The Salamanca Corpus: a collection of Songs (1827)


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On the Coronation.



Air—“Scots wha ha’e wi’ Wallace bled,”

MEN who have with Mayors fed;

Men whom oft the Mace hath led;

Welcome to your Beef and Bread,

Come and feast to day.

See yon Ox’s buttocks lower;

See yon bags of pudding flower;

Shew your masticating power,

Teeth and Loyalty.

Who can’t eat is sure a knave;

Send the scoundrel to his grave;

Who can’t drink should be a slave;

Such we ne’er will be.

Who for King and Country’s Law

Will cut away and stuff his maw,

Cans will drain, and corks will draw,

Brothers, come with me.

By what’s worse than Slavery’s chains,

Empty stomachs, gripes, and pains,

We’ll eat and drink, until our veins

Swoll’n like bladders be.

See yon lumps of beef laid low,

Puddings fall at every blow!

Wine in bumpers round shall flow:

Brothers, look to me!



O YES! Ye swinish Multitude!

To our Newcastle sties repair:

Two whole fat beeves are barbecued,

So go and cram your gorges there.

Your mouths will water at the sight;

The oose your unshav’d chops run down;

Your dirty sleeves away will dight

The slobber of tobacco-brown.

With cart-grease basted, dredg'd with dust,

The outsides burnt, the insides raw,

Next to some tit bit carrion,

must Delight a hog’s voracious maw.

Hey! to the Pants, where dribbling wine

And brewer’s rot-gut beer distil;

With speed let every greedy swine

Swig what he can! aye, swig his fill.

Then, to your groveling nature true,

Return to wallow in the mire;

And let the Corporate-body view

The consummation they require.—

Swineherds expect the brutes that run

To guzzle at their garbage feast,

Should compensate, and make them fun;

So hogs come on and play the beast!

“And grunt, ye pigs, with savage joy,

While stuffing full your craving maws,

Nor care if staves your skulls annoy,

But quickly move your greedy jaws.

While guzzling down your wishy-wash,

Squeak loud with make-believe affection;

And in the puddle kick and splash,

Nor shew one sign of disaffection.

Then, all ye lordly herds, laugh loud,

And shake your portly paunches fine;

Shew to your dames the rabble crowd,—

And having pray’d, retire to dine.

Then tell how the voracious pigs,

With greedy spite press’d to the trow,

And gave each other loyal digs,

Nor car’d for e’er a waddling sow.

Next sagely argue o’er your wine,

This crew, debas’d beyond compare,

In fact and reason are true swine,

Unlike Corinthian Pillars fair”*

Pigstye Court, Sandhill, 12th July, 1821.
* The Rich were called the “Corinthian Pillars of Society" by the pensioner Burke; while he termed the industrious classes the “Swinish Multitude.”


COME, neighbours, to Robson’s let’s all hie away,

To see the Ox crowned with ribbons so gay:

His horns are well gilded, his head bright does shine,

We’ll soon get a slice and a horn full of wine.

Some come from afar, as did wise men of old,

To see our King’s head branched out thus with gold.

Success, then, to horns, when they're gilded so clever;

May the **** wear horns, and wear them for ever.

In praise then of horns let all Newcastle sing;

For he who scorns horns, despises his ****.

Let them boast of their garters, and boast of their stars,

But horns are far better than honours or scars.

Never blush for your horns, then, though low be your station,

Since horns are the pride of the Chief of our nation.

Let them make Lords and Dukes, crown an Ass, if they will,

The order of horns let it be my theme still.



A popular Song in the new Farce of the Coronation.

As it was performed at Newcastle upon Tyne,

on Thursday, July 19th. 1821.

Sung by the “Swinish Multitude” in full Chorus.

THE Castle guns were fir’d, and loud

The bells rang in the morning,

To wake the “Swinish Multitude,”

And give the public warning:

That, “as in duty bound,” the Mayor,

And loyal Corporation,

Would celebrate, in civic state,

The day of Coronation!

With matchless liberality,

They sums of money voted,

That loyalty might be thereby

Among the herd promoted:

A feast would loyalize the brutes,

Upon this great occasion,

And make them sing, God save the King!

At George’s Coronation.

Three royal fountains running beer,

And one to dribble wine O,

Would make them flock from far and near,

To grunt like loyal swine O.

Two bullocks roasted whole, ‘twas thought.

Would be a grand donation,

To toss among the “rabble rout,”

At George’s Coronation!

‘Twas done—the bullocks roasted were,

The fountains set a flowing;

While Butchers round, upon the ground,

Huge lumps of beef were throwing:

The loyal swineherds looking on,

In anxious expectation,

To see each beast enjoy the feast,

At George’s Coronation!

But what was their surprize, to find

The swinish herd refuse it;

How strange! their tastes were so refined,

No hog of sense would use it!

Our Gentry now, the loyal few,

Beheld, with consternation,


The scanty stock of loyalty

At George’s Coronation!

They saw, with grief, the roasted beef

By saucy swine neglected!

No grateful beast extoll’d the feast,

Nor loyalty respected!

Their swinish nature sure is changed!

O! what an alteration!

Time was when pigs would grunt and squeel,

To grace a Coronation!

But ah! the brutes display, at last,

The faculty of Reason!

“The age of Chivalry is past!”

(Reflection most unpleasing!)

And, sad to tell, with that is gone

“Othello’s occupation!”

All servile reverence for a throne,

And priestly domination!

Then why display this make-believe

Affection, and profusion?

Ye can no longer swine deceive,

They see through the delusion.

What then avails this pageantry,

And useless ostentation?

What signifies your loyalty

At George’s Coronation!

Had Derry-Down been on the spot,

And view’d the scene before him,

While beef, and bones, and bricks, like shot,

Were flying in terrorem;

He would have star’d, with wild affright,

At such a consummation,

And loudly damn’d the useless farce

Of George’s Coronation!

Learn hence, ye Legislators wise,

Ye guardians of our treasures

The “swinish multitude” despise

Your inconsistent measures:

Think not that bayonets will gain

The people’s admiration;

Or fix a Monarch on the throne,

By a mock Coronation!




Second Edition—Corrected,

Tune—“Arthur McBride.”

THE firing of guns, and the ringing of bells,

Rous’d me from my dreams about magical spells;

So I’ll draw you a sketch, as we’re now by oursel's,

By way of an illustration:

The roads to Newcastle were cover’d almost,

As if Radical thunder’ had summon’d its host,

Or an enemy’s fleet had been seen off the coast,

On George the Fourth’s Coronation.

In the streets what a buz among sweethearts and wives

And children who ne’er rose so soon in their lives;

All higgledy piggledy through other drives,

To view what is in preparation.

The oxen are roasting—outsides a mere crust;

They’re stuff ‘d wi’ potatoes, and dredg’d well with dust,

While the turnspits were set as if working o’ trust,

On George the Fourth’s Coronation.

* Referring to the Public Meeting on the Town Moor, on the 11th Oct. 1819, where (it was supposed) 100,000 were assembled, to take into consideration the proceedings at Manchester.
I next went to view a Boat Race on the Tyne,

For a blue silken flag skill and labour combine;

Gold sovereigns the prizes—to start about nine,

From Walker, with precipitation.

The Greyhound came first, the old Sandgate-shore gig,

Which went as if chasing a hare, through the Brig.

No doubt but the wives and the lasses were big,

On George the Fourth’s Coronation.

Then the Gentlemen walk’d in procession to church;

Not even Dissenters did lag in the porch,

But boldly push’d on, amid ruffles and starch,

To praise and to pray with the nation.

The service being ended, the anthems are sung,

The burnt sacrifice from each furnace is swung,

When the fountains with wine and strong ale ‘gan to run

On George the Fourth’s Coronation.

Then a Female Procession, to heighten the scene,

Paraded the streets, with a bust of the Queen;

When her title was placed where a crown should have been—

Upon the crane top was its station.

Then the Ox was beheaded, and held up to view,

As if he’d done something of Cato-street hue:

A soldier that made his appearance did rue,

On George the Fourth’s Coronation.

Then with squeezing and tearing began the dispute;

Some held by the Pant, and some grappled the spout,

Till as drunk as a lord, and as wise as a brute,

At this swine-feeding jollification.

They drank out of hats, and old shoes, very keen,

The fights they went round, quite amusing the scene;

While some, in mistake, drank “Success to the Queen!”

On George the Fourth’s Coronation.

The battle grew hot, as they flung round the beef,

Disgusted they sought no Commander in chief;

The fires they demolish’d, while brickbats and beef

Flew like rockets, in mad desperation.

The Butchers, now thinking their lives very sweet,

Soon threw down their gullies, and beat a retreat;

Not wishing to die, just like dogs, in the street,

On George the Fourth’s Coronation.

Upon the Sandhill, where the fountain ran wine,

The keelmen, quite eager to taste of the vine,

Had the Crown taken down, which was thrown in the Tyne,

So fix’d was their determination.

There one, tho’ stripp’d naked, so great was his drouth,

Made a new fash ion’d sun-dial, pointing due south,

When the ladies at five of the clock set their mouth,

On George the Fourth’s Coronation.

Among the arrivals at Mansion-house gates,

Were the bones of the oxen, the spits, and the grates,

With a keelman, in petticoats, scratching his pate,

For a suit from our rich Corporation.

Had the Den* been but open, the people might say,

For Kill-pudding Joe, and the burdies of prey,†

This sunshine would brought a fine “harvest of hay,”

On George the Fourth’s Coronation.



Air—“Come under my plaidie.”

O Jockey, my friend, mun, how last you this evening?

Come in, crook your hough, and let’s hear all your news;

It appears to me you have been tramping this morning,

I see by the dust that’s so thick on your shoes.

* The House of Correction.

†Police officers.

I have been a tramping, I’ve been at Newcastle,

All the things I have seen there my mem’ry can’t bring;

The folks from all parts have rais'd such a noration,

About the Coronation of Geordy the King.

The first thing I saw was two fires for the bullocks—

They hung them both down as it struck twelve at night;

But lang ere day-light was come in on the morning,

Both stuffing and ‘tatoes were burnt in their kites.

They turn’d them on spits till they're burnt like two cinders,

And cut them both up about twelve of the day;

As they lay on the stages they smoak’d just like tinder,

And look’d like two muck heaps, the people did say.

Then the carvers set to with knivescutting and scraping,

And lumps of fat beef with such vengeance were strew’d,

I dare say they thought that the folks were all gaping,

And believ’d they were feeding a swine multitude.

But the stuff they threw out put the folks in a fury,

Both stones and brick-bats they snatch’d up in a rage;

And a radical troop, thus equipp'd in a hurry,

With vengeance bang’d carvers and beef off the stage.

For the folk being determin’d, the beef would not handle,

Nor gobble it up, like a stye full of swine;

For their conscience did whisper it would be a scandal:

So the stuff was refused by the sons of the Tyne.

The next thing I saw was a British young sailor,

He pull’d the crown down from the top of the crane;

Altho’ with brick-bats he got many a nailor,

Yet he stuck up a label concerning the Queen.

This bill being put up set the crowd in a motion,

They gave three times three when first it was seen;

And loudly did praise the brave tars of the ocean,

Who fought in defence of their much injur’d Queen.

These things being done, it rais'd such a durdem,

The stones and the brick-bats flew up like a cloud :

A poor Tyne Cossack, that belonged to Tom Burdon,

Was near crush’d to death as he fought with the crowd.

That day in the town was heard no sound of bugles,

And Bold Archy, he too was ne’er seen iv a;

For if that but once he had brought down the Noodles,

They’d been trod under foot like a bundle of straw.

For so bold are the men about canny Newcassel,

No injustice they’ll suffer when assembled a’:

If the King had been there he’d ne’er worn his gold tassel,

And as to being crown’d, that would ne’er done iv a.

The things that were flying appear'd like a battle;

So, afraid of being fell’d, as I stood by the folks,

I on shanky nagie away straight did rattle,

To drag down the street the black bones of the ox.

When I came to the Sandhill my eyes I got open’d,

I saw something standing which brightly did shine;

A large wooden Pant, and a crown on the top o’t:

When I came to look close it was running red wine.

The folk that were round it appear’d to be growling

And fighting amongst it, like as many cats;

While others I saw among mud and dirt rolling,

And drinking the wine out of old lousy hats.

Thinks I to myself, this is all botheration,

It is but a pretext, I know by their scheme,

To pump out what’s left of the wealth of the nation,

To swell the fat bags of the Clergy and King.

The next thing I saw that took up my attention,

Was a keelman quite nak’d! he’d no breeches iv a’;

Some said, he, for fighting, deserv’d well a pension,

But I think that he ought to’ve been tried by the law.


The wives that were running fell orer, tappy lappy,

Town sergeants the keelmen did pelt well with glare;

And swore, if they could but catch Tripy and Cappy,

They would tear them to rags at the end of the war.

Then I by this time nigh got into a quarrel;

I argued, but could not the battle decide;

So dreading some person might tear my apparel,

I took my departure unto the Quayside.

In going down the Quay there was such a crushing,

I met with a man of the name of Tom Dale,

He said, into Sandgate the folks were all pushing,

For the Pant on the hill there was running strong ale.

When I got to Sandgate I could not help laughing,

The lasses were running about with the swipes;

And old wives that fell in the gutter were scruffling,

Ne’er minded but smok’d on their short cutty pipes.

I next took my journey as far as the 'Spital,

To see if aught curious was there to be seen;

But I think that from Sandgate it differed little,

For the folks were all drinking the health of the Queen.

I went to an alehouse, and nearly got fuddled,

For with walking about sae my legs were quite lame;

So on my old pins then away I straight toddled,

And ne’er look’d behind me, but tramp’d away hame.

At Newcastle there have been both horse and boat races

I have droll things to tell you, if I had but time;

But having to call at some more bits of places,

On some other day I will finish my rhyme.


UPON the nineteenth of July

The Castle guns did rend the sky,

St. Nicholas’ bells did briskly ring,

And George the Fourth was crown’d our king;

But those possess’d of feelings fine

Will ne’er forget that day on Tyne.

For days, within the ‘Spital green,

In ribbands deck’d were Bullocks seen,

And on their horns a royal crown,

To mock some Cuckold of renown:

And all, whose thoughts agree with mine,

Will say, he’s nearer Thames than Tyne.

Humanity, with pitying gaze,

Beheld the victims fondly graze

Round the infernal furnace pile,

Where one was shortly doom’d to broil,

Purpos’d to feed the humble swine

That dwelt upon the banks of Tyne.

Blush, ye great Rulers of the town,

Behold your nauseous, loathsome boon!

See men, with manners more discreet,

Disgusted, spurn your beastly treat!

And know, all you who term us swine,

That Reason rules the sons of Tyne.

Give heed, to this, Worshipful Mayor,

Tho’ we’re reduc’d by taxes bare,

Our British bosoms still contain

Hearts sound as his with golden chain!

May Freedom’s rays, which brighter shine,

Adorn each manly breast on Tyne,

It adds but little to your praise,

To see your lavish, wasteful ways,

To see a keelman, from his huddock,

Within your wine trough wash his buttock,

Which ne’er before was drench’d in wine,

But often plung’d in coaly Tyne.

What did your wilful waste avail?

Your fountains running wine and ale?

The bronzed dome, the glittering crown,

Torn by an enrag’d people down?

Who cheering hail’d Queen Caroline,

Borne by the blooming fair on Tyne.

What would an untaught Heathen said,

To see such brutal scenes displayed?

Is this the land, he would reply,

That teaches Christianity?

Such might suit yon wild shores of mine,

But shames Great Britain and the Tyne.

The money wasted on the ground,

Had it been wisely dealt around

Amongst the needy poor, half-starv’d—

A thousand pounds would thousands serv’d:

Extravagance was their design,

Who rule Newcastle upon Tyne.


July 19th. 1821.



DEAR Bob, a sad outlaw at length I'm become,

The Tories despise me, the Whigs glump and gloom,

And scowl as they pass, which is something uncivil,

And the Radicals treat me as I would the devil;

And threaten, the next time I make my appearance,

To scourage me completely, with Christian forbearance.

This threat from a party, who ever would bawl

For liberal discussion, is worst of them all;

As my writings I’m sure must be wondrous offences,

When such men are talking about consequences.

* The first Epistle," Radical Monday," a satirical description of the Town Moor great Meeting on the 11th. Oct. 1819.— The second Epistle (unpublished) “Radical Thursday and Whig Wednesday,” on the public Meetings held in Newcastle, on those days, for addressing the Queen, &c.

But, whether the head of the Noodles appear,

Or Lambton, or Typo, with sword or with spear,

To blunt their sharp edges at once on my nob,

I’m determin’d to write to my own dearest Bob.

The Pedlar’s descendant* may boast in the field,

And the Earl of the North with reluctancy yield,

While Cartwright an excess of freedom may claim—

Perhaps they’re all right, since they all are to blame.

The Radicals want more than Reason would crave,

They all would be kings, without ever a slave;

And that, my dear Bob, you know never can be—

And as for the Whigs they love stones more than me.

I dare not maliciously think of the Tory,

Nor envy his pudding, the Englishman’s glory—

He’s in, and he’s right, and his place is worth keeping,

No wonder he wishes John still to be sleeping ;—

And though from state coffers his wages be taken,

He’d better be paid than the office forsaken.

Without Kings and Clergy, and Commons and Peers,

Together the people would be by the ears;

Equal rights, equal liberties, who would not brave,

Lest an excess of freedom prove Liberty’s grave.

We’ve the use of our fingers, our tongues, and our eyes,

How then are we fetter’d? the good Tory cries;

And as for the taxes, Judge Bayley can prove

They’re the source of our welfare, the things we should love.

Since the days of king Solomon, that wise man of yore,

All kings have had wisdom and riches in store:

And Britain, sublimely renowned in story,

Has become of the world th’ admiration and glory,

By the help of our kings, and prime minister Pitt,

Whose names are a match for the Radicals yet

* Lord Castlereagh.

But stop—to amuse thee I’ll give a relation

Of the sights I beheld at the King’s Coronation;

Which partly convinced me that infidels reign,

Since the head of the church met such hoggish disdain.

The morning was fine when the boats came in sight,

And cannons re-echoed the Tories delight—

Sandgate heroes huzza’d, till the news, so provoking,

Convinc’d them the watermen only were joking.

“What a d—n’d shame! (cried Archy) such prizes, and never

“A man lying breathless or drown’d in the river!

“No squabbling, no fighting, no boats sunk—damnation!

“They’re fit men to row at a king’s Coronation!”

Then from the Quayside to the Sandhill I wander’d,

And smil’d to behold money foolishly squander’d:

A pant rising splendidly, gilded and crown’d,

To run with good wine, in the centre was found.

And fronting St. Nicholas a black roasted beast,

And another in Spital-field, bespoke a grand feast.

Three pants to run ale—‘twas a glorious sight!

Two cranes and two scaffolds—the butchers’ delight.

From Church now the Mayor and his company ride,

And Bab with the Queen, at the foot of the Side,

Hoisted high on a pole, with a crown on her head—

(And her effigy more than the devil they dread)

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