Part 17

Along the Quayside, stop at Russell's Entry: There you'll see the beer-drawer, she is standing sentry. Buy broom, &c.

If you want an oyster for to taste your mouth, Call at Handy Walker's--he's a bonny youth. Buy broom, &c.

Call at Mr. Loggie's--he does sell good wine; There you'll see the beer-drawer--she is very fine. Buy broom, &c.

If you want an orange, ripe and full of juice, Gan to Hannah Black, there you'll get your choose. Buy broom, &c.

Call at Mr. Turner's, at the Queen's Head-- He'll not set you away without a piece of bread. Buy broom, &c.

Down the river's side, as far as Dent's Hole, There you'll see the cuckolds working at the coal. Buy broom, &c.

Footnote 47: Besom.

THUMPING LUCK.

Air--"Gang nae mair to yon Town."

Here's thumping luck to yon town, Let's have a hearty drink upon't,-- O the days I've spent in yon town, My heart still warms to think upon't; For monie a happy day I've seen, With monie a lass so kind and true,-- With hearty chields I've canty been, And danc'd away till a' was blue.

Here's thumping luck to yon town, Let's have a hearty drink upon't,-- O the days I've spent in yon town, My heart still warms to think upon't.

There's famous ale in yon town, Will make your lips to smack again, And many a one leaves yon town, Oft wishes they were back again; Well shelter'd from the northern blast, Its spires and turrets proudly rise, And boats and keels all sailing past With coals, that half the world supplies. Here's thumping luck, &c.

There's native bards in yon town, For wit and humour seldom bet And they sang sae sweet in yon town, Good faith, I think I hear them yet: Such fun in Thompson's voyage to Shields, In Jimmy Johnson's wherry fine-- Such shaking heels, and dancing reels, When sailing on the coaly Tyne. Here's thumping luck, &c.

Amang the rest in yon town, One Shiels was fam'd for ready wit-- His "Lord Size" half drown'd in yon town, Good faith I think I hear it yet: Then Mitford's muse is seldom wrong, When once he gives the jade a ca', And Gilchrist, too, for comic song, Though last, he's not the least of a'. Here's thumping luck, &c.

May the sun shine bright on yon town, May its trade and commerce still increase,-- And may all that dwells in yon town Be blest with fond, domestic peace; For, let me wander east or west, North, south, or even o'er the sea, My native town I'll still love best-- NEWCASTLE is the place for me. Here's thumping luck, &c.

W. WATSON.

DANCE TO THY DADDY.

Tune--"The little Fishy."

Come here, my little Jackey, Now I've smok'd my backey, Let's have a bit crackey Till the boat comes in.

Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy, Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing; Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy, Thou shalt have a fishy when the boat comes in.

Here's thy mother humming, Like a canny woman, Yonder comes thy father, Drunk, he cannot stand.

Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy, Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing; Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy, Thou shalt have a haddock when the boat comes in.

Our Tommy's always fuddling, He's so fond of ale,-- But he's kind to me-- I hope he'll never fail.

Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy, Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing; Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy, Thou shalt have a codling when the boat comes in.

I like a drop mysel', When I can get it sly, And thou, my bonny bairn, Will lik't as well as I.

Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy, Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing; Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy, Thou shalt have a mack'rel when the boat comes in.

May we get a drop Oft as we stand in need, And weel may the keel row That brings the bairns their bread.

Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy, Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing; Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy, Thou shalt have a salmon, when the boat comes in.

W. WATSON.

THE FRIAR AND THE NUN,

_A Midnight Colloquy of the Nuns' Field_.

Said the Ghost of a Nun to a Friar Grey-- "Dear brother, what changes we've seen! There's here to be built a New Market, they say, Which was once, you know, our bleaching green." Such were the sounds that smote on my ear, As I stray'd in the Nuns' Field one night,-- And I sat down beneath an old elm-tree to hear, Though my hair stood on end at the sight.

"There's nought," quoth the Friar, "but heaps of stones, Where oft I have stray'd as a sinner; The bell that once warn'd us to vespers and nones, Now warns Grainger's workmen of dinner. Alack! sister Anne, a heretic race, With aprons of blue, or of tartan,-- Red night-caps for hoods, will soon take our place-- But they all will be d----d for certain."

"Dear brother," said she, "only think on this spot, Where our portion was penance and stripes, Old men will be crying, 'Hot pies here, all hot,' And women, 'Black-puddings and tripes.' Where we walk'd so devoutly, soon those who succeed us, In all worldly pride will soon strut on,-- Where we utter'd our mournful _Aves_ and _Credos_, Will hang rounds of beef and fat mutton."

"Yes, sister," said he, "where we chaunted _Te Deum_, And sighed our prayer to the breeze,-- Where we us'd to confess, ere long will we see 'em A chaunting lewd ditties and glees; The ground where we stand will be strew'd soon with buyers, Pursuing their ways so mistaken; Extinct is the race now of Holy Friars, Save those who are Fryers of Bacon.

In spite of Sir Andrew, these sinful elves Will still buy and sell on a Sunday; But soon they'll be wandering ghosts, like ourselves-- _Sic transit gloria mundi_." A low'ring black cloud--most dismal to see-- Now hid the soft moon-beams so bright; And I rose from beneath an old elm-tree, For the Ghosts had vanish'd from sight.

ST. NICHOLAS' GREAT BELL.

Oh, have you seen the mighty bell, That none in England can excel,-- The Tom of Lincoln's but a shell To the great bell of Saint Nicholas. Oh, such rare things ne'er was before-- To hear it strike eight miles, or more, To wake the workmen, when they snore-- Ay, this great bell of Saint Nicholas.

(_Spoken_)--I say, Patrick, have you been after seeing the great bell that's just gone up to that great lump of a Protestant church?--A big bell, do they call it? by the saints, I thought it was an extinguisher for the light at its ugly mug--A great bell, indeed; by the powers! you know yourself it's only like a skull-cap to my great grandmother's praty pot, that she used to boil kail-cannon in at the harvest.--You are right, Patrick, but still we'll

Drink success to this bell--ding, dong-- That'll wake the folks in country and town, And their maids to milk their cows in the morn, The great bell of Saint Nicholas.

Lord, how the people they did run, When they heard the small bells ring like fun, Shouting, there's something to be done At the old church of Saint Nicholas. The shopkeepers out of their doors did stare At such a thing, so great and rare, And the flags were waving in the air, O'er the great bell of Saint Nicholas.

(Spoken.)--Well, I suppose they will christen it--Hout, man, they christened it yesterday at the foundery, down at Hawks'.--Well, then, they'll have to consecrate it now.--Ay, horses and all--What! consecrate horses, you foolish man! Ay, then they'll be most fit for hearses and mourning coaches.

Drink success to this bell, &c.

And after all the noisy storm, We've liv'd to see real church reform-- Six horses standing snug and warm, In the old church of Saint Nicholas. You should have been at the church, To have seen the horses in the porch,-- The devil will say--I'm in the lurch, No use for me at Saint Nicholas.

(Spoken.)--I say, Geordy, did you ever see such a great thing as that before?--Where is it gan' te?--Why, to the church; it's the great bell that was bequeathed by Major Anderson, to flay away the rooks and craws frae the town--to hinder them from building either on churches or exchanges. Ay, ay, but I think it wad ha'e been far better if they'd myed it to flay away poverty frae wor doors, and cast it as a boiler for soup. What say you, Geordy?--It wad, as ye say--but I'll

Drink success, &c.

A drunken cobbler made a vow, In the Major he would make a shoe,-- And he work'd away till all was blue In the great bell of Saint Nicholas. The shoe being made, to the man of leather The people cried--Well done! O clever,-- You should have a grant to work for ever In the great bell of Saint Nicholas.

Drink success to this bell, &c.

LUKEY'S DREAM.

Tune--"Caller Fair."

The other neet aw went to bed, Being weary wi' maw wark, man; Aw dreamt that Billy Scott was deed-- It's curious to remark, man Aw thought aw saw his buryin' fair, And knew the comp'ny a', man-- For a' poor Billy's friends were there, To see him levelled law, man.

Blind Willie slowly led the band, As beagle, on the way, man; A staff he carried in his hand, And shook his head se grey, man; At his reet hand was Buggy Jack, With his hat-brim se broad, man; And on his left was Bill the Black, Ti lead him on his road, man.

Big Bob, X. Y. and other two, That leeves upon the deed, man-- They bore his corpse before the crew, Expecting to be fee'd, man; His nyemsyek, Euphy Scott, was there, Her bonny Geordy, tee, man, Distress'd--they cried, (this happy pair,) Ne mair we will him see, man!

Bold Jocker was amang them, tee, Brave Cuckoo Jack and a', man; And hairy Tom, the keelman's son, And bonny Dolly Raw, man; And Bella Roy, and Tatie Bet, They cried till out o' breath, man-- For sair these twosome did regret For canny Billy's deeth, man.

But Hangy luickt above them a', He is se sma' and lang, man-- And Bobby Knox, the Dog-bank Ox, Was sobbin' i' the thrang, man; And Coiner, wi' his swill and shull, Was squeakin' like a bairn, man, And knack-knee'd Mat, that drucken fyul, Like a monkey he did gairn, man.

Tally-i-o, that dirty wretch, Was then the next I saw, man-- And Peggy Powell, Step-and-fetch, Was haddin' up her jaw, man-- And frae the Close was Bobby Hush, Wi' his greet gob se wide, man-- Alang wi' him was Push-Peg-Push, Lamentin' by his side, man.

And roguish Ralph, and busy Bruce, That leeves upon their prey, man, Did not neglect, but did protect Their friends upon the way, man; And Jimmy Liddle, drest in black, Behint them a' did droop, man; He had a coat on like the Quak's, That feeds us a' wi' soup, man.

Now, when they got him tiv his grave, He then began to shout, man; For Billy being but in a trance, Bi this time cam about, man: Then Jocker, wi' a sandy styen, The coffin split wi' speed, man-- They a' rejoic'd to see agyen Poor Bill they thought was deed, man.

When a' his friends that round him stood, Had gettin' him put reet, man, They a' went tiv the Robin Hood, To spend a jovial neet, man; Ne mair for Billy they did weep, But happy they did seem, man;-- Just then aw waken'd frae my sleep, And fand it was a dream, man.

JOCKER.

Tune--"O, gin I had her."

Hae ye seen my Jocker, Hae ye seen my Jocker, Hae ye' seen my Jocker Comin' up the Kee? Wiv his short blue jacket, Wiv his short blue jacket, Wiv his short blue jacket, And his hat agee!

(Spoken.)--JIN. A! lyucka, noo, at clarty Nan, there!--what's she singin' at?

NAN.--What is aw singin' at! What's that ti ye? What it aw singin' at! Ah, wey, noo!--hev aw ti give ower singin' for ye? Ah! wey, noo! there's a platter-fyeced bunter for ye!--there's a smother-bairn w----! there's a pink amang the pissy-beds! Ah! wey, noo!... Ye'd mair need gan hyem, and get the dust wesht off ye. Ah! wey, noo--what's that!

O, maw hinny, Jocker, O, maw hinny, Jocker, O, maw hinny, Jocker-- Jocker's the lad for me! Jocker was a keelman, Jocker was a keelman, Jocker was a keelman, When he follow'd me.

(Spoken.)--But he's exalted now--O, bliss him, aye!--for

He's a porter-pokeman, He's a porter-pokeman, He's a porter-pokeman, Workin' on the Kee.

(Spoken.)--NAN. Assa, Jin--hae ye seen owt o' wor Jocker doon the Kee, there?

JIN.--Ay, aw saw him and Hairy Tom just gan into the Low Crane, there.

NAN.--The Low Crane, ye clarty fa'--whe are ye myekin' yor gam on?

JIN.--Noo, call me a clarty fa', and aw'll plaister yor gob wi' clarts. Ah, wey, noo! whe are ye calling a clarty fa'?

NAN.--Ay! bliss us a', Jin, what are ye gettin' intiv a rage about?

JIN.--Wey, didn't ye ax me if aw'd seen owt o' Jocker doon the Kee, there--and aw teld ye the truth, and ye wadn't believe me.

NAN.--Wey, is he there?

JIN.--Ti be sure he is.

NAN.--Wey, aw'll sit down here till he comes out--then--

O, maw hinny, Jocker, &c.

Jocker was a rover, Jocker was a rover, Jocker was a rover, When he courted me: But, noo, his tricks are over, But, noo, his tricks are over, But, noo, his tricks are over, He tykes me on his knee.

(Spoken.) NAN.--Ay! here he's comin'; here's maw jewel comin';--come into my airms, my tracle dumplin', and give us a kiss! Where hae ye been? aw been luikin' for ye all ower.

JOCKER.--Where hev aw been!--aw've been walkin' up and down the Kee here. Where hae ye been?--aw think ye've been i' the Sun.

NAN.--Wey, maw jewel, aw've just been i' the Custom-house, getting a glass, and aw've com'd down the Key to seek ye, to gan hyem thegither. Assa, Jocker, divent lie se far off is as ye did last neet, for when aw waken'd, aw was a' starving o' caud.

O, maw hinny, Jocker, &c.

THE CORN MARKET.

_A LAMENT._

Tune--"The Bold Dragoon."

O hinney Grainger, haud thy hand, thou'll turn us upside doon, Or faith aw'll send for Mr. Brand, to claw thy curly croon; For what thou's myed the Major's dean, wor thenks are due, and thou shalt hae them; But noo the law toon folk complain, thou wants to tyek their Egypt frae them. Whack, row de dow, &c.

Most folk like the better half, but thou wad swalley all, Poor-house or Jail may tyek the rest, gie thou but Elswick Hall. Wor cooncil's cliver, there's ne doot, but they'll find out, tho' rather late on, How cool the devil walks about, in the smooth shape of J----y C----n.

Thou's getten aw the butcher-meat, the taties, tripe, and greens, And, not content with this, thou wants to tyek wor corn, it seems; For Mosley-street and Mercy's sake, sic wicked thowts at once abandon, Or else wor canny awd law toon, it winna hev a leg to stand on.

The wheel o' fortune will stand still, the bees forsyek the hive, There'll be ne wark for Sinton's Mill, the White Horse winna drive, Poor Mrs. F----h and Temperance H----l ne mair need recommend their diet, The farmers will forget to call, H-ll's Kitchen's very sel' turn quiet.

The Chronicle may doze in peace,--Lord Grainger says, "Sleep on--" The bugs may tyek another lease, their race is not yet run; Awd Nichol still may fairly say, frae Hepple's up to Humble's house end, He feeds a lively host each day, aw'll say, at least, a hundred thousand.

The White Swan seun 'ill be agrund, the Black Boy turn quite pale, The Black Bull wi' the blow be stunn'd, the Lion hang his tail, Tom H----n's Cock 'ill craw ne mair, the awd Blue Bell be dumb for ever,-- And', just to myek the Kee-side stare, thou'd better send doon for the river. Whack, row de dow, &c.

THE SKIPPER'S ACCOUNT OF THE MECHANICS' PROCESSION.

By R. EMERY, of the Nelson Lodge, Newcastle.

Tune--"_Newcastle Fair._"

Cried Mally, Come, Jacky, get ready-- The morning is looking se fine, man; The bells i' the town are a' ringing, And the sun it se bonny does shine, man; The lads and the lasses are runnin', To se the Mechanics so gay, man,-- To meet the Procession, wi' Mally, Aw suen cut my stick, and away, man. Rom ti iddity, &c.

We reach'd the Tyne Brig in a crack, 'Mang croods, like worsels, out o' breeth, man-- The splendor aw cannot describe, Nor forget till the day o' my deeth, man: A fine silken banner appear'd, As big as wor Geordy's keel-sails, man, A' cover'd wi' doves, ark, and croons, An' greet hairy men without tails, man. Rom ti iddity, &c.

A chep like a Duke follow'd next, Surrounded wi' Nobles se fine, man, Weel dress'd up in silk robes an' tassels, An' goold that did glitter and shine, man-- Says aw, that's Prince Albert, aw'll sweer-- An' was just gawn to give him three chears, man, When Mally cried--De'il stop yor din!-- Becrike! it's the Dey of Algiers, man. Rom ti iddity, &c.

The members were toss'd off in stile, In colours of pink, white, and blue, man,-- A tight little chep frae the ranks, Cried, Jack, hinny, how d'ye do, man?-- What, Newton! says aw, now, what cheer! Aw thowt ye some 'Squire makin' fun, man,-- There's Armstrang, as trig as a Peer, But how's my awd friend, Bobby Nunn, man? Rom ti iddity, &c.

The Hawk, the Northumberland Star, An' the Magdalen's banners wav'd sweet, man; But the Chieftain astonish'd them all, With his braw Highland lads dress'd sae neat, man; The Nelson appear'd in true blue, (There canny host Simpson belangs, man,) An' Petrie walk'd close alangside O' the chep that writes Newcassel Sangs, man. Rom ti iddity, &c.

To describe the Flags, Music, an' Stars, Wad take me to doomsday for sartin; Let Foresters brag as they like, But it's all in my eye, Betty Martin. Wor lads were se pleas'd wi' the seet, Mechanics they'll be before lang, man,-- So aw's gannin to Simpson's to-neet, To sing them this canny bit sang, man.

_Whit-Monday, 1841._

DRUCKEN BELLA ROY, O!

Tune--"Duncan M'Callaghan."

When Bella's comin' hyem at neet, And as she's walking doon the street, The bairns cry out, Whe pawn'd the sheet? Wey, drucken Bella Roy, O!

Then styens to them gans rattlin', rattlin', They set off a gallopin', gallopin', Legs an' arms gan' wallopin', wallopin', For fear o' Bella Roy, O!

Now, when she gans through the chares, Each bairn begins, and shouts and blairs, And cries, as she gans up the stairs, Where's drucken Bella Roy, O! Then styens, &c.

Now, if she's had a sup o' beer, She sets ti wark to curse and swear, And myeks them run away, for fear, Frae Drucken Bella Roy, O! Then styens, &c.

Believe me, friends, these are her words: She says--Get hyem, ye w----'s birds, Else aw'll bray ye as flat as t----s, Cries drucken Bella Roy, O! Then styens, &c.

She says--Ye have a w----e at hyem, And if ye'll not let me alyen, Maw faith, aw'll break your rumple byen, Says drucken Bella Roy, O! Then styens, &c.

She'll myek the place like thunner ring, And down the stairs her things will fling, And cry--Get out, yor ---- thing-- Cries drucken Bella Roy, O! Then styens, &c.

Then in the house she sits and chats, The bairns, then, hit her door such bats-- She calls them a' the hellish cats, Dis drucken Bella Roy, O! Then styens, &c.

She shouts until she hurts her head, And then she's forc'd to gan' ti bed, Which is a piece of straw, down spread For drucken Bella Roy, O! Fal, lal, lal, &c.

THE BONNY CLOCK FYECE.

Tune--"The Coal-hole."

O Dick, what's kept ye a' this time? Aw've fretted sair about ye-- Aw thought that ye'd fa'n in the Tyne, Then what wad aw duen without ye? O, hinny, Dolly, sit thee down, And hear the news aw've brought frae toon: The Newcassel folks hev catch'd a meun, And myed it a bonny clock-fyece!

Thou knaws Saint Nicholas' Church, maw pet, Where we were tied tigither,-- That place, aw knaw, thou'll not forget-- Forget it aw will never: 'Twas there, then, jewel, aw saw the seet, As aw cam staggering through the street,-- Aw thought it queer, at pick dark neet, Ti see a fiery clock-fyece.

The folks they stood in flocks about-- Aw cried--How! what's the matter? Aw glower'd--at last aw gav a shout, For them to fetch some water. The Church is a-fire, and very suen That bonny place will be brunt down. Ye fyul, says a chep, it's a bonny meun They've catch'd, and myed it a clock-fyece!

On Monday, when aw gan to wark, Aw'll shurely tell our banksman, If we had such a leet at dark, We never wad break our shanks, man; Maw marrows and aw'll gan ti the toon, Ti see if we can catch a muen;-- If we can only coax one doon, We'll myek't a bonny clock-fyece.

Then if we get it down the pit, We'll hed stuck on a pole, man; 'Twill tell us hoo wor time gans on, Likewise to hew wor coal, man. So noo, maw pet, let's gan ti bed, And not forget the neet we were wed; Ti-morn we'll tell our uncle, Ned, About the bonny clock-fyece.

THE MUSIC HALL.

Old bards have sung how they could boast Of places that's renown'd, For bloody battles won and lost, And royal monarchs crown'd; But all those deeds this place exceeds-- They in the shade must fall, Some have declar'd, if but compar'd To our fam'd Music Hall.

Here zealots join in warm debate, And for their rites contend-- Here Lark-wing spouts on church and state, His popery to defend; With bigot zeal, his country's weal He vows to have at heart-- Yet 'tis well known, throughout the town, He plays a knavish part.

Now, from Hibernia's fertile shore The thund'ring champion comes, His country's wrongs for to deplore, With trumpets, fife, and drums; He tells them, too, he is most true, Their firm, unshaken friend, While life Shall last, he will stand fast, And all their rights defend.

Then champions of another grade-- I mean, of fistic lore-- Deaf Burke, the bouncing gasconade, Struts o'er the spacious floor, Who, with great art, performs his part, In teaching self-defence; Yet plain I saw, he meant to draw Fools' shillings, pounds, and pence.

Next comes a man of fangles new-- Of worlds, and moons, and stars-- Who said, Sir Isaac never knew The Ple-i-ades from Mars The folks throng'd round from all the town, And some pronounc'd him clever, Yet, I've been told, both young and old Return'd as wise as ever.

Apollo, too, his court here keeps, With sirens in his train-- Each trembling note of music sweeps Transport through every vein: When Orpheus play'd within the shade, He made the woods resound; The list'ning beasts forsook the mead, And stood, like statues, round.