Part 8

But when maw lugs was 'lectrified Wiv Judy Downey's deeth, Alang wi' Heufy Scott aw cried, Till byeth was out o' breeth; For greet and sma', fishwives and a' Luik'd up tiv her wi' veneration-- If Judy's in the Courts above, Then for Au'd Nick there'll be nae 'cation.

Next Captain Starkey teuk his stick, And myed his final bow; Aw wonder if he's scribblin yet, Or what he's efter now; Or if he's drinking gills o' yell, Or axing pennies to buy bakky-- If not allow'd where Starkey's gyen, Aw'm sure that he'll be quite unhappy.

Jack Coxon iv a trot went off, One morning very seun-- Cull Billy said, he'd better stop, But Deeth cried, Jackey, come! Oh! few like him could lift their heel, Or tell what halls were in the county: Like mony a proud, black-coated chiel', Jack liv'd upon the parish bounty.

But cheer up, lads, and dinna droop, Blind Willy's to the fore, The blythest iv the motley groop, And fairly worth the score: O weel aw like to hear him sing, 'Bout au'd Sir Mat. and Dr. Brummel-- If he but lives to see the King, There's nyen o' Willy's friends need grummel.

Cull Billy, tee, wor lugs to bliss, Wiv news 'bout t'other warld, Aw move that, when wor Vicar dees, The place for him be arl'd; For aw really think, wiv half his wit, He'd myek a reet good pulpit knocker: Aw'll tell ye where the birth wad fit-- He hugs sae close the parish copper.

Another chep, and then aw's duen, He bangs the tothers far: Yor mavies wonderin whe aw mean-- Ye gowks, it's Tommy C--r! When lodgin's scarce, just speak to him, Yor hapless case he'll surely pity. He'll 'sist upon your gannin in, To sup wi' S--tt, and see the Kitty.

NEWCASSEL WONDERS.

Sic wonders there happens iv wor canny toon, Sae wise and sae witty Newcassel has grown, That for hummin, and hoaxing, and tyekin folk in, We'll suen learn the Lunneners far better things.

We've wonderful Knights, and wondrous Hussars, Wonderful Noodles, and wonderful Mayors; For as lang as a keel gans down river Tyne, For wisdom and valour, O A----y, thou'll shine.

We've R----s and V----s, a time-serving crew; But, says aw to mysel, gie the deevil his due, For ov priests and excisemen, and limbs o' the law, There's ten tiv the dozen 'ill gan down belaw.

And whe wad hae thowt now that iver Au'd Nick, Wiv wor canny toon wad hae gettin sae thick; That iv Luckley's au'd house he's set up Hell's Kitchen, Where the tyelyers and snobs find the yell se bewitchin.

There's canny Tom Lid--l, they've myed him a Lord, For learning his ploughmen to play wi' the sword; But if ony invaders should Britain assail, They'll slip off their skins and run to the plough-tail.

We've a Captain of watchmen, he's second to nyen, He dislikes to see folks gannin quietly hyem; For if ye but mention the nyem o' Tom C--r, To the care of Jack S--tt, he'll yor body transfer.

TIM TUNBELLY.

Tune--"Canny Newcassel."

Now lay up your lugs, a' ye freemen that's poor, And aw'll rhyme without pension or hire-- Come listen, ye dons that keep cows on the Moor, Though ye couldn't keep them iv a byre-- And a' ye non-freemen, wherever ye be, Though dame Fortune has myed sic objections, That you're neither o' Town nor o' Trinity free, To be brib'd and get drunk at elections.

When aw was but little, aw mind varry weel That Joe C--k was the friend o' the freemen-- Aw mysel' heerd him say, his professions to seal, He wad care very little to dee, man. Corporation corruptions he sair did expose, And show'd plain whee was rook and whee pigeon While El----h, the cobbler, in fury arose, And pummell'd Sir M----w's religion.

Some sly common councilman happen'd to think That the patriots mebbies had pocket-- So they sent Joe an order for wafers and ink, And the Custom-house swallow'd the prophet. Now if ever these worthies should happen to dee, And Au'd Nick scamper off wiv his booty, Just imagine yorsels what reformin there'll be, If belaw there's ne _printing_ nor _duty_.

But there's honest folk yet now, so dinna be flaid, Though El----h and Joe has desarted-- For a chep they ca' Tunbelly's ta'en up the trade, And bizzy he's been sin' he started: Aboot town-surveyin' he's open'd wor eyes, And put Tommy Gee into a pickle-- He's gi'en to Jack Proctor a birth i' the skies, And immortal he's render'd Bob Nichol.

Now, if ony refuse to the freemen their dues, They're far greater fules than aw thowt them-- Let R----y ne mair stand godfather to cows, Nor his cousin swear on--till he's bowt them. Niver mind what the cheps o' the council may say, He'll seun sattle obstropolous Billy-- Ne mair he'll refuse for a way-leave to pay, For fear o' the ditch and Tunbelly.

The good that he's deun scarce a volume wad tell, But there's one thing that will be a wonder-- If Tunbelly losses conceit iv his sel' Till his head the green sod be laid under. But we a' hae wor likens, what for shouldn't Tim? And aw'm shure he a mense to wor town is-- So fill up your glasses once mair to the brim, And drink to the Newcastle JUNIUS.

THE KEEL ROW.

Weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, Weel may the keel row, and better may she speed: Weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, Weel may the keel row, that gets the bairns their breed.

We teuk wor keel up to the dyke, Up to the dyke, up to the dyke, We teuk wor keel up to the dyke, And there we gat her load; Then sail'd away down to Shields, Down to Shields, down to Shields, Then sail'd away down to Shields, And shipp'd wor coals abroad. Singing--Weel may the keel row, &c.

Then we row'd away up to the fest, Up to the fest, up to the fest, We row'd away up to the fest, Cheerly every man; Pat by wor gear and moor'd wor keel, And moor'd wor keel, and moor'd wor keel, Pat by wor gear and moor'd wor keel, Then went and drank wor can, Singing--Weel may the keel row, &c.

Our canny wives, our clean fireside, Our bonny bairns, their parents' pride, Sweet smiles that make life smoothly glide, We find when we gan hyem: They'll work for us when we get au'd, They'll keep us frae the winter's cau'd; As life declines they'll us uphaud-- When young we uphaud them. Weel may the keel row, &c.

THE BARBER'S NEWS;

_Or, Shields in an Uproar._

Great was the consternation, amazement, and dismay, sir, Which both in North and South Shields, prevail'd the other day, sir; Quite panic-struck the natives were, when told by the Barber, That a terrible Sea Monster had got into the harbour. "Have you heard the news, sir?" What news, pray, Master Barber? "Oh a terrible Sea Monster has got into the harbour!"

Now each honest man in Shields--I mean both North and South, sir, Delighting in occasions to expand their eyes and mouth, sir: And, fond of seeing marv'lous sights, ne'er staid to get his beard off; But ran to view the Monster, its arrival when he heard of. Oh! who could think of shaving when inform'd by the Barber, That a terrible Sea Monster had got into the harbour.

Each wife pursu'd her husband, and every child its mother, Lads and lasses, helter skelter, scamper'd after one another; Shopkeepers and mechanics too, forsook their daily labours, And ran to gape and stare among their gaping, staring neighbours. All crowded to the river side, when told by the Barber, That a terrible Sea Monster had got into the harbour.

It happens very frequently that Barber's news is fiction, sir, But the wond'rous news this morning was truth, no contradiction, sir; A something sure enough was there, among the billows flouncing, Now sinking in the deep profound, now on the surface bouncing. True as Gazette or Gospel were the tidings of the Barber, That a terrible Sea Monster had got into the harbour.

Some thought it was a Shark, sir; a Porpus some conceiv'd it; Some said it was a Grampus, and some a Whale believ'd it; Some swore it was a Sea Horse, then own'd themselves mistaken, For, now they'd got a nearer view--'twas certainly a Kraken. Each sported his opinion from the Parson to the Barber, Of the terrible Sea Monster they'd gotten in the harbour.

"Belay, belay!" a sailor cried, "What that, this thing a Kraken! 'Tis no more like one, split my jib! than it is a flitch of bacon! I've often seen a hundred such, all sporting in the Nile, sir, And you may trust a sailor's word, it is a Crocodile, sir." Each straight to Jack knocks under, from the Parson to the Barber, And all agreed a Crocodile had got into the harbour.

Yet greatly Jack's discovery his auditors did shock, sir, For they dreaded that the Salmon would be eat up by the Croc, sir: When presently the Crocodile, their consternation crowning, Rais'd its head above the waves, and cried, "Help! O Lord, I'm drowning!" Heavens! how their hair, sir, stood on end, from the Parson to the Barber, To find a speaking Crocodile had got into the harbour.

This dreadful exclamation appall'd both young and old, sir In the very stoutest hearts, indeed, it made the blood run cold, sir; Ev'n Jack, the hero of the Nile, it caus'd to quake and tremble, Until an old wife, sighing, cried, "Alas! 'tis Stephen Kemble!" Heav'ns! how they all astonish'd were, from the Parson to the Barber, To find that Stephen Kemble was the Monster in the harbour.

Straight Crocodilish fears gave place to manly gen'rous strife, sir, Most willingly each lent a hand to save poor Stephen's life, sir; They dragg'd him gasping to the shore, impatient for his history, For how he came in that sad plight, to them was quite a mystery. Tears glisten'd, sir, in every eye, from the Parson to the Barber, When, swoln to thrice his natural size, they dragg'd him from the harbour.

Now, having roll'd and rubb'd him well an hour upon the beach, sir, He got upon his legs again, and made a serious speech, sir: Quoth he, "An ancient proverb says, and true it will be found, sirs, Those born to prove an airy doom will surely ne'er be drown'd, sirs: For Fate, sirs, has us all in tow, from the Monarch to the Barber, Or surely I had breath'd my last this morning in the harbour.

Resolv'd to cross the river, sirs, a sculler did I get into, May Jonah's evil luck be mine, another when I step into! Just when we reach'd the deepest part, O horror! there it founders, And down went poor Pilgarlick amongst the crabs and flounders! But Fate, that keeps us all in tow, from the Monarch to the Barber, Ordain'd I should not breathe my last this morning in the harbour.

I've broke down many a stage coach, and many a chaise and gig, sirs; Once, in passing through a trap-hole, I found myself too big, sirs; I've been circumstanc'd most oddly, while contesting a hard race, sirs, But ne'er was half so frighten'd as among the Crabs and Plaice, sirs. O Fate, sirs, keeps us all in tow, from the Monarch to the Barber, Or certainly I'd breath'd my last this morning in the harbour.

My friends, for your exertions, my heart o'erflows with gratitude, O may it prove the last time you find me in that latitude; God knows with what mischances dire the future may abound, sirs, But I hope and trust I'm one of those not fated to be drown'd, sirs." Thus ended his oration, I had it from the Barber; And drippling, like some River God, he slowly left the harbour.

Ye men of North and South Shields too, God send you all prosperity! May your commerce ever flourish, your stately ships still crowd the sea: Unrivall'd in the Coal Trade, till doomsday may you stand, sirs, And, every hour, fresh wonders your eyes and mouth expand, sirs. And long may Stephen Kemble live, and never may the Barber Mistake him for a Monster more, deep floundering in the harbour.

THE BONASSUS.

Tune--"Jemmy Joneson's Whurry."

Let Wombwell, James, and a' the pack Iv yelpin' curs, beef-eaters, Ne mair about Bonasses crack, Them queer, outlandish creturs. Be dumb, ye leeing, yammering hounds, Nor wi' yor clavers fash us, For seun aw'll prove wor canny town Can boast its awn Bonassus.

It chanc'd when honest Bell was Mayor, And gat each poor man's blessin-- When cheps like G--e, and Tommy C--r Gat monny a gratis lesson; Then Bell refus'd to stand agyen, Tir'd iv the situation, And ne awd wife wad tyek the chain Iv a' wor Corporation.

The folks iv Shields has lang begrudg'd The Custom-house beside us; This was the time, they reetly judg'd, To come sae fine langside us: They had a chep, W----t was his nyem, To poor folk rather scurvy, They sent him up wor heeds to kyem, And turn us topsy turvy.

He seun began to show his horns, And treat the poor like vassals-- He sent the apple-wives to mourn A month iv wor awd Cassel. The _timber marchants_ will ne mair Wiv ten-a-penny deave us-- They swear iv W----t's to be wor Mayor, That i' the dark they'll leave us.

The drapers next he gov a gleece, 'Bout their unruly samples-- Bound ower the clouts to keep the peace, Wiv strings to the door stanchells. The tatee-market, iv a tift-- (Ye heuxters a' resent it! My sarties! but that was a shift,) To the Parade Ground sent it.

Ye gowks, frae Shields ye've oft slipt up, When ye had little 'casion, To see wor snobs their capers cut, Or Geordy's Coronation; Now altogether come yence mair, Wor blissins shall attend ye, If ye'll but rid us o' wor Mayor, Iv hackney's back we'll send ye.

SHIELDS CHAIN BRIDGE,

HUMOUROUSLY DESCRIBED BY A PITMAN.

Now, Geordy, my lad, sit as mute as a tyed, An' aw'll tell ye 'bout Chain Brig at's gaun to be myed; Aw'll begin at the furst, an' gan on till aw cum To the end o' my story--and then aw'll be deun. Some folks tell a plain, simple story at times, But aw'm nothing like them, aw tell a' things iv rhymes. Smash, Geordy, sit quiet--keep in thaw great toes, An' aw'll gan as straight forrat as waggoners goes.

Wey, ye see, the folks thought, i' gaun ower the water, 'Stead o' crossing wi' boats, 'at a Brig wad be better; So the gentlemen gather'd a great congregation, The syem as folks de at the heed o' the nation: Then they some things brought forrat, an' some they put back, So they sattled a Brig sud be built iv a crack. 'Twasn't lang efter this, aw gat haud iv a paper, Tell'd the size it should be, just as nice as a taper.

How! says aw to mysel, but they hevent been lang, Dash! a fellow like me may stite myek up a sang, Or some such like thing--just to myek a bit fun: So it's ne seuner said than it's cleverly deun. Folks thought me a genius when first aw was born-- But what is aw deein?--aw mun tell ye the form O' this said Iron Brig 'at aw's talking aboot, When aw pull up me breeches, and blaw out me snout.

Huge abutments o' styen, aw think they are call'd-- When aw com to that word aw was varry near pall'd; On each side o' the river yen o' thor things is myed, To fit intiv a hole they howk out wiv a spyed. Frae the tops o' thor pillars to the edge o' the banks, Varry strang iron chains, myed o' wrought iron links, Hingin' ower the house-tops o' byeth sides o' the river, Thor chains is continued frae pillar to pillar.

Frae the big'uns is hung some inferior in length, To the bottom of which a foundation of strength Is fixt, wrought wi' iron, and cover'd wi' styen, Then surmounted wi' railing--it's deun, skin and byen. Now, Geordy, what de ye think ov it, my lad?-- Wey, speak--what's the maiter--or ye tyen varry bad? Or extonishment is it that's sew'd up yor mouth? But aw divent much wonder, so aw'll tell the real truth.

Aw wonder wor owners disn't see into it, And myek a Chain Brig for to gan down wor pit. A! man, but it's cliver--it's use 'ill be great; For to what lad o' Shields wad the thought not be sweet; To cross ower the water without danger or fear, As aw've monny a time deun i' gawn ower the Wear. When we cross ower the water i' boats we're in danger, But the hazard is warse tiv a man 'at's a stranger.

While this hang'd ugly sailing o' packets survives, Were in very great danger o' losing wor lives. But it's ne use to tell the unnumber'd disasters Which happen to 'prentices, workmen, and masters, On crossing the Tyne i' them sma' sculler boats, Or ony thing else on the water that floats. At ony rate, the Chain Brig is a far safer plan, And would save mony lives--contradict it whe can!

Besides, ye knaw, Geordy, it's easier and better For the canny folks 'at leaves on the banks o' the water, To walk straight afore them 'stead o' gaun doon the street, And when they're iv a hurry running doon a' they meet; Forbye being kept myest an hour in suspense, By cairts, that sometimes myek a plague of a fence, Then the folks are a' stopt, tho' they be iv a hurry.

Now, ye blithe lads o' Shields, let it be a' yor glory, To get this Chain Brig rear'd on high in the air, Then we'll hae to soom amang steam-boats ne mair: Smash their great clumsy wheels! aw like nyen o' their wark, They once cowpt me owerboard, an' aw was wet to the sark; But catch me gaun ony mair near them again-- If aw de, say aw divent belang Collingwood Main!

THE COLLIERS' PAY WEEK,

BY HENRY ROBSON.

The Baff-week is o'er--no repining-- Pay-Saturday's swift on the wing; At length the blithe morning comes shining, When kelter makes colliers sing. 'Tis Spring, and the weather is cheary, The birds carol sweet on the spray; Now coal-working lads, trim and airy, To Newcastle town hie away.

Those married jog on with their hinnies, Their canny bairns go by their side; The daughters keep teazing their minnies For new cloaths to keep up their pride: They plead--Easter Sunday does fear them, For if they've got nothing that's new, The Crow, spiteful bird, will besmear them; Oh then, what a sight for to view!

The young men, full blithesome and jolly, March forward, all decently clad; Some lilting up "Cut-and-dry, Dolly," Some singing "The bonny Pit Lad:" The pranks that were play'd at last binding Engage some in humourous chat; Some halt by the way-side on finding Primroses to place in their hat.

Bob Cranky, Jack Hogg, and Dick Marley, Bill Hewitt, Luke Carr, and Tom Brown, In one jolly squad set off early From Benwell to Newcastle town: Such hewers as they (none need doubt it) Ne'er handled a shovel or pick; In high or low seam they could suit it, In regions next door to Old Nick.

Some went to buy hats and new jackets, And others to see a bit fun; And some wanted leather and tackets, To cobble their canny pit shoon: Save the ribbon Dick's dear had requested, (Aware he had plenty of chink) There was no other care him infested, Unless 'twere his care for good drink.

In the morning the dry man advances To purl-shop to toss off a gill. Ne'er dreading the ills and mischances Attending on those who sit still: The drink, Reason's monitor quelling, Inflames both the brain and the eyes; The enchantment commenc'd, there's no telling When care-drowning tipplers will rise.

O MALT! we acknowledge thy powers, What good and what ill dost thou brew! Our good friend in moderate hours-- Our enemy when we get fu': Could thy vot'ries avoid the fell furies So often awaken'd by thee, We should seldom need Judges or Juries To send folk to Tyburn tree!

At length in Newcastle they centre-- In Hardy's,[5] a house much renown'd, The jovial company enter, Where stores of good liquor abound: As quick as the servants could fill it, (Till emptied were quarts half a score) With heart-burning thirst down they swill it, And thump on the table for more.

While thus in fine cue they are seated, Young Cock-fighting Ned, from the Fell,[6] Peep'd in--his "How d'ye?" repeated, And hop'd they were all very well; He swore he was pleased to see them-- One rose up to make him sit down, And join in good fellowship wi' them-- For him they would spend their last crown.

The liquor beginning to warm them, In friendship the closer they knit, And tell and hear jokes--and to charm them, Comes Robin from Denton-bourn pit; An odd, witty, comical fellow, At either a jest or a tale, Especially when he was mellow With drinking stout Newcastle ale.

With bousing, and laughing, and smoking, The time slippeth swiftly away, And while they are ranting and joking, The church-clock proclaims it mid-day; And now for black-puddings, long measure, They go to Tib Trollibag's stand, And away bear the glossy rich treasure, With joy, like curl'd bugles in hand.

And now a choice house they agreed on, Not far from the head of the Quay: Where they their black puddings might feed on, And spend the remains of the day; Where pipers and fiddlers resorted, To pick up the straggling pence, And where the pit-lads often sported Their money at fiddle and dance.

Blind Willie[7] the fiddler sat scraping In corner just as they went in: Some Willington callants were shaking Their feet to his musical din: Jack vow'd he would have some fine cap'ring, As soon as their dinner was o'er, With the lassie that wore the white apron, Now reeling about on the floor.

Their hungry stomachs being eased, And gullets well clear'd with a glass, Jack rose from the table and seized The hand of the frolicsome lass. "Maw hinny!" says he, "pray excuse me-- To ask thee to dance aw myek free?" She replied, "I'd be loth to refuse thee-- Now fiddler play--"Jigging for me."

The damsel displays all her graces, The collier exerts all his power, They caper in circling paces, And _set_ at each end of the floor: He jumps, and his heels knack and rattle-- At turns of the music so sweet, He makes such a thundering brattle, The floor seems afraid of his feet.

This couple being seated, rose Bob up, He wish'd to make one in a jig; But a Willington lad set his gob up-- O'er him there should none "run the rig;" For now 'twas his turn for a caper, And he would dance first as he'd rose; Bob's passion beginning to vapour, He twisted his opponent's nose.

The Willington lads, for their Franky, Jump'd up to revenge the foul deed; And those in behalf of Bob Cranky Sprung forward--for now there was need. Bob canted the form, with a kevel, As he was exerting his strength; But he got on the lug such a nevel, That down came he, all his long length.