The Keel Row See also the The New Keel Row "Weel may the keel Row! The "Tyneside National Anthem", as it has been called has been claimed- both melody and words-as Scottish. Mr. John Stokoe, in the monthly Chronicle, shows this claim to be unfounded, and proves, by an interesting reference to William Shield, the famous Swalwell muscian that "the Keel Row was a popular Tyneside melody bofore 1700. Few melodies, he adds, are so identified with a district as our simple nad beautiful melody of the "Keel Row" is associated with Norhumbria a nd Tyneside." -Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings...., Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891 click for midi sound For Notation click here. As I came thro' Sandgate, thro' Sandgate, thro' Sandgate, As I came thro' Sandgate, I heard a lassie sing Weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, Weel may the keel row that my laddie's in. Oh, wha's like my Johnnie, sae leish, sae blighe, sae bonny? He's foremost 'mang the mony Keel lads o' coaly Tyne. He'll set and row sae tightly, or in the dance sae sprightly He'll cut and shuffle sightly; 'tis true - were he not mine. He wears a blue bonnet, blue bonnet, blue bonnet, He wears a blue bonnet, a dimple in his chin; And weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, And weel may the keel row that my laddie's in. My lad's ower bonnie, ower cannie, ower bonnie- My lad's ower cannie, for the coal trade--- He's fitter for a merchant, a merchant, a merchant, He's fitter for a merchant, than a man-o'O-war's blade. Bright star of Heaton, your ay wour darling sweet one, May Heaven'sblessings leet on you, your lady, bairins, and ye-- Weel may the keel row, &c. (Last verse addressed to Sir Matthew White Ridley, of Heaton known as Canny Sir Matthew) Last two verses found in: The Bishoprick Garland, London, Nichols and Baldwin and Cradock, 1834, Graham, 1969. -Source for 1st three verses: A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 In Allan the source is cited as Ritson's "Northumberland Garland," 1793. Only the first and third verses are present. In the first the words are- "As I went up Sandgate" in stead of thro'. This version is called the- "Correct version" as opposed to the "Street Version" Street Version The Keel Row As aw was gawn thro' San'get, thro' San'get, thro' San'get, As aw was gawn throi' San' get aw her'd th' lasses sing-- Weel may th' keel row, th' keel row, th' keel row, Weel may th' keel row that maw lad's in! He wears a blue bonnet, a bunch of ribbons on it ; He wears a blue bonnet, a dimple in his chin: And 'weel may th' keel row, th' keel row, th' keel row. an' weel may th' keel row that may lad's in! -Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings...., Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891 back to the song menu The New Keel Row To the old tune Whe's like my Johnny, Sae leish, sae blithe, sae bonny, He's foremost 'mang the mony Keel lads o' Coaly Tyne; He'll set or row so tightly, Or in the dance so sprightly, He'll cu' and shuffle slightly, 'Tis true--were he not mine. chorus: Weel may the keel row, The keel row, the keel row, Weel may the keel row, That my laddie's in; He wears a blue bonnet, A bonnet, a bonnet, He wears a blue bonnet, A dimple in his chin. He's ne mair learning, Than tells his weekly earning, Yet reet frae wrang discerning, Tho' brave, ne bruiser he; Thoi' he no worth a plack is, His awn coat on his back is, And nane can say that black is The white o' Johhny's ee. Each pay-day nearly, He takes his quairt right dearly, Then talks O, latin O,--cheerly, Or mavies jaws away; How caring not a feather, Nelson and he together, The springy French did lether, And gar'd them shab away. Were a' kings comparely, In each I'd spy fairly, An' ay wad Johnny barly, He gets sic bonny bairns; Go bon, the queen, or misses, But wad for Johnny's kisses, Luik upon as blisses, Scrimp meals, caff beds, and dairns. Wour lads, like their deddy, To fight the French are ready, But gie's a peache that's steady, And breed cheap as lang syne; May a' the press gangs perish, Each lass her laddy cherish; Lang may the Coal Trade flourish Upon the dingy Tyne. Breet Star o' Heaton, Your ay wour darling sweet'en, May heaveh's blessings leet on Your leady, bairns, and ye; God bless the King and Nation, Each bravely fill his station, Our canny Corporation, Lang may they sing wi'me -By TT, in: Bell also in Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings...., Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891 with the note: "The Oldest and by far the most popular, of all the additions to, or imitations of, the famous fragment, "The Keel Row." To the old tune". The author is listed as Thomas Thompson. Keel Row III Chorus- Weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, Weel may the keel row, and better may she speed: Weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, Weel may the keel row, that gets athe bairns their breed. We teuk wor keel up to the dyke, Up to the dyke, up to the dyke, We teuk wor keel up to the dyke, And there we gat her load; Then sail'd away down to Shields, Down to Shields, down to Shields, Then sail'd away down to Shields, And shipp'd wor coals abroad. Then we row'd away up to the fest, Up to the fest, up to the fest, We row'd away up to the fest, Cheerly every man; Pat by wor gear and moor'd wor keel, And moor'd wor keel, and Moor'd wor keel, Pat by wor gear and moor'd wor keel, Then went and drak wor can, Our canny wives, our clean fireside, Our bonny bairns, their parent's pride, Sweet smiles that make life smoothly glide, We find when we gan hyem: They'll work for us when we get au'd, The'll keep us frae the winter's cau'd; As lifedeclines they'll us uphaud-- When young we uphaud them. -T. Thompson (Listed as Keel Row "New" --In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Row Between The Cages For Notation Click Here For Midi Sound Click here One mornen wen aw went ta wark, th'seet wis most exsiten. Aw ard a noise en luckt aroond, en we de ye think wis fiten? Aw stud amaisd en at thim gaisd, te see thim in such raiges, For aw nivor seed e row like that between th' Brockwil caiges. Wor aud caige sais: "Cum over th' gaits, becaws it's mei intenshin To let th' see wethor too or me is th' best invenshin." Th' neuin been raised, teuk off his clais, then at it thae went dabbin; Th' blud wis runnen doon th' skeets an past th' weimin's cabin. Wor aud caige sais: "Let's heh me clais; thoo thwot thit thoo cud flae me, But if aw'd been is young is thoo, aw's certain aw cud pae thee." Th' patent knockt hees ankel off, en th' buaith ad cutten fuaices. Th' shifters rapt three for te ride, so th' buaith went te thor plaices. Wen gannen up en doon th' shaft, th' paitint caige did threetin For te tuaik wor audin's life if thae stopt it meeten. Wor aud caige bawld oot is thae passt: "Thoo nasty dorty paitint, Rub thee ies eguain th' skeets -aw think too's ardly wakinit." Th' patint te wor aud caige sais: "Altho aw be a strangoer, Aw kin work me wark is weel is thoo, an free th' men freh daingor. Noo, if th' rope shub brick we me, aud skinny jaws, just watch us- Thoo'll see me clag on te th' skeets, for aw's full e springs en catches." Wor aud caige te th' paitint sais: "Aw warned thoo think thoo's clivor Becaws thi'v polished thoo we paint, but thoo'l not last for ivor. The paint on thoo 'ill wer awae, an then thoo's lost thei beuty; Th' nivor painted me at aal, en still aw've deun my deuty." Th' braiksmin browt thim buaith te bank, th' mischeef for te sattil, Thae fit frae five o'clock te six, en th' paitint won th' battle. It teuk th' braiksmin half e shift te clag thim up wi plaistors. Wor aud caige sent hees noatece in, but just te vex th' maistors. The song was written by Tommy Armstrong (1848-1919) of Tanfield, County Durham. The above is as he wrote it, "Pitmatic" dialect and all, and is taken from A.L Lloyd's Folk Song in England. The song was set to a traditional melody, used earlier by Alexander Rodger for Robin Tamson's Smiddy. back to the song menu Do-lli-a For Midi Sound Click here! For notation click here Fresh aw cum frae Sandgate Street, Dol-li, dol-li Maw best freends here to meet, Dol-li-a Dol-li the dillen dol, Dol-li, dol-li Dol-li th dillen dol, Dol-li-a The Black Cuffs is gawn away, Dol-li, dol-li, An' that'll be a crying day Dol-li-a Dol-li the dillen dol, Dol-li, dol-li Dol-li th dillen dol, Dol-li-a The Green Cuffs is cummin' in, Dol-li, dol-li, An' that'll make the lasses sing Dol-li-a Dol-li the dillen dol, Dol-li, dol-li Dol-li th dillen dol, Dol-li-a -Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings...., Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891 with the note: "A song famous in Newcastle about the years 1792-3-4. The "Black Cuffs", the North York Millitia, The "Green Cuffs", the 23rd Ulster Dragoons. back to the song menu Billy Boy Click Here for midi sound Click here for another midi sound Click here for notation Where have ye been all the day, Billy Boy, Billy Boy? Where have ye been all the day, me Billy Boy? I've been walking all the day With me charming Nancy Grey. Chorus And so me Nancy kittled me fancy, Oh me charming Billy Boy. Is she fit to be your wife, Billy Boy, Billy Boy? Is she fit to be your wife, me Billy Boy? She as fit to be my wife As the fork is to the knife. Chorus Can she cook a bit o' steak, Billy Boy, Billy Boy? Can she cook a bit o' steak, me Billy Boy? She can cook a bit o' steak, Aye, and make a girdle cake. Chorus Can she make an Irish stew, Billy Boy, Billy Boy? Can she make an Irish stew, me Billy Boy? She can make an Irish stew, Aye, and 'Singin' Hinnies' too. A fancy version! back to the song menu When the Boat comes in/Dance to thy Daddy For notaton click here For midi sound click here Come here me little Jacky, now ah've smoked me baccy, let's hev a bit of cracky, till the boat comes in. Dance to thee Daddy, sing to thee Mammy, dance to thee Daddy, to thee Mammy sing; Thou shalt hev a fishy on a little dishy, thou shalt hev a fishy when the boat comes in. Here's thy mother humming, like a canny woman; Yonder comes thy fatha, drunk - he cannat stand. Dance to thee Daddy, sing to thee Mammy, dance to thee Daddy, to thee Mammy sing; Thou shalt hev a fishy on a little dishy, thou shalt hev a haddock when the boat comes in Our Tommy's always fuddling, he's so fond of ale, but he's kind to me, I hope he'll never fail. Dance to thee Daddy, sing to thee Mammy, dance to thee Daddy, to thee Mammy sing; Thou shalt hev a fishy on a little dishy, thou shalt hev a Bloater when the boat comes in I like a drop mesel', when I can get it sly, and thou, my bonny bairn, will like't as well as I. Dance to thee Daddy, sing to thee Mammy, dance to thee Daddy, to thee Mammy sing; Thou shalt hev a fishy on a little dishy, thou shalt hev a Mackerel when the boat comes in. May we get a drop, oft as we stand in need; and weel may the keel row that brings the bairns tha breed. Dance to thee Daddy, sing to thee Mammy, dance to thee Daddy, to thee Mammy sing; Thou shalt hev a fishy on a little dishy, thou shalt hev a Salmon when the boat comes in. -In Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings...., Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891. Author lsited as Watson and source: Fordyce's "Newcastle song Book," 1842" back to the song menu Keep your feet still Geordie Hinny! click for real audio Keep Yor Feet Still! Teun- "Nelly Gray." Wor Geordey an' Bob Jonsin byeth lay i' one bed, Iv a little lodgjin hoose that's doon the shore, Before Bob had been an' oor asleep, a kick frae Geordey's fut Myed him wakin up to roar instead o' snore. Korus. "Keep yor feet still! Geordey, hinny, let's bve happy for the neet, For aw maynit be se happy throo the day. So give us that bit cumfort, --keep yor feet still, Geordey lad, An' dinnet send maw bonny dreams away!" Aw dreamt thor was a dancin held, an' Mary Clark wes there; An' aw thowt we tript it leetly on the floor, An' aw prest her heevin breest te mine when walsin roond the room, That's mair than aw dor ivor de before. Ye'll knaw the lad that she gans with, they call him Jimmy Green, Aw thowt he tried te spoil us i' wor fun, But aw dreamt aw nail;'d him heavy, an' blackt the big feul's eyes; If aw'd slept it's hard to tell what aw wad deun. Aw thowt aw set her hyem that neet, content we went alang. Aw kiss'd her lips a hundred times or mair, An' aw wish'd the road wad nivor end, se happy like wes aw, Aw cud wlak'd a thoosind miles wi' Mary there! Aw dremt Jim Green had left the toon an' left his luv te me, An' aw thowt the hoose wis furnish'd wi' the best, An' aw dreamt aw just had left the church wi' Mary be me side, When yor clumsy feet completely spoil'd the rest." -Joe Wilson All rise for the National Anthem of Geordie Land! The Blaydon Races 1/2 Tune= Brighton For midi sound click here For midi sound click here. For notation click here I went to Blaydon Races, 'twas on the ninth of June, Eighteen hundred on sixty-two on a summer's efternoon. I tyuk the bus fra Balmbra's an' she was heavy laden. Away we went along Collingwood street that's on the road to Blaydon. Chorus - Oh! lads ye shud of seen us gannin', We pass'd the foaks along the road Just as they wor stannin'; Thor wes lots o' lads and lasses there, all wi' smiling faces, Gawn alang the Scotswood Road To see the Blaydon Races. We flew past Armstrong's factory and up to the 'Robin Adair' Just gannin doon te the railway bridge the bus wheel flew off there. The lassies lost their crinolines off, an' the veils that hide their faces An' aw got two black eyes an' a broken nose in gan te Blaydon Races. Chorus When we gat the wheel put on, away we went agyen, But them that had their noses broke they cam back ower hyem; Sum went to the dispensary an' uthers to Dr. Gibbs An' sum sought out the Infirmary to mend their broken ribs. Chorus Now when we got to Paradise thor wes bonny gam begun; There were fower-and-twenty on the 'bus, man, hoo they danced and sung; They called on me to sing a sang, I sung them 'Paddy Fagan", Aw danced a jig an' swung me twig the day I went to Blaydon. Chorus We flew across the Chain Bridge reet into Blaydon toon The bellmen he was callin' there they called him Jackey Brown; Aw saw him talkin' to sum cheps, an' them he was persuadin' To gan an' see Geordy Ridley's show in the Mechanics Hall at Blaydon. Chorus: The rain it poor'd all the day, an' myed the groons quite muddy 'Coffy Johnny' had a white hat on-they war shootin' "Whe stole the cuddy" There wes spice stalls an' munkey shows, and an' aud wives sellin ciders, An' a chep wvi' a hapenny roond aboot shootin' "Now, me boys, for riders." -In Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings...., Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891. With the Note: Ridley (Geordie) Author's Manuscript 1862. -The Whisky Priests have used this tune for their song "The Car-Boot Sale" ELSIE MARLEY For Midi Sound click here For notation click here chorus: Di' ye ken Elsie Marley, honey The wife that sells the barley,honey She lost her pocket and all her money A-back o' the bush in the garden, honey Elsie Marley's grown so fine She won't get up to serve the swine But lies in bed till eight or nine And surely she does take her time. Elsie Marley is so neat It's hard for one to walk the street But every lad and lass they meet Cries "Di' ye ken Elsie Marley, honey?" Elsie Marley wore a straw hat But now she's getten a velvet cap The Lambton lads mun pay for that Di' ye ken Elsie Marley, honey? Elsie keeps rum, gin and ale In her house below the dale Where every tradesman, up and down Does call and spend his half-a-crown. The farmers as they cum that way They drink with Elsie every day And call the fiddler for to play The tune of Elsie Marley, honey. The pitmen and the keelmen trim They drink Bumbo made of gin And for to dance they do begin To the tune of Elsie Marley, honey. The sailors they do call for flip As soon as they come from the ship And then begin to dance and skip to the tune of "Elsie Marley," honey. Those gentlemen who go so fine They'll treat her with a bottle of wine And freely they'll sit down and dine Along with Elsie Marley, honey. So to conclude those lines I've penn'd Hoping there's none I do offend And thus my merry joke does end Concerning Elsie Marley, honey. from Songs of Northern England, Stokoe (Same version appears in Sir Cuthbert Sharp, Bishoprick Garland 1834, Graham,1969. The Following Note Appears in the Bishoprick Garland- Elsie Marley has given her name to a tune which is spirited and lively, which is freqwuently called for as a dance at the country fairs. Her mainden name was Harrison, and she was the first wife of Ralph Marley, who kept a public house at Picktree, bearing the sign of the Swan, with the appropriate motto: The Swan doth love the water clear, And so does man good ale and beer." She was a handsome, buxom, bustling landlady, and brought good custom to the house by her civility and attention. On the march of the Dutch troops to Scotland, in the forty-five, the soldiers amused themselves by shooting at the Swan, and it remained a long time afterwards in a tattered condition, from having served as a target to the mercenaries. Elsie had a son, Harrison Marley, whose son Ralph was living a few years since, with a numerous progeny. Elsie suffered from a long and severe illness, and was at length found drowned in a pond near Bygo, where it is supposed she had fallen in by accident, and could not extricate herself through weakness. Concerning the line "A back o' the bush i' the garden, honey." was written- This is poetical license. Elsie was an active manager, and the household affairs were entrusted to here sole control. She went to Newcastle quarterly to pay the brewer's bill, &c; and on one of these occasions (it was the fair day) she had 20 guineas in her pocket, sewed up in a corner. On the Sand-hill she was hustled, and clapping her hand to here side, she exclaimed aloud. "O honney, honney, I've lost my pocket and all my money."-R. Marley. In regard to the verse "The Lambton lads mun pay for that--" is written: This verse is not in Ritson's copy, ("Song IV A New Song Made on Alice Marley, An Alewife, at *****, Near Chester"- Northern Garlands, Joseph Ritson, London 1810.) but it is current in the neighbourhood. By the Lambton lads, were meant the five brothers of the house of Lambton, all bachelors to a certain period, and all admirers of Elsie Marley. The Ritson version uses as chorus: And do you ken Elsie Marley, honey? The wife who sells the barley, honey; She won't get up to serve her swine, And do you ken Elsie Marley, honey? Note: mentioned in Byker Hill back to the song menu BYKER HILL For notation click here For Midi Sound click here If I had another penny I would have another gill I would make the piper play The bonny lass of Byker Hill Byker Hill and Walker Shore Collier lads for ever more (2x) The pitman and the keelman trim They drink bumble made from gin Then to dance they do begin To the tune of Elsie Marley When first I went down to the dirt I had no cowl nor no pitshirt Now I've gotten two or three Walker Pit's done well by me Geordie Charlton, he had a pig He hit it with a shovel and it danced a jig All the way to Walker Shore To the tune of Elsie Marley - Verse in version in Bell: When I cam to Walker wark, I had ne coat nor ne pit sark But now aw've getten twe or three, Walker pit's deun weel for me. Bell gives tune as: Off she goes. back to the song menu The Lambton Worm For midi sound click here. For Notation Click Here One Sunday morn young Lambton Went a-fishin' in the Wear; An' catched a fish upon his huek, He thowt leuk't varry queer, But whatt'n a kind a fish it was Young Lambton couldn't tell. He waddn't fash to carry it hyem, So he hoyed it in a well. (Chorus) Whisht! lads, haad yor gobs, Aa'll tell ye aall and aaful story, Whisht! lads, haad yor gobs, An' Aal tell ye 'bout the worm. Noo Lambton felt inclined to gan An' fight in foreign wars. He joined a troop o' Knights that cared For neither wounds nor scars, An' off he went to Palestine Where queer things him befel, An' varry seun forgot aboot The queer worm i' the well. (Chorus) But the worm got fat an' growed an' growed, An' growed an aaful size; He'd greet big teeth, a greet big gob, An' greet big goggle eyes. An' when at neets he craaled aboot To pick up bits o'news, If he felt dry upon the road, He milked a dozen coos. (Chorus) This feorful worm wad often feed On calves an' lambs an' sheep, An' swally little bairns alive When they laid doon to sleep. An' when he'd eaten aal he cud An' he had has he's fill, He craaled away an' lapped his tail Seven times roond Pensher Hill. (Chorus) The news of this most aaful worm An' his queer gannins on Seun crossed the seas, gat to the ears Of brave an' bowld Sir John. So hyem he cam an' catched the beast An' cut 'im in three halves, An' that seun stopped he's eatin' bairns, An' sheep an' lambs and calves. (Chorus) So noo ye knaa hoo aall the folks On byeth sides of the Wear Lost lots o' sheep an' lots o' sleep An' lived in mortal feor. So let's hev one to brave Sir John That kept the bairns frae harm Saved coos an' calves by myekin' haalves O' the famis Lambton Worm (Chorus) Noo lads, Aa'll haad me gob, That's aall Aa knaa aboot the story Of Sir John's clivvor job Wi' the aaful Lambton Worm! Further history of the Lambton Worm Source: The Book of Ballads - Ancient and modern, London, Virtue, Spalding, and Co "This ballad is taken from 'the Local Historian's Table-book,' where it is given as 'revised by the author,' the Rev. J. Watson, having apparently been first published in 'Tait's Edinburgh Magazine.' It is founded upon a 'family legend,' current in the county of Durham, 'the authority of which,' says Mr Brockett, in his 'glossary of North Country Words,' 'the inhabitants will not allow it to be questioned.' 'The lapse of three centuries,' he adds, 'has so completely enveloped in obscurity the particular details, that it is impossible to give a narration which could in any way be considered as complete.' In the Table-book, however, is given a 'history,' said to have been 'gleaned with much patient and laborious investigation, from the viva voce narration's of sundry elders of both sexes on the banks of the Wear in the immediate neighbourhood of the scene of the action.' This 'history' is almost identical with the story of the ballad; the allusions in which can be found explained in the notes. With regard to the origin of the Legend, Which has been 'preserved and repeated almost without variation for centuries,' it is conjectured in the 'Table-book' to have 'arisen from the circumstance of an invasion from a foreign foe, some successful chieftain, with well-disciplined bands, destroying and laying waste with fire and sword, whose advance over unequal ground would convey to the fears of the peasantry the appearance of a rolling serpent; and the power of re-uniting is readily accounted for by the ordinary evolutions of military tactics. And by the knight's 'destroying this legion by his single arm,' is supposed to be signified that he was 'the head and chief in the onslaught.'" THE WORME OF LAMBTON THE SINNING. T'Is the joyful Easter morn, And the bells ring loud and clear, Sounding the holy day of rest Through the quiet vale of Wear. Forth at its sound, from his stately hail, Hath the Lord of Lambton come, With knight and squire in rich attire, Page, seneschal, and groom. The white-hair'd peasant and his dame, Have left their woodland cot; Children of toil and poverty, Their cares and toil forgot. And buxom youth and bashful maid, In holiday array, Thro' verdant glade and greenwood shade, To Brigford bend their way. And soon within its sacred dome Their wandering steps are stayed; The bell is rung, the mass is sung, And the solemn prayer is prayed. But why did Lambton's youthful heir, Not mingle with the throng? And why did he not bend his knee, Nor join in the holy song? 0, Lambton' s heir is a wicked man! Alike in word and deed; lie makes a jest of psalm and priest, Of the Ave and the Creed. He loves the fight, he loves the chase He loves each kind of sin; But the holy church, from year to year, He is not found within. And Lambton's heir, at the matin prayer, Or the vesper, is not seen; And on this day of rest and peace He hath donned his coat of green; And with his creel slung on his back, His light rod in his hand, Down by the side of the shady Wear He took his lonely stand. There was no sound hut the rushing stream, The little birds were still, As if they knew that Lambton's heir, Was doing a deed of ill. Many a salmon and speckled trout Through the quiet waters glide But they all sought the deepest pools, Their golden scales to hide. The soft. west wind just rippled the brook, And the clouds flew gently by, And gleamed the sun, — 'twas a lovely day To the eager fisher's eye. He threw his line, of the costly twine, Across the gentle stream; Upon its top the dun-flies drop Lightly as childhood's dream. Again, again, — but all in vain, In the shallow or the deep No trout rose to his cunning bait He heard no salmon leap. And now he wandered east the stream, And now he wandered west; He sought each bank or hanging bush, Which fishes love the best. But vain was all his skilful art; Vain was each deep disguise; Vain was alike the varied bait, And vain the mimic flies. When, tired and vexed, the castle hell, Rung out the hour of dine, "Now," said the Lambton's youthful heir. "A weary lot is mine. For six long hours, this April morn, My line in vain I've cast; But one more throw; come weal come wo, For this shall be the last." He took from his bag a maggot worm, That bait of high renown His line is wheeled quickly through the air, Then sunk in the water down. Wben he drew it out, his ready hand With no quivering motion shook, For neither salmon, trout nor ged,. Had fastened on his hook. But a little thing, a strange formed thing, Like a piece of muddy weed But like no fish that swims the stream. Nor ought that crawls the mead. 'Twas scarce an inch and a half in length, Its colour the darkest green And on its rough and scaly back Two little fins were seen. It had a long and pointed snout, Like the mouth of the slimy eel, And its white and loosely hanging jaws, Twelve pin-like teeth reveal. It had sharp claws upon its feet, Short ears upon its head, A jointed tail, and quick bright eyes, That gleamed of a fiery red. "Art thou the prize," said the weary wight, "For which I have spent my time; For which I have toil'd till the hour of neon, Since rang the matin chime?" From the side of the deli, a crystal well Sends its waters bubbling by; "Rest there, thou ugly tiny elf, Either to live or die." He threw it in, and when next he came, He saw, to his surprise, It was a foot and a half in length; It had grown so much in Size. And its wings were long, far-stretched and strong. And redder were its eyes. THE CURSE. But Lambton's heir is an altered man; At the church on bended knee, Three times a day he was wont to pray; And now he's beyond the sea. He has done penance for his sins, He has drank of a sainted well, He has joined the band from the holy Laud To chase the infidel. Where host met host, and strife raged most, His sword flashed high and bright; Where force met force, he winged his course, The foremost in the fight. Where he saw on high th' Oriflamine fly, His onward path he bore, And the Paynim Knight, and the Saracen, Lay weltering in their gore. Or in the joust, or tournament, Of all that valiant hand, When, with lance in rest, he forward prest, Who could the shock withstand? Pure was his fame, unstained his shield; A merciful man was he; The friend of the weak, he raised not his hand 'Gainst a fallen enemy. Thus on the plains of Palestine, He gained a mighty name, And, full of honour and renown, To the home of his childhood came. But when he came to his father's lands, No cattle were grazing there; The grass in the mead was unmown and rough, And the fields untilled and bare. And when he came to his father's hail, He wondered what might ail; His sire but coolly welcomed him, And his sisters' cheeks were pale. "I come from the fight," said the Red-Cross Knight, "I in savage lands did roam; But where'er it be, they welcome me, Save in my own loved home. "Now why, now why, this frozen cheer? What is it that may ail? Why tremble thus my father dear?— M3 sister, why so pale?" "0! sad and woful has been our lot, Whilst thou wast far away; For a mighty dragon hath hither come And taken up its stay; At night or morn it sleepeth not, But watcheth for its prey. 'Tis ten cloth yards in length ; its hue Is of the darkest green And on its rough and scaly hack, Two strong black wings are seen. It hath a long and pointed snout, Like the mighty crocodile And, from its grinning jaws, stand out Its teeth in horrid file. It hath on each round and webbed foot Four sharp and hooked claws And its jointed tail, with heavy trail Over the ground it draws. It hath two rough and hairy ears Upon its bony head; Its eyes shine like the winter sun, Fearful, and darkly red. Its roar is loud as the thunder's sound, But shorter, and more shrill It rolls, with many a heavy bound, Onward from hill to hill. And each morn, at the matin chime, It seeks the lovely Wear; And, at the noontide bell, It gorges its fill, then seeks the hill Where springs the crystal well. No knight has e'er returned who dared The monster to assail. Though he struck off an ear or limb, Or lopt its jointed tail, Its severed limbs again unite, Strong as the iron mail. My horses, and sheep, and all my kin The ravenous beast hath killed; With oxen and deer, from far and near, Its hungry maw is filled. 'Tis hence the mead is unrnown and long And the corn-fields are untilled. My son, to hail thee here in health, My very heart is glad; But thou hast heard our tale — and say. Canst thou wonder that we're sad?" THE ASSOILING And sorrowful was Larnbton's heir: "My sinful act," said he, "This curse hath on the country brought Be it mine to set it free." Deep in the dell, in a ruined hut, Far from the homes of men, There dwelt a witch the peasants called Old Elspat of the Glen. 'Twas a dark night, and the stormy wind Howled with a hollow moan, As through tangled copsewood, bush, and briar He sought the aged crone. She sat on a low and three-legged stool, Beside a dying fire; As he lifted the latch she stirred the brands, And the smoky flames blazed higher. She was a woman weak and old, Her form was bent and thin Arid on her lean and shrivelled hand, She rested her pointed chin. He entered with fear, that dauntless man, And spake of all his need; He gave her gold; he asked her aid, How best he might succeed. "Clothe thee," said she, " in armour bright, In mail of glittering sheen, All studded o'er, behind and before, With razors sharp and keen: And take in thy hand the trusty brand Which thou bore beyond the sea; And make to the Virgin a solemn sow, If she grant thee victory, What meets thee first, when the strife is o'er, Her offering shall be." He went to the fight, in armour bright Equipped from head to heel; His gorget closed, and his vizor shut, He seemed a form of steel. But with razor blades, all sharp and keen, The mail was studded o'er; And his long tried and trusty brand In his greaved hand he bore. He made to the Virgin a solemn vow, If she granted victory, What met him first on his homeward path Her sacrifice should be. He told his sire, when he heard the horn, To slip his favourite hound "'Twill quickly seek its master's side At the accustomed sound." Forward he trod, with measured step, To meet his foe, alone, While the first beams of the morning sun On his massy armour shone. The monster slept on an island crag Lulled by the rustling Wear, Which eddy'd turbid at the base Though elsewhere smooth and clear. It lay in repose ; its wings were flat, Its ears fell on its head, Its legs stretched out and drooped its snout, But its eyes were fiery red. Little feared he, that armed knight, As he left the rocky shore And in his hand prepared for fight, His unsheathed sword he bore. As lie plunged in, the waters' splash The monster startling hears It spread its wings, and the valley rings, Like the clash of a thousand spears. It bristled up its scaly back, Curled high its jointed tail, And ready stood with grinning teeth, The hero to assail Then sprung at the knight with all its might, And its foamy teeth it gnashed With its jointed tail, like a thrasher's flail, The flinty rocks it lashed. But quick of eye, and swift of foot, He guarded the attack And dealt his brand with skilful hand Upon the dragon's back. Again, again, at the knight it flew; The fight was long and sore; He bravely stood, nor dropped his sword Till he could strike no more. It rose on high, and darkened the sky, Then with a hideous yell, A moment winnowed th' air with its wings, And down like a mountain fell. He stood prepared for the falling blow, But mournful was his fate; Awhile he reeled, then, staggering, fell Beneath the monster's weight. And round about its prostrate foe Its fearful length it rolled, And clasped him close, till his armour cracked Within its scaly fold. But pierced by the blades, from body and breast, Fast did the red blood pour Cut by the blades, piece fell by piece, And quivered in the gore. Piece fell by piece, foot fell by foot: No more is the river clear, But stained with blood, as the severed limbs Rolled down the rushing Wear. Piece fell by piece, and inch by inch, From the body and the tail; But the head still hung by the gory teeth Tight fastened in the mail. It panted long, and fast it breathed, With many a bitter groan Its eyes grew dim, it loosed its hold, And fell like a lifeless stone. Then loud he blew on his bugle-horn, The blast of' victory From rock to rock the sound was borne, By Echo, glad and free; For, burdened long by the dragon's roar, She joy'd in her liberty. But not his hound, with gladdened bound, Comes leaping at the call With feelings dire, he sees his sire Rush from his ancient hall. 0! what can equal a father's love, When harm to his son he fears 'Tis stronger than a sister's sigh More deep than a mother's tears. When Lambton's anxious listening lord heard the bugle notes so wild, He thought no more of his plighted word, But ran to clasp his child. "Strange is my lot,'' said the luckless wight, "How sorrow and joy combine When high in fame to my home I came, My kindred did weep and pine. This morn my triumph sees, and sees Dishonour light on me: For I had vowed to the holy Maid, If she gave me victory, What first I met, when the fight was o'er, Her offering should be. I thought to have slain my gallant hound, Beneath my unwilling knife But I cannot raise my hand on him Who gave my being life !" And heavy and sorrowful was his heart, And he hath gone again To seek advice of the wise woman, Old Elspat of the Glen. "Since thy solemn vow is unfulfilled, Though greater be thy fame, Than must a lofty chapel build To the Virgin Mary's name. On nine generations of thy race, A heavy curse shall fall: They may die in the fight, or in the chase, But not in their native hall." He builded there a chapel fair, And rich endowment made, Where morn and eve, by cowled monk, In sable garb arrayed, The bell was rung, the mass was sung, And the solemn prayer was said. L'ENVOY. Such is the tale which, in ages past, On the dreary winter's eve, In baron's ball, the harper blind, In wildest strain, would weave Till the peasants, trembling, nearer crept, And each strange event believe. Such is the tale which often yet, Around the Christmas fire, Is told to the merry wassail group, By some old dame or sire. But though they tell that the crystal well Still flows by the lovely Wear, And that the hill is verdant still, His listeners shew no fear. And though he tell that of Lambton's race Nine ot them died at sea, Or in the battle, or in the chase, They shake their heads doubtingly. And though he say there may still be seen The mail worn by the knight, Tho' the blades are blunt that once were keen, And rusted that once were bright, They do but shake their heads the more, And laugh at him outright. For knowledge to their view has spread Her rich and varied store; They learn and read, and take no heed, Of legendary lore. And pure religion hath o'er them shed A holier heavenly ray; And dragons and witches, and mail-clad knights, Are vanished away; As the creatures of darkness flee and hide, From the light of the dawning day. But Lambton's castle still stands by the Wear, A tall and stately pile And Lambton's name is a name of might, 'Mong the mightiest of our isle. long may the sun of Prosperity Upon the Lambtons smile! THE WORME OF LAMBTON.- 'Orme or Worme, is, in the ancient Norse, the generic name for serpents.' (Inferno,' c.6 22,) and Aristo, ('OrlandoFurioso,' c. 46, 78) call the infernal serpent of old, 'il ran verge,' that great worm;' and Milton, ('Paradise Lost,' Bk. ix, 1067,) makes Adam reproach Eve with having given 'ear to that false worm.' Cowper, 'Task,' Bk. vi.,) adopts the same expression:- 'No foe to man Lurks in the serpent now; the mother sees, And smiles to see, her infants playful hand Strecht forth to dally with the crested worm.' Shakespeare, too, ('Cylembine, Act iii., Sc. 4,) speaks of slander's tongue as 'outvenoming all the worms of the Nile.' To these passages, quoted in 'The Local Historian's Table-book,' may be added the following:- Shakespeare, ('Macbeth,' act iii., Sc. 4,) 'There the grown serpent lies: the worm that's fled,' &c. Massinger, ('Parliament of Love,' Act iv., Sc. 2. 'The sad father That sees his son stung by a snake to death, May with more justice stay his vengeful hand, And let the worm escape,' &c. 'Piers Plowman,' (iii. 1. Ed. 1561,) speaks of 'Wyld wormes in woods;' and in the old ballad of 'Alison Gross,' (Jamieson's 'Popular Ballads and Songs,' ii., 187, Ed. 1806,) that ugliest witch of the north countrie' turns one who would not be her 'lemman sae true' into 'an ugly worm, gard him toddle about the tree.' The word is also used in the same sense in the ballad, entitled 'The laidly Worm of Spindlestane Heughs.' St. 27. 'A crystal well' - 'known at this day by the name of the Worm Well.' St. 38. 'Red-cross Knight.' According to a curious entry in an old Ms. pedigree, lately in the possession of the family of Middleton, of Offerton, 'John Lambeton that slew ye worme was Knight of Rhodes and Lord of Lambeton and Wod Apilton after the dethe of fower brothers, sans esshew malle.' St. 46. 'The Hill' - still called 'The worm Hill, a considerable oval-shaped hill, 345 yards in circumference, and 52 in height, about a mile and a half from old Lambton Hall.' St. 56. 'All studded o'er . . with razors.' 'At Lambton Castle is preserved a figure, evidently of great antiquity, which represents a knight' armed cap-a-pie, his visor raised and the back part of his coat of mail closely inlaid with spear blades: with his left hand he holds the head of the worm, and with his right he appears to be drawing his sword out of his throat. The worm is not represented as a reptile, but has ears, legs and wings. St. 88. f popular tradition is to be trusted, 'this prediction was fulfilled, for it holds that during the period of 'the curse' none of the Lords of Lambton died in their beds. Be this as it may, nine ascending generations from Henry Lambton, of Lambton, Esq., M.P., (elder brother to the late General Lambton,) would exactly reach Sir John Lambton, Knight of Rhodes. Sir Wm. Lambton, who was Colonel of a regiment of foot in the service of Charles I., was slain at the bloody battle of Marston Moor, and his son William (his eldest son by his second wife) received his death-wound at Wakefield, at the head of a troop of dragoons, in 1643. The fulfilment of the curse was inherent in the ninth of descent, and great anxiety prevailed during his lifetime. amongst the hereditary depositaries of the tradition of the county, to know if the curse would hold good to the end. He died in his chariot, crossing the New-Bridge, thus giving the last link to the chain of circumstantial tradition connected with the history of 'The Worme of Lambton.' - L .H. Table-book. back to the song menu Here's the Tender Coming For Midi Sound click here. For notation click here Here's the tender cominn' Pressing all the maen Oh, my hinny, what shall we do then? Here's the tender comin' Off at Shield's bar Here's the tender comin' Full of men-o'-war. Hide thee, canny Geordie Hide thyself away, Hide thee till the tender Makes for Druid's bay; If they catch thee Geordie Who's to win our bread? Me and little Jacky'd Better off be dead. Here's the tender comin' A-stealin' of me dear, Oh, my hinny, They'll press ye out o' here; They will send ye foreign (wi' Nelson along the salt sea) That is what this means, Here's the tender comin' Full o' red marines. Here's the tender cominn' Pressing all the maen Oh, my hinny, what shall we do then? Here's the tender comin' Off at Shield's bar Here's the tender comin' Full of men-o'-war. back to the song menu Come You Not From Newcastle? For notation click here For midi sound click here. Come you not from Newcastle? Come you not there away? O met you not my true love? Riding on a bonny bay? Why should I not love my love? And why should not my love love me? Why should I not speed after him, Since love to all is free? There's not a stouter yeoman That treads the heath'ry moor; Theres not a heart more constant, More gentle or more pure. From childhood we were plighted, And till the death we'll prove That gold, which conquers pride and power, Can never shake our love. My father, once his true friend, Now spurns him from the door; My mother owns him worthy, Yet bids me love no more. The Squire, his boyhood's playmate, Would fain his rival be, And Willie madly rides away To sail the stormy sea. But spite of blame and danger, With Willie I will roam, His arm my safe defender, His breast my happy home. Why should I not love my love? Why should not my love love me? Why should we not together roam, Since love to all is free? back to the song menu Cushie Butterfield For notation click here For Midi Sound click here Dialect version! I'm a broken-hearted keelman An I'm o'er head in love Wi a young lass from Gateshead An I call her me dove. Her name's Cushie Butterfield An she sells yella clay An her cousin's a muckman An they call him Tom Gray. (chorus) She's a big lass She's a bonny lass An she likes her beer An I call her Cushie Butterfield An I wish she was here. Her eyes is like two holes In a blanket pulled through An her breath in the mornin Would scare a young coo. And when I hear her shoutin' Will you buy ony clay? Like a candyman's trumpet It steals me young heart away. (chorus) Ye'll oft see her doon at Sandgate When the fresh herring comes in She's like a bagful o sawdust Tied round with string She wears big galoshes And her stockings was once white An her bedgown it's lilac An her hat's nivva straight. (chorus) When I axed her to marry us She started to laugh "Noo, Nyen o' yer monkey tricks For Aa like nee sic chaff" Then she started abubblin' An roared like a bull An the cheps on the Keel sez Aa's nowt but a fyeul (chorus) She sez "The chep that gets us He'll heh te work ivvery day An when he comes hyem at neet He'll need to gan an seek clay. An when he awa' seekin it Aall myek baals an sing O weel may the keel row That my laddie's in." (chorus) CUSHIE BUTTERFIELD (George Ridley 1834-1864) I's a broken-hearted keelman and I's over head in love With a young lass in Gateshead and I call her my dove. Her name's Cushie Butterfield and she sells yellow clay, And her cousin is a muckman and they call him Tom Grey. cho: She's a big lass and a bonny lass and she likes her beer And they call her Cushie Butterfield and I wish she was here. Her eyes is like two holes in a blanket burnt through Her brows in a morning would spyen a young cow And when t' hear her shouting Will you buy any clay? Like a candyman's trumpet it steals my heart away You'll oft see her down at Sandgate when the fresh herring come She's like a bag full of sawdust tied round with a string She wears big galoshes too and her stockings once was white And her petticoat's lilac and her hat's never straight When I axed her to marry me she started to laugh Now none of your monkey tricks for I like ne such chaff Then she started a blubbing and she roared like a bull And the chaps on the quay says I's nought but a fool She says the chap that gets her must work every day And when he comes home at nights he must gang and seek clay And when he's away seeking she'll make balls and sing O well may the keel row that my laddie's in. *spyen - to dry up a cow's milk A parody of a music hall hit. *spyen - to dry up a cow's milk A parody of a music hall hit. back to the song menu The Bonnie Pit Laddie For notation click here For midi sound click here The bonny pit laddie, the canny pit laddie, The bonny pit laddie for me, O! He sits in his hole as black as a coal, An' brings the white siller to me, O! The bonny pit laddie, the canny pit ladie, The bonny pit laddie for me, O! He sits on his cracket an'hews in his jacket, an' brings the white siller to me, O! Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Crawhall, 1888 The Bonny Keel Laddie My bonny keel laddie, my canny keel laddie, My 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' my canny man, And are ye sure he's weel, O! He's gaen o'er ladn 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! -Source: Northumbrian Minstrelsy. back to the song menu The Water of Tyne For notation click here For midi sound click here 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 hinny! 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 for your trouble rewarded shall be, To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey, Or scull him across that rough river to me. Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 The Tyne divides the Counties of Durham and Northumberland, and as one of the parties was evidently on the Durham side of the river, this song may be justly admitted into the (Durham/Bishopric) Garland. A blue stone marks the boundary of the counties on Newcastle bridge, and one third of it is supported by, and belongs to the Bishoprick. Alderman Barnes mentions a Tower which formerly stood on this bridge, which was used as a prison; and to which he committed a drunken shipwright,who, finding a quantity of malt in the room, took a shovel and threw it out of the window into the river, "meerily reflecting upon himself, and singing= O, base mault, Thou did'st the fault, And into the Tyne thou shalt. (the above note accompanies the lyrics of the song in: The Bishoprick Garland, London Nichols and Baldwin, 1834 (Graham, 1969) back to the song menu The Collier's Rant For midi sound click here For notation click here As me an' my marra was gannin' to wark, We met wi' the deevil, it was i' th' dark; Aw up wi' mi pick, it being i' the neet, Aw knock't off his horns, likewise his club-feet. Chorus: Follow the horses, Johnny my laddie, Follow them throo, my canny lad, oh! Follow the horses, Johnny my laddie, Oh laddie lye away, canny lad oh! As me an' my marra was puttin' the tram, The lowe it went oot, an'my marrra gat wrant: Ye wad ha'e laughed had ye seen the gam, The De'il laughed had ye seen the gam, The De'il gat my marra an' aw gat the tram, O marra! oh, marra! oh what dost t'u think? Aw've broken by mottle an' spilt a' my drink, Aw've lost a' my shinsplints amang the big stanes, Draw me to the shaft, it's time to gan hyem. O Marra! oh, Marra! oh where hes t'u been? Drivin' the drift frae the law seam' Drivin' the drift frae the law seam; Da'd up the lowe, lad! De'll stop oot thy e'en! O marra! oh, marra! this is wor pay week, We'll get penny loaves an' drink to wor beak: We'll fill up a bumper, and round it shall go, Follow the horses, Johnny lad oh! Theer's my horse, an' theer's my tram; Twee horns full o' grease will myek her to gan, Theer's my pit hoggars, likewise my half-shoon, An' smash my heart, marra! my puttin's a' deun! Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 back to the song menu The Sandgate Lass's Lament To notation click here For midi click here For Robson's version click here I was a young maiden truly, And liv'd in SandgateStreet, I thought to marry a good man, To keep me warm at neet; Some good like body, Some bonny body To be with me at noon; But last I married a keel man, And my good days are done. I thought to marry a Parson To hear me say my paryers-- But I have married a Keelman And he kicks me down the stairs, Chorus: He's an ugly body, a bubbly body, An ill-faur'd ugly loon, But I have married a keelman And my good days are done. I Thought to marry a Dyer To dye my apron blue; But I have married a Keelman, An' sair he makes me rue. I thought to marry a Joiner To make me chair and stool; But I have married a Keelman, And he's a perfect fool. I thought to marry a sailor To bring be sugar an' tea; But I have married a Keelman, And that he lets me see. Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 To the Tune, the Manchester Angel. _______________________________ Robson's Sandgate Lassie's Lament They've prest my dear Johnny, Sae sprightly and bonny,-- Alack! I shall ne'er mair d' weel, O: The kidnaping squad, Laid hold of my lad, As he was unmooring the keel, O. Chorus: O my sweet Laddie, My canny keel laddie, Sae handsome, sae canny, and free, O; Had he staid on the Tyne, Er now he'd been mine, But oh! he's far over the sea, O, Should he fall by commotion, Or sink in the ocean, (May sick tidings ne'er come to the Key, O) I could ne'er mair be glad, For the loss of my lad Wad break my poor heart, and I'd dee, O! But should my dear tar Come safe from the war, What heart-bounding joy wad I feel, O; to the church we wad flee, And married be, And again he shall row in his keel, O. O my sweet laddie, My canny keel laddie, Sae handsome, sae canty, and Free, O: Tho's far from the Tyne, I still hope he'll be mine, And live happy as any can be, O - Henry Robson In:Bell back to the song menu Bobby Shaftoe For notation click here For midi sound click here Bobby Shaftoe's gyen to sea, Silver buckles at his knee; He'll come back an' marry me, Bonny Bobby Shaftoe. Bobby Shaftoe's bright and fair, Kaimin' doon his yellow hair; He's my awn for iver mair, Bonny Bobby Shaftoe. Bobby Shaaftoe's getten a bairn For to dandle on his airm; In his airm an' on his knee, Bonny Bobby Shaftoe. Bobby Shaftoe's gyen to sea, Silver buckles at his knee; He'll come back an' marry me, Bonny Bobby Shaftoe. Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 Bobby Shafto was a County Durham M.P, elected in 1761, The song was used as an election jingle. A girlfriend of Bobby Shafto, who is said to have composed the ballad is believed to have lived at Brancepeth Castle near the outskirts of Durham City. It is said that she died of a broken heart !. The Bishoprick Garland., London: Nichols, and Baldwin & Cradock 1834, Frank Graham, 1969 notes: This song was used for electioneering purposes in 1761, when Robert Shafto, of Whitworth, Esq., was the favorite candidate, and who was popularly called "Bonny Bobby Shaftoe." Bobby Shafto's looking out, All his ribbons flew about, All the ladies gave a shout-- Hey, for Bobby Shaftoe. His Portrait, at Whitworth, represents him as a very young and very handsome, and with yellow hair. Biss Bellasyse, the heiress of Brancepeth, is said to have died for love of him. back to the song menu Newcastle Beer For notation click here For midi sound click here When Fame brought the news of Great Britain's success, And told at Olympus each Gallic defeat, Glad Mars sent to Mercury orders express, To summon the Deities all to a treat; Blithe Comus was plac'd To guide the gay feast, And freely declar'd there was choice of good cheer; Yet vow'd to his thinking, For exquisite drinking, Their Nectar was nothing to Newcastle Beer. The great God of War to encourage the fun, And humour the taste of his whimsical guest, Sent messenger Murcury out for a tun Of Stingo, the stoutest, the brightest, the best; No Gods--tye all swore, Regal'd so before, With liquour so lively, so potent, and clear; And each deified fellow Got jovially mellow, In honour, brave boys, of our Newcastle Beer. Apollo perceiving his talents refine, Repents he drank Helicon water so long; He bow'd being ask'd by the musical Nine, And gave the gay board an extempore song; But ere he began, He toss'd off his can; There's nought like good liquour the fancy to clear; Then sang with great merit, The flavour and spirit, His Godship had found in our Newcastle Beer. 'Twas Stingo like this made Aldides so bold; It brac'd up his nerves and eliven'd his pow'rs; And his mystical club that did wonders of old, Was nothing, my lads, but such liquor as ours. The horrible crew That Hercules slew, Were Poverty---Cahumny--Trouble-- and Fear; Siuch a club would you borrow To drive away sorrow, Apply for a Forum of Newcastle Beer. Ye youngsters so diffident, languid, and pale, Whom love like the colic so rudely infests; Take a cordial of this, 'twill probatum prevail, And drive the cur Cupid away from your breasts; Dull whining dcspise, Grow rosy and wise, No longer the jest of good fellows appear; Bid adieu to your folly, Get drunk and be jolly, And smoke o'er a tankard of Newcastle Beer. Ye fanciful folk for whom Physic prescribes, Whom bolus and potion have harass'd to death! Ye wretches, whom Law and her ill-looking tribes Have hunted about 'till you're quite out of breath! Here's shelter and ease, No craving for fees, No danger--no Doctor--no Bailif is near! Your spirits this raises, It cures your diseases, There's freedom and health in our Newcastle Beer. -by John Cunningham; to the Tune "Hunting the Hare",Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 back to the song menu Canny Newcassel For Notation click here For midi sound click here 'Bout Lunnun aw'd heerd sec wonderful spokes, That the streets were a' cover'd wi' guineas: The hooses sae fine, and sec grandees the folks, To them huz i' th' North were but ninnies. But aw fand ma esel bloknk'd when to Lunnun aw gat, The folk they a' luik'd wishy-washy; For goold ye may howk till ye're blind as a bat, An' their streets are like wors--brave and blashy. Chorus: Bout Lunnun then divvent ye mak' sic a rout, There's nouse for yens winkers to dazzle; For a' the fine things ye are gobbin' aboot We can marra iv' canny Newcassel. A Cockney chep show'd me the Thames druvy fyece, Whilk, he said, was the pride o' the nation, Ah' thowt at their shippin' aw'd myek a haze-gaze-- But aw whop't ma foot on his noration. Wi' huz, mun, three hunnerd ship sail iv a tide, We think nowt on't, aw'll myek accydavy; Ye're a gouck if ye dinna knaw Lads o' Tyne side Are the Jacks 'at maek famish wor Navy. We went big St. Paul's an' Westminster to see, An' aw warn'd ye aw thowt they luik't pretty; An' then we'd a keek at the Monniment te, Whilk maw friend ca'd the pearl o' the City. Wey, hinny, says aw, we've a Shot toor se heer, That biv'it ye might scraffel to heaven; An' if on Saint Nicolas ye yence cus an e'e, Ye'd crack on't as lang as ye're levin'. We trodg'd to St. Jame's, for theer the King lives, Aw's warn'd ye a good stare we tyeuk on't: By my faicks! it's been built up by Adam's aun neaves, For it's auld as the hills, by the leuk on't; Shem bin ye, says aw--ye should keep the King douse, Aw say see, without ony malice; Aw own that wor Mayor rayther wants a new hoose, But then--wor Informary's a palace. Ah hinnies! oot cam' the King while we wor there, His leuks seem'd to say--"Bairns, be happy;" Sae, doon o'my hunkers aw set up a blare, For God to preserve him frae Nappy; For Geordie aw'd dee--for my loyalty's trig, An' aw own he's a guid luikin' mannie; But if wor Sir Mattha ye'd buss iv his wig, Be gocks! he would just luik as canny. Aa hinnies! aboot us the lasses did loup, Thick as curns iv a spice singin-hinnie; Som aud, an som hardly flig'd ower the doup, But aw kend what they waur by their whinnie; A', mannie, says aw, ye hav mony a tite girl, But aw'm tell'd they're oft het i' their trappin; Aw'd cuddle much rather a lass i' the Sworl, Than the dolls i' the Strand, or i' Wappin. Wiv a' the stravaging aw wanted a munch, An' ma thropple was ready te gizen; So we went tiv' a yell house, and there teuk a lunch, But the reck'ning, my saul! was a bizon; Wiv hus i' th' North, when aw'm wairsh i' my way, (But te knaw wor warm hearts, ye yur sell come) Aw lift the first latch, and baith man and dame say, "Cuck your hough, canny man, for ye're welcome." A shillin aw thought at the Play-house aw'd ware, But aw jump'd there wiv heuk-finger'd people; My pockets gat rip'd and aw heard ne mair, Nor aw could frae Saint Nicholas's steeple. Dang Lunnun! wor Play-house aw like just as weel, And wor play-folks aw's shure are as funny; A shillin's worth sarves me to laugh till aw squeel, Ne haillion there thrimmels ma money. The loss o' the cotterels aw dinna regaird, For aw've gotten some white-heft o' Lunnun; Aw've learn'd to prefer my own canny calf yaird; If ye catch me mair fra't, ye'll be cunnun. Aw knaw that the Cockneys crake rum-gum-shus chimers. To maek gam of wor bur, and wor'parel But honest Blind Willy shall string this iv rhymes, And aw'll sing for the Christmas Carol. -by Thomas Thompson, Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 back to the song menu Buy Broom Buzzems For Midi sound click here for notation click here If you want a bussem for to sweep your hoose, Come to me, maw hinnies, ye may ha'e yor choose, Chorus Buy broom buzzems, buy them when they're new, Fine heather bred'uns, better niver grew. Buzzems for a penny, Rangers for a plack; If ye winnot buy, aw'll tie them on my back. If aw had a horse, aw wad hev a cairt; If aw had a wife, she wad tyek me pairt. Had aw but a wife, aw care not what she be-- If she's but a woman, that's eneuf for me. If she liked a drop--her an' aw'd agree, An' if she didn't like't-- there's the mair for me. -by William Purvis, Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 ______________________________________________________ Bell's Broom Busoms If ye want a busom, For to sweep your house; Come to me, my lasses, Ye ma ha' your choose Chorus: Buy broom busoms, Buy them when they're new; Buy broom busoms, Better never grew. If I had a horse, I would have a cart; If I had a wife, She would take my part. Had I but a wife, I care not who she be; If she be a woman, That's enough for me. If she lik'd a drop Her and I'd agree; If she did not like it, There's the more for me. Additions by Blind Willy (native Minstrel of Newcastle) Up the Butcher Bank And down Byker Chare; There yoiu'll see the lasses, Selling brown ware. Along the Quayside, Stop at Russell's Entry; There you'll see the beer drawer, She is standing sentry. If you want an oyster, For to taste your mouth, Call at Handy Walker's He's a bonny youth. Call at Mr Loggie's He does sell good wine; There you'll see the beer drawer, She is very fine. If you want an orange, Ripe and full of juice; Gan to Hannah Black, There you'll get your choose. Call at Mr. Turner's At the Quen's Head He'll not set you away, Without a piece bread. Down the river side As far as Dent's Hole; There you'll see the cuckolds, Working at the coal. -Bell back to the song menu Andrew Carr For notation click here For midi sound click here As I went to Newcastle, my journey was not far, I met a jolly sailor lad, his name was Andrew Car. Chrous: And hey for Andrew, Andrew, Ho for Andrew Carr, And hey for Andrew, Andrew, Ho for Andrew Carr. Good fortune attend my jewel, now he's sailed ower the bar, And send him back to me, for I love my Andrew Carr. -Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 back to the song menu Sair Fyel'd Hinny For midi sound click here For notation click here Chorus: Sair fyel'd hinny, Sair fyel'd noo, Sair fyel'd hinny Sin' I kenn'd thou. I was young an 'lusty, I was fair an'clear, I was young an'lusty Mony a lang year. When I was young and lusty, I could loup a dyke; But now, at five-and-sixty, Canna do the like Then said the auld man to the oak tree, "Sair fyel'd is 'e Sin'I ken'd thee!" -Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 _________________ 2. Young and souple was I, when I lap the dyke; Now I'm auld and frail, I douna step a syke. Buy broom &c. Young and souple was I, when at Lautherslack, Now I'm auld and frail, and lie at Nansie's back. Buy broom &c. Had she gien me butter, when she gae me bread, I wad lookit baulder, wi' my beld head. Buy broom &c. ____________________________________ I was young and lusty, I was fair and clear; I was young and lusty, Many a long year. Sair fail'd hinny, Sair fail'd now; Sair fail'd hinny, Sin' I kend thou. When I was young and lusty, I could loup a dyke; But now at five and sixty, Cannot do the like. Sair fail'd hinny, Sair fail'd now, Sair fail'd hinny, Sin' I kend thou. Then said the awd man To the oak tree; Sair fail'd is 'e, Sin' I kend thee. Sair fail'd hinny, Sair fail'd now; Sair fail'd hinny, Sin' I kend thou. _______________________________ When aw was young and lusty, Aw cud lowp a dyke; But now aw'm awd an' stiff, Aw can hardly step a syke. -Sources: Ritson, Gammer Gurton's Garland , Bell, Bishoprick Garland, 1834, Bruce and Stokoe (1882). back to the song menu Up the Raw For notation click here For midi sound click here Up the Raw, maw bonny hinny, Up the Raw, lass, ivvery day; For shap an' colour, maw bonny hinny, Thou bangs thy mother, maw canny bairn. Black as a craw, maw bonny hinney, Thou bangs them a', lass, ivvery day; Thou's a' clag-candied, maw bonny hinny, Thou's double japanded, maw canny bairn. For hide an'hue, maw bonny hinny, Thou bangs the crew, maw canny bairn; Up the Raw, maw bonny hinny, Thou bangs them a', las, ivvery day Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 In: The Bishoprick Garland, London Nichols and Baldwin and Cradock, 1834, Graham, 1969 is found: This song is equally current on the banks of the Tyne and the Wear; it is one of those nursery songs which descend from generation to generation without variation. Fragments of songs of similar import still obtain and are heard occasionally, as-- By bairn's a bonny bairn, a canny bairn, a bonny bairn, My bairn's a canny bairn, and never looks dowly; My bairn's a canny bairn, a canny bairn, a bonny bairn, By bairn's a bonny bairn, and not a yellow-yowley. All the neet ower and ower, And all the neet ower again: All the neet ower and ower, The peacock follows the hen. A hen's a hungry dish, A goose is hollow within: There's no deceit in a pudding; A pie's a dainty thing. back to the song menu Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Part 3 of Directory 1 Click here for the main menu of this directory. Use our floating menu to improve navigation. you can reposition it by clicking on top bar and dragging Floating Menu Menu of all of the Sangs Click here For tunes in .abc format click here We invite you to contribute! Click here to comment or add. For an index of persons and places mentioned in the sangs click here For bibliography,and philosophy of the collection click here Soon after our upgrade the songs which the Whisky Priests have recorded will be high-lighted thusly Illustrated by woodcuts by Joseph Crawhall (Newcastle, 1889) (Where you see the music note image there will be a midi file-for you to listen to!) Turner- Keelmen Hauling in Coals by Moonlight Your Choices! The Main Menu! the Keel Row Billy Boy When the Boat comes In The Row Between the Cages Andrew Carrr MyLord 'Size The Gunstan' Afloat Come Geordie--ha'd the Bairn or Aw wish thy Muther wad come Spottie Keep your Feet StillGeordie Hinny The Blaydon Races Dolia Have you seen Elsie Marley? Sair Fyel'd Hinny The Fiery Clock Fyece The Sailors are a' at the Bar The Pitman's Courtship Here's the Tender Coming Byker Hill The Lambton Worm Come ye not from Newcastle Cushie Butterfield Up the Raw Cappy's the Dog Use and Abuse The Weshin-Day The Tyne Exile's Lament The Bonny Pit Laddie The Water of Tyne The Collier's Rant The Sandgate Lass's Lament The Amphitrite The Peacock Followed the Hen The Keelman's Reason for Attending Church The Little Pee-dee Holiday Gown Bobby Shaftoe Newcastle Beer Canny Newcassel Buy Broom Buzzems Aboot the Bush Willy Hydrophobie The Jenny Hoolet or Lizzie Mudie's Ghost A.U. Hinny Burd The New Keel Row Use this Pull down form to go to our other pages To return to the top of this page click here to the priests! Culture -Even Geordies! Durham and Coaly Tyne Songs!!! HUTMAN The Ulster Songbook The Amphitrite For Notation click here For midi sound click here Frae Team gut to Whitley wi'coals black an'broon, For the Amphitrite loaded, the keel had come doon: But the bullies, ower neet had their thropples see wet, That the nyem o' the ship yen an'a' did forget. Chorus Fal-de-ral... To find ooot the nyem, noo, each worried his chops, An' claw'd at his hips fit to murder the lops-- Then the Skipper, went hunger'd was a'ways myest bright, Swore the pawhogger luggish was ca'd Empty Kite. Frae the Point, roond the Girt, a' the time sailin'slow, Each bully kept bawlin', "The Empty Kite, ho!" But their blairin'was vain, for nee Empty Kite there, Tho' they blair'd till their kites were byeth empty an' sair. A' Slaverin the Skipper ca'd Geordy an' Jim, For to gan to Newcassel and ax the reet nyem; The youngest he thowt myest, to blame i' this bore, Sae Pee-Dee an' his marrow was seun pack'd ashore. Up the Shields Road they trodg'd i' their myest worn-oot soles, Oft cursin' the Empty Kite, Skipper, and coals; At the sign of "The Coach" they byeth ca'd it befell, To mourn their hard case owre a tankard o' yell. Here a Buck at a sirloin hardeatin' was seen, An' he said 'at the air'd myed his appetite keen; "Appetite!" cried the bullies--like maislins they stared, Wide gyepin'wi' wonder, till "Crikes!" Jemmy blair'd. "The Appetite, Geordy! smash! dis tu hear that? It's the varry ootlandish, cull nyem we forgat; Bliss the dandy! for had he not tell't us the nyem, To Newcassel we'd wander'd byeth weary and lyem!" To Shields back they canter'd an' seun, frae the keel, Roar'd--"The Appetite, ho!" 'neuf to frighten the De'il, Thus they fund oot the ship, cast the coals in a sweat, Still praisin' the Dandy they'd luckily met. Then into the huddock, weel tir'd they a' gat, An' of Empty Kite, Appetite, lang did they chat, When the Skipper fund oot--(wise as Solomon, King)-- Tho' not the syem word--'twas aboot the syem thing. -By Robert Gilchrist, to the Tune "Gee-ho! Dobbin," popularly known as "Cappy"., Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 back to the song menu Aboot the Bush Willy For notation click here For midi sound click here Aboot the bush., Willy, Aboot the beehive, Aboot the bush, Willy, I'll meet the, belive; Then to my ten shillings Add you but a groat, I'll go to Newcastle And buy a new coat. Five and five shillings, Five and a crown, Five and five shillings Will buy a new gown. Five and five shillings, Five and a groat, Five and five shillings Will buy a new coat. Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 back to the song menu My Lord Size For notation click here For midi sound click here The jailor for trial had brought up a thief, Whose looks seem'd a passport to Botnay Bay; The Lawyers, some with, and some wanting a brief, Around the green table were seated so gay; Grave jurrors and witnesses waiting a call; Attornies and clients, more angry than wise, With strangers and town's people throng'd the Guildhall, All waiting and gaping to see my Lord 'Size. Oft stretch'd were their necks, oft erected their ears, Still fancying they heard of the trumpets the sound, When tidings arriv'd which dissolv'd them in tears, That my Lord at the Dead-house was then lying drown'd. Straight left tete-a-tete were the jailors an' thief; The horror struck crowd to the Dead-house quick hies; E'en the Lawyers, forgetful of fee and of brief, Set off, helter-skelter, to view my Lord 'Size. And now the Sandhill with the sad tidings rings, And the tubs of the taties are left to take care; Fish-women desert their crabs, lobsters, and lings, And each to the Dead-house now runs like a hare. The glassmen, some naked, some clad, heard the news, And off they ran smoking, like hot mutton pies; While Castle-garth tailors, like wild kangaroos, Came tail-on-end jumping, to see my Lord 'Size. The Dead-house they reach'd where his Lordship they found, Pale, stretch'd on a plank, like themselves out of breath; The Coronere an' Jury were seated around, Most gravely enquiring the cause of his death. No haste did they seem in their task to complete, Aware that from hurry mistakes oft arise: Or wishful, perhaps, of prolonging the treat Of thus sitting in judgment upon my Lord 'Size. Now the Mansion-house butler thus gravely depos'd-- "My Lord on the terrace seem'd studdying his charge; And when (as I thought) he had got it composed, He went down the stairs and examined the barge. First the stem he surveyed, then inspected the stern, The handled the tiller, and looked mighty wise; But he made a false step when about to return, And souse in the water straight tumbled Lord 'Size." Now his narrative ended, the Butler retired, Whilst Betty Watt, mutt'ring (half drunk} thro' her teeth, Declared "in her breest greet consarn it inspir'd That my Lord shou'd see cullishly come to his deeth. Next a keelman was call'd on --Bold Archy his name, Who, the book as he kiss'd it show'd the whites of his eyes, Then he cut an odd caper, attention to claim, And this evidience tender'd respecting Lord 'Size. "Aw was settin'the keel wi Dick Stavers an'Matt, An' the Mansion-house stairs we wor just alangside, When we a' three see'd sumthin', but didn't ken what, That was splashin' an labberin' aboot i' the tide. It's a flucker, ki Dick; No, ki Matt, it's ower big, It luik't mair like a skyett when aw forst see'd it rise; Kiv aw--for aw'd getten' a gliff o' the wig-- Ods marcy! wey, marrows! becrike, it's Lord 'Size! Sae aw huik'd him an' suin haul'd him into the keel, An' o' top o' the huddock aw rowl'd him aboot; An' his belly aw rubb'd, an' aw skelpt his back weel, But the watter he'd drucken it waddent run oot. Sae a brought him ashore here, an' doctors, in vain, Forst his way, than that, to recover him tries, For ye see that he's lyin' as deed as a styen, An' that's a' aw can tell ye aboot my Lord 'Size." Now the Jury for close consultation retir'd; Some "Death Accidental" were will ing to find; Some "God's Visitation" most eager requir'd, Andsome were for "Fell in the River" inclin'd; But, ere on their verdict they all were agreed, My Lord gave a groan, and wide open'd his eyes; Then the Coach and the Trumpeters came with great speed, And back to the Mansion-house carried Lord 'Size. -by John Shield, to the tune: "Newcastle in an Uproar.", Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 back to the song menu The Fiery Clock fyece For notation click here For midi sound click here O Dick, What's kept ye a' this time, Aw've fretted sair aboot ye, Aw thowt that ye'd fa'n i' the Tyne, What wad aw duin withoot ye? O,hinny, Dolly, sit th' doon, An' hear the news aw've browt frae Toon, Newcassel folk hes hulk'd a meun, An' myed it a fiery clock fyece. Thou knaws St. Nicholas Church maw pet, Where we waur tied togither-- That plyece aw knaw, thoo'll not forget, Forget it! aw will niver. 'Twas there maw jew'l, aw saw the seet, As aw cam' staggerin' through the street, Aw thowt it queer at pick-dark neet, To see a fiery clock-fyece. The folk they stood in flocks aboot-- Aw cried--How! what's the matter? Aw glower'd--at last aw gove a shoot, For them to fetch some watter. The Chorch is fired an' varry suin That bonny plyece will be burnt doon; Chep says, ye fyeull, it's a bonny meun They've catch't, an' myed a clock-fyece. On Monday when aw gan to wark, Aw'll surely tell wor banks-man, If we had sec a leet i' th' dark, We'd niver break wor shanks, man. How! marraws let's be off to Toon To see if we can huik a meun-- If we can nobbit coax yen doon, We'll myekt a fiery clock-fyece. Then if we get it doon the pit We'd ha't stuck on a pole, man, 'Twill tell us hoo wor time gans on, Likewise to hew wor coal, man. Sae noo, maw pet, let's gan to bed And not forget the need w' wor wed; The morn we'll tell wor Uncle Ned Aboot the fiery clock-fyece. by Robert Nunn; to the tune, "The Coal-hole.", Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 back to the song menu Cappy's the Dog click here for notation click here for midi sound In a toon near Newcassel a pitman did dwell, Wiv his wife by nyem Peg, a Tom-cat,an' hissel, A dog they ca'd Cappy he doated upon, Because he was left him by great Uncle Tom. Chorus Weel bred Cappy, famous and Cappy Cappy's the dog--Tally ho! Tally ho! His tail pitcher-handled, his culler jet black, Just a foot an' a half was the length of his back; His legs seven inches frae shouthers to paws, An' his lugs like twee dockins hung over his jaws. For huntin' o' varmin reet clivvor was he, An' the hoose frae a' robbers his bark wad keep fee; Cou'd byeth fetch and carry--co'd sit on a stuil, Or, when frisky, wad hunt wetter rats in a puil. As Ralphy, to market one morn did repair, In his hat band a pipe, an' weel kyem'd was his hair, Owre his arm hung a basket--thus onward he speels, An' cam' into Newcassel wi' Cap at his heels. He haddent gyen farther than foot o' the Side Before he fell in wi' the dog-killing tribe, When a highwayman-fellow slipt roond in a crack, An' wi' thump on the skull laid him flat on his back. Doon went Cappy, &. Noo Raplhy, extonish'd Cap's fate did repine, While its eyes just like twe pyerl buttons did shine; Then he spat on his hands, in a furry he grew, Smash! he cried-- but awse ha'e satisfaction o' thoo, For knockin doon Cappy & Then this grim-luikin' fellow his bludgeon he rais'd When Ralphy ey'd Cappy, an' stood sair amaz'd But flay'd that beside him he might be laid doon, Flang him into the basket an' bang'd oot o' toon. Away went Cappy, & He breethless gat hyem, an' when lifting the sneck, His wife ca'd ooot, "Ralphy--thou's seun getten back." "Getten back, " replied Ralphy, I wish I'd ne'er gyen, I' Newcassel they're fellin' dogs, lasses, and men. They'v knocked doon Cappy, & If aw gan to Newcassel when comes wor pay-week, Aw'll ken him agyen by the patch on his cheek; Or if ivver he comes to wor toon wiv his stick, We'll thump him aboot till he's black as aud Nick, For killing auld Cappy, &. Wi tears iv her een Peggy heard his sad tale, An' Ralph wi' confusion an' terror grew pale, While Cappy's misfortuns wi' grief they talk'd ower, He crap oot o' the basket quite brisk on the floor. Well duin Cappy, Famous and Cappy, Cappy's the dog--Tally ho! Tally Ho! by William Mitford, or Midford; to the tune "Gee-ho! Dobbin.," Locally popularized as "Cappy., Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 back to the song menu The Peacock Followed the Hen or Cuddle me, Cuddy For Notation Click here For Midi Sound click here A' the neet ower an' ower, An' a' the neet ower agyen-- A' the need ower an' ower, The peacock followed the hen. A Hen's a hungerie dish, A geusse is hollwo within; There's nee deceit iv a puddin'; A pye's a dainty thing. -Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 back to the song menu Hydrophobie Click here for notation Click here for midi sound As Skipper Carr an' Markie Dunn Was gannin', drunk, thro' Sandgate, A dog bit Mark, an' off did run, But sair the poor sowl fand it. The skipper, in a voice see rough, Aw's warn'd, says he, it's mad eneugh; Howay, an' get som Doctor's stuff For fear of Hydrophobie! The Doctor dresse'd the wound se wide, And left poor Markie smartin'; Then, for a joke, towld Carr, aside, Mark wad gan mad, for sartin'. Noo, Skipper, mind, when in yor keel, Be sure 'at ye watch Markie weel, If he begins to bark an'squeel, Depend--It's Hydrophobie. For Shilds next day they sail'd wi' coal, An' tyeuk aboard 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'--sure as yo'r here, We'll get the Hydrophobie! Said Quake, I hope this can't be true, Nay, friend, thou art mistaken; We must not fear what man can do-- Wea! I will stand unshaken. The Skipper, to complete the fun {alt text=farce} Then told the Quaker what'd been done-- {alt text: line above- sub -Said, Maister Quaker, what's far warse, A b_____g dog bit Markie's a--e,} (A dog'd bit Mark an'off did run} An' browt on Hydrophobie. Now Markie overheard their talk, Thinks he--aw'll try the Quaker-- Makes Pee-dee to the huddock walk, Of fun to be partaker. To howl and bark he wasn't slack, The quaker o'erboard in a crack, Wi' the fat Skipper on his back For fear of Hydrophobie. Now Pee-dee laugh'd to see the two, Who, to be saved, were striving; Mark haul'd them oot, with much ado, An' call'd them culls for diving. The Quaker seun was put ashore, For he was frighten'd very sore; The Skipper promis'd never more To mention Hydrophobie! -by Robert Emery; to the tune "The Cameronian's Rant," or "X.Y.Z."., Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888. Alt text from: In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Grunstan' Afloat For notation click here For midi sound click here Not lang sin' some keelmen were gaun doon to Sheels, When a hoop round some froth cam' alang side their keel; The Skipper saw't first, an' he gov a greet shout-- How! beggar, man, Dick! here's a grunstan' afloat, Derry down &c. Dick leuk't, an' he showt 'at the Skipper was reet, See they'd hev her ashore, an' then sell her that neet; Then he jumpt' ower to fetch her--maw sang! what a splatter-- Nee grunstan' was there, for he fand it was watter. Derry down &c. The skipper astonish'd, quite struck wi' surprise, He roar'd oot to Dickey when he saw him rise-- How! smash, marrow! Dick, ho! what is thoo aboot? Come here, mun, an' let's ha'ed the gunstan' tyen oot. Derry down &c. A Grunstan'! says Dick--wey, thou slaverin' cull, Wi' wetter maw belly an pockets is full; By the gowkey, aw'll sweer 'at ye're drunk, daft or doatin'-- It's nee grunstan' at a', but some au'd iron floatin'. Derry down, &c. by William Armstrong; to the tune, "Derry Down". Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 back to the song menu The Sailors are a' at the Bar For notation click here For midi sound click here The Sailors are a' at the Bar, They canna get up to Newcassel; The Sailors are a' at the Bar, They canna get up to Newcassel. Up wi' smoky Shields, An' hey for bonny Newcassel; Up wi' smoky Shields, An' hey for bonny Newcassel. -Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 ___________________ The Lad wi' the trowsers on, He says he winnot hae me; The lad wi' the trowsers on, He says he winnot hae me. If he winnot hae me, He can let me be; Aw can get another, Twice as good as he -source: Northumbrian Minstrelsy back to the song menu Use and Abuse or The Pitman and the Preachers For notation click here For midi sound click here Teetotlers may jaw 'boot the drink as they will, An' preach till they're black i' the muzzle, Maw Feyther an' Muther byeth lik'd a good gill, And their son tee mun weeten his whussel. Guid yell hes dune mair for to warm a man's breest, When misfortun' hes cum wiv his hammer, Than a thoosan' dry sermons frae ranterfied priest, 'At gets paid for his lees an' his yammer. Folk talk aboot drink: was the grapes sent for nowt But to stuff i' wor dumplins an' hinnies? If the goold frae the yerth, man, had niver been browt, Smash! the mint cuddent coin monny guinnees. Because a man's hung, mun we myek nee mair twine? Mun we starve 'cas some fyeulls gormandizes? If a keel gets upset, mun we shut up the Tyne? Man! sec humbug yen's reason surprizes. Aw knaw yen 'at's torn'd a Teetotaller noo, An 'laps up the fizzify'd wetter: But aw find, on the slee, he his toddy can brew, For his beak is to brandy a debtor. His wife, she gat hauld o' the key ov his box, Iv a raw the black bottles was pleyc'd in; Like as fizzick frae doctors, a' labell'd, by gox! But the wife she gat mortal with tyestin'! Wey, its deeth, nevvies warse, if to't yell hoose ye gan, For a glass, an' to hear some fine singin'; They sweer that the lan'lord's the Deevil's best man, An' the band's nowt but imps ov his bringin'. Man, they're spited to see that thor hooses hes sprung Frae the seed o'lang patience an' merit; Smash! they're awn dizzy consarts is shemfully sung, For their sangs, like thorsels, hes nee sperrit. Aw divvent praise fyeulls, that like pigs i' the muck, Gan gruntin' an' guzzlin' for ivver; There's nee ' casion to soom i' the drink like a duck, But just sup what'll meyk a chep clivvor. Noo, ye knaw varry weel what King Solomon says, An' he dissent mean gluttons to 'tice man; "Eat, drink, an' be merry to lenthen your days"-- An', by gox! but aw'll tyek his advice, man. - by J.P. Robson; to the tune "Canny Newcassel". Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 back to the song menu The Keelman's Reason for Attending Church For notation click here For midi sound click here Twee Keelmen efter leavin' Church, Afore me they waur walkin'; Close in ahint them aw did march, An' ower-heerd their talkin'. Says yen, "Oh Dick! maw heart is sair-- Sair, sin' aw heer'd that sarmin; It's neuf to myek yen drink ne mair-- Smash man! it was alarmin'! When he began to talk o' Hell, Myed for a sinner's dwellin', By gox! aw tyeks it to mesell-- It set my breest a swellin'; An' when he said each wicked man, Wad leeve alang wi' deevils; Aw surely thowt there aw wad gan For a' my former evils. "Noo, Dick, wor ye not varry bad, When he sae fine was teachin'? Did ye not feel a' queer an' sad, An' trimmel at his preachin'? Aw's sure aw cud ha'e roar'd, Amen, Had it not been wor Willy; For he'd ha'e jeer'd an towld wor men, An' they'd ha'w ca'd it silly." Then up he spak--"Aw divverent knaw-- Aw thowt't was a' a folly, Aw thowt aboot the fad a' straw, That Mick ga' to wor Dolly. An' then aboot the fight aw had, Wi' Geordie i' the keel, man; Hoo awa upset him on his back, An' gar'd him roar an' squeel, man." Aw nobbet gan to see the Priest, An' hear the bonny organ; Aw'd seuner hev a haggish feast, An' drink wi' Skipper Morgan. To tell the truth, what myeks me gan, Wor Maister's torn'd religious, He'll think aw's sec a godly man, And mevvies raise me wages. Aw heer'd it just the t'other neet, As aw went doon the Kee man, A chep 'at learns the folk to pray, Drink just as hard as me man; Sae, Willy, if we gan to Hell, That Priest'll gan there tee man; Sae--let's away an' ha'e some yell, An' let sec things abee, man." -to the tune "Jimmy Johnson's Wherry." Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 back to the song menu The Jenny Hoolet or Little Mudie's Ghost For Midi sound click here For notation click here Some time sin' a Skipper was gaun iv his keel, His heart like a lion, his fyece like the De'il; He was steerin' hissel, as he'd oft duin afore, When at auld Lizzie Mudie's his keel ran ashore Fal- de -ral, &c. The Skipper was vext when his keel gat ashore, Sae for Geordie and Pee-dee he loodly did roar; The sail it was lower'd, but a' waddent dee, Sae he clickt up a coal an' maist fell'd the Pee-dee. I' the midst o' their trouble, scarce knaw'n what to do, A voice frae the shore gravely cried oot- Hoo! hoo!. Hoo noo mister Hoo! hoo! is thou myken fun? Or is't the forst keel 'at thoo e'er saw agrun? Agyen a Hoo! hoo! an' the Skipper he stampt, An' sung oot for Geordie to heave oot a plank; In a ravin' mad passion he curs'd an' he swore, Aw'll hoo! hoo! thou, thou beggar, if aw cum ashore. Wiv a coal in each hand, ashore then he went, To kill Mister Hoo! hoo! it was his intent; But when he gat there ye may judge his surprise! When back he com runnin'--Oh! Geordie--he cries- Wey, whe dis' tu' think hes been makin' this gam, Aw'll lay th' my wallet thou'll not guess his nyem, "Is't the ghost of auld Lissie?" Oh, no, thou au'd fool, it Is nee ghost at a'-but an au'd Jenny Hoolet! -by W. Armstrong to the tune "Gee-Ho! Dobbin" Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 back to the song menu Come, Geordie--ha'd the Bairn or Aw wish thy Muther wad cum. For notation click here For midi sound click here Come, Geordie, ha'd the bairn, Aw's sure aw'll not stop lang; Aw'd tyek the jewel me sel, But really aw's not strang. Thor's floor an' coals to get, The hoose-wark's not half deun, Sae--haud the bairn for fairs, Thou's often deun't for fun. Then Geordie held the bairn, But sair agyen his will; The poor bit thing wes good, But Geordie had nee skill; He haddent its Muther's ways, He sat byeth stiff an' numb; Afore five minutes was gyen, He wish'd its Muther wad cum. His wife had hardlys gyen, The bairn began to squall, With hikin't up an' doon He varry neigh let it fall. It nivver wad ha'd its tung, Tho' some aud teun he'd hum-- "Jack and Jill went up the hill"-- "Aw wish thy Muther wad cum." What weary toil said he This nursin' bairns mun be; A bit on't's well enough, Aye, quite eneuf for me. To ha'd-a blubberin' bairn, It may be grand to some; A day's wark's not as bad-- "Aw wish thy Muther wad cum." Men seldom give a thowt To what their wives endure; Aw thowt she'd nowt to dee But clean the hoose, aw's sure, Or myek my dinner an' tea-- (It's startin' to sook its thumb; The Poor thing wants its tit)-- "Aw wish thy Muther wad cum." What a selfish world this is! There's nowt mair sae than Man; He laffs at Wimmin's toill, An' nivvir 'll norse his awn-- (It's startin' to cry agyen-- Aw see tuts throo it's gum;) Maw canny bit pet, O dinna thoo fret-- "Aw wish thy Muther wad cum." But kindness dis a vast- It's nee use gettin vext-- It'll niver please the bairn, Or ease a mind perplext. At last it's gyen to sleep, The Wife'll not say aw's numb-- She'll think aw's a real good nurse-- But--"Aw wish thy Muther wad cum." -Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 back to the song menu The Pitman's Courtship For Notation Click here For midi sound click here Quite soft blew the wind frae the West, An'the sun faintly shone i' the sky, When Lukey and' Betty sat courtin' As walking I chanc'd for to spy; Unheeded, I stole close beside them; To hear their discoursee was my plan-- I listen'd each word they were saying, When Lukey his courtship began;-- "Last hoppin' thou wun up my fancy Wi' thy fine silken jacket o' blue; An' smash! if thor Newcassel lyeddies Coul'd marra the curls o' thy brow; That day aw whiles danc't wi' lang Nancy-- She cou'dn't like thou lift her heel; May granny likes spice singin' hinnies, Maw comely, aw like thou as weel. Thou knaws, ever since we wor little Thegither we've trodg'd through the woods, An' at neet hand in hand toddled hyem, Varry oft wi' howl kites an' torn duds; But noo we can talk aboot mairridge, An' lang syne for wor weddin' day; When mairried we'll keep a bit shop An' sell things iv a huiksterry way. To get us a canny bit leevin', A' kind of fine sweetmeats we'll sell, Reed-harrin, broon-syep, an' mint-candy, Black-pepper, dye-sand, an' sma' yell; Spice-hunters, pick-shafts, farden candles, Wax-dollies wi' reed leather shoes, Chalk pussy-cats, fine corly-greens, Paper-skyetts, penny-pies, an' Yule-doos. A w'll help thou' to tie up the shuggar, At neets, when frae wark aw get lowse, An' wor Dick 'at leeves ower High Whickham, 'll myek us broom buzzoms for nowse. Like an image tho'll stand owre the counter, Wi thy fine muslin, cambricker goon, An' to let the folk see thou's a lyeddy, On a cuddy thou's ride to the Toon. There'll be matches, pipe-clay, an 'broon dishes, Canary-seed, raisins, and fegs; An' to please the pit-laddies at Easter, A dishful o' gily pyest-eggs. For wor neybors that's snuffers an' smoakers, For wor snuff an' baccy they'll seek; An' to show them we deal wi' Newcassel, Twee Blackeys sall mense the door-cheek. Sae, noo for Tim Bodkin aw'll send, For to darn my silk breeks at the knee, Thy ruffles an' frills mun get ready-- Next Whissunday married we'll be. Aw think it's boot time we waur steppin', We've sitten till aw's aboot lyemm." So, then--wirth a kis and a cuddle These lovers they toddelt off hyem. -by William Mitford; to the tune, "The Night before Larry was stretch'd or. "The Irish Drops o' Brandy.", Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 back to the song menu The Little Pee-dee For notation click here For midi sound click here It was between Hebbron an' Jarrow, Thor cam' on a varry strang gale; The Skipper luikt oot o' the huddock, Cried, "Smash, man! lower the sail! Smash, man! lower the sail! Or else to the bottom we'll go!" The keel an' a' hands 'ad been lost Had it not been for Jemmy Munro The gale it blew strang'r an' strang'r When they com' aside the Muck hoose, The Skipper cried oot, "Jemmy, swing'er!" But still was as fear'd as a moose. Pee-dee ran to clear the anchor, "It's raffed!" reet loudly he roar'd-- They a' said the gale it wad sink her If it wasn't suen thrawn owerboard. The laddie ran sweatin', ran sweatin', The laddie ran sweatin' aboot, Till the keel she went bump agyen Jarrow, An' three o' the bullies lap oot; Three o' the bulies lap oot, An' left nyen in but little Pee-dee, Whe ran aboot stampin' an cryin' "How, smash! Skipper--what mun aw dee?" The Skipper ca'd oot, frae the Kee-- "Close in by the shore myek her run, An' then thraw the painter to me, Thou cat fyec'd son of a Gun;" The lad threw the painter ashore, They fastn'd her up to the Kee, But whe knaws hoo far she'd ha'e gyen Had it not been for little Pee-dee. -To the tune : "The Irish Drops of Brandy.", Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 back to the song menu The Weshin-day For notation click here For midi sound click here Of a' the plagues a poor man meets, Alang life's weary way, There's nyen amang them a' that beats A rainy weshin'-day. An let that day come when it man, It a'ways is maw care, Before aw break maw fast, to pray It may be fin an' fair. Chorus: For it's thump! thump! souse! souse! Scrup! scrup away! There's nowt but glumpin' i' the house Upon a weshin'-day. For sud the morn when Sall torns oot, Be rainy, dark, or dull, She cloots the bits o' bairns aboot, An'backs them off to skuil. In ivvery day throuhoot the week The goodman hez his say, But this; when if he chance to speak, It's--"Get oot o' maw way!" Her step hez starn defiance in't, She luiks a' fire an'tow; A single word, like spark frae flint, Wad set her iv a low. The varry claes upon her back, Sae pinn'd an' tuck't up are, As if they'd say, to bairns an' Jack, "Come near me if ye daur." The cat's the picture o' distress, The kittlins daur na' play; Poor Pincher niver shows his fyece. Upon this dreary day. the burd sits mopin' on the balk, Like sumthing iv a flay; The pig's as hungry as a hawk; The hens lay a' away. The hearth is a' wi cinders strown, The floor with dorty duds; The hoose is a' turn'd upside doon When Sal is i' the suds. But when the fray's a' ower an' duin, An' a's hung up to dry, A cup, an' blast o' baccy, suin Blaws a' bad temper bye. Then the thump! thump! souse! souse! Scrup! Scrub away! Myek ne mair glumpin' i' the hoose- Until next weshin'-day. -by Thomas Wilson; to the tune "There's nae luck aboot the Hoose"., Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 back to the song menu Spottie For notation click here For midi sound click here Come all ye good people and listen to me, And a comical tale I will tell unto ye, Belangin' yen Spottie--leev'd on the law Quay, That had nowther hoose nor harbour he. The poor auld wives o' the North side dissn't knaw what for to dee, For the daurna' come to see their husbands when they come to the Quay; Theyt're feared for their sels, an' their infants tee, For this roguish fellow they ca' Spottie. But noo he's gyen away unto the seaside, Where mony a yen wishes he may be weshed away wi' the tide, For if Floutter's flod com' as it used for to dee, It'll drive his heart oot--then where'll his midred be? The poor auld wives of Whitburn dissn't knaw what for to dee, For they dar not come alang the sands, wi'their lang tail skates in their hands, to Jacob Spenceley's landing, as they us'd for te dee. They daurna come alang the sands wi' their swills i' their hands, But they're forced to tyek a coble an' come in by the sea. As Laird Forster was riding alang in the sands, As he, or any other gentleman might chance for to dee, Spottie cam' oot- his tanter-wallups did flee-- His horse teuk the boggle, an' off flew he. He gethers coals i' the day-time, as he's well knawn for to dee, An'myeks a fire on a neet, which kests a leet into the sea, Which gar'd poor sloopy cry "hellem a lee," An' aback o' the Carcasses cam' poor she. Alack! an' well-a-day, said the Maister--"What mun we dee?" "Truist to Providence" said the Mate, "an' we're sure to get free;" There was a poor little lad 'at had come a trial viage to sea, His heart went like a pair of bellowses, an' he didn't knaw what for to dee, Johhy Ushere, the Maister, wad ha'e carried him away, But the ships company swore, de'il be their fate if they wad wi' him stay; We'll first forfeit oor wages for not gannin' to sea Afore we'll gan' wi' that foguish fellow they ca' Spottie. -(Sunderland) Spottie was a poor lunatic who lived in a cave at Roker, between Whitburn and Sunderland, which still retains the name of "Spottie's Hole."., Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 From: -Source: The Bishoprick Garland or a Collection of Legends, Songs Ballads &c.. Belonging to The County of Durham. London: Nichols, and Baldwin & Cradock. 1834.: This curious ditty is printed from a copy found in the papers of the late Thomas Clerke Esq., of Sunderland; ( and possibly written by him.). He was a geltleman of pwoerful convivial talents, and the author of several spirited, and anacreonitc songs, which are now attributed to others. He was a cheerful member of society, and his poetical contributions werre remarkable for their ready wit and sparkling humour. His "Sons of the Wear," is bold and enlivening; his "Musical Club," is full of good natured point and playful fancy; and his ode to Silver Street, is a pungent and lively portrait. Amongst his miscellaneous papers, which his son, Dr. Thomas Clerke, preserves with great care , are several complimentary letters from persons of consideration; and amongst others an anonymous ode, of which the following are the concluding verses:- See how the varied, comic strife, How each pursues that game of life Which suits his humour best, While thy good nature wins the prize, And wit now bears thee to the skies, O Clerrke! by all caress'd, O should this humble mimic lay, Approv'd by thee, one line betray, Fraught with true lyric fire; And should my muse enforce a smile, Or please my witty friend a while, 'Tis all that I desire. Flouter's Flood= A great flood which carried away flouter's mill, near Murton, and is remembered (locally) by the name of "Flouter's flood." back to the song menu A.U. Hinny Burd For notation click here For midi sound click here Its O but aw ken weel, A.U. hinny Burd, Thje bonny las o' Benwell, A.U.A. She's lang-legg'd an' mother-loike, A.U. hinny Burd, See, she's rakin' up the dyke, A.U.A. The Quayside for sailors, The Castle-garth for tailors, The Gateshead Hills for millers, The North shore for keelers. There's Sandgate for auld rags, An' gallowgate for trolly bags; There's Denton an' Kenton, An' canny Lang Benton. There's Tynemouth an' Cullercoats, An' North Shields for sculler-boats; There's Westoe lies iv a neuk, An' Sooth Shields the llyce for seut. There's Horton an' Holywell, An' bonny Seaton Delaval; Hartley-pans for sailors, An' Bedlington for nailers. -Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 back to the song menu Holiday Gown (no tune) In holiday gown, and my new fangl'd hat, Last Monday I tript to the fair; I held up my head, and I'll tell you for what, Brisk Roger I guess'd would be there; He woos me to marry whenever we meet, There's honey sure dwells on his tongue! He hugs me so close, and he kisses so sweet, I'd wed--if I were not too young Fond Sue, I'll assure you, laid hold on the boy, (The vixen would fain be his bride,} Some token she claim'd, either ribbon or toy, And swore that she'd not be deny'd; A top-knot he bought her, and garters of green, Pert Susan was cruelly stung; I hate her so much, that, to kill her with spleen, I'd wed--if I were not too young. He whisper'd such soft pretty things in mine ear! He flatter'd he promis'd and swore! Such trinkets he gave me, such laces and gear, That, trust me,--my pockets ran o'er; Some ballads he brought me, the best he could find, And sweetly their burthen he sung; Good faith, he's so handsome, so witty and kind, I'd wed--if I were not too young. The sun was just setting, 'twas time to retire (Our cottage was distant a mile) I rose to be gone--Roger bow'd like a squire, And handed me over the stile; His arms he threw round me--Love laugh'd in his eye, He led me the meadows among, There prest me so close, I agreed, with a sigh, To wed-for I was not too young. --Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 back to the song menu The Tyne Exile's Lament Tune--"Banks o' the Dee." click for midi sound click for notation I sit by the side of the broad rolling river, That sparkles along on its way to the sea; But my thoughts fly again o'er the wide heaving main, To the home of my childhood so happy and free; The sun with rare splendour may brighten each scene, All Nature in hues the most gorgeous may shine, But all is in vain the fond wish to restrian, I wish I were again on the Banks of the Tyne. How clearly before me again each bright scene Of my childhood appears to my sad longing eye; The wild rugged banks where so often I've played, And listen'd the river roll murmuring by; Though brighter the river that rolls at my feet, And fairer the banks where I sadly recline; All, all, I'd resign for the bleak hills of mine, Oh! I wish I were again on the Banks of the Tyne. Oh Fortune! I pray thee, Oh! list to the prayer Of the exile who mourns on a far foreign shore; If here I must die'neath the fierce blazing sky, And the home of my youth I must never see more; Take me far, far from here in my still narrow beir, And lay me where lie all the past race of mine, With them would I lie where the river rolls by, On the banks, dearly lov'd, of my own native Tyne. --Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888 back to the song menu Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Part 4 Sangs Without Lyrics (If we find them we will add them here later!) Click here for the Main Menu of this directory. Use our floating menu to improve navigation. you can reposition it by clicking on top bar and dragging Floating Menu Menu of all of the Sangs Click here For tunes in .abc notation click here click for real audio Geordie Hinny For an index of persons and places mentioned in the sangs click here For bibliography,and philosophy of the collection click here We invite you to contribute! Click here to comment or add. Soon after our upgrade the songs which the Whisky Priests have recorded will be high-lighted thusly Illustrated by woodcuts by Joseph Crawhall (Newcastle, 1889) (Where you see the music note image there will be a midi file-for you to listen to!) Your Choices! The Main Menu! Fenwick O' Bywell Blackett O' Wylam My Love is Newly Listed Sandhill Corner Morpeth Rant Durham Rangers Hoop Her and Gird Her Coquetside Wylam Away Sunderland Lasses Leazes Hopping Blanchland Races Newburn Lads Stay A Wee Bit, Bonny Lad The Fair Maid of Whickham Sir John Fenwick's the Flower amang them All Kafoozalum Proudlock's Hornpipe The Hills of Alva to the priests! Culture -Even Geordies! Durham and Coaly Tyne Songs!!! HUTMAN The Ulster Songbook Use this Pull down form to go to our other pages To return to the top of this page click here Fenwick O' Bywell Click here for midi sound back to the song menu Blackett O' Wylam Click here for midi sound. back to the song menu My Love is Newly Listed Click here for midi sound back to the song menu Sandhill Corner For Midi Sound Click here back to the song menu Morpeth Rant Click Here to play Midi Sound Click Here for Notation back to the song menu Durham Rangers For Notation click here For Midi Sound click here back to the song menu Hoop Her and Gird Her For Notation Click Here For Midi Sound Click Here back to the song menu Coquetside For Midi Sound Click Here back to the song menu Wylam Away Click Here for midi sound back to the song menu Sunderland Lasses For Midi Sound Click Here back to the song menu Leazes Hopping For Midi Sound Click here back to the song menu Blanchland Races For Midi Sound Click Here back to the song menu Newburn Lads For Midi Sound Click Here back to the song menu Stay A wee Bit, Bonny Lad For Midi Sound Click Here back to the song menu The Fair Maid of Whickham For Midi Sound Click Here back to the song menu The Lads of Alnwick For Midi Sound Click Here back to the song menu Sir John Fenwick's the Flower amang them All For Midi Sound Click Here back to the song menu Kafoozalum For Midi Sound Click Here back to the song menu Proudlock's Hornpipe For Midi Sound Click Here back to the song menu The Hills of Alva For Midi Sound click here back to the song menu back to the song menu email-Mail me Whisky! This is just a Start There will Be More Soon! Here's the tender comming.... Web Page Created by: Hutman! We Create important web pages! We can be your internet presence Click on the image below to visit us! Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Directory2 Click here for the Main Menu Directory 2. Use our floating menu to improve navigation. you can reposition it by clicking on top bar and dragging Floating Menu Menu of all of the Sangs Click here For tunes in .abc notation click here For an index of persons and places mentioned in the sangs click here For Bibliography,and Philosophy of the collection click here We invite you to contribute! Click here to comment or add. Soon after our upgrade the songs which the priests have recorded will be high-lighted thusly Illustrated by woodcuts by Joseph Crawhall (Newcastle, 1889) (Where you see the music note image there will be a midi file-for you to listen to!) A Keelboat on the Tyne Your Choices! The Main Menu! Chevy Chase The Hexhamshire Lass Durham Old Women Adam Buckham, O! Maw Canny Hinny My Dearie Sits Ower Late Up; Or, My Bonnie Bay Mare and I The Miller's Wife of Blaydon The Little Priest of Felton Till the Tide Comes In The Durham Lock-Out Durham Gaol BACK IN DURHAM GAOL A Verse on Durham Gaol Footy' Again the Wall The Horrid War i' Sangyet XYZ At Newcastle Races The De'il Stick The Minister Felton Lonnin' The Wedding O' Blyth or Blue's Gaen Oot O' The Fashion Shew's the Way to Wallington The Shoemakker Geordie Black The Blackleg Miners FOUR PENCE A DAY The Pitmen are Not Bonny Lads The Bonnie Gateshead Lass Wor Nannys a Mazer Sally Gee Blow the wind Southerly Cliffs of old Tynemouth Ca' Hawkie through the water The Press Gang Came to Willie Newcastle Lullaby The Trimdon Grange Explosion Swalwell Hopping Use this Pull down form to go to our other pages To Return to the top of this page click here. Chevy Chase Click here for midi sound Click here for notation God prosper long our noble king, Our lives and safeties all! A woeful hunting once there did In Chevy Chase befall. To drive the deer with hound and horn Earl Percy took his way; The child may rue that is unborn The hunting of that day! The stout Earl of Northumberland A vow to God did make, His pleasure in the Scottish woods Three summer's days to take. The chiefest harts in Chevy Chase To kill and bear away. These tidings to Earl Douglas came, In Scotland where he lay: Who sent Earl Percy present word He would prevent his sport. The English Earl, not fearing that, Did to the woods resort, With fifteen hundred bowmen bold, All chosen men of might, Who knew full well in time of need To aim their shafts aright. The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran To chase the fallow deer: On Monday they began to hunt Ere daylight did appear; And long before high noon they had An hundred fat bucks slain: Then having dined, the drivers went To rouse the deer again. Lord Percy to the quarry went To view the slaughter'd deer; Quoth he, Earl Douglas promised This day to meet me here; But if I thought he would not come No longer would I stay With that a brave young gentleman Thus to the Earl did say: Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come His men in armour bright - Full twenty hundred Scottish spears All marching in our sight. Show me, said he, whose men you be That hunt so boldly here That, without my consent do chase And kill my fallow deer? The first man that did answer make Was noble Percy, he Who said, We list not to declare Nor show whose men we be. Yet we will spend our dearest blood Thy chiefest harts to slay. Then Douglas swore a solemn oath And thus in rage did say: Ere thus I will out-braved be One of us two shall die! I know thee well, An earl thou art Lord Percy! so am I. Our English archers bent their bows, Their hearts were good and true; At the first flight of arrows sent Full fourscore Scots they slew. At last these two stout Earls did meet Like captains of great might; Like lions wud they laid on load And made a cruel fight. They fought, until they both did sweat, With swords of tempered steel, Until the blood, like drops of rain, They trickling down did feel. O yield thee, Percy! Douglas said, In faith, I will thee bring Where thou shalt high advanced be By James our Scottish king; Thy ransom I will freely give, And this report of thee, Thou art the most courageous knight That ever I did see. No, Douglas; quoth Earl Percy then, Thy proffer I do scorn; I will not yield to any Scot That ever yet was born! With that there came an arrow keen Out of an English bow, Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart, A deep and deadly blow; Who never spake more words than these Fight on, my merry men all! For why? my life is at an end, Lord Percy sees my fall. Then leaving life, Earl Percy took The dead man by the hand; And said, Earl Douglas! For thy life Would I had lost my land! O Christ! my very heart doth bleed With sorrow for thy sake; For sure a more redoubted knight Mischance could never take. A knight among the Scots there was Who saw Earl Douglas die; Who straight in wrath did vow revenge Upon the Lord Percy: Sir Hugh Montgomery was he called, Who, with a spear full bright, Well mounted on a gallant steed, Ran fiercely through the fight; And past the English archers all, Without all dread or fear, And through Earl Percy's body then He thrust his hateful spear. This fight did last from break of day Till setting of the sun; For when they rung the evening bell The battle scarce was done. And the Lord Maxwell in like case Did with Earl Douglas die; Of twenty hundred Scottish spears Scarce fifty-five did fly; Of fifteen hundred Englishmen Went home but fifty-three; The rest were slain in Chevy Chase Under the greenwood tree. Next day did many widows come Their husbands to bewail; They washed their wounds in brinish tears, But all would not prevail. Their bodies bathed in purple gore They bore with tbem away; They kissed their dead a thousand times When they were clad in clay. God save our king, and bless this land With plenty, joy and peace, And grant henceforth that foule debate 'Twixt noblemen may cease! -This version is supposed by Bishop Percy to have been written about the time of Queen Elizabeth. Chappell believes that it is the work of Richard Sheale. This is but one of several versions of this important ballad and favorite tune of pipers. -Source: The Northumberland Garland;or Newcastle Nightingale., Joseph Ritson, Newcastle, MDCCXCIII , Harding and Wright, London,1809. This is one of three tunes associated with the ballad. It is provided as the most popular one. back to the song menu The Hexhamshire Lass First version from - Northumbrian Minstrelsy (Bruce & Stokoe, 1882) almost the same as that from: Rhymes of the Northern Bards., John Bell, MDCCCXII Second is a Fragment from Dave Harker, Songs from the Manuscript Collection of John Bell., Surtees Society, 1985. For Notation Click Here For Midi Sound Click Here Hey for the buff and the blue, Hey for the cap and the feather, Hey for the bonny lass true, That lives in Hexhamshire. Chorus: Through by the Saiby Syke, And over the moss and the mire, I'll go to see my lass, Who lives in Hexhamshire. Her father loved her well, Her mother loved her better, I love the lass mysel', But, alas! I cannot get her. O, This love, this love, Of this love I'm weary, Sleep I can get none, For thinking on my deary. My heart is like to break, By bosom is on fire, So well I love the lass, That lives in Hexhamshire. Her petticoat is silk, And plated rond with siller, Her shoes are tied with tape; She'll wait till I go till her. Were I where I would be, I would be beside her; But here a while I must be, Whatever may betide her. Hey for the thick and the thin, Hey for the mud and the mire. And hey for the bonny lass, That lives in Hexhamshire. ______________________ THE HEXHAMSHIRE LASS #142 From John Bell's Song Collection Through the sevie Sike & O'er the Mossy Mire [rushy dyke Oh for the bonny bonny Lass that lives in Hexhamshire her Father likes her Weel, her Mother likes her better I like the Lass mysel but flaid I Wona get her [afraid I won't When I came to this Town they ca'd me Robin Rowell now they've changed my Name and they ca me the Rakeing Jewell Oh that I was where a wad be [a, not I] then wad I be where I am not But where I am I mun be and where I wad I cannot back to the song menu Durham Old Women For notation click here For midi sound click here As aw' was gannin' to Durham, Aw' met wi' three jolly brisk women; Aw' asked "what news at Durham?" They said--"Joyful news is coming: "There's three sheeps' heads i' the pot, A peck o' peasmeal in the pudding:" They jump'd, laugh'd, and skipp'd at that, For the joyful days are coming. back to the song menu Adam Buckham, O! For Notation click here For Midi Sound click here It's doon the Lang Stairs, And strite alang the Close, All in Baker's Entry, Adam Buckham Knows Chorus: for its.. O,Adam Buckham, O, O, Adam Buckham, O; O, Adam Buckham,O, Wiv his bow legs. Nanny carries water, Tommy Cobbles shoes, And Adam gans aboot Gethering in the news Adam kissed the servant lass, That will never do; If he dissent mind himsel, The kitty myeks him rue, Adam gat the lass wi' bairn; That will never do. If he dinna marry her The kitty gars him rue. (kitty=jail; to gar= to make, to cause) back to the song menu Captain Bover For Midi sound click here For Notation click here Where hes' te' been, maw canny hinny? Where hes ti' been, maw winsome man? Aw've been ti' the norrard, Crusing back and forrard, Aw've been ti' the norrard, Crusing sair and lang; Aw've been ti' the norrard, Crusing back and forrard, But daurna come ashore For Bover and his gang. back to the song menu Maw Canny Hinny For Notation Click Here For Midi Sound Click here Chorus: Where hes te been, ma' canny hinny? An'where hes te been, maw bonny bairn? Aw was up an'doon, seekin' for maw hinny; Aw was throo' the toon seekin' for maw bairn. Aw went up the Butcher Bank an' doon Grundin Chare, Ca'd at the Dun Cow, but aw cuddent find thee there. Then aw went to the Casel Garth and ca'd on Johnny Fife; The beer-drawer tell'd me she n'er saw thee in her life. The aw went into the Three Bull's Heeds, an' doon the Lang Stairs, An' a' the way alang the Close as far as Mr. Mayor's. Frae theree aw went alang the Brig, an' up te Jackson's Chare, Then back agyen te the Cross Keyes, but cuddent find thee there. Then cummin'oot o' Pipergate aw met wi' Willy Rigg, Whe tell'd me that he saw thee standin' p____n on the Brig. Cummin' alang the Brig agyen, aw met wi' Cristy Gee; He tell'd me that he saw thee gannin' doon Hume's Entry. Where hev aw been? aw can suen tell ye that; Cummin' up the Kee aw met wi' Peter Pratt; Meetin' Peter Pratt, we met wi' Tommy Wear, And went te Hume's to get a gill o' beere. That's where aw've been, maw canny hinny! That's where aw've been maw bonny lamb! Was tu up and doon seekin' for thee hinny? Was tu up and' doon seekin for thee lamb? Then aw met yor Ben an' we were like te fite, An' when we cam' to Sandgate it was pick nite; Crossin' the road aw met wi' Bobby Swinny-- Hing on the girdle, lets heve a singin' hinny. A'me sorrow's ower noo av've fund me hinny, A' me sorrow's ower noo aw've fund me bairn; Lang may aw shoot, maw canny hinny, Lang may aw shoot, maw canny bairn. back to the song menu My Dearie Sits Ower Late Up; Or, My Bonnie Bay Mare and I For Notation Click Here For Midi Sound Click Here My dearie sits ower late up, My hinney sits ower late up, My laddy sits ower late up, Betwixt the pint pot and the cup. Hey! Johnnie, come hame to your mairn, Hey! Johnnie, come hame to your bairn, Hey! Johnnie, come hame to your bairn, Wiv a rye loaf under your airm He addles three ha'pence a week That's nobbut a farthing a day, He sits wiv his pipe in his cheek, And he fuddles his money away. My laddy is never the near, My hinney is nevere the near, And when I cry out ":lad cum hame," He calls oot again for mair beer. back to the song menu The Miller's Wife O' Blaydon For Midi Sound click here For Notation click here The Miller's wife o' Blaydon, The miller's wife o' Blaydon Sair she bang'd her ain gudeman For kissing o' the maiden. Yet aye the miller sings and swears, Though kissing he'd had plenty, For one kiss o' that bonny mouth He'd freely give up twenty Still thought she bang me neet and day, I'get another laid in, For gin you gan through every toon Ye'll never bang our maiden. ____________________________________ The Little Priest of Felton The little priest of Felton, The little priest of Felton, He kill'd a mouse within his house, and ne'er a one to help him; To help him, to help him He kill'd a mouse within his hoiuse, And ne'er one to help him. (for the little priest only first part ) back to the song menu Till the Tide Comes In For Notation click here For Midi Sound click here While strolling down by Sandgate Street, A shipmate there I chanc'd to meet; "I'll treat you with a pint of gin," Says he, "until the tide comes in", Till the tide comes in, till the tide comes in, Right merry will we be till the tide comes in; We'll music bring, and dance and sing And kiss the pretty girls till the tide comes in I took in tow young squinting Meg, Who well in the dance could shake her leg; My friend hawl'd Oyster Molly in, And we jigg'd them about till the tide came in, Till the tide came in, 'till the tide came in, Righ merry were we till the tide came in; We danc'd till the sweat ran o'er each chin, And kept up the splore till the tide came in. We staid with them till break of day, When we ask'd the landlord what to pay? "You've drank," says he, "nine pints of gin," So we paid him the shot, for the tide was in, For the tide was in, for the tide was in, How the girls did grieve that the tide was in, But we promis'd them to meet again At a future time when the tide was in. -Source: Lyrics: Songs from the Manuscript Collection of John Bell., D.I Harker ed. back to the song menu The Durham Lock-out Click here for notation Click here for midi sound In our Durham County I am sorry for to say, That hunger and starvation is increassing every day; For the want of food and coals we know not what to do, But with your kind assistance we will stand the struggle through. I need not state the reason why we have been brought so low, The masters have behaved unkind, as everyone will know; Because we won't lie down and let them treat us as they like, To punish us they've stopt their pits and caused the present strike. The pully wheels have ceased to move, which went so swift around, The horses and the ponies too are brought from underground; Our work is taken from us now, they care not if we die, For they can eat the best of food and drik the best when dry. The miner and his marra too, each morning have to roam, To seek for bread to feed the hungry little ones at home; the flour barrel is empty now, their true and faithful friend, Which makes the thousands whish today the strike was at an end. We have done our very best as honest working men, To let the pits commence again we've offered to them ten. the offer they will not accept, they firmly do demand Thirteen and a half per cent, or let the collieries stand. Let them stand or let them lie, to do with them as they choose, To give them thirteen and a half, we ever shall refuse, They're always willing to receive, but never inclined to give. Very soon they won't allow a working man to live. (With tyranny and capital they never seem content, Unless they are endeavouring to take from us per cent. If it was due, what they request, we willingly would grant, We know its not, therefore we cannot give them what they want) The miners of Northumberland we shall for ever praise, For being so kind in helping us those tyrannisisng days; We thank the other counties too, that have been doing the same, For every man who hears this song will know we're not to blame . --Tommy Armstrong, Source: Tommy Armstrong of Tyneside., Version 1 the tune of Come all ye tramps and hawkers. Bill Sables Writes: "When I was a child in Dipton Co Durham I grew up listning to the Tommy Armstrong songs, My father and uncle used to know Tommy very well, in fact as Tommy did not sing so good and my uncle was a good singer they would tour the local pubs of Dipton, Tantoby and Stanley together, my uncle singing the songs Tommy wrote for a reward of a couple of pints Tommy did not write tunes but just wrote his songs to tunes which were popular at the time. For The Durham Strike, as Tommy called the song known as Durham Lockout the tune he used was "Castles in the Air ( also known as Ball of Kerrimuir). However when The High Level Ranters recorded the album "Tommy Armstrong of Tyneside" Tommy Gilfellon sang the song to the tune of Come all ye tramps and hawkers." Click here for Midi Sound back to the song menu Durham Gaol For Back in Durham Gaol click here A verse on Durham Gaol click here For midi sound click here For notation click here Wy'll aal hev hord o' Durham Gaol, But it wad ye much surprise, Te see the prisoners in the yard, When they're on exercise, this yard is built aroond wi' waals, Se noble an'se strang. Wheiver gans in haas te bide their time, Be it short or lang Chorus O there's ne good luck in Durham Gaol, There's ne good luck at aal; what's bread and' skilly for, Burt just te make ye smaal? When ye gan inte Durham Gaol The'll find ye with employ, They'll dress ye up se dandy In a suit o' corduroy; They'll fletch yer a cap wivoot a peak, An' niver ax your size, An' like your suit it's corduroy, An' it comes doon ower your eyes. The forst month is the worst of aal; Your feelins they will try There's nowt but two great lumps o' wood, On which ye hev to lie. The after that ye get a bed, But it's as hard as stanes; At neet ye dorsen't mek a torn, For fear ye brek some banes. Aal kin's o' work there's gannon on, Upon them noble flats, Teasin okum, makin baals, An' weavin coco mats. When ye gan in ye may be thin, But they can mek ye thinner, If your oakum isn't teased, They're sure to stop your dinner. The shoes ye get is often tens, The smaalest size is nine; They're big enough to mek a skiff For Boyd upon the Tyne. An' if ye should be caad at neets, Just mek yorsel at yem; Lap your claes aroond your shoes, An'get inside o'them. Ye'll get yor meat an' claes for nowt, Yor hoose an firin free; Aal you meat's browt te the door- Hoo happy ye should be! Thor's soap an' towel an 'wooden speun, An' a little bairnie's pot; They fetch ye papers every week For ye te clean your bot. -Tommy Armstrong, Source: Tommy Armstrong of Tyneside., Bill Sables writes: "my father allways used to sing this song to the tune of "The Washing Day" BACK IN DURHAM GAOL For Midi sound Click here I’m a poor man, as honest as they come, I never was a thief until they caught me. And the judge, he said, he swore me hands were red, No matter how I plead, they find me guilty. There was no bail, off to Durham gaol, I went, no nothing now could save me, Calamities, they always come in threes, And that’s how many months it was they gave me. Chorus And no never in the live long day, You’ll not find me back in Durham gaol. And no never in the live long day, You’ll not find me back in Durham gaol. ‘Twas a great day when first I went astray, The devil was the man that came to tempt me. "Cause in no time, me life was one of crime, And now you see the trouble that it’s got me. Well there’s four bare walls at which to stare, Me board and me lodgings are all paid for, You can’t see the turnin’ of the key, To hear the turnin’ back is all you wait for. Oh but sad to say, here I am to stay, With only iron bars around to lean on. I get a cold bath to dampen down me wrath- Though it’s barely just a month ago I had one. God knows, I need a suit o’ clothes, You’d think they could’ve found a one to fit me. Me boots would be fine if they were both a nine, I’m walkin’ like a fall o’ stones has hit me. And I’m sure that me mother’s heart would break, To see me in a state of such repentance. I’m glad she’s not around to see - And I’ll be out before she finishes her sentence. The sun will shine, I’ll leave it all behind, Knowin’ I’ve done me time and done me duty. When out of the gate on the narrow and the straight, To the place where I’ve buried all the booty. This appears in one of Jez Lowe's Song Books. A Verse on Durham Gaol Three men went a hunting to see what they could find Then they came to Durham Gaol and that they left behind The Englishman said "It's Durham Gaol" The Scotsman he said "Nay" and Geordy said "'Tis Parliament with the Geordies gone away" Look at that now, Look at that now, Titti fa la fa la fa lay, Titti fa la fa lay. back to the song menu Footy' Again the Wall For Notation 1 click here For midi sound click here Fra Benton Bank, to Benton town, There's not a Pitman's raw; So when ye get to the Moor Yate, Play footy again the wa'. Chorus Then hie footy, and how footy, And footy again the wa'; And when ye get to the moor Yate, Play footy again the wa'. The wife went doon the Moor Lonnin, And let her basket fa'; For when she got to the Moor Yate, Play'd footy again the wa' The stoby road's a stoby place, And some o' the stobs are la' But still there's some that's high enough For footy again the wa' The Holy Stone's a holy place, The trees are thick and la'; But they are nought to the Moor Yate, For footy again the wa' Wapping Square is a bonny place, The houses are but sma; But in them yet there's room enough, For footy again the wa' The lady did not like the house, For the air it was raw; It was sweeter far at the Moor Yate, For footy again the wa' Young Cuddy is a bonny lad, An Robin's tall and sma; But if you come to wour twon end, They'll footy again the wa' -Source- Rhymes of the Northern Bards., John Bell, 1812. back to the song menu The Horrid War i' Sangyet For Midi Sound click here For Notation click here Tho's nowt se bad, aw've heer'd foax say, Is let feul preachors hae thor way; An' that was proov'd the tuthor day, Be the horrid war i' Sangyet. As Rantor Dick preech'd fev a chair, While singin' oot wi' cuddy blair, An' gie'in the Pope a canny share O' hell-fire comfort aw declare, Bowld Paddy Finn set up a howl An' squintin' Dan an' Ted Mac Cowl Myet priest an'byeuk an' styeul to rowl I' th' muck an' clarts o' Sangyet. Nan Dodds an' me an' Mettor Jack Wis stannin' be the preechor's back; Says aw, "Ye thunderin' Irish pack, Dor ye start yor gam' i' Sangyet?" Then, we' me neeve, aw shuts a blaw, An' levels Dan an' Cowley law; Wor Jack pickt up the rantor craw, An' tell'd not gyen Popes to jaw, An' now the bonny gam begun; The Pats frev oot thor hooses run, They poor'd be hundreds fre the "Sun," Te start a war i' Sangyet. They cam fre loosy dens wi' howls, Like harrin'-man! they they cam' i' showls, Wi' buzzum shanks an awd bed powls Styens flew like shot thru Sangyet. The polls cam wi' thor black sticks, But sam gatfell'd wi' greet hawf bricks, Then rowlin' pins an' shafts o' picks Wis browt to the naytive's tricks. The Paddies screem'd till a' wis bloo "Let's slay the Saxon haythens, noo! Down wid the English thaives! Hooroo! An' we'll be kings i' Sangyet!" They cam fre Quinn's an' Simson's tee Fra Ford's an' hooses'lang the Kee, Fre Piporgyet an' Mill Entree To the horrid war i' Sangyet; The Irish force was fairly quasht, When on the Kee-side porters dasht; Then tongs went up bed powls gat smasht An' heeds was crackt, an' windors crasht The brave keel-laddies tyeuk their turn Wiv smiths an' potters fre the Burn; They cut the whiteboys doon like corn, An' lyed them law i' Sangyet. The sweeps now teem'd wi sic a rush, The Paddies fled before the brush; Ned Fish's heroes myed a push, An' blackt the boys i' Sangyet, Bill Jonsin's a croo an' Clark's wis there, An' Knight's an Lumley's pack fowt sair; Jem Frame's boold fre the Cassel Square, Wi' Blowor's Blacks an' mony mair, The landlord's joined the jolly row, Bob Carr gat help fre the "Barley Mow;" Moor put his Steam Boat cheps i'tow, An' a' wes war in Sangyet. Nell Prood chuckt up her three-legged An' lyed it into Dermitt's skull; styeul An' Dorty Peg worl'd roond her shyeul, An' splet sum heeds i' Sangyet. Young Oyster Bet an' Tatey Sall Got three greet navvies gyen the wal; Bet prickt them wiv a cobbler's awl; Peg pows'd thor jaws an' myed them squall an' when the Pats wis fairly dyeun, Wor Sally for the pollis run, An'te the stayshun they were tyeun For raisin' war i' Sangyet. The pollis wad gyen doon, aw feer, Ef cheps like us had not been neer; Man, Keeyside blud's se full o' beer, We'd fight the world for sangyet. Wor Jack an' me to Manors tyeuk, Just sixteen Pats be Scott's awn byeuk; We seized them like a grapplin hyeuk, An' cyeg'd them for sum mair te lyeuk. On Mundor morn aw fand a' sair, When aw wis cawld afore the Mare, An' swor 'twas a' the Rantor's prayer That caus'd the war i' Sangyet. To gaol the dorty trash was sent, Wi' brockin' skulls an' fairly spent; They lyeukt like owt but foax content Wi' raisin' war i' Sangyet. Noo when we're free aw'll say agyen, Just let us Inglish foax alyen, Newcassel lads can rool a "main," In owther "seas" or "cocks" that's plain, Then let's away to sum yell-hoose An' hev a sang, an' gan on croose; Let's proove us Keeside cheps is doose The conkerin' bleyds o' Sangyet. -Source:Traditional/ Come you Not From Newcastle., Gwen Polwarth, Frank Graham,1972. back to the song menu XYZ At Newcastle Races Click Here for Notation Click Here for Midi Sound Smash! Jemmy, let us buss, We'll off an' see Newcassel races, Set Dick the trapper for some syep, We'll suin wesh a wor faces, There'll ne'er a lad in Percy Main Be bet this day for five or ten; Wor pockets lined wiv notes an'cash, Amang the cheps we'll cut a dash For X Y Z, that bonny steed, He bangs them a' for pith and speed, He's sure to win the cup, man. Chorus: Fal the dal the dal the day, Fal the dal the dido Fal the dal the dal the da, Fal the dal the di do We reached the moor, wi' sairish tues, When they were gan to start, man; We gav a fellow tuppence each To stand upon a cart, man; The bets flew round frae side to side, "The field agyen X Y!" they cried; We'd hardly time to lay them a' When in he cam--Hurra! Hurra! "Gadsmash!" says aw, "X Y's the steed, He bangs them a' for pith an' speed, We never see'd the like, man." Next, to the tents we hied, to get Some stuffing for wor bags, man; Wi' flesh we fairly pang'd wor hides Smoked nowse but patent shag, man. Wi rum and brandy soak'd each chop, We'd Jackey an' fine ginger pop We gat what made us winkin' blin' When drunky aw began to sing "Od smash! X Y, that bonnie steed, Thou bangs them a' for pith an' speed, We never see'd his like, man." Next up amang the shows we gat, Where folks a' stood i' flocks, man, To see a chep play Bob and Joan Upon a wooden box, man; While bairns an' music filled the stage, An' some, by gox! were grim wi' age; When next aud Grin a powney browt, Could tell at yence what people thowt! "Od smash!" says aw, "if he's the breed Of X Y Z, that bonny steed, Thou niver see'd his like, man." But haud! when we cam to the toon, What thinks thou we saw there, man?; We saw a Blackie, puffin', swettin', Suckin' in fresh air, man; They said that he could fell an ox His name was fightin' Molinox; But ere he fit another roond, His marrow fell'd him to the groound. "Od smash!" saysaw, "if thou's sic As X Y Z that bonny steed, breed Thou niver see'd his like, man." Next, board a steamer-boat we gat, A laddie rang a bell, man; We hadn't sittin' varry lang Till byeth asleep we fell, man, But the noise seun myed poor Jimmy start He thowt ' twas time to gan to wark, For pick an' hoggers roar'd oot he, An' myed sic noise it waken'd me. "Od smash." says aw, "X Y 's the steed, He bangs them a' for pith an' speed, Aw niver see'd his like, man." When landed, straight off hyem aw gans An' thunners at the door man; The bairns lap ower the bed wi' fright, Fell smack upon the floor, man; But to gaur the wifey haud her tongue, Showed her the kelter aw had won; She wiv a cinder brunt her toes, An' little Jacob broke his nose The brass aw've getten at the race Will buy a patch for Jacob's face So noo maw sang is duin, man. back to the song menu The De'il Stick The Minister Click here for Midi Sound Click here for Notation Our wife she keeps baith beef and yell And tea to treat the Minister; There's nowt for me but sup the kale, The beef's for the Minister. Besides, a bottle keeps in by To warm his breast when he's no dry; While I tthe water stand maun try. May the De'll stick the Minister! Our Minister he's now fawn sick; Waes me, the Minister! Wha'll save us now fra Auld Nick, Gin the Lord tak' the Minister? Left to oursels, we ken fu'weel The brent upstairs we canna spiel; We'll just turn back and meet the De'il, Gen the Lord tak' the Minister. Our Minister he has nae pride, Ne'er a bit, the Minister; He just sits by our fireside, Kin' he war no' the Minister. He taks the gudewife by the hand, Says, "John, man, sit: what maks ye stand?" Has a' the barins at his command He's a holy man, the Minister. The covennant he can explain He's a wise man, the Minsiter; Thinks na religion like his ain We maun think like the Minister. The Papists are a wicked sect, They no belang the Lord's elect; Gin Parliament their claims accept, May the De'il stick the Minister! Our Minister, he's aft in want; He's a puir man, the Minister; Whate'er he wants we a' mun grant, We maun supply the Minister, And aft to him a horse we lend; His wife and bairns on us depend, Tho' our ainsels can hardly fend, May the De'll stick the Minister! Yet still he's useful in his place; He's a braw man, the Minister; At ika feast he says the grace, Nane fitter than the Minister; And when the glasses come in view, He says "We'll drink, but no get fou', Sic deeds the Lord does not allow." Yet fou' gets the Minister. He preaches loud, he saft does pray: This says the Minister "Ye need no fear your dying day, Gin ye be like your Minister. Ye'll get abune, ye needna fear; Be sure that after me ye speer," But faith we doubt, when we get there, We'll no see the Minister. back to the song menu Felton Lonnin' Click Here for Notation Click Here for Midi Sound The Swine came jumping down Pelton Lonnin', The swine came jumping down Pelton Loonin', The swine came jumping down Pelton Lonnin', There's five black swine and never and odd one. Three i' the dyke and two i' the lonnin', Three i' the dyke and two i' the lonnin', Three i' the dyke and two i' the lonnin,' That's five black swine and never an odd one. -Cuthbert Sharp's Bishoprick Garland _______________________________ The kye's come hame, but I see not my hinny, They kye's come hame, but I see not my bairn; I'd rather loss a' the kye than loss my hinny, I'd rather loss a' the kye than loss my bairn. Fair faced is my hinny, his blue eyes are bonny, His hair in curl'd ringlets hung sweet to the sight; O mount the old pony, seek after my hinny, And bring to his mammy her only delight. back to the song menu The Wedding O' Blyth For Notation click here For Midi Sound click here Bluye's gaen oot o' the fashion, Red's come in with the new; But I'll have a sailor laddie, And dye my apron blue. _____________ O the lousy cutter, They've ta'en my laddie fra me, They pressed him far away foreign, Wi' Nelson ayout the salt sea. They always come in the night, They never come in the day, They always come in the night, And steal the laddie away. back to the song menu Shew's The Way to Wallington Click here for Midi Sound Click here for Notation O canny man, O shew me the way to Wallington, I've got a mare to ride, and she's a trick o' galloping, I have a lassie, beside, that winna give o'er her walloping, O canny man, O shew me the way to Wallington. Weel or sorrow betide, I'll hae the way to Wallington I've a grey mare' o' my ain that ne'er gives o'er her galloping, I've a lass, forbye, that I canna keep frae walloping, O canny man, O tell me the way to Wallington Sandy, keep on the road, that's the way to Wallington, O'er by Bingfield Kame and the banks o' Hallington, Thro' by Bavington Hh', and in ye go to Wallington, Whether ye gallop or trot ye're on the road to Wallington. Off, like the wind, he went, clattering to Wallington, Soon he reached Binfield Kame, and passed the banks o' Hallington, O'er by Bavington Syke, the mare could'nt trot for galloping, Now my dear lassie i'll see, for I'm on my way to Wallington. back to the song menu The Shoemakker For Midi Sound Click here For Notation Click Here My mother sent me to the school, To learn to be a stocking-knitter, But I went wrang and play'd the fule, And married with a shoemakker. Shoemakker, leather cracker, With all his stinking, dirty water, I wish a thousand deaths I'd died Ere I had wed a shoemakker. His hands are like a cuddy's* houghs, His face is like the high-lowed leather, His ears are like I don't know what, His hair is like a bunch of heather. Shoemaker, Leather cracker, Stinking kit and rotten leather, I wish a thousand deaths I had died Ere I had wed a shoemakker. He sent me for a pint of wine. And I brought him a pint o' water, But he played be as good a trick He made my shoe's o' rotten leather, Shoemakker leather strapper, Three rows o' rotten leather, Balls o'wax and stinking water, Who would have a shoemakker? *cuddy= Cuddy: A small horse or St. Cuthbert Haugh: Pronounced Hoff or Harf - a meadow land eg Derwenthaugh back to the song menu Geordie Black Click here for Midi Sound Click here for Notation Ma name is Geordie Black, aa'm gettin' very aad Aa've hewed tons of coal in me time. An' when as wes just a lad, As could either put or hew, Oot the others aa could aalways take the shine. Aa'm gannin' doon the hill, I cannet use the pick. The maister hes ne pitty on aad bones. So noo aa'm on the bank, An'aa while me time away Amang the bits o' lads wi' pickin' oot the stones. Oh. me name is Geordie Black In me times aa've been a crack, An' aa've warked baith in the Gyuss an the Betty back to the song menu The Blackleg Miners For Notation Click here For midi sound Click here Oh, early in the evenin', just after dark, The blackleg miners creep te wark, Wi' their moleskin trousers an' dorty short, There go the backleg miners ! They take their picks an' doon they go Te dig the coal that lies belaw, An' there's not a woman in this toon-aw* Will look at a blackleg miner. Oh, Delaval is a terrible place. They rub wet clay in a blackleg's face, An' roond the pit-heaps they run a foot Wi' the dorty blackleg miners. Now, don't go near the Seghill mine. Across the way they stretch a line, Te catch the throat an' break the spine O' the dorty backleg miners. They'll take your tools an' duds as well, An' hoy them doon the pit o' hell. It's doon ye go, an' fare ye well, Ye dorty blackleg miners ! Se join the union while ye may. Don't wait till your dyin' day, For that may not be far away, Ye dorty blackleg miners ! *toon-raw = town-row back to the song menu FOUR PENCE A DAY Click here for Notation Click here for Midi Sound The ore is waiting in the tubs the snow's upon the fell Canny folk are sleeping yet but lead is reet to sell Come me little washer lad come let's awa We're bound down to slavery for four pence a day It's early in the morning we rise at five o'clock And the little slaves come to the door to knock, knock, knock Come me little washer lad, come let's awa It's very hard to work for four pence a day My father was a miner and lived down in the town Twas hard work and poverty that always kept him down He aimed for me to go to school, but brass he could not pay So i had to go to the washing rake for four pence a day My mother rises out of bed with tears on her cheeks Puts my wallet on my shoulders, which has to serve a week It often fills her great big heart when she unto me does say I never thought you would have worked for four pence a day Fourpence a day, me lads, and very hard to work And never a pleasant look from a gruffy looking Turk His conscience it may fall and his heart it may give way Then he'll raise our wages to nine pence a day back to the song menu The Pitmen are not Bonny Lads Click here for Midi Sound Click here for Notation The pitmen are not bonny lads. The pitmen are not bonny O, If they're ever sae clean, yet they're black about the een, And I like the the worst o' ony, O. back to the song menu The Bonny Gateshead Lass For Notation Click Here For Midi Sound Click Here I'll warrant you, you've never seen me lass, her name I cannot mention, for fear you'll gan and tell her how I like her so I dee! Well it's just for lads and lasses for to whisper their affection. The bonniest lass in Gateshead's bonny face has bothered me. Well the first time I saw her, well I thought I didn't know her, but I'm sure I'd seen her face before, I couldn't think of where, her blue eyes met mine in passing, up the High Street in the morning, and her look was so entrancing, that me heart was mine nee mair. Well I didn't see her for a week then one night at the Bridge End, I stamped upon her gown, and the gathers they come away, she told us I was clumsy and I said that I was sorry, and I humbly begged her pardon, I was licked for what to say. So I walked on by her side just as if I had a right to de, the conversation first was shy but then it turned first class. We talked about the weather and she mentioned that her father was a puddler down at Hawks', oh me bonny Gateshead lass. She mentioned confidentially that her uncle was a grocer, and her mother's, father's, cousin was a fiddler on the shore. She talked so nice and pleasant and she looked both sweet and pleasant, I thowt I'd never a seen a lass so charming like before. She says her mother keeps a shop and sells hot pies and candy, and her brother he's a cobbler in the high part of the town. Now she was a dressmaker and we got on so well together, that I blessed I'd been so awkward as to stand upon her gown. I make her laugh and slap me lug with talking lots of nonsense. But bless you when you're courting why there's nowt so good'll pass. I asked her would she be me lass and I'd take her own on Sunday, to my delight she says "I might" me bonny Gateshead lass. back to the song menu Wor Nannys a Mazer Wor Nanny an' me myed up wor minds te gan an' catch the train, 'Te gan te the toon te buy some claes for wor little Billy and Jane: But when we got to Rowland's Gill the mornin' train wes gyen, An thor wasn't another one gan' that way till siventeen minutes te one So aa ses te wor Nan its a lang way te gan an Aa saa biv hor feyce she wes vext; But aa ses nivvor mind we heh plenty o'time, we'll stop an' we'll gan on wi' the next. She gove a bit smile an wen Aa spok up an ses, ther's a pubbilick hoose along heor, We'll gan along there and git worsels warm an' a glass o' the best bittor beer. But Nan wes se stoot Aa knew she'd not waak an she didn't seem willin' te try. Wen a tink o'the trubble Aa'd wiv hor that day, Aa's like te borst oot an' cry. Chorus - And ay wor Nanny's a mazer an' a mazer she remains An' as lang as Aa leeve Aa winnet forget the day we lost the trains. So doon we went te the pubbilick hoose, an when we got te the door She sez "We'll gan inti the parlor end for Aa've niver been heor afore". So in we went an tuek wor seats, an' afore Aa rang the bell Aa axed hor what she was gannin' te hev, and she sez " The Syem as yorsel". So Aa caalled for two gills of the best bittor beer, she paid for them when they com in. An afore she'd swallied a haaf o' hors she said, "Aa wad rethur hev gin". So Aa caalled for a glass o' the best Hollands Gin, she swallied it doon the forst try: Aa sez to wor Nan thoo's as gud as a man, she sez "Bob man Aa feel varry dry". Chorus She sat an' drank till she got tight, she sez "Bob, man Aa feel varry queer". Aa sez, "Thoo's had nine glasses o' gin te me two gill's o' beer". She lowsed hor hat an' then hor shaal an' hoyed them on the floor: Aa thowt wor Nan was gan' Wrang iv hor mind so Aa set mesel near the door. She sez, "Give us order, Aa'll sing a bit sang"- Aa sat an Aa glowered at hor; Aa thowt she wes jokin' for Aa nivvor hard wor Nanny sing ony before. She tried te stand up te sing the "Cat Pie" but she fell doon an' myed sic a clatter, She smashed fower chairs, an' the Landlord com in an' he sez "What the deuce is the matter". He sez te me "Is this yor wife, an where de ye belang?" Aa sez "It is, an' she's teun a fit wi tryin' te sing a bit sang" He flung his arms aroond hor waist, and trailed hor ower the floor, An poor aad Nan (like a dorty hoose cat) was hoyed oot side o' the door. An' there she wes lyin', byeth groanin' an cryin', te claim hor Aa reely thowt shyem; Aa tried ta lift hor, but Aa cudden't shift hor an' Aa wished Aa had Nanny at hyem. The papor man said he wad give hor a lift, se we hoisted hor inti the trap: But Nan was that tight that she cuddent sit up, so we fasten'd hor down wiv a strap She cuddent sit up and she waddent lie doon, an' she kicked till she broke the convaince: She lost a new basket, hor hat an hoe shaal, that wummin, wi lossin' the trains. -Tommy Armstrong back to the song menu Sally Gee I'll tell you of a nice young lass and her name is Sally Gee, I met her in the pub one night, it was down on the quay. I says to her well I know your face but a divvent knaa from where. So I asked where abouts she lived and she said down Carliol Square. Chorus: But never mind, the lass she's kind, I knaa she is good hearted, and the cast in her eye makes her look shy and I wish we never had parted. She's got a hump and she walks with stick and she's always good to me. I'm fond of the lass that none can pass, the lass down on the quay. Every neet I used to meet me Sally on the quay. I asked her if she'd marry me if she'd be good to me. How long it is since she washed herself well I'm sure I divvent knaa. 'Cos she's got a face like an old spice cake, as black as any craa. Chorus: Well it was all through her I went on the drink, I went headlong to the bad. I pawned me watch and I pawned me chain, that was everything I had. And then next morn the landlord appeared and he hoyed us through the door. And I spent six months in Durham Gaol with me clothes put into store. back to the song menu Ca' Hawkie through the water Chorus Ca' Hawkie, ca' Hawkie, Ca' Hawkie through the water; Hawkie is a sweir beast, And Hawkie winna wade the water. Hawkie is a bonny coe, Though she's loth to wade the water; While she waits the wark'll stand, So ca' Hawkie through the water. Hawkie is a pretty cow; All the children do adore her, For she gives them all the milk There is none they prize before her. Girls, be not too nice and coy, If your swethearts want to marry, Ne'er say nay, but quickly comply, As 'tis hazardous to tarry. Now, young maids my counsel take, Since that it can be no better; Cast off baith your hose and shoon, And drive her through the water. back to the song menu Cliffs of Old Tynemouth Oh! the cliffs of old Tynemouth they're wild and they're sweet, And dear are the waters that roll at their feet, And the old ruined abbey it ne'er shall depart: 'Tis the joy of my fancy and the home of my heart. Oh 'twas there that my childhood fled cheerful and gay, There I loitered the morning of boyhood away, And now as I wander the old beach alone, The waves seem to whisper the names that are gone. Other lands may be fairer but naught can be seen Like the shore where our first love and boyhood have been Oh! give me the cliffs and the wild roaring sea, The cliffs of old Tynemouth for ever for me. back to the song menu Blow the Wind Southerly Blow the wind southerly, southerly, southerly, Blow the wind south o'er the bonny blue sea; Blow the wind southerly, southerly, southerly, Blow bonny breeze my lover to me. They told me last night there were ships in the offing, And I hurried down to the deep rolling sea; But my eye could not see it, Wherever might be it, The bark that is bearing my lover to me. Blow the wind southerly, southerly, southerly, Blow the wind south that my lover may come; Blow the wind southerly, southerly, southerly, Blow bonny breeze and bring him safe home. I stood by the lighthouse the last time we parted, Till darkness came down o'er the deep rolling sea, And no longer I saw the bright bark of my lover. Blow, bonny breeze and bring him to me. Is it not sweet to hear breezes blowing, As lightly they come o'er the deep rolling sea? But sweeter and dearer by far when tis bearing The bark of my true love in safety to me. back to the song menu The Press Gang Came Willie For Notation click here For Midi Sound click here The press gang came to Willie, While he was all alone; He bravely fought for liberty, But there was three to one. The blood it flowed in torrents, He said "O pray kill me, I'd rather die for Mary's sake Than I'd put out to sea." back to the song menu Newcastle Lullaby For Notation click here For Midi Sound click here Sleep bonnie bairnie behind the castle By! By! By! By! Thou shalt have a golden apple, By! By! By! By! back to the song menu The Trimdon Grange Explosion For Notation Click here For Midi Sound Click here Oh, let's not think of tomorrow,lest we disappointed be. Our joys may turn to sorrow as we all may daily see. Today we may be strong and healthy, but soon there comes a change, As we may learn from the explosion that has been at Trimdon Grange. Men and boys left home that morning for to earn their daily bread, Nor thought before that evening they's be numbered with the deas. Let's think of Mrs Burnett, once had snos but now has none- By the Trimdon Grange explosion, Joseph, George and James are gone. February left behind it what will never be forgot; Weeping widows, helpless children may be found in many a cot. Now they ask if father's left them, and the mother hangs her head, With a weeping widow's feelings, tells the child his father's dead. God protect the lonely widow, help to raise each drooping head. Be a father to the orphans, never let them cry for bread. Death will pay us all a visit, they have only gone before. We'll meet the Trimdon victims where explosions are no more. -By Tommy Armstrong. The song was created to raise money for widows and orphans of the disaster which occurred February 16 1882 . Version 2: TRIMDON GRANGE EXPLOSION Let us not think of to-morrow, Lest we disappointed be; All our joys may turn to sorrow, As we all may daily see. To-day we may be strong and healthy, But how soon there comes a change, As we may learn from the explosion, That has been at Trimdon Grange. Men and boys left home that morning, For to earn their daily bread, Little thought before that evening That they'd be numbered with the dead; Let us think of Mrs. Burnett, Once had sons but now has none, By the Trimdon Grange explosion, Joseph, George and James are gone. February left behind it What will never be forgot; Weeping widows, helpless children, May be found in many a cot, Homes that once were blest with comfort, Guided by a father's care, Now are solemn, sad and gloomy, Since the father is not there. Little children, kind and loving, From their homes each day would run For to meet their father's coming, As each hard day's work was done. Now they ask if father's left them, Then the mother hangs her head; With a weeping widow's feelings, Tells the child that 'father's dead'. God protect the lonely widow, Help to raise each drooping head; Be a Father to the orphans, Never let them cry for bread. Death will pay us all a visit, They have only gone before; We may meet the Trimdon victims Where explosions are no more. Notes: As sung (one verse only) by R. Sewell, of Newcastle (June 1951). The rest of the text from J. Jefferson, Trimdon Grange, Co. Durham. From a ballad by Thomas Armstrong who set it to the tune- 'Go and leave me if you wish it'. The explosion occurred on 16 February 1882. Seventy-four miners died (six of them died in East Hetton colliery which was connected to the mine at Trimdon). back to the song menu Swalwell Hopping Click Here for Midi Sound Click Here for Notation LADS! myek a ring An' hear huz sing The sport we had at Swalwell, O; Wor merry play O' th' Hopping Day, Ho'way, marrows, an' aw'll tell ye, O. The sun shines warm on Whickham Bank, Let's a lie doon at Dolly's O, And hear 'boot mony a funnny prank Played by the lads at Crowley's O. Chorus: O' Fal lal the dal la, Fal lal the da la, Fal lal the lal, lal the lal, lal lal O; Fal lal the dal la, Fal lal the dal la Fal la the lal, lal, the di dee O. There was Sam, O zoons, Wiv his pantaloons, An' gravat up ower his gobby, O; An' Willie, thou Wi' the jacket blue, Thou was the very bobby, O. There was knock-kneed Mat, wiv's purple suit, An' hopper-hipp'd Dick a' yellow, O; Greet Tom was there, wi' Hepple's and coat, An' buck-sheen'd Bob frae Stella, O. When were were drest, It was confest, We shem'd the cheps frae Newcassel O; So away we set To wor toon gyet, To jeer them a' as they pass'd us O. We shouted some we some dung doon Lobstrop'us fellows we kicked them O; Some culls went hyem, some crush'd to toon, Some gat aboot by Whickham, O. The spree came on-- The hat was won By carrot-pow'd Jenny's Jacky, O. What a fyece, begock! Had buckle-mouthed Jock, When he twin'd his jaws for the baccy, O. The kilted lases fell tid pel-mell, Wi'--Talli-i-o the Grinder, O;-- The smock was gi'en to slaverin Nell-- Ye'd dropp'd had ye been behind her, O. Wor dance began Aw'd buck-tyuthed Nan, An' Geordy thou'd Jen Collin, O; While the merry black, Wi mony a crack, Set the tambourine a-rolling, O. Like wor forge-hammer, we bet sae true, An' shuck Raw's hoose se soundly, O; Tuff canna cum up wi' Crowley's crew, Nor thump the tune se roundly, O. Then Gyetside Jack, Wiv's bloody back, Wad dance wi' goggle-eyed Molly, O; But up cam Nick, An' gav' him a kick. An' a canny bit kind o' fally, O. That day a' Hawks's blacks may rue-- They got monny a varry sair clanker, O; Can they de owse wi' Crowley's crew, Frev a needle tiv an anchor, O. What's that to say To the bonny fray, We had wi'skipper Robbin, O; The keel bullies a', Byeth greet an' sma', Myed a beggarly tide o' the hoppen, O. Gleed Will cried "Ma-a, up lap aud Frank, An' Robin that marry'd his dowter, O; We hammered their ribs like an anchor shank, They fand it six weeks after, O. Bald-pyet Joan Carr Wad hav a bit spar, To help his marrows away wid, O, But poor and fellow, He'd getten over mellow, So we doon'd byeth him an' Davy, O. Then Petticoat Robin jumpped up agyen, Wiv's gully to marcykree huz, O; But Winalaton Dan laid him flat wiv a styen, Hurrah! for Crowley's crew, boys, O. Their hash was sattled, So off they rattled, An' we jigged it up se hearty, O; Wi' mony a shiver, An' lowp se cliver, Can Newcassel turn oot sic a party, O? When quite dyun ower the fiddlers went, We staggered ahint se merry, O, An' throo wor toon,till fairly spent, Roar'd Crowley's crew an' glory, O' Tune= Paddy's Wedding Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Part 6 Directory 3 Click here for main menu of this directory. Use our floating menu to improve navigation. you can reposition it by clicking on top bar and dragging Floating Menu Menu of all of the Sangs Click here For tunes in .abc notation click here For an index of persons and places mentioned in the sangs click here For Bibliography,and Philosophy of the collection click here We invite you to contribute! Click here to comment or add. Soon after our upgrade the songs which the priests have recorded will be high-lighted thusly Illustrated by woodcuts by Joseph Crawhall (Newcastle, 1889) (Where you see the music note image there will be a midi file-for you to listen to!) Tommy Armstrong Your Choices! The Main Menu! Mally Dunn Be Kind te me Dowter The Gallowgate Lad Me Little Wife At Hyem The Cat Pie The Lass that Leeves Next Door Jack's Listed i' the Ninety-Ite Dinnet Clash the Door Newcassil Queer Customs Throo Drinkin Bitter Beer Narvis Johnny The Row Upon the Stairs The Strike Ne Wark Newcastle and London Boat Match The Collier Swell Celebrated Working Man The Hedgehog Pie Liberty for the Sailors The Bonny Moor Hen The Caller Perseveer or The Nine Oors Movement Robin Spraggon's Auld Grey Mare The Glister A Newcastle Sang Charity The Marla Hill Ducks Imprisoned for Trespassing Oakey's Keeker The Oakey Strke Evictions The Sheel Raa Flood The Ghost that 'aunted Bunty The Sooth Medomsley Strike The Howty Towty Lass Pot Pies and Puddens Amble Feast The Happenny Woods at Bedlington Sally Lee The Skipper's Wedding THE SANDGATE LASS ON THE ROPERY BANKS Geordie's Penker The Tyne Blackett's Field Bob Cranky's Size Sunday Bob Cranky's Complaint The Bonny Geatsiders 1805 Bob Cranky's Adieu WAGGONER The Weary Cutters The Collier's Pay Week The Quayside Shaver Newcastle Fair Oct. 1811 The Fisher Laddie The Kye's Come Home Hobby Elliott Joey Jones Use this Pull down form to go to our other pages To return to the top of this page click here. Mally Dunn Twes at the last October Fair, Aw furst saw Mally Dunn Her bright blue eyes and yellow hair me fancy fairly wun; She luckt the queen ov a' the queens that seem'd sa happy there. Aw wes ower head an' ears i' luv, wi' Mally at the fair. Chorus- Such a bonny lass aw cuddent pass, Like Mally at the Fair Oh, happy, neet--that aw shud meet Maw cumley sweetheart there. Says aw, maw canny luckin lass, aw'll buy ye owt ye like. Or if sic things ye reckon trash, aw'll tyek ye for a hike To yon great shakey shuggy- shoo that myeks foaks stop an' stare, Or i' the roondy-boot, ne doot ye'll fettle at the Fair. Says she me lad, that winnet dee, aw think aw' ve that much sense Te knaw when lads myek ower free ye'd better keep yor pence! Aw' ve nivor sssn yor fyece before--a stranger, aw declare Shall nivor buy, wi' paltry toy me fancy at the Fair! Aw liked that little bit conceit, aw's sure it pleased us mair Then if she'd craved us for a treate like uther lasses there, For if, throo bribes ye win a heart Yor awn 'ill seun turn sair, A higher bidder puts ye oot!--aw think that issent fair. We passed the stalls, 'aw set her hyem, tho' gan away! she said, But if yor shy ye needen't try te win a bonny maid! For time's flew on,--aw've bowt the ring, te marry, aw declare The lass that means to tyek me sel, tho' she refused me Fair! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Be Kind te me Dowter Tune: Die an Auld Maid One neet Jack Thomsin sat beside His canny sweetheart's fethur, We'll hev a crack ! the aud man said, Since here we've met tegither, Ya've gyen wi' Mary two eers noo, An' what aw'm gan te menshun Is--aw hope that you gawn wiv her Wiu' myest hon'rible intenshun Chorus- For oh Johnny a canny lass is she An' aw hope ye'll be kind to me dowter. She may be kind o' flighty, that's A fault wi' a yung lasses; She may be kind o' tawky on Myst ivrything that passes; But if she wes ony uther way She waddent be a wummin, An' gox! she's like her muther, an Her muther is a rum un? But oh, Johnny etc. Aw hope she'll be as happy as Her muther's been wi' me lad. Tho' sumtimes we fall oot a bit We varry seun agree lad; For te leeve as jolly as can be Byeth her an me's detarmin'd An when we hev a row or two, We nivvor see ne harm in't! But oh Johnny etc... Ye'll treat wor Mary weel me lad, An always be kind tiv her Ye'lll nivvor rue your bargin, no! Aw's sartin that ye'll nivvor. She can de the hoose turns clivvor, Just as clivvor as her muther, An for sewin, knitten, darnin, whey! Thor issent such anuther! Then oh Johnny etc... We'll help ye ivery way we can Te set the hoose up decent, The fethur-bed an 'ite-day clock 'Ill not be a bad prisint; An' when ye've bairns we'll help ye tee, At borth, or deeth or krisnin, But noo aw'd better haud me tung, For fear somebody's lissinin! But oh Johnny etc... -Joe Wilson back to the song menu The Gallowgate Lad Tune- Sally Gray One morn neer the grand Central Stashun, Mang croods that was hurryin bye Aw happin'd te see Meggy Bensin, An' sairly the lassie did cry Says aw--Canny lass what's the matter? Says she, quite dejected. Aw's sad, Aw's greetin for Jack, that's me luver, Maw bonny bit Gallowgate Lad! Ye'll knaw him, Joe issn't he hansum? As clivor a lad as ye'll see, He wes striker at Stivvisin's Factry, But lately he's been on the spree; An' he got bag'd for gawn on the fuddle An' the jewl mun heh fairly gyen mad When he went an' join'd the Millsha, Maw gud-luckin Gallowgate Lad! A' the neybors declared he was lazy, But spite 'Il myek bissy foaks speek, Tho' aw knaw--tho'at owtint te menshund, He nivor workt mir then a week; But wi' foaks gyen--keep quiet thor faillins, Aw greeve for me luv that's a swad, Oh, his best suit o' claes is his sowljor's Maw brave -luckin Gallowgate lad! It's five eers since we forst got acquentid. He always wes wild iv his ways. an' he swor that he nivor cud squeeze us The time that aw wore me new stays; If he cuddint-it wassint for tryin, For monny's the tussle we've had But te Annick he's gyen wi' the sowljors Maw kind-hearted Gallowgate Lad! Aw can mind hoo he wander'd the Leazes, Wi me on the fine summor days, An' he wid sit on the grass close beside us. The time aw wes dryin the claes; He wid rowl us anundor the baskit Me shawl he wid use for a plad; Oh what myed ye join the Milisha? Maw corly haired Gallowgate Lad! Man aw've mended the holes iv his elbows, An myed his aud troosors like new, Tho aw thowt he might spoke aboot marridge, When his granfethur bowt him a coo But he slet it an' spent a' the munney, The foaks said his luv wes but cawd An' aw wish that aw cuddnt beleeve them, Maw sowljor-like Gallowgate Lad! The syem neet that we had leave-takin, He wanted te stop the whole neet, But for a cupple that hessint been married, Me granmuther says it's not reet; We'd a pint o' warm beer te wor suppor, An' cheese that wed meyk yor eyes glad, But poor Jacky, he swally'd the whol on't Maw sweet-luckin Gallowgate Lad! Aw's fairly heart-broke since he left us, Aw cannet leeve weel be me- sel, An' me tung gans as tho 'twad keep tellkin A lang way mair then aw shud tell; When the heart's full it's greet consolashun, Te whispor what myeks ye se bad, Oh what myed ye join the Millsha Maw gud-luckin Gallowgate Lad? -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Me Little Wife At Hyem Teun- Newcassel is me Native place Be the fire sittin knittin, sitin knittin wi' gud will, As the clock keeps on its tickin, thor's the click o' needles still; An the hands that work the needles myek us fix me eyes at them, For the pictor ov industry is me little wife at hyem Tho she's little, --she's a model o' what wimmin owt te be, An' aw bliss her when aw cuddle the bit form that clings te me; For the strengh o' wor affeckshun, aw cud nivvor find a nyem, She's as kind as she's gud-luckin, is me little wife at hyem. tho we heh wor share o' trubbil, the bit cumfort that we knaw, Is we cannot hed myed dubbil, when one's willin te beer'd a' For when aw try to console her, whey, for me she'll de the syem, An' aw' m thenkful for the trissure I' me little wife at hyem. Wor greet luv for one anuther myeks us happy when wor sad, Aw call me wife me canny lass! and she calls me her lad! Just as if we still war kortin aye'n man, its like the syem, The hunnmeun 'ill heh ne end wi' me little wife at hyem! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Keep't Dark Tune= The Parfict Cure A.K.A. The wife that knaws ivrything. A contrast te the Chep that Knaws Nowt AUD Mistress Clark wes fond'o clash, She lik'd te hear her tung. She said that tawkin eased the mind, Wi' foaks byeth aud an' young; The chap that knaws nowt's gud advice Wes lost on Mistress Clark,-- But mind aw shuddint menshun this, Aw hope ye'll a keep't dark! Says Misteress Clark te siv'ral frinds She had one day to tea, Aw wnunder what myeks Geordy Hall Se fond o' beer an' spres? They say his wife can tyek her gill, An' neether's fond o' wark,-- But mind aw shuddint menshun this, Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark! There's Mary Smith, upon the stairs, A wild an' rakish lass, Aw wunder where she gets her claes, Aw's sure she hes ne brass, They say she's thick wi' Draper Jim,-- He's not up te the mark,-- But mind aw shuddint menshun this, Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark! There's Bella Jones that leeves next door, Got bessie Thompson's shawl, An borrow'd Suzie Ratcliffe's goon, Te gan te Hopper's ball, But neether o' them's got them back, Aw think'tis owt but a lark,-- Still mind aw shuddnt menshun this, Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark! There's Dolly Green that dorly slut That leeves alang the yard She flirts wi' ivry lad she meets, She's worthy ne regard; Last neet aw catch'd her on the stairs Wi' Jack the Keyside Clerk;-- But mind aw shuddnt menshun this, Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark There's Mistress Johnson pawns her claes, As sure as Monday cums; An' drunkin Mary locks the door, For fear she'll get the bums, An' Mistress Black 'ill nivor wesh Her man a shart for wark, But mind aw shuddn't menshun this! Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark! Fat Mistress Jackson likes te clash Lang Jinnie likes her ways, An' Mary Riley starves her barins, Te get sic dandy claes; Young Peggie Robson's got her bed, Throo sum seducin spark;-- But mind aw shuddn't menshun this, Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu The Cat Pie For notation click here For midi sound click here Tune, Weel Bred Cappy Thore's been a grand dinnor not far frae Sheel Raw At a place th'call Stanley for testen th'jaw Tiv a hoose ivory Sunda' sum cheps used to gan An' eat all th' meat thit wis boil i th' pan CHORUS Singin fal th' dal lay laddie, fal th' dal lay laddie fal th' dal lay laddie fal th' lay These cheps used te gan an' sit doon on a seat Thae knew thit Jack alwis had plenty i meat But Coxon an' Charlton went oot for te try Te catch an awd cat for te muaik them a pie Th' cat thit thae gat wis elivon eer awd Thae knew w' th' pie thit these cheps wad be glad So thae kill'd it, an clean'd it, an teuk off each lim When th' pie wis awl riddy thae shoved pussy in Th' cat being se awd thae thowt 'twad be dry So thae put potted heed in te gravy th' pie Then inte th' yuven th' pie wis then put Th' yuven wis het an th' door wis kept shut Wen th' pie wis awl riddy an nicely keukt Into th' pantry Bob Charlton then teukt Th' crust he broke inte se cunnen an sly Te muaik them believe they'd been eatin th' pie So in cums Joe Peel, Joe Witfield, an Bob Like other times thae wor ment for th' gob Bob Charlton then whispered te Witfield se slee "If thoo lucks in th' pantry a pie thoo can see" Thae thowt 'twas a rabbit, an hoo te muaik thares Charlton got Coxon te gan up th' stairs Bob Witfield then thowt a grand trick he wad try So he into th' pantry an off wi th' pie He off alang th' raw an doon intiv a field He thowt he'd deun clivor th' pie for te steal Him an Joe Peel se contentedly sat Enjoyen thorsels wi th' lims iv a cat Charlton an Coxon buaith laft fit te brust Te see them on chowen th' cat an th' crust Joe Peel gat a leg thit he thowt wis eneuf He sais,"Bob it's nice but it's terable teuf" Thae eat sum iv pussy an drove a bit crack Until thae agreed for te tuaik th' pie back Wen thae gat te th' hoose, thae went at it aguain Till in th' pie dish thor wis ardly a buain Ye wad a laft if ye'd only ben in Wen Bob Charlton held up befor them th' skin As seun is th' skin iv th' pussy thae saw Thae ran te th' door an thae started te thraw Th' cat wis awl eaten but just th' cat skin But it wad been eaten had thae puten't in Poor pussy is guain but thor's men iv its place Th' mice dorsent luck these young cheps in th' face -Tommy Armstrong Transcription: Bill Sables X: 1 T:The Cat Pie M:3/4 L:1/8 C:Tommy Armstrong K:D |A|FEF DFA| BcB ABc |dcd Bed| cBc dcd|eee ecA |dcd A2 A| dcd dAF|GAG G3 |ABA AFD| GAB A3| dcd Bed| cBc d2| back to the song menu The Lass that Leeves Next Door Aw like the lass that leeves next door, They call her Nan! Aw've oftin thowt the syem before, She wants a man, Ay an' aw's the lad that wants a lass, An' aw think the time 'ill cum to pass When ye'll find aw's the lad For Nanny that leeves next door! Chorus- For she tuek me heart when sittin an' knittin, The time that aw wes smokin an' spittin, An' ivor since then the time it's been fittin, Throo Nanny that leeves next door! Aw'll nivor forget the neet we met, One Tuesday neet, She wes walkin oot wi' me sister Bet Alang the street, An' aw kind a thowt as she met me eye She was just the one for a chep that's shy, An' aw seun myed it reet Wi' Nanny that leeves next door! She kept us up se weel i' talk, Aw just said yis! Or no! a' the time we had the walk, So ye may guess That aw set her hyem an' myed luv on the way, But the neet wis nowt te the varry next day, When aw clapt me eyes on Her knitting beside the door. She luck'd at me wiv a pleasin smile Aw luckt at her, An puff'd me baccy a' the while Beside the door. Aw tell'd her then what myed us se sad. An' aw axt her wad she he me for a lad, Man aw stud like a feul Throo Nanny that leeves next door! Thor's plenty o' lads to get maw pet. Says she te me, But a man's not nigh se easy te get Indeed says she Says aw, an' aw lafft as aw tell'd me plan,-- Aw'll first be your lad an' then be yor man! Ay, an' ivor since then Aw've follow'd the lass next door! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Jack's Listed i' the Ninety-Ite Tune= Doran's Ass or Finnigan's Wake Oh what's the metter wi' ye, Meg Dawson? Oh what's the metter wi' ye the day? Ye luck as if ye war gan demented, Yor eyes thor stairin just that way! The metter wi' me--if ye want te knaw then, Heh ye heard the news frae Mary White? She says wor Jack for a sowljor's listed.-- The heed strang feul's i' the Ninety-Ite. Wif a lot o' lads that's se lang been famed For nowt that's gud nor they nivor will Industrious cheps that wad nivvor work If they just cud raise a penny gill. He'll heh teun the shillin te serve the queen. Wi' ne idea o' gannin te fight; If he thowt thor wes only chance o' war He wad bid gud-bye te the Ninety Ite. He nivvor liked wark an' since he was britch'd He hessent cared hoo he got his meat; Wif his elbows oot he wad trail the streets, An' the Peelers mark'd him on thor beat. He wad argey owt for a pint o' beer. An' i dominoes he teuk delite I' playin a bank tiv a five or six.-- They'll not stand that i' the Ninety-te. On Seturday neets what a swell he was Wi' velvet cap an black curdyroys; He wes famous for myekin ruffs keep still Tho the forst his-sel te myek a noise; He knew if he married he cuddent keep A wife, so he teuk one oot o' spite, Ay, an' he myed her muther an' her keep him,-- A nice young chep for the Ninety-Ite Aw's sartin we'll nivor can buy him off. For hoo can poor foaks like us did? What a pity a gud-like fyece an'heed Like his, shud carry ne brains wid; Blud's thicker then wetter-that's true eneuff-- He's still wor awn, tho a cawshun quite, But bad as he is, they may de him gud, An' myek him a man i' the Ninety-Ite. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Dinnet Clash the Door Tune= Tramp Tramp Oh, dinnet clash the door! aw've tell'd ye that before. Can ye not let yor muther hev a rest? Ye knaw she's turnin aud, an' for eers she's been se bad That she cannet bear such noises i' the least. Chorus- Then oh, lass, dinner clash the door se, Yor yung an' yor as thowtless as can be, But yor muther's turning aud, An' ye knaw she's varry bad, An' she dissent like to hear ye clash the door, Just see yor muther there, sittin feeblee i' the chair, It's quiet that she wants to myek her weel; She's been yor nurse throo life, been yor guide i' peace an strife, An' her cumfort ye shud study an' shud feel ! She once wes yung an' strang but bad health 'ill put foaks rang, An' she cannet bear the noise that once she cud; She's narvis as can be, an' whativor else ye de, Ye shud study what ye think 'ill de her gud! So dinnet clash the door, or myek ony idle stir, For the stir 'ill only cause your muther pain; As qauiet as can be de yor wark, an' let her see That ye'll nivor give her causes te complain. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Newcassil Tune= Kitty Tyrrel Thor's a fine little toon i' the North, lads, That's been a grand hyemsteed te me; It wes there where aw forst saw dayleet, lads, An' there where me poor fether dee'd-- Since then thor's been gud an' bad changes; Me muther had wark ye'll agree, Te bring up the whole o' the fam'ly, I' the toon that aw'll prize till aw dee. Newcassil, Newcassil, The canny aud toon still for me! Aw've seen uther toons i' me travels, As canny as toons cud weel be, But the toon that ye knaw aw belang te Hes charms that they hevint for me! The bildins aw saw i' these places Wes nowt when aw thowt o' wor awn, An' aw luckt lang amang the strange fyeces Te find oot sum one that aw'd knawn, Newcassil, Newcassil, The canny aud toon still for me! Aw've expeerienc'd a greet lot o' kindness I' places aw easily cud nyem, But where cud aw find like Newcassil A place te myek constant me hyem? For aw'd miss ivry frind an' acquentance Aw knew aboot canny Tyneside, An' it's reet that a man shud think myest ov His awn wiv affection an' pride Newcassil Newcassil The canny aud toon still for me! It's there where me fethur lies sleepin, An' me canny aud muther leeves still, Ti's there where me sister an' bruthers 'Ill welcum us back wi' gud will; It's there where the ties ov affecshun Cling closer then ivor te me; An' iv a' the big fine toons iv Ingland, Newcassil the dearest shall be. Newcassil, Newcassil The canny aud toon still for me! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Queer Customs tune= The fiery Clock-Fyece When wor Peg's audest bairn wes born, they sent for me, se merry, An' beggedthat aw wad tyek me torn Te drink its hilth i sherry; Or if aw'd hev a glass o' rum Or whiskey they wad send for sum. Aw seun got tight as ony drum Amang the hurry-skurry Chorus- In joy or grief, It's maw belief, It's a custom queer, aw's thinkin; They say it gies them greetrelief- A fine excuse for drinkin! They sent for me te gan alang An' tyek tea at the christnin; We sung an' danced frae morn till neet, An' carried on like foaks not reet; It cuddent be owt like a treat Tiv onybody listnin. But efter that the poor barin deed, An' cawsed anuther fuddle; We sobbed an' sighed an' hung wor heeds Wi' brains all in a muddle. The drink wes here mixed up wi' grief We thowt the spirits browt relief; An one aud wife, i' that belief The bottle she wad cuddle. this shows, frae creddle te the grave, The bottle's a hard maistor; It myeks se mony foaks its slave, An' proves a reglor waistor. Such customs i' the time like these, Frae care they cannot bring release, But quarrels cawse an' myek wi' ease Heeds fit for stickin-plaistor. -Joe Wilson Throo Drinkin' Bitter Beer Says Billy Dunn, " Aw'll ne mair sing In praise o' bitter beer, It's the varry thing te kill us-- Aw'm deed noo varry near. Aw divvent want to dee just yit, Aw'd like to leeve a eer; Aw'm sure aw winnet leeve six munths If aw drink bitter beer. Chorus- Oh lads, tyek nyen on't for fear! If ye want te commit suicide, An' like a ghost appear, Ye'll get the shakes an' ne mistake, Throo drinkin bitter beer! They gie this stuff a' sorts o' nyems, Sum Edinboro Ale. Scotch Bitter an Best Borton, An' sum call'd Indian Pale. The last nyem may be reet eneuff, Aw's awful pale an' queer; Thor'll be varry few fresh-cullor'd Throo drinkin bitter beer! They say that it 'ill myek ye eat, But that mun be a lee; Aw can assure ye the effects Quite different wi' me Aw've fairly lost me appetite, Me heed's not varry clear; An' its but little that aw tyest Throo drinkin bitter beer! Aw shake as if me varry hands Diddent belang te me; Aw feel as if aw cuddent work Throo gettin on the spree, Aw trimmil se, they'll not catch me Ne mair at bitter beer; Aw knaw aw nivvor feel this way When aw drink wetter clear! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Narvis Johnny Tune= Turn a little Handle Wor Johnny's se narvis se narvis wi drink, He cannet eat wot an' he's frightened te think O' what teuk place last neet for his mem'ry's gyen; Once bowldest, he's noo the myest feeble o' men. Chorus: For like a narvis man he gans shakin throo the street, Shakin ivry mornin, ay, an' shakin ivry neet He'll start an' shrink, An wink, an' blink An' nivvor think, It's a' throo drink, That's myed him shivery, shakey-like an' narvis He'll gan half- way doon one street, then he'll turn back, Then turn up anuther an' hev a bit crack, Then all iv a sudden he'll set off agyen, An' hurry as if he was wanted at hyem. When he gets te the door he'll study a bit, then say tiv he sel, That it issent time yit! The next public hoose he cannet weel pass, Tho it tyeks byeth his hands te lift up the glass If a cairt or a cab cums intiv his seet, He dornet for life cross the little bit street Till thor a' far away, then off hyem he'll creep, But frightened awake, he's as frightened te sleep. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu The Row Upon the Stairs Tune= Uncle Sam Says Mistress Bell te Mistress Todd, Ye'd better clean the stairs! Ye've missed yor turn for monny a week, The neybors a' did theirs! Says Misteress Todd to Mistress Bell, Aw tell ye Mistress Bell, Ye'd better mind you awn affairs, An' clean the stairs yor-sel Chorus: O what tungs i' the row upon the stairs, Clitterin, clatterin, scandal an' clash, I' the row upon the stairs Says Mistress Todd- When it suits me to think that it's me turn; Ye've a vast o' cheek te order me, thor's not a wummin born That keeps a cleaner hoose than me an' mark ye, Mistress Bell, Ef ye'd oney de the syem as me ye'd gan an' clean --yor sel! Says Mistress Bell- Ye clarty fah, we wasn't that stole the beef? What de ye say? cries Msitress Todd, De ye mean that aw' m a thief? Let's heh the sixpence that aw lent te treat Meg Smith wi' gin! An where's the blanket that ye gat the last time ye lay in? Says Mistress Bell- Ye knaw yorfsel the sixpence's lang been paid, An' the raggy blanket that ye lent wes ne use the ye said! A raggy blanket! Mistress Bell cries Mistress Todd What cheek! Yor dorty sockin had two holes full twice the size last week! Maw holey stockins, Misstress Todd luks beter i' the street Than yor gud man's awd blucher beuts ye weer te hide yor feet! The eer-rings ye gat frae the Jew on tick the tuthor day, 'Ill be like the fine manadge man's shawl the syem as gien away! Says Mistress Todd- Ye greet sk'yet gob Ye'd bettor had yor jaw, The varry shift upon yor back Belongs the wife belaw! Ye lazy wretch! shoots Mistress Bell, Its true thor is ne doot, Last neet ye fuddled wi' Bob the Snob, The time yor man wes oot! Oh, Mistress Bell! says Mistress Todd, Ye brazind-luckin slut, Ye may tawk away--te clean the stairs Aw'll nivor stir a fut! Afore aw'd lift a skoorin cloot The mucky stairs te clean, Aw'd see them turn as black as ye, Ye pawnshop-lucking queen! - Joe Wilson back to the song menu The Strike Tune= The Gallowgate Lad Cum me canny Tynesiders an lissen Tiv a sang that a'w s sartin ye'll like, An' aw'll whisper a word kind and cheerin Te the monny poor fellows on strike Let them keep up thor hearts as they hev deun, Thor's a day for the true an the brave, An' the time 'ill yit cum when greet Maisters 'Ill find oot a Mechanic's ne slave! Is Nine Oors an unreasonable movement? Is't not plenty for labour te men? Let them that condemn'd hev a try on't An' see if they'll alter such plan; An' if lang oors Industry increases, Heh they fund it wi' them that they've tried? Wi' thor capital heh they got labour Like that frae the men they've defied? But a day 'ill seun cum when they'll welcum The aud hands they've se often imploy'd Then the Forriners strenght 'ill be shaken Frae license that they've lan injoy'd I' myekin thorsels thor awn maisters An' workin' just when they'd a mind; If the Maisters pretend to be blind tid, Whey, its mair te thor shem, that they'll find. But cheer up, thor's gud friends that support us Aye, an ' Ingland depends on us a' An' we'll prove that wor true te the movement, An' Victory shall let the world knaw That tynesiders 'ill nivor be knoker'd Wi' Maisters that care nowt for them; An' if Maisters is meant to me Maisters, Let them find thor's Men meant to be Men! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Ne Wark Tune= Pretty Polly Perkins Aw's weary, aw's wretched aw wander forlorn, Aw sigh for the neet, an' then wish for the morn; For neet brings ne cumfort an' morn little mair, I' byeth mind an' body aw's worn oot an' sair Chorus: What wretchdenenss, what misery, Thor's ne on can tell, Except them that's been oot o' wark, like me-sel. Aw wander te places, an' try te get wark, Where Call back agyen is the foreman's remark; Thus hopless an' cheerless aw pass mony a day, Tho the pay-week cums roond-it te me brings ne pay. Ne wark yit!--heart broken aw bend me ways hyem, Ne wark yit !--te tell them aw really think shem; For dependence is painful, tho it's on yor awn, Tho the cumfort an' cheer ye they try a' they can. Thor's nyen can imagine the angwish aw feel When aw sit doon at hyem to maw poor humble meal Each bite seems te chowk us,--the day seems full lang, An' a that aw de, whey aw feel tho 'twas rang. Me fether lucks dull, tho he strives te luck glad, An' tells us it's nowt te the trubbils he's had; Me muther smiles kindly, tho sad like the rest, She whipors, Cheer up lad, an' hopefor the best! It cannet last always!-- aw hope afore lang Wi' wark aw'll be freed frae sad poverty's pang; For withoot it hyem's dreery,--the fire's bright spark Turns gloomy an' dim when at hyem thor's Ne Wark. back to the song menu Newcastle and London Boat Match for £100 aside on Saturday, July 16 Tune= The Campbells are Comin Let canny Newcastle once more raise her head, From the sod where she's long moan'd as tho' she wre dead; Let the sons of the Tyne once again bear the sway, And though poverty reigns gain the boat race to day. For the pride of our navy, Northumberland's sons Have long mann'd our yards and directed our guns, May the Keel row and Boatie-row still grace the river, And canny Newcastle yet flourish for ever. For ages long past have our seamen been famed, And Newcastle's blue jackets aye formost are named; On the topmast of fame long has Collingwood stood, The dread of our foes and the pride of the flood, Then to day let the skill of he past be display'd Nor of England's first boat crew be ever afraid, Invincible long, may St. Agnes crew reign, The boast of Newcastle the pride of the main! Coombes, Newell, and Parish, the pride of the Thames, Have in many boat races exalted their names; But the pride of the Tyne they contend with to day, And Newcastle's bright flag may direct them the way, May the oars of the Glaspers be pull'd well together, May their strength never fail as they bend to the weather, May the Agnes fly over the waves like a swallow, And the Cockneys brave crew be completely beat hollow. How proud seems each head as it bends o'eer the waves, Though our pitmen and seamen work harder than slaves; How bright is each eye and how light is each heart, As the boats are preparing and manned for the start. The signal is given, they glide o'er the stream. Like the arrow's swift glance, or the lightning's gleam; Tho' we wish them all well, may the Agnes display, For the pride of Newcastle a conquest to day. May our canny blue jackets, our pitmen and lasses, Dance lightly to night and relplenish their glasses; May misfortune's foul wind leave Newcastle to day, And prosperity's sun shed a happier ray. May friendship and harmony reign in each heart, And the Cockneys confess when for London they start, That the sons of Newcastle tho' homely and plain, Are the pride of the lasses the stars of the main. -T. Dodds, Head of the Side, Broadsheet 1842 back to the song menu The Collier Swell I used to be a vulgar clown, with cash and money short in, Till my old uncle died in town, and left me all his fortune; A collier I was by trade, I have chang'd as you may tell sir, And since a richer purse I've made, I'd be a regular swell sir. Chorus- But i'm so plagued with vulgar folks, Since I have cash for sporting, Why can't a Collier cut a swell, When he has got a fortune. I used to go with low-bred chaps, and talk to every gew-gaw, Get drunk in Tom and Jerry shops and went a purring foot ball; But now with all fops in town, I sport my boot and tanners, And O I'm going up to London town to learn some genteel manners. And when I've been to London town I mean to go to France sir To practice two or three times a week to learn to hop and dance sir; Besides I've got a quizzing glass to see things far and near O, But the other day it caused me to fall over a wheel-barrow. O my family is a vulgar set tho' they have clothes in fashion, They put them on the wrong side out,which puts me in a passion; The lads when e'er they go to church, tho' we've got lots of riches, They all go in their clogs smock frock and leather breeches. My wife she is the worst of all when we give genteel dinners, She uses neither knife nor fork but pops in all her fingers; And when they hand the wine about, she tells the gents it stinks Gets full her mouth and squirts it out, and calls for treacle drinks. If I give a dinner to my Lord, and bid her make a good un, Perhaps she'' make some pea soup, or else a great black pudding; And when the tea it is brought in, the tray she always flings sir, Stirs up the sugar with her fist, and then she licks her fingers. My lord once ask'd us out to dine and there we had a rum start In stead of her new carriage fine she would ride in the dung cart; And when he sent his horse to her, and wanted her to ride sir, And what do you think of the ignorant jade, she would get on a-stride sir. - Walker of Durham, Broadssheet. back to the song menu Celebrated Working Man For Notation Click here For Midi Sound Click here I'm a celebrated working man from work I never shirk, I can hew more coals than any man from Glasgow down to York. And if you'd like to see my style, call around on me When I' ve had several beers in the bar room. Chorus: In the bar room, in the bar room, that's where we congregate, To drill the holes and fill the coals and shovel back the slate. And for to do a job of work I am never late, Thats provided that we do it in the bar room. At puttin I'm a dandy, I hope you will agree, And gannin along the gannin board I mak the tyun'uns flee Your kelly sweeps and back-over turns they never bother me, When I'm sitting on the limmers in the bar room. I can judge a shot of power to a sixteenth of a grain, I can fill my eighteen tubs though the water falls like rain, And if you'd like to see me in the perpendicular vein, It's when I'm setting timmers in the bar room. And now my song is ended, perhaps we'll have another, Now don't you fire any shots in here, or we will surely smother, The landlord here would sooner pull beer than go to all the bother To put up the ventilators in the bar room. -Gwen and Mary Polwarth, North County songs back to the song menu The Hedgehog Pie For notation click here For midi sound click here Aa'll sing ye a song if ye'll patiently wait, Aboot a grand supper there's been at Street Gate; Te eat this grand supper there only was two, But they at a whole hedgehog, some bacon an' coo. Chorus: Singin fal de ral laddy, etc. There's a chap in the neiborhood has a smaal dog, One day went out waakin, an' it catched a hedgehog, So te have a bit fun with the prize that they'd got, He thowt tive hissel he wad take it to Stott. When he took it te Stott they arranged what te do; With Kingey an' Barbor they aalways made free; Every time they went they were hungry an' dry. So just for the lark they wad make them a pie. Noo it had te be killed before startin te skin't So they took up a mell for to knock oot its wind; Them that was present tha roared an' tha laffed- They chap missed the hedgehog an' he broke the mell- The mell was ne use so they took a sharp knife, Detarmined te take away Proggley's life, (proggle= prickle) They tried for te kill him in two dif'rent ways, So they had to droon him for te finish his days. The landlady's sister made up a pie-crust, With the best of beef-fat an some dumplin dust; She nicked it all roond, made it tender, an' then The oven was hot, so she put the pie in. Noo, Barbor an' Kingey sat winkin their eye, Sn' wishin they only could get a bit pie; They were watchin the mistress instead of their gill; The smell was that nice they could hardly keep still Tom the butcher te suit them, soon found out a plan, He sais, Drink off yor gills, be as sharp as ye can; Gan inte the meat-hoose, an' let all things by, An 'aall watch the mistress an' steal ye the pie. In the meat-house they ouly had been a short while, When they saa the pie commin, an' they started to smile; Tom says, Get it eatin; 'twas fettled for Stott; It he comes he'll gan mad. Kingey says, Man, it's hot! Noo te get the pie eaten they both wired in, Till the gravy ran off both their noses an' chin; When Stott showed the skin of the pie that they had, They' looked at each other, an' they turned vary bad. Sais Barbor te Kingey Jack, aa wadn't care But proggles come noo where there used to be hair; And bowt a hard hat, an 'aa ve tied it tight doon, but the proggles come faster, an' the've went through the croon. A razor no use- tha both shave with a saa- Like icicles fhalin, they drop from their jaa Barbor's in trouble an' Kingey far warse- He cannot lie down, or sit on his arse. -Tommy Armstrong (same tune as for The Cat Pie) back to the song menu Joey Jones Tune= Pat of Mullingar Aw'm gan ti sing ye a sang, If ye'll but list ti' me Aw divent intent ti'keep ye lang, An' that ye'll plainly see; Its all aboot young Joey Jones He wun the Northumberland Plate, He was bred at Deckham Hall, Just up throo the gate Chorus: For he jogs along, he canter'd along, He lick'd them all see fine, He was bred at Gyetshead, He's the pride of Coaly Tyne. Joey ran at the spring meetings. He was beaten by the Jim, Hadlow, that belangs Gaylad, Said Joey wasn't game; So they sent him off ti' Richmond, Twas known he wasn't right, Then Watson fetched him here, An' gov them a regular Yorkshire bite. Noo when the horses started, An' was cumin past the stand, Sum shooted oot for Peggy Taft, And some for Underhand; An' when they reached the top o' the hill, Doyle heard Tom Aldercroft say Aw dare lay a fiver that Aw win thi' plate thi-day! Cumin roond he Morpeth turn, Joey keepin' up his fame Says Doyle ti Tommy Aldcroft- Noo wha's yor little game? Says Aldcroft-Aw mean ti' win The Plate this very day! Yes but says Doyle it's Joey Jones, A fiver aw will lay. Number eleven was puttin up. The people stood amazed. Fobert he luiked vary white, An Jackson almost crazed; Little Osborne luiked for his Wildman, An'Sharpe for Volatile Doefoot got a nasty kick, An' Joey wun in style. -George Ridley back to the song menu Liberty for the Sailors For Notation Click here For Midi Sound Click here Lasses call your lads ashore, Lasses, call your lads ashore, Lasses call your lads ashore There's liberty for the sailors. Liberty and money free, Liberty and money free, Liberty and money free, There's liberty for the sailors. Let the lubbers lie aboard, Let the lubbers lie aboard, Let the lubbers lie aboard Because they're no but tailors Lasses call your lads ashore, Lasses, call your lads ashore, Lasses call your lads ashore There's liberty for the sailors. back to the song menu The Bonny Moor Hen For notation click here For midi sound click here You brave lads of Wearedale, I pray lend an ear, The account of a battle you quickly shall hear, That was fought by the miners so well you may ken, By claiming a right to their bonny moor hen. Oh this bonny moor hen, as it plainly appears, She belonged to their fathers some hundreds of years; But the miners of Weardale are all valiant men, They will fight till they die for their bonny moor hen. These industrious miners that walk in their clogs, They suit them to travel o'er mountains and bogs; When the bonny moor hen she mounts up in the air, They will bring her down neatly, I vow and declare. Oh the miners in Weardale, they are bred to the game, They level their pieces and make sure of their aim; When the shot it goes off--Oh, the powder doth sing, They are sure to take off, either a leg or a wing. Now, the times being hard and provisions being dear, The miners were starving almost we do hear; They had nought to depend on, se well you may ken, But to make what they could of the bonny moor hen. There's the fat man of Oakland and Durham the same, Lay claim to the moors, likewise to the game; They sent word to the miners they'd have them to ken They would stop them from shooting the bonny moor hen. Of these words they were carried to Weardale with speed, Which made the poor miners to hang down their heads; But sent then an answer, they would have them to ken, They would fight till they died for their bonny moor hen. When this answer it came to the gentlemen's ears, An army was risen, it quickly appears; Land-stewards, bum- bailifs, and game-keepers too. Were all ordered to Weardale to fight their way through. A captain was wanted at the head of the clan; H. Wye, of great Oakland was cahosen fortheir man; Oh, his legs were too small, and not fit for the stocks, His scalp not being hard for to suffer the knocks. Oh, this captain he had a black bitch of his own, That was taught by the master 'twas very well known; By the help of his bitch he'd met many a one, And when he comes to Weardale he'll do what he can. Oh, this captain says. I am but a stranger here, My bitch and myself is a match for a deer; Either beggars or tinkers, she will pull off their bags, And if that will not do she will rive them to rags. So this army set out from high Oakland we hear, H. Wye in the front and black bitch in the rear; On they marched to Wolsingham, then made a halt, And concerning the battle began to consult. They heard that the miners grand army was strong. The captain that led them was full six feet long; That put Mr. Wye in a bodily fear, And back to great Oakland he wish'd for to steer. Up spoke the game-keepers: Cheer up never fear, Through Stanhope and Weardale our wayy we will clear; In Durham or Oakland it shall never be said, That by a few miners our army was paid. So the army set off straightway, as we hear, And the miners' grand army did quickly appear; Oh, they fired along till their powdere was done, And then they laid on with the but-ends of their guns. They dismounted the riders straightway on the plain, H. Wye and black bitch in the battle were slain; Oh they that ran fastest got first out of town, And away they went home with their tails hanging down. Oh this battle was fought all in Stanhope town, When the chimneys did reek and the soot it fell down; Such a battle was ne'er fought in Stanhope before, And I hope such a battle will ne'er be fought more. Oh this bonny moor hen, she's gone oe'r the plain, When summer comes back she'll return here again; They will tip her so neatly, that no on'll ken That ever they rivall'd the bonny moor hen. Oh this bonny moor hen, she has feathers anew, She has many fine colours, but none of them blue; Oh the miners of Weardale, they are all valiant men, They will fight till they die forthe bonny moor hen. -Old Inns and Taverns of Durham, Frank Graham, 1966 This story is about an incident started in 1797 when the Bishop of Durham issued a notice against poachers on his moors. The Men of Weardale considered hunting on the moor their ancient right. In 1818 a group of the Bishop's men came to arrest the most well known poachers. Two poachers were arrested. They were taken to the Black Bull inn. When the local people heard of this a large croud formed and a battle occured. The Bishop's men were defeated. The ballad is thought to have been written by a local schoolmaster.. back to the song menu The Caller Why sweet slumber now disturbing, Why break ya the midnight peace, Why the sons of toil perturbing Have their hours of rest to ceease? Chorus- Ho! Marrows 'tis the Caller cries, And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies. The twinkling starts, thro' night shade peering. Blink above with heavenly light; On the sleeping world as a voice calls clear In the stilly air of the sable night. The collier sleeps e'en now he's dreaming Of a pure, birght world, and lov'd ones there; He basks in the rays of fortune beaming. In some far land full and fair, Dream on thou poor and ill-used collier, For slaves may have visions bright; There's One above who deems the holier Than the wealthiest, in His sight. Spped thee, old man; let him slumber When happy thoughts are in his breast; Why should the world his peace encumber? Go! let the weary collier rest! back to the song menu Perseveer or, The Nine Oors Movement Tune= Nelly Ray Yen Munday neet aw went oot just te have a walk, When aw met a chep frae Sunderland, an' we got on te tawk; He says Wor workin clivvor noo, an' likely for te thrive, We've got the Nine Oors Movemint noo, an' we drop wor work at five. Chorus- Perseveer! Perseveer! awl ye that's sitin' here! Perseveer! Perseveer! they've gettin't on the Wear! Ye men upon the banks o' Tyne aw think thor's little fear, But ye'll get the Nine Oors Movemint if ye only perseveer! Says aw, Me man, aw think yor reet biv aw that aw can reed; But mind ye myed a gallant fite before ye did succeed. Se tell yor mates at Sunderland, when ye gan ower hyem, That wor lads aboot Newcassel thor gawn to be the syem! He says, Yor tawkin like a man, for aw really think it's time: If the movemint pays upon the Wear it'll pay upon the Tyne; Yor workin men they've been lang famed, aw hope they'll keep thor nyem; They helpt us ower at Sunderland, so we'll help them back agyen! Noo, strikes are what aw divvent like, but if they'll not agree, We'll heh to be like Sunderland, an' close wor factories, tee; The maistors then'll start te fret, and own 'it they were rang; It's then they'll see they cannot de withoot the working man. Aw myek nee doot wor maistors think they'll just de what they like, For they knaw it hurts a workin man when he hes te cum to strike; But if we prove as true as steel wor maistors will be fast, Thor contracts mun be finished, so they will give in at last. - Mattew Dryden, 1871 concerning the Great Engineers' Strkes of 1871. back to the song menu Robin Spraggon's Auld Grey Mare The miller of Ogle bred me, as I hae heard them say, And gallantly he fed me with the best of corn and hay; For meal and malt I wanted not when in his custody, But now I'm Robin Spraggon's auld grey mare , ae how he's guided me! Sometimes he took his gowpins sometimes he took his hat. Sometimes he took the mounter dish to where the toll was put'; For meal and malt I wanted not when in his custody, But now I'm Robin Spraggon's auld grey mare, ae how he's guided Me. Spraggon sets the pads upon my back sae early in the morn, and rides me down to Felton withoiut either hay or corn; When a' the rest get hay enough there's now never a bite for me, For I'm Robin Spraggon's auld grey mare, ae how he's guided me! Our thrifty dame, Mally, she rises soon at morn, She goes and tells the master I'm pulling up the corn; He clicks up the oxen gad, and sair belabours me, For I'm Robin Spraggon's auld grey mare, ae how he's guided me! When aw loup the dyke to Pepperhaugh they hound me back again, For a' the dogs of Pepperhaugh sae well they do me ken; They run me to the lairy bog and round about the lea, For I'm Robin Spraggon's auld grey mare, ae how he's guided me! There's Tallyho Trevillian, he hunts upon the hill, I'll leave to him my carcase to be his dogs a fill, to make them hunt sly Renny until the day they dee, For I'm Robin Spraggon's auld grey mare, ae how he's guided me! There's fussy parson Olivant, his coat is growing thin, I'll leave to him my battered hide to roll him cozy in, to keep him warm in winter, as oft it has done me, For I'm Robin Spraggon's auld grey mare, ae how he's guided me! Then there's stury Willy Hemley, is a ploughman good and true, I'll leave to him my hind legs to be stilts unto his plough, To be stilts unto his plough, my lads for he's often riving lea, For I'm Robin Spraggon's auld grey mare, ae how he's guided me! There's canty Matthew Arkley, whiles works about the dykes, I'll leave to him my small bags to be a pair of pipes, To play the lasses merry tunes, to make them dance wi'glee, For I'm Robin Spraggon's auld grey mare, ae how he's guided me! There's blythesome Tibby Richison, she is a bonny lass; The water trough, where oft aw drank, may serve as keeking glass, To see to set her minner straight, as oft it stands aglee, For I'm Robin Spraggon's auld grey mare, ae how he's guided me! Then there's doughty Tom, the blacksmith, sets the shoes upon my heel. I'll leave to him my other bones to grind to havermeal, To grind to havermeal, my lads, I think the've all a share. For I'm Robin Spraggon's auld grey mare, and I can leave ne mair! And as for Robin Spraggon, I've left him not a plack, for many a time he's spurred my sides, and sore he's licked my back; But worst of all, he pinched my waim, which caused me to dee, I was Robin Spraggon's hungered jade, and ill he used me. back to the song menu The Glister Some time since, a Pitman was tyen varry bad, So caw'd his wife Mall te the side of his bed; Thou mun run for a Doctor, the forst can be fund, For maw belly's a' wrang, an' aw'm varry fast bund. Wey, man thou's a full, aw ken thou's fast boon, Wi' thye last bindin miunny thou-bowt this new goon: Nae Doctor can lowse thou one morsel or crumb, For thou's bun te Tyne Main for this ten month te come. Aw divent mean that--maw belly's sae sair; Run fast, or aw'll dee langafore ye get here! So away Mally ran to their awn Doctor's shop; Gie me somethin for Tom, for his belly's stopt up. A Glister she gat-and nae langer she'd wait, But straight she ran hyem an' gat out a clean plate; Oh Tommy! maw Tom! only haud up thy heed! Here's somethin 'ill mend thou, suppose thou was deed. Thou mun eat up that haggish, but sup the thin forst; Aw's freeten'd that stoppel it will be the worst. Oh Mally! thou'll puzzen poor Tom altogether, If aw drink a' the thin, an' then eat up the blether. He manag'd it a', wiv a great deal to do; Oh Mally! oh Mally I thou's puzzen'd me now! But she tuik nae notice of poor Tommy's pain, But straight she ran off te the Doctor's again. O Doctor! maw hinny! Tom's tyen'd a' thegether, He supp'd up the thin, then he eat up the blether; The blether was tuif, it myest stuck in his thropple; If he haddent bad teeth he wad eatten the stopple. Oh woman! you have been in too great a hurry. Stead of mending your husband, you'll have him to bury; Stead of making him better, you've sure made him warse, For you've put in his mouth what should gone up his arse. -W.Armstrong (Thomas Marshall's Collection 1829, Tyneside Songster, Davidson of Alnwick c. 1840, Allen's Tyneside Songs 1891. back to the song menu A Newcastle Sang Oh! cum' ma canny lads, let's sing anuther Tyneside sang. The Langwidge ov each Tyneside heart wor aad Newcassel Twang. Ne doot its strange te stuck-up folk, and sounds byeth rough and queer. But nivvor mind, It's music sweet untiv a Tyneside ear. Wey, bliss yor heart, thor's ivvorything a Tyneside chep can boast; Wor Tyneside tongue is spoke and sung on ivvory foreign coast. On sea or lan', where 'er ye gan, where Armstrong's cannon roar, It is the voice o' Tyne that's hard resoondin' frev her shore! The ancient langwidge o' the Tyne hes sayins awfu' queer! They say add Nick torns pale as deeth when real Tynesiders sweer! An' Adam spoke in Tyneside tee, when he cried te Mistress Eve. A bonny mess ye've myed on't noo; begox, we'll hev to leave! An' when a muthor scolds hor bairn, shell'sheyk her first and froon, Noo haad yor jaw, aa'll skelp yor lug, or sum plyece lower doon; But if she's in the humour fine, It's Cum noo hinny, cum! An' if ye want te hear the butt, wey, mine's a haaf o' rum! An' when a chep's sweethartin' like, it's Cum, lass gie a cuddle! Or when a man is drinkin' sair, it's Tommy's on the fuddle! The bairn that cries is raimin on, things paaned they say's in pop. An' then a feythor says wi' pride, The bairn's peart as a top! An ear's a lug, a mooth's a gob, and then a hand's a paa; Te hev a smoke it's here a low, sit doon and hev a blaa. It's howay here or had on thor, what cheer my lad? they'll say, It's kittle wark, what fettle noo? it's dowly like the day! Noo aa might crood a thoosand things inte this Tyneside sang; But sum will say, Hi ! had yor han, yor myekin't ower lang. Aa've said enough; aa'll leet ma pipe, ma rhymin pen lay doon, An' pray wor speech may ne'er depart fra wor aad Canny Toon! - J Harbottle 1891. back to the song menu Charity A poor aud wife, iv a lonely room, Sits biv hor-sel i' the darknin gloom; I' the grate thor's just the faintest spark Te frighten away the dreary dark, There she sits till she totters te bed, An'nony a day this life she's led; Withoot a frind te cum near te speak, She's starvin on fifteen-pence a week. The parish allows her half-a-croon! Half-a-croon i' this florishin toon! Fifteen-pence she pays for the rent, Hoo is the fifteen left to be spent? Wi' prayer she welcum's the mornin's leet; Welcums the leet, tho' it brings ne meat; Welcums the leet o' the mornin gray, Te sit biv hor-sel the lang weary day Tho' wishin her awn poor life away, She clings tid still while she hes te stay; For, oh, she knaws that she dissent disarve Te finish her days like this--te starve! An' ninety eers, if she leeves to see; In a few short munths her age'll be; Withoot a frind i' the world te say-- Canny aud wife, hoo are ye the day? Can ye compare this case to yor-sel? An' bring te mind that aw cannet tell, Yor daily wants that ye daily seek, Supplied on the fifteen-pence a week. Is this not eneuff to myek ye fear Yor-sel an' bairns when yor end draws near? Hopeless, helpless, she's not te complain, But pine away in hunger an' pain. Wad she iver dream that she'd leeve te see An' poverty feel hard as it can be? Thor's nowt te nourish, or nowt that cheers, Her poor aud sowl i' declinin eers. Wimmen o' charity! Men o' sense! Hoo cana she spend her fifteen-pence? Can she afford te buy a bit coal Te warm her hands an' hear heart console? Hoo can she get what she stands i' need Wi' hardly eneuff te buy her breed? Oot o' the poor-rates heavy they seek, She's starvin on fifteen-pence a week. The parish allows her half-a-croon! Half-a-croon i' this florishin toon! Fifteen-pence she pays for the rent Hoo is the fifteen left te be spent? -Joe Wilson (Subject of the song: Mrs. E. at the end of 1873 was run over near Earl Grey's Monument and had her leg broken. back to the song menu The Marla Hill Ducks: Imprisoned for Trespassing For notation click here For midi sound click here Noo if ye'll pay attention a moment or two, Aa'll tell ye a story aa knaa te be true. In a small coll'ry village tha caal Marla Hill, For te tell the syame story there's men livin still. It's aboot twenty ducks tha went oot for te play. Upon an aad pastor one fine summer's day; But the farmer espied them, an' teuk them whalesale, an' found them fresh lodgings in Marla Hill Jail. Noo the pastor that played on was worthless an' bare; There wasn't a' blade o' green grass growin there; Tha had been trespassin, an' couldn't deny'd. But like other pris'ners, tha should have been tried. Wivoot judge or jury, he took them away; He never once axed if tha'd owt for te say; If he'd gien them a chance, tha wad aal getten bail, But he teuk hem as pris'ners te Marla Hill Jail. For days tha were locked up baith hungry an' dry; But te break the door oppen tha thow't tha wad try; Wi' their nebs an' their claas tha seun made a road through, When the hind was at wark wi' his hosses an'ploo. Sixteen o' the Twenty got nicely away, Tha quaaked an' tha shooted, as much as te say, O liberty's sweet an kept waggin their tail, An' that's hoo tha got oot o' Marla Hill Jail. There was still fower left in this mis'rable den. The twenty belanged te three diff'rent men; So tha met an' tha thowt the best way for te dee; (dee- sung dae) 'Twas for them te gan doon the Land Steward te see. Tha went, an' wass welcomed; he tret them se kind; He laid aal the blame on the Marla Hill hind; (Marla- sing Marley) While tellin their story the Steward grew pale When that towld him their ducks was in Marla Hill Jail. When leavin, the Steward te them he did say, Tell the hind the ducks must be all set away. Tha thowt 'twas all reet when the steward tha seed, But the next news tha had te pay ninepence a heid, There'll be ducks on the pastor when Steward an' hind. Is laid doon belaa, like the rest of mankind; They'll be sent tiv a place for te weepa an' te wail, Baith the gov'nor and turnkey of Marley Hill Jail. -Tommy Armstrong X: 2 T:Marla Hill Ducks M:3/4 L:1/4 C:Tommy Armstrong K:F |c=B|AGA DED|AGA c=BA|GCC CDC| ECE Gc=B|ADD DED| AFA dc=B| c=BA GEG|ADD D=Bc|d^cd A=Bc| d^cd A2 =B|c=Bc GAB|c=Bc Gfe| d^cd A=Bc| d^cd A2=B|c=BA GEG| ADD D2|| back to the song menu Oakey's Keeker For notation click here For midi sound click here O Oakey's! O Oakey's! What makes thee so bad? It's enough for to make all your workmen gan mad; We should like very well to know just what you mean, The way you gan on from the pit to the screen. You treat us coal-hewers just as you think fit, The wages are small that are paid in the pit; But what we are making we really don't know, Since they have sent us old Maiden Law Joe. To do all his duty is nothing but right. But in hurting coal-hewers he takes a delight; If he pleases the masters that's all he cares for, Suppose that he hungers poor men to the door. They say there's a medium in every case, He's not a fit man to have in such a place, For he has no feelings for men that's below- This hairy-face rascal, old Maiden Law Joe. This Maiden Law tyrant does nothing but shout, Who belongs to this tub? Because it's laid out. He smacks his old lips, his old hands he will rub, Because he has taken the poor man's tub. Amongst the coal-heweres how well he is known, His hardness towards them he always has shown. But what makes ye do it I really don't know- Thou cruel impostor, old Maiden Law Joe. Now Joey Badum, you silly old man! You have nearly done all of the ill that you can; With old age your whiskers are turning quite grey. And I think it is time you were starting to pray. Do you think that the masters will keep you in bread, If you ever take ill and are confined to bed? When you're dead with your corpse not one step would they go. Because it's that rascal, old Maiden Law Joe. I never did like to wish anyone harm, But I doubt you will gan to a place where it's warm. It's nothing but right to reap just as you sow, And they'll burn your whiskers, when they get you below. If the old Devil sees you, He'll give a great shout- That's Oakey's old keeker, who laid the tubs out. God will then say, Down to hell you must go. If you are the keeker called Maiden-Law Joe. -Tommy Armstrong X: 1 T:Oakeys Keeker M:3/4 L:1/4 C:Tommy Armstrong K:C C|CEG|GFD|DCC|C2 C/2C/2|CEG !|ccc!|BGG|G2 G/2G/2| ccc|cGE|FGA|G2 C/2D/2|EEF|GFD !|DCC|C2 G|ccc| GA_B|AFF|F2 A/2A/2 GEE|EFG|FDD|D2 G|ccc|cGE|FGA !|G3|EEF|GFD|DCC|C2|| back to the song menu The Oakey Strike Evictions For notation click here For midi sound click here It was in November an' aw niver will forget, When the pollises and the candymen at Oakey's hooses met; Johnny the bellman he was there, a squintin roond aboot, An' they put three men on ivery door for te torn the pitment oot. Chorus- Oh, what wad aa dee, if aa'd the poower mesel? Why, aa'd bang the twenty candymen an Johnny whe carries the bell. They went from hoose te hoose an' then they put things on the road. But mind, they diddn't hort themselves wi' carryin heavy loads. One would carry the poker oot, the fender or the rake, But if they carried two at once, why, it was a great mistake. Some o' these dandy candymen was dressed up lika cloon; Some had hats wi'oot a flipe, an' same wi' oot a croon; An' there was one chap with them, ay, an' a'll vow that he was warse, For ivery time he had to stoop, why, it was a laffable farce. Some o' them had ne laps, nor had ne buttons on thor coats, Another had a bairnie's hippin lapped aroond his throat; (hippin= apron) One o' them had a pair o' breeks that belanged tiv a boy; One leg was a sort o' tweed, an' the other was corduroy. Next there comes the maisters, an' aa think they should be 'shemd, Deprivin wives an' families of a comfortable yem. An' when ye shift from where ye live, aa hope ye'll gan te hell, Alang wi' the twenty candymen an' Johnny whe carries the bell. -Tommy Armstrong X: 1 T:Oakey's Strike M:6/8 L:1/8 C:Tommy Armstrong K:C |E2AA2B|A2GE2D|E2AA2B|A3 A2 B|ccB c2 A| G2 E CDE| F2ED2C| B,6| EEA A2B| A2GE2D| E2 AA2B|A3A2B|c2Bc2A|GED C2 E| F2ED2C| B,6| C3B, B,2|A,6 DD| E2 A AAB| A3 A2B| c2Bc2A|G2EC2D|EFE DCB,|A,3A,3| back to the song menu The Sheel Raa Flood For notation click here For midi sound click here Se lang as aa live, aa' niver forget, One Saturda when it was se wet; Iverybody was nearly bet, Frae the Saturda till the Sunda O! The ducks did quack an' the cocks did craa, For what was up they didn't knna; It nearly droonded all Sheel Raa That nasty Sunda mornin O! Mall Johnson tiv hor husband sais, Reach me me stockins an' me stays; For God sake, let us have me claes, Or else we'aal be droonded O! Thi claes, said he, they're gyen wi' mine, Like Boyd an' Elliot, up the Tyne; Aa've leuked fra five, an' noo it's mine, This nasty Sunda morning O! On the bed she began to rowl, An flung hor airms aroond the powl, (powl-pole-bedpost) Sayin, Lord hae mercy on me sowl, This nasty Sunda mornin O! the vary cats they ran upstairs, Got on their knees te say thor prayers, Thinkin they wor gone for fairs, That nasty Sunda mornin O! Aa was sorry fur Sally Clark; The fire was oot, an'aal was dark; She got oot o' bed wi' nowt but hor sark, That nasty Sunda morning O! She made a splash wi' sic a clatter. That Bob cried oot, Sal, what's the matter? She sais, Aa's up te me eyes in watter It must be a nasty mornin O! Bob jomped oot of his bed an 'aal, He went wherever he hord her squaal, But the watter was always shiftin Sal, That nasty Sunda mornin O! At last the water burst oppen the door, An' weshed both Bob and hor; At Tinmuth tha were washed ashore, That nasty Sunda morning O! -Tommy Armstrong ] X: 1 T:Sheel Raw Flud M:3/4 L:1/8 C:Tommy Armstrong K:D |A|DDD F2F|GGG A2A|D D2 F2 A|G2E =C3 D2D FFF|G2GAAA|dAA A2 G| F2 D D2 A| d2d AAA|D2D A2B|=c2 c G2G|=c c2 A2d| d2d =c2 c|B2B A2F|G2E A2G|F2D D2| back to the song menu The Ghost that 'aunted Bunty For notation click here For midi sound click here This is a sang that's just come out, Ye'll want te hear it, there is ne doot, So aa'll try te tell ye aal aboot The ghost that 'aunted Bunty Bunty lives not far frae here, He's a terrible chap for drinkin beer; An' from his yem he went way, But manny's the time he rued the day. As he was comin yem that neet, Something white he chanced te meet; He stood an' leuked, he said Aalreet- But thou cannot frighten Bunty. Chorsu- Fol de rol de rol de ray Fol de rol de rol de ray Fol de rol de rol de ray, The ghost that 'aunted Bunty. Bunty sais, If aa'd a gun, Aa wad knock tha doon or make tha run, Aa wad let tha see tha'd not make fun, Or try te frighten Bunty. Come oot o' the way, an' let me past, An' dinna make thisel se fast; Thou think aa dinna knaa whe thou is, But aa ken nicely whe it is. The ghost then spread his airms baith oot, Which made poor Bunty shake an' shoot, Thou's a fairly ghost there is ne doot, But keep away frae Bunty. Bunth then began te say, Aa wish aa'd gyen the tother way, Or sat an' drank another day-- An'aa wadn't ha' been se frightent. Aa've getten drunk noo many a time, But never did commit a crime; Aa love me neighbour as mesel; the worst o' me, aa like me yell. But O canny ghost, if thoo'll let me be, Aa'll never mair gan on the spree, Aa will aalways choose good company Te gan alang wi' Bunty. Bunty stooped te pick up a stane; He grappled about, but findin nane, He said O Ghost, let me alane, An aa'll be Teetotal Bunty. Aa'll try te mind me aan affaris, At neets an' mornins say me prayers; Aa'll make the bairns aal say theirs, At neets, before they gan upstairs; Aa'll try to be a diff'rent man; Aa'll bide at yem beside wor Nan. He turned about, an' off he ran, But the ghost ran after Booty. He ran till he was short o' breeth; He said, There's nowt for me but deeth. the ghost was there, an' scringed his teeth; He still is wantin Bunty. He took poor Bunt up in his airm, Just like as if he'd been a bairn; He clashed him doon upon a stane; When he got up the ghost was gyen. He sais, Thank God, yence mair aa's free; He's had a nice bit fun wi' me As wonder whe the ghost can be, That has been after Bunty. Strite off yem poor Bunty ran; He knocked at the door an' shouted, Nan! Be as sharp as ever thou can; The ghost's been after Bunty! She turned the lock an' eased the sneck; He flung his arms around hor neck; His hair stood strite up frae his heed. He sais, As's nearly flaid te deed. Lock the door, he'll be here just noo! Get out, says Nan; it isn't true! Sa that again, an' aa'll bring him to thoo For he's been after Bunty! Tommy Armstrong X: 1 T:The Ghost that 'aunted Bunty M:6/8 L:1/8 C:Tommy Armstrong K:G |B2 A|G2FG2E|D3C2C|B2, A, B2, C| D6 |E2E G2 G|D2D G3|A2A DEF|G3G2 A |B2 B B2 B|B2B2B2B2|c2BA2G|F2G A2 D G2GG2G|GG2G2G|A2AA2G|F2ED2D |G2GG2G|G2G GGG| A2A A2G|F2E DDD |E2E G2G|D2DG G2| A2A DEF|G3G2ZZ|| B2AG2F|G2ED3|C2C B2,A,|B2,CD3 |E2E G2G|D2 D G3|A2A DEF|G3 G2ZZ|| back to the song menu The Sooth Medomsley Strike For notation click here For midi sound click here If you're inclined to hear a song, aa'll sing a verse o two An' when aa's dune ye're ganning to say that every word is true. The miners of Sooth Medomsley they never will forget Fisick an' his tyranny, an hoo they have been tret; For in the midst of danger these hardy sons did toil, For te earn their daily bread so far beneath the soil; Te make an' honest living each miner did contrive, But ye shall hear hoo they were sarved in eye-teen eyety-five. Chorus O the miners of Sooth medomsley they're gannin te make some stew; they're gannin to boil fat Postick and his dorty candy crew; The Maistors should hev nowt but soup as lang as they're alive. In memory of thor dorty tricks in eyeteen eyety-five. Below the county average then the men was ten per cent, Yet Fisick the unfeelin cur, he couldn't rest content; A ten per cent reduction from the men he did demand, But such a strong request as this the miners couldn't stand. The notices was all sarved oot, an' when they had expired. Aal the gear was brought to bank, an' the final shot was fired. His honest workin men this low-lived man did strive. He'll often rue for what he did in eyteen eyety-five. Fisick was detarmined still for tyranny to show; For to got some candymen he wandered to an ' fro He made his way to Consett, an' he saa Postick the bum, He knew he liked such dorty jobs, an' he was sure to come. Fisick tolled him what to do, an' where to gan an' when, So at the time appointed, Postick landed wiv his men; Wi' pollises an' wi candymen the place was aal alive, Aal through the strike that Fisick caased in eyeteen eyety-five. commander Postick gave the word an' they started with their work. But they wor done at fiveo'clock; they dorsen't stop till dark; An when they'd done aal they could, an' finished for the day. The bobbies guarded Postick an' his dorty dogs away. Fisick was a tyrant, the owners was the syame; For the torn-out o' the strike that wor the men to blame, Neither them nor Postick need expect they'll ever thrive, For what they did to Dipton men in eyeteen-eyety-five -Tommy Armstrong X: 1 T:Sooth Medomsley Strike M:6/8 L:1/8 C:Tommy Armstrong K:D |A|F2FF2F|F2FE2D|C2E E2F|(E3 E2) F| G2G G2G|G2G F2E|D2FF2G|(F3 F2) E|F2FF2F| F F2E2D|C2EE2F|(E3 E3)|G2GG2G|G G2 F2 E| E2DD2E|D3 D3 E|F2FF2G|A3 F2F|G2GA| (B3 B3)|^G2 G G2 A|B2 ^G F2E|A2AA2B|(c3 c2) A| d2dd2 B|A2F D2G| G2F G2A|(B3 B2) B|A2AA2A| c2 cc2B|A2 G F2 E|D3 A2G| F2F F2D|F F2 F2 D| F2F F2G|(F3 F2) F|G2 G G2 G|G2 F E2 D|C2 A A2 B| (A3 A2) G| F2 E F2 G A2F E2 D| G2 GG2A|(B3 B2) B| AAA A2 A| c2c c2 B A2 G F2 E|(D3 D2)|| back to the song menu The Howty Towty Lass For notation Click here For midi sound Click here I knew a lass doon Wylam way As bonny as could be And tho' she took me fancy She'd have nowt to do wi' me And mind she thowt horsel ne muck For if Aa said Good day! She stuck up hor nose and she tossed hor heed And nivvor would look me way. She stuck up hor nose and tossed hor heed And nivvor would look me way. Noo as Aa was just a farmin' lad Me hands were rough wi' toil Wi' cleanin byres and leadin muck To spread upon the soil And many's the time that she passed by Tho' nivvor a word was said Aa knew by her face she thowt that Aa Was part of the load Aa led. But womenfolk are kittle cattle And change from day to day Me uncle left the farm to me And cash to myek it pay But where's the howty towty lass As thowt Aa'd like to wed That's hor wi' the coos in her clarty shoes And a bonny grand wife she's made. Each time Aa axed hor if she'd wed For love or for me brass Aa got a saucy answer from me howty towty lass But noo we've got a son and heir She says that he will de If he's as good as his dad By gox she must be in love wi' me. -Jack Robson back to the song menu Pot Pies and Puddens For notation Click here For midi sound Click here A pitman's wife is nivor dyun Of that there is nee doot Whilst some are comin' in from work there's others gannin' oot As weel remember as a lad The feeds there used to be On Sundays when we aall sat doon As one big family. Chorus- Me poor aad father used to carve A wallopin joint o'meat Wi' spuds and sproots by gum we got As much as we aall cud eat But best of aall the tasty bites Aa'll nivver forget by heck Wer the Pot Pies and the Puddens That me mother used to myek. But many years have gyen since then And now the wife and me Sit doon on Sundays tiv a chop That ye can hardly see Wor dusbin's full of empty tins And dinner's just a nyem But nivvor dor Aa mention Hoo we used to feed at hyem. Aa tell the wife she's deein fine And let it gan at that For if Aa dared to say owt else By gox, she'd lowse the flat Howway Aa've poured yor dinner oot Aa'm sick to hear hor say Nee wonder that me mind gans back To many a bygone day. Coda- The rowly powly piuddens The steak and kidney puddens, Them greet big Yorkshire puddens That me mother used to myek. -Jack Robson back to the song menu Amble Feast For Notation Click here For Midi Sound Click here Haven't ye heard of the Amble Feast Hinnies ye've missed a treat From North to South from West to East Ivryone there ye'll meet Lasses and lads have a gala day As they prance aboot wi' glee They dance on the green so if ye've not been Then hurry alang wi'me Chorus- Come alang to the feast at Amble Join the fun it's a regular scramble Ivrybody will frolic and gambol Hey nonny nonny and derry down day Aall the hinnies from Warkworth and Ashington Blyth and Newbiggin will be there Such a pushin' and shovin' and jostlin' Aall good humoured at Amble Fair Come alang etc. See the fat wives in the switch back cars Shriekin' wi' nervous fright Some others will choose the shuggy shoes Yellin' with aall thor might Children gan oon to the roondaboots An the lads to the coco-nut shies the lasses mair bold have their fotunes told While some have hot peas and pies. Coda. Feastin' away,happy nad gay Hey nonny nonny and derry down day. -Norman Turnbull back to the song menu The Happenny Woods at Bedlington For notation click here For midi sound click here The Happenny Woods at Bellington May very delightful be But many a pund Aa've sadly fund Them woods is costing me Twas there that Aa met a lass se fair Dressed oot in hor finery In the Happenny Woods at Bedlington on Sunday We started to gan together She was always meek and mild And when Aa axed hor if she'd wed She nodded hor heed and smiled She said that hor name was Rose By gum Aa didn't knaa she was wild In the Happennuy Woods at Bedlington that Sunday She's nowt but a useless painted doll Me money'll soon be spent As'm gannin' withoot to rig hor oot But still she's not content Hor tongue winnit cease Aa get ne peace Aa rue that ivver Aa went To the Happenny Woods at Bedlington that Sunday Ye've nivver seen such a dorty hoose Aa hing me heed wi' shame Little Aa thowt a lazy nowt Could have such a luvly name As soon as Aa'm in the rows begin If only Aa'd stopped at hyem From the Happenny Woods at Bedlington that Sunday. Now Aa cud have had the lass next door It shows what a fyul Aa've been Aa knaa she can bake and mend and make And keep things spick and clean The folks in the street says sarves ye reet For bein' se soft and green In the Happenny Woods at Bedlington that Sunday It just goes to show how true it is That looks can shallow be And what ye took for gowld is brass Cos look what it's done to me So tyek me advice and lads think twice If ivver a rose ye see In the Happenny Woods at Bedlington one Sunday. -Jack Robson back to the song menu Sally Lee For notation click here For midi sound click here Sally is a canny lass, A canny lass is she Wi' me hat and me shaal ye'll see 'er doon the Quay Sally's just the sort o' lass sae bonny kind and free From Newcassel doon to Cullercoats, There's none like Sally-Lee Hor father was a muckman Hor grandpa was a snob Hor mother was a washerwife Wi' ony amoont o' gob Hor sister is a fisherwife And hor borther he does nowt He's a half bred porter pokeman That nivvor stuck to owt. And when me work is over An wander doon the Quay And there Aa meet me heart's delight Me bonny Sally Lee And someday, when Aa've served me time How happy Aa will be For Sally, 'spite of aall the lads Is gannin' to marry me back to the song menu The Skipper's Wedding For Notation Click here For Midi Sound Click here Good neighbours, I'm come for to tell you Our skipper and Moll's to be wed' And if it be true what they're saying, Egad, we'll be rarely fed; They've brought home a shoulder of mutton, Besides two thumping fat geese; and when at the fire they're roasting, We're all to have sops in the grease. Blind willy's to play on the fiddle. And there will be pies and spice dumplings, And there will be bacon and peas; Besides a great lump of beef boiled, And they may get crowdies who please To eat of such good things as these are, I'm sure you've but seldom the luck; Besides, for to make us some pottage, there'll be a sheep's head and a pluck. Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle. Of sausages there will be plenty, Black puddings, sheep fat, and neat's tripes; Besides, for to warm all our noses, Great store of tobacco and pipes. A room, they say, there is provided For us at The Old Jacob's Well, The bridegroom he went there this morning. And spokefor a barrel o' yell Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle. There's sure to be those things I've mentioned, And many things else; and I learn There's white bread and butter and sugar, To please every bonny young bairn. Of each dish and glass you'll be welcome toi eat and to drink till you stare; I've told you what meat's to be at it, I'll next tell you who's to be there Blind Wily's to play on the fiddle. Why there will be Peter the Hangman, Who flogs the folks at the cart tail; Auld Bob, with his new sark and ruffle, Made out of an old keel sail; and Tib on the Quay who sells oysters, Whose mother oft strove to persuade Her to keep from the lads, but she couldn't Until she got by them betrayed. Blind willy's to play on the fiddle. And there will be Sandy the Cobbler, Whose belly's as round as a keg; And doll, with her short petticoats, To display her white stockings and leg; And Sall, who, when snug in a corner, A sixpense, they say, won't refuse; She curs'd when her father was drowned, Because he had on his new shoes. Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle. And there will be Sam the Quack Doctor, Of skill and profession he'll crack; And Jack, who would fain be a soldier, But for a great hump on his back; And Tom, in the streets, for hisliving. Who grinds razors, scissors, and knives; And two or three merry old women, That call Mugs and doublers, wives! Blind Willy's to Play on the Fiddle But, neibhbours; I'd almost forgotten For to tell ye:--exactly at one. The dinner will be on the table, The music will play till it's done. When you'll be all heartily welcome Of this merry feast for to share; But if you won't come at this bidding, Why then you may stay where you arre. Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle. back to the song menu THE SANDGATE LASS ON THE ROPERY BANKS tune- See the Skipper's Wedding Above For Notation Click here For Midi Sound Click here On the Ropery Banks Jinny was sittin-- She had on a bed-goon just new, And blythely the lassie was knittin Wi' yarn of a bonny sky-blue: The strings of her cap they were hingin, Se lang on her shoulders se fine, And hearty aw heard this lass singin-- Maw bonny keel lad shall be mine. [Chorus, in between verses and at end:] O wad the keel come doon the river, That aw my dear laddie could see; He whistles, he dances se cliver, Maw bonny keel laddie for me. Last neet in amang these green dockins He fed me wi' gingerbreed spice-- Aw promised to knit him these stockins, He cuddled and kiss'd me se nice; He ca'd me his jew'l and his hinny; He ca'd me his pet and his bride, And he swore that aw should be his Jinny, To lie at neets doon bi his side. That mornin forget aw will niver, When first aw saw him on the Kee, The "Keel Row" he whissel'd se cliver, He wun my affections frae me; His drawers on his doup luik'd se canny, His keel hat was cock'd on his heed, And if aw'd not gettin my Jimmy, Faith, by this time aw wad be deed. The first time aw spoke to maw Jimmy-- Now mind ye it isn't a lee-- My mother had gi'en me a penny, To bring her a penn'orth o' tea; When a lad i' the street cried oot "Bessie!" Says I, "Hinny, that's not my nyem;" "Becrike, niver mind," he said, "lassie, To-neet aw will see ye syef hyem." Since then aw hae been his true lover, Aw've lov'd him as dear as my life, And in spite o' byeth fethor and mother, Aw'll suen be maw keel-laddie's wife! How happy we'll be then together, When he brings hyem his wages ti me, Wiv his bonny bit bairn cryin "Fethur," And another one laid o' my knee. Tune called"The Skipper's Wedding" c. 1872 . Stokoe & Reay (Songs & Ballads of Northern England) call it "Fy let us a' to the Bridal", a Scottish tune at least 100 years older than Nunn, with its own set of words. It's a lively melody in 9/8, and ends on the supertonic.Source: MS Robert Nunn blind fiddler/songster of Newcastle (died 1853, aged 45). back to the song menu GEORDIE'S PENKER Hey, wor Geordie's lost 'is penker(marble) Hey, wor Geordie's lost 'is penker Hey, wor Geordie's lost 'is penker Doon the double raw(double row of houses) Well, it ralled reet doon the koondy(storm drain) Soo he's gone ta fetch a claes prop(clothes line pole) And he rammed it up the koondy But the claes prop would na' fetch it So he's gone ta fetch a terrier And he shooved it up the koondy But the terrier wad nae fetch it So he's gone ta get goon pooda(gun powder) And he poured it up the koondy Then he set fire to the pooda And he's blon the double raw Hey, wor Geordie's foond 'is penker It was in his bloody pooket It was in his bloody pooket It was in his bloody pooket And he's blon the double raw back to the song menu The Tyne 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 by 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 Ridleys 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, Andscience, form'd to grace the mind. Arts, curb'd by War in former days, Has now burst forth in one bright blaze; And long shall his refulgent rays Shine 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- - J. Gibson of Newcastle, in Bell back to the song menu Blackett's Field Tune- John Anderson my Jo Near Blackett's Field, sad hov'ring, ('Twas but the other day,) Thus sung a melancholy wight His pitty-moving lay:-- How comes this alteration strange! What can the matter be, That the brave Association Lads Are under lock and key? Ah! lately, on a Sunday, To dine I hardly staid-- But from my beef and pudding ran, T' attend the gay parade! Now I may stay and pick my bones, Fron anxious hurry free; For the brave Association Lads Are under lock and key! A dimpling smile still grac'd my cheek, Brave D***n when I saw; 'Twas worth a crown to hear him, too, Exclaiming Kiver awa! But thus to feast my eyes and ears' No more my lot shall be For the brave Assocaition Lads Are under lock and key! To church, now, when the bells are heard, With snail-like pace I creep And there, in manner most devout, Compose myself to sleep! Thus cheerless pass the ling'ring hours, So lately fraught with glee, Ere the brave Association Lads Were under lock and key! For pity's sake, then, Ridley! Thy turnkeys straight dischargbe, And let thy armed Patriots Again be drill'd at large; So shall my Sunday afternoons, In gazing, joyous flee, When the brave Association Lads Ar'n't under lock and key! Think--urg'd by curiosity, To climb the Spital walls, Should any of thy neighbours there, Sad, break their necks by falls, O would not such mischances dire Be justly charg'd on thee, Who keeps the Association Lads Thus underlock and key? Imagine not thy warriors brave, To glory who aspire, Whilst thus confin'd in Blackett's field, Their station much admire! Ah! no; in Heaton cellars they Would rather chuse to be, Most jovial, carrying on the war, All under lock and key! Whilst War's horrific clangours Resound throughout the land, Still may'st thou, galland Ridley, Thy town's-men brave command: And, oh! that with your martial toils Delighted I may be, Ope wide the door of Blackett's field; Then break the lock and key! -J. Shield of Newcastle, in Bell. Because of the confined limits of the parade ground of the Loyal Newcastle Associated Corps of Volunteer Infantry it was found necessary to lock the door during time of drill to prevent the crowd interfering with the evolutions of the corps. back to the song menu Bob Cranky's Size Sunday To Music by Thomas Train, of Gateshead. Ho'way and aw'll sing the a tune, mun, 'Bout huz see'n my Lord at the town, mun, Aw seer aw was smart, now Aw'll lay the a quart, now Nyen' them aw cut a dash like Bob Cranky. When aw pat on my blue coat that shines se, My jacket wi' posies se fine see, My sark sic sma' threed, man, My pig-tail se greet, man! Od smash! what a buck was Bob Cranky. Blue stockings, white clocks, and reed garters, Yellow breeks, and my shoon wi' lang quarters, Aw myed wour bairns cry, Eh! sarties! ni! Ni! Sic verra fine things had Bob Cranky. Aw went to awd Tom's and fand Nancy, Kiv aw, Lass, thou's myed to my fancy; Aw like thou as weel As a stannin pye heel, Ho'way to the town wi' Bob Cranky. As up Jenny's backside we were bangin, Ki' Geordy, How! where are ye gannin? Weyt' see my lord 'Sizes, But ye shanna gan asside us, For ye're not half se fine as Bob Cranky. Kiu' Geordy, We leve i' yen raw, weyet, I' yen corf we byeth gan belaw, weyet, At a' things aw've play'd And to hew am'm not flay'd, Wi' sic in a chep as Bob Cranky. Bob hez thee at lowpin and flingin, At the bool, foot-ball, clubby, and swingin: Can ye jump and shuffle, And cross owre the buckle, When ye dance? like the clever Bob Cranky. Thou naws, i' my hoggars and drawers, Aw'm nyen o' your scarters and clawers: Fra' the trap door bit laddy, T' the spletter his daddy, Nyen handles the pick like Bob Cranky. So, Geordy, od smash my pit sarik! Thou'd best had thy whisht about warik, Or aw'll sobble thy body, And myek thy nose bloody, If thou sets up thy gob to Bob Cranky. Nan laugh'd-- t'church we gat without 'im; The greet crowds, becrike, how aw hew'd 'em! Smasht a keel-bully roar'd, Clear the road! Whilk's my lord? Owse se high as the noble Bob Cranky. Aw lup up aa' catch'd just a short gliff O'lord trial, the trumpets, and sheriff, Wi' the little bit mannies, Se fine and se canny, Ods heft! what a seet for Bob Cranky. Then away we set off to the yell-house, Wiv a vew hearty lasses and fellows, Aw tell'd owre the wig, Se curl'd and se big; For nyen saw'd se weel as Bob Cranky. Aw gat drunk fit, and kick'd up a racket, Rove my breeks and spol'd a' my fine jacket: Nan cry'd and she cuddled My hinny, thous's fuddled, Ho'way hyem now, my bonny Bob Cranky. So we staggere'd alang fra the town, mun, Whiles gannin, whiles baith fairly down, mun: Smash, a banksman or hewer, No not a fine viewer, Durst jaw to the noble Bob Cranky. What care aw for my new suit a'tatters, Twe black een--od smash a' sic maters! When my lord comes agyen, mun, Aw'l strive every byen, mun, To bang a' wor Concern, ki' Bob Cranky. O' the flesh and breed day when wour bun', mun, Aw' buy clase far bonnyer than thon, mun; For, od smash my neavel! As lang as wour yebble, Let's keep up the day, ki' Bob Cranky. -John Selkirk in Bell back to the song menu Bob Cranky's Complaint Odd smash! 'tis hard aw can't rub dust off, To see ma lord wi' wig se fine toss'd off, But they mak a sang man aw can't tell how lang man, All myeking a gam o' Bob Cranky. Ma blue coat and pigtail's my awn, wyet! And when to Newcassel I gang, wyet! Aw like to shaw town folks, Whe se oft ca' us gowks They ar'n se fine as Bob Cranky. If aw fin the Owther, as sure as a'm Bob, A'll mak him sing the wrang side o' his gob, A'll gi'm sic sobbling A'll set him hyem hobbling, For myeking a gam o' Bob Cranky. A'll myek his noodle as reed as ma garters; A've a ling stick, as weel as lang quarters, Whilk a'll lay ow'r his back, 'Till he swears ne'er to mak Ony mair sangs o' Bob Cranky. Aw wonder the maist how he did spy, What was dyun, when nobody was by-- Some conj'rer he maun be, Sioc as wi' Punch aw did see, Whilk myed the hair stand o' Bob Cranky. Our viewer sez aw can't de better, Than send him a story cull letter But writing a'll let rest; The pik fits ma hand best, A pen's owr sma for Bob Cranky. Nan, whe a'll marry or its very lang, Sez Hinny, din't mind the cull fellow's sang, Gif he dis se agyan, Our schyul maister's pen Shall tak pairt wi' ma bonny Bob Cranky. Ize warrn't giv aw weer my pillease, An ma hat myed of very sma strees; He'll be chock full o' spite, An about us will write, An say Ize owre fine for Bob Cranky. Sure, Bobby, says she, his head's got a crack, Ne maiter, sed I, an gov her a smack Pilleases are tippy, Like shugar's thy lippy, And thou shalt be wife to Bob Cranky. The Crankies, farr back nor I naw, Hae gyen to Sizes to see trumpets blaw, Wi' white sticks, an' Sheriff, But warn't myed a sang of, Nor laugh'd at, like clever Bob Cranky. Lord Sizes cums but yence a year, wyet! To see his big wig a've ne fear, wyat! So be-crike! while aw leeve, Thof wi' lang sangs a'm deav'd, Me Lord at the church shall see Cranky! -in Bell back to the song menu The Bonny Geatsiders-1805. Tune- Bob Cranky Come marrows, we've happen'd to meet now, Sae our 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 Geatsiders. Of a' the fine Volunteer corpses, whether footmen, or ridin o' horses, 'Tween the Tweed and the Tees, Deel hae them that sees Sic a corpse as the Bonny Geatsiders. Whilk amang them can mairch, turn, an wheel sae? Whilk their guns can wise off half sae weel sae? Nay, for myeking a crack Through ?England aw'l back The Corpse of the Bonny Geatsiders. When the time for parading nigh hand grows, A' wash their sel's clean i' the sleek trough; Fling off their black duddies, Leave hammers and studdies, And to drill-- run the Bonny Geatsiders. To Newcasel, for three weeks up-stannin, On Permanent Duty they're gannin; And sune i' th' papers, We's read a' the capers, O' the corpse o' the Bonny Geatsiders. The Newcassel chaps fancey they're clever, And are vauntin and braggin for ever; But they'll find themselves wrang, If they think they can abang, At sough'rin, the Bonny Geatsiders. The Gen'ral sall see they can loup dykes, Or mairch through whins, lair whooles, and deep sykes; Nay, to soom (in a pinch) Through Tyne, wad'nt flinch The corpse o' the Bonny Geatsiders. Some think Billy Pitt's nobbit hummin, When he tells about Bonnepart cummin; But come when he may, He'll lang rue the day He first meets wi' the Bonny Geatsiders. Like an anchor shank, smash! how they'll clatter 'im, And turn 'im and skelp 'im, and batter 'im, His banes sall by pring, Like a fryin pan ring, When he meets wi' the Bonny Geatsiders. Let them ance get 'im into their tailings weel, Nae fear but they'll give 'im his whaings weel; And to Hazlett's * pond bring 'im; And there in chains hing 'im; What a seet for the Bonny Geatsiders! 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 Bonny Geatsiders. - In- Bell, *A pond on Gateshead Fell so named on account of the Body of Robert Hazlett being hung in Chains there, Sept. 1770, for robbing the Mail. back to the song menu Bob Cranky's Adieu On going with the Volunteer Association from Gateshead to Newcastle, on permanent Duty Fareweel, farweel, ma comely pet! Aw's doon for parm'ent duty set, O dinna let it grieve thee! Ma hinny! wipe them e'en sae breet, That mine wi'love did dazzle; When thy heart's sad can mine be leet! Come, ho'way get a jill o' beer, Thy heart to cheer; An' when thou sees me mairch away, Whiles in, whiles out O' step, nae doot, Bob Cranky's gane--thou'lt sobbing say, A sougering to Newcassel! Come, dinna, dinna whinge and whipe, Like yammering Isbel Macky; Cheer up, ma hinny! leet thy pipe, An take a blast o' backy! It's but for yen and twenty days, The foulk's een aw'll dazzle,-- Prood, swagg'ring i' my fine reed claes: Odds heft! my pit claes- dist thou hear? Are waurse o' wear; Mind cloot them weel, when aw's away; An' a posie grown Aw'll buy thee soon, An' thou's drink thy tea--aye, twice a-day, When aw come frae Newcassel. Becrike! aw's up tiv every rig, Sae dinna doot, ma hinny! But at the Blue stane o' the Brig Aw'll ha'e ma mairching Ginny. A Ginny! wuks! sae strange a seet Ma een wi' joy will dazzle; But aw'll hed spent that verra neet-- For money, hinny! owre neet to keep, Wad brick ma sleep; Sae, smash! aw thinks't a wiser way, Wi' flesh and beer Mysel' to cheer, The lang three weeks that aw've to stay, A sougering at Newcassel. But whisht! the sairgent's tongue aw hear, Fa' in! fa' in! he's yelpin: The fifes are whusslin' lood an' clear, An' sair the drums they're skelpin. Fareweel, ma comely! aw mun gang, The Gen'ral's een to dazzle; But, hinny! if the time seems lang, And thoiu freets about me neet an'day; Then come away, Seek out the yell-house where aw stay, An' we'll kiss and cuddle; An' mony a fuddle Sall drive the langsome hours away, When sougering at Newcassel. -John Shield, of Newcastle, in Bell back to the song menu WAGGONER For midi sound click here For notation click here Saw ye owt of my love Ganning down on the waggon way With his pocket full of money and his poke full of hay Aye but he's a bonnie lad as ever you did see Though he's sair frowsy freckled and he's blind of an e'e There's ne'er a lad like my lad drives to a staith on Tyne Though coal black on workdays, on holidays he's fine My lad's a canny lad, he works down in the pit He never comes to see me unless he wants a bit With his silver in his hand and with love in his e'e I see my canny lad coming to me Aye but he's a bonnie lad as ever you did see Though he's sair pock-brocken and he's blind of an e'e Printed in Sedley's Seeds of Love from text in A L Lloyd's Come All Ye Bold Miners back to the song menu The WEARY CUTTERS Whaur hae ye been, my canny hinny? Whaur hae ye been, my winsome man? I've been tae the nor'ard Cruisin' back and for'ard I've been tae the nor'ard Cruisin' sair and lang I've been tae the nor'ard Cruisin' back and for'ard But I daur not gang ashore For fear of Bover and his gang Oh, the weary cutters, they've ta'en my laddie from me Oh, the weary cutters, they've ta'en my laddie from me They've pressed him far away foreign Wi' Nelson ayont the salt sea They've pressed him far away foreign And ta'en my laddie from me Oh, the weary cutters, they've ta'en my laddie from me Oh, the weary cutters, they've ta'en my laddie from me They always come in the neet They never come in the day They always come in the neet To steal our laddies away Oh, the weary cutters, they've ta'en my laddie from me Oh, the weary cutters, they've ta'en my laddie from me I'll gie the cutters a guinea I can't gie the cutters nae more I'll gie the cutters a guinea To steal my laddie ashore back to the song menu The Collier's Pay Week The Baff week is o'er--no repining-- Pay-Saturday's swift on the wing; At length the blythe morning comes shining, When kelter makes colliers sing; Tis Spring, and the weather is cheary, The birds whistle 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 minnies Foir new cloaths to keep up their pride; They plead--Easter Sunday does fear them, For, if they have nothing that's new, The Crow, spiteful bird! will besmear them; Oh then! what a sight for to view! The young men, full blithsome 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 binding Engage some in humourous chat; some halt by the way-side on finding Primroses 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 early From 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 by hats and new jackets, And others to see a bit fun; And some wanted leather and tackers To cobble their canny pit shoon: Save the ribbon Dick's dear had requested, (Aware he had blenty of chink) There was no other care him infested, Unless 'twere his care for good drink. (In the morning the dry man advances To purl-shop to toss off a gill, Ne'er dreading the ills and mischances Attending on those who sit still: The drink Reason's monitor quelling, Inflames both the brain and the eyes; The inchantment commenc'd there's no telling When 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 bot'ries avoid the fell furies So often awaken'd by thee, We would seldom need Judges or juries To send folk to Tyburn tree!) At length in Newcastle they centre-- In Hardy's * 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 was 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* Peep'd in -- his How dye? 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 form Denton-Bourn pit; An odd witty, comical fellow, At either a jest or a tale, Especially when he was mellow With 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 fiddleres resorted, To pick up the straggling pence, And where the pit lads often sported, Their money at Fiddle and Dance. Blind Willie* the fidler sat scraping, In corner just as they went in: Some Willington callants were shaking Their 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 siezed The hand of the frolicsome lass. Ma hinny! says he, pray excuse me- \To ask thee to dance I make free. She reply'd I'd be loth to refuse thee! No fiddler play- Jigging for me. The damsel displays all her graces, The collier exerts all his power, They caper in circling paces, And set at 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 non 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 Cranky Sprung 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 he came 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 rusth 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 juse 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 stuck with fists elbows and feet, A Willington callant, called Gurvy, Was top-tails tost overe 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, Robit! what argued thy speeches? Disaster now makes thee quite mum; Thy wit could not save the good breeches, That mencefully cover'd thy bum: To some slop-shop now thou may go trudging, And lug out some squandering coins; For now 'tis too late to be grudging,-- Thou cannot go home with bair groins. How the wafaring 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. -in Bell, * Sign of the Black Boy, Groat Market * Gateshead Fell, *William Purvis, a blind fiddler so called. back to the song menu The Quayside Shaver On each market day, Sir, the folks to the Quay, Sir, Go flocking with beards they have seven days worn, And round the small grate, Sir, in crowds they all wait, Sir To get themselves shav'd in a rotative turn; Old soldiers on sticks, Sir, about politics, Sir, Debate-- till at length they quite heated have grown; May nothing escape, Sir, until Madame Scrape, Sir, Cries, Gentlemen, who is the next to sit down? A medley the place is, of thos that sell laces, With fine shirt-neck buttons, and good cabbage nets; Where match-men, at meeting, give a kind greeting, And ask one another how trade with them sets: Join'd in with Tom Hoggars and little Bob Nackers, Who wander the streets in their fuddling gills; And those folks with bags, Sir, who buy up old rags, Sir, That deal in fly-cages, and paper windmills. There pitmen, with baskets and gay posey waistcoats, Discourse about nought but whee puts and hews best: There keelmen, just landed, swear may they be stranded, If they're not shav'd first while their keel's at the Fest; With a face of coal dust, would frighten one almost, Thro' off hat and wig, while they usurp the chair; While others stand looking, and think it provoking, But, for the insult, to oppose them none dare. When under the chin, sir, she tucks the cloth in, Sir, Their old quid they'll pop in the pea-jacket cuff; And while they are sitting, do nought but keep spitting, And looking around with an air fierce and bluff: Such tales as go round, Sir, would be sure to confound, Sir, And puzzle the prolific brain of the wise; But when she prepares, Sir, to take off the hair, Sir, With lather, she whitens them up to the eyes. No sooner the razor is laid on the face, Sir, Then painful distortions take place on the brow; But if they complain, Sir, they'll find it in vain, Sir, She'll tell them there's nought but what Patience can do; And as she scrapes round 'em, if she by chance wound 'em, they'll cry out as tho' she'd bereav'd them of life, 'Od smash your brains, woman! I find the blood's coming, I'd rather been shav'd with an au'd gully knife! For all they can say, Sir, she still rasps away, Sir, And sweeps round their jaw, the chop torturing tool; Till they in a pet, Sir, request her to whet, Sir: But she gives them for answer, Sit still you pist fool! She forward proceeds till she's mown off the hair; When finish'd, cries, There Sir then straight from the chair, Sir, They'll jump, crying, Daresay you've scrap'd the bone bare. -In Bell. On the Sandhill and later on the Quay near the Bridge worked as barbers in the open street. They were generally women. back to the song menu Newcastle Fair October, 1811- The Pitman a drinking of Jacky Tune- Drops of Brandy Ha' ye been at Newcastle fair, and did ye see ouse o' great Sandy? Lord bliss us! what wark there was there; And the folks were drinking of brandy. Brandy, a shilling a glass! Aw star'd, and thought it was shamful. Never mind, says aw, canny lass, Give us yell, and aw'll drink ma wameful, Chorus- Rum te idily, &c. Says she, Canny man, the yell's cawd: It comes frev a man they ca' Mackey, And my faith it's byeth sour an' awd; Y'd best hev a drop o' wour jacky. Your jacky! says, I, now what's that? I ne'er heard the neame o' sic liquor. English gin, canny man, that's flat. And then she set up a great nicker. Says I , Diven't laugh at poor folks, But gang and bring some o' yur jacky; Aw want neane o' yur jibes or jokes; I' th' mean time aw'll tak a bit backy. Aw just tuke a chew o' pig tail, She brought in this jacky se funny; Says she, Sir, that's better than ale: And held out her hand for the money. There's three pence to pay, if you please; Aw star'd an' aw gap'd like a ninny: Od smash thee, aw'll sit at ma ease, An' not tir till aw've spent a half guinea. Aw sat an' aw drank till quite blind, Then aw' gat up to gang to the door, But deel smash a door cou'd aw find, An' fell flat o' ma fyess on the floor. There aw lay for ever se lang, And dreamt about rivers and ditches; When waken'd was singing this song-- Smash, jacky thou's wet a' ma breeches. An' faith! but the sang it was true, For jacky had been se prevailing, He'd whistled himsel' quickly throiugh An' the chairs an' tables were sailing. Then rising, aw went ma ways heame, Aw knock'd at the door, an' cry'd Jenny; Says she, Canny man, is'te lame, Or been wadin in Tyne, ma hinny? I' troth, she was like for to dee, An'just by the way to relieve her, The water's been wadin through me, An' this jacky's a gay deceiver, If e'er aw drink jacky again, Bay the bitch of a lass, ma adviser, Loup alive down ma throat, with a stane As big as a pulveriser. -By J.S. in Bell back to the song menu The Fisher Laddie On Bamboroughshire's rocky shire, Just as you enter Bowmer Raw, There lives the bonny fisher lad, The fisher lad that bangs them a'. Chorus- O the Bonny fisher lad, That breings the fishes fra' the sea; O the bonny fisher lad, The fisher lad gat had of me. My mother sent me out one day, To gather cockles fra' the sea; But I had not been long away, When the fisher lad gat had of me. A sailor I will never marry, Nor soldier, for he's got no brass; But I will have a fisher lad Because I am a fisher's lass. -Bell back to the song menu The Kye's Come Home The kye are come hame, But I see not my hinny, The kye are come hame, But I see not my bairn: I'd rather lose all the kye Than lose my hinny, I'd rather loose all the kye Than lose my bairn. Fair fac'd is my hinny, His blue eyes are bonny, His hair in curl'd ringlets Hang Sweet to the sight; O mount the old poney, Seek after my hinny, And bring to his mammy Her only delight. -Bell back to the song menu Hobby Elliott O bonny Hobby Elliott, O canny Hobby still, O bonny Hobby Elliott, Who lives at Harlow -Hill: Had Hobby acted right, As he has seldome done, He would have kiss'd his wife, And let his maid alone. -Bell, by Mr. James Robson, Stone Mason, Thropton, near Rothbury leader of the band in the Pretender's army in 1715. Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Part 7 Directory 5 Click here for main menu of this directory. Use our floating menu to improve navigation. you can reposition it by clicking on top bar and dragging Floating Menu Menu of all of the Sangs Click here For tunes in .abc notation click here For an index of persons and places mentioned in the sangs click here For Bibliography,and Philosophy of the collection click here We invite you to contribute! Click here to comment or add. Soon after our upgrade the songs which the priests have recorded will be high-lighted thusly Illustrated by woodcuts by Joseph Crawhall (Newcastle, 1889) (Where you see the music note image there will be a midi file-for you to listen to!) Your Choices! The Main Menu! The Pitman Jarrow Colliery Opening I A North Shields Song Song (Five wives at Acomb) Brandling and Ridley Jarrow Colliery II 1809 Cull alias Silly Billy Ha ye seen oot . Cullercoats Fishwife The Harrins Heed RAP 'ER TE BANK The Eagle Steam Packet Jemmy Joneson's Whurry The Baboon Billy Oliver's Ramble Parody on Billy Oliver's Ramble The Tyne Cossacks The Pitman's Revenge Bob Cranky's Leum'nation Neet The Pitman's Skellyscope Bob Cranky's Account Of the Ascent of Mr. Sadler's Balloon Sept 1, 1815 The Mayor of Bordeaux or Mally's Misake Winlaton Hopping The Sandhill Monkey The Skipper's Dream The Politicans Newcastle Wonders or, Hackney Coach Customers Quayside Ditty A Shields Soliloquy The Green-Wives Lamentation The Cobbler O' Morpeth Sunderland Jammy's Lamentation The Fish-Wives' Complaint, A Petition Canny Sheels Permanent Yeast The Pitman's Ramble Or Newcastle Finery Coaly Tyne Newcassel Races The Quack Doctors Peggy's Leg Nanny of the Tyne The Newcastle Signs The Wonderful Gutter The Local Militia-Man The Skipper's Account of the Orange-Men's Procession Use this Pull down form to go to our other pages To return to the top of this page click here. The Pitman Of a pitman we'll sing, Who works for the king, Jovial, good natur'd and civil; He'll work and he'll sing, And profit he'll bring, From caverns that's near to the devil. To his labour below, With courage he'll go, Upon his pit rope and his crook; Nor will he once dwell On the visions of hell, Nor yet fash his thumb with a book. All his wish is good ale, An' his claes upon sale, For a tankard he'll put ev'ry night; Let the learned still think, That a hearthy sound drink, Is a pitman's most crowned delight. -by Ogle, in Bell back to the song menu Song (five wives at Acomb) There was five wives at Acomb, And five wives at Wa', And five wives at Fallowfield, That's fifteen o' them a' They've drunken ale and brandy, 'Till they are all fu'; And I cannot get home to My eppie I trow, My Eppie I trow, My eppie I trow, And I cannot get home to My Eppie I trow. The tyne water's se deep, that I cannot wade through; And I've no horse to ride to My eppie I trow, My Eppie I trow, My Eppie I trow, And I've no horse to ride to My Eppie I trow. In Tyne I hev not a boat, Nor yet cou'd I row, Across the deep water to My Eppie I trow, My Eppie I trow, My Eppie I trow And I've no horse to ride to My Eppie I trow. -Bell back to the song menu Brandling and Ridley Brandling for ever, and Ridley for aye, Brandling and Ridley carries the day! Brandliong for ever, and Ridley for aye. There's plenty of coals on our waggon way. There's wood for to cut, and coals for to hew, And the bright star of Heaton will carry us through: Ridley for ever, and Brandling for aye, There's plenty of coals on our waggon way. -Bell, 1812, Allen notes- "Members for Newcastle in seven successive Parliaments. (In: Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings...., Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891. ) Brandling Like as the brand doth flame and burn, So we from death to life should turn. -An old rhyme or motto of the Brandling family, whose crest is an oak tree in flames -perhaps a border beacon- Sharpe's Bishopric Garland In: Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings...., Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891. back to the song menu Jarrow Colliery Opening I A Song written and sung by H.F. H. at the opening of Jarrow Colliery, Sept. 26, 1803. Old jarrow, long fam'd for monastical lore, Where Bede, rusty manuscripts search'd o'er and o'er; Now see us assembl'd upon her green swa'd, With faces all smiling, and spirits full glad. Fal lal de ral la. No long chaunt of Friars now steals thro' her glooms, No lazy cowl'd monk now her viands consumes; But chearful the strain which our voices upraise, And active the man, who partakes of our praise. Yet still in researches her sons shew their might, Still labour in darkness to bring good to light; Thro' legends and fables the friars explor'd, Thro' strata of rubbish the miners have bor'd. The labours of both with success have been crown'd And the miner to Bede is in gratitude bound; For while ignorance reign'd from the line to the pole, In convents the monks preserv'd sciences--Coal. By science and spirit what great deeds are done, By the union of these, this rich Coal Pit is won; And safe from their labours, the lads of the mine, Now foot it away with the girls of the Tyne. On ship-board soon plac'd, and impel'd by the gale, For Augusta's proud towers the produce will sail; Employment it gives to th' indust'rous and brave, And its trade's the best nurse for the sons of the wave. Hail, Commerce! thou parent of Albion's weal, Let Frenchmen still brandish their threatening steel, To drag the from England, her sons will not yield, They'll carry thee on, yet prepare forthe field. These brave lads around us, their tools will lay down, And fight for their country, their king, and his crown! But the Frenchmen destroy'd, or drove back to the main, They'll take up the Pick-axe and shovel again. In union thus ever be commerce and arms, When a tyrant's ambition creates it alarms; And secure in their courage, let Britons still sing, Britannia triumphant, and God save the King! -H.F. H. in Bell back to the song menu A North Shields Song We'll all away to the Lowlights, And there we'll see the sailors come in; We'll all away to the Lowlights, And there we'll see the sailors come in. there clap your hands and give a shout, And you'll see the sailors go out; Clap your hands and dance and sing, And you'll see your laddie come in. -Bell also in Allan back to the song menu Jarrow Colliery II 1809 On the Opening of Jarrow Colliery 1809 Of Temple and King, my friends, let us sing, And of their Colliery at Jarrow; Of coals that are good as e'er swam the flood, For home consumption or far, O. They tell us, my friend, there's coal at Walls-End, Can scarcely meet with a marrow; But let them come here, we'll make it appear, Coals were not then wrought at Jarrow. There is Heaton Main, and Walker by name, Know to most near and far, O; I this will maintain in Language that's plain, There's none that surpasseth Jarrow; Above the Tyne Bridge, its often been said, Few with these can compare, O'; A good dog was Brag--but hold fast my lad-- Nothing they knew then of Jarrow! To Temple and King, great wealth may they bring, For home consumption, or far, O; May success attend, wherever they send Their coals, the produce of Jarrow. May overmen all, with great and the small, Ne'er have occasion to sorrow! May heart, hand, and head, procure them bread, For wives and children at Jarrow! Call another bowl to enliven our soul, Temple we'll drink and his marrow; Three cheerswe will give, cry, Long may they live! The prosp'rous owners of Jarrow. Call another bowl, &c. -East Rainton in Bell back to the song menu Cull alias Silly Billy Whence those cries, my soul that harrow? Whence those yells, that wound my ear? 'Tis the hapless child of sorrow! 'Tiss poor Billy's plaint I hear. Now, in tatter'd plight I see him, Teazing crowds around him press; Ah! will none from insult free him? None his injuries redress? Fil'd with many a fearful notion, Now he utters piercing cries; Starting now, with sudden motion, Swiftly thro' the streets he hides. Poor, forlorn, and hapless creature, Victim of insanity! Sure it speaks a ruthless nature, To oppress a wretch like thee. When, by generous friends protected, All thy actions told thee mild, Tho' by reason undirected, And the prey of fancies wild.' Of those friends did Heav'n deprive thee, None, alas! supply'd their place? And to madness now to drive thee, Ceaseless strives a cruel race. Youth forlorn! tho' crowds deride thee, Gentle minds for thee must grieve; Back to reason, wish to guide thee, And thy ev'ry want relieve, O from this sad state to snatch thee, Why delay the good and kind? Pity calls them on to watch thee, And to tranquilize thy mind. -in Bell, Subject of the song Cull Billy or Silly Billy was an abused mentally ill street person of Newcastle who would perform recitations on the streets. The song was printed in the Newcastle Chronicle of August 28 1802 signed J.S. After the song appeared St. John's Parish had Billy put into its poor house where was confined until he recovered. See our eccentrics page for more details. back to the song menu Ha Ye Seen Oot Ha ye seen oot o my boony lad And are ye sure he's weel oh, He's gone ower land wi a stick in his hand, He's gone to moor the keel Oh, Yes A've seen your bonnie lad, Twas on the sea I spied him, His grave is green but not with grass, And thoul't niver lie aside him. back to the song menu Cullercoats Fishwife For real audio link-click here I am a Cullercoats Fishwife rosey and free, And I wear Flannel Pettycoats up to my knee. And I sell my fresh fish to the poor and the rich Will ye buy? Will ye buy? Will ye buy my fresh fish -Connie Rowley Version II tune- Lillie's Lady Aw's a Cullercoats fish-lass, se cozy an' free Browt up in a cottage close on by the sea; An' aw sell fine fresh fish ti poor an' ti rich-- Will ye buy, will ye buy, will ye buy maw fresh fish? Spoken- Finne codlin's hinny; cheaper for hyem consumption thin butcher meat. There's fine mackerel. come. Mistor, ye shall hae them at yor awn price, but the sea's up. Aw's sure, fish just noo's as bad to catch iz husbands; and a greet deal warse ti sell. Sings- Will ye buy, will ye buy, will ye buy my fresh fish? Imitate cries- D'ye want a-n-y fish? Byeth barefoot and barelegged aw trudge mony a week, Wi' a creel on mee back an' a bloom on mee cheek; Aw'll supply ye wi' flat fish, fine skyet, or fresh ling, And sometimes pennywilks, crabs, an' lobsters aw bring. Will ye buy, will ye buy? etc. Aw work hard for mee livin', frev a frind aw ne'er begs, An' aw huff the young gents when they peep at my legs; Aw's hilthy an' hansom, quite willin' and strong, To toil for my livin', cryin' fish the day long. Spoken- That's what aw cawl fishin' for a livin'. But tawkin' aboot fish, thor's as queer fish on land as there's in the sea-- Gladstone, Tom Sayers, and Blondin-aw cawl them star-fish, that baits the public ti sum tuin. Folks that neglects to buy the Illustrated Tyneside Songs, aw consider them flat-fish. Mackey's men they're dry fish; ye can tell by their gills. Sailors, they're salt fish, that shund always keep a wether eye on land-sharks. Volunteers, they're fresh fish, who, with wor sowigers and sailors, myek up wor sole defenders. As for me, with yor kind favours, aw'd be like a fish oot o' wetter-aye, whei! Aw's a maiden fish oot iv her teens in sairch ov a husband to myek me comfortable. Aw want ti teyk moorins for life in the roads an' channels o' matrimony. Will ye buy, will ye buy? etc. -Edward Corvan, 1862, In: Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings...., Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891. back to the song menu "The Harrins Heed"-Herrings Head Oh what'll wi dee wi the harrins heed Oh what'll wi dee wi the harrind heed We'll mak it inte loaves of breed, Harrins heed loaves of breed and all manner of things Of all the fish that's in the sea The harrin is the one for me How a ye the day, how a ye the day, how a ye the day Me hinny oh It goes on with verses of Harrins guts a pair of beuits Harrins fins needles and pins Harrans tail a boat that sails Harrins eyes puddins and pies Harrins scales a barrel of ale Harrins belly a lass called Nellie back to the song menu RAP 'ER TE BANK Click Here for Notation Click Here for Midi Sound cho: Rap 'er to bank, me canny lad! Wind 'er away, keep tornin! The back-shift men are gannin' hyam, We'll be back in the mornin'. My feyther used to call the torn When the lang shift was ower. As he went oot bye, ye'd hear him cry; D'ye knaa it's efter fower? And when that aaful day arrived, The last shift for me feyther; A faal of stones and brokken bones, But still above the clatter, he cried: final cho: Rap 'er te bank, me canny lad! Wind 'er reet slow, that's clivor! This poor aad lad hes tekken bad, Aa'll be back heor nivvor. -Henry Nattress, Gateshead Note: The rapper rope hung from a rapper at the minehead; the miners pulled it as a signal to bring the cage back up to the surface. back to the song menu The Eagle Steam Packet Oh, hae ye heard the wond'rous news? To hear me sang ye'll not refuse, Since the new Stam Packet's ta'en a cruise, An' bore away for Sunderland. The folks cvam flocking ower the keels, Betwixt Newcassel Key and Sheels, Before she ply'd her powerful wheels, To work their way to Sunderland. The sky was clear, the day was fine, Their dress an' leggage all in stile; An' they thought to cut a woud'rous shine, When they got safe to Sunderland. Now when they to the Pier drew nigh, The guns did fire and streamers fly; In a moment all was hue and cry, Amang the folks at Sunderland. There was male and female lean an' fat, An' some wi' whiskers like a cat; But a Barber's "water-proof silk hat" Was thought the tip at Sunderland. In pleasures sweet they spent the day, The shot-liv'd moments wing'd away; When they must haste without delay, To quit the port of Sunderland. As on the ocean wide they drew, A strong North wind against them blew, And the billows dash'd the windows through: A woeful trip to Sunderland. Such howlin, screamin rend the sky, All in confusion they did lie, With pain and sickness like to die, They wish'd they'd ne'er seen Sunderland. A lady lay beside the door, Said she had been at sea before, Whee foaming billows loud did roar, But ne'er had been at Sunderland. She soon amongst the heap was thrown, While here and there they sat alone: Poo Puff had passage up and down, But none could get from Sunderland. Some in a corner humm'd their prayers, While others choak'd the cabin stairs; And bloody noses, unawares, Werre got in sight of Sunderland. In vain they strove now to proceed, So back again they came with speed; But the passengers were all nigh deed, When they got back to Sunderland. Now their dresses fine look'd worse than rags, While each a safe conveyance begs, And many had to use their legs, To travel home from Sunderland. By this affair your reason guide, When on the seas you'd wish to ride, Choose a good strong ship with wind and tide; And so good bye to Sunderland. -Wm. Midford, In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Jemmy Joneson's Whurry The cavers biv the chimlay reek, Begox! its all a horney; For thro' the world aw thowt to keek, Yen day when aw was corney: Sae, wiv some varry canny chiels, All on the hop and murry, Aw thowt aw'd myek a voyge to Shiels, Iv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry. Ye niver see'd the church sae scrudg'd, As we were there thegither; An' gentle, simple, throughways rudg'd, Like burdies of a feather: Blind Willie, a' wor joys to croon, Struck up a hey down derry, An' crouse we left wor canny toon, Iv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry. As we push'd off, loak! a' the Key To me seem'd shuggy-shooin; An' tho' aw'd niver been at sea, Aw stuid her like a new-on. An' when the Malls began their reels, Aw kick'd maw heels reet murry; For faix! aw lik'd the voyage to Shiels, Iv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry. Quick went wor heels, quick went the oars, An' where me eyes wur cassin, It seem'd as if the bizzy shore Cheer'd canny Tyne i' passin. What! hes Newcassel now nae end? Thinks aw it's wond'rous vurry; Aw thowt I'd like me life to spend Iv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry. Tyne-side seem'd sae dunny; Wey this mun be what Bible ca's, 'the land of milk and honey! If a' thor things belang'd tiv me, Aw'd myek the poor reet murry, Ah' gar each heard to sin wiv glee, Iv Jemmy Honeson's Whurry. Then on we went, as nice as ourse, Till nenst nu'd Lizzy Moody's; whirlwind cam an'myed a' souse, Like heaps o' babby boodies. The heykin myed me vurry wauf, Me heed turn'd duzzy, vurry; Me leuks, aw'm shure, wad spyen'd a cauf, Iv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry. For hyem and bairns, an'maw wife Nan, Aw yool'd out like a lubbart; An' when aw thought we a' shud gan To Davy Jone's cubbart, The wind be-baw'd, aw whish'd me squeels, An' yence mair aw was murry, For seun we gat a seet o' Shiels, Frev Jemmy Joneson's Whurry. Wor Geordies now we thrimmel'd out, An' tread a' Shiels sae dinny; Maw faix! it seems a canny sprout, As big maist as its minny, Aw smack'd thir yell, aw climb'd thir bree, The seet was wond'rous, vurry; Aw lowp'd sic gallant ships to see, Biv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry. To Tynemouth then aw thowt aw'd trudge, To see the folks a' duckin; Loak! men an' wives together pludg'd, While hundreds stuid by leukin, Amang the rest aw cowp'd me creels, Eh, gox! 'twas funny, vurry; An' so aw end me voyage to Shiels, Iv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry. -T.Thompson,In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. -This song, apparently the lsast the author wrote, seems not to have been printed during his lifetime. The earliest copy we can trace is in an old chap-book, fourth edition (1823) published by Marshall. As it is the fourth, reckoning back, the first edition would likely be published shortly after Thompson's death in 1816. Whether through an error in the copy, or by a printer's slip, Marshall, by a simple mistake of two letters so marred the first line that its meaning has been a puzzle for seventy years. This error finally was corrected , on the authority of the author's son, as told in the following letter:- From the Weekly Chronicle, May 25th 1889. Mr. R. O. Heslop, in his Northumberland Words, quoting the opening line of Jemmy Johnson's Whurry, "Whei cavers biv the chimlay reek," raised the question what was the meaning of cavers. Partly by the discussion so raised I got, by the kindness of a friend, the address of the author's son and his letter upon the point is most interesting. Writing with pencil (as owing to an old wound in his knee received at the battle of Navarino in 1827-which occasionally troubles him- he was for the first time obliged to keep in a recumbent position, and so unable to use pen and ink), he says that the beginning line, as at present in all collections, is wrong; it should be-- "Whei cowers biv the chimlay reek." Compare the two versions, how apparent the improvement made by the use of the two right letters. The old uncertain beginning gives place to the natural bold opening- "Whie (who) cowers biv the chimlay reek, Begox! it's all a horny," as if the hero of the famous voyage was casting back some slur on his daring or courage." Marshall's unfortunate misprint, now corrected, has been copied into more than our local collections. Macmillan of London, published in 1866 an edition of songs with music, edited by John Hullah, and Jemmy Joneson's Whurry, with Marshall's mistake was in it. The song relates to a time when steamboats were unknown. Then the conveyance on the Tyne was by wherries and Jemmy Joneson, whose wherry is her celebrated, was well known to all passengers on the river, but the fame of Jemmy and his wherry was soon to be eclipsed. The Tyne Steam Packet the first steamer on the Tyne, commenced plying on Ascension Day, May 19, 1814.-Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings...., Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891. back to the song menu The Baboon Sum time since, sum wild beasts thre cam to the toon, And in the collection a famous Baboon, In uniform drest-if my story you're willin To believe, he gat lowse, and ran te the High Fellin Fal de rol la, &c. Three Pitmen cam up- they were smoking their pipe, When straight in afore them Jake lowp'd ower the dike: Ho, Jemmy! smash, marrow! here's a red-coated Jew, For his fyece is a' hairy, and he hez on nae shoe! Wey, man, thou's a fuil! for ye divent tell true, If thou says 'at that fellow was ever a Jew; Aw'll lay thou a quairt, as sure's my nyem's Jack, That queer luikin chep's just a Russian Cossack. He's ne Volunteer, aw ken biv his wauk; And if he's outlandish, we'll ken biv his tauk; He's a lang sword ahint him, ye'll see'd when he turns; Ony luik at his fyece! smash his byens, how he gurns! Tom flang doon his pipe, and set up a greet yell; He's owther a spy, or Bonnypairty's awnsell; Iv a crack the High Fellin was in full hue and cry, To catch Bonnypairt, or the hairy French spy. The wives scamper'd off for fear he should bite, The men-folks and dogs ran to grip him se tight; If we catch him, said they, he's hev ne lodging here, Ne, not e'en a drop o' reed Robin's sma' beer. -Armstrong,(1827) In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Billy Oliver's Ramble Between Benwell and Newcastle Me nyem it's Billy Oliver, Iv Benwell town aw dwell; And aw's a cliverchep, aw's shure, Tho' aw de say'd mysel. Chorus- Sic an a cliver chep am aw, am aw, am aw Sic an a cliver chep am aw. There's not a lad iv a' wur wark, Can put or hew wi' me; Nor not a lad iv Benwell toon, Can coax the lasses se. When aw gans tiv Newcassel toon, Aw myeks mawsel se fine, Wur neybors stand and stare at me, And say, 'eh! what a shine! And the aw walks wi' sic an air, That, if the folks hev eyes, They a' wis think it's sum greet man, That's cum in i' disguise. And when aw gans down Westgate-street, An alang biv Denton-chare, Aw whussels a' the way aw gans, To myek the people stare. And then aw gans intiv the Cock, Ca's for a pint o' beer; And when the lassie comes in wid, Aw a' wis says, Maw dear! And when aw gets a pint o' beer, Aw a'wis sings a sang; For aw've a nice yen aw can sing, Six an' thorty vairses lang And if the folks thats i' the house, Cruy, Haud yor tongue, ye cull! Aw's sure to hev a fight wi'them, For aw's as strang as ony bull. And when aw've had a fight or twee, And fairly useless grown; Aw back, as drunk as aw can be To canny Benwell toon. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. "Billy Oliver's Ramble" is first met in Marshall's Chap-Books 1823. No author is given, and although the song has been very popular and often printed none have given an author's name. H.Robson who wrote "The Collier's Pay Week" was born in Benwell; he was writing in 1823, and may have written it. The names of others then writing as Shield, Armstrong, Watson, Oliver, etc. might be given. Possibly the author, owing to his song holding the pitman so much up to ridicule, may have judged it best to "lie low". The popularity of this song brought out a parody, "My Nyem is Willy Dixon" It appeared in Fordyce's 1842 volume (see below)-Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings....,Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891. back to the song menu Parody on Billy Oliver's Ramble My nyem is Willy Dixon, A coachmakere to my trade; And when aw see a Pitman come, Aw run--because aw's flaid. Chorus- Sic an a cliver chep am aw, am aw, am aw, Sic an a cliver chep am aw On Pay-day neets wa gan to the Cock, When the Pitmen's aw gyen hyem, then aw begins to rair and sing, And myek o' them a gyem. On Sunday mornings, then, you see, Aw dress mesel se fine; And wi' me white drill pantaloons, Aw cuts a fearful shine. Then what a swagger aw dis cut, As aw gan alang the street, But aw's myed se like nut-crackers, That maw nose and chin they meet, Then when aw gans to see the lass, It's in the afternoon; An then we gansa wauking Wi' her fine lustre goon. And as we gan through Jesmond Fields, The lasses gyep and luick, And efter we get past them a' They cry, 'Ah! what a buck! Then efter wandering up and down, At neet we toddle hyem; And aw gies her a kiss, you see, And she cries, Fie for shem! The aw seeks out my au'd wark claes, Gets on another sark; And on Mondy morn, at six o'clock, Gans whisslin off to wark -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Tyne Cossacks Not long ago, a fray in Shields And Sunderland began, Tween the Seamen and Ship-owners, How their vessels they should man; But the Owners stiff, to them were deaf, Which made the Seamen for to grumble, For our Tyne Cossacks they soon did send, The haughty pride of Jack to humble Chorus- Wack row de dow &c A letter being sent, they were Call'd out without delay; But the Gen'ral thought he'd try their skill Before they went away; So round the Moor he made them scour, Before him cut such wond'rous caperes; Their praise he sounded high and low, In all three Newcassel Papers He cries, My lads, you're qualified To do such wond'rous feats, That to Shield and Cleadon you must go, to clear the lanes and streets; Destroy all those who may oppose The ships from sailing down the river, And the our Prince will sure commend Your deeds in arms, my boys, so clever, The Butcher cries, if we begin, We' surelly kill and slay; The tanner swore they'd tan their hides, Before they came away; A tailor next, with fear perplext, Said, he should like no other station, Than to be the Doctor's waiting man, If sanction'd by the Corporation. To Shelds they got tho' much fatigued, Upon their worn-out hacks, Some cried, The Polish Lancers come! And others, Tyne's Cossacks! By some mishap, the Farrier's cap Blew off, but met with coolish treatment, Into a huckster's shop it went-- Now Martin's cap's a tatie beatment. For several weeks they rode about, Like poachers seekng game; The Marines so bold, as I am told, Had better sight then them; For every boat that was afloat, They siez'd upon with mad-like fury, And to the bottom sent them straight, Not asking either Judge or Jury. The deed was done by this effort, All opposition gone, The ardour of the hereos cool'd 'Cause they were lookers on; Odsmash! says yen, if e'er agyen there's only mair au'd boats to smatter, We'll hev horses that's web-footed, then We'll fight byeth on the land and watter. Now should our Tyne Cossacks e'er have To face their enemies They'll boldly meet them on the land, Or on the stormy seas. While the farmeres sing, that they, next spring, At spreading dung will ne'er be idle; So--success to these Invicibles, Their long swords, sadle, bridle. -Wm. Midford,In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Pitman's Revenge Ha' ye heard o' these wondrous Dons, That myeks this mighty fuss, man, About invading Britan's land? I vow they're wondrous spruce, man; But little do the Frenchmen ken About our loyal Englishmen; Our Collier lads are for cockades, (They'll fling away their picks an' spades) (For)And guns to shoot the French, man Chorus- Tol lol de rol, de rol de rol. Then to parade the Pitment went, Wi' hearts byeth stout an' strang, man; Gad smash the French! we are sae strang. We'll shoot them every one, man! Gad smash me sark! if aw wad stick To tumble them a'down the pit, As fast as aw could thraw a coal, Aw'd tumblethem a' doon the hole, An close her in abuin, man. Heads up! says yen, ye silly sow, Ye dinna mind hte word, man; Eyes right! says Tom, and wi' a dam, And march off at the word, man; Did ever mortals see sic brutes, To order me to lift me cutes! And smash the fuil! he stands and talks, How can he learn me to walk, That's wark'd this forty year, man! But should the Frenchmen shew their fyeece, Upon our waggon-ways, man, Then, there upon the road, ye knaw, We'd myek them end their days, man; Aye, Bonaparte's sel aw'd tyek, And thraw him i' the burning heap, And wi' greet speed aw'd roast him deed; His marrows, then, aw wad nae heed, We'd pick out a' their e'en, man. Says Willy Dunn to loyal Tom, Your words are all a joke, man; For Geordy winna hae your help, Ye're sic kamstarie folk, man; Then Willy, lad, we'll rest in peace, In hopes that a' the wars may cease; But awse gi'e ye Wull, to understand, As lang as aw can wield me hand, Thre's nyen but George shall reign, man. Enough of this hes sure been said, Cry'd cowardly Willy Dunn, man; For should the Frenchmen come this way, We'd be ready for to run man. Gad smash you, for a fuil! says Tom, For if aw could not use me gun, Aw'd tyek me pick, aw'd hew them doon, And run and cry, through a' the toon, God save greet George our King, man! -Attributed to Shield In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne but Corrected by Allan and properly attributed to George Cameron (possibly the only song he wrote). Additions in () come from Allan's correction- Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings...., Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891. back to the song menu Bob Cranky's Leum'nation Neet Lord 'Sizes leuks weel in coach shinin', Whese wig wad let Nan's head an' mine in; But a bonnier seet, Was the Leum'nation neet-- It dazzled the een' o' Bob Cranky. Aboot seven aw gov ower warkin, Gat beard off, and put a white sark on; For Newcasslers, thowt aw, Giff they dinna see me braw, Will say What a gowk is Bob Cranky! A ran to the toon without stoppin' An' fand ilka street like a hoppin; An' the folks, stood sae thick, Aw sair wish'd for maw pick, To hew oot a way for Bob Cranky. The guns then went off frae the Cassel, Seun windors wor a' in a dazzle; Llka place was like day, Aw then shouted, Hurray! There's plenty an' peace for Bob Cranky! Sum windors had pictures sae bonny! Wi' sma' lamps aw can't tell how mony; Te count them, aw'm sure, Wad bother the Viewer-- A greater Goggriffer than Cranky. Aw see'd croons myed o' lamps blue an' reed, Whilk aw wad na like to put on my heed! G.P.R. aw see'd next, For wor Geordy Prince Rex:-- Nyen spelt it sae weel as Bob Cranky. Sum had anchors of leet high hung up, To shew folk greet Bonny was deun up; But, far as aw see, man, As reet it wad be, man, To leet up the pick o' Bob Cranky. A leg of meat sed, Doon aw's cummin ! But sum chep aw suen fand was hummin; For aw stopp'd bit belaw, Handin oot a lang paw, But mutton cam ne nearer Cranky. A cask on the Vicar's pump top, man, Markt Plenty an' Peace gard me stop, man: Thinks aw te mesel, Aw's here get sum yell, But only cau'd waiter gat Cranky. Bonny, shav'd biv a bear, was then shot man; And biv Aud Nick weel thump'd in apot, man; But aw thowt a' the toon Shuddent lick him when doon, Tho' he'd a greet spite to Bob Cranky. Yen Price had the cream o', the bowl, man, Wi' good lamps clagg'd close cheek by jowl, man: It was sick a fine seet, Aw could glower'd a' neet, Had fu' been the wame o' Bob Cranky. Ne mair seed aw till signal gun fired, Out went the leets, and hyem aw gat,tired: Nan ax'd bout Leum'nations, Aw bad her hae patience, An' first fetch sum flesh to Bob Cranky. Aw tell'd her what news aw had heerd man, That shuggar was sixpence a pund, man; an' good beef at a groat:-- Then wor Nan clear'd her throat, An' Shooted oot, Plenty for Cranky! Twas a' lees-for when Nan gang'd te toon, An for yen pund a sixpence pat doon; Frae shop she was winnin, When Grosser, deuce bin him! Teuk a' the cheap shuggar frae Cranky. But gif Peace brings another gran' neet, Aw think folk shoul'd hae Plenty te eat: Singin' hinnies, aw'm shoor, An' strang yell at the door, Wad better not candles please Cranky. Then agyen, what a shem an' a sin! Te the Pitt dinner nyen ax'd me in: Yet aw work like a Turk, Byeth wi' pick, knife an' fork-- An whe's mair a Pittite nor Cranky. Or what could ye a' dee without me, When cau'd ice and snaw com aboot ye! Then sair ye wad shiver, For a' ye're sae cliver, An' lang forthe pick o' Bob Cranky! John Shield In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. "In celebration of the General Peace of 1814. The song shows how elaborate had been the illumination"-Allan cites the- Tyne Murcury, June 1, 1814 as source -Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings...., Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891. back to the song menu The Pitman's Skellyscope Oh! Tommy, lad, howay! aw's myek thou full o' play; Aw'm sartin that thou'll byeth skip and lowpy- O: Aw've sic a bonny think, an' its myed o' glass an tin, An' they say its nyem's a bonny Gleediscowpy-O Chorus- Skellyscowpy-O&c. A' gawn alang the Close, a bit laddy cock'd his nose, An' was keekin throud' aside the Jabel Growpey-O Aw fand that he wad sell'd; sae, odsmash! am'm proud te tell'd! For twee shillin' bowt his bonny Gleediscowpey-O Wey, then aw ran off hyem--Nan thowt myekin gyem Said, my Deavy for a new aw'd had a cowpey-O; But she gurn'd, aye, like a sweeper, when aw held tiv her peepeer, See'd church-windowrs through my bonny gleediscowpey-O Then the bairns they ran like sheep, a' strove to her peep, Frae the audest lass, aye doon to the dowpey-O; There Dick dang ower Cud, myed his nose gush out blood, As he ran to see the bonny Gleediscowpey-O There was dwiney little Peg, not sae nimmel i' the leg, Ower the three-footed stuil gat sic acowpey-O And Sandy wiv his beak, myed a lump i' mother's cheek Climbin up to see the bonny Gleediscowpey-O: Wey, Lukey, man! says she, stead o' shuggar, flesh an' tea, Thou's fetch'd us hyem thy bonny Gleediscowpy-O She struck me wi' surprise while she skelly'd wiv her eye And aw spak as if aw'd gettin a bit rowpey-O So, neighbours, tyek a hint, if ye peep ower lang yer squint, For aw thiknk they're reely nyem'd a Gleediscowpey-O -Wm. Midford in Marshall's Collection 1827,In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. "Sir David Brewster's "Kaledeoscope Sir David's invention, when first brought out about 1820 was a wonderful success. 200,000 were said to have been sold in London in a week or two. It is now comparatively forgotten-Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings...., Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891. back to the song menu Bob Cranky's Account Of the Ascent of Mr. Sadler's balloon from Newcastle, Sept.1 1813(9?) Ho'way, a' me marrows, big, little, and drest, The first of a' seets may be seen; It's the Balloon, man, se greet! aye, faiks! it's ne jest Tho'it seems, a' the warld, like a dream. Aw read iv the papers, by gocks! aw remember, It's to flee without wings i' the air, On this varry Friday, the furst of September, Be it cloudy, wet weather, or fair. And a man, mun, there means, in this varry Balloon Above, 'mang the stars to fly, And to haud a converse wi' the man i' the moon, And cockwebs to soop frae the sky. So we started frae hyem by eight i' the morn, Byeth faither and mother and son, But fand a'wor neighbours had started before, To get in good time for the fun. The lanes were a' crouded , some riding, some walking. Aw ne'er see'd the like iv my life; 'Twas bedlam broke oot, aw thowt by thair talking, Every bairn, lad, lass, and the wife. The folks at the winders a' jeer'd as we past, An' thowt' a' wor numbers surprisin; They star'd and they 'gloweer'd and axed in jest, Are all of ye pitmen a rising? Aw fand, at the toon, te, the shops a' shut up, And the streets wi' folks were sae flocken; The walls wi' Balloon papers sae closely clagg'd up, Be cavers! It luckt like a hoppen. A fellow was turnin it a' into a joke, Another was a' the folks hummin, Whil a third said, it was a bag full o' smoke, Thatower wor heeds was a cummin. To the furst o' these cheps says aw, Nyen o' yur fun, Or aw'll lay thee at length on the styens, Or thy teeth aw'll beat oot, as sure as a gun, And mevies aw'll chowk ye wi' byens. To the beak o' the second aw held up my fist, D--mn! aw'll bray ye as black as a craw, Iw'lll knock oot yur e'e, if aw don't aw'll be kist. 'An mump a' the slack o' yur jaw. Aw pat them to reets, an' onward aw steer'd An' wonder'd the folks aw had see'd, But a' was palaver that ever aw heard, So aw walk'd on as other folk did. At last aw gat up on the top o' sum sheds, Biv the help of an au'd crazy lether; An' woeer the tops o' ten thousand folks heads, Aw seun gat a gliff o' the blether. D--mn, a blether aw call it! by gocks, aw am reet, For o' silk dipt iv leadeater melted A's myed of, an Lord! what a wonderful seet, When the gun tell'd that it was flated. Twas just like the boiler at wor Bella Pit, O'er which were a great cabbage net, Which fasten'd, by a parcel of strings sae fit, A corf for the mannie to sit. As aw sat at me ease aw cud hear a' the folk Gie their notions about the Balloon; Aw thowt aw shud brust when aw heurd their strange talk, Aboot the man's gaun to the moon. Says yen, if a whisper, Aw think aw hev heurd He is carrying a letter to Bonny, That's ower the sea to flee like a burd; The whowt, by my jinkers! was funny. A chep wiv a fyece like a poor country bumpkin, Sed the heurd, but may hap tisent true, That the thing whilk they saw as a great silken pumpkin By my eye, what a lilly-ba-loo! Another said Sadler ( for that is the nyem O' the man) may pay dear for his frolic, When he's up iv the clouds ( a stree for his fame!) His guts may have twangsof the cholic. The man a' this time the great blether was filling, Wiv stuff that wad myed a dog sick, It smelt just as though they were garvage distilling, Till at length it was full as a tick. The nextstrain'd the ropes to keep the thing steady Put colley and drams iv the boat; Then crack went the cannon, to say it was ready, An' aw see'd the blether afloat. Not a word was then heurd, a' eyes were a starin, for the off ganen moment was near; To see sic a crowd se whisht was amazen, Aw thowt aw fand palish and queer. Afte waitin a wee, aw see'd him come to, Shaken hands, as aw thowt, wiv his friend; Of his mountin the corf aw had a full view, as he sat his ways down at the end. The ropes were then cut, and upwards he went, A wavin his flag i' the air; Ev'ry heed was turn'd up, and a' eyes wur intent On this comical new flying chair; It went it's ways up like a lavrick sae hee, Till it luckt 'bout the size of a skyate; When in tiv a cloud it was lost t' the e'e, Aw wisht the man better i' fate. W.Midford-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Mayor of Bordeaux or Mally's Mistake. As Jacky sat lowsin his buttons, An rowlin his great backey chow, The bells o' the toon 'gan to tinkle; Cries Mally, What's happen'd us now? Ho! jump and fling off thy au'd neet-cap. And slip on thy lang-quarter'd shoes, Ere thou gets hauf way up the Key, Ye'll meet sum that can tell ye the news. Fol de rol. &c As Mally was puffin an' runnin, A gentleman's flonkey she met; Canny man, ye mun tell us the news, Or ye'll set wor au'd man i' the pet. The Mayor of Bordeaux, a French noble, Has com'd to Newcassel with speed: To neet he sleeps sound at wor Mayor's And to morn he'll be at the Queen's Heed. Now Mally thank'd him wiv a curtsey, And back tiv her Jackey did prance Mary Mordox, a fine Fitter's Leydy's Com'd over in a coble frae France. Mary Mordoux, a fine Fitter's Leydy! Ise warrant she's some frolicksome jade, And com't to Newcassel for fashions, Or else to suspect the Coal Trade. So to Peter's thou's gan i' the mornin, gan suin an' thou'll get a good pleyce; If thou canna get haud of her paw, Thou mun get a guid luick at her fyece: And if ye can but get a word at her, And mind now ye divent think shem, Say, Please, ma'm they ca' my wife Marry Wor next little bairn's be the syem. So betimes the next mornin he travels, And up to the Queen's Head he goes, Where a skinny chep luik'd frev a winder, Wi' white powther'd wig an 'lang nose A fine butterflee coat wi' gowld buttons, A' man! how the folks did hurro; Aw thowt he'd fled from toy-shop i' Lunnin, Or else frae sum grand wax-work show. Smash! Mally, ye've tell'd a big lee, For a man's not a woman, aw'll swear But he hardly had spoken these words, Till out tumbled a cask o' strang beer. Like a cat Jackey flang his leg ower, Ay, like bacchus he sat at his ease, Tiv aw's fuddled, odsmash! ye may tauk Yor French gabberish as lang as ye please They crush'd sair, but Jack never minded, Till wi' liquor he'd lowsen'd ;his bags At last a great thrust dang him ower, He lay a' his lang length on the flags Iv an instant Mall seiz'd his pea jacket, Says she, is thou drunk, or thou's lyem? The Mayors o' wor box! smash, aw'm fuddled! O Mally, wilt thou lead me hyem. Wm. Midford ( The Budget, 1816) -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. "On the night of June 27th, 1815, the bells of the town began to ring at half-past ten and continued at intervals until after midnight. The cause of the uncommon occurrence was the arrival in Newcastle of Count Lynch Mayor of Bordeaux; he was on his way to visit his relative, John Clavering Esq. of Callaly. Count Lynch was in favour of the Old French Monarchy, and against Napoleon. He was the first in France to hoist the white flag, and surendered Bordeaux to the British arms. The rejoicings were renewed when next morning, June 28the, the mail arrived confirming the great victory at Waterloo."-Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings...., Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891. back to the song menu Winlaton Hopping Ye sons of glee come join with me, Ye who love mirth and topping, O, You'll ne'er refuse to hear my muse Sing of Winlaton fam'd Hopping O To Tenche's Hotel let's retire, To tipple away so neatly, O The fiddle and song yoiu'll sure admire, Together they sound so sweetly, O Chorus- Tal la la, &c. With box and die yoiu'll Sammy spy, Of late Sword dancers' Bessy, O-- All patch'd and torn with tail and horn, Just liek a De'il in dressy, O But late discharg'd form that employ, this scheme popp'd in his noddle, O Which fill'd his little heart with joy, And pleas'd blithe sammy Doddle, O Close by the stocks, his dies and box He rattled away so rarely, O Both youth and age did he engage, Together they play'd so cherrly, O While just close by the sticks did fly At spice on knobs of woody, O How! mind my legs! the youngsters cry, Wey, man, thou's drawn the bloody! O Rang'd in a row, a glorious show Of spice, and nuts for cracking, O With handsome toys for girls and boys, Grac'd Winlaton fam'd Hopping O Each to the stalls led his dear lass, And treat her there so sweetly ,O Then straight retire to drink a glass, An shuffle an' cut so neatly, O Ye men so wise who knowledge prize, Let not this scene confound ye, O At Winship's door might ye explore The world a' running round ye, O Blithe boys and girls on horse and chair, Flew round without e'er stopping, O Sure Blaydon Races can't compare With Winlanton fam'd Hopping, O. The night came on, with dance and song, Each public-house did jingle, O All ranks did swear to banish Care, The married and the single, O They tript away till morning light Then slept sound without rocking ,O Next day got drunk in merry plight, And jaw'd about the Hopping O. At last Dull Care his crest did rear, Our heads he sored did riddle O Till Peacock drew his pipes nad blew And Tenche he tun'd his fiddle O Then Painter Jack he led the van, the drum did join in chorus O, The old and young then danc'd and sung Dull Care fled far before us, O No courtier fine nor grave divine, that's got the whole he wishes, O Will ever be so blithe as we, With all their loaves and fishes, O Then grant, O Jove! our ardent prayer, And happy still you'll find us, O;-- Let pining Want and haggard Care A day's march keep behind us, O John Lennard (1812)-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. "Winlaton Hopping, always held on the Monday and Tuesday following the 14th of May, is an old institution. It still survives, but shorn of much fo it's former popularity"-Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings...., Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891. back to the song menu The Sandhill Monkey A story aw's gaun for to tell, An' t' ye it may luik varry strange, It was in a shop on the Sandhill, When the Craw's Nest was on the Exchange. A monkey was each day drest soon, Ahint the coonter he sat i' the shop, Whe cam in an' their money laid doon, Jaco straight in the till would it pop Chorus- Rum ti iddity, &c A Skipper he cam in yen day, He coudent help luiking at Jackey, On the counter his money did lay, Saying, Please, sir, an ounce of rag backey! His money Jack popt in the till, the Skipper kept luiking at him, A' the time on his seat he sat still, And he luik'd at the Skipper quite grim. Now pray, sir, will ye bear a hand? For aw maun be at Sheels now this tide-- Now pray be as sharp as ye can, For wor keel she is at the Keyside;-- Au'd man, are ye deef? then he cried, an' intiv a passion hefell, On the counter lay some ready weigh'd Says he, Smash! but aw'll help mysel! Then he tuik up an ounce o' rag backey, But afore he cud get turn'd about, Off his seat then up started au'd Jackey, An' cathc'd him hard fast by the snout; He roar'd and he shouted out Murder! The Maister he see'd a' the fun, Not wishing the joke to gan farther, Straight intiv the shop then he run. What's the matter, my canny good man? An' he scarcely could keep in the laugh; Take this au'd man off me--bear a hand! For aw think now that's mater aneuf-- What's the mateer, ye ax?--Smash! that's funny! (An' he still kept his eye upon Jackey) Aw' paid yoiur grandfayther the money, But he'll not let me hae me backey. No mind ye, maw canny good man, If ever thou cums in wor keel, For the trick thou hes play'd me the day, Wor Pee Dee shall sobble ye weel; Eh, for a' yor fine claes I'll engage, An' for a' ye're a sturdy au'd man, Tho' he's nobbut twelve years of age, He shall thresh ye till ye canna gan. W. Stephenson, Jun., Tyne Songster, 1827 according to Allen (Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings...., Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891.)In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Skipper's Dream T'other day ye mun knaw, wey aw'd had a sup beer It ran i' maw heed, and myed me sae queer, That aw lay doon to sleep i' wor huddock sae snug, An' dreem'd sic a dreem as gar'd me scart me lug. Aw dreem'd that the queerest man iver aw see'd Cam stumping alang wi' three hats on his heed; A goon on like a preest, (mind aw's telling ne lees) An' at his side there was hangin a greet bunch o' kees. He stares i' maw fyece, and says, How d'ye de? Aw's teufish, says aw, canny man, how are ye? The he says, wiv a voice gar'd me trimmle, aw's shure Aw's varry weel, thank ye, but yor day is nigh ower. Aw studdies awhile, then says aw, Are ye Deeth, Come here for to wise oot a poor fellow's breeth? He says, No , aw'm the Pope, cum to try if aw can Save a vile wretch like ye, fra the nasty Bad Man. He said, yen St. Peter gov him them great keys To let into Hiven wheiver he'd please an' if aw'd turn Papish, and giv him a Note, He'd send me to Hiven, without ony doot Then a yel hep o' stuff he talk'd aboot sin, An' sed he'd forgi' me whativer aw'd deun; An' if that aw'd murther'd byeth fayther and mother For a five shillin peece, wey, aw might kill me bruther. Says aw, Mister Pope, gi's ne mair o' yur tauk, But oot o' wor huddock aw's beg ye to wauk An' if ye divent get oot before aw count Nine, Byeth ye and yor keys, man aw'll fing i' the Tyne. So aw on tiv me feet wiv a bit iv a skip, For aw ment for to give him an Orangeman's grip; But aw waken'd just then in a terrible stew, An' fand it a dream as aw've told ye just now T Moor(Tyne Songster 1827)-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Skipper's Account of the Orange-Men's Procession Wor keel it lay dry on a sand near the Key, An' it happen'd as how that aw had nowt te de The bells began ringin just when it struck Ten, an' they sed that it was for the Loyal Orangemen Chorus- Derry down, &c Aw on t' the Key iv a deuce iv a hurry, An' brak byth me shins cummin ower a whurry; But aw haddent time to mind them tho' they smarted sare, For the Purcession was just comin oot iv a chare. Aw thowt that wa'd seen bonny seets i' my time, Mang wor lads that are recon'd the pride o' the Tyne; When they get theirsels drest i' wor heed-meetin day, Wiv a band o' musicianors afore them to play. But the forst set aw see'd put maw pipe oot, aw's shure, Twas a canny au'd mannie that mairch'd on afore; Wiv a sword iv his hand, a cock'd hat on his heed, An' the bonniest new claes on that ever aw see'd There was colours, and candles, and gilt things galore, An' things that aw ne'er see'd the like on afore; An' sum douce-leukin cheps that war aw dress'd i ' black, But they every yen had a cow's horn on his back The fine things they com on se thick and se fast, That aw cuddent tell what was forst and what last; An' aw see'd a queer man that folks call'd a preest, An' four cheps swettin under a greet goolden kist. Aw laugh'd an' aw gurn'd, an' aw gov a greet shoot, An' aw dang a' the bairns an' the au'd wives aboot; But maw booels were but in a dismal confloption, When aw see'd sum cheps cum wiv a bairn's bonny coffin Aw was in sad consarnment, as ye may be sure, For a barryin like this, wey aw ne'er see'd afore; For the morners war drest up wiv sashes an' ribins An' the band play'd as thof they war gaun tiv a weddin Aw says tiv a man, says aw, Sor, if ye please, Can ye tell us whe's deed? an' he civilly says, Whe's deed aw divent knaw, but as far as aw reckin It's the De'il or yen Pop that they hev i' thon coffin. Aw met wor Pee Dee when aw gat tiv the jail, He says, Lets intiv the chorch, can ye clim o'er the rail For there's lasses wi' fine Orange ribbins gaen in, An that hatchet-fyee'd wife says they're gannin te sing Aw says to the lad. Aw's be in iv a crack! But a cunstibbel says, Man! yor face is se black, That if ye gan in--its the truth aw declare, Ye'll be taen for Au'd Nick, and they'll barry ye there. So aw see'd ne mair, but aw hard the folks say, That they'd cum agyen on sum other day; So, aw said tiv wor lad, Wey we've seen a grand seet An' we'll drink aw their hilths agyen Setterday neet. -R.Emery--In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Politicians Last Setterday, as we were gannin Frae Newcassel, Dick Martin and I, We caw'd at the sign o' the Cannon, Because we byeth turn'd varry dry. They were tauking o' reedin the papers, Bout Cobbett and his politics, How fine he exposes the capers Of Government's comical tricks. He tauks o' the millions expenses Browt on us by gannin te war: But he maun be a man o' greet senses, Or he cuddent hae reckon'd sae far. He tauks o' the National Debt, O' sinequeers, pensions and such; Wey, aw think how wor Mally wad fret, If she'd awn just a quarter as much. Mister Government mun hae greet credit, Or he ne'er wad get intiv debt; But they tell yen he hez sike a spirit, Aw's fish that comes intiv his net, Says Dick If aw wanted a shillin, Want, then, yor certain aw must; For, if yen was ever sae willin, Ye divent ken where to seek trust. We expected that when it cam Peace, wor sowgers and sailors reduc'd, Wor burdens they quickly wad cease, But, smash! man, we've been sair seduce'd. Says Dicky, The taxes this year, Myeks yen cry, iv a rage, Devil hang them! For the backey an' yell they're sae dear-- Wey, it's just a cologuin amang them. Good folks! aw wad hev ye beware Of some that in Parliament sit; For they're not hauf sae good as they waur, Sin' that taistrel they caw'd Billy Pit. If ye 'loo them te de as they please, Believe me a'm shure, aye an' sartin, They'll bring us syef doon te wor knees! So ended byeth Dick and Jack Martin. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Newcastle Wonders 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. Chorus- gee, ho, Dobbin, &c. Mang the rest o' the jokes wasa a lad frae the Fell, Where he lives wiv his feyther, his neym's Geordy Bell; For hewin there's nyen can touch Geordy for skill, When he comes to Newcassel he gets a good gill. 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? Wey, smash noo--whe's thou, man?--How, what did 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! Then into the coach Geordy claver'd wi' speed, And out at the window he poop'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! 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 owtherturn'd Mayor, or the great Magistrate! 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. 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! 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 R. Emery--In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Quayside Ditty 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 Chorus- Repeat last verse of stanza. 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 much For to bolt wor very Hutch, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. Before it be woer 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, 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 folk That canna bide the joke, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. Aud egg wor men of news, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, Wor Murcury and Hues, Mr. Mayor, Wi' Solomon whe Wise, their cause to stigmatize, And trump wors to the skies, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. How wad we grieve to see, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, The grasss grow on the Kee, Mr. Mayor? So get the weighty prayers Of the porters in the chares, And the wives that sell the wares, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor. A butcher's off frae Sheels, Mr. Mayor, Mr. myor, 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. But Nat's as deep as he, Mr .Mayor, Mr. Mayor Send him to Lunnin tee, Mr. Mayor, He has wit, ye may suppose, Frev his winkers tiv his toes, Since the Major pull'd his nose, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. And send amang the gang, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, Arm-- what d'ye ca' him--STRANG, Mr. Mayor. Ah! send him, if ye plesase, The Treasury to teaze, He'll tell them heaps o'lees, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor 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 Then just dee a' ye can, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, And follow up the plan, Mr. Mayor, Else, faicks, ye'll get a spur In your Corporation fur, And ye'll plant at Shields wor Burr!!! Mr Mayor And ye'll plant at Sheels wor Burr!!! Mr. Mayor. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu A Shields Soliloquy Ah! waht'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. Chorus- 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't sae proud? Faith, we've been in too big a hurry! But our Star, 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. Yet our plan we all thought was good; for we'dbuild them large cellars and kees; It likewise might be understood, Docks and arehouses 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. But the Newcassel folk now, it seems, Had sent some deep jockies to Lunnin, And they suen upset all our schemes, Which we thought se clever and cunnin; For Big-wig, who mounts the Wool-sack, Said, That he plainly saw we were wrang, Since it had been prov'd in a crack, By the Jocky, whose Arm they call Strang. 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. No ceretainly 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!!!! In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Green-Wives Lamentation 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 warees 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, them 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, We'll take a good glass and we'll scorn to complain. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu A Petition 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' havey 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 nobut cover us, it's all that is desir'd! Afore your worship judges us, now make a little paws, And dinna gan to say that we complain without a caws; For that yur Honour cover'd a' the country wives, yeknow, But huz, yur awn sweet townswomen, ye let neglected go. For shem, now hinny, Mr. Mayor, to gan & play your rigs, An cover a' the country girls that com to town wi' pigs; Wi butter an wi' eggs too--they are se dousely made; Ah, you've cover'd every an of them, sir--iv a slated shade. Now dinna let folks say that we've ne reet to complain, When they are a' se snugly plac'd and we are i' the rain; then without ne mair flash, sir, how do yur Honour say, That ye will nobut cover us--and we will every pray. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Fish-Wives Complaint On their Removal from the Sandhill to the New Fish Market, on the 2nd 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. Chorus- Oh! hinnies, Corporation! A! marcy, Corporation! Ye hev deun a shemful deed, To force us frae wer 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 yell-yowlies, bears, and monkies; 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. 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, 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. If ye succeed, agyen we'll sing-- Sweet Madge, wor Queen, will ever bless ye; And pour au'd Jemmy tee, wor King, with a' us fish-wives shall caress ye. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Sunderland Jammy's Lamentation, December, 1831 My sankeres! we're all in a fine hobble now, Since the Cholera com tiv our river; An 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've Clannied to wrang us; But I think we may all curse the Dawn o' that day, That the bloek-headed Board com amang us. Some says that Sir cuddy deserves all the bleym, 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 a woman's the root of al evil, ye see, (At least all my live aw heve thought it) Aw rather believe, as it's been tell'd to me, That it was one Mall 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 hyme, 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 thumb 'twas the Chol'ra that ail'd him. Thur doctor cheps prent all the less 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 was chol-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 Sunbderland Jammy -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Cobbler O' Morpeth Cholera Morbus The Cobblerr 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 tother day, A skipper, when at Shjeels, sirs, Drank yell till he cou'd hardly see, Or ken his head frae heels, sirs. Chorus- Bow, wow,wow, &c. Wi' much ta de he reach'd his hyem, But hoo,m aw cann 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' The' Cobbler o' Morpeth's in me now 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, may Nelly-- For now he's dancin thro' and thro, And up and down may belly. Tom sigh'd and moan'd and kick'd and groan'd, Wi' moony a writhe and start, sirs, And swore that for a new lapstane, The Cobbler had ta'en his heart, sirs. He blether'd Nell, now divent ye hear His rumblings and his raking, He twists and twines maw tripes sae sair, Sure o' them he's wax-ends making. Now Nell aff ran to Doctor Belch, And tell'd Tom's case in fright, sirs, Wha gav her stuff whik varra seun Set 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 Sheels Wad drink their d--d new yell, sirs. 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. John M'Lellan.-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Canny Sheels 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 le 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! Chorus: 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 share For to keep Mister Mayor iv his station. They hev a bit place where they myek a few shot, Lunnin'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. They call their Infirm'ry a place for a king, To be stow'd 'mang the sick, lyem, nad 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 folks it diz dazzel; But if a' gans reet Sheels, without ony doubt, Will suen eclipse that at Canny Newcassel. 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 enquire If 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 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 Then lang life to the King and wor awn noble duik, May Sheels lang partake of his boutny; 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 n'er can sever; So aw'll gie ye just now, shou'd aw ne'eer see ye mair, Wor Duik and wor Dutchess for ever! Let them haud their fuel gobs then & brag tis ne mair, Wi' their this, that, and t'other sae cliver; Wel'll aw drink as lang's we've a penny to spare, Here's success to wor awn town for ever!!! John Morris -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Permanent Yeast 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. Chorus- Fal de ral la, &c, Now when he'd getten a' things reet, He was gaun trudgin hyem at neet, When on the road he hard a crack, An' fand a bullet in his back. 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. 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, O neighbours, de tyek off maw sark, And try if ye can find the mark! They leuk'd but nought there could be seen The wonder'd a' what it had been. But, howe'er, it came to pass, Out of his pocket fell some glass: Now then, says Jack, it is ne joke, See there's may good yeast bottle broke! 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. Now Jackey finding his mistake, He thought the best plan he could take Was to be off--he seiz'd his hat, and ran hyem lake a scadded cat. John Morrison-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Pitman's Ramble Or Newcastle Finerey 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 markent day, Wiv wor toon's cheeps 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 wasd tyek for C nad 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 if a wiv greedy wish, He'd bonny siller in a dish; And just abuin, twee bits of fish Was 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 Tome 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 dazy; Saws 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, thous's crazy! Had aw not been a patient chap, Aw wad hae feth'd him sike a rap, As that which daver'd poor au'd Cap;* 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. *A reference to the song called Cappy or the Pitman's Dog. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu 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 borne Great riches from the mine, All by her hardy sones uptorn-- The wealth of coaly Tyne. Our keelmen brave, with laden keels, Go sailing down in line, And with them laod the fleet at Shelds, That sails from coaly Tyne. When Bonaparte the world did sway, Dutch, Spanish, did combine; By sea nad 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. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Newcassel Races 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 Newcasel Races, O? The weather fine, and folks sae gay, Put on their best, and bent their way To the Toon 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 lill-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, Tor he'd tyen the darling of his eye, To swagger at the Races, O. He says, My dear, well 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 freetein'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 singing songs so fine, And somewere lying drunk like swine, Some drakn porter, others wine; Rare drinkin at the Races, O! The wanton wags in corners sat, Wiv bonny lasses on their lap; An mony a yen gat tit for tat, Before they left the Races, O. Now lads and lasses myed for toon, And in hte road htey 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, Andsome lay drunk amang the whins, A comin frae the Races, O: Let every one his station mense, By acting lake 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 despies, The world's opinion always prize When ye gan to the Races, O. W.Watson-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Quack Doctors Wor laureate may sing for his cash, Of laws, constitution, and proctors, Contented aw'll blair for a dash At 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 wonderous 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 diseas liek 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 wasd tap, At which she set up a great yell; When out popp'd a little wee chap Myest as wise as the doctor's awnsel'. Next they teuk him a man, wheel 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 before At 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 mistyen) By my faiks! but he cur'd him o' that-- Suen Sir Peet left the warld, skin and byen. Now, he that winn'd loyally sing, May he swing like an ass in a tether, Good hilth an long life to the King, To keep us in union together. The heart iv each Briton he leads To rejoice i the fall o' the quacks-- So we'll ay hae the flesh on wor backs. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Peggy's Leg 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 sart 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. H.R.-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu 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 deligh On beauty there so fine? The Graces all their charms unite In Nanny of the Tyne. Far from the noise of giddy courts The 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 sweet Glide gently past her cot, 'Tis peace and virtue's calm retreat- Ye great ones, envied not. And you, ye fair, whom folly leads Through allher paths supine, Tho' drest in pleasure's garb, exceeds Not Nanny of the Tyne. Can art to nature e'er compaire, Or win us to believe But that the frippery of the fair Was made but to deceive. Stript from the belle the dress so gay, Which fashion calls divine, Will she such loveliness display As Nanny of the Tyne. Gibson-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Newcastle Signs 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, a strong-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 geece. 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 Tigere to ravage, As well as the Black Boy, they'd find 'em quite savage, Ath 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 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 some play. At the White Hart, Three Bull's 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 Kng'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 Old British Crown, Be hung on a sign-post till I take him down. Cecil Pitt-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Wonderful Gutter 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 bet 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 uinderstand, That's it's cutten reet through a' the Gentlemen's land. Now that's caw'd a Gutter, &c. Now, whether the dea's owre big at the West, Or scanty at Sheels--wey, ye mebby ken beest; For he says they can team, aye, without any bother, A sup ot 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 Guter, &c. There's wor Tyne sammun tee 'ill not ken what's the matter, When they get a gobful o' briny saut water; 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. Wm. Midford-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Local Militia-Man. How! marrows, aw'se tip you a sang, If ye'll nobbit gibe your attenction. Aw''ve sarrow'd maw king seven years, An 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 thn aw deserve, Aw' se just rest contented without it Chorus: 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 a-hint me, He lay kickin and sprawlin for deed. But when wor manuvres we lairn'd, Wor Cornell o' huz grew se fond, man, He match'd us gyen for smashing targets, Close ower nyont Helsop's Pond, Man. 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 theDrum-Major. Suin efter, 'twas on the Vairge Day, 'Bout the time that wor Cornel was Mayor, Fra Gyetshead we fir'd ower their heeds, Byed the fokes in Newcassel to stare. To Newburn we then bore away, And embark'd just beside a great Dung-hole, Wi' biscut and plenty o'yell, And wor Adjutant Clerk o' the Bung-hole. Wor Triangular Lad lop'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 fra France, The music then started to play, And we for to caper and dance. Sie wark as we had efter that, Wad tyek a lang day for to tell, How we fronted, an' flankt it, an' maircht Through 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. Yen day we were from'd in a ring, And wor Cornel said this, 'at ne'er spoke ill, Ye your sarvis, my lads, mun transfer Tiv 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 fellows Ne'er cam fra the Wear and the Tyne. Wm. Midford-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Part 8 Directory 6 Click here for main menu of this directory. Use our floating menu to improve navigation. you can reposition it by clicking on top bar and dragging Floating Menu Menu of all of the Sangs Click here For tunes in .abc notation click here For an index of persons and places mentioned in the sangs click here For Bibliography,and Philosophy of the collection click here We invite you to contribute! Click here to comment or add. Soon after our upgrade the songs which the priests have recorded will be high-lighted thusly Illustrated by woodcuts by Joseph Crawhall (Newcastle, 1889) (Where you see the music note image there will be a midi file-for you to listen to!) Your Choices! The Main Menu! Main Menu Masquerade at Newcastle Theatre Or, the Pitman turned Critic Nancy Wilkinson Green's Balloon The Newgate-Street Petition Burdon's Address to His Cavalry The Collier's Keek At the Nation Blind Willie Singing Bold Archy & Blind Willie's Lament On the Death of Captain Starkey A Voyage to Lunnin The Newcassel Props Newcassel Wonders II Tim Tunbelly The Fair Flower of Northumberland Johnny Luik Up The Bobby Cure The Blaydon Keelman The Rifleman Hogg and Foster's Race The Cabman John Spencer Newcastle Celebrities Bullerwell and Summer's Race Teasdale Wilson The City Champion The Sheels Lass for Me The Stephenson Monument Chambers The Barber's News The Bonassus Shields Chain Bridge The Tyne #2 The Spring Parson Malthus Peter Waggy Bessy of Blyth Kelvin Grove-The Lassie's Answer To Mr. Peter Watson The Newcastle Subscription Mill Lizzie Liberty The New Fish Market A New Year's Carol Jesmond Mill Tommy Thompson Farewell to the Tyne Northumberland Free O' Newcassel The Duchess and Mayoress Use this Pull down form to go to our other pages To return to the top of this page click here. Masquerade At Newcastle Theatre Or, The Pitman turned Critic As Jemmy the brakesman and me Was 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. Chorus- Sol 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 viv 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. We ran, and seun fand a good playce, Aye, before they'd weel hoisted their leets; When a lyedy, wi' gause ower her fyece, Cam an' tummel'd over 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. The Playeres the 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! 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 fillder, a bear, and a monkey. 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! He danc'd the Keel Row to sic tune, His marrow declar'd he was bet: som yell ower Kit's shouthers was slung, So they byeth had their thrpples weel wet. A lyem sowger cam on wiv twee sticks, Then a busy-tail'd pinkey wee Frenchman; Next a chep, wiv some young lunaticks, Was wanting the mad-house at Bensham. 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. 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 rig seven miles forthe howdy, Was dancing wiv Janny Bawloo, That scadded her gob wiv a crowdy. 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 itgat up to the meun, It emptied itsel i' the pit, man. Wm. Midford -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Nancy Wilkinson At Cullercoats, near to the sea, Lives one I often think upon; Bewitching as the lovely e'e Of bonny Nancy Wilkinson. Chorus- By Tyne, or Blyth, or Coquet clear, No swain did ever blink upon A charmer equal to my dear, My handsome Nancy Wilkinson. Sweet cherry cheeks, a lofty brow, Bright hair, that waves in links upon A neck, white as the purest snow, Has comely Nancy Wilkinson. Her virtues, like her beauty, rare; But terms I ne'er can think upon, Fit to panegyrise my fair My constant Nancy Wilkinson. For her rich ladies I'd refuse, With all their shining tinsels on; None else can wake my slumbering Muse, But lovely Nancy Wilkinson. Aurora, from the Eastern sky, Her robes the glowing tints upon, Is not so viewly to mine eye As modest Nancy Wilkerson. Let sordid misers count their wealth, And guineas guineas clink upon; All I request of Heav'n is health, and dear, dear Nancy Wilkinson. H. Robson -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Green's Balloon. 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, saws 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 over 'lang for to see the Balloon. Chorus- 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. 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 seun. then a' iv a suddne it came 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. And thhere 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 thill they powey'd her reet out o' seet, man, That was a' that we saw o' this grand air balloon. The skipper cam to me, tuik haud o' my hand, man, Says, What do ye think o' this seet that's been given? Saws aw, Aw can't tell, but it's a' very grand, man; Aw wish the cheps byeth safely landend in heaven. 'twad be a good plan to tyek's up when we're deed, man; For which way we geth 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. Messers Green ascended in their grand Coronation Balloon, from the Nun's 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. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Newgate-Street Petition To Mr. Mayor. Alack! and well-a-day! Mr. Mayor, Mr Mayor; We are all to grief a prey, Mr. Mayor: They are pulling Newgate down, 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 finest Lion That 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, And the Act must be amended, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. If Blackett- Street they'd level, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor Or with Bond-Street* play the devil, Who would care? But on Newgate's massive 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 of Note and Estimation, In their course of Elevation, Have in it helad 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** 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 we throw the Hatche! Mr. Mayor: John A____n, with ease, (In purest Portugueze) Will convince you, if you please, To consult him, Mr. Mayor. Th'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 none Can better tell than John, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor Of this Edifice bereft, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, to the Neighbourhood what's left? Mr. mayor: The Nuns' Gate, it is true, Still rises to our view, But that Modern Babel, few Much admire, Mr. Mayor. True, a building 'tis, unique, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, Acharming fancy freak, Mr. Mayor: But candour doth impel us, To won that Strangers tell us, The Lodge of our Odd fellows, They suppos'd it, Mr. Mayor. Still, if Newgate's doom'd to go, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. to the Carliol 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, Fropm causing us such pain, And we'll pay and ne'er comp[lain, The Gaol-cess, Mr. Mayor. *Now called Prudhoe St. **The Gaoler -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Burdon's Address to His Cavalry A Parody. Soldiers whom Newcastle's bred, View your cornel at your head, Who's been call'd out of his bed Toi serve his country. Now's the time when British Tars With their Owners are at wars; And they've sent for us--O Mars! Assist the Cavalry! Now, My noble sons of Tyne! Let your valour nobly shine; There at last has come a time To shew your bravery. But, my lads, be not alarm'd! You're to fight with men unarm'd! Who in multitudes have swarm'd-- Before us they must flee! Then they cry out, every man, Cornel, we'll die a' we can! So away to Shields they ran: O what Cavalry! But they had no call to fight, the Marines had bet them quite; And the Cornel's made a Knight, For the Victory! Jas. Morrison-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Collier's Keek at the Nation Huz Colliers, for a' they can say, Hae blyeth heads and hearts that are sound-- And if we're but teun i' wor way, There's few better cheps above ground. Tom Caveres and me, fra West Moor, On a kind ov a jollification, Yen day myed what some folks call a tour, For a keek at the state o' the nation. We fand, er we'd lang been on jaunt, That the world wasn't gannin sae cliver-- It had gettin a Howdon-Pan cant, As aw gat once at wor boxdinner. Monny tyels, tee, we heard, stiff and gleg-- Some laid the world straight as a die-- Some crook'd as a dog's hinder leg, Or, like wor fitter's nose, all a-wry. One tell'd me, my heart for to flay, (Thinking aw knew nought about town) Out o' my three-and-sixpence a-day, The King always gat half-a-crown. Aw said they were fuels not to ken That aw gat a' the brass me awnsel-- Ga' wor Peg three white shillins, and then Laid the rest out on backey and yell! They babb'd oot that aw was mistuen- That maw brains sairly wanted seduction-- Without animal Parliaments seun We wad a' gan to wreck and construction-- That we'd wrought ower lang for wor lair-- That landlords were styen-hearted tykes-- for their houses and land only fair, To divide them and live as yen likes! To bring a' these fine things about Was as easy as delving aslent is-- Only get some rapscallion sought out, And to Lunnin sent up to present us. Thinks aw to mysel' that's weel meant-- There's wor Cuddy owre laith to de good, We'll hev him to Parliament sent, Where he'll bray, smash his byens, for his blood. Then, says aw, Tommy, keep up thy pluck, We may a' live to honour wor nation-- So here's tiv Au'd England, good luck! and may each be content with his station. Huz Colliers, for a' they can say, Hae Byeth heeds and hearts that ar sound-- And if we're but teun i' wor way, There's few better cheps above ground. R.Gilchrist -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Blind Willie Singing Ye gowks that bout daft Handel swarm, Your senses but to harrow-- Steyn deaf to strains that 'myest wad charm The heart iv a wheelbarrow-- To wor Keyside awhile repair, Mang Malls, and bullies pig in, To hear encor'd, wi' monie a blair, Poor au'd Blind Willie's singin. To hear fine Sinclair tune his pipes Is hardly worth a scuddock-- It's blarney fair, and stale as swipes Kept ower lant i' the huddock. Byeth Brahm and Horn behint the wa' Might just as well be swingin, For a' their squeelin's nought at a' To au'd Blind Willie singin. About Sir Maffa lang he sung, Far into high life keekin-- Til Buy Broom Buzzoms roundly swung, He gae their lugs a sweepin'. A stave yence myed Dumb Bet to greet, Sae fine wi' cat-gut stringin'-- Bold Airchy swore it was a treat To hear Blind Willie Singin. Aw've heard it said, Fan Welch, one day, On pepper'd oysters messin, Went in to hear him sing and play, an' get a moral lesson. She vow'd 'twas hard to haud a heel-- An' thowt (the glass while flingin) Wi' Clarts they should be plaister'd weel That Jeer'd Blind Willie's singin. It's fine to hear wor bellman talk-- It's wondrous fine and cheerin' To hear Bet Watt and Euphy Scott Scold, fight, or bawl fresh herrin: To see the keels upon the Tyne, As thick as hops a' swimmin', Is fine indeed, but still mair fine To hear Blind Willie singin. Lang may wor Tyneside lads sae true, In heart byeth blithe an' mellow, Bestow the praise that's fairly due To this bluff, honest fellow-- And when he's hamper'd i' the dust, Still i' wor memory springin, The times we've run till like to brust To hear blind Willie singin'. But may he live to cheer the bobs That skew the coals to shiveres, Whee like their drink to grip their gobs, And burn their varry livers. So, if ye please, aw'll myek an end, My sang ne farther dingin, Lest ye may think that aw pretend To match Blind Willie's singin. R. Gilchrist-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Bold Archy & Blind Willie's Lament On the Death of Captain Starkey. What! is he gyen? Bold Airchy said, And moungin' scratch'd his head-- O can sic waesome news be true? Is Captain Starkey dead? Aw's griev'd at heart--push round the can-- Seun empty frae wor hands we'll chuck it-- For now we'll drink wor last to him, since he has fairly kick'd the bucket. My good shag hat ne mair aw'll wave, His canny fyace to see-- Wor bairns' bairns will sing o' him, As Gilchrist sings o' me-- For O! he was a lad o' wax! Aw've seen him blithe, an' often mellow-- He might hae faults, but, wi' them a', We've seldom seen a better fellow. Yen day they had me drown'd for fun, Which myed the folks to blair; Aw mysest could wish, for his dear sake, That aw'd been drown'd for fair. On monny a day when cannons roar, Yen loyal heart will then be missin-- If there be yell, we'll toast his nyem-- If there be nyen, he'll get wor blissin. Blind Willie then strumm'd up his kit Wi' monny a weary drone, Which Thropler, drunk, and Cuckoo Jack Byeth answer'd wiv a groan. Nice chep! poor chep! Blind Willie said-- My heart is pierc'd like onny riddle, To think aw've liv'd to see him dead-- Aw never mair 'ill play the fiddle. His gam is up, his pipe is out, And fairly laid his craw-- His fame 'ill blaw about just like Coal dust at Shiney-Raw. He surely was a joker rare-- What times there'd been for a' the nation, Had he but liv'd to be a Mayor, The glory o' wor Corporation. But he has gi'en us a' the slip, And gyen for evermore-- Au'd Judy and Jack Coxon tee, Has gyen awhile before-- And we maun shortly follow them, An' tyek the bag, my worthy gentles-- Then what 'ill poor Newcassel dee, Depriv'd of all her ornamentals! We'll moralize-- for dowly thowts, Are mair wor friends thatn foes-- For death, like when the tankard's out, Brings a' things tiv a close. May we like him, frae grief and toil, When laid in peace beneath the hether-- Upon the last eternal shore, A' happy, happy meet together! R. Gilchrist-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu A Voyage to Lunnin Lang years ower meadows, moors, and muck, I cheerly on did waddle-- So various is the chance o' luck Between the grave and cradle. When wark at hyem turn'd rather scant, I thought 'twas fair humbuggin' An' so aw even teuk a jaunt, Faiks, a' the way to Lunnin. Lord Howick was my chosen ship, Weel rigg'd byeth stem nad quarter, The maister was a cannie chep- They ca'd him Jacky Carter. Wiu' heart as free frae guilt as care, I pack'd up all my duddin, And shipp'd abroad--the wind blew fair-- Away we sail'd for Lunnin. Safe ower the bar-a-head we tint-- The day was fine and sunny; And seun we left afar behint, Wor land o' milk and honey. But few their dowly thoughts can tyem-- May be the tears were comin'-- Sair griev'd, ne doubt to pairt wi' hyem, Though gaun to keek at Lunnin. Fareweel, Tyne Brig and cannie Kee, Where aw've seen monny a shangy, Blind Willie, Captain Starkey tee-- Bold Archy and great Hangy. Farewell Shoe Ties, Jack Tate, Whin Bob, Cull Billy, and Jack Cummin, Au'd Judy, Jen Bawloo--aw'll sob Your praises all at Lunnin. Some such as me the hyke myed sick, And myed them rue their roamin' Still forward plung'd wor gallant ship, And left the water foamin'. Waes me! but 'tis a bonny seet, O land o' beef and puddin! To see thy tars, in pluck complete, Haud fair their course for Lunnin! Hail, Tyneside lads! in collier fleets, The first in might and motion-- In sunshine days or stormy neets The lords upon the ocean, Come England's foes- a countless crew-- Ye'll gie their gobs a scummin', And myek them a' the day to rue, They glipp'd their jaws at Lunnin. I thought mysel a sailor good, And fired while some lay spralin', Till where the famous Robin Hood Sends out his calms or squallin'-- 'Twas there aw felt aw scarce ken how-- For a' things teuk a bummin', And myed me wish, wi' retch and spew, The ship safe moor'd at Lunnin. As round by Flamborough Head we shot, Down cam a storm upon us-- Thinks aw, we're fairly gyen to pot-- O dear!-- have mercy on us! Ower northern plains 'twill dowly sound, And set their eyes a runnin', When they shall tell that aw was drown'd Just gannin up to Lunnin. To cheer wor hearts in vain they brought The porter, grog, and toddy-- My head swam round when'er aw thoiught Upon a fat pan-soddy. O what the plague fetch'd us frae hyem! Some in the glumps were glummin'; I could hae blubber'd but thoiught shyem, While gaun a voyange to Lunnin. Cross Boston Deeps how we did spin, Skelp'd on by noisy Boreas, Up yarmouth Roads, and seun up Swin, The water flew before us. O glorious seet! the Nore's in view-- Like fire and flood we're scuddin': Ne mair we'll bouk wor boiley now, Burt seun be safe at Lunnin. Hail, bonny Tyames! weel smon thy waves! A world might flourish bi' them-- And , faiks, they weel deserve the praise That a' the world gies ti them. O lang may commerce spread her stores, Full on thy bosom dinnin'-- Weel worthy thou to lave the shores O' sic a town as Lunnin. Seun Black-Wall Point we left astern, Far ken'd in dismal story-- And Greenwich Towers we now discern, Au'd England's pride nad glory. Sure Nature's sel inspir'd my staves, For I began a crunnin, And blair'd Britannia rule the waves! As by we sail'd for Lunnin. Fornenst the Tower, we made a click, Where traitors get their fairins', And where they say that hallion Dick Yence scumfish'd two wee bairins. Hitch, step, and loup, I sprang ashore, My heart reet full o' funnin-- And seun forgat the ocean's war, Amang the joys o' Lunnin. R. Gilchrist-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Newcassel Props Oh, waes me, for wor canny toon, It canna stand it lang-- The props are tumbling one by one, The beeldin seun mun gan; For Deeth o' late has no been blate, But sent some jovial souls a joggin: Aw niver griev'd for Jackey Tate, Nor even little Airchy Loggan. But when maw lugs was 'lectrified Wiv Judy Downey's deeth, Alang wi' Heufy Scott aw cried, Till byeth was out o' breeth; For greet and sma', fishwives and a' Luik'd up tiv her wi' veneration-- If Judy's in the Courts above, Then for Au'd Nick there'll be nae 'cation. Next Captain Starkey teuk his stick, And myed his final bow; Aw wonder if he's scribblin yet, Or what he's efter now; Or if he's drinking gills o' yell, Or axing pennies to buy bakky-- If not allow'd where Starkey's gyen, Aw'm sure that he'll be quite unhappy. Jack Coxon iv a trot went off, One morning very seun-- Cull Billy said, he'd better stop, But Deeth cried, Jackey, Come! Oh! few like him could lift their heel, Or tell what halls were in the county; Like mony a proud, black-coated chief, Jack liv'd upon the parish bounty. But cheeer up, lads, and dinna droop, Blind Willy's to the fore, The blythest if the motley group, And fairly worth the score: O weel aw like to hear him sing, 'Bout au'd Sir Mat, and Dr. Brummel-- If he but lives to see the King, There's nyen o' Willy's friends need grummen Cull Billy, tee, wor lugs to bliss, Wiv news 'bout t'other warld, Aw move that, when wor Vicar dees, The place for him be arl'd; For aw really think, wiv half his wit, He'd myek a reet good pulpit knocker: Aw'll tell ye where the birth wad fit-- He hugs sae close the parish copper. Another chep, and the aw's duen, He bangs th tothers far: Yor mavies wonderin whe aw mean-- Ye goks, it's Tommy C--r! When lodgin's scarce, just speak to him, Yor hapless case he'll surely pity, He'll 'sist upon your gannin in, To sup wi' S--tt, and see the Kitty. Oliver-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Newcassel Wonders II Sic wonders there happens iv wor canny toon, Sae wise and sae witty Newcassel has grown, That for hummin, and hoaxing, and tyeking folk in, We'll suen learn the Lunneners far better things. We've wonderful Knights, and wondrous Hussars, Wonderful Noodles, and wonderful Mayors; For as langas a keel gans down river Tyne, For wisdom and valour, O A-----y, thou'll shine. We've R---s and V---s, a time serving crew; For ov priests and excisemen, and limbs o' the law, There's ten tiv the dozen 'ill gan down belaw. And whe wad hae thowt now that iver Au'd Nick, wiv wor canny toon wad hae gettin sae thick; That iv Luckley's au'd house he's set up Hell's Kitchen Where the tyelyers and snobs find the yell se bewitchin There's canny Tom Lid--l, they've myed him a Lord For learning his ploughmen to play wi' the sword; But if ony invaders should britain assail, They'll slip off their skins and run to the plough-tail. We've a Captain of watchmen, he's second to nyen, He dislikesto see folks gannin quietly hyem; For if ye but mention the nyem o' Tom C--r, To the care of Jack S--tt, he'll yor body transfer. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Tim Tunbelly Tune= Canny Newcassel Now lay up your lugs, a' ye freemen that's poor, And aw'll rhyme without pension or hire-- Come listen, ye dons that keep cows on the Moor, Though ye couldn't keep them iv a byre-- And a' ye non-freemen, wherever ye be, Though dame Fortune has myed sic objections, That you're neither o' Town nor o' Trinity free, To be brib'd and get drunk at elections. When aw was but little, aw mind varry weel That Joe C--k was the friend o' the freemen-- Aw mysel' heerd him say, his professions to seal, He wad care very little to dee, man. Corporation corruptions he sair did expose, And show'd plain whee was rook and whee pigeon-- While El----h, the cobbler, in fury arose, And pummell'd Sir M-----w's religion. Some sly common councilman happen'd to think That the patriots mebbies had pocket-- So they sent Joe an order for wafers and ink, And the Custom-house swallow'd the prophet. Now if ever these worthies should happen to dee, Andau'd Nick scamper off wiv his booty, Just imagine yoursels what reformin there'll be, If belwa thre's no printing or duty. But there's honest folk yet now, So dinn be flaid, Though El--h and Joe had desarted-- For a chep they ca' Tunbelly's ta'en up the trade, And bizzy he's been sin' he started: aboot town-surveyin' he's open'd wor eyes, and put Tommy Gee into a pickle--- He's g'en to Jack Proctor a birth i' the skies, And immortal he's render'd Bob Nichol. Now, if ony refuse to the freemen their dues, they're far greater fules that aw thowt them-- Let R--y ne mair stand godfather to cows, Nor his coiusin swear on- till he's bowt them. Niver mind what the cheps o' the council may say, He'll seun sattle obstropolous Billy-- Ne mair he'll refuse for a way-leave to pay, For fear o' the ditch and Tunbelly. The good that he's deun scarce a volume wad tell, But there's one thing that will be a wonder-- If tunbelly losses conceit iv his sel' Till his head the green sod be laid under. But we a' hae wor likens, what for shouldn't Tim? And aw'm shure he a mense to wor town is-- So fill up your glasses once mair to the brim, And drink to the Newcastle Junis. Oliver-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Fair Flower of Northumberland Click here for notation Click here for midi sound It was a knight in Scotland born, Follow, my love, come over the strand, Was taken prisoner and left forlorn, Even by the good Earl of Northumberland. Then was he cast in prison strong, Follow, my love, come over the strand, Where he could not walk nor lay along, Even by the good Earl of Northumberland. And as in sorrow thus he lay, Follow, my love, come over the strand, The Earl's sweet daughter passed that way, And she the fair flower of Northunmberland. And passing hy, like an angel bright, Follow, my love, come over the strand, The prisoner had of her a sight, And she the fair flower of Northumberland. And aloud to her this knight did cry, Follow, my love, come over the strand, The salt tears standing in her eye, And she the fair flower of Northumberlannd. "Fair lady," he said, "take pity on me, Follow, my love, come over the strand, And let me not in prison dee," And you the fair flower of Northumberland." "Fair sir, how should I take pity on thee, Follow, my love, come over the strand, Thou being a foe to our countree, And I the fair flower of Northumberland." "Fair lady, I am no foe," he said, Follow, my love, come over the strand, Through thy sweet love here wvas I stayed, And thou the fair flower of Northumberland." "Why shouldst thou come here for love of me, Follow, my love, come over the strand, Having wife and bairns in thy own countree, And I the fair flower of Northumberland." "I swear by the blessed Trinity, Follow, my love, come over the strand, That neither wife nor bairns have I, And thou the fair flower of Northumberland. "If courteously thou wilt set me free, Follow, my love, come over the strand, I vow that I will marry thee And thou the fair flower of Northumberland." "Thou shalt be lady of castles and towers, Follow, my love, come over the strand, And sit like a queen in princely bowers, Even thou, the fair flower of Northumberland." Then parted hence this lady gay, Follow, my love, come over the strand, And got her father's ring away, And she the fair flower of Northumberland. Likewise much gold she got by sleight Follow, my love, come over the strand, And all to help this forlorn knight And she the fair flower of Northumberland." Two gallant steeds, both good and able Follow, my love, come over the strand, She likewise took out of the stable And she the fair flower of Northumberland." And to the gaoler she sent the ring Follow, my love, come over the strand, Who the knight from prison forth did bring To meet the fair flower of Northumberland." This token set the prisoner free Follow, my love, come over the strand, Who straight went to this fair lady And she the fair flower of Northumberland." A gallant steed he did bestride Follow, my love, come over the strand, And with the lady away did ride And she the fair flower of Northumberland." They rode till they came to a water clear Follow, my love, come over the strand, "Good sir, how shall I follow you there?" And I the fair flower of Northumberland." "Fear not the ford, fair lady," quoth he Follow, my love, come over the strand, "For long I cannot stay for thee, Even thou, the fair flower of Northumberland." The lady prickt her gallant steed, Follow, my love, come over the strand, And over the water swam with speed, Even she, the fair flower of Northumberland. From top to toe all wet was she, Follow, my love, come over the strand. " This have I done for love of thee, Even I, the fair flower of Northumberland." Thus rode she all one winters night, Follow, my love, come over the strand, Till Edinborough they saw in sight, The fairest town in all Scotland. "Now choose," quoth he, "thou wanton flower, Follow, my love, come over the strand, If thou wilt be my paramour," And thou the fair flower of Northuuiberland. "For I have a wife and children five, Follow, nmy love, come over the strand ; In Edinborough they be alive, And thou the fair flower of Northumberland." "And if thou wilt not give thy hand Follow, my love, come over the strand Then get thee home to fair England, And thou the fair flower of Northumberland." "This favour thou shalt have to boot, Follow, my love, come over the strand, I'll have thy horse; go thou on foot, And thou the fair flower of Northumberland." "O false and faithless knight, quoth she, Follow, my love, come over the strand, And canst thou deal so bad with me, And I the fair flower of Northumberland ?" " Dishonour not a lady's name, Follow, my love, come over the strand, But draw thy sword and end my shame, And I the fair flower of Northumberland" He took her from her stately steed, Follow, my love, come over the strand, And left her there in extreme need, And she the fair flower of Northumberland Then sat she down full heavily, Follow, my love, come over the strand. At length two knights came riding by, And she the fair flower of Northumberland. Two gallant knights of fair England, Follow, my love, come over the strand; And there they found her on the strand, Even she, the fair flower of Northumberland. She fell down humbly on her knee, Follow, my love, come over the strand Crying, " Courteous knights, take pity on me, Even I, the fair flower of Northumberland. "I have offended my father dear, Follow, my love, come over the strand, For a false knight that brought me here, Even I, the fair flower of Northumberland." They took her up beside them then" Follow, my love, come over the strand, And brought her to her father again, And she the fair flower of Northumberland. Now alI you fair maids be warned by me, Follow no Scotchman over the strand. Scots never were true, nor ever will be To lord nor lady, nor fair England. -Child #9 From Songs of Northern England, Stokoe back to the song menu Johnny Luik-Up Air- Sally come up" Thor was a bit laddy lost the tuther day, And doon the kee he stray'd away, The muther was cryin' hard they say, So she fund oot Johnny the bellman; Says she Gan roond the toon, Aw'll gie ye half -a-croon, For if he's not fund it'll be maw ruin, Wor jimmy he'll surely kill mi. Chorus- Johnny luik up! Johnny luik doon, Johnny gans wandrin roond the toon, He'll find yor kid for half-a-croon, Will Johnny luik-up, the bellman Johnny's a chep that'll not tyek a job, Unless he's sure that he'll get a bob. An' when he shoots he twists his gob, Thor's nyen can shoot like Johnny. Noo the lads they de him scoff, He has such a nesty cough, Aw doot sum fine day he'll pop off, Then we'll loss poor Johnny. Before he started te ring the bell, He used te gan wi' young lambs ti sell, He was a candy man as aw hear tell, Noo a perfect cure is Johnny; An' he used to sell claes pins, an' sumtimes bairns' rings, An' a lottery bag he used ti hev', Mair blanks than owt had Johnny. In these days he was a regular brick, When he said the munkeys up the stick, An' candy for the bairns ti lick, An tin trumpet then had Johnny; Ye shud only seen him blaw, He fairly bangs them a', It's like a cochin-china's craw; An sic a beak hes Johnny. Sum thowt Johnny was rang in his mind, When he used te gan wi' scissors te grind, For hard wark he was niver inclined, For it niver agreed wi' Johnny. Aw've seen him on a winter's day When he's been shullin snaw away Frae shopkeepers' doors, he'd lick a score; The soup-kitchen prop is Johnny. Noo aw propose when Johnny dies, That they tyek oot one of his eyes, An' put it inti cock-eyed Tome that sells the pies, Then we'll niver loss seet o' Johnny. So lads gie your lasses a treat, Ti this place sum uther neet, Aw'll gie ye the Bobby on his beat, An' the life of Johnny the bellman. -Geordie Ridley back to the song menu The Bobby Cure air- The Cure Oh lads aw've turned a bobby noo, And disn't maw dress luik neat, Aw've a greet moosetash abuve me gob, And aw.m on the Gateshead beat; Noo all the jobs thor is aw've tried, But nyen aw can endure, So noo aw've join'd the Gateshead force And the kids call me the cure. Aw mind the first neet that aw was on, It was doon in Pipergate, An Irish row had started there, Thinks aw aw'll knaw me fate, Aw rushes doon and collars one, We fell in a common sewer, As aw crawl'd oot the kids did shoot Just twig poor Bobby's the cure. The next neet aw was on the bottle bank Aw was on for a regular spree, Thre aw fell in win a nice young lass. She went inti the Goat wi' me, Noo each of uz hes a glass o' rum, At her expense your sure, She was a married wife and her man pop'd in And he mug'd poor Bobby the cure. Aw hook'd it off win a sheepish luik, And her man reported me, The inspector com' and says noo Bobby This wark it winna dee! Aw was taken before the committee, And was heavy fin'd aw's sure, And still when aw's on the Oakwellgate beat The kids call me the cure. The next neet aw was on the Windmill hills, Forget it aw niver shall, They war smahsin' the windows there like fun, And pushin' doon the walls, Aw tuik ten te the stashon hoose, Withoot ony help aw'm sure, Aw got these two stripes on maw coat, And they still call me the cure. A bobbly's the canniest job in the world, He gets all his drink for nowt; Aw'm what they call drill sarjant noo, Maw claes aw ready bowt; So noo aw've teld hye all maw tricks, Ye'll pity me aw'm sure, And niver call me when aw's on maw beat, And say there gans the cure. -Geordie Ridley back to the song menu The Blaydon Keelman Air- Dixeys Land Oh! lads, aw's turned a keelman noo, Wi' maw flannin drawers an' stockins blue, On the Tyne, the Tyne, the Tyne. In Blaydon aw was bred, an' born, On the New Year's day at morn, On the Tyne etc. Chorus- Aw niver will leave Blaydon, ah, ho! ah, Ho! For in Blaydon aw was bred an' born, Aw niver will leave Blaydon, ah ho! ah Ho! The Blaydon Lads for iver. Noo there's Bob Chambers an' Harry Clasper. Ne two in a boat thor can pull faster, On the Tyne etc. Then there's Winship an' awd Harry's son Jack, These fower agyen the world aw'll back. On the Tyne etc. We sailed frae Blaydon wi fire bricks loadin, Smash! aw believe maw feyther's doatin, On the Tyne etc. For he ran agrund at Skinners' Burn, So we lost wor tide an' had te lie till morn, On the Tyne etc. Thor's a new steamboat they call'd the Cowan, For the Tyne Commissioners ye'll find her towin, On the Tyne etc... She's always towin ballast keels, Loaded wi' the dredger doon at Sheels, On the Tyne etc. Noo aw've joined the Blaydon rifle cor, Ti guard wor canny Tyneside shore, On the Tyne, etc.. Wi' Armstrang's guns we'll lick them bonny, An' wor heed commander's coffee Johnny, On the Tyne etc... Noo maw wife leef'd servant at Blaydon Burn, Aw married her at Whickham church one morn, On the Tyne etc. In Robson Street we leeve tigether, Aw work in the keel alang win her feythere, On the Tyne etc... -Geordie Ridley back to the song menu The Rifleman air- Coal Black Rose Aw had a dream the uthe neet when everything was still, Aw thowt aw saw the rifles gan on the moor te drill; Aw thowt aw saw Clinton's model band playin' the Young Recruit, And Sir John Fife givben his men a walk oot. Chorus- Three cheers for STANLEY'S lang may he shine! For iv a' the concerts i' the toon thor's nyen can lick the TYNE. Aw thowt aw saw Armstrong's Engineers, wi' thor red jackets they luk neat. They war' gan te meet the Gateshead corps along Blackett Street; Then there was Allhuesson's fra' Shouth Shore, Wi' tho white belts aroond them, they're a vary smart corps. Aw thow't aw saw the Noodles bould led on by Tommy Carr, and the kids they wor cryin' ye darnet gan te war! Thor was one fell off his horse and was cover'd ower wi' mud, He cried like ony bairn when his nose it started blood. Aw thowt aw went te STANLEY'S just to spend an hour, An aw saw Tom Hanford dein the Black Cure, He sung Aud Bob Ridley, and danced wi' the clogs: James cam' on wi' Joe and Tommy, then the Monkeys nad the Dogs. Aw thowt aw saw James Hodge, that' him that plays the base, and the second fiddlere te, noo he's in the reet place: Bob sanderson play'd sum nice airs wi' Aleck on the flute, And Alek says to Carley Coutts Will ye stand a gill of stout? Noo thor's Stevenson's lads and Hawthorn's they're vary often here. Mary Hawks' lads and Abbot's lads nivor want thor beer, Thor's scores flocks fra' the Railway shops, and Morrison's luikin' on, the glass-hoose lads, they blaw pipes lang, but Armstrang's number one. -Geordy Ridley back to the song menu Hogg and Foster's Race air- Kiss me quick Tuther Saturday neet aw saw a grand foot race, Alang at the Victoria grund, Between tout Foster and Joe Hogg, And the stake was fifty pund; Thor was lots of cheps gettin on their bets, Thor was little odds on Tout. The cabs wor stannin at the gate, Aw saw Joe Hogg luik oot:-- Chorus: An' aw says Gan on, Joe, maw canny lad, Thou hes a cliver style, Ye'll lick the Tout, withoot a doot, This quarter of a mile. The gate was opened--and sic a rush, Thor wes hundreds flockin in, An' Jimmy Reay amang the crood, Says--HOGGY'S sure ti win, Hoo can he loss? says Jimmy Dodds-- The Ship will float the neet! Says Markey Hall--we'll hav a rare blaw oot, Wi' tripe nad haggish meat. The first iver HOGGY ran, It was wi' one the name o' GILLY, Up at the Grapes for five aside, His backers drove him silly; and aw mind he won a handicap, And a hurdle race likewise; and at the Easter wrestlin last year. He pull'd off the first prize. He lick'd one o' the name o' MILLER twice, And PHILLIPSON in Newcassel! And a deed heat he ran GEORDY WILDBORE. Noo he there thor eyes did dazzel: the here's success ti Hogg, Rowan and White, And Belley tee likewise, Frae ten miles tiv a quartere, Gateshead can all the world surprise. Noo HOGGY had a trainer bould, Tom Morvel was his nyem, They tuik their breethins at Primrose Hill, On the Friday need cam hyem; Man, Joe he luik'd vary fit, He seem'd ti be runnin fast, And when he won, their Neddy sung-- Joe, we've put it on at last. -Geordie Ridley back to the song menu The Cabman Air- spider and the Fly Oh cheps aw's turn'd a cabman noo, aw stand in St. Nicholas' Square, So if ye want te hire a one, yor sure te find me there, Aw've a gud awd horse for gannin', he's a gudun up the banks, Ye see maw number's twenty-two, aw drive for tommy Shanks. Chorus- So if ye want te hire a cab, just call at St. Nicolas' Square, Ye see maw number's twenty two, yor sure te find me there. If ye see me at Newcassel races just gi' yorsel a treat, Aw'll drive ye frae the monument and away alang Blackett Street; Aw flee past aw the uther cabs, not a minute will aw wait, Aw shoot cheps are ye gannin up? aw'll tip ye the winner of the plate. Aw oft get a job at a bowling match, and sumtimes a footrace, That's ran at the Victoria grund, smash man aw like that place; 'Cas de ye see aw haud the bets, aw gets sixpence te the pund, And lends the cheps maw whup, ye knaw, te clear away the grund. Ye shud see me aboot the hirin' time, when servants leeve their place, Aw's sure to get a job fra' them, aw've sic a winnin' face, Aw puts thor boxes on the top; if she's a canny lass, She'll giv us a shilling for maw job and sixpence te get a glass. Thor's two busses runs te Blaydon noo, and one up the Windmill Hills, For aw thor opposhun us cabbys we leeve still; and when aw gets a swell in drunk that leeves up West Parade, Aw charge him a bob when he gets in and swears he's niver paid. At funerals, weddins, or chrisnens, aw like sic jobs as these, Cas de ye see aw gets a rare blaw oot wi' rum an' breed an' cheese, And if aw get a weddin job which vary oft aw de, Ye shud see me winkin' at the bride, then the bride she'll wink at me. -Geordy Ridley back to the song menu John Spencer air- Hamlet Maw nyem it is Jack Spencer, Aw hawk aboot the toon. Aw try ti' keep yor sporrits up When ye are lettin them gan doon; Aw'm not like the priests that preach, And tells ye hoo te get ti heaven, Aw patter hard yor hearts ti cheer, And get an honest livin. Spoken- Black Combs, Side Combs, Ear Rings, Breast Pins, Steel Pens! Chorus: Cock-a-doodle-dow, cock -a - doodle-doodle, Cock-a doodle-dow, cock-a doodle-doodle. Aw used ti try the peep-show dodge, But that suin turned oot stale, And then a quack doctor aw turned, The flats aw used ti nail; But one day a bobby he nailed me For stannin in the street, And ti the manors he tuik me up, And kept me there all neet. Aw gets oot the next morning, An' gans up ti Clayton Street, Aw call'd inti Young's the sign o' the Clock, An' maw box was there all ret! Aw there falls in wi' Adam Scott, An each of us had a glass of whisky; Adam danced a hornpipe fine, Mesel, aw sung the Bay of Biscay. The servant lass she says ti me-- Aw say, John, d'ye want a wife? No! no! says aw, d'ye think aw'm fond, Or tired of maw life,-- Says aw, thor's mair gets married noo Then what can manage to keep gud houses, An' when we are working hard for brass, Wi' yor nibers ye gan an' boozes. Aw used ti follow a nice young lass, She leev'd up Westgate hill, Aw used ti take her ower the moor ti see the rifles drill; Oft ti Tynemouth in her Sunday out, Aw've seen us byeth sail doon the Tyne, We'd cum up agyen wi' the eight train, An' get her in tiv her place at nine. So noo aw think aw'll cut me stick, Aw've teld ye all what aw hev been, An lang may Victoria leeve. That is ye knaw wor canny Queen! And lang may the soup kitchen stand For ivery working man an' woman, And aw hope it'll not be lang Before we see the gud time cumin'. -Geordy Ridley back to the song menu Newcastle Celebrities Air- Nothing More Thi day aw thowt aw'd hev a walk, aw wandered doon the quay, Aw met Henwife Jack an' Ranter, they wor as drunk as they cud be: They had just cum oot the Custom Hoose alang wi fishwives mony a score Shootin buy maw caller herrin, hinny, an' aw'll ask for nothing more. Awd Cuckoo Jack he's deed an gyen, sum called him a knave, He saved mony a muther's bairn fra' hevin a watery grave; Deed bodies he got mony a one just doon by the North Shore, If ye paid Cuckoo for his labour, he wad ask for nothing more. Dickey Granger's hooked it te, he must hev been a strange creature, Te build sic streets as Grey Street an' sic a fine Theatre: If they only had but let him leeve ti the age of fower score, He wad finished Stephenson's monument, an' wad ask for nothing more. There's Sir William Airmstrang, knighted by the Queen, For makin' these guns for government, thor like was niver seen: An' sud a foreign foe cum here ti invade wor canny shore, If we get the Airmstrang on we wad ask for nothing more. Ye'll all knaw Harry Clasper, he's an honour te wor Tyne, For pullin boats and buildin them, he can all the rest ootshine: Thor's Chambers, Winship and little Jack will join in a fower oar, If we only mill the cocknies we'll ask for nothing more. There's the porter pokemen that works upon the kee, They are the cheps for jokin, an' they oft get on the spree; They are all concert ganners, for singin they de adore, Giv' them a fair day's wage an' a fair day's wark an' they'll ask for nothing more. -Geordy Ridley back to the song menu Bullerwell and Summer's Race air- Young Man from the Country Aw'm gawn te tell ye aboot a race That cum off som time back. Bitween one Summers and Bullerwell, This Summers was all thi crack, Thi race was at thi Victoria grund, They said Summers was gawn ti flee, Says Bob aw cum frae Blaydon, And ye'll not get ower me. Noo when they both got at ti scratch, Summer's backers they did chaff, But Bob knawin' his little game Did nowt butstand and laff, When Bob's backers got thor money on, Summers wanted thi start d'ye see, But says Bob aw cum frae Blaydon, And ye'll not get ower me. Noo off they went wi Bob in front, Summer's backers went near mad, They said that they cud esely wun If he hadn't tyekin bad. Noo away Bob went an' got the stakes, and then they had a spree, Says Bob aw'm frae the country, An' ye'l not get ower me. Noo away we gans ti thi station, And tyuk the half-past sevin train, Then off we went ti Blaydon Ti the sign of the Rifleman, An' there we all sat fuddlin', We had a first rate spree, Says Bob aw cum frae Blaydon, And ye'll not get ower me. Then here's success to Bullerwell, May he always be weel backed, An' lang may Blaydon flourish, Since they've passed the Local Act, And here's success ti thi workin' man, May he niver want a frind d'ye see, So lads aw've sung ye maw song. And ye'll get nee mair frae me. -Geordy Ridley back to the song menu Teasdale Wilson the City Champion air- The Happiest Man Alive Now ye've heard of Teasdale Wilson, He's a keelman doon the shore, They call him the City Champion, 'Caws they nivor had one before, For a Keel or in a Coble He'll give ony man a race, For five, and twenty pund aside An' toss for choice of place. Chorus- Now he's a Sandgit lad, The bloomin' City Champion, So lads noo get yor money on, Ye may depend upon, Wheniver he rows he always goes The whole Hog or none. Aw mind he rowed a coble race Wi' Hopey doon at Blyth, that race was for a hundred pund, To win Hopey hard did strive; But the Sandgit cheps they shooted hard, When the wind blew Teasdale about, and the Porter-pokemen aw did say,-- He's the gamest lad that's out. Aw mind when he rowed Matfin, Now this agyen he won; Ye'd died a laffin' had ye been there And ony seen the fun, As Matfin he fell out of his boat When he was two lengths forst, When Teasdale turn'd 'tis said, He laffed till he nearly borst. He licked little Dickey Clasper,tee, This caused agreet sensation, 'Twas tow to one on Dick that day, For that there was no 'casion; Mind Dickey took the lead at forst, 'An when they got to the shot tower, Teasdale shut away a-heed, Now isn't he a Cure. Aw can tell ye plenty mair he licked, But aw think aw'l cut me stick, They presented him wiv a watchand chain, An' aw hope to that he'll stick; So lang may Teasdale flourish, an' to win he'll always strive, The Sandgate cheps they all declare He's the gamest lad alive. -Geordy Ridley back to the song menu The Sheels Lass for Me air- the whole hog or none For midi sound click here For notation click here The uther day we went to Tinmuth, Some mair young cheps and me, An' the first place that we called in Was the Cottage by the Sea. There was a young lass sitting, They called her Nancy Till, She was axin' Aud Bob Ridley To gan an' hev a gill. Chorus- Oh, ye lasses all, the truth aw'll tell ye hinny Tyneside's the place where the lasses are se bonny, An' if ever aw get married, There's a Sheels lass for me. Now in cum Billy Pattison Alang wi' Minnie Clyde, He said, just Wait for the Waggon, An'ye'll all get a ride. Then in cum Annie Laurie, Alang wi' Robin Grey The Jolly Waggoner brought in Doran's Ass, To tyek the waggon away. Then in comes Peter Gray Wi Rosalie the Prairee Flower, An' the Young Man from the Country Alang wi' the Perfect Cure. Next in comes Nelly Gray She was singin' Dixey's Land, And Widow Machree was cryin' Oh! Tis hard ti give the Hand. Then in cum the Artful Dodger, He was on the Low Back'd Car, He was gan ti Limerick Races, Wi' Pat of Mullingar. Then in comes Gentle Annie, She was singin' Ole King Cole, Pat Murphy, he was thre tee, Just come from the Old Bog Hole. The Young Man from the Country Was sittin' on the floor, He said if he'd a Ragged Coat He'd Ask for Nothing More. There is a Flower that Bloometh, 'Tis the Last Rose of Summer; Ben Bolt cried from the Old Arm Chair, What's a' the Steer, Kimmer. The next aw saw John Barleycorn, He was there wi' Nelly Bly, She sung My own, my Guiding Star, And No Irish need Apply. Now it was So early in the Morning, That we heard the Postman's Knock, Then we all sang God save the Queen, An' the Company up was broke. -Geordie Ridley back to the song menu The Stephenson Monument air- John Barleycorn George Stephenson was as great a man As any in the North; Ye'll find his Monument stannin' now In a place it's near the Forth: He was a poor body's bairn, And he used to drive a gin, An' at neets he'd mend the nebor's shoes His daily bread to win. Chorus: Three cheers for Seephenson, George and Robert Stephenson, Long may their names be heard On the Banks of the Coaly Tyne. Goerge once got a Fireman's job, He had fourteen shilling a-week. An' next he got a Brakesman's job, He then for a wife did seek; He married one Fanny Henderson, Her fether was a working man, An' Robert he was ther only, son, The cleverest in the land. Ye shud oney see thor little thatch hoose, 'aside Wylam waggon-way, the walls were plastered up wi' clarts, An' the flors war now't but clay. There was three glass panes for windows, An' the rest war myed o' wood, Now there stands a forst-rate beeldin' Where the aud thatch hoose once stood. The first locomotive that he myed, the Rocket she was ca'd, He said she'd run ten miles an hour, The folks thow't he'd gyen mad. These days there was ne iron rails, Thewaggon-ways were wood, He said she'd run as hard agyen, And they said she never could. Now George he suen left Newburn, For he knew he was reet clivor; He shifted doon to Willington Quay, that's ten miles doon the river. He invented a steam ballast crane, Which got him a greet nyem, The aud ballast crane is stannin' yet, At least aw'm told the syem. Now ye see how clivor a man may be, Tho's he's brought up very poor, And Robert he was as clivor a man As ivor liv'd aw'm sure; Now think on what aw've telled ye, lads, An' always keep't in min' An' try to be a Stephenson, two o' the cliverest men o' Tyne. -Geordie Ridley back to the song menu Chambers air- The whole hog or none Now lads ye've heerd of Chambers, He's bet the Asstrilyen Green, For pullin a skiff there is ne doot He's the best ther's ivor been. He has regular locomotiv ' speed, He's upreet, honest, and true, Wheniver he pulls wiv a pair ov sculls Aw puts on ivory screw! Chorus- Ohh, ye Cockneys all, Ye mun think't very funny, for Bob he gans and licks ye all, An collars all aw yor money, Whenivor he rows he always goes The whole hog or none. Aw hear when Bob was nine year aud, He oft played the wag frae skull; He oft wad steel a boat away, An gan an hev a pull. Hees fether often tanned hees hide, But Bob he didn't care, Now, fether, he says if ye dinnat bray's Am sure aw'll did ne mair Bob struggled hard fra been a bairn Fore he got to what hee's now. He pudled iv walker Rowlin Mill But he's bull'd heessel safe throu'; An aw hope each job he tyeks in hand Hee'l always hev fair play, An think a number one--that is-- Never give a chance away. Now when Bob and Green they pulled thor match, This green luik'd very wild, He tuik the lead of Bob at forst Till they got abyun a mile. Burt harry gov Bob gthe office then, Saying aw'l lay ten to ite, The Reporter of the Chronicle said That Greeny then turned white. Now Bob hee's licked byeth Green and white, And Kelly, an' Everson and aw, An Cooper put the Mackey on, And stopped the Cockney's craw. This Green wad fain row Bob agyn, But aud Harry he wants a bigger stake, For they munna think to catch him asleep For he's always wide awake. Tyek Bob all in all, as Shakespere says, We'll ne'eer see his like agyen, He waddant de an unjust thing To hurt poor working men; Win if he can, it is his plan, so get yor money on, For whenivor he shows he always goes The whole hog or none. -Geordie Ridley back to the song menu The Barber's News or- Shields in an Uproar Great was the consternation, amazement, and dismay, sir, Which both in North and South shields, prevail'd the other day, sir; Quite panic-struck the nativeswere, when told by the Barber, That a terrible Sea Monster had got into the harbour! Now each honest man in Shields--I mean both North and South, sir, Delighting in occasions to expand their eyes and mouth, sir; And, fond of seeing marv'loust sights, ne'er staid to get his beard off; But ran to view the Monster, its arrival when he heard of. Oh! who could think of shaving when inform'd by the barber, That a terrible Sea Monster had got into the harbour. Each wife pursu'd her husband, and every child its mother, Lads and lasses, helter skelter, scamper'd after one another; Shopkeepers and mechanics too, forsook their daily labours, And ran to gape and stare among their gaping, staring neighbours. All crowded to the river side, when told by the Barber, That a terrible Sea Monster had got into the harbour. It happens very frequently that Barber's news is fiction, sir, But the wond'rous newsthis morning was truth, no contradiction, sir; Something sure enough was there, among the billows flouncing, Now sinking in the deep profound, now on the surface bouncing. True as Gazette or Gospel were the tidings of the Barber, That a terrible Sea Monster had got into the harbour. Some thought it was a Shark, sir; a Porpus some conceiv'd it; Some swore it was a Sea Horse, then own'd themselves mistaken, for, now they'd got a nearer view--'twas certainly a Kraken. Each sported his opinion from the Parson to the Barber Of the terrible Sea Monster they'd gotten in the harbour. Belay, belay! a sailor cried, What that, this thing a Kraken! Tis more like one, split my jib! than it is a flitch of bacon! I've often seen a hundred such, all sporting in the Nile, sir, And you may trust a sailor's word, it is a Crocodile, sir. Each straight to Jack knocks under, from the Parson to the Barber, And all agreed a Crocodile had got into the harbour, Yet greatly Jack's discovery his auditors did shock sir, For they dreaded that the Salmon would be eat up by the Croc, sir; When presently the Crocodile, their consternation crowning, Rais'd it's head abovethe waves, and cried, Help! O Lord, I'm drowning! Heavens! how their hair, sir, stood on end, from the Parson to the Barber, To find a speaking Crocodile had got into the harbour. This dreadful exclamation appall'd both young and old, sir. In the very stoutest hearts, indeed, it made the blood run cold, sir; Ev'n Jack, the hero of the Nile, it caus'd to quake and tremble, Until an old wife, sighing, cried, Alas! 'tis Stephen Kremble! Heav'ns! how they all astonish'd were, from the Parson to the Barber, To find that Stephen Kremble was the Monster in the harbour. Straight Crocodilish fears gave place to manly gen'rous strife, sir, Most willingly each lent a hand to save poor Stephen's life, sir; They dragg'd him gasping to the shore, impatient for his history, For how he came in that sad plight, to them was quite a mistery. Tears glisten'd, sir, in every eye, from the Parson to the Barber, When swoln to thrice his natural size, they dragg'd him from the harbour. Now having roll'd and rubb'd him well an hour upon the beach, sir, He got upon his legs again, and made a serious speech,sir; Quoth he, An ancient proverb says, and true it will be found, sirs, Those born to profe an airy doom will surely ne'er be drown'd sirs: For Fate, sirs, has us all in tow, from the Monarch to the Barber, Or surely I had breat'd my last this morning in the harbour. Resolv'd to cross the river, sirs, a sculler did i get into May Johna's evil luck be mine, another when I step into Just when we reach'd the deepest part, O horror! there it flounders, And down went poor Pilgarlick amongst the crabs and flounders, But Fate, that keeps us all in tow, from the Monarch to the Barber, Ordain'd I should not breathe my last this morning in the harbour. I've broke down many a stage coach, and many a chaise and gig, sirs; Once, in passing through a trap-hole, I found myself too big, sirs; I've been circumstanc'd most oddly, while contesting a hard race, sirs, But ne'er was half so frighten'd as among the Crabs and Plaice, sirs. O Fate, sirs keeps us all in tow, from the Monarch to the Barber, Or certainly I'd breath'd my last this morning in the harbour. My friends, for your exertions, my heart o'erflows with gratitude, O may it prove the last time you find me in that latitude; God knows with what mischances dire the future may abound, sirs, But I hope and trust I'm one ofthose not fated to be drown'd sirs. Thus ended his oration, I had it from the Barber; And dripping, like some River god, he slowly left the harbour. Ye men of North and South shields too, God send you all prosperity! May your commerce ever flourish, your stately ships still crowd the sea: -J. Shield--In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Bonassus tune- Jemmy Joneson's Whurry Let Wombwell, James, and a' the pack Iv yelpin' curs, beef-eaters, Ne mair about Bonasses crack, Them queer, outlandish creturs. Be dumb, ye leeing, yammering hounds, Nor wi' yor claves flas us, For seun aw'll prove wor canny town Can boast its awn Bonassus. It chanc'd when honest Bell was Mayor, And gat each poor man's blessin-- When cheps like G--e, and Tommy C--r Gat monny a gratis lesson; Then Bell refus'd to stand agyen, Tir'd iv the situation, And ne awd wife wadtyek the chain Iv a' wor Corporation. The folks iv Shields has lang begrug'd The Custom-house beside us; This was the time, they reetly judg'd, To come sae fine langside us: They had a chep, W--t was his nyem, To poor folk rather scurvy, They sent him up wor heeds to kyem, And turn us topsy turvy. He seum began to show his horns, And treat the poor like vasals-- He sent the apple wivesto mourn A month iv wor awd Cassel. the timber marchants will ne mair Wiv ten-a-penny deave us-- They swear iv W--t's to be wor Mayor, That i' the dark they'll leave us. The drapers next he gov a gleece, 'Bout their unruly samples-- Bound ower the cloutsto keep the peace, Wiv strings to the door stanchells. The tatee-market, iv a tift- (Ye heuxters a' resent it! My sarties! but that was a shift,) To the Parade Ground sent it. Ye gowks, frae Shields ye've oft slipt up, When ye had little 'casion, To see wor snobs their capers cut, Or Geordy's Coronation; Now altogether come yence mair, Wor blissins shall attend ye, If ye'll butridus o' wor Mayor, Iv hackneys back we'll send ye. Oliver--In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Shields Chain Bridge Humourously Described by a Pitman. Now, Geordy, my lad, sit as mute as a tyed, An' aw'll tell ye 'bout Chain Brig at's gaun to be myed; Aw'll begin at the furst, an' gan on till aw cum To the end o' my story--and then aw'll be deun. Some folks tell a plain, simple story at times, But aw'm nothing like them, aw tell a' things iv rhyumes. Smash, Geordy, sit quiet--keep in thaw great toes, An' aw'll gan as straight forrat as waggoners goes. Wey, ye see, the folks thought, i' gaun over the water, 'Stead o' crossing wi' boats, at a brig wad be better; So the gentlemen gather'd a great congregation, The syem as folks de at the heed o' the nation; Then they some things brought forrat, an' some they put back, So they sattled a Brig sud be built iv a crack. 'Twasn't lang efter this, aw gat haud if a paper, Tell'd the size ist should be, just as nice as a taper. How! says aw to mysel, but they haven't been lang, Dash! a fellow like me may stite myek up a sang, Or some such like thing-- just to myek a bit fun: So it's ne seuner said that it's cleverly deun. Folks thought me a genius when first aw was born-- But what is aw deein?--aw mun tell ye the form O' this said Iron Brig 'at aw's talking aboot, When aw pull up me breeches, and blaw out me snout. Huge abutments o' styen, aw think they are call'd-- When aw com to that word aw was avarry near pall'd; On each side o' the river yen o' thor things is myed, To fit intiv a hole they howk out wiv a spyed. Frae the tops o' thor pillars to the edge o' the banks, Varry strang iron chains, myed o' wrought iron links, Hingin' ower the house-tops o' byeth sides o' the river,. Thor chains is continued frae pillar to pillar. Frae the big'uns is hung some inferior in length, To the bottom of which a foundation of strength Is first, wrought wi' iron and cover'd wi' styen, Then surmounted wi' railing--it's deun, skin and byen. Now, Geordy, what de ye think ov it, my lad?- Wey, speak--what's the maiter--or ye tyen varry bad? Or extonishment is it that's sew'd up yor mouth? But aw divent much wonder, so aw'll tell the real trugh. Aw wonderwor owners disn't see into it, And myek a Chain Brig for to gan down wor pit. A! man, but it's cliver--it's use 'ill be great; For to what lad o' Shields wad the thought not be sweet, To cross ower the water without danger or fear, As aw've monny a time deun i' gawn ower the Wear. When we cross ower the water i' boats we're in danger, But the hazard is warse tiv a man 'at's a stranger. While this hang'd ugly sailing o' packets survives, We're in very great danger o' losing wor lives. But it's ne use to tell the unnumber'd disasters Which happen to 'prentices, workmen, and masters, On crossing the Tyne i' them sma' sculler boats, Or ony thing else on the water that floats. At ony rate, the Chain Brig is a fair safer plan, And would save mony lives-contradict it whe can! Besides ye knaw, Geordy, it's easier and better For the Canny folks 'at leaves on the banks o' the water. To walk straight afore them 'stead o' gaun doon the street, And when the're iv a hurry running doon a' they meet, Forbye being kept myest an hour in suspense, By cairts, that sometimes myek a plague of a fence, Then the folks are a' stopt, tho' they be iv a hurry. Now, ye blithe lads o' Shields, let it be a' yor glory, To get this Chain Brig rear'd on high in the air, Then we'll hae to soom aman steam-boats ne mair Smash their great clumsy wheels! aw like nyen o' their wark, They once cowpt me owerboard, an' aw was wet to the sark; But catch me gaun ony mair near them again-- If aw de, say aw divent belang Collingwood Main! Oliver-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Tyne #2 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 sever From Durham's rising hills, and 'tis called--the Tyne. Chorus- Flow on, lovely Tyne, undisturb'd be thy motion, Thy sons hold the threats of proud France in distain; 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 noted In 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. 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. Thou dearest of rivers, oft-times have I wander'd Thy margin along when oppress'd sore with grief, And thought of thy stream, as it onward meander'd. The murmuring melody gave me relief. From the fragrant wild flowers that blow on they border, The playful Zephyrus oft steals an embrace, And curling thy surface in beauteous order, The willows bend forward to kiss thy clear face. 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. H. Robson-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Spring 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 rong. 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 grow Near 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. H. Robson-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Parson Malthus Written in 1836 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 mention Alludes to one Malthus, a priest-- A proud, hypocritical preacher, Who feds on thithe-pig 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 all Poor 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 the great, Their hands to with-hold from supplying The 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 see Malthus's 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-- Siuch 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 hads and ye lasses, Ne'er heed this daft, whimsical Priest; Get sweethearts in spite of such asses-- The Bible Plan sure is the best: Then away go in couples together, And marry while you're in yoiur prime, And strive to agree with each other, For life only lasts a short time! H. Robson-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Peter Waggy written in 1826 I, when a child, for trinket ware Would 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 dancingf Peter Waggy! Love of such trifles time destroys-- At length each well-grown lass and laddie Seeks 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. H. Robson,-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Bessy of Blyth A virtouous woman is more precious than rubies. written in 1826 In Cramlington we've bonnie lasses enow, With cheeks 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. -H. Robson-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Kelvin Grove--The Lassie's Answer Written in 1827- To Kelvin Grove we'll go, bonnie laddie, O, Where the sweetest floweres grow, bonnie laddie, O; With my true-love by my side, Of a' the floweers 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 bereath, 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. -H. Robson-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu To Mr. Peter Watson * Who lays powerful Bats on the Knaves with Fire-Shovel hats on. 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 whither Directs your bold genius?--'twould seem you choose rather To 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 putllets 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 whol fry. I'd have you respect more the Lord's own anointed, 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 quickly pay your Easter Dues, And to guiileless Parsons give no more abuse, Or spiritual comfort to you the'll refuse, and this may cause you to sigh! For things are so chang'd since you range them a peal, That the Clerk seems afraid through our parish to speel; For he's look'd on no better than one come ot steal, Which nobody can deny. The clerk of St. John's, that he might have good luck Employ'd a brave Noodle, whose nick-name is Pluck, To collect Easter-ence; 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 their holy disdain, Yet you'll fill a niche in the Temple of Fame, Which nobody will deny. *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. -H. Robson-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Newcastle Subscription Mill tune- Newcastle Ale 1814 While Europe rejoices at Bonny's defeat, And Cossacks pursue him o'er plain and o're 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* 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 back To 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 deserves to be strung, For the housands 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! About the month of Novermber, 1813 (according to the Courier newspaper) a victualler for the Navy was convicted in adulterating the biscut 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. -H. Robson-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Lizzie Liberty tune- Tibby Fowler i' the Glen Sung at a meeting of Reformers at the Golden Lion Inn, Bigg Market, Newcastel on the liberation of Henry Hunt, Esq. 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. -H. Robson-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The New Fish Market Tune- Scots come o'er the Border Chorus- 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, 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 fisherment sharply to catch them. Yet all isn't right, tho'-- in time you may hear it; One wek 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. Gan to the coast--where's 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 nad vexation. Where's Madgie's troops that so well could shout oysters? Gon 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! 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! William Midford-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu A New Year's Carol For the Fishwives of Newcastle tune- Chevy Chase. God prosper long our noble king, Our lives and safeties all! A woeful ditty we may sing On ev'ry fishwife's stall. Good Magistrates, it were a sin That we should rail at you; Altho' the plaice you've put us in, Is grating to our view. If crab-bed looks we should put on, Or flounder in a pet, Each fishwife's tub would, very soon, Be in the kit-ty set. Sure we are not such simple soles, Though in your legal net, But we will haul you o'er the coals, And play hot cockles yet. The Iron ring in which we're shut, To make the grudgeons stare, Will not, says ev'ry scolding slut, With her-ring e'er compare. Then ev'ry night that duly falls, Fresh water may be sen All floating round our seats and stalls, As if we had-ducks been. But thus shell'd in , as now we are, Within our corp'rate bounds, Altho' we may not curse and swear, We still may cry, Cod-sounds! Let gentle people carp their fill, At us, our sprees and pranks; For tho' we're now turn'd off the Hill, Themselves may lose their Banks. -M.Ross -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu 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 here skill; Here fragrant soft breezes unite, To wanton round Jesmond Mill. When silence each evening here dwells, The birdes in their coverts all still; No music in sweetness excells The 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 hadskill; And now I will frankly confess, 'Tis--Jenny of Jesmond Mill. -Phil Hodgson--In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Tommy Thompson Author of Canny Newcassel, Jemmy Joneson's Whurry, &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 descend O'er blosoms deep and lonesome- Let every heart and hand respond The name of Tommy Thompson. Chorus- His spirit now is soaring bright, And leaves us dark and dolesome; O luckless was the fatal night That 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 matchles, merry tone, Which died with Tommy Thompson -Robert Gilchrist-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Farewell to the Tyne Farewell, lovely Tyne, in thy soft murmurs flowing, Adieu to the shades of thy mouldering towers! And sweet be the flowers on thy wild margin growing, And sweet be the nymphs that inhabit thy bowers! And there shall be ties which no distance can sever, Thou land of our fathers, the dauntless and free; Tho' the charms of each change smile around me, yet never Shall the sigh be inconstant that's hallow'd to thee. Thy full orb of glory will blaze o'er each contest-- Thy sons, e'er renown'd be the dread of each foe-- Till thy tars chill with fear in the fight or the tempest, And the pure streams of Heddon have ceas'd more to flow. May commerce be thine--and from Tynemouth to Stella May thy dark dingy waters auspiciously roll-- And thy lads in the keels long be jovial and mellow, With faces as black as the keel or the coal. O Albion! of words thou shalt e'er be the wonder, Thy tough wooden walls, thy protection and pride, so long as the bolts of thy cloud-rending thunder Are hurl'd by the lads on the banks of Tyneside. Robert Gilchrist-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne back to the song menu Northumberland Free O' Newcassel Composed extempore, on the Duke of Northumberland being presented with the Freedom of Newcastle. To that far-ken'd and wondrous place, Newcassel town, Where each thing yen lucks at surprises, Wiv a head full o' fancies, and heart full o' fun, Aw'd com'd in to see my Lord Sizes. In byeth town and country aw glowrin' beheld Carousin' laird, tenant, an' vassal; On axin' the cause o' sic joy, aw was tell'd, Twas Northumberland free o' Newcassel. The guns frae the Cassel sent monny a peal-- My hair stood on end a' confounded-- The folks on Tyne-brig set up monny a squeel, And the banks o' Tyneside a' resounded. In the Mute Hall, Judge Bayley roar'd out, My poor head!-- Gan an' tell them not to myek sic a rattle. Judge Wood cried out, No--let them fire us half dead, Since Northumberland's free o' Newcassel! The Duke e'er has been byeth wor glory an'pride, For dousely he fills up his station; May he lang live to hearten the lads o' Tyneside, The glory and pride o' their nation. Prave Prudhoe* triumphant shall plough the wide main, The hash o' the Yankees he'll sattle; and ages hereefter but sarve to proclaim Northumberland free o' Newcassel. May it please Heav'n to grant that the sweet Flower o' Wales, ** Wi' Northumberland's roses entwinin', May its fragrance shed forth i' celestial gales, In glory unceasin'ly shinin', In defence o' wor country, wor laws, an' wor King, May a Peercy still lead us to battle; An' monny a brisk lad o' the nyem may there spring Fra Northumberland, free o' Newcassel. *Baron Prudhoe, of the Royal Navy **The Duchess of Northumberland. Robert Gilchrist-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne back to the song menu The Duchess and Mayoress Written in September, 1819 Ye Northumberland lads and ye lasses, Come and see what at Newcastle passes, Here's a damnable rout, At a tea and turn out, And no one knows how to bring matters about. It seems, at our summer Assizes, (Or at least so the present surmise is) The wife of the Mayor Never offer'd her chair At the Ball when the Duchess from Alnwick was there. Then 'tis said, too, by way of addition, To the Mayoress's turn for sediton, That, in right of her place, With her impudent face, She march'd out to tea at the head of her Grace. So our vigorous young Lord Lietennant, Next day, when the Grand Jury were present, Disclos'd to their view, (In enigma, 'tis true) The plot of the Mayoress and all her d--d crew. When his health was propos'd as Lieutennant, He bow'd to the company present; Then, with tears in his eyes, And to all their surprise, My office, (his Grace said) too heavily lies. I had firmly imagn'd till now, sirs, That our county was free from all row, sirs; But what has occurr'd Though I shan'nt say a word, Till the voice of yourselves and the county is heard. All at present I wish yon to know is, That my Duchess and Dame Lady Powis, Have receiv'd such a blow, That thy never can go To your ball, at Newcastle, while things remain so. A high rank has its weight in the nation, If you hold it in due estimation; Then the Duchess and I For redress must apply, Tho' at present I mention no name--no, not I. All I wish is to find out your pleasures, And hope to avoid all harsh measures; Yet I always foresaw This Republican jaw Would sooner or later produce Martial Law. Thus ended the young Lord Lieutenant, When the terrified company present, Cried, Name, my Lord name Who's to blame--who's to blame; But the Duek said, the County must smother the flame. And the Duchess and he, the next morning, Fulfill'd my Lord Lieutennant's warning; Then up before day, And to Alnwick away, Their faces have ne'er since been seen to this day. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Part 9 Directory 7 Click here for main menu of this directory. Use our floating menu to improve navigation. you can reposition it by clicking on top bar and dragging Floating Menu Menu of all of the Sangs Click here For tunes in .abc notation click here For an index of persons and places mentioned in the sangs click here For Bibliography,and Philosophy of the collection click here We invite you to contribute! Click here to comment or add. Soon after our upgrade the songs which the priests have recorded will be high-lighted thusly Illustrated by woodcuts by Joseph Crawhall (Newcastle, 1889) (Where you see the music note image there will be a midi file-for you to listen to!) Your Choices! The Main Menu! Main Menu Newcastle Assizes or a Struggle for Precedence The Coal Trade Tom Carr and Waller Watson or Tom and Jerry at Home Johnny Sc-tt and Tommy C-rr Tommy C-rr in Limbo The Kitty Port Admiral at the Bench or, Dogberry in the Suds. The Owl Lovely Delia Pandon Dean Newcastle Hackneys Newcastle Improvements Come up to the Scratch Or, the Pitman Haggish'd The Pitman's Dream Or, A description of the North Pole The Pitman's Dream Or, His Description of the Kitchen Famed Filly Fair; Or, A Peep into Pilgrim Street T--ly's Best Blood Newcastle Hackney Coaches The Newcastle Noodles British Justice Or, Newcastle Privy Court Cull Billy's Prize The Bewildered Skipper The Coquet for Ever The Colier's Wedding The Auld Fisher's Last Wish The Fishermen Hung The Monkey O! The Misfortunes of Roger and His Wife Newcastle Theatre in an Uproar Farewell, Archy Sir Tommy Made an Odd Fellow Wreckenton Hiring On Russell the Pedestrian On Simpson the Pedestrian's Failure The Victory or, The Captain Done Over The Alarm!!! Or, Lord Fauconberg's March The Half-Drowned Skipper The Newcastle Worthies Humanum Est Errare Old Nick's Visit to H__s Kitchen Invitation to the Mansion House Dinner The Newcastle Swineherd's Proclamation The Golden Horns or The General Invitatoin Loyal Festivities Picture of Newcastle Or, George the Fourth's Coronation Newcastle in an Uproar Coronation Day At Newcastle Coronation Thursday July 19, 1821 Use this Pull down form to go to our other pages To return to the top of this page click here. Newcastle Assizes Duchess versus Mayoress: Or, a Struggle for Precedence Why, what's a' this about, Mr. Mayor, Mister Mayor? Why, what's a' this about, Mister Mayor? Yor Worship's wife they say, To the Duchess won't give way, Nor due attention pay, Mister Mayor! But is this true aw pray, Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor? But is this true, aw pray, Mister Mayor? If it's true, as aw believe, Ye'll ha'e muckle cause to grieve-- The Duke, yor toon will leave, Mister Mayor! The Judge, Sir William Scott, Mr. Mayor, Mister Mayor! The Judge, Sir William Scott, Mr. Mayor! Says, yor wife is much to blame; And aw think 'twad be ne shame, To skelp her for the same, Mister Mayor! 'Tis not the Judge alane, Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor! 'Tis not the Judge alane, Mr. Mayor! But the Judge and Jury baith, Say, she's guilty o' maw faith, An so Sir Thomas saith, Mr. mayor! The Duke and Jury towld, Mister Mayor, Mr. Mayor! The Duke and Jury towld, Mr. Mayor! He went with them to dine, And surely he did whine, 'Bout his wife, mun, ow'r his wine, Mr. Mayor! 'Twas sure ne noble deed, Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor! 'Twas sure ne noble deed, Mr. Mayor! He shew'd ne mighty sense, At your Dame to take offence; So let his Grace gan hence, Mr. Mayor! But there's other folk to blame Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor! But there's other folk to blame, Mr. Mayor! Yor wife has counsell'd with Wor Vicar, Johnny Smith, And he's nought, ye knaw, but pith, Mr. Mayor! Enjoy life when ye can, Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor! Enjoy life when ye can, Mr. Mayor! Nor let the Brewer Knight, Nor the Duke, wi' a' his spite, Say yor wife's no i' the right, Mr. Mayor. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Coal Trade Good people, listen while I sing And source from whence your comforts spring, And may each wind that blows still bring Success unto the Coal Trade? Who but unusual pleasure feels To see our fleets of ships and keels! Newcastle, Sunderland, and Shields, May ever bless the Coal Trade. May vultures on the caitiff fly And gnaw his liver till he die, Who looks with evil, jealous eye, Down upon the Coal Trade. If that should fail, what would ensue? Sure, ruin and disaster too! Alas! alas! what could we do, If 'twere not for the Coal Trade! What is it gives us cakes of meal? What is it crams our wames sae weel With lumps of beef and draughts of ale? What is't, but just the Coal Trade. Not Davis' Straits or Greenland oil, Nor all the wealth springs from the soil, Could ever make our pots to boil, Like unto our Coal Trade. Ye sailor's wives that love a drop Of stingo fra the brandy shop, How could you get one single drop, If it were not for the Coal Trade. Ye pitmen lads, so blithe and gay, Who meet to tipple each pay-day, Down on your marrow bones and pray, Success unto the Coal Trade! May Wear and Tyne still draw and pour Their jet black treasures to the shore, And we with all our strength will roar, Success unto the Coal Trade! Ye owners, masters, sailors a' Come shout till ye be like to fa'; Your voices raise--huzza! huzza! We all live by the Coal Trade. This nation is in duty bound, To prize those who work under ground, For 'tis well know this country round Is kept up by the Coal Trade. May Wear, and Tyne, and Thames ne'er freeze, Our ships and keels will pass with ease, Then Newcastle, Sunderland and Shields, Will still uphold the Coal Trade. I tell tthe truth, you may depend, In Durham or Northumberland, No trade in them could ever stand, If it were not for the Coal trade. The owners know full well, 'tis true, Without pitmen, keelmen, sailors too, To Britain they might bid adieu, If it were not for the Coal Trade. So to conclude, and make an end Of these few lines which I have penn'd, We'll drink a health to all those men Who carry on the Coal Trade: To owneers, pitmen, keelmen too, And sailors, who the seas do plough, Without these men we could not do, Nor carry on the Coal Trade. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Tom Carr and Waller Watson Or, Tom and Jerry at Home Tune- There was a bold Dragoon O Marrow, howay to the toon, What fun we will ha'e there! We needn't fear the watchmen now, Let them come if they dare! We'll hev a gill and sing a sang, And through the streets we'll roar a ditty, For tom Carr hez ne bizness now To put us a' neet i' the Kitty. Chorus- Wack, fal, &c. For when he cam before me Lord, He fand his sel a' wrang, For tyaken Watson up yen neet For singing a wee bit sang. Another chep ca'd Walton te, Aw own that he was rather murry, For he tell'd the watchman to be off, Or else he'd givehim Tom and Jurry, The watchman seiz'd him by the neck, Then up cam other two: Says Walton. Now let go o' me Or aw'll let ye knaw just now Then he lifted up his great lang airm, Me soul he gave him sec a knoller; But the watchman kept his haud se lang, He pull'd off Walton's dandy collar. To the watch-house then they dragg'd them off, Before great Captain Carr: Says he, What ha'e ye getten here, Me worthy men o' war? Wye sir, says they, here's two greet cheps, The yen aw shure deserves a swingin; For they've roar'd and shouted thro' the streets, And wyaken'd a' the folks wi' singin. Aye, aye, says Carr 'aw ken them weel, Tyek them out o' my seet! Away wi'them to Mr. Scott, And keep them there a neet. Says Walton, Will ye hear me speak? Says Tommy, Go you to the devil! Wye, wye, says Walton, nevermind, But surely this is damn'd uncivil. Then away they went to Mr. Scott, And find him varry kind: Says he, Young men, I'll treat ye weel, Tho' here against your mind. O Sir, said they, you're very good, But faith this place luiks dark and frightful! Says Walton What a sweet perfume! Says Watson Lord it's quite delightful! But Watson myed Tom Carr to rue, Before 'twas varry lang: He had him tried before me Lord, And Carr fand he was wrang. Me Lord tell'd Carr he had ne reet To shop them, e'en had it been later, Until he'd tyen them, first ov a', Before a Misteer Magistrater. Now Tommy Carr may claw his lug, Th' expences he mun pay: But still there's nyen that's sorry for't It sarves him reet, they say. So howay, lads, let's off to toon, We'll a' put wor bit better hats on; And if Tom Carr shops us agyen, Me sowl! we'll give him Waller Watson. . Oliver-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Johnny Sc-tt and Tommy C-rr A dialogue Sc-tt-Ah! woe's me what shall I do, Tommy C-rr, Tommy C-rr? For I have most cause to rue, Tommy C-rr! Though your costs are very great, Yet much harder is my fate-- I may shut the Kitty gate, Tommy C-rr! C-rr- I will soon be clear of mine, Johny Sc-tt, Johnny Sc-tt! For I will myself confine, Johnny Sc-tt! Just for three short weeks or so, Up the nineteen steps I'll go, And bewash'd as white as snow, Johnny Sc-tt! Sc-tt- Oh! that tyrant of a Judge, Tommy C-rr, Tommy C-rr! He has surely had some grudge, Tommy C-rr! Can we gain our honest bread, Now when cut off in full trade, We who've been so long well fed, Tommy C-rr! C-rr- Oh! how trifling was our chance, Johnny Sc-tt, Johnny Sc-tt! Oh! had Scarlett been at France, Johnny Sc-tt! Brougham's help was all we had, Well he knew our case was bad; And au'd Bayley frown'd like mad, Johnny Sc-tt! Sc-tt- I my huckstering shop may let, Tommy C-rr, Tommy C-rr! No more customers we'll get, Tommy C-rr! Mrs. Sc-tt has room to growl, There is not one hungry soul For to buy a penny roll, Tommy C-rr! C-rr- Let us curse the day and hour, Johnny Sc-tt, Johnny Sc-tt! That depriv'd us of our power, Johnny Sc-tt! Fam'd Newcastle's rattling boys Will kick up a thund'ring noise, And for fun will black our eyes, Johnny Sc-tt! -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Tommy C-rr in Limbo tune- Scots wha ha'e, &c Ye that like a lark or spree! Ye that's iv the Kitty free! Now's the time for mirth and glee, For Tommy is up stairs. Ye that never yet went wrant- Ne'er did warse than sing a sang, Ye that offen had to gan And visit Mr. Mayor's Now then let your joys abound-- Now begin your neetly rounds, And myek the streets wi' mirth resound, Since Tommy is up stairs. Whe before Judge Bayley stood, For sending Watson into quod?-- Whe wad grace a frame of Wood? But honest Tommy C-r. And when fou, wi' cronies dear, Ye'd sally out to Filly Fair, Whe was sure to meet ye there? But honest Tommy C-r: Wiv his beaver round and low, Little switch, and thick surtou', Like Satan prowling to and fro, Seeking to devour. Whe was sure your sport to marr, And send ye off to Cabbage Square? Whe was Judge and Jurry there? But honest Tommy C-r. Whe wadnever tyek yor word? And if to walk ye'd not afford, Whe wad strap ye on a board? but honest Tommy C-r. Oliver-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Kitty Port Admiral at the Bench or, Dogberry in the Suds air- The Opera Hat On the Devil go with you, fat Tom C-r! Bribe him well, he'll be your counsellor, Give you courage when at the bar, And grant you a special favour: Some folks thowt you were gyen to hell, And other some to Derry: but sup the broth you've made yoursel'. There's no one can be sorry. Chorus- So the Devil go with you, &c. Tis well you leave the scorn of those You've sent unto the work-house, For, hangman-like, you'd have cash and clothes, When their friends were glad of the carcase. Bad luck, say I, to your brother brimair! Your crimes 'twill not half smother; So go to Stuart's, in Denton-chare, And prithee choose another For if ever upon the Quay again, You beg for beef and biscuit, The sailor lads will surely cry, Gods! lad, you've sairly miss'd it. May the tread-mill turn to a whiskey-shop, The parrot into a monkey, And Tom C-r selling fine shirt neck buttons, Upon a tripe-wife's donkey. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Owl Written Feb. 1826 Tune X,Y,Z Now run away amang the snobs, An' strangies i' the Garth, man, An hear about the greet black Owl, That's let on Cappy's hearth, man-- Of sic a breed, the Deil his sell Its marrow canna find in Hell! It hops about wiv its slouch hat, Can worry mice like wor tom-cat-- And sic a yarking blubber heed, It bangs X, Y, that famous steed, Or ony thing ye like, Man. Oft frev its nest, in Cabbage Square, It flaffer'd out at neets, man, Mang sic a flock that neetly blare, And carry crooks and leets, man-- Then prowl'd wor streets in search o' prey, And if a mouse but cross'd his way, He quickly had it by the nose, And pawk'd it off to kuel its toes-- Did Hoo! Hoo! wi the blubber heed, That bangs X,Y, that famous steed- So, Cappy keep him tight, man. To tell how Cappy gat this burd, Aw wad be rather fash'd, man; Some say that, of its awn accord, It went to get white wash'd man. So scrub him, Cap, with a' yor might, Just nobbit make the lubbart white-- But if yor brushin' winna dee, There's Waller Watson, Walton, tee, They'll scrub him as they did before, And make the bowdy-kite to roar-- If Cappy keeps him tight, man. St. Nich'las bells now sweetly ring, Yor music's sae bewitchin'-- Ye lads in Neil's * now louder sing, And warble weel Hell's Kitchen**-- For yor au'd friend is in the trap, Alang wi' his awn brother, Cap: then shout hura! agyenwe're free, At neets to hev a canny spree; In gannin hyem, ne mair we'll dreed The Lubbart wi' the chuckle heed-- Mind, Cappy, keep him tight, man. *A famed public -house at the head of Manor-chare. **The tap-room of a famed public-house near the head of Groat Market R. Emery -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Lovely Delia Tune- Sleeping Maggie Upon the flow'ry banks o' Tyne, The rose and myrtle may entwine: But were there every sweet divine, they wadna a' be like my Delia. Chorus- Clear beams the eye o' Delia, Heaven's in the smile o' Delia Nor flowers that blaw, nor falling snaw, Were e'er sae pure as lovely Delia. Gently blaw, thou whistlin' wind, Along the bonny banks o' Tyne, Where nature every grace combin'd When she first form'd my life, my delia Tho' a' the wee birds round me sing, To welcome back the blithefu' spring; Yet a' the music they can bring Is nae sae sweet's the voice o' Delia. The bonny little playfu'lamb, That frisks along the verdant plain, Is nae mair free fra guilty stain, Than is my life, my love, my Delia. The priests they tell us, all above, with angels do delight in love; Then surely angels must approve Their image in my lovely Delia. Truth and kindness ever reigns, In a' he heart, through a' her veins; Yet nane shall ken the pleasing pains I hae endur'd for my sweet Delia chorus- Heaven's in the smile o' Delia, Bright's the beam in here dark eye; Nor floweer that blaws, nor virgin snaws, Were e'er sae pure as my lov'd Delia. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Pandon Dean tune- Banks o' Doon Farewell,ye fragrant, shady groves! Farewell, thou charming sylvan scene, Where partial mem'ry hapless roves-- I bid adieu to Pandon Dean. I bid ye all a long adieu, And fare thee well, my lovely Jean; Thine equal I shall never view, Whilst far awa' fra Pandon Dean. The songsters chanting on the spray, The shrubs and flowers, sae fresh and green Increase my heart's tumultuous play, Which dwells on thee and Pandon Dean. Though far awa' in foreign lands, And trackless oceans foam between, I ne'er shall break those dearest bands thou wreath'dst for me in Pandon Dean These to my heart shall dearest be, When sharp afflictions pierce me keen; 'Twill soothe my woes to think on thee, Thou fairest flower in Pandon Dean. If Fortune smile, I'll then return, Todeck my love in silken sheen; And dwell with her just by the burn That wimples through the bonny Dean. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Newcastle Hackneys The Londoners long for example we've chose, and imported each fashion as fast as it 'rose; Bur the best hit of all, in our awkward approaches, Is St. Nicholas' Square and the new hackney coaches. The ladies have long had advantage of man, In that easy conveyance, a walking sedan; Now the tables are turn'd on he opposite side, For the ladies must walk while the gentlemen ride. When our beaux are dress'd out for a rout or a ball, They've nothing to do but a hackney to call-- Consult not the weather, nor muffle their chins-- No danger of breaking, o'er scrapers, their shins. When a couple's resolv'd on a trip to the church, Wheree a lady has sometimes been left in the lurch; To prevent a misfortune like this, for the future, Pack up in a hackney your amiable suitor. When impertinent tradesmen you're likely to meet, Or a bailiff descry at the end of the street-- Press into your service a hackney and pair, For the devil himself would not look for you there. To many things else they'll apply, I've a notion, They'll even be found to assist your devotion; The doctors will find them most useful, no doubt on't, In peopling the world, or to send people out on't Then success to the hackneys, and long may they roll-- Of balls and assemblies the life and the soul: Since so useful they are, and so cheap is the fare, Pray who would not ride in a carriage and pair? -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Newcastle Improvements Tune- Canny Newcassel What a cockneyfied toon wor Newcassel hez grown-- Wey aw scarce can believe me awn senses; Wor canny aud customs for ever ha'e flown, and there's nowt left ahint for to mense us; The fashions fra Lunnin are now a' the go, As there's nowt i' wor toon to content us-- Aw'll not be surpriz'd at wor next 'lection day, If twe Cockneys put up to present us. Times ha'e been when a body's been axt out to tea, Or to get a wee bit of a shiver, Wor hearts were sae leet we ne'er thowt o' the cau'd, Or the fear o' wet feet plagu'd us nivere; But i' blanket coats now we mun get muffled up, For fear that the cold should approach us-- And to hinder a spark gettin on to wor breeks, We mun jump into fine Hackney Coaches. Aw've seen when we've gyen iv a kind freenly way To be blithe o'er a jug o' good nappy-- The glass or the horn we shov'd round wi' the pot For then we were jovial and happy; But now we mun all hev a glass t'wor sels, Which plainly appears, on reflection, We think a' wor neighbours ha'e getten the cl-p, And are frighten'd we catch the infection. The very styen pavement they'll not let alyen, For they've tuen'd up and puttin down gravel; So now, gentle folks, here's a word i' yor lugs-- Mindthink on't whenever you travel; If in dry dusty weather ye happen to stray, Ye'll get yor een a' full o' stour, man-- Or, if it be clarty, you're sure for to get Weel plaister'd byeth 'hint and afore, man. If a' their improvements aw were for to tell, Aw might sit here and sing- aye, forever; There's the rum weak as watter, i'stead o' the stuff That was us'd for to burn out wor liver! Aw's fair seek and tir'd o' the things that aw've sung, so aw think now aw'll myek a conslusion, By wishing the cheps iv a helter may swing, That hae brought us to a' this confusion. R. Charlton-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Come up to the Scratch Or, the Pitman Haggish'd Tune-Calder Fair Now haud yor tongues 'bout Mollinox, or any o' the trade, Ye ne'er could say that Kenton Ralph of e'er a chep was flay'd-- Yor langans and yor Springs may come to Kenton toon iv flocks, Wor Ralph 'ill smatter a' their ribs, he is sae strang, begox! Chorus- Fal de ral, &c Wiv Raply and Luke aw often yen neet for Sandgate on a spree, And swore Newcassel dandy cheps to fight and myek them flee-- We gat into the Barley Mow wor thropples for to wet, And sat and drank till fairly fu', alang wi' wood legg'd Bet We gat up for 'twas gettin' lyet, and leaving Sandgate sue, To Pandon went to hev a quairt before we left the toon; Some Fawdon lads were in the Boar, carrying on the war, Wi' Humpy dick and Black Scotch Peg a' singin' Slush Tom C-rr. Then gannin hyem by Pligrim-street, some dandy for to catch, Twe cheps, half drunk, cam up tiv us ,and said, Cum t' the scratch! Here's Lukey kens that aw's a man, and scartin aw disdain, but come and lick us if ye can--aw'll fight till aw be slain! They cramm'd a haggish on each fist, or something very like, then held them up close to wor fyece, and dar'd us for to strike: But Lukey, clickin' upon his claes, cried Ralphy, lad, let's run! Od smash yor luggish heed, how-way--becrike it's tommy D--n! Poor Lukey ran, but Ralph was left, he couldn't get away, The pelted him till Watchey cam and ended wor sad fray; Then Ralphy suen fand Luke agyen; but such a seet begox! His nose and fyece was thick o' blood--just like a Bubbly Jock's Smash! how! dis thou ken Tommy D--n? said Ralphy in a hurry: Aw seed him fightin' on the stage yen neet in Tom and Jurry A grocer chep aw sat beside, tell'd me his nyem in turn, Wi' Crib, and' Gas, an' a' the rest, and cliver Jemmy B--n That neet we had a haggish fight, 'tween B--n and D--n sae fine-- Aw roar'd out, Aw'll lay on ony brass that Jim ower Tom will shine! But, wiv his haggish, Tommy suen gav Jemmy such a peg. He fell smack doon upon the stage --begox, he broke his leg! The next time aw cum ti' the toon, if we fa' in togither, we'll hav a jill nad drink success to B--n and d--n however: Aw own that aw was fairly duen, an' smatter'd varry sair, But ne'er for want o' haggishes shall Ralph be beaten mair. R. Emery-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Pitman's Dream; Or, A description of the north Pol Tune- Newcastle Fair Aw dream'd aw was at teh North Powl, It's a fine place a-back o' the muen, man-- Maw sangs! Captain Parry will growl, For he cannot get tid half sae seun, man: There aw seed the Queen, Caroline, And her lass they sae badly did use, man, Wi' Geordy the Thurd drinking wine, And the snuffy au'd dyem brushing shoes man. Chorus- Rum ti iddity, &c. Aw began then to swagger about, Just to see Castleree aw was itchin', When Percival gav a greet shout, Od smash, he's down stairs i' the Kitchen!-- Thowt aw, then he's just safe eneugh-- Walking farther, aw meets Bonapartie, Alang wi' au'd Blucher, sae bluff, Speaking gabb'rish to poor Captain Starkie. Aw gat in to see Robin hood, Had twe or three quairts wi' John Nipes, Man; And Wesley, that yence preach'd sae good, Sat smokin' and praisin the swipes, man; Legs of mutton here grows on each tree, Jack Nipes said, and wasn't mistaken-- When rainin' there's such a bit spree, For there comes down great fat sides o' bacon. Brave Nelson here sells wooden legs, Iv a shop where aw think he'll get rich in-- Just to see au'd Mahomet aw begs, But, wi' Thurtell, he's doom'd i' the Kitchen: Aw seed Billy Shakespeare sae prime, Of plays he has written greet lots, man-- And there great John Kemble does shine-- Sam Johnson sups crodies wi' Scots, man How canny Joe foster did stare, As he trotted past me on a donkey, Mang lasses still wild as a hare, And he keeps Jacky Coxon as flonkey: Ne bishops nor priests here they need, For the folks they can say their awn pray'rs man-- but, to myek them work hard for their breed, they're sent on a mission, doon stiars, man. Aw agyen see'd the canny au'd King, He's a far better chep now than ever-- But, set a' yor fine kings iv a ring, I still think Fourth Geordy's as clever. Aw've getten a pas for doon Stairs, And if aw see owt there bewitchin', Wey just think o' me i' yor pray'rs, And aw'll send an account o' the Kitchen. R. Emery--In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Pitman's Dream; Or, His desription of the Kitchen Tune- Hell's Kitchen The day was fine, the sun did shine, Aw thowt aw was preparing To leave the Powl, myed me repine-- Aw scarce could keep fra blairin; A greet balloon was brought me seun, Twe cheps wi' wings sae switchin', Wiv it were sent to tyek me doon To shew me a' the kitchen. Chorus- Right fal de ral &c. wiv a' my friends aw had a jill, King Geordy was quite canty-- Says he--Now eat and drink yor fill, Doon stairs good things are scanty. When deun, saws aw--Kind folks, fareweel! Maw guides their wings are stretchin'-- In the balloon aw oft did reel To see this querish kitchen. We doon a narrow place did rowl-- As sure as maw nyems Cranky. This is the passage in the Powl That's mention'd by the Yankee:* As we flew on it darker grew, Wi' such a noise and screechin'-- Greet clouds o' fire we darted through, and landed in the kitchen. They used poor folks here warse than beasts-- Greet lots o' Turks and Tartars, Wi' Lawyers, quakers, kings, and priests, Were phizzin' in a' quarters. The Jews were bowlting lumps o' pork-- Mahomet, that au'd vixen, Was toss'd about frae fork to fork, Wi' derry in the kitchen. Fast i' the stockes au'd Neddy sat, The late Newcassel bellman-- And there was Honor Breet, Bed Watt, Just gaun the rig hersel', man: Then farther in, upon a stuel, Sat Judy downey stichin', She d--n'd me for a greet stark cull, For comin' to the kitchen. Aw, wi' the heat and want o' drink, Was swelter'd myest to deed, man-- When fairly deun and gaun to sink, Aw was whupt off wi' speed, man. How aw escap'd aw's puzzled sair, 'Twas like a sudden twitchin'-- Aw, like a lairk, flew through the air, Half roasted, frae the kitchen. As aw cam doon aw pass'd the meun, an' her greet burning mountains-- Her turnpike roads aw fand out seun, Strang beer runs here in fountains: To hev' a sup aw was reet fain, Wi' some queer cheps thrang ditchin'- But waken'd then in Percy Main, A lang way frae the kitchen. *Alluding to the following extradordinary advertisement which recently made its appearance in the American journals:-- St Louis (Missouri Territory) North America, April 10, A.d. 1818. "to all the world-- I declare the earth to be hollow and habitable within: containing a numberof concentric spheres, one within the other, and that their poles are open 12 or 16 degrees I pledge myself in support of this truth, andam ready to explore the concave, if the world will support and aid me in the undertaking- John Symmes, &c. &c. R. Emery--In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Famed Filly Fair; Or, A peep into Pilgrim Street. Come, Geordy, an' aw'll tell ye, lad, wher aw hae been, In Pilgrim-street, where there's to see an' to be seen, A great many lasses, and they shew off sic fine airs, Aw's sure they're all as wild as only March hares. Now, d'ye no-but gan there iv next Sunday neet, About thetime o' six o'clock, you'll see the fine seet, A large show of lasses fine, that drive about there, they nyem'd it but reet when they ga'd Filly Fair. Now, one Sunday neet, to the high town aw went, That aw might get the evening cannily spent: Among the rabble, sure enough, aw gat there, And saw the first dresses in fam'd Filly Fair. there's some lasses, they say, that are so very keen, That they come to this place just for to be seen; And, on every wet Sunday, they sit down to prayer, And think it provoking they're not at the Fair. Aw enter'd the street with a great deal of glee, Where the lads and the lasses in flocks aw did see: The task wad be endless to tell a' what was there, Aw mean the fine dresses in fam'd filly Fair. Aw look'd about all these fine dresses to see, Aw glowr'd at the lasses, and they glowr'd at me: So now for a description, I will give to a hair, Of all the fine things in this fam'd Filly Fair. There was white gowns, silk spenceers, and flounces galore, And queer monkey jackets aw'd ne'er seen before; With little drakes tails, that hing from the hair, And large ringlets a' curl'd was in fam'd Filly Fair. The spencers a' carv'd, wye, with cords of a' kind, That seem'd just like soulgers afore and behind; And black silks, and stript silks, and a' silks was there, And pads, and cat backs were in fam'd Filly Fair. There was hats like my awn, with fine flee-behint cloaks, And queer things ahint them, like the pitmen's bait pokes; And hats myed of muslin, to let in the air, Besides some wi' high crowns were in fam'd Filly Fair. The hats were deck'd o'er a' with ribbons andlace, And large cabbae nets were thrown o'er their faee: Paddysoles too were there, as were monie things mair, And fine mobbed caps were in fam'd Filly Fair. Therre was scarfs of a' kinds, and of every degree; And little wee bairneys, scarce up to my knee; With beaux, arm in arm, they were driving thro' there, 'Twas shameful to see them in fam'd Filly Fair. O, mun! just like a loadstone in this curious place, For what I hev tell'd yoiu, aw'm sure it's the case-- It's the case of them all that walk about there, To be talk'd of by strangers in fam'd Filly Fair. And besides a' the tricks that I cannot explain, For this kind of rambling I'm sure I disdain; Take advice, my good lasses, and don't wander there, Or your character's stain'd by walking the Fair. This advice now, I hope, you will readily take, And keep up your character, for your own sake; It's nought unto me if all night you walk there, But your name will be blasted by attending theFair. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu T--ly's Best Blood A north Shields Song- written in 1820 While cartwright, and Wooler, and Cobbett, and all The souls of the brave attend Liberty's call, J--n T-ley, the best friend of kings since the flood, Is ready for slavery to spill his best blood. A press so licentious-- for t'will tell the truth-- Is truly distressing to T--ley, forsooth: He's a foe to the queen, and no wonder he should, Since he vows for oppressors to spill his best blood. What an excellent orator in his own way, Mechanics, Shoemakers, and Joiners do say: But he does not remember that Drones steal their food, Where it not for the Bees he would haveno best blood. The Loyalist party consumptive are grown, Though time-serving T--ley by the fact may disown: And itwill not be long--God forbid that it should! Ere Reform freeze the springs of T--ley's best blood. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Newcastle Hackney Coaches Tune- The bold Dragoon Of a' the toons that's i' the north, Newcastle bangs them a', For lady folk and gentlemen, And every thing that's braw, A fig for Lunnen i' the south-- But mind now, let's hae nae reproaches, For they say that Lunnen's hang'd hersel, Through spite at wor new Hackney Coaches. Chorus- Yep! fal der al dal, &c. Wor toon has grown se big now, Aw ne'er saw the like before; Live ye only lang eneugh, Ye'll see't join'd to Tynemouth shore: We've our Literinary Sieties, Shops cramm'd wiv plate and diamond broaches, But it's ne use telling ony mair, There's nowt gans doon but Hackney Coaches. Ca-la-de-scoups were yence the rage, Sedans--were all the go; But till the noise gets failry ower, They may keep them iv a row; Gang where you will, the talk is still, At tea or cards why all the rage is, Why bless me, sir! have you not seen Our stylish tow-horse Hackney Stages! A bond-street lounge tee we might hev, If't wasn't for the mud! A piccadilly we're gaun to get, And other streets as good: Maw sangs! aw think we'll 'clipse them out! but faith I'd better haud me ditty, For fear, ye ken, in ganging hyem, They Hackneyfy me to the Kitty. Oliver -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Newcastle Noodles Be easy, good folks, for we're all safe enough, Better fortune seems now to attend us: And two canny fellows, both lusty and tough, Have rais'd a new corps to defend us. Men sound wind and limb, good sighted and stout, That can fight well; without being daunted; Free from all diseases, such like as the gout, And can jump, or be ready when wanted. Chorus- Then if any invaders should dare us to fight, Let it be on the shore or the river, Bold Archy the Noodle, and Tommy the Knight, Will guard and protect us for ever. The Noodles have ne'er been at battle as yet, Nor been brought down by scanty provision; So to try them whenever his worship thinks fit, He'll find them in famous condition. In all their manovers there's scarcely a flaw, They're quite up to the science o' killing; For the Noodle drill Serjeant's a lomb o' the law, And an old practic'd hand at the drilling. Misfortunes, however, will sometimes attend, For one morning, by dangersurrounded, A poor fellow splinter'd his fore-finger end, And, of course, in the service was wounded. 'Tis true a sair finger's a very bad thing, But it didn't diminish his beauty; So the next day he just popp'd his arm in a sling, And, Briton-like, went upon duty. They have all been abroad, and as far too as Shields, But to walk there was no easy matter, So, for fear that their boots should go down in the heels, they took the steam boat down the watter. Their warlike appearance was awfully grand, When they fired, it sounded like thunder, Which put all the natives o' Shields to a stand, And left them for ages to wonder. What a pity they cannot get medals to buy, It greatly would add to their grandeur; There's Waterloo soldiers! the strangers would cry, And think Archy was great Alexander. These mighty Preserveres if death cannot save, But send one or two of them bummin; The rest o' the Noodleswould fire o'er his grave, And tell the below-folks he's coming. James Morrison-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu British Justice Or Newcastle Privy Court. Come, all ye Britons who delight In freedom's sacred cause, And boast the Triumph of your Sires, Of just and equal laws, Wrung from a Despot's feeble grasp, List to this tale of mine, In baseness which you cannot peer, Since the days o' Lang Syne. To fam'd Newcastle's Secret Court A poor unlucky wight Was, for the sake of Bastardy, But very lately brought: Where, tortur'd most ingeniously, The rogue was made to whine, As few have been for sporting so, Since the days of Lang Syne. In vain the culprit urg'd his cause, In eloquence of woe; In vain he urg'd his poverty, To save hikm from the blow: Regardless of his just complaint, His judges laid the fine, So great as few poor dogs could pay, Since the days of Lang Syne Now mark the justice of the Judge, Precisely at the time-- A gentleman was brought to him, Just for the self same crime; To whom the Judge in alter'd tone, Begg'd he would not repine, Such ills are common to the rich, Since the days of Lang Syne. Suffice it, these two sinners were, Tho' in the same degree Of guilt, adjudg'd a fine to pay, The ratio one to three: The man of rags was made to pay Three times a greater fine; And sunk in miseery,sent to think On the days of Lang Syne. Thus, Britons, are your laws dispens'd, Your boasted freedom's gone, Laid in your predecessors' graves, Or from the island flown: No longer Justice holds her seat, In majesty divine, In British Courts presiding now, As in the days of Lang Syne. In vain you strive to wander back To times of peaceful joy, In vain you hope times to recall, Lost in eternity; No, never shall those scenes return, No more shall Britain shine, As she was wont, so splendidly, I' the days of Lang Syne. Can then Eternal Justice sleep, Regardless of the prayer Of toiling millions sunk indebt, And driven to despair, By stern Oppression's iron hand, Oh! no, the Power Divine Shall plead our cause as heretofore, In the days of Lang Syne. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Cull Billy's Prize As Billy Scott was on the trot Along the Pudding Chare, A shilling on the pavement lay, Which Billy soon, with care, Into his breeches pocket put, And trotted on with glee: A wag, who'd seen him stoop, cried out, Hold! that belongs to me! Poor Billy gravely turned about, And thus did him accost-- Can you upon your honour, say, You have a sixpence lost? I have indeed, the wag replied; Said Bill, I must away! See, 'tis a shilling I have found! So thank you, sir- good day. -Robert Emery's Songs cited in: Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings...., Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891. (Billy died at St. Jhon's Poor House on the 31st July 1831.) back to the song menu The Bewildered Skipper Tune- The Bewildered Maid Slaw broke the leet 'boot fower yen morn, When the Deevil aw seed, as sure as thou's born; His lang beerd hung doon frae his greet lantern jaw, His eyes wes like sawsers, his mooth filled wi' straw. Oh, where de ye cum frae, sweet Deevil! oh, where? But aw gat for an answer a greet ugly blare; Wor merry lads lay snorin' on the huddock's hard bed; Here's Aud Nick at the hatch--give him battle, aw said. The tide rummel'd by, as they luckt up forlonr-- Whist! whist! Oney luik, there's his club feet an' horn! Says they, Te gie battle, a' hands i' wor keel, Te Hawthorn's aud goat, 'twad sure bang the Deil! Cum in, gentle Willy, says they, frae the storm; In wor huddock lie doon, keep yor aud carkish warm; If cawd deed ye'd freetened wor skipper se brave, We'd myed ye follow his byens to the grave. -Mitford, " Bards of the Tyne", 1849, In: Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings...., Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891. back to the song menu The Coquet for Ever 1st and 5th verses "Mr. Crawhall writes:--"Four hundred copies of this Garland, the joint production of Roxby and Doubleday, were printed for Emerson Charnley, April 15th 1826." Again Roxby did the first and Dobleday the last three verses. Tune: Oh, whistle and I'll come to you, my land. I have sung thee, clear Coquet--I'll sing thee again From Harden's bleak fell to the deep-rolling main, And the Alwine and Wreigh in the garland shall shine, For they mix, lovely river, their waters wi' thine. In my youth I have danced on your bonny green braes; In my old age I think on these dear happy days; In yoiur streams I have angled and caught the scalded fry, And your streams they shall live, tho' their beds should run dry. Chorus--And your streams,etc. Oh, how should a fisherman ever be old? There's wrinkles in Glory, there's wrinkles in Gold; And Love has his sorrows as well as his joys, And power is made up but of glitter and noise. Such gewgaws as these let the fisherman scorn-- He's glorious at night, and light-hearted at morn; With a cheek full of health, be it hot, be it cold, Oh, how should a fisherman ever be old? Chorus--Oh, how, etc. -Robert Roxby, Thomas Doubleday, "Fisher's Garland," 1826 In: Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings...., Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891. back to the song menu The Collier's Wedding I sing not of greate Cesar's might, How brave he led his men to fight .................................................... I choose to sing in strtains much lower, Of collier lads, unsung before; What sport and feasting doth ensue When such life mortals buckle to. And thus the colliers and their wives Liv'd drunken, honest, working lives; Yet still were fond of one another, And always married thro' each other ............................................................ A collier's daughter, brisk and clean, Once at a country wake was seen; The maid was born in Benwell town, Was not too fair, nor yet too brown; Of beauty she had got her part, Enought to wound a collier's heart; And then her name was up for this-- She loved to spin, but blushed to kiss; Her pliant limbs, when music played, Could humour everything it said; For when she tripped it on the plain To Jockey's lost his fellow swain, Her easy steps and airy wheels Showd she had music in her heels, She danced so well so very long, She won the smock and pleased the throng. A collier lad was standing by, Andviewed her with a lover's eye. ............................................................... Come, Bessy, speak; what do ye think? The old wife cocked her chin and spoke; Why surely, Tom, you do but joke; If ye' re sincere as ye are warm, And mean to do my barin nae harm, Ye knaw our Jenny's on'y young, And easily may be o'ercome; So court her first--hear what she'll say; We'll have a drink and fix the day. Her daughter Jane, with modest grace, And fingers spread before her face, Cried Mother, Tommy's won my heart-- If ye'll consent we'll never part; I love him as I do my life, And would like weel to be his wife! .................................................... The gates fly open, all rush in-- The church is full with folks and din; And all the crew, both great and small, Behave as in a common hall; For some perhaps that were three-score, Were never twice in church before. They scamper, climb, and break the pews, To see the couple make their vows. With solemn face the priest draws near, Poor Tom and Jenny quake for fear; Are singled out from all the band That round about them gaping stand. When they're in decent order got The priest proceeds to tie the knot. Then hands are joined, and loosed again, And Tommy says, I take thee Jane;-- Then Jenny looks a little shy, And kneels, and says I take Tom-my; But here's the blessing or the curse, 'Tis done for better or for worse; For now they're fairly in for life; The priest declares them man and wife. Our couple now kneel down to pray, Much unacquainted with the way; Whole troops of colliers swarm around, And seize poor Jenny on the ground. "Only brief extracts from this old picture of pit life can be given here, as the collection is one of songs; but to the spirit of the work Elswick and Benwell, with their colliers of 150 years ago, are so kindred, that at least room must be found for a few specimens. The author Edward Chicken was born in Newcastle in the year 1698. What little is known of his life has principally been gathered by W. Cail, Esq., who, in 1829 published a new and amended edition fo the poem"-In: Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings...., Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891. back to the song menu The Auld Fisher's Last Wish tune- My Love is Newly Listed The morn is grey, and green the brae, the wind is freae the wast; Before the gale the snow-white clouds are drivin', light and fast; The airly sun is glintin' forth, owre hill, an' dell, an' plain, And Coquet's streams are glitt'rn as they rin frae muir to main. My Sun is set; my eyne are wet; cauld poortith now is mine, Nae mair I'll range by Coqauetside, and thraw the gleesome line; Nae mair I'll see her bonnie streams in spring-bright raiment drest, Save in the dream that stirs the heart, when the weary e'e's at rest. Oh! were my limbs as ance they were, to jink across the green; And! were my heart as light again as sometimes it has been; And could my fortunes blink again, as erst when youth was sweet, Then Coquet-hap what might beside--we'd no be lang to meet. Or had I but the Cushat's wing, where'er I list to flee, And wi' a wish might wend my way owre hill, an' dale, an' lea; 'Tis there I'd fauld that weary wing; there gaze my latest gaze; Content to see thee once again--then sleep beside thy Braes! -Thomas Doubleday, From Fisher's Garland, 1841,In: Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings...., Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891. back to the song menu The Fishermen Hung the Monkey, O! The Fishermen hung the Monkey, O!- These words are the greatest insult you can offer to the Hartlepool fishermen. It is supposed when Napoleon the Grat threatened to invade England the Fishermen were loyal and patriotic, and ever on the look-out for spies. A vessel having been wrecked about this time, all on board perished with the exception of a monkey, which was siezed by the fishermen for a french spy, and hung because hecould not or would not speak English. Tune- The Tinker's wedding. In former times, 'mid war an' strife, When French invashin threatened life, An' all was arm'd te the knife, The Fishermen hung the Monkey, O! The fishermen, wi' courage high, Siezed the Monkey for a spy. Hang him says yen, says another he'll die; They did, an' they hung the Monkey O! Chorus (To sympathise with the unfortunate Monkey, altogether.) Dooram, dooram, dooram, da, etc. They tried ivery means te myek him speak, They tortor'd the Monkey tiv he loud did squeak; Says yet that's French, asys anuther it's Greek, For the Fishermen then gat drunkey, O! He's all ower hair sum cheps did cry, E'en up te summic cute an' sly; Wiv a cod's heed then they closed an eye, Afore they hung the Monkey, O! Spoken- Ladies an' cheps, a chorus this time to mark our disapprobashin o' the Pugnaeshis Fishermen for closin' the ogle ov the unfortunate monkey. Dooram, etc. Some the Monkey's fate they did bewail, For all the speechles pug had his tail (tale), He'd been better off i' Durham Jail, For the Monkey wis tornin funkey, O! They said he myed some curose mugs, When they shaved his head an' cut off his lugs, Sayin' that's the game for French humbugs, Afore they hung the Monkey, O! Spoken-- Chorus in considerashin of the removal and total annihilashin of the Monkey's auricular organ by all those who have an ear for gorilla sensashins. Dooram, etc. Hammere his ribs, the thunerin thief, Pummel his pyet weel wi' yor neef, He's landed here for nobbit grief, He's aud Napoleon's Uncky, O! Thustothe Monkey all hands behaved, Cut off his whiskers one chep raved; Another bawled oot he's never been shaved, So they commenced to scrape the Monkey, O! Chorus (Afdter the style of "Lather and sheave' em.") dooram, etc. Now let us hope that ever at sea We'll still maintain soverignty, May Fance and England long agree, An' nivor at each other get funkey, O! As regards poor Pug aw've had my say, His time they've past for mony a day, But in Hartlepool, noo, thou'll hear lads say-- Spoken- Aw asy, Mistor, mother says it, she telled me te ax ye, te tell me te tell her;; if ye tell me,- aw say, Mistor, can ye tell us-- (Sings)--Whe hung the Monkey, O? Dooram, etc. -Edward Corvan, 1862, In: Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings...., Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891. back to the song menu The Misfortunes of Roger and His Wife tune- Calder Fair Last week was wor pay-week, and aw went to the toon, Alang wi' wor Susy to buy her a new goon; A sixpence i' my pocket- we cuddent pass the Close But went into the Robin Hood and gat worsels a dose Chorus- Wiv a tooral, looral, looral, &c Suen after we gat canny, and com alang the Brig, An' up the Bottle-bank, man, we byeth saw went the rig, Wi' reedin' and wi' dancin'-- knacking heel and toe, Our heads began to rattle where wor feet before did go The Half-Muin Lyen we come te, and that wor Susy found, For ower the stanes she fell, man, that's lyen all around A dave, a devisher agyen the metal pump, And aw, to save poor Sucy, got a duckin' i' the sump. Ower anenst the Dun Cow, there is a place myed reet, As good for breaking necks, man, as only i' the street; Had e'er an inclination been for leading me astray, I'm conscious that aw'd fund maw end by coming up this way. The biggest house i' Gyetshead projecting o'er the road Dis scarcely leave a footpath to pass on, if you would; Were it not for the gas leet that's on the other side, Mony windpipes wad be clos'd, aye, and mony open wide. A little farther up the street, abuin au'd Jackson's Chare, A neatish bit o' dournament bagan, as passing there, For --------a-----wi' guise an' shop-board new, Is cabbaging at Pleasant----to patch his Waterloo. But the worst of a' these evils, is their planning o' the street, Aye, sic a shem an 'bizen, were but decent folks te see; For here's a hill, and there's a hill, and here they're pullin' doon. And here they're buldin' up, (who's fault?) the only fuils i' ton. Thus onward we were passin, thro' trouble and thro' strife, Scasrece caring what misfortune had Roger and his Wife; But ere we gan that way agyen, we'll grease our soles and heels, To scamper down by Sunderland, and up by smoky Sheels. By- J. B.--In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Newcastle Theatre in An Uproar With the Bear, the Horses, and the Dogs, as principal performers! It's ha e ye seen how crouse and gay The lads and lasses bent their way, To see the horses act the play, At fam'd Newcastle Theatre. There some in silks did proudly shine, And some were dress'd in caps se fine, And some on stickes there did recline, At fam'd Newcastle Theatre. The belles and beaux of lo degree Were eager this fine sight to see; And soon as they had got their tea, They set off for the Theatre. Then at the gallery door they stood-- Impatient, and in fretful mood; And many a one, faithly did no good By coming to the Theatre. The doors being open'd, on they push'd Without distinction they were crush'd; The cry was Tumble up you must, To fam'd Newcastle Theatre. Next direful shrieks were heard aloud, Whilst heedless throng'd the busy crowd, Alike the slothful and the proud Were driven in the Theatre. A miller chep I chanc'd to see Frae out amang the crowd sae blae, Was running up an entry Near fam'd Newcastle Theatre. He'd got his coat torn cross the lap, My conscience! 'twas a sad mishap; But others still were worse than that, At fam'd Newcastle Theatre. There some their gowns held in their hand, And others lost their shawls se grand; And if you crush'd not you might stand, At fam'd Newcastle Theatre. The pretty girls, to get a seat, Crush'd on, wi' hair dress'd up sae neat; But soon came back, in sic a freet, Frae fam'd Newcastle Theatre. Now some got in without their shoes, And some got in wi' mony a bruise, and some cam hyem to tell the news, At fam'd Newcastle Theatre. Within the pit a brutish chap Had hit a maiden sic a rap, 'Cause she refus'd to take her hat Off, in Newcastle Theatre. They took her home without delay, When in a fit she fainting lay; And faith she well may curse the day That e'er she saw the Theatre. The boxes, too, were fill'd se fine, With all the labouring sons of Tyne; And servant lasses, all divine, Did beautify the Theatre. The heat was so excessive great, That, not to keep the folk too late, They hurry'd on poor Timour's fate, At fam'd Newcastle Theatre. The play was done as it struck ten, Some greedy folks said, 'twas a shem; However, they all wet went hyem, From fam'd Newcastle Theatre -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Farewell, Archy Tune- Chapter of Donkies Now, Archy, my boy, drop the civical gown, For none ever fill'd it with half your renown, For wisdom and valour so glorious you shine, You're the pride, boast and bulwark of old coaly Tyne. O brave Archy, miraculous Archy! The pink o' the wise, and the wale o' the brave. To recount all your virtues a volume 'twould swell, So we'll just name a few, sir, in which you excel; Your reign's been eventful, the times have gone mad, And well might have puzzled more brains than you had; But sufficient was Archy, well able was Archy, To crush the sedition and treason of Tyne. Sure Machiavel's self was a fool to our Mayor, so honest he seem'd--then he promis'd so fair, To reform all abuses, give justice to all, And regulate watchmen, blood-suckers and all. O specious Archy! legitimate Archy! The firm, staunch supporter of things as they are. Then the Great Meeting* by Jove, what a jest! The rads set you down for their chairman at least; But the yoemen and specials in court you kept hid, Then sent off that precious epistle to Sid. O rare Archy! sly old Archy! Archy's the boy for the word or the blow! O thou first of inditers, thou brightest of scribes, Thy invention how fertile, in infamous lies! How assin-like was it to stab in the dark, and from trugh and from justice so far to depart. O serpent-like Archy! O fiend-like Archy! O Archy! but that was a damnable deed. Next you went on a voyage of discovery to Shields, Andgot handsomely pepper'd for meddlingwith keels; Then for refuge you fled to Northumberland's Arms, Who till now has defended your paper from harms, Else down had gone Archy, thy paper dear Archy, Down stairs might have gone for the public good. Then, for raising a riot, and reading the act, Your honour against all opponents I'll back; And to crown you with laurels, and finish my song. You're a Colonel of Noodles, and nine makes a man, Such as Archy and Cabbage, Canny Jack Dixon, and thief-taking Tom. *Held on Newcastle Town Moor, Oct 11, 1819 relating to the Manchester Massacre. -Written 1820, -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Sir Tommy Made an Odd Fellow A Provincial and very popular Song. I've sung o' Newcassel till black o' the fyess, Tyne's Muse is as modest as ony; Tho' oft she comes out in a comical dress-- Here she goes for a lilt at Sir Tommy. Ye've seen him,nae doubt, wi' his hat on ten hairs, Then he cuts sic a wonderful caper; He has long been thought odd, for his kickmashaw airs, Now he's odd baith by name and by nature. Chorus: Let Fame canter on till she's sair i' the hips, Proclaiming, frae Tynemouth to Stella, How the sun, moon, and stars a' went into the 'clipse, When Sir Tommy was made an Odd Fellow. There's scarce sic a man in a' Newcassel toon, With the famous Tyne Legion outsetting: Down at Shields in a fray, they pick'd up sic renoon, That his nyem will nae mair be forgetten. Tho' envious at valour, yet a' look asquint, What heroes in fame e'er surpass'd them? Wi' Sir Tommy before, and the sailors behint, It was run! and the devil take the last one. A Knight he was dubb'd for sic sarvices brave, But a Knight without fee is but little; So they sent him to govern* where folks rant and rave, A station he fit to a tittle. Grand Master of Orangemen next he was call'd, Bells rung till the toon was a' quaking; Now most Noble Grand of Odd Fellows install'd-- Faicks! it's time a straight-jacket was making. That Sir Tommy has wit I wad fain here convince, He can myek sic athumping oration, By which he astonish'd the Legion lang since, Now he wants to astonish the nation. By humbug reduc'd, though his head's very lang, His brains scarce wad balance a feather: But just nominate him a Parliament man** Head and brains will take flight a' thegither. O sons o' Newcassel! free Burgesses a' Ne'er be tempted your freedom to barter; May they hing in tatters to frighten the craws, If ye budge but an inch frae your Charter. If ye sendup Sir Tommy to London, M.P. I' the Parliament house to be seated, Ye may just as weel send Captain Starkey*** up tee, Your glory will then be completed. *Governor General of Lunatic House. ** It was reported in the London Papers, that Sir T. B. intended putting up as a Candidate to serve Newcastle in Parliament. ***An eccentric character well known in Newcastle. R. Glichrist -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Wreckenton Hiring Oh, Lads and Lasses, hither come To Wrekenton, to see the fun, And mind ye bring your Sunday shoon, There'll be rare wark wi' dancing-o. And Lasses now, without a brag, Bring pockets like a fiddle bag, Ye'll get them cramm'd wi' mony a whag Of pepper-kyek an' scranchim-o. And Bess put on that bonny goon thy mother bought thou at the toon; That straw-hat wi' the ribbons broon, They'll a' be buss'd that's coming-o: Put that reed ribbon round thy waist, It myeks thou luik sae full o' grace, Then up the Lonnen come in haste, They'll think thou's com'd frae Lunnen-o. Ned pat on his sunday's coat, His hat and breeches cost a note, With a new stiff'ner round his throat, He luikt the very dandy-o; He thought that he was gaun to choke, For he'd to gyep before he spoke; He met Bess at the Royal Oak, They had baith yell and brandy-o. Each lad was there wi' his sweetheart, and a' was ready for a start, When in com Jack wi' Fanny Smart, And brought a merry Scrapeer-o; Then Ned jump'd up upon his feet, And on the table myed a seat; Then bounc'd the Fiddler up a heet, Saying, Play and we will caper-o. Now Ned and Bess led off the ball, Play Smash the windows, he did call, Keep in yor feet, says Hitchy Mall, Learn'd dancers hae sic prancing-o: Now Ned was nother lyeth nor lyem, and faith he had baith bouk and byen, Ye wad thought his feet was myed o' styen, He gav sic thuds wi' dancing-o. Now Jackey Fanny's hand did seize, Cry'd Fiddler, tune your strings to please! Play, Kiss her weel amang the trees, She is my darlin, bliss her-o! Then off they set, wi' sic a smack, They myed the joints a' bend and crack: When duen he took her round the neck, And faith he dident miss her-o. The fiddler's elbow wagg'd a' neet, He thought he wad dropt off his seat, For deil a bit they'd let him eat, They were sae keen o' dancin- o. Some had to strip their coats for heet, And sarks and shifts were wet wi' sweet! They cramm'd their guts, for want o' meat, Wi' ginger-breed and scranchim-o. Now cocks had crawn an hour or more, And ower the yell-pot some did snore; But how they lukt to hear the roar Of Matt, the King Pit caller-o! Smash him! says Ned, he mun be rang, He's callin' through his sleep, aw's war'n; Then shootin' to the door he ran-- Thou's asleep, thou rousty bawler-o! Now they danc'd agyen till it was day, Anbd then went hyem--but by the way, Some of them had rare fun, they say, And fand it nine months after-o; Such tricks are play'd by heedless youth; And though they're common, north and south, That's nae excuse for breach of truth, Nor food for wit and laughter-o. Suen Wreckenton will bear the sway, Two Members they'll put in, they say; Then wor Taxes will be duen away, Andwe'll a' sing now or never-o: Backey and Tea will be sae cheap, Wives will sit up when they sud sleep, Andwe'll float in yell at wor Pay-week, Then Wreckenton for ever-o. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu On Russell the Pedestrian Who walked 101 miles in 23 hours, 56 minutes, and 30 seconds on the 25th and 26th of July, 1822, on the Newcastle Race course. Men's talents vary--for wise ends design'd, This man has strength of body, that, of mind; Each his peculiar art, assiduous plies, And every maxim of improvement tries, Till he attain perfection by degrees, And learns to execute his task with ease. Wilson*, desist! and Simpson,**, take your rest! Ease and retirement now will suit ye best; Your brief excursions will excite no more That admiration which they did before; Though doubtless ye have both endeavour'd hard, Perhaps without an adequate reqard; But such laborious journies lay asside, And if ye can ,instead of walking, ride. Hide your diminish'd heads! nor vainly talk, Among your friends, how rapidly you walk: First in the annals of Pedestrian fame, Historians now will enter Russell's name; Where he will most conspicuously shine, And long be hail'd--The Hero of the Tyne. Upon this art he has so much refin'd, That he leaves all competitors behind. With boyant step we've seen him tread the plain, And hope, ere long, to see him walk again. *George Wilson the Blackheath Pedestrian walked 90 miles in 24 successive hours, on the same ground on Easter Monday and Tuesday, 1822. **John Simpson the Cumberland Pedestrian attempted to walk 96 miles on the same ground, in the same period of time, on Whit-Monday, and again on the 29th and 30th of July 1822 in both of which attempts he failed. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu On Simpson the Pedestrian's Failure tune- Barbary Bell Sitting crush'd i' the huddock a' gobbing and talking, We were mov'd wiv a spoke frae the little Pee Dee; Ah! Skipper, he says, the auld man 'ill be walking, So we a' rose together and set off to see. When we gat to the Moor, he was dodging away, man, Wi' twe cheps on each side, keeping a' the folks back; And the bairns running after him, shouting hurra, man, So we just gat agliff, for he pass'd in a crack. Now Barney M'Mullin, his reet hand protector, With a sprig o' shilelagh preparing the way, Was stopt on the road by a publican hector, Who hinted that Barney intended foul play. If Barney mov'd forward he threaten'd to drop him, For his walking, he said, put the man off his pace; But Barney concluded he'd ne right to stop him, And call'd him a big-gutted rogue to his face. Every Freeman, says Barney, of land has a small stock, but to dunch people off is most rascally mean; Then their rights were protected by bold Tommy Alcock, Who said he'd a share of the pasture sae green. When Tommy put on his election-day swagger, His genteel appearance made Barney's tongue cease, His speech was sae pointed, it pierc'd like a dagger: So Barney, poor soul, he departed in peace. We stopt there a' neet, till weel on i' the morning, Expecing he still wad keep dodging away; But he gav us the double, without ony warning, And hodg'd off the Moor, like a sheep gyen astray. When he enter'd the tent, we were a' sitting drinking. It was thought he had come to get something to eat; But now it apears the poor soul had been thinking On the best ways and means to obtain a retreat. It seems the auld man had nae notion of stopping, But as to what ail'd him, he knaws best his sel; For whether he fail'd in his wind, strength, or bottom, The skipper and I were baith puzzled to tell. But it's owre and deun, so what signifies talking, Poor man, he must just lay his fist to the spade; Let them that think fit make their living by walking, For this par he's fund it's a very bad trade. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Victory; or The Captain Done Over tune- O the golden days of good Queen Bess It happen'd very lately, (upon my word 'tis true sir) A party at the Peacock supp'd, as I shall shew to you sir; The names of those I shall disclose, who form'd the happy party, Were Waller Watson, Walton too, both honest blades and hearty; And with them were two friends of theirs, who just had come to town,sir, Hedges nad INgram are their names, both travellers of renown, sir. They sang and drank, and drank and sang, till time was wearing late, sir, Nor ever thought a moment what that night might be their fate, sir, (Twas on the eighth of April, as we hear the story told, sir,) They felt it not, for friendship's glass had warm'd their hearts within, sir, By drinking brandy, rum, or wine, or eke good Holland's gin, sir. Watson and Ingram both inclin'd to be a little merry, sir, The others left-- to Dean-street they proceeded in a hurry, sir; When Hedges he sung Fly not yet, why haste ye so away, sir? And Ingram promptly answer'd him, by calling out, Oh! stay, sir. The Verges of the night were rous'd--demanded why such clatter, sir, What's all this hound-like noise about? come tell us what's the matter, sir. Then Walton said, They're friendsof mine, and strangers in the place, sir; But this they disregarded quite, and star'd them in the face, sir. Now Halbert cried out, Seize them, Ross!--to the watch-house they shall go, sir; And Master Carr will Kitty them, old friendship for to shew, sir. Then to the watch-house they were ta'en triumphantly along, sir, For nothing, as the trial prov'd but singing Tom Moor's song, sir. Arriving at the watch-house, where Dogberry sat in state, sir, The watchmen made false charges out, and did so glibly prate, sir; tom cried out, What d'ye think of this? No defence wil I hear, sir; My servants I will listen to, they've made it plain appear, sir. Off to the Kitty with them, watch, nor grant one short respite, sirs, But see that they're completely fast in durance all the night, sirs. Ye watchmen, for the future, remember Scarlett's dressing, sirs, The real sound drubbing you've receiv'd may be esteem'd a blessing, sirs: And should you e'er repeat such acts, vile tyrants as you've been, sirs, Scarlett against you may appear, and trim you black and green, sirs, As you ere this must clearly find, you've kick'd against the pricks, sirs. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Alarm!!* Or, Lord Fauconberg's March. Tune- Chevy Chace God prosper long our noble king, And noblemen also, Who valiantly, with sword in hand, Do guard us from each foe. No sooner did Lord Fauconberg, with heart undaunted hear, Than news to Gotham had been brought, Which caus'd our Mayor to fear, Than up he rose, with eyes on fire, Most dreadful to the view; To arms! to arms! aloud he cried, and forth his falchion drew. To arms! to arms! full long and sore The rattling drums did beat: To arms in haste each soldier flies, And scours through every street. The women shriek and wring their hands, Their children weep around; While some, more wise, fast bolt their doors, And hide them under ground. The French are at our gates! they cry, And we shall all be slain; For Dumourier is at their head, And that arch-traitor Paine. In haste drawn up, in fair array, Our Yorkshire Guards are seen; And mounted on a jet black steed, Lord Fauconberg I ween. And now he gave the word to march, And vailiant foremost rode: And now he bounds from side to side-- 'Twas well the streets were broad. From Newgate down to the Broad-chare They march'd with might and main; Then gallantly they turn'd them round, And so march'd up again. Now fill a bumper to the brim, And drink to Gotham's Mayor; And when again he hears such news, May Fauconberg be there. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. * On the commencement of the impress service, in March, 1793 considerable riots took place at Shields, which were represented, at Newcastle, in a thousand terrific shapes; and a false alarm having been given at the Mansion house, the drums of the York Militia beat to arms; Lord Fauconberg marched that regiment to the house of Rendezvous in the Broad -chare, and then marched back again. back to the song menu The Half-Drowned Skipper Air- Chapter of Donkies T'other day up the water aw went in a boat, Aw brush'd up my trowsers, put on my new coat; We steer'd up wor boat 'lang side of a keel, And the luiks o' the Skipper wad frighten'd the Deil. Chorus- Fol de rol, &c. So thinks aw, wi' the keel we'll gan a' the way, And hear a few words that the skipper may say, For aw was sure if ought in the keel was deun wrang, The Skipper wad curse, aye, and call every man. Now we'd just getten up to the fam'd Skinners' Burn, When the Skipper bawl'd out that the keel was to turn: Wye he shouted and roar'd like a man hung in chains, And swore by the keel he would knock out their brains. The little Pee-dee jump'd about on the deck, And the Skipper roar'd out he wad sure smash his neck; What for? says the Pee-dee, can one not speak a word?-- So he gave him a kick--knock'd him plump overboard, There was nyen o' the bullies e-er lost a bit time, But flung their great keel-huiks splash into the Tyne: they prought up the Pee-dee just like a duck'd craw, And the Skipper, wi' laughin, fell smack ower an' a' Now the keelmen being tired of their Skipper se brave Not one e'er attempted his life for to save; They hoisted their sail, and we saw no more, But the half-drown'd Skipper was swimming ashore. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Newcastle Worthies Air- We're aye been provided for The praises o' Newcassel aw've lang wish'd to tell, But now then aw'm determin'd to hae a right good spell, An' shew what noted kiddies frae Newcassel town hes flit, For it's a' wis been a canny place, an' sae will it yet. A chep, they call'd him Scott, he liev'd on the banks o' Tyne, Had a son, that i' the Government he wanted to shine: By degrees the youth he rose up, now Lord Chancellor does sit, And he's fill'd his place reet brawly, aye an' sae will he yet. Of a' the fine Engravers that grace fair Lunnen toon, Wor Tom Ransom and Bill Harvey bang a' that's up or doon: The praises frae the 'Cademy they constantly do get; Tor their pieces they've got medals, aye an' sae will they yet. For boxing tee, the Lunnen cheps we'll thresh them i' their turns; Ony see what science he has lairnt--that noted chep, Jem Burns: Jem Wallace tee, wor champion, how Tommy Dunn he hit, But they both good ones ever were, an' sae will they yet. A vast mair cliver cheps we ha'e some aw'll let ye knaw; For a strong man, whe could beat both Airchy wi' his wonderous claw; When six men tuik him in a boat, her bottom suen he split, And the hiding that he ga'e them, they've not forgot it yet. For fiddling tee, now whe is there wor Blind Willie can beat? Or for dancing whe before Jack Cockson e'er could set their feet? Cull Billy only try him now, he'll cap ye wi' his wit; He's truly wond'rous, ever was, and sae will he yet. Bob Cruddance, ah, poor soul! he's deed--he had a cliver knack O' keeping beer, aye three yards off, when he parish'd the pack! And whin Bob 'bout the militia constantly does swet; But by cunningness escap'd them, aye sae will he yet. Jack Nicholson, the noble soul, a deal o' breeding shows, Got a patent frae the King to split sheep heads with his nose; The butchers fearing o' disgrace, a job he ne'er cud get-- But the hounour aye been wi' him, aye, an' sae will it yet. Of Fishwives tee, that's i' wor toon, up to the present day, Euphy Scott she is prime minister to Queen Madgie Gray: The understerappers and descendants maintain that it was fit, She should rule the market as she lik'd, and' sae will she yet. Captain Starkey, Pussey Willie, and poor Cuddy Reed, Lousy Donald and au'd judy, poor souls! they've a' gyen deed: But, marrows, keep ye up your hearts, this is not the time to fret, For their memories hae e-eer been up, aye an' say will they yet. -Wm Armstrong, -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Old Nick's Visit to H__'s Kitchen Humanum Est Errare tune- The King of the Cannibal Islands Old Nick, for pastime, took a prance, And to Newcastle did advance; At Granger's buildings just did glance, And swagger'd away to H---'s Kitchen. The Kitchen soon was in a roar, When Nick excalim'd--I'll pay the score! So let the drink go round galore-- Which soon laid numbers on the floor:- Cried Sawalwell Pyet--Old Friend, what cheer! We're heartily glad to see you here-- Nick smack'd the ale, and soon turn'd queer Among his friends in the Kitchen. Chorus Then shout hurrah for Ralph's good ale! O may its virtues never fail-- It made Old Nick to cock his tail, And stagger about in the Kitchen. In midst of all the noise and din, The merry crew came tumbling in, From Parlour and Cock'd Hat so trim, To join their friend in the Kitchen:-- First Ramsay Jack, the broker's hack, With G__ and E__ upon his back-- Great Doctor Flash came in a crack-- Brave Noodle W--n join'd the pack; And from the Vestry, like a rose, Came M--ty with the brandy nose, And B--m dress'd in dandy clothes, To welcome Nick to the Kitchen. Fam'd H--p acted Crook-back'd Dick, And sung a song to please Old Nick; Jim W--n smoak'd till S--t turn'd sick, And they bundled them out of the Kitchen. Old S--y, too, that gallant tar, Said when on board a man of war, He conquer'd Yankee and Lascar, And knew all the countries near and far: Old Nick then gave a dreadful roar, With voice just like the grizzly boar, Brave S--y ran towards the door, And fled half-dead from the Kitchen! Old Wash C-- with his dirty paws, Sat rubbing up his grim old jaws, And scandalizing without cause, His dearest friend in the Kitchen. Jim Colvin and Ned Mushel smart, Were guzzling beer down by the quart! Old Snuffy Tom well play'd his part, He swigg'd away with all his heart. Old Nick cried, Is my Uncle here? I long to taste of his good cheer! -- A lump of beef did soon appear, And they gobbled it up in the Kitchen! O hark! cried Nick the clock strikes one! So midnight's past--I must be gone; When I remount my brimstone throne, I'll oftentimes think of the Kitchen. Ralph D--d said, before we part-- Come let us have another quart! Bob C--r swears 'twill break his heart, To think you should so soon desert! But Nick still more impatient grew-- At last he bellow'd out- Adieu! And, in a moment, off he flew, 'Mid thund'ring chears from the Kitchen! -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Invitation to the Mansion-House Dinner In honour of the Coronation air- Scots wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled. Men who have with Mayors fed; Men whom oft the Mace hath led; Welcome to your Beef and Bread, Come and feast to-day. See yon Ox's buttocks lower; See yon bags of pudding flour; Shew your masticating power Teeth and Loyalty. Who can't eat is sure a knave; Send the scoundrel to his grave; Who can't drink should be a slave; Such we ne'er will be. Who for King and Country's Law Will cut away and stuff his maw, Cans will drain, and corks will draw, Brothers, come with me. By what's worse than Slavery's chains, Empty stomachs, gripes, and pains, We'll eat and drink, until or veins Swoln like bladderes be. See yon lumps of beef laid low, Puddings fall at every blow! Wine in bumpers round shall flow: Brothers, look to me! -Armstrong, -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Newcastle Swineherd's Proclamation O yes! ye swinnish Multitude! To our Newcastle sties repair: Two whole fate beeves are barbecu'd, So go and cram your gorges there. Your mouths will water at the sight; The oose your unshav'd chops run down; Your dirty sleeves away will dight The slobber of tobacco brown. With cart-grease basted, dredg'd with dust, The outsides burnt, the insides raw, Next to some tit bit carrion must Delight a hog's voracious maw. Hey! to the Pants, where dribbling wine And brewer's rot-gut beer distil; Withspeed let every greedy swine Swig what he can--aye, swig his fill. Then to your growing nature true, REturn to wallow in the mire; Andlet the Corporate body view The consummation they require. Swineherds expect the brutes that run To guzzle at their garbage feast, Should compensate, and make them fun; So hogs come on and play the beast! And grunt, ye pigs, with savage joy, While stuffing full your craving maws, Nor care if staves your skulls annoy, But quickly move your greedy jaws. While guzzling down your wishy-wash, Squeak loud with make believe affection; And in the puddle kick and splash, Nor shew one sign of disaffection. Then, all ye lordly herds laugh loud, And shake your portly paunches fine; Shew to your dames the rabble crowd-- And having pray'd retire to dine. Then tell how the voracious pigs, With greedy spite press'd to the trow, And gave each other loyal digs, Nor car'd for e'er a waddling sow. Next sagely argue o'eer your wine, This crew, debas'd beyond compare, In fact and reason are true swine, Unlike Corinthian Pillars fair.* Pigstye Court, Sandhill, 12th July 1821. *The Rich were called the Corinthian Pillars of Society by the poet poetlorret Burk while he termed the Industrious Classes the Swinish Multitude. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Golden Horns; or The General Invitation Come, neighbours, to Robson's let's all hie away, To see the Ox crown'd with ribbons so gay: His horns are well gilded, his head bright does shine, We'll soon get a slice and a horn full of wine. Some come from afar, as did wise men of old, To see our King's head branch'd out thus with gold. Success, then, to horns, when they're gilded so clever; May the....wear horns, and wear them for ever. In praise then of horns let all Newcastle sing; For he who scorns horns despises his .... Let them boast of their garters, and boast of their stars, But horns are far better than honours or scarss. Never blush for your horns then though low be your station. since horns are the pride of the Chief of our nation. Let them make, Lords and dukes, crown an Ass, if they will The order of Horns let it be my theme still. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Loyal Festivities; or, Novel Scenes at Newcastle A popular song in the New Farce of the Coronation As it was performed at Newcastle upon Tyne, on Thursday, July 19, 1821. Sung by the Swinish Multitude in full Chorus. The Castle guns were fir'd and loud The bells rang in the morning. To wake the Swinish Multitude, And give the public warning: Atht, as in duty bound, the Mayor, And loyal Corporation, Would celebrate, in civic state, The day of Coronation! With matchless liberality, the sums of money voted, That loyalty might be thereby Among the herd promoted: A feast would loyalized the brutes, Upon this great occasion, And make them sing, God save the King! At George's Coronation. Three royal fountains running beer,, And one to dribble wine, O, Would make them flock from far and near, To grunt like loyal swine, O. Two bullocks roasted whole, 'twas thought, Would be a grand donation, To toss among the rabble rout, At George's Coronation! 'Twas done--the bullocks roasted were, The fountains set a flowing; While Butchers round, upon the ground, Huge lumps of beef were throwing; The loyal Swineherds looking on, In anxious expectation, To see each beast enjoy the feast At George's Coronation! But what was their surprise to find The swinish herd refuse it; How strange! their tastes were so refin'd No hog of sense would use it! Our Gentry now, the loyal few, Beheld, with consternation, The scanty stock of loyalty At George's Coronation! They saw, with grief, the roasted beef By saucy swine neglected! No grateful beast estoll'd the feast, Nor loyalty respected! Their swinish nature sure is chang'd-- O what an alteration! Time was when pigs would grunt and squeel, To grace a Coronation! But ah! the brutes display, at last, The faculty of Reason! The age of Chivalry is past! (Reflection most unpleasing!) and sad to tell, with that is gone Othello's occupation! All servile reverence for a throne, And priestly domination! Then why display this make-believe Affection and profusion? Ye can no longer swine decive, They see through the delusion. What then avails this pagentry, And useless ostentation? What signifies your loyalty At George's Coronation! Had Derry-Down been on the spot, And view'd the scene before him, While beef, and bones, and brcks, like shio, Were flying in terrorem; Wh would have star'd with wild affright, At such a consummation, And loudly damn'd the useless farce Of George's Coronation! Learn hence ye Legislators wise, Ye guardians of our treasures! The Swinish Multitude despise Your insonsistent measures: Think not that bayonets will gain The people's admiration; Or fix a Monarch on the throne, By a mock coronation! -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Picture of Newcastle or George the Fourth's Coronation tune- Arthur B'Bride The firing of guns, and the ringing of bells, Rous'd me from my dreams about magical spells; So I'll draw you a sketch, as we're now by orsel's By way of an illustration: The roads to Newcastle were cover'd almost, As if Radical thunder * had summon'd its host, Or an enemy's fleet had been seen off the coast On George the Fourth's Coronation. In the streets what a buz among sweethearts and wives, And children who ne'er rose so soon in their lives; All higgledy piggledy through other drives, To view what was in preparation. The oxen are roasting-outsides a mere crust; They're stuff'd wi' potatoes, and dredg'd well with dust, While the turnspits were set as if working o' trust, On George the Fourth's Coronation. I next went to view a Boat-race on the Tyne, For a blue silken flag skill and labour combine; Gold sovereigns the prizes--to start about nine, From Walker, with precipitation. The Greyhound came first, the old Sandgate-shore Gig. Which went as if chasing a hare, through the Brig. No doubt but the wives and the lasses were big, On George the Fourth's Coronation. The the Gentlemen walk'd in procession to church; Not even Dissenters did lag in the porch, But boldly push'd on, amid ruffles and starch, To praise and to pray with the nation. The service being ended, the anthemsare sung, The burnt sacrifice from each service is swung, When the fountains with wine and strong ale 'gan to run On George the Fourth's Coronation. Then a Female Procession, to heighten the scene, Paraded the streets, with a bust of the Queen; When her title was plac'd where a crown should have been Upon the crane-top was its station. The the Ox was beheaded, and held up to view, As if he'd done something of Cato-street hue; A soldier that made his appearance did rue, On George the Fourth's Coronation. Then with sqaueezing and tearing began the dispute; Some held by the Pant, and some grappled the spout, Till as drunk as a lord and as wise as a brute, At this swine-feeding jollification. They drank out of hats and old shoes, very keen, The fights they went round, quite amusing the scene; While some, in mistake drank Success to the Queen! On George the Fourth's Coronation. The battle grew hot, as they flung round the beef, Disgusted, they sought no Commander in chief; The fires they demolish'd, while brickbats and beef Flew like rockets, in mad desperation. The Butchers, now thinking their lives very sweet, Soon threw down their gullies, and beat a retreat; Not wishing to die, just like dogs, in the street, On George the Fourth's Coronation. Upon the Sandhill, where the fountain ran wine, the keelmen, quite eager to taste of the vine, Had the Crown taken down, which was thrown in the Tyne, So fix'd was their determination. There one, tho' stripp'd naked, so great was his drouth, Made a new-fashion'd sun-dial, pointing due soiuth, When the ladies at five of the clock set their mouth, On George the Fourth's Coronation. Among the arrivals at Mansion-house gates, Were the bones of the oxen, the spits, and the grates, With a keelman, in petticoats, scratching his pate, For a suit from our rich Corporation. Had the Den** been but open, the people might say, For Kill-pudding Joe, and the burdies of prey,*** This sunshine woiuld brought a fine harvest of hay, On George the Fourth's Coronation. *Referring to the Public Meeting on the Town Moor, on the 11th Oct. 1819, where, it was supposed 100,000 were assembled, to take into consideration the proceedings at Manchester. **The House of Correction ***Police Officers -William Midford -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Newcastle in an Uproar Or, George the Fourth's Coronation. Air- Come under my Plaidie O Jockey, my friend, mun, how last you this evening? Come in, crook your hough, and let's hear all your news; It appears to me you have been tramping this morning, I see by the dust that's so thick on your shoes. I have been a tramping. I've been At Newcastle, All the things I have seen there my memory can't bring; The folks from all parts have rais'd such a noration, About the Coronation of Geordy the King. The first thing I saw was two fires for the bullocks- They hung them both down as it struck twelve at night; But lang ere day-light was come in on the morning, Both sutffing and 'tatoes were burnt in their kites. They turn'd them on spite until burnt like two cinders, And cut them both up about twelve of the day; As they lay on the stages, they smok'd just like tinder, And look'd like two muck-heaps, the people did say. Then the carvers set to with knives cutting and scraping, And lumps of fat beef with such vengeance were strew'd, I dare say they thought that the folks were all gaping, And believ'd they were feeding a swine multitude. But the stuff they threw out put the folks in a fury, Both stones and brick-bats they snatch'd up in a rage; And a radical troop, thus equipp'd in a hurry, With vengeance bang'd carvers and beef off the stage. For the folks being determin'd, the beef would not handle, Nor gobble it up like a stye full of swine; For their conscience did whisper it would be a scandal; So the stuff was refus'd by the sons of the Tyne. The next thing I saw was a British young sailor, He pull'd the crown down from the top of the crane; Although with brick bats he got many a nailor, Yet he stuck up a lebel concerning the Queen. This bill being put up set the crowd in a motion, They gavethree times three when first it was seen; And loudly did praise the brave tars of the ocean, Who fought in defense of their much injur'd Queen. These things being done, it rais'd such a durdem, The stones and the brick-bats flew up like a cloud: A poor Tyne Cossack, that belong'd to Tom Burdon, Was near cursh'd to death as he fought with the crowd. That day in the town was heard no sound of bugles, And Bold Archy, he too was ne'eer seen iv a'; For if that but once he had brought down the Noodles, They'd been trod under foot like a bundle of straw. For so bold are the men about canny Newcassel, No injustice they'll suffer when assembled a': If the King had been there he'd ne'er worn his gold tassel, And as to being crown'd, htat would ne'er done iv a' The things that were flying appear'd like a battle; So, afraid of being fell'd, as I stood by the folks, I on shankie nagie away straight did rattle, To drag down the street the black bones of the ox. When I came to the Sandhill my eyes I got open'd, I saw something standing which brightly did shine; A large wooden Pant, and a crown on the top o't: When I came to look close it was running red wine, The folk that were round it appear'd to be growling And fighting amongst it like so many cats; While others I saw among mud and dirt rolling, And drinking the wine out of old lousy hats. Thinks I to myself, this is all botheration, It is but a pretext, I know by their scheme, to pump out what's left of the wealth of the nation, To swell the fat bags of the Clergy and King. The next thing I saw htat took up my attention, Was a keelman quite nak'd! he'd no breeches iv a'; Some said he, for fighting, deserv'd well a pension, But I think that he ought to've been tried by the law. The wives that were running fell o'er, tappy lappy, Town serjents the keelmen did pelt well with glare; And swore, if they could but catch Tripy and Cappy, They would tear them to rags at the end of the war. Then I by this time nigh got into a quarrel; I argued, but could not the battle decide; So dreading some person might tear my apparel, I took my departure unto the Quayside. In going down the Quay there was such a crushing-- I met with a man of the name of Tom Dale, He said, into Sandgate the folks were all pushing, For the Pant on the hill there was running strong ale. When I got to Sandgate I could not help laughing. The lasses were running about with the swipes; And old wives that fell in the gutter were scruffling, Ne'er minded, but smok'd on their old cutty pipes. I next took my journey as far as the Spital, To see if ought curious was there to be seen; But I think that from Sandgate it differed little, For the folks were all drinking the health of the Queen. I went to an alehouse, and nearly got fuddled, For by walking about sae my legs were quite lame; So on my old pins then away I straight toddled, And ne'er look'd behind me, but tramp'd away hame. At Newcastle there have been both horse and boat races, I have droll things to tell you, if I had but time; But having to call at some more bits of places, On some other day I will finish my rhyme. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Coronation Day at Newcastle Upon the nineteenth of July The Castle guns did rend the sky, St. Nicholas' bells did briskly ring, And George the Fourth was crown'd our king; But those possess'd of feelings fine Will ne'er forget that day on Tyne. For days, within the 'Spital green, In ribbands deck'd were Bullocks seen, And on their horns a royal corwn, To mock some Cuckold of renown; And all, whose thoughts agree with mine, Will say he's nearer Thames than Tyne. Humanity, with pitying gaze, Beheld the victims fondly graze Round the infernalfurnace pile, Where onewas shortly doom'd to broil, Purpos'd to feed the humble swine That dwelt upon the banks of Tyne. Blush, ye great Ruleers of the town, Behold your nauseous, loathsome boon! See men, with manners more discreet, Disgusted, spurn your beastly treat! And know, all you who term us swine, That Reason rules the sons of Tyne. Give heed to this, Worhsipful Mayor, Though we're reduc'd by taxes bare, Our British bosoms still contain Hearts sound as his with golden chain! May freedom's rays, whichbrighter shine, Adorn each manly breast on Tyne. It adds but little to your praise, To see your lavish, wasteful ways, To see a keelman, from his huddock, Within your wine-trogh wash his buttock, Which ne'er before was drench'd in wine, But often plung'd in coaly Tyne. What did your wilful waste avail? Your fountains running wine and ale? The bronzed dome, the glitt'ring crown, Torn by an enrag'd people down? Who cheering hail'd Queen Caroline, Borne by the blooming fair on Tyne. What would an untaught Heathen said, To see such brutal scenes display'd? Is this hte land, he would reply, That teaches Christianity? Such might suit yon wild shores of mine, But shame Great Britain and the Tyne. The money wasted on the ground, Had it been wisely dealt around Amongst the needy poor, half-starv'd-- A thousand pounds would thousands serv'd; Extravagance was their design, Who rul'd Newcastle upon Tyne. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Coronation Thursday July 19, 1821 Being the Third Epistle from Bob Fudge to his Cousin Bob in the Country.* Dear Bob-A sad outlaw at length I'm become, The Tories despise me, the Whigs glump and gloom, And scowl as they pass, which is something uncivil, And the Radicals treat me as I would the devil; And threaten, the next time I make my appearance, To sourge me completely, with Christain forbearance, This threat from a party, who never would bawl For liberal discussion, is worst of them all; As my writings, I'm sure, must be wond'rous offences, When such men are talking about consequences. But whether the head of the Noodles appear, Or Lambton, or Typo, with sword or with spear, To blunt their sharp edges at once on my nob, I'm determin'd to write to my own dearest Bob. The Pedlar's descendant** may boast in the field, And the Earl of the North with reluctancy yield, While Cartwright an excess of freedom may claim-- Perhaps they're all right, since they all are to blame. The Radicals want more than reason would crave, They all would be kings, withoiut ever a slave; And that, my dear Bob, you know never can be-- And as for the Whigs, they love stones more than me. I dare not maliciously think of the Tory, No envy his pudding, the Englishman's glory-- He's in, and he's right, and his place is worth keeping, No wonder he wishes John still to be sleeping:-- And though from stage coffers his wages be taken, He'd betteer be paid than the office forsaken. Without Kings and Clergy, and Commons and Peers, Together the people would be by the ears; Equal rights, equal liberties, who would not brave, Lest an excess of Freedom prove Liberty's grave. We've the use of our fingers, our tongues, and our eyes, How then are we fetter'd? the good Tory cries; And as for the taxes Judge Bayley can prove They're the source of our welfare, the things we should love. Since the days of king Solomon, that wise man of yore, All kings have had wisdom and riches in store: And Britain, sublimely renowned in story, Has become of the world th' admiration and glory, By the help of our kings, and prime minister Pitt, Whose names are a match for the Radicals yet. But stop--to amuse thee I'll give a relation Of the sights I beheld I beheld at the King's Coronation; Which partly convinc'd me that infidels reign, Since the head of the church met such hoggish disdain. The morning was fine when the boats came in sight, And cannons re-echoed the Tories' delight-- Sandgate heroes huzza'd, till the news, so provoking, Convinc'd tthem the watermen only were joking. What a d--n'd shame! (cried Archy) such prizes, and never A man lying breathless, or drown'd in the river! No squabbling, no fighting, no boats sunk--damnation! They're fit men to row at a King's Coronation! then from the Quayside to the Sandhill I wander'd, And smil'd to behold money foolishly squander'd: A pant rising splendidly, gilded and crown'd, To run with good wine, in the centre was found, And fronting St. Nicholas a black roasted beast, And another in Spital-field, bespoke a grand feast. Three pants to run ale-'twas a glorious sight! Tow cranes and two scaffolds- the butcher's delight. From Church now the Mayor and company ride, And Bab with the Queen, at the foot of the Side, hoisted high on a pole, with a crown on her head-- (and her effigy more than the devil they dread) The crowd was so dense, and the shouts so astounding, And nothing but Radical whiskers surrounding; Which made it becoming to bow to the Queen, Though a damnable blot on their loyalty, I ween!, Releas'd, they drove gently, their plans to fulfill, By drinking the king's health upon the Sandhill. But, to their misfortune, round where it was plac'd, the crowd was so furious, no Tory could fac't; And high on the gilded dome stood a rude fellow, With the crown on his head!--people said he was mellow; But I took him to be some base Radical body, Who wish'd folk to think that the King was a noddy, For at the mock gestures of kingly demeanour, The people bawl'd loudly, and bow'd to his honour; While many among them cried, Pull the knave down! Such a bad drunken fellow's not fit for a crown! He's as good, quoth a keelman, and blew like a porpus, As the London Mogul, who can drink, wh-e, and robus. So near was the danger, the Mayor swoon'd away; But Archy, more bold, as they pranc'd round the fray, To his comrades cried softly, (but not till past catching) What treasonable stuff those dammn'd Radicals are hatching! D'ye see what a mess they have made of the crown, go call outthe soldiers to pull yon knave down. Drive on, quoth the Mayor, by this time come about, There's no time to talk while the Philistines are out. More furious grew Archy, as nearer he drew The den of corruption, with th' Noodles in view. Fetch the soldiers, I say--let the streets swim with blood! See the crown is insulted , and allthat is good, When erected this morn, what a sight to behold! 'Twas velvet and ermine, and cover'd with gold! 'Tis sacrilege! treason! hell groans at the sight! Fetch the soldieers, and put the bad rabble to flight: We crown'd it, and form'd it to dribble with wine, That the King's health, when drank, might be cheer'd by the swine; And shall we be bet while we've soldiers to guard us? No, call them out quickly--the King will reward us. As he finish'd the sentence, the crown got a fall, And rapt'rous delight animated them all. What savage barbarians those English are grown, To laugh at the fall of a beautiful crown! 'Twas time for the Mayor and poor Archy to fly From the radical scene to the loyal pig-stye. To St. Nicholas's square then I posted away, Where Typo's high window peep'd over the fray; And such an Ox roasting was there to be seed! 'Twas a bad royal meeting for all but the Queen. The crowd was immense, and their spirits were high, To honour his Magesty no one durst try. The scaffold with tipstaves and butchers was clad, Who blarnied poor folks what fine morsels they had; And holding the head up, began to huzza, But a volley of hisses and groans drown'd their jaw: Though, Thistlewood like, it was something uncivil, For the head wearing horns was as black as the devil. St. Nicholas peal'd out as the hisses began, And seem'd to say, Loyal bucks, do what you can! As fast as the butchers the collops threw out, The people return'd them with many a shout; And many a fat lump loyal whiskers besmear'd, 'Till brick-bats and fat chops the slaughter stage clear'd A crown that look'd lovely, and honoured the crane, Call'd forth, beyond measure, the public disdain; The brick-flying tempest redoubled its terror, And many a poor Tory's heart trembled with horror. An Officer* **vent'ring imprrudently near Receiv'd the same fate as the Coach in the rear; So high was the Radical sentiment tow'ring, That public expression was past all enduring. In vain flew the bricks, save to knock people down, For the Tories were fled, and too fast was the crown; At length a bold Tar, in the midst of the fray, Mounted swiftly, and tore the gilt bauble away; And put in its palce, which was fair to be seen, The Queen that Jack lov'd, and cried, God save the Queen! Then off went their hats, and abroad went the roar, And shook the glass windows along the Tyne shore. The mangled black carrion was knock'd from the stage, And dragg'd round the town with republican rage, Till deposited safely i' th' Mansion-house yard, Where Archy Mac Syc. is the master black-guard; From whence, in accordance with Archibald's wish, It was sunk in the Tyne- to make broth for the fish. So that Radical bodies were highly to blame, When they sung their pig sonnets, and cried out, For shame! A few drunken fellows the ale-pants surrounded, And fought for the mish-mash till nearly half-drowned. But when the wine dribbled beneath the Exchange, The people were furious, and sought for revenge, By drinking The Queen! with astounding delight, While the fine folks above them grew pale at the sight. But to see a nak'd man holding fast by the spout, Made the sanctified ladies huzza, clap and shout Fight away, pigs (quoth Archy) you make us fine fun! But when the pant suffer'd he alter'd his tune. In Spital-field loyalty had no more boast, For the Queen rul'd the heart and the people the roast. Poor anvil****disgrac'd himself, some people say, To ask the Mayor leave on the Race-ground to pray; In fact, after such a deed I should not wonder But they'll sneak and ask leave, till oblig'd to knock under. What a punch-loving people! in less than an hour, To see Lambton's horse, they were all on the moor; But vex'd that their favorite's coursere should lose, They car'd not to stay till the Races might close. Returning at length, like a tempest they came, Which bursts upon Cheviot, and sets it on flame) And levell'd the panrts with the spoil of the day, While a Radical gave them a touch of hsi lay. In vain the peace-officers handled their staves, And entreated the crowd to submit like good slaves; 'Twas the Head of the Church who created the day, And salvation attended a loyal display! But passive obedience was basely rejected, And the Head of the Church very little respected; Which made Archy again for the horse soldiers shout, So anxious he seem'd for a Manchester rout: But, thank their good stars, they go freefrom the labour Of drawing their whittles to hamstring a neighbour. In its socket was sinking the Radical taper, Ere snugly the mighty ones sat down to supper. It cost them two thousand, I mean th' Corporation! What a round sum, dear Bob, for a King's Coronation! But surely I need not the money begrudge, For the sight charm'd the heart of thy cousin, Bob Fudge. *The First Epistle, Radical Monday, a satirical description of the Town Moor great Meeting on the 11th Oct. 1819- The Second Epistle (unpublished) Radical Thursday and Whig Wednesday, on the public Meetings held in Newcastle, on those days, for addressing the queen &c. **Lord Castlereagh ***A military Officer on horseback in the crowd at the time the Mail Coach passed decorated in honour of the Coronation, was, together with the Coach pelted by the populace. ****An Independent Methodist Preacher, who forgetting the commission of his Divine Master to preach the Gospel, even on the highways and hedges, applied in vain to the Mayor, for leave for himself and brethren to hold a camp meeting on the Town Moor. The worthy Magistrate objected, on the ground of injuring the interests of the church as by law established; or more properly speaking, the interests of the established Clergy. Anvil is also celebrated by Bob Fudge, in his First Epistle, entitled Radical Monday, as one of the orators at the Town Moor great meeting on the 11th of October 1819. W Midford-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Part 10 Directory 8 Click here for main menu of this directory. Use our floating menu to improve navigation. you can reposition it by clicking on top bar and dragging Floating Menu Menu of all of the Sangs Click here For tunes in .abc notation click here For an index of persons and places mentioned in the sangs click here For Bibliography,and Philosophy of the collection click here We invite you to contribute! Click here to comment or add. Soon after our upgrade the songs which the priests have recorded will be high-lighted thusly Illustrated by woodcuts by Joseph Crawhall (Newcastle, 1889) (Where you see the music note image there will be a midi file-for you to listen to!) The Blaydon Races by William C. Irving 1903 to view this in more detail with a key click here Your Choices! The Main Menu! Main Menu Blind Willy's Flight The New Markets I The Changes on the Tyne The Custom House Branch I The Custom House Tree &c. The Custom House Branch II The Mechanics' Procession; Or a Trip to South Shields The Fishermans Farewell to the Coquet A Gipsy's Song Verses Written for the Burn's Club A Parody Thomas Whittell, His Humorous Letter To good Master Moody, Razor-setter. The Natural Philosopher The Gateshead Rads The Election Day Mary Drue Opening of the New Markets The New Markets II More Innovations The Humble Petition of the Old House in the Shield-Field Euphy'sCoronation Sandgate Wife's Nurse Song Bold Jack of the Journal Steam Soup An Old and Curious Song Newcastle Landlords-1834 A New Song for Barge-Day 1835 St. Nicolas' Church Paganini, The Fiddler Thumping Luck The Oyster-Wife's Petition St. Nicholas' Great Bell Lukey's Deam Jocker The Corn Market The Mechanics' Procession Drucken Bella Roy, O! The Music Hall The Tyne #3 The Newcastle Old Country Gentleman Use this Pull down form to go to our other pages To return to the top of this page click here. Bob Fudge's Postscript To his Account of the great Town Moor Meeting, on Monday 11th October, 1819. Since the Meeting, dear Bob, many things have come out, Which in Gotham have made a most damnable rout: Mister Mayor at a trifle does not seem to stick, With the Rads* he's been playing Sir Archy Mac Syc.-- While Sidmouth he cramm'd with some Green Bag Supplies, Which--Alas! for his Worship--have turn'd out all lies! A stark starving Parson,** to add to the store, A budget has sent to the noble Strathmore; And some other Arch Wag, whom all grace has forsook, A thumper has palm'd on a great Northern Duke! Sir Matt, too, so lately the pride of the Tyne, Against poor old Gotham did also combine; By supporting Bold Archy's most libellous letter, He has added another strong link to the fetter! The rivet he's clos'd which no mortal can sever, And set now's the Bright Star of Heaton for ever! but let him beware--for a Rod is in pickle, Which, sooner or later, his Toby will tickle. both the Houses have rung with the direful alarms, Of the Rads on the Tyne and the Wear being in arms; 'Tis all a sly hoax-the Alarmists alarming, For there's not the least symptom of Rising or Arming! --In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. Blind Willy's Flight. Tune- Betsey Baker A whirlwind, of a serioius kind, Did o'er Newcastle blow, sir, Which gen'ral consternation spread About a month ago, sir, It caught Blind Willy in the street, He mounted like a feather; His friend's alarm'd cried out Alas! Poor soul! he's gone for ever! Chorus- Fal de ral, &c. But soon our Minstral gay was seen, By thousands of the people, In rapid flight, swift as the kite Bound o'er Saint Nich'las steeple; He pass'd the Shot Tower like a dart, Turn'd round by Askew's Key, sir, And down the Tyne he glided fine, And bolted off to sea, sir. 'Tis said that he to London got, But was forc'd back to Shields, sir, And up to Swalwell, quick as thought, Was carried o'er the fields, sir. Round Axwell Park our roving spark Was borne amidst the squall, sir, And swiftly passing Elswick House, Reach'd Cockolorum Hall, Sir. Thus tempest-toss'd to Blagdon cross'd, And hail'd fam'd Heaton's Star, sir-- As far as Prestwick Car, sir. Newcastle next he hovere'd o'er, Quite calmly in the air, sir, And landing at the Mansion House, He din'd with Mr. Mayor Sir. R. Emery-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The New Markets I Tune- Canny Newcassel Wev, hinnies, but this is a wonderful scene, Like some change that yen's seen iv a playhouse; Whe ever wad thowt that the awd Major's dean Wad hae myed sic a capital weyhouse: Where the brass hez a' cum fra nebody can tell, Some says yen thing nad some says another-- But whe ever lent Grainger's aw knaw very well, That they mun have at least had a fother. Chorus: About Lunnen then divent ye myek sic a rout, For there's nowt there maw winkers ti dazzell; For a bell or a market there isent a doubt We can bang them at canny Newcassel Wor gratitude Grainger or somebody's arl'd, Yet still, mun, it mykes yen a' shuther, To see sic a crowd luiking after this warld Where the Nuns us'd ti luik for the tother. But see yor awn interest, dinna be blind, Tyek a shop there whatever yor trade is; Genteeler company where can ye find Than wor butcher,s green wives, and tripe ladies? Ti see the wives haggle about tripe and sheep-heads, Or washing their greens at a fountain, Where the bonny Nuns us'd to be telling their beads, And had nowt but their sins ti be coiunting; There the talented lords o' the cleaver and steel May be heard on that classical grund, sir, Loudly chaunting the praise o' their mutton an' veal, Though they're losing a happney a pund, sir. When them queer Cockney folk cum stravagin this way (Though aw've lang thowt we'd getten aboon them) They'll certainly now hae the mense just to say, That we've clapt an extinguisher on them: It's ne use contending, they just may shut up, For it's us can astonish the stranger; They may brag o' their Lords an' their awd King ti boot, What's the use on it?--they havent a Grainger. Oliver-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Changes on the Tyne Tune- Mitford Galloway I'll sing you a bit of a ditty, I hope you will not think it lang, At least if it tires your patience, I'll verra suin shorten my sang; It's alll about comical changes, And new-fangled things on the Tyne, I've witness'd since aw was a skipper, And that isn't verra lang syne. Chorus These are the days of improvement, We're a' getting wiser you see, The skuilmaster's getting abroad, And he'd finish us off to a tee. Baith sides of the Tyne aw remember, Were cover'd wi' bonny green fields, But now there is nought but big furnaces Down frae Newcastle to Shields; And what wi' their sulphur and brimstone, Their vapour, their smoke, and their steam, The grass is all gaen, and the farmers Can nowther get buter or cream. For making their salts and their soda, They formerly us'd a lail-pot, With an awd-fashion'd bit of a chimley They were quite satisfied wi' their lot; But now Anty Clapham, the Quaker, Has fill'd a' the folks wi' surprise, For he's lately built up a lang chimley, Within a few feet o' the skies! There's Losh's big chimley at Walker, Its very awn height makes it shake, And if Cookson's again tumble ower, It will make a new quay for the Slake; To talk of your fine foreign pillars, It's enough for the make a man sick, The great tower of Babble compar'd Wi' wor chimleys is nowt but a stick. For threepence to Shields aw remember In a wherry the folk us'd to gan, And that was consider'd by many A very respectable plan; But now we've got sixpenny steameres, A stylish conveyanace, I'm sure, For there you've a tune on the fiddle, And a lie on the sands for an hour. Then ower the land we'd a whiskey, Which went twice or thrice in the day, Which us'd to take all the fine gentry, And quite in an elegant way; But now the awd whiskey's neglected, And nothing but coaches suit us, Lord help us! there's nothing gans now But a hyke in the new omnibus. At one time wor ships were all loaded Sae canny and snug by the keels, And then a' wor maisters made money, And keelmen were a' happy chiels; But now your fine drops de the business! Lord bless us! aw never saw such, Though some of wo owners aw's freeten'd Hev getten a drop ower much. And then an aud horse brought a waggon A' the way frae the pits to the staith, But now it appears pretty certain, They'll verra suin dee without baith, For now their fine steam locomotives A' other inventions excels, Aw've only to huik on the waggons, And they'll bring a ship-load down their sels. New rail-roads now spring up like mushrooms, Aw never, maw soul! saw the like, We'll turn every thing topsy-turvy, And leave ourselves not a turnpike; Then horses will live withoiut working, And never more trot in a team, And instead of carrying their maisters, They'll get themsels carried by steam. Wor ballast-hills now are grown handsome, And what they call quite pictoresk, Ne poet can de them half justice If he writes all his life at his desk; They're hilly, and howley, and lofty, Presenting fresh views every turn,' And they'd luik like Vesuvious or Etna, If we could only get them to burn. And as for aud canny Newcastle, It's now quite a wonderful place, Its New Market, nothing can match it In elegance beauty, and grace; Could our forefathers only just see it, My eye! they would start wi' surprise, I fancy I just hear them saying-- What's come of the buggy pigsties? And this is a' duin by one Grainger-- A perfect Goliah in bricks, He beats Billy Purvis quite hollow In what ye ca' slight of hand tricks; He's only to say, Cock-o-lorum, Fly Jack, presto, quick and be gane, And new houses spring up in an instant-- Of the audins you can't see a stane. In sculler-boats, not very lang syne, The Shields folk cross'd over the Tyne, But now we have got a big steamer, And cuts quite a wonderful shine; And one that we've got down at Scotland, Delights a' the folks with a ride, For it gans back and forward sae rapid, That it just makes a trip in a tide. I think I've now told you, my hinnies, The whole of the changes I've seen, At least a' the whirligig fashions That I have been able to glean; So the next time we meet a'together, Some other improvements I'll get, And then we shall make worsels happy, And try a' wor cares to forget. In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Custom House Branch Tynesiders, give ear, and you quickly shall hear A strange and wonderful story, Of a dreadful uproar upon fam'd Gotham's shore, Where we've brush'd all to heighten our glory. On the Quayside, so spruce, stands a great Custom House, Of Newcastle the pride and birth-right; Now the sons of Go-tham had sworn o'er a dram, That to Gotham it soon should take flight A townsman they sent, on great deeds fully bent, A son of the knife and the steel, sirs; And one learn'd in the laws, to argue their cause, The covenants to sign and to seal, sirs. Lo London they came, through the high road to fame, Their hearts were both merry and staunch: Of success confident, to the Treasury they went, And demanded they might have a Branch! False report (only guess) brought to Gotham success,' Rejoicing, they blaz'd withoiut doubt; Great Rome, they now say, was not built in one day; We've the Branch, and we'll soon have the Root! While their thoughts were thus big, over Newcastle brig The Mail came one day, in a hurry: What's the news? say the folk; quick a Briton up spoke, No Branch!--so Newcastle be merry. No Branch! was the cry, re-echoed the sky, And sent down to Gotham a volley; Where the prospect is bad, for 'tis fear'd they'll run mad, Or relapse into sad melancholy. So Gotham beware, and no more lay a snare, Nor think that Newcastle you'll bend; Call your advocates home, your cause to bemoan, And let each his own calling attend. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. . back to the song menu The Custom House Tree &c. tune- The quayside shaver Ye folks of Newcassel, so gen'rous, advance, And listen awhile to my humourous strain; 'Tis not the fag end of a fairy romance, Nor yet the effect of a crack in the brain; 'Tis a Custom-house Tree, that was planted with care, And with Newcassel Int'rest well dung'd was the root; And that all Water Fowls might partake of a share, They were kindly permitted to taste of the Fruit. The Sea Gulls of Shields sought a Branch, so applied To a stately old Drake, of the fresh water breed: He flutteer'd his wings, then he bade them provide A memorial, to send off to London with speed. His pow'rful opinion was soon put in force, And messengers chose, who, without more delay, Took flight; while blind Ignorance guided their course, And they roosted, I'm told, about Ratcliffe Highway, Meanwhile, with impatience, a Gull took his glass, And with anxious concern took a squint to the sout; If I don't now behold (may you prove me an ass) A Gull flying back with a Branch in his mouth. The news quickly spread; they, in wild consternation, Burnt tar-barrels, bells ringing, dancing for joy; A person was sent for to plan the foundation, While others drank Mrs. Carr's wine-cellar dry. There was one, half seas over, sang Little Tom Horner, While some in the streets, on their bellies lay flat; Another, 'pon turning the Library Corner, Ran foul of a quaker, and knock'd off his hat. A full brandy bottle came smack through a window, And hit on the temple a canty old wife; Don't murmur, say they, were you burnt to a cinder, We're albe to grant you a pension for life. Their Gull-eye at London, o'er pudding and roast, Would bet heavy odds he should fortunate be; And then after dinner propos'd, as a toast, That grass might soon grow upon Newcassel Kee. But the Treas'ry decision laid vap'ring aside; No Branch! was the cry, so away the Gulls slunk: Should a Twig be lopp'd off, it can ne'er be deny'd, But the roots would soon dry, and thus wither its trunk. So now I've a scheme, if your fancy I hit, T'will suit crazy folks after dancing mad reels; Instead of a Custom-house Branch 'twould be fit That a Branch from the Mad-house be rear'd in North Shields. We'll laugh at the joke, while experience may learn The Gulls, for the future, in peace to remain. By what you have heard, you may also discern, That premature joy's the forerunner of pain. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Custom House Branch II Tune- Yo heave O The joyous men of North Shields their church bells set a ringing sweet, And tar-barrels blaz'd, their high rapture for to shew; Like bears some fell a dancing, like ravens some were singing sweet, Poor Jack, Rule Britannia and Yo heave O. Some grog were freely quaffing, Like horses some were laughing; Their matchless powers in bellowing all eager seem'd to shew; The Branch, they cried, we've got, And with it, well we wot, Fitters, bankers, merchants, soon will follow in a row. The Newcastle deputation, do doubt on't swagger'd much sir, Expecting our Pilgarlicks soon foiled would have been; But too hard for them all prov'd the diplomatic Butcher, Whose tongue, like his gully-knife, is marvellously keen. Spite of wheedling and of sneering, Bamboozling nad queering, He to his purpose stuck so fir, so true, and so staunch, The Town Clerk and his chums, Stood whistling on their thumbs, Astonish'd, whilst triumphantly he bore away the Branch. And now since the Custom House we thus have got translated, Why longer should the County Courts Newcastle proudly grace? We wise-ones of North Shields, tho' reckon'd addle-pated, For this pile so magnificent will find a fitter place. Yon space* which--'s skill, Seems destin'd ne'er to fill With structures worthy Athens' or Corinth's proudest day; Yon space! O is it not The very, very spot Where the county courts their splendour so massive should display? If once our gen'ral committee determine, in full quorum, The removal of our Courts, the result will fully shew, That the Lords of the Treasury, and Custos Rotulorum, (Our high displeasure dreading) will not dare to whisper No. And when the whim impells, To eclipse the Dardanelles; The old Castle of its ancient sight shall straightway take its leave, To brave gthe billow's shocks, On the dread Black Midden rocks, However for its transit Antiquarians sore may grieve. Then comes the grand finale, for which our souls we'd barter now; The Regent and his ministers we'll pester night and day, Till transferr'd to us Newcastle sees her revnues and charter too, And from Heddon streams to Tynemouth bar, Tyne owns our soverign sway. O when our town so famous is, Big as Hippopotamuses, We'll strut about the Bank- top quite semi-divine; The neighbouring coasters all, Our greatness shall appall, And their topsails straight they'll lower to the lords of the Tyne. 'Twas thus with idle rumours poor gentlemen delighted, The honest men of North Shields to fance gavethe rein; Sad proof that when ambition with folly is united, Astonishing chimeras oft occupy the brain. But soon their joy was banish'd, Soon each illusion vanish'd For news arriv'd the Butcher the Branch could not obtain. Deep, deep in the dumps, (After playing all his trumps) Just as branchless as he went he was toddling hyem again. Newcastle, thou dear canny town! O ever thus defeated. Be every hostile effort thy prosperity to shake; Long grumbling to thy Custom-house, in gigs and coaches seated, May the honest men of North Shields their daily journies take, Long, long too, may the Jacks Continue their equestrian skill on Shileds road to display; Tho' oft their tits may stumble, And o'er the bows they tumble, Unhurt, still bold, mahy they remount, and onward bowl away. Newcastle men, rejoice! O haste, on this occasion, With many a jovial bumper our whisltes let us wet, Lord Eldon, with Sir William Scott, and all our deputation, To toast, with acclamations due, O let us not forget: To them our thanks be tender'd, Good services they've render'd-- Andlet us hope in after times, should Branch wars rage again, In Newcastle 'twill be found, Such men do then abound, The commercial pre-eminence still boldly to maintain. *The New Market Place -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Fishermans Farewell to the Coquet Come bring to me my limber gad I fished with many a year And let me hae my well worn creel an a' my fishin gear The sunbeams glint on Linden Ha The breeze blows frae the west And lovely looks the golden morn on the stream that I love best Ive thrawn the flee thae sixty year, aye sixty year and mair and many a speckled trout i had with heckle hauk and hair and now I m old and feeble grown my locks are like the snow But i'd gang again to coquetside to take anither throw Oh Coquet in my youthful days thy river sweetly ran And sweetly in the wooded braes the bonny birdies sang But streams may run and birds may sing sma' joy they bring to me The blithesome strains I dimly hear, the streams i dimly see But once agin the well-kenned sounds my minutes shall beguile And glistening in the early sun I see thy waters smile And sorrow shall forget his sigh and age forget his pain And once more down by coquetside my heart be young again Once mair Ill touch with gleesome foot the waters clear and cold And I will cheat the gleg-eyed trout and while him frae his hold Once mair at Weldons friendly door Ill wind my tackle up And drink success to coquetside, though a tear fa in the cup So now farewell to Coquetside Aye gaily may thou run And lead the waters sparkling on and dash frae linn to linn Blithe be the music of thy streamand banks in after days And so be every fishers heart That treads upon thy braes Robert Roxby 1825 back to the song menu The Mechanics' Procession Or, A Trip to South Shields. Tune- The Bold Dragoon Let gowks about Odd Fellows brag, And Foresters se fine-- Unrivall'd the Mechanics stand, And long will o'er them shine;-- With belts of blue, and hearts so true, They far outrival every Order-- Their praise is sung by every tongue, Frae Lunnin toon reet ow'r the Border. Chorus- Wack, row de dow, &c. O had you seen our Nelson lads When Nunn* brought up the news-- He said, let us be off to Shields, Our brothers' hearts to rouse; Our Tilder drew his sword, and cried, Let banners wave and loud drums rattle-- Whene'er Mechanics are oppress'd, They'll find us first to fight their battle! Three cheers we gave, when Nunn replied, Our Albion lads do crave, To join the Tyne and Collingwood, All danger they would brave; And each I. G. wad let them see, Their hearts and souls were in the action, They'd crush a foe at ev'ry blow, Until that they had satisfaction. The ardour spread from lodge to lodge, Each brother's heart beat high, And down the Tyne, in steamers fine, On rapid wings they fly;- On rapid wings they fly;-- 'Mid cannon's roar along the shore, Our band struck up our tunes se merry-- So blythe a crew there's been but few, Since famous Jemmy Hohnson's Wherry. At Shields we doin'd their splendid band, And march'd in fine array-- Throughout the town, we gain'd renown, For such a grand display;-- We smack'd their yell, and wish'd success To each Mechanic's Lodge se clever, And as we left the brothers cried-- O may our Order live fore ever! Let's drink to all Mechanics true, Upon both sides of Tyne-- May peace and plenty bless their homes, And round them long entwine;- To Simpson te, so kind and free, Let's give three cheers as loud as thunder-- Till echo'd back from pole to pole, And all the world admire and wonder! *Thomas Nunn, I.G. of the Albion Lodge. -R. Emery-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu A Gipsy's Song Here awhile we'll cease from roaming-- Pitch the tents among the broom-- Turn the asses on the common, And enjoy the afternoon. Chorus- Merry shall we be to-day; What is life devoid of pleasure? Care from us keep far away, While Mirth pursues his sprightly measure. Place all things in decent order, Budgets, boxes, mugger-ware, And here encamp'd on England's border, We'll remain till Whitsun Fair. Eas the brutes of panniers' load-- Let them browse among the heather; Light a fire, and dress some food, And frankly we shall feast together. And Allan,* thou shalt screw thy drone, And play up "Maggie Lauder" sweetly, Or "Money Musk" or "Dorrington," And we will frisk and foot it neatly. Crowd** gain'd applause for many a tune-- Few Peer'd him in the High or Lawlan'; But neither he nor Sandy Brown*** Could trill a note like Jemmy Allan. E'en Blaw-loud Willy's*** Border airs, Nor gay nor daft could please the dancer; But aye to Allan's lilts , at fairs, The very feet themselves would answer. Each lad shall take his favorite lass, And dance with her till she be weary, And warm her with the whisky glass, And kiss and hug his nut-brown deary. And when of mirth we've had our will, Upon the sward love shall entwine us; Our plighted vows we'll then fulfill, Without a canting priest to join us. And when we go our countryrounds, Soime trinkets selling, fortunes telling-- Some tink'ring, cooping, casting spoons, We'll still obtain the ready shilling. Unto the farm-steads we can hie, Whene'er our stock of food grows scanty. And fromthe hen-roost, bin or sty, We'll aye get fresh supplies in plenty. And when the shepherd goes to sleep, And on the fell remains the flick, We'll steal abroad among the sheep, And take a choice one from the stock. The clergy take the tenth of swine, Potatoes, poultry, corn, and hay-- Why should not gipsies, when they dine, Have a tithe-pig as well as they? We wish not for great store of wealth, Nor pomp, nor pride, nor costly dainty; While blest with liberty and health, And Competence-then we have plenty. ***An unskilful performere on the bagpipe, who attended the different fairs held in Northumberland. About 45 years ago, a poem appeared in a Kelson newspaper, wherein this person was respectfully noticed,as follows:-- They brought the piper, Sandy Brown, Frae Jedburgh to Lochmahen town; Though whaisling sair and broken down Aud Sandy seem'd, His chanter for a pleasing sound Was still esteem'd *James Allan, the celebrated Norhumberland bagpiper. **A vagrant piper, who often travelled with gipsies. -H. Robson-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Verses Written for the Burns' Club, Held at Mr. Wallace's, Nag's Head, Newcastle, Jany 1817. The rolling year at length brings forth The day that gave our poet birth; O Burns! to testify thy worth, We're hither met-- Nae genius i' the South or North Can match thee yet. Of ither's rhumes we have enow, But sic as thine are rare and few-- For aye to nature thou wert true, Thou bard divine! Nae poet Scotia ever knew Could sing sae fine. With rapture, each returning Spring, I'll follow thee, on Fancy's wing, To where the lively linnets sing In hawthorn shade; Here oft thy muse, deep pondering, Sweet sonnets made. With thee I'll stray by streamlet's side, And view the bonnie wimpling tide O'ere polish'd pebbles smoothly glide, Wi' murm'ring sound, While Nature, in her rustic pride, Smiles all around. Or to the fells I'll follow thee, Where o're the thistle burns gthe bee, And meek-eyed gowans modestly Their charms disclose, And where , upon its 'thorney tree," Blows the wild rose. Or to the heath, where faries meet In mystic dance with nimble feet, By moonlight--there the elves I'll greet, And join theirrevels; Or on a "rag -weed nag", sae fleet, Fly wi' the devils! Through fields of beans, with rich perfune, And o'ere the bracs o' yellow broom That gilds the bonny banks o' Doon, Wi' thee I'll rove, Where thou, when blest in youthful bloom, Stray'd with thy love. When thunder-storms the heav'ns do rend, Unto Benlomond's top I'll wend, And view the clouds electric vend The forked flash! And hear the pouring rains descend Wi' dreadful clash! A fig for meikle bags o' wealth, If I hae food, and claes, and health, And thy sweet sangs upon my shelf, I'll gaily trudge it Through life, and freely quit the pelf For Robin's budget. And when distracting moments teaze me, Or fell Oppressions grapples sieze me, A lesson frae thy book may ease me, Sae I may hear Misfortune's wipes, till death release me Frae canker'd care. H. Robson-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu A Parody Written on hearing a Report that the Newcastle and Northumberland Yeomanry Cavalry were to be disbanded. Tune- The Soldiers Tear. Upon Newcastle Moor, Poor Matthew cast a look, When he thought on the coming hour, When his brave Noodle Troop Would lay their arms down, No longer them to bear-- The brave defedners of the town-- He wip'd away a tear. Beside gthe fatal spot, Wherepoor Jane did end her strife, He said that he would cut his throat, And end his wretched life-- A life so 'press'd with care, No longer cold he bear-- So wildly then he tore his hair, And wip'd away a tear. He turn'd and left the ground, Where oft his red, red plume, Had spread its warlike beauty round, To the sound of fife and drum;-- But now his glory's fled-- No longer it he'll wear, But take it quietly from his head, And wipe away a tear. No more the Tory ranks Will glitter in the sun-- Nor play at e'en their childish pranks, With blunderbbuss or gun; For now the doleful knell Has toll'd their last career, And, horror-struck, poor Matty Bell, Who wip'd away a tear. Wm Greig -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Thomas Whittell, his Humourous Letter To Good Master Moody, Razor-setter. Good Master Moody, my beard being cloudy, My cheeks, chin, and lips, like moon i' the 'elipse For want of a wipe-- I send you a razor, if you'll be at leisure To grind her, and set her, and make her cut better, You'll e'en light my pipe. * Dear sir, you know little, the case of poor Whittell: I'm courting, tantivy, if you will believe me--- Now mark what I say: I'm frank in my proffers, and when I make offers To kiss the sweet creature, my lips cannot meet her, My beard stops in the way. You've heard my condition, and now I petition, That, without omission, with all expedition You'll give it a strike, And send it by Tony, he'll pay you the money-- I'll shave and look bonny, and go to my honey, As snod as you like. If you do not you'll hip me, my sweetheart will slip me, And if I should smart for't and break my brave heart for't. Are you not to blame? But if you'll oblige me, as gratitude guides me, I'll still be your servant, obedient and fervent, Whilst Whittell's my name. *this phrase means, the conferring of a vacour. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Natural Philosopher Or, The Downfall of the Learned Humbugs Tune- Canny Newcassel Oh! hae ye not heard o' this wonderful man, Perpetual Motion's inventer! The Sun, Muin, and Stars are a' doon iv his plan, But take time till it comes frae the prenter! The last time he lectur'd he tell'd such a tale 'Bout Vibration, Air, and such matter; He can prove that a washing-tub is not a pail, And all Isac Newton's brains batter! Chorus Then come, greate and sma', and hear the downfa'- For a fa' down it will be for certain-- Of a' the wiseacres and gon'rals, an' a' that dare to oppose the great Martin; He'll settle their hash! their necks he will smash, A' the College-bred gowks he will dazzel; Ne mair shall false teachers o'er him cut a dash! They are banish'd frae Canny Newcassel. He can prove that a turkey-cock is not a Turk! That a 'tatie is not a pine-apple; He likewise can prove that boil'd goose is not pork, And a black horse is not a grey dapple. A' what he can prove--a' what he can do, And bother the gon'rals--the wad-be's; He likewise can prove that a boot's not a shoe, And his cane's not a sausage frae Mawbey's!* His Poems are sublime, tho' nyen o' them rhuyme-- Why ,he pays no attention to Morrow;** Ne matter for that, still he makes them a ' chyme, For he hasn't his phrases to borrow! Then proceed, mighty man, propagating thy plan, To enlighten this dark age of reason! May it spread like a blaze, with thy eloquence fann'd-- To doubt it, I hold it sheer treason. *A late famd Sausage-maker in the Old Flesh Market. **Murrays Grammer -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Gateshead Rads To an old tune T'other day 'aw was saunt'ring down the New Street, And had turn'd to gan back, when whe should aw meet, Reet plump i' the face, but sage Tomy Rav-ly, Just come frae the council, and looking mos gravely. Wi' Tommy, says aw, what can be the matter? Your plawd is aw dirt, and your teet in a chatter; Has your colleagues in office been using a broom, And sooping the dirt all out of the room? Now, James, he replied, Pray don't be prosy, Or sure as you're there, I';ll make you quite mosey; I've gotten enough to make me look blue, Without being bother'd with plebeians like you. Just think, when the last time in council we met, We propos'd and appointed our yellow-hair'd Pet Toi be Justice's clerk, and pocket the fees, For which he came almost plump down on his knees. But no sooner did we our backs fairly turn, Than they (devil take them!) appointed Swinburne, And laugh'd in their sleeves to think how we'd stare; but James you must know, they had better beware. Now, Tommy says aw, just keep yoursel' aisy, For at present aw'm sure that ye look very crazy; Make the Quaker your purser, and he'll put ye right, For aw'm sure that the strings he will keep verra tight. A sixpence he'll make gan as far as a pound, So that will be nineteen and sixpence ye've found; Just leave all to him and W.H.B., And no doubt ye will prosper, as shortly ye'll see. Now come, let's away to the bonny Blue Bell, And there we will drink a quart o' yor yell, And then aw will tell ye what next ye maun de-- But mind ye say nowse 'bout it coming frae me. He then made a start, but nowt did he say, ('tween councillor and plebeian, that's may be the way,) Till into the house we fairly did stumble, When, "go cab my lug," he was then verra humble. Now, Tommy, maw man, aw see nowse that ye've done, But aw hope ye intend to commence verra soon; A market we maun hae, an' at the Brig-end-- A place that old Jacky oft dis recommend-- To save us the fash, and aiblins the pain, Of ganging right o'ere unto the High-crane; and mind what I say, if we wantony peace During sermon, on Sunday, oppose the police. At that he did open his eyes verra wide-- Ah, beggar! aw thought aw'd offended his pride; But nought o' the sort, for he held out his loof-- Now, James, my good fellow, you've said quite enough. My int'rest aw'm sure, you always shall hae, and a job aw will get you on the Sabbath-day; For some one at the council this day did propose, That we the dog-fights in Green's Field should oppose. And Usher was told for to seek out three men, To assist him on Sundays, anbd thou shat be ane; And 'bout what thou wert saying a motion wa'll bring, For, doubtless, 'twill prove a necessary thing. We thank ye, says aw, but d'ye think that ye're right, In trying to stop us frae seeing a dog-fight; For maw thoughts about liberty it fairly clogs, Yet--we've barking enough ni' twe-footed dogs. Gateshead, March 1, 1836. Y.S, -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Election Day Tune- There's nae Luck about the House Ye Freemen all, with heart and voice Your banners wide display-- Bring Hodgson forth, your man of choice, Upon th' Election-day. Then fill your glasses, drink yoiur fill, Drink deeply while yoiu may-- With right good-will, we'll drink and swill Upon th' Election-day. But politics are not the stuff That we care much about-- Nor care, so we get drink enough, Who's in, or who is out. Then fill your glasses, drink yoiurfill-- Fill nad drink away, And ev'ry one enjoy the fun Upon th' Election-day. Brave Vulcan is our leader bold, The pride of all good fellows-- He swears the iron shall ne'er grow cold, While he can blow the bellows, Then fill your glasses, what's the toast, To drive dull cafre away?- 'May ev'ry man be at his post Upon th' Election-day.' The landlord next appears in view, Our second in command, Encouraging the jovial crew To drink while they can stand. Then charge your glasses, noble souls, The toast without delay-- 'May thirsty sculs have flowing bolws Upon th' Election-day'. The Hodgson's name aloud proclaim Victoriously that day; While he, in honour of his fame, Will all expences pay. Then fill your glasses, What's the Toast? Fill and drink away-- 'May ev'ry man drink all he can Upon th' Election-day. -W.Watson -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Mary Drue by the late T. Houston* On a pleasant April morning, Wand'ring Tyne's sweet banks along, Spring with flow'rs the fields adorning, Woods and gorves with birds of song-- Pensive stray'd I; none was nigh me, When a maid appear'd in view-- Slow she came, or seem'd to fly me-- Heav'ns! 'twas charming Mary Rrue. Long my Mary's charms I gaz'd on, Long I view'd that nymph complete-- Her bright eyes no form were rais'd on, But were downcast at her feet: In her hand a violet blooming Kiss'd the breeze that gently blew, And one robe, with folds presuming Hid the breast of Mary Drue. Onward drew the modest maiden, Heav'nly was her gait and air-- Brighter ne'er that meadow stray'd in, Never Tyne saw form so fair: In my breast my heart, wild beating, With redoubled ardour flew; From my tongue all speech retreating, Left me scarce-"dear Mary Drue." Henry, Henry! have I found you? (Thus the maid her words address'd,) and with solitude around you, Can my Henry here be bless'd? Woods and streams may yield a pleasure, But my bliss-'tis all in you-- Love beyond all bounds and measure-- Lov'd at last by Mary Drue! Told this morn of your disorder, (Love for me the cause believ'd,) Soon I sought this river's border, Where 'tis said you oft have griev'd: On the river's brnk I find you-- Pensive, sad, I find you too; Leave the world and wealth behind you-- Thou art worlds to Mary Drue! Sweet as notes from lutes ascending, to my ear these accents came, Smiles and looks of love attending, Touch'd my soul with gen'rous flame; O'er her charms, disorder'd, stooping-- Rapt'rous sight! divinely new!-- On my breast her head lay drooping, While I clasp'd sweet Mary Drue. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. *Thomas Houston died about the year 1802 or 1803. He was the author of a play, entitled "The Term-day, or Unjust Steward," and of several poems among which were, "The Progress of Madness," and "A Race to Hell.". In the latter piece were given the portraitures of two notorious corn-factors of that day, belonging to this town.--Houston was a nativeof Ireland, and by trade a brass-founder. back to the song menu Opening of the New Markets Fill up the cup till the ruby o'erflows it, Drown ev'ry care in the nectar's rich stream-- If joy's in the goblet, this day will disclose it, When Trade, Worth, and Beauty, by turns are our theme. What is, I aske, the toast, Deepest drunk, honour'd most, Drunk most devoutly, most honour'd to-day? What is the pledgethat we Hail first, with three times three? "Success to our Market!" --Huzza and Huzza! No longer let London and Liverpool tell us their towns boast of markets so spacious & grand: We answer, "We pray you, be quiet, good fellows, We, too, have a Market--the first in the land!" Fish, flesh, and garden fruits, Oranges, apples, roots, There you will find them all, seek what you may; Honest the dealers, too, Drink, then, I pray of you-- "Success to the Dealers!" --Huzza and Huzza! The structure- but why should we speak of its merit? Enough that we mention the architect's name; And long may the building, begun with such spirit, A monument stand of his talents and fame. Proofs of a master mind, Talents and taste combin'd, Are they not every where visible--say? The architect's pride and boast, Then be our hearty toast-- "Mr. R. Granger!"--Huzza and Huzza!" Wreathe the bowl, wreathe it with wit's brightest flow'rs-- Fill, fill it up till the nectar o'eerflows; Never was Burgundy brighter than ours, Never were eye-beams more sparkling than those. Surrounded by Beauty's train, Captives, in willing chains, To eyes that beam witchery, and smiles that betray, Low at the shrine we bow-- Love claims the homage due-- "the Ladies!--the Ladies!" --Huzza and Huzza! If spirit, by cost nor by trouble dismay'd-- If bounty unmeted, and free as the dew; If courtesy, kindness to each one display'd. May claim our applause, it is owing here now. Oft in the festive scene, Courteous and kind he's been, Buyt never more courteous, more kind than to-day; Fill then the cup again-- Drain--to the bottom drain-- "His Worship, the Mayor!"-- Huzza and Huzza! -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The New Markets II Or, Newcastle Improvements. Believe me now, good foke,what I say is not a joke: Behold, says cousin Isabel, improvement now is visible, New buildings you espy, airy, spacious, and high, And trading chaps are moving round to sell or buy, When trade was at a stand, and the river chok'd wi' sand, caus'd the bodies to assemble, the poor to employ; Then Johnny off packt, up to Lunnon for an act, And the manager for market-building, Dick's the boy! Chorus Then Starkey, blaw your reed, ca' the group a' frae the dead, Jack Coxan and Cull Billy, Judy Dowling and Blind Willy; Let the cavalcade move on, with a tune frae Bywell Tom Take a view o' wor new city, drink, and then return. When colossus he arose, with his Jachin and his Boaz, His plans of such utility, of splendour and gentility, Condenm'd was Tommy Gee, and confirm'd was Tommy B., And the measure seem'd to reconcile both friends and foes; Even butchers' crabbed luiks, wi' their meat on silver huiks, Drop all former animosities, and strut about wi' jouy; For the temple of king Solomon, for grandeur, can't follow, man-- All Europe now may shout aloud, that Dick's the boy! Old houses now beware, how you spoil a street or square, whatever ground you bide upon, your fate is soon decided on; For tumble down you must, like a lump of mouldy crust, And the Major bell will toll your fate, when all is done; For the rich have fond it out, that a camel, without doubt, through a needle-eye can't pass without a pilot or a foy; The money, though conservative, will find a good preservative-- The knights of Leazes Terrace, hinnies, Dick's the boy! Fine rows of Paphian bowers, for the fruits, and herbs, and flowers, The baskets stand, so pretty looking--feet and tripe, a' fit for cooking-- Fountains fine and pure, that a cripple they may cure, And babies may get baptism, for ought you know; There's a clock to tell the time--but I now must stop my rhime, For the feasting has begun, and each heart seems big with joy; Then come, enjoy the treat, wi' your legs upon your feet, Take off your hats, and shout aloud--Brave Dick's the boy! W.Midford -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu More Innovatons! Newcastle's sore transmogrified, as every one may see But what they've done is nought to that they still intend to dee: There still remain some sonsy spots, pure relics of our ancient features, O' which our canny town shall brag, while bonny Gateshead boasts sand-beaters. The scrudg'd up Foot of Pilgrim-street, they surely will not mind, 'Tis such a curiosity--a street without an end; Should they extend it to the Quay, and show off All Saints' Church so neatly, It might look fine, but I'm afraid 'twould spoil the Butcher-bank completely! Of pulling down the Butcher-bank it grieves one's heart to speak, From it down every Quayside-chare there's such a glorious keek; The shambles, too, a bonny sight, the horse and footways nice and narrow- Say what they will, seek through the world, the Butcherbank is bad to marrow. Our fishwives, too, might well complain, forc'd off the hill to move, Where they so long had squall'd in peace, good fellowship and love: The brightest day will have an end, and here the Sandhill's glory closes, Now flies and fumes no more will make the gentles stop their ears and noses. 'Tis said they mean to clear away the houses in the Side, To set off olf St. Nich'las church, so long our greatest pride; But where's the use of making things so very grand and so amazing, To bring daft gowks from far and near, to plague us with their gob and gazing. The Middle-street's to come down next, andgive us better air, And room to make to hold at once, the market and the fair; Well may Newcastle grieve for this, because in hot or rainy weather, It look'd so well to see the folks all swelter'd in a hole together. The Tyne's to run out east and west; and, 'stead of Solway boats, Our greenland ships at Carlisle call, and not at Johnny Groat's; Dull we may be at such a change--eh, certies, lads, haul down your colours!-- 'Twould be no wonder now to see chain-bridges ruin all the scullers. R. Gilchrist -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Humble Petition of the Old House in the Shield Field To John Clayton, Esq. To fall ne'er enter'd in my head, So staunch is all my station-- As little dreamt I ere to dread The ills of innovation. Who can deny my dignity, Tho I put little state on, Outshining sham benignity, My canny Mr. Clayton? Loong since my roof has rung to song, And smil'd on gay carouses, Newcastle then--though now so throng- Was somewhat scant of houses: I've stood so long, nor Bourne nor Brand My days can place a date on, So even spare me still to stand, My canny Mr. Clayton. Newcastle now, like Greece or Rome, Gives all the world a mazer, And Mister Grainger has become more like Nebuchadnezzar: Build houses till ye touch the sun, Aye work both soon and late on, But do not try on me such fun, My canny Mister Clayton. Yon villas fine--with all their sneers- Time will not have to hallow, Ere they haave seen one-tenth my years, Their sites will lie in fallow; So do not think I envy them, though pompously they prate on: They're sprigs, but I''m a sober stem, My canny Mister Clayton. Then say the word, my lease renew, And win a wreath of glory-- A bard of Tyne will sing of you, All in my upper story. Who lays disporting hands on me, All ills may pour his pate on, So be advis'd, and let me be, My canny Mister Clayton -R Gilchrist -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Euphy's Coronation. Tune- Arthur M'Bride To the Fish-market we are ganning--the queen is proclaim'd! And Euphy's their choice, for beauty lang fam'd-- They've geen her full pow'r, now she's justly ordain'd; So they've gyen to crown honest and Euphy! The market was crowded the queen for to view-- Euphy sat for promotion, drest up wi' new; The procession appear'd, bearing the flag--a true blue! And then they surrounded aud Euphy. The procession was headed by Barbara bell, He was follow'd by chuckle-head Chancellor Kell-- Mally Ogle appear'd wi' a barrel o' hyell, To drink to the health of and Euphy. Honest Blind Willie, tee, gaw them a call-- There was great Bouncing Bet, Billy Hush, and Rag Sall, The Babe o' the Wood, with Putty-mouth Mall, A' went to crown honest aud Euphy. There was a grand invitation for byeth great and sma'-- Her subjects assembled, did loudly hurra!-- She was nobly supported by bauld Dolly Raw, At the crowning of honest and Euphy; But Ralphy the Hawk was in prey for a job, Wiv his small quarter-sstaff, wish'd to silence the mob-- He was silenc'd when he gat the beer-barrel tiv his gob, At the crowning of honest and Euphy. Ephy and Madge were the gaze i' the show, They were lang loudly cheer'd by the famous Jim Bo;- To preserve peace and order there was barrel-bagg'd Joe, At the crowning of honest and Euphy. To make an oration was the Chancellor's wish, While his turbot-head sweel'd like a smoking het dish; Bauld Dolly Raw stopt his gob wi' a cod fish, At the crowning of honest and Euphy. By great Billy Hush, Euphy queen was declar'd! To move frae the market her subjects prepar'd; To the auld Custom-house the procession repair'd, To drink at the cost of aud Euphy. Fine Barbara Bell grand music did play, Which elevated the spirits of young Bella G--y, Keep your tail up! she wad sing a' the way, At the crowning of honest and Euphy. To lead off the ball, for the queen they did cry, To please all her people, she was there to comply; Peggy Grundy would follow, wi' Big Bob and X Y, To assist in the dance wi' Queen Euphy. The dancing was ended down to dine they a' sat; Roast beef and pig-cheek-- a good swig follow'd that; the fragments were reserv'd in Chancellor Kell's hat, At the crowning of honest and Euphy. The Chancellor's gob was beginning to swet, He swill'd it away till he gat ower wet, He was led to the Tower by young Beagle Bet, Frae the crowingin of honest and Euphy: Bella Roy was beginning to produce all her slack-- She was tuen hyem on a barrow, by wise Basket Jack; The sport was weel relish'd by Billy the Black, At the crowning of honest and Euphy. A speech was now myed frae the queen, i' the chari-- To study their good she would take a great care; They aw had her blessing--what could she say mair? God bless the Queen, honest and Euphy! Wi' cheers for the Queen, the house oft did ring-- By their humble request she the Keel-row did sing; They a' happy retir'd, wi' God save the King! Frae the crowning of honest and Euphy. Thomas Marshall -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Sandgate Wife's Nurse Song Tune- A sailor's Wife has nought to dee. A, U, A, my bonny bairn, A, U, A, upon my airm, A,U,A,--thou suin may learn To say dadda se canny; Aw wish thy daddy may be weel, He's lang i' coming frae the keel; Tho' his black fyesce be like the de'il, Aw like a kiss frae Johnny. Chorus- A,U,A&c. Thou really hast thy daddy's chin, Thou art like him leg and wing, And aw wi' pleasure can thee sing, Since thou belangs my Johny. Johnny is a clever lad-- Last neet he fuddled aw he had, This morn he wasn't very bad-- He luik'd as blithe as ony. Tho' thou's the first, thou's not the last; Aw mean to hae my bairns fast-- And when this happy time is past, Aw still will love my Johny; For his hair is brown, and see is thine, Your eyes are grey, and sae are mine, Thy nose is taper'd off se fine-- Thou's like thy daddy Johnny. Thy canny doup is flat and round, And, like thy dad, thou's plump and sound, Thou's worth to me a thousand pound, Thou's a' together bonny. When daddy's drunk, he'll tyek a knife, And threaten sair to tyek my life: Whe wad not be a keelman's wife, To have a man like Johnny. But yonder's daddy coming now, He luiks the best amang the crew; They're a' gaun to the Barley-mow, My canny, godlike Johnny. Come, let's go get the bacon fried, And let us make a clean fire-side, Then on his knee he will thee ride, When he comes hyem to mammy. -Nunn -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Bold Jack of the Journal Written on reading Mr. Larkin's "Letter to the Protestants of Newcastle", on the subject of "Maria Monk's Awful Disclosures." Bold Jack of the Journal-- From regions infernal!-- The Catholic Clergy Would hang or woud burn all! This insolent Tory Is now in his glory, And currency gives To Miss Monk's lying story. For his blust'rin' and barkin', And fulsome remarkin' Brave, honest Charles Larkin Has gi'en him a yarkin'. Newcastle Sept 1836. H.R. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Steam Soup; Or, Cuchoo Jack's Petition tune- X.Y.Z. Let Cocknies brag o' turtle-soup, and Frenchmen o' their frogs, man-- Newcastle soup, such famous stuff, it feeds us fat as hogs, man! Yor Callipee and Callipash, compar'd tiv it, is nobbit trash-- Strang knees and houghs stew'd down to mush, are gobbled up by every slush; Wi' pluck an' taties folks are duen, for smoking soup in crowds they run, And sup till they are fu', man! Chorus- Fal de ral,&c. A skipper and his wife saat down, to give a quairt a try, man, When something stuck in Mally's throat, and choak'd her very nigh man: Poor Mally blari'd, and turn'd quite pale--and out she pull'd a great rat's tail! Says Jack, aw'll off to Mr. Mayor, and tell the story tiv a hair-- Aw think it is a shameful joke, to sell suchstuff wor Mall to choke-- Its warse than tatie stew, man! Whe knaws but these fine dandy cooks hire resurrection faws, man, To stock them with forbidden flesh, agyen our famous laws, man: A cook in France, now understand, as sure's the sun inleets wor land, Did kidnap bairns, an' mince them down, and myed sic pies, that a' the town Was eat nowt else--thowt nowt se fine; they fand him out--then, what a shine!-- The hang'd him on a tree, man! O Willy, man wor canny king, ye knaw best how to feed us-- Ye ken what we can de at sea, at ony time ye need us; Cram a' their necks into a loop, hat try to cross wor breed wi' soup; Or gar them pay a heavy fine, that dare unnerve yor tars of Tyne; Then in the fight we'll loudly cheer, when we're restor'd to flesh and beer- Hurra! for England's king, Man! R. Emery -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu An Old and Curious Song On the late Mr. R. Clayton being made an Alderman Tune- The Vicar and Moses. My good Mr. Pun, We know you like fun And also to crack a good joke; 'Tis well known in the nation, That our Corporation Has long lain under a cloak. Chorus- Fal lal de ral, &c. But after your year, How strange 'twill appear, (Pray Heaven it prove for your good,) To all the whole nation, that our CorporationWill then crouch under a Hood.* Now, we poor folks, Who're not us'd to jokes, But with the sweets taek the bitters-- The folks in our station Think our Corporation Has loong been outfitted by Fitters Oh, watty! Oh, Watty!** Shouldst thou now see Natty, And his clan, how thickly they lay't on; You'd say, in their order, Mayor, Commons, Recorder, Are all now outwitted by Cl--n. From the days of good Walters, To his who makes halters *** Such changes have here taken place, That from its high station, Our poor Corporation Has sunk into abject disgrace. When the Alderman's gown Was hawk'd about town. And none would be found for to lay't on, Up stepp'd brother Bob, And settled the job, And he was dubb'd Alderman C--n. Yet think not, that though such, He'll quit the Town's Hutch, Or say thing threre let miscarry; Still there he'll give law, Rule by his cat's paw, The ever obliging Old Harry. Ye honest electors, Our faithful protectors, In you there can never be blame; As by following the Mayor. And supporting the chair, We always must vote for the same. Ye scumm of the bowl, In vain you may growl, Like the swinish group in a storm, Nat will rule the roast, And still make a boast, That danger lies not in Reform**** *Alderman Hood **ald. Blackett ***Ald. Cramlington. ****A few copies ofthe above song were printed by Mrs. Agnus about the year 1795. It was said to have been writen by the late Mr. James Davidson, attorney, author of a poem entitled "Dispair in Love, an Imprecatory Prayer", which was also printed by Mrs. Agnus- Sir Matthew White Ridley resigned his office of Magistrate about this time, observing that, "Clay from up stairs and Clayton downstairs will never do." back to the song menu Newcastle Landlords-1834 Kind friends and acquaintance, attention I claim, While a few jolly Landlord, in this town, I name; In alphabet order my song it is penn'd, And I hope, for joke's sake, it will never offend. Chorus- Then hey for good drinking, It keeps us from thinking We all love a drop in our turn. A stands for armfield a good hearty blade, Tho' he's left the Nag's Head, still follows his trade; At the foot of the Market you'll find his new shop, Where many an old friend still calls in for a drop. B stands for Burns, of the Theatre-square; She's an orderly woman- good drink is sold there; If I wanted as wife, I should readily choose This amiable widow to govern my house. C stands for Cant, sign of the Blue bell, Who keeps a good house, and good porter doth sell; Quarreling or fighting is there seldom seen,-- She's a canty old widow, but rather too keen. D for Dixon who once kept the Unicorn-Ho! And D stands for Dixon, White Hart, you well know; Then theere's Dixon, Quayside, just a little way down-- Were the three fattest landlords in all the whole town. E stands for Eggleton, Fighting Cocks Inn, Tho' old, took a young wife, and thought it no sin; F for Finlay, his shop's corner of Pudding-chare, And good wine and spirits you'always get there. G for Gibson, the Blue-posts, in Pilgrim-street, Where a few jolly souls oft for harmony meet; H for Hackworth, in Cowgate, Grey Bull is the sign-- Only taste his good ale--faith, you'll say it's divine. H stands for Heron, the sign of the Cock; H for Hall, near Nuns' Gate--keeps a snug oyster-shop; H stands for Horn, aand he's donevery weal, Since he bother'd the heart of sly Mrs. Neil. I stans for Inns- we've the best in the north-- There's the King's Head, the Queen's Head, the George, and the Turf, he Old Crown and Thistle, and Miller's Half-Moon, Well known to the trav'lers who frequent the town. K stands for Kitchen, Hell's Kitchen 'twas nam'd, And long for good ale and good spree has been fam'd; In eachparlour, in vestry, or kitchen you'll find The beer-drawer, Mary, obliging and kind. L stands for Larkin--he's left the Black Boy, Once fam'd for Patlanders and true Irish joy; On the Scotchwood New Road a house he has ta'en, Where I hope the old soul will get forward again. M stands for Mitford--he kept the North Pole, Just over the Leazes--a dull-looking hole; Now our favorite poet lives at Head of the Side-- Here's success to his muse--long may she preside. N stands for Newton, sign of the dolphin, Who the old house pull'd down, built it up like an inn; They say he found gold--how much I can't tell; but never mind that, he's done wonderful well. O stands for orton--he keeps the Burnt House, Once fam'd for the Knights of the Thimble and Goose; and O stands for Ormston, at Pandon-- O rare!-- Temptation enough for young men that go there! P stands for Pace, sign of the White Swan, Who, for to oblige, will do all that he can; A convenient house, when you marketing make, To pop in and indulge yourself with a beef-steak. R stands for Ridley and Reed, you all know, And R stands for Richardson, all in a row; First, Three Tuns, the Sun, and the Old Rose & Crown, And their ale's good as any at that part of town. S for Sayer's Nag's Head, he keeps good mountain dew,-- Only taste it, you'll find what I tell you is true; S for Stokoe, wine-me chant, foot of St. John's Lane; For good stuff and good measure we'll never complain. T for Teasdale, the Phoenix, a house fam'd for flip-- T for Teasdale, who once kept the sign of the Ship; And W for Wylam, a place more fam'd still-- Sure you all know the Custom-house on the Sandhill. Robin Hood, Dog and Cannon, and Tiger for me, The Peacock, well known to the clerks on the Quay; The Old Beggar's Opera for stowrie, my pet, Mrs. Richardson's was, andshe cannot be bet. There's the Black Bull and Grey Bull, well known to afew. Black, White, and Grey Horse, and Flying Horse too; The Black House, the White House, the Hole in the Wall, And the Seven Stars, Pandon, if you dare to call. There's the Turk's Head, Nag's Head, and Old Barley Mow, The Bay Horse, the Pack Horse, and Teasdale's Dun Cow, The Ship, and the Keel, the Half Moon, and the Sun-- But I think my good friends, it is time to be done. Then each landlord and landlady, wish them success, Town and trade of the Tyne, too- we cannot do less; And let this be gthe toast, when we need toregale-- May we ne'er want a bumper of Newcastle ale. W.Watson -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu A New Song for Barge-Day 1835 Sung on board of the Steward's Steam-boat. It well may grieve one's heart full sore, To be in such a movement-- Upon the river, as on shore, the rage is all improvement: Once blithe as grigs, our merriment Is chang'd to meditation, How we these ills may circumvent-- O what a Corporation! The Quayside always was too big, As scullers have attested; Tant ships, that come with rampant rig. Against its sides are rested. Still to extend it in a tift, They're making preparation, And Sandgage-midden is to shift-- O what a Corporation! At Tyne-main once there was a caunch, And famous sport was found there; So long it sttod--so high and staunch-- All vessels took the ground there; But somehow, it has crept away, By flood or excavtion, And time there you need not delay-- O what a Corporation! They thnk to move Bill-point--a spot So lovely and romantic-- Which has sent many ships to pot, And set some seamen frantic; Then many a gowk will run to see, And stare with admiration, From Snowdon's Hole to Wincomlee-- O what a Corporation! How silent once was Wallsend-shore-- Its dulness was a wonder; Now, from the staiths, full waggons pour Their coals like distant thunder; To have restor'd its wonted peace, In vain our supplication,-- The trade, they say, it will increase-- O what a Corporaton! Where Tynemouth-bar, I understand, A rock from side to side is, How well would look a bank of sand, Not higher than the tide is; But this, it seems, is not to be-- In spite of my oration, The Tyne is still to join the Sea-- O what a Corporation! O would the Tyne but cease to flow, Or, like a small burn bubble, There would not be a barge-day now, Nor we have all this trouble; But here, alas! we sailing roam About its conservation, Instead of sleeping safe at home-- O what a Corporation The Moral As patriots in public cause, We neveer once have swerv'd yet, And if we have not gain'd applause, We know we've well deserv'd it: Who thinks we care for feasting, he Must be a stupid noddy-- We're like the Herbage-committee, An ill-requited body. Robert Gilchrist -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu St. Nicholas' Church O bonny church! ye've studden lang, To mence our canny town; But I believe ye are sae strang, Ye never will fa' down: The architects, wi' a' their wit, May say that ye will fa'; But let the mtalk-- I'll match ye yet Against the churches a'. Chorus Of a' the churches in our land, Let them be e'er sae braw, St. Nicholas' of Newcastle town, Yet fairly bangs them a' Lang have ye stood ilk bitter blast, But langer yet ye'll stand; And ye have been , for ages past, A pattern for our land: Your bonny steeple looks sae grand-- the whole world speakeo'ye,-- Been a' the crack, for cent'ries back, And will be when I dee. 'Tis true they've patch'd ye all about With iron, stone, and wood; But let them patch--I have a doubt, They'll do ye little good; But, to be sure, its making work-- There's plenty lives by ye-- Not only tradesmen and our clerk, But the greedy black-coats, tee. Your bonny bells there's nane excels. In a' the country round; They ring so sweet, they are a treat When they play heartsome tunes; And when all's dark, the people mark Ye with your fiery eye, That tells the travellers in the street The time, as they pass by. O that King William wad come down, to see his subjects here, And view the buildings of our town-- He'd crack o'them, I swear; But when he saw our canny church, I think how he'd admire, To see the ach sprung from each side That bears the middle spire. Now, to conclude my little song, That simple, vocal theme-- I trust, that if I've said aught wrong, That I will be forgi'en: Then lang may fam'd St. Nicholas' stand, Before it does come down, That, when we dee, our bairns may see The beauties of our town. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Pagannini The Fiddler Or, The Pitman's Frolic Tune-- The Kebbuckstane Wedding Come, lay up your lugs, and aw'll sing you a sang, It's nyen o' the best, but it's braw new and funny-- In these weary times, when we're not very thrang, A stave cheers wor hearts, tho' it brings us ne money: Aw left Shiney Raw, for Newcassel did steer, Wi' three or four mair of our neighbours se canny, Determin'd to gan to the play-house to hear The King o' the fiddlers, the great Baggy Nanny. Chorus; Right fal, &c.. We reach'd the Arcade, rather drouthy and sair-- It's a house full of pastry-cooks, bankers, and drapers-- At the fine fancy fair, how my marrows did stare, On the muffs, hats, and beavers, se fam'd in the papers; At Beasley's where liquour's se cheap and se prime, A bottle aw purchas'd for maw sweetheart, Fanny, We drank nowt but brandy--and when it was time, We stagger'd away to see great Baggy Nanny. We gat t' the door, 'mang the crowd we did crush, Half way up the stairs I was carried se handy; The lassie ahint us cried, Push, hinny, push-- Till they squeez'd me as sma' and as smart as a dandy; We reach'd the stair-heed, nearly smuther'd, indeed-- The gas letters glitter'd, the paintings look'd canny-- Aw clapt mysel' down side a lass o' reet breed, Maw hinny, says aw, hae ye seen Baggy Nanny. The lassie she twitter'd, and look'd rather queer, and said, in this house there is mony a dozen, They're planted so thick, that there's no sitting here, They smell so confounded o' cat-gut and rosin; The curtain flew up, and a lady did squall, To fine music play'd by a Cockney bit mannie, Then frae the front seats I suen heard my friends bawl, Offhats, smash yor brains, here comes great Baggy Nanny. An outlandish chep suen appear'd on thestage, And cut as odd capers as wor maister's flonkey, He skipp'd and he fiddled, as if in a rage-- If he had but a tail, he might pass for a monkey! Deil smash a good tune could this bowdykite play-- His fiddle wad hardly e'en please my aud grannie-- So aw suen join'd my marrows andtoddled away, And wish'd a good neet to the great Baggy Nanny. On crossing Tyne-brig, how wor lads ran the rig, At being se silly duen out o' their money,-- Odd bother maw wig, had he play'd us a jig, We might tell'd them at hyem, we'd seen something quite funny; But law be it spoke, and depend its ne joke-- Yen and a' did agree he was something uncanny, Though, dark o'er each tree, he before us did flee, And fiddled us hyem did this great Baggy Nanny R. Emery.-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Oyster-Wife's Petition On the removal of the Oyster-tub from the quay tune- The Bold Dragoon Oh! Mister Mayor, it grieves me sair-- Alas! what mun aw dee? Wor Oyster-tub* is doom'd ne mair To grace Newcassel Kee!- Wor bonny lamp that brunt se breet, And cheer'd each wintry neet se dreary, Is gyen and lots o' canny folks Will miss it sair when cawd and weary! Chorus- Wack, row, de dow, &c. Now, for the sake of her that's gyen, Just speak the cheering word, And say, that to wor ancient burth, Aw suen will be restor'd. The news wor town wad 'lectrify, Andgar yor nyem to live for ever-- In efter times yor deeds wad shine, And 'clipse the nyem o' wor Tyne river. Had Charley Brandling, bliss his nyem, Been spar'd to seen this day, He'd shown the great respect he had For poor aud Madgie Gray; Alas! he's gyen; close to yoursel' Aw'll stick until aw's satisfied, sir; When ye look on this good-like fyeece, Maw wishes ne'er can be denied, sir. Frae Summer-hill down to the Kee, Fo'ks kenn'd poor Madgie weel,-- Aw's very sure wor Magistrates For maw condition feel; The cellar's ow'r confin'd and damp,-- Restore us to wor canny station, And bliesings great will leet upon Wor canny Toon and Corporation. R.Emery -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. *The Oyster tub alluded to stood on the quay, nearly opposite to the foot of Grinding chare. It formed rather an interesting feature in the winter nights being accompanied by a large blazing lamp, at which sat the owner, attended by several loungers.On the death of old Margery Gray, which took place abbout Octobere 1831, this tub was removed, lest the long occupancy of the place should become a freehold, like the little barber's shop which stood at the east end of the Maison de Dieu, and which had oiginally been only a stall. August 1833. back to the song menu Thumping Luck air- Gang nae mair to your Town Here's thumping luck to yon town, Let's have ahearty drink upon't- O the days I've spent in yon town, My heart still warms to think upon't; For monie a happy day I've seen, With monie a lass so kind and true,-- With hearty chields I've canty been, And danc'd away till a' was blue. Chorus- Here's thumping luck to yon town, Let's have a hearty drink upon't, O the days I've spent in yon town, My heart still warms to think upon't There's famous ale in yon town, Will make yourlips to smack again, And many a one leaves yon town, Oft wishes they were back again; Well shelter'd from the northern blast, Its spires nad turets proudly rise, And boats and keels all sailing past With coals, that half the world supplies. There's native bards in yon town, For wit and hunour seldom bet-- And they sang sae sweet in yon town, Good faith, I think I hear them yet: Such fun in Thompson's voyage to Shields, In Jimmy Johnson's wherry fine-- Such shaking heels and dancing reels, When sailing on the coaly Tyne. Amang the rest in yon town One Shiels was fam'd for ready wit-- His Lord Size half drown'd in yon town, Good faith I think I hear it yet: Then Mitford's muse is seldom wrong, When once he gives the jade a ca', And Gilchrist, too for comic song, Though last, he's not the least of a'. May the sun shine brighton yon town, May its trade and commerce still increase,-- And may all that dwells in yon town Be blest with fond, domestic peace; For, let me wander east or west, North, south, or even o'er the sea, My native town I'll still love best-- Newcastle is the place for me. W. Watson -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu St. Nicholas' Great Bell Oh, have you seen the mighty bell, That none in England can excel,-- The Tom of Lincoln's but a shell To the great bell of Saint Nicholas. \Oh, such rare things ne'er was before-- To hear it strike eight miles, or more- To wake the workmen, when they snore-- Ay, this great bell of Saint Nicholas. (Spoken)-- I say, Patrick, have you been after seeing the great bell that's just gone up to that great lump of a Protestant church! --A big bell, do tehy call it? by the saints, I thought it was an extinguisher for the light at its ugly mug--a great bell indeed; by the powers! you know yourself it's only like a skull cap to my great greandmother's praty pot, that she used to boil the kail cannon in at the harvest--You are right, Patrick but still we'll Drink success to this bell--ding, dong-- That'll wake the folks in country and town, And their maids to milk their cows in the morn, The great bell of Saint Nicholas. Lord, how the people they did run, When they heard the small bells ring like fun, Shouting, there's something to be done. At the old church of Saint Nicholas. The shopkeepers out of their doors did stare At such a thing, so great and rare, And the flags were waving in the air, O'er the great bell of Saint Nicholas. (Spoken)- Well I suppose they will christen it- Hout, man, they christened it yesterday at the foundery, down at Hawks'--Well, then theyll have to consecrate it now. --Ay, horses and all--What! consecrate horses, you foolish man! Ay, then they'll be most fit for hearses and mourning coaches. Drink success to this bell, &c. And after al the noisy storm, We've liv'd to see real church reform-- Six horses standing snug and warm, In the old church of Saint Nicholas. You should have been at the church, To have seen the horses in the porch,-- The devil will say--I'm in the lurch, No use for me at Saint Nicholas. (spoken)- I say, Geordy, did you ever see such a great thing as that before? Where is it gan te?- Why, to the church; it's the great bell that was bequeathed by Majro Anderson to flay away the rooks and craws frae the town--to hinder them from building either on churches or exchanges. Ay, ay, but I think it wad hae been far better if they'd myed it to flay away poverty frae wor doors, and cast it as a boiler for soup. What say you, Geordy?--It wad, as ye say--but I'll Drink success, &c. A drunken cobbler made a vow, In the Major he would make a shoe,-- And he work'd away till all was blue In the great bell of Saint Nicholas. The sue being made to the man of leather The people cried--Well done! O clever,-- You should have a grant to work for ever In the great bell of Saint Nicholas. Drink success to this bell, &c. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Luckey's Dream Tune- Caller Fair. The other neet aw went to bed, Being weary wi' maw wark man; Aw dreamt that Billy Scott was deed-- It's curious to remark, man-- Aw thought aw saw his buryin' fair, And knew the comp'ny a', man-- For a' poor Billy's friends were there, Tosee him levelled law, man. Blind Willie slowly led the band, As beagle, on the way, man; A staff he carriedin his hand, And shook his head se grey, man; At his reet hand was Buggy Jack, Wit his hat-brim se broad, man; And on his left was Bill the Black, Ti lead him on his road, man. Big Bob, X.Y. and other two, That leeves upon the deed, man-- They bore his corpse before the crew, Expecting to be fee'd man; His nyemsyek, Euphy Scott, was there, Her bonny Geordy, tee, man, Distress'd--they cried, (this happy pair,) Ne mair we will him see, man! Bold Jocker was amang them, tee, Brave Cuckoo Jack and a', man; And hairy Tom, the keelman's son, And bonny Dolly Raw, man; And Bella Roy, and Tatie Bet, They cried till out o' breath, man-- For sair these twosome did regret For canny Billy's deeth, man. But Hangy luickt above them a', He is se sma' and lang, man-- And Bobby Knox, the Dog-bank Ox, Was sobbin i' the thrang, man; And Coiner, wi' his swill and shull, Was squeakin' like a bairn man, And knack-knee'd Mat, that drucken fyul, Like a monkey he did gairn, man. Tally-i-o, that dirty wretch, Was then the next I saw, man-- And Peggy Powell, Step-and-fetch, Was haddin' up her jaw, man-- And frae the Close was Bobby Hush, Wi' his greet gob se wide, man-- alang wi' him was Push-Peg-Push, Lamentin' by hisside, man. And roguish Ralph, and busy Bruce, That leeves upon their prey, man, Did not neglect, but did protect Their friends upon the way, man; And Jimmy Liddle, drest in black, Behint them a' did droop, man; Hehad a coat on like the Quak's, That feeds us a' wi soup, man. Now, when they got him tiv his grave, He then began to shout, man; For Billy being but in a trance, Bi this time cam about man; Then Jocker, wi' a sandy styen, The coffin split wi' speed, man-- They a' rejoic'd to see agyen Poor Bill they thought was deed, man. When a' his friends that round him stood, Had gettin' him put reet man, They a' went tiv the Robin Hood, To spend a jovial neet, man; Ne mair for Billy they did weep, But happy they did seem, man;-- Just then aw waken'd frae my sleep, And fand it was a dream, man. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Jocker Tune- O, gin I had her. Hae ye seen my Jocker, Hae ye seen my Jocker, Hae ye seen my Jocker Comin' up the Kee? Wiv his short blue jacket, Wiv his short blue jacket, Wiv his short blue jacket, And his hat agee! (Spoken) --Jin- A! lyucka, noo, at clarty Nan, there!--whats she singin at? Nan- What is aw singin' at! What's that ti ye? What is aw singin at! Ah, wey, noo!--hev aw ti give ower singin' for ye! Ah! wey, noo! there's a platter-fyeced bunter for ye!--there's a smothe-bairn w-----! there's a pink amang the pissy-beds! Ah! wey, noo!...... Ye'd mair need gan hyem, and get the dust wesht off ye. Ah! wey, noo-what's that! O, maw hinny, Jocker O, maw hinny, Jocker, O, Maw hinny, Jocker-- Jocker's the lad for me! Jocker was a keelman Jocker was a keelman, Jocker was a keelman, When he follow'd me. (spoken) --But he's exalted now--O, bliss him, aye! for He's a porter-pokeman, He's a porter-pokeman, He's a proter-pokeman, Workin' on the Kee. (Spoken- Nan- Assa, Jin- hae ye seen owt o' wor Jocker doon the Kee, there? Jin- Ay, aw saw him and Hairy Tom just gan into the Low Crane there. Nan- The Low Crane, ye clarty fa'-whe are ye myekin' yor gam on? Jin- Noo, call me a clarty fa', and aw'll plaister yor gob wi' clarts. Ah, wey, noo! whe are ye calling a clarty fa'? Nan- Ay! bliss us a', Jin, what are ye gettin' intiv a rage about? Jin--Wey, didn't ye ax me if aw'd seen owt o' Jocker doon the Kee, thre- and aw teld ye the truth, and ye wadn't beleive me. Nan- Wey, is he there? Jan- Ti be sure he is Nan- Wey, aw'll sit down here till he comes owt- then-- O, maw hinny, Jocker,&c. Jocker was a rover, Jocker was a rover, Jocker was a rover, When he courted me: But, noo, his tricks are over, But, noo, his tricks are over, But, noo, his tricks are over, He tykes me on his knee. (spoken) Nan- Ay! here he's comin'; maw jewel comin;-come into my airms, my uacle dumplin', and give us a kiss! Where hae ye been? aw been luikin for ye all ower. Jocker- Where hav aw been! --aw've been wakin' up and down the Kee here. Where hae ye been?--aw think ye've been i' the Sun. Nan- Wey, maw jewel, aw've just been i' the Custom-house, getting a glass, and aw've com'd donw the Key to seek ye, to gan hyem thegither. Assa, Jocker, divent lie se far off is as ye did last neet, for when aw waken'd aw was a' starving o' caud. O, maw hinny, Jocker, &c. back to the song menu The Corn Market A Lament Tune- The Bold Dragoon. O Hinney Grainger, haud thy hand, thou'll turn us upside doon, Or faith aw'll send for Mr. Brand, to claw thy curly croon; For what thou's myed the Major's dean, wor thenks are due, and thou shat hae them; But noo the law toon folk complain, thou wants to tyek their Egypt frae them. Chorus Wack, row de dow, &c. Most fok like the better half, but thou wad swalley all, Poor house or Jail may tyek the rest gie thou but elswick Hall. Wor cooncil's cliver, there's ne doot, but they'll find out, tho' rather late on, How cool the devil walks about, in the smooth shape of J--y C--n Thou's getten aw the butcher-meat, the taties, tripe, and greens, And not content with this, thou wantsto tyek wor corn, it seems; For Mosley-street and Mercy's sake, sic wicked thowts at once abandon, Or else wor canny awd law toon, it winna hev a leg to stand on. The wheel o' fortune will stand still, he bees forsyek the hive, There'll be ne wark for Sinton's Mill the White Horse winna drive, Poor Mrs. F--h and Temperance H-- ne mair need recommend their diet, The farmers will forget to call, H-lls Kitchen's very sel turn quiet. The Chronicle may doze in peace, -Lorg Grainger says "Sleep On--+ The bugs may tyek another lease, their race is not yet run; And Nichol still mayfairly say, frae Hepple's up to Humble's house end. He feeds a lively host each day, aw'll say, at least hundred thousand. The White Swan seun 'ill be agrund, the Black boy turned quite pale, the Black Bull wi' the blow bestunn'd the Lion has his tail, Hom H--nb's Cock 'ill craw ne mair, the awd Black Bell be dumb for ever.-- And, just to myek the Keeside stare thou'd better senddown for the river. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Skipper's Account or The Mechanics' Procession By. R. Emery, of the Nelson Lodge, Newcastle Tune- Newcastle Fair. Cried Mally, Come Jacky, get ready-- The morning is looking se fine, man; The bells i' the town are a' ringing, And the sun it se bonny does shine, man; The lads and the lasses are runnin', To se the Mechanics so gay, man,-- To meet the Procession, wi' Mally, Aw suen cut my stick, and away, man Chorus- Rom ti iddity, &c. We reach'd the Tyne Brig in a crack, 'Mang croods, like worsels, out o' breeth, man-- The splendor aw cannot describe, Nor forget till the day o' my deeth, man: A fine silken banner appear'd As big as wor Geordy's keel-sails, man, A' cover'd wi' doves, ark, and croons, An' greet hairy men without tails, man. A chep like a Duke follow'd next, Surrounded wi' Nobles se fine, man, Weel dress'd up in silk robes an' tassels, An' goold that did glitter and shine, man-- Saws aw, that's Prince Albert, aw'll sweer-- An' was just gawn to give him three chears, man, When Mally cried- de'il stop yor din!-- Becrike! its the Dey of Algiers, man. The members were toss'd off in stile, In colours of pink, white, and blue, man,-- A tight little chep frae the ranks, Cried, Jack, hinny, how'd'ye do, man?-- What Newton! says aw, now, wha cheer! Aw thowt ye some Squire makin' fun, man,-- There's Armstrang, as trig as a Peer, But how's my awd friend, Bobby Nunn, man? The Hawk, the Northumberland Star, An' the Magdalen's banners wav'd sweet, man; But the Chieftain astonish'd them all, With hs braw Highland lads dress'd sae neat man; The Nelson appear'd in true blue, (There canny host Simpson belangs, mah,) An' Petrie walk'd close alangside O' the chep that writes Newcassel Sangs, man. To describe the Flags, Music, an' Stars, Wad take me to doomsday for sartin; Let Foresters brag as they like, But it's all in my eye, Betty Martin. Wor lads were se pleas'd wi' the seet, Mechanics they'll be before lang, man,-- So aw's gannin to Simpson's to-neet, To sing them this canny bit sang, man. Whit-Monday 1841 -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Drucken Bella Roy, O! tune- Duncan M'Callaghan. When Bella's comin' hyem at neet, And as she's walking doon the street, The bairns cry out, Whe pawn'd the sheet? Wey, drucken Bella Roy, O! Chorus- Then styens to them gans rattlin', rattlin, They set off a gallopin' gallopin' Legs an' arms gan' wallopin', wallopin', For fear o Bella Roy, O! Now, when she gans through the chares, Each bairn begins, and shouts and blairs, And cries, as she gans up the stairs, Where's drucken Bella Roy, O! Now, if she's had a sup o' beer, She sets ti wark to curse and swear, And myeks them run away, for fear, Frae Drucken Bella Roy, O! Believe me friends, these are her words: She says--Get hyem ye s---'s birds, Else aw'll bray ye as flat as t---s, Cries drucken Bella Roy O! She says-- ye have a w--e at hyem, And if ye'll not leave me alyen, Maw faith, aw'll break your rumple byen, Says drucken Bella Roy, O! She'll myek the place like thunner ring, And down the stairs her things will fling, And cry--Get out, yor ----thing--- Cries drucken Bella Roy, O! Then in the house she sits and chats, The bairns, then, hit her door such bats-- She calls them a' the hellish cats, Dis drucken Bella Roy, O! She shouts until she hurts her head, and then she's forc'd to gan' te bed, Which is a piece of straw, down spread For drucken Bella Roy, O! -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Music Hall Old bards have sung how they could boast Of places that's renown'd for bloody battles won and lost, And royal monarchs crown'd; But all those deeds this place exceeds-- They in the shade must fall, Some have declar'd if but compar'd To our fam'd Music Hall. Here zealots join in warm debate, And for their rites contend-- Here Lark-wing spouts on church and state, His popery to defend; With bigot zeal, his coutry's weal He vows to have at heart-- Yet 'tis well known throught the town, He plays a knavish part. Now, from Hibernia's fertile shore The thund'ring champion comes, His country's wrongs for to deplore, With trumpets, fife, and drums; He tells them, too, he is most true, Their firm unshaken friend,-- While life shall last, he will stand fast, And all thier rights defend. then champions of another grade-- I mean of fistic lore--0 Deaf Burke, the bouncing gasconade, Struts o'er the spacioius floor, Who, with great art, performs his part, In teaching self-defense; Yet plain I saw, he meant to draw Fools' shillings, pounds and pence. Next comes a man of fangles new-- Of worlds, and moons, and stars-- Who said, Sir Isac never knew The Ple-i-ades from Mars The folks throng'd round from all the town, And some pronounc'd him clever, Yet, I've been told, both young and old Return'd as wise as ever. Apollo, too, his court here keeps, With sirens in his train-- Each trembling note of music sweeps Transport through every vein: When Orpheus play'd within the shade, He made the woods resound; The list'ning beasts forsook the mead, And stood, like statues, round, A graver scene my muse has caught, Where sages in a row-- Men, by the Holy Spirit taught The gospel trughs t' avow-- Those who have trod, to server their God, The shores of foreign land, At his command now boldly stand T' implore a helping hand. And not unfrequent, as we stray This wond'rous place to see. We find it fill'd with ladies gay, To take a cup of tea; And many a gent, who is content With such domestic fare, Has often sat, in social chat, And join'd in many a prayer. Of many more there is one class, Which merits some attention-- Not Bacchanalians, alas! For such I would not mention-- But men of brains, the smell of grains Would strike with detestation, Who'd keep us dry, and thus decry All liquours in the nation. Nay, come what will of good or ill, Just only make a trial--- If you the owner's pockets fill, You'll meet with no denial; And men, I hear, from far and near, Have given attestation, So strong a place they cannot trace In any other nation. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Tyne No. 3 Tune- Banks and Braes o' bonny Doon Clear Crystal Tyne, sweet smiling stream, Gay be the flow'rs thy banks along, For there the darling of my theme Oft sports thy verdant meads among. Flow on, sweet Tyne, and gently glide, And pour thy commerce o're the main, May Plenty o'er thy banks preside, To bless the with her smiling train. Green be thy fields, Brittania dear, With plenty flowing o'er thy land, But chief the banks of Tyne, for there I'll often rove, at Love's command,-- There meet my lass upon the green, And flow'ry garlands for her twine, While smiling pleasure glads the scene, Upon the blooming banks of Tyne -J. Wilson -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Newcastle Old Country Gentleman Air- Old Country Gentleman From wand'ring in a distant land, An exile had return'd, Andwhen he saw his own dear stream, His heart with pleasure burn'd; The days departed, and their joys, Came bounding to his breast, And thus the feelings of his heart In native strains confess'd:-- Tune: The Keel Row Chorus- Flow on, majestic river, Thy rolling course for ever,-- Forget thee will I never Whatever fate be mine: Oft on thy banks I've wander'd, And on thy beauties ponder'd, Oh! many an hour I've squander'd On thy banks, O bonny Tyne! O Tyne! in thy bright flowing, There's magic joy bestowing; I feel thy breezes blowing-- Their perfume is divine. I've sought the in the morning, When crimson clouds are burning, And thy green hills adorning-- The hills o' bonny Tyne When stormy seas were round me, And distant nations bound me, In memory still I found thee A ray of hope divine Thy valleys lie before me, Thy trees are waving o'er me, My home thou dost restore me On thy bonny banks O Tyne! -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Part 11 Directory 9 Click here for main menu of this directory. Use our floating menu to improve navigation. you can reposition it by clicking on top bar and dragging Floating Menu Menu of all of the Sangs Click here For tunes in .abc notation click here For an index of persons and places mentioned in the sangs click here For Bibliography,and Philosophy of the collection click here We invite you to contribute! Click here to comment or add. Soon after our upgrade the songs which the priests have recorded will be high-lighted thusly Illustrated by woodcuts by Joseph Crawhall (Newcastle, 1889) (Where you see the music note image there will be a midi file-for you to listen to!) Your Choices! The Main Menu! Main Menu Beggar's Wedding Commit No Nonsense Cookson's Alkali The Pitman's Ramble #2 The Worthy Rector The Battle of Spitaloo Battle on the Shields Railway The Worthy Rector The Battle of Spitaloo Battle on the Shields Railway Blind Willie's Death Geordy's Disaster Jossy's Nag's Head The April Gowk Or The Lovers Alarmed The Skipper's Mistake Newcastle Beer Vs Spa Water The Pitman's Pay The Newcastle Blunderbuss or Travelling Extradordinary A Pitman's Visit to Newcastle on Valentines Day The Skipper in the Mist The Miraculous Well; or Newcastle Spa Water The Skipper's Fright The Sangate Pant; or, Jane Jemieson's Ghost The Birth-Day of Queen Victoria Donocht-Head The Herbage Committee The Bear Club The Lass of Wincomblee On the Death of Bold Archy Blind Willie's Epitaph What Gud Can Sweerin De? George Stephenson The Row Iv a Public Hoose Jimmy's Gettin Wark! Geordey O! Canny Man! The Battle of Otterburn A Fytte The Hunting of the Cheviat Fit the Second Use this Pull down form to go to our other pages To return to the top of this page click here. Beggar's Wedding Air- Quayside Shaver. When timber-legg'd Harry crook'd Jenny did marry In fam'd Gateshead town--and, not thinking of blows Three ragmen did quarrel about their apparel, Which oft- times affrighted both small birds and crows This reolute prial, fought, on battle roya, Till Jenny spoke this, with hump back and sharp shins: Be loving as brothers as well as the others, Then we shall get orders for needles and pins! The bride-maid, full breasted, she vow'd and protested She never saw men at a wedding so rude; Old Madge, with her matches, top full of her catches, Swore she would be tipsy e'er they did conclude; The supper being ended, some part still contended For wholesome malt liquor to fill up each skin; Jack Tar, in his jacket, sat close to Doll Flacket, and swore he'd drink nothing but grog and clear gin Black Jack with his fiddle they fix'd in the middle, Who had not been wash'd since the second of June Old Sandy, the piper, told Ned he would stripe her, If she wouldn't dance while his pipe was in tune: They pllay'd them such touches, with wood-legs and crutches-- Old rag-pokes and matches, old songs flew about; Poor Jack being a stranger, thought his scratch in danger, He tenderly begg'd they would give up the rout. Jack being thus ill treated, he begg'd to be seated Upon an old cupboard the landlord had got,-- Like madmen enchanted, they tippled and ranted, Till down came the fiddler, as if he'd been shot. They drank gin by noggins, and stron beer by flaggons, till they had sufficiently loosen'd each hide,-- then those that were able, retir'd to the stable, And slept with their nose in each other's back s--e. --In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Commit No Nonsense An aud chep that had spent a' his life i' the keels, Taking coals down the river to load ships at Shields, Had some business, yen day, in Newcastel to do, And, when there, he'd stop and see a' that was new, He view'd wor new streets, and was weel pleas'd, no doubt, He gap'd and he star'd, as he wander'd about; But still, as he star'd, there was yen thing seem'd queer Whilk was plac'd on the walls- Commit no nuissance here. The aud boy was not very learned, you see, And, when young, he had goff his great A. B, C, And some words he could spell, tho' not sartinly clear, and his skill made it out- Commit ne nonsense herre. He knew very little of Tee-total rules, But thought they might dee very weel amang feuls; In his wand'ring he thought about getting some beer, And often he read- Commit ne nonsense here. A few pints of beer brought this chep to a stand, For nature, o'eercharg'd, wanted ease at his hand, For this purpose he enter'd a yard,--but se queer, Just saw, buin his head- Commit ne nonsense here. The gurgling stream from the old fellow flow'd, His ease he enjoy'd myed a notable flood; But, just in the nick, when he thought a' was clear, A policeman cries--Commit no nuisance here. Kind sir, says the man-- for to speak he scarce durst- When aw com in here, aw was ready to burst. That's nought, says the policeman din't ye see clear, Daub'd upon the wall--commit no nuisance here. The pour soul his flap button'd up in a fright, The policeman swore that he wad him indite; But he teuk to his heels, for, says he, aw see clear, If aw stop onie langer ther'll be nonsense here. --In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Cookson's Alkali Now haud yor tongues I'll try my lungs, And de my best forbye; My sang is choice, but maw street voice Is spoil'd by Alkali Chorus Then let us all, byeth great and small, Set up a hue and cry; Else Shields will suin be a' duin broon By Cookson's Alkali Wor fields are bare, they'll grow ne mair Of barley, wheat, or rye: A famine now, and pest'lence too, Is caus'd by Alkali. Wor gardens grow just nothing now, The crops won't multiply; Wor mouths, it's thowt, will suin hev nowt But Cookson 's Alkali. Wor ships hve got a sad dry rot, In spite of anti-dry; For Kyan's wash, and such like trash, Can't cope wiv Alkali. Then suin there'll be a shipless sea-- No sail will meet the eye; Wor masts and spars and jolly tars Will strike to Alkali. Wor houses soon will tummel doon, And flat as fluicks they'll lie-- They'll cut their sticks, as sure as bricks, Wi' this sad Alkali. A man, I swear't, is now half marr'd Wi' smoke, he's got sae dry; He's lost his sap, and ruin'd, peer chap, By Cookson's Alkali. It's true, indeed, wor wives still breed,-- But, see their tiny fry!-- They're nowt, peer things, but legs and wings, And all from Alkali. For dandy blades, and dapper maids, De nought but sob and sigh; They're forc'd to pad, their shape's sae bad, and all wi' Alkali. Wor wither'd crops and lantern chops, Are proofs nyen can deny, That we are all cuik'd and fairly buik'd, By Cookson's Alkali. So, now, farewell to swipes and yelll, And breed and beef, good bye! We'll get nae mair awd English fare, For this d--d Alkali. And when we're gyen, beneath a styen Wor cawd remains will lie, A prey, alas! to acid gas, Produc'd by Alkali. --In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Pitman's Ramble 2 Tune- Thje Kebbuckstane Wedding By- R. Emery. Wor pit was laid in, and but little ti de, Says aw, Neighbour Dicky, let's off to Newcassel,- Their grand alterations aw's langin' to see,- They say, they're se fine, that they'll gar wor een daxxel. We reach'd the Black House, and we call'd for some beer, When whe should pop in but the landlord, se handy-- He wish'd us se kindly a happy new year, And he rosin'd wor gobs with a glass o' French brandy. We left wor good friend, an' got down to the shop That has some fine lasses frae Lunnin se clivver,-- Astonish'd, aw star'd till near liek for to drop, Ant their great panes o' glass that wad cover Tyne river! Says Dick, it's been myed for greet folk like Lord Size-- It belangs to Broad Brim that myed brass at the corner.; At poor folks like us, now, he'll cock up his eyes, As he sits at the end, there, like Little Jack Horner. We wheel'd reet about--spied a far finer seet, As we went to the grocer's to get some rag backy-- Lairge goold cups an' watches, se bonnhy and breet, An' fine Fardin Pants runnin whisky and jacky! Aw wish'd aw could get mi gob fair at the spout, Aw'd pay for a sook o' this liquor se funny,-- Says Dick, the door's bolted to keep the crowd out-- Its a place made to glow'r at, but not to take money. We down to the Doctor's that lives in the side, Who cures folks o' hairy-legg'd monsters, like donkies! Cull cheps for his worm cakes frae far an' near ride-- Poor pitmen, an' farmers, an' keelmen an' flonkies; A chep at the window did offer to swear, For truth, that this doctor, se clivver an' cunnin', Did take frae his sister, the very last year, A worm that wad reach frae Newcassel to Lunnin!! At last to the Play-house aw swagger'd wi' Dick,-- They've us'd the King's Airms an' the paintings most shocking,-- Yen said, since the house had been kept by Aud Nick Wi' humbugs an' less he'd Newcassel been mocking. Says aw--Canny man, dis Awd Nick manage here! That cunnin' black fiend that gav Eve the bad apple!!! Us Ranters will suen frae this place make him sheer, An' we'll preach in't worsels, then we'll bang Brunswick Chapel! R. Emery--In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Worthy Rector Sung at a Farewell Dinner, given, by his Parishioners, to the Rev. J. Collinson, Rector of Gateshead, previous to his Removal to the Parish of Boldon. Sec changes now there diz tyek place In ivry life and station, Things noo is a' turn'd upside doon, For little or, ne occasion,-- Yen meets wi' acts yen luik'd not for, That drives yen into sorrow; We hav a case in point to meet In this wor canny borro. Chorus Singing Fal, lal &c. Last Cursmas time whe wad ha'e thowt That wor awd priest wad leave us, And cause sec dowly thowts co cum, Se very much to grieve us? We sartly thowt we had him fix'd, And fassen'd here till death, sors; Unless he had been prebendized By Dean-and-Chapter breeth, sors. His toils an' labours noo we'll loss:-- His sarmons for to syev us Will all be chang'd, an' varry suin, For wor new Rector's, Davis. Aw oney hope an' pray we'll not Forget our late Protector,-- For thorty yeers he's led our "train",. An' been wor sowl Director. For warks an' deeds amang the poor, For charity an' boonties, His match, aw think, ye'll not weel find In this or other coonties: He's fed the hungry, heal'd the sick, Wivoot yor grete display, sors; He wiv his wealth did gyude by stealth-- Lang life to him! aw say, sors. Yeers creeps upon us a' my frinds, and he'll suin be an ould un; And his move frae here, though its not far, Aw'm sure ye'll think a bowld-un. Aw trust, at times, we'll see his fyece At church and parish dinners; For he's a man that loves the saints, Yet hates not the poor sinners. This plate we've gi'en hime here to-day, Wiv a' its shining glister,-- The yen tureen was made by Reid, The other made by Lister,-- Lang may he live to see them shine, Like bright and true reflectors, Reminding priests how laymen prize Upreet, kind-hearted Rectors. Noo, fare ye weel, maw canny man, Yor wife an' a' yor childer; The score ye have wad frighten some-- Their senses quite bewilder. Lang may ye live a happy life, When ye freae Gyetside sivver: There's hundreds here will pray to God To bless ye noo and ivvur. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Battle of Spitaloo On the thirtenth day of July The Chartists did combine, That they would hold a meeting At Newcastle upon Tyne; In spite of Mayor or Magistrates, They would come up to a man, But when the Police them attack'd, They took to their heels and ran. Chorus At the battle of Spitaloo, my boys, At the battle of Spitaloo-- The Chartists' colours were taken At the battle of Spitaloo. They mairch'd in full procession, Through most streets of the town, And they declar'd the Magistrates Should never put them down; But of all their boasted courage About what they would, do, The Police took their colors At the battle of Spitaloo With music, flags, and banners, And all their empty pride, the procession of the Chartists Was soon put to a side; The worthy Mayor and Magistrates Did let the Chartists know That they were masters of he town, At the battle of Spitaloo. The Chartists, to the Forth that night, Turn'd very boldy out,-- But soon they were dispersed, And all put to the rout: They laid the failure of their cause Upon the red and blue, Becaue they came against them At the battle of Spitaloo. The Chartists and their leaders Are no more allow'd to meet, Their threat'ning combinations Have got the grand defeat,-- The National Convention Has got the overthrow, And the Chartist's colours taken At the battle of Spitaloo. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Battle of the Shields Railway Between a Town Councillor and an Architect, and the Pollis Tune- Cappy's the Dog I' the toon of Newcassel James Archibold dis dwell-- He's a slater te trade, and thinks ne small beer on hissel. And in Gallowgate, just aside the Darn Crook, Stands his house amang smells that wad make a horse puke. I' the same too na chep leeves, of varry great fame, For building fine houses--John Dobson's his nyem; His awn stands in New Bridge Street, by way of example,-- Blaw me if aw think its a varry good sample. It happen'd on ___,the ___of November-- A day these two worthies will ever remember; For Dobson was varry nigh kill'd, I suppose, And poor Mr. Archibold spoilt all his best clothes. The twesome to dine with John Sadler had been At Whitehill-point House, which is weel to be seen, As ye gan down to Shields; but aw'll begin my narration With the row that tuik place at the Howden-pan station. Efter dinner, when each yen his belly had fill'd, And some of Jack Sadler's wine had been swill'd, To gan hyem te Newcassel they left Whitehill-house But, before they gat hyem, they gat a vast of abuse. The station they reach'd ere the train had got there, And they each tuik a ticket, and each paid his fare; The train it came up, and Dobson gat in, And was just gawn to start when the row did begin. Noo, yen of the polismen placed at the station, With lang Jemmy Archbold had some altercation-- Your ticket sir, I must now have from you? Not before I get in--I'll be d--d if yoiu do. Upon this the pollisman gave Jemmy a push, And into the station-house all made a rush, And Dobson, noo seeing his friend in such guise, Jump'd out of the carriage, and went in likewise. But he gat a blow from a wooden hand, That made him quite sick and he could not stand, And then cam another sic skelp on the hede, Had his sconce not been thick he wad hae been dede, Now, Dobson at yen time was vedry handy, And at schule he played Tinley of Shields, the great dandy, And although he now had come to such skaith, Cried, Lay by our wood hands and I'll lick ye baith. But the pollismen said, Ye baith prisoners are, And to Shields ye mun gan, as it's not varry far; And though now they began to be sick of the lark, To Shields they teun were, though it was efter dark. There they saw Mr. Cruddas and Inspector Scott, The hede of the pollis, wha pitied their lot, and releeas'd and sent them hyem somewhat muddy- Poor Dobson the warst-- he was baith sair and bloody. The next day, each yen to his torney went, The yen to Parce Fenwick the other the Sargent, Crowner Stoker, whe's spectacles myeks him far-seeted- He's a h-ll of a fellow for getting folk reeted. A summons they gat- the men cuddent be seen, The directors detarmin'd the villans to screen, And what was still warse, and to save their mutton, Young Tinley tell'd Jackson, they had gone a shutten. Noo, as the summons cuddent be sarv'd, and the pollismen punish'd as they deserv'd, A warran was getten, and Newton, Allan and all Were suin in the cellars beneath the Moot-hall. Noo the justices sat, to hear what they had to say, and we cam frae Shields, for to see fair play; And William Branlen sat on the bench, Besides Sandy Ildertan, whe still likes a w--ch. There was doctors and lawyers, and pollismen too, And of railway directors there was not a few. Including Dick Spoor, whe yence din'd with the queen-- Sic a crew in the jury-room never was seen. Noo the crowner began, and he made a good speech, Call'd Archbold and Dobson, and lastly, the Leech, Whe bound Dobson's hede, yen Mr. John Lang, Not the family surgeon, but a rhyme for my sang. When Archbold was called, he said, with much grace, That Newton held the lanthorn reet in his fyece, And spoke in a manner baith rude and absord To the town-councillor for St. Andrew's West Ward. Next Dobson appears with his bloody claes, His hede all bund up, luiking pale, and he says, As how nyen o' them had getten oweer much drink, As Torney Tinley wanted the justice to think. Now the crownere being ended, t'other side did begin, And Tinley he vapour'd, and they swor thick and thin; But aw'll say ne mair, lest you should be bor'd, But merely relate, that Jack Tinley was floor'd. And the justices said, 'twas a shem the directors Should set twe sic blackguards on the line for inspectors, A, addressing they byeth, said unto the men, Yer Byeth fined--Allan five pounds, and you, Newton, ten. Noo, when aw seed the way the thing went,, Thinks aw, the directors are surely content, And will myek the cheps 'mends, from the way they've been tret, But the warst of my story it is to come yet. Ne suiner wa't knawn what the verdict was, Than the railway attorney, he out with the brass, And flinging it doon, said, Miuch good may it do yee! Gie me a resait, and set wor pollismen free. Noo sic wark as this, it is varry shocken, Folks canna gan to Shelds withoiut hevin their hedes brocken, And aw've myed up ma mind, if aw's not in a hurry, Te gan in Mitchell's fine boats, or Johnson's fam'd whurry. Folly warf, Nov 35 (?), 1839 -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Blind Willie's Death (June 20, 1832) Tune- Jemmy Joneson's Whurry As aw was gannin' up the Side, Aw met wi' drunken Bella; She wrung her hands, and sair she cried, He's gyen at last, poor fellow! O, hinny Bella! whe is't that's gyen? Ye gar my blood run chilly. Wey, hinny, deeth, ahs stopt the breath O' canny awd Blind Willie. God keep us, Bella, is that true! Ye shurely are mistaken? O, no! aw've left him just a-now, And he's as deed as bacon. Aw tied his chaffs, and laid him out-- His flesh just like a jelly- And sair, sair aw was put about For canny awd Blind Willie. Then off went aw as fast as wot, Ti see poor Willie lyin;-- When aw gat there, maw heart was sair, Ti see his friends a' sighin'. Around his bed they hung their heeds, Just like the droopin' lilly; And aw, with them, did dee the syem For canny awd Blind Willie. Ne mair, said aw, we'll hear him sing, Ne mair he'll play the fiddle; Ne mair we'll hear him praise the king-- No! No! cried Jimmy Liddle. The days are past--he's gyen, at last, Beside his frind, Sir Billy, That parish chiel', that preach'd se weel-- We'll mourn for him and Willie. His bonny corpse crowds cam to see, Which myed the room luik dowly; And whe was there amang them, tee, But noisy Yella Yowley; She through the crowd did crush her way-- Wi' drink she seem'd quite silly-- And on her knees began to pray For canny awd Blind Willie. They tell'd us a' to gang away, Which myed us varry sorry; But Beagle Bet wad kiss his lips, Before they did him bury. He's burried now--he's out o' seet-- Then on his grave se hilly, Let them that feel take their fareweel O' canny awd Blind Willie. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Geordy's Disaster Sum time since a ship that was tyken in coal, At a place at North Shields they ca' Peggy's Hole, And the keels a' the neet wad lie alangside, To be ready next morn to gan up wi' the tide. Chorus- Fal, lal &c. No yen o' the skippers had sic fish-huiks o' claws, That deil a bit of rope cud be kept frae his paws; For as sune as the men were a gyen to sleep, Then on board o' the ship wor Geody wad creep. And devil a thing could be left on the deck, But Geordy, as sure as a gun, wad it neck, And into the huddock wad stow it away, And gan off to the rope-shop, and sell it next day. Noo the mate o' the ship was determin'd to watch To see if he cuddent the thievish rogue catch,-- So to hev a bit fun, an' to give him a freet, He sworre he wad sit up the whole o' that neet. So he gat a lang gun, and for to begin, A greet clot o' blud and sum poother pat in; Noo he dident wait lang, for sune over the bows I' the muinleet he saw him creep up like a moose He click'd up a bucket, and was gawn wiv his prize, When the mate he let flee reet between his twe eyes When the skipper found blud all over his fyece, Aw's deed! out he roars and dropp'd down in a place. Noo the Pee-dee he heard the crack o' the gun. So he speal'd up the side, and tiv Geordy he run Oh, Geordy! Oh Geordy! just haud up thy heed An' tell us, maw hinny, if thou hez gyen deed! The skipper he groan'd, and kick'd up his heels, Gude bye canny Pee-dee! Gude bye tive maw keels! Aw'll never see Mally nor bairns ony mair, For if aw's not deed, aw's speechless, aw'll swear! Wiv a greet deal to de they gat him to rise; But when he gat up, what was his surprise, When he sought for the hole where the bullet had gyen, But sought it in vain, for he cuddent find yen. By gock! out he roars, aw ken how it's been-- Sic a comical trick, aw's sure never was seen; Faix, bad as it is , it might hev been warse, It's come in at maw gob, and gyen out at my ar__. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Jossy's Nag's Head Tune- A Rampant Linon is my Sign. All you who've got an hour to spare, And wish to spend it merry, Go not to houses of ill-fame, Nor sport with Tom and Jerry: Direct your course to Armfield's house, Where none the least alarm feels, Where mirth and fun reign uncontroll'd, All in Josiah Armfields. Chorus- Then drink about and merry be, Let each one fill his station, And ne'er despise a flowing pot, When bent on recreation. In winter, when the weather's cold, The pinching frost may starve you, You'll find a fire to your desire, A buxom lass to serve you: Her smiles are like the flowers in May, Her conversation charms weel: Far be the fellow takes her in, While selling drink at Armfiels's. Now should you know the art of war, The news may lead your mind there; Or if inclin'd to grace the bar, Some of your cloth you'll find there: Mock trials, hot debates go on, Yet seldom any harm feel, The counsellors plead your cause for nought, Law's cheap at Jossy Armfield's. Next in the tap-room take a peep, There's eggs and pie folk dealing; Some try their luck at single toss, And other some are stealing: The bakky smoke ascends in clouds, Yet none will say he arm feels; Yoiu'd swear you were near Etna's Mount, Instead of Jossy Armfield's The sailors sing their danger's o'er, When sailing on the high seas; Says donald frae Fife, I've left the North, Where Parry wad lost his ideas. Come, d--n! says, Durham lad, leet my pipe, Andgive us nyen o' your yarn reels; But pay the quart-Ise be the next, We'll hev a spree at Armfield's There's Baggie Will, he sings all fours; And faith he sings it rarely; there's Castle Dean plagues Canny Pit Sark, and sings, he's lost her fairly; The Teazer he provokes the flame, Till a' the house quite warm feels; The Cobbler chaunts the Cuddy sang, Half-cock'd, in Jossy Armfield's Box number one's a Tennis Court, for those of fistic vlaour; And should you want to grace the ring, Must enter as as scholar. The Hackney drivers stand about, Until their dowps they warm feel; Then drink their purl, and march away-- Huzza! for Jossy Armfield -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The April Gowk: Or, The Lover's Alarmed A castle-Garth Ditty Tune- Jenny chaok'd the Bairn. Ye worthy friends of Arpil Gowk, That like a bot o' spree, Pray lay your gargon a' aside, And listen unto me; For love's intrigues disturb the wigs Of most o' men on earth; And so, of late, it caught the pate Of pious Parson Garth. This worthy man went soon to bed, Upon the last o' March, And what his mind was running on, 'Tis needless now to search; His rib asleep, down staris he'd creep- When lo! to hsi surprise, A pair of boots, below the seat, Stood right before his eyes. He went to rouse his darling spouse, And said, You plainly see There's some one here that wants to make An April Gowk o' me. Oh! dress yoursel', do take the bell, Your petticoat put on; They'renow in quod- I hope to God It's not my brother John. He took aq stick and follow'd quick Unto the lasses' room: Come out! says she' Come out! says he, The Kitty is your doom! While on the bell she did play knell, Poor Johnny, pale, came forth, All in dismay, like potters clay, Stood pius Parson Garth! A Chamber Council there was held, All in this naked plight; The dire alarm had brought a swarm O' guardians o' the night: In vain they strove to gain his love, His wrath for to appease, He swore he'd have their boxes search'd, and cried--Produce the keys! They nothing found that he could own-- His heart more callous grew, He tore their caps, destroy'd their hats-- Then on the floor he threw: Like pilgrims setting out, unshod, to prison they were sent, To dread their penance, like the sweep, Until they should repent. To free the girls from guilt and shame, And have the matter clear'd, Those sweetly serenading Two- Foot Carpenters* appear'd. Tho' Willy cannot get his boots, For them he does not care-- They won the day!-- nonne but the brave. Deserve to win the fair. Sould you not know this worthy man-- A man of steady gait, A pensive look affects as tho' He'd something in his pate: Ambition and presumption too In him have taken birth, And fix'd a stigma on his name-- The Hydra of the Garth! *cloggers -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Skipper's Mistake Tune- The Chapter of Accidents. Tow jovial souls, two skippers bold, For Shields did sail one morning. In their awd keel, black as the Deill, All fear and danger scorning. The sky look'd bright, which prophesied A fair and glorious day, man: But such a thick Scotch mist cam on, they could not see their way, man. Chorus- Fal, lal, &c. they pull'd about, frae reet to left, Not kennin what to dee, man, When poor Pee-dee began to fret, Lest they should drive to sea, man. Says Geordy, Should wor voyage be lang, We've little for our guts, man; There's nowt belaw but half a loaf, Some tripe and a nowt's foot, man. They drove as far as Jarrow Slake, When Geordy bawl'd aloud, man-- Smash! marrow, ye hae been at skuel, Come find our latitude, man; Gan down into the huddock, Jack, Fetch up the Reading-Easy-- If we should be far off atsea, I doubt it winna please ye. They studied hard, byeth lang and sair, Though nyen o' them could read, man, When Geordy on a sudden cries, Aw hev 'er in my heed, man. Come, let us pray to be kept free Frae danger and mischance, man; We're ower the bar!--there's nowt for us But Holland, Spain or France, man! At length the day began toclear, The sun peep'd through the dew, man, When lo! awd-fashion'd Jarrow Kirk Stood fair within their view, man. They laugh'd and crack'd about the joke Which lately gar'd them quake, man; They lay, instead of Spain or France, Quite snug at Jarrow Slake, man. May wealth and commerce still increase And bless our native isle, man, and make each thriving family In happiness to smile, man. May vict'ry round Britannia's brow Her laurels still entwine, man, The coal-trade flourish more and more Upon the dingy Tyne, man. Armstrong-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Newcastle Beer versus Spa Water Or, The Pitman and Temperance Society As Cousin Jack and I, last pay-day, cam to toon, We gat to Robin Hood's, wor wordly cares to droon-- And there we spent the day--their yell's byeth cheap and strang- It's reet to soak yen's clay--hang them that thinks it wrang. Chorus Romti bomti ba, &c. In stagg'rin' hyem at neet, an' bent upon a spree, A broad-brim'd chep cam up, and seem'd to talk quite freee;-- He said, to drink small beer or brandy was a curse, It stole away wor brains, an' drain'd each poor man's purse. We talk'd 'bout Temp'rance Clubs, that now are a' the go, And said, if we wad join, we'd ne'er ken what or woe. We quickluy gav consent, wor Friend then led the way, Reet up to Wilkie's went, amang his cronies gay. There some wer fair and fat, some nowt but skin and byen, And at a tyebble sat a man near twenty styen-- He roar'd out for some drink, which very suen was browt, And said, My lads, fall tee, and fill yor bags for nowt. Aw tried, but smash a drop wad down me weasen gan, But Broad-brim said, quite slee, Come, drink, friend, if thou can-- 'Twill purge the body clean, and make ye wond'rous wise, And, efter ye are deed, ye'll mount abuen the skies. Suen efter this grand speech aw quietly toddled hyem, And cramm'd some o' their drink into wor canny dyem; But scarcely had she drunk this liquor so divine, Till she began to bowk, and sair her jaws did twine. A Doctor suen was brought frae canny Benwell toon, While Peggy, maw poor las waswork'd byeth up an' doon; He fund, when he did tyest, this queer, mischiveous stuff, to be Spaw Water pure, so Peg was safe eneugh. When aw gan back to toon, aw'll tell them what aw think-- Aw'll warn wor neighbours round 'gyen their outlandish drink: Let Quakers gan to Heav'n, an' fill their kites wi' Spaw, Give me Newcassel Beer, content aw'll stay belaw. R. Emery In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Pitman's Pay; Or, A night's Discharge to Care. I sing not here of warriors bold-- Of battles lost or victories won-- Of cities sack'd, nor nations sold, Or any deeds by tyrants done. I sing the Pitman's plagues and cares- Their labour hard and lowly cot-- Their homely joys and humble fares- Their pay-night o'er a foaming pot. Their week's work done, the coally craft-- These horny-handed sons of toil Require a right gude willie-waught, The creaking wheels of life to oil. See hewers, putters, drivers too, With pleasure hail this happy day-- All celan wash'd up, their way pursue To drink and crack,and get their pay. The Buck, the Black Horse, and the Keys, Have witness'd many a comic scene, Where's yell to cheer and mirth to please, And drollery that would cure the spleen. With parched tongues and gyzen'd throats They reach the place, where barleycorn Soon down the dusty cavern floats, From pewter-pot or homely horn. The dust wash'd down, then comes the care To find that all is rightly bill'd; And each to get his hard-earn'd share From some one in division skill'd. The money-matters thus decided, They push the pot more briskly round; With hearts elate and hobbies strided, Their cares are all in nappie drown'd. Here, lass says Jack, help this agyen, It's better yell than in the toun; But then the road's se het it's tyen, It fizz'd, aw think, as it went doun. Thus many a foaming pot's requir'd To quench the dry and dusky spark; Whe ev'ry tongue, as if inspir'd Wags on about their wives and wark. The famous feats done in their youth, At bowling, ball, and clubby-shaw-- Camp-meetings, Ranters, Gospel-truth, Religion, politics, and law. With such variety of matter, Opinions, too, as various quite, We need not wonder at the clatter, When ev'ry tongue wags-wrong or right. The gifted few in lungs and lair At length, insensibly,, divide'em; And from a three-legg'd stool or chare Each draws his favour'd few beside him. Now let us ev'ry face survey, Which seems as big with grave debate, As if each word they had to say Was pregnant with impending fate. Mark those in that secluded place Set snug around the stool of oak, Labouring at some knotty case, Envelop'd in tobacco smoke. Thes are the pious, faithful few, Who pierce the dark decrees of fate-- They've read teh Pilgrim's Progress through, As well as Boston's Four-fold state. They'll point you out the day and hour When they experience'd sin forgiven-- Convince you that they're quie secure, They'll die in peace, and go to heaven. The moral road's too far abbut, They like a surer, Shorter cut, Which frees the end from every doubt, And saves them many a weary foot. The first's commensurate with our years, And must be travell'd day by day; And to the new-born few appears A very dull and tedious way. The other's length solely depends Upon the time when we begin it; Get but set out--before life ends-- For all's set right when once we're in it. They're now debating which is best-- The short-cut votes the others double; For this good reason, 'mongst the rest, It really saves a world of trouble. He that from goodness farthest strays, Becomes a saint of first degree; And Ranter Jeremiah says, Let bad ones only come to me. Old Earth-worm soon obeys the call, Conscious, perhaps, he wanted mending, For some few flaws from Adam's fall, Gloss'd o'er by cant and sheer pretending. Still stick to him afield or home, The methodistic brush defying, So that the Ranter's curry-comb Is now the only means worth trying. In habits form'd since sixty years, the hopes of change won't weigh a feather-- The power so o'er him domineers, That they and life must end together. See on their right a gambling fiew, Whose every word and look display A desperate, dark, designing crew, Intent upon each other's pay. They're racers, cockers, carders keen, As ever o'er a tankard met, Or ever bowl'd a match between The Popplin Well and Manvin's yett. On cock-fight, dog-fight, cuddy-race, Or pitch and tos, trippet and coit, Or on a soap-tail'd grunter's chase, They'll risk the last remaining doit. They're now at cards and Gibby Gripe Is peeping into Harry's hand; And ev'ry puff blown from his pipe His party easily understand. Some for the odd trick pushing hard-- Some that they lose it pale with fear-- Some betting on the turn-up-card-- Some drawing cuts for pints of beer. Whilst others brawl about Jack's brock, That all the Chowden dogs can bang; Or praise Lang Wilson's piley cock, Or Dixon's feats upon the swang. Here Tom the pink of bowlers, gain'd Himself a never-dying name, By deeds, wherein an ardour reign'd Which neither age nor toil could tame. For labour done, and o'er his dose, Tom took his place upon the hill; And at the very evening's close You faintly saw him bowling still. All this display of pith and zeal Was so completely habit grown, That many an hour from sleep he'd steal To bowl upon the hill alone. The night wears late--the wives drop in To take a peep at what is doing; For many would not care a pin To lose at cards a fortnight's hewing. Poor Will had just his plagues dismiss'd, And had Begone, dul Care begun, With face as grave as Methodist, And voice most sadly out of tune; But soon as o'er he Nelly saw, With brows a dreadful storm portending, He dropt at once his under jaw, As if his mortal race was ending;-- For had the grim destroyer stood, In all his ghastliness before him, It could not more have froze his blood, Nor thrown a deadlier paleness o'er him. His better half, all fire and tow, Call'd him a slush--his comrades raff-- Swore that he could a brewing stow, And after that sipe all the draff. Will gather'd up his scatter'd powers-- Drew up his fallen chops again-- Seiz'd Nell, and push'd her out of doors, Then broke forth in this piteous strain:-- O! Nell, thou's rung me money a peal, Nyen, but mysel, could bide thy yammer; Thy tongue runs like wor pully-wheel, And dirls my lug like wor smith's hammer. Thou'll drive me daft, aw often dread, For now aw's nobbet verra silly, Just like a geuss cut i' the head, Like Jemmy Muin or Preacher Willy. Aw thought wor Nell, when Nelly Dale, The verra thing to myek me happy; She curl'd ma hair, or tied ma tail, And clapt and stroakt ma little Cappy. But suin as e'er the knot was tied And we were yok'd for life together; When Nell had laugh'd, and minny cried, And a' was fairly i' the tether;-- Then fierce as fire she seiz'd the breeks, And round maw heed flewstuils, and chairs; Ma tail hung lowse like candle weeks,-- An awd pit ended Cappy's cares. Just like wor maisters when we're bun, If men and lads be varra scant, The wheedle us wi' yell and fun, And coax us into what they want. But myek yor mark, then snuffs and sneers Suin stop yor gob and lay yor braggin; When yence yor feet are i' the geers, Ma soul! they'll keep your painches waggin. Aw toil ma byens, till through ma clay They peep to please ma dowly cavel; Aw's at the coal wall a' the day, And nightly i' the waiter level-- Aw hammer on till afternuin, Wi' weary, byens and empty wyem; Nay, varra oft the pit's just duin Before aw weel get wannel'd hyem. But this is a' of little use, For what aw dee is never reet; She's like a larm-bell i' the house, Ding-donging at me day and neet. If aw sud get ma wark owre suin, She's flaid to deeth aw've left some byet; And if aw's till the efternuin Aw's drunk because aw is se lyet. Feed us and cleed us weel she may, As she gets a'ways money plenty; For every day, for mony a pay, Aw've hew'd and putten twee-and-twenty. Tis true aw sometimes get a gill-- But then she a'ways gets her grog; And if aw din't her bottle fill, Aw's then a skin-flint, smock-drawn dog. She buys me, te, the warst o' meat, Bad bullock's liver--houghs and knees-- Tough stinking tripe, and awd cow's feet-- Shanks full o' mawks and half nought cheese. Of sic she feeds the barins and me, the tyesty bits she tyeks hersel: In whik ne share nor lot have we, Excepting sometimes i' the smell. The crowdy is wor daily dish, But varra different is their minny's; For she gets a' her heart can wish In strang lyac'd tea and singin' hinnies. Ma canny barins luik pale and wan, Their bits and brats are varra scant; Their mother's feasts rob the o' scran-- For filfu' waste makes woefu' want. She peels the taties wi' her teeth, And spreads the buter wi' her thoom; She blaws the kail wi' stinking breeth, Where mawks and catepillars soom! She's just a gannin' heap o' muck, Where durts of a' description muster; For dishclout serves her apron nuik As weel as snotter clout and duster! She lays out punds in manadge things, Like mony a thriftless, thoutless bein; Yet bairns and me, as if we'd wings, Are a' in rags an' tatters fleein. Just mark wor dress-a lapless coat, With byeth the elbows sticking through-- A hat that never cost a groat-- A meekless shirt- a clog and shoe. She chalks up scores a' the shops Wherever we've a twelvemonth staid; And when we flit, the landlord stops Ma sticks till a' the rent be paid. Aw's ca'd a hen-pick'd, pluckless calf, For letting her the breeches wear; And tell'd aw dinna thrsh her half-- Wi' mony a bitter jibe and jeer. Aw think, says Dick, 'aw wad her towen, And verra suin her courage cuil: Aw'd dook her in wor engine powen, Then clap her on Repentance stuil. If that should not her tantrums check, Aw'd peel her to the varra sark: Then 'noint her wi' a twig o' yeck, And efter make her eat the bark. Enough like this aw've heard thro' life; For every body has a plan To guide a rackle ram-stam wife, Except the poor tormented man. Will could not now his feelings stay-- The tear roll'd down his care-worn cheek: He thrimmell'd out what he'd to pay, And sobbing said, my heart will break! Here Nanny, modest, mild, and shy, took Neddy gently by the sleeve; Aw just luik'd in as aw went by-- Is it not, thinks te, time to leave? Now, Nan, what myeks th' fash me here, Gan hyem and get the bairns to bed; Thou knaws thou promis'd me ma beer The verra neet before we wed. Hout, hinny, had th' blabbin jaw, Thou's full o' nought but fun and lees; At sic a kittle time, ye knaw, Yen tells ye ony thing to please. Besides, thou's had enough o' drink, And mair wad ony myek th' bad; Aw see thy een begin to blink-- Gan wi' me, like a canny lad. O, Nan! thou hez a witching way O' myekin' me de what thou will; Thou needs but speak, and aw obey, Yet there's ne doubt aw's maister still. But tyest the yell and stop a bit-- Here tyek a seat upon ma knee- For 'mant the hewers in wor pit There's nyen hez sic a wife as me. For if ma top comes badly down, Or ought else keeps me lang away, She cheers me wi' the weel-knawn-soun'-- Thou's had a lang and weary day. If aw be naggy, Nanny's smile Suin myeks me blithe as ony lark; And fit to looup a yett or stile-- Ma varra byens forget to wark. Ma Nan--ma bairns---my happy hyem-- Set ower hard labour's bitter pill-- O Providence! but spare me them-- The warld may then wag as it will. She waits upon me hand and foot-- Aw want for nought that she can gie me-- She fills ma pipe wi' patten cut-- Leets it, and hands it kindly to me. She tells me a' heer bits o' news, Pick'd up the time aw've been away; And fra ma mouth the cuttie pous When sleep o'ercomes ma weary clay. Sae weel she ettles what aw get- Sae far she a'ways gars it gan-- That nyen can say we are i' debt, Or want for wother claes or scran. Then drink about, whe minds a got-- Let's drown wor cares i' barleycorn-- Here, lass, come bring another pot, The cawler dissent call to morn. Nay, hinny Ned, ne langer stay-- We mun by hyem to little Neddy-- He's just a twel'munth awd to-day, And will be crying for his deddy. Aw'll tyek thee hyem a pot o' beer, A nice clean pipe and backy te-- Thou knaws aw like to hae thee near-- Come, hinny, come, gan hyem wi' me. Like music's soft and soothing powers These honey'd sounds drop on his ear: Or like the warm and fertile showers That leave the face of nature clear. Here was the power of woman shown, When women use it properly-- He threw his pipe and reck'ning down-- Aw will-aw will gan hyem wi' thee. At home arriv'd right cheerfully She set him in his easy chair-- Clapt little Neddy on his knee, and bid him see his image there. The mother pleas'd-- the father glad, Swore Neddy had twe bonny een-- There ne'er was, Ned ,a finer lad; And, then he's like thee as a bean. Aw've luck'd for Wilson a' this day, To cut th' pig down fore it's dark; But he'll be guzzling at the pay, And winden on about his wark. What lengths aw've often heard him gan, Sweering--and he's not fount of fibbin-- He'll turn his back on ne'er a man For owther killin pigs or libbin. Still Jack's an honest, canty cock, As ever drain'd the juice of barley; Aw've knawn him sit myest roun' the clock Swatt'ling and clatt'ring on wi' Charley. Now, Deddy, let me ease yor arm; Gi'e me the bairn lay down yor pipe, And get the supper when it's warm-- It's just a bit o' gissy's tripe. Then come to me, ma little lammy-- Come thou apple o'ma e'e-- Come ma Neddy, t' the mammy-- Come, ma darlin'- come to me! Here, see a woman truly blest Beyond the reach of pomp and pride; Her infant happy at her breast- Her husband happy by her side. Then take a lesson, pamper'd wealth, And learn how little it requires To make us happy when we've health-- Content--and moderate desires. Tha father, Ned, is far frae weel, He lucks, poor body, varra bad; A' ower he hez a cawdrife feel, But thinks it but a waff o' cawd. Aw've just been ower wi' something warm, To try to ease the weary coff, Which baffles byeth the drugs and charm! And threatens oft to tyek him off. He says, O Nan, ma life thou's spar'd-- The good it's duin me's past beleevin-- The Lord will richly thee rewaird-- The care o' me will win thee heeven. Now as his bottles nearly tuim, Mind think me on, when at the town, To get the drop black beer and rum, As little else will now gan down. We mebby may be awd worsel's When poverty's cawd blast is blawin'; And want a frien' when nature fyels, And life her last few threeds is drawin'. Besides, the bits o' good we dee The verra happiest moments gie us; And mun, aw think, still help a wee, At last, frae awfu' skaith to free us. Let cant and rant then rave at will Agyen a'warks-aw here declare it-- We'll still the hungry belly fill, Se lang as ever we can spare it. Here, then, we'll leave this happy pair Their home affairs to con and settle; Their ways and means with frugal care, For marketing next day to ettle. Thomas Wilson In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Newcastle Blunderbuss Or, Travelling Extradordinary Tune- Calder Fair Ne Mair o' grand inventions brag, 'Bout Steamers and Chain Brigs, man- An' bothers a' their wigs, man: 'Bout Gleediscowpies, silly things, Ne langer make a fuss, man-- E'en silk Balloons mun bend their croons To Reidie's Blaunderbuss,* man Chorus- Fal, de ral, &c. As Geordy Fash and Dolly Rw Cam stagg'rin up the Kee, man, Wi' Teasdale's beer, an' sic like cheer, They'd rather myed ow'r free, man-- Into this Blunderbuss they gat, Side two outlandish chiels, man, But wre they'd time to leet their pipes, They fand theirsels i' Shields, man! Each day on wor Sandhill it stands-- If in tid ye should pop, man, An' close your winkers half an hour, Clean ow'r the sea ye'll hop, man! The Kee-side jarvies now may run, And barbers clerks se gay, man-- Twad be a spree if, fra' wor kee, They'd cut to Bot'ny Bay, man! Thiss grand machine wor Tyne will clean, An' make it's sand-banks flee, man, Like Corby Craws ow'r Marsden Rock, Into the German Sea, man!-- Wor canny Mayor ne pains will spare, He'll back it out an out, man, Till ev'ry nuisance in wor toon For Shields shall take the route man. *Omnibusses commenced running between Newcastle and Shields every hour from eight o'clock in the morning till eight at night, Nov, 12 1832. R. Emery In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu A Pitman's Visit to Newcastle on Valentines Day. Tune- Newcsatle Fair, Oh smash! marra, where hast thou been, Aw been luiken for ye a yel hour; For to tell of a seet aw hae sen, Sic a seet as aw ne'er saw before: Aw straight to Newcassel did gan, And gat in just as it struck ten; Then through the streets aw quickly ran, For to get heame suin agyen. Chorus- Rum ti iditty, &c. Just as aw was runnin amain! Aw comes alangside of a shop, Wi' papers claggid' on every pane-- To see them aw thought aw wad stop. But oh! sic reed flames an' sic darts! And sae mony lovers together; And sic bonny arrows and hearts-- Od Zounds! they were painted quite clever. Says aw. to a buck in the street, (You may guess he was drest very fine,) What's that thing that's painted complete? Says he, It is a Valentine. Says aw, Do ye knaw what they're for, That they are painted sae smart? Then he humm'd and he haw'd like a boar, And siad, To send to your sweetheart. Then thinks aw to masell, aw'll hae yen, to send to my awn dearest hinny: Aw bowls into the shop like a styen, When out pops a man very skinny: Says he, Sir, pray what do you want? Says aw, Yen o' them things that's bonny, When in comes a chep that did cant, And said, Aw want one, my dear honey. That the fellow was Irish I knew, As suin as to speak he began, He luik'd at Valentines not a few. But could not find one to suit, Nan Says he, Mind aw will have the prattiest. Says aw, Ye must knaw that you shan't Did he think aw'd be content wi' the dirtiest? Ma sang! aw did both swear and rant. When he brought me a clout o' the lug. He did it sae frisky and gaily, Says he You must know, Mr. Mug, That I'm a stout bit of shilelah Aw brought him another as tough It made a' his cheeks for to rattle; Says he, I have got quite enough: Sae thus we gave ower the brattle. We went to a yell-house just nigh, For to get a wee sup o' strang yell; And then we came back, by and by, And to luikin at Valentines fell. And then got as great as could be, And bought Valentines for to fit, man: But aw say, without telling a lee, He met wiv his match in a Pitman. In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Skipper in the Mist tune- Derry Down Some time since there cam on a very thick fog, In Lunnin some folks were nearly lost in a bog;-- A bog, you will say, that's an Irish name-- They got knee deep in mud, and that's just all the same Chorus- Derry down,&c Now, during the fog, sir, a Newcassel keel Was sailing down Tyne to a ship lying at Shields, The fog cam se thick, skipper off wig and roar'd Aw mun by my swape-Geordy, lay by your oar! Now, hinnies, my marrows! come tell's what to dee, Aw's frighten'd wor keel will soon drive out to sea! So the men an' their skipper, each sat on his buttock. An' a council they held, wi' their legs down the huddock Says Geordy, We cann be very far down, With the was o' my oar, aw hev just touch'd the grund; Cheer up, my awd skipper, put on yor awd wig, We're between the King's Meadows an' Newcassel Brig! The skipper, enrag'd, then declar'd he kend better, For at the same time he had smelt the salt water; And there's Marsden Rock, just within a styen thraw, Aw can see't through the mist, aw'll swear by my reet paw. The anchor let's drop till the weather it clears, For fear we be nabb'd by the French privateers! The anchor was dropt: when the weather clear'd up, They soon moor'd their keel at the awd Javil Group. The skipper was vex'd and he curs'd and he swore, That his nose had ne'er led him sefar wrang before! But what most of all did surprise these four people Was, Marsden Rock chang'd into Gateshead Church Steeple! Armstrong- In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Miraculous Well; Or, Newcastle Spaw Water* Tune- Rory O'More A fig for quack doctors, their pills and their stuff, Our neighbours of them have been tir'd long enough; E'en Dinsdale and Croft their pretensions withdraw, And Harrowgate bends to our Newcassel Spaw; The halt and the blind, and the grave and the gay, To drink of the water, in crowds haste away; And gouty old bachelors thither repair, With Jews, Turks, and tailors, its virtues to share. Chorus: Hurrah for Newcassel!--Newcassel for me! Where ale is so prime, and the lasses so free; Your lumps, bumps,and rheumatics vanish like snaw, By one mighty draught of this wonderful spaw! One day Cuddy Willy sat down by the srping, And fiddled and sang till he made the Dean ring; Then said to the crowd- My lad,s as to the Spaw, Good whisky improves it, aw verra weel knaw!-- But, if you'll be seated, you'll son hear me sing The magical cures that's performed by this spring:-- He cut an odd caper, and thus he began- First drinking a quart from a rusty tin-can. Awd Humpty-back'd Dick, and tow or three mair, Fra Shiney Raw pit to the Well did repair; He drank of the Spaw, when the hump in a crack, Dissolv'd and soon vanish'd frae poor Dicky's back! Lord bliss us! cried timber-toed tee-total Peg, If it banishes humps, it might bring forth a leg! She got to the Well, with the Spaw she made free, And very soon after poor Peggy had three!!! Pure sanctified Betty scarce knew what to think-- Hard might be her fate if she ventur'd to drink-- For most of the lasses that live in Lang Raw, Have getten the dropsy by tasting the Spaw! The doctors declare, that at forty weeks' end, 'Twill be in their arms, and the dropsy will mend; The howdies are wishing the time was well o'er, For surely such water was ne'er known before. A bumper, cried Cuddy, and toasted the Queen,-- Which soon was responded by all on the green,-- May she have a son soon as big's Johnny Fa'-- (there's virtue in wishing while drinking the Spaw). So now, my good lasses, gan hyem to your wark-- There's danger in wand'ring the Dean in the dark 'Mang trees and awd quarries- I'd have ye beware, Remember poor Peggy was caught in the snare. *Some years ago a spring of water was observed to oose from the bank at the foot of Sandyford Dean, to which some people attributed medicinal qualities; but it was not generally noticed till the spring of 1841, when its fame spread abroad, and drew the attention of multitudes of people to the spot, many of whom being aflicted with complaints of long standing, after drinking freely of this water, declared themselves cured; and some of the faculty proving its qualities by analyzation, gave it a more favorable report, which caused still greater numbers of invalads &c. to visit the sprin--some with casks and cans, others with jugs and bottles, anxiously waiting for a turn. Whether the benefits said to have been received from this water were real or imaginary, time the test of all things, will assuredly prove..... R. Emery - In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Skipper's Fright Tune- Skipper Carr and Marky Dunn As aw was gannen out yen neet,-- It happen'd in the dark, man,-- A chep cam up ga' me a freet, 'Twas little Skipper Clark, man: His fyece was white as ony clout, Says aw, what hae ye been about? He gyep'd at me , and gav a shout, O Dick, I've seen the Deil, man! Awd Nick had twee great goggle eyes, And horns upon his heed, man, He had a gob,--aye, sic a size, It flay'd me near to deed, man! His eyes were like twee burning coals, His mouth like one o' wor pit-holes, His horns were like twee crooked poles,-- --Aw'm sure it was the Deil, man! Aw'd often heard wor preacher tell That Aud Nick had twee club-feet,-- Thinks aw, aw'll ken the neet mysel', Whether wor preacher's wrang or reet: With that aw gav a luik about-- The club-feet was there without a doubt; And just wi' that he gav a shout-- And aw'm sure it was the Deil, man. Od smash! says aw, aw've often heard About this mighty Deil, man,-- Shew me the place where he appear'd, For aw'd like to see him weel, man? Then Dick he tuik me to the place, Where he had seen his awful fyece-- And still he swore it was the case, That he had seen the Deil, man. Alang wi' Dick aw hitch'd about To see this mighty Deil, man, When just with that Dick gav a shout-- Luik there! thou'll see him weel, man; But when of him aw'd got a view, Aw laugh'd till aw was black and blue, For it was nought but a great black cow That Dick tuik for the Deil, man. Bailey. - In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Sandgate Pant; Or, Jane Jemieson's Ghost The Bell of St. Ann's tolld two in the morning, As brave Skipper Johnson was gawn to the keel-- From the juice of the barley his poor brain was burning-- In search of relief he through Sandgate did reel; The city was hush, save the keel-bullies snoring-- The moon faintly gleam'd through the sable-clad sky, When lo! a poor female her hard fate deploring, Appear'd near the pant, and thus loudly did cry:-- Ripe Chenee ornage,s four for a penny! Cherry ripe cornberries- taste them and try! O listen, ye hero of Sandgate and Stella, Jim Jemieson kens that yor courage is trig. Go tell Billy Elli to meet me, brave fellow-- Aw'll wait yor return on Newcassel Tyne Brig!-- Oh, marcy! cried Johnson, yor looks gar me shiver! Maw canny lass, Jin, let me fetch him next tide; The spectre then frown'd--and he vanish'd for ever, While Sandgate did ring as she vengefully cried-- Fine Chenee oranges, four for a penny! Cherry ripe cornberries--taste them and try! She waits for her lover, each night adt this station, And calls her ripe fruit with a voice loud and clear, The keelbullies listen in great consternation-- Tho' snug in their huddocks, they tremble with fear! She sports round the pant till the cock, in the mroning, Announces the day--then away she does fly Till midnight's dread hour--thus each maiden's peace scorning, They start from their couch as they hear her loud cry-- Fine Chenee oranges, four for a penny! Cherry ripe cornberries--taste them and try! R. Emery-- In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Birth-Day of Queen Victoria A new Song, intended to be sung on board the Steward's Barge on Ascension Day, May 24, 1838 Thomas Emerson Headlam Esq., Mayor John Carr Esq. Sheriff Hurrah for Old England, her Queen and her laws! Hurrah for all hearts that are trite in the cause! Hurrah for Newcastle! Hurrah for the Mayor! Hurrah for the Tyne--its banks bustling and fair! Hurrah for the freemen, that rouse at each call! Hurrah for the Stewards, the spirits of all! Hurrah for the many bright days we have seen! Hurrah for a bumper- good health to the queen! Our port to keep famous, may Commerce prevail, And many ships sail with a prosperous gale; And while the wide stream from sweet Hedwin is roll'd, May true Conservators each landmark uphold. the Herbage Committee, with hearts light and gay, Have leisure from toil to be merry to-day-- Each contenance beaming, in mind all serene, To drink in a bumper - good health to the quen. While foes vainly threaten, and faction may rave, Our Union Flag still in triumph shall wave; And whether as few or as many we be, Like true honest Freemen we still will be free. The fam'd Corporation of our good old town, Unsullied, still onward shall bear its renown; In loyalty ever the foremost we've been, To drink in a bumper--good health to the Queen. Hurrah for Old England her quen and her laws! Hurrah for all hearts that are true to the cause! Hurrah for Newcastle! Hurrah for the Mayor! Hurrah for the Tyne-its banks bustling and fair! Hurrah for the Freemen, that rouse at each call! Hurrah for the Stewards, the spirit of all! Hurrah for the many bright days we have seen! Hurrah for abumper--long life to the Queen! God save the Queen! R. Gilchrist-- In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Donocht-Head* Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-head, The snaw drives snelly through the dale, The Gaber-lunzie tirls my sneck, And shivering tells his waeful' tale:-- Cauld is the night, O let me in, And dinna let your minstrel fa' I And dinna let his winding-sheet Be naething but a wreath o' snaw. Tull ninety winters hae I seen, And pip'd where gor-cocks whirring few And mony a day I've danc'd, I ween, To lilts which from my drone I blew. My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cried, Get up, gudeman, and let him in; For weel ye ken the winter night Was short when he began his din. My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet, Ev'n though she bans and scaulds a wee; But when it's tuned to sorrow's tale, O, haith it's doubly dear to me. Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire, I'll make it bleeze a bonny flame; Your blood is think, ye've tint the gait, Ye should na stray sae far frae hame. Nae hame have I, the minstrel said, Said party strife o'erturn'd my ha; And weeping at the eve of life, I wander through a wreath o' snaw. *This song comes highly recommended to public notice by the warm commendation of the poet Burns, who. in a letterto his friend Mr. Thompson writes-- Donocht-Head is not mine--I would give ten pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edinbugh Herald, and came to the editor of that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it. And Dr. Currie says respecting the song that the author need not have been ashamed to own himself worthy of the pen of Burns or Macneil. By the Late George Pickering , of Newcastle - In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Herbage Committee* (That is, The Jewel of a Committee) Not composed over the midnight oil but amid the noon-day broil of the Barge-day,May 8 1834. Addressed to the Chairman While others of great deeds may dream, Yet still commend to me sir, A subject rare, and prouder theme, The Herbage Committee sir: This Committee a jewel was, From truth that never swerv'd, sir, And gain'd much glory and applause, And well they both deserv'd, sir. The time has been when bread and cheese Was wont to be their fare, sir, What think ye now of turkeys, geese, A partridge, or a hare, sir! Well I remind their many joys, And many happy days, sir, For O they were the bonny boys For getting up surveys, sir. I have seen gallant Mister Woods, and Mr. Grainger, too sir, Approach us-- though dress'd in our duds-- With an obsequeous bow, sir; For Martin, Miekle and Maggall, Calbreath, friend Charles, and me, sir, Wanless and Angus, Garrett--all Were in the Committee, sir! Who then wad wish to be a Mayor, Recorder, or Town Clerk, sir? To serve in office, send methere, To hear each sage remark, sir; And O, indeed, I fear it much, Their like threre never will be, sir-- No, never, never more be such. An Herbage Committee, sir. The committee were- William Martin, William Mickle, William Maggall, James Calbreath, Charles, Stephenson, the Author, William Wanless, William Angus, and William Carret. Their activity and unanimity were proverbial. R. Gilchrist-- In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Bear Club Good dinners to our noble Queen, And many may she see, sir, And much I wish she could have seen The Bear-club Committee, sir; Her cooks no doubt, with skill refin'd Have cater'd long with care, sir, But much I doubt they ever din'd Her Majesty of Bears, sir. 'Tis said the Kings of India Can eat some pretty things, sir; You need not go so far away to see the Indian Kings, sir; The landlord there ccan at his call Serve up some pleasant fare, sir-- Mac now has clean eclipsed them all, And made us eat a Bear, sir. Some talk about the Esquimaux, And tell of Cherokees, sir, Hottentots and Marathas, And folks in the South Seas, sir; 'Tis said they sometimes cut a swell In dishes odd and rare, sir, But we from them will bear the ' bell, For we have eat a Bear, sir. All times have had their men of taste, Each passing age adorning, Who, rather than good stuff should waste, Would eat from night till morning: To us they must knock under now-- We've given them a scare sir,; They all could eat a sheep or so, But we can eat a Bear, sir. Now as you chance to walk the street, How every dog will run sir, Lest you should roast him for a treat, And eat him up in fun sir; The Quayside horses loaded well, Will scamper off like hares, sir, To see, not Bears all eating men, But men all eating Bears, sir. The next time, sir, you eat a Bear, Grant this my supplication-- Invite to dine our canny Mayor, And hungry Corporation; In seeking for a friend like you, They're looking lean and spare, sir, So in Compassion send them now The fragments of the Bear, sir. --R. Gilchrist - In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu The Lass of Wincomblee Tune- Nae Luck about the House Now all ye lillies hang your heeds, Ye roses bloom nae mair, Ye tulips all, put on your weeds, All, posies may dispair. For not a lass on all Tyneside, Frae Stella, to the sea Can marrow Moll the Evergreen Of bonny Wincomblee Her een shine like a davy-lamp, Or like a summer's day-- Her voice sae lke the after-damp, Near teuk my breath away-- Her cherry cheeks like sugar sweet, Or honey frae the bee; But sweeter far than byeth o' these Is moll of Wincomblee. Her feet are like twe bits ov cor, When running iv a reel-- tiv Shiver the Rags and Off she goes, She can cut an' shuffle weel; Like a lady fine, on Sunday neets She'll tyek a walk wi' me, Call at Scrogg House, round byker fields, And back by Walker Kee. When Jinny Pit it has full wark, We settled for te wed-- The fiddle sal play frae break o' day, Till we get snug in bed; Wi' backy and yell ye's hae your fill, Singin hinnies to your tea-- Wiv a dance we'll finish the merriest neet Ere was seen at Wincomblee. Tho' time rolls on, and so it may, As Tyne rolls on to the sea, Fresh as an evergreen is Moll Of bonny Wincomblee. - In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu On the Death of Bold Archy Bold Archy's dead! and long for him will poor Newcastle fret, Her sun of glory has gone down, her brightest star is From the Blue Stone to Cansey Bridge, from Tynemouth Bar and round by Stella, Not one remains to fill the seat left vacant by the honest fellow. The funeral flag hung drooping low as he was carried by And many gaz'd, and many a tear was wip'd from many an eye; And all did then the truth record:--warm was the heart now still and caller- So lay him softly in the sod, fam'd man of might, and prince of vlaour! Farewell! farewell! my local harp I'll bury with the brave, And sadly plant my local wreath to flourish on hsi grave! Both English and outlandish names must one day pass oblivioin's portal, But Archy's shall survive them all, and well deserves to be immortal -R. Gilchrist, May, 9, 1828 - In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu Blind Willie's Epitaph Newcastle's now a dowly place--all things seem sore aclite, For here at last Blind Willie lies, an honest, harmless wight; Nor wealth nor power now look with scorn on this lone spot of one departed, For fashion's gay and glaring sun ne'er beam'd on one more happy hearted. He was the poorest of the poor, yet ne'er complain'd of want, He neither carried purse nor scrip, and yet was never scant; Storms thunder'd o'er his hatless head, yet he ne'er once their rage lamented, His was the lot too few have known--to live content, and die contented. The bard who sung of Starkey's death, in tearful strains and true, And planted on Bold Archy's grave the wreath t'en from his brow; His local reed in dust he lays--farewell!--there trill'd its final shiver,-- It has been turn'd in Willie's praise, it now with him lies mute for ever -R. Gilchrist - In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce Newcastle Upon Tyne. back to the song menu What Gud can Sweerin de? Tune-The Young Man from the country Aw's sure its reely frightful Te heer se mony sweer, I' humour gud or spiteful It's just the syem aw feer, For filthy words ne joy afford, They mar the best o' spree, A curse tiv ivry hoonest man:-- What gud can sweerin de? Bairns click at bad examples, Or else we'd nivor heer Se mony youthful samples Gie vent te curse an' swear, Wi' utt'rance vile, aud fashund style, An' cheek that fair licks me, They myekt a practice a' throo life:-- What gud can sweerin de? Let men be drest se flashey, The pitmen or the peer, It myeks them luck but trashey If once they hap to swear; For words like these 'ill nivor please Ne matter where ye be, They show the black spots o' yor mind:-- What gud can sweerin de? -Joe Wilson In:Tyneside Songs and Droleries, Readings and Temperance Songs. By Joe Wilson. Norwood Editions, Norwood Pa., 1973. back to the song menu George Stephenson. Tune- The Miller o' the Dee. What changes thor is most ivy day, For improovemint's a' the go, Foaks open thor eyes wiv a sigh an' say, Wad ye ivor thowt it, Joe? Great invenshuns pour upon us fast, Ivry day brings sum new plan, But nyen can beat or hope to compete Wi' that ov a Tyneside man. Tyneside's the place where i' glory shine The stars o' the canny toon; Industry and genius byeth combine To presarve wor greet renoon, George Stephenson here first showed them Te improve upon the past, An' the Tyneside Collier gain'd the day, Wiv his wundrus wark at last. Lang, lang he studied, an' lang he tried His grand object hard te gain, For awhile he fund his plans defied, But at last he hut the Train, Then he parsevered wi' reet gud will, Te bring talents oot the shade, Wi' determined care-victorious then A Steam Engine, lads, he made. Just aboot this time stage-coaches ran Each traveller te convey, When te gan varry far tiv ony man, Wes owt but save, they say; Fower miles an' oor, wes gud aw's sure, An' nivor reckoned slaw, Till the engine's steam an' the signal scream Gah the gigs an' cabs a thraw. Cosey an' canny, no fast we flee Alang the fine railway line Sixty miles an oor 'ill surely de, If yor thowts te speed incline; For Stephenson, pride o' the world's greet men, His grand wark had myed complete, An' the iron horse wes king o'the course, Where it 'ill nivor knaw defeat. A monument here tiv him they've raised, May it ivor proodly stand, A memorial o' the gem we've praised, A figor o' genius grand; 'Mid fair an' storm may it stand as firm, As the nyem o' the greet self-made, For he's alive i' the hearts o' Tyneside men, Tho' iv his last bed he's laid. -Joe Wilson In:Tyneside Songs and Droleries, Readings and Temperance Songs. By Joe Wilson. Norwood Editions, Norwood Pa., 1973. back to the song menu The Row iv a Public Hoose Tune- Betty Gay When man gets drunk, aw've heard it said, He's sure to speak his mind An' seldum knaws when he commits Owt oot the common kind O' beerhoose crack or drunken chaff, But if ye'll list to me, Aw'll let ye hear the row between Two spunges on the spree. Chorus An' aw'll tell ye hoo the row began Wi' splitterin, splutterin, stammerin, stutterin an' ivry kind of abuse, I' that awful row, ridiculous row, the row iv a Public Hoose! Says Dick-- Aw's better like then ye, Yor heed's as thick as stone! Says Jim--Thor's sumthin i' me heed, Yors a' lies i' the bone. Aw'd better hev a heed se thick, Te haud what it contains, Them hev a poiler pyet like yors That nivor held ne brains! Says Dick--Ye cannot work like me, Aw've thorty-bob a week, Aw cud lay the factory in me-sel! Says Jim--Ye bubly sneak, If ye can myek yor thorty-bob, What myeks ye cadge o' me? Ye askt us in te hev a gill An' myed us pay for ye! Says Dick--Aw diddent ask ye in, Ye cum wi' me yor sel, Aw nivor said aw'd pay for ye, Aw only pull'd the bell! Says Jim--Yor like yor shabby wife, Thor's nyen aw knaw se mean, Ye weel may button up your coat, Yor shirt's not ower clean! Says Dick--Ye better mind yor-sel, Or else aw'll smash yor nose! Says Jim- Oh, is't a fight ye want? Aw'll gie ye such a doze Ye'll nivor want anuther mair, Aw'll myek ye black an' blue, Aw red'd the Sportin Life last week, An' copt a point or two! Says Dick-Aw diffent want te fight, Tho ye insulted me! Says Jim--Whs't me that challins'd ye? Aw'll tell ye what we'll de-- We'll let wor fam'ly 'fairs alyen, Aw'll riccomend a plan, The way tte hev a quiet spree Lets byeth pay for wor awn! -Joe Wilson In:Tyneside Songs and Droleries, Readings and Temperance Songs. By Joe Wilson. Norwood Editions, Norwood Pa., 1973. back to the song menu Jimmy's Gettin Wark! Tune- My Bonny Boy i' Bluye So, Jimmy, ye've got wark agyen, An' glad eneuff wes aw Te hear that ye had fallin in, For nebody can knaw The days an' weeks ye've walk'd aboot, The weary time we've pass'd, But noo aw feel quite settled, For ye've gettin wark at last. Chorus-- Ah' oh lad, Jim ye've myed us feel se glad, Te think ye've fallin in se weel, Wi' gettin wark, me lad We'll heh yor beuts byeth soled an' heel'd, Besides new fustin claes, An' ivry little thing ye want, Before thor's mony pays; Yor best black suit we'll heh that oot, Its been se lang i' pawn, Aw thowt it gyen for ivor,--but We'll hev them seun, me man! We'll he Sunday's dinners ivry day, The best that thor can be, Wi' new-laid eggs to brickfast, An' reed-harrins te wor tea; We'll not stop in on Sundays, As we've lang been forced te de, But let the foaks see whe we are, Like what we used te be. For fear bad times shud cum agyen, We'll put a little by, Te save us frae the poverty We've had se oftin nigh,-- So myek hay when the sun shines, An' forget not tho the day, We heh the best o' cumfort noo, It mighten't keep that way -Joe Wilson In:Tyneside Songs and Droleries, Readings and Temperance Songs. By Joe Wilson. Norwood Editions, Norwood Pa., 1973. back to the song menu Geordey O! Tune- Daddy, O! Iv a' the jolly cheps aw've seen, Thor's nyen like Geordey, happy Geordey, Me hyem's me cassil, wife me queen, An' aw's thor king, says Geordey, O; At least byeth wife an' bairns agree That aw's thor maistor, lord an' maistor, But hoo aw is, --aw cannet see, But still aw's king, says Geordey, O! Chorus- Geordey O, Geordey, O, Thor's nyen cums up te Geordey, O, For crackin a joke an' singin a sang, He licks them a' dis Geordey, O. Ye needint talk te him o'war, He dissent heed it, dissent need it, Across me nose aw've got a scar, An' that's throo war, says Geordey, O; But if the family ivor fights, He always wi' them sticks weel te them,-- Aw stick up for me famly reets, An' that's just fair! says Geordey, O. Teetotelers needint talk te him, Aboot hard drnkin, quite free-thinkin, Aw'l fill me glass up te the brim, If aw want as much, says Geordey, O; But if aw thnk aw've had me share, Withoot yor pledges, dorty pledges, Wi' mind myed up te heh ne mair, Aw winnet touch, says Geordey, O. If trubbil rings the famly's hearts, He's there is Geordey, canny Geordey, Cheer up, me bairns, it might be warse, So cumfot tyek, says Geordey, O; He's quite the heart an' sowl o' hyem, Gud-temper'd Geordey, happy Geordey, An' away fre'd, faith, he's just the syem, Such fun he'll myek, will Geordey, O -Joe Wilson In:Tyneside Songs and Droleries, Readings and Temperance Songs. By Joe Wilson. Norwood Editions, Norwood Pa., 1973. back to the song menu Canny Man! tune- He's a Pal o' Mine Thor's one that aw always like te see, Ne matter where, that's what we call a canny man; Fond ov enjoymint, blythe an' free, In fact, just a real canny man; A one that likes a joke as weel as onybody can de, An' always myeks a kumpney feel he's jolly weel as handy. Chorus He's a canny man, canny man, he's a canny man, yis, a canny man, Canny man, canny man, he's a canny man yis he is! Thor's one that aw always like te see Te help a frind,--that's what we call a canny man, Frae selfish thowts an' such like free, In fact, just a real canny man; A one that lens a helpin hand tethem he think's 'ill need it, An' myeks each honest heart expand when thinking what gud he did. Thor's one that aw always like te see, Thinking o' hyem, --that's what we call a canny man; He myeks the family think that he's The pictor of a real canny man; A one that minds the cumforts weel o' them that's roond aboot him, An' frinds or famly nivvor feel the least bit cawse te doot him -Joe Wilson In:Tyneside Songs and Droleries, Readings and Temperance Songs. By Joe Wilson. Norwood Editions, Norwood Pa., 1973. back to the song menu The Battle of Otterburn (Near 400 years old.-Northumberland Garland 1809) To play midi sound click here Yt fell abowght the Lamasse tyde, Whan husbondes wynne ther haye, The dwoghtye Dowglasse bowynd him to ryde, In Ynglond to take a praye: The yerelle of Fyffe, withowghten stryffe, He bowynd him over Sulway: The grete wolde ever together ryde, That raysse they may rewe for aye. Over "Ottercap" hyll they cam in, And so dowyn by Rodelyffe crage, Upon Grene "Leyton" they lyghted dowyn, "Styrande many a' stage: And boldely brente Northomberlond, And haryed many a towyn; They dyd owr Ynglyssh men grete wrange, To battell that were not bowyn. That spake a berne upon the bent, Of comforte that was not colde, And sayd, Whe have brent Northomberlond, We have all welth in holde. Now we have haryed all Bamboroweschyre, All the welth in the worlde have wee, I rede we ryde to Newe Castell, So styll and stalwurhlye. Upon the morrowe, when it was day, The standerdes schone fulle bryght; To the Newe Castell the toke the waye, And thether they cam fulle ryght. Sir Henry Perssy laye at the New Castell, I tell yow withowtten drede; He had byn a march-man all hys dayes, And kept Barwyke upon Twede. To the Newe Castell when they cam, The Skottes they cryde on hyght, Syr Hary Perssy, and thow byste within, Com to the fylde, and fyght: For we have brente Northomberlonde, Thy crytage good and ryght; And syne my logeyng I have take, With my brande dubbyd many a knyght. Sir Harry Perssy cam to the walles, The Skottysh oste for to se; And sayd, And thou has brent Northomberlond, Full sore it rewyth me. Yf thow has haryed all Bamborowescheyre, Thow hast done me grete envye; For the trespasse thow hast me done, The tone of us schall dye. Where schall I byde the, sayd the Dowglas, Or where wylte thow com to me? "At Otterborne in the hygh way, Ther mast thow well logeed be. The roo full rekless ther sche runnes, To make the game and glee; The fawken and the fesaunt both, Among the holtes on hye. Ther mast thow have thy welth at wyll, Well looged ther mast be; Yt schall not be long, or I come the tyll," Sayd syr Harry Perssye. Ther schall I byde the, sayd the Dowglas, By the fayth of my bodye. Thether schall I com, sayd syr Harry Perssy My trowth I plyght to the. A pype of wyne he gave them over the walles, For soth, as I yow saye: Ther he mayd the Dowglasse drynke, And all hys ost that daye. The Dowglas turnyd hym homewarde agayne, For soth withwghten naye, He took his logeynge at Oterborne Upon a Wedynsday: And ther he pyght his standerd dowyn, Hys gettyng more and lesse, And syne he warned his men to goo To chose ther geldynges gresse. A Skottysshe knyght hoved upon the bent A wache I dare well saye: So was he ware on the noble Perssy, In the dawnyng of the daye. He prycked to his pavyleon dore, As fast as he might ronne, Awaken, Dowglas, cryed the knyght For hys love that syttes in trone. Awaken, Dowglas, cryed the knyght, For thow maste waken wyth wynne; Yender have I spyed the prowde Perssye, And seven standardes wyth hym. Nay, by my trowth, the Dowglas sayed, It ys but a fayned taylle: He durst not loke on my brede banner, For all Ynglonde so haylle. Was I not yesterdaye at the Newe Castell, That stondes so fayre on ?Tyne? For all the men the Perssy had, He cowde not garre me ones to dyne. He stepped owt at his bavbelyon dore, To loke and it were lesse; "Araye yow, lordynges, one and all, Fore here bygynnes no peysse. The yerle of Mentaye, thow art my eme, The fowarde I gyve to the: The yerlle of Huntlay cawte and kene, He schall "wyth the be." The lord of Bowgham in armure bryght, On the other hand he chall be: Lorde Jhonstone, and lorde Maxwell, They to schall be with me. Swynton fayre fylde upon your pryde To batell make yow bowen: Syr Davy Skotte, syr Water Stewarde, Syr Jhon of Agurstone. -Source: The Northumberland Garland;or Newcastle Nightingale., Joseph Ritson, Newcastle, MDCCXCIII , Harding and Wright, London,1809. back to the song menu A Fytte The Perssy came byfore hys oste, Whych was ever a gentyll knyght, Upon the Dowglas lowde can he crye, I wyll holde that I have hyght: For thow haste brente Northomberlonde, and done me grete envye; For thys trespasse thow hast me done, The tone of us shall dye. The Dowglas answerde hym agayne, with grete wurdes upon hye, And sayd, I have twenty agaynst 'thy' one Byholde and thow maste see. With that the Perssye was greyvd sore For soth as I yow saye: He lyghted dowyn upon hys foote, And schoote his horsse clene away. Every man sawe that he dyd soo, That rall was ever in rowght; Every man schoote hys horsse hym froo, And lyght hym rowynde abowght. Thus syr Hary Perssye toke the fylde, For soth, as I yow saye: Jesu Cryste in heven on hyght Dyd helpe hym well that daye. But nyne thowzand, ther was no moo; The cronykle wyll not layne: Forty thowsande Skottes and fowre That day fowght them agayne. But when the batell byganne to joyne, In hast ther cam a knyght, The letters fayr furth hadh he tayne, And thus he sayd full ryght: My lorde, your father he gretes yow well, With many a noble knyght; He desyres yow to byde That he may see thys fyght. The baron of Grastoke ys com owt of the west, Wyth hym a noble companye; All they loge at your fathers thys nyght, And the battel fayne wolde they see. For Jesus love, sayd syr Harye Perssy, That dyed for yow and me, Wende to my lorde my father agayne, And saye thow sawe me not with yee. My trowth ys plyght to yonnne Skottyssh knyghr, It nedes me not to layne, That I schulde byde hym upon thys bent, And I have hys trowth agayne: And if that I wynde off thys growende, For soth onfowghten awaye, He wolde me call but a kowarde knyght In hys londe another daye. Yet had I lever to be rynde and rente, By Mary that mykell maye, Then ever my manhood schulde be reprovyd Wyth a Skotte another day. Wherfore, schote, archars, for my sake, And let scharpe arowes flee: Mynstrells, playe up for your waryson, And well quyt it schall be. Every man thynke on hys trewe love, And marke hym to the Trenite: For to God I make myne avowe This day wyll I not fle. The blodye harte in the Dowglas armes, Ays standerde stole on hye; That every man myght full well knowe, By syde stode starres thre. The whyte lyon on the Ynglyssh perte, Forsooth as I yow sayne: The lucettes and the 'cressawntes' both; The Skottes fowght them agayne. Upon sent Andrewe lowde can they crye, And thrysse they schowte on ayght, And syne marked them on owr Ynglysshe men, As I have tolde yow ryght. Sent George the bryght, owr ladyes knyght, To name they were full fayne: Owr Ynglyssh men they cryde on hyght, And thrysse the schowtte agayne. Wyth that scharpe arowes bygan to flee, I tell yow in sertayne; Men of armes byganne to joyne; Many a dowghty man was ther slayne. The Perssy and the Dowglas mette, That ather of other was fayne; They 'swapped' together whyll that the swette, With swordes of fine collayne; Tyll the bloode from their bassonettes ranne, As the roke doth in the rayne. Yelde the to me, sayd the Dowglas, Or elles thow schalt be slayne: For I see, by thy bryght bassonet, Thow arte sum man of myght; And so I do by thy burnysshed brande, Thow art an yerle, or elles a knyght. By my good faythe, sayd the noble Perssye, Now haste thou rede full ryght, Yet wyll I never yelde me to the, Whyll I may stonde and fyght. They swapped together, whyll that they swette, Wyth swordes scharpe and long; Yeh on other so faste thee beetle, Tyll ther helmes cam in peyses dowyn. The Perssy was a man of strength, I tell yow in thys stounde, He smote the Dowglas at the swordes length, That he felle to the growynde. The sworde was scharpe and sore can byte, I tel yow in sertayne; To the harte he cowde hikm smyte, Thus was the Dowglas slayne. The stonderdes stode styll on 'elke' asyde, With many a grevous groune; Ther the fowght the day, and all the nyght, And many a dowghty man was slayne. Ther was no freke that ther wolde flye, But styffely in stowre can stond, Ych one hewyng on other whyll they myght drye, Wyth many a bayllefull bronde. Ther was slayne upon the Skottes syde, For soth and sertenly, Syr James a Dowglas ther was slayne, That daye that he cowde dye. The yerlle of Mentaye he was slayne, Grysely groned uppon the growynd; Syr Davy Skotte, syr Walter Stewarde, Syr 'John' of Agurstonnne. Syr Charles Morrey in that place That never a fote wold flee; Sir Hugh Maxwell, a lorde he was, With the Dowglas dyd he dye. Ther was slayne upon the Skottes syde, For soth as I yow saye, Of fowre and forty thowsande Skottes, Went but eyghtene awaye. Ther was slayne upon the Ynglisshe syde, For soth and sertenlye, A gentell knyght, sir John 'Fitzhewe,' Yt was the more pety. Syr. James Harebotell ther was slayne, For hym ther hartes were sore, The gentyll 'Lovell' ther was slayne That the Perssys standerd bore. Ther was slayne upon the Ynglyssh perte, For soth as I yow saye; Of nyne thowsand Ynglyssh men, Fyve hondert cam awaye: The other were slayne in the fylde, Cryste kepe ther sowlles from wo, Seyng ther was so few fryndes Agaynst so many a foo. Then on the morne they mayde them beerys Of byrch, and haysell grave; Many a wydowe with wepying teyres Ther makes they fette awaye. Thys fraye bygann at Otterborne Bytwene the nyghte and the day: Ther the Dowglas lost hys lyffe, And the Perssye was lede awaye. Then was ther a Scottyssh prisoner tayne, Syr Hewe Mongomery was hys name, For soth as I yow saye, He borrowed the Perssy home agayne. Now let us all for the Perssy praye To Jesu most of myght, To bryng hys sowlle to the blysse of heven, For he was a gentyll knyght. -Source: The Northumberland Garland;or Newcastle Nightingale., Joseph Ritson, Newcastle, MDCCXCIII , Harding and Wright, London,1809. back to the song menu The Hunting of the Cheviat The Perse owt off Northombarlonde, And a vowe to God mayd he That he wold hunte in the mowntayns Off Chyviat within days thre, In the magger of doughte Dogles, And all that ever with him be. The fattiste hartes in all Cheviat He sayd he wold kyll, and cary them away: "Be my feth," sayd the doughteti Doglas agayn, "I wyll let that hontyng yf that I may. Then the Perse owt off Banborowe cam, With him a myghtee meany, With fifteen hondrith archares bold off blood and bone; The wear chosen owt of shyars thre. This begane on a Monday at morn, In Cheviat the hyllys so he; They chylde may rue that ys un-born, It wos the mor pitte. The dryvars thorowe the woodes went, For to reas the dear; Bomen byckarte uppone the bent With ther browd aros cleare. Then the wyld thorowe the woodes went, On every syde shear; Greahondes thorowe the grevis glent, For to kyll thear dear. This began in Chyviat the hyls abone, yerly on a Monnyn-day; Be that it drewe to the oware off none, A hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay. The blewe a mort uppone the bent, The semblyde on sydis shear; To the quyrry then the Perse went, To se the bryttlynge off the deare. He sayd, "It was the Doglas promys This day to met me hear; But I wyste he wolde faylle, verament;" A great oth the Perse swear. At the laste a squyar off Northomberlonde Lokyde at his hand full ny; He was war a the doughetie Doglas commynge, With him a mygtte meany. Both with spear, bylle, and brande, Yt was a myghtti sight to se; Hardyar men, both off hart nor hande, Wear not in Cristiante. The wear twenti hondrith spear-men good; Without any feale; The wear borne along be the watter a Twynde, Yth bowndes of Tividale. "Leave of the brytlyng of the dear," he sayd, "and to your boys lock ye tayk good hede; For never sithe ye wear on your mothars borne Had ye never so mickle nede." The doughtei Dogglas on a stede, He rode alle his men beforne; His armour glytteryde as dyd a glede; A boldar barne was never born. "Tell me whos men ye ar", he says, "Or whos men that ye be: Who gave youe leave to hunte in this Cyviat chays, In the spyt of myn and of me." The first mane that ever him an answear mayd, Yt was the good lord Perse: "We wyll not tell the whoys men we ar," he says "Nor whos men that we be; But we wyll hounte hear in this chays, In the spyt of thyne and of the. "The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat We have kyld, and cast to carry them away:" "Be my troth," sayd the doughete Dogglas agayn, "Therefor the ton of us shall de this day." Then sayd the doughte Doglas Unto the lord Perse: "To kyll alle thes giltles men, Alas, it wear great pitte! "But, Perse, Thowe art a lorde of lande, I am a yerle callyd within my contre; Let all our men uppone a parti stande, And do the battell off the and of me." Nowe Cristes cors on his crowne", sayd the lorde Perse, "Who-so-ever ther-to says nay! Be my troth, doughtte Doglas," he says, "Thou shalt never se that day. "Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar France, Nor for no man of a woman born, But, and fortune be my chance, I dar met him, on man for on." Then bespayke a squyar off Northombarlonde, Richard Wytharynton was his nam; "It shall never be told in Sothe-Ynglonde," he says, "To Kyng Herry the Fourth for sham. "I wat youe byn great lordes twaw, I am a poor squyar of lande; I wylle never se my captayne fyght on a fylde, And stande my selffe and loocke on, But whylle I may my weppone welde, I wylle no fayle both hart and hande." That day, that day, that dredfull day! The first fit here I fynde; And youe wyll here any more a the hountynge a the Chyviat, Yet ys there mor behynde. The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent, Ther hartes wer good yenoughe; The first off arros that the shote off, Seven skore spear-men the sloughe. Yet byddys the yerle Doglas uppon the bent, A captayne good yenoughe, And that was sene verament, For he wrought hom both woo and wouche. The dogglas partyd his ost in thre, Lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde; With suar spears off mygtte tre, The cum in on every syde; Thrughe our Yngglyshe archery Gave many a wounde fulle wyde; Many a doughete the garde to dy, Which ganyde them no pryde. The Ynglyshe men let ther boys be, And pulde owt brandes that were brighte; It was a hevy syght to se Bryght swordes on basnites lyght. Thorowe ryche male and myneyeple, Many sterne the strocke done streght; Many a freyke that was fulle fre, Ther under foot dyd lyght. At last the Duglas and the Perse met, Lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne; The swapte togethar tylle the both swat, With swordes that wear of fyn myllan. Thes worthe freckys for to fyght, Ther-to the wear fulle fayne, Tylle the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente, "Yelde the,Perse," sayde the Doglas, And i feth I shalle the brynge Wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis Of Jamy our Skottish kynge. "Thou shalte have they ransom fre, I hight the hear this thinge; Forr the manfullyste man yet art thowe That ever I conqueryd in filde fighttynge." "Nay," sayd the lord Perse, "I told it the beforne, That I wolde never yeldyde be To no man of a woman born." With that ther cam an arrowe hastely, Forthe off a myghtte wane; Hit hathe strekene the yerle Duglas In at the brest-bane. Thorowe lyvar and longes bathe The sharpte arrowe ys gane, That never after in all his lyffe-days He spayke mo wordes but ane: That was, "Fygte ye, my myrry men, whyllys ye may, For my lyff-days ben gan." The Perse leanyde on his brande, And saw the Duglas de; He tooke the dede mane by the hande, And sayd, "Wo ys me for the!" To have savyde thy lyffe, I wolde have partyde with My landes for years thre, For a beter man, of hart nare of hande, Was nat in all the north contre." Off all that se a Skottishe knyght, Was callyd Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry; He saw the Duglas to the deth was dyght, He spendyd a spear, a trusti tre. He rod uppone a corsiare Throughe a hondrith archery: He never synttyde, nar never blane, Tylle he cam to the good lord Perse. He set uppone the lorde Perse A dynte that was full soare; With a suar spear of a myghtte tre Clean thorow the body he the Perse ber, A the tothar syde that a man myght se A large cloth-yard and mare: Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Cristiante Then that day slan wear ther. An archar off Northomberlonde Say slean was the lord Perse; He bar a bende bowe in his hand, Was made off trusti tre. An arow that a cloth-yarde was lang To the harde stele halyde he; A dynt that was both sad and soar He sat on Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry. The dynt yt was both sad and sar That he of Monggomberry sete; The swane-fethars that his arrowe bar With his hart-blood the wear wete. Ther was never a freake wone foot wolde fle, but still in stour dyd stand, Heawyng on yche othar, whylle the myghte dre, With many a balfull brande. This battell begane in Chyviat An owar befor the none, And when even-songe bell was rang, The battell was nat half done. The tocke on ethar hande Be the lyght off the mone; Many hade no strenght for to stande, In Chyviat the hillys abon. Of fifteen hondrith archars of Ynglonde West away but seventi and thre; Of twenti hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde, But even five and fifti. But all wear slayne Cheviat within; The hade no strenthe to stand on hy; The chylde may rue that ys unborne, It was the more pitte. Thear was slayne, withe the lord Perse, Ser Johan of Agerstone, Ser Rogar, the hinde Hartly, Ser Wyllyam, the bolde Hearone. Ser Jorg, the worthe Loumle, A knyghte of great renowen, Ser Raff, the ryche Rugbe, With dyntes wear beaten dowene. For Wetharryngton my harte was wo, That ever he slayne shulde be; For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to, yet he knyled and fought on hys kny. Ther was slayne, with the dougheti Duglas, Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry, Ser Davvy Lwdale, that worthe was, His sistars son was he. Ser Charls a Murre in that place, That never a foot wolde fle; Ser Hewe Maxwelle, a lorde he was, With the Doglas dyd he dey. So on the morrowe the mayde them byears Off birch and hasell so gray; Many wedous, with wepying tears, Cam to fache ther makys away. Tivydale may carpe off care, Northombarlond may mayk grea mon, For towe such captayns as slayne wear thear On the March-parti shall never be non. Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe, To Jamy the Skottishe kynge, That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the Marches, He lay slean Chyviot within. His handdes dyd he weal and wryng, He sayd, "Alas, and woe ys me! Such an othar captayn Skotland within," He sayd, "ye-feth shuld never be." Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone, Till the fourth Harry our kynge, That lord Perse, leyff-tenante of the Marchis, He lay slayne Chyviat within. "God have merci on his solle," sayde Kyng Harry, "Good lord, yf thy will it be! I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde," he sayd, "As good as ever was he: but, Perse, and I brook my lyffe, Thy deth well quyte shall be." As our noble kynge mayd his avowe, lyke a noble prince of renowen, For the deth of the lord Perse He dyde the battel of Hombylldown; Wher syx and thritte Skottishe knyghtes On a day wear beaten down; Glendale glytteryde on ther amour bryght, Over castille, towar and town. This was the hontyne off the Cheaviat, That tear begane this spurn; Old men that knowen the grownde well yenoughe Call it the battell of Otterburn. At Otterburn begane this spurne, Uppone a Monnynday; Ther was the doughte Doglas slean, The Perse never went away. Ther was never a tym on the Marchepartes Sen the Doglas and the Perse met, But yt ys mervele and the rede blude ronne not, As the reane doys in the stret. Jhesue Crist our balys bete, And to the blys us brynge! Thus was the hountynge of the Chivyat: God sen us alle good endyng! -Source: The Northumberland Garland;or Newcastle Nightingale., Joseph Ritson, Newcastle, MDCCXCIII , Harding and Wright, London,1809. back to the song menu Fit the Second The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent, ther hartes were good yenoughe; The first off arros that the shote off, Seven skore spear-men the sloughe. Yet byddys the yerle Doglas uppon the bent, A captayne good yenoughe, And that was sene verament, For he wrought them hom both woo and wouche. The Dogglas pertyd his ost in thre, Lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde, With suar speares off myghtte tre, The cum in on every syde. Thrughe our Yngglishe archery Gave many a wounde full wyde; Many a doughete the garde to dy, Which ganyde them no pryde. The Ynglyshe men let thear 'bowys' be, And pulde owt brandes that wer bright; It was a hevy sight to se Bryght swordes on basnites lyght, Thorowe ryche male, and myne-ye-ple, Many sterne the stroke done streght: Many a freyke, that was full fre, Ther undar foot dyd lyght. At last the Duglas and the Perse met, Lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne; The swapte togethar tyll the both swat With swordes that wear of fyn myllan. Thes worthe freckys for to fyght ther to the wear full fayne, Tyll the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente, As ever dyd heal or ran. 'Holde' the, Perse, sayd the Doglas, And i feth I shall the brynge Wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis Of Jamy our 'Scottish' kynge. Thoue shalte have thy ransom fre, I hight the hear this thinge, For the manfullyste man yet art thowe, That ever I conqueryd in filde fightying. Nay, sayd the lorde Perse, I tolde it the beforne, That I wolde never yeldyde be To no man or a woman born. With that ther cam an arrowe hastely Forthe off a myghtte wane, Hit hathe strekene the yerle Duglas IN at the brest bane. Thoroue lyvar and longs bathe The sharpe arrowe ys gane, That never after in all his lyffe days He spayke mo wordes buyt ane, That was, Fyghte ye, my myrry men, whyllys ye man, For my liff days ben gan., The Perse leanyde on his brande, And sawe the Duglas de; He tooke the dede mane be thehande, and sayd, Wo ys me for the! To have savyd thy liffe I wold have pertyde with My landes for years thre; For a better man of hart, nare of hande, Was not in all the north contre. Off all that se a Skottishe knyght, Was callyd sir Hewe the Monggonbyrry, He sawe the Duglas to the deth was dyght; He spendyd a spear a trusti tre: He rod uppon a corsaire Throughe a hondrith archery; He never stynttyde, nar never blane, Tyll he cam to the good lord Perse. He set uppon the lord Perse, A dynte that was full soare; With a suar spear of a myghte tre Clean thorow the body he the Perse 'bore.' Athe tothar syde, that a man myght se, A large cloth yard and mare; Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Cristiante, Than that day slain wear ther. An archar of Northomberlonde Say slean was the lord Perse, He bar a bende bow in his hand, Was made off trusti tre: An arow, that a cloth yarde was lang, Toth hard stele hayld he; A dynt that was both sad and soar, He sat on sir Hewe the Monggonbyrry. The dynt yt was both sad and sar, That he of Monggonberry sete; The swane-fethars, that his arrowe bar, With his hart blood the wear wete. Ther was never a freake wone foot wolde fle, But still in stour dyd stand, Heawyng on yche othar, whyll the myght dre, With many a balfull brande. This battell beganne in Chyviat, An owar before the none, And when even-song bell was rang, The battell was nat half done. The tooke on ethar hand, Be the lyght off the mone; Many had no strenght for to stande, In Chyyviat the hillys 'abone.' Of fifteen hondrith archars of Ynglonde Went away but fifti and thre; Oftwenty hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde, But even five and fifti. But all wear slayne Cheviat within: The had no 'strengthe' to stand on hy: the chylde may rue that ys unporne, It was the mor pitte. Thear was slayne with the lorde Perse, Sir John of Agerstone, Sir Rogar the hinde Hartly, Sir Wyllyam the bolde Hearone. Sir Jorg the worthe Lovele, A knyght of great renowen, Sir Raff the ryche Rugbe With dyntes wear beaten dowene. For Wetharryngton my arte was wo, That ever he slayne shulde be; For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to, Yet he knyled and fought on hys kny. Ther was slayne with the dougheti Duglas Sir hewe the Monggonbyrry, Sir Davy Lwdale that worthe was, His sistars son was he. Sir Charls a Murre, in that place, That never afoot wolde flee; Sir Hewe Maxwell, a lorde he was, With the Doglas dyd he dey. So on the morrowe the mayde them byears Off birch, and hasell so 'gray;' Many wedous, with wepyng tears, Cam to fach ther makys away. Tivydale may carpe off care, Northombarlond may mayke 'great' mon, For towe such captayns, as slayne wear thear, On the march perti shall never be non. Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe To Jamy the Skottishe kyng, That dougheti Duglas, lyff tenant of the merches, He lay glean Chyviot with in. His hanndes dyd he weal and wryng, He says, Alas, and woe ys me! Such another captayn Skotland within, He sayd, yefeth shuld never be. Worde is commyn to lovly Londone Till the fourth Harry our kyng, That lord Perse, 'leyff'-tenante of the merchis He lay slayne Chyviat within. God have merci on his soll, sayd kyng Harry, Good lord, yf thy will it be! I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde, he sayd, As good as ever was he: But, Perse, and I brook my lyffe, Thy deth well quyte shall be. As our noble kyng made his avowe, Like a noble prince of renowen, For the deth of the lorde Perse, He dyde the battle of Hombyll-down: Wher syx and thritte Skottish knyghtes On a day wear beaten down; Glendale glytteryde on the armor bryght, Overcastill; to war, and town. This was the hontynge off the Cheviat; That tear begane this spurn: Old men, that knowen the grownde well yenoughe, Call it the battell of Otterburn. At Otterburn began this spurne Uppon a 'Monnyn' day: Ther was the dougghte Doglas slean, The Pearse never went away. Ther was never a tym on the march partes, Sen the Doglasand the Perse met, But yt was mervele, and the rede blude ronne not, As the reane doys in the stret. Jhesue Crist our balys bete, And to the blys us brynge! Thus was the hountynge of the Chivyat; God send us all good endyng! -Source: The Northumberland Garland;or Newcastle Nightingale., Joseph Ritson, Newcastle, MDCCXCIII , Harding and Wright, London,1809. Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Part 12 Directory 10 Click here for main menu of this directory. Use our floating menu to improve navigation. you can reposition it by clicking on top bar and dragging Floating Menu Menu of all of the Sangs Click here For tunes in .abc notation click here For an index of persons and places mentioned in the sangs click here For Bibliography,and Philosophy of the collection click here We invite you to contribute! Click here to comment or add. Soon after our upgrade the songs which the priests have recorded will be high-lighted thusly Illustrated by woodcuts by Joseph Crawhall (Newcastle, 1889) (Where you see the music note image there will be a midi file-for you to listen to!) Your Choices! The Main Menu! Main Menu Fair Mabel of Wallington Song V George Stoole The Ballad of Eckys Mare The Midford Galloway's Ramble By Thomas Whittel The Insipids Or The Mistress with her Multitude of Man Servants. by Thomas Whittel Sawney Ogilby's Duel with his WifeBy Thomas Whittel The Felton Garland The Laidley Worm On the First Rebellion Sword Dances Ride Through Sandgate Contradicshun The Chep that Knaws Nowt Jesmond Pic-Nic (Part) Grainger Street Cadjin For Beer Ungrateful Bill When Gud Luck Shows its Fyece Careless Jack Bella Ramsey's Lad Dinnet Let Words Myek Ye Sad! Aw've Lost me Bonny Lad Mistriss Taylor's Poisin! That Factory Lass Divvent Bother Us Se! Bonny Sally Wheatley Ni Wark The Return of the Gallowgate Lad The Gallowgate Lad's Weddin Aw Wish Yor Fethur Wes Here Sunday Neets at Jesmond Gardens The Drapers' Appeal Wor Peg's Trip te Tynemouth Bessie Walker Prepare for What's Te Cum! The Jiggin Doon the Shore Whisperin Pride Meggie Bell The Noodle an' Rifleman's Dispute Use this Pull down form to go to our other pages To return to the top of this page click here. Fair Mabel of Wallington When we were silly sisters seven, sisters (we) were so fair, Five of us were brave knights wives, and died in childbed fair. Up then spake fair'Mabel', marry wou'd she nane, If ever she came in man's bed the same gate wad she gang. Make no vows, fair 'Mabel", for fear they broken be, Here's been the knight of Wallington asking good will of thee. Here's been the knight (of Wallington), mother, asking good-will of me; Within three-quarters of a year you may come bury me. When she came to Wallington, and into Wallingtonhall, There she spy'd her mother dear walking about the wall. You're welcome, daughter dear, to thy castle and thy bower. I thank you kindly, mother, I hope they'll soon be your's. She had not been in Wallington three-quarters and a day, Tiull upon the ground she could not walk, she was a weary prey; She had not been in Wallington three-quarters and a night, Till on the ground she cou'd not walk, shw was a weary 'wight'. Is there ne'er a boy in this town who'll win hose and shun, That will run to fair Pudlington, and bid my mother come? Up then spake a little boy, near unto (her) a-kin, Full oft I have your errands gone, but now I will it run. Then she call'd her waiting-maid to bring up bread and wine: Eat and drink, my bonny boy, thou'sll ne'er eat more of mine: Give my respects to my mother, as (she) 'sits' in her chair of stone, And ask her how she likes the news of seven to have but one. Give my love to my brother William, Ralph, and John; and to my sister Betty fair, and to her white as bone, And bid her keep her maidenhead, be sure make much on't, For if e'er she come in man's bed the same gate will she gang. Away this little boy is gone as fast as he could run, When he came where brigs were broke he lay down and 'swum.' When he saw the lady, he said, Lord may your keepers be! What news, my bretty boy, 'hast' thou to tell to me? Your daughter 'Mabel' orders me, as you sit in a chair of stone, To ask you how you like the news of seven to have but one; Your daughter gives commands as you sit in a chairr of 'state,' And bids you come to her sickening, her 'weary' lakewake: She gives command to her brother William, Ralph, and John; To her sister Betty fair, and to her white (as) bone, She bids her keep her maidenhead, besure make much on't, For if e'er she come in man's bed the same gate wou'd she gang. She kickt the table with her foot, she kickt it with her knee, The silver plate into the fire so far she made it flee: Then she call'd her waiting-maid to bring her riding-hood, So did she on her stable-groom to bring her 'steed so good:' Go saddle to me the black, go saddle to me the brown, Go saddle to me the swiftest steed that e'er rid Wallington. When she came to Wallington, and into Wallingtonhall, There she espy'd here son Fenwick walking about the wall. God save you, dear son, Lord may your keeper be! Where is my daughter fair, that used to walk with thee? He turn'd his head round about, the tears did fill his eye; 'Tis a month, he said, since she took her chambers from me. She went on, and there were in the hall Four and twenty ladies letting their tears down fall: Her daughter had a scope into her chest, and into her chin, All to keep her life till her dear mother came. Come take the rings off my finger, the skin it is (so) white, And give them to my mother dear, for she was all the 'weight'; Come take the rings off my fingers, the veins are so red, Give them to sir William Fenwick, I'm sure his heart will bleed. She took out a razor, that was both sharp nad fine, And out of her left side has taken the heir of Wallington. There is a race in Wallington, and that I rue full sare, Tho' the cradle it be full spread up, the bride-bed is left bare. -Resembles Child Ballad #91 but quite a bit different. -Source: The Northumberland Garland;or Newcastle Nightingale., Joseph Ritson, Newcastle, MDCCXCIII , Harding and Wright, London,1809. back to the song menu Song V (George Stoole) A lamentable Ditty, made upon the death of a worthy gentleman, named George Stoole, dwelling sometime on Gate-side Moor, and some time at Newcastle, In Northumberland: with his penitent end. (c. 1610) To A delicate Scottish Tune Come you lusty Northerne lads, That are so blith and bonny, Prepare your hearts to be full sad, To heare the end of Georgy. Chorus: Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my bonny love, Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my honny; Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my owne deare love, And God be with my Georgie. When Georgie to his triall came, A thousand hearts were sorry, A thousand lasses wept full sore, And all for love of Georgie. Some did say he would escape, Some at his fall did glory: But these were clownes and fickle friends, And none that loved Georgy. Might friends have satisfide the law, Then G(e)orgie would find many: Yet bravely did he plead for life, If mercy might be any. But when this doughty carle was cast, He was full sad and sorry: Yet boldy did he take his death, So patiently dyde Georgie. As Georgie went up to the gate, He tooke his leve of many: He tooke his leave of his lards wife, Whom he lov'd best of any. With thousand sighs and heavy looks, Away from thence he parted, Where he so often blithe had been, Thought now so heavy hearted. He writ a letter with his owne hand, He thought he writ it bravely: He sent it to New-castle towne, To his beloved lady. Wherin he did at large bewaile, the occasion of his folly: Bequething life unto the law, His soule to heaven holy. Why, lady, leave to weepe for me, Let not my ending grieve ye: Prove constant to the'man' you love, For I cannot releeve yee. Out upon the, Withrington, And fie upon the, Phoenix: Thou hast put downe the doughty one That stole the sheepe from Anix. And fie on all such cruell carles, Whose crueltie's so fickle, To cast away a gentleman In hatred for so little. I would I were on yonder hill, Where I have beene full merry: My sword and buckeler by my side To fight till I be weary. They well should know that tooke me first Though whoops be now forsaken; Had I but freedome, armes, and health, I'de dye are I'de be taken. But law condemns me to my grave, They have me in their power; There's none but Christ that can be save, At this my dying houre. He call'd his dearest love to him, When as his heart was sorry: And speaking thus with manly heart, Deare sweeting, pray for Georgie. He gave to her a piece of gold, And bade her give't her barnes: And oft he kist her rosie lips, And laid him into her armes. And coming to the place of death, He never changed colour, The more they thought he would look pale, The more his veines were fuller. And with a cheerful countenance, (Being at that time entreated For to confesse his former life) These words he straight repeated. I never stole no oxe nor cow, Nor never murdered any: But fifty horse I did receive Of a merchants man of Gory. For which I am condemn'd to dye Though guiltlesse I stand dyiing: Deare gracious God, my soule receive, For now my life is flying. The man of death a part did act, Which grieves metell the story; God comfort all are comfortlesse, And did so well as Georgie. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, my bonny love, Heigh-ho, heigh-(ho) my bonny; Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, mine own true love Sweet Christ receive my Georgie. -Source: The Northumberland Garland;or Newcastle Nightingale., Joseph Ritson, Newcastle, MDCCXCIII , Harding and Wright, London,1809. back to the song menu An Excellent Ballad of The Sickness,Death and Burial of Eckys Mare Which was made and composed by the late ancient and famous Northern poet, Mr. Bernard Rumney, a musician, or country fidler, who lived and died at Rothbury, being about one hundred years old at the time of his death. Wold you please to heare of a sang of dule, Of yea sad chance and pittifow case, Makes the peur man powt through mony a pule, And leuk on mony an unkend face? Between the Yule but and the Pasch, In a private place, where as I lay, I heard ane sigh, and cry, Alas! What shall I outher dea or say? A man that's born of a middle-yeard wight, For wealth or pelth can no be secure; For he may have enough at night, And the net morn he may be fow peur, I speak this by a Northumberland man, The proverb's true proves by himself; Since in horse-couping he began, He had great cause to crack of wealth. Of galloways he was well stockt, What some part first what some part last; But I'll no speak much to his praise, For some of them gat o're lang a fast. Some of the gat a shrowish cast, Which was nea teaken of much pelth; But yet he hopes, if life dea last, To see the day to crack of welth. But aye the warst cast still comes last, He had nea geud left but a Mear, There was mea diseases did her attend Nor I can name in half a year. If Markham he himself was here, A famous farrier although he be, It wad set aw his wits astear To reckon her diseases in their degree. But her sickness we'll set aside, Now tauk we of the peur mans coast, And how she lev'd, and how she dead, And how his labour aw was lost. In the winter-time she took a hoast, And aw whilk while she was noe weell; But yet her stomach ne're was lost, Although she never had her heal. Now for heer feud she went so yare, An the fiend had been a truss of hey, She wad a swallowed him and mickle mare, Bequeen the night 'but' an the dey. The peur man cries out Armyes aye, I see that she's noe like to mend, She beggers me with haveer and hey, I wish her some untimeous end. Nea sooner pray'd but as soon heard, She touck a fawing down behind, She wad a thousand men a scar'd To have felt her how she fl'd the wind. Her master he went out at night, Of whilk he had oft mickle need, He left her neane her bed to right, Nor neane for to had up her head. Next day when he came to the town, He ran to see his mear with speed, He thought she had fawn in a swoon, But when he try'd she was cald dead. It's ever alas! but what remeed, Had she play'd me this at Michaelmas, It wad a studden me in geud steed, And sav'd me both yeats, hay and grass. There's ne'er an elf in aw the town, That hardly we'll can say his creed, But he will swear a solemn oath, Crack o' wealth Eckys mear cau'd dead. Lad, wilt thou for Hob Trumble run? I ken he will come at my need; That seun he may take off her skin, For I mun leeve though she be dead. Now straight he came with knife in hand, He fled her fra the top to th' tail, He left nea mare skin on her aw Then wad been a hunden to a flail. Her seld her haill hide for a groat, So far I let you understand, And what he did weed he may well weet, For he bought neither house nor land. Now have I cassen away my care, And hope to live to get another; And night and day shall be my prayer, The fiend gea down the loaning with her. Now shall I draw it near and end, And tauk nea mare of her at least, But hoping none for to offend, You shall hear part of her funeral feast. To her resorted mony a beak, And birds of sundry sorts of hue; There were three hundred at the least, You may believe it to be true. Sir Ingram Corby he came first there, With his fair lady clad in black, And with him swarms there did appear Of piots hoping at his back. The carrion craw whe was not slack, Aw cled into her mourning weed, With her resorted mony a mack Of greedy kite and hungry gleede. When they were aw conven'd compleat, And every yean had taen their place; So rudely they fell tea their meat, But nane thought on to say the grace. Some rip'd her ribs, some pluck'd her face, Nea bit of here was to be seen; Sir Ingram Corby in that place, Himself he pick'd out baith her eyne. But wait ye what an a chance befel, When they were at this jolly chear, Sir William Bark, I can you tell, He unexpected lighted there. Put aw the feasters in sike a fear, Some hopt away, some flew aside, There was not ane durst come him near, Nay not sir Corby, nor his bride. He came not with a single side, For mony a tike did him attend, I wait he was no puft wea pride, As you shall hear before I end. See rudely they fell to the meat, But napkin, trencher, salt, or knife; Some to the head, soem to the feet, Whiles banes geud bare there was na strife. In came there a tike, they cau'd him Grim, Sea greedily he did her gripe, But he rave out her belly-rim And aw her buddings he made a pipe. Heer lights, her liver, but an her tripe, They lay all trailing upon the green; They were aw gane with a sudden wipe, Not any of them was to be seen. But suddenly begeud a feast, And after that begeund a fray; The tikes that were baith weak and least, They carried aw the bats away. And they that were of the weaker sort, They harl'd here through the paddock-peul, They leugh, and said it was geud sport, When they had drest her like a feule. Thus have you heard of Ekies mear, How pitifully she made her end; I write unto you far and near, Who says here death is no well penn'd, I leave it to yoursel's to mend, That chance the peur man need again; If it be ill penn'd it is as well kend, I got as little for my 'pain.' -Source: The Northumberland Garland;or Newcastle Nightingale., Joseph Ritson, Newcastle, MDCCXCIII , Harding and Wright, London,1809. back to the song menu The Midford Galloway's Ramble By- Thomas Whittel To the Tune of Ranting Roaring Willy The routing the earl of Mar's forces, Has given their neighbours supplies; They've stock'd us with Highlanders horses, Like kileys for madness and size: The whirligig-maker of Midford Has gotten one holds such a stear, He's had worse work with it, I'll say for't Than Ecky e'er had with his mare. The devil ne'er saw such a gelding As this to be fol'd of a mear; The size ont's a shame to be teld on, And yet it could skip like a deer; For colour and size (I'm a sinner, I scorn, as the folks says, to slide,) 'Twas just like Hob Trumble's glimmer, Which he sold for six-pence a side. It was a confounded bad liver, Like Ferry the piper's old cat; It ne'er could be brought to behiavour, Though it has got many a bat: It had been so spoil'd in up-bringing, It vext his poor heart ev'ery day; Sometimes with biting and flinging, And sometimes with running away. Perhaps it was brought up a Tory, And knew the poor man for a Whig; But for to make short a long story, I'll tell you one day what it did: When business came thickere and thicker, And would not admit of delay, As fast as the heels on't could bicker, It scamper'd on northward away. O'er rocks, over mountains and ditches, Dike-gutters and hedges it speals; A courser could never keep stretches With it for a large share of heels: From hill unto dale like a farie, It hurry'd and pranced along, While Geordy was in a quandary, And knew not what way 'it' was gone. A day or two after, have at it, He north in pursuit on't took chase, And like a dub-skelper he troted, To many (a) strange village and place: All Rothbury forest he ranged, From corner to corner like mad, And still he admired and stranged, What vengeance was gone with his pad. He circuled about like a ring-worm, And follow'd the scent of his nose, And from Heslyhurst unto Brinkburn, With Fortune the clothier he goes. To honest Tom Faweon's the fuller, The rattle-brain'd roisters both went, Tho' they made the gelding their colour, Another thing was their intent. Tom Fawdon soon knew what they wanted, And straightway the table was set, With bread, butter and cheese it was planted, And good ale, as well as good meat; Their grace took but little inditing, 'Twas short and they had it by heart, And they took as little inviting, But strove who should have the fore-start. They used no bashful dissembling, But to in a passion did fall, The dishes did by them stand trembling, Their mercy appeared so small: The butter, the cheese, and the bannocks, Disolved like snow in a fresh, And still as they stuck in their stomachs, With liquor they did them down wash. The Dutch, nor the Welsh nor wight Wallace, Did ever like them show their spleen, The cheese bore the marks of their malice, Their knives and their teeth were so keen. Two stone they destroyed, shame b'n them, And pour'd down their liquor like spouts, Their guts to hold what they put in them, Were drest like a pair of strait boots. With bellies top-full to the rigging, I leave them to settle a bit, 'Till making good use of the midding, 'Do' bring them unto a right set. Now come we to speak of the gelding, Who knowing that he did offend, Stay'd tow or three days about Weldon, To make justice Lisle stand his friend. He after that grew so unlucky, On mischief and ill he was bent, He prov'd a right North-country jockey, Still cheating whre ever he went. At many mens charges he dined, But never ask'd what was arrear; Yet no man could get him confined, So slily himself he did clear. The town of Longframlington further Can give an account what he is, He came within acting or murder, As near as a horse could to miss; For into a house he went scudding, And seeing a child all alone, If Providence had not wthstood him, He'd struck it as dead as a stone. The rest of his acts are recorded, 'Tis nonsence to mention them here; I'll go back and fetch Geordy forward, He's tarri'd too long I do fear! From Brinkburn he started and held on, Directly to Framlington town, And then to the miller's at Weldon, He back o'er the hill tumbled down. Not finding the thing that he wanted, Unto Hedlowood he did trot, He was tost like a dog in a blanket, O'er Cocket and back in a boat: All Framlington fields he sought over, And from spot to spot he did run, For fear the grass chanced to cover His pad, as it once did Tom Thumb. Then up to John Alders he drabbeth, And there all the night did repose, And then, the next day being Sabbath, Away he to Whittingham oes; Where he to revenge the miscarriage Of his little scatter-brain'd nag, He went to the clerk of the parish, To get him expos'd for a vague The clerk he soon set up his cropping, And made a great bustle and stear; The church-yard appear'd like a hopping, The folks drew about so to hear: He did to a hairs-breath describe him, And call'd him again and again, And Geordy by four-pence did bribe him, For all the small pains he had ta'n. Scarce were the jawbones of these asses Well shut, till a Thranton-bred lad, Eas'd Geordy a bit of his crosses, By bringing some news of his pad: These tidings his spirit renewed, No clerk cou'd his courage controul, But still was resolv'd to pursue it, Suppose it were to the North pole. 'Tis past a man's giving account on, What way he traversed with speed, From Eslington, Whittingham, Thranton, He past the Broom-park and Hill-head, To Leirchil, to Barton, to Branton, And from thence to Mount on the clay, To Fawdon, the Clinch, and to Glanton, And several towns mist by the way. There's Lemendon, Allerwick, Bolton, With Woodhall that stands on the fell, And titlington's likewise untold on, Where Jacob, of old, dig'd his well; To Harup, to Hidgily and Beenly, He past unto Galloway mill, To Brandon, to Ingrom, and Revely, And Crowly that stands on a hill. To Brandon-main, then to the Whitehouse, To Dickison's, where he made a league, And articled that for a night-house, To rest a while after fatigue: He drank a while till he grew mellow, And then for his chamber did call, Where sound he may sleep, silly fellow, His travels wou'd weary us all. He had an invincible couple Of legs, that did bear him well out, They hung so loose, like a flail-souple, And cudgl'd his buttocks about; No man wou'd have thought any hallion Could have ever have acted the thing, Without help of Pacolet's stallion, * That when the pin turn'd did take wing. Next day rising, rigging and starting, He jogg'd on his journey with speed, To Bewick, the Lilburns, Culdmartin, From thence unto Woolerhaugh-head; To Wopperton, Ilderton, Rodham, And Rosdon, he scudded like mad, Nothing fell by the way that withstood him, Until he had met with his pad. Earl was the place where he found him, A blithe sight for Geordy to see; But got the whole town to surround him, Before he his prisoner would be: Then on his back jumping and prancing, He swiftly switcht over the plain, But made him pay dear for his dancing, E'er he got to Midford again. *See the history of Valentine and Orson -Source: The Northumberland Garland;or Newcastle Nightingale., Joseph Ritson, Newcastle, MDCCXCIII , Harding and Wright, London,1809. back to the song menu The Insipids: Or, The Mistress with Her Multitude of Man Servants by: Thomas Whittel Of all the Kirkharle bonny lasses, If they were set round in a ring, Jane Heymours for beauty surpasses, She might be a match for a kng; Her cheeks are as red as a cherry, Her breast is as white as a swan, She is a blyth lass and a merry, And her middle is fit for a man. The lads are so fond to be at her, They run all as mad as March hares, This bonny young lass they do flatter, And fall at her feet to their prayers: You never saw keener or stouter, They'll not be put off with delay, Like bull-doggs they still hang about her, And court her by night and by day. Jo Hepple, Will Crudders, Tom Liddle, With twenty or thirty men more, If I could their names but unriddle, At least I might make out two score, That all cast about for to catch her, And make her their own during life; With others that strive to debauch her, Despairing to make her their wife. So many love tokens and fancies She gets, that to bring them in view, They's look like so many romances, And none could believe they were true. I only will mention on favour, And leave you to guess at the rest; An old kenning Edward Hall gave her, Of comforts the choicest and best. They venture like people for prizes, And with the same timorous doubt, She has them of all sorts and sizes, That's constantly sneaking about. Each man speaks her fair, and importunes In all the best language that's known; And happy were he could tell fortunes, To know if the girl were his own. John Robson, Jo Bowman, Will Little, With her would spend night's over days; Each glance of her eyes is so smittle, That all men are catch'd if they gaze: She strikes them quite thro' with love stiches, And many (a) poor heart she doth fill; She's like one of those call'd white witches, That hurts men and means them no ill. John Henderson, that honest weaver, And metled Matt Thomson the smith, Came both from Capheaton to preave her, And court her with courage and pith. Ned Oliver to, and Tom Baxter Spare neither their feet, tongue, or hands, But strive with the rest ot contract her In compass o fconjugal bands. Bob Bewick just makes it his calling Unto her his love to declare; And some's of that mind that John Rawling Would gladly come in for a share. John Forcing doth praise and commend her, Above any lass that wears head; And fain he would be a pretender, If he had but hopes to come speed. Bob Cole strains his wit and invention And compliments to a degree; And twenty that I cannot mention Are all as keen courters as he. She puts them all into such pickle They care not what courses they run, And if (as folk says) she be fickle, 'Tis twenty to one they're undone. Their loves would fill forty hand wallets, If they were cramm'd in at both ends; Theirhearts are all sunk like lead pellets, And very small hopes of amends. Great dangers on both sides encreases, Which very destructive may prove; The lass may be all bull'd to pieces, Or all the poor lads die for love. But that which supports nad preserves them, Their stomachs their best friends do prove; And 'tis not a little meat serves them Since they fell so deeply in love. Their fancies and appetites working, It made them so sharp and so keen, The girls mother lost two butter firkins, They wattell'd away so much cream One day with a good brandy bottle, Two met her about the Heugh Nebb, And there their accounts they did settle, And made all as right as my legg: The snuff-mill and gloves came in season, The want of a glass to supply; They drank the girls first, with good reason, And then the kings health by the by. The millers Haugh, Heugh Nebb, and Haystack, The Flowers, the New Close, and Decoy, With places whose titles I know not, Where they met to love and enjoy, Would b but too far a digression, And make our fond passions rebell; But, oh! had these places espression, What pretty love tales they could tell! So many to her bear affection, And give her such lofty applause, I'm love-sick to hear the description, And wish I could see the sweet cause: 'Tis she that could make all odds even, And bring many wonders to pass; I wish all here sweethearts in heaven, Why I were in bed with the lass! -Source: The Northumberland Garland;or Newcastle Nightingale., Joseph Ritson, Newcastle, MDCCXCIII , Harding and Wright, London,1809. back to the song menu Sawney Ogilby's Duel with his Wife To the tune of The Worst's past. by: Thomas Whittel Good people, give ear to the fatalesst duel That Morpeth e'er saw since it was a town, Where fire is kindled and has so much fuel, I wou'd not be (he) that wou'd quench't for a crown. Poor Sawney, as canny a North British hallion, As e'er crost the boder this million of weeks, Miscarried, and maried a Scotish tarpawlin, That pays his pack-shoulders, and will have the breeks. I pity him still when I think of his kindred, Lord Ogelby was his near cousin of late; And if he and somebody else had not hinder'd, He might have been heir unto all his estate. His stature was small, and his shape like a monkey, His beard like a bundle of scallions or leeks; Right bonny he was, but now he's worn scrunty, And fully as fit for the horns as the breeks. It fell on a day, he may it remember, Tho' others rejoyced, yet so did not he, When tidings was brought that Lisle did surrender, It grieves me to think on't, his wife took the gee. These bitches still itches, and stretches commission, And if they be crossed they're still taking peeks, And Swaney, poor man, he was out of condition, And hardly well fit for defending the breeks. She mutter'd, and moung'd, and looked damn'd misty, And Sawney said something, as who cou'd forbear? Then straight she began, and went to't handyfisty, She whither'd about, and dang down all the gear: The dishes and dublers went flying like fury, She broke more that day than would mend in two weeks, And had it been put to a judge or a jury, They cou'd not tell whether deserved the breeks. But Sawney grew weary, and fain would been civil, Being ald, and unfeary, and fail'd of his strength, Then she cowp'd him o'er the kale-pot with a kevil, And there he lay labouring all his long length. His body was doddy, and sore he was bruised, The bark of his shins was all standing in peaks; No stivet e'eer livedwas so much misused As sarey ald Sawney for claiming the breeks. The noise was so greatall the neighbours did hear them, She made his scalp ring like the clap of a bell; But never a soul had the mense to come near them, tho' he shouted murder with many a yell. She laid on whisky whasky, and held like a steary, Wight Wallace could hardly have with her kept steaks; And never gave over until she was weary, And Sawney was willing to yield her the breeks. And now she must still be observ'd like a madam, She'll cause him to curvet, and skip like a frogg, And if he refuses she's ready to scad him, Poxtake such a life, it wou'd weary a dogg. Ere I were so serv'd, I would see the de'il take her I hate both the name and the nature of sneaks; But if she were mine I would clearly forsake her, And let her make a kirk and a mill of the breeks. -Source: The Northumberland Garland;or Newcastle Nightingale., Joseph Ritson, Newcastle, MDCCXCIII , Harding and Wright, London,1809. back to the song menu The Felton Garland How a Brick-maker at Felton stole a young woman away, buy her own consent, from her grandmother. To the Tune of Maggy Lawther, &c. There lives a lass in Felton town, Her name is Jen--y Gow--n, With the Briek-man she has play'd the lown, So wanton she is grown: The reason why some love the night, Incognito to revel, Is they love darkness more than light, Because their deeds are evil. So late at night on Saturday, He thought all safe as brandy, He rigg'd and trigg'd, and rid away Upon John Hink's Sandy: To Haggerston he did pretend, Some sweetheart there confin'd him; But he took up, at our town-end, His cloak-bag on behind him. Like as the bird that gay would be, As fable hath reported, From each fine bird most cunningly A feather she extorted: Then boasting said, How fine I'm grown Her painted plumes she shaked, At which each bird pluck'd off their own, And left her almost naked. With this kind maid it proved so, Who many things did borrow, To rig her up from toe to toe, And deck her like queen Flora. Of one she got a black-silk hood, Her fond light head to cover, Likewise a blue cloak, very good, Her night intreagues to smother. Clock stockings she must have (dear wot) In borrow'd shoes she's kilted, Some lent her a blue petticoat, Both large and bravely quilted. Of some she got a fine linn-smock, Lest Pet--r shou'd grow canty, and have a stroke at her black joak, With a tante, rante, tante. With a borrow'd cane, hat on her head, To make her still look greater, She'd make her friends believe indeed, They were all bought by Pet--r. But when she did return again, In all her boasted grandeur, Each to 'their' own did lay just claim, And left her as they fand her. But none can guess at 'their' intent, Why they abroad did swagger, Some said, to see 'their' friends they went, Some said, to Buckle Beggar. Away full four days they stay'd, I think they took 'their' leisure, They past for man and wife, some said, And spent the nights in pleasure. When the Black Cock did his Sandy see There was a joyful meeting, That night when I thee lent, quoth he, I wish I had been sleeping: Thou art abused very sore, As any creature can be, And still he cry'd o'er and o'er, O woe is me for Sandy! Then Sandy, mumbling, made reply, You were my loving master, I never did your suit deny, Nor meet with one disaster, Till now unknown to your self, That I shou'd had this trouble, Or else for neither love nor pelf, You'd let me carry double. Poor Sandy was with riding daul'd, He rues he saw their faces, His back and sides they sorely gaul'd, He pay'd for their embraces; But if young Pet--r's found her nest, She'll rue as well as Sandy, And if she proves with child, she best Had tarry'd with her grandy. How they abused the horse they rid on, and when married, they went off in several people's debts. In second part I will declare The troubles of poor Sandy; and how this couple married were, And how well pelas'd was Grandy. Now first with Sandy I'll begin, Whose leggs swell'd to a wonder, So likewise was his belly rim, Swell'd like to burst asunder. And lest his troubles shou'd increase, A farrier was provided, Well skill'd in Markham's master-piece, Who in this town resided; And, to his everlasting fame, He did exert his cunning, He bled his leggs, and in his waim, Two tapps he there sets running. He several med'cines did apply, Whose virtue was so pure, That in six weeks, or very nigh, He made a perfect cure. And now in all the world besides, There's not a soundere creature, So well he scampers, and he rides, But nevere more with Pet-r. Of him I now design to speak A Yorkshire born and bred, sir, He play'd them all a Yorkshire trick and then away he fled, sir. As you shall hear when home he came, With Jennet upon Sandy, He to his work return'd again, And she unto her grandy. But long with her she tarry'd not, Unsettled was her notion, Just like the pend'lum of a clock, That's always in motino. I'll go to service, she did say, Keep me, you cannot afford it; So one she got, where was it pray? E'en where her spark was boarded. Now whether 'twas for want of beds, Or whether it was cold weather, Or whether 'twas to measure legs, That they lay both together; But as they smuggl'd for a while, And gave out they were marry'd, Till she at length did prove with child, Then all things were miscarry'd. Then he did own his fault was great, He'd make her satisfaction, And fearing penance 'in' a 'sheet', He'd suffere for that action. He marry'd her without delay, And got 'their' nuptial lesson, Which to confirm they went streightway To get their grandy's blessing. When in her presence they were come, She rail'd at them like thunder, For shame, cries she, what have you done, That's brought on you this blunder? She call'd her slut and brazen fac'd, Instead of kind caressing, Our family you have disgrac'd, Can you expect a blessing? But like a stormy winter's night, Next morning turnscalm weather, So grndy's passion soon took flight, She pray'd that they together Might live in love and happiness, Enjoying peace and plenty, Long may their health and wealth possess, And pockets ne'er grow empty. When they had grandy's blessing got, They slyly fled away, sir, He all the bricks did leave unwrought, And many debts to pay, sir. Now all good people warning take, How you do trust to strangers, They'll wheadle you for money sake, And still prove country rangers. -Source: The Northumberland Garland;or Newcastle Nightingale., Joseph Ritson, Newcastle, MDCCXCIII , Harding and Wright, London,1809. back to the song menu The Laidley Worm of Spindleston-Heugh. Virgo jam serpens sinuosa volumina versat, Mille trahens varios adverso sole colores, Arrectis horret squamis et sibilat ore; Arduaque insurgens navem de littore pulsat. A song above 500 years old, made by the old mountain bard, Duncan Frasier, living on the Cheviot, A.D. 1270. Printed from an ancient manuscript. By Mr. Robert Lambe, Vicar of Norham The king is gone from Bamborough Castle, Long may the princess mourn, Long may she stand on the castle wall, Looking for his return. She has knotted the keys upon a string, And with her she has them ta'en, She has cast them o'er her left shoulder, And to the gate she is gane. She tripped out, she tripped in, She tript into the yard; But it was more for the king's sake, Than for the queen's regard. It fell out on a day, the king Brought the queen with him home; And all the lords, in our country, To welcome them did come. Oh! welcome father, the lady cries, Unto your halls and bowers; And so are you, my step-mother, For all that's here is yours. A lord said, wondering while she spake, This princess of the North Surpasses all the female Kind in beauty, and in worth. The envious queen replied, At least, You might have excepted me; In a few hours, I will her bring Down to a low degree. I will her liken to a Laidley worm, That warps about the stone, And not, till Childy Wynd comes back, Shall she again be won. The princess stood at the bower door Laughing, who could her blame? But e'er the next day's sun went down, A long worm she became. For seven miles east, and seven miles west, And seven miles north, and south, No blade of grass or corn could grow, So venomous was her mouth. The milk of seven stately cows, It was costly her to keep, Was brought her daily, which she drank Before she went to sleep At this day may be ssen the cave, Which held her folded up, And the stone trough, thevery same Out of which she did sup. Word went east and word went west, And word is gone over the sea, That a Laidley worm in spindleston-Heughs Would ruin the North Country. Word went east, and word went west, And over the sea did go; The Child of Wynd got wit of it, Which filled his heart with woe. He called straight his merry men all, They thirty were and three: I wish I were at Spindleston, This desperate worm to see. We have no time now here to waste, Hence quickly let us sail: My only sister Margaret, Something, I fear, doth ail. They built a ship without delay, With masts of the rown tree, With flutring sails of silk so fine, And set her on the sea. They went on board. The wind with speed Blew them along the deep, At length they spied an huge square tower On a rock high and steep. The sea was smooth, the weather clear, When they approached nigher, King Ida's castle they well knew, And the banks of Bambroughshire. The queen look'd out at her bower window, To see what she could see; There she espied a gallant ship Sailing upon the sea. When she beheld the silken sails, Full glancing in the sun, to sink the ship she went away, Her witch wives every one. The spells were vain; the hags returned To the queen in sorrowful mood, Crying that witches have no power, Where there is rown-tree wood. Her last effort, she sent a boat, Which in the haven lay, With armed men to board the ship, But they were driven away. The worm lept out, the worm lept down, She plaited round the stone; And ay as the ship came to the land She banged it off again. The child then ran out of her reach The ship on Budley-sand; And jumping into the shallow sea, Securely got to land. And now he drew his berry-broad sword, And laid it on her head; And swore if she did harm to him That he would strike her dead. O! quit thy sword and bend thy bow, And give me kisses three; For though I am a poisonous worm, No hurt I'll do to thee Oh! quit thy sword, and bend thy bow, And give me kisses three; If i'm not won, e'eer the sun go down, Won I shall never be. He quitted his sword and bent his bow, He gave her kisses three; She crept into a hole a worm, But out stept a lady. No cloathing had this lady fine, To keep her from the cold He took his mantle from him about, And round her did it fold. He has taken his mantle from him about, And in it he wrapt her in, And they are up to Bambrough castle, As fast as they can win. His absence and her serpent shape, The king had long deplored, He now rejoyced to see them both Again to him restored. The queen they wanted, whom they found All pale, and sore afraid; Because she knew her power must yield To Childy Wynd's, who said, Woe beto thee, thou wicked witch, An ill death mayst thou dee; As thou my sister has lik'ned, so lik'ned shalt thou be. I will turn you into a toad, That on the ground doth wend; And won, won, shat thou never be, Till this world hath an end. Now on the sand near Ida's tower, She crawls a loathsome toad, And venom spits on every maid She meets upon her road. The virgins all of Bambrough town Will swear that they have seen This spiteful toad, of monstrous size, Whilst walking they have been. All folks believe within the shire This story to be true, And they all run to Spindleston, The cave and trough to view. This fact now Duncan Frasier Of Cheviot, sings in rhime; Lest Bambrough-shire-men should forget Some part of it in time. -Source: The Northumberland Garland;or Newcastle Nightingale., Joseph Ritson, Newcastle, MDCCXCIII , Harding and Wright, London,1809. back to the song menu On the First Rebellion Mackintosh was a soldier braave, And of his friends he took his leave, Towards Northumberland he drew, Marching along with 'a 'jovialcrew. The lord Derwentwater he did say, Five hundred guineas he would lay, To fight the militia if they would stay, But they prov'd cowards nad ran away. The earl of Mar did vow and swear, That if e'er proud Preston he did come near, Before the right should starve and the wrong stand; He'd blow them into some foreign land. The lord Derwentwater he did say, When he mounted on his dapple grey, I wish that we were at home with speed, For I fear we are all betray'd indeed. Adzoundss, said Forster, never fear, For the Brunswick army is not near; If they should come, our valour we'll show We will give them the total overthrow. The lord Derwentwater then he found, That forster drawed his left wing round; I wish I was with my dear wife, For now I do fear I shall lose my life. Mackintosh he shook his head, to see his soldiers there lye dead: It is not so much for the loss of those, But I fear we are all took by our foes. Mackintosh was a valiant soldier, He carried his musket on his shoulder: Cock your pistols, draw your rapier, and damn you, Forster, for you are a traytor. The lord Derwentwater to Forster did say, Thou hast prov'd our ruin this very day; Thou has promised to stand our friend, But hou has proved a rogue in the end. The lord Derwentwater to Litchfield did ride, In his coach and attendance by his side; He swore if he dy'd by the point of a sword, He'd drink a health to the man he lov'd. thou Forster has brought us from our own home, Leaving our estates for others to come; Thou treacherous rogue, thou hast us betray'd: We areallruin'd lord Derwentwater said. The lord Derwentwater he was dondemned, And near unto his latter end, and then his lady she did cry, My dear Derwwentwater he must die. The lord Derwentwaterhe is dead, And form his body they took his head; But Mackintosh and some others are fled, Who'd set the hat on another mans head. -Source: The Northumberland Garland;or Newcastle Nightingale., Joseph Ritson, Newcastle, MDCCXCIII , Harding and Wright, London,1809. back to the song menu Sword Dancers For notation and midi files click here It is still the practice, though less in repute than formerly, during the Christmas holidays, for companies of pitmen and other workmen from the neighbouring collieries to visit Sunderland, Durham, &c. to perform a sort of Play or Dance, accompanied by song and music. Their appearance is hailed by the children with great satisfaction, and they receive liberal contributions from the spectators. The dancers are girded with swords, and clad in white shirts or tunics, decorated with a profusion of ribbands, or various colours, gathered from the wardrobes of their mistresses and well-wishers. The captain generallly wears a kind of faded uniform, with a large cocked hat and feather, for pre-eminent distinction; and the buffoon, or "Bessy," who acts as treasurer, and collects the cash in a tobacco-box, wears a hairy cap, with a fox's brush* dependent. The music is simple, and not devoid of harmony: its peculiar beauty depends, perhaps greatly, on the force of early associations. The party assemble promiscuously, and the captain forms a circle with his sword, round which he walks, and sings; each actor following as he is called upon. Six actors I have brought, Who were never on stage before; But they will do their best, And the best can do no more. The first that I call in, He is a squire's son; He's like to lose his love, Because he is too young. But though he be too young, He has money for to rove; And he will spend it all, Before he'll lose his love. The next that I call in, He is a taylor fine; What think you of his work?-- He made this coat of mine. So comes good master Snip, His best respects to pay: He joins us in our trip, To drive dull care away. The next that I call in, He is a sailor bold; He's come to poverty By the lending of his gold. But though his gold's all gone, Again he'll plough the main, With heart both light and brave, To fight both France and Spain. Next comes a skipper bold, He'll do his part right weel; A clever blade, I'm told, As ever poy'd** a keel, Oh! the keel lads are bonny bonny lads, As I do understand; For they run both fore and aft, With their long sets in their hands. To join us in this play, Here comes a jolly dog, Who's soberevery day, When he can get no grog. But though he likes his grog, As all his friends can say, He always likes it best, When he has nought to pay. Last I come in mysel, I make one of this crew; And if you'd know my name, My name it is True Blue. *** The Dance then begins in slow, and measured cadence; which soon increases in spirit, and at length bears the appearance of a serious affray. The Rector, alarmed rushes forward to prevent bloodshed; and, in his endeavours to separate the combatants, he receives a mortal blow, and falls to the ground. Then follows the lament--the general accusation - and denial. Alas! our rector's dead, And on the ground is laid; some of us must suffer for't, Young men, I'm sore afraid. I'm sure 'twas none of I-- I'm clear of the crime; 'Twas him that follows me That drew his sword so fine. I'm sure 'twas none of I-- I'm clear of the fact; 'Twas him that follows me That did this bloody act. I'm sure 'twas none of I, Ye bloody villains all! For both my eyes were shut When this good man did fall. Then cheer up, my bonny bonny lads, And be of courage bold; For we'll take him to the church, and we'll bury him in the mould. Captain.--Oh! for a doctor, a right good doctor, A ten pound doctor, oh! Doctor.-- Here am I. Captain-- Doctor, what's your fee? Doctor-- Ten pounds is my fee; but nine pounds, nineteen shillings, and eleven pence, three farthings, will I take from thee. See here, see here, a doctor rare, Who travels much at home; Come, take my pills--they cure all ills, Past present and to come. The plague, the palsy, and the gout, The devil within, and the devil without-- Every thing but a love-sick maid-- And a consumption in the pocket. Take a little of my nif-naf, Put it on your tif-taf. Parson, rise up, and fight again, The doctor says you are not slain. The rector gradually recovers, which is the signal for general rejoicing and congratulation. Captain-- You've seen them all call'd in, You've seen them all go round; Wait but a little while-- Some pastime will be found. Cox-green's a bonny place, Where water washes clean; And Painshaw's on a hill, Where we have merry been. Then, fiddler, change thy tune, Play us a merry jig; Before that I'll be beat, I'll pawn both hat and wig. A general dance concludes the performance, to the old and favorite tune of, "Kitty, Kitty, bo, bo!" *Query- if this was not formerly meant to represent the Lion's skin of the ancient heros; and this is not the only classical allusion used by the Sword Dancers, for a "Bessy" on the borders of Yorkshire, was heard to sing: "I've liv'd among musick these forty long years, And Drunk of the elegant spring" There can be little doubt that Helicon was the original reading. **Puoy, Puy, or Pouie, a long pole with an iron spike at the end; used in propelling keels in shallow water.--Fr. appui. Brockett's Glossary. The Puoy on the Tyne is the Set on the Wear. *** AT this part, the "Bessy" sometimes considers it necessary to give some account of his own genealogy, viz: My father he was hang'd My mother was drown'd in a well; And now I' se left alone, All by my awn sel. For Midi Click here ABC Notation T:Sword Dance M:4/4 L:1/8 C:Traditional S:Bishopric Garland K:G d2|e2c2d2B2|G6G2| B2d2 f2 f2|c6 B2|c3 d e/2 g3|d6 B2|G2B2c2A2|G6:|| For midi click here ABC Notation T:Kitty Bo-Bo (Sword Dance Tune) M:3/4 L:1/8 S:Bishoprick Garland K:G |gfed g/2f/2e/2d/2|B2G2B2|gfed g/2f/2e/2d/2|A2F2A2:||:GBdBdc|B2G2B2|GBdB dB|A2F2A2:| back to the song menu Ride Through Sandgate Ride through Sandgate, both up and down, there you'll see the gallants fighting for the crown: All the cull cuckolds in Sunderland town, With all the bonny blue caps, cannot pull them down. This is a genuine fragment of a ballad relating to Newcastle, beseiged by Lesley and the Scots army. The blue caps (or Scotchmen), did, however, at last succeed in pulling them down, after a most gallant defense, 19th October 1644. -Source: The Bishoprick Garland or a Collection of Legends, Songs Ballads &c.. Belonging to The County of Durham. London: Nichols, and Baldwin & Cradock. 1834. back to the song menu Contradicshun Tune: Arly i' the Mornin Aw've aftin thowt how happy we Might pass throo life, frae trubbil free, If foakswad only try te see The words that myekt them disagree, Chorus: Browt on throo contradicshun, Nowt else but contradicshun, For stubborn contradischun Myeks the world se full o' care. The little bairn ye'll see at scheul, Wi contradicshus mischeef full, 'Ill give anuther's hair a pull!-- Byeth yung an' aud can play the feul Then lad an' lass frae hyem 'ill stray Cum Bet, says he, let's myek wor stay I' Grainger Street!-but she says Nay! No, Jack, aw'll gan the tuther way. Wi' married foaks, ye'll find as weel That contradicshun plays the Deil, Across the tyeble at a meal Upcastin what byeth shud conceal, So contradicshun thraw aside, Let frindly comfort be yor guide, Think weel before ye start te chide, For contradicshun's nowt but pride! -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu The Chep that Knaws Nowt Tuen: The Unfortnit Lad Cum lisen awhile tiv a Newcassel ditty, A sang ov experience that's been dearly bowt; Te loss this advice sure it wad be a pity, Tho it's geen biv a chep that knaws little or nowt. The reet way te be wise, te knaw nowt pretend, lads, Then seun ye'll get knolidge for which uthers hev rowt; They'll tell ye thor secrets, then clivor ye'll fend, lads, For neboody knaws mair than the chep that knaws nowt. Pretend te knaw nowt, an' ye'll find foaks te tell, lads, Advice that ye've wanted when oppress'd wi' sad thowt; Iv each row ye'll get clear ov an' ugily fell, lads, If ye keep a close mooth an' pretend te knaw nowt. Foaks think ye knaw nowt, so ne enemy trubblis, They'll oftin speak i' yor prisence far mair than they owt; Ye'll knaw mair nor them that pretend to knaw dubbil, If ye open yor ears, an' pretend te knaw nowt. When at justice's bar bad witnesses perjure, Be sweein false oaths inte greet trubbil thor bowt, A few eers transportatashun for them is the order, Twad been better for them te pretend te knaw nowt. If in a cornere ye see a lad an' lass squeezin, Just pass by, an' pretend te be luckin at owt; If they thiink that ye see them, its sure te be teezin, Hoo happy they are when they think ye knaw nowt. Yor applawse te me sang, noo divent refuse, lads, Te amuse an' instruct ye, i' verses, aw've sowt; If it hesent pleased ye, aw hope ye'll excuse, lads, When ye knaw that its sung biv a chep that knaws nowt. -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu Jesmond Pic-Nic Tune: Saly Cum Up The day was fine, aw mind ful well, When lots away frae work did steal, An' swore they'd join the merry reel, At Jesmond Monster Pic-Nic. Thor wes croods upon the green, An' thoosands might be seen Alang the Park an'roond the Dene, At Jesmond Monster Pic Nic. Chorus: Jiggin away,- kiss i' the ring, Lasses to yor laddies cling, An' lissen while i' praise aw sing Ov Jesmond Monster Pic Nic. When i' the Park, wi' joyful shoot, We knockt the greet football aboot, Its guts, aw sure, gat kickt an' cloot Frae the lads at Jesmond Pic-Nic. Amid hearty laffs and squeels, Blithe lads cockt up thor heels, An' lowpt the powl,--an' cowpt thor creels, At Jesmond Monster pic-Nic. I' rings where lads thor lasses smack Wi' kisses like a pistol's crack, Mony a Jenny gat a Jack At Jesmond Monster Pic-Nic. Bonny lasses--like queen's there, Wi' posies i' thor hair, Had ringlets that wad myek ye stare, At Jesmond MonsterPic-Nic. Wor Geordy te wes on the spot, Te join each dance amang the lot, Man, what a cumley lass aw got At Jesmond Monster Pic-Nic. Fine quadreels wes a' the go, We shuffled heel an' toe, An' fairly lickt aud Billy's show, At Jesmond Monster Pic-Nic. The Banquet Hall we went te see, An' feed upon spice loaf an' tea, Refreshments o' the best degree We squash'd at Jesmond Pic-Nic. Then lads set thor lasses hyem, Wi' dancin aw wes lyem, Still like the rest aw did the syem, That neet frae Jesmond Pic-Nic. -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu Grainger Street Tune: Homeward Bound Aw've just cum back frae Grainger Street, Where a' the lads an' lasses, meet, Where luv speaks volumse frae the eyes, An' fills the breest wi' lang drawn sighs. Chorus: Where the lads an' lasses meet ivry neet, Where they meet i' Granger street. Where smart young cheps an' slap up swells, Luck efter young an' bloomin belles, Where lasses giggle, grin, an laff, At sum fast lad's unmeanin chaff. Where hoops an' stockins always reign, Te captivate sum tender swain: Where winks an' nods like Cupid's darts, Turns heeds, an' play the deuce wi' hearts. Where clash hes plenty room for play, An' luvin whispers hev thor sway, Where shakin hans= the gentle squeze, Wi' honey'd words byeth tease an' please. Where markit rangers tyek thor place, Te fill the streets wi' mense an' grace; Where groops i' kindly friendship meet, Te welcome efter wark the neet. Frae six te ten i's just the syem, When decent cuppils toddle hyem, But efter that's a scene ye'll knaw, Aboot which aw'd better haud me jaw. -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu Cadjin For Beer Tune:Importan Ivents One mornin near the Markit, Aw wes slowly passin by, Twes there aw saw a seedy man, 'Wi' reed an' bleary eye; He luckt at me, aw luckt at him, He said his nyem was Bill, An' askt us if aw dident knaw'm, An' wad aw stand a gill. Says aw ye heh the best o' me, If aw've seen ye before, Aw cannot reckollect the time. Says he wor near the door That leads to Christian comfort, So hinney stand a gill, Or len us just threehappince, An' aw'll pray for ye aw will. Threehappince, that aw hevent got, Says aw, wi' me th day, Or else aw'd let ye hed, says aw, an' tried te move away; He clutched us tightly be the airm, Says he, cum stop, aw beg, For aw've only got a hap'ny, Will ye stand the tuther meg. Aw chanced to hev a hap'ny wis, Aw handid it te him, Says he, God bless your bonny fyece, Yor like me uncle Jim; Aw moved away, but late at neet Aw pass'd the varry door, An' there, as drunk as man cud be, Wes the one aw'd seen afore. He did'nt seem to knaws agyen, For haddin oot his hand, Says he, cum here maw canny man, What are ye gawn te stand, Aw've only got a half-gill's price, He show'd us't ower agyen, But the ivorlastin hap'ny's charms, Wi' me wes fairly gyen. Says aw, me man aw pitty ye, But pity dis ne gud; Ye've show'd you paltry swindle tis, Try wark, aw's sure ye shud, Aw like the man that tyeks his gill, An'decency hauds dear, But oh! the man disarves contempt That cadjis for his beer. -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu Ungrateful Bill Tune: The Jarmin Band Oh! Jack, What myeks ye luck se sad, Aw's sure yor put aboot? Yor lips they trimmel like a leaf, Yor feyce's like a cloot; What ails ye, lad? cum tell yor wife, Te calm yor adjitashun: An' ease yor mind te find releef Wi' wummin's consolashun. Chorus: Whey, Meg, it's jus ingratitude What bothers me, maw pet; The mair gud that ye try te de for sum foaks i' this orld Ye'll often find yor-sel warse tret. Aw lent Billy Finny half-a croon, When aw cud hardly spared, Te lowse his troosers oot o' pawn; For that aw waddint cared, But he got ten bob te back a horse, It's nyem wes sumthin funny, It wun the race-but sad te say, Aw nivor got me money. He got wor Geordy's best black claes When Rodger Turnbull deed, Te gan te Rodger's funderal, Meg, He'd tyek'nd iv his heed; But i' sum drunken row at neet the coat wes torn te tatters, An' the hat he got frae unkil Mat's Been three weeks at the hatters. But, Meg, that's not the warst iv a' Ye'll mind i' me last neet, Aw got ower much at Riley's club, This mornin i' the street; Me throat wes parch'd, me munny gyen, Aw chanced te meet Bill Finny, Aw askt him wad he stand a gill, He waddint stand a penny. Ye cannet tell the gud aw've tried Te de that raskil Bill; Aw've lent him what he's nivor paid, An' he waddent sstand a gill. Cheer up, says Meg, we've a' te pay For what we lairn, maw hinny, Aw'll gie ye gill- but mind yor-sel, Thor's plenty foaks like Finny. -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu When Gud Luck Shows its Fyece Tune: Me Claes is me awn. When gud luck shows its fyece, we find plenty frinds, At least such we suppose them to be, An' thor proffers o' kindness we welcum wi'joy, Aye, the kindness se gladnin te se; But when bad luck appears, thor smiles turn te froons, Or at least they turn fearfully shy, an' the ones that ye thowt luv'd ye best i' the world, Turn thor heeds i' the strreet pass by. Thor's mony a man that's tried te de gud Wi' the riches prosperity browt, When hard up he-sel fund his frinds few an' scairce, An' the lesson he'd lairnt dearly bowt, Like the man iv a race that gets the last place Even if he's wun hundreds afore, He's oft showfully pass'd be the ones that shud cheer An' wi cumfort his mind's peace restore. Thor's mony a man that's been famed for his skill, But for which he's been shappily paid, An' assistance refused when he most stood i' need, Be the ones that throo him fortuns myed, Till grim deeth laid him law i' sum oot the way grave, The the ones that shud help't him afore, Raise a moniment grand that 'ill cost twice as much As i' lif wad kept want frev his door. When advorsity shows its dark fyece tiv a frind, Dinnet slight him te myek his case warse, Ye knaw not hoo seun things may turn wi' yor-sel, Or hoo seun ye may find a revarse; It's a cumfort te him when the frinds that he's had When weel off, still think on him wi' pride, I' the hard time o' need byeth te help an' console True hearted, they cling biv his side. -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu Careless Jack Tune: Pat Molloy Aw'll sing ye a sang aboot a lad, A lad aw kknaw se weel, They call him Jack--his uther nyem Aw thjink aw'll not reveal; He's always happy iv his ways,-- The neet 'ill not turn dull If once ye see his jolly fyece, He's sure te heh the pull Wi' witty words an' merry jokes Thor always at his call, He myeks the cumpny join his laff, An'empty feuls sing small; He's just the one we lake to see When convorsayshun's slack, Rispected, luv'd biv all his mates, They call him Carelses Jack. He joins the dance wi' manly grace, An' sings byeth strang an' sweet, Aw's sure he's wun the hearts of a' The lasses i' the street, But sitll he dissent seem te care For owt that foaks may say, Or think, or de,--te him its pree Ye'd think te heh the sway; He plays at games, an' loss or win, He always pays hisshare, An' let the cumpny scoff or jeer, He nivor seems te care; Aw've seen the time when dull me-sel, An' life to me wes black, Aw only wish'd aw'd been like him; Aw envied Careless jack. But, oh, lads, aw've heerd it whispor'd His happy way's not real, It's just a cloak te hid the grief That he wad fain conceal,-- The only lass he'd ivor had He meant te call his awn Had jilted him, an' teun a mate Ov his te be her man; An' ivor since that time he's tried Te myek the world beleeve That he cared nowt for her he thowt Wad nivor, false, deceive; Tho Jack can myek a cumpny gay His heart's still on the rack; We seldum knaw what uthers feel, Then pity Careless Jack -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu Bella Ramsey's Lad Tune: Brighton Oh Meggie, hinny, cum this way, an' gie yor ears to me! Wes Bella Ramsey's hurried words, wi' fyece se full o' glee; Aw've got a lad, a bonny lad, --a lad aw've wanted lang, An' aw'll tell ye all aboot hikm, if ye lissen te me sang Chorus Tune- The Shuggor Shop Oh Meg, he's the only lad aw've ivor had! Oh, my, aw wish the neet was here! Oh, dear, aw's over hed an' eers i' luv, Aw waddent loss a lad like him for twenty pund a eer! He's just the lad aw've oftin dreamt aw'd like se weel te see, It myeks us feel se funny-like te think he fancies me; He danced wi' me at Nancy White's, then teuk us te the play, An' set us hyem se late at neet- tho, aw knaw twes oot his way. He says he's cumin back the neet- aw wunddor if he will, He said his nyem wes Stivison- he leeves up Artuhur's Hill; But he kept us tawkin there se lang aw slipt inte the hoose, For if wor foaks had wakint up, aw had ne gud excuse. Aw wish the neet wes only here, te see the dark blue eyes That's myed us feel se queer the day, an' have se mony sighs; Aw wish aw saw his fustin claes throo them bright panes o' glass, Or heard him whussel, as if te say, cum oot, may canny lass! Aw'll clean the hoose, then clean ne-sel an' if work foaks gans oot, Aw'll luck me best, an' let him in,--he'll stopan oor, nedoot; Aw wundor what we'll tawk aboot,--each minit seems a score, Wad aw been se impayshunt if aw'd had a lad before? -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu Dinnet Let Words Myek Ye Sad! Tune: Cum Whoam to yor Childer an' Me. Young Jimmy com cryin frae scheul; Says the muther, What's hurt ye, me son? Says he, Whey aw cannet but cry Throo them words thor's been said be Mat Dunn; He sneer'd an' he call'd us glee-eyed Afore a' the big lads i' the scheul, An' aw thowt as it went te me heart, At the time that aw luckt like a feul. The muther says, Jim, dinnet cry, Or ye'll myek us as bad as yor-sel, He shuddint myed gam o' yor eyes, But he's vext as he sees ye excel; Ye can beet ivry lad i' the class At sife'rin an' writin as weel, An' envy 'ill myek them gie vent Te the spite that they cannet conceal. Ye knaw that Mat Dunn he's a dunce, An' he's one o' the bad, selfish kind That wad like ivry lad like his-sel, Or warse, so his spite dinnet mind, Thor's nivor a man i' the world That gets on weel can please ivry one, So his ignorance ye munnit heed, But just think o' yorsel, an' push on He call'd ye glee-eyed,-- so he did, Whey then let him, it winnet hurt ye, 'Twes God's will te myek ye that way, An' we cannet help what hes te be,-- It's what's i' the heed myeks the man, Tho silly foaks mock them, me lad, They de the most har te thor-sels, So dinnet let words myek ye sad! -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu Aw've Lost me Bonny Lad Aw've lost me bonny lad, Wor littil Billy's deed, Thor's nebody can tell me pain, Aw's nearly oot me heed; Te think ne mair aw'll hear the voice So joyus, sweet, an' free,-- Aw've lost me bonny lad, An' the day's lang te me! Aw've lost me bonny lad, Aw's greetin aw the day, An' sair aw cried this morning when Aw put his toys away, Aw rapt them up amang his claes, But still his form aw see,-- Aw've lost me bonny lad, An' the day's lang te me! Aw've lost me bonny lad, It's mebbies for the best, The neybors say, te cheer us wi' The thowt, -he's noo at rest; But, oh! hoo can a muther think It's best her bairn shud dee?-- Aw've lost me bonny lad, An' the day's lang te me! -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu Mistriss Taylor's Poisin! Tune- The Bonny Laddy's Yung Mistriss Taylor she got drunk an' wes fightin wiv her man, So he thowt the way te quiet her-te nail her wes his plan; He blacken'd byeth her eyes- for his blows she cuddnt stop, An' he thwot that just the way te keep here noise in; So what de ye think she did but gan tiv a kimist's shop, Wiv here mind myed up te swally nowt but poisin. The kimist he luckt at her an' he saw that she wes full, She axt for oxlid assid,--but he wassent such a feul Te give her such a thing, for he thowt twad de as weel If he gov her sumthin else just like the mixtor; So he wrapt up Epsom Salts an put poisin on the seal, An' kept laffin tiv hissel the way he'd fix'd her. Mistriss Taylor she got hyem efter scramlin up the stairs, Then she drunk a pot o' whiskey an begun to say her prayers, An' she swally'd the whole dose as detarmin'd as cud be, For the drink it myed her braverthan she wad been; But thereckly it wes ower, whey she thowt she cuddent dee, Ay, an' noo she wes mair sober than she had been. She shooted iv her man, an' she browt him tiv her side, There he saw her pale as only ghost wi' eyes an' mooth se wide; Says she--Aw'll dee, aw's poisn'd bringthe doctor here to me, For, Jack, awve been a wife byeth gud an' thrifty, So run away like leetnin, for aw's ower yung te dee, Ay, aw's ower yung te dee- aw's only fifty! He ron an 'browt the kimist,--the syem kimmist i' the lark,-- Says he,--Aw goh ye Epson Salts, they cannet be at wark. Se seun as this, aw's sartin!-an' it fill'd her full o' shem, But the salts they work'd a cure her man had wanted, For since then she's been teetotal, an' she says she'll keep the syem; For her mind wi' salts an' poisin's always hauntid. -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu That Factory Lass Tune: Erin go Bragh Oh, Jack, what's the metter? ye luck se doon-heated, Wativor's yor trubbil? aw hope ye'll tell me, It pains us te see a yung chep sad as ye. Whey, Joe, man, aw'm nearly heart broken, believe us, Aw can find ne injoyment i' me pipe or me glass, Me luv for me mary's byeth strange an'unsartin, Aw heh ne peace o' mind throo that Factory Lass! She works i' the fact'ry amang lots o' lasses, But nyen o' the beauties that's there can compare Wi' the lass that aw's efter,--she's smart an' she's bonny, Wi' blue eyes, a Wellinton noes, an' red hair; Her mooh wad tempt ony te wish they dor kiss them, Her lucks a' tegither a Queen wad surpass, But, oh man, aw's frighten'd she cares nowt aboot us, Ay, an' me deep i' luv wi' that Factory Lass! Aw left her one mornin te join the Militia, An' sairly she cried an' aw hoped 'twes for me, But noo man, aw doot it, --aw'm not often jealous, But really aw've seen what aw'd rether not see. She wes leet-myend an' canny the mornin aw left her, But noo she's se stoot, that the neybors a' pass Remarks,--when aw hear the maw shudder an' fear that She's been false te me hes that Factory Lass! Aw sumtimes imadjin aw shud marry sweet Mary, But if aw propose man, aw've ne courage wid, For aw've thowt te me-sel that thor might be sumbody, Had mair reet te her, ay, an' mair reet te did. So aw feel se unhappy, the whole toon aw wander, But whativor shud happen, whativor shud pass, Aw promise te tell ye the next time aw meet ye, Aw'm as daft as a feul throo that Factory Lass! -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu Divvent Bother Us Se! Tune: Kis i the Ring Te kort me lass aw oftin try, But mischief shines iv her bonny blue eye, She'll cock up her nose as aw pass by, An' she's always pickin her fun oot o' me. Says she, Can aw help't, when ye plague us se? Ye nivorsay owt aboot luv te me! Says she; says aw, Aw de! Says she, Haud yor tung, divventbother us se! Says aw, Whey what can a poor fellow de? Noo whewill ye hev, if ye winnet heh me? Says she, Haud yor tung divvent bother us se! Says aw, Aw like ye as weel as man can, Roond the worldfrae Newcassell for ye aw wad gan, If aw divvent speak fine its as fine as aw can, An' what else te please ye can ivor aw de? Says she, Ye knaw weel that aw gan wi Jack Broon, Sartinly, says aw; says she, He's the canniest, bonniest lad i' the toon, Is he tho? saysaw, not he! Says she, Haud yor tung, divent bother us se! Says aw, De ye think that ye'll frighten me? Ye knaw that Jack Broon gans wi' Mary McCree, Says she, Haud yor tung divent bother us se! Says She, Did aw not see ye the day, Stoppin an' tawkin te fat Jinny Grey? Says aw, For a frind mun aw gan oot the way, She wes axin the time, aw wes luckin te see! Says she, Wassent Jinny a sweetheart o' yours? Sartinly, says aw; says she, Ye'll gan wi' byeth new an' aud sweethearts of course! Says she; says aw, Not me! Says she, Haud yor tung, divvent bother us se! Says aw, It's strange we se seldum agree, Yor always findin sum falt wi' me! Says she, Haud yor tung, divvent bother us se! Says aw, For a mnnit just listen te sense, Aw'll set up a hoose, an' aw'll spare ne expense, But aw'll want a wife, the set up te mense, An' aw think that aw cuddent heh better than ye! Says she, It's yor turn te pick fun oot o' me, Sartinly, says aw; says she, Ye'll promise ne mair te plague us se! Says aw, Yor as daft as a body can be, Aw'll plague ye far mair! sayws aw; says she, Huts, lad, haud yor tung, divvent bother us se! -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu Bonny Sally Wheatley Tuen: The Happy Land of Air-in. Noo aw's byeth deprest an' sad, Tho aw once wes blithe an' glad, an' cud trip aboot the toon byeth trim an' neatly; Aw wes happy neet an' morn, But iv aw sic joys aw's shorn Since aw fell se deep i' luv wi' Sally Wheatley. Chorus: O dear me, aw dinnet knaw what te de, For Sally's teun me heart away completely, An' aw'll nivor get it back, For she gans wi' Mistor Black, An' they say he's gan te marry Sally Wheatley. Aw nivor saw sic a lass, Tho aw knaw she lik't her glass, An' cud toss a pot o' whisky ower sweetly, But it's reet te tyek yor drop If ye just knaw when te stop-- That wes just the varry way wi' Sally Wheatley. Hoo aw felt aw dinnet knaw, The first time aw Sally saw, Iv a threesum reel she hopt aboot se leetly; An' aw might hev had a chance, If aw'd askt her up te dance, But aw wes over shy te speak to Sally Wheatley. So, as often is the case, Ye'll find uthers i' yor place If ye dinnet shuv aheed-an' fettle reetly, For aw'd scarcely turn'd me back When aw ther saw Mistor Black, He was jiggin roond the room wi' Sally Wheatley. An' he mun hev myed it reet When he set her hyem that neet- Efter wark, drest up, he gans te see her neetly; Thor's greet danger i' delay, Or aw'd not been sad the day; If aw had a heart aw'd brickt for Sally Wheatley. -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu Ne Wark Tuen: Pretty Polly Perkins Aw's wear, aw's wretced, aw wander forlorn, Aw sigh for the neet, an' then wish for the morn; For neet brings ne cumnfort, an' morn little mair, I' byeth mind an' body aw's worn oot an' sair. Chorus What wretchedness, what misery, Thor's ne one can tell, Except them that's been oot o' wark, like me-sel. Aw wander te places, an' try te get wark, Where Call back agyen is the foreman's remark; Thus hopeless an' cheerless aw pass mony a day, Tho the pay-week cums roond-it te me brings ne pay. Ne wark yit!-heart -broken aw bend me ways hyem, Ne wark yit!-te tell them aw really think shem; For dependence is painful, tho it's on yor awn, Tho te cumfort an' cheer ye they try a' they can. Thgor's nyen can imagine the angwish aw feel When aw sit doon at hyem te maw poor humble meal Each bite seems te chwok us,-the day seems full lang. An' a' that aw de, whey, aw feel tho 'twas rang. Me fether lucks dull, tho he strives te luuck glad, An' tells us it's nowt te the trubbils he's had; Me muther smiles kindly, tho sad like the rest, She whispors, Cheer up, lad , an' hope for the best! It cannet last always!- aw hope afore lang Wi' wark aw'll be freed frae sad poverty's pang; For withoot it hyem's dreery,-the fire's bright spark Turns gloomy an' dim when at hyem thor's Ne Wark. -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu The Return o' The Gallowgate Lad! Tune- Sad is Me Fate Aw's as happy as a queen an' the day gans alang Like an oor i' the munth o' May, Said young Meggie Bensin, wiv a fyece full o' smiles, For me lad's cum back the day. Aye, an' mony's the lang weary neet aw've pass'd, Since me luv bid me gud-bye, Aw nivor thowt aw wad leeve te see this happy day, For aw've deun nowt else but cry. Chorus: But Jack's cum back, an' we'll hear his crack Aboot the lang one an' twenty days; The Millisha's broken up, an me luver he's cum hyem, He's cum hyem iv his sowljor's claes. He nivor sent a letter a' the time he wes away, Tho he might, for aw'd deun'd for him; He nivor let us knaw if he miss'd us there at a', Such neglect's an awful sin. But aw'll talk te Jack when aw get him be me-sel, An' aw'll let him knaw me mind, Tho' aw's sartin the lad's ne better then he shud, Still aw think iv his heart he's kind! Aw've heard that he courted anuthor lass when away, De ye think he wad be that bad; Tho he's bad eneuf for owt, an' dissent care for nowt, Still aw think that he's still me lad. Aw knaw he wes fond o' the lasses when at hyem, But it's nattoril that he shud, An' aw've heard his muther say his fethur wes the syem, So ye see that it runs i' the blud! He's nivor got promoted tho aw's sartin that he might, But he blackt the corporil's eye, An' they gov him such a crop, aw fairly thowt aw'd drop, When aw first saw me luv cum nigh; But his military figgor an' fine sowljor's claes Myed us wish he wad keep them on, He luckt se rispectable te what he always dis, Aw cud call him nowt else but John! He kiss'd me muther first when he com intethe hoose, Thor's ne jillisy i' me breest, Buyt aw think he might might seen aw wes stannin biv her side, An' he notis'd me the least; But the poor lad wes drunk wi' the drink he had had, An' cud hardly stand,--aw's sad, Aw wish he'd stop at hyuem, then aw'd keep him for me-sel, Maw brave-luckin Gallowgate Lad! -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu The Gallowgate Lad's Weddin! Tune: Pritty Jimima Oh, Hoe, de ye knaw that aw's married te Jack? The die its cast,-an' noo aw's fast, Aw's wed te the Gallowgate Lad at last, Says Meggie one day te me. But the day before he teuk us te church, Aw thowt neethor ov us wad see The priest, for Jack, bliss him, had pawned the ring, An' myed a' the weddin brass flee. Chorus: But still he's me lad-he's me canny bit lad, Be bonny bit lad,-me Gallowgate Lad; But still he's me lad,-he's me canny bit lad; Me bonny bit Gallowgate Lad! His muther an' me raised the muney that day, Wi' sairish tues, the parson's dues Wes got, then te church we all went away,- The bridesmaid wes Sarah Dunn The sarvis oweer-the beagil an' clark Went hyem wis te join i' the fun; The dinner we had wes seun polish'd off, Then the dancin an' singin begun. Aw sat there as modist as modist can be, At wor Jack's side, wi' married pride, An' aw had me bit bairn upon me knee, Aw wes confined three weeks before,-- But Jack kept pushin the whiskey roond, Tho he knew it wassint paid for, Till the beagil an' clark wes mortil drunk An' his muther had fell on the floor. Then he black'd a' thor fyeces wi' chimley seut, Mischeevous lad, he's warse then bad, For he gov Tom Smith the fiddler, the fut, An' seun he had him sprwlin doon; Then Jack Tate an' him had a fight i' the yard, An' he spoiled me granmuther's new goon, Throo brickin some glasses an' cowpin a jug O' the best penny beeer i' the toon. The Row on the Stairs wassint owt the this, For when he's full he's like a feul, He swore ivry lass i' the room he'd kiss, Hed did, an' it myed us luck glum; For aw thowt he might been content wi' me, An' tiv a' uther lasses keep dumb; Then he teuk the bit bairn frae me te sing Oh, Aw wish yor Muther wad cum! When aw went upstaris wi' the bairn te bed, Whe shud aw see i' the place o' me, But fat Sally Dunn wi' Jack,-an' he said He had tyekin her for me! Aw hope it's true that he myed a mistake, For it wassint owt plissint te see; He's still on the spree-but when sober aw wish He'll behave like a man te me! Wor Geordy says the Gallowgate Lad might heh glen him an invitashun te the weddin,-it wad been nowt oot ov his pocket if he had, for Geordy's yungist bairn hes te be krisin'd on Sunday, an' he wad tell'd jack where te stand the get the cheese an' breed. -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu Aw Wish Yor Fethur Wes Here Tune: The Sewin Masheen Aud Mary stud upon the floor, An awful seet te see, A storm o' rage wes on her broo, aye, pale wi' rage wes she; Her dowtor, a bonny bit lass, The pride o' the hoose, wes there An' her son, a lad o' twenty-two, The cawse ov all her care Chorus: An' the muther she cried i' pain, Aw wish yor fethur wes here! When the words ov a muther hes ne effect, Aw wish yor fethur wes here! Are ye me son? the muther cries, Are yye me canny lad? Are ye the forst-born family pet That myed wor hearts se glad? Aw's sure yor nowt like the syem, For the fearful life ye lead's Eneuff te brick yor muther's heart, Eneuff te torn her heed! Last neet what kept ye oot see lang? Bad cumpiny, aw's sure, Ye nivor browt yor wages hyem, Ye knaw wor only poor; Ye wor mortal drunk when ye com, An' yor claes iv a dorty mess, Oh, that muthers shud reer thor bairns Te bring them such distress! The neybors say ye play at cairds Alang wi' fightin Jim, What is he, that myeks ye desart Yor canny hyem for him? Ye think'cas yor fethur's at wark I(' the factry ivry neet, Ye'll impose on me, ye heartless lad, Ye knaw it's owt but reet! The muther te the dowtor turns-- Meg, de ye not think shem? Last neet the clock elivvin chimed Afore ye thowt o' hyem; Te sum paltry dancin ye'd gyen, The fire burnt low i' the grate, An' yor muther cried as she walk'd the floor, When her dowtor stopt se late! Hes neethor o' ye hearts at a', Can neethor feel for me? Neet eftor neet it's just the syem, What can a wummin de? As seun as yor fethur cums hyem, Aw'll tell him yor bad coreer, When ye dinnet mind yor muther's words, It's time yor fethur wes here! -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu Sunday Neets at Jesmond Gardens Tune: Paddy is the Boy On a fine Sunday neet, Whey ye'll see sic a seet If ye wandor alang Mid the fashunable thrang, That see oft bend thor way At the close o' the day Te swaggor round famed Jesmond Gardens; Where thor's byeth yung an aud I' thor Sunday claes clad, Luckin happy an' glad, As they join i' the squad, For it's only but reet On a fine Sunday neet, They shud a' hev a walk throo the Gardens. Chorus: An' ye'll think as ye wink At the lass that may pass, That the spree that ye see, An' the treat's forst-class, For a' throo the toon ye'll find nowt te compete Wi' swaggrin roond the Gardens on a fine Sunday neet. There ye'll see lad an' lass As they sit on the grass, An' they whispor quite law, Tho thor words ye might knaw; But between ye an' me We had best let them be, An' just tyek a walk throo the Gardens. Where thor's hoops sic a size, That ye open yor eyes An' ye gaze wi' surprize On the dust they myek rise; But the forms they contain Myek ye wishful te gain A sweet smile frae the queens at the Gardens. Wiv a lot o' these belles, Aw mean mang the fine swells, As a fact it's been said- The manadge man's not paid, But the men te, as weel, Wi' sic fellows can deal, An' set thor sells off at the Gardens. Man, it's fops just like these That the lasses can please, Wiv a tung that can teaze Or myek glad, wi' the breeze, For if sweethearts ye seek, Ye need nowt but gud cheek, An' thor's plenty te get at the Gardens. Thor's the married man tee, Luckin radiant wi' glee, Wiv his bairns an' his wife, A sweet pictor o'life; When vile uthers withoot, For thor prey prowl aboot, A slur an' disgrace te the gardens Lads, Thor's fine lasses there, Brightest gems o' the fair, Wi' sic fine beuks o' prayer I' thor hands, aw declare, That wad myek ye beleeve They cud nivor deceeve, But they'll often leave church for the Gardens. Then thor's uthers that think Thor's mair plissure i' drink, Wiv a pipe an' a glass Sit an' joke as foaks pass; But the pair that aw'd see Is the cupple that's free Frae the crood, myekin luv, at the Gardens Cud owt better be seen Than a cupple, soreen, Airm in airm, neet an' clean, Wawkin doon by the Dene? An' at hyem-- when they kiss When they pairt--hoo they bliss The grand neet that they've spent at the Gardens. -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu The Drapers' Appeal Air: Pat Haggerty's and Leather Breeches Aw've oft heerd it said, tho ne 'tenshun aw've paid Te words that aw've just tret as ficshun, That man wes but born te be plauged neet an' morn, An'wrmmin te be contradicshun, Till aw saw bills stuck oot- the toon roond aboot, Advortisements te i' the papors, Advisin the Ladies te shop before Six, If they'll de a gud turn for the Drapors! Tawkin- Shop afore Six, maw hinnies, an' afore Ten on Seturday neets, ye munnit imagin ivrybody lies i' bed a' Sunday if ye de, -an' if ye gan te church, foaks 'll think varry little on ye if they knaw ye war oot se late the neet afore; besides, ye might varry easy get intiv a street row. What wad yor man think if ye war gawn hyem wi' yor nose broke? It's better te gan throo the day when yor man's At wark, like a true son o' Brittin, Then shop late at neet when it's only yor reet At his side te be cannily sittin! So gan throo the day withoot ony delay, When the shop's byeth clean, tidy, an' bonny, An' oblige byeth the maister an' man if ye can, An' they'll myek ye as welcome as ony. Tawkin- Here's a fine speciment o' the evil effects o' shoppin eftor six- Bessie Broon fell over a shutter an' spoilt her new hat wi' rowlin intiv a guttor. The vordick wes sarved her reet. Thor's ne simpithy for the wilful. For small or greet gains the'll a' tyek ivry pains, An' sarve ye wi' pride an' wi plisshor, Ne blsuterin then, but like gud sivvil men-- Attend te yor wants wi' gud messhor; But oif eftor six ye shud gan, it's a fex, Yor visit's just like an intrushun, For packin away--ne attenshun they'll pay, An' ne cumfort ye'll find i' confushun! Mair Tawkin- Lasses, dinnit shop eftor six, it lucks badly swaggrin throo the streets at that time; foaks might think ye war luckin for a lad amang the factory cheps. Dinnit shop late at neet!- for ye knaw it's not reet Te hindor a man frev injoymint, Withoot plague or pest let him hev a bit rest, Ye'll nivor get thenks for annoymint; So oblige if ye can, an' ye'll nivor get rang If ye dinnit aw's pleased when aw miss ye, But faith if ye de, jolly frinds we'll seun be, An' for ivor, maw hinnies, aw'll bliss ye. -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu Wor Peg's Trip te Tynemouth A Reglor Cawshun tune- The Sangit Chrisnin, or The Tinker's Weddin The sun wes shinin i' the west, An' aw wes shinin i' me best, An' Peggy like a queen wes drest, The day we went te Tynemouth, O. Upon the sands, byeth happy, we Injoy'd the breezes frae the sea, An' wish'd the day a week might be Upon the sands at Tynemouth, O. Alang the sands we myed wor way, Like plodgers on a rainy day, The lasses bonny feet display Upon the sands at Tynbemouth, O; Sum fiddlers thre te myek thor brass Played teuns te tice byeth land and lass, Maw cumley Peg at Tynemouth, O. The dancin deun, says Peg te me, Thor's lasses bathin i' the sea, An'if ye'll haud me claes, says she, Aw'll hev a bathe at Tynemouth, O. No, Peg, says aw, no, dinnet gan! What flaid, says she, are ye a man? In tiv a fine masheen she ran, Te change her cales at Tynemouth, O. Aw stud dumbfoonded ,stiff, an' mute, An' hoped she nivor might cum oot, Te show her-sel te croods aboot, That watch foaks bathe at Tynemouth, O. At last, gud grashus, Peg fell doon The steps,-- aw thowt twes iv a swoon, Up she gets iv a lang blue goon, Amang the waves at Tynemouth, O. Then Peg's reed heed wes plainly seen, Wiv figor that wad mense a queen, Aw wish'd beside her aw had been Amang the waves at Tynemouth, O. Upon the shore,--the bathin deun, Peg ful o' live an' full o' fun, Got on a cuddy's back te run Alang the sands at Tynemouth, O. But plishur often wid brings pain, Byeth sad an' sair we sowt the train, For Peggy's hoops, she myed o' cane, Wes lost that day at Tynemouth, O; She sadly sighed, wi' leuk se meek, An' laid here heed agyen me cheek, But kiss an' cuddle myed her speak, I' cummin hyem frae Tynemouth, O. -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu Bessie Walker Tune- The Laird o' Cockpen Thor's a bonny bit lass that leeves on the Kee, The tell'd Peggy Todd she'd a noshun o' me, An' Peggy tell'd me, so aw thowt aw'd gan doon,-- For aw like Bessie Walker the best i' the toon. Away then aw gans, an' aw waits at the door, Aw knew hoo te whussel,-- aw'd been there before; Then oot cums young Bessie, gud grashus what bliss, When aw smackt her reed lips wiv a gud hearty kiss. Says she, canny lad, ye had best let us be, Ne' lad but me awn shall act like this te me! Aw'd just like te knaw what's browt ye here the neet? Hoo aw lafft when aw passed the aud joke twes me feet. Yor veet then, says she, mun hev cum the rang way, If it's te see me ye shud cum throo the day! Huts, Bessie, says aw, de ye think aw's not reet, Throo the day hes ne sweets like the curtin at neet. Ye tell'd Peggy Todd ye'd a noshun o' me! She luckt se confused--aw wes lickt what te de. At last i' me airms when sweet Bessie aw squeezed, Aw whisper'd the words that console when ye've teazed. She sighed as she laid her heed doon on me breest, But smiled when aw menshund the nyem o' the priest. Hoo happy we pairted that neet aw went doon, For aw like Bessie Walker the best i' the toon. -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu Prepare for What's te Cum! Tune- The Cruskeen Lawn- without the chorus What heedless foaks are we, what war we born te be? What myeks the world se full 'o care te sum? It's time that's idly spent myeks strangers te content, Wi nivor gein a thowt o' what's te cum! Wi' foaks that rowl i' wealth, an' boast the best ov health, Misfortun, nivor dreamt ov, strikes them dumb; For rich as weel as poor hev trubbils te endure, Wi' nivor gein a thowt o' what's te cum! What myeks foaks leeve se fast? they cannet thnk 'twill last, For trubbil shows its heed, an' myeks them glum; An' lots oft hardship feel, that might hev fettled weel, If they'd only gein a thowt o' what's te cum! The workman that's first-class ye'll oft find likes his glass, An what shud be at hyem he spends on rum; It's not till things luck queer, an' life seems dark an' drear, They ivor giv a thowt o' what's te cum! When fortun smiles aroond, an' plenty frinds aboond, Extravagance shud nivor myek us num; What we enjoy one day the next may pass away, So give a thowt, gud foaks, te what's te cum! Tho like the bizzy bee, industrus we may be, Life's winter may bring happy days te sum; But still remember this, tho croon'd wi' earthly bliss, Thor's anuthor an' a better world te cum! -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu The Jiggin Doon the Shore Tune-Roond the Horn The Tyebles cleared away, efter tea the varry day Lizzie Dunn had coonted summers just a score, The cumpny iv a raw-- te gie dull care a thraw, Myed up thor minds for jiggin doon the shore. Chorus- Doon the shore, sic a stir, sic a stir doon the shore, Byeth lad an' lass, se clivor, Danced as if they'd dance for ivor, That neet we had the jiggin doon the shore. Iv ivry kind o' dance, sum lass's winnin glance, Myed young hearts beat time te steps upon the floor; The fiddler's merry teun wes monarch o' the fun, That neet we had the jiggin doon the shore. Sum whisper whe's the belle? aw'd like te knawn me-sel, But the fyece, or else the bonny claes they wore, Myed a' alike te me, frae Walker te the Kee, That neet we had the jiggin doon the shore. The room wi' voices rung, for drink myeks wummin's tung Keep waggin when thor's onything astir; An men, like lads agyen, let ne bit lass alyen, When meant te join the jiggin doon the shore. The lads then slied away, sum honnied words te say, An' upon the stairs sum lass's luv implore, A kis, a squeeze, an' then thor up an' roond agyen, Byeth happy an' content upon the floor. But time seun flees away-the brickin o' the day That shone on tired fyeces throo the door, Myed wives thor men intreat i' bed te change thor beat, An' finish up thor jiggin wiv a snore. -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu Whisperin Tune- The Captain wiv his Whiskers. Did ye ivor see a couple that shuffled frae the crood, Te utter iv a whisper what they darent speak alood? But what greet mischief follow'd--te fill sum poor breast wi' pain, That they might, throo sum petty spite, a moemnt's triumph gain; Aye, that plottin couple there, wi' backbitin myek hearts sair, An' myek ye that ye'd nearly curse the mischief-breedin pair, For whisp'rin, like a scurvy plague, 'ill ge ne victim rest, But fill the breest wi' bitter pangs ne man alive can best. Did ye ivor see a couple that whisper'd at a meal, Anb' giggled at thor ignorance as tho' they'd byeth deun weel, Or iv a cumpny nickrin at sum shabby mean remark On sum poor sowl they'd myek thor scoff, like stabbin i' the dark; Did ye nivor think the brain, that sic bairnish heeds contain, Cud only find injoyment iv an' idle dirty srain? Tho' whisp'rin hes its sunshine it hes its cloods as weel,-- Sic acts like these the silly mind an' vulgor thowts reveal. Did ye ivor see a luvin couple linkin doon the street? An' watch him squeeze her airm i' his an' whisper somethin sweet. Then whisp'rin hes a charm that aw cannet weel express; Behint the door, when they get hyem, its joys ye'll nivor guess, When yor breeth falls, as ye speak on a soft an' silky cheek, An' hearts wi' honest passhun throb, thor marrow there te seek; Oh, happy time! oh, happy pair!--when whisp'rin magnifies The little words, the tender squeeze, an' brightens luvin eyes. -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu Pride Tune- Tarrince's Fareweel Cum an' bive us yor cumfort, maw hinny, An'ease a poor mind that's distrest, Tho' aw cannet gie vent te me feelins, Or stings that me breest noo infest; This queer world seems te me sadly altered, Ye dinnet knaw whe's be yor side, For the foaks that ye think nice an' frindly Gan daft wi' that Devil's plague call'd Pride. There's Bill Daglish that once leev'd beside us, Aw happen'd te see him last week, He just luckt at me claes,--they war shabby, Then pass'd withoot offrin te speak; An' Bob Charltin, ye'll knaw, an aud scheulmate, Withoot claes his bare skin to hide, He's a clerk noo, an' dresses quite swellish, But he'll not even nod, throo his Pride. Janie Pearson was reckon'd a beauty, Wi' figor byeth gud like an' smart, That she set nearly a' the lads crazy, Her image wes first iv each heart, But she thowt thor acquaintence beneath her, She aim'd high, but fell, --thrawn aside, Noo she's not worth a decent land's notice,-- Thor's mair harm then gud wi' sic pride. The bit pride ov a man te be tidy's A treat for a body te see, An' the pride of a man te keep decent Gains respect i' the highest degree; But the Chep that thinks nobody like him, An' walks tho the toon wes his awn, An' shuns mony an honest acquaintence,-- Aw think he's a feul-not a man! -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu Meggie Bell Tune- Ould Ireland I adore. Aw's varry sad, aw's sure aw is,-- The doctor shakes his heed, An' Meggie's muther moans an' cries, As tho me luv wes deed; An' ivry frind luks dull and flaid, A sorry seet te see: Oh, Meggie Bell aw cannet tell Hoo sad aw feel for ye! Ye've been me lass for mony a day, Me pet, me luv, me pride, Fareweel tiv ivry joy i' life Withoot yor be me side; Ye've fill'd hyor neybors' breests wi' pain They whisper that ye'll dee; Oh, Meggie Bell, aw cannet tell Hoo sad aw feel for ye! When aw heerd that ye'd tyekin bad, A hurried doon te see, Yor cumley form wes sairly worn, Yor cheek frae roses free, The lash droop'd on each bonny eye, The hide thor leet free me; Oh, Meggie Bell, aw cannet tell Hoo sad aw feel for ye! Me heart seems tho twes i' me mooth, Aw feel nowt like me-sel, Wi' hope aw cannet fin'd relief, Thor's nyen for Maggie Bell; An' when she leaves this weary world Aw hope that aw'll gan tee: Oh, Meggie Bell, aw cannet tell Hoo sad aw feel for ye! -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries back to the song menu The Noodle an' Rifleman's Dispute Tune- Suit O' Cudoroy Jack Hall, a boisteroius noodle, A hearty volunteer, Honor'd for his glorious deeds At shops where they sell beer, A reggilar cock-tail tumler An' a model te the toon, For he cud drink a pint o' rum, An' a gill te send it doon. One fine neet Jack went te Mackey's Te hev, on tick, his gill. 'Twes there he saw a rifle chep, That just had been at drill, Jack first luckt at his awn blue claes Then glower'd at the gray, Be gox, says he, mine's best for nowt An' a half a crown a day! The rifleman luckt varry feerce, For he had cause ne doot, Wiv urjins frev a boozy lot, They started te dispute; The blue sat doon, the gray got up Te speak,--wiv a noble air Advised a man on the tyeble The get doon an' tyek the chair. Mister chairman, gentleman, all, Aw's private i' the grays, Aw'll not, like a vain egotist, Claim ivrybody's praise: Aw volunteer'd te sarve the Queen, The enemy to defy, The French heve oftin said they'd cum, Aw'd like te see them try. Then what use wad the noodles be? Wi' a' thor blethrin jaw, They cuddent talk the foeman ower Te hev a frindly draw; The riflemen wad fight like men, An' te victry bravely steer, They'd blaw the en'my up wi' shot, When the noodles wad wi' beer. The riflemen are volunteers Without a daily pay, Thor sarvices war nivor bowt,. Like heroes o' pipe-clay! Amid hoorays an' deefnin cheers, This brave sowljor teuk his seat, Applauded biv a' Mackey's props, Expectin he'd stand treat. The noodle then got up te speak, An' wink't his blinkin eye. Says he- Afore aw ope me mooth Lets hev a drink, aw's dry! He smackt his lips, then said--Maw frind, Noo ye munnit think aw's fond, Fop aw'll clear ivery charge he's myed, Like a bumler aw'll respond. The noodles are, ye'll a' agree, The best men upon earth; Thor se genteel,-- se sober te, Twes them that frist browt forth The teetotal pledge for foaks te sign, An' se noble they behave; They'd stand thor grund,--or stand a gill, Like warriors bowld an' brave. The noodles thor a' gentlemen, Rispected te be sure, They nivor, like the rifle curs, Fired ramrods on the moor; The riflemen black-leg'd us an a', Undermin'd wor daily pay, But smash, aw'll fight him for a quart, Then for war, lads, clear the way. The words got high, the langwege low, They kickt an' fowt an' swore, Wi' broken noese, eyes bung'd up, They rowl'd upon the floor; The rifle roar'd--the noodle blair'd, So te settle this dispute,-- The landlord, bein a civil man, He quietly kickt them oot! -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Part 13 Directory 11 Click here for main menu of this directory. Use our floating menu to improve navigation. you can reposition it by clicking on top bar and dragging Floating Menu Menu of all of the Sangs Click here For tunes in .abc notation click here For an index of persons and places mentioned in the sangs click here For Bibliography,and Philosophy of the collection click here We invite you to contribute! Click here to comment or add. Soon after our upgrade the songs which the priests have recorded will be high-lighted thusly Illustrated by woodcuts by Joseph Crawhall (Newcastle, 1889) (Where you see the music note image there will be a midi file-for you to listen to!) Your Choices! The Main Menu! Main Menu The Blanchland Murder Th’ Row I’ Th’ Gutter Corry’s Rat Tanfeeld Lee SilvorModil Band Th’ Skeul Bord Man Bobby and Bet Funny Nuaims It Tanfeeld Pit Th’ Wheelbarrow Man Stanla Markit Th’ Borth E Th’ Lad Tanfield Braike The Kaiser and the War (recitation) Murder of Mary Donnelly (recitation) Old Folks Tea at West Stanley (Recitation) Consett Choir Calamity The Angler's Song- In Praise of the Coquet At Home Wad I Be The Banks of the Coquet The Banks of Tyne Bellingham The Blooming Heather Down in Yon Meadows Fill the Tankard Hinny The Fisherman's Boy Green Bushes If I had Gold A' Gowpens Jenny Dang the Weaver John of Badenyon The Mouse's Song Of All the Youths Nice Young Maidens Rest! Warrior, Rest And Sae Will We Yet Three Sheep Skins Use this Pull down form to go to our other pages To return to the top of this page click here. The Blanchland Murder While looking thro’ the papers at my home the other day, I saw there’d been a murder in a cruel and barb’rous way, About two miles from Blanchland, old Snowball and his son Did occupy the Belmont Farm where the murder has been done. This young man, Robert Snowball, from his home did go away. And join’d some friends at Blanchland to spend the New Year’s Day. He came home in the afternoon but didn‘t long remain; Some neighbours still he wished to see, so he went out again. Chorus Young and old, take my advice, and keep from doing harm, Just think of the cruel murder that’s been done at Belmont Farm At twelve o’clock he had not come, so then the father said Unto Jane Baron, the housekeeper, I think I’ll go to bed; Perhaps he has joined with some friends, and may be out till late. Yes you can go to bed, said she, and I will of him wait. Next morning when the father rose he began to sigh and fret, When she told him that his dear son had not returned home yet. I waited lonely by myself till three o’clock this morn, I thought I need no longer wait, as he did not return. Chorus A quantity of blood was found while looking in the byre. Where it came from the old man then began to enquire; Ascending to the room above, o’er him there came a dread- The first thing that his eyes fell on was his son Robert-dead. The tears came trickling down his cheeks, as near his son he stood. A hammer also stood close by, bespattered o’er with blood. We hope that God in heaven will not let the murder rest; We trust that Robert Snowball’s soul is mingled with the blest. Chorus One Good Source:Polisses & Candymen, The Complete Works of Tommy Armstrong, The Pitman Poet, ed. Ross Forbes, TommyArmstrong Memorial Trust, 1987. Th’ Row I’ Th’ Gutter For notation click here For midi sound click here One day wen oot waulken aw hard sum foakes tauken. We voices is lood is th’ one o’clock gun: For awl aw cud heer thim, aw cudint get neer thim. For scors iv awl kinds wis injoyin th’ fun. Wiv pruven en fenden en borren en lenden Aw axt i’ yund woman wat awl th’ row meend; Up spoke Mistris Ruttor: It’s just this awd guttor. Thor’s a row ivory day wen it has to be cleend. Spoken—Yis, aw spent en ooor an’ a half very canny. Skin and hair wis fleein, an’ ony amaunt e secrits. If aw kin get te naw the next day it hes to be cleend aw’ll be thare seun eneuf. Af got te naw thor nick nuaims, and whe thae’n been woer kind with, en wen aw saw thim on boxin, aw sed to masel— Chorus: Wat need we care aboot Afgans or Zulus, Let Rushians or Prushians cum neer if thae dar; We’brum en wi’ bussoms we’ll slay thim be dussons, Th’ petticote ridgmint’s the boys for th’ war. Sais young Meggy Robson tiv aud Nanny Dobson ‘Aw lent ye sum buttor a fortnith th’ day; Then ye gat a shillen, ye drunken aud villan, Ye promist te cum en pait’t back th’ pay. Buaith ye en th’ guttor yor shillen en buttor, Sais aud Nanny Dobson, kin gan to th’ toon; For yor clais en Jimmey’s yor bedgoons en shimees, Is awl up th’ spoot, en thae’ll nivor cum doon. Spoken-She was lit up thare aguain. War wis on e two difforint places. Thore wis nee big guns, but thore wis sum vary big tongues; en thor neeves wis fleein, so aw torned roond to Jack Scott en aw sais— Chorus- Young Meggy Robson feld and Nanny Dobson, For saying thit hor clais en’ thare Jim’s was in paun; Then young Janey Dixon en Margit Jane Nixon Buaith seis’d upon Meggy for striken et Nan. And Mistris Stoker com oot wi’ the poker, As suen as she saw there wis two upon Meg; Bein’ in such a spluttor she fell i’ th’ guttor, En happind to brick th’ sma’ buain iv her leg Spoken- Poor, aud body! It wis a bad job for hor but it wis a gud job for th’ tuthors. She says te this day if she hadint broke hor leg she wud heh broken sum e thor necks. So wen we heh such gud sowljors as these— Chorus- Wile in the bother they feld one anuthor, ‘Twis awful te stand en te lisson thor cries; And Sally Cairns went yem tiv hor bairns, She grapil’d the way, wi’ two bonny black eyes Thim for to friten en stope awl thor fiten, The Sargint seez’d two for te tuaik them to jail; But they iviryone seez’d him—bie gum! Hoo they squiz’d him— He off, en they cudint lay salt iv his tail. Spoken- Wen he gat yem he had nee hat on, nee buttons on his cote, en three-parts ov his cote lap rovin off; en as money scratches on his fyece as if thord’ been a undrid cats on him. Wen he wis tellin’ the wife where he’d been, she borst oot laffin, en started to sing— Chorus- Aud Polly Trumil struck young Besse Humil, Becaws she had cauld her a dorty nick nuaim; They ivory one at it, they fit en they bat it, Till not one amang them wis fit te wauk yem They sent for the doctor-his nuaim was John Proctor- An’then for the pollisses-Jacksin en Jones; An’ they sent a letter for Hall, the bonesetter, An’ it teuk him three days for te set awl the bones. Spoken— The Battle o’ Waterloo was nowt te this one. There wis ony amount o’ black eyes en broken bones. But for noses-they wor awl shapes; sum was braid reet te one side, en sum was braid as flat as a pen-kyek; en as much skin en hair lyen aboot as wad muaik a hundred shinons. So we gather up the war gear en started te sing Chorus One Good Source:Polisses & Candymen, The Complete Works of Tommy Armstrong, The Pitman Poet, ed. Ross Forbes, TommyArmstrong Memorial Trust, 1987. X: 1 T:Th' Row I' Th' Gutter M:6/8 L:1/8 C:Tommy Armstrong K:D ||D||:DDD DFA|dcd BAF| DDD dcB| AFA B2A|ABc ded| cBA AFD| DED DEF|EDC D2A|DDD DFA| d\cd BAF| DDD dcB|AFA b2A| ABc ded| cBA AFD| DED DEF|EDC D2|: back to the song menu Corry’s Rat For Notation click here For Midi Sound click here It wis hiteen sivinty, th’ twenty-forst e Mae, Me en Harry Gibson will not forget th’ dae, Wen aw wis bissy shiften ewae freh Eden Plaice Up te little Tanfield-but ye shill heer me caise. Spoken-Wen ye heer me sad story, aw waint be sorprised te see th’ teers run doon yor cheeks th’ size e cocoanuts, aw cud crie ivory time aw think eboot it; aw wad tee, but aw’s flade onybody sees me, so aw’ll just sing ye a ditty. Chorus Stop ‘em thare, catch ‘em, thae awl began te shoot Th’ drivor en hees pasingors aul com tumelen oot; If ivor aw shud shift eguain, aw’ll shift them we me hat, Aw’ll nivor more be flade to deed we Mistor Corry’s rat. Spoken- Aw’s e terribl chep for floor shoas, but thae alwis heh thim e th’ rang plaice; thae shud heh thim e th’ tap room-that wid just suite Tommy Martin en me; but thor’s gan te be nowt but pultry it th’ next floor show; be shoor en cum, en aw’ll sing ye— Chorus We started then e Shiften we shifted fower lode, E cumen doon aw saw sum bords sitten on th’ rode; Thae wor sitten feeden, th’ rat thae nivor seed, So thae aul floo up tegither on thae flade th’ rat te deed. Spoken—Aw saw e flock e sparrows geten thor brickfist off sum muck thit sum e th’ horses left lyen on th’ rode. Thae nivor stord te we gat reet te them, en off thae went, en so did sum body else; th’ bords floo nee sharper than th’ rat went, so aw started te sing- Chorus Th’ galewae lade hees lugs back, en cockt hees tail up tee, Aw saw be hees ipperince thit he wis gan te flee; Aw was th’ forst thit tumild oot-aw fell emang th’ weels- Ye wide laft if ye’d been thare, te see me coup me creels. Spoken—Ye tuak eboot yor mountybanks tornin summorsets en dabing on thor feet! Aw divint naw hoo mony times aw torned owere, but aw wis ganen ower th’ sivinth time when aw lost me senses. Aw mite gan ower mony e time eftor that, but a dabd on me heed en noct aul th’ wull off th’ top. Wen aw com eroond aw started te sing- Chorus- Aw teuk me left leg e me hand, en did me best te wauk. Wen aw feel in we Harry he ad ardly strength te tauk; Th’ blood wis runnen doon hees fuaice-‘twis pitiful te see- En wen aw tried te lift ‘im up, he sade, O let me be. Spoken-Poor Harry! Aw wis sorry for ‘im, he wis shoor te be stupified-we th’ sharp ride en th’ sudint stop. If th’ rat had been runen for th’ Derby; it wid been like King Charles-it wid guain fors past th’ post we nee jock on its back; poor me, th’e jock, wis lyen ootside th’ ring singen- Chorus- Hee’s fuaice wis full e scratches; he sais, Aw’ve smasht me rist. Aw teld him if we’d buaith been kild, we nivor wad been mist. Then Mistress Watson at th’ farm she cried oot What’s th’ mattor? Aw sais, Plees, ma’am just be se kind is fetch e drink e wattor. Spoken- Aw sade wattor, but aw ment whisky; but she browt wattor. Aw tost it aul ower hes heed en fuaice, en wen aw browt him eboot we started te sing- Chorus Thanks to Mistor Emory, the memorisen man, For stoppen Corry’s galewae he had e clivor plan; He stopt it in e moment, en th’ fokes began to stare, En thanks te Mistor Corry, but aw’ll hev hees rat nee mare. Spoken—He saw th’ rat cumen, en he set hiself e th’ middle e th’ rode en shooted. Fixt-you can’t stor, It wis troo; It stud tiv aw teuk im be th’ heed, en aw teukt yem backwards; aw muaid e Haly-e-loo-lye on im.--- Chorus X: 1 T:Corry's Rat M:2/4 L:1/8 C:Tommy Armstrong O:A>A A>A|A>A A>A K:F |A>A A>A|A>A >A>A|A>G F>E|D4|G>G G>G|G2 F>E| D>E F>G|A3 A|D>E F>G|A2 c>c|d>d c>c|A4| A>G F>E| D2 G>G|A>G F>E|D4||A>A A2| A AAA| A>G F>E|D>E F>G|A>=B c>c|d>d c>c| A3 A| A>G F>E|D>E F>G A>G F>E|D4|| One Good Source:Polisses & Candymen, The Complete Works of Tommy Armstrong, The Pitman Poet, ed. Ross Forbes, TommyArmstrong Memorial Trust, 1987. back to the song menu Tanfeeld Lee Silvor Modil Band Wen it Forst Startid Aw canit tell hoo glad aw is Te goin we ye th’neet For te help wor fella working men We think its nowt but reet, Th’ reeson we’ve met heer th’ neet Ye ken is wel is me It’s for te help wor men to pae For the band it Tanfeeld Lee. Chorus Thare’s big drums en cornits, Tenor orns en bass; Then thares two ufoamioms Thare’s nowt cin them surpass. Elang we two bumbardins, Thare te tuaik thor torn, Trambones en baritons En one flugil orn. Chorus Th’ vary beest thits in the feeld Thor shoor te run awae, Th’ little dogs il grunge en bark Wen the band begins te plae. Th’ men en wives il dance en sing Th’ bairns il run te see, Thail plae th’ troon te stop te heer Th’ band it Thanfeeld Lee. Chorus If ye gan to West Peltin Te Pit Hill or th’ Sykes Cum back owor be Stanla Th’ Hobsin or the Dykes Yil heer thim boast eboot thor bands But seun we’l let them see, Thit we cin rais e champyen band E wor awn it Tanfeeld Lee. Chorus Sum e these big instruments Is vary ard te blaw But if yil oanly parseveer En keep eway yor jaw En watch th points e musick We yor teechers aul agree, Vary seun yil plae sum tuens Wi th’ band it Tanfeeld Lee. Chorus- Thare’s credit due te Mistor Goice, He’s lent e helping hand, His sais his honist workin’ men Dis disarve e band. It band contests aul roond eboot Aw hope we’l liv te see Aul th’ prises browt ewae We th’ band it Tanfeeld Lee. Chorus. One Good Source:Polisses & Candymen, The Complete Works of Tommy Armstrong, The Pitman Poet, ed. Ross Forbes, TommyArmstrong Memorial Trust, 1987. back to the song menu Th’ Skeul Bord Man For notation click here For midi sound click here One morning if haulf-past hite, aw sade te maw bit bairn. On we thee clais en get off te skeul, for thoo naws thit aw want th’ te lairn Man: Thoo news aw like for te see th’ be in time, so thee beuk en thee slate’s e th’ drawer. Spoken- Man: Get off te skeul is sharp is ivor thoo can. Boy: Aw can’t gan this mornen. Man: Thoo cannot gan this mornen! Wats th’ mattor wi th? Boy: Aw he th’ tic. Man: Thor’s alwis something th’ mattor we th’ wen thoo hes to gan te skeul: if thoo dissent gan aw’ll be getten a lump of paipor, en it th’ boddom thare’ll be ritten on- Chorus Send your bairns te skeul, lairn thim aul ye can; Send your bairns te skeul, lairn thim aul ye can; Scholorship is e faithful friend, en yil nivor see th’ Skeul Bord man (when repeated leave off first line) Boy: Aw’ve been vary bad for e week. Man: Wei, aw thowt thoo’d getten th’ torn; En if aw let thee bide et yem th’ dae. Boy: Wei, aw’ll trie for te gan th’ morn. Man: If thoo bides it yem th’dae, th’ morn aw’ll muaik thee gan. For thoo naws vary weel th’ next thing we’ll get, is e summons freh th’ Skeul board man. Spoken—Hees Uncil Jack gat e summons th’ tuthor day, but th’ canny aud judge set im cleer effor he pade sivin-en-sixpence, en he teld them if he didn’t send hees bairns te skeul, en wis browt te Lanchestor eguain, he wid get hees sivin-en-sixpence back—mebbee. So wen he com away he wis singen- Chorus So it apint that very dae. Boy: Wen aw wis plain it th’ dor. Man: Thare wis ae man, wiv e buek iv hees hand, thit aw nivor seed before; So aw kindly invited im in, en te tauk he seun began; Aw suen gat te naw, be th’ soond ifv hees jaw, thit he wis th’ Skeul Bord man. Spoken-He nockt it th’ dor. Aw shoots, Cum in. In he cums he sis Gud mornen, Mistor Airmstrang. Aw said, hould on, thoo’s getten te th’ rang hoose. But he wadint be stopt; he sais, Hoo meny children heh thoo got? Aw sais, Man, that’s en impitint question. He sais, Well, but you know what I mean; I mean how many have you had? Aw sais. Be oot e this, or aw’ll vacsinate th’. So he tornd te wor Bess, en saiss. What family have you had. She sais, We’ve ad two put hes fuaice eguain th’ window en sais— Chorus: Man: Wen aw axt im te sit doon—No aw’ve got nee time to spare; Aw’ve been at skeul en lookt throu th’ books . Boy: en aw warnd thor’s e lot not thare. Man: Ye can tuaik maw word freh th’ day, te skeul he’ll heve to gan. Boy: Aw shoor aw will, for aw’s flade te deed wen aw meet we th’ Skeul Bord man. Spoken—He hes awl th’ bairns e th’ cuntry side flade te deed, en not only th’ bairns but thor fethors en muthors disint care eboot seein im. He sent poor Billy Potts e summons th’ tuthor week for thair little Bob being off Skeul haulf e shift, en fined im five shillen en costs. Hee’s been off hes meet ivor since, en that’s e bad job, for im, for th’ mare he eats th’ mare checks he gets. Aw met im th’ tuithor dae; aw wis sorry for him, awl he cud sae wis- Chorus: Man: Noo, aw want th’ te gan te skeul. Boy: Yis en aw alwis gan. Man: Aw want th’ te be a bettor scolar than me—that is if aw possibly can. Boy: If ye hadint e plade th’ troon wen like me ye wair yung: Ye wid muaid bettor sangs, en poatry tee, en your sangs wid e been bettor sung. Spoken—Aw sae, wat memory’s bairns hes! Thor wis an aud skeul-mate e mine come inte wor hoose one dae next week, when aw wasint in, en we gat on e tauken aoboot plaen th’ troon e wor yung daes. Aw nivor noatessed im being in, becaws he wis oot it th’ time. But shoor enug aw wis e bad scholar. Aw once put buaith stockens on te one lef, en eftor that aw went to th’ neet skeul three weeks throo th’ dae tiv aw wis muaid perfect; en noo aw kin read a publick-hoose sine is weel is onybody, en gan in en stop in lang is onybody; en aw think it’s maw duty, since aw’ve fund see much gud freh educaisoon, te tell ye thit hes bairns for te- Chorus: X: 1 T:Th' Skeul Bord Man M:4/4 L:1/8 C:Tommy Armstrong K:D |A2|FF A2 F2 E2|D6 A2|d3 d d2 c2|B8| d2 dd d2d2| c2 BB B2 BB} A2 AA G2 FF|E6 A2| F2A2F2E2|D6 AA|d2d2d2 cc|B6 A2|d2d2d2 AA| cc BB B2 FF| A2 AA G2 EE|D6|| F2 A2 G2 E2| D8|d2 d d2 c2|B6 A2|d2d2d2 AA|c2B2B2 GG| AA AA G2 E2|D8|| One Good Source:Polisses & Candymen, The Complete Works of Tommy Armstrong, The Pitman Poet, ed. Ross Forbes, TommyArmstrong Memorial Trust, 1987. back to the song menu Bobby and Bet Bob Nicholson alwis like’t his beer, Their Betty wis fon iv hor gin; They had ne bairns te bother thor lives, An neboody used to gan in. Bob was a regilar quiet man, Their Betty wis quite the revarse; Aw’ve heerd folks say the Devil wis bad, But Bob swore Betty wis warse. Chorus So Bobby an’ Bet wis exactly met, To pairt them it wad be a shem; For if Bob gets drunk it th’ public hoose, Their Betty gets drunk it yem. Bob went one neet an’ gat mortil drunk Their Betty cried oot for shem; He wis lyin drunk ipon the road, And she was drunk it yem. She jump’t off hor seat en on tive hor feet, Wi the candil an’ knife iv hor hands, For te cut a bit meat for Bobby te eat, But sh didn’t knaw wen he wid land. Chorus: She cut the meat an’ fetch’t the plate, An started te scrub the pan oot: She torn’d that duzzie, she fel back ower, Sh’ had te leeve go iv the cloot. Aw’s clivvor, sh’ sais, so she put off hor clais— She showt thit she’d finished hor job- Thor wis nowt but the dish cloot left I’ the pan. An’ a forst rate supper for Bob. Chorus When Bob com yem he teuk off his claes, He thowt she’d fried him sum pork; So he clapt the dish-cloot on te plate, An luck’d for his knife an’ fork He started te eat his little bit meat, My word, but, he sais it’s teuf, The butchor’s either muaid a mistake Or else it isn’t eneuf. Chorus: Bob jumpt on the flor an’ cursed an’ swor, Thit his suppor wid cawse his deeth; There wis lumps ev cloot the size o’ me airm Stickin between his teeth, He nearly went mad wi’ the support he’d had, He wisht awl the butchors wis deed; He teuk up the sissors an’ went te their Bet, An cut awl the hair off hor heed. Spoken- Betty’s joined the Blue Ribon Army an drinks nowt but bittor beer; she sais gin used te muaik hor drunk. One Good Source:Polisses & Candymen, The Complete Works of Tommy Armstrong, The Pitman Poet, ed. Ross Forbes, TommyArmstrong Memorial Trust, 1987. back to the song menu Funny Nuaims It Tanfeeld Pit For notation click here For midi sound click here If yil be quiet aul try te sing e vorse, If yor nee betttor wid aw shoor yil be nee worse Its aboot sum faimis workmin we had it oor pit, We little picks, or bigins, that cud eethor stand or sit. Chorus: Cal the dal, the day, Fal th’ dal, the dido Th’ forst thit aul menshun he stands eboot e yard, He cums freh Caimbridge, his nuaim yiv oftin ard; Hees is stiff eboot th’ back, is th’ neb iv a duck; Sum daee he will be eeten becaws th’ cawl im Pluck. Th’ next is e straingor, his nuaim aul not forget, He wis catcht it Timmith, but hees getting oot th’ net. Th’ Pluck is vary tuaisty, but if aw ad me wish, Ad wid raithor eet the straingor, becaws th’ cawl ‘im Fish. Th’ next is e pumpor, th’ moast pitmin kens, Browt up in his cuntry, feedin’ ducks en hens; He cums te the’ pit it mornens wiv his botil en his box; Ye wid think th’ hoons wis eftor ‘im becaws th’ cawl im Fox. Th’ next is e foringor, but hees nees warse for that; His wark’s alwis plaicd like th’ tuthors in th’ flat. Hees quiet in sivil buaith in dae leet en dark; Hees cum’d oot th’ wattor for his second nuaim is Shark Th’ next is a champyin, he gans be Butchor Bob. He once wis e butchor, but he tired iv hees gob; He fettid beef en muttin for te fill up hungry holes, But noo hees in th’ Busty muaiking roondy coals. So thares Bob, th’ butchor, en thares Eligea Tuck; Kaity o, Gigor, o Shagor o, en Pluck; Th’ fox en the Fish, en thare th’ monstor Shark, Th’ puttor cannot keep them ganen wen thor aul it wark. It’s Kaity O, en Gigor O, en Shagoros’s wish For te hev e suppor we th’ Pluck en the Fish; Thave engaged bob, the butchor, for te cum en kill; Ivory man it Tanfeld cin cum en hev thor fill. X: 1 T:Funny NuaimsIt Tanfeeld Pit M:4/4 L:1/8 C:Tommy Armstrong K:D |D2 D>D F2 F>F|G>G G>G A2 A>A|D2 D>D F2 F2| G>G G>G A2 A>A|B>B B>B A2 A>A| G>G G2 A>A| A>A A>A A>A G>G|F>F E>E D4|D>C D>E F2 A2| E>G F>E D4|| One Good Source:Polisses & Candymen, The Complete Works of Tommy Armstrong, The Pitman Poet, ed. Ross Forbes, TommyArmstrong Memorial Trust, 1987. back to the song menu Th’ Wheelbarrow Man Yil aul heh ard e Gimmy Gordin ganen freh Dundee, He wis oot e wark en cudint keep his wife en familee, Aul he got wen on th’ road he reely did disarv; He sade thit he wid raithor dee than let his bairneys starv It wis in November, en ipon th’ second dae, Wen Gordin en hees wheelbarrow fixt te set ewae; Butchors, grocors, draipors, stopt thor wark te gan en see Gordin start for Lundin wi’ hees barrow freh Dundee. Spoken- Wen Gimmy wis riddy for th’ road he sais, Gid dae for a wee, stand back ye bairneys, th’ road wis cleerd en Gimmy sade. Chorus- Heers of te Lundin en yid bettor clear th’ wae Aw want to be it yem aguain ipon Nue yeer’s dae, If aw wis once ipon th’ road aw muaik me barrow gan Awl let thim see thit aws th’ champyon wheelbarrow man. Gimmy en his barrow went it such e clivor stile Th’ bairens aul ran eftor im for lump ebuv e mile Sum wis pullen at his cote, en runnen biv hees side. Shooting Gimmy, stop th’ cairt, en let us hev a ride. Gimmy tuek nee heed e them he still kept wheelen on; En wiv a champyon stroke or two freh them he seun wis gone, Thae shooted, Gan on, gimmy lad, is far is thae cud see, Th’ bairnes aul declaird this Gordin muaid his barrow flee. Spoken- Wen he gat oot e seet e th’ spectators he ad five Minits blaw, en hees nose cleend, en e spit oot then be sais— Chorus: When Gimmy landed in Newcasil he wis welcum thare, He sais he nivor seed se mony fokes it Glasgow fair. He neethor seed e hoose or shop for thare wish such a thrang, Th’ bobbies ad t muaik a rode for im te pass elang. Rotten eggs en oranigis, clarts en lumps e breed, Brocken pipes, en baccy chows wis stottin off his heed, Sum wid crie oot wat e shem en strugil ard te see, Gordon th’ wheelbarrow man, cumen freh Dundee. Spoken- Gimmy stopt aul neet e Nuecasil, the next mornen thare wis hundrids waiten te see im off, he thenkt thim for thair kindness, then he lifted his barrow frev its int legs en sais- Chorus Wen Gimmy gat te Lunden he wis met we great sorprise, Th’ cocknies stud en luckt it im is if he wasint wise. Thae put nee muny in his box thave arts is ard is stuain, He sais he’l dee in Scotland twice before he’l gan eguain. He sais he ad sum hevy daes we wet en wind en snaw, But what he teuk ipon th’ rode we’l nivor get te naw, But hees landed yem en glad he is his wife en bairns te see, En thenks th’ fokes ipon th’ Tine for being see kind en free. Spoken- Gimmy sais, if it wis barrow shuving esteed e boat pulling he wid be champyon. He wants te shuv Hanlon or Beech on th’ suaim wattor. If he defeeted Saw Dust Gack, en Bob Black, an ansor throo th’ Sunda Companion will be etendid tee- Chorus. One Good Source:Polisses & Candymen, The Complete Works of Tommy Armstrong, The Pitman Poet, ed. Ross Forbes, TommyArmstrong Memorial Trust, 1987. back to the song menu Stanla Markit For notation click here For midi sound click here If ye be bad en off yor meat En wid like te be put reet Tuaik e wauk sum Fridae neet Up te Stanla Markit. Aul kines e doctors thare yil see, Thor aul is buisy is can bee Its we te tell th’ bigest lee, While tellin ower wat thae cin dee. Te heer thim on thae ar that clivor Thae cin muaik nue lungs en livor En fact thail muaik ye liv for ivor Up it Stanla Markit Chorus: Fol de rol de rol de ray Fol de rol de rol de ray Fol de rol de rol de ray Up it Stanla Markit. Thare thail stand en guap en shoot, En wen th’ crood get roond eboot Thae tell ye thae cin cure th’ goot Up it Stanla Markit. Thae preech awae en nivor smiles, Its reely grand te se thor stiles; Thae tell ye thae cin cure th’ piles, Tumors, ulsord throtes, or biles. Thare thail stand freh six te ten En tell th’ good thiv deun for men; Thae think th’ pitmin disent ken Thit gans the Stanla Markit. Chorus En when ye get mixt up e th’ thrang Yil find it ard te travil elang; En yil heer sum stranger singen a sang Up it Stanla Markit. Thares e chep we second hand clais, And beuts en shoos hees full e praise; But tuaik nee noatis what he sais He onaly wants yor bits e pais. Thares sasage ducks, en savilois, En thares e stall we nowt but tois Te plees th’ little girls en bois Up it Stanla Markit. Chorus Thares bulits en spice en pies en wigs, Taity chopers, braiks, en gigs, En yil oftin see a chep we pigs Up it Stanla Markit. Thares black puddings, neerly wite, Thor muaid te suit yor appetite, One il sarv fre six tiv hite Thae suit e chape Thits rithor tite. In rain or snaw ye needn’t fret Thares umborelas for ye te get Te keep ye drie emang th’ wet Up it Stanla Markit. Thare yil see e grand Masheen It shines like silvor, nice en cleen; It tries th’ narves e fat en leen Up it Stanla Markit. Thares legs e pork, fra Rotterdam, Baicon, beef, en home-fed ham; Black corant, en strwberry gam, En ony emoont e veel en lam. Ye cin get e tip, but dinit hed If ye dinit naw hoo th’ horse is bred; Thares pots to stand belaw th’ bed Up it Stanla Markit. Chorus. X: 1 T:Stanla Markit M:6/8 L:1/8 C:Tommy Armstrong K:G B2 A| G2FG2E|D3 C2 C| B,2 A, B,2 C|(D3D3)| E2 E G2 G| D2 D G3|A2 A DEF|G3 G2 A| B2 B B2 B|B2 B2 B2 B2| c2 B2 A2 G|F2 G A2 D| G2 G G2 G|G G2 G2 G| A2 A A2 G|F2 E D2 D| G2 G2 G2 G| G2 GGG| A2A A2 G|F2 E2 DDD| E2 E G2G| D2D G2G|A2A DEF|G3 G2 z z || B2 A G2 F|G2 E D3| C2 C B,2 A,| B,2 C D3| E2 E G2 G| D2 D G3| A2 A DEF| G3 G2 z z| One Good Source:Polisses & Candymen, The Complete Works of Tommy Armstrong, The Pitman Poet, ed. Ross Forbes, TommyArmstrong Memorial Trust, 1987. back to the song menu Th’ Borth E Th’ Lad For notation click here For midi sound click here Aw’ll de me best to please ye, en th’ best cin de ne mair, Aw’s gan te sing eboot messel—wen aw wis born, en wair; Aw wis born at Shotley, aw’ve ard me muther sae, Twas in th’ munth iv August, en on th’ fifteenth dae. Spoken- Aw cin mind that mornen aw wis born is if it wis th’ neet. Th’ pits wis aul idle th’ next dae-because it was Sunda; But ye wadn’t thout it wis Sunda’ it wor hoose, thor wis that much tee en gingor beer drunken aw wis forst te stop th’ tap. Dolly Pots got tite en flung a saucer it Betty Green, but it mist hor en catcht me between th’ ies en mooth, en aw’ve ad a greet lump thare ivor since. But we seun muaid hor en ootside passengor, en we ingoid worselves we singen- Chorus: He is th’ best if ony, For his fuaice it is se bonny, We’ll caul ‘im Tommy, Hees th’ pictor iv hees dad; So th’ popt on th’ kettil. Is seun is things wis settled, En th’ tee wis fettled. Ower th’ borth e th’ lad. Aw mind it was warm wethor wen thae receev’d this lad, Me fethor danc’d th’ flor te show thit he wis glad; Me muthor she lae, smilen, en cauld me be nuaim, She sais God bless the little heart, aw’s plees’d thoo’s landed yem. Spoken—Ye naw thae expected me three munth before that (aw’s e twelve munth bairn- but ye can see that be me size) That wis th’ forst time aw seed Betty Lee, th’ mid-wife. She tuek me up en lade me ecross hor nee, en saaid te me muthor. Aw think aw’ll wesh im. Aw thowt she sade. A think aw’ll thresh im—aw teuk hor up rang. If she’d lad e finger on me aw wid guain strite back to wair aw com freh. Aw gad e gud wesh en e nue sute on, en we started te sing. Chorus Th’ neibors com te brickfast, this nue-born bairn te see, Mistres Wite gat mortal drunk we drinken Stewart’s tee; Miss Watson wis religyis, en so wis Mistris Kae, En is seun is deun we brickfast, th’ Buaith nelt doot te prae. Spoken- Th’ brickfast wis’ ardly ower te thae doon on te thor nees en began te prae it th’ top e thor voise. Is seun is thae startid to prae, aw started te sing. Johnny cums marchin hoam. It wis a great favorite e mine at that time. Nan Watson shooted tive aud Betty Lee th’ mid-wife, Stop that child from crien, or I must cease praying; and Betty shoots, Get ewae wi thou: th’ bairn’s not cryen- hee’s singen th’ bairn naws is weel is me thoo’s prayen e cheet, so thoo’d better get on te thee feet en sing esteed e prayen. Chorus My word, said Mistris Robson is she lade me on hor airm. If aul me time aw nivor met we such t witey bairn. Th’ doctor just had landed, so aw sees’d im be th’ cote. But littl wair thae thinking thit th’ bairn wis e pote. Spoken- Is seun is ivor th’doctor com within th’ door aw grab’d im be th’ neck, en aw didn’t forget to shaik im; but ye naw aw wis e vary big lad wen aw wis vary littil. Aw axt ‘im hoo he wid like to stop in prison three month eftor hees time wis up but we seun gat aul reet-en me fethor wissil’d Betty en th’ doctor danc’d to cloasen time. Aw wis sair we laffin, so we finish’d we singen- Chorus One Good Source:Polisses & Candymen, The Complete Works of Tommy Armstrong, The Pitman Poet, ed. Ross Forbes, TommyArmstrong Memorial Trust, 1987. Th’ Nue Ralewae Te Anfeeld Plane It wis in the month e November. En ipon th’ thorteenth dae, Th’ eer in hiteen ninety three, When th’ nue ralewae Wis oapind oot for minoril, For th’ cumpiny wis flade Te trust th’ lives e wor cany aud wives, Th’ line been nuely lade. Spoken- It wis vary thowtfil e th’ ralewae cumpiny te trie th’ line we deed stock forst, but thor wid nivor been e ralewae muaid tiv Anfeeld Plane if it hadnit been Billy Bulmore, Ridily, th’ owerseeor, en Bil Indyan, West Stanla, en th’ oanly wae thit we cin recompense thim is we singen th’ chorus- Chorus: We’ll sing in praise e Bully Bulmore, Ridily en Indyan th’ suaim, We shud trie it th’ next big elechshin Te put M.P. te thor nuaim, If ther awn expense for th’ Cuntry-side Thae laibor’d neet en dae, Lang mae th’ liv for te ride up en doon Ipin th’ nue ralewae. Wen hitten ninety fower cum in The tauk wis neet en dae, Wunderen wen the tranes wid start Ipon th’ nue raleway. Genueiry past en went, En eesed es e wor pane, Februairy th’ forst com in, En browt es th’ mornen trane. Spoken—Ye shud see th’ cany aud wives gigin eboot, sum We th’ glass e thor hand—hauf tite, drinken e helth te th’ Nue raleway. Tripey Nan shoots: join we me en we’ll sing- Chorus Mony e scor freh Stanla went, Likewis freh Tanfeeld Lee, En met it Sheel Raw staishin, Th’ mornen trane te see. Wen thare ard th’ wussil blaw It set th’ plaice elive, Three cheers went up freh yung en aud, Wen th’ forst trane did erive. Spoken—Aw wis stanen beside a chep wen th’ shooten started, aul nivor forget it, he vary neer shifted my nolidge box off its plaicem, he had hes mooth wide oapen, it just put e th’ mind iv e empty hoose, he had nee teeth in, aw cud see reet doon hes throate en neerly throo th’ back door, but aw shifted me stand en began to sing— Chorus There wis money a score got in Te ride the Annfeeld Plane, Just te sae thaid ad e ride, In th’ forst nue ralewae trane. Two cany awd fish wives, like the rest Th’ sade thaid geten thor wish, Thae wid oftin be oot e th’ cuntry noo We thor baskets en thor fish. Spoken- Jack Smith had a gam cock clocken, en he wis doon it Bob Johnstin’s it Sheel Raw, geten e clecken e weel bred eggs, he ad six e one pockit en sivin e the turthor, but wen he got tiv Anfeeld Plane he oanly ad two, the carrigis war that full his eggs wis awl broken, when he gat yem he put he’s cote under the clocker, he still expects te git th’ breed, aw wish he may, aw left im thare singen— Chorus- If ye want to gan te th’ peopil’s paliss, Or th’ Neugit Street Impire, Ye heh nee caul te bothor yor heed, E cab or e trap te hire. Th’ tranes is runen for te sute es awl Ipon th’ Sheel Raw line, Ye can gan e th’ mornen or the eftorneun, For te’ see th’ pantomime- Chorus X: 1 T:Th' Borth E th' Lad M:2/4 L:1/8 C:Tommy Armstrong K:D |D|FA AF| E(DD)E/2E/2| FA BB|A3A| B>c dc|BA FB|BA dF| E3 E| FA AF| E(DD)E| FA BB|A3 A| B>c dc|BA FD| FE DC|D4||m: 6/8 F2 F F2E| F (A2A2) A| B2 B B2A| B (d2d3)|m: 2/4 d4|c2 d2| B A3| F2 A2| B2A2|d2 F2|(E4|E2) A2|F2 A2| A2 F2| E2(D2|D2) D2|D2 F2| A2 d2| B2 (A2|A4)|B3 c| d2c2| B A3|F2 A2|B4|c3 c|d4|| One Good Source:Polisses & Candymen, The Complete Works of Tommy Armstrong, The Pitman Poet, ed. Ross Forbes, TommyArmstrong Memorial Trust, 1987. back to the song menu Tanfield Braike Twis in the munth if Awgist, in hitenteen sixty-nine, Aw thowt thit aw wid hev e ride, th’ mornen wis se fine; So aw catch’t th’ braik it Tanfield, before it went eway, Te hev e Ride inte th’ toon, just te spend th’ day. Chorus Oh! Dear, oh! Ye shud’ard them shoot, Aud Bessy Ferguson dabb’d ipon hor snoot; Nan Smith wis lyen on the top e’ Meggy Waik, She sais sh’ll not forget th’ day th’ wheel cum off the braik We set away fra Tanfield before he gat his lode, But thore wis plenty waiting’ for him ipon the rode; Wi’ men fokes en women fokes, th’ braik wis nearly fill’d, We adin’t getten far eway, te we wor nearly kill’d. Thare wis fowerteen that day drivon off thor crack— Bill Car, Jack Car, Graim, en Coffee Jack; Th’ wumen fokes wis tauken eboot baicon being’ se cheep, Wen aul it once th’ wheel cum off, en cowpt is aul iv e heep. Wen Coffee jack fell te th’ ground he started for te sweer, Is seum is he cud speek, he shooted, What’s th’ mattor heer? Graim wis lyen speechless, on Coffee lost hees hat, En if he adin’t fund it he wis gan to rib aud Mat. ‘Twas ard to see th’ wumen fokes e ganen te th’ toon— One shoots, Aw’ve lost me hat, enuther rove hor goon; That’s nowt for ye to tauk eboot, aw’s warse than that mesel. Sais Janey Wood, Aw’ve lost me porse, en smash’t me umborel. Aw felt for Nanny Wilkinson, she gat e nasty crack, Jack Car fell cross-leg’d reet on Nanny’s back; That wis accidental, but he dorty’d aul her goon, If thae and’t got th’ weel put on , she wad ridden im te th’ toon. Th’ drivor lost hees senses, en didden’t naw ware te gan, So e euk ‘ad e Coffee’s heed, en shoots wo oi maw man; Coffee struck oot we th’ left, he appined te miss hees mark, En muaid th’ blud flee fres th’ snoot e poor aud Bessy Clark. Coffee sais, Let’s drive away, jump in en tuaik yor seet. Graim sais We cannit gan until th’ wheel’s put reet. Coffee sais, It’s nonsense; aw’ll tell ye wat te dee; Put th’ lowse wheel in th’ braik, en gan te th’ toon we three. We sent away for Stoker, he lived at Sunnyside, We had te get th’ wheel put on before we gat e ride; He wasn’t lang e putint reet, en then we set sway, We brokin ribs en flatten’d snoots, we spent e jolly day. Spoken- Th’ time th’ blacksmith was putton th’ wheel, aw pickt up fower young pillas. Aw thowt thae wor bags e sawdust. Coffee sais: Tommy, them’s Bussils. Aw thowt, for cureosity, aw wad open e one oot en see that wish inside-proper paunshop. Aw gat a foweer hippens, e bairn’s slipper, e gimlick, e black leed brush, shoo horn, a pair e stockens, en Aud Moor’s Alminack, so aw tied them up, en we aul began to sing th’ korus. One Good Source:Polisses & Candymen, The Complete Works of Tommy Armstrong, The Pitman Poet, ed. Ross Forbes, TommyArmstrong Memorial Trust, 1987. back to the song menu The Kaiser and the War Kaiser Bill is busy still, he tells us what he means, By building all those floating mines and likewise submarines; He thinks he can defeat the world and rule both land and sea, We know what he is trying for-and what he will not be, To murder and destruction he is doing all he can, This has been his motto ever since the war began,, His weapons are all special made, the innocent to kill, God send the gout to both the feet of dirty Kaiser Bill. It makes our very blood run cold each day to read the news; The ships which they are putting down, their passengers and crews; Not a living soul on board will they attempt to save, They stand and laugh to see them go down to a watery grave. They say it is their orders that every ship they see, Which they camn, they must put down, no matter whose it be, Whatever he tells us to do we must obey his will, May the gout run up the legs of selfish Kaiser Bill. To be the King of England was German Bill’s ambition, He was coming through by Belgium without asking their permission; From there he had to fight his way until he got to France— To England he was coming next but did no get the chance. Britons never shall be slaves we very often sing, But we would have a German song if German Bill was King; Instead of being on Britain’s Throne—he’ll be put through the mill Every German sausage made will taste of Kaiser Bill. On the sea, and in the sea, and high up in the air, If any murders can be done you will find them there; The Zeppelins do their work by night, they keep inside all day, It suits them best, when dark and late, for taking lives away. But we have got his master now, and he has got to know That we can fly above his Zepp, and send it down below; There’s nothing that he can invent the Zeppelin’s place to fill— It’s nearly broke the tender heart of dirty Kaiser Bill. He was the first to start to war, the first to cry for peace, Since he knew it was refused-his vengeance has increased; The war will soon be over and the Allies will have won, Then he will have time to sit and think of what he’s done. He has made himself a name which he will always keep, His murders will be talked about at both sides of the deep; May he suffer night and day the Scriptures to fulfill, When he is dead the name will live of Dirty Kaiser Bill. One Good Source:Polisses & Candymen, The Complete Works of Tommy Armstrong, The Pitman Poet, ed. Ross Forbes, TommyArmstrong Memorial Trust, 1987. back to the song menu Murder of Mary Donnelly While live exists and memory god, we ever shall remember, The cruel murder that was done on the fourteenth of December; A man as lodger once in West Stanley used to dwell, He stayed with Thomas Donnelly, a man that we know well. Donnelly had a little girl, she was but ten-year-old. When we think about her death, it makes our blood run cold. It was on a Monday night, a cruel part to play, This lodger left West Stanley and enticed the girl away. This loving little creature was far too young to know, What the man was going to do, or whare she had to go. She was taken to a lonely place, the murderer had a knife, And when he had done as he choosed, he took away her life. At nine o’clock she had not come, the mother thought her long; At ten o’ clock the father said, there must be something wrong, The father to the mother said, go tell Inspector Stark And I will go in search of her although the night is dark. Inspector Stark and Officers, along with working men, Commenced their search that evening shortly after ten. Close upon a week was spent, searching night and day, By scores of willing helpers, at home and far away. Ponds were dragged both far and near for many miles around. And Reservoirs run dry to see if the body could be found. Whickham, Swallwell, Rowland’s Gill, likewise Gibside Wood, Was searched by officers and men without rest or food. On the Nineteenth of December, the man for which they sought, Near Barcus Close and Tanifield by officers was caught. They took him up to Consett, and locked him in a cell, But how his thoughts and mind was, there’s no one can tell. The searchers still continued on they n’ere seemed to tire, To find the body of the child was all they did desire. The twentieth of December which was on a Sabbath Day, Inspector Stark with volunteers from West Stanley bent their way. While searching near the Pea Farm, the mystery was revealed, The body of the child was found in the corner of a field. From the field the villages, the news was spread around. That the body of the child that morning had been found. One Good Source:Polisses & Candymen, The Complete Works of Tommy Armstrong, The Pitman Poet, ed. Ross Forbes, TommyArmstrong Memorial Trust, 1987. back to the song menu Old Folks Tea at West Stanley I’ve been at grand suppors, grand dinnors and teas; In chapels and churches, likewise in marquees; Enjoyment and pleasure I always could find If the company I met with were lively inclined; I’ve had some grand treats in the days that’s gone by, But I went to a tea, the thirteenth of July; I never saw such a grant set-out before, Like the Old people’s Treat at West Stanley Store. Seven hundred old people, all hearty and gay, Some were bald-headed, while others were grey; With sticks and with crutches, ‘twas grand forto see The way that they hobbled upstairs to the tea. On entering the hall where the tables were set, The sight which I saw I shall never forget; People from sixty to eighty, and more, Were all at the tea in West Stanley Store. White bread, well buttered, and brown bread the same, And many more spices than what I can name; There was teacakes and custard, seed bread and rice, Tarts made of apples, biscuits and spice. There was all kinds of Jellies and blackcurrant jam, Beef, tongue and mutton, pickles and ham; Tomatoes bananas, was there in galore At the Old People’s Tea in West Stanley Store. I would like to have mentioned each working man’s name, But to mention the Clubs will perhaps do the same; The Excelsior and Norman, and Empire true; The central, Oxhill, and the Social, South Moor, The Union, Victoria and the Pioneer sure; Are working together as they have done before, For the Old People’s Tea in West Stanley Store The Old People’s Treat has been on seven year, It is not provided by the brewers of beer, All is provided by Workingmen’s Clubs, There’s not much to get from the owners of pubs. Those owners have men to look after each bar, While writing it is not to them I refer; For, like other workmen, they just have a wage, Paid by the owners who do them engage. Thanks to each steward, each stewardess as well, The good they have done there’s no one can tell; Likewise the committees and members the same, For helping old people, they’ve made a good name. The waiters, God bless them, we should not forget The way the old people was cared for and treat; If we live till next year, I will meet you once more At the Old People’s Tea in West Stanley Store One Good Source:Polisses & Candymen, The Complete Works of Tommy Armstrong, The Pitman Poet, ed. Ross Forbes, TommyArmstrong Memorial Trust, 1987. back to the song menu Consett Choir Calamity A scripture tells us very plain to Think not of to-morrow Because our happiness and joys may quickly turn to sorrow How many cases have we known up to the present time Where Death has called away young men and women in their prime. Some we knew that suffered long in bed, both night and day, And others, in the best of health were suddenly called away, When the appointed time has come, to Death we cannot say; I’m not prepared to go just yet, call back some future day. Death will take no bribery, or one thing would be sure, The Rich would live, and Death would only call upon the poor. We know there’s danger everywhere, no matter where we go, Look at the sad calamity—going to Prudhoe Show. A happy band of Vocalists from Consett went away, To join a Singing Competition which was held that day. The vehicle which they’d engaged at Consett did arrive, The weather was both fine and fair, and pleasant for a drive. The vehicle with its passengers which numbered twenty-eight, Delayed no time at Consett, lest they should be too late; A pleasant smile was on each face, all hearty so gay, They all joined in with one accord, to sing while on their way; They sang with voices loud and sweet, in praise of God on high; But little thought that afternoon that some of them would die. Death was riding with them, but little did they know, That not a one amongst the lot would see the Prudhoe Show. When they arrived at Medomsley, five passengers were there, Waiting for to join their friends, their pleasures for to share; The vehicle stopped and took them in, they each one took their seat, The moved away, but never thought of danger, or the troubles they would meet. All went well until they reached a bank both steep and long, On going down it could be seen that there was something wrong; The vehicle ran much faster than what it ought to go; The danger that their lives were in not one of them did know. The driver did his very best, the vehicle for to guide, Thinking of the passengers that he had got inside; The brake refused to do its work, none of the company knew, The driver sat and did his best to bring them safely through; There was no chance of jumping out ‘twas useless for to try, They had no other chance but sit, which made their end so nigh; And when he had lost all control- exhausted as could be- The vehicle and its passengers ran smash into a tree. As soon as the disaster, the news was quickly spread That twenty-five were injured, and nine were lying dead; The ambulance and doctors too, were soon upon the ground With stimulands and bandages to dress up each one’s wound. One young man named Pearson, was injured so that day, On going to the Infirmary, he died upon the way. Owe hope those Ten have landed save into the Home above, Where all is Happiness, and Peace, and Everlasting love. One Good Source:Polisses & Candymen, The Complete Works of Tommy Armstrong, The Pitman Poet, ed. Ross Forbes, TommyArmstrong Memorial Trust, 1987. back to the song menu The Angler's Song- In Praise of the Coquet For midi sound click here The lambs they are feeding on Lanely Shiel Moor, And the breezes blaw softly o'er dark Simonside; The birds they are lilting in ilka green bow'r, And the streams o' the Coquet sae merrily glide. The primrose is blooming near Halystane well; The birds on the saugh and the bonny birk tree: The muir cocks are calling frae Harbottle Fell, And the snaw wreaths are gane frae the Cheviot sae hie. The mist's on the mountain, the dew's on the lea; The lasses hae kilted their coats to the knee; The shepherds are piping near Baraburn brae, And the sunbeams are glinting far over the sea: Then we'll aff to the Coquet, wi' hoo, hair and tackle, Wi' our neat taper'd gads and our weel-belted creels, And far frae the bustle and din o' Newcassel, Begin our campaign at the streams o' Linshiels. Mair big o' our conquests than great Alexander, We'll rise to our sport wi' the morning's first beam, Our creels will grow heavier as onward we wander, And we'll levy large tributes frae pool and frae stream, We'll plunder the deep, and the shallows we'll tax well, Till Sharperton, Hepple, and Thropton are past, And we'll halt near the Thrum for a dinner wi Maxwell, And land at our auld hame of Weldon at last. The nimrod may boast o' his horse and his hounds; About louping o'er hedges and ditches may rave, But what's a' his clamour, his rides and his rounds, Compar'd wi' the murmur o' Coquet's pure wave. And ramrod may brag o' his pointer sae staunch, And tramp untill weary o'er stubble and lea; But what's a' his fun wi' his dog and his gun, Compar'd to the lang rod and thrawing the flee. Now the crag-end is past and auld Brinkburn is nearest, Near the green braes o' Todstead the pride o' the vale Then hey for auld Weldon, to anglers the dearest, Auld Weldon whose cellars and streams never fail, Here we'll talk o' our triumph and boast o' our slaughter, How we hook'd him, and play'd him and kill'd him sae fine And the battle sae gloriously finish'd in water, Again and again we'll fight over in wine. Here's success to the gad, and a health to each friend on't, If e'er prayer o' mine can have interest above; May they run their lines smoothly, nor soon see an end on't, And their course be as clear as the stream that they love. May the current o' life still spread gliding before them, And their joys ever rise as the season draws nigh; And if ever, as may happen, misfortune comes o'er them, Oh may her darts fall on them, light as the fly. llka=each Halystane-small village on the south bank of the Coquet below Harbottle Saugh= willow Birk= birch Brae= steep bank Gad= fishing rod Creel- wickerwork basket for fish Loup-= leap Lang=long Flee= fly The tune may have been a dance tune originally. X: 1 T:The Angler's Song In Praise of the Coquet M:6/8 L:1/8 S:Polwarth K:Bb B|G E C C D C|G F G B2 G/2 G/2 |F D B, B, C B, | D C D F2 B| G> E C C D C|G F G B2 c/2 c/2| |B G B F D B,| C D C C2|| G| |c d c c B G|c d e d2 c| B c B B G F| F G B Bc d| c d c c B G | c d e d f d | B G B F D B, | C D C C2|| back to the song menu At Home Wad I Be For midi sound click here At home wad I be And my supper wad I see And marry with a lass Of my own country. If I were at hame, I wad ne'er return agean, But marry with a lass In my own country. There's the oak and the ash And the bonny ivy tree How canst thou gan away And leave me? O stay my love stay And do not gang away O stay my love stay Along with me. Agean= again X: 1 T:At Home Wad I Be M:4/4 L:1/8 S:Polwarth K:F |(FG)| (Ad) A F D2 F G| A d A F G2 (FG| |A d A F D2 F F| (GF) (GA) d2|| (A^c)| |(d^c) d A (=cA) F A | c A G ^F G2 (A^c)| |d e d A (cA) G F| (GF) (GA) d2|| back to the song menu The Banks of the Coquet For midi sound click here As I was a walking one evening alone, Down by the banks of Coquet I heard a fine song, She's the beautifullest damsel that ever I did see, She was walking for pleasure the same road as I. I boldly step'd up to her said I my pretty maid, How far art thou going no answer she made; But still she kept singing, still keeping up the song, By the bonny banks of Coquet as we walked along. With rapture I fell on her footstep a trace, Desiring this fair maid would not take this amiss, Then hand and hand we join'd still keeping up the song, By the bonny banks of Coquet as we walked along. Oh where is thy dwelling, sweet lasse tell to me, That I may partake of your sweet company; It wo'd ease my fond heart, or forever I'm undone, By the bonny banks of Coqauet quite distracted I run. My dwelling said she from this it is a mile, I live with my mammy, I am her only child; No father have I, death has made him his own, Which with sorrow makes me wander these banks all alone. Then I beg'd of the lasse a time for to keep, All on the banks of Couet again for to meet; But she's turned away and her answer she's made none, And she's left me for to wander these banks all alone. Oh! then said the lasse it's time that we were gone, That true lovers were parted and gone to their home, By the sweet pleasant river she has walked along, And away to bonny Brinkburn this damsel is gone. In verse 1 sometimes I at the end is replaced with me. Hepple wrote: "I could give a short history of the female alluded to in the song (as handed down to me by her relatives) but it is perhaps better not to make use of names on account of her surviving friends. X: 1 T:The Banks of Coquet M:2/4 L:1/8 S:Polwarth K:D |D|D2FA| (GF) E F | D2 D D|D3 A| |A d d e|(dc) B A| (GF) E G| A2A c| |dd A G| F2 d d |d e E E | E2 F A| |(BA) B d| A2 D E | F2 D D |D3|| back to the song menu The Banks of Tyne For midi sound click here As I walk'd out one summers day to view the fields so green, The bushes they were in full bloom so lovely to be seen; When posey bushes was adorn'd so brightly they did shine, There I met my lovely Nancy down by the banks of Tyne. And with a joyfull harmony she made the valley's ring, The lofty larks descending when this maid begun to sing, The pretty little small birds in chorus they did join, Oh they fill'd the air with melody all round the banks of Tyne. Her hair was like the links of gold this charming beauty bright, Her eyes did glance like diamonds on the shining stars of night, I says my pretty fair maid if that you will be mine, Oh we'll spend our days in harmony all on the banks of Tyne. Oh she says my jolly sailor bold how can you make so free, I think by your appearance you've lately come from sea, Come sit you down along with me if that you do incline, For I love a sailor's company all on the banks of Tyne. For once I lov'd a sailor bold as ever cross'd the main, He was proper tall and handsome I think you are the same; Oh yes my lovely Nancy with hand in hand we'll join, And we'll have a peace and unity all round the banks of Tyne. When in the midst of danger all round on every side, Where cannon-balls did fly like hail all on the ocean wide, I was thinking on my Nancy, the girl I left behind, That I should see my own true love all on the banks of Tyne. Come come my lovely Nancy to church let us away And we will quickly married be without the least delay: And afterwards my own true love we'll crown the day with wine, And we'll a joyfull night my love all on the banks of Tyne. Posey=flowering X: 1 T:The Banks of Tyne M:2/4 L:1/8 S:Polwarth K:F |(FG| A A (F/2G/2) A| B B E E | |G> A F F| F3 G|A> c c (d/2e/2)| f f A> c| |d f f d| c3 F| A cc (d/2e/2)| ff B c| |(d/2e/2) f (f/2e/2) d| (cA) FG| A A A B| (cF) E F| |G A F F|F2|| back to the song menu Bellingham For Midi Sound click here Come all my dear comrades once more let us sing, And join your sweet voices in chorus with mine, Let us drink and be merry from sorrow refrain, We may never no never meet here all again. My time is advancing and I must away, For to leave my best wishes with you that do stay; For to leave my dear comrades, who happy live here, And away to Jamaica my course I must steer. May the heavens now bless us with a prosperous gale, And be our protection while we are under sail; Send us safe to the harbour, thro' the proud stormy wave, We will trust on his mercy who can sink or save. Fare thee well, my own darling fare thee well for a while, When winter, is over, sweet summer will smile, I have learn'd an old proverb, I'll find it to be true, That true love is far better than the mines in Perue. Fare you well my old Marta whom I do love well, But when I shall return home no mortal can tell; Wherever I travel, by land or by sea, I'll always remember your kindness to me. Fare thee well my own darling whom I do love well, May thou, by thy virtue, all others excell; True hearted and constant I ever shall be, Wherever I travel, by land or by sea. Ye hills and ye valleys, I bid you farewell, But when I return no mortal can tell; Wherever I travel, by land or by sea, Your remembrance shall ever be dear unto me. Come leave off all freting, drown care in a glass, Each lad drink a health to his darling sweet lass, May good luck attend them that are loyal and true, Here's a health, peace and plenty so farewell, adieu. Bellingham= pronounced as Bellinjum Marta= Mother Mr. Hepple has written " Bellingham was said to be wrote by one Martinson, a mechanic and a native of Wololburm in this country, previous to his setting out for Jamaica".-Polwarth X: 1 T:Bellingham M:3/4 L:1/8 S:Polwarth K:D |AG|F2 D2 (ED)|C2 D2 (EF|G2A2E2| D4 (DE)|=F2 G2 (AB)|=c2d2 (BA)| G2 A2 (B=c)| A4 D E| =F2 G2 (AB)| =c2 (dc) (BA) | G2 A2 B2| A4 BG| F2 D2 (ED)| C2 D2 (EF)| G2 A2 E2|D4) back to the song menu The Blooming Heather For Midi Sound click here As I was coming home from the fair of Barquetha, I met a comely lass, she was fairer than Dianne, I ask'd her where she liv'd as we jogg'd along together By yon bonny mountainside, she replied, amongst the heather. Lasse I'm in love with you, you have so many charms; My heart is in a love with you, my bosem to you warms, The blythe blinks of your een, and your person is so clever, I'd fondly wed with you, you're my lassie o'er the heather. Dinna think, young man, I believe what you have spoken; Nor dinna think, young man, I would be so easy taken, For I'm happy and I'm weel, with my father and my mither, It wo'd tak' a canny chiel to wile me frea the heather. Lassie condescend with me and dinna be sae cruel; Spare to me one kiss my dear, one kiss of thee my jewel. If I were to give you one you wo'd surely ask another: And may be closely join, to tent me mong the heather. Now here my bonnie lass, I have houses I have land, And whatever else I have, I will put into your hand, Oh if that be your will, here's my hand, let's join together, Then he hugg'd and kiss'd his fill, and she's his lassie o'er the heather. Blythe= glad Blink=Glance Een=eyes Chiel=friend tent=tempt From the Manuscript of Mr. Hepple- "As I was coming home from the fair of B…..". There is a Scottish song, with a different tune, called "The Braes o' Balquhidder" with a final four lines of each verse as follows:- Will ye go, lassie, go To the braes o' Balquhidder Where the blueberries grow "Mang the bonnie bloomin' heather. A corruption of the original Scottish place name to 'Balquetha", which has been used in the local ersion, is inserted where the word is missing." There is an Irish version of this song but the tune is different.-Polwarth X: 1 T:The Blooming Heather M:2/4 L:1/8 S:Polwarth K:C |(E/2F/2)| G G E c| A2 D> E| F A G E| |(D< C) (E< F)|G G E G|A2 D E | F A G E| D< C|| (EG)| c c d e| c2 E G | c> A d c| B/2 G c d| e c) A A| c c d> G| G F D D | (G>B) A F | G G A c| d> A =B G| G3|| back to the song menu Green Bushes For Midi Sound click here When I was a walking one morning in May, To hear the birds whistle and nightingales play, I heard a young damsel so sweetly sang she, 'Down by the green bushes where he thinks to meet me'. I'll buy you fine beavers and fine silken gowns, I'll buy you fine petticoats flounced to the ground, If you will prove loyal and constant to me, Forsake your own true love and marry with me. I want none of your beavers nor fine silken hose, For I ne'er was so poor as to marry for clothes, But I will prove loyal and constant to thee, Forsake my own true love and married we'll be. Come let us be going, kind sir, if you please, Come let us be going from under these trees, For yonder is coming my true love I see, Down by the green bushes, where he thinks to meet me. But when he got there and found she was gone, He stood like some lambkin was left quite forlorn, She's gone with some other and forsaken me, So adieu the green bushes, for ever, adieu. I'll be like some school boy, spend my time in play, For I never was so foolishly deluded away, There's no false-hearted woman shall serve me so more, So adieu the green bushes, it's time to give o'er. Sometimes said he is substituted for adieu give o'er = be done X: 1 T:Green Bushes M:3/4 L:1/4 S:Polwarth K:D |B,| E (E/2G/2) (F/2E/2)|^D E F | B F G| E2 (G/2A/2) B B e| d c B| A B c| B2||(G/2A/2)| B B e| B c d| F (A/2G/2) (F/2E/2)| D2 (G/2F/2)| E E (F/2E/2)| D E F/2 A/2| B F G| E2|| back to the song menu If I had Gold A' Gowpens For Midi Sound click here If I had gold a' gowpens, If I had money in store, If I had gold a' gowpens, My laddy should work no more. gowpens=handfulls X: 1 T:If I Had Gold A' Gowpens M:6/8 L:1/8 S:Polwarth K:D |D|(AB) A A2 G| E3 C2 E| F2 D G E C| (E3E2) G| (AB) A A2 G| E3 C2 E| F2 D G E C| (D3D2 :|||: B| C2 A d2 B| (cBA) (GE) C|F2 A G E C| (E3E2) B| (cB) A (dc) B| (cBA) (GE) C| F2 A G E C| (D3 D2):|| back to the song menu Jenny Dang the Weaver For Midi Sound click here At Willy's wedding on the green, The lasses bonny witches, Were a 'drestout in aprons clean, And braw white Sunday mutches Auld Meggy bade the lads tak tent, But Jock wo'd not believe her, But soon the fool his folly kent, For Jenny dang the weaver, Chorus: And Jenny dang, dang! And Jenny dang the weaver, She snapt her fingers, lap and leugh, And dang the silly weaver. At ilka country dance or reel, Wi' her he wou'd be bobbing, When she sat down, he sat down, And to her wou'd be gabbing, Where'er she gaed, baith but and ben, The cuif wad never leave her, Ay keckling like a clocking hen, But Jenny dang the weaver, Chorus Quo he, my lass, to speak my mind, In troth I need not swither, Your bonny een, and if you're kind, I'le never seek another. He hum'd and ha'd, the lass cry'd peugh, And bad the cuif no deave her, Syne snapt her fingers, lap and leugh, And dang the silly weaver, Chorus braw=fine Mutches=womens' caps Tak tent- take care Kent=knew Dang=hit Lap and leugh- leaped and laughed. but and ben- both outside and inside cuif=lout keckling=cackling clocking=sitting swither = fear een = eyes peugh= pooh deave= deafen syne- thereupon Variation of tune at end of Chorus written by Mr. Hepple for between verse and chorus. This was because the song was to be performed with an instrumentalist.The variation at end of chorus is for use when song is sung with accompaniment.-Polwarth X: 1 T:Jenny Dang the Weaver M:4/4 L:1/8 S:Polwarth K:G |D| G< G B G A< A c A|G< G B G c2 B A|G< G B G A> B c A| d> e d c B2 A:|| B| d D D> E D> E D> E| d< D D> D c2 B A| c< E E E E E G E| D> E G A B2 A|| B| G< G B2 A2 z B| G< G B> G c2 B A | G< G B G A> B c A| d< e D> c B2 A|| B| G< G (3 BAG) A> B (3cBA)| G< G (3BAG) c2 B> A| G< G (3BAG) A> A (3cBA)|B> d d> c B2 A|| back to the song menu John of Badenyon For Midi Sound click here When first that I became a man, Of twenty years or so, I thought myself a hansom youth, And fain the world would know; I deck'd myself in best attire, With spirits bright and gay, And here and there and everywhere, Was like a morn of May. I had no care nor fear of want, But rambled up and down; And for a bean I might have past, In country or in town: I still was pleased where e'er I went, And when I was alone, I tun'd my pipe and pleas'd myself, With John of Badenyon. Now in the days of youthful prime, A mistress I must find, For love they say gives one an air, An e'en improves the mind; On Phillis fair above the rest, Kind fortune fix'd mine eyes; Her piercing beauty struck my heart, And she became my choice. To Cupid then with hearty prayer, I offer'd many a vow; And danc'd and sung and sigh'd and swore, As other lovers do, But when I came to breath my flame, I found her cold as stone, I left the girl and tun'd my pipe, To John of Badenyon. When love had thus my heart betray'd With foolish hopes in vain; To friendship's port I steer'd my course, And laugh'd at lovers pain, A friend I got by lucky chance, T'was something like divine, An honest friend's a precious gift, And such a gift was mine. And now whatever might betide, A happy man was I, In any strait I knew to whoom, I freely might apply. A strait soon came, I try'd my friend, He heard and spurn'd my moan, I turn'd away and tun'd my pipe, To John of Badenyon. I though I should be wiser next, And would a patriot turn! Began to doat on Johny Wilks, And cry up Parson Horn, Their manly courage I admir'd, Approv'd their noble zeal, Who had with flaming tongue and pen, Maintain'd the public weal. But e'er a month or two was past, I foiund myself betray'd T'was self and party after all, For all the stir they made. But when I saw the factious knaves Insult the very throne, I curs'd them all and tun'd my pipe, To John of Badenyon. What to do next I mus'd a while, Still hoping to succeed; I pitch'd on books for company, And gravely try'd to read, I bought and borrow'd everywhere, And studied night and day; Ne'er miss'd what dean or doctor wrote, That happen'd in my way. Philosophy I now esteem'd, the ornament of youth, And carefully through many a page, I hunted after truth, A thousand virtuous schemes I try'd, But found them all in vain, I threw them by and tun'd my pipe, To John of Badenyon. And now ye youngsters everywhere, Who want to make a show, Take heed in time nor vainly hope, For happiness below, What you may fancy pleasure here, Is but an empty name; For girls and friends and books also, you'd find them all the same. Then be advis'd and warning take, From such a man as me, I'm neither Pope nor Cardinal, Nor one of high degree, Youl'll find displeasure everywhere, Then do as I have done, E'en tune your pipe an' please yourself, To John of Badenyon. doat-dote John Wilks- 18th century reformer= known to be frivolous and dissipated. Parson Horn- 18th century reformer Supported John Wilkes and supported his election committee. X: 1 T:John of Badenyon M:2/4 L:1/8 S:Polwarth K:A |A|F E C E |F E C E| A B A F|E3 A| F F A B| c c B c| F G A B| c3 e| f c e c| B A B c| A< F E C| A3 B| c d B c | A F E C| C< B, C E| F3|| e| f e c e| f e c e| e c B c| e3 c | f e c e| f e c e| F G A B| c3e| f c e c| B A B c| A F E C| A3 B| c d B c| A F E C| C< B C E| F3| back to the song menu The Mouse's Song For Midi Sound click here Sung Away she lap and away she ran, Unto the good Cow and there she cam, Cow ge me Milk, I'll ge Cat milk, Cat'il ge me my own tail again. Spoken Indeed will I not said the Cow, Unless you'll go to the Stack and bring me some Hay. Sung Away she lap and away she ran, Unto the good Stack and there she cam, Stack ge me Hay, I'll ge Cow Hay, Cow'll ge me Milk, I'll ge Cat Milk, Cat'il ge me my own tail again. Spoken Indeed will I not said he Stack, Unless you'l go to the Barn And bring me some Sticks. Sung Away she lap and away she ran, Unto the good Barn and there she cam, Barn ge me Sticks, I'll ge Stack Sticks, Stack it ge me Hay, I'll ge Cow Hay, Cow'll ge me Milk, I'll ge Cat Milk, Cat'il ge me my own tail again. Spoken Indeed will I not said the Barn, Unless you'l go to the Smith And bring me a Lock. Sung Away she lap and away she ran, Unto the good Smith and there she cam, Smith ge me a Lock, I'll ge Barn a Lock, Barn it ge me Sticks, I'll ge Stack Sticks, Stack it ge me Hay, I'll ge Cow Hay, Cow'll ge me Milk, I'll ge Cat Milk, Cat'il ge me my own tail again. Spoken Indeed will I not said the Smith, Unless you'l go to the Sea And bring me some Coals. Sung Away she lap and away she ran, Unto the good Sea and there she cam, Sea ge me Coals, I'll ge Smith Coals, Smith'll ge me a Lock, I'll ge Barn a Lock, Barn it ge me Sticks, I'll ge Stack Sticks, Stack it ge me Hay, I'll ge Cow Hay, Cow'll ge me Milk, I'll ge Cat Milk, Cat'il ge me my own tail again. Spoken Indeed will I notr said the Sea, Unless you'l go to the Crow And bring me a Feather. Sung Away she lap and away she ran, Unto the good Crow and there she cam, Crow ge me a Feather, I'll ge Sea a Feather, Sea it ge me Coals, I'll ge Smith Coals, Smith'll ge me a Lock, I'll ge Barn a Lock, Barn it ge me Sticks, I'll ge Stack Sticks, Stack it ge me Hay, I'll ge Cow Hay, Cow'll ge me Milk, Cat'il ge me my own tail again. Spoken Indeed will I not said the Crow, Unless you'll go to the Sow And bring me a Pig. Sung Away she lap and away she ran, Unto the good Sow and there she cam, Sow ge me a Pig, I'll ge Crow a Pig, Crow'll ge me a Feather, I'll ge Sea a Feather, Sea it ge me Coals, I'll ge Smith Coals, Smith'll ge me a Lock, I'll ge Barn a Lock, Barn it ge me Sticks, I'll ge Stack Sticks, Stack it ge me Hay, I'll ge Cow Hay, Cow'll ge me Milk, I'll ge Cat Milk, Cat'il ge me my own tail again. lap= leaped X: 1 T:The Mouse's Song M:6/8 L:1/8 S:Polwarth K:G |D| D2 G G A G| A2 B G2 D| D E F G2G|A2 B G z| B2 G A2 G| B2G A2 G| G A B d e c| B2 A G2||! D| D2 G G A G | A2 B G2 D| D E F G2 G| A2 B G2 z | B2 G A2 G| B2 G A2 G| B2 G A2 G B2 G A2 G|G A B d e c| B2 A G2||! |D| D2 G G A G| A2 B G2 D| D E F G2 G| A2 B G2 z||: B2 G A2 G :|| G A B d e c| B2 A G2|| back to the song menu Nice Young Maidens For Midi Sound click here Here's a pretty set of us, Nice young maidens, Here's a pretty set of us, Nice young maidens, Here's a pretty set of us, All for husbands at a loss, Sall we long continue thus, Nice young maidens. We have tender hearts and kind, Nice young maidens, We have tender hearts and kind, Nice young maidens, We have tender hearts and kind, And for marriage much inclin'd, If we can but husband's find, Nice young maidens. We'll petition parliament, Nice young maidens, We'll petition parliament, Nice young maidens, We'll petition parliament, Then we'll get an argument, Then we'll get at what we want, Nice young maidens. Now I've another plan, Nice young maidens, Now I've got another plan, Nice young maidens, Now I've got another plan, If you get a little man, You may do the best you can, Nice young maidens. Now I'll leave you all to choose, Nice young maidens, Now I'll leave you all to choose, Nice young maidens, Now I'll leave you all to choose, A proper match do not refuse, Or else a husband you will loose, Nice young maidens. Now I've given you advice, Nice young maidens, Now I've given you advice, Nice young maidens, Now I've given you advice, If you are not over nice, You'll get husband's in a trice, Nice young maidens. X: 1 T:Nice Young Maidens M:4/4 L:1/4 S:Polwarth K:F |C F F F| F A c2| (G> A) (BG) | E2 C2| |C F F F| F A c2| f2 e2 | d2 c2| c (d/2e/2) f A| B c d2| B A G F| E D C2| F F F F| A c f2| (c> B) (AF)| G2 F2| back to the song menu Of All the Youths For Midi Sound click here Of all the youths both far and near, My eyes did ever see, There's one I love sincerely dear, And truly he loves me. The youth is ever with my heart, So kind he is and true, For O how I love somebody, O yes indeed I do, But will not, but dare not, But will not won't tell who, But will not won't say who. When e'er a story I advise, Or talk of love a bit, My mother always chides and cries, There's time enough as yet; But my dear lad does not think so, So kind he is and true, For O how I love somebody, O yes indeed I do, But will not, but dare not, But will not won't tell who, But will not won't say who. The ring is bought, and, better still, 'Tis true, upon my life, The priest will make us, so he will, Next Sunday, man and wife, O then I will be made a bride, Indeed I wish it too, For dearly I love somebody, O yes indeed I do, But will not, but dare not, But will not won't tell who, But will not won't say who. X: 1 T:Of All the Youths M:4/4 L:1/4 S:Polwarth K:Bb |B| F B A c|B d F (B/2A/2)| G> e (e/2D/2) (c/2B/2)|(B2A) G| F B A c|B d F B| A>F G c| F3 F| d> c B> A| (G/2A/2) (B/2G/2) F (B/2A/2) G e (E/2D/2) (C/2B/2)| (B2A) {G} F| d> cBA| (G/2A/4) (B/2G/2) F E| D B A {B}c| B3||F|(DB) B F| (ec) c B| A (B/2A/2) G F| f3 B| A> F G c| F3|| back to the song menu Rest! Warrior, Rest For Midi Sound click here He comes from the wars from the red field of fight, He comes thro the storm and the darkness of night, For rest and for refuge now fain to implore, The warrior bends low at the cottagers door. Pale, Pale, Pale is his cheek with a gash on his brow, His locks o'er his shoulders distractedly flow, And the fire of his heart shoots by fits from his eye, Like a languishing lamp that just flashes to die, Rest, warrior, Rest, Rest, warrior, Rest. Rest in silence and sleep in the cottagers bed, Oblivion shall visit the war weary head; Perchance he may dream but the vision shall tell, Of his lady-loves hour and her latest farewell. Pale, Pale, Pale, is his cheek with a gash on his brow, His locks o'er his shoulders distractedly flow, And the fire of his heart shoots by fits from his eye, Like a languishing lamp that just flashes to die, Rest, warrior, Rest, Rest, warrior, Rest. Illusion and love chase the battles alarms, He shall dream that his mistress lies lock'd in his arms, He shall feel on his lips the sweet warmth of her kiss, Oh! warrior wake not from such slumber as this. Pale, Pale, Pale is his cheek with a gash on his brow, His locks o'er his shoulders distractedly flow, And the fire of his heart shoots by fits from his eye, Like a languishing lamp that just flashes to die, Rest, warrior, Rest, Rest, warrior, Rest. X: 1 T:Rest! Warrior, Rest M:6/8 L:1/8 S:Polwarth K:C G| B> A G G D G|B> A G G2 G| B> c B B2 A/2 G/2| B c B A2 D| B> A G G D G| B> A G G2 (G/2A/2)| B B A c c B| A>G A G2 z| A3 B3| c> d c c B A| B> c B B (AB)| c d c B A G| A d d D2 G/2 A/2) B> c B B A G| B> C B B G A| B B d d> C B| A G A G z| G3 D2 D| G2 z z z z | (B2 A) G2 A| (G3G2)|| back to the song menu And Sae Will We Yet For Midi Sound click here Sit ye down here my cronies and gie me your crack, Let the win' tak the care o' this life on its back, Our hearts to despondency we ne'er will submit, For we've aye been provided for and sae will we yet, And sae will we yet and sae will we yet, For we've aye been provided for and sae will we yet. Let the miser delight in the hoarding of pelf, Since he has not the soul to enjoy it himself; Since the bounty of Providence is new every day, As we journey through life, let us live by the way, Let us live by the way and sae will we yet, For we've aye been provided for and sae will we yet. Then bring us a tankard of nappy good ale, For to comfort our hearts and enliven the tale, We'll aye be provided for the longer we sit, For we've drank togither mony a time, and sae will we yet, And saae will we yet and sae will we yet, For we've aye been provided for and sae will we yet. Success to the farmer, and prosper his plow, Rewarding his eident toils a' the year through; Our seed time and harvest we ever will get, For we've listen'd aye to providence, and sae will we yet, And sae will we yet and sae will we yet, For we've aye been provided for and sae will we yet. Long live the King, and happy may he be, And success to his forces by land and by sea, His enemies to triumph we ne'er will submit, Britains aye hae been victorious and sae will they yet, And sae will they yet and sae will they yet, For they've been provided for and sae will they yet. Let the glass keep its course, and go merrily roun', For the sun has to rise, though the moon has gane down, Till the house be rinnin' round about, 'tis time enough to flit, When we fell we aye get up again and sae will we yet, And sae will we yet and sae will we yet, For we've aye been provided for and sae will we yet. crack=gossip Nappy= frothy Eident= industrious X: 1 T:And Sae Will We Yet M:4/4 L:1/4 S:Polwarth K:F |AG|(FA) A c|(BA) G F| (FA) cc| c2 c c | (de) f c| c2 B A| (AG) GA| G2 (AG))| (FA) A c| B A G F | (FA) cc| c2 A c| (de) f d| c B A G| (GF) FG| F2|| (fe) | (dc) c d| c2 (FG)| (AG) GA| G2 A B|(cB) A c| d B A G| (GF) FG| F2|| back to the song menu Three Sheep Skins For Midi Sound click here Three sheeps skins are all of a colour, Three sheeps skins are all of a colour, And three dogs legs are all of another, And three dogs legs are all of another. -Tune from Playford, 1701 folio 47. Source Bell/Polwarth X: 1 T:Three Sheep Skins M:2/4 L:1/8 S:Polwarth K:G (GA) (Bc)| d2 (cB)| c2 B A| d2 A2| (GA) (Bc)| d2 (cB)| c2 B A| d2 A2| (BG) (GB)| (AG) G B| (AG) FE | F2 D2 | (BG) (GB)| (AG) G B)| (AG) F E| F2 D2|| Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Part 14 Directory 12 Click here for main menu of this directory. Use our floating menu to improve navigation. you can reposition it by clicking on top bar and dragging Floating Menu Menu of all of the Sangs Click here For tunes in .abc notation click here For an index of persons and places mentioned in the sangs click here For Bibliography,and Philosophy of the collection click here We invite you to contribute! Click here to comment or add. Soon after our upgrade the songs which the priests have recorded will be high-lighted thusly (Where you see the music note image there will be a midi file-for you to listen to!) Your Choices! The Main Menu! Main Menu All songs in this directory and their citations come from Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings With Lives, Portraits, and Autographs of the Writers and Notes on the Songs, Revised Edition, Thomas & George Allan, 18 Blackett Street, and 34 Collingwood Street. Sold By- W. Allan, 30 Grainger Street; R. Allan, North Shields, London: Walter Scott, 1891 My Eppie The Northumbrians Sigh for His Native Country Une Bagatelle. A South Shields Song Broom Busoms II For to make the Haggish Nishe OXYGEN GAS The Vanished Rose Restored A Sunderland Song Northern Nursery Song Tyne Fair The Impatient Lass Bold Archy Drowned The Devil; Or, The Nanny Goat. The Cliffs of Virginia The Newcastle Millers The Lament. The Newgate Street Petition To Mr. Mayor Blind Willie V. Billy Scott Tars and Skippers Weel May the Keel Row That gets the Bairns their Breed Opening of the Newcastle and Carlisle Railway The Movement The Pea Jacket A Glance At Polly Technic The Market Day The Colours King Willy's Coronation The Skipper's Visit to the Polytechnic Mally and the Prophet Use this Pull down form to go to our other pages To return to the top of this page click here. My Eppie Acomb, Fallowfield, and Wall lie within about two miles of each other, between Hexam and Chollerford."- Brockie There was five wives at Acomb, And fie wives at: Wa', And five wives at Fallowfield, That's fifteen o' them a'. They've drunken ale and brandy Till they are all fu', And I cannot get home to My Eppie I trow, My Eppie I trow. And I cannot get home to My Eppie I trow, The Tyne Water's se deep, that I cannot wade through; And I've no horse to ride to My Eppie I trow, My Eppie I trow, My Eppie I trow, And I've no horse to ride to My Eppie I trow, In the Tyne I hev not a boat, Nor yet cou'd I row Across the deep water to My Eppie I trow, My Eppie I trow, My Eppie I trow, And I've no horse to ride to My Eppie I trow. -Bell's " Northern Bards," 1812. back to the song menu The Northumbrian's Sigh for His Native Country At home wad I be, And my supper made I see, And marry with a lass Of my own country. If I were at hame, I wad ne'er return again, But marry with a lass In my own country. There's the oak and the ash, And the bonny ivy tree; How canst thou gan away, love, And leave me? O stay, my love, stay, And do not gang away; O stay , my love, stay Along with me. -Bell's "Northern Bards," 1812 back to the song menu Une Bagatelle. As Cynthia roam'd her course one night Along her pale domain, Earth held an object to her sight That rivall'd all her train. Cynthia, amaz’d, stood still to gaze, Then Mercury bade to rise; See! see! says she, see yonder blaze, Go fetch it to the skies. The silver chain that bore the star, Announc'd a violent rent; Hold! hold! cried Venus from her car, 'Tis only Jenny K--t. -Possibly the Jenny of Jessamond Mill. Phill Hodgson A.K.A. Primrose. back to the song menu A South Shields Song The Sailors are all at the bar, They cannot get up to Newcastle; The sailors are all at the bar, They cannot get up to Newcastle. Up wi' smoky Shields, And hey for bonny Newcastle; Up wi' smoky Shields, And hey for bonny Newcastle. - Bell's "Northern Bards," 1812. back to the song menu Broom Busoms II Blind Willie (William Purvis) If you want a buzzem for to sweep your hoose, Come to me, maw hinnies, ye may ha'e yor choose, Chorus Buy broom buzzems, buy them when they're new, Fine heather bred'uns, better niver grew. Buzzems for a penny, Rangers for a plack; If ye winnot buy, aw'll tie them on my back. If aw had a horse, aw wad hev a cairt; If aw had a wife, she wad tyek me pairt. Had aw but a wife, aw care not what she be-- If she's but a woman, that's eneuf for me. If she liked a drop--her an' aw'd agree, An' if she didn't like't-- there's the mair for me. (added lines) Up the Btcher Bank, And down Byker Chare; There you'll see the lasses Selling brown ware. Alang the Quayside, Stop at Russell's Entry; There you'll see the beer drawer, She is standing sentry. If you want an oyster, For to taste your mouth, Call at Handy Walker's He's a bonny youth. Call at Mr. Loggie's He does sell good wine; There you'll see the beer drawer, She is very fine. If you want an orange, Ripe and full of juice, Gan to Hannah Black's; There you'll get your choose. Call at Mr. Turner's At the Queen's Head; He'll not set you away Without a piece of bread, Down the river side As far as Dent's Hole; There you'll see the cuckolds Working at the coal. -Bell's "Northern Ballads." back to the song menu For to make the Haggish Nishe For to make the haggish nishe They put in some brown spishe. Tarum tickle, tan dum, To the tune o' tan dum, Tarum tickle, tan dum. And to make the haggish fine They put in a bottle of wine. Tarum tickle, tan dum, To the tune o' tan dum, To the tune o' tan dum, Tarum tickle, tarum tickle tan dum. back to the song menu OXYGEN GAS On Rhenish, Madeira, Port, Claret and Sherry Your fulsome eulogiums, bon-vivants, pray spare 'Tis granted, when sad, wine can render us merry, And lighten our bosoms of sorrow and care; But what vintage can fire us, Enrapture, inspire us, As Oxygen! what so delicious to quaff! It is so animating, And so titillating, E'en grey-beards turn frisky, dance, caper, and laugh, For what can so fire us, etc. O wond'rous indeed is this bev'rage ethereal! The mortal who quaffs it, altho' a mere clod, Is straightway transformed to a being aerial, And moves on earth's surface, in fancy a God. In a bumper is given A foretaste of Heaven, All earthly vexation straight cease to annoy, Whilst laughing and crying, And efforts at flying, Bespeak the soul toss’t in a tempest of joy. For what can so fire us, etc. Haste, haste to partake on't, ye men of grave faces, Ye Quakers, and Methodist parsons likewise; What tho' ye seem lost to the flexible graces, And dormant the risible faculty lies One quaff of the vapor Will cause you to caper, And swiftly relax your stiff solemniz'd jaws You'll acknowledge the change too, As pleasing as strange too, And make the air ring with loud ha! ha! ha! ha's! For what can so fire us, etc. Let gin, rum, and brandy grow dearer and dearer, Distillers stop working---no toper will mourn; Of Gas we can make a delectable cheerer, Which, nor reddens our noses, nor livers will burn; Unbeholden to whisky We'll drink and get frisky, Nor fear that tomorrow our temples may ache; Neither stomach commotions, Nor chamomile potions, Shall evermore cause us with terror to quake For what can so fire us, etc. Let the miser's deep coffers be fill'd to his mind now, Let the man of ambition with honours abound, Give the lover his mistress, complying and kind too, And with laurel let Poets and Heroes be crown'd. Let all be blest round me, No envy shall wound me, Contented and cheerful thro' life will I pass, If fortune befriends me, And constantly sends me A quantum sufficit of Oxygen Gas. For what can so fire us etc. -Rhymes of Northern Bards, Bell, John Shield back to the song menu The Vanished Rose Restored Sung by Mr. Frith At the Newcastle Concerts When the forked lightnings fly and thunders roll, And loud and fierce the madd'ning tempest raves, Fears for her William wake in Mary's soul, Who, far at sea, the rude commotion braves. But when the storm is past, When hush'd the angry blast, And o'er the tranquil main the breeze soft whisp'ring blows, Best hope her soothing balm bestows, And back to Mary's cheek restores the vanis'd Rose, Or when the wintry wind's terrific roar, Dread yawns the deep, the mountain-billows rise, And foaming surges dash along the shore. Then tears of anguish stream from Mary's eyes. Or when a tale of shipwreck dire she hears, Thro' all her frame a chilly horror creeps, The sad recital wakes a thousand fears, And for her absent love, forlorn, she weeps. But see! a ship appears! And smiling thro' her tears, Far o'er the tranquil main a wishful look she throws, Her William's signal now she knows; And whilst her gentle breast with love and rapture glows, Straight back to Mary's cheek returns the vanish'd Rose. -Marshall's "Norther Minstrel," 1807. John Shield back to the song menu A Sunderland Song Oh! the weary Cutter, and oh! the weary Sea, O! the weary Cutter, that stole my laddie from me; When I look'd to the Nor'ard, I look'd with a wat'ry eye, But when I look'd to the South'ard, I saw my laddie go by .- Sharpe's "Bishoprick Garland." back to the song menu Northern Nursery Song By bairn's a bonny bairn, a canny bairn, a bonny bairn, My bairn's a canny bairn, and never looks dowley; My bairn's a canny bairn, a canny bairn, a bonny bairn, My bairn's a bonny bairn, and not a yellow-yowley. -Sharpe's "Bishoprick Garland." back to the song menu Tyne Fair Since in cold there are some who don't wish to come out, While others, confin'd, cannot ramble about; To those in such cases I’ll offer a line, While the ice is so thick upon Newcastle Tyne Lol de loe, etc. Jackey Frost, when he came, made the keelmen contrive, While the river was frozen, how they should best thrive; When one of them open'd a prospect so nice, "Od smash ye! let's heave out wor planks on the ice." I was going 'mongst the rest, the amusement to share, When " Pay for the plank, sir!" says one with an air; Slipt my hand in my pocket without e'er a frown, And this knight of the huddock led me carefully down. Huts, soldiers, and fiddlers arrested my view; But something fell out, when away they all flew: Fell out, did I say? why, I think 'twas fell in, For they spy'd a gay barber sous'd up to the chin. There were some rowley-powley, tetotum, dice-box, While others, for liquor, were fighting game cocks; While Neddy the Bellman-his bell tinkled on- Said, a Cuddy Race started exactly at one. O'er this fine icy walk, too, each belle had her beau, Don skaiters cut figures their skill for to show; All striving who'd get the most praise at the skait, From the Member of Parliament down to the sweep. A marine next went half down, whose paws on the ice Went as fast as a cat's when she's kidnapping mice: I began now to think 'twas a dangerous place, When a Keel-Bulley roar'd, "Clear the road for a race." The winning post seem'd a grand sight for a glutton, For there hung suspended a plump leg of mutton; Its rump orange laurels display'd to the view, Which Cud Snapes after winning bedizen'd his brow. This race was scarce done when another began, 'Tween knack-kneed Mall Trollop and bow-legged Nan: This filly race made the folks round them to flock, But knack-kneed Mall Trollop came in for the smock. Hats, stockings, and hankerchifs, still hung as prizes, Was run for by skaiters and lads of all sizes; Razor grinders quite tipsy, with Bambro' Jack, And God save the King, sung by Willy the Black. Before I came home I'd a peep through the bridge, Where a horse ran about with a man in a sledge; I was bidding farewell to this cool winter's treat, When in Will Vardy's tent I made choice of a seat. "A game at quoits," says the landlord, " will finish the day. With the tent pins for hobs ye may lather away;" But the cords were soon cut, made him sulky and glum, For down came the tent and three bottles of rum. So now to conclude--here's wishing fresh weather, That the poor and the rich may rejoice altogether; Let's fill up our glasses and loyally sing, Long live the Prince Regent, and God save the King. Lol de lol, etc. Describes the freezing of the River Tyne in January 1814. The freeze began in December 1813 and froze the river for three days. At this time, people went onto the river to skate and play games. (Horse shoes, football , quoits…) Races were run on the ice, with prizes winners. On 31st January at least seven tents were set up on the river for sale of spirits. Fires were lit. There were dinner parties. Fiddlers and pipers provided music. -William Mitford, "The Budget (1816) back to the song menu The Impatient Lass Tune-- " Low down in the Broom." Deuce tek the clock; click-clackin' sae Still in a body's ear; It tells and tells the time is past, When Jwohnnie sud been here: Duce tek the wheel! 't will nit rin roun- Nae mair to-neet I'll spin; But count each minute wi' a seegh, Till Jwohnnie he steels in/ How neyce the spunky fire it burns, For twee to sit beseyde! And theer's the seat where Jwohnnie sits, And I forget to cheyde! My fadder, tui, how sweet he snwores! My mudder's fast asleep- He promis'd oft, but, oh! I fear His word he wunnet keep! What can it be keeps him frae me? The ways are nit sae lang! An' sleet an' snaw are nought at aw, If yen wer fain to gang! Some ither lass, wi' bonnier faice, Has catch'd his wicked e'e, An I'll be pointed at, at kurk- Nay! suiner let me dee! O durst we lasses nobbet gang, An' sweetheart them we leyke! I'll run to thee, my Jwohnnie, lad, Nor stop at bog or deyke: But custom's sec a silly thing- For men mun hae their way, An' monnie a bonnie lassie sit, An' wish frae day to day/ But whist!- I hear my Jwohnnie's fit- Aye! that's his varra clog! He steelks the faul yeat softly tui- Oh! hang that cwoley dog! Now hey for seeghs, an' sugar words, Wi' kisses nit a few- O but this warl's a paradise, When lovers they pruive true! -Anderson, Wigton Edition, Cumberland Songs, 1808, July 31st, 1802 back to the song menu Bold Archy Drowned Tune- "The Bold Dragoon." Awile for me yor lugs keep clear, maw spoke aw'll briefly bray, Aw've been see blind wi' blarin that aw scarce ken what to say,- A motley crew aw lately met, my feelins fine had sairly wounded, By axin if aw'd heer'd the news, or if aw'd seen Bold Archy drownded. The tyel like wildfire through the toon suin cut a dowly track, An' seem'd to wander up an' doon wi' Sangate on its back; Bullrug was there- Golightly's Will- ti croon the whole, an'd Nelly Marchy, Whee as they roond the Deed-house thrang'd whing'd oot in praise ofv honest Archy. Waes! Archy lang was hale an' rank, the king o' laddies braw- His wrist was like an anchor- shank, his fist was like the claw- His yellow waistcoat flowered se fine, myed tyeliors lang for cabbage-cutting; It myed the bairns to glower amain, an' cry "Ni, ni, what bonny buttons!' His breeches an' his jacket clad a body rasher straight- A bunch o' ribbons at his knees- his shoes an' buckles bright; His dashing stockins, true sky-blue, his gud shag hat, although a biggin, When cock'd upon his bonny head, luiked like a pea upon a middin. The last was he to myek a row, yet foremost in the fight, The first was he to right the wrang'd, the last to wrang the right; They said sic deeds, where'er he'd gyen, cud not but meet a noble station; Cull-Billy fear'd that a' such hopes were built upon a bad foundashin. For Captain Starkey word was sent to come without delay- The Captain begged to be excused, and come another day, When spirits strong and nappy beer, with bread and cheese might make him able To bear up such a load of grief, and do the honours of the table. Another group was then sent off, an' browt Blind Willie doon, Whee suen began a simfinee wi' fiddle oot o' tune:- "Here archy lies, his country's pride, oh! San'gate, thou wilt sairly miss him, Stiff Drownded I' the ragin tide, powl'd off at last-eehoo! 'od bliss him!" While thus they mourn'd, byeth wives an' bairns, young cheps and au'd men grey, Whee shud there cum but Archy's sel', to see about the fray.- Aw gav a skrike, for weel ye ken a set like this wad be a shocker, '"Od smash! here's Archy back agyen, - slipped oot, by gox, frae Davy's locker." Aboot him they a' thrang'd an' ax'd what news frae the underground? Each tell'd aboot their blarin, when they ken'd that he was drown'd. "Hoots!" Archy moung'd, "it’s nowt but lees,- to the Barley Mow let's e'en be joggin, 'Aw'll tyek my oath it wasn't me, because aw hear it's Archy Loggan. To see bold Archy thus restor'd, they ga sic round hurraws, As myed the very skies to splet, an' deav'd a flight o' craws; To the Barley Mow for swipes o' yell, they yen an' a' went gaily joggin, Rejoiced to hear the drownded man was nobbit little Archy Loggan. -Robert Gilchrist Notes: Cull-Billy- William Scott was an inmate of St. John's poor-house; a very harmless creature, and once much pestered by the wantonness of the boys in the streets of Newcastle. He was very good-natured. When I was a schoolboy I used to stop and ask him to spell any hard word, and it is a singular truth that I never once found him in the wrong. Numerous anecdotes are recorded of William's wit and presence of mind which would have done credit to many of greater eminence. July 30, 1829. Robert Gilchrist. back to the song menu The Devil; Or, The Nanny Goat. Some bullies gaun doun i' their keel late at night, Met sic a still gale that it ga' them a fright; Now, aw think this might be just about twelve o'clock, And the keel at that time was abreest Howdon Dock. Fal lal la, etc. The bullies and pee-dee a' huddl'd thegither, Yen an' a' did agree it was terrible weather; To bring her up there then they thowt it wad be The best plan, so they got her in close to the quay. So they a' got below, an' they started to gob; Seun a chep's turnip field they agreed for to rob; So the pee-dee was left I' the keel biv hees-sel, An' for robbing he thowt they wad sure gan to hell. As they were returning agyen frae the fields, A Nanny Goat followed them close by their heels; She was eating the skins as they threw them away, For she liked them far better than any new hay. When the bullies had getten agyen to their keel, The pee-dee he ax'd them if they'd seen the deil; The Nanny by this time had getten aboard, So they thowt he was coming--they call'd on the Lord. Now Nan couldn't find either skins, beef, or bread, So she went to the huddock an' popp'd down her head, And seeing them champ what she thowt was her share, Stretch'd her neck an' jaws wide, and gov a greet blare. The bullies didn't know how this devil to lay, However, they thowt 'twas the best plan to pray; So the skipper roar'd out iv a terrible swe't, "Our Fetheers chart in Heven--is the beggar gyen yet?" The prayer not being answer'd, they started to bubble, For they thowt they were left by the father in trouble; So they fell on their faces, and stopping their breath, Swore they'd rather die there as be dragg'd to their death. The innocent pee-dee thowt he'd nowt to fear, So he'd venture on deck and see if all was clear' When the Nanny saw pee'dee she blar'd out a note, And their devil prov'd only a poor Nanny Goat. -Annonymous, Shelds Song Book, 1826. back to the song menu The Cliffs of Virginia Tune- "Drops of Brandy." Some brave lads in their keel left the spout, It blew a fresh breeze from the west; Now happy they were without doubt, And to Providence left all the rest. The breeze seun increased to a gale, The tide ran down rapid and rough, For safety they teuk in the sail, For by this time they's most had eneugh. Rum it iddity, etc. To stop her they now were not able, Says the skipper, "We'll drive to the ocean, Thraw ower the chain-anchor and cable, For of sic a trip aw ha' ne notion." The keel by this time was near swamp'd, So they threw all the coals overboard; The skipper he shouted and stamped, And for the help of good Providence roar'd. On the deck they could no longer stand, So they pray'd both for succour and shelter, Bid adieu to their awn native land, And to the huddock they ran helter-skelter: There they rattled and tumbled about, They pray'd for their bairns and wives, And if Providence spar'd, without doubt, They surely wad mend all their lives. This night spent in devotion and fasting, They long'd for to see the sun rise; Skipper swore his repentance was lasting, If it wasn't the deil d--n his eyes. The gale being entirely hush'd And the sun was beginning to shine; Up his heed then he carefully push'd, And he says, "Lads , we'll ne'er see the Tyne." The skipper roar'd out for Ben Mackey, To see the high cliffs of Virgini, Where they grow all the gren tea and baccy; Ay, as sure as I'm living, my hinny. The folks aw believe are all wild, An' suyre they will some of us fry; But now we're all meeklness and mild, We needn't mind how seun we die. A steamer seun cam within hail- They ax'd skipper how he got there: "We gat here during the last heavy gale; If ye please, sur, what land is that there?" "Wey divn't you knaw Tynemouth Cassell?" "Od, smash me, a’ tuek'd for Virgini's." So they row'd hard an' strang for Newcassell, And lang'd for a kiss o' their hinnies. -Anonymous, Shields Song book, 1826. back to the song menu The Newcastle Millers Written on the great prize fight, at Barlow Fell, between Jim Wallace and Tom Dunn, fought on the 25th October 1824, for forty sovereigns. Wallace was the victor. Tune-"The Bold Dragoon." Now hail, thou pride iv a' the Tyne, my glorious native toun! As lang as aw can cum ti time, thy nyem shall ne'er gan doun; Fame hez been lang, wi' glorious moves, the pages I' thy hist'ry filling, But now she sports her boxing-gloves, an' nowt gans doon but rings an' milling. The fancy lads that thou can boast wad tyek an 'oor ti tell, Let Cockneys tawk a' Moulsey Hurst, we'll crack iv Barlow Fell. Jim B--n hez up te Lunnin gyen, ti show them hoo ti hit an' parry; But still we've bits iv blud at heym, that for a croon wad box Aud Harry. The greet turn-up we've had between Jim Wallace an' Tom Dunn, Sum wished that day they'd nivver seen, an' that boxers a' were hung; The butcher lads had a' ti pay, sum pawn'd thor watches, sum thor horses, An' a' the Tuesday neet, they say, that Morpeth turnpike rung wi' curses. The 'prentice lads that stole away ti see the champions peel, They'll mind o' that, for mony a day they walked upon a wheel: Their half-'oor time they learn'd ti keep, a sitiwation rether tryin', Just like the chep iv Collingwood Street, that's huggin' tiv his nose a lion. Let men iv science bounce and swell, gi'e me the glass ti swing, A nice snug room for Barlow Fell, filled wiv a jovial ring; Then them that will may tyek thor bangs, the science that aw most delight in Is drinkin' yell an' hearin' sangs, let Dunn an' Wallace tyek the fightiin'. William, Oliver, 1829 back to the song menu The Lament. Tune-" The Bold Dragoon." A bard hez said that "dowly thowts are mair wor frinds than foes"- As frinds are rether scarce, ye ken, aw've browt a mournful dose; Deeth rammels on throo lane an' square, an' wiv his dart byeth wives an' men pricks, Od bliss him! wad he oney spare wor canny toon her greet eccentrics. Bet Watt an' Soulger Mally's gyen!-Yence mair his dart he threw, An' slew the bonniest an' the last- the maid they called Balloo: Ti hear her sweer how oft aw've staid, an' gazed upon her linsey-winsey; But Jenny's cracks are now aw laid aboot her bruther, greet Lord Linsay. Mysell aw seun began ti hug when Crummy was laid law, Aw thowt the yell wad be a drug, 'twas sartin sure ti fa'; Ti see him drink, that was a treat, -his thropple seemed a hogshead funnel; An' now that Crummy's lost his feet, it sarves, aw fancy, for a tunnel. A story yence myed Sandgate ring, the Keyside a' luik blue- 'Twas then a hoax, or sum sic thing, but noo it's cum ower true; Oh, had it been a duke or lord, aw wonder whe wad cared a scuddick;- Bold Archy's popped at last overboard, slipt withoot bait intiv his huddick. His cradle was the keel deck, where Britannia seeks her tars- She quickly spied the hero there, an' called him ti the wars; He thump'd the Spanish Dons, 'twas said, till they roared oot for peace like ninnies, For yence, at least, was Archy paid his good shag hat chock full iv ginnies. Men are se dwiney nooadays, that honest Archy cam Ti gi' the world, as Shakesperre says, asshurance iv a man; Ti see him cummin' up the Kee, se independent, stiff, an' starchy- His like agyen we'll nivver see-- peace ti the byens iv poor Bold Archy! -William Oliver, 1820 back to the song menu The Newgate Street Petition To Mr. Mayor Alack! and well-a-day! Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor; We all are to grieff a prey, Mr. Mayor: They are pulling Newgate down, 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 finest Lion That 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 Shows their powers are too extended, And The Act must be amended, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. If Blackett Street they'd level, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, Or with Bond Street play the devil, Who would care? But on Newgate's massive 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 of Note and Estimation, In their course of Elevation, Have it in 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 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 we throw the Hatchet, Mr. Mayor: John Adamson, with ease (In purest Portuguese), 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 none Can better tell than John, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. Of this edifice bereft, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, To the neighbourhood what's left? Mr. Mayor: The Nun's Gate, it is true, Still rises to our view, But that Modern Babel few Much admire, Mr. Mayor. True, a building ‘tis, unique, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, A charming fancy-freak, Mr. Mayor. But candour doth impel us To own that strangers tell us The Lodge of Oddfellows, They suppos'd it, Mr. Mayor. Still if Newgate's doomed to go, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, To the Carliol 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, The Gao! Cess, Mr. Mayor. -Anonymous, Marshall's Collection, 1827 Carliol Croft- site of new gaol to replace Newgate. Mr. Gee- Gaoler of debtor's prison. John Adamson- Famous Portuguese scholar, translator of The Lucaid. Bond Street- Now called Prudhoe Street. The destruction began in June 1828. Nothing stopped it. back to the song menu Blind Willie V. Billy Scott Tune: "Fie, let's away to the Bridal." Blind Willie, one morning, was singin' At the sign o' the "Bunch o' Grapes." Te amuse the folks he was beginnin' Wi' anu Sir Matthew's mistakes. Sumbody shoots, "Here's Mister Scott cummin!" Willie instantly wished for te see; “Aw'll tell ye the truth, withoot funnin, He once half-a-croon gav te me!" Fal lal, etc. Willie now thowt they were gamin, For Mister Scott's cummin seem'd lang. Till he heard a voice gravely exclaimin, "Poor Wlliam!-- poor blind man!" Willie bawls oot--"Ye canna deceive me!-- Ye needn't think aw'm se silly; Aw's not such a feul, ye'll believe me,-- It's not Mister Scott, but Cull Billy!" Fal lal, etc. "Blind man, come, don't be so mulish, If I'm silly, no doubt I’m not right; You for to say that I'm foolish! Thank God! I'm endued with my sight!" "But Cull Billy, what browt ye here now? Nebody can say that it's reet. Gan away, or aw'll blind ye wi' beer now, For cummin te myek gam o' maw seet!" Fal lal, etc. "You stand on a groundless foundatin, What else can such as you think? You indulge yourself in dissipation, You are both blind and stupid with drink!" Willie sat an' heard Cull Billy pratting, Quite heedless tiv a' the abuse: His hand on his knee he kept clapping-- "Cull Billy's cum fra the madhoose!" Fal lal, etc. Billy now turned quite ootrageous, At Blind Willie's nose tuik a grip: His haud he suin disengages, For Willie began hard te kick. Willie still gav him greet provocation, His raillery still wadn't cease; Billy went oot wif a vile execration, Te gan tiv a justice for peace, Fal lal, etc. Willie fand hissel reythur twiseted, His nose was beginnin te bleed; He wad gan te the Mayor, he insisted, And let his reet worshipful see'd Willie oft loodly did grummel- "The divil brust Cull Billy's bags: When the aud wife let the pie tummel, He sat doon an' dined on the flags!" Fal lal, etc. Willie tuik a consideration, He thowt the subject shud drop; He allowed he'd gi'en provocation, But further mischief he wad stop. Te finish the pack, anuther gill he got, But with an oath he did declare, The varry first time he saw Billy Scott, He wad take him before Mister Mayor. Fal lal, etc. Thomas Marshall, 1829. back to the song menu Tars and Skippers Tune-"Derry Down." Four hardy Jack tars, wi' a noble intent, To protect the remains of a messmate they went, To the Ballast Hills arm'd, just about the midwatch, To prevent resurrectionists moving his hatch. Derry Down… Each tar took his post; no way daunted with fear, When two drunken skippers near the place did appear; While stawping alang, it dropt into their head, They wad byeth gan an' watch a friend they had dead. Derry Down… The tars, now alarm'd they prepared for attack-- Ower a styen byeth the skippers now fell on their back; O Lord! exclaim'd Jacky, we cannot lie here, Or we'll byeth be tyen off by resurrectioners, aw fear! Derry Down… Who's there? cried the tars , or who may you be? Ax about! replied Jacky, what's that to ye? We're not robbers like ye-- what else can wi say?-- Come here for to carry the dead folks away. Derry Down Here's me and friend Ralph knew a friend down the shore, For pulling, wi' him neyn could touch the oar; So me and my neighbour's just come for to see If his body's tuen off by sic robbers as ye. Derry Down A signal for action- the tars gave a cough, To the skippers' amazement, a pistol went off- The skippers byeth drunk, now sober did feel, To get out o' their way, they byeth tuik to heel. Derry Down Ralphy, he thowt 'twould been a terrible job, If they'd byeth getting a plaister clapp'd on their gob; For the skippers tuik the tars fro resurrection men- The tars tuik the skippers to be just the syem. Derry down. Marshall, 1829 This song is a relic of the old resurrection days. The Burke and Hare excitement caused a great many country churchyards to be regularly watched, the people forming themselves into gangs or sets of watchers. This does not appear to have been the case in Newcastle. Here, according \to old inhabitants, watching was common, but it was done by friends of the deceased, or by parties engaged by them for that purpose. back to the song menu Weel May the Keel Row That gets the Bairns their Breed Weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, Weel may the keel row, And better may she speed; Weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, Weel may the keel row, That gets the bairns their breed. We tyuk wor keel up to the dyke, Up to the dyke, up to the dyke, We tyuk wor keel up to the dyke, An' there we gat her load; Then sail'd away doon to Shields, Doon to Shields, doon to Shields, Then sail'd away doon to Shields, And shipp'd wor coals abroad. Singin'- Weel may the keel row, etc. Then we row'd away up to the fest, Up to the fest, up to the fest, We row'd away up to the fest, Cheerly every man; Pat by wor geer and moor'd wor keel, And moor'd wor keel, and moor'd wor keel, Pat by wor geer and moor'd wor keel, Then went and drank wor can. Singin'- Weel may the keel row, etc.. Our canny wives, or clean fireside, Our bonny bairns-their parent's pride, Sweet smiles that make life smoothly glide, We find when we gan hyem; They'll work for us when we get au'd, The'll keep us frae the winter's cau'd, As life declines they'll us uphaud- When young we uphaud them. Singin'- Weel may the keel row, etc. -Unknown, Marshall's Collection, 1827 back to the song menu Opening of the Newcastle and Carlisle Railway June 18th, 1838 Lass! lay me out maw Sunday claes, Te-morn's te be the day o' days- The railroad's gaun te oppen; And we'll be there amang the rest, Buss'd as aw was iv a' maw best At the last Westgate Hoppin' Aw'll tell thou mair when aw come back, For then we'll hev a sappy crack 'Boot a' aw've heerd and seen. Now, hinny, here aw's back agyen, Thou'll think aw's flaid maw time aw've tyen, Aw've been se lang I' comin. But when twee sic awd standards meet, The pain o' pairtin's varry greet, Thow knaws, maw bonny woman. We left the Heugh i' gallant style, And shot away for awd Carlisle, Snug seated i' the Queen, Amang the swarms wor canny toon And Gyetshed planted up and doon Te see se rare a scene. Wi' murth and fun the country rung, The lairks and linties roun us sung; And when the day was sunny, The scenery rich and richer grew, Until we seem'd just glidin through A land o'milk and honey. We suin reech'd Gilsland's famish wells, Which, when a lung or liver fyels, Or other ailin maiters, Myek sick folk flee frae doctor's pills Te souk health frae the heather hills, Or draw it frae the waiters. Could but the folks of awd lang syne Luik out upon this bonny line And see what we are deein, They could, aw think, compare't w' nowse But Clootie's gang a' brocken lowse, And frae his clutches fleein. It was a pleasant seet te see Wor canny town and Carlisle tee, Byeth yet se hale and hearty, In spite of a' the Border frays IN which they fowt I' former days, The bravest o' their party. And now the travellers wi' their trains Will thraw young blood into the veins O' Carlisle's murry city. And Grainger may some efternuin Slip ower and touch her up when duin Here wi' her canny titty. What lots o' brass it mun ha' e tyen, And labour frae lang-heeded men, Te join this ancient pair- Te myek them, as it war, shake hands, And knit them close iv iron bands Te separate ne mair. T. Wilson1843. A day of great rejoicing. The Corporations of Newcastle, Gateshead, and Carlisle attended. Thirteen engines and a hundred and twenty carriages taking well on to four thousand passengers, made the opening journey. Strange as it may sound now, when all are so accustomed to the convenience of the "Central." the first Newcastle station was in the Close. The railway itself ran only to the Redheugh close by the water's edge, the Gateshead station, where it finished, being about the junction of the Redheugh and the Teams. A steamboat took the passengers across the Tyne from the Close station to Redheugh where the line began. T. Wilson as an Alderman of Gateshead would attend the opening. Mems. Ffrom Richardson's "Table Book":- 1835- Railway opened between Hexham and Blaydon. A stage coach then took the passengers from Bigg Market to Blaydon. 1837- Railway opened from Redheugh to Blaydon. back to the song menu The Movement Where canny Newcassel will gan te at last Is far ayont maw understandin'; But if it gans on as its duin for years past, It'll suin about Hexhim be landin'. For toon within toon, and street efter street, Grainger pops up- -without ever heedin' How they're to be fill'd, unless some new leet Shows him folks will like rabbits be breedin'. But this railroad-pace of increasin' wor race Wad be dorn'd topsy-torvy by steamin'; The folks now-a-days hev ne dwellin'-place. Of hoose or of hyem niver dreamin'. This howiver, ne doot, is Grainger's luik-out, The greet Court-and -Market-exchanger; And wors iv'ry inch o' the gurnd to dispute, When the props o' wor toon are in danger. The Markets are gyen, exceptin' just yen Which the Cooncil kept out of his clutches; And the Courts he'll grab suin, if they let him alyen, But the day he'll repent he them touches. For the crabby awd dealers in ling, cod, and brats, And the vurgins that tempt us wi' nice maiden skyet, Will niver aw hope be the gudgeons or flats Te floonder aboot I' this huge movement-net. He'll neist try the Quay- the Custom Hoose tee- The Brig-and wor awd coaly River; But in spite o' the warst that a' Grainger can dee, They're wor awn, and we'll keep them for iver. They're cronies we've lang been accustom'd to see, For some o' them battled afore lang and sair; And though we're grown grey I’ the cause o' the Quay, We hev pluck eneugh left for a few tussels mair. They're fixtors, some awd-fashioned bodies may say, But where can we now for sec rarities surch? For a man walkin' off wif a Play-hoose te-day, May te morn slip away wi' St. Nicholas' Chorch. Let the Trinity folks o' their moorin's tyek care, Let them double their watch-or as sure as a gun They'll wyeken some morn leavin' Trinity Chare, And driftin' tiv Elswick afore a' be duin. The Radical movement is now all the go, But little like wors as ye'll easily guess, When aw tell ye that Grainger can move te and fro A chorch or a chapel like figurs at chess. The Cooncil, then, led by wor brave British Tar, Mun battle and watch for wor canny awd toon; And byeth tar and feather the hallion that dar' Te hoist his-sel up by haulin' huz doon. T. Wilson, 1843 British Tar-- George Straker, Esq. back to the song menu The Pea Jacket Wey, Mally, maw hinny! what thinks te aw'vee seen, And aw niver saw nowt half se dashin Aw've seen I' the toon, if aw may trust maw een, Maw Pea just the pink o' the fashion! Frae the cut and the claith and the hornbuttons tee, Aw said te mawsel, aw was sarten The fellow had snaffed maw best Sunday Pea Thou a' ways said aw was se smart in. If he'd breeches on, a lowse at the knee, And a chow iv his cheek o' rag backy, Thow'd sworn as he swagger'd doon Newcastle Quay That he was thy awn canny Jacky. Wor skipper cam up and aw tell'd him maw tyel, The Pea I' maw heed a'ways runin'; "Wey, man, " says he, " surely thou isn't thyself Not te knaw what's been gaun on in Lunnen. " The awd Corporations, the Doctors a' say, That meet at the hoose call'd St. Stephen, Are at their last gasp, and by next New Year's Day There winnet be yen o' them leevin'. "It lang hez been said they war gannin' te pot, But wor awn set it a' doon for leein', Till the Mayor and the Aldermen a' teuk the rot, And are now just like rotten sheep deein'. "Aw've just been up street--the toon's iv a low, And aw's frighten'd some mischief is brewin'. As a deed Corporation's not worth an awd chow, An' aw wadn't say much for the new un. "For the cock'd hat and goon that govern'd the toon, I' the days of awd Alderman Blackett, The Alderman myekin' are gawn te lay doon, An' tup on a keelman's Pea Jacket! " -T. Wilson, 1843 The author, in a note to this song writes:-" At the time those emblems of civic dignity, Alderman's gowns, went out of fashion, a new species of attire-to wit, "Pea Jackets"- came up. The lines on "The Pea Jacket" embody the feelings of an honest keelman, expressed to his wife on witnessing the metamorphosis which the "male creatures" had undergone. back to the song menu A Glance At Polly Technic "A collection of the most splendid productions of nature and art ever exhibited in Newcastle," this, the first Polytechnic Exhibition, was opened April 6th, 1840. It had a threefold object--to raise funds for the North of England Fine Arts Society, The Newcastle Mechanics' institute, and the Gateshead Mechanics' Institute. The Polytechnic closed with upwards of L.1,500 as a clear surplus to divide amongst the three institutions. It was here that John Watson, the brother of the author of "Thumpin' Luck." exhibited specimens of his beautiful engravings on glass. (See Life of William Watson. page 205) Aw've traveled East as weel as West, At Carlisle and the sea aw've been, And i' maw time aw think the myest Of a' the marvels here aw've seen. At Grainger's warks aw've wonder'd sair, Aw've stared at a' the feats o' steam, But at the 'Sociation mair-- Till now of a' that's grand the cream. But this is all a bagay tyel, For now the seet just torns maw brain, Sin' Polly Technic cam hersel Wiv a' her wonders in her train. She's gyen an' ransack'd iv'ry pairt, For rarities of iv'ry kind, As weel of Natur as of Airt, The pith o' mony a maister-mind. Aw glower'd aboot the Pictur Place, Aw ax'd for Judy o' the Hutch, But Judy's fyece aw cudn't trace- The want o' Judy vex'd me much. There's Belted Will the Border chief, If he wad speak, could thraw some leet On where se rankly prowled the thief That honest men war bad te meet. And here's maw horny-letteer'd frien', the corner-styen of a' wor lare, It is the finest thing aw've seen- O dear! aw's glad te see it there. Some feuls may giggle at the nyem O' byeth the Hornbuick and Tom Thumb; But where is it if not frae them That a' yor Polly Technics come? The "branks", a kind o' brake, is here, Wor faithers, when a' else was vain, Compell'd the noisy jades te weer Whene'er their clappers ran amain. Eh! "nick-sticks! nick-sticks!" what are they? O! now aw hae'd:-they're used at hyem, And when kept decently in play The branks was but an empty nyem. And here's wor hatless Minstrel tee, That roam'd aboot wor canny city, And charm'd the guzzlers o' the Quay wi' mony a simple hyem-spun ditty. Aw think aw hear him fiddlin' still, And on Sur Maffa sweet strummin, Which help'd away wi' mony a gill 'Mang fuddlin' men and queerish women. But aw mun end maw simple tyel- It's now ower lang, aw sadly fear; Te Polly praise there's nyen can fyel- Wor bairns will praise her mony a year. Minstrel= Blind Willie 'Sociation = The British Association's visit to Newcastle, 1838. The "wise week" was crowded with meetings lectures, exhibitions, etc. -T. Wilson, 1843 back to the song menu The Market Day Oh! hinny Jack, aw've wearied sair To see the come back frae the pay, That aw may get it ettled reet: Te-morn, thou knaws, is market day. Aw gat the bits o' bairns te bed, Conn'd ower the things we wanted myest; But 'till aw knaw'd what thou had myed, Maw ettlin' was but nobbut guessed. Aw's glad te see it is se much, And noo hev hopes to get the goon Thou promised, in thy wily way, The varry furst good fortnith's hewin'. This mun stand furst upon the list. That sadly croods maw muddled brain; And, just like wanderin' iv a mist, Te fix the rest seems all in vain. Thou munnet Bobby's clogs forget That we hev promised him se lang, Te keep him frae the cawd and wet He's barefoot trudged for weeks amang. And little Sall wants varry sair A bit new ribbon for her hat; She says, "Aw's sure ye this mun spare: Ye knaw aw've lang expected that." Thou wants some odds and ends thyself": Thy panties luick but varry bare: Thy coat's beginnin' sair te fyell, At elbows it wants some repair. Thou'll mebby call at Alder Dunn's To see if maw bit hat be duin, For aw've te stand for Nelly's bairn In it, neist Sunday efternuin,. Now, just as he was gawn te leave, A little curly-heeded callant Tuik deddy softly by the sleeve, And said, "Eh! fetch me heym a ballant, "Or else some funny story buick That aw may read tiv Uncle Joe, As he sits laughin' i' the nuick-- He diz enjoy these worthies so. "The feats of Hickathrift and Hood All pass with him for Gospel truth, And ony doot he nivir coiuld Admit, e'en frae the preacher's mooth." Noo, hinny! mind thoiu comes suin hyem, Aw' hev a white kyeck for thy tea, Thou knaws the treat's nut like the syem Withoot thy canny company. -T. Wilson, " Northern Tribune," 1854 back to the song menu The Colours O'er Northumbria's hill and dale, Far and wide the summons flew: Dallying with the summer gale, Four gay banners court the view. Where bright beauty's glance is beaming, Lasses' love, and lad's delight, See young Liddell's colours streaming In a flood of pink and white. Unstain'd and true see deep true blue With lighter tints combine, For honest Bell the triumph swell, And deck the coaly Tyne. From Hexham's towers, from Bywell's bowers, From Allen's wilder shade, While Beaumont's name loud bands proclaim, Glints forth the White Cockade. From mountains rough, old blue and buff, That oft has won the day, Is loath to yield, untried the field, And waves once more for Grey. Two must win, though four may woo, Mingle, while ye mingle may, Pink and white, and buff and blue, In a medley strange and gay. Gay fleeting colours shift and blend Beneath the sunbeam bright; Two may last to six years' end, And two must fade ere night. 'Twas thus Northumbria's genius spoke, And cast a pitying glance behind, As from old Alnwick's bowers she broke, And mounted on the eddying wind. She raised on high the bonny Bell, And Liddell's red rose streaked with pale; The blue and buff, and the White Cockade, She scattered on the rising gale. -Surtees, Richardson's Table-Book, 1842 Written on the memorable election for the County of Northumberland in 1826, when there were four candidates. The contest lasted from the 20th of June to the 6th of July, and the numbers polled for each candidate were:- The Hon. H. T. Liddell, 1562; M. Bell, Esq., 1380; T.W. Beaumont, Esq., of Bywell, 1335; and Lord Viscount Howick (who declined the contest on the 3rd), 976. Robert Surtees, historian of the county of Durham, born in Durham City, died at his seat at Mainsforth on the 11th February 1834 aged 55 years. back to the song menu King Willy's Coronation O marrows a', noo clear yor throats, An' drop yor botheration; Come join me in a stave or two Aboot the Coronation, The wad refuse wi' me to sing The praises o' wor canny king- Of Brunswick House, the breetest star-- Newcassel's pride--a jolly tar? Fra Mr. Mayor to wor P.D. Extend yor jaws, an’ sing wi’ glee King Willy’s Coronation. Fal de ral, etc. Tho' Shield may sing in magic strains The mony happy days, man, When wor Association lads Engross'd the folks's praise, Man: In Blackett's Field we'd sic a feast, Where sixteen hundred men, at least, Did exercise wi' knife an' fork, An' hew'd away at beef an' pork. We'd loyal toasts, an' clivvor spokes, Wi' music fine, an' funny jokes On Willy's Coronation. Ma sarties, hed ye nobbit seen Green's bonny silk balloon, man! Reet fra the Spital to the clouds It flaffer'd very suen, man. Wi' starin' aw near lost ma seet, Amang the crowd in Westgate Street; Fra some aw gat an ugly thump, They brak my nose agyen the pump, An' stole my hat, an' tore my sark; Becrike, but there was bonny wark On Willy's Coronation. Off, helter-skelter wi' the thrang, Aw reach'd Necassel Brig, man, To view the boats that were to run Wor clivvor Sandgate gig, man. Away they flew, 'mid noise and din! Byeth Shilds and Scotswood tried to win, But Sandgate lads are just the breed, Like hearts of oak they tuik the lead; To win the prize they warn't lang- Byeth sides o' Tyne their victory sang On Willy's Coronation. Aw jump'd as aw went te the Garth Wi' cousin Dicky Reed, man, An' at a strangie's shop aa bowt A cover for ma heed, man; Then cuick'd wor houghs at the Blue Bell, Talk'd ower the spree, an' smack'd the yell; Then toddled hyem to wor dame Peg-- At scolding she is such a cleg- Aboot ma sark for years she'll chat, My broken nose, an' fine shag hat, On Willy's Coronation -Emery, Local Songs and Song Writers, "Weekly Chronicle," 1879 Copied from an old manuscript of Robert Emery's, and sent to the Weekly Chronicle by Emery's son in 1879. The Coronation took place on September 8th 1831. The song very fairly records the rejoicings on the occasion .It recalls the previous coronation- that of George the Fourth, in 1819--to which it affords a pleasing contrast. back to the song menu The Skipper's Visit to the Polytechnic O, Geordy, hinney, gan away, An' see what aw hev seen, man- The Polytechnic's such a treat, 'Twad please wor very Queen, man! Prince Albert tee, aw hev ne doot, Wad swear that Lunnin oot an' oot Was fairly be't with all her pride, And give the palm to wor Tyneside. E'en Billy Purvis an' his show And Thorne's Theatre are no go To wor Tyne Polytechnic. The paintings there wad make ye stare, Some awd an' some quite new, man, And lots o' bony China ware Of patterns not a few, man, There's relics now not worth a groat, Like Cuddy Willie's awd greet coat, With arms and armour fra the Tower, That sav'd wor lads in mony a stour; There's coats and caps a' myed o' steel, An' clubs wad make awd Horney squeel, In wor Tyne Polytechnic. They've lantrens that can raise the deil An' myek him wag his tail, man, With microscopes that turn at once A sprat into a whale, man. There birdies sing an' look so nice, Rare plants fra Eden's Paradise. The incubcator scar'd me sore, For bairns an' chickens by the score It manufactures very free, 'Twad neither suit wor Peg nor me, At wor Tyne Polytechnic. There's plows and harrows for the sod, An' mirrors--such a show, man, At which a skipper and his men Might shave frae top to toe, man. There's Armstrong, by some magic wand, Makes great machines work at command; The weavers they were thrang at wark, Amaz'd--aw roar'd oot--smash my sark, Wor Peg shall hev a posey gown To mense here when she comes to toon. To wor Tyne Polytechnic. A water fountain in full play, Where ships o' war might float, man; And on a stand not far away Was Harry Clasper's boat, man; But here maw brains began to reel, Enchanted at the organ's peal; Its pipes like distant thunder roll'd, Then squeek'd like mice i' wor keel's hold, Aw'd sit an' listen half a year, For music fine the heart does cheer. In wor Tyne Polytechnic. A chep was pulling at a thing, Its nyem aw cuddent guess, man; He said te me se very free It is a printing press, man, And if you do not take the hint, I'll soon put all your thoughts in print, An' sure enough, before 'twas lang, He form'd maw thowts into this sang; 'Twas very like a magic trick, But suen fra him aw cut maw stick At wor Tyne Polytechnic. Aw've been at France, aw've been at Shields, An' likewise Shiney Raw, man, Where aw've seen lots o' wondrous things Above grund and belaw, man; But these greet wonders mun give in, To say owt else wad be a sin, The Polytechnic cuts the shine, An' sheds a ray o'er Bonny Tyne; E'en Cocknies ower their midnight bowls Will toast with glee like jolly souls Wor Town and Polytechnic. -Emery, Broadside printed at Polytrechnic, 1848. Written on the second Polytechnic Exhibition, commencing Easter Monday, 1848. It was held in the same suite of rooms as the first (1840); the entrance was from the Academy of Arts, Blackett Street; a gallery crossing High Friar Street connecting the rooms with those in the Granger Street division. In the Exhibition, on a press worked by the author, Mr. Emery, the song was first printed. back to the song menu Mally and the Prophet 'Twas rumour'd about that a wonderful Prophet, Who liv'd mony years afore Adam an' Eve, Wad preach to the folks in Newcassel Wheat Market, Which myed them a' run his advice to receive; The coat on his back fairly puzzles the tailors, An' deil smash a shoe or a stockin' he'll wear: He drinks nowt that's stranger than pure caller waiter, An' turns his nose up at wor Newcassel beer. Right fal, etc. Wor Mally, determin'd to be like her neighbours, Suen dress'd her-sel' up in her fine chintzie goon; Thro' Sandgit she waddled as cliver as Lunnin; To see this queer man she steer'd straight for the toon. She hail'd Cuckoo Jack at the foot of the Kee, man: He caper'd an' roar'd like a cull silly block-- "O marrows! see! yonder gans crazy awd Mally, To glow'r like a feul at Hepple's gyem cock." Right fal, etc. The keel-bullies nicker'd but on Mally doddl'd, An' said tiv her-sel, "May the deil cock ye blind; Aw'll speak to the Prophet to send ye, the next tide, To the bottom o' Tyne iv a greet gale o' wind." She reached the Sandhill, where Blind Willie was tellin' The truth 'bout the Prophet yet thowt he did mock; "There's nowt there." says he, "but a a few wanton huzzies, Thrang catchin' an' pullin' Bob Hepple's gyem cock." Right fal, etc Still Mally push'd forward, quite sure she wad see him, Not heedin' the jeers and the jokes that were pass'd; To laugh at a prophet she thowt it was cullish. Wi' sair tues she reach'd the Wheat Market at last; Cull Billy cam up, an' she ask'd for the Prophet (By this time St. Nicholas' had struck ten o'clock); "There's no such thing, woman," said Billy "I'm certain; I fancy you want to see Hepple's game cock." Right fal, etc. And Mally, enraged, was about to give battle, But Billy convinc'd her, which seun stopp'd her mouth, That both cocks an' hens, he said, liv'd before Adam; That each cock's a prophet is well known for truth. The hoax thus explained, greet was Mally's vexation, to think she'd been made a complete laughing-stock; Then kilted her coats and trudg'd back to the Swirle, And often gets vext aboot Hepple's gyem cock. Right fal, etc. -Emery, "Bards of the Tyne," 1849. Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Part 14 Directory 13 Click here for main menu of this directory. Use our floating menu to improve navigation. you can reposition it by clicking on top bar and dragging Floating Menu Menu of all of the Sangs Click here For tunes in .abc notation click here For an index of persons and places mentioned in the sangs click here For Bibliography,and Philosophy of the collection click here We invite you to contribute! Click here to comment or add. Soon after our upgrade the songs which the priests have recorded will be high-lighted thusly (Where you see the music note image there will be a midi file-for you to listen to!) Your Choices! The Main Menu! Main Menu All songs in this directory and their citations come from Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings With Lives, Portraits, and Autographs of the Writers and Notes on the Songs, Revised Edition, Thomas & George Allan, 18 Blackett Street, and 34 Collingwood Street. Sold By- W. Allan, 30 Grainger Street; R. Allan, North Shields, London: Walter Scott, 1891 The Curds-And-Cream House Ghost. The Wizard of the North; or, The Mystic Policeman. Merry Lads of Gyetshead The Pitman and the Blackin' The Newcastle Lad; Luckey's Dream St. Nicholas' Church The Noodle Marsden Rock The Exile's Return The Wonderful Tallygrip When We were at the Skuel Polly's Nickstick The High Level Bridge Callerforney The Pawnshop Bleezin' Days and Deeds of Shakspere Hamlick, Prince of Denton. The Pitman's Happy Times. Betty Beesley and Her Wooden Man. He Wad Be a Noodle The Toon Improvement Bill The Rise in Coals Asstrilly: or, The Pitman's Farewell Asstrilly's Goold Fields; or, Tommy Carr's Letter Tommy Carr's Adventures in Asstrilly Bobby the Boxer Warkworth Feast The Kipper'd Herrin' Deeth O' Billy Purvis Use this Pull down form to go to our other pages To return to the top of this page click here. The Curds-And-Cream House Ghost. Tune-- "Walker, the Twopenny Postman." O, the neet was pick dark, and a strang wind did roar, When abuen the Cat's Tail wor aud keel ran ashore; And in tryin' te clear her we brak' wor sweep oar, So she stuck there as tight as a post, man. Te get her afloat a' wor strength waddent de; Says Dick, "Let's a' hands back te toon on the spree, And fast in the huddock we'll leave the Pee Dee, Te be fretten'd te deeth wi' the ghost, man." They'd scarce jumped ashore when Pee Dee, the sly rat, Gat oot, and ran doon to a stile, where he sat Till the bullies cam up, then he squalled like a cat; "O, marrows!" roared Dick, "that's the ghost, man!" Such yells in the dark myed the brave bullies stop; And doon, deed as mutton, the skipper did drop; Cries Dick, "We're poor men nobbet gawn on the hop! Hev marcy on us, maister ghost, man!" "Te the regions belaw," cried the ghost, "cum away!" Then the skipper jumped up, shooting, "Pray, hinnies, pray!" "Ye ken Gospel," ki Dick, "so kens best what te say, Speak ye te this monstrous ghost, man!" Wi' thor hair reet on end, and thor blud like te freeze, Myest deaved wi' greet yells, they dropped doon on thor knees, And blubbered and cried, "We'll de owt that ye please, Nobbit leave us alyen, hinny ghost, man!" When off the ghost flew wiv a terrible scream: They ran into a hoose where they sell curds and cream; My sarties, astonished the wifie did seem, When they swore hoo they'd mawled a greet ghost, man; But had they but knawn it was nobbit Pee Dee, They wad hammered his ribs, just te letten him see That te put them in fear he'd hev much mair te de Than te yelp in the dark like a ghost, man Cat’sTail--The scene of the song-a small valley a little above the Shot Tower. -Emery, 1862 back to the song menu The Wizard of the North; or, The Mystic Policeman. Tune-- "Hurrah for the Bonnets o' Bonnie Dundee." Aw've cum fresh frae Mackies' tae sing ye a sang, Aboot a queer chap-but aw'll not keep ye lang- Of the prime cock-tail stingo aw just had my share, Whenthe Journeyman Tailor Popp'd in, I declare. Chorus. He's a limb of the deevil, as sure as you're here, For he's learn'd him the art to restore stolen gear; But stop her there, Tommy--lang may wor boast be, That the Journeyman Tailor's the top o' the tree He can flee through the air like a witch on a broom, And bring a defaulter straight back to his doom; In spite of all weather, blow foul, or blow fair, The Journeyman Tailor is sure to be there. He's a limb of the deevil, etc. His smell is so keen that he kens biv his nose When a pick-pocket's near, and he's soon on his toes; So ye light-fingered kiddies at races beware, For the Journeyman Tailor is sure to be there. He's a limb of the deevil, etc. The Cockneyfied runners of Bow Street may pine, To think they're eclips'd by a son of the Tyne; Let them bluster like Yankees, but little we care, For wor journeyman Tailor can make them all stare. He's a limb of the deevil etc. Three cheers for Newcastle! three cheers for the Tyne! Where "had-away Harry," se often did shine! And for peace and protection we'll never despair As long as the Journeyman Tailor is there. He's a limb of the deevil, etc. Mr John Elliot, now Superintendent of the Gateshead Police Force, was for several years the chief detective at Newcastle-upon-Tyne. He was noted for his skill. The "Journeyman Tailor," a by-name by which he was spoken of by the criminal classes whose security he often disturbed-- is an allusion to his business before he joined the force.- Note, 1872 edition. Mr. Elliott resigned the office of Chief Constable, June 1891. Emery, 1862 back to the song menu Merry Lads of Gyetshead Tune-- "Sunny Banks of Scotland." Come, lads, assemble in a ring, And a' your flutes an' fiddles bring, And join wi' me all ye that sing, To praise the lads of Gyetshead. They are se frank, they are se free, They please the lasses tiv a tee; They cry there's nyen that e'er aw see Can match the lads of Gyetshead Chorus Then fill the glasses up wi' glee, And drink to them wi three times three, Lang may they live and happy be, The merry lads of Gyetshead. The mothers warn their dowters fair Of a' young men for to beware, But myest of a', ma bairn, tyek care Of them blithe lads of Gyetshead. They are se wily and se kind, They seun wad win a lass's mind. When aw was young 'twas rare to find A lad like them of Gyetshead Then fill their glasses, etc. When'er they gan to tyek a gill At Jenny Brown's or where they will, Ye find them blithe and cheerful still, The merry lads of Gyetshead; Or when at Kenmir's house they meet, Se happily they spend the neet, Say what ye will, there's nyen can beat The merry lads of Gyetshead. Then fill the glasses, etc. At hoppin times, when fiddles play, When lads and lasses dance a' day, Abyun them a' they tyek the sway, The merry lads of Gyetshead. The country lads to beat them try, But na, na, na, they canna come nigh; The aud wives cock their thums and cry, Weel dyun, the lads of Gyetshead. Then fill the glasses, etc. Aw henna power their worth to tell, Abyun a' else they bear the bell, And oh! let me for ever dwell Amang the lads of Gyetshead. Ye power abyun, to them be kind, And keep them still in friendship joined; When life is o'er then let me find In Heaven the lads of Gyetshead. Then fill the glasses, etc. -Tyneside Minstrel," 1824 by B. First appeared in the Tyneside Minstrel, 1824 published by W. Stephenson, Jun. There is no author given only the initial B. It is the only song in the collection under that signature. back to the song menu The Pitman and the Blackin' O, Betty, come and see my byuts, The upper leather's crackin'; It's a' wi' cleanin' them wi' syut, And niver usin' blackin'. But, Betty, awl gan ti the toon Ti-morn, and see my uncle Brown; And if it costs me half-a-crown, Awl buy a pot o' blackin'. For comin' hyem fra wark te neet, Aw met wi' Willy Dewar; His shoes were glitterin' on his feet-- He lyuckt like some heed viewer. My eyes bein' dazzled at the seet, Says aw, what myeks your shoes se breet, He said to me, In Blackett Street Aw bought a pot o' blackin'. It's myed, said he, by T. McCree, It's noted up and down, man; It is the best, it heads the rest In a' Newcassel toon, man. Byeth pyest and liquid ye may get Te myek yor shoes as black as jet; It will presarve them when they're wet, This celebrated blackin''. There's Warren hes a vast o' slack, And cuts a deal o' capers, But still McCree he hes the crack In a' Newcassel's papers. Then if thou wants thy byuts ti shine, Or shoes ti be as breet as mine, Gan, Tommy, thou to toon in time, And buy a pot o' blackin'. Then, Betty, jewel, if this be true, Awl gan ti-morrow mornin', And awl bring hyem a pot or two, Awl not be lang returnin'. Then Betty, it'll be a joke, When ye get on yor tartin cloak; They'll tyek us for some better folk, Wor shoes being bright wi' blackin'. -Nunn The first song in Nunn's book is said to be the first song he wrote, and for which, the story runs, he got half-a-crown as his pay. The McCrees, whose blacking he puffs, were some fifty years ago well-known tradesmen in Newcastle. The Rev. T. McCree, about the first to devote himself to mission work amongst the outcast poor, was another brother. back to the song menu The Newcastle Lad; Or, Newcastle is my Native Place Tune--"An' sae will we yet." Newcastle is my native place, where my mother sigh'd for me, I was born in Rewcastle Chare, the center of the Kee; There early life I sported, quite free from care and pain! But alas! those days are past and gone, they'll never come again No, they'll never come again, etc. The sent me to the Jub'lee school, a scholar to make me, Where Tommy Penn, my monitor, learned me my A, B, C; My master to correct me, often used his whip and cane, But I can say with confidence, he'll never do't again. No, he' never, etc. I left the school and to a trade I went to serve my time; The world with all its flattering charms before me seem'd to shine; Then there was plenty cash astir, and scarce one did complain, But ah! alas! those days are past, and ne'er will come again. No, they'll never, etc. Like other youths I had a love to wander by my side, And oft I whisper'd in her ear that she should be my bride; And ev'ry time I kissed her lips, she cried " O fie, for shame!" But with "Good-night," she always said, "Now mind you come again!" No mind, etc. At last to church I went away with Sally to be wed, For thoughts of matrimony came, and troubled then my head. The priest that tied the fatal knot, I now can tell him plain, If I was once more single he should never do't again. He should never, etc. Now, like another married man, I've with the world to fight, But never mind, let friendship reign amongst us here to-night, Then with a bumper in each hand let every heart exclaim, Here's happy may we separate and happy meet again! And happy meet, etc. (This song, in all probability, a little of Nunn's own early life.) Nunn. back to the song menu Luckey's Dream Tune--"Caller Fair." The other neet aw went t' bed, Bein' weary wi maw wark, man, Aw dreamt that Billy Scott was deed, It's curious t' remark, man. Aw thowt aw saw his buryin' fair, An' knew the comp'ny a', man, For a' poor Billy's frinds were there. Ti see him levelled law, man. Blind Willie slawly led the band, As beagle on the way, man, A staff he carried in his hand, An' shook his heed se grey, man; At his reet hand was Buggy Jack, Wi' his hat brim se broad, man; And on his left was Bill the Black, Ti lead him on his road, man. Big Bob, X Y, and other two, That leeves upon the deed, man, They bore his corpse before the crew, Expectin' t' be free'd, man. His nyemsek, Euphy Scott, was there, Her bonny Geordy, tee, man; Distress'd they cried, this happy pair, Ne mair we will him see, man. Bold Jocker was amang them, tee, Brave Cuckoo Jack an' a', man; And Hairy Tom, the keelman's son, And Bonny Dolly Raw, man; And Bella Roy and Tatie Bet, They cried till oot o' breath, man; For sair these twosome did regret For canny Billy's death, man. But Hangy luickt above them a', He is se sma' and lang, man; And Bobby Knox the Dogbank ox, Was sobbin' i' the thrang, man. And Coiner, wi' his swill and shull, Was squeakin' like a bairn, man; And Knack-knee'd Mack, that drucken fyul, Like a monkey he did gairn, man. Tally-i -oo, that dirty wreetch, Was then the next aw saw, man; And Peggy Powell, Step-and-Fetch, Was haddin' up her jaw, man: And frae the Close was Bobby Hush, Wi' his greet gob se wide, man; Alang wi' him was Push-Peg-Push, Lamentin' by his side, man. And Roguish Ralph, and Busy Bruce, That lives upon their prey, man, Did not neglect but did protect Their frinds upon th way, man. And Jimmy Liddle, drest in black, Behint them a' did droop, man; He had a coat on like the quack That feeds us a' wi' soup, man. Now, when they got him tiv his grave, He then began to shoot, man, For Billy being but in a trance, B' this time cam' aboot, man. Then Jocker wi' a sandy styen The coffin splet wi' speed, man-- They a' rejoiced to see agyen Poor Bill they thowt was deed, man. When a' his friends that roond him stood Had gettin' him put reet, man, They a' went ti the Robin Hood, To spend a jovial neet, man. Ne mair for Billy they did weep, But happy they did seem, man: Just then aw waken''d frae my sleep, And fund it was a dream, man. -Nunn. back to the song menu St. Nicholas' Church Tune--"Nae Luck about the House." Oh, bonny church, ye've studden lang Ti mense wor canny toon, An' aw believe ye are se strang Ye niver will come doon. The Arkiteckts, wiv a' their wit, May say that ye will fa', But let them talk, aw'll match ye yet' Agyen the churches a'. Chorus Of a' the churches in our land, Let them be e'er se braw, St. Nicholas' of Newcassel toon Completely bangs them a'. Ye lang hae stud the bitter blast, But lang'r shall ye'll stand; And ye hae been for ages past A pattern for wor land. Yor bonny steeple lyuks se grand, The hyel world speaks o' ye; Ye've been the crack for centreys back, An' will be when we dee. It's true the're patching ye aboot Wi' iron, styen, an' wood, But let them patch, aw heve a doot They'll de ye little good. But te be sure it's myekin wark, There's plenty lives on ye, Not only tradesmen an' their clerks, But greedy black coats tee. Yor bonny bells there's nyen excells In a' the country roun'; They ring se sweet, they are a treat When they play Jinny's tyun; And when all's still a' dark at neet, Ye, wi' yor fiery eye, Can tell the travellers i' the street The time as they pass by. O that King William wad cum doon To see his subjects rare, And view the buildins i' wor toon, He wad crack on them sair; But when he saw ye, canny church, Aw think ho he'd admire The ancient glorious Gothic arch That bears the lofty spire. Now to conclude my little song, Maw simple local theme, Aw trust that if aw've said owt wrang That aw will be forgi'en. Then lang may fam'd St. Nicholas' stand, Oh niver may't come doon, That when we dee wor bairns may see The glory o' wor toon. -Nunn back to the song menu The Noodle Tune- -"Jeannette and Jeannot." You're going to be a Noodle bold, a valiant Volunteer; You think you'll have a lazy week, and get your swig of beer. But you'll fight your battles o'er your pipe, and ne'er receive a scar, You blue-tail bumbler, cock-tail tumbler, dare not go to war. When you wear the dirty whites, and the sloggerin' jacket blue, I fear that you will then forget what we may think of you. With your musket backside first, and your bayonet, lord knows where, You'll be marching like a hero, to make the lasses stare. When the trumpet sounds for glory, you'll be madly rushing in To Atkins' or to Thomas's, to spend your hard-earned tin: And there you'll sit carousing till you're turned out at night, Well knowing it is better far to fuddle than to fight. I would I were our noble Queen much better Matty Bell, I'd send such would-be warriors to a place I dare not tell; All the town should be at peace, and the fellows who compose The swaggerin' volunteers should find themselves in meat and clothes. -Gilroy, 1853 back to the song menu Marsden Rock The sultry sun aloft has roll'd And ting'd the hills and dales with gold; The sea her silv'ry robes unfold Her swelling bounds along. Th' enraptured sky is calm and clear, Come now to Marsden Rock repair: Inhale the fresh and balmy air, Which floats in cooling breezes there, The bright blue waves among. The fruitful tree, and rustling corn, Wave beauteous to the rosy morn; The birds, on rosy pinions borne, Proclaim it in a song. In fleecy showers the pearly spray, From ocean's briny fountain play; And, skimming o'er the watery way, The Sea-mews strike their finny prey The bright blue waves among. Let steamers gay with beau and belle Chime up, for Seaton Delaval, Or Warkworth's towers and hermit's cell, May fascinate the young; But Marsden Rock has charms for me, Reposing on a summer sea; Their features wild I love to see, And on the velvet beds to be The bright blue waves among The tumbling surge unrapts the strand, Bespangled lays the beaming sand, Your early footsteps to command, And pleasures to prolong. Away! the fragrant fields in flow'r; Perfumes the path to Allen's bow'r; With pealing mirth awake the shore And ring old Marsden's rocky tow'r, The bright blue waves among. Then crown the beach, enchanted roam-- And hail their light-ships to their home-- Our fostered seamen, how they come, And to its bosom throng. With beauty graced in smiles divine, We'll tribute pay to Peter's shrine, And drink success to Wear and Tyne; For long may their proud Commerce shine The bright blue waves among. -Peacock, "Bards of the Tyne," 1849. back to the song menu The Exile's Return Recitative-- "The Old English Gentleman." From wandering in a distant land, an exile had return'd, And when he saw his own dear stream, his soul with pleasure burn'd; The days departed, and their joys, came bounding to his breast, And thus the feelings of his heart in native strains expressed. Tune--"The Keel Row"-Sung slowly Flow on, majestic river, Thy rolling course for ever; Forget thee will I never, Whatever fate be mine! Oft on thy banks I've wander'd And on thy beauties ponder'd: Oh! many an hour I've squander'd By bonny coaly Tyne! Flow on, etc. Oh! Tyne, in thy bright flowing There's magic joy bestowing; I feel thy breezes blowing, Their perfume is divine! I've sought thee in the morning, When crimson clouds were burning, And thy green hills adorning, Thy hills, oh, bonny Tyne! When stormy seas were round me, And distant nations bound me, In memory still I found thee A ray of hope benign! Thy valleys lie before me, Thy woods are waving o'er me; My home, thou dost restore me! I hail thee, bonny Tyne! Chorus Flow on, majestic river, Thy rolling course for ever; Forget thee will I never, Whatever fate be mine! -J.P. Robson, "Bards of the Tyne," 1849 back to the song menu The Wonderful Tallygrip. The following humorous account of that modern wonder, the electric telegraph, was originally sung at the Wheat Sheaf Music Saloon, Cloth Market. It became at once a great favorite. Tune--"Barbara-Bell." Iv a' the greet wonders that daggles wor blinkers, The Tallygrip's sartin the king o' them a'; It bothers wor maisters, an' viewers, an' sinkers, An' hauds them as dumb as a cuddy's lockjaw. Whei it's just a bit wire, like the string ov a fiddle, Gans alang biv some stobs for te ring a bit bell; The leetnin', ye ken, runs alang by the middle, An' turns th' twe poknters se cliver te spell. The Tallygrip travels by neet an' by day, man, An' sends a' the news te the man i' the meun; If ye want to be wedded there's nowse for te pay, man- Wivoot ony parson the job can be deun. Big Matty, wor keeker, was married at Howdon Wivoot ony ring, but the ring iv a bell; An' Mally, his bride, was then stoppin at Bowden,- Smash! the Tallygrip said a' the sarvis itsel. Hoot, man, thor's ne prenter nor shorthandy writer Can scribble, like Tally, the speeches se fine; She kens ivery blaw that can sobble a fighter, An' coonts ivery feul on the banks o' wor Tyne. The "blue-bottle" cheps hes queer sprees on the rain, man; The Tallygrip catches folks 'fore they can leet; That little clock fyece gars the "swells" hing their tail, man,-- Ralphy Little ca's Tally the Policeman's Beat. Rowley Hill, aw's aflaid, mun be knock'd on the heed, man, An' letters gan free by the Tallygrip's string; Ne trouble o' writin', an' far quicker speed, man- Gox! we'll lairn a' the blackies "Pit Laddie " to sing. But the negurs 'll ken that us whiteys is traders, When we cork a' wor jaaws "Lucy Neal" for te shoot, Wi' wor knackers an' drums, like aud Nick's sorrynaders, An' carwin like Banties that's bad i' the moot. Aw went, t'other neet, for te hear some fine singin', At Blambra's grand consort, an' hear a' thor cracks; An there aw seun spied a' thor Cupid lads hingin', An' gas-leeters myed oot o' cannels o' wax. A chep played Pianny, an' bonny she soonded: A leddy sung sweet, like a bird i’ the skies; A chep they ca' Spiers was the joker that croon'd it, But Charley, the fiddler, bang'd a' for his size. Noo, what de ye think? it's as true as aw's stannin, Afore aw gat hyem te wor hoose on the Fell, Aw met wi' Blue Bella, an' ca'd at the Cannon, An' just was beginnin o' Blambra's te tell, When a gentleman chep stopt me short I' me story, Sayd he, "Sir, ye heerd a grand consort last neet; The news cam' te Lunnon--I knew it before ye," Gox, smash! 'twas the gospel-- the Tally was reet! So aw'd hae ye, maw marrows, te mind what yor deein, An' not gan galantin wi' sweethearts an' that, For the tellypie Tally 'ill seun send her fleein, An' mevies sum cheps might get inte the hat! Whei dinnet ye knaw when wor Queen gat her bed, man, The couchers o' Lunnon scarce 'liver'd a son- Aye, afore the young prince wi' spice boily was fed, man, The greet 'lumination o' the Tyne was a' deun. -J.P. Robson back to the song menu When We were at the Skuel Tune- -"Nae luck aboot the hoose." I just maun chaunt a wee bit sang, An' play for yence the fyul; An' tell the evils o' the days When we were at the skuel. Ah! weel ye mind the wooden leg, An' think ye hear it stump; Ye'll no forget the "Grey Meer Meg," The name just gars me jump. Chorus When we were at the skuel, my lads, We oft wished to be man; We gat our wishes: now we lang To be at skuel agyen. The Dom'nee lo'ed the "Quaker's Wife"-- The sang, I mean--fu' weel; He whistled as we sang for life, He drummed to make us squeel. The dreadful "Clog" fast to the ring, An' "Ginglesby," the sprite, That in the garret wav'd his wing, Filled a' our hearts wi' fright. Ah, man! to kneel two hours or sae Upon a ruler round Was sic a pleasure in that day, The like's now seldom found. An' then upon a desk to kick, Grip'd fast by leg and arm, Weel hammer'd wiv a clubby stick-- It garred ye feel a' warm. The maister was a canty chiel, At ba' in skuel he'd play; He did not heed the lads a deal, An' what could callants say? He'd fry us pancakes at a pinch, An' clout our heads when dull, An' nip wor lugs, and gar us flinch- They were grand times at skuel. Methinks I see the bonny spot Where pears an' apples grew; We didna like to see them rot, Sae kindly pluck'd a few. Wor lads-- the maisters kens it a'-- Stuff bags down ilka back, And if the cane should chance to fa', Ye'll never tent the crack. Ye'll no forget the Washing Tubs, The burn's Green Water Pyul? Ye'll maybe mind o' Tommy's rubs, When ye cam late to skuel Your memory o' the battle speaks, When foes were doom'd to fa'; Tho' Roman chiels, ye fought like Greeks, But best--ahint the wa'! The days are gyen--yet still we cling To recollections dear; We haud the bee without the sting- The thought without the fear. O! merry were the days o' yule, When our good pastor came Wi' grand prize buiks and cakes to skuel, An' sent us dancing hame. Where is that honoured pastor now? His fate was like the lave: Time laid his cauld hand on his pow: We bore him to his grave. An' when his image meets our ken, The faithful tear is given; But--let us never weep again,-- He'll no come back frae Heaven. Washing Tubs and Great Water Pyul -- Both famous bathing places for boys at Jesmond Burn. -J.P. Robson, "Bards of the Tyne," 1849 back to the song menu Polly's Nickstick Written on the Second Polytechnic Exhibition, opened Easter Monday, 1848 Tune-- "X,Y,Z. Smash, marrows! but aw's like to drop, At summat aw mun tell, man! Aw went te see wor Polly's shop: Aw thowt te see hersel', man! In Blackett Street the place aw fand, For Poll''s awn hoose 'twas ower grand; But in aw bowls:-- when, in a box A chep says, "Sixpence, sir!" by gox! "Hoot, man," says aw, "yor pickin' fun! Aw's Polly's feyther's youngest son, Just come to see her Nickstick!" Aw pays the lad the money doon (For brass aw niver cares, man!), An' suen seed picturs stuck aroon', An' kissin' folks in pairs, man! A little lad, wi' greyhoond bitch, Was gan a bonny bool te pitch; A lass wes shiverin' wi' the caud, An' bonny legs, poor thing, she had: Saws aw, "Maw bairn, gan hyem wi' me, An' ye shall hae spice kyek and tea, An' leave wor Polly's Nickstick. A chep was snorin' 'mang the trees, They said 'twas Charley King, man! Says aw, "giv' ower wi' yor lees, Aw kens another thing, man! For Charley's pluck for ony thieves, And wadn't skulk amang the leaves. So, freend, just drop yor Cockney craw, Or mevvies aw may crack yor jaw." So at his lug aw myed a spring, Te tell him aw was Charley King, The freend o' Polly's Nickstick! Queen Bess aw spied in Punch's box, Wi' ruffles roond her chin, man! An' Burley, slee as ony fox; An' Leester, luikin' thin, man! A greet fat chep, wi' horns a pair, Was dancin' wi' sum Hoo-hoos there; An' Fletcher, wiv his play-hoose crack, Wi' aud rare Benny, drest i' black; An Shakspur, tee, that stole the bull, Then ca'd the may'r a slaverin' cull, A' graced wor Polly's Nickstick. Bill Martin wagg'd me tiv his side, Te prove his brother's skill, man! Says he, "That king yence stopp'd the tide, An' held the waves at will, man! The chucks an' gravel luiks alive, An' in yon wave a whale might dive!' Says aw, "By gox! that's Cullercoats, Except there is ne fisher boats; An', smash! the sun is gan te fry Yon cloods that luik like plucks on high, Te feed wor Polly's Nickstick!" Noo, fra this show aw hows away, 'Mang fishes, birds, and beasts, man! An' certainly aw's boun' te say, Aw had a cliver feast, man! Pall parrots, snipes, and kangaroos, Redshanks, an' squarrels, an' cuckoos; White skulls o' bairns, or else baboons; Stuff'd hedgehogs, otters and racoons; Tape worms, an' crabs, an' turtles rare, Sea serpents, shorks, an' tyeds was there, Like live at Polly's Nickstick. But when aw seed the engine grand, That turns the 'lectric clock, man! An' Lousyfilly's dune by hand, Upon a weaver's block man! Says aw, "Why, Armstrang, thou's a king, Thou'll suen gie Hudson's steam the fling: For louse traps here thou mykes o' wire; Thy wetter wonders never tire; Thou cracks steel nuts, an' figures glass, Thaw engine does the world surpass: It graces Polly's Nickstick. Byt, Lor! te tell ye all aw seed Wad fill a bible beuk, man! Balloons was dancin' biv a threed, An' folks hung biv a heuk, man! A Can Tells oot the chickens there; Here's Cheeny folks wi' silver hair; Fans, pipes, an' dwarfs, wi' heeds like bulls, An' giants wi' greet iron skulls; An' gowlden cups, an' bonny glass, An' Clasper's skiff, an' forrin grass, Was at wor Polly's Nickstick. An organ grand was bummin' lood, But nyen cud tell the tuen, man! Aw paid maw penny wi' the crood, Te see the glassy mune, man! Wor Tommy's Ropes they ca'd a thing, Like rainbows runnin' iv a ring; An' croods o' things wi' hairy tails, An' ships wi' wings asteed o' sails; Grace Darling, tee, cam iv her boat, An' saved the wreckers iv her float; An' smash! wor Poll amang the mist Peep'd oot, and said, "Gud neet,"--be blist! Then vanish'd frae the Nickstick. Aw left the place wi' sair regret, Tho' aw had spoiled a gill, man! But weel it's worth the brass they get, Let folks say what they will, man! Thinks aw, "By George! aw'll up an' see Yence mair the engine an' the spree"-- When, ganning past, aw touched a wire, Why, smash! my neeves was a' fire-- The verra hair stud on my heed, Away aw cuts wi' pith an' speed; An' bools reet throo a rowley gate, An' in a varry narvous state, Aw left wor Polly's Nickstick. kissin' folks = Cupid and Psyche bonny bool te pitch =.Statue, by Gott A lass wes shivrin'…= The Outcast by J.H. Foley Charley King= Charles the First in the Oak, by H.G. Townshend. Queen Bess = Queen Elizabeth at the Globe Theatre, witnessing the play of "The Merry Wives of Windsor."- D. Scott, R.S.A. king yence stopp'd….= King Canute and his Courtiers-John Martin, K.H. Mang fishes…. = The Museum, Victoria Room engine Grand = Mr. Armstrong's Water Pressure Engine. Weaver's block…The Jacquard Loom, wetter wonders… + Card Machine. steel nuts = Shank's Screw Cutter figures glass = Glass Engraving Can Tells chickens = Cantelo's Incubator organ = Organ, by Nicholson Tommy's Ropes = Chromotropes hairy tails = Oxy-hydrogen Microscope Grace Darling = Disolving views a wire = Electrical Conductors. -J.P. Robson, "Bards of the Tyne," 1849. back to the song menu The High Level Bridge For long, all that was to be seen of the much-talked-of "High Level" was the wherry from which boring operations were carried on. Tune-- "Drops of Brandy." Aw tyuk the cheap train t' other day, For wor Mally begun for to fidge, man; To Newcassel aw hastened away, To luik at the High Level Bridge, man. The folks o' wor raw was aflaid- They tell'd us a brig was purjected That wad spoil a' the Colliery trade, For wi' Lunnon, they said, 'twas connected. But when aw gets oot i' the train, Aw hows doon the stairs iv a hurry, And the High Level seun aw seed plain, It was stuck o' the top iv a whurry. But, man, when the Garth aw espied, Aw was nowther to haud or to bind, man, For translators an' tailors aw cried, But the deevil a yen cud aw find, man. Aw seed a chep dress'd up i' black, For the Garth, the folk said, he was mournin', Aw ask'd him for Trimmel-leg Jack, 'Cawse he had maw blue trousers in turnin' He set up a terrible shout, Aw thowt the poor man was gawn daft, man, Says he, "He is lost in the rout"-- Aw luik'd at the feul an' aw laughed, man. Aw dropp'd in at Jude's, o' the Cock, An' whe de ye think aw seed there, man? Billy Purvis, as fresh as a rock, An' cursin' the brig, aw declare, man. Says he, "They hae stopp'd the bug breed, The clocks is a' scrammil'd an' kill'd man, The snips is clean oot o' thor heeds, Since the Level they started te build, man. "The claes-wives lost a' their fine goons, The silkies was torn in the laps, man; The shifts sail'd aboot like balloons, An' they pull'd off the white trouser-flaps, man." Says aw, "Then maw breeches is gyen!" Says Billy, "An' Trimmel-leg tee, man; They've turn'd his sheep-shanks inte styen, Te striddle aacross the greet sea, man. "The sweepers was forced for to brush, They gae the poor deevils the sack, man; The chimleys cam doon iv a rush, An' Lumley was laid on his back, man. The pie-men an' sassage-wives, tee, Gat notish ne langer te tarry: The blackin' folks a' had te flee, An' the hatters was croo'd by aw Harry. But spite o' their ravish an' root, Blue-styeny is still te the fore, man; The apple-wives on her still shoot, Dandy-candy's still sell'd in galore, man. Let the 'tractors an' beeldors purceed, An' cramp wi' greet bowlts ivey styen, man, A secret aw hae in maw heed- We mun just start an' level agyen, man. -J.P. Robson, "Bards of the Tyne", 1849. back to the song menu Callerforney A dialogue Tune--"Alley Croaker." Mally Oh, hinny, Geordy, canny man, Thou kens aw likes thou dearly! For thee aw turned off baggy Crooks, An' used Tim Targit queerly; Billy Benson coax'd me sair to wed, Buit man, aw cuddent spurn thee! O, hinny, canst thou think o' this, An' gan te Callerforney? O, Callerforney! fuilish Callerforney! Like honey blobs my heart 'll burst, If thou gans te Callerforney. Geordy Hoots, Mally, haud yor whinjin gob, Maw mind's myed up for sartin; Maw peeks an' spyeds is i' my kist-- The morn aw's sure be startin', Aw'll seun be hykin on the sea, An' fleein' roond Cape Horney; Aw kens the seam to hew for goold, When aw gets te Callerforney. Oh, Callerforney, bonny Callerforney, The vary clairts upon the street Is goold in Callerforney. Mally Thou's mevies rue, maw collier lad, When in the waves thou's sprawlin, When crocidiles and unicorns Is at thaw hoggers haulin. Thou's not hae luck like Joney, man, In some whale's guts to turn thee; Thou'll lang to be wi' me at hyem, An' far frae Callerforney. Oh, Callerforney, shem on Callerforney! Bob Stackers sweers thor's nowt but fules Wad gan te Callerforney. Geordy Thou's rang aw tell thee, Mally lass, Just read the papers, hinny, The place is verra like the mint, Another Coast o' Guinea! Tho' mind thee, yence aw heer'd it tell'd The cannibals wad burn ye, An' make goold ointment o' yor byens, When ye get te Callerforney. Oh, Callerforney, whei noo, Callerforney, Hoots, Mally aw can thresh them a', Aw'll conquer Callerforney! Mally Consither, Geordy, aw's thee wife, Aw divent gan contrary, If thou mun gan, thou's tyek the lass Thou ca's thaw bonny Mary! But weel aw kens afore thou gans, Thou's trim'lin at the journey; Sea sarpints tee may cowp the boat, Then where's thaw Callerforney> Oh, Callerforney, tice'n Callerforney! Aw wish that folks was not se poor, To want thee, Callerforney! Geordy Cheer up, maw duck! thou'll gan wi' me, Aw niver heeds the danger! Poor collier lads works hard for nowt, An' still to deeth's ne stranger. Like Whittin'ton aw heers the bells That says, "Come on yor journey!" Goold's better far than howkin' coals- Oh dear, this Callerforney! Oh, Callerforney, we're comin' Callerforney, Farewell to splint, choke damp, an' blast! Huzza! for Callerforney. -J.P. Robson, "Bards of the Tyne," 1849. back to the song menu The Pawnshop Bleezin' Tune-- "X,Y,Z." Wor, Sall was kamin' oot her hair, An' aw was turnin' dosy, Whiles snot'rin' in wor easy chair, That myeks a chep sleep cosy, When frae the street cam screams an' cries-- Wor Sall says "Wheest!" aw rubs my eyes; An' marcy! shoots o' "Fire!" aw hears-- Aw myeks yen lowp doon a' wor stairs, An' smash, aw seed a queerish seet, Yel thousands crooded i' the Street- It was the Pawnshop bleezin'. The wimmin folks 'twas sair to see Lamentin' their distresses; For mony a goon, an' white shemee, Was burnt wi' bairn's dresses; Peg Putty stamp'd an' cried, "Oh, dear, Wor Geordey's breeks is gyen, aw fear; Maw bonny shawl an' Bella's frock--" Says Betty Mills, "An' there's wor clock, An' a' maw bits o' laddies' claes-- My pillowslips an' pair o' stays-- Is in the Pawnshop bleezin'." A dowpy wife wi' borrow'd fat, An' wiv a puggy beak, man, Cam pushin' wiv her bonnet flat, And puffin oot her cheeks, man; Ye niver seed sic bullet eyes-- Her screams aw thowt wad splet the skies; "Oh Lord ! maw babbie's things is gyen! Maw unborn babe hes claes noo nyen! An' when wor Billy finds it oot, There'll murder be, aw hae nee doot; Oh dear! what garr'd me put them in? 'Twas a' the races an' curs'd gin-- That set my claes a-bleezin." "Oh, marcy, aw'll be hammer'd tee!" Cries Orange Jinny, blarin'; "Aw popp'd Ned's suit te hae a spree, But suen aw'll get me fairin',-- He thinks, poor sowl, his claes is reet, He'll want yen suit o' Friday neet-- What mun aw dee? aw wadent care, But, hinnies, watch an' seal is there; An' warse an' warse! he'll quickly knaw, That earrings, weddin' ring an' a' Is in the Pawnshop bleezin'!" Lang Skipper Jack, wi’ mony a sweer, Cam laingerin' up the Side, man, Says he, "What's a' the matter, here? Noo, here's a bonny tide, man! Why, marrows, sure it cannit be, This isn't Trotter's place aw see?" So oot his baccy fob he tuik, Hawled oot some tickets frae a buik: "Why sink the sowls of a' the lot; Aye, d--n the yel scrape's gyen to pot, There's a' maw fortin bleezin'!" The yells, an' blairs, an' curses lood, And cries o' stupefaction: An' bits o' bairns amang the crood, Increased the mad distraction; Aye, mony a wife will rue the day She put her husband's things away; An' men will groan wi' bitter grief-- (For Pawnshop law hes ne relief)-- To find their labour, toil, an' pain, To 'pear like decent foaks is vain-- There a' their goods is bleezin'! The world was better far aw'm sure, When pawnshops had ne neym, man; When poor folks could their breed procure, Withoot a deed o' shym, man! Ther Boxes luik like cuddie's stalls; There's hell-fire in their hollow balls; Their gains is large, wor chance is sma'-- They often's get wor pledges a'-- Just like the plagues of Egypt sent, They banish peace an' calm content-- Aw wish they a' were bleezin'. -J.P.Robson, "Bards of the Tyne,", 1849. This celebrated song is written on Mrs. Trotter's Pawnshop, formerly situated in the Side, Newcastle, being entirely destroyed by fire, in the year 1849. Although a humorous composition, it faithfully describes the horrors and misery attending the use of such establishments, and is certainly one of the author's most popular productions- Note, 1872 back to the song menu Days and Deeds of Shakspere Tune--"The Old English Gentleman." Aw'' sing ye a braw new sang, Aboot Bill Shakspur's plays: A chep that kep wor toon i' tow Wi' queerish neets an' days. He wes born i' th' Swirl, i' Sandgate, man, This poet ov a' natur; And hadded horses for ha'pennies, Aside wor aud Theatur. Chorus Oh a cliver chep wes Shakspur, lads, An' the brag an' pride o' Tyne. Ne lad like him cud heave a bool, Or set the dogs away; For hingin' hares i' Fenim wood, Bill wes the time o' day. He had a kind o' conj'rin' gun That browt the pheasans doon; He yence let flee at Crummel's hat, An' wammel'd oot the croon. O' gamkeepers Bill made his gam', An' smok'd his cutty pipe' For poets, man, oft leeve on air Or suction, like the snipe. At hoppins Bill won the meat, For he wes fond o' greese; He clamb the mast o' a ship cal'd Fame, An' gat the goolden fleece. Jack Ford, Rare Ben, an' Messenger, Fair deevils for a lark, Weent oot wi' Bill te Ravensworth, Yen neet when a' wes darrk. They rammel'd ower that bonny wood, Wivoot a sign o' luck, Till Bill gat haud o' twe lang horns, An' haul'd away a buck. The keeper-man poor Willy nail'd, An', gox! there was a spree! He gar'd the pollis luik like fuils, Aye, may'r an' 'torneys, tee. He tell'd them he had browt the horns The magistrate te fit: Yen cock-eyed doctor laugh'd se lood, They say his jaws wes split. Noo Shaksy went upon wor stage, An' acted tiv a won'er; He grund the rosel for the leetnin', An' rol'd big bools for thun'er; He myed hell-fires o' reed an' blue; An', for a spreeish joke, He popp'd up thro' a great kale-pot, An' frighten'd a' the folk. Yence Bill went on to act a pairt, But, man, he lost the words; The trapper laddie lowsed the boult, An' Bill fell thro' the boards! The owerman went stampin' mad, Te see the play disgraced: So Shakspur cut the actor's life Biv thrawin' up the "Ghaist!" The Bill ran hyem an' scribbl'd plays, That pit lads like te read; The Ranters said he was aud Nick, 'Cas he cud raise the deed. For, smash! he kenn'd a' things se weel, 'Boot fairies, kings, an' fyuls; Thor's mair grand sermons iv his buik Than cums frae Cambridge skyuls. He tells us ov a blackeymoor, Wi; goggle eyes se queer, That Dissymolly scumfished, For a handkercher, aw hear. An' when the pollis tuik him up, He shooted for his wife; Then stuck a gully iv his throat, An' stopped his gam for life. Folks tawk o' conjuration sprees, An' dealings wiv aud Nick; Noo Prossy Joe white spurrits gat, By waggin' ov a stick. Fra Jarrow-Slek a lass he browt, Beside a monkey-man, That liked a cask o' Jemmykay, They ca'd him Callerbran! Fra thun'er cludes black witches cam, An' fairies frae the myun; Green mermaids, tee, frae Hartley Pans, That kaim'd thor heeds like fun. Will banged a' poets wiv his pen; But fules will gan astray; They like wild beasts and lion kings, Far mair than Shaksy's play. Yen neet aw heerd a spurit's voice, It cried, "Save Shakspur's neck: Translate him te the vulgar tongue, An' crum'letators check. There's Sherry Knowles can mind his hoose, An' gret will be thaw blame, If thou, Bob Stackers, divint start, An' save Will Shakspur's name." Se hinnies a', byeth leish an' sma', An' lasses o' wor Tyne, Poor Bobby comes afore ye noo, Te favour his design. An' if aw gets a greeter praise Then mevvies is maw reet, Aw cannit rob the bonny Swan, Because his fame's cumplete. -J.P. Robson, "Bards of the Tyne, 1849. back to the song menu Hamlick, Prince of Denton. Part First Tune--" Merrily Dance the Quaker's Wife." Ov a' the lads o' Denton Burn, Yong Hamlick had ne marrow, He'd put or hew an' take his turn Te drive the rolley-barrow. His feythor kept a corver's shop, His muther teuk in sewin; But, man, they say she liked a drop, An' drunk gin like a new un. Noo, Hamlick had a sweetheart tee,-- Oh, Feeley, she was canny! The weddin-day was seun to be, For Feeley lov'd her manny; The furnitary a' was bowt, The chairs wis polished bonny, A German chep the clock had browt; An' the bed wad challinge onny. But iv a suddent a' was stopp'd Misfortin cam se cruiket; The marridge meetin' seun was dropp'd, Aud Ham had kicked the bucket. An' what was queer, afore a week The widdy wed agyen, man; The deed un's brother had the cheek Te coax her, it was plain, man. Noo bonny gam' there was, aw sure, Yung Hamlick swore like Hector: He vow'd he wad his mother cure, If biv hersel he neck'd her. An' Clawdy, tee, might chucky oot, His jaws he'd surely 'plaister; Whei! if he didn't gar him shoot, Then Ham wad own his maister. 'Twixt twelve an' yen, the meun was sma', As Hamlick hyem was gannin'; Just cummin past aud Denton Ha', He seed a white thing stannin. Tho' freeten'd sair, says he, "Whe's there?" His kneebyens nack'd thegaither; It answered wiv a groaning blair, "Oh, Hamlick! aw's thaw feyther." "What thou?" says he, "it cannit be! Aw seed thee fairly barried; But, feyther, tell us what te de, For mother to uncle's married." "Then listen, hinny, for the cock Aw's flaid 'ill seun be crawin'! Ye ken it's lang past twelve o' clock, An' yen mun stop maw jawin. :Ye'll mind that neet aw wun the pig, Aw went hyem like a lammie, Tho Gurty sairly run her rig, An' shameful used her Hammy. But warse, me lad--thaw Uncle Clawde Bowt ars'nic frae thaw cousin, An' mixed it wi' some fat he had, An' aw lick'd up the puzzen. "Ah man, aw cud sum queer things tell, But the deevil's verra jellis; Tho aw've a fairish place i' hell-- Aw's heed man at the bellis. But, wheest! the bantyhs craw aw hear, Come, shake hands wi' yor daddie; Thou'll mevies cuik thaw uncle's beer; Ta, ta-ta; ta--maw laddie!" When Hamlick stuck his daddle oot, Te grip his feyther's paw, man, He gav a kind o' croopy shoot, To find the caud styen wa', man. The ghaist was gyen--but sic a smell Was fund like aud shoes burnin, That Hamlick's niver been hissel Since yen o' clock that morning. Part Second Some strowlin' folks to Denton cam', A' ridin on thor donkeys, An' conj'rin cheps wi' nowt but sham, Spy shows was there wi' munkeys. The actors fund young Hamlick oot, An' spun him sic a yarn, sir; Says Ham, "The gentlemen can spoot In Lissy Lambton's barn, sir!” The play was made biv Hamlick's sel, His mother's sowl to press, man, The scene was laid at Barley Fell, The lingo was Bosjesman. "The Blighted Boar, or Puzzen'd Pluck," The folks a' flock'd to see, man; An' Feeley i' the front was stuck, Wiv Hamlick on her knee, man. Up went the cloot--the crood sat mum-- A pig-fyeced thing appearin; Upon a' fowers 'twas seed to cum-- By gox, it was a queer un! It grunted thrice--thrice wagged its heed, An' hadded up his paw, then; Then myed believe that it was deed, By droppin doon its jaw, then. In popped a wife an' blubbered sair, Aboot her gissy's fate then; "Wise pigs," says she, "takes better care, Thou's lick'd a puzzen'd plate, then; Aw'd seuner loss my man, the Turk! Aw wish that mine's was taken; Thaw pluck to neet sall de the wark- There's ars'nic in thaw bacon." Ham's mother dother'd like a duck, "Oh dear! oh dear! aw's drop noo! Divent ye hear about the pluck? Howay! aw winnit stop, noo!" An' frae the play like mad she flew, The crowd a' gyept an' won'er'd, "Ho, ho!" shoots Ham, "the ghaist spak true, Play-actors for a hun'er'd!" Next pay, Ham's feyther 'peared agyen, I' th' spot he elways haunted; "Oh, Hamlick, Hamlick! tell us when Aw'll get maw wishes granted? Thaw heart's like withered haws or hips: Revenge thaw feyther's deeth, then; Ta, ta!" Ham's een was ' th' 'clipse, He gyep'd clean oot o' breeth, then. To Feeley's house, wivoot a stop, Throo puils, cross progly ditches, Young Ham ran peltin neck an' crop, His sark ootside his britches. He brak the door an' smashed the glass, Spanghewed poor Feeley's feyther, An' tuik the coal-rake tiv his lass, An' jaw'd a heap o' blether. The police cam wiv a' thor speed, But whe daur Hamlick tyek, then? The crooner sat upon the deed, A verdick clear to myek, then. Noo Feeley cam in rantin mand, Wiv a gyus's thropple screamin; She ca'd her Ham, "Her bonny lad That set her daft wi' dreamin.” Her heed was dresed wi' docken leeves, Stuck roond wi' cabbage caskets, An' milky thrustles in her neeves, An' rusher caps and baskets. The crooner bad his men gie place Te let her view her feyther: She smack'd the forsman on the face, Then chow'd sum bits o' leather. She leeved on grass an' paddick's stuils, Dry asks and tyeds she chorish'd; An' Tommy-lodgers frae the puils, Iv blackin-pots she norished. Yen day she plodg'd to catch a duck, A soomin siez'd her heed, there, An' in the slek poor Feeley stuck, And "Cuckoo" fand her heed, there. Part Third The winter efterneun was dark, The winds, like bairns, was cryin, The fun'ral folk had left the kirk, Where Feeley cawd was lyin. Yung Hamlick lop'd oot frae a dyke, Seiz'd fast o' Feeley's bruther, An' Ham was Larty gan te strike, Wheen oot cam' Hammy's muther. "For shem, ye feuls, on sic a neet, Te set yor neeves for boxin, 'Twad sarve thee reet, Ham, varry reet, To stick thaw shanks the stocks in: Thou hes ne chance wi' Latry's fist, Thou kens he was a ring-man; He'll let the day-leet to thaw kist- He is a second Spring, man!" The match cam off at Throckley Fell, Ham's uncle own'd the field, man; His mother, tee, cam' there hersel, Ham's fate she thowt concealed, man. To wark they went, Ham drew first blood, Tho' Larty ken'd the science; But Hamlick like a tarrier stood, An' grinn'd a blue defiance. Hoot, Larty, hinny's fairly blawn, His breeth cums thick and shorter; But what's that stuff Clawde's sleely thrawn, And mixed amang the porter? But Larty's deun, the time is ca'd, Ham's mother seems a' queer noo, She grabs the glass and drinks like mad, She's drunk the pussin'd beer, noo. "Oh, hinny, Clawde, what's this, maw lad? Ths porter's queerly fetted!" Clawde blair'd oot, "Lass! put doon that glass." Poor sowl, her hash was settled. Smash at his uncle's jaws struck Ham, Doon went the tyestral sprawlin, Doon went his puzzen'd mistrest flam, The crood for help was bawlin! Up stackered Larty for a blaw, Fair on Ham's jug'lar nibb'd him; But Ham swung roond his iron paw, An' wiv a deeth-thraw fibb'd him. The victims' bodies iv a dray Te their last hyem was sent on: Oh! mourn for Hamlick neet and day, For he was Prince o' Denton. -J.P. Robson, "Evangeline." In these burlesque days, when H.J. Byron flurishes, and nothing seems safe from the pen of the burlesque writer, it is no wonder that this clever travesty, which gives to the melancholy Dane "a local habitation and a name," should be highly popular. "Denton Burn," where the poet locates the prince, is a small village just outside Newcastle, on the West road.-Note, 1872 Edition. back to the song menu The Pitman's Happy Times. Tune—“In the days when we went gipsying." When aw wes yung, maw collier lads, Ne man cud happier be; For wages was like sma' coals then, An' cheps cud raise a spree. Wor pay-neet cam' wiv drink an' dance, Wor sweethearts luckt se fine; An' lumps o' beef, an' dads o' duff, Wes there for folks te dine, An' then we spent sic merry neets, For grum'lin' we had nyen; But the times o' wor prosperity Will niver cum agyen. Wor hooses then wes ower sma', For ivery nuik was chock; Wor drawers wes fair mahoginy, An' se wes chairs an' clock. Wor feather beds, and powls se fine, Wes welcum te the seet; A man work' d harder I' the day, Wi' thinkin' o' th' neet. Spice hinnies on the gurdle fizz'd; Maw tee had rum in't then; But the times o' wor prosperity Can niver cum agyen. Wor wives cud buy new shawls an' goons An' niver heed the price; The spyed-yace ginnies went like smoke Te myek wor darlins nice. The drapers used ne tickets then, The country gowks te coax: They got thereckly what was ax'd, An' prais'd us collier folks. The butcher meat was always best When Kenton paid thor men; But the days o' wor prosperity Can niver cum agyen. When aw gat wed--gox, what a row! The blindin' brass aw spent: Aw bowt new gloves an' ribbins, man, For aw the folks aw kent. At ivery yell hoose i' this toon, We had a cocktail pot; Wi' treatin' a' the company roond, Maw kelter went like shot. But smash! we had a merry neet, Tho' fights we had but ten; Thor wes sic times for collier lads-- They'll niver come agyen. We didn't heed much lairnin' then, We had ne time for skyul; Pit laddies work'd for spendin's syek, An' nyen wes thowt a fyul. Noo, ivery bairn can read and write-- Extonishin' to me! The varry dowpie on my lap Can tell his A B C. Sum folks geets reet, and sum gets wrang, Biv lettin' buiks alyen; But this aw'd sweer, ne time like mine Can iver cum agyen. -J.P. Robson, "Bards of the Tyne" 1849. Had this admirer of the "good old times" lived at the present time (1872), when pitmen's wages are advancing 10 and 15 per cent, at a bound, he even must have doubted whether the past was better than the present. -Note, 1872 Edition. back to the song menu Betty Beesley and Her Wooden Man. Tune--"The Bold Dragoon." Bet Beesley was a skipper's wife For twe lang years an' mair; They leeved a kind o' howstro life-- Smash, man, they fettled sair! They gurn'd like cats-- thor gob browt bats-- Byeth often wished the yen was croakin'; So Deeth yen day stopp'd Tommy's chats, An' left the widow Bet heart-broken. Oh, BettyBeesley! Dinnet break thaw heart, maw hinny! No, Betty-Beesley! Dinnet break thaw heart, maw hinny! No, Betty Beesley--get another man! Bet Beesley had a bonny fyece, An' was a smartish queen; A fairy's foot an' leg o' grace, An' twe black roguish een. Noo Nabob Tate, that had o' late Fra Indy cum wi' loads o' siller, Teuk Bet to see his hoose an' plate, An' fairly popped the question tiv her: "Oh, Betty Beesley! Dinnet say thou winnet, hinney! Oh, Betty Beesley, tyek me for thaw man!" Smash! Betty wed this Nabob grand, Turned oot a leddy fine; She gat silk gloves upon her hand, An' cut wi' rings a shine; The happy day seun slipped away, An' neet cam on, ye ken--Oh, deary! Tate's servant carried him, they say, To Betty's room, a little beery! Oh, Betty Beesley! What a spree thou'll hae, maw hinney! Oh Betty Beesley, cuddle close thee man! Poor Betty thowt a vast o' sheym, Else myed believe to de; But Tate was jully seun at hyem, An' clapp'd Bet on his knee. Bet thowt his legs fand hardish pegs, Says she, "Oh, dear! what's thor things stickin?" "These are my stumps!"-- and up he jumps-- "Aw'll screw them off else they'll be breekin'.” Oh, Betty Beesley! Hes thee man ne shanks, maw hinny? Oh, Betty Beesley- what a Wooden Man! "Hoots! what's the use o' tryin', Tate, To screw thaw legs, maw dear? Ye men folks spoil the weddin' state Wi' tyekin' se much beer!" "Come, thou, maw pet--this way, lass Bet, An' when thou gets maw pins dissected, Maw airms thou'll feel is wood an' steel, So thou can lowse them as directed." Oh, Betty Beesley! Nouther legs nor airms maw hinney, Oh, Betty Beesley, thous's wed a trunkey man. But Bet turned dwamy, like to fall, "Oh dear, oh dear!” she cries; Says Tate, "But, Bet, this isn't all, Cum, tyek oot teeth and eyes! Then to complete the screwin' feat (Gox, what a thing to get a breed off!), Just coup me backward in maw seat, An' try, maw luve, to screw maw heed off!" Oh, Betty Beesley! What a job thou's deun, maw hinny! Oh, Betty Beesley, thou hesn't half a man! 'Twas mair then mortal flesh cud stand, Bet, shootin', cut her stick-- "Aw thowt to get sum nabob grand, Aw's bobb'd wi' fair aud Nick." "Cum back," says he, "its nobbet spree, The heed is fast upon yor mannie; So now to bed thou's cairy me, We'll sleep thegether douce an' canny." Oh, Betty Beesley! What a pairtner for thee, hinny, Oh, Betty Beesley, be canny wi' thee man. The howdy nine muens efter this Iv hyest was summonsed late; Poor Bet gat through it not amiss, A bairn for Mister Tate. Bet lyuk'd up, glad to see the lad; Shys she, "Peg, try the airms an' legs on't, For if its fashuns like its dad, Thou'll find steel airms an' wooden pegs on't." Oh, Betty Beesley! Dinnet fret, maw bonny hinny, For ho, Betty Beesley, the Nabob's proved a man. J.P. Robson, "Bards of the Tyne,", 1849. back to the song menu He Wad Be a Noodle Tune--"Gee wo, Dobbin." Wor Geordy, won day-- the greet slaverin' cull!-- He wad be a noodle, and act like a fuil; Wor aud wife advis'd him sic nonsense te drop, But he wad be a noodle, nowt his notion cud stop. For he wad be a noodle, a sowjer-like noodle, For he wad be a noodle, the greet slaverin' cull! To be a brave volunteer was Geordy's desire; Smash! he langed for a gun at the pigeons te fire. At neet he wad dream 'bout his gun a' fine claes, An how a' the lasses his figure wad praise. When he was a brave noodle, etc. When he fiirst got his gun, man, aw'll niver forget How he frightened te fits poor Black Puddin' Bet: Wi' his kite full o' yell, an' his gun in his hand, Gox, he ordered twe tripe wives te 'liver an' stand. For he wad be a noodle, etc. Spoken-- The roguish animal! te rob the poor tripe wife. But that's nowt. That varry efternuin him an' me had te gan tiv a tea party doon the Burn, at Mally Horne's. Aw wes followin' Jenny Hagishnose-- (her fethur had ne nose; but niver mind, aw had nose enuf for ony family:for aw put a' thor noses oot that followed maw Jenny): so aw wes sittin' amang them, thow knaws, when wor Bob com rushin' in on tiv us, wiv his kite blawn oot wi' Mackey's fowerpenny yell. The fuil wes noodle-struck, and so he riched ower for a bit o' lump sugar, and cowped the cream jug, an' then started te likt up wiv his greet lang tung (and what a melt he had!), afore a' the wives an' lasses; an' then tuik a moothful o' sclddin' het tea-sent it fleein' oot agyen-an' burnt iv'rybody's nose end roond the tyeble. At the aud Ridin' Skyul he learned "reet aboot," But his knees they stuck in, and his toes they stuck oot. His heart it was firm, and as teuf as his belt, So, defyin' a' danger, te the Moor he did pelt. For he wad be a noodle, etc. When they gat te the Moor, for the prize they wad fire, Then Geordy's ambition gat higher and higher; So he tuik up his gun, gox, he cuddn't tell how-- He fired reet past the target an' killed an aud cow! Unfortunate noodle, etc. Geordy sent in his kit, for he'd noodle ne mair, He thowt of misfortunes he'd hadden his share; Six pounds for the cow he laid doon;--lads, aw's sure Geordy winnit forget when he march'd te the Moor. For te be a brave noodle, etc. -Corvan back to the song menu The Toon Improvement Bill or, Ne Pleyce Noo Te Play The Forth and Spital were favorite places of recreation for the young. Belonging to the town, they were open to all; and the scene they presented is faithfully described in the song. On them the Central Station and its approaches now stand. Noo, O dear me, what mun aw de? Aw've ne place noo te play, Wor canny Forth, an' Spital tee, Eh, man! they've tyuen away. Ne Place te bool wor peyste eggs noo, Te lowp the frog, or run: They're elways beeldin summick noo- They'll spoil Newcassel suen. Spoken-- Thor's ne pleyce te play the wag noo; the grun's a' tuen up wi' High Levels, Central Stations, an' dear knaws what else. Aw used te play the wag doon the Kee thonder. Aw've seen me fish for days tegither. The lads ca'd me the fisherwoman's boy. Aw was a stunner. Aw've mony a time browt up three French apples at a time; but wor aud wife said if aw fell in an' gat drooned she'd skin me alive when aw com hyem; so aw played the wag doon the Burn efter that. But, noo to myek improvemints, they've filled it up wi' cairt loads o' muck te beeld hooses on. Sum o' wor lads an’ me petitioned the magistrates for a new play grund, and they tell'd us te gan te bordin' skeuls. What an idea! Wor aud wife hes sair tues to raise the penny for Monday mornin's: the maister seldom gets it tho': aw buy claggum wid: then the maister hes te tyek't oot in flaps. But aw's broken hearted when aw think aboot wor canny Forth, wiv its aud brick wall. What curious days aw've spent there! Man, aw've seen me play the wag for hyel days tegither, wi' maw mooth a' covered wi' claggum an' clarts. What a chep aw was for one-hole teazer then! mony a time aw've fowt an oor for a farden bullocker. Aw used te skin thor knockles, when aw won mee beeks. Aw used te fullock--man, what a fullocker aw was! But what's the use o' jawin noo? the gams are a'gyen. Thor's widdy-widdy-way-the-morrow's-the-market-day-slyater-cummin-away and King Henry's-boys-go-round--what a gam that was!--aw used te be King Henry! But aw'd better drop off, or maw feelin's will set me on a bubblin'--for Chorus Oh dear! what mun aw de? Aw've ne pleyce noo te play, Wor canny Forth, an' Spital tee, Eh, man! they've tyuen away. The Toon Improvemint's myed greet noise, But aw heard me fethur say, Thor was summick mair than little boys Kept wor wise heed at play; Thor's bonny wark among thorsels, But aw mun haud mee jaw; But still thor's folks 'boot here that smells The cash buik wiv its flaw. Spoken-- Aw heard my fethur tell my muther yen need all aboot the toon concerns. They thowt aw was asleep, but aw's a cute lad. Aw's elways waken when the tripe's fryin' for fethur's supper. Aw heard him say thor was a vast o' rates-- sic as poor rates, leet rates, sewer rates, an' watch rates; but aw think at only rate, thor's ne first-rate rates amang them .Noo, thor's the watch-rate-- that's the pollis. Noo, we cannit de wivoot pollis, but it's not fair te tyek a chep up for playin' at holse; but the magistrators isn't dein' fair wiv us at nowt. Aw's lossin' a' maw learnin' noo. What a heed-piece aw had yen time! Aw'd te use a shoe-horn te put my Sunday hat on, my heed gat swelled wiv knowledge se. Noo, a' thor days is gyen, so aw'll lairn te chow backy. For, O dear me, etc. Bedstocks--that canny gam's noo duen, An' three hole teazer, tee; They've duen away wor best o' fun, So, lads what mun aw de? Aw;'ll bubble tiv aw dee, begox! Or tyek sum arsynack, Then corporation men may fun, When aw's laid on maw back. For, O dear me, etc. Noo a' ye canny folks tha'ts here, Just think on what aw say. And reckolect yor youthful days, When ye were fond o' play. Ye say yor skuel days was the best, So help me in maw cawse, An' cheer poor Bobby Snivvelnose By gi'en him yor applause, For, O dear me, etc. -Corvan back to the song menu The Rise in Coals The snaw fell doon fast, and poor folk's seem'd shy, Clos'd up in their hyems as the storm pelted by; And they wish'd roond their nuiks such times suen wad pass, For provisions was dear, and they'd sav'd little brass. And as money and firing war meltin' away. There seems nowt but caud drowps for uz sons o' clay. The woman foaks flew te fill their coal holes, To the depoe, but hang them, they've rais'd wor sma' coals. O what a price for sma' coals, Hinny how, they've raised wor sma' coals. Goshcab, what caud weather, wor Dicky did shoot-- Muther, fetch some coals in, for wor fire's gawn oot; Some coals, lad, thou's fond, and she gyep'd all amazed, Thou maun eat less, and drink less, the sma' coals are raised. But, hinnies, that's nowt, for aw's still sair beset, Coals is thrippence a beetmint, and nyen for te get: The only bit comfort maw aud body consoles They've tuen off at last when they raised wor sma' coals. O what a price for sma' coals, etc. Aw went te the depoe, aw think that's the nyem, And aw stood tiv aw shivered, aw really thowt shem: Amang sic a gang had ye seen me that day, Thou'd mebbies come suener than aw did away. They fit like fair deevils and far warse aw's sure, For they ken'd what it was when the fire got poor; But if poor folk had sense they'd fill a' thor holes Wi' cinders, to spite them for raisin' the coals. O what a price for sma' coals, etc. Yen jaws aboot seets, but aw gyep'd wi' surprise Te see sic a queer squad wi' maw pair o' eyes; There was scrushin an' pushin' sic a mixure o' folks, Wiv sweels, pillow slips, cuddy cairts, and lang pokes; But the aud wives bang'd a' as they scream'd wi' thor tins, Canny man, gis a pennorth te warm wor aud shins; Aw've tetties te boil,--says another aw've stew, Canny man, put your shuil in and gis a wee few. O what a price for sma' coals, etc. Some keelmen 'bove the bridge, aw heard an aud wife say, Had lang been frozen up an' scairsh could get away, They thowt their fuddlin days were surely duen at last, So they dooon upon their knees te myek up for the past. How, marrows, cries a bullly, aw've an idea a some price, We'll find Sir John Franklin if we howk throo the ice' First, let us find the North Powl, it's some way aboot, Then get on the top on't an' give him a shoot. Aw'll tell him they've raised wor sma' coals, etc. They ken hoo te swindel poor folks wi' their loads, Pretendin they're raised and the snaw stop'd the roads; But a pitman tell'd me te stop up sic jaw, For it niver rained hailstones nor snaw'd doon belaw. And he said if thou'll tyek advice frae a fuel, When there's a greet vast o' weather, get thaw holes chock full; And while thou's warmin thy shins by the fire, as the snaw Drops doon the lum, think O' pintmen belaw. For they toil hard an' sair for sma' coals, etc. -Corvan back to the song menu Asstrilly: or, The Pitman's Farewell Noo, marrows, aw's gawn te leeve ye, an' sair, sair 'twill grieve me To leave wor canny Tyneside shores, where aw've had mony a spree; Tho' its sair agyen mee likin', tiv Asstrilly aw' gan hykin', For wor maistors keeps us strikin', so what mun a pitman de? Aw mind the time when collier lads cud work for goold at hyem, man; Dash! aw mind the time when collier lads cud spend a pund each pay; But noo the times thor queer, man, we've nowther sangs nor cheer, man: When we cann't raise wor beer, man, it's time te gan away. Greet men may de a vast, man, but wor fine times thor past, man; Gosh! aw waddent leave wor canny toon, but aw's forc'd te gan away: So aw'll myek ne mair emoshun, but cross the salt sea oshun, Where aw've a kind o' noshun when aw howk aw'll get gud pay. Aw'll bid farewell te pit war, an' howk for lumps o' goold, man; Goshcab! aw'll suen be rich aw've varry little fear; So aw'll bid fareweel te mammy, an' maw sweetheart o' the Lammy; It's wel knawn aw's ne hammy--so tiv Asstrilly, lads, aw'll steer. Spoken-- It's ne use stoppin' here; aw mun gan tiv Asstrilly. Still aw's kind o' flaid when aw cum te think o' bein' sea-sick, an' sailin' ower places where thor's ne bottom! Noo, if the seaa was te run oot there, an' a' hands be lost, what-- O Lord!-- what a nibble aw'd be for a shark! An' thor's Geordie Hall, te; aw've conswaded him te gan ' aw can. He'd myek a fortin oot there i' ne time! Sic a man for yarbs, tee! He can stuff bird cages an' canaries wiv onny man i' Northumberland. Thou shud see his tarrier bitch-- she's a fair hare for rabbits! Sic a hunter! Geordie's a greet politishnist as weel: he says he'd suiner hev a reed herrin' at hyem than a beef-steak at Asstrilly. Aw say, what a slaverin' cull! Thor's nowt 'ill stop me frae gannin'. What odds if aw's drooned three or fower times, as lang as aw get there safe! O, fare ye weel, ye happy scenes, where youthful days aw've spent, man! Fare ye weel! for better times 'boot here thor'll nivver be. So aw munnet be a gowk, man, but for goold aw'll gan an howk, man, Tho' maw boiley aw may bowk, man, aw'll seun skim ower the sea. -Corvan back to the song menu Asstrilly's Goold Fields; or, Tommy Carr's Letter Tune--"Marble Halls." Aw dreamt that aw'd landed in Strilia's goold fields, Wi' Bessie, maw wife by maw side; An' aw also dreamt how aw toil'd i’ the keels On the Tyne, still maw home an' maw pride. Aw dreamt aw was howkin goold day an' neet, An' fand greet big lumps in galore, Then aw thowt te meesel what a rich chep a'wd be When aw cujm back te leeve doon the shore. Aw dreamt that aw landed, etc. Aw dreamt that aw saw some aud cronies there, All howkin for goold like mee-sel, An' wishin', while sweetin' wi byens stiff an' sair, For a swag o' good Newcassel yell. Aw also dreamt aw'd sell'd a ' maw goold, And getting the brass, every scuddock; But aw waken'd an' fand mee-sel lyin', silly man, Fast asleep doon belaw in the huddock. Aw dreamt that aw landed, etc. Aw was rubbin' me eyes when the Pee-dee cries out, Aw say, skipper, the keel's gyen adrift; Where is aw? says aw wi' a terrible shoot, Then aw gave his young backside a lift. How, skipper, what's that for? thou aud crazy fuil! The Peep-dee, the trash, bawls te me; The aw sprang-hew'd him weel, the gobby young cull, But he danced like an imp full o' glee. Spoken-- Goshcab, the bit laddie went mad varry nigh. Whaat's the matter wi' thee? says aw. Wey, here's a letter frae Asstrilly for thee. Blaw me rags, so it was; that was just maw dream-- what a queer thing dreams is, efter all. Aw say, what gobby things laddies is nooadays: they think man's mice, or folks is people--but aw stop a' thor jaws. Thor's a vast o' rats i' wor huddock, sir,- but aw's forgettin' the letter-- (Opens the letter) ; --it's frae Tommy Carr; stop, aw'll read it ower. Melbourne, Octember, aw mean Septober the 35 th, 18 hundred en eggs en bacon. Dear Bobby, Afore thou opens this letter excuse maw bad spellin': pens is varry bad here, en hoo can a body spell wiv a PHEMWHTN (pen).. [Marcy (aside), what a lot o' letters he hes for spellin' pen. What a scholar he's turned; he must gan tiv a neet skeul though the day; aw shuddent wonder.] Wor byeth i' gud health here, except me en Bob. Aw've teun the Yaller fever wi' snuffin goold dust, en Bob's broke his three legs, en can scairshly stand o' the tother; wishin' ye the same benefits at hyem. Aw'll mebbies be deed the next time aw write te thee. There's bonny wark oot here wi' the Convicts, the Blackies, Robbers, en Bushrangers. Man, the time aw's wrtin' this letter, aw've a loaded pistol i' one hand en a sword i' the tother, defendin' me heed. [ (Aside.) The greet thick-heeded lubbert! What set him there? he wis deein' weel here, puddlin at Hawk's--three days a week overtime an' ne wages.] Give maw respects te Bill Scott, the Shingler, oot at Consett, en tell him te hev a luck at the tin bottle for maw sake. Ned Corvan says he's nobbit a reet un. A' kinds o' provisions is varry cheap here, except victuals en fustin jackets. We hae nee tripe so we struggle wi' fustin--there's ne Butcher's meat here, except Wild Buffaloes en Yarmouth beef. Little Jimmy's nowt like his feythor noo; some hungry convicts bit off the laddie's lugs; if ye saw him ye'd 'mawjin he'd been at Carson's drawing the Badger. Nee more at present from yor Confectionate Brother, Tommy Carr. P.S.-[(Aside.) Pint o' Soup!] Fat Hanna's mother's wife's cousin's brother's aunt's teun the measles. Noo contented an' happy at hyem aw'll still be, Wi' Bessy, maw canny bit bride, An' aw'll whiles hev a gill an' whiles heve a spree, Wi' comfort at mee awn fireside; So excuse maw bit rhyme, for some other time Aw'll tell ye-- though strange the tale seems-- 'Bout the places aw've been, an' the wonders aw've seen I' the huddock, when lying 'mang dreams. -Corvan, 1862. back to the song menu Tommy Carr's Adventures in Asstrilly Here aw is, byeth skin an' byen in Asstrilly, O! Man, aw wished aw'd stopt at hyem frae Asstrilly, O! Maw inside's a' most gyen, Tho' aw wonce weighted thirteen styen, Noo aw scairshly can weigh yen in Asstrilly, O! Aw sell'd maw keel for twenty pund throo Asstrilly, O! Not a morsel o' gowl' aw fund in Asstrilly, O! Sum natives com one day, An' brunt maw hut like hay, An' Fat Hannah stole away in Asstrilly, O! They tied me tiv a tree in Asstrilly, O! But a Yankee set me free in Asstrilly, O! Aw' scap'd withoot a hurt, But they stript me te my shurt, So aw rubbed mee'sel wi' durt in Asstrilly, O! Aw paid for vittels wiv a froon in Asstrilly, O! Three taties for a croon in Asstrilly, O! Sprats is sivenpence in a dish; An' if a bit nice cod ye wish, Fifteen shillins buys the fish in Asstrilly, O! Few wives thor's te be seen in Asstrilly, O! What thor is thor a' serene in Asstrilly, O! Thor beer hes a nesty tack; Coals is 'ighteen shillins a sack, An' ye get them varry black in Asstrilly, O! Sma' beer's ten shillins a quairt in Asstrilly, O! Besides, it's soor an' tairt in Asstrilly, O! Six shillins a three pund brick; Butter's half-a-croon a lick; 'Sides they nivver gie ye tick in Asstrilly, O! Spoken-- O Lord ! O dear ! aw wish aw was safe hyem wonce mair! When aw com to this cursed country, aw'd plenty ov ivverything: plenty o' munny, plenty o' claes; noo aw's nowt but rags. Aw'd myek a poor moothful for a wild beast, unless he's fond o' rags an' byens, for thor's ne flesh on mine. What a fuil aw was te leeve canny Newcassel te cum an' hunt for gowld! O Lord! O dear! 'steed o' me huntin' for gowld, they've hunted me frae one place tiv anuther, till aw he ne place but this one, an' it's warse than ne place. What wi' bushmen, blackies, convicts, Indians, rattle-snakes, boa constructors, wolves, an' sic like human creatures, aw've had ne peace since aw left England. Just 'magine bein' tossed aboot on the ocean, an' then te be hunted like a kangaroo! Aw had a hut. Fat Hannah, Jimmy, an' me happened te lie doon to rest wor byens, when aw smelled fire. Oot aw popped and there was black divils shootin' ootside. They stole my things; cut off wi' Fat Hannah (ne bargain!) Then they walked off wi' me for supper, but aw've run for'd: an' here aw've been wanderin' aboot five or six days amangst thorns, till aw hevin't a stitch o' claes left on me back, nor ne grub in me belly. Aw myed the last meal o' maw hat, an' aw felt it sair on me stomack. But it sarves me reet to cum oot here, for te loss me money and then te loss maw claes. O Lord! aw'll loss me senses next! Aw wish aw was safe back te canny Newcassel, if aw cud oney get oot o' this purgatory spot. Aw'll return a rooind man frae Asstrilly, O! Get on, whey ne man can in Asstrilly, O! Noo here aw groan an' pine, Aw's diddled up se fine-- O welcum, Coaly Tyne, frae Asstrilly, O! -Corvan back to the song menu Bobby the Boxer Tune--"Pat's Curiosity Shop." Aboot "Fistiana" an ' fightin' skull-bruizers may blether an' crack, Aw's the lad the P.R. can enlighten-- man, aw've walloped the yell o' the pack; Tom Paddock, aw suin sent him muzy, Tipton Slasher aw knocked out o' time, And Bendy aw doubled up mazy; smash! nyen can touch me in my prime. Chorus- On me thou mun place greet reliance, for boxin' thou'll say aw's a cure, De ye think thit aw’s not up ti science? Howay oot! aw's yor man for the Moor. Wiv the bowld Johnny Wawker aw've won, tee, his backers they hoyed up the sponge; Bob Travers, the Blacky, aw've dune, te, wiv a fine upper cut an' a lunge; The fighters ti me aw cums fleein, they aw ken me morit an' worth, Aw trained Renwicks, Bill Cleghorn, and Heenan, an' a' the best men in' the North. Chorus Jim Mace an' Tom Sayers may pass muster, byeth gud men we a' mun agree, But for a' their greet battles an' bluster, they'e byeth had to forfeit to me; Harry Powlson and Cobley, maw kitten, aw've hammered them black i' the face, Dan Thomas and Jones's fine hittin' wi' this Chicken wis awl oot o' place. Chorus Aw worry the pollis i' dozens, ti beat me they try a' they can, But since aw muged Inspector Cousins, they swear aw's the devil's awn man; Hoots! fightin' to me's nobbit pastime, aw's elways first in for a pelt, So Mace aw mun fight for the last time, then swagger aboot wiv a belt. Chorus Wi' Jim Ward aw've had murry meetins, but then iv a jovial way, Their music an' toddy-care meetings aw drives the blue divels away; Ti Langham's aw oft pay a visit, he's a decent and covey is Nat, Gosh, his wife telled me when he hooked it to walk in an' hing up me hat! Chorus In Newbold's grand pictor awm stuck up wiv a' the greet boxers aroond, There aw stand wi mee eyes shut to luik up at the fight for the four hundred pounds; Lads, there's not a gud fighter amang them it's boonce and mock courage they've got, Nobbit giz a gud blaw oot at Mackey's, sowl! aw'll perish the yell o' the lot. Chorus Like Tom Sayers, aw'll suin gan oot starrin' for a five-pun note ivery set-to, Gosh, cab! aw's the genus for sparrin', Bobby the Boxer's real Tyneside true blue; Aw defeated bowld Crawley an' Crockett, an' vanquished wi' ease Jarry Noon, An' aw've a challenge just now in maw pocket ti fight wi' the man I' the moon. Chorus But noo aw'll away ti me trainin', aw'll suin be i' fine trim agyen, Aboot three or fower styen aw want gainin', then aw'll strip wi' the brightest o' men; So ta ta, ye bowld sportin' fellows, the time aw prepare for the strife, When aw knock oot the puff o' King's bellows, what a worry there'll be for Bell's Life. Chorus Corvan, 1862 back to the song menu Warkworth Feast Tune--"Morpeth Jail" Sum folks may jaw 'boot a fine breeze, Praise Warlworth's shores an' hikey seas; Praise steem-boat trips an' caller air, Or spend a day devoid o' care. Then may tell o' wondrous things they see, Sic as cassels, an' rooins, an' lots o' spree; 'Boot monks an' marmaids dein' queer feats, An' rabbits dancin' polkas on the Coquet at neets. But lads, aw've got a different tyel, For aw wonce had a trip doon there me-sel: 'Twas a ruffish morn-- the wind nor-east-- When forst aw had a trip te Warkwith Feast. Abord ov a steamer aw cruiked maw heugh, An' things at the Kee went square eneuff; So we got under way; but we haddent gyen far, When an aud wife cries, "Wor on the Bar!" "O, marcy me!” cries Jimmy Bell, "Maw belly's sair-- aw's quite unwell!" Then bowkins o' boiley went fleein' aboot, An' a lump o' chowed tripe catched me reet on the snoot. So if ye winnit believe maw tyels, Just tyek a trip doon there yorsells, etc… Half duzzy aw staggered alang the boat, When a chep tossed a lump o' fat doon me throat. Lord! says aw, thou's dyun maw job! But says he, "Ye fyul, it'sell tyest yor gob!" Then a' the things aw'd eaten last 'eer, Fegs, grosers, reed herrins, an' yell, did appear; Eh, man, hoo aw trimmeled as aw stuck tiv a post, Goshcab! aw'd dyun fine te play Hamlick's ghost! So if ye winnit, etc. Sic rushin', an' crushin', an' cryin' for drops; Sic rattlin' o' buckets, an' usin' o' mops; Sic pityful fyeces, an' cries o' distress, Wi' screamin' an' shootin', an' spoilin' o' dress. Aw wes creepin' alang as quiet as a moose, Te try an' find the little hoose; Aw fell ower two aud wives, an' rolled on the deck, An' nigh as a tutcher broke maw neck. So if ye winnit, etc. At last we landed safe ashore, Reet glad wes aw wi' monny a score; But syun maw wonders they increass'd, When aw see'd three stalls at Warkwith Feast. Nowt wes there yen's heart te cheer, But a lot o' awful bitter ber: 'Twad puzzen rats-oh, maw poor tripes! Aw's sartin 'twad gi'en a brass cuddy the gripes. So if ye winnit, etc. Noo, a bit ov advice might be wholesome, I think, When ye gan plishure trips, tyek yor meat an' yor drink; For thor's nivvor ne plishure where thor's nowt te eat, If yor gyepin' at cassels frae morn till neet. Lifetime's a trip, an' ivvery man Mun battle throo the best way he can. So excuse maw sang; if you doot the least, Ye can get next 'eer te Warkwith Feast. So if ye winnit etc. -Corvan back to the song menu The Kipper'd Herrin' 'Boot pitmen an' keelmen thou's heard some queer jokes, What wi' blunders, mistyeks, an' thor queer funny spokes, For when we get a drop o' beer we' re a' full o' glee; Lads! we myek mony a blunder when we get on the spree. Singing fal the dall, lall, etc. Noo aw'll tell ye a trick we yence played on Jim Farrins, Thit yen day bowt a cask o' the best kipper'd herrins, Te eat tiv his coffee, his taties, and breed, Determined a' winter te hev a cheap feed Reet fal, etc. He tuik fower greet big uns yen neet doon the pit, An' he waddent let yen doon belaw tyest a bit; So a pennorth o' Jalup we put iv his bottle, An', lads! hoo we laffed iz it went doon his throttle. Chorus He hewed half-an-hour tiv he felt summic ache, Then he put doon his hands for te haud on the brake, Cryin' oot-"Geordy Cairns, run away, thou's maw cuzen, An' bring uz a docter, for aw've swallow'd some puzzin." Chorus Noo, the bit trapper laddies they laff'd fit te borst, An' menshaun'd what myed the poor man bad at forst; But he says--"Haud yor gobs, give ower yor leein', Aw's speechless a'ready, aw's sartin aw's deein'. Chorus "Aw's deein', aw's deein', aw's off, Geordy Cairns, Protect when aw's gyen maw poor wife an' bairns; Keep a' maw pit claes, cum drawn thaw lugs near, An' hear maw last words, for aw've supped maw last beer. Chorus "Tell wor keeker aw deed wiv a pain i' maw booills, Cawsed wi' eatin' some harrin' aw bowt frae Jack Snooils; Tell wor preacher next Sunday te pray for maw sole, Tell wor owners and viewers aw'll howk ne mair coal. Chorus "Tyek maw picks tiv aud limpey, tell him aw's gyen, An' come te maw funeral wi' cloaks ivery yen; Tyek maw grandfethur's watch, keep that for theesell, Aw's gannin'--ta, ta, Geordy-- te Heaven or te H--ll!" Chorus Corvan, 1862. back to the song menu Deeth O' Billy Purvis Tune--"Jenny Jones." Aud Billy's gyen deed noo, frae worldly cares freed noo, Ne mair sports he'll heed noo on Wear or Tyneside: Still his nyem leeves i' story, Tyne lads was his glory, For when he amused them his heart beat wi' pride. But he's cut off at last noo, his days they are past noo, Ne mair, poor aud man, his bundle he'll steal: That bundle, for pastime, he's stole for the last time, For Deeth's corked him off te the land o' the leal. Chorus Aud Billy's gyen deed noo, frae worldly cares freed noo, For Deeth's corked him off te the land o' the leal. Ne mair tyels ye'll tell, oh, maw canny aud fellow! Hoo ye've swalleyed up crab-fish, an' locked up men's jaws; Ne mair thou'll dance neatly, or play your pipes sweetly, Nor perform Hocus-Pocus, that gained sic applause; For we'll see ye ne mair, man, at hoppin' or fair, man, Stand up i' yor glory 'mang actors ootside: For that tyrant, King Deeth, man, hes stopt wor cloon's breath, man, And closed noo for iver poor Billy's backside. Aud Billy's gyen, etc. Ne mair at wor Races, friend Billy, thou'll grace us, Nor call Geordies in yor fine show to admire; For, oh! 'twas his boast then fine dramas an' ghosts then, Wi' pantomime plays full o' reed an' blue fire. What troubles through life, man, what cares an' what strife, man, He had te amuse us--byeth aud folks an' young: Oh! aw think wiv emoshun, an' tears of devoshun, On the days when aw first lisped his nyem wi' maw tongue! Spoken-- Yis, them was the days that we can nivor forget--wor skyul days. We had ne humbuggin' pollis then; nobbit canny and watchmen, that yen might he knocked doon wiv a pipe-stopple. We had ne railways in Billy's youthful days; an' times was far better than they are noo. Aw reckolect when Billy was an actor, aboot thirty eers since--them was maw happy days-- aw wad beg, borrow, or steal to get a luik at aud Billy's backside. Poor canny aud fellow! he used te be king o' the Spital. Them was maw youthful days an' monny a yen's beside me. Aw've seen me gawn about wi' maw shirt-tail stickin' oot that far behind that aw've used if for a pocket-hankisher; an' as for shoes, the oney pair aw had on me feet was the pair the cobbler had away mendin'! But what did aw care aboot shoes? aw had big toes like styens! Oh! what music aw fund i' the bells o' St. Nicholas', when the Easter hallidays myed thor appearance! Hoo leet was maw yoothful heart!--ne stain was there to mar maw happiness! Wi' what plishure aw booled maw pyeste eggs on the green! That green's ne mair; but, like wor favorite cloon an' Northumbria's jester, gyen for ivver. Where's a' his funny sayin's that set a' the Geordies in a roar? They are gyen: but Billy 'ill nivver be forgettin'. Aud Billy's gyen etc. But, oh! aw' remember the sixteenth of December, In the eer '53, died wor aud king o' Tyne; An' left us in mournin' withoot ony warnin', The frinds o' his yooth, an' the days o' langsyne. But the frind we luv best noo, his byens cannit rest noo, So, Newcassel folks, think o' these words o' mine: Let's hev him laid doon then, i' wor canny toon then, Else his ghost will be wanderin' at neets on the Tyne. Aud Billy's gyen etc. -Covan Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Part 15 Directory 14 Click here for main menu of this directory. Use our floating menu to improve navigation. you can reposition it by clicking on top bar and dragging Floating Menu Menu of all of the Sangs Click here For tunes in .abc notation click here For an index of persons and places mentioned in the sangs click here For Bibliography,and Philosophy of the collection click here We invite you to contribute! Click here to comment or add. Soon after our upgrade the songs which the priests have recorded will be high-lighted thusly (Where you see the music note image there will be a midi file-for you to listen to!) Your Choices! The Main Menu! Main Menu All songs in this directory and their citations come from Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings With Lives, Portraits, and Autographs of the Writers and Notes on the Songs, Revised Edition, Thomas & George Allan, 18 Blackett Street, and 34 Collingwood Street. Sold By- W. Allan, 30 Grainger Street; R. Allan, North Shields, London: Walter Scott, 1891 The Greet Bull-Dog O' Shields The Comet: or, The Skipper's Fright. The Fire on the Kee Chambers and White The Deeth O' Cuckoo Jack Wor Tyneside Champions The Queen Has Sent A Letter; The Queen's Visit to Cherbourg Stage-Struck Keelman The Soop Kitchin The High Level An' the Aud Bridge Cat-Gut Jim, The Fiddler Jackey and Jenny. Whitley Camp The Time That Me Fethur Wes Bad. Jimmy's Deeth The Pitman's Tickor An' the Wag-At-The-Wa' The Pitman's Visit to Stephenson's Monument Jack's Wooden Leg The Forst ov Owt Ye Had \ Perseveer: Or, the Nine Oors Movemint She's Sumboddy's Bairn The Chinese Sailors in Newcastle The Flay Craw;Or, Pee Dee's Mishap Jack Simpson's Bairn Heh Ye Seen Wor Cuddy? Aw Wish Pay Friday Wad Cum Cuddy Willy's Deeth The Bobbies an' the Dogs Bob Chambers Howdon for Jarrow Newcastle Toon Nee Mair A Tow for Nowt. The Singin'-Hinney The Tyneside Chorus When the Gud Times Cum Agyen Aw's Glad the Strike’s Duin The Dandylion Clock The Illektric Leet. The Sheep-Killin' Dog Use this Pull down form to go to our other pages To return to the top of this page click here. The Greet Bull-Dog O' Shields Written on the occasion of the gunboat Bull-dog lying at Shields, shortly after the termination of the Russian War. Tune-- "Hokey Pokey." Wor Dick an' me, last Curstmis day, Tuik i' wor heeds te gan away, Resolved te spend a yell week's pay Amang the fokes o' Sheels, man At Sandget end we had some yell Alang wi' Matt and Skipper Bell, Then doon te Sheels a' hands did speel, I' Skipper Johnson's bran new keel. 'Twas there aw hard young Geordy Carr, That kens se much aboot the Czar, Say, "What d'ye think's come frae the war, But a greet Bull-dog at Sheels, man? Fall de dall, etc. Says aw thou's leein fond aw's sure, Yor idees mun be varry poor, Thou wants to put on Tommy Moor, Wi' yor greet Bull-dog o' Sheels, man. What, a bull-dog swalley Rooshin bears, That's nobbit leers, cum speak for fairs. He says then lissen ti' what comes-- He fired het snawballs at thor bums, He peppered them all at Bummy Soond, An' laid thor batteries wi' the groond; That varry Bull-dog may now be foond Lyin' in Peggy's Hole i’ Sheels, man. Give ow'r says aw, wi' voice se gruff, Or suen, by gox aw may ye huff, Wi' fiery snawballs be ti stuff An' yor greet Bull-dog o' Sheels, man. Think weel, maw man, wi' whe ye play, The fuil he laff'd and quick did say, But mair than that, the dog lies reet Chocked full o' guns and men complete; He tuik Charleys Napier, tars and all, Ti Bummy Soond wi' Captain Hall, And feyred them shells that made them squall, Did this greet Bull-dog o' Sheels, man. He nipt thor tails and myed them shoot, An' just like badgers drawed them oot, He worried thor thropples wiv his snoot, Did this greet Bull-dog o' Sheels, man. He fired them bullets het and thick, Sayin' there's some pills, aud Mister Nick; He myed them scamper duce'd quick, An levelled ivery styn an' brick, He myed their nasty tallow run, Then wagg'd his tail an' barked like fun, An' cam ti the Tyne when was duin, Did this greet Bull-dog o' Sheels, man. Says aw, thou's stuffin me, maw man, But when aw lands aw's sure ti gan An' find this Bull-dog iv aw can, That's myekin sic wark at Sheels, man. So when aw landed on the kee, Away aw gans quite full o' glee, Ti try and find this Bull-dog breed, But hang a Bull-dog there aw se'd, So aw axed a sailor stannin there, If he saw a bull-dog ony where, He gyeped an' glower'd an' gave a blair. Spoken-- An' let flee a chow o' baccy iz big iz a turmit--so aw sets Nettle on tiv him (that's maw terrier), iv he was a Bull-dog Nettle maniged him. As for me, aw trotted, cas there was a dozen bull-dogs i' nee time, an' nivor stopt tiv aw went bump agyen the wooden dolly-- aw thowt it was Jarrow. Wi' that aw heers the sailors bawl oot--hie, shipmate, ahoy! shipmate, the deevil says aw-- (Sings) D' ye think we're fuils o' Sheels man. Sair vexed, begox! aw kept gawn back, Determined Sipper Carr ti smack, And let him see that aw cud snack Wiv onny bull-dog o' Sheels, man. But, hinny marrows, guess maw surprise, When aw twigs a steamboat sic a size, Men an' guns aw did disarn, Wi B double LL bull-dog on her starn, Aw seed her bonny colours flyin', Wi' sowlgers an' sailors exercisin', And sure enyuf the Bull-dog was lyin' I' Peggy's Hole in Sheels, man. Noo, may Sheels prosper, while the sea Beats on her shores so wild and free, May they niver lack prosperity Nor manly hearts i' Sheels, man; May blissins crown each happy home, Wor sailors, tee, where'er they roam, May we ever on old England's shore Boast British Bull-dogs evermore. Aw wish success tiv aw that's here, May ye nivor want good heath or cheer,-- Smash! aw hope ye'll live for mony a year, Wi' greet Bull-dogs o' Sheels, man. -Corvan, 1862 back to the song menu The Comet: or, The Skipper's Fright. Written on the appearance of the Great Comet, 1858 Marrows, aw's pinin fast away, aw's freetin ivery day, Aboot this awful danger noo impendin, O! Aw's shakin a' the bits, wor aud wife she's tyekin fits, Cawse the nibors say the world's upon an endin, O! Says wor preacher t'other day, noo a' ye weak sowls pray; An' te drop a' worldly care he did beseech us, O! Says he, this mighty orth, wif all int's but little worth, If a fiery thing like a comet chanced to reach us, O! Aboot Stronomists he bawled, then ower the reckinin bawled, Te tell hoo lang a time we had te bide here, O! Says he, sometime i' June, wiv a tail, it will drop doon; Then a' the world i' mystery suin mun glide here, O! Thinks aw, begum that's queer, wor preacher he's nee leer, He's always on the reet side when he's speakin, O! So aw'll sell off byeth maw keels, and tyek a ship at Sheels; For a spot upon the new world aw'll gan seekin, O! But first aw'll chawk a score ahint the Brown Jug door, For it's little use o' passin when life's uncertain, O! Like Robson, Bates, and Pawl, lads! the kelter in aw'll hawl, Then for flight like a' the swindlers aw'll be startin, O! Noo, when aw cum te think, aw'd better spend maw chink, Amang me Tyneside cronies, true and hearty, O! For if we a' mun dee, thou knaws as weel as me, The rich amang the poor mun join the party, O! Then flow on wor Coaly Tide, spreadin wealth on ivery side, Flow on, bright stream, wi' joy te croon maw giver, o! That he may smile on thee for all eternity, The light ov peace and harmony for iver, O! -Corvan, 1862. back to the song menu The Fire on the Kee The Explosion of October 6th 1854, which took its rise from a fire in Gateshead, was perhaps the greatest calamity that ever happened in the North of England. Tune- -"Wor Jocker." Oh! hae ye seen wor Jimmy, oh! hae ye seen wor Jimmy? Oh hae ye seen wor Jimmy? for the lad's gyen on the spree, He's pawn'd his coat an' troosers, he gans on as he chooses, He can wallop a' the bruisers an' greet bullies on the Kee. Chorus Oh1 hae ye sen wor Jimmy, oh! hae ye seen wor Jimmy? Tell me, maw canny hinny, for the lad's gyen on the spree. His nose is neat an' canny, he's a model of a mannie, An' the pictor o' wor Fanny, oh, the nasty drukken sow. Aw'll yark his byens wi' skelpin, aw'll set the yelp a yelpin, Presarve us! there's ne helpin byestin laddies now. Oh, hae ye seen wor Jimmy, etc. He hes a bull-dog wiv him, folks dorsent say owt tiv him, A good heart beats within him, for he knocks the pollis doon; He hes twe nice black eyes, tee, an' a mouth for eatin pies, tee; Folks say he's not ower wise, tee, an' call the lad a cloon. Spoken-- Aw wish aw could lay hands on him; he went to seek wark this morning- Wark! he's been seekin wark this fourteen years an' niver getting a job yet--But that fire on the Kee ruined the lad's mind; a gyeble end iv a hoose fell on his head--He's been crack'd iver since. Marcy, what a cutty fosty, but aw'll gie ye an account on't efter the style ov the "Deeth ov Nelson." Tune--"Twas in Trafalgar's Bay." It was a fearful crsh, old buildings they went smash, 'Twas never so before; The haunts of "auld lang syne" burnt doon on Coaly Tyne, Laying waste the desolate shore: For oh! it was a fearful sight, and many a home was lost that night, For death's grim visitation brought ruin and devastation, And as from 'mid the flames they hie, Mercy! save us! hundreds cry-- O! Firemen, do your duty! O! Firemen, do your duty! Tune--"Descriptive Chant." Hurrying to and fro countless thousands might be seen, Emerging after hairbreadth 'scapes from ruins where danger just had been; The soldiers in solemn silence guard the dangerous way, And firemen willing point to the hoose to where gaiety dwelt but yesterday. The populace rushed forth half-dressed in day or night attire, Like maniacs with maddened brain, from death's devouring fire. Chorus For o! the flames Vesuvius-like, they spread o'er land and sea, Laying desolate waste the spot where once had been Newcastle Kee. Now many serio-comic scenes were enacted wher poor people did dwell, For goods and chattels from mysterious cribs came tunbling down pellmell. Aw saw one poor deevil, mevies just getting oot o' bed, Hop varry quick to one sid iz a wash-han' basin, a kyel pot, and a yetlin' fell a-top his head. 'Twas fearful to see the poor aud wives in narrow chares and lanes Picking up their bits o' things, exposing life, aw's sure they spared ne pains. Chorus Aw say, Pally! thraw the bed oot the window, niver mind the stocks, Seize Ned's Sunday britches aw bowt last week, but niver mind the box. Marcy! the floor's geen way,--noo whe wid iver think That decent folks gan te bed 'boot ten o' clock shud be se close upon deeth's brink? Search for Tommy's fustin claes, aw cannot see for smoke, Luik sharp, ye platter-fyeced bunter, or else, begum, aw'll choke Chorus Search for the barin's cradle, it's a claes-basket, niver mind, shove it to the door. Let the aud clock stand agyen the wall, it's time it went 'cas it waddent gan before; A German for a shillin a week clagged it up agyen the wall, He's got nowt yet, so faith his tick aw think'll suin be tickin small. They say Ralphy L--tle's broke his legs, but that myeks little matter, Cawse a glass o' brandy'll put him reet, wiv a bottle o' soda watter. Chorus Pally, hinny, rush I' the crood an' shoot, for see the smoke an low gets dense, And luik for Jimmy, maw canny hinny, for the laddie hez ne sense; But there's a crood o' men there-- Mister, can aw claim yor attention? Aw've lost maw darlin son, an' what he's like aw'll mention-- He's nee scholar, bless the laddie! but he smokes an' chows, He's parshall ti military movements, espeshley Sangate rows; He's gat his millishor claes on, thou'll ken him iv a crack, Besides sum stripes for good behavior, but they put them on his back. His appearance commands respect-- hae ye seen him gannin by? The skin's off his knockles wi' fightin', an he sports a lairge black eye! Chorus -Corvan, 1862 back to the song menu Chambers and White Tune—“Trab,trab” The Tyne wi' fame is ringin' on heroes old and young, Fresh lawrels daily bringin', but noo awl men hez sung In praise o' honest Chambers, ov Tyneside men the pride. Who defeated White ov London for one hundred pund aside. Chorus. Singin' pull away, pull away, pull away, boys, Pull away, boys, se cliver; Pull away, pull away, pull away, boys, Chambers for iver! They're off, they're off, the cry is, then cheers suin rend the air, Like leetnin' they pass by us, the game an' plucky pair; Greek meets Greek, then faster an' faster grows the pace. Gan on, Chambers! gan on, White! may the best man win the race. Singin' pull away, etc. Stroke for stroke contendin, they sweep on wi' the tide, Fortune seems impendin the victor te decide; At last the Cockney losin' strength, the fowlin gam' did steal, He leaves his wetter ivery length, an' runs Chambers iv a keel Spoken-- What a hulla baloo! Hoo the Cockney speeled away; ivery yen thowt the race was ower. Some said it was a deed robery, others a worry, an' wawked hyem before the finish o' the race. There was a chep stannin' aside me wiv his hands iv his pockets--aw'm sartin thor wis nowt else in--luikin' on te river wiv a feyce like a fiddle stick. He sung the following lament, efter the style of "There's nae luck" : Tune- -"Nae Luck aboot the Hoose." Ten lengths aheed! Fareweel, bedsteed! maw achin' byens nee mair On thou mun rowl; No, this poor sowl mun rest on deep despair. Wor Nannie, tee, she'll curse an' flee, an' belt me like a Tork, For aw've lost me money, time, an' spree, an' mebbies lost maw work. Chorus For oh! dismay upon that da in ornist did begin, On ivery feyce a chep might trace-- (Spoken) Whe's forst-- Bob? (Sings) Oh! the Cockney's sure te win. Says one poor sowl aw've sell'd my pigs, my clock, my drawers an' bed, An' doon te Walker aw mun wark, when aw might a rode I'stead. Gox! there's wor Jim an' a' the crews pawned ivery stich o' claes, An' they say thor's two cheps sell'd thor wives, the six te fower te raise. For oh, dismay, etc. Spoken-- Comin' doon efter awl wis ower, aw meets one i' wor cheps, an Irishman; they cawd him Patrick, but aw cawd him Mick for shortness. He wadent wait for the finish, altho' he backed Bob; so aw hailed him, "Hie, Mick, whe's forst?" "Go to blazes!" says he. "Nonsense, Mick; whe's forst?" "Och, sure," says he, "the Londin man was forst half-way before the race was quarther over." "Had on, Mick, that's a bull. Did ye lay owt on tiv him--aw mean Bob?" "By my sowl, I did! an' I'd like to lay this lump ov a stick on his dhirty cocoa-nut. The next time I speculate on floatin' praporty may I be sthruck wid a button on my upper lip as big as a clock face." "But, Chambers is forst!" says aw. "Arrah! de ye mane to say that?" says he, "Didn't aw tell ye he'd win afore iver he started?" "Hurroo! more power! fire away!" Chorus Pull away, pull away, pull away, boys, Pull away, boys, se cliver; Pull away, pull away, pull away, boys. Chambers for iver! -Corvan, 1862 The above most memorable race took place on the Tyne, April 19th, 1859, between Thomas White, of London, and Robert Chambers, of Newcastle. The latter fouled a keel after rowing about half a mile; this accident allowed White to obtain a lead of about one hundred yards, but Chambers gamely followed, and caught him near Armstrong's factory, where he passed the Cockney and defeated him very easily. This, the most wonderful performance on any river stamped "Honest Bob" as the greatest oarsman of the age.--Note, 1872 Edition. back to the song menu The Deeth O' Cuckoo Jack First Air--"Chant." In wor celebrated metropolis o' the north, Newcastle upon-Tyne, A scullorsman leev'd, ca'd Cuckoo Jack, a genus o' the grapplin line. The soorce o' Coaly Tyne an' all its curose channels well he knew, So local fame suin crooned the nyem o' famous aud "Cuckoo." His skill was greet in bringing up the deed, still what mair odd is, 'Tis said he little cared for sowls, so he but got the bodies; But noo aw'll end this little rhyme, to chant his dyin' strain, Confident that and Cuckoo's like we'll niver see again. Second Air-- "Poor Mary Anne." November winds blaw cawd, maw hinny! Deeth follows on mee track; The fall'n snaws will shrood me hinny, Thou's loosin' Cuckoo Jack. Ta, ta, ti pay; ta, ta, ti penshin; maw ill deeds, nibors, niver mention, But elways speak wi' gud intenshin 'boot poor aud Cuckoo Jack. Third Air--"Keel Row." Fareweel tiv a' me cronies, Keeside and Sandgate Jonies, For aikin ivery bone is, i' this aud skin o' mine. Deed bodies frae the river aw've often tyun oot cliver, Maw equal ther wes niver for grapplin Coaly Tyne. Fourth Air-- "Down among the Dead men." Luika here, luika here,doon belaw, doon belaw, Pull away, lads, pull away, lads, aw've huiked him- (less jaw!) This chep myeks a hundred and siventy-nine Deed bodies aw've fund in the Coaly Tyne. Aw's gannin noo, so frinds, good-bye- Doon amang the scullormen, doon amang the scullormen, Doon, doon, doon, doon, doon amang the scullormen Let Cuckoo lie. Aw mun rest wi' the rest that aw fund for my fee, An' aw hope that aud Nick winnet grapple for me; Let maw eppytaff be, "Here lies on his back The chep that fund the droon'd men, Cuckoo Jack." Aw's gannin noo, etc. -Corvan, 1862. John Wilson (better known by the more familiar cognomen of "Cuckoo Jack," which he derived from his father, who made "Cuckoo" clocks), noted for his skill in recovering the bodies of the drowned, died December 2nd, 1860, aged 68. back to the song menu Wor Tyneside Champions Tune--"Billy Nuts." The Cockneys say uz keelmen cheps hez nowther sense nor larnin', An' chaff a boot wor tawk, the fuils; but , faix, they've got a warnin'; They thowt wor brains wis mixed wi' coals, but noo a change that odd is, Alang wi' coals we send up men that licks the Cockney bodies. Brave Harry Clasper aw'll nyem first amang wor stars that shine, man. Lads! here's the stroke that famis myed wor canny coaly Tyne, man. (Imitate Harry Clasper in position.) Tune--'Billy Patterson." An' aw'll lay maw money doon, wi' reet gud heart and will, Te back the sons o' coaly Tyne, -- huzza for Tyneside still! May Chambers lang his laurels keep, wor champion o' the world, man; His bonny rowin' adds fresh fame whene'er his flag's unfurl'd, man. Of runners, te, we've got the tips,-0Tyne bangs the world for pacin', Gox! White and Rowan, champion peds, bangs a' the lot for racin'; When little White means runnin', lads, he's shaped in fine condishin, He dog'd te get the start like this, --see graceful in position. (Imitate the start.) Chorus as above. Tune--"Chant" When pay-week comes, wor collier lads for the toon they a' repair, Then ower the moor, an' roond the coorse, ye'll fynd them boolin' there; Hail, rain, or blaw, 'mang sleet or snaw, ye'll fynd wor boolin' men Watchin' the trig, aw moves the twig, howe! let's hev her here agyen. Saint, wor famis champion, with his bold eye keen and clear, Like leetnin' sends oot mighty thraws, the best o' men scarce near; Hollo! "Pies all hot!" upon the spot, ther're suin put oot o' seet; "Some mair gravy," cries oot yen: "aw say, mistor, d'ye mean te say that's meat? It's mair like deed pussey-cat"--war the bool there--less gob! Six te fower on Broon--hie, men! six to fower on Broon agyen the Snob. War the bool there, war the bool there, Harry Wardle's myed a throw; An'when he hoyed his bool away he stood just so-- (Imitate position.) Chorus as above. Tune--"Bob and Joan." Wor champion quoit players here thor match ye'll seldom meet with, For ony length ye like ye'll find men te compete with, For quoits we've famis been since Julius Seasor landed; Man, for generations doon the gam's been duly handed. McGregor plays weel, Lambert weel can fling her, But Harle shapes like this when puttin on a ringer. (Position.) Chorus. An' aw'll lay maw money doon, wi' reet gud heart and will, Te back the sons o' coaly Tyne, --huzza for Tyneside still! -Corvan, 1862 back to the song menu The Queen Has Sent A Letter; or, The Hartley Calamity. The falling of the large beam in Hartley Colliery, on the 16th January 1862 closed up the shaft, in consequence of which 204 men and boys, lost their lives. Tune-- "No Irish need Apply." Oh! bless the Queen of England, who sympathy doth show, Toward our stricken widows amid their grief and woe; Old England never had her like, nor never will again, Then bless good Queen Victoria, ye loyal-hearted men. She sent a letter stating-- "I share your sorrows here," To soothe the aching hearts of all and dry the widow's tear. Above two hundred miners are numbered with the dead, Whose wives and children ne'er shall want their bit of daily bread; And while death's shadow overhangs the miner's cot with gloom, Let us calm the widow's heaving breast for those laid in the tomb; And ye that round your glowing fires life's comforts daily share, Think of the helpless orphans and widows in despair. We have heroes from the Redan and Inkerman as well, Whose deeds of daring on the field a nation's thanks can tell; But did they face the deadly stythe, where scarce a single breath' Held life to face eternity to rescue life or death! Show me the page in history where deeds heroic shine More bright than our Northumbrian men, the heroes of the mine. The collier's welfare, as he toils, more interest might command Among the wealthy owners and rulers of the land. Are they like beasts of burthen, as Roebuck once did rave, Will government in future strive the collier's life to save? Why should the worn-out collier amid his abject gloom Eke out the life his Maker spared to share the pauper's doom? God speed the hardy collier, and Coulson's gallant band, Who braved the perils of the shaft with willing heart and hand; And ye that add to store the hive and feed the fatherless, May He that watches o'er all things your earthly prospects bless. The weeping and wailing of widows let us end, And with our Queen let all men see we are the widow's friend. The sailor on the stormy sea life's perils often share, Our soldiers 'mid the battle's strife what man can do they dare; Yet both have got a chance for life, but ah! the miner's doom, 'Twas sad to sleep the sleep of death closed in the living tomb. Then man to man, with heart and hand, let us still help each other, With generous impulse to relieve a sister or a brother. Oh! gather round, ye generous band whose bounty caused a smile To 'llume the face of dark despair throughout old England's isle. Ye have ta'en the gloom from sorrow where rays of love will fall On the widow and the fatherless, who pray "God bless you all!" For the Queen has sent a letter, tho' she mourns a husband dear, To soothe the aching hearts of all and dry the widow's tear. -Corvan, 1862. back to the song menu The Queen's Visit to Cherbourg Tune--"The Sly Old Fox." Now Louis Napoleon, by-the-bye,--Tol lol, etc With great success a game did try,---Tol lol, etc. Our gracious Queen, admired by all, Forgot herself, and deigned to call With an august assembly got up for a stall. Ri tol de dol lol, etc. No other crowned heads did he invite,- -Tol lol, etc. His game being to gammon John Bull at the sight,- -Tol lol, etc. For ages past Kings one by one, And Emperors toiled, being bent upon Showing up Britain as well as Vauben--Tol lol, etc Tune--"Spider and the Fly." "Will you come into my Cherbourg?" sly Louis he did say-- That is, he telegraphed, or else sent word some other way; "Mind, bring Field-marshal Albert-we'll receive all with eclat-- Your Majesty and Ministers, so Victoria, bonswa, Will you, will you, will you, will you come in, British Queen?" Tune--"Far, far upon the Sea." All arrangements being made for this regal masquerade, O'er the bright blue waters nobly on we go, With our noble Channel Fleet, well manned, and fit to meet A friend upon the ocean, or a foe. 'Twas thus they left our shores, where a British lion roars Far, far above the thunder of the seas, Where Neptune's briny throng in triumph bears along Old England's flag, that ever braves the battle and the breeze. Will you come into, etc. Tune--"Jonathan Brown." Now a very true story I'm going to tell, Well founded on fact, and you all know it well: While the Queen and Prince Albert sailed along in their yacht, Albert says, "Vat's his game, Vic-- vat can he be at?" With his dumble dum deary, etc. 'Don't speak so loud, dear Al, if you please, For Mollykoff's trying to cop every sneeze." Now the guns commenced firing, they landed, and then Napoleon seized Viccy, saying, "Velcome, mine frien." With his dumble dum deary, etc. "Dere's my maritime wonder," in their ears he did bawl, "And dis is my new naval arsenal;" Then he showed them all round this monsterous plan, And about our defences to talk he began. With his dumble dum deary, etc. "You very mush back in England, " said he. "But we' ne'er turn'd our backs yet," said Viccy, with glee. "Dis is very large gun, Mrs. Albert, you see." "Yes! but I've larger in Woolwich, so it's no treat to me." With your dumble dum deary, etc. "With my fleet in my harbour I'm unequalled, no doubt, And should war be proclaimed I could soon fit them out." "Ho, ho! that's your game!" then the white of his eye Turned round as the Queen said, "You'd better not try." With your dumble dum deary, etc. "My friends were not pleased with your queer British laws; And I, too, thought Barnard all but in my claws. Chop de heads off such men." says the queen, "Ah mon dieu, If we harbour assassins, we once harboured you." With your dumble dum deary, etc. "Then let us be friends, Vic; for when once unfurled, Our flags, still united, can conquer the world; I adore Albion's Isle--may ill ne'er beset it." Says Vic, "So did your uncle: he tried hard for to get it." With his dumble dum deary, etc. May our Queen take a hint from this Emperor's boast, And strengthen old England, as needs round the coast For if we wish to have peace, I dare venture to say, Be ready for war, lads--that's the true and best way. Tune--"Lucy Neal." Ye loyal hearts in Briton's Isle, who ever true have been To honour's cause and England's laws, now shout "God save the Queen!" And may her Majesty and those connected with the State Look a little more at home before it is too late. Prepare our wooden walls--prepare our wooden walls; We must complete our Channel Fleet--'tis threat'ning danger calls, Britannia, rouse thy slumbering lion, and let all nations know We are prepared for peace or war-to meet a friend or foe. Let no vile hypocrite assume that Britons dread to meet Napoleon or his Cherbourg forts, while floats our Channel Fleet. Spoken-- And while we enjoy peace and good-will with our neighbours on the opposite side of the Channel, let us at the same time, with manly hearts and feelings of patriotic zeal, sing-- "Rule Britannia."-Finale. Barnard= a French refugee, tried in London for being an accomplice of Orsini in the attempt on the Emperor Napoleon's life; he was acquitted. -Corvan, 1862. back to the song menu Stage-Struck Keelman Tune--"Bob and Joan." Aw's Jimmy Julius Hannibal Ceasar, A genius born for shootin'; Aw can recite Hamlick and King Dick, Man, aw's the lad for spootin'. Spoken-- Besides, aw's an awther. Aw wrote a play entitled "The Flash o' Thunder; or, The Desolate Tree by the Roadside, an' the Lonely Man o' the Lonely Mill o' the Blasted Heath, an' the Flower-eyed Murderer." It's in fowerteen acts and a half. The music's a' 'ranged by Frederick Jimmy Apollo Lumphead for nine gugaws. Aw'll recite a dark passage oot on't, as a specimine. Scene 1st.-A Coal Pit- Blue Mountains in the distance (we'll say the mountains is in America). 'Twas a dark neet-- a very dark neet; the sun peeped oot before the skies; the wind fell in fearful torrents; the cloods fell te the arth; and the cuddies turned thor backs on the comin' storm, an' wi' thor melodious noise gov a tarrific he ha! he ha! he ha! 'Twas then aw porsued maw way bi the Blasted Heath--medytatin', codgetatin', and silly quisin', when sumthing seized me-- a caud swet com ower me sleeved waistket. Aw fell doon insensible; an' when aw recuvered, aw observed the Fower-eyed Murderer gazin' upon me. Aw seized him an' cast him forth inte the boilin' het caud watter. At that excitin' moment aw flew towards the Aud Abbey. Hush! what was that? Hark! I see a voice! No, no, 'tis the wind whistlin' the air! In this tent I'll pitch my field! O let me behold the green fields o' Sandgate--the blue mountains of Gyetshead and Jarrow- the Tripe Market, where youthful fancy guided maw three-happence a week pocket-brass! Egstacy! A shooer o' black puddins thickens maw imaginashun! Light lights! Richard's himeslf agyen! For I'm Jimmy, etc. Play-actin's maw delight, Aw's called the Sandgate Spooter; Besides, the plays aw write Myeks me an oot-an'ooter. Love scenes, an' murders tee, Aw acts them up te nature; The chaps upon the Kee says Aw'll turn a real first-rater. Spoken-- Yes aw've anuther play entitled "The Two Thick-headed Bruthers; or the Life and Adventures of Three Fardins' Worth o' Backey; or, the Keel Bully's Ghost." Thor's a' kinds o' characters in't: aw've ghosts blue fire, reed fire, scufters, doddle hunters, organ weavers, cuiks, an' fower comic cheps. Here's a speech a bobby myeks te one o' the cuiks:--"Celestial, beautiful, divine creature! star of my fancy ! staff of my existence! lantern of my hope! let me stand up and adore thee for ever on my knees! Oh, ye crabs and fishes! let me spout me blues! Let me gaze upon thee! O horrible agony! Thy lovely features--that turnip nose--them saucer eyes--thy red luxuriant hair--that figure--thy quarter's wages--let me clutch thee!" Make way there! 'tis the king who calls! For I'm Jimmy, etc. My talent will be seen' When actin' aw begin, sir; For aw'll play before the Queen' Wi' Charles Kean at Windsor; Aw's sure te cut him oot, He'll heh ne chance wi' me, sir, For when she heers me spoot, Thor's nyen like me will please her. Spoken-- Aw just think she sees me in that scene in Hamlick, where the ghost cums--"Angels an' ministers of grease confend us! Be thou sum sporits of earth or cobbler damned; bring ye hares frae Ravensworth for me or thee to sell; thou comest in such a drunken state, aw'll toss thee for a pint o' fowerpenny! He's waggin' on me; he wants te play at skittles at the Crystal Palace! Gan on--aw'll follow thee." For I'm Jimmy, etc. Corvan back to the song menu The Soop Kitchin Tune--"Lilla's a Lady." The soup kitchin's open--then cheer, Christians, cheer! What glorious news for poor starvin' sowls here! The soop kitchin's open for a' sorts in need; So rush in wi' yor tickets--ye'll get a gud feed. Chorus O fine, het steem soop! O bliss that steem soop! Aw likes maw drop o' soop! It's myed oot o' beef hoffs, fine barley, an' peas; Smokin' het, it's dilishus te sup at yen's ease; It's gud for the rich, an' not bad for the poor; Gox! empty kite grumlers it's sartin te cure. Spoken-- Drop that spoon, spooney! D'ye want te myek maw spoon the bone o' contenshun, eh? Bring this chep a ladle, mistres, an' a basin. Next the bottom, he wants sum thick. What a wite that soop's tyekin frae maw mind! Begox! it's run inte the channels o' maw corporation; an now aw feel like an alderman efter a gud feed! It's a fine institushin; it suits maw constitushin; an 'tiv onny poor sowl in a state o' destitushin it's a charitable contribushin. Sum people's born wi' silver spoons i' thor gobs, but it strikes me mine's been a basin o' soop. They enjoy the luxeries o' this world; A --whey, nivver mind-j-ust gi' me the sweet soond o' spoons an' basins. That's the music that bids me discorse! It fills me wi' delight! Thor's nowt can lick't. Tune-- "Merry Haymakers." Then a song an' a cheer for the rich spreed o' steem O' the soop floatin' roond us on high; For the givers an' the makers, the tickets an' the Quakers, An' subscribers that nivver tip shy. We blaw oot owr bags on the cheep ivvery day, While happy as kings there we mess; Gox! us poor starved sowls nivver heed the wind that howls, For close roond the tyebles we press. Tune--"Cameron Men." Roond tyebel and benches the bullies they stick, A' cled in thor feedin' array; Sum coolin' het soop, uthers fishin' for thick, Uthers waitin' thor torns i' dismay. Then we hear the spoons rattlin', rattlin', rattlin', We hear them agyen an' agyen; Thor knockin' thor basons an' brattlin', 'Tis the voice o' the brave Sandgit men. Bob Johnson cries, "How ! becrike, men, what' that?" Wiv his spoon raised up high for te view; "Begum! it's a rat, or a greet lump o' fat"- Says Ranter, "It's mebbies sum stew!" Then we hear the spoons rattlin'. rattlin', rattlin', Ye hear them agyen an' agyen; "Shuv the salt roond!' aw hear sum chaps prattlin', 'Tis the voice o' the brave Keeside men. The Paddies flock in wi' the rest iv a trice, Then doon to thor basins they stoop; Says Mick, "It's cock turtle!" Says Barney, "It's nice! Made from real Irish bulls--O what soop!" Spoken-- "Long life t' the soop kitchin!" says Mick. "An' hivven be his bed thit invented it!” says Barney. "What's this?" says Mick. "Och! it's only a bone. Be jabers! I thought it was a lump of lane bafe. Some moor, misthress!" Then ye hear the spoons rattlin', rattlin', rattlin', Once mair ye hear them agyen; Ye hear them prattlin', prattlin', prattlin', 'Tis the voice o' the Callaghan men. The Sandies, frae Scotland, they join i' the group, Sweerin' oatmeal's oot-dune wi' sic stuff, As wi' gud Heelin' stamocks they swalley the soup 'In thor wames, till they scarcely can puff. Spoken-- "It's capital stuff, Sandy; and vera economical." A capital remairk," says Watty Then ye hear the spoons rattlin', rattlin', rattlin', Ye hear them agyen and agyen; Ye hear them prattlin' an' prattlin', 'Tis the voice o' the Cameron men. -Corvan back to the song menu The High Level An' the Aud Bridge A Comic Imaginary dialogue Tune--"I'd be a Butterfly." Won caud winter's neet, man, the leetnin' was flashin',. And the wind through the High Level Bridge loud did squeel; The neet was pick-dark, an' the waves they were dashin', Man, we'd sair tues amang us to manage wor keel. But amang a' the thunder what myed wor lads wonder, Wis the High Level Bridge to the Aud Bridge bawl out- Tune--"Marble Halls." "O! ye crazy Aud Bridge, ye'll suin be pull'd down, An' yor styens in the river be hurled' Yor nee ornament, noo, but disgracin' wor toon, Luik at me--aw's the pride o' the world. Hoo noble am I, reachin' up ti the sky, Lukin' down on a humbug belaw; Ther's yor blynd men an' cadgers stoppin' folks passin' by, An' yor Piperget wives wi' thor jaw." Spoken-- An' a tidy lot o' gob they hew; just gie them an aud button for a happorth o' mince tripe, an' ye'll get some tongue into the bargain. But, tawkin' o' the row 'tween the two Bridges. Goggle-eyed Tommy heard them fightin' aside Lemington; and when aw'd gat aside the Meadows aw hears the High Level say ti the Awd Bridge--"Yor neebody, poor aud fellow." Just at that time, Jack Gilroy says ti the High Level--"Shut up, lang legs." That nerved the Aud Bridge; he showed fight, an' walked into the High Level in the followin' style:-- Tune--"Fine Old English Gentleman." "Shut up, shut up yor skinny jaws," the Aud Bridge then did shoot; "For if thou's yung, Mistor High Level Bridge, just mind what tho's aboot, An' dinnet wag yor jaws ower fast, like the men o' modern days; Just tyek advice fra a poor aud bridge, an' drop off a' self-praise. ` Chorus "But mind yor locomotive things, an' let an aud bridge be. "Wor Cassel Garth, where snips an' snobs wi' maid an' frinds did meet, Ye've caused to be pulled doon, ye knaw, and banish'd oot o' seet. Luk doon on me, lang sparrow shanks, ye half-bred, mean young pup, If ya thraw yor engines doon on me, aw'll thrw some aud keels up. But mind, etc. "Before iver ye wor thout on, man, aw've stood here i' maw pride, An' lettin fokes wawk ower me t'ween the Bottle Bank and Side; Besides ye charge a happenny, yor level's dearly bowt, Man, aw stand maw grund es weel as thou, an' let fokes ower for nowt. But mind, etc. "When aw wis young we had ne jails or bastiles i' the toon, Nor pollis wi thor greet big staffs, ti knock a poor sowl doon; But noo the mairch of intellect an' scientific ways, Hez tyen away wor good aud times-- we sigh for better days" Spoken--"Drop off tawkin' about sighin', " says Jack. "Shut up," says Ralphy L--tle on the top o' the Mansion House, "or aw'll wawk ye byeth off ti the kitty." There wad hae been manslawter if it hadn't been for Ralphy; but the Aud Bridge kent him; they'd gyen to the Jubilee Skeul together when they war lads. Says the Aud Bridge, "What are ye gan t' hev?" "Oh," says Ralphy, "a bottle o' soda watter an' half a glass o' brandy in't." 'Twas an awful dark neet, aw mind'; that dark we cuddent see what we war tawkin' about. Howsever, we byeth escaped, an' away we went singin'-- Weel may the keel row, etc. -Corvan, 1862. back to the song menu Cat-Gut Jim, The Fiddler Tune--"And sae will we yet." Aw'm Cat-gut Jim, the fiddler, a man o' greet renoon, Aw play te myek me livin, lads, in country an' i' toon; Tiv ivery fair an' ivery feast wi' maw fiddle aw repair: Gox! where thor's ony fun or sport thou's sure to fynd me there. Chorus For aw drive away dull care, aw drive away dull care, So patronise poor Cat-gut Jim when ye've only cash te spare. Aw'll play ye ony tuen ye like, aw'll play ye "Cheer, boys, cheer," Or te try an' keep yor spirits up, aw'll play the "Drop o' Beer," The "Deevil amang the Tailors," "Peggy Pickin doon the shore." The “Lass that loves a sailor," an' mony a dozen more. For aw drive away, etc. Aw play "Mary Blane," an' "Lucy Neal," wi' " Poor old Uncle Ned," "O! Nanny, wilt thou gang wi' me," "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled"; Aw play "McCloud's" reel beautiful, "What are ye gawn te stand?" The "Keel Row," shaken a' the rags o'er this happy, unhappy land. Spoken-- Ony thing, frev an elephant's trunk tiv a lucifer match-box. Uz street fiddlers fynds times queer just noo--customers bad te fynd--but iv a' the customers aw meet gie me the sailors, them's the boys!--the bulwarks of owld England. Aw'm a sailor; ye can see by the cut o' me jib. Aw sarved me time to be a ship-owner aboard o' the Dredger-what a gun-boat the Dredger 'id myek--when they run short o' cannon-balls they cud fire coal-skuttles at the enemy. An' then they're always weel supplied wi' Newcastle amonishen-clarts. Aw knaw a vast aboot the sea, but the next time aw gan it'll be iv a cab. Yes, aw'll hev a luik at it. Still, aw'm fond o' sailors; when aw sees yen aw generally play "Far upon the Sea." (Play the tune named here.) When aw seen an Irishman-- them's the boys, Hatre genus men-- they'll gie ye tuppence if they hevent a fardin' i' thor pockets. Aw generally play them the "Exile of Erin" an' "Patrick's Day." One's full o' human nater, an' the other's full o' shillalahs an' life porsarvers-- them's the things for layin a foundation for stickin plaister. (Plays the airs mentioned.) When aw see a Scotchman aw play "Auld Robin Gray" on the bagpipes, efter the style o' Sir Colin Campbell, "Ye Deil's Buckie." (Play here.) But when aw join the fishwives--them's the boys! aw plays them "Pop goes the Weasel, " efter the style o' Sir Walter Railly when he tossed a chow o' bacy at Queen Elizabeth. (Plays.) Chorus For aw drive away dull care, aw drive away dull care, So patronise poor Cat-gut Jim when ye've ony cash te spare. -Corvan, 1862 back to the song menu Jackey and Jenny. Tune--"Come, fie, let us a' to the Bridal." As Jackey an' Jenny sat gobbin About the fine things i' thor hoose-- Says Jenny, "By keepin' teetotal, It's myed us byeth cantie an' crouse. When ye used te gan on the fuddle, We then went byeth hungry an' bare, But since ye hev jointed the teetotal, We noo hev eneuf an' te spare. "When ye used te gan on the fuddle, etc. "Wor hoose is weel stock'd an' weel furnish'd Wi' dresors, an tyebles, an' chairs-- We've pots, pans, an' kettles, an' dishes, And a' sorts o' crockery wares; We've byeth bed an' beddin' i' plenty, And we hev gud claes te wor back-- Wor cupboard is noo niver empty, Thor's nowt really gud that we lack. Chorus "The bairns are byeth healthy an' hearty, And blythsome as blythsome can be; It myeks me heart joyful te see them, For they are the pride o' maw e'e. Aw try te keep a' things se canny, Te myek ye a' happy at hyem-- An' what wi' wor curtains an' carpets, Thor's nowt i' the hoose like the syem Chorus "Noo, Jackey, aw'll tell ye a secret, And myek me-sel sure of a treat-- Aw wish te gan up tiv the concerts That's held on the Seturday net. Aw'll dres i' maw best bib an' tucker, An' ye mun put on yor best claes; We'll show them hoo nicely teetotal Has mended and better'd wor ways." -James Rewcastle, Broadsheet, about 1860. back to the song menu The Sheep-Killin' Dog Hae ye heard o' the dog that's been killin' the sheep, How he baffled the watchers, and gae them the slip? Sum says it's ne dog, but the ghost ov a glutton, That when upon earth had a strang tyest for mutton. He's a bloodthirsty villin, We'll hunt him and kill him, And send his skin up te Newcastle museem. Sum says it's a wolf just cum doon frae the hills, To tyest a' the flesh meat they hev aboot Sheels; Jack Proctor declares that he saw the beest runnin, An' sweers 'twas the deevil or else 'twas a yungin. Chorus Sum says it's a beest that nebody can tyem, A laffin High Anna aw think is the nyem; What iver it be, deevil, ghost, or wild beest, It's clear it delights on gud mutton te feast. Chorus He beats the bowld rifles, the pollis an' aw, They sweer sic a beest in thor lives they neer saw; He prowls oot at neets an' thor shanks he suin cracks, An' leeves them caud deed on the broad o' thor backs. Chorus Byeth aud wives an' yungins wi' greef the tyel lairns, And feer the greet beest shud fall foul o' the bairns; The perambulators they darn't set oot, For feer they fall in wiv the sheep-killin' brute Chorus We've h'ard of hobgoblin a witch, an' a warlock, But surely he's givin the butchers pilgarlick. Noo for the reward aw wad he ye te strive, And bring him te Sheels either deed or alive. Chorus Edward Elliott, 1862 In October 1862 considerable alarm was felt by the farmers near North Shields, on discovering morning after morning that several of their sheep had been worried and left dead in the fields. Suspicion fell on several poor dogs but, although closely watched, the offence could not be brought home to them. One dog was chased (on suspicion) all the way from Shields to his master's house in Percy Street. The offender is still at liberty.-- Note, 1862 back to the song menu Whitley Camp Written on the occasion of the Felling Artillery Corps camping on Whitley Sands, September 1862 Hae ye been doon at Whitley Sands Ti see the warriors campin'? It's worth your while ti gan an see The Sangit lions rampin'. The're just as feerce as untyem'd goats, An' all liked sowlgers dress'd; They've a bunch ov hair upon their jaws Just like a yowley's nest. Wack, fal de ral, etc. Their little huts, like sugar-loaves, All pointin' to the sky; And woe betide the enemy I If he gans ower nigh. In the inside the warrior rests Upon his rusty spear; He luiks as if he was distress'd Wi' backey and wi' beer. Wack, etc. They talk they want ti hae them used Ti stand all kinds o' wether, The whins and bents and strang sea air Will tan their hides like lether. The enemy may fire away, An' try their utmost skill, Nee shot'll pierce their harden'd frames, The'll stand invincible. Whack, etc. The neet was dark when Tommy Todd Was as th' sentry walkin', An outlandish beast he thowt he saw Amang the tents was stalkin'. In th' queen's nyem, he cries "whe's there?" He ne'er tyuk time to study- Off went his rifle wiv a crack At Andrew Drummond's cuddy. Whack, etc. The poor beast ran, an' gav a yell, Tommy dropt on th' green; 'Twas said when he got up agyen He wasn't ower clean, At last the grand review cum on, Ther surely was sum fun Ti see the warriors fight the fish Wi' Willy Armstrang's gun Whack, etc. The greet guns roar'd, the fire flew, It was a grand display; The sea-gulls scream'd an' flapped their wings, An' flew far nor' away. The greet round-shot went plish-for-plash Inti the tortured deep; They myed the crabs and lobsters hop, An' the fish cud get nee sleep. Whack, etc. Jacky Scott, the pollisman, Wiv a fyece byeth black and cloody, He sweers that nyen shall do them rang, Nee man shall hurt a noody. Oh! they're the cream ov Britain's bowl, Them, ne uther troop surpasses-- In the canteen their valour's seen Amang the pots and glasses. Whack, etc. The French may brag ov body-guards, An' crack aboot ther warrin'; Giv our campin' lads but Willy's gun, They'll put them off their sparrin'. Aw think we aw may safely say Ne mair we'll be neglected; But wi sutch guns and valient men Wor shores are weel protected. Whack, etc -Edward Elliott, 1862 back to the song menu The Time That Me Fethur Wes Bad. Tune--"Cum hyem te yor childer an' me." Thor wes grief i' the hoose all aroond, An' the neybors luckt in passin' by, An' they'd whisper, "Hoo is he the day?" Then hing doon thor heeds wiv a sigh; An' they'd speak te me muther se kind, Tho' whativer they said myed her sad; An' she'd moan real heart broke tiv her-sel, A' the time that me fethur wes bad. As me fethur lay ill iv his bed, As helpless as helpless can be, Man, it myed me heart ache when he tried Te smile at wor Johnny an' me. For he always wes fond ov his bairns, An' aw mind Johnny said, "Get up, dad!" For he poor little fellow felt lost, A' the time that me fethur wes bad. Then me fethur wad say, "Me gud lass," Te me poor muther at his bedside, "Lass, aw hevin't been half kind te ye."-- "Yis ye hev!" she wad sob as she cried. Then he'd call me t' him, an' he'd say, "Ye'll be kind te yor muther, me lad;" For he knew that his day wes drawin' nigh, Tho' we nivor thowt he wes se bad. Then me muther wad sit up a' neet, An' she'd nivor lie doon throo the day; But wad spend ivry moment she cud I' the room where me poor fethur lay: Till the blow com at last, an' it fell On wor hearts, when he lay still an' ca'd; An' tho' eers pass, aw'm sad when aw think O' the days when me fethur wes bad. -Joe Wilson, 1869 back to the song menu Jimmy's Deeth Jimmy Wright deed se suddin, Mall thowt it but reet To send to the krooner that varry syem neet; So she sent up te Hoyle, an' accordin' te laws He order'd post mortim te find oot the caws. Syuen a doctor was browt, and wivoot much aboot, He rowl'd up his sleeves an' had Jim open'd oot; But all that he fund, an' as deed as a nail, Was a small "eelea" wiv a queer brocken tail. Now Hoyle was sair puzzled, an' scratch'd his awd heed, Furst lyuked at the joory, then lyuk'd at the deed; Swore the witnesses byeth--for thur only was two, Poor Mally, Jim's wife, an' his marrow, Billoo. Billoo was first call'd for, an' said "Lyuk ye heer, When Jim, like his marrows, drunk nowt else but beer, He was reet as a trippet, an' riddy for owt, But tyekin' the wettor, he syuen went te nowt. "Aw mind weel one mornin', when aw cum te think, The Whittle Dean stuff had a queer sort o' stink; Jim tyekin' a drink said, 'Hoo strange aw dee feel, Begox! aw beleev that aw've swally'd an eel.' "An' ivvor since then aw've notes'd he 'pined; Oft tyun wi' the gripes, hoo he twitch'd an' he twined; He gorned at the wettor, se seldim 'twas sweet, An' tyuk on te porter, but nivvor gat reet." Poor Mally blair'd loodly, an' swor "A' was troo What had been browt forrid bi Billy Billoo; But aw knaw 'twas a Sunday, ye awl may dippend, That Jim gat the clincher that hyesten'd his end. "We wor gawn up be Rye Hill, just like other folk, And byeth fund the stink o' the nasty gas smoke; Poor Jim held his breeth and clapp'd his hand so, Turn'd as bloo as gas-leet, an' nobbit sayed 'Oh!" The krooner then, in a few words, summ'd all up: "The furst caws nee doot, is the wettor we sup; The eel mevvies lowp'd wi' the tyest o' the smoke, And that was the way that his tailley gat broke. The joory just whispor'd, an' haddin't lang sat, 'Twas varry syuen knaw when a vardick they gat, For the foreman cough'd twice, an' said, when he spoke: "The Whittle Dene wettor an' nasty gas smoke!" Moral Noo, all ye Newcassellors, mind what ye drink, An' weer resporators te keep oot the stink; Or "eeleas" and sulfor ye'll find is nee joke, Frev Whittle Dene wettor an' nasty gas smoke. -Ralph Blackett, "Weekly Chronicle, 1870. back to the song menu The Pitman's Tickor An' the Wag-At-The-Wa' Tune-- "Barbara Allen." Wor Tommy was crissind, an' weel aw remembor We tuik worsels off for Newcassel toon; 'Twis in the blithe munth iv bonny Septembor, Not varry lang 'fore wor blindin' cam roon. The wifey cried oot for new shawl an' bonnit, The bairns an' the laddies they wanted new claes; An' wor awdist lass, Jinny, the slee witchin' donnit! Had coaxed her and minnie te buy her new stays. We gat te the toon, and gat wor brass ettled, An' then a' the bairnies war ower the muin In the easy bit way that thor hashes was settled, An' glad te get drest in new duds varry suin. They tuik whor ways hyem, an' aw wandered iboot, Tyekin stock iv the seets on a Settorday neet; For aw wis ditermined, ' fore the toon aw went oot, Hyem for me-sel te tyek sum fine treet. Aw suin spied a chep thit wes sellin' a tickor, Thit he boastid wad beet a' the clocks i' the toon; Is he nobbit axed for'd what aw'd hev spent ippon likor, Aw suin struck a bargain, an' munny laid doon. Aw tuik her off hyem, an' hung her up bi the wawl, 'Side the wag-at-the-wa' thit had hung se lang there; But the crazy awd thing 'side it wad scairce gan it awl-- Tickor bet Waggy kwite oot o' time, aw diclaire! Saws aw, "Thoo aud lump, what myeks thoo se feulish Te let a bit thing like that beat thee noo? Did aw ivor think aw had owt hawf se cullish, Is onny sic hoyt hawf is lazy is thoo?" Aw tuik up the hammer, an' levil'd her law, man, 'Spite o' what wifey an' bairnies cud say; Aw struck te the tickor thit aw varry weel naw, man, Aw kin elwis dippend te gan thorteen oors i' the day. -William Henderson Dawson, 1862 back to the song menu The Pitman's Visit to Stephenson's Monument Tuine--"Tallygrip." Oh! wor pit was laid in, and we had nowt te de, Says aw te Tom Hoggers, "Let's off te Newcassel; Thor's fine things te de--the toon's all astir; Newcassel, they say, 'ill be quite in a bussel. For Stephenson's Monument's gawn te be shown By fine lords, and gents tee, and nobbies; A greet lairge purcession's te mairch throo the toon; Gox! the noration 'ill myek sum fine wark for the bobbies. Rite fal the dal la, We'd scarce getten te toon when the music struck up, An' St. Nicholas's bells wor set ringing'; The folks in greet croods war a' flockin' aboot, The patters war threshin' away at the singin', Says Tomy te me, "Let's see what we'll de, We'll strike off te the place in a minnit; For if we stay here till the purcession gets clear, Smash! we'll not heh the least chance te get in it." We got te the 'Spital by drivin' amain, An' knockin' the folks on one side, man: A dandified fellow he lifted his cane, An' thretten'd te pummel maw hide, man; But aw up wi' me fut, an' aw got him a fling, That suen myed the dandy a sloggers, For amang a' the lads from Bill Quay te Tyne Main Thor's nyen can cum up te Jack Slack or Tom Hoggers. Te hev a gud luik we suen moonted a styen, When we heerd the purcession wes cummin'; An' feyks! but the music suen myed the folks run, An' sairly sum heeds got a bummin': For the folks they cam runnin' like waves o' the sea, Sum one way an' sum tiv anuther; A dandy yung buck got a rap on the scaup, An' one went reet off in a swuther. An' faiks! but the seet it suen dazed me, aw's sure, Te see the greet croods o' folks mairchin' se fine; Wor fitters an' viewers in greet numbers war there, An' enginemen an' workmen, the pride o' the Tyne. But the volunteer riflers frightened us a', When they went past where Tom an' me stud; An' queerly dressed fellows war there cummin' thick, Besides, tee, the men o' bowld Robbin Hood. An' when the purcession got up te the styen, A chep began for te rowl up a cloot; A gentleman nob gat reet up aloft-- The people aroond set up a greet shoot; An' aw wes the forst the figger te spy, An' aw said at wonce it wes Geordie the daddy; But aw thowt te mysel when they played "God save the Queen" Aw wad weel he liked for to hear the "Pit Laddie." Ah, Man! but the monument itsel it luiks grand, Te see the canny aud fellow up there; An te hear a' the fine things the gentleman said, It varry near myed maw heart for te blair. An' a wee trapper lad wes stuck in a corner, An' monny mair figgers se fine, An' aw said lang might it stand here te Stephenson's glory, The wee trapper laddie, the pride o' the Tyne! When the fray wes a' ower Tom an' me had a gill, An' loodly the haverils war tawkin': They said sic a seet they'd ne'er seen afore, Sic heeps o' fine folks thor wes walkin'. Says aw, "Tommy, man, let's tyek wor ways hyem, An' tell te wor awn foks the story; For pit lads far an' near, frae the Tyne te the Wear, Lang may they rejoice in aud Stephenson's glory. -William Henderson Dawson,1862. The Stephenson Monument Inaugural October 2nd 1862. In Newcastle and Gateshead there was a general suspension of business in honour of the occasion. back to the song menu Jack's Wooden Leg Tune--"Wonderful Tallygrip." 'Twas in the White House some queer cheps did fore-gether, One Saturday neet when they war on the spree, An' frae what aw cud hear 'mang the noise and the blether, There wis somethin' wonderful they had for ti see. A duzen or mair war set at a tyeble, The head o' the company was stuck on a keg; A cheppy tuik kelter as fasat's he was yeble, There war gan for ti raffle aud Jack's wooden leg. Aw joined in the set when aw herd what the gam was, An' blithely aw tyebled maw brass in a crack, For i' maw young days when aw was a laddie Weel aw was liked bi' aud wooden-legged Jack. An' sair, sair did aw greeve when aw herd ov his end, man, How for a bite the puir chep had ti beg; He oft had sair wark for ti myek a bit fend, man, An' noo they wad raffle his aud wooden leg. When the nyems war a' reckin'd, there wis a hundred duzen Ov fellows determined ti try at thor luck; Th gam wis begun by Bill Bowden's greet cuzen, Whe cawd us the cheps for showing British pluck. He thrawed fifteen, which was considered a wunder, Another got five for ti hang on his peg; But Bill Thompson, the trimmer, gar'd Bill's cuzen knock under, For he thrawed eighteen for Jack's wooden leg. Aw gat up the dice an' them aw did rattle, For aw felt sartin and sure for ti win Aw thowt with the best aw wad gie them gud battle, For the leg ti gan past me wad be a greet sin. Aw thowt o' the times when aw'd see him stot bi me Beside the Black House on his aud wooden peg; Aw'd gien him a hawpenny when he cam nigh me, Ti help for drink for his aud wooden leg. Hurrah! noo, me lads, aw've thrawn the two duzen, Come, try an' beat that thraw if ye can; Muckle-gobbed Mat he thrawed three-an'-twenty, But Bowdy-kites Billy's thraw showed him a man; For he took up the dice, an' he garr'd them a' gingle, He thrawed for-an'-twenty alang wi' Daft Peg. The three on us paddled, but aw gaw them a tingle, For aw tuik off the prize o' Jack's wooden leg. Aw ga'd ti the cheps that they caw Anty Quaries, That i' wor aud Cassel myek sic a gran seet; It's placed 'mang the steyns, and the greet nicky nackies, And for fowerpence ye may see'd ony holiday neet. At thor varry last meeting me sair they did flatter, An' famed Dr. Bruce, tee, said he would beg That they ask Robert White for ti tyek up the matter, An' gie them the History o' Jack's Wooden Leg. -William Henderson Dawson, 1862. John Stephenson, better known as Wood-Lgged Jack, died October 15, 1862, whilst in the act of eating a morsel of food, which he had from two men in the White House, Pilgrim Street. Many carriers then frequented Pilgrim Street, and Jack picked up a living going messages for them. The following whimsical fancy was written at the time of his death, on hearing that it was intended to raffle his wooden leg. back to the song menu The Forst ov Owt Ye Had Tune-- "When the kye comes hame." There's a happy time in awl wor lives, a plishur in the past, When we wor stanning forst at skyul, instead of being last; When ye went reet ayheed, an' beaten ivvory lad- Can ye e'er forget the plishur ov the forst ov owt ye had? Chorus The forst ov owt ye had, the forst ov owt ye, had; Can ye e'er forget the plisure ow the forst ov owt ye had? When forst ye had te gan te wark, ye thowt yorsel a man, And bowldly left yor cosy bed, and tyuk yor brickfist can; When ye gat yor forst week's brass, and tyuk it te yor dad-- Can ye e'er forget the plishur on the forst pay that ye had? When ye dressed yor-sel in Sunday claes, te figgor roond the toon. And cut a high toon swagger, bi wandering up an' doon; Te fit ye like a swell, an' myek the lases mad-- Can ye e'er forget the plishur ov the forst watch that ye had? And when ye met wi' bonnie Poll, when gawn up Jesmond Dene, Ye thowt she was the finest lass that ivvor yit was seen; Ye gat a gud-neet kiss, that myed yor heart feel glad-- Can ye e'er forget the plishur ov the forst lass that ye had? When sattled doon in married life, yor bliss wis not complete, Ye wished a little Toddles for te play aroond yor feet; Ye tyuk it as it cam, if owther lass or lad-- Can ye e'er for get the plishur ov the first bairn that ye had? We get see yewsed te awl wor joys, thor's nowt ayboot them new, They cum se nattoral in thor turn, we think it is wor due; But when they blissed us forst, we felt supremely glad-- Can you e'er forget the plishur of the forst of owt ye had? -John Kelday Smith, 1885 back to the song menu Perseveer: Or, the Nine Oors Movemint Tune--"Nelly Ray." Yen Munday neet aw went oot just te hev a walk, When aw met a chep frae Sunderland, an' we got on te tawk; He says, " Wor workin clivvor noo, an' likely for te thrive, We've got the Nine Oors Movemint noo, an' we drop wor work at five." Chorus Persever! Perseveer! awl ye that's sittin' here! Perseveer! Perseveer! they've getting't on the Wear! Ye men upon the banks o' Tyne, aw think thor's little fear, Buyt ye' ll get the Nine Oors Movemint if ye only perseveer! Says aw, "Me man, aw think yor reet viv aw that aw can reed; But mind ye myed a gallant fite before ye did succeed. Se tell yor mates at Sunderland, when ye gan ower hyem, That wor lads aboot Newcassel thor gawn te de the syem!" Perseveer, etc. He says, "Yor tawkin like a man, for aw really think it's time: If the movemint pays upon the Wear it'll pay upon the Tyne; Yor workin men they've been lang famed, aw hope they'll keep thor nyem: They helpt us ower at Sunderland, so we'll help them back agyen!" Perseveer, etc. Noo, strikes are what aw divvent like, but if they'll not agree, We'll heh te be like Sunderland, an' close wor factories, tee; The maistors then'll start te fret, and own 'it they were rang; It's then they'll see they cannot de withoot the workin man. Perseveer, etc. Aw myek ne doot wor maistors think they'll just de what they like, For they knaw it hurts a workin' man when h hes te cum te strike; But if we prove as true as steel wor maistors will be fast, Thor contracts mun be finished, so they will give in at last. Perseveer, etc. -Matthew Dryden, 1871 back to the song menu She's Sumboddy's Bairn One dar, dorty neet, as aw myed me way hyem, Aw passed a bit lassie se bonny; She belanged tiv a class that aw'm frightened to nyem, An' aw grieve that wor toon hes se monny. She'd dress'd hersel' up in extravagant style, Wi' satins an' laces upon her; As she passed me her fyece had a strange sort o' smile, That gliff'd me, it did, on me honour. Aw thowt, noo, that's sumboddy's bairn. Aw wis struck bi her youth an' her bonny white skin, An' the bloom on her cheek tho' 'twas painted, As it flash'd on me mind, them's the trappins o' sin, Oh, aw felt, ay, as if aw cud fainted. Aw saw bi her walk, an' her heed toss'd se high, An' her airtful-like manner se winnin', Bi her ower-dressed style, an' the glance ov her eye, That she'd myed, oh, that awful beginnin'; An' aw thowt, noo, she's sumboddy's bairn. Oh, lasses remember yor feythers at hyem, An' yor muthers, whe's hearts ye are breakin', An' the bruthors an' sisters yor brigin' te shyem, An' the awful-like future yor myekin'; Divvent hanker for plissure nor dresses se fine, Nor be tempted bi fashin an' beauty; Think twice ere ye start on that dreadful decline That leads ye fre' virtue and duty. Remember, yor sumboddy's bairn. Ye lads that a muther hes fondled an' nurs'd, That hes sisters that's gentle an' pure, Nivver lead a young lass in the way that's accurs'd, Nivver breathe in her ear what's impure. Reyther try to protect her fre' danger an' harm, And if wrang'd see the injured one righted; For life hes been robb'd of its lovliest charm, When a woman's fair fame hes been blighted. For mind, she wis sumboddy's bairn. -James Horsley, 1886. back to the song menu The Chinese Sailors in Newcastle John Chinaman hes cum te spy Wor canny Northern toon, Wi flatten'd fyece, an' funny eye, An' skin ov olive broon, An' stumpy feet, an' lang pig-tails, An' claes o' clooty blue, Alang wor street he slawly trails, Just like a live yule doo. Chorus John Chinaman, John Chinaman, What hev ye cum te see? What de ye think o' wor toon lads? Hoo de ye like wor Quay? Hev ye been to the Market yit, Wor cabbages te see, Or "get a puddin' nice an' het," Or hev a cup o' tea? Or hev ye been te th' cutleer's there Te get yor-sel a knife, Or stroll'd th' length o' filly fair To choose yor-sel a wife? John Chinaman, etc. Or hev ye had a swagger doon By Mosley Street at neet, An' watched them myek th' bonny meun Wiv Swan's Electric Leet? Or hev ye been te Law's place, An' smiled yor biggest laff, An' let yor pigtail hing wi' grace, Te get yor photygraff? John Chinaman, etc. Or hev ye been te Barka's The bicycles te try, An' show'd th' Quayside marquises, Like them yor rethor "fly"? Or hev ye been te see th' shops Te spend yor English tin, An' as th' money frae ye drops, Suspect yor tek'n in? John Chinaman, etc. Or hev ye had a ridy-pide Inside a Tramway Car, Wi' grinnin' fyeuls at every side A' wunderin' what ye are? Or hev ye bowt a big ci-ga', An' tried to myek it leet, An' gyen an' deun the La-di-da, Alang by Grainger Street? John Chinaman, etc. Then trail alang, John Chinaman, Amang the crood ov bairns, An' touchy tyest all ye can, For that's th' way one lairns; But, mind, beware o' cheeky lass, An' whisky, John, and beer, For if ye tyek an extra glass, Oh, John, 'twill cost ye dear! John Chinaman, etc. If ye shud tyek a drop ower much, An' it gets in yor eye, An' ye get i' wor bobby's clutch, By sangs, he'llmyek ye cry- He'll tyek ye up before the "chief," An' though yor skin be broon, An' ye be neither rogue nor thief, He'll fine ye haaf-a-croon. John Chinaman, etc. But ye'll heve seen, John Chinaman, Barbarious English cheps Disgrace the varry nyem ov men, Th' blackguard jackanyeps! Should ony drucken cuddy, John, Dar smite ye in the gob, We'll let ye break a saucer, John, An' fine him forty bob. John Chinaman, etc. John Chinaman, John Chinaman, Dressed in yor suit ov blue, Ye've cum te see John Englishman, 'An' axee-how-he-doo. Yor welcome here, John Chinaman, Te buy yor guns an' ships, An' if ye bring yor munny, John, Ye'll find us jolly chips. - John Chinaman, etc. James Horsley, 1881 In 1881, at Armstrong's a war vessel was built for the Chinese Government, and some hundreds of Chinese sailors came to Newcastle as her crew. The song describes them as seen in the streets. back to the song menu The Flay Craw;Or, Pee Dee's Mishap. Tune--"Warkworth Feast." Just as the darkness o' the neet Began te hide a' things frae seet, The Skinners' Burn a keel went past, Wi' sails stritched wide, an' bendin' mast. Strite as a craw whe myed her way, An' a' the keelmen thowt that they Frae Leminton wad not be lang, An' blist the wind that blew se strang. Rite fal, etc. But gud luck niver hes much last; The Meedis Hoose they'd just gyen past, When round aboot, te thor dismay, The wind it crept--then slunk away. As oney keelmen can, they swore, An' cursed what they praised just afore; One nipt the poor Pee Dee's bit neck, Anuther kicked him 'cross the deck Rite fal, etc. 'Twas noo pitch dark' an' still thor lay Two gud lang mile te gan: so they A' lowered huik wi' little glee, An' myed the Pee Dee tyek one, tee. But suen, poor sowl! his huik gat fast (Mind, game he was--ay, te the last); He pulled an' twisted, till the keel Left huik behint--an' lad as weel! Rite fal, etc. They niver missed him till close hyem, Then shooted ov him biv his nyem. Ne answer com; they sowt aboot, But gyen he was, withoot a doot. The skipper shuk his heed, an' said, "The yung imp's drooned, aw's very flaid; O' fault wor clear: aw'm shure he had An angel's life wi' huz, poor lad." Rite fal, etc. 'Twas summer time, an' suen the morn Broke on the Pee Dee, a' forlorn; But sowlger-like, tho' deed almost, The poor lad stuck true tiv his post. He watched the shore wi' watery eye For folks that might be passin' by. At last wi' joy a man he spied, Wi' sumthin' hugg'd close tiv his side. Rite fal, etc. This chep (it turned out) tell'd had been That sum big bords had there been seen; So, wiv his gun, he sowt the spot, For fond was Clarky iv a shot, An' hopeful he was 'boot his luck, Till he saw the Pee Dee on the huik; Then, "Gox!" he cried, "for me te trick, They've stuck that flay-craw on the stick! Rite fal, etc. "But dash, they'll get thor rags ne mair; Te blaw them doon aw'll tyek gud care!" He aimed and pulled--gud luck, a snap-- Just then the laddie waved his cap, An' shooted, "Hey! hey! canny man! Be sharp an' save us if ye can: Aw'm nearly deed--aw'm stiff an' sair!"-- But lang the chep stud gyepin' there. Rite fal, etc. When a' his ghostly doots were gyen, An' he saw the lad was flesh an' byen, Sharp as he cud, a boat he sowt, An' suen ashore Pee Dee he browt. As. weel he might, the lad was pleased Beyond a' boonds at bein' released. He thenked the chep, se timely sent, An', wiv his huik, off hyem he went. Rite fal, etc. -John Taylor, 1872 back to the song menu Jack Simpson's Bairn Jack Simpson's bairn cried one neet, An' Jack cud git ne sleep; The wife she wander'd oot o' bed, An' sighed reet hard an' deep. She be'shd an' ba'd the bairn, To soothe its little grief; An' then she said, "Wey, Jack ye knaa, It's cuttin' its bit teeth!" Chorus. Jack says: "Oh dear! will mornin' cum, That aw may git te wark! Aw'd syuner work than lie i' bed, Wide-waken i' the dark!" Jack says: "Noo, Bess, just haud yor tung, The bairn's two eer awd; Ye a' ways say its his teeth; It's ye that myeks 'im bad. Whativvor he shud cry for, Ye give 'im--what a farce! I'steed o' mendin' wor forst born, Why, Bess, ye myek 'im warse!" Bess torn'd aroond, an' then she said: "Jack, patience ye heth nyen; The bairn he wad be far warse, If aw let him alyen. Aw'd bettor walk aboot the floor, For then he finds relief; He works sair on aboot his mooth, A'm shure it is his teeth!" Jack laid his heed doon i' the bed, An' then he fell asleep; He thowt he saw his bairn an' wife, An' sairly she did weep Te think the fethur was se cross; That vishun myed Jack start; For Jack had sworn before the priest Te tyek her tiv his heart. That mornin', efter Jack got up, He torn'd another leaf; He smiled at Bes, an' kiss'd the bairn That had te get its teeth. Bess a'ways tried to please her man As they went on throo life, An' that shud be the duty Of ivv'ry man's gud wife. -Harrison, 1872 back to the song menu Heh Ye Seen Wor Cuddy? Tune-"The King of the Cannibal Islands." One neet, when gannin te the toon, Aw met a wife called awd Bess Broon, Wiv a raggy shawl an' durty goon, Sayin' "Heh ye seen wor Cuddy?" Her fyece was flush'd wi' pashun reed, Her hair hung lowse aboot her heed; Half flaid aw was when her aw seed, Aw thowt it she was mad indeed. She says, "Noo, Billy, ye mun gan Wi' me, or else ye are ne man; For find this beest aw niver can-- Aw've gyen an' lost wor Cuddy!" Chorus Fal the dal, the dal, the da, Fal the dal, the dal, the da, Fal the dal, the dal, the da, O, heh ye seen wor Cuddy? "What culler is yor Cuddy, Bess? Aboot that beest aw heh ne guess, Maw heed swims roond in dizziness, When aw think aboot yor cuddy! Is he broon? or is he grey? When did ye loss him, dye say? Or, how d'ye knaaw he's cum'd this way? Thor's uther roads the beest might stray. What towl-gate did yor Cuddy pass? Ye knaw doon here thor is ne grass; It myeks ye luik a stupid lass, Te cum here te seek yor Cuddy!" Fal the dal, etc. "He's ginger heckled, Bill, ye knaw, An' weers his hair reet roond his jaw, An' a greet big tuft his chin belaw, Maw drunken ginger Cuddy! He's been a trimmer mony a 'eer An' a reg'lar wet 'un for his beer, Ya knaw as wel as me it's here, Cud Broon, the trimmer, Bill, aw feer. They get thor munny paid th' neet, Ye knaw yorsel it's owt but reet, Aw cannot get a bit te eet For that nasty, drunken Cuddy!" Fal the dal, etc. -George Guthrie, Allan's Collection, 1872 back to the song menu Aw Wish Pay Friday Wad Cum Tune-- "Aw wish yor Muther wada cum." 'Twas last pay Friday efterneun aw went an' drew my pay, And, like a fyeul, unto the skeul aw surely bent maw way; Aw suen lost all my money, and aw stood till aw was numb, Then away aw went hyem, and wish'd te myself that next pay Friday wad cum. When aw went hyem an' teld my wife, she nearly broke her heart; She says, "Maw lad, such wark as this is sure te myek us part; Aw wadn't cared if thou'd cum'd drunk wi' strang beer, whisky, or rum; Aw wad tyen the rest, and dyen my best till another pay Friday wad cum. Then she sobb'd an' sigh'd, and the bairns all cried, and aw was varry bad; A confused house, and a woman's abuse, is enough to drive a man mad; Aw knew varry weel what caus'd it all, so aw sat as if aw was dumb, To speak aw was flaid, so nought aw said, but aw wish'd pay Friday wad cum. The grocer, and butcher, and shoemaker tee, they all cam' smilin' in, But what was maw poor wife to dee but tell them she had ne tin? Their smiles was all torn'd into frowns, it nearly struck them dumb; And when they went oot, aw couldn't say nought, but aw wish'd pay Friday wad cum. On Saturday morn to be oot o' the way, aw took mysel off to the town, But hevvin' ne brass to set me in, had to wander up and down; Aw met mony a ken'd feyce in the street, but they all appeared to be dumb, And all the way hyem aw sang te mysel, aw wish pay Friday wad cum. On Sunday morn, when aw got up,--the sun se bright did shine, There was nought provided in the house to break wor fast or dine; The bairns was crying oot for broth and a greet marrow-byen made some; They myed the house ring wi' tryin' to sing, aw wish pay Friday wad cum. On Monday morn the miller cam'd in, my wife began to cry, He said if he couldn't get his tin, he wad surely stop the supply! Aw's proud to remark that aw was at wark, and oot o’ the way o' the hum, And all the whole day aw was singing away, aw wish pay Friday wad cum. We had nought to eat, neither taties nor meat, and the bairns was crying for breed, My wife was freetin' away er life, and aw wish'd that aw was deed; My bran new suit had to gan up the spoot, it's a regular practice with some, But not a good plan for a hard-working man,--so aw wish pay Friday wad cum. But next pay Friday, aw'll lay my life, aw'll not be such a fyeul, Aw'll tyek my pay strite hyem to my wife, i'stead of gannin to skeul, Aw'll treat mysel wiv a glass of good yell, and my wife wiv a good glass of rum, And aw'll give her the rest, to manage her best, so aw wish pay Friday wad cum. -Anderson, 1872 I took oot ma card and laid it doon for one and all te see I tried it to pay for me yell and spree but the barmaid just said it was deed I searched and searched for another bit card but found there wasn't a one That haddent expired or was sairly tired I wish the new card would come! -Conrad Bladey, Peasant, June 22, 2004 The author, a Northumbrian miner, is celebrated as the winner of several prizes for local compositions-Note, 1872. "Pay Friday" won the prize in the Weekly Chronicle competition of 1870. To this competition Joe Wilson sent "Wor Geordy's Local Hist'ry.". It missed the prize, but got honourable mention. Mr. Anderson still follows his occupation of a miner at Elswick. back to the song menu Cuddy Willy's Deeth Noo, Cuddy Willy's deed an' gyen, Aw's sure ye'll a' be sorry; He was as hard as ony styen, An' a' ways was se merry. His creels he used te cowp se fast, Till he was nearly silly; But deeth hes tyun him off at last, Poor, harmless Cuddy Wily! A fiddle Willy a'ways had, He used te play se bonny; For fiddlin' Willy was the lad-- An' what was varry funny, A bit o' wood, tied up wi' twine, Was please a Sandgate filly, A tune he then wad play se fine, Wad cliver Cuddy Willy! The blagaird lads upon the Kee, They used te treat him cruel: They'd trip him oot just for a spree, An' hurt me canny jewel. But, man alive! aw've seen him row! Till he was soft as jilly, An' get up a' reet, upon my sowl! Wad bonny Cuddy Willy! A crust o' breed, an' drink o' beer, If he cud oney get, man; An' if he gat ne better cheer, He nivver used te fret, man. A bite o' tripe, or bacon raw-- Stuff that wad nearly kill'e-- He'd eat up crabs, an' shells, an' a', Wad bonny Cuddy Willy. The fishwives a' poor Billy knew, They a' ca'd him thor pet, man; O' wilks they wad gie him a few, Or a share or two o' skyet, man. Poor Bill was nivver at a loss Te fill his hungry belly; He'd drink aud milk at Sandgate cross, Wad canny Cuddy Willy In jail Will often used te be For sleepin' mang the cinders, Or bein' drunk upon the Kee, An' smashin' folks's winders; Or lyin' doon amang the durt Till he was ca'd an' chilly; But still he did the folks ne hurt.- Poor, canny Cuddy Willy! But iverything cums tiv an end, An' so did bonny Will, man: Ne mair happy days he'll spend: He noo is lyin' still, man. He vivver did ne body harm, For a' he was se silly; The toon seems noo te want a charm Since it lost poor Cuddy Willy! -Johsua I.Bagnall, Songs of the Tyne, 1850. William Maclachlan, better known as "Cuddy Willy," was a well-known eccentric of Newcastle. For years he wandered the streets without hat or shoes, and in clothes of the scantiest and most tattered description. He contrived to live by frequenting public-houses, and by playing his fiddle in the streets. His fiddle was a curiosity, made by himself: it was simply a flat piece of wood, on which he tied a few pieces of string. He was addicted to drink; and his death was caused by some parties most shamefuly, at a public-house, giving him brandy as long as he would drink it. The result was, he drank to such an excess that he died from the effects. His death took place September 27th, 1847. back to the song menu The Bobbies an' the Dogs Tune—“Aud Cappy” Since the days o' "Aud Cappy" thor's not been sic stor, In Newcassel thor niver wa sic like before; The poor dogs are howlin' an' madly rush by, An' Bobbies, like leetnin', start off in full cry. There's a dog, Bobby! after hm, Bobby! Dog hunting's the game-tallio! tallio! Noo, the cause of a' this is wor Council's fine plan, That a' dogs strowlin' lowse to the station mun gan; An' te catch them se cliver each Bob hes a stick, Wiv a wire at the end for to gie them a click. There's a dog, Bobby, etc. One day, beside Mackey's, a Bobby luk'd sly, On a lost lukin' bull-dog he'd just clapt his eye: Thinks he, Ye've ne maister, yor case is a' reet, Yor byuk'd for a borth at the Manors this neet. There's a dog, Bobby, etc. So he edged te the dog, myed a cast wiv his stick, But his aim wasn't gud, or the dog wes ower quick; For the dog sav'd his nec, catch'd the wire iv his jaw, An' then tugged it amain, an' the Bobby an' a'. There's a dog, Bobby, etc. Noo, the end of the sport was, the wire, wiv a crack, Snapt in two, an' the Bobby went flat on his back; But he up in a rage, on the dog myed a spring, An' he color'd him fast as the bairns did sing, There's a dog, Bobby, etc. Wi' the dog in his airms, he thowt a' was won, When a Pitman came runnin'-" What hes maw dog duen? He's an aud un--near blind--an' he quietly follis"-- Shouts X21, "He's resisted the pollis!" There's a dog, Bobby, etc. "An' wise was the beest, so ye'd best let him be; Maw nyem's on his collor-aw pay for him, tee, Ye've had eneuf sport, noo, so let the dog gan;"-_ An' the Bobby, bein' wise, thowt it was the best plan. There's a dog, Bobby, etc. A' ye that hes dogs, noo, ye'd better luk oot; Beware hoo ye let them gan strowlin' aboot. Dog hunting's the gam' noo all ower the toon, An' X21 laffs when he grabs yor half-crown. There's a dog, Bobby, etc. -Anonymous In 1860 the police had orders to secure all stray dogs. To asist them in this rather difficult operation each policeman had a stick, with a wire noose at the end. The dogs, if not claimed within a given time, were destroyed. Much amusement was caused by the respective dodging of the dogs and the bobbies--the one to catch, and the other not to be caught. back to the song menu Bob Chambers Written on the occasion of the great scullers’ race for the championship of the world, between Robert Chambers, of Newcastle, and Richard A.W. Green of Australia, June 16th, 1863. Chambers won easily by a quarter of a mile. Tune-- "Kiss me quick and go." Aw left Billy Blakey's late last neet, An' weary wandered hyem, Fair tired at last te hear the noise, The cry was still the syem- It's two te one aw'll lay on Bob, Wor Tyneside lad for iver, He's champion o' the saucy Tyems And Tyneside's Coaly River. Chorus- It's two te one, etc. When hyem aw reached aw off te bed, An' funny though 'twad seem, Nee suener doon aw'd laid me heed Then aw'd this queerish dream: Aw thowt aw stood in London toon, Wi' thoosands croodin' near, And Bob and Green were in their skiffs, When oot a chep bawls clear- It's two te one, etc. The start was myed, away they went, Byeth strove wi' might and main, But Greeny, lad, had little chance, For Bob began te gain; And as he pulled his famous stroke, The Cockneys a' luk'd queer, But uz Tynesiders cheered him on, An' shooted far near-- It's two te one, etc. The race went on, Green struggled game; But, hoots, it waddent dee, The Princess Alexandra Through the watter fair did flee; And Bob cam' in the winner, As he's always dyun before, And as wor lads haul'd in the brass, we one and all did roar-- It's two to one, etc. Now half the world they've travell'd ower Te lay wor Tynesid law, The 'tother half they now may try, And still we'll keep the craw. Aw says aw'll lay me brass on Bob, And work the winnin' seam. Just then aw wakened wiv a start, And fund 'twas all a dream. But still aw'll lay be brass on Bob, etc. -Anonymous, 1863 back to the song menu Howdon for Jarrow Tune--"Chapter of Donkeys." O. ye taak aboot travels an' voyages far, But thor's few beats the trip fre' the toon te the bar, As ye gan doon te Tinmuth ye'll hear the chep shoot,- "Here's Howdon for Jarrow, maa hinnies loup oot! Chorus Howdon for Jarrow, Howdon for Jarrow, Howdon for Jarrow, maa hinnies loup oot!" When yen hes been doon bi' the side o' the Tyne, An' seen all the smoke an' the chimlies se fine, Ther's mony a voice that is welcome nee doot, But the bonniest soond that Aa knaa is "Loup oot! Howdon for Jarrow, Howdon for Jarrow, Howdon for Jarrow, maa hinnies loup oot!" Sin' Aa knew the banks o' wor aan bonny river, There's been changes gawn on, an' there's noo mair noriver; But the finest ov aa', barrin' change o' the wind, Is when the soft voice caalls, an' then ye all find, "Ye mun change here for Jarrow, Howdon for Jarrow, Howdon for Jarrow, maa hinnies loup oot!" There's chemicals, copper, coals, clarts, coke, an' stone, Iron ships, wooden tugs, salt, an' sawdust an' bone, Manure, an' steam ingins, bar iron, an' vitr'ol, Gunstans an' puddlers (Aa like to be litt'ral). At Howdon for Jarrow. Howdon for Jarrow, Howdon for Jarrow, maa hinnies loup oot! Besides, on wor river we hev the big dredgers That howks oot the muck, man, Aa's sure we're ne fledgers, An' then the greet hopper works like a wheelbarrow- Ye'll see'd if ye come doon te Howdon for Jarrow. Howdon for Jarrow, Howdon for Jarrow, Howdon for Jarrow, maa hinnies loup oot! Aa yence wis at London, and h'ard a chep shoot, "Yor tickets!" Aa "Howdon for Jarrow! caaled oot; He leuked se teun back that, ses Aa te me marrow, "Here's a chep, mun, that dissent knaa Howdon for Jarrow!" Howdon for Jarrow, Howdon for Jarrow, Howdon for Jarrow, maa hinnies loup oot! Thor's Jack Scott, the puddler (just hear what a caaker). Uphads that there surely is nee place like Waaker; But Aa've elways thowt, for't's the place Aa hev grow'd in, Yen may range thro' the world, but thor's nee place like Howdon! Howdon for Jarrow, Howdon for Jarrow, Howdon for Jarrow, maa hinnies loup oot! -Richard Oliver Heslop, 1879 back to the song menu Newcastle Toon Nee Mair R. Ernest Wilberforce, the first Bishop of Newcastle, consecrated St. James’ Day, 1882 Tune—“Nee good luck aboot the hoose” Wiv aal the "toon improvement" hash, New fangles yit they'll fish up; So noo they’ve fund, wi' aal thor clash, The Toon mun he' a Bishop. They say he'll he' te weer white goons, An' laan sleeves, leuk ye there! But when he comes they say the Toon's Newcatle Toon nee mair! Chorus We like the soon' o' "Canny Toon.." We like wor aad Toon sair; But ivverything is upside doon, Newcastle Toon nee mair! Aad Nichol's chorch, an' steeple tee, The clock feyce, an' the Beadrel, They've set the heyl consarn agee, An caal it noo "cathedral." Thor'll be a Dean an' Chapter seun, Te put the job aal square, We'll not dar say, when aal is deun, Newcastle Toon nee mair! Chorus, Hoo can the Bishop he' the flum Te caal the pleyce a City? The toon's been Toon afore he cum; Te change it mair's the pity! He mevvies thinks wor nowt but cloons, An' he' nee wit te spare, But what's the odds? for O, wor Toon's Newcastle Toon nee mair! Chorus "Maa fellow Toonsmen," noo fareweel, Maa heed is teum, nee wit is in, Thor's nowther sense, nor mense, nor feel In "Hum--maa fellow citizen!" For aa this fancy change o' soon' Aa waddent hev a care, But, O me lads, it's wae! the Toon, The canny Toon's nee mair! Chorus Richard Oliver Heslop, Broadsheet, 1882. back to the song menu A Tow for Nowt. Oh, wor cargo we'd got oot, away doon at Whitehill Spoot; But the wind an' tide wis both on them contrairy, O! An' it seemed we'd hae te lie till the tide wis comin' high, So the keel we moored, an' leuked aboot se warry, O. Chorus. So the keel we moored, etc. Just then, te wor delight, a tugboat hove i' sight, An' backed astarn close by where we wor stannin', O. Ses aa, noo aa'l accost hor! so aa hailed, "Hey, Mister Forster, Wad ye gie's a ow as far up as wo'r gannin', O?" Then the tugboat maistor torned, an' he leuked, an' kinda gorned, Sees he, "Hoo dis thoo knaa they caal me Forster, O?" "Man," ses aa, "yor dad afore wis a chep aa did adore, An' yo'r just like him, maa canny Mistor Forster, O," Iv a frindly kind o' way, aa got a tow that day; An' off we set, wi' nowt at aal te cost hor, O. Aa bargaint wivoot doot, as na past wor towlin' oot, "At the Mushroom hoy hor off, please Mistor Forster, O." So we cam' up spankin' fine, an' past aal on the Tyne-- Sic a tow for nowt aa waddent then he lost hor, O. An' we just hed past the Geuse, an' aa thowt o' getting' lowse; So, ses aa, "Just hoy hor off, please Mistor Forster, O." Wi' the tiller 'tween his legs, just like twee wooden pegs, He nivvor torned, but oney went the faster, O. Aa shoots oot, "Here we are, yor gannin' ower far; Aa telt ye 'twas the Mushroom, Mistor Forster, O!" What wis deein noo wis clear, so aa couldn't help but sweer. "Yo'r a bad 'un, yo'r as bad as any coster, O! An' so wis yor aad dad--gosh, he was just as bad! Where the smash, man, are ye towin's te, ye Forster, O?" But it aal wis o' nee use, owther sweerin' or abuse; For a joke there Forster steud as deef as dummy, O; An' he waddent hoy us free till past Newcastle Quay, So, thinks aa, a tow for nowt is sometimes rummy, O! -Richard Oliver Heslop, "Newcastle Weekly Chronicle," 1882. back to the song menu The Singin'-Hinney Tune- -"The One-Horse Shay." Sit doon, noo, man alive! Te tell ye aa'll contrive O' the finest thing the worl' hes ivver gin ye, O. It's not fine claes nor drink, Nor owt 'at ye can think, Can had a cannle up ti singin'-hinney, O. Sing hi, the Puddin' Chare an' Elwick's lonnin', O! Newcassel's fame 'ill bide Lang as its coaly tide; But it winnet rest on what makes sic a shinney, O. The pride o' a' the North Is 'cas it forst ga' borth To the greetest charm o' life-a singin'-hinney, O. Sing hi, the Spital Tongues an' Javel Groupe, hi O! Fre the day we forst draa breeth To the day 'at brings wor deeth, Fre the forst day ony on us ken'd wor minnie, O, We gan on step bi step, An' each gaady day is kept, Wiv a cheer 'ats elways crooned wi' singin'-hinney O! Sing hi, for Denton Chare an' the Big Markit, O! Wor weddin' feast wis spreed Wi' menseful meat an' breed, An' ivverything wis theer for kith an' kin, ye O! As aa sat doon wi' me bride, Aa wad say aa felt a pride Te hear them praise her aan-made singin'-hinney, O. Sing hi, the Bottle Bank, an' the Team-Gut, hi O! The day the bairn wis born Wis a snaay New Eer's morn; Se caad yee'd scarsly feel yorsel' or fin', ye O! But we put the gordle on 'The rousin' fire upoon, An' we whistled as we baked wor singin'-hinney, O. Sing hi, the Dog-Lowp Stairs an' the Darn Cruck, hi O! At christnen, tee, se fine, Another wife an' mine Gans oot an' takes the bairn, see spick an' spinney, O. Wi' spice cake an' wi' salt, The forst they met te halt, An' gar him stan' an' tyest wor singin-hinney, O. Sing hi, the Friar's Geuse an' the Aad-Faad, hi O! An' se on, day bi day, As we trudge alang life's way, We've troubles roond--like stoor--eneuf te blin' ye, O! But whiles thor comes a stop, An' wor tools we then can drop, Te gan hyem, lads, an' hev a singin'-hinny, O. Sing hi, the Close, Waal-Knowl, an' the Cut Bank, hi O! An' when we can enjoy, Amang wor hivvey 'ploy, A day 'at brings huz not a single whinney, O; Let's elwis drop wor cares, An' set worsels, for fairs, Te celebrate it wiv a singin'-hinney, O! Sing hi, the Mushroom, Forth, an' Heed o' Side, hi O! - Richard Oliver Heslop, "Newcastle Weekly Chronicle, 1885. back to the song menu The Tyneside Chorus Hadaway, Harry! Hadaway, Harry! Them wis the days on wor canny aad Tyne! Clasper afore him could ivverything carry, Back'd bi the cheer 'at we hard lang sin syne. Hadaway, Harry, lad! Hadaway, Harry! Pull, like a good 'un, through storm or through shine. Gan on, wor canny lad--Hadaway, Harry! Come te the front for the sake iv aad Tyne. Where's like Tyneside cheps for warkin or owt? Buffin away, heart an' sowl likete teer; Hewin' or puddlin', thor beaten bi nowt, Their owerword's still "How there, lads, what cheer?" Hadaway, Harry, lad--Hadaway, Harry! Afloat or ashore, or doon the coal mine; Gan on, maa canny lads, Hadaway, Harry! Teuf' uns for wark is the lads iv aud Tyne! Doon the black pit shaft thor's brave lads at wark; Doon dunny Tyneside the fornaces lowe; Workers is busy, through dayleet an' dark, Singin', me hearties, though tired they may grow. Hadaway, Harry, lads, Hadaway, Harry! Cheery, me marrows, an' nivvor a whine; Gan on, maa canny lads, Hadaway, Harry! Gan like th' aad' un for pride o' the Tyne. 'Way ower the seas wor Tyneside lads afloat, Brave as thor fethors, still fight wi' the storm. Nee paril flays them; thor prood o' thor boat, An' marrily cheer as they show the aad form. Hadaway, Harry, lads, Hadaway, Harry! Still te the fore; let yor hears nivvor crine. Gan on, maa canny lads, Hadaway, Harry! Where is thor braver nor crews fre the Tyne? So, noo, canny cheps, let's nivor forget, I' life's course reet on, come good or bad luck, Whativvor we dee, wor motto be yet, Like and Harry Clasper, the pictur o' pluck-- Hadaway, Harry, lad, Hadaway, Harry! Pull like a good 'un, through storm or through shine, Gan on, wor canny lad, Hadaway, Harry! Come to the front for the sake iv aad Tyne. -Richard Oliver Heslop, "Newcastle Weekly Chronicle", 1886 back to the song menu When the Gud Times Cum Agyen Tune--"The Captain with the Whiskers." In sweet anticipashun o' the gud time cummin' back, Let's join in ruminashun on the days se bad an' black, That the myest o' foak are troubled, aye, byeth wimmin', bairns, an' men, That wor joys may al be dubbled when the gud times cum agyen; For wheriver we may be, on the land or on the sea, The retrospect 'ill point oot awl things we shudent de, An' warn us te forsyek sum ways wor footsteps used te een, Pointin' us te purer pleshors when the gud times cum agyen. If specalayshun wis yor forte, an awl yor brass wis lost, Throo some famed bubble company that sair yor temper crost; Or if on bricks an' mortor, lads, yor 'onest homes war set, Till ye fund yor cas wis gannin an' yor hooses wadent let; Oh, it's dinnet pine an' fret, an' get intiv a swet Ower the twenty-five percentage ye wor hopin' for te net, But quietly keep plodding on, till mair cotterds ye get, then Look before ye lowp, lads, when the gud time cum agyen. If drinking wis yor hobby, when the wages they wor flush, An' ye spent yor hard 'arned money ower idleness an' lush, Till ye hardlys had a suit o' claes, a tyebbil or a press, An' ye stud imang the foremist that wis suf'rin fra distress; Though the triawl wis seveer, it 'ill still yor future cheer, If it learns ye te be steady, te be canny wi' the beer, Ti save up for a rainy day, an' leeve the drink alyen, Thit troo comforts oft may cheer ye when the gd times cum agyen. If gamilin engrost yor mind, an' thowts o' dorty greed Had o' yor heart possesshun tuen, 'twis pitiabil indeed, Fur dreed remorse mun sair 'a tried yor conshience neet and day, When plunged in poverty ye mourned the brass ye'd hoyed away; Then be sure ye dinnet fail, ti forsyek the heed an' tail That may land ye I' the wark-house, the mad-house, or the jail, An' seek healthier recreashun mair suitabil te men, Te improve yor mind an' body, when the gud times cum agyen. Aye, thor's lessons fra the bad times that every yen may larn, Wiv a littil bit o' thinking, an' a mind that can discern, Fur vile extravagence wid ceese if foak had only sense Fur te note the crime an' fulishness iv useless expense; Then the gud we mite exert, wiv a pure an' noble heart, In the workshop, in the cottage, in the mansion, in the mart. Wid guide wor future footsteps I' the paths o' wisdom, then Wi mite myke this world an Eden when the gud times cum agyen. -Thomas Kerr back to the song menu Aw's Glad the Strike’s Duin Tune--"It's time to get up." "Oh, aw's glad the strike's duin," shooted lang Geordy Reed, Ti the groop thit wis stanning iroond, "Fur the care an' anxiety's ni' turned me heed, An' am getting is thin is a hoond; Fur ye knaw me an' Jenny had promist te wed When the money te start hoose wis won, But the unlucky stop cawsed wor sporits te drop, So aw's glad, very glad, the strike's duin." "Oh, aw's glad the strike's duin," said a hawf-grown lad, "Fur wor brass it wis getting' se short, An' the boolin' an' runnin' wis gan te the bad, An' we'd ni' sen a finish te sport. Noo te Newcassel Races, se merry an' blate, We'll yet start like shot iv a gun, An' it's nyen ower late te back one fur the "Plate," So aw's glad, very glad the strike’s duin." "Oh, aw's glad the strike's duin, for the sake o' my wife." Said a brave little man in the crood, "Fur the pinchin' an' plannin' an sorrow an' strife Neerly had her, poor lass, in her shrood. Noo wor canny bit bairns ill luik tidy an' trim, When te chapel on Sundays thor tuin; An' hoo thenkful, " said he, "iverybody shud be That the unlucky strike is noo duin." "Oh, aw's glad the strike's duin," cried oot shopkeeper Jack, An' he's words they exprest awl he said, Fur he's fyece wor a smile, an' he's lips gov a smack, Is he tawk't o' "the prospects o' trade." Hoo the business wid thrive is it yence did before, An' the wheels iv prospority run; "Ay, an' awl get me whack," said shopkeeper Jack, "So aw's glad, very glad, the strike’s duin." Then the crood awl agreed, wi' a nod o' the heed, They war pleased the bad job wis put strite, An' a wummin or two, is the crood they passed through, Gae full vent te thor happy delite; While the bairns in the street, wi' thor voices se sweet, In the hite o' thor glory an' fun, Shooted "Hip, hip, horray!! it's settiled the day, An' wor glad, very glad, the strike's duin." - Thomas Kerr, 1880 back to the song menu The Dandylion Clock Tune--"Days we went a-gipsying." When wor aud toon was the aud toon, Wi' mony a grassy nyuk, And posies ivvoreewhere adorn'd It like sum pikter-byuk; We lay above the sighin' burn, On hills ov fern and rock, To blaw thaw balloon life away, Maw "dandylion clock." Two bonnie lasses and me-sel, But bairns--dash! hoo we play'd Wiv buttercups and daises pure, And babby-hooses made. Before the manly cares cam oot To gie won's heart a shock, We lay and blaw'd to tell the time-- The "dandylion clock." Luk! the dear sunshine's teeming doon Neagarrays of joy, On Lizzie's bonnie curly heed, Like dolls her lovin' toy. It sparkles like the goold itsel-- Aw might hev had a lock Is easy as aw blew for her The "dandylion clock." And there wis little Katie, tee, Whe's figur aw wad paint; But God saves me the trubbil noo, He's tyun hur to the saint. And Lizzie tee's an angel gud, Iv her brite lalock frock; Aw think aw see her blawin' yet The "Dandylion clock." -Alexander Hay, 1879 back to the song menu The Illektric Leet. Written on Mr. J. Swan, the inventor of the incandescent lamp, lighting with electricity his (Mawson and Swan's) chemist shop, Mosley Street. The first shop in Newcastle lighted by electricity (1880) Tune--Billy O'Rooke's the Boy." Aave seen sum queer things in maw time, When gas did oil eclipse, sor, For aa remember Neshim's men, Whe myed wor mowls an' dips, sor, The tindor box an' rag isteem'd Begat the loosifors, sor; Yit still wor greet inventive brain Is floororie as the Gorze, sor. Chorus The illektric leet! the illektric leet! The pet ov aal the seasin; We'll he'd hung up th' morrow neet Or else we'll knaa the reasin. We've had sum clivor cheps it hyem, Ye'll knaa what they wor worth, sor; The lion gob ov steem snores oot The glory of the North, sor. Its ingins push the ships aboot Faster nor the breeze, sor; It helps to win wor wives and bairns Thor bits ov breed and cheese, sor. The illektric leet! the illektric leet! etc. Noo Stevinson an' Watt, ye knaa, Sent Geordies ower the seas, sor, To teach mankind to de the trick, Myek steam de as they please, sor. Ye'll find wors in Astrillia, In aal the isles aboot, sor; Fur aa'll be bund ne class ov men Mair babbed the secrit oot, sor! The illektric leet! the illektric leet! etc. So here's te Swan, wor canny man; His 'llektric leet is fine, sor, That burns away an' rivals day In honour ov wor Tyne, sor. The aud wax candels had thor time, The gas wor sarvant, tee, sor; But seun Swan's leet 'll blink like stars Frov Sanget te The Kee, sor. The illektric leet! the illektric leet! etc. -Hay, "Weekly Chronicle," 1880. Nesham- About fifty years ago Mr. Nesham had a famous tallow-chandler's works on the site of Handyside's shops in New Bridge Street. Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Part 16 Directory 15 More Songs of Joe Wilson From:Tyneside Songs&Drolleries Thomas and George Allan, Newcastle-on-Tyne Click here for main menu of this directory. Use our floating menu to improve navigation. you can reposition it by clicking on top bar and dragging Floating Menu Menu of all of the Sangs Click here For tunes in .abc notation click here For an index of persons and places mentioned in the sangs click here For Bibliography,and Philosophy of the collection click here We invite you to contribute! Click here to comment or add. Soon after our upgrade the songs which the priests have recorded will be high-lighted thusly (Where you see the music note image there will be a midi file-for you to listen to!) Your Choices! The Main Menu! Main Menu Me Muther's Warnin! Keept Dark Tyneside Lads for Me Canny Aud Crismis Its Muther's Cum Newgate Street The Bairn's Nyem. It's Time Te Gan Te Bed. Thor's Cumfort Iv A Smoke! Its Time te Get up! She's Gyen Te Place At Jarrow The Day That We Got Married "Aw Wish Ye A Happy New Eer." Varry Canny Jimmy Jonsin The Barber Benny 'Ill not Gan Te Scheul! Think O' The Little Ones At Hyem! The Neet the Bairn Wes Born Think O' The Little Ones At Hyem! Little Johnny Robinson. Maw Bonny Strite-Hair'd Lad! Benny 'Ill not Gan Te Scheul! Wor Canny Second-Born! Aw'll Sing Ye A Tyneside Sang Kiss Little Joe for Me! Cum Hyem I' Gud Time! Wor Jinny's Fell Oot Wiv Her Lad! Keep The Kettle Boilin! Recknin' For the Pay Here's A Tip! The Day His Wife Wes Barried Hannah's Black Eye Hoo Te Leeve At Lodjins! Fightin Jim! Hoo Te Myek Mischeef! What Myed Ye Get the Bag? Intoxication! Me Sweetheart Dinnet Spoil the Bairn! The Aud-Fashin'd Bairn! Superstishus Sally. Dan's Apprehension. Janey Foster The Miseries O' Shiftin Settled Doon. Use this Pull down form to go to our other pages To return to the top of this page click here. Me Muther's Warnin! Me muther often says--"Maw canny lad, It's myekin rhyme that myeks ye varry bad; Yor heed's been achin noo for mony a day, So write ne mair, but thraw the trash away! What gud can't de ye myekin Tyneside sangs, Or useless speeches 'boot foaks' reets and rangs? For poets vary seldum de much gud Wi' owt they say or write,--besides ye shud Tyek care i' what ye say, -whe ye defend, Ye may please sum, but mair ye may offend Wi' what ye just may think as harmless chaff; An ye needent kill yorsel te myek foaks laff! An if wi' study ye shud win a nyem, It 'ill gan ne farther than yor Tyneside hyem! Newcassel taek's a queerish thing te reed, Aw dinnet knaw what put sic i' yor heed: Yor ower young te tell foaks what te de, So write ne mair!-tyek this advice frae me!" Aw's sure aw's sorry that aw thus disploease, An writin sangs, me canny muther teaze, But if aw dinnet write, aw think the syem, Tho maw poor efforts may appear but lyem Te them greet critics, that man's fate can seal, Aw hope thor censure aw may nivor feel; Me constant aim's te please, instruct, amuse, Gud humour and gud will a' roond infuse: Contented, blist, shud aw me end attain; A humble candidate for your regard, Aw sign me-sel Joe Wilson, Tyneside Bard. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Keep't Dark: or, The Wife that Knaws Ivrything A contrast to the Chep that Knows Nowt. Teun--"The Perfect Cure." Aud Mistress Clark wes fond o' clash, She lik'd te hear her tung, She said that tawkin eased the mind, Wi' foaks byeth aud an' young; The chep that knaws nowt's gud advice Wes lost on Mistress Clark,-- But mind aw shuddnt menshun this, Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark! Says Mistress Clark te siv'ral frinds She had one day te tea, Aw wunder what myeks Geordy Hall So fond o' beer an' spree? They say his wife can tyek her gill, An' neether's fond o' wark,-- But mind aw shuddint menshun this, Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark! There's Mary Smith, upon the stairs, A wild an' rakish lass, Aw wunder where she gets her claes, Aw's sure she hes ne brass, They say she's thick wi' Draper Jim,-- He's not up te the mark,-- But mind aw shuddint menshun this, Aw hope yell a' keep't dark! There's Bella Jones that leeves next door, Got Bessie Thompson's shawl, An' borrow'd Suzie Ratcliffe's goon, Te gan te Hopper's ball, But neether o' them's got them back, Aw think's owt but a lark,-- Still mind aw shuddint menshun this, Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark! Therre's Dollyu Green, that dorty slut, That leeves alang the yard, She flirts wi' ivry lad she meets, She's worthy ne regard; Last neet aw catch'd her on the stairs Wi' Jack the Keyside Clerk;-- But mind aw shuddint menshun this, Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark. There's Mistress Johnson pawns heer claes, As sure as Monday cums: An' drunkin Mary locks the door, For fear she'll get the bums: An' Mistress Black 'ill nivor wesh Her man a shart for wark, But mind aw shuddint menshun this! Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark! Fat Mistress Jackson likes te clash Lang Jinnie likes her ways; An' Mary Riley starves her bairns, Te get sic dandy cales; Young Peggie Robson's got her bed, Throo sum seducin spark;- But mind aw shuddint menshun this, Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Tyneside Lads for Me Teun="Kill or Cure" Noo a' ye lads that's Tyneside born, just coock yor lugs an' lissen, Aw'll gie yor canny toon a turn , an' myek yor goggles glissen; Ye cannet tell hoo glad aw feel, an' me heart it lowps wi' pride, When me voice aw raise te sing i' praise ovv canny aud Tyneside,- .Korus Then sing me lads wi' glee, an' happy may ye be, Whack-fal-the-daddy, O!-the Tynesdie lads for me. Luck at the noble buildins grand-the wark o' Richard Grainger, Hoo fine like palaces they stand, the wunder ofv each stranger, Ye may search the world reet throo an' throo, an' travel far an' travel far an' wide, But aw's sure yhe'll nivor find owt like the manshuns o' Tyneside. Twes doon the shore, not varry far, George Stephenson invented The steam engine, so te be a star, forth the the world he sent it, The foaks amazed went nearly crazed, when they saw its leetnin stride An' they a'confess'd thor's nyen can best the lads ov aud Tyneside. Sir William Airmstrang myed a gun- noo it's a reglor wundor, It myed the funky Chinese run, when they heard it roar like thunder, Sum want te say it's just a hoax, an' its merits they deride, But wait a bit he's not deun yit-Sir William of Tyneside. Where will ye find sic pullers, like them on wor coaly river? Far-famed as sturdy scullers, thor se strang se stoot, se clivor, Lang may Chambers an' Cooper leeve, for i' them we can confide What's dearest tiv each honest heart, the honor ov aud Tyneside. So pass the glass, an' chant a stave, an' join its chorus sweetly, I' praise o'Tyneside lads, se brave, they bang the world completely, An' sing this sang wi' voices strang,-let it echo far 'an wide, The greet renoon o' wor canny toon, and the heroes o' Tyneside. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Canny Aud Chrismis! Teun--"Pull Away Cheerily." Let's sing for aud Chrismis, canny aud Chrismis! A time when the world's leet-hearted an' glad, Let its welcum be hearty, gud-temper'd an' jovial, Cheer up, maw pets, it's a shem te be sad! The beef on the tyeble lucks temptin an' lushus, An' tyests se much sweeter wi' bein the prize; The holly seems noddin, as tho it wes laffin At a' the glad fyeces an' bonny brght eyes. Korus.-- Then sing for aud Chrismis, etc. Hoo happy the meetin, an' cordial the greetin, When foaks bid gud-bye te bad temper an' care, When squeezes an' kisses, an' kind-hearted blisses Fall in abundance, an' young hearts insnare; There's smart little Bella sticks weel te that fella That once set her hyem, de ye think she'd say No! If he offer'd te tyek her te join i' the dancin? He's Twice had her under the Mistletoe Bough! The scene se intrancin, wi' music an' dancin's Eneuff te myek sorrow sink under the din, When kettles keep hummin, an' bleezin an' sparklin, The fires burn brightly as tho they'd join in; Thor's ne Chrismis log, but Big Harry, the cairtman, Te stir up the company, an' cawse a bit fun, Browt a greet lump o' coal, it teuk two men te carry, It 'ill be Chrismis agyen beforfe the bit's deun! And fethurs an' muthers, te be like the tuthers, Cheer up, an' imagine thor young onece agyen, Luckin eftor what passes, -while gud-luckin lasses Click at the grand chance te luck eftor the men; There's blue-eyed young Nanny, byeth cosey an' canny, Grush'd up iva corner wi' young Geordy Knox, But the bairns i' the family 'ill not let him rest there, Thor cravin the lad for a nice Christmis box! Then sing for aud Chrimis, canny aud Chrismis, Frae ivry day trubbil we find a release, When foaks glad an' frindly, cheerful an' kindly, Meet an' shake hands i' the true bonds o' peace; When the fiddler's grand teuns myek hearts lowp wi' plissure, An' feet trip byeth happy an' leet on the floor, While uthers keep singin, the korus high ringin, The joys ov aud Chrismis te fully restore. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Its Muther's Cum Teun--"When the Kye cums Hyem." Wor Geordy got the bairn te keep, The time his wife wes oot, But till the pet wes fast asleep, He sair wes put aboot; Before his wife wes oot the hoose He wisht her back agyen, At last te Geordy's greet releef, She landid safely hyem. Korus Sleep on, maw bonny bairn, Sleep on, maw canny son, Affecshun watches near ye noo, Sleep on, its muther's cum! "Oh, Geordy, hes the bairn been gud?" Cries Peg, quite oot o' breeth, "Aw thowt ye'd hevv a weary job, It's bizzy cuttin teeth: Aw left its boily on the neuk, Aw thowt the job ye'd curse, The poor thing cried this mornin sair, But yor a clivor nurse!" "Hoo calm it sleeps,-the little pet Like sum wax figor there, Ne trubbil cloods its bonny broo, It's free, as yit, frae care; Are ye not prood o' such a bairn? The only lad we've had, It's nose, its eyes, its mooth, its chin's The pictor ov its dad!" "Luck at its lips, its churry lips, That move when iv its sleep, As tho it dreamt it had the tit Between its lips to keep; Tor's mony a one wad give a croon Te claim him as thor awn, The bliss, the joy o' wedded life's A kind a' bonny bairn!" "Whish't, Geordy, for its stirin noo, Luck at the happy smile That prightens up its bonny fyece, Se sweet, an' free frae guile, Eneuff te myek each sinner blush; Dream on, thor's nowt te fear, Thor's kindly watchers near yor bed, Its dad an' mammy's here!" -Joe Wilson. back to the song menu Newgate Street Teun--"The Postman's Knock." The day's just begun, an' a bright bleezin sun Sends a fine dazzlin lustor a' roond, When i' famed Newgate Street a' the jolly dogs meet, An' a' the beer-hooses surroond; Thor'sa greet race the day, so they a' myek thor stay, Te get on, an' wiat for the news, That te sum 'ill be glad, an' te uthers be sad, An' a lot o' queer feelins infuse. Korus. Laffin an' chaffin when movin alang, Tippin an' tiplin's the way wi' the thrang, Ivry day-frae morning te neet, The sportin lads muster i' Newgate Street Iv a small groop o' three, that seem lickt what te de, Anxshus whispors yor sartin te hear, "It's a deed sartinty!" says one i' the three, "Frev a jockey aw heerd it aw'll sweer, Just back thing-a-bob, an' ye'll find that me gob For tippin's a reggilor don!" When a brave luckin pollis, hard up for a case, Cums up, an' tells them te MOVE ON! It's dinner-time noo, an' a dark luckin few Frae the fact'ries that's a' roond aboot, Cum up iv a hurry, beukmakers te worry, An' lay a' thor pocket-brass oot; "Cum hinny, " says one, "will ye lay three te one? It's nearly Two noo for me wark!" Then the chep wi' the beuk, wiv a droll kind o'luck, Says"Aw'll lay ye'd, but mind ye keep't dark!" "Whe's that wild-luckin man wi' the beuk iv his hand, That's ravin as if he wes mad?" "Whey, it's Dayvis, the preecher, that meddlin aud feul, His impittince baffles the squad: Hoo he sets up his jaw, wiv a sanctified craw, The whole toon 'twad greetly releeve, If they'd tyek him away te Benshim sum day, Withoot hopes ov a ticket o' leeve!" Bliss me, what a din, it's the news that's cum in, "What's wun, canny man? " then's the cry, Thor's a rush, an' a scrush, an excitable push, Then a change te the spectator's eye; Hoo happy thor's sum, when uthers luck glum, Then ye'll hear sum aud-fashion'd chep say "If aw'd only knawn'd a' the hoose aw wad pawn'd Te heh been on the winner the day!" -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Thor's Cumfort Iv A Smoke! Teun--Bitter Beer." A drink o' beer the heart 'ill cheer, An' myek the mommints glad, But beer withoot a quiet smoke Wad nivor suit this lad; A smoke's the thing,-byeth peer an' king An' poor foaks like thor draw, It's the only thing te myek dull care Dispair te plague us a'! Korus Oh, lads, thor's comfort iv a smoke! Let Rennilds lector throo the world Or let him haud his jaw, Thor's nowt that can console a man Like a quiet frindly draw! Beside the fire's bleein flame, Upon a frosty neet, Surroondid be sum tawky frinds, A smoke myeks a' complete; When teuthewark myeks ye wish yor heed Wes laid at rest belaw, Ye'll often find a greet releef Iv a sweet consolin draw! When trampin on a weary road Withoot a frind or mate, A pipe o'baccy quite revives The sowl's dispondin state; When trubbil shows its ugly fyece Te myek yor sporrits law, Or bother'd wi' sum puzzlin thowt, Thor's cumfort iv a draw! When anxshus fears prey on the mind, Or sorrow sends you share, Or solitude myeks weary time, Whte cloods dispel the care; Gie me me pipe an' half-an-oonce O'shag,--for weel aw knaw The emblim o' domestic peace Is a quiet frindly draw! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Its Time te Get up! Teun- "The Miller o' the Dee." "Cum Ned, get up!" says young Mary Broon, One morn tiv her lazy man, "It's half-past Five, it's time te get up! So stir, maw hinny, an' gan; Ye lost a quarter yisterday morn, Throo fuddlin wi' Davie Spark, Ye shuddint stop oot se late at neet If ye want te gan te wark?" "Get up, or aw'll shake ye weel," says she, "It's twenty-minnits te Six, Thor's just time te drink a cup o' tea An' hurry yor claes on quick; Last neet-afore ye went te bed, Ye tell'd us te nip yor lug, Or de owt aw like't te waken ye up!" But Ned he still lay snug. "Ten minnits te Six,-gud grashus me, Yor gan te sleep in the day; It may suit ye te lie there an snore, But te me it's owt but play." Then she nipt his ear wiv'her finger nails, An' he rowl'd upon the floor, As the bell o' the factory rung, he growl'd "Ye shud wakint us up before!" "What, wakint ye up afore?" cries she, "Aw've shooted since half-past Five, If ye loss a quaarter ivry morn Ye cannet expect we'll thrive!" "Huts, lass," says he, "cum inte yor bed, Yor eneuff te gie foaks a fright Wi' yor noisy tung,--so haud yor jaw, An' aw'll start at half-past Ite!" "But half-pat Ite's not the time te start For a full day's wark!" says she, "Ye shud tell'd uis that when aw went te bed, Than aw wad knawn what te de; Is't reet that aw shud get up se seun, When ye lie cosey i' bed? The morrow, me man, ye may wakin yorsel, An' see hoo ye like that, Ned!" Next morning Ned wes up wi' the lark, But Mary lay quite still, Till she saw that he intendid wark, Then te show a hoosewife's skill, She lowpt up te tie his brickfist things, An' myek him a cherrin cup;- Noo he thinks the best time bar gannin te bed's The time that he hes te get up. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu She's Gyen Te Place At Jarrow Music Composed by Thomas H. Wilson (a nyemsake O' wors),of Newcassel-upon Tyne. A lad wes nivor myed te be without a lass, Or a canny lass te be withoot a lad! The sweetest time o' life's when yor luckin for a wife, But sumtimes, --sumtimes it's nowt but varry sad; Aw wes jolly as cud be, care nivor dwelt wi' me, An' me life wes like a bright sun-shiney day, But noo, it's dull an' dark, an' aw's not up te the mark, Since maw bloomin Bella Johnson went away. Korus Oh! she's gyen te place at Jarrow, An' aw'll nivor find her marrow, Aw wunder what myed Bella gan away? Aw wes singin like a lark ivry day aw went te wark, Like sum bonny fairy dream time quickly flew, The neybors used to say thor wes nyen se blithe as me, An' depend upon't aw'll guarantee 'twes true: But noo, maw cannhy hinnnies, a day's just like a week, An' de what aw will, aw cannet help but fret, For iv yor once i' luv, mind, aw mean for fairs i' luv, The syem lass ye've luv'd, yue cannet weel forget! Aw wad sit beside the fire, an' spin the aud foaks yarns, For they byeth appear'd te think a vast o' me; An' when aw teuk be Bella roond the Market, for a walk, An hoor like the shortest minnit used to flee, But noo it's nowt like then, for aw's not like what aw was, An' aw cannet weel gie vent te what aw'd say, For aw;s se sair confoondid, wi' trubbil aw's surroondid, Oh, aw wunder what myed Bella gan away? That neet we said "gud-bye," a sad tear fill'd Bella's eye, Just as if she'd say-Aw'd rethor stop at hyem! An'aw dinnet think she'd gyen, a frind o' her's tell'd me, If aw'd only gien a hint te change her nyem; But as seun as she cums back, aw'll get me Uncle Jack Te pop the question for us-like a man, But if she dissent cum, O, the thowt on't strikes us dumb, Aw'll send him doon on Sunday-if he''ll gan! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu The Day That We Got Married Teun-"Robin Tamsin's Smiddy" The Tenth o' Mairch wes bleak an' cawd, The day byeth wet an' dreary, When like an honest-meaning lad, A went te wed me dreary; Drest up quite gay, we hied away, At hyem we little tarried,-- The ring wes bowt:--an' wed for nowt, The day the Prince got married. Rosettes wes stuck upon each breest, An' merry bells war ringin, When swaggrin throo the crooded streets, Gud korus we war singin; Processions grand, wi' splendid bands Alang wi' cheers we hurried, An' let foaks knaw, wi' shoot an' craw, That Mall an' me got married. At last we a' arrived at hyem, Te tyest the weddin dinner, Aw's sure we polished ivry byen, An' myed the pot a spinner; For roond it went,--still not content, The drinking moshin's carried, Wi' dance an' sang, te music strang, The day that we got married. When neet set in, we went te see The grand illuminashuns, When bonny seets lit up wi' glee Wor eyes wi' queer sensashuns' For a' the streets wes fair aleet, Tho i' the crood nigh worried, The gas se breet myed blithe the neet The Prince an' me got married. They hyem agyen we bent wor way, Wet throo wi' rain an' scrushin, Te pass the crood wes owt but play, Aw's still sair yit wi' pushin; At hyem at last, --the time we past, Wi' jokes byeth glen an' aprried, Ne royal prince, afore or since, Had fun like us, when married. Aw wish the Prince had just been there, Te see the aud wives dancin; An' lang fat Mat sat i' the chair, I' fun te tyek his chance in, For lips we smackt an' jaws wes crackt, The lads the lasses flurried, The Rifle Ball we myed sing small, The neet that we got married. Six munths o' time had scarcely gyen, The doctor myed us wince, man, When he said-Myour Mally's got a bairn, Says he ye've lickt the Prince man! The bairn's bit claes were ready tee, Aw blist the day we married;- Withoot a wife-fareweel te life, Ye might as weel be barried. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Me Sweetheart Teun-"Gentle Jenny Gray." Me sweetheart, she's a canny lass, As canny as can be; Her kind, gud heart's enchanted me-- Withoot her aw wad dee. She likes te sing gud moral sangs, Te charm the ear an' mind; Her feators an' her bonny voice Are both alike refined. Korus. Sweetly singin, glad hopes bringin Te the sad an' weary heart; Maw canny sweetheart, bonny lass, May we nivvor, nivvor part! Aw've seen her on a little stage, At meetins where aw've been, She'd raise her voice for Temparance In melodies, between The speeches gentlemen wad myek; But her voice had the charm: Thor seemed a lectur iv her sangs Te keep us a' frae harm. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu "Aw Wish Ye A Happy New Eer." Teun-"Uncle Sam," The room's byeth clean an' tidy,-- Se cosey, an' se warm, The tyebles fill'd wi' drink an' loaf, The new eer's morning charm; The aud man tyeks a quiet draw, Beside his canny mate, The dowter lucks tewards the door, An' thinks her swweetheart's late,-- Korus. Te sing a happy new eer! Aw wish ye a happy new eer! May yor life be as glad as the heart o' this lad, Aw wish ye a happy new eer. Oh, fethur, muther, --cries the lass, Just hear the tramp o' feet, The forst-fut mun be cummin noo, Aw hear them i' the street: Ye promised te let Jack in forst, That's him,-aw knaw his knock, Aw'open the door, --aw's sure its reet, It's efter twelve o'clock. The door's trhwn wide, wi' quickin'd stride, The forst-fut rushes in, Attended wi' sic merry mates, The neet's wark te begin, What shakin hands, what happy words- "Drink up,-thro's nowt te fear, Cum send the bottle roond agyen, Let's welcum the new eer." The aud man grasps each young un's hand, "Yor welcum here me lad," The aud wife hands refresmint roond, "Cum hinnies, let's be glad!" The dowtor shares the forst-fut's seat, It's Jack her lad aw'll swear, The neybors cum wi' bottles full, Te welcum the new eer. Give us your hand-maw canny frinds, An' ye that arnot greet, Forget the past,-send spite away, The world's a' kind the neet; May a' wor lives keep glad as noo, An' nivor knaw warse cheer, oh, aw wish that ivry mornin Wes the forst of ivry eer! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Varry Canny Teun- "Canny Newcassel," A sooth-country fellow one day says to me, Ye Newcassel foaks is queer tawkers, Ye puzzle us sair wi' the words ye'll not find I' Johnson's, or Webster's, or Walker's, Huts, hinny, says aw, we speak plain eneuf, What bothers ye, tell us maw manny, Says he, Aw wad just like te knaw what ye mean Be them words that ye say, "varry canny." "Varry canny, " says aw, are ye puzzled wi' that? Aw'll gie ye the best explanation Taht a fellow cana give withoot usin fine words, For aw havent had greet eddication. Just luck it yon lass wi' the gud-temper'd fyece, That the foaks i' the street call young Fanny, She's not ower gud, or she's not te call bad, She's just what we call "varry canny." If yor not ower clivor it owt ye may de, Or not te call clumsy at tryin, Yor just"varry canny" te hit twixt the two, On yor awn humble noshins relyin; An' if like the gud-hearted sowl that ye are, Ye held oot yor hand hard an' brawny, An' axt us te gan te the bar for a gill, Aw'd say ye wor a chep "varry canny." But if wi' that gill, or a pint, or a quairt, Aw show'd signs o' bein on the fuddle, The foaks they wad say Joe's canny just noo; Or if wi' sum lass aw shud cuddle, I' sum quite corner wi' nebody near Te disturb me or Mary, or Nanny, Aw was think as aw sat wi' me airm roond her waist, Aw wes just what they call "varry canny." The man that 'ill just lend a kind helpin hand Te ease sum poor fellow's distresses, Is a real canny hep that the world 'ill respect, Rispect licks unmeanin caresses; An' if wi' me sang aw shud please a' the foaks, Aw'll whisper, cum Joey, maw manny, Ye maynit de owt like sum greet bleezin star, But yor reet if ye de "varry canny." -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Jimmy Jonsin The Barber Teun- "An Aud Fashin'd Chant." At the end o' Stowell Street, te bliss a chep's seet, thor's a powl byeth bonny an' lang Stickin ootside iv its glory an' pride, te invite them that's passin alang Te hev a clean shave or a fashunable crop biv a gudluckin barber inside, That's famed Jimmy Jonsin, the king of a' shavers an' hair-cutters a' roond Tyneside:-- Korus. Teun--"Rob Roy Magregor." For gien ye shave an' a' the news Thor's nyen like Jimmy Jonsin, O, He'll tawk on onythng ye choose- He's a queerin, Jimmy Jonsin, O. Aw luckt in one day as aw wes passin that way--" Cum in, thor's just two afore ye!" Says Jimmy te me, an' his blithe luckin fyece wes a pictor se gladnin te see; "It's been a fine day the day,--Mistoor, hoo de ye dee?--aw hope a' yor foaks is quite weel:-- They are, that's reet!-it's yor turn, tyek a seat,--man,it's a cumfort when gud health ye feel! "Waht's yor tip for the race that next week 'ill tyek place?--aw heer thor's a dark un forst-rate, But dark uns and leet uns is not always reet uns,-aw backt Caller Ou for the Plate.-- Dis the razor shave easy?--bliss me, what a murder that was i' the papers last week-- But htor's mair murders deun then we knw owt aboot, but we'd knaw if the corpses could speak! "Aw wes doon at the Consart last neet, an' the singin wes a' that a fellow cud want;- What a shem that the Madgistrates lets noisy Davis annoy a' the foaks wiv his rant. Aw wes teetotal last week, it's the truth that aw speak--but aw seun had greet noshuns te drop, For aw nivor cud see ony gud in wad de, if a man drinkin nowt else but pop! "That fut-race at Fenhim last week wes a queer un, aw've heerd that it wassent all square! What a treat it wad be for a fellow te see a race that he knew wes quite fair! Aw went to hear Rutherford's sermon last Sunday,-dash me, he can tawk aboot owt; But aw wes fightin last neet wiv a chep i' the street,--man, a glass myeks a chep care for nowt! "Aw think when aw's deun, ae'll gan doon te the wettor, aw's sure te see sumbody pull.-- De ye think that that chep that jumpt frae the High Level's a real clivor man, or a feul? Them masheens for hair brushin's a caswshun ye'll say--masheenory myeks lots o' mazors-- But they'll find thorsels puzzilid to myek a masheen te shave onybody like razors!" -Joe Wilson back to the song menu The Neet the Bairn Wes Born Teun-"Stud it like a Lamb," or "Lukey's Dream." One winter's neet te bed aw went Like onny uthor man; Aw cuddent sleep, tho maw intent Wes just the varry plan; For restless aw, wi' kick an' thraw, Wish'd lang an' sair for morn; Wi' wink an' blink, aw cuddent think The neet the bairn wes born! The neet seems lang when sleep forsakes The sair an' weary eye, An' myeks ye wish the hoose awake, An' brickfast time wes nigh. Hoo lang aw lay aw cannet say, When sumthin myed us turn; Wi' thund'rin clang the door went bang, The neet the bairn wes born! Thins aw-it's not the time for wark, Aw wundor whe's gyen oot; Aw lifts me heed-the room wes dark- Oppress'd wi' fear an' doot. Aw lissens weel as if the Deil Wes gawn te gies me turn, At last a stir aw heers next door The neet the bairn wes born! Footsteps aw heers upon the stairs, An ' whispors te that's clear, Tho'ts reet te mind yor awn affairs Aw cuddent help but hear. Aw heers a cry aw wipes me eye, Me feelins myed us gurn, Across the stocks aw fell, begox, The neet the bairn wes born! Half-stunned aw scrammels frae the floor, "Cum oot!" cries Mistress Gray, As quick as thowt aw opes the door, An' next door myed me way, Where sec a seet aw saw that neet, Grim wundor myed us gurn; Wi' greet surprise aw stritched me eyes, The neet the bairn wes born! Upon a bed yeth doose an' clean, Young bonny Bessie lay, Wi'cheek as pale as onny queen, Close by stud Mistress Gray. Wiv a little bairn upon her airm Sum pictor 'twad adorn, Its cheek se pknk myed bright eyes blink, The neet the bairn wes born! Its fetheur stud beside the bed, An' blithe an' glad wes he, Wi' eyes for wife an' bairn he stud, A bonny seet te see, The muther smiled se sweet an'mild-- the midwife's jolly yarn; Wi' gin an' tea myed lots o' spree, The neet the bairn wes born! The little bairn wes handed roond, That a' might get a view, Its silky cheek wi' luv wes croon'd Wi' kisses not a few' Its health, wi'; glee, an' muther's, te, Wes drunk frae neet te morn, Byeth lad an' lass cud tyek thor glass The neet the bairn wes born! N.B.-Aw think aw'll not tell ye owt mair or ye might varry easy imadjin aw gat on the fuddle, but aw diddent tho mind ye, tho aw can safely say wor Geordy diddnet gan te wark for a week eftor. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Intoxication! Teun-"Early in the Morning." Maw canny bairns, draw near te me, An' say that ye'll teetotal be; Be maw experience ye'll see Drink leads to nowt but misery. Korus. Shun vile intoxication! Keep frev intoxication! It's vile intoxication Myeks the world se full o' care! Just see the myest unhappy hyem, That i' this world can find a nyem: A hoose fill'd full o' grief an' shem; A man that brings ne joy te them, Throo vile intoxication, etc. Just see the bairns flee frae thor da, A man that shud better knaw, Then be a dreed an' curse tiv a' That frev him ne affection knaw, Throo vile intoxication, etc. Mad drunk, he enters his awn hoose, An' myeks't a scene o' vile abuse; Like a tyrant he'll thor wants refuse, An heartless wife an' bairnies use, Throo vile intoxication, etc. Hoo happy there they a' might be, The bairns wad cling aorund his knee; If he wad just teetotal be, What different scenes they a' wad see, Throo vile intoxication, etc. Hoo mony fall i' manhood's prime, Cut off, ay, eers before thor time; We'd nivvor hear se much o' crime I' this or any uther clime, But throo intoxication' So shun intoxication, For vile Intoxication Myeks the world se full o' care. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Dinnet Spoil the Bairn! Teun- "Flora Bell." Oh, dinnet gie that bairn a drop, Oh, dinnet let it tyest; Ye munnet lairn that bairn te drink, Ye owt te knaw what's best. Poort thing! she's only five eers aud, Then dinnet let her touch The varry stuff thats been yor ruin, Tho ye might like't se much! Korus. Keep frae the lass that deedly glass, Just for a moment think; An' dinnet spoil that bonny bairn, That canny bairn, wi' drink. Ne muther's feelins ye mun hev For that bit cumley lass, If ye wad force them bonny lips Te touch that filthy glass. Keep't frev her seet, if ye will hed; But time shud myed ye lairn That drink's been a greet curse te ye. Then dinnet spoil the bairn. Waht diff' rent beins in this world A lot o' foaks wad be, If they cud keep frae practices In infancey they see. Then let the drink, for Jenny's sake, Be kept oot ov her seet; She'll nivvor dream ov owt that's rang If she sees a' that's reet. Hoo mony muthers spoil thor bairns, An' sadly rue the day Whan they see, whe it's ower late, Thor offspring gyen astray. Then keep the bonny lass at hyem, Ye'll find it better far; Thor's nowt 'ill ruin a bairn as seun As tyekin't tiv a bar. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu The Aud-Fashin'd Bairn! Teun-"Gud-bye, Sally dear." Wor Bessie's got a littil bairn, But, bliss us, what a stir, It's myed amang the family, An' the varry foaks next dor Declair they've nivor seen it's like, An' aw've heard Dolly Cairns Sweer it wes mair aud-fashin'd Then the most o' littl bairns. Korus. But, oh my , biiss us a', ye shud see the stir Betwixt the foaks i' wor hoose, an' them that leeves next dor, For accordin te thor noshuns, and the words o' Dolly Cairns, It really is the most aud-fashin'd ov aud-fashin'd bairns. It hes ne hair upon its heed, But aw suppose it will; It likes its meat like uther bairns, An' screams te hev it's fill; It cannet walk, it cannet tak, "Mamma," it just can say But aw warn'd amang aud-fashhin'd bairns They'll a' heh the syem way. It hes its nose abov its mooth, Its mooth abov its chin, Aw suppose that myek'st aud -fashin'd, An' its muther's fond o' gin; An' when she gis the bairn a drop Upon her fingor-end, It suck'st as nattril as can be, An' myeks a clivor fend. It cries as hard as ony bairn, An' likes to be weel nurs'd; But bliss us, what a pet it is An' hes been frae the forst; Aw've seen a lot o' bonny bairns, An' aw wad like te see A one that's not aud-fashin'd- Oh, but that 'ill nivor be! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Little Johnny Robinson. Teun-"Castles in the Air" Little Johnny, blithe and bonny, Sits se canny in his chair, Hoo can he help but be a pet Wi' ivrybody there? Ay, an' ivrybody likes him, When they see his sparklin eyes, Glist'nin wi' thor bright expression, Innocence an' sweet surprise. Little Johnny, blithe an' bonny, Sits content uppon yor knee, Full o' fun an' full o' mishchief, Happy as a bairn can be:- Such a welcum for his fethur, Bright wi' joy his eyes 'ill gleam, Such a welcum for his muther, Equal tiv a muther's dream. May young Johny's days be mony, May they be as glad as noo, May the ties of sweet affection Always be se kind an' true; Gladly wi' thor little treasure, May they spend thor happy days; May his parents live te bless him, May he always gain thor praise. -Joe Wilson Think O' The Little Ones At Hyem! Teun- "Thump, thump." Oh! dinnet drink ne mair; Hev a care, lad-hev a care For the little ones left be thor-sels at hyem: They heh ne muther noo, An' she tell'd ye te be true, On her death-bed, te be kind an' true te them. Korus. Then think o' the little ones at hyem, lad-- Thnk o'yor canny bairns at hyem: They heh ne muther noo, An' they've lost the care they knew, So be careful, an' be always kind te them. She fretted her last days, When she thowt aboot yor ways, An' her heart wes fairly broken when she dee'd. She knew hoo thowtless ye Had been, an' wes like te be, An' she wundor'd whe'd attend them i' thor need. Her last words wes for ye, When she whisper'd, "Try an' be A gud fgethur te the bairns aw'm forced to leeve!" Can yue luck i' thor eyes, An' hear therir heart-rendin' cries? God help them! for thor muther they mun grieve. Heh sum luv for yor awn; Be a man, ay, be a man; Let them see thor's one still left te care for them. So let yor drinkin' end, For on ye they a' depend; Hev a care, man, for the little ones at hyem. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Maw Bonny Strite-Hair'd Lad! Teun- "Peggy Bawn." On Newcassel Jail's dark gloomy walls Sally Turnbull sadly gazed, Sigh efter sigh broke throo her lips, An then her voice she raised:- "Maw bonny son!-oh, my bonny bairn Tho he's got six munse i' quad, He's still me awn, he''s me pet, me Bill, He's me bonny strite-hair'd lad! "Twes just last Seturday efterneun 'Poor Bill went oot for a wark, Te the Market, for he likes that place, But he nivvor mair com back, For a paltry rabbit teuk his eye, An' his appetite's not bad, So he teuk't, tho mind ye, just on tick, Tid me bonny strite-hair'd lad! "But the warst on't he had nivvor axt The man's permisshun te did, An' a big fat Bobby i' private claes, Thowt wor Bill had ne reet wid; So he teuk him te the stayshun hoose, An' it's nearly drove us mad, A better-like lad nivvor suffer'd i' quad Then me bonny strite-haired lad! "Aw's sure he wad paid for'd there an' then, If he'd had the money, poor lad, He always wes fond ov a rabbit-pie, An' black puddins in't myed him glad; In fact, he liked rabbits at ony time, An' at Koorsins, - forst i' the squad, A fine bred bul-an-tarrier bitch Wes the pride o' me strite-hair'd lad! "Not Guilty! he said i' the kort as plain As ivvor a body cud said, An' still they waddent believe his words,-- But Billy they cannot degrade P the eyes of his muther, fond an' true, Tho thor's nyen i' the world se bad, He'll still find a place i'; the por aud heart, That greets for her strite-hair'd lad1" -Joe Wilson Benny 'Ill not Gan Te Scheul! Teun--"The Croppy Boy." "Me eyes thor sair, an' me heart is full, Cas me bony bairn he'll not gawn te scheul; Tho he's ten eers aud, he's as big a dunce As ivor ye'll see wi' yor two eyes at once." Korus. Teun- Banks o' Benlomond." "Benny's gan the rang road, he's gan the road te ruin, An' the feelins ov his muther he's distressin,, For his heed's byeth thick an' dull, an' he plays the wag frae scheul, An' he winnet stop at hyem an' lairn his lesson!" "It's an awful thing-mind, it is indeed, Te think that he cannot yit even reed His nyem, if it's put before his eyes: But he's like his fethur-an' he was nivor wise! "But he's sure te rue'd when it's over late, An' blame his muther for his ignorant state; He'll want te reed when he cannet lairn,-- For a man can nivvor say A, B, C's like a bairn! "His fethur just laffs at the silly lad, But what pleases him myeks the muther bad; For hoo can Ben read if he cannet spell,-- Then God help the lad, for he cannet help his-sel!" --Joe Wilson back to the song menu Wor Canny Second-Born! Air-"Gentle Jenny Gray." Just two eers since a lad wes born, Te myek glad wor fireside, It fill'd its muther an' me-sel Wi' nowt but honest pride; We thowt ov a' bairns i' the world, Him bonniest an' the best, An' thowt we cud luv nyen as much, But noo we've had the test,-- Korus. Wor second-born's as big a pet, We mun give him a turn, He's cum te share the forst one's luv, Wor canny second-born. His bonny cheek like velvet soft, Wes press'd wi' gentle care, The little fellow seem'd te knaw 'Twes reet te hev his share; Carresses an' the sweetest words, Myest ivrything we'ved tried, We've kiss'd him when we' ve seen him smile, An' kiss'd him when he's cried. The forst one's just as prood as us, Te see his bonny mate, An' if thor spared te grow up lads, They'll fettle real forst-rate; But if like hempy lads they fight, We'll heh to keep them doon, An' try te myek them byeth as gud As ony in the toon. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu The Bairn's Nyem. Teun-"Champion o' the Cassel Garth Staris." "What are we gawn te call the bairn?" Says Jack tiv his wife one day, "Wor sornyem Smith's such a common one, Aw divvent knaw what te say. Suppose we call him Hamlet, that's The Nyem o' the chep i' the play!" But his wife she fancied Romeo, If she cud hev her awn way. Says Jack, "Hoo wad ye like Thomas, Efter Sayers, the king o' the ring?" Says she, " Thor's ower many Toms, Wor cat's call'd the varry syem thing?" Says he then, "De ye like Alfred? The nyem ov a Duke's ne mistake!" Says she,"Ne bairn o' min shall be Call'd efter a deuk or a drake!" Says Jack, "Then we'll call him Jonah, A scriptor nyem 'ill not fail!" Says she, "It's ower doleful like, An' it soonds just like a wail!" "Let's call him Charley, Harry, or Fred," Says he, "one o' them 'ill de!" Says she, "It's Billy, or Bob, or Ned, Or Peter that pleases me!" Granfether, granmuther, an' unkil, An'aunt wees cthen call'd in; The whole had different fancies, But the aud man had te win,-- Says he,"Just call him eftor me, It's a nyem that's full o' pith, Besides it's a gud ancient one, So chrissin the bairn Jack Smith!" -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Kiss Little Joe for Me! Teun- "Irish Mally, O," Lass, aw'm sorry aw's not wi' ye, Fairly forced te be away, Frae me little wife an' fam'ly,-- Hoo aw spend the varry day Myeks us wundor, ay, an' wundor, An' keep narvis as can be, For aw'd like ye, an' aw's sartin Ye'll kiss little Joe for me! Korus. When yor sittin be the fire, Wi' the bairn upon yor knee, Tell him that his fethur's cummin, An' kiss little Joe for me! Tell him that his fethur's cummin, Tell him that he's cummin seun, Then his bonny eyes 'ill glissen, An' he'll goo! goo! full o' fun; An' he'll think the ship ye've promised Cummin in, he's sure te see, An' he'll twist his lips se clivor, If ye kiss him just for me! For two fyeces myek impreshuns On a litle bairney's mind, An' it thinks ov a' relayshuns That thor's nyen alive se kind As its fethur an' its muther, An' its eyes thor full o' glee, When it sees them byeth asside him,-- So kiss little Joe for me! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Cum Hyem I' Gud Time! Teun-"The Braw Young Lad." Oh, Bill, if ye'll only cum hyem i' gud time, Yor supper aw'll myek, an' the beer shall be prime, So thinkk o' me words an' cum hyem i' gud time, An' dinnet for once stop lang! Maw canny gud man just think o' yor wife Ye leeve the neet, the weary neet, Te sit i' the hoose biv her-sel, till yor feet Cums staggoring hyem a' rang. Thor's mony a neet aw've sat till me eye Wes sair an' dry, wi' mony a sigh, An' thowt ivry step wes yors that come nigh, They pass'd, then aw knew aw wes rang; Can ye not stop at hyem one neet i' the week? Ye can heh yor gill beside us, Bill, An' aw'll sit be yor side an' sew wi' gud will, An' Jinny shall sing ye a sang. Is aw not like the syem that aw used te be? That ye leeve the hoose, se clean an' doose, Ye once used to say wes yor pallis se croose, Aw's sartin yor gan a' rang; The hoose is as clean as it ivor can be, The bit wark o' me te comfort ye, An' aw'll de ivrything that a wummin can de Te save yor breest the least pang! Just luck at the little bit bairn i' me lap, That smiles se sweet as tho twad entreat That ye'd stop at hyem be me side for the neet, If ye dinnet, aw's sure yor rang; Oh, Bill, if ye'll only cum hyem i' gud time, Yor supper aw'll myek an' the beer shall be prime, So think o' me words an' cum hyem i' gud time, An' dinnet for once stop lang! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Wor Jinny's Fell Oot Wiv Her Lad! Teun-"Luck at the Clock!" Wor Jinny's sighin, an' always crying, Sighin an' moanin tghe whole day lang, Sighin an' moanin, cryin an' groanin, That's myed us sure thor wes sumthin rang: She's not se tidy, her hair's not curly, The way she always wor'd before, She talks at random, an' lucks se silly, An' what de ye think's the cawse o' the stir? Korus. Oh my, wor Jinny's fell oot wiv her lad, Oh dear, aw nivor saw her se sad, Oh my, ye wad actwilly say she wes bad; She'll fret an' she'll cry wi' monny a sigh, Aboot nowt but her lad! An' if yor funnin on owt that's stunnin, She always thinks it's meant for her, The varry thimmel she weers 'ill trimmil If a sharpish knock cums te the door; She's turn'd se snappish, se soor, an' crabby, Aw sumtimes doot that she's the syem, Aw's sure me muther, an' Bob, me bruther, Can hardly beleeve they leeve at hyem! Aw've seen the dinner, as aw'm a sinner, Brunt just like sinders black an' dry, Tho once we praised her for what she myed us, She noo keeps spoilin byeth puddin an' pie:-- Aw saw Tom Goddin, her aud lad noddin, As he pass'd by the tuther neet, But her heed she toss'd it se independint, Then cried heart-broken, when oot ov his seet! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Keep The Kettle Boilin! Teun-"Sally cum up!" Aw's happy as a man can be, The mornin brings ne care te me, Except a care aw'll tell te ye,--- That's keep the kettle boilin! Is thor owt te glad the eye Se much as when yor dry, As te see the fire bleezin high, An' the fam'ly kettle boilin? Korus. Aw struggle throo the world te thrive, An object keeps me mind alive, Aw've always deun, an' will contrive Te keep the kettle boillin! When fortune smiles wiv all its grace, An' roond the hearth-styen tyeks her place, Aw bliss the chance thor's i' the case Te keep the kettle boilin! An' what's left- aw store away, For fear a rainy day Might cum te spoil us myekin hay, Or stop the kettle boilin! Aw watch the cumfort o' the hoose, Aw like te see the fam'ly crouse, So ivry effort weel aw use Te keep the kettle boilin Te sail smoothly wi' the tide Aw try wiv honest pride, Wi' thowts o' them that's be me side, Te keep the kettle boilin. An' if be chance aw hap te see Sum canny foaks injoy a spree, Aw de the best that aw can de Te keep the kettle boilin! An' aw's not affraid te sing, For that's the varry thing Te myek a man join i' the ring Te keep the kettle boilin! Aw like me pipe, aw like me gill, Aw like te hev me stomach's fill; But nivor mean te run a bill Te stop the kettle boilin! Man, aw's happy a' the day, So think o' what aw say, Think o' yor means,-an' leeve that way, An' keep the kettle boilin! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Recknin' For the Pay Teun- "Joe an' Mary Ann." "Oh, the morrow's the pay," says Jacob Young, "An' aw've thorty bob te draw, But hoo much o' that belangs te me-sel, When aw's sure aw hardly knaw. Korus. But aw's glad that it's the pay, Aw's glad that it's the pay. For whativor aw may de, Whey aw's sure te hev a spree, Aw always myek't that way. Forst-thor's twelve shillins for me board an' lodge, An' aw mun pay that this week; They gov us a hint when aw paid them short, Uther lodjins aw might seek! Then the minadge man's sure te call this week, But he's sure te gan away, It's just three months since aw paid him a bob, An' aw think that that's gud pay! Then aw got ten glasses o' beer on tick At the hoose that's doon the raw; If the lanlord says that he wants ony mair, Aw'll not pay him owt at a'! Thor's five shillins aw borrowed frae Davie Smith, Whey, aw think aw'll pay him three, An' the two that's left 'ill de for the basirn That they say belangs te me! But surely the toon 'ill turn over het, If aw shud gan on that way, If aw act like a man an' pay what aw can, Aw'll still hev a spree at the pay!" -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Here's A Tip! Teun-" Trust te Luck." Here's a tip!-a strite tip! Here's a tip for a place I' this wide world o' trial,-- Life's unsartin race! If ye want te get on Divvent hang doon yor heed, De ye think that a horse Wins a race withoot speed? But the speed that it hes Wad be hid tiv us a', If the jocky wes false An' tho that ye may knaw.-- Here's a tip, etc. Her's at tip!-a strite tip! If yor meanin's te win Sum bit prize i' the world, Hev a heart an' begin! Think yor body a horse, An' the jockey yor heed, An' let him find oot a' The points o' yor speed, So that he may gudie ye The way roond the course, An' i' the forst or last place Run te proove a gud horse! Here's a tip, etc. Her's a tip!-a strite tip! That ye'll say's worth a croon,. Nivor Join iv a race If ye think ye'll brick doon! Forst study the distance, An' then think o' yor-sel, For hoo oftin ye've heard Ov high climmers that fell; But if croon'd w' laurels The victor ye be, Let the jockey hev rest, An' the horse cumfort tee! Here's a tip, etc. Here's a tip!- a strite tip! If aw's not speakin plain, Aw'll tell ye the meanin Te finish me strain,-- If ye want te get on, Hev a heart an' begin, Dinnet think withoot tryin The prize ye can win. If the prize is clean oot O' yor reach, dinnet try, But wi' payshuns, work hard Till ye find one cum nigh! Here's a tip, etc. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu The Day His Wife Wes Barried Teun-"Martha the Milkman's Dowtor" Beside a newly hapt up grave. The day his wife was barried, Stood tipsy Dick,--the only one That i' the churchyard tarried; He luckt doon at the grass an' clay That hid his wife for ivor, Then wip'd his eye an' heav'd a sigh, His feelins myed him shiver.-- Korus. Oh, sad is me life, for aw;ve lost me luver, Me wife's byeth deed an' barried; Oh, mercy me, what mun aw de? Wor Janey's deed an' barried! "Fareweel," says he, "maw canny lass Yor happy sowl's departed, Ye've left us i' this weary world, Aw's sure aw's broken-hearted; The voice that myed us lowp wi' joy, When fightin wi' the neybors, Noo lies at rest-ne mair te pest Wiv it's mischeevus labours. "Them eyes that teuk the heart frae me Just two eers gyen the races, Ne mair 'ill shine, or wink, or stare; Aw think aw see yor graces When cummin frae the moor at neet, Aw mind the neet wes rainy, But, faith, an cuddint see a leg Like yor's, maw cumley Janey! "Them lips that oftin myed us wish Aw had the chance te kiss them, Ne mair 'ill move te treat yor luv, Aw's sartin that aw'll miss them; The dimpled cheek, an' yallow broo, That show'd ne signs o' thinkin, Ne mair aw'll see the sharp nose tee That smelt when aw'd been drinkin. "But, lass, aw'll miss ye i' the bed That nivor needed warmin; Aw'll mis the cheek se close te mine, The squeezin close an' charmin; Ne mair aw'll find yor big fat airms Cum roond me neck se handy, That myed us throo the neet forget Throo day-time ye wor randy! "Fareweel, aw'll try te cheer me-sel, Aw cannet stop ne langer, Te find releef aw'll droon me greef, I'beer, or sumthink stranger; Aw's sure te find sum uther lass Te tyek yor place te cuddle,-- Aw've still sum feunril money left, Fareweel,-aw's on the fuddil!" -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Hannah's Black Eye Teun-"She's Black." Hannah's got her eye blackt, but hoo it wes deun Aw knaw little mair then the man i' the meun; It might been for fairs or it might been for fun, But it spoils her gud lucks ne matther hoo deun! She said twes a bed-post she struck i' the dark, Then said it wes deun throo a little bit lark Wi' Peggy the mangil wife doon i' the lane; But Peggy said diffrint, an' hinted "Mick Kane." Ye'll a' understand that Mick Kane he's a black, He nivor gets wark but he seun gets the sack; He's lazy, he's thievish, an' ivrything bad, An' still Hanna's teun the big loon for her lad! Aw's sartin it's him that's disfigor'd her eye, An' silly-like she te conceal him 'iil try; The bonny bright eye that once dazzled the view's As black as her life 'ill be a' the way throo. Aw mean if she marries the good-for-nowt cull She'll sup bitter draughts frev a cup ower full; For if before marridge te strike her's his plan, What will he de tiv her shud he be her man? Aw've oftin teun notis hoo lasses 'ill hide Ill treatmint frae them that shud make them thor pride; But time works the changes!--the muther an' wife Wen wed-leeve te rue a' the days o' thor life! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Hoo Te Leevee At Lodjins! Teun-"The Mangil." "Yor gan te leeve the toon, me lad, Aw's sure the thowt on't myeks us sad, Wes Fanny Hedley's greetin tiv her son; "But think o' me when yor away, An' send a letter ivry day Te let yor muther knaw hoo ye get on; An' if ye can find the syem Cumfort that ye've had at hyem, It 'ill warm yor muther's heart Te hear the gud ye've deun!" Korus. "But oh, me lad, it 'ill myek you muther sad, If she thinks ye've got bad lodjins; So think o' what aw say, send a letter ivry day, An' aw'll tell ye hoo te leeve when yor at lodjins! "Aw think ye 'd better keep yor-sel O' meat, but dinnet tyek much yell; Ye knaw twes just throo that ye got the bag; It's that that's myed ye leave the toon, An' browt yor muther's sporits doon, An' myed ye that ye hardly hev a rag. But aw'll tell ye what te de, If ye only follow me, An' te keep yoursel wi' cumfort Whey,--ye needint fag! "When yor away, --just think o' me, Ye knaw yor just as fond o' tea, An' oonce or two 'ill sarve ye a' the week; An' coffee, whey, a quarter pund Ye'll get at ony shop weel grund, If ye want mair ye only need te speak; And thor's shuggor ye'll want te, Whey aw think a pund might de, Tho aw knaw when yor at hyem Ye like yor tea se sweet! 'Then ye can buy a loaf o' breed, An' mair than that if ye shud need, A half-a-pund o' butter still might sarve; For dinner, heve a joint that's hot, An' what thor's left, whey then ye've got Sum cad meat that the next day ye may carve; A piece o' bacon, nice an' sweet, Or a bloater iv a neet 'Ill tyest yor gob, but aw's sure That's mair then ye desarve! "An' if ye buy a bit o' floor, The lanlady 'ill myek, aw's sure, A dumplin that 'ill please ye if she's owt, An' pot-stuff if ye want at a', Te myek ye broth, just let them knaw, An' tetties at the syem time may be bowt; But it 'ill only be yor falt If ye lay owt oot for salt Or any little things that ye Can get for nowt!" -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Fightin Jim! Teun-"Katey's Letter." "What mun aw de? " says Mary Gee, "me man's that awful lazy, Aw's oftin thinkin te me-sel he's sure te drive us crazy; An nivor thowt the lad that once call'd me his "little daisy". Wad blight the floo'er he praised se much, an' myek us sigh for him. "Aw's sure aw's oftin thinkin that the lad's gawn oot his senses, Since he left wark, for once he tried myest ivrything te mense us; But noo he nivor gives a hint aboot the week's expensis, Aw hev te keep the hoose me-sel, as weel as keepin him. "He once wes a real decent lad, an' drest jus like a drapeer, Until he red Bell's Life, or sum uther sportin paper; Theen he bowt a pair o' boxin gluves, te show his fightin capers, An' noo amang a gang o' blacks they call him Fightin Jim. "Since then he's play'd at dominones, an' a' sic wicked matches, An' nivor shows he's fyeece i' doors withoot it's full o' scratches; An' aw heh te pay for ivrything like stickin plaistor patches, Oh, aw'm weery o' the life that aw leed wi' Fightin Jim. "The warst on't if he's ivor paid-ye knaw that he's a rash un, He hammers me when he comes hyem, on me he vents his pashun; But if he' tries that on agyen, aw'll give him such a cawshun, Aw'll let himk see what aw can de, aw'll be a match for him. "He's got his hair cut short, an' a' te show that he's a bright un, An' if a frind cums te the hoose, he talks 'boot nowt but fightin; Aw only wish he'd tell'd us that i' that he teuk delite in, Afore he married me, the brute; aw'll leave the hoose an' him!" -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Hoo Te Myek Mischeef! Teun- " The Donkey Cairt." One Day Nan Broon an' Mary Green wes talkin i' the yard. Thor words drew me attenshun, so aw lissen'd till aw heard What neybors say te neybors when they think nebody near. What little words myeks greet mischeef, aw' ll try te let ye hear-- For Nanny Broon an' Mary Green that day said quite eneuff Te myek the yard a scene o' strife wi' foaks byeth wild an' ruff. Korus. For oh, but a mischeevous tung 'Ill myek the breest wi' trouble rung, Ye'll find oot when the sang aw've sung, That's just exactly true. Says Mary Green-"Last neet as aw wes waitin for me man, Aw's sure twes efter half-past twelve, aw heard the toon clock gan, Aw heard two voices i'; the yard,-aw thot aw knew them tee, Aw luckt oot the stair-heed window an' whe else shud aw see, But Fanny Edwards wiv a chep, aw's sure twes Davie Swan, He had his airms aroond her waist, an' he's a married man!" Says Nanny Broon- "Faith, Mistress Green, aw think yor nowt but reet, For Mistress Jonsin, at the club, declared, the tuther neet, That Fannuy Edwards wes ne better then a lass shud be, An' Mistress Foster said the syem te Mistress Tate an' me, Aw's sure aw really think me-sel the lass is little gud. She's not fit even for a lad like lazy Charley Wood." Nan Brooon an' Mary went away, but late that varry neet Aw heard sic noises i' the yard that woke up a' the street, For Nanny Broon had tell'd a frind what Mary Green had said, An' Mary Green had deun the syem an' lots o' mischeef myed, Fopr Mistress Edwards got te knaw her dowtor wes run doon, So oot she cum te clear thor nyem afore myest a' the toon. Yung Fanny tee com tiv her aid, an' went to Mary Green. Says she--" Ye've said a vast aboot last neet what ye had seen. Ye say ye saw us i' the yard wi' sum aud married man, An' if ye want to knaw the truth that man wes just yor awn. He met us cummin throo the street an' set us te the door, Aw didn't want ne mischeef or aw'd tell'd ye that before." Directly Fanny spoke these words, wi' yells the row begun, An' Mistress Mary Green's gud-man rued sairly what he'd deun. She'd heard it hinted he waes false, an' noo she fund it true, 'The mischeef ended wiv her-sel that she begun te brew; For days an' weeks it lasted, the talk ov a' the toon, An' Mary Green te myek things warse, fell oot wi' Nancy Broon. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu What Myed Ye Get the Bag? Teun-"Trab, trab." "Oh, Jack, aw's nearly crazy, Aw wish that aw wes deed!" I' grief, says Mistress Vaisey, "Ye'll drive us oot me heed; Ye knaw that wark it's slack, What myed ye get the sack? Oh, Jack, Jack, Jack, Ye'll drive us mad, What myed ye get the bag? The cupboard's nearly empy, Thor's ne tick at the shop; The landlord says we'll heh te pay If we intend te stop; Wor ower heed I' debt, Eneuf te myek us fret. Oh, Jack, etc. Nan Thomsin lent us sixpence, Whenivor will aw paid? Forbye a bag o' roondy coals Aw gat frae Mistress Braid; Me stockins' full o' holes, Me best beuts hes ne soles. Oh, Jack, etc. Next Sunday's Tommy's chrisnin, We'll hev te put that off, For if we heh ne bottle, The neybors a' wad scoff; Besides the cheese an' breed, But that wor-sels we'll need. Oh, Jack, etc. Them's Dolly's claes aw'm mendin, Thor raggy as can be, O' patches thor's ne endin, Will she get owt frae ye? An' Jimmy's shoes thor bad, His feet's byeth damp an' cad. Oh, Jack, etc. Ye say yor foreman's sawsy,. An' what if he shud be? Thor's mnyen aw've seen te beat ye, He issent warse than ye; Ye've gien him nowt but jaw, An' that's the cawse, aw knaw. Oh, Jack, Jack, Jack, Ye'll drive us mad, That's hoo ye've got the bag!" -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Superstishus Sally. Teun- Maw Boy Tommy." Whe is't that puts the foaks aboot? Whey, Superstishus Sally; An' fills the breest wi' pain an' doot, Whey, Superstishus Sally; She'll give a groan an' shake her heed, An' talk aboot sumbody deed, An' sweet thor deeth she lang forseed, A queer aud wife is Sally. If stawks or leaves float I' the cup, At tea, ye'll hear aud Sally Byeth sigh an' say thor's sumthin up, "Thor strangers," whispers Sally; An' if the candle-wick burns lang Wi' snots, she starts te myek a sang, An' growls, an' sweers thor's sumthink rang, "It's a bad sign," says aud Sally. An' if a dog howls I' the street Wy'll hear the moans o' Sally; She'll nivor sleep a wink that neet, Or let ye sleep will Sally; She sweers it's always signs o' deeth, She'll ring her hands an' grind her teeth, An' myek the neybors haud thor breeth, A deevil's plague is Sally. The witches that ye've red aboot, Wad heh ne chance wi' Sally, She myeks reed fyeces white as cloot Dis Superstishus Sally; Wi' chawkin strokes upon a tray, She leads byeth young an' aud astray, An' silly-like, ye'll hear them say, "A clivor wife's aud Sally." -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Dan's Apprehension. Teun-"The Geuse Fair." Aw'll tell y' a lark aboot a chep, A famous constart man, That once cud bring the hooses doon,-- Just noo aw'll call him Dan. It waddint de te tell his nyem, It might amuse a few, But still 'twad de ne gud te them If his real nyem they knew: He used te sing at consarts i' The country roond aboot, A real gud-hearted jolly sowl, O' that thor is ne doot. He got engaged te sing sum sangs, An' keep up his renoon, At a quiet little country place Not ten miles frae the toon; He packt his carpet-bag wi' things Te suit myest ivry age, False whiskers, paint, an' claes an' wigs, He needed for the stage; Then off he set- got landed there, An' pleased the foaks se weel, They waddint let him cum away Till tipsy he shud feel. He sat an' drunk till late at neet, The last train lang had gyen, So Dan myed up his mind te leave An' walk the distance hyem; He flung his bag across his back, An' bid them a' gud neet, Then hurried on as best he cud, An' seun we soot o' seet,-- A mile between the hoose an' him He seun had put between, But heere's just where the fun begins, A scene that's seldum seen. Two pollis cumin by that way, Luckt hard an' queer at Dan, Byeth on the watch for sum greet thief, They teuk him for the man; A pair o' bracelets on his wrists, Afore poor Dan cud wink, Wes thrust,-an' then they teuk his bag, He haddint time te think, Before they march'd him tiv a hoose He'd nivor seen before, An' then they threw him iv a cell, An' then they lockt the door. Poor Dan at forst wes stupefied, For drink wes iv his heed, But when he fund oot where he was, His yells wad wake the deed; The polis byeth luckt iv his bag. Wi' wide an' greedy eyes, An' ivrything they fund, they thowt Wes this greet thief's disguise,- They waddint lissen te the words He tried to myek them hear, But thowt o' praise an' greet rewards Next morning they wad share. The morning com-the clerk wes there, The polis tell'd thor case, Then browt Dan oot--wi' oaths he swore He'd myek them tyck his place; For when he tell'd them what he wes, They swore he tell'd a lee, Until he drest an' sung a sang, An' then they knowt it spree; But Dan the spree he cuddin't see Until he myed them pay Expensis-an' they had te did Afore he'd gan away. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Janey Foster Teun- "Apple Praties." Aw think o' Janey Foster when aw's sittin be the fireside, An' sigh for Janey Foster, cas aw's sittin there me-sel; Aw wander throo the streets as if aw diddent knaw where aw wes gawn, An' whisper te me-sel the thowts aw darnet uthers tell; Tho sweet reflecshuns cheer us when aw's thinking o' maw canny lass, The time's byeth lang an' dreary till aw meet me luv agyen, For since aw left the toon she's in, aw wish that aw had browt her wis, Or else aw wish that Janey just had let me heart alien. The first time that aw menshun'd luv, she hung her heed as if I' pain, An' still she seemed tho she wes pleased at what aw just had said,-- Says she-"Aw've heard ye hev a lass-anuther lass that's far away," An' when she said these words te me, poor thing, she luckt quite flaid; But when aw tell'd her that aw'd not, she laid her heed upon me breest,-- Says aw-"Maw canny sweetheart, faith aw heh ne lass but ye;" Her lips met mine, not once or twice, but twice or thrice, an' ower agyen, An' me heart's wi' Janey Foster, tho she's far away frae me. She handed me her photograph the neet before aw com away, Says she-"Mind ye'll tyek care o' that, an' sumtimes think o' me;" Says aw-"Aw hope ye'll de the syem"--aw'd gien her mine the day before,-- Says she- "Aw will,"--an' cried, an' aw believe that aw cried tee, At least aw thowt me heart wad brick; but no, she teuk gud care o' that, For Janey hes me heart as whole as ony heart can be; Its sinful,-but aw wish the time away that keeps me luv frae me, Me heart's wi' Janey Foster till the varry day aw dee. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu The Miseries O' Shiftin Teun- "Try a little Dancin." Iv a' the troubles that thor is, Thor's nyen like weary shiftin, Besides the wark it spoils the things, Ne matter what yor liftin;- For Mistress Smith, that leev'd next door, When shiftin te the second floor Alang the street, caused sic a stir The day she started shiftin! Korus. Iv a' the troubles that thor is, Thor's nyen like weary shiftin, Besides the wark it spoils the things Ne matter what yor liftin. The next day efter that, she stud Bewilder'd like an' weary, Te put things I' thor place she meant, Wi' spirits not se cheery; She luckt aboot, but where te start She diddent knaw, she quite lost heart Te try an' myek the hoose luck smart, Wes puzzling efter shiftin. Her breest was ful o' heavy sighs, The draw'rs wes full o' scratches, Says she-"If aw shift ony mair Aw'd like te see them catch us;" The clock weights rol'd aboot the floor She hardly knew which way te stir, An' wish'd she'd only knawn before The miseries o' shiftin. Her cheeny cups,-she'd only two, Wes fairly smash'd te shivers, Alang the tyeble ink an' oil Wes runnin like two rivers; The feather bed, se clean last neet, Wes thick o' dirt, for I' the street They'd let it fall, an' lost a sheet Throo nowt else but the shiftin. The tyebel creakt upon its legs, Thy whole consarn wes craisin, She lifted bundles here an' there, An' broke the wesh-hand baisin; She pickt things up, then let them fall, An' knockt her heed agyen the wall, Her only bairn begun te squall, Te still myek warse the shiftin. Frae morn te neet she struggled on, Byeth in an' oot o' payshuns, An' wish'd her man wes hyem frae wark, On this-this sad occashun; Te work at neet he thowt a shem, He thowt she'd better did alien, So faith, he diddent hurry hyem, He diddent fancy shiftin. The chair-backs diddent seem te care For legs that they belang'd te, The luckin-glass wes nicely scraped, The bed wes put up rang tee, For scaircely had they had a snore, When doon they fell upon the floor. \An' Jinny cursed, an' Harry swore The devil tyek the shiftin. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Settled Doon. Teun-"Kill or Cure." When sittin be the fireside, me pipe se calmly smoking, Or playin wi' the bits o' bairns, or wi' the aud wife jokin, Aw's as happy, if not happier, than if aw had a croon, For, me lads, aw's what aw like te be- that's nicely settled doon. Korus. Then wire in ! me lads, an' join us i' the tune, For noo aw's what aw like te be- That's nicely settled down! Aw've plenty wark, thenk God for that,-for wark brings real injoyment, An' men can nivor settle doon without they've got imployument; An' at neets aw often tyek the wife te walk aboot the toon, An' we feel se calm an' happy like becas wor settled doon. Then Jack an' Tom byeth gan te scheul, se willin, --thats a plissure, Thor byeth gud lads, aw's sure they are,-them here's wor little trissure, That's little Bell, just six munse aud, she's noddiin te the tune Her muther sings, as if she knew wor nicely settled doon. The hoose it maynit be se grand as sum that aw cud menshun, But what thor's int's wor awn, lads,-an' ye'll nivor hear dissenshun Betwixt he wife an'me,-for neethor like te cawse a froon, Wor happy an' wor byeth content becas wor settled doon. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu It's Time Te Gan Te Bed. Teun-"What's a' the Steer, Kimmer." "It's time te gan te bed, Harry, 'It's time te gan te bed, Last neet aw cuiddint gan te sleep, The awful tung ye led, For drink wes I' yor heed, Harry, Ye waddint had yor jaw, Ye wakint a' the foaks upstairs, An' vext the foaks belaw. Korus. It's time te gan te bed, Harry, It's time to gan te bed, So put yor claes off, canny lad, An' cum away te bed. It's time te gan te bed, Harry, Wi' stopping oot se late, Aw's sure ye'll be me deeeth, ye will, Aw'll reckind frae this date; Ye needint fill yor pipe, Harry, Yor smoking a' the day, Ye'll not be fit for wark the morn, Oh, hinny, cum away. Ye once cud cum te bed, Harry, Like a sober, decent man, But noo ye sit te vex yor wife As lang as weel ye can; Aw's cawd here by me-sel, Harry,- Aw wish aw diddent care, But, oh, ye'll get yor deeth o' cawd Wi' sleepin I' that chair. Noo put that paper doon, Harry, Ye shannot reed the neet, Ye've kept us sittin up se lang Aw's sure it issent reet; Yor putting off yor claes, Harry, But faith yor varry slaw, Ye'll loss a quarter-day, an' then, Ye'll blame yor wife, ye knaw. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Aw'll Sing Ye A Tyneside Sang Teun-"Rip Teerin Jimmie." Aw'll sing ye a Tyneside sang. An' aw's sure aw'll not be rang, For aw think ye'll like te heerd as weel as me,-- I' the dialect aw'll start, For when aw sing- Tyneside it hes te be. Korus. An' oh, me lads, it myeks me heart se glad, Te sing or hear a lokil sang; An' aw always like te see iv a cumpony, or a spree, Sum canny lad te sing a Tyneside sang. It puts us I' the mind O' the canny foaks se kind, That roond wor bonny firesides we see; An' it myeks us feel at hyem, An' aw hope that yor the syem, If ye arnet, whey aw's sure ye owt te be! But the greetest treat, aw say, Is whenivor aw'm away, I' sum friendly cumpny i' sum uther toon, When aw hear the glasses ring, An' a real Tynesider sing, An' the foaks's feet a' beatin te the tune. It myeks us feel se glad, That aw fancy aw'm a lad, Wi' the forst bit lokil sang upon me tung, An' the dialect's se fine, All around the "Coaly Tyne, It's a treat te hear the sangs se hyem-like sung -Joe Wilson Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Part 17 Directory 16 More Songs of Joe Wilson From:Tyneside Songs&Drolleries Thomas and George Allan, Newcastle-on-Tyne Click here for main menu of this directory. Use our floating menu to improve navigation. you can reposition it by clicking on top bar and dragging Floating Menu Menu of all of the Sangs Click here For tunes in .abc notation click here For an index of persons and places mentioned in the sangs click here For Bibliography,and Philosophy of the collection click here We invite you to contribute! Click here to comment or add. Soon after our upgrade the songs which the priests have recorded will be high-lighted thusly (Where you see the music note image there will be a midi file-for you to listen to!) Your Choices! The Main Menu! Main Menu More Songs of Joe Wilson From:Tyneside Songs&Drolleries Thomas and George Allan, Newcastle-on-Tyne What that Man Might Heh Been! Geordey, O! Reedin Aud Letters! Aw Like Young Geordey Weel He's Gyen Te Be a Bobby Mary Lister! Geordy's Villossipeed! Wor fam'Ley! The Flash Young Waiter. The Lass Wi' the Cast Iv Her Eye. Meggie Upstairs. Me Little Wife At Hyem! Geordey At the Races Cum Back, Jack! "Aw Wundor What Jinny 'Ill Hev." Sparrin At the Claes He Wants Te Be A Mormon! Hungry Geordey! Lally Near the Deeth-Bed O' Bessie! The Pork-Shop Lass. Cawd Feet Run Efter Him, Maw Bonny Bairn Kickin the Deevil Doonstairs If it Haddent Been Her Nose When Aw Wesh Me-Sel! The Fitter Sweep! Sivilised Wor Feulish Ned! The Second Fiddler Ye've Lost A whole Half-Croon! The Bobbies I' The Beerhoose. Bad Beuts. The Flower o' Tyneside. She Once Wes A Sprightly Young Fairy. The Lads Upon the Wear! Ye Knaw! Ye See! The Glorious Vote Be Ballot Ye Talk Aboot Cheps Bein Bashful. When A' Thor Mem'ry's Gyen The Life Ov A Spunge! I' The Gloom. A Happy Neet At Hyem! Drunken Dolly's Deeth. The Sober Real Injoyment Feel. Cum Hyem Wi' Me! The Horrors! Aw's Forced Te Gan Away! Try, Maw Hinny, Try! Charley's Across the Sea. Use this Pull down form to go to our other pages To return to the top of this page click here. What that Man Might Heh Been! Teun-"Cum hyem, Fethur." One morning when walkin the streets wiv a frind, He call'd me attenshun away, Tiv a seedy-like man wiv a fyece full o' care, That gloomily pass'd on his way; Dissipashun had left its sad marks on his broo, An' poverty myed them mair keen, The frind at me side whispered-Joe, luck ye there! Can ye tell what that man might heh been? Thor once wes a time-when i' bizniss his-sel, He held a fine place I' the toon, An' bore a gud nyem as a nice sort o' man That few, varry few wad run doon; But the hyem that he had wassint peaceful aw've heard, He'd trubbles that cuddint be seen, So he flew te the drink-an' it myeks a chep sad, When he thinks what that man might heh been. He had wealth-as a scholar he gain'd greet renoon, An' respect frae the foaks that he knew; But noo, man, he's poor, for the money he had Like chaff on a windy day flew; He drinks day an' neet- but he's not biv his-sel, For thor's cases like this daily seen, An' hoo often ye'll hear iv a cumpny the words Wiv a sigh, "What that man might hev been!" -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Geordey, O! Teun-"Daddy, O!" Iv a' the jolly cheps aw've seen, Thor's nyen like Geordey, happy Geordey, "Me hyem's me cassil, wife me queen, An' aw's thor king," says Geordey, O; "At least byeth wife an' bairns agree That aw's thor maistor, lord an' maistor, But hoo aw is, --aw cannet see, But still aw's king," says Geordey, O! Korus. Geordey, O, Geordey, O, Thor's nyen cums up te Geordey, O, For crackin a joke an' singin a sang, He licks them a' dis Geordey, O. Ye needint talk te him o' war, He dissent heed it, dissent need it, "Across me nose aw've got a scar, An' that's throo war," says Geordey, O; But if the family ivor fights, He always wi' them sticks weel te them,- "Aw stick up for me famly reets, An' that's just fair!" says Geordey, O. Teetoteleers needint talk te him, Aboot hard drinkin, quite free-thinkin, "Aw'll fill me glass up te the brim, If aw want as much," says Geordey, O; "But if aw think aw' ve had me share, Withoot yor pledges, dorty pledges, Wi' mind myed up te heh ne mair, Aw winnet touch," says Geordey, O. If trubbil rings the family's hearts, He's there is Geordey, canny Geordey, "Cheer up, me bairns, it might been warse, So comfort tyek," says Geordey O; He's quite the heart an' sowl o' hyem, Gud-temper'd Geordey, happy Geordey, A' away fre'd faith, he's just the syem, Such fun he'll myek, will Geordey, O. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Reedin Aud Letters! Teun- "All Among the Barley." Aw've just red these aud letters, That's been se lang lockt by, A' what they've browt inte me mind, Te tell ye, whey, aw'll try; They've myed us think mair then aw de O' foaks an' times that's gyen, An' browt such queer reflecshuns On byeth lasses, lads, an' men That rote te me, an' nivor dreamt That pen an' in wad keep For eers to show the thowts an' words So dear, an' yet se cheap. Korus. Tho sum may give us plissure, An' sum may giv us pain, Aw like to reed aud letters, Tho but littil they contain. The forst wes frev a playmate, Where he talks o' days gyen by, An' menshuns when he went te scheul, The day he store me pie. He says he's turn'd a big un noo, An' lately bowt a keel. He's married an' got fower bairns, Aw think he's deein weel; The second's fev anuther mate, A bubbly heeded lad, But faith he's turned a clivor man, Scheul-maistor!-that's not bad. The next it's frev anuther frind, At least a frind aw thowt, He's axin for a pund or two, Aw wish aw'd lent him nowt. But what's the use o' whishing noo, He said that he wad pay, But money, or the sight o' him, Aw've not seen te this day; The next it's frev a chap that might Heh been forst-rate off noo, But he went to be a brewer, an' He drunk mair than he'd brew. The next it's frev a lass aw had; Shey says-"Aw's yor's till deeth." An' te see the kisses thor's i' this Wadd fairly stop yor breeth. She may be mine, but that aw doot, For hoo aw cannot see, Last Sunday she wes married tiv A chep-that issent me; And letters then ye see contains Vexashun an' delight, But if ye'll tyek a frind's advice Be careful hoo ye write! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Aw Like Young Geordey Weel Tun-"The Sandstone Girl." Young Geordey he's a keelman, an' a canny lad is he, Aw've nivor seen a better luckin one upon the Kee, He's fairly teun me fancy, an' aw cannet help but feel, That aw've nivor seen a one yit aw can like half as weel. Korus. Geordey! Geordey!- man, aw like young Geordey weel, For aw've nivor seen a better yit that work'd upon the wettor! An' he says that he intends te be the skipper of a keel! Sum foaks may think his feators not as fine as they shud be, An' striter-luckin noses issent varry hard te see, But he seems his awn nose better then the best un ye cud find, An' aw'll tyek me oath on that for a' they say lov's blind. He smokes an' chows he's baccy just as weel as ony man, An' can drink as mony glasses as a decent body can; He can dance byeth neat an' clivor, for a pair o' clogs he wun, An' a medal tee for singin comic sangs an' myekin fun. He wun a pair o' blankets at a rafflin just last neet, An' he's muther says she'll nivor see us beaten for a sheet; He's gawn te row next Monday, ay, an' when the prize's wun, He says he'll buy the furnitor an' sittra varry seun. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu He's Gyen Te Be a Bobby Teun-"Aw heerd a Sporrit sing." He might heh been a tailor, Or he might heh been a clark, Or he might heh been a cobbler, But he diddent fancy wark, So he's gyen te be a Bobby, Thinkin he'll heh nowt te de, But walk throo the streets I' daytime, An' at neets gan on the spree. Korus. Teun-"Fisherman's Hornpipe." An' he says he'll luck se knobby when he's drest like a Bobby, An' he'll myek't his hobby te de ivrything he can, An'he'll nivor be se shabby, or se gobby, or se crabby, As a lot o' Bobbies,-but he'll act like a man! He's heard that servent lasses Treat the Bobbies a' se weel, An' imadgins that neet duty Such grand secrets 'ill reveal, An' he fancies I' some kitchen, Wiv a lass upon his knee, He'll be a' reet for his supper, An' what dainty bits thor'll be, He went te Durham Pic-Nic, An' thowt ivrything se grand, He wad like te play triangles I' thor selebrated band; An' wi' dreams o' fewtor greetness, He got tight as ony drum, Hoin'd the sports, an' I' the dancing, He'd da dance wi' Mistress Mum. Chief Constable he fancies That he's gawn te be sum day, Then he'll hev a monstrous sal'ry, Get in debt an' nivor pay; Like a king ov a' the Peelers, In the court he'll counted be An' at Concerts an' Theatres, He can always get in free. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Mary Lister! Teun-"The Fisherman's Dowter." If a nice little beer-hoose that's well situated, Te catch a' the tipplers that wander that way. Thor's a bloomin young widow, they call Mary Lister, The charm of the kumpney, se blithe an' se gay; She's just the landlady te captivate fellows That think they can hev ivry lass that they see, But Mary's thor maistor,--she myeks them a' jellous, An' the next mimmint fills a' thor fyeces wi' glee Korus An' thor's nyen can resist her, for sweet Mary Lister, The bloomin young widow a pictor te see. She's stoot, but she's bonny, an' her eyes hoo they sparkle, As she laffs at the jokes she heers pass'd at the bar, As' her tung's an attrackshun, the time that she's fillin The drink, or supplyin the swells wi' segars; She's quite the sensayshun, for a' that' around her Can hardly help drinkin as lang as she's there, Till the time cums for closing, then hyemwards they stagger Te dream o' the widow se cumley an' fair. They a' think thor chances keeps myekin advances, An' they think te thor-sels what a "canny sit doon," An' she keeps them a' up in't, for constantly smiling, They get ne doon-heartnere wi' seein her froon; But lads, she knaws better-for tyekin a husband Wad spoil all her bissniss,-an' Mary tell'd me-- "The bit ring on her finger needs ne uther marrow Then the keeper beside it-se bonny te see!" -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Geordy's Villossipeed! Teun-"Turn a little handle." Wor Geordey dissent care for whativor man can de, He thinks that he can de the syem, an' tries te let us see, For he'll scrammil up an' tummil doon, An' then gan rowlin roond the toon, Frae side te side, the clumsy cloon, On a pair o' wheels, the lazy loon, He might as weel get on the moon, An' tummil doon, an' crack his croon, As try te be a greet Villlossipeeder! Thor's a pair o' cruckt handles he wors wiv his feet, An' anuther greet big un te steer him a' reet, An' a saddle that mun heh been myed for a cat, Aw wundor he sits on't-the lad's getting fat. It weers a' his troosers an' he spoil'd a new pair, The ones that he's got on's wor throo, aw declare; Ye can see his shart throo them before an' behint, An' te watch his maneuvers wad myek ye a' squint. He call'st his philosophy an' lots o' queer nyems, But the lad's gawn demented, or nearly the syem; What queer things a life-time te poor foaks reveals, Did aw ivor imadgin wor Geordy on wheels? -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Wor fam'Ley! Teun-"The Bells o' the Ball." Ay, man, aw'm as happy as happy can be, Wiv a nice little wife an' a fine fam'ley, Aw nivvor get wearied o' singin thor praise, For the comforts that roond about me they raise. Korus. Teun- Matilda Tilly." Thor's Tommy an' Fanny, thor byeth se canny, Wi' bella se blithe an' free, An' Sammy an' Fred, little Billy an' Ned, An' Mary me wife, an' me! There's Tommy the audist, a fine lad is he, He's nigh oot he's time, then a maistor he'll be; Then Fanny' the next, wiv her sewin masheen, An' a real stiddy hard-warkin lass she's been. Wor Bella's the next, an' aw hope that she'll be The syem as wor Fanny,--but wild is she, The canary upstairs cannet sing half as sweet, An' ne fair aw've seen that can dance se neat. Then Sammy's a queer un tho' just twelve eers aud, But aw's certain he'll turn oot a real sharp lad; He can play on the fiddle reet up te the mark, An' can rite he's awn nyem just as weel as a clark. Then Freddy, an' Billy, an' Ned gan te scheul, But when thor at hyem, whey, the hoose's quite full, For the wife, an' me-sel, an' the young uns myek nine, An' aw'm weel settisfied wi' this fam'ley o' mine. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu The Flash Young Waiter. Teun-" Heh ye seen wor Jimmy?" Thor's nyen aw've seen like Bobby, He's drest se neat an' knobby, An' besides he's not se gobby As a lot o' lads ye'll see; He's gyen te be a waiter, Iv a big hotel a waiter, Ay, an' he's a real forst-rater, Whey, ye'll all agree wi' me. Korus- Teun- "The Porambilayter." Ay, an' he's a real forst-rater, He's such a bonny lad, that he sets the lasses mad, For they fancy the flash young waiter. They say he's turn'd a prood un, Wi' manners se intruding, But oh, he's not a rude un, Tho he's rethur fast aw'll say. He weers a clean white choker, He's like a maistor-broker, Or a parson that's a joker, If ye've seen a one that way. His claes thor owt but bad uns, Tho thor he's maistor's au duns, He's smart without the paddins, That a lot o' swells 'ill weer; Wiv a waiter's best indivvor, He lays the change doon clivor; They nivvor tyek't, no nivvor, For they knaw the laddy's dear! The way he hands the glasses, All uthers quite surpasses, An' the hearts of a' the lasses Beat te see the canny lad,-- He's smart, clean-myed, an' bonny, He's wun the luv o' mony, An' ill tyek the eyes ov ony That can like a bonny lad! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu The Lass Wi' the Cast Iv Her Eye. Teun- "The Mail Train Driver." They call me sweetheart Barbrey, An' a canny lass is she, Foaks say that she's ne beauty, Tho' she is one te me, For aw see charms that they cannet see, An' the time it's drawin nigh, When aw's off te meet that bonny lass, Wi' the cast iv her eye. Korus. Teun-"The Tin Pot Band." Ay, an' oh my!--aw cannet help but sigh For that bonny young lass wi' the cast iv her eye! The neybors say it's squintin, But oh, aw'll nivvor hed, For it's nowt like the cock-eye O' me lang unkil Ned, For the cast ont's se agreeable, An' it myeks her luck se shy, Tho' it twinkles when she's laffin se, Dis that cast iv her eye. Her tung, man, it's se bonny tee, Aw like te hear her tawk. The dyileckt se hyem-like, When wor oot for a wawk; Throo the vail she weers on Sunday neets, Her sweet glances myek us sigh, For like a buttor-flee in a summer-hoose, Is that cast iv her eye. Her fether keeps a keuk-shop, Weel knawn alang the street, So if aw cannet keep her, Whey, wor a' reet for meat! Man, it's eneuff te myek ye hung'ory, An' gan in an' buy a pie, Te see me lass stand behind the koonter, Wi' that cast iv her eye! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Meggie Upstairs. Teun-"Jinny Jones." Aw's weary, aw's wretched, aw's tired wi' waitin, An' sighin becas maw dear sweetheart's not here, Aw've tried soda wetter, besides beer an' brandy, But nowt i' the sort me sad feelins can cheer, Till agyen close beside us aw see bonny Meggie, The barmaid, that for us, aw's flaid little cares, But if she dissent like us, aw's pleased when aw see her, Aw's waitin te shak hands wi' Meggie upstairs. The beuts an' the waiter just laff at me sorrow, The barman believes what aw say's nowt but fun, An' the lasses around us get sick o' me playgin, An' say, "Will ye just once for a minnit be deun?" But oh, aw can beer a' they think or they menshun, Becas they knaw little o' maw poor affairs, An' aw whisper, "Cheer up, lad, ye may hev a chance yit, Then Nil Desperandum for Meggie upstairs! Aw's waitin wi'; payshuns cawse nowt else 'ill sarve us, It's Sunday, but fiveo'clock's sartin te cum, Then fresh as a daisy, aw'll see me sweet Meggie, An' myek luv wi' nonsense till aw's nearly dum; But me heart 'ill keep akin the time that wor laffin, If aw think for a moment she nowt at a' cares For the lad that's se constant te them that he fancies, An' aay hoo he fancies sweet Meggie up stairs! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Me Little Wife At Hyem! Teun-"Newcassel is me Naytive Place." Be the fire sittin knittin, Sittin knittin wi' gud will, As the clock keeps on its tickin, Thor's the click o' needles still; An' the hands that work the needles Myek us fix me eyes at them, For the pictor ov industry Is me little wife at hyem. Is me little wife, etc. Tho she's little,-she's a model O' what wimmin owt te be, An' aw bliss her when aw cuddle The bit form that clings te me; For the strength o' wor affeckshun, Aw cud nivvor find a nyem, Whe's as kind as she's gud-luckin, Is me little wife at hyem. Is me little wife, etc. Tho we heh wor share o' trubbil, The bit comfort that we knaw, Is we cannot hed myed dubbil, When one's willin te bee'd a', For when aw try te console her, Whey, for me she'll de the syem, An' aw'm thankful for the trissure I' me little wife at hyem. Wi' me little wife, etc. Wor greet luv for one anuther Myeks us happy when wor sad, Aw call me wife me "canny lass!" An' she calls me "her lad!" Just as if we still war kortin, Aye'n man, it's like the syem, The hunnymeun 'ill heh ne end, Wi' me little wife at hyem! Wi' me little wife, etc. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Geordey At the Races Teun-"Moor Edge Nell." One morn last June we teuk the train Te the toon, -a mate an' me Set off, drest up i' wor Sunday's claes, The races there te see; An' what we saw upon the moor, Aw's gan te tell te ye, An' hoo we spent the day when at the races. Korus Then haud yor jaw, an' aw'll let ye knaw, The jolliest scenes that there aw saw; Thor wes bonny young lasses, an' canny lads tee, An' wereivor aw is aw like them te be! We thowt we'd walk up te the korse, So join'd amang the crood; But oh, me corns wes sair abused, That changed me happy mood, Till on the moor,-byeth quite content Beside the ring we stud, Detarmin'd for enjoyment at the races. Aw bet a croon wi' one greet swell, An' a ticket he goh me; "Just bring that back if yor horse shud win, An' they aw'll pay," says he, But what aw backt, whey, neivor wun,-- Aw fund it waddint de, Te keep on buyin tickets at the races! Then aw saw a chep sit on the grund, An' work three cairds aboot, An' offer te bet punds on punds On one ye'd not find oot,- Thinks aw, me man, ye'll not catch me Wiv a' yor frinds aboot,- A luck at ye'll sarve us at the races. Then anuther chep sell'd purses, an' Stud high upon a steul, An' med the foaks think ivry puirse Wi' silver wes chock full; Thinks aw, man, ye talk over weel, It's not ye that's the feul, If onybody's a deun for at the races. Then i' the tents we had wor pints, An' smoked wor baccy tee, An' pass'd the jokes wi' lad an' lass, As joly cheps shud de, For what's the gud o' gawn away, Withoot ye hev a spree? An' espeshley if ye gan tiv ony races. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Cum Back, Jack! Teun-"Paddy, will ye noo." "Noo what de ye stand at the door like that for? Ye say that yor gawn on tramp the day; If ye think it's best yor sair mistakin, For ye'll find thor's hardship on the way!" Korus. "So cum back, Jack,-wark it's slack, But ye'll get yor whack o' what thor is." "De ye think thor's nebody else se poor, lad? De ye think thor's nebody else 'ill find The hard times just as much as we de? If ye de yor owther daft or blind! "Tho poverty let's us knaw wor poor foaks, Let's hope that ye'll get started seun; It's a lang lane, Jack, that hes ne turning,-- Cheer up, me lad- gud times' ill cum! "Yor rang if ye think wor toon's the warst off, For I' bad times best at hyem ye'll be; An' till times cum when we've plenty agyen, Whey, we'll just he te try an' myek less de!" -Joe Wilson back to the song menu "Aw Wundor What Jinny 'Ill Hev." Teun- "The darkey Spark." Aw wunder what wor Jinny 'ill hev! Aw wundor what it 'ill be, Aw's sure aw feel se narvis like, Aw divvent knaw what te de, For if cheps think thor gan te hev A son or a bloomin dowter, It myeks them wunder where they are Whativor the doctor's browt her! Korus. Oh, hi, ho! aw feel se queer, hi, ho! Aw wundor what wor Jinny 'il hev, A wundor what it 'ill be! Aw hope it 'ill be a little lad, An' then we'll myek him sumthing, An' if he's not a champein greet, Te me it's uite a rum thing. Wr sure te myek him a real gud trade, A cobbler or a tailor, Or te save him ivor bein hung, We'll send him for a sailor. But if the lad shud be a lass, Wativor gud wad she be? She'd just grow up te put sum chep I' the syem queer state as me, She might be yeble te clean the hoose, But if she turn'd oot lazy, She'd myek us often crack her jaws, An'send her muther crazy. A wundor what it 'ill really be, It bothers me for sartin, But lad or lass, whativor it is, Aw hope it 'll be a smart un! But gox! if it shud turn oot twins, The wife aw'll kiss an' cuddle, Ay, an' knock the doctor doon for joy, An' then gan on the fuddle! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Sparrin At the Claes Or, Jack Henderson's Mistake. Teun-"Absolam and Ruth." Jack Henderson had a real randy wife, As randy as ony can be, Ne seuner the word then the blow wi' her, An' often she myed Jack flee, Till one neet he went an' got mortal drunk, An' stagger'd quite bravely hyem. Says he,"Aw'll knaw whe's the maister noo, Or Henderson's not me nyem." Korus. Jack Henderson's blud rose up tiv his nose, An' he thowt tiv his-sel he wes sartinly reet, "Te be maistor an' lord when he fund bed an' board, An' if his life wes soor, that hers shuddent be sweet!" An' aw'll tell ye all aboot Jack's mistake, Throo getting se tight that neet! The drink he had had flew up tiv his heed, An' teuk greet effect on his eyes, He nivvor luckt strite, but that neet he saw Quite dubil, te his surprise. His wife wes I' bed when he got te the hoose, An' her claes hung behint the door. He luckt at the dress-"Oh, yor there! says he, He had tyekin the claes for her. "So Mistriss Henderson, that's where ye are!" Says Jack te the claes agyen, "Ye've been meant te nail us when aw com in, But ye'd got the warst on't then, For aw've com hyem detarmin'd te let ye see Aw's the lord an' maistor here, So put up yor hands when aw call oot Time! Aw'll seun gie yor lug' what cheer!" Jack Sparr'd at the claes wi' the science o' Mace, "Cum on, Peggy lass!" says he, "Aw'll gie ye the hoose an' all in't te yor-sel, If this time ye maistor me! Are ye not gawn te speak? Then, ye slut, tyek this!" Wi' that he let byeth hands flee; Reet smack on the door his knuckles went bang, "Yor byens is dam'd hard!" says he. The noise myed his wife lowp oot ov her bed, Then Jack saw his greet mistake; They byeth wired in, without seconds or ring, Till they myed the whole hoose shake; They byeth got eneuff, neither wun or gov in, An' as they rol'd on the floor, The row ended like married foaks' silly rows, Wi' byeth axin "What it wes for?" -Joe Wilson back to the song menu He Wants Te Be A Mormon! Teun- "Maw Bonny Injineer." Ben Scaife had red o' the Mormons, An' he thowt he'd like te be A king o' wives, like Bringham Young, I' connubial majesty. But his wife she diddent fancy't, "No," says she, "Aw'll tell ye, Ben, Te be cock ov a' this midden, Ye'll find me yor only hen!" Korus. To be a Mormon Chief he wants, Alang wi' fifty wives te dance: But his wife 'ill not gie him the chance, She dissent like the Mormons. He tried wi' greet porswayshun Te get Mally te give in, An' quoted scriptor like a priest, An' said it wes ne sin; But sin or not she waddent hed, Says she, "Noo just tried on, An' bring a fancy wife te me, An' see if us three's one!" But i' fun or else i' earnest, He browt one heym at neet, An' sat her doon beside the fire, I' Mally's favrit seat; Then he preach'd a sarmin tiv her, But that she diddent need, For Mally wi' the fryin-pan Com bang upon her heed! Says Mally, "What heh ye cum for! Ye hussey! de ye knaw? If wor Ben wants another wife He's pick'd ye frev a raw, That's not content wi' fifty men, For ivy man ye meet Ye'd like te join yor tribe, ye slut! The Mormons on the street!" Then tiv her man brave Mally spoke- "Ben, what heh ye te say? If aw had got anuther chep, An' browt him here the day, Hoo wad ye fancied such like wark? Ye bubbly-heeded cull, Aw thowt aw'd got a man I' ye, An' aw hev, an' he's a feul!" -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Hungry Geordey! Air-"Pawnshop Blessin." Wor Geordey's such a hungr'ry chep, Aw divvent knaw what ails him; It dissent matter what's set doon, He's stomick nivvor fails him. Wheniver he cums te the toon, At Handyside's he'll settle doon, It's Bolton's noo, an' he's the man Te try an' myek yor teeth keep gawn, At the end o' the New Grainger Street, At feeding time nowt beats the treat Provide at this keuk-shop Thor's just a bob ye heh te pay An' get a forst-class dinner, An' if ye stump up eighteenpence, For publican or sinner, Ye heh yor choice o' what ye like; For meat ye needn't gan on strike, Thor's soups, an' ham, roast beef, an' tea. Pies, pork, an' puddins ye may see At this grand famous keuk-shop. Wor Geordey knaws he hes his choice, For payin eighteenpence, man, So whenever he cums te the toon, He gans,-for want o'sense, man; He likes te best a' that he can, He orders soup fresh frae the pan, An' then he hes a plate o' beef, An' then a plate o' pie, the thief! An' powls them off like fun, man. One day he set off te the place, An' had two plates o' mutton, An' efter that a plate o' pork, The greet thick-heeded glutton, Peas-puddin next, an' apple-tart, Ye'd thowt 'twad really myed him start Te think a shem, but efter peas, He nearly ett a roond o' cheese, The greet big gormandizer! The next day the greet stupid cull Wes bad as he cud be, man, For cheps shud nivvor think that they Can eat a' that they see, man; Byeth Epsom Salts an' Castor Oil, He teuk te myek the stuff te boil; It sarves him reet,-for if I' need, What a chep wants is a real gud feed, An' not a belly buster! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Lally! Teun-"Wor Family." Cum listen, me lads, an' ww'll gie ye gud news, That's sartin te please a' the scullers an' crews, His chief backer's sarvints byeth often tell'd me That Lally, thor fayvrit, the champein 'ill be. Korus. An' Mally an Sally declare that Lally The champein's sure te be, An' Lally tell'd Sally, an' Sally tell'd Mally, I's as sure as owt ivor ye'll see. He was born for a hero;-at Alnwick se grand Ne Gallowgate lad like brave Lally cud stand, But the gun iv his hand hes ne chance wi' the scull, For if lickt for a boat, whey, the Dredger he''d pull. He's a thorough-bred game un for distance an' speed, An' thor's ne man alive can put oot ov his heed What he thinks he can de, an' aw'll ventor te say He wad pull fifty matches, ay, day efter day. If ye doot maw opinion, Pete Hewitt 'ill tell Far mair then aw knaw, or he knaws hes-sel, An' whe'll beat Joe Sadler, whenivor he's had, Ax Lally his-sel, an' he'll say he's the lad! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Near the Deeth-Bed O' Bessie! Teun-"Teddy O'Neill." Near the deeth-bed o' Bessie, hoo sad, an' hoo lonely, Her fethur an' muther thor weary watch kept, An' prayed thor Creator might ease her pain only, Or tyek here te hivvin, poor thing, as she slept; For she'd suffer'd se lang, an' the hoose once se cheerful, Wes noo the forerunner o' nowt but the grave, As they gazed on her form, wi' thor eyes reed an' tearful, They knew thor wes nowt little Bessie cud save. Thor forst-born lay there, before two hearts nigh broken, An' the whispers they murmur'd browt ne hope at a', The hopes they wad utter'd kept back, still unspoken, For Deeth wes before them, an' that they byeth saw; Just fower years since hoo they'd welcum'd thor Bessie, A bairn, born se bonny, te claim nowt but praise, An' thor frinds a' declared she was such a fine lassie, An angel on earth, -sent te gladden thor days. But noo, for her leet little step they might listen, They'd nivvor heer'd mair, the young couple te cheer, An' the sweet little tung, that oft myed thor eyes glissen, Wad prattle ne mair for its parents te hear; They luckt at the creddle that noo stud se empty, Then luckt at the bed, as they byeth held thor breeth, But Bessie, thor darling an' pet, noo had gyen te That haven o' rest te be fund efter Deeth! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu The Pork-Shop Lass. Air-"Bellle of Baltimore." Ye may tawk aboot yor barmaids, An' lanlord's dowters, tee, But they're a matter o' fancy Te sum, but not te me; An' thor's some that like the sarvints, Dressmakers, tee, as weel, But the whole o' thor affecshun's Ne chance wi' what aw feel. Korus Oh my, myest ivery fella Tyeks a' fance te maw Bella, Thor like te de-for she's forst-class, But aw's the one for the pork-shop lass! Like a queen behint the counter, She'll stand an' calmly sarve, An' myek such-clivor sanwitches, She's just the one te carve A roond o' beef or leg o' pork, She cuts se neat an' clean, Her eyes thor like the knife an' fork, They've cut me hear se keen. When the gas is brightly burnin, It lets up a' the street, An' the foaks stand at the window, Admirin pig's meat; But oh, ma Bella's best of a' The greet attracshuns there, For when aw see her fat reed fyece, She's a' me joy an' care. Byeth sassidge, pies, an' saveloys, Sink law I' maw esteem, Black puddins an' white puddins, tee, Aw eat them iv a dream; Pig's tripe an' fry, an' potted heed, May stand the public test, But i' the shop,-an' aw'm a judge, The pork-shop lass's best. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Cawd Feet Teun-"Cappy's the Dog." Aw's not a Phissishun te neym a greet cure, But aw knaw some complents just as weel, an' aw's sure Thor's nowt that a chep finds i' hoose, bed, or street, That spoils a' wor comfort like hevin cawd feet. Korus Wi' hevin cawd feet, throo the day or a neet, Thor's nowt spoils wor comfort like hevin cawd feet. Coo heel an' sheep's trotters shud always be cawd, Withoot thor i' pies then thor not at all bad, But them's not the subject aw mean for te treat, For the theme o' me sang is yor awn canny feet. Just imagine yor-sel on a cawd rainy day, On the road or the grass, an' yor beuts givin way, As they squirt on the flags as ye gan throo the street, What a blissin 'twad be if ye'd only warm feet. Then hoo bitter it is I' the frost or the snaw, Wi' yor toes fairly numb'd an' yor nose a' reed raw, An' ye wish te yor-sel i' the nesty wet sleet, Ye cud shuv i' yor pockets yor pair o' cawd feet. Then I' bed when ye feel se delightfully het, An' se cosy yor just getting intiv a swett, Hoo ye shoot when ye find yor warmest place meet The touch o' sumbody's real icy-cawd feet. An' it's owt but a treat, for sombody's cawd feet Te kittle ye up I' yor bed throo the neet! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Run Efter Him, Maw Bonny Bairn Air-"Three hevin Nowt te de." Ruyn efter him, maw bonny bairn, An' bring him back te me, He's been byeth a gud-man te me, An' bad as he cud be, But ivrybody hes thor falts, An he mun heh the syem, It wassent reet te cawse such rows, In such a canny hyem. Korus Run efter him, maw bonny bairn, He's mevvies on the spree, But try yor best te coax him hyem, An' bring him back te me! Aw thowt when he myed such a wage, He might heh been content, Te save up for a rainy day, But all wes quickly spent; Then he wad de nowt else but tick, Till they wad tick ne mair, An' noo when he's got wark agyen, The hoose is just as bare. Such wark as this myeks us fall oot, Altho when he behaves, It myeks us byeth se happy like, An' a' such trubble saves; Run efter him, an' bring him back, For when he's kind te me, The words we've had aw clean forget, Then happy byeth are we. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Kickin the Deevil Doonstairs Teun-"The Suit O' Corduroy" One neet aw went upstairs te bed Te hev a quiet snooze, For awe wes fairly tired oot, Me eyes show'd they'd refuse Te keep open ony langer, So byeth aw gently closed, An' there aw lay awhile asleep, An' innocent reposed! Korus Listen te me story, strange as it may seem, And Nick iv his glory, aw pummil'd iv a dream At last aw sees a figgor dark Gan slawly roond the room, Then cum reet up te maw bedside, An' calmly there sit doon; At forst aw cuddent myek't clean oot, But haddent lang te wait, Till aw fund it was the devil Cum te proffissy me fate. Says he, "Are ye prepared te gan? Ye've sarved us noo se lang, An thowt aw might as weel call in For feare owt might be wrang. Aw like te tyek care o' me bairns, An' so aw wish them hyem, They enjoy thor-sels forst-rate belaw, An' ye can de the syem!" Says aw, "If yor aud Nick, me man, Ye'd better gan away, For if aw want te vbisit ye, Aw'll let ye knaw sum day, But if it myeks ne difference, Aw heh ne noshunm yit, If ye want te knaw the reason, The weather's ower het! Says he, "Young man, don't cod yor pa!" Says aw, "Thor's ne paws here, For its nowt but ded an' fethur, Roond a' the Tyne an' Wear." He rapt his tail reet roond me waist, Says he, "Young man, here goes!" But te let him see aw'd science, Aw nail'd him on the nose. Ye mebbies think this wes a dream, A divvent say it's not, But aud Nick iv a' his life-time Nivvor felt it se hot. Aw got him be the scruff o' the neck, An' whether i' fun or fairs, An;' whether it wes a dream or not, Aw kickt him reet doonstairs! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu If It Haddent Been Her Nose! Teun-"Irish Mally, O!" Aw thowt aw'd nivvor fall in luv, But, lads, aw've been deceived; For aw think mair o' me sweetheart Then aw ivor wad believed. She's a reglor queen frae Sangit, She's a beauty ye'll supose, An' she wad been if she haddent Such a real one-sided nose! Korus. It's a pitty that it spoils her, For her cheek's just like the rose; An' she'd been a reglor beauty If it haddent been her nose! It's neither pug nor Roman, Nor it's neither broad nor short; It's neither sunb nor Grecian, Nor the turn'-up kind o' sort. It just lies te one side a bit; An' te suit byeth frinds an' foes, It sticks tiv its awn business Like a gudone-sided nose! Aw thowt it might hev been a blow She'd got when just a bairn, That knockt it te one side that way; But her muther myed us lairn- That she haddent been five minnits born, When the midwife, aw suppose, Bein' squintin when she nipt it, Goh the bairn a cock-eyed nose! She's fat, she's fair, not forty, Wiv a heart byeth kind an' warm; Besides, she's nice an' stoutly built, Maw luvin breest te charm. Her fut wad myek a fairy blush; She's sprightly on her toes; But aw cannet luck intiv her fyece Withoot aw see her nose! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu When Aw Wesh Me-Sel! Teun-"Moor Edge Nell." Says Geordey-"Aw'm a pitman, But as shy as uther men; Aw'm as modest as a chep can be When aw'm away frae hyem; But the lass next door just myeks us, I' wor hoose, the varry syem, For she always cums in when aw'm gawn te wesh me-sel. Korus. "She's a flighty las, an' a forward lass; She's an ignorant sort ov a kind ov a lass; She myeks us feel hoo, whey, aw hardly can tell, For she always cums in when aw wesh me-sel, When aw wesh me-sel, when aw wesh me-sel, She always cums in when aw wesh me-sel; She myeks us feel hoo, whey, aw hardly can tell, For she always cums in when aw wesh me-sel. "A pitman hest e strip an' wesh Like ne one but he'sel; So, if he's sensitive at a', Or tendere notions dwell Within his breest, he's sure te feel Sumway aw cannet tell, If a strange lass cums in when he's gan te wesh he' sel. "If she'd been browt up beside us, Whey, aw waddent felt as shy, But lately she's cukm te the place, An' since she teuk me eye, Aw'm narvis, though before her, Te luck brave aw' always try, But she always cums in when aw'm gan te wesh me-sel. "As seun as aw cum frae the pit, An' just tyek off me shart, She cums in wiv her laffin eyes, Drest up se clean an'' smart, Aw feel as if inte me mooth, Aw'd nearly got me heart, An' aw blush, an' divvent knaw what te do wi' me-sel. "A wunder if it's luv that myeks Us frighten'd ov her gaze? Aw wundor if she'd blush if aw Cud see her iv her stays? If this is luv, it puts us in The funniest kind ov ways, An' aw wish she'd just keep outside when aw wesh me-sel!" -Joe Wilson back to the song menu The Fitter Sweep! A Fact Teun-"Benny 'ill not gan te Scheul," Aw'll sing ye a sang aboot Peter Broon, A through-bred sweep i' this varry toon; He got engaged te clean a forst-rate flue, An' fell i' luv wi' the sarvint lass,-it's true! Korus. Oh, but, lads, when yor courting, deceit 'ill nivvor de; She believed him as Peter believed her; When yor married, ye'll see hoo yor happiness 'ill flee, As' yor wife 'ill not forget hoo ye deceived her. He teuk greet big oaths, which he swor he'd keep, But Sarah said she waddent wed a sweep; "But aw'm a fitter in disguise!" he says,- An' te pass for one, he bowt sum fustin claes. He went te labour, an' appeared quite flash; Wi' square an' calipers he cut a dash; An' she believed that a' he said wes true, Till they got married, an' then she myed him rue. On Seturday, Sarah wes iv a rage, Says she-"Is sixteen bob yor only wage?" Here he confessed his trade a sweep te be, Noo day an' neet she keeps him in misery. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Sivilised Teun-"The Miller of the Dee." We get sivilised mair evry day, An' foaks imagin they shud be Far better then them in eers gyen by, But hoo they are aw cannet see; Thor better off in a worldly way, Improvements spring up a' throo time, Bad deeds wi' fin nyems may less appear, But still thor's just as much o' crime Did Adam wi' Eve his wife agree? Had they mair then wor daily strife? Ye'll find relations as bad as Cain, As keen te tyek each uther's life, We've got Airmstrang guns te keep the peace, An' deedly arms nyen had before, A hundred thousand we seun can kill, They'd nowt like these I' days o' yore. But when will men bring happier days? They'll turn the world clean inside oot, Myken troubles a plisure as they Often heaven an' orth dispute; Can they not, wi' a' thor wondrous skil, Invent or find oot sum gud plan, Te heh that influence te myek man Act mair like a brother te man? -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Wor Feulish Ned! Teun-"The Lazy Lasses o' Branton." Wor Ned at one time wes a canny young lad, He wes stiddy as ony cud be, man, But noo wiv a crew that 'ill seun myek him rue, He's myest ivery day on the spree, man. Korus He starts reet away on the Seturday neets, An ' he's nivvor at hyem on a Sunday, But fuddles away a' the neet an' the day, An' he's always se bad on the Monday. Wor Ned at one time wes so weel off for claes, He luckt quite a swell tiv his bruthers, But noo dort an' rags cover beer-carryin bags, That he hessint a chance wi' the tethers. Wor Ned at one time wasn't pinch'd for his brass, He had plenty te spend an' te spare, man, But noo he's hard up like a gud-for-nowt pup, An' nebody for that seems to care, man. Wor Ned at one time wes se varry weel off, That he nivvor for owt need to seek, man, Noo a shillin's a treat on a Seturday neet, An' then he's hard up a' the week, man. Wor Ned wes a sensible canny-like lad, Fit te cum oot I' day-leet or dark, man, He's nowt like the syem, but like one wi' ne hyem, He's an outcast, throo his feulish wark, man. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu The Second Fiddler Tuen-"Heh ye seen wor Jimmy?" Wor Jimmy's nearly crazy, He's torned se fond o' music; Myest ivry day he deaves ye Wi' the noise that he calls grand. He's always hard at practice On sumthing instrumental; An' he says he' seun be leader Ov the Royal Theatre band. Korus. An' he'll seun be a real forst-rater, He plays the second fiddle Te the chep that's in the middle Ov the band at the Royal Theatre At forst he tried the kornet, But that was sumthing awful, An' the clarinet's wild screeches Myed wor fingers stop wor ears; Wi' the flute he got ne better, For he'd such a changing fancy, Till he went an' bowt a fiddle, An' fill'd a' the hoose wi' tears. Wi' breest ful ov ambition, An' manners captivatin, Sum actress or sum singer He'll try hard te myek his bride; Then te concerts or theatres, Like a gentleman, he'll carry, Se carefully, her music, Wiv his head stuck high wi' pride. But time might bring sum changes Te the job's that's nice an' easy, Tho his wife might think it's plenty For the one I' she confindes; But a chep that carries music Might heh bairns as weel te carry, An' it mightn't always suit him Te heh music on byeth sides. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Ye've Lost A whole Half-Croon! Teun-"Paddy, will you now?" Says Mary te Geordey, "Ye've lost yor munny, Ye say yor the cutest i' the toon; But, like a feul, ye backt the wrong horse, An' ye've gyen an' lost a whole half-croon. Korus "It's a real bad job ye put the munny doon; Ye've gyne an' ye've lost a whole half-croon! "Noo, what de ye knaw aboot horse-racin? Aw divvent intend te run ye doon; But hoo d'ye expect poor foaks te leeve, When ye gan an' loss a whole half-croon? "Ye said ye'd got a tip frae the trainer, An' got me te pledge me best black goon: Te gein ye a lift aw wad pawn'd me shift, But ye've gyen an' lost a whole half-croon? "Ye knaw that eers before ye married us, Ye courted anuther lass doon the toon: Noo, hoo will she get her munny this week, When ye've gyen an' lost the whole half-croon? "Aw advise ye noo tge bet ne mair, lad, Withoot putting nyen o' the munny doon, Or else ye mun haud the stakes yor-sel, An' nivvor ne mair loss a whole half-croon!" -Joe Wilson back to the song menu The Bobbies I' The Beerhoose. Teun-" Anna Maria Jones." Thor wes Geordey, Tom, an' Davey, Three jolly cheps, one neet, Got on the spree at Mistress Smith's A beerhouse 'lang the street. Wi' monny a gill they had thor fill, An' Time flew like the beer; They diddent knaw hoo much had gyen Till closing time wes near. The hoose wes closed, an' still they stopt, An' waddent gan away, As the widow diddent much object, If they wad quiet stay. Ov course they a' said that they wad, An' sittin doon agyen, They myed thor-sels as happy as If they had been at hyem. But, all at once, a dubble knock Myed ivryone start up; Sum spillin what they'd just got in, They hardly got a sup. "Run-hide yor-sels!" says Mistresws Smith, "An' aw'll gan te the door; Just keep as quiet as ye can, The way ye've deun before!" Doon te the cellor Geordey ran; Tom I' the kitchen hid; Than Davey inte the back-yard, Knew nicely hoot e did; An' ivrything luckt a' soreen, An' free frev ony din; In fact, 'twes like an empty hoose When she let the Bobby in. The Peeler then begun te chaff, Wi' monny a gill o' beer; An' whole three-quarters ov a noor He kept them all I' fear; Until he got a fright he'sel, A sharp knock myed him stir; Says he, "Aw'd better hide me-sel, Wor Sarjint's at the door!" He ron doon te the cellor, where He stumbled I' the dark: His nose wes met by Geordey's fist- It left a clivor mark; I' the kitchen next he got the fut; The back-door, then he tried, Where Davey, wiv a friendly kick, Sent Bobby clean outside. The Sarjint cumin roond that way, On duty bent, ne doot, Detarmined te roughly handle The forst one that com oot: But as the Bobby wes the forst, He went doon wiv a run, The time the uthers scampered off, A' laffin at the fun. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Bad Beuts. Teun-" Recknin for the Pay." Aw pity the man that weers bad beuts, He'll nivvor get on varry weel, Until thor repair'd, for it's like bad times, When yor beuts gan doon at the heel. Korus Aw'm sure it's a real bad sign That a man's not dein weel, An' thor's nebody anxious Yor cump'ny te keep Where yor beuts is doon at the heel. Suppose ye've got a gud suit o' claes, Ye cannot ony comfort feel, An' ye'll just be considered a seedy swell, When yor beuts is doon at the heel. The tailor 'ill swear at the claes ye wear, An' sum little fault he'll reveal, But ye'll find the cobbler yor only frind, When yor beuts is doon at the heel. Ye'll find invitations te parties scairse, For dancing ye'll get ne appeal, They'll not axe ye te gan tiv a fewn'ril, When yor beuts is doon at the heel, Ye may wlak wi' yor heed stuck up wi' pride, An' slip throo the streets like an eel, But ye'll find yor ower much at one side, If yor beuts is doon at the heel. It's the way o' the world if a chep's hard up, He may try such faults te conceal, But sum busy eye's always sure te spy, When yor beuts is doon at the heel. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu The Flower o' Tyneside. Teun-"She's Black." Me sweetheart's as smart a young lass as ye'll see, She's kind an' she's bonny, an' truthful te me; She's canny, she's hyemly, just myed for me bride, A sweet flower that blooms on the Banks o' Tyneside Her fethur an' muther 'ill miss her that day, When prod o' me trissure aw'll tyek her away; When te maw care an' keeping they fondly confide The sweet flower that blooms on the Banks o' Tyneside. This luv myeks a poor fellow selfish, aw fear, But aw'll not separate them, aw'll tyek a hoose near; As thor bairns an' thor neybors beside them we'll bide, Then they'll not miss se much the sweet Flower o' Tyneside. Aw'm stiddy at wark, an' we'll seun myek't complete, Thor'll not be a hoose furnish'd lik't I' the street; Aw wish twes a palace aw had for me bride, She'd be queen o' them a', wad the Flower o' Tyneside. At ony rate she'll myek't a palace for me, Her true, faithful subject an' consort aw'll be; Aw'll honour me mistress wi' luv an' wi' pride, An' cherish that flower on the Banks o' Tyneside. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu She Once Wes A Sprightly Young Fairy. Teun-"Nanny's ron away wiv a Sowljor." It's nearly twenty eers since aw married Mary Green, She wes a fairy on the stage, byeth smart an' neat; She fairly teuk me fancy in the transformation scene-- Noo me wife's the sootiest wummin i' the street. Korus She once wes a sprightly young fairy, Maw cumley aud wife, bonny Marey; Aw've seen her on her toes, Turnin up her little nose, Like a queen, when she danced as a fairy. But twenty eers ov married life brings changes tiv us a', An' myeks us really wundor what we'vee been; There's Mary, iv her bedgoon, sittin knittin I' the Raw, Full twice the size ov ony fairy queen. She once wes small an' slender, wi' such bonny little feet; Her skin wes white, wi' cheeks like ony rose; But noo she's like a tripe-wife, ay, the fattest in the street, An' the redness all seems sentor'd in her nose. Aw thowt her just a spelk, but the best that ivor graced A stage, wi' fairy motion, in each act; But noo aw heh ne notion o' the real size ov her waist, For aw cannet spanned wi' two airms-that's a fact. Aw wundor what the foaks wad think if they cud see her noo, She's just like the champein o' the heavy-wites; She'd astonish thor weak nerves, ay an' myek them a' luck blue, Te see a fairy, twenty styen, dresst up i' tights! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu The Lads Upon the Wear! Teun-"Aw'll sing ye a Tyneside Sang." I' Sunderland let's sing What shud myek the whole hoose ring, It's a sang that's sartin a' the lads te cheer, For it gladdens ivry toon When thor natives gain renoon, An' thor's hundreds that's deun that upon the Wear. Korus. An' ho, me lads, it myeks me heart se glad Te sing ye a sang te please ye here, Then give a hearty cheer For the lads upon the Wear, Ay a hearty cheer for them upon the Wear! What a greet success they've myed I' myest ivry kind o' trade, Ne shipbuilders I' the world they'll ivor fear, An' greet launches keep thor pride Always on the brightest side, An' the sailors a' declare se on the Wear! They've a toon that's often praised, An' byeth Pier an' Park they've raised, An' examples set tiv uthors far an' near; When the Nine Oors Strike begun, It wes gain'd and fairly wun, Forst and foremost, be the lads upon the Wear! The iv nearly ivry sport, Whey, ye'll seldum find them short, An' sum day thor'll be a champein sculler here; Let this always be yor boast, An' yor plissure when ye toast, "May success attend the lads upon the Wear!" -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Ye Knaw! Ye See! Teun-"The Railway Guard." Whenivor ye hear a story tell'd On owt, or on nowt at a' De ye nivvor mind the diff'rint styles? Thor's sum 'ill say ye knaw! An' sum 'ill say ye understand! An' sum 'ill say ye see! At the end ov ivry sentence, So just lissen lads, te me Korus. For ye knaw an' ye see, an' ye understand, An' ye understand, ye knaw, Ye'll find i' story-tellin thor's a lot o' funny ways, But aw's sure this quite licks a'. For instance, aw'll tyek a chep that once Tell'd me his pedigree, As a specimine o' the way foaks tell A story, de ye see? Says he, "Then forst, ye'll understand, Me muther's nyem wes Gee, An' me fethur's nyem Bob Broon, ye knaw, Byeth diffrint quite, ye see! "Me muther's nyem wes nivvor changed, Tho not her falt, he knaw, Me fethur left the toon, ye see, Afore dayleet aw saw; It wassent reet, ye understand, Frae wife an' bairn te flee, But aw warn'd he diddent knaw that Aw wes cumin, de ye see?" What puzzles me myest, ye'll understand Is the habit foaks hes, ye see! I' saying ye knaw an'' ye understand, An' ye see, an' de ye not see? The subject may be grand, ye knaw, Or may be nowt at a', But still foaks say, ye understand, Ye see, besides ye knaw! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu The Glorious Vote Be Ballot Teun- "The Pawnshop Bleezin" Let Keeside spooters preech away, An' gie wor laws greet praises, An' bliss Reform, that's gain'd the day, Abuv the world te raise us; Let greet an' small at once rejoice, That Vote be Ballot's been wor choice, That wi' this plan we've fund the way Where iv'ry voter gets fairplay, Throo glorious Vote be Ballot. The voter hes ne bother noo, Nowt cud work ony better, He just receives a caird or two, A sorkler or a letter, Te ask him just te sign his nyem, Or faithful promise, that's the syem, That he'll on sum porticklor day, For this candidate gan strite away, An' nobly Vote be Ballot. I' the morn afore he's oot o' bed, Thor's plenty calls te see him, Byeth tawky cheps an' cheps weel-breed, Tri I thor turns te de him. They'll start an' run the tethers doon An' myek him thaink he owns the toon, Byeth one an' a' his vote ill crave, For a day he's mair a lord than slave, Throo glorious Vote be Ballot. The powlin day at last arrives, He's mair a lord then ivor, The canvassers, like bees roond hives Attend him noo se clivor. A cab stands proudly at the door, If he's not been I' one before, They kindly offer him the treat, An' cheer him as he tyeks his seat, Te gan an' Vote be Ballot. The powlin booth he grandly nears, Wi' croods he's noo surrounded, An' hustled in wi' graoans an' cheers, An' pairty strife confounded; He sees the cullors bright an gay, On mony a breest, - as if te say It's aw deun iv a secret way, Election tricks is a' fairplay, Hooray for Vote be Ballot! At neet, when walkin throo the street, He heaers byeth cheers an' howlin, An' pairty fights myeks a' complete, Te leave ne room for growlin;- Hoo secret is the Ballot Box! High words, an' blows, an' ugly knocks, An' enmity as bitter then, Show what a boon it's browt te men, This glorious Vote be Ballot! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Ye Talk Aboot Cheps Bein Bashful. Teun-"Varry Canny." Ye may talk aboot cheps bein bashful, aw say, But thor's nyen that aw've seen like wor Neddy, Tho' a canny young chep iv his awn quiet way, An' byeth sober, gud-hearted, an' stiddy; He'd behave he'sel reet i' the cumpny o' men, But wi' lasses, whey man, he wes frighten'd, For he'd stammer an' stutter, an' blush like a bairn, The least notis his narvishness heighten'd Noo ye talk aboot cheps bein bashful. He courted fat Nan, at least she courted him, She's a greet big stoot las, wi' ne shyness, But a real handy hoose-keeper, honest an' trim, Wiv a tung that myeks up for Ned's dryness; She knew if she waited he'd nivvor propose, So te start frae the forst as the best un, One fine neet she popt a kiss under his nose, An' then she te him popt the question. Noo ye talk aboot cheps bein bashful. Of coorse Ned conseted, he cuddent say No! An' the Register Office he mention'd, He thowt 'twad be private, he diddent like show, Espeshly when tyekin a wench in't; But that morning before half the sarvis wes deun, A' the neybors cum croodin an' puishin, An' cheerin the pair all the way they did run, The bride smiled, but the bridegroom wes blushin. Noo ye talk aboot cheps ein bashful. At hyem, Ned sat up if a corner, as grim As if 'twes a funeral party, An' he thowt tiv he'sel that they waddent miss him, 'Mang as mony se jovial an' hearty; So at neet when he fund all the cump'ny gawn, Efter mony boos, scrapins an dodgins, He thowt it wad be best te follow thor plan, So he hurried away tiv his lodgins. No ye talk aboot cheps being bashful. Next morning, he thowt ti wad only be reet Te call an' see hoo his wife fettled, Says she, "Noo, Ned, where did yeget te last neet?" Ye may a' lay yor life she was nettled! "What's the reason ye left us last neet be myself? Aw's yor wife, but ye myest myek us doot it!' Says he, "If aw'd stopt, an' the neybors heard tell, De ye not think they'd all talk'd aboot it?" Noo ye talk aboot cheps bein bashful. Says she, "If the neybors knew ye war away, For talking they'd hev a gud reason, An' if aw hevint a mind te believe what ye say, Sum uther lass ye might be squezin." Efter this, cud Ned help but te stop biv her side, An' twelve months efter hoo his ey glisten'd, When the Queen, canny body, sent doon tiv his bride, Three pund for three bairns as a prisint! Noo ye talk aboot cheps bein bashful. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu When A' Thor Mem'ry's Gyen Teun-"Little Dick." They tell us that aw lay last neet Upon the kitchen floor, An' wakened nearly ivry one Wi' maw greet heavy snore. They thowt aw'd choke, so lowsed me tie, An' put us te bed then; It's time that men shud drink ne mair When a' thor mem'ry's gyen. They tell us that aw drunk cawd tea, An' thowt that it wes beer; Then put me seegar's reed-het end Inte me mooth;-aw fear It mun be true, for it's sair noo, An' plissure aw heh nyen: It's time that men shud drink ne mair When a' thor mem'ry's gyen. They tell us that aw broke a jug, An' nearly killed the cat; Then stirr'd the fire wi' me stick, An' sat doon on me hat. Aw kiss'd me sweetheart's muther twice, Mistaken her for Jane: It's time that men shud drink ne mair When a' thor mem'ry's gyen. They tell us that aw teuk me coat Off fower times te fight; An' swore that a' me greetest frinds At me had sum greet spite. Aw contradicted ivry word Wi' them that set us hyem: It's time that men shud drink ne mair When a' thor mem'rys gyen. They tell us that aw stagger'd in, Then wanted te be oot; An' smash'd the clock-fyece wi' me fist, An' tossed the things aboot. An' when they mentioned twelve o'clock, Aw swore that it west ten: It's time that men shud drink ne mair When a' thor memry's gyen. They tell us that aw wes se bad, The browt the doctor in: It mun be true-aw feel se noo, An' shakey-what a sin! Aw've been a feul throo getting full; Me heed's just like a styen: It's time that men shud drink ne mair When a' thor mem'ry's gyen. The above can also be used as a Recitation -Joe Wilson back to the song menu The Life Ov A Spunge! Tuen-"Cappy's the Dog." He'll start i' the morning before it's dayleet, Not fit te be seen-he's a mis'rable seet; When decent men's off on thor jorney te wark, He's prowlin aboot like a thief I' the dark. Korus Then I' morning or neet, I' the dark or dayleet, Ye'll find ye'll de reet Te keep clear ov a spunge! He's drunk all his munny-small wages had he; He'll tell ye he's hard-up wi' hevin a spree: He'll beg for a jill, whingin oot, "Save me life!" But nivvor exclaims, "Save me bairns an' me wife!" He's selfish an' greedy, an' lazy as weel; The slops an' the leavins he'll beg or he'll steal. The glasses he'll drain if thor's nebody near; An' guzzle up owt if it's only called Beer! He'll laff twice as hearty as ye, if yor glad; He'll shake his greet heed, if yor onyway sad: His sympathy's welcum te ony one here, If they'd only stand him a pennorth o' beer? He's yor frind for a hapney: just give him one, If they call ye Jack, he'll seun chrissin ye John! He'll claim yor acquaintance wi' plenty o' cheek, Like the thing that he is - a mean, back-bitin sneak! I' dayleet or dark, iv his rags an' his dirt, Keep clear o' the wretch,-cut his beggin quite short; Nivvor once iv his company myek ony plunge, Thor's nowt that deserves mair contempt then a spunge! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu I' The Gloom. Teun-" The Baltic Fleet." Thor's a heart that's sadly beatin I' the gloom; Thor's an eye that's sadly weepin I' the gloom; For the one that shud be there Te myek leet her heavy care, An' her bitter grief te share, An' te drive away despair. Korus. But thor's not one te cheer her, I' that dark an' dreary room: Her life's a lang an' weary neet- For iver I' the gloom. What's the mem'ry ov her courtship. I the gloom? An a marriage that's browt hardship I' the gloom? Her forst-born wes three eers aud, When the poor bit thing teuk bad, An' it now lies stiff an' cawd 'Slide the muther nearly mad. But thor's not one, etc. An' o' hyem he's nivvor thinking, An' its gloom, For the drunkord's away drinkin Frae the gloom; An' he'll say it's his belief That the drink 'ill kill his grief, An' that he's the mourner chief- But can that give her relief? For thor's not one, etc. Near the deeth-bed ov her darling, I' the gloom Weak an' weary, hearly faintin, I' the gloom. Where's the one that voo'd te share All her trouble an' her care? For the mourneer's lonely there, Wi' ne comrade but despair. An' thor's not one te cheer her, I' that dark an' dreary room: Her life's a lang an' weary neet- For iver i' the gloom. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu A Happy Neet At Hyem! Teun-"Newcastle is my Native Place." Let poets sing I' praise o' scenes Where they injoymint find; But, lads, we hevint far te seek Till we can easily win'd. What can a man wish for better, An' nivvor need think shem Te myek't his boast that he can spend A happy neet at hyem? Korus. A happy neet at hyem, A happy neet at hyem, Wi' bairns an' wife, the joy o' life, A happy neet at hyem. When tired wiv his daily toil,, He sits doon tiv his tea, Wi' sum nice tyesty-bite, that myeks The bairns cling roond his knee: Thor bonny eyes a welcum give That they can hardly nyem: Hoo can he help but wi'; them spend A happy neet at hyem? The little lad 'ill imitate, Wi' paper upside doon, His fethur, as he reads the news That’s's published I' the toon. The muther sings an' sews away; The dowter dis the syem: An' ivry one's content te myek A happy neet at hyem. An' them that lead a sober life, True happiness like this Can find te myek thor life serene- An earthly scene o' bliss. Thor happy oot, thor happy in, Such canny foals like them, That myek't thor care te always share A happy neet at hyem. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Drunken Dolly's Deeth. Teun-"Pull away cheerily." Cum, print us a funeral caird, Mister Printer, An' put a bit verse on te let the olks see That aud Drunken Dolly I' jail's kickt the bucket, An' not before time's the opinion o' me! They tell ye the falts o' the deed te forget, man, But sum heh se mony ye cannet de that; For when leevin she nivvor did gud te nebody, An' noo she's gyen deed like a venimus rat. Korus. Then print us a funeral caird, Mister Printer, An' but a bit verse on, byeth telling an' brief, Te show drunkords gain ne respect frae thor neybors, An' thor deeth's only felt as a happy relief. She starved a' her bairns for the sake o' the bottle; The hoose wes as filthy as ony cud be; She pawned the bairns' claes, just afore they were barried, An' spent a' the munny I' sum drunken spree. Her man might cum hyem, but the bite ov a dinner She gov him wad just fill a bairn three weeks aud; An' he haddent a suit but wes dorty an' raggy, An' a' that she did always went te the bad. She borrowed me shaw' once te gan tiv a christinin, But popt it forst thing on the varry next day: Then she myed the job warse wi' sellin the ticket, An' Mary Smith's goon went the varry syem way. She pickt Mary's pocket iv a' her man's wages, An' left them without owt te putll the week throo; An' blackt Mary's eye when she tell'd her aboot it- Hoo can ye expect us te grieve for her noo? She nivvor wes owt iv her life but a bad un; She'd barter her sowl for a gallon o' beer; Her only delight-myekin neybors unhappy; A plague an' a pest te myest ivry one here. So divvent put owt on the fcaird, Mister Printer, Te myek folks believe that we find ony grief; Say it's a blissin she haddent a fethur an' muther, But nebody left te find owt but relief! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu The Sober Real Injoyment Feel. Teun-"The Miller of the Dee." Let drinkers scoff an' jeer at them That divvent drink at a' A drop ov owt te de them harm, For they heh sense te knaw What suits them best, what' stud the test, An' nivvor myed them rue.; That they heh sense thor-sels te mense, An' feel such comfort noo. Is't happiness for men te drink Till they can hardly stand, Then stagger tupid throo the streets, An' loss a; self-command. Te bawl an' shoot, an' rowl aboot, Is that injoyment then, When they annoy the passers-by, Insultin' sober men? An' yit these fellows heh the cheek Teetotal men te scoff, An' tell them they knaw nowt o' life, An' always tyek them off, Ti' sayin' that they mun be flats The temp'rance pledge te sign, When they can spree, an' jolly be, Wi' spirits, beer, an' wine! Then sum declare teetotal folks I' life ne plissure find; An reckon that without the glass A man's myest surely blind Tiv a' the worth that's on the earth; They'll tell ye that they think Ne man can see such jollity As them that tyek the drink. But let them scoff an' jeer away; The blunder that they make Thor sure te find oot I' the end, An' knaw thor greet mistake. The sober real injoyment feel, It nivvor myeks them rue That they heh sense thor-sels te mense, An' feel such comfort noo! The above can also be used as a Recitation. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Cum Hyem Wi' Me! Teun-"When Johnny comes marching Home." Cuy hyem for once, an' divent gan in; Cum hyem, me lad; Ye'll not get drunk if ye divvent begin, Ye'll not be bad. Cum hyem, me lad, for ye want ne glass; Cum hyem te yor tea, an' save yor brass, An' ye'll find it's the best If ye'll only cum hyem wi' me! Korus An' ye'll find yor-sel se clivor, se clivor, Ye'll not get up, as ye de, iv a shivor; Far better then ivor, ye'll say that ye'll nivvor Gan oot ony mair on the spree. Efter workin se hard for a' the week, Ye want a rest; An' hyem's the place for comfort te seek- Ye'll find it's best; A fuddle the neet mair harm wad de Then yor heaviest wark- so cum wi' me, An' ye'll find it's the best If ye'll only cum hyem wi' me! Hoo knockt-up ye war last Monday morn, Ye knaw, ye said, If ye got better ye'd tyek a turn, An' ne mair hed; But when yor better ye clean forget Hoo bad ye've been- on the spree ye get; But ye'll find it's the best If ye'll only cum hyem wi' me! Just try this once, an' obliging me, Ye'll please us weel; An' then I' the morn forst-rate ye'll be, Forst-rate ye'll feel: Ye'll not suffer owt like what aw've seen: Ye'll not be shakin the way ye've been; But ye' ll find it's the best If ye'll only cum hyem wi' me! Cum hyem wi'me; ye knaw it's not reet- Aw's sure ye de- Te spend yor munny on Seturday neet On nowt but spree. Cum hyem wi' me tiv a heart that's warm: Cum wi' one that 'ill de ye ne harm; An' ye'll find it's the best If ye'll only cum hyem wi' me! -Joe Wilson back to the song menu The Horrors! Teun: "Erin go Bragh." Oh, hinny! wor Geordey's been bad wi' the horrors, What pain he mun suffer-aw thowt he wad choke. The docter said it wes "Dileerium Trimmins," But really aw thowt he wes seized wiv a stroke. We put him te bed, but he lay there an' shiver'd, Thos wet on his broo stud like se mony peas; As cawd as a corpse tho hapt up I' warm blankets, We hardly cud tell what te de for his ease. His eyes hoo they glared;- like a madman he started, An' screamed, quite unorthly, that sumthing he saw; Then cried like a bairn, "If we only wad save him Frae sumthing before him, he'd seun let us knaw For days he'd been haunted, for days he'd been frighten'd, Wi' sum fearful monster, se near te Deeth's brink!" Aw shuddre'd te witness the scene ov his madness, A victim te nowt but the Demon o' Drink! He retched an' he threw i' the high ov his anauish, The blud left his cheek, an' he lay there i' pain; His moans rung the hearts ov his bruthers that held him, An' what he's gyen throo, whey, aw cannet explain. But, oh, lads, if tis is the sequil o' plissure, Gie ne such injoymint, maw hinny, te me; If the penalty's either the grave or the 'sylum, Aw cannet imagine where plissure can be. -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Aw's Forced Te Gan Away! Teun-"What's a' the steer, Kimmer?" 'Aw's forced te gan away, hinny, Aw's really forced te gan, Thor's new wark her for me, hinny, What can aw de but gan?" "Cheer up, me lad, stop where ye are," Says she, se kind te me, "Thor's surely something will turn up, Sum canny job for ye; Stop where ye are, maw canny man, Ye'd better be at hyem, Then leave yor fam'ly lonely here; Ye'll seun get wark agyen!" "Aw cannet see ye starve, hinny; If i' some distant toon Aw fall in for a job, hinny, Aw'll send sum munnyu doon; Te keep byeth ye an' bairns a' reet, Aw'll. hev te gan away. It's ne gud stopping starving here, For new ark brings ne pay!" "Stop where ye are, stop here," says she, "Ye'd better be at hyem; If ye keep stiddy, ye'll get wark, Yor startin te did then!" "Aw's lickt for what te de, hinny. Ne maister 'ill trust me, If they find oot aw've lost me wark Throo getting on the spree; Aw's mad, lass, when aw think o' ye The think throo drink aw'm deun!' Says she, "Cheer up, an tyek the pledge, A job 'ill turn up seun; Then divvent mention gawn away, Stop wi' the bairns an' me, Let's strive te de the best we can, Aw'll not reflect on ye!" -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Try, Maw Hinny, Try! Teun-"Kill or Cure." "Aw cannet de without it, for Aw feel see awful dry, man! Aw's sure aw've tried se money times, An' noo thnk shem te try, man!" "Huts, lad!" says aw, "just try agyen, Wiv a resolution strang! Ye'll seun find oot the difference, An' ye'll say that aw'm not rang. Korus. "So try, maw hinny, try, An' ye'll not be always dry: But ye'll find yor-sel a better man, So try, maw hinny, try! "Aw mind the time when, Just like ye, Aw cuddent de without it; Aw drunk as much as ye de noo,-- Ye heh ne cawse te doot it. Aw've thowt that nowt wad quench me thirst, An ' aw've suffer'd a' the day, Until aw had the sense te knaw Aw wad heh te change me way. "The mair ye drink the mair yor dry, For mair yor always cravin- What gud can beer or spirits de? Is't health or senses savin? The burning thirst ye feel just noo, Whey, the drinkin's sure te feed; An' hat's the gud o tyeken stuff Ye shud knaw ye divvent need? "Just ye leave off the beer at once, An' then ye'll seun get reet, man; When once yor of't, ye'll want ne mair- Gud health's the greetest treat, man. A sober man's not always dry, Ti's not nattril that he shud; So if ye'll tyek a frind's advice, Hev a try for yor awn gud!" -Joe Wilson back to the song menu Charley's Across the Sea. Teun-"Even me." Sadly aw sing, for me sweetheart's away, Over the sea he's been mony a day, Mony a day he's been pairted frae me, Leaving us grieving for him on the sea. Korus. Bonny bright moon, send Charley te me, Myek his path leet an' safe on the sea; Shine on ye stars, an' sparkle as free, Charley's across the sea. Often me heart 'ill se mournfully beat, Waitin te watch for the moon'd bonny leet, Watchin the stars, for aw've ne thowts o' sleep, Withoot thor a' glistnin as bright on the deep. Often aw've thowt I' the lang weary neet, The moon an' the stars wad keep Charley reet; Withoot them aw fancy an' dreed thor's a storm, An' Charley's I' danger, ne mair he'll return. Then shine on, bright moo, byeth radiant an' warm, Keep Carley frae danger, keep him free frae harm, An' brighten his pathway se wild on the sea, An' send back me sweetheart, me Charley, te me. -Joe Wilson Source: Joe Wilson,(author) Songs and Drolleries, 1890. THE TWIN-BROTHERS' BIRTHDAY. BY JOSEPH WILSON. TO HIS TWIN BROTHER, THOMAS WILLSON. Dear brother Tom, Our birthday's come, And now we're seventeen; 'Mid smiles and tears, Seventeen long years Have glided like a dream Since first we saw a mother's smile Beam on us like a ray Of pleasing hope throughout life's path, To cheer us on our way. And now we gaze Upon those days, Which memory paints so fair, When we have played, And often strayed Far from a parent's care; We think upon our childhood's days, Affection then expands Throughout our breasts, with brother's love We grasp each other's hands. Together we Will ever be As we have ever been; Let years roll on, We think upon Each fond and cherished scene, Since first we came into this world, Together, yet one in heart, Let us then hope, and trust in God, We ne'er will have to part. Me muthers warnin X BOB HOBSON'S ADVICE TIll HIS SON. A RECITASHUN. BOB HOBSON sat before the fire, An' puff'd his baccy smoke, A pictor ov a gud aud sire, That can give or tyek a joke; He puff'd away, luck'd wiselyroond, Wink'd slyly at young Dan, Then like a mortal wisdom croon'd, Thus tiv his son began : Maw canny lad, ye've noo arrived At a wild, unsartain age, So wi' me tung aw've just contrived A lesson worth a sage : Luck forward te the sunny side, The dark side scarcely scan, An' nivor deal wi' dirty pride, If ye want te be a man. Tyek a' advice that ye can get, Turn not yor heed away, Or let foaks put ye i' the pet, Wi' anything they say; For inforrnashun myeks us wise, An' shows which way te steer; Be careful,-if ye want te rise, Be canny wi' the beer. Keep close yor mooth I-watch weel yor words, Afore ye let them oat, For thowtless speeches myek discords, An' put foaks sair aboot; Keep passion always frae yor door, Send selfishthowts away, An' nivor let foaks chawk a score Ye think ye cannet pay! Let honesty yor motto be, Mark weel these words, aw say, For if thor worth ye dinnet see Ye'll mebbies rue the day; Save up, te thrive, mind weel yor pense, Put not yor claes j' pawn, But keep them oat, yorsel te mense, Thor's nyen fits like yor awn! Dinnet tell lees, sic ackshuns scorn, Unworthy ov a man, Let truth as pure as ye war born, For ivor be yor plan; Stick close te frinds that ye've fund true, Strite-forward, kind, an' free; De nowt te myek yor conshuns rue, An' a "Happy Man" ye'll be ! Bonny sally wheatley Ne wark Gallowgate lad X ABSENT FRIENDS. As in nights of dreary darkness, There may be a flitting ray, A chaste glow of light so starry bright, To clear the douds away; In lone moments of dark sadness, HOPE will lighten ev'ry pain, Till the soul knows not its gladness, And our hearts their peace regain. Though oft in sad lamentation We mourn for an absent friend, Each relation or separation, A cheering word we send; Hope! thou star of light, we listen To thy pure consoling strain; WELCOME in each eye will glisten, Absent friends to meet again. Wife Wisdom's worth but little, if te worldly joys I t turns a scornful ear, myeks luv a jest; F or i' this simple verse ye'll find a neym Entwined wi' ivry bliss te myek man blest. X ON PRESENTING A FAIRING TO A FAIR LADY AT NEWCASTLE FAIR. MINE own FAIR darling, FAIR as morning's light, Sweet gem of nature's morn, and charm of night, FAIR-er than the FAIR-est, with no compare, 'Tis FAIR that one so FAIR should have a FAIR; Af-FAIRS of love, perhaps, the heart might vex, And FAIR-lywith a FAIR, thy mind perplex; Yet with FAIR-neSS"for FAIRS"my love I'd tell, I'd rather say well-FARE than say FARE-well! Without my FAIR-y, poor would be my FARE, Then take thy FAIR-ing from my humble care. PDF 1 DONE X CHAMPIONS O' THE TYNE. Cheers for the careful, the canny, the clivor Champions combined on wor coally river, Clasper an' Candlish-the boast 0' past days, Chambers an' Cooper-the theme 0' men's praise. LONG HAVE I SADLY WAITED. LONG have I sadly waited For a dear and treasured word, From the wand'rer o'er the sea, To dispel the sad discord Raging here within me, With torture night and morn; For oh, to live in sad suspense, Uncertain and forlorn. Long have I sadly waited For a message o'er the wave, To tell me if the wand'rer lives, Or sleeps ina foreign grave; Oh send me word, some kindly hand, A line but though it be, To lighten dark and dreary hours, My soul's impatience free. X AUD NELLY'S ADVICE TIV HER DOWTOR! A RECITASHUN. AUD Nelly plied her needle, byeth careful, fine, an' swiftly, Then she gazed wi' muther's pride iv her bonny dowtor's een, Her mind wi' past joys reelin, she blist the dear form kneelin, Sweet coonsil then revealin te that sweet flooer 0' sivinteen. Maw eumley pet, maw hinny, aw' prood te see yor bonny, But words 0' praise oft myek eonseet, an' beauty oft brings pain. Aw'd like te see ye cosey, yor cheeks keep reed an' rosey, As bloomin as a posey, but aw dinnit want ye vain! Cawshus i' yor Iuv affairs, yor shoor te fettle canny, So dinnit thraw me words aside for owt that lads may say; For oft they'll sweer devoshun, an' tell ye thor greet noshun, But like the tretch'rous oshin, they smile an' then betray. It's not the fyece that myeks the man, fine eyes, or hair that's corly, An honest heart an' kindly hand's far better then the pair; So when ye gan a cortin, spoil not yorsel wi' flortin, Or else ye'll find ne sport in the lot that's for yor share. If dancin ye shud fancy, mind weel what steps yor takin, For one false step oft puts foaks rang, ne mair to be put reet. For gud an' bad steps glancin, i' life, itsel, like dancin, We've a' te tyek wor chance in, an' tyest byeth soor an' sweet. Let uther foaks' affairs alyen, if ye mind yor awn ye've plenty, An' nivor myek a practice 0' gannin ootte tea, For there thor's often clashin, wi' mischief myekin pashun, If they'd tawk 'boot nowt but fashun, then, an' only then, 'twad de. Keep the hoose byeth clean an' tidy,-dinnit gan a drinkin, A drunkin wife's the plague 0' life, a dorty wife's the syem! Wi" neybors dinnet gossip,-wi' scandal gud nyems toss up, Ye'd mair need gan an' poss up the claes ye've left at hyem. Attend yor hoosehold duties wi' heart byeth leet an' cheerful, An' let yor gudman's cumforts be yor studdy a' throo life, An' stop his mooth frae sweerin, wi' nice kind words, endearin, Thor's nowt te man see cheerin as a true an' canny wife! X MIIDNIGHT THOUGHTS Written at Midnight, July 18th, 1859. I GAZED on the dark blue sky, One summer's still midnight, And my lips breathed forth a sigh As I long'd for the morning's light, For sleep had deserted mine eyes, And I could not calmly rest, And again as I look'd at the skies, My heart beat quick in my breast. What thoughts then flewthrough my brain At that silent hour of night, Scenes past, were present again, Like a vision-supremely bright; Dear forms appear'd to mine eyes, And faces I long had mourn'd, Seemed around me again to rise, And the once happy past return'd. x IN MEMORY OF THE HARTLEY CATASTROPHE January 16th, 1862. By which 204 Mm and Boys were buried alive in New Hartley Pit. By the watch-fire's glow, 'mid the falling snow, There reigns a death-like gloom, Whilst prayers are murmured for those below Immur'd in a living tomb. With a tearless eye, and despairing sigh, Too sad, too griev'd to weep, The watcher's wild and heart-rending cry Is heard on the cold pit-heap. 'Mid the shaft's foul air, the brave searchers dare Its dangers to defy; “Have mercy, 0 God!" is the last sad prayer Of the miners doom'd to die. Again from below, to the scene of woe The searchers bold appear, Their words breathe hope, while their glances show Dread signs of desponding fear. Seven days have pass'd, they are found at last, Too LATE, sweet life to save, For death's mighty spell is o'er them cast, In that dark and fearful grave. Breathe forth a prayer for bereav'd ones there, Whose peace of mind hath fled, Good Lord, soothe with thy heav'nly care Those who mourn the hapless dead. X LAUGHING EYES. I LOVE to gaze on laughing eyes, Bright eyes that seem forever smiling, They make such happy thoughts arise, With joyous look each heart beguiling And yet how often they deceive, Those lovely eyes, so careless glancing, Their truth, alone, we but believe, Such power have they, each mind entrancing. May sorrow never cast a cloud, Upon those eyes serenely beaming; Oh never may dark care enshroud, And dull the lustre of their gleaming; Could I but know those orbs of joy From holy virtue ne'er would sever I'd pray might nought that bliss alloy, Smile on, sweet eyes, smile on for ever! A frind i' need's the frind that's deed, if he leeves ye se much an 'eer te console yorsel with. It keeps him i' yor memry, ye knaw. x the day 0' life. TWES a bright sunny morn when Bill Tait's bairn we born An' the glasses went roond tiv a reet merry teun: An' the muther she smiled at the fethur se wild Wi' joy at the birth ov a fine healthy sun: Its bit soft cheek wes kiss'd, an' its muther weel blist, An' thor health drunk agyen, an' agyen, te convey Thor neybors' rispect wi' the best 0' gud feelin: What a sweet little pictor-the dawn 0' Life's day! Next door, a grand weddin, each young heart te gladden Myed curious heeds pop throo windows an' doors, Te see the bride blushin, an' a' the crood pushin Te welcum Dick Scott an' the lass he adores; Wi' sic a fine party,-contented an' hearty, The fleet moments rowl onward, unheeded, away: May the bride's life be as sweet as her luver's heart's leet, What a dear little pictor-the noon 0' Life's day! Close at hand, doon the street, i' the dusk 0' the neet, Bill Carr, sair wi' suffrin, lay waitin for Deeth, He sadly luckt roond, but nyen there cud help him, An' darkness set in as he drew his last breeth: The birth ov a bairn's like the dawn 0' the mornin, An' a weddin's the noon, wi' the sun's cheerin ray, An' Deeth's the dark neet that's se sartin te follow, The dreary dark pictor that closes Life's day! x Pretty sweetheart, jessie may OH! Jessie, I am often doubting That your love for me is true, Ever changeful, laughing,-pouting, Thus I often think of you; Could I know its long endurance, Lighter then my heart would be, Give me but that dear assurance, Then I'd live and love but thee. I like but not a night's flirtation, Scenes that never bring forth joy, They dull each happy expectation, Every blissful thought alloy; Could I know that nought would sever Hopes that linger night and day, Then I'd call you mine for ever, Pretty sweetheart, Jessie May. Oblige ivrybody if ye can, an' if ye cannet, dinnet hinder onybody else for dein't. ACROSTIC. R EMEMBER,ye Bards, the famous J. P., O v Tyneside,-a Poet of highest degree, B ard 0' the Tyne an' Minstrel 0' the Wear, S preedin the harmony we like te hear; O v a' the greet writers, reet foremost he'll shine, Noo an' for iver 'mang Bards 0' the Tyne. DONE PART 2 Delightful-Gettin yor lass te set ye hyem for a change. Delishus-Roast Pork an' onions wiv a lot 0' gudtemper'd fyeces roond it. Delicate- Tyekin bad wi' the thowts on't. X Sally Wheatley's Comments On The Luv Letter She Got Frae Charley Black, The Keyside Clerk. SCENE.-The Hoose where Sally leeves-Sally I’ the Kitchen, sittin reedin the last Luv Letter she got frae Charley Black (that's her lad, ye knaw). SALLY.-Poatry agyen, bliss me, what a queer lad he is; what a heedpiece he hes, aw sav, but aw wish he wad rite it i' the Newcassel tung,-aw's fairly bamboozled wi' se monny fine words. (Reeds.) How oft in lonely moments have I sought A sweet repose in calm poetic thought, To recall past joys, and each hope extol, To light the darkness of a yearning soul. Gudness grayshus me, what can Charley mean? He cannet for a moment imadgin that aw meant owt serious when aw went te Jesmond Gardens wi' Jimmy Allan. Aw's sure Jimmy's a greet frind 0' mine, an' aw might as weel turn jealous me-sel an' say sumthing, for it diddent luck varry weel 0' Charley settin Hannah Broon hyem frae the dancin at Mrs. Elliott's. Aw wassent hawf pleased when Peggy Morrison tell'd us aboot it. Our hearts were not made to be thrown away, Or FIRST LOVE born to live but for a day; 'Mid forms and faces made to charm the eye, First Love may sleep but it can never die! Whey, that is nice i-it just puts us i' mind 0' the neet when Charley an' me had wor forst wawk throo Friday Fields. What a neet that was, aw say! Aw's sure aw varry nigh fainted when Charley tell'd us that aw wes his" forst an' only luv;" His voice trimmild se, an' he luck'd se frighten'd like, poor lad. Maw bonny Charley! Could we believe that whilst there's doubt there's hope, How soon might sadness with despair elope. Aw wad far seuner see Charley elope wi' me, but thor's nyen ov that noo-a-days. What fun thor mun heh been when aud Nelly Simpson's granmuther's greet granfethur ron away wi' Mistress Murphy (a widow body that leeved next door, an' a distant relayshun te Betty McGill that keeps a mangle at the tuther side 0' the street) te Gretna Green, an' got a blacksmith te marry them wiv a hammer. But aw dinnet knaw what te myek 0' Charley, he hes ne confidence like; an' it dissent luck wee! the lasses deein a' the coortin thorsels, aw's sure it dissent! 'Twas so with me-if truth must now be told, I thought of thee-pray do not deem me bold; For when the heart is full the tongue must speak, On paper even consolation seek. Consolayshun on paper, hooiver i' the world will he find consolayshun on paper? Aw wish Charley had niver written poatry, Ye cannet myek these fellows oot at a. Wad ye believe he actwilIy said it wes a greet releef tiv his feelins, when he cud put doon his thowts on paper? the silly lad, when he might hey cum an'tell'd me what he wes put aboot aboot, an' where will he find better consolayshun? Charley, if ye only knew't ! Your smile shone on me like a sunny morn, Affection hoped and cherished a return, But when your looks grew cold, hope disappear-d, And bitter feelings in its place career'd; I thought another, much more happy, he Had claim'd the heart I thought belong'd to me. Iv a' yor life did ye ivor see such a jealous lot 0' mortals as the men foaks. Aw've nivor had ony peace since Jimmy Allan per swayded us te hey a wawk wiv him. Then into folly-which I now repent, I heedless rush'd-s-say, love, can you relent? Relent! aw think aw can, but it dissent luck weel gein in thereckly. Aw'll plague him a bit forst. Aw knaw varry weel what folly he's hintin at, the slee deevll, He hessent forgettin settin Hannah hyem frae Elliott's dancin yit. Forgive and favour, if you still are free, My earnest wish to live and love but thee; Then once more o'er me let your spell be thrown, That I may can you-Sarah, dear, mine own! SARAH! what a funny soond that hes te be sure, an' it's me reet nyem tee. He wants te call me his awn! it's a' settled, it's a sartinty it's settled; he just needs te ax me fethur an' muther, for it's a' reet wi' me. Jinny Thompson's promised us the mahogany tyeble that stands aside the clock, an' me Uncle Bob's gan te myek us a prisint ov a feather bed an' two chairs an' a candlestick he bowt second-hand the tuther day, so thor's glorious prospects, an' if Charley cannel myek eneuff te keep us cumfortable, aw'll gan te wark me-sel (aw's a cap myeker), for thor's ne disgrace iv a wummin workin as lang as thor's ne bairns i' the road. ACROSTIC. Ready was he wi' the "Bobby Cure," I n Stanley's hall, te myek secure Delight tiv a' the patrons there, Liked be them a',-but noo, ne mair E nlivenin strains frae him ye'll hear, Y e'll knaw ne mair poor Geordy's cheer. x What Ye Shud Weer A' Throo The Eer! As Reccommended Be Wor Geordey An' Wor Peg An' A'. Jenny Whory. GEORDEY.-A happy new eer-an' the best 0' gud cheer, Aw wish ye may get ivry day throo the eer ; . Noo's the time, hinnies, for yor wrappers an' coats, An' mufflers te hinder yor hevin sair throats. PEG.-Noo lasses, maw hinnies, luck weel te yor feet, An' divvint heh corns on yor toes te luck neet; Wi' strang beuts, an' pattins, an' britches cumpleet, An' two pair 0' shawls, ye may pass throo the sleet. FEBOORARY. GEORDEY.-The wethor keeps dreery, still ye munnit be flaid, But stick te the coats, tho the tailor's not paid For thor's Jimmy the snip, that leeves on the Kee, He nivor pays Qwt,-so it's a' reet wi' ye! PEG.-Dinnet mind what Geordey advises the men, If they dinnet pay him, wad he let them alyen? Weer lang cloaks an' sealskins myed 0' gudstuff; Dogs skin stuffed wi' straw myeks a varry gud muff. MAIRCH. GEORDEv.-Pork-pies may be wore i' the stomick just noo, Dinnet mind cullors for yor nose 'Il turn bloo Wi' keen winds that blaw frae the frost-bitten west, For Windy cumplaints Woodcock's Pills is the best. PEG.-Reed petticoats noo gain thor early renoon, If ye get a gud un-dispense wi' the goon, For when up the waist, the goon's nivvor seen; Reed fethors leuk weel te the bonnet that's green. YEPRIL. GEORDEv.-UmborelIas are useful i' these kind d days, Wi' top-coat abuv, ye may weer the aud claes ; At Easter let dark for leet suits change places, Save up just noo, an' yor reet for the races. PEG.- Ye munnit gan oot if yor stockins not clean, I' rain, lasses' legs cannet help but be seen; Use ne umborellas, withoot thor's ne shem, Let sum canny chep tyek an' shelter ye hyem, MAY. GEORDEY.-A leet suit lucks weel i' the first fashun cut, Wi' greet peg-top pockets-tyek pains hoo ye strut; A gud suit 0' claes lucks like nowt on the back, Ov a chep that 'ill walk as if tied iv a sack. PEG.-White Hats, wi 'reed tabs, wi' green leeves is the best, A bright yallow shawl myeks foaks stare when yor drest; A goon dubbil-skirted suits weel a smart waist Dinnet leeve the hoose withoot byeth yor beuts laced. JOON. GEORDEY.-Minadge men just noo heh thor wark te get paid, Te lie oot thor munny aw've heerd's pairt thor trade; It's time for the races-so lads, get yor claes ; Straw hats may be wore if the blunt ye can raise. PEG.-Race Sunday,maw hinnies, 'ill cum roond at last; Aw wish it wes here, an' then greeve it's gyen past, For there aw gat Geordey when seekin a lad Silk goons, an' leet capes, just noo dissent luck bad. JOOLY. GEORDEY.-For pic-nics an' trips ye had better prepare; A greet big broad check, if it issent threed-bare, Suits weel for excorshuns ;-a ten-shillin' hat Leuks weel on a chep full 0' gud-temper'd fat. PEG.-Fine muslins leuk nice gently blawn wi' the breeze, Ye munnet weer stays if ye want a gud squeeze; Smart petticoats frill'd wi' the best 0' blue crape Leuks weel wi' the hoops, if yor foot's a gud shape. AWGIST. GEORDEY.-Black claes is the best that a fellow can buy, They leuk se genteel, aw'd advise ye te try A suit just like this, for they'll suit ivry day Dorty shoes dissent leuk weel te such a display. PEG.-Black velvet roond hats trim'd wi' ribbin bright reed, Wi' black an' white fethors a gem for the heed; Kid gluves an' white stockins, an' fine flooncy goon, 'Ill suit ony lass i' the country or toon. SIPTEMBOR. GEORDEY.-Siptembor's the time for the men te weer tweeds, Soft hats is the things for the cheps wi' soft heeds; Aw wad change the neck-ties for sumthin that's thick, An eye-glass leuks weel on a swell wiv a stick! PEG.-Sum bonny corn heeds, for the season's forst-class, Stuck annunder the hat ov a gud-leukin' lass; Wi' leaves that'll rival the Leazes, se green, An' a dress myed 0' Linsey, she'llieuk like a queen. OCTOBER. GEORDEY.-Darkneets set in noo,so the bestaw can say For Chrismis te bundle yor best cIaes away Econmy's the study for maister an' man, So tyek me advice, an' ye'll try the best plan. PEG.-Green goons an' white shawls is an improvement aw think, Wi' sleeves nice an' full, trim'd wi' ribbin rose-pink, Lang ringlets, hair oily, wi' gantlets bran new, Myed 0' the best paper, might stonish a few. NOVEMBER. GEORDEY.-White waistcoats, stiff collors, broon troosers an' coat, White hats an' blue chokers tied tight roond the throat, Leuk weel at a dancin', so try these, me lad, If ye gan withoot claes yor sure te catch cawd. PEG.-Blue goons an' white stockins just noo 'ill not fail Te cawse greet attrackshun-wi' bright yallow veil; Broon tabs an' black muslins leuks weel wiv a lass That nivor at winter times leaks i' the glass. DISSEMBOR. GEORDEY.-Cawd neets an' cawd mornins cum roond us like fun, The eer like the fashun's just noo's neerly deun; Reed mufflers, big wrappers, an' gluves hae the sway, Wor Peg knaws the rest, for aw's lickt what tesay. PEG-Long cloaks, knickerbockers, plum puddin an' spice The grocer's grand prissint, just noo, swalleys nice; Gud lasses, maw hinnies, leuk oot for a lad, At Chrismis thor's plenty te get i' the squad. X A Welcum! Te Bob Chambers Efter His Defeat For The Championship. TEUN-"John Anderson, my jo," Yor welcum back agyen, Bob, Yor welcum te yor hyem, Victorious tho ye cuddint be, Yor welcum still the syem; Ye've struggled hard te keep yor nyem Untainted wi' defeat, But Bob, yor life's just like wor awn, Ye've bitter's weel as sweet. Yor we1cum back agyen, Bob, Yor welcum te the Tyne, Where ye've displayed yor manly skill, So dinnet ye repine; Keep up yor heart, the day may cum When luck 'ill turn agyen, Hard wark 'ill tell on iron frames, An' wettor weers a styen! Ye've proov'd yor-sel a star, Bob, That's kept its lustre lang, But cloods 'ill dull the brightest star, The best sumtimes gets rang, An' man, Jor high amang the best That ivor pull'd an oar, We'll not forget,-tho beat the day, The wundors deun before. The nyem 0' Chambers, honest Bob, Aw's sure 'ill nivor dee, The brave, the game undaunted man That struggled hard te be The hero ov a hundrid spins, The champion frae Tyneside, That kept the world se lang at bay, The lickt, yor still wor pride! DOUBLE ACROSTIC. J ust as mischievous as two bairns can be, Tommy an' Joey fall oot an' agree, O nything pleases or vexes the two, O wt that one gets, half's the tuther one's due, E nvy an' kindness, a bairn's disposition, M ischievous an' merry-happy condition. GIVE A THOWT TE THEM THAT'S GYEN. GIVE a thowt te them that's gyen, Ne matter where ye be, Ye'd like te heh sum canny frind Think on ye when ye dee, Ye waddint like te pass away As tho ye'd nivor been, Ye waddint like te pass away Like one unborn, unseen! Give a thowt te them that's gyen, Affecshun myed yor awn, Tho ye may heh the best 0' hilth, A man's ne mair nor man; Ye cannet tell hoo seun yor turn May cum te pass away, Like them that's gyen awhile before Te sleep beneath the clay. Give a thowt te them that's gyen, They once war like yor-sel, So dinnet let yor mem'ry fail, Or worldly joys dispel Thor forms for ivor frae yor mind, Oh, dinnet let that be, Ye'd like te heh sum canny frind Think on ye when ye dee ! Dexterous.- Thrawin a styen ower a hoose-top an' runnin te the tuther side te catch't afore it falls. Wor Geordy did it ! Daftniss.- Tryin te stop a cairt wheel wi' puttin yor fut under't. ACROSTIC. BILLY PURVIS B AIRNS,-ye may Iissen te the aud foaks' story, I mmusin, as they think 0' the days gyen bye, Lively relatin the scenes 0' Billy's glory, L astin i' mem'ry, they'll tell ye wiv a sigh, Y e'd latft if aud Billy had ivor met yor eye. P rood 0' thor pet, they'll tell ye hoo he acted, Unequalled wes he, wivhis queer funny ways, Rivals he'd nyen,-an' he's bundle attracted Vast croods te witness thor greet delight an' praise; I njoyment his frinds fund, frae country an' toon, S endin them hyem laffin hearty at thor cloon. YOUNG SPRING. On Mr. Richard Haddrick's Model of "Young Spring" in the Gateshead Exhbitionbition. C. 50 is a beautiful model of "Spring" by Richard Haddrick. It represents the first season of the year modestly appearing with a wreath of primroses, they being the first flowers of Spring. The child's head is beautifully and gracefully modelled, and the primroses are true to nature and very carefully given. The cast is true to nature in every point.-Gateshead Observer, May 26, 1866. Aw wish that aw cud find sum words, That aw might give expression Te what aw think 0' that sweet heed, Aw cannet-that's confession; They tell'd us that it's nyem wes "Spring," The eer's forst bloom in season, Aw luckt weel at the canny thing, It cuddint be mair pleasin; Se artless like an' life-like tee, Wi' cheek as smooth as ony. The modest smile se sweet te see, Se calm, an' yit se bonny; Its little eyes half-closed, as tho It knew that aw wes glancin, Wi' roses roond its luvely broo, Te myek't still mair intrancin; When forst aw saw its bonny fyece It teuk me eye for ivor, An' myed us wish 'twad hey a place Amang a' things that's clivor. Maw canny frind, aw wish ye weel, Each critic's fine decision, Aw hope wi' plisshur ye may feel At this grand exhibition. ACROSTIC NUNN N E mair will we hear him playa bonny teun, U nequalled wes he, when the dancin wes deun, N yen cud chant like him, his sangs myed lots 0' fun. N ebody pleased them like canny Bobby Nunn. Dangerous.-Tellin yor wife she lucks as aud as Methuserlum X Chambers An' Sadler -The Championship Browt Back Te The Tyne, Nov. 22nd, 1866. Teun-"Whe's for the Bank." THE greet event's cum offat last, The championship it's wun, Be Chambers, pride ova' Tyneside, The Cocknies thor ootdeun; Tho two te one they laid upon Thor man te get first place, An' badly used the Tyneside lad, Bob Chambers wun the race. Korus. Then oh, lads, join i' the sang, An' sing i' praise 0' brave Bob Chambers; Oh, lads, join i' the sang, The championship he's wun! The Cocknies thowt thor man had nowt Te de but run away Frae Brave aud Bob, but faith the job Wes hard eneuff, they say, For Chambers, iv his gud aud style, Tho wesh'd on ivry side Be Sadler's tretchrous steam-boat crew, Browt doon the Cockney's pride. When Sadler fund that he wes lickt, He pull'd across his man, An' foul'd brave Bob, that nivvor myed Such dirty wark his plan; For Chambers, win or loss a race, As game as man can be, He always lets them heh fair-play, That's mair then Cocknies de. The steamboats still kept.up thor wesh, An' tried myest a' they knew, Te swamp the little "Coaly Tyne," But on she nobly flew, Throo a' the swell the rascals myed The race at last wes run, An' Chamber, gud aud honest Bob, The championship had wun, Then sing,for Bob, the best man yit That ivor pull'd an oar, Let's wish him luck when iv his skiff, An' happiness on shore; An' may his days be lang an' glad, An' lads, this wish is mine, May he fiorish as the champion ov The Thames as weel as Tyne. AFFECTED BELLA TEUN-" Paz's Curiosity Shop." Noo thor's sumthin they call" Affectayshun," At least aw believe that's the nyem, That's got inte the heed 0' wor Bella, An' myed the lass nowt like the syem; She wes once what we might call real canny, An' homely wiv a' biv her side, Noo she's got what they call affectayshun, But aw think that's a new nyem for pride. Korus. Man, aw's frighten'd the lass is gan crazy, Or daft tiv a sartin degree, For she's prood, an' her heed's full 0' nonsense, An' that she lets a' the foaks see. The bit dress that she once wore se tidy Wes cotton, but noo she'll not weer Owt that dissent shine like silk or satin, She's gawn te the divil, aw fear; The floonsis she hes she keeps tossin, The hoops that she weers sic a size, An' she walks throo the streets wiv a swaggor, As tho' she'd command ivry eye. Ye wad think she'd forgotten Newcassil, She mixes the dialec se, If she only cud manidge plain Inglish, It might for a little bit de, She flings up her heed when she's tawkin, As if yor attenshun she'd draw, An' if ye give a questin that's puzzlin, She'll gurn, an' she'll say" aw don't knau:" Man, it's painful te hear the lass laffin, It's nowt like a gud hearty laff, That a chep likes te hear when he's merry, Indulgin i' sum harmless chaff; Ye wad think it wes greet condesenshun Iv her te gie vent tiv a smile, But aw's fairly teun back when she's laffin, For ye'd say that she's chokin the while. An' aw's sure she's forgot the gud manners Her muther wad teach her when young. For she whispers on nowt that's important, An' tawks when thor's anything sung; Ye wad think she's forgot that her fethur Works hard for thor breed ivry day, For she's got a' the airs ova princess; But gie me the gud awd-fashun'd way Ov a lass that forgets not her stayshun, Whativor the changes may be, Then she's sartin te gain approbashun, Frae nonsense an' a' such-like free. x The Landlord's Dowter TEUN-" Matilda Baker." Aw's one 0' the luckiest lads that's oat, At least that's what they tell us, An' before aw's deun, thor's nyen 'ill doot The fortin that's befell us; Aw's efter, aw think, the finest lass That ivor was created, Her fethur,-he keeps a pubilic hoose, Se nobly she's related. Korus This fine-luckin lass for a queen might pass, An' a queen aw've often thowt her, An' aw's the lad if ye want te knaw'd, That's en for the landlord's dowter. Whenivor she gets an order for two For consorts or theatre, She sends for me an' away we gan, Man, she's a real forst-rater; Tho aw knaw she drinks upon the sly, Aw waddint say owt tiv her, For the time might cum, an' aw hope it will, When aw can tipple wiv her. Aw've seen when aw've laid a sixpence doon, Aw've got change for a shillin, An' if ivor she thinks aw's onyway dry, Te quench me thirst she's willin; An' aw've seen when aw've order'd half 0' rum, She's gien us half 0' brandy, An' aw's sartin the lass that behaves se weel 'Ill myek a wife that's handy. Her fethur he thinks aw's up te the mark, An' she thinks thor's nyen truer, An' the aud man says aw'll be lanlord there As seun as he turns brewer; At a pawnshop, cheap, the tuther day, The weddin ring aw bowt her; So lads, luck oot for an open hoose, When aw marry the lanlord's dowter. ACROSTIC CORVAN C OMIC iv iv'rything-clivcr at owt, O v a' the professions,-stickin at nowt, Real witty! as poet an' singer at hyem, Versatile artiste wes Corvan's reet nyem; A s painter, fiddler, comedian, cloon, N ed wes the maistor ov all i' the town. THE BEUKMAKER! TEUN-" The Howlin Swell." AMID the stir upon the moor, that's roond the race-course there Amang the crood that's i' the ring, close by the judge's chair, Aw've tyekin notis ivry eer, a jolly reed fyec'd man, That tyeks his place amang the thrang, an' myeks his tung keep gawn. Kurus. An' aw think aw hear him say, As aw pass alang that way, "If ye win aw's sure te pay, Cum here, for aw's yor man! Aw'll bet upon this race, For a win or for a place, So noo's yor chance te myek A fortin if ye can! Here ! there! what de ye want te back? Two te one upon the field, aw'lL lay agyen the crack !" He's what they call a beukmaker, that bets on ivry race, An' lays agyen most ony horse te win or for a place; He's got a caird stuck iv his hat te let ye knaw his nyem, An' where he leeves, but on the moor lucks far mair like his hyem! Wi' beuk an' pencil iv his hand, he marks the figors doon, An' seems te knaw most a' the swells belangin te the toon; He's lanlord ov a public hoose, aw dornet tell ye where, But in or oot the ring he always acts upon the square! He seems te be weel stockt wi' cash, at least he's nivor short, An' lucks as tho his heart an' sowl wes center'd i' the sport; He's bizzy a' the efterneun, as bizzy as can be, But neet, aw's warn'd, 'ill bring sum jolly spree we cannot see! AW WISH AW WES SUMBODY ELSE. TEUN- "Aio Voo'd aw nivor wad Leez'e Her." RALPH COOK stud agyen a lamp-post, I' the street, tuther neet, He thowt 'twes the safest retreet Te help him te keep on his feet, For as drunk as a man cud weel be, There he stud, i' the mud, His reflecshuns byeth evil an' gud, Expressin alood i'the street, Korus. "Throo hevin a weak risolushun, An' spoilin a gud constitushun, Hopeless an' weary, wi' nowt i' life cheery, Aw wish aw wes sumbody else." "Ay, awwish aw wes sumbody else, So aw de, or wes free Frae the faIts that cling fastly te me, An' myek us thor slave a' throo life, Foraw nivor feel sober at a', Cas aw drink, seldum think, An' me wifehes ne munny te jink, So at hyem, whey thor's nowt else but strife. "Thor once wes a time-when at wark, Just a lad, aw wes glad, Aw shudder'd at owt that wes bad, But noo bad's the best aw can de, For cumpny, the warst aw cud get, Cross'd me way, then astray. Aw wes led,-an' aw noo curse the day That's browt se much sorrow te me. "The forst glass aw had myed us burn For me share, then for mair, An' hoo much eftor that diddent care Aw drunk for the drinkmyed us dry, Throo this aw neglected me.wark, Got the sack, then a black Aw tum'd, an' aw's flaid te luck back Te the once happy days that's gyen by." When aw heard Ralph gie vent tethese words, Aw wes greev'd, not diseev'd, For aw thowt 0' the time when he leev'd, An' had the rispect ov us all, But Ralph's risolushun wes weak, So he fell, sad te tell, Then lost hope i' the world an' hes-sel, An' thus keeps bewailin his fall. ME BONNY BRAVE BOAT ROWER TEUN- "Martha, the Milkman's Dowter," ONE neet, when walkin doon the Kee, Aw heard a yung lass singin, The cheerful soond she sent a' roond, Wi' voice byeth clear an' ringin, "Me lad's away, but cum when he may, He'll not find me cumplainin, For hoo can he cum eftor me The time that he's i' trainin ?" korus. "For he pulls se clivor on the coally river, He's myed the Cocknies glower, An' he says that he'll be champion yit, Maw bonny brave boat rower ! " "Ye shud only see him myek his boat, Gan smoothly throo the wetter, An' when he puts the steam full on, Ye'll acknollidge thor's nyen better; Besides a real gud-Iuckin fyece, His form's byeth big an' noble, An' he always knaws what he's aboot Iv a skiff,a keel, or coble." "He sweers that he'll be champion yit, Aw hope that he'll be lucky, But one thing always cheers me heart, Aw knaw that he's game an' plucky, Besides he's strang an' aw's not rang When aw say that he's a reet un ! For like aud Harry Clasper, lads, He nivor will be beat'n." "Aw hope he'll mind his trainin weel, If he dissent-that's se vexin, For lads that winnet train a' reet Bring nowt but sad reflecshun, For his awn sake aw hope he will, An' if he dis,-aw'ssartin The one that gets i' front 0' him 'Ill hey te be a smart um ' WOR GEORDY'S ALBUM TEUN- “Pull Away Cheerily." HERE'S wor Geordy's Album-he bowt it at Allan's, That sells a' the beuks at the heed 0' Dean Street, An' what It contains me intenshun's te tell ye, An' before aw conclude ye'll give in it's a treet: The forst it's wor Geordy wi' Peggy beside him, They had them byeth teun when they got on the spree; Then here's Bi!! King the Cobbler, that once wes a sowljor, He's had his reet leg teun clean off be the knee. Korus So lissen, me lads, te what's i' Geordy's album, Aw's sure it'll cause sum amusement the while, For iv a' the queer mixtors 0' foaksis an' fyeces, Aw's sartin ye've nivor seen owt i' this style. The next it's John Spencer, the famous eccentric, That sells ivrything for a penny, that's true! He can talk aboot owt, even nowt, that's a mazer, An' argy on onything, ainshint or new; Then here's Billy O'Rooke,-he's a regular cawshun, Te scrape on the fiddle an' shoot a queer sang, But he issent half daft tho he lucks awful silly, When he puts oot a tung aboot half a yard lang. The next i' the beuk's Jimmy Jonsin the Barber, That shaves a' the foaks i' Darn Crook, an' cuts hair; Then here's Davy Davis, the Newgate Street Preacher, That tries all he can te spoil bettin men there; Then here's Cameron the Jockey, belangin NewcassiI, A rider that few on the turf can excel; The next's Jimmy Mooney, a Sweep throo the day-time, But at neet he turns oot a real Grainger Street swell. Here's a groop wi' Bob Chambers, an' Clasper, an' Cooper, Three men that shud ivor be thowt on wi' pride; An' here's game Jimmy Taylor,Jack Bright, an' Jim Percy, Three promisin pullers, te keep up Tyneside; The next is Tom Glenny, the clivor tragedian, He's gain'd i' the aud an' new world greet renoon, An' the reason aw think we shud think the mair on him He belangs like worsels te the canny aud town. Then here's poor Ned Corvan, the comic Tynesider, That myed the {oakslaff till thor sides wes a' sair, Wiv his humorous sangsj-an' the next's Geordy Ridley, Another gud fellow,-but noo thor ne mair; The next is me awn, that aw promised wor Peggy Te fill up a page, an it's like me ye see, Thor issent ne mair, but the next time war Geordy Gets any aw'll bring them an' show them te ye. x Billy's Turnd An Actor. TEUN-"Jack, Me Jollyly Sailor." WOR Billy's turn'd an actor, aw hope that he'll succeed, Tho' te leeve the wark he had, he had ne cayshun, He says that for the futor on the stage he'll myek his breed, Tho' his muther prophesies nowt but starvashun She's tell'd hima' the swindles that she'sheard thor's tyekin place, An' she sweers that on the fam'ly he'll bring nowt else but disgrace, But still he dissent heed her, an' she cannot change his mind, For he sayshe'll be a shinin star, or sumthink 0' that kind. Korus. Wor Billy's turn'd an actor, aw hope that he'll succeed, Tho' te leeve the wark he had, he had ne cayshun; He says that for the futor on the stage he'll myek his breed, Tho' his muther prophesies nowt but starvashun. His hair's byeth lang an' curly, he says he'll let it grow, An' aw cannit tell how much sweet oil he uses, He dresses like a tailor-tho' the cloth it issent new, But the fashun tyeks yor eye that Billy chooses; He talks as fine as if he'd red the dickshunary throo, An' ye'd sweer that ivry actor on the stage wor Billy knew; Aw've oftin thowt he'd hurt his jaws wi' hard words that he says; He once wes shy-but noo his cheek a 'torney wad amaze Aw've oftin seen him actin, his fyece a' painted reed, And on his lips a pair 0' false mustashus, That he had myed wi' burnt cork, then he'd rant an' nivor heed His muther when she said, "Oh, divvent fash us l" Wi' spangles On his dresses an' lang beuts like yallow clay, He'd stamp an'shoot an' stalk aboot like Hamlit i' the play, Then he'd tyek the poker for a sword an' fight wi' nowt at a', An' frightin a' the folks aboot at what they heard an' saw. Aw hope hell be successful like what he is at hyem, An' not give wayan' join it toxycayshun, He's nearly been teetotal, an' aw hope he'll keep the syem, For aw knaw he'll be exposed te greet temtayshun; An' if he gets te be a star aw hope he'll shine as clear As ony bormy star we see high i' the sky appear, But if he fails te myek his-sel a fortun an' a nyem, Aw hope that he'll heh sense te cum an' seek for wark at hyem. ME AWN ADVORTISMINT IF ivor ye want te hear us sing The sangs aw've wrote te please ye a', On ivry littil hyemly thing, Just drop a line an' let us knaw, An' if aw heh the luck te cum, Ye may rest assured me best aw'll de Te myek ye laff wi' sangs 0' fun, An' aw'll sing ye sentimental tee, THE DIFFERENCE 0' FOAKS WHEN THOR DRUNK. TEUN-" Homeward Bound." I AW'LL sing ye a queerish sort ov a sang, On a subject that ye'll say's not rang, That's if ye think it's reet, aw mean, For the subject's what we've oftin seen. Korus. That's the difference 0' foaks when thor drunk, de ye see, It's the difference of [oak when thor drunk. There's Billy Main 'ill curse an' sweer, An' fight wi' ivrybody near, Tho' when he's sober-foaks 'ill say He's got a lamb's awn quiet way. Then Jimmy Moffit's as bad as Bill, For when he gets the settlin gill He'll argy owt-an' boast an' shoot That he's the clivorist barber oot. An' Sandy Campbell's just as bad, Aw nivor saw such a filthy lad; He blaws bad breeth upon yor cheek, An' spits i' yor fyece when ye hear him speak. Ned Jackson he gans mad, they say, An' smashes owt that's iv his way; He's sell'd the hoose offtwice aw knaw, An' nearly kill'd his fethur-in-law. Jack Grant 'ill let his tung gan lowse An' tell the secrets 0' the hoose; But, lads, thor's one thing that aw knaw, It's bes not te get drunk at a'. Korus. For it myeks foaks daft when thor drunk, de ye see, It myeks foaks feuls when thor drunk THE LASS AW GAN WITH! TEUN-"Cruel Mary Holder." Aw warn'd ye hevint seen the lass aw gan with, Ay, gan with; She's just the sort 0' lass ye'd like te gan with, If ye had the chance like me, But she cannet be ivrybody's sweetheart, "What for, becas," ye'll say, For then she waddint be me awn lass, An' it waddint de that way, For Lizzie's the lass aw like se weel te meet at wor street corner, An' ivry neet me plisshur's greet beside young Lizzie Turner. Kurus. An' ye'll nivor see a neater, for she's kinder an' she's sweeter, An' she's smarter an' completer, an' her bonny lucks thor greeter, An' me sporits they get leeter ivry time aw gan an' meet her, For thor's nyen alive can beet her, No, thor's nyen like Liz! Her eyes thor bonny blue, an' always shinin, Ay, shinin, Wi' dark lashes on her cheek reclinin, She's a pictor ye'll agree; Ye wad varry nigh beleeve her cheeks is painted, An' her figor's smart an' fine, An' aw's sartin that aw wad gan demented, If aw thowt she'd not be mine; But she tell'd us that aw had a chance one neet at wor street corner, An' wi' joy then aw kiss'd the sweet reed lips 0' bonny Lizzie Turner. Thor's lots 0' lasses that a chep thinks nowt on, Ay, nowt on, But she's the sort 0' one aw've often thowt on, For a kind gud lass is she: She's one that the neybors croon wi' praises, An' that's sumthin te say; An' me maister's gawn te raise me wages, So luck oat for the weddin-day, A' the lads they pass by wiv a sigh when they see us meet at war street corner, Aw wish they may be as lucky as me wiva lass like Lizzie Turner. IVRYBODY THINKS THOR AWN CASE THE WARSTI TEUN-"Tootle Tum Tai" “OH,marcy," cries Mally,-“aw's bad, Ay, aw's bad, aw've got cawd, An' the teuth-acne 'ill seun drive us mad, Was thor ivor such trubble as mine? Besides, aw've got corns on me toes, On me toes,-an' me nose Hes a bile the full size ov a rose, Thor wes nivor such trubble as mine!" Korus. It's the syem wi' foaks ivry day cryin, I' moments that's sartinly tryin, Whativor thor trubble, thor sure te myek't dubble, An' sweer that thor awn case is warst! "Oh, bliss us,"-cries Jinny,"aw'll dee, Vis, aw'll dee, an' ye'll see That aw's not gien te tellin a lee, Withoot aw get new Sunday claes, For thor issent a lass i' the toon, l' the toon, wad walk doon Wor street i' the aud raggy goon Aw weer Sundays an' ivery days !" Cries Peter-" Aw's bad wi' the cramp l' me leg, so aw stamp, An' aw shoot, an' aw dance, an' aw jump, Aw'll nivor be weeltill aw's deed!" "Gud grayshus," cries Sally,-"wor Bob's Lost his job throo his gob, An' since then me heart's deun nowt but throb, An' me trubble's browt on a sair heed! " "Oh, hinny," cries Charley, "be quick, Yis, be quick, for aw's sick, An' me jaw's nearly splet wi' the tic; Aw's the unluckiest fellow ye'll meet; Aw've gotcawd throo us weerin bad beuts, Vis, bad beuts,-ye say huts! But aw've got such a pain i' the guts That aw nivor slept ony last neet ! " x Charley's Run Away. TEUN - "Little Dick." WOR Charley's run away frae hyem, They say he's gyen te sea; Aw's sure we've a' been kind te him, As kind as we cud be; Then oh, whativor myed him d't, What myed him gan away? He little knaws the grief he's caws'd Throo what he's deun the day. He often said he'd leeve the toon, But hoo cud we beleeve He'd myek the hoose se wretched like, An' cawse us a' te greeve? Aw's sure he's nivor gien a thowt Tiv us poor foaks at hyem, His muther's nearly oot her heed, His fethur's just the syem. He's only just sixteen eers awd, Se wild and thowtless tee, He's been weel offan' diddent knaw'd, What will he be at sea? He'll miss the cumforts ov his hyem, The cumforts thrawn away; An' then find plenty time te rue His heedstrang wark the day. His muther, poor sowl, hoo she frets, Aw's frighten'd she'll gan mad, She lucks as if her heart wad brick Aboot the wilful lad; His fethur's sowt a' roond the toon, An' miles beyond in vain, But Charley cannet hear thor moans, He cannet tell thor pain. THE FIGHT ABOOT A LAD! TEUN- "The Geuse Fair." TOM BALMBRA carted Bella Tate, An' Bella corted him, She thowt a vast aboot the lad, For he wes smart an' trim; But Tom wes eftor Susey Boyd, When Bella wes away; He went wi' BeiIa ivry neet, An' Susey throo the day. Until-one day, an awful seet Fill'd Bella wi' surprise, 'Twes Tom an' Susey airm in airm, Before her jillis eyes, But she diddent fight wi' him, Tho wi' rage her eyes wes dim, She pickt upon poor Susey, Becas Susey went wi' him. Says Bella-"Tyek yor airm frae his, Or else it's warse for ye, What de ye mean wi' gan wi' him? Ye knaw he gans wi' me!" But Susey did'nt knaw he did, Or diddent want te knaw; Says she te Bella-"Gan away! Let's heh nyen 0' yor jaw! Him gan wi' ye ?-aw think aw see'd.! What cud he see at ye? Yor not fit (if aw'd let ye did), Te wipe the shoes 0' me! He's always gyen wi' me, An' that aw'lllet ye see, The hardest job ye ivor had's Te tyek me lad frae me!" Says Bella-" YE keep him frae ME, Yor short pug-nose aw'll ring; Aw'll teer yor eyes oot 0' yor heed, Ye dirty impiddint thing! " Says Susey-" Tried on if ye dor ! Tried on,-aw'Il myek ye pay; If ye lay a sing'll hand on me, Aw'll summins ye the day: Ye reed-hair'd slut,-YE hammer ME, Aw'd like te see ye try!" But scaircely had she said these words, When Bella black'd her eye, An' she begun te cry. The lad wes stannin by, Until he saw the fight begin, Then he hook't it on the sly. Th' reckly Susan got the blow, Her hands like win'mills went; She bit and swore,- Bell scratch'd and tore, Thor rage cud get ne vent, Until they'd pull'd thor goons te rags, An' tore thor hats te bits, An' clawted byeth thor toppins weeI, But neether wad cry "quits," 'Till byeth teuk't.i' thor heeds te faint, Then they war led away, Detarmin'd they wad heh revenge Upon sum future day. Mind it was awful bad Te fight about such a lad; For aw think the best thing they cud deun, Wes te start an' clawt the lad. SAYS HE! SAYS AW I OR, WHAT FOARS SAY WHEN THEY PASS I' THE STREET TEUN- "The Sheumyeker's Dowter." AW met wiv a chep that aw knew, Says he-" It's a varry fine day," Says aw, "It is," and away he went, An' away aw went on me way; Aw met him agyen that varry neet, Says he, "It's a varry fine neet," Says aw "It is," an' he says" It is," An' says aw te me-sel "wor reet." Korus. It's sumthing rich te hear foaks talk, It's a real amusin treat, Te think 0' words ye hear exchanged When walkin throo the street. Says aw tiv a lass-" Hoo are ye?" "Ne better for ye," says she. Says aw, "God help ye, yor ne warse, So ye needint fall oot wi' me;" Says she, "Aw can de what aw like," Says aw, "Of course ye can," Says she, "Yor nowt but a igorint man," When aw axt her where she wes gawn. Aw spoke tiv a chep that aw knew, At the tuther side 0' the street, An' aw's certain that he answer'd me, As if we cud hear a' reet. Says aw tiv a chep, "Hoo are ye? " Says he te me-" Hoo are ye?" An' away he went wiv a mind content, Tho he got ne answer frae me ! What grand informashun ye get Wi' these words pass'd i' the street; For if ye get an answer at a', Yor awn varry words they'll repeat; It's just like a chep gien y' a gill, An' ye te pay for the next, For then yor neether in nor oot, An' yor mind's not the least perplext, DOLLY'S LOWSE PEDDIKIT TEUN-" She Danced like a Fairy." AW'LL tell ye a lark if ye lissen te me, Ye may think it's a lee, but it issint ye'll see, It's all aboot Dolly, if ye want te knaw whe, She's as canny a lass as can be. She wes cummin doon Wesgit on Thursday neet last, Wiv a swagger that teuk ivry eye, When she fund that her peddikits wassint a' fast, Ay, an' one lowse, an' doon varry nigh. Korus. So lasses, tyek care when yor oot i' dayleet, Iv a walk throo the street, heh yor claes fassin'd reet; Or else, like poor Dolly, ye'll gie foaks a treat, That ye'll really not fancy yor-sel! She tried te.pull'd up, wiv a shuffle an' squeeze, But she thowt she wad freeze, when her sweetheart she sees, Cummin walkin alang frev his wark at his ease, Nivor dreamin his Dolly te tease. He stopt an' sheuk hands, luckin pleased te see Doll, But she wassint se pleased te see him; She stammer'd until she wes close te the wall, An' wi' vexashun there she stud prim. The foaks luckt an' lafft at poor Dolly, as she, As perplext as cud be, diddint knaw what te de; The peddikit ower her shoes they cud see, An' she diddint knaw hoo te get free. For Dolly, poor thing, she wes frighten'd te move, An' her lad wes se happy te see She'd gien him a chance te say sweet words 0' luv, But she wish'd away frev him te be. At last a greet shoot myed him opin his eyes, An' then luck wi' supprise, when poor Dolly wi' sighs, Stoopt doon te the grund, wi' such heart-broken cries, The peddikit noo doon te rise. Her lad was dumfoondid when Dolly ron off Wi' the peddikit under her shawl, An' the foaks roar'd an' lafft-but thor jokes turn'd te scoff, When they saw the lad run off an' all. X Hinny, Dinnet Cry TEUN-" Spanish Fandango Walse." THOR tellin tyels 0' me, me luv, but dinnet thoo beleeve, De ye think that aw wad try te win yor heart, an' then disseve? Oh no, aw'd rethur welcum deeth, an'bid the world gud-bye, Then harm ye wiv a single breeth, so hinny, dinnet cry! Korus. TEUN-" The Hurdy-Gurdy Lad!" So, hinny, dinnet cry, or ye'll spoil them eyes se bonny, Ay, hinny, dinnet cry, an' ye munnit luck se sad; For iv a' the lasses that thor is, aw like ye best ov any, So ye munnit fall oot wi' me, me pet, or ye'll myek us varry bad! They say aw court anuther lass the time aw gan wi' ye, But spite 'ill myek them say such things, te turn yor heart frae me. Upon me oath-aw's true as steel, aw'd scorn te tell a lee; Is maw word not as gud as theirs? can ye not trust i' mer So wipe yor eye-an' dinnet cry, or let the reed-rose fade Frae off yor cheek-te hey i' place the lily's deeth-like shade; Cheer up, maw pett-the past forget, an' dry away the tears, An' let yor sweet aud-fashun'd smile dispel yor jillis fears! x The Sunderland Trip! TEUN-" Me Blue-Ey'd Sal 0' the Bull Ring." WOR Peg an' me myed up wor minds te hey a trip one day, So on board ov a boat for Sunderland doon the wetter we myed wor way; But, oh! when we got oot te sea, poor Peg began te thraw! An' te see the tears rowlin doon her cheeks wad melted a heart 0' snaw ! Chant. Says she, "Marcy me, Joe, awfeel varry bad, is Sunderland varry far noo? Aw nivor imadgind the boat wad hike se, an' the spray's myed us nearly wet throo; Aw wish we war there, or at Tinmuth, or Sheels, as lang as we get on dry land, For aw think aw'll fall ower the boat when aw sit, an' aw cannit for all the world stand." Korus. An' ay, but Peggy's a cawshun, a cawshun ye'll agree, An' aw'l! nivor forget that Sunderland trip, When Peggy went there wi' me. Teun. At last we byeth got safe on land, an Peggy's claes myed dry, Be the kitchin fire iv a public-hoose she stud heevin many a sigh; Aw ordered halfs 0' brandy het,-says she, "Aw still feel queer, What a pity, Joe, that the brandy's not the syem price as Mackey's beer." Chant. So aw thowt,-then we set off te see Charley Watson, a frind 0' both Peggy's an' mine, There aw saw she was myekin the bitter beer flee, so aw thowt that aw'd better drink wine Te keep me-sel stiddy, te tyek care 0' Peg, for the truth on't whenivor she's full She'll kick up such a rowan' she'll lead such a tung that the {oaks set her doon as a feul ! Korus Teun, Then airm an' airm wi' Peg aw went up High Street, blithe an' gay, The foaks a' stopt, an' they stared at Peg, for she's one ye'Il not see ivry day; When i' the Park amang the fiooers, says she, "Man, here it's grand, An' hivvin 'ill surely be like this,-if they'll tyek in the bobby's band." Chant. Then eftor we'd been a full oor i' the park, i' Bridge Street we myed a full stop, For Peggy declared for the gud ov her hilth she wad just hey anuther "wee drop." When i' High Street agyen, iv a whisper says she, "Aw take notis 0' foaks as they pass us, An' aw really believe, lad, i' this bonny toon that the poplation's nearly a' lasses l" Korus Teun. Then higher up the toon wewent an' myed a real gud tea, “It's nearly as gud as aw myek me-sel," says Peg wiv a wink te me; The lanlady she luckt amazed, but her smiles turn'd tiv a froon When Peg proposed te stand on her heed an' sing the "cure," upside doon ! Chant. Then we set off agyen for a walk roond the toon, as we'd myed up wor minds for the train, For Peggy wad nivor gyen back i' the boat, besides she wes meant for a drain; Seclosete the stayshun, i' Leetheed's at last, she astonish'd the foaks i' the bar "Vi' tossin a chep for the glasses a' roand,-ay, an' smokin a crackin segar. Korus. NED'S AND COMPANIONS! TEUN- "The Boys o' Kilkenny." NED YOUNG frae the toon had been two eers away, When back he luckt oat for his mates once se gay; His jovial cumpanians he wanted te meet, So he sowt where they'd leev'd, an' luckt throo ivry street. Till he met wi' BilI Jones, a lad he had knawn, An' axt him-"Te find me mates, where shud aw gan?" Says Bill,-" Whey aw'll teII ye, but faith the job's bad, For aw doot if ye'll find a mate left te be had. "There's Jack Carsin married an' quite settled doon, Ye'II seldum at neet see him walk throo the toon; Bob Henderson's gyen tiv Astraley, they say, An' Geardey Welsh listed for a sowljor one day. "Bob Snowdon, poor Bob, it's lang, lang since he deed; An' yung Charley Green's gyen clean oat iv his heed; Jim Matthison went te Carlisle te seek wark, An' the de'il only knaws what thor's cum 0' Dick Park." When Ned heerd these words he wes cumpletely fell, Te think he wes left i' the toon biv his-sel,Says he, "Aw mun find a cumpanion for life, An' aw cannet de that withoot tyekin a wife." "So aw'llluck for a lass that's byeth canny an' free, An' marry the jewl if she thinks owt 0' me; Aw'll myek her me mate be me side neet an' day, For ye loss yor cumpanions if once yor away," AW'VE LOST ME BONNY LAD! AW'VE lost me bonny lad, Wor littil Billy's deed, Thor's nebody can tell me pain, Aw's nearly oot me heed; Te think ne mair aw'll hear the voice Se joyus, sweet, an' free, Aw've lost me bonny lad, An' the day's lang te me! Aw've lost me bonny lad, Aw's greetin aw the day, An' sair aw cried this mornin when Aw put his toys away, Aw rapt them up amang his claes, But still his form aw see, Aw've lost me bonny lad, An' the day's lang te me! Aw've lost me bonny lad, "It's mebbies for the best," The neybors say, te cheer us wi' The thowt,-he's noo at rest; But, oh! hoo can a muther think It's best her bairn shud dee? Aw've lost me bonny lad, An' the day's lang te me ! GEORDEY, O! TEUN-" Daddy, O!" Iv a' the jolly cheps aw've seen, Thor's nyen like Geordey, happy Geordey, "Me hyem's me cassil, wife me queen, An' aw's thor king," says Geordey, 0 ; "At least byeth wife an' bairns agree That aw's thor maistor, lord an' maistor, But hoo aw is,-aw cannet see, But still aw's king," says Geordey, O! Korus. Geordey, 0, Geordey, 0, Thor's nyen cums up te Geordey, 0, For crackin a joke an' singin asang, He licks them a' dis Geordey, O. Ye needint talk te him 0' war, He dissent heed it, dissent need it, "Across me nose aw've got a scar, An' that's throo war," says Geordey, 0 ; But if the family ivor fights, He alwayswi' them sticks weelte them, "Aw stick up for me famlyreets, An' that's just fair!" says Geordey, O. Teetotelers needint talk te him, Aboot hard drinkin, quite free-thinkin, "Aw'll fill me glass up te the brim, If aw want as much," says Geordey, O; "But if aw think aw've had me share, Withoot yor pledges, dorty pledges, Wi' mind myed up te heh ne mair, Aw winnet touch," says Geordey, O. If trubbil rings the famly's hearts, He's there is Geordey, canny Geordey, " Cheer up, me bairns, it might been warse, So cumfort tyek," says Geordey, 0; He's quite the heart an' sowl 0' hyem, Gud-temper'd Geordey, happy Geordey, An' away fre'd, faith, he's just the syem, Such fun he'll myek, will Geordey, O. MIlSTRISS TAYLOR'S POISIN! TEUN-" The Bonny Laddy's Yung." MISTRISS TAYLOR she got drunk an'wesfightin wivher man, So he thowt the way te quiet her-te nail her wes his plan; He blackerrd byeth her eyes-for his blows she cuddint stop, An' he thowt that just the way te keep her noise in; So what de ye think she did but gan 'tiv a kimist's shop, Wiv her mind myed up te swally nowt but poisin. The kimist he luckt at her an' he saw that she wes full, She axt for oxlid assid,-but he wassent such a feul Te give her such a thing, for he thowt twad de as weel If he gov her sumthin else just like the mixtor; So he wrapt up Epsom Salts an put poisin on the seal, An' kept laffin tiv hissel the way he'd fix'd her. Mistriss Taylor she got hyem efter scramlin up the stairs, Then she drunk a pot 0' whiskey an begun te say her prayers, An' she swally'd the whole dose as detarmin'd as cud be, For the drink it myed her braver than she wad been; But thereckly it wes ower, whey she thowt she cuddent dee, Ay, an' noo she wes mair sober than she had been. She shooted iv her man, an' she browt him tiv her side, There he saw her pale as ony ghost wi' eyes an'mooth se wide; Says she-"Aw'll dee, aw's poisin'd, bring the doctor herete me, For, Jack, aw've been a wife byeth gud an' thrifty, So run away like leetnin, for aw's ower yung te dee, Ay, aw's ower yung te dee-aw's only fifty !" He ron an' browt the kimist,-the syem kimist i'the lark, Says he,-"Aw goh ye Epsom Salts, they cannet be at wark Se seun as this, aw's sartin! "-an' it fill'd her full o'Ishem, But the salts they work'd a cure her man had wanted, For since then she's been teetotal, an' she says she'll keep the syem ; For her mind wi' salts an' poisin's always hauntid. WOR GEORDEY'S WELCUM TE GARIBALDI. (Written on hearing that he intended te visit Newcassel.) WELCOME! maw canny hinny, a hundrid thoosand million times welcum l yor as welcum as the flooers i' May. It's mony a lang day since aw saw ye noo hinny, whole ten years since, bless me, it just lucks like the day afore yisterday. Ye've gyen throo a storm 0' trouble since then, hinny;-ye've been cast on the billows ov advorsity, an' thrawn aside wi' the waves ov ingratitude,-but ye'll pull throo, maw pet,-thor's a gud time cummin, when aw hope we'll see ye seated on the shores ov peace, cumfort, an' happiness. This piece 0' poatry doon belaw's a Double Acrostic: read the letters doonwards Glorious Garibaldi, noble, brave, an' just, W undorous gem 0' fame, byeth gud an' true, A man, iv ivry sense a Man, the world may trust, E ndear'd tiv honest hearts, the world a' throo; R ear'd i'sad hardship's scheul, 'mang weary toil an' pain, L ay for a time aside yor warlike arts, I mmortal patriot, the wretched tyrant's bane, C urn rest ye for awhile 'mang Tyneside hearts! B right be that happy day ye visit Coaly Tyne, O ppresshun's foe, the star 0' freedom's cawse, A nxshussly aw wait, an' think ov "auld lang syne," M yed dearer since ye've gain'd the world's applawse. L ang, lang hey aw thowt that awd live to see the day, E lated, we'll myek glad the joyful morn, D evoted te the last, we'll strive te cheer yor stay, I' this, the gallant hero's grand return ! WOR PEG'S INVITAYSHUN! NOT ACCEPTED. MISTOR GARIBALDI,-Aw's sure aw feel just like as if thor wes sumthing stickin i' me throat, when aw sit doon to write aboot ye taw spoilt five sheets 0' paper afore aw started), aw's that pleased yor cummin back te the" canny toon,"-aw hevent forgot ye, thor's ne fear 0' that, if aw leeve te the dayaw dee aw'll nivvor forget ye. Ye've myed gud use 0' the sword ye got the last time ye wor here, Mistor; a lang way mair than war Geordey's deun wi' his-he's i' the horse noodles, ye knaw, sor. Aw suppose yor gan up te Stella te see war canny frind, Mr. Cowen,-ye might call at wor hoose, an' get yor tea, aw's sure yor welcum ;-dinnet be frighten'd, it's war Geordey's pay, an' aw'll heh sum fine spice kyeck reddy, myed on purpose. Aw bowt a new set 0' Cheeny last Seturday neet, an' aw can myek a cup a' tea as gud as me neybors, an' that's sumthing te say. If ye bring Mr. Cowen wi' ye, aw can borrow a chair or two ov Mistress Scott, next door; thor's plenty room for two,-be sure an' cum. N.B.-Wor Geordey weers nowt but reed sharts, DISAPPOINTMENT-FAREWEEL TO GARIBALDI. BAD news aw've heard, flee varry fast, An' disappointments fond hopes blast, An' myek us greeve for joys gyen past, Wi' breest full sair; The news that ye had tyekin bad, An' order'd hyem,-myed hearts se glad Dejected, weary, sair an' sad, Wi' grim despair. But truth cums oot,-thor's been foul play, An' them that myed se short yor stay, Aw hope may leeve te rue the day, An' get a thraw! Fareweel I-tho ye gan ower the sea, They cannet tyek wor luv frae ye! Wi' acts like these-if England's free, Aw'll haud me jaw! RENFORTH, THE CHAMPEIN. TEUN-" the Postman's Knock." TYNESIDE'S lang been fam'd for producin greet men, Luck at Airmstrang an' Stivvison, tee, An' Grainger that myed wor fine toon what it is, An' its bildins thor grand ye'll agree; But the bildin 0' boats an' boat pullin's wor pride, An' where, always we try hard te shine, An' Renforth, a brave hardy Son 0' the North's Browt the Champeinship back te the Tyne, Korus. Then lang may success an' gud hilth combine Wi' Renforth, the Champein 0' Thames an' the Tyne. We lost poor Bob Chambers, then sadly we greev'd, Thor wes nyen but what liked Honest Bob, An' we sigh'd for anuther te fillup he's place, Tho' we knew twes a difficult job, Till Renforth com oot like the man that he is, For the honour 0' canny Tyneside, An' te stop him frae tyekin Bob Chambers's place, The whole world he bravely defied! Then a challinse wes sent, an' a match thor wes myed Wi' the best Lundun Champein thor's been, That's brave Harry Kelley, the Pride 0' the Thames, An' a finer race nivor wes seen; For wi' confidence pictor'd on each manly broo, The North an' the South meet agyen, Thor ready!-thor offl-then the struggle begins, As the crood roar an' cheer for thor men. Incorridg'd be cheers frae thor frinds all aroond, Thor byeth strivin hard for the leed, An' then the North Countrymen shoot wi' delight, As they see thor pet forgin aheed, Tho Kelley, as game as man ivor can be, Spurts hard te catch Jimmy, but nay! The Tynesider's there wi' byeth corridge an' skill, Ay, an' strength tee te leed a' the way. The Champeinship's wun, an' it's browt te the Tyne, A river myed famous wi' men Like Chambers, the Claspers, Bob Cooper, besides Jimmy Taylor, an' Perey,-so then Gud luck te Jim Renforth, lang may he maintain The honour he noo hauds wi' pride; An' gud luek tiv his trainer, Jim Taylor, as weel, An' the boat-pullers a' roond Tyneside ! THE DANCIN HELD AT GYETSID! TEUN-"Siventeen cum Sunday." THOR wes Mistress Taylor's club broke up, An' it eawsed a greet sensayshun, So what de ye think she did, me lads, But send us an invitayshun, For Tom an' me te join the spree, I' the danein held at Gyetsid! Korus. When se happy on the floor, the jiggin doon the shore, Wes nowt te the dancin held at Gyetsid. Thor wes lang-leg'd Billy wiv a broken flute, What a swell wi' two brass rings on, An' Geordey, the tailor, went serapin aboot, On a fiddle wi' just three strings on, Whey, a jarmin band eud hardly stand Wi' the band that play'd at Gyetsid. But they say that it's daft te turn oot wise When igorance shud be bliss, lads, So as Geordey an' Bill wes reckind forst-rate, Gud music wes nivor miss'd, lads, Ay, an' Davie Dunn swore ivry teun Wes the best he'd heard i' Gyetsid. Thor wes Charley, the blacksmith, prood asa lord, Drest up iv his Sunday's fustin; Ay, an' Mary the tripe wife, twenty styen, Aw wes frighten'd she'd be brustin, But they yell'd hooray! as she danced away, Like a two-eer aud at Gyetsid. Thor wes ne dispute aboot whe wes the belle, Or they diddent care whe browt her, "We can think te wor-sels that wara' fine belles," Says Janey, the cobbler's dowter. An' they a' did weel i' byeth sylph an' reel, l' the dancin held at Gyetsid. Then the Ianlord, a real gud-temper'd sowl, Sent a gud supply 0' beer in, An' they lafft an' chafft as the beer they quafft, For they needed nowt mair cheerin; Whey ye'd thowt the fun wad nivor been deun, l' the Pea Straw dance at Gyetsid! LOSSIN THE LICENCE! TEUN-" The Uppur Ten." THE leets burn'd dimly i' the bar, The lanlord wassent there, The tyeble wes a' thick 0' dart, The koonter had its share; An' ivrything luckt oat 0' place, The lanlady her-sel Wes fair dooncast, an' frev her lips This doleful ditty felI Korus. " Thor's nowt on orth me heart te cheer, Me heart te cheer, aw'm wretched here, For thor issent a thing i' the hoose but beer, Throo wor Geordey wi' lossin the Licence! "This used te be a peaceful port, But noo life's bitter here, Me temper once wes sweet an' mild, But noo aw cannet beer The thowts that myek us w(h)ine a' day, Me sporrits thor se law, The Rector cannot keep the hoose, An' the baccy is ne draw. "The beer 'iIllike the trade turn flat, Wor nearly sure te fail, We'll need sum good supporters, As we heh nowt else but ale,' The glasses they'll a' gan tepot, Then bottled up we'll be, Aw find aw'm not near half as stoot, It's ne sham pain wi' me ! "The sellors nearly empy noo, An' buyers very rare, It's rum te think such changes cum, Such dull times issent fair An' Geordey, like the sheep he is, He's gyen upon the spree, Aw'll punch his heed te think he'd leeve An ail-in wife like me. "It's true they fined him once or twice, Or twice or thrice or mair, Ye'd thowt twad been a cawshun, But wor Geordey diddent care; An'throo a quairt 0' penny beer, Wor trade an' Licence's gyen, He diddent treat the Bobbies wee!, Or they'd lettin him alyen ! THE DEETH 0' BOB CHAMBERS! AIR-" Come into my Cabin, Red Robin." l' THE gloom thor's aroond bonny Tyneside, 'Mang the greef that's se bad te contain, When all honest hearts mourn for thor champien, Wi' breests fill'd wi' sadness an' pain, Aw'll sing i' the praise 0' Bob Chambers, The manliest, the gamest, an' true. He's alive i' the hearts ova' Tyneside, Tho we've lost wor poor " Honest Bob" noo. Fareweel te the days when Bob Chambers Wes wor idol, wor pet, an' wor pride, When he set the whole world at defiance- Brave champein 0' canny Tyneside. When aw think ov his'sowl-storrin races, Aw can hardly believe that he's gyen l' the prime ov his life;-hoo Deeth's hurried, -But thor's LIFE still iv Honest Bob's nyem. Fareweel te the canny Bob Chambers, A man for his honesty famed; Strite-forward, an' kind, noble-hearted, Wor champein such qualities c1aim'd. Ay, an' what's mair, we knaw he possess'd them; Oh, then, hoo can we help but repine For the hero that's gain'd wor affecshun, Like this brave hardy son 0' the Tyne. Fareweel te the world's finest champein; An' defeated be Deeth tho ye be, It cannot tyek ye frae wor hearts, lad; An' yor form lang i' mem'ry we'll see. We've been prood-ay, an' still wor prood 0' ye; An' yor brave deeds for ivor 'ill shine Throo the gloom thor's been myed wi' greet sorrow, For the Champein an' Pride 0' the Tyne. ETTICKITT! TEUN-"The Biskit Man." Aw'vs lately studied Ettickitt, An' think it's sumthing grand Te knaw hoo te behave yor-sel, An' when te sit an' stand, Iv ony kump'ney that yor in; An' when te myek a boo, An' the rules 0' gud behavour, whey Aw's gawn te tell ye noo ! Korus. For this is the way te behave yor-sel, Think 0' me words an' tyek a spell, Laybror, Mickanic, an' the tip-top swell, Shud study the rules aw sing! Ye've heerd that manners myeks the man, Fine feathors myek fine bords, That dissent say ye heh te dress Mair then yor means affords: Dress canny like,-yor stayshun keep, An' divvent spoil yor breed, A fact'ry lass wad nivvor seem Curl-paypors iv her heed. A workin man shud nivvor gan Te wark i' Sunday's claes, Withoot he's got nowt else te weer. A lass withoot her stays Shud keep i' doors, an' nivvor show The real size ov her waist, An' nivvor put her gluves on when Her hands all ower pyest! I' convorsayshun, nivvor shoot Withoot sumbody's deef, An' nivvor mair then three shud speak At one time's maw beleef; An' if ye think ye've tell'd a lee, Keep't te yor-sel, an' say Ne mair aboot what ye've let oot, Repent when yor away. If foaks shud myek a mornin call, An' ye shud be i' bed, Just say yor oot an' not at hyem, Heh ne excuses myed; An' if they call at dinner-time, An' ye've not got eneuff, Just heh yor awn an' let them gan, Suppose they tyek the huff If ye invite sum frind te tea, Tell them yor not prepared, Aw nivvor saw a hoosewifeyit But just the syem declared; An' if the tea gets ower strang, The kettle's on the neuk, Te let ye knaw thor's wetter there, If ye wad only luck. At borths an' krisnins say yor glad Te see se fine a bairn; At deeths yor sad, yecannet help't, Ye've nowt i' that te Iairn ; At weddins jump an' dance wi'joy, An' let the foaksa' see Ye knaw what Ettickitt shud be, Ay, just as weel as me! JUST A HAPNEY Music by the Author. "JUST a hapney I-nivvor mind it! Ye needint say a word, We'll nivvor let a trashy meg Between us myek discord ; It may be yor mistyek or mine, The change's gettin rang sum way, But ahapney's neethor here nor there!" Aw heard this iv a bar one day, Just a hapney! just a hapney! Thrawn away-dispised. "Just a meg !-we'll nivvor find it, It's ower dark the neet, Te seek for just a paltry hapney Fallin i' the street; Then let it gan, we'll nivvor miss'd, Aw waddent soil ma fingors for'd, For a hapney's neethor here nor there!" Aw heard agyen them varry words, Just a hapney I just a hapney! Thrawn away-dispised. "Just a hapney !-if awhad one, A biskit aw wad buy, For oh, aw's varry hung'ry noo," Aw heard a laddy cry. He got one,-an' his eyes they glissin'd, Says he-"This hapney's life te me, But aw'll tyek't hyem, becas me muther Wants breed just as much as me I" Just a hapney I just a hapney! Wi' sum hoo dearly prized! MOOR EDGE NELL! TEUN-"Haymaking." THOR'S a lass aw alwaysdream aboot, for ivor neet an' day, She's nivvor oat me thowts at a', an' aw hope she nivvor may, Tho' aw hevvent been owt like me-sel since that eventful day Aw met me bonny Nelly on the Moor Edge. Korus. TEUN-"Bide ye yit." Me Moor Edge Nell, me bonny young Nell, What aw think 0' that lass thor's nebody can tell; She's bonny, she's canny,-gud luck te me-sel, If aw's only the sweetheart 0' Moor Edge Nell. Her greet Shinon shone bright an' reed as a rival te the sun, Her bonny fyece se roond an' plump cud clean eclipse the meun, An' her eyes they twinkled like two stars that Sunday efterneun Aw met me bonny Nelly on the Moor Edge. Aw introduced me-sel te her, tho byeth ov us wes shy, She luckt at me an' aw luckt at her, an' foakslucktpassin by, But byeth ov us had tungs te speak, an' cud did when we'd try, An' we really got quite frindly on the Moor Edge. Aw call her Moor Edge Nell becas aw divvent knaw her nyem, Tho aw heerd sumbody call her Nell as we war gannin hyem; Awthowt it soondid bonny, so aw've gein her just the syem, An' we heh te meet next Sunday on the Moor Edge. The palpitation o'the heart since the aw've refund's me share, An' aw've got a poor man's plaistor on te try an' stiddied there; But like a muffled drum it beats, an' will de, aw declare, Till aw meet me bonny Nelly on the Moor Edge. WOR GEORDEY'S LOKIL HIST'RY! TEUN-"Barbary Bell." l' WOR Geordey's hist'ry ye'll find Joolyis Sieze-her Forst konker'd the Cockneys,-then com te the North, An' greet Asheycoaler, the pet 0' the Rum-uns, Bilt wor audist aud bridge when he leev'd i' the Forth; Then Rum-uns an' Queer-uns got mix'd up tegither, But Newcassel naytives detarmined an' fit, Swore they'd nivvor tawk owt but thor awn canny lingo, An' begox, so they did, ay, an' so they de yit! The Jarrow lads noo show'd the way te bild churches, An' ships sail'd like skiffs up the fine river Don, But the Danes wes a cawshun till clivor King AIfey Got inte gud fettle-te put Tommy on! Then hist'ry cums next te the Konkerin Billy, That hammer'd Young Malkim on Gyetsid Law Fell, An' Bobby 0' Normandy -eager te mense us, Stuck up i' Newcassel the Cassel itsel. Seun efter they bilt wcr pride, bonny aud Nich'las, An' walls roond the toon te pertect us frae war, An' munks, nuns, an' friars, an' pilgrims frae Ne-way, Te lairn wor grand dy'leckt, com ivor se far! Then Coals wes discover'd te myek Tyneside faymis, An' pitmen, the varry best judge 0' thor worth, Went doon on thor hunkers, byeth thenkful an' cheerful, Te howk up black diamonds,-the gems 0' the North. It wad bother Bell's Life te rickord a' the battles That John Bull an' Scotty had just aboot then, Hoo kings travell'd throo frae byeth sides 0' the Border, An' wad liked te myed canny Newcassel thor hyem; Hoo plagues com an' left us like things nivvor wanted, Hoo bad an' gud times teuk thor torns i' the toon, An' whe wes the forst 0' the Cassel Garth Cobblers, Wad actwilly puzzle the man i' the meun! l' them days they hung up aud wimmen for witches, An' ghosts wes as common as owt ye can see, An' ony cheps practisin pickin an' stealin Wes strung up aloft withoot hoo deye dee? An' things went on this way for eers i' successhun, An' foaks leev'd an' deed the syem way as afore, Till Time let us knaw that real sivilizayshun Wes a garmint i' fashin that varry few wore. Then young Darwintwettor's sad end myed greet sorrow, Wi' ne thowts 0' bailiffs an' koontisses then; Sooth Sheels lads triumphint perduced the forst life-boat, An' press-gangs myed plenty imployment for men; Byeth keelmen an' pitmen had strikes tee, an' riots, But Gallowgate Hoppin wiv a' its displays, An' a' the best scenes i' the greet war i' Sangit, Wes quiet compared te the aud 'Leckshun Days. Then Geordey the Fowerth, debts nash'nil increasin, Had pants on the Sandhill an' myed them run wine, Becas he'd fund oot he'd a croon tiv his awn heed, An' watchmen myed times luck mair like aud lang syne Then Stephenson, king 0' the world's divor fellows, Myed big iron horses te travel se fine, An' aud Harry Clasper,-the fethur 0' champeins, Let foaks see what hard uns we hey on the Tyne. Then Grainger the foonder 0' Newcassel's grandor, Myed a toon that we cannet but luck on wi' pride, An' Airmstrang's greet gun myed riparts .ov its glory, An' Morrison's hammer's deun wundors beside; What wi' noble-like bridges an' fine-luckin bildins, That mevvies we'll nivor be spared for te see, Newcassel 'ill nivor find owt like its marrow, Then whussil the "Keel Row" for ivor for me ! PARSIVEER! OR, AVD TOMMY'S ADVICE TIV HIS SON JACK. TEUN.-"Little Dick." "DRAW near yor chair, maw bonny lad, An' lissen te me words, An' hear yor fethur's best advice Expeerience affords, Ye see we've got a canny hyem, Thor's nowt but cumfort here, Ye'll wundor hoo !- aw'll tell ye, Jack, We always parsiveer! Suppose aw've just a pund a week, Three shillins clears the rent, An' hard tho' aw may struggle for'd, It's nivvor idly spent. Yor muther tyeks gud care 0' that, Her man an' bairns te cheer, A'gud wife myeks her husbind knaw The way te parsiveer! At forst we diddent 'gree forst-rate, Like newly-married [oaks, But she wad nivvor let us fight, She'd stop me mooth wi' jokes, Or else sum kind an' luvin word She knew aw liked te hear, An' myed us myek a happy hyem, Te keep't-we parsiveer ! Let shopmates scoff at ye, an' jeer Aboot bein tied at hyem, An' if they drink, it dissent say That ye shud de the syem, A glass 0' beer may de ye gud, But tyek ne mair for fear It leads ye tiv ecksess, so then Agyenst it parsiveer! Ye've heard what lots 0' clivor men Throo drink we cuddent save, Where one man myeks a fortin wid, A thoosind finds a grave. Keep up yor heart, be stiddy, lad, An' then thor is rie fear But happy days ye'll find i' store, Just only parsiveer! What was't that myed the Stephenson's An' Airmstrang's greet success? An' hoo did Grainger myek war toon Se fine? ye'll eas'ly guess; The Claspers, an' Bob Chambers, tee, An' Renforth's great career, Wad vivvor been, they kwew full weel, Withoot they'd parsiveer! Aw've deun a' that a fether cud Te myek ye a gud trade, An' if aw've not been one me-sel, The best 0' bad aw've myed ; Thor's alwayswark for stiddy cheps, An' tallints bright an' clear, Spring raydient frae the workin men That's meant te parsiveer !" GALLOWGATE BATHS TEUN-The Lankishore Lass." THOR'S a scene amang steam, an' the weshorwife'scream, That's heard ivry day i' the Gallowgate Wesh-hoose, An' ye'd fancy yor-sel i' the world 0' dreams, If ye once had a glimpse 0' the Gallowgate Baths, For the wivesa' there-they heh ne care, But te clean the claes that's dorty there, An' they a' seem equal te thor share 0' the wark at the Gallowgate Baths. Kortis. An' they'll chatan' they'll sing, An'they'l scrub an' they'l ring, Byeth gud-Iuckin lasses an' wives sethrifty, They'll poss an' they'll boil, An' they'll cheerily toil, Frae morning te neet at the Gallowgate Baths. Ye'll forst see the man that keeps a' the steam gawn, As blithe as a king, luckin eftor the boilers, An' he's willin te did, for he knaws that he can, He's a real canny chep at the Gallowgate Baths; The complaints ye hear, they cawse such fun, Such as, "Marcy me I Jack's draw'rs is deun, Byeth dishcloot an' tool they've been, but seun They mun bid thor gud-bye te the Baths!" Says Mary, "Bliss me! yor a weshorwife tee, Yor swettin, but beer myeks the swet cum oat, lass, When aw wes a lass aw wes varry like ye, l' them days we'd nowt like the Gallowgate Baths; But there's Mally Scott rung her claes afore me, An' it wassent her turn,-what a hussy is she, But the forst time that ivor aw get on the spree, Aw'l! myek her rue gawn te the Baths!" Says Nanny, "Aw's frighten'd me claes is run short," An' she thinks tiv her-sel that she'll mind the mang'il, Then anuther poor sowl wiv her feelins hurt, Myeks a doleful lament at the Gallowgate Baths," War Geordey's laps thor wore clean throo, An' it's not lang since the shart wes new," Tho he sweers it's wind that's blawn them throo, She blisses him weel at the Baths! Says Nelly, "Thor's sumbody gyen wi' me soap, That 'ill spoil us noo for a full day's weshin, But if thor in arnist aw only hope We'll see them ne mair at the Gallowgate Baths!" "Gud grayshus I" cries Peggy; "me man's clean adrift, Tho aw did what aw cud te give him a lift, For wi' maw shimmee he's myekin a shift, His shart's at the Gallowgate Baths!" BOB JOHNSON'S COAT! TEUN-H Cruiskeen Lawn," BOB JOHNSON bowt a coat, An' he teuk a pride te show'd, For he knew that he had work'd for'd like a man; But the times they turn'd se bad, He wes forced te pairt wid, lad, An' what else cud he de wid but gan an' pawn'd? Ay, an' pawn'd, It's an awful thing te heh yor claes i' pawn! For not hawf 0' what it cost, Tiv his seet it seun wes lost, Tho he hoped te seun hed oot agyen te weer; But wi' strikes an' slackness tee, Thor wes little wark te de, An' when ye heh nowt iv'rything seems dear, Varry dear! So he'd nowt else but his aud claesnoo te weer. Then times got warse then bad, An' poor Bob grew varry sad, When he saw his best coat ticketed for sale, I' the popshop window there, Just as if it diddent care Whe got it, an' Bob Johnson turn'd quite pale, Varry pale, Cas he cuddent buy his awn coat there for sale! He'd lost the ticket tee, An' what cud the poor sowl de ? An Ackeydavey wad heh been ne use, For myest ivrything had went, Just te help te pay the rent, An' a shillin wad bowt all iv Johnson's hoose, What a hoose, So the ticket te poor Bob wes little use. Bob tell'd us just last week, For an oor he cuddent speak, When he saw his best coat on a fellow'S back, A greet fop had gyen an' bowt Johnson's coat for next te nowt, It myed Bob wish te give his jaws a crack, Wiv a smack, Te see his best coat on anuther's back! It's a fact, The reet place for yor claes is yor awn back! DE YE SAY SE '? TEUN-"Wor a Band 0' Bruthers." OH, me heart's full 0' depresshun, That aw cannet help expressin, What ye'll tyek as a confesshun, 0' the luv aw beer for ye; For aw like ye better, Mally, Then Nan Robson's dowter Sally, Tho she's "'Sally in wor Alley," Still it's yor the lass for me ! Koddin Korus. TEUN-"Johnny Smoker." De ye say se? de ye say se? Gudness grayshus! de ye say se? Gudness grashus! de ye say se? Yis, it's true, Mall, what aw'm sayin, Tho yor little 'tenshun payin, Wi' me hopes an' fears yor playin, Tho it's owt but play te me; So then pity this sad feelin, That frae heed te heels is stealin, An' hev marcy on a keelman, That wad leeve or dee for ye ! Korus. Vis, aw say se, yor me dear un, Then let's hev an answor cheerin, For a moment stop yor jeerin On a luv-struck sowl like me, Then for ivvor aw's yor debtor, An' aw'll gan te wark far better, An' aw'll sing when on the wetter, Wiva heart byeth leet an' free! Korns. Vis, aw say se, yor me best un, An' te ye aw pop the questin, Ye may really think aw'm jestin, But aw's seerious as can be; Then say Yis! aw's iv a hurry, Aw mun seun gan te me whurry, If ye say ye winnet marry, Te the drink aw'll surely flee! Korus. THE DEETH 0' HARRY CLASPER. AJR-"Black-Eyed Susan." SAD, sad's me heart, an' aw greet full sair, Beside war hero's lowly bed, Te think aw'll see me aud frind ne mair, The frind that forst Tyne famous myed; The forst an' last 0' wor greet Tyneside men, Poor Harry Clasper, poor Harry Clasper, Gyen! for ivor gyen! Sharp wes the blow, like the leetnin's dart, Deeth claim'd the vet'ran as its awn, An' filled wi' pain iv'ry beatin heart For him we'd luv'd, for him we'd knawn; The forst boat-builder for wor Tyneside men, Poor Harry Clasper, poor Harry Clasper, Gyen! ay, deed an' gyen. He's left the hyem that he luv'd se weel, The "Coaly Tyne" his constant pride, The frinds that lang, lang his loss 'ill feel, An' luv'd ones that he's left beside; The forst brave Champein 0' war Tyneside men, Poor Harry Clasper, poor Harry Clasper, Gyen, ay, deed an' gyen. Sair, sair he greev'd when Bob Chambers dee'd, The world's greet Champein he had myed, Wi' nyems combined, byeth 0' Tyneside breed, An' honest upreet life they led, Two gems, examples for a' Tyneside men, Poor Harry Clasper, poor Harry Clasper, An' Bob Chambers gyen! Fareweel, aud frinds, ye've byeth run yor race, An' mem'ry whispers this te me, We'll find ne Champeins te fill yor place, Tyneside affeckshuns clings te ye; The forst greet heroes amang Tyneside men, Poor Harry Clasper, poor Harry Clasper, Au' Bob Chambers gyen! THE LIFE BRIGADE. TEUN- “Postman's Knock." CUM lissen, me lads, te the sang that aw'll sing, An' wi' plissure me voice noo aw'll raise, Tho the stoot-hearted fellows that myek up the crews 0' the life-boats disarve ivry praise; The life-boat's renoon'd i' byeth story an' sang, An' its glorious nyem 'ill not fade. Then aw'll sing a gud word for the brave volunteers That belang te the Sheels Life Brigade. Korus. Success te thor efforts, an' then thor repaid, The brave volunteers i' the Sheels Life Brigade! This greet institushun wes forst organized Be the brave hardy sons 0' the Tyne, Te save shipwreck'd seamen's thor aim an' thor pride, May gud luck wi' such objects combine; l' the height 0' the storm when all uther means fail, An' when help, if it can be convey'd, Depends on the men wi' the rocket an' line, Then gud luck te the bowld Life Brigade! May thor sarvices seldum be needid's me wish, May the day at a greet distance be When thor corridge an' skill 'ill be put te the test, For the poor helpless fellows at sea; But thor ready, me lads, shud the time ivor cum, When the seamen's i' need 0' thor aid, May thor efforts be crooned wi' the best 0' success, An' gud luck te the brave Life Brigade! THE NEYBOR ABUV TEUN- "When gud luck shows its fyece." "Aw's a wummin that minds ne affairs but me awn," Says lang Nancy Joblin te me, "But aw think thor's sum things that a body shud knaw, An' sum things that a body shud see; There's the neybor abuv been a fortneet upstairs, An' aw cannet for munny or Iuv Get te knaw whe she is,-neethur where she cums frae, She's a myst'ry that neybor abuv; Yis she is, She's a queer un that neybor abuv. "For lucks she wad pass iv a crood, ye wad say, An' her figor's not really bad myed; She's got sofa, chairs, cheeney cups, an' gud ware, An' a new fower-powl feather bed; An' a fine chist 0' draw'rs, an' a black satin dress, An' her hand's nivvor clear ov a gluv; Aw've thowt she's a widow,-but sometimes aw think not, She's a myst'ry that neybor abuv; Yis she is, She's a queer un that neybor abuv! "The forst Munday neet she went oot te the play, On Tuesday she went there agyen, On Wednesday mornin she nivvor got up, Had her brickfist i' bed aboot ten, Got her dinner at three,-nivvor had ony tea; Be the smell ov her breeth aw cud proove Thor wes sumthing had gyen doon her throttle mair strang, She's a cawshun that neybor abuv. Yis she is, She's a mazer that neybor abuv. "On Thursday a sowljor ran briskly upstairs, An' stopt nearly a' the whole day; A sailor at neet nearly stopt te dayleet, An' for days they've gyen on i' that way; But whichivor's her man aw can nivvor conseeve, For they all appear'd deeply i' luv; Ne better is she-then a wummin shud be, She's a cramper that neybor abuv; Yis she is, She's a queer un that neybor abuv! " But last week a noise myed us open me eyes, For the sowljor an' sailor had met On the stairs,-an' a fight like a public-hoose row Teuk place i' the eyes 0' thor pet; But she stopt it wi' thrawin dorty wetter doon stairs, Then she hoy'd them byeth oot wiv a shuv; Aw've seen them ne mair, neether knaw them nor care, She's a geezer that neybor abuv! Yis she is, She's a cawshun that neybor abuv!" JACK'S LISTED I' THE NINETY·ITE! TEUN- "Doran's Ass," or "Finnigan's Wake." "OH, what's the metter wi' ye, Meg Dawson? Oh what's the metter wi' ye the day? Ye luck as if ye war gan demented, Yor eyes thor stairin just that way!" "The metter wi' me,-if ye want te knaw then, Heh ye heard the news frae Mary White? She says wor Jack for a sowljor's listed, The heed-strang feul's i' the Ninety-Ite, "Wiv a lot 0' lads that's se lang been famed For nowt that's gud, nor they nivor will; Industrious cheps that wad nivvor work If they just cud raise a penny gill. He'll heh teun the shillin te sarve the queen, Wi' ne idea 0' gannin te fight; If he thowt thor wes ony chance 0' war, He wad bid gud-bye te the Ninety-Ite. "He nivvor liked wark, an' since he wes britch'd He hessent cared hoo he got his meat; Wiv his elbows oot he wad trail the streets, An' the Peelers mark'd him on thor beat. He wad argey owt for a pint 0' beer, An' i' dominoes he teuk delite l' playin a blank tiv a five or six, They'll not stand that i' the Ninety-Ite. "On Seturday neets what a swell he was, Wi' velvet cap an' black curdyroys; He wes famous for myekin ruffs keep still, Tho the forst his-sel te myek a noise; He knew if he married he cuddent keep A wife,so he teuk one oot 0' spite, Ay, an' he myed her muther an' her keep him, A nice young chep for the Ninety-Ite, "Aw's sartin we'll nivor can buy him off, For hoo can poor foaks like us did? What a pity a gud-like fyece an' heed Like his, shud carry ne brains wid; Blud's thicker then wetter-that's true eneuff He's still war awn, tho a cawshun quite, But bad as he is, they may de him gud, An' myek him a man i' the Ninety-Ite." Luv myed Jimmy Jollyfyece walk three miles te se his sweetheart the barmaid, an' he fund it get that strang that he cuddent find his way hyem agyen; but paid five shillins an' costs for the use ov a bed in the New Pollis Stayshun. WHERE HEH VE BEEN, LASS'? TEUN-"Jinny Nettle," "WHERE heh ye been, lass? cum an' tell us, Jinny, hinny, Where heh ye been, lass? stoppin oot se late; Where heh ye been, lass? cum an' tell yor sister, hinny, Where heh ye been, lass? lang yeve made us wait; Aw waddent wundor ye've' been kortin, feelins hortin, wi yor flortin, Yor play'n the deuse wi' Harry Burton, Divvent brick he's heart, lass 1" (Sing the forst fower lines for the Korns.) "What's that bit frame there, glis'nin like a gooldin ginney? Is't Harry's portrait ?-heh ye lost yor tung? What myeks ye frighten'd ?-let us see the pictor, hinny, Then beside yor awn we'll seun hed nicely hung; Let's hey a luck, maw canny sister, when aw miss her, hoo aw bliss her, So cum an' let us cuddle, kiss her,Let us see the portrait! " Korus. "What's that aw see, lass? it issent Harry Burton's likeness, That's Tommy Greener's, ye knaw that he's me lad. Did he gie ye that ?-tell us, willye, hoo ye got it? Whe heh ye been with? divvent myek us bad! Oh, hinny, Jinny, quick an' tell us, for aw's jeIlous,-if the fellow Fancies ye before yor Bella,Faith aw's fairly deun for! " Korus. "Oh, Bella, sister. dinnet think that aw wad harm ye, Tom gos the portrait, an' tell'd us te gie ye'd; Doon street we met, an' aw meant te keep't a bit te plague ye, Noo aw've tell'd ye all aw'm like a pris'ner freed; Since aw met him aw've been wi' Harry,-canny Harry says he'll marry Me,-an' noo he's bowt a whurry, What de ye think 0' that, lass? That's where aw'vebeen lass,if the truth aw heh to tell ye, Been wi' me awn lad, canny Harry Burton! " (Repeat last two lines for last Korus.) THE MEUN·LEET FLIT ! TEUN-"Ten Thousand Miles Away." THE neet wes dark, but the cairt wes there, An' we'd got a frind te drive, An' we teuk a bottle 0' whiskey wis, Te keep us all alive, Te keep us all alive, me lads, For the times had been se bad, We'd got ne rent for the lanlord then, So a meun-leet flit we had. Korus. Iv a' the scenes aw knaw, A meun-Ieet flit beats a', It myeks ye wundor where ye are, An' where yor gan te be; That neet aw'll nivor forget, When we had the meun-leet flit, For away on the sly, Withoot sayin gud-bye, Wes the best thing we cud de. The wife had gyen an' packt the things An' oor or two before, The bed wesat the windowlang Afore we reach'd the door; But when we reach'd the door, me lads, It seun com tumlin doon, An' the tyeble wiv a broken leg Wes next hoy'd oot the room. The three-legg'd steul fell on Bill's heed, "Haud on there, mate," he roar'd; "Shut up, ye feu]," says aw, "be still," When doon aw went quite floor'd, When doon aw went quite floor'd, me lad, Wi' the bed-pawls on me nose; "Cum show the leet;" says Jack, "A' reet," Wi' the poker on his toes. The crock'ry-ware wes handed next, Says Bill, "Aw's awful dry "The clock com tumlin on his fyece, An' nearly blackt his eye, An' nearly blackt his eye, me lads, Its awn fyece strikin his,Says Jack, "Let's gawn, the cairt's chock-full, We've mair then wor awn wis!" We pass'd a street or two quite safe, An' then the horse wad stop; The bed-powls, an' the draw'rs as weel, Com rowlin frae the top, Com rowlin frae the top, me lads, An' hoo we a' got hyem Aw divvent knaw, or dorsint think, But what a spree we'd then. MARRY THE LASS! TEUN-"Billy, me bonny Lad." MARRY the lass, Sep Riley, Myek her as gud as yor-sel, An' then she'll be warse then ivor she wes, It wes just throo ye she fell; She once wes a decent bit milk-lass, As decent as any can be, N00 a' the foaks luck doon upon her, An' ye knaw it's just throo ye. Marry the lass, Sep Riley, If just te give her a nyem, For ye knew she once had a gud un, An' disarves te keep the syem; She's workin as hard as a lass can, Te keep her-sel ivry day, The time 'ill seun cum when she cannet, Marry her noo-when ye may! Marry the lass, Sep Riley, Ye often tell'd her ye wad, Ye knaw that she thinks a vast 0' ye, Vor the only lad she's had; If ye dinnet, aw's sure she'll be heart-broke, She's gettin warse ivry day, Ye knaw she hes gossipin neybors, That divvent care what they say, Marry the lass, Sep Riley, If ye'd only seen her cry, When she thowt nebody beside her, I' the lane that's just hard by; Aw's sure it wad myed ye relent, lad, It wad turn a heart 0' styen, Te hear the poor thing when she'ssobbin, Sobbin an' sighin alyen! Marry the lass, Sep Riley, She'll myek ye a canny bit wife, Tho aw's sartin she's ower gud for ye, For ye've been her bane throo life; Her fethur 'ill set up the hoose, lad, Her muther 'ill help her, tee, So marry, an' give her a nyem, lad, If ye divvent=-poor thing, she'll dee! Marry the lass, Sep Riley, Bliss ye! ye say that ye will, An' ye'll nivvor heh cawse te repent it, Vor heart's i' the reet place still; Aw'll tell her it's settled for Sunday, Poor lass, it 'ill myek her glad, So let's hey a gill on the heed on't, An' two eftor that, me lad. MISTRESS THOMSINS LODGER TEUN- "Ow Mary." Aw warn'd ye've heard 0' Rodger? That's Mistress Thomsin's lodger, He's teun his hook, an' sloup'd them a', An', ay, but he's a dodger; He's got se much i' debt there, He's caws'd them a' te fret there, They nivvor thowt he'd be se bad, For he wes a greet pet there! Korus " Oh! Mistriss Thomsin, What will ye de?" says a' the neybors; "Oh, Mistriss Thomsin, Yor lodger, Rodger's ron away." He korted Thomsin's dowter, Tho mony a lad had sowt her, She thowt se much 0' Rodger, faith, That money waddent bowt her; He wun thor whole affeckshuns, Wi' boasts 0' high conneckshuns, An' wheedling wayshe got thor praise, But noo it's awful vexin. He's a quarter back i' rent, tee, Besides sum money lent, tee, The landlady advanced him owt, An' away wi' all he went, tee. What bad, what mean behavour, Te pay the aud wife's labour Wi' nowt but base ingratitude, Besides he jew'd the neybors! WHAT WILL THE NEYBORS SAY ? TEUN-"Whe's for the Bank" "Aw's gan te be married upon the sly," Says Martha Green te me; "But till the weddin-day cums off Whativvor will aw de? For aw can hardly haud me tung, Te let the neybors knaw, What an awful thing a secret is, Aw's sure it's warse then a'. Korus "For, oh dear! what will they say. What will the neybors say when they hear on't? Oh dear! what will they say, Ay, what will the neybors say? "Aw meant te hey a dazzlin show, An' saved up for a goon The stuff aw bowt wes a bonny blue, Tho me muther wanted broon, Aw meant te open a' thor eyes, But Davey, he said nay! He thinks it's best iv a quiet style, But what will the neybors say? "The hat aw bowt-tho seckind-hand Lucks just as weel as new, Wi' bright orn'ge blossoms roond the brim, A nice match for the blue; But noo thor just as gud as deun, Till sum fine Summer's day, For if aw put them on just noo, What wad the neybors say? End of part4 "Aw wish me weddin-day wes here, Aw sure aw wish't, aw de; But bliss us, if nebody knaws, Thor winnet be a spree, For Davey hessint teIl'd a sowl, But he mun hev his way, For if aw divvent get married at a', What will the neybors say?" WOR TVNESIDE TALLINT GYEN TEUN- "Bablylon is fallen." SINCE the days o'BiIly Purvis, Hoo mony's gyen before us, An' left Tyneside, untimely fates te mourn; When that cloon, i' joke an' story, Wes a' North Country's glory, His deeth, aw mind, wi' greef wes sadly borne. Korus Gyen frae the hyem we knaw they liked se weel, Gyen frae the frinds that held them ivor dear, War greet Wits an' Tyneside Singers, Hoo few amang us lingers, Te cheer us wi' the sangs they knew cud cheer. Bobby Nunn, that bard se hyemly, Cud please the lasses cumley, An' myek byeth young an' aud uns Iaff wi'glee; An' Jack Sessford, kind an' hearty, !' mony a jolly party, Wad chant a IokiI sang as full 0' spree. Then poor Geordy Ridley's singin, That set the "Tyne" a' ringin, Wes hush'd for ivor te the "Canny Toon"; An' that Wit se droll, Ned Corvan, Ova' wor praise disarvin, Left sporrits he'd kept up byeth sad an' doon, Billy Thompson's happy fyece, tee, Wes render'd one the less, tee, 0' them that's sung Tyne ditties as few can; An' te cawse mair disolayshun, Deeth, te wor constornayshun, Claim'd Robson, wor greet Poet-as its awn, Then fareweel, ye Bards 0' Tyneside, Yor stilI, and will be ·wor pride, An' as lang as thor's a dialect 0' thine, We'll a' sing yor songs se clivor, On the shore an' on the river, For the Bards that's myed se famous" Coaly Tyne." WE'LL NIVVOR INVlTE THEM TE TEA ONY MAlR! TEUN-"TheLain! 0' Cockpen." THE tyeble luckt canny, an' cosey, an' full, An' aw sat wi' the bairn on wor aud three-leg'd steul, An' its muther luckt really as happy as me, For that day we'd invited sum frinds te thor tea. Thor wes Dick an' Nan Temple, two frinds that we'd knawn As a canny young lass an' a canny young man, They had faithfully promised that Sunday at three, Wi' two or three mair frinds, te cum an' tyek tea. So wor Mally myed up, on the Seturday neet, Bowt spice loaf an' fancy kyecks, ivrything sweet, An' wi jillies an' marmilades really myed free, Fairly meant te luck decent when frinds com te tea. So on Sunday, when dinner wes ower that day, Like a gud handy hoosewife she clear'd things away, An' wor new tyeble-cloth, just as white as cud be, Had a real grand invitin appearance for tea. The cups wes a' set, an' the wigs nice an' het Wes butter'd, then cut upse neat be me pet, An' the bairn, wiv a lump iv its hand, full 0' glee, Seem'd te knaw thor wes sumbody cummin te tea. The clock had gyen two, an' then three, an' half-past, We porswayded wor-sels it wes ivor se fast, For we all had gud payshuns till fower let's see, If they diddent cum seun we wad heh wor awn tea! When five o'clock struck, man, aw hardly cud speak, An' me wife, wi' the blud rushin a' tiv her cheek, Smash'd two cups, oot 0' humour wivher awnsel an' me, We sat doon without ivor a word te wor tea. Iv a' disappointments-aw pity the fate 0' them doom'd for promises broken te wait, When they once did te me, whey aw firmly declare, That aw'll nivor invite them te tea ony mair! Aw wad like te shake hands wi' the man that can please iverybody. He mun be one d them phinomenons that ne generation 'ill iver leeve te see. HE WES RECKOND GUD·HEARTED! TEUN-“Erin, my Country." BOB REPTON wes reckond a gud-hearted fellow, As gud an' kind-hearted as ony can be, For spending his muney he waddent be thwarted, But treat onybody-when oot on the spree, At hyem, what a diff'rence, se mean an' se stingey, He'd hammer the wife,an' the poor bairneys, tee; An' wi' moans he wad fill a' the hoose, aud an' dingey, An' myek't just as miserable as it cud be. Bob Hepton wes reckond a gud-hearted fellow, Whereivor he show'd his fyece, jolly ye'd say; He wes pick 0' the sports, an' at dancin or singin, Wes pride 0' the kumpney, an' king 0' the gay; The syem time his unhappy wife at hyem starvin, Wes tryin wi' toilin te aim a bit breed, An' the bairns wi' thor cries myed the poor body narvis, Se narvis, she nearly wes oot ov her heed. Bob Hepton wes reckond a gud-hearted fellow, Wi' fine tung for wimmin, an' jokes for the men, An' ne thowts 0' the hyem he had-heartless, disarted He wad treat them agyen, an' agyen, an' agyen; The syem time at hyem his poor little son Charley, Wiv a feverish sickness wes wastin away, Wi' nqwt else, but only sum wetter an' barley, Te wet his dry lips a' the neet an' the day. Bob Hepton wes reckond a gud-hearted fellow, He knew hoo te humour the foaks that he met; "A real dashin chep l" they wad whisper amang them, An' myek him thor plissure, thor pride, an' thor pet; But at hyem, like ademon, diffishunt 0' feelin, He'd gloat on the mis'ry successfully myed, An' false te that hyem-like an imp ova' evil, A doubbil-fyeced, cruel, heartless life Hepton led. MY TWENTY-FORST BIRTHDAY! THERE'S a time in life when sadness, Like a shadow disappears, And our hearts rebound with gladness, As we welcome coming years; And the years that's gone before us, Like a fleeting, happy dream, Bring back sweet recollections Of a life that's pass'd serene. And on each successive birthday, How we gladly gather round, And give welcome to that circle Where true friendship we have found; And we bless each trusted comrade With an honest open heart, The days so bright we prophesied, Re-echo'd in each heart. In the earliest prime of manhood, There's a dear delightful page In life's history,-one-and-twenty Is the flower of an age, And an age when manly feelings At the festive board abounds, And the cheering, treasured faces Of the friends we love, surround The glad scenes on such occasions; And on this occasion, I Give the hand of "auld acquaintance," And in this, my best reply, To the wishes kindly given, And the health you drink to me, May you know life's great enjoyment, And each day as happy be, As your best of friends could wish you; And when many years are gone, May we find that charm in birthdays, As we do, -when twenty-one! LET'S HEV A ROW, BUT DINNET SULK! A RECITASHUN "LET's hey a row, but dinnet sulk, We'd better fight it oat," Says Charley Batey tiv his wife, One day when put aboot; "Aw'd seuner hey a row just noo, Then hear ye sigh a' day, Ye'l! myek us that aw'll leave the hoose, De ye knaw that it's the pay? " Let's hey a row, but dinnet sulk, We hardly spoke last week; De ye think that aw can leeve wi' ye, If ye refuse to speak? What gud can't de yor sulkin se? We'd better settled noo, Ye'll myek us de sumthing that's rang, An' then find time te rue! "Let's hev a row; but dinnet sulk, Ye say aw spent the brass Aw myed last week for owertime, That vexes ye, me lass; An' if aw·did-it's reet aw shud, Ye knaw aw wanted claes, Aw diddent thraw'd away on drink, Or any such like ways. "Let's hey a row, but dinnet sulk, That froon wes nivvor seen Upon yor broo, when lad an' lass, We byeth had turn'd iteteen; Ye'll not speak yit,-ye'll myek us flee Te drink, or sumthing bad, Are ye gan daft ?-ye winnet speak, Or is't me that's gawn mad? "Aw've bowt sum claes, maw canny wife, An' still yor iv a rage; Aw'd better tyek me owertime, Then meddle wi' me wage, An' still ye sit an' groan as tho Aw'd teun yor best heart's blud, But Time wi' ye's myed weary wark Yor temper's not se gud! "Let's hey a row, but dinner sulk, Aw'd like te hear a word Frae them reed lips, that once aw thowt Wad nivvor breed discord; Aw'd rethur hear ye call us owt, An' vex us till aw's sair, Then see yor aggravatin fyece, Sit sulkin i' that chair! "Yor smilin noo, that bonny broo Lucks brighter then it was, Cum te me airms, maw cumley pet, An' let's heh ne mair cause Te myek us use reproachful words, Let's lead a happy life, An' nivvor let yor husbind think He's got a sulky wife!" THAT FACTORY LASS! TEUN-"Erin go Bragh." "Oh, Jack, what's the metter? ye luck se doon-hearted, Whativor's yor trubbil? aw hope ye'll tell me, Ye luck se dejected, what is't lad? cum tell us, It pains us te see a yung chep sad as ye." "Whey, Joe, man, aw'm nearly heart-broken, believe us, Aw can find ne injoyment i' me pipe or me glass, Me luv for me Mary's byeth strange an' unsartin, Aw heh ne peace 0' mind throo that Factory Lass! "She works i' the fact'ry amang lots 0' lasses, But nyen 0' the beauties that's there can compare Wi' the lass that aw's efter,-she's smart an' she's bonny, Wi' blue eyes, a Wellinton nose, an' reed hair; Her mooth wad tempt ony te wish they dor kiss them, Her lucks a' tegither a Queen wad surpass, But, oh man, aw's frighten'd she cares nowt aboot us, Ay, an' me deep i' luv wi' that Factory Lass! "Aw left her one mornin te join the Militia, An' sairly she cried an' aw hoped 'twes for me, But noo man, aw doot it, -aw'm not often jealous, But really aw've seen what aw'd rether not see. She wesleet-myed an' canny the mornin aw left her, But noo she's se stoot, that the neybors a' pass Remarks--when aw hear them aw shudder an' fear that She's been false te me hes that Factory Lass! "Aw sumtimes imadjin aw shud marry sweet Mary, But if aw propose man, aw've ne courage wid, For aw've thowt te me-sel that thor might be sumbody, Had mair reet te her, ay, an' mair reet te did. So aw feel se unhappy, the whole toon aw wander, But whativor shud happen, whativor shud pass, Aw promise te tell ye the next time aw meet ye, Aw'm as daft as a feul throo that Factory Lass!" DIVVENT BOTHER US SE! TEUN-"Kiss i' the Ring." TE kort me lass aw oftin try, But mischief shines iv her bonny blue eye, She'll cock up her nose as aw pass by, An' she's always pickin her fun oot 0' me, Says she, "Can aw help't, when ye plague us se?" "Sartinly," says aw; says she, "Ye nivor say owt aboot luv te me!" Says she; says aw, "Aw de!" Says she, "Haud yor tung, divvent bother us sel" Says aw, "Whey what can a poor fellow de? N00 whe will ye hev, if ye winnet heh me?" Says she, "Haud yor tung, divvent bother us se!" Says aw, "Aw like ye as wee !as man can, Roond the world frae Newcassell for ye aw wad gan, If aw divvent speak fine its as fine as aw can, An' what else te please ye can ivor aw de?" Says she, "Ye knaw weel that aw gan wi' Jack Broon," "Sartinly," says aw; says she, "He's the canniest, bonniest lad i' the toon, " "Is he tho?" says aw, "not he!" Says she, "Haud yor tung, divvent bother us set Il Says aw, "De ye think that ye'll frighten me? Ye knaw that Jack Broon gans wi' Mary McCree," Says she, "Haud yor tung, divvent bother us se I" Says she, "Did aw not see ye the day, Stoppin an' tawkin te fat Jinny Grey?" Says aw, "For a frind mun aw gan oot the way, She wes axin the time, aw wes luckin te see!" Says she, "Wassent Jinny a sweetheart 0' yors?" "Sartinly," says aw; says she, "Ye'll gan wi' byeth new an' aud sweethearts of courseI" Says she; says aw, "Not me! " Says she, "Haud yor tung, divvent bother us sel" Says aw, "It's strange we se seldum agree, Yor always findin sum faIt wi' me!" Says she, "Haud yor tung, divvent bother us sel" Says aw, "For a minnit just lissen te sense, Aw'll set up a hoose, an' aw'll spare ne expense, But aw'll want a wife, the set up te mense, An' awthink that aw cuddent heh better than yel" Says she, "It's yor turn te pick fun oat 0' me," "Sartinly," says aw; says she, "But if yor in arnist, aw think we'll agree!" "That's reet," says aw; says she, "Ye'll promise ne mair te plague us sel" Says aw, "Yor as daft as a body can be, Aw'll plague ye far maid" says aw; says she, "Huts, lad, haud yor tung, divvent bother us se!" If ye dream ye've seen a ghost, ye may safely calkilate on the contrary. Thor niver wes ony ghosts, or iver will be, te foaks i' thor sober senses. So ye may gan te sleep agyen withoot ony fear, and snore withoot contradicshun. Thor's nebody sees owt 0' the kind but madmen an' heavy drinkers. If ye want te see one, tyek a fit 0' Dileerium Trimmins: it's the best recipe aw can gie ye; an' ye can send thirteen stamps if it toms oot successful. Gratitude's cheap. THE DEFEAT 0' THE COCKNIES! BE THE COALLY TYNE HEROES, AT THAMES GRAND REGATTA, AUGUST 4th AND 5th, 1868. TEUN- "Barbary Bell," or the "Wunderful Tallegraff." AW'LL sing ye a bit sang if ye'll join i' the korus, Ye'll give us a gud un,-aw's sartin ye will, For it's all i' the praise i' the Coally Tyne heroes, The Charnpeins we've had, an' the Champeins we've still; Tho aw's sad when awthink 0' brave honest Bob Chambers, Aw's glad the example he set's been weel tyen, For wor bonny boat-pullers, the best ova' scullers, Thor lickt for thor equal,-becas they heh nyen. N00 it's mony a lang eer since game aud Harry Clasper Astonish'd the Cocknies, an' myed them fight shy, The Tyneside boat-rowers, se prood 0' thor river, Kept up the successes for eers its gyen by; Then Chambers, the Champein ov a' the world's pullers, Goh the Cocknies a gliff that they'll nivor forget, Whey, Kelley for six eers dor hardly gan near him, TiII he knew Bob wes deun,-then he challinsed wor pet! But lads, thor's stiII gud uns withoot gan te Lundin, An' where will ye find them but just on the Tyne? Did ye ivor hear owt like the greet Thames Regatta? Where the canny Tynesiders se bonny did shine; Aw wad like te been there te seen a' the lang fyeces, The Cocknies wad pull when they fund they war deun, For they nivor imadjind the whole 0' the prizes, For Champeins, wad cum te wor river as seun. Thor wes game Jimmy Taylor, Mat Scott, Andrew Thompson, Wi' the second Bob Chambers te pull the stroke oar, Com in for the Hundrid withoot ony trubbiI, Twes easier then ivor its been wun afore; Then the race for the Pairs, tho twes reckund a grand un, Just show'd 0' what hard stuff a Tynesider's myed, For Taylor an' Scott fairly bothered a' Lundin," Gox! wor gan te get nowt this time!" Kelley then said. But the Champeinship race is wor pride an' wor glory, When brave Jimmy Renforth, se honest an' true, Led the way before gud men like Sadler an' Percy, An' the foaks that wes there really sweer that he flew! He's Champein ov Ingland,-then wish him success, lads, May he, like poor Bob Chambers, stick weel te the nyem ; Then gud luck te the Fowers, the Pairs, an' the Champein, Besides a' the canny boat-pullers at hyem! MARTHA GREY TEUN- "Luv amangthe Roses." IT might heh been i' Yepril, Or it might heh been i' May, When forst aw wes se lucky As te meet wi' Martha Grey, She stood behint the koonter, Byeth reed an' fat wes she; The hams an' bacon roond her Had ne such charms te me. Aw got a half-a-noonce 0' twist, An' aw wish'd that aw cud steal her, At forst seet there me heart aw miss'd, Throo that stoot Pervishun Dealer! Korus. They call her Grey,-her measure's just, She keeps a shop, but gies ne trust; Since then aw've oftin tried her, An' aw's ne poor appealer, But wi' Martha Grey aw hope sum day, Te be Co-Pervishun Dealer! Aw axed her for a leeter, Or aw said a match wad de, Then frev a box beside her, She handed two or three; Aw luckt doon at the matches, An' then aw luckt at her, I' hopes her eye wad catch us, But she stared at the dor. She teuk ne notis when aw spoke, What aw meant for a feeler, A match aw thowt wad end i' smoke, Wi' that stoot Pervishun Dealer. Since then aw've gyen there oftin, Te kort fat Martha Grey, An' hard aw've tried te soften Her heart an' myekt give way, Aw believe that aw've a chance yit, For sumtimes Martha's eye Wi' luv 'ill myek advances, So then aw'll gamely try, Te captivate byeth wife an' shop, At Mary's feet aw'll kneel, or The co-operative questin pop Te that stoat Pervishun Dealer! SNOOKS'S DINAH TEUN-"Martha, the Milkman's Dowler." BILL SNOOK'S married a darkey wife, Aw divvent knaw where he fund her, But ower the sea she's cum wi' him, An' filled us a' wi wunder, Such eyes an' cheeks, such nose an' mooth, Aw nivvor clapt me eyes on, But fancy's ivrything they say, For all it's se surprisin. Korus. Frae the heed te the fut, She's as black as any sur, Thor may be fair an' finer, But for a Blackeymoor, aw's sure Thor's nyen like Snooks's Dinah! She's a Nigger,-ne half-bred Quadroon, Thor's ne disputin her breed. Ne Mullatto or ne Octoroon Can show a heed like hor heed, It's a curley, wooley, toosey pow, Ne turmit aw've seen bigger, Frae the shoolders te the waist square-built, She's a heavy-wite black Nigger! Bill says when they got married he Wes heavy on the spree then, The job wes deun-he cuddent help't, So what wes he te de then? He got te bed-but oh, next morn, He thowt the imp 0' evil Had been his pairtner i the neet, His bed-mate wes the deevil! "Oh marcy, divvent tyek us yit! Aw's not prepared te leave here," Bill cried, an' wrung his hands i' grief. Says she, "Ye needn't grieve here, For awls yor lawful wedded wife, Yor choice ov luv an' passhun! "Me wife!" cries Bill, "yor Bellsebub! Lord help us, yor a cawshun !" But efter that, he got used wid, An' Dinah liked her gud-man, They really got te 'gree forst-rate, As married cupples shud, man, An' when Bill cums hyem frae the pit, She likes te see him black, as She thinks he's then mair like her-sel, Till he says, "Cum wesh me back, lass l" But lately Dinah's been confined, Wi' such a little geezer, A little fellow,-black an' tan, Drest up i' white te please her, Billlafft te see them byeth i' bed, Luckt at one an' then the tuther, An' wundorin whe on orth it's like, He kiss'd it for its muther! AN ACROSTIC TO ROBERT STEPHENSON, THE CELEBRATED MUSICIAN, LORD NELSON INN, TRAFALGAR STREET, NEWCASTLE. R ICH and sweet in harmony,-and jovial as a friend, O bliging to his customers, one that we'd have attend; B enevolent to those in need, true as the truest steel, E nriching the good name he has, one that can make us feel R espect, and he for ever gains the great respect of all, T hat love at the "Lord Nelson," in Trafalgar Street to call. S urrounded by the Talent, and there is a real high class, T hat gather round their good old friend to have a pipe and glass, E nchanting all with music in a choice and varied strain, P rofessionals as jolly, that achieve, and can obtain H igh test'mony from critics, of abilities their own, E qualled only by good humour they've already shown; N umerous are the patrons who oft show how they regard S tephenson, their favourite, whom they've so often heard O n the violin, attracted, when the sweetest of all sound, N ourishes the ear that's charmed when friends are friends all round. MYEK PEACE! TEUN-"Cappy's the Dog." MYEK peace I-can ye find any gud iv a row? Wiv a smack on the nose or a crack on the pow, Wi' yor skull nearly dayver'd, yor eyes a' but blind, What gud i' such mischief can anyone find? Korus, So aw hope ye'll make peace, An' yor plissures increase, Wiv a gud hearty sosheeble Happy-like peace. Nivvor eg a man on wiv anuther te fight, Or get him te hammer sum chep for yor spite, That's a thing aw knaw often greet cooerds 'ill de, Myek peace!-ay, an' try te myek a' men agree. Myek peace I-an' the pollis ye nivvor need fear, Ye can say te yor-sel that he's not wanted here! Man an' wife shuddent put one anuther aboot, An' canny young sweethearts shud nivvor fall oot. Aw cud nivvor see owt iv a row in the hoose, But led tiv hard words an' a' kinds ov abuse, Exposin' affairs te yor neybors se true, That the forst time ye hear them repeated ye rue. l' yor unruly moments just think ov me sang, It 'ill hinder ye surely for dein mair rang, An' yor sartin te find a' yor plissures increase, If ye just myek't yor study to heh nowt but peace. So aw hope ye'll myek peace, An' yor plissures increase, Wiv a gud hearty sosheeble Happy-like peace! WHERE IS GEORDEY GYEN? TEUN- "Homeward Bound." OH, where-oh, where is wor Geordey gyen? He'll not gan te wark, or he'll not stop at hyem; Aw've seen little on him since New Eer's day, If he'll not gan te wark, he'll get ne pay. Korus. Oh! where is Geordey gyen-oh, where? Oh! where is Geordey gyen? 'Twes the Nine Oors Movement did the trick, For it suits wor lad ony time te stick: If Geordey had his awn way, aw knaw, He wad gan on strike for ne wark at a'! When the Strike wes on, he wes better off then Then he wes before, or he'll be agyen, For he got his beer, an' injoyed his smoke: When the Strike wes settled, his heart wes broke! At last, rethur then work-wi' passhun het He knock'd doon the forst Belgein he met; An', man, hoo sorry aw was for the lad, When they sent him for six weeks te quad. It's true he wes often i' jail before, But his mates gov him welcum oot wiv a roar; It's true what aw say, an' de what aw like, He'll nivvor be reet till thor's anuther Strike! WOR PEGGY'S ALBUM! TEUN-"Postman's Knock." HERE'S wor Peggy's Album, but what it contains Aw's sartin wad pussle ye a', But what's i' the beuk withoot hevin a luck, Aw'll try te let all on ye knaw. The first it's a chep that aw knaw nowt aboot, That she bowt for a penny one day, Then here's Dolly Scott that 'ill tawk for a munth, If ye'll lissen tiv owt that she'll say! Korus. It's a stunner, me lads, an' ye'll say that aw's reet, For if Peggy's a cawshun, her Album's a treat. The third it's a chep wiv a beer-blossim'd fyece, But hoo he gets drunk pussles me, He's nivvor at wark-but i' dayleet or dark He's always the forst iv a spree; Then here's Harry Palmer, that leeves doon war yard, He plays on the kornet at neets, An' ye'll see him sumtimes, iv his rifleman's claes, Wi' the band, promenadin the streets. Then here's Nanny Hunter that keeps a bit shop, An' sells bullets an' claggum for bairns, She's a canny aud wife, an' aw hope she'll de weel; The next's an aud maid they call Cairns, She's off wi' the Mormons, because she lost heart 0' gettin a gud man at hyem; An' the next it's a lass that aw fancy me-sel, So aw think aw'll not men shun her nyem. Then here's Charley Ridley that stands i' the bar, For the lanlord that keeps the" Black Rat," An' lang Mally Todd wiv her mooth gyepin wide, An' her eyes like aw divvent knaw what; The last it's wor Geordey, as grave as a priest, Wiv a greet big bull-dog on his knee; He's the last i' the beuk, an' aw wish Peggy luck, May she seun hed as full as can be. PERFESSHUNAL LODGERS! TEUN-"The Yallow Girl that -wink'd at me." MAN, aw'm nearly gawn oot d me heed, For aw lodge wi' such queer lodgers, They kick up such a clatter, That aw wundor what's the matter, An' aw think them a real queer breed; Thor perfesshunal cheps, they say, A lot 0' Music Hall performers. They may be varry cliver, But aw'd like te knaw whativer Myeks them carryon iv such a way. Korus. An' oh, my! aw often try Te get a bit rest, but when thor nigh Aw'm sure aw nivvor will, For they kick up such a clatter, That aw wunder what's the matter, For they cannet or they winnet keep still! I' the mornin the fiddler starts Te give us a dose ov his scrapin; Then the sentimentil singer Just aboot the time for dinner Myeks us a' fit te brick wor hearts; Then the comic one's turn begins, An' he nearly the whole street raises, What wi' him an' wi' the niggor, They byeth cut a bonny figgor, An' the dog-dancer joins i' the din. Then the chep that plays on the flute Calls in te see the fiddler; They play some grand duet That aw nivvor can forget, For they byeth leave the teun clean oot; Then a lass tyeks her turn te squall, An' screams as if for murder; It maybe varry bonny, Or it may be varry funny, But aw think it's best at the Hall. Then the lanlady runs upstairs, An' kicks up a row wi' the sarvint; Thor always in het wetter, Pitter, patter, clitter, clatter, That aw cannet mind me awn affairs; But that's not the warst ova', For at neets thor's ne rest for us Frae twelve te three o'clock, Why, it's knock, an' knock, an' knock, Thor the queerest foaks aw knaw. NEAR THE MANORS STAYSHUN AIR-" Black·EJled Susan." NEAR the Manors Stayshun, one Monday morn, A young lass stud an' wiped her eyes, Wi' sobs an' sighs, an' a fyece forlorn, Her story tell'd, wi' moans an' cries," Oh, Charley, Charley, where is Charley noo? l' the Manors Stayshun, wiv a blaggeyord crew! "What for becawse did ye gan an' fight, An' brick poor Micky Murphy's nose? Hoo was't i' three cairds ye teuk delight, Te swindle a' that wad stand the dose? Oh, Charley, Charley, where is Charley noo? l' the Manors Stayshun, under Captain Blue! "What for becawse did ye steal the watch, An' steal poor Tommy Dobson's shart? Hoo was't the Peelers me luv shud catch, Te turn me heed an' ring me heart? Oh, Charley, Charley, where is Charley noo? It's six munse certain, when his case is throo! "Ye knaw the bairn that aw hey's yor awn, Ye knaw that aw've been true te ye, Tho ye nivvor meant te be me man, Whe'll keep yor bairn, ay, an' whe'll keep me? Oh, Charley, Charley, where is Charley noo ? Till the next Assizes, wiv a blaggeyord crew!" MAW BONNY INJINEER TEUN- "Nice Young Man." "OH, hinny, what myeks ye luck se glad? A blithesome fyece heh ye;" "Me sweetheart's oot ov his time the day, Aw's like te happy be; Aw've been up tiv his muther's hoose, He kiss'd us, bliss his heart, An' tell'd us that on Munday next As journeyman he'll start." Korus. TEUN-" Rasor-Grinder's Daughter." "For in me heart aw haud him dear, Aw only wish that he wes here, Maw brave, maw bonny Injineer, That's served his time at Hawthorn's. "His shopmates say he's just the sort Te fettle weel at owt, He's a clivor chep an' a handy chep, An' nivvor aflaid 0' nowt; The neet thor gawn te hey a spree, Thor hevin one the day, But what's the odds? thor jolly lads, An' last neet wes the pay! "But still aw wish the spree wes ower, For then he'll tawk te me, An' shortly, seun, aw hey ne doot, His journeywife aw'll be. His journeywife wi' him throo life, Aw wish that we war wed, For then aw's pairtner ov his hoose, An' pairtner ov his bed!" "Me darlin's oot ov his time the day, What news, aw say, for me, Aw think his muther might need sum help Te myek them a' thor tea, An' help her wi' the hoose turns like, An' gan oot for the beer, Aw think aw'll gan, it's me place te be Beside me Injineer!" WE'LL SEUN HEH WARK TE DE! OR, THE STRIKE 0' '71 TEUN-" Nowt te de." "ON strike!" aw hear them awful words Repeated i' the street, "On strike! ne warkt" aw hear agyen, Frae hundreds that aw meet; "Three lang munths gyen,-not sattled yit! Wor hard-up as can be, It cannet last, thor'll be a change, We'll seun heh wark te de!" Korus, Walkin roond the Market, An' walkin doon the Kee, The only cheerin words aw hear's "We'll seun heh wark te de!" Aw see the poor cheps oot on strike Gan slowly throo the street, Tho anxshus for the latest news, Frev iv'ry one they meet, They keep up one anuther's hearts, As honest men shud be, Wi' hopes the day's not distant when They'll all heh wark te de ! "Mair forrinersl" aw hear them say, Then one 'ill shake his heed "They may get plenty men as cheap, But is't them that they need? No, no! it's real mechanicks that A maister likes te see, Nine oors te him's a better thing, Gud men his wark te de! "At hyem thor's nowt but misery, Where happy days we've seen. When plenty wark an' plenty keep Myed a' things luck soreen, We'll heh them gud things back agyen, Seun settled we shall be, Then forrin culls may tyek thor hook Frae wark they cannet de!" We'll seun heh wark te de, me lads! God bliss us a' we will, Tyneside 'ill yit victorious shine, Wi' men 0' worth an' skill, An' happier days 'ill myek the past A dream 0' what we see, Men gud an' true 'ill nivor rue, We'll seun heh wark te de!" THE CHAPEIN 0' CASSEL GARTH STAIRS! TEUN- "Billy, me bonny Lad." Aw warn'd ye've heard 0' wor Johnny, An eccentric lad is he, He's sarvin his time as a cobbler But a snob he'll nivor be; Tho wi' beuts an' shoes he's suroonded, For the lot he little cares, For day-dreams myek him ambishus Te be Champein 0' Cassel Garth Stairs. Sum days he thinks he's a booler, Sweers he can lick Geordy Laws Or Saint, an' shut Harry Wardle At ony immoont 0' craws; He thinks he can beat Stephen Ridley, An' myek Pete Hewitt say pray'rs, Tho he nivor says ony his-sel, He's the Champein 0' Cassel Garth Stairs. He's such a fellow for chaffin, He can tawk Jack Spencer dumb, An' he says that Addy or Bagnall He cud lick them byeth like fun, An' one day, whey, he tell'd Mooney He lairnt Burnett an' Pletts thor affairs, An' he reckons the strike wes wun Be the Champein 0' Cassel Garth Stairs. Johnny says he can beat Bill Walker, Or Tom Pape ony time he'll swim, An' Lally at rowin or dancin Wad heh ne chance wi' him; He'll play Robie at quoits for a hundrid, And Jamieson russel for fairs, If he's as big as Roger Tichborne He'll thraw him doon Cassel Garth Stairs. THE DEETH 0' RENFORTH! CHAMPION SCULLER OF THE WORLD. "Y E cruel Atlantic Cable, What's myed ye bring such fearful news? When Tyneside's hardly yeble Such sudden grief te bide. Hoo me heart its beats-iv'rybody greets, As the whisper runs throo dowley streets, 'We've lost poor Jimmy Renforth, The Champein 0' Tyneside !" HOD sad, hoo unexpected, What diff'rent news we thowt te hear, Till dismay'd an' affected, Heart-broken mourners cried, " Jimmy Renforth's gyen, wor greet Champein's gyen, Iva country strange,-away frae hyem, We've lost poor Jimmy Renforth, The Champein 0' Tyneside !" "Oh, Jim, what myed ye leave us? What myed ye leave the canny toon? A journey myed to grieve us, Ye've gyen wi' the last tide, An' the oar that fell, the last oar that fell Frae yor helpless hand, just seem'd te tell That Deeth wes the greet victor l' races far an' wide! "Life lost withoot a warnin, An' stopt yor short but grand koreer, Then left us stricken, mournin, Deprived 0' wor greet pride; Hoo me heart it beats,-iv'rybody greets, As the whisper runs throo dowley streets, 'We've lost poor Jimmy Renforth, The Champein 0' Tyneside!'" THE AUDD KINNOO "A few days ago, Messrs. James Hall and Robert Cooper discovered at low water a large canoe deeply embedded in the sand of the river Tyne. After considerable trouble this relic of the past was raised and taken on shore, when it was discovered that the canoe was one solid piece of oak, which had evidently been burnt out in the centre, and then finished off with pieces of flint. It was placed by Mr. Hall in the Elswick Boathouse, where it now remains. Several antiquarians have inspected the unshapely boat recently brought to light, and although great difference of opinion exists as to the date in which it had been in use, the majority are inclined to believe that its age must be something over one thousand years.-"Newcastle Chronicle, April 9th,1870.” TEUN- "The Pawnshop Bleezin." THE morn wes fair, the tide wes law, The sun shone bright as iver, When Jimmy Hall, te try a boat, Pull'd slawlydoon the river; Doon tiv he's oars he camly lies, When sumthing fasinates he's eyes, An' myeks him fairlyhaud his hand, An objeck stickin throo the sand! Te find oot what it is he lands, An' plodges te the varry sands 'Wherehe's cawse 0' wundor's barried ! A lump 0' blaek an' dorty wood, Wes a' that met he's view, man, Thinks he, "It's like a seuller's starn, Aw'll gan an' tell a few, man; We'll seun hed up, an' then we'll see What at this moment bothers me!" Bob Cooper wes the forst he met, An' wi' sum uther eheps, they set Te hawl an' howk wi' might an' main. An' lang they tried, an' lang in vain, Till at last they quite succeeded. " It's like a boat!" says Bob," it is, An' still it's like a tree, man, We'll heh the sand oot forst, an' then We'll heh mair chance te se, man! They clear'd it oat, an' greet surprise Fill'd a' thor 'stonished, wund'rin eyes, For a' the boats they'd iver seen Wes nowt like this or iver been, For there the lang trunk ov an oak, Quite worn wi' age, an' little broke, Wes fashun'd like a boat, man! "Ne planks or nails wes iver used Te this," says Jim, "aw's sartin, It's hollow'd oot frae stem te starn, An' if it's not a smart un, It's curious!" " Aye," says Bob, "it is. Let's tyek't up te yor boat-boose wis, An' sum larn'd chep we'll mevvies meet, That's sure te put war noshuns reet!" War Geordey wes the forst they saw, An' seun he let them trooly knaw The greet wundors ov its hist'ry, Says he, "When boats like this wes used, They myed them oot 0' trees, man, They'd burn the body oot the trunk, An' pare the sides like cheese, man, An' keep them safe wi' plenty wet, The fire only myed them swet, But still it burnt away inside, Till hollow'd oot,-a boat supplied, When polish'd offwi' flint, man! "The boat ye see's an aud kinnoo, When Seize-her forst teuk Brittin, Aw heh ne doot him or his chums The syem wad often sit in; In fact, aw've heerd a Roman lord Once teuk se mony foaks on board, Beside Reedheuff they com a-grund, The foaks wes saved-the boatwes droon'd! Aw heh ne doubt but that's just it, An' if ye'll ony wait a bit, Ye can sell'd tiv Anty Queer-uns !" _________________________________________________end 20 SULKY MARY MARY sulks an' Mary grummils, Mary turns her heed away, Mary cannet beer us funnin, So aw think aw'll stop away, It's Hannah's Sunday oot, an' Hannah Likes a joke as weel as me, Aw'd seuner gan a mile wi' Hannah, Then hey a walk wi' Mary three! Fareweel Mary, prood an' distint, Aw'll not plague ye,-if aw gan, If yor time shud cum te marry, Aw hope aw maynit be yor man; For if aw had a wife bad-temper'd, She'd spoil mine, an' myek mine bad, So gud-bye, hinny,-for aw's gannin, Ye'll mebbies get anuther lad! MALLY DIDDENT CUM TEUN- " Farewell, my Jumbaree. " Aw had te meet young Mally once, Aw'll not forget that neet; She promised tiv us faithfully Te be i' Grainger Street. "She wad meet us near the Monniment," Te me she whisp'rin' said; But, oh ! that disappointment Such misery convey'd. Korus. But, oh dear! Mally diddent cum! She kept us waitin' there se lang, Heart-broken-c-aw wes glum; For it's an awful disappointment When yor sweetheart dissent cum! Aw went roond be the Market, But Mally wassent there; Throo Newgate Street an' Blackett Street, Aw wander'd full 0' care; Then went back te the Monniment, But still aw cuddent see The sweetheart that had promised To meet us faithfully. Northumberland Street, an' Percy Street, Aw stagger'd wildly throo, The breezes frae the Moor Edge Cud nivvor cool me broo, Forfever-heat-iv ivry street Ne Mally aw cud see: Aw went back to the Monniment Increasin' misery. l' Grey Street, an' i' Grainger Street, For three lang oors or mair, Me eyes obscured wi' grief an' gloom, Greet sorrow for me share, At last, aw myed me way back hyem, But there aw cuddent sleep, For oh ! aw nivvor thowt that Mall Her promise waddent keep. HOO FOAKS IS DISEEVD TEUN- "The Mistletoe Bough." I' THIS world 0' disepshun-how oftin ye'll find Thor's foaks that 'ill myek ye believe that yor blind, An' bother yor senses wi' fine words an' dress, That yor sure at the finish wi' me te confess Ye loss yor persepshun, an' imadjin that they Are the best-hearted sowls ye cud meet iv a day, Until they de sumthing ye nivvor conceived, Then ye find to yor sorrow yor really diseev'd. An' this is hoo foaks is diseev'd, Ay, this is hoo foaksis diseev'd ! Nan Wood had a bairn, an' the wummin next door Declared that thor wassent its like iv a score; She said it Wasborn te turn oat something greet, But it dee'd shortly efter it saw the day-leet. Bob Harrison followed a fine-luckin lass, An' thowt wi' the best i' the toon she might pass; They korted,-then pairted, tho foaks sworethey'd wed, An' he wassint the only young chep she misled. An' this is hoo foaks is diseev'd Ay, this is hoo foaks is diseev'd. Jack Nicholson seem'd i' the world te de weel, Drest up really tip-top frae heed te the heel;- The neybors luckt at him wi' envious eyes Until sell'd offfor debt-then judge thor surprise; An' hoo often ye'll find cases just like the syem, Where thor's plenty abroad an' a famine at hyem, To keep up appearance, ye wad hardly believed, Sum divvent care hoo-an' that's hoo yor diseev'd. An' this is hoo foaks is diseev'd, Ay, this ishoo foaks is diseev'd. Kit Jones had a mate that he thowt weshis frind, But the frind that he trusted proov'd false i' the end, He rob'd him, then left him te pull throo his-sel, An' a hundrid .mair cases like this aw cud tell. Hoo often ye'll find a face cuver'd wi' smiles Hide a heart, that's se bad, yit still oftin beguiles; Appearance is nowt i' this wide world believ'd, Or ye'd nivvor find [oaks that's se often diseev'd. An' this is hoo foaks is diseev'd Ay, this is hoo foaks is diseev'd! THE SMOKIN' CONTEST TEUN - "Aw wish yor Fethur wes here." YE may tawk aboot yor greet contests, An' sum ye'll tyek as a joke, But the contest that aw like the best, Is the one that ends i' smoke; Thor's Sinclair, the greet baccy man, Gein prizes away for se lang, That aw thowt if aw tried te cullor a pipe, Aw cuddent se weel get rang. Korus. So aw smoked an' aw puff'd away, Two oonsis myest ivry day, An' aw thowt aw wes wise, Te gan in for the prize, An' carried slap bang reet away! Aw went an' aw bowt the Renforth pipe, An' Young Joe Cowen's as weel, The Rodger Titchborne blaw'd us oot, An' the gripes aw used te feel; Then Joe Wilson's pipe wes the next, But that myed us often se bad, The foaks a' declared aw wes tryin te black The eyes 0' the Gallowgate Lad! Thor's many a time when aw haud the bairn, Aw wish'd its muther wad cum, But she often myed a rowan the stairs, For she'd tawk 0' the awful sum It cost for the baccy each week. Says aw, "Whey, ye needint care, If wi' the grosseries ye gan an' buy'd, Ye mun give us that for me share!" Says aw, "If ye divvent smoke yor-sel, Ye can buy a pennorth 0' snuff!" Says she, "If ye mean te pick yor cod Wi' me, aw'll gie ye the huff, Noo hoo mony pipes heh ye broke Wi' tryin te just cullor one? Wi' yor shag an' twist, if aw gie ye me fist, Ye'll see what a prize aw've wun!" As aw nivvor like te fight wi' the wife, Aw smoked an' aw puff'd away, An' when the greet contest com off, Aw got the forst prize that day Then gud luck te Sinclair, aw say, An' me wife aw say tee as weel, For when aw wun, i' the street she danced Biv her-sel a grand threesum reel ! BAGNALL AN' TAYLOR AIR "Sally Lee." YE Tyneside lads that's fond 0' sport, Cum lissen unte me, Aw'll sing 0' men byeth gud an' true, Such as ye'll seldum see: Aquatic sport's the forst 0' sport, It's champeins ye'll agree Cawse sensayshuns that ne uther I' the world canivor de. Korns. An' its gan on, Bob, lad i-a puller grand is he, An' Taylor as a trainer, his like ye'll seldum see, Besides thor byeth gud oarsmen, An' when such two combine, Where will ye find a pair te beat Wor champeins on the Tyne. Jimmy Taylor's won mair matches Then many a champein's deun, l' skiffs, or pairs, or fower-oars, He's nearly always wun; He's browt mair champein oarsmen oat Then ony iver did, His gen'ralship licks a' the world, An' whe hes a chance wid? Byeth England an' America Knaw Jimmy Taylor weel; As Renforth an' Tom Winship's mate He'd always bravely peel; Ay, an' noo he's .got Bob Bagnall, A canny quiet lad, Like aud "Honest Bob,"-detarmin'd, He's not easy te be had. Bob Bagnall's willin for the world Te try thor strength wi' him, An' he'll always be supported biv His frind an' trainer, Jim; An' when the champeinship cums off, Aw hope we'll not repine, But find young Bob, THE HERO, Hailin frae the Coaly Tyne. THE CHANGES 0' LIFE TEUN- "It's time te get up." JIM CARR wes only a poor man's son, But a happy lad wes he, He pass'd the days iv his patched-up claes, Wiv a heart byeth leet an' free; Ne trouble te cawse a moment's pain, An' as blithe as he cud be, He'd laffan' sing-"Aw wish a' the world· Wes only as happy as me!" The time flew by, an' he went te wark, An' the forst change there he knew, Wi' hearty will he displayed his skill, An' a tidy workman grew; He wes seun forst-class,-wi' honest pride, An' a fyece lit up wi' glee, He'd sing at wark-"Aw wish a' the world Wes only as happy as me!" Frev a man te maister noo he turn'd, An' a brisk gud trade had he, The orders poor'd in at iv'ry side, Ay, far mair then he cud de; An' frinds com roond him wi' open hands, At least "thor a' frinds," thowt he, An' gladly sung-" Aw wish a' the world Wes only as lucky as met" But swindlers com roond as weel as frinds, An' a bankrupt seun he turn'd, Cast off be them that profess'd the most, Ay, neglected, robb'd, an' spurn'd; He lay i' jail, wiv a doon-cast heart, An' he wish'd that he wes free, An' sung-" Iv a two-fyeced world like this, Is thor not one true {rind te me!" At last relieved frev his weary cage, As journeyman he begun, Gud fortun once mair clung tiv his side, An' maister he wes seun; The mair he myed-the mair trade he got, Till independent was he, An' then he sung-" Aw wish a' the world Knew just only as much as me!" "When aw diddent need a single frind, Aw had plenty then," said he, "But when aw did i' me hard-up times, Not a one com up te me, Aw'Illuck te me-sel, tho a selfish man Aw divvent intend te be, An' still sing on-Aw wish a! the world May nivor de warse than met" THE COBBLERS' SPREE! (FOONDID ON FAX.) TEUN- "Sal and Methusalam." N00 iv a' the sprees that ivor ye saw, Or ivor ye heard aboot, Thor's one aw's sure that licks them a', An' tyeks thor shine clean oot; Three cobblers that aw's ackwented with, One Monday left thor wark, An' iv a weel-knawn public-hoose, They kick'd up such a lark. Korus An' such a spree, whey, ye'll seldum see, Where ivor ye may be, For iv a' queer sprees, nebody sees Owt like a cobblers' spree. Thor funds wes thrippince-hap'ney, just, The whole 0' what they'd got, A pint was ordered-then browt in, An' thrippince paid the shot; A hap'ney noo wes a' they had left, What cud they for a smoke de? But ye wad lafft te seen a happorth 0' baeey sarve the three! The pint wes drunk-they wanted mair, So one wad sell his hat, An' sixpence for the kadey teuk, An' then they spent the sprat; As a mark 0' luv tiv his UNCLE, A chep's coat wes kindly sent, Then two bob, like the sprat before, Like leetnin com an' went. But not content,-they wanted mair, So one, a queer aud man, Wad tyek his troosers off, an' let Them heh them oot te pawn; For want ov anuther pair, the sarvint's Peddickit he put on, "Whe's a Heelander noo?" says he, "Bedad, an' it's me that's one! Time wore on, an' the cobblers' wives Thinkin thor men oot late, They a' set off te the WAX-ENDINN, Wi' minds myed up te wait, The chep that had the peddickit on, Te pieces wes nearly torn, An' when the wives agreed te stop, They kept up the spree till morn. THE SANDGATE LASS AN' THE GYETSIDE LAD! TEUN-" The Upper Ten." THE Sandgate lass is as canny a lass As ivor a body can see, Ye'll hey heard us sing 0' her before, For they call her Sally Lee; An' the Gyetside lad he's a reglor brick, He's a forgeman at Hawks's noo, An' lang he's followed the Sandgate lass, As a couple thor's nyen mair true. Korus. An' the Sandgate lass an' the Gyetside lad's As happy a pair as thor can be had, An' the foaks i' byeth cities 'ill be se glad When they see them get married next Monday. Says Sally te Bill, wiv a sigh, tuther day, "We hevint as yit got a hoose," Says he, "We'v,e byeth a hoose 0' wor awn, An' whativor wad be the use 0' thinkin 0' that when it's noo the time That us two shud be myed one? Ye can cum te wors an' aw'll cum te yors, So consider the job it's deun!" "But, Bill, if we shud hey ony bairns," Says she, "then what cud we de?" Says he, "Ye can stop wi' yor muther, An' aw'll cum an' stop wi' ye!" Says she, "But, Bill, that wad nivvor de, Aw's sure it wad lower ye doon, For when clear 0' strife, each man an' wife Shud byeth leeve i' one toon." Says he, "Then is Sandgate not the syem As Gyetside when yor Bill's there ?" Says she, "It's just the syem te wor-sels, So ye think we needint care; But oh, the neybors 'ill say such things, Aw wadn't like ye for te knaw, An' if ye'll not myek us a real wife, Aw'll not get married at a'!" Says Bill,-an' then he wiped his eyes,' "Aw wes just for fun tryin' ye, Whey, aw've got byeth hoose an' furnitor, As grand as ony can be, When Gyetside an' yor city unites, It'll put Ii the world at peace, An' we'll myek't wor aim for hyem an' fame, A fine cross-breed tiv increase!" JACK'S LUCK. AIR-"The Fyerey Clock Fyece." OR, hinny, heh ye seen wor Jack, Oh, hinny, heh ye seen him? Ye knaw that he's a reglor black, So divvent attempt te screen him; A few weeks since, the silly feul, Drew all his brass an' got se full, He lost it a', the slaverin cull, An' what de ye think 0' Jack's luck? A pollis copt him on his beat, That knew his clivor swagger, Wi' mony a push frae left te reet, Jack seun began te stagger; An' twenty shillins he had te pay, An' when they did let him away, He got far warse that vary day, An' what de ye think 0' Jack's luck? The next day he went te the Moor, Te back a chep at boolin, An' what aw say's quite true, aws sure, His bad luck still kept rulin ; He went an' he laid agyen the crack, But the crack wes ower much for Jack, An' the bool knockt him fiat on his back, An' what de ye think 0' Jack's luck? He went te Gyetside Borough Grund, Te back a flyin' runner, For sum grand clivor tip he'd fund, An' swore it wes a stunner; But the vary chep he backt te win Wes last ova' when they com in, Jack lost his watch besides his tin, An' what de ye think 0' Jack's luck? He went an' sell'd his furnitor, Te try an' bring back losses, Awoften wundor hoo he dor Defy se many crosses; He backt a horse te win a·race, But like his luck-this wes the case, It tummil'd doon, an' lost last place, An' what de ye think 0' Jack's luck? The last grand bet he myed, an' he Can give us ne denial, He laid a quid a week wad de Te finish the Titchborne trial; Noo Jack at nowt 'ill ivor stick, For the way he says he'll de the trick, Whativor he gets he'll hey on tick, An' what de ye think 0' Jack's luck? BOB THE BEUK TRAVELLER BOB SMITH lost his job, an' he cuddent fall in Wiv anuther se ready or handy, So he thowt he wad just try the beuk trav'lin dodge, An' myek money, an' seun be a dandy; So he got a big stock frev an agent he knew, The finest ov ivry edishun, Then he drest his-sel up iv his best Sunday claes, An' set off on his wark, on commishun. He reckond for sartin that myest ov his frinds Wad give him a greet thumpin order, For he'd got a collecshun thor fancies te suit, Byeth the Life 0' Christ, Hist'ry, an' Murder; But sum had ne money,-an' sum had mair sense Then te tyek in a beuk wi' ne endin, Not even wi' them foaks that nivvor pay owt, Cud Bob myek a bissiniss extendin. So he went tiv a village not far frae the toon, Thinks he, "Aw'll be successful yit, man," An' the forst time he open'd his parcel o' beuks Wes i' the hoose ov a canny aud pitman; He show'd them the pictors te dazzle thor eyes, An' then tawk'd aboot hist'ry an' hivvin, But when he had finish'd, the pitman gov thenks For the sarmin Bob gratis had given. Then he tried a new tack i' the varry next hoose, Siclowpeedees noo got Bob's greet praises, But a gud templor says, "Sic low pee dee's tawk here, Me man, aw can tell ye 'ill raise us!" "Next week," says anuther, "ye can bring us Bell's Life, Or the Sportsman ye may bring us one day, For them's the two papers aw only tyek in, An' aw care for nowt else on a Sunday!" The next hoose he call'd at, nebody cud reed, An' the bairns nearly spoil'd a' his pietors, Bob put them away wiv a sad, heavy heart, An' cursed all his gud-fortun predictors; Says he, "A job like this wants plenty 0' cheek, An' for that, whey, just noo aw's not wishin, But before aw start next aw'Il heh wages put doon, An' a salary besides a commishun!" MOONEY'S WEDDIN! AIR.-"Kiss me Quick." THE bellman wes sent roond the toon, Te let foaks hear his voice Annoonce that Mooney, King 0' Sweeps, That day wad wed his choice; An' ivrybody clapt thor hands, An' myed the whole toon ring Wi' joy,-but still aw thowt aw heard The Sweep's intended sing: Korus. De ye think aw'lI blush for bag an' brush, If ye de, whey, yor a spooney; Luv's voos aw'll keep true te me sweep, Gud luck te me an' Mooney! The morn wes wet, still croods flockt roond The hoose that held the pair, An' cabs an' cairts afore the door, Myed a' the peepil stare, Wi' sweeps drest up like lords se grand, An' "happy as a king," The bridegroom's man struck up the teun The fair bride liked te sing De ye think, etc. At last te church the jolly crood, As hearty led the way, An' such a scene wes nivvor seen Be priest like that that day; The foaks wad tawk far mair nor him, When he put on the ring, An' little held the marry thrang l' church that day te sing De ye think, etc. At last at hyem amang wor-sels, Jim Kane wad playa teun, An' then Jim Renforth sung a sang, An' then the fun begun; For Mooney an' his canny wife's Gud happiness te bring, We drunk thor hilths a hundrid times, Besides we'd often sing De ye think, etc. We left them just as happy as We'd met them i' the morn, An' hoped we'd find them just the syem, Whenivor we'd return. But time's gyen by, an' noo a bairn Te the happy pair'll cling, Wi' dad an' mammy biv its side, It often hears them sing De ye think, etc. YE WADDENT ACT BADLY TE ME '? AIR-" The Sezoi« Masheen." Two little bairns sat on a law door-step, A little bit lad an' a lass, An' the little lass cried wiv a heart-broken cry, That aw cuddent for a' the world pass, When aw heard her say wiv a sob an' a sigh, An' a fyece full 0' sorrow te see, "Oh, Johnny, me fethur an' muther's falI'n oat, An' it's seldum aw see them agree." Korus. "Ye waddent act badly te me? No, ye waddent act badly te me, What gud wad it de te ye or te me? Ye waddent act badly te me?" "They've fittin a' day,-de ye hear the noise 0' thor tungs an' thor hands at war? Aw's flaid te gan in when thor at it se bad, An' away aw'd be ivor se far; But away frae them cud aw find ony joy? No! no! aw wad mis'ribbil be, For still thor me fethur an' muther the syem, An' aw wish they cud only agree." "What a queer thing foaks shud fite i' that way, When they've leev'd tegither for eers, Ye wad think they wad fill a' the hoose wi' smiles, I'steed 0' se mony sad tears; Can ye think that foaks grown up shud fall oot? When little bairns like us agree, An' oh, Johnny, lad, cud we ivor fall oot? Ye wad nivvor act badly te me?" "Oh, Meggie, me lass," says the little bit lad, "De ye think we cud ivor heh words? Tho me fethur an' muther 'ill quarrel like yors, Aw'm sorry te see thor discords; But oh, Meggie lass, if we leeve te grow up, An' man an' wife ivor shud be, Aw's sartin ye'll nivvor vex me wi' yor tung, An' aw waddent act badly te ye!" Aw've thowt 0' that neet when aw heard this crack, Since then mony a eer's gyen by, Thor byeth grown up an' wed, but the life they leed It's the syem weary story an' cry; For examples they've seen i' the days lang past, Myeks them that they can nivvor agree, Wi' the words that they utter'd completely forgot, "Oh, ye waddent act badly te me! " THE SAILOR AN' THE BOBBY TEUN-"Peg's Trip te Tynemouth." CUM lissen, a' me merry men, Te what ye'll just hear noo an' then, It licks nine cases oot o' ten, This one aboot the Bobby, O. He knew a widow smart an' neat, That had a beer-hoose 'lang the street; So ivry neet when on his beat, A frindly call myed Bobby, O. He thowt sum day he'd lanlord be, An' actwilly he myed se free, Efter closin time he'd hey a spree, An' thowt he did it nab by, 0; For spungin he thowt he wes reet, An' liked it better then his beat, He thowt if he proposed one neet, She'd not refuse her Bobby, O. But lang had she a sweetheart had, A jolly Jack tar wes her lad, He thowt it waddent be se bad Te spoil the Bobby's hobby, 0; So one neet iv his sailor's claes, He goh the Bobby ivry praise An' mair drink than he'd had for days, It stupefied poor Bobby, O. When Bob got drunk Jack got him doon, Then changed thor claes se varry seun, He bravely marched reet roond the toon Wiv his prisoner, Bobby, 0! He laid him at the Stayshun door, Where Bobby seun begun te snore, It myed anuther Bobby roar "Here's a drunken sailor, nobby, 0! He teuk him up,-then teuk him in, Where Bobby pleaded for his sin, The time the sailor went te win The widow, Bobby's hobby, 0; The sailor's case wes fairly wun, The widow quite injoyed the fun, But Bobby noo wes quite undeun, He wes ne mair a Bobby, O! THE CANNY PORTER POKEMAN TEUN- "I comeFrom sweet Killarney." SAYS Peg, "Maw Jim's a canny lad, As canny as can be, An' thor's not a porter pokeman Says owt else on the Kee ; He works as hard as ony man, An' spends his brass as free: Aw cuddent like anuther lad, He thinks se much 0' me. Korus. He's a nobby porter pokeman on the Keeside, An' frae Blaydon reet doon te the sea-side, Thor's not one that's better spoken Then me canny porter pokeman, An' he's just the sort 0' lad te follow me. He carries loads wad brik the back Ov ony uther man, An' mony a time he briks a heed He nail'd me uncle Dan For sayin that he wassent gud Eneuff te marry me, Becawse aw've kept an oringe stall Se lang upon the Kee. They say he's ower fond 0' Nell That sells the fish doon by ; A' they sweer that at sum barmaid He alwayswinks his eye; But if the barmaid fancies him, He'd nivvor want his beer, For aw knaw if he's ivor short, Aw always find him here. Thor's not a couple that ye see Can dance like him an' me, We knockt about a duzzin ower One neet at Thomson's tea; He likes his gill, an' so div aw, An' when wor on the spree, Aw'd like te see a duzzin try Te knock doon him an' me. Aw'd like te see him marry me, If not it's just the syem, Aw waddent fall oot wiv him If he diddent change me nyern; As lang as he'sel dissent change, He's gud eneuff for me, Nebody hes owt te de wid, Maw pride's upon the Kee." LOCKT OOT AN' LOCKT IN! TEUN- "Says aw, says he." BILL HADDOCK he got se awful drunk, His wife she lockt him in, Says she tiv hor-sel, "He'll get ne mair yell, An' for once he mun put in the pin." Bill Haddock he fell fast asleep, Before she had left the door, An' i' dreams he thowt the best thing he cud de, Wes te hey a jolly gud snore. Korus. It's a clivor thing for a wummin te de, Te lock her gud man in, An' gan away i' glee an' hey a jolly spree, An' spend the whole 0' the tin. When she fund him asleep she went away, An' she got as drunk as him, Says she, " Aw've a reet for a fuddle the neet, So fill us a glass te thebrim!" An' she thowt hor-sel se varry safe, A pickpocket close at hand, Got haudov her key as a bit ova spree, An' myed her the whole drops stand. But she fund it wesgettin ower late, So she thowt it wes best te gan Tiv her awn gud hyem for the sake of her nyem, An' lie wiv her awn gud man. But when she got up te the door, She fund the key wes gyen, So she gov a greet knock, nivvor mind what o'clock, It wes time te be in bed then. Oot the windowhe popt his greet heed, Says he, "What de ye want there?" Says she, "Aw'm here, an' aw've been on the beer, So cum doon or aw'll pull yor hair!" Says he, "If ye hevint the key, Ye can just stop there where ye are, For aw've got nyen, so ye had better gan hyem Te yor muther's, an' that's not far." Says she, "Ye greet unfeelin brute, De ye mean te keep us here cawd? If ye'll not let us in aw'll kick up a din, An' the foaks 'ill declare yor mad!" Says he, "Will ye not let us oot? For aw hevint the key inside; Ye can gan te the divvil, if yor not varry civil, An' when ye get there, there bide!" As stupid as she was, there an' then She went an' borrow'd a key, An' open'd the door, an' knockt him on the floor, An' said, "De ye think that 'ill de? " But he gov her back such a smack On the nose wiv an aud baccy chow, An' the story it shows be the smack on her nose, Drunken couples thor in for a row! -Source: Joe Wilson, (author) Songs and Drolleries, 1890 CHARITY! A POOR aud wife, iv a lonely room, Sits biv hor-sel i' the darknin gloom; I' the grate thor's just the faintest spark Te frighten away the dreary dark. There she sits till she totters te bed, An' mony a day this life she's led; Withoot a frind te cum near te speak, She's starvin on fifteen-pence a week. The parish allows her half-a-croon ! Half-a-croon i' this fiorishin toon ! Fifteen-pence she pays for the rent, Hoo is the fifteen left te be spent? Wi' prayer she welcums the mornin's leet; Welcums the leet, tho' it bringsne meat; Welcums the leet 0' the mornin gray, Te sit biv hor-sel the lang weary day: Tho' wishin her awn poor life away, She clings tid still while she hes te stay; For, oh, she knaws that she dissent disarve Te finish her days like this-te starve! An' ninety eers, if she leeves te see, In a few short munths her age 'ill be; Withoot a frind i; the world te say" Canny aud wife, hoo are ye the day? " Can ye compare this case te yor-sel? An' bring te mind what aw cannet tell, Yor daily wants that ye daily seek, Supplied on the fifteen-pence a week. Is this not eneuff te myek ye fear Yor-sel an' bairns when yor end draws near? Hopeless, helpless, she's not te complain, But pine away in hunger an' pain. Wad she iver dream that she'd leeve te see An' poverty feel hard as it can be? Thor's nowt te nourish, or nowt that cheers, Her poor aud sowl i' declinin eers. Wimmen 0' charity! Men 0' sense! Hoo can she spend her fifteen-pence? Can she afford te buy a bit coal Te warm her hands, an' her heart console? Hoo can she get what she stands i' need Wi' hardly eneuff te buy her breed? Oot 0' the poor-rates heavy they seek, She's starvin on fifteen-pence a week. The parish allows her half-a-croon! Half-a-croon i' this florishin toon! Fifteen-pence she pays for the rent, Hoo is the fifteen left te be spent? [Mrs. E., the subject of the above verses, during the latter end of 1873, was unfortunately run over near Earl Grey's Monument, having her leg broke through the accident, which renders the poor old woman doubly helpless.] CUM TE MAW SHOP A RECITATION FOR GROCERS AND PROVISION DEALERS AT morn, when frae yor bed ye rise, Ye shrug yor shoolders, rub yor eyes; What d'ye want te calm, refresh? Wi' soap a gud an' hearty wesh; Then ready for yor mornin's feast, A cup 0' coffee warms the breest : For soap an' coffee aw excel Aw'm startin business for me-sel, At noon, when frae yor daily toil Yor freed te dine-the pot i'boil Wi' broth, at hyem, yor heart 'ill cheer, Gud dinners myek the hoose mair dear, But broth, withoot thor's plenty peas An' barley i' them, seldum please; For barley, peas,-green, whole, an' splet, Cum te maw shop, the best ye'll get. . Then Time flees on wi' 'lectric wings Till tea-time, hoosehold cumfort brings; Each happygroop sits doon te tea, A plissent, hyemly seet te see; But plissent chat seun turns abuse Withoot thor's sugar in the hoose; For sugar-lump an' soft, wi' tea, Thor's nyen keeps half as gud as me. Then supper-time cums roond at last, Aw wish 'twes here-aw cannet fast; Wi' tea or coffee, nowt can beat A slice 0' bacon, gud an' sweet; A piece 0' cheese might de as weel, Content wi' either ye wad feel; Just try maw shop, it's sure te please, Maw bacon's what ye call the cheese. What is't ye aw se often need? What is't that myeks the best 0' breed? The Staff 0' Life, ye'Il guess, aw'ssure, Wad nivvor been withoot gud floor; But breed, like ivry other thing, Needs butter, so its praise aw'll sing: For floor an' butter-salt an' sweet, Aw sell the best iv any street. Then Sunday cums-wi' frinds te tea, When spice-kyeks fiorish, weel-te-de; When corns an' raisins, floor an' lard, Share i'the hoosewife's kind regard; The finest raisins, lard, an' corns, An' a', the weel-fill'dhoose adorns; Aw nivvor brag-but gud an' cheap, The parry best on orth aw keep. WOR GEORDEY'S KALLINDOR. (FOR LAST EER.) IN JENEWARRY,aw wes bad: The snaw an' sleet had gien us cawd. In FEBREWARRY, i' the fog, Tom Purvis com an' stole me dog. In MAIRCR, aw went an' booled Jack Kidd, An' tried te loss-but cuddent did. In YEPRIL, aw wes bad wi' pains, Browt on throo drink an' heavy rains. In MAY, te bet aw did begin, An' backt a horse that diddent win. In JUNE, aw had ne better fate, Aw backt the last un i' the" Plate." IN JVLY, at the West End Park, Aw danced a polka-what a lark! IN AWGUST, aw'd te stor me shins, Wor Peg was put te bed wi' twins. SEPTEMBER com :-aw got the sack, Throo fuddlin wi' me Unkil Jack. OCTOBER:- I' one mornin dark, Aw'm sad te say, aw started wark. NOVEMBER myed me hands quite hard, Aw broke styens i' the prison yard. DISSEMBOR browt us oot 0' there; Aw'll 'nivvor strike a Bobby mair. MEGGIE LEE! TEUN-"Trust to Luck." MEGGIE LEE, Meggie Lee, Yor as mean as can be, Tho yor kind te yor-sel, Yor ne gud wife te me. Aw nivvor imagined Ye'd turn oot a springe, Such a miserly body, A rnis'rable whinge. Aw've had coffee for brickfist, Me dinner, an' tea; An' the hard-hearted crust's Gien the teuth-ake te me. Meggie Lee, Meggie Lee, Will me wages not sarve Ye te leeve weel yor-sel, Withoot myekin me starve? Meggie Lee, Meggie Lee, Yor as mean as can be, Tho yor kind te yor-sel, Yor ne gud wife te me. Meggie Lee, Meggie Lee, Heh ye myed it a rule For me aud pocket-hanksher Te sarve for a tool? Then me shart's nivvor wesh'd, An' me stockins all holes, An' the sheets on the bed's Just as black as sma' coals, Ye once blackt me beuts But ye nivvor mair need, For ye polished them byeth An' the grate wi' black-leed, Meggie Lee, Meggie Lee, Then me baccy's ne joke, If a happorth aw chow, It sarves twice for a smoke. Meggie Lee, Meggie Lee, Yor as mean as can be, Tho yor kind te yor-sel, Yor ne gud wife te me. Meggie Lee, Meggie Lee, De ye mind 0' the day, When, wearied wi' wark, Aw se soond asleep lay? An' the time aw wes sleepin, Ye greesed a' me mooth, Till quite famished aw waken'd Wi' hunger an' drooth: Awaxt for me dinner, An' ye said, "Ye greet loon! Whey, yor gob proves ye had it Afore ye lay doon!" Meggie Lee, Meggie Lee, Gies ne mair 0' yor brags, For ye knaw that the bairn's Half-starved an i' rags. Meggie Lee, Meggie Lee, Yor as mean as can be, Tho' yor kind te yor-sel, Yor ne gud wife te me. THE WILLINGTON WEATHER PROPHET TEUN-" Pull away Cheerily." THOR'S sum men that's born te be weel celebrated, An' aud Tommy Williamson fairly licks a'; Thor's nyen se renoon'd as the Weather Predictor, He beats all eccentrics that ivor aw saw. Aw've seen him drest up wiv a hat an' a band on't A reed, white, an' blue, that wad dazzle yor eyes; At pic-nics, or owt that 'ill cawse a sensashun, Aw've thawt he wes king 0' the foaks that's se wise. Korus. Thor's sum men that's born te be wee! celebrated, But aud Tommy Williamson fairly licks a'; Thor's nyen se renoon'd as the Weather Predictor, He beats all eccentrics that ivor aw saw. His mem'ry wad baffle the best 0' gud scholars, He nivvor forgets brickfist, dinner, an' tea, An' wi' the lang brush he's a stunner at danein, Besides a fine singer, an' fond ov a spree; Ye'll see half-a-column sumtimes i' the papers, Where he tells ye what days 'ill be wet an' what dry, An' for gein ye the gud ov such grand informashun, The Willington Prophet ye'll nivvor find shy. He wrote his awn hist'ry te please his ackwentinse, An' tells ye that Norton wes where he wes born, He's been a man-sarvint tiv a' kinds 0' farmers, His adventors sum lybory beuk wad adorn ; He menshuns what kortships he's had iv his lifetime, An' tells ye what fine-luckin lasses he's had; But wiv all his greet fancy for Jenny an' Nancy, He says that his Sarah wes pick 0' the squad. But Sarah's departed, an' left Tommy wifeless, He langs for anuther te fill up her place; But Tommy, i' kortin's, knawn nowt but misfortin, Yor sympathy give tiv his pitiful case; He's knawn what it is te be completely jilted, Wiv a' his greet knowledge he knew less then sum; For he'd nivvor heh thowt ov agyen gettin married, If he cud hey prophesied what wes te cum. Aw've often heard mentioned, but mind it's a secret, That the foaks j' the coonty intend for te raise A moniment grand te the mem'ry 0' Tommy, When he's deed, just as fine an' as high as Earl Grey's; But lang may he leeve, lang may we see Tommy, May he nivvor knaw what a storm is at hyem; If he marries agyen, may they myek plenty prophets, An' leeve a young Tommy te keep gud his nyem HER FETHUR KEEPS A KEUK SHOP! TEUN-" The Happy Land of Erin." AW'M myest settled noo for life, For aw'm gawn te tyek a wife, An' her fethur's gawn te giv his bisniss tiv her; He's independent noo, He's as rich as any Jew, Throo the keuk shop that he manages se clivvor. Korus Her fethur keeps a keuk shop; An' monya lad aw knaw Te win me Mary's hand they've often sowt her; But aw'Il use the knife an' fork Te byeth mutton, beef, an' pork, Like the aud man, when aw wed his canny dowter. Iv'ry day at twelve o'clock, Ye shud only see them flock Roond the coonter, for the canny man te sarve them; Frae the joints that's smokin het, If a smell ye only get, It 'ill please yor eyes an' nose te see him carve them. Ye shud see them feast thor eyes On the soop, the meat, an' pies, For such hungry-Iuckin customers surraand him; But he's ower wide awake Te myek any greet mistake, His aud-fashin'd fyece 'ill show they'll not confoond him. He's seun gawn te retire Frae the keuk shop an' its fire, Aw'll succeed him,-an' ne better cud be sowt for; A fortin noo he's myed, So his dowter gets the trade, An' it's a sartinty it's me that gets the dowter. The mysteries ov the pies An' the sassages aw'll prize, Aw heh ne call te tell the neybors what we trade on; "Where ignorance is bliss" Informashun brings distress, So it's best for folks te knaw nowt what thor made on. THE LEAZES PARK! TEUN-" The Fiery Clock-Fyece." "CUM, hinny, divvent stop an' talk, But try for once te please us, An' wi' yor lad just hey a walk Te the Park that's on the Leazes; Cum, howay, show yoi bonny goon, An' there ye'll see the greetest boon That's ivor been gein te the toonIt's the Park that's on the Leazes. Korus "Then howay, hinny, cum away, It's a treat that's safe te please us; Wor sure te spend a happy day I' the Park that's on the Leazes. "Such happy couples there ye'll see, Drest i' the hight ov fashun, Wi' sparklin eyes, like ye an'me, Lit up wi' true luv's pashun; In hundrids they'll aroond ye pass, 'Mang trees an' fiooers, and real green grass, Where lass seeks lad, an' lad seeks lass, l' the Park that's on the Leazes; "Besides, ye'll see the bonny lake Iv all its grand completeness, Where sportive ducks yor eye 'ill tyek, An' sparrows chirp wi' sweetness; Where ivrything's se weeIlaid oot: The Island, an' all roond aboot; Where Sunday claes cum frae the' spoot' Te the Park that's on the Leazes, "Thor's seats an' shelter for us tee, Eneuff te rest the mony, Where aud foaks there may sit an' see Young generashuns bonny; Where married foaks can meet thor frinds; Where oot-door plissure here extends; Where pride an' dress thor half-day spends I' the Park that's on the Leazes. "Noo, them that call'd it 'Hamond's Pond' I'll wundor at the pictor, Shut up they mun for bein fond, Or else aw's ne predictor: For seun the park'ill spreed se wide That ivryone can boast wi' pride Ne toon can beat war awn Tyneside An' the Park that's on the Leazes." NANNY'S PORTRAIT; OR, PAST AND PRISSINT A RECITASHUN ONE neet beside the fire aw wes sittin, camly smokin, Dreamin nearly ivrything, an' nowt porticklor, tee; Me eyes fell on the pictors that wes hingin close abuv us, An' awcuddent help reflectin on the changes that we see. A likeness 0' me muther's cussin seemed te dare inspection, Wiv its glarin, gawdy eullors that cud only bring te mind Me attempts at myekin pictors when at scheul, nowt but a laddy, Aw wes always spoilin paper wi'just paintins 0' that kind. They called this thing a portrait that wes hingin there se brazend! Awetter-cullor'd work ovairtl-aw lafft the mairawsaw'd. Thinks aw, whey,yor a fashun that 'illnivvor mair be wanted, An' aw'll nivvor hey anuther beauty like ye if aw knaw'd. Next me eyes fell on a pietor (aw caned pictor for a bynyem!) Awwundor'd whe had ivor teun the trubbil for te framed. It was meant for Bill, me unkil, at least, so Aunt Bessy tell'd us; "Then he mun heh been a blacky, aunt!" aw laffinly exclaimed. For whereivor aw cud see the likeness iv a black piece 0' paper Clagg'd ona bit 0' pyest-board, an' stuck up agyen the wall, Aw cud nivvor yet imadgin, tho, mind, not for want 0' tryin; Thinks aw, if Bill's a beauty, te see'd here the chance is small. An' they called this thing a portraitl-'twes hingin there se black-like, . Luckin like a paltry plaything, an' not even worth the nyem: For its reet nyem's "Imposition," myed te catch greenhorns that fancy They can trace a faint risemblance where ne likeness hes a hyem. Next me eyes fell on a portrait byethweel worth the name an' notis, An' it seemed te knaw the place it held, te shem them biv its side; It myed us bliss Photography, that wonderful invention, For the pictor wes eneuff'te filla fellow's breest wi'pride. Then the likeness wes se bonny, an' se strikin, an' se lifelike, Whey, in fact, 'twes just the model 0' me canny sweetheart Nan! Aw cud fancy her beside us, an' cud nearly think her speakin, An' me heart beat high te think sum dayaw'd be her awn gudman! Aw mind the day that it wes teun, aw thowt a' wimmin simple, Except i' hoosehold duties, where thor always quite at hyem: She teuk an oor te get her hair put up in proper order, An' blushed when she went i'the place as if she thowt a shem. The artist tell'd her just te luck at one place for a minnit, But she niver teuk her eyes awayfrae that spot a'the time; She kept them there while he wes dein sumthing i' the cupboard, Where photographic artists work thor mysteries sublime. When it was seen, Nan's eyes wes starin like two cheeny sawsors; He tried anuther, when she had two heedsinsteed 0' one; She squinted i'the next un ; an'the chep wesfairlybothered. Says he, "If ye'll keep still, in half-a-minnit aw'll be deun." At last she did keep stiddy.an'her bonny eyes they glissen'd When she saw the pictor finished that's se varry dear te me; But seun aw'll hev its marrow in the hoose, alive, beside us, An' aw'll bliss the happy pictor that thor's sartin for te be. THE CHAMPEIN OF ALL CHAMPEINS AS SUNG BY THE AUTHOR IN THE MUSIC HALLS TEUN-" Babylon is Falling." l' THE bloom 0' life he left us, Wi' thowts 0' nowt.but vict'ry, He cross'd the greet Atlantic wiv his crew; Nivvor dreamin 0' misfortin, Till Deeth's dreed visitation Struck helpless the grand fellow that we knew. Korus Gyen frae the hyern we knaw he liked ee weel! Gyen frae the frinds that held him ivor dear! We've lost poor Jimmy Renforth, The Champein ov all Champeins, The hero of all rivers, far an' near. Wiva crew byeth brave an' manly, The frinds that he had fancied, He started on a journey myed te pain, An' bring sorrow, sad an' weary, Te hearts that least expected They'd hear a bard gie vent i' mournful strain. Gyen frae the hyem, etc. Oh! Jim, what myed ye leave us? What myed ye leave the Tyneside Te meet yor deeth se sadly, far away? An' hearts wes fairly broken, Te hear thor gallant Champein, l' Harry Kelley's airms, se lifeless lay. Gyen frae the hyem, etc. Ye cruel Atlantic Cable, What fearful news ye browt us, What different tidings we expected here; Till dismay'd an' affected, We heard a fearful whisper Run throo the toon like leetnin, far an' near. Gyen frae the hyem, etc. ALECK HOGARTH. CHAMPEIN OF THE WEAR. TEUN-" Aull sing ye a Tyneside Sang." IN Sunderland let's sing, What shud myek the whole hoose ring, It's a sang that's sartin a' the lads te cheer, For it gladdens ivry toon, When thor natives gain renoon, An' aw'll sing ov one that's deun se on the Wear. Kurus An' oh, me lads, it myeks me heart se glad, Te sing ye a sang te please ye here, Then, give a hearty cheer For the Champein of the Wear, Ay, a hearty cheer for Aleck on the Wear. Thor's not one that's pull'd an oa, Iv his day, or yit before, That wes better liked then Aleck Hogarth here, For he's one amang the few, That's been always game an' true, An' strite forward, hes the Champein of the Wear. Then he's foremost i' the brave, When thor's ivor lives te save, An' thor's mony a hoose this day'd been sad an' drear, If it haddent been for him, When for life an' deeth he'd swim, An' the bravery he display'd upon the Wear: He's a canny quiet man, An' it's always been his plan, As an honest one, te pull throo his career, An' thor's nyen ye can select That's disarvin mair respect Than brave Aleck Hogarth, Champein of the Wear. GOSSIPIN NANNY BROON. TEUN- “Mally Dunn." "WHAT'S kept ye oot se lang, me lass? What's kept ye i' the street? Aw saw ye tawkin te Nan Broon, Aw thowt ye'd stop a' neet, Aw warn'd she's tell'd ye a' the news, For gossip gies her life; Sit doon, an' let's hear what she said, She's such a tawky wife! " Korus For Nanny Broon knaws a' the toon, The neybors' joy an' strife, She knaws far better then tbor-sels: She's such a queer aud wife. "Whey, man, she says that Geordey Hall's Gyen sairly te the bad; An' Mistress Thompsin's dowter Meg's Gawn daft aboot her lad; An' Harry Hedley's gyen te sea; An' Tommy's oot on strike; An' Betty, te get married's teun A man she dissent like. "She says Mall Johnson's left her place, She thinks she's got the bag; An' Kelly's Sunday's dinner wes A paltry bit 0' scrag; An' Fanny Nelson's furnitor's Been sell'd te pay the rent; An' Mistress Bradley's eldest son Last week te jail wes sent. "She says thor wes anuther row In Pilgrim Street last week; An' Geordey Bell's a nice young chep If it wassent for his cheek; Bell Wilkey's gawn te be confined: Her sweetheart's ron away, An' sweers the young un issent his, An' he's not gawn te pay. "She says Meg Dunn's got married, an' lt issent ower seun; l' few weeks' time she's bund te hey A dowter or a son. Her muther wes the syem way held Before young Peg wes born; It's only reet her dowter shud In trubble tyek her turn. II She says it's time the world shud end, When it's se full 0' sin; An' Peggy Wood wad sell her sowl For half-a-pint 0' gin. Hoo Janey Todd can get such dress Few ladies cud afford, Nan says she winnet even guess, Or iver say a word." THE MUSICAL LANLORD'S FAREWEEL TEUN-"The Whole Hog or None." FAREWEEL, maw kind Newcassel frinds, aw's gannin far away, Aw's gan te leeve the canny toon, an' prood am aw te say Aw've myed me fortun i' the hoose where ye've spent meny a neet, Aw's gan te turn professor an' a teacher tee complete. Korus Bruther fiddlers a', like me, rnyek lots 0' money, Aw's gannin doon te Sheels, Te teach an' play cudreels, An' aw'll let them see the tallint thor cums frae the canny toon. Fareweel, maw country patrons, for ne mair ye'll hear us play "0, Nanny, wilt thou gan wi' me?" wi' canny" Auld Robin Gray;" Ne mair ye'll hear the "BIue Bells" soond, that often pleased ye weel, Or imadgin that i' "Com Rigs" hoo delighted ye wad feel. Fareweel, maw cat-gutscrapin frinds, awhevint time te stay, As the minnits are departin fast, play seconds while ye may; Ye'l! miss yor leader, lang wi' me yor tallents ye've display'd, An' bonny teuns an' pleasin' soonds tiv eager ears convey'd. Solos se high aw've often play'd an' charm'd ye wiv each note, But if ye want te hear us still, cum doon i' train or boat, An' there ye'll see the young foaks dance, as teacher aw'll appear, An' fiddlin thraw me legs aboot like harlekinse queer. Fareweel, me frinds, hoo sad awfeel te say the last gud-bye, Hoo often when aw Ieeve ye ye'll imadgin that yor dry, An' aw'll not be near te cheer ye wi' beer, an' jigs, an' reels; But lads, aw'll often think 0' ye when aw gan doon te Sheels. SEEKIN FOR A HOOSE TEUN- “The Pawnshop Bleezin." I' THESE days hoo can poor foaks leeve? Increasin popilayshun Myeks hundrids wundar where they'll get A humble habitayshun; They nivvor build for poor foaks noo, Withoot the rent's a reglor screw; Iv a' the wearyj obs aw knaw, The greatest plague amang them a' Is seekin for a hoose, man. War Peg an' me, one mornin' seun, Te better war condishun, Set off,wi' spirits high wi' hope, Upon this expedishun. Iv a' the windows, Peg, maw pet, Teuk ivry paper for a "Let": Byeth "Ginger Pop" an' "Home-made Breed" Wes all as one-she cuddent read, When seekin for a hoose, man. Says one, "Ye'd better call agyen! Ye'd better see the maister !" So throo the street, till he arrived, Content we had te slaister ; He stared at us when he earn in, Says he, "Are ye byeth clear 0' sin, If so, aw'll gie ye the forst chance Wi' pay'n a fortneet in advance! " Says aw, "Huts, keep yor hoose, man!" “Excuse us, wor not clean'd up yit!" Says one fat wummin tiv us, "Aw've got a splendid room te let Up stairs, so cum up wiv us!". She teuk us up the stairs se high, 'Twes a real "garret near the sky," "The rent's five shillins here a week," She said, an' snuff'd an' blew her beak; Says aw, "It's not wor hoose, then!" Anuther axt if we had bairns, Says aw, "We've had iIliven, But sad te say, thor's fower deed, An' noo thor's only siven!" Says she, "We'll not heh children here!" Says aw, "Yor sum aud maid, aw fear, Aw wundor whe on orth got ye? Where did ye spend yor infancy? Ye'll gie the bairns ne hoose, then!" Sum places ye mun gan in seun, An' not stop oot at neet, man, In uthers ye dor hardly speak, Ye cannet de owt reet, man; For little rooms rents high 'ill be, Withoot a back-yard fit te see; We've trail'd aboot for mony a day, But cannet get for luv or pay, A decent sort ov hoose, man. MISSIN THE TRAIN TEUN-"Miller of tke Dee." "MIND waken us up at five o'clock, For aw munnet miss the train, Aw'm not used wi' gettin up se seun!" Says Jack tiv his gudwife Jane. "It starts at six, so let's off te bed, For we hevint se lang te sleep; So waken us, Jane, te catch the train, Tho aw snore byeth lood an' deep, An' aw'm ivor se soond asleep! " They got inte bed an' seun fell asleep, Where Jack quite injoyed his dreams, Till a scratchfrae her big toe-nailmyed him jump" It's half-past five! " she screams. He struck a match te luck at the clock; "It issent se late!-aw knew It wassent owt like half-past five, For it's only half-past two, An' yor puttin us all iv a stew! " Jack grummil'd as he got inte bed, But seun fell asleep agyen; At half-past three anuther greet kick Showed Jane waddent let him alyen. He cursed an' swore when he saw the time, An' he held the leet te show, But the only answer that he got, Wes "John, ye've upset the po, And you know that you shouldn't do so." At fower dclock Jack wakened he'sel, But his wife lay fast asleep; Says he, "Then aw may as weel sit up; Wi' me pipe, aw'll waken keep!" At half-past ite she jumpt oot 0' bed, When she had gud cawse te stare, For there Jack sat, iv his Sunday's claes, Fast asleep i' the aud airm-chair, Catchin trains iv his dreams sleepin there. IF DEED FOAKS COM TE LIFE AGYEN ! TEUN-" The Coal Hole" IF deed foaks com te life agyen, Hoo funny it wad be, man; They'd rub thor eyes wi' greet surprise Te see what we can see, man. Grainger wad hardly knaw the toon, Wi' buildin up an' pullin doon: A palace they myek ivry ruin, They astonish live foaks, tee, man. Korus. Fal-the-dal-lal, the lal-the day, Hoo funny it wad be, man, If deed foaks com te life agyen, Te see what we can see, man. Geordey Stephenson, the ingineer, Wad heh gud cawse for wundor, Te see the railroads far an' near, Abuv the grund an' under; Earl Grey wad luck up te the sky, Te see his moniment se high, Thor gan te shift it by-an-by, He wad say, "What next, aw wundor?" Sum wad find falt wi' a' they saw, An' try wi' spite te raise us, An' tell us that wor a' se fast, They'd seun meet us in blazes! While uthers wad be glad te see A workin man dim up the tree, Like Burt, the pitmen myed M.P., An' disarvin wor greet praises. Bob Chambers an' Jim Renforth tee. Wad ask us war we beatin ? Had Cockneys gain'd all victory Throo just one man defeatin ? Renforth wad say, "Is Tyneside men Te let Joe Sadler rest alyen? It's time aw wes alive agyen, If ye cannet find a reet un !" But sum wad better be away, Such as a chep just barried, He waddent like te cum an' see His bloomin widow married; He waddent like te see the kiss Ov second-hand connubial bliss, He waddent like a scene like this, Ay, an' him just lately barried. If deed foaks com te life agyen, Thor'd be an awful mixtor, Thor'd be ne room te had them a', We'd a' be fairly fixt; for We'd nearly a' relations be. We cuddent tell owt whe wes whe, Thor'd seun be blud an' murder tee, An' we'd myek them cut thor sticks, sor, WOR NEYBOR NELL! TEUN-" Pat Mulloy." Iv a' the torments i' the world, A neybor's warse then a', That borrows things frae day te day, An' dissent care a straw Whether ye get them back or not, If it just pleases them; Thor not aflaid te ask for mair, They nivvor knaw ne shem. We've got a neybor 0' this kind, She'll cum an' borrow cIaes, Or pots, or pans, an' kettles, an' She'll keep the syem for days. If we invite a frind te dine, We hardly get a smell, Till in she cums te borrow this Or that, dis Neybor Nell. Me dowter hes a nice young man, An' seun they'll married be, So often he cums te the hoose Te hey a cup 0' tea; He's always se polite an' prim, Relidgis iv his ways, Porticklor what he sees or hears, An' careful what he says; But still worneybor dissent care, Shud he be oot or in, She'll cum an' beg three-happence, te Get half-a-glass 0' gin; Aw've seen him quite disgusted like, His brou's byeth rose an' fell, Te hear the neybor, " Len us this, Or that!" frae Neybor Nell. One day we'd all got sittin doon, As use-yil te wor tea, When in cums Neybor Nell quite bowld, An' brasen'd as cud be ; Says she, "Excuse me cumrmin in, Sum cumpany aw've got, Thor wimmin foaks;-aw'd be obliged Ifye'd len us the pot ! She haddent time te say which pot It wes she wanted, till Up jumpt me dowter's sweetheart, an' The tea things myed a spill; Me dowter blush'd, her young man froon'd, Aw felt greet shem me-sel, An' wish'd aw had ne neybor like That torment, Neybor Nell. THE UNSARTIN LASS ! TEUN-"He's gyen te be a Bobby." Aw'M really quite unsartin 0' which luver aw shud choose, For aw cannet nyem me choice yit, An' aw dorsent one refuse; But wi' sum evasive answer Put them off frae day te day, For aw cannet tell me fancy, Thor's se mony in me way. Korus For thor's Tommy, an' thor's Billy, Nearly drive a young lass silly, They really cum se freely Wi' thor offers iv'ry day; An' thor's Charley, Joe, an' Harry, Always wantin me te marry, What myeks us tarry, l' this daft unsartin way? Thor's Tommy, tall an' sprightly, An' as handsome as can be, A myest weel-te-de pawnbroker, An' he's pledged his luv te me; Then thor's Billy,-that's the sailor, He wants me te be his mate, He wad plough the salt sea ocean, Te be in the United State. Then thor's Charley, he's a sowljor, But aw cannet list te him, Thowts 0' war an' his bright medals l' me eyes grow varry dim; An' thor's Joe, the portrait-tyeker, Built in such a slender frame, Aw'll give te him a negative, Hopin that may quench his flame. Then sumtimes aw fancy Harry, Roo it is aw cannet tell : He's a draper,-quite the dandy, But aw divvent like a swell; What wi' one, an' wi' the tuther, Aw can nivvor find delight, Till aw meet sum happy fellow, Wi' the nyem 0' Mister Right ! LOKIL RECKORDS FOR THIS SENTORY! JENERWARY IN Mosley Street, i' the eer ite-teen, Gas lamps wes for the forst time seen. Lally, the boat-rower, strang an'soond, l' sivinty-fower, at Blyth, wes droon'd. FEBREWARY Cowen an' Hamond, at last at ease, l' sivinty-fower, wes myed M.P.'s. Burt, for Morpeth, teuk things quiet, l' Durham thor wes nowt but riot. MAIRCH. l' fifty-fower, aud "Beeswing" deed, She wassent a horse, but had mare speed. l' sivinty-three, quite lost te hope, Mary Ann Cotton wes join'd te rope. YEPRIL. I' forty-fower, wi' minds alike, The Pitmen had thor famous Strike. I'one bonny neet, i' fifty-nine, Chambers beat White on the Coaly Tyne MAY. l' thorty-six a' the bairns wes fear'd, When the Bobbies forst i' blue appear'd. Kelly beat Chambers, i' sixty-sivin, When Bob wes pullin fast te hivvin. JOON. I' sixty-ire, Bob Chambers deed, Deeth beat him wiv untimely speed. The High Level Bridge, i' forty-nine, Wes myed complete across the Tyne. JEWLY. l' sixty-one, iv a deedly swoon, Grainger bid gud-bye te the toon. Harry Clasper, wi' mony a sob, l' sivinty, folIow'd his aud frind Bob. AWGUST. On the Toon Moor, thousands went te see Mark Sherwood hung, i' forty-three; Ned Corvan wi' fun kept foaks alive, But he dee'd he'sel, i' sixty-five. SIPTEMBOR. Dan O'Connell, ov greet renoon, l' thorty-five, com te wor toon. I' thorty-ite, te save life, se brave, Grace Darling dared the tretch'rous wave. OCTOBER. The moniment that we se often view, TeStephenson, finish'd i' sixty-two. Mark Frater got his fatal mark l' sixty-one, 'twes a point frae Clark. NOVEMBER. co Jemmy Allan's" pipes wes short 0' breeth l'ten, they had ne chance wi' deeth. l' forty-one, an eventful mom, Me bruther Tom an' me wes born. DlSEMBOR. The steamer" Lifeguard," i' sixty-three, Wi' all on board wes lest at sea. l' fifty-three, Billy Purvis, eloon, I' rest his queer aud heed laid doon. BARNEY RILEY'S DREAM. A TRUE STORY ON March the tenth, in forty-six, Bill Cleghorn had te fight Wi' Michael Riley, on Blyth Links, For fifty at catch-wight. Mick's bruther, Barney, thrice had dreamt That he wad konker'd be, That Cleghorn's blows wad fatal prove, Throo which poor Mick wad dee. An' Barney sair wes put aboot, For superstishus, he Believed in dreams, an' fear'd the end Ov this, his warnins three, He tried te myek his bruther give The forfeit up te Bill, But Mick replied, "Wor gawn te fight, We are not match'd te killl" "Then Barney, cum, an' see me lick The champein 0' Tyneside, Aw'll win the fight withoot a mark, See hoo aw'll tan his hide!" " It's not the likes 0' Cleghorn that Can tyek a Riley doon; So nivvor mind yor feulish dreams, . Aw'm best man i' the toonl" The mornin com, an' hundrids there, Te see the battle, cheer'd, When two such men 0' fistic fame, Stript te the buff, appear'd. Bill Cleghorn stud byeth firm an' calm, True confidence display'd; An' Riley's smiles an' boondless chaff Show'd he wes not aflaid. For two lang oors 'twes give an' tyek, Wi' strite an' heavy blows, That fell upon the ribs an' fyece, The cheeks, the eyes, an' nose. Then Riley fund his easy job Wes noo nowt like a joke, Wi' jeers an' puttin oot his tung He tried Bill te provoke. But Cleghorn nivvor off his guard, Watch'd Riley's tung cum throo, Then struck him fiercely on the chin, An' chopt it clean in two. The fight wes ended.-Cleghorn wun. Next mornin Mick wes deed, An'there he lay a batter'd corpse, Wi' Barney at his heed. Poor Barney's dream com ower true, Said he, "Aw'm not te blame, Aw warn'd him, but aw'm glad te knaw Me brother Mick died game! An' this wes i' the gud aud days, When men wad proodly sing, An' lift thor voices high an' praise The heroes ov the ring. But tho the ring's for iver deun, I' these new-fashun'd days, Thor's murder always in the air, In lots 0' different ways. -Source: Joe Wilson, (author) Songs and Drolleries, 1890 IF SPENNITHORNE HAD WUN! OR, THE PLATE O’ 74 TEUN-"'John Anderson, my Jo." Aw meant te buy a chist 0' drawers, Besides a silver watch; A sofa grand, te mense the hoose, Wi' bonny chairs te match; Besides a new leet suit 0' claes, Te swagger i' the sun, Aw'd been new te the very beuts, If Spennithorne had wun. Aw meant te buy me wife a dress, Ov silk the varry best, She'd been like a fat lanlady, The way aw'd had her drest; We meant te lodge at Tinmuth till The money wes a' deun ; An' promenade the Sands each day, If Spennithorne had wun. But Spennithorne wes nearly last, An' Lily Agnes wun, The cheers 0' winners diddent soond Te me like ony fun; Aw cannet tell hoo aw got hyem, The moor aboot us spun, Aw started wark next day, an' sigh'd-sIf Spennithorne had wun ! THE SYIMEESE TWINS TEUN-"The Pawnshop Bleezin." WOR Geordey, just the tuther day, Wes walkin up an' doon, man, An' what amused him myest ova' Wes bills stuck roond the toon, man, Advisin foaks te gan an' see These Twins they call the Syimeese; He's read thor hist'ry iv a beuk, An' swears that wundor nivvor struck Rim half se much afore, man. He says this freak 0' nator is Thor join'd se fast tegither, Wiv a lump 0' grissel hard an' tight, Thor siporashun's nivor; They call one Bob, the tuther Jim, An' Jim's like Bob, an' Bob's like him, An' if one wants te stop at hyem, The tuther hes te de the syem, He cannot de owt else, man. He says when young, that Bob wes wild, An' liked te hey his glasses, An' led a kind 0' rakish life Amang a' kinds 0' lasses; But Jim, he waddint hed at a', He said te Bob, "Aw'lliet ye knaw If ye want te lead this life, me lad, Ye can gan yor-sel, aw'll not be had, Aw'll brik the string that ties us." But Geordey says he dursent did, For fear he hurt he'sel, man, Since then thor kind a settled doon, For on thor life's a spell, man; Shud they fall oot an'hev a fight, Thor's neethor hes the best 0' wight, An' if they russel, byeth gan doon, An' when they hit the blaw reboons, The striker feels the blaw, man. He says thor married an' got bairns, He wunders hoo it's deun, man, But i' this world thor's things se queer, Sum reckind nowt but fun, man ! An' if Bob wants te say his prayers, An' Jimmy wants te gan doonstairs, Bob hes te wait till Jim gets deun, An' if Jim's gan te kiss his sun, Bob hes te boo his heed, man. But gox! hoo funny it wad be, The time that they war kortin, For if the lass fell oot wi' Jim, Bob's feelings she'd be hurtin, An' if he whisper'd iv her ear, The tuther one was sure te hear; An' when Bob tyeks an openin dose, It fissicks Jimmy aw suppose, An' that's a reglor maser! If Jim shud fancy gawn asleep, Bob hes te gan wi' him, man, An' if Bob fancies gannin 'oot, He hes te gan wi' Jim, man ; Where Bob is Jimmy hes te be, Sumtimes ye'd think it issent spree, But what one dis his mate mun de, Iv a' the seets the world can see, This is the biggest cawshun! JACK HARDY'S KOORTSHIP AND MARRIDGE. A RESITAYSHUN. JACKHARDY was as fine a lad As ivor ye cud see, The reglor pictor ov his dad, His muther once tell'd me, As cute a lad, as sharp a lad, As ye'll meet iv a day, A lad that teuk care ov his brass, An' threw nyen on't away. At the age 0' fower-an'-twenty He gat wark i' the toon, As lodjins he wes forced te tyek, He teuk a little room Frev a canny quiet widow, an' Her dowter, just he-teen, An' wes settled like a lanlord, Wi' greet cumfort,-a' soreen. N00, the dowter kind a fancied That here might be a chance For a gud-man real gud-luckin; She tried each winnin glance That she thowt was fascinaytin, But not one 0' them wad de, For Jack had diff'rint noshuns As te whe his wife shud be. Throo the day, Jack always thinkin, Throo the neet, iv ivry dream, Thor wes only one idea, An' strange as it may seem, Jack he'sel had quite porswayded, An' wi' quite a settled mind, IV a' the wimmin he had seen The widow wes myest kind. He nivvor dreamt her dowtor luv'd Or thowt ov him at a'j 'Twad been all the syem thing if he had, For cutely, yemun knaw, He'd reckund up the furnitor, Se neat, se gud, se trim, An' thowt a hoose se weel set up Wes just the thing for him! Tho cawshusly, he seun begun Te koort the widow there, An' smoked, an' joked, an' tawk'd away Iv her late man's easy chair. He fairly wun her hoose an' luv, An' married seun war they; Tho young enuff te be her son, They'd many a happy day. "Revenge is sweet!" sumbody says, An' so the dowter thowt, For tho Jack nivvor knew her luv, She thowt he did, or owt ; An' a' his dinners that she keuck't She teuk gud care te spoil: Wi' fire nearly always oot, The pot wad nivvor boil. Things went on this way days an' weeks Till Jack's mate, Harry Hills, Proposed te be his son-in-law, One neet across thor gills. The dowter got him-s-noo her lot's Te wait upon a man That always pledges her his luv When he puts his claes i' pawn. He likes his beer, dis Harry Hills, His unkil knaws that tee, For Harry's coat he often get's Te help te raise a spree; While lucky Jack sticks tiv his wife, A happy couple,-they Set a pattern te the young uns, Workin hard frae day te day!" -Source: Joe Wilson, (author) Songs and Drolleries, 1890 THE TRAVYLIN PORTRAIT TYEKER! A POME. Aw thowt aw cud paint a pictor, Aw did, upon me word, So aw bowt a penny box 0' paints, Just what aw cud afford, An' then aw wundor'd what aw'd try, A man, a beast, or bird. Aw mind aw luckt i' mony a shop, Transparent slates aw saw, An' wish'd that aw cud buy a one, For then aw'd lairn te draw; But money often myeks a man, An' that ov korse ye'll knaw. So aw had te myek me-sel content Wi' nowt but what aw had; Aw struggled hard an' did me best, Like mony a poor lad, An' wor foaks had the narve te say It wassent te call bad. Aw thowt aw wad tyek a portrait, So aw got me bruther Ned Te sit before us mony a neet When we shud been i' bed, Aw thowt them wes the happiest oors Two young uns ivor led. Aw myed his nose a' kinds 0' shapes, His eyes aw myed them squint, His cheek, throo maw artistic skill, Had monya dimple in't, An' wiv a bright rose-pink aw goh Them such a bonny tint. But not a sowl alive cud see A bit 0' likeness there, Tho sum te please us myed us think 'Twas really varry fair, For they wad say 'twas just like Ned, Se reed aboot the hair! But still aw thowt aw'd deun se weel, Aw'd heva try agyen, For if a gud job's once begun, Te let it once alyen, Wad ruin the best 0' clivor skemes, An' best 0' clivor men. So on went aw,-an' on went Time, Wi' nowt else i' me heed, But tyekin foaks's likenesses, Till aw stud hard i' need 0' what aw cuddent de without, That's Life's supporter, Breed! Iv a booth at fair or hoppin, Wi' black paper aw wad myek Sum figgor for the silly feuls, Se daft such like te tyek, But feuIs mun often help us, lads, Or where's war daily kyeck? At last a fottygraff masheen, Like Ieetnin i' the skies, Com dazzlin one day te me seet, An' fill'd us wi' surprise; Be luck aw got one oat on tick: The man that ticks is wise! But Fortun always wi' the brave 'Ill not a comrade be, Aw cuddent tyek a pictor wid, One ivor fit te see; Aw laid me heed upon me hand, An' wish'd that aw cud dee. At last a thowt flew throo me brain, An' myed us once mair stir, Ideas hoo te lairn the trade Had not struck me before, Aw'd try an' get a job te stand At sum fottygraffer's door! Aw did; an' noo ye'll see me nyem's Upon a decent van, At races, ony place where sport Brings money is me plan; It's puff, an' cheek, an' impittence Myeks mony a bissniss man. Frae sixpence up te ite-teen-pence, Aw'll tyek ye weel on glass, An' cairds, six bob a duzzin, That nebody can surpass, Aw'lI myek gud-luckin ony fyece, Man, wummin, lad, or lass! BILLY TURNBULL'S ADVENTORS AT THE GRAND REGRETTA THAT WES HELD (AUG. 1863) THE SYEM WEEK THE BRITISH ASSOCIASHUNOV WISE FOAKS VISITED NEWCASSEL. IT wes a splendid seet-when aw sat like a king at the heed 0' the King's Meadows amang a living mass 0' live foaks-me heart lowpt wiv excitement inside me new waistkit-but a' passin clood put us i' mind 0' the umberella that aw had borrow'd frae Bob Robson the time-gun boom'd throo the air, an' shoots frae the stentorian lungs 0' the multitude drew me atfenshun te the noble forms 0' the champeins as they war seen imbarkin, wi' the most magnanymus anniemosity rewards each uther, te dare the dangers 0' the tretcherous deep-it wes high tide, ye knaw-thor off!-thor cummin ! -thor wes a roar 0' voices an' the river Sim-an' -Teasdale- Wilsonusly-aw ron up the Meadows wi' speed like JimPercy-aw's not as lang as Ted Mills, but aw felt aw turned WHITE for all aw's a Bright-un-Chambors! aw shoots-aw luckt at the men, heedless where aw wes runnin te, when all iv a suddint aw fell ower the Meadows- it wes a momentus moment for me-aw struggled te get ashore-fearful retlecshuns struck us when aw rickollected that aw nivvor had got ony lessons frae Professor Walker-for aw cuddent swim withoot it wes doonwards-foaks say droonin men catch at straws, but thor wes ne straws, so aw clutched the grass i' me desperayshun-me hand slipt-pairt 0' the grass wes clay-aw fell doon agyen, leets danced afore me eyes, fearful noises rung i' me ears-nebody can imadgin the aw-ful sensayshun aw felt when maw editorial heed wes under wetter-aw cud neither float or swim-so aw lay doon at the 'bottom till it wes law tide so as aw cud 'wawk oot!-aw dinnet knaw hoo aw got hyem-aw cuddent reckollect owt mair-for aw've been insensible ivor since.-Yor Unlucky Frind, -BILLY TURN-BULL. THE TYNE REGRETTA. OR SHUV AHEED TEUN- "The Happiest Man Alive." MALLY put on yor Sunday claes,-put on yor floonsie goon, Aw'll brush yor beuts or lace yor stays, so lass, cum hurry doon; Ye've nivvor seen a race afore,-so this day ye mun see, Or else ye will REGRET AW say, ye diddent gan wi' me. Korus Then shuv aheed, show yor speed,-cause a greet sensashun, Myek the foaks believe that we belang the Sociashuu ! Gan on maw bonny Tyneside lads, an' let the cocknies see, What Tyneside lads when fairly meant, upon the Tyne can de. We might as weel not drest at a', for nastie drizzlin rain, Te damp an' myek war sporits law, cam doon wi' might an'main. On the Meadows we gat landed-the first race had begun, Says Mall aw've seen yor junior skulls! an' powkt me ribs i' fun. The Champion Cup wes pulled for next-twes aggravating sair, An' awthe foaks wes fairly vext cas Green he wassent there, The Astray-lion diddent shaw,-wi' Bob he'll not compete, Sum said he'd tyen the cramp agyen wi'thinkin 0' defeat. The Sangate lads roared oot wi' glee, game Teasdale will seun win, But Kelley showed the way for spree, an' lickt brave Teasdale in; When Simm let Cooper WALK the course, Mall put's quite iv a heat, When she shoots, "Bob, if ye dinnet win, aw's sure yor bad te beat." The fine-ale heat for the bonny cup wes noo the settled race, Then Cooper put the steam full up, an' gah them sic a chase, When Harry Kelley foold them byeth, an' said Bob, ye mun stay, But byeth the Tyneside lads agreed they cuddent win that way. Bob Chambers pull'd a bonny race,-the course at last wes run, Tho Cooper got the foremost place, the prize still wassent wun; Disputes arose 'boot fy'uls an' fools,-dissatisfacshun tee Rowl'd roond aboot wi' growlan' shoot, an' so did Mall an' me. The pair-oared race wes just the syem,-so Mall says, cum away; Twad been as weel te stop at hyem, an' not been here the day: Te cheer us upwe byeth agreed that we wad toddle doon, An' open a' the wise foaks eyes when swaggrinroond the toon. AN ACROSTIC- TAYLOR Written On the victorious career ov Jimmy Taylor, the seiabrated boat-puller, efter the monny aifeats if his game but Unlucky bruthers. T IME'S browr a greet change that aw's happy te see, A w's prood that the change is se gladsome te ye, Y e've proov'd ye can stay, tho yor bruthers tried hard, L ossin each race tho they wun greet regard; O v a' yor game bruthers thor's nyen like yor-sel, R ow on, canny lad, may ye ivor excel! WOR GEORDEY'S ACCOONT 0' THE GREET BOAT RACES. BIV ELEGTRICK TALLYGRAFF, FRAE LUNDUN. June 16t1l,1863, Chambers an' Green-Greet excitement-Bell's Life's Editor doon i' the cabin writin an accoont 0' the race aforehand, wiv a word or two agyen Tynesiders-startin time-ye cannot see onybody for the crood- Fat Mary's on board wor boat wi' the new shawl on she got on tick frae the manadge man-the men's i' thor boats-vg te I on Chambers= 100 te 1 wanted-hats off-thor off hadaway Bob-gan on Green-Green gans aheed- Johnny Murphy's fallin oot ov a wherry an' spoilt his Sunday claes-Green forst at Craven Point- apoint for Green- Bob gies him a wesh at the Soap Warks-Green varry white-Billy Hall's got his pocket pickt, an thor's a row i' the boat-mair shootin-a gallon 0' beer tiv a baccy dottle on Bob-Joe Taylor's mortal drunk, an' King the cobbler's sea-sick-greet commoshun i' the steamboats-Kelley luckin for Green amang the paddle-boxes-it's a' ower-Bob's wun=-Green disn't knaw whether he's Green or not, but imagins he is Chambers gets oot te hey a gill wi' Harry Clasper-he lucks doon the wetter te see if Green's cummin-the Daily Chronicleriporter's off te Newcassel iv a billoon- Teaszil Wilson sweers that if he dissent win the morrow he'll swally a sculler-boat. June 17th, Wilsonan' Drewitt-Teaszil forst at the rang endhe says he'll pull Drewitt or ony uther man i' keels. June 18th, Cooperan' Everson-The most astonish in race that ivor wes-Everson diddent knaw whether he wes forst or last, for he cuddent see owt ov Cooper efter the forst stroke-Bob won easy, an' lickt Tagg, anuther Cockney, the syem day. Ye hevent the least idea hoo the Cocknies is cut up wi' not hevin a Lundun champein-Jacky Broon heard one 0' them (wiv a fyece as lang an' lemoncolly as a lemonade bottle) sing this sang, an' thinkin that ye mebbies cuddent read thor ootlandish twang, he got his Uncle Bob, a wee! eddycated man, te translate it inte the Newcassel dialect, so as anybody can understand it-this is it : THE COCKNEY'S LAMENT FAREWEEL the days when Lundun lads as Champions nobly shone, Defiant te the wide wide world, the bonny Thames thor throne, For noo Tyne lads beet us complete, wor chance wi them's but sma'! Oh! sad's me heart, whe'd ivor thowt te see us browt se law. Korus Oh I dear oh! thor'snyen like Chambers, oh! De a' we can we hevent a man Te lick Bob Chambers, oh ! Fareweel the days when Lundun boats wes the finest that wes made, But Harry Clasper, frae Tyneside, seun put wor's i' the shade; He myeks his boats se leet an' neet, brings oot sic forstclass men, He licks war builders, rowers te,-wor Lundun glory's gyen. Fareweel the days when Robert Coombes rowed fleetly ower the tide, The swiftest champion ivor knawn, the Cocknies' boast an' pride, For gox, he'd had but little squeek, if he'd leeved this day te see, For if Coombes cud myek his fine skiff run, Bob Chambers myeks his flee. Fareweel the days when Lundun crews pull'd the winnin boat se fast When i' skiffs, an' pairs, an' fower-oars we cuddint be sorpass'd, But noo we might as weel not pull at the grand regretta here, For Tyneside lads cum here an' win the prizes ivry eer. Fareweel the days when Lundun lads victorious cud compete, When strangers nivvor thowt te trywarchampions te defeat, But noo Bob Cooper's put it on-ye'll knaw wi' we aw mean; An' te pull the greet Bob Chambers the Australian mun be GREEN. Fareweel the days, them happy days, When the world we cud defy, We've struggl'd hard te keep war nyem, but noo think shem te try, For Everson, Kelley, White, and Green, te Chambers did givein, Bell's Life may puff an' praise them up, but it cannet myek them win. Fareweel, fareweel them gud aud days, we'll see thor like ne mair, For then ne men like Chambers pull'd, nyen cud wi' him compare; Still Lundun men are gud as then,-resentful thowts decline, For weel we knaw, say what we will, the BEST MEN'S on the Tyne. WOR GEORDEY'S HISTORY 0' THE MATCHES Tke Match Struck.-Efter Cooper lickt Everson at Lundun, his backers wanted te match him agyen ony steamboat on the river, bar the Dredger, but they cuddent get on; so they tried a steam ingin, that wes Bob Chambers. The challinge wes accepted. A meetin wes held i' the Sun, an' the room wes chock full. Harry Clasper's health wes drunk, but it behaved itse! varry weel. Thor wes a vast 0' chaff aboot pownies and munkies-ye mun understand that a powny's nowt like a cuddy- apowny's 25.Pund, an' a munky's 500 soverins.-(Me grandmuther says she wad rethur hev a munky i' the hoose then a powny ony day.)-Cooper wanted te be stakehadder he'sel, but Chambers thowt he had mair reet te haud the Queen's Heeds wi' hevin the Kings Heed at St. Anthony's, but that wes a' Walker. Airtickils ov Agreement.-Bob Chambers, te try speed an' style, agrees te pull Cooper a mile-a full hour before it's high tide-for one hundred sovrins aside-on Tuesday, sum day i' July, the date aw've forgot, but it's nigh-the Chronicle gaffer te haud the deposits that's myed biv each lad-gate money te be divided, refforee not te be one-sided-the stakes te gan wiv his disishun. So lads, get yor-sels j' condishun-an' mark ye, thor's not te be foolin, for that's agyen a' wor boat rulln--the race te be rowed onTyne wetter, an' the seuner it's ower the better-Bob Chambers then put doon his nyem, an' Cooper as weel did the syem-then aw bid them gud neet te gan hyem-an' for fear that aw'd mebbies get rang, aw went hyem wi' me mate, Geordy Strange Wor Peg's Ideas aboot it. WOR PEG says it wad be a vast better if boat-rowers wes te pull wi' thor heeds turn'd the tuther way, so as they cud see where thor gannin te. Conversayshun at Blakey's Corner-the Neet afore the Race JORN SPENCER-“ Gentlemen, aw'Jl bet ony gentleman a bob that Bob beats Bob! " ADAMSCOTT-“Deun! aw'Jl bet ye a pint!" JOHN SPENCER-" Deun! but we may as weel hed noo! heh ye tuppence? ADAMSCOTT-"No, aw've just threehappence, but aw'll cadge a meg ov Toby Walker, so let's away te Mackey's! " ___________________________________________end of directory THE ONE MILE RACE-JULY 1868 TEUN-" The Pawnshop Bieeei«;" WOR Jack an Tom, alang wi' me, Join'd i' the hurry skurry That spred alang Newcassel Kee, When foaks wi' frantic flurry Rush'd here an' there te get a place That they might see the greet boat race; Alang the Close they madly push'd, Byeth foaks an' people sair wes crush'd, An' poor sowl's feet that sported CORN, Wes nice an' clean tho ruffiy shorn, When they went te see the race, lads. On the river-a' sorts 0' craft, Frae whurry te the steamer, Wes crooded weel byeth fore and aft, Mind, mark ye, aw's ne dreamer, The banks and bridges-sic a seer, For lads wes scramlin left and reet, An' lasses wi' thor bonny goons, An' greet big hats wi' little croons, Join'd i' mony a queer like crew, That they might get abetter view, An' see the greet boat race, lads. Thor i' thor boats! a keelman cries Aw'Il back Bob for a ginney ! Which Bob? says aw, when he replies The Bob that wins, maw hinney! Doon at the Bridge, aye, sure eneuf, Byeth men wes there, stript te the buff, Then silence reigned as still as deeth, Foaks agitated, held thor breeth, Till all at once the stillness broke, For byeth the men had myed a stroke, They had started for the race, lads. Thor off! thor off! wes then the shoot, Wi' lots 0' deefnin cheerin, l' steamboats, keels, and banks aboot, Aw nearly lost me heerin; Gan on, Bob Cooper-show the way! Huts! Chambers wins! aw'll bet, the day! Amid a world 0' voices roar, They calm, but quickly plied the oar, An' pull'd away wi' reet gud will, A fine display 0' strength an' skill Wes Chambers' an' Cooper's race, lads. Bob Cooper's strokes wes short, but quick, Se bonny, clean, an' strengthy, Whilst Chambers pulls, his man te lick, Wi' strokes byeth strang an' lengthy; Doon te thor knees byeth boo thor heed, An' struggle hard te get the lead; Then foaks amazed, shut up thor gobs, Ye hear ne shoots frae Sangate nobs; The Champion's frinds appear dismay'd, On ivry brow thor's cast a shade, For Cooper leads the race, lads. The Reed-yuff man at Skinners' Burn Kept on his lead increasin, Gan on, Bob Chambers! tyek yor turn, An' gie yor man a fleecin ! The Champion myed a splendid spurt, It seem'd te myek his frinds divert Frae dowly thowts-for Harry's crew Roard oot-maw lad, ye hev him noo! But sad mistake-it seun wes seen That game Bob Cooper wasn't GREEN, For still he leads the race, lads. Then Cooper vic'try seem'd te grab, Wi' Chambers at his quarter, 'Twes said that Cooper copt a crab, The Champion copt a tartar; The hero ov a hundrid spins Wes doom'd te loss-for Cooper wins, An' past the post a length a-heed He flew wi' undiminish'd speed; Then WISE FOAKS said, wi' mockin grin, Aw always tell'd ye whee wad win, Afore they pull'd the race, lads. Lang may Tyneside produce sic men, Te try the Cocknies' paces, But if they intend te pull athyem, Lang may we see sic races; Tho cheers for Cooper ye may raise, Bob Chambers still desarves greet praise, For when two men like these contest Wi' honest pride, an' de thor best, Aw's sorry that one shud give in, Aw only wish that byeth cud win, Then twad be a glorious race, lads. THE GREET BOAT RACE For the Championshionship 0' the Tyne an' £400, Sept. 5 and 6, 1864. TRUN- "The Hairr," or" Hop Light Loo." THE aud bridge groan'd as tho it thowt Its end wes noo drawn near; The level creakt and squeakt beneath The weight it had te beer; The steamers rowld frae side te side, An' ivry boat wes full, When Chambers, ov aquatic fame, An' Cooper had te pull. Korus Pull, lads, pull! like leetnin wi' the tide! Pull, lads, pull! the victry te decide! Pull, lads, pull !-Iet pluck an' skill combine Te show the world thor's nyen can touch The Champion 0' the Tyne! Ne fear 0' cheat or false defeat Wes iv a breest that day, For spite wad myek them pull for fairs An' anxshus for the fray; The river, like a heavy sea, Myed ivry beetin heart Quake when they saw sic fearless men Pull. near the bridge te start. Thor off! gud grashus what a shoot Wes sent frae shore te shore, The time-gun i' the Cassel Garth Cud nivor cawse sic stir, For like two swift locomotives Byeth try te gain the lead, Wi' quickind spurt, 'mid roarin cheers Bob Chambers gans a-heed. The champion wi' masheen-like stroke Dash'd bravely throo the spray, While Cooper, game as man cud be, Tried hard te win the day, When Chambers, throo the warst 0' luck, Ran foul agyen two keels, But full 0' steam-he's affagyen, An' close at Cooper's heels. Thor level noo,-but throo the storm Grim danger claim'd the race, For efter byeth the men had fould A fearful scene teuk place, Bob Chambers' boat wes sinkin fast, The race that day wes deun, Then foaks begun wi' clattrin tung To argie byeth had wun. The next day wi' the tide still ruff, They had thor second spin, Frae start te finish Chambers led, The better man te win, An' proov'd thor's not a man alive, That can wi' him contend; But speak weel 0' the lossin man, May gud luck byeth attend. The race that had for weeks an' munths Excited mony a breest Wes past-an' ivrybody's mind Seem'd frev a load releest; Ne men like these had ivor pull'd, Let Tyneside glory shine, An' lang may champions 0' the world Spring frae the coally Tyne. Wor Geordey says he's glad he wes on the bridge at the race, for thor wes a deed heet at the start, an' he dissent think they war ivor see close eftor't. What a cawshun Geordey is, aw say. CHAMBERS AND COOPER A DUBBIL ACROSTIC-REED THE LETTORS DOONWORDS. C HAMPlONS 0' the world, why shud ye pull ? C an ye not rest on laurels, nobly gain'd ? H appy wivan undefeated scull, O rdaind te rule the world, wi'nyem unstaind: A re ye not content wi' contests wun? Opposed te men 0' power an' wundrus skill, Maw canny hinnies, ye've had yor run, P ride willbe wilful,so ye've had yor will, But, faith, aw'd seuner see yor hardy hands Entwined wi' kindly grasp-a combinashun E nuif te strike terror throughoot a' lands, R eet glad ye'd be, tiv Cocknies' consternashun, Rich iv each uthers help-each heart expands, Sons 0' the Tyne, joind wi' true frindship's bands! TEMPERANCE SONGS, READINGS, AND RECITATIONS. TEMPERANCE KILL'D THROO A FALL DOONSTAIRS. READING OR RECITATION. “WHAT a nice young chep Jack Harley is ! " the neybors a' wad say, As, clean an' neat, he left the hoose te gan te wark each day; An' a cheerful smile lit up his fyece whenivor he luckt back, An' nodded tiv his canny wife an' little bairn, young Jack. An' the little fellow nodded tee, an' shooted-" Da, ta! ta!" It myed Jack turn an' smile agyen at this sweet scene he saw. An' he often thowt an' said he was the happiest 0' men, An' happier felt, when wark wes deun, te be at hyem agyen. Ivrything went on first-rate, an' Jack had little care, Except attendin te the wants not often wanted there; For Bessy wes a careful wife, an' easy myed ends meet: In fact, ye cuddentfind a happier couple i' the street. But Time browt changes te the hoose that there shud nivvor been, An' cast a clood that nivvor yit wes lifted frae the scene: For Jack got mates-an idle lot-that wassent fit for him, An' filled his once bright, happy cup wi' mis'ry te the brim. Then Jack's free disposition always myed him easy prey Te fellows wi' the gift 0' tung, that often hes the way Te myek ye think they like ye weel-that they're yor truest frinds ; Weel up iv a' kinds 0' deceit, te sarve thor selfish ends, So Jack wes seun perswayded te join them iv a spree. Next mornin' when he wakened up, as bad as he cud be, They teuk him te the public-hoose where they had been before, An' when they fund thor money gyen they started" tick" te score. Thor wark neglected, there they sat, an' kept it up for days, Wi' the drink they raised wi' spungin an' a' such dirty ways, Till Jack wes just as bad as them, an' fairly lost te shem, Except when, wiva moment's pain, his mind wad wander hyern. An' when he tried te gan away,his tempters kept him back Frae the canny wife se true te him an' canny little Jack. So days went on like this till Jack nowt but a drunkard turn'd: He hated wark as he luved drink-his throat for iver burn'd For drink-s-ay, drink, that fearful curse, had fallen upon him, An' filled his once bright, happy cup wi' mis'ry te the brim. One neet, his wife went on her knees, an' prayed that he wad stop, Ay, if he'd only stop at hyem, she'd fetch him in a drop. "If he wad only stop at hyem," she uttered wiv a sigh, " She'd try te myek him happy, as she'd deun i' days gyen by; . She'd cool his broo wi' wetted cloths, an' rest wad bring him roond; A few days wad myek him better !"-an' her voice had that sweet soond, That Jack once halted at the door, an' said-" Lass, nivvor fear ! Aw'llmyek this spree me varry last; an' when aw'm off the beer, Aw'll gan te wark : aw'll get a job at owt if war trade's slack. Yor seedy noo-ye want sum claes, an' so dis little Jack! " He kissed her as he left the hoose; she smiled an' said, "Cum seun”! She knew hoo happy they cud be if once his spree was deun. That neet she waited lang, as she had often deun before, An' listened te the footsteps that kept passin' bythe door; An' little Jack laffed iv his dreams, as if he had ne care; An' Bessy turned quite sleepy-when a footstep on the stair Myed her start up te showa leet. She heard him stagger noo A heavy fall doonstairs-an' then, a groan that went clean throo The heart 0' that poor list'ner ;-then a hurried rush 0' feet Frae the neybors, as they flew te see the dreadful wark that neet. Poor Bessy screamed, when Jack she saw, wi' blud upon his cheek. "Maw canny man, where are ye hurt?" but Jack, he cuddent speak. He fixed his eyes upon his wife in anguish and remorse, For drink had browt ne life te him, but untimely deeth -its curse! WHICH DE YE CALL MEAN ? A TEETOTALER'S DEFENCE. RECITATION YOR prejudiced agyen the men That winnet drink wi' ye ; Ye call teetotal members mean Ye've said the syem te me! Can ye expect that they shud stand A glass 0' beer for ye, The varry thing that they detest? No, no, that waddent de ! An' if they dinnet drink thor-sels, They heh ne call te pay For drink for ye, or ony one, That's meant te gan that way. Ye heh ne reet te call them mean, An' noo aw'll tell ye hoo, For 'twixt ye an' teetotal men, Yor meanest 0' the two I Is't. mean that they shud study hyem, Its cumforts an' its peace ; An' try te myek thor happiness Frae day te day increase? The time that drunkords fuddle on, Wi' nowt fit te be seen; Where is thor cumfort i' the hoose ? Noo which de ye call mean? The drunkord hes ne care for hyem, He's selfish te the last; As lang as he gets plenty beer, His wife an' bairns may fast; He's bloated out wi' drink se full, At hyem thor starved an' lean; He nivvor cares for hyem at a', Noo which de ye call mean? A sober man's his bairns' best frind; Wiv all a fethur's pride, He thinks ne palace like his awn, His cosey fireside; His wife an' fam'ly tyek a pride, In keepin a' things clean; Thor's plenty there-ne signs 0' want, Noo which de ye call mean? Is't him that's stiddy, kind an' true Tiv a' that's i' the hoose ? Or him that spunges, ticks, and sprees, For nowt ov ony use? Aw've shown ye what aw knaw's quite true, Ye hey yor choice between, Then speak the truth, ye’ve heerd us throo, Noo which de ye call mean? TOM BROON. READING OR RECITATION "WHAT'S the next case?" said the magistrate; but he seemed te knaw, aw think, It wad be like a' the uthers, throo the drink--the weary drink: An' the disapated pris'nor luckt aroond an' hung hisheed, An' he tried te shun the glances frae the curious eyes he see'd. For 'twas Tom Breon's first appearance In this low, degradin scene, An' he hoped an' wished 'twad be the last, him an' the grave between: For not once iv a' his life-time had it ivor been his fate, Before this morn, te stand afore the grim-like magistrate. An' his blood-shot eyes they glistened when he thowt aboot his hyem, An' he wundor'd hoo his wife an' bairns wad ivor bear the shem That he'd browt se heavy on them, an' his heart beat quick an' fast, As he murmured tiv he'sel, nigh chokin, "This shall be the last, Ay, the last time that they'll witness such a scene 0' maw disgrace; Ay, the last time that aw'Il hing me heed i' such a hated place!" The magistrate spoke kindly, for he saw repentance there, Then dismissed him wiv a cawshun, but he tell'd him te beware! An' he gov him that bit gud advice te let the drink alyen, An' he teIl'd him that he nivvor wished te see him there agyen. Tom thenkt him in a manner that he cuddent then resist, An' swore ne mair they'd see his nyem upon the drunkard's list; An' his heart lowpt wiv a joy that they cuddent help but see, For he felt, but in two different ways, that he once mair wes free For in that awful moment, when he first appeared in court, Te be the haze-gaze 0' the crood, his pride wes sairly hurt; He had only then considered what had really browt him there, What had been the cawse ova' his shem-the cawse ov his dispair. In that first sober moment that he'd felt for mony days, He knew thor wes but one te blame for his bad, feulish ways. An' whe wes that one but he'sel he fund he cuddent say, An' he swore te be teetotal frae that day-that varry day. An' the heart wes noo uplifted that before had been cast doon, An' he blist his resolution as he hurried throo the toon. The drink his shopmates offered noo he firmly cast aside, An' tiv a' thor greet temptayshuns he most steadily replied, "Not a drop, not one! Aw tell ye, not a single drop aw'll tyek, For if aw've been asleep till noo, aw find aw'm wideawake Te the evil that it's cawsed us,-an' if mine be nowt te sum, Whey, aw'll try me best te hinder such anuther day te cum Te me-sel an' te the mony;-an' ye knaw as weel as me That aw'm honest and strite-forward as a workin man can be. Then what myed us se disgracefully bring a' me frinds te grief? What myed us be trailed throo the streets like sum vile, dorty thief? What myed us pass last neet amang an idle, low-lifed gang, When aw shud been at hyem i' peace, an' free frev ony rang? What browt us te the pris'nor's box like sum poor, guilty thing, An' on me fam'ly an' me-sel such misery te bring, An' fill thor breests wi' shem an' pain,-hoo can aw meet thor eyes? Hoo can me maister trust us noo ?- Aw ask ye is this wise? What else but drink-the country's curse-browt this mischief te me? So frae man's greatest enemy this moment aw'll be free! An' if ye'Il tyek a mate's advice, ye'll try an' de the syem, For drunkenness 'Il nivvor tend te myek a happy hyem. The lesson that aw've lairnt the day shall iver be me plan, Te shun disgrace an' try te be respected as a man! " THE NEET SCHEUL TEUN- "The Lancashire Lass." WOR Jack's a young lad that's byeth clivor an' smart, His heed's full 0' knollidge an' a' kinds 0' lairnin; He's got a' the scheul beuks clean off be heart, An' nowt else wad please him but startin a scheul. He thowt he cud de the thing complete, Efter wark, i' the hoose, myest ivry neet, Wi' lads an' lasses belangin the street, He wad seun hey a canny bit scheul, Korus "If they'd say eftor me thor ABC," He thowt it wad de se canny an' clivor ; But ABC DEan' F G Wes owt but a spree for poor Jack at the scheu!. The scholars he got wes a thick-heeded lot, They had bother'd the heed ov mony a maister, Till hopeless they'd let them a' gan te pot, So Jack got them a' when he opened the scheul; Besides they war nearly twice Jack's age, If they broke a slate or tore a page, They wad laffte see him get iv a rage, An they'd myek quite a scene i' scheu!. Says one, "What's the gud ov us lairnin at a'? When aw can get me muther te read the papers;" Says anuther, "Aw'lllairn when aw'm auder, aw knaw, That 'ill save us the trouble ov gannin te scheul!" Then anuther wad seun brick up the class, Wi' startin te tease anuther lad's lass, An' if Jack spoke they'd smack his jaws, So they seun put an end te the scheul, Says Jack, "But ye'll a' rue this i' the end, Thor's nowt ye'll regret like yor lairnin neglected, Ye pay ne attenshun becawse aw's yor frind, When aw's willin te teach ye ye'll not hey a scheul Ye'll think 0' the chance ye've thrawn away, An' mony a time ye'll rue the day That ye broke up me little bit scheul. THE PAINTED NOSE! TEUN-" Irish Mally, O!" JIM TODD wes once a gud-like chep, Wi' nose byeth clean an' strite; His cheeks had a nice rosy tint Abuv the skin se white. Until he joined a drunken lot, His features had repose; But brandy myed an ugly change, It pimpled a' his nose. Korus. It spoiled his fyece se canny, An' his failins did expose; It's not a plissint seet te see A drunkard's painted nose! At forst he thowt them beauty spots, That seun wad gan away; He cuddent think he'd hey a nose Like that frae day te day. He sighed as he luckt i' the glass, Wi' feelins quite morose, Te see his cheeks se varry pale, An' such a fierynose! He got advice frae docter cheps, But a' that they cud say, Wes if he'd let the drink alyen, 'Twad mebbies gan away. It teuk him eers te cullur'd se, An' munny, aw suppose: The brandy that he drunk wad myek't A real expensive nose! An' so he carries on his fyece The drunkard's glarin sign! Ye cannet called an ornament, Tho brightly it dis shine. But if he'll tyek a frind's advice, An' de what aw propose, He'll drink ne mair, but tyek the pledge, An' get a different nose! DEETH l' THE STREET RECITATION. 'TWES a fearful seet, l' the winter's neet, A wummin lyin drunk i' the street. Sum thowt she wes bad, Or deed wi' the cawd, She luckt se starved an' se poorly clad. They wad tyek her up, An' give her a sup: Her breeth smelt strang 0' the cursed cup. They myest.let her fall, But a frindly wall Stopt her, as she opened her shawl. What wes that that fell? Aw can hardly tell. Was she a wummin or fiend from hell? Se drunk i' the street, On a winter's neet, Wiv her bairn lyin a corpse at her feet! 'Twes frozen te deeth, An' they held thor breeth, As they held the corpse, wi' chatterin teeth. Poor thing! it wes cawd; A bonny bit lad; Eneuff te myek the most heartless sad. They teuk them away; An' a frosty day Opened as they i' the station lay. Aw'm silent an' brief On a muther's grief; But i' deeth, that day, she'd felt relief: For a lifeless child, An' a parent wild, Wes seen, as the sun shone soft an' mild. ‘Here the nation's curse On a bairnless nurse Wes seen iv its evils, strong in force. An' so it 'ill be, Till the country's free Frae the drink that works such misery. WHAT A FEUL AW'VE BEEN! TEUN-"John Anderson my Jo." Aw mind the time, when full 0' strength, Aw gaily went te wark, An' care sat leetIy On me broo Frae mornin until dark. A happy fam'ly be me side Enlivened a' the scene; But noo the change, the weary change, Shows what a feul aw've been. Contented wi' me daily lot, Industry charmed me heart, An' high it beat wi' honest hope, Sum day aw'd myek a start I' bissniss, maister for me-sel, An' this aw might heh been; But oh, the drink, the weary drink, Shows what a feul aw've been. Aw had a hoose, a canny hoose, An' luvin wife beside; An' bairns that clung around me knee, Thor dad and mammy's pride. Poor things! they dropped off one be one, For poverty se keen Com roond us wiv a deedly blast Man, what a feul aw've been! The hoose that shud hey been a hyem Te wife an' bairns for life, Wes myed a scene ov nowt but want An' nivvor-ending strife. Wi' happiness completely lost, Ne hoose, ne wife, nor wean, The miserable life aw lead Shows what a feul aw've been. DRINK NE MAIR! TEUN- "Trust te Luck." DRINK ne mair! drink ne mair! Tyek advice that's weel meant: Thor's not one that abstains Ivor knawn te repent. They've seen throo thor folly, They've got common sense, Te keep them frae misery, Low life, an' expense. Thor brains once se muddled, They find bright an' clear, An' things oncese cloody Sunshiney appear. Drink ne mair! drink ne mair! Drink ne mair for yor life! Drink ne mair for yor-sel, For yor bairns an' yor wife. Then attend-aw's yor frind, Tyek advice that's wee! meant: Thor's not one that abstains Ivor knawn te repent. Drink ne mair !-throo the air, Thor's a voice that repeats These words te the drunkard, In hoose, bed, or streets. An' they whisper a warnin That nyen shud neglect, If thor anxious te win Byeth gud frinds an' respect. Wi firm resolution, Hoo seun they'll obtain Such a hearty gud change; Ne mair they'll complain, Or wish they war lifeless, An' eager for deeth, But welcum the mornin Wi' hilth i' thor breeth. Then attend-aw's yor frind, Tyek advice that's weel meant: Thor's not one that abstains Ivor knawn te repent. Drink ne mair i-true an' fair Is the warnin we give: It 'ill lengthen yor days; It's a plissure te live, Wi' ne thowts te darken The bright, open day, But honest reflections Te keep care away; Contented an' cheerful, Wi plenty i' store, Nivvor dreedin the thowts 0' the neet gyen before. Keep away frae despair, If ye'll only but think Ov the happiness lost Throo gein way te the drink. Then attend-aw's yor frind, Thor all frinds that declare, For the sake 0' yor-sel, Drink ne mair! drink ne mair ! The above can also be used as a Recitation. FLOG'D IN JAIL! RECITATION WHE wad pity a drunken brute That struck a helpless man? That robbed an' nearly killed, for drink, A poor an' crippled man? An' whe wes this unfeelin wretch? That rascal, Fightin Dan! Thor's sum, if they can use thor fists, Such greet advantage take; They'll double't in yor varry fyece, Te put ye in a shake, Te myek ye give what ye refuse If ye are wideawake. An' so did Dan treat this poor man, Aw've mentioned once before: He tried te myek him pay for drink, An' then he cursed an' swore, Then followed him up sum byway The villainI-like a cur ! 'Twes nearly murder: but he lived Te limp doon te the court, An' there describe the foul attack, An' tell where he wes hurt; The sentence that Dan got that day Wes onything but sport. For days he waited i' the jail, Till one day, tiv his ward, The turnkey com te tell him he Wes wanted in the yard. He seun wes stript an' fastened up "Gan at it I-hit him hard!" An' so they did: they hit him hard, An' Dan turned varry pale ; Tho seldum frightened ov a man, The "cat" seun myed him quail. He yeIled,-it hurt his feelins se, This bein fiog'd i' jail. He cried for marcy!- mark the words ! For marcy, at each stroke! But had he any marcy for The man he tried te choke? No! not a bit; not even if His victim's neck had broke! Ne pity for the hardened wretch; Ne sympathy or fear: Thor'sower mony like him, an' We divvent want them here: Thor's sum wad commit ony crime, Ay, murder, for thor beer! LAST NEET AW FELL OOT WI' ME MATE! TEUN- "The Gallowgate Lad." AW'M bad, but aw's always complainin, Me heed's just as thick as can be, Se often aw get on the fuddle, Reflection's ne plissure for me; Me-sel aw cud start noo an' hammer, Aw think se much shem te relate; Throo the drink aw's byeth sad an' unhappy, Last neet aw fell oot wi' me mate. A canny young fellow is Geordey, He's been a real gud un te me; It's fewthat's enjoy'd better frindship, Se kind an' true-hearted is he ; Aw nivvor fell oot wi' me comrade, Till last neet, aw'm sorry te state: Aw teuk offme coat for te fight him, Te fight wi' maw canny aud mate. Wi' spirits an' beer nearly crazy, Disputin each word that he said: Me tung full ov owt but gud langwidge, A mis'rable time on't aw myed; Aw struck him, an' show'd me bad temper, Man! me-sel aw cud willingly hate ; Aw cud cry, aw's that full 0' vexation, Te think aw fell oot wi' me mate. Poor fellow, he tried te persuade us Te pitch up the drink for me gud, An' he said, if aw'd try, wiv a struggle Aw'd did, an' quite easy aw cud; But stubborn, aw started te call him A preacher, se paltry, te prate; Aw treated wi' scorn his true kindness, An' scoff'd at maw canny aud mate. Aw saw the poor lad wes quite nettled, An' sorry te see me that way; He tried te put me in gud humour, Not one angry word wad he say; But heed-strang an' fiercely ungrateful, Wi' passion that waddent abate; Aw call'd him a "nowt" for his trouble, An' fairly fell out wi' me mate. When sober hoo happy tegither We've been, an' we always cud be, Aw'll tyek his advice, turn teetotal, The varry best thing aw can de: For drink myeks a man se unhappy, Throo trouble it's sure te create; It separates frinds an' relations, An' myeks a chep loss a gud mate. The above can also be used as a Recitation. CLIVOR MEN! TEUN-" Barbary Bell." YE may talk aboot clivor men bein greet drinkers, An' reckon yor-sel as a one 0' that sort, An' run doon teetotal te cheps that's not thinkers, But, hinny, what say ye to Cowen an' Burt? Are they i' yor list amang a' yor greet talent, If not, myek a fresh un if only for sport, An' heed it wi' one 0' the best 0' Gud Templars, The M.P. for Morpeth, the nyem Thomas Burt. It's a credit to send for thor member a pitman, They knew he desarved it, an' voted like men; What he's deun issent halfwhat he's gan te de yit,man, In Parliament seun he'll myek famous his nyem. He talks like a man wiv his senses aboot him, Thor's nowt stimulates him se much as the worth Ov his awn canny frinds, an' they nivvor need doot him, The workin-man's frind, an' the pride 0' the North. Thor's uthers like him aw cud mention wi' plissure, But, bliss ye, 'twad fill a big beuk such a size; Thor nyems i' the North we respect an' we trissure, Joe Cowen's anuther te open yor eyes: He knaws mair aboot a' political hist'ry, Then lots 0' greet statesmen that's got a grand nyem, An' hoohe thinks on't a' te me's quite a myst'ry; He'll myek his mark yit, lad, afore he cums hyem. So dinnet brag se when ye talk aboot drinkers, Or dinnet ye run the teetotalers doon; Thor's men that's abstainers can prove as greet clinkers, An' myek thor-sels knawn te the world i' renoon. Sobriety myeks a man's heed always clearer, He's welcum, respected, knaws hoo te behave; Te byeth frinds an' family he'll ivor be dearer It dissent need whiskey te myek a man brave. LAZY JACK! TEUN- "The Sewing Machine." JACK wes a real gud workman, His shopmates a' knew that; But whenivor he got drink, He'd nivvor strike a bat. His mates wes all sober men, An' diddent like te see A clivor hand like Lazy Jack Se often on the spree. Korus He wad hardly work a week, Before he got the sack; 'Twes a pity te see Such a man on the spree Wiv a nyem like Lazy Jack! His wife wes full 0' trubble, An' mony weary days, She'd humour him or scowld him Te myek him mend his ways. An' Jack wad say he wad did, But when she turned her back, He'd say, "Ne wark for me the day!" Weel nyem'd wes Lazy Jack. He'd often tyek a bottle, When he wes on the spree, Te drink at hyem, throo the neet, A real dry chep was he. He'd put it in the cupboard, An' reckoned such a treat, The time his wifewes fast asleep, Te fuddle a' the neet. One neet, mair drunk than ivor, He got up for a drink, An' seized another bottle Afore he'd time te think. He swally'd a gud moothful, An' then wi' fear wes dumb: He fund 'twas "Furnitor Polish" An' not Jamaica Rum. "What's this?" he cried; "aw's deun for. Whativor is this stuff? It's neither rum nor whiskey, Aw's setisfied eneuff. Gud-bye, maw ill-used wifey! Aw'm deed I-aw's on me back! An unintended suicide's Yor husband, Lazy Jack!" He thowt that he wes poisin'd, Be gud luck he wes not; But it gov him such a fright, It changed him frev a sot Tiv a useful sober man. Says he, "If folks wad think, An' dreed poisin noo as aw did; They'd nivvor ne mair drink!" Korus A simple cure's often best, So here aw'll end me crack; But away an' at hyem, Thor's a change tiv his nyern, It's canny Industrious Jack. THE DIFFERENCE TEUN- "The Harp that once." JUST see the drunkard, mean an' starved, Gan trailin throo the street, Appealin wiv his bleary eyes For ye te stand him treat. A lazy, dorty, creepin thing, A man but i' the nyem A sot that cares for nowt but drink, A stranger tiv a' shem. Despised for spungin, there he'll stand, An' shiver heed te fut; Sumtimes adorned wi' blackened eye, Or else sum ugly cut, That myeks him mair repulsive like Yor forced te turn away, An' wunder hoo he hes the cheek Te turn oot throo the day. Then see the brisk teetotal man Gan sharply throo the street, Wi' heed erect ;-he gains respect Frae ivry one he'll meet. His plissure is a bissey life, He knaws it suits him best; An' when relieved frae daily toil, Thor's cumfort in his rest. He'd like te better a' mankind That's gyen, or led, astray; He'd kindly tyek the drunkard's hand Te lead him the reet way; An' show te him the greet mistake, In drink thor is ne gain; That life can be a Paradise, If he will but abstain. YE NIVVOR THINK THAT MIGHT BE YE! TEUN- "The Time that me Fethur wes bad." WHEN ye read i' the papers each morn, Ov sum most unfortunate case, Where poor fellows meet, throo the drink, Thor deeth i' sum cot-the-way place; It's unheeded, passed ower, forgot, It's sumthingse common te see; An' ye nivvor imagine such-like Might just as seun happen te ye. No, ye nivvor think that might been ye, Yor reckoned a real stiddy man, But ye might get a drop ower much Te drink nyen at a's the best plan! Wi' yor senses aboot ye se clear, Yor footsteps is sure, safe, an' soond: If the river cud speak, it wad say, "Thor's seldum Teetotalers drooned !" Then just think 0' me sang when ye read The cases yor sartin te see, An' ye'll find the best pairt's a' throo drink, Sum accidents efter a spree. When ye think 0' such untimely deeths, It's far better te let drink a be, For it's ne gud te sacrifice life, That shud always be precious te ye. WHAT A HELPLESS CHEP AM AW! TEUN- "The Happy Land of Erin." WHAT a helpless chep am aw, It's a pity ye shud knaw, But aw cannet baud me tung, so aw mun speak, man; For aw once wes bowld an' strang, An' cud roar oot ony sang, Noo aw cannet sing for sixpence, aw's se weak, man. Korus But join us i' the korus, an' lend a helpin hand, Tho aw needint sing i' praise 0' rum or whiskey; For they tyek away all power, an' if aw cud only stand, An' wes sober, aw wad sing the" Bay 0' Biskey." Aw's as poor as ony moose, An' aw's not a bit 0' use, Or an ornament te grace gud society; An' this neet aw'll lay me bones On a bed 0' pavin stones, For aw hevvint sense te stick te sobriety. But it's just what aw desarve, Tho aw had ne call te starve, If aw'd been a sober chep, aw'd been real clivor; But me heed keeps in a muddle, Throo us gettin on the fuddle, It's a wasted life that spoils yor brains for ivor. Hoo aw gloried in a spree, Myekin beer an' munny flee, Nivvor thinkin that me brass wes gettin shorter. Aw had such a canny lass, But aw lost her throo me glass, Aw wes drinkin, so aw haddint time te court her. But aw'm sure 'twes best for her, When she showed us te the door, 'Twad been misery for life if she had married Such a drunken chep as me, So aw often wish te dee, For aw nivvor will be happy till aw'm barried. NE CLAESI TEUN-"The Postman's Knock." SAYS Mary, wi' tears runnin a' doon her cheeks, "Aw cud cry me eyes oat throo war Jack; He spends as much munny on whiskeyan' beer As wad put a new suit on his back; Each Monday he promises faithful te buy Sum claes for the bairnies an' me; He myeks us believe that he's gannin te work, But he's half 0' the week on the spree. Korus "It's a pity te see wor Jack on the spree, He'll nivvor buy claes for the bairns or for me. " Buy sum claes for the bairns if ye winnet forme!' At the end 0' the week aw'll oft say; But he puts us off wiv a paltry excuse, Such as-' Wait till aw hev a full pay!' He'll spend all his brass, axin foaks what they'll hev' He's a gud-hearted fellow,'they say; But they nivvor imagine he nivvor asks me What aw'll hev, when at hyem, i' that way. "It may set him off i' the cumpney he gets, But if he'd these three-happences save, Hoo seun he might better byeth us an' he'sel, Ay, an' not keep his wife like a slave; Unshaven he'd rethur gan for a full week, Always dirty an' seedy is he; An' the bairns an' me-sel's not a bit better off, Throo the munny he spends iv a spree. "Aw've mended thor claes till a stitch 'ill not haud, If aw wesh them, te pieces they cum; For all he sees this, an' besides they've ne shoes, When aw speak, aw might as weel be dumb; If he answers at a', he'll say, 'Wait, an' aw'll buy Them a' sumthing on Seturday next;' But Seturday cums an' it gans the syem way, An' aw'vealways a heart sairly vext. "There's Tommy, poor thing, tho he's happy i' rags, He's not fit.te be seen i' the street, An' Mally, she hesint a hat tiv her heed, An' young Johnny ne shoes tiv his feet; Wi' me awd claes aw often cud help them a bit, But aw noo heh te weer them me-sel; An' whativor 'ill cum ov us a' when thor deun, Whey, aw cannet imagine or tell. Wor neybors, next door, always dress smart an' neat, An' thor always at hyem at a meal; Thor the pictor 0' cumfort an' hearty gud hilth, An' thor real canny foaks tee as weel; They've wanted us often te gan up sum neet, Te join i' the Temperance cawse, An' then we might just be as weel off as them, But wor Jack 'ill not gan, tho he knaws. "Aw wish.he wad join them, an' stick te the pledge, What a different life it wad be; Thor's nowt but starvation an' want where thor's drink, For the wages that cum as seun flee; Thor's one-half condem'd for the tick that he's had, Wi' the uther he'll gan on the spree ; While the fam'ly may starve, wi' ne claes te thor backs, Then God help them poor bairnies an' me." The above can also be used as a Recitation. HARRY'S BROKEN LEG TEUN- "Kiss me quick and go." YOUNG HARRY staggered throo the street, An' got a heavy fall ; His leg wes broke, an' there he lay Wi' heed agyen the wall. His groans attracted plenty folks, But helpless there he lay, Till frinds com up te lend a hand, An' carry him away. Kurus An'.ten weeks on his bed he lay, As helpless as cud be; An' mony a time he rued the day He went upon the spree. His muther tried te cheer him up, An' frinds com droppin in: For Harry had a lot 0' mates Te see his broken shin: It frightened sum, an' myed them stop Upon thor thowtless way; But one 0' them, young Charley Jones, Called in byeth neet an' day. An' Charley often cheered him up, Wi' readin tiv him there: He'd tyek a beuk an' sit beside Poor Harry iv his chair: What Charley red wes gud an' true, It let young Harry see That drink, intoxicatin drink, Nowt else but harm cud de. An' Charley myed young Harry turn Te think the syem as him; An' often he wad wipe his eyes, As they wi' tears grew dim. He teuk the pledge-he's fund it brings Such happiness te him; He'll nivvor brickti-he's got mair sense, Since he'd that broken limb. NANCY IN THE BARROW TEUN-"Judy Macarty." SAYS Jim te me-"One day aw saw A seet that myed us glower: A crood 0' folks wes geth'rin fast, Aw thowt aw'd just cross ower The street, te gaze amang the rest At what had teuk thor fancy; An' whe wes Iyin On the flags? War neybor, Tipsy Nancy! "She cuddent speak-she'd lost her tung, Tho often she's got plenty; She cuddent walk-she cuddent stand A wheelbarrow stud empty. What de ye think two on us did Me an' a handy marrow? We teuk her up, byeth neck an' crop, An' put her in the barrow! She stared aboot se helpless like, For fear that she wes deein; Wi' minds myed up te tyek her hyem, We throo the streets went fieein, Until we landed at the door, Then lifted her like winkin, An' left her safe eneuff te snore An' get clear ov her drinkin. They teli us when she wakened up, Myest ivry byen wes akin; She thowt the world wes upside doon, She'd gettin such a shakin. She blaired and cried like any bairn, Upon her bed se narrow, When tell'd sum frinds had browt her hyem Se public i' the barrow. " "Oh, wes aw born te be browt up, Then turn a drunken wummin?' She cried, wi' monny bitter tears; 'An' here's me gud-man cummin! Aw'm sober now.-What will he think (When aw'm for life his marrow), If he hears tell, throo a' the streets, They've wheel'd us iv a barrow? " Such seets may be grand fun te sum, But, oh, it is disgustin; At last aw really de think shyem Me heart, it's nearly brustin! Ne mair aw'll touch the filthy stuff, Me feelins se te harrow; An' if it proves te me a cure, Aw'll bliss that awful barrow!" She teuk the pledge, an' kept it tee, An' noo she's what aw fancy: A canny neybor, clean an' kind; Weel liked be a' is Nancy. But shyem still myeks her hang her heed, She's gawn te shift te Jarrow, In hopes nebody there 'ill knaw Her journey in the barrow. The above can also be used as a Recitation. -Source: Joe Wilson, (author) Songs and Drolleries, 1890 A DRUNKEN MAN! 'TEUN- "The Cork-Leg." IF ivor ye want te hear black's white, If ivor ye want a reglor fight, Hoo seun the flame ye can easily fan, If ye contradict a drunken man. Let him say owt, an' ye divvent agree, If ye tell him he's rang, he'll let ye see That ye cannet be reet withoot his plan; An' thor's nyen se wise as a drunken man. He'll say his wife's the best i' the toon, An' the varry next minnit knock her doon, An' hammer her heed wi' poker an' pan: A deevil on orth is a drunken man. He'll grummil at owt, an' hey his way, An' contradict ivry word ye say; The subject 'ill finish where ye began, Withoot thor's a fight wi' the drunken man. He'll tell ye what he's deun iv his days, An' stick atnowt if it's just self-praise; The Lord 0' Creation here ye'll scan: Chock-full 0' conceit is the drunken man. He'll brag ova' that belangs te him, His Uncle Bob and his Cousin Jim; His tarrier dogs, that's black an' tan, Is a subject grand for the drunken man. He'll tell ye that he's canny an' croose, Wiv a cumley wife an' a forst-rate hoose, An' thor's nyen such happiness can span; But ye munnit believe a drunken man! THE DOUBLE EVENT! TEUN- "A Nice Young Man." DICK wes a chep that stuck at nowt, If it wad only pay; He got an agent's job for beer, An' myed brass i' that way. He liked te swagger throo the toon, An' call at ivry bar; An' he seun got celebrated As a trav'ler near an far. He quickly myed a roarin trade, An' drove his gig quite smart; He wad seun be independent Wi' myekin such a start : At least he thowt se; so he'd try Te myek his profits mair : He'd hev a hand in sumthing else, What at he diddent care. But startin bissniss for he'sel Stuck firmly in his mind; He'd try a one that waddent fail The undertakin kind. An' so he did: he teuk a shop Built in a weel-knawn street, Exposin i' the windows there New coffins te yor seet. Ay, coffins! bonny handled, tee, An' breest-plates, met yor view; Ye cud stand an' calculate yor fit An' this is really true. He'd sell his beer te customers, An' when thor life wes spent, He'd coffins ready, gud an' cheap, Wi' joiners kindly sent. Thor's sum men hes a narve for owt, If munny they can make; Thor not porticklor what it is, If it 'ill only take. Te think a man shud deal i' beer, An' deal i' coffins, tee, Might shock the strangest vulgor mind; But it's a fact, ye see! Dick's frinds an'.foes wes a' surprised, They thowt he'd seun repent; An' for a lark they chris'end him "The Double Greet Event! " But Dick gets on-the Deevil's frind, His smile it's always grim; He knaws when he cums tiv his bier, A coffin waits for him. The above can also be used as a Recitation. BUY US A GILL 0' BEER! TEUN-" When the Kye cums hame." A CHEP that cadjes for a gill 'Ill nivvor gived a thowt, An' nivvor reckon that the beer He begs hes te be bowt. If he knew ony shyem at a', These words wad strike his ear, If askin for a treat, he'd say" Buy us a gill 0' beer? " Korus "Buy us a gill 0' beer's" Not attractive te the ear; It'll tyeka chepwi' narvete say" Buy us a gill 0' beer!" He asks ye if ye'll stand a glass In a sneakin kind 0' way, Such as-" Aw'm very dry this morn, Aw want te wet me clay," He thinks it's not se beggin-like, An' not at a' severe; Altho its meanin's just the syem "Buy us a gill 0' beer!" An' this is hoo a chep 'ill spunge, For folks te feed his greed; Thor's lots wad giv him nowt at a' If he said, "Buy us breed! " An' lots wad hesitate a bit, For all his meanin's clear, If he wad only ask them thus "Cum, hinny, buy us beer! " A VARRY HARD BED! TEUN- "The Laird 0' Cockpen." HE wes lyin asleep i' the broad day-leer, Stritch'd oat his full length i' the wide open street; The curb-stone his pillow, quite helpless wes Ned, Unconscious he lay on a varry hard bed. Sumtimes he wad grummil at foaks passin by, Then he'd give a greet snore, an' heave a greet sigh; Not dreamin that cairts on his toes might hev tred, He lay there se drunk on his varry hard bed. A crood gether'd roond, an' the pollis perplext, Cud dent waken him up, so they got varry vext; For a stritcher one off te the station-hoose sped, Then they carried him off tiv anuther hard bed. He slept a' 'the neet, but next mornin, se sair, He waken'd, an' started te find he'sel there; He luckt roond aboot him, says he, "Aw's misled, For if this is maw hoose it's a different bed! " "Whativer on orth's browt us here?" ·then he said, "Aw diddent cum here be me-sel, aw's aflaid ; Aw'd slept just as weel in abroken-doon shed, Me byens may weel ake on this hard-hearted bed! " But the pollis com In, an' it open'd his eyes, When the magistrates spoke he luckt up wi' surprise; Says they, "Ye've had lodgins since hereye war led:" Says he, "But ye gov us an awful hard bed I’ It cost him ten shillins,-he myed his way hyem, Wi' heed-ake, an' heart-ake, an' byens just the syem ; Says he, "Ne mair fuddlin, such nonsense is fled, Aw've cum te maw senses upon that hard bed!" The above can also be used as a Recitation. TE LEEVE FOR A HUNDRID EERS! TEUN- "Cum whoam te yor Childer and Me." STRANGE ideas creep inte wor heeds, Difficult ye'd think te conceive: Yet hoo often they'll cum te amuse, Mair often then we cud believe; It's just two or three days since young Smith, A frind 0' mine, laffin appears Sayin, "What a queer world this wad be If we allleev'd a whole hundrid eers If we had, an' we knew that we had Te leeve for a full hundrid eers !" The foaks waddent care when they war ill, They'd nivvor need docterin then, For the young uns we'd nivvor need fear, Bein sure they'd grow wimmen an' men; An' we'd welcum the dear little things Withoot ony sadness or tears, For we'd knaw throo thor trubbles they'd pull, An' they'd leeve for a whole hundrid eers If they had, an' we knew that they had Te leeve for a whole hundrid eerst Then i' courtin we'd nivvor loss heart, For we'd knaw thor wes plenty 0' time Te find one, if a lot diddent suit, An' till ninety we'd be i' wor prime; But at fifty aw'd freely propose, An' be seconded safe wi' greet cheers, That nebody shud work efter that, Let them rest for the next fiftyeers, An' experience the real joys 0' life Till the end 0' the whole hundrid eers. Aw can hardly imagine what scenes Thor wad be wi' the time drawin nigh, Hoo sum wad kneel doon an' repent While uthers heart-broken wad cry; Thor wad still be sum wantin a spree, Nivvor thinkin ov sorrow or tears; But uthers as prompt as cud be, Wad pay up all debts in arrears; While uthers content an' prepared, Wad finish the lang hundrid eers. But, bliss ye! if this wes the case, Thor's sum foaks that's nivvor content, 'Phey'd want te leeve fifty eers mair, An' fifty eers mair te repent; So aw think war all best as we are, An' when hope frev each breest disappears Let reflections byeth peaceful an' sweet Myek us knaw we've not wasted wor eers; That we've leev'd, just as if we had leev'd For the whole 0' the .Iang hundrid eers. The above can also be used as a Recitation. SEEIN DOUBLE TEUN- "Sally Lee." ONE day aw got me portrait teun, When aw wes on the spree; Aw went an' showed it te me wife, Says she, "It's just like ye !” Aw lafft an' felt pleased that it wes, Says aw, "That's varry true! " But when aw luckt intiv its fyece, I cud swore thor wes two. Korus Two-fowld eyesight's anything but spree; Two heeds, fower airms, two foaks for one te see. Thor's sum may think it's funny, But aw'Il not bed, indeed; For wben a cbep sees double, whey, He's nearly oot his heed. Says aw, "Thor's two heeds on me neck Upon this pictor here! " Says she, "Man, ye see double, for Ye've been upon the beer! " "See double! de ye think aw's drunk," Says aw," maw canny lass! " Aw luckt agyen, but still aw saw Two heeds upon the glass. Aw luckt up te maw bonny wife, Says aw, "Maw darlin Bell!" When aw saw she had two fyeces Byeth laflin like her-sel. Says aw, "Hev aw got two wives here?" Says she, "Don't be an ass! " Aw turned maw heed, an' saw me fyece Twice i' the luckin-glass. Aw saw two fiddles hanging up, Aw knew aw just had one; Thinks aw, aw'd better heh them doon; Aw'll try the uther's tone. Aw got on what aw thowt two chairs, Te reach them frae the wall, Aw fund aw'd just one i' me hand, An' not let either fall. Aw saw two tyebles on the floor ; Six chairs, tho we'd but three; Two kettles singin on the hob, An' fower cups 0' tea. Aw saw me two wives suppin theirs, Says aw, "Hoo de ye de? Aw diddent knaw my wife wes twins Yor welcum byeth te me !" Aw sat there fairly mesmerised, An' tried awake te keep; Aw fund me senses cummin te As aw wes gawn te sleep. But when aw wakened up, aw went, An', sober, signed the pledge; Thinks aw, this seein double's close Upon the madhoose edge. The above may also be used as a Recitation. MURDER THROO DRINK: THE GALLOWS RECITATION THEY'VE teun him off te the Station noo, Sumbody said that they always knew 'Twad end like this; for the fearful strife Wad only end i' the loss ov a life, An' that wad be i' the life ov the wife. "Murder!" wes whispered in ivry breeth. A poor aud wummin wes kicked te deeth Ay, kicked te deeth wivher man's greet feet In hob-nail beuts, that he wore i' the street. An' sumbody said that it sarved her reet. Sumbody always hes sumthing te say. Aw heard they'd been drinkin mony a day Ay, mony 11 day an' many a year, Till the wummin had lost a' sense 0' fear, An' nivvor thowt that her end wes near. But ivry life mun cum tiv an end, The seuner wi' drinkin, ye may depend; The seuner wi' drink, for it's murder's mate, For it fills the breest wi' passion an' hate, That the hangman nivvor hes lang te Walt. The prisoner sits iv his gloomy cell, An' hears for his-sel the funeral bell. But sumbody says that they owt te see The murderer hung on the gallows tree; It's a shem that it shud se private be. Oh, but sumbody here shud stop an' think Ov the evil deun throo the evil drink. For it's murder here, an' it's murder there, It's murder throo drink myest ivrywhere, An' the gallows is varry seldom bare. Keep clear 0' the drink for yor lives, aw say; Keep't oot 0' yor awn an' yor bairns' way, Tho sumbody says it'll de ye gud; But it nivvor will, nor it nivvor cud; It corrupts the mind, the body, an' blud. .JANEY TODD'S ANCESTORS TEUN-" Nelly Gray." SAYSJaney Todd, "Me ancestors wes nivvor up te much, They all war ower fond 0' drinking beer; Thor's not one 0' the fam'ly that wes nivvor knawn te touch Sum 'toxicatin stuff when they war here. Korus "Me ancestors wes drunkards frae the farrest back aw trace, An' they've left us nowt te brag on i' thor side; They've only left behint them thor bad nyems full 0' disgrace, An' thor's not one aw can luck upon wi' pride. "Me granfethur wes transported: throo the drink he signed a nyem, That wassent his, upon sum kind 0' check; The judges, when they sentenced him te siven years frae hyem, Called him lucky for that time te save his neck. "His bruther wesanuther, throo the drink, that went astray, He listed for a sowljor; but his pains Seun finished i' dileerium: he teuk a gun one day, An' i' the horrors blew oot all his brains. "Me unkil, nivvor sober, always wad be oot the train As seun as ony platform com in seet. One neet, he got his leg teun off, throo this, at Pelaw Main, An' myest ivrybody said it sarved him reet. "Me fethur's little better; aw wish aw cud mend his ways, But he scowls at me, an' fills us full 0' fear; He nivvor speaks kind tiv us except when awpawn his claes, Then he'll try an' smile, an' offer me sum beer. "He'll brag ov his relations always bein killed throo drink: One wes hung, two wes scumfished, three wes drooned; An' he'll say me muther's ancestors wes spunges that wad slink Throo the streets, for they war thievishly renooned. "But the drink, that curse an' evil, dissent always end i' deeth, For thor varry nyems behint them's tret wi' scorn, An' thor crimes an' misdeeds mentioned i' posterity's sad breeth Wishin, prayin, that it nivvor had been born." The above can also be used as a Recitation. ON THE BEER! TEUN- "Terence's Farewell." JACK BARKLEY'S thick-heeded an' lazy, He lounges aboot like a feul ; Unshaven an' dorty, he'll deave ye As seun as he iver gets full. He'll sing an' he'Il shoot like a madman, His fav'rit's wee! knawn, "Cheer, Boys, Cheer!" An' he'll blair wiv a fyece sentimental; He's noisy, not lively, wi' beer. Wild Bob gans aboot foaks insultin, Ye'd think at the world he'd a spite; He'll dunch agyen foaks that he passes, An' try an' provoke them te fight. He likes te fall oot wi' the pollis, His eyes frae the black's seldum clear; In fact, he's a black altegither, Nivvor safe when he gans on the beer. Lang Polly gans daft when she's drinkin, Neglectin her gud-man an' bairns; She'll sit dayan' neet when she tipples Alang wiv her neybor, Doll Cairns. DoIl laffs at owt-screams like a nidiot, Poll cries wiv a crokidile's tear; Thor a nice-luckin sample 0' wimmen These two, when they get on the beer! Ruff Bill thinks but nowt aboot smashin Whativer may cum iv his way; He threw a glass plate at his wife, an' It struck thor poor bairn as it lay. They've tyekin Bill off te the station; He threatens that, when he gets clear, He'll myek his poor wife sairly suffer; He's a miscreant maddened wi' beer. They may sing silly sangs iv its praises, An' butter the Scotch an' the Mild; But where is its qualities precious? It myeks men unsettled an' wild. Thor a' better, far better, withoot it, Throo the world they can steadily steer, With a heed byeth cool, firm, an' collected, Withoot thor brains muddled wi' beer. The above can also be used as a Recitation. I’M ALWAYS DRY ! TEUN- "Trab, Trab," Aw cud welcum ivry mornin Wiv a heart byeth leet an' gay, An' the sun agyen returnin Te myek bright anuther day; But aw de nowt else but sigh, For aw feel se awful dry! Dry, dry, dry, dry, Aw'm always dry: Whativer can aw try? Yis; the mornin' may be plissint, An' the birds may sweetly sing; But thor's not a charm, thor issent, That can joy te maw heart bring. When aw luck up te the sky, Te feel better hoo aw try; But dry, dry, dry, Aw'malways dry: Whativer can aw try? Can aw not find resolution Te dispel this dreadful thirst? An' te save me constitution Is thor nowt te be enforced? Is thor nowt that aw can try? Can sum gud frind not reply? For dry, dry, dry, Aw'm always dry Whativer can aw try? Thor's a voice heard throo the nation, An' it whispers, "Stop, gud frind ! If ye keep frae dissipation, What a greet relief ye'll find. An' ye'll bliss us by-an'-by, If ye'll only just comply. Then try, try, try: Ye'Il not be dry, If Temperance ye'Il try!" DE WITHOOT IT FOR ONCE! TEUN- “The Boys of Kilkenny." DE withoot it for once, an' ye'll want it ne mair, Ye'll not care for'd then, no, aw'm sure ye'll not care; Just heh firm resolution; yor sure te miss'd noo, But efter, ye'll be a teetotaler true. Shun drink as a poisin : it poisins the mind; It poisins the body; an' feelins se kind Sink under its power. Kill the tyrant at once, An' strive te be free, when ye knaw ye've the chance. Ye say that it myeks ye se awfully bad, Then what myeks ye tyek such a thing, canny lad? If ye knew the blissin te let it aleyn, Ye'l! nivvor ne mair touch the vile stuff agyen. De withoot it for once, an' ye'll think 0' me words When, happy, ye'll find what abstainin affords; An' ye'll say te yor-sel, "If ye'd only but knew, Years since ye wad been a teetotaler true! " A SET FIGHT. TEUN-" Trip to Tynenmouth." "OH, hinny, Joe, aw's oat 0' breeth, Got two black eyes, an' lost three teeth, Aw thowt aw'd just escape wi' deeth!" Says Drunken Dick the Striker, 0 ! " Aw've' had a fight wi' Meg Dunn's man, Becas he said maw hide he'd tan; He said aw tell'd his sister Nan War Mally diddent like her, 0 ! "Says Nan te me, 'Ye drunken sot! Yor all alike-a boosy lot!' Then at me heed she flung a pot, An' cut us on the temple, 0 ! Meg Dunn then says, Ye silly cull ! Ye shuddent notis such a feul, Withoot ye give his nose a pull! She did, but not se gentle, 0 ! "Then whe shud cum up but war Mall. Directly that she saw me fall, She knockt Fat Nan agyen the wall, An' gov her a nose-ender, O! Then whe shud follow but war Nell, As brave as any score her-sel, She'd help war Mall te hev a spell, Wi' heart byeth tuff an' tender, 0 ! "She went reet up te Tom Dunn's wife, An' swore she'd tyek her varry life, Withoot.knawn any cawse for strife, But langin te be fightin, 0 ! They seun went at it left an' reet, Whole fower fightin i' the street; Aw wished that aw wes oot 0' seet, It's what aw've ne delight in, 0 ! " Aw nivvor knew till Tom Dunn's blows Com poorin on me mooth an' nose; But when he tried me eyes te close, Aw roared oot lood, 'It's murder, 0 ! ' Says he, 'Y e sheep, shut up yor jaw, Or else aw'lliay ye groanin law!' He did; aw shut me eyes, an' saw 'Twes best te keep gud order, 0 ! " Wor Nell an' Mally cuddent speak;T he Dunns wes laid up for a week; Ne summonses we had te seek, We got them withoot thinkin, 0 ! Then fines apiece we had te pay. Whativer myed us fight that day Not one of us cud iver say, Except we'd a' been drinkin, O!" A DRUNKEN WIFE TEUN- "The Cruiskeen Lawn." THE greetest plague in life Is a dirty, drunken wife, An' the man disarves greet pity that hes such; For it's bad eneuff for men Tyekin glasses noo an' then, Withoot a wummin that tyeks ower much. Her wretched-luckin hyem Issent worthy 0' the nyem, Where starvation, wiv its horrors, shows its heed; It byeth turns yor heart an' eye, An' it myeks a body sigh, Where ivrything but varmint's nearly deed. It's a sad an' painful case, When a wife forgets her place, An' desarts the canny bairns she shud protect; An' she losses a' for life, That's a trissure iv a wife, When she losses tiv her-sel-her self-respect. Sittin tipplin i' the bar, Wi' the neybors myekin war, She's a torment, full 0' danger te them a'. A mischievous wummin's tung Issent fit te be unstrung Wiv intoxicatin liquors-that aw knaw. She nivvor hes ne care Aboot owt but gettin mair, An' te get it, whey, she's not porticklor hoo. Just tell her she tells a lee, An' ye'll find,I t best te flee It's a hopeless case if ye for marcy sue. See a drunken wummin fight, Hoo her eyes 'ill glare wi' spite, An' she's not at a' porticklor whe she strikes: She Can fight wi' them she hates, For her passion nivvor waits, An' a word 'ill myek her fight wi' them she likes. Hoo blist a man sbud be, Frev a drunken wummin free, He may welcum ony uther kind 0' strife; For the varry meanest slave Wad as seun be in his grave As be married tiv a drunken, dorty wife. The above can also be used as a Recitation. TEETOTAL INJOYMENT TEUN- “Be kind te me Dowler." CUM, Johnny, gan wi' me the neet Aw'l! tyek ye tiv a meetin, Where ye'll fall in wi' kindly foaks, They'll gie ye frindly greetin. Ye'll find teetotal men can myek Injoyment for thor neybors ; An' ivrything se hyemly-like Attends thor honest labours. Korus Then oh, Johnny, cum alang wi' me, An' ye'll see what's teetotal injoyment. Ye'll not find them a' speak at once, Nor nivvor see them fightin; They knaw hoo te behave thor-sels, l' that they tyek delight in. Byeth canny lads an' lasses, tee, May gan there wi' greet plissure, An' lissen te the bonny sangs That 'liven up war leisure. Ye'll find it dissent need the drink Te myek a fellow merry; An' when ye gan back hyemat neet, Thor's nowt te myek ye sorry. Thor's ne reflections here te dull Yor peace 0' mind next roornin, Te myek ye wake wi' akin heed, An' throat a' parched an' burnin. Ye'll need ne help te tyek ye hyem, Ye'l! walk there firm an' clivor; If once ye'll gan, ye'll gan agyen, An' then abstain for iver. It only needs a firm gud heart Te stick te self-denial; An' then ye'll bless the happy day Ye gov us a fair trial. TEETOTAL NOO! TEUN- “The Cure." Iv a' the" cures " that's in the world Thor's one that's stud the test, An' seun 'ill be established as The safest an' the best: That's abstinence frae alchohol! It cheers the heart a' throo Te hear anuther member's myed, An' he's teetotal noo. Korus I Teetotal noo! teetotal noo! It cheers the heart a' throo Te hear anuther member's myed, An' he's teetotal noo. Aw'll tell ye a few cures it's myed: Bill Thorn wes varry bad, He thowt that he wes gannin fast Says aw, "Maw canny lad, Just pitch up drinkin what ye de, Or else ne mair ye'll hew!" He did, an' noo he's stoot an' strang, For he's teetotal noo. Tom Rolly's hilth wes leavin him, He got that dreadful weak; When weel, he wes a noisy chep, Wi' such a lot d cheek: But noo he's stiddy, weel-behaved, He's bid the beer adieu! Just ask him, he knaws which is best, For he's teetotal noo. Ned Whalley's temper wes the warst Ov any i' the street; He used te hit an' kick his wife He nigh killed her one neet: But noo thor just as happy, an' Glad smiles leet up each broo; The reason 0' this wondrous change Is, he's teetotal noo. Jack Bruce wes thowt a hopeless case, Myest always bad an' pale; He passed his time away frae hyem When he wes oot 0' jail: But noo he's got a canny job; The gentlemen in blue Miss Jack-he's nivvor i' thor hands, For he's teetotal noo. Aw nivvor saw a chep se thin As Davey Bones once was; Starvation, like a walkin ghost, Wes pictor'd in his Jaws. It teuk a while te get him roond, At last heTiilthy grew; An' lately he's mair like a man, For he's teetotal noo. But, bliss ye! aw might sing a' neet, An' subjects nivvor cease, Te prove hoo mony lives 0' war's Been alter'd inte peace. The happy change, the gladnin change, Shud always get its due, Convartin drunken men te say That they're teetotal noo. The above can also be used as a Recitation. THROO GETTIN SETIPSY LAST NEETf TEUN- "Cum into my Cabin, Red Robin." Aw's awfully shaky an' narvis, Aw's trimmilin just like a leaf; Aw cuddent tyek brickfist or dinner, Tho me wife had a bonny bit beef. She myed broth for the gud 0' me stomick, Aw'd injoyed them if aw had been reet; But aw cuddent get ower a spoonful, Throo us gettin se tipsy last neet. Aw's frightened te luck at me shadow, An' me voice trimmils se when aw speak; Aw hevvint the strength ov a kitten; Aw s dreadfully timid an' weak. Me eyes is a' reed wi' the blud-shot; Aw hardly can stand on me feet; Aw's not fit for work, an' aw cannet, Throo us gettin se tipsy last neet. Two hands te the glass that aw lifted Aw had, an' it nigh teuk me breeth ; An' aw gulped doon the brandy an' soda, As the glass rattled close te me teeth. Aw's nivvor that way when aw'm sober, Me hearthes a real healthy beat; An' aw'd nivvor heh suffered this mornin If aw baddent got tipsy last neet. THROO DRINKIN BITTER BEER TEUN-"Bitter Beer." SAYS Billy Dunn, "Aw'll ne mair sing In praise 0' bitter beer, It's the varry thing te kill us Aw'm deed noo varry near. Aw divvent want te dee just yit, Aw'd like te leeve a eer ; Aw'm sure aw winnet leeve six munths If aw drink bitter beer. Korus "Oh, lads, tyek nyen on't for fear! If ye want te commit suicide, An' like a ghost appear, Ye'll get the shakes, an' ne mistake, Throo drinkin bitter beer! "They gie this stuff a' sorts 0' nyems, Sum' Edinboro Ale,' 'Scotch Bitter,' an' 'Best Borton,' An' sum cau'd 'Indian Pale' : The last nyem may be reet eneuff, Aw's awful pale an' queer; Thor'll be varry few fresh-culler d Throo drinkin bitter beer! "They say that it 'ill myek ye eat, But that mun be a lee: Aw can assure ye the effect's Quite different wi' me. Aw've fairly lost me appetite; Me heed's not varry clear: An' it's but little that aw tyest Throo drinkin bitter beer! "Aw shake as if me varry hands Diddent belang te me; Aw feel as if aw cuddent work Throo gettin on the spree. Aw trimmil se, they'll not catch me Ne mair at bitter beer; Aw knaw aw nivvor feel this way When aw drink wetter clear! " OOT 0V HIS HEED. TEUN- "The Bonny Boy in Blue." THEY'VE teuk young Bobby Jones away Frae an his frinds se dear; A canny, quiet lad wes he Till he got on the beer. But beer an' spirits did thor wark Wi' fierce an' cruel speed: They've sent the poor young fellow wild, An' clean oot ov his heed. Korus. Poor·young Bob! they've tyekin him away Frae frinds, relations, all he luvs, For mony a weary day. Poor young Bob! it's been sad wark for ye, Throo alcohol te kill yor brain: Doomed te captivity. What happy prospects thor appeared For Bob te pave his way, An' myek he'sel a divor man, An' famous on sum day Not distant, a' the neybors thowt ; But drink's unfeelin greed Claimed Bob Jones as its victim, when It sent him oat his heed. What will his poor aud muther de? Thor's nyen te help her noo, Besides the lass he had te wed, The lass se gud an' true. He may recover; but the time Seems lang, ay, lang indeed, Te wait till man gets better if He's once oat ov his heed. An' drink myeks lots 0' scenes like this, It fills the madhoose weel; Thor'd not be many patients there Withoot it, te conceal An' keep secure frae busy life, Wi' minds that cannet think ; They might nearly close the 'sylum, If it wassent for the drink. THE INTENDED SUICIDES. TEUN-" The Pawnshop Bleezin." TOM JACKSON an' his wife fell oot, Byeth drunk an' got mischievous; Says he, one neet, "Aw'll end me life, An' that 'ill seun relieve us Frae such a bitter plague as ye. Ye've not been a gud wife te me, This neet aw'll te the river flee, An' i' the wetter cawd aw'll dee, Aw'm once for all detarmined!" Says she, "If ye intend te gan, Aw'll de the syem as ye, man; Aw cuddent leeve here be rne-ael, Unhappy aw wad be, man. Ye've always been me care an' pride, Aw'm lost withoot ye be me side. Aw've travelled wi' ye far an' wide; So aw'll gan doon when it's high tide, An' droon me-sel wi' ye, man!" Says he, "Ye needint gan wi' me, Ye'll stop us if yor there, lass; If ye had been a sober wife, Aw'd nivvor need te care, lass, Aw'd let melife run oot its span, But noo aw'll te destruction gan!" Says she, "If ye had been a man That myed a stiddy life yor plan, "Twad nivvor com te this, man ; " At neet he slawlybent his way, Till close beside the river, He teuk his coat an' waistkit off. Says he, "It's noo or nivvor!" When all at once he heard a shriek; He luckt aroond-he cuddent speak; When on the surface 0' the deep He saw a form-he teuk a leap, For Tom wes a gud swimmer. He bravely swam te save the life Ov sum unhappy creetor, An' be the meunleet there he saw His wife in ivry feator. He pull'd her safely te the shore, Then on his back her body bore, Until he reached thor awn hoose door, An' then he laid her on the floor, Te bring her tiv her senses. She moaned an' cried when she com roond, But Tom had nivvor spoken; Thor freak had gien them byeth a fright, Her heart wes nearly broken. But efter this they had sum tea, Injoyed it better then a spree, Myed up thor minds T.T. te be; . An', prizin life, they byeth agree Ne suicides te be, man. LET THEM LAFF, BUT THEY KNAW IT'S THE BEST TEUN-"Pat's Curiosity Shop." Aw's a fav'rite wi' all 0' me neybors, Me shopmates thor fondov us tee, An' aw'sreckoned a real jolly fellow Be all that knaws me on the Kee; But lately aw've turned staunch teetotal, They thowt aw wes only in jest, An' they started te pick fun in earnest. Let them laff, but they knaw it's the best. But lately, etc. Aw once wes a real heavy drinker, Aw wes ready for owt for a spree: Aw wad jumpt from the famous High Level If they'd stand a gallon for me. Aw've gyen a whole week withoot weshin, Tho when sober, such dirt aw detest; Noo they think that aw'm prood cas aw'm decent: Let them laff, but they knaw it's the best. But lately, etc. Aw mind when aw courted wor Bella, Aw cuddent such cumpany keep; Her fethur an' muther imagined She'd fallin i' luv wiv a sweep, An' a sweep that wesalways se dirty. Says she, "Turn teetotal, it's best! Thor's ne kiss aw like when yor drinkin, It's a smack that aw cannet digest!" But lately, etc. When aw fund that me lass wes disgusted, Aw felt the syem way wi' me-sel; An' aw'd not been teetotal a fortneet, Till aw wesa match for young Bell. So wi' confidence aw popt the questin, Says she, "Noo, aw'll grant yor request, If ye promise te keep as ye've started; Ye may laff, but ye'll find it's the best!" But lately, etc. So aw did; an' seun efter we married; We've nivvor had cawse for te rue. She's anxious that Temp'rance shud prosper, An' aw heh the syem ideas noo. The neybors call us "The Teetotallers!" Tho wi' jeers the nyem's often expressed; They may scoff as they like, but aw'm sartin They may laff, but they knaw it's the best. But lately, etc. The above can also be used as a Recitation. PORT WINE TEUN- "Varry Canny." TE keep me-sel stiddy, an' be a gud lad, Wes always me sober intention; Ne spirits aw'd tyek, an' aw diddent like beer, So once when aw heard a chep mention, If ye stuck te port wine ye wad nivvor get rang; Thinks aw, then aw'll tried te keep stiddy. So the next time aw entered a public-hoose bar, Te call for port wine aw wes ready. Port wine wes me drink then wheriver aw went, Logwood chips aw cud swally quite willin; They say that it strengthens the feeble an' weak, But aw nivvor imagined 'twes killin. Ivry mornin aw got oat 0' bed half asleep, Wi' me brains iv a terrible muddle; Aw felt as if aw'd been a drunkard for life, An' aw nivvor cud get off the fuddle. At wark aw wad sit be the fire an' nod, Tho aw tried hard te keep me-sel waken; An' aw walked throo the streets se simple an' fond, Aw wad liked te been taken an' shaken. If foaks spoke, aw luckt wiv a greet vacant stare, "He's tipsy!" aw've heard fellows whisper: An' aw fund as if they war just speakin the truth, When aw spoke like a real drunken lisper. Thinks aw, it's the port wine that's dein the trick, Aw started te tyek't in October, An' noo it's December, te tell ye the truth, Aw've not been a single day sober. Aw'm sleepy an' listless-aw hardly can move, But aw'm waken te knaw thor's ne gud in't; Port wine's like the rest, varry bad at the best, So tyek nyen on't, yor reet if ye shuddent. Ye cannet keep sober wi' stickin te wine, Yor sure te get intoxicated; If it tyeks a bit langer te polish ye off, It myeks ye as stupidly-pared, It's sartin te stick a Iang time i' yor bIud, An' if it shuddent myek ye se crazy, It 'ill stop a' yor energy, keep ye frae wark, An' 'ill myek ye disgracefully lazy. The above can also be used as a Recitation. l' THE WORKHOOSE TEUN-"On the Ropery Banks." Aw once wes byeth stiddy an' clivor, "A real handy chep!" they wad say; At owt aw cud myek me-sel useful, Aw nivvor wes off wark a day. Aw sarved me time oot as a fitter, But nivvor wes tied te me trade; At neets awwes just like a joiner, Byeth tyebles an' chairs, tee, aw made. Korus But noo aw'm byeth helpless an' useless, Not worthy 0' one word 0' praise; Throo driukiu aw's browt te the workhoose, An' here aw mun finish me days. Aw wes nimble; aw once wes a runner, As sharp as cud be on me feet; An' mony a crack aw've astonished Aw nivvor wes knawn te be beat. At wrestlin aw wessent a bad un, Wi' confidence, strang as a bull; I' public-hoose rows aw wes champein, Nyen had a chance when aw wes full. Aw wes happy if aw wes but busy, Nowt iver com rang i' me way; Te keep me hands gawn wes a plissure, Not always porticklor te pay. Aw'd mend me awn shoes, coat, an' troosers, Byeth cobbler an' tailor wes aw ; Or build a pig-sty for me neybors, An' kill the pigs, tee, ye mun knaw. Insteed ov us workin for payment, Aw always felt happy at neet If they teuk us intiv a beer-boose, A few glasses myed it a' reet. Aw liked te hear all ov them praise us, It filled us se full 0' conceit; Aw reckoned me-sel, i' me awn mind, The clivorest man i' the street. Aw got that much used wi' me glasses, Aw always kept langin for mair, Till eers 0' such varry hard drinkin Teuk effect when aw wassent aware. A stroke laid us up for life helpless, An' put a sad end te me spree; Withoot drink aw'd been strong an' healthy, It's been a dear fuddle te me. The above can also be used as a Recitation. WHISKEY HET! TEUN " Aw'" sing ye a Tyneside Sang." WOR Sandy's always bad, An' complains aboot the cawd, Tho the weather's warm eneuff te myek ye swet; An' the medsin that he'll take Issent gud for his awn sake, For he always wants a glass 0' whiskey het. Korus An' oh, me lads, it always myeks him bad, For he'll drink as much as he can get; An' he'll swally'd quickly up, Then he'll wantanuther sup, Always cravin for a glass 0' whiskey het. A' the neet he'll waken keep, For he cannet gan te sleep, An' a bottle at his bedside's always set; An' he says he's nivvor reet, Throo the day or throo the neet, Withoot he gets his medsin-whiskey het. l' the morn he cannet smile, For he's troubled wi' the bile, An' he retches till the pain myeks him swet ; But he winnet mend his ways, Tho he hes te pawn his claes Te raise whiskey; an he's ower heed i' debt. On the land or on the wave, Thor wes nivvor such a slave As wor Sandy is te drink-he's iv a net; An' he'd rethur captive be l' such pain an' misery, Tho te see him suffer se it myeks us fret. Korus An' oh, me lads" it myeks us all se sad, For he'll drink as much as he can get; But we'lltry an' bravelysave The most helpless frae the grave, An' destroy the power ov whiskey, cawd or het. JACK GREEN TEUN- "Sal and Methusalum." JACK GREEN had a real canny job, His age wes sixty-three; An' byeth his maistors liked him weel, As maistors often de. For twenty eers he'd been wi' them, Ne fault they'd ivor seen, Except him fuddlin noo an' then, They thowt that nowt i' Green. Korus But the drink 'ill myek a gud man bad, An' the sense an' morals may gan ; Te get his fill, for a paltry gill, He'll de owtwill a drunken man. Aud age te Jack browt ne mair sense, He drunk mair than they thowt ; He'd sell or pawn his claes for drink, An' spunge for it for nowt. Neet efter neet, day efter day, He boasted, amid cheers, That he wes best man i' the shop He'd sarved for twenty eers. Aw suppose he wes a gud hand, tee, An' that aw'll not dispute; At ony rate, he got the nyem Ov one, all roond aboot. Jack the Tinner-Tinker Jack Se handy wiv his shears, Had honestly an' truly served His maistors twenty years. But drink begun te change the man Te one ye'd not respect; He diddent keep the company That honest men select. His munny gyen, an' wantin drink, He stole a small tin can, Te sell'd te raise a pint 0' beer Then misery began. They fund it oot; he lost his job: Not all his prayers an' tears Cud myek his maistors keep him on, Withoot suspicious fears. The varry ones he'd tret wi' drink Noo turned frae him wi' sneers, An' axt him if anuther man Wad trust him twenty eers? He got the blame for bein warse Then ivor he had been; His varry shopmates diddent like Te stop and speak te Green. This shows the harm that drink 'ill de, Jack as a thief appears; Throo drink he lost the job that he Had kept for twenty eers. The above can also be used as a Recitation. GEORDEY'S FOND 0' RUM! TEUN·-"Mally Dunn." "WOR Geordey wes a canny man, A canny man te me; Me life weslike a happy dream," In grief, says Nan McGee. "Aw blist the day that we got wed, Such happiness had cum; But now aw cannet praised ne mair For Geordey's fond 0' rum ! Korus "Them happy days is passed away, Aw doot they'll ne mar cum; Aw hope they may; but hoo can they, When Geordey's fond 0' rum? "His gud lucks won me willin heart, His smile wes honey's sel ; But oh, his tung had mair effect Then awheh wordste tell But noo his bonny fyece is changed, Its culler's noo becum A dirty, half-weshed kind 0' reed, Throo drinkin se much rum ! "Insteed 0' talkin kind te me, Whenivor he cums in, He staggers tiv his aud airrn-chair, Then argyin he'l! begin. He thinks the room chock full 0' foaks, Aw stand quite mute an' dumb; He calls for' Order!' talks away, Then shoots for sum mair rum! "Aw've seen him fightin wi' the chair Becawse it waddent speak; He'd say aw knew ne greet M.P.'s, Me knollidge wes se weak. Politicks aw knew nowt aboot, As chairman aw wes numb; He teuk us for sum chep he knew, Throo gettin se much rum. "He'll jump oat ov his bed at neets, An' sweer he sees a ghost; An' mony a time he'll lector Te the [ower-pole bed-post. Next mornin, when he wakens up, Doon stairs he'll wretched cum, Sayin, 'Nan, aw've been a feullast neet, Throo gettin se much rum !' "He'll haud his heed as if 'twad burst, Aw myek him a sup tea, An' try te cheer him wi' me words; But still it winnet de. For oh, aw luv me husband weel, An' hope the day 'ill cum, When we'll be happy as before He ivor tyested rum! " The above can also be used as a Recitation. QUEER CUSTOMS TEUN- "The Firery Clock-Fyece." WHENwar Peg's audest bairn wes born, They sent for me, se merry, An' begged that aw wad tyek me torn Te drink its hilth i' sherry; Or if aw'd hey a glass 0' rum Or whiskey, they wad send for sum. Aw seun got tight as ony drum Amang the hurry-skurry. Korus In joy or grief, it's maw belief, It's a custom queer, aw's think in ; They say it gies them greet relief A fine excuse for drinkin ! They sent for me te gan alang An' tyek tea at the christnin ; They gov us sumthin far mair strang, That set me eyes a-glistnin, We sung an' danced frae morn till neet, An' carried on like foaks not reet ; It cuddent be owt like a treat Tiv anybody listnin. But efter that the poor bairn deed, An' cawsed anuther fuddle; We sobbed an' sighed, an' hung wor heeds, Wi' brains all in a muddle. The drink wes here mixed up wi' grief: We thowt the spirits browt relief; An' one aud wife, i' that belief, The bottle she wad cuddle. This shows, frae creddle te the grave, The bottle's a hard maistor : It myeks se mony foaks its slave, An' proves a reglor waistor. Such customs, i' the times like these, Frae care they cannet bring release, But quarrels cawse, an' myek wi' ease Heeds fit for stickin-plaistor. FORST FUTTIN! TEUN- "Row upon the Stairs," LIKE uther chaps wi' little sense, Aw join'd them iv a spree, One New Eer's morn, wi' bottles full, A grand forst-fut te be; We sung as we went throo the streets, Wi' voices owt but clear, An' wish'd myest ivry one we met A happy, happy eer! Korus Aw wish ye a happy new eer! Aw wish ye a happy new eer! Aw can de the syem Far better at hyem, Withoot ony spirits or beer! 'Twas nowt but dissipation frae The forst hoose we got in ; Glass eftor glass a' roond wad pass 'Mid such an awful din: For ivrybody spoke at once, An' when we tried to sing, 'Twes whe wad myek the biggest noise, Te myek the whole hoose ring. Te spoil the sport, we a' got tight, An' talk wes nivvor deun ; Such shakin hands; what clivor frinds We war, till fights begun. Then blackened eyes an' broken heeds I' dayleet did appear, Te show hoo we injoyed wor-sels, Beginnin the new eer. Wi' shakey steps we staggered hyem, An' on the road we saw Such seets, that showed us ne such sprees Wes better for us a'. Wi' akin heeds we got te bed, An' there lay a' the day; Aw wished next eer wad nivvor cum, If it com in that way. Since then aw've been teetotal, an' Aw noo knaw which is best; Aw wish me frinds the best 0' luck, An' then aw gan te rest. An' while aw'm spared aw'll de the syem, 0' that thor is ne fear; A sober life brings happy days A' throo the happy eer, -Source: Joe Wilson, (author) Songs and Drolleries, 1890 __________________________________________________