NORTHUMBERLAND FREE O' NEWCASSEL.

Farewell, lovely Tyne, in thy soft murmurs flowing,Adieu to the shades of thy mouldering towers!And sweet be the flowers on thy wild margin growing,And sweet be the nymphs that inhabit thy bowers!And there shall be ties which no distance can sever,Thou land of our fathers, the dauntless and free;Tho' the charms of each change smile around me, yet neverShall the sigh be inconstant that's hallow'd to thee.Thy full orb of glory will blaze o'er each contest—Thy sons, e'er renown'd, be the dread of each foe—Till thy tars chill with fear in the fight or the tempest,And the pure streams of Heddon have ceas'd more to flow.May commerce be thine—and from Tynemouth to StellaMay thy dark dingy waters auspiciously roll—And thy lads in the keels long be jovial and mellow,With faces as black as the keel or the coal.O Albion! of worlds thou shalt e'er be the wonder,Thy tough wooden walls, thy protection and pride,So long as the bolts of thy cloud-rending thunderAre hurl'd by the lads on the banks of Tyneside.

Farewell, lovely Tyne, in thy soft murmurs flowing,Adieu to the shades of thy mouldering towers!And sweet be the flowers on thy wild margin growing,And sweet be the nymphs that inhabit thy bowers!

And there shall be ties which no distance can sever,Thou land of our fathers, the dauntless and free;Tho' the charms of each change smile around me, yet neverShall the sigh be inconstant that's hallow'd to thee.

Thy full orb of glory will blaze o'er each contest—Thy sons, e'er renown'd, be the dread of each foe—Till thy tars chill with fear in the fight or the tempest,And the pure streams of Heddon have ceas'd more to flow.

May commerce be thine—and from Tynemouth to StellaMay thy dark dingy waters auspiciously roll—And thy lads in the keels long be jovial and mellow,With faces as black as the keel or the coal.

O Albion! of worlds thou shalt e'er be the wonder,Thy tough wooden walls, thy protection and pride,So long as the bolts of thy cloud-rending thunderAre hurl'd by the lads on the banks of Tyneside.

Composed extempore, on the Duke of Northumberland being presented with the Freedom of Newcastle.

BY THE SAME.

To that far-ken'd and wondrous place, Newcassel town,Where each thing yen lucks at surprises,Wiv a head full o' fancies, and heart full o' fun,Aw'd com'd in to see my Lord Sizes.In byeth town and country aw glowrin' beheldCarousin' laird, tenant, an' vassal;On axin' the cause o' sic joy, aw was tell'd,'Twas Northumberland free o' Newcassel.The guns frae the Cassel sent monny a peal—My hair stood on end, a' confounded—The folks on Tyne-brig set up monny a squeel,And the banks o' Tyneside a' resounded.In the Mute Hall, Judge Bayley roar'd out, "My poor head!—Gan an' tell them not to myek sic a rattle."Judge Wood cried out, "No—let them fire us half dead,Since Northumberland's free o' Newcassel!"The Duke e'er has been byeth wor glory an' pride,For dousely he fills up his station;May he lang live to hearten the lads o' Tyneside,The glory and pride o' their nation.Brave Prudhoe[10]triumphant shall plough the wide main,The hash o' the Yankees he'll sattle;And ages hereefter but sarve to proclaimNorthumberland free o' Newcassel.May it please Heav'n to grant that the sweet Flower o' Wales,[11]Wi' Northumberland's roses entwinin',May its fragrance shed forth i' celestial gales,In glory unceasin'ly shinin',In defence o' wor country, wor laws, an' wor King,May aPeercystill lead us to battle;An' monny a brisk lad o' the nyem may there springFra Northumberland, free o' Newcassel.

The guns frae the Cassel sent monny a peal—My hair stood on end, a' confounded—The folks on Tyne-brig set up monny a squeel,And the banks o' Tyneside a' resounded.In the Mute Hall, Judge Bayley roar'd out, "My poor head!—Gan an' tell them not to myek sic a rattle."Judge Wood cried out, "No—let them fire us half dead,Since Northumberland's free o' Newcassel!"

The Duke e'er has been byeth wor glory an' pride,For dousely he fills up his station;May he lang live to hearten the lads o' Tyneside,The glory and pride o' their nation.Brave Prudhoe[10]triumphant shall plough the wide main,The hash o' the Yankees he'll sattle;And ages hereefter but sarve to proclaimNorthumberland free o' Newcassel.

May it please Heav'n to grant that the sweet Flower o' Wales,[11]Wi' Northumberland's roses entwinin',May its fragrance shed forth i' celestial gales,In glory unceasin'ly shinin',In defence o' wor country, wor laws, an' wor King,May aPeercystill lead us to battle;An' monny a brisk lad o' the nyem may there springFra Northumberland, free o' Newcassel.

[10]Baron Prudhoe, of the Royal Navy.

[11]The Duchess of Northumberland.

Written in September, 1819.

Ye Northumberland lads and ye lasses,Come and see what at Newcastle passes,Here's a damnable rout,At a tea and turn out,And no one knows how to bring matters about.It seems, at our summer Assizes,(Or at least so the present surmise is)The wife of the MayorNever offer'd her chairAt the Ball when the Duchess from Alnwick was there.Then 'tis said, too, by way of addition,To the Mayoress's turn for sediton,That, in right of her place,With her impudent face,She march'd out to tea at the head of her Grace.So our vigorous young Lord Lieutenant,Next day, when the Grand Jury were present,Disclos'd to their view,(In enigma, 'tis true)The plot of the Mayoress and all her d—d crew.When his health was propos'd as Lieutenant,He bow'd to the company present;Then, with tears in his eyes,And to all their surprize,"My office, (his Grace said) too heavily lies.I had firmly imagin'd till now, sirs,That our county was free from all row, sirs;But what has occurr'd,Though I sha'n't say a word,Till the voice of yourselves and the county is heard.All at present I wish yon to know is,That my Duchess and Dame Lady Powis,Have receiv'd such a blow,That thy never can goTo your ball, at Newcastle, while things remain so.A high rank has its weight in the nation,If you hold it in due estimation;Then the Duchess and IFor redress must apply,Tho' at present I mention no name—no, not I.All I wish is to find out your pleasures,And hope to avoid all harsh measures;Yet I always foresawThis Republican jawWould sooner or later produce Martial Law."Thus ended the young Lord Lieutenant,When the terrified company present,Cried, "Name, my Lord, nameWho's to blame—who's to blame;"But the Duke said, the County must smother the flame.And the Duchess and he, the next morning,Fulfill'd my Lord Lieutenant's warning;Then up before day,And to Alnwick away,Their faces have ne'er since been seen to this day.

Ye Northumberland lads and ye lasses,Come and see what at Newcastle passes,Here's a damnable rout,At a tea and turn out,And no one knows how to bring matters about.

It seems, at our summer Assizes,(Or at least so the present surmise is)The wife of the MayorNever offer'd her chairAt the Ball when the Duchess from Alnwick was there.

Then 'tis said, too, by way of addition,To the Mayoress's turn for sediton,That, in right of her place,With her impudent face,She march'd out to tea at the head of her Grace.

So our vigorous young Lord Lieutenant,Next day, when the Grand Jury were present,Disclos'd to their view,(In enigma, 'tis true)The plot of the Mayoress and all her d—d crew.

When his health was propos'd as Lieutenant,He bow'd to the company present;Then, with tears in his eyes,And to all their surprize,"My office, (his Grace said) too heavily lies.

I had firmly imagin'd till now, sirs,That our county was free from all row, sirs;But what has occurr'd,Though I sha'n't say a word,Till the voice of yourselves and the county is heard.

All at present I wish yon to know is,That my Duchess and Dame Lady Powis,Have receiv'd such a blow,That thy never can goTo your ball, at Newcastle, while things remain so.

A high rank has its weight in the nation,If you hold it in due estimation;Then the Duchess and IFor redress must apply,Tho' at present I mention no name—no, not I.

All I wish is to find out your pleasures,And hope to avoid all harsh measures;Yet I always foresawThis Republican jawWould sooner or later produce Martial Law."

Thus ended the young Lord Lieutenant,When the terrified company present,Cried, "Name, my Lord, nameWho's to blame—who's to blame;"But the Duke said, the County must smother the flame.

And the Duchess and he, the next morning,Fulfill'd my Lord Lieutenant's warning;Then up before day,And to Alnwick away,Their faces have ne'er since been seen to this day.

DUCHESSversusMAYORESS;

Or, a Struggle for Precedence.

Why, what's a' this about,Mr. Mayor, Mister Mayor?Why, what's a' this about,Mister Mayor?Yor Worship's wife, they say,To the Duchess won't give way,Nor due attention pay,Mister Mayor!But is this true, aw pray,Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor?But is this true, aw pray,Mister Mayor?If it's true, as aw believe,Ye'll ha'e muckle cause to grieve—The Duke yor toon will leave,Mister Mayor!The Judge, Sir William Scott,Mr. Mayor, Mister Mayor!The Judge, Sir William Scott,Mr. Mayor!Says, yor wife is much to blame;And aw think 'twad be ne shame,To skelp her for the same,Mister Mayor!'Tis not the Judge alane,Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!'Tis not the Judge alane,Mr. Mayor!But the Judge and Jury baith,Say, she's guilty o' maw faith,An' so Sir Thomas saith,Mr. Mayor!The Duke the Jury towld,Mister Mayor, Mr. Mayor!The Duke the Jury towld,Mr. Mayor!He went with them to dine,And surely he did whine,'Bout his wife, mun, ow'r his wine,Mr. Mayor!'Twas sure ne noble deed,Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!'Twas sure ne noble deed,Mr. Mayor!He shew'd ne mighty sense,At yor Dame to take offence;So let his Grace gan hence,Mr. Mayor!But there's other folk to blame,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor!But there's other folk to blame,Mr. Mayor!Yor wife has counsell'd withWor Vicar, Johnny Smith,And he's nought, ye knaw, but pith,Mr. Mayor!Enjoy life when ye can,Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!Enjoy life when ye can,Mr. Mayor!Nor let the Brewer Knight,Nor the Duke, wi' a' his spite,Say yor wife's no i' the right,Mr. Mayor!

Why, what's a' this about,Mr. Mayor, Mister Mayor?Why, what's a' this about,Mister Mayor?Yor Worship's wife, they say,To the Duchess won't give way,Nor due attention pay,Mister Mayor!

But is this true, aw pray,Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor?But is this true, aw pray,Mister Mayor?If it's true, as aw believe,Ye'll ha'e muckle cause to grieve—The Duke yor toon will leave,Mister Mayor!

The Judge, Sir William Scott,Mr. Mayor, Mister Mayor!The Judge, Sir William Scott,Mr. Mayor!Says, yor wife is much to blame;And aw think 'twad be ne shame,To skelp her for the same,Mister Mayor!

'Tis not the Judge alane,Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!'Tis not the Judge alane,Mr. Mayor!But the Judge and Jury baith,Say, she's guilty o' maw faith,An' so Sir Thomas saith,Mr. Mayor!

The Duke the Jury towld,Mister Mayor, Mr. Mayor!The Duke the Jury towld,Mr. Mayor!He went with them to dine,And surely he did whine,'Bout his wife, mun, ow'r his wine,Mr. Mayor!

'Twas sure ne noble deed,Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!'Twas sure ne noble deed,Mr. Mayor!He shew'd ne mighty sense,At yor Dame to take offence;So let his Grace gan hence,Mr. Mayor!

But there's other folk to blame,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor!But there's other folk to blame,Mr. Mayor!Yor wife has counsell'd withWor Vicar, Johnny Smith,And he's nought, ye knaw, but pith,Mr. Mayor!

Enjoy life when ye can,Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!Enjoy life when ye can,Mr. Mayor!Nor let the Brewer Knight,Nor the Duke, wi' a' his spite,Say yor wife's no i' the right,Mr. Mayor!

Good people, listen while I singThe source from whence your comforts spring,And may each wind that blows still bringSuccess unto the Coal Trade?Who but unusual pleasure feelsTo see our fleets of ships and keels!Newcastle, Sunderland, and Shields,May ever bless the Coal Trade.May vultures on the caitiff flyAnd gnaw his liver till he die,Who looks with evil, jealous eye,Down upon the Coal Trade.If that should fail, what would ensue?Sure, ruin and disaster too!Alas! alas! what could we do,If 'twere not for the Coal Trade!What is it gives us cakes of meal?What is it crams our wames sae weelWith lumps of beef and draughts of ale?What is't, but just the Coal Trade.Not Davis' Straits or Greenland oil,Nor all the wealth springs from the soil,Could ever make our pots to boil,Like unto our Coal Trade.Ye sailors' wives that love a dropOf stingo fra the brandy shop,How could you get one single drop,If it were not for the Coal Trade.Ye pitmen lads, so blithe and gay,Who meet to tipple each pay-day,Down on your marrow bones and pray,Success unto the Coal Trade!May Wear and Tyne still draw and pourTheir jet black treasures to the shore,And we with all our strength will roar,Success unto the Coal Trade!Ye owners, masters, sailors a',Come shout till ye be like to fa';Your voices raise—huzza! huzza!We all live by the Coal Trade.This nation is in duty bound,To prize those who work under ground,For 'tis well known this country roundIs kept up by the Coal Trade.May Wear, and Tyne, and Thames ne'er freeze,Our ships and keels will pass with ease,Then Newcastle, Sunderland, and Shields,Will still uphold the Coal Trade.I tell the truth, you may depend,In Durham or Northumberland,No trade in them could ever stand,If it were not for the Coal Trade.The owners know full well, 'tis true,Without pitmen, keelmen, sailors too,To Britain they might bid adieu,If it were not for the Coal Trade.So to conclude, and make an endOf these few lines which I have penn'd,We'll drink a health to all those menWho carry on the Coal Trade:To owners, pitmen, keelmen too,And sailors, who the seas do plough,Without these men we could not do,Nor carry on the Coal Trade.

May vultures on the caitiff flyAnd gnaw his liver till he die,Who looks with evil, jealous eye,Down upon the Coal Trade.If that should fail, what would ensue?Sure, ruin and disaster too!Alas! alas! what could we do,If 'twere not for the Coal Trade!

What is it gives us cakes of meal?What is it crams our wames sae weelWith lumps of beef and draughts of ale?What is't, but just the Coal Trade.Not Davis' Straits or Greenland oil,Nor all the wealth springs from the soil,Could ever make our pots to boil,Like unto our Coal Trade.

Ye sailors' wives that love a dropOf stingo fra the brandy shop,How could you get one single drop,If it were not for the Coal Trade.Ye pitmen lads, so blithe and gay,Who meet to tipple each pay-day,Down on your marrow bones and pray,Success unto the Coal Trade!

May Wear and Tyne still draw and pourTheir jet black treasures to the shore,And we with all our strength will roar,Success unto the Coal Trade!Ye owners, masters, sailors a',Come shout till ye be like to fa';Your voices raise—huzza! huzza!We all live by the Coal Trade.

This nation is in duty bound,To prize those who work under ground,For 'tis well known this country roundIs kept up by the Coal Trade.May Wear, and Tyne, and Thames ne'er freeze,Our ships and keels will pass with ease,Then Newcastle, Sunderland, and Shields,Will still uphold the Coal Trade.

I tell the truth, you may depend,In Durham or Northumberland,No trade in them could ever stand,If it were not for the Coal Trade.The owners know full well, 'tis true,Without pitmen, keelmen, sailors too,To Britain they might bid adieu,If it were not for the Coal Trade.

So to conclude, and make an endOf these few lines which I have penn'd,We'll drink a health to all those menWho carry on the Coal Trade:To owners, pitmen, keelmen too,And sailors, who the seas do plough,Without these men we could not do,Nor carry on the Coal Trade.

Or, Tom and Jerry at Home.

Tune—"There was a bold Dragoon."

O Marrow, howay to the toon,What fun we will ha'e there!We needn't fear the watchmen now,Let them come if they dare!We'll hev a gill and sing a sang,And through the streets we'll roar a ditty,For Tom Carr hez ne bizness nowTo put us a' neet i' the Kitty.Whack, fal, &c.For when he cam before me Lord,He fand his sel a' wrang,For tyaken Watson up yen neetFor singing a wee bit sang.Another chep ca'd Walton te,Aw own that he was rather murry,For he tell'd the watchman to be off,Or else he'd give him Tom and Jurry,Whack, fal, &c.The watchman seiz'd him by the neck,Then up cam other two:Says Walton. 'Now let go o' me,Or aw'll let ye knaw just now.'Then he lifted up his great lang airm,Me soul he gave him sec a knoller;But the watchman kept his haud se lang,He pull'd off Walton's dandy collar.Whack, fal,&c.To the watch-house then they dragg'd them off,Before greet Captain Carr:Says he, 'What ha'e ye getten here,Me worthy men o' war?'Wye, sir, says they, here's twe greet cheps,The yen aw shure deserves a swingin;For they've roar'd and shouted thro' the streets,And wyaken'd a' the folks wi' singin.Whack, fal, &c.'Aye, aye,' says Carr, 'aw ken them weel,Tyek them out o' my seet!Away wi' them to Mr. Scott,And keep them there a' neet.'Says Walton, 'Will ye hear me speak?'Says Tommy, 'Go you to the devil!''Wye, wye,' says Walton, 'never mind,But surely this is damn'd uncivil.'Whack, fal, &c.Then away they went to Mr. Scott,And fand him varry kind:Says he, 'Young men, I'll treat ye weel,Tho' here against your mind.''O Sir,' said they, 'you're very good,But faith this place luiks dark and frightful!'Says Walton, 'What a sweet perfume!'Says Watson, 'Lord, it's quite delightful!'Whack, fal, &c.But Watson myed Tom Carr to rue,Before 'twas varry lang:He had him tried before me Lord,And Carr fand he was wrang.Me Lord tell'd Carr he had ne reetTo shop them, e'en had it been lyater,Until he'd tyen them, first ov a',Before a Mister Magistrater.Whack, fal,&c.Now Tommy Carr may claw his lug,Th' expences he mun pay:But still there's nyen that's sorry for't;'It sarves him reet,' they say.So howay, lads, let's off to toon,We'll a' put wor bit better hats on;And if Tom Carr shops us agyen,Me sowl! we'll give him Waller Watson.

For when he cam before me Lord,He fand his sel a' wrang,For tyaken Watson up yen neetFor singing a wee bit sang.Another chep ca'd Walton te,Aw own that he was rather murry,For he tell'd the watchman to be off,Or else he'd give him Tom and Jurry,Whack, fal, &c.

The watchman seiz'd him by the neck,Then up cam other two:Says Walton. 'Now let go o' me,Or aw'll let ye knaw just now.'Then he lifted up his great lang airm,Me soul he gave him sec a knoller;But the watchman kept his haud se lang,He pull'd off Walton's dandy collar.Whack, fal,&c.

To the watch-house then they dragg'd them off,Before greet Captain Carr:Says he, 'What ha'e ye getten here,Me worthy men o' war?'Wye, sir, says they, here's twe greet cheps,The yen aw shure deserves a swingin;For they've roar'd and shouted thro' the streets,And wyaken'd a' the folks wi' singin.Whack, fal, &c.

'Aye, aye,' says Carr, 'aw ken them weel,Tyek them out o' my seet!Away wi' them to Mr. Scott,And keep them there a' neet.'Says Walton, 'Will ye hear me speak?'Says Tommy, 'Go you to the devil!''Wye, wye,' says Walton, 'never mind,But surely this is damn'd uncivil.'Whack, fal, &c.

Then away they went to Mr. Scott,And fand him varry kind:Says he, 'Young men, I'll treat ye weel,Tho' here against your mind.''O Sir,' said they, 'you're very good,But faith this place luiks dark and frightful!'Says Walton, 'What a sweet perfume!'Says Watson, 'Lord, it's quite delightful!'Whack, fal, &c.

But Watson myed Tom Carr to rue,Before 'twas varry lang:He had him tried before me Lord,And Carr fand he was wrang.Me Lord tell'd Carr he had ne reetTo shop them, e'en had it been lyater,Until he'd tyen them, first ov a',Before a Mister Magistrater.Whack, fal,&c.

Now Tommy Carr may claw his lug,Th' expences he mun pay:But still there's nyen that's sorry for't;'It sarves him reet,' they say.So howay, lads, let's off to toon,We'll a' put wor bit better hats on;And if Tom Carr shops us agyen,Me sowl! we'll give him Waller Watson.

A DIALOGUE.

Sc—tt—Ah! woe's me! what shall I do,Tommy C—rr, Tommy C—rr?For I have most cause to rue,Tommy C—rr!Though your costs are very great,Yet much harder is my fate—I may shut the Kitty gate,Tommy C—rr!C—rr—I will soon be clear of mine,Johnny Sc—tt, Johnny Sc—tt!For I will myself confine,Johnny Sc—tt!Just for three short weeks or so,Up the nineteen steps I'll go,And be wash'd as white as snow,Johnny Sc—tt!Sc—tt—Oh! that tyrant of a Judge,Tommy C—rr, Tommy C—rr!He has surely had some grudge,Tommy C—rr!Can we gain our honest bread,Now when cut off in full trade,We who've been so long well fed,Tommy C—rr!C—rr—Oh! how trifling was our chance,Johnny Sc—tt, Johnny Sc—tt!Oh! had Scarlett been at France,Johnny Sc—tt!Brougham's help was all we had,Well he knew our case was bad;And au'd Bayley frown'd like mad,Johnny Sc—tt!Sc—tt—I my huckstering shop may let,Tommy C—rr, Tommy C—rr!No more customers we'll get,Tommy C—rr!Mrs. Sc—tt has room to growl,There is not one hungry soulFor to buy a penny roll,Tommy C—rr!C—rr—Let us curse the day and hour,Johnny Sc—tt, Johnny Sc—tt!That depriv'd us of our power,Johnny Sc—tt!Fam'd Newcastle's rattling boysWill kick up a thund'ring noise,And for fun will black our eyes,Johnny Sc—tt!

C—rr—I will soon be clear of mine,Johnny Sc—tt, Johnny Sc—tt!For I will myself confine,Johnny Sc—tt!Just for three short weeks or so,Up the nineteen steps I'll go,And be wash'd as white as snow,Johnny Sc—tt!

Sc—tt—Oh! that tyrant of a Judge,Tommy C—rr, Tommy C—rr!He has surely had some grudge,Tommy C—rr!Can we gain our honest bread,Now when cut off in full trade,We who've been so long well fed,Tommy C—rr!

C—rr—Oh! how trifling was our chance,Johnny Sc—tt, Johnny Sc—tt!Oh! had Scarlett been at France,Johnny Sc—tt!Brougham's help was all we had,Well he knew our case was bad;And au'd Bayley frown'd like mad,Johnny Sc—tt!

Sc—tt—I my huckstering shop may let,Tommy C—rr, Tommy C—rr!No more customers we'll get,Tommy C—rr!Mrs. Sc—tt has room to growl,There is not one hungry soulFor to buy a penny roll,Tommy C—rr!

C—rr—Let us curse the day and hour,Johnny Sc—tt, Johnny Sc—tt!That depriv'd us of our power,Johnny Sc—tt!Fam'd Newcastle's rattling boysWill kick up a thund'ring noise,And for fun will black our eyes,Johnny Sc—tt!

Tune—"Scots wha ha'e," &c.

Ye that like a lark or spree!Ye that's iv the Kitty free!Now's the time for mirth and glee,For Tommy is up stairs.Ye that never yet went wrang—Ne'er did warse than sing a sang,Ye that offen had to ganAnd visit Mr. Mayor's.Now then let your joys abound—Now begin your neetly rounds,And myek the streets wi' mirth resound.Since Tommy is up stairs.Whe before Judge Bayley stood,For sending Watson into quod?—Whe wad grace aframe of Wood?But honest Tommy C—r.And when fou, wi' cronies dear,Ye'd sally out to Filly Fair,Whe was sure to meet ye there?But honest Tommy C—r:Wiv his beaver round and low,Little switch, and thick surtou',Like Satan prowling to and fro,Seeking to devour.Whe was sure your sport to marr,And send ye off to Cabbage Square?Whe was Judge and Jury there?But honest Tommy C—r.Whe wad never tyek yor word?And if to walk ye'd not afford,Whe wad strap ye on a board?But honest Tommy C—r.

Now then let your joys abound—Now begin your neetly rounds,And myek the streets wi' mirth resound.Since Tommy is up stairs.Whe before Judge Bayley stood,For sending Watson into quod?—Whe wad grace aframe of Wood?But honest Tommy C—r.

And when fou, wi' cronies dear,Ye'd sally out to Filly Fair,Whe was sure to meet ye there?But honest Tommy C—r:Wiv his beaver round and low,Little switch, and thick surtou',Like Satan prowling to and fro,Seeking to devour.

Whe was sure your sport to marr,And send ye off to Cabbage Square?Whe was Judge and Jury there?But honest Tommy C—r.Whe wad never tyek yor word?And if to walk ye'd not afford,Whe wad strap ye on a board?But honest Tommy C—r.

or, dogberry in the suds.

Air—"The Opera Hat."

Oh the Devil go with you, fat Tom C—r!Bribe him well, he'll be your counsellor,Give you courage when at the bar,And grant you a special favour:Some folks thowt you were gyen to hell,And other some to Derry:But sup the broth you've made yoursel',There's no one can be sorry.So the Devil go with you,&c.'Tis well you leave the scorn of thoseYou've sent unto the work-house,For, hangman-like, you'd have cash and clothes,When their friends were glad of the carcase.So the Devil, &c.Bad luck, say I, to your brother brimair!Your crimes 'twill not half smother;So go to Stuart's, in Denton-chare,And prithee choose another.So the Devil, &c.For if ever upon the Quay again,You beg for beef and biscuit,The sailor lads will surely cry,Gods! lad, you've sairly miss'd it.So the Devil, &c.May the tread-mill turn to a whiskey-shop,The parrot into a monkey,And Tom C—r selling fine shirt neck buttons,Upon a tripe-wife's donkey,So the Devil, &c.

'Tis well you leave the scorn of thoseYou've sent unto the work-house,For, hangman-like, you'd have cash and clothes,When their friends were glad of the carcase.So the Devil, &c.

Bad luck, say I, to your brother brimair!Your crimes 'twill not half smother;So go to Stuart's, in Denton-chare,And prithee choose another.So the Devil, &c.

For if ever upon the Quay again,You beg for beef and biscuit,The sailor lads will surely cry,Gods! lad, you've sairly miss'd it.So the Devil, &c.

May the tread-mill turn to a whiskey-shop,The parrot into a monkey,And Tom C—r selling fine shirt neck buttons,Upon a tripe-wife's donkey,So the Devil, &c.

Written Feb. 1826.

Tune—X, Y, Z.

Now run away amang the snobs,An' stangies i' the Garth, man,An hear about the greet black Owl,That's let on Cappy's hearth, man—Of sic a breed, the Deil his sellIts marrow canna find in Hell!It hops about wiv its slouch hat,Can worry mice like wor Tom-cat—And sic a yarkin blubber heed,It bangs X, Y, that famous steed,Or ony thing ye like, man.Oft frev its nest, in Cabbage Square,It flaffer'd out at neets, man,'Mang sic a flock that neetly blare,And carry crooks and leets, man—Then prowl'd wor streets in search o' prey,And if a mouse but cross'd his way,He quickly had it by the nose,And pawk'd it off to kuel its toes—Did Hoo! Hoo! wi' the blubber heed,That bangs X, Y, that famous steed—So, Cappy, keep him tight, man.To tell how Cappy gat this burd,Aw wad be rather fash'd, man;Some say that, of its awn accord,It went to getwhite wash'd, man.So scrub him, Cap, with a' yor might,Just nobbit make the lubbart white—But if yor brushin' winna dee,There's Waller Watson, Walton, tee,They'll scrub him as they did before,And make the bowdy-kite to roar—If Cappy keeps him tight, man.St. Nich'las' bells now sweetly ring,Yor music's sae bewitchin'—Ye lads in Neil's[12]now louder sing,And warble weel Hell's Kitchen[13]—For yor au'd friend is in the trap,Alang wi' his awn brother, Cap:Then shout hurra! agyen we're free,At neets to hev a canny spree;In gannin hyem, ne mair we'll dreedThe lubbart wi' the chuckle heed—Mind, Cappy, keep him tight, man.

Oft frev its nest, in Cabbage Square,It flaffer'd out at neets, man,'Mang sic a flock that neetly blare,And carry crooks and leets, man—Then prowl'd wor streets in search o' prey,And if a mouse but cross'd his way,He quickly had it by the nose,And pawk'd it off to kuel its toes—Did Hoo! Hoo! wi' the blubber heed,That bangs X, Y, that famous steed—So, Cappy, keep him tight, man.

To tell how Cappy gat this burd,Aw wad be rather fash'd, man;Some say that, of its awn accord,It went to getwhite wash'd, man.So scrub him, Cap, with a' yor might,Just nobbit make the lubbart white—But if yor brushin' winna dee,There's Waller Watson, Walton, tee,They'll scrub him as they did before,And make the bowdy-kite to roar—If Cappy keeps him tight, man.

St. Nich'las' bells now sweetly ring,Yor music's sae bewitchin'—Ye lads in Neil's[12]now louder sing,And warble weel Hell's Kitchen[13]—For yor au'd friend is in the trap,Alang wi' his awn brother, Cap:Then shout hurra! agyen we're free,At neets to hev a canny spree;In gannin hyem, ne mair we'll dreedThe lubbart wi' the chuckle heed—Mind, Cappy, keep him tight, man.

[12]A famed public-house at the head of Manor-chare.

[13]The tap-room of a famed public-house, near the head of Groat market.

Tune—"Sleeping Maggie."

Upon the flow'ry banks o' Tyne,The rose and myrtle may entwine;But were there every sweet divine,They wadna a' be like my Delia.Clear beams the eye o' Delia,Heaven's in the smile o' Delia;Nor flowers that blaw, nor falling snaw,Were e'er sae pure as lovely Delia.Gently blaw, thou whistlin' wind,Along the bonny banks o' Tyne,Where nature every grace combin'dWhen she first form'd my life, my Delia!Clear beams the eye o' Delia,Heaven's in the smile o' Delia;Nor flower that blaws, nor winter snaws,Were e'er sae pure as lovely Delia.Tho' a' the wee birds round me sing,To welcome back the blithefu' spring;Yet a' the music they can bringIs nae sae sweet's the voice o' Delia.Clear beams the eye o' Delia,Heaven's in the smile o' Delia;Nor flower that blaws, nor drifting snaws,Were e'er sae pure as my lov'd Delia.The bonny little playfu' lamb,That frisks along the verdant plain,Is nae mair free fra guilty stain,Than is my life, my love, my Delia.Clear beams the eye o' Delia,Heaven's in the smile o' Delia;Nor flowers that blaw, nor whitest snaw,Were e'er sae pure as my sweet Delia.The priests they tell us, all above,With angels, do delight in love;Then surely angels must approveTheir image in my lovely Delia.Clear beams the eye o' Delia,Heaven's in the smile o' Delia;Nor flower that blaws, nor new-born snaws,Were e'er sae pure as lovely Delia.Truth and kindness ever reigns,In a' her heart, through a' her veins;Yet nane shall ken the pleasing painsI hae endur'd for my sweet Delia.Heaven's in the smile o' Delia,Blight's the beam in her dark eye;Nor flower that blaws, nor virgin snaws,Were e'er sae pure as my lov'd Delia.

Gently blaw, thou whistlin' wind,Along the bonny banks o' Tyne,Where nature every grace combin'dWhen she first form'd my life, my Delia!Clear beams the eye o' Delia,Heaven's in the smile o' Delia;Nor flower that blaws, nor winter snaws,Were e'er sae pure as lovely Delia.

Tho' a' the wee birds round me sing,To welcome back the blithefu' spring;Yet a' the music they can bringIs nae sae sweet's the voice o' Delia.Clear beams the eye o' Delia,Heaven's in the smile o' Delia;Nor flower that blaws, nor drifting snaws,Were e'er sae pure as my lov'd Delia.

The bonny little playfu' lamb,That frisks along the verdant plain,Is nae mair free fra guilty stain,Than is my life, my love, my Delia.Clear beams the eye o' Delia,Heaven's in the smile o' Delia;Nor flowers that blaw, nor whitest snaw,Were e'er sae pure as my sweet Delia.

The priests they tell us, all above,With angels, do delight in love;Then surely angels must approveTheir image in my lovely Delia.Clear beams the eye o' Delia,Heaven's in the smile o' Delia;Nor flower that blaws, nor new-born snaws,Were e'er sae pure as lovely Delia.

Truth and kindness ever reigns,In a' her heart, through a' her veins;Yet nane shall ken the pleasing painsI hae endur'd for my sweet Delia.Heaven's in the smile o' Delia,Blight's the beam in her dark eye;Nor flower that blaws, nor virgin snaws,Were e'er sae pure as my lov'd Delia.

Tune—"Banks o' Doon."

Farewell, ye fragrant, shady groves!Farewell, thou charming sylvan scene,Where partial mem'ry hapless roves—I bid adieu to Pandon Dean.I bid ye all a long adieu,And fare thee well, my lovely Jean;Thine equal I shall never view,Whilst far awa' fra Pandon Dean.The songsters chanting on the spray,The shrubs and flowers, sae fresh and green,Increase my heart's tumultuous play,Which dwells on thee and Pandon Dean.Though far awa' in foreign lands,And trackless oceans foam between,I ne'er shall break those dearest bandsThou wreath'dst for me in Pandon Dean.These to my heart shall dearest be,When sharp afflictions pierce me keen;'Twill soothe my woes to think on thee,Thou fairest flower in Pandon Dean.If Fortune smile, I'll then return,To deck my love in silken sheen;And dwell with her just by the burnThat wimples through the bonny Dean.

Farewell, ye fragrant, shady groves!Farewell, thou charming sylvan scene,Where partial mem'ry hapless roves—I bid adieu to Pandon Dean.

I bid ye all a long adieu,And fare thee well, my lovely Jean;Thine equal I shall never view,Whilst far awa' fra Pandon Dean.

The songsters chanting on the spray,The shrubs and flowers, sae fresh and green,Increase my heart's tumultuous play,Which dwells on thee and Pandon Dean.

Though far awa' in foreign lands,And trackless oceans foam between,I ne'er shall break those dearest bandsThou wreath'dst for me in Pandon Dean.

These to my heart shall dearest be,When sharp afflictions pierce me keen;'Twill soothe my woes to think on thee,Thou fairest flower in Pandon Dean.

If Fortune smile, I'll then return,To deck my love in silken sheen;And dwell with her just by the burnThat wimples through the bonny Dean.

The Londoners long for example we've chose,And imported each fashion as fast as it 'rose;But the best hit of all, in our awkward approaches,Is St. Nicholas' Square, and the new hackney coaches.The ladies have long had advantage of man,In that easy conveyance, a walking sedan;Now the tables are turn'd on the opposite side,For the ladies must walk while the gentlemen ride.When our beaux are dress'd out for a rout or a ball,They've nothing to do but a hackney to call—Consult not the weather, nor muffle their chins—No danger of breaking, o'er scrapers, their shins.When a couple's resolv'd on a trip to the church,Where a lady has sometimes been left in the lurch;To prevent a misfortune like this, for the future,Pack up in a hackney your amiable suitor.When impertinent tradesmen you're likely to meet,Or a bailiff descry at the end of the street—Press into your service a hackney and pair,For the devil himself would not look for you there.To many things else they'll apply, I've a notion,They'll even be found to assist your devotion;The doctors will find them most useful, no doubt on't,In peopling the world, or to send people out on't.Then success to the hackneys, and long may they roll—Of balls and assemblies the life and the soul:Since so useful they are, and so cheap is the fare,Pray who would not ride in a carriage and pair?

The Londoners long for example we've chose,And imported each fashion as fast as it 'rose;But the best hit of all, in our awkward approaches,Is St. Nicholas' Square, and the new hackney coaches.

The ladies have long had advantage of man,In that easy conveyance, a walking sedan;Now the tables are turn'd on the opposite side,For the ladies must walk while the gentlemen ride.

When our beaux are dress'd out for a rout or a ball,They've nothing to do but a hackney to call—Consult not the weather, nor muffle their chins—No danger of breaking, o'er scrapers, their shins.

When a couple's resolv'd on a trip to the church,Where a lady has sometimes been left in the lurch;To prevent a misfortune like this, for the future,Pack up in a hackney your amiable suitor.

When impertinent tradesmen you're likely to meet,Or a bailiff descry at the end of the street—Press into your service a hackney and pair,For the devil himself would not look for you there.

To many things else they'll apply, I've a notion,They'll even be found to assist your devotion;The doctors will find them most useful, no doubt on't,In peopling the world, or to send people out on't.

Then success to the hackneys, and long may they roll—Of balls and assemblies the life and the soul:Since so useful they are, and so cheap is the fare,Pray who would not ride in a carriage and pair?

Tune—"The bold Dragoon."

Of a' the toons that's i' the north,Newcastle bangs them a',For lady folk and gentlemen,And every thing that's braw,A fig for Lunnen i' the South—But mind now, let's hae nae reproaches,For they say that Lunnen's hang'd hersel,Through spite at wor new Hackney Coaches.Yep! fal der al dal, &c.Wor toon has grown se big now,Aw ne'er saw the like before;Live ye only lang eneugh,Ye'll see't join'd to Tynemouth shore;We've our Literinary Sicties,Shops cramm'd wiv plate and diamond broaches,But it's ne use telling ony mair,There's nowt gans doon but Hackney Coaches.Yep! &c.Ca-la-de-scoups were yence the rage,Sedans—were all the go;But till the noise gets fairly ower,They may keep them iv a row;Gang where you will, the talk is still,At tea or cards why all the rage is,"Why bless me, sir! have you not seenOur stylish two-horse Hackney Stages!"Yep! &c.A Bond-street lounge tee we might hev,If 't wasn't for the mud!A Piccadilly we're gaun to get,And other streets as good:Maw sangs! aw think we'll 'clipse them out!But faith I'd better haud me ditty,For fear, ye ken, in ganging hyem,They Hackneyfy me to the Kitty.Yep! &c.

Wor toon has grown se big now,Aw ne'er saw the like before;Live ye only lang eneugh,Ye'll see't join'd to Tynemouth shore;We've our Literinary Sicties,Shops cramm'd wiv plate and diamond broaches,But it's ne use telling ony mair,There's nowt gans doon but Hackney Coaches.Yep! &c.

Ca-la-de-scoups were yence the rage,Sedans—were all the go;But till the noise gets fairly ower,They may keep them iv a row;Gang where you will, the talk is still,At tea or cards why all the rage is,"Why bless me, sir! have you not seenOur stylish two-horse Hackney Stages!"Yep! &c.

A Bond-street lounge tee we might hev,If 't wasn't for the mud!A Piccadilly we're gaun to get,And other streets as good:Maw sangs! aw think we'll 'clipse them out!But faith I'd better haud me ditty,For fear, ye ken, in ganging hyem,They Hackneyfy me to the Kitty.Yep! &c.

BY R. CHARLTON.

Tune—"Canny Newcassel."

What a cockneyfied toon wor Newcassel hez grown—Wey aw scarce can believe me awn senses;Wor canny aud customs for ever ha'e flown,And there's nowt left ahint for to mense us:The fashions fra Lunnin are now a' the go,As there's nowt i' wor toon to content us—Aw'll not be surpriz'd at wor next 'lection day,If twe Cockneys put up to 'present us.Times ha'e been when a body's been axt out to tea,Or to get a wee bit of a shiver,Wor hearts were sae leet we ne'er thowt o' the cau'd,Or the fear o' wet feet plagu'd us niver;But i' blanket coats now we mun get muffled up,For fear that the cold should approach us—And to hinder a spark gettin on to wor breeks,We mun jump into fine Hackney Coaches.Aw've seen when we've gyen iv a kind freenly wayTo be blithe o'er a jug o' good nappy—The glass or the horn we shov'd round wi' the potFor then we were jovial and happy:But now we mun all hev a glass t' wor sels,Which plainly appears, on reflection,We think a' wor neighbours ha'e getten the cl-p,And are frighten'd we catch the infection.The very styen pavement they'll not let alyen,For they've tuen'd up and puttin down gravel;So now, gentle folks, here's a word i' yor lugs—Mind think on't whenever you travel;If in dry dusty weather ye happen to stray,Ye'll get yor een a' full o' stour, man—Or, if it be clarty, you're sure for to getWeel plaister'd byeth 'hint and afore, man.If a' their improvements aw were for to tell,Aw might sit here and sing—aye, for ever;There's the rum weak as watter, i'stead o' the stuffThat was us'd for to burn out wor liver!Aw's fair seek and tir'd o' the things that aw've sung,So aw think now aw'll myek a conclusion,By wishing the cheps iv a helter may swing,That ha'e brought us to a' this confusion.

Times ha'e been when a body's been axt out to tea,Or to get a wee bit of a shiver,Wor hearts were sae leet we ne'er thowt o' the cau'd,Or the fear o' wet feet plagu'd us niver;But i' blanket coats now we mun get muffled up,For fear that the cold should approach us—And to hinder a spark gettin on to wor breeks,We mun jump into fine Hackney Coaches.

Aw've seen when we've gyen iv a kind freenly wayTo be blithe o'er a jug o' good nappy—The glass or the horn we shov'd round wi' the potFor then we were jovial and happy:But now we mun all hev a glass t' wor sels,Which plainly appears, on reflection,We think a' wor neighbours ha'e getten the cl-p,And are frighten'd we catch the infection.

The very styen pavement they'll not let alyen,For they've tuen'd up and puttin down gravel;So now, gentle folks, here's a word i' yor lugs—Mind think on't whenever you travel;If in dry dusty weather ye happen to stray,Ye'll get yor een a' full o' stour, man—Or, if it be clarty, you're sure for to getWeel plaister'd byeth 'hint and afore, man.

If a' their improvements aw were for to tell,Aw might sit here and sing—aye, for ever;There's the rum weak as watter, i'stead o' the stuffThat was us'd for to burn out wor liver!Aw's fair seek and tir'd o' the things that aw've sung,So aw think now aw'll myek a conclusion,By wishing the cheps iv a helter may swing,That ha'e brought us to a' this confusion.

Or, The Pitman Haggish'd.

BY R. EMERY.

Tune—"Calder Fair."

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