Part 7

We mairch'd off at nine i' the mornin, And at four we were not quite duin, While a bite never enter'd our thropples: Wi' hunger were fit to lie doon. But wor fellows they tuik sic an aim, Ye wad thought that they shot for a wager; And yen chep, the deil pay his hide, He varra nigh shot the Drum-Major. Rum ti idity, &c.

Suin efter, 'twas on the Vairge Day, 'Bout the time that wor Cornel was Mayor, Fra Gyetshead we fir'd ower their heeds, Myed the fokes in Newcassel to stare. To Newburn we then bore away, And embark'd just beside a great Dung-hole, Wi' biscuit and plenty o' yell, And wor Adjutant Clerk o' the Bung-hole. Rum ti idity, &c.

Wor Triangular Lad lowp'd first ashore, When the folks ran like cows or mad bulls; Iv a jiffy they cam back to fight us, Wi' pokers and three-footed stuils. When they fand he was not Bonnyparty, Nor nyen ov his sowgers frae France, The music then started to play, And we for to caper and dance. Rum ti idity, &c.

Sic wark as we had efter that, Wad tyek a lang day for to tell, How we fronted, an' flankt it, an' maircht Through the sowgers at Thropley Fell, At the Play-house we've shin'd mony a time, Wor scaups a' besmatter-d wi' flour; But that neet it wad myed the deil gurn, To see us a' powthert wi' stour. Rum ti idity, &c.

Yen day we were form'd in a ring, And wor Cornel said this, 'at ne'er spoke ill, "Ye your sarvis, my lads, mun transfer Tiv a core caw'd the Durham Foot Local." So tiv Sunderland if ye'd but gan, And see us a' stand in a line, Ye'd swear that a few finer fellows Ne'er cam fra the Wear and the Tyne. Rum ti idity, &c.

MASQUERADE AT NEWCASTLE THEATRE;

_Or, The Pitman turned Critic_.

As Jemmy the brakesman and me Was taukin 'bout sentries and drill, We saw, clagg'd agyen a yek tree, A fower-square little hand-bill. Says Jemmy, Now halt tiv aw read her; When up cam wor canny au'd Sairgan: Says he, Ye mun come to the Teapot, On Friday, and get yor dischairge, man. Tol de rol, &c.

We dress'd worsels smart, cam to toon, Mister Government paid us wor brass: Then we swagger'd off to the Hauf Meun, To rozzel wor nobs wiv a glass. We sang, smok'd, and fuddled away, And cut mony a wonderful caper; Says aw, Smash! howay to the Play, Or, what some folks ca' a Theater. Tol de rol, &c.

We ran, and seun fand a good plyace, Aye, before they'd weel hoisted their leets; When a lyedy, wi' gauze ower her fyece, Cam an' tummel'd ower twe o' the seats. Aw hardly kend what for to say; But says aw, Div ye fin owse the warse? Says her neybeur, Pop Folly's the Play, And Maskamagrady's the Farce. Tol de rol, &c.

The Players they cam on iv dozens, Wiv fine dusty buits without spurs; And they tauk'd about mothers and cousins, So did Jemmy and me about wors. We had plenty o' fiddlin and fleutin, Till the bugles began for to blaw; Then aw thowt aw heerd wor Major shootin, Fa' in, my lads! stand in a raw! Tol de rol, &c.

We then see'd a little smart chap, Went lowpin and skippin aboot; Says aw, Smash! thou is up to trap! For he let the fokes byeth in and out. There was Fawstaff, a fat luikin fellow, Wiv a Miss in each airm, being drunkey; Then a black Lyedy, wiv a numbrella, A fiddler, a bear, and a monkey. Tol de rol, &c.

Next cam on a swaggerin blade, He's humpt o' byeth shouthers an' legs; A blackymoor, painter by trade, And o' dancing was myekin his brags: When a collier cam on, quick as thowt, Maw sarties! but he gat a pauler; Says he, Smash! aw'll dance thou for owt; Then says aw, Five to fower on Kit Swaller! Tol de rol, &c.

He danc'd the Keel Row to sic tune, His marrow declar'd he was bet: Some yell ower Kit's shouthers was slung, So they byeth had their thropples weel wet. A lyem sowger cam on wiv twee sticks, Then a bussy-tail'd pinkey wee Frenchman; Next a chep, wiv some young lunaticks, Was wanting the mad-house at Bensham. Tol de rol, &c.

There was Punch fed his bairn wiv a ladle, And ga'd some kirn milk for to lyep; Then he thumpt it till he wasn't yebbel, Because the poor thing cuddent gyep. Some were shootin shoe-ties iv a street; Lang Pat, wiv his last dyin speeches, Wagg'd hands wiv a lass, that, yen neet, Tuik seven-pence out o' maw breeches. Tol de rol, &c.

Then a gentleman's housey tuik feyre, As the watchman caw'd 'Past ten o'clock!' The manny fell into the meyre, And the wife ran away iv her smock. The Skipper that saddled the cow, And rid seven miles for the howdy, Was dancing wiv Jenny Bawloo, That scadded her gob wiv a crowdy. Tol de rol, &c.

Then a chep, wiv a show on his back, Cam and show'd us fine pictures, se funny; He whupt it a' off in a crack, Because they wad gether ne money. To end with, there cam a Balloon, But some gav it's puddings a slit, man; For, afore it gat up to the meun, It emptied itsel i' the pit, man. Tol de rol, &c.

NANCY WILKINSON.

At Cullercoats, near to the sea, Lives one I often think upon; Bewitching is the lovely e'e Of bonny Nancy Wilkinson.

By Tyne, or Blyth, or Coquet clear, No swain did ever blink upon A charmer equal to my dear, My handsome Nancy Wilkinson.

Sweet cherry cheeks, a lofty brow, Bright hair, that waves in links upon A neck, white as the purest snow, Has comely Nancy Wilkinson. By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.

Her virtues, like her beauty, rare; But terms I ne'er can think upon, Fit to panegyrise my fair, My constant Nancy Wilkinson. By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.

For her rich ladies I'd refuse, With all their shining tinsels on; None else can wake my slumbering Muse, But lovely Nancy Wilkinson. By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.

Aurora, from the Eastern sky, Her robes the glowing tints upon, Is not so viewly to mine eye As modest Nancy Wilkinson. By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.

Let sordid misers count their wealth, And guineas guineas clink upon; All I request of Heav'n is health, And dear, dear Nancy Wilkinson. By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.

GREEN'S BALLOON.

[Messrs. Green ascended in their grand Coronation Balloon, from the Nuns' Field, in Newcastle, four times: the first time, on Wednesday, May 11; second time, on Whit-Monday, May 23; third time, on Monday, May 30; and the fourth time, on Race-Thursday, July 14, 1825.]

Tune--"Barbara Bell."

Now just come and listen a while till aw tell, man, Of a wonderful seet t'other day aw did see: As aw was gaun trudgen alang by mysel, man, Aw met wi' wor skipper, aye just on the Key. O skipper, says aw, mun, wye where are ye gannen? Says he, come wi' me, for aw's gaun up the toon; Now just come away, for we munnet stand blabbin, Or we'll be ower lang for to see the Balloon. Right fal de, &c.

The balloon, man, says aw, wey aw never heard tell on't, What kind o' thing is it? now skipper tell me: Says he, It's a thing that gans up by the sel' on't, And if ye'll gan to the Nuns' Gate, man, ye'll see. So to the Nuns' Gate then we went in a hurry, And when we gat there, man, the folks stood in crowds; And aw heerd a chep say, he wad be very sorry, If it went to the meun, reet clean thro' the clouds. Right fal de, &c.

We stared and luik'd round us, but nought could we see, man, Till a thing it went up as they fir'd a gun: Cried the skipper, Aw warnd that's the little Pee-dee, man, Gyen to tell folks above 'twill be there varry suen. Then a' iv a sudden it cam ower the house-tops, man, It was like a hay-stack, and luikt just as big; Wiv a boat at the tail on't, all tied tid wi' ropes, man, Begox! it was just like wor awd Sandgate gig. Right fal de, &c.

And there was two cheps that sat in the inside, man, Wi' twee little things they kept poweyin her roun'; Just like wor skipper when we've a bad tide, man: Aw warnd they were fear'd that the thing wad come down; And still the twee cheps kept poweyin her reet man, For upwards she went, aye clean ower the toon; They powey'd till they powey'd her reet out o' seet, man, That was a' that we saw o' this grand air balloon. Right fal de, &c.

The skipper cam to me, tuik haud o' my hand, man, Says, What do ye think o' this seet that's been given? Says aw, Aw can't tell, but it's a' very grand, man; Aw wish the cheps byeth safely landed in heaven. 'Twad be a good plan to tyek's up when we're deed, man; For which way we get there 'twill be a' the syem: And then for wor Priests we'd stand little need, man: So me and wor skipper we went wor ways hyem. Right fal de, &c.

THE NEWGATE-STREET PETITION

TO MR. MAYOR.

Alack! and well-a-day! Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor; We are all to grief a prey, Mr. Mayor: They are pulling NEWGATE down, That structure of renown, Which so long hath graced our town, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

Antiquarians think't a scandal, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor; It would shock a Goth or Vandal, They declare: What! destroy the finest _Lion_ That ever man set eye on! 'Tis a deed all must cry fie on, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

St. Andrew's Parishioners, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, Loud blame the Gaol-Commissioners, Mr. Mayor; To pull down a pile so splendid, Shews their powers are too extended, And _The Act_ must be amended, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

If _Blackett-Street_ they'd level, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, Or with _Bond-Street_[3] play the devil, Who would care? But on _Newgate's_ massive walls, When Destruction's hammer falls, For our sympathy it calls, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

'Tis a Pile of ancient standing, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, Deep reverence commanding, Mr. Mayor: Men of _Note_ and _Estimation_, In their course of _Elevation_, Have in it held a station, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

'Tis a first-rate kind of College, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, Where is taught much useful knowledge, Mr. Mayor: When our fortunes "gang aglee," If worthy Mr. Gee[4] Does but on us turn his key, All's soon well, Mr. Mayor.

In beauty, nought can match it, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor: Should you think we _throw the Hatchet_, Mr. Mayor: John A----n, with ease, (In purest _Portugueze_) Will convince you, if you please, To consult him, Mr. Mayor.

He'll prove t'ye, in a trice, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, 'Tis a pearl of great price, Mr. Mayor: For of ancient wood or stone, The value--few or none Can better tell than John, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

Of this Edifice bereft, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, To the Neighbourhood what's left? Mr. Mayor: The _Nuns' Gate_, it is true, Still rises to our view, But that Modern Babel, few Much admire, Mr. Mayor.

True, a building 'tis, _unique_, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, A charming _fancy freak_, Mr. Mayor: But candour doth impel us, To own that Strangers tell us, The _Lodge_ of our _Odd Fellows_, They suppos'd it, Mr. Mayor.

Still, if _Newgate's_ doom'd to go, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, To the _Carliol Croft_--heigh-ho! Mr. Mayor, As sure as you're alive, (And long, sir, may you thrive,) The shock we'll ne'er survive, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

Then pity our condition, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, And stop its demolition, Mr. Mayor; The Commissioners restrain, From causing us such pain, And we'll pay and ne'er complain, The _Gaol-Cess_, Mr. Mayor.

Footnote 3: Now called Prudhoe Street.

Footnote 4: The Gaoler.

BURDON'S ADDRESS TO HIS CAVALRY.

_A PARODY._

Soldiers whom Newcastle's bred, View your Cornel at your head, Who's been call'd out of his bed To serve his Country. Now's the time when British Tars With their Owners are at wars; And they've sent for us--O Mars! Assist the Cavalry!

Now, my noble sons of Tyne! Let your valour nobly shine; There at last has come a time To shew your bravery. But, my lads, be not alarm'd! You're to fight with men unarm'd! Who in multitudes have swarm'd-- Before us they must flee!

Then they cry out, every man, "Cornel, we'll de a' we can!" So away to Shields they ran: O what Cavalry! But they had no call to fight, The Marines had bet them quite; And the Cornel's made a Knight, For the Victory!

THE COLLIER'S KEEK AT THE NATION.

Huz Colliers, for a' they can say, Hae byeth heads and hearts that are sound-- And if we're but teun i' wor way, There's few better cheps above ground. Tom Cavers and me, fra West Moor, On a kind ov a jollification, Yen day myed what some folks call a tour, For a keek at the state o' the nation.

We fand, ere we'd lang been on jaunt, That the world wasn't gannin sae cliver-- It had gettin a Howdon-Pan cant, As aw gat once at wor box-dinner. Monny tyels, tee, we heard, stiff and gleg-- Some laid the world straight as a die-- Some crook'd as a dog's hinder leg, Or, like wor fitter's nose, all a-wry.

One tell'd me, my heart for to flay, (Thinking aw knew nought about town) Out o' my three-and-sixpence a-day, The King always gat half-a-crown. Aw said they were fuels not to ken That aw gat a' the brass me awnsel'-- Ga' wor Peg three white shillins, and then Laid the rest out on backey and yell!

They blabb'd oot that aw was mistuen-- That maw brains sairly wanted _seduction_-- Without _animal_ Parliaments _seun_ We wad a' gan to wreck and _construction_-- That we'd wrought ower lang for wor lair-- That landlords were styen-hearted tykes-- For their houses and land only fair, To divide them and live as yen likes!

To bring a' these fine things about Was as easy as delving aslent is-- Only get some rapscallion sought out, And to Lunnin sent up to present us. Thinks aw to mysel' that's weel meant-- There's wor Cuddy owre laith to de good, We'll hev him to Parliament sent, Where he'll bray, smash his byens, for his blood.

Then, says aw, Tommy, keep up thy pluck, We may a' live to honour wor nation-- So here's tiv Au'd England, good luck! And may each be content in his station. Huz Colliers, for a' they can say, Hae byeth heeds and hearts that are sound-- And if we're but teun i' wor way, There's few better cheps above ground.

BLIND WILLIE SINGING.

Ye gowks that 'bout daft Handel swarm, Your senses but to harrow-- Steyn deaf to strains that 'myest wad charm The heart iv a wheelbarrow-- To wor Keyside awhile repair, Mang Malls and bullies pig in, To hear encor'd, wi' monie a blair, Poor au'd Blind Willie's singin'.

To hear fine Sinclair tune his pipes Is hardly worth a scuddock-- It's blarney fair, and stale as swipes Kept ower lang i' the huddock. Byeth Braham and Horn behint the wa' Might just as weel be swingin, For a' their squeelin's nought at a' To au'd Blind Willie singin'.

About "_Sir Maffa_" lang he sung, Far into high life keekin'-- Till "_Buy Broom Buzzoms_" roundly swung, He gae their lugs a sweepin'. A stave yence myed _Dumb Bet_ to greet, Sae fine wi' cat-gut stringin'-- _Bold Airchy_ swore it was a treat To hear Blind Willie singin'.

Aw've heard it said, _Fan Welch_, one day, On pepper'd oysters messin', Went in to hear him sing and play, An' get a moral lesson. She vow'd 'twas hard to haud a heel-- An' thowt (the glass while flingin) Wi' clarts they should be plaister'd weel That jeer'd Blind Willie's singin'.

It's fine to hear wor bellman talk-- It's wondrous fine and cheerin' To hear _Bet Watt_ and _Euphy Scott_ Scold, fight, or bawl fresh heerin': To see the keels upon the Tyne, As thick as hops a' swimmin', Is fine indeed, but still mair fine To hear Blind Willie singin'.

Lang may wor Tyneside lads sae true, In heart byeth blithe an' mellow, Bestow the praise that's fairly due To this bluff, honest fellow-- And when he's hamper'd i' the dust, Still i' wor memory springin', The times we've run till like to brust To hear blind Willie singin'.

But may he live to cheer the _bobs_ That skew the coals to shivers, Whee like their drink to grip their gobs, And burn their varry livers. So, if ye please, aw'll myek an end, My sang ne farther dingin', Lest ye may think that aw pretend To match Blind Willie's singin'.

BOLD ARCHY & BLIND WILLIE'S LAMENT

ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN STARKEY.

"What! is he gyen?" _Bold Airchy_ said, And moungin' scratch'd his head-- "O can sic waesome news be true? Is Captain Starkey dead? Aw's griev'd at heart--push round the can-- Seun empty frae wor hands we'll chuck it-- For now we'll drink wor last to him, Since he has fairly kick'd the bucket.

My good shag hat ne mair aw'll wave, His canny fyace to see-- Wor bairns' bairns will sing o' him, As Gilchrist sings o' me For O! he was a lad o' wax! Aw've seen him blithe, an' often mellow-- He might hae faults, but, wi' them a', We've seldom seen a better fellow.

Yen day they had me drown'd for fun, Which myed the folks to blair; Aw myest could wish, for his dear sake, That aw'd been drown'd for fair. On monny a day when cannons roar, Yen loyal heart will then be missin'-- If there be yell, we'll toast his nyem-- If there be nyen, he'll get wor blissin'."

_Blind Willie_ then strumm'd up his kit Wi' monny a weary drone, Which _Thropler_, drunk, and _Cuckoo Jack_ Byeth answer'd wiv a groan. "Nice chep! poor chep!" Blind Willie said-- "My heart is pierc'd like onny riddle, To think aw've liv'd to see him dead-- Aw never mair 'ill play the fiddle.

His gam is up, his pipe is out, And fairly laid his craw-- His fame 'ill blaw about, just like Coal dust at Shiney-Raw. He surely was a joker rare-- What times there'd been for a' the nation, Had he but liv'd to be a Mayor, The glory o' wor Corporation.

But he has gi'en us a' the slip, And gyen for evermore-- _Au'd Judy_ and _Jack Coxon_ tee, Has gyen awhile before-- And we maun shortly follow them, An' tyek the bag, my worthy gentles-- Then what 'ill poor Newcassel dee, Depriv'd of all her ornamentals!

We'll moralize--for dowly thowts, Are mair wor friends than foes-- For death, like when the tankard's out, Brings a' things tiv a close. May we like him, frae grief and toil, When laid in peace beneath the hether-- Upon the last eternal shore, A' happy, happy meet together!"

A VOYAGE TO LUNNIN.

Lang years ower meadows, moors, and muck, I cheerly on did waddle-- So various is the chance o' luck Between the grave and cradle. When wark at hyem turn'd rather scant, I thought 'twas fair humbuggin'; An' so aw even teuk a jaunt, Faiks, a' the way to Lunnin.

_Lord Howick_ was my chosen ship, Weel rigg'd byeth stem and quarter, The maister was a cannie chep-- They ca'd him Jacky Carter. Wi' heart as free frae guilt as care, I pack'd up all my duddin, And shipp'd aboard--the wind blew fair-- Away we sail'd for Lunnin.

Safe ower the bar a-head we tint-- The day was fine and sunny; And seun we left afar behint, Wor land o' milk and honey. But few their dowly thoughts can tyem-- May be the tears were comin'-- Sair griev'd, ne doubt, to pairt wi' hyem, Though gaun to keek at Lunnin.

Fareweel, Tyne Brig and cannie Kee, Where aw've seen monny a shangy, Blind Willie, Captain Starkey tec-- Bold Archy and great Hangy. Fareweel Shoe Ties, Jack Tate, Whin Bob, Cull Billy, and Jack Cummin, Au'd Judy, Jen Bawloo--aw'll sob Your praises all at Lunnin.

Some such as me the hyke myed sick, And myed them rue their roamin': Still forward plung'd wor gallant ship, And left the water foamin'. Waes me! but 'tis a bonny seet, O land o' beef and puddin'! To see thy tars, in pluck complete, Haud fair their course for Lunnin!

Hail, Tyneside lads! in collier fleets, The first in might and motion-- In sunshine days or stormy neets The lords upon the ocean. Come England's foes--a countless crew-- Ye'll gie their gobs a scummin', And myek them a' the day to rue, They glibb'd their jaws at Lunnin.

I thought mysel a sailor good, And flired while some lay sprawlin', Till where the famous Robin Hood Sends out his calms or squallin'-- 'Twas there aw felt aw scarce ken how-- For a' things teuk a bummin', And myed me wish, wi' retch and spew, The ship safe moor'd at Lunnin.

As round by Flambrough Head we shot, Down cam a storm upon us-- Thinks aw, we're fairly gyen to pot-- O dear!--have mercy on us! Ower northern plains 'twill dowly sound, And set their eyes a runnin', When they shall tell that aw was drown'd, Just gannin up to Lunnin.

To cheer wor hearts in vain they brought The porter, grog, and toddy-- My head swam round whene'er aw thought Upon a fat pan-soddy. "O what the plague fetch'd us frae hyem!" Some in the glumps were glummin'; I could hae blubber'd, but thought shyem, While gaun a voyage to Lunnin.

Cross Boston Deeps how we did spin, Skelp'd on by noisy Boreas, Up Yarmouth Roads, and seun up Swin, The water flew before us. O glorious seet! the Nore's in view-- Like fire and flood we're scuddin': Ne mair we'll bouk wor boiley now, But seun be safe at Lunnin.

Hail, bonny Tyames! weel smon thy waves! A world might flourish bi' them-- And, faiks, they weel deserve the praise That a' the world gies ti them. O lang may commerce spread her stores, Full on thy bosom dinnin'-- Weel worthy thou to lave the shores O' sic a town as Lunnin.

Seun Black-Wall Point we left astern, Far ken'd in dismal story-- And Greenwich Towers we now discern, Au'd England's pride and glory. Sure Nature's sel inspir'd my staves, For I began a crunnin', And blair'd, 'Britannia rule the waves!' As by we sail'd for Lunnin.

Fornenst the Tower, we made a click, Where traitors gat their fairins', And where they say that hallion Dick Yence scumfish'd two wee bairins. Hitch, step, and loup, I sprang ashore. My heart reet full o' funnin'-- And seun forgat the ocean's war, Amang the joys o' Lunnin.

THE NEWCASSEL PROPS.

Oh, waes me, for wor canny toon, It canna stand it lang-- The props are tumbling one by one, The beeldin seun mun gan; For Deeth o' late has no been blate, But sent some jovial souls a joggin: Aw niver griev'd for Jackey Tate, Nor even little Airchy Loggan.