THE MECHANICS' PROCESSION;

[32]The New Market Place.

Or, A Trip to South Shields.

Tune—"The Bold Dragoon."

Let gowks about Odd Fellows brag,And Foresters se fine—Unrivall'd the Mechanics stand,And long will o'er them shine;—With belts of blue, and hearts so true,They far outrival every Order—Their praise is sung by every tongue,Frae Lunnin toon reet ow'r the Border.Whack, row de dow, &c.O had you seen our Nelson ladsWhen Nunn[33]brought up the newsHe said, let us be off to Shields,Our brothers' hearts to rouse;Our Tiler drew his sword, and cried,Let banners wave and loud drums rattle—Whene'er Mechanics are oppress'd,They'll find us first to fight their battle!Whack, row de dow, &c.Three cheers we gave, when Nunn replied,OurAlbionlads do crave,To join theTyneandCollingwood,All danger they would brave;And each I. G. wad let them see,Their hearts and souls were in the action,They'd crush a foe at ev'ry blow,Until that they had satisfaction.Whack, row de dow, &c.The ardour spread from lodge to lodge,Each brother's heart beat high,And down the Tyne, in steamers fine,On rapid wings they fly;—'Mid cannon's roar along the shore,Our band struck up our tunes se merry—So blythe a crew there's been but few,Since famous Jemmy Johnson's Wherry.Whack, row de dow, &c.At Shields we join'd their splendid band,And march'd in fine array—Throughout the town, we gain'd renown,For such a grand display:—We smack'd their yell, and wish'd successTo each Mechanic's Lodge se clever,And as we left the brothers cried—O may our Order live for ever!Whack, row de dow, &c.Let's drink to all Mechanics true,Upon both sides of TyneMay peace and plenty bless their homes,And round them long entwine;—To Simpson te, so kind and free,Let's give three cheers as loud as thunder—Till echo'd back from pole to pole,And all the world admire and wonder!Whack, row de dow, &c.

O had you seen our Nelson ladsWhen Nunn[33]brought up the newsHe said, let us be off to Shields,Our brothers' hearts to rouse;Our Tiler drew his sword, and cried,Let banners wave and loud drums rattle—Whene'er Mechanics are oppress'd,They'll find us first to fight their battle!Whack, row de dow, &c.

Three cheers we gave, when Nunn replied,OurAlbionlads do crave,To join theTyneandCollingwood,All danger they would brave;And each I. G. wad let them see,Their hearts and souls were in the action,They'd crush a foe at ev'ry blow,Until that they had satisfaction.Whack, row de dow, &c.

The ardour spread from lodge to lodge,Each brother's heart beat high,And down the Tyne, in steamers fine,On rapid wings they fly;—'Mid cannon's roar along the shore,Our band struck up our tunes se merry—So blythe a crew there's been but few,Since famous Jemmy Johnson's Wherry.Whack, row de dow, &c.

At Shields we join'd their splendid band,And march'd in fine array—Throughout the town, we gain'd renown,For such a grand display:—We smack'd their yell, and wish'd successTo each Mechanic's Lodge se clever,And as we left the brothers cried—O may our Order live for ever!Whack, row de dow, &c.

Let's drink to all Mechanics true,Upon both sides of TyneMay peace and plenty bless their homes,And round them long entwine;—To Simpson te, so kind and free,Let's give three cheers as loud as thunder—Till echo'd back from pole to pole,And all the world admire and wonder!Whack, row de dow, &c.

[33]Thomas Nunn, I. G. of the Albion Lodge.

Here awhile we'll cease from roaming—Pitch the tents among the broom—Turn the asses on the common,And enjoy the afternoon.Merry shall we be to-day:What is life devoid of pleasure?Care from us keep far away,While Mirth pursues his sprightly measure.Place all things in decent order,Budgets, boxes, mugger-ware,And here encamp'd, on England's border,We'll remain till Whitsun Fair.Ease the brutes of panniers' load—Let them browse among the heather;Light a fire, and dress some food,And frankly we shall feast together.AndAllan,[34]thou shall screw thy drone,And play up 'Maggie Lauder' sweetly,Or 'Money Musk' or 'Dorrington,'And we will frisk and foot it neatly.Crowd[35]gain'd applause for many a tune—Few peer'd him in the High or Lawlan';But neither he norSandy Brown[36]Could trill a note likeJemmy Allan.E'enBlaw-loud Willy's[37]Border airs,Nor gay nor daft could please the dancer;But aye to Allan's lilts, at fairs,The very feet themselves would answer.Each lad shall take his fav'rite lass,And dance with her till she be weary,And warm her with the whisky glass,And kiss and hug his nut-brown deary.And when of mirth we've had our will,Upon the sward love shall entwine us;Our plighted vows we'll then fulfill,Without a canting priest to join us.And when we go our country rounds,Some trinkets selling, fortunes telling—Some tink'ring, cooping, casting spoons,We'll still obtain the ready shilling.Unto the farm-steads we can hie,Whene'er our stock of food grows scanty,And from the hen-roost, bin, or sty,We'll aye get fresh supplies in plenty.And when the shepherd goes to sleep,And on the fell remains the flock,We'll steal abroad among the sheep,And take a choice one from the stock.The clergy take the tenth of swine,Potatoes, poultry, corn, and hay—Why should not gipsies, when they dine,Have a tithe-pig as well as they?We wish not for great store of wealth,Nor pomp, nor pride, nor costly dainty;While blest with liberty and health,And competence—then we have plenty.Merry shall we be to-day:What is life devoid of pleasure?Care from us keep far away,While Mirth pursues his sprightly measure.

Here awhile we'll cease from roaming—Pitch the tents among the broom—Turn the asses on the common,And enjoy the afternoon.

Merry shall we be to-day:What is life devoid of pleasure?Care from us keep far away,While Mirth pursues his sprightly measure.

Place all things in decent order,Budgets, boxes, mugger-ware,And here encamp'd, on England's border,We'll remain till Whitsun Fair.

Ease the brutes of panniers' load—Let them browse among the heather;Light a fire, and dress some food,And frankly we shall feast together.

AndAllan,[34]thou shall screw thy drone,And play up 'Maggie Lauder' sweetly,Or 'Money Musk' or 'Dorrington,'And we will frisk and foot it neatly.

Crowd[35]gain'd applause for many a tune—Few peer'd him in the High or Lawlan';But neither he norSandy Brown[36]Could trill a note likeJemmy Allan.

E'enBlaw-loud Willy's[37]Border airs,Nor gay nor daft could please the dancer;But aye to Allan's lilts, at fairs,The very feet themselves would answer.

Each lad shall take his fav'rite lass,And dance with her till she be weary,And warm her with the whisky glass,And kiss and hug his nut-brown deary.

And when of mirth we've had our will,Upon the sward love shall entwine us;Our plighted vows we'll then fulfill,Without a canting priest to join us.

And when we go our country rounds,Some trinkets selling, fortunes telling—Some tink'ring, cooping, casting spoons,We'll still obtain the ready shilling.

Unto the farm-steads we can hie,Whene'er our stock of food grows scanty,And from the hen-roost, bin, or sty,We'll aye get fresh supplies in plenty.

And when the shepherd goes to sleep,And on the fell remains the flock,We'll steal abroad among the sheep,And take a choice one from the stock.

The clergy take the tenth of swine,Potatoes, poultry, corn, and hay—Why should not gipsies, when they dine,Have a tithe-pig as well as they?

We wish not for great store of wealth,Nor pomp, nor pride, nor costly dainty;While blest with liberty and health,And competence—then we have plenty.

Merry shall we be to-day:What is life devoid of pleasure?Care from us keep far away,While Mirth pursues his sprightly measure.

H. R.

[34]James Allan, the celebrated Northumberland bagpiper.

[35]A vagrant piper, who often travelled with gipsies.

[36]About 45 years ago, a poem appeared in a Kelso newspaper, wherein this person was respectfully noticed, as follows:—"They brought the piper, Sandy Brown,Frae Jedburgh to Lochmaben town;Though whaisling sair and broken downAuld Sandy seem'd,His chanter for a pleasing soundWas still esteem'd."

[36]About 45 years ago, a poem appeared in a Kelso newspaper, wherein this person was respectfully noticed, as follows:—

"They brought the piper, Sandy Brown,Frae Jedburgh to Lochmaben town;Though whaisling sair and broken downAuld Sandy seem'd,His chanter for a pleasing soundWas still esteem'd."

[37]An unskilful performer on the bagpipes, who attended the different fairs held in Northumberland.

Held at Mr. Wallace's, Nag's Head, Newcastle, Jan. 1817.

The rolling year at length brings forthThe day that gave our poet birth:O Burns! to testify thy worth,We're hither met—Nae genius i' the South, or NorthCan match thee yet.Of ither's rhymes we have enow,But sic as thine are rare and few—For aye to nature thou wert true,Thou bard divine!Nae poet Scotia ever knewCould sing sae fine.With rapture, each returning Spring,I'll follow thee, on Fancy's wing,To where the lively linnets singIn hawthorn shade;Here oft thy muse, deep pondering,Sweet sonnets made.With thee I'll stray by streamlet's side,And view the bonnie wimpling tideO'er polish'd pebbles smoothly glide,Wi' murm'ring sound,While Nature, in her rustic pride,Smiles all around.Or to the fells I'll follow thee,Where o'er the thistle bums the bee,And meek-eyed gowans modestlyTheir charms disclose,And where, upon its 'thorney tree,'Blows the wild rose.Or to the heath, where fairies meetIn mystic dance with nimble feet,By moonlight—there the elves I'll greet,And join their revels;Or on a 'rag-weed nag', sae fleet,Fly wi' the devils!Through fields of beans, with rich perfume,And o'er the braes o' yellow broomThat gilds the bonny banks o' Doon,Wi' thee I'll rove,Where thou, when blest in youthful bloom,Stray'd with thy love.When thunder-storms the heav'ns do rend,Unto Benlomond's top I'll wend,And view the clouds electric vendThe forked flash!And hear the pouring rains descendWi' dreadful clash!A fig for meikle bags o' wealth,If I hae food, and claes, and health,And thy sweet sangs upon my shelf,I'll gaily trudge itThrough life, and freely quit the pelfFor Robin's budget.And when distracting moments teaze me,Or fell Oppressions grapples seize me,A lesson frae thy book may ease me,Sae I may bearMisfortune's wipes, till death release meFrae canker'd care. H. R.

The rolling year at length brings forthThe day that gave our poet birth:O Burns! to testify thy worth,We're hither met—Nae genius i' the South, or NorthCan match thee yet.

Of ither's rhymes we have enow,But sic as thine are rare and few—For aye to nature thou wert true,Thou bard divine!Nae poet Scotia ever knewCould sing sae fine.

With rapture, each returning Spring,I'll follow thee, on Fancy's wing,To where the lively linnets singIn hawthorn shade;Here oft thy muse, deep pondering,Sweet sonnets made.

With thee I'll stray by streamlet's side,And view the bonnie wimpling tideO'er polish'd pebbles smoothly glide,Wi' murm'ring sound,While Nature, in her rustic pride,Smiles all around.

Or to the fells I'll follow thee,Where o'er the thistle bums the bee,And meek-eyed gowans modestlyTheir charms disclose,And where, upon its 'thorney tree,'Blows the wild rose.

Or to the heath, where fairies meetIn mystic dance with nimble feet,By moonlight—there the elves I'll greet,And join their revels;Or on a 'rag-weed nag', sae fleet,Fly wi' the devils!

Through fields of beans, with rich perfume,And o'er the braes o' yellow broomThat gilds the bonny banks o' Doon,Wi' thee I'll rove,Where thou, when blest in youthful bloom,Stray'd with thy love.

When thunder-storms the heav'ns do rend,Unto Benlomond's top I'll wend,And view the clouds electric vendThe forked flash!And hear the pouring rains descendWi' dreadful clash!

A fig for meikle bags o' wealth,If I hae food, and claes, and health,And thy sweet sangs upon my shelf,I'll gaily trudge itThrough life, and freely quit the pelfFor Robin's budget.

And when distracting moments teaze me,Or fell Oppressions grapples seize me,A lesson frae thy book may ease me,Sae I may bearMisfortune's wipes, till death release meFrae canker'd care. H. R.

Written on hearing a Report that the Newcastle and Northumberland Yeomanry Cavalry were to be disbanded.

Tune—"The Soldier's Tear."

Upon Newcastle Moor,Poor Matthew cast a look,When he thought on the coming hour,When his brave Noodle TroopWould lay their arms down,No longer them to bear—The brave defenders of the town—He wip'd away a tear.Beside the fatal spot,Where poor Jane did end her strife,He said that he would cut his throat,And end his wretched life—A life so press'd with care,No longer could he bear—So wildly then he tore his hair,And wip'd away a tear.He turn'd and left the ground,Where oft his red, red plume,Had spread its warlike beauty round,To the sound of fife and drum;—But now his glory's fled—No longer it he'll wear,But take it quietly from his head,And wipe away a tear.No more the Tory ranksWill glitter in the sunNor play at e'en their childish pranks,With blunderbuss or gun;For now the doleful knellHas toll'd their last career,And, horror-struck, poor Matty Bell,Who wip'd away a tear.

Beside the fatal spot,Where poor Jane did end her strife,He said that he would cut his throat,And end his wretched life—A life so press'd with care,No longer could he bear—So wildly then he tore his hair,And wip'd away a tear.

He turn'd and left the ground,Where oft his red, red plume,Had spread its warlike beauty round,To the sound of fife and drum;—But now his glory's fled—No longer it he'll wear,But take it quietly from his head,And wipe away a tear.

No more the Tory ranksWill glitter in the sunNor play at e'en their childish pranks,With blunderbuss or gun;For now the doleful knellHas toll'd their last career,And, horror-struck, poor Matty Bell,Who wip'd away a tear.

Wm. Greig.

Newcastle on Tyne,May twenty-nine.

Good Master Moody, my beard being cloudy,My cheeks, chin, and lips, like moon i' the 'clipseFor want of a wipe—I send you a razor, if you'll be at leisureTo grind her, and set her, and make her cut better,You'll e'en light my pipe.[38]Dear sir, you know little, the case of poor Whittell:I'm courting, tantivy, if you will believe me—Now mark what I say:I'm frank in my proffers, and when I make offersTo kiss the sweet creature, my lips cannot meet her,My beard stops the way.You've heard my condition, and now I petition,That, without omission, with all expeditionYou'll give it a strike,And send it by Tony, he'll pay you the money—I'll shave and look bonny, and go to my honey,As snod as you like.If you do not you'll hip me, my sweetheart will slip me,And if I should smart for't, and break my brave heart for't,Are you not to blame?But if you'll oblige me, as gratitude guides me,I'll still be your servant, obedient and fervent,WhilstWhittell'smy name.

Dear sir, you know little, the case of poor Whittell:I'm courting, tantivy, if you will believe me—Now mark what I say:I'm frank in my proffers, and when I make offersTo kiss the sweet creature, my lips cannot meet her,My beard stops the way.

You've heard my condition, and now I petition,That, without omission, with all expeditionYou'll give it a strike,And send it by Tony, he'll pay you the money—I'll shave and look bonny, and go to my honey,As snod as you like.

If you do not you'll hip me, my sweetheart will slip me,And if I should smart for't, and break my brave heart for't,Are you not to blame?But if you'll oblige me, as gratitude guides me,I'll still be your servant, obedient and fervent,WhilstWhittell'smy name.

[38]This phrase means, the conferring of a favour.

Or, The Downfall of the Learned Humbugs!

Tune—"Canny Newcassel."

Oh! hae ye not heard o' this wonderful man,Perpetual Motion's inventor!The Sun, Muin, and Stars are a' doon iv his plan,But take time till it comes frae the prenter!The last time he lectur'd he tell'd such a tale'Bout Vibration, Air, and such matter;He can prove that a washing-tub is not a pail,And all Isaac Newton's brains batter!CHORUS.Then come, great and sma', and hear the downfa'—For a fa' down it will be for certain—Of a' the wiseacres and gon'rals, an' a'That dare to oppose the great Martin;He'll settle their hash! their necks he will smash,A' the College-bred gowks he will dazzel;Ne mair shall false teachers o'er him cut a dash!They are banish'd frae Canny Newcassel.He can prove that a turkey-cock is not a Turk!That a 'tatie is not a pine-apple;He likewise can prove that boil'd goose is not pork,And a black horse is not a grey dapple.A' what he can prove—a' what he can do,And bother the gon'rals—the wad-be's;He likewise can prove that a boot's not a shoe,And his cane's not a sausage fraeMawbey's![39]Then come, great and sma',&c.His Poems are sublime, tho' nyen o' them rhyme—Why, he pays no attention toMorrow;[40]Ne matter for that, still he makes them a' chyme,For he hasn't his phrases to borrow!Then proceed, mighty man, propagating thy plan,To enlighten this dark age of reason!May it spread like a blaze, with thy eloquence fann'd—To doubt it, I hold it sheer treason.Then come, great and sma', &c.

CHORUS.

Then come, great and sma', and hear the downfa'—For a fa' down it will be for certain—Of a' the wiseacres and gon'rals, an' a'That dare to oppose the great Martin;He'll settle their hash! their necks he will smash,A' the College-bred gowks he will dazzel;Ne mair shall false teachers o'er him cut a dash!They are banish'd frae Canny Newcassel.

He can prove that a turkey-cock is not a Turk!That a 'tatie is not a pine-apple;He likewise can prove that boil'd goose is not pork,And a black horse is not a grey dapple.A' what he can prove—a' what he can do,And bother the gon'rals—the wad-be's;He likewise can prove that a boot's not a shoe,And his cane's not a sausage fraeMawbey's![39]Then come, great and sma',&c.

His Poems are sublime, tho' nyen o' them rhyme—Why, he pays no attention toMorrow;[40]Ne matter for that, still he makes them a' chyme,For he hasn't his phrases to borrow!Then proceed, mighty man, propagating thy plan,To enlighten this dark age of reason!May it spread like a blaze, with thy eloquence fann'd—To doubt it, I hold it sheer treason.Then come, great and sma', &c.

[39]A late famed Sausage-maker in the Old Flesh Market.

[40]Murray's Grammar.

To an old Tune.

T'other day aw was saunt'ring down the New Street,And had turn'd to gan back, when whe should aw meet,Reet plump i' the face, but sage Tommy Rav-ly,Just come frae the council, and looking most gravely.Wi' Tommy, says aw, what can be the matter?Your plawd is aw dirt, and your teeth in a chatter;Has your colleagues in office been using a broom,Andsooping the dirt all out of the room?Now, James, he replied, Pray don't be prosy,Or sure as you're there, I'll make you quitenosey;I've gotten enough to make me look blue,Without being bother'd with plebeians like you.Just think, when the last time in council we met,We propos'd and appointed ouryellow-hair'd PetTo be Justice's clerk, and pocket the fees,For which he came almost plump down on his knees.But no sooner did we our backs fairly turn,Than they (devil take them!) appointed Swinburne,And laugh'd in their sleeves to think how we'd stare;But James, you must know, they had better beware.Now, Tommy, says aw, just keep yoursel' aisy,For at present aw'm sure that ye look very crazy;Make the Quaker your purser, and he'll put ye right,For aw'm sure that the strings he will keep verra tight.A sixpence he'll make gan as far as a pound,So that will be nineteen and sixpence ye've found;Just leave all to him and W. H. B.,And no doubt ye will prosper, as shortly ye'll see.Now come, let's away to the bonnyBlue Bell,And there we will drink a quart o' yor yell,And then aw will tell ye what next ye maun de—But mind ye say nowse 'bout it coming frae me.He then made a start, but nowt did he say,('Tween councillor and plebeian, that's may be the way,)Till into the house we fairly did stumble,When, "go cab my lug," he was then verra humble.Now, Tommy, maw man, aw see nowse that ye've done,But aw hope ye intend to commence verra soon;A market we maun hae, an' at the Brig-end—A place that oldJackyoft dis recommend—To save us the fash, and aiblins the pain,Of ganging right o'er unto the High-crane;And mind what I say, if we want ony peaceDuring sermon, on Sunday, oppose the police.At that he did open his eyes verra wide—Ah, beggar! aw thought aw'd offended his pride;But nought o' the sort, for he held out his loof—Now, James, my good fellow, you've said quite enough.My int'rest, aw'm sure, you always shall hae,And a job aw will get you on the Sabbath-day;For some one at the council this day did propose,That we the dog-fights in Green's Field should oppose.And Usher was told for to seek out three men,To assist him on Sundays, and thou shalt be ane;And 'bout what thou wert saying a motion aw'll bring,For, doubtless, 'twill prove anecessarything.We thank ye, says aw, but d'ye think that ye're right,In trying to stop us frae seeing a dog-fight;For maw thoughts about liberty it fairly clogs,Yet—we've barking enough wi' twe-fooled dogs.Gateshead, March 1, 1836. Y. S.

Wi' Tommy, says aw, what can be the matter?Your plawd is aw dirt, and your teeth in a chatter;Has your colleagues in office been using a broom,Andsooping the dirt all out of the room?

Now, James, he replied, Pray don't be prosy,Or sure as you're there, I'll make you quitenosey;I've gotten enough to make me look blue,Without being bother'd with plebeians like you.

Just think, when the last time in council we met,We propos'd and appointed ouryellow-hair'd PetTo be Justice's clerk, and pocket the fees,For which he came almost plump down on his knees.

But no sooner did we our backs fairly turn,Than they (devil take them!) appointed Swinburne,And laugh'd in their sleeves to think how we'd stare;But James, you must know, they had better beware.

Now, Tommy, says aw, just keep yoursel' aisy,For at present aw'm sure that ye look very crazy;Make the Quaker your purser, and he'll put ye right,For aw'm sure that the strings he will keep verra tight.

A sixpence he'll make gan as far as a pound,So that will be nineteen and sixpence ye've found;Just leave all to him and W. H. B.,And no doubt ye will prosper, as shortly ye'll see.

Now come, let's away to the bonnyBlue Bell,And there we will drink a quart o' yor yell,And then aw will tell ye what next ye maun de—But mind ye say nowse 'bout it coming frae me.

He then made a start, but nowt did he say,('Tween councillor and plebeian, that's may be the way,)Till into the house we fairly did stumble,When, "go cab my lug," he was then verra humble.

Now, Tommy, maw man, aw see nowse that ye've done,But aw hope ye intend to commence verra soon;A market we maun hae, an' at the Brig-end—A place that oldJackyoft dis recommend—

To save us the fash, and aiblins the pain,Of ganging right o'er unto the High-crane;And mind what I say, if we want ony peaceDuring sermon, on Sunday, oppose the police.

At that he did open his eyes verra wide—Ah, beggar! aw thought aw'd offended his pride;But nought o' the sort, for he held out his loof—Now, James, my good fellow, you've said quite enough.

My int'rest, aw'm sure, you always shall hae,And a job aw will get you on the Sabbath-day;For some one at the council this day did propose,That we the dog-fights in Green's Field should oppose.

And Usher was told for to seek out three men,To assist him on Sundays, and thou shalt be ane;And 'bout what thou wert saying a motion aw'll bring,For, doubtless, 'twill prove anecessarything.

We thank ye, says aw, but d'ye think that ye're right,In trying to stop us frae seeing a dog-fight;For maw thoughts about liberty it fairly clogs,Yet—we've barking enough wi' twe-fooled dogs.

Gateshead, March 1, 1836. Y. S.

Tune—"There's nae Luck about the House."

Ye Freemen all, with heart and voiceYour banners wide display—Bring Hodgson forth, your man of choice,Upon th' Election-day.Then fill your glasses, drink your fill,Drink deeply while you may—With right good-will, we'll drink and swillUpon th' Election-day.But politics are not the stuffThat we care much about—Nor care, so we get drink enough,Who's in, or who is out.Then fill your glasses, drink your fill—Fill and drink away,And ev'ry one enjoy the funUpon th' Election-day.Brave Vulcan is our leader bold,The pride of all good fellows—He swears the iron shall ne'er grow cold,While he can blow the bellows.Then fill your glasses, what's the toast,To drive dull care away?—'May ev'ry man be at his postUpon th' Election-day.'The landlord next appears in view,Our second in command,Encouraging the jovial crewTo drink while they can stand.Then charge your glasses, noble souls,The toast without delay—'May thirsty souls have flowing bowlsUpon th' Election-day.'Then Hodgson's name aloud proclaimVictoriously that day;While he, in honour of his fame,Will all expences pay.Then fill your glasses, what's the toast?Fill and drink away—'May ev'ry man drink all he canUpon th' Election-day.'

Ye Freemen all, with heart and voiceYour banners wide display—Bring Hodgson forth, your man of choice,Upon th' Election-day.

Then fill your glasses, drink your fill,Drink deeply while you may—With right good-will, we'll drink and swillUpon th' Election-day.

But politics are not the stuffThat we care much about—Nor care, so we get drink enough,Who's in, or who is out.

Then fill your glasses, drink your fill—Fill and drink away,And ev'ry one enjoy the funUpon th' Election-day.

Brave Vulcan is our leader bold,The pride of all good fellows—He swears the iron shall ne'er grow cold,While he can blow the bellows.

Then fill your glasses, what's the toast,To drive dull care away?—'May ev'ry man be at his postUpon th' Election-day.'

The landlord next appears in view,Our second in command,Encouraging the jovial crewTo drink while they can stand.

Then charge your glasses, noble souls,The toast without delay—'May thirsty souls have flowing bowlsUpon th' Election-day.'

Then Hodgson's name aloud proclaimVictoriously that day;While he, in honour of his fame,Will all expences pay.

Then fill your glasses, what's the toast?Fill and drink away—'May ev'ry man drink all he canUpon th' Election-day.'

W. Watson

By the lateT. Houston[41]

On a pleasant April morning,Wand'ring Tyne's sweet banks along,Spring with flow'rs the fields adorning,Woods and groves with birds of song—Pensive stray'd I; none was nigh me,When a maid appear'd in view—Slow she came, or seem'd to fly me—Heav'ns! 'twas charming Mary Drue.Long my Mary's charms I gaz'd on,Long I view'd that nymph complete—Her bright eyes no form were rais'd on,But were downcast at her feet:In her hand a violet bloomingKiss'd the breeze that gently blew,And one robe, with folds presuming,Hid the breast of Mary Drue.Onward drew the modest maiden,Heav'nly was her gait and air—Brighter ne'er that meadow stray'd in,Never Tyne saw form so fair:In my breast my heart, wild beating,With redoubled ardour flew;From my tongue all speech retreating,Left me scarce—"dear Mary Drue."Henry, Henry! have I found you?(Thus the maid her words address'd,)And with solitude around you,Can my Henry here be bless'd?Woods and streams may yield a pleasure,But my bliss—'tis all in you—Love beyond all bounds and measure—Lov'd at last by Mary Drue!Told this morn of your disorder,(Love for me the cause believ'd,)Soon I sought this river's border,Where 'tis said you oft have griev'd:On the river's brink I find you—Pensive, sad, I find you too;Leave the world and wealth behind you—Thou art worlds to Mary Drue!Sweet as notes from lutes ascending,To my ear these accents came,Smiles and looks of love attending,Touch'd my soul with gen'rous flame:O'er her charms, disorder'd, stooping—Rapt'rous sight! divinely new!—On my breast her head lay drooping,While I clasp'd sweet Mary Drue.

Long my Mary's charms I gaz'd on,Long I view'd that nymph complete—Her bright eyes no form were rais'd on,But were downcast at her feet:In her hand a violet bloomingKiss'd the breeze that gently blew,And one robe, with folds presuming,Hid the breast of Mary Drue.

Onward drew the modest maiden,Heav'nly was her gait and air—Brighter ne'er that meadow stray'd in,Never Tyne saw form so fair:In my breast my heart, wild beating,With redoubled ardour flew;From my tongue all speech retreating,Left me scarce—"dear Mary Drue."

Henry, Henry! have I found you?(Thus the maid her words address'd,)And with solitude around you,Can my Henry here be bless'd?Woods and streams may yield a pleasure,But my bliss—'tis all in you—Love beyond all bounds and measure—Lov'd at last by Mary Drue!

Told this morn of your disorder,(Love for me the cause believ'd,)Soon I sought this river's border,Where 'tis said you oft have griev'd:On the river's brink I find you—Pensive, sad, I find you too;Leave the world and wealth behind you—Thou art worlds to Mary Drue!

Sweet as notes from lutes ascending,To my ear these accents came,Smiles and looks of love attending,Touch'd my soul with gen'rous flame:O'er her charms, disorder'd, stooping—Rapt'rous sight! divinely new!—On my breast her head lay drooping,While I clasp'd sweet Mary Drue.

[41]Thomas Houston died about the year 1802, or 1803. He was the author of a play, entitled "The Term-day, or Unjust Steward," and of several poems, among which were, "The Progress of Madness," and "A Race to Hell." In the latter piece were given the portraitures of two notorious corn-factors of that day, belonging to this town.—Houston was a native of Ireland, and by trade a brass-founder.

Fill up the cup till the ruby o'erflows it,Drown ev'ry care in the nectar's rich stream—If joy's in the goblet, this day will disclose it,When Trade, Worth, and Beauty, by turns are our theme.What is, I ask, the toast,Deepest drunk, honour'd most,Drunk most devoutly, most honour'd to-day?What is the pledge that weHail first, with three times three?"Success to our Market!"—Huzza and Huzza!No longer let London and Liverpool tell us,Their towns boast of markets so spacious & grand;We answer, "We pray you, be quiet, good fellows,We, too, have a Market—the first in the land!"Fish, flesh, and garden fruits,Oranges, apples, roots,There you will find them all, seek what you may;Honest the dealers, too,Drink, then, I pray of you—"Success to the Dealers!"—Huzza and Huzza!The structure—but why should we speak of its merit?Enough that we mention the architect's name;And long may the building, begun with such spirit,A monument stand of his talents and fame.Proofs of a master mind,Talents and taste combin'd,Are they not every where visible—say?The architect's pride and boast,Then be our hearty toast—"Mr. R. Grainger!"—Huzza and Huzza!Wreathe the bowl, wreathe it with wit's brightest flow'rs—Fill, fill it up till the nectar o'erflows;Never was Burgundy brighter than ours,Never were eye-beams more sparkling than those.Surrounded by Beauty's train,Captives in willing chains,To eyes that beam witchery, and smiles that betray,Low at the shrine we bow—Love claims the homage due—"The Ladies!—the Ladies!"—Huzza and Huzza!If spirit, by cost nor by trouble dismay'd—If bounty unmeted, and free as the dew;If courtesy, kindness to each one display'd,May claim our applause, it is owing here now.Oft in the festive scene,Courteous and kind he's been,But never more courteous, more kind than to-day:Fill then the cup again—Drain—to the bottom drain—"His Worship, the Mayor!"—Huzza and Huzza!

No longer let London and Liverpool tell us,Their towns boast of markets so spacious & grand;We answer, "We pray you, be quiet, good fellows,We, too, have a Market—the first in the land!"Fish, flesh, and garden fruits,Oranges, apples, roots,There you will find them all, seek what you may;Honest the dealers, too,Drink, then, I pray of you—"Success to the Dealers!"—Huzza and Huzza!

The structure—but why should we speak of its merit?Enough that we mention the architect's name;And long may the building, begun with such spirit,A monument stand of his talents and fame.Proofs of a master mind,Talents and taste combin'd,Are they not every where visible—say?The architect's pride and boast,Then be our hearty toast—"Mr. R. Grainger!"—Huzza and Huzza!

Wreathe the bowl, wreathe it with wit's brightest flow'rs—Fill, fill it up till the nectar o'erflows;Never was Burgundy brighter than ours,Never were eye-beams more sparkling than those.Surrounded by Beauty's train,Captives in willing chains,To eyes that beam witchery, and smiles that betray,Low at the shrine we bow—Love claims the homage due—"The Ladies!—the Ladies!"—Huzza and Huzza!

If spirit, by cost nor by trouble dismay'd—If bounty unmeted, and free as the dew;If courtesy, kindness to each one display'd,May claim our applause, it is owing here now.Oft in the festive scene,Courteous and kind he's been,But never more courteous, more kind than to-day:Fill then the cup again—Drain—to the bottom drain—"His Worship, the Mayor!"—Huzza and Huzza!

Or, Newcastle Improvements.

Believe me now, good foke, what I say is not a joke:Behold, says cousin Isabel, improvement now is visible,New buildings you espy, airy, spacious, and high,And trading chaps are moving round to sell or buy.When trade was at a stand, and the river chok'd wi' sand,Caus'd the bodies to assemble, the poor to employ;Then Johnny off packt, up to Lunnon for an act,And the manager for market-building, Dick's the boy!CHORUS.Then Starkey, blaw your reed, ca' the group a' frae the dead,Jack Coxan and Cull Billy, Judy Dowling, and Blind Willy;Let the cavalcade move on, with a tune frae Bywell Tom,Take a view o' wor new city, drink, and then return.When Colossus he arose, with his Jachin and his Boaz,His plans of such utility, of splendour and gentility,Condemn'd was Tommy Gee, and confirm'd was Tommy B.,And the measure seem'd to reconcile both friends and foes:Even butchers' crabbed luiks, wi' their meat on silver huiks,Drop all former animosities, and strut about wi' joy;For the temple of king Solomon, for grandeur, can't follow, man—All Europe now may shout aloud, that Dick's the boy!Then Starkey, &c.Old houses now beware, how you spoil a street or square,Whatever ground you bide upon, your fate is soon decided on;For tumble down you must, like a lump of mouldy crust,And the Major bell will toll your fate, when all is done;For the rich have found it out, that a camel, without doubt,Through a needle-eye can't pass without a pilot or a foy;The money, though conservative, will find a good preservative—The Knight of Leazes Terrace, hinnies, Dick's the boy!Then Starkey, &c.Fine rows of Paphian bowers, for the fruits, and herbs, and flowers,The baskets stand, so pretty looking—feet and tripe, a' fit for cooking—Fountains fine and pure, that a cripple they may cure,And babies may get baptism, for ought you know;There's a clock to tell the time—but I now must stop my rhime,For the feasting has begun, and each heart seems big with joy;Then come, enjoy the treat, wi' your legs upon your feet,Take off your hats, and shout aloud—Brave Dick's the boy!Then Starkey, blaw your reed, ca' the group a' frae the dead,Jack Coxon, and Cull Billy, Judy Dowling, and Blind Willy;Let the cavalcade move on, with a tune frae Bywell Tom,View Newcassel's famous city, drink, and then go home.

CHORUS.

Then Starkey, blaw your reed, ca' the group a' frae the dead,Jack Coxan and Cull Billy, Judy Dowling, and Blind Willy;Let the cavalcade move on, with a tune frae Bywell Tom,Take a view o' wor new city, drink, and then return.

When Colossus he arose, with his Jachin and his Boaz,His plans of such utility, of splendour and gentility,Condemn'd was Tommy Gee, and confirm'd was Tommy B.,And the measure seem'd to reconcile both friends and foes:Even butchers' crabbed luiks, wi' their meat on silver huiks,Drop all former animosities, and strut about wi' joy;For the temple of king Solomon, for grandeur, can't follow, man—All Europe now may shout aloud, that Dick's the boy!Then Starkey, &c.

Old houses now beware, how you spoil a street or square,Whatever ground you bide upon, your fate is soon decided on;For tumble down you must, like a lump of mouldy crust,And the Major bell will toll your fate, when all is done;For the rich have found it out, that a camel, without doubt,Through a needle-eye can't pass without a pilot or a foy;The money, though conservative, will find a good preservative—The Knight of Leazes Terrace, hinnies, Dick's the boy!Then Starkey, &c.

Fine rows of Paphian bowers, for the fruits, and herbs, and flowers,The baskets stand, so pretty looking—feet and tripe, a' fit for cooking—Fountains fine and pure, that a cripple they may cure,And babies may get baptism, for ought you know;There's a clock to tell the time—but I now must stop my rhime,For the feasting has begun, and each heart seems big with joy;Then come, enjoy the treat, wi' your legs upon your feet,Take off your hats, and shout aloud—Brave Dick's the boy!

Then Starkey, blaw your reed, ca' the group a' frae the dead,Jack Coxon, and Cull Billy, Judy Dowling, and Blind Willy;Let the cavalcade move on, with a tune frae Bywell Tom,View Newcassel's famous city, drink, and then go home.

Wm. Mitford.

Newcastle's sore transmogrified, as every one may see,But what they've done is nought to that they still intend to dee:There still remain some sonsy spots, pure relics of our ancient features,O' which our canny town shall brag, while bonny Gateshead boasts sand-beaters.The scrudg'd up Foot of Pilgrim-street, they surely will not mind,'Tis such a curiosity—a street without an end;Should they extend it to the Quay, and show off All Saints' Church so neatly,It might look fine, but I'm afraid 'twould spoil the Butcher-bank completely!Of pulling down the Butcher-bank it grieves one's heart to speak,From it down every Quayside-chare there's such a glorious keek;The shambles, too, a bonny sight, the horse and foot-ways nice and narrow—Say what they will, seek through the world, the Butcher-bank is bad to marrow.Our fishwives, too, might well complain, forc'd off the hill to move,Where they so long had squall'd in peace, good fellowship, and love:The brightest day will have an end, and here the Sandhill's glory closes,Now flies and fumes no more will make the gentles stop their ears and noses.'Tis said they mean to clear away the houses in the Side,To set off old St. Nich'las church, so long our greatest pride;But where's the use of making things so very grand and so amazing,To bring daft gowks from far and near, to plague us with their gob and gazing.The Middle-street's to come down next, and give us better air,And room to make to hold at once the market and the fair;Well may Newcastle grieve for this, because in hot or rainy weather,It look'd so well to see the folks all swelter'd in a hole together.The Tyne's to run out east and west; and, 'stead of Solway boats,Our Greenland ships at Carlisle call, and not at Johnny Groat's;Dull we may be at such a change—eh, certies, lads, haul down your colours!—'Twould be no wonder now to see chain-bridges ruin all the scullers.

The scrudg'd up Foot of Pilgrim-street, they surely will not mind,'Tis such a curiosity—a street without an end;Should they extend it to the Quay, and show off All Saints' Church so neatly,It might look fine, but I'm afraid 'twould spoil the Butcher-bank completely!

Of pulling down the Butcher-bank it grieves one's heart to speak,From it down every Quayside-chare there's such a glorious keek;The shambles, too, a bonny sight, the horse and foot-ways nice and narrow—Say what they will, seek through the world, the Butcher-bank is bad to marrow.

Our fishwives, too, might well complain, forc'd off the hill to move,Where they so long had squall'd in peace, good fellowship, and love:The brightest day will have an end, and here the Sandhill's glory closes,Now flies and fumes no more will make the gentles stop their ears and noses.

'Tis said they mean to clear away the houses in the Side,To set off old St. Nich'las church, so long our greatest pride;But where's the use of making things so very grand and so amazing,To bring daft gowks from far and near, to plague us with their gob and gazing.

The Middle-street's to come down next, and give us better air,And room to make to hold at once the market and the fair;Well may Newcastle grieve for this, because in hot or rainy weather,It look'd so well to see the folks all swelter'd in a hole together.

The Tyne's to run out east and west; and, 'stead of Solway boats,Our Greenland ships at Carlisle call, and not at Johnny Groat's;Dull we may be at such a change—eh, certies, lads, haul down your colours!—'Twould be no wonder now to see chain-bridges ruin all the scullers.

R. Gilchrist.

TO JOHN CLAYTON, ESQ.

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