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

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
 

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.
 

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.

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.

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.
 

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

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

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.
 

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
 

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

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
 

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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
 

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

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
 

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.

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

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

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

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.

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