The Salamanca Corpus: a collection of Songs (1827)

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Biv the help of an ould crazy ladder;

And ower the tops o’ ten thousand folks heads,

Aw suin gat a gliff o’ the bladder.

D—mn, a bladder aw call it! by gocks, aw am reet,

For o’ silk dipt iv leadeater melted,


[77]
It’s made of, an’ Lord! what a wonderful seet,

When the gun tell'd that it was filated.

‘Twas just like the boiler at wor Bella Pit,

O’er which were a great cabbage net,

Which fassen’d, by a parcel of strings sae fit,

A corf for the mannie to sit.


As aw sat at me ease aw cud hear a’ the folk

Gie their notions aboot the Balloon;

Aw thowt aw shud brust when aw heurd their strange talk,

About the man’s gaun to the Moon.

Says yen, iv a whisper, Aw think aw hev heurd

He is carryin a letter to Bonny,

That’s ower the sea to flee like a burd;

The thowt, by my jinkers! was funny.


A chep wiv a fyace like a poor country bumpkin,

Sed he heurd, but may hap tisent true,

That the thing whilk they saw was a great silken pumpkin,

By me eye, what a lilly-ba-loo!

Another said, Sadler (for that is the nyem

Of the man) may pay dear for his frolic,

When he’s up iv the cloods (a stree for his fame!)

His guts may hev twangs of the cholic.


The man a’ this time the great bladder was filling,

Wiv stuff that wad myed a dog sick,

It smert jast as though they were garvage distilling,

Till at length it was full as a tick.

They next strained the ropes, to keep the thing steady,

Put colley and drams iv the boat;

Then crack went the cannon, to say it was ready,

An’ aw see’d the bladder afloat.


Not a word was there heurd, a’ eyes were a stairin,

For the off gannen moment was near:


[78]

To see sic a crowd se whisht was amazen,

Aw thowt aw fand palish and queer.

After waitin a wee, aw see’d him come to,

Shaken hands, as aw thowt, wiv his friend;

Of his mountin the corf aw had a full view,

As he sat his ways down at the end.

The ropes were then cut, and upwards he went,

A wavin his flag i’ the air;

Ev’ry head was turn’d up, and a’ eyes wur intent

On this comical new flying chair:

It went it’s ways up like a lavrick sae hee,

Till it luckt ‘bout the size of a skyate;

When in tiv a cloud it was lost t’ the e’e,

Aw wisht the man better i’ fate.


GREEN’S BALLOON.

[Mess. Green ascended in their grand Coronation Balloon, from the Nuns’ field, in Newcastle, four times: the first-time, on Wednesday, May 11; second time, on Whit-Monday, May 23; third time, on Monday, May 30; and the fourth time, on Race Thursday, July 14, 1825.]



Tune—“Barbara Bell.”
NOW just come an lissen a while, till aw tell, man,

Of a wonderful seet t’other day aw did see:

As aw was gaun trudgen alang by mysel, man,

Aw met wi’ wor skipper, aye just on the Key.

O skipper, says aw, mun, wye where are ye gannen?

Says he, come wi’ me, for aw’s gaun up the toon;

Now just come away, for we munnet stand blabbin,

Or we’ll be ower lang for to see the Balloon.

Right fal de, &c.
The balloon, man, says aw, wye aw never heard tell on’t,

What kind o’ thing is it? now skipper tell me:

Says he, It’s a thing that gans up by the sel’ on’t,

And if ye’ll gan to the Nuns’ Gate, man, ye’ll see.


[79]
So to the Nuns’ Gate then we went in a hurry,

And when we gat there, man, the folks stood in crowds;

And aw heerd a chep say, he wad be varry sorry

If it went to the moon, reet clean thro’ the clouds.

Right fal de, &c.

We stared and luikt round us, but nought could we see, man,

Till a thing it went up as they fir’d a gun:

Cried the skipper, Aw warnd that’s the little Pee-dee, man,

Gyen to tell folks above ‘twill be there varry suin.

Then a’ iv a sudden it cam ower the house tops, man,

It was like a hay-stack, and luikt just as big;

Wiv a boat at the tail on’t, all tied tid wi’ ropes, man,

Begox! it was just like wor awd Sandgate gig.

Right fal de, &c.

And there was twe cheps that sat in the inside, man,

Wi’ twe little things they kept poweyin her roun’;

Just like wor skipper when we’ve a bad tide, man:

Aw warnd they were fear’d that the thing wad come down;

And still the twe cheps kept poweyin her reet, man,

For upwards she went, aye clean ower the toon;

Theypowey’d till theypowey’d her reet out o’ seet,man,

That was a’ that we saw o’ this grand air balloon.

Right fal de, &c.
The skipper cam to me, tuik haud o’my hand, man,

Says, What do ye think o’ this seet that’s been given?

Says aw, Aw can’t tell, but it’s a’ very grand, man;

Aw wish the cheps byeth safely landed in heaven.

‘Twad be a good plan to tyek’s up when we’re deed, man;

For which way we get there ‘twill be a’ the syem:

An’ then for wor Priests we’d stand little need, man:

So me an’ the skipper we went wor ways hyem.

Right fal de, &c.
THE NEWGATE STREET PETITION

TO MR. mayor.

ALACK! and well-a-day!

Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor;

We are all to grief a prey,

Mr Mayor:

They are pulling Newgate down,

That structure of renown,

Which so long hath graced our town,

Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor.


Antiquarians think’t a scandal,

Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor;

It would shock a Goth or Vandal,

They declare:

What! destroy the finest Lion

That ever Man set eye on!

‘Tis a deed all must cry fie on,

Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor.


Saint Andrew’s Parishioners,

Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

Loud blame the Jail-Commissioners,

Mr Mayor;

To pull down a Pile so splendid,

Shews their powers are too extended

And The Act must be amended,

Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor.

If Blackett Street they’d level,

Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

Or with Bond Street* play the devil,

Who would care:

*Now called Prudhoe Street.
[81]
But on Newgate’s massive walls,

When Destruction’s hammer falls,

For our sympathy it calls,

Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor.


‘Tis a Pile of ancient standing,

Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

Deep reverence commanding,

Mr Mayor;

Men of Note and Estimation,

In their course of Elevation,

Have in it held a station,

Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor.


Tis a first-rate kind of College,

Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

Where is taught much useful knowledge,

Mr Mayor:

When our fortunes “gang aglee,”

If worthy Mr Gee*

Does but on us turn his key,

All’s soon well, Mr Mayor.


In beauty, nought can match it,

Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor:

Should you think we throw the Hatchet,

Mr Mayor,

John A——n, with ease,

(In purest Portugueze)

Will convince you, if you please

To consult him, Mr Mayor.


He’ll prove t’ye, in a trice,

Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

‘Tis a pearl of great price,

Mr Mayor:


*The Gaoler.
[82]
For of ancient wood or stone,

The value—few or none,

Can better tell than John,

Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor.


Of this Edifice bereft,

Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

To the Neighbourhood what’s left?

Mr Mayor,

The Nuns’ Gate, it is true,

Still rises to our view,

But that Modern Babel, few

Much admire, Mr Mayor.


True, a Building ‘tis, unique,

Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

A charming fancy-freak,

Mr Mayor:

But candour doth impel us,

To own, that Strangers tell us,

The Lodge of our Odd-Fellows,

They suppos’d it, Mr Mayor.

Still, if Newgate’s doom’d to go,

Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

To the Carliol Croft—heigho-ho!

Mr Mayor,

As sure as you're alive,

(And long, sir, may you thrive,)

The shock we’ll ne’er survive,.

Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor.

Then pity our condition,

Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

And stop it’s demolition,

Mr Mayor;

The Commissioners restrain,

From causing us such pain,

And we’ll pay, and ne’er complain,

The Jail-Cess, Mr Mayor.


[83]
BURDON’S ADDRESS TO HIS CAVALRY.

A PARODY. —BY JAMES MORRISON.

SOLDIERS whom Newcastle’s bred,

View your Cornel at your head,

Who’s been call’d out of his bed

To serve his Country.

Now’s the time, when British Tars

With their Owners are at wars;

And they’ve sent for us—O Mars!

Assist the Cavalry!


Now, my noble Sons of Tyne!

Let your valour nobly shine;

There at last has come a time

To shew your bravery.

But, my lads, be not alarm’d!

You’ve to fight with men unarm’d!

Who in multitudes have swarm’d!—

Before us they must flee!


Then they cry out, every man,

“Cornel, we’ll de a’ we can!”

So away to Shields they ran:

O what Cavalry!

But they had no call to fight,

The Marines had bet them quite;

And the Cornel’s made a Knight,

For the Victory!


THE COLLIER'S KEEK AT THE NATION.

HUZ Colliers, for a’ they can say,

Hae byeth heads and hearts that are sound—

And if we’re but teun i’ wor way,

There’s few better cheps above ground.
[84]
Tom Cavers and me, fra West Moor,

On a kind ov a jollification,

Yen day myed what some folks call a tour,

For a keek at the state o’ the nation.

We fand ere we’d lang been on jaunt,

That the world wasn’t gannin sae cliver—

It had gettin a Howdon-Pan cant,

As aw gat once at wor box dinner.

Monny tyels, tee, we heard, stiff and gleg—

Some laid the world straight as a die—

Some crook’d as a dog’s hinder leg,

Or like wor fitter's nose, all a-wry.

One tell’d me, my heart for to flay,

(Thinking aw knew nowt aboot town)

Out o’ my three-and-sixpence a-day,

The King always gat half-a-crown.

Aw said they were fuels not to ken

That aw gat a’ the brass me awnsel’—

Ga’ wor Peg three white shillins, and then

Laid the rest out on backey and yell!


They blabb’d oot that aw was mistuen—

That maw brains sairly wanted seduction—

Without animal Parliaments seun

We wad a’ gan to wreck and construction—

That we’d wrought ower lang for wor lair—

That landlords were styen-hearted tykes—

For their houses and land only feir,

To divide them and live as yen likes!


To bring a’ these fine things aboot

Was as easy as delving aalent is—

Only get some rapscallion sought oot,

And to Lunnin sent up to ‘present us.

Thinks aw to mesel’ that’s weel meant—

There’s wor Cuddy owre iaith to dee good,

We’ll hev him to Parliament sent,

Where he’ll bray, smash his byens, for his blood.


[85]
Then, says aw, Tommy, keep up thy pluck,

We may a’ live to honour wor nation—

So here’s tiv Au’d England, good luck!

And may each be content in his station.

Huz Colliers, for a’ they can say,

Hae byeth heeds and hearts that are sound—

And if we’re but teun i’ wor way,

There’s few better cheps above ground.


BLIND WILLIE SINGING,

YE gowks that ‘bout dad Handel swarm,

Your senses but to harrow—

Styen deef to strains that ‘myest wad charm

The heart iv a wheelbarrow—

To wor Keyside a while repair,

‘Mang malls an’ bullies pig in,

To hear encor’d, wi’ mony a blair,

Poor au’d Blind Willie’s singin’.

To hear fine Sinclair tune his pipes

Is hardly worth a scuddock—

It’s blarney fair, and stale as swipes

Kept ower lang i’ the huddock.

Byeth Braham and Horn behint the wa’

Might just as weel be swingin,

For a’ their squeelin’s nowt at a’

Beside Blind Willie singin’.

About “Sir Maffa lang he sung,

Far into high life keekin’—

Till “Buy Broom Buzzoms” roundly swung.

He ga’ their lugs a sweepin’.

A stave yence myed Dumb Bet to greet;

Sae fine wi’ catgut stringin’—



Bold Airchy swore it was a treat

To hear Blind Willie singin’

[86]
Aw’ve heard it said, Fan Welch, one day,

On pepper’d oysters messin’,

Went in to hear him sing and play,

An’ get a moral lesson.

She vow’d ‘twas hard to haud a heel—

An thowt (the glass while flingin)

Wi’ clarts they should be plaister’d weel

That jeer’d Blind Willie’s singin’.


It’s fine to hear wor bellman talk—

It’s wondrous fine and cheerin’

To hear Bet Wat and Euphy Scott,

Scold, fight, or bawl fresh heerin’:

To see the keels upon the Tyne,

As thick as hops a’ swimmin’,

Is fine indeed—but still mair fine

To hear Blind Willie singin’.


Lang may wor Tyneside lads, sae true,

In heart byeth blithe an’ mellow,

Bestow the praise that’s fairly due

To this bluff, honest fellow—

And when he’s hamper’d i’ the dust,

Still i’ wor memory springin’,

The times we’ve run till like to brust

To hear Blind Willie singin’.


But may he live to cheer the bobs

That skew the coals to shivers,

Whee like their drink to grin their gobs,

And burn their varry livers.

So, if ye please, aw’ll myek an end

My sang ne farther dingin’,

Lest ye may think that aw pretend

To match Blind Willie singin.’


[87]

BOLD ARCHY AND BLIND WILLIE’S LAMENT

ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN STAR KEY.

“What! is he gyen?” Bold Airchy said,

And moungin’ scratch'd his head—

“O can sic waesome news be true?

Is Captain Starkey dead?

Aw’s griev’d at heart—push round the can—

Seun empty frae wor hands we’ll chuck it—

For now we’ll drink wor last t’ him,

Since he hez fairly kick'd the bucket.

“My good shag hat ne mair aw’ll wave

His canny fyace to see—

Wor bairns’ bairns will sing o’ him,

As Gilchrist sings o’ me—

For O! he was a lad o’ wax!

Aw’ve seen him blithe, an’ often mellow—

He might hae faults, but, wi’ them a’,

We’ve seldom seen a better fellow.


“Yen day they had me drown’d for fun,

Which myed the folks to blair.

Aw myest could wish, for his dear sake,

That aw’d been drown’d for fair.

On monny a day when cannons roar,

Yen loyal heart will then be missin’—

If there be yell, we’ll toast his nyem—

If there be nyen, he’ll get wor blissin’.”


Blind Willis then strumm’d up his kit

Wi’ monny a weary drone,

Which Thropler, drunk, and Cuckoo Jack

Byeth answer’d wiv a groan.

“Nice chep! poor ehep!” Blind Willie said—

“My heart is pierc’d like onny riddle,

To think aw’ve liv’d to see him dead—

Aw never mair ‘ill play the fiddle.


[88]
“His gam is up, his pipe is out,

And fairly laid his craw—

His fame ‘ill blaw about, just like

Coal dust at Shiney-Raw.

He surely was a joker rare—

What times there’d been for a’ the nation,

Had he but liv’d to be a Mayor,

The glory o’ wor Corporation.


“But he hez gi’en us a’ the slip,

And gyen for evermore—



Aud Judy and Jack Caxon, tee,

Hae gyen awhile before—

And we maun shortly follow them,

An’ tyek the bag, my worthy gentles—

Then what ‘ill poor Newcassel dee,

Deprived iv all her ornamentals!

“We’ll moralize—for dowly thowts,

Are mair wor friends than foes—

For death, like when the tankard’s out,

Brings a’ things tiv a close.

May we like him, frae grief and toil,

When laid in peace beneath the hether—

Upon the last eternal shore

A’ happy, happy meet together!”

THE QUACK DOCTORS.

WOR laureate may sing for his cash,

Of laws, constitution, and proctors,

Contented aw’ll blair for a dash

At the slee, understrapping quack doctors.

They gob o’ their physical skill,

Till their jaws yen might swear they wad rive,

To prove what’s alive they can kill,

And what’s dead they can suen myek alive.
[89]
A’ ye wi’ the glanders snout-full,

Repair to each wondrous adviser—

For though ye were born a stark fuel,

Depend on’t, they’ll seun myek ye wiser.

Their physic, they say, in a trice,

Snaps every disease like a towt:

But the best on’t all is their advice—

Ye can get it free gratis for nowt.


Wiv a kessle puffed up to the chin,

Went to see yen, a strappin’ young doxy,

He examin’d her lugs and her een,

And declared her myest dead o’ the dropsy.

The lassie he therefore wad tap,

At which she set up a great yell;

When out popp’d a little wee chap

Myest as wise as the doctor’s awnsel’.


Next they teuk him a man, whee for fancies,

A’ day wad sit silent and sad—

He upheld that he'd lost his reet senses,

And therefore he surely was mad.

But now he gies monny a roar,

Of the doctor’s great skill to convince—

If he was’nt a madman before,

At least he’s been yen ever since.


Last, in hobbled gouty Sir Peter,

To get ov his drugs a good dose—

Three days he deep studied his water,

Ere he’d his opinion disclose.

Then proclaim’d that Sir Peet was ower fat,

(For the doctor was never mistyen)

By my faiks! but he cur’d him o’ that—

Seun Sir Peet left the world skin and byen.


Now, he that winn’t loyally sing,

May he swing like an ass in a tether,


[90]

Good hilth and lang life to the King,

To keep us in union together.

The heart iv each Briton be leads

To rejoice i’ the fall o’ the quacks—

So we’ll ay keep the brains i’ wor heeds,

An’ we’ll ay hae the flesh on wor backs.

A VOYAGE TO LUNNIN.

LANG years ower meadows, moors, and muck,

I cheerly on did waddle—

So various is the chance o’ luck

Between the grave and cradle.

When wark at hyem turn’d rather scant,

I thought ‘twas fair humbuggin’;

An’ so aw even teuk a jaunt,

Faiks, a’ the way to Lunnin.
Lord Howick was my chosen ship,

Weel rigg’d byeth stem and quarter

The maister was a cannie chep—

They ca’d him Jacky Carter.

Wi’ heart as free frae guilt as care,

I pack’d up all my duddin,

And shipp’d aboard—he wind blew fair—

Away we sail'd for Lunnin.


Safe ower the bar a-head we tint—

The day was fine and sunny;

And seun we left afar behint,

Wor land o’ milk and honey.

But few their dowly thoughts can tyem—

May-be the tears were comin’—

Sair griev’d, ne doubt, to pairt wi’ hyem,

Though gaun to keek at Lunnin.


[91]

Fareweel, Tyne Brig and cannie Kee,

Where aw’ve seen monny a shangy,

Blind Willie, Captain Starkey tee—

Bold Archy and great Hangy.

Fareweel Shoe Ties, Jack Tate, Whin Bob,

Cull Billy, and Jack Cummin,

Au’d Judy, Jen Balloo—aw’ll sob

Your praises all at Lunnin.
Some such as me the hyke made sick,

And myed them rue their roamin’.

Still foremost plung’d wor gallant ship,

And left the water foamin’.

Waes me! but ‘tis a bonny seet,

O land o’ beef and pudding!

To see thy tars, in pluck complete,

Haud fair their course for Lunnin!

Hail, Tyneside lads! in collier fleets,

The first in might and motion—

In sunshine days or stormy neets

The lords upon the ocean.

Come England’s foes—a countless crew—

Ye’ll gie their gobs a scummin’,

And myek them a’ the day to rue

They glib’d their jaws at Lunnin.

I thought mysel a sailor good,

And flire’d while some lay sprawlin’,

Till where the famous Robin Hood

Sends out his calms or squallin’—

‘Twas there aw felt aw scarce ken how—

For a’ things tuek a bummin’,

And myed me wish, wi’ retch and spew,

The ship safe moor’d at Lunnin.


As round by Flambrough Head we shot,

Down cam a storm upon us—


[92]
Thinks aw, we're fairly gyen to pot—

O dear!—hev mercy on us!

Ower northern plains, ‘twill dowly sound,

And set their eyes a runnin’,

When they shall tell that aw was drown’d,

Just gannin up to Lunnin.


To cheer wor hearts in vain they brought

The porter, grog, and toddy—

My bead swam round whene’er aw thought

Upon a fat pan- soddy.

“O what the plague fetch’d us frae hyem!”

Some in the glumps were glummin’;

I could ha’e blubber’d, but thought shyera,

While gaun a voyage to Lunnin.


‘Cross Boston Deeps how we did spin,

Skelp’d on by noisy Boreas,

Up Yarmouth Roads, and seun up Swin,

The water flew before us.

O glorious seet! the Nore’s in view—

Like fire and flood we’re scuddin’:

Ne mair we’ll bouk wor boily now,

But seun be safe at Lunnin.

Hail, bonny Tyames! weel smon thy waves!

A world might flourish bi’ them—

And, faiks, they weel deserve the praise

That a’ the world gies ti them.

O lang may commerce spread her stores

Full on thy bosom dinnin’—

Weel worthy thou to lave the shores

O’ sic a town as Lunnin.


Seun Black-Wall Point we left astern,

Far ken’d in dismal story—

And Greenwich Towers we now discern,

Au’d England’s pride and glory.


[93]

Sure Nature's sel' inspir'd my staves

For I began a crunnin’.

And blair’d, ‘Britannia rule the waves!’

As by we sail’d for Lunnin.

Fornenst the Tower, we made a click,

Where traitors gat their fairins’,

And where they say that hallion Dick

Yence scumfish’d two wee bairins.

Hitch, step, and lowp, I sprang ashore,

My heart reet full o’ funnin’—

And seun forgat the ocean's war

Amang the joys o’ Lunnin.


THE NEWCASSEL PROPS.

OH, waes me, for wor canny toon,

It canna stand it lang—

The props is tumbling one by one,

The beeldin seun mun gan;

For Deeth o’ late hez no been blate,

But sent some jovial souls a joggin:

Aw niver griev’d for Jackey Tate,

Nor even little Airchy Loggan.
But when maw lugs was ‘lectrified

Wiv Judy Downey’s deeth,

Alang wi’ Heufy Scott aw cried,

Till byeth was out o’ breeth;

For greet an’ sma’, fish-wives an’ a’

Luik’d up tiv her wi’ veneration—

If Judy’s in the Courts above

Then for au’d Nick there’ll be nae ‘casion.

Next Captain Starkey tuik his stick,

And myed his final bow;

Aw wonder if he’s scribblin yet,

Or what he’s efter now;




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