Part 6

But the Squire, canny man, he's gyen frae the toon, And aw'm sure on't the poor sairly miss him; For oft as aw wauk Pearson's Raw up and doon, Aw hear the folk cry, Heaven bliss him! Yet aw hope, an' aw trust, he'll suen find his way hyem, And aw's sure aw'll be glad to hear tell on't; For aw've varry oft thowt--did ye ne'er think the syem, Since he's gyen Sheels hezzent luik't like the sel on't. Let them haud, &c.

Then lang life to the King and wor awn noble Duik, May Sheels lang partake of his bounty; For Newcassel, ye ken, if ye e'er read a buik, Is at yence byeth a toon and a county. Northumberland's Duik may still shew his sel there, But his int'rest frae Sheels ne'er can sever; So aw'll gie ye just now, shou'd aw ne'er see ye mair, Wor Duik and wor Duchess for ever!

Let them haud their fule gobs then & brag us ne mair, Wi' their this, that, and t'other sae cliver; We'll aw drink as lang's we've a penny to spare, Here's success to wor awn town for ever!!!

PERMANENT YEAST.

Jack Hume one day cam into toon, And efter wandering up and doon, He bought some things, and 'mang the rest, A bottle of Permanent Yeast. Fal de ral la, &c.

Now when he'd getten a' things reet, He was gaun trudging hyem at neet, When on the road he heard a crack, An' fand a bullet in his back. Fal de ral la, &c.

He fell directly on the spot, For Jack imagin'd he was shot; Some said he'd liquor in his head, And others thought that he was dead. Fal de ral la, &c.

But Jack suen gav a greet groan out, And after that he com about, He says, O bring a Doctor here! Or else aw'll suen be deed, aw fear, Fal de ral la, &c.

O neighbours, de tyek off maw sark, And try if ye can find the mark! They leuk'd, but nought there could be seen, They wonder'd a' what it had been. Fal de ral la, &c.

But, howe'er, it cam to pass, Out of his pocket fell some glass: Now then, says Jack, it is ne joke, See there's maw good yeast bottle broke! Fal de ral la, &c.

A fellow wiser than the rest, Soon found out it had been the yeast: Wi' walking Jack had made it work, The bullet only was the cork. Fal de ral la, &c.

Now Jackey finding his mistake, He thought the best plan he could take Was to be off--he seiz'd his hat, And ran hyem like a scadded cat. Fal de ral la, &c.

THE PITMAN'S RAMBLE;

_Or, Newcastle Finery,_

Ho! lizzen, aw ye neybors roun, Yor clappers haud and pipes lay doon; Aw've had a swagger through the toon, Yen morning aw went suen ti'd. Ye see, aw fand aw wasn't thrang, Sae to Newcassel aw wad gang: Aw's lap't a' up, just like a sang, And try to put a tune ti'd.

Bad times they'e now, yen weel may say; Aw've seen when on a market day, Wiv wor toon's cheps aw'd drink away, And carry on the war, man: But now yen staups an' stares aboot, To see what's strange to carry oot; Brass letters fassen'd on a cloot, A unicorn, or star, man.

Ye see, aw thowt they were to sell; So ax'd the chep, if he cud tell, What he wad tyek for C and L, To nail upon maw hen hoose; But he insisted, smash his crop! Aw'd like a fule mistyen the shop; And bad me quickly off te hop, He'd bowt them for his awn use.

He flang maw hump sae out o' joint, Sae, smash! aw thowt aw'd hev a pint! But when aw gat te Peterpoint, The chep that sells the candy, The folks luik'd in wiv greedy wish, He'd bonny siller in a dish; And just abuin, twee bits o' fish Was sweeming, fine as can be.

The tyen was like Hob Fewster's cowt, A' spreckled round about the snout, They flapp'd their tails aboot like owt, Quite full o' gamalerie: And then the munny shin'd sae breet, The greet Tom Cat wad hev a peep, And paunder'd tiv he fell asleep; The silly thing was weary.

Sae farther up aw teuk my cruize, And luik'd amang the buits and shoes; Where yen aw thowt they did ill use, It sweem'd, aye, like a daisy: Says aw, How! man, what's thou aboot? Weyu'cum and tyek that slipper oot; Tho's flay'd away the sammun trout: Says he, Young man, thou's crazy!

Had aw not been a patient chap, Aw wad hae fetch'd him sike a rap, As that which daver'd poor au'd Cap:[2] But, faith! the Kitty scar'd me: Sae whisht aw grew; for, efter that, Iv a lairge glass bowl, byeth round and flat, Aw spied a maccaroni hat, But at maw peril dar'd me.

Sae, efter dark, up Pilgrim-street, The fine Gas Leeters shin'd sae breet, That if a bonny lass ye meet, Ye'd ken her varry features: When pipes are laid, and a' things duen, They say Newcassel, varry suen, Will darken, aye, the varry muin, A' wi' thor fine Gas Leeters.

Footnote 2: Alluding to the song call'd 'Cappy, or the Pitman's Dog.'--See page 19.

COALY TYNE.

Tyne River, running rough or smooth, Makes bread for me and mine; Of all the rivers, north or south, There's none like coaly Tyne.

So here's to coaly Tyne, my lads, Success to coaly Tyne, Of all the rivers, north or south, There's none like coaly Tyne.

Long has Tyne's swelling bosom borne Great riches from the mine, All by her hardy sons uptorn-- The wealth of coaly Tyne.

Our keelmen brave, with laden keels, Go sailing down in line, And with them load the fleet at Shields, That sails from coaly Tyne.

When Bonaparte the world did sway, Dutch, Spanish, did combine; By sea and land proud bent their way, The sons of coaly Tyne.

The sons of Tyne, in seas of blood, Trafalgar's fight did join, When led by dauntless Collingwood, The hero of the Tyne.

With courage bold, and hearts so true, Form'd in the British line; With Wellington, at Waterloo, Hard fought the sons of Tyne.

When peace, who would be Volunteers? Or Hero Dandies fine? Or sham Hussars, or Tirailleurs?-- Disgrace to coaly Tyne.

Or who would be a Tyrant's Guard, Or shield a libertine? Let Tyrants meet their due reward, Ye sons of coaly Tyne.

NEWCASSEL RACES.

It's hae ye heard the ill that's duen? Or hae ye lost? or hae ye won? Or hae ye seen what mirth and fun, At fam'd Newcassel Races, O? The weather fine, and folks sae gay, Put on their best, and bent their way To the Town Moor, to spend the day, At fam'd Newcassel Races, O.

There shows of all sorts you may view; Polito's grand collection too; Such noise and din and lilli-bulloo, At fam'd Newcassel Races, O. There some on horses sat astride, And some in gigs did snugly ride, With smart young wenches by their side; Look'd stilish at the Races, O.

A Tailor chep aw chanc'd to spy, Was sneekin through the crowd sae sly, For he'd tyen the darling of his eye, To swagger at the Races, O. He says, My dear, we'll see the show, Egad! says she, I do not know, It looks so vulgar and so low, We'd better see the Races, O.

One Buck cries, Demme, go the rig! Got two smart lasses in a gig; He crack'd his whip, and look'd quite big, While swagg'rin at the Races, O. But soon, alas! the gig upset, An ugly thump they each did get; Some say, that he his breeches wet, For fear, when at the Races, O.

The one was lyem'd abuin the knee, The other freeten'd desp'rately; "This demm'd unlucky job!" says she, "Has fairly spoil'd my Races, O!" He gat them in, wi' some delay, And te Newcassel bent his way; But oft, indeed, he curs'd the day, That e'er he'd seen the Races, O.

Now some were singin songs so fine, And some were lying drunk like swine, Some drank porter, others wine; Rare drinkin at the Races, O! The wanton wags in corners sat, Wiv bonny lasses on their lap; And mony a yen gat tit for tat, Before they left the Races, O.

Now lads and lasses myed for toon, And in the road they oft lay doon; Faith! mony a lassie spoil'd her goon, A comin frae the Races, O: Some gat hyem, midst outs and ins, Some had black eyes and broken shins, And some lay drunk amang the whins, A comin frae the Races, O:

Let every one his station mense, By acting like a man of sense-- 'Twill save him mony a pund expense, When he gans te the Races, O. Kind friends, I would you all advise, Good counsel ye should ne'er despise, The world's opinion always prize, When ye gan to the Races, O.

THE QUACK DOCTORS.

Wor laureate may sing for his cash, Of laws, constitution, and proctors, Contented aw'll blair for a dash At the slee understrapping quack doctors, They gob o' their physical skill, Till their jaws yen might swear they wad rive, To prove what's alive they can kill, And what's dead they can suen myek alive.

A' ye wi' the glanders snout-full, Repair to each wondrous adviser-- For though ye were born a stark fuel, Depend on't, they'll suen myek ye wiser. Their physic, they say, in a trice, Snaps every disease like a towt: But the best on't all is their advice-- Ye can get it free gratis for nowt.

Wiv a kessle puff'd up to the chin, Went to see yen, a strapping young doxy, He examin'd her lugs and her een, And declar'd her myest dead o' the dropsy. The lassie he therefore wad tap, At which she set up a great yell; When out popp'd a little wee chap Myest as wise as the doctor's awnsel'.

Next they teuk him a man, whee for fancies, A' day wad sit silent and sad-- He upheld that he'd lost his reet senses, And therefore he surely was mad. But now he gies mony a roar, Of the doctor's great skill to convince-- If he wasn't a madman before At least he's been yen ever since.

Last, in hobbled gouty Sir Peter, To get of his drugs a good doze-- Three days he deep studied his water, Ere he'd his opinion disclose. Then proclaim'd that Sir Peet was ower fat, For the doctor was never mistyen By my faiks! but he curd him o' that-- Suen Sir Peet left the warld, skin and byen.

Now, he that winn't loyally sing, May he swing like an ass in a tether, Good hilth and long life to the King, To keep us in union together. The heart iv each Briton he leads To rejoice i' the fall o' the quacks-- So we'll aye keep the brains i' wor heeds, And we'll ay hae the flesh on wor backs.

PEGGY'S LEG.

_Written on seeing the Leg of a beautiful Female exposed by the wind on Tyne Bridge, March, 1806._

O tak't not amiss while I sing, my Peggy, O tak't not amiss while I sing, How rude the wind blew, and expos'd thy neat leggy, Thy knee and red garten string, my Peggy, Thy knee and red garten string.

Nor take it amiss while I tell thee, Peggy, Nor take it amiss while I tell, How a' my heart felt upon seeing thy leggy;-- I've never sinsyne been mysel', my Peggy, I've never sinsyne been mysel'.

I think the brisk gale acted right, my Peggy, I think the brisk gale acted right, In shewing me, O lovely dear! thy smart leggy-- It was sic a glorious sight, my Peggy, It was sic a glorious sight.

In troth I'd gan monie a mile, my Peggy, In troth I'd gan monie a mile, Again, my dear Charmer, to view thy neat leggy, And see on thy face a sweet smile, my Peggy, And see on thy face a sweet smile.

I'm deeply in love wi' thee a', my Peggy, I'm deeply in love wi' thee a'-- And I'll think on thy face and thy smart buskit leggy, As lang as I've breath for to draw, my Peggy, As lang as I've breath for to draw.

BONNY KEEL LADDIE.

Maw bonny keel laddie, maw canny keel laddie, Maw bonny keel laddie for me, O! He sits in his keel, as black as the Deil, And he brings the white money to me, O.

Hae ye seen owt o' maw canny man, And are ye sure he's weel, O? He's gyen ower land, wiv a stick in his hand, To help to moor the keel, O.

The canny keel laddie, the bonny keel laddie, The canny keel laddie for me, O; He sits in his huddock, and claws his bare buttock, And brings the white money to me, O.

THE TYNE.

Roll on thy way, thrice happy Tyne! Commerce and riches still are thine; Thy sons in every art shall shine, And make thee more majestic flow.

The busy crowd that throngs thy sides, And on thy dusky bosom glides, With riches swell thy flowing tides, And bless the soil where thou dost flow.

Thy valiant sons, in days of old, Led by their chieftains, brave and bold, Fought not for wealth, or shining gold, But to defend thy happy shores.

So e'en as they of old have bled, And oft embrac'd a gory bed, Thy modern sons, by Patriots led, Shall rise to shield thy peace-crown'd shores.

Nor art thou blest for this alone, That long thy sons in arms have shone; For every art to them is known, And science, form'd to grace the mind.

Art, curb'd by War in former days, Has now burst forth in one bright blaze; And long shall his refulgent rays Shine bright, and darkness leave behind.

The Muses too, with Freedom crown'd, Shall on thy happy shores be found, And fill the air with joyous sound, Of--War and darkness' overthrow.

Then roll thy way, thrice happy Tyne! Commerce and riches still are thine! Thy sons in arts and arms shall shine, And make thee still majestic flow.

NANNY OF THE TYNE.

Whilst bards, in strains that sweetly flow, Extol each nymph so fair, Be mine my Nanny's worth to shew, Her captivating air. What swain can gaze without delight On beauty there so fine? The Graces all their charms unite In Nanny of the Tyne.

Far from the noise of giddy courts The lovely charmer dwells; Her cot the haunt of harmless sports, In virtue she excels. With modesty, good nature join'd, To form the nymph divine; And truth, with innocence combin'd, In Nanny of the Tyne.

Flow on, smooth stream, in murmurs sweet Glide gently past her cot, 'Tis peace and virtue's calm retreat-- Ye great ones, envied not. And you, ye fair, whom folly leads Through all her paths supine, Tho' drest in pleasure's garb, exceeds Not Nanny of the Tyne.

Can art to nature e'er compare, Or win us to believe But that the frippery of the fair Was made but to deceive. Strip from the belle the dress so gay, Which fashion calls divine, Will she such loveliness display As Nanny of the Tyne.

THE BONNY GYETSIDERS.

Tune--"Bob Cranky."

Come, marrows, we've happen'd to meet now, Sae wor thropples together we'll weet now; Aw've myed a new sang, And to sing ye't aw lang, For it's about the Bonny Gyetsiders.

Of a' the fine Volunteer corpses, Whether footmen, or ridin' on horses, 'Tween the Tweed and the Tees, Deil hae them that sees Sic a corpse as the Bonny Gyetsiders.

Whilk amang them can mairch, turn, an' wheel sae? Whilk their guns can wise off half sae weel sae? Nay, for myeking a _crack_, Through England aw'll back The corps of the Bonny Gyetsiders.

When the time for parading nigh hand grows, A' wesh theirsels clean i' the sleck troughs: Fling off their black duddies, Leave hammers and studdies, And to drill--run the Bonny Gyetsiders.

To Newcassel, for three weeks up-stannin, On Parmanent Duty they're gannin; And seun i' the papers We's read a' the capers O' the corps o' the Bonny Gyetsiders.

The Newcassel chaps fancy they're clever, And are vaunting and braggin' for ever; But they'll find theirsels wrang, If they think they can bang, At sowg'rin', the Bonny Gyetsiders.

The Gen'ral shall see they can lowp dykes, Or mairch thro' whins, lair whooles, and deep sykes; Nay, to soom (at a pinch) Through Tyne, waddent flinch The corps o' the Bonny Gyetsiders.

Some think Billy Pitt's nobbit hummin, When he tells aboot Bonnepairt cummin; But come when he may, He'll lang rue the day He first meets wi' the Bonny Gyetsiders:

Like an anchor-shank, smash! how they'll clatter 'im, And turn 'im, and skelp 'im, and batter 'im; His byens sal, by jing! Like a frying-pan ring, When he meets wi' the Bonny Gyetsiders.

Let them yence get 'im into their taings weel, Nae fear but they'll give him his whaings weel; And to Hezlett's Pond bring 'im, And there in chains hing 'im, What a seet for the Bonny Gyetsiders!

Now, marrows, to shew we're a' loyal, And that, wi' the King and Blood Royal, We'll a' soom or sink, Quairts a-piece let us drink, To the brave and the Bonny Gyetsiders.

THE WATER OF TYNE.

I cannot get to my love, if I should dee, The water of Tyne runs between him and me; And here I must stand, with the tear in my e'e, Both sighing and sickly my sweetheart to see.

O where is the boatman? my bonny honey! O where is the boatman? bring him to me-- To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey, And I will remember the boatman and thee.

O bring me a boatman--I'll give any money, (And you for your trouble rewarded shall be) To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey, Or skull him across that rough river to me.

THE NEWCASTLE SIGNS.

Written by Cecil Pitt, and sung at the Theatre-Royal, Newcastle, by Mr. Scriven, June 4, 1806.

Should the French in Newcastle but dare to appear, At each sign they would meet with indifferent cheer; From the Goat and the Hawk, from the Bell and the Waggon, And the Dog, they would skip, as St. George made the Dragon.

The Billet, the Highlander, Cross Keys, and Sun, The Eagle and Ships too, would shew 'em some fun; The Three Kings and Unicorn, Bull's Head and Horse, Would prove, that the farther they went they'd fare worse.

At the Black House, a _strong-Arm_, would lay ev'ry man on, And they'd quickly go off, if they got in the Cannon: The Nelson and Turk's Head their fears would increase, And they'd run from the Swan like a parcel of geese.

At the York and the Cumberland, Cornwallis too, With our Fighting Cocks, sure they'd have plenty to do; The Nag's Head and Lions would cut such an evil, And the Angel would drive the whole crew to the devil.

At the World, and the Fountain, the Bridge, Crown and Thistle, The Bee-Hive, and Tuns, for a drop they might whistle; With our Prince, or our Crown, should they dare interpose, They'd prick their French fingers well under the Rose.

At the Half Moon, the Wheat Sheaf, and Old Barley-Mow, A sup's to be got--if they could but tell how; If they call'd at the Bull and the Tiger to ravage, As well as the Black Boy, they'd find 'em quite savage.

At the Ark, and the Anchor, Pack Horse, and Blue Posts, And the Newmarket Inn, they would find but rough hosts; The Old Star and Garter, Cock, Anchor, and more, Would prove, like the Grapes, all most cursedly sour.

The Lion and Lamb, Plough, and Old Robin Hood, With the Crane House, would check these delighters in blood; From the Butchers' Arms quick they'd be running away, And we all know that Shakespeare would shew 'em some _play_.

At the White Hart, Three Bulls' Heads, the Old Dog and Duck, If they did not get thrash'd, they'd escape by good luck: At the Bird in Bush, Metters' Arms, Peacock, they'd fast, And our King's and Queen's Heads we'll defend till the last.

May the sign of the King ever meet with respect, And our great Constitution each Briton protect; And may he who would humble our Old British Crown, Be hung on a sign-post till I take him down.

THE WONDERFUL GUTTER.

Since Boney was sent to that place owre the sea, We've had little to talk of, but far less to dee; But now they're a' saying, we suen will get better, When yence they begin with the wonderful Gutter,

The great lang Gutter, the wonderful Gutter: Success to the Gutter! and prosper the Plough!

The way how aw ken--when aw was at the toon, Aw met Dicky Wise near the Rose and the Croon; And as Dicky reads papers, and talks aboot Kings, Wey he's like to ken weel about Gutters and things; So he talk'd owre the Gutter, &c.

He then a lang story began for to tell, And said that it often was ca'd a Can-nell; But he thowt, by a Gutter, aw wad understand, That's it's cutten reet through a' the Gentlemen's land. Now that's caw'd a Gutter, &c.

Now, whether the sea's owre big at the West, Or scanty at Sheels--wey, ye mebby ken best; For he says they can team, aye, without any bother, A sup out o' yen, a' the way to the tother, By the great lang Gutter, &c.

Besides, there'll be bridges, and locks, and lairge keys, And shippies, to trade wiv eggs, butter, and cheese: And if they'll not sail weel, for want o' mair force, They'll myek ne mair fuss, but yoke in a strang horse, To pull through the Gutter, &c.

Ye ken there's a deal that's lang wanted a myel, When they start wi' the Gutter 'twill thicken their kyell: Let wages be high, or be just what they may, It will certainly help to drive hunger away, While they work at the Gutter, &c.

There's wor Tyne sammun tee 'ill not ken what's the matter, When they get a gobful o' briny saut watter; But if they should gan off, it's cum'd into my nob, For to myek some amends we mun catch a' the cod, That sweems down the Gutter, &c.

So come money and friends support Willy Armstrang, In vent'rin a thoosan ye canna get wrang; While we get wor breed by the sweet o' wor brow, Success to the Gutter! and prosper the Plough! The great lang Gutter, &c.

THE LOCAL MILITIA-MAN.

Tune--"Madam Fag's Gala."

How! marrows, aw'se tip you a sang, If ye'll nobbit give your attention, Aw've sarrow'd maw king seven years, And aw'm now luikin out for the pension. But when my adventures aw tell, An' should ye fin reason to doubt it, An' think it mair than aw deserve, Aw'se just rest contented without it. Rum ti idity, &c.

Ye mun ken, when aw first went to drill, Maw gun aw flang owre maw heed, Fell'd the chep that stuid close in ahint me, He lay kickin and sprawlin for deed. But when wor manuvres we lairn'd, Wor Cornel o' huz grew se fond, man, He match'd us gyen four smashing targets, Close ower ayont Heslop's Pond, man. Rum ti idity, &c.