The Salamanca Corpus: a collection of Songs (1827)


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The crowd was so dense, and the shouts so astounding,

And nothing but Radical whiskers surrounding;

Which made it becoming to bow to the Queen,

Though a damnable blot on their loyalty, I ween!

Released, they drove gently, their plans to fulfil,

By drinking the king’s health upon the Sandhill.

But, to their misfortune, round where it was plac’d,

The crowd was so furious no Tory could face’t;

And high on the gilded dome stood a rude fellow,

With the crown on his head!—people said he was mellow:

But I took him to be some base Radical body,

Who wish’d folk to think that the king was a noddy.

For at the mock gestures of kingly demeanor,

The people bawl’d loudly, and bow’d to his honour;

While many among them cried, Pull the knave down!

Such a bad drunken fellow’s not fit for a crown!

He’s as good, quoth a keelman, and blew like a por’pus,

As the London Mogul, who can drink, wh—e, and rob us.

So near was the danger, the Mayor swoon’d away;

But Archy, more bold, as they pranc’d round the fray,

To his comrades cried softly, (but not till past catching)

“What treasonable stuff those damn’d Radicals are hatching!

“D’ye see what a mess they have made of the crown,

“Go call out the soldiers to pull yon knave down.”

“Drive on,” quoth the Mayor, by this time come about,

“There’s no time to talk while the Philistines are out.”

More furious grew Archy, as nearer he drew

The den of corruption, with th’ Noodles hi view.

“Fetch the soldiers, I say, let the streets swim with blood!

“See the crown is insulted, and all that is good.

“When erected this morn, what a sight to behold!

“’Twas velvet and ermine, and cover'd with gold!

“’Tis sacrilege! treason! hell groans at the sight!

“Fetch the soldiers, and put the mad rabble to flight:

We crown’d it, and formed it to dribble with wine,

“That the King’s health, when drank, might be cheer’d by the swine;

“And shall we be bet while we’ve soldiers to guard us?

“No, call them out quickly t—he King will reward us”

As he finish’d the sentence, the crown got a fall,

And rapturous delight animated them all.


What savage barbarians those English are grown,

To laugh at the fall of a beautiful crown!

‘Twas time for the Mayor and poor Archy to fly

From the radical scene to the loyal pig-stye.

To St. Nicholas’ square then I posted away,

Where Typo’s high window peep’d over the fray;

And such an Ox roasting was there to be seen!

‘Twas a bad loyal meeting for all but the Queen.

The crowd was immense, and their spirits were high,

To honour his Majesty no one durst try.

The scaffold with tipstaves and butchers was clad,

Who blarnied poor folks, what fine morsels they had;

And holding the head up, began to huzza,

But a volley of hisses and groans drown’d their jaw:

Though, Thistlewood like, it was something uncivil,

For the head wearing horns was as black as the devil.

St. Nicholas peal’d out as the hisses began,

And seem’d to say, “Loyal bucks, do what you can!”

As fast as the butchers the collops threw out,

The people return’d them with many a shout;

And many a fat lump loyal whiskers besmear’d,

Till brick-bats and fat chops the slaughter stage cleared.

A crown that look’d lovely, and honour’d the crane,

Call’d forth, beyond measure, the public disdain ;

The brick-flying tempest redoubled its terror,

And many a poor Tory’s, heart trembled with horror.

An Officer* vent’ring imprudently near,

Received the same fate as the Coach in the rear;

So high was the Radical sentiment tow’ring,

That public expression was past all enduring.

In vain flew the bricks, save to knock people down,

For the Tories were fled, and too fast was the crown;

* A military Officer on horseback in the crowd at the time the Mail Coach passed, decorated in honour of the Coronation, was, together with the Coach, pelted by the populace.
At length a bold Tar, in the midst of the fray.

Mounted swiftly, and tore the gilt bauble away ;

And put in its place, which was fair to be seen,

“The Queen that Jack lov’d,” and cried, “God save the Queen!”

Then off went their hats, and abroad went the roar,

And shook the glass windows along the Tyne shore.

The mangled black carrion was knock'd from the stage,

And dragg’d round the town with republican rage,

Till deposited safely i’ th’ Mansion-house yard,

Where Archy Mac Syc. is the master black-guard;

From whence, in accordance with Archibald’s wish,

It was sunk in the Tyne—to make broth for the fish.

So that Radical bodies were highly to blame,

When they sung their pig sonnets, and cried out, “For shame!”

A few drunken fellows the ale-pants surrounded,

And fought for the wish-wash till nearly half drowned.

But when the wine dribbled beneath the Exchange,

The people were furious, and sought for revenge,

By drinking “The Queen!” with astounding delight,

While th’ fine folks above them grew pale at the sight.

But to see a nak’d man holding fast by the spout,

Made the sanctified ladies huzza, clap, and shout.

“Fight away, pigs,(quoth Archy)you make us fine fun!”

But when the pant suffer’d he alter’d his tune.

In Spital-field loyalty had no more boast,

For the Queen ruled the heart, and the people the roast

Poor Anvil* disgrac’d himself, some people say,

To ask the Mayor leave on the Race Ground to pray;

*An Independent Methodist Preacher, who, forgetting the commission of his Divine Master to preach the Gospel, even on the highways and hedges, applied in vain to the Mayor, for leave for himself and brethren to hold a camp meeting on the Town Moor. The worthy Magistrate objected, on the ground of injuring the interests of the “church as by law established;” or, more properly speaking, the interests of the established Clergy. Anvil is also celebrated by Bob Fudge, in his First Epistle, entided “Radical Monday,” as one of the orators at the Town Moor great meeting on the 11th October, 1819.

In fact, after such a deed I should not wonder

But they’ll sneak and ask leave, till oblig’d to knock under.

What a “punch”-loving people! in less than an hour,

To see Lambton’s horse, they were all on the Moor;

But vex’d that their favourite’s courser should lose,

They car’d not to stay till the Races might close.

Returning at length like a tempest they came,

(Which bursts upon Cheviot, and sets it on flame)

And levell’d the pants with the spoil of the day,

While a Radical gave them a touch of his lay.

In vain the peace officers handled their staves,

And entreated the crowd to submit like good slaves;

‘Twas the head of the church who created the day,

And salvation attended a loyal display!

But passive obedience was basely rejected,

And the head of the church very little respected;

Which made Archy again for the horse soldiers shout,

So anxious he seem’d for a Manchester rout:

But, thank their good stars, they got free from the labour

Of drawing their whittles to hamstring a neighbour.

In its socket was sinking the Radical taper,

Ere snugly the mighty ones sat down to supper.

It cost them two thousand, I mean th’ Corporation;

What a round sum, dear Bob, for a king’s Coronation;

But surely I need not the money begrude,

For the sight charm'd the heart of thy cousin,



from Newcastle to Shields, in 1816.


TYNESIDERS, give ear, and you quickly shall hear

A strange and a wonderful story,

Of a dreadful uproar, upon fam’d Gotham’s shore,

Where we’ve brush’d all to heighten our glory.

On the the Quayside, so spruce, stands a great Custom House,

Of Newcastle the pride and birth-right;

Now the sons of Go-tham had sworn o’er a dram,

That to Gotham it soon should take flight.

A townsman they sent, on great deeds fully bent,

A son of the knife and the steel, Sirs;

And one learn’d in the laws, to argue their cause,

The covenants to sign and to seal, Sirs.

To London they came, through the high road to fame,

Their hearts were both merry and staunch:

Of success confident, to the Treasury they went,

And demanded they might have a branch!

False report (only guess) brought to Gotham success,

Rejoicing, they blaz’d, without doubt;

‘Great Rome,’ they now say, ‘was not built in one day;

‘We’ve the Branch, and we'll soon have the Root!'

While their thoughts were thus big, over Newcastle brig

The Mail came one day, in a hurry:

‘What’s the news?’ say the folk; quick a Briton up spoke,

‘No Branch!—so Newcastle be merry.’

‘No Branch!’ was the cry, re-echoed the sky,

And sent down to Gotham a volley;

Where the prospect is bad, for ‘tis fear’d they’ll run mad,

Or relapse into sad melancholy.

So Gotham beware, and no more lay a snare,

Nor think that Newcastle you’ll bend;

Call your advocates home, your cause to bemoan,

And let each his own calling attend.

QUAYSIDE DITTY, for February, 1816.

AH! what’s yor news the day, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor?

Ah! what’s yor news the day, Mr Mayor?

The folks of Sheels, they say,

Want wor Custom House away,

And ye canna say them nay, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

And ye canna say them nay, Mr Mayor.

But dinna let it gan, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

Or ye’ll ruin us tiv a man, Mr Mayor:

They say a Branch ‘ill dee,

But next they’ll tyek the Tree,

And smash wor canny Kee, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

And smash, &c.

For ah! they’re greedy dogs, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

They’d grub us up like hogs, Mr Mayor:

If the Custom House they touch,

They wad na scruple much

For to bolt wor very Hutch, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

For to bolt, &c.

Before it be owre lang, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

Then ca’ up a’ yor gang, Mr Mayor:

Yor Corporation chiels,

They say they’re deep as Deils,

And tbey hate the folk of Sheels, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

And they hate, &c.

Ah! get wor Kee-side Sparks, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

Wor Fitters and their Clerks, Mr Mayor,

To help to bar this stroke,—

For, faicks, they are the folk

That canna bide the joke, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

That canna bide, &c.

And egg wor men of news, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

Wor Mercury and Hues, Mr Mayor,

Wi’ Solomon the wise,

Their cause to stigmatize,

And trump wors to the skies, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

And trump wors, &c.

How wad we grieve to see, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

The grass grow on the Kee, Mr Mayor?

So get the weighty prayers

Of the porters in the chares,

And the wives that sell the wares, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor

And the wives, &c.

A Butcher’s off frae Sheels, Mr Mayor Mr Mayor,

Wi’ the Deevil at his heels, Mr Mayor:

Faicks, all the way to Lunnin,

Just like a strang tide runnin,

And ah he’s deev’lish cunnin, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

And ah he’s, &c.

But Nat’s as deep as he, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

Send him to Lunnin tee, Mr Mayor:

He has wit, we may suppose,

Frev his winkers tiv his toes,

Since the Major pull’d his nose, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

Since the Major, &c.

And send amang the gang, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

Airm—what d’ye ca’ him—Strang, Mr Mayor;

Ah! send him, if ye please,

The Treasury to teaze,

He’ll tell them heaps o’ lees, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

He’ll tell them, &c.
If the Sheels folk get the day, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

Ah, what will Eldon say, Mr Mayor?

If he has time to spare,

He’ll surely blast their prayer,

For the luve of his calf Chare, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

For the luve, &c.

Then just dee a’ ye can, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

And follow up the plan, Mr Mayor,

Else, faicks, ye’ll get a spur

In your Corporation fur,

And ye’ll plant at Sheels wor Bur ! ! ! Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,

And ye’ll plant at Sheels wor Bur ! ! ! Mr Mayor.


Tune—“The Quayside Shaver.”

YE folks of Newcassel, so gen’rous, advance,

And listen a while to my humourous strain;

‘Tis not the fag end of a fairy romance,

Nor yet the effect of a crack in the brain:

‘Tis a Custom-house Tree, that was planted with care,

And with Newcassel Int’rest well dung’d was its Root;

And that all Water Fowls might partake of a share,

They were kindly permitted to taste of the Fruit.

The Sea Gulls of Shields sought a Branch, so apply’d

To a stately old Drake, of the fresh water breed:

He flutter’d his wings, then he bade them provide

A Memorial, to send off to London with speed.

His pow’rful opinion was soon put in force,

And messengers chose, who, without more delay,

Took flight; while blind Ignorance guided their course,

And they roosted, I’m told, about Ratcliffe Highway.


Meanwhile, with impatience, a Gull took his glass.

And with anxious concern took a squint to the south;

If I don’t now behold (may you prove me an ass)

A Gull flying back with a Branch in its mouth.

They news quickly spread; they, in wild consternation,

Burnt tar barrels, bells ringing, dancing for joy;

A person was sent for to plan the foundation,

While others drank Mrs Carr’s wine cellar dry.

There was one, half seas over,sang’ Little Tom Horner,

While some in the streets, on their bellies lay flat;

Another, ‘pon turning the Library Corner,

Ran foul of a quaker, and knock'd off his hat.

A full brandy bottle came smack through a window,

And hit on the temple a canty old wife;

“Don’t murmur,” say they, “were you burnt to a cinder,

“We’re able to grant you a pension for life.”

Their Gull-ey at London, o’er pudding and roast,

Would bet heavy odds he should fortunate be;

And then after dinner propos’d, as a toast,

“That Grass might soon grow upon Newcassel Kee.”

But the Treasury decision laid vap'ring aside;

“No Branch!” was the cry, so away the Gulls slunk;

Should a Twig be lop’d off, it can ne’er be deny’d,

But the roots would soon dry, and thus wither its trunk.

So now I’ve a scheme, if your fancy I hit,

‘Twill suit crazy folks, after dancing mad reels;

Instead of a Custom-house Branch, ‘twou’d be fit

That a Branch from the Mad-house be reared in North Shields.

We’ll laugh at the joke, while experience may learn

The Gulls, for the future, in peace to remain.

By what you have heard, you may also discern,

That premature joy’s the forerunner of pain.



Tune—“Yo heave O.”

THE joyous men of North Shields their church bells set a ringing sweet,

And tar-barrels blaz’d, their high rapture for to shew;

Like bears some fell a dancing, like ravens some were singing sweet,

‘Poor Jack’ ‘Rule Britannia,’ and ‘Yo heave O.’

‘Some grog were freely quaffing,

Like horses some were laughing;

Their matchless powers in bellowing all eager seem’d to shew:

The Branch, they cried, we’ve got,

And with it, well we wot,

Fitters, bankers, merchants, soon will follow in a row.

The Newcastle deputation, no doubt on’t, swagger’d much, Sir,

Expecting our Pillgarlicks soon foiled would have been

But too hard for them all prov’d the diplomatic Butcher,

Whose tongue, like his gully-knife, is marvellously keen.

Spite of wheedling and of sneering,

Bamboozling and queering,

He to his purpose stuck so firm, so true, and so staunch,

The Town Clerk and his chums,

Stood whistling on their thumbs,

Astonish’d, whilst triumphantly he bore away the Branch.

And now since the Custom House we thus have got translated,

Why longer should the County Courts Newcastle proudly grace?

We wise-ones of North Shields, tho’ reckoned addle pated

For this pile so magnificent well find a fitter place.

Yon space* which ——’s skill,

Seems destin’d ne’er to fill

With structures worthy Athens’ or Corinth’s proudest day;

Yon space! O is it not

The very, very spot

Where the County Courts their splendour so massive should display?

If once our gen’ral committee determine, in full quorum

The removal of our Courts, the result will fully shew.

That the Lords of the Treasury, and Custos Rotulorum,

(Our high displeasure dreading) will not dare to whisper No.

And when the whim impells,

To eclipse the Dardanelles;

The old Castle of its ancient site shall straightway take its leave,

To brave the billows’ shocks,

On the dread Black Midden rocks,

However for its transit Antiquarians sore may grieve.

Then comes the grand finale, for which our souls we’d barter now;

The Regent and his ministers we’ll pester night and day,

Till transferred to us Newcastle sees her revenues and charter too,

And from Heddon streams to Tynemouth Bar, Tyne owns our sovereign sway.

O when our town so famous is,

Big as Hippopotamuses,

We’ll strut about the Bank Top quite semi-divine;

The neighbouring coasters all,

Our greatness shall appall,

And their top-sails straight they’ll lower to the lords of the Tyne.

*The New Market Place.
‘Twas thus with idle rumours poor gentlemen delighted,

The honest men of North Shields to fancy gave the rein;

Sad proof that when ambition with folly is united,

Astonishing chimeras oft occupy the brain.

But soon their joy was banish’d,

Soon each illusion vanished,

For news arrived the Butcher the Branch could not obtain.

Deep, deep in the dumps,

(After playing all his trumps)

Just as branchless as he went he was ‘toddling hyem’ again.

Newcastle, thou dear canny Town! O ever thus defeated

Be every hostile effort thy prosperity to shake;

Long grumbling to thy Custom-house, in gigs and coaches seated,

May the honest men of North Shields their daily journies take.

And, mounted on their hacks,

Long, long too, may the Jacks

Continue their equestrian skill on Shields road to display;

Tho’ oft their tits may stumble,

And o’er the bows they tumble,

Unhurt, still bold, may they remount, and onward bowl away.

Newcastle men, rejoice! O haste, on this occasion,

With many a jovial bumper our whistles let us wet,

Lord Eldon, with Sir William Scott, and all our deputation,

To toast, with acclamations due, O let us not forget:

To them our thanks be tender’d,

Good services they’ve render’d.

And let us hope, in after times, should Branch wars rage again,

In Newcastle ‘twill be found,

Such men do then abound,

The commercial pre-eminence still boldly to maintain.



To his Account of the great Town Motor Meeting,

on Monday, 1 lth. October, 1819.

SINCE the Meeting, dear Bob, many things have come out,

Which in Gotham have made a most damnable rout:

Mister Mayor at a trifle does not seem to stick,

With the Rads* he’s been playing Sir Archy Mac Syc.

While Sidmouth he's cramm'd with some Green Bag Supplies,

Which—alas! for his Worship—have turn’d ottt all lies!

A stark staring Parson, to add to the store,

A budget has sent to the Noble Strathmore;

And some other Arch Wag, whom all grace has forsook,

A thumper has palm’d on a great Northern Duke!

Sir Matt, too, so lately the pride of the Tyne,

Against poor old Gotham did also combine;

By supporting Bold Archy’ s most libellous letter,

He has added another strong link to the fetter!

The rivet he’s clos’d, which no mortal can sever,

And set now’s the “bright Star of Heaton” fot ever!

But let him beware—for “a Rod is in pickle,

Which, sooner or later, “his Toby will tickle!

Both the Houses have rung with the direful alarms,

Of the RaDs on the Tyne and the Wear being in arms;

‘Tis all a sly hoax—the Alarmists alarming,

For there’s not the least symptom of Rising or Arming!

* The Radicals, or real Reformers.

† Parson Bl—k—n.


of newcastle upon tyne.

Written previous to the General Election, in 1826.

Tune—“Fairly shot of her.”

Free Burgesses, now is your time to stand firm and free,

Spurn all attempts at corruption and bribery,—

Your franchise elective uphold fair and hon’rably,

Weigh their worth well, and your Members choose cautiously:

Guard your best rights, lads, with honour and bravery,

Let not your voices be shackled in slavery;

Independence unfold on your banners triumphantly,—

Stand or fall! oh! be freemen! deluded no longer be.

The members you’ve had, let their conduct now canvass’d be,

Judge of their claims by their former utility;

And shew proud Sir M——w, whose motto’s * ‘No Rivalry!’

That his seat he sha'nt claim as a right hereditary.

In what has this town to Sir M——w indebted been?

For years at our races his face we have rarely seen;

The Gout or some Spa—such excuses he’s sent us,

When most wanted here, he is ‘Non est inventus.’

What return has been rendered, I’d have you reflect on,

For your favours conferr’d on Sir M——t each Election?

I trust on his canvass, face to face when you meet him,

You’ll tell him ingratitude he’ll find will unseat him.

For your interest one thought has ne’er entered his brain,

Or he’d here, ‘stead of London, his groceries obtain;

For Upholst’ry, his orders, bless ‘Durham to wit’

And for ‘Vulean’ he speeds to that high favour’d Cit.

He’s seldom e’er known, ‘mongst the commons assembled,

To trouble the house but his interest is blended:

Give the old one his due tho’—Committees command him,

A good bone to pick is Sir M——t’s memorandum.

This Whig, too, who votes and supports opposition,

For ‘Repairs’ does not scruple to be in ‘Commission:’

‘Tis said, for this honour—but I don’t wish to wrong him,

He fingers the sum of Three Thousand per Annum.

The Gusto A. I. with this great haughty man,

Is “to keep what he has and to catch what he can”—

By this the proud era of M*tty is by-past,

And the Bright Star of Heaton’s” great splendour is o’ercast:

For who that reverts to the days to us dear,

When the portals of B—g—n ne’er clos’d on its cheer,

Can with coolness behold, and not draw forth his pen,

The insults lately pass'd upon A—d—n's men.

And hark to the field, where, at head of his hounds,

His temper and tongue he can’t keep within bounds;

He snarls, rates, and swears every time he goes out,

The sportsman degrades —quits the man for the brute.

To fit him for Parliament’s ensuing Session,

To the Society send him for Vice's suppression;

And should they require his blaspheming vocab.

Let them ask Pr-dh-e H-b-le, they’ll find he’s a dab.

But, Ellison, hail! and return him your senator,

Your weal in the house he has ever been watchful o’er;

At home he’s a Star who must claim admiration,—

A fitter M. P. you’ll scarce find in the nation:

His integrity’s gain’d him his present high station—

There are few lads can match him in fine declamation:

Then your banners unfurl thro’ the town independently,

Stand or fall, Oh! be Freemen! deluded no longer be.


Marshall, Printer, Newcastle.

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