Conrad Bladey's Beuk O'
Newcassel Sangs
The Tradition of Northumbria
Part 11  Directory 9
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Main Menu
 
 
 
Beggar's Wedding Commit No Nonsense Cookson's Alkali The Pitman's Ramble #2 The Worthy Rector
The Battle of Spitaloo Battle on the Shields Railway The Worthy Rector The Battle of Spitaloo Battle on the Shields Railway
Blind Willie's Death Geordy's Disaster Jossy's Nag's Head The April Gowk
Or The Lovers Alarmed
The Skipper's Mistake
Newcastle Beer Vs 
Spa Water
The Pitman's Pay The Newcastle Blunderbuss
or Travelling Extradordinary
A Pitman's Visit to Newcastle on
Valentines Day
The Skipper in the Mist
The Miraculous Well; or Newcastle Spa Water The Skipper's Fright The Sangate Pant;
or, Jane Jemieson's Ghost
The Birth-Day of Queen Victoria Donocht-Head
The Herbage Committee The Bear Club The Lass of Wincomblee On the Death of Bold Archy Blind Willie's Epitaph
What Gud Can Sweerin De? George Stephenson The Row Iv a Public Hoose Jimmy's Gettin Wark! Geordey O!
Canny Man! The Battle of Otterburn A Fytte The Hunting of the Cheviat Fit the Second


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Beggar's Wedding
Air- Quayside Shaver.

When timber-legg'd Harry crook'd Jenny did marry
In fam'd Gateshead town--and, not thinking of blows
Three ragmen did quarrel about their apparel,
Which oft- times affrighted both small birds and crows
This reolute prial, fought, on battle roya,
Till Jenny spoke this, with hump back and sharp shins:
Be loving as brothers as well as the others,
Then we shall get orders for needles and pins!

The bride-maid, full breasted, she vow'd and protested
She never saw men at a wedding so rude;
Old Madge, with her matches, top full of her catches,
Swore she would be tipsy e'er they did conclude;
The supper  being ended, some part still contended
For wholesome malt liquor to fill up each skin;
Jack Tar, in his jacket, sat close to Doll Flacket,
and swore he'd drink nothing but grog and clear gin

Black Jack with his fiddle they fix'd in the middle,
Who had not been wash'd since the second of June
Old Sandy, the piper, told Ned he would stripe her,
If she wouldn't dance while his pipe was in tune:
They pllay'd them such touches, with wood-legs and crutches--
Old rag-pokes and matches, old songs flew about;
Poor Jack being a stranger, thought his scratch in danger,
He tenderly begg'd they would give up the rout.

Jack being thus ill treated, he begg'd to be seated
Upon an old cupboard the landlord had got,--
Like madmen enchanted, they tippled and ranted,
Till down came the fiddler, as if he'd been shot.
They drank gin by noggins, and stron beer by flaggons,
till they had sufficiently loosen'd each hide,--
then those that were able, retir'd to the stable,
And slept with their nose in each other's back s--e.

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

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Commit No Nonsense

An aud chep that had spent a' his life i' the keels,
Taking coals down the river to load ships at Shields,
Had some business, yen day, in Newcastel to do,
And, when there, he'd stop and see a' that was new,

He view'd wor new streets, and was weel pleas'd, no doubt,
He gap'd and he star'd, as he wander'd about;
But still, as he star'd, there was yen thing seem'd queer
Whilk was plac'd on the walls- Commit no nuissance here.

The aud boy was not very learned, you see,
And, when young, he had goff his great A. B, C,
And some words he could spell, tho' not sartinly clear,
and his skill made it out- Commit ne nonsense herre.

He knew very little of Tee-total rules,
But thought they might dee very weel amang feuls;
In his wand'ring he thought about getting some beer,
And often he read- Commit ne nonsense here.

A few pints of beer brought this chep to a stand,
For nature, o'eercharg'd, wanted ease at his hand,
For this purpose he enter'd a yard,--but se queer,
Just saw, buin his head- Commit ne nonsense here.

The gurgling stream from the old fellow flow'd,
His ease he enjoy'd myed a notable flood;
But, just in the nick, when he thought a' was clear,
A policeman cries--Commit no nuisance here.

Kind sir, says the man-- for to speak he scarce durst-
When aw com in here, aw was ready to burst.
That's nought, says the policeman din't ye see clear,
Daub'd upon the wall--commit no nuisance here.

The pour soul his flap button'd up in a fright,
The policeman swore that he wad him indite;
But he teuk to his heels, for, says he, aw see clear,
If aw stop onie langer ther'll be nonsense here.

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

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Cookson's Alkali

Now haud yor tongues I'll try my lungs,
And de my best forbye;
My sang is choice, but maw street voice
Is spoil'd by Alkali

Chorus
Then let us all, byeth great and small,
Set up a hue and cry;
Else Shields will suin be a' duin broon
By Cookson's Alkali

Wor fields are bare, they'll grow ne mair
Of barley, wheat, or rye:
A famine now, and pest'lence too,
Is caus'd by Alkali.

Wor gardens grow just nothing now,
The crops won't multiply;
Wor mouths, it's thowt, will suin hev nowt
But Cookson 's Alkali.

Wor ships hve got a sad dry rot,
In spite of anti-dry;
For Kyan's wash, and such like trash,
Can't cope wiv Alkali.

Then suin there'll be a shipless sea--
No sail will meet the eye;
Wor masts and spars and jolly tars
Will strike to Alkali.

Wor houses soon will tummel doon,
And flat as fluicks they'll lie--
They'll cut their sticks, as sure as bricks,
Wi' this sad Alkali.

A man, I swear't, is now half marr'd
Wi' smoke, he's got sae dry;
He's lost his sap, and ruin'd, peer chap,
By Cookson's Alkali.

It's true, indeed, wor wives still breed,--
But, see their tiny fry!--
They're nowt, peer things, but legs and wings,
And all from Alkali.

For dandy blades, and dapper maids,
De nought but sob and sigh;
They're forc'd to pad, their shape's sae bad,
and all wi' Alkali.

Wor wither'd crops and lantern chops,
Are proofs nyen can deny,
That we are all cuik'd and fairly buik'd,
By Cookson's Alkali.

So, now, farewell to swipes and yelll,
And breed and beef, good bye!
We'll  get nae mair awd English fare,
For this d--d Alkali.

And when we're gyen, beneath a styen
Wor cawd remains will lie,
A prey, alas! to acid gas,
Produc'd by Alkali.
 

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

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The Pitman's Ramble 2
Tune- Thje Kebbuckstane Wedding
By- R. Emery.

Wor pit was laid in, and but little ti de,
Says aw, Neighbour Dicky, let's off to Newcassel,-
Their grand alterations aw's langin' to see,-
They say, they're se fine, that they'll gar wor een daxxel.
We reach'd the Black House, and we call'd for some beer,
When whe should pop in but the landlord, se handy--
He wish'd us se kindly a happy new year,
And he rosin'd wor gobs with a glass o' French brandy.

We left wor good  friend, an' got down to the shop
That has some fine lasses frae Lunnin se clivver,--
Astonish'd, aw star'd till near liek for to drop,
Ant their great panes o' glass that wad cover Tyne river!
Says Dick, it's been myed for greet folk like Lord Size--
It belangs to Broad Brim that myed brass at the corner.;
At poor folks like us, now, he'll cock up his eyes,
As he sits at the end, there, like Little Jack Horner.

We wheel'd reet about--spied a far finer seet,
As we went to the grocer's to get some rag backy--
Lairge goold cups an' watches, se bonnhy and breet,
An' fine Fardin Pants runnin whisky and jacky!
Aw wish'd aw could get mi gob fair at the spout,
Aw'd pay for a sook o' this liquor se funny,--
Says Dick, the door's bolted to keep the crowd out--
Its a place made to glow'r at, but not to take money.

We down to the Doctor's that lives in the side,
Who cures folks o' hairy-legg'd monsters, like donkies!
Cull cheps for his worm cakes frae far an' near ride--
Poor pitmen, an' farmers, an' keelmen an' flonkies;
A chep at the window did offer to swear,
For truth, that this doctor, se clivver an' cunnin',
Did take frae his sister, the very last year,
A worm that wad reach frae Newcassel to Lunnin!!

At last to the Play-house aw swagger'd wi' Dick,--
They've us'd the King's Airms an' the paintings most shocking,--
Yen said, since the house had been kept by Aud Nick
Wi' humbugs an' less he'd Newcassel been mocking.
Says aw--Canny man, dis Awd Nick manage here!
That cunnin' black fiend that gav Eve the bad apple!!!
Us Ranters will suen frae this place make him sheer,
An' we'll preach in't worsels, then we'll bang Brunswick Chapel!

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

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The Worthy Rector
Sung at a Farewell Dinner, given, by his Parishioners, to the Rev. J. Collinson, Rector of Gateshead, previous to his Removal to the Parish of Boldon.

Sec changes now there diz tyek place
In ivry life and station,
Things noo is a' turn'd upside doon,
For little or, ne occasion,--
Yen meets wi' acts yen luik'd not for,
That drives yen into sorrow;
We hav a case in point to meet
In this wor canny borro.

Chorus

Singing Fal, lal &c.

Last Cursmas time whe wad ha'e thowt
That wor awd priest wad leave us,
And cause sec dowly thowts co cum,
Se very much to grieve us?
We sartly thowt we had him fix'd,
And fassen'd here till death, sors;
Unless he had been prebendized
By Dean-and-Chapter breeth, sors.

His toils an' labours noo we'll loss:--
His sarmons for to syev us
Will all be chang'd, an' varry suin,
For wor new Rector's, Davis.
Aw oney hope an' pray we'll not
Forget our late Protector,--
For thorty yeers he's led our "train",.
An' been wor sowl Director.

For warks an' deeds amang the poor,
For charity an' boonties,
His match, aw  think, ye'll not weel find
In this or other coonties:
He's fed the hungry, heal'd the sick,
Wivoot yor grete display, sors;
He wiv his wealth did gyude by stealth--
Lang life to him! aw say, sors.

Yeers creeps upon us a' my frinds,
and he'll suin be an ould un;
And his move frae here, though its not far,
Aw'm sure ye'll think a bowld-un.
Aw trust, at times, we'll see his fyece
At church and parish dinners;
For he's a man that loves the saints,
Yet hates not the poor sinners.

This plate we've gi'en hime here to-day,
Wiv a' its shining glister,--
The yen tureen was made by Reid,
The other made by Lister,--
Lang may he live to see them shine,
Like bright and true reflectors,
Reminding priests how laymen prize
Upreet, kind-hearted Rectors.

Noo, fare ye weel, maw canny man,
Yor wife an' a' yor childer;
The score ye have wad frighten some--
Their senses quite bewilder.
Lang may ye live a happy life,
When ye freae Gyetside sivver:
There's hundreds here will pray to God
To bless ye noo and ivvur.

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

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Battle of Spitaloo

On the thirtenth day of July
The Chartists did combine,
That they would hold a meeting
At Newcastle upon Tyne;
In spite of Mayor or Magistrates,
They would come up to a man,
But when the Police them attack'd,
They took to their heels and ran.

Chorus
At the battle of Spitaloo, my boys,
At the battle of Spitaloo--
The Chartists' colours were taken
At the battle of Spitaloo.

They mairch'd in full procession,
Through most streets of the town,
And they declar'd the Magistrates
Should never put them down;
But of all their boasted courage
About what they would, do,
The Police took their colors
At the battle of Spitaloo

With music, flags, and banners,
And all their empty pride,
the procession of the Chartists
Was soon put to a side;
The worthy Mayor and Magistrates
Did let the Chartists know
That they were masters of he town,
At the battle of Spitaloo.

The Chartists, to the Forth that night,
Turn'd very boldy out,--
But soon they were dispersed,
And all put to the rout:
They laid the failure of their cause
Upon the red and blue,
Becaue they came against them
At the battle of Spitaloo.

The Chartists and their leaders
Are no more allow'd to meet,
Their threat'ning combinations
Have got the grand defeat,--
The National Convention
Has got the overthrow,
And the Chartist's colours taken
At the battle of Spitaloo.

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

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Battle of the Shields Railway
Between a Town Councillor and an Architect, and the Pollis
Tune- Cappy's the Dog

I' the toon of Newcassel James Archibold dis dwell--
He's a slater te trade, and thinks ne small beer on hissel.
And in Gallowgate, just aside the Darn Crook,
Stands his house amang smells that wad make a horse puke.

I' the same too na chep leeves, of varry great fame,
For building fine houses--John Dobson's his nyem;
His awn stands in New Bridge Street, by way of example,--
Blaw me if aw think its a varry good sample.

It happen'd on ___,the ___of  November--
A day these two worthies will ever remember;
For Dobson was varry nigh kill'd, I suppose,
And poor Mr. Archibold spoilt all his best clothes.

The twesome to dine with John Sadler had been
At Whitehill-point House, which is weel to be seen,
As ye gan down to Shields; but aw'll begin my narration
With the row that tuik place at the Howden-pan station.

Efter dinner, when each yen his belly had fill'd,
And some of Jack Sadler's wine had been swill'd,
To gan hyem te Newcassel they left Whitehill-house
But, before they gat hyem, they gat a vast of abuse.

The station they reach'd ere the train had got there,
And they each tuik a ticket, and each paid his fare;
The train it came up, and Dobson gat in,
And was just gawn to start when the row did begin.

Noo, yen of the polismen placed at the station,
With lang Jemmy Archbold had some altercation--
Your ticket sir, I must now have from you?
Not before I get in--I'll be d--d if yoiu do.

Upon this the pollisman gave Jemmy a push,
And into the station-house all made a rush,
And Dobson, noo seeing his friend in such guise,
Jump'd out of the carriage, and went in likewise.

But he gat a blow from a wooden hand,
That made him quite sick and he could not stand,
And then cam another sic skelp on the hede,
Had his sconce not been thick he wad hae been dede,

Now, Dobson at yen time was vedry handy,
And at schule he played Tinley of Shields, the great dandy,
And although he now had come to such skaith,
Cried, Lay by our wood hands and I'll lick ye baith.

But the pollismen said, Ye baith prisoners are,
And to Shields ye mun gan, as it's not varry far;
And though now they began to be sick of the lark,
To Shields they teun were, though it was efter dark.

There they saw Mr. Cruddas and Inspector Scott,
The hede of the pollis, wha pitied their lot,
and releeas'd and sent them hyem somewhat muddy-
Poor Dobson the warst-- he was baith sair and bloody.

The next day, each yen to his torney went,
The yen to Parce Fenwick the other the Sargent,
Crowner Stoker, whe's spectacles myeks him far-seeted-
He's a h-ll of a fellow for getting folk reeted.

A summons they gat- the men cuddent be seen,
The directors detarmin'd the villans to screen,
And what was still warse, and to save their mutton,
Young Tinley tell'd Jackson, they had gone a shutten.

Noo, as the summons cuddent be sarv'd,
and the pollismen punish'd as they deserv'd,
A warran was getten, and Newton, Allan and all
Were suin in the cellars beneath the Moot-hall.

Noo the justices sat, to hear what they had to say,
and we cam frae Shields, for to see fair play;
And William Branlen sat on the bench,
Besides Sandy Ildertan, whe still likes a w--ch.

There was doctors and lawyers, and pollismen too,
And of railway directors there was not a few.
Including Dick Spoor, whe yence din'd with the queen--
Sic a crew in the jury-room never was seen.

Noo the crowner began, and he made a good speech,
Call'd Archbold and Dobson, and lastly, the Leech,
Whe bound Dobson's hede, yen Mr. John Lang,
Not the family surgeon, but a rhyme for my sang.

When Archbold was called, he said, with much grace,
That Newton held the lanthorn reet in his fyece,
And spoke in a manner baith rude and absord
To the town-councillor for St. Andrew's West Ward.

Next Dobson appears with his bloody claes,
His hede all bund up, luiking pale, and he says,
As how nyen o' them had getten oweer much drink,
As Torney Tinley wanted the justice to think.

Now the crownere being ended, t'other side did begin,
And Tinley he vapour'd, and they swor thick and thin;
But aw'll say ne mair, lest you should be bor'd,
But merely relate, that Jack Tinley was floor'd.

And the justices said, 'twas a shem the directors
Should set twe sic blackguards on the line for inspectors,
A, addressing they byeth, said unto the men,
Yer Byeth fined--Allan five pounds, and you, Newton, ten.

Noo, when aw seed the way the thing went,,
Thinks aw, the directors are surely content,
And will myek the cheps 'mends, from the way they've been tret,
But the warst of my story it is to come yet.

Ne suiner wa't knawn what the verdict was,
Than the railway attorney, he out with the brass,
And flinging it doon, said, Miuch good may it do yee!
Gie me a resait, and set wor pollismen free.

Noo sic wark as this, it is varry shocken,
Folks canna gan to Shelds withoiut hevin their hedes brocken,
And aw've myed up ma mind, if aw's not in a hurry,
Te gan in Mitchell's fine boats, or Johnson's fam'd whurry.

Folly warf, Nov 35 (?), 1839

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

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Blind Willie's Death
 (June 20, 1832)
Tune- Jemmy Joneson's Whurry

As aw was gannin' up the Side,
Aw met wi' drunken Bella;
She wrung her hands, and sair she cried,
He's  gyen at last, poor fellow!
O, hinny Bella! whe is't that's gyen?
Ye gar my blood run chilly.
Wey, hinny, deeth, ahs stopt the breath
O' canny awd Blind Willie.

God keep us, Bella, is that true!
Ye shurely are mistaken?
O, no! aw've left him just a-now,
And he's as deed as bacon.
Aw tied his chaffs, and laid him out--
His flesh just like a jelly-
And sair, sair aw was put about
For canny awd Blind Willie.

Then off went aw as fast as wot,
Ti see poor Willie lyin;--
When aw gat there, maw heart was sair,
Ti see his friends a' sighin'.
Around his bed they hung their heeds,
Just like the droopin' lilly;
And aw, with them, did dee the syem
For canny awd Blind Willie.

Ne mair, said aw, we'll hear him sing,
Ne mair he'll play the fiddle;
Ne mair we'll hear him praise the king--
No! No! cried Jimmy Liddle.
The days are past--he's gyen, at last,
Beside his frind, Sir Billy,
That parish chiel', that preach'd se weel--
We'll mourn for him and Willie.

His bonny corpse crowds cam to see,
Which myed the room luik dowly;
And whe was there amang them, tee,
But noisy Yella Yowley;
She through the crowd did crush her way--
Wi' drink she seem'd quite silly--
And on her knees began to pray
For canny awd Blind Willie.

They tell'd us a' to gang away,
Which myed us varry sorry;
But Beagle Bet wad kiss his lips,
Before they did him bury.
He's burried now--he's out o' seet--
Then on his grave se hilly,
Let them that feel take their fareweel
O' canny awd Blind Willie.

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

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Geordy's Disaster

Sum time since a ship that was tyken in coal,
At a place at North Shields they ca' Peggy's Hole,
And the keels a' the neet wad lie alangside,
To be ready next morn to gan up wi' the tide.

Chorus-
Fal, lal &c.

No yen o' the skippers had sic fish-huiks o' claws,
That deil a bit of rope cud be kept frae his paws;
For as sune as the men were a gyen to sleep,
Then on board o' the ship wor Geody wad creep.

And devil a thing could be left on the deck,
But Geordy, as sure as a gun, wad it neck,
And into the huddock wad stow it away,
And gan off to the rope-shop, and sell it next day.

Noo the mate o' the ship was determin'd to watch
To see if he cuddent the thievish rogue catch,--
So to hev a bit fun, an' to give him a freet,
He sworre he wad sit up the whole o' that neet.

So he gat a lang gun, and for to begin,
A greet clot o' blud and sum poother pat in;
Noo he dident wait lang, for sune over the bows
I' the muinleet he saw him creep up like a moose

He click'd up a bucket, and was gawn wiv his prize,
When the mate he let flee reet between his twe eyes
When the skipper found blud all over his fyece,
Aw's deed! out he roars and dropp'd down in a place.

Noo the Pee-dee he heard the crack o' the gun.
So he speal'd up the side, and tiv Geordy he run
Oh, Geordy! Oh Geordy! just haud up thy heed
An' tell us,  maw hinny, if thou hez gyen deed!

The skipper he groan'd, and kick'd up his heels,
Gude bye canny Pee-dee! Gude bye tive maw keels!
Aw'll never see Mally nor bairns ony mair,
For if aw's not deed, aw's speechless, aw'll swear!

Wiv a greet deal to de they gat him to rise;
But when he gat up, what was his surprise,
When he sought for the hole where the bullet had gyen,
But sought it in vain, for he cuddent find yen.

By gock! out he roars, aw ken how it's been--
Sic a comical trick, aw's sure never was seen;
Faix, bad as it is , it might hev been warse,
It's come in at maw gob, and gyen out at my ar__.

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

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Jossy's Nag's Head
Tune- A Rampant Linon is my Sign.

All you who've got an hour to spare,
And wish to spend it merry,
Go not to houses of ill-fame,
Nor sport with Tom and Jerry:
Direct your course to Armfield's house,
Where none the least alarm feels,
Where mirth and fun reign uncontroll'd,
All in Josiah Armfields.

Chorus-
Then drink about and merry be,
Let each one fill his station,
And ne'er despise a flowing pot,
When bent on recreation.

In winter, when the weather's cold,
The pinching frost may starve you,
You'll find a fire to your desire,
A buxom lass to serve you:
Her smiles are like the flowers in May,
Her conversation charms weel:
Far be the fellow takes her in,
While selling drink at Armfiels's.

Now should you know the art of war,
The news may lead your mind there;
Or if inclin'd to grace the bar,
Some of your cloth you'll find there:
Mock trials, hot debates go on,
Yet seldom any harm feel,
The counsellors plead your cause for nought,
Law's cheap at Jossy Armfield's.

Next in the tap-room take a peep,
There's eggs and pie folk dealing;
Some try their luck at single toss,
And other some are stealing:
The bakky smoke ascends in clouds,
Yet none will say he arm feels;
Yoiu'd swear you were near Etna's Mount,
Instead of Jossy Armfield's

The sailors sing their danger's o'er,
When sailing on the high seas;
Says donald frae Fife, I've left the North,
Where Parry wad lost his ideas.
Come, d--n! says, Durham lad, leet my pipe,
Andgive us nyen o' your yarn reels;
But pay the quart-Ise be the next,
We'll hev a spree at Armfield's

There's Baggie Will, he sings all fours;
And faith he sings it rarely;
there's Castle Dean plagues Canny Pit Sark,
and sings, he's lost her fairly;
The Teazer he provokes the flame,
Till a' the house quite warm feels;
The Cobbler chaunts the Cuddy sang,
Half-cock'd, in Jossy Armfield's

Box number one's a Tennis Court,
for those of fistic vlaour;
And should you want to grace the ring,
Must enter as as scholar.
The Hackney drivers stand about,
Until their dowps they warm feel;
Then drink their purl, and march away--
Huzza! for Jossy Armfield

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

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The April Gowk:
Or, The Lover's Alarmed
A castle-Garth Ditty
Tune- Jenny chaok'd the Bairn.

Ye worthy friends of Arpil Gowk,
That like a bot o' spree,
Pray lay your gargon a' aside,
And listen unto me;
For love's intrigues disturb the wigs
Of most o' men on earth;
And so, of late, it caught the pate
Of pious Parson Garth.

This worthy man went soon to bed,
Upon the last o' March,
And what his mind was running on,
'Tis needless now to search;
His rib asleep, down staris he'd creep-
When lo! to hsi surprise,
A pair of boots, below the seat,
Stood right before his eyes.

He went to rouse his darling spouse,
And said, You plainly see
There's some one here that wants to make
An April Gowk o' me.
Oh! dress yoursel', do take the bell,
Your petticoat put on;
They'renow in quod- I hope to God
It's not my brother John.

He took aq stick and follow'd quick
Unto the lasses' room:
Come out! says she' Come out! says he,
The Kitty is your doom!
While on the bell she did play knell,
Poor Johnny, pale, came forth,
All in dismay, like potters clay,
Stood pius Parson Garth!

A Chamber Council there was held,
All in this naked plight;
The dire alarm had brought a swarm
O' guardians o' the night:
In vain they strove to gain his love,
His wrath for to appease,
He swore he'd have their boxes search'd,
and cried--Produce the keys!

They nothing found that he could own--
His heart more callous grew,
He tore their caps, destroy'd their hats--
Then on the floor he threw:
Like pilgrims setting out, unshod,
to prison they were sent,
To dread their penance, like the sweep,
Until they should repent.

To free the girls from guilt and shame,
And have the matter clear'd,
Those sweetly serenading Two-
Foot Carpenters* appear'd.
Tho' Willy cannot get his boots,
For them he does not care--
They won the day!-- nonne but the brave.
Deserve to win the fair.

Sould you not know this worthy man--
A man of steady gait,
A pensive look affects as tho'
He'd something in his pate:
Ambition and presumption too
In him have taken birth,
And fix'd a stigma on his name--
The Hydra of the Garth!

*cloggers

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

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The Skipper's Mistake
Tune- The Chapter of Accidents.

Tow jovial souls, two skippers bold,
For Shields did sail one morning.
In their awd keel, black as the Deill,
All fear and danger scorning.
The sky look'd bright, which prophesied
A fair and glorious day, man:
But such a thick Scotch mist cam on,
they could not see their way, man.

Chorus-
Fal, lal, &c.

they pull'd about, frae reet to left,
Not kennin what to dee, man,
When poor Pee-dee began to fret,
Lest they should drive to sea, man.
Says Geordy, Should wor voyage be lang,
We've little for our guts, man;
There's nowt belaw but half a loaf,
Some tripe and a nowt's foot, man.

They drove as far as Jarrow Slake,
When Geordy bawl'd aloud, man--
Smash! marrow, ye hae been at skuel,
Come find our latitude, man;
Gan down into the huddock, Jack,
Fetch up the Reading-Easy--
If we should be far off atsea,
I doubt it winna please ye.

They studied hard, byeth lang and sair,
Though nyen o' them could read, man,
When Geordy on a sudden cries,
Aw hev 'er in my heed, man.
Come, let us pray to be kept free
Frae danger and mischance, man;
We're ower the bar!--there's nowt for us
But Holland, Spain or France, man!

At length the day began toclear,
The sun peep'd through the dew, man,
When lo! awd-fashion'd Jarrow Kirk
Stood fair within their view, man.
They laugh'd and crack'd about the joke
Which lately gar'd them quake, man;
They lay, instead of Spain or France,
Quite snug at Jarrow Slake, man.

May wealth and commerce still increase
And bless our native isle, man,
and make each thriving family
In happiness to smile, man.
May vict'ry round Britannia's brow
Her laurels still entwine, man,
The coal-trade flourish more and more
Upon the dingy Tyne, man.

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

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Newcastle Beer versus Spa Water
Or, The Pitman and Temperance Society
 

As Cousin Jack and I, last pay-day, cam to toon,
We gat to Robin Hood's, wor wordly cares to droon--
And there we spent the day--their yell's byeth cheap and strang-
It's reet to soak yen's clay--hang them that thinks it wrang.

Chorus

Romti bomti ba, &c.

In stagg'rin' hyem at neet, an' bent upon a spree,
A broad-brim'd chep cam up, and seem'd to talk quite freee;--
He said, to drink small beer or brandy was a curse,
It stole away wor brains, an' drain'd each poor man's purse.

We talk'd 'bout Temp'rance Clubs, that now are a' the go,
And said, if we wad join, we'd ne'er ken what or woe.
We quickluy gav consent, wor Friend then led the way,
Reet up to Wilkie's went, amang his cronies gay.

There some wer fair and fat, some nowt but skin and byen,
And at a tyebble sat a man near twenty styen--
He roar'd out for some drink, which very suen was browt,
And said, My lads, fall tee, and fill yor bags for nowt.

Aw tried, but smash a drop wad down me weasen gan,
But Broad-brim said, quite slee, Come, drink, friend, if thou can--
'Twill purge the body clean, and make ye wond'rous wise,
And, efter ye are deed, ye'll mount abuen the skies.

Suen efter this grand speech aw quietly toddled hyem,
And cramm'd some o' their drink into wor canny dyem;
But scarcely had she drunk this liquor so divine,
Till she began to bowk, and sair her jaws did twine.

A Doctor suen was brought frae canny Benwell toon,
While Peggy, maw poor las waswork'd byeth up an' doon;
He fund, when he did tyest, this queer, mischiveous stuff,
to be Spaw Water pure, so Peg was safe eneugh.

When aw gan back to toon, aw'll tell them what aw think--
Aw'll warn wor neighbours round 'gyen their outlandish drink:
Let Quakers gan to Heav'n, an' fill their kites wi' Spaw,
Give me Newcassel Beer, content aw'll stay belaw.

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

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The Pitman's Pay;
Or, A night's Discharge to Care.

I sing not here of warriors bold--
Of battles lost or victories won--
Of cities sack'd, nor nations sold,
Or any deeds by tyrants done.

I sing the Pitman's plagues and cares-
Their labour hard and lowly cot--
Their homely joys and humble fares-
Their pay-night o'er a foaming pot.

Their week's work done, the coally craft--
These horny-handed sons of toil
Require a right gude willie-waught,
The creaking wheels of life to oil.

See hewers, putters, drivers too,
With pleasure hail this  happy day--
All celan wash'd up, their way pursue
To drink and crack,and get their pay.

The Buck, the Black Horse, and the Keys,
Have witness'd many a comic scene,
Where's yell to cheer and mirth to please,
And drollery that would cure the spleen.

With parched tongues and gyzen'd throats
They reach the place, where barleycorn
Soon down the dusty cavern floats,
From pewter-pot or homely horn.

The dust wash'd down, then comes the care
To find that all is rightly bill'd;
And each to get his hard-earn'd share
From some one in division skill'd.

The money-matters thus decided,
They push the pot more briskly round;
With hearts elate and hobbies strided,
Their cares are all in nappie drown'd.

Here, lass says Jack, help this agyen,
It's better yell than in the toun;
But then the road's se het it's tyen,
It fizz'd, aw think, as it went doun.

Thus many a foaming pot's requir'd
To quench the dry and dusky spark;
Whe ev'ry tongue, as if inspir'd
Wags on about their wives and wark.

The famous feats done in their youth,
At bowling, ball, and clubby-shaw--
Camp-meetings, Ranters, Gospel-truth,
Religion, politics, and law.

With such variety of matter,
Opinions, too, as various quite,
We need not wonder at the clatter,
When ev'ry tongue wags-wrong or right.

The gifted few in lungs and lair
At length, insensibly,, divide'em;
And from a three-legg'd stool or chare
Each draws his favour'd few beside him.

Now let us ev'ry face survey,
Which seems as big with grave debate,
As if each word they had to say
Was pregnant with impending fate.

Mark those in that secluded place
Set snug around the stool of oak,
Labouring at some knotty case,
Envelop'd in tobacco smoke.

Thes are the pious, faithful few,
Who pierce the dark decrees of fate--
They've read teh Pilgrim's Progress through,
As well as Boston's Four-fold state.

They'll point you out the day and hour
When they experience'd sin forgiven--
Convince you that they're quie secure,
They'll die in peace, and go to heaven.

The moral road's too far abbut,
They like a surer, Shorter cut,
Which frees the end from every doubt,
And saves them many a weary foot.

The first's commensurate with our years,
And must be travell'd day by day;
And to the new-born few appears
A very dull and tedious way.

The other's length solely depends
Upon the time when we begin it;
Get but set out--before life ends--
For all's set right when once we're in it.

They're now debating which is best--
The short-cut votes the others double;
For this good reason, 'mongst the rest,
It really saves a world of trouble.

He that from goodness farthest strays,
Becomes a saint of first degree;
And Ranter Jeremiah says,
Let bad ones only come to me.

Old Earth-worm soon obeys the call,
Conscious, perhaps, he wanted mending,
For some few flaws from Adam's fall,
Gloss'd o'er by cant and sheer pretending.

Still stick to him afield or home,
The methodistic brush defying,
So that the Ranter's curry-comb
Is now the only means worth trying.

In habits form'd since sixty years,
the hopes of change won't weigh a feather--
The power so o'er him domineers,
That they and life must end together.

See on their right a gambling fiew,
Whose every word and look display
A desperate, dark, designing crew,
Intent upon each other's pay.

They're racers, cockers, carders keen,
As ever o'er a tankard met,
Or ever bowl'd a match between
The Popplin Well and Manvin's yett.

On cock-fight, dog-fight, cuddy-race,
Or pitch and tos, trippet and coit,
Or on a soap-tail'd grunter's chase,
They'll risk the last remaining doit.

They're now at cards and Gibby Gripe
Is peeping into Harry's hand;
And ev'ry puff blown from his pipe
His party easily understand.

Some for the odd trick pushing hard--
Some that they lose it pale with fear--
Some betting on the turn-up-card--
Some drawing cuts for pints of beer.

Whilst others brawl about Jack's brock,
That all the Chowden dogs can bang;
Or praise Lang Wilson's piley cock,
Or Dixon's feats upon the swang.

Here Tom the pink of bowlers, gain'd
Himself a never-dying name,
By deeds, wherein an ardour reign'd
Which neither age nor toil could tame.

For labour done, and o'er his dose,
Tom took his place upon the hill;
And at the very evening's close
You faintly saw him bowling still.

All this display of pith and zeal
Was so completely habit grown,
That many an hour from sleep he'd steal
To bowl upon the hill alone.

The night wears late--the wives drop in
To take a peep at what is doing;
For many would not care a pin
To lose at cards a fortnight's hewing.

Poor Will had just his plagues dismiss'd,
And had Begone, dul Care begun,
With face as grave as Methodist,
And voice most sadly out of tune;

But soon as o'er he Nelly saw,
With brows a dreadful storm portending,
He dropt at once his under jaw,
As if his mortal race was ending;--

For had the grim destroyer stood,
In all his ghastliness before him,
It could not more have froze his blood,
Nor thrown a deadlier paleness o'er him.

His better half, all fire and tow,
Call'd him a slush--his comrades raff--
Swore that he could a brewing stow,
And after that sipe all the draff.

Will gather'd up his scatter'd powers--
Drew up his fallen chops again--
Seiz'd Nell, and push'd her out of doors,
Then broke forth in this piteous strain:--

O! Nell, thou's rung me money a peal,
Nyen, but mysel, could bide thy yammer;
Thy tongue runs like wor pully-wheel,
And dirls my lug like wor smith's hammer.

Thou'll drive me daft, aw often dread,
For now aw's nobbet verra silly,
Just like a geuss cut i' the head,
Like Jemmy Muin or Preacher Willy.

Aw thought wor Nell, when Nelly Dale,
The verra thing to myek me happy;
She curl'd ma hair, or tied ma tail,
And clapt and stroakt ma little Cappy.

But suin as e'er the knot was tied
And we were yok'd for life together;
When Nell had laugh'd, and minny cried,
And a' was fairly i' the tether;--

Then fierce as fire she seiz'd the breeks,
And round maw heed flewstuils, and chairs;
Ma tail hung lowse like candle weeks,--
An awd pit ended Cappy's cares.

Just like wor maisters when we're bun,
If men and lads be varra scant,
The wheedle us wi' yell and fun,
And coax us into what they want.

But myek yor mark, then snuffs and sneers
Suin stop yor gob and lay yor braggin;
When yence yor feet are i' the geers,
Ma soul! they'll keep your painches waggin.

Aw toil ma byens, till through ma clay
They peep to please ma dowly cavel;
Aw's at the coal wall a' the day,
And nightly i' the waiter level--

Aw hammer on till afternuin,
Wi' weary, byens and empty wyem;
Nay, varra oft the pit's just duin
Before aw weel get wannel'd hyem.

But this is a' of little use,
For what aw dee is never reet;
She's like a larm-bell i' the house,
Ding-donging at me day and neet.

If aw sud get ma wark owre suin,
She's flaid to deeth aw've left some byet;
And if aw's till the efternuin
Aw's drunk because aw is se lyet.

Feed us and cleed us weel she may,
As she gets a'ways money plenty;
For every day, for mony a pay,
Aw've hew'd and putten twee-and-twenty.

Tis true aw sometimes get a gill--
But then she a'ways gets her grog;
And if aw din't her bottle fill,
Aw's then a skin-flint, smock-drawn dog.

She buys me, te, the warst o' meat,
Bad bullock's liver--houghs and knees--
Tough stinking tripe, and awd cow's feet--
Shanks full o' mawks and half nought cheese.

Of sic she feeds the barins and me,
the tyesty bits she tyeks hersel:
In whik ne share nor lot have we,
Excepting sometimes i' the smell.

The crowdy is wor daily dish,
But varra different is their minny's;
For she gets a' her heart can wish
In strang lyac'd tea and singin' hinnies.

Ma canny barins luik pale and wan,
Their bits and brats are varra scant;
Their mother's feasts rob the o' scran--
For filfu' waste makes woefu' want.

She peels the taties wi' her teeth,
And spreads the buter wi' her thoom;
She blaws the kail wi' stinking breeth,
Where mawks and catepillars soom!

She's just a gannin' heap o' muck,
Where durts of a' description muster;
For dishclout serves her apron nuik
As weel as snotter clout and duster!

She lays out punds in manadge things,
Like mony a thriftless, thoutless bein;
Yet bairns and me, as if we'd wings,
Are a' in rags an' tatters fleein.

Just mark wor dress-a lapless coat,
With byeth the elbows sticking through--
A hat that never cost a groat--
A meekless shirt- a clog and shoe.

She chalks up scores a'  the shops
Wherever we've a twelvemonth staid;
And when we flit, the landlord stops
Ma sticks till a' the rent be paid.

Aw's ca'd a hen-pick'd, pluckless calf,
For letting her the breeches wear;
And tell'd aw dinna thrsh her half--
Wi' mony a bitter jibe and jeer.

Aw think, says Dick, 'aw wad her towen,
And verra suin her courage cuil:
Aw'd dook her in wor engine powen,
Then clap her on Repentance stuil.

If that should not her tantrums check,
Aw'd peel her to the varra sark:
Then 'noint her wi' a twig o' yeck,
And efter make her eat the bark.

Enough like this aw've heard thro' life;
For every body has a plan
To guide a rackle ram-stam wife,
Except the poor tormented man.

Will could not now his feelings stay--
The tear roll'd down his care-worn cheek:
He thrimmell'd out what he'd to pay,
And sobbing said, my heart will break!

Here Nanny, modest, mild, and shy,
took Neddy gently by the sleeve;
Aw just luik'd in as aw went by--
Is it not, thinks te, time to leave?

Now, Nan, what myeks th' fash me here,
Gan hyem and get the bairns to bed;
Thou knaws thou promis'd me ma beer
The verra neet before we wed.

Hout, hinny, had th' blabbin jaw,
Thou's full o' nought but fun and lees;
At sic a kittle time, ye knaw,
Yen tells ye ony thing to please.

Besides, thou's had enough o' drink,
And mair wad ony myek th' bad;
Aw see thy een begin to blink--
Gan wi' me, like a canny lad.

O, Nan! thou hez a witching way
O' myekin' me de what thou will;
Thou needs but speak, and aw obey,
Yet there's ne doubt aw's maister still.

But tyest the yell and stop a bit--
Here tyek a seat upon ma knee-
For 'mant the hewers in wor pit
There's nyen hez sic a wife as me.

For if ma top comes badly down,
Or ought else keeps me lang away,
She cheers me wi' the weel-knawn-soun'--
Thou's had a lang and weary day.

If aw be naggy, Nanny's smile
Suin myeks me blithe as ony lark;
And fit to looup a yett or stile--
Ma varra byens forget to wark.

Ma Nan--ma bairns---my happy hyem--
Set ower hard labour's bitter pill--
O Providence! but spare me them--
The warld may then wag as it will.

She waits upon me hand and foot--
Aw want for nought that she can gie me--
She fills ma pipe wi' patten cut--
Leets it, and hands it kindly to me.

She tells me a' heer bits o' news,
Pick'd up the time aw've been away;
And fra ma mouth the cuttie pous
When sleep o'ercomes ma weary clay.

Sae weel she ettles what aw get-
Sae far she a'ways gars it gan--
That nyen can say we are i' debt,
Or want for wother claes or scran.

Then drink about, whe minds a got--
Let's drown wor cares i' barleycorn--
Here, lass, come bring another pot,
The cawler dissent call to morn.

Nay, hinny Ned, ne langer stay--
We mun by hyem to little Neddy--
He's just a twel'munth awd to-day,
And will be crying for his deddy.

Aw'll tyek thee hyem a pot o' beer,
A nice clean pipe and backy te--
Thou knaws aw like to hae thee near--
Come, hinny, come, gan hyem wi' me.

Like music's soft and soothing powers
These honey'd sounds drop on his ear:
Or like the warm and fertile showers
That leave the face of nature clear.

Here was the power of woman shown,
When women use it properly--
He threw his pipe and reck'ning down--
Aw will-aw will gan hyem wi' thee.

At home arriv'd right cheerfully
She set him in his easy chair--
Clapt little Neddy on his knee,
and bid him see his image there.

The mother pleas'd-- the father glad,
Swore Neddy had twe bonny een--
There ne'er was, Ned ,a finer lad;
And, then he's like thee as a bean.

Aw've luck'd for Wilson a' this day,
To cut th' pig down fore it's dark;
But he'll  be guzzling at the pay,
And winden on about his wark.

What lengths aw've often heard him gan,
Sweering--and he's not fount of fibbin--
He'll turn his back on ne'er a man
For owther killin pigs or libbin.

Still Jack's an honest, canty cock,
As ever drain'd the juice of barley;
Aw've knawn him sit myest roun' the clock
Swatt'ling and clatt'ring on wi' Charley.

Now, Deddy, let me ease yor arm;
Gi'e me the bairn lay down yor pipe,
And get the supper when it's warm--
It's just a bit o' gissy's tripe.

Then come to me, ma little lammy--
Come thou apple o'ma e'e--
Come ma Neddy, t' the mammy--
Come, ma darlin'- come to me!

Here, see a woman truly blest
Beyond the reach of pomp and pride;
Her infant happy at her breast-
Her husband happy by her side.

Then take a lesson, pamper'd wealth,
And learn how little it requires
To make us happy when we've health--
Content--and moderate desires.

Tha father, Ned, is far frae weel,
He lucks, poor body, varra bad;
A' ower he hez a cawdrife feel,
But thinks it but a waff o' cawd.

Aw've just been ower wi' something warm,
To try to ease the weary coff,
Which baffles byeth the drugs and charm!
And threatens oft to tyek him off.

He says, O Nan, ma life thou's spar'd--
The good it's duin me's past beleevin--
The Lord will richly thee rewaird--
The care o' me will win thee heeven.

Now as his bottles nearly tuim,
Mind think me on, when at the town,
To get the drop black beer and rum,
As little else will now gan down.

We mebby may be awd worsel's
When poverty's cawd blast is blawin';
And want a frien' when nature fyels,
And life her last few threeds is drawin'.

Besides, the bits o' good we dee
The verra happiest moments gie us;
And mun, aw think, still help a wee,
At last, frae awfu' skaith to free us.

Let cant and rant then rave at will
Agyen a'warks-aw here declare it--
We'll still the hungry belly fill,
Se lang as ever we can spare it.

Here, then, we'll leave this happy pair
Their home affairs to con and settle;
Their ways and means with frugal care,
For marketing next day to ettle.

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

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The Newcastle Blunderbuss
Or, Travelling Extradordinary
Tune- Calder Fair

Ne Mair o' grand inventions brag,
'Bout Steamers and Chain Brigs, man-
An' bothers a' their wigs, man:
'Bout Gleediscowpies, silly things,
Ne langer make a fuss, man--
E'en silk Balloons mun bend their croons
To Reidie's Blaunderbuss,* man

Chorus-
Fal, de ral, &c.

As Geordy Fash and Dolly Rw
Cam stagg'rin up the Kee, man,
Wi' Teasdale's beer, an' sic like cheer,
They'd rather myed ow'r free, man--
Into this Blunderbuss they gat,
Side two outlandish chiels, man,
But wre they'd time to leet their pipes,
They fand theirsels i' Shields, man!

Each day on wor Sandhill it stands--
If in tid ye should pop, man,
An' close your winkers half an hour,
Clean ow'r the sea ye'll hop, man!
The Kee-side jarvies now may run,
And barbers clerks se gay, man--
Twad be a spree if, fra' wor kee,
They'd cut to Bot'ny Bay, man!

Thiss grand machine wor Tyne will clean,
An' make it's sand-banks flee, man,
Like Corby Craws ow'r Marsden Rock,
Into the German Sea, man!--
Wor canny Mayor ne pains will spare,
He'll back it out an out, man,
Till ev'ry nuisance in wor toon
For Shields shall take the route man.

*Omnibusses commenced running between Newcastle and Shields every hour from eight o'clock in the morning till eight at night, Nov, 12 1832.

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

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A Pitman's Visit to Newcastle on Valentines Day.
Tune- Newcsatle Fair,

Oh smash! marra, where hast thou been,
Aw been luiken for ye a yel hour;
For to tell of a seet aw hae sen,
Sic a seet as aw ne'er saw before:
Aw straight to Newcassel did gan,
And gat in just as it struck ten;
Then through the streets aw quickly ran,
For to get heame suin agyen.

Chorus-
Rum ti iditty, &c.

Just as aw was runnin amain!
Aw comes alangside of a shop,
Wi' papers claggid' on every pane--
To see them aw thought aw wad stop.
But oh! sic reed flames an' sic darts!
And sae mony lovers together;
And sic bonny arrows and hearts--
Od Zounds! they were painted quite clever.

Says aw. to a buck in the street,
(You may guess he was drest very fine,)
What's that thing that's painted complete?
Says he, It is a Valentine.
Says aw, Do ye knaw what they're for,
That they are painted sae smart?
Then he humm'd and he haw'd like a boar,
And siad, To send to your sweetheart.

Then thinks aw to masell, aw'll hae yen,
to send to my awn dearest hinny:
Aw bowls into the shop like a styen,
When out pops a man very skinny:
Says he, Sir, pray what do you want?
Says aw, Yen o' them things that's bonny,
When in comes a chep that did cant,
And said, Aw want one, my dear honey.

That the fellow was Irish I knew,
As suin as to speak he began,
He luik'd at Valentines not a few.
But could not find one to suit, Nan
Says he, Mind aw will have the prattiest.
Says aw, Ye must knaw that you shan't
Did he think aw'd be content wi' the dirtiest?
Ma sang! aw did both swear and rant.

When he brought me a clout o' the lug.
He did it sae frisky and gaily,
Says he You must know, Mr. Mug,
That I'm a stout bit of shilelah
Aw brought him another as tough
It made a' his cheeks for to rattle;
Says he, I have got quite enough:
Sae thus we gave ower the brattle.

We went to a yell-house just nigh,
For to get a wee sup o' strang yell;
And then we came back, by and by,
And to luikin at Valentines fell.
And then got as great as could be,
And  bought Valentines for to fit, man:
But aw say, without telling a lee,
He met wiv his match in a Pitman.

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

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The Skipper in the Mist
tune- Derry Down

Some time since there cam on a very thick fog,
In Lunnin some folks were nearly lost in a bog;--
A bog, you will say, that's an Irish name--
They got knee deep in mud, and that's just all the same

Chorus-
Derry down,&c

Now, during the fog, sir, a Newcassel keel
Was sailing down Tyne to a ship lying at Shields,
The fog cam se thick, skipper off wig and roar'd
Aw mun by my swape-Geordy, lay by your oar!

Now, hinnies, my marrows! come tell's what to dee,
Aw's frighten'd wor keel will soon drive out to sea!
So the men an' their skipper, each sat on his buttock.
An' a council they held, wi' their legs down the huddock

Says Geordy, We cann be very far down,
With the was o' my oar, aw hev just touch'd the grund;
Cheer up, my awd skipper, put on yor awd wig,
We're between the King's Meadows an' Newcassel Brig!

The skipper, enrag'd, then declar'd he kend better,
For at the same time he had smelt the salt water;
And there's Marsden Rock, just within a styen thraw,
Aw can see't through the mist, aw'll swear by my reet paw.

The anchor let's drop till the weather it clears,
For fear we be nabb'd by the French privateers!
The anchor was dropt: when the weather clear'd up,
They soon moor'd their keel at the awd Javil Group.

The skipper was vex'd and he curs'd and he swore,
That his nose had ne'er led him sefar wrang before!
But what most of all did surprise these four people
Was, Marsden Rock chang'd into Gateshead Church Steeple!
 

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

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The Miraculous Well;
Or, Newcastle Spaw Water*
Tune- Rory O'More

A fig for quack doctors, their pills and their stuff,
Our neighbours of them have been tir'd long enough;
E'en Dinsdale and Croft their pretensions withdraw,
And Harrowgate bends to our Newcassel Spaw;
The halt and the blind, and the grave and the gay,
To drink of the water, in crowds haste away;
And gouty old bachelors thither repair,
With Jews, Turks, and tailors, its virtues to share.

Chorus:

Hurrah for Newcassel!--Newcassel for me!
Where ale is so prime, and the lasses so free;
Your lumps, bumps,and rheumatics vanish like snaw,
By one mighty draught of this wonderful spaw!

One day Cuddy Willy sat down by the srping,
And fiddled and sang till he made the Dean ring;
Then said to the crowd- My lad,s as to the Spaw,
Good whisky improves it, aw verra weel knaw!--
But, if you'll be seated, you'll son hear me sing
The magical cures that's performed by this spring:--
He cut an odd caper, and thus he began-
First drinking a quart from a rusty tin-can.

Awd Humpty-back'd Dick, and tow or three mair,
Fra Shiney Raw pit to the Well did repair;
He drank of the Spaw, when the hump in a crack,
Dissolv'd and soon vanish'd frae poor Dicky's back!
Lord bliss us! cried timber-toed tee-total Peg,
If it banishes humps, it might bring forth a leg!
She got to the Well, with the Spaw she made free,
And very soon after poor Peggy had three!!!

Pure sanctified Betty scarce knew what to think--
Hard might be her fate if she ventur'd to drink--
For most of the lasses that live in Lang Raw,
Have getten the dropsy by tasting the Spaw!
The doctors declare, that at forty weeks' end,
'Twill be in their arms, and the dropsy will mend;
The howdies are wishing the time was well o'er,
For surely such water was ne'er known before.

A bumper, cried Cuddy, and toasted the Queen,--
Which soon was responded by all on the green,--
May she have a son soon as big's Johnny Fa'--
(there's virtue in wishing while drinking the Spaw).
So now, my good lasses, gan hyem to your wark--
There's danger in wand'ring the Dean in the dark
'Mang trees and awd quarries- I'd have ye beware,
Remember poor Peggy was caught in the snare.

*Some years ago a spring of water was observed to oose from the bank at the foot of Sandyford Dean, to which some people
attributed medicinal qualities; but it was not generally noticed till the spring of 1841, when its fame spread abroad, and
drew the attention of multitudes of people to the spot, many of whom being aflicted with complaints  of long standing, after
drinking freely of this water, declared themselves cured;  and some of the faculty  proving its qualities by analyzation, gave it a more favorable
report, which caused still greater numbers of invalads &c. to visit the sprin--some with casks and cans, others with jugs and bottles, anxiously waiting for a turn.
Whether the benefits said to have been received from this water were real or imaginary, time the test of all things, will assuredly prove.....

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

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The Skipper's Fright
Tune- Skipper Carr and Marky Dunn

As aw was gannen out yen neet,--
It happen'd in the dark, man,--
A chep cam up ga' me a freet,
'Twas little Skipper Clark, man:
His fyece was white as ony clout,
Says aw, what hae ye been about?
He gyep'd at me , and gav a shout,
O Dick, I've seen the Deil, man!

Awd Nick had twee great goggle eyes,
And horns upon his heed, man,
He had a gob,--aye, sic a size,
It flay'd me near to deed, man!
His eyes were like twee burning coals,
His mouth like one o' wor pit-holes,
His horns were like twee crooked poles,--
--Aw'm sure it was the Deil, man!

Aw'd often heard wor preacher tell
That Aud Nick had twee club-feet,--
Thinks aw, aw'll ken the neet mysel',
Whether wor preacher's wrang or reet:
With that aw gav a luik about--
The club-feet was there without a doubt;
And just wi' that he gav a shout--
And aw'm sure it was the Deil, man.

Od smash! says aw, aw've often heard
About this mighty Deil, man,--
Shew me the place where he appear'd,
For aw'd like to see him weel, man?
Then Dick he tuik me to the place,
Where he had seen his awful fyece--
And still he swore it was the case,
That he had seen the Deil, man.

Alang wi' Dick aw hitch'd about
To see this mighty Deil, man,
When just with that Dick gav a shout--
Luik there! thou'll see him weel, man;
But when of him aw'd got a view,
Aw laugh'd till aw was black and blue,
For it was nought but a great black cow
That Dick tuik for the Deil, man.

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

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The Sandgate Pant;
Or, Jane Jemieson's Ghost

The Bell of St. Ann's tolld two in the morning,
As brave Skipper Johnson was gawn to the keel--
From the juice of the barley his poor brain was burning--
In search of relief he through Sandgate did reel;
The city was hush, save the keel-bullies snoring--
The moon faintly gleam'd through the sable-clad sky,
When lo! a poor female her hard fate deploring,
Appear'd near the pant, and thus loudly did cry:--
Ripe Chenee ornage,s four for a penny!
Cherry ripe cornberries- taste them and try!

O listen, ye hero of Sandgate and Stella,
Jim Jemieson kens that yor courage is trig.
Go tell Billy Elli to meet me, brave fellow--
Aw'll wait yor return on Newcassel Tyne Brig!--
Oh, marcy! cried Johnson, yor looks gar me shiver!
Maw canny lass, Jin, let me fetch him next tide;
The spectre then frown'd--and he vanish'd for ever,
While Sandgate did ring as she vengefully cried--
Fine Chenee oranges, four for a penny!
Cherry ripe cornberries--taste them and try!

She waits for her lover, each night adt this station,
And calls her ripe fruit with a voice loud and clear,
The keelbullies listen in great consternation--
Tho' snug in their huddocks, they tremble with fear!
She sports round the pant till the cock, in the mroning,
Announces the day--then away she does fly
Till midnight's dread hour--thus each maiden's peace scorning,
They start from their couch as they hear her loud cry--
Fine Chenee oranges, four for a penny!
Cherry ripe cornberries--taste them and try!
R. Emery-- In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 
 

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The Birth-Day of Queen Victoria
A new Song, intended to be sung on board the Steward's Barge on Ascension Day, May 24, 1838
Thomas Emerson Headlam Esq., Mayor
John Carr Esq. Sheriff

Hurrah for Old England, her Queen and her laws!
Hurrah for all hearts that are trite in the cause!
Hurrah for Newcastle! Hurrah for the Mayor!
Hurrah for the Tyne--its banks bustling and fair!
Hurrah for the freemen, that rouse at each call!
Hurrah for the Stewards, the spirits of all!
Hurrah for the many bright days we have seen!
Hurrah for a bumper- good health to the queen!

Our port to keep famous, may Commerce prevail,
And many ships sail with a prosperous gale;
And while the wide stream from sweet Hedwin is roll'd,
May true Conservators each landmark uphold.
the Herbage Committee, with hearts light and gay,
Have leisure from toil to be merry to-day--
Each contenance beaming, in mind all serene,
To drink in a bumper - good health to the quen.

While foes vainly threaten, and faction may rave,
Our Union Flag still in triumph shall wave;
And whether as few or as many we be,
Like true honest Freemen we still will be free.
The fam'd Corporation of our good old town,
Unsullied, still onward shall bear its renown;
In loyalty ever the foremost we've been,
To drink in a bumper--good health to the Queen.

Hurrah for Old England her quen and her laws!
Hurrah for all hearts that are true to the cause!
Hurrah for Newcastle! Hurrah for the Mayor!
Hurrah for the Tyne-its banks bustling and fair!
Hurrah for the Freemen, that rouse at each call!
Hurrah for the Stewards, the spirit of all!
Hurrah for the many bright days we have seen!
Hurrah for abumper--long life to the Queen!
God save the Queen!

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

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Donocht-Head*

Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-head,
The snaw drives snelly through the dale,
The Gaber-lunzie tirls my sneck,
And shivering tells his waeful' tale:--

Cauld is the night, O let me in,
And dinna let your minstrel fa' I
And dinna let his winding-sheet
Be naething but a wreath o' snaw.

Tull ninety winters hae I seen,
And pip'd where gor-cocks whirring few
And mony a day I've danc'd, I ween,
To lilts which from my drone I blew.

My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cried,
Get up, gudeman, and let him in;
For weel ye ken the winter night
Was short when he began his din.

My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet,
Ev'n though she bans and scaulds a wee;
But when it's tuned to sorrow's tale,
O, haith it's doubly dear to me.

Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire,
I'll make it bleeze a bonny flame;
Your blood is think, ye've tint the gait,
Ye should na stray sae far frae hame.

Nae hame have I, the minstrel said,
Said party strife o'erturn'd my ha;
And weeping at the eve of life,
I wander through a wreath o' snaw.

*This song comes highly recommended to public notice
by the warm commendation of the poet Burns, who. in a letterto his friend
Mr. Thompson writes-- Donocht-Head is not mine--I would
give ten pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edinbugh Herald,
and came to the editor of that paper
 with the Newcastle post-mark on it. And Dr. Currie says respecting
the song that the author need not have been ashamed
to own himself worthy of the pen of Burns or Macneil.

By the Late George Pickering , of Newcastle
- In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 

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The Herbage Committee*
(That is, The Jewel of a Committee)
Not composed over the midnight oil but amid the noon-day broil of the Barge-day,May 8 1834.
Addressed to the Chairman

While others of great deeds may dream,
Yet still commend to me sir,
A subject rare, and prouder theme,
The Herbage Committee sir:
This Committee a jewel was,
From truth that never swerv'd, sir,
And gain'd much glory and applause,
And well they both deserv'd, sir.

The time has been when bread and cheese
Was wont to be their fare, sir,
What think ye now of turkeys, geese,
A partridge, or a hare, sir!
Well I remind their many joys,
And many happy days, sir,
For O they were the bonny boys
For getting up surveys, sir.

I have seen gallant Mister Woods,
and Mr. Grainger, too sir,
Approach us-- though dress'd in our duds--
With an obsequeous bow, sir;
For Martin, Miekle and Maggall,
Calbreath, friend Charles, and me, sir,
Wanless and Angus, Garrett--all
Were in the Committee, sir!

Who then wad wish to be a Mayor,
Recorder, or Town Clerk, sir?
To serve in office, send methere,
To hear each sage remark, sir;
And O, indeed, I fear it much,
Their like threre never will be, sir--
No, never, never more be such.
An Herbage Committee, sir.
 

The committee were- William Martin, William Mickle, William Maggall, James Calbreath, Charles, Stephenson, the Author,
 William Wanless, William Angus, and William Carret. Their activity and unanimity were proverbial.
R. Gilchrist-- In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

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The Bear Club

Good dinners to our noble Queen,
And many may she see, sir,
And much I wish she could have seen
The Bear-club Committee, sir;
Her cooks no doubt, with skill refin'd
Have cater'd long with care, sir,
But much I doubt they ever din'd
Her Majesty of Bears, sir.

'Tis said the Kings of India
Can eat some pretty things, sir;
You need not go so far away
to see the Indian Kings, sir;
The landlord there ccan at his call
Serve up some pleasant fare, sir--
Mac now has clean eclipsed them all,
And made us eat a Bear, sir.

Some talk about the Esquimaux,
And tell of Cherokees, sir,
Hottentots and Marathas,
And folks in the South Seas, sir;
'Tis said they sometimes cut a swell
In dishes odd and rare, sir,
But we from them will bear the ' bell,
For we have eat a Bear, sir.

All times have had their men of taste,
Each passing age adorning,
Who, rather than good stuff should waste,
Would eat from night till morning:
To us they must knock under now--
We've given them a scare sir,;
They all could eat a sheep or so,
But we can eat a Bear, sir.

Now as you chance to walk the street,
How every dog will run sir,
Lest you should roast him for a treat,
And eat him up in fun sir;
The Quayside horses loaded well,
Will scamper off like hares, sir,
To see, not Bears all eating men,
But men all eating Bears, sir.

The next time, sir, you eat a Bear,
Grant this my supplication--
Invite to dine our canny Mayor,
And hungry Corporation;
In seeking for a friend like you,
They're looking lean and spare, sir,
So in Compassion send them now
The fragments of the Bear, sir.

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

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The Lass of Wincomblee
Tune- Nae Luck about the House

Now all ye lillies hang your heeds,
Ye roses bloom nae mair,
Ye tulips all, put on your weeds,
All, posies may dispair.
For not a lass on all Tyneside,
Frae Stella, to the sea
Can marrow Moll the Evergreen
Of bonny Wincomblee

Her een shine like a davy-lamp,
Or like a summer's day--
Her voice sae lke the after-damp,
Near teuk my breath away--
Her cherry cheeks like sugar sweet,
Or honey frae the bee;
But sweeter far than byeth o' these
Is moll of Wincomblee.

Her feet are like twe bits ov cor,
When running iv a reel--
tiv Shiver the Rags and Off she goes,
She can cut an' shuffle weel;
Like a lady fine, on Sunday neets
She'll tyek a walk wi' me,
Call at Scrogg House, round byker fields,
And back by Walker Kee.

When Jinny Pit it has full wark,
We settled for te wed--
The fiddle sal play frae break o' day,
Till we get snug in bed;
Wi' backy and yell ye's hae your fill,
Singin hinnies to your tea--
Wiv a dance we'll finish the merriest neet
Ere was seen at Wincomblee.

Tho' time rolls on, and so it may,
As Tyne rolls on to the sea,
Fresh as an evergreen is Moll
Of bonny Wincomblee.
 

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

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On the Death of Bold Archy

Bold Archy's dead! and long for him will poor Newcastle fret,
Her sun of glory has gone down, her brightest star is
From the Blue Stone to Cansey Bridge, from Tynemouth Bar and round by Stella,
Not one remains to fill the seat left vacant by the honest fellow.
The funeral flag hung drooping low as he was carried by
And many gaz'd, and many a tear was wip'd from many an eye;
And all did then the truth record:--warm was the heart now still and caller-
So lay him softly in the sod, fam'd man of might, and prince of vlaour!
Farewell! farewell! my local harp I'll bury with the brave,
And sadly plant my local wreath to flourish on hsi grave!
Both English and outlandish names must one day pass oblivioin's portal,
But Archy's shall survive them all, and well deserves to be immortal

-R. Gilchrist, May, 9, 1828 - In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 
 

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Blind Willie's Epitaph

Newcastle's now a dowly place--all things seem sore aclite,
For here at last Blind Willie lies, an honest, harmless wight;
Nor wealth nor power now look with scorn on this lone spot of one departed,
For fashion's gay and glaring sun ne'er beam'd on one more happy hearted.

He was the poorest of the poor, yet ne'er complain'd of want,
He neither carried purse nor scrip, and yet was never  scant;
Storms thunder'd o'er his hatless head, yet he ne'er once their rage lamented,
His was the lot too few have known--to live content, and die contented.

The bard who sung of Starkey's death, in tearful strains and true,
And planted on Bold Archy's grave the wreath t'en from his brow;
His local reed in dust he lays--farewell!--there trill'd its final shiver,--
It has been turn'd in Willie's praise, it now with him lies mute for ever

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

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What Gud can Sweerin de?
Tune-The Young Man from the country

Aw's sure its reely frightful
Te heer se mony sweer,
I' humour gud or spiteful
It's just the syem aw feer,
For filthy words ne joy afford,
They mar the best o' spree,
A curse tiv ivry hoonest man:--
What gud can sweerin de?

Bairns click at bad examples,
Or else we'd nivor heer
Se mony youthful samples
Gie vent te curse an' swear,
Wi' utt'rance vile, aud fashund style,
An' cheek that fair licks me,
They myekt a practice a' throo life:--
What gud can sweerin de?

Let men be drest se flashey,
The pitmen or the peer,
It myeks them luck but trashey
If once they hap to swear;
For words like these 'ill nivor please
Ne matter where ye be,
They show the black spots o' yor mind:--
What gud can sweerin de?

-Joe Wilson  In:Tyneside Songs and Droleries, Readings and Temperance Songs. By Joe Wilson.
Norwood Editions, Norwood Pa., 1973.
 
 
 

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George Stephenson.
Tune- The Miller o' the Dee.

What changes thor is most ivy day,
For improovemint's a' the go,
Foaks open thor eyes wiv a sigh an' say,
Wad ye ivor thowt it, Joe?
Great invenshuns pour upon us fast,
Ivry day brings sum new plan,
But nyen can beat or hope to compete
Wi' that ov a Tyneside man.

Tyneside's the place where i' glory shine
The stars o' the canny toon;
Industry and genius byeth combine
To presarve wor greet renoon,
George Stephenson here first showed them
Te improve upon the past,
An' the Tyneside Collier gain'd the day,
Wiv his wundrus wark at last.

Lang, lang he studied, an' lang he tried
His grand object hard te gain,
For awhile he fund his plans defied,
But at last he hut the Train,
Then he parsevered wi' reet gud will,
Te bring talents oot the shade,
Wi' determined care-victorious then
A Steam Engine, lads, he made.

Just aboot this time stage-coaches ran
Each traveller te convey,
When te gan varry far tiv ony man,
Wes owt but save, they say;
Fower miles an' oor, wes gud aw's sure,
An' nivor reckoned slaw,
Till the engine's steam an' the signal scream
Gah the gigs an' cabs a thraw.

Cosey an' canny, no fast we flee
Alang the fine railway line
Sixty miles an oor 'ill surely de,
If yor thowts te speed incline;
For Stephenson, pride o' the world's greet men,
His grand wark had myed complete,
An' the iron horse wes king o'the course,
Where it 'ill nivor knaw defeat.

A monument here tiv him they've raised,
May it ivor proodly stand,
A memorial o' the gem we've praised,
A figor o' genius grand;
'Mid fair an' storm may it stand as firm,
As the nyem o' the greet self-made,
For he's alive i' the hearts o' Tyneside men,
Tho' iv his last bed he's laid.

-Joe Wilson  In:Tyneside Songs and Droleries, Readings and Temperance Songs. By Joe Wilson.
Norwood Editions, Norwood Pa., 1973.
 

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The Row iv a Public Hoose
Tune- Betty Gay

When man gets drunk, aw've heard it said,
He's sure to speak his mind
An' seldum knaws when he commits
Owt oot the common kind
O' beerhoose crack or drunken chaff,
But if ye'll list to me,
Aw'll let ye hear the row between
Two spunges on the spree.

Chorus
An' aw'll tell ye hoo the row began
Wi' splitterin, splutterin, stammerin, stutterin an' ivry kind of abuse,
I' that awful row, ridiculous row, the row iv a Public Hoose!

Says Dick-- Aw's better like then ye,
Yor heed's as thick as stone!
Says Jim--Thor's sumthin i' me heed,
Yors a' lies i' the bone.
Aw'd better hev a heed se thick,
Te haud what it contains,
Them hev a poiler pyet like yors
That nivor held ne brains!

Says Dick--Ye cannot work like me,
Aw've thorty-bob a week,
Aw cud lay the factory in me-sel!
Says Jim--Ye bubly sneak,
If ye can myek yor thorty-bob,
What myeks ye cadge o' me?
Ye askt us in te hev a gill
An' myed us pay for ye!

Says Dick--Aw diddent ask ye in,
Ye cum wi' me yor sel,
Aw nivor said aw'd pay for ye,
Aw only pull'd the bell!
Says Jim--Yor like yor shabby wife,
Thor's nyen aw knaw se mean,
Ye weel may button up your coat,
Yor shirt's not ower clean!

Says Dick--Ye better mind yor-sel,
Or else aw'll smash yor nose!
Says Jim- Oh, is't a fight ye want?
Aw'll gie ye such a doze
Ye'll nivor want anuther mair,
Aw'll myek ye black an' blue,
Aw red'd the Sportin Life last week,
An' copt a point or two!

Says Dick-Aw diffent want te fight,
Tho ye insulted me!
Says Jim--Whs't me that challins'd ye?
Aw'll tell ye what we'll de--
We'll let wor fam'ly 'fairs alyen,
Aw'll riccomend a plan,
The way tte hev a quiet spree
Lets byeth pay for wor awn!

-Joe Wilson  In:Tyneside Songs and Droleries, Readings and Temperance Songs. By Joe Wilson.
Norwood Editions, Norwood Pa., 1973.
 
 

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Jimmy's Gettin Wark!

Tune- My Bonny Boy i' Bluye

So, Jimmy, ye've got wark agyen,
An' glad eneuff wes aw
Te hear that ye had fallin in,
For nebody can knaw
The days an' weeks ye've walk'd aboot,
The weary time we've pass'd,
But noo aw feel quite settled,
For ye've gettin wark at last.

Chorus--
Ah' oh lad, Jim ye've myed us feel se glad,
Te think ye've fallin in se weel,
Wi' gettin wark, me lad

We'll heh yor beuts byeth soled an' heel'd,
Besides new fustin claes,
An' ivry little thing ye want,
Before thor's mony pays;
Yor best black suit we'll heh that oot,
Its been se lang i' pawn,
Aw thowt it gyen for ivor,--but
We'll hev them seun, me man!

We'll he Sunday's dinners ivry day,
The best that thor can be,
Wi' new-laid eggs to brickfast,
An' reed-harrins te wor tea;
We'll not stop in on Sundays,
As we've lang been forced te de,
But let the foaks see whe we are,
Like what we used te be.

For fear bad times shud cum agyen,
We'll put a little by,
Te save us frae the poverty
We've had se oftin nigh,--
So myek hay when the sun shines,
An' forget not tho the day,
We heh the best o' cumfort noo,
It mighten't keep that way

-Joe Wilson  In:Tyneside Songs and Droleries, Readings and Temperance Songs. By Joe Wilson.
Norwood Editions, Norwood Pa., 1973.
 
 
 

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Geordey O!

Tune- Daddy, O!

Iv a' the jolly cheps aw've seen,
Thor's nyen like Geordey, happy Geordey,
Me hyem's me cassil, wife me queen,
An' aw's thor king, says Geordey, O;
At least byeth wife an' bairns agree
That aw's thor maistor, lord an' maistor,
But hoo aw is, --aw cannet see,
But still aw's king, says Geordey, O!

Chorus-
Geordey O, Geordey, O,
Thor's nyen cums up te Geordey, O,
For crackin a joke an' singin a sang,
He licks them a' dis Geordey, O.

Ye needint talk te him o'war,
He dissent heed it, dissent need it,
Across me nose aw've got a scar,
An' that's throo war, says Geordey, O;
But if the family ivor fights,
He always wi' them sticks weel te them,--
Aw stick up for me famly reets,
An' that's just fair! says Geordey, O.

Teetotelers needint talk te him,
Aboot hard drnkin, quite free-thinkin,
Aw'l fill me glass up te the brim,
If aw want as much, says Geordey, O;
But if aw thnk aw've had me share,
Withoot yor pledges, dorty pledges,
Wi' mind myed up te heh ne mair,
Aw winnet touch, says Geordey, O.

If trubbil rings the famly's hearts,
He's there is Geordey, canny Geordey,
Cheer up, me bairns, it might be warse,
So cumfot tyek, says Geordey, O;
He's quite the heart an' sowl o' hyem,
Gud-temper'd Geordey, happy Geordey,
An' away fre'd, faith, he's just the syem,
Such fun he'll myek, will Geordey, O

-Joe Wilson  In:Tyneside Songs and Droleries, Readings and Temperance Songs. By Joe Wilson.
Norwood Editions, Norwood Pa., 1973.
 
 
 

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Canny Man!
tune- He's a Pal o' Mine

Thor's one that aw always like te see,
Ne matter where, that's what we call a canny man;
Fond ov enjoymint, blythe an' free,
In fact, just a real canny man;
A one that likes a joke as weel as onybody can de,
An' always myeks a kumpney feel he's jolly weel as handy.

Chorus
He's a canny man, canny man, he's a canny man, yis, a canny man,
Canny man, canny man, he's a canny man yis he is!

Thor's one that aw always like te see
Te help a frind,--that's what we call a canny man,
Frae selfish thowts an' such like free,
In fact, just a real canny man;
A one that lens a helpin hand tethem he think's 'ill need it,
An' myeks each honest heart expand when thinking what gud he did.

Thor's one that aw always like te see,
Thinking o' hyem, --that's what we call a canny man;
He myeks the family think that he's
The pictor of a real canny man;
A one that minds the cumforts weel o' them that's roond aboot him,
An' frinds or famly nivvor feel the least bit cawse te doot him

-Joe Wilson  In:Tyneside Songs and Droleries, Readings and Temperance Songs. By Joe Wilson.
Norwood Editions, Norwood Pa., 1973.
 
 
 

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The Battle of Otterburn
(Near 400 years old.-Northumberland Garland 1809)
To play midi sound click here

Yt fell abowght the Lamasse tyde,
Whan husbondes wynne ther haye,
The dwoghtye Dowglasse bowynd him to ryde,
In Ynglond to take a praye:

The yerelle of Fyffe, withowghten stryffe,
He bowynd him over Sulway:
The grete wolde ever together ryde,
That raysse they may rewe for aye.

Over "Ottercap" hyll they cam in,
And so dowyn by Rodelyffe crage,
Upon Grene "Leyton" they lyghted dowyn,
"Styrande many a' stage:

And boldely brente Northomberlond,
And haryed many a towyn;
They dyd owr Ynglyssh men grete wrange,
To battell that were not bowyn.

That spake a berne upon the bent,
Of comforte that was not colde,
And sayd, Whe have brent Northomberlond,
We have all welth in holde.

Now we have haryed all Bamboroweschyre,
All the welth in the worlde have wee,
I rede we ryde to Newe Castell,
So styll and stalwurhlye.

Upon the morrowe, when it was day,
The standerdes schone fulle bryght;
To the Newe Castell the toke the waye,
And thether they cam fulle ryght.

Sir Henry Perssy laye at the New Castell,
I tell yow withowtten drede;
He had byn a march-man all hys dayes,
And kept Barwyke upon Twede.

To the Newe Castell when they cam,
The Skottes they cryde on hyght,
Syr Hary Perssy, and thow byste within,
Com to the fylde, and fyght:

For we have brente Northomberlonde,
Thy crytage good and ryght;
And syne my logeyng I have take,
With my brande dubbyd many a knyght.

Sir Harry Perssy cam to the walles,
The Skottysh oste for to se;
And sayd, And thou has brent Northomberlond,
Full sore it rewyth me.

Yf thow has haryed all Bamborowescheyre,
Thow hast done me grete envye;
For the trespasse thow hast me done,
The tone of us schall dye.

Where schall I byde the, sayd the Dowglas,
Or where wylte thow com to me?
"At Otterborne in the hygh way,
Ther mast thow well logeed be.

The roo full rekless ther sche runnes,
To make the game and glee;
The fawken and the fesaunt both,
Among the holtes on hye.

Ther mast thow have thy welth at wyll,
Well looged ther mast be;
Yt schall not be long, or I come the tyll,"
Sayd syr Harry Perssye.

Ther schall I byde the, sayd the Dowglas,
By the fayth of my bodye.
Thether schall I com, sayd syr Harry Perssy
My trowth I plyght to the.

A pype of wyne he gave them over the walles,
For soth, as I yow saye:
Ther he mayd the Dowglasse drynke,
And all hys ost that daye.

The Dowglas turnyd hym homewarde agayne,
For soth withwghten naye,
He took his logeynge at Oterborne
Upon a Wedynsday:

And ther he pyght his standerd dowyn,
Hys gettyng more and lesse,
And syne he warned his men to goo
To chose ther geldynges gresse.

A Skottysshe knyght hoved upon the bent
A wache I dare well saye:
So was he ware on the noble Perssy,
In the dawnyng of the daye.

He prycked to his pavyleon dore,
As fast as he might ronne,
Awaken, Dowglas, cryed the knyght
For hys love that syttes in trone.

Awaken, Dowglas, cryed the knyght,
For thow maste waken wyth wynne;
Yender have I spyed the prowde Perssye,
And seven standardes wyth hym.

Nay, by my trowth, the Dowglas sayed,
It ys but a fayned taylle:
He durst not loke on my brede banner,
For all Ynglonde so haylle.

Was I not yesterdaye at the Newe Castell,
That stondes so fayre on ?Tyne?
For all the men the Perssy had,
He cowde not garre me ones to dyne.

He stepped owt at his bavbelyon dore,
To loke and it were lesse;
"Araye yow, lordynges, one and all,
Fore here bygynnes no peysse.

The yerle of Mentaye, thow art my eme,
The fowarde I gyve to the:
The yerlle of Huntlay cawte and kene,
He schall "wyth the be."

The lord of Bowgham in armure bryght,
On the other hand he chall be:
Lorde Jhonstone, and lorde Maxwell,
They to schall be with me.

Swynton fayre fylde upon your pryde
To batell make yow bowen:
Syr Davy Skotte, syr Water Stewarde,
Syr Jhon of Agurstone.
-Source: The Northumberland Garland;or Newcastle Nightingale., Joseph Ritson,
Newcastle, MDCCXCIII , Harding and Wright, London,1809.
 
 
 

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A Fytte

The Perssy came byfore hys oste,
Whych was ever a gentyll knyght,
Upon the Dowglas lowde can he crye,
I wyll holde that I have hyght:

For thow haste brente Northomberlonde,
and done me grete envye;
For thys trespasse thow hast me done,
The tone of us shall dye.

The Dowglas answerde hym agayne,
with grete wurdes upon hye,
And sayd, I have twenty agaynst 'thy' one
Byholde and thow maste see.

With that the Perssye was greyvd sore
For soth as I yow saye:
He lyghted dowyn upon hys foote,
And schoote his horsse clene away.

Every man sawe that he dyd soo,
That rall was ever in rowght;
Every man schoote hys horsse hym froo,
And lyght hym rowynde abowght.

Thus syr Hary Perssye toke the fylde,
For soth, as I yow saye:
Jesu Cryste in heven on hyght
Dyd helpe hym well that daye.

But nyne thowzand, ther was no moo;
The cronykle wyll not layne:
Forty thowsande Skottes and fowre
That day fowght them agayne.

But when the batell byganne to joyne,
In hast ther cam a knyght,
The letters fayr furth hadh he tayne,
And thus he sayd full ryght:

My lorde, your father he gretes yow well,
With many a noble knyght;
He desyres yow to byde
That he may see thys fyght.

The baron of Grastoke ys com owt of the west,
Wyth hym a noble companye;
All they loge at your fathers thys nyght,
And the battel fayne wolde they see.

For Jesus love, sayd syr Harye Perssy,
That dyed for yow and me,
Wende to my lorde my father agayne,
And saye thow sawe me not with yee.

My trowth ys plyght to yonnne Skottyssh knyghr,
It nedes me not to layne,
That I schulde byde hym upon thys bent,
And I have hys trowth agayne:

And if that I wynde off thys growende,
For soth onfowghten awaye,
He wolde me call but a kowarde knyght
In hys londe another daye.

Yet had I lever to be rynde and rente,
By Mary that mykell maye,
Then ever my manhood schulde be reprovyd
Wyth a Skotte another day.

Wherfore, schote, archars, for my sake,
And let scharpe arowes flee:
Mynstrells, playe up for your waryson,
And well quyt it schall be.

Every man thynke on hys trewe love,
And marke hym to the Trenite:
For to God I make myne avowe
This day wyll I not fle.

The blodye harte in the Dowglas armes,
Ays standerde stole on hye;
That every man myght full well knowe,
By syde stode starres thre.

The whyte lyon on the Ynglyssh perte,
Forsooth as I yow sayne:
The lucettes and the 'cressawntes' both;
The Skottes fowght them agayne.

Upon sent Andrewe lowde can they crye,
And thrysse they schowte on ayght,
And syne marked them on owr Ynglysshe men,
As I have tolde yow ryght.

Sent George the bryght, owr ladyes knyght,
To name they were full fayne:
Owr Ynglyssh men they cryde on hyght,
And thrysse the schowtte agayne.

Wyth that scharpe arowes bygan to flee,
I tell yow in sertayne;
Men of armes byganne to joyne;
Many a dowghty man was ther slayne.

The Perssy and the Dowglas mette,
That ather of other was fayne;
They 'swapped' together whyll that the swette,
With swordes of fine collayne;

Tyll the bloode from their bassonettes ranne,
As the roke doth in the rayne.
Yelde the to me, sayd the Dowglas,
Or elles thow schalt be slayne:

For I see, by thy bryght bassonet,
Thow arte sum man of myght;
And so I do by thy burnysshed brande,
Thow art an yerle, or elles a knyght.

By my good faythe, sayd the noble Perssye,
Now haste thou rede full ryght,
Yet wyll I never yelde me to the,
Whyll I may stonde and fyght.

They swapped together, whyll that they swette,
Wyth swordes scharpe and long;
Yeh on other so faste thee beetle,
Tyll ther helmes cam in peyses dowyn.

The Perssy was a man of strength,
I tell yow in thys stounde,
He smote the Dowglas at the swordes length,
That he felle to the growynde.

The sworde was scharpe and sore can byte,
I tel yow in sertayne;
To the harte he cowde hikm smyte,
Thus was the Dowglas slayne.

The stonderdes stode styll on 'elke' asyde,
With many a grevous groune;
Ther the fowght the day, and all the nyght,
And many a dowghty man was slayne.

Ther was no freke that ther wolde flye,
But styffely in stowre can stond,
Ych one hewyng on other whyll they myght drye,
Wyth many a bayllefull bronde.

Ther was slayne upon the Skottes syde,
For soth and sertenly,
Syr James a Dowglas ther was slayne,
That daye that he cowde dye.

The yerlle of Mentaye he was slayne,
Grysely groned uppon the growynd;
Syr Davy Skotte, syr Walter Stewarde,
Syr 'John' of Agurstonnne.

Syr Charles Morrey in that place
That never a fote wold flee;
Sir Hugh Maxwell, a lorde he was,
With the Dowglas dyd he dye.

Ther was slayne upon the Skottes syde,
For soth as I yow saye,
Of fowre and forty thowsande Skottes,
Went but eyghtene awaye.

Ther was slayne upon the Ynglisshe syde,
For soth and sertenlye,
A gentell knyght, sir John 'Fitzhewe,'
Yt was the more pety.

Syr. James Harebotell ther was slayne,
For hym ther hartes were sore,
The gentyll 'Lovell' ther was slayne
That the Perssys standerd bore.

Ther was slayne upon the Ynglyssh perte,
For soth as I yow saye;
Of nyne thowsand Ynglyssh men,
Fyve hondert cam awaye:

The other were slayne in the fylde,
Cryste kepe ther sowlles from wo,
Seyng ther was so few fryndes
Agaynst so many a foo.

Then on the morne they mayde them beerys
Of byrch, and haysell grave;
Many a wydowe with wepying teyres
Ther makes they fette awaye.

Thys fraye bygann at Otterborne
Bytwene the nyghte and the day:
Ther the Dowglas lost hys lyffe,
And the Perssye was lede awaye.

Then was ther a Scottyssh prisoner tayne,
Syr Hewe Mongomery was hys name,
For soth as I yow saye,
He borrowed the Perssy home agayne.

Now let us all for the Perssy praye
To Jesu most of myght,
To bryng hys sowlle to the blysse of heven,
For he was a gentyll knyght.
 

-Source: The Northumberland Garland;or Newcastle Nightingale., Joseph Ritson,
Newcastle, MDCCXCIII , Harding and Wright, London,1809.
 
 

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The Hunting of the Cheviat

     The Perse owt off Northombarlonde,
     And a vowe to God mayd he
     That he wold hunte in the mowntayns
     Off Chyviat within days thre,
     In the magger of doughte Dogles,
     And all that ever with him be.

     The fattiste hartes in all Cheviat
     He sayd he wold kyll, and cary them away:
     "Be my feth," sayd the doughteti Doglas agayn,
     "I wyll let that hontyng yf that I may.

     Then the Perse owt off Banborowe cam,
     With him a myghtee meany,
     With fifteen hondrith archares bold off blood and bone;
     The wear chosen owt of shyars thre.

     This begane on a Monday at morn,
     In Cheviat the hyllys so he;
     They chylde may rue that ys un-born,
     It wos the mor pitte.

     The dryvars thorowe the woodes went,
     For to reas the dear;
     Bomen byckarte uppone the bent
     With ther browd aros cleare.

     Then the wyld thorowe the woodes went,
     On every syde shear;
     Greahondes thorowe the grevis glent,
     For to kyll thear dear.

     This began in Chyviat the hyls abone,
     yerly on a Monnyn-day;
     Be that it drewe to the oware off none,
     A hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay.

     The blewe a mort uppone the bent,
     The semblyde on sydis shear;
     To the quyrry then the Perse went,
     To se the bryttlynge off the deare.

     He sayd, "It was the Doglas promys
     This day to met me hear;
     But I wyste he wolde faylle, verament;"
     A great oth the Perse swear.

     At the laste a squyar off Northomberlonde
     Lokyde at his hand full ny;
     He was war a the doughetie Doglas commynge,
     With him a mygtte meany.

     Both with spear, bylle, and brande,
     Yt was a myghtti sight to se;
     Hardyar men, both off hart nor hande,
     Wear not in Cristiante.

     The wear twenti hondrith spear-men good;
     Without any feale;
     The wear borne along be the watter a Twynde,
     Yth bowndes of Tividale.

     "Leave of the brytlyng of the dear," he sayd,
     "and to your boys lock ye tayk good hede;
     For never sithe ye wear on your mothars borne
     Had ye never so mickle nede."

     The doughtei Dogglas on a stede,
     He rode alle his men beforne;
     His armour glytteryde as dyd a glede;
     A boldar barne was never born.

     "Tell me whos men ye ar", he says,
     "Or whos men that ye be:
     Who gave youe leave to hunte in this Cyviat chays,
     In the spyt of myn and of me."

     The first mane that ever him an answear mayd,
     Yt was the good lord Perse:
     "We wyll not tell the whoys men we ar," he says
     "Nor whos men that we be;
     But we wyll hounte hear in this chays,
     In the spyt of thyne and of the.

     "The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat
     We have kyld, and cast to carry them away:"
     "Be my troth," sayd the doughete Dogglas agayn,
     "Therefor the ton of us shall de this day."

     Then sayd the doughte Doglas
     Unto the lord Perse:
     "To kyll alle thes giltles men,
     Alas, it wear great pitte!

     "But, Perse, Thowe art a lorde of lande,
     I am a yerle callyd within my contre;
     Let all our men uppone a parti stande,
     And do the battell off the and of me."

     Nowe Cristes cors on his crowne", sayd the lorde Perse,
     "Who-so-ever ther-to says nay!
     Be my troth, doughtte Doglas," he says,
     "Thou shalt never se that day.

     "Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar France,
     Nor for no man of a woman born,
     But, and fortune be my chance,
     I dar met him, on man for on."

     Then bespayke a squyar off Northombarlonde,
     Richard Wytharynton was his nam;
     "It shall never be told in Sothe-Ynglonde," he says,
     "To Kyng Herry the Fourth for sham.

     "I wat youe byn great lordes twaw,
     I am a poor squyar of lande;
     I wylle never se my captayne fyght on a fylde,
     And stande my selffe and loocke on,
     But whylle I may my weppone welde,
     I wylle no fayle both hart and hande."

     That day, that day, that dredfull day!
     The first fit here I fynde;
     And youe wyll here any more a the hountynge a the Chyviat,
     Yet ys there mor behynde.

     The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent,
     Ther hartes wer good yenoughe;
     The first off arros that the shote off,
     Seven skore spear-men the sloughe.

     Yet byddys the yerle Doglas uppon the bent,
     A captayne good yenoughe,
     And that was sene verament,
     For he wrought hom both woo and wouche.

     The dogglas partyd his ost in thre,
     Lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde;
     With suar spears off mygtte tre,
     The cum in on every syde;

     Thrughe our Yngglyshe archery
     Gave many a wounde fulle wyde;
     Many a doughete the garde to dy,
     Which ganyde them no pryde.

     The Ynglyshe men let ther boys be,
     And pulde owt brandes that were brighte;
     It was a hevy syght to se
     Bryght swordes on basnites lyght.

     Thorowe ryche male and myneyeple,
     Many sterne the strocke done streght;
     Many a freyke that was fulle fre,
     Ther under foot dyd lyght.

     At last the Duglas and the Perse met,
     Lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne;
     The swapte togethar tylle the both swat,
     With swordes that wear of fyn myllan.

     Thes worthe freckys for to fyght,
     Ther-to the wear fulle fayne,
     Tylle the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente,

     "Yelde the,Perse," sayde the Doglas,
     And i feth I shalle the brynge
     Wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis
     Of Jamy our Skottish kynge.

     "Thou shalte have they ransom fre,
     I hight the hear this thinge;
     Forr the manfullyste man yet art thowe
     That ever I conqueryd in filde fighttynge."

     "Nay," sayd the lord Perse,
     "I told it the beforne,
     That I wolde never yeldyde be
     To no man of a woman born."

     With that ther cam an arrowe hastely,
     Forthe off a myghtte wane;
     Hit hathe strekene the yerle Duglas
     In at the brest-bane.

     Thorowe lyvar and longes bathe
     The sharpte arrowe ys gane,
     That never after in all his lyffe-days
     He spayke mo wordes but ane:
     That was, "Fygte ye, my myrry men, whyllys ye may,
     For my lyff-days ben gan."

     The Perse leanyde on his brande,
     And saw the Duglas de;
     He tooke the dede mane by the hande,
     And sayd, "Wo ys me for the!"

     To have savyde thy lyffe, I wolde have partyde with
     My landes for years thre,
     For a beter man, of hart nare of hande,
     Was nat in all the north contre."

     Off all that se a Skottishe knyght,
     Was callyd Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry;
     He saw the Duglas to the deth was dyght,
     He spendyd a spear, a trusti tre.

     He rod uppone a corsiare
     Throughe a hondrith archery:
     He never synttyde, nar never blane,
     Tylle he cam to the good lord Perse.

     He set uppone the lorde Perse
     A dynte that was full soare;
     With a suar spear of a myghtte tre
     Clean thorow the body he the Perse ber,

     A the tothar syde that a man myght se
     A large cloth-yard and mare:
     Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Cristiante
     Then that day slan wear ther.

     An archar off Northomberlonde
     Say slean was the lord Perse;
     He bar a bende bowe in his hand,
     Was made off trusti tre.

     An arow that a cloth-yarde was lang
     To the harde stele halyde he;
     A dynt that was both sad and soar
     He sat on Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry.

     The dynt yt was both sad and sar
     That he of Monggomberry sete;
     The swane-fethars that his arrowe bar
     With his hart-blood the wear wete.

     Ther was never a freake wone foot wolde fle,
     but still in stour dyd stand,
     Heawyng on yche othar, whylle the myghte dre,
     With many a balfull brande.

     This battell begane in Chyviat
     An owar befor the none,
     And when even-songe bell was rang,
     The battell was nat half done.

     The tocke on ethar hande
     Be the lyght off the mone;
     Many hade no strenght for to stande,
     In Chyviat the hillys abon.

     Of fifteen hondrith archars of Ynglonde
     West away but seventi and thre;
     Of twenti hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde,
     But even five and fifti.

     But all wear slayne Cheviat within;
     The hade no strenthe to stand on hy;
     The chylde may rue that ys unborne,
     It was the more pitte.

     Thear was slayne, withe the lord Perse,
     Ser Johan of Agerstone,
     Ser Rogar, the hinde Hartly,
     Ser Wyllyam, the bolde Hearone.

     Ser Jorg, the worthe Loumle,
     A knyghte of great renowen,
     Ser Raff, the ryche Rugbe,
     With dyntes wear beaten dowene.

     For Wetharryngton my harte was wo,
     That ever he slayne shulde be;
     For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to,
     yet he knyled and fought on hys kny.

     Ther was slayne, with the dougheti Duglas,
     Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry,
     Ser Davvy Lwdale, that worthe was,
     His sistars son was he.

     Ser Charls a Murre in that place,
     That never a foot wolde fle;
     Ser Hewe Maxwelle, a lorde he was,
     With the Doglas dyd he dey.

     So on the morrowe the mayde them byears
     Off birch and hasell so gray;
     Many wedous, with wepying tears,
     Cam to fache ther makys away.

     Tivydale may carpe off care,
     Northombarlond may mayk grea mon,
     For towe such captayns as slayne wear thear
     On the March-parti shall never be non.

     Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe,
     To Jamy the Skottishe kynge,
     That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the Marches,
     He lay slean Chyviot within.

     His handdes dyd he weal and wryng,
     He sayd, "Alas, and woe ys me!
     Such an othar captayn Skotland within,"
     He sayd, "ye-feth shuld never be."

     Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone,
     Till the fourth Harry our kynge,
     That lord Perse, leyff-tenante of the Marchis,
     He lay slayne Chyviat within.

     "God have merci on his solle," sayde Kyng Harry,
     "Good lord, yf thy will it be!
     I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde," he sayd,
     "As good as ever was he:
     but, Perse, and I brook my lyffe,
     Thy deth well quyte shall be."

     As our noble kynge mayd his avowe,
     lyke a noble prince of renowen,
     For the deth of the lord Perse
     He dyde the battel of Hombylldown;

     Wher syx and thritte Skottishe knyghtes
     On a day wear beaten down;
     Glendale glytteryde on ther amour bryght,
     Over castille, towar and town.

     This was the hontyne off the Cheaviat,
     That tear begane this spurn;
     Old men that knowen the grownde well yenoughe
     Call it the battell of Otterburn.

     At Otterburn begane this spurne,
     Uppone a Monnynday;
     Ther was the doughte Doglas slean,
     The Perse never went away.

     Ther was never a tym on the Marchepartes
     Sen the Doglas and the Perse met,
     But yt ys mervele and the rede blude ronne not,
     As the reane doys in the stret.

     Jhesue Crist our balys bete,
     And to the blys us brynge!
     Thus was the hountynge of the Chivyat:
     God sen us alle good endyng!
 

-Source: The Northumberland Garland;or Newcastle Nightingale., Joseph Ritson,
Newcastle, MDCCXCIII , Harding and Wright, London,1809.
 
 

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Fit the Second
 

The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent,
ther hartes were good yenoughe;
The first off arros that the shote off,
Seven skore spear-men the sloughe.

Yet byddys the yerle Doglas uppon the bent,
A captayne good yenoughe,
And that was sene verament,
For he wrought them hom both woo and wouche.

The Dogglas pertyd his ost in thre,
Lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde,
With suar speares off myghtte tre,
The cum in on every syde.

Thrughe our Yngglishe archery
Gave many a wounde full wyde;
Many a doughete the garde to dy,
Which ganyde them no pryde.

The Ynglyshe men let thear 'bowys' be,
And pulde owt brandes that wer bright;
It was a hevy sight to se
Bryght swordes on basnites lyght,

Thorowe ryche male, and myne-ye-ple,
Many sterne the stroke done streght:
Many a freyke, that was full fre,
Ther undar foot dyd lyght.

At last the Duglas and the Perse met,
Lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne;
The swapte togethar tyll the both swat
With swordes that wear of fyn myllan.

Thes worthe freckys for to fyght
ther to the wear full fayne,
Tyll the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente,
As ever dyd heal or ran.

'Holde' the, Perse, sayd the Doglas,
And i feth I shall the brynge
Wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis
Of Jamy our 'Scottish' kynge.

Thoue shalte have thy ransom fre,
I hight the hear this thinge,
For the manfullyste man yet art thowe,
That ever I conqueryd in filde fightying.

Nay, sayd the lorde Perse,
I tolde it the beforne,
That I wolde never yeldyde be
To no man or a woman born.

With that ther cam an arrowe hastely
Forthe off a myghtte wane,
Hit hathe strekene the yerle Duglas
IN at the brest bane.

Thoroue lyvar and longs bathe
The sharpe arrowe ys gane,
That never after in all his lyffe days
He spayke mo wordes buyt ane,
That was, Fyghte ye, my myrry men, whyllys ye man,
For my liff days ben gan.,

The Perse leanyde on his brande,
And sawe the Duglas de;
He tooke the dede mane be thehande,
and sayd, Wo ys me for the!

To have savyd thy liffe I wold have pertyde with
My landes for years thre;
For a better man of hart, nare of hande,
Was not in all the north contre.

Off all that se a Skottishe knyght,
Was callyd sir Hewe the Monggonbyrry,
He sawe the Duglas to the deth was dyght;
He spendyd a spear a trusti tre:

He rod uppon a corsaire
Throughe a hondrith archery;
He never stynttyde, nar never blane,
Tyll he cam to the good lord Perse.

He set uppon the lord Perse,
A dynte that was full soare;
With a suar spear of a myghte tre
Clean thorow the body he the Perse 'bore.'

Athe tothar syde, that a man myght se,
A large cloth yard and mare;
Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Cristiante,
Than that day slain wear ther.

An archar of Northomberlonde
Say slean was the lord Perse,
He bar a bende bow in his hand,
Was made off trusti tre:

An arow, that a cloth yarde was lang,
Toth hard stele hayld he;
A dynt that was both sad and soar,
He sat on sir Hewe the Monggonbyrry.

The dynt yt was both sad and sar,
That he of Monggonberry sete;
The swane-fethars, that his arrowe bar,
With his hart blood the wear wete.

Ther was never a freake wone foot wolde fle,
But still in stour dyd stand,
Heawyng on yche othar, whyll the myght dre,
With many a balfull brande.

This battell beganne in Chyviat,
An owar before the none,
And when even-song bell was rang,
The battell was nat half done.

The tooke on ethar hand,
Be the lyght off the mone;
Many had no strenght for to stande,
In Chyyviat the hillys 'abone.'

Of fifteen hondrith archars of Ynglonde
Went away but fifti and thre;
Oftwenty hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde,
But even five and fifti.

But all wear slayne Cheviat within:
The had no 'strengthe' to stand on hy:
the chylde may rue that ys unporne,
It was the mor pitte.

Thear was slayne with the lorde Perse,
Sir John of Agerstone,
Sir Rogar the hinde Hartly,
Sir Wyllyam the bolde Hearone.

Sir Jorg the worthe Lovele,
A knyght of great renowen,
Sir Raff the ryche Rugbe
With dyntes wear beaten dowene.

For Wetharryngton my arte was wo,
That ever he slayne shulde be;
For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to,
Yet he knyled and fought on hys kny.

Ther was slayne with the dougheti Duglas
Sir hewe the Monggonbyrry,
Sir Davy Lwdale that worthe was,
His sistars son was he.

Sir Charls a Murre, in that place,
That never afoot wolde flee;
Sir Hewe Maxwell, a lorde he was,
With the Doglas dyd he dey.

So on the morrowe the mayde them byears
Off birch, and hasell so 'gray;'
Many wedous, with wepyng tears,
Cam to fach ther makys away.

Tivydale may carpe off care,
Northombarlond may mayke 'great' mon,
For towe such captayns, as slayne wear thear,
On the march perti shall never be non.

Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe
To Jamy the Skottishe kyng,
That dougheti Duglas, lyff tenant of the merches,
He lay glean Chyviot with in.

His hanndes dyd he weal and wryng,
He says, Alas, and woe ys me!
Such another captayn Skotland within,
He sayd, yefeth shuld never be.

Worde is commyn to lovly Londone
Till the fourth Harry our kyng,
That lord Perse, 'leyff'-tenante of the merchis
He lay slayne Chyviat within.

God have merci on his soll, sayd kyng Harry,
Good lord, yf thy will it be!
I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde, he sayd,
As good as ever was he:
But, Perse, and I brook my lyffe,
Thy deth well quyte shall be.

As our noble kyng made his avowe,
Like a noble prince of renowen,
For the deth of the lorde Perse,
He dyde the battle of Hombyll-down:

Wher syx and thritte Skottish knyghtes
On a day wear beaten down;
Glendale glytteryde on the armor bryght,
Overcastill; to war, and town.

This was the hontynge off the Cheviat;
That tear begane this spurn:
Old men, that knowen the grownde well yenoughe,
Call it the battell of Otterburn.

At Otterburn began this spurne
Uppon a 'Monnyn' day:
Ther was the dougghte Doglas slean,
The Pearse never went away.

Ther was never a tym on the march partes,
Sen the Doglasand the Perse met,
But yt was mervele, and the rede blude ronne not,
As the reane doys in the stret.

Jhesue Crist our balys bete,
And to the blys us brynge!
Thus was the hountynge of the Chivyat;
God send us all good endyng!

-Source: The Northumberland Garland;or Newcastle Nightingale., Joseph Ritson,
Newcastle, MDCCXCIII , Harding and Wright, London,1809.
 
 
 
 

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