The Salamanca Corpus: a collection of Songs (1827)

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Gan to hell’s kitchen—should ye have occasion—

Ye’ll see hizzies drinking through spite and vexation.

March! march, &c.

Where’s Madgie’s troops that so well could shout oysters?

Gone to a convent or nunnery cloisters!

Where’s the wee shop that once held Jack the Barber?

Gone to make room for the fish brought to harbour!

March! march, &c.
Then hie to the Custom House, add to your pleasures,

Now you’re well cover’d, so toom the new measures:

It ne’er will be finish’d, I’ll wager a groat,

Till they’ve cut a canal to admit five-men boats!

March! march, &c.

For the Fish-Wives of Newcastle.


Tune—“Chevy Chase”
GOD prosper long our noble king,

Our lives and safeties all!

A woeful ditty we may sing

On ev’ry fish-wife’s stall.

Good Magistrates, it were a sin

That we should rail at you;

Altho’ the plaice you’ve put as in,

Is grating to our view.

If crab-bed looks we should put on,

Or flounder in a pet,

Each fish-wife’s tub would, very soon,

Be in the kit-ty set.

Sure we are not such simple soles,

Though in your legal net,

But we will haul you o’er the coals,

And play hot cockles yet.

The iron ring in which we’re shut,

To make the gudgeons stare,

Will not, says ev’ry scolding slut,

With her-ring e’er compare.

Then ev’ry night, that duly falls,

Fresh water may be seen

All floating round our seats and stalls,

As if we had-ducks been.
But thus shell’d in, as now we are,

Within our corp’rate bounds,

Altho’ we may not curse and swear,

We still may cry, Cod-sounds!

Let gentle people carp their fill,

At us, our sprees and pranks;

For tho’ we’re now turn’d off the Hill,

Themselves may lose their Banks,



TO sing of some nymph in her cot,

Each bard will oft flourish his quill:

I’m glad it has fall’n to my lot,

To celebrate Jesmond Mill.

When Spring hither winds her career,

Our trees and our hedges to fill,

Vast oceans of verdure appear,

To charm you at Jesmond Mill.

To plant every rural delight,

Mere Nature has lavished her skill;

Here fragrant soft breezes unite,

To wanton round Jesmond Mill.

When silence each evening here dwells,

The birds in their coverts all still;

No music in sweetness excels

The clacking of Jesmond Mill.

Reclin’d by the verge of the stream,

Or stretch’d on the side of the hill,

I’m never in want of a theme,

While learning at Jesmond Mill.

Sure Venus some plot has design’d, .

Or why is my heart never still,

Whenever it pops in my mind,

To wander near Jesmond Mill.

My object, ye swains, you will guess,

If ever in love you had skill;

And now, I will frankly confess,

‘Tis— Jenny of Jesmond Mill.


Author of ‘Canny Newcassel,’ ‘Jemmy Joneson’s Whurry,’ &c.


ALL ye whom minstrel’s strains inspire,

Soft as the sighs of morning—

All ye who sweep the rustic lyre,

Your native hills adorning—

Where genius bids her rays descend

O’er bosoms bleak and lonesome—

Let every hand and heart respond

The name of Tommy Thompson.

His spirit now is soaring bright,

And leaves us dark and dolesome;

O luckless was the fatal night

That lost us Tommy Thompson.

The lyrie harp was all his own,

Each mystic art combining—

Which Envy, with unbending frown,

Might hear with unrepining.

The sweetest flower in summer blown

Was not more blithe and joysome,

Than was the matchless, merry tone,

Which died with Tommy Thompson.

His spirit, &c.



Farewell, lovely Tyne, in thy soft murmurs flowing,

Adieu to the shades of thy mouldering towers!

And sweet be the flowers on thy wild margin growing,

And sweet be the nymphs who inhabit thy bowers!

And there shall be ties which no distance can sever,

Thou land of our fathers, the dauntless and free;

Tho’ the charms of each change smile around me, yet never

Shall the sigh be inconstant that’s hallow’d to thee.

Thy full orb of glory will blaze o’er each contest—

Thy sons, e’er renown’d, be the dread of each foe—

Till thy tars chill with fear in the fight or the tempest,

And the pure streams of Heddon have ceased more to flow.

May commerce be thine—and from Tynemouth to Stella

May thy dark dingy waters auspiciously roll—

And thy lads in the keels long be jovial and mellow,

With faces as black as the keel or the coal.

O Albion! of worlds thou shalt e’er be the wonder,

Thy tough wooden walls, thy protection and pride,

So long as the bolts of thy cloud-rending thunder

Are hurl’d by the lads on the banks of Tyneside.



On the Duke of Northumberland being presented with the Freedom of Newcastle.


TO that far ken’d and wondrous place, Newcassel town,

Where each thing yen lucks at surprises,

Wiv a head full o’ fancies, an’ heart full o’ fun,

Aw’d com’d in to see my Lord ‘Sizes.

In byeth town an' country aw glowrin’ beheld

Carousin’ laird, tenant, an’ vassal;

On axin’ the cause o’ sic joy, aw was tell’d,

‘Twas Northumberland free o’ Newcassel.

The guns frae the Cassel sent monny a peal—

My hair stood an’ end a’ confounded—

The folks on Tyne Brig set up monny a squeel,

And the banks o’ Tyneside a’ resounded.

In the Mute Hall, Judge Hayley roar’d out, “My poor head!—

Gan an’ tell them not to myek sic a rattle.

Judge Wood cried out, “No—let them fire us half dead,

Since Northumberland’s free o’ Newcassel!”

The Duke e’er has been byeth wor glory an’ pride,

For dousely he fills up his station;

May he lang live to hearten the lads o’ Tyneside,

The glory an’ pride o’ their nation.

Brave Prudhoe* triumphant shall plough the wide main,

The hash o’ the Yankees he’ll sattle;

An’ ages hereefter but sarve to proclaim

Northumberland free o’ Newcassel.

* Baron Prudhoe, of the Royal Navy.
May it please Heav’n to grant that the sweet Flower o’ Wales*

Wi’ Northnmberland’s roses entwinin’,

May its fragrance shed forth i’ celestial gales,

In glory unceasin’ly shinin.

In defence o’ wor country, wor laws, an’ wor King,

May a Peerey still lead us to battle;

An’ monny a brisk lad o’ the nyem may there spring

Fra Northumberland, free o’ Newcassel.


Written in September, 1819.

YE Northumberland lads and ye lasses,

Come and see what at Newcastle passes,

Here’s a damnable rout,

At a tea and turn out,

And no one knows how to bring matters about.
It seems, at our summer Assizes,

(Or at least so the present surmise is)

The wife of the Mayor

Never offer’d her chair

At the Ball when the Duchess from Alnwick was there.
Then ‘tis said, too, by way of addition,

To the Mayoress’s turn for sedition,

That, in right of her place,

With her impudent face,

She march’d out to tea at the head of her Grace.
So our vigorous young Lord Lieutenant,

Next day, when the Grand Jury were present,

Disclos’d to their view,

(In enigma, ‘tis true)

The plot of the Mayoress and all her d—d crew.
* The Duchess of Northumberland

When his health was propos’d, as Lieutenant,

He bow’d to the company present;

Then, with tears in his eyes,

And to all their surprize,

“My office, (his Grace said) too heavily lies.

“I had firmly imagin’d till now, Sirs,

“That our County was free from all row, Sirs;

“But what has occurr’d,

“Though I sha’n’t say a word,

“Till the voice of yourselves and the county is heard.

“All at present I wish you to know is,

“That my Duchess and dame Lady Powis,

“Have receiv’d such a blow,

“That they never can go

“To your ball, at Newcastle, while things remain so.

“A high rank has its weight in the nation,

“If you hold it in due estimation;

“Then the Duchess and I

“For redress must apply,

“Tho’ at present I mention no name—no not I.

“All I wish is to find out your pleasures,

“And hope to avoid all harsh measures;

“Yet I always foresaw

“This Republican jaw

“Would sooner or later produce Martial Law.”

“Thus ended the young Lord Lieutenant,

When the terrified company present,

Cried, “Name, my Lord, name

Who’s to blame—who’s to blame

But the Duke said, the County must smother the flame.
And the Duchess and he, the next morning,

Fulfill’d my Lord Lieutenant’s warning ;

Then up before day,

And to Alnwick away,

Their faces have ne’er since been seen to this day.


Or, a Struggle for Precedence.

WHY, what’s a’ this about,

Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor?

Why, what’s a’ this about,

Mister Mayor?

Yor Worship’s wife, they say,

To the Duchess won't give way,

Nor due attention pay,

Mister Mayor!
But is this true, aw pray,

Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor?

But is this true, aw pray,

Mister Mayor?

If it’s true, as aw believe,

Ye’ll ha’e muckle cause to grieve—

The Duke yor toon will leave,

Mister Mayor!

The Judge, Sir William Scott,

Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!

The Judge, Sir William Scott,

Mister Mayor!

Says, yor wife is much to blame;

And aw think’t wad be ne shame,

To skelp her for the same,

Mister Mayor!

‘Tis not the Judge alane,

Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!

‘Tis not the Judge alane,

Mister Mayor!

But the Judge and Jury baith,

Say, she’s guilty o’ maw faith,

An’ so Sir Thomas saith,

Mister Mayor!

The Duke the Jury towld,

Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!

The Duke the Jury towld, ,

Mister Mayor!

He went with them to dine,

And sarely he did whine,

‘Boot his wife, mun, ow’r his wine,

Mister Mayor!

‘Twas sure ne noble deed,

Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!

’Twas sure ne noble deed,

Mister Mayor!

He shew'd ne mighty sense,

At yor Dame to take offence;

So let His Grace gan hence,

Mister Mayor!

But there’s other folk to blame,

Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!

But there’s other folk to blame,

Mister Mayor!

Yor wife has counsell'd with

Wor Vicar, Johnny Smith,

An’ he’s nought, ye knaw, but pith,

Mister Mayor!

Enjoy life when ye can.

Mister Mayor, Mister Major

Enjoy life when ye can,

Mister Mayor!

Nor let the Brewer Knight,

Nor the Duke, wi’ a’ his spite,

Say yor wife’s no i’ the right,

Mister Mayor!


GOOD people, listen while I sing

The source from whence your comforts spring;

And may each wind that blows still bring

Success unto the Coal Trade!

Who but unusual pleasure feels

To see our fleets of ships and keels!

Newcastle, Sunderland, and Shields,

May ever bless the Coal Trade.
May vultures on the caitiff fly

And gnaw his liver till he die,

Who looks with evil, jealous eye,

Down upon the Coal Trade.

If that should fail what would ensue?

Sure, ruin and disaster too!

Alas! alas! what could we do,

If ‘twere not for the Coal Trade!

What is it gives us cakes of meal?

What is it crams our wames sae weel

With lumps of beef and draughts of ale?

What is’t, but just the Coal Trade.

Not Davis’ Straits or Greenland oil,

Nor all the wealth springs from the soil,

Could ever make our pots to boil,

Like unto our Coal Trade.

Ye sailors’ wives that love a drop,

Of stingo fra the brandy shop,

How could you get one single drop,

If it were not for the Coal Trade.

Ye pitmen lads, so blithe and gay,

Who meet to tipple each pay-day,

Down on your marrow bones and pray,

Success unto the Coal Trade!

May Wear and Tyne still draw and pour

Their jet black treasures to the shore,

And we with all our strength will roar,

Success unto the Coal Trade!

Ye owners, masters, sailors a’,

Come shout till ye be like to fa’;

Your voices raise—huzza! huzza!

We all live by the Coal Trade.

This nation is in duty bound,

To prize those who work under ground,

For ‘tis well known this country round

Is kept up by the Coal Trade.

May Wear, and Tyne, and Thames ne’er freeze,

Our ships and keels will pass with ease,

Then Newcastle, Sunderland, and Shields,

Will still uphold the Coal Trade.

I tell the truth, you may depend,

In Durham or Northumberland,

No trade in them could ever stand,

If it were not for the Coal Trade.

The owners know full well, ‘tis true,

Without pitmen, keelmen, sailors too,

To Britain they might bid adieu,

If it were not for the Coal Trade.

So to conclude, and make an end

Of these few lines which I have penn’d,

We’ll drink a health to all those men

Who carry on the Coal Trade:

To owners, pitmen, keelmen too,

And sailors, who the seas do plough,

Without these men we could not do,

Nor carry on the Coal Trade.




Tune—“There was a bold Dragoon.”

O Marrows, howay to the toon,

What fun we will ha’e there!

We needn’t fear the watchmen now,

Let them come if they dare!

We’ll hev a jill and sing a sang,

And thro’ the streets we’ll roar a ditty,

For Tom Carr hez ne bizness now

To put us a’ neet i’ the Kitty.

Whack, fal, &c.

For when he cam before me Lord,

He fand his sel a’ wrang,

For tyaken Watson up yen neet

For singin a wee bit sang.

Another chep ca’d Walton te,

Aw own that he was rather murry,

For he tell’d the watchman to be off,

Or else he’d give him Tom and Jurry’

Whack, fal, &c.
The watchman seiz’d him by the neck,

Then up cam other two:

Says Walton, ‘Now let go o’ me,

Or aw’ll let ye knaw just now.

Then he lifted up his great lang airm,

Me sowl! he gav him sec a knoller;

But the watchman kept his haud se lang,

He pull’d off Walton’s Dandy Collar.

Whack, fal, &c.
To the watch-house then they dragg’d them off

Before greet Captain Carr:

Says he, ‘What ha’e ye getten here,

Me worthy men o’ war?’

Wye, sir, says they, here’s twe greet cheps,

The yen aw shure deserves a swingin;

For they’ve roar’d and shooted thro’ the streets,

And wyaken’d a’ the folks wi’ singin.

Whack, fal, &c.
‘Aye, aye,’ says Carr, ‘aw ken them weel,

Tyek them out o’ my seet!

Away wi’ them to Mister Scott,

And keep them there a’ neet.’

Says Walton ‘Will ye hear me speak?’

Says Tommy, ‘Go you to the devil!’

‘Wye, wye,’ says Watson, ‘never mind,

But surely this is damn’d uncivil.’

Whack, fal, &c.
Then away they went to Mr Scott,

And fand him varry kind

Says he, ‘Young men, I’ll treat ye weel,

Tho’ here against your mind.’

‘O Sir,’ said they, ‘you’re very good,

But faith this place luiks dark and frightful!”

Says Walton, ‘What a sweet perfume!’

Says Watson, ‘Lord, it’s quite delightful

Whack, fal, &c.

But Watson myed Tom Carr to rue,

Before ‘twas varry lang:

He had him tried before me Lord,

And Carr fand he was wrang.

Me Lord tell’d Carr he had ne reet

To shop them, e’en had it been lyater,

Until he’d tyen them, first ov a’,

Before a Mister Magistrater.

Whack, fal, &c.

Now Tommy Carr may claw his lug,

Th’ expences he mun pay:

But still there’s nyen that’s sorry for’t;

“It sarves him reet,” they say.

So howay, lads, let’s off to toon,

We’ll a’ put wor bit better bats on

And if Tom Carr shops us agyen,

Me sowl! we’ll give him Waller Watson

Whack, fal, &c.

a dialogue.

Sc*tt— AH f woes me! what shall I do,

Tommy C*rr, Tommy C*rr?

For I have most cause to rue,

Tommy C*rr!

Though your costs are very great,

Yet much harder is my fate—

I may shut the Kitty gate,

Tommy C*rr!

C*rr—I will soon be clear of mine,

Johnny Sc*tt, Johnny Sc*tt!

For I will myself confine,

Johnny Sc*tt!

Just for three short weeks or so,

Up the nineteen steps I’ll go,

And be wash’d as white as snow,

Johnny Sc*tt!

Sc*tt—Oh! that tyrant of a Judge,

Tommy C*rr, Tommy C*rr!

He has surely had some grudge,

Tommy C*rr!

Can we gain our honest bread,

Now when cut off in full trade,

We who’ve been so long well fed,

Tommy C*rr!

C*rr—Oh! how trifling was our chance,

Johnny Sc*tt, Johnny Sc*tt!

Oh! had Scarlett been at France,

Johnny Sc*tt!

Brougham’s help was all we had,

Well he knew our case was bad;

And au’d Bayley frown’d like mad,

Johnny Sc*tt!

Sc*tt—I my huckstering shop may let,

Tommy C*rr, Tommy C*rr!

No more customers we’ll get,

Tommy C*rr!

Mrs Sc*tt has room to growl,

There is not one hungry soul

For to buy a penny roll,

Tommy C*rr!

C*rr—Let us curse the day and hour,

Johnny Sc*tt, Johnny Sc*tt!

That depriv’d us of our power,

Johnny Sc*tt!

Fam’d Newcastle’s rattling boys

Will kick up a thund'ring noise,

And for fun will black our eyes,

Johnny Sc*tt!


Tune—'”Scots wha ha’e, &c.”

YE that like a lark or spree

Ye that’s iv the Kitty free!

Now’s the time for mirth an glee,

For Tommy is up stairs.

Ye that never yet went wrang—

Ne’er did warse than sing a sang,

Ye that offen had to gan

And visit Mr Mayor’s.

Now then let your joys abound—

Now begin yor neetly rounds,

An’ myek the streets wi’ mirth resound,

Since Tommy is up stairs.

Whe before Judge Bayley stood,

For sending Watson into quod?—

Whe wad grace a frame of Wood?

But honest Tommy C—r.

And when fou, wi’ cronies dear,

Ye’d sally out to Filly Fair,

Whe was sure to meet ye there?

But honest Tommy C—r.

Wiv his beaver round and low,

Little switch, an’ thick surtou’,

Like Satan prowling to and fro,

Seeking to devour.

Whe was sure your sport to mar,

And send ye off to Cabbage Square?

Whe was Judge and Jury there?

But honest Tommy C—r.

Whe wad niver tyek yor word ?

An’ if to walk ye’d not afford,

Whe wad strap ye on a board?

But honest Tommy C—r.



AIR:—“The Opera Hat.”

OH the Devil go with you, fat Tom C—r!

Bribe him well he’ll be your counsellor,

Give you courage when at the bar,

And grant you a special favour:

Some folks thowt you were gyen to hell,

And other some to Derry:

But sup the broth you’ve made yoursel,

There’s no one can be sorry.

So the Devil, &c.


‘Tis well you leave the scorn of those

You’ve sent into the work-house,

For, hangman like, you’d have cash and clothes,

When their friends were glad of the carcase.

So the Devil, &c.

Bad luck, say I, to your broad brimair!

Your crimes ‘twill not half smother;

So go to Stuart’s, in Denton Chare,

And prithee choose another.

So the Devil, &c.
For if ever upon the Quay again,

You beg for beef and biscuit,

The sailor lads will surely cry,

Gods! lad, you’ve sairly miss’d it.

So the Devil, &c.
May the tread mill turn to a whiskey shop,

The parrot into a monkey,

And Tom C—r selling fine shirt neck buttons

Upon a tripe-wife’s donkey,

So the Devil, &c.

Written Feb. 1826.-Tune—X, Y, Z.

NOW run away amang the snobs,

An’ stangies i’ the Garth, man,

An’ hear about the greet black Owl,

That’s let on Cappy’s hearth, man—

Of sic a breed, the Deil his sell

Its marrow canna’ find in Hell!

It hops about wiv its sloutch hat,

Can worry mice like wor Tom Cat—

An’ sic a yarkin blubber heed,

It bangs X, Y, that famous, steed,

Or ony thing ye like, man.
Oft frev its nest, in Cabbage Square,

It flaffer’d out at neets, man,

‘Mang sic a flock that neetly blare,

An’ carry crooks an’ leets, man—

Then prowl’d wor streets in search o’ prey,

An’ if a mouse but cross’d his way,

He quickly had it by the nose,

An’ pawk’d it off to kuel its toes,—

Did Hoo! Hoo! wi’ the blubber heed,

That bangs X, Y, that famous steed—

So, Cappy, keep him tight, man.

To tell how Cappy gat this burd,

Aw wad be rather fash’d, man;

Some say that, of its awn accord,

It went to get white wash’d, man.

So scrub him, Cap, with a’ yor might,

Just nobbit make the lubbart white—

But if yor brushin’ winna dee,

There’s Waller Watson, Walton tee,

They’ll scrub him as they did before,

An’ make the bowdy-kite to roar—

If Cappy keeps him tight, man.

St. Nich’las bells now sweetly ring,

Yor music’s sae bewitchin’—

Ye lads in Neil’s* now louder sing,

An’ warble weel, Hell’s Kitchent†—

For yor au’d friend is in the trap,

Alang wi’ his awn brother, Cap:

Then shout hurra! agyen we’re free,

At neets to hev a canny spree;

In gannin hyem, ne mair we’ll dreed

The lubbart wi’ the chuckle heed—

Mind, Cappy, keep him tight, man,

• A famed public-house, at the head of Manor-chare.

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