[46]The Oyster-tub alluded to stood on the Quay, nearly opposite to the foot of Grinding-chare. It formed rather an interesting feature in the winter nights, being accompanied by a large blazing lamp, at which sat the owner, attended by several loungers. On the death of old Margery Gray, which took place about October, 1831, this tub was removed, lest the long occupancy of the place should become a freehold, like the little barber's shop which stood at the east end of theMaison de Dieu, and which had originally been only a stall.August, 1833.
[46]The Oyster-tub alluded to stood on the Quay, nearly opposite to the foot of Grinding-chare. It formed rather an interesting feature in the winter nights, being accompanied by a large blazing lamp, at which sat the owner, attended by several loungers. On the death of old Margery Gray, which took place about October, 1831, this tub was removed, lest the long occupancy of the place should become a freehold, like the little barber's shop which stood at the east end of theMaison de Dieu, and which had originally been only a stall.August, 1833.
If ye want a busom[47]for to sweep your house,Come to me, my lasses—ye may hae your choose.Buy broom busoms, buy them when they're new—Buy broom busoms—better never grew.If I had a horse, I would have a cart;If I had a wife, she would take my part.Buy broom, &c.Had I but a wife—I care not who she be;If she be a woman, that's enough for me.Buy broom, &c.If she lik'd a drop, her and I'd agree;If she did not like it, there's the more for me.Buy broom, &c.
If ye want a busom[47]for to sweep your house,Come to me, my lasses—ye may hae your choose.
Buy broom busoms, buy them when they're new—Buy broom busoms—better never grew.
If I had a horse, I would have a cart;If I had a wife, she would take my part.Buy broom, &c.
Had I but a wife—I care not who she be;If she be a woman, that's enough for me.Buy broom, &c.
If she lik'd a drop, her and I'd agree;If she did not like it, there's the more for me.Buy broom, &c.
The following Verses, in addition to the above, were often sung by the late Blind Willie, of Newcastle:—
Up the Butcher-bank, and down Byker-chare,There you'll see the lasses selling brown ware.Buy broom, &c.Along the Quayside, stop at Russell's Entry:There you'll see the beer-drawer, she is standing sentry.Buy broom, &c.If you want an oyster for to taste your mouth,Call at Handy Walker's—he's a bonny youth.Buy broom, &c.Call at Mr. Loggie's—he does sell good wine;There you'll see the beer-drawer—she is very fine.Buy broom,&c.If you want an orange, ripe and full of juice,Gan to Hannah Black, there you'll get your choose.Buy broom, &c.Call at Mr. Turner's, at the Queen's Head—He'll not set you away without a piece of bread.Buy broom, &c.Down the river's side, as far as Dent's Hole,There you'll see the cuckolds working at the coal.Buy broom, &c.
Up the Butcher-bank, and down Byker-chare,There you'll see the lasses selling brown ware.Buy broom, &c.
Along the Quayside, stop at Russell's Entry:There you'll see the beer-drawer, she is standing sentry.Buy broom, &c.
If you want an oyster for to taste your mouth,Call at Handy Walker's—he's a bonny youth.Buy broom, &c.
Call at Mr. Loggie's—he does sell good wine;There you'll see the beer-drawer—she is very fine.Buy broom,&c.
If you want an orange, ripe and full of juice,Gan to Hannah Black, there you'll get your choose.Buy broom, &c.
Call at Mr. Turner's, at the Queen's Head—He'll not set you away without a piece of bread.Buy broom, &c.
Down the river's side, as far as Dent's Hole,There you'll see the cuckolds working at the coal.Buy broom, &c.
[47]Besom.
[47]Besom.
Air—"Gang nae mair to yon Town."
Here's thumping luck to yon town,Let's have a hearty drink upon't,—O the days I've spent in yon town,My heart still warms to think upon't;For monie a happy day I've seen,With monie a lass so kind and true,—With hearty chields I've canty been,And danc'd away till a' was blue.Here's thumping luck to yon town,Let's have a hearty drink upon't,—O the days I've spent in yon town,My heart still warms to think upon't.There's famous ale in yon town,Will make your lips to smack again,And many a one leaves yon town,Oft wishes they were back again;Well shelter'd from the northern blast,Its spires and turrets proudly rise,And boats and keels all sailing pastWith coals, that half the world supplies.Here's thumping luck, &c.There's native bards in yon town,For wit and humour seldom betAnd they sang sae sweet in yon town,Good faith, I think I hear them yet:Such fun in Thompson's voyage to Shields,In Jimmy Johnson's wherry fine—Such shaking heels, and dancing reels,When sailing on the coaly Tyne.Here's thumping luck, &c.Amang the rest in yon town,One Shiels was fam'd for ready wit—His "Lord Size" half drown'd in yon town,Good faith I think I hear it yet:Then Mitford's muse is seldom wrong,When once he gives the jade a ca',And Gilchrist, too, for comic song,Though last, he's not the least of a'.Here's thumping luck, &c.May the sun shine bright on yon town,May its trade and commerce still increase,—And may all that dwells in yon townBe blest with fond, domestic peace;For, let me wander east or west,North, south, or even o'er the sea,My native town I'll still love best—Newcastleis the place for me.Here's thumping luck, &c.
Here's thumping luck to yon town,Let's have a hearty drink upon't,—O the days I've spent in yon town,My heart still warms to think upon't;For monie a happy day I've seen,With monie a lass so kind and true,—With hearty chields I've canty been,And danc'd away till a' was blue.
Here's thumping luck to yon town,Let's have a hearty drink upon't,—O the days I've spent in yon town,My heart still warms to think upon't.
There's famous ale in yon town,Will make your lips to smack again,And many a one leaves yon town,Oft wishes they were back again;Well shelter'd from the northern blast,Its spires and turrets proudly rise,And boats and keels all sailing pastWith coals, that half the world supplies.Here's thumping luck, &c.
There's native bards in yon town,For wit and humour seldom betAnd they sang sae sweet in yon town,Good faith, I think I hear them yet:Such fun in Thompson's voyage to Shields,In Jimmy Johnson's wherry fine—Such shaking heels, and dancing reels,When sailing on the coaly Tyne.Here's thumping luck, &c.
Amang the rest in yon town,One Shiels was fam'd for ready wit—His "Lord Size" half drown'd in yon town,Good faith I think I hear it yet:Then Mitford's muse is seldom wrong,When once he gives the jade a ca',And Gilchrist, too, for comic song,Though last, he's not the least of a'.Here's thumping luck, &c.
May the sun shine bright on yon town,May its trade and commerce still increase,—And may all that dwells in yon townBe blest with fond, domestic peace;For, let me wander east or west,North, south, or even o'er the sea,My native town I'll still love best—Newcastleis the place for me.Here's thumping luck, &c.
W. Watson.
Tune—"The little Fishy."
Come here, my little Jackey,Now I've smok'd my backey,Let's have a bit crackeyTill the boat comes in.Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,Thou shalt have a fishy when the boat comes in.Here's thy mother humming,Like a canny woman,Yonder comes thy father,Drunk, he cannot stand.Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,Thou shalt have a haddock when the boat comes in.Our Tommy's always fuddling,He's so fond of ale,—But he's kind to me—I hope he'll never fail.Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,Thou shalt have a codling when the boat comes in.I like a drop mysel',When I can get it sly,And thou, my bonny bairn,Will lik't as well as I.Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,Thou shalt have a mack'rel when the boat comes in.May we get a dropOft as we stand in need,And weel may the keel rowThat brings the bairns their bread.Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,Thou shalt have a salmon, when the boat comes in.
Come here, my little Jackey,Now I've smok'd my backey,Let's have a bit crackeyTill the boat comes in.
Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,Thou shalt have a fishy when the boat comes in.
Here's thy mother humming,Like a canny woman,Yonder comes thy father,Drunk, he cannot stand.
Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,Thou shalt have a haddock when the boat comes in.
Our Tommy's always fuddling,He's so fond of ale,—But he's kind to me—I hope he'll never fail.
Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,Thou shalt have a codling when the boat comes in.
I like a drop mysel',When I can get it sly,And thou, my bonny bairn,Will lik't as well as I.
Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,Thou shalt have a mack'rel when the boat comes in.
May we get a dropOft as we stand in need,And weel may the keel rowThat brings the bairns their bread.
Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing;Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,Thou shalt have a salmon, when the boat comes in.
W. Watson.
A Midnight Colloquy of the Nuns' Field.
Said the Ghost of a Nun to a Friar Grey—"Dear brother, what changes we've seen!There's here to be built a New Market, they say,Which was once, you know, our bleaching green."Such were the sounds that smote on my ear,As I stray'd in the Nuns' Field one night,—And I sat down beneath an old elm-tree to hear,Though my hair stood on end at the sight."There's nought," quoth the Friar, "but heaps of stones,Where oft I have stray'd as a sinner;The bell that once warn'd us to vespers and nones,Now warns Grainger's workmen of dinner.Alack! sister Anne, a heretic race,With aprons of blue, or of tartan,—Red night-caps for hoods, will soon take our place—But they all will be d——d for certain.""Dear brother," said she, "only think on this spot,Where our portion was penance and stripes,Old men will be crying, 'Hot pies here, all hot,'And women, 'Black-puddings and tripes.'Where we walk'd so devoutly, soon those who succeed us,In all worldly pride will soon strut on,—Where we utter'd our mournfulAvesandCredos,Will hang rounds of beef and fat mutton.""Yes, sister," said he, "where we chauntedTe Deum,And sighed our prayer to the breeze,—Where we us'd to confess, ere long will we see 'emA chaunting lewd ditties and glees;The ground where we stand will be strew'd soon with buyers,Pursuing their ways so mistaken;Extinct is the race now of Holy Friars,Save those who are Fryers of Bacon.In spite of Sir Andrew, these sinful elvesWill still buy and sell on a Sunday;But soon they'll be wandering ghosts, like ourselves—Sic transit gloria mundi."A low'ring black cloud—most dismal to see—Now hid the soft moon-beams so bright;And I rose from beneath an old elm-tree,For the Ghosts had vanish'd from sight.
Said the Ghost of a Nun to a Friar Grey—"Dear brother, what changes we've seen!There's here to be built a New Market, they say,Which was once, you know, our bleaching green."Such were the sounds that smote on my ear,As I stray'd in the Nuns' Field one night,—And I sat down beneath an old elm-tree to hear,Though my hair stood on end at the sight.
"There's nought," quoth the Friar, "but heaps of stones,Where oft I have stray'd as a sinner;The bell that once warn'd us to vespers and nones,Now warns Grainger's workmen of dinner.Alack! sister Anne, a heretic race,With aprons of blue, or of tartan,—Red night-caps for hoods, will soon take our place—But they all will be d——d for certain."
"Dear brother," said she, "only think on this spot,Where our portion was penance and stripes,Old men will be crying, 'Hot pies here, all hot,'And women, 'Black-puddings and tripes.'Where we walk'd so devoutly, soon those who succeed us,In all worldly pride will soon strut on,—Where we utter'd our mournfulAvesandCredos,Will hang rounds of beef and fat mutton."
"Yes, sister," said he, "where we chauntedTe Deum,And sighed our prayer to the breeze,—Where we us'd to confess, ere long will we see 'emA chaunting lewd ditties and glees;The ground where we stand will be strew'd soon with buyers,Pursuing their ways so mistaken;Extinct is the race now of Holy Friars,Save those who are Fryers of Bacon.
In spite of Sir Andrew, these sinful elvesWill still buy and sell on a Sunday;But soon they'll be wandering ghosts, like ourselves—Sic transit gloria mundi."A low'ring black cloud—most dismal to see—Now hid the soft moon-beams so bright;And I rose from beneath an old elm-tree,For the Ghosts had vanish'd from sight.
Oh, have you seen the mighty bell,That none in England can excel,—The Tom of Lincoln's but a shellTo the great bell of Saint Nicholas.Oh, such rare things ne'er was before—To hear it strike eight miles, or more,To wake the workmen, when they snore—Ay, this great bell of Saint Nicholas.
Oh, have you seen the mighty bell,That none in England can excel,—The Tom of Lincoln's but a shellTo the great bell of Saint Nicholas.Oh, such rare things ne'er was before—To hear it strike eight miles, or more,To wake the workmen, when they snore—Ay, this great bell of Saint Nicholas.
(Spoken)—I say, Patrick, have you been after seeing the great bell that's just gone up to that great lump of a Protestant church?—A big bell, do they call it? by the saints, I thought it was an extinguisher for the light at its ugly mug—A great bell, indeed; by the powers! you know yourself it's only like a skull-cap to my great grandmother's praty pot, that she used to boil kail-cannon in at the harvest.—You are right, Patrick, but still we'll
Drink success to this bell—ding, dong—That'll wake the folks in country and town,And their maids to milk their cows in the morn,The great bell of Saint Nicholas.Lord, how the people they did run,When they heard the small bells ring like fun,Shouting, there's something to be doneAt the old church of Saint Nicholas.The shopkeepers out of their doors did stareAt such a thing, so great and rare,And the flags were waving in the air,O'er the great bell of Saint Nicholas.
Drink success to this bell—ding, dong—That'll wake the folks in country and town,And their maids to milk their cows in the morn,The great bell of Saint Nicholas.
Lord, how the people they did run,When they heard the small bells ring like fun,Shouting, there's something to be doneAt the old church of Saint Nicholas.The shopkeepers out of their doors did stareAt such a thing, so great and rare,And the flags were waving in the air,O'er the great bell of Saint Nicholas.
(Spoken.)—Well, I suppose they will christen it—Hout, man, they christened it yesterday at the foundery, down at Hawks'.—Well, then, they'll have to consecrate it now.—Ay, horses and all—What! consecrate horses, you foolish man! Ay, then they'll be most fit for hearses and mourning coaches.
Drink success to this bell, &c.And after all the noisy storm,We've liv'd to see real church reform—Six horses standing snug and warm,In the old church of Saint Nicholas.You should have been at the church,To have seen the horses in the porch,—The devil will say—I'm in the lurch,No use for me at Saint Nicholas.
Drink success to this bell, &c.
And after all the noisy storm,We've liv'd to see real church reform—Six horses standing snug and warm,In the old church of Saint Nicholas.You should have been at the church,To have seen the horses in the porch,—The devil will say—I'm in the lurch,No use for me at Saint Nicholas.
(Spoken.)—I say, Geordy, did you ever see such a great thing as that before?—Where is it gan' te?—Why, to the church; it's the great bell that was bequeathed by Major Anderson, to flay away the rooks and craws frae the town—to hinder them from building either on churches or exchanges. Ay, ay, but I think it wad ha'e been far better if they'd myed it to flay away poverty frae wor doors, and cast it as a boiler for soup. What say you, Geordy?—It wad, as ye say—but I'll
Drink success, &c.A drunken cobbler made a vow,In the Major he would make a shoe,—And he work'd away till all was blueIn the great bell of Saint Nicholas.The shoe being made, to the man of leatherThe people cried—Well done! O clever,—You should have a grant to work for everIn the great bell of Saint Nicholas.Drink success to this bell, &c.
Drink success, &c.
A drunken cobbler made a vow,In the Major he would make a shoe,—And he work'd away till all was blueIn the great bell of Saint Nicholas.The shoe being made, to the man of leatherThe people cried—Well done! O clever,—You should have a grant to work for everIn the great bell of Saint Nicholas.
Drink success to this bell, &c.
Tune—"Caller Fair."
The other neet aw went to bed,Being weary wi' maw wark, man;Aw dreamt that Billy Scott was deed—It's curious to remark, manAw thought aw saw his buryin' fair,And knew the comp'ny a', man—For a' poor Billy's friends were there,To see him levelled law, man.Blind Willie slowly led the band,As beagle, on the way, man;A staff he carried in his hand,And shook his head se grey, man;At his reet hand was Buggy Jack,With his hat-brim se broad, man;And on his left was Bill the Black,Ti lead him on his road, man.Big Bob, X. Y. and other two,That leeves upon the deed, man—They bore his corpse before the crew,Expecting to be fee'd, man;His nyemsyek, Euphy Scott, was there,Her bonny Geordy, tee, man,Distress'd—they cried, (this happy pair,)Ne mair we will him see, man!Bold Jocker was amang them, tee,Brave Cuckoo Jack and a', man;And hairy Tom, the keelman's son,And bonny Dolly Raw, man;And Bella Roy, and Tatie Bet,They cried till out o' breath, man—For sair these twosome did regretFor canny Billy's deeth, man.But Hangy luickt above them a',He is se sma' and lang, man—And Bobby Knox, the Dog-bank Ox,Was sobbin' i' the thrang, man;And Coiner, wi' his swill and shull,Was squeakin' like a bairn, man,And knack-knee'd Mat, that drucken fyul,Like a monkey he did gairn, man.Tally-i-o, that dirty wretch,Was then the next I saw, man—And Peggy Powell, Step-and-fetch,Was haddin' up her jaw, man—And frae the Close was Bobby Hush,Wi' his greet gob se wide, man—Alang wi' him was Push-Peg-Push,Lamentin' by his side, man.And roguish Ralph, and busy Bruce,That leeves upon their prey, man,Did not neglect, but did protectTheir friends upon the way, man;And Jimmy Liddle, drest in black,Behint them a' did droop, man;He had a coat on like the Quak's,That feeds us a' wi' soup, man.Now, when they got him tiv his grave,He then began to shout, man;For Billy being but in a trance,Bi this time cam about, man:Then Jocker, wi' a sandy styen,The coffin split wi' speed, man—They a' rejoic'd to see agyenPoor Bill they thought was deed, man.When a' his friends that round him stood,Had gettin' him put reet, man,They a' went tiv the Robin Hood,To spend a jovial neet, man;Ne mair for Billy they did weep,But happy they did seem, man;—Just then aw waken'd frae my sleep,And fand it was a dream, man.
The other neet aw went to bed,Being weary wi' maw wark, man;Aw dreamt that Billy Scott was deed—It's curious to remark, manAw thought aw saw his buryin' fair,And knew the comp'ny a', man—For a' poor Billy's friends were there,To see him levelled law, man.
Blind Willie slowly led the band,As beagle, on the way, man;A staff he carried in his hand,And shook his head se grey, man;At his reet hand was Buggy Jack,With his hat-brim se broad, man;And on his left was Bill the Black,Ti lead him on his road, man.
Big Bob, X. Y. and other two,That leeves upon the deed, man—They bore his corpse before the crew,Expecting to be fee'd, man;His nyemsyek, Euphy Scott, was there,Her bonny Geordy, tee, man,Distress'd—they cried, (this happy pair,)Ne mair we will him see, man!
Bold Jocker was amang them, tee,Brave Cuckoo Jack and a', man;And hairy Tom, the keelman's son,And bonny Dolly Raw, man;And Bella Roy, and Tatie Bet,They cried till out o' breath, man—For sair these twosome did regretFor canny Billy's deeth, man.
But Hangy luickt above them a',He is se sma' and lang, man—And Bobby Knox, the Dog-bank Ox,Was sobbin' i' the thrang, man;And Coiner, wi' his swill and shull,Was squeakin' like a bairn, man,And knack-knee'd Mat, that drucken fyul,Like a monkey he did gairn, man.
Tally-i-o, that dirty wretch,Was then the next I saw, man—And Peggy Powell, Step-and-fetch,Was haddin' up her jaw, man—And frae the Close was Bobby Hush,Wi' his greet gob se wide, man—Alang wi' him was Push-Peg-Push,Lamentin' by his side, man.
And roguish Ralph, and busy Bruce,That leeves upon their prey, man,Did not neglect, but did protectTheir friends upon the way, man;And Jimmy Liddle, drest in black,Behint them a' did droop, man;He had a coat on like the Quak's,That feeds us a' wi' soup, man.
Now, when they got him tiv his grave,He then began to shout, man;For Billy being but in a trance,Bi this time cam about, man:Then Jocker, wi' a sandy styen,The coffin split wi' speed, man—They a' rejoic'd to see agyenPoor Bill they thought was deed, man.
When a' his friends that round him stood,Had gettin' him put reet, man,They a' went tiv the Robin Hood,To spend a jovial neet, man;Ne mair for Billy they did weep,But happy they did seem, man;—Just then aw waken'd frae my sleep,And fand it was a dream, man.
Tune—"O, gin I had her."
Hae ye seen my Jocker,Hae ye seen my Jocker,Hae ye' seen my JockerComin' up the Kee?Wiv his short blue jacket,Wiv his short blue jacket,Wiv his short blue jacket,And his hat agee!
Hae ye seen my Jocker,Hae ye seen my Jocker,Hae ye' seen my JockerComin' up the Kee?Wiv his short blue jacket,Wiv his short blue jacket,Wiv his short blue jacket,And his hat agee!
(Spoken.)—Jin.A! lyucka, noo, at clarty Nan, there!—what's she singin' at?
Nan.—What is aw singin' at! What's that ti ye? What it aw singin' at! Ah, wey, noo!—hev aw ti give ower singin' for ye? Ah! wey, noo! there's a platter-fyeced bunter for ye!—there's a smother-bairn w——! there's a pink amang the pissy-beds! Ah! wey, noo!... Ye'd mair need gan hyem, and get the dust wesht off ye. Ah! wey, noo—what's that!
O, maw hinny, Jocker,O, maw hinny, Jocker,O, maw hinny, Jocker—Jocker's the lad for me!Jocker was a keelman,Jocker was a keelman,Jocker was a keelman,When he follow'd me.
O, maw hinny, Jocker,O, maw hinny, Jocker,O, maw hinny, Jocker—Jocker's the lad for me!Jocker was a keelman,Jocker was a keelman,Jocker was a keelman,When he follow'd me.
(Spoken.)—But he's exalted now—O, bliss him, aye!—for
He's a porter-pokeman,He's a porter-pokeman,He's a porter-pokeman,Workin' on the Kee.
He's a porter-pokeman,He's a porter-pokeman,He's a porter-pokeman,Workin' on the Kee.
(Spoken.)—Nan.Assa, Jin—hae ye seen owt o' wor Jocker doon the Kee, there?
Jin.—Ay, aw saw him and Hairy Tom just gan into the Low Crane, there.
Nan.—The Low Crane, ye clarty fa'—whe are ye myekin' yor gam on?
Jin.—Noo, call me a clarty fa', and aw'll plaister yor gob wi' clarts. Ah, wey, noo! whe are ye calling a clarty fa'?
Nan.—Ay! bliss us a', Jin, what are ye gettin' intiv a rage about?
Jin.—Wey, didn't ye ax me if aw'd seen owt o' Jocker doon the Kee, there—and aw teld ye the truth, and ye wadn't believe me.
Nan.—Wey, is he there?
Jin.—Ti be sure he is.
Nan.—Wey, aw'll sit down here till he comes out—then—
O, maw hinny, Jocker, &c.Jocker was a rover,Jocker was a rover,Jocker was a rover,When he courted me:But, noo, his tricks are over,But, noo, his tricks are over,But, noo, his tricks are over,He tykes me on his knee.
O, maw hinny, Jocker, &c.
Jocker was a rover,Jocker was a rover,Jocker was a rover,When he courted me:But, noo, his tricks are over,But, noo, his tricks are over,But, noo, his tricks are over,He tykes me on his knee.
(Spoken.)Nan.—Ay! here he's comin'; here's maw jewel comin';—come into my airms, my tracle dumplin', and give us a kiss! Where hae ye been? aw been luikin' for ye all ower.
Jocker.—Where hev aw been!—aw've been walkin' up and down the Kee here. Where hae ye been?—aw think ye've been i' the Sun.
Nan.—Wey, maw jewel, aw've just been i' the Custom-house, getting a glass, and aw've com'd down the Key to seek ye, to gan hyem thegither. Assa, Jocker, divent lie se far off is as ye did last neet, for when aw waken'd, aw was a' starving o' caud.
O, maw hinny, Jocker, &c.
O, maw hinny, Jocker, &c.
A LAMENT.
Tune—"The Bold Dragoon."
O hinney Grainger, haud thy hand, thou'll turn us upside doon,Or faith aw'll send for Mr. Brand, to claw thy curly croon;For what thou's myed the Major's dean, wor thenks are due, and thou shalt hae them;But noo the law toon folk complain, thou wants to tyek their Egypt frae them.Whack, row de dow, &c.Most folk like the better half, but thou wad swalley all,Poor-house or Jail may tyek the rest, gie thou but Elswick Hall.Wor cooncil's cliver, there's ne doot, but they'll find out, tho' rather late on,How cool the devil walks about, in the smooth shape of J——y C——n.Thou's getten aw the butcher-meat, the taties, tripe, and greens,And, not content with this, thou wants to tyek wor corn, it seems;For Mosley-street and Mercy's sake, sic wicked thowts at once abandon,Or else wor canny awd law toon, it winna hev a leg to stand on.The wheel o' fortune will stand still, the bees forsyek the hive,There'll be ne wark for Sinton's Mill, the White Horse winna drive,Poor Mrs. F——h and Temperance H——l ne mair need recommend their diet,The farmers will forget to call, H-ll's Kitchen's very sel' turn quiet.The Chronicle may doze in peace,—Lord Grainger says, "Sleep on—"The bugs may tyek another lease, their race is not yet run;Awd Nichol still may fairly say, frae Hepple's up to Humble's house end,He feeds a lively host each day, aw'll say, at least, a hundred thousand.The White Swan seun 'ill be agrund, the Black Boy turn quite pale,The Black Bull wi' the blow be stunn'd, the Lion hang his tail,Tom H——n's Cock 'ill craw ne mair, the awd Blue Bell be dumb for ever,—And', just to myek the Kee-side stare, thou'd better send doon for the river.Whack, row de dow, &c.
O hinney Grainger, haud thy hand, thou'll turn us upside doon,Or faith aw'll send for Mr. Brand, to claw thy curly croon;For what thou's myed the Major's dean, wor thenks are due, and thou shalt hae them;But noo the law toon folk complain, thou wants to tyek their Egypt frae them.Whack, row de dow, &c.
Most folk like the better half, but thou wad swalley all,Poor-house or Jail may tyek the rest, gie thou but Elswick Hall.Wor cooncil's cliver, there's ne doot, but they'll find out, tho' rather late on,How cool the devil walks about, in the smooth shape of J——y C——n.
Thou's getten aw the butcher-meat, the taties, tripe, and greens,And, not content with this, thou wants to tyek wor corn, it seems;For Mosley-street and Mercy's sake, sic wicked thowts at once abandon,Or else wor canny awd law toon, it winna hev a leg to stand on.
The wheel o' fortune will stand still, the bees forsyek the hive,There'll be ne wark for Sinton's Mill, the White Horse winna drive,Poor Mrs. F——h and Temperance H——l ne mair need recommend their diet,The farmers will forget to call, H-ll's Kitchen's very sel' turn quiet.
The Chronicle may doze in peace,—Lord Grainger says, "Sleep on—"The bugs may tyek another lease, their race is not yet run;Awd Nichol still may fairly say, frae Hepple's up to Humble's house end,He feeds a lively host each day, aw'll say, at least, a hundred thousand.
The White Swan seun 'ill be agrund, the Black Boy turn quite pale,The Black Bull wi' the blow be stunn'd, the Lion hang his tail,Tom H——n's Cock 'ill craw ne mair, the awd Blue Bell be dumb for ever,—And', just to myek the Kee-side stare, thou'd better send doon for the river.
Whack, row de dow, &c.
ByR. Emery, of the Nelson Lodge, Newcastle.
Tune—"Newcastle Fair."
Cried Mally, Come, Jacky, get ready—The morning is looking se fine, man;The bells i' the town are a' ringing,And the sun it se bonny does shine, man;The lads and the lasses are runnin',To se the Mechanics so gay, man,—To meet the Procession, wi' Mally,Aw suen cut my stick, and away, man.Rom ti iddity, &c.We reach'd the Tyne Brig in a crack,'Mang croods, like worsels, out o' breeth, man—The splendor aw cannot describe,Nor forget till the day o' my deeth, man:A fine silken banner appear'd,As big as wor Geordy's keel-sails, man,A' cover'd wi' doves, ark, and croons,An' greet hairy men without tails, man.Rom ti iddity, &c.A chep like a Duke follow'd next,Surrounded wi' Nobles se fine, man,Weel dress'd up in silk robes an' tassels,An' goold that did glitter and shine, man—Says aw, that's Prince Albert, aw'll sweer—An' was just gawn to give him three chears, man,When Mally cried—De'il stop yor din!—Becrike! it's the Dey of Algiers, man.Rom ti iddity,&c.The members were toss'd off in stile,In colours of pink, white, and blue, man,—A tight little chep frae the ranks,Cried, Jack, hinny, how d'ye do, man?—What, Newton! says aw, now, what cheer!Aw thowt ye some 'Squire makin' fun, man,—There's Armstrang, as trig as a Peer,But how's my awd friend, Bobby Nunn, man?Rom ti iddity, &c.The Hawk, the Northumberland Star,An' the Magdalen's banners wav'd sweet, man;But the Chieftain astonish'd them all,With his braw Highland lads dress'd sae neat, man;The Nelson appear'd in true blue,(There canny host Simpson belangs, man,)An' Petrie walk'd close alangsideO' the chep that writes Newcassel Sangs, man.Rom ti iddity, &c.To describe the Flags, Music, an' Stars,Wad take me to doomsday for sartin;Let Foresters brag as they like,But it's all in my eye, Betty Martin.Wor lads were se pleas'd wi' the seet,Mechanics they'll be before lang, man,—So aw's gannin to Simpson's to-neet,To sing them this canny bit sang, man.Whit-Monday, 1841.
Cried Mally, Come, Jacky, get ready—The morning is looking se fine, man;The bells i' the town are a' ringing,And the sun it se bonny does shine, man;The lads and the lasses are runnin',To se the Mechanics so gay, man,—To meet the Procession, wi' Mally,Aw suen cut my stick, and away, man.Rom ti iddity, &c.
We reach'd the Tyne Brig in a crack,'Mang croods, like worsels, out o' breeth, man—The splendor aw cannot describe,Nor forget till the day o' my deeth, man:A fine silken banner appear'd,As big as wor Geordy's keel-sails, man,A' cover'd wi' doves, ark, and croons,An' greet hairy men without tails, man.Rom ti iddity, &c.
A chep like a Duke follow'd next,Surrounded wi' Nobles se fine, man,Weel dress'd up in silk robes an' tassels,An' goold that did glitter and shine, man—Says aw, that's Prince Albert, aw'll sweer—An' was just gawn to give him three chears, man,When Mally cried—De'il stop yor din!—Becrike! it's the Dey of Algiers, man.Rom ti iddity,&c.
The members were toss'd off in stile,In colours of pink, white, and blue, man,—A tight little chep frae the ranks,Cried, Jack, hinny, how d'ye do, man?—What, Newton! says aw, now, what cheer!Aw thowt ye some 'Squire makin' fun, man,—There's Armstrang, as trig as a Peer,But how's my awd friend, Bobby Nunn, man?Rom ti iddity, &c.
The Hawk, the Northumberland Star,An' the Magdalen's banners wav'd sweet, man;But the Chieftain astonish'd them all,With his braw Highland lads dress'd sae neat, man;The Nelson appear'd in true blue,(There canny host Simpson belangs, man,)An' Petrie walk'd close alangsideO' the chep that writes Newcassel Sangs, man.Rom ti iddity, &c.
To describe the Flags, Music, an' Stars,Wad take me to doomsday for sartin;Let Foresters brag as they like,But it's all in my eye, Betty Martin.Wor lads were se pleas'd wi' the seet,Mechanics they'll be before lang, man,—So aw's gannin to Simpson's to-neet,To sing them this canny bit sang, man.Whit-Monday, 1841.
Tune—"Duncan M'Callaghan."
When Bella's comin' hyem at neet,And as she's walking doon the street,The bairns cry out, Whe pawn'd the sheet?Wey, drucken Bella Roy, O!Then styens to them gans rattlin', rattlin',They set off a gallopin', gallopin',Legs an' arms gan' wallopin', wallopin',For fear o' Bella Roy, O!Now, when she gans through the chares,Each bairn begins, and shouts and blairs,And cries, as she gans up the stairs,Where's drucken Bella Roy, O!Then styens, &c.Now, if she's had a sup o' beer,She sets ti wark to curse and swear,And myeks them run away, for fear,Frae Drucken Bella Roy, O!Then styens, &c.Believe me, friends, these are her words:She says—Get hyem, ye w——'s birds,Else aw'll bray ye as flat as t——s,Cries drucken Bella Roy, O!Then styens, &c.She says—Ye have a w——e at hyem,And if ye'll not let me alyen,Maw faith, aw'll break your rumple byen,Says drucken Bella Roy, O!Then styens, &c.She'll myek the place like thunner ring,And down the stairs her things will fling,And cry—Get out, yor —— thing—Cries drucken Bella Roy, O!Then styens, &c.Then in the house she sits and chats,The bairns, then, hit her door such bats—She calls them a' the hellish cats,Dis drucken Bella Roy, O!Then styens,&c.She shouts until she hurts her head,And then she's forc'd to gan' ti bed,Which is a piece of straw, down spreadFor drucken Bella Roy, O!Fal, lal, lal, &c.
When Bella's comin' hyem at neet,And as she's walking doon the street,The bairns cry out, Whe pawn'd the sheet?Wey, drucken Bella Roy, O!
Then styens to them gans rattlin', rattlin',They set off a gallopin', gallopin',Legs an' arms gan' wallopin', wallopin',For fear o' Bella Roy, O!
Now, when she gans through the chares,Each bairn begins, and shouts and blairs,And cries, as she gans up the stairs,Where's drucken Bella Roy, O!Then styens, &c.
Now, if she's had a sup o' beer,She sets ti wark to curse and swear,And myeks them run away, for fear,Frae Drucken Bella Roy, O!Then styens, &c.
Believe me, friends, these are her words:She says—Get hyem, ye w——'s birds,Else aw'll bray ye as flat as t——s,Cries drucken Bella Roy, O!Then styens, &c.
She says—Ye have a w——e at hyem,And if ye'll not let me alyen,Maw faith, aw'll break your rumple byen,Says drucken Bella Roy, O!Then styens, &c.
She'll myek the place like thunner ring,And down the stairs her things will fling,And cry—Get out, yor —— thing—Cries drucken Bella Roy, O!Then styens, &c.
Then in the house she sits and chats,The bairns, then, hit her door such bats—She calls them a' the hellish cats,Dis drucken Bella Roy, O!Then styens,&c.
She shouts until she hurts her head,And then she's forc'd to gan' ti bed,Which is a piece of straw, down spreadFor drucken Bella Roy, O!Fal, lal, lal, &c.
Tune—"The Coal-hole."
O Dick, what's kept ye a' this time?Aw've fretted sair about ye—Aw thought that ye'd fa'n in the Tyne,Then what wad aw duen without ye?O, hinny, Dolly, sit thee down,And hear the news aw've brought frae toon:The Newcassel folks hev catch'd a meun,And myed it a bonny clock-fyece!Thou knaws Saint Nicholas' Church, maw pet,Where we were tied tigither,—That place, aw knaw, thou'll not forget—Forget it aw will never:'Twas there, then, jewel, aw saw the seet,As aw cam staggering through the street,—Aw thought it queer, at pick dark neet,Ti see a fiery clock-fyece.The folks they stood in flocks about—Aw cried—How! what's the matter?Aw glower'd—at last aw gav a shout,For them to fetch some water.The Church is a-fire, and very suenThat bonny place will be brunt down.Ye fyul, says a chep, it's a bonny meunThey've catch'd, and myed it a clock-fyece!On Monday, when aw gan to wark,Aw'll shurely tell our banksman,If we had such a leet at dark,We never wad break our shanks, man;Maw marrows and aw'll gan ti the toon,Ti see if we can catch a muen;—If we can only coax one doon,We'll myek't a bonny clock-fyece.Then if we get it down the pit,We'll hed stuck on a pole, man;'Twill tell us hoo wor time gans on,Likewise to hew wor coal, man.So noo, maw pet, let's gan ti bed,And not forget the neet we were wed;Ti-morn we'll tell our uncle, Ned,About the bonny clock-fyece.
O Dick, what's kept ye a' this time?Aw've fretted sair about ye—Aw thought that ye'd fa'n in the Tyne,Then what wad aw duen without ye?O, hinny, Dolly, sit thee down,And hear the news aw've brought frae toon:The Newcassel folks hev catch'd a meun,And myed it a bonny clock-fyece!
Thou knaws Saint Nicholas' Church, maw pet,Where we were tied tigither,—That place, aw knaw, thou'll not forget—Forget it aw will never:'Twas there, then, jewel, aw saw the seet,As aw cam staggering through the street,—Aw thought it queer, at pick dark neet,Ti see a fiery clock-fyece.
The folks they stood in flocks about—Aw cried—How! what's the matter?Aw glower'd—at last aw gav a shout,For them to fetch some water.The Church is a-fire, and very suenThat bonny place will be brunt down.Ye fyul, says a chep, it's a bonny meunThey've catch'd, and myed it a clock-fyece!
On Monday, when aw gan to wark,Aw'll shurely tell our banksman,If we had such a leet at dark,We never wad break our shanks, man;Maw marrows and aw'll gan ti the toon,Ti see if we can catch a muen;—If we can only coax one doon,We'll myek't a bonny clock-fyece.
Then if we get it down the pit,We'll hed stuck on a pole, man;'Twill tell us hoo wor time gans on,Likewise to hew wor coal, man.So noo, maw pet, let's gan ti bed,And not forget the neet we were wed;Ti-morn we'll tell our uncle, Ned,About the bonny clock-fyece.
Old bards have sung how they could boastOf places that's renown'd,For bloody battles won and lost,And royal monarchs crown'd;But all those deeds this place exceeds—They in the shade must fall,Some have declar'd, if but compar'dTo our fam'd Music Hall.Here zealots join in warm debate,And for their rites contend—Here Lark-wing spouts on church and state,His popery to defend;With bigot zeal, his country's wealHe vows to have at heart—Yet 'tis well known, throughout the town,He plays a knavish part.Now, from Hibernia's fertile shoreThe thund'ring champion comes,His country's wrongs for to deplore,With trumpets, fife, and drums;He tells them, too, he is most true,Their firm, unshaken friend,While life Shall last, he will stand fast,And all their rights defend.Then champions of another grade—I mean, of fistic lore—Deaf Burke, the bouncing gasconade,Struts o'er the spacious floor,Who, with great art, performs his part,In teaching self-defence;Yet plain I saw, he meant to drawFools' shillings, pounds, and pence.Next comes a man of fangles new—Of worlds, and moons, and stars—Who said, Sir Isaac never knewThe Ple-i-ades from MarsThe folks throng'd round from all the town,And some pronounc'd him clever,Yet, I've been told, both young and oldReturn'd as wise as ever.Apollo, too, his court here keeps,With sirens in his train—Each trembling note of music sweepsTransport through every vein:When Orpheus play'd within the shade,He made the woods resound;The list'ning beasts forsook the mead,And stood, like statues, round.A graver scene my muse has caught,Where sages, in a row—Men, by the Holy Spirit taughtThe gospel truths t' avow—Those who have trod, to serve their God,The shores of foreign land,At his command, now boldly standT' implore a helping hand.And not unfrequent, as we strayThis wond'rous place to see,We find it fill'd with ladies gay,To take a cup of tea;And many a gent, who is contentWith such domestic fare,Has often sat, in social chat,And join'd in many a prayer.Of many more there is one class,Which merits some attention—Not Bacchanalians, alas!For such I would not mention—But men of brains, the smell of grainsWould strike with detestation,Who'd keep us dry, and thus decryAll liquors in the nation.Nay, come what will of good or ill,Just only make a trial—If you the owner's pockets fill,You'll meet with no denial;And men, I hear, from far and near,Have given attestation,So strong a place they cannot traceIn any other nation.
Old bards have sung how they could boastOf places that's renown'd,For bloody battles won and lost,And royal monarchs crown'd;But all those deeds this place exceeds—They in the shade must fall,Some have declar'd, if but compar'dTo our fam'd Music Hall.
Here zealots join in warm debate,And for their rites contend—Here Lark-wing spouts on church and state,His popery to defend;With bigot zeal, his country's wealHe vows to have at heart—Yet 'tis well known, throughout the town,He plays a knavish part.
Now, from Hibernia's fertile shoreThe thund'ring champion comes,His country's wrongs for to deplore,With trumpets, fife, and drums;He tells them, too, he is most true,Their firm, unshaken friend,While life Shall last, he will stand fast,And all their rights defend.
Then champions of another grade—I mean, of fistic lore—Deaf Burke, the bouncing gasconade,Struts o'er the spacious floor,Who, with great art, performs his part,In teaching self-defence;Yet plain I saw, he meant to drawFools' shillings, pounds, and pence.
Next comes a man of fangles new—Of worlds, and moons, and stars—Who said, Sir Isaac never knewThe Ple-i-ades from MarsThe folks throng'd round from all the town,And some pronounc'd him clever,Yet, I've been told, both young and oldReturn'd as wise as ever.
Apollo, too, his court here keeps,With sirens in his train—Each trembling note of music sweepsTransport through every vein:When Orpheus play'd within the shade,He made the woods resound;The list'ning beasts forsook the mead,And stood, like statues, round.
A graver scene my muse has caught,Where sages, in a row—Men, by the Holy Spirit taughtThe gospel truths t' avow—Those who have trod, to serve their God,The shores of foreign land,At his command, now boldly standT' implore a helping hand.
And not unfrequent, as we strayThis wond'rous place to see,We find it fill'd with ladies gay,To take a cup of tea;And many a gent, who is contentWith such domestic fare,Has often sat, in social chat,And join'd in many a prayer.
Of many more there is one class,Which merits some attention—Not Bacchanalians, alas!For such I would not mention—But men of brains, the smell of grainsWould strike with detestation,Who'd keep us dry, and thus decryAll liquors in the nation.
Nay, come what will of good or ill,Just only make a trial—If you the owner's pockets fill,You'll meet with no denial;And men, I hear, from far and near,Have given attestation,So strong a place they cannot traceIn any other nation.
Tune—"Banks and Braes o' bonny Doon."
Clear crystal Tyne, sweet smiling stream,Gay be the flow'rs thy banks along,For there the darling of my themeOft sports thy verdant meads among.Flow on, sweet Tyne, and gently glide,And pour thy commerce o'er the main,May Plenty o'er thy banks preside,To bless thee with her smiling train.Green be thy fields, Britannia dear,With plenty flowing o'er thy land,But chief the banks of Tyne, for thereI'll often rove, at Love's command,—There meet my lass upon the green,And flow'ry garlands for her twine,While smiling pleasure glads the scene,Upon the blooming banks of Tyne.
Clear crystal Tyne, sweet smiling stream,Gay be the flow'rs thy banks along,For there the darling of my themeOft sports thy verdant meads among.Flow on, sweet Tyne, and gently glide,And pour thy commerce o'er the main,May Plenty o'er thy banks preside,To bless thee with her smiling train.
Green be thy fields, Britannia dear,With plenty flowing o'er thy land,But chief the banks of Tyne, for thereI'll often rove, at Love's command,—There meet my lass upon the green,And flow'ry garlands for her twine,While smiling pleasure glads the scene,Upon the blooming banks of Tyne.
J. Wilson
THE
Air—"Old Country Gentleman."