Part 14
Footnote 26: 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"Radical Monday," a satirical description of the Town Moor great Meeting on the 11th Oct. 1819.--The second Epistle (unpublished) "Radical Thursday and Whig Wednesday," on the public Meetings held in Newcastle, on those days, for addressing the Queen, &c.
Footnote 27: Lord Castlereagh.
Footnote 28: 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.
Footnote 29: 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, entitled "Radical Monday," as one of the orators at the Town Moor great meeting on the 11th October, 1819.
BOB FUDGE'S POSTSCRIPT
_To his Account of the great Town Moor Meeting, on Monday, 11th 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[30] he's been playing _Sir Archy Mac Syc._-- While Sidmouth he cramm'd with some _Green Bag Supplies_, Which--alas! for his Worship--have turn'd out _all lies_! _A stark staring Parson_,[31] 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_" for 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_!
Footnote 30: The Radicals, or real Reformers.
Footnote 31: Parson Bl--k--n.
BLIND WILLY'S FLIGHT.
Tune--"Betsey Baker."
A whirlwind, of a serious kind, Did o'er Newcastle blow, sir, Which gen'ral consternation spread About a month ago, sir: It caught Blind Willy in the street, He mounted like a feather; His friends, alarm'd, cried out, Alas! Poor soul! he's gone for ever! Fal de ral, &c.
But soon our Minstrel gay was seen, By thousands of the people, In rapid flight, swift as the kite Bound o'er Saint Nich'las' steeple; He pass'd the Shot Tower like a dart, Turn'd round by Askew's Key, sir, And down the Tyne he glided fine, And bolted off to sea, sir. Fal de ral, &c.
'Tis said that he to London got, But was forc'd back to Shields, sir, And up to Swalwell, quick as thought, Was carried o'er the fields, sir. Round Axwell Park our roving spark Was borne amidst the squall, sir, And swiftly passing Elswick House, Reach'd Cock-o-lorum Hall, Sir. Fal de ral, &c.
Thus tempest-toss'd, to Blagdon cross'd, And hail'd fam'd Heaton's Star, sir-- Then mounting high, did rapid fly As far as Prestwick Car, sir. Newcastle next he hover'd o'er, Quite calmly in the air, sir, And landing at the Mansion House, He din'd with Mr. Mayor, Sir. Fal de ral, &c.
THE NEW MARKETS.
Tune--"Canny Newcassel."
Wey, hinnies, but this is a wonderful scene, Like some change that yen's seen iv a play-house; Whe ever wad thowt that the awd Major's dean Wad hae myed sic a capital weyhouse: Where the brass hez a' cum fra nebody can tell, Some says yen thing and some says another-- But whe ever lent Grainger't aw knaw very well, That they mun have at least had a fother.
About Lunnen then divent ye myek sic a rout, For there's nowt there maw winkers ti dazzell; For a bell or a market there isent a doubt We can bang them at canny Newcassel.
Wor gratitude Grainger or somebody's arl'd, Yet still, mun, it mykes yen a' shuther, To see sic a crowd luiking after this warld Where the Nuns us'd ti luik for the tother. But see yor awn interest, dinna be blind, Tyek a shop there whatever yor trade is; Genteeler company where can ye find Than wor butchers, green wives, and tripe ladies? About Lunnen, &c.
Ti see the wires haggle about tripe and sheep-heads, Or washing their greens at a fountain, Where the bonny Nuns us'd to be telling their beads, And had nowt but their sins ti be counting; There the talented lords o' the cleaver and steel May be heard on that classical grund, sir, Loudly chaunting the praise o' their mutton an' veal, Though they're losing a happney a pund, sir. About Lunnen, &c.
When them queer Cockney folk cum stravagin this way (Though aw've lang thowt we'd getten aboon them) They'll certainly now hae the mense just to say, That we've clapt an extinguisher on them: It's ne use contending, they just may shut up, For it's us can astonish the stranger; They may brag o' their Lords an' their awd King ti boot, What's the use on't?--they haven't a Grainger. About Lunnen, &c.
THE CHANGES ON THE TYNE.
Tune--"Mitford Galloway."
I'll sing you a bit of a ditty, I hope you will not think it lang, At least if it tires your patience, I'll verra suin shorten my sang; It's all about comical changes, And new-fangled things on the Tyne, I've witness'd since aw was a skipper, And that isn't verra lang syne.
CHORUS.
These are the days of improvement, We're a' gettin wiser, you see, The skuilmaister's getting abroad, And he'll finish us off to a tee.
Baith sides of the Tyne, aw remember, Were cover'd wi' bonny green fields, But now there is nought but big furnaces Down frae Newcastle to Shields; And what wi' their sulphur and brimstone, Their vapour, their smoke, and their steam, The grass is all gaen, and the farmers Can nowther get butter or cream. These are the days, &c.
For making their salts and their soda, They formerly us'd a kail-pot, With an awd-fashion'd bit of a chimley They were quite satisfied wi' their lot; But now Anty Clapham, the Quaker, Has fill'd a' the folks wi' surprise, For he's lately built up a lang chimley, Within a few feet o' the skies! These are the days, &c.
There's Losh's big chimley at Walker, Its very awn height makes it shake, And if Cookson's again tumble ower, It will make a new quay for the Slake; To talk of your fine foreign pillars, It's enough for to make a man sick, The great tower of _Babble_ compar'd Wi' wor chimleys is nowt but a stick. These are the days, &c.
For three-pence to Shields aw remember In a wherry the folk us'd to gan, And that was consider'd by many A very respectable plan; But now we've got sixpenny steamers, A stylish conveyance, I'm sure, For there you've a tune on the fiddle, And a lie on the sands for an hour. These are the days, &c.
Then ower the land we'd a whiskey, Which went twice or thrice in the day, Which us'd to take all the fine gentry, And quite in an elegant way; But now the awd whiskey's neglected, And nothing but coaches suit us, Lord help us! there's nothing gans now But a hyke in the new omnibus. These are the days, &c.
At one time wor ships were all loaded Sae canny and snug by the keels, And then a' wor maisters made money, And keelmen were a' happy chiels; But now your fine drops de the business! Lord bless us! aw never saw such, Though some of wor owners aw's freeten'd Hev getten a _drop_ ower much. These are the days, &c.
And then an aud horse brought a waggon A' the way frae the pits to the staith, But now it appears pretty certain, They'll verra suin dee without baith, For now their fine steam locomotives A' other inventions excels, Aw've only to huik on the waggons, And they'll bring a ship-load down their sels. These are the days, &c.
New rail-roads now spring up like mushrooms, Aw never, maw soul! saw the like, We'll turn every thing topsy-turvy, And leave ourselves not a turnpike; Then horses will live without working, And never more trot in a team, And instead of carrying their maisters, They'll get themsels carried by steam. These are the days, &c.
Wor ballast-hills now are grown handsome, And what they call quite pictoresk, Ne poet can de them half justice If he writes all his life at his desk; They're hilly, and howley, and lofty, Presenting fresh views every turn, And they'd luik like Vesuvius or Etna, If we could only get them to burn. These are the days, &c.
And as for aud canny Newcastle, It's now quite a wonderful place, Its New Market, nothing can match it In elegance, beauty, and grace; Could our forefathers only just see it, My eye! they would start wi' surprise, I fancy I just hear them saying-- "What's come of the buggy pigsties?" These are the days, &c.
And this is a' duin by one Grainger-- A perfect Goliah in bricks, He beats Billy Purvis quite hollow In what ye ca' slight of hand tricks; He's only to say, "Cock-o-lorum, Fly Jack, presto, quick and be gane," And new houses spring up in an instant-- Of the audins you can't see a stane. These are the days, &c.
In sculler-boats, not very lang syne, The Shields folk cross'd ower the Tyne, But now we have got a big steamer, And cuts quite a wonderful shine; And one that we've got down at Scotland, Delights a' the folks with a ride, For it gans back and forward sae rapid, That it just makes a trip in a tide. These are the days, &c.
I think I've now told you, my hinnies, The whole of the changes I've seen, At least a' the whirligig fashions That I have been able to glean; So the next time we meet a' together, Some other improvements I'll get, And then we shall make worsels happy, And try a' wor cares to forget. These are the days, &c.
=On the 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 Quayside, so spruce, stands a great Custom House, Of Newcastle the pride and birth-right; Now the sons of Gotham 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.
THE CUSTOM HOUSE TREE, &c.
Tune--"The Quayside Shaver."
Ye folks of Newcassel, so gen'rous, advance, And listen awhile 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 the 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 applied 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 his mouth. The 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-eye 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 Treas'ry decision laid vap'ring aside; "No Branch!" was the cry, so away the Gulls slunk: Should a Twig be lopp'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, 'twould be fit That a Branch from the Mad-house be rear'd 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.
THE CUSTOM HOUSE BRANCH.
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 Pilgarlicks 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' reckon'd _addle-pated_, For this pile so magnificent will find a fitter place. Yon space[32] 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 sight shall straightway take its leave, To brave the billow's 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 tranferr'd 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 topsails straight they'll lower to the lords of the Tyne.
'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 vanish'd, For news arriv'd 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.
Footnote 32: The New Market Place.
THE MECHANICS' PROCESSION;
_Or, A Trip to South Shields_.
Tune--"The Bold Dragoon."
Let gowks about Odd Fellows brag, And Foresters se fine-- Unrivall'd the Mechanics stand, And long will o'er them shine;-- With belts of blue, and hearts so true, They far outrival every Order-- Their praise is sung by every tongue, Frae Lunnin toon reet ow'r the Border. Whack, row de dow, &c.
O had you seen our Nelson lads When Nunn[33] brought up the news He said, let us be off to Shields, Our brothers' hearts to rouse; Our Tiler drew his sword, and cried, Let banners wave and loud drums rattle-- Whene'er Mechanics are oppress'd, They'll find us first to fight their battle! Whack, row de dow, &c.
Three cheers we gave, when Nunn replied, Our ALBION lads do crave, To join the TYNE and COLLINGWOOD, All danger they would brave; And each I. G. wad let them see, Their hearts and souls were in the action, They'd crush a foe at ev'ry blow, Until that they had satisfaction. Whack, row de dow, &c.
The ardour spread from lodge to lodge, Each brother's heart beat high, And down the Tyne, in steamers fine, On rapid wings they fly;-- 'Mid cannon's roar along the shore, Our band struck up our tunes se merry-- So blythe a crew there's been but few, Since famous Jemmy Johnson's Wherry. Whack, row de dow, &c.
At Shields we join'd their splendid band, And march'd in fine array-- Throughout the town, we gain'd renown, For such a grand display:-- We smack'd their yell, and wish'd success To each Mechanic's Lodge se clever, And as we left the brothers cried-- O may our Order live for ever! Whack, row de dow, &c.
Let's drink to all Mechanics true, Upon both sides of Tyne May peace and plenty bless their homes, And round them long entwine;-- To Simpson te, so kind and free, Let's give three cheers as loud as thunder-- Till echo'd back from pole to pole, And all the world admire and wonder! Whack, row de dow, &c.
Footnote 33: Thomas Nunn, I. G. of the Albion Lodge.
A GIPSY'S SONG.
Here awhile we'll cease from roaming-- Pitch the tents among the broom-- Turn the asses on the common, And enjoy the afternoon.
Merry shall we be to-day: What is life devoid of pleasure? Care from us keep far away, While Mirth pursues his sprightly measure.
Place all things in decent order, Budgets, boxes, mugger-ware, And here encamp'd, on England's border, We'll remain till Whitsun Fair.
Ease the brutes of panniers' load-- Let them browse among the heather; Light a fire, and dress some food, And frankly we shall feast together.
And ALLAN,[34] thou shall screw thy drone, And play up 'Maggie Lauder' sweetly, Or 'Money Musk' or 'Dorrington,' And we will frisk and foot it neatly.
CROWD[35] gain'd applause for many a tune-- Few peer'd him in the High or Lawlan'; But neither he nor SANDY BROWN[36] Could trill a note like JEMMY ALLAN.
E'en BLAW-LOUD WILLY'S[37] Border airs, Nor gay nor daft could please the dancer; But aye to Allan's lilts, at fairs, The very feet themselves would answer.
Each lad shall take his fav'rite lass, And dance with her till she be weary, And warm her with the whisky glass, And kiss and hug his nut-brown deary.
And when of mirth we've had our will, Upon the sward love shall entwine us; Our plighted vows we'll then fulfill, Without a canting priest to join us.
And when we go our country rounds, Some trinkets selling, fortunes telling-- Some tink'ring, cooping, casting spoons, We'll still obtain the ready shilling.
Unto the farm-steads we can hie, Whene'er our stock of food grows scanty, And from the hen-roost, bin, or sty, We'll aye get fresh supplies in plenty.
And when the shepherd goes to sleep, And on the fell remains the flock, We'll steal abroad among the sheep, And take a choice one from the stock.
The clergy take the tenth of swine, Potatoes, poultry, corn, and hay-- Why should not gipsies, when they dine, Have a tithe-pig as well as they?
We wish not for great store of wealth, Nor pomp, nor pride, nor costly dainty; While blest with liberty and health, And competence--then we have plenty.
Merry shall we be to-day: What is life devoid of pleasure? Care from us keep far away, While Mirth pursues his sprightly measure.
H. R.
Footnote 34: James Allan, the celebrated Northumberland bagpiper.
Footnote 35: A vagrant piper, who often travelled with gipsies.
Footnote 36: About 45 years ago, a poem appeared in a Kelso newspaper, wherein this person was respectfully noticed, as follows:--
"They brought the piper, Sandy Brown, Frae Jedburgh to Lochmaben town; Though whaisling sair and broken down Auld Sandy seem'd, His chanter for a pleasing sound Was still esteem'd."
Footnote 37: An unskilful performer on the bagpipes, who attended the different fairs held in Northumberland.
VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE BURNS' CLUB,
Held at Mr. Wallace's, Nag's Head, Newcastle, Jan. 1817.