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,
ATTEMPT to REMOVE the CUSTOM HOUSE
from Newcastle to Shields, in 1816.
THE CUSTOM HOUSE BRANCH.
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,