My Eppie
Acomb, Fallowfield, and Wall lie within about two miles of each other,
between Hexam and Chollerford."- Brockie
There was five wives at Acomb,
And fie wives at: Wa',
And five wives at Fallowfield,
That's fifteen o' them a'.
They've drunken ale and brandy
Till they are all fu',
And I cannot get home to
My Eppie I trow,
My Eppie I trow.
And I cannot get home to
My Eppie I trow,
The Tyne Water's se deep, that
I cannot wade through;
And I've no horse to ride to
My Eppie I trow,
My Eppie I trow,
My Eppie I trow,
And I've no horse to ride to
My Eppie I trow,
In the Tyne I hev not a boat,
Nor yet cou'd I row
Across the deep water to
My Eppie I trow,
My Eppie I trow,
My Eppie I trow,
And I've no horse to ride to
My Eppie I trow.
-Bell's " Northern Bards," 1812.
The
Northumbrian's Sigh for His Native Country
At home wad I be,
And my supper made I see,
And marry with a lass
Of my own country.
If I were at hame,
I wad ne'er return again,
But marry with a lass
In my own country.
There's the oak and the ash,
And the bonny ivy tree;
How canst thou gan away, love,
And leave me?
O stay, my love, stay,
And do not gang away;
O stay , my love, stay
Along with me.
-Bell's "Northern Bards," 1812
Une Bagatelle.
As Cynthia roam'd her course one night
Along her pale domain,
Earth held an object to her sight
That rivall'd all her train.
Cynthia, amaz’d, stood still to gaze,
Then Mercury bade to rise;
See! see! says she, see yonder blaze,
Go fetch it to the skies.
The silver chain that bore the star,
Announc'd a violent rent;
Hold! hold! cried Venus from her car,
'Tis only Jenny K--t.
-Possibly the Jenny of Jessamond Mill. Phill Hodgson A.K.A. Primrose.
A South Shields Song
The Sailors are all at the bar,
They cannot get up to Newcastle;
The sailors are all at the bar,
They cannot get up to Newcastle.
Up wi' smoky Shields,
And hey for bonny Newcastle;
Up wi' smoky Shields,
And hey for bonny Newcastle.
- Bell's "Northern Bards," 1812.
Broom Busoms II
Blind Willie (William Purvis)
If you want a buzzem for to sweep your hoose,
Come to me, maw hinnies, ye may ha'e yor choose,
Chorus
Buy broom buzzems, buy them when they're new,
Fine heather bred'uns, better niver grew.
Buzzems for a penny, Rangers for a plack;
If ye winnot buy, aw'll tie them on my back.
If aw had a horse, aw wad hev a cairt;
If aw had a wife, she wad tyek me pairt.
Had aw but a wife, aw care not what she be--
If she's but a woman, that's eneuf for me.
If she liked a drop--her an' aw'd agree,
An' if she didn't like't-- there's the mair for me.
(added lines)
Up the Btcher Bank,
And down Byker Chare;
There you'll see the lasses
Selling brown ware.
Alang the Quayside,
Stop at Russell's Entry;
There you'll see the beer drawer,
She is standing sentry.
If you want an oyster,
For to taste your mouth,
Call at Handy Walker's
He's a bonny youth.
Call at Mr. Loggie's
He does sell good wine;
There you'll see the beer drawer,
She is very fine.
If you want an orange,
Ripe and full of juice,
Gan to Hannah Black's;
There you'll get your choose.
Call at Mr. Turner's
At the Queen's Head;
He'll not set you away
Without a piece of bread,
Down the river side
As far as Dent's Hole;
There you'll see the cuckolds
Working at the coal.
-Bell's "Northern Ballads."
For to make the
Haggish Nishe
For to make the haggish nishe
They put in some brown spishe.
Tarum tickle, tan dum,
To the tune o' tan dum,
Tarum tickle, tan dum.
And to make the haggish fine
They put in a bottle of wine.
Tarum tickle, tan dum,
To the tune o' tan dum,
To the tune o' tan dum,
Tarum tickle, tarum tickle tan dum.
OXYGEN GAS
On Rhenish, Madeira, Port, Claret and Sherry
Your fulsome eulogiums, bon-vivants, pray spare
'Tis granted, when sad, wine can render us merry,
And lighten our bosoms of sorrow and care;
But what vintage can fire us,
Enrapture, inspire us,
As Oxygen! what so delicious to quaff!
It is so animating,
And so titillating,
E'en grey-beards turn frisky, dance, caper, and laugh,
For what can so fire us, etc.
O wond'rous indeed is this bev'rage ethereal!
The mortal who quaffs it, altho' a mere clod,
Is straightway transformed to a being aerial,
And moves on earth's surface, in fancy a God.
In a bumper is given
A foretaste of Heaven,
All earthly vexation straight cease to annoy,
Whilst laughing and crying,
And efforts at flying,
Bespeak the soul toss’t in a tempest of joy.
For what can so fire us, etc.
Haste, haste to partake on't, ye men of grave faces,
Ye Quakers, and Methodist parsons likewise;
What tho' ye seem lost to the flexible graces,
And dormant the risible faculty lies
One quaff of the vapor
Will cause you to caper,
And swiftly relax your stiff solemniz'd jaws
You'll acknowledge the change too,
As pleasing as strange too,
And make the air ring with loud ha! ha! ha! ha's!
For what can so fire us, etc.
Let gin, rum, and brandy grow dearer and dearer,
Distillers stop working---no toper will mourn;
Of Gas we can make a delectable cheerer,
Which, nor reddens our noses, nor livers will burn;
Unbeholden to whisky
We'll drink and get frisky,
Nor fear that tomorrow our temples may ache;
Neither stomach commotions,
Nor chamomile potions,
Shall evermore cause us with terror to quake
For what can so fire us, etc.
Let the miser's deep coffers be fill'd to his mind now,
Let the man of ambition with honours abound,
Give the lover his mistress, complying and kind too,
And with laurel let Poets and Heroes be crown'd.
Let all be blest round me,
No envy shall wound me,
Contented and cheerful thro' life will I pass,
If fortune befriends me,
And constantly sends me
A quantum sufficit of Oxygen Gas.
For what can so fire us etc.
-Rhymes of Northern Bards, Bell, John Shield
The Vanished
Rose Restored
Sung by Mr. Frith At the Newcastle Concerts
When the forked lightnings fly and thunders roll,
And loud and fierce the madd'ning tempest raves,
Fears for her William wake in Mary's soul,
Who, far at sea, the rude commotion braves.
But when the storm is past,
When hush'd the angry blast,
And o'er the tranquil main the breeze soft whisp'ring blows,
Best hope her soothing balm bestows,
And back to Mary's cheek restores the vanis'd Rose,
Or when the wintry wind's terrific roar,
Dread yawns the deep, the mountain-billows rise,
And foaming surges dash along the shore.
Then tears of anguish stream from Mary's eyes.
Or when a tale of shipwreck dire she hears,
Thro' all her frame a chilly horror creeps,
The sad recital wakes a thousand fears,
And for her absent love, forlorn, she weeps.
But see! a ship appears!
And smiling thro' her tears,
Far o'er the tranquil main a wishful look she throws,
Her William's signal now she knows;
And whilst her gentle breast with love and rapture glows,
Straight back to Mary's cheek returns the vanish'd Rose.
-Marshall's "Norther Minstrel," 1807. John Shield
A Sunderland Song
Oh! the weary Cutter, and oh! the weary Sea,
O! the weary Cutter, that stole my laddie from me;
When I look'd to the Nor'ard, I look'd with a wat'ry eye,
But when I look'd to the South'ard, I saw my laddie go by
.- Sharpe's "Bishoprick Garland."
Northern Nursery Song
By bairn's a bonny bairn, a canny bairn, a bonny bairn,
My bairn's a canny bairn, and never looks dowley;
My bairn's a canny bairn, a canny bairn, a bonny bairn,
My bairn's a bonny bairn, and not a yellow-yowley.
-Sharpe's "Bishoprick Garland."
Tyne Fair
Since in cold there are some who don't wish to come out,
While others, confin'd, cannot ramble about;
To those in such cases I’ll offer a line,
While the ice is so thick upon Newcastle Tyne
Lol de loe, etc.
Jackey Frost, when he came, made the keelmen contrive,
While the river was frozen, how they should best thrive;
When one of them open'd a prospect so nice,
"Od smash ye! let's heave out wor planks on the ice."
I was going 'mongst the rest, the amusement to share,
When " Pay for the plank, sir!" says one with an air;
Slipt my hand in my pocket without e'er a frown,
And this knight of the huddock led me carefully down.
Huts, soldiers, and fiddlers arrested my view;
But something fell out, when away they all flew:
Fell out, did I say? why, I think 'twas fell in,
For they spy'd a gay barber sous'd up to the chin.
There were some rowley-powley, tetotum, dice-box,
While others, for liquor, were fighting game cocks;
While Neddy the Bellman-his bell tinkled on-
Said, a Cuddy Race started exactly at one.
O'er this fine icy walk, too, each belle had her beau,
Don skaiters cut figures their skill for to show;
All striving who'd get the most praise at the skait,
From the Member of Parliament down to the sweep.
A marine next went half down, whose paws on the ice
Went as fast as a cat's when she's kidnapping mice:
I began now to think 'twas a dangerous place,
When a Keel-Bulley roar'd, "Clear the road for a race."
The winning post seem'd a grand sight for a glutton,
For there hung suspended a plump leg of mutton;
Its rump orange laurels display'd to the view,
Which Cud Snapes after winning bedizen'd his brow.
This race was scarce done when another began,
'Tween knack-kneed Mall Trollop and bow-legged Nan:
This filly race made the folks round them to flock,
But knack-kneed Mall Trollop came in for the smock.
Hats, stockings, and hankerchifs, still hung as prizes,
Was run for by skaiters and lads of all sizes;
Razor grinders quite tipsy, with Bambro' Jack,
And God save the King, sung by Willy the Black.
Before I came home I'd a peep through the bridge,
Where a horse ran about with a man in a sledge;
I was bidding farewell to this cool winter's treat,
When in Will Vardy's tent I made choice of a seat.
"A game at quoits," says the landlord, " will finish the day.
With the tent pins for hobs ye may lather away;"
But the cords were soon cut, made him sulky and glum,
For down came the tent and three bottles of rum.
So now to conclude--here's wishing fresh weather,
That the poor and the rich may rejoice altogether;
Let's fill up our glasses and loyally sing,
Long live the Prince Regent, and God save the King.
Lol de lol, etc.
Describes the freezing of the River Tyne in January 1814. The freeze began in
December 1813 and froze the river for three days. At this time, people went onto
the river to skate and play games. (Horse shoes, football , quoits…) Races
were run on the ice, with prizes winners. On 31st January at least seven
tents were set up on the river for sale of spirits. Fires were lit. There
were dinner parties. Fiddlers and pipers provided music.
-William Mitford, "The Budget (1816)
The Impatient Lass
Tune-- " Low down in the Broom."
Deuce tek the clock; click-clackin' sae
Still in a body's ear;
It tells and tells the time is past,
When Jwohnnie sud been here:
Duce tek the wheel! 't will nit rin roun-
Nae mair to-neet I'll spin;
But count each minute wi' a seegh,
Till Jwohnnie he steels in/
How neyce the spunky fire it burns,
For twee to sit beseyde!
And theer's the seat where Jwohnnie sits,
And I forget to cheyde!
My fadder, tui, how sweet he snwores!
My mudder's fast asleep-
He promis'd oft, but, oh! I fear
His word he wunnet keep!
What can it be keeps him frae me?
The ways are nit sae lang!
An' sleet an' snaw are nought at aw,
If yen wer fain to gang!
Some ither lass, wi' bonnier faice,
Has catch'd his wicked e'e,
An I'll be pointed at, at kurk-
Nay! suiner let me dee!
O durst we lasses nobbet gang,
An' sweetheart them we leyke!
I'll run to thee, my Jwohnnie, lad,
Nor stop at bog or deyke:
But custom's sec a silly thing-
For men mun hae their way,
An' monnie a bonnie lassie sit,
An' wish frae day to day/
But whist!- I hear my Jwohnnie's fit-
Aye! that's his varra clog!
He steelks the faul yeat softly tui-
Oh! hang that cwoley dog!
Now hey for seeghs, an' sugar words,
Wi' kisses nit a few-
O but this warl's a paradise,
When lovers they pruive true!
-Anderson, Wigton Edition, Cumberland Songs, 1808, July 31st, 1802
Bold Archy Drowned
Tune- "The Bold Dragoon."
Awile for me yor lugs keep clear, maw spoke aw'll briefly bray,
Aw've been see blind wi' blarin that aw scarce ken what to say,-
A motley crew aw lately met, my feelins fine had sairly wounded,
By axin if aw'd heer'd the news, or if aw'd seen Bold Archy drownded.
The tyel like wildfire through the toon suin cut a dowly track,
An' seem'd to wander up an' doon wi' Sangate on its back;
Bullrug was there- Golightly's Will- ti croon the whole, an'd Nelly Marchy,
Whee as they roond the Deed-house thrang'd whing'd oot in praise ofv honest
Archy.
Waes! Archy lang was hale an' rank, the king o' laddies braw-
His wrist was like an anchor- shank, his fist was like the claw-
His yellow waistcoat flowered se fine, myed tyeliors lang for
cabbage-cutting;
It myed the bairns to glower amain, an' cry "Ni, ni, what bonny buttons!'
His breeches an' his jacket clad a body rasher straight-
A bunch o' ribbons at his knees- his shoes an' buckles bright;
His dashing stockins, true sky-blue, his gud shag hat, although a biggin,
When cock'd upon his bonny head, luiked like a pea upon a middin.
The last was he to myek a row, yet foremost in the fight,
The first was he to right the wrang'd, the last to wrang the right;
They said sic deeds, where'er he'd gyen, cud not but meet a noble station;
Cull-Billy fear'd that a' such hopes were built upon a bad foundashin.
For Captain Starkey word was sent to come without delay-
The Captain begged to be excused, and come another day,
When spirits strong and nappy beer, with bread and cheese might make him
able
To bear up such a load of grief, and do the honours of the table.
Another group was then sent off, an' browt Blind Willie doon,
Whee suen began a simfinee wi' fiddle oot o' tune:-
"Here archy lies, his country's pride, oh! San'gate, thou wilt sairly miss
him,
Stiff Drownded I' the ragin tide, powl'd off at last-eehoo! 'od bliss him!"
While thus they mourn'd, byeth wives an' bairns, young cheps and au'd men
grey,
Whee shud there cum but Archy's sel', to see about the fray.-
Aw gav a skrike, for weel ye ken a set like this wad be a shocker,
'"Od smash! here's Archy back agyen, - slipped oot, by gox, frae Davy's
locker."
Aboot him they a' thrang'd an' ax'd what news frae the underground?
Each tell'd aboot their blarin, when they ken'd that he was drown'd.
"Hoots!" Archy moung'd, "it’s nowt but lees,- to the Barley Mow let's e'en
be joggin,
'Aw'll tyek my oath it wasn't me, because aw hear it's Archy Loggan.
To see bold Archy thus restor'd, they ga sic round hurraws,
As myed the very skies to splet, an' deav'd a flight o' craws;
To the Barley Mow for swipes o' yell, they yen an' a' went gaily joggin,
Rejoiced to hear the drownded man was nobbit little Archy Loggan.
-Robert Gilchrist
Notes:
Cull-Billy- William Scott was an inmate of St. John's poor-house; a very
harmless creature, and once much pestered by the wantonness of the boys in the
streets of Newcastle. He was very good-natured. When I was a schoolboy I used to
stop and ask him to spell any hard word, and it is a singular truth that I never
once found him in the wrong. Numerous anecdotes are recorded of William's
wit and presence of mind which would have done credit to many of greater
eminence. July 30, 1829. Robert Gilchrist.
The Devil; Or, The
Nanny Goat.
Some bullies gaun doun i' their keel late at night,
Met sic a still gale that it ga' them a fright;
Now, aw think this might be just about twelve o'clock,
And the keel at that time was abreest Howdon Dock.
Fal lal la, etc.
The bullies and pee-dee a' huddl'd thegither,
Yen an' a' did agree it was terrible weather;
To bring her up there then they thowt it wad be
The best plan, so they got her in close to the quay.
So they a' got below, an' they started to gob;
Seun a chep's turnip field they agreed for to rob;
So the pee-dee was left I' the keel biv hees-sel,
An' for robbing he thowt they wad sure gan to hell.
As they were returning agyen frae the fields,
A Nanny Goat followed them close by their heels;
She was eating the skins as they threw them away,
For she liked them far better than any new hay.
When the bullies had getten agyen to their keel,
The pee-dee he ax'd them if they'd seen the deil;
The Nanny by this time had getten aboard,
So they thowt he was coming--they call'd on the Lord.
Now Nan couldn't find either skins, beef, or bread,
So she went to the huddock an' popp'd down her head,
And seeing them champ what she thowt was her share,
Stretch'd her neck an' jaws wide, and gov a greet blare.
The bullies didn't know how this devil to lay,
However, they thowt 'twas the best plan to pray;
So the skipper roar'd out iv a terrible swe't,
"Our Fetheers chart in Heven--is the beggar gyen yet?"
The prayer not being answer'd, they started to bubble,
For they thowt they were left by the father in trouble;
So they fell on their faces, and stopping their breath,
Swore they'd rather die there as be dragg'd to their death.
The innocent pee-dee thowt he'd nowt to fear,
So he'd venture on deck and see if all was clear'
When the Nanny saw pee'dee she blar'd out a note,
And their devil prov'd only a poor Nanny Goat.
-Annonymous, Shelds Song Book, 1826.
The Cliffs of Virginia
Tune- "Drops of Brandy."
Some brave lads in their keel left the spout,
It blew a fresh breeze from the west;
Now happy they were without doubt,
And to Providence left all the rest.
The breeze seun increased to a gale,
The tide ran down rapid and rough,
For safety they teuk in the sail,
For by this time they's most had eneugh.
Rum it iddity, etc.
To stop her they now were not able,
Says the skipper, "We'll drive to the ocean,
Thraw ower the chain-anchor and cable,
For of sic a trip aw ha' ne notion."
The keel by this time was near swamp'd,
So they threw all the coals overboard;
The skipper he shouted and stamped,
And for the help of good Providence roar'd.
On the deck they could no longer stand,
So they pray'd both for succour and shelter,
Bid adieu to their awn native land,
And to the huddock they ran helter-skelter:
There they rattled and tumbled about,
They pray'd for their bairns and wives,
And if Providence spar'd, without doubt,
They surely wad mend all their lives.
This night spent in devotion and fasting,
They long'd for to see the sun rise;
Skipper swore his repentance was lasting,
If it wasn't the deil d--n his eyes.
The gale being entirely hush'd
And the sun was beginning to shine;
Up his heed then he carefully push'd,
And he says, "Lads , we'll ne'er see the Tyne."
The skipper roar'd out for Ben Mackey,
To see the high cliffs of Virgini,
Where they grow all the gren tea and baccy;
Ay, as sure as I'm living, my hinny.
The folks aw believe are all wild,
An' suyre they will some of us fry;
But now we're all meeklness and mild,
We needn't mind how seun we die.
A steamer seun cam within hail-
They ax'd skipper how he got there:
"We gat here during the last heavy gale;
If ye please, sur, what land is that there?"
"Wey divn't you knaw Tynemouth Cassell?"
"Od, smash me, a’ tuek'd for Virgini's."
So they row'd hard an' strang for Newcassell,
And lang'd for a kiss o' their hinnies.
-Anonymous, Shields Song book, 1826.
The Newcastle Millers
Written on the great prize fight, at Barlow Fell, between Jim Wallace
and Tom Dunn, fought on the 25th October 1824, for forty sovereigns.
Wallace was the victor.
Tune-"The Bold Dragoon."
Now hail, thou pride iv a' the Tyne, my glorious native toun!
As lang as aw can cum ti time, thy nyem shall ne'er gan doun;
Fame hez been lang, wi' glorious moves, the pages I' thy hist'ry filling,
But now she sports her boxing-gloves, an' nowt gans doon but rings an'
milling.
The fancy lads that thou can boast wad tyek an 'oor ti tell,
Let Cockneys tawk a' Moulsey Hurst, we'll crack iv Barlow Fell.
Jim B--n hez up te Lunnin gyen, ti show them hoo ti hit an' parry;
But still we've bits iv blud at heym, that for a croon wad box Aud Harry.
The greet turn-up we've had between Jim Wallace an' Tom Dunn,
Sum wished that day they'd nivver seen, an' that boxers a' were hung;
The butcher lads had a' ti pay, sum pawn'd thor watches, sum thor horses,
An' a' the Tuesday neet, they say, that Morpeth turnpike rung wi' curses.
The 'prentice lads that stole away ti see the champions peel,
They'll mind o' that, for mony a day they walked upon a wheel:
Their half-'oor time they learn'd ti keep, a sitiwation rether tryin',
Just like the chep iv Collingwood Street, that's huggin' tiv his nose a
lion.
Let men iv science bounce and swell, gi'e me the glass ti swing,
A nice snug room for Barlow Fell, filled wiv a jovial ring;
Then them that will may tyek thor bangs, the science that aw most delight in
Is drinkin' yell an' hearin' sangs, let Dunn an' Wallace tyek the fightiin'.
William, Oliver, 1829
The Lament.
Tune-" The Bold Dragoon."
A bard hez said that "dowly thowts are mair wor frinds than foes"-
As frinds are rether scarce, ye ken, aw've browt a mournful dose;
Deeth rammels on throo lane an' square, an' wiv his dart byeth wives an' men
pricks,
Od bliss him! wad he oney spare wor canny toon her greet eccentrics.
Bet Watt an' Soulger Mally's gyen!-Yence mair his dart he threw,
An' slew the bonniest an' the last- the maid they called Balloo:
Ti hear her sweer how oft aw've staid, an' gazed upon her linsey-winsey;
But Jenny's cracks are now aw laid aboot her bruther, greet Lord Linsay.
Mysell aw seun began ti hug when Crummy was laid law,
Aw thowt the yell wad be a drug, 'twas sartin sure ti fa';
Ti see him drink, that was a treat, -his thropple seemed a hogshead funnel;
An' now that Crummy's lost his feet, it sarves, aw fancy, for a tunnel.
A story yence myed Sandgate ring, the Keyside a' luik blue-
'Twas then a hoax, or sum sic thing, but noo it's cum ower true;
Oh, had it been a duke or lord, aw wonder whe wad cared a scuddick;-
Bold Archy's popped at last overboard, slipt withoot bait intiv his huddick.
His cradle was the keel deck, where Britannia seeks her tars-
She quickly spied the hero there, an' called him ti the wars;
He thump'd the Spanish Dons, 'twas said, till they roared oot for peace like
ninnies,
For yence, at least, was Archy paid his good shag hat chock full iv ginnies.
Men are se dwiney nooadays, that honest Archy cam
Ti gi' the world, as Shakesperre says, asshurance iv a man;
Ti see him cummin' up the Kee, se independent, stiff, an' starchy-
His like agyen we'll nivver see--
peace ti the byens iv poor Bold Archy!
-William Oliver, 1820
The Newgate
Street Petition To Mr. Mayor
Alack! and well-a-day!
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor;
We all are to grieff a prey,
Mr. Mayor:
They are pulling Newgate down,
That structure of renown,
Which so long hath graced our town,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
Antiquarians think't a scandal,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor;
It would shock a Goth or Vandal,
They declare:
What ! Destroy the finest Lion
That ever man set eye on!
'Tis a deed all must cry fie on,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
St. Andrew's Parishioners,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Loud blame the Gaol Commissioners,
Mr. Mayor;
To pull down a pile so splendid
Shows their powers are too extended,
And The Act must be amended,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
If Blackett Street they'd level,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Or with Bond Street play the devil,
Who would care?
But on Newgate's massive walls,
When destruction's hammer falls,
For our sympathy it calls,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
'Tis a Pile of ancient standing,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Deep reverence commanding,
Mr. Mayor:
Men of Note and Estimation,
In their course of Elevation,
Have it in held a station,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
'Tis a first-rate kind of College,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Where is taught much useful knowledge,
Mr. Mayor:
When our fortunes "gang aglee,"
If worthy Mr. Gee
Does but on us turn his key,
All's soon well, Mr. Mayor.
In beauty nought can match it,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor:
Should you think we throw the Hatchet,
Mr. Mayor:
John Adamson, with ease
(In purest Portuguese),
Will convince you, if you please
To consult him, Mr. Mayor.
He'll prove t'ye in a trice,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
'Tis a pearl of great price,
Mr. Mayor:
For of ancient wood or stone,
The value--few or none
Can better tell than John,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
Of this edifice bereft,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
To the neighbourhood what's left?
Mr. Mayor:
The Nun's Gate, it is true,
Still rises to our view,
But that Modern Babel few
Much admire, Mr. Mayor.
True, a building ‘tis, unique,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
A charming fancy-freak,
Mr. Mayor.
But candour doth impel us
To own that strangers tell us
The Lodge of Oddfellows,
They suppos'd it, Mr. Mayor.
Still if Newgate's doomed to go,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
To the Carliol Croft--heigh-ho!
Mr Mayor,
As sure as you're alive
(And long, sir, may you thrive),
The shock we'll ne'er survive,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
Then pity our condition,
Mr. Mayor, Mr.Mayor,
And stop its demolition,
Mr. Mayor;
The Commissioners restrain
From causing us such pain,
And we'll pay and ne'er complain,
The Gao! Cess, Mr. Mayor.
-Anonymous, Marshall's Collection, 1827
Carliol Croft- site of new gaol to replace Newgate.
Mr. Gee- Gaoler of debtor's prison.
John Adamson- Famous Portuguese scholar, translator of The Lucaid.
Bond Street- Now called Prudhoe Street.
The destruction began in June 1828. Nothing stopped it.
Blind Willie V. Billy
Scott
Tune: "Fie, let's away to the Bridal."
Blind Willie, one morning, was singin'
At the sign o' the "Bunch o' Grapes."
Te amuse the folks he was beginnin'
Wi' anu Sir Matthew's mistakes.
Sumbody shoots, "Here's Mister Scott cummin!"
Willie instantly wished for te see;
“Aw'll tell ye the truth, withoot funnin,
He once half-a-croon gav te me!"
Fal lal, etc.
Willie now thowt they were gamin,
For Mister Scott's cummin seem'd lang.
Till he heard a voice gravely exclaimin,
"Poor Wlliam!-- poor blind man!"
Willie bawls oot--"Ye canna deceive me!--
Ye needn't think aw'm se silly;
Aw's not such a feul, ye'll believe me,--
It's not Mister Scott, but Cull Billy!"
Fal lal, etc.
"Blind man, come, don't be so mulish,
If I'm silly, no doubt I’m not right;
You for to say that I'm foolish!
Thank God! I'm endued with my sight!"
"But Cull Billy, what browt ye here now?
Nebody can say that it's reet.
Gan away, or aw'll blind ye wi' beer now,
For cummin te myek gam o' maw seet!"
Fal lal, etc.
"You stand on a groundless foundatin,
What else can such as you think?
You indulge yourself in dissipation,
You are both blind and stupid with drink!"
Willie sat an' heard Cull Billy pratting,
Quite heedless tiv a' the abuse:
His hand on his knee he kept clapping--
"Cull Billy's cum fra the madhoose!"
Fal lal, etc.
Billy now turned quite ootrageous,
At Blind Willie's nose tuik a grip:
His haud he suin disengages,
For Willie began hard te kick.
Willie still gav him greet provocation,
His raillery still wadn't cease;
Billy went oot wif a vile execration,
Te gan tiv a justice for peace,
Fal lal, etc.
Willie fand hissel reythur twiseted,
His nose was beginnin te bleed;
He wad gan te the Mayor, he insisted,
And let his reet worshipful see'd
Willie oft loodly did grummel-
"The divil brust Cull Billy's bags:
When the aud wife let the pie tummel,
He sat doon an' dined on the flags!"
Fal lal, etc.
Willie tuik a consideration,
He thowt the subject shud drop;
He allowed he'd gi'en provocation,
But further mischief he wad stop.
Te finish the pack, anuther gill he got,
But with an oath he did declare,
The varry first time he saw Billy Scott,
He wad take him before Mister Mayor.
Fal lal, etc.
Thomas Marshall, 1829.
Tars and Skippers
Tune-"Derry Down."
Four hardy Jack tars, wi' a noble intent,
To protect the remains of a messmate they went,
To the Ballast Hills arm'd, just about the midwatch,
To prevent resurrectionists moving his hatch.
Derry Down…
Each tar took his post; no way daunted with fear,
When two drunken skippers near the place did appear;
While stawping alang, it dropt into their head,
They wad byeth gan an' watch a friend they had dead.
Derry Down…
The tars, now alarm'd they prepared for attack--
Ower a styen byeth the skippers now fell on their back;
O Lord! exclaim'd Jacky, we cannot lie here,
Or we'll byeth be tyen off by resurrectioners, aw fear!
Derry Down…
Who's there? cried the tars , or who may you be?
Ax about! replied Jacky, what's that to ye?
We're not robbers like ye-- what else can wi say?--
Come here for to carry the dead folks away.
Derry Down
Here's me and friend Ralph knew a friend down the shore,
For pulling, wi' him neyn could touch the oar;
So me and my neighbour's just come for to see
If his body's tuen off by sic robbers as ye.
Derry Down
A signal for action- the tars gave a cough,
To the skippers' amazement, a pistol went off-
The skippers byeth drunk, now sober did feel,
To get out o' their way, they byeth tuik to heel.
Derry Down
Ralphy, he thowt 'twould been a terrible job,
If they'd byeth getting a plaister clapp'd on their gob;
For the skippers tuik the tars fro resurrection men-
The tars tuik the skippers to be just the syem.
Derry down.
Marshall, 1829
This song is a relic of the old resurrection days. The Burke and Hare
excitement caused a great many country churchyards to be regularly watched, the
people forming themselves into gangs or sets of watchers. This does not
appear to have been the case in Newcastle. Here, according \to old
inhabitants, watching was common, but it was done by friends of the deceased, or
by parties engaged by them for that purpose.
Weel May the
Keel Row
That gets the Bairns their Breed
Weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row,
Weel may the keel row,
And better may she speed;
Weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row,
Weel may the keel row,
That gets the bairns their breed.
We tyuk wor keel up to the dyke,
Up to the dyke, up to the dyke,
We tyuk wor keel up to the dyke,
An' there we gat her load;
Then sail'd away doon to Shields,
Doon to Shields, doon to Shields,
Then sail'd away doon to Shields,
And shipp'd wor coals abroad.
Singin'- Weel may the keel row, etc.
Then we row'd away up to the fest,
Up to the fest, up to the fest,
We row'd away up to the fest,
Cheerly every man;
Pat by wor geer and moor'd wor keel,
And moor'd wor keel, and moor'd wor keel,
Pat by wor geer and moor'd wor keel,
Then went and drank wor can.
Singin'- Weel may the keel row, etc..
Our canny wives, or clean fireside,
Our bonny bairns-their parent's pride,
Sweet smiles that make life smoothly glide,
We find when we gan hyem;
They'll work for us when we get au'd,
The'll keep us frae the winter's cau'd,
As life declines they'll us uphaud-
When young we uphaud them.
Singin'- Weel may the keel row, etc.
-Unknown, Marshall's Collection, 1827
Opening of the Newcastle and Carlisle Railway
June 18th, 1838
Lass! lay me out maw Sunday claes,
Te-morn's te be the day o' days-
The railroad's gaun te oppen;
And we'll be there amang the rest,
Buss'd as aw was iv a' maw best
At the last Westgate Hoppin'
Aw'll tell thou mair when aw come back,
For then we'll hev a sappy crack
'Boot a' aw've heerd and seen.
Now, hinny, here aw's back agyen,
Thou'll think aw's flaid maw time aw've tyen,
Aw've been se lang I' comin.
But when twee sic awd standards meet,
The pain o' pairtin's varry greet,
Thow knaws, maw bonny woman.
We left the Heugh i' gallant style,
And shot away for awd Carlisle,
Snug seated i' the Queen,
Amang the swarms wor canny toon
And Gyetshed planted up and doon
Te see se rare a scene.
Wi' murth and fun the country rung,
The lairks and linties roun us sung;
And when the day was sunny,
The scenery rich and richer grew,
Until we seem'd just glidin through
A land o'milk and honey.
We suin reech'd Gilsland's famish wells,
Which, when a lung or liver fyels,
Or other ailin maiters,
Myek sick folk flee frae doctor's pills
Te souk health frae the heather hills,
Or draw it frae the waiters.
Could but the folks of awd lang syne
Luik out upon this bonny line
And see what we are deein,
They could, aw think, compare't w' nowse
But Clootie's gang a' brocken lowse,
And frae his clutches fleein.
It was a pleasant seet te see
Wor canny town and Carlisle tee,
Byeth yet se hale and hearty,
In spite of a' the Border frays
IN which they fowt I' former days,
The bravest o' their party.
And now the travellers wi' their trains
Will thraw young blood into the veins
O' Carlisle's murry city.
And Grainger may some efternuin
Slip ower and touch her up when duin
Here wi' her canny titty.
What lots o' brass it mun ha' e tyen,
And labour frae lang-heeded men,
Te join this ancient pair-
Te myek them, as it war, shake hands,
And knit them close iv iron bands
Te separate ne mair.
T. Wilson1843.
A day of great rejoicing. The Corporations of Newcastle, Gateshead, and
Carlisle attended. Thirteen engines and a hundred and twenty carriages taking
well on to four thousand passengers, made the opening journey. Strange as it may
sound now, when all are so accustomed to the convenience of the "Central." the
first Newcastle station was in the Close. The railway itself ran only to the
Redheugh close by the water's edge, the Gateshead station, where it finished,
being about the junction of the Redheugh and the Teams. A steamboat took
the passengers across the Tyne from the Close station to Redheugh where the line
began. T. Wilson as an Alderman of Gateshead would attend the opening.
Mems. Ffrom Richardson's "Table Book":-
1835- Railway opened between Hexham and Blaydon. A stage coach then
took the passengers from Bigg Market to Blaydon.
1837- Railway opened from Redheugh to Blaydon.
The Movement
Where canny Newcassel will gan te at last
Is far ayont maw understandin';
But if it gans on as its duin for years past,
It'll suin about Hexhim be landin'.
For toon within toon, and street efter street,
Grainger pops up- -without ever heedin'
How they're to be fill'd, unless some new leet
Shows him folks will like rabbits be breedin'.
But this railroad-pace of increasin' wor race
Wad be dorn'd topsy-torvy by steamin';
The folks now-a-days hev ne dwellin'-place.
Of hoose or of hyem niver dreamin'.
This howiver, ne doot, is Grainger's luik-out,
The greet Court-and -Market-exchanger;
And wors iv'ry inch o' the gurnd to dispute,
When the props o' wor toon are in danger.
The Markets are gyen, exceptin' just yen
Which the Cooncil kept out of his clutches;
And the Courts he'll grab suin, if they let him alyen,
But the day he'll repent he them touches.
For the crabby awd dealers in ling, cod, and brats,
And the vurgins that tempt us wi' nice maiden skyet,
Will niver aw hope be the gudgeons or flats
Te floonder aboot I' this huge movement-net.
He'll neist try the Quay- the Custom Hoose tee-
The Brig-and wor awd coaly River;
But in spite o' the warst that a' Grainger can dee,
They're wor awn, and we'll keep them for iver.
They're cronies we've lang been accustom'd to see,
For some o' them battled afore lang and sair;
And though we're grown grey I’ the cause o' the Quay,
We hev pluck eneugh left for a few tussels mair.
They're fixtors, some awd-fashioned bodies may say,
But where can we now for sec rarities surch?
For a man walkin' off wif a Play-hoose te-day,
May te morn slip away wi' St. Nicholas' Chorch.
Let the Trinity folks o' their moorin's tyek care,
Let them double their watch-or as sure as a gun
They'll wyeken some morn leavin' Trinity Chare,
And driftin' tiv Elswick afore a' be duin.
The Radical movement is now all the go,
But little like wors as ye'll easily guess,
When aw tell ye that Grainger can move te and fro
A chorch or a chapel like figurs at chess.
The Cooncil, then, led by wor brave British Tar,
Mun battle and watch for wor canny awd toon;
And byeth tar and feather the hallion that dar'
Te hoist his-sel up by haulin' huz doon.
T. Wilson, 1843
British Tar-- George Straker, Esq.
The Pea Jacket
Wey, Mally, maw hinny! what thinks te aw'vee seen,
And aw niver saw nowt half se dashin
Aw've seen I' the toon, if aw may trust maw een,
Maw Pea just the pink o' the fashion!
Frae the cut and the claith and the hornbuttons tee,
Aw said te mawsel, aw was sarten
The fellow had snaffed maw best Sunday Pea
Thou a' ways said aw was se smart in.
If he'd breeches on, a lowse at the knee,
And a chow iv his cheek o' rag backy,
Thow'd sworn as he swagger'd doon Newcastle Quay
That he was thy awn canny Jacky.
Wor skipper cam up and aw tell'd him maw tyel,
The Pea I' maw heed a'ways runin';
"Wey, man, " says he, " surely thou isn't thyself
Not te knaw what's been gaun on in Lunnen.
" The awd Corporations, the Doctors a' say,
That meet at the hoose call'd St. Stephen,
Are at their last gasp, and by next New Year's Day
There winnet be yen o' them leevin'.
"It lang hez been said they war gannin' te pot,
But wor awn set it a' doon for leein',
Till the Mayor and the Aldermen a' teuk the rot,
And are now just like rotten sheep deein'.
"Aw've just been up street--the toon's iv a low,
And aw's frighten'd some mischief is brewin'.
As a deed Corporation's not worth an awd chow,
An' aw wadn't say much for the new un.
"For the cock'd hat and goon that govern'd the toon,
I' the days of awd Alderman Blackett,
The Alderman myekin' are gawn te lay doon,
An' tup on a keelman's Pea Jacket! "
-T. Wilson, 1843
The author, in a note to this song writes:-" At the time those emblems of
civic dignity, Alderman's gowns, went out of fashion, a new species of attire-to
wit, "Pea Jackets"- came up. The lines on "The Pea Jacket" embody the
feelings of an honest keelman, expressed to his wife on witnessing the
metamorphosis which the "male creatures" had undergone.
A Glance At Polly Technic
"A collection of the most splendid productions of nature and art ever
exhibited in Newcastle," this, the first Polytechnic Exhibition, was opened
April 6th, 1840. It had a threefold object--to raise funds for the North of
England Fine Arts Society, The Newcastle Mechanics' institute, and the Gateshead
Mechanics' Institute. The Polytechnic closed with upwards of L.1,500 as a
clear surplus to divide amongst the three institutions. It was here that
John Watson, the brother of the author of "Thumpin' Luck." exhibited specimens
of his beautiful engravings on glass. (See Life of William Watson. page 205)
Aw've traveled East as weel as West,
At Carlisle and the sea aw've been,
And i' maw time aw think the myest
Of a' the marvels here aw've seen.
At Grainger's warks aw've wonder'd sair,
Aw've stared at a' the feats o' steam,
But at the 'Sociation mair--
Till now of a' that's grand the cream.
But this is all a bagay tyel,
For now the seet just torns maw brain,
Sin' Polly Technic cam hersel
Wiv a' her wonders in her train.
She's gyen an' ransack'd iv'ry pairt,
For rarities of iv'ry kind,
As weel of Natur as of Airt,
The pith o' mony a maister-mind.
Aw glower'd aboot the Pictur Place,
Aw ax'd for Judy o' the Hutch,
But Judy's fyece aw cudn't trace-
The want o' Judy vex'd me much.
There's Belted Will the Border chief,
If he wad speak, could thraw some leet
On where se rankly prowled the thief
That honest men war bad te meet.
And here's maw horny-letteer'd frien',
the corner-styen of a' wor lare,
It is the finest thing aw've seen-
O dear! aw's glad te see it there.
Some feuls may giggle at the nyem
O' byeth the Hornbuick and Tom Thumb;
But where is it if not frae them
That a' yor Polly Technics come?
The "branks", a kind o' brake, is here,
Wor faithers, when a' else was vain,
Compell'd the noisy jades te weer
Whene'er their clappers ran amain.
Eh! "nick-sticks! nick-sticks!" what are they?
O! now aw hae'd:-they're used at hyem,
And when kept decently in play
The branks was but an empty nyem.
And here's wor hatless Minstrel tee,
That roam'd aboot wor canny city,
And charm'd the guzzlers o' the Quay
wi' mony a simple hyem-spun ditty.
Aw think aw hear him fiddlin' still,
And on Sur Maffa sweet strummin,
Which help'd away wi' mony a gill
'Mang fuddlin' men and queerish women.
But aw mun end maw simple tyel-
It's now ower lang, aw sadly fear;
Te Polly praise there's nyen can fyel-
Wor bairns will praise her mony a year.
Minstrel= Blind Willie
'Sociation = The British Association's visit to Newcastle, 1838. The "wise
week" was crowded with meetings lectures, exhibitions, etc.
-T. Wilson, 1843
The Market Day
Oh! hinny Jack, aw've wearied sair
To see the come back frae the pay,
That aw may get it ettled reet:
Te-morn, thou knaws, is market day.
Aw gat the bits o' bairns te bed,
Conn'd ower the things we wanted myest;
But 'till aw knaw'd what thou had myed,
Maw ettlin' was but nobbut guessed.
Aw's glad te see it is se much,
And noo hev hopes to get the goon
Thou promised, in thy wily way,
The varry furst good fortnith's hewin'.
This mun stand furst upon the list.
That sadly croods maw muddled brain;
And, just like wanderin' iv a mist,
Te fix the rest seems all in vain.
Thou munnet Bobby's clogs forget
That we hev promised him se lang,
Te keep him frae the cawd and wet
He's barefoot trudged for weeks amang.
And little Sall wants varry sair
A bit new ribbon for her hat;
She says, "Aw's sure ye this mun spare:
Ye knaw aw've lang expected that."
Thou wants some odds and ends thyself":
Thy panties luick but varry bare:
Thy coat's beginnin' sair te fyell,
At elbows it wants some repair.
Thou'll mebby call at Alder Dunn's
To see if maw bit hat be duin,
For aw've te stand for Nelly's bairn
In it, neist Sunday efternuin,.
Now, just as he was gawn te leave,
A little curly-heeded callant
Tuik deddy softly by the sleeve,
And said, "Eh! fetch me heym a ballant,
"Or else some funny story buick
That aw may read tiv Uncle Joe,
As he sits laughin' i' the nuick--
He diz enjoy these worthies so.
"The feats of Hickathrift and Hood
All pass with him for Gospel truth,
And ony doot he nivir coiuld
Admit, e'en frae the preacher's mooth."
Noo, hinny! mind thoiu comes suin hyem,
Aw' hev a white kyeck for thy tea,
Thou knaws the treat's nut like the syem
Withoot thy canny company.
-T. Wilson, " Northern Tribune," 1854
The Colours
O'er Northumbria's hill and dale,
Far and wide the summons flew:
Dallying with the summer gale,
Four gay banners court the view.
Where bright beauty's glance is beaming,
Lasses' love, and lad's delight,
See young Liddell's colours streaming
In a flood of pink and white.
Unstain'd and true see deep true blue
With lighter tints combine,
For honest Bell the triumph swell,
And deck the coaly Tyne.
From Hexham's towers, from Bywell's bowers,
From Allen's wilder shade,
While Beaumont's name loud bands proclaim,
Glints forth the White Cockade.
From mountains rough, old blue and buff,
That oft has won the day,
Is loath to yield, untried the field,
And waves once more for Grey.
Two must win, though four may woo,
Mingle, while ye mingle may,
Pink and white, and buff and blue,
In a medley strange and gay.
Gay fleeting colours shift and blend
Beneath the sunbeam bright;
Two may last to six years' end,
And two must fade ere night.
'Twas thus Northumbria's genius spoke,
And cast a pitying glance behind,
As from old Alnwick's bowers she broke,
And mounted on the eddying wind.
She raised on high the bonny Bell,
And Liddell's red rose streaked with pale;
The blue and buff, and the White Cockade,
She scattered on the rising gale.
-Surtees, Richardson's Table-Book, 1842
Written on the memorable election for the County of Northumberland in 1826,
when there were four candidates. The contest lasted from the 20th of June
to the 6th of July, and the numbers polled for each candidate were:- The Hon. H.
T. Liddell, 1562; M. Bell, Esq., 1380; T.W. Beaumont, Esq., of Bywell, 1335; and
Lord Viscount Howick (who declined the contest on the 3rd), 976.
Robert Surtees, historian of the county of Durham, born in Durham City, died
at his seat at Mainsforth on the 11th February 1834 aged 55 years.
King Willy's Coronation
O marrows a', noo clear yor throats,
An' drop yor botheration;
Come join me in a stave or two
Aboot the Coronation,
The wad refuse wi' me to sing
The praises o' wor canny king-
Of Brunswick House, the breetest star--
Newcassel's pride--a jolly tar?
Fra Mr. Mayor to wor P.D.
Extend yor jaws, an’ sing wi’ glee
King Willy’s Coronation.
Fal de ral, etc.
Tho' Shield may sing in magic strains
The mony happy days, man,
When wor Association lads
Engross'd the folks's praise, Man:
In Blackett's Field we'd sic a feast,
Where sixteen hundred men, at least,
Did exercise wi' knife an' fork,
An' hew'd away at beef an' pork.
We'd loyal toasts, an' clivvor spokes,
Wi' music fine, an' funny jokes
On Willy's Coronation.
Ma sarties, hed ye nobbit seen
Green's bonny silk balloon, man!
Reet fra the Spital to the clouds
It flaffer'd very suen, man.
Wi' starin' aw near lost ma seet,
Amang the crowd in Westgate Street;
Fra some aw gat an ugly thump,
They brak my nose agyen the pump,
An' stole my hat, an' tore my sark;
Becrike, but there was bonny wark
On Willy's Coronation.
Off, helter-skelter wi' the thrang,
Aw reach'd Necassel Brig, man,
To view the boats that were to run
Wor clivvor Sandgate gig, man.
Away they flew, 'mid noise and din!
Byeth Shilds and Scotswood tried to win,
But Sandgate lads are just the breed,
Like hearts of oak they tuik the lead;
To win the prize they warn't lang-
Byeth sides o' Tyne their victory sang
On Willy's Coronation.
Aw jump'd as aw went te the Garth
Wi' cousin Dicky Reed, man,
An' at a strangie's shop aa bowt
A cover for ma heed, man;
Then cuick'd wor houghs at the Blue Bell,
Talk'd ower the spree, an' smack'd the yell;
Then toddled hyem to wor dame Peg--
At scolding she is such a cleg-
Aboot ma sark for years she'll chat,
My broken nose, an' fine shag hat,
On Willy's Coronation
-Emery, Local Songs and Song Writers, "Weekly Chronicle," 1879
Copied from an old manuscript of Robert Emery's, and sent to the Weekly
Chronicle by Emery's son in 1879. The Coronation took place on September 8th
1831. The song very fairly records the rejoicings on the occasion .It recalls
the previous coronation- that of George the Fourth, in 1819--to which it affords
a pleasing contrast.
The Skipper's
Visit to the Polytechnic
O, Geordy, hinney, gan away,
An' see what aw hev seen, man-
The Polytechnic's such a treat,
'Twad please wor very Queen, man!
Prince Albert tee, aw hev ne doot,
Wad swear that Lunnin oot an' oot
Was fairly be't with all her pride,
And give the palm to wor Tyneside.
E'en Billy Purvis an' his show
And Thorne's Theatre are no go
To wor Tyne Polytechnic.
The paintings there wad make ye stare,
Some awd an' some quite new, man,
And lots o' bony China ware
Of patterns not a few, man,
There's relics now not worth a groat,
Like Cuddy Willie's awd greet coat,
With arms and armour fra the Tower,
That sav'd wor lads in mony a stour;
There's coats and caps a' myed o' steel,
An' clubs wad make awd Horney squeel,
In wor Tyne Polytechnic.
They've lantrens that can raise the deil
An' myek him wag his tail, man,
With microscopes that turn at once
A sprat into a whale, man.
There birdies sing an' look so nice,
Rare plants fra Eden's Paradise.
The incubcator scar'd me sore,
For bairns an' chickens by the score
It manufactures very free,
'Twad neither suit wor Peg nor me,
At wor Tyne Polytechnic.
There's plows and harrows for the sod,
An' mirrors--such a show, man,
At which a skipper and his men
Might shave frae top to toe, man.
There's Armstrong, by some magic wand,
Makes great machines work at command;
The weavers they were thrang at wark,
Amaz'd--aw roar'd oot--smash my sark,
Wor Peg shall hev a posey gown
To mense here when she comes to toon.
To wor Tyne Polytechnic.
A water fountain in full play,
Where ships o' war might float, man;
And on a stand not far away
Was Harry Clasper's boat, man;
But here maw brains began to reel,
Enchanted at the organ's peal;
Its pipes like distant thunder roll'd,
Then squeek'd like mice i' wor keel's hold,
Aw'd sit an' listen half a year,
For music fine the heart does cheer.
In wor Tyne Polytechnic.
A chep was pulling at a thing,
Its nyem aw cuddent guess, man;
He said te me se very free
It is a printing press, man,
And if you do not take the hint,
I'll soon put all your thoughts in print,
An' sure enough, before 'twas lang,
He form'd maw thowts into this sang;
'Twas very like a magic trick,
But suen fra him aw cut maw stick
At wor Tyne Polytechnic.
Aw've been at France, aw've been at Shields,
An' likewise Shiney Raw, man,
Where aw've seen lots o' wondrous things
Above grund and belaw, man;
But these greet wonders mun give in,
To say owt else wad be a sin,
The Polytechnic cuts the shine,
An' sheds a ray o'er Bonny Tyne;
E'en Cocknies ower their midnight bowls
Will toast with glee like jolly souls
Wor Town and Polytechnic.
-Emery, Broadside printed at Polytrechnic, 1848.
Written on the second Polytechnic Exhibition, commencing Easter Monday, 1848.
It was held in the same suite of rooms as the first (1840); the entrance was
from the Academy of Arts, Blackett Street;
a gallery crossing High Friar Street connecting the rooms with those in the
Granger Street division. In the Exhibition, on a press worked by the author, Mr.
Emery, the song was first printed.
Mally and the Prophet
'Twas rumour'd about that a wonderful Prophet,
Who liv'd mony years afore Adam an' Eve,
Wad preach to the folks in Newcassel Wheat Market,
Which myed them a' run his advice to receive;
The coat on his back fairly puzzles the tailors,
An' deil smash a shoe or a stockin' he'll wear:
He drinks nowt that's stranger than pure caller waiter,
An' turns his nose up at wor Newcassel beer.
Right fal, etc.
Wor Mally, determin'd to be like her neighbours,
Suen dress'd her-sel' up in her fine chintzie goon;
Thro' Sandgit she waddled as cliver as Lunnin;
To see this queer man she steer'd straight for the toon.
She hail'd Cuckoo Jack at the foot of the Kee, man:
He caper'd an' roar'd like a cull silly block--
"O marrows! see! yonder gans crazy awd Mally,
To glow'r like a feul at Hepple's gyem cock."
Right fal, etc.
The keel-bullies nicker'd but on Mally doddl'd,
An' said tiv her-sel, "May the deil cock ye blind;
Aw'll speak to the Prophet to send ye, the next tide,
To the bottom o' Tyne iv a greet gale o' wind."
She reached the Sandhill, where Blind Willie was tellin'
The truth 'bout the Prophet yet thowt he did mock;
"There's nowt there." says he, "but a a few wanton huzzies,
Thrang catchin' an' pullin' Bob Hepple's gyem cock."
Right fal, etc
Still Mally push'd forward, quite sure she wad see him,
Not heedin' the jeers and the jokes that were pass'd;
To laugh at a prophet she thowt it was cullish.
Wi' sair tues she reach'd the Wheat Market at last;
Cull Billy cam up, an' she ask'd for the Prophet
(By this time St. Nicholas' had struck ten o'clock);
"There's no such thing, woman," said Billy "I'm certain;
I fancy you want to see Hepple's game cock."
Right fal, etc.
And Mally, enraged, was about to give battle,
But Billy convinc'd her, which seun stopp'd her mouth,
That both cocks an' hens, he said, liv'd before Adam;
That each cock's a prophet is well known for truth.
The hoax thus explained, greet was Mally's vexation,
to think she'd been made a complete laughing-stock;
Then kilted her coats and trudg'd back to the Swirle,
And often gets vext aboot Hepple's gyem cock.
Right fal, etc.
-Emery, "Bards of the Tyne," 1849.
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