Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Part 10  Directory 8 Click here for main menu of this directory. Use our floating menu to improve navigation. you can reposition it by clicking on top bar and dragging Floating Menu Menu of all of the Sangs Click here For tunes in .abc notation click here For an index of persons and places mentioned in the sangs click here For Bibliography,and Philosophy of the collection click here We invite you to contribute!  Click here to comment or add. Soon after our upgrade the songs which the priests have recorded will be high-lighted thusly Illustrated by woodcuts by Joseph Crawhall (Newcastle, 1889)  (Where you see the music note image there will be a midi file-for you to listen to!)

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Bob Fudge's Postscript
To his Account of the great Town Moor Meeting, on Monday  11th October, 1819.

Since the Meeting, dear Bob, many things have come out,
Which in Gotham have made a most damnable rout:
Mister Mayor at a trifle does not seem to stick,
With the Rads* he's been playing Sir Archy Mac Syc.--
While Sidmouth he cramm'd with some Green Bag Supplies,
Which--Alas! for his Worship--have turn'd out all lies!
A stark starving Parson,** to add to the store,
A budget has sent to the noble Strathmore;
And some other Arch Wag, whom all grace has forsook,
A thumper has palm'd on a great Northern Duke!
Sir Matt, too, so lately the pride of the Tyne,
Against poor old Gotham did also combine;
By supporting Bold Archy's most libellous letter,
He has added another strong link to the fetter!
The rivet he's clos'd which no mortal can sever,
And set now's the Bright Star of Heaton for ever!
but let him beware--for a Rod is in pickle,
Which, sooner or later, his Toby will tickle.
both the Houses have rung with the direful alarms,
Of the Rads on the Tyne and the Wear being in arms;
'Tis all a sly hoax-the Alarmists alarming,
For there's not the least symptom of Rising or Arming!

--In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.

A whirlwind, of a serioius kind,
Did o'er Newcastle blow, sir,
Which gen'ral consternation spread
About a month ago, sir,
It caught Blind Willy in the street,
He mounted like a feather;
His friend's alarm'd cried out Alas!
Poor soul! he's gone for ever!

Chorus-
Fal de ral, &c.

But soon our Minstral gay was seen,
By thousands of the people,
In rapid flight, swift as the kite
Bound o'er Saint Nich'las steeple;
He pass'd the Shot Tower like a dart,
Turn'd round by Askew's Key, sir,
And down the Tyne he glided fine,
And bolted off to sea, sir.

'Tis said that he to London got,
But was forc'd back to Shields, sir,
And up to Swalwell, quick as thought,
Was carried o'er the fields, sir.
Round Axwell Park our roving spark
Was borne amidst the squall, sir,
And swiftly passing Elswick House,
Reach'd Cockolorum Hall, Sir.

Thus tempest-toss'd to Blagdon cross'd,
And hail'd fam'd Heaton's Star, sir--
As far as Prestwick Car, sir.
Newcastle next he hovere'd o'er,
Quite calmly in the air, sir,
And landing at the Mansion House,
He din'd with Mr. Mayor Sir.

R. Emery-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 

The New Markets I
Tune- Canny Newcassel

Wev, hinnies, but this is a wonderful scene,
Like some change that yen's seen iv a playhouse;
Whe ever wad thowt that the awd Major's dean
Wad hae myed sic a capital weyhouse:
Where the brass hez a' cum fra nebody can tell,
Some says yen thing nad some says another--
But whe ever lent Grainger's aw knaw very well,
That they mun have at least had a fother.

Chorus:
About Lunnen then divent ye myek sic a rout,
For there's nowt there maw winkers ti dazzell;
For a bell or a market there isent a doubt
We can bang them at canny Newcassel

Wor gratitude Grainger or somebody's arl'd,
Yet still, mun, it mykes yen a' shuther,
To see sic a crowd luiking after this warld
Where the Nuns us'd ti luik for the tother.
But see yor awn interest, dinna be blind,
Tyek a shop there whatever yor trade is;
Genteeler company where can ye find
Than wor butcher,s green wives, and tripe ladies?

Ti see the wives haggle about tripe and sheep-heads,
Or washing their greens at a fountain,
Where the bonny Nuns us'd to be telling their beads,
And had nowt but their sins ti be coiunting;
There the talented lords o' the cleaver and steel
May be heard on that classical grund, sir,
Loudly chaunting the praise o' their mutton an' veal,
Though they're losing a happney a pund, sir.

When them queer Cockney folk cum stravagin this way
(Though aw've lang thowt we'd getten aboon them)
They'll certainly now hae the mense just to say,
That we've clapt an extinguisher on them:
It's ne use contending, they just may shut up,
For it's us can astonish the stranger;
They may brag o' their Lords an' their awd King ti boot,
What's the use on it?--they havent a Grainger.

Oliver-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 
 
 

I'll sing you a bit of a ditty,
I hope you will not think it lang,
At least if it tires your patience,
I'll verra suin shorten my sang;
It's alll about comical changes,
And new-fangled things on the Tyne,
I've witness'd since aw was a skipper,
And that isn't verra lang syne.

Chorus
These are the days of improvement,
We're a' getting wiser you see,
The skuilmaster's getting abroad,
And he'd finish us off to a tee.

Baith sides of the Tyne aw remember,
Were cover'd wi' bonny green fields,
But now there is nought but big furnaces
Down frae Newcastle to Shields;
And what wi' their sulphur and brimstone,
Their vapour, their smoke, and their steam,
The grass is all gaen, and the farmers
Can nowther get buter or cream.

For making their salts and their soda,
They formerly us'd a lail-pot,
With an awd-fashion'd bit of a chimley
They were quite satisfied wi' their lot;
But now Anty Clapham, the Quaker,
Has fill'd a' the folks wi' surprise,
For he's lately built up a lang chimley,
Within a few feet o' the skies!

There's Losh's big chimley at Walker,
Its very awn height makes it shake,
And if Cookson's again tumble ower,
It will make a new quay for the Slake;
To talk of your fine foreign pillars,
It's enough for the make a man sick,
The great tower of Babble compar'd
Wi' wor chimleys is nowt but a stick.

For threepence to Shields aw remember
In a wherry the folk  us'd to gan,
And that was consider'd by many
A very respectable plan;
But now we've got sixpenny steameres,
A stylish conveyanace, I'm sure,
For there you've a tune on the fiddle,
And a lie on the sands for an hour.

Then ower the land we'd a whiskey,
Which went twice or thrice in the day,
Which us'd to take all the fine gentry,
And quite in an elegant way;
But now the awd whiskey's neglected,
And nothing but coaches suit us,
Lord help us! there's nothing gans now
But a hyke in the new omnibus.

At one time wor ships were all loaded
Sae canny and snug by the keels,
And then a' wor maisters made money,
And keelmen were a' happy chiels;
But now your fine drops de the business!
Lord bless us! aw never saw such,
Though some of wo owners aw's freeten'd
Hev getten a drop ower much.

And then an aud horse brought a waggon
A' the way frae the pits to the staith,
But now it appears pretty certain,
They'll verra suin dee without baith,
For now their fine steam locomotives
A' other inventions excels,
Aw've only to huik on the waggons,
And they'll bring a ship-load down their sels.

New rail-roads now spring up like mushrooms,
Aw never, maw soul! saw the like,
We'll turn every thing topsy-turvy,
And leave ourselves not a turnpike;
Then horses will live withoiut working,
And never more trot in a team,
And instead of carrying their maisters,
They'll get themsels carried by steam.

Wor ballast-hills now are grown handsome,
And what they call quite pictoresk,
Ne poet can de them half justice
If he writes all his life at his desk;
They're hilly, and howley, and lofty,
Presenting fresh views every turn,'
And they'd luik like Vesuvious or Etna,
If we could only get them to burn.

And as for aud canny Newcastle,
It's now quite a wonderful place,
Its New Market, nothing can match it
In elegance beauty, and grace;
Could our forefathers only just see it,
My eye! they would start wi' surprise,
I fancy I just hear them saying--
What's come of the buggy pigsties?

And this is a' duin by one Grainger--
A perfect Goliah in bricks,
He beats Billy Purvis quite hollow
In what ye ca' slight of hand tricks;
He's only to say, Cock-o-lorum,
Fly Jack, presto, quick and be gane,
And new houses spring up in an instant--
Of the audins you can't see a stane.

In sculler-boats, not very lang syne,
The Shields folk cross'd over the Tyne,
But now we have got a big steamer,
And cuts quite a wonderful shine;
And one that we've got down at Scotland,
Delights a' the folks with a ride,
For it gans back and forward sae rapid,
That it just makes a trip in a tide.

I think I've now told you, my hinnies,
The whole of the changes I've seen,
At least a' the whirligig fashions
That I have been able to glean;
So the next time we meet a'together,
Some other improvements I'll get,
And then we shall make worsels happy,
And try a' wor cares to forget.

In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 
 
 
 

On the Quayside, so spruce, stands a great Custom House,
Of Newcastle the pride and birth-right;
Now the sons of Go-tham had sworn o'er a dram,
That to Gotham it soon should take flight

A townsman they sent, on great deeds fully bent,
A son of the knife and the steel,  sirs;
And one learn'd in the laws, to argue their cause,
The covenants to sign and to seal, sirs.

Lo London they came, through the high road to fame,
Their hearts were both merry and staunch:
Of success confident, to the Treasury they went,
 And demanded they might have a Branch!

False report (only guess) brought to Gotham success,'
Rejoicing, they blaz'd withoiut doubt;
Great Rome, they now say, was not built in one day;
We've the Branch, and we'll soon have the Root!

While their thoughts were thus big, over Newcastle brig
The Mail came one day, in a hurry:
What's the news? say the folk; quick a Briton up spoke,
No Branch!--so Newcastle be merry.

No Branch! was the cry, re-echoed the sky,
And sent down to Gotham a volley;
Where the prospect is bad, for 'tis fear'd they'll run mad,
Or relapse into sad melancholy.

So Gotham beware, and no more lay a snare,
Nor think  that Newcastle you'll bend;
Call your advocates home, your cause to bemoan,
And let each his own calling attend.

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.

.
 

The Custom House Tree &c.
tune- The quayside shaver

Ye folks of Newcassel, so gen'rous, advance,
And listen awhile to my humourous strain;
'Tis not the fag end of a fairy romance,
Nor yet the effect of a crack in the brain;
'Tis a Custom-house Tree, that was planted with care,
And with Newcassel Int'rest well dung'd was the root;
And that all Water Fowls might partake of a share,
They were kindly permitted to taste of the Fruit.

The Sea Gulls of Shields sought a Branch, so applied
To a stately old Drake, of the fresh water breed:
He flutteer'd his wings, then he bade them provide
A memorial, to send off to London with speed.
His pow'rful opinion was soon put in force,
And messengers chose, who, without more delay,
Took flight; while blind Ignorance guided their course,
And they roosted, I'm told, about Ratcliffe Highway,

Meanwhile, with impatience, a Gull took his glass,
And with anxious concern took a squint to the sout;
If I don't now behold (may you prove me an ass)
A Gull flying back with a Branch in his mouth.
The news quickly spread; they, in wild consternation,
Burnt tar-barrels, bells ringing, dancing for joy;
A person was sent for to plan the foundation,
While others drank Mrs. Carr's wine-cellar dry.

There was one, half seas over, sang Little Tom Horner,
While some in the streets, on their bellies lay flat;
Another, 'pon turning the Library Corner,
Ran foul of a quaker, and knock'd off his hat.
A full brandy bottle came smack through a window,
And hit on the temple a canty old wife;
Don't murmur, say they, were you burnt to a cinder,
We're albe to grant you a pension for life.

Their Gull-eye at London, o'er pudding and roast,
Would bet heavy odds he should fortunate be;
And then after dinner propos'd, as a toast,
That grass might soon grow upon Newcassel Kee.
But the Treas'ry decision laid vap'ring aside;
No Branch! was the cry, so away the Gulls slunk:
Should a Twig be lopp'd off, it can ne'er be deny'd,
But the roots would soon dry, and thus wither its trunk.

So now I've a scheme, if your fancy I hit,
T'will suit crazy folks after dancing mad reels;
Instead of a Custom-house Branch 'twould be fit
That a Branch from the Mad-house be rear'd in North Shields.
We'll laugh at the joke, while experience may learn
The Gulls, for the future, in peace to remain.
By what you have heard, you may also discern,
That premature joy's the forerunner of pain.

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

Tune- Yo heave O

The joyous men of North Shields their church bells set a ringing sweet,
And tar-barrels blaz'd, their high rapture for to shew;
Like bears some fell a dancing, like ravens some were singing sweet,
Poor Jack, Rule Britannia and Yo heave O.
Some grog were freely quaffing,
Like horses some were laughing;
Their matchless powers in bellowing all eager seem'd to shew;
The Branch, they cried, we've got,
And with it, well we wot,
Fitters, bankers, merchants, soon will follow in a row.

The Newcastle deputation, do doubt on't swagger'd much sir,
Expecting our Pilgarlicks soon foiled would have been;
But too hard for them all prov'd the diplomatic Butcher,
Whose tongue, like his gully-knife, is marvellously keen.
Spite of wheedling and of sneering,
Bamboozling nad queering,
He to his purpose stuck so fir, so true, and so staunch,
The Town Clerk and his chums,
Stood whistling on their thumbs,
Astonish'd, whilst triumphantly he bore away the Branch.

And now since the Custom House we thus have got translated,
Why longer should the County Courts Newcastle proudly grace?
We wise-ones of North Shields, tho' reckon'd addle-pated,
For this pile so magnificent will find a fitter place.
Yon space* which--'s skill,
Seems destin'd ne'er to fill
With structures worthy Athens' or Corinth's proudest day;
Yon space! O is it not
The very, very spot
Where the county courts their splendour so massive should display?

If once our gen'ral committee determine, in full quorum,
The removal of our Courts, the result will fully shew,
That the Lords of the Treasury, and Custos Rotulorum,
(Our high displeasure dreading) will not dare to whisper No.
And when the whim impells,
To eclipse the Dardanelles;
The old Castle of its ancient sight shall straightway take its leave,
To brave gthe billow's shocks,
On the dread Black Midden rocks,
However for its transit Antiquarians sore may grieve.

Then comes the grand finale, for which our souls we'd barter now;
The Regent and his ministers we'll pester night and day,
Till transferr'd to us Newcastle sees her revnues and charter too,
And from Heddon streams to Tynemouth bar, Tyne owns our soverign sway.
O when our town so famous is,
Big as Hippopotamuses,
We'll strut about the Bank- top quite semi-divine;
The neighbouring coasters all,
Our greatness shall appall,
And their topsails straight they'll lower to the lords of the Tyne.

'Twas thus with idle rumours poor gentlemen delighted,
The honest men of North Shields to fance gavethe rein;
Sad proof that when ambition with folly is united,
Astonishing chimeras oft occupy the brain.
But soon their joy was banish'd,
Soon each illusion vanish'd
For news arriv'd the Butcher the Branch could not obtain.
Deep, deep in the dumps,
(After playing all his trumps)
Just as branchless as he went he was toddling hyem again.

Newcastle, thou dear canny town! O ever thus defeated.
Be every hostile effort thy prosperity to shake;
Long grumbling to thy Custom-house, in gigs and coaches seated,
May the honest men of North Shields their daily journies take,
Long, long too, may the Jacks
Continue their equestrian skill on Shileds road to display;
Tho' oft their tits may stumble,
And o'er the bows they tumble,
Unhurt, still bold, mahy they remount, and onward bowl away.

Newcastle men, rejoice! O haste, on this occasion,
With many a jovial bumper our whisltes let us wet,
Lord Eldon, with Sir William Scott, and all our deputation,
To toast, with acclamations due, O let us not forget:
To them our thanks be tender'd,
Good services they've render'd--
Andlet us hope in after times, should Branch wars rage again,
In Newcastle 'twill be found,
Such men do then abound,
The commercial pre-eminence still boldly to maintain.

*The New Market Place

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 
 
 
 

The Fishermans Farewell to the Coquet

 Come bring to me my limber gad I fished with many a year
And let me hae my well worn creel an a' my fishin gear
The sunbeams glint on Linden Ha
The breeze blows frae the west
And lovely looks the golden morn on the stream that I love best

 Ive thrawn the flee thae sixty year, aye sixty year and mair
and many a speckled trout i had with heckle hauk and hair
and now I m old and feeble grown my locks are like the snow But i'd
gang again to coquetside to take anither throw

 Oh Coquet in my youthful days thy river sweetly ran
And sweetly in the wooded braes the bonny birdies sang
But streams may run and birds may sing sma' joy they bring to me
The blithesome strains I dimly hear, the streams i dimly see

 But once agin the well-kenned sounds my minutes shall beguile
And glistening in the early sun I see thy waters smile
And sorrow shall forget his sigh and age forget his pain
And once more down by coquetside my heart be young again

 Once mair Ill touch with gleesome foot the waters clear and cold
And I will cheat the gleg-eyed trout and while him frae his hold
Once mair at Weldons friendly door Ill wind my tackle up
 And drink success to coquetside, though a tear fa in the cup

 So now farewell to Coquetside Aye gaily may thou run
And lead the waters sparkling on and dash frae linn to linn
Blithe be the music of thy streamand banks in after days
And so be every fishers heart That treads upon thy braes

 Robert Roxby 1825

Let gowks about Odd Fellows brag,
And Foresters se fine--
Unrivall'd the Mechanics stand,
And long will o'er them shine;--
With belts of blue, and hearts so true,
They far outrival every Order--
Their praise is sung by every tongue,
Frae Lunnin toon reet ow'r the Border.

Chorus- Wack, row de dow, &c.

O had you seen our Nelson lads
When Nunn* brought up the news--
He said, let us be off to Shields,
Our brothers' hearts to rouse;
Our Tilder drew his sword, and cried,
Let banners wave and loud drums rattle--
Whene'er Mechanics are oppress'd,
They'll find us first to fight their battle!

Three cheers we gave, when Nunn replied,
Our Albion lads do crave,
To join the Tyne and Collingwood,
All danger they would brave;
And each I. G. wad let them see,
Their hearts and souls were in the action,
They'd crush a foe at ev'ry blow,
Until that they had satisfaction.

The ardour spread from lodge to lodge,
Each brother's heart beat high,
And down the Tyne, in steamers fine,
On rapid wings they fly;-
On rapid wings they fly;--
'Mid cannon's roar along the shore,
Our band struck up our tunes se merry--
So blythe a crew there's  been but few,
Since famous Jemmy Hohnson's Wherry.

At Shields we doin'd their splendid band,
And march'd in fine array--
Throughout the town, we gain'd renown,
For such a grand display;--
We smack'd their yell, and wish'd success
To each Mechanic's Lodge se clever,
And as we left the brothers cried--
O may our Order live fore ever!

Let's drink to all Mechanics true,
Upon both sides of Tyne--
May peace and plenty bless their homes,
And round them long entwine;-
To Simpson te, so kind and free,
Let's give three cheers as loud as thunder--
Till echo'd back from pole to pole,
And all the world admire and wonder!
 

*Thomas Nunn, I.G. of the Albion Lodge.
-R. Emery-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 

Here awhile we'll cease from roaming--
Pitch the tents among the broom--
Turn the asses on the common,
And enjoy the afternoon.
 

Chorus-
Merry shall we be to-day;
What is life devoid of pleasure?
Care from us keep far away,
While Mirth pursues his sprightly measure.

Place all things in decent order,
Budgets, boxes, mugger-ware,
And here encamp'd on England's border,
We'll remain till Whitsun Fair.

Eas the brutes of panniers' load--
Let them browse among the heather;
Light a fire, and dress some food,
And frankly we shall feast together.

And Allan,* thou shalt screw thy drone,
And play up "Maggie Lauder" sweetly,
Or "Money Musk" or "Dorrington,"
And we will frisk and foot it neatly.

Crowd** gain'd applause for many a tune--
Few Peer'd him in the High or Lawlan';
But neither he nor Sandy Brown***
Could trill a note like Jemmy Allan.

E'en Blaw-loud Willy's*** Border airs,
Nor gay nor daft could please the dancer;
But aye to Allan's lilts , at fairs,
The very feet themselves would answer.

Each lad shall take his favorite lass,
And dance with her till she be weary,
And warm her with the whisky glass,
And kiss and hug his nut-brown deary.

And when of mirth we've had our will,
Upon the sward love shall entwine us;
Our plighted vows we'll then fulfill,
Without a canting priest to join us.

And when we go our countryrounds,
Soime trinkets selling, fortunes telling--
Some tink'ring, cooping, casting spoons,
We'll still obtain the ready shilling.

Unto the farm-steads we can hie,
Whene'er our stock of food grows scanty.
And fromthe hen-roost, bin or sty,
We'll aye get fresh supplies in plenty.

And when the shepherd goes to sleep,
And on the fell remains the flick,
We'll steal abroad among the sheep,
And take a choice one from the stock.

The clergy take the tenth of swine,
Potatoes, poultry, corn, and hay--
Why should not gipsies, when they dine,
Have a tithe-pig as well as they?

We wish not for great store of wealth,
Nor pomp, nor pride, nor costly dainty;
While blest with liberty and health,
And Competence-then we have plenty.

***An unskilful performere on the bagpipe, who attended the different fairs held in Northumberland.
About 45 years ago, a poem appeared in a Kelson newspaper,
wherein this person was respectfully noticed,as follows:--
They brought the piper, Sandy Brown,
Frae Jedburgh to Lochmahen town;
Though whaisling sair and broken down
Aud Sandy seem'd,
His chanter for a pleasing sound
Was still esteem'd
*James Allan, the celebrated Norhumberland bagpiper.
**A vagrant piper, who often travelled with gipsies.

-H. Robson-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 
 

The rolling year at length brings forth
The day that gave our poet birth;
O Burns! to testify thy worth,
We're hither met--
Nae genius i' the South or North
Can match thee yet.

Of ither's rhumes we have enow,
But sic as thine are rare and few--
For aye to nature thou wert true,
Thou bard divine!
Nae poet Scotia ever knew
Could sing sae fine.

With rapture, each returning Spring,
I'll follow thee, on Fancy's wing,
To where the lively linnets sing
In hawthorn shade;
Here oft thy muse, deep pondering,
Sweet sonnets made.

With thee I'll stray by streamlet's side,
And view the bonnie wimpling tide
O'ere polish'd pebbles smoothly glide,
Wi' murm'ring sound,
While Nature, in her rustic pride,
Smiles all around.

Or to the fells I'll follow thee,
Where o're the thistle burns gthe bee,
And meek-eyed gowans modestly
Their charms disclose,
And where , upon its 'thorney tree,"
Blows the wild rose.

Or to the heath, where faries meet
In mystic dance with nimble feet,
By moonlight--there the elves I'll greet,
And join theirrevels;
Or on a "rag -weed nag", sae fleet,
Fly wi' the devils!

Through fields of beans, with rich perfune,
And o'ere the bracs o' yellow broom
That gilds the bonny banks o' Doon,
Wi' thee I'll rove,
Where thou, when blest in youthful bloom,
Stray'd with thy love.

When thunder-storms the heav'ns do rend,
Unto Benlomond's top I'll wend,
And view the clouds electric vend
The forked flash!
And hear the pouring rains descend
Wi' dreadful clash!

A fig for meikle bags o' wealth,
If I hae food, and claes, and health,
And thy sweet sangs upon my shelf,
I'll gaily trudge it
Through life, and freely quit the pelf
For Robin's budget.

And when distracting moments teaze me,
Or fell Oppressions grapples sieze me,
A lesson frae thy book may ease me,
Sae I may hear
Misfortune's wipes, till death release me
Frae canker'd care.

H. Robson-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 

Tune- The Soldiers Tear.

Upon Newcastle Moor,
Poor Matthew cast a look,
When he thought on the coming hour,
When his brave Noodle Troop
Would lay their arms down,
No longer them to bear--
The brave defedners of the town--
He wip'd away a tear.

Beside gthe fatal spot,
Wherepoor Jane did end her strife,
He said that he would cut his throat,
And end his wretched life--
A life so 'press'd with care,
No longer cold he bear--
So wildly then he tore his hair,
And wip'd away a tear.

He turn'd and left the ground,
Where oft his red, red plume,
Had spread its warlike beauty round,
To the sound of fife and drum;--
But now his glory's fled--
No longer it he'll wear,
But take it quietly from his head,
And wipe away a tear.

No more the Tory ranks
Will glitter in the sun--
Nor play at e'en their childish pranks,
With blunderbbuss or gun;
For now the doleful knell
Has toll'd their last career,
And, horror-struck, poor Matty Bell,
Who wip'd away a tear.

Wm Greig -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 
 
 

Good Master Moody, my beard being cloudy,
My cheeks, chin, and lips, like moon i' the 'elipse
For want of a wipe--
I send you a razor, if you'll be at leisure
To grind her, and set her, and make her cut better,
You'll e'en light my pipe. *

Dear sir, you know little, the case of poor Whittell:
I'm courting, tantivy, if you will believe me---
Now mark what I say:
I'm frank in my proffers, and when I make offers
To kiss the sweet creature, my lips cannot meet her,
My beard stops in the way.

You've heard my condition, and now I petition,
That, without omission, with all expedition
You'll give it a strike,
And send it by Tony, he'll pay you the money--
I'll shave and look bonny, and go to my honey,
As snod as you like.

If you do not you'll hip me, my sweetheart will slip me,
And if I should smart for't and break my brave heart for't.
Are you not to blame?
But if you'll oblige me, as gratitude guides me,
I'll still be your servant, obedient and fervent,
Whilst Whittell's my name.

*this phrase means, the conferring of a vacour.

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 
 
 

Oh! hae ye not heard o' this wonderful man,
Perpetual Motion's inventer!
The Sun, Muin, and Stars are a' doon iv his plan,
But take time till it comes frae the prenter!
The last time he lectur'd he tell'd such a tale
'Bout Vibration, Air, and such matter;
He can prove that a washing-tub is not a pail,
And all Isac Newton's brains batter!

Chorus
Then come, greate and sma', and hear the downfa'-
For a fa' down it will be for certain--
Of a' the wiseacres and gon'rals, an' a'
that dare to oppose the great Martin;
He'll settle their hash! their necks he will smash,
A' the College-bred gowks he will dazzel;
Ne mair shall false teachers o'er him cut a dash!
They are banish'd frae Canny Newcassel.

He can prove that a turkey-cock is not a Turk!
That a 'tatie is not a pine-apple;
He likewise can prove that boil'd goose is not pork,
And a black horse is not a grey dapple.
A' what he can prove--a' what he can do,
And bother the gon'rals--the wad-be's;
He likewise can prove that a boot's not a shoe,
And his cane's not a sausage frae Mawbey's!*

His Poems are sublime, tho' nyen o' them rhuyme--
Why ,he pays no attention to Morrow;**
Ne matter for that, still he makes them a ' chyme,
For he hasn't his phrases to borrow!
Then proceed, mighty man, propagating thy plan,
To enlighten this dark age of reason!
May it spread like a blaze, with thy eloquence fann'd--
To doubt it, I hold it sheer treason.
*A late famd Sausage-maker in the Old Flesh Market.
**Murrays Grammer

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 
 
 
 

The Gateshead Rads
To an old tune

T'other day 'aw was saunt'ring down the New Street,
And had turn'd to gan back, when whe should aw meet,
Reet plump i' the face, but sage Tomy Rav-ly,
Just come frae the council, and looking mos gravely.

Wi' Tommy, says aw, what can be the matter?
Your plawd is aw dirt, and your teet in a chatter;
Has your colleagues in office been using a broom,
And sooping the dirt all out of the room?

Now, James, he replied, Pray don't be prosy,
Or sure as you're there, I';ll make you quite mosey;
I've gotten enough to make me look blue,
Without being bother'd  with plebeians like you.

Just think, when the last time in council we met,
We propos'd and appointed our yellow-hair'd Pet
Toi be Justice's clerk, and pocket the fees,
For which he came almost plump down on his knees.

But no sooner did we our backs fairly turn,
Than they (devil take them!) appointed Swinburne,
And laugh'd in their sleeves to think how we'd stare;
but James you must know, they had better beware.

Now, Tommy says aw, just keep yoursel' aisy,
For at present aw'm sure that ye look very crazy;
Make the Quaker your purser, and he'll put ye right,
For aw'm sure that the strings he will keep verra tight.

A sixpence he'll make gan as far as a pound,
So that will be nineteen and sixpence ye've found;
Just leave all to him and W.H.B.,
And no doubt ye will prosper, as shortly ye'll see.

Now come, let's away to the bonny Blue Bell,
And there we will drink a quart o' yor yell,
And then aw will tell ye what next ye maun de--
But mind ye say nowse 'bout it coming frae me.

He then made a start, but nowt did he say,
('tween councillor and plebeian, that's may be the way,)
Till into the house we fairly did stumble,
When, "go cab my lug," he was then verra humble.

Now, Tommy, maw man, aw see nowse that ye've done,
But aw hope ye intend to commence verra soon;
A market we maun hae, an' at the Brig-end--
A place that old Jacky oft dis recommend--

To save us the fash, and aiblins the pain,
Of ganging right o'ere unto the High-crane;
and mind what I say, if we wantony peace
During sermon, on Sunday, oppose the police.

At that he did open his eyes verra wide--
Ah, beggar! aw thought aw'd offended his pride;
But nought o' the sort, for he held out his loof--
Now, James, my good fellow, you've said quite enough.

My int'rest aw'm sure, you always shall hae,
and a job aw will get you on the Sabbath-day;
For some one at the council this day did propose,
That we the dog-fights in Green's Field should oppose.

And Usher was told for to seek out three men,
To assist him on Sundays, anbd thou shat be ane;
And 'bout what thou wert saying a motion wa'll bring,
For, doubtless, 'twill prove a necessary thing.

We thank ye, says aw, but d'ye think that ye're right,
In trying to stop us frae seeing a dog-fight;
For maw thoughts about liberty it fairly clogs,
Yet--we've barking enough ni' twe-footed dogs.

Gateshead, March 1, 1836.

Y.S, -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 
 
 

The Election Day
Tune- There's nae Luck about the House

Ye Freemen all, with heart and voice
Your banners wide display--
Bring Hodgson forth, your man of choice,
Upon th' Election-day.

Then fill your glasses, drink yoiur fill,
Drink deeply while yoiu may--
With right good-will, we'll drink and swill
Upon th' Election-day.

But politics are not the stuff
That we care much about--
Nor care, so we get drink enough,
Who's in, or who is out.

Then fill your glasses, drink yoiurfill--
Fill nad drink away,
And ev'ry one enjoy the fun
Upon th' Election-day.

Brave Vulcan is our leader bold,
The pride of all good fellows--
He swears the iron shall ne'er grow cold,
While he can blow the bellows,

Then fill your glasses, what's the toast,
To drive dull cafre away?-
'May ev'ry man be at his post
Upon th' Election-day.'

The landlord next appears in view,
Our second in command,
Encouraging the jovial crew
To drink while they can stand.

Then charge your glasses, noble souls,
The toast without delay--
'May thirsty sculs have flowing bolws
Upon th' Election-day'.

The Hodgson's name aloud proclaim
Victoriously that day;
While he, in honour of his fame,
Will all expences pay.

Then fill your glasses, What's the Toast?
Fill and drink away--
'May ev'ry man drink all he can
Upon th' Election-day.

-W.Watson -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 

Mary Drue
by the late T. Houston*

On a pleasant April morning,
Wand'ring Tyne's sweet banks along,
Spring with flow'rs the fields adorning,
Woods and gorves with birds of song--
Pensive stray'd I; none was nigh me,
When a maid appear'd in view--
Slow she came, or seem'd to fly me--
Heav'ns! 'twas charming Mary Rrue.

Long my Mary's charms I gaz'd on,
Long I view'd that nymph complete--
Her bright eyes no form were rais'd on,
But were downcast at her feet:
In her hand a violet blooming
Kiss'd the breeze that gently blew,
And one robe, with folds presuming
Hid the breast of Mary Drue.

Onward drew the modest maiden,
Heav'nly was her gait and air--
Brighter ne'er that meadow stray'd in,
Never Tyne saw form so fair:
In my breast my heart, wild beating,
With redoubled ardour flew;
From my tongue all speech retreating,
Left me scarce-"dear Mary Drue."

Henry, Henry! have I found you?
(Thus the maid her words address'd,)
and with solitude around you,
Can my Henry here be bless'd?
Woods and streams may yield a pleasure,
But my bliss-'tis all in you--
Love beyond all bounds and measure--
Lov'd at last by Mary Drue!

Told this morn of your disorder,
(Love for me the cause believ'd,)
Soon I sought this river's border,
Where 'tis said you oft have griev'd:
On the river's brnk I find you--
Pensive, sad, I find you too;
Leave the world and wealth behind you--
Thou art worlds to Mary Drue!

Sweet as notes from lutes ascending,
to my ear these accents came,
Smiles and looks of love attending,
Touch'd my soul with gen'rous flame;
O'er her charms, disorder'd, stooping--
Rapt'rous sight! divinely new!--
On my breast her head lay drooping,
While I clasp'd sweet Mary Drue.

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.

*Thomas Houston died about the year 1802 or 1803. He was the author of a play, entitled "The Term-day, or Unjust Steward," and of several poems among which were, "The Progress of Madness," and "A Race to Hell.". In the latter piece were given the portraitures of two notorious corn-factors of that day, belonging to this town.--Houston was a nativeof Ireland, and by trade a brass-founder.
 

Opening of the New Markets

Fill up the cup till the ruby o'erflows it,
Drown ev'ry care in the nectar's rich stream--
If joy's in the goblet, this day will disclose it,
When Trade, Worth, and Beauty, by turns are our theme.
What is, I aske, the toast,
Deepest drunk, honour'd most,
Drunk most devoutly, most honour'd to-day?
What is the pledgethat we
Hail first, with three times three?
"Success to our Market!" --Huzza and Huzza!

No longer let London and Liverpool tell us their towns boast of markets so spacious & grand:
We answer, "We pray you, be quiet, good fellows,
We, too, have a Market--the first in the land!"
Fish, flesh, and garden fruits,
Oranges, apples, roots,
There you will find them all, seek what you may;
Honest the dealers, too,
Drink, then, I pray of you--
"Success to the Dealers!" --Huzza and Huzza!

The structure- but why should we speak of its merit?
Enough that we mention the architect's name;
And long may the building, begun with such spirit,
A monument stand of his talents and fame.
Proofs of a master mind,
Talents and taste combin'd,
Are they not every where visible--say?
The architect's pride and boast,
Then be our hearty toast--
"Mr. R. Granger!"--Huzza and Huzza!"

Wreathe the bowl, wreathe it with wit's brightest flow'rs--
Fill, fill it up till the nectar o'eerflows;
Never was Burgundy brighter than ours,
Never were eye-beams more sparkling  than those.
Surrounded by Beauty's train,
Captives, in willing chains,
To eyes that beam witchery, and smiles that betray,
Low at the shrine we bow--
Love claims the homage due--
"the Ladies!--the Ladies!" --Huzza and Huzza!

If spirit, by cost nor by trouble dismay'd--
If bounty unmeted, and free as the dew;
If courtesy, kindness to each one display'd.
May claim our applause, it is owing here now.
Oft in the festive scene,
Courteous and kind he's been,
Buyt never more courteous, more kind than to-day;
Fill then the cup again--
Drain--to the bottom drain--
"His Worship, the Mayor!"-- Huzza and Huzza!

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

Believe me now, good foke,what I say is not a joke:
Behold, says cousin Isabel, improvement now is visible,
New buildings you espy, airy, spacious, and high,
And trading chaps are moving round to sell or buy,
When trade was at a stand, and the river chok'd wi' sand,
caus'd the bodies to assemble, the poor to employ;
Then Johnny off packt, up to Lunnon for an act,
And the manager for market-building, Dick's the boy!

Chorus
Then Starkey, blaw your reed, ca' the group a' frae the dead,
Jack Coxan and Cull Billy, Judy Dowling and Blind Willy;
Let the cavalcade move on, with a tune frae Bywell Tom
Take a view o' wor new city, drink, and then return.

When colossus he arose, with his Jachin and his Boaz,
His plans of such utility, of splendour and gentility,
Condenm'd was Tommy Gee, and confirm'd was Tommy B.,
And the measure seem'd to reconcile both friends and foes;
Even butchers' crabbed luiks, wi' their meat on silver huiks,
Drop all former animosities, and strut about wi' jouy;
For the temple of king Solomon, for grandeur, can't follow, man--
All Europe now may shout aloud, that Dick's the boy!

Old houses now beware, how you spoil a street or square,
whatever ground you bide upon, your fate is soon decided on;
For tumble down you must, like a lump of mouldy crust,
And the Major bell will toll your fate, when all is done;
For the rich have fond it out, that a camel, without doubt,
through a needle-eye can't pass without a pilot or a foy;
The money, though conservative, will find a good preservative--
The knights of Leazes Terrace, hinnies, Dick's the boy!

Fine rows of Paphian bowers, for the fruits, and herbs, and flowers,
The baskets stand, so pretty looking--feet and tripe, a' fit for cooking--
Fountains fine and pure, that a cripple they may cure,
And babies may get baptism, for ought you know;
There's a clock to tell the time--but I now must stop my rhime,
For the feasting has begun, and each heart seems big with joy;
Then come, enjoy the treat, wi' your legs upon your feet,
Take off your hats, and shout aloud--Brave Dick's the boy!

W.Midford -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 

Newcastle's sore transmogrified, as every one may see
But what they've done is nought to that they still intend to dee:
There still remain some sonsy spots, pure relics of our ancient features,
O' which our canny town shall brag, while bonny Gateshead boasts sand-beaters.

The scrudg'd up Foot of Pilgrim-street, they surely will not mind,
'Tis such a curiosity--a street without an end;
Should they extend it to the Quay, and show off All Saints' Church so neatly,
It might look fine, but I'm afraid 'twould spoil the Butcher-bank completely!

Of pulling down the Butcher-bank it grieves one's heart to speak,
From it down every Quayside-chare there's such a glorious keek;
The shambles, too, a bonny sight, the horse and footways nice and narrow-
Say what they will, seek through the world, the Butcherbank is bad to marrow.

Our fishwives, too, might well complain, forc'd off the hill to move,
Where they so long had squall'd in peace, good fellowship and love:
The brightest day will have an end, and here the Sandhill's glory closes,
Now flies and fumes no more will make the gentles stop their ears and noses.

'Tis said they mean to clear away the houses in the Side,
To set off olf St. Nich'las church, so long our greatest pride;
But where's the use of making things so very grand and so amazing,
To bring daft gowks from far and near, to plague us with their gob and gazing.
 

The Middle-street's to come down next, andgive us better air,
And room to make to hold at once, the market and the fair;
Well may Newcastle grieve for this, because in hot or rainy weather,
It look'd so well to see the folks all swelter'd in a hole together.

The Tyne's to run out east and west; and, 'stead of Solway boats,
Our greenland ships at Carlisle call, and not at Johnny Groat's;
Dull we may be at such a change--eh, certies, lads, haul down your colours!--
'Twould be no wonder now to see chain-bridges ruin all the scullers.

R. Gilchrist  -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 
 

To fall ne'er enter'd in my head,
So staunch is all my station--
As little dreamt I ere to dread
The ills of innovation.
Who can deny my dignity,
Tho I put little state on,
Outshining sham benignity,
My canny Mr. Clayton?

Loong since my roof has rung to song,
And smil'd on gay carouses,
Newcastle then--though now so throng-
Was somewhat scant of houses:
I've stood so long, nor Bourne nor Brand
My days can place a date on,
So even spare me still to stand,
My canny Mr. Clayton.

Newcastle now, like Greece or Rome,
Gives all the world a mazer,
And Mister Grainger has become more like Nebuchadnezzar:
Build houses till ye touch the sun,
Aye work both soon and late on,
But do not try on me such fun,
My canny Mister Clayton.

Yon villas fine--with all their sneers-
Time will not have to hallow,
Ere they haave seen one-tenth my years,
Their sites will lie in fallow;
So do not think I envy them,
though pompously they prate on:
They're sprigs, but I''m a sober stem,
My canny Mister Clayton.

Then say the word, my lease renew,
And win a wreath of glory--
A bard of Tyne will sing of you,
All in my upper story.
Who lays disporting hands on me,
All ills may pour his pate on,
So be advis'd, and let me be,
My canny Mister Clayton

-R Gilchrist  -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 
 
 

Euphy's Coronation.
Tune- Arthur M'Bride

To the Fish-market we are ganning--the queen is proclaim'd!
And Euphy's their choice, for beauty lang fam'd--
They've geen her full pow'r, now she's justly ordain'd;
So they've gyen to crown honest and Euphy!
The market was crowded the queen for to view--
Euphy sat for promotion, drest up wi' new;
The procession appear'd, bearing the flag--a true blue!
And then they surrounded aud Euphy.

The procession was headed by Barbara bell,
He was follow'd by chuckle-head Chancellor Kell--
Mally Ogle appear'd wi' a barrel o' hyell,
To drink to the health of and Euphy.
Honest Blind Willie, tee, gaw them a call--
There was great Bouncing Bet, Billy Hush, and Rag Sall,
The Babe o' the Wood, with Putty-mouth Mall,
A' went to crown honest aud Euphy.

There was a grand invitation for byeth great and sma'--
Her subjects assembled, did loudly hurra!--
She was nobly supported by bauld Dolly Raw,
At the crowning of honest and Euphy;
But Ralphy the Hawk was in prey for a job,
Wiv his small quarter-sstaff, wish'd to silence the mob--
He was silenc'd when he gat the beer-barrel tiv his gob,
At the crowning of honest and Euphy.

Ephy and Madge were the gaze i' the show,
They were lang loudly cheer'd by the famous Jim Bo;-
To preserve peace and order there was barrel-bagg'd Joe,
At the crowning of honest and Euphy.
To make an oration was the Chancellor's wish,
While his turbot-head sweel'd like a smoking het dish;
Bauld Dolly Raw stopt his gob wi' a cod fish,
At the crowning of honest and Euphy.

By great Billy Hush, Euphy queen was declar'd!
To move frae the market her subjects prepar'd;
To the auld Custom-house the procession repair'd,
To drink at the cost of aud Euphy.
Fine Barbara Bell grand music did play,
Which elevated the spirits of young Bella G--y,
Keep your tail up! she wad sing a' the way,
At the crowning of honest and Euphy.

To lead off the ball, for the queen they did cry,
To please all her people, she was there to comply;
Peggy Grundy would follow, wi' Big Bob and X Y,
To assist in the dance wi' Queen Euphy.
The dancing was ended down to dine they a' sat;
Roast beef and pig-cheek-- a good swig follow'd that;
the fragments were reserv'd in Chancellor Kell's hat,
At the crowning of honest and Euphy.

The Chancellor's gob was beginning to swet,
He swill'd it away till he gat ower wet,
He was led to the Tower by young Beagle Bet,
Frae the crowingin  of honest and Euphy:
Bella Roy was beginning to produce all her slack--
She was tuen hyem on a barrow, by wise Basket Jack;
The sport was weel relish'd by Billy the Black,
At the crowning of honest and Euphy.

A speech was now myed frae the queen, i' the chari--
To study their good she would take a great care;
They aw had her blessing--what could she say mair?
God bless the Queen, honest and Euphy!
Wi' cheers for the Queen, the house oft did ring--
By their humble request she the Keel-row did sing;
They a' happy retir'd, wi' God save the King!
Frae the crowning of honest and Euphy.

Thomas Marshall  -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 
 

A, U, A, my bonny bairn,
A, U, A, upon my airm,
A,U,A,--thou suin may learn
To say dadda se canny;
Aw wish thy daddy may be weel,
He's lang i' coming frae the keel;
Tho' his black fyesce be like the de'il,
Aw like a kiss frae Johnny.

Chorus-
A,U,A&c.

Thou really hast thy daddy's chin,
Thou art like him leg and wing,
And aw wi' pleasure can thee sing,
Since thou belangs my Johny.
Johnny is a clever lad--
Last neet he fuddled aw he had,
This morn he wasn't very bad--
He luik'd as blithe as ony.

Tho' thou's the first, thou's not the last;
Aw mean to hae my bairns fast--
And when this happy time is past,
Aw still will love my Johny;
For his hair is brown, and see is thine,
Your eyes are grey, and sae are mine,
Thy nose is taper'd off se fine--
Thou's like thy daddy Johnny.

Thy canny doup is flat and round,
And, like thy dad, thou's plump and sound,
Thou's worth to me a thousand pound,
Thou's a' together bonny.
When daddy's drunk, he'll tyek a knife,
And threaten sair to tyek my life:
Whe wad not be a keelman's wife,
To have a man like Johnny.

But yonder's daddy coming now,
He luiks the best amang the crew;
They're a' gaun to the Barley-mow,
My canny, godlike Johnny.
Come, let's go get the bacon fried,
And let us make a clean fire-side,
Then on his knee he will thee ride,
When he comes hyem to mammy.

-Nunn  -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 
 
 

Bold Jack of the Journal--
From regions infernal!--
The Catholic Clergy
Would hang or woud burn all!

This insolent Tory
Is now in his glory,
And currency gives
To Miss Monk's lying story.

For his blust'rin' and barkin',
And fulsome remarkin'
Brave, honest Charles Larkin
Has gi'en him a yarkin'.

Newcastle Sept 1836.
H.R. -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 

Let Cocknies brag o' turtle-soup, and Frenchmen o' their frogs, man--
Newcastle soup, such famous stuff, it feeds us fat as hogs, man!
Yor Callipee and Callipash, compar'd tiv it, is nobbit trash--
Strang knees and houghs stew'd down to mush, are gobbled up by every slush;
Wi' pluck an' taties folks are duen, for smoking soup in crowds they run,
And sup till they are fu', man!

Chorus-
Fal de ral,&c.

A skipper and his wife saat down, to give a quairt a try, man,
When something stuck in Mally's throat, and choak'd her very nigh man:
Poor Mally blari'd, and turn'd quite pale--and out she pull'd a great rat's tail!
Says Jack, aw'll off to Mr. Mayor, and tell the story tiv a hair--
Aw think it is a shameful joke, to sell suchstuff wor Mall to choke--
Its warse than tatie stew, man!

Whe knaws but these fine dandy cooks hire resurrection faws, man,
To stock them with forbidden flesh, agyen our famous laws, man:
A cook in France, now understand, as sure's the sun inleets wor land,
Did kidnap bairns, an' mince them down, and myed sic pies, that a' the town
Was eat nowt else--thowt nowt se fine; they fand him out--then, what a shine!--
The hang'd him on a tree, man!

O Willy, man wor canny king, ye knaw best how to feed us--
Ye ken what we can de at sea, at ony time ye need us;
Cram a' their necks into a loop, hat try to cross wor breed wi' soup;
Or gar them pay a heavy fine, that dare unnerve yor tars of Tyne;
Then in the fight we'll loudly cheer, when we're restor'd to flesh and beer-
Hurra! for England's king, Man!

R. Emery  -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 

My good Mr. Pun,
We know you like fun
And also to crack a good joke;
'Tis well known in the nation,
That our Corporation
Has long lain under a cloak.

Chorus-
Fal lal de ral, &c.

But after your year,
How strange 'twill appear,
(Pray Heaven it prove for your good,)
To all the whole nation,
that our CorporationWill then crouch under a Hood.*

Now, we poor folks,
Who're not us'd to jokes,
But with the sweets taek the bitters--
The folks in our station
Think our Corporation
Has loong been outfitted by Fitters

Oh, watty! Oh, Watty!**
Shouldst thou now see Natty,
And his clan, how thickly they lay't on;
You'd say, in their order,
Mayor, Commons, Recorder,
Are all now outwitted by Cl--n.

From the days of good Walters,
To his who makes halters ***
Such changes have here taken place,
That from its high station,
Our poor Corporation
Has sunk into abject disgrace.

When the Alderman's gown
Was hawk'd about town.
And none would be found for to lay't on,
Up stepp'd brother Bob,
And settled the job,
And he was dubb'd Alderman C--n.

Yet think not, that though such,
He'll quit the Town's Hutch,
Or say thing threre let miscarry;
Still there he'll give law,
Rule by his cat's paw,
The ever obliging Old Harry.

Ye honest electors,
Our faithful protectors,
In you there can never be blame;
As by following the Mayor.
And supporting the chair,
We always must vote for the same.

Ye scumm of the bowl,
In vain you may growl,
Like the swinish group in a storm,
Nat will rule the roast,
And still make a boast,
That danger lies not in Reform****

*Alderman Hood
**ald. Blackett
***Ald. Cramlington.
****A few copies ofthe above song were printed by Mrs. Agnus about the year 1795. It was said to have been writen by the late Mr. James Davidson, attorney, author of a poem entitled "Dispair in Love, an Imprecatory Prayer", which was also printed by Mrs. Agnus- Sir Matthew White Ridley resigned his office of Magistrate about this time, observing that, "Clay from up stairs and Clayton downstairs will never do."
 
 

Newcastle Landlords-1834

Kind friends and acquaintance, attention I claim,
While a few jolly Landlord, in this town, I name;
In alphabet order my song it is penn'd,
And I hope, for joke's sake, it will never offend.

Chorus-
Then hey for good drinking,
It keeps us from thinking
We all love a drop in our turn.

A stands for armfield a good hearty blade,
Tho' he's left the Nag's Head, still follows his trade;
At the foot of the Market you'll find his new shop,
Where many an old friend still calls in for a drop.

B stands for Burns, of the Theatre-square;
She's an orderly woman- good drink is sold there;
If I wanted as wife, I should readily choose
This amiable widow to govern my house.

C stands for Cant, sign of the Blue bell,
Who keeps a good house, and good porter doth sell;
Quarreling or fighting is there seldom seen,--
She's a canty old widow, but rather too keen.

D for Dixon who once kept the Unicorn-Ho!
And D stands for Dixon, White Hart, you well know;
Then theere's Dixon, Quayside, just a little way down--
Were the three fattest landlords in all the whole town.

E stands for Eggleton, Fighting Cocks Inn,
Tho' old, took a young wife, and thought it no sin;
F for Finlay, his shop's corner of Pudding-chare,
And good wine and spirits you'always get there.

G for Gibson, the Blue-posts, in Pilgrim-street,
Where a few jolly souls oft for harmony meet;
H for Hackworth, in Cowgate, Grey Bull is the sign--
Only taste his good ale--faith, you'll say it's divine.

H stands for Heron, the sign of the Cock;
H for Hall, near Nuns' Gate--keeps a snug oyster-shop;
H stands for Horn, aand he's donevery weal,
Since he bother'd the heart of sly Mrs. Neil.

I stans for Inns- we've the best in the north--
There's the King's Head, the Queen's Head, the George, and the Turf,
he Old Crown and Thistle, and Miller's Half-Moon,
Well known to the trav'lers who frequent the town.

K stands for Kitchen, Hell's Kitchen 'twas nam'd,
And long for good ale and good spree has been fam'd;
In eachparlour, in vestry, or kitchen you'll find
The beer-drawer, Mary, obliging and kind.

L stands for Larkin--he's left the Black Boy,
Once fam'd for Patlanders and true Irish joy;
On the Scotchwood New Road a house he has ta'en,
Where I hope the old soul will get forward again.

M stands for Mitford--he kept the North Pole,
Just over the Leazes--a dull-looking hole;
Now our favorite poet lives at Head of the Side--
Here's success to his muse--long may she preside.

N stands for Newton, sign of the dolphin,
Who the old house pull'd down, built it up like an inn;
They say he found gold--how much I can't tell;
but never mind that, he's done wonderful well.

O stands for orton--he keeps the Burnt House,
Once fam'd for the Knights of the Thimble and Goose;
and O stands for Ormston, at Pandon-- O rare!--
Temptation enough for young men that go there!

P stands for Pace, sign of the White Swan,
Who, for to oblige, will do all that he can;
A convenient house, when you marketing make,
To pop in and indulge yourself with a beef-steak.

R stands for Ridley and Reed, you all know,
And R stands for Richardson, all in a row;
First, Three Tuns, the Sun, and the Old Rose & Crown,
And their ale's good as any at that part of town.

S for Sayer's Nag's Head, he keeps good mountain dew,--
Only taste it, you'll find what I tell you is true;
S for Stokoe, wine-me chant, foot of St. John's Lane;
For good stuff and good measure we'll never complain.

T for Teasdale, the Phoenix, a house fam'd for flip--
T for Teasdale, who once kept the sign of the Ship;
And W for Wylam, a place more fam'd still--
Sure you all know the Custom-house on the Sandhill.

Robin Hood, Dog and Cannon, and Tiger for me,
The Peacock, well known to the clerks on the Quay;
The Old Beggar's Opera for stowrie, my pet,
Mrs. Richardson's was, andshe cannot be bet.

There's the Black Bull and Grey Bull, well known to afew.
Black, White, and Grey Horse, and Flying Horse too;
The Black House, the White House, the Hole in the Wall,
And the Seven Stars, Pandon, if you dare to call.

There's the Turk's Head, Nag's Head, and Old Barley Mow,
The Bay Horse, the Pack Horse, and Teasdale's Dun Cow,
The Ship, and the Keel, the Half Moon, and the Sun--
But I think my good friends, it is time to be done.

Then each landlord and landlady, wish them success,
Town and trade of the Tyne, too- we cannot do less;
And let this be gthe toast, when we need toregale--
May we ne'er want a bumper of Newcastle ale.

W.Watson  -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 
 
 

It well may grieve one's heart full sore,
To be in such a movement--
Upon the river, as on shore,
the rage is all improvement:
Once blithe as grigs, our merriment
Is chang'd to meditation,
How we these ills may circumvent--
O what a Corporation!

The Quayside always was too big,
As scullers have attested;
Tant ships, that come with rampant rig.
Against its sides are rested.
Still to extend it in a tift,
They're making preparation,
And Sandgage-midden is to shift--
O what a Corporation!

At Tyne-main once there was a caunch,
And famous sport was found there;
So long it sttod--so high and staunch--
All vessels took the ground there;
But somehow, it has crept away,
By flood or excavtion,
And time there you need not delay--
O what a Corporation!

They thnk to move Bill-point--a spot
So lovely and romantic--
Which has sent many ships to pot,
And set some seamen frantic;
Then many a gowk will run to see,
And stare with admiration,
From Snowdon's Hole to Wincomlee--
O what a Corporation!

How silent once was Wallsend-shore--
Its dulness was a wonder;
Now, from the staiths, full waggons pour
Their coals like distant thunder;
To have restor'd its wonted peace,
In vain our supplication,--
The trade, they say, it will increase--
O what a Corporaton!

Where Tynemouth-bar, I understand,
A rock from side to side is,
How well would look a bank of sand,
Not higher than the tide is;
But this, it seems, is not to be--
In spite of my oration,
The Tyne is still to join the Sea--
O what a Corporation!

O would the Tyne but cease to flow,
Or, like a small burn bubble,
There would not be a barge-day now,
Nor we have all this trouble;
But here, alas! we sailing roam
About its conservation,
Instead of sleeping safe at home--
O what a Corporation

The Moral

As patriots in public cause,
We neveer once have swerv'd yet,
And if we have not gain'd applause,
We know we've well deserv'd it:
Who thinks we care for feasting, he
Must be a stupid noddy--
We're like the Herbage-committee,
An ill-requited body.

Robert Gilchrist  -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 
 

O bonny church! ye've studden lang,
To mence our canny town;
But I believe ye are sae strang,
Ye never will fa' down:
The architects, wi' a' their wit,
May say that ye will fa';
But let the mtalk-- I'll match ye yet
Against the churches a'.

Chorus
Of a' the churches in our land,
Let them be e'er sae braw,
St. Nicholas' of Newcastle town,
Yet fairly bangs them a'

Lang have ye stood ilk bitter blast,
But langer yet ye'll stand;
And ye have been , for ages past,
A pattern for our land:
Your bonny steeple looks sae grand--
the whole world speakeo'ye,--
Been a' the crack, for cent'ries back,
And will be when I dee.

'Tis true they've patch'd ye all about
With iron, stone, and wood;
But let them patch--I have a doubt,
They'll do ye little good;
But, to be sure, its making work--
There's plenty lives by ye--
Not only tradesmen and our clerk,
But the greedy black-coats, tee.

Your bonny bells there's nane excels.
In a' the country round;
They ring so sweet, they are a treat
When they play heartsome tunes;
And when all's dark, the people mark
Ye with your fiery eye,
That tells the travellers in the street
The time, as they pass by.

O that King William wad come down,
to see his subjects here,
And view the buildings of our town--
He'd crack o'them, I swear;
But when he saw our canny church,
I think how he'd admire,
To see the ach sprung from each side
That bears the middle spire.

Now, to conclude my little song,
That simple, vocal theme--
I trust, that if I've said aught wrong,
That I will be forgi'en:
Then lang may fam'd St. Nicholas' stand,
Before it does come down,
That, when we dee, our bairns may see
The beauties of our town.

 -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 
 
 

Come, lay up your lugs, and aw'll sing you a sang,
It's nyen o' the best, but it's braw new and funny--
In these weary times, when we're not very thrang,
A stave cheers wor hearts, tho' it brings us ne money:
Aw left Shiney Raw, for Newcassel did steer,
Wi' three or four mair of our neighbours se canny,
Determin'd to gan to the play-house to hear
The King o' the fiddlers, the great Baggy Nanny.

Chorus;
Right fal, &c..

We reach'd the Arcade, rather drouthy and sair--
It's a house full of pastry-cooks, bankers, and drapers--
At the fine fancy fair, how my marrows did stare,
On the muffs, hats, and beavers, se fam'd in the papers;
At Beasley's where liquour's se cheap and se prime,
A bottle aw purchas'd for maw sweetheart, Fanny,
We drank nowt but brandy--and when it was time,
We stagger'd away to see great Baggy Nanny.

We gat t' the door, 'mang the crowd we did crush,
Half way up the stairs I was carried se handy;
The lassie ahint us cried, Push, hinny, push--
Till they squeez'd me as sma' and as smart as a dandy;
We reach'd the stair-heed, nearly smuther'd, indeed--
The gas letters glitter'd, the paintings look'd canny--
Aw clapt mysel' down side a lass o' reet breed,
Maw hinny, says aw, hae ye seen Baggy Nanny.

The lassie she twitter'd, and look'd rather queer,
and said, in this house there is mony a dozen,
They're planted so thick, that there's no sitting here,
They smell so confounded o' cat-gut and rosin;
The curtain flew up, and a lady did squall,
To fine music play'd by a  Cockney bit mannie,
Then frae the front seats I suen heard my friends bawl,
Offhats, smash yor brains, here comes great Baggy Nanny.

An outlandish chep suen appear'd on thestage,
And cut as odd capers as wor maister's flonkey,
He skipp'd and he fiddled, as if in a rage--
If he had but a tail, he might pass for a monkey!
Deil smash a good tune could this bowdykite play--
His fiddle wad hardly e'en please my aud grannie--
So aw suen join'd my marrows andtoddled away,
And wish'd a good neet to the great Baggy Nanny.

On crossing Tyne-brig, how wor lads ran the rig,
At being se silly duen out o' their money,--
Odd bother maw wig, had he play'd us a jig,
We might tell'd them at hyem, we'd seen something quite funny;
But law be it spoke, and depend its ne joke--
Yen and a' did agree he was something uncanny,
Though, dark o'er each tree, he before us did flee,
And fiddled us hyem did this great Baggy Nanny

R. Emery.-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.

Oh! Mister Mayor, it grieves me sair--
Alas! what mun aw dee?
Wor Oyster-tub* is doom'd ne mair
To grace Newcassel Kee!-
Wor bonny lamp that brunt se breet,
And cheer'd each wintry neet se dreary,
Is gyen and lots o' canny folks
Will miss it sair when cawd and weary!

Chorus-
Wack, row, de dow, &c.

Now, for the sake of her that's gyen,
Just speak the cheering word,
And say, that to wor ancient burth,
Aw suen will be restor'd.
The news wor town wad 'lectrify,
Andgar yor nyem to live for ever--
In efter times yor deeds wad shine,
And 'clipse the nyem o' wor Tyne river.

Had Charley Brandling, bliss his nyem,
Been spar'd to seen this day,
He'd shown the great respect he had
For poor aud Madgie Gray;
Alas! he's gyen; close to yoursel'
Aw'll stick until aw's satisfied, sir;
When ye look on this good-like fyeece,
Maw wishes ne'er can be denied, sir.

Frae Summer-hill down to the Kee,
Fo'ks kenn'd poor Madgie weel,--
Aw's very sure wor Magistrates
For maw condition feel;
The cellar's ow'r confin'd and damp,--
Restore us to wor canny station,
And bliesings great will leet upon
Wor canny Toon and Corporation.

R.Emery -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.

*The Oyster tub alluded to stood on the quay, nearly opposite to the foot of Grinding chare. It formed rather an interesting feature in the winter nights being accompanied by a large blazing lamp, at which sat the owner, attended by several loungers.On the death of old Margery Gray, which took place abbout Octobere 1831, this tub was removed, lest the long occupancy of the place should become a freehold, like the little barber's shop which stood at the east end of the Maison de Dieu, and which had oiginally been only a stall. August 1833.
 
 

Here's thumping luck to yon town,
Let's have ahearty drink upon't-
O the days I've spent in yon town,
My heart still warms to think upon't;
For monie a happy day I've seen,
With monie a lass so kind and true,--
With hearty chields I've canty been,
And danc'd away till a' was blue.

Chorus-

Here's thumping luck to yon town,
Let's have a hearty drink upon't,
O the days I've spent in yon town,
My heart still warms to think upon't

There's famous ale in yon town,
Will make yourlips to smack again,
And many a one leaves yon town,
Oft wishes they were back again;
Well shelter'd from the northern blast,
Its spires nad turets proudly rise,
And boats and keels all sailing past
With coals, that half the world supplies.

There's native bards in yon town,
For wit and hunour seldom bet--
And they sang sae sweet in yon town,
Good faith, I think I hear them yet:
Such fun in Thompson's voyage to Shields,
In Jimmy Johnson's wherry fine--
Such shaking heels and dancing reels,
When sailing on the coaly Tyne.

Amang the rest in yon town
One Shiels was fam'd for ready wit--
His Lord Size half drown'd in yon town,
Good faith I think I hear it yet:
Then Mitford's muse is seldom wrong,
When once he gives the jade a ca',
And Gilchrist, too for comic song,
Though last, he's not the least of a'.

May the sun shine brighton yon town,
May its trade and commerce still increase,--
And may all that dwells in yon town
Be blest with fond, domestic peace;
For, let me wander east or west,
North, south, or even o'er the sea,
My native town I'll still love best--
Newcastle is the place for me.

W. Watson -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 

Oh, have you seen the mighty bell,
That none in England can excel,--
The Tom of Lincoln's but a shell
To the great bell of Saint Nicholas.

\Oh, such rare things ne'er was before--
To hear it strike eight miles, or more-
To wake the workmen, when they snore--
Ay, this great bell of Saint Nicholas.

(Spoken)-- I say, Patrick, have you been after seeing the great bell that's just gone up to that great lump of a Protestant church!
--A big bell, do tehy call it? by the saints, I thought it was an extinguisher for the light at its ugly mug--a great bell indeed;
by the powers! you know yourself it's only like a skull cap to my great greandmother's praty pot, that she used to boil the kail
cannon in at the harvest--You are right, Patrick but still we'll

Drink success to this bell--ding, dong--
That'll wake the folks in country and town,
And their maids to milk their cows in the morn,
The great bell of Saint Nicholas.

Lord, how the people they did run,
When they heard the small bells ring like fun,
Shouting, there's something to be done.
At the old church of Saint Nicholas.

The shopkeepers out of their doors did stare
At such a thing, so great and rare,
And the flags were waving in the air,
O'er the great bell of Saint Nicholas.

(Spoken)- Well I suppose they will christen it- Hout, man,
they christened it yesterday at the foundery, down at Hawks'--Well, then theyll have to consecrate it now.
--Ay, horses and all--What! consecrate horses, you foolish man! Ay, then they'll be most fit for hearses and mourning coaches.

Drink success to this bell, &c.

And after al the noisy storm,
We've liv'd to see real church reform--
Six horses standing snug and warm,
In the old church of Saint Nicholas.

You should have been at the church,
To have seen the horses in the porch,--
The devil will say--I'm in the lurch,
No use for me at Saint Nicholas.

(spoken)- I say, Geordy, did you ever see such a great thing as that before? Where is it gan te?- Why, to the church; it's
the great bell that was bequeathed by Majro Anderson to flay away the rooks and craws frae the town--to hinder them from building
either on churches or exchanges. Ay, ay, but I think it wad hae been far better if they'd myed it to flay away poverty
frae wor doors, and cast it as a boiler for soup.  What say you, Geordy?--It wad, as ye say--but I'll

Drink success, &c.

A drunken cobbler made a vow,
In the Major he would make a shoe,--
And he work'd away till all was blue
In the great bell of Saint Nicholas.

The sue being made to the man of leather
The people cried--Well done! O clever,--
You should have a grant to work for ever
In the great bell of Saint Nicholas.

Drink success to this bell, &c.
 

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 
 

Luckey's Dream

Tune- Caller Fair.

The other neet aw went to bed,
Being weary wi' maw wark man;
Aw dreamt that Billy Scott was deed--
It's curious to remark, man--
Aw thought aw saw his buryin' fair,
And knew the comp'ny a', man--
For a' poor Billy's friends were there,
Tosee him levelled law, man.

Blind Willie slowly led the band,
As beagle, on the way, man;
A staff he carriedin his hand,
And shook his head se grey, man;
At his reet hand was Buggy Jack,
Wit his hat-brim se broad, man;
And on his left was Bill the Black,
Ti lead him on his road, man.

Big Bob, X.Y. and other two,
That leeves upon the deed, man--
They bore his corpse before the crew,
Expecting to be fee'd man;
His nyemsyek, Euphy Scott, was there,
Her bonny Geordy, tee, man,
Distress'd--they cried, (this happy pair,)
Ne mair we will him see, man!

Bold Jocker was amang them, tee,
Brave Cuckoo Jack and a', man;
And hairy Tom, the keelman's son,
And bonny Dolly Raw, man;
And Bella Roy, and Tatie Bet,
They cried till out o' breath, man--
For sair these twosome did regret
For canny Billy's deeth, man.

But Hangy luickt above them a',
He is se sma' and lang, man--
And Bobby Knox, the Dog-bank Ox,
Was sobbin i' the thrang, man;
And Coiner, wi' his swill and shull,
Was squeakin' like a bairn man,
And knack-knee'd Mat, that drucken fyul,
Like a monkey he did gairn, man.

Tally-i-o, that dirty wretch,
Was then the next I saw, man--
And Peggy Powell, Step-and-fetch,
Was haddin' up her jaw, man--
And frae the Close was Bobby Hush,
Wi' his greet gob se wide, man--
alang wi' him was Push-Peg-Push,
Lamentin' by hisside, man.

And roguish Ralph, and busy Bruce,
That leeves upon their prey, man,
Did not neglect, but did protect
Their friends upon the way, man;
And Jimmy Liddle, drest in black,
Behint them a' did droop, man;
Hehad a coat on like the Quak's,
That feeds us a' wi soup, man.

Now, when they got him tiv his grave,
He then began to shout, man;
For Billy being but in a trance,
Bi this time cam about man;
Then Jocker, wi' a sandy styen,
The coffin split wi' speed, man--
They a' rejoic'd to see agyen
Poor Bill they thought was deed, man.

When a' his friends that round him stood,
Had gettin' him put reet man,
They a' went tiv the Robin Hood,
To spend a jovial neet, man;
Ne mair for Billy they did weep,
But happy they did seem, man;--
Just then aw waken'd frae my sleep,
And fand it was a dream, man.

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

Jocker
Tune- O, gin I had her.

Hae ye seen my Jocker,
Hae ye seen my Jocker,
Hae ye seen my Jocker
Comin' up the Kee?
Wiv his short blue jacket,
Wiv his short blue jacket,
Wiv his short blue jacket,
And his hat agee!

(Spoken) --Jin- A! lyucka, noo, at clarty Nan, there!--whats she singin at?
Nan- What is aw singin' at! What's that ti ye? What is aw singin at! Ah, wey, noo!--hev aw ti give ower singin' for ye!
Ah! wey, noo! there's a platter-fyeced bunter for ye!--there's a smothe-bairn w-----! there's a pink amang the pissy-beds! Ah! wey, noo!......
Ye'd mair need gan hyem, and get the dust wesht off ye. Ah! wey, noo-what's that!

O, maw hinny, Jocker
O, maw hinny, Jocker,
O, Maw hinny, Jocker--
Jocker's the lad for me!
Jocker was a keelman
Jocker was a keelman,
Jocker was a keelman,
When he follow'd me.

(spoken) --But he's exalted now--O, bliss him, aye! for

He's a porter-pokeman,
He's a porter-pokeman,
He's a proter-pokeman,
Workin' on the Kee.

(Spoken- Nan- Assa, Jin- hae ye seen owt o' wor Jocker doon the Kee, there?
Jin- Ay, aw saw him and Hairy Tom just  gan into the Low Crane there.
Nan- The Low Crane, ye clarty fa'-whe are ye myekin' yor gam on?
Jin- Noo, call me a clarty fa', and aw'll plaister yor gob wi' clarts. Ah, wey, noo! whe are ye
calling a clarty fa'?
Nan- Ay! bliss us a', Jin, what are ye gettin' intiv a rage about?
Jin--Wey, didn't ye ax me if aw'd seen owt o' Jocker doon the Kee, thre- and aw teld ye the truth, and ye wadn't beleive me.
Nan- Wey, is he there?
Jan- Ti be sure he is
Nan- Wey, aw'll sit down here till he comes owt- then--

O, maw hinny, Jocker,&c.

Jocker was a rover,
Jocker was a rover,
Jocker was a rover,
When he courted me:
But, noo, his tricks are over,
But, noo, his tricks are over,
But, noo, his tricks are over,
He tykes me on his knee.

(spoken) Nan- Ay! here he's comin'; maw jewel comin;-come into my airms, my uacle dumplin', and give us a kiss!
Where hae ye been? aw been luikin for ye all ower.
Jocker- Where hav aw been! --aw've been wakin' up and down the Kee here. Where hae ye been?--aw think ye've been i' the Sun.
Nan- Wey, maw jewel, aw've just been i' the Custom-house,
getting a glass, and aw've com'd donw the Key to seek ye, to gan hyem thegither.
 Assa, Jocker, divent lie se far off is as ye did last neet, for when aw waken'd
aw was a' starving o' caud.

O, maw hinny, Jocker, &c.

O Hinney Grainger, haud thy hand, thou'll turn us upside doon,
Or faith aw'll send for Mr. Brand, to claw thy curly croon;
For what thou's myed the Major's dean, wor thenks are due, and thou shat hae them;
But noo the law toon folk complain, thou wants to tyek their Egypt frae them.

Chorus
Wack, row de dow, &c.

Most fok like the better half, but thou wad swalley all,
Poor house or Jail may tyek the rest gie thou but elswick Hall.
Wor cooncil's cliver, there's ne doot, but they'll find out, tho' rather late on,
How cool the devil walks about, in the smooth shape of J--y C--n

Thou's getten aw the butcher-meat, the taties, tripe, and greens,
And not content with this, thou wantsto tyek wor corn, it seems;
For Mosley-street and Mercy's sake, sic wicked thowts at once abandon,
Or else wor canny awd law toon, it winna hev a leg to stand on.

The wheel o' fortune will stand still, he bees forsyek the hive,
There'll be ne wark for Sinton's Mill the White Horse winna drive,
Poor Mrs. F--h and Temperance H-- ne mair need recommend their diet,
The farmers will forget to call, H-lls Kitchen's very sel turn quiet.

The Chronicle may doze in peace, -Lorg Grainger says "Sleep On--+
The bugs may tyek another lease, their race is not yet run;
And Nichol still mayfairly say, frae Hepple's up to  Humble's house end.
He feeds a lively host each day, aw'll say, at least hundred thousand.

The White Swan  seun 'ill be agrund, the Black boy turned quite pale,
the Black Bull wi' the blow bestunn'd the Lion has his tail,
Hom H--nb's Cock 'ill craw ne mair, the awd  Black Bell be dumb for ever.--
And, just to myek the Keeside stare thou'd better senddown for the river.

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 
 

Cried Mally, Come Jacky, get ready--
The morning is looking se fine, man;
The bells i' the town are a' ringing,
And the sun it se bonny does shine, man;
The lads and the lasses are runnin',
To se the Mechanics so gay, man,--
To meet the Procession, wi' Mally,
Aw suen cut my stick, and away, man

Chorus- Rom ti iddity, &c.

We reach'd the Tyne Brig in a crack,
'Mang croods, like worsels, out o' breeth, man--
The splendor aw cannot describe,
Nor forget till the day o' my deeth, man:
A fine silken banner appear'd
As big as wor Geordy's keel-sails, man,
A' cover'd wi' doves, ark, and croons,
An' greet hairy men without tails, man.

A chep like a Duke follow'd next,
Surrounded wi' Nobles se fine, man,
Weel dress'd up in silk robes an' tassels,
An' goold that did glitter and shine, man--
Saws aw, that's Prince Albert, aw'll sweer--
An' was just gawn to give him three chears, man,
When Mally cried- de'il stop yor din!--
Becrike! its the Dey of Algiers, man.

The members were toss'd off in stile,
In colours of pink, white, and blue, man,--
A tight little chep frae the ranks,
Cried, Jack, hinny, how'd'ye do, man?--
What Newton! says aw, now, wha cheer!
Aw thowt ye some Squire makin' fun, man,--
There's Armstrang, as trig as a Peer,
But how's my awd friend, Bobby Nunn, man?

The Hawk, the Northumberland Star,
An' the Magdalen's banners wav'd sweet, man;
But the Chieftain astonish'd them all,
With hs braw Highland lads dress'd sae neat man;
The Nelson appear'd in true blue,
(There canny host Simpson belangs, mah,)
An' Petrie walk'd close alangside
O' the chep that writes Newcassel Sangs, man.

To describe the Flags, Music, an' Stars,
Wad take me to doomsday for sartin;
Let Foresters brag as they like,
But it's all in my eye, Betty Martin.
Wor lads were se pleas'd wi' the seet,
Mechanics they'll be before lang, man,--
So aw's gannin to Simpson's to-neet,
To sing them this canny bit sang, man.

Whit-Monday 1841

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 

Drucken Bella Roy, O!
tune- Duncan M'Callaghan.

When Bella's comin' hyem at neet,
And as she's walking doon the street,
The bairns cry out, Whe pawn'd the sheet?
Wey, drucken Bella Roy, O!

Chorus-
Then styens to them gans rattlin', rattlin,
They set off a gallopin' gallopin'
Legs an' arms gan' wallopin', wallopin',
For fear o Bella Roy, O!
 

Now, when she gans through the chares,
Each bairn begins, and shouts and blairs,
And cries, as she gans up the stairs,
Where's drucken Bella Roy, O!

Now, if she's had a sup o' beer,
She sets ti wark to curse and swear,
And myeks them run away, for fear,
Frae Drucken Bella Roy, O!

Believe me friends, these are her words:
She says--Get hyem ye s---'s birds,
Else aw'll bray ye as flat as t---s,
Cries drucken Bella Roy O!

She says-- ye have a w--e at hyem,
And if ye'll not leave me alyen,
Maw faith, aw'll break your rumple byen,
Says drucken Bella Roy, O!

She'll myek the place like thunner ring,
And down the stairs her things will fling,
And cry--Get out, yor ----thing---
Cries drucken Bella Roy, O!

Then in the house she sits and chats,
The bairns, then, hit her door such bats--
She calls them a' the hellish cats,
Dis drucken Bella Roy, O!

She shouts until she hurts her head,
and then she's forc'd to gan' te bed,
Which is a piece of straw, down spread
For drucken Bella Roy, O!

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

The Music Hall

Old bards have sung how they could boast
Of places that's renown'd
for bloody battles won and lost,
And royal monarchs crown'd;
But all those deeds this place exceeds--
They in the shade must fall,
Some have declar'd if but compar'd
To our fam'd Music Hall.

Here zealots join in warm debate,
And for their rites contend--
Here Lark-wing spouts on church and state,
His popery to defend;
With bigot zeal, his coutry's weal
He vows to have at heart--
Yet 'tis well known throught the town,
He plays a knavish part.

Now, from Hibernia's fertile shore
The thund'ring champion comes,
His country's wrongs for to deplore,
With trumpets, fife, and drums;
He tells them, too, he is most true,
Their firm unshaken friend,--
While life shall last, he will stand fast,
And all thier rights defend.

then champions of another grade--
I mean of fistic lore--0
Deaf Burke, the bouncing gasconade,
Struts o'er the spacioius floor,
Who, with great art, performs his part,
In teaching self-defense;
Yet plain I saw, he meant to draw
Fools' shillings, pounds and pence.

Next comes a man of fangles new--
Of worlds, and moons, and stars--
Who said, Sir Isac never knew
The Ple-i-ades from Mars
The folks throng'd round from all the town,
And some pronounc'd him clever,
Yet, I've been told, both young and old
Return'd as wise as ever.

Apollo, too, his court here keeps,
With sirens in his train--
Each trembling note of music sweeps
Transport through every vein:
When Orpheus play'd within the shade,
He made the woods resound;
The list'ning beasts forsook the mead,
And stood, like statues, round,

A graver scene my muse has caught,
Where sages in a row--
Men, by the Holy Spirit taught
The gospel trughs t' avow--
Those who have trod, to server their God,
The shores of foreign land,
At his command now boldly stand
T' implore a helping hand.

And not unfrequent, as we stray
This wond'rous place to see.
We find it fill'd with ladies gay,
To take a cup of tea;
And many a gent, who is content
With such domestic fare,
Has often sat, in social chat,
And join'd in many a prayer.

Of many more there is one class,
Which merits some attention--
Not Bacchanalians, alas!
For such I would not mention--
But men of brains, the smell of grains
Would strike with detestation,
Who'd keep us dry, and thus decry
All liquours in the nation.

Nay, come what will of good or ill,
Just only make a trial---
If you the owner's pockets fill,
You'll meet with no denial;
And men, I hear, from far and near,
Have given attestation,
So strong a place they cannot trace
In any other nation.

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 
 

Clear Crystal Tyne, sweet smiling stream,
Gay be the flow'rs thy banks along,
For there the darling of my theme
Oft sports thy verdant meads among.
Flow on, sweet Tyne, and gently glide,
And pour thy commerce o're the main,
May Plenty o'er thy banks preside,
To bless the with her smiling train.

Green be thy fields, Brittania dear,
With plenty flowing o'er thy land,
But chief the banks of Tyne, for there
I'll often rove, at Love's command,--
There  meet my lass upon the green,
And flow'ry garlands for her twine,
While smiling pleasure glads the scene,
Upon the blooming banks of Tyne

-J. Wilson -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

From wand'ring in a distant land,
An exile had return'd,
Andwhen he saw his own dear stream,
His heart with pleasure burn'd;
The days departed, and their joys,
Came bounding to his breast,
And thus the feelings of his heart
In native strains confess'd:--

Tune: The Keel Row

Chorus-
Flow on, majestic river,
Thy rolling course for ever,--
Forget thee will I never
Whatever fate be mine:

Oft on thy banks I've wander'd,
And on thy beauties ponder'd,
Oh! many an hour I've squander'd
On thy banks, O bonny Tyne!

O Tyne! in thy bright flowing,
There's magic joy bestowing;
I feel thy breezes blowing--
Their perfume is divine.

I've sought the in the morning,
When crimson clouds are burning,
And thy green hills adorning--
The hills o' bonny Tyne

When stormy seas were  round me,
And distant nations bound me,
In memory still I found thee
A ray of hope divine

Thy valleys lie before me,
Thy trees are waving o'er me,
My home thou dost restore me
On thy bonny banks O Tyne!

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.