The Baff-week is o'er—no repining—Pay-Saturday's swift on the wing;At length the blithe morning comes shining,When kelter makes colliers sing.'Tis Spring, and the weather is cheary,The birds carol sweet on the spray;Now coal-working lads, trim and airy,To Newcastle town hie away.Those married jog on with their hinnies,Their canny bairns go by their side;The daughters keep teazing their minniesFor new cloaths to keep up their pride:They plead—Easter Sunday does fear them,For if they've got nothing that's new,The Crow, spiteful bird, will besmear them;Oh then, what a sight for to view!The young men, full blithesome and jolly,March forward, all decently clad;Some lilting up "Cut-and-dry, Dolly,"Some singing "The bonny Pit Lad:"The pranks that were play'd at last bindingEngage some in humourous chat;Some halt by the way-side on findingPrimroses to place in their hat.Bob Cranky, Jack Hogg, and Dick Marley,Bill Hewitt, Luke Carr, and Tom Brown,In one jolly squad set off earlyFrom Benwell to Newcastle town:Such hewers as they (none need doubt it)Ne'er handled a shovel or pick;In high or low seam they could suit it,In regions next door to Old Nick.Some went to buy hats and new jackets,And others to see a bit fun;And some wanted leather and tackets,To cobble their canny pit shoon:Save the ribbon Dick's dear had requested,(Aware he had plenty of chink)There was no other care him infested,Unless 'twere his care for good drink.In the morning the dry man advancesTo purl-shop to toss off a gill.Ne'er dreading the ills and mischancesAttending on those who sit still:The drink, Reason's monitor quelling,Inflames both the brain and the eyes;The enchantment commenc'd, there's no tellingWhen care-drowning tipplers will rise.O Malt!we acknowledge thy powers,What good and what ill dost thou brew!Our good friend in moderate hours—Our enemy when we get fu':Could thy vot'ries avoid the fell furiesSo often awaken'd by thee,We should seldom need Judges or JuriesTo send folk to Tyburn tree!At length in Newcastle they centre—In Hardy's,[5]a house much renown'd,The jovial company enter,Where stores of good liquor abound:As quick as the servants could fill it,(Till emptied were quarts half a score)With heart-burning thirst down they swill it,And thump on the table for more.While thus in fine cue they are seated,Young Cock-fighting Ned, from the Fell,[6]Peep'd in—his "How d'ye?" repeated,And hop'd they were all very well;He swore he was pleased to see them—One rose up to make him sit down,And join in good fellowship wi' them—For him they would spend their last crown.The liquor beginning to warm them,In friendship the closer they knit,And tell and hear jokes—and to charm them,Comes Robin from Denton-bourn pit;An odd, witty, comical fellow,At either a jest or a tale,Especially when he was mellowWith drinking stout Newcastle ale.With bousing, and laughing, and smoking,The time slippeth swiftly away,And while they are ranting and joking,The church-clock proclaims it mid-day;And now for black-puddings, long measure,They go to Tib Trollibag's stand,And away bear the glossy rich treasure,With joy, like curl'd bugles in hand.And now a choice house they agreed on,Not far from the head of the Quay:Where they their black puddings might feed on,And spend the remains of the day;Where pipers and fiddlers resorted,To pick up the straggling pence,And where the pit-lads often sportedTheir money at fiddle and dance.Blind Willie[7]the fiddler sat scrapingIn corner just as they went in:Some Willington callants were shakingTheir feet to his musical din:Jack vow'd he would have some fine cap'ring,As soon as their dinner was o'er,With the lassie that wore the white apron,Now reeling about on the floor.Their hungry stomachs being eased,And gullets well clear'd with a glass,Jack rose from the table and seizedThe hand of the frolicsome lass."Maw hinny!" says he, "pray excuse me—To ask thee to dance aw myek free?"She replied, "I'd be loth to refuse thee—Now fiddler play— Jigging for me."The damsel displays all her graces,The collier exerts all his power,They caper in circling paces,Andsetat each end of the floor:He jumps, and his heels knack and rattle—At turns of the music so sweet,He makes such a thundering brattle,The floor seems afraid of his feet.This couple being seated, rose Bob up,He wish'd to make one in a jig;But a Willington lad set his gob up—O'er him there should none "run the rig;"For now 'twas his turn for a caper,And he would dance first as he'd rose;Bob's passion beginning to vapour,He twisted his opponent's nose.The Willington lads, for their Franky,Jump'd up to revenge the foul deed;And those in behalf of Bob CrankySprung forward—for now there was need.Bob canted the form, with a kevel,As he was exerting his strength;But he got on the lug such a nevel,That down came he, all his long length.Tom Brown, from behind the long table,Impatient to join in the fight,Made a spring, some rude foe to disable,For he was a man of some might:Misfortune, alas! was attending,An accident fill'd him with fear;An old rusty nail his flesh rending,Oblig'd him to slink in the rear.When sober, a mild man was Marley,More apt to join friends than make foes;But rais'd by the juice of the barley,He put in some sobbling blows.And cock-fighting Ned was their Hector,A courageous fellow and stout—He stood their bold friend and protector,And thump'd the opponents about.All hand-over-head, topsy-turvy,They struck with fists, elbows, and feet;A Willington callant, call'd Gurvy,Was top-tails tost over the seat:Luke Carr had one eye clos'd entire,And what is a serio-farce,Poor Robin was cast on the fire,His breeks torn and burnt off his a—e.Oh, Robin! what argued thy speeches?Disaster now makes thee quite mum;Thy wit could not save the good breechesThat mencefully cover'd thy bum:To some slop-shop now thou should be trudging,And lug out more squandering coins;For now 'tis too late to be grudging—Thou cannot go home with bare groins.How the war-faring companies parted,The Muse chuseth not to proclaim;But 'tis thought, that, being rather down-hearted,They quietly went—"toddling hame."Now ye collier callants, so clever,Residing 'tween Tyne and the Wear,Beware, when you fuddle together,Of making too free with strong beer.1805.
The Baff-week is o'er—no repining—Pay-Saturday's swift on the wing;At length the blithe morning comes shining,When kelter makes colliers sing.'Tis Spring, and the weather is cheary,The birds carol sweet on the spray;Now coal-working lads, trim and airy,To Newcastle town hie away.
Those married jog on with their hinnies,Their canny bairns go by their side;The daughters keep teazing their minniesFor new cloaths to keep up their pride:They plead—Easter Sunday does fear them,For if they've got nothing that's new,The Crow, spiteful bird, will besmear them;Oh then, what a sight for to view!
The young men, full blithesome and jolly,March forward, all decently clad;Some lilting up "Cut-and-dry, Dolly,"Some singing "The bonny Pit Lad:"The pranks that were play'd at last bindingEngage some in humourous chat;Some halt by the way-side on findingPrimroses to place in their hat.
Bob Cranky, Jack Hogg, and Dick Marley,Bill Hewitt, Luke Carr, and Tom Brown,In one jolly squad set off earlyFrom Benwell to Newcastle town:Such hewers as they (none need doubt it)Ne'er handled a shovel or pick;In high or low seam they could suit it,In regions next door to Old Nick.
Some went to buy hats and new jackets,And others to see a bit fun;And some wanted leather and tackets,To cobble their canny pit shoon:Save the ribbon Dick's dear had requested,(Aware he had plenty of chink)There was no other care him infested,Unless 'twere his care for good drink.
In the morning the dry man advancesTo purl-shop to toss off a gill.Ne'er dreading the ills and mischancesAttending on those who sit still:The drink, Reason's monitor quelling,Inflames both the brain and the eyes;The enchantment commenc'd, there's no tellingWhen care-drowning tipplers will rise.
O Malt!we acknowledge thy powers,What good and what ill dost thou brew!Our good friend in moderate hours—Our enemy when we get fu':Could thy vot'ries avoid the fell furiesSo often awaken'd by thee,We should seldom need Judges or JuriesTo send folk to Tyburn tree!
At length in Newcastle they centre—In Hardy's,[5]a house much renown'd,The jovial company enter,Where stores of good liquor abound:As quick as the servants could fill it,(Till emptied were quarts half a score)With heart-burning thirst down they swill it,And thump on the table for more.
While thus in fine cue they are seated,Young Cock-fighting Ned, from the Fell,[6]Peep'd in—his "How d'ye?" repeated,And hop'd they were all very well;He swore he was pleased to see them—One rose up to make him sit down,And join in good fellowship wi' them—For him they would spend their last crown.
The liquor beginning to warm them,In friendship the closer they knit,And tell and hear jokes—and to charm them,Comes Robin from Denton-bourn pit;An odd, witty, comical fellow,At either a jest or a tale,Especially when he was mellowWith drinking stout Newcastle ale.
With bousing, and laughing, and smoking,The time slippeth swiftly away,And while they are ranting and joking,The church-clock proclaims it mid-day;And now for black-puddings, long measure,They go to Tib Trollibag's stand,And away bear the glossy rich treasure,With joy, like curl'd bugles in hand.
And now a choice house they agreed on,Not far from the head of the Quay:Where they their black puddings might feed on,And spend the remains of the day;Where pipers and fiddlers resorted,To pick up the straggling pence,And where the pit-lads often sportedTheir money at fiddle and dance.
Blind Willie[7]the fiddler sat scrapingIn corner just as they went in:Some Willington callants were shakingTheir feet to his musical din:Jack vow'd he would have some fine cap'ring,As soon as their dinner was o'er,With the lassie that wore the white apron,Now reeling about on the floor.
Their hungry stomachs being eased,And gullets well clear'd with a glass,Jack rose from the table and seizedThe hand of the frolicsome lass."Maw hinny!" says he, "pray excuse me—To ask thee to dance aw myek free?"She replied, "I'd be loth to refuse thee—Now fiddler play— Jigging for me."
The damsel displays all her graces,The collier exerts all his power,They caper in circling paces,Andsetat each end of the floor:He jumps, and his heels knack and rattle—At turns of the music so sweet,He makes such a thundering brattle,The floor seems afraid of his feet.
This couple being seated, rose Bob up,He wish'd to make one in a jig;But a Willington lad set his gob up—O'er him there should none "run the rig;"For now 'twas his turn for a caper,And he would dance first as he'd rose;Bob's passion beginning to vapour,He twisted his opponent's nose.
The Willington lads, for their Franky,Jump'd up to revenge the foul deed;And those in behalf of Bob CrankySprung forward—for now there was need.Bob canted the form, with a kevel,As he was exerting his strength;But he got on the lug such a nevel,That down came he, all his long length.
Tom Brown, from behind the long table,Impatient to join in the fight,Made a spring, some rude foe to disable,For he was a man of some might:Misfortune, alas! was attending,An accident fill'd him with fear;An old rusty nail his flesh rending,Oblig'd him to slink in the rear.
When sober, a mild man was Marley,More apt to join friends than make foes;But rais'd by the juice of the barley,He put in some sobbling blows.And cock-fighting Ned was their Hector,A courageous fellow and stout—He stood their bold friend and protector,And thump'd the opponents about.
All hand-over-head, topsy-turvy,They struck with fists, elbows, and feet;A Willington callant, call'd Gurvy,Was top-tails tost over the seat:Luke Carr had one eye clos'd entire,And what is a serio-farce,Poor Robin was cast on the fire,His breeks torn and burnt off his a—e.
Oh, Robin! what argued thy speeches?Disaster now makes thee quite mum;Thy wit could not save the good breechesThat mencefully cover'd thy bum:To some slop-shop now thou should be trudging,And lug out more squandering coins;For now 'tis too late to be grudging—Thou cannot go home with bare groins.
How the war-faring companies parted,The Muse chuseth not to proclaim;But 'tis thought, that, being rather down-hearted,They quietly went—"toddling hame."Now ye collier callants, so clever,Residing 'tween Tyne and the Wear,Beware, when you fuddle together,Of making too free with strong beer.
1805.
[5]Sign of the Black Boy, Great Market.
[5]Sign of the Black Boy, Great Market.
[6]Gateshead Fell.
[6]Gateshead Fell.
[7]William Purvis, a blind fiddler so called.
[7]William Purvis, a blind fiddler so called.
By the Same—Written in 1807.
In Britain's blest island there runs a fine river,Far fam'd for the ore it conveys from the mine:Northumbria's pride, and that district doth severFrom Durham's rising hills, and 'tis called—the Tyne.Flow on, lovely Tyne, undisturb'd be thy motion,Thy sons hold the threats of proud France in disdain;As long as thy waters shall mix with the ocean,The fleets of Old England will govern the main.Other rivers for fame have by poets been notedIn many a soft-sounding musical line;But for sailors and coals never one was yet quoted,Could vie with the choicest of rivers—the Tyne.Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.When Collingwood conquer'd our foes so completely,And gain'd a fine laurel, his brow to entwine;In order to manage the matter quite neatly,Mann'd his vessel with tars from the banks of the Tyne.Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.Thou dearest of rivers, oft-times have I wander'dThy margin along when oppress'd sore with grief,And thought of thy stream, as it onward meander'd,The murmuring melody gave me relief.Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.From the fragrant wild flowers that blow on thy border,The playful Zephyrus oft steals an embrace,And curling thy surface in beauteous order,The willows bend forward to kiss thy clear face.Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.One favour I crave—O kind fortune befriend me!When downhill I totter, in Nature's decline—A competent income—if this thou wilt send me,I'll dwindle out life on the banks of the Tyne.Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.
In Britain's blest island there runs a fine river,Far fam'd for the ore it conveys from the mine:Northumbria's pride, and that district doth severFrom Durham's rising hills, and 'tis called—the Tyne.
Flow on, lovely Tyne, undisturb'd be thy motion,Thy sons hold the threats of proud France in disdain;As long as thy waters shall mix with the ocean,The fleets of Old England will govern the main.
Other rivers for fame have by poets been notedIn many a soft-sounding musical line;But for sailors and coals never one was yet quoted,Could vie with the choicest of rivers—the Tyne.Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.
When Collingwood conquer'd our foes so completely,And gain'd a fine laurel, his brow to entwine;In order to manage the matter quite neatly,Mann'd his vessel with tars from the banks of the Tyne.Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.
Thou dearest of rivers, oft-times have I wander'dThy margin along when oppress'd sore with grief,And thought of thy stream, as it onward meander'd,The murmuring melody gave me relief.Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.
From the fragrant wild flowers that blow on thy border,The playful Zephyrus oft steals an embrace,And curling thy surface in beauteous order,The willows bend forward to kiss thy clear face.Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.
One favour I crave—O kind fortune befriend me!When downhill I totter, in Nature's decline—A competent income—if this thou wilt send me,I'll dwindle out life on the banks of the Tyne.Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.
By the Same.—Written early in May, 1809.
Now the gay feather'd train, in each bush,Court their mates, and love's melody sing—The blackbird, the linnet, and thrush,Make the echoing valleys to ring.The bird with the crimson-dy'd breast,From the hamlet has made his remove,To join his love-song with the rest,And woo his fond mate in the grove.The lark, high in ether afloat,Each morn, as he ushers the day,Attunes his wild-warbling throat,And sings his melodious lay.Yon bank lately cover'd with snow,Now smiles in the spring's bloomy pride;And the sweet-scented primroses growNear the streamlet's sweet gurgling tide.To the banks of the Tyne we'll away,And view the enrapturing scene,While Flora, the goddess of May,With her flow'rets bespangles the green.
Now the gay feather'd train, in each bush,Court their mates, and love's melody sing—The blackbird, the linnet, and thrush,Make the echoing valleys to ring.
The bird with the crimson-dy'd breast,From the hamlet has made his remove,To join his love-song with the rest,And woo his fond mate in the grove.
The lark, high in ether afloat,Each morn, as he ushers the day,Attunes his wild-warbling throat,And sings his melodious lay.
Yon bank lately cover'd with snow,Now smiles in the spring's bloomy pride;And the sweet-scented primroses growNear the streamlet's sweet gurgling tide.
To the banks of the Tyne we'll away,And view the enrapturing scene,While Flora, the goddess of May,With her flow'rets bespangles the green.
By the Same.—Written in 1826.
Tune—"Ranting roaring Willie."
Good people, if you'll pay attention,I'll tell you a comical jest;The theme I'm about now to mentionAlludes to one Malthus, a priest—A proud, hypocritical preacher,Who feeds on tithe-pigs and good wine;But him I shall prove a false teacher—Oh, all things have but a time.Some years ago, through all the nation,He publish'd a scandalous book—An Essay about "Population;"But widely his text he mistook.From marriage his plan's to restrain allPoor people who are in their prime,Lest the earth prove too small to contain all—Such notions can last but a time.But the Clergy who're plac'd in snug station,The Nobles, and such like fine folks,May continue their multiplication—What think you, my friends, of such jokes?What think you of Malthus the Parson,Who slights each injunction divine,And laughs while he carries the farce on;—But all things have but a time.When the poor folk of hunger are dying,He deems it no sin in thegreat,Their hands to with-hold from supplyingThe wretched with victuals to eat!Such doctrine—sure a great evil—Becomes not a Christian Divine;'Tis more like the speech of the Devil;—But all things have but a time.Now, my friends, you will readily seeMalthus' argument's not worth a curse;For to starve the industrious bee,Is no better than killing the goose.That he does not believe in the Bible,His book is a very true sign;On Sacred Writ 'tis a libel—Such trash can last but for a time.Place the drones on one part of our isle,The industrious class on the other;There the former may simper and smile,And bow and scrape each to his brother:They can neither plough, throw the shuttle,Nor build with stone and lime;They'll then get but little to guttle,And may grow wiser in time.Ye blithe British lads and ye lasses,Ne'er heed this daft, whimsical Priest;Get sweethearts in spite of such asses—TheBible Plansure is the best:Then away go in couples together,And marry while you're in your prime,And strive to agree with each other,For life only lasts a short time!
Good people, if you'll pay attention,I'll tell you a comical jest;The theme I'm about now to mentionAlludes to one Malthus, a priest—A proud, hypocritical preacher,Who feeds on tithe-pigs and good wine;But him I shall prove a false teacher—Oh, all things have but a time.
Some years ago, through all the nation,He publish'd a scandalous book—An Essay about "Population;"But widely his text he mistook.From marriage his plan's to restrain allPoor people who are in their prime,Lest the earth prove too small to contain all—Such notions can last but a time.
But the Clergy who're plac'd in snug station,The Nobles, and such like fine folks,May continue their multiplication—What think you, my friends, of such jokes?What think you of Malthus the Parson,Who slights each injunction divine,And laughs while he carries the farce on;—But all things have but a time.
When the poor folk of hunger are dying,He deems it no sin in thegreat,Their hands to with-hold from supplyingThe wretched with victuals to eat!Such doctrine—sure a great evil—Becomes not a Christian Divine;'Tis more like the speech of the Devil;—But all things have but a time.
Now, my friends, you will readily seeMalthus' argument's not worth a curse;For to starve the industrious bee,Is no better than killing the goose.That he does not believe in the Bible,His book is a very true sign;On Sacred Writ 'tis a libel—Such trash can last but for a time.
Place the drones on one part of our isle,The industrious class on the other;There the former may simper and smile,And bow and scrape each to his brother:They can neither plough, throw the shuttle,Nor build with stone and lime;They'll then get but little to guttle,And may grow wiser in time.
Ye blithe British lads and ye lasses,Ne'er heed this daft, whimsical Priest;Get sweethearts in spite of such asses—TheBible Plansure is the best:Then away go in couples together,And marry while you're in your prime,And strive to agree with each other,For life only lasts a short time!
By the Same—Written in 1826.
I, when a child, for trinket wareWould often cry to mam and daddie:With other trifles, from the fair,Dad brought me once a Peter Waggy.Fine dolls, and many things forby,A gilded coach and little naggie;But oh, the darling of my eye,Was little dancing Peter Waggy!Love of such trifles time destroys—At length each well-grown lass and laddieSeeks to be pleas'd with other toys,Some other sort of Peter Waggy.A lover came to me at last,In courting me he ne'er grew faggy;Now he and I are buckled fast—He is my darling Peter Waggy.We've got a boy of beauty rare,A credit to his mam and daddie;When I go to Newcastle Fair,I'll buy my child a Peter Waggy.
I, when a child, for trinket wareWould often cry to mam and daddie:With other trifles, from the fair,Dad brought me once a Peter Waggy.
Fine dolls, and many things forby,A gilded coach and little naggie;But oh, the darling of my eye,Was little dancing Peter Waggy!
Love of such trifles time destroys—At length each well-grown lass and laddieSeeks to be pleas'd with other toys,Some other sort of Peter Waggy.
A lover came to me at last,In courting me he ne'er grew faggy;Now he and I are buckled fast—He is my darling Peter Waggy.
We've got a boy of beauty rare,A credit to his mam and daddie;When I go to Newcastle Fair,I'll buy my child a Peter Waggy.
"A VIRTUOUS WOMAN IS MORE PRECIOUS THAN RUBIES."
By the Same.—Written in 1826.
In Cramlington we've bonnie lasses enow,With checks red as roses, and eyes black or blue;But Bessy of Blyth I love better than onie—My heart is still there with my own dear honey.My uncle says, "Robin, why sure you are mad,To slight Suky Swan—she's worth money, my lad!"Dear uncle, says I, I'll ne'er marry for money,And none will I have but my own dear honey.Her face I compare to the blush of the morn,Her breath to the scent of the fresh-blossom'd thorn;For virtue and sense she's not equall'd by monie—Few, few can compare with my own dear honey.As in this world of care there is nought we approve,Compar'd to the faithful good wife that we love;To sweeten life's sorrow, the gall mix with honey,I'll wed my dear Bess, and a fig for their money.
In Cramlington we've bonnie lasses enow,With checks red as roses, and eyes black or blue;But Bessy of Blyth I love better than onie—My heart is still there with my own dear honey.
My uncle says, "Robin, why sure you are mad,To slight Suky Swan—she's worth money, my lad!"Dear uncle, says I, I'll ne'er marry for money,And none will I have but my own dear honey.
Her face I compare to the blush of the morn,Her breath to the scent of the fresh-blossom'd thorn;For virtue and sense she's not equall'd by monie—Few, few can compare with my own dear honey.
As in this world of care there is nought we approve,Compar'd to the faithful good wife that we love;To sweeten life's sorrow, the gall mix with honey,I'll wed my dear Bess, and a fig for their money.
By the Same—Written in 1827.
To Kelvin Grove we'll go, bonnie laddie, O,Where the sweetest flowers grow, bonnie laddie, O;With my true-love by my side,Of a' the flowers the pride,I'd wander the warld wide, bonnie laddie, O.When the throstle hails the morn, bonnie laddie, O,We'll wander by the burn, bonnie laddie, O;And we'll rest in the alcove,In bonny Kelvin Grove,Where first I told my love to my laddie, O.When thou leav'st thy native home, bonnie laddie, O,With thee I mean to roam, bonnie laddie, O;I'll watch thee in the fight,And guard thee day and night,That no mishap alight—on my laddie, O.In the fatal battle-field, bonnie laddie, O,Shouldst thou thy spirit yield, bonnie laddie, O—When thy een are clos'd in death,I'll sigh my latest breath,And one grave shall hold us baith, bonnie laddie, O.But kind should Fortune prove, bonnie laddie, O,And spare us baith to love, bonnie laddie, O:By the stream again we'll rove,In bonny Kelvin Grove,And frae hame nae mair remove, dearest laddie, O.
To Kelvin Grove we'll go, bonnie laddie, O,Where the sweetest flowers grow, bonnie laddie, O;With my true-love by my side,Of a' the flowers the pride,I'd wander the warld wide, bonnie laddie, O.
When the throstle hails the morn, bonnie laddie, O,We'll wander by the burn, bonnie laddie, O;And we'll rest in the alcove,In bonny Kelvin Grove,Where first I told my love to my laddie, O.
When thou leav'st thy native home, bonnie laddie, O,With thee I mean to roam, bonnie laddie, O;I'll watch thee in the fight,And guard thee day and night,That no mishap alight—on my laddie, O.
In the fatal battle-field, bonnie laddie, O,Shouldst thou thy spirit yield, bonnie laddie, O—When thy een are clos'd in death,I'll sigh my latest breath,And one grave shall hold us baith, bonnie laddie, O.
But kind should Fortune prove, bonnie laddie, O,And spare us baith to love, bonnie laddie, O:By the stream again we'll rove,In bonny Kelvin Grove,And frae hame nae mair remove, dearest laddie, O.
WHO LAYS POWERFUL BATS ON THE KNAVES WITH FIRE-SHOVEL HATS ON.
By the Same.—Written in 1824.
O Watson! O Watson! what are you about?What have you been doing to cause such a rout?'Tis said you've been giving the Clergy a clout;Which nobody does deny.O stop! Watson, stop! O whither?—say whitherDirects your bold genius?—'twould seem you choose ratherTo hammer the Parsons, instead of bend leather;At starting you were not shy.What tho' the good Clergy for long time have got,At Easter, fat pullets to put in their pot,And ta'en from the people full many a groat,Yet why into this should you pry?Of matters relating to Church or to State,'Tis surely not fit you should trouble your pate;Yet still you keep thumping, with spirit elate,As if you would maul the whole fry.I'd have you respect more theLord'sownAnointed,Who over your conscience to rule are appointed,And to whom pigs and pullets are sent to be jointed,And other good things forby.Repent, then, and quick pay yourEaster Dues,And toguilelessParsons give no more abuse,Or spiritual comfort to you they'll refuse,And this may cause you to sigh!For things are so chang'd since you rang them a peal,That the Clerk seems afraid through our parish to speel;For he's look'd on no better than one come to steal;Which nobody can deny.The Clerk of St. John's, that he might have good luck,Employed a brave Noodle, whose nick-name isPluck,To collect Easter-pence; but the people had struck—Few, few were brought to comply.Now the Parsons to you attach all the blame,O Watson, for saying they had no just claim!Thus you've brought on yourself theirholydisdain;Yet you'll fill a niche in the Temple of Fame,Which nobody will deny.
O Watson! O Watson! what are you about?What have you been doing to cause such a rout?'Tis said you've been giving the Clergy a clout;Which nobody does deny.
O stop! Watson, stop! O whither?—say whitherDirects your bold genius?—'twould seem you choose ratherTo hammer the Parsons, instead of bend leather;At starting you were not shy.
What tho' the good Clergy for long time have got,At Easter, fat pullets to put in their pot,And ta'en from the people full many a groat,Yet why into this should you pry?
Of matters relating to Church or to State,'Tis surely not fit you should trouble your pate;Yet still you keep thumping, with spirit elate,As if you would maul the whole fry.
I'd have you respect more theLord'sownAnointed,Who over your conscience to rule are appointed,And to whom pigs and pullets are sent to be jointed,And other good things forby.
Repent, then, and quick pay yourEaster Dues,And toguilelessParsons give no more abuse,Or spiritual comfort to you they'll refuse,And this may cause you to sigh!
For things are so chang'd since you rang them a peal,That the Clerk seems afraid through our parish to speel;For he's look'd on no better than one come to steal;Which nobody can deny.
The Clerk of St. John's, that he might have good luck,Employed a brave Noodle, whose nick-name isPluck,To collect Easter-pence; but the people had struck—Few, few were brought to comply.
Now the Parsons to you attach all the blame,O Watson, for saying they had no just claim!Thus you've brought on yourself theirholydisdain;Yet you'll fill a niche in the Temple of Fame,Which nobody will deny.
[8]Peter Watson, of Chester-le-Street, Shoemaker.—This person, for some time, laudably exerted himself to oppose the claims of the Government Clergy to what are called Easter dues or offerings; and by a powerful appeal to the public, succeeded in convincing many that such claims were equally oppressive and unjust, and founded neither in the law nor the gospel.—The late worthy Vicar of Newcastle, Mr. John Smith, actuated with the generous feelings of a Man and a Christian, and with due deference to public opinion, restrained the Clergy in his jurisdiction from collecting these Exactions during the latter years of his life. To him, therefore, and to Peter Watson, in particular, who aroused the public attention to the subject, the inhabitants of Newcastle are indebted for being relieved from this odious, unjust, and oppressive Clerical Tax.
[8]Peter Watson, of Chester-le-Street, Shoemaker.—This person, for some time, laudably exerted himself to oppose the claims of the Government Clergy to what are called Easter dues or offerings; and by a powerful appeal to the public, succeeded in convincing many that such claims were equally oppressive and unjust, and founded neither in the law nor the gospel.—The late worthy Vicar of Newcastle, Mr. John Smith, actuated with the generous feelings of a Man and a Christian, and with due deference to public opinion, restrained the Clergy in his jurisdiction from collecting these Exactions during the latter years of his life. To him, therefore, and to Peter Watson, in particular, who aroused the public attention to the subject, the inhabitants of Newcastle are indebted for being relieved from this odious, unjust, and oppressive Clerical Tax.
Tune—"Newcastle Ale."—1814.
While Europe rejoices at Bonny's defeat,And Cossacks pursue him o'er plain and o'er hill,On the banks of the Tyne, in a quiet retreat,I'll write you a ballad about the new Mill,To be built by subscription, of famous description;Ye pale-fac'd mechanics, come join in the club,Whose bowels are yearning at ev'ning and morning,And you will get plenty of cheap, wholesome grub.The Millers their spite have already display'd,And dusty-mouth'd Meal-mongers pettish are grown,That a plan should be thought of to injure their trade,A Mill that will grind for one half of the town;Where, joyful, you'll hie, for wheat or for rye—There some trusty fellow your meal-bags will fill;No mixture of chalk[9], your intestines to caulk,But plain, honest dealing practis'd at the Mill.There's Puff-cake, the baker, too, cries out "Alack!If this plan should succeed, I'll have customers few;"And he whinges and whines as he sets up his backTo twirl his long rolling-pin over the dough:The theme he resumes, with vexation he fumes,And deems the projector a deep-scheming elf;His customers gone, he'll soon be undone,His mixture compound he may swallow himself.Of Gripe-grain, the corn-factor, much could be sung,And of Broad-brim, the Quaker, a guilt-spotted blade,Who both in a halter deserve to be strung,For the thousands they've starv'd by the forestalling trade:But some future time may produce a new rhyme,Wherein I propose their true features to draw;Meanwhile ev'ry man give his aid to the plan,And there'll soon be a down-coming market—Huzza!
While Europe rejoices at Bonny's defeat,And Cossacks pursue him o'er plain and o'er hill,On the banks of the Tyne, in a quiet retreat,I'll write you a ballad about the new Mill,To be built by subscription, of famous description;Ye pale-fac'd mechanics, come join in the club,Whose bowels are yearning at ev'ning and morning,And you will get plenty of cheap, wholesome grub.
The Millers their spite have already display'd,And dusty-mouth'd Meal-mongers pettish are grown,That a plan should be thought of to injure their trade,A Mill that will grind for one half of the town;Where, joyful, you'll hie, for wheat or for rye—There some trusty fellow your meal-bags will fill;No mixture of chalk[9], your intestines to caulk,But plain, honest dealing practis'd at the Mill.
There's Puff-cake, the baker, too, cries out "Alack!If this plan should succeed, I'll have customers few;"And he whinges and whines as he sets up his backTo twirl his long rolling-pin over the dough:The theme he resumes, with vexation he fumes,And deems the projector a deep-scheming elf;His customers gone, he'll soon be undone,His mixture compound he may swallow himself.
Of Gripe-grain, the corn-factor, much could be sung,And of Broad-brim, the Quaker, a guilt-spotted blade,Who both in a halter deserve to be strung,For the thousands they've starv'd by the forestalling trade:But some future time may produce a new rhyme,Wherein I propose their true features to draw;Meanwhile ev'ry man give his aid to the plan,And there'll soon be a down-coming market—Huzza!
[9]About the month of November, 1813, (according to the Courier newspaper) a Victualler for the Navy was convicted in adulterating the biscuit with chalk and Portland stone, and suffered the penalty of a very heavy fine. The audacious fellow afterwards boasted, that he had cleared more money by the practice than the fine amounted to.
[9]About the month of November, 1813, (according to the Courier newspaper) a Victualler for the Navy was convicted in adulterating the biscuit with chalk and Portland stone, and suffered the penalty of a very heavy fine. The audacious fellow afterwards boasted, that he had cleared more money by the practice than the fine amounted to.
Tune—"Tibby Fowler i' the Glen."
By the Same.
Sung at a Meeting of Reformers at the Golden Lion Inn, Bigg Market, Newcastle, on the Liberation of Henry Hunt, Esq. in 1822.
There lives a nymph o'er yonder lea,And O she is a winsome hizzie!Her name is Lizzie Liberty,And monie wooers has sweet Lizzie:She sings and trips along the plain,Free as the wind glides o'er the water;O bonny Lizzie Liberty!Now a' the lads wad fain be at her.The Men o' France to her advance,And use all arts to gain her favour;And Spaniards bold, with hearts of gold,Vow, if she's to be had, they'll have her;And daft John Bull, that bleth'ring cull,About the nymph sets up his chatter;O bonnie Lizzie Liberty!Now a' the lads wad fain be at her.Braw Donald Scot steps forth, I wot,To win the smiles of this fair lady,And Irish Pat has promis'd that,To woo the nymph he'll aye be steady:Whole Patriot Bands, of foreign lands,Do fyke and fistle sair about her:O bonnie Lizzie Liberty!Nae happiness is felt without her.
There lives a nymph o'er yonder lea,And O she is a winsome hizzie!Her name is Lizzie Liberty,And monie wooers has sweet Lizzie:She sings and trips along the plain,Free as the wind glides o'er the water;O bonny Lizzie Liberty!Now a' the lads wad fain be at her.
The Men o' France to her advance,And use all arts to gain her favour;And Spaniards bold, with hearts of gold,Vow, if she's to be had, they'll have her;And daft John Bull, that bleth'ring cull,About the nymph sets up his chatter;O bonnie Lizzie Liberty!Now a' the lads wad fain be at her.
Braw Donald Scot steps forth, I wot,To win the smiles of this fair lady,And Irish Pat has promis'd that,To woo the nymph he'll aye be steady:Whole Patriot Bands, of foreign lands,Do fyke and fistle sair about her:O bonnie Lizzie Liberty!Nae happiness is felt without her.
BY WILLIAM MIDFORD.
Tune—"Scots come o'er the Border."
March! march to the Dandy Fish Market!See what our Corporation's done for you,By pillars and paling so nobly surrounded,And your stone tables all standing before you.Where's there a river so fam'd in the nation?Where's the bold tars that so well grace their station?Coals, fish, and grindstones—we'll through the world bark it—And now we ha'e gotten a bonny Fish Market,March! march, &c.Oh! did the fish ken they'd be caged like a birdie,(Euphy, the Queen, singing, "Maw canny Geordie,")They'd pop out their heads then, should ye only watch them,And call on the fishermen sharply to catch them.March! march, &c.Yet all isn't right, tho'—in time you may hear it;One week is past, and but one cart's come near it:The loons above stairs preconcerted the order,And hinder poor bodies to hawk through the border.March! march, &c.Gan to the coast—where the fishermen's weeding—Gan to the fells—where the cuddies are feeding—Gan to hell's kitchen—should ye have occasion—Ye'll see hizzies drinking through spite and vexation.March! march, &c.Where's Madgie's troops that so well could shout oysters?Gone to a convent or nunnery cloisters!Where's the wee shop that once held Jack the Barber?Gone to make room for the fish brought to harbour!March! march,&c.Then hie to the Custom-house, add to your pleasures,Now you're well cover'd, so toom the new measures:It ne'er will be finish'd, I'll wager a groat,Till they've cut a canal to admit five-men boats!March! march, &c.
March! march to the Dandy Fish Market!See what our Corporation's done for you,By pillars and paling so nobly surrounded,And your stone tables all standing before you.
Where's there a river so fam'd in the nation?Where's the bold tars that so well grace their station?Coals, fish, and grindstones—we'll through the world bark it—And now we ha'e gotten a bonny Fish Market,March! march, &c.
Oh! did the fish ken they'd be caged like a birdie,(Euphy, the Queen, singing, "Maw canny Geordie,")They'd pop out their heads then, should ye only watch them,And call on the fishermen sharply to catch them.March! march, &c.
Yet all isn't right, tho'—in time you may hear it;One week is past, and but one cart's come near it:The loons above stairs preconcerted the order,And hinder poor bodies to hawk through the border.March! march, &c.
Gan to the coast—where the fishermen's weeding—Gan to the fells—where the cuddies are feeding—Gan to hell's kitchen—should ye have occasion—Ye'll see hizzies drinking through spite and vexation.March! march, &c.
Where's Madgie's troops that so well could shout oysters?Gone to a convent or nunnery cloisters!Where's the wee shop that once held Jack the Barber?Gone to make room for the fish brought to harbour!March! march,&c.
Then hie to the Custom-house, add to your pleasures,Now you're well cover'd, so toom the new measures:It ne'er will be finish'd, I'll wager a groat,Till they've cut a canal to admit five-men boats!March! march, &c.
For the Fishwives of Newcastle.
Tune—"Chevy Chase."
God prosper long our noble king,Our lives and safeties all!A woeful ditty we may singOn ev'ry fishwife's stall.Good Magistrates, it were a sinThat we shouldrailat you;Altho' theplaiceyou've put us in,Isgratingto our view.Ifcrab-bed looks we should put on,Orflounderin a pet,Each fishwife'stubwould, very soon,Be in thekit-ty set.Sure we are not such simplesoles,Though in your legalnet,But we will haul youo'er the coals,And playhot cocklesyet.The iron ring in which we're shut,To make thegudgeonsstare,Will not, says ev'ry scolding slut,Withher-ringe'er compare.Then ev'ry night, that duly falls,Fresh watermay be seenAll floating round our seats and stalls,As if wehad-ducksbeen.But thusshell'din, as now we are,Within our corp'rate bounds,Altho' we may not curse and swear,We still may cry,Cod-sounds!Let gentle peoplecarptheir fill,At us, our sprees and pranks;For tho' we're now turn'd off theHill,Themselves may lose theirBanks.
God prosper long our noble king,Our lives and safeties all!A woeful ditty we may singOn ev'ry fishwife's stall.
Good Magistrates, it were a sinThat we shouldrailat you;Altho' theplaiceyou've put us in,Isgratingto our view.
Ifcrab-bed looks we should put on,Orflounderin a pet,Each fishwife'stubwould, very soon,Be in thekit-ty set.
Sure we are not such simplesoles,Though in your legalnet,But we will haul youo'er the coals,And playhot cocklesyet.
The iron ring in which we're shut,To make thegudgeonsstare,Will not, says ev'ry scolding slut,Withher-ringe'er compare.
Then ev'ry night, that duly falls,Fresh watermay be seenAll floating round our seats and stalls,As if wehad-ducksbeen.
But thusshell'din, as now we are,Within our corp'rate bounds,Altho' we may not curse and swear,We still may cry,Cod-sounds!
Let gentle peoplecarptheir fill,At us, our sprees and pranks;For tho' we're now turn'd off theHill,Themselves may lose theirBanks.
BY PHIL. HODGSON.
To sing of some nymph in her cot,Each bard will oft flourish his quill:I'm glad it has fall'n to my lot,To celebrate Jesmond Mill.When Spring hither winds her career,Our trees and our hedges to fill,Vast oceans of verdure appear,To charm you at Jesmond Mill.To plant every rural delight,Mere Nature has lavish'd her skill;Here fragrant soft breezes unite,To wanton round Jesmond Mill.When silence each evening here dwells,The birds in their coverts all still;No music in sweetness excelsThe clacking of Jesmond Mill.Reclin'd by the verge of the stream,Or stretch'd on the side of the hill,I'm never in want of a theme,While learning at Jesmond Mill.Sure Venus some plot has design'd,Or why is my heart never still,Whenever it pops in my mind,To wander near Jesmond Mill.My object, ye swains, you will guess,If ever in love you had skill;And now I will frankly confess,'Tis—Jenny of Jesmond Mill.
To sing of some nymph in her cot,Each bard will oft flourish his quill:I'm glad it has fall'n to my lot,To celebrate Jesmond Mill.
When Spring hither winds her career,Our trees and our hedges to fill,Vast oceans of verdure appear,To charm you at Jesmond Mill.
To plant every rural delight,Mere Nature has lavish'd her skill;Here fragrant soft breezes unite,To wanton round Jesmond Mill.
When silence each evening here dwells,The birds in their coverts all still;No music in sweetness excelsThe clacking of Jesmond Mill.
Reclin'd by the verge of the stream,Or stretch'd on the side of the hill,I'm never in want of a theme,While learning at Jesmond Mill.
Sure Venus some plot has design'd,Or why is my heart never still,Whenever it pops in my mind,To wander near Jesmond Mill.
My object, ye swains, you will guess,If ever in love you had skill;And now I will frankly confess,'Tis—Jenny of Jesmond Mill.
Author of 'Canny Newcassel,' 'Jemmy Joneson's Whurry,' &c.
BY ROBERT GILCHRIST.
All ye whom minstrel's strains inspire,Soft as the sighs of morning—All ye who sweep the rustic lyre,Your native hills adorning—Where genius bids her rays descendO'er bosoms deep and lonesome—Let every heart and hand respondThe name of Tommy Thompson.CHORUS.His spirit now is soaring bright,And leaves us dark and dolesome;O luckless was the fatal nightThat lost us Tommy Thompson.The lyric harp was all his own,Each mystic art combining—Which Envy, with unbending frown,Might hear with unrepining.The sweetest flower in summer blown,Was not more blithe and joysome,Than was the matchless, merry tone,Which died with Tommy Thompson.His spirit, &c.
All ye whom minstrel's strains inspire,Soft as the sighs of morning—All ye who sweep the rustic lyre,Your native hills adorning—Where genius bids her rays descendO'er bosoms deep and lonesome—Let every heart and hand respondThe name of Tommy Thompson.
CHORUS.
His spirit now is soaring bright,And leaves us dark and dolesome;O luckless was the fatal nightThat lost us Tommy Thompson.
The lyric harp was all his own,Each mystic art combining—Which Envy, with unbending frown,Might hear with unrepining.The sweetest flower in summer blown,Was not more blithe and joysome,Than was the matchless, merry tone,Which died with Tommy Thompson.His spirit, &c.
By the Same.