It's hae ye heard the ill that's duen?Or hae ye lost? or hae ye won?Or hae ye seen what mirth and fun,At fam'd Newcassel Races, O?The weather fine, and folks sae gay,Put on their best, and bent their wayTo the Town Moor, to spend the day,At fam'd Newcassel Races, O.There shows of all sorts you may view;Polito's grand collection too;Such noise and din and lilli-bulloo,At fam'd Newcassel Races, O.There some on horses sat astride,And some in gigs did snugly ride,With smart young wenches by their side;Look'd stilish at the Races, O.A Tailor chep aw chanc'd to spy,Was sneekin through the crowd sae sly,For he'd tyen the darling of his eye,To swagger at the Races, O.He says, My dear, we'll see the show,Egad! says she, I do not know,It looks so vulgar and so low,We'd better see the Races, O.One Buck cries, Demme, go the rig!Got two smart lasses in a gig;He crack'd his whip, and look'd quite big,While swagg'rin at the Races, O.But soon, alas! the gig upset,An ugly thump they each did get;Some say, that he his breeches wet,For fear, when at the Races, O.The one was lyem'd abuin the knee,The other freeten'd desp'rately;"This demm'd unlucky job!" says she,"Has fairly spoil'd my Races, O!"He gat them in, wi' some delay,And te Newcassel bent his way;But oft, indeed, he curs'd the day,That e'er he'd seen the Races, O.Now some were singin songs so fine,And some were lying drunk like swine,Some drank porter, others wine;Rare drinkin at the Races, O!The wanton wags in corners sat,Wiv bonny lasses on their lap;And mony a yen gat tit for tat,Before they left the Races, O.Now lads and lasses myed for toon,And in the road they oft lay doon;Faith! mony a lassie spoil'd her goon,A comin frae the Races, O:Some gat hyem, midst outs and ins,Some had black eyes and broken shins,And some lay drunk amang the whins,A comin frae the Races, O:Let every one his station mense,By acting like a man of sense—'Twill save him mony a pund expense,When he gans te the Races, O.Kind friends, I would you all advise,Good counsel ye should ne'er despise,The world's opinion always prize,When ye gan to the Races, O.
It's hae ye heard the ill that's duen?Or hae ye lost? or hae ye won?Or hae ye seen what mirth and fun,At fam'd Newcassel Races, O?The weather fine, and folks sae gay,Put on their best, and bent their wayTo the Town Moor, to spend the day,At fam'd Newcassel Races, O.
There shows of all sorts you may view;Polito's grand collection too;Such noise and din and lilli-bulloo,At fam'd Newcassel Races, O.There some on horses sat astride,And some in gigs did snugly ride,With smart young wenches by their side;Look'd stilish at the Races, O.
A Tailor chep aw chanc'd to spy,Was sneekin through the crowd sae sly,For he'd tyen the darling of his eye,To swagger at the Races, O.He says, My dear, we'll see the show,Egad! says she, I do not know,It looks so vulgar and so low,We'd better see the Races, O.
One Buck cries, Demme, go the rig!Got two smart lasses in a gig;He crack'd his whip, and look'd quite big,While swagg'rin at the Races, O.But soon, alas! the gig upset,An ugly thump they each did get;Some say, that he his breeches wet,For fear, when at the Races, O.
The one was lyem'd abuin the knee,The other freeten'd desp'rately;"This demm'd unlucky job!" says she,"Has fairly spoil'd my Races, O!"He gat them in, wi' some delay,And te Newcassel bent his way;But oft, indeed, he curs'd the day,That e'er he'd seen the Races, O.
Now some were singin songs so fine,And some were lying drunk like swine,Some drank porter, others wine;Rare drinkin at the Races, O!The wanton wags in corners sat,Wiv bonny lasses on their lap;And mony a yen gat tit for tat,Before they left the Races, O.
Now lads and lasses myed for toon,And in the road they oft lay doon;Faith! mony a lassie spoil'd her goon,A comin frae the Races, O:Some gat hyem, midst outs and ins,Some had black eyes and broken shins,And some lay drunk amang the whins,A comin frae the Races, O:
Let every one his station mense,By acting like a man of sense—'Twill save him mony a pund expense,When he gans te the Races, O.Kind friends, I would you all advise,Good counsel ye should ne'er despise,The world's opinion always prize,When ye gan to the Races, O.
Wor laureate may sing for his cash,Of laws, constitution, and proctors,Contented aw'll blair for a dashAt the slee understrapping quack doctors,They gob o' their physical skill,Till their jaws yen might swear they wad rive,To prove what's alive they can kill,And what's dead they can suen myek alive.A' ye wi' the glanders snout-full,Repair to each wondrous adviser—For though ye were born a stark fuel,Depend on't, they'll suen myek ye wiser.Their physic, they say, in a trice,Snaps every disease like a towt:But the best on't all is their advice—Ye can get it free gratis for nowt.Wiv a kessle puff'd up to the chin,Went to see yen, a strapping young doxy,He examin'd her lugs and her een,And declar'd her myest dead o' the dropsy.The lassie he therefore wad tap,At which she set up a great yell;When out popp'd a little wee chapMyest as wise as the doctor's awnsel'.Next they teuk him a man, whee for fancies,A' day wad sit silent and sad—He upheld that he'd lost his reet senses,And therefore he surely was mad.But now he gies mony a roar,Of the doctor's great skill to convince—If he wasn't a madman beforeAt least he's been yen ever since.Last, in hobbled gouty Sir Peter,To get of his drugs a good doze—Three days he deep studied his water,Ere he'd his opinion disclose.Then proclaim'd that Sir Peet was ower fat,For the doctor was never mistyenBy my faiks! but he curd him o' that—Suen Sir Peet left the warld, skin and byen.Now, he that winn't loyally sing,May he swing like an ass in a tether,Good hilth and long life to the King,To keep us in union together.The heart iv each Briton he leadsTo rejoice i' the fall o' the quacks—So we'll aye keep the brains i' wor heeds,And we'll ay hae the flesh on wor backs.
Wor laureate may sing for his cash,Of laws, constitution, and proctors,Contented aw'll blair for a dashAt the slee understrapping quack doctors,They gob o' their physical skill,Till their jaws yen might swear they wad rive,To prove what's alive they can kill,And what's dead they can suen myek alive.
A' ye wi' the glanders snout-full,Repair to each wondrous adviser—For though ye were born a stark fuel,Depend on't, they'll suen myek ye wiser.Their physic, they say, in a trice,Snaps every disease like a towt:But the best on't all is their advice—Ye can get it free gratis for nowt.
Wiv a kessle puff'd up to the chin,Went to see yen, a strapping young doxy,He examin'd her lugs and her een,And declar'd her myest dead o' the dropsy.The lassie he therefore wad tap,At which she set up a great yell;When out popp'd a little wee chapMyest as wise as the doctor's awnsel'.
Next they teuk him a man, whee for fancies,A' day wad sit silent and sad—He upheld that he'd lost his reet senses,And therefore he surely was mad.But now he gies mony a roar,Of the doctor's great skill to convince—If he wasn't a madman beforeAt least he's been yen ever since.
Last, in hobbled gouty Sir Peter,To get of his drugs a good doze—Three days he deep studied his water,Ere he'd his opinion disclose.Then proclaim'd that Sir Peet was ower fat,For the doctor was never mistyenBy my faiks! but he curd him o' that—Suen Sir Peet left the warld, skin and byen.
Now, he that winn't loyally sing,May he swing like an ass in a tether,Good hilth and long life to the King,To keep us in union together.The heart iv each Briton he leadsTo rejoice i' the fall o' the quacks—So we'll aye keep the brains i' wor heeds,And we'll ay hae the flesh on wor backs.
Written on seeing the Leg of a beautiful Female exposed by the wind on Tyne Bridge, March, 1806.
O tak't not amiss while I sing, my Peggy,O tak't not amiss while I sing,How rude the wind blew, and expos'd thy neat leggy,Thy knee and red garten string, my Peggy,Thy knee and red garten string.Nor take it amiss while I tell thee, Peggy,Nor take it amiss while I tell,How a' my heart felt upon seeing thy leggy;—I've never sinsyne been mysel', my Peggy,I've never sinsyne been mysel'.I think the brisk gale acted right, my Peggy,I think the brisk gale acted right,In shewing me, O lovely dear! thy smart leggy—It was sic a glorious sight, my Peggy,It was sic a glorious sight.In troth I'd gan monie a mile, my Peggy,In troth I'd gan monie a mile,Again, my dear Charmer, to view thy neat leggy,And see on thy face a sweet smile, my Peggy,And see on thy face a sweet smile.I'm deeply in love wi' thee a', my Peggy,I'm deeply in love wi' thee a'—And I'll think on thy face and thy smart buskit leggy,As lang as I've breath for to draw, my Peggy,As lang as I've breath for to draw.
O tak't not amiss while I sing, my Peggy,O tak't not amiss while I sing,How rude the wind blew, and expos'd thy neat leggy,Thy knee and red garten string, my Peggy,Thy knee and red garten string.
Nor take it amiss while I tell thee, Peggy,Nor take it amiss while I tell,How a' my heart felt upon seeing thy leggy;—I've never sinsyne been mysel', my Peggy,I've never sinsyne been mysel'.
I think the brisk gale acted right, my Peggy,I think the brisk gale acted right,In shewing me, O lovely dear! thy smart leggy—It was sic a glorious sight, my Peggy,It was sic a glorious sight.
In troth I'd gan monie a mile, my Peggy,In troth I'd gan monie a mile,Again, my dear Charmer, to view thy neat leggy,And see on thy face a sweet smile, my Peggy,And see on thy face a sweet smile.
I'm deeply in love wi' thee a', my Peggy,I'm deeply in love wi' thee a'—And I'll think on thy face and thy smart buskit leggy,As lang as I've breath for to draw, my Peggy,As lang as I've breath for to draw.
Maw bonny keel laddie, maw canny keel laddie,Maw bonny keel laddie for me, O!He sits in his keel, as black as the Deil,And he brings the white money to me, O.Hae ye seen owt o' maw canny man,And are ye sure he's weel, O?He's gyen ower land, wiv a stick in his hand,To help to moor the keel, O.The canny keel laddie, the bonny keel laddie,The canny keel laddie for me, O;He sits in his huddock, and claws his bare buttock,And brings the white money to me, O.
Maw bonny keel laddie, maw canny keel laddie,Maw bonny keel laddie for me, O!He sits in his keel, as black as the Deil,And he brings the white money to me, O.
Hae ye seen owt o' maw canny man,And are ye sure he's weel, O?He's gyen ower land, wiv a stick in his hand,To help to moor the keel, O.
The canny keel laddie, the bonny keel laddie,The canny keel laddie for me, O;He sits in his huddock, and claws his bare buttock,And brings the white money to me, O.
Roll on thy way, thrice happy Tyne!Commerce and riches still are thine;Thy sons in every art shall shine,And make thee more majestic flow.The busy crowd that throngs thy sides,And on thy dusky bosom glides,With riches swell thy flowing tides,And bless the soil where thou dost flow.Thy valiant sons, in days of old,Led by their chieftains, brave and bold,Fought not for wealth, or shining gold,But to defend thy happy shores.So e'en as they of old have bled,And oft embrac'd a gory bed,Thy modern sons, by Patriots led,Shall rise to shield thy peace-crown'd shores.Nor art thou blest for this alone,That long thy sons in arms have shone;For every art to them is known,And science, form'd to grace the mind.Art, curb'd by War in former days,Has now burst forth in one bright blaze;And long shall his refulgent raysShine bright, and darkness leave behind.The Muses too, with Freedom crown'd,Shall on thy happy shores be found,And fill the air with joyous sound,Of—War and darkness' overthrow.Then roll thy way, thrice happy Tyne!Commerce and riches still are thine!Thy sons in arts and arms shall shine,And make thee still majestic flow.
Roll on thy way, thrice happy Tyne!Commerce and riches still are thine;Thy sons in every art shall shine,And make thee more majestic flow.
The busy crowd that throngs thy sides,And on thy dusky bosom glides,With riches swell thy flowing tides,And bless the soil where thou dost flow.
Thy valiant sons, in days of old,Led by their chieftains, brave and bold,Fought not for wealth, or shining gold,But to defend thy happy shores.
So e'en as they of old have bled,And oft embrac'd a gory bed,Thy modern sons, by Patriots led,Shall rise to shield thy peace-crown'd shores.
Nor art thou blest for this alone,That long thy sons in arms have shone;For every art to them is known,And science, form'd to grace the mind.
Art, curb'd by War in former days,Has now burst forth in one bright blaze;And long shall his refulgent raysShine bright, and darkness leave behind.
The Muses too, with Freedom crown'd,Shall on thy happy shores be found,And fill the air with joyous sound,Of—War and darkness' overthrow.
Then roll thy way, thrice happy Tyne!Commerce and riches still are thine!Thy sons in arts and arms shall shine,And make thee still majestic flow.
Whilst bards, in strains that sweetly flow,Extol each nymph so fair,Be mine my Nanny's worth to shew,Her captivating air.What swain can gaze without delightOn beauty there so fine?The Graces all their charms uniteIn Nanny of the Tyne.Far from the noise of giddy courtsThe lovely charmer dwells;Her cot the haunt of harmless sports,In virtue she excels.With modesty, good nature join'd,To form the nymph divine;And truth, with innocence combin'd,In Nanny of the Tyne.Flow on, smooth stream, in murmurs sweetGlide gently past her cot,'Tis peace and virtue's calm retreat—Ye great ones, envied not.And you, ye fair, whom folly leadsThrough all her paths supine,Tho' drest in pleasure's garb, exceedsNot Nanny of the Tyne.Can art to nature e'er compare,Or win us to believeBut that the frippery of the fairWas made but to deceive.Strip from the belle the dress so gay,Which fashion calls divine,Will she such loveliness displayAs Nanny of the Tyne.
Whilst bards, in strains that sweetly flow,Extol each nymph so fair,Be mine my Nanny's worth to shew,Her captivating air.What swain can gaze without delightOn beauty there so fine?The Graces all their charms uniteIn Nanny of the Tyne.
Far from the noise of giddy courtsThe lovely charmer dwells;Her cot the haunt of harmless sports,In virtue she excels.With modesty, good nature join'd,To form the nymph divine;And truth, with innocence combin'd,In Nanny of the Tyne.
Flow on, smooth stream, in murmurs sweetGlide gently past her cot,'Tis peace and virtue's calm retreat—Ye great ones, envied not.And you, ye fair, whom folly leadsThrough all her paths supine,Tho' drest in pleasure's garb, exceedsNot Nanny of the Tyne.
Can art to nature e'er compare,Or win us to believeBut that the frippery of the fairWas made but to deceive.Strip from the belle the dress so gay,Which fashion calls divine,Will she such loveliness displayAs Nanny of the Tyne.
Tune—"Bob Cranky."
Come, marrows, we've happen'd to meet now,Sae wor thropples together we'll weet now;Aw've myed a new sang,And to sing ye't aw lang,For it's about the Bonny Gyetsiders.Of a' the fine Volunteer corpses,Whether footmen, or ridin' on horses,'Tween the Tweed and the Tees,Deil hae them that seesSic a corpse as the Bonny Gyetsiders.Whilk amang them can mairch, turn, an' wheel sae?Whilk their guns can wise off half sae weel sae?Nay, for myeking acrack,Through England aw'll backThe corps of the Bonny Gyetsiders.When the time for parading nigh hand grows,A' wesh theirsels clean i' the sleck troughs:Fling off their black duddies,Leave hammers and studdies,And to drill—run the Bonny Gyetsiders.To Newcassel, for three weeks up-stannin,On Parmanent Duty they're gannin;And seun i' the papersWe's read a' the capersO' the corps o' the Bonny Gyetsiders.The Newcassel chaps fancy they're clever,And are vaunting and braggin' for ever;But they'll find theirsels wrang,If they think they can bang,At sowg'rin', the Bonny Gyetsiders.The Gen'ral shall see they can lowp dykes,Or mairch thro' whins, lair whooles, and deep sykes;Nay, to soom (at a pinch)Through Tyne, waddent flinchThe corps o' the Bonny Gyetsiders.Some think Billy Pitt's nobbit hummin,When he tells aboot Bonnepairt cummin;But come when he may,He'll lang rue the dayHe first meets wi' the Bonny Gyetsiders:Like an anchor-shank, smash! how they'll clatter 'im,And turn 'im, and skelp 'im, and batter 'im;His byens sal, by jing!Like a frying-pan ring,When he meets wi' the Bonny Gyetsiders.Let them yence get 'im into their taings weel,Nae fear but they'll give him his whaings weel;And to Hezlett's Pond bring 'im,And there in chains hing 'im,What a seet for the Bonny Gyetsiders!Now, marrows, to shew we're a' loyal,And that, wi' the King and Blood Royal,We'll a' soom or sink,Quairts a-piece let us drink,To the brave and the Bonny Gyetsiders.
Come, marrows, we've happen'd to meet now,Sae wor thropples together we'll weet now;Aw've myed a new sang,And to sing ye't aw lang,For it's about the Bonny Gyetsiders.
Of a' the fine Volunteer corpses,Whether footmen, or ridin' on horses,'Tween the Tweed and the Tees,Deil hae them that seesSic a corpse as the Bonny Gyetsiders.
Whilk amang them can mairch, turn, an' wheel sae?Whilk their guns can wise off half sae weel sae?Nay, for myeking acrack,Through England aw'll backThe corps of the Bonny Gyetsiders.
When the time for parading nigh hand grows,A' wesh theirsels clean i' the sleck troughs:Fling off their black duddies,Leave hammers and studdies,And to drill—run the Bonny Gyetsiders.
To Newcassel, for three weeks up-stannin,On Parmanent Duty they're gannin;And seun i' the papersWe's read a' the capersO' the corps o' the Bonny Gyetsiders.
The Newcassel chaps fancy they're clever,And are vaunting and braggin' for ever;But they'll find theirsels wrang,If they think they can bang,At sowg'rin', the Bonny Gyetsiders.
The Gen'ral shall see they can lowp dykes,Or mairch thro' whins, lair whooles, and deep sykes;Nay, to soom (at a pinch)Through Tyne, waddent flinchThe corps o' the Bonny Gyetsiders.
Some think Billy Pitt's nobbit hummin,When he tells aboot Bonnepairt cummin;But come when he may,He'll lang rue the dayHe first meets wi' the Bonny Gyetsiders:
Like an anchor-shank, smash! how they'll clatter 'im,And turn 'im, and skelp 'im, and batter 'im;His byens sal, by jing!Like a frying-pan ring,When he meets wi' the Bonny Gyetsiders.
Let them yence get 'im into their taings weel,Nae fear but they'll give him his whaings weel;And to Hezlett's Pond bring 'im,And there in chains hing 'im,What a seet for the Bonny Gyetsiders!
Now, marrows, to shew we're a' loyal,And that, wi' the King and Blood Royal,We'll a' soom or sink,Quairts a-piece let us drink,To the brave and the Bonny Gyetsiders.
I cannot get to my love, if I should dee,The water of Tyne runs between him and me;And here I must stand, with the tear in my e'e,Both sighing and sickly my sweetheart to see.O where is the boatman? my bonny honey!O where is the boatman? bring him to me—To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey,And I will remember the boatman and thee.O bring me a boatman—I'll give any money,(And you for your trouble rewarded shall be)To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey,Or skull him across that rough river to me.
I cannot get to my love, if I should dee,The water of Tyne runs between him and me;And here I must stand, with the tear in my e'e,Both sighing and sickly my sweetheart to see.
O where is the boatman? my bonny honey!O where is the boatman? bring him to me—To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey,And I will remember the boatman and thee.
O bring me a boatman—I'll give any money,(And you for your trouble rewarded shall be)To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey,Or skull him across that rough river to me.
Written by Cecil Pitt, and sung at the Theatre-Royal, Newcastle, by Mr. Scriven, June 4, 1806.
Should the French in Newcastle but dare to appear,At each sign they would meet with indifferent cheer;From the Goat and the Hawk, from the Bell and the Waggon,And the Dog, they would skip, as St. George made the Dragon.The Billet, the Highlander, Cross Keys, and Sun,The Eagle and Ships too, would shew 'em some fun;The Three Kings and Unicorn, Bull's Head and Horse,Would prove, that the farther they went they'd fare worse.At the Black House, astrong-Arm, would lay ev'ry man on,And they'd quickly go off, if they got in the Cannon:The Nelson and Turk's Head their fears would increase,And they'd run from the Swan like a parcel of geese.At the York and the Cumberland, Cornwallis too,With our Fighting Cocks, sure they'd have plenty to do;The Nag's Head and Lions would cut such an evil,And the Angel would drive the whole crew to the devil.At the World, and the Fountain, the Bridge, Crown and Thistle,The Bee-Hive, and Tuns, for a drop they might whistle;With our Prince, or our Crown, should they dare interpose,They'd prick their French fingers well under the Rose.At the Half Moon, the Wheat Sheaf, and Old Barley-Mow,A sup's to be got—if they could but tell how;If they call'd at the Bull and the Tiger to ravage,As well as the Black Boy, they'd find 'em quite savage.At the Ark, and the Anchor, Pack Horse, and Blue Posts,And the Newmarket Inn, they would find but rough hosts;The Old Star and Garter, Cock, Anchor, and more,Would prove, like the Grapes, all most cursedly sour.The Lion and Lamb, Plough, and Old Robin Hood,With the Crane House, would check these delighters in blood;From the Butchers' Arms quick they'd be running away,And we all know that Shakespeare would shew 'em someplay.At the White Hart, Three Bulls' Heads, the Old Dog and Duck,If they did not get thrash'd, they'd escape by good luck:At the Bird in Bush, Metters' Arms, Peacock, they'd fast,And our King's and Queen's Heads we'll defend till the last.May the sign of the King ever meet with respect,And our great Constitution each Briton protect;And may he who would humble our Old British Crown,Be hung on a sign-post till I take him down.
Should the French in Newcastle but dare to appear,At each sign they would meet with indifferent cheer;From the Goat and the Hawk, from the Bell and the Waggon,And the Dog, they would skip, as St. George made the Dragon.
The Billet, the Highlander, Cross Keys, and Sun,The Eagle and Ships too, would shew 'em some fun;The Three Kings and Unicorn, Bull's Head and Horse,Would prove, that the farther they went they'd fare worse.
At the Black House, astrong-Arm, would lay ev'ry man on,And they'd quickly go off, if they got in the Cannon:The Nelson and Turk's Head their fears would increase,And they'd run from the Swan like a parcel of geese.
At the York and the Cumberland, Cornwallis too,With our Fighting Cocks, sure they'd have plenty to do;The Nag's Head and Lions would cut such an evil,And the Angel would drive the whole crew to the devil.
At the World, and the Fountain, the Bridge, Crown and Thistle,The Bee-Hive, and Tuns, for a drop they might whistle;With our Prince, or our Crown, should they dare interpose,They'd prick their French fingers well under the Rose.
At the Half Moon, the Wheat Sheaf, and Old Barley-Mow,A sup's to be got—if they could but tell how;If they call'd at the Bull and the Tiger to ravage,As well as the Black Boy, they'd find 'em quite savage.
At the Ark, and the Anchor, Pack Horse, and Blue Posts,And the Newmarket Inn, they would find but rough hosts;The Old Star and Garter, Cock, Anchor, and more,Would prove, like the Grapes, all most cursedly sour.
The Lion and Lamb, Plough, and Old Robin Hood,With the Crane House, would check these delighters in blood;From the Butchers' Arms quick they'd be running away,And we all know that Shakespeare would shew 'em someplay.
At the White Hart, Three Bulls' Heads, the Old Dog and Duck,If they did not get thrash'd, they'd escape by good luck:At the Bird in Bush, Metters' Arms, Peacock, they'd fast,And our King's and Queen's Heads we'll defend till the last.
May the sign of the King ever meet with respect,And our great Constitution each Briton protect;And may he who would humble our Old British Crown,Be hung on a sign-post till I take him down.
Since Boney was sent to that place owre the sea,We've had little to talk of, but far less to dee;But now they're a' saying, we suen will get better,When yence they begin with the wonderful Gutter,The great lang Gutter, the wonderful Gutter:Success to the Gutter! and prosper the Plough!The way how aw ken—when aw was at the toon,Aw met Dicky Wise near the Rose and the Croon;And as Dicky reads papers, and talks aboot Kings,Wey he's like to ken weel about Gutters and things;So he talk'd owre the Gutter, &c.He then a lang story began for to tell,And said that it often was ca'd a Can-nell;But he thowt, by a Gutter, aw wad understand,That's it's cutten reet through a' the Gentlemen's land.Now that's caw'd a Gutter, &c.Now, whether the sea's owre big at the West,Or scanty at Sheels—wey, ye mebby ken best;For he says they can team, aye, without any bother,A sup out o' yen, a' the way to the tother,By the great lang Gutter, &c.Besides, there'll be bridges, and locks, and lairge keys,And shippies, to trade wiv eggs, butter, and cheese:And if they'll not sail weel, for want o' mair force,They'll myek ne mair fuss, but yoke in a strang horse,To pull through the Gutter, &c.Ye ken there's a deal that's lang wanted a myel,When they start wi' the Gutter 'twill thicken their kyell:Let wages be high, or be just what they may,It will certainly help to drive hunger away,While they work at the Gutter, &c.There's wor Tyne sammun tee 'ill not ken what's the matter,When they get a gobful o' briny saut watter;But if they should gan off, it's cum'd into my nob,For to myek some amends we mun catch a' the cod,That sweems down the Gutter, &c.So come money and friends support Willy Armstrang,In vent'rin a thoosan ye canna get wrang;While we get wor breed by the sweet o' wor brow,Success to the Gutter! and prosper the Plough!The great lang Gutter, &c.
Since Boney was sent to that place owre the sea,We've had little to talk of, but far less to dee;But now they're a' saying, we suen will get better,When yence they begin with the wonderful Gutter,
The great lang Gutter, the wonderful Gutter:Success to the Gutter! and prosper the Plough!
The way how aw ken—when aw was at the toon,Aw met Dicky Wise near the Rose and the Croon;And as Dicky reads papers, and talks aboot Kings,Wey he's like to ken weel about Gutters and things;So he talk'd owre the Gutter, &c.
He then a lang story began for to tell,And said that it often was ca'd a Can-nell;But he thowt, by a Gutter, aw wad understand,That's it's cutten reet through a' the Gentlemen's land.Now that's caw'd a Gutter, &c.
Now, whether the sea's owre big at the West,Or scanty at Sheels—wey, ye mebby ken best;For he says they can team, aye, without any bother,A sup out o' yen, a' the way to the tother,By the great lang Gutter, &c.
Besides, there'll be bridges, and locks, and lairge keys,And shippies, to trade wiv eggs, butter, and cheese:And if they'll not sail weel, for want o' mair force,They'll myek ne mair fuss, but yoke in a strang horse,To pull through the Gutter, &c.
Ye ken there's a deal that's lang wanted a myel,When they start wi' the Gutter 'twill thicken their kyell:Let wages be high, or be just what they may,It will certainly help to drive hunger away,While they work at the Gutter, &c.
There's wor Tyne sammun tee 'ill not ken what's the matter,When they get a gobful o' briny saut watter;But if they should gan off, it's cum'd into my nob,For to myek some amends we mun catch a' the cod,That sweems down the Gutter, &c.
So come money and friends support Willy Armstrang,In vent'rin a thoosan ye canna get wrang;While we get wor breed by the sweet o' wor brow,Success to the Gutter! and prosper the Plough!The great lang Gutter, &c.
Tune—"Madam Fag's Gala."
How! marrows, aw'se tip you a sang,If ye'll nobbit give your attention,Aw've sarrow'd maw king seven years,And aw'm now luikin out for the pension.But when my adventures aw tell,An' should ye fin reason to doubt it,An' think it mair than aw deserve,Aw'se just rest contented without it.Rum ti idity, &c.Ye mun ken, when aw first went to drill,Maw gun aw flang owre maw heed,Fell'd the chep that stuid close in ahint me,He lay kickin and sprawlin for deed.But when wor manuvres we lairn'd,Wor Cornel o' huz grew se fond, man,He match'd us gyen four smashing targets,Close ower ayont Heslop's Pond, man.Rum ti idity, &c.We mairch'd off at nine i' the mornin,And at four we were not quite duin,While a bite never enter'd our thropples:Wi' hunger were fit to lie doon.But wor fellows they tuik sic an aim,Ye wad thought that they shot for a wager;And yen chep, the deil pay his hide,He varra nigh shot the Drum-Major.Rum ti idity,&c.Suin efter, 'twas on the Vairge Day,'Bout the time that wor Cornel was Mayor,Fra Gyetshead we fir'd ower their heeds,Myed the fokes in Newcassel to stare.To Newburn we then bore away,And embark'd just beside a great Dung-hole,Wi' biscuit and plenty o' yell,And wor Adjutant Clerk o' the Bung-hole.Rum ti idity, &c.Wor Triangular Lad lowp'd first ashore,When the folks ran like cows or mad bulls;Iv a jiffy they cam back to fight us,Wi' pokers and three-footed stuils.When they fand he was not Bonnyparty,Nor nyen ov his sowgers frae France,The music then started to play,And we for to caper and dance.Rum ti idity, &c.Sic wark as we had efter that,Wad tyek a lang day for to tell,How we fronted, an' flankt it, an' mairchtThrough the sowgers at Thropley Fell,At the Play-house we've shin'd mony a time,Wor scaups a' besmatter-d wi' flour;But that neet it wad myed the deil gurn,To see us a' powthert wi' stour.Rum ti idity, &c.Yen day we were form'd in a ring,And wor Cornel said this, 'at ne'er spoke ill,"Ye your sarvis, my lads, mun transferTiv a core caw'd the Durham Foot Local."So tiv Sunderland if ye'd but gan,And see us a' stand in a line,Ye'd swear that a few finer fellowsNe'er cam fra the Wear and the Tyne.Rum ti idity, &c.
How! marrows, aw'se tip you a sang,If ye'll nobbit give your attention,Aw've sarrow'd maw king seven years,And aw'm now luikin out for the pension.But when my adventures aw tell,An' should ye fin reason to doubt it,An' think it mair than aw deserve,Aw'se just rest contented without it.Rum ti idity, &c.
Ye mun ken, when aw first went to drill,Maw gun aw flang owre maw heed,Fell'd the chep that stuid close in ahint me,He lay kickin and sprawlin for deed.But when wor manuvres we lairn'd,Wor Cornel o' huz grew se fond, man,He match'd us gyen four smashing targets,Close ower ayont Heslop's Pond, man.Rum ti idity, &c.
We mairch'd off at nine i' the mornin,And at four we were not quite duin,While a bite never enter'd our thropples:Wi' hunger were fit to lie doon.But wor fellows they tuik sic an aim,Ye wad thought that they shot for a wager;And yen chep, the deil pay his hide,He varra nigh shot the Drum-Major.Rum ti idity,&c.
Suin efter, 'twas on the Vairge Day,'Bout the time that wor Cornel was Mayor,Fra Gyetshead we fir'd ower their heeds,Myed the fokes in Newcassel to stare.To Newburn we then bore away,And embark'd just beside a great Dung-hole,Wi' biscuit and plenty o' yell,And wor Adjutant Clerk o' the Bung-hole.Rum ti idity, &c.
Wor Triangular Lad lowp'd first ashore,When the folks ran like cows or mad bulls;Iv a jiffy they cam back to fight us,Wi' pokers and three-footed stuils.When they fand he was not Bonnyparty,Nor nyen ov his sowgers frae France,The music then started to play,And we for to caper and dance.Rum ti idity, &c.
Sic wark as we had efter that,Wad tyek a lang day for to tell,How we fronted, an' flankt it, an' mairchtThrough the sowgers at Thropley Fell,At the Play-house we've shin'd mony a time,Wor scaups a' besmatter-d wi' flour;But that neet it wad myed the deil gurn,To see us a' powthert wi' stour.Rum ti idity, &c.
Yen day we were form'd in a ring,And wor Cornel said this, 'at ne'er spoke ill,"Ye your sarvis, my lads, mun transferTiv a core caw'd the Durham Foot Local."So tiv Sunderland if ye'd but gan,And see us a' stand in a line,Ye'd swear that a few finer fellowsNe'er cam fra the Wear and the Tyne.Rum ti idity, &c.
Or, The Pitman turned Critic.
As Jemmy the brakesman and meWas taukin 'bout sentries and drill,We saw, clagg'd agyen a yek tree,A fower-square little hand-bill.Says Jemmy, Now halt tiv aw read her;When up cam wor canny au'd Sairgan:Says he, Ye mun come to the Teapot,On Friday, and get yor dischairge, man.Tol de rol, &c.We dress'd worsels smart, cam to toon,Mister Government paid us wor brass:Then we swagger'd off to the Hauf Meun,To rozzel wor nobs wiv a glass.We sang, smok'd, and fuddled away,And cut mony a wonderful caper;Says aw, Smash! howay to the Play,Or, what some folks ca' a Theater.Tol de rol, &c.We ran, and seun fand a good plyace,Aye, before they'd weel hoisted their leets;When a lyedy, wi' gauze ower her fyece,Cam an' tummel'd ower twe o' the seats.Aw hardly kend what for to say;But says aw, Div ye fin owse the warse?Says her neybeur, Pop Folly's the Play,And Maskamagrady's the Farce.Tol de rol, &c.The Players they cam on iv dozens,Wiv fine dusty buits without spurs;And they tauk'd about mothers and cousins,So did Jemmy and me about wors.We had plenty o' fiddlin and fleutin,Till the bugles began for to blaw;Then aw thowt aw heerd wor Major shootin,Fa' in, my lads! stand in a raw!Tol de rol, &c.We then see'd a little smart chap,Went lowpin and skippin aboot;Says aw, Smash! thou is up to trap!For he let the fokes byeth in and out.There was Fawstaff, a fat luikin fellow,Wiv a Miss in each airm, being drunkey;Then a black Lyedy, wiv a numbrella,A fiddler, a bear, and a monkey.Tol de rol, &c.Next cam on a swaggerin blade,He's humpt o' byeth shouthers an' legs;A blackymoor, painter by trade,And o' dancing was myekin his brags:When a collier cam on, quick as thowt,Maw sarties! but he gat a pauler;Says he, Smash! aw'll dance thou for owt;Then says aw, Five to fower on Kit Swaller!Tol de rol, &c.He danc'd the Keel Row to sic tune,His marrow declar'd he was bet:Some yell ower Kit's shouthers was slung,So they byeth had their thropples weel wet.A lyem sowger cam on wiv twee sticks,Then a bussy-tail'd pinkey wee Frenchman;Next a chep, wiv some young lunaticks,Was wanting the mad-house at Bensham.Tol de rol, &c.There was Punch fed his bairn wiv a ladle,And ga'd some kirn milk for to lyep;Then he thumpt it till he wasn't yebbel,Because the poor thing cuddent gyep.Some were shootin shoe-ties iv a street;Lang Pat, wiv his last dyin speeches,Wagg'd hands wiv a lass, that, yen neet,Tuik seven-pence out o' maw breeches.Tol de rol, &c.Then a gentleman's housey tuik feyre,As the watchman caw'd 'Past ten o'clock!'The manny fell into the meyre,And the wife ran away iv her smock.The Skipper that saddled the cow,And rid seven miles for the howdy,Was dancing wiv Jenny Bawloo,That scadded her gob wiv a crowdy.Tol de rol, &c.Then a chep, wiv a show on his back,Cam and show'd us fine pictures, se funny;He whupt it a' off in a crack,Because they wad gether ne money.To end with, there cam a Balloon,But some gav it's puddings a slit, man;For, afore it gat up to the meun,It emptied itsel i' the pit, man.Tol de rol, &c.
As Jemmy the brakesman and meWas taukin 'bout sentries and drill,We saw, clagg'd agyen a yek tree,A fower-square little hand-bill.Says Jemmy, Now halt tiv aw read her;When up cam wor canny au'd Sairgan:Says he, Ye mun come to the Teapot,On Friday, and get yor dischairge, man.Tol de rol, &c.
We dress'd worsels smart, cam to toon,Mister Government paid us wor brass:Then we swagger'd off to the Hauf Meun,To rozzel wor nobs wiv a glass.We sang, smok'd, and fuddled away,And cut mony a wonderful caper;Says aw, Smash! howay to the Play,Or, what some folks ca' a Theater.Tol de rol, &c.
We ran, and seun fand a good plyace,Aye, before they'd weel hoisted their leets;When a lyedy, wi' gauze ower her fyece,Cam an' tummel'd ower twe o' the seats.Aw hardly kend what for to say;But says aw, Div ye fin owse the warse?Says her neybeur, Pop Folly's the Play,And Maskamagrady's the Farce.Tol de rol, &c.
The Players they cam on iv dozens,Wiv fine dusty buits without spurs;And they tauk'd about mothers and cousins,So did Jemmy and me about wors.We had plenty o' fiddlin and fleutin,Till the bugles began for to blaw;Then aw thowt aw heerd wor Major shootin,Fa' in, my lads! stand in a raw!Tol de rol, &c.
We then see'd a little smart chap,Went lowpin and skippin aboot;Says aw, Smash! thou is up to trap!For he let the fokes byeth in and out.There was Fawstaff, a fat luikin fellow,Wiv a Miss in each airm, being drunkey;Then a black Lyedy, wiv a numbrella,A fiddler, a bear, and a monkey.Tol de rol, &c.
Next cam on a swaggerin blade,He's humpt o' byeth shouthers an' legs;A blackymoor, painter by trade,And o' dancing was myekin his brags:When a collier cam on, quick as thowt,Maw sarties! but he gat a pauler;Says he, Smash! aw'll dance thou for owt;Then says aw, Five to fower on Kit Swaller!Tol de rol, &c.
He danc'd the Keel Row to sic tune,His marrow declar'd he was bet:Some yell ower Kit's shouthers was slung,So they byeth had their thropples weel wet.A lyem sowger cam on wiv twee sticks,Then a bussy-tail'd pinkey wee Frenchman;Next a chep, wiv some young lunaticks,Was wanting the mad-house at Bensham.Tol de rol, &c.
There was Punch fed his bairn wiv a ladle,And ga'd some kirn milk for to lyep;Then he thumpt it till he wasn't yebbel,Because the poor thing cuddent gyep.Some were shootin shoe-ties iv a street;Lang Pat, wiv his last dyin speeches,Wagg'd hands wiv a lass, that, yen neet,Tuik seven-pence out o' maw breeches.Tol de rol, &c.
Then a gentleman's housey tuik feyre,As the watchman caw'd 'Past ten o'clock!'The manny fell into the meyre,And the wife ran away iv her smock.The Skipper that saddled the cow,And rid seven miles for the howdy,Was dancing wiv Jenny Bawloo,That scadded her gob wiv a crowdy.Tol de rol, &c.
Then a chep, wiv a show on his back,Cam and show'd us fine pictures, se funny;He whupt it a' off in a crack,Because they wad gether ne money.To end with, there cam a Balloon,But some gav it's puddings a slit, man;For, afore it gat up to the meun,It emptied itsel i' the pit, man.Tol de rol, &c.
At Cullercoats, near to the sea,Lives one I often think upon;Bewitching is the lovely e'eOf bonny Nancy Wilkinson.By Tyne, or Blyth, or Coquet clear,No swain did ever blink uponA charmer equal to my dear,My handsome Nancy Wilkinson.Sweet cherry cheeks, a lofty brow,Bright hair, that waves in links uponA neck, white as the purest snow,Has comely Nancy Wilkinson.By Tyne, or Blyth,&c.Her virtues, like her beauty, rare;But terms I ne'er can think upon,Fit to panegyrise my fair,My constant Nancy Wilkinson.By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.For her rich ladies I'd refuse,With all their shining tinsels on;None else can wake my slumbering Muse,But lovely Nancy Wilkinson.By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.Aurora, from the Eastern sky,Her robes the glowing tints upon,Is not so viewly to mine eyeAs modest Nancy Wilkinson.By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.Let sordid misers count their wealth,And guineas guineas clink upon;All I request of Heav'n is health,And dear, dear Nancy Wilkinson.By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.
At Cullercoats, near to the sea,Lives one I often think upon;Bewitching is the lovely e'eOf bonny Nancy Wilkinson.
By Tyne, or Blyth, or Coquet clear,No swain did ever blink uponA charmer equal to my dear,My handsome Nancy Wilkinson.
Sweet cherry cheeks, a lofty brow,Bright hair, that waves in links uponA neck, white as the purest snow,Has comely Nancy Wilkinson.By Tyne, or Blyth,&c.
Her virtues, like her beauty, rare;But terms I ne'er can think upon,Fit to panegyrise my fair,My constant Nancy Wilkinson.By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.
For her rich ladies I'd refuse,With all their shining tinsels on;None else can wake my slumbering Muse,But lovely Nancy Wilkinson.By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.
Aurora, from the Eastern sky,Her robes the glowing tints upon,Is not so viewly to mine eyeAs modest Nancy Wilkinson.By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.
Let sordid misers count their wealth,And guineas guineas clink upon;All I request of Heav'n is health,And dear, dear Nancy Wilkinson.By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.
[Messrs. Green ascended in their grand Coronation Balloon, from the Nuns' Field, in Newcastle, four times: the first time, on Wednesday, May 11; second time, on Whit-Monday, May 23; third time, on Monday, May 30; and the fourth time, on Race-Thursday, July 14, 1825.]
Tune—"Barbara Bell."
Now just come and listen a while till aw tell, man,Of a wonderful seet t'other day aw did see:As aw was gaun trudgen alang by mysel, man,Aw met wi' wor skipper, aye just on the Key.O skipper, says aw, mun, wye where are ye gannen?Says he, come wi' me, for aw's gaun up the toon;Now just come away, for we munnet stand blabbin,Or we'll be ower lang for to see the Balloon.Right fal de,&c.The balloon, man, says aw, wey aw never heard tell on't,What kind o' thing is it? now skipper tell me:Says he, It's a thing that gans up by the sel' on't,And if ye'll gan to the Nuns' Gate, man, ye'll see.So to the Nuns' Gate then we went in a hurry,And when we gat there, man, the folks stood in crowds;And aw heerd a chep say, he wad be very sorry,If it went to the meun, reet clean thro' the clouds.Right fal de, &c.We stared and luik'd round us, but nought could we see, man,Till a thing it went up as they fir'd a gun:Cried the skipper, Aw warnd that's the little Pee-dee, man,Gyen to tell folks above 'twill be there varry suen.Then a' iv a sudden it cam ower the house-tops, man,It was like a hay-stack, and luikt just as big;Wiv a boat at the tail on't, all tied tid wi' ropes, man,Begox! it was just like wor awd Sandgate gig.Right fal de, &c.And there was two cheps that sat in the inside, man,Wi' twee little things they kept poweyin her roun';Just like wor skipper when we've a bad tide, man:Aw warnd they were fear'd that the thing wad come down;And still the twee cheps kept poweyin her reet man,For upwards she went, aye clean ower the toon;They powey'd till they powey'd her reet out o' seet, man,That was a' that we saw o' this grand air balloon.Right fal de, &c.The skipper cam to me, tuik haud o' my hand, man,Says, What do ye think o' this seet that's been given?Says aw, Aw can't tell, but it's a' very grand, man;Aw wish the cheps byeth safely landed in heaven.'Twad be a good plan to tyek's up when we're deed, man;For which way we get there 'twill be a' the syem:And then for wor Priests we'd stand little need, man:So me and wor skipper we went wor ways hyem.Right fal de, &c.
Now just come and listen a while till aw tell, man,Of a wonderful seet t'other day aw did see:As aw was gaun trudgen alang by mysel, man,Aw met wi' wor skipper, aye just on the Key.O skipper, says aw, mun, wye where are ye gannen?Says he, come wi' me, for aw's gaun up the toon;Now just come away, for we munnet stand blabbin,Or we'll be ower lang for to see the Balloon.Right fal de,&c.
The balloon, man, says aw, wey aw never heard tell on't,What kind o' thing is it? now skipper tell me:Says he, It's a thing that gans up by the sel' on't,And if ye'll gan to the Nuns' Gate, man, ye'll see.So to the Nuns' Gate then we went in a hurry,And when we gat there, man, the folks stood in crowds;And aw heerd a chep say, he wad be very sorry,If it went to the meun, reet clean thro' the clouds.Right fal de, &c.
We stared and luik'd round us, but nought could we see, man,Till a thing it went up as they fir'd a gun:Cried the skipper, Aw warnd that's the little Pee-dee, man,Gyen to tell folks above 'twill be there varry suen.Then a' iv a sudden it cam ower the house-tops, man,It was like a hay-stack, and luikt just as big;Wiv a boat at the tail on't, all tied tid wi' ropes, man,Begox! it was just like wor awd Sandgate gig.Right fal de, &c.
And there was two cheps that sat in the inside, man,Wi' twee little things they kept poweyin her roun';Just like wor skipper when we've a bad tide, man:Aw warnd they were fear'd that the thing wad come down;And still the twee cheps kept poweyin her reet man,For upwards she went, aye clean ower the toon;They powey'd till they powey'd her reet out o' seet, man,That was a' that we saw o' this grand air balloon.Right fal de, &c.
The skipper cam to me, tuik haud o' my hand, man,Says, What do ye think o' this seet that's been given?Says aw, Aw can't tell, but it's a' very grand, man;Aw wish the cheps byeth safely landed in heaven.'Twad be a good plan to tyek's up when we're deed, man;For which way we get there 'twill be a' the syem:And then for wor Priests we'd stand little need, man:So me and wor skipper we went wor ways hyem.Right fal de, &c.
TO MR. MAYOR.
Alack! and well-a-day!Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor;We are all to grief a prey,Mr. Mayor:They are pullingNewgatedown,That structure of renown,Which so long hath graced our town,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.Antiquarians think't a scandal,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor;It would shock a Goth or Vandal,They declare:What! destroy the finestLionThat ever man set eye on!'Tis a deed all must cry fie on,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.St. Andrew's Parishioners,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,Loud blame the Gaol-Commissioners,Mr. Mayor;To pull down a pile so splendid,Shews their powers are too extended,AndThe Actmust be amended,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.IfBlackett-Streetthey'd level,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,Or withBond-Street[3]play the devil,Who would care?But onNewgate'smassive walls,When Destruction's hammer falls,For our sympathy it calls,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.'Tis a Pile of ancient standing,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,Deep reverence commanding,Mr. Mayor:Men ofNoteandEstimation,In their course ofElevation,Have in it held a station,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.'Tis a first-rate kind of College,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,Where is taught much useful knowledge,Mr. Mayor:When our fortunes "gang aglee,"If worthy Mr. Gee[4]Does but on us turn his key,All's soon well, Mr. Mayor.In beauty, nought can match it,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor:Should you think wethrow the Hatchet,Mr. Mayor:John A——n, with ease,(In purestPortugueze)Will convince you, if you please,To consult him, Mr. Mayor.He'll prove t'ye, in a trice,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,'Tis a pearl of great price,Mr. Mayor:For of ancient wood or stone,The value—few or noneCan better tell than John,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.Of this Edifice bereft,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,To the Neighbourhood what's left?Mr. Mayor:TheNuns' Gate, it is true,Still rises to our view,But that Modern Babel, fewMuch admire, Mr. Mayor.True, a building 'tis,unique,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,A charmingfancy freak,Mr. Mayor:But candour doth impel us,To own that Strangers tell us,TheLodgeof ourOdd Fellows,They suppos'd it, Mr. Mayor.Still, ifNewgate'sdoom'd to go,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,To theCarliol Croft—heigh-ho!Mr. Mayor,As sure as you're alive,(And long, sir, may you thrive,)The shock we'll ne'er survive,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.Then pity our condition,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,And stop its demolition,Mr. Mayor;The Commissioners restrain,From causing us such pain,And we'll pay and ne'er complain,TheGaol-Cess, Mr. Mayor.
Alack! and well-a-day!Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor;We are all to grief a prey,Mr. Mayor:They are pullingNewgatedown,That structure of renown,Which so long hath graced our town,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
Antiquarians think't a scandal,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor;It would shock a Goth or Vandal,They declare:What! destroy the finestLionThat ever man set eye on!'Tis a deed all must cry fie on,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
St. Andrew's Parishioners,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,Loud blame the Gaol-Commissioners,Mr. Mayor;To pull down a pile so splendid,Shews their powers are too extended,AndThe Actmust be amended,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
IfBlackett-Streetthey'd level,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,Or withBond-Street[3]play the devil,Who would care?But onNewgate'smassive walls,When Destruction's hammer falls,For our sympathy it calls,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
'Tis a Pile of ancient standing,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,Deep reverence commanding,Mr. Mayor:Men ofNoteandEstimation,In their course ofElevation,Have in it held a station,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
'Tis a first-rate kind of College,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,Where is taught much useful knowledge,Mr. Mayor:When our fortunes "gang aglee,"If worthy Mr. Gee[4]Does but on us turn his key,All's soon well, Mr. Mayor.
In beauty, nought can match it,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor:Should you think wethrow the Hatchet,Mr. Mayor:John A——n, with ease,(In purestPortugueze)Will convince you, if you please,To consult him, Mr. Mayor.
He'll prove t'ye, in a trice,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,'Tis a pearl of great price,Mr. Mayor:For of ancient wood or stone,The value—few or noneCan better tell than John,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
Of this Edifice bereft,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,To the Neighbourhood what's left?Mr. Mayor:TheNuns' Gate, it is true,Still rises to our view,But that Modern Babel, fewMuch admire, Mr. Mayor.
True, a building 'tis,unique,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,A charmingfancy freak,Mr. Mayor:But candour doth impel us,To own that Strangers tell us,TheLodgeof ourOdd Fellows,They suppos'd it, Mr. Mayor.
Still, ifNewgate'sdoom'd to go,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,To theCarliol Croft—heigh-ho!Mr. Mayor,As sure as you're alive,(And long, sir, may you thrive,)The shock we'll ne'er survive,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
Then pity our condition,Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,And stop its demolition,Mr. Mayor;The Commissioners restrain,From causing us such pain,And we'll pay and ne'er complain,TheGaol-Cess, Mr. Mayor.