While strolling down sweet Sandgate-street,A man o' war's blade I chanc'd to meet;To the sign of the Ship I haul'd him in,To drink a good glass till the tide came in.Till the tide came in, &c.I took in tow young Squinting Meg,Who well in the dance could shake her leg;My friend haul'd Oyster Mally in,And we jigg'd them about till the tide came in.Till the tide came in, &c.We bows'd away till the break of day,Then ask'd what shot we had to pay?You've drank, said the host, nine pints of gin;So we paid him his due—now the tide was in.Now the tide was in, &c.
While strolling down sweet Sandgate-street,A man o' war's blade I chanc'd to meet;To the sign of the Ship I haul'd him in,To drink a good glass till the tide came in.Till the tide came in, &c.
I took in tow young Squinting Meg,Who well in the dance could shake her leg;My friend haul'd Oyster Mally in,And we jigg'd them about till the tide came in.Till the tide came in, &c.
We bows'd away till the break of day,Then ask'd what shot we had to pay?You've drank, said the host, nine pints of gin;So we paid him his due—now the tide was in.Now the tide was in, &c.
They've prest my dear Johnny,Sae sprightly and bonny—Alack! I shall ne'er mair de weel, O;The kidnapping squadLaid hold of my ladAs he was unmooring the keel, O.O my sweet laddie,My canny keel laddie,Sae handsome, sae canty, and free, O;Had he staid on the Tyne,Ere now he'd been mine,But, oh! he's far ower the sea, O.Should he fall by commotion,Or sink in the ocean,(May sic tidings ne'er come to the Kee, O!)I could ne'er mair be glad,For the loss of my ladWad break my poor heart, and I'd dee, O.O my sweet laddie,&c.But should my dear tarCome safe from the war,What heart-bounding joy wad I feel, O!To the Church we wad flee,And married be,And again he should row in his keel, O.O my sweet laddie!My canny keel laddie!Sae handsome, sae canty, and free, O!Though far frae the Tyne,I still hope he'll be mine,And live happy as onie can be, O.
They've prest my dear Johnny,Sae sprightly and bonny—Alack! I shall ne'er mair de weel, O;The kidnapping squadLaid hold of my ladAs he was unmooring the keel, O.
O my sweet laddie,My canny keel laddie,Sae handsome, sae canty, and free, O;Had he staid on the Tyne,Ere now he'd been mine,But, oh! he's far ower the sea, O.
Should he fall by commotion,Or sink in the ocean,(May sic tidings ne'er come to the Kee, O!)I could ne'er mair be glad,For the loss of my ladWad break my poor heart, and I'd dee, O.O my sweet laddie,&c.
But should my dear tarCome safe from the war,What heart-bounding joy wad I feel, O!To the Church we wad flee,And married be,And again he should row in his keel, O.
O my sweet laddie!My canny keel laddie!Sae handsome, sae canty, and free, O!Though far frae the Tyne,I still hope he'll be mine,And live happy as onie can be, O.
As Skipper Carr and Markie Dunn,Were gannin, drunk, through Sandgate—A dog bit Mark and off did run,But sair the poor sowl fand it;The Skipper in a voice se rough—Aw warn'd, says he, its mad eneugh—Howay and get some doctor's stuff,For fear of Hydrophobie!Fal de ral, &c.The doctor dress'd the wound se wide,And left poor Markie smartin—Then, for a joke, tells Carr, aside,Mark wad gan mad for sartin:—Noo, Skipper, mind, when in yor keel,Be sure that ye watch Markie weel,If he begins to bark and squeel,Depend it's Hydrophobie!Fal de ral, &c.For Shields, next day, they sail'd wi' coal,And teuk on board a Quaker,Who wish'd to go as far's Dent's Hole,To see a friend call'd Baker:The Skipper whisper'd in his ear—Wor Markie will gan mad, aw fear!He'll bite us a'—as sure's yor here,We'll get the Hydrophobie!Fal de ral, &c.Said Quack—I hope this can't be true,Nay, friend, thou art mistaken;We must not fear what man can do—Yea! I will stand unshaken!The Skipper, to complete the farce,Said, Maister Quaker, what's far warse,A b——g dog bit Markie's a—e,And browt on Hydrophobie!Fal de ral, &c.Now Markie overheard their talk,Thinks he, aw'll try the Quaker—Makes P. D. to the huddock walk,Of fun to be partaker:To howl an' bark he wasn't slack,The Quaker ow'rboard in a crack,With the fat Skipper on his back,For fear of Hydrophobie!Fal de ral, &c.How P. D. laugh'd to see the two,Who to be sav'd, were striving—Mark haul'd them out wi' much ado,And call'd them culls for diving:—The Quaker suen was put on shore,For he was frighten'd verry sore—The Skipper promis'd never moreTo mention Hydrophobie!Fal de ral, &c.
As Skipper Carr and Markie Dunn,Were gannin, drunk, through Sandgate—A dog bit Mark and off did run,But sair the poor sowl fand it;The Skipper in a voice se rough—Aw warn'd, says he, its mad eneugh—Howay and get some doctor's stuff,For fear of Hydrophobie!Fal de ral, &c.
The doctor dress'd the wound se wide,And left poor Markie smartin—Then, for a joke, tells Carr, aside,Mark wad gan mad for sartin:—Noo, Skipper, mind, when in yor keel,Be sure that ye watch Markie weel,If he begins to bark and squeel,Depend it's Hydrophobie!Fal de ral, &c.
For Shields, next day, they sail'd wi' coal,And teuk on board a Quaker,Who wish'd to go as far's Dent's Hole,To see a friend call'd Baker:The Skipper whisper'd in his ear—Wor Markie will gan mad, aw fear!He'll bite us a'—as sure's yor here,We'll get the Hydrophobie!Fal de ral, &c.
Said Quack—I hope this can't be true,Nay, friend, thou art mistaken;We must not fear what man can do—Yea! I will stand unshaken!The Skipper, to complete the farce,Said, Maister Quaker, what's far warse,A b——g dog bit Markie's a—e,And browt on Hydrophobie!Fal de ral, &c.
Now Markie overheard their talk,Thinks he, aw'll try the Quaker—Makes P. D. to the huddock walk,Of fun to be partaker:To howl an' bark he wasn't slack,The Quaker ow'rboard in a crack,With the fat Skipper on his back,For fear of Hydrophobie!Fal de ral, &c.
How P. D. laugh'd to see the two,Who to be sav'd, were striving—Mark haul'd them out wi' much ado,And call'd them culls for diving:—The Quaker suen was put on shore,For he was frighten'd verry sore—The Skipper promis'd never moreTo mention Hydrophobie!Fal de ral, &c.
Not lang since some keelmen were gaun doon to Sheels,When a hoop round some froth cam alangside their keel;The Skipper saw'd first, and he gov a greet shout,How, b——r, man, Dick, here's a grunstan afloat,Derry down,&c.Dick leuk'd, and he thowt that the Skipper was reet,So they'd hev her ashore, and then sell her that neet:Then he jump'd on to fetch her—my eyes what a splatter!Ne grunstan was there, for he fand it was water.Derry down, &c.The Skipper astonish'd, quite struck wi' surprise,He roar'd out to Dickey when he saw him rise—How, smash, marrow—Dick, ho!—What is thou about?Come here, mun, and let's hae the grunstan tyen out.Derry down, &c.A grunstan! says Dick—wey, ye slavering cull,Wi' water maw belly and pockets are full;By the gowkey, aw'll sweer that ye're drunk, daft, or doating—Its nee grunstan at a', but sum awd iron floating.Derry down, &c.
Not lang since some keelmen were gaun doon to Sheels,When a hoop round some froth cam alangside their keel;The Skipper saw'd first, and he gov a greet shout,How, b——r, man, Dick, here's a grunstan afloat,Derry down,&c.
Dick leuk'd, and he thowt that the Skipper was reet,So they'd hev her ashore, and then sell her that neet:Then he jump'd on to fetch her—my eyes what a splatter!Ne grunstan was there, for he fand it was water.Derry down, &c.
The Skipper astonish'd, quite struck wi' surprise,He roar'd out to Dickey when he saw him rise—How, smash, marrow—Dick, ho!—What is thou about?Come here, mun, and let's hae the grunstan tyen out.Derry down, &c.
A grunstan! says Dick—wey, ye slavering cull,Wi' water maw belly and pockets are full;By the gowkey, aw'll sweer that ye're drunk, daft, or doating—Its nee grunstan at a', but sum awd iron floating.Derry down, &c.
Or, Hackney Coach Customers.
Since the Hackneys began in Newcastle to run,There's some tricks been play'd off which has myed lots o' fun:For poor folks can ride now, that ne'er rode before,The expense is se canny, its suen gettin ower.Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.Mang the rest o' the jokes was a lad frae the Fell,Where he lives wiv his feyther, his nyem's Geordy Bell;For hewin there's nyen can touch Geordy for skill,When he comes to Newcassel he gets a good gill.Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.One day being cramm'd wi' fat flesh and strang beer,Left some friends at the Cock, and away he did steer,Wiv his hat on three hairs, through Wheat Market did stride,When a Coachman cam up, and said—Sir, will ye ride?Gee, ho, Dobbin,&c.Wey, smash noo—whe's thou, man?—How, what dis thou mean?—I drive the best coach, sir, that ever was seen.—To ride iv a coach! Smash, says Geordy, aw's willin'—Aw'll ride i' yor coach though it cost me ten shillin'!So Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.Then into the coach Geordy claver'd wi' speed,And out at the window he popp'd his greet heed:—Pray, where shall I drive, sir—please give me the name?Drive us a' the toon ower, man, an' then drive us hyem!Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.Then up and doon street how they rattled alang,Tiv a chep wi' the news tiv aud Geordy did bang,'Bout his son in the coach, and for truth, did relate,He was owther turn'd Mayor, or the great Magistrate!Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.Aud Geordy did caper till myestly deun ower,When Coachee, suen after, drove up to his door—Young Geordy stept out, caus'd their hopes suen to stagger,Said he'd paid for a ride just to cut a bit swagger.Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.To ride frae Newcassel mun cost ye some brass:Od smash, now, says Geordy, thou talks like an ass!For half-a-crown piece thou may ride to the Fell—An' for eighteen-pence mair, smash, they'll drive ye to H—ll!Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.Aud Geordy then thowt there was comfort in store,For contrivance the coaches nyen could come before:Poor men that are tied to bad wives needn't stick—Just tip Coachee the brass an' they're off tiv Au'd Nick.Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.
Since the Hackneys began in Newcastle to run,There's some tricks been play'd off which has myed lots o' fun:For poor folks can ride now, that ne'er rode before,The expense is se canny, its suen gettin ower.Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.
Mang the rest o' the jokes was a lad frae the Fell,Where he lives wiv his feyther, his nyem's Geordy Bell;For hewin there's nyen can touch Geordy for skill,When he comes to Newcassel he gets a good gill.Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.
One day being cramm'd wi' fat flesh and strang beer,Left some friends at the Cock, and away he did steer,Wiv his hat on three hairs, through Wheat Market did stride,When a Coachman cam up, and said—Sir, will ye ride?Gee, ho, Dobbin,&c.
Wey, smash noo—whe's thou, man?—How, what dis thou mean?—I drive the best coach, sir, that ever was seen.—To ride iv a coach! Smash, says Geordy, aw's willin'—Aw'll ride i' yor coach though it cost me ten shillin'!So Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.
Then into the coach Geordy claver'd wi' speed,And out at the window he popp'd his greet heed:—Pray, where shall I drive, sir—please give me the name?Drive us a' the toon ower, man, an' then drive us hyem!Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.
Then up and doon street how they rattled alang,Tiv a chep wi' the news tiv aud Geordy did bang,'Bout his son in the coach, and for truth, did relate,He was owther turn'd Mayor, or the great Magistrate!Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.
Aud Geordy did caper till myestly deun ower,When Coachee, suen after, drove up to his door—Young Geordy stept out, caus'd their hopes suen to stagger,Said he'd paid for a ride just to cut a bit swagger.Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.
To ride frae Newcassel mun cost ye some brass:Od smash, now, says Geordy, thou talks like an ass!For half-a-crown piece thou may ride to the Fell—An' for eighteen-pence mair, smash, they'll drive ye to H—ll!Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.
Aud Geordy then thowt there was comfort in store,For contrivance the coaches nyen could come before:Poor men that are tied to bad wives needn't stick—Just tip Coachee the brass an' they're off tiv Au'd Nick.Gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.
For February, 1816.
Ah! what's yor news the day, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor?Ah! what's yor news the day, Mr. Mayor?The folks of Sheels, they say,Want wor Custom House away,And ye canna say them nay, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,And ye canna say them nay, Mr. Mayor.But dinna let it gan, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,Or, ye'll ruin us tiv a man, Mr. Mayor:They say a Branch 'ill dee,But next they'll tyek the Tree,And smash wor canny Kee, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.And smash, &c.For ah! they're greedy dogs, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,They'd grub us up like hogs, Mr. Mayor:If the Custom-house they touch,They wad na scruple muchFor to bolt wor very Hutch, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.For to bolt, &c.Before it be ower lang, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,Then ca' up a' yor gang, Mr. Mayor:Yor Corporation chiels,They say they're deep as Deils,And they hate the folk of Sheels, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,And they hate, &c.Ah! get wor Kee-side Sparks, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,Wor Fitters and their Clerks, Mr. Mayor,To help to bar this stroke—For, faicks, they are the folkThat canna bide the joke, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.That canna bide, &c.And egg wor men of news, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,Wor Mercury and Hues, Mr. Mayor,Wi' Solomon the Wise,Their cause to stigmatize,And trump wors to the skies, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.And trump wors, &c.How wad we grieve to see, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,The grass grow on the Kee, Mr. Mayor?So get the weighty prayersOf the porters in the chares,And the wives that sell the wares, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.And the wives, &c.A Butcher's off frae Sheels, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,Wi' the Deevil at his heels, Mr. Mayor:Faicks, all the way to Lunnin,Just like a strang tide runnin,And ah he's deev'lish cunnin, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.And ah he's, &c.But Nat's as deep as he, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.Send him to Lunnin tee, Mr. Mayor,He has wit, we may suppose,Frev his winkers tiv his toes,Since the Major pull'd his nose, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.Since the Major, &c.And send amang the gang, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,Arm—what d'ye ca' him—STRANG, Mr. Mayor,Ah! send him, if ye please,The Treasury to teaze,He'll tell them heaps o' lees, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.He'll tell them, &c.If the Sheels folk get the day, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,Ah what will Eldon say, Mr. Mayor?If he has time to spare,He'll surely blast their prayer,For the luve of his calf Chare, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.For the luve, &c.Then just dee a' ye can, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,And follow up the plan, Mr. Mayor,Else, faicks, ye'll get a spurIn your Corporation fur,And ye'll plant at Shields worBurr!!! Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,And ye'll plant at Sheels worBurr!!! Mr. Mayor.
Ah! what's yor news the day, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor?Ah! what's yor news the day, Mr. Mayor?The folks of Sheels, they say,Want wor Custom House away,And ye canna say them nay, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,And ye canna say them nay, Mr. Mayor.
But dinna let it gan, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,Or, ye'll ruin us tiv a man, Mr. Mayor:They say a Branch 'ill dee,But next they'll tyek the Tree,And smash wor canny Kee, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.And smash, &c.
For ah! they're greedy dogs, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,They'd grub us up like hogs, Mr. Mayor:If the Custom-house they touch,They wad na scruple muchFor to bolt wor very Hutch, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.For to bolt, &c.
Before it be ower lang, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,Then ca' up a' yor gang, Mr. Mayor:Yor Corporation chiels,They say they're deep as Deils,And they hate the folk of Sheels, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,And they hate, &c.
Ah! get wor Kee-side Sparks, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,Wor Fitters and their Clerks, Mr. Mayor,To help to bar this stroke—For, faicks, they are the folkThat canna bide the joke, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.That canna bide, &c.
And egg wor men of news, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,Wor Mercury and Hues, Mr. Mayor,Wi' Solomon the Wise,Their cause to stigmatize,And trump wors to the skies, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.And trump wors, &c.
How wad we grieve to see, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,The grass grow on the Kee, Mr. Mayor?So get the weighty prayersOf the porters in the chares,And the wives that sell the wares, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.And the wives, &c.
A Butcher's off frae Sheels, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,Wi' the Deevil at his heels, Mr. Mayor:Faicks, all the way to Lunnin,Just like a strang tide runnin,And ah he's deev'lish cunnin, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.And ah he's, &c.
But Nat's as deep as he, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.Send him to Lunnin tee, Mr. Mayor,He has wit, we may suppose,Frev his winkers tiv his toes,Since the Major pull'd his nose, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.Since the Major, &c.
And send amang the gang, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,Arm—what d'ye ca' him—STRANG, Mr. Mayor,Ah! send him, if ye please,The Treasury to teaze,He'll tell them heaps o' lees, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.He'll tell them, &c.
If the Sheels folk get the day, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,Ah what will Eldon say, Mr. Mayor?If he has time to spare,He'll surely blast their prayer,For the luve of his calf Chare, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.For the luve, &c.
Then just dee a' ye can, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,And follow up the plan, Mr. Mayor,Else, faicks, ye'll get a spurIn your Corporation fur,And ye'll plant at Shields worBurr!!! Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,And ye'll plant at Sheels worBurr!!! Mr. Mayor.
Ah! what's to come on us a' now?(A Shields gowk was heard, grumbling, to say)We now find it far ower true,That Newcassel has getten the day:They'd only been gulling our folk,When they sent us down that fine letter;But aw think 'twas too much a joke,To tell us we'd getten the better.Rum ti iddity, &c.Was't this made our guns fire sae loud?Did our bells for this ring sae merry?For this our ships swagger'd sae proud?Faith, we've been in too big a hurry!But ourStar, they said, could de ought,And the Treasury quickly would gull—Our Butcher was clever, we thought;But aw think he's come hyem like a feul.Rum ti iddity, &c.Yet our plan we all thought was good;For we'd build them large cellars and kees;It likewise might be understood,Docks and warehouses tee, if they'd please.Then we try'd to set in full view,That the Revenue it would increase;Especially as we stood now,When we thought ourselves snugly at peace.Rum ti iddity, &c.But the Newcassel folk now, it seems,Had sent some deep jockies te Lunnin,And they suen upset all our schemes,Which we thought se clever and cunnin:ForBig-Wig, who mounts the Wool-sack,Said, That he plainly saw we were wrang,Since it had been prov'd in a crack,By theJockey, whoseArmthey callSTRANG.Rum ti iddity,&c.But what's warse than losing our Branch,Is being spoil'd in our grand speculation;For 'stead of our shining se staunch,We now meet wi' nought but vexation.Now certainly we must be wrang,The Barbers are swearing and raving,Our faces are all grown se lang,They'll double the price of our shaving!!!Rum ti iddity, &c.
Ah! what's to come on us a' now?(A Shields gowk was heard, grumbling, to say)We now find it far ower true,That Newcassel has getten the day:They'd only been gulling our folk,When they sent us down that fine letter;But aw think 'twas too much a joke,To tell us we'd getten the better.Rum ti iddity, &c.
Was't this made our guns fire sae loud?Did our bells for this ring sae merry?For this our ships swagger'd sae proud?Faith, we've been in too big a hurry!But ourStar, they said, could de ought,And the Treasury quickly would gull—Our Butcher was clever, we thought;But aw think he's come hyem like a feul.Rum ti iddity, &c.
Yet our plan we all thought was good;For we'd build them large cellars and kees;It likewise might be understood,Docks and warehouses tee, if they'd please.Then we try'd to set in full view,That the Revenue it would increase;Especially as we stood now,When we thought ourselves snugly at peace.Rum ti iddity, &c.
But the Newcassel folk now, it seems,Had sent some deep jockies te Lunnin,And they suen upset all our schemes,Which we thought se clever and cunnin:ForBig-Wig, who mounts the Wool-sack,Said, That he plainly saw we were wrang,Since it had been prov'd in a crack,By theJockey, whoseArmthey callSTRANG.Rum ti iddity,&c.
But what's warse than losing our Branch,Is being spoil'd in our grand speculation;For 'stead of our shining se staunch,We now meet wi' nought but vexation.Now certainly we must be wrang,The Barbers are swearing and raving,Our faces are all grown se lang,They'll double the price of our shaving!!!Rum ti iddity, &c.
Wor Green-stalls on Sandhill, se lang fam'd of yore,Where Greenwives display'd all their fresh shining store,Where tubs wi' tatoes their proud crests did rear,Cabbage, carrots, an' turnips wi' joy did appear.Wor time on the Sandhill wi' pleasure did glide,To display all wor wares and to scold was wor pride;Wor noise did the greet folks of Gotham engage:By the stalls of the Butchers we're now to be caged.But think not the Sandhill we'll tamely resign,By the L—d we will meet an' we'll kick up a shine!Wor voice we'll extend, and with noise rend the sky,When from the Sandhill we're compell'd to fly.With speed, haste assemble the first market-day,Wor forces we'll marshal in glorious array:A leader let's choose, a virago so bold,The word let her give, and we rarely will scold.From off the Sandhill ere our legions depart,We will vent all wor spleen, and ease each full heart,We will scold till no malice or rancour remain,Then march off wor forces—a large warlike train.A procession we'll form, wi' wor tubs and wor swills,And move with slaw steps frae the dear-lov'd Sandhill;And when the new station our forces obtain,Well take a good glass and well scorn to complain.
Wor Green-stalls on Sandhill, se lang fam'd of yore,Where Greenwives display'd all their fresh shining store,Where tubs wi' tatoes their proud crests did rear,Cabbage, carrots, an' turnips wi' joy did appear.
Wor time on the Sandhill wi' pleasure did glide,To display all wor wares and to scold was wor pride;Wor noise did the greet folks of Gotham engage:By the stalls of the Butchers we're now to be caged.
But think not the Sandhill we'll tamely resign,By the L—d we will meet an' we'll kick up a shine!Wor voice we'll extend, and with noise rend the sky,When from the Sandhill we're compell'd to fly.
With speed, haste assemble the first market-day,Wor forces we'll marshal in glorious array:A leader let's choose, a virago so bold,The word let her give, and we rarely will scold.
From off the Sandhill ere our legions depart,We will vent all wor spleen, and ease each full heart,We will scold till no malice or rancour remain,Then march off wor forces—a large warlike train.
A procession we'll form, wi' wor tubs and wor swills,And move with slaw steps frae the dear-lov'd Sandhill;And when the new station our forces obtain,Well take a good glass and well scorn to complain.
From the Women of the Vegetable Market, to the Mayor of Newcastle.
When away fra the Sandhill, sir, at first that we wur sent,It was wi' heavy hearts, ye ken, yur Honour, that we went;But now iv the New Market, sir, we're ev'ry ane admir'd,And if ye'll nobutcoverus, it's all that is desir'd!Afore your worship judges us, now make a littlepaws,And dinna gan to say that we complain without acaws;For that yur Honourcover'da' the country wives, yeknow,But huz, yur awn sweet townswomen, ye let neglected go.For shem, now hinny, Mr. Mayor, to gan & play yur rigs,An' cover a' the country girls that com to town wi' pigs;Wi' butter and wi' eggs too—they are se dousely made;Ah, you'vecover'devery ane of them, sir—iv a slated shade.Now dinna let folks say that we've ne reet te complain,When they are a' se snugly plac'd, and we are i' the rain:Then without ne mair fash, sir, now do yur Honour say,That ye will nobutcoverus—and we will every pray.
When away fra the Sandhill, sir, at first that we wur sent,It was wi' heavy hearts, ye ken, yur Honour, that we went;But now iv the New Market, sir, we're ev'ry ane admir'd,And if ye'll nobutcoverus, it's all that is desir'd!
Afore your worship judges us, now make a littlepaws,And dinna gan to say that we complain without acaws;For that yur Honourcover'da' the country wives, yeknow,But huz, yur awn sweet townswomen, ye let neglected go.
For shem, now hinny, Mr. Mayor, to gan & play yur rigs,An' cover a' the country girls that com to town wi' pigs;Wi' butter and wi' eggs too—they are se dousely made;Ah, you'vecover'devery ane of them, sir—iv a slated shade.
Now dinna let folks say that we've ne reet te complain,When they are a' se snugly plac'd, and we are i' the rain:Then without ne mair fash, sir, now do yur Honour say,That ye will nobutcoverus—and we will every pray.
On their Removal from the Sandhill to the New Fish Market, on the 2d of January, 1826.
The merry day hez getten past,And we are aw myest broken hearted:Ye've surely deun for us at last—Frae Sandhill, noo, ye hev us parted.Oh! hinnies, Corporation!A! marcy, Corporation!Ye hev deun a shemful deed,To force us frae wor canny station.It's nee use being iv a rage,For a' wor pride noo fairly sunk is—Ye've cramm'd us in a Dandy Cage,Like yellow-yowlies, bears, and monkies:O hinnies,&c.The cau'd East wind blaws i' wor teeth—With iron bars we are surrounded;It's better far to suffer deeth,Than thus to hev wor feelings wounded.O hinnies, &c.Wor haddocks, turbot, cod, and ling,Are lost tiv a' wor friends' inspection;Genteelish folk from us tyek wing,For fear of catching some infection.O hinnies, &c.O, kind Sir Matt.—ye bonny Star,Gan to the King, and show this ditty—Tell him what canny folks we are,And make him free us frae this Kitty.O hinnies, &c.If ye succeed, agyen we'll sing—Sweet Madge, wor Queen, will ever bless ye;And poor au'd Jemmy tee, wor King,With a' us fishwives will caress ye.O hinnies, &c.
The merry day hez getten past,And we are aw myest broken hearted:Ye've surely deun for us at last—Frae Sandhill, noo, ye hev us parted.
Oh! hinnies, Corporation!A! marcy, Corporation!Ye hev deun a shemful deed,To force us frae wor canny station.
It's nee use being iv a rage,For a' wor pride noo fairly sunk is—Ye've cramm'd us in a Dandy Cage,Like yellow-yowlies, bears, and monkies:O hinnies,&c.
The cau'd East wind blaws i' wor teeth—With iron bars we are surrounded;It's better far to suffer deeth,Than thus to hev wor feelings wounded.O hinnies, &c.
Wor haddocks, turbot, cod, and ling,Are lost tiv a' wor friends' inspection;Genteelish folk from us tyek wing,For fear of catching some infection.O hinnies, &c.
O, kind Sir Matt.—ye bonny Star,Gan to the King, and show this ditty—Tell him what canny folks we are,And make him free us frae this Kitty.O hinnies, &c.
If ye succeed, agyen we'll sing—Sweet Madge, wor Queen, will ever bless ye;And poor au'd Jemmy tee, wor King,With a' us fishwives will caress ye.O hinnies, &c.
December, 1831.
My sankers! we're all in a fine hobble now,Since the Cholera com tiv our river;Aw wadn't hae car'd if 'twas ought that one knew,But the outlandish nyem myeks one shiver:Our doctors are all in a deuce of a way.And some says they'veClanniedto wrang us;But I think we may all curse theDauno' that day,That theblock-headedBoardcom amang us.Some says that Sir Cuddy deserves all the blyem,For lettin the ships up the watter—That brought ower the Cholera frev its awn hyem,And some says that myed little matter;But as woman's the root of all evil, ye see,(At least, all my life aw hev thought it,)Aw rather believe, as it's been tell'd to me,That it was oneMall Airey(Malaria) that brought it.This Chol'ra's the queerest thing e'er had a nyem,If one may believe what they're talking;It sometimes gets haud o' folks when they're at hyem,And sometimes when they're out a walking:Wey, my neybour of eighty, that deed t'other day,Folks thought that 'twas nature that fail'd him;But a doctor chep happ'ning to come by that way,Swore down thump 'twas the Chol'ra that ail'd him.Thur doctor cheps prent all the lees that they've tell'd;Ony nonsense—they never will mis't;My cheek wi' the tuith-wark hez getten all swell'd,And aw's warn't they'll haed down i' their list:Aw never waschol'ric, but quiet, aw's sure,Tho' wi' fear aw's grown sweaty and clammy;So smoke this wi' brumston to myek all secure,Aw's your servant,A Sunderland Jammy.
My sankers! we're all in a fine hobble now,Since the Cholera com tiv our river;Aw wadn't hae car'd if 'twas ought that one knew,But the outlandish nyem myeks one shiver:Our doctors are all in a deuce of a way.And some says they'veClanniedto wrang us;But I think we may all curse theDauno' that day,That theblock-headedBoardcom amang us.
Some says that Sir Cuddy deserves all the blyem,For lettin the ships up the watter—That brought ower the Cholera frev its awn hyem,And some says that myed little matter;But as woman's the root of all evil, ye see,(At least, all my life aw hev thought it,)Aw rather believe, as it's been tell'd to me,That it was oneMall Airey(Malaria) that brought it.
This Chol'ra's the queerest thing e'er had a nyem,If one may believe what they're talking;It sometimes gets haud o' folks when they're at hyem,And sometimes when they're out a walking:Wey, my neybour of eighty, that deed t'other day,Folks thought that 'twas nature that fail'd him;But a doctor chep happ'ning to come by that way,Swore down thump 'twas the Chol'ra that ail'd him.
Thur doctor cheps prent all the lees that they've tell'd;Ony nonsense—they never will mis't;My cheek wi' the tuith-wark hez getten all swell'd,And aw's warn't they'll haed down i' their list:Aw never waschol'ric, but quiet, aw's sure,Tho' wi' fear aw's grown sweaty and clammy;So smoke this wi' brumston to myek all secure,Aw's your servant,A Sunderland Jammy.
By John M'Lellan.
The Cobbler o' Morpeth myeks sic noise,He frights the country round, sirs;That if yen i' the guts hez pain,By the Plague they think he's doom'd, sirs.It was but just the tother day,A Skipper, when at Sheels, sirs,Drank yell till he cou'd hardly see,Or ken his head frae heels, sirs.Bow, wow, wow, &c.Wi' much ta dee he reach'd his hyem,But hoo, aw canna tell ye;When thunnering at the door he cries,And blubbers out 'Wife Nelly—Oh Nell, maw guts are varra bad,Aw'm sartin aw shall dee, now,For that d——d plague that's killing a',Th' Cobbler o' Morpeth's in me, now.'Bow, wow, wow,&c.'The Cobbler o' Morpeth! whe is he?Hez he brak frae the jail, now?'—'Hout no, ye fule, Jack Russ he's caw'd,An' kills folks by wholesale, now.Somehow he creeps up the back way;Aye it's true as deeth, maw Nelly—For now he's dancin thro' and thro',And up and down maw belly.'Bow, wow, wow, &c.Tom sigh'd and moan'd, and kick'd and groan'd,Wi' mony a writhe and start, sirs,And swore that for a newlapstane,The Cobbler had ta'en his heart, sirs.He blether'd 'Nell, now divent ye hearHis rumbling and his raking,He twists and twines maw tripes sae sair,Sure o' them he'swax-endsmaking.'Bow, wow, wow, &c.Now Nell aff ran to Doctor Belch,And tell'd Tom's case in fright, sirs,Wha gav her stuff whilk varra seunSet Tommy's guts to right, sirs.And when that his sad pain was eas'd,He blam'd nyen but himsel, sirs,But swore he ne'er agyen at SheelsWad drink their d——d new yell, sirs.Bow, wow, wow, &c.
The Cobbler o' Morpeth myeks sic noise,He frights the country round, sirs;That if yen i' the guts hez pain,By the Plague they think he's doom'd, sirs.It was but just the tother day,A Skipper, when at Sheels, sirs,Drank yell till he cou'd hardly see,Or ken his head frae heels, sirs.Bow, wow, wow, &c.
Wi' much ta dee he reach'd his hyem,But hoo, aw canna tell ye;When thunnering at the door he cries,And blubbers out 'Wife Nelly—Oh Nell, maw guts are varra bad,Aw'm sartin aw shall dee, now,For that d——d plague that's killing a',Th' Cobbler o' Morpeth's in me, now.'Bow, wow, wow,&c.
'The Cobbler o' Morpeth! whe is he?Hez he brak frae the jail, now?'—'Hout no, ye fule, Jack Russ he's caw'd,An' kills folks by wholesale, now.Somehow he creeps up the back way;Aye it's true as deeth, maw Nelly—For now he's dancin thro' and thro',And up and down maw belly.'Bow, wow, wow, &c.
Tom sigh'd and moan'd, and kick'd and groan'd,Wi' mony a writhe and start, sirs,And swore that for a newlapstane,The Cobbler had ta'en his heart, sirs.He blether'd 'Nell, now divent ye hearHis rumbling and his raking,He twists and twines maw tripes sae sair,Sure o' them he'swax-endsmaking.'Bow, wow, wow, &c.
Now Nell aff ran to Doctor Belch,And tell'd Tom's case in fright, sirs,Wha gav her stuff whilk varra seunSet Tommy's guts to right, sirs.And when that his sad pain was eas'd,He blam'd nyen but himsel, sirs,But swore he ne'er agyen at SheelsWad drink their d——d new yell, sirs.Bow, wow, wow, &c.
CAUTION.
Now, neighbours, divent drink to excess—A canny sober course steer;Be cleanly, and be temperate,And the Cobbler o' Morpeth ne'er fear.But if he should amang huz come,To th' Infirm'ry we will send him;And seun they'll purge his au'd saul out,If that they cannot mend him.Bow, wow, wow, &c.
Now, neighbours, divent drink to excess—A canny sober course steer;Be cleanly, and be temperate,And the Cobbler o' Morpeth ne'er fear.But if he should amang huz come,To th' Infirm'ry we will send him;And seun they'll purge his au'd saul out,If that they cannot mend him.Bow, wow, wow, &c.
(By John Morris.)
'Bout Newcassel they've written sae mony fine sangs,And compar'd their bit place unti Lunnun;What a shem that 'tiv Sheels not a poet belangs,For to tell them they lee wi' their funnin.They may boast o' their shippin without ony doubt,For there's nyen can deny that they've plenty;But for every yen they are gobbing about,Aw'm sure we can shew them, ey twenty!Let them haud their fule gobs then & brag us ne mair,With their clarty bit au'd Corporation;For it's varry weel knawn Sheels pays her full shareFor to keep Mister Mayor iv his station.They hev a bit place where they myek a few shot,Lunnun's Column tiv it's like a nine-pin;And St. Nicholas compar'd wi' St. Paul's an' what not,Wey it's a yuven compar'd tiv a limekiln.If their Shot Tower sae hee was plac'd on wor Sand End,'Side wor Light House to scraffle to glory;Their journey to heaven wad suen hev an end,For by gox they'd ne'er reach the first story.Let them haud, &c.They call their Infirm'ry a place for a king,To be stow'd 'mang the sick, lyem, and lazy;If a Sheels man had ventur'd to say sic a thing,The blind gowks wad a' said he was crazy.'Bout their Custom House tee they myek a great rout,That the e'en o' the folk it diz dazzel;But if a' gans reet Sheels, without ony doubt,Will suen eclipse that at Canny Newcassel.Let them haud, &c.Then they brag they leuk bonny, fresh-colored and gay,And the Lunnun folk a' wishey washey;But L——d put it off tiv a far distant day,That there's one on huz here leuks sae trashy.Then they boast o' Sir Matthew—but never enquireIf the foundation's good that he stood on;But if he comes up to wor canny au'd Squire,Then becrikes he is nowse but a good 'un.Let them haud, &c.But the Squire, canny man, he's gyen frae the toon,And aw'm sure on't the poor sairly miss him;For oft as aw wauk Pearson's Raw up and doon,Aw hear the folk cry, Heaven bliss him!Yet aw hope, an' aw trust, he'll suen find his way hyem,And aw's sure aw'll be glad to hear tell on't;For aw've varry oft thowt—did ye ne'er think the syem,Since he's gyen Sheels hezzent luik't like the sel on't.Let them haud, &c.Then lang life to the King and wor awn noble Duik,May Sheels lang partake of his bounty;For Newcassel, ye ken, if ye e'er read a buik,Is at yence byeth a toon and a county.Northumberland's Duik may still shew his sel there,But his int'rest frae Sheels ne'er can sever;So aw'll gie ye just now, shou'd aw ne'er see ye mair,Wor Duik and wor Duchess for ever!Let them haud their fule gobs then & brag us ne mair,Wi' their this, that, and t'other sae cliver;We'll aw drink as lang's we've a penny to spare,Here's success to wor awn town for ever!!!
'Bout Newcassel they've written sae mony fine sangs,And compar'd their bit place unti Lunnun;What a shem that 'tiv Sheels not a poet belangs,For to tell them they lee wi' their funnin.They may boast o' their shippin without ony doubt,For there's nyen can deny that they've plenty;But for every yen they are gobbing about,Aw'm sure we can shew them, ey twenty!
Let them haud their fule gobs then & brag us ne mair,With their clarty bit au'd Corporation;For it's varry weel knawn Sheels pays her full shareFor to keep Mister Mayor iv his station.
They hev a bit place where they myek a few shot,Lunnun's Column tiv it's like a nine-pin;And St. Nicholas compar'd wi' St. Paul's an' what not,Wey it's a yuven compar'd tiv a limekiln.If their Shot Tower sae hee was plac'd on wor Sand End,'Side wor Light House to scraffle to glory;Their journey to heaven wad suen hev an end,For by gox they'd ne'er reach the first story.Let them haud, &c.
They call their Infirm'ry a place for a king,To be stow'd 'mang the sick, lyem, and lazy;If a Sheels man had ventur'd to say sic a thing,The blind gowks wad a' said he was crazy.'Bout their Custom House tee they myek a great rout,That the e'en o' the folk it diz dazzel;But if a' gans reet Sheels, without ony doubt,Will suen eclipse that at Canny Newcassel.Let them haud, &c.
Then they brag they leuk bonny, fresh-colored and gay,And the Lunnun folk a' wishey washey;But L——d put it off tiv a far distant day,That there's one on huz here leuks sae trashy.Then they boast o' Sir Matthew—but never enquireIf the foundation's good that he stood on;But if he comes up to wor canny au'd Squire,Then becrikes he is nowse but a good 'un.Let them haud, &c.
But the Squire, canny man, he's gyen frae the toon,And aw'm sure on't the poor sairly miss him;For oft as aw wauk Pearson's Raw up and doon,Aw hear the folk cry, Heaven bliss him!Yet aw hope, an' aw trust, he'll suen find his way hyem,And aw's sure aw'll be glad to hear tell on't;For aw've varry oft thowt—did ye ne'er think the syem,Since he's gyen Sheels hezzent luik't like the sel on't.Let them haud, &c.
Then lang life to the King and wor awn noble Duik,May Sheels lang partake of his bounty;For Newcassel, ye ken, if ye e'er read a buik,Is at yence byeth a toon and a county.Northumberland's Duik may still shew his sel there,But his int'rest frae Sheels ne'er can sever;So aw'll gie ye just now, shou'd aw ne'er see ye mair,Wor Duik and wor Duchess for ever!
Let them haud their fule gobs then & brag us ne mair,Wi' their this, that, and t'other sae cliver;We'll aw drink as lang's we've a penny to spare,Here's success to wor awn town for ever!!!
Jack Hume one day cam into toon,And efter wandering up and doon,He bought some things, and 'mang the rest,A bottle of Permanent Yeast.Fal de ral la, &c.Now when he'd getten a' things reet,He was gaun trudging hyem at neet,When on the road he heard a crack,An' fand a bullet in his back.Fal de ral la,&c.He fell directly on the spot,For Jack imagin'd he was shot;Some said he'd liquor in his head,And others thought that he was dead.Fal de ral la, &c.But Jack suen gav a greet groan out,And after that he com about,He says, O bring a Doctor here!Or else aw'll suen be deed, aw fear,Fal de ral la, &c.O neighbours, de tyek off maw sark,And try if ye can find the mark!They leuk'd, but nought there could be seen,They wonder'd a' what it had been.Fal de ral la, &c.But, howe'er, it cam to pass,Out of his pocket fell some glass:Now then, says Jack, it is ne joke,See there's maw good yeast bottle broke!Fal de ral la, &c.A fellow wiser than the rest,Soon found out it had been the yeast:Wi' walking Jack had made it work,The bullet only was the cork.Fal de ral la, &c.Now Jackey finding his mistake,He thought the best plan he could takeWas to be off—he seiz'd his hat,And ran hyem like a scadded cat.Fal de ral la, &c.
Jack Hume one day cam into toon,And efter wandering up and doon,He bought some things, and 'mang the rest,A bottle of Permanent Yeast.Fal de ral la, &c.
Now when he'd getten a' things reet,He was gaun trudging hyem at neet,When on the road he heard a crack,An' fand a bullet in his back.Fal de ral la,&c.
He fell directly on the spot,For Jack imagin'd he was shot;Some said he'd liquor in his head,And others thought that he was dead.Fal de ral la, &c.
But Jack suen gav a greet groan out,And after that he com about,He says, O bring a Doctor here!Or else aw'll suen be deed, aw fear,Fal de ral la, &c.
O neighbours, de tyek off maw sark,And try if ye can find the mark!They leuk'd, but nought there could be seen,They wonder'd a' what it had been.Fal de ral la, &c.
But, howe'er, it cam to pass,Out of his pocket fell some glass:Now then, says Jack, it is ne joke,See there's maw good yeast bottle broke!Fal de ral la, &c.
A fellow wiser than the rest,Soon found out it had been the yeast:Wi' walking Jack had made it work,The bullet only was the cork.Fal de ral la, &c.
Now Jackey finding his mistake,He thought the best plan he could takeWas to be off—he seiz'd his hat,And ran hyem like a scadded cat.Fal de ral la, &c.
Or, Newcastle Finery,
Ho! lizzen, aw ye neybors roun,Yor clappers haud and pipes lay doon;Aw've had a swagger through the toon,Yen morning aw went suen ti'd.Ye see, aw fand aw wasn't thrang,Sae to Newcassel aw wad gang:Aw's lap't a' up, just like a sang,And try to put a tune ti'd.Bad times they'e now, yen weel may say;Aw've seen when on a market day,Wiv wor toon's cheps aw'd drink away,And carry on the war, man:But now yen staups an' stares aboot,To see what's strange to carry oot;Brass letters fassen'd on a cloot,A unicorn, or star, man.Ye see, aw thowt they were to sell;So ax'd the chep, if he cud tell,What he wad tyek for C and L,To nail upon maw hen hoose;But he insisted, smash his crop!Aw'd like a fule mistyen the shop;And bad me quickly off te hop,He'd bowt them for his awn use.He flang maw hump sae out o' joint,Sae, smash! aw thowt aw'd hev a pint!But when aw gat te Peterpoint,The chep that sells the candy,The folks luik'd in wiv greedy wish,He'd bonny siller in a dish;And just abuin, twee bits o' fishWas sweeming, fine as can be.The tyen was like Hob Fewster's cowt,A' spreckled round about the snout,They flapp'd their tails aboot like owt,Quite full o' gamalerie:And then the munny shin'd sae breet,The greet Tom Cat wad hev a peep,And paunder'd tiv he fell asleep;The silly thing was weary.Sae farther up aw teuk my cruize,And luik'd amang the buits and shoes;Where yen aw thowt they did ill use,It sweem'd, aye, like a daisy:Says aw, How! man, what's thou aboot?Weyu'cum and tyek that slipper oot;Tho's flay'd away the sammun trout:Says he, Young man, thou's crazy!Had aw not been a patient chap,Aw wad hae fetch'd him sike a rap,As that which daver'd poor au'd Cap:[2]But, faith! the Kitty scar'd me:Sae whisht aw grew; for, efter that,Iv a lairge glass bowl, byeth round and flat,Aw spied a maccaroni hat,But at maw peril dar'd me.Sae, efter dark, up Pilgrim-street,The fine Gas Leeters shin'd sae breet,That if a bonny lass ye meet,Ye'd ken her varry features:When pipes are laid, and a' things duen,They say Newcassel, varry suen,Will darken, aye, the varry muin,A' wi' thor fine Gas Leeters.
Ho! lizzen, aw ye neybors roun,Yor clappers haud and pipes lay doon;Aw've had a swagger through the toon,Yen morning aw went suen ti'd.Ye see, aw fand aw wasn't thrang,Sae to Newcassel aw wad gang:Aw's lap't a' up, just like a sang,And try to put a tune ti'd.
Bad times they'e now, yen weel may say;Aw've seen when on a market day,Wiv wor toon's cheps aw'd drink away,And carry on the war, man:But now yen staups an' stares aboot,To see what's strange to carry oot;Brass letters fassen'd on a cloot,A unicorn, or star, man.
Ye see, aw thowt they were to sell;So ax'd the chep, if he cud tell,What he wad tyek for C and L,To nail upon maw hen hoose;But he insisted, smash his crop!Aw'd like a fule mistyen the shop;And bad me quickly off te hop,He'd bowt them for his awn use.
He flang maw hump sae out o' joint,Sae, smash! aw thowt aw'd hev a pint!But when aw gat te Peterpoint,The chep that sells the candy,The folks luik'd in wiv greedy wish,He'd bonny siller in a dish;And just abuin, twee bits o' fishWas sweeming, fine as can be.
The tyen was like Hob Fewster's cowt,A' spreckled round about the snout,They flapp'd their tails aboot like owt,Quite full o' gamalerie:And then the munny shin'd sae breet,The greet Tom Cat wad hev a peep,And paunder'd tiv he fell asleep;The silly thing was weary.
Sae farther up aw teuk my cruize,And luik'd amang the buits and shoes;Where yen aw thowt they did ill use,It sweem'd, aye, like a daisy:Says aw, How! man, what's thou aboot?Weyu'cum and tyek that slipper oot;Tho's flay'd away the sammun trout:Says he, Young man, thou's crazy!
Had aw not been a patient chap,Aw wad hae fetch'd him sike a rap,As that which daver'd poor au'd Cap:[2]But, faith! the Kitty scar'd me:Sae whisht aw grew; for, efter that,Iv a lairge glass bowl, byeth round and flat,Aw spied a maccaroni hat,But at maw peril dar'd me.
Sae, efter dark, up Pilgrim-street,The fine Gas Leeters shin'd sae breet,That if a bonny lass ye meet,Ye'd ken her varry features:When pipes are laid, and a' things duen,They say Newcassel, varry suen,Will darken, aye, the varry muin,A' wi' thor fine Gas Leeters.
[2]Alluding to the song call'd 'Cappy, or the Pitman's Dog.'—See page 19.
[2]Alluding to the song call'd 'Cappy, or the Pitman's Dog.'—See page 19.
Tyne River, running rough or smooth,Makes bread for me and mine;Of all the rivers, north or south,There's none like coaly Tyne.So here's to coaly Tyne, my lads,Success to coaly Tyne,Of all the rivers, north or south,There's none like coaly Tyne.Long has Tyne's swelling bosom borneGreat riches from the mine,All by her hardy sons uptorn—The wealth of coaly Tyne.Our keelmen brave, with laden keels,Go sailing down in line,And with them load the fleet at Shields,That sails from coaly Tyne.When Bonaparte the world did sway,Dutch, Spanish, did combine;By sea and land proud bent their way,The sons of coaly Tyne.The sons of Tyne, in seas of blood,Trafalgar's fight did join,When led by dauntless Collingwood,The hero of the Tyne.With courage bold, and hearts so true,Form'd in the British line;With Wellington, at Waterloo,Hard fought the sons of Tyne.When peace, who would be Volunteers?Or Hero Dandies fine?Or sham Hussars, or Tirailleurs?—Disgrace to coaly Tyne.Or who would be a Tyrant's Guard,Or shield a libertine?Let Tyrants meet their due reward,Ye sons of coaly Tyne.
Tyne River, running rough or smooth,Makes bread for me and mine;Of all the rivers, north or south,There's none like coaly Tyne.
So here's to coaly Tyne, my lads,Success to coaly Tyne,Of all the rivers, north or south,There's none like coaly Tyne.
Long has Tyne's swelling bosom borneGreat riches from the mine,All by her hardy sons uptorn—The wealth of coaly Tyne.
Our keelmen brave, with laden keels,Go sailing down in line,And with them load the fleet at Shields,That sails from coaly Tyne.
When Bonaparte the world did sway,Dutch, Spanish, did combine;By sea and land proud bent their way,The sons of coaly Tyne.
The sons of Tyne, in seas of blood,Trafalgar's fight did join,When led by dauntless Collingwood,The hero of the Tyne.
With courage bold, and hearts so true,Form'd in the British line;With Wellington, at Waterloo,Hard fought the sons of Tyne.
When peace, who would be Volunteers?Or Hero Dandies fine?Or sham Hussars, or Tirailleurs?—Disgrace to coaly Tyne.
Or who would be a Tyrant's Guard,Or shield a libertine?Let Tyrants meet their due reward,Ye sons of coaly Tyne.