For the canny folks ‘at leves on the banks o’ the water,
To walk straight afore them ‘stead o’ gaun doon the street,
And when they’re iv a hurry running doon a’ they meet;
Forbye being kept myest an hour in suspense,
By cairts, that sometimes myek a plague of a fence,
Then the folks are a’ stopt, suppose they be iv a hurry.
Now, ye blithe lads o’ Shields, let it be a’ your glory,
To get this Chain Brig rear’d on high in the air,
Then we’ll ne’er ha’e to soom amang steam boats ne mair:
Smash their greet clumsy wheels! aw like nyen o’ their wark,
They once cowpt me owerboard, an’ aw was wet to the sark;
But catch me gaun onny mair near them again—
If aw de, say aw divent belang Collingwood Main!
THE COLLIERS’ PAY WEEK.
By Henry Robson.*
THE Baff week is o’er—no repining—
Pay-Saturday’s swift on the wing;
At length the blithe morning comes shining,
When kelter makes colliers sing.
‘Tis Spring and the weather is cheary,
The birds whistle sweet on the spray;
Now coal working lads, trim and airy.
To Newcassel town hie away.
* Henry Robson, the author of this and the two following pieces, is a native of Benwell, near Newcastle. In the place of hit birth he enjoyed frequent opportunities, during his early years, of witnessing the manners, customs, and language of the Colliers, he so well describes in the “Pay Week.” — Besides these, he has written several other pieces of Poetry, humorous, satirical, and descriptive, possessing a considerable degree of merit. He was brought up to the printing business in Newcastle, where he has resided many years.
Those married jog on with their hinnies,
Where the sweetest flowers grow, bonnie laddie, O;
With my true love by my side,
Of a’ the flowers the pride,
I’d wander the warld wide, bonnie laddie, O.
When the throstle hails the morn, bonnie laddie, O,
We’ll wander by the burn, bonnie laddie, O;
And we’ll rest in the alcove,
In bonnie Kelvin Grove,
Where first I told my love to my laddie, O.
When thou leav’st thy native home, bonnie laddie, O,
With thee I mean to roam, bonnie laddie, O;
I’ll watch thee in the fight,
And guard thee day and night,
That no mishap alight—on my laddie, O.
In the fatal battle-field, bonnie laddie, O,
Shouldst thou thy spirit yield, bonnie laddie, O—
When thy een are clos'd in death,
I’ll sigh my latest breath,
And one grave shall hold us baith, bonnie laddie, O.
But kind should Fortune prove, bonnie laddie, O,
And spare us baith to love, bonnie laddie, O:
By the stream again we'll rove,
In bonnie Kelvin Grove,
And fra hame nae mair remove, dearest laddie, O.
TO MR. PETER WATSON,*
WHO LAYS POW’RFUL BATS ON.
By the Same.—Written in 1824.
O Watson! O Watson! what are you about?
What have you been doing to cause such a rout?
‘Tis said you’ve been giving the Clergy a clout;
Which nobody does deny.
* Peter Watson, of Chester-le-Street, Shoemaker.—This person for some time laudably exerted himself to oppose the claims of the Government Clergy to what are called Easter dues or offerings; and by a powerful appeal to the public, succeeded in convincing many that such claims were equally oppressive and unjust, and founded neither in the law nor the gospel —The late worthy Vicar of Newcastle, Mr John Smith, actuated with the generous feelings of a Man and a Christian, and with due deference to public opinion, restrained the Clergy in his jurisdiction from collecting these Exactions during the latter years of his life. To him, therefore, and to Peter Watson, in particular, who aroused the public attention to the subject, the inhabitants of Newcastle are indebted for being relieved from this odious, unjust, and oppressive Clerical Tax.
O stop! Watson, stop! O whither?—say whither
Directs thy bold genius?—‘twould seem you choose rather
To hammer the Parsons, instead of bend leather;
At starting you were not shy.
What tho’ the good Clergy for long time have got,
At Easter, fat pullets to put in their pot,
And ta’en from the people full many a groat;
Yet why into this should you pry?
Of matters relating to Church or to State,
‘Tis surely not fit you should trouble your pate;
Yet still you keep thumping, with spirit elate,
As if you would maul the whole fry.
I’d have you respect more the Lord's own Anointed,
Who over your conscience to rule are appointed,
And to whom pigs and pullets are sent to be jointed,
And other good things forby.
Repent, then, and quick pay your Easter Dues, And to guileless Parsons give no more abuse,
Or spiritual comfort to you they’ll refuse,
And this may cause you to sigh!
For things are so chang’d since you rang them a peal,
That the Clerk seems afraid thro’ our parish to speel;
For he’s look’d on no better than one come to steal;
Which nobody can deny.
The Clerk of St. John’s, that he might have good luck,
Employ’d a brave Noodle, whose nick-name is Pluck,
To collect Easter-pence; but the people had struck—
Few, few were brought to comply.
Now the Parsons to you attach all the blame,
O Watson, for saying they had no just claim;
Thus you’ve brought on yourself their holy disdain;