Part 5

So aw see'd ne mair, but aw hard the folks say, That they'd cum agyen on sum other day; So aw said tiv wor lad, 'Wey we've seen a grand seet, An' we'll drink aw their hilths agyen Setterday neet.' Derry down, &c.

THE POLITICIANS.

Last Setterday, as we were gannin Frae Newcassel, Dick Martin and I, We caw'd at the sign o' the Cannon, Because we byeth turn'd varry dry. They were tauking o' reedin the papers, 'Bout Cobbett and his politics, How fine he exposes the capers Of Government's comical tricks.

He tauks o' the millions expenses Browt on us by gannin te war: But he maun be a man o' greet senses, Or he cuddent hae reckon'd sae far. He tauks o' the National Debt, O' sinequeers, pensions, and such; Wey, aw think how wor Mally wad fret, If she'd awn just quarter as much.

Mister Government mun hae greet credit, Or he ne'er wad get intiv debt; But they tell yen he hez sike a spirit, Aw's fish that comes intiv his net, Says Dick, If aw wanted a shillin, Want, then, yor certain aw must; For, if yen was ever sae willin, Ye divent ken where to seek trust.

We expected that when it cam Peace, Wor sowgers and sailors reduc'd, Wor burdens they quickly wad cease, But, smash! man, we've been sair seduc'd. Says Dicky, The taxes this year, Myeks yen cry, iv a rage, Devil hang them! For the backey an' yell they're sae dear-- Wey, it's just a cologuin amang them.

Good folks! aw wad hev ye beware Of some that in Parliament sit; For they're not hauf sae good as they waur, Sin' that taistrel they caw'd Billy Pitt. If ye 'loo them te de as they please, Believe me a'm shure, aye, an' sartin, They'll bring us syef doon te wor knees! So ended byeth Dick and Jack Martin.

TILL THE TIDE CAME IN.

While strolling down sweet Sandgate-street, A man o' war's blade I chanc'd to meet; To the sign of the Ship I haul'd him in, To drink a good glass till the tide came in. Till the tide came in, &c.

I took in tow young Squinting Meg, Who well in the dance could shake her leg; My friend haul'd Oyster Mally in, And we jigg'd them about till the tide came in. Till the tide came in, &c.

We bows'd away till the break of day, Then ask'd what shot we had to pay? You've drank, said the host, nine pints of gin; So we paid him his due--now the tide was in. Now the tide was in, &c.

THE SANDGATE LASSIE'S LAMENT.

They've prest my dear Johnny, Sae sprightly and bonny-- Alack! I shall ne'er mair de weel, O; The kidnapping squad Laid hold of my lad As he was unmooring the keel, O.

O my sweet laddie, My canny keel laddie, Sae handsome, sae canty, and free, O; Had he staid on the Tyne, Ere now he'd been mine, But, oh! he's far ower the sea, O.

Should he fall by commotion, Or sink in the ocean, (May sic tidings ne'er come to the Kee, O!) I could ne'er mair be glad, For the loss of my lad Wad break my poor heart, and I'd dee, O. O my sweet laddie, &c. But should my dear tar Come safe from the war, What heart-bounding joy wad I feel, O! To the Church we wad flee, And married be, And again he should row in his keel, O.

O my sweet laddie! My canny keel laddie! Sae handsome, sae canty, and free, O! Though far frae the Tyne, I still hope he'll be mine, And live happy as onie can be, O.

HYDROPHOBIE, OR THE SKIPPER & QUAKER.

As Skipper Carr and Markie Dunn, Were gannin, drunk, through Sandgate-- A dog bit Mark and off did run, But sair the poor sowl fand it; The Skipper in a voice se rough-- Aw warn'd, says he, its mad eneugh-- Howay and get some doctor's stuff, For fear of Hydrophobie! Fal de ral, &c.

The doctor dress'd the wound se wide, And left poor Markie smartin-- Then, for a joke, tells Carr, aside, Mark wad gan mad for sartin:-- Noo, Skipper, mind, when in yor keel, Be sure that ye watch Markie weel, If he begins to bark and squeel, Depend it's Hydrophobie! Fal de ral, &c.

For Shields, next day, they sail'd wi' coal, And teuk on board a Quaker, Who wish'd to go as far's Dent's Hole, To see a friend call'd Baker: The Skipper whisper'd in his ear-- Wor Markie will gan mad, aw fear! He'll bite us a'--as sure's yor here, We'll get the Hydrophobie! Fal de ral, &c.

Said Quack--I hope this can't be true, Nay, friend, thou art mistaken; We must not fear what man can do-- Yea! I will stand unshaken! The Skipper, to complete the farce, Said, Maister Quaker, what's far warse, A b----g dog bit Markie's a--e, And browt on Hydrophobie! Fal de ral, &c.

Now Markie overheard their talk, Thinks he, aw'll try the Quaker-- Makes P. D. to the huddock walk, Of fun to be partaker: To howl an' bark he wasn't slack, The Quaker ow'rboard in a crack, With the fat Skipper on his back, For fear of Hydrophobie! Fal de ral, &c.

How P. D. laugh'd to see the two, Who to be sav'd, were striving-- Mark haul'd them out wi' much ado, And call'd them culls for diving:-- The Quaker suen was put on shore, For he was frighten'd verry sore-- The Skipper promis'd never more To mention Hydrophobie! Fal de ral, &c.

THE KEELMAN AND THE GRINDSTONE.

Not lang since some keelmen were gaun doon to Sheels, When a hoop round some froth cam alangside their keel; The Skipper saw'd first, and he gov a greet shout, How, b----r, man, Dick, here's a grunstan afloat, Derry down, &c.

Dick leuk'd, and he thowt that the Skipper was reet, So they'd hev her ashore, and then sell her that neet: Then he jump'd on to fetch her--my eyes what a splatter! Ne grunstan was there, for he fand it was water. Derry down, &c.

The Skipper astonish'd, quite struck wi' surprise, He roar'd out to Dickey when he saw him rise-- How, smash, marrow--Dick, ho!--What is thou about? Come here, mun, and let's hae the grunstan tyen out. Derry down, &c.

A grunstan! says Dick--wey, ye slavering cull, Wi' water maw belly and pockets are full; By the gowkey, aw'll sweer that ye're drunk, daft, or doating-- Its nee grunstan at a', but sum awd iron floating. Derry down, &c.

NEWCASTLE WONDERS;

_Or, Hackney Coach Customers_.

Since the Hackneys began in Newcastle to run, There's some tricks been play'd off which has myed lots o' fun: For poor folks can ride now, that ne'er rode before, The expense is se canny, its suen gettin ower. Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.

Mang the rest o' the jokes was a lad frae the Fell, Where he lives wiv his feyther, his nyem's Geordy Bell; For hewin there's nyen can touch Geordy for skill, When he comes to Newcassel he gets a good gill. Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.

One day being cramm'd wi' fat flesh and strang beer, Left some friends at the Cock, and away he did steer, Wiv his hat on three hairs, through Wheat Market did stride, When a Coachman cam up, and said--Sir, will ye ride? Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.

Wey, smash noo--whe's thou, man?--How, what dis thou mean?-- I drive the best coach, sir, that ever was seen.-- To ride iv a coach! Smash, says Geordy, aw's willin'-- Aw'll ride i' yor coach though it cost me ten shillin'! So Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.

Then into the coach Geordy claver'd wi' speed, And out at the window he popp'd his greet heed:-- Pray, where shall I drive, sir--please give me the name? Drive us a' the toon ower, man, an' then drive us hyem! Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.

Then up and doon street how they rattled alang, Tiv a chep wi' the news tiv aud Geordy did bang, 'Bout his son in the coach, and for truth, did relate, He was owther turn'd Mayor, or the great Magistrate! Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.

Aud Geordy did caper till myestly deun ower, When Coachee, suen after, drove up to his door-- Young Geordy stept out, caus'd their hopes suen to stagger, Said he'd paid for a ride just to cut a bit swagger. Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.

To ride frae Newcassel mun cost ye some brass: Od smash, now, says Geordy, thou talks like an ass! For half-a-crown piece thou may ride to the Fell-- An' for eighteen-pence mair, smash, they'll drive ye to H--ll! Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.

Aud Geordy then thowt there was comfort in store, For contrivance the coaches nyen could come before: Poor men that are tied to bad wives needn't stick-- Just tip Coachee the brass an' they're off tiv Au'd Nick. Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.

QUAYSIDE DITTY,

_For February_, 1816.

Ah! what's yor news the day, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor? Ah! what's yor news the day, Mr. Mayor? The folks of Sheels, they say, Want wor Custom House away, And ye canna say them nay, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, And ye canna say them nay, Mr. Mayor.

But dinna let it gan, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, Or, ye'll ruin us tiv a man, Mr. Mayor: They say a Branch 'ill dee, But next they'll tyek the Tree, And smash wor canny Kee, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. And smash, &c.

For ah! they're greedy dogs, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, They'd grub us up like hogs, Mr. Mayor: If the Custom-house they touch, They wad na scruple much For to bolt wor very Hutch, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. For to bolt, &c.

Before it be ower lang, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, Then ca' up a' yor gang, Mr. Mayor: Yor Corporation chiels, They say they're deep as Deils, And they hate the folk of Sheels, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, And they hate, &c.

Ah! get wor Kee-side Sparks, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, Wor Fitters and their Clerks, Mr. Mayor, To help to bar this stroke-- For, faicks, they are the folk That canna bide the joke, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. That canna bide, &c.

And egg wor men of news, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, Wor Mercury and Hues, Mr. Mayor, Wi' Solomon the Wise, Their cause to stigmatize, And trump wors to the skies, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. And trump wors, &c.

How wad we grieve to see, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, The grass grow on the Kee, Mr. Mayor? So get the weighty prayers Of the porters in the chares, And the wives that sell the wares, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. And the wives, &c.

A Butcher's off frae Sheels, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, Wi' the Deevil at his heels, Mr. Mayor: Faicks, all the way to Lunnin, Just like a strang tide runnin, And ah he's deev'lish cunnin, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. And ah he's, &c.

But Nat's as deep as he, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. Send him to Lunnin tee, Mr. Mayor, He has wit, we may suppose, Frev his winkers tiv his toes, Since the Major pull'd his nose, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. Since the Major, &c.

And send amang the gang, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, ARM--what d'ye ca' him--STRANG, Mr. Mayor, Ah! send him, if ye please, The Treasury to teaze, He'll tell them heaps o' lees, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. He'll tell them, &c.

If the Sheels folk get the day, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, Ah what will Eldon say, Mr. Mayor? If he has time to spare, He'll surely blast their prayer, For the luve of his calf Chare, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. For the luve, &c.

Then just dee a' ye can, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, And follow up the plan, Mr. Mayor, Else, faicks, ye'll get a spur In your Corporation fur, And ye'll plant at Shields wor BURR!!! Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, And ye'll plant at Sheels wor BURR!!! Mr. Mayor.

A SHIELDS SOLILOQUY.

Ah! what's to come on us a' now? (A Shields gowk was heard, grumbling, to say) We now find it far ower true, That Newcassel has getten the day: They'd only been gulling our folk, When they sent us down that fine letter; But aw think 'twas too much a joke, To tell us we'd getten the better. Rum ti iddity, &c.

Was't this made our guns fire sae loud? Did our bells for this ring sae merry? For this our ships swagger'd sae proud? Faith, we've been in too big a hurry! But our STAR, they said, could de ought, And the Treasury quickly would gull-- Our Butcher was clever, we thought; But aw think he's come hyem like a feul. Rum ti iddity, &c.

Yet our plan we all thought was good; For we'd build them large cellars and kees; It likewise might be understood, Docks and warehouses tee, if they'd please. Then we try'd to set in full view, That the Revenue it would increase; Especially as we stood now, When we thought ourselves snugly at peace. Rum ti iddity, &c.

But the Newcassel folk now, it seems, Had sent some deep jockies te Lunnin, And they suen upset all our schemes, Which we thought se clever and cunnin: For BIG-WIG, who mounts the Wool-sack, Said, That he plainly saw we were wrang, Since it had been prov'd in a crack, By the _Jockey_, whose ARM they call STRANG. Rum ti iddity, &c.

But what's warse than losing our Branch, Is being spoil'd in our grand speculation; For 'stead of our shining se staunch, We now meet wi' nought but vexation. Now certainly we must be wrang, The Barbers are swearing and raving, Our faces are all grown se lang, They'll double the price of our shaving!!! Rum ti iddity, &c.

THE GREEN-WIVES' LAMENTATION.

Wor Green-stalls on Sandhill, se lang fam'd of yore, Where Greenwives display'd all their fresh shining store, Where tubs wi' tatoes their proud crests did rear, Cabbage, carrots, an' turnips wi' joy did appear.

Wor time on the Sandhill wi' pleasure did glide, To display all wor wares and to scold was wor pride; Wor noise did the greet folks of Gotham engage: By the stalls of the Butchers we're now to be caged.

But think not the Sandhill we'll tamely resign, By the L--d we will meet an' we'll kick up a shine! Wor voice we'll extend, and with noise rend the sky, When from the Sandhill we're compell'd to fly.

With speed, haste assemble the first market-day, Wor forces we'll marshal in glorious array: A leader let's choose, a virago so bold, The word let her give, and we rarely will scold.

From off the Sandhill ere our legions depart, We will vent all wor spleen, and ease each full heart, We will scold till no malice or rancour remain, Then march off wor forces--a large warlike train.

A procession we'll form, wi' wor tubs and wor swills, And move with slaw steps frae the dear-lov'd Sandhill; And when the new station our forces obtain, Well take a good glass and well scorn to complain.

A PETITION

_From the Women of the Vegetable Market, to the Mayor of Newcastle._

When away fra the Sandhill, sir, at first that we wur sent, It was wi' heavy hearts, ye ken, yur Honour, that we went; But now iv the New Market, sir, we're ev'ry ane admir'd, And if ye'll nobut _cover_ us, it's all that is desir'd!

Afore your worship judges us, now make a little _paws_, And dinna gan to say that we complain without a _caws_; For that yur Honour _cover'd_ a' the country wives, yeknow, But huz, yur awn sweet townswomen, ye let neglected go.

For shem, now hinny, Mr. Mayor, to gan & play yur rigs, An' cover a' the country girls that com to town wi' pigs; Wi' butter and wi' eggs too--they are se dousely made; Ah, you've _cover'd_ every ane of them, sir--iv a slated shade.

Now dinna let folks say that we've ne reet te complain, When they are a' se snugly plac'd, and we are i' the rain: Then without ne mair fash, sir, now do yur Honour say, That ye will nobut _cover_ us--and we will every pray.

THE FISH-WIVES' COMPLAINT,

_On their Removal from the Sandhill to the New Fish Market, on the 2d of January, 1826._

The merry day hez getten past, And we are aw myest broken hearted: Ye've surely deun for us at last-- Frae Sandhill, noo, ye hev us parted.

Oh! hinnies, Corporation! A! marcy, Corporation! Ye hev deun a shemful deed, To force us frae wor canny station.

It's nee use being iv a rage, For a' wor pride noo fairly sunk is-- Ye've cramm'd us in a Dandy Cage, Like yellow-yowlies, bears, and monkies: O hinnies, &c.

The cau'd East wind blaws i' wor teeth-- With iron bars we are surrounded; It's better far to suffer deeth, Than thus to hev wor feelings wounded. O hinnies, &c.

Wor haddocks, turbot, cod, and ling, Are lost tiv a' wor friends' inspection; Genteelish folk from us tyek wing, For fear of catching some infection. O hinnies, &c.

O, kind Sir Matt.--ye bonny Star, Gan to the King, and show this ditty-- Tell him what canny folks we are, And make him free us frae this Kitty. O hinnies, &c.

If ye succeed, agyen we'll sing-- Sweet Madge, wor Queen, will ever bless ye; And poor au'd Jemmy tee, wor King, With a' us fishwives will caress ye. O hinnies, &c.

SUNDERLAND JAMMY'S LAMENTATION,

_December, 1831._

My sankers! we're all in a fine hobble now, Since the Cholera com tiv our river; Aw wadn't hae car'd if 'twas ought that one knew, But the outlandish nyem myeks one shiver: Our doctors are all in a deuce of a way. And some says they've _Clannied_ to wrang us; But I think we may all curse the _Daun_ o' that day, That the _block_-headed _Board_ com amang us.

Some says that Sir Cuddy deserves all the blyem, For lettin the ships up the watter-- That brought ower the Cholera frev its awn hyem, And some says that myed little matter; But as woman's the root of all evil, ye see, (At least, all my life aw hev thought it,) Aw rather believe, as it's been tell'd to me, That it was one _Mall Airey_ (Malaria) that brought it.

This Chol'ra's the queerest thing e'er had a nyem, If one may believe what they're talking; It sometimes gets haud o' folks when they're at hyem, And sometimes when they're out a walking: Wey, my neybour of eighty, that deed t'other day, Folks thought that 'twas nature that fail'd him; But a doctor chep happ'ning to come by that way, Swore down thump 'twas the Chol'ra that ail'd him.

Thur doctor cheps prent all the lees that they've tell'd; Ony nonsense--they never will mis't; My cheek wi' the tuith-wark hez getten all swell'd, And aw's warn't they'll haed down i' their list: Aw never was _chol'ric_, but quiet, aw's sure, Tho' wi' fear aw's grown sweaty and clammy; So smoke this wi' brumston to myek all secure, Aw's your servant, A SUNDERLAND JAMMY.

THE COBBLER O' MORPETH--(_Cholera Morbus._)

_By John M'Lellan._

The Cobbler o' Morpeth myeks sic noise, He frights the country round, sirs; That if yen i' the guts hez pain, By the Plague they think he's doom'd, sirs. It was but just the tother day, A Skipper, when at Sheels, sirs, Drank yell till he cou'd hardly see, Or ken his head frae heels, sirs. Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Wi' much ta dee he reach'd his hyem, But hoo, aw canna tell ye; When thunnering at the door he cries, And blubbers out 'Wife Nelly-- Oh Nell, maw guts are varra bad, Aw'm sartin aw shall dee, now, For that d----d plague that's killing a', Th' Cobbler o' Morpeth's in me, now.' Bow, wow, wow, &c.

'The Cobbler o' Morpeth! whe is he? Hez he brak frae the jail, now?'-- 'Hout no, ye fule, Jack Russ he's caw'd, An' kills folks by wholesale, now. Somehow he creeps up the back way; Aye it's true as deeth, maw Nelly-- For now he's dancin thro' and thro', And up and down maw belly.' Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Tom sigh'd and moan'd, and kick'd and groan'd, Wi' mony a writhe and start, sirs, And swore that for a new _lapstane_, The Cobbler had ta'en his heart, sirs. He blether'd 'Nell, now divent ye hear His rumbling and his raking, He twists and twines maw tripes sae sair, Sure o' them he's _wax-ends_ making.' Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Now Nell aff ran to Doctor Belch, And tell'd Tom's case in fright, sirs, Wha gav her stuff whilk varra seun Set Tommy's guts to right, sirs. And when that his sad pain was eas'd, He blam'd nyen but himsel, sirs, But swore he ne'er agyen at Sheels Wad drink their d----d new yell, sirs. Bow, wow, wow, &c.

CAUTION. Now, neighbours, divent drink to excess-- A canny sober course steer; Be cleanly, and be temperate, And the Cobbler o' Morpeth ne'er fear. But if he should amang huz come, To th' Infirm'ry we will send him; And seun they'll purge his au'd saul out, If that they cannot mend him. Bow, wow, wow, &c.

CANNY SHEELS.

(_By John Morris._)

'Bout Newcassel they've written sae mony fine sangs, And compar'd their bit place unti Lunnun; What a shem that 'tiv Sheels not a poet belangs, For to tell them they lee wi' their funnin. They may boast o' their shippin without ony doubt, For there's nyen can deny that they've plenty; But for every yen they are gobbing about, Aw'm sure we can shew them, ey twenty!

Let them haud their fule gobs then & brag us ne mair, With their clarty bit au'd Corporation; For it's varry weel knawn Sheels pays her full share For to keep Mister Mayor iv his station.

They hev a bit place where they myek a few shot, Lunnun's Column tiv it's like a nine-pin; And St. Nicholas compar'd wi' St. Paul's an' what not, Wey it's a yuven compar'd tiv a limekiln. If their Shot Tower sae hee was plac'd on wor Sand End, 'Side wor Light House to scraffle to glory; Their journey to heaven wad suen hev an end, For by gox they'd ne'er reach the first story. Let them haud, &c.

They call their Infirm'ry a place for a king, To be stow'd 'mang the sick, lyem, and lazy; If a Sheels man had ventur'd to say sic a thing, The blind gowks wad a' said he was crazy. 'Bout their Custom House tee they myek a great rout, That the e'en o' the folk it diz dazzel; But if a' gans reet Sheels, without ony doubt, Will suen eclipse that at Canny Newcassel. Let them haud, &c.

Then they brag they leuk bonny, fresh-colored and gay, And the Lunnun folk a' wishey washey; But L----d put it off tiv a far distant day, That there's one on huz here leuks sae trashy. Then they boast o' Sir Matthew--but never enquire If the foundation's good that he stood on; But if he comes up to wor canny au'd Squire, Then becrikes he is nowse but a good 'un. Let them haud, &c.