or, The Pitman turned Critick.

By the Same.

AS Jemmy the brakesman and me

Was taukin ’boot sentries and drill,

We saw, clagg’d agyen a yek tree,

A fower-square little hand-bill.

Says Jemmy, Now halt tiv aw read her;

When up cam wor canny au’d Sairgan:

Says he, Ye mun cum to the Teapot,

On Friday, and get yor discharge, man.

Tol de rol, &c.

We dress’d worsels smart, cam to toon,

Mister Goverment paid us wor brass;

Then we swagger’d off to the Hauf Meun,

To rozzel wor nobs wiv a glass.

We sang, smoak’d, and fuddled away,

And cut mony a wonderful caper;

Says aw, Smash! howay to the Play,

Or, what some fokes ca’ a Theāter.

Tol de rol, & c.

We ran, and seun fand a good plyace,

Aye, before they’d weel hoisted their leets;

When a Lyedy, wi’ gauze ower her fyace,

Cam an’ tummel’d ower twee o’ the seats.

Aw hardly ken’d what for to say;

But say’s aw, Div ye fin owse the warse?

Says her neybour, Pop Folly’s the Play,

An’ Maskamagrady’s the Farce.

Tol de rol, &c.
The Players they cam on iv dozens,

Wiv fine dusty buits without spurs;

And they tauk’d aboot mothers and cousins,

So did Jemmy and me about wors.

We had plenty o’ fiddlin and fleutin,

Till the bugles began for to blaw;

Then aw thowt’aw heerd wor Major shootin,

Fa’ in, my lads! stand in a raw!

Tol de rol, &c.
We then see’d a little smart chap,

Went lowpin and skippin aboot;

Says aw, Smash! thou is up to trap!

For he let the fokes byeth in and out.

There was Fawstaff, a fat luikin fellow,

Wiv a Miss in each airm, bein drunkey;

Then a black Lyedy, wiv a numbrella,

A fiddler, a bear, and a monkey.

Tol de rol, &c.
Next cam on a swaggerin blade,

He’s humpt o’ byeth shouthers an’ legs;

A blackymoor, painter by trade,

And o’ dancin was myekin his brags:

When a collier cam on, quick as thowt,

Maw sarties! but he gat a pauler;

Says he, Smash! Aw’ll dance thou for owt;

Then says aw, Five to fower o’ Kit Swaller!

Tol de rol, &c.
He danc’d the Keel Row to sic tuin,

His marrow declar'd he was bet:

Some yell ower Kit’s shouthers was slung,

So they byeth had their thropples weel wet.

A lyem sowger cam on wiv twee sticks,

Then a bussy-tail’d pinkey wee Frenchman;

Next a chep, wiv some young lunaticks,

Was wanting the mad-house at Bensham.

Tol de rol, &c.

There was Punch fed his bairn wiv a laidel,

And ga’d some kirn milk for to lyep;

Then he thumpt it till he wasn’t yebbel,

Because the poor thing cuddent gyep.

Some Were shootin shoe-ties iv a street;

Lang Pat, wiv his last dyin speeches,

Wagg’d han’s wiv a lass, that, yen neet,

Tuik sevenpence out o’ maw breeches.

Tol de rol, &c.

Then a Gentleman’s housey tuik feyre,

As the watchman caw’d ‘Past ten o’clock!’

The manny fell into the meyre,

And the wife ran away iv her smock.

The Skipper, that saddled the cow,

And rid seven miles for the howdy,

Was dancin wiv Jenny Bawloo,

That scadded her gob wiv a crowdy.

Tol de rol, &c.
Then a chep, wiv a show on his back,

Cam an’ show’d us fine pictures, se funny:

He whupt it a’ off in a crack,

Because they wad gether ne munny.

To end with, their cam a Balloon,

But some gav it’s puddings a slit, man;

For, afore it gat up to the meun,

It empty’d itsel i’ the pit, man.

Tol de rol, &c.


IT’S hae ye heard the ill that’s duin?

Or hae ye lost? Or hae ye won?

Or hae ye seen what mirth an’ fun,

At fam’d Newcassel Races, o?

The weather fine, an’ folks sae gay,

Put on their best and bent their way

To the Town Moor, to spend the day,

At fam’d Newcassel Races, o.

There shows of all sorts you may view;

Polito’s grand collection too;

Such noise an’ din, an’ lilli-bulloo,

At fam’d Newcassel Races, o.

There some on horses sat astride,

An’ some in gigs did snugly ride,

With smart young wenches by their side;

Look’d stylish at the Races, o.

A Tailor chep aw chanc’d to spy,

Was sneekin through the crwd sae sly,

For he’d tyen the darling of his eye,

To swagger at the Races, o.

He says, My dear, we’ll see the show,

Egad! says she, I do not know,

It looks so vulgar and so low,

We’d better see the Races, o.

One Buck cries, Demme, go the rig!

Got two smart lasses in a gig;

He crack’d his whip, an’ look’d quite big,

While swagg’rin at the Races, o.

But soon, alas! the gig upset,

An ugly thump they each did get;

Some say, that he his breeches wet,

For fear, when at the Races, o.

The one was lyem’d abuin the knee,

The other freeten’d desp’rately;

“This demm’d unlucky job!” says she,

“Has fairly spoil’d my Races, o!”

He gat them in, wi’ some delay,

An’ te Newcassel bent his way;

But oft, indeed, he curs’d the day,

That e’er he’d seen the Races, o.

Now some were singin songs sae fine,

An’ some were lying drunk like swine,

Some drank porter, others wine;

Rare drinkin’ at the Races, o!

The wanton wags in corners sat,

Wiv bonny lasses on their lap;

An’ mony a yen gat tit for tat,

Before they left the Races, o.

Now lads and lasses myed for toon,

And in the road they oft lay doon;

Faith! mony a lassie spoil’d her goon,

A comin fra the Races, o:

Some gat hyem, midst outs and ins,

Some had black eyes an’ broken shine,

An’ some lay drunk amang the whins,

A comin frae the Races, o.

Let every one his station mense,

By acting like a man of sense;

‘Twill save him mony a pund expense,

When he gans te the Races, o.

Kind Friends, I would you all advise,

Good counsel ye shud ne’er despise,

The world’s opinion always prize,

When ye gan te the Races, o.


SOME time since, a Pitman was tyen varry bad,

So ca’d his wife Mall te the side of his bed:

Thou mun run for a Doctor, the forst can be fund,

For maw belly’s a’ wrang, an’ aw’m varry fast bund.
Wey, man, thou's a fuil, aw ken thou’s fast boon,

Wi’ thy last bindin munny thou bowt this new goon:

Nae Doctor can lowze thou one morsel or crumb,

For thou’s bun te Tyne Main for this ten month te come.

Aw divent mean that—maw belly's sae sair;

Run fast, or aw'll dee lang afore ye get there!

So away Mally ran to their awn doctor’s shop;

Gie me somethin for Tom, for his belly’s stopt up.

A Glister she gat—and nae langer she’d wait,

But straight she ran hyem, an’ gat out a clean plate:

Oh, Tommy! maw Tom! ony haud up thy heed!

Here’s somethin ‘ill mend thou, suppose thou was deed.

Thou mun eat up that haggish, but sup the thin forst;

Aw’s freeten’d that stoppel it will be the worst,

Oh, Mally ! thou'll puzzen poor Tom altogether,

If aw drink a’ the thin, an’ then eat up the blether.

He manag’d it a’, wiv a great deal to do.—

Oh, Mally! oh, Mally! Thou’s puzzen’d me now!

But she tuik nae notice of poor Tommy’s pain,

But straight she ran off te the Doctor’s again.

O Doctor! maw hinny! Tom’s tyen’d a’ thegether,

He supp’d up the thin, then he eat up the blether:

The blether was tuif, it myest stuck in his thropple;

If he haddent bad teeth he wad eaten the stopple.

Oh, woman! you have been in too great a hurry,

‘Stead of mending your husband, you’ll have him to bury:

‘Stead of making him better, you’ve sure made him warse,

For you’ve put in his mouth what should gone up his a——e.


SUM time since, sum wild beasts there cam te the toon,

And in the collection a famous Baboon,

In uniform drest—if my story you’re willin

To believe, he gat lowse, and ran te the High Fellin.

Fol de rol la, &c.

Three Pitmen cam up—they were smoaking their pipe,

When straight in afore them Jake lowp’d ower the dike:

Ho, Jemmy! smash, marrow! hereis a reed-coated Jew

For his fyace is a’ hairy, an’ he hez on nae shoe.

Wey, man, thou’s a fuil! for ye divent tell true,

If thou says ‘at that fellow was ever a Jew:

Aw’ll lay thou a quairt, as sure’s my nyem’s Jack,

That queer luikin chep’s just a Russian Cossack.

He’s nae Volunteer, that aw ken biv his wauk;

An’ if he’s outlandish, we’ll ken biv his tauk:

He’s a lang sword ahint him, ye’ll see’d when he turns;

Ony luik at his fyace! smash his byens, how he gurns!

Tom flang doon his pipe, an’ set up a great yell;

He’s owther a spy, or Bonnypairty’s awnsel:

Iv a crack the High Fellin was in full hue an’ cry,

Te catch Bonnypairt, or the hairy French spy.

The wives scamper’d off, for fear he should bite,

The men-folks an’ dogs ran te grip him sae tight;

If we catch him, said they, he’s hev ne lodgin here,

Ne, not e’en a drop o’ Reed Robin’s sma’ beer.

Fol de rol la, &c.

WHILE strolling down sweet Sandgate-street,

A man o’ war’s blade I chanc’d to meet;

To the sign of the Ship I haul'd him in,

To drink a good glass, till the tide came in.

Till the tide came in, &c.

I took in tow young Squinting Meg,

Who well in the dance could shake her leg:

My friend haul’d Oyster Mally in,

And we jigg’d them about till the tide came in.

Till the tide came in, &c.
We boos’d away till the break of day,

Then ask’d what shot we had to pay?

You’ve drank, said the host, nine pints of gin;

So we paid him his due—now the tide was in.

Now the tide was in, &c.

THEY’ve prest my dear Johnny,

Sae sprightly and bonny,—

Alack! I shall ne’er mair de weel, o;

The kidnapping squad

Laid hold of my lad

As he was unmooring the keel, o.
O my sweet laddie,

My canny keel laddie,

Sae handsome, sae canty, and free, o;

Had he staid on the Tyne,

Ere now he’d been mine,

But, oh! He’s far ower the sea, o.

Should he fall by commotion,

Or sink in the ocean,

(May sic tidings ne’er come to the Kee, o!

I could ne’er mair be glad,

For the loss of my lad

Wad break my poor heart, and I’d dee, o.

O my sweet laddie, &c.

But should my dear tar

Come safe from the war,

What heart-bounding joy wad aw feel, o!

To the Church we wad flee,

And married be,

And again he should row in his keel, o.

O, my sweet laddie!

My canny keel laddie!

Sae handsome, sae canty, and free, o!

Though far frae the Tyne,

I still hope he'll be mine,

And live happy as any can be, o.



LAST Setterday, as we were gannin

Frae Newcassel, Dick Martin and I,

We caw’d at the sign o’ the Cannon,

Because we byeth turn’d varry dry.

They were taukin o’ reedin the papers,

‘Bout Cobbett an’ his politics,

How fine he exposes the capers

Of Government’s comical tricks.

He tauks o’ the millions expences

Browt on us by gannin te War:

But he maun be a man o’ greet senses,

Or he cuddent hae reckon’d sae far.

He tauks o’ the National Debt,

O’ sinequeers, pensions, an’ such;

Wey, aw think how wor Mally wad fret,

If she’d awn just quarter as much.

Mister Government mun hae greet credit,

Or he ne’er wad get into debt;

But they tell yen he hez sike a spirit,

Aw’s fish that comes intiv his net.

Says Dick, If aw wanted a shillin,

Want, then, yor sartin aw must;

For, if yen was ever sae willin,

Ye divent ken where to seek trust.

We expected that, when it cam Peace,

Wor sowgers and sailors reduc’d,

Wor burdens they quickly wad cease,

But, smash! man, we’ve been sair seduc’d.

Says Dicky, The taxes this year,

Myeks yen cry, iv a rage, Devil ‘hang them!

For the backey an’ yell they're sae dear—

Wey, it’s just a colloguin amang them.

Good folks! aw wad hev ye beware

Of some that in Parliament sit;

For they’re not hauf sae good as they waur,

Sin’ that taistrel they caw’d Billy Pitt.

If ye ‘loo them te de as they please,

Believe me, aw’m shure, aye, an’ sartin,

They’ll bring us, syef doon te wor knees!

Se ended byeth Dick an’ Jack Martin.


AT Cullercoats, near to the sea,

Lives one I often think upon;

Bewitching is the lovely e’e

Of bonny Nancy Wilkinson.

By Tyne, or Blyth, or Coquet clear,

No swain did ever blink upon

A charmer, equal to my dear

My handsome Nancy Wilkinson.
Sweet cherry cheeks, a lofty brow

Bright hair, that waves in links upon

A neck, white as the purest snow,

Has comely Nancy Wilkinson.

By Tyne, or Blith, &c.
Her virtues, like her beauty, rare;

But terms I ne’er can think upon,

Fit to panegyrize my fair,

My constant Nancy Wilkinson.

By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.
For her rich ladies I’d refuse,

With all their shining tinsels on;

None else can wake my slumbering Muse,

But lovely Nancy Wilkinson.

By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.
Aurora, from the Eastern sky,

Her robes the glowing tints upon,

Is not so viewly to mine eye,

As modest Nancy Wilkinson.

By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.
Let sordid Misers count their wealth,

And guineas guineas clink upon;

All I request of heav’n is health,

And dear, dear Nancy Wilkinson.

By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.



ME nyem it’s Billy Oliver,

Iv Benwell toon aw dwell;

An’ aw’s a clever chep, aw’s sure,

Tho’ aw de say’d mesell.

Sec an a clever chep am aw, am aw, am aw,

Sec an a clever chep am aw.

There’s not a lad iv a’ wur wark,

Can put or hew wi’ me;

Nor not a lad iv Benwell toon

Can coax the lasses sae.

Sec an a clever chep, &c.
When aw gans tiv Newcassel toon

Aw myeks mesell sae fine;

Wur neybors stand an' stare at me,

An’ say, Eh! what a shine!

Sec an a clever chep, &c.
An’ then aw walks wiv sec an air,

That if the folks hev eyes,

They a’wis think it’s sum greet man,

That’s cumin i’ disguise.

Sec an a clever chep, &c.
An’ when aw gans down Westgate-street,

An’ alang biv Denton Chare,

Aw whussels a’ the way aw gans,

To myek the people stare.

Sec an a clever chep, &c.
An’ then aw gans intiv the Cock,

Ca’s for a pint o’ beer;

An’ when the lassie comes in wid,

Aw a’wis says, Maw dear!

Sec an a clever chep, &c.
An’ when aw gets a pint o’ beer,

Aw a’wis sings a sang;

For aw’ve a nice yen aw can sing,

Six an’ thorty vairses lang.

Sec an a clever chep, &c.
An’ if the folks that’s i’ the house,

Cry, “Had yur tongue, ye cull!”

Aw’s shure to hev a fight wi’ them,

For aw’s as strang as ony bull.

Sec an a clever chep, &c.
An’ when aw’ve had a fight or twee,

An’ fairly useless grown;

Aw back, as drunk as aw can be,

To canny Benwell toon.

Sec an a clever chep, &c.



From Newcastle, Sept. 1, 1815.

HOWAY, a’ me marrows, big, little, and drest,

The furst of a’ seets may be seen;

It’s the Balloon, man, se greet! aye, faiks! it’s ne jest

Tho’ it seems a’ the warld, like a dream.

Aw read iv the papers, by gocks! aw remember,

It’s to flee without wings i’ the air,

On this varry Friday, the furst of September,

Be it cloudy, wet weather, or fair.

And a man, mun, there means in this varry Balloon,

Above, ‘mang the stars to fly,

And to haud a convarse wi’ the man i’ the moon,

And cobwebs to sweep frae the sky.

So we started frae hyem by eight i’ the morn,

Byeth faither, and mother, and son,

But fand a’ wor neybors had started before,

To get in gude time for the fun.

The lanes were a’ crowded, some riding, some walking,

Aw ne’er see’d the like iv my life;

‘Twas Bedlam broke oot, aw thowt by their talking,

Every bairn, lad, lass, and the wife.

The folks at the winders a’ jeer’d as we past,

And thowt a’ wor numbers surprisin;

They star’d and they glowr’d, an’ ax’d, in jest,

Are all of you pitmen a rising?

Aw fand, at the toon te, the shops a’ shut up,

And the streets wi’ folks were sae flocken;

The walls wi’ Balloon papers sae closely clag’d up,

Be cavers! it luckt like a hoppen.

A fellow was turnin it a’ into joke,

Another was a’ the folks hummin,

While a third said, it was a bag full o’ smoke,

That ower wor heeds was a cummin.

To the furst o’ these cheps, says aw, Nyen o’ yur fun,

Or aw’ll lay thee at length on the styens,

Or thy teeth aw’ll beat oot, as sure as a gun,

And mevies aw’ll choke ye wi’ byens.

To the beak o’ the second aw held up me fist,

D—mn! Aw’ll bray ye as black as a craw,

Aw’ll knock oot yur e’e, if aw don’t aw’ll be kist,

An’ mump a’ the slack o’ yur jaw.

Aw put them to reets, an’ onward aw steer’d,

And wonder'd the folks aw had see’d,

But a’ was palaver that ever aw heurd,

So aw walk’d on as other folk did.

At last aw gat up on the top o’ some sheds,

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