Part 2

For hyem and bairns, an' maw wife Nan, Aw yool'd out like a lubbart; An' when aw thought we a' shud gan To Davy Jones's cubbart, The wind bee-baw'd, aw whish'd me squeels, An' yence mair aw was murry, For seun we gat a seet o' Shiels, Frev Jemmy Joneson's Whurry.

Wor Geordies now we thrimmel'd out, An' tread a' Shiels sae dinny; Maw faix! it seems a canny sprout, As big maist as its minny: Aw smack'd thir yell, aw climb'd thir bree, The seet was wond'rous, vurry; Aw lowp'd sic gallant ships to see, Biv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry.

To Tynemouth then aw thowt aw'd trudge, To see the folks a' duckin; Loak! men an' wives together pludg'd, While hundreds stuid by leukin. Amang the rest aw cowp'd me creels, Eh, gox! 'twas funny, vurry: An' so aw end me voyage to Shiels, Iv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry.

THE SKIPPER'S WEDDING.

Neighbours, I'm come for to tell ye, Our Skipper and Mall's to be wed; And if it be true what they're saying, Egad we'll be all rarely fed! They've brought home a shoulder of mutton, Besides two thumping fat geese, And when at the fire they're roasting, We're all to have sops in the greese. Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

And there will be pies and spice dumplings, And there will be bacon and peas; Besides a great lump of beef boiled, And they may get crowdies who please; To eat of such good things as these are, I'm shure you've but seldom the luck; Besides for to make us some pottage, There'll be a sheep's head and pluck. Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

Of sausages there will be plenty, Black puddings, sheep fat, and neats' tripes; Besides, for to warm all your noses, Great store of tobacco and pipes. A room, they say, there is provided For us at 'The Old Jacob's Well;' The bridegroom he went there this morning, And spoke for a barrel o' yell. Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

There's sure to be those things I've mention'd, And many things else; and I learn, There's white bread and butter and sugar, To please every bonny young bairn. Of each dish and glass you'll be welcome To eat and to drink till you stare; I've told you what meat's to be at it, I'll next tell you who's to be there. Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

Why there will be Peter the hangman, Who flogs the folks at the cart-tail, Au'd Bob, with his new sark and ruffle, Made out of an au'd keel sail! And Tib on the Quay who sells oysters, Whose mother oft strove to persuade Her to keep from the lads, but she wouldn't, Until she got by them betray'd. Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

And there will be Sandy the cobbler, Whose belly's as round as a keg, And Doll, with her short petticoats, To display her white stockings and leg; And Sall, who, when snug in a corner, A sixpence, they say, won't refuse; She curs'd when her father was drown'd, Because he had on his new shoes. Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

And there will be Sam the quack doctor, Of skill and profession he'll crack; And Jack who would fain be a soldier, But for a great hump on his back; And Tom in the streets, for his living, Who grinds razors, scissors, and knives; And two or three merry old women, That call "Mugs and doublers, wives!" Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

But neighbours, I'd almost forgot, For to tell ye--exactly at one, The dinner will be on the table, The music will play till it's done: When you'll be all heartily welcome, Of this merry feast for to share; But if you won't come at this bidding, Why then you may stay where you are. Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

THE AMPHITRITE.

Frae Team-Gut to Whitley, wi' coals black and brown, For the Amphitrite loaded, the keel had gyen down; But the bullies ower neet gat their gobs sae oft wet, That the nyem of the ship yen and a' did forget.

For to find out the nyem each bother'd his chops, And claw'd at his rump fit to murder the lops,-- When the Skipper, wha's guts was beginning to gripe, Said the paw hoggish luggish was caw'd Empty Kyte.

Frae the Gut to the Point a' the time driving slow, The bullies kept blairing, 'The Empty Kyte, ho!' But their blairing was vain, for nae Empty Kyte there, Tho' they blair'd till their kytes were byeth empty & sair.

Now au'd Slavers, the Skipper, harangu'd a' his men, Twee mun gan to Newcassel to ax the reet nyem; But thinking the young one to blame in the matter, Pee Dee and his Marrow was pack'd 'cross the watter.

Up Shields Road as they trudg'd, wi' their half worn out soals, Oft b----r--g the Empty Kyte, Skipper, and coals, At the sign of the Coach they byeth call'd, it befel, To moan their hard fates, and to swattle some yell.

Here a buck at a surloin hard eating was seen, And he said that the air myed his appetite keen;-- 'Appetite!' cried the bullies, like pole-cats they star'd, Wide gaping wi' wonder, when loud Cuddy blair'd,

'The Appetite! Geordy, smash! nobbet hear that, The b----r--g outlandish, cull nyem we forgat; Bless the Dandy! for had he not tell'd us the nyem, We might trudg'd to Newcassel byeth weary and lyem.'

Now to Shields back they scamp, & straight frae the keel Roar'd 'The Appetite, ho!' 'neugh to freighten the deil; Now they seun fund the ship, cast their coals in a swet, Still praising the Dandy that day they had met.

Now into the huddock, weel tir'd, they a' gat, And of Appetite, Empty Kyte, lang they did chat; When the Skipper fund out, mair wise than a king, If not the same nyem, they were much the same thing.

MY LORD 'SIZE.

The Jailor, for trial, had brought up a thief, Whose looks seem'd a passport for Botany Bay; The lawyers, some with and some wanting a brief, Around the green table were seated so gay: Grave jurors and witnesses, waiting a call: Attornies and clients, more angry than wise, With strangers and town's-people, throng'd the Guild-hall, All waiting gaping to see my Lord 'Size.

Oft stretch'd were their necks, oft erected their ears, Still fancying they heard of the trumpets the sound, When tidings arriv'd, which dissolv'd them in tears, That my Lord at the dead-house was then lying drown'd! Straight left _tete a tete_ were the jailor and thief; The horror-struck crowd to the dead-house quick hies; Ev'n the lawyers, forgetful of fee and of brief, Set off, helter-skelter, to view my Lord 'Size.

And now the Sandhill with the sad tidings rings, And the tubs of the taties are left to take care; Fish-women desert their crabs, lobsters, and lings, And each to the dead-house now runs like a hare. The glassmen, some naked, some clad, heard the news, And off they ran smoking, like hot mutton-pies; Whilst Castle-garth Tailors, like wild Kangaroos, Came tail-on-end jumping, to see my Lord 'Size.

The dead-house they reach'd, where his Lordship they found, Pale, stretch'd on a plank, like themselves out of breath; The Coroner and Jury were seated around, Most gravely enquiring the cause of his death. No haste did they seem in, their task to complete, Aware that from hurry mistakes often rise; Or wishful, perhaps, of prolonging the treat Of thus sitting in judgment upon my Lord 'Size.

Now the Mansion-house Butler thus gravely depos'd:-- 'My Lord on the terrace seem'd studying his charge; And when (as I thought) he had got it compos'd, He went down the stairs and examin'd the barge. First the stem he survey'd, then inspected the stern, Then handled the tiller, and look'd mighty wise; But he made a false step when about to return, And souse in the water straight tumbled Lord 'Size.'

Now his narrative ended--the Butler retir'd. Whilst Betty Watt mutt'ring (half drunk) thro' her teeth, Declar'd, 'In her breest greet consarn it inspir'd, That my Lord should sae cullishly come by his deeth.' Next a keelman was call'd on, Bold Archy his name, Who the book as he kiss d shew'd the whites of his eyes, Then he cut an odd caper, attention to claim, And this evidence gave them respecting Lord 'Size:--

'Aw was setting the keel, wi' Dick Stavers and Matt, An' the Mansion-house stairs we were just alangside, When we a' three see'd somethin, but didn't ken what, That was splashing and labbering about i' the tide. It's a fluiker, ki Dick; No, ki Matt, it's owre big, It luik'd mair like a skyet when aw furst seed it rise: Kiv aw--for aw'd gettin a gliff o' the wig-- Ods marcy! wey, marrows, becrike, it's Lord 'Size!

Sae aw huik'd him, and haul'd him suin into the keel, And o' top o' the huddock aw rowl d him aboot; An' his belly aw rubb'd, an' a skelp'd his back weel, But the water he'd drucken it wadn't run oot. Sae I brought him ashore here, an' doctors, in vain, Furst this way, then that, to recover him tries; For ye see there he's lying as deed as a stane, An' that's a' aw can tell ye about my Lord 'Size.'

Now the Jury for close consultation retir'd: Some '_Death Accidental_' were willing to find; Some '_God's Visitation_' most eager requir'd, And some were for '_Fell in the River_' inclin'd: But ere on their verdict they all were agreed, My Lord gave a groan, and wide open'd his eyes; Then the coach & the trumpeters came with great speed, And back to the Mansion-house carried Lord 'Size.

CAPPY, OR THE PITMAN'S DOG.

In a town near Newcassel a Pitman did dwell, Wiv his wife nyemed Peg, a Tom Cat, and himsel; A dog, called Cappy, he doated upon, Because he was left him by great uncle Tom:

Weel bred Cappy, famous au'd Cappy, Cappy's the dog, Tallio, Tallio.

His tail pitcher-handled, his colour jet black, Just a foot and a half was the length of his back; His legs seven inches frev shoulders to paws, And his lugs, like two dockins, hung owre his jaws: Weel bred Cappy, &c.

For huntin of varmin reet cliver was he, And the house frev a' robbers his bark wad keep free: Could byeth fetch and carry; could sit on a stuil; Or, when frisky, wad hunt water-rats in a puil. Weel bred Cappy, &c.

As Ralphy to market one morn did repair, In his hat-band a pipe, and weel kyem'd was his hair, Owre his arm hung a basket--thus onward he speels, And enter'd Newcassel wi' Cap at his heels: Weel bred Cappy, &c.

He hadn't got further than foot of the Side, Before he fell in with the dog-killing tribe: When a highwayman fellow slipp'd round in a crack, And a thump o' the skull laid him flat on his back: Down went Cappy, &c.

Now Ralphy _extonish'd_, Cap's fate did repine, While it's eyes like twee little pearl buttons did shine: He then spat on his hands, in a fury he grew, Cries "Gad smash! but awse hev settisfaction o' thou, For knocking down Cappy," &c.

Then this grim-luiken fellow his bludgeon he rais'd, When Ralphy ey'd Cappy, and then stood amaz'd: But, fearing beside him he might be laid down, Threw him into the basket and bang'd out o' town: Away went Cappy, &c.

He breethless gat hyem, and when liften the sneck, His wife exclaim'd 'Ralphy! thou's suin getten back: 'Getten back!' replied Ralphy, 'I wish I'd ne'er gyen, In Newcassel they're fellin dogs, lasses, and men; They've knock'd down Cappy, &c.

If aw gan to Newcassel, when comes wor pay week, Aw'll ken him agyen by the patch on his cheek: Or if ever he enters wor toon wiv his stick, We'll thump him about till he's black as au'd Nick,' For killin au'd Cappy, &c.

Wiv tears in her een Peggy heard his sad tale, And Ralph, wiv confusion and terror grew pale: While Cappy's transactions with grief they talk'd o'er, He crap out o' the basket quite brisk on the floor; Weel duin Cappy! &c.

THE PITMAN'S COURTSHIP.

Quite soft blew the wind from the west, The sun faintly shone in the sky, When Lukey and Bessy sat courting, As walking I chanc'd to espy. Unheeded I stole close beside them, To hear their discourse was my plan; I listen'd each word they were saying, When Lukey his courtship began.

Last hoppen thou won up my fancy, Wi' thy fine silken jacket o' blue; An' smash! if their Newcassel lyedies Could marrow the curls o' thy brow. That day aw whiles danc'd wi' lang Nancy, She couldn't like thou lift her heel: Maw Grandy lik'd spice singing hinnies, Maw comely! aw like thou as weel.

Thou knaws, ever since we were little, Together we've rang'd through the woods; At neets hand in hand toddled hyem, Very oft wi' howl kites and torn duds: But now we can talk about mairage, An' lang sair for wor weddin day; When mairied thou's keep a bit shop, And sell things in a huikstery way.

And to get us a canny bit leevin, A' kinds o' fine sweetmeats we'll sell, Reed herrin, broon syep, and mint candy, Black pepper, dye sand, and sma' yell; Spice hunters, pick shafts, farden candles, Wax dollies, wi' reed leather shoes, Chalk pussy-cats, fine curly greens, Paper skyets, penny pies, an' huil-doos.

Aws help thou to tie up the shuggar, At neets when frae wark aw get lowse; And wor Dick, that leeves ower by High Whickham, He'll myek us broom buzzoms for nowse. Like an image thou's stand ower the counter, Wi' thy fine muslin cambricker goon; And to let the folks see thou's a lyedy, On a cuddy thou's ride to the toon.

There's be matches, pipe clay, and brown dishes, Canary seeds, raisins, and fegs; And to please the pit laddies at Easter, A dish full o' gilty paste-eggs. Wor neybors, that's snuffers and smokers, For wor snuff and backey they'll seek; And to shew them we deal wi' Newcassel, Twee Blackeys sal mense the door cheek.

So now for Tim Bodkin awse send, To darn maw silk breeks at the knee, Thou thy ruffles and frills mun get ready, Next Whitsunday married we'll be. Now aw think it's high time to be steppin, We've sitten tiv aw's about lyem. So then, wiv a kiss and a cuddle, These lovers they bent their way hyem.

THE BABOON.

Sum time since, sum wild beasts there cam to the toon, And in the collection a famous Baboon, In uniform drest--if my story you're willin To believe, he gat lowse, and ran te the High Fellin. Fal de rol la, &c.

Three Pitmen cam up--they were smoking their pipe, When straight in afore them Jake lowp'd ower the dike: Ho, Jemmy! smash, marrow! here's a red-coated Jew, For his fyece is a' hairy, and he hez on nae shoe!

Wey, man, thou's a fuil! for ye divent tell true, If thou says 'at that fellow was ever a Jew: Aw'll lay thou a quairt, as sure's my nyem's Jack, That queer luikin chep's just a Russian Cossack.

He's ne Volunteer, aw ken biv his wauk; And if he's outlandish, we'll ken biv his tauk: He's a lang sword ahint him, ye'll see'd when he turns: Ony luik at his fyece! smash his byens, how he gurns!

Tom flang doon his pipe, and set up a greet yell; He's owther a spy, or Bonnypairty's awnsell: Iv a crack the High Fellin was in full hue and cry, To catch Bonnypairt, or the hairy French spy.

The wives scamper'd off for fear he should bite, The men-folks and dogs ran te grip him se tight; If we catch him, said they, he's hev ne lodging here, Ne, not e'en a drop o' Reed Robin's sma' beer.

BILLY OLIVER'S RAMBLE

_Between Benwell and Newcastle._

Me nyem it's Billy Oliver, Iv Benwell town aw dwell; And aw's a cliver chep, aw's shure, Tho' aw de say'd mysel. Sic an a cliver chep am aw, am aw, am aw, Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

There's not a lad iv a' wur wark, Can put or hew wi' me; Nor not a lad iv Benwell toon, Can coax the lasses se. Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

When aw gans tiv Newcassel toon, Aw myeks mawsel se fine, Wur neybors stand and stare at me, And say, 'Eh! what a shine!' Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

And then aw walks wi' sic an air, That, if the folks hev eyes, They a'wis think it's sum greet man, That's cum in i' disguise. Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

And when aw gans down Westgate-street, And alang biv Denton-chare, Aw whussels a' the way aw gans, To myek the people stare. Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

And then aw gans intiv the Cock, Ca's for a pint o' beer; And when the lassie comes in wid, Aw a'wis says, Maw dear! Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

And when aw gets a pint o' beer, Aw a'wis sings a sang; For aw've a nice yen aw can sing, Six an' thorty vairses lang. Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

And if the folks that's i' the house, Cry, 'Haud yor tongue, ye cull!' Aw's sure to hev a fight wi' them, For aw's as strang as ony bull. Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

And when aw've had a fight or twee, And fairly useless grown; Aw back, as drunk as aw can be, To canny Benwell toon. Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

A PARODY ON BILLY OLIVER'S RAMBLE.

My nyem is Willy Dixon, A Coachmaker to my trade; And when aw see a Pitman come, Aw run--because aw's flaid. Sic an a cliver chep am aw, am aw, am aw. Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

On Pay-day neets aw gan to the Cock, When the Pitmen's aw gyen hyem, Then aw begins to rair and sing, And myek o' them a gyem. Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

Ou Sunday mornings, then, you see, Aw dress mesel se fine; And wi' me white drill pantaloons, Aw cuts a fearful shine. Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

Then what a swagger aw dis cut, As aw gan alang the street, But aw's myed se like nut-crackers, That maw nose and chin they meet. Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

Then when aw gans to see the lass, It's in the afternoon; An' then we gans a wauking, Wi' her fine lustre goon. Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

And as we gan through Jesmond fields, The lasses gyep and luick, And efter we get past them a', They cry, 'Ah! what a buck!' Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

Then efter wandering up and down, At neet we toddle hyem; And aw gies her a kiss, you see, And she cries, 'Fie for shem!' Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

Then aw seeks out my au'd wark claes, Gets on another sark; And on Monday morn, at six o'clock, Gans whisslin off to wark. Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

X Y Z AT NEWCASTLE RACES, 1814;

_Or, Pitmen's Luck._

Smash! Jemmy, let us buss, we'll off And see Newcassel Races; Set Dick the trapper for some syep, We'll suin wesh a' wor faces. There's ne'er a lad iv Percy Main Be bet this day for five or ten; Wor pockets lin'd wiv notes and cash, Amang the cheps we'll cut a dash; For X Y Z, that bonny steed, He bangs them a' for pith and speed, He's sure to win the cup, man.

We reach'd the Moor, wi' sairish tews, When they were gawn to start, man: We gav a fellow tuppence each, To stand upon a cart, man: The bets flew round frae side to side; 'The field agyen X Y!' they cried: We'd hardly time to lay them a', When in he cam--Hurraw! hurraw! 'Gad smash!' says aw, 'X Y's the steed, He bangs them a' for pith an' speed, We never see'd the like, man!'

Next, to the tents we hied, to get Sum stuffin for wor bags, man; Wi' flesh we gaily pang'd wor hides-- Smok'd nowse but patten shag, man; While rum an' brandy soak'd each chop, We'd Jackey an' fine Ginger-pop; We gat what myed us winkin blin'-- When drunkey aw began te sing-- 'Od smash! X Y, that bonny steed, Thou bangs them a' for pith an' speed, We never see'd his like, man!'

Next up amang the shows we gat, Where folks a' stood i' flocks, man, To see a chep play Bob and Joan, Upon a wooden box, man; While bairns and music fill'd the stage, And some, by gox! were grim wi' age: When next au'd Grin a powny browt, Could tell at yence what people thowt! 'Od smash!' says aw, 'if he's the breed Of X Y Z, that bonny steed, Thou never see'd his like, man.'

But haud! when we cam to the toon, What thinks tou we saw there, man? We saw a Blacky puffin, sweetin, Suckin in fresh air, man; They said that he could fell an ox-- His name was fighting Molinox: But ere he fit another round, His marrow fell'd him to the ground. 'Od smash!' says aw, 'if thou's sic breed As X Y Z, that bonny steed, Thou never see'd his like, man!'

Next 'board a Steamer-boat we gat, A laddie rang a bell, man; We haddent sitten varry lang, Till byeth asleep we fell, man: But the noise seun myed poor Jemmy start-- He thowt 'twas time to gan to wark, For pick and hoggers roar'd out he-- And myed sic noise it waken'd me. 'Od smash!' says aw, 'X Y's the steed, He bangs them a' for pith and speed, Aw never see'd his like, man!'

When landed, straight off hyem aw gans, An' thunners at the door, man; The bairns lap ower the bed wi' fright, Fell smack upon the floor, man: But to gaur the wifey haud her tongue, Show'd her the kelter aw had won: She with a cinder burnt her toes, An' little Jacob broke his nose-- The brass aw've getten at the race Will buy a patch for Jacob's face-- So now my sang is duin, man.

NEWCASTLE FAIR;

_Or, The Pitman drinking Jackey._

Ha' ye been at Newcastle Fair, And did ye see owse o' great Sandy? Lord bliss us! what wark there was there; And the folks were drinking of brandy. Brandy a shilling a glass! Aw star'd, and thought it was shameful: Never mind, says aw, canny lass, Give us yell, and aw'll drink my wame full. Rum te idity, &c.

Says she, Canny man, the yell's cau'd; It comes frev a man they caw Mackey, And by my faith! it's byeth sour and au'd; Ye'd best hev a drop o' wor Jackey. Your Jackey! says aw, now what's that? Aw ne'er heard the nyem o' sic liquor. English Gin, canny man, that's flat, And then she set up a great nicker. Rum te idity, &c.