Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Part 12  Directory 10 Click here for main menu of this directory. Use our floating menu to improve navigation. you can reposition it by clicking on top bar and dragging Floating Menu Menu of all of the Sangs Click here For tunes in .abc notation click here For an index of persons and places mentioned in the sangs click here For Bibliography,and Philosophy of the collection click here We invite you to contribute!  Click here to comment or add. Soon after our upgrade the songs which the priests have recorded will be high-lighted thusly Illustrated by woodcuts by Joseph Crawhall (Newcastle, 1889)  (Where you see the music note image there will be a midi file-for you to listen to!)

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Fair Mabel of Wallington

When we were silly sisters seven, sisters (we) were so fair,
Five of us were brave knights wives, and died in childbed fair.
Up then spake fair'Mabel', marry wou'd she nane,
If ever she came in man's bed the same gate wad she gang.
Make no vows, fair 'Mabel", for fear they broken be,
Here's been the knight of Wallington asking good will of thee.
Here's been the knight (of Wallington), mother, asking good-will of me;
Within three-quarters of a year you may come bury me.

When she came to Wallington, and into Wallingtonhall,
There she spy'd her mother dear walking about the wall.
You're welcome, daughter dear, to thy castle and thy bower.
I thank you kindly, mother, I hope they'll soon be your's.
She had not been in Wallington three-quarters and a day,
Tiull upon the ground she could not walk, she was a weary prey;
She had not been in Wallington three-quarters and a night,
Till on the ground she cou'd not walk, shw was a weary 'wight'.

Is there ne'er a boy in this town who'll win hose and shun,
That will run to fair Pudlington, and bid my mother come?
Up then spake a little boy, near unto (her) a-kin,
Full oft I have your errands gone, but now I will it run.
Then she call'd her waiting-maid to bring up bread and wine:
Eat and drink, my bonny boy, thou'sll ne'er eat more of mine:
Give my respects to my mother, as (she) 'sits' in her chair of stone,
And ask her how she likes the news of seven to have but one.

Give my love to my brother William, Ralph, and John;
and to my sister Betty fair, and to her white as bone,
And bid her keep her maidenhead, be sure make much on't,
For if e'er she come in man's bed the same gate will she gang.
Away this little boy is gone as fast as he could run,
When he came where brigs were broke he lay down and 'swum.'
When he saw the lady, he said, Lord may your keepers be!
What news, my bretty boy, 'hast' thou to tell to me?

Your daughter 'Mabel' orders me, as you sit in a chair of stone,
To ask you how you like the news of seven to have but one;
Your daughter gives commands as you sit in a chairr of 'state,'
And bids you come to her sickening, her 'weary' lakewake:
She gives command to her brother William, Ralph, and John;
To her sister Betty fair, and to her white (as) bone,
She bids her keep her maidenhead, besure make much on't,
For if e'er she come in man's bed the same gate wou'd she gang.

She kickt the table with her foot, she kickt it with her knee,
The silver plate into the fire so far she made it flee:
Then she call'd her waiting-maid to bring her riding-hood,
So did she on her stable-groom to bring her 'steed so good:'
Go saddle to me the black, go saddle to me the brown,
Go saddle to me the swiftest steed that e'er rid Wallington.
When she came to Wallington, and into Wallingtonhall,
There she espy'd here son Fenwick walking about the wall.

God save you, dear son, Lord may your keeper be!
Where is my daughter fair, that used to walk with thee?
He turn'd his head round about, the tears did fill his eye;
'Tis a month, he said, since she took her chambers from me.
She went on, and there were in the hall
Four and twenty ladies letting their tears down fall:
Her daughter had a scope into her chest, and into her chin,
All to keep her life till her dear mother came.

Come take the rings off my finger, the skin it is (so) white,
And give them to my mother dear, for she was all the 'weight';
Come take the rings off my fingers, the veins are so red,
Give them to sir William Fenwick, I'm sure his heart will bleed.
She took out a razor, that was both sharp nad fine,
And out of her left side has taken the heir of Wallington.
There is a race in Wallington, and that I rue full sare,
Tho' the cradle it be full spread up, the bride-bed is left bare.

-Resembles Child Ballad #91 but quite a bit different.
-Source: The Northumberland Garland;or Newcastle Nightingale., Joseph Ritson,
Newcastle, MDCCXCIII , Harding and Wright, London,1809.
 
 
 
 
 
 

Come you lusty Northerne lads,
That are so blith and bonny,
Prepare your hearts to be full sad,
To heare the end of Georgy.

Chorus:
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my bonny love,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my honny;
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my owne deare love,
And God be with my Georgie.

When Georgie to his triall came,
A thousand hearts were sorry,
A thousand lasses wept full sore,
And all for love of Georgie.

Some did say he would escape,
Some at his fall did glory:
But these were clownes and fickle friends,
And none that loved Georgy.

Might friends have satisfide the law,
Then G(e)orgie would find many:
Yet bravely did he plead for life,
If mercy might be any.

But when this doughty carle was cast,
He was full sad and sorry:
Yet boldy did he take his death,
So patiently dyde Georgie.

As Georgie went up to the gate,
He tooke his leve of many:
He tooke his leave of his lards wife,
Whom he lov'd best of any.

With thousand sighs and heavy looks,
Away from thence he parted,
Where he so often blithe had been,
Thought now so heavy hearted.

He writ a letter with his owne hand,
He thought he writ it bravely:
He sent it to New-castle towne,
To his beloved lady.

Wherin he did at large bewaile,
the occasion of his folly:
Bequething life unto the law,
His soule to heaven holy.

Why, lady, leave to weepe for me,
Let not my ending grieve ye:
Prove constant to the'man' you love,
For I cannot releeve yee.

Out upon the, Withrington,
And fie upon the, Phoenix:
Thou hast put downe the doughty one
That stole the sheepe from Anix.

And fie on all such cruell carles,
Whose crueltie's so fickle,
To cast away a gentleman
In hatred for so little.

I would I were on yonder hill,
Where I have beene full merry:
My sword and buckeler by my side
To fight till I be weary.

They well should know that tooke me first
Though whoops be now forsaken;
Had I but freedome, armes,  and health,
I'de dye are I'de be taken.

But law condemns me to my grave,
They have me in their power;
There's none but Christ that can be save,
At this my dying houre.

He call'd his dearest love to him,
When as his heart was sorry:
And speaking thus with manly heart,
Deare sweeting, pray for Georgie.

He gave to her a piece of gold,
And bade her give't her barnes:
And oft he kist her rosie lips,
And laid him into her armes.

And coming to the place of death,
He never changed colour,
The more they thought he would look pale,
The more his veines were fuller.

And with a cheerful countenance,
(Being at that time entreated
For to confesse his former life)
These words he straight repeated.

I never stole no oxe nor cow,
Nor never murdered any:
But fifty horse I did receive
Of a merchants man of Gory.

For which I am condemn'd to dye
Though guiltlesse I stand dyiing:
Deare gracious God, my soule receive,
For now my life is flying.

The man of death a part did act,
Which grieves metell the story;
God comfort all are comfortlesse,
And did so well as Georgie.

Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, my bonny love,
Heigh-ho, heigh-(ho) my bonny;
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, mine own true love
Sweet Christ receive my Georgie.

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

Which was made and composed by the late ancient and famous Northern poet, Mr. Bernard Rumney, a musician,
or country fidler, who lived and died at Rothbury, being about one hundred years old at the time of his death.

Wold you please to heare of a sang of dule,
Of yea sad chance and pittifow case,
Makes the peur man powt through mony a pule,
And leuk on mony an unkend face?

Between the Yule but and the Pasch,
In a private place, where as I lay,
I heard ane sigh, and cry, Alas!
What shall I outher dea or say?

A man that's born of a middle-yeard wight,
For wealth or pelth can no be secure;
For he may have enough at night,
And the net morn he may be fow peur,

I speak this by a Northumberland man,
The proverb's true proves by himself;
Since in horse-couping he began,
He had great cause to crack of wealth.

Of galloways he was well stockt,
What some part first what some part last;
But I'll no speak much to his praise,
For some of them gat o're lang a fast.

Some of the gat a shrowish cast,
Which was nea teaken of much pelth;
But yet he hopes, if life dea last,
To see the day to crack of welth.

But aye the warst cast still comes last,
He had nea geud left but a Mear,
There was mea diseases did her attend
Nor I can name in half a year.

If Markham he himself was here,
A famous farrier although he be,
It wad set aw his wits astear
To reckon her diseases in their degree.

But her sickness we'll set aside,
Now tauk we of the peur mans coast,
And how she lev'd, and how she dead,
And how his labour aw was lost.

In the winter-time she took a hoast,
And aw whilk while she was noe weell;
But yet her stomach ne're was lost,
Although she never had her heal.

Now for heer feud she went so yare,
An the fiend had been a truss of hey,
She wad a swallowed him and mickle mare,
Bequeen the night 'but' an the dey.

The peur man cries out Armyes aye,
I see that she's noe like to mend,
She beggers me with haveer and hey,
I wish her some untimeous end.

Nea sooner pray'd but as soon heard,
She touck a fawing down behind,
She wad a thousand men a scar'd
To have felt her how she fl'd the wind.

Her master he went out at night,
Of whilk he had oft mickle need,
He left her neane her bed to right,
Nor neane for to had up her head.

Next day when he came to the town,
He ran to see his mear with speed,
He thought she had fawn in a swoon,
But when he try'd she was cald dead.

It's ever alas! but what remeed,
Had she play'd me this at Michaelmas,
It wad a studden me in geud steed,
And sav'd me both yeats, hay and grass.

There's ne'er an elf in aw the town,
That hardly we'll can say his creed,
But he will swear a solemn oath,
Crack o' wealth Eckys mear cau'd dead.

Lad, wilt thou for Hob Trumble run?
I ken he will come at my need;
That seun he may take off her skin,
For I mun leeve though she be dead.

Now straight he came with knife in hand,
He fled her fra the top to th' tail,
He left nea mare skin on her aw
Then wad been a hunden to a flail.

Her seld her haill hide for a groat,
So far I let you understand,
And what he did weed he may well weet,
For he bought neither house nor land.

Now have I cassen away my care,
And hope to live to get another;
And night and day shall be my prayer,
The fiend gea down the loaning with her.

Now shall I draw it near and end,
And tauk nea mare of her at least,
But hoping none for to offend,
You shall hear part of her funeral feast.

To her resorted mony a beak,
And birds of sundry sorts of hue;
There were three hundred at the least,
You may believe it to be true.

Sir Ingram Corby he came first there,
With his fair lady clad in black,
And with him swarms there did appear
Of piots hoping at his back.

The carrion craw whe was not slack,
Aw cled into her mourning weed,
With her resorted mony a mack
Of greedy kite and hungry gleede.

When they were aw conven'd compleat,
And every yean had taen their place;
So rudely they fell tea their meat,
But nane thought on to say the grace.

Some rip'd her ribs, some pluck'd her face,
Nea bit of here was to be seen;
Sir Ingram Corby in that place,
Himself he pick'd out baith her eyne.

But wait ye what an a chance befel,
When they were at this jolly chear,
Sir William Bark, I can you tell,
He unexpected lighted there.

Put aw the feasters in sike a fear,
Some hopt away, some flew aside,
There was not ane durst come him near,
Nay not sir Corby, nor his bride.

He came not with a single side,
For mony a tike did him attend,
I wait he was no puft wea pride,
As you shall hear before I end.

See rudely they fell to the meat,
But napkin, trencher, salt, or knife;
Some to the head, soem to the feet,
Whiles banes geud bare there was na strife.

In came there a tike, they cau'd him Grim,
Sea greedily he did her gripe,
But he rave out her belly-rim
And aw her buddings he made a pipe.

Heer lights, her liver, but an her tripe,
They lay all trailing upon the green;
They were aw gane with a sudden wipe,
Not any of them was to be seen.

But suddenly begeud a feast,
And after that begeund a fray;
The tikes that were baith weak and least,
They carried aw the bats away.

And they that were of the weaker sort,
They harl'd here through the paddock-peul,
They leugh, and said it was geud sport,
When they had drest her like a feule.

Thus have you heard of Ekies mear,
How pitifully she made her end;
I write unto you far and near,
Who says here death is no well penn'd,

I leave it to yoursel's to mend,
That chance the peur man need again;
If it be ill penn'd it is as well kend,
I got as little for my 'pain.'
 

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

The routing the earl of Mar's forces,
Has given their neighbours supplies;
They've stock'd us with Highlanders horses,
Like kileys for madness and size:
The whirligig-maker of Midford
Has gotten one holds such a stear,
He's had worse work with it, I'll say for't
Than Ecky e'er had with his mare.

The devil ne'er saw such a gelding
As this to be fol'd of a mear;
The size ont's a shame to be teld on,
And yet it could skip like a deer;
For colour and size (I'm a sinner,
I scorn, as the folks says, to slide,)
'Twas just like Hob Trumble's glimmer,
Which he sold for six-pence a side.

It was a confounded bad liver,
Like Ferry the piper's old cat;
It ne'er could be brought to behiavour,
Though it has got many a bat:
It had been so spoil'd in up-bringing,
It vext his poor heart ev'ery day;
Sometimes with biting and flinging,
And sometimes with running away.

Perhaps it was brought up a Tory,
And knew the poor man for a Whig;
But for to make short a long story,
I'll tell you one day what it did:
When business came thickere and thicker,
And would not admit of delay,
As fast as the heels on't could bicker,
It scamper'd on northward away.

O'er rocks, over mountains and ditches,
Dike-gutters and hedges it speals;
A courser could never keep stretches
With it for a large share of heels:
From hill unto dale like a farie,
It hurry'd and pranced along,
While Geordy was in a quandary,
And knew not what way 'it' was gone.

A day or two after, have at it,
He north in pursuit on't took chase,
And like a dub-skelper he troted,
To many (a) strange village and place:
All Rothbury forest he ranged,
From corner to corner like mad,
And still he admired and stranged,
What vengeance was gone with his pad.

He circuled about like a ring-worm,
And follow'd the scent of his nose,
And from Heslyhurst unto Brinkburn,
With Fortune the clothier he goes.
To honest Tom Faweon's the fuller,
The rattle-brain'd roisters both went,
Tho' they made the gelding their colour,
Another thing was their intent.

Tom Fawdon soon knew what they wanted,
And straightway the table was set,
With bread, butter and cheese it was planted,
And good ale, as well as good meat;
Their grace took but little inditing,
'Twas short and they had it by heart,
And they took as little inviting,
But strove who should have the fore-start.

They used no bashful dissembling,
But to in a passion did fall,
The dishes did by them stand trembling,
Their mercy appeared so small:
The butter, the cheese, and the bannocks,
Disolved like snow in a fresh,
And still as they stuck in their stomachs,
With liquor they did them down wash.

The Dutch, nor the Welsh nor wight Wallace,
Did ever like them  show their spleen,
The cheese bore the marks of their malice,
Their knives and their teeth were so keen.
Two stone they destroyed, shame b'n them,
And pour'd down their liquor like spouts,
Their guts to hold what they put in them,
Were drest like a pair of strait boots.

With bellies top-full to the rigging,
I leave them to settle a bit,
'Till making good use of the midding,
'Do' bring them unto a right set.
Now come we to speak of the gelding,
Who knowing that he did offend,
Stay'd tow or three days about Weldon,
To make justice Lisle stand his friend.

He after that grew so unlucky,
On mischief and ill he was bent,
He prov'd a right North-country jockey,
Still cheating whre ever he went.
At many mens charges he dined,
But never ask'd what was arrear;
Yet no man could get him confined,
So slily himself he did clear.

The town of Longframlington further
Can give an account what he is,
He came within acting or murder,
As near as a horse could to miss;
For into a house he went scudding,
And seeing a child all alone,
If Providence had not wthstood him,
He'd struck it as dead as a stone.

The rest of his  acts are recorded,
'Tis nonsence to mention them here;
I'll go back and fetch Geordy forward,
He's tarri'd too long I do fear!
From Brinkburn he started and held on,
Directly to Framlington town,
And then to the miller's at Weldon,
He back o'er the hill tumbled down.

Not finding the thing that he wanted,
Unto Hedlowood he did trot,
He was tost like a dog in a blanket,
O'er Cocket and back in a boat:
All Framlington fields he sought over,
And from spot to spot he did run,
For fear the grass chanced to cover
His pad, as it once did Tom Thumb.

Then up to John Alders he drabbeth,
And there all the night did repose,
And then, the next day being Sabbath,
Away he to Whittingham oes;
Where he to revenge the miscarriage
Of his little scatter-brain'd nag,
He went to the clerk of the parish,
To get him expos'd for a vague

The clerk he soon set up his cropping,
And made a great bustle and stear;
The church-yard appear'd like a hopping,
The folks drew about so to hear:
He did to a hairs-breath describe him,
And call'd him again and again,
And Geordy by four-pence did bribe him,
For all the small pains he had ta'n.

Scarce were the jawbones of these asses
Well shut, till a Thranton-bred lad,
Eas'd Geordy a bit of his crosses,
By bringing some news of his pad:
These tidings his spirit renewed,
No clerk cou'd his courage controul,
But still was resolv'd to pursue it,
Suppose it were to the North pole.

'Tis past a man's giving account on,
What way he traversed with speed,
From Eslington, Whittingham, Thranton,
He past the Broom-park and Hill-head,
To Leirchil, to Barton, to Branton,
And from thence to Mount on the clay,
To Fawdon, the Clinch, and to Glanton,
And several towns mist by the way.

There's Lemendon, Allerwick, Bolton,
With Woodhall that stands on the fell,
And titlington's likewise untold on,
Where Jacob, of old, dig'd his well;
To Harup, to Hidgily and Beenly,
He past unto Galloway mill,
To Brandon, to Ingrom, and Revely,
And Crowly that stands on a hill.

To Brandon-main, then to the Whitehouse,
To Dickison's, where he made a league,
And articled that for a night-house,
To rest a while after fatigue:
He drank a while till he grew mellow,
And then for his chamber did call,
Where sound he may sleep, silly fellow,
His travels wou'd weary us all.

He had an invincible couple
Of legs, that did bear him well out,
They hung so loose, like a flail-souple,
And cudgl'd his buttocks about;
No man wou'd have thought any hallion
Could have ever have acted the thing,
Without help of Pacolet's stallion, *
That when the pin turn'd did take wing.

Next day rising, rigging and starting,
He jogg'd on his journey with speed,
To Bewick, the Lilburns, Culdmartin,
From thence unto Woolerhaugh-head;
To Wopperton, Ilderton, Rodham,
And Rosdon, he scudded like mad,
Nothing fell by the way that withstood him,
Until he had met with his pad.

Earl was the place where he found him,
A blithe sight for Geordy to see;
But got the whole town to surround him,
Before he his prisoner would be:
Then on his back jumping and prancing,
He swiftly switcht over the plain,
But made him pay dear for his dancing,
E'er he got to Midford again.

*See the history of Valentine and Orson

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

The Insipids:
Or, The Mistress with Her Multitude of Man Servants
by:  Thomas Whittel

Of all the Kirkharle bonny lasses,
If they were set round in a ring,
Jane Heymours for beauty surpasses,
She might be a match for a kng;
Her cheeks are as red as a cherry,
Her breast is as white as a swan,
She is a blyth lass and a merry,
And her middle is fit for a man.

The lads are so fond to be at her,
They run all as mad as March hares,
This bonny young lass they do flatter,
And fall at her feet to their prayers:
You never saw keener or stouter,
They'll not be put off with delay,
Like bull-doggs they still hang about her,
And court her by night and by day.

Jo Hepple, Will Crudders, Tom Liddle,
With twenty or thirty men more,
If I could their names but unriddle,
At least I might make out two score,
That all cast about for to catch her,
And make her their own during life;
With others that strive to debauch her,
Despairing to make her their wife.

So many love tokens and fancies
She gets, that to bring them in view,
They's look like so many romances,
And none could believe they were true.
I only will mention on favour,
And leave you to guess at the rest;
An old kenning Edward Hall gave her,
Of comforts the choicest and best.

They venture like people for prizes,
And with the same timorous doubt,
She has them of all sorts and sizes,
That's constantly sneaking about.
Each man speaks her fair, and importunes
In all the best language that's known;
And happy were he could tell fortunes,
To know if the girl were his own.

John Robson, Jo Bowman, Will Little,
With her would spend night's over days;
Each glance of her eyes is so smittle,
That all men are catch'd  if they gaze:
She strikes them quite thro' with love stiches,
And many (a) poor heart she doth fill;
She's like one of those call'd white witches,
That hurts men and means them no ill.

John Henderson, that honest weaver,
And metled Matt Thomson the smith,
Came both from Capheaton to preave her,
And court her with courage and pith.
Ned Oliver to, and Tom Baxter
Spare neither their feet, tongue, or hands,
But strive with the rest ot contract her
In compass o fconjugal bands.

Bob Bewick just makes it his calling
Unto her his love to declare;
And some's of that mind that John Rawling
Would gladly come in for a share.
John Forcing doth praise and commend her,
Above any lass that wears head;
And fain he would be a pretender,
If he had but hopes to come speed.

Bob Cole strains his wit and invention
And compliments to a degree;
And twenty that I cannot mention
Are all as keen courters as he.
She puts them all into such pickle
They care not what courses they run,
And if (as folk says) she be fickle,
'Tis twenty to one they're undone.

Their loves would fill forty hand wallets,
If they were cramm'd in at both ends;
Theirhearts are all sunk like lead pellets,
And very small hopes of amends.
Great dangers on both sides encreases,
Which very destructive may prove;
The lass may be all bull'd to pieces,
Or all the poor lads die for love.

But that which supports nad preserves them,
Their stomachs their best friends do prove;
And 'tis not a little meat serves them
Since they fell so deeply in love.
Their fancies and appetites working,
It made them so sharp and so keen,
The girls mother lost two butter firkins,
They wattell'd away so much cream

One day with a good brandy bottle,
Two met her about the Heugh Nebb,
And there their accounts they did settle,
And made all as right as my legg:
The snuff-mill and gloves came in season,
The want of a glass to supply;
They drank the girls first, with good reason,
And then the kings health by the by.

The millers Haugh, Heugh Nebb, and Haystack,
The Flowers, the New Close, and Decoy,
With places whose titles I know not,
Where they met to love and enjoy,
Would b but too far a digression,
And make our fond passions rebell;
But, oh! had these places espression,
What pretty love tales they could tell!

So many to her bear affection,
And give her such lofty applause,
I'm love-sick to hear the description,
And wish I could see the sweet cause:
'Tis she that could make all odds even,
And bring many wonders to pass;
I wish all here sweethearts in heaven,
Why I were in bed with the lass!

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

Good people, give ear to the fatalesst duel
That Morpeth e'er saw since it was a town,
Where fire is kindled and has so much fuel,
I wou'd not be (he) that wou'd quench't for a crown.
Poor Sawney, as canny a North British hallion,
As e'er crost the boder this million of weeks,
Miscarried, and maried a Scotish tarpawlin,
That pays his pack-shoulders, and will have the breeks.

I pity him still when I think of his kindred,
Lord Ogelby was his near cousin of late;
And if he and somebody else had not hinder'd,
He might have been heir unto all his estate.
His stature was small, and his shape like a monkey,
His beard like a bundle of scallions or leeks;
Right bonny he was, but now he's worn scrunty,
And fully as fit for the horns as the breeks.

It fell on a day, he may it remember,
Tho' others rejoyced, yet so did not he,
When tidings was brought that Lisle did surrender,
It grieves me to think on't, his wife took the gee.
These bitches still itches, and stretches commission,
And if they be crossed they're still taking peeks,
And Swaney, poor man, he was out of condition,
And hardly well fit for defending the breeks.

She mutter'd, and moung'd, and looked damn'd misty,
And Sawney said something, as who cou'd forbear?
Then straight she began, and went to't handyfisty,
She whither'd about, and dang down all the gear:
The dishes and dublers went flying like fury,
She broke more that day than would mend in two weeks,
And had it been put to a judge or a jury,
They cou'd not tell whether deserved the breeks.

But Sawney grew weary, and fain would been civil,
Being ald, and unfeary, and fail'd of his strength,
Then she cowp'd him o'er the kale-pot with a kevil,
And there he lay labouring all his long length.
His body was doddy, and sore he was bruised,
The bark of his shins was all standing in peaks;
No stivet e'eer livedwas so much misused
As sarey ald Sawney for claiming the breeks.

The noise was so greatall the neighbours did hear them,
She made his scalp ring like the clap of a bell;
But never a soul had the mense to come near them,
tho' he shouted murder with many a yell.
She laid on whisky whasky, and held like a steary,
Wight Wallace could hardly have with her kept steaks;
And never gave over until she was weary,
And Sawney was willing to yield her the breeks.

And now she must still be observ'd like a madam,
She'll cause him to curvet, and skip like a frogg,
And if he refuses she's ready to scad him,
Poxtake such a life, it wou'd  weary a dogg.
Ere I were so serv'd, I would see the de'il take her
I hate both the name and the nature of sneaks;
But if she were mine I would clearly forsake her,
And let her make a kirk and a mill of the breeks.
 

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

There lives a lass in Felton town,
Her name is Jen--y Gow--n,
With the Briek-man she has play'd the lown,
So wanton she is grown:
The reason why some love the night,
Incognito  to revel,
Is they love darkness more than light,
Because their deeds are evil.

So late at night on Saturday,
He thought all safe as brandy,
He rigg'd and trigg'd, and rid away
Upon John Hink's Sandy:
To Haggerston he did pretend,
Some sweetheart there confin'd him;
But he took up, at our town-end,
His cloak-bag on behind him.

Like as the bird that gay would be,
As fable hath reported,
From each fine bird most cunningly
A feather she extorted:
Then boasting said, How fine I'm grown
Her painted plumes she shaked,
At which each bird pluck'd off their own,
And left her almost naked.

With this kind maid it proved so,
Who many things did borrow,
To rig her up from toe to toe,
And deck her like queen Flora.
Of one she got a black-silk hood,
Her fond light head to cover,
Likewise a blue cloak, very good,
Her night intreagues to smother.

Clock stockings she must have (dear wot)
In borrow'd shoes she's kilted,
Some lent her a blue petticoat,
Both large and bravely quilted.
Of some she got a fine linn-smock,
Lest Pet--r shou'd grow canty,
and have a stroke at her black joak,
With a tante, rante, tante.

With a borrow'd cane, hat on her head,
To make her still look greater,
She'd make her friends believe indeed,
They were all bought by Pet--r.
But when she did return again,
In all her boasted grandeur,
Each to 'their' own did lay just claim,
And left her as they fand her.

But none can guess at 'their' intent,
Why they abroad did swagger,
Some said, to see 'their' friends they went,
Some said, to Buckle Beggar.
Away full four days they stay'd,
I think they took 'their' leisure,
They past for man and wife, some said,
And spent the nights in pleasure.

When the Black Cock did his Sandy see
There was a joyful meeting,
That night when I thee lent, quoth he,
I wish I had been sleeping:
Thou art abused very sore,
As any creature can be,
And still he cry'd o'er and o'er,
O woe is me for Sandy!

Then Sandy, mumbling, made reply,
You were my loving master,
I never did your suit deny,
Nor meet with one disaster,
Till now unknown to your self,
That I shou'd had this trouble,
Or else for neither love nor pelf,
You'd let me carry double.

Poor Sandy was with riding daul'd,
He rues he saw their faces,
His back and sides they sorely gaul'd,
He pay'd for their embraces;
But if young Pet--r's found her nest,
She'll rue as well as Sandy,
And if she proves with child, she best
Had tarry'd with her grandy.

How they abused the horse they rid on, and when
married, they went off in several people's debts.

In second part I will declare
The troubles of poor Sandy;
and how this couple married were,
And how well pelas'd was Grandy.
Now first with Sandy I'll begin,
Whose leggs swell'd to a wonder,
So likewise was his belly rim,
Swell'd like to burst asunder.

And lest his troubles shou'd increase,
A farrier was provided,
Well skill'd in Markham's master-piece,
Who in this town resided;
And, to his everlasting fame,
He did exert his cunning,
He bled his leggs, and in his waim,
Two tapps he there sets running.

He several med'cines did apply,
Whose virtue was so pure,
That in six weeks, or very nigh,
He made a perfect cure.
And now in all the world besides,
There's not a soundere creature,
So well he scampers, and he rides,
But nevere more with Pet-r.

Of him I now design to speak
A Yorkshire born and bred, sir,
He play'd them all a Yorkshire trick
and then away he fled, sir.
As you shall hear when home he came,
With Jennet upon Sandy,
He to his work return'd again,
And she unto her grandy.

But long with her she tarry'd not,
Unsettled was her notion,
Just like the pend'lum of a clock,
That's always in motino.
I'll go to service, she did say,
Keep me, you cannot afford it;
So one she got, where was it pray?
E'en where her spark was boarded.

Now whether 'twas for want of beds,
Or whether it was cold weather,
Or whether 'twas to measure legs,
That they lay both together;
But as they smuggl'd for a while,
And gave out they were marry'd,
Till she at length did prove with child,
Then all things were miscarry'd.

Then he did own his fault was great,
He'd make her satisfaction,
And fearing penance 'in' a 'sheet',
He'd suffere for that action.
He marry'd her without delay,
And got 'their' nuptial lesson,
Which to confirm they went streightway
To get their grandy's blessing.

When in her presence they were come,
She rail'd at them like thunder,
For shame, cries she, what have you done,
That's brought on you this blunder?
She call'd her slut and brazen fac'd,
Instead of kind caressing,
Our family you have disgrac'd,
Can you expect a blessing?

But like a stormy winter's night,
Next morning turnscalm weather,
So grndy's passion soon took flight,
She pray'd that they together
Might live in love and happiness,
Enjoying peace and plenty,
Long may their health and wealth possess,
And pockets ne'er grow empty.

When they had grandy's blessing got,
They slyly fled away, sir,
He all the bricks did leave unwrought,
And many debts to pay, sir.
Now all good people warning take,
How you do trust to strangers,
They'll wheadle you for money sake,
And still prove country rangers.

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

A song above 500 years old, made by the old mountain bard,
Duncan Frasier, living on the Cheviot, A.D. 1270.
Printed from an ancient manuscript.
By Mr. Robert Lambe, Vicar of Norham

The king is gone from Bamborough Castle,
Long may the princess mourn,
Long may she stand on the castle wall,
Looking for his return.

She has knotted the keys upon a string,
And with her she has them ta'en,
She has cast them o'er her left shoulder,
And to the gate she is gane.

She tripped out, she tripped in,
She tript into the yard;
But it was more for the king's sake,
Than for the queen's regard.

It fell out on a day, the king
Brought the queen with him home;
And all the lords, in our country,
To welcome them did come.

Oh! welcome father, the lady cries,
Unto your halls and bowers;
And so are you, my step-mother,
For all that's here is yours.

A lord said, wondering while she spake,
This princess of the North
Surpasses all the female
Kind in beauty, and in worth.

The envious queen replied, At least,
You might have  excepted me;
In a few hours, I will her bring
Down to a low degree.

I will her liken to a Laidley worm,
That warps about the stone,
And not, till Childy Wynd comes back,
Shall she again be won.

The princess stood at the bower door
Laughing, who could her blame?
But e'er the next day's sun went down,
A long worm she became.

For seven miles east, and seven miles west,
And seven miles north, and south,
No blade of grass or corn could grow,
So venomous was her mouth.

The milk of seven stately cows,
It was costly her to keep,
Was brought her daily, which she drank
Before she went to sleep

At this day may be ssen the cave,
Which held her folded up,
And the stone trough, thevery same
Out of which she did sup.

Word went east and word went west,
And word is gone over the sea,
That a Laidley worm in spindleston-Heughs
Would ruin the North Country.

Word went east, and word went west,
And over the sea did go;
The Child of Wynd got wit of it,
Which filled his heart with woe.

He called straight his merry men all,
They thirty were and three:
I wish I were at Spindleston,
This desperate worm to see.

We have no time now here to waste,
Hence quickly let us sail:
My only sister Margaret,
Something, I fear, doth ail.

They built a ship without delay,
With masts of the rown tree,
With flutring sails of silk so fine,
And set her on the sea.

They went on board.  The wind with speed
Blew them along the deep,
At length they spied an huge square tower
On a rock high and steep.

The sea was smooth, the weather clear,
When they approached nigher,
King Ida's castle they well knew,
And the banks of Bambroughshire.

The queen look'd out at her bower window,
To see what she could see;
There she espied a gallant ship
Sailing upon the sea.

When she beheld the silken sails,
Full glancing in the sun,
to sink the ship she went away,
Her witch wives every one.

The spells were vain; the hags returned
To the queen in sorrowful mood,
Crying that witches have no power,
Where there is rown-tree wood.

Her last effort, she sent a boat,
Which in the haven lay,
With armed men to board the ship,
But they were driven away.

The worm lept out, the worm lept down,
She plaited round the stone;
And ay as the ship came to the land
She banged it off again.

The child then ran out of her reach
The ship on Budley-sand;
And jumping into the shallow sea,
Securely got to land.

And now he drew his berry-broad sword,
And laid it on her head;
And swore if she did harm to him
That he would strike her dead.

O! quit thy sword and bend thy bow,
And give me kisses three;
For though I am a poisonous worm,
No hurt I'll do to thee

Oh! quit thy sword, and bend thy bow,
And give me kisses three;
If i'm not won, e'eer the sun go down,
Won I shall never be.

He quitted his sword and bent his bow,
He gave her kisses three;
She crept into a hole a worm,
But out stept a lady.

No cloathing had this lady fine,
To keep her from the cold
He took his mantle from him about,
And round her did it fold.

He has taken his mantle from him about,
And in it he wrapt her in,
And they are up to Bambrough castle,
As fast as they can win.

His absence and her serpent shape,
The king had long deplored,
He now rejoyced to see them both
Again to him restored.

The queen they wanted, whom they found
All pale, and sore afraid;
Because she knew her power must yield
To Childy Wynd's, who said,

Woe beto thee, thou wicked witch,
An ill death mayst thou dee;
As thou my sister has lik'ned,
so lik'ned shalt thou be.

I will turn you into a toad,
That on the ground doth wend;
And won, won, shat thou never be,
Till this world hath an end.

Now on the sand near Ida's tower,
She crawls a loathsome toad,
And venom spits on every maid
She meets upon her road.

The virgins all of Bambrough town
Will swear that they have seen
This spiteful toad, of monstrous size,
Whilst walking they have been.

All folks believe within the shire
This story to be true,
And they all run to Spindleston,
The cave and trough to view.

This fact now Duncan Frasier
Of Cheviot, sings in rhime;
Lest Bambrough-shire-men should forget
Some part of it in time.

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

Mackintosh was a soldier braave,
And of his friends he took his leave,
Towards Northumberland he drew,
Marching along with 'a 'jovialcrew.

The lord Derwentwater he did say,
Five hundred guineas he would lay,
To fight the militia if they would stay,
But they prov'd cowards nad ran away.

The earl of Mar did vow and swear,
That if e'er proud Preston he did come near,
Before the right should starve and the wrong stand;
He'd blow them into some foreign land.

The lord Derwentwater he did say,
When he mounted on his dapple grey,
I wish that we were at home with speed,
For I fear we are all betray'd indeed.

Adzoundss, said Forster, never fear,
For the Brunswick army is not near;
If they should come, our valour we'll show
We will give them the total overthrow.

The lord Derwentwater then he found,
That forster drawed his left wing round;
I wish I was with my dear wife,
For now I do fear I shall lose my life.

Mackintosh he shook his head,
to see his soldiers there lye dead:
It is not so much for the loss of those,
But I fear we are all took by our foes.

Mackintosh was a valiant soldier,
He carried his musket on his shoulder:
Cock your pistols, draw your rapier,
and damn you, Forster, for you are a traytor.

The lord Derwentwater to Forster did say,
Thou hast prov'd our ruin this very day;
Thou has promised to stand our friend,
But hou has proved a rogue in the end.

The lord Derwentwater to Litchfield did ride,
In his coach and attendance by his side;
He swore if he dy'd by the point of a sword,
He'd drink a health to the man he lov'd.

thou Forster has brought us from our own home,
Leaving our estates for others to come;
Thou treacherous rogue, thou hast us betray'd:
We areallruin'd lord Derwentwater said.

The lord Derwentwater he was dondemned,
And near unto his latter end,
and then his lady she did cry,
My dear Derwwentwater he must die.

The lord Derwentwaterhe is dead,
And form his body they took his head;
But Mackintosh and some others are fled,
Who'd set the hat on another mans head.

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

Sword Dancers
For notation and midi files click here
It is still the practice, though less in repute than formerly, during the Christmas holidays, for companies of pitmen and other workmen from the neighbouring collieries to visit Sunderland, Durham, &c. to perform a sort of Play or Dance, accompanied by song and music.

Their appearance is hailed by the children with great satisfaction, and they receive liberal contributions from the spectators.
The dancers are girded with swords, and clad in white shirts or tunics, decorated with a profusion of ribbands, or various colours, gathered from the wardrobes of their mistresses and well-wishers.  The captain generallly wears a kind of faded uniform, with a large cocked hat and feather, for pre-eminent distinction; and the buffoon, or "Bessy," who acts as treasurer, and collects the cash in a tobacco-box, wears a hairy cap, with a fox's brush* dependent.
The music is simple, and not devoid of harmony: its peculiar beauty depends, perhaps greatly, on the force of early associations.
The party assemble promiscuously, and the captain forms a circle with his sword, round which he walks, and sings; each actor following as he is called upon.

Six actors I have brought,
Who were never on stage before;
But they will do their best,
And the best can do no more.

The first that I call in,
He is a squire's son;
He's like to lose his love,
Because he is too young.

But though he be too young,
He has money for to rove;
And he will spend it all,
Before he'll lose his love.

The next that I call in,
He is a taylor fine;
What think you of his work?--
He made this coat of mine.

So comes good master Snip,
His best respects to pay:
He joins us in our trip,
To drive dull care away.

The next that I call in,
He is a sailor bold;
He's come to poverty
By the lending of his gold.

But though his gold's all gone,
Again he'll plough the main,
With heart both light and brave,
To fight both France and Spain.

Next comes a skipper bold,
He'll do his part right weel;
A clever blade, I'm told,
As ever poy'd** a keel,

Oh! the keel lads are bonny bonny lads,
As I do understand;
For they run both fore and aft,
With their long sets in their hands.

To join us in this play,
Here comes a jolly dog,
Who's soberevery day,
When he can get no grog.

But though he likes his grog,
As all his friends can say,
He always likes it best,
When he has nought to pay.

Last I come in mysel,
I make one of this crew;
And if you'd know my name,
My name it is True Blue. ***

The Dance then begins in slow, and measured cadence; which soon increases in spirit, and at length bears the appearance of a serious
affray.  The Rector, alarmed rushes forward to prevent bloodshed; and, in his endeavours to separate the combatants, he receives a mortal blow, and falls to the ground.
Then follows the lament--the general accusation - and denial.

Alas! our rector's dead,
And on the ground is laid;
some of us must suffer for't,
Young men, I'm sore afraid.

I'm sure 'twas none of I--
I'm clear of the crime;
'Twas him that follows me
That drew his sword so fine.

I'm sure 'twas none of I--
I'm clear of the fact;
'Twas him that follows me
That did this bloody act.

I'm sure 'twas none of I,
Ye bloody villains all!
For both my eyes were shut
When this good man did fall.

Then cheer up, my bonny bonny lads,
And be of courage bold;
For we'll take him to the church,
and we'll bury him in the mould.

Captain.--Oh! for a doctor, a right good doctor,
                 A ten pound doctor, oh!

Doctor.-- Here am I.

Captain-- Doctor, what's your fee?

Doctor-- Ten pounds is my fee; but nine pounds, nineteen shillings, and eleven pence,
              three farthings, will I take from thee.

See here, see here, a doctor rare,
Who travels much at home;
Come, take my pills--they cure all ills,
Past present and to come.

The plague, the palsy, and the gout,
The devil within, and the devil without--
Every thing but a love-sick maid--
And a consumption in the pocket.

Take a little of my nif-naf,
Put it on your tif-taf.
Parson, rise up, and fight again,
The doctor says you are not slain.

The rector gradually recovers, which is the signal for general rejoicing and congratulation.

Captain--

You've seen them all call'd in,
You've seen them all go round;
Wait but a little while--
Some pastime will be found.

Cox-green's a bonny place,
Where water washes clean;
And Painshaw's on a hill,
Where we have merry been.

Then, fiddler, change thy tune,
Play us a merry jig;
Before that I'll be beat,
I'll pawn both hat and wig.

A general dance concludes the performance, to the old and favorite tune of,
"Kitty, Kitty, bo, bo!"

*Query- if this was not formerly meant to represent the Lion's skin of the ancient heros; and this is not the only classical allusion used by the Sword Dancers, for a "Bessy" on the borders of Yorkshire, was heard to sing:
"I've liv'd among musick these forty long years,
And Drunk of the elegant spring"
There can be little doubt that Helicon was the original reading.
 

**Puoy, Puy, or Pouie, a long pole with an iron spike at the end; used in propelling keels in shallow water.--Fr. appui. Brockett's Glossary. The Puoy on the Tyne is the Set on the Wear.

*** AT this part, the "Bessy" sometimes considers it necessary to give some account of his own genealogy, viz:
My father he was hang'd
My mother was drown'd in a well;
And now I' se left alone,
All by my awn sel.

T:Sword Dance
M:4/4
L:1/8
C:Traditional
S:Bishopric Garland
K:G
d2|e2c2d2B2|G6G2| B2d2 f2 f2|c6 B2|c3 d e/2 g3|d6 B2|G2B2c2A2|G6:||

ABC Notation

T:Kitty Bo-Bo (Sword Dance Tune)
M:3/4
L:1/8
S:Bishoprick Garland
K:G
|gfed g/2f/2e/2d/2|B2G2B2|gfed g/2f/2e/2d/2|A2F2A2:||:GBdBdc|B2G2B2|GBdB
dB|A2F2A2:|
 
 
 
 
 
 

Ride Through Sandgate

Ride through Sandgate, both up and down,
there you'll see the gallants fighting for the crown:
All the cull cuckolds in Sunderland town,
With all the bonny blue caps, cannot pull them down.

This is a genuine fragment of a ballad relating to Newcastle,
beseiged by Lesley and the Scots army.  The blue caps (or Scotchmen),
did, however, at last succeed in pulling them down,
after a most gallant defense, 19th  October 1644.
 
 

-Source: The Bishoprick Garland or a Collection of Legends, Songs Ballads &c.. Belonging to The County of Durham. London: Nichols, and Baldwin & Cradock. 1834.
 
 

Aw've aftin thowt how happy we
Might pass throo life, frae trubbil free,
If foakswad only try te see
The words that myekt them disagree,

Chorus:
Browt on throo contradicshun,
Nowt else but contradicshun,
For stubborn contradischun
Myeks the world se full o' care.

The little bairn ye'll see at scheul,
Wi contradicshus mischeef full,
'Ill give anuther's hair a pull!--
Byeth yung an' aud can play the feul

Then lad an' lass frae hyem 'ill stray
Cum Bet, says he, let's myek wor stay
I' Grainger Street!-but she says Nay!
No, Jack, aw'll gan the tuther way.

Wi' married foaks, ye'll find as weel
That contradicshun plays the Deil,
Across the tyeble at a meal
Upcastin what byeth shud conceal,

So contradicshun thraw aside,
Let frindly comfort be yor guide,
Think weel before ye start te chide,
For contradicshun's nowt but pride!

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 
 
 
 
 

Cum lisen awhile tiv a Newcassel ditty,
A sang ov experience that's been dearly bowt;
Te loss this advice sure it wad be a pity,
Tho it's geen biv a chep that knaws little or nowt.

The reet way te be wise, te knaw nowt pretend, lads,
Then seun ye'll get knolidge for which uthers hev rowt;
They'll tell ye thor secrets, then clivor ye'll fend, lads,
For neboody knaws mair than the chep that knaws nowt.

Pretend te knaw nowt, an' ye'll find foaks te tell, lads,
Advice that ye've wanted when oppress'd wi' sad thowt;
Iv each row ye'll  get clear ov an' ugily fell, lads,
If ye keep a close mooth an' pretend te knaw nowt.

Foaks think ye knaw nowt, so ne enemy trubblis,
They'll oftin speak i' yor prisence far mair than they owt;
Ye'll knaw mair nor them that pretend to knaw dubbil,
If ye open yor ears, an' pretend te knaw nowt.

When at justice's bar bad witnesses perjure,
Be sweein false oaths inte greet trubbil thor bowt,
A few eers transportatashun for them is the order,
Twad been better for them te pretend te knaw nowt.

If in a cornere ye see a lad an' lass squeezin,
Just pass by, an' pretend te be luckin at owt;
If they thiink that ye see them, its sure te be teezin,
Hoo happy they are when they think ye knaw nowt.

Yor applawse te me sang, noo divent refuse, lads,
Te amuse an' instruct ye, i' verses, aw've sowt;
If it hesent pleased ye, aw hope ye'll excuse, lads,
When ye knaw that its sung biv a chep that knaws nowt.

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

The day was fine, aw mind ful well,
When lots away frae work did steal,
An' swore they'd join the merry reel,
At Jesmond Monster Pic-Nic.
Thor wes croods upon the green,
An' thoosands might be seen
Alang the Park an'roond the Dene,
At Jesmond Monster Pic Nic.

Chorus:
Jiggin away,- kiss i' the ring,
Lasses to yor laddies cling,
An' lissen while i' praise aw sing
Ov Jesmond Monster Pic Nic.

When i' the Park, wi' joyful shoot,
We knockt the greet football aboot,
Its guts, aw sure, gat kickt an' cloot
Frae the lads at Jesmond Pic-Nic.
Amid hearty laffs and squeels,
Blithe lads cockt up thor heels,
An' lowpt the powl,--an' cowpt thor creels,
At Jesmond Monster pic-Nic.

I' rings where lads thor lasses smack
Wi' kisses like a pistol's crack,
Mony a Jenny gat a Jack
At Jesmond Monster Pic-Nic.
Bonny lasses--like queen's there,
Wi' posies i' thor hair,
Had ringlets that wad myek ye stare,
At Jesmond MonsterPic-Nic.

Wor Geordy te wes on the spot,
Te join each dance amang the lot,
Man, what a cumley lass aw got
At Jesmond Monster Pic-Nic.
Fine quadreels wes a' the go,
We shuffled heel an' toe,
An' fairly lickt aud Billy's show,
At Jesmond Monster Pic-Nic.

The Banquet Hall we went te see,
An' feed upon spice loaf an' tea,
Refreshments o' the best degree
We squash'd at Jesmond Pic-Nic.
Then lads set thor lasses hyem,
Wi' dancin aw wes lyem,
Still like the rest aw did the syem,
That neet frae Jesmond Pic-Nic.
 

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 

Tune: Homeward Bound

Aw've just cum back frae Grainger Street,
Where a' the lads an' lasses, meet,
Where luv speaks volumse frae the eyes,
An' fills the breest wi' lang drawn sighs.

Chorus:
Where the lads an' lasses meet ivry neet,
Where they meet i' Granger street.

Where smart young cheps an' slap up swells,
Luck efter young an' bloomin belles,
Where lasses giggle, grin, an laff,
At sum fast lad's unmeanin chaff.

Where hoops an' stockins always reign,
Te captivate sum tender swain:
Where winks an' nods like Cupid's darts,
Turns heeds, an' play the deuce wi' hearts.

Where clash hes plenty room for play,
An' luvin whispers hev thor sway,
Where shakin hans= the gentle squeze,
Wi' honey'd words byeth tease an' please.

Where markit rangers tyek thor place,
Te fill the streets wi' mense an' grace;
Where groops i' kindly friendship meet,
Te welcome efter wark the neet.

Frae six te ten i's just the syem,
When decent cuppils toddle hyem,
But efter that's a scene ye'll knaw,
Aboot which aw'd better haud me jaw.

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 

One mornin near the Markit,
Aw wes slowly passin by,
Twes there aw saw a seedy man,
'Wi' reed an' bleary eye;
He luckt at me, aw luckt at him,
He said his nyem was Bill,
An' askt us if aw dident knaw'm,
An' wad aw stand a gill.

Says aw ye heh the best o' me,
If aw've seen ye before,
Aw cannot reckollect the time.
Says he wor near the door
That leads to Christian comfort,
So hinney stand a gill,
Or len us just threehappince,
An' aw'll pray for ye aw will.

Threehappince, that aw hevent got,
Says aw, wi' me th day,
Or else aw'd let ye hed, says aw,
an' tried te move away;
He clutched us tightly be the airm,
Says he, cum stop, aw beg,
For aw've only got a hap'ny,
Will ye stand the tuther meg.

Aw chanced to hev a hap'ny wis,
Aw handid it te him,
Says he, God bless your bonny fyece,
Yor like me uncle Jim;
Aw moved away, but late at neet
Aw pass'd the varry door,
An' there, as drunk as man cud be,
Wes the one aw'd seen afore.

He did'nt seem to knaws agyen,
For haddin oot his hand,
Says he, cum here maw canny man,
What are ye gawn te stand,
Aw've only got a half-gill's price,
He show'd us't ower agyen,
But the ivorlastin hap'ny's charms,
Wi' me wes fairly gyen.

Says aw, me man aw pitty ye,
But pity dis ne gud;
Ye've show'd you paltry swindle tis,
Try wark, aw's sure ye shud,
Aw like the man that tyeks his gill,
An'decency hauds dear,
But oh! the man disarves contempt
That cadjis for his beer.
 

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

Oh! Jack, What myeks ye luck se sad,
Aw's sure yor put aboot?
Yor lips they trimmel like a leaf,
Yor feyce's like a cloot;
What ails ye, lad? cum tell yor wife,
Te calm yor adjitashun:
An' ease yor mind te find releef
Wi' wummin's consolashun.

Chorus:
Whey, Meg, it's jus ingratitude
What bothers me, maw pet;
The mair gud that ye try te de for sum
foaks i' this orld
Ye'll often find yor-sel warse tret.

Aw lent Billy Finny half-a croon,
When aw cud hardly spared,
Te lowse his troosers oot o' pawn;
For that aw waddint cared,
But he got ten bob te back a horse,
It's nyem wes sumthin funny,
It wun the race-but sad te say,
Aw nivor got me money.

He got wor Geordy's best black claes
When Rodger Turnbull deed,
Te gan te Rodger's funderal, Meg,
He'd tyek'nd iv his heed;
But i' sum drunken row at neet
the coat wes torn te tatters,
An' the hat he got frae unkil Mat's
Been three weeks at the hatters.

But, Meg, that's not the warst iv a'
Ye'll mind i' me last neet,
Aw got ower much at Riley's club,
This mornin i' the street;
Me throat wes parch'd, me munny gyen,
Aw chanced te meet Bill Finny,
Aw askt him wad he stand a gill,
He waddint stand a penny.

Ye cannet tell the gud aw've tried
Te de that raskil Bill;
Aw've lent him what he's nivor paid,
An' he waddent sstand a gill.
Cheer up, says Meg, we've a' te pay
For what we lairn, maw hinny,
Aw'll gie ye gill- but mind yor-sel,
Thor's plenty foaks like Finny.
 

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

When Gud Luck Shows its Fyece
Tune: Me Claes is me awn.

When gud luck shows its fyece, we find plenty frinds,
At least such we suppose them to be,
An' thor proffers o' kindness we welcum wi'joy,
Aye, the kindness se gladnin te se;
But when bad luck appears, thor smiles turn te froons,
Or at least they turn fearfully shy,
an' the ones that ye thowt luv'd ye best i' the world,
Turn thor heeds i' the strreet pass by.

Thor's mony a man that's tried te de gud
Wi' the riches prosperity browt,
When hard up he-sel fund his frinds few an' scairce,
An' the lesson he'd lairnt dearly bowt,
Like the man iv a race that gets the last place
Even if he's wun hundreds afore,
He's oft showfully pass'd be the ones that shud cheer
An' wi cumfort his mind's peace restore.

Thor's mony a man that's been famed for his skill,
But for which he's been shappily paid,
An' assistance refused when he most stood i' need,
Be the ones that throo him fortuns myed,
Till grim deeth laid him law i' sum oot the way grave,
The the ones that shud help't him afore,
Raise a moniment grand that 'ill cost twice as much
 As i' lif wad kept want frev his door.

When advorsity shows its dark fyece tiv a frind,
Dinnet slight him te myek his case warse,
Ye knaw not hoo seun things may turn wi' yor-sel,
Or hoo seun ye may find a revarse;
It's a cumfort te him when the frinds that he's had
When weel off, still think on him wi' pride,
I' the hard time o' need byeth te help an' console
True hearted, they cling biv his side.

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

Careless Jack

Tune: Pat Molloy

Aw'll sing ye a sang aboot a lad,
A lad aw kknaw se weel,
They call him Jack--his uther nyem
Aw thjink aw'll not reveal;
He's always happy iv his ways,--
The neet 'ill not turn dull
If once ye see his jolly fyece,
He's sure te heh the pull
Wi' witty words an' merry jokes
Thor always at his call,
He myeks the cumpny join his laff,
An'empty feuls sing small;
He's just the one we lake to see
When convorsayshun's slack,
Rispected, luv'd biv all his mates,
They call him Carelses Jack.

He joins the dance wi' manly grace,
An' sings byeth strang an' sweet,
Aw's sure he's wun the hearts of a'
The lasses i' the street,
But sitll he dissent seem te care
For owt that foaks may say,
Or think, or de,--te him its pree
Ye'd think te heh the sway;
He plays at games, an' loss or win,
He always pays hisshare,
An' let the cumpny scoff or jeer,
He nivor seems te care;
Aw've seen the time when dull me-sel,
An' life to me wes black,
Aw only wish'd aw'd been like him;
Aw envied Careless jack.

But, oh, lads, aw've heerd it whispor'd
His happy way's not real,
It's just a cloak te hid the grief
That he wad fain conceal,--
The only lass he'd ivor had
He meant te call his awn
Had jilted him, an' teun a mate
Ov his te be her man;
An' ivor since that time he's tried
Te myek the world beleeve
That he cared nowt for her he thowt
Wad nivor, false, deceive;
Tho Jack can myek a cumpny gay
His heart's still on the rack;
We seldum knaw what uthers feel,
Then pity Careless Jack

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 

Bella Ramsey's Lad

Tune: Brighton

Oh Meggie, hinny, cum this way, an' gie yor ears to me!
Wes Bella Ramsey's hurried words, wi' fyece se full o' glee;
Aw've got a lad, a bonny lad, --a lad aw've wanted lang,
An' aw'll tell ye all aboot hikm, if ye lissen te me sang

Chorus
Tune- The Shuggor Shop

Oh Meg, he's the only lad aw've ivor had!
Oh, my, aw wish the neet was here!
Oh, dear, aw's over hed an' eers i' luv,
Aw waddent loss a lad like him for twenty pund a eer!

He's just the lad aw've oftin dreamt aw'd like se weel te see,
It myeks us feel se funny-like te think he fancies me;
He danced wi' me at Nancy White's, then teuk us te the play,
An' set us hyem se late at neet- tho, aw knaw twes oot his way.

He says he's cumin back the neet- aw wunddor if he will,
He said his nyem wes Stivison- he leeves up Artuhur's Hill;
But he kept us tawkin there se lang aw slipt inte the hoose,
For if wor foaks had wakint up, aw had ne gud excuse.

Aw wish the neet wes only here, te see the dark blue eyes
That's myed us feel se queer the day, an' have se mony sighs;
Aw wish aw saw his fustin claes throo them bright panes o' glass,
Or heard him whussel, as if te say, cum oot, may canny lass!

Aw'll clean the hoose, then clean ne-sel an' if work foaks gans oot,
Aw'll luck me best, an' let him in,--he'll stopan oor, nedoot;
Aw wundor what we'll tawk aboot,--each minit seems a score,
Wad aw been se impayshunt if aw'd had a lad before?

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

Young Jimmy com cryin frae scheul;
Says the muther, What's hurt ye, me son?
Says he, Whey aw cannet but cry
Throo them words thor's been said be Mat Dunn;
He sneer'd an' he call'd us glee-eyed
Afore a' the big lads i' the scheul,
An' aw thowt as it went te me heart,
At the time that aw luckt like a feul.

The muther says, Jim, dinnet cry,
Or ye'll myek us as bad as yor-sel,
He shuddint myed gam o' yor eyes,
But he's vext as he sees ye excel;
Ye can beet ivry lad i' the class
At sife'rin an' writin as weel,
An' envy 'ill myek them gie vent
Te the spite that they cannet conceal.

Ye knaw that Mat Dunn he's a dunce,
An' he's one o' the bad, selfish kind
That wad like ivry lad like his-sel,
Or warse, so his spite dinnet mind,
Thor's nivor a man i' the world
That gets on weel can please ivry one,
So his ignorance ye munnit heed,
But just think o' yorsel, an' push on

He call'd ye glee-eyed,-- so he did,
Whey then let him, it winnet hurt ye,
'Twes God's will te myek ye that way,
An' we cannet help what hes te be,--
It's what's i' the heed myeks the man,
Tho silly foaks mock them, me lad,
They de the most har te thor-sels,
So dinnet let words myek ye sad!

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

Aw've lost me bonny lad,
Wor littil Billy's deed,
Thor's nebody can tell me pain,
Aw's nearly oot me heed;
Te think ne mair aw'll hear the voice
So joyus, sweet, an' free,--
Aw've lost me bonny lad,
An' the day's lang te me!

Aw've lost me bonny lad,
Aw's greetin aw the day,
An' sair aw cried this morning when
Aw put his toys away,
Aw rapt them up amang his claes,
But still his form aw see,--
Aw've lost me bonny lad,
An' the day's lang te me!

Aw've lost me bonny lad,
It's mebbies for the best,
The neybors say, te cheer us wi'
The thowt, -he's noo at rest;
But, oh! hoo can a muther think
It's best her bairn shud dee?--
Aw've lost me bonny lad,
An' the day's lang te me!

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 

Mistriss Taylor's Poisin!
Tune- The Bonny Laddy's Yung

Mistriss Taylor she got drunk an' wes fightin wiv her man,
So he thowt the way te quiet her-te nail her wes his plan;
He blacken'd byeth her eyes- for his blows she cuddnt stop,
An' he thwot that just the way te keep here noise in;
So what de ye think she did but gan tiv a kimist's shop,
Wiv here mind myed up te swally nowt but poisin.

The kimist he luckt at her an' he saw that she wes full,
She axt for oxlid assid,--but he wassent such a feul
Te give her such a thing, for he thowt twad de as weel
If he gov her sumthin else just like the mixtor;
So he wrapt up Epsom Salts an put poisin on the seal,
An' kept laffin tiv hissel the way he'd fix'd her.

Mistriss Taylor she got hyem efter scramlin up the stairs,
Then she drunk a pot o' whiskey an begun to say her prayers,
An' she swally'd the whole dose as detarmin'd as cud be,
For the drink it myed her braverthan she wad been;
But thereckly it wes ower, whey she thowt she cuddent dee,
Ay, an' noo she wes mair sober than she had been.

She shooted iv her man, an' she browt him tiv her side,
There he saw her pale as only ghost wi' eyes an' mooth se wide;
Says she--Aw'll dee, aw's poisn'd bringthe doctor here to me,
For, Jack, awve been a wife byeth gud an' thrifty,
So run away like leetnin, for aw's ower yung te dee,
Ay, aw's ower yung te dee- aw's only fifty!

He ron an 'browt the kimist,--the syem kimmist i' the lark,--
Says he,--Aw goh ye Epson Salts, they cannet be at wark.
Se seun as this, aw's sartin!-an' it fill'd her full o' shem,
But the salts they work'd a cure her man had wanted,
For since then she's been teetotal, an' she says she'll keep the syem;
For her mind wi' salts an' poisin's always hauntid.

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

Oh, Jack, what's the metter? ye luck se doon-heated,
Wativor's yor trubbil? aw hope ye'll tell me,
It pains us te see a yung chep sad as ye.
Whey, Joe, man, aw'm nearly heart broken, believe us,
Aw can find ne injoyment i' me pipe or me glass,
Me luv for me mary's byeth strange an'unsartin,
Aw heh ne peace o' mind throo that Factory Lass!

She works i' the fact'ry amang lots o' lasses,
But nyen o' the beauties that's there can compare
Wi' the lass that aw's efter,--she's smart an' she's bonny,
Wi' blue eyes, a Wellinton noes, an' red hair;
Her mooh wad tempt ony te wish they dor kiss them,
Her lucks a' tegither a Queen wad surpass,
But, oh man, aw's frighten'd she cares nowt aboot us,
Ay, an' me deep i' luv wi' that Factory Lass!

Aw left her one mornin te join the Militia,
An' sairly she cried an' aw  hoped 'twes for me,
But noo man, aw doot it, --aw'm not often jealous,
But really aw've seen what aw'd rether not see.
She wes leet-myend an' canny the mornin aw left her,
But noo she's se stoot, that the neybors a' pass
Remarks,--when aw hear the maw shudder an' fear that
She's been false te me hes that Factory Lass!

Aw sumtimes imadjin aw shud marry sweet Mary,
But if aw propose man, aw've ne courage wid,
For aw've thowt te me-sel that thor might be sumbody,
Had mair reet te her, ay, an' mair reet te did.
So aw feel se unhappy, the whole toon aw wander,
But whativor shud happen, whativor shud pass,
Aw promise te tell ye the next time aw meet ye,
Aw'm as daft as a feul throo that Factory Lass!
 

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

Te kort me lass aw oftin try,
But mischief shines iv her bonny blue eye,
She'll cock up her nose as aw pass by,
An' she's always pickin her fun oot o' me.
Says she, Can aw help't, when ye plague us se?
Ye nivorsay owt aboot luv te me!
Says she; says aw, Aw de!
Says she, Haud yor tung, divventbother us se!
Says aw, Whey what can a poor fellow de?
Noo whewill ye hev, if ye winnet heh me?
Says she, Haud yor tung divvent bother us se!

Says aw, Aw like ye as weel as man can,
Roond the worldfrae Newcassell for ye aw wad gan,
If aw divvent speak fine its as fine as aw can,
An' what else te please ye can ivor aw de?
Says she, Ye knaw weel that aw gan wi Jack Broon,
Sartinly, says aw; says she,
He's the canniest, bonniest lad i' the toon,
Is he tho? saysaw, not he!
Says she, Haud yor tung, divent bother us se!
Says aw, De ye think that ye'll frighten me?
Ye knaw that Jack Broon gans wi' Mary McCree,
Says she, Haud yor tung divent bother us se!

Says She, Did aw not see ye the day,
Stoppin an' tawkin te fat Jinny Grey?
Says aw, For a frind mun aw gan oot the way,
She wes axin the time, aw wes luckin te see!
Says she, Wassent Jinny a sweetheart o' yours?
Sartinly, says aw; says she,
Ye'll gan wi' byeth new an' aud sweethearts of course!
Says she;  says aw, Not me!
Says she, Haud yor tung, divvent bother us se!
Says aw, It's  strange we se seldum agree,
Yor always findin sum falt wi' me!
Says she, Haud yor tung, divvent bother us se!

Says aw, For a mnnit just listen te sense,
Aw'll set up a hoose, an' aw'll spare ne expense,
But aw'll want a wife, the set up te mense,
An' aw think that aw cuddent heh better than ye!
Says she, It's yor turn te pick fun oot o' me,
Sartinly, says aw; says she,
Ye'll promise ne mair te plague us se!
Says aw, Yor as daft as a body can be,
Aw'll plague ye far mair! sayws aw; says she,
Huts, lad, haud yor tung, divvent bother us se!
 

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

Noo aw's byeth deprest an' sad,
Tho aw once wes blithe an' glad,
an' cud trip aboot the toon byeth trim an' neatly;
Aw wes happy neet an' morn,
But iv aw sic joys aw's shorn
Since aw fell se deep i' luv wi' Sally Wheatley.

Chorus:
O dear me, aw dinnet knaw what te de,
For Sally's teun me heart away completely,
An' aw'll nivor get it back,
For she gans wi' Mistor Black,
An' they say he's gan te marry Sally Wheatley.

Aw nivor saw sic a lass,
Tho aw knaw she lik't her glass,
An' cud toss a pot o'  whisky ower sweetly,
But it's reet te tyek yor drop
If ye just knaw when te stop--
That wes just the varry way wi' Sally Wheatley.

Hoo aw felt aw dinnet knaw,
 The first time aw Sally saw,
Iv a threesum reel she hopt aboot se leetly;
An' aw might hev had a chance,
If aw'd askt her up te dance,
But aw wes over shy te speak to Sally Wheatley.

So, as often is the case,
Ye'll find uthers i' yor place
If ye dinnet shuv aheed-an' fettle reetly,
For aw'd scarcely turn'd me back
When aw ther saw Mistor Black,
He was jiggin roond the room wi' Sally Wheatley.

An' he mun hev myed it reet
When he set her hyem that neet-
Efter wark, drest up, he gans te see her neetly;
Thor's greet danger i' delay,
Or aw'd not been sad the day;
If aw had a heart aw'd brickt for Sally Wheatley.
 
 

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

Tuen: Pretty Polly Perkins

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

Chorus

What wretchedness, what misery,
Thor's ne one can tell,
Except them that's been oot o' wark, like me-sel.

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

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

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

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

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

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

Tune- Sad is Me Fate

Aw's as happy as a queen an' the day gans alang
Like an oor i' the munth o' May,
Said young Meggie Bensin, wiv a fyece full o' smiles,
For me lad's cum back the day.
Aye, an' mony's the lang weary neet aw've pass'd,
Since me luv bid me gud-bye,
Aw nivor thowt aw wad leeve te see this happy day,
For aw've deun nowt else but cry.

Chorus:
But Jack's cum back, an' we'll hear his crack
Aboot the lang one an' twenty days;
The Millisha's broken up, an me luver he's cum hyem,
He's cum hyem iv his sowljor's claes.

He nivor sent a letter a' the time he wes away,
Tho he might, for aw'd deun'd for him;
He nivor let us knaw if he miss'd us there at a',
Such neglect's an awful sin.
But aw'll talk te Jack when aw get him be me-sel,
An' aw'll let him knaw me mind,
Tho' aw's sartin the lad's ne better then he shud,
Still aw think iv his heart he's kind!

Aw've heard that he courted anuthor lass when away,
De ye think he wad be that bad;
Tho he's bad eneuf for owt, an' dissent care for nowt,
Still aw think that he's still me lad.
Aw knaw he wes fond o' the lasses when at hyem,
But it's nattoril that he shud,
An' aw've heard his muther say his fethur wes the syem,
So ye see that it runs i' the blud!

He's nivor got promoted tho aw's sartin that he might,
But he blackt the corporil's eye,
An' they gov him such a crop, aw fairly thowt aw'd drop,
When aw first saw me luv cum nigh;
But his military figgor an' fine sowljor's claes
Myed us wish he wad keep them on,
He luckt se rispectable te what he always dis,
Aw cud call him nowt else but John!

He kiss'd me muther first when he com intethe hoose,
Thor's ne jillisy i' me breest,
Buyt aw think he might might seen aw wes stannin biv her side,
An' he notis'd me the least;
But the poor lad wes drunk wi' the drink he had had,
An' cud hardly stand,--aw's sad,
Aw wish he'd stop at hyuem, then aw'd keep him for me-sel,
Maw brave-luckin Gallowgate Lad!

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

The Gallowgate Lad's Weddin!

Tune: Pritty Jimima

Oh, Hoe, de ye knaw that aw's married te Jack?
The die its cast,-an' noo aw's fast,
Aw's wed te the Gallowgate Lad at last,
Says Meggie one day te me.
But the day before he teuk us te church,
Aw thowt neethor ov us wad see
The priest, for Jack, bliss him, had pawned the ring,
An' myed a' the weddin brass flee.

Chorus:
But still he's me lad-he's me canny bit lad,
Be bonny bit lad,-me Gallowgate Lad;
But still he's me lad,-he's me canny bit lad;
Me bonny bit Gallowgate Lad!

His muther an' me raised the muney that day,
Wi' sairish tues, the parson's dues
Wes got, then te church we all went away,-
The bridesmaid wes Sarah Dunn
The sarvis oweer-the beagil an' clark
Went hyem wis te join i' the fun;
The dinner we had wes seun polish'd off,
Then the dancin an' singin begun.

Aw sat there as modist as modist can be,
At wor Jack's side, wi' married pride,
An' aw had me bit bairn upon me knee,
Aw wes confined three weeks before,--
But Jack kept pushin the whiskey roond,
Tho he knew it wassint paid for,
Till the beagil an' clark wes mortil drunk
An' his muther had fell on the floor.

Then he black'd  a' thor fyeces wi' chimley seut,
Mischeevous lad, he's warse then bad,
For he gov Tom Smith the fiddler, the fut,
An' seun he had him sprwlin doon;
Then Jack Tate an' him had a fight i' the yard,
An' he spoiled me granmuther's new goon,
Throo brickin some glasses an' cowpin a jug
O' the best penny beeer i' the toon.

The Row on the Stairs wassint owt the this,
For when he's full he's like a feul,
He swore ivry lass i' the room he'd kiss,
Hed did, an' it myed us luck glum;
For aw thowt he might been content wi' me,
An' tiv a' uther lasses keep dumb;
Then he teuk the bit bairn frae me te sing
Oh, Aw wish yor Muther wad cum!

When aw went upstaris wi' the bairn te bed,
Whe shud aw see i' the place o' me,
But fat Sally Dunn wi' Jack,-an' he said
He had tyekin her for me!
Aw hope it's true that he myed a mistake,
For it wassint owt plissint te see;
He's still on the spree-but when sober aw wish
He'll behave like a man te me!

Wor Geordy says the Gallowgate Lad might heh glen him an
invitashun te the weddin,-it wad been nowt oot ov his pocket if he had, for Geordy's
yungist bairn hes te be krisin'd on Sunday, an' he wad tell'd jack where te stand the get the cheese an' breed.
-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

Tune: The Sewin Masheen

Aud Mary stud upon the floor,
An awful seet te see,
A storm o' rage wes on her broo,
aye, pale wi' rage wes she;
Her dowtor, a bonny bit lass,
The pride o' the hoose, wes there
An' her son, a lad o' twenty-two,
The cawse ov all her care

Chorus:

An' the muther she cried i' pain,
Aw wish yor fethur wes here!
When the words ov a muther hes ne effect,
Aw wish yor fethur wes here!

Are ye me son? the muther cries,
Are yye me canny lad?
Are ye the forst-born family pet
That myed wor hearts se glad?
Aw's sure yor nowt like the syem,
For the fearful life ye lead's
Eneuff te brick yor muther's heart,
Eneuff te torn her heed!

Last neet what kept ye oot see lang?
Bad cumpiny, aw's sure,
Ye nivor browt yor wages hyem,
Ye knaw wor only poor;
Ye wor mortal drunk when ye com,
An' yor claes iv a dorty mess,
Oh, that muthers shud reer thor bairns
Te bring them such distress!

The neybors say ye play at cairds
Alang wi' fightin Jim,
What is he, that myeks ye desart
Yor canny hyem for him?
Ye think'cas yor fethur's at wark
I(' the factry ivry neet,
Ye'll impose on me, ye heartless lad,
Ye knaw it's owt but reet!

The muther te the dowtor turns--
Meg, de ye not think shem?
Last neet the clock elivvin chimed
Afore ye thowt o' hyem;
Te sum paltry dancin ye'd gyen,
The fire burnt low i' the grate,
An' yor muther cried as she walk'd the floor,
When her dowtor stopt se late!

Hes neethor o' ye hearts at a',
Can neethor feel for me?
Neet eftor neet it's just the syem,
What can a wummin de?
As seun as yor fethur cums hyem,
Aw'll tell him yor bad coreer,
When ye dinnet mind yor muther's words,
It's time yor fethur wes here!

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

Tune: Paddy is the Boy

On a fine Sunday neet,
Whey ye'll see sic a seet
If ye wandor alang
Mid the fashunable thrang,
That see oft bend thor way
At the close o' the day
Te swaggor round famed Jesmond Gardens;
Where thor's byeth yung an aud
I' thor Sunday claes clad,
Luckin happy an' glad,
As they join i' the squad,
For it's only but reet
On a fine Sunday neet,
They shud a' hev a walk throo the Gardens.

Chorus:

An' ye'll think as ye wink
At the lass that may pass,
That the spree that ye see,
An' the treat's forst-class,
For a' throo the toon ye'll find nowt te compete
Wi' swaggrin roond the Gardens on a fine Sunday neet.

There ye'll see lad an' lass
As they sit on the grass,
An' they whispor quite law,
Tho thor words ye might knaw;
But between ye an' me
We had best let them be,
An' just tyek a walk throo the Gardens.
Where thor's hoops sic a size,
That ye open yor eyes
An' ye gaze wi' surprize
On the dust they myek rise;
But the forms they contain
Myek ye wishful te gain
A sweet smile frae the queens at the Gardens.

Wiv a lot o' these belles,
Aw mean mang the fine swells,
As a fact it's been said-
The manadge man's not paid,
But the men te, as weel,
Wi' sic fellows can deal,
An' set thor sells off at the Gardens.
Man, it's fops just like these
That the lasses can please,
Wiv a tung that can teaze
Or myek glad, wi' the breeze,
For if sweethearts ye seek,
Ye need nowt but gud cheek,
An' thor's plenty te get at the Gardens.

Thor's the married man tee,
Luckin radiant wi' glee,
Wiv his bairns an' his wife,
A sweet pictor o'life;
When vile uthers withoot,
For thor prey prowl aboot,
A slur an' disgrace te the gardens
Lads, Thor's fine lasses there,
Brightest gems o' the fair,
Wi' sic fine beuks o' prayer
I' thor hands, aw declare,
That wad myek ye beleeve
They cud nivor deceeve,
But they'll often leave church for the Gardens.

Then thor's uthers that think
Thor's mair plissure i' drink,
Wiv a pipe an' a glass
Sit an' joke as foaks pass;
But the pair that aw'd see
Is the cupple that's free
Frae the crood, myekin luv, at the Gardens
Cud owt better be seen
Than a cupple, soreen,
Airm in airm, neet an' clean,
Wawkin doon by the Dene?
An' at hyem-- when they kiss
When they pairt--hoo they bliss
The grand neet that they've spent at the Gardens.
 
 

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

Air: Pat Haggerty's and Leather Breeches

Aw've oft heerd it said, tho ne 'tenshun aw've paid
Te words that aw've just tret as ficshun,
That man wes but born te be plauged neet an' morn,
An'wrmmin te be contradicshun,
Till aw saw bills stuck oot- the toon roond aboot,
Advortisements te i' the papors,
Advisin the Ladies te shop before Six,
If they'll de a gud turn for the Drapors!

Tawkin- Shop afore Six, maw hinnies, an' afore Ten on Seturday neets, ye munnit imagin ivrybody lies i' bed a' Sunday if ye de,
-an' if ye gan te church, foaks 'll think varry little on ye if they knaw ye war oot se late the neet afore;
besides, ye might varry easy get intiv a street row. What wad yor man think if ye war gawn
hyem wi' yor nose broke?

It's better te gan throo the day when yor man's
At wark, like a true son o' Brittin,
Then shop late at neet when it's only yor reet
At his side te be cannily sittin!
So gan throo the day withoot ony delay,
When the shop's byeth clean, tidy, an' bonny,
An' oblige byeth the maister an' man if ye can,
An' they'll myek ye as welcome as ony.

Tawkin- Here's a fine speciment o' the evil effects o' shoppin
eftor six- Bessie Broon fell over a shutter an' spoilt her new hat
wi' rowlin intiv a guttor. The vordick wes sarved her reet. Thor's
ne simpithy for the wilful.

For small or greet gains the'll a' tyek ivry pains,
An' sarve ye wi' pride an' wi plisshor,
Ne blsuterin then, but like gud sivvil men--
Attend te yor wants wi' gud messhor;
But oif eftor six ye shud gan, it's a fex,
Yor visit's just like an intrushun,
For packin away--ne attenshun they'll pay,
An' ne cumfort ye'll find i' confushun!

Mair Tawkin-
Lasses, dinnit shop eftor six, it lucks badly
swaggrin throo the streets at that time; foaks might think ye war
luckin for a lad amang the factory cheps.

Dinnit shop late at neet!- for ye knaw it's not reet
Te hindor a man frev injoymint,
Withoot plague or pest let him hev a bit rest,
Ye'll nivor get thenks for annoymint;
So oblige if ye can, an' ye'll nivor get rang
If ye dinnit aw's pleased when aw miss ye,
But faith if ye de, jolly frinds we'll seun be,
An' for ivor, maw hinnies, aw'll bliss ye.

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

The sun wes shinin i' the west,
An' aw wes shinin i' me best,
An' Peggy like a queen wes drest,
The day we went te Tynemouth, O.
Upon the sands, byeth happy, we
Injoy'd the breezes frae the sea,
An' wish'd the day a week might be
Upon the sands at Tynemouth, O.

Alang the sands we myed wor way,
Like plodgers on a rainy day,
The lasses bonny feet display
Upon the sands at Tynbemouth, O;
Sum fiddlers thre te myek thor brass
Played teuns te tice byeth land and lass,
Maw cumley Peg at Tynemouth, O.

The dancin deun, says Peg te me,
Thor's lasses bathin i' the sea,
An'if ye'll haud me claes, says she,
Aw'll hev a bathe at Tynemouth, O.
No, Peg, says aw, no, dinnet gan!
What flaid, says she, are ye a man?
In tiv a fine masheen she ran,
Te change her cales at Tynemouth, O.

Aw stud dumbfoonded ,stiff, an' mute,
An' hoped she nivor might cum oot,
Te show her-sel te croods aboot,
That watch foaks bathe at Tynemouth, O.
At last, gud grashus, Peg fell doon
The steps,-- aw thowt twes iv a swoon,
Up she gets  iv a lang blue goon,
Amang the waves at Tynemouth, O.

Then Peg's reed heed wes plainly seen,
Wiv figor that wad mense a queen,
Aw wish'd beside her aw had been
Amang the waves at Tynemouth, O.
Upon the shore,--the bathin deun,
Peg ful o' live an' full o' fun,
Got on a cuddy's back te run
Alang the sands at Tynemouth, O.

But plishur often wid brings pain,
Byeth sad an' sair we sowt the train,
For Peggy's hoops, she myed o' cane,
Wes lost that day at Tynemouth, O;
She sadly sighed, wi' leuk se meek,
An' laid here heed agyen me cheek,
But kiss an' cuddle myed her speak,
I' cummin hyem frae Tynemouth, O.
 

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

Thor's a bonny bit lass that leeves on the Kee,
The tell'd Peggy Todd she'd a noshun o' me,
An' Peggy tell'd me, so aw thowt aw'd gan doon,--
For aw like Bessie Walker the best i' the toon.

Away then aw gans, an' aw waits at the door,
Aw knew hoo te whussel,-- aw'd been there before;
Then oot cums young Bessie, gud grashus what bliss,
When aw smackt her reed lips wiv a gud hearty kiss.

Says she, canny lad, ye had best let us be,
Ne' lad but me awn shall act like this te me!
Aw'd just like te knaw what's browt ye here the neet?
Hoo aw lafft when aw passed the aud joke twes me feet.

Yor veet then, says she, mun hev cum the rang way,
If it's  te see me ye shud cum throo the day!
Huts, Bessie, says aw, de ye think aw's not reet,
Throo the day hes ne sweets like the curtin at neet.

Ye tell'd Peggy Todd ye'd a noshun o' me!
She luckt se confused--aw wes lickt what te de.
At last i' me airms when sweet Bessie aw squeezed,
Aw whisper'd the words that console when ye've teazed.

She sighed as she laid her heed doon on me breest,
But smiled when aw menshund the nyem o' the priest.
Hoo happy we pairted that neet aw went doon,
For aw like Bessie Walker the best i' the toon.

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

What heedless foaks are we, what war we born te be?
What myeks the world se full 'o care te sum?
It's time that's idly spent myeks strangers te content,
Wi nivor gein a thowt o' what's te cum!

Wi' foaks that rowl i' wealth, an' boast the best ov health,
Misfortun, nivor dreamt ov, strikes them dumb;
For rich as weel as poor hev trubbils te endure,
Wi' nivor gein a thowt o' what's te cum!

What myeks foaks leeve se fast? they cannet thnk 'twill last,
For trubbil shows its heed, an' myeks them glum;
An' lots oft hardship feel, that might hev fettled weel,
If they'd only gein a thowt o' what's te cum!

The workman that's first-class ye'll oft find likes his glass,
An what shud be at hyem he spends on rum;
It's not till things luck queer, an' life seems dark an' drear,
They ivor giv a thowt o' what's te cum!

When fortun smiles aroond, an' plenty frinds aboond,
Extravagance shud nivor myek us num;
What we enjoy one day the next may pass away,
So give a thowt, gud foaks, te what's te cum!

Tho like the bizzy bee, industrus we may be,
Life's winter may bring happy days te sum;
But still remember this, tho croon'd wi' earthly bliss,
Thor's anuthor an' a better world te cum!

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

The Tyebles cleared away, efter tea the varry day
Lizzie Dunn had coonted summers just a score,
The cumpny iv a raw-- te gie dull care a thraw,
Myed up thor minds for jiggin doon the shore.

Chorus-
Doon the shore, sic a stir, sic a stir doon the shore,
Byeth lad an' lass, se clivor,
Danced as if they'd dance for ivor,
That neet we had the jiggin doon the shore.
 

Iv ivry kind o' dance, sum lass's winnin glance,
Myed young hearts beat time te steps upon the floor;
The fiddler's merry teun wes monarch o' the fun,
That neet we had the jiggin doon the shore.

Sum whisper whe's the belle? aw'd like te knawn me-sel,
But the fyece, or else the bonny claes they wore,
Myed a' alike te me, frae Walker te the Kee,
That neet we had the jiggin doon the shore.

The room wi' voices rung, for drink myeks wummin's tung
Keep waggin when thor's onything astir;
An men, like lads agyen, let ne bit lass alyen,
When meant te join the jiggin doon the shore.

The lads then slied away, sum honnied words te say,
An' upon the stairs sum lass's luv implore,
A kis, a squeeze, an' then thor up an' roond agyen,
Byeth happy an' content upon the floor.

But time seun flees away-the brickin o' the day
That shone on tired fyeces throo the door,
Myed wives thor men intreat i' bed te change thor beat,
An' finish up thor jiggin wiv a snore.

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

Tune- The Captain wiv his Whiskers.

Did ye ivor see a couple that shuffled frae the crood,
Te utter iv a whisper what they darent speak alood?
But what greet mischief follow'd--te fill sum poor breast wi' pain,
That they might, throo sum petty spite, a moemnt's triumph gain;
Aye, that plottin couple there, wi' backbitin myek hearts sair,
An' myek ye that ye'd nearly curse the mischief-breedin pair,
For whisp'rin, like a scurvy plague, 'ill ge ne victim rest,
But fill the breest wi' bitter pangs ne man alive can best.

Did ye ivor see a couple that whisper'd at a meal,
Anb' giggled at thor ignorance as tho' they'd byeth deun weel,
Or iv a cumpny nickrin at sum shabby mean remark
On sum poor sowl they'd myek thor scoff, like stabbin i' the dark;
Did ye nivor think the brain, that sic bairnish heeds contain,
Cud only find injoyment iv an' idle dirty srain?
Tho' whisp'rin hes its sunshine it hes its cloods as weel,--
Sic acts like these the silly mind an' vulgor thowts reveal.

Did ye ivor see a luvin couple linkin doon the street?
An' watch him squeeze her airm i' his an' whisper somethin sweet.
Then whisp'rin hes a charm that aw cannet weel express;
Behint the door, when they get hyem, its joys ye'll nivor guess,
When yor breeth falls, as ye speak on a soft an' silky cheek,
An' hearts wi' honest passhun throb, thor marrow there te seek;
Oh, happy time! oh, happy pair!--when whisp'rin magnifies
The little words, the tender squeeze, an' brightens luvin eyes.
 

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

Cum an' bive us yor cumfort, maw hinny,
An'ease a poor mind that's distrest,
Tho' aw cannet gie vent te me feelins,
Or stings that me breest noo infest;
This queer world seems te me sadly altered,
Ye dinnet knaw whe's be yor side,
For the foaks that ye think nice an' frindly
Gan daft wi' that Devil's plague call'd Pride.

There's Bill Daglish that once leev'd beside us,
Aw happen'd te see him last week,
He just luckt at me claes,--they war shabby,
Then pass'd withoot offrin te speak;
An' Bob Charltin, ye'll knaw, an aud scheulmate,
Withoot claes his bare skin to hide,
He's a clerk noo, an' dresses quite swellish,
But he'll not even nod, throo his Pride.

Janie Pearson was reckon'd a beauty,
Wi' figor byeth gud like an' smart,
That she set nearly a' the lads crazy,
Her image wes first iv each heart,
But she thowt thor acquaintence beneath her,
She aim'd high, but fell, --thrawn aside,
Noo she's not worth a decent land's notice,--
Thor's mair harm then gud wi' sic pride.

The bit pride ov a man te be tidy's
A treat for a body te see,
An' the pride of a man te keep decent
Gains respect i' the highest degree;
But the Chep that thinks nobody like him,
An' walks tho the toon wes his awn,
An' shuns mony an honest acquaintence,--
Aw think he's a feul-not a man!

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

Aw's varry sad, aw's sure aw is,--
The doctor shakes his heed,
An' Meggie's muther moans an' cries,
As tho me luv wes deed;
An' ivry frind luks dull and flaid,
A sorry seet te see:
Oh, Meggie Bell aw cannet tell
Hoo sad aw feel for ye!

Ye've been me lass for mony a day,
Me pet, me luv, me pride,
Fareweel tiv ivry joy i' life
Withoot yor be me side;
Ye've fill'd hyor neybors' breests wi' pain
They whisper that ye'll dee;
Oh, Meggie Bell, aw cannet tell
Hoo sad aw feel for ye!

When aw heerd that ye'd tyekin bad,
A hurried doon te see,
Yor cumley form wes sairly worn,
Yor cheek frae roses free,
The lash droop'd on each bonny eye,
The hide thor leet free  me;
Oh, Meggie Bell, aw cannet tell
Hoo sad aw feel for ye!

Me heart  seems tho twes i' me mooth,
Aw feel nowt like me-sel,
Wi' hope aw cannet fin'd relief,
Thor's nyen for Maggie Bell;
An' when she leaves this weary world
Aw hope that aw'll gan tee:
Oh, Meggie Bell, aw cannet tell
Hoo sad aw feel for ye!

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

Jack Hall, a boisteroius noodle,
A hearty volunteer,
Honor'd for his glorious deeds
At shops where they sell beer,
A reggilar cock-tail tumler
An' a model te the toon,
For he cud drink a pint o' rum,
An' a gill te send it doon.

One fine neet Jack went te Mackey's
Te hev, on tick, his gill.
'Twes there he saw a rifle chep,
That just had been at drill,
Jack first luckt at his awn blue claes
Then glower'd at the gray,
Be gox, says he, mine's best for nowt
An' a half a crown a day!

The rifleman luckt varry feerce,
For he had cause ne doot,
Wiv urjins frev a boozy lot,
They started te dispute;
The blue sat doon, the gray got up
Te speak,--wiv a noble air
Advised a man on the tyeble
The get doon an' tyek the chair.

Mister chairman, gentleman, all,
Aw's private i' the grays,
Aw'll not, like a vain egotist,
Claim ivrybody's praise:
Aw volunteer'd te sarve the Queen,
The enemy to defy,
The French heve oftin said they'd cum,
Aw'd like te see them try.

Then what use wad the noodles be?
Wi' a' thor blethrin jaw,
They cuddent talk the foeman ower
Te hev a frindly draw;
The riflemen wad fight like men,
An' te victry bravely steer,
They'd blaw the en'my up wi' shot,
When the noodles wad wi' beer.

The riflemen are volunteers
Without a daily pay,
Thor sarvices war nivor bowt,.
Like heroes o' pipe-clay!
Amid hoorays an' deefnin cheers,
This brave sowljor teuk his seat,
Applauded biv a' Mackey's props,
Expectin he'd stand treat.

The noodle then got up te speak,
An' wink't his blinkin eye.
Says he- Afore aw ope me mooth
Lets hev a drink, aw's dry!
He smackt his lips, then said--Maw frind,
Noo ye munnit think aw's fond,
Fop aw'll clear ivery charge he's myed,
Like a bumler aw'll respond.

The noodles are, ye'll  a' agree,
The best men upon earth;
Thor se genteel,-- se sober te,
Twes them that frist browt forth
The teetotal pledge for foaks te sign,
An' se noble they behave;
They'd stand thor grund,--or stand a gill,
Like warriors bowld an' brave.

The noodles thor a' gentlemen,
Rispected te be sure,
They nivor, like the rifle curs,
Fired ramrods on the moor;
The riflemen black-leg'd us an a',
Undermin'd wor daily pay,
But smash, aw'll fight him for a quart,
Then for war, lads, clear the way.

The words got high, the langwege low,
They kickt an' fowt an' swore,
Wi' broken noese, eyes bung'd up,
They rowl'd upon the floor;
The rifle roar'd--the noodle blair'd,
So te settle this dispute,--
The landlord, bein a civil man,
He quietly kickt them oot!

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
 
 

-Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries