Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Part 6  Directory 3 Click here for main menu of this directory. Use our floating menu to improve navigation. you can reposition it by clicking on top bar and dragging Floating Menu Menu of all of the Sangs  Click here For tunes in .abc notation click here For an index of persons and places mentioned in the sangs click here For Bibliography,and Philosophy of the collection click here We invite you to contribute! Click here to comment or add. Soon after our upgrade the songs which the priests have recorded will be high-lighted thusly Illustrated by woodcuts by Joseph Crawhall (Newcastle, 1889)  (Where you see the music note image there will be a midi file-for you to listen to!)

Tommy Armstrong

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Mally Dunn

Twes at the last October Fair, Aw furst saw Mally Dunn
Her bright blue eyes and yellow hair me fancy fairly wun;
She luckt the queen ov a' the queens that seem'd sa happy there.
Aw wes ower head an' ears i' luv, wi' Mally at the fair.

Chorus-
Such a bonny lass aw cuddent pass,
Like Mally at the Fair
Oh, happy, neet--that aw shud meet
Maw cumley sweetheart there.

Says aw, maw canny luckin lass, aw'll buy ye owt ye like.
Or if sic things ye reckon trash, aw'll tyek ye for a hike
To yon great shakey shuggy- shoo that myeks foaks stop an' stare,
Or i' the roondy-boot, ne doot ye'll fettle at the Fair.

Says she me lad, that winnet dee, aw think aw' ve that much sense
Te knaw when lads myek ower free ye'd better keep yor pence!
Aw' ve nivor sssn yor fyece before--a stranger, aw declare
Shall nivor buy, wi' paltry toy me fancy at the Fair!

Aw liked that little bit conceit, aw's sure it pleased us mair
Then if she'd craved us for a treate like uther lasses there,
For if, throo bribes ye win a heart Yor awn 'ill seun turn sair,
A higher bidder puts ye oot!--aw think that issent fair.

We passed the stalls, 'aw set her hyem, tho' gan away! she said,
But if yor shy ye needen't try te win a bonny maid!
For time's flew on,--aw've bowt the ring, te marry, aw declare
The lass that means to tyek me sel, tho' she refused me Fair!

-Joe Wilson

Be Kind te me Dowter
Tune: Die an Auld Maid

One neet Jack Thomsin sat beside
His canny sweetheart's fethur,
We'll hev a crack ! the aud man said,
Since here we've met tegither,
Ya've gyen wi' Mary two eers noo,
An' what aw'm gan te menshun
Is--aw hope that you gawn wiv her
Wiu' myest hon'rible intenshun

Chorus-
For oh Johnny a canny lass is she
An' aw hope ye'll be kind to me dowter.

She may be kind o' flighty, that's
A fault wi' a yung lasses;
She may be kind o' tawky on
Myst ivrything that passes;
But if she wes ony uther way
She waddent be a wummin,
An' gox! she's like her muther, an
Her muther is a rum un?

But oh, Johnny etc.

Aw hope she'll be as happy as
Her muther's been wi' me lad.
Tho' sumtimes we fall oot a bit
We varry seun agree lad;
For te leeve as jolly as can be
Byeth her an me's detarmin'd
An when we hev a row or two,
We nivvor see ne harm in't!

But oh Johnny etc...

Ye'll treat wor Mary weel me lad,
An always be kind tiv her
Ye'lll nivvor rue your bargin, no!
Aw's sartin that ye'll nivvor.
She can de the hoose turns clivvor,
Just as clivvor as her muther,
An for sewin, knitten, darnin, whey!
Thor issent such anuther!

Then oh Johnny etc...

We'll help ye ivery way we can
Te set the hoose up decent,
The fethur-bed an 'ite-day clock
'Ill not be a bad prisint;
An' when ye've bairns we'll help ye tee,
At borth, or deeth or krisnin,
But noo aw'd better haud me tung,
For fear somebody's lissinin!

But oh Johnny etc...

-Joe Wilson

The Gallowgate Lad
Tune- Sally Gray

One morn neer the grand Central Stashun,
Mang croods that was hurryin bye
Aw happin'd te see Meggy Bensin,
An' sairly the lassie did cry
Says aw--Canny lass what's the matter?
Says she, quite dejected. Aw's sad,
Aw's greetin for Jack, that's me luver,
Maw bonny bit Gallowgate Lad!

Ye'll knaw him, Joe issn't he hansum?
As clivor a lad as ye'll see,
He wes striker at Stivvisin's Factry,
But lately he's been on the spree;
An' he got bag'd for gawn on the fuddle
An' the jewl mun heh fairly gyen mad
When he went an' join'd the Millsha,
Maw gud-luckin Gallowgate Lad!

A' the neybors declared he was lazy,
But spite 'Il myek bissy foaks speek,
Tho' aw knaw--tho'at owtint te menshund,
He nivor workt mir then a week;
But wi' foaks gyen--keep quiet thor faillins,
Aw greeve for me luv that's a swad,
Oh, his best suit o' claes is his sowljor's
Maw brave -luckin Gallowgate lad!

It's five eers since we forst got acquentid.
He always wes wild iv his ways.
an' he swor that he nivor cud squeeze us
The time that aw wore me new stays;
If he cuddint-it wassint for tryin,
For monny's the tussle we've had
But te Annick he's gyen wi' the sowljors
Maw kind-hearted Gallowgate Lad!

Aw can mind hoo he wander'd the Leazes,
Wi me on the fine summor days,
An' he wid sit on the grass close beside us.
The time aw wes dryin the claes;
He wid rowl us anundor the baskit
Me shawl he wid use for a plad;
Oh what myed ye join the Milisha?
Maw corly haired Gallowgate Lad!

Man aw've mended the holes iv his elbows,
An myed his aud troosors like new,
Tho aw thowt he might spoke aboot marridge,
When his granfethur bowt him a coo
But he slet it an' spent a' the munney,
The foaks said his luv wes but cawd
An' aw wish that aw cuddnt beleeve them,
Maw sowljor-like Gallowgate Lad!

The syem neet that we had leave-takin,
He wanted te stop the whole neet,
But for a cupple that hessint been married,
Me granmuther says it's not reet;
We'd a pint o' warm beer te wor suppor,
An' cheese that wed meyk yor eyes glad,
But poor Jacky, he swally'd the whol on't
Maw sweet-luckin Gallowgate Lad!

Aw's fairly heart-broke since he left us,
Aw cannet leeve weel be me- sel,
An' me tung gans as tho 'twad keep tellkin
A lang way mair then aw shud tell;
When the heart's full it's greet consolashun,
Te whispor what myeks ye se bad,
Oh what myed ye join the Millsha
Maw gud-luckin Gallowgate Lad?
-Joe Wilson

Be the fire sittin knittin, sitin knittin wi' gud will,
As the clock keeps on its tickin, thor's the click o' needles still;
An the hands that work the needles myek us fix me eyes at them,
For the pictor ov industry is me little wife at hyem

Tho she's little, --she's a model o' what wimmin owt te be,
An' aw bliss her when aw cuddle the bit form that clings te me;
For the strengh o' wor affeckshun, aw cud nivvor find a nyem,
She's as kind as she's gud-luckin, is me little wife at hyem.

tho we heh wor share o' trubbil, the bit cumfort that we knaw,
Is we cannot hed myed dubbil, when one's willin te beer'd a'
For when aw try to console her, whey, for me she'll de the syem,
An' aw' m thenkful for the trissure I' me little wife at hyem.

Wor greet luv for one anuther myeks us happy when wor sad,
Aw call me wife me canny lass! and she calls me her lad!
Just as if we still war kortin aye'n man, its like the syem,
The hunnmeun 'ill heh ne end wi' me little wife at hyem!

-Joe Wilson

Keep't Dark
Tune= The Parfict Cure

A.K.A.
The wife that knaws ivrything.
A contrast te the Chep that Knaws Nowt

AUD Mistress Clark wes fond'o clash,
She lik'd te hear her tung.
She said that tawkin eased the mind,
Wi' foaks byeth aud an' young;
The chap that knaws nowt's gud advice
Wes lost on Mistress Clark,--
But mind aw shuddint menshun this,
Aw hope ye'll a keep't dark!

Says Misteress Clark te siv'ral frinds
She had one day to tea,
Aw wnunder what myeks Geordy Hall
Se fond o' beer an' spres?
They say his wife can tyek her gill,
An' neether's fond o' wark,--
But mind aw shuddint menshun this,
Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark!

There's Mary Smith, upon the stairs,
A wild an' rakish lass,
Aw wunder where she gets her claes,
Aw's sure she hes ne brass,
They say she's thick wi' Draper Jim,--
He's not up te the mark,--
But mind aw shuddint menshun this,
Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark!

There's Bella Jones that leeves next door,
Got bessie Thompson's shawl,
An borrow'd Suzie Ratcliffe's goon,
Te gan te Hopper's ball,
But neether o' them's got them back,
Aw think'tis owt but a lark,--
Still mind aw shuddnt menshun this,
Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark!

There's Dolly Green that dorly slut
That leeves alang the yard
She flirts wi' ivry lad she meets,
She's worthy ne regard;
Last neet aw catch'd her on the stairs
Wi' Jack the Keyside Clerk;--
But mind aw shuddnt menshun this,
Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark

There's Mistress Johnson pawns her claes,
As sure as Monday cums;
An' drunkin Mary locks the door,
For fear she'll get the bums,
An' Mistress Black 'ill nivor wesh
Her man a shart for wark,
But mind aw shuddn't menshun this!
Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark!

Fat Mistress Jackson likes te clash
Lang Jinnie likes her ways,
An' Mary Riley starves her barins,
Te get sic dandy claes;
Young Peggie Robson's got her bed,
Throo sum seducin spark;--
But mind aw shuddn't menshun this,
Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark!

-Joe Wilson
 

The Cat Pie

For notation click here
For midi sound click here

Tune, Weel Bred Cappy

 Thore's been a grand dinnor not far frae Sheel Raw
 At a place th'call Stanley for testen th'jaw
 Tiv a hoose ivory Sunda' sum cheps used to gan
 An' eat all th' meat thit wis boil i th' pan

 CHORUS
 Singin fal th' dal lay laddie,
 fal th' dal lay laddie
 fal th' dal lay laddie
 fal th' lay

 These cheps used te gan an' sit doon on a seat
 Thae knew thit Jack alwis had plenty i meat
 But Coxon an' Charlton went oot for te try
 Te catch an awd cat for te muaik them a pie

 Th' cat thit thae gat wis elivon eer awd
 Thae knew w' th' pie thit these cheps wad be glad
 So thae kill'd it, an clean'd it, an teuk off each lim
 When th' pie wis awl riddy thae shoved pussy in

 Th' cat being se awd thae thowt 'twad be dry
 So thae put potted heed in te gravy th' pie
 Then inte th' yuven th' pie wis then put
 Th' yuven wis het an th' door wis kept shut

 Wen th' pie wis awl riddy an nicely keukt
 Into th' pantry Bob Charlton then teukt
 Th' crust he broke inte se cunnen an sly
 Te muaik them believe they'd been eatin th' pie

 So in cums Joe Peel, Joe Witfield, an Bob
 Like other times thae wor ment for th' gob
 Bob Charlton then whispered te Witfield se slee
 "If thoo lucks in th' pantry a pie thoo can see"

 Thae thowt 'twas a rabbit, an hoo te muaik thares
 Charlton got Coxon te gan up th' stairs
 Bob Witfield then thowt a grand trick he wad try
 So he into th' pantry an off wi th' pie

 He off alang th' raw an doon intiv a field
 He thowt he'd deun clivor th' pie for te steal
 Him an Joe Peel se contentedly sat
 Enjoyen thorsels wi th' lims iv a cat

 Charlton an Coxon buaith laft fit te brust
 Te see them on chowen th' cat an th' crust
 Joe Peel gat a leg thit he thowt wis eneuf
 He sais,"Bob it's nice but it's terable teuf"

 Thae eat sum iv pussy an drove a bit crack
 Until thae agreed for te tuaik th' pie back
 Wen thae gat te th' hoose, thae went at it aguain
 Till in th' pie dish thor wis ardly a buain

 Ye wad a laft if ye'd only ben in
 Wen Bob Charlton held up befor them th' skin
 As seun is th' skin iv th' pussy thae saw
 Thae ran te th' door an thae started te thraw

 Th' cat wis awl eaten but just th' cat skin
 But it wad been eaten had thae puten't in
 Poor pussy is guain but thor's men iv its place
 Th' mice dorsent luck these young cheps in th' face

-Tommy Armstrong  Transcription: Bill Sables

X: 1
T:The Cat Pie
M:3/4
L:1/8
C:Tommy Armstrong
K:D
|A|FEF DFA| BcB ABc |dcd Bed|
cBc dcd|eee ecA |dcd A2 A|
dcd dAF|GAG G3 |ABA AFD|
GAB A3| dcd Bed| cBc d2|
 

The Lass that Leeves Next Door
Aw like the lass that leeves next door,
They call her Nan!
Aw've oftin thowt the syem before,
She wants a man,
Ay an' aw's the lad that wants a lass,
An' aw think the time 'ill cum to pass
When ye'll find aw's the lad
For Nanny that leeves next door!

Chorus-
For she tuek me heart when sittin an' knittin,
The time that aw wes smokin an' spittin,
An' ivor since then the time it's been fittin,
Throo Nanny that leeves next door!

Aw'll nivor forget the neet we met,
One Tuesday neet,
She wes walkin oot wi' me sister Bet
Alang the street,
An' aw kind a thowt as she met me eye
She was just the one for a chep that's shy,
An' aw seun myed it reet
Wi' Nanny that leeves next door!

She kept us up se weel i' talk,
Aw just said yis!
Or no! a' the time we had the walk,
So ye may guess
That aw set her hyem an' myed luv on the way,
But the neet wis nowt te the varry next day,
When aw clapt me eyes on
Her knitting beside the door.

She luck'd at me wiv a pleasin smile
Aw luckt at her,
An puff'd me baccy a' the while
Beside the door.
Aw tell'd her then what myed us se sad.
An' aw axt her wad she he me for a lad,
Man aw stud like a feul
Throo Nanny that leeves next door!

Thor's plenty o' lads to get maw pet.
Says she te me,
But a man's not nigh se easy te get
Indeed says she
Says aw, an' aw lafft as aw tell'd me plan,--
Aw'll first be your lad an' then be yor man!
Ay, an' ivor since then
Aw've follow'd the lass next door!

-Joe Wilson

Jack's Listed i' the Ninety-Ite
Tune= Doran's Ass or Finnigan's Wake

Oh what's the metter wi' ye, Meg Dawson?
Oh what's the metter wi' ye the day?
Ye luck as if ye war gan demented,
Yor eyes thor stairin just that way!
The metter wi' me--if ye want te knaw then,
Heh ye heard the news frae Mary White?
She says wor Jack for a sowljor's listed.--
The heed strang feul's i' the Ninety-Ite.

Wif a lot o' lads that's se lang been famed
For nowt that's gud nor they nivor will
Industrious cheps that wad nivvor work
If they just cud raise a penny gill.
He'll  heh teun the shillin te serve the queen.
Wi' ne idea o' gannin te fight;
If he thowt thor wes only chance o' war
He wad bid gud-bye te the Ninety Ite.

He nivvor liked wark an' since he was britch'd
He hessent cared hoo he got his meat;
Wif his elbows oot he wad trail the streets,
An' the Peelers mark'd him on thor beat.
He wad argey owt for a pint o' beer.
An' i dominoes he teuk delite
I' playin a bank tiv a  five or six.--
They'll not stand that i' the Ninety-te.

On Seturday neets what a swell he was
Wi' velvet cap an black curdyroys;
He wes famous for myekin ruffs keep still
Tho the forst his-sel te myek a noise;
He knew if he married he cuddent keep
A wife, so he teuk one oot o' spite,
Ay, an' he myed her muther an' her keep him,--
A nice young chep for the Ninety-Ite

Aw's sartin we'll nivor can buy him off.
For hoo can poor foaks like us did?
What a pity a gud-like fyece an'heed
Like his, shud carry ne brains wid;
Blud's thicker then wetter-that's true eneuff--
He's still wor awn, tho a cawshun quite,
But bad as he is, they may de him gud,
An' myek him a man i' the Ninety-Ite.

-Joe Wilson

Dinnet Clash the Door
Tune= Tramp Tramp

Oh, dinnet clash the door! aw've tell'd ye that before.
Can ye not let yor muther hev a rest?
Ye knaw she's turnin aud, an' for eers she's been se bad
That she cannet bear such noises i' the least.

Chorus-
Then oh, lass, dinner clash the door se,
Yor yung an' yor as thowtless as can be,
But yor muther's turning aud,
An' ye knaw she's varry bad,
An' she dissent like to hear ye clash the door,

Just see yor muther there, sittin feeblee i' the chair,
It's quiet that she wants to myek her weel;
She's been yor nurse throo life, been yor guide i' peace an strife,
An' her cumfort ye shud study an' shud feel !

She once wes yung an' strang but bad health 'ill put foaks rang,
An' she cannet bear the noise that once she cud;
She's narvis as can be, an' whativor else ye de,
Ye shud study what ye think 'ill de her gud!

So dinnet clash the door, or myek ony idle stir,
For the stir 'ill only cause your muther pain;
As qauiet as can be de yor wark, an' let her see
That ye'll nivor give her causes te complain.

-Joe Wilson
 

Newcassil
Tune= Kitty Tyrrel

Thor's a fine little toon i' the North, lads,
That's been a grand hyemsteed te me;
It wes there where aw forst saw dayleet, lads,
An' there where me poor fether dee'd--
Since then thor's been gud an' bad changes;
Me muther had wark ye'll agree,
Te bring up the whole o' the fam'ly,
I' the toon that aw'll prize till aw dee.
Newcassil, Newcassil,
The canny aud toon still for me!

Aw've seen uther toons i' me travels,
As canny as toons cud weel be,
But the toon that ye knaw aw belang te
Hes charms that they hevint for me!
The bildins aw saw i' these places
Wes nowt when aw thowt o' wor awn,
An' aw luckt lang amang the strange fyeces
Te find oot sum one that aw'd knawn,
Newcassil, Newcassil,
The canny aud toon still for me!

Aw've expeerienc'd a greet lot o' kindness
I' places aw easily cud nyem,
But where cud aw find like Newcassil
A place te myek constant me hyem?
For aw'd miss ivry frind an' acquentance
Aw knew aboot canny Tyneside,
An' it's reet that a man shud think myest ov
His awn wiv affection an' pride
Newcassil Newcassil
The canny aud toon still for me!

It's there where me fethur lies sleepin,
An' me canny aud muther leeves still,
Ti's there where me sister an' bruthers
'Ill welcum us back wi' gud will;
It's there where the ties ov affecshun
Cling closer then ivor te me;
An' iv a' the big fine toons iv Ingland,
Newcassil the dearest shall be.
Newcassil, Newcassil
The canny aud toon still for me!

-Joe Wilson

Queer Customs
tune= The fiery Clock-Fyece

When wor Peg's audest bairn wes born,
they sent for me, se merry,
An' beggedthat aw wad tyek me torn
Te drink its hilth i sherry;
Or if aw'd hev a glass o' rum
Or whiskey they wad send for sum.
Aw seun got tight as ony drum
Amang the hurry-skurry

Chorus-

In joy or grief, It's maw belief,
It's a custom queer, aw's thinkin;
They say it gies them greetrelief-
A fine excuse for drinkin!

They sent for me te gan alang
An' tyek tea at the christnin;
We sung an' danced frae morn till neet,
An' carried on like foaks not reet;
It cuddent be owt like a treat
Tiv onybody listnin.

But efter that the poor barin deed,
An' cawsed anuther fuddle;
We sobbed an' sighed an' hung wor heeds
Wi' brains all in a muddle.
The drink wes here mixed up wi' grief
We thowt the spirits browt relief;
An one aud wife, i' that belief
The bottle she wad cuddle.

this shows, frae creddle te the grave,
The bottle's a hard maistor;
It myeks se mony foaks its slave,
An' proves a reglor waistor.
Such customs i' the time like these,
Frae care they cannot bring release,
But quarrels cawse an' myek wi' ease
Heeds fit for stickin-plaistor.

-Joe Wilson
 
 

Says Billy Dunn, " Aw'll ne mair sing
In praise o' bitter beer,
It's the varry thing te kill us--
Aw'm deed noo varry near.
Aw divvent want to dee just yit,
Aw'd like to leeve a eer;
Aw'm sure aw winnet leeve six munths
If aw drink bitter beer.

Chorus-
Oh lads, tyek nyen on't for fear!
If ye want te commit suicide,
An' like a ghost appear,
Ye'll get the shakes an' ne mistake,
Throo drinkin bitter beer!

They gie this stuff a' sorts o' nyems,
Sum Edinboro Ale.
Scotch Bitter an Best Borton,
An' sum call'd Indian Pale.
The last nyem may be reet eneuff,
Aw's awful pale an' queer;
Thor'll be varry few fresh-cullor'd
Throo drinkin bitter beer!

They say that it 'ill myek ye eat,
But that mun be a lee;
Aw can assure ye the effects
Quite different wi' me
Aw've fairly lost me appetite,
Me heed's not varry clear;
An' its but little that aw tyest
Throo drinkin bitter beer!

Aw shake as if me varry hands
Diddent belang te me;
Aw feel as if aw cuddent work
Throo gettin on the spree,
Aw trimmil se, they'll not catch me
Ne mair at bitter beer;
Aw knaw aw nivvor feel this way
When aw drink wetter clear!
-Joe  Wilson

Wor Johnny's se narvis se narvis wi drink,
He cannet eat wot an' he's frightened te think
O' what teuk place last neet for his mem'ry's gyen;
Once bowldest, he's noo the myest feeble o' men.

Chorus:
For like a narvis man he gans shakin throo the street,
Shakin ivry mornin, ay, an' shakin ivry neet
He'll start an' shrink,
An wink, an' blink
An' nivvor think,
It's a' throo drink,
That's myed him shivery, shakey-like an' narvis

He'll gan half- way doon one street, then he'll turn back,
Then turn up anuther an' hev a bit crack,
Then all iv a sudden he'll set off agyen,
An' hurry as if he was wanted at hyem.

When he gets te the door he'll study a bit,
then say tiv he sel, That it issent time yit!
The next public hoose he cannet weel pass,
Tho it tyeks byeth his hands te lift up the glass

If a cairt or a cab cums intiv his seet,
He dornet for life cross the little bit street
Till thor a' far away, then off hyem he'll creep,
But frightened awake, he's as frightened te sleep.

-Joe Wilson

Says Mistress Bell te Mistress Todd,
Ye'd better clean the stairs!
Ye've missed yor turn for monny a week,
The neybors a' did theirs!
Says Misteress Todd to Mistress Bell,
Aw tell ye Mistress Bell,
Ye'd better mind you awn affairs,
An' clean the stairs yor-sel

Chorus:
O what tungs i' the row upon the stairs,
Clitterin, clatterin, scandal an' clash,
I' the row upon the stairs

Says Mistress Todd- When it suits me to think that it's me turn;
Ye've a vast o' cheek te order me, thor's not a wummin born
That keeps a cleaner hoose than me an' mark ye, Mistress Bell,
Ef ye'd oney de the syem as me ye'd gan an' clean --yor sel!

Says Mistress Bell- Ye clarty fah, we wasn't that stole the beef?
What de ye say? cries Msitress Todd, De ye mean that aw' m a thief?
Let's heh the sixpence that aw lent te treat Meg Smith wi' gin!
An where's the blanket that ye gat the last time ye lay in?

Says Mistress Bell- Ye knaw yorfsel the sixpence's lang been paid,
An' the raggy blanket that ye lent wes ne use the ye said!
A raggy blanket! Mistress Bell cries Mistress Todd What cheek!
Yor dorty sockin had two holes full twice the size last week!

Maw holey stockins, Misstress Todd luks beter i' the street
Than yor gud man's awd blucher beuts ye weer te hide yor feet!
The eer-rings ye gat frae the Jew on tick the tuthor day,
'Ill be like the fine manadge man's shawl the syem as gien away!

Says Mistress Todd- Ye greet sk'yet gob
Ye'd bettor had yor jaw,
The varry shift upon yor back
Belongs the wife belaw!
Ye lazy wretch! shoots Mistress Bell,
Its true thor is ne doot,
Last neet ye fuddled wi' Bob the Snob,
The time yor man wes oot!

Oh, Mistress Bell! says Mistress Todd,
Ye brazind-luckin slut,
Ye may tawk away--te clean the stairs
Aw'll nivor stir a fut!
Afore aw'd lift a skoorin cloot
The mucky stairs te clean,
Aw'd see them turn as black as ye,
Ye pawnshop-lucking queen!

- Joe Wilson
 

Cum me canny Tynesiders an lissen
Tiv a sang that a'w s sartin ye'll like,
An' aw'll whisper a word kind and cheerin
Te the monny poor fellows on strike
Let them keep up thor hearts as they hev deun,
Thor's a day for the true an the brave,
An' the time 'ill yit cum when greet Maisters
'Ill find oot a Mechanic's ne slave!

Is Nine Oors an unreasonable movement?
Is't not plenty for labour te men?
Let them that condemn'd hev a try on't
An' see if they'll alter such plan;
An' if lang oors Industry increases,
Heh they fund it wi' them that they've tried?
Wi' thor capital heh they got labour
Like that frae the men they've defied?

But a day 'ill seun cum when they'll welcum
The aud hands they've se often imploy'd
Then the Forriners strenght 'ill be shaken
Frae license that they've lan injoy'd
I' myekin thorsels thor awn maisters
An' workin' just when they'd a mind;
If the Maisters pretend to be blind tid,
Whey, its mair te thor shem, that they'll find.

But cheer up, thor's gud friends that support us
Aye, an ' Ingland depends on us a'
An' we'll prove that wor true te the movement,
An' Victory shall let the world knaw
That tynesiders 'ill nivor be knoker'd
Wi' Maisters that care nowt for them;
An' if Maisters is meant to me Maisters,
Let them find thor's Men meant to be Men!

-Joe Wilson
 

Ne Wark
Tune= Pretty Polly Perkins

Aw's weary, aw's  wretched aw wander forlorn,
Aw sigh for the neet, an' then wish for the morn;
For neet brings ne cumfort an' morn little mair,
I' byeth mind an' body aw's worn oot an' sair

Chorus:
What wretchdenenss, what misery,
Thor's ne on can tell,
Except them that's been oot o' wark, like me-sel.

Aw wander te places, an' try te get wark,
Where Call back agyen is the foreman's remark;
Thus hopless an' cheerless aw pass mony a day,
Tho the pay-week cums roond-it te me brings ne pay.

Ne wark yit!--heart broken aw bend me ways hyem,
Ne wark yit !--te tell them aw really think shem;
For dependence is painful, tho it's on yor awn,
Tho the cumfort an' cheer ye they try a' they can.

Thor's nyen can imagine the angwish aw feel
When aw sit doon at hyem to maw poor humble meal
Each bite seems te chowk us,--the day seems full lang,
An' a that aw de, whey aw feel tho 'twas rang.

Me fether lucks dull, tho he strives te luck glad,
An' tells us it's nowt te the trubbils he's had;
Me muther smiles kindly, tho sad like the rest,
She whipors, Cheer up lad, an' hopefor the best!

It cannet last always!-- aw hope afore lang
Wi' wark aw'll be freed frae sad poverty's pang;
For withoot it hyem's dreery,--the fire's bright spark
Turns gloomy an' dim when at hyem thor's Ne Wark.
 
 

Let canny Newcastle once more raise her head,
From the sod where she's long moan'd as tho' she wre dead;
Let the sons of the Tyne once again bear the sway,
And though poverty reigns gain the boat race to day.
For the pride of our navy, Northumberland's sons
Have long mann'd our yards and directed our guns,
May the Keel row and Boatie-row still grace the river,
And canny Newcastle yet flourish for ever.

For ages long past have our seamen been famed,
And Newcastle's blue jackets aye formost are named;
On the topmast of fame long has Collingwood stood,
The dread of our foes and the pride of the flood,
Then to day let the skill of he past be display'd
Nor of England's first boat crew be ever afraid,
Invincible long, may St. Agnes crew reign,
The boast of Newcastle the pride of the main!

Coombes, Newell, and Parish, the pride of the Thames,
Have in many boat races exalted their names;
But the pride of the Tyne they contend with to day,
And Newcastle's  bright flag may direct them the way,
May the oars of the Glaspers be pull'd well together,
May their strength never fail as they bend to the weather,
May the Agnes fly over the waves like a swallow,
And the Cockneys brave crew be completely beat hollow.

How proud seems each head as it bends o'eer the waves,
Though our pitmen and seamen  work harder than slaves;
How bright is each eye and how light is each heart,
As the boats are preparing and manned for the start.
The signal is given, they glide o'er the stream.
Like the arrow's swift glance, or the lightning's gleam;
Tho' we wish them all well, may the Agnes display,
For the pride of Newcastle a conquest to day.

May our canny blue jackets, our pitmen and lasses,
Dance lightly to night and relplenish their glasses;
May misfortune's foul wind leave Newcastle to day,
And prosperity's sun shed a happier ray.
May friendship and harmony reign in each heart,
And the Cockneys confess when for London they start,
That the sons of Newcastle tho' homely and plain,
Are the pride of the lasses the stars of the main.

-T. Dodds, Head of the Side, Broadsheet 1842
 

I used to be a vulgar clown, with cash and money short in,
Till my old uncle died in town, and left me all his fortune;
A collier I was by trade, I have chang'd as you may tell sir,
And since a richer purse I've made, I'd be a regular swell sir.

Chorus-
But i'm so plagued with vulgar folks,
Since I have cash for sporting,
Why can't a Collier cut a swell,
When he has got a fortune.

I used to go with low-bred chaps, and talk to every gew-gaw,
Get drunk in Tom and Jerry shops and went a purring foot ball;
But now with all fops in town, I sport my boot and tanners,
And O I'm going up to London town to learn some genteel manners.

And when I've been to London town I mean to go to France sir
To practice two or three times a week to learn to hop and dance sir;
Besides I've got a quizzing glass to see things far and near O,
But the other day it caused me to fall over a wheel-barrow.

O my family is a vulgar set tho' they have clothes in fashion,
They put them on the wrong side out,which puts me in a passion;
The lads when e'er they go to church, tho' we've got lots of riches,
They all go in their clogs smock frock and leather breeches.

My wife she is the worst of all when we give genteel dinners,
She uses neither knife nor fork but pops in all her fingers;
And when they hand the wine about, she tells the gents it stinks
Gets full her mouth and squirts it out, and calls for treacle drinks.

If I give a dinner to my Lord, and bid her make a good un,
Perhaps she'' make some pea soup, or else a great black pudding;
And when the tea it is brought in, the tray she always flings sir,
Stirs up the sugar with her fist, and then she licks her fingers.

My lord once ask'd us out to dine and there we had a rum start
In stead of her new carriage fine she would ride in the dung cart;
And when he sent his horse to her, and wanted her to ride sir,
And what do you think of the ignorant jade, she would get on a-stride sir.

- Walker of Durham, Broadssheet.
 

I'm a celebrated working man from work I never shirk,
I can hew more coals than any man from Glasgow down to York.
And if you'd like to see my style, call around on me
When I' ve had several beers in the bar room.

Chorus:
In the bar room, in the bar room, that's where we congregate,
To drill the holes and fill the coals and shovel back the slate.
And for to do a job of work I am never late,
Thats provided that we do it in the bar room.

At puttin I'm a dandy, I hope you will agree,
And gannin along the gannin board I mak the tyun'uns flee
Your kelly sweeps and back-over turns they never bother me,
When I'm sitting on the limmers in the bar room.

I can judge a shot of power to a sixteenth of a grain,
I can fill my eighteen tubs though the water falls like rain,
And if you'd like to see me in the perpendicular vein,
It's when I'm setting timmers in the bar room.

And now my song is ended, perhaps we'll  have another,
Now don't you fire any shots in here, or we will surely smother,
The landlord here would sooner pull beer than go to all the bother
To put up the ventilators in the bar room.

-Gwen and Mary Polwarth, North County songs

The Hedgehog Pie

For notation click here
For midi sound click here

Aa'll sing ye a song if ye'll patiently wait,
Aboot a grand supper there's been at Street Gate;
Te eat this grand supper there only was two,
But they at a whole hedgehog, some bacon an' coo.

Chorus:
Singin fal de ral laddy, etc.

There's a chap in the neiborhood has a smaal dog,
One day went out waakin, an' it catched a hedgehog,
So te have a bit fun with the prize that they'd got,
He thowt tive hissel he wad take it to Stott.

When he took it te Stott they arranged what te do;
With Kingey an' Barbor they aalways made free;
Every time they went they were hungry an' dry.
So just for the lark they wad make them a pie.

Noo it had te be killed before startin te skin't
So they took up a mell for to knock oot its wind;
Them that was present tha roared an' tha laffed-
They chap missed the hedgehog an' he broke the mell-

The mell was ne use so they took a sharp knife,
Detarmined te take away Proggley's life,
(proggle= prickle)
They tried for te kill him in two dif'rent ways,
So they had to droon him for te finish his days.

The landlady's sister made up a pie-crust,
With the best of beef-fat an some dumplin dust;
She nicked it all roond, made it tender, an' then
The oven was hot, so she put the pie in.

Noo, Barbor an' Kingey sat winkin their eye,
Sn' wishin they only could get a bit pie;
They were watchin the mistress instead of their gill;
The smell was that nice they could hardly keep still

Tom the butcher te suit them, soon found out a plan,
He sais, Drink off yor gills, be as sharp as ye can;
Gan inte the meat-hoose, an' let all things by, An 'aall
watch the mistress an' steal ye the pie.

In the meat-house they ouly had been a short while,
When they saa the pie commin, an' they started to smile;
Tom says, Get it eatin; 'twas fettled for Stott;
It he comes he'll gan mad. Kingey says, Man, it's hot!

Noo te get the pie eaten they both wired in,
Till the gravy ran off both their noses an' chin;
When Stott showed the skin of the pie that they had,
They' looked at each other, an' they turned vary bad.

Sais Barbor te Kingey Jack, aa wadn't care
But proggles come noo where there used to be hair;
And bowt a hard hat, an 'aa ve tied it tight doon,
but the proggles come faster, an' the've went through the croon.

A razor no use- tha both shave with a saa-
Like icicles fhalin, they drop from their jaa
Barbor's in trouble an' Kingey far warse-
He cannot lie down, or sit on his arse.

-Tommy Armstrong
(same tune as for The Cat Pie)

Joey Jones
Tune= Pat of Mullingar

Aw'm gan ti sing ye a sang,
If ye'll but list ti' me
Aw divent intent ti'keep ye lang,
An' that ye'll plainly see;
Its all aboot young Joey Jones
He wun the Northumberland Plate,
He was bred at Deckham Hall,
Just up throo the gate

Chorus:
For he jogs along, he canter'd along,
He lick'd them all see fine,
He was bred at Gyetshead,
He's the pride of Coaly Tyne.

Joey ran at the spring meetings.
He was beaten by the Jim,
Hadlow, that belangs Gaylad,
Said Joey wasn't game;
So they sent him off ti' Richmond,
Twas known he wasn't right,
Then Watson fetched him here,
An' gov them a regular Yorkshire bite.

Noo when the horses started,
An' was cumin past the stand,
Sum shooted oot for Peggy Taft,
And some for Underhand;
An' when they reached the top o'
 the hill,
Doyle heard Tom Aldercroft say
Aw dare lay a fiver that
Aw win thi' plate thi-day!

Cumin roond he Morpeth turn,
Joey keepin' up his fame
Says Doyle ti Tommy Aldcroft-
Noo wha's yor little game?
Says Aldcroft-Aw mean ti' win
The Plate this very day!
Yes but says Doyle it's Joey Jones,
A fiver aw will lay.

Number eleven was puttin up.
The people stood amazed.
Fobert he luiked vary white,
An Jackson almost crazed;
Little Osborne luiked for his Wildman,
An'Sharpe for Volatile
Doefoot got a nasty kick,
An' Joey wun in style.

-George Ridley
 

Liberty for the Sailors
For Notation Click here
For Midi Sound Click here

Lasses call your lads ashore,
Lasses, call your lads ashore,
Lasses call your lads ashore
There's liberty for the sailors.

Liberty and money free,
Liberty and money free,
Liberty and money free,
There's liberty for the sailors.

Let the lubbers lie aboard,
Let the lubbers lie aboard,
Let the lubbers lie aboard
Because they're no but tailors

Lasses call your lads ashore,
Lasses, call your lads ashore,
Lasses call your lads ashore
There's liberty for the sailors.
 

You brave lads of Wearedale, I pray lend an ear,
The account of a battle you quickly shall hear,
That was fought by the miners so well you may ken,
By claiming a right to their bonny moor hen.

Oh this bonny moor hen, as it plainly appears,
She belonged to their fathers some hundreds of years;
But the miners of Weardale are all valiant men,
They will fight till they die for their bonny moor hen.

These industrious miners that walk in their clogs,
They suit them to travel o'er mountains and bogs;
When the bonny moor hen she mounts up in the air,
They will bring her down neatly, I vow and declare.

Oh the miners in Weardale, they are bred to the game,
They level their pieces and make sure of their aim;
When the shot it goes off--Oh, the powder doth sing,
They are sure to take off, either a leg or a wing.

Now, the times being hard and provisions being dear,
The miners were starving almost we do hear;
They had nought to depend on, se well you may ken,
But to make what they could of the bonny moor hen.

There's the fat man of Oakland and Durham the same,
Lay claim to the moors, likewise to the game;
They sent word to the miners they'd have them to ken
They would stop them from shooting the bonny moor hen.

Of these words they were carried to Weardale with speed,
Which made the poor miners to hang down their heads;
But sent then an answer, they would have them to ken,
They would fight till they died for their bonny moor hen.

When this answer it came to the gentlemen's ears,
An army was risen, it quickly appears;
Land-stewards, bum- bailifs, and game-keepers too.
Were all ordered to Weardale to fight their way through.

A captain was wanted at the head of the clan;
H. Wye, of great Oakland was cahosen fortheir man;
Oh, his legs were too small, and not fit for the stocks,
His scalp not being hard for to suffer the knocks.

Oh, this captain he had  a black bitch of his own,
That was taught by the master 'twas very well known;
By the help of his bitch he'd met many a one,
And when he comes to Weardale he'll do what he can.

Oh, this captain says. I am but a stranger here,
My bitch and myself is a match for a deer;
Either beggars or tinkers, she will pull off their bags,
And if that will not do she will rive them to rags.

So this army set out from high Oakland we hear,
H. Wye in the front and black bitch in the rear;
On they marched to Wolsingham, then made a halt,
And concerning the battle began to consult.

They heard that the miners grand army was strong.
The captain that led them was full six feet long;
That put Mr. Wye in a bodily fear,
And back to great Oakland he wish'd for to steer.

Up spoke the game-keepers: Cheer up never fear,
Through Stanhope and Weardale our wayy we will clear;
In Durham or Oakland it shall never be said,
That by a few miners our army was paid.

So the army set off straightway, as we hear,
And the miners'  grand army did quickly appear;
Oh, they fired along till their powdere was done,
And then they laid on with the but-ends of their guns.

They dismounted the riders straightway on the plain,
H. Wye and black bitch in the battle were slain;
Oh they that ran fastest got first out of town,
And away they went home with their tails hanging down.

Oh this battle was fought all in Stanhope town,
When the chimneys did reek and the soot it fell down;
Such a battle was ne'er fought in Stanhope before,
And I hope such a battle will ne'er be fought more.

Oh this bonny moor hen, she's gone oe'r the plain,
When summer comes back she'll return here again;
They will tip her so neatly, that no on'll ken
That ever they rivall'd the bonny moor hen.

Oh this bonny moor hen, she has feathers anew,
She has  many fine colours, but none of them blue;
Oh the miners of Weardale, they are all valiant men,
They will fight till they die forthe bonny moor hen.

-Old Inns and Taverns of Durham, Frank Graham, 1966
This story is about an incident started in 1797 when
the Bishop of Durham issued a notice against poachers on
his moors.  The Men of Weardale considered hunting on
the moor their ancient right.  In 1818 a group of the Bishop's
men came to arrest  the most well known poachers.  Two poachers
were arrested. They were taken to the Black Bull inn.
When the local people heard of this a large croud formed and
a battle occured.  The Bishop's men were defeated.  The
ballad is thought to have been written by a local schoolmaster..

Why sweet slumber now disturbing,
Why break ya the midnight peace,
Why the sons of toil perturbing
Have their hours of rest to ceease?

Chorus-
Ho! Marrows 'tis the Caller cries,
And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.

The twinkling starts, thro' night shade peering.
Blink above with heavenly light;
On the sleeping world as a voice calls clear
In the stilly air of the sable night.

The collier sleeps e'en now he's dreaming
Of a pure, birght world, and lov'd ones there;
He basks in the rays of fortune beaming.
In some far land full and fair,

Dream on thou poor and ill-used collier,
For slaves may have visions bright;
There's One above who deems the holier
Than the wealthiest, in His sight.

Spped thee, old man; let him slumber
When happy thoughts are in his breast;
Why should the world his peace encumber?
Go! let the weary collier rest!
 
 
 
 
 

Yen Munday neet aw went oot just te have a walk,
When aw met a chep frae Sunderland, an' we got on te tawk;
He says Wor workin clivvor noo, an' likely for te thrive,
We've got the Nine Oors Movemint noo, an' we drop wor work at five.

Chorus-
Perseveer! Perseveer! awl ye that's sitin' here!
Perseveer! Perseveer! they've gettin't on the Wear!
Ye men upon the banks o' Tyne aw think thor's little fear,
But ye'll get the Nine Oors Movemint if ye only perseveer!

Says aw, Me man, aw think yor reet biv aw that aw can reed;
But mind ye myed a gallant fite before ye did succeed.
Se tell yor mates at Sunderland, when ye gan ower hyem,
That wor lads aboot Newcassel thor gawn to be the syem!

He says, Yor tawkin like a man, for aw really think it's time:
If the movemint pays upon the Wear it'll pay upon the Tyne;
Yor workin men they've been lang famed, aw hope they'll keep thor nyem;
They helpt us ower at Sunderland, so we'll help them back agyen!

Noo, strikes are what aw divvent like, but if they'll not agree,
We'll heh to be like Sunderland, an' close wor factories, tee;
The maistors then'll start te fret, and own 'it they were rang;
It's then they'll see they cannot de withoot the working man.

Aw myek nee doot wor maistors think they'll just de what they like,
For they knaw it hurts a workin man when he hes te cum to strike;
But if we prove as true as steel wor maistors will be fast,
Thor contracts mun be finished, so they will give in at last.

- Mattew Dryden, 1871 concerning the Great Engineers' Strkes of 1871.
 
 

The miller of Ogle bred me, as I hae heard them say,
And gallantly he fed me with the best of corn and hay;
For meal and malt I wanted not when in his custody,
But now I'm Robin Spraggon's auld grey mare , ae how he's guided me!

Sometimes he took his gowpins sometimes he took his hat.
Sometimes he took the mounter dish to where the toll was put';
For meal and malt I wanted not when in his custody,
But now I'm Robin Spraggon's auld grey mare, ae how he's guided Me.

Spraggon sets the pads upon my back sae early in the morn,
and rides me down to Felton withoiut either hay or corn;
When a' the rest get hay enough there's now never a bite for me,
For I'm Robin Spraggon's auld grey mare, ae how he's guided me!

Our thrifty dame, Mally, she rises soon at morn,
She goes and tells the master I'm pulling up the corn;
He clicks up the oxen gad, and sair belabours me,
For I'm Robin Spraggon's auld grey mare, ae how he's guided me!

When aw loup the dyke to Pepperhaugh they hound me back again,
For a' the dogs of Pepperhaugh sae well they do me ken;
They run me to the lairy bog and round about the lea,
For I'm Robin Spraggon's auld grey mare, ae how he's guided me!

There's Tallyho Trevillian, he hunts upon the hill,
I'll leave to him my carcase to be his dogs a fill,
to make them hunt sly Renny until the day they dee,
For I'm Robin Spraggon's auld grey mare, ae how he's guided me!

There's fussy parson Olivant, his coat is growing thin,
I'll leave to him my battered hide to roll him cozy in,
to keep him warm in winter, as oft it has done me,
For I'm Robin Spraggon's auld grey mare, ae how he's guided me!

Then there's stury Willy Hemley, is a ploughman good and true,
I'll leave to him my hind legs to be stilts unto his plough,
To be stilts unto his plough, my lads for he's often riving lea,
For I'm Robin Spraggon's auld grey mare, ae how he's guided me!

There's canty Matthew Arkley, whiles works about the dykes,
I'll leave to him my small bags to be a pair of pipes,
To play the lasses merry tunes, to make them dance wi'glee,
For I'm Robin Spraggon's auld grey mare, ae how he's guided me!

There's blythesome Tibby Richison, she is a bonny lass;
The water trough, where oft aw drank, may serve as keeking glass,
To see to set her minner straight, as oft it stands aglee,
For I'm Robin Spraggon's auld grey mare, ae how he's guided me!

Then there's doughty Tom, the blacksmith, sets the shoes upon my heel.
I'll leave to him my other bones to grind to havermeal,
To grind to havermeal, my lads, I think the've all a share.
For I'm Robin Spraggon's auld grey mare, and I can leave ne mair!

And as for Robin Spraggon, I've left him not a plack,
for many a time he's spurred my sides, and sore he's licked my back;
But worst of all, he pinched my waim, which caused me to dee,
I was Robin Spraggon's hungered jade, and ill he used me.
 
 
 

Some time since, a Pitman was tyen varry bad,
So caw'd his wife Mall te the side of his bed;
Thou mun run for a Doctor, the forst can be fund,
For maw belly's a' wrang, an' aw'm varry fast bund.

Wey, man thou's a full, aw ken thou's fast boon,
Wi' thye last bindin miunny thou-bowt this new goon:
Nae Doctor can lowse thou one morsel or crumb,
For thou's bun te Tyne Main for this ten month te come.

Aw divent mean that--maw belly's sae sair;
Run fast, or aw'll dee langafore ye get here!
So away Mally ran to their awn Doctor's shop;
Gie me somethin for Tom, for his belly's stopt up.

A Glister she gat-and nae langer she'd wait,
But straight she ran hyem an' gat out a clean plate;
Oh Tommy! maw Tom! only haud up thy heed!
Here's somethin 'ill mend thou, suppose thou was deed.

Thou mun eat up that haggish, but sup the thin forst;
Aw's freeten'd that stoppel it will be the worst.
Oh Mally! thou'll puzzen poor Tom altogether,
If aw drink a' the thin, an' then eat up the blether.

He manag'd it a', wiv a great deal to do;
Oh Mally! oh Mally I thou's puzzen'd me now!
But she tuik nae notice of poor Tommy's pain,
But straight she ran off te the Doctor's again.

O Doctor! maw hinny! Tom's tyen'd a' thegether,
He supp'd up the thin, then he eat up the blether;
The blether was tuif, it myest stuck in his thropple;
If he haddent bad teeth he wad eatten the stopple.

Oh woman! you have been in too great a hurry.
Stead of mending your husband, you'll have him to bury;
Stead of making him better, you've sure made him warse,
For you've put in his mouth what should gone up his arse.

-W.Armstrong (Thomas Marshall's Collection 1829, Tyneside Songster, Davidson of Alnwick
c. 1840, Allen's Tyneside Songs 1891.
 
 
 
 

A Newcastle Sang

Oh! cum' ma canny lads, let's sing anuther Tyneside sang.
The Langwidge ov each Tyneside heart wor aad Newcassel Twang.
Ne doot its strange te stuck-up folk, and sounds byeth rough and queer.
But nivvor mind, It's music sweet untiv a Tyneside ear.

Wey, bliss yor heart, thor's ivvorything a Tyneside chep can boast;
Wor Tyneside tongue is spoke and sung on ivvory foreign coast.
On sea or lan', where 'er ye gan, where Armstrong's cannon roar,
It is the voice o' Tyne that's hard resoondin' frev her shore!

The ancient langwidge o' the Tyne hes sayins awfu' queer!
They say add Nick torns pale as deeth when real Tynesiders sweer!
An' Adam spoke in Tyneside tee, when he cried te Mistress Eve.
A bonny mess ye've myed on't noo; begox, we'll hev to leave!

An' when a muthor scolds hor bairn, shell'sheyk her first and froon,
Noo haad yor jaw, aa'll skelp yor lug, or sum plyece lower doon;
But if she's in the humour fine, It's Cum noo hinny, cum!
An' if ye want te hear the butt, wey, mine's a haaf o' rum!

An' when a chep's sweethartin' like, it's Cum, lass gie a cuddle!
Or when a man is drinkin' sair, it's Tommy's on the fuddle!
The bairn that cries is raimin on, things paaned they say's in pop.
An' then a feythor says wi' pride, The bairn's peart as a top!

An ear's a lug, a mooth's a gob, and then a hand's a paa;
Te hev a smoke it's here a low, sit doon and hev a blaa.
It's howay here or had on thor, what cheer my lad? they'll say,
It's kittle wark, what fettle noo? it's dowly like the day!

Noo aa might crood a thoosand things inte this Tyneside sang;
But sum will say, Hi !  had yor han, yor myekin't ower lang.
Aa've said enough; aa'll leet ma pipe, ma rhymin pen lay doon,
An' pray wor speech may ne'er depart fra wor aad Canny Toon!

- J Harbottle 1891.
 

A poor aud wife, iv a lonely room,
Sits biv hor-sel i' the darknin gloom;
I' the grate thor's just the faintest spark
Te frighten away the dreary dark,
There she sits till she totters te bed,
An'nony a day this life she's led;
Withoot a frind te cum near te speak,
She's starvin on fifteen-pence a week.
The parish allows her half-a-croon!
Half-a-croon i' this florishin toon!
Fifteen-pence she pays for the rent,
Hoo is the fifteen left to be spent?

Wi' prayer she welcum's the mornin's leet;
Welcums the leet, tho' it brings ne meat;
Welcums the leet o' the mornin gray,
Te sit biv hor-sel the lang weary day
Tho' wishin her awn poor life away,
She clings tid still while she hes te stay;
For, oh, she knaws that she dissent disarve
Te finish her days like this--te starve!
An' ninety eers, if she leeves to see;
In a few short munths her age'll be;
Withoot a frind i' the world te say--
Canny aud wife, hoo are ye the day?

Can ye compare this case to yor-sel?
An' bring te mind that aw cannet tell,
Yor daily wants that ye daily seek,
Supplied on the fifteen-pence a week.
Is this not eneuff to myek ye fear
Yor-sel an' bairns when yor end draws near?
Hopeless, helpless, she's not te complain,
But pine away in hunger an' pain.
Wad she iver dream that she'd leeve te see
An' poverty feel hard as it can be?
Thor's nowt te nourish, or nowt that cheers,
Her poor aud sowl i' declinin eers.

Wimmen o' charity! Men o' sense!
Hoo cana she spend her fifteen-pence?
Can she afford te buy a bit coal
Te warm her hands an' hear heart console?
Hoo can she get what she stands i' need
Wi' hardly eneuff te buy her breed?
Oot o' the poor-rates heavy they seek,
She's starvin on fifteen-pence a week.
The parish allows her half-a-croon!
Half-a-croon i' this florishin toon!
Fifteen-pence she pays for the rent
Hoo is the fifteen left te be spent?

-Joe Wilson (Subject of the song: Mrs. E. at the
end of 1873 was run over near Earl Grey's Monument
and had her leg broken.
 
 

For notation click here
For midi sound click here

Noo if ye'll pay attention a moment or two,
Aa'll tell ye a story aa knaa te be true.
In a small coll'ry village tha caal Marla Hill,
For te tell the syame story there's men livin still.
It's aboot twenty ducks tha went oot for te play.
Upon an aad pastor one fine summer's day;
But the farmer espied them, an' teuk them whalesale,
an' found them fresh lodgings in Marla Hill Jail.

Noo the pastor that played on was worthless an' bare;
There wasn't a' blade o' green grass growin there;
Tha had been trespassin, an' couldn't deny'd.
But like other pris'ners, tha should have been tried.
Wivoot judge or jury, he took them away;
He never once axed if tha'd  owt for te say;
If he'd gien them a chance, tha wad aal getten bail,
But he teuk hem as pris'ners te Marla Hill Jail.
For days tha were locked up baith hungry an' dry;
But te break the door oppen tha thow't tha wad try;
Wi' their nebs an' their claas tha seun made a road through,
When the hind was at wark wi' his hosses an'ploo.
Sixteen o' the Twenty got nicely away,
Tha quaaked an' tha shooted, as much as te say,
O liberty's sweet an kept waggin their tail,
An' that's hoo tha got oot o' Marla Hill Jail.

There was still fower left in this mis'rable den.
The twenty belanged te three diff'rent men;
So tha met an' tha thowt the best way for te dee;
(dee- sung dae)
'Twas for them te gan doon the Land Steward te see.

Tha went, an' wass welcomed; he tret them se kind;
He laid aal the blame on the Marla Hill hind;
(Marla- sing Marley)
While tellin their story the Steward grew pale
When that towld him their ducks was in Marla Hill Jail.

When leavin, the Steward te them he did say,
Tell the hind the ducks must be all set away.
Tha thowt 'twas all reet when the steward tha seed,
But the next news tha had te pay ninepence a heid,
There'll be ducks on the pastor when Steward an' hind.
Is laid doon belaa, like the rest of mankind;
They'll be sent tiv a place for te weepa an' te wail,
Baith the gov'nor and turnkey of Marley Hill Jail.

-Tommy Armstrong

X: 2
T:Marla Hill Ducks
M:3/4
L:1/4
C:Tommy Armstrong
K:F
|c=B|AGA DED|AGA c=BA|GCC CDC|
ECE Gc=B|ADD DED| AFA dc=B|
c=BA GEG|ADD D=Bc|d^cd A=Bc|
d^cd A2 =B|c=Bc GAB|c=Bc Gfe|
d^cd A=Bc| d^cd A2=B|c=BA GEG|
ADD D2||

For notation  click here
For midi sound click here

O Oakey's! O Oakey's! What makes thee so bad?
It's enough for to make all your workmen gan mad;
We should like very well to know just what you mean,
The way you gan on from the pit to the screen.
You treat us coal-hewers just as you think fit,
The wages are small that are paid in the pit;
But what we are making we really don't know,
Since they have sent us old Maiden Law Joe.

To do all his duty is nothing but right.
But in hurting coal-hewers he takes a delight;
If he pleases the masters that's all he cares for,
Suppose that he hungers poor men to the door.
They say there's a medium in every case,
He's not a fit man to have in such a place,
For he has no feelings for men that's below-
This hairy-face rascal, old Maiden Law Joe.

This Maiden Law tyrant does nothing but shout,
Who belongs to this tub? Because it's laid out.
He smacks his old lips, his old hands he will rub,
Because he has taken the poor man's tub.
Amongst the coal-heweres how well he is known,
His hardness towards them he always has shown.
But what makes ye do it I really don't know-
Thou cruel impostor, old Maiden Law Joe.

Now Joey Badum, you silly old man!
You have nearly done all of the ill that you can;
With old age your whiskers are turning quite grey.
And I think it is time you were starting to pray.
Do you think that the masters will keep you in bread,
If you ever take ill and are confined to bed?
When you're dead with your corpse not one step would they go.
Because it's that rascal, old Maiden Law Joe.

I never did like to wish anyone harm,
But I doubt you will gan to a place where it's warm.
It's nothing but right to reap just as you sow,
And they'll burn your whiskers, when they get you below.
If the old Devil sees you, He'll give a great shout-
That's Oakey's old keeker, who laid the tubs out.
God will then say, Down to hell you must go.
If you are the keeker called Maiden-Law Joe.

-Tommy Armstrong
 
 
X: 1
T:Oakeys Keeker
M:3/4
L:1/4
C:Tommy Armstrong
K:C
C|CEG|GFD|DCC|C2 C/2C/2|CEG
!|ccc!|BGG|G2 G/2G/2|
ccc|cGE|FGA|G2 C/2D/2|EEF|GFD
!|DCC|C2 G|ccc|
GA_B|AFF|F2 A/2A/2
GEE|EFG|FDD|D2 G|ccc|cGE|FGA
!|G3|EEF|GFD|DCC|C2||

It was in November an' aw niver will forget,
When the pollises and the candymen at Oakey's hooses met;
Johnny the bellman he was there, a squintin roond aboot,
An' they put three men on ivery door for te torn the pitment oot.

Chorus-
Oh, what wad aa dee, if aa'd the poower mesel?
Why, aa'd bang the twenty candymen an Johnny whe carries the bell.

They went from hoose te hoose an' then they put things on the road.
But mind, they diddn't hort themselves wi' carryin heavy loads.
One would carry the poker oot, the fender or the rake,
But if they carried two at once, why, it was a great mistake.

Some o' these dandy candymen was dressed up lika cloon;
Some had hats wi'oot a flipe, an' same wi' oot a croon;
An' there was one chap with them, ay, an' a'll vow that he was warse,
For ivery time he had to stoop, why, it was a laffable farce.

Some o' them had ne laps, nor had ne buttons on thor coats,
Another had a bairnie's hippin lapped aroond his throat;
(hippin= apron)
One o' them had a pair o' breeks that belanged tiv a boy;
One leg was a sort o' tweed, an' the other was corduroy.

Next there comes the maisters, an' aa think they should be 'shemd,
Deprivin wives an' families of a comfortable yem.
An' when ye shift from where ye live, aa hope ye'll gan te hell,
Alang wi' the twenty candymen an' Johnny whe carries the bell.

-Tommy Armstrong

X: 1
T:Oakey's Strike
M:6/8
L:1/8
C:Tommy Armstrong
K:C
|E2AA2B|A2GE2D|E2AA2B|A3 A2 B|ccB c2 A|
G2 E CDE| F2ED2C| B,6| EEA A2B| A2GE2D|
E2 AA2B|A3A2B|c2Bc2A|GED C2 E| F2ED2C|
B,6| C3B, B,2|A,6 DD| E2 A AAB| A3 A2B|
c2Bc2A|G2EC2D|EFE DCB,|A,3A,3|

Se lang as aa live, aa' niver forget,
One Saturda when it was se wet;
Iverybody was nearly bet,
Frae the Saturda till the Sunda O!
The ducks did quack an' the cocks did craa,
For what was up they didn't knna;
It nearly droonded all Sheel Raa
That nasty Sunda mornin O!

Mall Johnson tiv hor husband sais,
Reach me me stockins an' me stays;
For God sake, let us have me claes,
Or else we'aal be droonded O!
Thi claes, said he, they're gyen wi' mine,
Like Boyd an' Elliot, up the Tyne;
Aa've leuked fra five, an' noo it's mine,
This nasty Sunda morning O!

On the bed she began to rowl,
An flung hor airms aroond the powl,
(powl-pole-bedpost)
Sayin, Lord hae mercy on me sowl,
This nasty Sunda mornin O!
the vary cats they ran upstairs,
Got on their knees te say thor prayers,
Thinkin they wor gone for fairs,
That nasty Sunda mornin O!

Aa was sorry fur Sally Clark;
The fire was oot, an'aal was dark;
She got oot o' bed wi' nowt but hor sark,
That nasty Sunda morning O!
She made a splash wi' sic a clatter.
That Bob cried oot, Sal, what's the matter?
She sais, Aa's up te me eyes in watter
It must be a nasty mornin O!

Bob jomped oot of his bed an 'aal,
He went wherever he hord her squaal,
But the watter was always shiftin Sal,
That nasty Sunda mornin O!
At last the water burst oppen the door,
An' weshed both Bob and hor;
At Tinmuth tha were washed ashore,
That nasty Sunda morning O!

-Tommy Armstrong

]
 
X: 1
T:Sheel Raw Flud
M:3/4
L:1/8
C:Tommy Armstrong
K:D
|A|DDD F2F|GGG A2A|D D2 F2 A|G2E =C3
D2D FFF|G2GAAA|dAA A2 G| F2 D D2 A|
d2d AAA|D2D A2B|=c2 c G2G|=c c2 A2d|
d2d =c2 c|B2B A2F|G2E A2G|F2D D2|

This is a sang that's just come out,
Ye'll want te hear it, there is ne doot,
So aa'll try te tell ye aal aboot
The ghost that 'aunted Bunty
Bunty lives not far frae here,
He's a terrible chap for drinkin beer;
An' from his yem he went way,
But manny's the time he rued the day.
As he was comin yem that neet,
Something white he chanced te meet;
He stood an' leuked, he said Aalreet-
But thou cannot frighten Bunty.

Chorsu-
Fol de rol de rol de ray
Fol de rol de rol de ray
Fol de rol de rol de ray,
The ghost that 'aunted Bunty.

Bunty sais, If aa'd a gun,
Aa wad knock tha doon or make tha run,
Aa wad let tha see tha'd not make fun,
Or try te frighten Bunty.
Come oot o' the way, an' let me past,
An' dinna make thisel se fast;
Thou think aa dinna knaa whe thou is,
But aa ken nicely whe it is.
The ghost then spread his airms baith oot,
Which made poor Bunty shake an' shoot,
Thou's a fairly ghost there is ne doot,
But keep away frae Bunty.

Bunth then began te say,
Aa wish aa'd gyen the tother way,
Or sat an' drank another day--
An'aa wadn't ha' been se frightent.
Aa've getten drunk noo many a time,
But never did commit a crime;
Aa love me neighbour as mesel;
the worst o' me, aa like me yell.
But O canny ghost, if thoo'll let me be,
Aa'll never mair gan on the spree,
Aa will aalways choose good company
Te gan alang wi' Bunty.

Bunty stooped te pick up a stane;
He grappled about, but findin nane,
He said O Ghost, let me alane,
An aa'll be Teetotal Bunty.
Aa'll try te mind me aan affaris,
At neets an' mornins say me prayers;
Aa'll make the bairns aal say theirs,
At neets, before they gan upstairs;
Aa'll try to be a diff'rent man;
Aa'll bide at yem beside wor Nan.
He turned about, an' off he ran,
But the ghost ran after Booty.

He ran till he was short o' breeth;
He said, There's nowt for me but deeth.
the ghost was there, an' scringed his teeth;
He still is wantin Bunty.
He took poor Bunt up in his airm,
Just like as if he'd been a bairn;
He clashed him doon upon a stane;
When he got up the ghost was gyen.
He sais, Thank God, yence mair aa's free;
He's had a nice bit fun wi' me
As wonder whe the ghost can be,
That has been after Bunty.

Strite off yem poor Bunty ran;
He knocked at the door an' shouted, Nan!
Be as sharp as ever thou can;
The ghost's been after Bunty!
She turned the lock an' eased the sneck;
He flung his arms around hor neck;
His hair stood strite up frae his heed.
He sais, As's nearly flaid te deed.
Lock the door, he'll be here just noo!
Get out, says Nan; it isn't true!
Sa that again, an' aa'll bring him to thoo
For he's been after Bunty!

Tommy Armstrong
 

X: 1
T:The Ghost that 'aunted Bunty
M:6/8
L:1/8
C:Tommy Armstrong
K:G
|B2 A|G2FG2E|D3C2C|B2, A, B2, C| D6
|E2E G2 G|D2D G3|A2A DEF|G3G2 A
|B2 B B2 B|B2B2B2B2|c2BA2G|F2G A2 D
G2GG2G|GG2G2G|A2AA2G|F2ED2D
|G2GG2G|G2G GGG| A2A A2G|F2E DDD
|E2E G2G|D2DG G2| A2A DEF|G3G2ZZ||
B2AG2F|G2ED3|C2C B2,A,|B2,CD3
|E2E G2G|D2 D G3|A2A DEF|G3 G2ZZ||

If you're inclined to hear a song, aa'll sing a verse o two
An' when aa's dune ye're ganning to say that every word is true.
The miners of Sooth Medomsley they never will forget
Fisick an' his tyranny, an hoo they have been tret;
For in the midst of danger these hardy sons did toil,
For te earn their daily bread so far beneath the soil;
Te make an' honest living each miner did contrive,
But ye shall hear hoo they were sarved in eye-teen eyety-five.

Chorus
O the miners of Sooth medomsley they're gannin te make some stew;
they're gannin to boil fat Postick and his dorty candy crew;
The Maistors should hev nowt but soup as lang as they're alive.
In memory of thor dorty tricks in eyeteen eyety-five.

Below the county average then  the men was ten per cent,
Yet Fisick the unfeelin cur, he couldn't rest content;
A ten per cent reduction from the men he did demand,
But such a strong request as this the miners couldn't stand.
The notices was all sarved oot, an' when they had expired.
Aal the gear was brought to bank, an' the final shot was fired.
His honest workin men this low-lived man did strive.
He'll often rue for what he did in eyteen eyety-five.

Fisick was detarmined still for tyranny to show;
For to got some candymen he wandered to an ' fro
He made his way to Consett, an' he saa Postick the bum,
He knew he liked such dorty jobs, an' he was sure to come.
Fisick tolled him what to do, an' where to gan an' when,
So at the time appointed, Postick landed wiv his men;
Wi' pollises an' wi candymen the place was aal alive,
Aal through the strike that Fisick caased in eyeteen eyety-five.

commander Postick gave the word an' they started with their work.
But they wor done at fiveo'clock; they dorsen't stop till dark;
An when they'd done aal they could, an' finished for the day.
The bobbies guarded Postick an' his dorty dogs away.
Fisick was a tyrant, the owners was the syame;
For the torn-out o' the strike that wor the men to blame,
Neither them nor Postick need expect they'll ever thrive,
For what they did to Dipton men in eyeteen-eyety-five

-Tommy Armstrong

 
X: 1
T:Sooth Medomsley Strike
M:6/8
L:1/8
C:Tommy Armstrong
K:D
|A|F2FF2F|F2FE2D|C2E E2F|(E3 E2) F|
G2G G2G|G2G F2E|D2FF2G|(F3 F2) E|F2FF2F|
F F2E2D|C2EE2F|(E3 E3)|G2GG2G|G G2 F2 E|
E2DD2E|D3 D3 E|F2FF2G|A3 F2F|G2GA|
(B3 B3)|^G2 G G2 A|B2 ^G F2E|A2AA2B|(c3 c2) A|
d2dd2 B|A2F D2G| G2F G2A|(B3 B2) B|A2AA2A|
c2 cc2B|A2 G F2 E|D3 A2G| F2F F2D|F F2 F2 D|
F2F F2G|(F3 F2) F|G2 G G2 G|G2 F E2 D|C2 A A2 B|
(A3 A2) G| F2 E F2 G
A2F E2 D| G2 GG2A|(B3 B2) B|
AAA A2 A| c2c c2 B
A2 G F2 E|(D3 D2)||

 

For notation Click here
For midi sound Click here
 

I knew a lass doon Wylam way
As bonny as could be
And tho' she took me fancy
She'd have nowt to do wi' me
And mind she thowt horsel ne muck
For if Aa said Good day!
She stuck up hor nose and she tossed hor heed
And nivvor would look me way.
She stuck up hor nose and tossed hor heed
And nivvor would look me way.

Noo as Aa was just a farmin' lad
Me hands were rough wi' toil
Wi' cleanin byres and leadin muck
To spread upon the soil
And many's the time that she passed by
Tho' nivvor a word was said
Aa knew by her face she thowt that Aa
Was part of the load Aa led.

But womenfolk are kittle cattle
And change from day to day
Me uncle left the farm to me
And cash to myek it pay
But where's the howty towty lass
As thowt Aa'd like to wed
That's hor wi' the coos in her clarty shoes
And a bonny grand wife she's made.

Each time Aa axed hor if she'd wed
For love or for me brass
Aa got a saucy answer from me howty towty lass
But noo we've got a son and heir
She says that he will de
If he's as good as his dad
By gox she must be in love wi' me.

-Jack Robson

A pitman's wife is nivor dyun
Of that there is nee doot
Whilst some are comin' in from work
there's others gannin' oot
As weel remember as a lad
The feeds there used to be
On Sundays when we aall sat doon
As one big family.

Chorus-
Me poor aad father used to carve
A wallopin joint o'meat
Wi' spuds and sproots by gum we got
As much as we aall cud eat
But best of aall the tasty bites
Aa'll nivver forget by heck
Wer the Pot Pies and the Puddens
That me mother used to myek.

But many years have gyen since then
And now the wife and me
Sit doon on Sundays tiv a chop
That ye can hardly see
Wor dusbin's full of empty tins
And dinner's just a nyem
But nivvor dor Aa mention
Hoo we used to feed at hyem.

Aa tell the wife she's deein fine
And let it gan at that
For if Aa dared to say owt else
By gox, she'd lowse the flat
Howway Aa've poured yor dinner oot
Aa'm sick to hear hor say
Nee wonder that me mind gans back
To many a bygone day.

Coda-
The rowly powly piuddens
The steak and kidney puddens,
Them greet big Yorkshire puddens
That me mother used to myek.

-Jack Robson

Haven't ye heard of the Amble Feast
Hinnies ye've missed a treat
From North to South from West to East
Ivryone there ye'll meet
Lasses and lads have a gala day
As they prance aboot wi' glee
They dance on the green so if ye've not been
Then hurry alang wi'me

Chorus-
Come alang to the feast at Amble
Join the fun it's a regular scramble
Ivrybody will frolic and gambol
Hey nonny nonny and derry down day
Aall the hinnies from Warkworth and Ashington
Blyth and Newbiggin will be there
Such a pushin' and shovin' and jostlin'
Aall good humoured at Amble Fair
Come alang etc.

See the fat wives in the switch back cars
Shriekin' wi' nervous fright
Some others will choose the shuggy shoes
Yellin' with aall thor might
Children gan oon to the roondaboots
An the lads to the coco-nut shies
the lasses mair bold have their fotunes told
While some have hot peas and pies.

Coda.

Feastin' away,happy nad gay
Hey nonny nonny and derry down day.

-Norman Turnbull

The Happenny Woods at Bellington
May very delightful be
But many a pund Aa've sadly fund
Them woods is costing me
Twas there that Aa met a lass se fair
Dressed oot in hor finery
In the Happenny Woods at Bedlington on Sunday
We started to gan together
She was always meek and mild
And when Aa axed hor if she'd wed
She nodded hor heed and smiled
She said that hor name was Rose
By gum Aa didn't knaa she was wild
In the Happennuy Woods at Bedlington that Sunday

She's nowt but a useless painted doll
Me money'll soon be spent
As'm gannin' withoot to rig hor oot
But still she's not content
Hor tongue winnit cease Aa get ne peace
Aa rue that ivver Aa went
To the Happenny Woods at Bedlington that Sunday
Ye've nivver seen such a dorty hoose
Aa hing me heed wi' shame
Little Aa thowt a lazy nowt
Could have such a luvly name
As soon as Aa'm in the rows begin
If only Aa'd stopped at hyem
From the Happenny Woods at Bedlington that Sunday.

Now Aa cud have had the lass next door
It shows what a fyul Aa've been
Aa knaa she can bake and mend and make
And keep things spick and clean
The folks in the street says sarves ye reet
For bein' se soft and green
In the Happenny Woods at Bedlington that Sunday
It just goes to show how true it is
That looks can shallow be
And what ye took for gowld is brass
Cos look what it's done to me
So tyek me advice and lads think twice
If ivver a rose ye see
In the Happenny Woods at Bedlington one Sunday.

-Jack Robson

 

Sally is a canny lass, A canny lass is she
Wi' me hat and me shaal ye'll see 'er doon the Quay
Sally's just the sort o' lass sae bonny kind and free
From Newcassel doon to Cullercoats, There's none like Sally-Lee

Hor father was a muckman
Hor grandpa was a snob
Hor mother was a washerwife
Wi' ony amoont o' gob
Hor sister is a fisherwife
And hor borther he does nowt
He's a half bred porter pokeman
That nivvor stuck to owt.

And when me work is over
An wander doon the Quay
And there Aa meet me heart's delight
Me bonny Sally Lee
And someday, when Aa've served me time
How happy Aa will be
For Sally, 'spite of aall the lads
Is gannin' to marry me
 
 
 

Good neighbours, I'm come for to tell you
Our skipper and Moll's to be wed'
And if it be true what they're saying,
Egad, we'll be rarely fed;
They've brought home a shoulder of mutton,
Besides two thumping fat geese;
and when at the fire they're roasting,
We're all to have sops in the grease.

Blind willy's to play on the fiddle.

And there will be pies and spice dumplings,
And there will be bacon and peas;
Besides a great lump of beef boiled,
And they may get crowdies who please
To eat of such good things as these are,
I'm sure you've  but seldom the luck;
Besides, for to make us some pottage,
there'll be a sheep's head and a pluck.

Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

Of sausages there will be plenty,
Black puddings, sheep fat, and neat's tripes;
Besides, for to warm all our noses,
Great store of tobacco and pipes.
A room, they say, there is provided
For us at  The Old Jacob's Well,
The bridegroom he went there this morning.
And spokefor a barrel o' yell

Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

There's sure to be those things I've mentioned,
And many things else; and I learn
There's white bread and butter and sugar,
To please every bonny young bairn.
Of each dish and glass you'll be welcome
toi eat and to drink till you stare;
I've told you what meat's to be at it,
I'll next tell you who's to be there

Blind Wily's to play on the fiddle.

Why there will be Peter the Hangman,
Who flogs the folks at the cart tail;
Auld Bob, with his new sark and ruffle,
Made out of an old keel sail;
and Tib on the Quay who sells oysters,
Whose mother oft strove to persuade
Her to keep from the lads, but she couldn't
Until she got by them betrayed.

Blind willy's to play on the fiddle.

And there will be Sandy the Cobbler,
Whose belly's as round as a keg;
And doll, with her short petticoats,
To display her white stockings and leg;
And Sall, who, when snug in a corner,
A sixpense, they say, won't refuse;
She curs'd when her father was drowned,
Because he had on his new shoes.

Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

And there will be Sam the Quack Doctor,
Of skill and profession he'll crack;
And Jack, who would fain be a soldier,
But for a great hump on his back;
And Tom, in the streets, for hisliving.
Who grinds razors, scissors, and knives;
And two or three merry old women,
That call Mugs and doublers, wives!

Blind Willy's to Play on the Fiddle

But, neibhbours; I'd almost forgotten
For to tell ye:--exactly at one.
The dinner will be on the table,
The music will play till it's done.
When you'll be all heartily welcome
Of this merry feast for to share;
But if you won't come at this bidding,
Why then you may stay where you arre.

Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

For Notation Click here
For Midi Sound Click here

On the Ropery Banks Jinny was sittin--
She had on a bed-goon just new,
And blythely the lassie was knittin
Wi' yarn of a bonny sky-blue:
The strings of her cap they were hingin,
Se lang on her shoulders se fine,
And hearty aw heard this lass singin--
Maw bonny keel lad shall be mine.

[Chorus, in between verses and at end:]

O wad the keel come doon the river,
That aw my dear laddie could see;
He whistles, he dances se cliver,
Maw bonny keel laddie for me.

Last neet in amang these green dockins
He fed me wi' gingerbreed spice--
Aw promised to knit him these stockins,
He cuddled and kiss'd me se nice;
He ca'd me his jew'l and his hinny;
He ca'd me his pet and his bride,
And he swore that aw should be his Jinny,
To lie at neets doon bi his side.

That mornin forget aw will niver,
When first aw saw him on the Kee,
The "Keel Row" he whissel'd se cliver,
He wun my affections frae me;
His drawers on his doup luik'd se canny,
His keel hat was cock'd on his heed,
And if aw'd not gettin my Jimmy,
Faith, by this time aw wad be deed.

The first time aw spoke to maw Jimmy--
Now mind ye it isn't a lee--
My mother had gi'en me a penny,
To bring her a penn'orth o' tea;
When a lad i' the street cried oot "Bessie!"
Says I, "Hinny, that's not my nyem;"
"Becrike, niver mind," he said, "lassie,
To-neet aw will see ye syef hyem."

Since then aw hae been his true lover,
Aw've lov'd him as dear as my life,
And in spite o' byeth fethor and mother,
Aw'll suen be maw keel-laddie's wife!
How happy we'll be then together,
When he brings hyem his wages ti me,
Wiv his bonny bit bairn cryin "Fethur,"
And another one laid o' my knee.

Tune called"The Skipper's Wedding"  c. 1872 .
Stokoe & Reay (Songs & Ballads of Northern
England) call it "Fy let us a' to the Bridal", a Scottish
tune at least 100 years older than Nunn, with its own set
of words. It's a lively melody in 9/8, and  ends on the
supertonic.Source:  MS  Robert Nunn blind fiddler/songster
of Newcastle
(died 1853, aged 45).
 

Hey, wor Geordie's lost 'is penker(marble)
Hey, wor Geordie's lost 'is penker
Hey, wor Geordie's lost 'is penker
Doon the double raw(double row of houses)

Well, it ralled reet doon the koondy(storm drain)

Soo he's gone ta fetch a claes prop(clothes line pole)

And he rammed it up the koondy

But the claes prop would na' fetch it

So he's gone ta fetch a terrier

And he shooved it up the koondy

But the terrier wad nae fetch it

So he's gone ta get goon pooda(gun powder)

And he poured it up the koondy

Then he set fire to the pooda
And he's blon the double raw

Hey, wor Geordie's foond 'is penker

It was in his bloody pooket
It was in his bloody pooket
It was in his bloody pooket
And he's blon the double raw
 

Roll on thy way, thrice happy Tyne!
Commerce and riches still are thine;
Thy sons in every art shall shine,
And make thee more majestic flow.

The busy crowd that throngs by thy sides,
And on thy dusky bosom glides,
With riches swell thy flowing tides,
And bless the soil where thou dost flow.

Thy valiant sons, in days of old,
Led by their Chieftains, brave and bold,
Fought not for wealth, or shining gold,
But to defend thy happy shores.

So e'en as they of old have bled,
And oft embrac'd a gory bed,
Thy modern sons, by Ridleys led,
Shall rise to shield thy peace-crown'd shores.

Nor art thou blest for this alone,
That long thy sons in arms have shone;
For every art to them is known,
Andscience, form'd to grace the mind.

Arts, curb'd by War in former days,
Has now burst forth in one bright blaze;
And long shall his refulgent rays
Shine bright, and darkness leave behind.

The Muses too, with Freedom crown'd,
Shall on thy happy shores be found,
And fill the air with joyous sound
Of--War and Darkness' overthrow.

Then roll thy way, thrice happy Tyne!
Commerce and riches still are thine!
Thy sons in arts and arms shall shine,
And make thee still majestic flow-

- J. Gibson of Newcastle, in Bell
 
 

Near Blackett's Field, sad hov'ring,
('Twas but the other day,)
Thus sung a melancholy wight
His pitty-moving lay:--
How comes this alteration strange!
What can the matter be,
That the brave Association Lads
Are under lock and key?

Ah! lately, on a Sunday,
To dine I hardly staid--
But from my beef and pudding ran,
T' attend the gay parade!
Now I may stay and pick my bones,
Fron anxious hurry free;
For the brave Association Lads
Are under lock and key!

A dimpling smile still grac'd my cheek,
Brave D***n when I saw;
'Twas worth a crown to hear him, too,
Exclaiming Kiver awa!
But thus to feast my eyes and ears'
No more my lot shall be
For the brave Assocaition Lads
Are under lock and key!

To church, now, when the bells are heard,
With snail-like pace I creep
And there, in manner most devout,
Compose myself to sleep!
Thus cheerless pass the ling'ring hours,
So lately fraught with glee,
Ere the brave Association Lads
Were under lock and key!

For pity's sake, then, Ridley!
Thy turnkeys straight dischargbe,
And let thy armed Patriots
Again be drill'd at large;
So shall my Sunday afternoons,
In gazing, joyous flee,
When the brave Association Lads
Ar'n't under lock and key!

Think--urg'd by curiosity,
To climb the Spital walls,
Should any of thy neighbours there,
Sad, break their necks by falls,
O would not such mischances dire
Be justly charg'd on thee,
Who keeps the Association Lads
Thus underlock and key?

Imagine not thy warriors brave,
To glory who aspire,
Whilst thus confin'd in Blackett's field,
Their station much admire!
Ah! no; in Heaton cellars they
Would rather chuse  to be,
Most jovial, carrying on the war,
All under lock and key!

Whilst War's horrific clangours
Resound throughout the land,
Still may'st thou, galland Ridley,
Thy town's-men brave command:
And, oh! that with your martial toils
Delighted I may be,
Ope wide the door of Blackett's field;
Then break the lock and key!

-J. Shield of Newcastle, in Bell. Because of the
confined limits of the parade ground of the Loyal Newcastle
Associated Corps of Volunteer Infantry
it was found necessary to lock the door during time of
drill to prevent the crowd interfering with the evolutions of the
corps.

Ho'way and aw'll sing the a tune, mun,
'Bout huz see'n my Lord at the town, mun,
Aw seer aw was smart, now
Aw'll lay the a quart, now
Nyen' them aw cut a dash like Bob Cranky.

When aw pat on my blue coat that shines se,
My jacket wi' posies se fine see,
My sark sic sma' threed, man,
My pig-tail se greet, man!
Od smash! what a buck was Bob Cranky.

Blue stockings, white clocks, and reed garters,
Yellow breeks, and my shoon wi' lang quarters,
Aw myed wour bairns cry,
Eh! sarties! ni! Ni!
Sic verra fine things had Bob Cranky.

Aw went to awd Tom's and fand Nancy,
Kiv aw, Lass, thou's myed to my fancy;
Aw like thou as weel
As a stannin pye heel,
Ho'way to the town wi' Bob Cranky.

As up Jenny's backside we were bangin,
Ki' Geordy, How! where are ye gannin?
Weyt' see my lord 'Sizes,
But ye shanna gan asside us,
For ye're not half se fine as Bob Cranky.

Kiu' Geordy, We leve i' yen raw, weyet,
I' yen corf we byeth gan belaw, weyet,
At a' things aw've play'd
And to hew am'm not flay'd,
Wi' sic in a chep as Bob Cranky.

Bob hez thee at lowpin and flingin,
At the bool, foot-ball, clubby, and swingin:
Can ye jump and shuffle,
And cross owre the buckle,
When ye dance? like the clever Bob Cranky.

Thou naws, i' my hoggars and drawers,
Aw'm nyen o' your scarters and clawers:
Fra' the trap door bit laddy,
T' the spletter his daddy,
Nyen handles the pick like Bob Cranky.

So, Geordy, od smash my pit sarik!
Thou'd best had thy whisht about warik,
Or aw'll sobble thy body,
And myek thy nose bloody,
If thou sets up thy gob to Bob Cranky.

Nan laugh'd-- t'church we gat without 'im;
The greet crowds, becrike, how aw hew'd  'em!
Smasht a keel-bully roar'd,
Clear the road! Whilk's my lord?
Owse se high as the noble Bob Cranky.

Aw lup up aa' catch'd just a short gliff
O'lord trial, the trumpets, and sheriff,
Wi' the little bit mannies,
Se fine and se canny,
Ods heft! what a seet for Bob Cranky.

Then away we set off to the yell-house,
Wiv a vew hearty lasses and fellows,
Aw tell'd owre the wig,
Se curl'd and se big;
For nyen saw'd se weel as Bob Cranky.

Aw gat drunk fit, and kick'd up a racket,
Rove my breeks and spol'd a' my fine jacket:
Nan cry'd and she cuddled
My hinny, thous's fuddled,
Ho'way hyem now, my bonny Bob Cranky.

So we staggere'd alang fra the town, mun,
Whiles gannin, whiles baith fairly down, mun:
Smash, a banksman or hewer,
No not a fine viewer,
Durst jaw to the noble Bob Cranky.

What care aw for my new suit a'tatters,
Twe black een--od smash a' sic maters!
When my lord comes agyen, mun,
Aw'l strive every byen, mun,
To bang a' wor Concern, ki' Bob Cranky.

O' the flesh and breed day when wour bun', mun,
Aw' buy clase far bonnyer than thon, mun;
For, od smash my neavel!
As lang as wour yebble,
Let's keep up the day, ki' Bob Cranky.

-John Selkirk in Bell
 
 
 
 
 

Odd smash! 'tis hard aw can't rub dust off,
To see ma lord wi' wig se fine toss'd off,
But they mak a sang man aw can't tell how lang man,
All myeking a gam o' Bob Cranky.

Ma blue coat and pigtail's my awn, wyet!
And when to Newcassel I gang, wyet!
Aw like to shaw town folks,
Whe se oft ca' us gowks
They ar'n se fine as Bob Cranky.

If aw fin the Owther, as sure as a'm Bob,
A'll mak him sing the wrang side o' his gob,
A'll gi'm sic sobbling
A'll set him hyem hobbling,
For myeking a gam o' Bob Cranky.

A'll myek his noodle as reed as ma garters;
A've a ling stick, as weel as lang quarters,
Whilk a'll lay ow'r his back,
'Till he swears ne'er to mak
Ony mair sangs o' Bob Cranky.

Aw wonder the maist how he did spy,
What was dyun, when nobody was by--
Some conj'rer he maun be,
Sioc as wi' Punch aw did see,
Whilk myed the hair stand o' Bob Cranky.

Our viewer sez aw can't de better,
Than send him a story cull letter
But writing a'll let rest;
The pik fits ma hand best,
A pen's owr sma for Bob Cranky.

Nan, whe a'll marry or its very lang,
Sez Hinny, din't mind the cull fellow's sang,
Gif he dis se agyan,
Our schyul maister's pen
Shall tak pairt wi' ma bonny Bob Cranky.

Ize warrn't giv aw weer my pillease,
An ma hat myed of very sma strees;
He'll be chock full o' spite,
An about us will write,
An say Ize owre fine for Bob Cranky.

Sure, Bobby, says she, his head's got a crack,
Ne maiter, sed I, an gov her a smack
Pilleases are tippy,
Like shugar's thy lippy,
And thou shalt be wife to Bob Cranky.

The Crankies, farr back nor I naw,
Hae gyen to Sizes to see trumpets blaw,
Wi' white sticks, an' Sheriff,
But warn't myed a sang of,
Nor laugh'd at, like clever Bob Cranky.

Lord Sizes cums but yence a year, wyet!
To see his big wig a've ne fear, wyat!
So be-crike! while aw leeve,
Thof wi' lang sangs a'm deav'd,
Me Lord at the church shall see Cranky!

-in Bell
 

Come marrows, we've happen'd to meet now,
Sae our thropples together we'll weet now;
Aw've myed a new sang,
And to sing ye't aw lang,
For it's about the Bonny Geatsiders.

Of a' the fine Volunteer corpses,
whether footmen, or ridin o' horses,
'Tween the Tweed and the Tees,
Deel hae them that sees
Sic a corpse as the Bonny Geatsiders.

Whilk amang them can mairch, turn, an wheel sae?
Whilk their guns can wise off half sae weel sae?
Nay, for myeking a crack
Through ?England aw'l back
The Corpse of the Bonny Geatsiders.

When the time for parading nigh hand grows,
A' wash their sel's clean i' the sleek trough;
Fling off their black duddies,
Leave hammers and studdies,
And to drill-- run the Bonny Geatsiders.

To Newcasel, for three weeks up-stannin,
On Permanent Duty they're gannin;
And sune i' th' papers,
We's read a' the capers,
O' the corpse o' the Bonny Geatsiders.

The Newcassel chaps fancey they're clever,
And are vauntin and braggin for ever;
But they'll find themselves wrang,
If they think they can abang,
At sough'rin, the Bonny Geatsiders.

The Gen'ral sall see they can loup dykes,
Or mairch through whins, lair whooles, and deep sykes;
Nay, to soom (in a pinch)
Through Tyne, wad'nt flinch
The corpse o' the Bonny Geatsiders.

Some think Billy Pitt's nobbit hummin,
When he tells about Bonnepart cummin;
But come when he may,
He'll lang rue the day
He first meets wi' the Bonny Geatsiders.

Like an anchor shank, smash! how they'll clatter 'im,
And turn 'im and skelp 'im, and batter 'im,
His banes sall by pring,
Like a fryin pan ring,
When he meets wi' the Bonny Geatsiders.

Let them ance get 'im into their tailings weel,
Nae fear but they'll give 'im his whaings weel;
And to Hazlett's * pond bring 'im;
And there in chains hing 'im;
What a seet for the Bonny Geatsiders!

Now, marrows, to shew we're a' loyal,
And that, wi' the King and Blood Royal,
We'll a' soom or sink,
Quairts a piece let us drink,
To the brave and Bonny Geatsiders.

- In- Bell, *A pond on Gateshead Fell so named on account
of the Body of Robert Hazlett being hung in Chains there, Sept. 1770,
for robbing the Mail.

Fareweel, farweel, ma comely pet!
Aw's doon for parm'ent duty set,
O dinna let it grieve thee!
Ma hinny! wipe them e'en sae breet,
That mine wi'love did dazzle;
When thy heart's sad can mine be leet!
Come, ho'way get a jill o' beer,
Thy heart to cheer;
An' when thou sees me mairch away,
Whiles in, whiles out
O' step, nae doot,
Bob Cranky's gane--thou'lt sobbing say,
A sougering to Newcassel!

Come, dinna, dinna whinge and whipe,
Like yammering Isbel Macky;
Cheer up, ma hinny! leet thy pipe,
An take a blast o' backy!
It's but for yen and twenty days,
The foulk's een aw'll dazzle,--
Prood, swagg'ring i' my fine reed claes:
Odds heft! my pit claes- dist thou hear?
Are waurse o' wear;
Mind cloot them weel, when aw's away;
An' a posie grown
Aw'll buy thee soon,
An' thou's drink thy tea--aye, twice a-day,
When aw come frae Newcassel.

Becrike! aw's up tiv every rig,
Sae dinna doot, ma hinny!
But at the Blue stane o' the Brig
Aw'll ha'e ma mairching Ginny.
A Ginny! wuks! sae strange a seet
Ma een wi' joy will dazzle;
But aw'll hed spent that verra neet--
For money, hinny! owre neet to keep,
Wad brick ma sleep;
Sae, smash! aw thinks't a wiser way,
Wi' flesh and beer
Mysel' to cheer,
The lang three weeks that aw've to stay,
A sougering at Newcassel.

But whisht! the sairgent's tongue aw hear,
Fa' in! fa' in! he's yelpin:
The fifes are whusslin' lood an' clear,
An' sair the drums they're skelpin.
Fareweel, ma comely! aw mun gang,
The Gen'ral's een to dazzle;
But, hinny! if the time seems lang,
And thoiu freets about me neet an'day;
Then come away,
Seek out the yell-house where aw stay,
An' we'll kiss and cuddle;
An' mony a fuddle
Sall drive the langsome hours away,
When sougering at Newcassel.

-John Shield, of Newcastle, in Bell

Saw ye owt of my love Ganning down on the waggon way
With his pocket full of money and his poke full of hay

Aye but he's a bonnie lad as ever you did see
Though he's sair frowsy freckled and he's blind of an e'e

There's ne'er a lad like my lad drives to a staith on Tyne
Though coal black on workdays, on holidays he's fine

My lad's a canny lad, he works down in the pit
He never comes to see me unless he wants a bit

With his silver in his hand and with love in his e'e
I see my canny lad coming to me

Aye but he's a bonnie lad as ever you did see
Though he's sair pock-brocken and he's blind of an e'e

Printed in Sedley's Seeds of Love
from  text in A L Lloyd's
Come All Ye Bold Miners

Whaur hae ye been, my canny hinny?
Whaur hae ye been, my winsome man?

I've been tae the nor'ard
Cruisin' back and for'ard
I've been tae the nor'ard
Cruisin' sair and lang
I've been tae the nor'ard
Cruisin' back and for'ard
But I daur not gang ashore
For fear of Bover and his gang

Oh, the weary cutters, they've ta'en my laddie from me
Oh, the weary cutters, they've ta'en my laddie from me
They've pressed him far away foreign
Wi' Nelson ayont the salt sea
They've pressed him far away foreign
And ta'en my laddie from me

Oh, the weary cutters, they've ta'en my laddie from me
Oh, the weary cutters, they've ta'en my laddie from me
They always come in the neet
They never come in the day
They always come in the neet
To steal our laddies away

Oh, the weary cutters, they've ta'en my laddie from me
Oh, the weary cutters, they've ta'en my laddie from me
I'll gie the cutters a guinea
I can't gie the cutters nae more
I'll gie the cutters a guinea
To steal my laddie ashore

The Baff week is o'er--no repining--
Pay-Saturday's swift on the wing;
At length the blythe morning comes shining,
When kelter makes colliers sing;
Tis Spring, and the weather is cheary,
The birds whistle sweet on the spray;
Now coal working lads trim and airy,
To Newcastle town hie away.

Those married jog on with their hinnies,
Their canny bairns go by their side;
The daughters keep teazing their minnies
Foir new cloaths to keep up their pride;
They plead--Easter Sunday does fear them,
For, if they have nothing that's new,
The Crow, spiteful bird! will besmear them;
Oh then! what a sight for to view!

The young men, full blithsome and jolly,
March forward, all decently clad;
some lilting up, Cut-and-dry, Dolly,
Some Singing, The bonny Pit Lad;
The pranks that were play'd at last binding
Engage some in humourous chat;
some halt by the way-side on finding
Primroses to place in their hat.

Bob Cranky, Jack Hogg, and Dick Marley,
Bill Hewitt, Luke Carr, and Tom Brown,
In one jolly squad set off early
From Benwell to Newcastle town;
Such hewers as they (none need doubt it)
Ne'er handled a shovel or pick;
In high or low seam they could suit it,
In regions next door to Old Nick.

Some went to by hats and new jackets,
And others to see a bit fun;
And some wanted leather and tackers
To cobble their canny pit shoon:
Save the ribbon Dick's dear had requested,
(Aware he had blenty of chink)
There was no other care him infested,
Unless 'twere his care for good drink.

(In the morning the dry man advances
To purl-shop to toss off a gill,
Ne'er dreading the ills and mischances
Attending on those who sit still:
The drink Reason's monitor quelling,
Inflames both the brain and the eyes;
The inchantment commenc'd there's no telling
When care-drowning tipplers will rise.

O Malt! we acknowledge thy powers
What good and what ill dost thou brew!
Our good friend in moderate hours--
Our enemy when we get fu':
Could thy bot'ries avoid the fell furies
So often awaken'd by thee,
We would seldom need Judges or juries
To send folk to Tyburn tree!)

At length in Newcastle they centre--
In Hardy's * a house much renown'd,
The jovial company enter,
Where stores of good liquor abound:
As quick as the servants could fill it,
(Till emptied was quarts half a score)
With heart-burning thirst down they swill it,
And thump on the table for more.

While thus in fine cue they are seated,
Young cock-fighting Ned from the Fell*
Peep'd in -- his How dye? repeated,
And hop'd they were all very well;
He swore he was pleased to see them--
One rose up to make him sit down,
And join in good fellowship wi' them,
For him they would spend their last crown.

The liquor beginning to warm them,
In friendship the closer they knit,
And tell and hear jokes--and, to charm them,
Comes Robin form Denton-Bourn pit;
An odd witty, comical fellow,
At either a jest or a tale,
Especially when he was mellow
With drinking stout Newcastle ale.

With bousing, and laughing, and smoking,
The time slippeth swiftly away;
And while they are ranting and joking
the church-clock proclaims it mid-day;
And now for black-puddings, long measure,
They go to tib Trollibag's stand,
And away bear the glossy rich treasure,
With joy, like curl'd bugles in hand.

And now a choice house they agreed on,
Not far from the head of the Quay;
Where they their black puddings might feed on
And spend the remains of the day;
Where pipers and fiddleres resorted,
To pick up the straggling pence,
And where the pit lads often sported,
Their money at Fiddle and Dance.

Blind Willie* the fidler sat scraping,
In corner just as they went in:
Some Willington callants were shaking
Their feet to his musical din;
Jack vow'd he would have some fine cap'ring.
As soon as their dinner was o'er,
With the lassie that wore the white apron,
Now reeling about on the floor.

Their hungry stomachs being eased,
And gullets well clear'd with a glass,
Jack rose from the table and siezed
The hand of the frolicsome lass.
Ma hinny! says he, pray excuse me-
\To ask thee to dance I make free.
She reply'd I'd be loth to refuse thee!
No fiddler play- Jigging for me.

The damsel displays all her graces,
The collier exerts all his power,
They caper in circling paces,
And set at each end of the floor;
He jumps, and his heels knack and rattle,
At turns of the music so sweet
He makes such a thundering brattle,
The floor seems afraid of his feet.

This couple being seated, rose Bob up,
He wish'd to make one in a jig;
But a Willington lad set his gob up,--
O'er him there should non run the rig.
For now 'twas his turn for a caper,
And he would dance first as he'd rose;
Bob's passion beginning to vapour,
He twisted his opponent's nose.

The Willington lads, for their Franky,
Jump'd up, to revenge the foul deed;
And those in behalf of Bob Cranky
Sprung forward--for now there was need.
Bob canted the form, with a kevel,
As he was exerting his strength;
But he got on the lug such a nevel,
That down he came all his long length.

Tom Brown, from behind the long table,
Impatient to join in the fight,
Made a spring, some rude foe to disable,
For he was a man of some might:
Misfortune, alas! was attending,
An accident fill'd him with fear;
An old rusth nail his flesh rending,
Oblig'd him to slink in the rear.

When sober, a mild man was Marley,
More apt to join friends than make foes;
But rais'd by the juse of the barley,
He put in some sobbling blows.
And cock-fighting Ned was their Hector,
A courageous fellow, and stout:
He stood their bold friend and protector,
And thump'd the opponents about.

All hand-over head, topsy turvy,
They stuck with fists elbows and feet,
A Willington callant, called Gurvy,
Was top-tails tost overe the seat;
Luke Carr had one eye clos'd entire;
And what is a serio-farce,
Poor Robin was cast on the fire,
His breeks torn and burnt off his a--e.

Oh, Robit! what argued thy speeches?
Disaster now makes thee quite mum;
Thy wit could not save the good breeches,
That mencefully cover'd thy bum:
To some slop-shop now thou may go trudging,
And lug out some squandering coins;
For now 'tis too late to be grudging,--
Thou cannot go home with bair groins.

How the wafaring companies parted,
The Muse chuseth not to proclaim;
But, 'tis thought, that, being rather down- hearted,
They quietly went--toddling hame.
Now ye Collier callants, so clever,
Residing 'tween Tyne and the Wear,
Beware, when you fuddle together,
Of making too free with strong beer.

-in Bell, * Sign of the Black Boy, Groat Market
* Gateshead Fell, *William Purvis, a blind fiddler so called.

On each market day, Sir, the folks to the Quay, Sir,
Go flocking with beards they have seven days worn,
And round the small grate, Sir, in crowds they all wait, Sir
To get themselves shav'd in a rotative turn;

Old soldiers on sticks, Sir, about politics, Sir,
Debate-- till at length they quite heated have grown;
May nothing escape, Sir, until Madame Scrape, Sir,
Cries, Gentlemen, who is the next to sit down?

A medley the place is, of thos that sell laces,
With fine shirt-neck buttons, and good cabbage nets;
Where match-men, at meeting, give a kind greeting,
And ask one another how trade with them sets:
Join'd in with Tom Hoggars and little Bob Nackers,
Who wander the streets in their fuddling gills;
And those folks with bags, Sir, who buy up old rags, Sir,
That deal in fly-cages, and paper windmills.

There pitmen, with baskets and gay posey waistcoats,
Discourse about nought but whee puts and hews best:
There keelmen, just landed, swear may they be stranded,
If they're not shav'd first while their keel's at the Fest;
With a face of coal dust, would frighten one almost,
Thro' off hat and wig, while they usurp the chair;
While others stand looking, and think it provoking,
But, for the insult, to oppose them none dare.

When under the chin, sir, she tucks the cloth in, Sir,
Their old quid they'll pop in the pea-jacket cuff;
And while they are sitting, do nought but keep spitting,
And looking around with an air fierce and bluff:
Such tales as go round, Sir, would be sure to confound, Sir,
And puzzle the prolific brain of the wise;
But when she prepares, Sir, to take off the hair, Sir,
With lather, she whitens them up to the eyes.

No sooner the razor is laid on the face, Sir,
Then painful distortions take place on the brow;
But if they complain, Sir, they'll find it in vain, Sir,
She'll tell them there's nought but what Patience can do;
And as she scrapes round 'em, if she by chance wound 'em,
they'll cry out as tho' she'd bereav'd them of life,
'Od smash your brains, woman! I find the blood's coming,
I'd rather been shav'd with an au'd gully knife!

For all they can say, Sir, she still rasps away, Sir,
And sweeps round their jaw, the chop torturing tool;
Till they in a pet, Sir, request her to whet, Sir:
But she gives them for answer, Sit still you pist fool!
She forward proceeds till she's mown off the hair;
When finish'd, cries, There Sir then straight from the chair, Sir,
They'll jump, crying, Daresay you've scrap'd the bone bare.

-In Bell. On the Sandhill and later on the Quay near the Bridge
worked as barbers in the open street. They were generally
women.

Ha' ye been at Newcastle fair,
and did ye see ouse o' great Sandy?
Lord bliss us! what wark there was there;
And the folks were drinking of brandy.
Brandy, a shilling a glass!
Aw star'd, and thought it was shamful.
Never mind, says aw, canny lass,
Give us yell, and aw'll drink ma wameful,

Chorus-
Rum te idily, &c.

Says she, Canny man, the yell's cawd:
It comes frev a man they ca' Mackey,
And my faith it's byeth sour an' awd;
Y'd best hev a drop o' wour jacky.
Your jacky! says, I, now what's that?
I ne'er heard the neame o' sic liquor.
English gin, canny man, that's flat.
And then she set up a great nicker.

Says I , Diven't laugh at poor folks,
But gang and bring some o' yur jacky;
Aw want neane o' yur jibes or jokes;
I' th' mean time aw'll tak a bit backy.
Aw just tuke a chew o' pig tail,
She brought in this jacky se funny;
Says she, Sir, that's better than ale:
And held out her hand for the money.

There's three pence to pay, if you please;
Aw star'd an' aw gap'd like a ninny:
Od smash thee, aw'll sit at ma ease,
An' not tir till aw've spent a half guinea.
Aw sat an' aw drank till quite blind,
Then aw' gat up to gang to the door,
But deel smash a door cou'd aw find,
An' fell flat o' ma fyess on the floor.

There aw lay for ever se lang,
And dreamt about rivers and ditches;
When waken'd was singing this song--
Smash, jacky thou's wet a' ma breeches.
An' faith! but the sang it was true,
For jacky had been se prevailing,
He'd whistled himsel' quickly throiugh
An' the chairs an' tables were sailing.

Then rising, aw went ma ways heame,
Aw knock'd at the door, an' cry'd Jenny;
Says she, Canny man, is'te lame,
Or been wadin in Tyne, ma hinny?
I' troth, she was like for to dee,
An'just by the way to relieve her,
The water's been wadin through me,
An' this jacky's a gay deceiver,

If e'er aw drink jacky again,
Bay the bitch of a lass, ma adviser,
Loup alive down ma throat, with a stane
As big as a pulveriser.

-By J.S. in Bell

On Bamboroughshire's rocky shire,
Just as you enter Bowmer Raw,
There lives the bonny fisher lad,
The fisher lad that bangs them a'.

Chorus-
O the Bonny fisher lad,
That breings the fishes fra' the sea;
O the bonny fisher lad,
The fisher lad gat had of me.

My mother sent me out one day,
To gather cockles fra' the sea;
But I had not been long away,
When the fisher lad gat had of me.

A sailor I will never marry,
Nor soldier, for he's got no brass;
But I will have a fisher lad
Because I am a fisher's lass.

-Bell

The Kye's Come Home

The kye are come hame,
But I see not my hinny,
The kye are come hame,
But I see not my bairn:
I'd rather lose all the kye
Than lose my hinny,
I'd rather loose all the kye
Than lose my bairn.

Fair fac'd is my hinny,
His blue eyes are bonny,
His hair in curl'd ringlets
Hang Sweet to the sight;
O mount the old poney,
Seek after my hinny,
And bring to his mammy
Her only delight.

-Bell

Hobby Elliott

O bonny Hobby Elliott,
O canny Hobby still,
O bonny Hobby Elliott,
Who lives at Harlow -Hill:

Had Hobby acted right,
As he has seldome done,
He would have kiss'd his wife,
And let his maid alone.

-Bell, by Mr. James Robson, Stone Mason,
Thropton, near Rothbury leader of the
band in the Pretender's army in 1715.