[3]Now called Prudhoe Street.
[3]Now called Prudhoe Street.
[4]The Gaoler.
[4]The Gaoler.
A PARODY.
Soldiers whom Newcastle's bred,View your Cornel at your head,Who's been call'd out of his bedTo serve his Country.Now's the time when British TarsWith 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 timeTo 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!
Soldiers whom Newcastle's bred,View your Cornel at your head,Who's been call'd out of his bedTo serve his Country.Now's the time when British TarsWith 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 timeTo 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!
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 kenThat aw gat a' the brass me awnsel'—Ga' wor Peg three white shillins, and thenLaid the rest out on backey and yell!They blabb'd oot that aw was mistuen—That maw brains sairly wantedseduction—WithoutanimalParliamentsseunWe wad a' gan to wreck andconstruction—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 aboutWas 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.
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 kenThat aw gat a' the brass me awnsel'—Ga' wor Peg three white shillins, and thenLaid the rest out on backey and yell!
They blabb'd oot that aw was mistuen—That maw brains sairly wantedseduction—WithoutanimalParliamentsseunWe wad a' gan to wreck andconstruction—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 aboutWas 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.
Ye gowks that 'bout daft Handel swarm,Your senses but to harrow—Steyn deaf to strains that 'myest wad charmThe 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 pipesIs hardly worth a scuddock—It's blarney fair, and stale as swipesKept 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 myedDumb Betto greet,Sae fine wi' cat-gut stringin'—Bold Airchyswore it was a treatTo 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 weelThat jeer'd Blind Willie's singin'.It's fine to hear wor bellman talk—It's wondrous fine and cheerin'To hearBet WattandEuphy ScottScold, fight, or bawl fresh heerin':To see the keels upon the Tyne,As thick as hops a' swimmin',Is fine indeed, but still mair fineTo hear Blind Willie singin'.Lang may wor Tyneside lads sae true,In heart byeth blithe an' mellow,Bestow the praise that's fairly dueTo 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 brustTo hear blind Willie singin'.But may he live to cheer thebobsThat 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 pretendTo match Blind Willie's singin'.
Ye gowks that 'bout daft Handel swarm,Your senses but to harrow—Steyn deaf to strains that 'myest wad charmThe 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 pipesIs hardly worth a scuddock—It's blarney fair, and stale as swipesKept 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 myedDumb Betto greet,Sae fine wi' cat-gut stringin'—Bold Airchyswore it was a treatTo 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 weelThat jeer'd Blind Willie's singin'.
It's fine to hear wor bellman talk—It's wondrous fine and cheerin'To hearBet WattandEuphy ScottScold, fight, or bawl fresh heerin':To see the keels upon the Tyne,As thick as hops a' swimmin',Is fine indeed, but still mair fineTo hear Blind Willie singin'.
Lang may wor Tyneside lads sae true,In heart byeth blithe an' mellow,Bestow the praise that's fairly dueTo 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 brustTo hear blind Willie singin'.
But may he live to cheer thebobsThat 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 pretendTo match Blind Willie's singin'.
ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN STARKEY.
"What! is he gyen?"Bold Airchysaid,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' meFor 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 Williethen strumm'd up his kitWi' monny a weary drone,WhichThropler, drunk, andCuckoo JackByeth 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 likeCoal 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 JudyandJack Coxontee,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!"
"What! is he gyen?"Bold Airchysaid,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' meFor 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 Williethen strumm'd up his kitWi' monny a weary drone,WhichThropler, drunk, andCuckoo JackByeth 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 likeCoal 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 JudyandJack Coxontee,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!"
Lang years ower meadows, moors, and muck,I cheerly on did waddle—So various is the chance o' luckBetween 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 Howickwas 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 sobYour 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 neetsThe 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 HoodSends 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 broughtThe porter, grog, and toddy—My head swam round whene'er aw thoughtUpon 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 praiseThat a' the world gies ti them.O lang may commerce spread her stores,Full on thy bosom dinnin'—Weel worthy thou to lave the shoresO' 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 DickYence 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.
Lang years ower meadows, moors, and muck,I cheerly on did waddle—So various is the chance o' luckBetween 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 Howickwas 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 sobYour 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 neetsThe 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 HoodSends 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 broughtThe porter, grog, and toddy—My head swam round whene'er aw thoughtUpon 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 praiseThat a' the world gies ti them.O lang may commerce spread her stores,Full on thy bosom dinnin'—Weel worthy thou to lave the shoresO' 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 DickYence 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.
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.But when maw lugs was 'lectrifiedWiv 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.
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.
But when maw lugs was 'lectrifiedWiv 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.
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.
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.
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 weelThat 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 pigeonWhile El——h, the cobbler, in fury arose,And pummell'd Sir M——w's religion.Some sly common councilman happen'd to thinkThat 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 neprintingnorduty.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 NewcastleJunius.
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 weelThat 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 pigeonWhile El——h, the cobbler, in fury arose,And pummell'd Sir M——w's religion.
Some sly common councilman happen'd to thinkThat 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 neprintingnorduty.
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 NewcastleJunius.
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.
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.
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, sirIn 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 BarberMistake him for a Monster more, deep floundering in the harbour.
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, sirIn 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 BarberMistake him for a Monster more, deep floundering in the harbour.
Tune—"Jemmy Joneson's Whurry."
Let Wombwell, James, and a' the packIv 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 townCan 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—rGat monny a gratis lesson;Then Bell refus'd to stand agyen,Tir'd iv the situation,And ne awd wife wad tyek the chainIv a' wor Corporation.The folks iv Shields has lang begrudg'dThe 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 mournA month iv wor awd Cassel.Thetimber marchantswill ne mairWiv 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.
Let Wombwell, James, and a' the packIv 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 townCan 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—rGat monny a gratis lesson;Then Bell refus'd to stand agyen,Tir'd iv the situation,And ne awd wife wad tyek the chainIv a' wor Corporation.
The folks iv Shields has lang begrudg'dThe 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 mournA month iv wor awd Cassel.Thetimber marchantswill ne mairWiv 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.
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 cumTo 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 formO' 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 strengthIs 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 disastersWhich 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 betterFor 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!
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 cumTo 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 formO' 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 strengthIs 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 disastersWhich 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 betterFor 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!
BY HENRY ROBSON.