Now haud yor tongues 'bout Mollinox, or ony o' the trade,Ye ne'er could say that Kenton Ralph of e'er a chep was flay'd—Yor Langans and yor Springs may come to Kenton toon iv flocks,Wor Ralph 'ill smatter a' their ribs, he is sae strang, begox!Fal de ral, &c.Wiv Ralph and Luke aw off yen neet for Sandgate on a spree,And swore Newcassel dandy cheps to fight and myek them flee—We gat into the Barley Mow wor thropples for to wet,And sat and drank till fairly fu', alang wi' wood-legg'd Bet.Fal de ral,&c.We gat up, for 'twas gettin' lyet, and leaving Sandgate suen,To Pandon went to hev a quairt before we left the toon;Some Fawdon lads were in the Boar, carrying on the war,Wi' Humpy Dick and Black Scotch Peg, a' singin' 'Slush Tom C—rr.'Fal de ral, &c.Then gannin hyem by Pilgrim-street, some dandy for to catch,Twe cheps, half drunk, cam up tiv us, and said, 'Cum t' the scratch!Here's Lukey kens that aw's a man, and scartin aw disdain,But come and lick us if ye can—aw'll fight till aw be slain!'Fal de ral, &c.They cramm'd a haggish on each fist, or something very like,Then held them up close to wor fyece, and dar'd us for to strike:But Lukey, clickin' up his claes, cried, Ralphy, lad, let's run!Od smash yor luggish heed, how-way—becrike it's Tommy D——n!Fal de ral, &c.Poor Lukey ran, but Ralph was left, he couldn't get away,They pelted him till Watchey cam and ended wor sad fray;Then Ralphy suen fand Luke agyen; but such a seet, begox!His nose and fyece was thick o' blood—just like a Bubbly Jock's.Fal de ral, &c.Smash! how! dis thou ken Tommy D——n? said Ralphy in a hurry:Aw seed him fightin' on the stage yen neet in 'Tom and Jurry;'A grocer chep aw sat beside, tell'd me his nyem in turn,Wi' Crib, an' Gas, an' a' the rest, and cliver Jemmy B——n.Fal de ral, &c.That neet we had a haggish fight, 'tween B——n and D——n sae fine—Aw roar'd out, Aw'll lay ony brass that Jim ower Tom will shine!But, wiv his haggish, Tommy suen gav Jemmy such a peg.He fell smack doon upon the stage—begox, he broke his leg!Fal de ral, &c.The next time aw cum ti' the toon, if we fa' in togither,We'll hev a jill and drink success to B——n and D——n howsever:Aw own that aw was fairly duen, an' smatter'd varry sair,But ne'er for want o' haggishes shall Ralph be beaten mair.Fal de ral, &c.
Now haud yor tongues 'bout Mollinox, or ony o' the trade,Ye ne'er could say that Kenton Ralph of e'er a chep was flay'd—Yor Langans and yor Springs may come to Kenton toon iv flocks,Wor Ralph 'ill smatter a' their ribs, he is sae strang, begox!Fal de ral, &c.
Wiv Ralph and Luke aw off yen neet for Sandgate on a spree,And swore Newcassel dandy cheps to fight and myek them flee—We gat into the Barley Mow wor thropples for to wet,And sat and drank till fairly fu', alang wi' wood-legg'd Bet.Fal de ral,&c.
We gat up, for 'twas gettin' lyet, and leaving Sandgate suen,To Pandon went to hev a quairt before we left the toon;Some Fawdon lads were in the Boar, carrying on the war,Wi' Humpy Dick and Black Scotch Peg, a' singin' 'Slush Tom C—rr.'Fal de ral, &c.
Then gannin hyem by Pilgrim-street, some dandy for to catch,Twe cheps, half drunk, cam up tiv us, and said, 'Cum t' the scratch!Here's Lukey kens that aw's a man, and scartin aw disdain,But come and lick us if ye can—aw'll fight till aw be slain!'Fal de ral, &c.
They cramm'd a haggish on each fist, or something very like,Then held them up close to wor fyece, and dar'd us for to strike:But Lukey, clickin' up his claes, cried, Ralphy, lad, let's run!Od smash yor luggish heed, how-way—becrike it's Tommy D——n!Fal de ral, &c.
Poor Lukey ran, but Ralph was left, he couldn't get away,They pelted him till Watchey cam and ended wor sad fray;Then Ralphy suen fand Luke agyen; but such a seet, begox!His nose and fyece was thick o' blood—just like a Bubbly Jock's.Fal de ral, &c.
Smash! how! dis thou ken Tommy D——n? said Ralphy in a hurry:Aw seed him fightin' on the stage yen neet in 'Tom and Jurry;'A grocer chep aw sat beside, tell'd me his nyem in turn,Wi' Crib, an' Gas, an' a' the rest, and cliver Jemmy B——n.Fal de ral, &c.
That neet we had a haggish fight, 'tween B——n and D——n sae fine—Aw roar'd out, Aw'll lay ony brass that Jim ower Tom will shine!But, wiv his haggish, Tommy suen gav Jemmy such a peg.He fell smack doon upon the stage—begox, he broke his leg!Fal de ral, &c.
The next time aw cum ti' the toon, if we fa' in togither,We'll hev a jill and drink success to B——n and D——n howsever:Aw own that aw was fairly duen, an' smatter'd varry sair,But ne'er for want o' haggishes shall Ralph be beaten mair.Fal de ral, &c.
Or, A Description of the North Pole.
BY THE SAME.
Tune—"Newcastle Fair."
Aw dream'd aw was at the North Powl,It's a fine place a-back o' the muen, man—Maw sangs! Captain Parry will growl,For he cannot get tid half sae seun, man:There aw seed the Queen, Caroline,And her lass they sae badly did use, man,Wi' Geordy the Thurd drinking wine,And the snuffy au'd dyem brushing shoes, man.Rum ti iddity, &c.Aw began then to swagger about,Just to see Castleree aw was itchin',When Percival gav a greet shout,Od smash, he's down stairs i' the Kitchen!Thowt aw, then he's just safe eneugh—Walking farther, aw meets Bonapartie,Alang wi' au'd Blucher, sae bluff,Speaking gabb'rish to poor Captain Starkie.Rum ti iddity, &c.Aw gat in to see Robin Hood,Had twe or three quairts wi' John Nipes, man;And Wesley, that yence preach'd sae good,Sat smokin' and praisin' the swipes, man:Legs of mutton here grows on each tree,Jack Nipes said, and wasn't mistaken—When rainin' there's such a bit spree,For there comes down great fat sides o' bacon.Rum ti iddity, &c.Brave Nelson here sells wooden legs,Iv a shop where aw think he'll get rich in—Just to see au'd Mahomet aw begs,But, wi' Thurtell, he's doom'd i' the Kitchen:Aw seed Billy Shakespeare sae prime,Of plays he has written greet lots, man—And there great John Kemble does shine—Sam. Johnson sups crowdies wi' Scots, man.Rum ti iddity, &c.How canny Joe Foster did stare,As he trotted past me on a donkey,'Mang lasses still wild as a hare,And he keeps Jacky Coxon as flonkey:Ne bishops nor priests here they need,For the folks they can say their awn pray'rs, man—But, to myek them work hard for their breed,They're sent on a mission, doon stairs, man.Rum ti iddity, &c.Aw agyen see'd the canny au'd King,He's a far better chep now than ever—But, set a' yor fine kings iv a ring,I still think Fourth Geordy's as clever.Aw've getten a pass for Doon Stairs,And if aw see owt there bewitchin',Wey just think o' me i' yor pray'rs,And aw'll send an account o' the Kitchen.Rum ti iddity, &c.
Aw dream'd aw was at the North Powl,It's a fine place a-back o' the muen, man—Maw sangs! Captain Parry will growl,For he cannot get tid half sae seun, man:There aw seed the Queen, Caroline,And her lass they sae badly did use, man,Wi' Geordy the Thurd drinking wine,And the snuffy au'd dyem brushing shoes, man.Rum ti iddity, &c.
Aw began then to swagger about,Just to see Castleree aw was itchin',When Percival gav a greet shout,Od smash, he's down stairs i' the Kitchen!Thowt aw, then he's just safe eneugh—Walking farther, aw meets Bonapartie,Alang wi' au'd Blucher, sae bluff,Speaking gabb'rish to poor Captain Starkie.Rum ti iddity, &c.
Aw gat in to see Robin Hood,Had twe or three quairts wi' John Nipes, man;And Wesley, that yence preach'd sae good,Sat smokin' and praisin' the swipes, man:Legs of mutton here grows on each tree,Jack Nipes said, and wasn't mistaken—When rainin' there's such a bit spree,For there comes down great fat sides o' bacon.Rum ti iddity, &c.
Brave Nelson here sells wooden legs,Iv a shop where aw think he'll get rich in—Just to see au'd Mahomet aw begs,But, wi' Thurtell, he's doom'd i' the Kitchen:Aw seed Billy Shakespeare sae prime,Of plays he has written greet lots, man—And there great John Kemble does shine—Sam. Johnson sups crowdies wi' Scots, man.Rum ti iddity, &c.
How canny Joe Foster did stare,As he trotted past me on a donkey,'Mang lasses still wild as a hare,And he keeps Jacky Coxon as flonkey:Ne bishops nor priests here they need,For the folks they can say their awn pray'rs, man—But, to myek them work hard for their breed,They're sent on a mission, doon stairs, man.Rum ti iddity, &c.
Aw agyen see'd the canny au'd King,He's a far better chep now than ever—But, set a' yor fine kings iv a ring,I still think Fourth Geordy's as clever.Aw've getten a pass for Doon Stairs,And if aw see owt there bewitchin',Wey just think o' me i' yor pray'rs,And aw'll send an account o' the Kitchen.Rum ti iddity, &c.
Or, His Description of the Kitchen.
BY THE SAME.
Tune—"Hell's Kitchen."
The day was fine, the sun did shine,Aw thowt aw was preparingTo leave the Powl, myed me repine—Aw scarce could keep fra blairin';—A greet balloon was brought me seun,Twe cheps wi' wings sae switchin',Wiv it were sent to tyek me doonTo shew me a' the kitchen.Right fal de ral, &c.Wiv a' my friends aw had a jill,King Geordy was quite canty—Says he—Now eat and drink yor fill,Doon stairs good things are scanty.When deun, says aw—Kind folks, fareweel'Maw Guides their wings are stretchin'—In the balloon aw off did reelTo see this querish kitchen.Right fal de ral, &c.We doon a narrow place did rowl—As sure as maw nyem's Cranky.This is the passage in the PowlThat's mention'd by the Yankee:[14]As we flew on it darker grew,Wi' such a noise and screechin'—Greet clouds o' fire we darted through,And landed in the kitchen.Right fal de ral, &c.They use poor folks here warse than beasts—Greet lots o' Turks and Tartars,Wi' lawyers, quakers, kings, and priests,Were phizzin' in a' quarters.The Jews were bowlting lumps o' pork—Mahomet, that au'd vixen,Was toss'd about frae fork to fork,Wi' Derry in the kitchen.Right fal de ral, &c.Fast i' the stocks au'd Neddy sat,The late Newcassel bellman—And there was Honour Breet, Bed Watt,Just gaun the rig hersel', man:Then farther in, upon a stuel,Sat Judy Downey stitchin',She d—n'd me for a greet stark cull,For comin' to the kitchen.Right fal de ral, &c.Aw, wi' the heat and want o' drink,Was swelter'd myest to deed, man—When fairly deun and gaun to sink,Aw was whupt off wi' speed, man.How aw escap'd aw's puzzled sair,'Twas like a sudden twitchin'Aw, like a lairk, flew through the air,Half roasted, frae the kitchen.Right fal de ral, &c.As aw cam doon aw pass'd the meun,An' her greet burning mountains—Her turnpike roads aw fand out seun,Strang beer runs here in fountains:To hev a sup aw was reet fain,Wi' some queer cheps thrang ditchin'—But waken'd then in Percy Main,A lang way frae the kitchen.Right fal de ral, &c.
The day was fine, the sun did shine,Aw thowt aw was preparingTo leave the Powl, myed me repine—Aw scarce could keep fra blairin';—A greet balloon was brought me seun,Twe cheps wi' wings sae switchin',Wiv it were sent to tyek me doonTo shew me a' the kitchen.Right fal de ral, &c.
Wiv a' my friends aw had a jill,King Geordy was quite canty—Says he—Now eat and drink yor fill,Doon stairs good things are scanty.When deun, says aw—Kind folks, fareweel'Maw Guides their wings are stretchin'—In the balloon aw off did reelTo see this querish kitchen.Right fal de ral, &c.
We doon a narrow place did rowl—As sure as maw nyem's Cranky.This is the passage in the PowlThat's mention'd by the Yankee:[14]As we flew on it darker grew,Wi' such a noise and screechin'—Greet clouds o' fire we darted through,And landed in the kitchen.Right fal de ral, &c.
They use poor folks here warse than beasts—Greet lots o' Turks and Tartars,Wi' lawyers, quakers, kings, and priests,Were phizzin' in a' quarters.The Jews were bowlting lumps o' pork—Mahomet, that au'd vixen,Was toss'd about frae fork to fork,Wi' Derry in the kitchen.Right fal de ral, &c.
Fast i' the stocks au'd Neddy sat,The late Newcassel bellman—And there was Honour Breet, Bed Watt,Just gaun the rig hersel', man:Then farther in, upon a stuel,Sat Judy Downey stitchin',She d—n'd me for a greet stark cull,For comin' to the kitchen.Right fal de ral, &c.
Aw, wi' the heat and want o' drink,Was swelter'd myest to deed, man—When fairly deun and gaun to sink,Aw was whupt off wi' speed, man.How aw escap'd aw's puzzled sair,'Twas like a sudden twitchin'Aw, like a lairk, flew through the air,Half roasted, frae the kitchen.Right fal de ral, &c.
As aw cam doon aw pass'd the meun,An' her greet burning mountains—Her turnpike roads aw fand out seun,Strang beer runs here in fountains:To hev a sup aw was reet fain,Wi' some queer cheps thrang ditchin'—But waken'd then in Percy Main,A lang way frae the kitchen.Right fal de ral, &c.
[14]Alluding to the following extraordinary advertisement which recently made its appearance in the American journals:— recently made its appearance in the American journals:—St. Louis, (Missouri Territory)North America, April 10, A. D. 1818."To all the world—I declare the earth to be hollow and habitable within; containing a number of concentric spheres, one within the other, and that their poles are open 12 or 16 degrees. I pledge myself in support of this truth, and am ready to explore the concave, if the world will support and aid me in the undertaking.JOHN SYMMES," &c. &c.
[14]Alluding to the following extraordinary advertisement which recently made its appearance in the American journals:— recently made its appearance in the American journals:—
St. Louis, (Missouri Territory)
North America, April 10, A. D. 1818.
"To all the world—I declare the earth to be hollow and habitable within; containing a number of concentric spheres, one within the other, and that their poles are open 12 or 16 degrees. I pledge myself in support of this truth, and am ready to explore the concave, if the world will support and aid me in the undertaking.
JOHN SYMMES," &c. &c.
Or, A Peep into Pilgrim Street.
Come, Geordy, an' aw'll tell ye, lad, where aw hae been,In Pilgrim-street, where there's to see an' to be seen,A great many lasses, and they shew off sic fine airs,Aw's sure they're all as wild as ony March hares.Now, d'ye nobut gan there iv next Sunday neet,About the time o' six o'clock, you'll see the fine seet;A large show of lasses fine, that drive about there,They nyem'd it but reet when they ga'd Filly Fair.Now, one Sunday neet, to the high town aw went,That aw might get the evening cannily spent:Among the rabble, sure enough, aw gat there,And saw the first dresses in fam'd Filly Fair.There's some lasses, they say, that are so very keen,That they come to this place just for to be seen;And, on every wet Sunday, they sit down to prayer,And think it provoking they're not at the Fair.Aw enter'd the street with a great deal of glee,Where the lads and the lasses in flocks aw did see:The task wad be endless to tell a' what was there,Aw mean the fine dresses in fam'd Filly Fair.Aw look'd about all these fine dresses to see,Aw glowr'd at the lasses, and they glowr'd at me:So now for a description, I will give to a hair,Of all the fine things in this fam'd Filly Fair.There was white gowns, silk spencers, and flounces galore,And queer monkey jackets aw'd ne'er seen before;With little drakes' tails, that hing from the hair,And large ringlets a' curl'd, was in fam'd Filly Fair.The spencers a' carv'd, wye, with cords of a' kind,That seem'd just like soulgers afore and behind;And black silks, and stript silks, and a' silks was there,And pads, and cat backs were in fam'd Filly Fair.There was hats like my awn, with fine flee-behint cloaks,And queer things ahint them, like the pitmen's bait pokes;And hats myed of muslin, to let in the air,Besides some wi' high crowns were in fam'd Filly Fair.The hats were deck'd o'er a' with ribbons and lace,And lairge cabbage nets were thrawn o'er their face:Paddysoles too were there, as were monie things mair,And fine mobbed caps were in fam'd Filly Fair.There was scarfs of a' kinds, and of every degree;And little wee bairneys, scarce up to my knee;With beaux, arm in arm, they were driving thro' there,'Twas shameful to see them in fam'd Filly Fair.O, mun! just like a loadstone in this curious place,For what I hev tell'd you, aw'm sure it's the case—It's the case of them all that walk about there,To be talk'd of by strangers in fam'd Filly Fair.And besides a' the tricks that I cannot explain,For this kind of rambling I'm sure I disdain:Take advice, my good lasses, and don't wander there,Or your character's stain'd by walking the Fair.This advice now, I hope, you will readily take,And keep up your character, for your own sake;It's nought unto me if all night you walk there,But your name will be blasted by attending the Fair.
Come, Geordy, an' aw'll tell ye, lad, where aw hae been,In Pilgrim-street, where there's to see an' to be seen,A great many lasses, and they shew off sic fine airs,Aw's sure they're all as wild as ony March hares.
Now, d'ye nobut gan there iv next Sunday neet,About the time o' six o'clock, you'll see the fine seet;A large show of lasses fine, that drive about there,They nyem'd it but reet when they ga'd Filly Fair.
Now, one Sunday neet, to the high town aw went,That aw might get the evening cannily spent:Among the rabble, sure enough, aw gat there,And saw the first dresses in fam'd Filly Fair.
There's some lasses, they say, that are so very keen,That they come to this place just for to be seen;And, on every wet Sunday, they sit down to prayer,And think it provoking they're not at the Fair.
Aw enter'd the street with a great deal of glee,Where the lads and the lasses in flocks aw did see:The task wad be endless to tell a' what was there,Aw mean the fine dresses in fam'd Filly Fair.
Aw look'd about all these fine dresses to see,Aw glowr'd at the lasses, and they glowr'd at me:So now for a description, I will give to a hair,Of all the fine things in this fam'd Filly Fair.
There was white gowns, silk spencers, and flounces galore,And queer monkey jackets aw'd ne'er seen before;With little drakes' tails, that hing from the hair,And large ringlets a' curl'd, was in fam'd Filly Fair.
The spencers a' carv'd, wye, with cords of a' kind,That seem'd just like soulgers afore and behind;And black silks, and stript silks, and a' silks was there,And pads, and cat backs were in fam'd Filly Fair.
There was hats like my awn, with fine flee-behint cloaks,And queer things ahint them, like the pitmen's bait pokes;And hats myed of muslin, to let in the air,Besides some wi' high crowns were in fam'd Filly Fair.
The hats were deck'd o'er a' with ribbons and lace,And lairge cabbage nets were thrawn o'er their face:Paddysoles too were there, as were monie things mair,And fine mobbed caps were in fam'd Filly Fair.
There was scarfs of a' kinds, and of every degree;And little wee bairneys, scarce up to my knee;With beaux, arm in arm, they were driving thro' there,'Twas shameful to see them in fam'd Filly Fair.
O, mun! just like a loadstone in this curious place,For what I hev tell'd you, aw'm sure it's the case—It's the case of them all that walk about there,To be talk'd of by strangers in fam'd Filly Fair.
And besides a' the tricks that I cannot explain,For this kind of rambling I'm sure I disdain:Take advice, my good lasses, and don't wander there,Or your character's stain'd by walking the Fair.
This advice now, I hope, you will readily take,And keep up your character, for your own sake;It's nought unto me if all night you walk there,But your name will be blasted by attending the Fair.
A North Shields Song.—Written in 1820.
While Cartwright, and Wooler, and Cobbett, and allThe souls of the brave attend Liberty's call,J——n T——ley, the best friend of kings since the flood,Is ready for slavery to spill his best blood.A press so licentious—for 'twill tell the truth—Is truly distressing to T——ley, forsooth:He's a foe to the Queen, and no wonder he should,Since he vows for oppressors to spill his best blood.What an excellent orator in his own way,Mechanics, Shoemakers, and Joiners do say:But he does not remember that Drones steal their food,Were it not for the Becs he would have no best blood.The Loyalist party consumptive are grown,Though time-serving T——ley the fact may disown:And it will not be long—God forbid that it should!Ere Reform freeze the springs of T——ley's best blood.
While Cartwright, and Wooler, and Cobbett, and allThe souls of the brave attend Liberty's call,J——n T——ley, the best friend of kings since the flood,Is ready for slavery to spill his best blood.
A press so licentious—for 'twill tell the truth—Is truly distressing to T——ley, forsooth:He's a foe to the Queen, and no wonder he should,Since he vows for oppressors to spill his best blood.
What an excellent orator in his own way,Mechanics, Shoemakers, and Joiners do say:But he does not remember that Drones steal their food,Were it not for the Becs he would have no best blood.
The Loyalist party consumptive are grown,Though time-serving T——ley the fact may disown:And it will not be long—God forbid that it should!Ere Reform freeze the springs of T——ley's best blood.
BY JAMES MORRISON.
Be easy, good folks, for we're all safe enough,Better fortune seems now to attend us;And two canny fellows, both lusty and tough,Have rais'd a new corps to defend us.Men sound wind and limb, good sighted and stout,That can fight well, without being daunted;Free from all diseases, such like as the gout,And can jump, or be ready when wanted.CHORUS.Then if any invaders should dare us to fight,Let it be on the shore or the river,Bold Archy the Noodle, and Tommy the Knight,Will guard and protect us for ever.The Noodles have ne'er been at battle as yet,Nor been brought down by scanty provision;So to try them whenever his worship thinks fit,He'll find them in famous condition.In all their manœuvres there's scarcely a flaw,They're quite up to the science o' killing;For the Noodle drill Serjeant's a limb o' the law,And an old practis'd hand at the drilling.Then if any invaders, &c.Misfortunes, however, will sometimes attend,For one morning, by danger surrounded,A poor fellow splinter'd his fore-finger end,And, of course, in the service was wounded.'Tis true a sair finger's a very bad thing,But it didn't diminish his beauty;So the next day he just popp'd his arm in a sling,And, Briton-like, went upon duty.Then if any invaders, &c.They have all been abroad, and as far too as Shields,But to walk there was no easy matter,So, for fear that their boots should go down in the heels,They took the steam boat down the watter.Their warlike appearance was awfully grand,When they fired, it sounded like thunder,Which put all the natives o' Shields to a stand,And left them for ages to wonder.Then if any invaders, &c.What a pity they cannot get medals to buy,greatly would add to their grandeur;"There's Waterloo soldiers!" the strangers would cry,And think Archy was great Alexander.These mighty Preservers if death cannot save,But send one or two of them bummin;The rest o' the Noodles would fire o'er his grave,And tell the below-folks he's coming.Then if any invaders, &c.
Be easy, good folks, for we're all safe enough,Better fortune seems now to attend us;And two canny fellows, both lusty and tough,Have rais'd a new corps to defend us.Men sound wind and limb, good sighted and stout,That can fight well, without being daunted;Free from all diseases, such like as the gout,And can jump, or be ready when wanted.
CHORUS.
Then if any invaders should dare us to fight,Let it be on the shore or the river,Bold Archy the Noodle, and Tommy the Knight,Will guard and protect us for ever.
The Noodles have ne'er been at battle as yet,Nor been brought down by scanty provision;So to try them whenever his worship thinks fit,He'll find them in famous condition.In all their manœuvres there's scarcely a flaw,They're quite up to the science o' killing;For the Noodle drill Serjeant's a limb o' the law,And an old practis'd hand at the drilling.Then if any invaders, &c.
Misfortunes, however, will sometimes attend,For one morning, by danger surrounded,A poor fellow splinter'd his fore-finger end,And, of course, in the service was wounded.'Tis true a sair finger's a very bad thing,But it didn't diminish his beauty;So the next day he just popp'd his arm in a sling,And, Briton-like, went upon duty.Then if any invaders, &c.
They have all been abroad, and as far too as Shields,But to walk there was no easy matter,So, for fear that their boots should go down in the heels,They took the steam boat down the watter.Their warlike appearance was awfully grand,When they fired, it sounded like thunder,Which put all the natives o' Shields to a stand,And left them for ages to wonder.Then if any invaders, &c.
What a pity they cannot get medals to buy,greatly would add to their grandeur;"There's Waterloo soldiers!" the strangers would cry,And think Archy was great Alexander.These mighty Preservers if death cannot save,But send one or two of them bummin;The rest o' the Noodles would fire o'er his grave,And tell the below-folks he's coming.Then if any invaders, &c.
Or, Newcastle Privy Court.
Come, all ye Britons who delightIn Freedom's sacred cause,And boast the Triumphs of your Sires,Of just and equal laws,Wrung from a Despot's feeble grasp,List to this tale of mine,In baseness which you cannot peer,Since the days o' Lang Syne.To fam'd Newcastle's Secret CourtA poor unlucky wightWas, for the sake of Bastardy,But very lately brought:Where, tortur'd most ingeniously,The rogue was made to whine,As few have been for sporting so,Since the days of Lang Syne.In vain the culprit urg'd his cause,In eloquence of woe;In vain he urg'd his poverty,To save him from the blow:Regardless of his just complaint,His judges laid the fine,So great as few poor dogs could pay,Since the days of Lang Syne.Now mark the justice of the Judge,Precisely at the time—A gentleman was brought to him,Just for the self same crime;To whom the Judge, in alter'd tone,Begg'd he would not repine,Such ills are common to the rich,Since the days of Lang Syne.Suffice it, these two sinners were,Tho' in the same degreeOf guilt, adjudg'd a fine to pay,The ratio one to three:The man of rags was made to payThree times a greater fine;And sunk in misery, sent to thinkOn the days of Lang Syne.Thus, Britons, are your laws dispens'd,Your boasted freedom's gone,Laid in your predecessors' graves,Or from the island flown:No longer Justice holds her seat,In majesty divine,In British Courts presiding now,As in days of Lang Syne.In vain you strive to wander backTo times of peaceful joy,In vain you hope times to recall,Lost in eternity;No, never shall those scenes return,No more shall Britain shine,As she was wont, so splendidly,I' the days of Lang Syne.Can then Eternal Justice sleep,Regardless of the prayerOf toiling millions sunk in debt,And driven to despair,By stern Oppression's iron hand,Oh! no, the Power DivineShall plead our cause as heretofore,In the days of Lang Syne.
Come, all ye Britons who delightIn Freedom's sacred cause,And boast the Triumphs of your Sires,Of just and equal laws,Wrung from a Despot's feeble grasp,List to this tale of mine,In baseness which you cannot peer,Since the days o' Lang Syne.
To fam'd Newcastle's Secret CourtA poor unlucky wightWas, for the sake of Bastardy,But very lately brought:Where, tortur'd most ingeniously,The rogue was made to whine,As few have been for sporting so,Since the days of Lang Syne.
In vain the culprit urg'd his cause,In eloquence of woe;In vain he urg'd his poverty,To save him from the blow:Regardless of his just complaint,His judges laid the fine,So great as few poor dogs could pay,Since the days of Lang Syne.
Now mark the justice of the Judge,Precisely at the time—A gentleman was brought to him,Just for the self same crime;To whom the Judge, in alter'd tone,Begg'd he would not repine,Such ills are common to the rich,Since the days of Lang Syne.
Suffice it, these two sinners were,Tho' in the same degreeOf guilt, adjudg'd a fine to pay,The ratio one to three:The man of rags was made to payThree times a greater fine;And sunk in misery, sent to thinkOn the days of Lang Syne.
Thus, Britons, are your laws dispens'd,Your boasted freedom's gone,Laid in your predecessors' graves,Or from the island flown:No longer Justice holds her seat,In majesty divine,In British Courts presiding now,As in days of Lang Syne.
In vain you strive to wander backTo times of peaceful joy,In vain you hope times to recall,Lost in eternity;No, never shall those scenes return,No more shall Britain shine,As she was wont, so splendidly,I' the days of Lang Syne.
Can then Eternal Justice sleep,Regardless of the prayerOf toiling millions sunk in debt,And driven to despair,By stern Oppression's iron hand,Oh! no, the Power DivineShall plead our cause as heretofore,In the days of Lang Syne.
BY J. B.
Tune—"Calder Fair."
Last week was wor pay-week, and aw went to the toon,Alang wi' wor Susy to buy her a new goon;A sixpence i' my pocket—we cuddent pass the Close,But went into the Robin Hood and gat worsels a dose.Wiv a tooral, looral, looral, &c.Suen after we gat canny, and com alang the Brig,An' up the Bottle-bank, man, we byeth sae went the rig,Wi' reelin' and wi' dancin'—"knacking heel and toe,"Our heads began to rattle where wor feet before did go.The Half-Muin Lyen we com te, and that wor Susy found,For ower the stanes she fell, man, that's lyen all around,A daver, a devisher agyen the metal pump,And aw, to save poor Susy, got a duckin' i' the sump.Ower anenst the Dun Cow, there is a place myed reet,As good for breaking necks, man, as ony i' the street;Had e'er an inclination been for leading me astray,I'm conscious that aw'd fund maw end by coming up this way.The biggest house i' Gyetshead projecting o'er the road,Dis scarcely leave a footpath to pass on, if you would:Were it not for the gas leet that's on the other side,Mony windpipes wad be clos'd, aye, and mony open'd wide.A little farther up the street, abuin au'd Jackson's Chare,A neatish bit o' dournament began, as passing there,For —— —— a —— wi' guise an' shop-board new,Is cabbaging at Pleasant —— to patch his Waterloo.But the worst of a' these evils, is their planning o' the street,Aye, sic a shem an' bizen, were but decent folks te see't;For here's a hill, and there's a hill, and here they're pullin' doon,And here they're buildin' up, (who's fault?) theonlyfuils i' toon.Thus onward we were passin', thro' trouble and thro' strife,Scarce caring what misfortune had Roger and his Wife:But ere we gan that way agyen, we'll grease our soles and heels,To scamper down by Sunderland, and up by smoky Sheels.
Last week was wor pay-week, and aw went to the toon,Alang wi' wor Susy to buy her a new goon;A sixpence i' my pocket—we cuddent pass the Close,But went into the Robin Hood and gat worsels a dose.Wiv a tooral, looral, looral, &c.
Suen after we gat canny, and com alang the Brig,An' up the Bottle-bank, man, we byeth sae went the rig,Wi' reelin' and wi' dancin'—"knacking heel and toe,"Our heads began to rattle where wor feet before did go.
The Half-Muin Lyen we com te, and that wor Susy found,For ower the stanes she fell, man, that's lyen all around,A daver, a devisher agyen the metal pump,And aw, to save poor Susy, got a duckin' i' the sump.
Ower anenst the Dun Cow, there is a place myed reet,As good for breaking necks, man, as ony i' the street;Had e'er an inclination been for leading me astray,I'm conscious that aw'd fund maw end by coming up this way.
The biggest house i' Gyetshead projecting o'er the road,Dis scarcely leave a footpath to pass on, if you would:Were it not for the gas leet that's on the other side,Mony windpipes wad be clos'd, aye, and mony open'd wide.
A little farther up the street, abuin au'd Jackson's Chare,A neatish bit o' dournament began, as passing there,For —— —— a —— wi' guise an' shop-board new,Is cabbaging at Pleasant —— to patch his Waterloo.
But the worst of a' these evils, is their planning o' the street,Aye, sic a shem an' bizen, were but decent folks te see't;For here's a hill, and there's a hill, and here they're pullin' doon,And here they're buildin' up, (who's fault?) theonlyfuils i' toon.
Thus onward we were passin', thro' trouble and thro' strife,Scarce caring what misfortune had Roger and his Wife:But ere we gan that way agyen, we'll grease our soles and heels,To scamper down by Sunderland, and up by smoky Sheels.
With the Bear, the Horses, and the Dogs, as principal Performers.
It's ha'e ye seen how crouse and gayThe lads and lasses bent their way,To see the horses act the play,At fam'd Newcastle Theatre?There some in silks did proudly shine,And some were dress'd in caps se fine,And some on sticks there did recline,At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.The belles and beaux of low degreeWere eager this fine sight to see;And soon as they had got their tea,They set off for the Theatre.Then at the gallery door they stood—Impatient, and in fretful mood;And many a one, faith, did no goodBy coming to the Theatre.The doors being open'd, on they push'd,Without distinction they were crush'd;The cry was, Tumble up you must,To fam'd Newcastle Theatre.Next direful shrieks were heard aloud,Whilst heedless throng'd the busy crowd,Alike the slothful and the proudWere driven in the Theatre.A miller chep I chanc'd to seeFrae out amang the crowd sae blae,Was running up an entryNear fam'd Newcastle Theatre.He'd got his coat torn cross the lap,My conscience! 'twas a sad mishap;But others still were worse than that,At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.There some their gowns held in their hand,And others lost their shawls se grand;And if you crush'd not you might stand,At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.The pretty girls, to get a seat,Crush'd on, wi' hair dress'd up sae neat;But soon came back, in sic a freet,Frae fam'd Newcastle Theatre.Now some got in without their shoes,And some got in wi' mony a bruise,And some cam hyem to tell the news,At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.Within the pit a brutish chapHad hit a maiden sic a rap,'Cause she refus'd to take her hatOff, in Newcastle Theatre.They took her home without delay,When in a fit she fainting lay;And faith she well may curse the dayThat e'er she saw the Theatre.The boxes, too, were fill'd se fine,With all the labouring sons of Tyne;And servant lasses, all divine,Did beautify the Theatre.The heat was so excessive great,That, not to keep the folk too late,They hurry'd on poor Timour's fate,At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.The play was done as it struck ten,Some greedy folks said, 'twas a shem;However, they all wet went hyem,From fam'd Newcastle Theatre.
It's ha'e ye seen how crouse and gayThe lads and lasses bent their way,To see the horses act the play,At fam'd Newcastle Theatre?
There some in silks did proudly shine,And some were dress'd in caps se fine,And some on sticks there did recline,At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.
The belles and beaux of low degreeWere eager this fine sight to see;And soon as they had got their tea,They set off for the Theatre.
Then at the gallery door they stood—Impatient, and in fretful mood;And many a one, faith, did no goodBy coming to the Theatre.
The doors being open'd, on they push'd,Without distinction they were crush'd;The cry was, Tumble up you must,To fam'd Newcastle Theatre.
Next direful shrieks were heard aloud,Whilst heedless throng'd the busy crowd,Alike the slothful and the proudWere driven in the Theatre.
A miller chep I chanc'd to seeFrae out amang the crowd sae blae,Was running up an entryNear fam'd Newcastle Theatre.
He'd got his coat torn cross the lap,My conscience! 'twas a sad mishap;But others still were worse than that,At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.
There some their gowns held in their hand,And others lost their shawls se grand;And if you crush'd not you might stand,At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.
The pretty girls, to get a seat,Crush'd on, wi' hair dress'd up sae neat;But soon came back, in sic a freet,Frae fam'd Newcastle Theatre.
Now some got in without their shoes,And some got in wi' mony a bruise,And some cam hyem to tell the news,At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.
Within the pit a brutish chapHad hit a maiden sic a rap,'Cause she refus'd to take her hatOff, in Newcastle Theatre.
They took her home without delay,When in a fit she fainting lay;And faith she well may curse the dayThat e'er she saw the Theatre.
The boxes, too, were fill'd se fine,With all the labouring sons of Tyne;And servant lasses, all divine,Did beautify the Theatre.
The heat was so excessive great,That, not to keep the folk too late,They hurry'd on poor Timour's fate,At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.
The play was done as it struck ten,Some greedy folks said, 'twas a shem;However, they all wet went hyem,From fam'd Newcastle Theatre.
Written in 1820.
Tune—"Chapter of Donkies."
Now, Archy, my boy, drop the civical gown,For none ever fill'd it with half your renown,For wisdom and valour so glorious you shine,You're the pride, boast, and bulwark of old coaly Tyne.O brave Archy, miraculous Archy!The pink o' the wise, and the wale o' the brave.To recount all your virtues a volume 'twould swell,So we'll just name a few, sir, in which you excel;Your reign's been eventful, the times have gone mad,And well might have puzzled more brains than you had;But sufficient was Archy, well able was Archy,To crush the sedition and treason of Tyne.Sure Machiavel's self was a fool to our Mayor,So honest he seem'd—then he promis'd so fair,To reform all abuses, give justice to all,And regulate watchmen, blood-suckers and all.O specious Archy! legitimate Archy!The firm, staunch supporter of things as they are.Then of the Great Meeting,[15]by Jove, what a jest!The Rads set you down for their chairman at least;But the yeomen and specials in Court you kept hid,Then sent off that precious epistle to Sid.O rare Archy! sly old Archy!Archy's the boy for the word or the blow!O thou first of inditers, thou brightest of scribes,Thy invention how fertile, in infamous lies!How assassin-like was it to stab in the dark,And from truth and from justice so far to depart.O serpent-like Archy! O fiend-like Archy!O Archy! but that was a damnable deed.Next you went on a voyage of discovery to Shields,And got handsomely pepper'd for meddling with keels;Then for refuge you fled to Northumberland's Arms,Who till now has defended your paper from harms,Else down had gone Archy, thy paper, dear Archy,Down stairs might have gone for the public good.Then, for raising a riot, and reading the act,Your honour against all opponents I'll back:And to crown you with laurels, and finish my song,You're a Colonel of Noodles, and nine makes a man,Such as Archy and Cabbage,Canny Jack Dixon, and thief-taking Tom.
Now, Archy, my boy, drop the civical gown,For none ever fill'd it with half your renown,For wisdom and valour so glorious you shine,You're the pride, boast, and bulwark of old coaly Tyne.O brave Archy, miraculous Archy!The pink o' the wise, and the wale o' the brave.
To recount all your virtues a volume 'twould swell,So we'll just name a few, sir, in which you excel;Your reign's been eventful, the times have gone mad,And well might have puzzled more brains than you had;But sufficient was Archy, well able was Archy,To crush the sedition and treason of Tyne.
Sure Machiavel's self was a fool to our Mayor,So honest he seem'd—then he promis'd so fair,To reform all abuses, give justice to all,And regulate watchmen, blood-suckers and all.O specious Archy! legitimate Archy!The firm, staunch supporter of things as they are.
Then of the Great Meeting,[15]by Jove, what a jest!The Rads set you down for their chairman at least;But the yeomen and specials in Court you kept hid,Then sent off that precious epistle to Sid.O rare Archy! sly old Archy!Archy's the boy for the word or the blow!
O thou first of inditers, thou brightest of scribes,Thy invention how fertile, in infamous lies!How assassin-like was it to stab in the dark,And from truth and from justice so far to depart.O serpent-like Archy! O fiend-like Archy!O Archy! but that was a damnable deed.
Next you went on a voyage of discovery to Shields,And got handsomely pepper'd for meddling with keels;Then for refuge you fled to Northumberland's Arms,Who till now has defended your paper from harms,Else down had gone Archy, thy paper, dear Archy,Down stairs might have gone for the public good.
Then, for raising a riot, and reading the act,Your honour against all opponents I'll back:And to crown you with laurels, and finish my song,You're a Colonel of Noodles, and nine makes a man,Such as Archy and Cabbage,Canny Jack Dixon, and thief-taking Tom.
[15]Held on Newcastle Town Moor, Oct. 11, 1819, relating to the Manchester Massacre.
[15]Held on Newcastle Town Moor, Oct. 11, 1819, relating to the Manchester Massacre.
A Provincial and very popular Song.
I've sung o' Newcassel till black o' the fyess,Tyne's Muse is as modest as ony;Tho' oft she comes out in a comical dress—Here she goes for a lilt at Sir Tommy.Ye've seen him, nae doubt, wi' his hat on ten hairs,Then he cuts sic a wonderful caper;He has long been thought odd, for his kickmashaw airs,Now he's odd baith by name and by nature.Let Fame canter on till she's sair i' the hips,Proclaiming, frae Tynemouth to Stella,How the sun, moon, and stars a' went into the 'clipse,When Sir Tommy was made an Odd Fellow.There's scarce sic a man in a' Newcassel toon,With the famous Tyne Legion outsetting:Down at Shields in a fray, they pick'd up sic renoon,That his nyem will nae mair be forgetten.Tho' envious at valour, yet a' look asquint,What heroes in fame e'er surpass'd them?Wi' Sir Tommy before, and the sailors behint,It was run! and the devil take the last one!Let Fame canter on, &c.A Knight he was dubb'd for sic sarvices brave,But a Knight without fee is but little:So they sent him to govern[16]where folks rant and rave,A station he fit to a tittle.Grand Master of Orangemen next he was call'd,Bells rung till the toon was a' quaking;Now Most Noble Grand of Odd Fellows install'd—Faicks! it's time a straight-jacket was making.Let Fame canter on, &c.That Sir Tommy has wit I wad fain here convince,He can myek sic a thumping oration,By which he astonish'd the Legion lang since,Now he wants to astonish the nation.By humbug reduc'd, though his head's very lang,His brains scarce wad balance a feather:But just nominate him a Parliament man,[17]Head and brains will take flight a' thegither.Let Fame canter on, &c.O sons o' Newcassel! free Burgesses a',Ne'er be tempted your freedom to barter;May they hing in tatters to frighten the craws,If ye budge but an inch frae your Charter.If ye send up Sir Tommy to London, M. P.I' the Parliament house to be seated,Ye may just as weel send Captain Starkey[18]up tee,Your glory will then be completed.Let Fame canter on, &c.
I've sung o' Newcassel till black o' the fyess,Tyne's Muse is as modest as ony;Tho' oft she comes out in a comical dress—Here she goes for a lilt at Sir Tommy.Ye've seen him, nae doubt, wi' his hat on ten hairs,Then he cuts sic a wonderful caper;He has long been thought odd, for his kickmashaw airs,Now he's odd baith by name and by nature.
Let Fame canter on till she's sair i' the hips,Proclaiming, frae Tynemouth to Stella,How the sun, moon, and stars a' went into the 'clipse,When Sir Tommy was made an Odd Fellow.
There's scarce sic a man in a' Newcassel toon,With the famous Tyne Legion outsetting:Down at Shields in a fray, they pick'd up sic renoon,That his nyem will nae mair be forgetten.Tho' envious at valour, yet a' look asquint,What heroes in fame e'er surpass'd them?Wi' Sir Tommy before, and the sailors behint,It was run! and the devil take the last one!Let Fame canter on, &c.
A Knight he was dubb'd for sic sarvices brave,But a Knight without fee is but little:So they sent him to govern[16]where folks rant and rave,A station he fit to a tittle.Grand Master of Orangemen next he was call'd,Bells rung till the toon was a' quaking;Now Most Noble Grand of Odd Fellows install'd—Faicks! it's time a straight-jacket was making.Let Fame canter on, &c.
That Sir Tommy has wit I wad fain here convince,He can myek sic a thumping oration,By which he astonish'd the Legion lang since,Now he wants to astonish the nation.By humbug reduc'd, though his head's very lang,His brains scarce wad balance a feather:But just nominate him a Parliament man,[17]Head and brains will take flight a' thegither.Let Fame canter on, &c.
O sons o' Newcassel! free Burgesses a',Ne'er be tempted your freedom to barter;May they hing in tatters to frighten the craws,If ye budge but an inch frae your Charter.If ye send up Sir Tommy to London, M. P.I' the Parliament house to be seated,Ye may just as weel send Captain Starkey[18]up tee,Your glory will then be completed.Let Fame canter on, &c.
[16]Governor General of the Lunatic House.
[16]Governor General of the Lunatic House.
[17]It was reported in the London Papers, that Sir T. B. intended putting up as a Candidate to serve Newcastle in Parliament.
[17]It was reported in the London Papers, that Sir T. B. intended putting up as a Candidate to serve Newcastle in Parliament.
[18]An eccentric character well known in Newcastle.
[18]An eccentric character well known in Newcastle.
Oh, Lads and Lasses, hither comeTo Wreckenton, to see the fun,And mind ye bring your Sunday shoon,There'll be rare wark wi' dancing-o.And Lasses now, without a brag,Bring pockets like a fiddle bag,Ye'll get them cramm'd wi' mony a whagOf pepper-kyek an' scranchim-o.And Bess put on that bonny goonThy mother bought thou at the toon;That straw-hat wi' the ribbons broon,They'll a' be buss'd that's coming-o:Put that reed ribbon round thy waist,It myeks thou luik sae full o' grace,Then up the lonnen come in haste,They'll think thou's com'd frae Lunnen-o.Ned pat on his Sunday's coat,His hat and breeches cost a note,With a new stiff'ner round his throat,He luikt the very dandy-o:He thought that he was gaun to choke,For he'd to gyep before he spoke:He met Bess at the Royal Oak,They had baith yell and brandy-o.Each lad was there wi' his sweetheart,And a' was ready for a start,When in com Jack wi' Fanny Smart,And brought a merry Scraper-o:Then Ned jump'd up upon his feet,And on the table myed a seat;Then bounc'd the Fiddler up a heet,Saying, 'Play and we will caper-o.'Now Ned and Bess led off the ball,'Play Smash the windows,' he did call,'Keep in yor feet,' says Hitchy Mall,Learn'd dancers hae sic prancing-o:'Now Ned was nowther lyeth nor lyem,And faith he had baith bouk and byen,Ye wad thought his feet was myed o' styen,He gav sic thuds wi' dancing-o.Now Jackey Fanny's hand did seize,Cry'd, 'Fiddler, tune your strings to please!'Play, 'Kiss her weel amang the trees,'She is my darlin', bliss her-o!Then off they set, wi' sic a smack,They myed the joints a' bend and crack:When duen he took her round the neck,And faith he dident miss her-o.The fiddler's elbow wagg'd a' neet,He thought he wad dropt off his seat,For deil a bit they'd let him eat,They were sae keen o' dancin'-o.Some had to strip their coats for heet,And sarks and shifts were wet wi' sweet!They cramm'd their guts, for want o' meat,Wi' ginger-breed and scranchim-o.Now cocks had crawn an hour or more,And ower the yell-pot some did snore;But how they luikt to hear the roarOf Matt, the King Pit caller-o!'Smash him!' says Ned, 'he mun be rang,He's callin' through his sleep, aw's war'n;'Then shootin' to the door he ran—'Thou's asleep, thou rousty bawler-o!'Now they danc'd agyen till it was day,And then went hyem—but, by the way,Some of them had rare fun, they say,And fand it nine months after-o:Such tricks are play'd by heedless youth;And though they're common, north and south,That's nae excuse for breach of truth,Nor food for wit and laughter-o.Suen Wreckenton will bear the sway,Two Members they'll put in, they say;Then wor Taxes will be duen away,And we'll a' sing now or never-o:Backey and Tea will be sae cheap,Wives will sit up when they sud sleep,And we'll float in yell at wor Pay-week,Then Wreckenton for ever-o.
Oh, Lads and Lasses, hither comeTo Wreckenton, to see the fun,And mind ye bring your Sunday shoon,There'll be rare wark wi' dancing-o.And Lasses now, without a brag,Bring pockets like a fiddle bag,Ye'll get them cramm'd wi' mony a whagOf pepper-kyek an' scranchim-o.
And Bess put on that bonny goonThy mother bought thou at the toon;That straw-hat wi' the ribbons broon,They'll a' be buss'd that's coming-o:Put that reed ribbon round thy waist,It myeks thou luik sae full o' grace,Then up the lonnen come in haste,They'll think thou's com'd frae Lunnen-o.
Ned pat on his Sunday's coat,His hat and breeches cost a note,With a new stiff'ner round his throat,He luikt the very dandy-o:He thought that he was gaun to choke,For he'd to gyep before he spoke:He met Bess at the Royal Oak,They had baith yell and brandy-o.
Each lad was there wi' his sweetheart,And a' was ready for a start,When in com Jack wi' Fanny Smart,And brought a merry Scraper-o:Then Ned jump'd up upon his feet,And on the table myed a seat;Then bounc'd the Fiddler up a heet,Saying, 'Play and we will caper-o.'
Now Ned and Bess led off the ball,'Play Smash the windows,' he did call,'Keep in yor feet,' says Hitchy Mall,Learn'd dancers hae sic prancing-o:'Now Ned was nowther lyeth nor lyem,And faith he had baith bouk and byen,Ye wad thought his feet was myed o' styen,He gav sic thuds wi' dancing-o.
Now Jackey Fanny's hand did seize,Cry'd, 'Fiddler, tune your strings to please!'Play, 'Kiss her weel amang the trees,'She is my darlin', bliss her-o!Then off they set, wi' sic a smack,They myed the joints a' bend and crack:When duen he took her round the neck,And faith he dident miss her-o.
The fiddler's elbow wagg'd a' neet,He thought he wad dropt off his seat,For deil a bit they'd let him eat,They were sae keen o' dancin'-o.Some had to strip their coats for heet,And sarks and shifts were wet wi' sweet!They cramm'd their guts, for want o' meat,Wi' ginger-breed and scranchim-o.
Now cocks had crawn an hour or more,And ower the yell-pot some did snore;But how they luikt to hear the roarOf Matt, the King Pit caller-o!'Smash him!' says Ned, 'he mun be rang,He's callin' through his sleep, aw's war'n;'Then shootin' to the door he ran—'Thou's asleep, thou rousty bawler-o!'
Now they danc'd agyen till it was day,And then went hyem—but, by the way,Some of them had rare fun, they say,And fand it nine months after-o:Such tricks are play'd by heedless youth;And though they're common, north and south,That's nae excuse for breach of truth,Nor food for wit and laughter-o.
Suen Wreckenton will bear the sway,Two Members they'll put in, they say;Then wor Taxes will be duen away,And we'll a' sing now or never-o:Backey and Tea will be sae cheap,Wives will sit up when they sud sleep,And we'll float in yell at wor Pay-week,Then Wreckenton for ever-o.
Who walked 101 miles in 23 hours, 56 minutes, and 30 seconds, on the 25th & 26th of July, 1822, on the Newcastle Race course.