Part 16

The Chancellor's gob was beginning to swet, He swill'd it away till he gat ower wet, He was led to the Tower by young Beagle Bet, Frae the crowning of honest aud Euphy: Bella Roy was beginning to produce all her slack-- She was tuen hyem on a barrow, by wise Basket Jack; The sport was weel relish'd by Billy the Black, At the crowning of honest aud Euphy.

A speech was now myed frae the queen, i' the chair-- To study their good she would take a great care; They aw had her blessing--what could she say mair? God bless the Queen, honest aud Euphy! Wi' cheers for the Queen, the house oft did ring-- By their humble request she the 'Keel-row' did sing; They a' happy retir'd, wi' 'God save the King!' Frae the crowning of honest aud Euphy.

THOMAS MARSHALL.

SANDGATE WIFE'S NURSE SONG.

Tune--"A Sailor's Wife has nought to dee."

A, U, A, my bonny bairn, A, U, A, upon my airm, A, U, A--thou suin may learn To say dada se canny: Aw wish thy daddy may be weel, He's lang i' coming frae the keel; Tho' his black fyesce be like the de'il, Aw like a kiss frae Johnny. A, U, A, &c,

Thou really hast thy daddy's chin, Thou art like him leg and wing, And aw wi' pleasure can thee sing, Since thou belangs my Johnny. Johnny is a clever lad-- Last neet he fuddled aw he had, This morn he wasn't very bad-- He luik'd as blithe as ony.

Tho' thou's the first, thou's not the last; Aw mean to hae my bairns fast-- And when this happy time is past, Aw still will love my Johnny; For his hair is brown, and see is thine, Your eyes are grey, and se are mine, Thy nose is taper'd off se fine-- Thou's like thy daddy Johnny.

Thy canny doup is fat and round, And, like thy dad, thou's plump and sound, Thou's worth to me a thousand pound, Thou's a' together bonny. When daddy's drunk, he'll tyek a knife, And threaten sair to tyek my life: Whe wad not be a keelman's wife, To have a man like Johnny.

But yonder's daddy coming now, He links the best amang the crew; They're a' gaun to the Barley-mow, My canny, good-like Johnny. Come, let's go get the bacon fried, And let us make a clean fireside, Then on his knee he will thee ride, When he comes hyem to mammy.

BOLD JACK OF THE JOURNAL.

[Written on reading Mr. Larkin's "Letter to the Protestants of Newcastle," on the subject of "Maria Monk's Awful Disclosures."]

Bold Jack of the _Journal_-- From regions infernal!-- The Catholic Clergy Would hang or would burn all!

This insolent Tory Is now in his glory, And currency gives To Miss Monk's lying story.

For his blust'rin' and barkin', And fulsome remarking Brave, honest Charles Larkin Has gi'en him a yarkin'.

_Newcastle, Sept, 1836._

STEAM SOUP;

_Or, Cuckoo Jack's Petition._

Tune--"X Y Z."

Let Cocknies brag o' turtle-soup, and Frenchmen o' their frogs, man-- Newcastle soup, such famous stuff, it feeds us fat as hogs man! Yor Callipee and Callipash, compar'd tiv it, is nobbit trash-- Strang knees and houghs stew'd down to mush, are gobbled up by every slush; Wi' pluck an' taties folks are duen, for smoking soup in crowds they run, And sup till they are fu', man! Fal de ral, &c.

A skipper and his wife sat down, to give a quairt a try, man, When something stuck in Mally's throat, and choak'd her very nigh, man: Poor Mally blair'd, and turn'd quite pale--and out she pull'd a great rat's tail! Says Jack, aw'll off to Mr. Mayor, and tell the story tiv a hair-- Aw think it is a shameful joke, to sell such stuff wor Mall to choke-- It's warse than tatie stew, man! Fal de ral, &c.

Whe knaws but these fine dandy cooks hire resurrection faws, man, To stock them with forbidden flesh, agyen our famous laws, man: A cook in France, now understand, as sure's the sun inleets wor land, Did kidnap bairns, an' mince them down, and myed sic pies, that a' the town Wad eat nowt else--thowt nowt se fine; they fand him out--then, what a shine!-- They hang'd him on a tree, man! Fal de ral, &c.

O Willy, man, wor canny king, ye knaw best how to feed us-- Ye ken what we can de at sea, at ony time ye need us; Cram a' their necks into a loop, that try to cross wor breed wi' soup; Or gar them pay a heavy fine, that dare unnerve yor tars of Tyne; Then in the fight we'll loudly cheer, when we're restor'd to flesh and beer-- Hurra! for England's king, man! Fal de ral, &c.

R. EMERY.

THE SANDGATE LASS ON THE ROPERY BANKS.

Tune--"The Skipper's Wedding."

On the Ropery-banks Jenny was sitting-- She had on a bed-gown just new, And blithely the lassie was knitting Wi' yarn of a bonny sky-blue. The strings of her cap they were hinging, Se lang, on her shoulders se fine, And hearty I heard this lass singing-- My bonny keel lad shall be mine.

O wad the keel come down the river, That I my dear laddie could see, He whistles and dances se clever, My bonny keel laddie for me.

Last neet, in amang these green dockings, He fed me wi' gingerbread spice-- I promis'd to knit him his stockings, He cuddled and kiss'd me se nice; He ca'd me his jewel and hinney, He ca'd me his pet and his bride, And he swore that I should be his Jenny, To lie at neets down by his side. O wad the keel, &c.

That morning forget I will never, When first I saw him on the Kee, The 'Keel-row' he whistled se clever, He won my affections frae me; His drawers on his doup luik'd se canny, His keel-hat was cock'd on his head, And if I'd not getten my Jimmy, Faith by this time I wad hae been dead. O wad the keel, &c.

The first time I spoke to my Jimmy-- Now mind ye, it isn't a lee-- My mother had gi'en me a penny, To get her a penn'orth o' tea; When a lad i' the street cried out, 'Bessy!' Says I, 'Hinny, that's not my nyem.' 'Becrike! never mind,' he said, 'lassie, 'To-neet I will see thee safe hyem.' O wad the keel, &c.

Since then I have been his true-lover, And lov'd him as dear as my life, And in spite o' baith father and mother, I'll suin be my keel-laddie's wife; How happy we'll be then together, When he brings hyem his wages to me, Wiv his bonny bit bairn crying 'Father,' And another be lying o' my knee. O wad the keel, &c.

AN OLD AND CURIOUS SONG,

_On the late Mr. R. Clayton being made an Alderman._

Tune--"The Vicar and Moses."

My good Mr. Pun, We know you like fun, And also to crack a good joke; 'Tis well known in the nation, That our Corporation Has long lain under a cloak. Fal lal de ral, &c.

But after your year, How strange 'twill appear, (Pray Heaven it prove for your good,) To all the whole nation, That our Corporation Will then crouch under a _Hood_.[42]

Now, we poor folks, Who're not us'd to jokes, But with the sweets take the bitters-- The folks in our station Think our Corporation Has long been outfitted by Fitters.

Oh, Watty! Oh, Watty![43] Shouldst thou now see _Natty_, And his clan, how thickly they lay't on; You'd say, in their order, Mayor, Commons, Recorder, Are all now outwitted by _Cl----n_.

From the days of good _Walters_, To his who makes halters,[44] Such changes have here taken place, That from its high station, Our poor Corporation Has sunk into abject disgrace.

When the Alderman's gown Was hawk'd about town, And none would be found for to lay't on, Up stepp'd brother Bob, And settled the job, And he was dubb'd Alderman _C----n_.

Yet think not, that though such, He'll quit the Town's Hutch, Or any thing there let miscarry; Still there he'll give law, Rule by his _cat's paw_, The ever obliging _Old Harry_.

Ye honest electors, Our faithful protectors, In you there can never be blame; As by following the Mayor. And supporting the chair, We always must vote for the same.

Ye scum of the bowl, In vain you may growl, Like the swinish group in a storm, Nat will rule the roast, And still make a boast, That danger lies not in Reform.[45]

Footnote 42: Alderman Hood.

Footnote 43: Ald. Blackett.

Footnote 44: Ald. Cramlington.

Footnote 45: A few copies of the above song were printed by Mrs. Angus about the year 1795. It was said to have been written by the late Mr. James Davidson, attorney, author of a poem entitled, "Despair in Love, an Imprecatory Prayer;" which was also printed by Mrs. Angus--Sir Matthew White Ridley resigned his office of Magistrate about this time, observing, that "Clayton _up_ stairs, and Clayton _down_ stairs will never do."

NEWCASTLE LANDLORDS.--1834.

Kind friends and acquaintance, attention I claim, While a few jolly Landlord, in this town, I name; In alphabet order my song it is penn'd, And I hope, for joke's sake, it will never offend.

CHORUS.

Then hey for good drinking, It keeps us from thinking, We all love a drop in our turn.

_A_ stands for Armfield, a good hearty blade, Tho' he's left the Nag's Head, still follows his trade; At the foot of the Market you'll find his new shop, Where many an old friend still calls in for a drop.

_B_ stands for Burns, of the Theatre-square; She's an orderly woman--good drink is sold there; If I wanted a wife, I should readily choose This amiable widow to govern my house.

_C_ stands for Cant, sign of the Blue Bell, Who keeps a good house, and good porter doth sell: Quarrelling or fighting is there seldom seen,-- She's a canty old widow, but rather too keen.

_D_ for Dixon, who once kept the Unicorn--Ho! And _D_ stands for Dixon, White Hart, you well know; Then there's Dixon, Quayside, just a little way down-- Were the three fattest landlords in all the whole town.

_E_ stands for Eggleton, Fighting Cocks Inn, Tho' old, took a young wife, and thought it no sin; _F_ for Finlay, his shop's corner of Pudding-chare, And good wine and spirits you'll always get there.

_G_ for Gibson, the Blue-posts, in Pilgrim-street, Where a few jolly souls oft for harmony meet; _H_ for Hackworth, in Cowgate, Grey Bull is the sign-- Only taste his good ale--faith, you'll say it's divine.

_H_ stands for Heron, the sign of the Cock; _H_ for Hall, near Nuns' Gate--keeps a snug oyster-shop; _H_ stands for Horn, and he's done very weal, Since he bother-d the heart of sly Mrs. Neil.

_I_ stands for Inns--we've the best in the north-- There's the King's Head, the Queen's Head, the George, and the Turf, The Old Crown and Thistle, and Miller's, Half Moon, Well known to the trav'lers who frequent the town.

_K_ stands for Kitchen, Hell's Kitchen 'twas nam'd, And long for good ale and good spree has been fam'd; In each parlour, in vestry, or kitchen you'll find The beer-drawer, Mary, obliging and kind.

_L_ stands for Larkin--he's left the Black Boy, Once fam'd for _Patlanders_ and true Irish joy; On the Scotchwood New Road a house he has ta'en, Where I hope the old soul will get forward again.

_M_ stands for Mitford--he kept the North Pole, Just over the Leazes--a dull-looking hole; Now our favourite poet lives at Head of the Side-- Here's success to his muse--long may she preside.

_N_ stands for Newton, sign of the Dolphin, Who the old house pull'd down, built it up like an inn; They say he found gold--how much I can't tell; But never mind that, he's done wonderful well.

_O_ stands for Orton--he keeps the Burnt House, Once fam'd for the Knights of the Thimble and Goose; And _O_ stands for Ormston, at Pandon--O rare!-- Temptation enough for young men that go there!

_P_ stands for Pace, sign of the White Swan, Who, for to oblige, will do all that he can; A convenient house, when you marketing make, To pop in and indulge yourself with a beef-steak.

_R_ stands for Ridley and Reed, you all know, And _R_ stands for Richardson, all in a row; First, Three Tuns, the Sun, and the Old Rose & Crown, And their ale's good as any at that part of town.

_S_ for Sayer's, Nag's Head, he keeps good mountain-dew,-- Only taste it, you'll find what I tell you is true; _S_ for Stokoe, wine-merchant, foot of St. John's Lane; For good stuff and good measure we'll never complain.

_T_ for Teasdale, the Phoenix, a house fam'd for flip-- _T_ for Teasdale who once kept the sign of the Ship; And _W_ for Wylam, a place more fam'd still-- Sure you all know the Custom-house on the Sandhill.

Robin Hood, Dog and Cannon, and Tiger for me, The Peacock, well known to the clerks on the Quay; The Old Beggar's Opera for _stowrie_, my pet, Mrs. Richardson's was, and she cannot be bet.

There's the Black Bull and Grey Bull, well known to a few, Black, White, and Grey Horse, and Flying Horse too; The Black House, the White House, the Hole-in-the-Wall, And the Seven Stars, Pandon, if you dare call.

There's the Turk's Head, Nag's Head, and Old Barley Mow, The Bay Horse, the Pack Horse, and Teasdale's Dun Cow, The Ship, and the Keel, the Half Moon, and the Sun-- But I think, my good friends, it is time to be done.

Then each landlord and landlady, wish them success, Town and trade of the Tyne, too--we cannot do less; And let this be the toast, when we meet to regale-- "May we ne'er want a bumper of Newcastle ale."

W. WATSON.

A NEW SONG FOR BARGE-DAY, 1835.

_Sung on board of the Steward's Steam-boat._

It well may grieve one's heart full sore, To be in such a movement-- Upon the river, as on shore, The rage is all improvement: Once blithe as grigs, our merriment Is chang'd to meditation, How we these ills may circumvent-- O what a Corporation!

The Quayside always was too big, As scullers have attested; Tant ships, that come with rampant rig, Against its sides are rested. Still to extend it in a tift, They're making preparation, And Sandgate-midden is to shift-- O what a Corporation!

At Tyne-main once there was a caunch, And famous sport was found there; So long it stood--so high and staunch-- All vessels took the ground there; But, somehow, it has crept away, By flood or excavation, And time there you need not delay-- O what a Corporation!

They think to move Bill-point--a spot So lovely and romantic-- Which has sent many ships to pot, And set some seamen frantic; Then many a gowk will run to see, And stare with admiration, From Snowdon's Hole to Wincomlee-- O what a Corporation!

How silent once was Wallsend-shore-- Its dulness was a wonder; Now, from the staiths, full waggons pour Their coals like distant thunder; To have restor'd its wonted peace, In vain our supplication,-- The trade, they say, it will increase-- O what a Corporation!

Where Tynemouth-bar, I understand, A rock from side to side is, How well would look a bank of sand, Not higher than the tide is; But this, it seems, is not to be-- In spite of my oration, The Tyne is still to join the sea-- O what a Corporation!

O would the Tyne but cease to flow, Or, like a small burn, bubble, There would not be a barge-day now, Nor we have all this trouble; But here, alas! we sailing roam About its conservation, Instead of sleeping safe at home-- O what a Corporation!

The Moral.

As patriots in public cause, We never once have swerv'd yet, And if we have not gain'd applause, We know we've well deserv'd it: Who thinks we care for feasting, he Must be a stupid noddy-- We're, like the Herbage-committee, An ill-requited body.

ROBERT GILCHRIST.

ST. NICHOLAS' CHURCH.

O bonny church! ye've studden lang, To mence our canny town; But I believe ye are sae strang, Ye never will fa' down: The architects, wi' a' their wit, May say that ye will fa'; But let them talk--I'll match ye yet Against the churches a'.

CHORUS.

Of a' the churches in our land, Let them be e'er sae braw, St. Nicholas', of Newcastle town, Yet fairly bangs them a'.

Lang have ye stood ilk bitter blast, But langer yet ye'll stand; And ye have been for ages past, A pattern for our land: Your bonny steeple looks sae grand-- The whole world speaks o' ye, Been a' the crack, for cent'ries back, And will be when I dee.

'Tis true they've patch'd ye all about With iron, stone, and wood; But let them patch--I have a doubt, They'll do ye little good; But, to be sure, its making work-- There's plenty lives by ye-- Not only tradesmen and our clerk, But the greedy black-coats, tee.

Your bonny bells there's nane excels, In a' the country round; They ring so sweet, they are a treat When they play heartsome tunes; And when all's dark, the people mark Ye with your fiery eye, That tells the travellers in the street The time, as they pass by.

O that King William wad come down, To see his subjects here, And view the buildings of our town-- He'd crack o' them, I swear; But when he saw our canny church, I think how he'd admire, To see the arch sprung from each side That bears the middle spire.

Now, to conclude my little song, That simple, vocal theme-- I trust, that if I've said aught wrong, That I will be forgi'en: Then lang may fam'd St. Nicholas' stand, Before it does come down, That, when we dee, our bairns may see The beauties of our town.

PAGANINI, THE FIDDLER;

_Or, The Pitman's Frolic_.

Tune--"The Kebbuckstane Wedding."

Come, lay up your lugs, and aw'll sing you a sang, It's nyen o' the best, but it's braw new and funny-- In these weary times, when we're not very thrang, A stave cheers wor hearts, tho' it brings us ne money: Aw left Shiney Raw, for Newcassel did steer, Wi' three or four mair of our neighbours se canny, Determin'd to gan to the play-house to hear The King o' the fiddlers, the great Baggy Nanny. Right fal, &c.

We reach'd the Arcade, rather drouthy and sair-- It's a house full of pastry-cooks, bankers, and drapers-- At the fine fancy fair, how my marrows did stare, On the muffs, hats, and beavers, se fam'd in the papers; At Beasley's, where liquor's se cheap and se prime, A bottle aw purchas'd for maw sweetheart, Fanny, We drank nowt but brandy--and, when it was time, We stagger'd away to see great Baggy Nanny.

We gat t' the door, 'mang the crowd we did crush, Halfway up the stairs I was carried se handy; The lassie ahint us cried, Push, hinny, push-- Till they squeez'd me as sma' and as smart as a dandy; We reach'd the stair-heed, nearly smuther'd, indeed-- The gas letters glitter'd, the paintings look'd canny-- Aw clapt mysel' down side a lass o' reet breed, Maw hinny, says aw, hae ye seen Baggy Nanny.

The lassie she twitter'd, and look'd rather queer, And said, in this house there is mony a dozen, They're planted so thick, that there's no sitting here, They smell so confounded o' cat-gut and rosin; The curtain flew up, and a lady did squall, To fine music play'd by a Cockney bit mannie, Then frae the front seats I suen heard my friends bawl, Off hats, smash yor brains, here comes great Baggy Nanny.

An outlandish chep suen appear'd on the stage, And cut as odd capers as wor maister's flonkey, He skipp'd and he fiddled, as if in a rage-- If he had but a tail, he might pass for a monkey! Deil smash a good tune could this bowdy-kite play-- His fiddle wad hardly e'en please my aud grannie-- So aw suen join'd my marrows and toddled away, And wish'd a good neet to the great Baggy Nanny.

On crossing Tyne-brig, how wor lads ran the rig, At being se silly duen out o' their money,-- Odd bother maw wig, had he play'd us a jig, We might tell'd them at hyem, we'd seen something quite funny; But, law be it spoke, and depend it's ne joke-- Yen and a' did agree he was something uncanny, Though, dark o'er each tree, he before us did flee, And fiddled us hyem did this great Baggy Nanny.

R. EMERY.

THE OYSTER-WIFE'S PETITION,

_On the Removal of the Oyster-tub from the Quay_.

Tune--"The Bold Dragoon."

Oh! Mister Mayor, it grieves me sair-- Alas! what mun aw dee? Wor Oyter-tub[46] is doom'd ne mair To grace Newcassel Kee! Wor bonny lamp that brunt se breet, And cheer'd each wintry neet se dreary, Is gyen, and lots o' canny folks Will miss it sair when cawd and weary! Whack, row de dow, &c.

Now, for the sake of her that's gyen, Just speak the cheering word, And say, that to wor ancient burth, Aw suen will be restor'd. The news wor town wad 'lectrify, And gar yor nyem to live for ever-- In efter times yor deeds wad shine, And 'clipse the nyem o' wor Tyne river. Whack, row de dow, &c.

Had Charley Brandling, bliss his nyem, Been spar'd to seen this day, He'd shown the great respect he had For poor aud Madgie Gray; Alas! he's gyen;--close to yorsel' Aw'll stick until aw's satisfied, sir; When ye look on this good-like fyece, Maw wishes ne'er can be denied, sir. Whack, row de dow, &c.

Frae Summer-hill down to the Kee, Fo'ks kenn'd poor Madgie weel,-- Aw's very sure wor Magistrates For maw condition feel; The cellar's ow'r confin'd and damp,-- Restore us to wor canny station, And bliesings great will leet upon Wor canny Toon and Corporation. Whack, row de dow, &c.

R. EMERY.

Footnote 46: The Oyster-tub alluded to stood on the Quay, nearly opposite to the foot of Grinding-chare. It formed rather an interesting feature in the winter nights, being accompanied by a large blazing lamp, at which sat the owner, attended by several loungers. On the death of old Margery Gray, which took place about October, 1831, this tub was removed, lest the long occupancy of the place should become a freehold, like the little barber's shop which stood at the east end of the _Maison de Dieu_, and which had originally been only a stall. _August, 1833._

BROOM BUSOMS.

If ye want a busom[47] for to sweep your house, Come to me, my lasses--ye may hae your choose.

Buy broom busoms, buy them when they're new-- Buy broom busoms--better never grew.

If I had a horse, I would have a cart; If I had a wife, she would take my part. Buy broom, &c.

Had I but a wife--I care not who she be; If she be a woman, that's enough for me. Buy broom, &c.

If she lik'd a drop, her and I'd agree; If she did not like it, there's the more for me. Buy broom, &c.

* * * * *

_The following Verses, in addition to the above, were often sung by the late Blind Willie, of Newcastle:--_

Up the Butcher-bank, and down Byker-chare, There you'll see the lasses selling brown ware. Buy broom, &c.