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

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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.
Cullercoats Bay Aa Could Hew Captain Bover Died of Love Gan ti the kye wi' me
Oh the Bonny Fisher Lad Jowl and Listen, Lad      

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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

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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!

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

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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.

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

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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.


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

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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

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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


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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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.


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

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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!"

"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

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"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!

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

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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."

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

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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!"

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

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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

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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.

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

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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

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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.


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

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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.

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

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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.

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

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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!

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

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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!

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

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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.

"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

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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!

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

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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

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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.

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

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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.

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

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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.

"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

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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

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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.

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

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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

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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.

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

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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.

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

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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

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

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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

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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

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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

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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.

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

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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.

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

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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?

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

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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.

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

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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

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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!

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

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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

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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

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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.

"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

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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.

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

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Cullercoats Bay

For Notation click here

For Midi Sound click here

Cullercoats Bay

In many strange lands o'er the ocean I've been,
And countless the beautiful sights I have seen,
But I'm a Tynesider, and proudly must say,
I've seen nothing finer than Cullercoats Bay.

The men who go fishing, I've met by the score,
They spin the same yarns both abroad and ashore:
But give me the language that's spoken my way,
Sweet music to exiles from Cullercoats Bay.

I love the small houses where fisher-folk bide,
So neat, and so tidy, if you peep inside:
Fresh lobsters, and crabs at the doors they display,
And sell, Canny Hinny, at Cullercoats Bay.

How well I remember those mates that I knew,
We talked on the Bank Top as sailormen do:
But when seas were raging, all ready were they,
To man the old lifeboat, at Cullercoats Bay.

And when I grow old, and go sailing no more,
I'll make for the harbour I fondly adore:
And there, in life's gloaming, with each passing day,
I'll thank the Almighty for Cullercoats Bay.

(Written by Jack Robson ('Wherever ye gang you're sure to find a Geordie' fame). He was the Headmaster at Backworth then Shiremoor school)



Alt Lyrics

(Singin' Hinnies Book 2 : another twenty favourite songs from
the North East of England, published by Rossleigh Music in Newbiggin in
2000. p. 18)
These lyrics are the same as sung by Brannigan.
Cullercoats Bay
In many strange lands o'ere the ocean I've been,
And countless the beautiful sights I have seen;
But I'm a Tynesider and proudly must say:
I've seen nothing finer than Cullercoats Bay.
The men who go fishing  I've met by the score,
They spin the same yarns both aboard and ashore;
But give me the language that's spoken my way,
Sweet music to exiles from Cullercoats Bay.
I love the small houses where fisher folk bide.
So neat and so tidy if you peep inside;
Fresh lobsters and crabs at the doors they display
And sell  "cannie hinny" at Cullercoats Bay
And when I grow old and go fishing no more,
I'll make for that harbour I proudly adore;
And there, in life's gloaming, with each passing day
I'll thank the Allmighty for Cullercoats Bay



45 Rpm E.M. I Records
Folk Songs From Northumbria
Owen Brannigan, Bass, With Gerald Moore, Piano
7EG 8551
Side I track 2

Note from record jacket:

(Tyneside arrr. Robson)

Words and music by a Northumbrian schoolmaster, J. G. Robson, who incidentally, was born in the same village as myself not very far from Cullercoats Bay. Alas the small white houses where fisher-folk bide were demolished last year (1959) despite tremendous local opposition. However, you can still buy lobsters and crabs, and he old lifeboat is still ready and waiting in the Ancient Harbour which modern ideas have as yet failed to alter.

Suggested tune: The Waters of Tyne (works well but not original)

Cullercoats Bay

(Tyneside arrr. Robson)

Words and music by a Northumbrian schoolmaster, J. G. Robson, who incidentally, was born in the same village as myself not very far from Cullercoats Bay. Alas the small white houses where fisher-folk bide were demolished last yera (1959) despite tremendous local opposition. However, you can still buy lobsters and crabs, and he old lifeboat is still ready and waiting in the Ancient Harbour which modern ideas have as yet failed to alter.

A Suggested tune: The Waters of Tyne (works well but not the Brannigan one more later)

Brannigan Tune Source: Singin' Hinnies Book 2 : another twenty favourite songs from the North East of England, published by Rossleigh Music in Newbiggin in 2000.

Abc of the Brannigan Tune composed by Jack Robson below
X: 1
T:Cullercoats Bay
C:Jack Robson (Headmaster Backworth, Shiremoor School)
S:As Sung by Owen Brannigan EMI Records 7EG 8551 Side 1 Track 2
|C| A> B c| F F G| A> B G| F2 E| D> E F| C F A|
c B A| G2 G | G G A| c B (A/2 G/2)| F F G|
A2 F| D> E F| C c B| A> B G| F2|

% Output from ABC2Win Version 2.1 i on 5/24/2010


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Aa Could Hew


1. When Aa was young and in me prime


Ee, aye,-- Aa could hew;

Wey, Aa was hewin' aal the time,


Noo me hewin' days are through, through,

Noo me hewin' days are through.


2. At the face the dust did flee,

Ee aye Aa could hew;

But noo the dust is killin' me,


Noo me hewin' days are through,  through,

Noo me hewin' days are through


3 Aa/ve lain doon flat an shoveled coal,

Ee, aye, Aa could hew,

Me eyes did smart in the dustfilled hole;

Noo me hewin' days are through, through,

Noo me hewin/ days are through.


4. Aa. ve worked wi' marras and they were men,

Ee, aye, Aa could hew,

Wey, they were men and sons of men;

Noo me hewin/ days are through, through,

Noo me hewin/ days are through.


5. Aa knaa that work was made by men,

Ee, aye, Aa could hew,

But whe made dust Aa.ll nivvor ken;

Noo me hewin' days are through, through,

Noo me hewin' days are through.


6. It's soon this pit nee mair Aa'll see,

Ee, aye, Aa could hew,

But we'll carry it roond inside o' me;

Noo me hewin' days are through, through,

Noo me hewin. days are through.


- Ed Pickford



.Captain Bover


Where hes ti' been, maa canny hinny?

Where hse ti' been,

Maa winsome man?

Aa've been ti the norrard,

Cruising back and forrard,

Aa've been ti the norrard,

Cruising sair and lang;

Aa've been ti the norrard,

Cruising back and forrard;

But daurna come a shore for Bover and his gang.

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Died of Love


There is an ale house in yon town

Where my love goes and sits him down,

And he takes a young lass on his knee

And that's a grief, a grief to me


A grief, a grief, I will not tell you why:

Because she has more gold than I.

But her gold will go and her beauty pass,

She'll become a poor girl like me at last.


Now all you fair maids take my advice

And never trust a soldier twice

For he'll pass my door and he won't come in

Now that my apron's to my chin.


The father of this bairn's a dirty rat,

He knows He's left a love begat,

And if I die it'll be a shame

For he'll never know his father's name.


Oh, dig my grave, dig it wide and deep,

Place marble stones at my head and feet,

And on my breast put a turtle dove

So the world 'll know I died of love.




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Gan ti the kye wi' me

For notation click here


Gan ti the kye wi' me, my love, Gan ti the kye wi' me;

Ower the moor and through the grove,

Aall sing ditties ti thee.

Cushi, thy pet, is lowing Around her poor firstlings shed,

Tears in her eyes are flowing

Because little Colly is ead.


All the fine heard of cattle

Thy vigilant sire possessed,

After his fall in battle

By rebel chieftains were pressed;

Kine now is all our property,

Left by thy father's will;

Yet if we nurse it watchfully,

We may win gear enough still.


Ban ti the kye…etc.

-Traditional, North East UK

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Oh the Bonny Fisher Lad

Notation click here

Oh the bonny fishe lad that brings the fishes frae the sea;

Oh the bonny fisher lad, the fisher lad got haud o'me (FINE)


On Bambroughshire's rocky shore,

Just as you enter Boumer Raw,

There lives the bony fisher lad,

The fisher lad that bangs'em aall.


My mother sent me out one day

To gather cockles frae the sea;

But I had not been lang away

When the fisher lad god haad o' me. D.C.


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 lass.


-Traditional, N.E. UK.


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Sound file click here

Notation click here

Jowl, jowl an' listen, lad,
An' hear that coal-face workin'.
There's many a marra missin', lad,
Because he wadn't listen, lad.

Me feyther aalways used te say
That pit-work's mair than hewin'.
Ye've got te coax the crew alang,
An' not be rivin' an' tewin'.

So jowl, jowl &c.

Noo, the depitty craals fre flat te flat,
While the putter rams the tyum 'uns,
But the man at the face hes te knaa his place
Like a mother knaas her youh 'uns.

So jowl, jowl &c.

-Come All Ye Bold Miners (A.L. Lloyd, 1978)

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