Men's talents vary—for wise ends design'd,Thisman has strength of body,that, of mind;Each his peculiar art assiduous plies,And every maxim of improvement tries,Till he attain perfection by degrees,And learns to execute his task with ease.Wilson,[19]desist! and Simpson,[20]take your rest!Ease and retirement now will suit ye best;Your brief excursions will excite no moreThat admiration which they did before;Though doubtless ye have both endeavour'd hard,Perhaps without an adequate reward;But such laborious journies lay aside,And if ye can, instead of walking,ride."Hide your diminish'd heads!" nor vainly talk,Among your friends, how rapidly you walk:First in the annals of Pedestrian fame,Historians now will enterRussell'sname;Where he will most conspicuously shine,And long be hail'd—The Hero of the Tyne.Upon this art he has so much refin'd,That he leaves all competitors behind.With buoyant step we've seen him tread the plain,And hope, ere long, to see him walk again.
Men's talents vary—for wise ends design'd,Thisman has strength of body,that, of mind;Each his peculiar art assiduous plies,And every maxim of improvement tries,Till he attain perfection by degrees,And learns to execute his task with ease.
Wilson,[19]desist! and Simpson,[20]take your rest!Ease and retirement now will suit ye best;Your brief excursions will excite no moreThat admiration which they did before;Though doubtless ye have both endeavour'd hard,Perhaps without an adequate reward;But such laborious journies lay aside,And if ye can, instead of walking,ride."Hide your diminish'd heads!" nor vainly talk,Among your friends, how rapidly you walk:First in the annals of Pedestrian fame,Historians now will enterRussell'sname;Where he will most conspicuously shine,And long be hail'd—The Hero of the Tyne.Upon this art he has so much refin'd,That he leaves all competitors behind.With buoyant step we've seen him tread the plain,And hope, ere long, to see him walk again.
[19]George Wilson, the Blackheath Pedestrian, walked 90 miles in 24 successive hours, on the same ground, on Easter Monday and Tuesday, 1822.
[19]George Wilson, the Blackheath Pedestrian, walked 90 miles in 24 successive hours, on the same ground, on Easter Monday and Tuesday, 1822.
[20]John Simpson, the Cumberland Pedestrian, attempted to walk 96 miles on the same ground, in the same period of time, on Whit-Monday, and again on the 29th and 30th of July, 1822; in both of which attempts he failed.
[20]John Simpson, the Cumberland Pedestrian, attempted to walk 96 miles on the same ground, in the same period of time, on Whit-Monday, and again on the 29th and 30th of July, 1822; in both of which attempts he failed.
Tune—"Barbary Bell."
Sitting crush'd i' the huddock a' gobbing and talking,We were mov'd wiv a spoke frae the little Pee Dee;Ah! Skipper, he says, the auld man 'ill be walking,So we a' rose together and set off to see.When we gat to the Moor, he was dodging away, man,Wi' twe cheps on each side, keeping a' the folks back;And the bairns running after him, shouting hurra, man,So we just gat a gliff, for he pass'd in a crack.Now Barney M'Mullin, his reet hand protector,With a sprig o' shilelagh preparing the way,Was stopt on the road by a publican hector,Who hinted that Barney intended foul play.If Barney mov'd forward he threaten'd to drop him,For his walking, he said, put the man off his pace;But Barney concluded he'd ne right to stop him,And call'd him a big-gutted rogue to his face.Every Freeman, says Barney, of land has a small stock,But to dunch people off is most rascally mean;Then their rights were protected by bold Tommy Alcock,Who said he'd a share of the pasture sae green.When Tommy put on his election-day swagger,His genteel appearance made Barney's tongue cease;His speech was sae pointed, it pierc'd like a dagger:So Barney, poor soul, he departed in peace.We stopt there a' neet, till weel on i' the morning,Expecting he still wad keep dodging away;But he gav us the double, without ony warning,And hodg'd off the Moor, like a sheep gyen astray.When he enter'd the tent, we were a' sitting drinking,It was thought he had come to get something to eat;But now it appears the poor soul had been thinkingOn the best ways and means to obtain a retreat.It seems the auld man had nae notion o' stopping,But as to what ail'd him, he knaws best his sel';For whether he fail'd in his wind, strength, or bottom,The skipper and I were baith puzzled to tell.But it's owre and deun, so what signifies talking,Poor man, he must just lay his fist to the spade:Let them that think fit make their living by walking,For his part he's fund it's a very bad trade.
Sitting crush'd i' the huddock a' gobbing and talking,We were mov'd wiv a spoke frae the little Pee Dee;Ah! Skipper, he says, the auld man 'ill be walking,So we a' rose together and set off to see.When we gat to the Moor, he was dodging away, man,Wi' twe cheps on each side, keeping a' the folks back;And the bairns running after him, shouting hurra, man,So we just gat a gliff, for he pass'd in a crack.
Now Barney M'Mullin, his reet hand protector,With a sprig o' shilelagh preparing the way,Was stopt on the road by a publican hector,Who hinted that Barney intended foul play.If Barney mov'd forward he threaten'd to drop him,For his walking, he said, put the man off his pace;But Barney concluded he'd ne right to stop him,And call'd him a big-gutted rogue to his face.
Every Freeman, says Barney, of land has a small stock,But to dunch people off is most rascally mean;Then their rights were protected by bold Tommy Alcock,Who said he'd a share of the pasture sae green.When Tommy put on his election-day swagger,His genteel appearance made Barney's tongue cease;His speech was sae pointed, it pierc'd like a dagger:So Barney, poor soul, he departed in peace.
We stopt there a' neet, till weel on i' the morning,Expecting he still wad keep dodging away;But he gav us the double, without ony warning,And hodg'd off the Moor, like a sheep gyen astray.When he enter'd the tent, we were a' sitting drinking,It was thought he had come to get something to eat;But now it appears the poor soul had been thinkingOn the best ways and means to obtain a retreat.
It seems the auld man had nae notion o' stopping,But as to what ail'd him, he knaws best his sel';For whether he fail'd in his wind, strength, or bottom,The skipper and I were baith puzzled to tell.But it's owre and deun, so what signifies talking,Poor man, he must just lay his fist to the spade:Let them that think fit make their living by walking,For his part he's fund it's a very bad trade.
or, The CAPTAIN DONE OVER.
Tune—"O the golden days of good Queen Bess."
It happen'd very lately, (upon my word 'tis true, sir,)A party at the Peacock supp'd, as I shall shew to you, sir;The names of those I shall disclose, who form'd this happy party,Were Waller Watson, Walton too, both honest blades and hearty;And with them were two friends of theirs, who just had come to town, sir,Hedges and Ingram are their names, both travellers of renown, sir.They sang and drank, and drank and sang, till time was wearing late, sir,Nor ever thought a moment what that night might be their fate, sir:Near eleven o'clock they sallied out, the night being rather cold, sir,('Twas on the eighth of April, as we hear the story told, sir,)They felt it not, for friendship's glass had warm'd their hearts within, sir,By drinking brandy, rum, or wine, or eke good Holland's gin, sir.Watson and Ingram both inclin'd to be a little merry, sir,The others left—to Dean-street they proceeded in a hurry, sir;When Hedges he sung "Fly not yet," why haste ye so away, sir?And Ingram promptly answer'd him, by calling out, "Oh! stay," sir.TheVergesof the night were rous'd—demanded why such clatter, sir,What's all this hound-like noise about? come tell us what's the matter, sir.Then Walton said, "They're friends of mine, and strangers in the place, sir;"But this they disregarded quite, and star'd them in the face, sir.Now Halbert cried out, "Seize them, Ross!—to the watch-house they shall go, sir;And Master Carr willKittythem, old friendship for to shew, sir."Then to the watch-house they were ta'en triumphantly along, sir,For nothing, as the trial prov'd, but singing Tom Moor's song, sir.Arriving at the watch-house, where Dogberry sat in state, sir,The watchmen made false charges out, and did so glibly prate, sir;Tom cried out, "What d'ye think of this? No defence will I hear, sir,My servantsI will listen to, they've made it plain appear, sir.Off to theKittywith them, watch, nor grant one short respite, sirs,But see that they're completely fast in durance all the night, sirs."Ye watchmen, for the future, remember Scarlett's dressing, sirs,The real sound drubbing you've receiv'd may be esteem'd a blessing, sirs:And should you e'er repeat such acts, vile tyrants as you've been, sirs,Scarlett against you may appear, and trim you black and green, sirs.Therefore a warning take in time, leave your infernal tricks, sirs,As you ere this must clearly find, you've kick'd against the pricks, sirs.
It happen'd very lately, (upon my word 'tis true, sir,)A party at the Peacock supp'd, as I shall shew to you, sir;The names of those I shall disclose, who form'd this happy party,Were Waller Watson, Walton too, both honest blades and hearty;And with them were two friends of theirs, who just had come to town, sir,Hedges and Ingram are their names, both travellers of renown, sir.They sang and drank, and drank and sang, till time was wearing late, sir,Nor ever thought a moment what that night might be their fate, sir:Near eleven o'clock they sallied out, the night being rather cold, sir,('Twas on the eighth of April, as we hear the story told, sir,)They felt it not, for friendship's glass had warm'd their hearts within, sir,By drinking brandy, rum, or wine, or eke good Holland's gin, sir.
Watson and Ingram both inclin'd to be a little merry, sir,The others left—to Dean-street they proceeded in a hurry, sir;When Hedges he sung "Fly not yet," why haste ye so away, sir?And Ingram promptly answer'd him, by calling out, "Oh! stay," sir.TheVergesof the night were rous'd—demanded why such clatter, sir,What's all this hound-like noise about? come tell us what's the matter, sir.
Then Walton said, "They're friends of mine, and strangers in the place, sir;"But this they disregarded quite, and star'd them in the face, sir.Now Halbert cried out, "Seize them, Ross!—to the watch-house they shall go, sir;And Master Carr willKittythem, old friendship for to shew, sir."Then to the watch-house they were ta'en triumphantly along, sir,For nothing, as the trial prov'd, but singing Tom Moor's song, sir.
Arriving at the watch-house, where Dogberry sat in state, sir,The watchmen made false charges out, and did so glibly prate, sir;Tom cried out, "What d'ye think of this? No defence will I hear, sir,My servantsI will listen to, they've made it plain appear, sir.Off to theKittywith them, watch, nor grant one short respite, sirs,But see that they're completely fast in durance all the night, sirs."
Ye watchmen, for the future, remember Scarlett's dressing, sirs,The real sound drubbing you've receiv'd may be esteem'd a blessing, sirs:And should you e'er repeat such acts, vile tyrants as you've been, sirs,Scarlett against you may appear, and trim you black and green, sirs.Therefore a warning take in time, leave your infernal tricks, sirs,As you ere this must clearly find, you've kick'd against the pricks, sirs.
Or, Lord Fauconberg's March.
Tune—"Chevy Chace."
God prosper long our noble king,And noblemen also,Who valiantly, with sword in hand,Do guard us from each foe.No sooner did Lord Fauconberg,With heart undaunted hear,Than news to Gotham had been brought,Which caus'd our Mayor to fear,Than up he rose, with eyes on fire,Most dreadful to the view:"To arms! to arms!" aloud he cried,And forth his falchion drew.To arms! to arms! full long and soreThe rattling drums did beat:To arms in haste each soldier flies,And scours through every street.The women shriek and wring their hands,Their children weep around;While some, more wise, fast bolt their doors,And hide them under ground.The French are at our gates! they cry,And we shall all be slain;For Dumourier is at their head,And that arch-traitor Paine.In haste drawn up, in fair array,Our Yorkshire Guards are seen;And mounted on a jet black steed,Lord Fauconberg I ween.And now he gave the word to march,And valiant foremost rode:And now he bounds from side to side—'Twas well the streets were broad.From Newgate down to the Broad-chareThey march'd with might and main;Then gallantly they turn'd them round,And so march'd up again.Now fill a bumper to the brim,And drink to Gotham's Mayor;And when again he hears such news,May Fauconberg be there.
God prosper long our noble king,And noblemen also,Who valiantly, with sword in hand,Do guard us from each foe.
No sooner did Lord Fauconberg,With heart undaunted hear,Than news to Gotham had been brought,Which caus'd our Mayor to fear,
Than up he rose, with eyes on fire,Most dreadful to the view:"To arms! to arms!" aloud he cried,And forth his falchion drew.
To arms! to arms! full long and soreThe rattling drums did beat:To arms in haste each soldier flies,And scours through every street.
The women shriek and wring their hands,Their children weep around;While some, more wise, fast bolt their doors,And hide them under ground.
The French are at our gates! they cry,And we shall all be slain;For Dumourier is at their head,And that arch-traitor Paine.
In haste drawn up, in fair array,Our Yorkshire Guards are seen;And mounted on a jet black steed,Lord Fauconberg I ween.
And now he gave the word to march,And valiant foremost rode:And now he bounds from side to side—'Twas well the streets were broad.
From Newgate down to the Broad-chareThey march'd with might and main;Then gallantly they turn'd them round,And so march'd up again.
Now fill a bumper to the brim,And drink to Gotham's Mayor;And when again he hears such news,May Fauconberg be there.
[21]On the commencement of the impress service, in March, 1793, considerable riots took place at Shields, which were represented, at Newcastle, in a thousand terrific shapes; and a false alarm having been given at the Mansion house, the drums of the York Militia beat to arms; Lord Fauconberg marched that regiment to the house of Rendezvous in the Broad-chare, and then marched back again.
[21]On the commencement of the impress service, in March, 1793, considerable riots took place at Shields, which were represented, at Newcastle, in a thousand terrific shapes; and a false alarm having been given at the Mansion house, the drums of the York Militia beat to arms; Lord Fauconberg marched that regiment to the house of Rendezvous in the Broad-chare, and then marched back again.
Air—"Chapter of Donkies."
T'other day up the water aw went in a boat,Aw brush'd up my trowsers, put on my new coat;We steer'd up wor boat 'lang side of a keel,And the luiks o' the Skipper wad frighten'd the Deil.Fol de rol, &c.So thinks aw, wi' the keel we'll gan a' the way,And hear a few words that the skipper may say,For aw was sure if ought in the keel was deun wrang,The Skipper wad curse, aye, and call every man.Fol de rol, &c.Now we'd just getten up to the fam'd Skinners' Burn,When the Skipper bawl'd out that the keel was to turn:Wye he shouted and roar'd like a man hung in chains,And swore by the keel he would knock out their brains.Fol de rol, &c.The little Pee-dee jump'd about on the deck,And the Skipper roar'd out he wad sure smash his neck;"What for?" says the Pee-dee, "can one not speak a word?"—So he gav him a kick—knock'd him plump owerboard.Fol de rol, &c.There was nyen o' the bullies e'er lost a bit time,But flung their great keel-huiks splash into the Tyne;They brought up the Pee-dee just like a duck'd craw,And the Skipper, wi' laughin', fell smack ower an' a'.Fol de rol, &c.Now the keelmen being tired of their Skipper se brave,Not one e'er attempted his life for to save;They hoisted their sail, and we saw no more,But the half-drown'd Skipper was swimming ashore.Fol de rol, &c.
T'other day up the water aw went in a boat,Aw brush'd up my trowsers, put on my new coat;We steer'd up wor boat 'lang side of a keel,And the luiks o' the Skipper wad frighten'd the Deil.Fol de rol, &c.
So thinks aw, wi' the keel we'll gan a' the way,And hear a few words that the skipper may say,For aw was sure if ought in the keel was deun wrang,The Skipper wad curse, aye, and call every man.Fol de rol, &c.
Now we'd just getten up to the fam'd Skinners' Burn,When the Skipper bawl'd out that the keel was to turn:Wye he shouted and roar'd like a man hung in chains,And swore by the keel he would knock out their brains.Fol de rol, &c.
The little Pee-dee jump'd about on the deck,And the Skipper roar'd out he wad sure smash his neck;"What for?" says the Pee-dee, "can one not speak a word?"—So he gav him a kick—knock'd him plump owerboard.Fol de rol, &c.
There was nyen o' the bullies e'er lost a bit time,But flung their great keel-huiks splash into the Tyne;They brought up the Pee-dee just like a duck'd craw,And the Skipper, wi' laughin', fell smack ower an' a'.Fol de rol, &c.
Now the keelmen being tired of their Skipper se brave,Not one e'er attempted his life for to save;They hoisted their sail, and we saw no more,But the half-drown'd Skipper was swimming ashore.Fol de rol, &c.
BY WM. ARMSTRONG.
Air—"We've aye been provided for."
The praises o' Newcassel aw've lang wish'd to tell,But now then aw'm determin'd to ha'e a right good spell,An' shew what notedkiddiesfrae Newcassel town hes flit,For it's a'wis been a canny place, an' sae will it yet.A chep, they call'd him Scott, he liev'd on the banks o' Tyne,Had a son, that i' the Government he wanted to shine:By degrees the youth he rose up, now Lord Chancellor does sit,And he's fill'd his place reet brawly, aye an' sae will he yet.Of a' the fine Engravers that grace fair Lunnen toon,Wor Tom Ransom and Bill Harvey bang a' that's up or doon:The praises frae the 'Cademy they constantly do get;For their pieces they've got medals, aye an' sae will they yet.For boxing tee, the Lunnen cheps we'll thresh them i' their turns;Ony see what science he has lairnt—that noted chep, Jem Burns:Jem Wallace tee, wor champion, how Tommy Dunn he hit,But they both good ones ever were, an' sae will they yet.A vast mair cliver cheps we ha'e, o' some aw'll let ye knaw;For a strong man, whe could beat bold Airchy wi' his wondrous claw;When six men tuik him in a boat, her bottom suen he split,And the hiding that he ga'e them, they've not forgot it yet.For fiddling tee, now whe is there wor Blind Willie can beat?Or for dancing whe before Jack Cockson e'er could set their feet?Cull Billy, only try him now, he'll cap ye wi' his wit;He's truly wond'rous, ever was, and sae will he yet.Bob Cruddace, ah, poor soul! he's deed—he had a cliver knackO' kepping beer, aye three yards off, when he "parish'd the pack!"And Whin Bob 'bout the militia constantly does swet;But by cunningness escap'd them, aye an' sae will he yet.Jack Nicholson, the noble soul, a deal o' breeding shows,Got a patent frae the King to split sheep heads wi' his nose;The butchers fearing o' disgrace, a job he ne'er cud get—But the honour's aye been wi' him, aye, an' sae will it yet.Of Fishwives tee, that's i' wor toon, up to the present day,Euphy Scott she is prime minister to Queen Madgie Gray.The understrappers and descendants maintain that it was fit,She should rule the market as she lik'd, an' sae will she yet.Captain Starkey, Pussey Willie, and poor Cuddy Reed,Lousy Donald and au'd Judy, poor souls! they've a' gyen deed:But, marrows, keep ye up your hearts, this is not the time to fret,For their memories hae e'er been up, aye an' say will they yet.
The praises o' Newcassel aw've lang wish'd to tell,But now then aw'm determin'd to ha'e a right good spell,An' shew what notedkiddiesfrae Newcassel town hes flit,For it's a'wis been a canny place, an' sae will it yet.
A chep, they call'd him Scott, he liev'd on the banks o' Tyne,Had a son, that i' the Government he wanted to shine:By degrees the youth he rose up, now Lord Chancellor does sit,And he's fill'd his place reet brawly, aye an' sae will he yet.
Of a' the fine Engravers that grace fair Lunnen toon,Wor Tom Ransom and Bill Harvey bang a' that's up or doon:The praises frae the 'Cademy they constantly do get;For their pieces they've got medals, aye an' sae will they yet.
For boxing tee, the Lunnen cheps we'll thresh them i' their turns;Ony see what science he has lairnt—that noted chep, Jem Burns:Jem Wallace tee, wor champion, how Tommy Dunn he hit,But they both good ones ever were, an' sae will they yet.
A vast mair cliver cheps we ha'e, o' some aw'll let ye knaw;For a strong man, whe could beat bold Airchy wi' his wondrous claw;When six men tuik him in a boat, her bottom suen he split,And the hiding that he ga'e them, they've not forgot it yet.
For fiddling tee, now whe is there wor Blind Willie can beat?Or for dancing whe before Jack Cockson e'er could set their feet?Cull Billy, only try him now, he'll cap ye wi' his wit;He's truly wond'rous, ever was, and sae will he yet.
Bob Cruddace, ah, poor soul! he's deed—he had a cliver knackO' kepping beer, aye three yards off, when he "parish'd the pack!"And Whin Bob 'bout the militia constantly does swet;But by cunningness escap'd them, aye an' sae will he yet.
Jack Nicholson, the noble soul, a deal o' breeding shows,Got a patent frae the King to split sheep heads wi' his nose;The butchers fearing o' disgrace, a job he ne'er cud get—But the honour's aye been wi' him, aye, an' sae will it yet.
Of Fishwives tee, that's i' wor toon, up to the present day,Euphy Scott she is prime minister to Queen Madgie Gray.The understrappers and descendants maintain that it was fit,She should rule the market as she lik'd, an' sae will she yet.
Captain Starkey, Pussey Willie, and poor Cuddy Reed,Lousy Donald and au'd Judy, poor souls! they've a' gyen deed:But, marrows, keep ye up your hearts, this is not the time to fret,For their memories hae e'er been up, aye an' say will they yet.
OLD NICK'S VISIT TO H——'S KITCHEN.
Tune—"The King of the Cannibal Islands."
Old Nick, for pastime, took a prance,And to Newcastle did advance;At Grainger's buildings just did glance,And swagger'd away to H——'s Kitchen.The Kitchen soon was in a roar,When Nick exclaim'd—I'll pay the score!So let the drink go round galore—Which soon laid numbers on the floor:—Cried Swalwell Pyet—Old Friend, what cheer!We're heartily glad to see you here—Nick smack'd the ale, and soon turn'd queerAmong his friends in the Kitchen.CHORUS.Then shout hurrah for Ralph's good ale!O may its virtues never fail—It made Old Nick to cock his tail,And stagger about in the Kitchen.In midst of all the noise and din,The merry crew came tumbling in,From Parlour and Cock'd Hat so trim,To join their friend in the Kitchen:—First Ramsay Jack, the brokers' hack,With G——and E——upon his back—Great Doctor Flash came in a crack!—Brave Noodle W——n join'd the pack;And from the Vestry, like a rose,Came M——ty with the brandy nose,And B——m dress'd in dandy clothes,To welcome Nick to the Kitchen.Then shout hurrah, &c.Fam'd H——p acted Crook-back'd Dick,And sung a song to please Old Nick;Jim W——n smoak'd till S——t turn'd sick,And they bundled them out of the Kitchen.Old S——y, too, that gallant tar,Said when on board a man of war,He conquer'd Yankee and Lascar,And knew all countries near and far:Old Nick then gave a dreadful roar,With voice just like the grizzly boar,Brave S——y ran towards the door,And fled half-dead from the Kitchen!Then shout hurrah, &c.Old Wash C——with his dirty paws,Sat rubbing up his grim old jaws,And scandalizing without cause,His dearest friend in the Kitchen.Jim Colvin and Ned Mushel smart,Were guzzling beer down by the quart!Old Snuffy Tom well play'd his part,He swigg'd away with all his heart.Old Nick cried, Is my Uncle here?I long to taste of his good cheer!—A lump of beef did soon appear,And they gobbled it up in the Kitchen!Then shout hurrah, &c.O hark! cried Nick, the clock strikes one!So midnight's past—I must be gone;When I remount my brimstone throne,I'll oftentimes think of the Kitchen.Ralph D——d said, before we part—Come, let us have another quart!Bob C——r swears 'twill break his heart,To think you should so soon desert!But Nick still more impatient grew—At last he bellow'd out—Adieu!And, in a moment, off he flew,'Mid thund'ring chears from the Kitchen!Then shout hurrah, &c.
Old Nick, for pastime, took a prance,And to Newcastle did advance;At Grainger's buildings just did glance,And swagger'd away to H——'s Kitchen.The Kitchen soon was in a roar,When Nick exclaim'd—I'll pay the score!So let the drink go round galore—Which soon laid numbers on the floor:—Cried Swalwell Pyet—Old Friend, what cheer!We're heartily glad to see you here—Nick smack'd the ale, and soon turn'd queerAmong his friends in the Kitchen.
CHORUS.
Then shout hurrah for Ralph's good ale!O may its virtues never fail—It made Old Nick to cock his tail,And stagger about in the Kitchen.
In midst of all the noise and din,The merry crew came tumbling in,From Parlour and Cock'd Hat so trim,To join their friend in the Kitchen:—First Ramsay Jack, the brokers' hack,With G——and E——upon his back—Great Doctor Flash came in a crack!—Brave Noodle W——n join'd the pack;And from the Vestry, like a rose,Came M——ty with the brandy nose,And B——m dress'd in dandy clothes,To welcome Nick to the Kitchen.Then shout hurrah, &c.
Fam'd H——p acted Crook-back'd Dick,And sung a song to please Old Nick;Jim W——n smoak'd till S——t turn'd sick,And they bundled them out of the Kitchen.Old S——y, too, that gallant tar,Said when on board a man of war,He conquer'd Yankee and Lascar,And knew all countries near and far:Old Nick then gave a dreadful roar,With voice just like the grizzly boar,Brave S——y ran towards the door,And fled half-dead from the Kitchen!Then shout hurrah, &c.
Old Wash C——with his dirty paws,Sat rubbing up his grim old jaws,And scandalizing without cause,His dearest friend in the Kitchen.Jim Colvin and Ned Mushel smart,Were guzzling beer down by the quart!Old Snuffy Tom well play'd his part,He swigg'd away with all his heart.Old Nick cried, Is my Uncle here?I long to taste of his good cheer!—A lump of beef did soon appear,And they gobbled it up in the Kitchen!Then shout hurrah, &c.
O hark! cried Nick, the clock strikes one!So midnight's past—I must be gone;When I remount my brimstone throne,I'll oftentimes think of the Kitchen.Ralph D——d said, before we part—Come, let us have another quart!Bob C——r swears 'twill break his heart,To think you should so soon desert!But Nick still more impatient grew—At last he bellow'd out—Adieu!And, in a moment, off he flew,'Mid thund'ring chears from the Kitchen!Then shout hurrah, &c.
INVITATION to the MANSION-HOUSE DINNER
IN HONOUR OF THE CORONATION.
Air—"Scots wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled."
Men who have with Mayors fed;Men whom oft the Mace hath led;Welcome to your Beef and Bread,Come and feast to-day.See yon Ox's buttocks lower;See yon bags of pudding flour;Shew your masticating power,Teeth and Loyalty.Who can't eat is sure a knave;Send the scoundrel to his grave;Who can't drink should be a slave;Such we ne'er will be.Who for King and Country's LawWill cut away and stuff his maw,Cans will drain, and corks will draw,Brothers, come with me.By what's worse than Slavery's chains,Empty stomachs, gripes, and pains,We'll eat and drink, until our veinsSwoln like bladders be.See yon lumps of beef laid low,Puddings fall at every blow!Wine in bumpers round shall flow:Brothers, look to me!
Men who have with Mayors fed;Men whom oft the Mace hath led;Welcome to your Beef and Bread,Come and feast to-day.See yon Ox's buttocks lower;See yon bags of pudding flour;Shew your masticating power,Teeth and Loyalty.
Who can't eat is sure a knave;Send the scoundrel to his grave;Who can't drink should be a slave;Such we ne'er will be.Who for King and Country's LawWill cut away and stuff his maw,Cans will drain, and corks will draw,Brothers, come with me.
By what's worse than Slavery's chains,Empty stomachs, gripes, and pains,We'll eat and drink, until our veinsSwoln like bladders be.See yon lumps of beef laid low,Puddings fall at every blow!Wine in bumpers round shall flow:Brothers, look to me!
THE NEWCASTLE
O yes! ye swinish Multitude!To our Newcastle sties repair:Two whole fat beeves are barbecu'd,So go and cram your gorges there.Your mouths will water at the sight;The oose your unshav'd chops run down;Your dirty sleeves away will dightThe slobber of tobacco brown.With cart-grease basted, dredg'd with dust,The outsides burnt, the insides raw,Next to some tit bit carrion mustDelight a hog's voracious maw.Hey! to the Pants, where dribbling wineAnd brewer's rot-gut beer distil;With speed let every greedy swineSwig what he can—aye, swig his fill.Then to your grov'ling nature true,Return to wallow in the mire;And let the Corporate body viewThe consummation they require.Swineherds expect the brutes that runTo guzzle at their garbage feast,Should compensate, and make them fun;So hogs come on and play the beast!"And grunt, ye pigs, with savage joy,While stuffing full your craving maws,Nor care if staves your skulls annoy,But quickly move your greedy jaws.While guzzling down your wishy-wash,Squeak loud withmake-believeaffection;And in the puddle kick and splash,Nor shew one sign of disaffection.Then, all ye lordly herds laugh loud,And shake your portly paunches fine;Shew to your dames the rabble crowd—And having pray'd, retire to dine.Then tell how the voracious pigs,With greedy spite press'd to thetrow,And gave each other loyal digs,Nor car'd for e'er a waddling sow.Next sagely argue o'er your wine,This crew, debas'd beyond compare,In fact and reason are true swine,Unlike Corinthian Pillars fair."[22]
O yes! ye swinish Multitude!To our Newcastle sties repair:Two whole fat beeves are barbecu'd,So go and cram your gorges there.
Your mouths will water at the sight;The oose your unshav'd chops run down;Your dirty sleeves away will dightThe slobber of tobacco brown.
With cart-grease basted, dredg'd with dust,The outsides burnt, the insides raw,Next to some tit bit carrion mustDelight a hog's voracious maw.
Hey! to the Pants, where dribbling wineAnd brewer's rot-gut beer distil;With speed let every greedy swineSwig what he can—aye, swig his fill.
Then to your grov'ling nature true,Return to wallow in the mire;And let the Corporate body viewThe consummation they require.
Swineherds expect the brutes that runTo guzzle at their garbage feast,Should compensate, and make them fun;So hogs come on and play the beast!
"And grunt, ye pigs, with savage joy,While stuffing full your craving maws,Nor care if staves your skulls annoy,But quickly move your greedy jaws.
While guzzling down your wishy-wash,Squeak loud withmake-believeaffection;And in the puddle kick and splash,Nor shew one sign of disaffection.
Then, all ye lordly herds laugh loud,And shake your portly paunches fine;Shew to your dames the rabble crowd—And having pray'd, retire to dine.
Then tell how the voracious pigs,With greedy spite press'd to thetrow,And gave each other loyal digs,Nor car'd for e'er a waddling sow.
Next sagely argue o'er your wine,This crew, debas'd beyond compare,In fact and reason are true swine,Unlike Corinthian Pillars fair."[22]
Pigstye Court, Sandhill, 12th July, 1821.
[22]The Rich were called the "Corinthian Pillars of Society" by the pensioner Burke; while he termed the Industrious Classes the "Swinish Multitude."
[22]The Rich were called the "Corinthian Pillars of Society" by the pensioner Burke; while he termed the Industrious Classes the "Swinish Multitude."
Or, The General Invitation.
Come, neighbours, to Robson's let's all hie away,To see the Ox crown'd with ribbons so gay:His horns are well gilded, his head bright does shine,We'll soon get a slice and a horn full of wine.Some come from afar, as did wise men of old,To see our King's head branch'd out thus with gold.Success, then, to horns, when they're gilded so clever;May the ... wear horns, and wear them for ever.In praise then of horns let all Newcastle sing;For he who scorns horns despises his...Let them boast of their garters, and boast of their stars,But horns are far better than honours or scars.Never blush for your horns, then, though low be your station,Since horns are the pride of theChiefof our nation.Let them make Lords and Dukes, crown anAss, if they will,The order of Horns let it be my theme still.
Come, neighbours, to Robson's let's all hie away,To see the Ox crown'd with ribbons so gay:His horns are well gilded, his head bright does shine,We'll soon get a slice and a horn full of wine.
Some come from afar, as did wise men of old,To see our King's head branch'd out thus with gold.Success, then, to horns, when they're gilded so clever;May the ... wear horns, and wear them for ever.
In praise then of horns let all Newcastle sing;For he who scorns horns despises his...Let them boast of their garters, and boast of their stars,But horns are far better than honours or scars.
Never blush for your horns, then, though low be your station,Since horns are the pride of theChiefof our nation.Let them make Lords and Dukes, crown anAss, if they will,The order of Horns let it be my theme still.
Or, Novel Scenes at Newcastle.
A POPULAR SONG IN THE NEW FARCE OF THE CORONATION,
As it was performed at Newcastle upon Tyne, on Thursday, July 19th, 1821.
Sung by the "Swinish Multitude," in full Chorus.
The Castle guns were fir'd, and loudThe bells rang in the morning,To wake the "Swinish Multitude,"And give the public warning:That, "as in duty bound," the Mayor,And loyal Corporation,Would celebrate, in civic state,The day of Coronation!With matchless liberality,The sums of money voted,That loyalty might be therebyAmong the herd promoted:A feast would loyalize the brutes,Upon this great occasion,And make them sing, God save the King!At George's Coronation.Three royal fountains running beer,And one to dribble wine, O,Would make them flock from far and near,To grunt like loyal swine, O.Two bullocks roasted whole, 'twas thought,Would be a grand donation,To toss among the "rabble rout,"At George's Coronation!'Twas done—the bullocks roasted were,The fountains set a flowing;While Butchers round, upon the ground,Huge lumps of beef were throwing:The loyal Swineherds looking on,In anxious expectation,To see each beast enjoy the feastAt George's Coronation!But what was their surprize to findThe swinish herd refuse it;How strange! their tastes were so refin'd,No hog of sense would use it!Our Gentry now, the loyal few,Beheld, with consternation,The scanty stock of loyaltyAt George's Coronation!They saw, with grief, the roasted beefBy saucy swine neglected!No grateful beast extoll'd the feast,Nor loyalty respected!Their swinish nature sure is chang'd—O what an alteration!Time was when pigs would grunt and squeel,To grace a Coronation!But ah! the brutes display, at last,The faculty of Reason!"The age of Chivalry is past!"(Reflection most unpleasing!)And, sad to tell, with that is gone"Othello's occupation!"All servile reverence for a throne,And priestly domination!Then why display this make-believeAffection and profusion?Ye can no longer swine deceive,They see through the delusion.What then avails this pageantry,And useless ostentation?What signifies your loyaltyAt George's Coronation!Had Derry-Down been on the spot,And view'd the scene before him,While beef, and bones, and bricks, like shot,Were flyingin terrorem;He would have star'd, with wild affright,At such a consummation,And loudly damn'd the useless farceOf George's Coronation!Learn hence, ye Legislators wise,Ye guardians of our treasures!The "Swinish Multitude" despiseYour inconsistent measures:Think not that bayonets will gainThe people's admiration;Or fix a Monarch on the throne,By a mock Coronation!
The Castle guns were fir'd, and loudThe bells rang in the morning,To wake the "Swinish Multitude,"And give the public warning:That, "as in duty bound," the Mayor,And loyal Corporation,Would celebrate, in civic state,The day of Coronation!
With matchless liberality,The sums of money voted,That loyalty might be therebyAmong the herd promoted:A feast would loyalize the brutes,Upon this great occasion,And make them sing, God save the King!At George's Coronation.
Three royal fountains running beer,And one to dribble wine, O,Would make them flock from far and near,To grunt like loyal swine, O.Two bullocks roasted whole, 'twas thought,Would be a grand donation,To toss among the "rabble rout,"At George's Coronation!
'Twas done—the bullocks roasted were,The fountains set a flowing;While Butchers round, upon the ground,Huge lumps of beef were throwing:The loyal Swineherds looking on,In anxious expectation,To see each beast enjoy the feastAt George's Coronation!
But what was their surprize to findThe swinish herd refuse it;How strange! their tastes were so refin'd,No hog of sense would use it!Our Gentry now, the loyal few,Beheld, with consternation,The scanty stock of loyaltyAt George's Coronation!
They saw, with grief, the roasted beefBy saucy swine neglected!No grateful beast extoll'd the feast,Nor loyalty respected!Their swinish nature sure is chang'd—O what an alteration!Time was when pigs would grunt and squeel,To grace a Coronation!
But ah! the brutes display, at last,The faculty of Reason!"The age of Chivalry is past!"(Reflection most unpleasing!)And, sad to tell, with that is gone"Othello's occupation!"All servile reverence for a throne,And priestly domination!
Then why display this make-believeAffection and profusion?Ye can no longer swine deceive,They see through the delusion.What then avails this pageantry,And useless ostentation?What signifies your loyaltyAt George's Coronation!
Had Derry-Down been on the spot,And view'd the scene before him,While beef, and bones, and bricks, like shot,Were flyingin terrorem;He would have star'd, with wild affright,At such a consummation,And loudly damn'd the useless farceOf George's Coronation!
Learn hence, ye Legislators wise,Ye guardians of our treasures!The "Swinish Multitude" despiseYour inconsistent measures:Think not that bayonets will gainThe people's admiration;Or fix a Monarch on the throne,By a mock Coronation!
Or, George the Fourth's Coronation.
BY WILLIAM MIDFORD.
Tune—"Arthur M'Bride."
The firing of guns, and the ringing of bells,Rous'd me from my dreams about magical spells;So I'll draw you a sketch, as we're now by oursel's,By way of an illustration:The roads to Newcastle were cover'd almost,As if Radical thunder[23]had summon'd its host,Or an enemy's fleet had been seen off the coast,On George the Fourth's Coronation.In the streets what a buz among sweethearts and wives,And children who ne'er rose so soon in their lives;All higgledy piggledy through other drives,To view what was in preparation.The oxen are roasting—outsides a mere crust;They're stuff'd wi' potatoes, and dredg'd well with dust,While the turnspits were set as if working o' trust,On George the Fourth's Coronation.I next went to view a Boat-race on the Tyne,For a blue silken flag skill and labour combine;Gold sovereigns the prizes—to start about nine,From Walker, with precipitation.The Greyhound came first, the old Sandgate-shore Gig,Which went as if chasing a hare, through the Brig.No doubt but the wives and the lasses were big,On George the Fourth's Coronation.Then the Gentlemen walk'd in procession to church;Not even Dissenters did lag in the porch,But boldly push'd on, amid ruffles and starch,To praise and to pray with the nation.The service being ended, the anthems are sung,The burnt sacrifice from each service is swung,When the fountains with wine and strong ale 'gan to runOn George the Fourth's Coronation.Then a Female Procession, to heighten the scene,Paraded the streets, with a bust of the Queen;When her title was plac'd where a crown should have been—Upon the crane-top was its station.Then the Ox was beheaded, and held up to view,As if he'd done something of Cato-street hue:A soldier that made his appearance did rue,On George the Fourth's Coronation.Then with squeezing and tearing began the dispute;Some held by the Pant, and some grappled the spout,Till as drunk as a lord, and as wise as a brute,At this swine-feeding jollification.They drank out of hats and old shoes, very keen,The fights they went round, quite amusing the scene;While some, in mistake, drank "Success to the Queen!"On George the Fourth's Coronation.The battle grew hot, as they flung round the beef,Disgusted, they sought no Commander in chief;The fires they demolish'd, while brick-bats and beefFlew like rockets, in mad desperation.The Butchers, now thinking their lives very sweet,Soon threw down their gullies, and beat a retreat;Not wishing to die, just like dogs, in the street,On George the Fourth's Coronation.Upon the Sandhill, where the fountain ran wine,The keelmen, quite eager to taste of the vine,Had the Crown taken down, which was thrown in the Tyne,So fix'd was their determination.There one, tho' stripp'd naked, so great was his drouth,Made a new-fashion'd sun-dial, pointing due south,When the ladies at five of the clock set their mouth,On George the Fourth's Coronation.Among the arrivals at Mansion-house gates,Were the bones of the oxen, the spits, and the grates,With a keelman, in petticoats, scratching his pate,For a suit from our rich Corporation.Had theDen[24]been but open, the people might say,For Kill-pudding Joe, and the burdies of prey,[25]This sunshine would brought a fine "harvest of hay,"On George the Fourth's Coronation.
The firing of guns, and the ringing of bells,Rous'd me from my dreams about magical spells;So I'll draw you a sketch, as we're now by oursel's,By way of an illustration:The roads to Newcastle were cover'd almost,As if Radical thunder[23]had summon'd its host,Or an enemy's fleet had been seen off the coast,On George the Fourth's Coronation.
In the streets what a buz among sweethearts and wives,And children who ne'er rose so soon in their lives;All higgledy piggledy through other drives,To view what was in preparation.The oxen are roasting—outsides a mere crust;They're stuff'd wi' potatoes, and dredg'd well with dust,While the turnspits were set as if working o' trust,On George the Fourth's Coronation.
I next went to view a Boat-race on the Tyne,For a blue silken flag skill and labour combine;Gold sovereigns the prizes—to start about nine,From Walker, with precipitation.The Greyhound came first, the old Sandgate-shore Gig,Which went as if chasing a hare, through the Brig.No doubt but the wives and the lasses were big,On George the Fourth's Coronation.
Then the Gentlemen walk'd in procession to church;Not even Dissenters did lag in the porch,But boldly push'd on, amid ruffles and starch,To praise and to pray with the nation.The service being ended, the anthems are sung,The burnt sacrifice from each service is swung,When the fountains with wine and strong ale 'gan to runOn George the Fourth's Coronation.
Then a Female Procession, to heighten the scene,Paraded the streets, with a bust of the Queen;When her title was plac'd where a crown should have been—Upon the crane-top was its station.Then the Ox was beheaded, and held up to view,As if he'd done something of Cato-street hue:A soldier that made his appearance did rue,On George the Fourth's Coronation.
Then with squeezing and tearing began the dispute;Some held by the Pant, and some grappled the spout,Till as drunk as a lord, and as wise as a brute,At this swine-feeding jollification.They drank out of hats and old shoes, very keen,The fights they went round, quite amusing the scene;While some, in mistake, drank "Success to the Queen!"On George the Fourth's Coronation.
The battle grew hot, as they flung round the beef,Disgusted, they sought no Commander in chief;The fires they demolish'd, while brick-bats and beefFlew like rockets, in mad desperation.The Butchers, now thinking their lives very sweet,Soon threw down their gullies, and beat a retreat;Not wishing to die, just like dogs, in the street,On George the Fourth's Coronation.
Upon the Sandhill, where the fountain ran wine,The keelmen, quite eager to taste of the vine,Had the Crown taken down, which was thrown in the Tyne,So fix'd was their determination.There one, tho' stripp'd naked, so great was his drouth,Made a new-fashion'd sun-dial, pointing due south,When the ladies at five of the clock set their mouth,On George the Fourth's Coronation.
Among the arrivals at Mansion-house gates,Were the bones of the oxen, the spits, and the grates,With a keelman, in petticoats, scratching his pate,For a suit from our rich Corporation.Had theDen[24]been but open, the people might say,For Kill-pudding Joe, and the burdies of prey,[25]This sunshine would brought a fine "harvest of hay,"On George the Fourth's Coronation.
[23]Referring to the Public Meeting on the Town Moor, on the 11th Oct. 1819, where it was supposed, 100,000 were assembled, to take into consideration the proceedings at Manchester.
[23]Referring to the Public Meeting on the Town Moor, on the 11th Oct. 1819, where it was supposed, 100,000 were assembled, to take into consideration the proceedings at Manchester.
[24]The House of Correction.
[24]The House of Correction.
[25]Police Officers.
[25]Police Officers.
Or, George the Fourth's Coronation.
Air—"Come under my Plaidie."
O Jockey, my friend, mun, how last you this evening?Come in, crook your hough, and let's hear all your news;It appears to me you have been tramping this morning,I see by the dust that's so thick on your shoes.I have been a tramping, I've been at Newcastle,All the things I have seen there my memory can't bring;The folks from all parts have rais'd such a noration,About the Coronation of Geordy the King.The first thing I saw was two fires for the bullocks—They hung them both down as it struck twelve at night;But lang ere day-light was come in on the morning,Both stuffing and 'tatoes were burnt in their kites.They turn'd them on spite until burnt like two cinders,And cut them both up about twelve of the day;As they lay on the stages, they smok'd just like tinder,And look'd like two muck-heaps, the people did say.Then the carvers set to with knives cutting and scraping,And lumps of fat beef with such vengeance were strew'd,I dare say they thought that the folks were all gaping,And believ'd they were feeding a swine multitude.But the stuff they threw out put the folks in a fury,Both stones and brick-bats they snatch'd up in a rage;And a radical troop, thus equipp'd in a hurry,With vengeance bang'd carvers and beef off the stage.For the folks being determin'd, the beef would not handle,Nor gobble it up like a stye full of swine;For their conscience did whisper it would be a scandal:So the stuff was refus'd by the sons of the Tyne.The next thing I saw was a British young sailor,He pull'd the crown down from the top of the crane;Although with brick bats he got many a nailor,Yet he stuck up a label concerning the Queen.This bill being put up set the crowd in a motion,They gave three times three when first it was seen;And loudly did praise the brave tars of the ocean,Who fought in defence of their much injur'd Queen.These things being done, it rais'd such a durdem,The stones and the brick-bats flew up like a cloud:A poor Tyne Cossack, that belong'd to Tom Burdon,Was near crush'd to death as he fought with the crowd.That day in the town was heard no sound of bugles,And Bold Archy, he too was ne'er seen iv a';For if that but once he had brought down the Noodles,They'd been trod under foot like a bundle of straw.For so bold are the men about canny Newcassel,No injustice they'll suffer when assembled a':If the King had been there he'd ne'er worn his gold tassel,And as to being crown'd, that would ne'er done iv a'.The things that were flying appear'd like a battle;So, afraid of being fell'd, as I stood by the folks,I on shankie nagie away straight did rattle,To drag down the street the black bones of the ox.When I came to the Sandhill my eyes I got open'd,I saw something standing which brightly did shine;A large wooden Pant, and a crown on the top o't:When I came to look close it was running red wine,The folk that were round it appear'd to be growlingAnd fighting amongst it like so many cats;While others I saw among mud and dirt rolling,And drinking the wine out of old lousy hats.Thinks I to myself, this is all botheration,It is but a pretext, I know by their scheme,To pump out what's left of the wealth of the nation,To swell the fat bags of the Clergy and King.The next thing I saw that took up my attention,Was a keelman quite nak'd! he'd no breeches iv a';Some said he, for fighting, deserv'd well a pension,But I think that he ought to've been tried by the law.The wives that were running fell o'er, tappy lappy,Town serjeants the keelmen did pelt well with glare;And swore, if they could but catch Tripy and Cappy,They would tear them to rags at the end of the war.Then I by this time nigh got into a quarrel;I argued, but could not the battle decide;So dreading some person might tear my apparel,I took my departure unto the Quayside.In going down the Quay there was such a crushing—I met with a man of the name of Tom Dale,He said, into Sandgate the folks were all pushing,For the Pant on the hill there was running strong ale.When I got to Sandgate I could not help laughing,The lasses were running about with the swipes;And old wives that fell in the gutter were scruffling,Ne'er minded, but smok'd on their old cutty pipes.I next took my journey as for as the 'Spital,To see if ought curious was there to be seen;But I think that from Sandgate it differed little,For the folks were all drinking the health of the Queen.I went to an alehouse, and nearly got fuddled,For by walking about sae my legs were quite lame;So on my old pins then away I straight toddled,And ne'er look'd behind me, but tramp'd away hame.At Newcastle there have been both horse and boat races,I have droll things to tell you, if I had but time;But having to call at some more bits of places,On some other day I will finish my rhyme.
O Jockey, my friend, mun, how last you this evening?Come in, crook your hough, and let's hear all your news;It appears to me you have been tramping this morning,I see by the dust that's so thick on your shoes.I have been a tramping, I've been at Newcastle,All the things I have seen there my memory can't bring;The folks from all parts have rais'd such a noration,About the Coronation of Geordy the King.
The first thing I saw was two fires for the bullocks—They hung them both down as it struck twelve at night;But lang ere day-light was come in on the morning,Both stuffing and 'tatoes were burnt in their kites.They turn'd them on spite until burnt like two cinders,And cut them both up about twelve of the day;As they lay on the stages, they smok'd just like tinder,And look'd like two muck-heaps, the people did say.
Then the carvers set to with knives cutting and scraping,And lumps of fat beef with such vengeance were strew'd,I dare say they thought that the folks were all gaping,And believ'd they were feeding a swine multitude.But the stuff they threw out put the folks in a fury,Both stones and brick-bats they snatch'd up in a rage;And a radical troop, thus equipp'd in a hurry,With vengeance bang'd carvers and beef off the stage.
For the folks being determin'd, the beef would not handle,Nor gobble it up like a stye full of swine;For their conscience did whisper it would be a scandal:So the stuff was refus'd by the sons of the Tyne.The next thing I saw was a British young sailor,He pull'd the crown down from the top of the crane;Although with brick bats he got many a nailor,Yet he stuck up a label concerning the Queen.
This bill being put up set the crowd in a motion,They gave three times three when first it was seen;And loudly did praise the brave tars of the ocean,Who fought in defence of their much injur'd Queen.These things being done, it rais'd such a durdem,The stones and the brick-bats flew up like a cloud:A poor Tyne Cossack, that belong'd to Tom Burdon,Was near crush'd to death as he fought with the crowd.
That day in the town was heard no sound of bugles,And Bold Archy, he too was ne'er seen iv a';For if that but once he had brought down the Noodles,They'd been trod under foot like a bundle of straw.For so bold are the men about canny Newcassel,No injustice they'll suffer when assembled a':If the King had been there he'd ne'er worn his gold tassel,And as to being crown'd, that would ne'er done iv a'.
The things that were flying appear'd like a battle;So, afraid of being fell'd, as I stood by the folks,I on shankie nagie away straight did rattle,To drag down the street the black bones of the ox.When I came to the Sandhill my eyes I got open'd,I saw something standing which brightly did shine;A large wooden Pant, and a crown on the top o't:When I came to look close it was running red wine,
The folk that were round it appear'd to be growlingAnd fighting amongst it like so many cats;While others I saw among mud and dirt rolling,And drinking the wine out of old lousy hats.Thinks I to myself, this is all botheration,It is but a pretext, I know by their scheme,To pump out what's left of the wealth of the nation,To swell the fat bags of the Clergy and King.
The next thing I saw that took up my attention,Was a keelman quite nak'd! he'd no breeches iv a';Some said he, for fighting, deserv'd well a pension,But I think that he ought to've been tried by the law.The wives that were running fell o'er, tappy lappy,Town serjeants the keelmen did pelt well with glare;And swore, if they could but catch Tripy and Cappy,They would tear them to rags at the end of the war.
Then I by this time nigh got into a quarrel;I argued, but could not the battle decide;So dreading some person might tear my apparel,I took my departure unto the Quayside.In going down the Quay there was such a crushing—I met with a man of the name of Tom Dale,He said, into Sandgate the folks were all pushing,For the Pant on the hill there was running strong ale.
When I got to Sandgate I could not help laughing,The lasses were running about with the swipes;And old wives that fell in the gutter were scruffling,Ne'er minded, but smok'd on their old cutty pipes.I next took my journey as for as the 'Spital,To see if ought curious was there to be seen;But I think that from Sandgate it differed little,For the folks were all drinking the health of the Queen.
I went to an alehouse, and nearly got fuddled,For by walking about sae my legs were quite lame;So on my old pins then away I straight toddled,And ne'er look'd behind me, but tramp'd away hame.At Newcastle there have been both horse and boat races,I have droll things to tell you, if I had but time;But having to call at some more bits of places,On some other day I will finish my rhyme.