The Salamanca Corpus: a collection of Songs (1827)


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† The tap-room of a famed public-house, near the head of Groat Market.


Tune—“Sleeping Maggie.”

UPON the flow’ry banks o’ Tyne,

The rose and myrtle may entwine;

But were their every sweet divine,

They wadna a’ be like my Delia,

Clear beams the eye o’ Delia,

Heaven’s in the smile o’ Delia;

Nor flowers that blaw, nor falling snaw,

Were e’er sae pure as lovely Delia.

Gently blaw, thou whistlin’ wind,

Along the bonny banks o’ Tyne,

Where nature every grace combined

When she first form’d my life, my Delia!

Clear beams the eye o’ Delia,

Heaven’s in the smile o’ Delia;

Nor flower that blaws, nor winter snaws,

Were e’er sae pure as lovely Delia.

Tho’ a’ the wee birds round me sing.

To welcome back the blithefu’ spring;

Yet a’ the music they can bring

Is na sae sweet’s the voice o’ Delia.

Clear beams the eye o’ Delia,

Heaven’s in the smile o’ Delia;

Nor flower that blaws, nor drifting snaws,

Were e’er sae pure as my lov’d Delia.

The bonny little playfu’ lamb,

That frisks along the verdant plain,

Is nae mair free fra guilty stain,

Than is my life, my love, my Delia.

Clear beams the eye o’ Delia,

Heaven’s in the smile o Delia;

Nor flowers that blaw, nor whitest snaw.

Were e’er sae pure as my sweet Delia,

The priests they tell us, all above,

With angels, do delight in love;

Then surely angels must approve

Their image in my lovely Delia.

Clear beams the eye o’ Delia,

Heaven’s in the smile o’ Delia;

Nor flower that blaws, nor new-born snaws.

Were e’er sae pure as lovely Delia.

Truth and kindness ever reigns,

In a’ her heart, thro’ a’ her veins;

Yet nane shall ken the pleasing pains

I ha’e endur’d for my sweet Delia.

Heaven’s in the smile o’ Delta,

Bright’s the beam in her dark eye;

Nor flower that blaws, nor virgin snaws,

Were e’er sae pure as my lov’d Delia.


Tune—“Banks o’ Doon.”

FAREWELL, ye fragrant, shady groves!

Farewell, thou charming sylvan scene,

Where partial mem’ry hapless roves—

I bid adieu to Pandon Dean.

I bid ye all a long adieu,

And fare thee well, ray lovely Jean;

Thine equal I shall never view,

Whilst far awa’ fra Pandon Dean.

The songsters chanting on the spray,

The shrubs and flowers, sae fresh and green,

Increase my heart’s tumultuous play,

Which dwells on thee and Pandon Dean.

The’ far awa’ in foreign lands,

And trackless oceans foam between,

I ne’er shall break those dearest bands

Thou wreath’dst for me in Pandon Dean.

These to my heart shall dearest be

When sharp afflictions pierce me keen;

‘Twill soothe my woes to think on thee,

Thou fairest flower in Pandon Dean.

If Fortune smile I’ll then return,

To deck my love in silken sheen;

And dwell with her just by the burn

That wimples through the bonny Dean.


WHILST bards, in strains that sweetly flow,

Extol each nymph so fair,

Be mine my Nanny’s worth to show—

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.


THE Londoners long for example we’ve chose,

And imported each fashion as fast as it ‘rose;

But the best hit of all, in our awkward approaches,

Is St. Nicholas’ Square, and the new hackney coaches.
The ladies have long had advantage of man,

In that easy conveyance, a walking sedan;

Now the tables are turn’d on the opposite side,

For the ladies must walk while the gentlemen, ride.

When our beaux are dress’d out for a rout or a ball,

They’ve nothing to do but a hackney to call—

Consult not the weather, nor muffle their chins—

No danger of breaking, o’er scrapers, their shins.

When a couple’s resolv’d on a trip to the church,

Where a lady has sometimes been left in the lurch;

To prevent a misfortune like this, for the future,

Pack up in a hackney your amiable suitor.

When impertinent tradesmen your’re likely to meet,

Or a bailiff desery at the end of the street—

Press into your service a hackney and pair,

For the devil himself would not look for you there.

To many things else they’ll apply, I’ve a notion,

They’ll even be found to assist your devotion;

The doctors will find them most useful, no doubt on’t,

In peopling the world, or to send people out on’t.

Then success to the hackneys, and long may they roll—

Of balls and assemblies the life and the soul:

Since so useful they are, and so cheap is the fare,

Pray who would not ride in a carriage and pair?


Tune—“The Bold Dragoon.”

OF a’ the toons that’s i’ the north,

Newcastle bangs them a’,

For lady folk and gentlemen,

And every thing tha’s braw,

A fig for Lunnen i’ the Sooth—

But mind now, let’s ha’e nae reproaches,

For they say that Lunnen’s hang’d hersel,

Thro’ spite at wor new Hackney Coaches.

Yep! fal der al dal, &c.

Wor toon hez grown see big now,

Aw ne’er saw the like before;

Live ye only lang eneugh

Ye’ll see’t join’d to Tynemouth shore:

We’ve our Literantary Sieties,

Shops cram’d wiv plate and diamond broaches,

But it’s nee use telling ony mair,

There’s nowt gans doon but Hackney Coaches,

Yep! &c.
Ca-la-de-scoups were yence the rage,

Sedans—were a’ the go;

But till the noise gets fairly ower,

They may keep them iv a row:

Gang where you will the talk is still,

At tea or cards why all the rage is,

“Why bless me, sir! have you not seen

“Our stilish two-horse Hackney Stages!”

Yep! &c.
A Bond-street lounge tee we might hev,

If ‘t wasent for the mud!

A Piccadilly wor gaun to get,

And other streets as good:

Maw sangs! aw think we’ll ‘clipse them, out!

But faith aw’d better haud me ditty;

For fear, ye ken, in ganging hyem,

The Hackneyfy me to the Kitty.

Yep! fai der al dal, &c.



Tune—“Gee, ho, Dobbin.”

SINCE the Hackneys began in Newcassel to run,

Some tricks ha’e been play’d off which myed lots o’ fun:

For poor folks can ride now, that ne’er rode before,

The expence is sae canny, its suen gettin o’er.

Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.

‘Mang the rest o’ the jokes was a lad fra the Fell,

Where he lives wiv his fyether, his nyem’s Geordy Bell:

For hewin’ there’s nyen can touch Geordy for skill—

When he comes to Newcassel he gets a good jill.

Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.

One day, being cram’t wi’ fat flesh an’ strang baer,

Left some friends at the Cock,* an’ away he did steer,

Wiv his hat on three hairs, through Wheat Market did stride,

When a Coachman cam up, an said—Sir, will ye ride?

Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.
Way, smash noo—whe’s thou, man?—How! what dis thou mean? —

I drive the best coach, sir, that ever was seen—

* A famed public-house, at he Head of the Side.
To ride iv a coach! Smash, says Geordy, aw’s willin’—

Aw’ll ride i’ yor coach though it cost me ten shillin’!

So Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c
Then into the coach Geordy clavver’d wi’ speed,

And out at the window he popp’d his greet heed:—

Pray, where shall I drive, sir—please give me the nyem?—

Drive us a’ the toon ower, man, an’ then drive us hyem!

Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.
Then up an’ doon street how they rattled alang,

Till a chep wi’ the news tiv au’d Geordy did bang,

‘Bout his son in the coach, and, for truth, did relate,

He was owther turn’d Mayor, or the greet Magistrate!

Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.
Au’d Geordy did caper till myestly duen ower,

When Coachee, seun after, drove up tiv his door—

Young Geordy stept out, caus’d their hopes suen to stagger,

Said, he’d paid for a ride just to cut a bit swagger.

Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.
To ride fra Newcassel mun cost ye some brass:—

Od smash, now, says Geordy, thou talks like an ass!

For half-a-crown piece thou may ride to the Fell—

An’, for eighteen-pence mair, smash, they’ll drive ye to Hell!

Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.

Au’d Geordy then thowt there was comfort in store,

For contrivance the coaches nyen could come before:

Poor men that are tied to bad wives needn’t stick—

Just tip Coachee the brass an’ they’re off tiv Au’d Nick.

Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.



Tune—“Canny Newcassel.”

WHAT a cockneyfied toon wor Newcassel hez grown—

Wey aw scarce can believe me awn senses;

Wor canny au’d customs for ever ha’e flown,

An’ there’s nowt left ahint for to mense us:

The fashions fra Lunnin are now a’ the go,

As there’s nowt i’ wor toon to content us—

Aw’ll not be surpris’d at wor next ‘lection day,

If twe Cockneys put up to ‘present us.
Times ha’e been when a body’s been axt out to tea,

Or to get a wee bit of a shiver,

Wor hearts were sae leet we ne’er thowt o’ the cau’d,

Or the fear o’ wet feet plagu’d us niver;

But i’ blanket coats now we mun get muffled up,

For fear that the cau’d should approach us—

And to hinder a spark gettin on to wor breeks,

We mun jump into fine Hackney Coaches.

Aw’ve seen when we’ve gyen iv a kind, freenly way

To be blithe ower a jug o’ good nappy—

The glass or the horn we shov’d round wi’ the pot,

For then we were jovial and happy:

But now we mun all hev a glass t’ wor sels,

Which plainly appears, on reflection,

We think a’ wor neighbours ha’e gettin the cl—p,

And are frighten’d we catch the infection.

The very styen pavement they’ll not let alyen,

For they’ve tuen’d up and puttin down gravel;

So now, gentle folks, here’s a word i’ yor lugs—

Mind think on’t whenever ye travel;

If in dry dusty weather ye happen to stray,

Ye’ll get yor een a’ full o’ stour, man—

Or, if it be clarty, you’re sure for to get

Weel plaister’d byeth ‘hint and afore, man


If a’ their improvements aw were for to tell,

Aw might sit here and sing—aye, for ever;

There’s the rum weak as watter, i’stead o’ the stuff

That was us’d for to burn out wor liver!

Aw’s fair seek and tir’d o’ the things that aw’ve sung,

So aw think now aw’ll myek a conclusion,

By wishing the cheps iv a belter may swing,

That ha’e browt us tiv a’ this confusion.




Tune—“Calder Fair.”

NOW haud yor tongues ‘bout Mollinnoxs, or ony o' the trade,

Ye ne’er could say that Kenton Ralph of e’er a chep was flay’d—

Yor Langans an’ yor Springs may come to Kenton toon iv flocks,

Wor Ralph’ll smatter a’ their ribs, he is sae Strang, begox!

Fal de ral, &c.
Wiv Ralph an’ Luke aw off yen neet for Sandgate on a spree,

An’ swore Newcassel dandy cheps to fight and myek them flee—

We gat into the Barley Mow wor thropples for to wet,

An’ sat an’ drank till fairly foo, alang wi’ Wood-leg’d Bet.

Fal de ral, &c
We gat up, for ‘twas getting’ lyet, an’ leaving Sandgate suen,

To Pandon went to hev a quairt before we left the toon;

Some Fawdon lads were in the Boar, carryin’ on the war,

Wi’ Humpy Dick an’ Black Scotch Peg, a’ singin’ ‘Slush Tom C—r.’

Fal de ral, &c.


Then gannin hyem by Pilgrim Street, some dandy for to catch,

Twe cheps, half drunk, cam up tiv us, an’ said, cum ti’th’ scratch!

Here’s Lukey kens that aw’s a man, an’ scartin’ aw disdain,

But come an’ lick us if ye can—aw’ll fight till aw be slain!

Fal de ral, &c.

They cram’d a haggish on each fist, or something very like,

Then held them up close to wor fyece, an’ dar’d us for to strike:

But Lukey, clicken up his claes, cried, Ralphy, lad, let’s run!

Od smash yor luggish heed, how-way—becrike it’s Tommy D—n!

Fal de ral, &c.

Poor Lukey ran, but Ralph was left, he couldn’t get away,

They pelted him till Watchey cam an’ ended wor sad fray;

Then Ralphy suen fand Luke agyen; but such a seet, begox!

His nose an’ fyece was thick o’ blood—just like a Bubbly Jock’s.

Fal de ral, &c.

Smash! how dis thou ken Tommy D—n? said Ralphy in a hurry:

Aw seed him fightin’ on the stage yen neet in ‘Tom and Jurry;’

A grocer chep, aw sat beside, tell’d me his nyem in turn,

Wi’ Cribb, an’ Gas, an’ a’ the rest, an’ cliver Jemmy B—n.

Fal de ra, &c.

That neet we had a haggish fight, ‘tween B—n an’D—n sae fine—

Aw roar’d out, Aw’ll lay my brass that Jim ower Tom will shine!

But, wiv his haggish, Tommy suen gav Jemmy such a peg

He fell smack doon upon the stage—begox, he broke his leg!

Fal de ral, &c.
The next time aw cum ti’ the toon, if we fa’ in togither,

We’ll hev a jill and drink success to B—n an’ D—n howsever:—

Aw own that aw was fairly duen, an’ smatter’d varry sair,

But ne’er for want o’ haggishes shall Ralph be beaten mair.

Fal de ral, &c.


By the Same.

Tune—“Newcastle Fair.”

AW dream’d aw was at the North Powl,

It’s a fine place a-back o’ the muen, man—

Maw sangs! Captain Parry ‘ll growl,

For he cannot get tid half sae seun, man:

There aw seed the Queen, Caroline,

An’ her lass they sae badly did use, man,

Wi’ Geordy the Thurd drinkin wine,

An’ the snuffy au’d dyem brushing shoes, man.

Rum ti iddity, &c.
Aw began then to swagger about,

Just to see Castleree aw was itchin’,

When Percival gav a greet shout,

Od smash, he’s doon stairs i’ the Kitchen!—

Thowt aw, then he’s just safe eneugh—

Walking farther, aw meets Bonapartie

Alang wi’ au’d Blucher, sae bluff,

Speaking gabb’rish to poor Captain Starkie.

Rum ti iddity, &c.

Aw gat in to tee Robin Hood,

Had twe or three quairts wi’ John Nipes, man;

An’ Wesley, that yence preach’d sae good,

Sat smoakin’ an’ praisin’ the swipes, man:

Legs of mutton here grows on each tree,

Jack Nipes said, an’ wasn’t mistaken—

When rainin’ there’s such a bit spree,

Fer there comes doon greet fat sides o’ bacon.

Rum ti iddity, &c.

Brave Nelson here sells wooden legs,

Iv a shop, where aw think he’ll get rich in

Just to see au’d Mahomet aw begs,

But, wi’ Thurtell, he’s doon i’ the Kitchen:

Aw seed Billy Shakespeare sae prime,

Of plays he has written greet lots, man—

An’ there greet John Kemble does shine—

Sam. Johnson sups crowdies wi’ Scots, man.

Rum ti iddity, &c.
How canny Joe Foster did stare,

As he trotted past me on a donkey,

‘Mang lasses still wild as a hare,

An’ he keeps Jacky Coxon as flonkey:

Ne bishops nor priests here they need,

For the folks they can say their awn pray'rs, man—

But, to myek them work hard for their breed,

They’re sent, on a mission, doon stairs, man.

Rum ti iddity, &c.
Aw agyen seed the canny au’d King,

He’s a far better chep now then ever—

But, set aw yor fine kings iv a ring,

Aw still think fourth Geordie’s as clever.

Aw’ve getten a pass for Doon Stairs,

An’ if aw see owt there bewitchin’,

Wey just think o’ me i’ yor pray’rs,

An’ aw’ll send an account o’ the Kitchen.

Rum ti iddity, &c.


By the Same.

Tune—“Hell’s Kitchen.”

THE day was fine, the sun did shine.

Aw thowt aw was preparing

To leave the Powl, myed me repine—

Aw scarce could keep fra blairin’;—

A greet balloon was browt me seun,

Twe cheps wi’ wings sae switchin

Wiv it were sent to tyek me doon

To show me a’ the kitchen.

Right fal, de ral, &c.

Wiv a’ my friends aw had a jill,

King Geordy was quite canty—

Says he—Now eat and drink yor fill,

Doon stairs good things are scanty.

When deun, says, aw—Kind folks, fareweel!

Maw Guides their wings are stretchin’:—

In the balloon aw off did reel

To see this queerish kitchen.

Right fal, de ral, &c.

We doon a narrow place did rowl—

As sure as maw nyem’s Cranky,

This is the passage in the Powl

That’s mentioned by the Yankee:*

* Alluding to the following extraordinary advertisement which recently made its appearance m the American journals:—

St. Louis, (Missouri Territory)

North America, April 10, A. D. 1818.

“To all the world—I declare the earth to be hollow and habitable within; containing a number of concentric spheres, one within the other, and that their poles are open 12 or 16 degrees. I pledge myself in support of this truth, and am ready to explore the concave, if the world will support and aid me in the undertaking.

“JOHN C. SYMMES,” &c. &c.
As we flew on it darker grew,

Wi’ such a noise an’ screechin’—

Greet clouds o’ fire we darted through,

An’ landed in the kitchen.

Right fal, de ral, &c.
They use poor folks here warse than beasts—

Greet lots o’ Turks an’ Tartars,

Wi’ lawyers, quakers, kings, an’ priests,

Were phizzin’ in a’ quarters.

The Jews were bowlting lumps o’ pork—

Mahomet, that au’d vixen,

Was toss’d about frae fork to fork

Wi’ Derry in the kitchen.

Right fal, de ral, &c
Fast i’ the stocks au’d Neddy sat,

The late Newcassel bellman—

An’ there was Honor Breet, Bet Watt,

Just gaun the rig hersel, man:

Then farther in, upon a stuel,

Sat Judy Downey stitchin’,

She damn’d me for a greet stark cull,

For cumin’ to the kitchen.

Right fal, de ral, &c.

Aw, wi’ the heat an’ want o’ drink,

Was swelter’d myest to deed, man.

When fairly deun an’gaun to sink,

Aw was whupt off wi’ speed, man—

How aw escap’d aw’s puzzled sair,

‘Twas like a sudden twitchin’—

Aw, like a lairk, flew through the air,

Half roasted fra the kitchen.

Right fal, de ral, &c.

As aw cam doon aw pass’d the [?],

An’ her greet burning mountains—

Her turnpike roads aw fand out suen,

Strang beer runs here in fountains:

To hev a sup aw was reet fain,

Wi’ some queer cheps thrang ditchin'—

But waken’d then in Peercy Main,

A lang wary frae the kitchen.

Right fal, de ral, eVc.


By the Same.

Tune—“Good Morrow to your Nightcap.”

AS Skipper Carr an’ Markie Dunn,

Were gannin, drunk, through Sandgate—

A dog bit Mark and off did run,

But sair the poor sowl fand it;

The skipper in a voice sae rough—

Aw warn’d, says he, its mad eneugh—

How-way an’ get some doctor’s stuff,

For fear of Hydrophobie!

Fal de ral, &c
The doctor dress’d the wound sae wide,

An’ left poor Markie smartin’—

Then, for a joke, tells Carr, aside,

Mark wad gan mad, for sartin:—

Now, skipper, mind, when in yor keel,

Be sure that ye watch Markie weel—

If he begins to bark and squeel,

Depend it’s Hydrophobie!

Fal de ral, &c.
For Shields, next day, they sail’d wi’ coal,

An’ teuk on board a Quaker,

Who wish’d to go as far’s Dent’s Hole,

To see a friend call’d Baker:

The Skipper whisper’d in his ear—

Wor Markie will gan mad, aw fear!

He’ll bite us a’—as sure’s yor here,

We’ll get the Hydrophobie

Fal de ral, &c.

Said Quack—I hope this can’t be true—

Nay, friend, thou art mistaken;

We must not fear what man can do—

Yea! I will stand unshaken!

The skipper, to complete the farce,

Said—Maister Quaker, what’s far warse,

A b—n’ dog bit Markie’s a—e,

An’ browt on Hydrophobie!

Fal de ral, &c.

Now Markie overheard their talk,

Thinks he, aw’ll try the Quaker—

Makes Pee Dee to the huddock walk,

Of fun to be partaker:

To howl an’ bark he wasn’t slack,

The Quaker owerboard in a crack,

With the fat skipper on his back,

For fear of Hydrophobie!

Fal de ral, &c.
How Pee Dee laugh’d to see the two,

Who, to be sav’d, were striving—

Mark haul’d them out wi’ much ado,

And call’d them culls for diving:—

The Quaker seun was put on shore,

For he was frighten’d very sore—

The skipper promis’d never more

To mention Hydrophobie!

Fal de ral, &c.

AT NEWCASTLE, JULY 30th. 1823.


Tune—“Fie, let us a’ to the Bridal.”

THE herald of day is approaching,

To summon the Craft to repair,

To honour the grand Coronation,

In famed Peace and Unity Square;*

By loyalty bound to our Sovereign,

By reverence due to our Saint,

We’ll fasten the trappings of office,

And march till we’re ready to faint:

Then fie, let us join the Procession,

For there will be splendour there;

The King and his nobles are coming,

And shouting resounds in the air.

The Champion, upon his gay charger,

The courage of Dymoke to show,

Will fearlessly throw down his gantlet,

And undauntedly combat the foe,

That shall for the honour contend,

Of opposing the king with his might:

But, being the choice of his people,,

Thus doubly secure is his right.

Then fie, let us join, &c.
Then there’ll be his Grace the Archbishop,

In ancient druidical form:

He hopes that the church and the state

May ne’er have to encounter a storm.

• The name given to the Hotpital at the Head of Westgate Street, at the Ceremony of laying the Foundation Stone of that Building.

If times were as bad as they have been,

I’m sure he would soon leave his see.

For fear Robin Hood, or his party,

Should bind him hard fast to a tree.

Then fie, let us join, &c.

There’ll be Princes, their Spearmen, and Yeomen,

Dukes, Lords, and Knights not a few;

Captains, Lieutenants, and Colours,

With Crispin’s old master, Sir Hugh.

From the woolsack the Chancellor talking,

Like Eldon, with sense does abound;

He hopes that our trade’s manufacture

May be trod on through all the world round.

Then fie, let us join, &c.

The Mayor kindly granting permission,

With numerous friends in his train,

While gratitude reigns in our bosoms,

We’ll thank them again and again.

Our bills we have honourably settled ;

Our clothes are upon the right shelf;

And I wish every sordid intruder

Could say the same thing of himself.

Then fie, let us close the Procession,

Though there was less grandeur there:

We paid a blind bargain, I own it—

‘Twill help us of cheats to beware.



Tune—“The British Grenadiers.”

YE jovial sons of Crispin! attend my rustic lay,

While I relate what happened upon the other day:

For music’s sound made me look round, when instantly appears,

In order grand, the jovial band of Crispin’s Volunteers.
The lofty Crispin banners were by two Ensigns bore,

The Champion clad in armour went prancing on before,

With martial stride, heroic pride, a warlike look he bears,

While the Sword of State proclaims how great is Crispin’s Volunteers.

Knights of the Cross soon follow'd, succeeded by his Grace,

The worthy grave Archbishop, with firm & steady pace;

He placed the Crown, to their renown, on Crispin and his heirs,

Then join’d the line, with looks divine, of Crispin’s Volunteers.

But mark the King, in grandeur, appears in public view,

In majesty walks forth in robes of royal hue,

Supporters true, with Pages too, a lofty head he bears,

While the Crown of State proclaims how great is Crispin’s Volunteers.

The Rods bound in a bundle do strength and union prove;

The little Girls, dear emblems of innocence and love:

Let mirth pervade this gay parade;—vile calumny who fears!

It ne’er shall smart the honest part of Crispin’s Volunteers.

Among the Dukes and Princes who grac’d this happy court,

An Indian Prince Ambassador did to the King resort;

Upon his steed he smokes the weed his native country rears,

Who clos’d the train—the gallant train of Crispin’s Volunteers.

They leave admiring thousands, to grace the festive board;

Let now my feeble efforts their lasting praise record:

Wives, sweethearts, all attend the ball!—let mirth dispel your fears,

While the trump of Fame echoes the name of Crispin’s Volunteers.


or, a peep into pilgrim street.

Come, Geordy, an’ aw’ll tell ye, lad, where aw hae been,

In Pilgrim Street, where there’s to see an’ to be seen,

A great many lasses, an’ they shew off sic fine airs,

Aw’s sure they’re all as wild as ony March hares.

Now, d’ye no-but gah there iv next Sunday neet,

About the time o’ six o’clock, you’ll see the fine seet;

A large show of lasses fine, that drive about there,

They’ve neam’d it but reet when they ga’d Filly Fair.

Now, one Sunday neet, to the high town aw went,

That aw might get the evening cannily spent;

Among the rabble, sure enough, aw gat there,

And saw the fine dresses in fam’d Filly Fair.

There’s some lasses, they say, that are so very keen,

That they come to this place just for to be seen;

And, on every wet Sunday, they sit down to prayer,

And think it provoking they're not at the Fair.

Aw enter’d the street with a great of deal of glee,

Where the lads and the lasses in flocks aw did see:

The task wad be endless to tell a’ what was there,

Aw mean the fine dresses in fam’d Filly Fair.

Aw look’d about all these fine dresses to see,

Aw glowr’d at the lassses, and they glowr’d at me:

So now for a description, I will give to a hair,

Of all the fine things in this fam’d Filly Fair.

There wee white gowns, silk spencers, and flounces galore,

And queer monkey-jackets aw’d ne’er, seen before;

With little drakes tails, that hing from the hair,

And large ringlets a’ curl’d, was in fam’d Filly Fair.

The spencers a’ carv’d, wye, with cords of a’ kind,

That seem’d just like soulgers afore and behind;

And black silks, and stript silks, and a’ silks was there.

And pads, and cat backs were in fam’d Filly Fair.

There was bats like myy awn, with fine flee behint cloaks,

And queer things ahint them, like the pitmen’s bait pokes;

And hats rayed of muslin, to let in the air,

Besides some with high-crowns were in fam’d Filly Fair.

The hats were deck’d o’er a’ with ribbons and lace,

And lairge cabbage nets were thrawn o’er their face:

Paddysoles too were there, as were many things mair,

And fine mobbed caps were in fam’d Filly Fair.

There was scarfs of a’ kinds, and of every degree;

And little wee bairneys, scarce up-to my knee;

With beaux, arm in arm, they were driving thro’ there,

‘Twas shameful to see them in fam’d Filly Fair.

O, mun I just like a loadstone is this curious place,

For what I have tell’d you, aw’m sure it’s the case,—

It’s the case of them all that walk about there,

To be talk’d of by strangers in fam’d Filly Fair.

And besides a’ the tricks’ that aw cannot explain,

For this kind of rambling I’m sure I disdain:

Take advice, my good lasses, and don’t wander there,

Or your character’s stained by walking the Fair.

This advice now, I hope, you will readily take,

And keep up your character, for your own sake;

It’s nought unto me if all night you walk there,

But your name will be blasted by attending the Fair.



Tune—“Derry Down.”
NOT lang since some keelmen were gaun doon to Sheels,

When a hoop round some froth cam alangside their keel;

The skipper saw’d furst, an’ he gov a greet shout,

How! b—r, man, Dick, here’s a grunstan afloat!

Derry Down, &c.
Dick leuk’d, and he thowt that the skipper was reet,

So they’d hev her ashore, an’ then sell her that neet:

Then he jump’d on to fetch her—my eyes, what a splatter!—

Ne grunstan was there, for he fand it was watter.

Derry down, &c.
The skipper astonish’d, quite struck wi’ surprise,

He roar’d out to Dickey when he saw him rise—

How! smash marrow—Dick, ho!—What is thou a-boot ?—

Come here, mun, an’ let’s, ha’e the grunstan tyen oot.

Derry Down, &c.
A grunstan! says Dick—wey, ye slavering cull!

Wi’ watter my belly an’ pockets are full;

By the gowkey, aw’ll sweer, that ye’re drunk, daft or doating—

Its nee grunstan at a’, but some au’d iron floating.

Derry Down, &c

A North Shields Song.—Written in 1820.

WHILE Cartwright, and Wooler, and Cobbett, and all

The souls of the brave attend Liberty’s call,

J**n T**ley, the best friend of kings since the flood,

Is ready for slavery to spill his best blood.

A press so licentious—for ‘twill tell the truth—

Is truly distressing to T**ley, forsooth;

He’s a foe to the Queen, and no wonder he should.

Since he vows for oppressors to spill his best blood.

What an excellent orator in his own way,

Mechanics, Shoemakers, and Joiners do say:

But he does not remember that Drones steal their food,

Were it not for the Bees he would have no best blood.

The Loyalist party consumptive are grown,

Though time-serving T**ley the fact may disown:

And it will not be long—God forbid that it should!

Ere Reform freeze the springs of T**ley’s best blood.



Be easy good folks, for we’re all safe enough,

Better fortune seems now to attend us;

And two canny fellows, both lusty and tough,

Have raised a new corps to defend us.

Men sound wind and limb, good sighted and stout,

That can fight well, without being daunted;

Free from all diseases, such like as the gout,

And can jump, or be ready when wanted.


Then if any invaders should dare us to fight,

Let it be on the shore or the river,

Bold Archy the Noodle, and Tommy the Knight,

Will guard and protect us for ever.
The Noodles have ne’er been at battle as yet,

Nor been brought down by scanty provision;

So to try them whenever his worship thinks fit,

He’ll find them in famous condition.

In all their manœuvres there’s scarcely a flaw,

They’re quite up to the science o’ killing;

For the Noodle drill Sergeant’s a limb o’ the law,

And an old practised hand at the drilling.

Then if any invaders, &c.

Misfortunes however will sometimes attend,

For one morning, by danger surrounded,

A poor fellow splinter’d his fore-finger end,

And, of course, in the sarvice was wounded.

‘Tis true a sair finger’s a very bad thing,

But it didn’t diminish his beauty;

So the next day he just popp’d his arm in a sling,

And, Briton-like, went upon duty.

Then if any invaders, &c.

They have all been abroad, and as far too as Shields,

But to walk there was no easy matter,

So, for fear that their boots should go down in the heels,

They took the steam boat down the watter.

Their warlike appearance was awfully grand,

When they fired, it sounded like thunder,

Which put all the natives o’ Shields to a stand,

And left them for ages to wonder.

Then if any invaders, &c.
What a pity they cannot get medals to bay.

It greatly would add to their grandeur;

“There’s Waterloo soldiers!” the strangers would cry,

And think Archy was great Alexander.

These mighty Preservers if death cannot save,

But send one or two o’ them bummin;

The rest o’ the Noodles would fire o’er his grave,

And tell the below-folks he's coming.

Then if any invaders, &c.

ABOUT sixty wealthy, learned men,

In a certain borough town,

Whose zeal you cannot equal, in

The cause of Church and Crown;

Their zeal so great and ardent, did

Their learning far surpass;

And tempt these sapient, loyal men

Their Sovereign to address.
Now after consultation held

Among themselves and friends,

Concerning this their Loyal Address,

Their private views and ends;

It happened, I can’t tell how,

But this they did confess,

That not one of them talent had

To write a loyal Address.

This sad discovery for a while

Did check their mad career,

And damp the ardour of their souls,

And fill their minds with fear:

Till one, much wiser than the rest,

Swore by the holy mass,*

The Vicarf of this borough town

Could write the Loyal Address.

Then to the Vicar straight they went

And besought that he would aid

The committee’s trade-loyalty,

With his pen and eke his head.

* Supposed to be G. D. a Catholic, who, having no constitutional rights himself, was offended at others for asking for those rights.
†The Rev. John Smith.
His consent given, they loudly boast

That they would far surpass

The ins’lent Whigs and Radicals,

With this their Loyal Address.

The Vicar, a fastidious man,

This application charm’d;

He redder grew about the face,

Because his blood was warm’d:

He dipt his pen in ink, and then,

Despising rules that pass

With vulgar souls, who writing love,

He wrote the Loyal Address.

The ins’lent Whigs, and trait’rous Rads,*

He flatly told the King,

Were striving which into contempt

Their Sovereign first should bring:

And eke the Church they held in scorn,

And sought her to depress;

Therefore himself and Loyal Friends

Had sent this Loyal Address.

No sooner did this Loyal Address

Behold the light of day,

Than wags were found commenting on’t;

And one was heard to say,—

That if the Priest would learn to write

What with the world should pass,

He to the Rads should go to learn

To write a Loyal Address.

* Rads, a term sometimes used instead of the word Radicals.


COME, all ye Britons who delight

In Freedom’s sacred cause,

And boast the Triumphs of your Sires,

Of just and equal laws,

Wrung from a Despot’s feeble grasp,

List to this tale of mine,

In baseness which you cannot peer,

Since the days of Lang Syne.

To famed Newcastle’s Secret Court

A poor unlucky wight

Was, for the sin of Bastardy,

But very lately brought:

Where, tortur’d most ingeniously,

The rogue was made to whine,

As few have been, for sporting so,

Since the days of Lang Syne.

In vain the culprit urg’d his cause,

In eloquence of woe;

In vain he urg’d his poverty,

To save him from the blow:

Regardless of his just complaint,

His judges laid the fine,

So great as few poor dogs could pay,

Since the days of Lang Syne.

Now mark the justice of the Judge,

Precisely at the time—

A gentleman was brought to him,

Just for the self same crime;

To whom the Judge, in alter’d tone,

Begg’d he would not repine,

Such ills are common to the rich,

Since the days of Lang Syne.

Suffice it, these two sinners were,

Tho’ in the same degree

Of guilt, adjudg’d a fine to pay,

The ratio one to three:

The man of rags was made to pay

Three times a greater fine;

And sunk in misery, sent to think

On the days of Lang Syne.

Thus, Britons, are your laws dispens’d

Your boasted freedom’s gone,

Laid in your predecessors’ graves,

Or from the island flown:

No longer Justice holds her seat,

In majesty divine,

In British Courts presiding now,

As in days of Lang Syne;

In vain you strive to wander back

To times of peaceful joy,

In vain you hope times to recall,

Lost in eternity;

No, never shall those scenes return,

No more shall Britain shine,

As she was wont, so splendidly,

In the days of Lang Syne.

Can then Eternal Justice sleep,

Regardless of the prater

Of toiling millions sunk in debt,

And driven to despair,

By stern Oppression’s iron hand,

Oh! no, the Power Divine

Shall plead our cause as heretofore,

In the days of Lang Syne.


BY J. B.

Tune—" Calder Fair."

LAST week was wor pay-week,and aw went te th’ toon,

Alang wi’ wor Susy to buy her a new goon;

A sixpence i’ my pocket—we cuddent pass the Close,

But went into the Robin Hood and gat worsells a dose.

Wiv a tooral, looral, looral, &c.

Suin efter we gat canny, and com alang the Brig,

An’ up the Bottle-Bank, man, we byeth sae went the rig,

Wi’ reelin and wi’ dancin—“knacking Heel an’ toe,”

Our heads began to rattle where wor feet before did go.

The Half-Muin Lyen we com te, an’ that wor Susy found,

For ower the stanes she fell, man, that’s lyen all around,

A daver, a devesher agyen the metal pump,

An’ aw, to save poor Susy, got a duckin i’ th’ sump.

Ower anenst the Dun Cow, there is a place myed reet,

As good for breekin necks, man, as ony i’ th’ street;

Had e’er an inclination been for leadin me astray,

I’m conscience that aw’d fund maw end by comin up this way.

The biggest house i’ Gyetshead projecting ower th’road

Diz scarcely-leave a footpath to pass on, if you would:

Were it not for the gas leet that’s on the other side,

Mony windpipes wad be closed, aye, and mony open’d wide.

A little farther up the street, abuin auld Jackson’s Chare,

A neatish bit o’ dournament began, as passin there,

For a — — — a — wi’ guise an’ shop-board new,

Is cabbaging at Pleasant —— to patch his Waterloo.

But the worst o’ all these evils is, their plannin o’ the street,

Aye, sec a shem an bizen, were but decent folks te see’t;

For here’s a hill, an’ there’s a hill, an’ here they’re pullin doon,

And here they’re buildin up, (whose fault?) the only fuils i’ toon.

Thus onward we were passin, thro’ trouble an’ thro’ strife,

Scarce caring what misfortunes had ‘Roger an’ his Wife’;

But ere we gan that way agyen, we'll greese our soles and heels,

To scamper down by Sunderland, and up by smoky Sheels.

Wiv a tooral looral, looral, &c.


With the Bear, the Horses, and the Dogs, as principal Performers

IT’s ha’e ye seen how crouse and gay

The lads and lasses bent their way,

To see the horses act the play,

At fam’d Newcastle Theatre?

There some in silks did proudly shine,

And some were dress'd in caps se fine,

And some on sticks there did recline,

At fam’d Newcastle Theatre.

The belles and beaux of low degree

Were eager this fine sight to see;

And soon as they had got their tea,

They set off for the Theatre.

Then at the gallery door they stood,—

Impatient, and in fretful mood;

And many a one, faith, did no good

By coming to the Theatre.

The doors being open’d, on they push’d,

Without distinction they were crush’d;

The cry was, Tumble up you must,

To fam’d Newcastle Theatre.

Next direful shrieks were heard aloud,

Whilst heedless throng’d the busy crowd,

Alike the slothful and the proud

Were driven in the Theatre.

A miller chep I chanc’d to see

Frae out amang the crowd sae blae,

Was running up an entry

Near fam’d Newcastle Theatre.

He’d got his coat torn cross the lap,

My conscience! ‘twas a sad mishap;

But others still were worse than that,

At fam’d Newcastle Theatre.

There some their gowns held in their hand,

And others lost their shawls se grand;

For if you crush’d not you might stand,

At fam’d Newcastle Theatre.

The pretty girls, to get a seat,

Crush’d on, wi’ hair dress’d up sae neat;

But soon came back, in sic a freet,

Frae fam’d Newcastle Theatre.

Now some got in without their shoes,

And some got in wi’ mony a bruise,

And some cam hyem to tell the news,

At fam’d Newcastle Theatre.

Within the pit a brutish chap

Had hit a maiden sic a rap,

‘Cause she refused to take her hat

Off, in Newcastle Theatre.


They took her home without delay,

When in a fit she fainting lay;

And faith she well may curse the day

That e’er she saw the Theatre.

The boxes too were fill'd se fine,

With all the labouring sons of Tyne;

And servant lasses, all divine,

Did beautify the Theatre.

The heat was so excessive great,

That, not to keep the folk too late,

They hurry’d on poor Timorous fate,

At fam’d Newcastle Theatre.

The play was done as it struck ten,

Some greedy folks said, ‘twas a shem;

However, they all wet went hyem,

From fam’d Newcastle Theatre.


Written in 1820.

Tune—“Chapter of Donkies.”

NOW, Archy, my boy, drop the civical gown,

For none ever fill’d it with half your renown,

For wisdom and valour so glorious you shine,

You’re the pride, boast, and bulwark of old coaly Tyne.

O brave Archy, miraculous Archy!

The pink o’ the wise, and the wale o’ the brave.
To recount all your virtues a volume ‘twould swell,

So we’ll just name a few, sir, in which you excel;

Your reign’s been eventful, the times have gone mad,

And well might have puzzled more brains than you had;

But sufficient was Archy, well able was Archy,

To crush the sedition and treason of Tyne.

Sure Machiavel’s self was a fool to our Mayor,

So honest he seem’d—then he promis’d so fair,

To reform all abuses, give justice to all,

And regulate watchmen, blood-suckers and all.

O specious Archy! legitimate Archy!

The firm, staunch supporter of things as they are.

Then at the Great Meeting,* by Jove, what a jest!

The Rads set you down for their chairman at least;

But the yeomen and specials in court you kept hid,

Then sent off that precious Epistle to Sid.

O rare Archy! sly old Archy!

Archy’s the boy for the word or the blow!

O thou first of inditers, thou brightest of scribes,

Thy invention, how fertile, in infamous lies!

How assassin-like was it to stab in the dark,

And from truth and from justice so far to depart.

O serpent-like Archy! O fiend-like Archy!

O Archy, but that was a damnable deed.

Next you went on a voyage of discovery to Shields,

And got handsomely pepper’d for meddling with keels;

Then for refuge you fled to Northumberland’s Arms,

Who till now has defended your paper from harms,

Else down had gone Archy, thy paper, dear Archy,

Down stairs might have gone for the public good.

Then, for raising a riot, and reading the act,

Your honour against all opponents I'll back:

And to crown you with laurels, and finish my song,

You’re a Colonel of Noodles, and nine makes a man,

Such as Archy and Cabbage,

Canny Jack Dixon, and thief-taking Tom.

• Held on Newcastle Town Moor, Oct. 11,1819, relating to the Manchester Massacre.

A Provincial and very popular Song.

I’VE sung o’ Newcassel till black o’ the fyess,

Tyne’s Muse is as modest as ony;

Tho’ oft she comes out in a comical dress—

Here she goes for a lilt at Sir Tommy.

Ye’ve seen him, nae doubt, wi’ his hat on ten hairs,

Then he cuts sic a wonderful caper;

He has long been thought odd, for his kickmashaw airs,

Now he’s odd baith by name and by nature.
Let Fame canter on till she’s sair i’ the hips,

Proclaiming, frae Tynemouth to Stella,

How the sun, moon, and stars a’ went into the ‘clipse,

When Sir Tommy was made an Odd Fellow.

There’s scarce sic a man in a’ Newcassel toon,

With the famous Tyne Legion outsetting:

Down, at Shields, in a fray, they picked up sic renoon,

That his nyem will nae mair be forgetten,

Tho’ envious at valour, ye a’ look asquint,

What heroes in fame e’er surpass’d them?

Wi’ Sir Tommy before, and the sailors behint,

It was run! and the Deil tyek the last one!

Let Fame canter on, &c.

A Knight he was dubb’d, for sic sarvices brave,

But a Knight without fee is but little;

So they sent him to govern* where folks rant and rave,

A station he fit; tiv a tittle.

Grand Master of Orangemen next he was call’d,

Bells rung till the toon was a’ quaking;

Now Most Noble Grand of Odd Fellows install’d—

Faicks ! it’s time, a straight jacket was making.

Let Fame canter on, &c.
• Governor General of the Lunatic House.
That Sir Tommy has wit I wad fain here convince,

He can myek sic a thumping oration,

By which he astonish’d the Legion lang since,

Now he wants to astonish the nation.

By humbug reduc’d, tho’ his head’s very lang,

His brains scarce wad balance a feather:

But just nominate him a Parliament man,*

Head and brains will take flight a’ thegither.

Let Fame canter on, &c.
O sons o’ Newcassel! free Burgesses a’,

Ne’er be tempted your freedom to barter;

May they hing in tatters to frighten the craws,

If ye budge but an inch frae your Charter.

If ye send up Sir Tommy to London, M. P.

I’ the Parliament house to be seated,

Ye may just as weel send Captain Starkey† up tee,

Your glory will then be completed.

Let Fame canter on, &c

OH, Lads and Lasses, hither come

To Wreckington, to see the fun,

An’ mind ye bring yor Sunday shoon,

There’ll be rare wark wi’ dancing-o.

An’ Lasses now, without a brag,

Bring pockets like a fiddle bag,

Ye’ll get them cram’d wi’ mony a whag

Of pepper-kyek an’ scranchim-o.
* It was reported in the London Papers, that Sir T. B. intended putting up as a Candidate to serve Newcastle tm Parliament.

† An eccentric character, well known in Newcastle.


An’ Bess, put on that bonny goon

Thy mother bought thou at the toon;

That straw hat wi’ the ribbons broon,

They’ll a’ be buss’d that’s coming-o:

Put that reed ribbon round thy waist,

It myeks thou luik sae full o’ grace,

Then up the lonnen come in haste,

They’ll think thou’s com’d frae Lunnen-o.

Ned pat on his Sunday’s coat,

His hat and breeches cost a note,

With a new stiff'ner round his throat,

He luikt the very dandy-o:

He thought that he was gaun to choke,

For he’d to gyep before he spoke:

He met Bess at the Royal Oak,

They had baith yell and brandy-o.

Each lad was there; wi’his sweetheart,

An’ a’ was ready for a start,

When in com Jack wi’ Fanny Smart,

And brought a merry Scraper-o:

Then Ned jump’d up upon his feet,

An’ on the table myed a seet;

Then bounc’d the Fiddler up a heet,

Sayin, ‘Play an’ we will caper-o.’

Now Ned and Bess Jed off the ball,

‘Play Smash the windows,’ he did call,

‘Keep in yor feet,’ says Hitchy Mall,

‘Learn’d dancers hae sic prancin-o:’

Now Ned was nowther laith nor lyem,

An’ faith he had baith bouk an’ byen,

Ye wad thought his feet was myed o’ styen,

He gav sic thuds wi’ dancin-o.

Now Jackey Fanny’s hand did seize,

Cry’d, “Fiddler, tune your strings to please!”

Play, “Kiss her weel amang the trees,”

She is my darlin’, bliss her-o!

Then off they set, wi’ sic a smack,

They myed the joists a’ bend and crack:

When duen he took her round the neck,

An’ faith he dident miss her-o.

The fiddler’s elbow wagg’d a’ neet,

He thought he wad dropp’d off his seet,

For deel a bit they’d let him eat,

They were sae keen o' dancin'-o.

Some had to strip their coats for heet,

An’ sharts an’ shifts were wet wi’ sweet!

They cram’d their guts, for want o’ meat,

Wi’ ginger-breed and scranshim-o.

Now cocks had crawn an hour or more,

An’ ower the yell-pot some did snore;

But how they luikt to hear the roar

Of Matt, the King Pit caller-o!

‘Smash him!’ says Ned, “he mun be rang,

He’s callin’ through his sleep, aw’s war’n;

‘Then shootin’ to the door he ran—

‘Thou’s asleep, thou rousty bawler-o!’

Now they danc’d agyen till it was day,

An’ then went hyem—but, by the way,

Some of them had rare fun, they say,

An’ fand it nine months after-o:

Such tricks are play’d by heedless youth;

And tho’ they’re common, north and south,

That’s nae excuse for breach of truth,

Nor food for wit and laughter-o.

Suen Wreckhigton will bear the sway,

Two Members they’ll put in, they say;

Then wor Taxes will be duen away,

An’ we’ll a’ sing now or never-o:

Backey an’ Tea will be sae cheap,

Wives will sit up when they sud sleep,

An’ we’ll float in yell at wor Pay-week,

Then Wreckinton for ever-o.


Who walked 101 miles in 23 hours, 56 minutes, and 30 seconds,

on the 25th and 26th of July, 1822, on the

Newcastle Race Course.

MEN’s talents vary—for wise ends design’d,

This man has strength of body, that, of mind;

Each his peculiar art assiduous plies,

And every maxim of improvement tries,

Till he attain perfection by degrees,

And learns to execute his task with ease.

Wilson* desist! and Simpson† take your rest!

Ease and retirement now will suit ye best;

Your brief excursions will excite no more

That admiration which they did before;

Though doubtless ye have both endeavour'd hard,

Perhaps without an adequate reward;

But such laborious journies lay aside,

And if ye can, instead of walking, ride.

“Hide your diminished heads!” nor vainly talk,

Among your friends, how rapidly you walk:

* George Wilson, the Blackheath Pedestrian, walked 90 miles in 24 successive hours, on the same ground, on Easter Monday and Tuesday, 1822.

† John Simpson, the Cumberland Pedestrian, attempted to walk 96 miles on the same ground, in the same period of time, on Whit-Monday, and again on the 29th and 30th. of July, 1822; in both of which attempts he failed.

First in the annals of Pedestrian fame,

Historians now will enter Russell’s name;

Where he will most conspicuously shine,

And long be hail’d—The Hero of the Tyne.

Upon this art he has so much refin'd,

That he leaves all competitors behind.

With buoyant step we’ve seen him tread the plain,

And hope, ere long, to see him walk again.


Tune—“Barbary Bell.”

SITTING crush’d i’the huddock a’ gobbing and talking

We were mov’d wiv a spoke frae the little Pee Dee;

Ah! Skipper, he says, the auld mam ‘ill be walking,

So we a’ rose together and set off to see.

When we gat to the Moor, he was dodging away, man,

Wi’ twe cheps on each side, keeping a’ the folks back;

And the bairns running after him, shouting hurra, man,.

So we just got a gliff, for he pass'd in a crack.

Now Barney M’Mullin, his reet hand protector,

With a sprig o’ shelelah preparing the way,

Was stopt on the road by a publican hector,

Who hinted that Barney intended fbul play.

If Barney mov’d forward he threaten’d to drop him,

For his walking, he said, put the man off his pace

But Barney concluded he’d ne right to stop him,

And call’d him a big-gutted rogue to his face.

Every Freeman, say Barney, of land has a small stocky

But to dunch people off is most rascally mean;

Then their rights were protected by bold Tommy Alcock, .

Who said he’d a share of the pasture sae green.

When Tommy put on his election-day swagger,

His genteel appearance made Barney’s tongue cease

His speech was sae pointed, it pierc’d like a dagger:

So Barney, poor soul, he departed in peace.

We stopt there a’ neet, till weel on i’ the morning,

Expecting he still would keep dodging away;

But he gav us the double, without ony warning,

And hodg’d off the Moor, like a sheep gyen astray.

When he enter’d the tent, we were a’ sitting drinking,

It was thought he had come to get something to eat;

But now it appears the poor soul had been thinking

On the best ways and means to obtain a retreat.

It seems the auld man had nae notion o’ stopping,

But as to what ail’d him, he knaws best his sell;

For whether he fail’d in his wind, strength or bottom,

The Skipper and I were byeth puzzled to tell.

But it’s owre and deun, so what signifies talking,

Poor man he mun just lay his fist to the spade:

Let them that think fit make their living by walking,

For his part he’s fund it’s a very bad trade.



Tune—“O the golden days of good Queen Bess.”

IT happen’d very lately, (upon my Word ‘tis true, sir,)

A party at the Peacock supp’d, as I shall shew to you, sir;

The names of those I shall disclose, who form’d this happy party,

Were Waller Watson, Walton too, both honest blades and hearty;

And with them were two friends of theirs, who just had come to town, sir,

Hedges and Ingram are their names, both travellers of renown, sir,
They sang and drank, and drank and sang, till time was wearing late, sir,

Nor ever thought a moment what that night might be their fate, sir:


Near eleven o’clock they sallied out, the night being rather cold, sir,

(‘Twas on the eightt of April, as we hear the story told, sir,)

They felt it not, for friendship’s glass had warm’d their hearts within, sir,

By drinking brandy, rum, or wine, or eke good Holland’s gin, sir.

Watson and Ingram both inclin’d to be a little merry’ sir,

The others left—to Dean Street they proceeded in a hurry, sir;

When Hedges he sung “Fly not yet,” why haste ye so away? sir;

And Ingram promptly answer’d him, by calling’out, “Oh! stay,” sir.

The Verges of the night were rous’d—demanded why such clatter, sir,

What’s all this hound-like noise about? come tell us what’s the matter, sir.

Then Walton said, They’re friends of mine, and strangers in the place, sir;

But this they disregarded quite, and star’d them in the face, sir.

Now Halbert cried out, “Seize them, Ross!—to the watch-house they shall go, sir;

“And Master Carr will Kitty them, old friendship for to shew, sir.

Then to the watch-house they were ta’en trium phantly along, sir,

For nothing, as the trial prov’d, but singing Tom Moore’s song, sir.

Arriving at the watch-house, where Dogberry sat in state, sir,

The watchmen made false charges out, and did so glibly prate, sir;

Tom cried out, “What d'ye think of this? No defence will I hear, sir,

My servants I will listen to, they’ve made it plain appear, sir.

Off to the Kitty with them, watch, nor grant one short respite, sirs,

But see that theyre completely fast in durance all the night, sirs.”
Ye watchmen, for the future, remember Scarlett’s dressing, sirs,

The real sound drubbing you’ve receiv’d may be esteemed a blessing, sirs:

And should you e’er repeat such acts, vile tyrants as you’ve been, sirs,

Scarlett against you may appear, and trim you black and green, sirs.

Therefore a warning take in time, leave your infernal tricks, sirs,

As you ere this must clearly find, you’ve kick’d against the pricks, sirs.

THE ALARM ! ! !*


Tune—“Chevy Chace.”

GOD prosper long our noble king,

And noblemen also,

Who valiantly, with sword in hand,

Do guard us from each foe.

No sooner did Lord Fauconberg,

With heart undaunted hear,

• On the commencement of the impress service, in March, 1793, considerable riots took place at Shields, which were represented, at Newcastle, in thousand terrific shapes; and a false alarm having been given at the Mansion House, the drums of the York Militia beat to arms; Lord Fauconberg marched that reigment to the house of Rendezvous in the Broad Chare, and then marched back again.
That news to Gotham bad been brought,

Which caus’d our Mayor to fear,

Than up he rose, with eyes on fire,

Most dreadful to the view:

“To arms ! to arms!” aloud he cried,

And forth his falchion drew.

To arms! to arms! full long and sore

The rattling drums did beat:

To arms in haste each soldier flies,

And scours through every street.

The women shriek and wring their hands,

Their children weep around;

While some, more wise, fast bolt their doors.

And hide them under ground.

The French are at our gates! they cry,

And we shall all be slain;

For Dumourier is at their head,

And that arch-traitor Paine.

In haste drawn up, in fair array,

Our Yorkshire Guards are seen;

And mounted on a jet black steed,

Lord Fauconberg I ween.

And now he gave the word to march,

And valiant foremost rode:

And now he bounds from side to side,—

‘Twas well the streets were broad.

From Newgate down to the Broad Chare

They march’d, with might and main;

Then gallantly they turn’d them round,

And so march’d up again.

Now fill a bumper to the brim,

And drink to Gotham’s Mayor;

And when again he hears such news,

May Fauconberg be there.




O GOTHAM! seat of dire alarm!

When will thy tumults cease?

And, undisturb’d by clanging arms,

Thy sons repose in peace?

When will the brazen trumpet's voice

Cease to excite our fears;

And fifes and drums’ united noise

No longer stun our ears?

Lo! scarce were Tuesday’s terrors past,

And calm’d our perturbation,

When news from Bambro’ came, post haste,

Reviving consternation.

For Fauconberg, and Yielder too,

Then felt their blood run cool;

And thinking, both, the tidings true,

Both chose to play the fool.

Time soon expos’d the waggish trick,

And so restor’d our quiet;

When keelmen next of spouts grew sick,

And straight began to riot.

Terror once more each heart assail’d,

And clouded every brow;

For nought his Lordship’s force avail’d,

To quell so fierce a crew.

But see! to chase away our fears,

And guard us safe from dangers,

The brave Lord Darlington appears,

With his terrific Rangers.

Fine fellows, faith! yet certain wags,

For ever on the banter,

Declar’d, that neither men nor nags,

As yet had learn’d to canter.

Some thought, nor were they far mistaken,

Such precious, Light Dragoons,

Had but some weeks before forsaken

Their stalls, and boards, and looms.

Such Cavalry, God knows, our care

Serv’d little to dispell;

For fitter were they crows to scare,

Than rioters to quell.

Next came, of Leigh, the dashing corps

All daubs at fighting reckon’d;

Who, very pious, seldom swore

Above ten oaths a second.

Then, then began the warm campaign,

Surpassing that in Flanders,

As far, in deeds of martial fame,

As Tyne excels the Sambre.

Of gallantry and skill display’d,

In succouring Vulcan’s sons,

What time ferocious Keelmen flay’d

Their’s and their dearie’s bums.

Of sheep devour’d, and beer casks drain’d,

By horse and foot so bold,

Whilst in the cause of spouts retain’d,

What wonders might be told.

But mine is not the Epic strain,

Nor mine Heroic fire;

Of course, those deeds of deathless fame

Belong not to my lyre.

Suffice it, then, that storm blew by,

Fair Peace on Gotham smil'd;

But soon, soon lour’d again the sky,

And all was uproar wild.

O Muse! thy aid I humbly ask;

Come, help me to achieve,

To wrest from dull oblivion’s grasp

Th’ events of Sunday eve.

O come, in tuneful verse disclose

The consequences great,

When noble heels and plebeian toes

In contact chance to meet.

Reader, if thou’rt a country clown,

Some hedging, ditching blade,

Great chance thou know’st what folk in town

Mean by—a Grand Parade.

Didst e’er, like pins on paper stuck,

A regiment see display’d?

Thou hast—why then how great thy luck!

Thou’st seen a Grand Parade.

Such sights we Gothamites adore,

And run in crowds to see;

At which, though often seen before,

We gape and stare—like thee.

And when the sport is at an end,

A down the spacious street,

Straight homewards we our courses bend,

Like droves of hogs or sheep.

On Sunday eve, with heedless steps,

Two wights thus wander’d home,

One Jack, the other Will ‘yclept—

Alike to fame unknown.

Onward they went, ‘midst thousands more,

And little did they mind,

Or who might chance to walk before,

Or who to walk behind.

Fate Fauconberg did near them guide,

To prove what man can do,

When, flush’d with wine, his heart is void

Of fear and prudence too.

And now—for Fate had order'd so,

His Lordship’s noble heel

The pressure of Jack’s plebeian toe,

Ye powers! was doom’d to feel.

His Lordship straight, in angry mood,

Wheel’d suddenly about;

And Will—who scarce the shock withstood,

Encounter’d, snout to snout.

“God d—n your blood!” his Lordship cried,

“You hound! damnation, seize you!”

“What for?” the simple wight replied;

“What for, my Lord, an’ please you?”

My Lord it pleas’d not to explain,

Unconscious of mistake;

But straight began Will’s luckless frame

Most manfully to shake.

Whilst Jack, who knew himself the cause

Which mov’d his Lordship’s wrath,

Irreverent dar’d to stretch bis jaws,

And burst into a laugh.

Oh! lost to shame, good manners, grace!

Of decency all sense!

What! laugh—laugh in an Earl’s face!

Consummate impudence!!!

No wonder signs his Lordship shew’d

Of hydrophobic ire;

Nor that his noble visage glow’d

Like some hot kitchen fire.

Frantic with rage, dread things he vow’d,

By fits bounc’d, stamp’d, and swore;

And much the vast surrounding crowd

He curs’d—the soldiers more.

“Go fetch the guard!” he madly roar’d,

“Zounds! bid the trumpets sound!

The mob put straightway to the sword!

“Then fire the town around!”

He spake—obedient to command

“To horse!” the trumpets sound!

The guard appears—a chosen band,

And rang’d his Lordship round.

Next came the officers, so bold,

Their Leader’s fate to share:

The mob increas’d a thousand fold,

And tumult rent the air.

It chanc’d just then a luckless cow,

Who ‘mongst the crowd had got,

And, having forc’d her passage through,

Before the Earl did stop.

And then, in Cow-enquiring way,

She gave a loud, loud rowt;

As tho’ indeed, she meant to say,

“Pray, what’s all this about?”

But Hall and Sterling, Ensigns fam’d,

Mistook her language quite;

And thus the enquiring rowt explained,

“Who dares with me to fight?”

Fond of achieving deeds of fame.

Straight forth their rapiers flew,

And both the proffer’d combat claim’d,

And both would fight the cow.

Then forth stept Hale, a smock-fac’d spark,

As ere wore red coat gay:

Much fitter he a Tailor’s part,

Than Grenadier’s to play.

Forth did he step with martial stride,

And bold, intrepid air;

And thus to Hall and Sterling cried,

“Forbear! my friends, forbear!

“To Fame already are you known

“By many a matchless feat;

“Say, didn’t you Robertson knock down,

“And Whitfield soundly beat

“And would you then, in Cow-blood base,

“Your valiant hands embrue?

“No, no, my lads, to me give place,

“D—m me, I'll fight the Cow!”

Thus did the flower of Grenadiers

Disclose his warlike mind;

And instantly his brave compeers

To him the field resign’d.

Then putting on the fiercest look

His features would allow,

His sword he from the scabbard took,

And bold attack’d the Cow.

And now, with store of hard dry blows

Poor Mistress Cow he clatter’d;

And now her legs, ribs, back, and nose,

Unmercifully batter’d.

Bringing to mind that Earl, far fam’d,

High Guy of Warwick bold,

Who fought (and thereby glory gain’d)

The Cow, in days of old.

Whether it was that renown’d story

Now set his soul on fire,

Engendering thirst of kill-cow glory,

I stop not to enquire.

Certain it is that gallant Hale,

Exerted all his might,

Until the four-legg’d foe turn'd tail,

And fairly took to flight!

O, when on England’s throne I’m set,

As soon I’ll likely be,

Hale, pray thee, let me not forget

To make a Knight of thee.

Yes, valourous youth! my sacred word

I solemn pledge thee now,

To dub thee then, with kingly sword,

Knight of the rampant Cow.

Mean while, with unabated ire,

His Lordship’s bosom glow’d,

Impatient quite, with sword of fire,

To extirpate the crowd.

But ah! the voice of law, abhorr’d,

Restrain’d his noble will;

Thus whispering in his ear, My Lord,

“Remember Tower Hill!”

At length, on capering steeds astride,

Beaumont’s Dragoons appear’d;

And much their look their hearts belied,

If mortal foe they fear’d.

A fine bold Ranger-looking breed,

In truth they seem’d to be;

As like Lord Dar’nton’s corps, indeed,

As pea is like to pea.

With them off march’d the Earl, amain,

And off the mob too hies;

And soon the Mansion-house they gain,

To Yeilder’s great surprize.

Him thus- -when various “how d’ye do’s,”

And “hope you’re wells” were past,

With divers scrapes and sundry bows,

The Earl address’d at last.

“I’m come to inform you, Mister Mayor,

“Amongst yon roaring mob,

“Certain damn’d Gothamites there are,

“Who on my heels have trod.

“Nay, on my heels not only trod,

“But at me laugh’d their fill;

“For which offence I mean, by G—d !

Forthwith the mass to kill."

“Indeed, my Lord! I say, my Lord!”

Thus Yeilder quick reply’d,

“You’ve been ill-us’d, upon rmy word,

“That—that can’t be deny’d:

“But—but, my Lord, in crowds, you know,

“With treads we sometimes meet:

I’m sure I’ve often been serv’d so,

“Oft trod on in the street.”

“Sir!” thus the Earl again did say,

“I don’t dispute your word;

But, dam’me, Mister Yeilder, pray,

“Are you—a noble Lord?”

“A Lord—my Lord! who? I a Lord!”

Thus Yeilder ‘gan to stammer;

“No, faith! not I—upon my word,

“I am—hem!—hem!—a Tanner!

“But—but a Tanner is a man,

“And—hem!—a Tanner’s heel,

“As well as any Noble’s, can

A painful pressure feel:

“And with your Lordship to be brief,

“E’en tho’ they’d made you fall,

“Yon shall not put the mob to death—

“No, dam’me if you shall!”

Like some dread calm, when aspin leaf

Is scarce perceiv’d to quiver,

Ere yet the roaring tempest’s breath

The oak’s strong branches shiver:

Such was of silence now the pause,

Which reign’d portentous round,

Ere, bursting from his Lordship's jaws,

The storm a passage found.

At length, endangering Yeilder’s ears,

The thunder ‘gan to roll,

When, lo! an Aid-du-Camp appears,

The tempest to controul:

“Thus General Grant commands, he cry’d,

“Let heel commotions cease!”

He said—mob, soldiers homewards hied,

Restor’d was Gotham’s peace.


Air—“Chapter of Donkies.”

TOTHER day up the water aw went in a boat,

Aw brush’d up my trowsers, put on my new coat;

We steer’d up wor boat ‘lang side of a keel,

And the luiks of the Skipper wad frighten’d the Deel.

Fol de rol, &c.
So thinks aw, wi’ the keel we’ll gan a’ the way,

And hear a few words that the Skipper may say;

For aw was sure if ought in the keel was duen wrang,

The Skipper wad curse, aye, and call every man.

Fol de rol, &c.

Now we’d just getten up to the fam’d Skinner’s Burn,

When the Skipper bawl’d out that the keel was to turn:

Wye ha shouted and roar’d like a man hung in chains,

And swore by the keel he wad knock out their brains.

Fol de rol, &c.

The little Pee-dee jump'd about on the deck,

And the Skipper roar’d out he wad sure smash his neck;

“What for?” says the Pee-dee, “can one not speak a word?”—

So he gav him a kick—knock’d him plump owerboard.

Fol de rol, &c.
There was nyen of the bullies e’er lost a bit time.

But flung their greet keel-huiks splash into the Tyne;

They brought up the Pee-dee just like a duck’d craw,

And the Skipper, wi’ laughin’, fell smack ower an’ a’.

Fol de rol, &c.
Now the keelmen being tired of their skipper se brave,

Not one e’er attempted his life for to save;

They hoisted their sail, and we saw no more,

But the half-drowned Skipper was swimming ashore.

Fol de rol, &c.


Air—“We’ve aye been provided for.”

THE praises o’ Newcassel aw’ve lang wish’d to tell,

But now then aw’m determin’d to ha’e a right good spell,

An’ shew what noted kiddies frae Newcassel toon hes flit,

For it’s a’wis been a canny place, an’ sae will it yet.
A chep, they call’d him Scott, he liev'd on the banks o’ Tyne,

Had a son, that i’ the Government he wanted to shine;

By degrees the youth he rose up, now Lord Chancellor does sit,

An’ he’s fill’d his place reet brawly, aye an’ sae will he yet.

Of a’ the fine Engravers that grace fine Lunnen toon,

Wor Tom Ransom an' Bill Harvey bang a’ that’s up or doon:

The praises frae the ‘Cademy they constantly do get;

For their pieces they’ve got medals, aye an’ sae will they yet.


For boxing tee, the Lunnen cheps we'll thresh them i’ their turns;

Ony see what science he has lairnt—that noted chep, Jem Burns:

Jem Wallace tee, wor champion, how Tommy Dunn, he hit;

But they both good ones ever were, an’ sae will they yet

A vast mair cliver cheps we ha’e, o’ some aw’ll let ye knaw;

For a strong man, whe could beat Bold Airchy wi’ his wondrous claw;

When six men tuik him in a boat, her bottom suen he split,

An’ the hiding that he ga’e them, they’ve not forgot it yet

For fiddling tee, now whe is there wor Blind Willie can beat;

Or for dancing whe before Jack Coxon e’er could set their feet.

Cull Billy, only try him now, he’ll cap ye wi’ his wit;

He’s truly wondrous, ever was, an’ sae will he yet

Bob Cruddace, ah, poor soul! He’s deed,—he had a cliver knack

O’ kepping beer, aye three yards off, when he “parish’d the pack!”

An’ Whin Bob ‘bout the militia constantly does swet;

But by cunningness escap’d them, aye an’ sae will he yet.

Jack Nicholson, the noble soul, a deal o’ breeding shows,

Got a patent frae the King to splet sheep heads wi’ his nose;

The butchers fearing o’ disgrace, a job he ne'er cud get,—

But the honour’s e’er been wi’ him, aye, an’ sae will it yet.

Of Fishwives, tee, that’s i’ wor toon, up to the present day,

Euphy Scott she is prime minister to Queen Madgie Gray:

The understrappers and descendants hear it’s ony fit,

That’s she’s rul’d the market as she lik’d, an’ sae will she yet.

Captain Starkey, Pussey Willie, and poor Cuddy Reed,

Lousy Donald an’ au’d Judy, poor souls! they’ve a’ gyen deed:

But, marrows, keep ye up your hearts, this is not the time to fret,

For their memories ha’ e’er been up, aye an’ sae will they yet.

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