Part 19

Next Dobson appears with his bloody claes, His hede all bund up, luiking pale, and he says, As how nyen o' them had getten ower much drink, As Torney Tinley wanted the justice to think.

Now the crowner being ended, t'other side did begin, And Tinley he vapour'd, and they swore thick and thin; But aw'll say ne mair, lest you should be bor'd, But merely relate, that Jack Tinley was floor'd.

And the justices said, 'twas a shem the directors Should set twe sic blackguards on the line for inspectors, And, addressing them byeth, said unto the men, Yer byeth fined--Allan five pounds, and you, Newton, ten.

Noo, when aw seed the way the thing went, Thinks aw, the directors are surely content, And will myek the cheps 'mends, from the way they've been tret, But the warst of my story it is to come yet.

Ne suiner was't knawn what the verdict was, Than the railway attorney, he out with the brass, And, flinging it doon, said, "Much good may it do yee! Gie me a resait, and set wor pollismen free."

Noo sic wark as this, it is varry shocken, Folks canna gan te Shields without hevin their hedes brocken, And aw've myed up ma mind, if aw's not in a hurry, Te gan in Mitchell's fine boats, or Johnson's fam'd whurry.

_Folly Wharf, Nov. 35, 1839._

BLIND WILLIE'S DEATH.[48]

Tune--"Jemmy Joneson's Whurry."

As aw was gannin' up the Side, Aw met wi' drucken Bella; She wrung her hands, and sair she cried, He's gyen at last, poor fellow! O, hinny Bella! whe is't that's gyen? Ye gar my blood run chilly. Wey, hinny, deeth has stopt the breath O' canny awd Blind Willie.

God keep us, Bella, is that true! Ye shurely are mistaken? O, no! aw've left him just a-now, And he's as deed as bacon. Aw tied his chaffs, and laid him out-- His flesh just like a jelly-- And sair, sair aw was put about For canny awd Blind Willie.

Then off went aw as fast as owt, Ti see poor Willie lyin';-- When aw gat there, maw heart was sair, Ti see his friends a' sighin'. Around his bed they hung their heeds, Just like the droopin' lily; And aw, with them, did dee the syem For canny awd Blind Willie.

Ne mair, said aw, we'll hear him sing, Ne mair he'll play the fiddle; Ne mair we'll hear him praise the king-- No! No! cried Jimmy Liddle. The days are past--he's gyen, at last, Beside his frind, Sir Billy, That parish chiel', that preach'd se weel-- We'll mourn for him and Willie.

His bonny corpse crowds cam to see, Which myed the room luik dowly; And whe was there amang them, tee, But noisy Yella Yowley; She through the crowd did crush her way-- Wi' drink she seem'd quite silly-- And on her knees began to pray For canny awd Blind Willie.

They tell'd us a' to gang away, Which myed us varry sorry; But Beagle Bet wad kiss his lips, Before they did him bury. He's buried now--he's out o' seet-- Then on his grave se hilly, Let them that feel take their fareweel O' canny awd Blind Willie.

Footnote 48: Died July 20, 1832.

GEORDY'S DISASTER.

Sum time since a ship that was tyken in coal, At a place at North Shields they ca' Peggy's Hole, And the keels a' the neet wad lie alangside, To be ready next morn to gan up wi' the tide. Fal, lal, &c.

Noo yen o' the skippers had sie fish-huiks o' claws, That deil a bit rope cud be kept frae his paws; For as sune as the men were a' gyen to sleep, Then on board o' the ship wor Geordy wad creep. Fal, lal, &c.

And devil a thing could be left on the deck, But Geordy, as sure as a gun, wad it neck, And into the huddock wad stow it away, And gan off to the rope-shop, and sell it next day. Fal, lal, &c.

Noo the mate o' the ship was determin'd to watch, To see if he cuddent the thievish rogue catch,-- So to hev a bit fun, an' to give him a freet, He swore he wad sit up the whole o' that neet. Fal, lal, &c.

So he gat a lang gun, and for to begin, A greet clot o' blud and sum poother pat in; Noo he dident wait lang, for sune ower the bows I' the muinleet he saw him creep up like a moose. Fal, lal, &c.

He click'd up a bucket, and was gawn wiv his prize, When the mate he let flee reet between his twe eyes. When the skipper found blud all over his fyece, "Aw's deed!" out he roars, and dropp'd down in the place. Fal, lal, &c.

Noo the Pee-dee he heard the crack o' the gun, So he speal'd up the side, and tiv Geordy he run: "Oh, Geordy! Oh Geordy! just haud up thy heed, An' tell us, maw hinny, if thou hez gyen deed!" Fal, lal, &c.

The skipper he groan'd, and kick'd up his heels, "Gude bye, canny Pee-dee! Gude bye tiv maw keels! Aw'll never see Mally nor bairns ony mair, For if aw's not deed, aw's speechless, aw'll swear!" Fal, lal, &c.

Wiv a greet deal to de they gat him to rise; But when he gat up, what was his surprise, When he sought for the hole where the bullet had gyen, But sought it in vain, for he cuddent find yen. Fal, lal, &c.

"By gock!" out he roars, "aw ken how it's been-- Sic a comical trick, aw's sure, never was seen; Faix, bad as it is, it might hev been warse, It's come in at maw gob, and gyen out at----." Fal, lal, &c.

JOSSY'S NAG'S HEAD.

Tune--"A rampant Lion is my Sign."

All you who've got an hour to spare, And wish to spend it merry, Go not to houses of ill-fame, Nor sport with Tom and Jerry: Direct your course to Armfield's house, Where none the least alarm feels, Where mirth and fun reign uncontroll'd, All in Josiah Armfield's.

CHORUS.

Then drink about and merry be, Let each one fill his station, And ne'er despise a flowing pot, When bent on recreation.

In winter, when the weather's cold, The pinching frost may starve you, You'll find a fire to your desire, A buxom lass to serve you: Her smiles are like the flowers in May, Her conversation charms weel: Far be the fellow takes her in, While selling drink at Armfield's. Then drink about, &c.

Now should you know the art of war, The news may lead your mind there; Or if inclin'd to grace the bar, Some of your cloth you'll find there: Mock trials, hot debates go on, Yet seldom any harm feel, The counsellors plead your cause for nought, Law's cheap at Jossy Armfield's. Then drink about, &c.

Next in the tap-room take a peep, There's eggs and pie-folk dealing; Some try their luck at single toss, And other some are stealing: The bakky smoke ascends in clouds, Yet none will say he harm feels; You'd swear you were near Etna's Mount, Instead of Jossy Armfield's. Then drink about, &c.

The sailors sing their dangers o'er, When sailing on the high seas; Says Donald frae Fife, "I've left the North, Where Parry wad lost his ideas." "Come, d--n!" says Durham lad, "leet my pipe, And give us nyen o' your yarn reels; But pay the quart--Ise be the next, We'll hev a spree at Armfield's." Then drink about, &c.

There's Baggie Will, he sings all fours; And faith he sings it rarely; There's Castle Dean plagues Canny Pit Sark, And sings, he's lost her fairly; The Teazer he provokes the flame, Till a' the house quite warm feels: The Cobbler chaunts the Cuddy sang, Half-cock'd, in Jossy Armfield's. Then drink about, &c.

Box number one's a Tennis Court, For those of fistic valour; And should you want to grace the ring, Must enter as a scholar. The Hackney drivers stand about, Until their dowps they warm feel; Then drink their purl, and march away-- Huzza! for Jossy Armfield. Then drink about, &c.

THE APRIL GOWK;

Or, THE LOVERS ALARMED.

A CASTLE-GARTH DITTY.

Tune--"Jenny choak'd the Bairn."

Ye worthy friends of April Gowk, That like a bit o' spree, Pray lay your jargon a' aside, And listen unto me; For love's intrigues disturb the wigs Of most o' men on earth; And so, of late, it caught the pate Of pious Parson Garth.

This worthy man went soon to bed, Upon the last o' March, And what his mind was running on, 'Tis needless now to search; His rib asleep, down stairs he'd creep-- When lo! to his surprise, A pair of boots, below the seat, Stood right before his eyes.

He went to rouse his darling spouse, And said, "You plainly see There's some one here that wants to make An April Gowk o' me. Oh! dress yoursel', do take the bell, Your petticoat put on: They're now in quod--I hope to God It's not my brother John."

He took a stick, and follow'd quick Unto the lasses' room: Come out! says she; Come out! says he, The Kitty is your doom! While on the bell she did play knell, Poor Johnny, pale, came forth, All in dismay, like potters' clay, Stood pious Parson Garth!

A Chamber Council there was held, All in this naked plight; The dire alarm had brought a swarm O' guardians o' the night: In vain they strove to gain his love, His wrath for to appease, He swore he'd have their boxes search'd, And cried--Produce the keys!

They nothing found that he could own-- His heart more callous grew, He tore their caps, destroy'd their hats-- Them on the floor he threw: Like pilgrims setting out, unshod, To prison they were sent, To dread their penance, like the sweep, Until they should repent.

To free the girls from guilt and shame, And have the matter clear'd, Those sweetly serenading "Two- Foot Carpenters"[49] appear'd. Tho' Willy cannot get his boots, For them he does not care-- They won the day!--"none but the brave Deserve to win the fair."

Should you not know this worthy man-- A man of steady gait, A pensive look affects as tho' He'd something in his pate: Ambition and presumption too In him have taken birth, And fix'd a stigma on his name-- "The Hydra of the Garth!"

Footnote 49: Cloggers.

THE SKIPPER'S MISTAKE.

Tune--"The Chapter of Accidents."

Two jovial souls, two skippers bold, For Shields did sail one morning, In their awd keel, black as the Deil, All fear and danger scorning. The sky look'd bright, which prophesied A fair and glorious day, man; But such a thick Scotch mist cam on, They could not see their way, man. Fal, lal, &c.

They pull'd about, frae reet to left, Not kennin what to dee, man, When poor Pee-dee began to fret, Lest they should drive to sea, man. Says Geordy, Should wor voyage be lang, We've little for our guts, man; There's nowt belaw but half a loaf, Some tripe, and a nowt's foot, man. Fal, lal, &c.

They drove as far as Jarrow Slake, When Geordy bawl'd aloud, man Smash! marrow, ye hae been at skuel, Come find our latitude, man; Gan down into the huddock, Jack, Fetch up the Reading-Easy-- If we should be far off at sea, I doubt it winna please ye. Fal, lal, &c.

They studied hard, byeth lang and sair, Though nyen o' them could read, man, When Geordy on a sudden cries, Aw hev 'er in my heed, man. Come, let us pray to be kept free Frae danger and mischance, man; We're ower the bar!--there's nowt for us But Holland, Spain, or France, man! Fal, lal, &c.

At length the day began to clear, The sun peep'd through the dew, man, When lo! awd-fashion'd Jarrow Kirk Stood fair within their view, man. They laugh'd and crack'd about the joke Which lately gar'd them quake, man: They lay, instead of Spain or France, Quite snug at Jarrow Slake, man. Fal, lal, &c.

May wealth and commerce still increase, And bless our native isle, man, And make each thriving family In happiness to smile, man. May vict'ry round Britannia's brow Her laurels still entwine, man, The coal-trade flourish more and more Upon the dingy Tyne, man. Fal, lal, &c.

NEWCASTLE BEER versus SPAW WATER;

_Or, The Pitman and Temperance Society_.

BY R. EMERY.

Tune--"Mr. Frost."

As Cousin Jack and I, last pay-day, cam to toon, We gat to ROBIN HOOD'S, wor worldly cares to droon-- And there we spent the day--their yell's byeth cheap and strang-- It's reet to soak yen's clay--hang them that thinks it wrang. Romti bomti bom, &c.

In stagg'rin' hyem at neet, an' bent upon a spree, A broad-brim'd chep cam up, and seem'd to talk quite free;-- He said, to drink small beer or brandy was a curse, It stole away wor brains, an' drain'd each poor man's purse. Romti bomti bom, &c.

He talk'd 'bout TEMP'RANCE CLUBS, that now are a' the go, And said, if we wad join, we'd ne'er ken want or woe. We quickly gav consent, wor Friend then led the way, Reet up to Wilkie's went, amang his cronies gay. Romti bomti bom, &c.

There some wer fair and fat, some nowt but skin and byen, And at a tyebble sat a man near twenty styen-- He roar'd out for some drink, which very suen was browt, And said, My lads, fall tee, and fill yor bags for nowt. Romti bomti bom, &c.

Aw tried, but smash a drop wad down me weasen gan, But Broad-brim said, quite slee, Come, drink, friend, if thou can 'Twill purge the body clean, and make ye wond'rous wise, And, efter ye are deed, ye'll mount abuen the skies. Romti bomti, &c.

Suen efter this grand speech aw quietly toddled hyem, And cramm'd some o' their drink into wor canny dyem; But scarcely had she drunk this liquor so divine, Till she began to bowk, and sair her jaws did twine. Romti bomti, &c.

A Doctor suen was brought frae canny Benwell toon, While Peggy, maw poor lass, was work'd byeth up an' doon; He fund, when he did tyest, this queer, mischievous stuff, To be Spaw Water pure, so Peg was safe eneugh. Romti bomti bom, &c.

When aw gan back to toon, aw'll tell them what aw think-- Aw'll warn wor neighbours round 'gyen their outlandish drink: Let Quakers gan to Heav'n, an' fill their kites wi' Spaw, Give me Newcassel Beer, content aw'll stay belaw. Romti bomti bom, &c.

THE PITMAN'S PAY;

_Or, A Night's Discharge to Care_.

I sing not here of warriors bold-- Of battles lost or victories won-- Of cities sack'd, or nations sold, Or any deeds by tyrants done.

I sing the Pitman's plagues and cares-- Their labour hard and lowly cot-- Their homely joys and humble fares-- Their _pay-night_ o'er a foaming pot.

Their week's work done, the coaly craft-- These horny-handed sons of toil Require a "right gude willie-waught," The creaking wheels of life to oil.

See _hewers_, _putters_, _drivers_ too, With pleasure hail this happy day-- All clean _wash'd up_, their way pursue To drink, and crack, and get their _pay_.

The _Buck_, the _Black Horse_, and the _Keys_, Have witness'd many a comic scene, Where's yell to cheer and mirth to please, And drollery that would cure the spleen.

With parched tongues and gyzen'd throats They reach the place, where barleycorn Soon down the dusty cavern floats, From pewter-pot or homely horn.

The dust wash'd down, then comes the care To find that all is rightly bill'd; And each to get his hard-earn'd share From some one in division skill'd.

The money-matters thus decided, They push the pot more briskly round; With hearts elate and hobbies strided, Their cares are all in nappie drown'd.

"Here, lass," says Jack, "help this agyen, It's better yell than's in the toun; But then the road's se het it's tyen, It fizz'd, aw think, as it went doun."

Thus many a foaming pot's requir'd To quench the dry and dusky spark; When ev'ry tongue, as if inspir'd, Wags on about their wives and wark.

The famous feats done in their youth, At _bowling_, _ball_, and _clubby-shaw_-- _Camp-meetings_, _Ranters_, _Gospel-truth_, _Religion_, _politics_, and _law_.

With such variety of matter, Opinions, too, as various quite, We need not wonder at the clatter, When ev'ry tongue wags--wrong or right.

The gifted few in lungs and lair At length, insensibly, divide 'em: And from a three-legg'd stool or chare Each draws his favour'd few beside him.

Now let us ev'ry face survey, Which seems as big with grave debate, As if each word they had to say Was pregnant with impending fate.

Mark those in that secluded place Set snug around the stool of oak, Labouring at some knotty case, Envelop'd in tobacco smoke.

These are the pious, faithful few, Who pierce the dark decrees of fate-- They've read the "Pilgrim's Progress" through, As well as "Boston's Four-fold state."

They'll point you out the day and hour When they experienc'd sin forgiven-- Convince you that they're quite secure, They'll die in peace, and go to heaven.

The moral road's too far about, They like a surer, shorter _cut_, Which frees the _end_ from every doubt, And saves them many a weary foot.

The _first's_ commensurate with our years, And must be travell'd day by day; And to the new-born few appears A very dull and tedious way.

The _other's_ length solely depends Upon the time when we begin _it_; Get but set out--before life ends-- For all's set _right_ when once we're _in_ it.

They're now debating which is best-- The _short-cut_ votes the _others_ double; For this good reason, 'mongst the rest, _It_ really saves a world of trouble.

He that from goodness farthest strays, Becomes a saint of first degree; And Ranter Jeremiah says, "Let bad ones _only_ come to me."

Old _Earth-worm_ soon obeys the call, Conscious, perhaps, he wanted mending, For some few flaws from Adam's fall, Gloss'd o'er by cant and sheer pretending.

Still stick to him afield or home, The methodistic _brush_ defying, So that the Ranter's _curry-comb_ Is now the only means worth trying.

In habits form'd since sixty years, The hopes of change won't weigh a feather-- Their power so o'er him domineers, That they and life must end together.

See on their right a gambling few, Whose every word and look display A desperate, dark, designing crew, Intent upon each others' _pay_.

They're _racers, cockers, carders_ keen, As ever o'er a tankard met, Or ever bowl'd a match between The _Popplin Well_ and _Mawvin's yett_.

On _cock-fight_, _dog-fight_, _cuddy-race_, Or _pitch_ and _toss_, _trippet_ and _coit_, Or on a _soap-tail'd grunter's chase_, They'll risk the last remaining doit.

They're now at cards, and Gibby Gripe Is peeping into Harry's hand; And ev'ry puff blown from his pipe His party easily understand.

Some for the odd trick pushing hard--' Some that they lose it pale with fear-- Some betting on the turn-up card-- Some drawing cuts for pints of beer.

Whilst others brawl about _Jack's_ brock, That all the Chowden dogs can bang; Or praise "_Lang Wilson's_" piley cock, Or _Dixon's_ feats upon the swang.

Here _Tom_, the pink of bowlers, gain'd Himself a never-dying name, By deeds, wherein an ardour reign'd, Which neither _age_ nor _toil_ could tame.

For labour done, and o'er his dose, Tom took his place upon the hill; And at the very evening's close You faintly saw him bowling still.

All this display of pith and zeal Was so completely habit grown, That many an hour from sleep he'd steal To bowl upon the hill alone.

The night wears late--the wives drop in To take a peep at what is doing; For many would not care a pin To lose at cards a fortnight's hewing.

Poor Will had just his plagues dismiss'd, And had "Begone, dull Care" begun, With _face_ as grave as Methodist, And _voice_ most sadly out of tune;

But soon as e'er he Nelly saw, With brows a dreadful storm portending, He dropt at once his under jaw, As if his mortal race was ending;--

For had the grim destroyer stood, In all his ghastliness before him, It could not more have froze his blood, Nor thrown a deadlier paleness o'er him.

His better half, all fire and tow, Call'd him a slush--his comrades raff-- Swore that he could a brewing stow, And after that sipe all the draff.

Will gather'd up his scatter'd powers-- Drew up his fallen chops again-- Seiz'd Nell, and push'd her out of doors, Then broke forth in this piteous strain:--

"O! Nell, thou's rung me mony a peal, Nyen, but mysel, could bide thy yammer; Thy tongue runs like wor pully-wheel, And dirls my lug like wor smith's hammer.

Thou'll drive me daft, aw often dread, For now aw's nobbet verra silly, Just like a geuss cut i' the head, Like _Jemmy Muin_ or _Preacher Willy_.

Aw thought wor Nell, when Nelly Dale, The verra thing to myek me happy; She curl'd ma hair, or tied ma tail, And clapt and stroakt ma little Cappy.

But suin as e'er the knot was tied, And we were yok'd for life together; When Nell had laugh'd, and minny cried, And a' was fairly i' the tether;--

Then fierce as fire she seiz'd the breeks, And round maw heed flew stuils and chairs; Ma tail hung lowse like candle weeks,-- An awd pit ended Cappy's cares.

Just like wor maisters when we're bun', If men and lads be varra scant, They wheedle us wi' yell and fun, And coax us into what they want.

But myek yor mark, then snuffs and sneers Suin slop yor gob and lay yor braggin'; When yence yor feet are i' the geers, Ma soul! they'll keep your painches waggin.

Aw toil ma byens, till through ma clay They peep, to please ma dowly cavel; Aw's at the coal wall a' the day, And nightly i' the waiter level--

Aw hammer on till efternuin, Wi' weary byens and empty wyem; Nay, varra oft the pit's just duin Before aw weel get wannel'd hyem.

But this is a' of little use, For what aw dee is never reet; She's like a larm-bell i' the house, Ding-donging at me day and neet.

If aw sud get ma wark owre suin, She's flaid to deeth aw've left some byet; And if aw's till the efternuin, Aw's drunk because aw is se lyet.

Feed us and cleed us weel she may, As she gets a'ways money plenty: For every day, for mony a pay, Aw've hew'd and putten twee-and-twenty.

'Tis true aw sometimes get a gill-- But then she a'ways gets her grog; And if aw din't her bottle fill, Aw's then a skin-flint, snock-drawn dog.

She buys me, te, the warst o' meat, Bad bullock's liver--houghs and knees Tough stinking tripe, and awd cow's feet-- Shanks full o' mawks, and half nought cheese.

Of sic she feeds the bairns and me, The tyesty bits she tyeks hersel'; In whilk ne share nor lot have we, Excepting sometimes i' the smell.

The crowdy is wor daily dish, But varra different is their minny's; For she gets a' her heart can wish In strang lyac'd tea and singin' hinnies.

Ma canny bairns luik pale and wan, Their bits and brats are varra scant; Their mother's feasts rob them o' scran-- For wilfu' waste makes woefu' want.

She peels the taties wi' her teeth, And spreads the butter wi' her thoom; She blaws the kail wi' stinking breeth, Where mawks and caterpillars soom!