Part 18

A graver scene my muse has caught, Where sages, in a row-- Men, by the Holy Spirit taught The gospel truths t' avow-- Those who have trod, to serve their God, The shores of foreign land, At his command, now boldly stand T' implore a helping hand.

And not unfrequent, as we stray This wond'rous place to see, We find it fill'd with ladies gay, To take a cup of tea; And many a gent, who is content With such domestic fare, Has often sat, in social chat, And join'd in many a prayer.

Of many more there is one class, Which merits some attention-- Not Bacchanalians, alas! For such I would not mention-- But men of brains, the smell of grains Would strike with detestation, Who'd keep us dry, and thus decry All liquors in the nation.

Nay, come what will of good or ill, Just only make a trial-- If you the owner's pockets fill, You'll meet with no denial; And men, I hear, from far and near, Have given attestation, So strong a place they cannot trace In any other nation.

THE TYNE.

Tune--"Banks and Braes o' bonny Doon."

Clear crystal Tyne, sweet smiling stream, Gay be the flow'rs thy banks along, For there the darling of my theme Oft sports thy verdant meads among. Flow on, sweet Tyne, and gently glide, And pour thy commerce o'er the main, May Plenty o'er thy banks preside, To bless thee with her smiling train.

Green be thy fields, Britannia dear, With plenty flowing o'er thy land, But chief the banks of Tyne, for there I'll often rove, at Love's command,-- There meet my lass upon the green, And flow'ry garlands for her twine, While smiling pleasure glads the scene, Upon the blooming banks of Tyne.

J. WILSON

THE NEWCASTLE OLD COUNTRY GENTLEMAN.

Air--"Old Country Gentleman."

From wand'ring in a distant land, An exile had return'd, And when he saw his own dear stream, His heart with pleasure burn'd; The days departed, and their joys, Came bounding to his breast, And thus the feelings of his heart In native strains confess'd:--

Tune--"The Keel Row."

Flow on, majestic river, Thy rolling course for ever,-- Forget thee will I never, Whatever fate be mine:

Oft on thy banks I've wander'd, And on thy beauties ponder'd, Oh! many an hour I've squander'd On thy banks, O bonny Tyne! Flow on, &c.

O Tyne! in thy bright flowing, There's magic joy bestowing; I feel thy breezes blowing-- Their perfume is divine. Flow on, &c.

I've sought thee in the morning, When crimson clouds are burning, And thy green hills adorning-- The hills o' bonny Tyne. Flow on, &c.

When stormy seas were round me, And distant nations bound me, In memory still I found thee A ray of hope divine. Flow on, &c.

Thy valleys lie before me, Thy trees are waving o'er me, My home thou dost restore me On thy bonny banks, O Tyne! Flow on, &c.

WALKER PITS.

Tune--"Off she goes."

If I had another penny, I would have another gill-- I would make the fiddler play "The bonny Lads of Byker-hill."

Byker-hill and Walker-shore, Collier lads for evermore! Byker-hill and Walker-shore, Collier lads for evermore!

When aw cam to Walker wark, Aw had ne coat, nor ne pit sark; But now aw've getten twe or three-- Walker pit's deun weel for me.

Byker-hill and Walker-shore, Collier lads for evermore! Byker-hill and Walker-shore, Collier lads for evermore!

BEGGAR'S WEDDING.

Air--"Quayside Shaver."

When timber-legg'd Harry crook'd Jenny did marry In fam'd Gateshead town--and, not thinking of blows, Three ragmen did quarrel about their apparel, Which oft-times affrighted both small birds and crows; This resolute prial, fought on battle royal, Till Jenny spoke this, with hump back and sharp shins: "Be loving as brothers, as well as the others, Then we shall get orders for needles and pins!"

The bride-maid, full breasted, she vow'd and protested, She never saw men at a wedding so rude; Old Madge, with her matches, top full of her catches, Swore she would be tipsy e'er they did conclude; The supper being ended, some part still contended For wholesome malt liquor to fill up each skin; Jack Tar, in his jacket, sat close to Doll Flacket, And swore he'd drink nothing but grog and clear gin.

Black Jack with his fiddle they fix'd in the middle, Who had not been wash'd since the second of June-- Old Sandy, the piper, told Ned he would stripe her, If she wouldn't dance while his pipe was in tune: They play'd them such touches, with wood-legs and crutches-- Old rag-pokes and matches, old songs flew about; Poor Jack being a stranger, thought his Scratch in danger, He tenderly begg'd they would give up the rout.

Jack being thus ill-treated, he begg'd to be seated Upon an old cupboard the landlord had got,-- Like madmen enchanted, they tippled and ranted, Till down came the fiddler, as if he'd been shot. They drank gin by noggins, and strong beer by flaggons, Till they had sufficiently loosen'd each hide, Then those that were able, retir'd to the stable, And slept with their nose in each other's backs--e.

DO LI A.

_Sung in Newcastle about the Years 1792-3-4._

Fresh I'm come frae Sandgate-street, Do li, do li, My best friends here to meet, Do li a. Do li th' dil len dol--do li, do li, Do li th' dil len dol--do li a.

The Black-cuffs are gawn away, Do li, do li, And that will be a crying day, Do li a, &c. Dolly Coxon's pawn'd her sark, Do li, do li, To ride upon the baggage-cart, Do li a, &c. The Green-cuffs are coming in, Do li, do li, An' that 'll make the lasses sing, Do li a, &c.

A SOUTH SHIELDS SONG.

The sailors are all at the bar, They cannot get up to Newcastle,-- The sailors are all at the bar, They cannot get up to Newcastle.

Up with smoaky Shields, And hey for bonny Newcastle; Up with smoaky Shields, And hey for bonny Newcastle.

A NORTH SHIELDS SONG.

We'll all away to the Law Lights, And there we'll see the sailors come in; We'll all away to the Law Lights, And there we'll see the sailors come in. There clap your hands and give a shout, And you'll see the sailors go out; Clap your hands, and dance and sing, And you'll see your laddie come in.

COMMIT NO NONSENSE.

An aud chep that had spent a' his life i' the keels, Taking coals down the river to load ships at Shields, Had some business, yen day, in Newcastle to do, And, when there, he'd stop and see a' that was new.

He view'd wor new streets, and was weel pleas'd, no doubt, He gap'd and he star'd, as he wander'd about; But still, as he star'd, there was yen thing seem'd queer, Whilk was plac'd on the walls--"Commit no nuisance here."

The aud boy was not very learned, you see, And, when young, he had got off his great A, B, C, And some words he could spell, tho' not sartinly clear, And his skill made it out--"Commit ne nonsense here."

He knew very little of Tee-total rules, But thought they might dee very weel amang feuls; In his wand'ring he thought about getting some beer. And often he read--"Commit ne nonsense here."

A few pints of beer brought this chep to a stand, For nature, o'ercharg'd, wanted ease at his hand,-- For this purpose he enter'd a yard,--but, se queer, Just saw, 'buin his head--"Commit ne nonsense here."

The gurgling stream from the old fellow flow'd, His ease he enjoy'd myed a notable flood; But, just in the nick, when he thought a' was clear, A policeman cries--"Commit no nuisance here."

"Kind sir," says the man--for to speak he scarce durst-- "When aw com in here, aw was ready to burst." "That's nought," says the policeman, "din't ye see clear, Daub'd upon the wall--'Commit no nuisance here.'"

The poor soul his flap button'd up in a fright, The policeman swore that he wad him indite; But he teuk to his heels, for, says he, aw see clear, If aw stop onie langer there'll be nonsense here.

A NEW NURSERY RHYME.

This is the _Arcade_ that Grainger built.

This is the _Blade_, whose only trade, is to keep the Arcade that Grainger built.

These are the _Boys_ who, making a noise, are kick'd by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that Grainger built.

This is the _Horde_ of Attorneys, who, bored by the rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that Grainger built.

This is the _Hat_, all cock'd and lac'd--a hat according to Briggs's taste--paid for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that Grainger built.

This is _Peregrine_, pragmatic and prim, who scouted the hat without any brim--the hat that was all cock'd and lac'd, according to Briggs' peculiar taste--paid for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that Grainger built.

This is _Mister Briggs_, who makes trowsers and coats, who abus'd the committee for giving their votes to Peregrine, so pragmatic and prim, to scout the hat without any brim; for Briggs deck'd the hat so cock'd and lac'd,--and he prides himself on his fanciful taste,--paid for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that Grainger built.

This is _Chinaman Reed_, who said Briggs was right, and who wears his unmentionables awfully tight, which were made by this Briggs, who makes trousers and coats, who abus'd the committee for giving their votes to Peregrine, so pragmatic and prim, to scout the hat without any brim; for Briggs deck'd the hat so cock'd and lac'd,--and he prides himself on his fanciful taste,--paid for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that Grainger built.

This is _Mister Stable_, who did all he was able to bully poor Reed, who said Briggs was right, and who wears his unmentionables awfully tight, which were made by this Briggs, who makes trousers and coats, who abus'd the committee for giving their votes to Peregrine, so pragmatic and prim, to scout the hat without any brim; for Briggs deck'd the hat so cock'd and lac'd,--and he prides himself on his fanciful taste,--paid for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that Grainger built.

This is _Mister Seymour_, an attorney of note, who--alas! for the hat--gave the casting vote, and agreed with Stable, who did all he was able to bully poor Reed, who said Briggs was right, and who wears his unmentionables awfully tight, which were made by this Briggs, who makes trousers and coats, who abus'd the committee for giving their votes to Peregrine, so pragmatic and prim, who scouted the hat without any brim--the unfortunate hat, all cock'd and lac'd, after Briggs's own peculiar taste--paid for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the noise of the rascally boys, kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that Grainger built.

COOKSON'S ALKALI.

Now haud yor tongues, I'll try my lungs, And de my best forbye; My sang is choice, but maw sweet voice Is spoil'd by Alkali.

CHORUS.

Then let us all, byeth great and small, Set up a hue and cry; Else Shields will suin be a' duin broon By Cookson's Alkali.

Wor fields are bare, they'll grow ne mair Of barley, wheat, or rye: A famine now, and pest'lence, too, Is caus'd by Alkali.

Wor gardens grow just nothing now, The crops won't multiply; Wor mouths, it's thowt, will suin hev nowt But Cookson's Alkali.

Wor ships hev got a sad dry rot, In spite of "anti-dry;" For Kyan's wash, and such like trash, Can't cope wiv Alkali.

Then suin there'll be a shipless sea-- No sail will meet the eye; Wor masts and spars, and jolly tars Will strike to Alkali.

Wor houses soon will tummel doon, And flat as fluicks they'll lie-- They'll cut their sticks, as sure as bricks, Wi' this sad Alkali.

A man, I swear't, is now half marr'd Wi' smoke, he's got sae dry; He's lost his sap, and ruin'd, peer chap, By Cookson's Alkali.

It's true, indeed, wor wives still breed,-- But, see their tiny fry!-- They're nowt, peer things, but legs and wings, And all from Alkali.

For dandy blades, and dapper maids, De nought but sob and sigh; They're forc'd to pad, their shape's sae bad, And all wi' Alkali.

Wor wither'd crops, and lantern chops, Are proofs nyen can deny, That we are cuik'd, and fairly buik'd, By Cookson's Alkali.

So, now, farewell to swipes and yell, And breed and beef, good bye! We'll get nae mair awd English fare, For this d----d Alkali.

And when we're gyen, beneath a styen Wor cawd remains will lie, A prey, alas! to acid gas, Produc'd by Alkali.

THE PITMAN'S RAMBLE.

Tune--"The Kebbuckstane Wedding."

BY R. EMERY.

Wor pit was laid in, and but little ti de, Says aw, Neighbour Dicky, let's off to Newcassel, Their grand alterations aw's langin' to see,-- hey say, they're se fine, that they'll gar wor een dazzel. We reach'd the _Black House_, and we call'd for some beer, When whe should pop in but the landlord, se handy-- He wish'd us se kindly a happy new year, And he rosin'd wor gobs with a glass o' French brandy.

We left wor good friend, an' got down to the _shop_ That has some fine lasses frae Lunnin se clivver,-- Astonish'd, aw star'd till near like for to drop, At their great panes o' glass that wad cover Tyne river! Says Dick, it's been myed for greet folk like Lord 'Size-- It belangs to Broad Brim that myed brass at the _corner_; At poor folks like us, now, he'll cock up his eyes, As he sits at the end, there, like Little Jack Horner.

We wheel'd reet about--spied a far finer seet, As we went to the grocer's, to get some rag backy-- Lairge goold cups an' watches, se bonny and breet, An' fine _Fardin Pants_ runnin' whisky and jacky! Aw wish'd aw could get mi gob fair at the spout, Aw'd pay for a sook o' this liquor se funny,-- Says Dick, the door's bolted to keep the crowd out-- It's a place made to glow'r at, but not to take money.

We down to the _Doctor's_ that lives in the Side, Who cures folks o' hairy-legg'd monsters, like donkies! Cull cheps for his worm cakes frae far an' near ride-- Poor pitmen, an' farmers, an' keelmen, an' flonkies; A chep at the window did offer to swear, For truth, that this doctor, se clivver an' cunnin', Did take frae his sister, the very last year, A worm that wad reach frae Newcassel to Lunnin!!!

At last to the Play-house aw swagger'd wi' Dick,-- They've us'd the King's Airms an' the paintings most shocking, Yen said, since the house had been kept by _Awd Nick_, Wi' humbugs an' lees he'd Newcassel been mocking. Says aw--Canny man, dis Awd Nick manage here! That cunnin' black fiend that gav Eve the bad apple!! Us Ranters will suen frae this place make him sheer, An' we'll preach in't worsels, then we'll bang Brunswick Chapel!

THE WORTHY RECTOR.

Sung at a Farewell Dinner, given, by his Parishioners, to the Rev. J. COLLINSON, Rector of Gateshead, previous to his Removal to the Parish of Boldou.

Sec changes now there diz tyek place In ivry life and station, Things noo is a' turn'd upside doon, For little or ne occasion,-- Yen meets wi' acts yen luik'd not for, That drives yen into sorrow: We hev a case in point to meet In this wor canny borro-- Singing, fal, lal, &c.

Last Cursmas time whe wad ha'e thowt That wor awd priest wad leave us, And cause sec dowly thowts to cum, Se very much to grieve us? We sartly thowt we had him fix'd, And fassen'd here till death, sors; Unless he had been prebendized By Dean-and-Chapter breeth, sors.

His toils an' labours noo we'll loss:-- His sarmons for to syev us Will all be chang'd, an' varry suin, For wor new Rector's, Davis. Aw oney hope an' pray we'll not Forget our late Protector,-- For thorty yeers he's led our "train," An' been wor _sowl_ Director.

For warks an' deeds amang the poor, For charity an' boonties, His match, aw think, ye'll not weel find In this or other coonties: He's fed the hungry, heal'd the sick, Wivoot yor grete display, sors; He wiv his wealth did gyude by stealth-- Lang life to him! aw say, sors.

Yeers creeps upon us a' my frinds, And he'll suin be an ould un; And his move frae here, though its not far, Aw'm sure ye'll think a _bowld-un_. Aw trust, at times, we'll see his fyece At church and parish dinners; For he's a man that loves the saints, Yet hates not the poor sinners.

This plate we've gi'en him here to-day, Wiv a' its shining glister,-- The yen tureen was made by Reid, The other made by Lister,-- Lang may he live to see them shine, Like bright and true reflectors, Reminding priests how laymen prize Upreet, kind-hearted Rectors.

Noo, fare ye weel, maw canny man, Yor wife an' a' yor childer; The score ye hev wad frighten some-- Their senses quite bewilder. Lang may ye live a happy life, When ye frae Gyetside sivver: There's hundreds here will pray to God To bless ye noo and ivvur.

BATTLE OF SPITALOO.

On the thirtieth day of July The Chartists did combine, That they would hold a meeting At Newcastle upon Tyne; In spite of Mayor or Magistrates, They would come up to a man, But when the Police them attack'd, They took to their heels and ran.

CHORUS.

At the battle of Spitaloo, my boys, At the battle of Spitaloo-- The Chartists' colours were taken At the battle of Spitaloo.

They mairch'd in full procession, Through most streets of the town, And they declar'd the Magistrates Should never put them down; But of all their boasted courage About what they would do, The Police took their colours At the battle of Spitaloo.

With music, flags, and banners, And all their empty pride, The procession of the Chartists Was soon put to a side; The worthy Mayor and Magistrates Did let the Chartists know That they were masters of the town, At the battle of Spitaloo.

The Chartists, to the Forth that night, Turn'd very boldly out,-- But soon they were dispersed, And all put to the rout: They laid the failure of their cause Upon the red and blue, Because they came against them At the battle of Spitaloo.

The Chartists and their leaders Are no more allow'd to meet, Their threat'ning combinations Have got the grand defeat,-- The National Convention Has got the overthrow, And the Chartists' colours taken At the battle of Spitaloo.

BATTLE ON THE SHIELDS RAILWAY,

_Between a Town Councillor and an Architect, and the Pollis._

Tune--"Cappy's the Dog."

I' the toon of Newcassel James Archbold dis dwell-- He's a slater te trade, and thinks ne small beer on hissel', And in Gallowgate, just aside the Darn Crook, Stands his house amang smells that wad make a horse puke.

I' the same toon a chep leeves, of varry great fame, For building fine houses--John Dobson's his nyem;-- His awn stands in New Bridge Street, by way of example,-- Blaw me if aw think it's a varry good sample.

It happen'd on ----, the ---- of November-- A day these two worthies will ever remember; For Dobson was varry nigh kill'd, I suppose, And poor Mr. Archbold spoilt all his best clothes.

The twesome to dine with John Sadler had been At Whitehill-point House, which is weel to be seen, A ye gan down to Shields; but aw'll begin my narration With the row that tuik place at the Howden-pan station.

Efter dinner, when each yen his belly had fill'd, And some of Jack Sadler's wine had been swill'd, To gan hyem te Newcassel they left Whitehill-house; But, before they gat hyem, they gat a vast of abuse.

The station they reach'd ere the train had got there, And they each tuik a ticket, and each paid his fare; The train it came up, and Dobson gat in, And was just gawn to start when the row did begin.

Noo, yen of the pollismen placed at the station, With lang Jemmy Archbold had some altercation-- "Your ticket, sir, I must now have from you?" "Not before I get in--I'll be d----d if you do."

Upon this the pollisman gave Jemmy a push, And into the station-house all made a rush, And Dobson, noo seeing his friend in such guise, Jump'd out of the carriage, and went in likewise.

But he gat a blow from a wooden hand, That made him quite sick, and he could not stand, And then cam another sic skelp on the hede, Had his sconce not been thick he wad hae been dede,

Now, Dobson at yen time was very handy, And at schule he payed Tinley of Shields, the great dandy, And although he now had come to such skaith, Cried, "Lay by your wood hands and I'll lick ye baith."

But the pollismen said, "Ye baith prisoners are, And to Shields ye mun gan, as it's not varry far;" And though now they began to be sick of the lark, To Shields they teun were, though it was efter dark.

There they saw Mr. Cruddas and Inspector Scott, The hede of the pollis, wha pitied their lot, And releas'd and sent them hyem somewhat muddy-- Poor Dobson the warst--he was baith sair and bloody.

The next day, each yen to his 'torney went, The yen to Parce Fenwick, the other the Sargent, Crowner Stoker, whe's spectacles myeks him far-seeted-- He's a h-ll of a fellow for getting folk reeted.

A summons they gat--the men cuddent be seen, The directors detarmin'd the villains to screen, And what was still warse, and to save their mutton, Young Tinley tell'd Jackson, they had gone a shutten.

Noo, as the summons cuddent be sarv'd, And the pollismen punish'd as they deserv'd, A warran was getten, and Newton, Allan, and all Were suin in the cellars beneath the Moot-hall.

Noo the justices sat, to hear what they had to say, And twe cam frae Shields, for to see fair play; And William Branlen sat on the bench, Besides Sandy Ildertan, whe still likes a w--ch.

There was doctors, and lawyers, and pollismen too, And of railway directors there was not a few, Including Dick Spoor, whe yence din'd with the queen-- Sic a crew in the jury-room never was seen.

Noo the crowner began, and he made a good speech, Call'd Archbold and Dobson, and, lastly, the Leech, Whe bound Dobson's hede, yen Mr. John Lang, Not "the family surgeon," but a rhyme for my sang.

When Archbold was called, he said, with much grace, That Newton held the lanthorn reet in his fyece, And spoke in a manner baith rude and absord To the town-councillor for St. Andrew's West Ward.