The Comet: or, The Skipper's Fright.

The Queen Has Sent A Letter;

\

Aw Wish Pay Friday Wad Cum

The Greet Bull-Dog O' Shields

Written on the occasion of the gunboat Bull-dog lying at Shields, shortly after the termination of the Russian War.

Tune-- "Hokey Pokey."

Wor Dick an' me, last Curstmis day,
Tuik i' wor heeds te gan away,
Resolved te spend a yell week's pay
    Amang the fokes o' Sheels, man
At Sandget end we had some yell
Alang wi' Matt and  Skipper Bell,
Then doon te Sheels a' hands did speel,
I' Skipper Johnson's bran new keel.
'Twas there aw hard young Geordy Carr,
That kens se much aboot the Czar,
Say, "What d'ye think's come frae the war,
    But a greet Bull-dog at Sheels, man?

Fall de dall, etc.

Says aw thou's leein fond aw's sure,
Yor idees mun be varry poor,
Thou wants to put on Tommy Moor,
    Wi' yor greet Bull-dog o' Sheels, man.
What, a bull-dog swalley Rooshin bears,
That's nobbit leers, cum speak for fairs.
He says then lissen ti' what comes--
He fired het snawballs at thor bums,
He peppered them all at Bummy Soond,
An' laid thor batteries wi' the groond;
That varry Bull-dog may now be foond
    Lyin' in Peggy's Hole i’ Sheels, man.

Give ow'r says aw, wi' voice se gruff,
Or suen, by gox aw may ye huff,
Wi' fiery snawballs be ti stuff
    An' yor greet Bull-dog o' Sheels, man.
Think weel, maw man, wi' whe ye play,
The fuil he laff'd and quick did say,
But mair than that, the dog lies reet
Chocked full o' guns and men complete;
He tuik Charleys Napier, tars and all,
Ti Bummy Soond wi' Captain Hall,
And feyred them shells that made them squall,
    Did this greet Bull-dog o' Sheels, man.

He nipt thor tails and myed them shoot,
An' just like badgers drawed them oot,
He worried thor thropples wiv his snoot,
    Did this greet Bull-dog o' Sheels, man.
He fired them bullets het and thick,
Sayin' there's some pills, aud Mister Nick;
He myed them scamper duce'd quick,
An levelled ivery styn an' brick,
He myed their nasty tallow run,
Then wagg'd his tail an' barked like fun,
An' cam ti the Tyne when was duin,
    Did this greet Bull-dog o' Sheels, man.

Says aw, thou's stuffin me, maw man,
But when aw lands aw's sure ti gan
An' find this Bull-dog iv aw can,
    That's myekin sic wark at Sheels, man.
So when aw landed on the kee,
Away aw gans quite full o' glee,
Ti try and find this Bull-dog breed,
But hang a Bull-dog there aw se'd,
So aw axed a sailor stannin there,
If he saw a bull-dog ony where,
He gyeped an' glower'd an' gave a blair.

Spoken-- An' let flee a chow o' baccy iz big iz a turmit--so aw sets Nettle on tiv him (that's maw terrier), iv he was a Bull-dog Nettle maniged him.  As for me, aw trotted, cas there was a dozen bull-dogs i' nee time, an' nivor stopt tiv aw went bump agyen the wooden dolly-- aw thowt it was Jarrow.  Wi' that aw heers the sailors bawl oot--hie, shipmate, ahoy! shipmate, the deevil says aw--

(Sings) D' ye think we're fuils o' Sheels man.

Sair vexed, begox! aw kept gawn back,
Determined Sipper Carr ti smack,
And let him see that aw cud snack
    Wiv onny bull-dog o' Sheels, man.
But, hinny marrows, guess maw surprise,
When aw twigs a steamboat sic a size,
Men an' guns aw did disarn,
Wi B double LL bull-dog on her starn,
Aw seed her bonny colours flyin',
Wi' sowlgers an' sailors exercisin',
And sure enyuf the Bull-dog was lyin'
    I' Peggy's Hole in Sheels, man.

Noo, may Sheels prosper, while the sea
Beats on her shores so wild and free,
May they niver lack prosperity
    Nor manly hearts i' Sheels, man;
May blissins crown each happy home,
Wor sailors, tee, where'er they roam,
May we ever on old England's shore
Boast British Bull-dogs evermore.
Aw wish success tiv aw that's here,
May ye nivor want good heath or cheer,--
Smash! aw hope ye'll  live for mony a year,
    Wi' greet Bull-dogs o' Sheels, man.

-Corvan, 1862
 

The Comet: or, The Skipper's Fright.

Written on the appearance of the Great Comet, 1858

Marrows, aw's pinin fast away, aw's freetin ivery day,
Aboot this awful danger noo impendin, O!
Aw's shakin a' the bits, wor aud wife she's tyekin fits,
Cawse the nibors say the world's upon an endin, O!

Says wor preacher t'other day, noo a' ye weak sowls pray;
An' te drop a' worldly care he did beseech us, O!
Says he, this mighty orth, wif all int's but little worth,
If a fiery thing like a comet chanced to reach us, O!

Aboot Stronomists he bawled, then ower the reckinin bawled,
Te tell hoo lang a time we had te bide here, O!
Says he, sometime i' June, wiv a tail, it will drop doon;
Then a' the world i' mystery suin mun glide here, O!

Thinks aw, begum that's queer, wor preacher he's nee leer,
He's always on the reet side when he's speakin, O!
So aw'll sell off byeth maw keels, and tyek a ship at Sheels;
For a spot upon the new world aw'll gan seekin, O!

But first aw'll chawk a score ahint the Brown Jug door,
For it's little use o' passin when life's uncertain, O!
Like Robson, Bates, and Pawl, lads! the kelter in aw'll hawl,
Then for flight like a' the swindlers aw'll be startin, O!

Noo, when aw cum te think, aw'd better spend maw chink,
Amang me Tyneside cronies, true and hearty, O!
For if we a' mun dee, thou knaws as weel as me,
The rich amang the poor mun join the party, O!

Then flow on wor Coaly Tide, spreadin wealth on ivery side,
Flow on, bright stream, wi' joy te croon maw giver, o!
That he may smile on thee for all eternity,
The light ov peace and harmony for iver, O!

-Corvan, 1862.

The Fire on the Kee

The Explosion of October 6th 1854, which took its rise from a fire in Gateshead, was perhaps the greatest calamity that ever happened in the North of England.
Tune- -"Wor Jocker."

Oh! hae ye seen wor Jimmy, oh! hae ye seen wor Jimmy?
Oh hae ye seen wor Jimmy? for the lad's gyen on the spree,
He's pawn'd his coat an' troosers, he gans on as he chooses,
He can wallop a' the bruisers an' greet bullies on the Kee.

Chorus
Oh1 hae ye sen wor Jimmy, oh! hae ye seen wor Jimmy?
Tell me, maw canny hinny, for the lad's gyen on the spree.

His nose is neat an' canny, he's a model of a mannie, 
An' the pictor o' wor Fanny, oh, the nasty drukken sow.
Aw'll yark his byens wi' skelpin, aw'll set the yelp a yelpin,
Presarve us! there's ne helpin byestin laddies now.

Oh, hae ye seen wor Jimmy, etc.

He hes a bull-dog wiv him, folks dorsent say owt tiv him,
A good heart beats within him, for he knocks the pollis doon;
He hes twe nice black eyes, tee, an' a mouth for eatin pies, tee;
Folks say he's not ower wise, tee, an' call the lad a cloon.

Spoken--  Aw wish aw could lay hands on him; he went to seek wark this morning- Wark! he's been seekin wark this fourteen years an' niver getting a job yet--But that fire on the Kee ruined the lad's mind; a gyeble end iv a hoose fell on his head--He's been crack'd iver since.  Marcy, what a cutty fosty, but aw'll gie ye an account on't efter the style ov the "Deeth ov Nelson."

Tune--"Twas in Trafalgar's Bay."

It was a fearful crsh, old buildings they went smash,
'Twas never so before;
The haunts of "auld lang syne" burnt doon on Coaly Tyne, 
Laying waste the desolate shore:
For oh! it was a fearful sight, and many a home was lost that night,
 For death's grim visitation brought ruin and devastation,
And as from 'mid the flames they hie,
Mercy! save us! hundreds cry--
    O! Firemen, do your duty!
    O! Firemen, do your duty!

Tune--"Descriptive Chant."

Hurrying to and fro countless thousands might be seen,
Emerging after hairbreadth 'scapes from ruins where danger just had been;
The soldiers in solemn silence guard the dangerous way,
And firemen willing point to the hoose to where gaiety dwelt but yesterday.
The populace rushed forth half-dressed in day or night attire,
Like maniacs with maddened brain, from death's devouring fire.

Chorus
For o! the flames Vesuvius-like, they spread o'er land and sea,
Laying desolate waste the spot where once had been Newcastle Kee.

Now many serio-comic scenes were enacted wher poor people did dwell,
For goods and chattels from mysterious cribs came tunbling down pellmell.
Aw saw one poor deevil, mevies just getting oot o' bed,
Hop varry quick to one sid iz a wash-han' basin, a kyel pot, and a yetlin' fell a-top his head.
'Twas fearful to see the poor aud wives in narrow chares and lanes
Picking up their bits o' things, exposing life, aw's sure they spared ne pains.

Chorus

Aw say, Pally! thraw the bed oot the window, niver mind the stocks,
Seize Ned's Sunday britches aw bowt last week, but niver mind the box.
Marcy! the floor's geen way,--noo whe wid iver think
That decent folks gan te bed 'boot ten o' clock shud be se close upon deeth's brink?
Search for Tommy's fustin claes, aw cannot see for smoke,
Luik sharp, ye platter-fyeced bunter, or else, begum, aw'll choke

Chorus

Search for the barin's cradle, it's a claes-basket, niver mind, shove it to the door.
Let the aud clock stand agyen the wall, it's time it went 'cas it waddent gan before;
A German for a shillin a week clagged it up agyen the wall,
He's got nowt yet, so faith his tick aw think'll suin be tickin small.
They say Ralphy L--tle's broke his legs, but that myeks little matter,
Cawse a glass o' brandy'll put him reet, wiv a bottle o' soda watter.

Chorus

Pally, hinny, rush I' the crood an' shoot, for see the smoke an low gets dense,
And luik for Jimmy, maw canny hinny, for the laddie hez ne sense;
But there's a crood o' men there-- Mister, can aw claim yor attention?
Aw've lost maw darlin son, an' what he's like aw'll mention--
He's nee scholar, bless the laddie! but he smokes an' chows,
He's parshall ti military movements, espeshley Sangate rows;
He's gat his millishor claes on, thou'll ken him iv a crack,
Besides sum stripes for good behavior, but they put them on his back.
His appearance commands respect-- hae ye seen him gannin by?
The skin's off his knockles wi' fightin', an he sports a lairge black eye!

Chorus

-Corvan, 1862

Chambers and White
Tune—“Trab,trab”

The Tyne wi' fame is ringin' on heroes old and young,
Fresh lawrels daily bringin', but noo awl men hez sung 
In praise o' honest Chambers, ov Tyneside men the pride.
Who defeated White ov London for one hundred pund aside.

Chorus.
Singin' pull away, pull away, pull away, boys,
    Pull away, boys, se cliver;
Pull away, pull away, pull away, boys,
    Chambers for iver!

They're off, they're off, the cry is, then cheers suin rend the air,
Like leetnin' they pass by us, the game an' plucky pair;
Greek meets Greek, then faster an' faster grows the pace.
Gan on, Chambers! gan on, White! may the best man win the race.

Singin' pull away, etc.

Stroke for stroke contendin, they sweep on wi' the tide,
Fortune seems impendin the victor te decide;
At last the Cockney losin' strength, the fowlin gam' did steal,
He leaves his wetter ivery length, an' runs Chambers iv a keel

Spoken-- What a hulla baloo! Hoo the Cockney speeled away; ivery yen thowt the race was ower. Some said it was a deed robery, others a worry, an' wawked hyem before the finish o' the race. There was a chep stannin' aside me wiv his hands iv his pockets--aw'm sartin thor wis nowt else in--luikin' on te river wiv a feyce like a fiddle stick.  He sung the following lament, efter the style of "There's nae luck" :

Tune- -"Nae Luck aboot the Hoose."

Ten lengths aheed! Fareweel, bedsteed! maw achin' byens nee mair
On thou mun rowl; No, this poor sowl mun rest on deep despair.
Wor Nannie, tee, she'll curse an' flee, an' belt me like a Tork,
For aw've lost me money, time, an' spree, an' mebbies lost maw work.

Chorus
For oh! dismay upon that da in ornist did begin,
On ivery feyce a chep might trace-- (Spoken) Whe's forst-- Bob?
(Sings) Oh! the Cockney's sure te win.

Says one poor sowl aw've sell'd my pigs, my clock, my drawers an' bed,
An' doon te Walker aw mun wark, when aw might a rode I'stead.
Gox! there's wor Jim an' a' the crews pawned ivery stich o' claes,
An' they say thor's two cheps sell'd thor wives, the six te fower te raise.

For oh, dismay, etc.

Spoken-- Comin' doon efter awl wis ower, aw meets one i' wor cheps, an Irishman; they cawd him Patrick, but aw cawd him Mick for shortness. He wadent wait for the finish, altho' he backed Bob; so aw hailed him, "Hie, Mick, whe's forst?" "Go to blazes!" says he. "Nonsense, Mick; whe's forst?" "Och, sure," says he, "the Londin man was forst half-way before the race was quarther over." "Had on, Mick, that's a bull.  Did ye lay owt on tiv him--aw mean Bob?" "By my sowl, I did! an' I'd like to lay this lump ov a stick on his dhirty cocoa-nut.  The next time I speculate on floatin' praporty may I be sthruck wid a button on my upper lip as big as a clock face." "But, Chambers is forst!" says aw. "Arrah! de ye mane to say that?" says he, "Didn't aw tell ye he'd win afore iver he started?" "Hurroo! more power! fire away!"

Chorus

Pull away, pull away, pull away, boys,
Pull away, boys, se cliver;
Pull away, pull away, pull away, boys.
    Chambers for iver!

-Corvan, 1862

The above most memorable race took place on the Tyne, April 19th, 1859, between Thomas White, of London, and Robert Chambers, of Newcastle. The latter fouled a keel after rowing about half a mile; this accident allowed White to obtain a lead of about one hundred yards, but Chambers gamely followed, and caught him near Armstrong's factory, where he passed the Cockney and defeated him very easily. This, the most wonderful performance on any river stamped "Honest Bob" as the greatest oarsman of the age.--Note, 1872 Edition.

The Deeth O' Cuckoo Jack
First Air--"Chant."

In wor celebrated metropolis o' the north, Newcastle upon-Tyne,
A scullorsman leev'd, ca'd Cuckoo Jack, a genus o' the grapplin line. 
The soorce o' Coaly Tyne an' all its curose channels well he knew,
So local fame suin crooned the nyem o' famous aud "Cuckoo."
His skill was greet in bringing up the deed, still what mair odd is,
'Tis said he little cared for sowls, so he but got the bodies;
But noo aw'll end this little rhyme, to chant his dyin' strain,
Confident that and Cuckoo's like we'll niver see again.

Second Air-- "Poor Mary Anne."

November winds blaw cawd, maw hinny!
    Deeth follows on mee track;
The fall'n snaws will shrood me hinny,
    Thou's loosin' Cuckoo Jack.

Ta, ta, ti pay; ta, ta, ti penshin; maw ill deeds, nibors, niver mention,
But elways speak wi' gud intenshin 'boot poor aud Cuckoo Jack.

Third Air--"Keel Row."

Fareweel tiv a' me cronies, Keeside and Sandgate Jonies,
For aikin ivery bone is, i' this aud skin o' mine.
Deed bodies frae the river aw've often tyun oot cliver,
Maw equal ther wes niver for grapplin Coaly Tyne.

Fourth Air-- "Down among the Dead men."

Luika here, luika here,doon belaw, doon belaw,
Pull away, lads, pull away, lads, aw've huiked him-
(less jaw!)
This chep myeks a hundred and siventy-nine
Deed bodies aw've fund in the Coaly Tyne.

Aw's gannin noo, so frinds, good-bye-
Doon amang the scullormen, doon amang the scullormen,
Doon, doon, doon, doon, doon amang the scullormen 
Let Cuckoo lie.
Aw mun rest wi' the rest that aw fund for my fee,
An' aw hope that aud Nick winnet grapple for me;
Let maw eppytaff be, "Here lies on his back
The chep that fund the droon'd men, Cuckoo Jack."

Aw's gannin noo, etc.

-Corvan, 1862.

John Wilson (better known by the more familiar cognomen of "Cuckoo Jack," which he derived from his father, who made "Cuckoo" clocks), noted for his skill in recovering the bodies of the drowned, died December 2nd, 1860, aged 68.

Wor Tyneside Champions
Tune--"Billy Nuts."

The Cockneys say uz keelmen cheps hez nowther sense nor larnin',
An' chaff a boot wor tawk, the fuils; but , faix, they've got a warnin';
They thowt wor brains wis mixed wi' coals, but noo a change that odd is,
Alang wi' coals we send up men that licks the Cockney bodies.
Brave Harry Clasper aw'll nyem first amang wor stars that shine, man.
Lads! here's the stroke that famis myed wor canny coaly Tyne, man.

(Imitate Harry Clasper in position.)

Tune--'Billy Patterson."

An' aw'll lay maw money doon, wi' reet gud heart and will,
Te back the sons o' coaly Tyne, -- huzza for Tyneside still!
May Chambers lang his laurels keep, wor champion o' the world, man;
His bonny rowin' adds fresh fame whene'er his flag's unfurl'd, man.
Of runners, te, we've got the tips,-0Tyne bangs the world for pacin',
Gox! White and Rowan, champion peds, bangs a' the lot for racin';
When little White means runnin', lads, he's shaped in fine condishin,
He dog'd te get the start like this, --see graceful in position.

(Imitate the start.)

Chorus as above.

Tune--"Chant"

When pay-week comes, wor collier lads for the toon they a' repair,
Then ower the moor, an' roond the coorse, ye'll fynd them boolin' there;
Hail, rain, or blaw, 'mang sleet or snaw, ye'll fynd wor boolin' men
Watchin' the trig, aw moves the twig, howe! let's hev her here agyen.

Saint, wor famis champion, with his bold eye keen and clear,
Like leetnin' sends oot mighty thraws, the best o' men scarce near;
Hollo! "Pies all hot!" upon the spot, ther're suin put oot o' seet;
"Some mair gravy," cries oot yen: "aw say, mistor, d'ye mean te say that's meat?

It's mair like deed pussey-cat"--war the bool there--less gob!
Six te fower on Broon--hie, men! six to fower on Broon agyen the Snob.
War the bool there, war the bool there, Harry Wardle's myed a throw;
An'when he hoyed his bool away he stood just so--
(Imitate position.)

Chorus as above.

Tune--"Bob and Joan."

Wor champion quoit players here thor match ye'll seldom meet with,
For ony length ye like ye'll find men te compete with,
For quoits we've famis been since Julius Seasor landed;
Man, for generations doon the gam's been duly handed.
McGregor plays weel, Lambert weel can fling her,
But Harle shapes like this when puttin on a ringer.

(Position.)

Chorus.
An' aw'll lay maw money doon, wi' reet gud heart and will,
Te back the sons o' coaly Tyne, --huzza for Tyneside still!

-Corvan, 1862

The Queen Has Sent A Letter;
or, The Hartley Calamity.

The falling of the large beam in Hartley Colliery, on the 16th January 1862 closed up the shaft, in consequence of which 204 men and boys, lost their lives.

Tune-- "No Irish need Apply."

Oh! bless the Queen of England, who sympathy doth show,
Toward our stricken widows amid their grief and woe;
Old England never had her like, nor never will again,
Then bless good Queen Victoria, ye loyal-hearted men.
She sent a letter stating-- "I share your sorrows here,"
To soothe the aching hearts of all and dry the widow's tear.

Above two hundred miners are numbered with the dead,
Whose wives and children ne'er shall want their bit of daily bread;
And while death's shadow overhangs the miner's cot with gloom, 
Let us calm the widow's heaving breast for those laid in the tomb;
And ye that round your glowing fires life's comforts daily share,
Think of the helpless orphans and widows in despair.

We have heroes from the Redan and Inkerman as well,
Whose deeds of daring on the field a nation's thanks can tell;
But did they face the deadly stythe, where scarce a single breath'
Held life to face eternity to rescue life or death!
Show me the page in history where deeds heroic shine
More bright than our Northumbrian men, the heroes of the mine.

The collier's welfare, as he toils, more interest might command
Among the wealthy owners and rulers of the land.
Are they like beasts of burthen, as Roebuck once did rave,
Will government in future strive the collier's life to save?
Why should the worn-out collier amid his abject gloom
Eke out the life his Maker spared to share the pauper's doom?

God speed the hardy collier, and Coulson's gallant band,
Who braved the perils of the shaft with willing heart and hand;
And ye that add to store the hive and feed the fatherless,
May He that watches o'er all things your earthly prospects bless.
The weeping and wailing of widows let us end,
And with our Queen let all men see we are the widow's friend.

The sailor on the stormy sea life's perils often share,
Our soldiers 'mid the battle's strife what man can do they dare;
Yet both have got a chance for life, but ah! the miner's doom,
'Twas sad to sleep the sleep of death closed in the living tomb.
Then man to man, with heart and hand, let us still help each other,
With generous impulse to relieve a sister or a brother.

Oh! gather round, ye generous band whose bounty caused a smile
To 'llume the face of dark despair throughout old England's isle.
Ye have ta'en the gloom from sorrow where rays of love will fall
On the widow and the fatherless, who pray "God bless you all!"
For the Queen has sent a letter, tho' she mourns a husband dear,
To soothe the aching hearts of all and dry the widow's tear.

-Corvan, 1862.
 

The Queen's Visit to Cherbourg
Tune--"The Sly Old Fox."

Now Louis Napoleon, by-the-bye,--Tol lol, etc
With great success a game did try,---Tol lol, etc.
Our gracious Queen, admired by all,
Forgot herself, and deigned to call 
With an august assembly got up for a stall.

Ri tol de dol lol,  etc.

No other crowned heads did he invite,- -Tol lol, etc.
His game being to gammon John Bull at the sight,- -Tol lol, etc.
For ages past Kings  one by one,
And Emperors toiled, being bent upon
Showing up Britain as well as Vauben--Tol lol, etc

Tune--"Spider and the Fly."

"Will you come into my Cherbourg?"  sly Louis he did say--
That is, he telegraphed, or else sent word some other way;
"Mind, bring Field-marshal Albert-we'll receive all with eclat--
Your Majesty and Ministers, so Victoria, bonswa,
Will you, will you, will you, will you come in, British Queen?"

Tune--"Far, far upon the Sea."

All arrangements being made for this regal masquerade,
O'er the bright blue waters nobly on we go,
With our noble Channel Fleet, well manned, and fit to meet
A friend upon the ocean,  or a foe.
'Twas thus they left our shores, where a British lion roars
Far, far above the thunder of the seas,
Where Neptune's briny throng in triumph bears along
Old England's flag, that ever braves the battle and the breeze.

Will you come into, etc.

Tune--"Jonathan Brown."

Now a very true story I'm going to tell,
Well founded on fact, and you all know it well:
While the Queen and Prince Albert sailed along in their yacht,
Albert says, "Vat's his game, Vic-- vat can he be at?"
With his dumble dum deary, etc.

'Don't speak so loud, dear Al, if you please,
For Mollykoff's trying to cop every sneeze."
Now the guns commenced firing, they landed, and then
Napoleon seized Viccy, saying, "Velcome, mine frien."
With his dumble dum deary, etc.

"Dere's my maritime wonder," in their ears he did bawl,
"And dis is my new naval arsenal;"
Then he showed them all round this monsterous plan,
And about our defences to talk he began.
With his dumble dum deary, etc.

"You very mush back in England, " said he.
"But we' ne'er turn'd our backs yet," said Viccy, with glee.
"Dis is very large gun, Mrs. Albert, you see."
"Yes! but I've larger in Woolwich, so it's no treat to me."
With your dumble dum deary, etc.

"With my fleet in my harbour I'm unequalled, no doubt,
And should war be proclaimed I could soon fit them out."
"Ho, ho! that's your game!" then the white of his eye
Turned round as the Queen said, "You'd better not try."
With your dumble dum deary, etc.

"My friends were not pleased with your queer British laws;
And I, too, thought Barnard all but in my claws.
Chop de heads off such men." says the queen, "Ah mon dieu,
If we harbour assassins, we once harboured you."
With your dumble dum deary, etc.

"Then let us be friends, Vic; for when once unfurled,
Our flags, still united, can conquer the world;
I adore Albion's Isle--may ill ne'er beset it."
Says Vic, "So did your uncle: he tried hard for to get it."
With his dumble dum deary, etc.

May our Queen take a hint from this Emperor's boast,
And strengthen old England, as needs round the coast
For if we wish to have peace, I dare venture to say,
Be ready for war, lads--that's the true and best way.

Tune--"Lucy Neal."

Ye loyal hearts in Briton's Isle, who ever true have been
To honour's cause and England's laws, now shout "God save the Queen!"
And may her Majesty and those connected with the State
Look a little more at home before it is too late.
Prepare our wooden walls--prepare our wooden walls;
We must complete our Channel Fleet--'tis threat'ning danger calls,
Britannia, rouse thy slumbering lion, and let all nations know
We are prepared for peace or war-to meet a friend or foe.
Let no vile hypocrite assume that Britons dread to meet
Napoleon or his Cherbourg forts, while floats our Channel Fleet.

Spoken-- And while we enjoy peace and good-will with our neighbours on the opposite side of the Channel, let us at the same time, with manly hearts and feelings of patriotic zeal, sing--

"Rule Britannia."-Finale.

Barnard= a French refugee, tried in London for being an accomplice of Orsini in the attempt on the Emperor Napoleon's life; he was acquitted.

-Corvan, 1862.

Stage-Struck Keelman
Tune--"Bob and Joan."

Aw's Jimmy Julius Hannibal Ceasar,
A genius born for shootin';
Aw can recite Hamlick and King Dick,
Man, aw's the lad for spootin'.

Spoken-- Besides, aw's an awther. Aw wrote a play entitled "The Flash o' Thunder; or, The Desolate Tree by the Roadside, an' the Lonely Man o' the Lonely Mill o' the Blasted Heath, an' the Flower-eyed Murderer." It's in fowerteen acts and a half.  The music's a' 'ranged by Frederick Jimmy Apollo Lumphead for nine gugaws.  Aw'll recite a dark passage oot on't, as a specimine.

Scene 1st.-A Coal Pit- Blue Mountains in the distance (we'll say the mountains is in America).
'Twas a dark neet-- a very dark neet; the sun peeped oot before the skies; the wind fell in fearful torrents; the cloods  fell te the arth; and the cuddies turned thor backs on the comin' storm, an' wi' thor melodious noise gov a tarrific he ha! he ha! he ha!  'Twas then aw porsued maw way bi the Blasted Heath--medytatin', codgetatin', and silly quisin', when sumthing seized me-- a caud swet com ower me sleeved waistket.  Aw fell doon insensible; an' when aw recuvered, aw observed the Fower-eyed Murderer gazin' upon me. Aw seized him an' cast him forth inte the boilin' het caud watter.  At that excitin' moment aw flew towards the Aud Abbey.  Hush! what was that? Hark! I see a voice! No, no, 'tis the wind whistlin' the air! In this tent I'll pitch my field! O let me behold the green fields o' Sandgate--the blue mountains of Gyetshead and Jarrow- the Tripe Market, where youthful fancy guided maw three-happence a week pocket-brass! Egstacy! A shooer o' black puddins thickens maw imaginashun! Light lights! Richard's himeslf agyen!

For I'm Jimmy, etc.

Play-actin's maw delight,
Aw's called the Sandgate Spooter;
Besides, the plays aw write
Myeks me an oot-an'ooter.
Love scenes, an' murders tee,
Aw acts them up te nature;
The chaps upon the Kee says
Aw'll turn a real first-rater.

Spoken-- Yes aw've anuther play entitled "The Two Thick-headed Bruthers; or the Life and Adventures of Three Fardins' Worth o' Backey; or, the Keel Bully's Ghost." Thor's a' kinds o' characters in't: aw've ghosts blue fire, reed fire, scufters, doddle hunters, organ weavers, cuiks, an' fower comic cheps.  Here's a speech a bobby myeks te one o' the cuiks:--"Celestial, beautiful, divine creature! star of my fancy ! staff of my existence! lantern of my hope! let me stand up and adore thee for ever on my knees! Oh, ye crabs and fishes! let me spout me blues! Let me gaze upon thee! O horrible agony! Thy lovely features--that turnip nose--them saucer eyes--thy red luxuriant hair--that figure--thy quarter's wages--let me clutch thee!" Make way there! 'tis the king who calls!

For I'm Jimmy, etc.

My talent will be seen'
When actin' aw begin, sir;
For aw'll play before the Queen'
Wi' Charles Kean at Windsor;
Aw's sure te cut him oot,
He'll heh ne chance wi' me, sir,
For when she heers me spoot,
Thor's nyen like me will please her.

Spoken-- Aw just think she sees me in that scene in Hamlick, where the ghost cums--"Angels an' ministers of grease confend us! Be thou sum sporits of earth or cobbler damned; bring ye hares frae Ravensworth for me or thee to sell; thou comest in such a drunken state, aw'll toss thee for a pint o' fowerpenny! He's waggin' on me; he wants te play at skittles at the Crystal Palace!
Gan on--aw'll follow thee."

For I'm Jimmy, etc.

Corvan
 

The Soop Kitchin
Tune--"Lilla's a Lady."

The soup kitchin's open--then cheer, Christians, cheer!
What glorious news for poor starvin' sowls here!
The soop kitchin's open for a' sorts in need;
So rush in wi' yor tickets--ye'll get a gud feed.

Chorus
O fine, het steem soop! O bliss that steem soop!
    Aw likes maw drop o' soop!

It's myed oot o' beef hoffs, fine barley, an' peas;
Smokin' het, it's dilishus te sup at yen's ease;
It's gud for the rich, an' not bad for the poor;
Gox! empty kite grumlers it's sartin te cure.

Spoken-- Drop that spoon, spooney! D'ye want te myek maw spoon the bone o' contenshun, eh? Bring this chep a ladle, mistres, an' a basin.  Next the bottom, he wants sum thick. What a wite that soop's tyekin frae maw mind!  Begox! it's run inte the channels o' maw corporation; an now aw feel like an alderman efter a gud feed!  It's a fine institushin; it suits maw constitushin; an 'tiv onny poor sowl in a state o' destitushin it's a charitable contribushin.  Sum people's born wi' silver spoons i' thor gobs, but it strikes me mine's been a basin o' soop.  They enjoy the luxeries o' this world; A --whey, nivver mind-j-ust gi' me the sweet soond o' spoons an' basins.  That's the music that bids me discorse! It fills me wi' delight! Thor's nowt can lick't.

Tune-- "Merry Haymakers."

Then a song an' a cheer for the rich spreed o' steem
O' the soop floatin' roond us on high;
For the givers an' the makers, the tickets an' the Quakers,
An' subscribers that nivver tip shy.
We blaw oot owr bags on the cheep ivvery day,
While happy as kings there we mess;
Gox! us poor starved sowls nivver heed the wind that howls,
For close roond the tyebles we press.

Tune--"Cameron Men."

Roond tyebel and benches the bullies they stick,
A' cled in thor feedin' array;
Sum coolin' het soop, uthers fishin' for thick,
Uthers waitin' thor torns i' dismay.

Then we hear the spoons rattlin', rattlin', rattlin',
We hear them agyen an' agyen;
Thor knockin' thor basons an' brattlin',
'Tis the voice o' the brave Sandgit men.

Bob Johnson cries, "How ! becrike, men, what' that?"
Wiv his spoon raised up high for te view;
"Begum! it's a rat, or a greet lump o' fat"-
Says Ranter, "It's mebbies sum stew!"

Then we hear the spoons rattlin'. rattlin', rattlin',
Ye hear them agyen an' agyen;
"Shuv the salt roond!' aw hear sum chaps prattlin',
'Tis the voice o' the brave Keeside men.

The Paddies flock in wi' the rest iv a trice,
Then doon to thor basins they stoop;
Says Mick, "It's cock turtle!" Says Barney, "It's nice!
Made from real Irish bulls--O what soop!"

Spoken-- "Long life t' the soop kitchin!" says Mick. "An' hivven be his bed thit invented it!” says Barney.  "What's this?" says Mick. "Och! it's only a bone. Be jabers! I thought it was a lump of lane bafe. Some moor, misthress!"

Then ye hear the spoons rattlin', rattlin', rattlin',
Once mair ye hear them agyen;
Ye hear them prattlin', prattlin', prattlin',
'Tis the voice o' the Callaghan men.

The Sandies, frae Scotland, they join i' the group,
Sweerin' oatmeal's oot-dune wi' sic stuff,
As wi' gud Heelin' stamocks they swalley the soup
'In thor wames, till they scarcely can puff.

Spoken-- "It's capital stuff, Sandy; and vera economical." A capital remairk," says Watty

Then ye hear the spoons rattlin', rattlin', rattlin',
Ye hear them agyen and agyen;
Ye hear them prattlin' an' prattlin',
'Tis the voice o' the Cameron men.

-Corvan

The High Level An' the Aud Bridge
A Comic Imaginary dialogue

Tune--"I'd be a Butterfly."

Won caud winter's neet, man, the leetnin' was flashin',.
And the wind through the High Level Bridge loud did squeel;
The neet was pick-dark, an' the waves they were dashin',
Man, we'd sair tues amang us to manage wor keel.
But amang a' the thunder what myed wor lads wonder,
Wis the High Level Bridge to the Aud Bridge bawl out-

Tune--"Marble Halls."

"O! ye crazy Aud Bridge, ye'll suin be pull'd down,
An' yor styens in the river be hurled'
Yor nee ornament, noo, but disgracin' wor toon,
Luik at me--aw's the pride o' the world.
Hoo noble am I, reachin' up ti the sky,
Lukin' down on a humbug belaw;
Ther's yor blynd men an' cadgers stoppin' folks passin' by,
An' yor Piperget wives wi' thor jaw."

Spoken-- An' a tidy lot o' gob they hew; just gie them an aud button for a happorth o' mince tripe, an' ye'll get some tongue into the bargain.  But, tawkin' o' the row 'tween the two Bridges. Goggle-eyed Tommy heard them fightin' aside Lemington; and when aw'd gat aside the Meadows aw hears the High Level say ti the Awd Bridge--"Yor neebody, poor aud fellow." Just at that time, Jack Gilroy says ti the High Level--"Shut up, lang legs." That nerved the Aud Bridge; he showed fight, an' walked into the High Level in the followin' style:--

Tune--"Fine Old English Gentleman."

"Shut up, shut up yor skinny jaws," the Aud Bridge then did shoot;
"For if thou's yung, Mistor High Level Bridge, just mind what tho's aboot,
An'  dinnet wag yor jaws ower fast, like the men o' modern days;
Just tyek advice fra a poor aud bridge, an' drop off a' self-praise.

` Chorus
"But mind yor locomotive things, an' let an aud bridge be.

"Wor Cassel Garth, where snips an' snobs wi' maid an' frinds did meet,
Ye've caused to be pulled doon, ye knaw, and banish'd oot o' seet.
Luk doon on me, lang sparrow shanks, ye half-bred, mean young pup,
If ya thraw yor engines doon on me, aw'll thrw some aud keels up.

But mind, etc.

"Before iver ye wor thout on, man, aw've stood here i' maw pride,
An' lettin fokes wawk ower me t'ween the Bottle Bank and Side;
Besides ye charge a happenny, yor level's dearly bowt,
Man, aw stand maw grund es weel as thou, an' let fokes ower for nowt.

But mind, etc.

"When aw wis young we had ne jails or bastiles i' the toon,
Nor pollis wi thor greet big staffs, ti knock a poor sowl doon;
But noo the mairch of intellect an' scientific ways,
Hez tyen away wor good aud times-- we sigh for better days"

Spoken--"Drop off tawkin' about sighin', " says Jack.  "Shut up," says Ralphy L--tle on the top o' the Mansion House, "or aw'll wawk ye byeth off ti the kitty." There wad hae been manslawter if it hadn't been for Ralphy; but the Aud Bridge kent him; they'd gyen to the Jubilee Skeul together when they war lads. Says the Aud Bridge, "What are ye gan t' hev?" "Oh," says Ralphy, "a bottle o' soda watter an' half a glass o' brandy in't."  'Twas an awful dark neet, aw mind'; that dark we cuddent see what we war tawkin' about.  Howsever, we byeth escaped, an' away we went singin'--

Weel may the keel row, etc.

-Corvan, 1862.

Cat-Gut Jim, The Fiddler
Tune--"And sae will we yet."

Aw'm Cat-gut Jim, the fiddler, a man o' greet renoon,
Aw play te myek me livin, lads, in country an' i' toon;
Tiv ivery fair an' ivery feast wi' maw fiddle aw repair:
Gox! where thor's ony fun or sport thou's sure to fynd me there.

Chorus
For aw drive away dull care, aw drive away dull care,
So patronise poor Cat-gut Jim when ye've only cash te spare.

Aw'll play ye ony tuen ye like, aw'll play ye "Cheer, boys, cheer,"
Or te try an' keep yor spirits up, aw'll play the "Drop o' Beer,"
The "Deevil amang the Tailors," "Peggy Pickin doon the shore."
The “Lass that loves a sailor," an' mony a dozen more.

For aw drive away, etc.

Aw play "Mary Blane," an' "Lucy Neal," wi' " Poor old Uncle Ned,"
"O! Nanny, wilt thou gang wi' me," "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled";
Aw play "McCloud's" reel beautiful, "What are ye gawn te stand?"
The "Keel Row," shaken a' the rags o'er this happy, unhappy land.

Spoken-- Ony thing, frev an elephant's trunk tiv a lucifer match-box.  Uz street fiddlers fynds times queer just noo--customers bad te fynd--but iv a' the customers aw meet gie me the sailors, them's the boys!--the bulwarks of owld England. Aw'm a sailor; ye can see by the cut o' me jib.  Aw sarved me time to be a ship-owner aboard o' the Dredger-what a gun-boat the Dredger 'id myek--when they run short o' cannon-balls they cud fire coal-skuttles at the enemy. An' then they're always weel supplied wi' Newcastle amonishen-clarts.  Aw knaw a vast aboot the sea, but the next time aw gan it'll be iv a cab.  Yes, aw'll hev a luik at it. Still, aw'm fond o' sailors; when aw sees yen aw generally play "Far upon the Sea." (Play the tune named here.) When aw seen an Irishman-- them's the boys, Hatre genus men-- they'll gie ye tuppence if they hevent a fardin' i' thor pockets.  Aw generally play them the "Exile of Erin" an' "Patrick's Day." One's full o' human nater, an' the other's full o' shillalahs an' life porsarvers-- them's the things for layin a foundation for stickin plaister. (Plays the airs mentioned.)  When aw see a Scotchman aw play "Auld Robin Gray" on the bagpipes, efter the style o' Sir Colin Campbell, "Ye Deil's Buckie." (Play here.) But when aw join the fishwives--them's the boys! aw plays them "Pop goes the Weasel, " efter the style o' Sir Walter Railly when he tossed a chow o' bacy at Queen Elizabeth. (Plays.)

Chorus

For aw drive away dull care, aw drive away dull care,
So patronise poor Cat-gut Jim when ye've ony cash te spare.

-Corvan, 1862
 

Jackey and Jenny.
Tune--"Come, fie, let us a' to the Bridal."

As Jackey an' Jenny sat gobbin
About the fine things i' thor hoose--
Says Jenny, "By keepin' teetotal,
It's myed us byeth cantie an' crouse.
When ye used te gan on the fuddle,
We then went byeth hungry an' bare,
But since ye hev jointed the teetotal,
We noo hev eneuf an' te spare.
"When ye used te gan on the fuddle, etc.

"Wor hoose is weel stock'd an' weel furnish'd
Wi' dresors, an tyebles, an' chairs--
We've pots, pans, an' kettles, an' dishes,
And a' sorts o' crockery wares;
We've byeth bed an' beddin' i' plenty,
And we hev gud claes te wor back--
Wor cupboard is noo niver empty,
Thor's nowt really gud that we lack.

Chorus

"The bairns are byeth healthy an' hearty,
And blythsome as blythsome can be;
It myeks me heart joyful te see them,
For they are the pride o' maw e'e.
Aw try te keep a' things se canny,
Te myek ye a' happy at hyem--
An' what wi' wor curtains an' carpets,
Thor's nowt i' the hoose like the syem

Chorus

"Noo, Jackey, aw'll tell ye a secret,
And myek me-sel sure of a treat--
Aw wish te gan up tiv the concerts
That's held on the Seturday net.
Aw'll dres i' maw best bib an' tucker,
An' ye mun put on yor best claes;
We'll show them hoo nicely teetotal
Has mended and better'd wor ways."

-James Rewcastle, Broadsheet, about  1860.

The Sheep-Killin' Dog

Hae ye heard o' the dog that's been killin' the sheep,
How he baffled the watchers, and gae them the slip?
Sum says it's ne dog, but the ghost ov a glutton,
That when upon earth had a strang tyest for mutton.

He's a bloodthirsty villin,
We'll hunt him and kill him,
And send his skin up te Newcastle museem.

Sum says it's a wolf just cum doon frae the hills,
To tyest a' the flesh meat they  hev aboot Sheels;
Jack Proctor declares that he saw the beest runnin,
An' sweers 'twas the deevil or else 'twas a yungin.

Chorus

Sum says it's a beest that nebody can tyem,
A laffin High Anna aw think is the nyem;
What iver it be, deevil, ghost, or wild beest,
It's clear it delights on gud mutton te feast.

Chorus

He beats the bowld rifles, the pollis an' aw,
They sweer sic a beest in thor lives they neer saw;
He prowls oot at neets an' thor shanks he suin cracks,
An' leeves them caud deed on the broad o' thor backs.

Chorus

Byeth aud wives an' yungins wi' greef the tyel lairns,
And feer the greet beest shud fall foul o' the bairns;
The perambulators they darn't set oot, 
For feer they fall in wiv the sheep-killin' brute

Chorus

We've h'ard of hobgoblin a witch, an' a warlock,
But surely he's givin the butchers pilgarlick.
Noo for the reward aw wad he ye te strive,
And bring him te Sheels either deed or alive.

Chorus

Edward Elliott, 1862

In October 1862 considerable alarm was felt by the farmers near North Shields, on discovering morning after morning that several of their sheep had been worried and left dead in the fields.  Suspicion fell on several poor dogs but, although closely watched, the offence could not be brought home to them.  One dog was chased (on suspicion) all the way from Shields to his master's house in Percy Street. The offender is still at liberty.-- Note, 1862
 
 

Whitley Camp

Written on the occasion of the Felling Artillery Corps camping on Whitley Sands, September 1862

Hae ye been doon at Whitley Sands
Ti see the warriors campin'?
It's worth your while ti gan an see
The Sangit lions rampin'.
The're just as feerce as untyem'd goats,
An' all liked sowlgers dress'd;
They've a bunch ov hair upon their jaws
Just like a yowley's nest.

Wack, fal de ral, etc.

Their little huts, like sugar-loaves,
All pointin' to the sky;
And woe betide the enemy I
If he gans ower nigh.
In the inside the warrior rests
Upon his rusty spear;
He luiks as if he was distress'd
Wi' backey and wi' beer.

Wack, etc.

They talk they want ti hae them used
Ti stand all kinds o' wether,
The whins and bents and strang  sea air
 Will tan their hides like lether.
The enemy may fire away,
An' try their utmost skill,
Nee shot'll pierce their harden'd frames,
The'll stand invincible.

Whack, etc.
 
The neet was dark when Tommy Todd 
Was as th' sentry walkin',
An outlandish beast he thowt he saw
Amang the tents was stalkin'.
In th' queen's nyem, he cries "whe's there?"
He ne'er tyuk time to study-
Off went his rifle wiv a crack
At Andrew Drummond's cuddy.

Whack, etc.

The poor beast ran, an' gav a yell,
Tommy dropt on th' green;
'Twas said when he got up agyen
He wasn't ower clean,
At last the grand review cum on,
Ther surely was sum fun
Ti see the warriors fight the fish
Wi' Willy Armstrang's gun

Whack, etc.

The greet guns roar'd, the fire flew,
It was a grand display;
The sea-gulls scream'd an' flapped their wings,
An' flew far nor' away.
The greet round-shot went plish-for-plash
Inti the tortured deep;
They myed the crabs and lobsters hop,
An' the fish cud get nee sleep. 

Whack, etc.

Jacky Scott, the pollisman,
Wiv a fyece byeth black and cloody,
He sweers that nyen shall do them rang,
Nee man shall hurt a noody.
Oh! they're the cream ov Britain's bowl,
Them, ne uther troop surpasses--
In the canteen their valour's seen
Amang the pots and glasses.

Whack, etc.

The French may brag ov body-guards,
An' crack aboot ther warrin';
Giv our campin' lads but Willy's gun,
They'll put them off their sparrin'.
Aw think we aw may safely say
Ne mair we'll be neglected;
But wi sutch guns and valient men
Wor shores are weel protected.

Whack, etc

-Edward Elliott, 1862
 
 

The Time That Me Fethur Wes Bad.
Tune--"Cum hyem te yor childer an' me."

Thor wes grief i' the hoose all aroond,
An' the neybors luckt in passin' by,
An' they'd whisper, "Hoo is he the day?"
Then hing doon thor heeds wiv a sigh;
An' they'd speak te me muther se kind,
Tho' whativer they said myed her sad;
An' she'd moan real heart broke tiv her-sel,
A' the time that me fethur wes bad.

As me fethur lay ill iv his bed,
As helpless as helpless can be,
Man, it myed me heart ache when he tried
Te smile at wor Johnny an' me.
For he always wes fond ov his bairns,
An' aw mind Johnny said, "Get up, dad!"
For he poor little fellow felt lost,
A' the time that me fethur wes bad.

Then me fethur wad say, "Me gud lass,"
Te me poor muther at his bedside,
"Lass, aw hevin't been half kind te ye."--
"Yis ye hev!" she wad sob as she cried.
Then he'd call me t' him, an' he'd say,
"Ye'll be kind te yor muther, me lad;"
For he knew that his day wes drawin' nigh,
Tho' we nivor thowt he wes se bad.

Then me muther wad sit up a' neet,
An' she'd nivor lie doon throo the day;
But wad spend ivry moment she cud
I' the room where me poor fethur lay:
Till the blow com at last, an' it fell
On wor hearts, when he lay still an' ca'd;
An' tho' eers pass, aw'm sad when aw think
O' the days when me fethur wes bad.

-Joe Wilson, 1869
 

Jimmy's Deeth

Jimmy Wright deed se suddin, Mall thowt it but reet
To send to the krooner that varry syem neet;
So she sent up te Hoyle, an' accordin' te laws
He order'd post mortim te find oot the caws.

Syuen a doctor was browt, and wivoot much aboot,
He rowl'd up his sleeves an' had Jim open'd oot;
But all that he fund, an' as deed as a nail,
Was a small "eelea" wiv a queer brocken tail.

Now Hoyle was sair puzzled, an' scratch'd his awd heed,
Furst lyuked at the joory, then lyuk'd at the deed;
Swore the witnesses byeth--for thur only was two,
Poor Mally, Jim's wife, an' his marrow, Billoo.

Billoo was first call'd for, an' said "Lyuk ye heer,
When Jim, like his marrows, drunk nowt else but beer,
He was reet as a trippet, an' riddy for owt,
But tyekin' the wettor, he syuen went te nowt.

"Aw mind weel one mornin', when aw cum te think,
The Whittle Dean stuff had a queer sort o' stink;
Jim tyekin' a drink said, 'Hoo strange aw dee feel,
Begox! aw beleev that aw've swally'd an eel.'

"An' ivvor since then aw've notes'd he 'pined;
Oft tyun wi' the gripes, hoo he twitch'd an' he twined;
He gorned at the wettor, se seldim 'twas sweet,
An' tyuk on te porter, but nivvor gat reet."

Poor Mally blair'd loodly, an' swor "A' was troo
What had been browt forrid bi Billy Billoo;
But aw knaw 'twas a Sunday, ye awl may dippend,
That Jim gat the clincher that hyesten'd his end.

"We wor gawn up be Rye Hill, just like other folk,
And byeth fund the stink o' the nasty gas smoke;
Poor Jim held his breeth and clapp'd his hand so,
Turn'd as bloo as gas-leet, an' nobbit sayed 'Oh!"

The krooner then, in a few words, summ'd all up:
"The furst caws nee doot, is the wettor we sup;
The eel mevvies lowp'd wi' the tyest o' the smoke,
And that was the way that his tailley gat broke.

The joory just whispor'd, an' haddin't lang sat,
'Twas varry syuen knaw when a vardick they gat,
For the foreman cough'd twice, an' said, when he spoke:
"The Whittle Dene wettor an' nasty gas smoke!"

Moral

Noo, all ye Newcassellors, mind what ye drink,
An' weer resporators te keep oot the stink;
Or "eeleas" and sulfor ye'll find is nee joke,
Frev Whittle Dene wettor an' nasty gas smoke.

-Ralph Blackett,  "Weekly Chronicle, 1870.
 

The Pitman's Tickor An' the Wag-At-The-Wa'

Tune-- "Barbara Allen."

Wor Tommy was crissind, an' weel aw remembor
We tuik worsels off for Newcassel toon;
'Twis in the blithe munth iv bonny Septembor,
Not varry lang  'fore wor blindin' cam roon.
The wifey cried oot for new shawl an' bonnit,
The bairns an' the laddies they wanted new claes;
An' wor awdist lass, Jinny, the slee witchin' donnit!
Had coaxed her and minnie te buy her new stays.

We gat te the toon, and gat wor brass ettled,
An' then a' the bairnies war ower the muin
In the easy bit way that thor hashes was settled,
An' glad te get drest in new duds varry suin.
They tuik whor ways hyem, an' aw wandered iboot,
Tyekin stock iv the seets on a Settorday neet;
For aw wis ditermined, ' fore the toon aw went oot,
Hyem for me-sel te tyek sum fine treet.

Aw suin spied a chep thit wes sellin' a tickor,
Thit he boastid wad beet a' the clocks i' the toon;
Is he nobbit axed for'd what aw'd hev spent ippon likor,
Aw suin struck a bargain, an' munny laid doon.
Aw tuik her off hyem, an' hung her up bi the wawl,
'Side the wag-at-the-wa' thit had hung se lang there;
But the crazy awd thing 'side it wad scairce gan it awl--
Tickor bet Waggy kwite oot o' time, aw diclaire!

Saws aw, "Thoo aud lump, what myeks thoo se feulish
Te let a bit thing like that beat thee noo?
Did aw ivor think aw had owt hawf se cullish,
Is onny sic hoyt hawf is lazy is thoo?"
Aw tuik up the hammer, an' levil'd her law, man,
'Spite o' what wifey an' bairnies cud say;
Aw struck te the tickor thit aw varry weel naw, man,
Aw kin elwis dippend te gan thorteen oors i' the day.

-William Henderson Dawson, 1862
 

The Pitman's Visit to Stephenson's Monument
Tuine--"Tallygrip."

Oh! wor pit was laid in, and we had nowt te de,
Says aw te Tom Hoggers, "Let's off te Newcassel;
Thor's fine things te de--the toon's all astir;
Newcassel, they say, 'ill be quite in a bussel.
For Stephenson's Monument's gawn te be shown
By fine lords, and gents tee, and nobbies;
A greet lairge purcession's te mairch throo the toon;
Gox! the noration 'ill myek sum fine wark for the bobbies.

Rite fal the dal la,

We'd scarce getten te toon when the music struck up,
An' St. Nicholas's bells wor set ringing';
The folks in greet croods war a' flockin' aboot,
The patters war threshin' away at the singin',
Says Tomy te me, "Let's see what we'll de,
We'll strike off te the place in a minnit;
For if we stay here till the purcession gets clear,
Smash! we'll not heh the least chance te get in it."

We got te the 'Spital by drivin' amain,
An' knockin' the folks on one side, man:
A dandified fellow he lifted his cane,
An' thretten'd te pummel maw hide, man;
But aw up wi' me fut, an' aw got him a fling,
That suen myed the dandy a sloggers,
For amang a' the lads from Bill Quay te Tyne Main
Thor's nyen can cum up te Jack Slack or Tom Hoggers.

Te hev a gud luik we suen moonted a styen,
When we heerd the purcession wes cummin';
An' feyks! but the music suen myed the folks run,
An' sairly sum heeds got a bummin':
For the folks they cam runnin' like waves o' the sea,
Sum one way an' sum tiv anuther;
A dandy yung buck got a rap on the scaup,
An' one went reet off in a swuther.

An' faiks! but the seet it suen dazed me, aw's sure,
Te see the greet croods o' folks mairchin' se fine;
Wor fitters an' viewers in greet numbers war there,
An' enginemen an' workmen, the pride o' the Tyne.
But the volunteer riflers frightened us a',
When they went past where Tom an' me stud;
An' queerly dressed fellows war there cummin' thick,
Besides, tee, the men o' bowld Robbin Hood.

An' when the purcession got up te the styen,
A chep began for te rowl up a cloot;
A gentleman nob gat reet up aloft--
The people aroond set up a greet shoot;
An' aw wes the forst the figger te spy,
An' aw said at wonce it wes Geordie the daddy;
But aw thowt te mysel when they played "God save the Queen"
Aw wad weel he liked for to hear the "Pit Laddie."

Ah, Man! but the monument itsel it luiks grand,
Te see the canny aud fellow up there;
An te hear a' the fine things the gentleman said,
It varry near myed maw heart for te blair.
An' a wee trapper lad wes stuck in a corner,
An' monny mair figgers se fine,
An' aw said lang might it stand here te Stephenson's glory,
The wee trapper laddie, the pride o' the Tyne!

When the fray wes a' ower Tom an' me had a gill,
An' loodly the haverils war tawkin':
They said sic a seet they'd ne'er seen afore,
Sic heeps o' fine folks thor wes walkin'.
Says aw, "Tommy, man, let's tyek wor ways hyem,
An' tell te wor awn foks the story;
For pit lads far an' near, frae the Tyne te the Wear,
Lang may they rejoice in aud Stephenson's glory.

-William Henderson Dawson,1862.
 

The Stephenson Monument Inaugural October 2nd 1862. In Newcastle and Gateshead there was a general suspension of business in honour of the occasion.
 
 

Jack's Wooden Leg
Tune--"Wonderful Tallygrip."

'Twas in the White House some queer cheps did fore-gether,
One Saturday neet when they war on the spree,
An' frae what aw cud hear 'mang the noise and the blether,
There wis somethin' wonderful they had for ti see.
A duzen or mair war set at a tyeble,
The head o' the company was stuck on a keg;
A cheppy tuik kelter as fasat's he was yeble,
There war gan for ti raffle aud Jack's wooden leg.

Aw joined in the set when aw herd what the gam was,
An' blithely aw tyebled maw brass in a crack,
For i' maw young days when aw was a laddie
Weel aw was liked bi' aud wooden-legged Jack.
An' sair, sair did aw greeve when aw herd ov his end, man,
How for a bite the puir chep had ti beg;
He oft had sair wark for ti myek a bit fend, man,
An' noo they wad raffle his aud wooden leg.

When the nyems war a' reckin'd, there wis a hundred duzen
Ov fellows determined ti try at thor luck;
Th gam wis begun by Bill Bowden's greet cuzen,
Whe cawd us the cheps for showing British pluck.
He thrawed fifteen, which was considered a wunder,
Another got five for ti hang on his peg;
But Bill Thompson, the trimmer, gar'd Bill's cuzen knock under,
For he thrawed eighteen for Jack's wooden leg.

Aw gat up the dice an' them aw did rattle,
For aw felt sartin and sure for ti win
Aw thowt with the best aw wad gie them gud battle,
For the leg ti gan past me wad be a greet sin.
Aw thowt o' the times when aw'd see him stot bi me
Beside the Black House on his aud wooden peg;
Aw'd gien him a hawpenny when he cam nigh me,
Ti help for drink for his aud wooden leg.

Hurrah! noo, me lads, aw've thrawn the two duzen,
Come, try an' beat that thraw if ye can;
Muckle-gobbed Mat he thrawed three-an'-twenty,
But Bowdy-kites Billy's thraw showed him a man;
For he took up the dice, an' he garr'd them a' gingle,
He thrawed for-an'-twenty alang wi' Daft Peg.
The three on us paddled, but aw gaw them a tingle,
For aw tuik off the prize o' Jack's wooden leg.

Aw ga'd ti the cheps that they caw Anty Quaries,
That i' wor aud Cassel myek sic a gran seet;
It's placed 'mang the steyns, and the greet nicky nackies,
And for fowerpence ye may see'd ony holiday neet.
At thor varry last meeting me sair they did flatter,
An' famed Dr. Bruce, tee, said he would beg
That they ask Robert White for ti tyek up the matter,
An' gie them the History o' Jack's Wooden Leg.

-William Henderson Dawson, 1862.

John Stephenson, better known as Wood-Lgged Jack, died October 15, 1862, whilst in the act of eating a morsel of food, which he had from two men in the White House, Pilgrim Street.  Many carriers then frequented Pilgrim Street, and Jack picked up a living going messages for them.  The following whimsical fancy was written at the time of his death, on hearing that it was intended to raffle his wooden leg.
 
 

The Forst ov Owt Ye Had
Tune-- "When the kye comes hame."

There's a happy time in awl wor lives, a plishur in the past,
When we wor stanning forst at skyul, instead of being last;
When ye went reet ayheed, an' beaten ivvory lad-
Can ye e'er forget the plishur ov the forst ov owt ye had?

Chorus
The forst ov owt ye had, the forst ov owt ye, had;
Can ye e'er forget the plisure ow the forst ov owt ye had?

When forst ye had te gan te wark, ye thowt yorsel a man,
And bowldly left yor cosy bed, and tyuk yor brickfist can;
When ye gat yor forst week's brass, and tyuk it te yor dad--
Can ye e'er forget the plishur on the forst pay that ye had?

When ye dressed yor-sel in Sunday claes, te figgor roond the toon.
And cut a high toon swagger, bi wandering up an' doon;
Te fit ye like a swell, an' myek the lases mad--
Can ye e'er forget the plishur ov the forst watch that ye had?

And when ye met wi' bonnie Poll, when gawn up Jesmond Dene,
Ye thowt she was the finest lass that ivvor yit was seen;
Ye gat a gud-neet kiss, that myed yor heart feel glad--
Can ye e'er forget the plishur ov the forst lass that ye had?

When sattled doon in married life, yor bliss wis not complete,
Ye wished a little Toddles for te play aroond yor feet;
Ye tyuk it as it cam, if owther lass or lad--
Can ye e'er for get the plishur ov the first bairn that ye had?

We get see yewsed te awl wor joys, thor's nowt ayboot them new,
They cum se nattoral in thor turn, we think it is wor due;
But when they blissed us forst, we felt supremely glad--
Can you e'er forget the plishur of the forst of owt ye had?

-John Kelday Smith, 1885

Perseveer:
Or, the Nine Oors Movemint
Tune--"Nelly Ray."

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

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

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

Perseveer, etc.

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

Perseveer, etc.

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

Perseveer, etc.

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

Perseveer, etc.

-Matthew Dryden, 1871
 

She's Sumboddy's Bairn

One dar, dorty neet, as aw myed me way hyem,
Aw passed a bit lassie se bonny;
She belanged tiv a class that aw'm frightened to nyem,
An' aw grieve that wor toon hes se monny.
She'd dress'd hersel' up in extravagant style,
Wi' satins an' laces upon her;
As she passed me her fyece had a strange sort o' smile,
That gliff'd me, it did, on me honour.
Aw thowt, noo, that's sumboddy's bairn.

Aw wis struck bi her youth an' her bonny white skin,
An' the bloom on her cheek tho' 'twas painted,
As it flash'd on me mind, them's the trappins o' sin,
Oh, aw felt, ay, as if aw cud fainted.
Aw saw bi her walk, an' her heed toss'd se high,
An' her airtful-like manner se winnin',
Bi her ower-dressed style, an' the glance ov her eye,
That she'd myed, oh, that awful beginnin';
An' aw thowt, noo, she's sumboddy's bairn.

Oh, lasses remember yor feythers at hyem,
An' yor muthers, whe's hearts ye are breakin',
An' the bruthors an' sisters yor brigin' te shyem,
An' the awful-like future yor myekin';
Divvent hanker for plissure nor dresses se fine,
Nor be tempted bi fashin an' beauty;
Think twice ere ye start on that dreadful decline
That leads ye fre' virtue and duty.
Remember, yor sumboddy's bairn.

Ye lads that a muther hes fondled an' nurs'd,
That hes sisters that's gentle an' pure,
Nivver lead a young lass in the way that's accurs'd,
Nivver breathe in her ear what's impure.
Reyther try to protect her fre' danger an' harm,
And if wrang'd see the injured one righted;
For life hes been robb'd of its lovliest charm,
When a woman's fair fame hes been blighted.
For mind, she wis sumboddy's bairn.

-James Horsley, 1886.

The Chinese Sailors in Newcastle

John Chinaman hes cum te spy
Wor canny Northern toon,
Wi flatten'd fyece, an' funny eye,
An' skin ov olive broon,
An' stumpy feet, an' lang pig-tails,
An' claes o' clooty blue,
Alang wor street he slawly trails,
Just like a live yule doo.

Chorus
John Chinaman, John Chinaman,
What hev ye cum te see?
What de ye think o' wor toon lads?
Hoo de ye like wor Quay?

Hev ye been to the Market yit,
Wor cabbages te see,
Or "get a puddin' nice an' het,"
Or hev a cup o' tea?
Or hev ye been te th' cutleer's there 
Te get yor-sel a knife,
Or stroll'd th' length o' filly fair
To choose yor-sel a wife?

John Chinaman, etc.

Or hev ye had a swagger doon
By Mosley Street at neet,
An' watched them myek th' bonny meun
Wiv Swan's Electric Leet?
Or hev ye been te Law's place,
An' smiled yor biggest laff,
An' let yor pigtail hing wi' grace,
Te get yor photygraff?

John Chinaman, etc.

Or hev ye been te Barka's
The bicycles te try,
An' show'd th' Quayside marquises,
Like them yor rethor "fly"?
Or hev ye been te see th' shops
Te spend yor English tin,
An' as th' money frae ye drops,
Suspect yor tek'n in?

John Chinaman, etc.

Or hev ye had a ridy-pide
Inside a Tramway Car,
Wi' grinnin' fyeuls at every side
A' wunderin' what ye are?
Or hev ye bowt a big ci-ga',
An' tried to myek it leet,
An' gyen an' deun the La-di-da,
Alang by Grainger Street?

John Chinaman, etc.

Then trail alang, John Chinaman,
Amang the crood ov bairns,
An' touchy tyest all ye can,
For that's th' way one lairns;
But, mind, beware o' cheeky lass,
An' whisky, John, and beer,
For if ye tyek an extra glass,
Oh, John, 'twill cost ye dear!

John Chinaman, etc.

If ye shud tyek a drop ower much,
An' it gets in yor eye,
An' ye get i' wor bobby's clutch,
By sangs, he'llmyek ye cry-
He'll tyek ye up before the "chief,"
An' though yor skin be broon,
An' ye be neither rogue nor thief,
He'll fine ye haaf-a-croon.

John Chinaman, etc.

But ye'll heve seen, John Chinaman,
Barbarious English cheps
Disgrace the varry nyem ov men,
Th' blackguard jackanyeps!
Should ony drucken cuddy, John,
Dar smite ye in the gob,
We'll let ye break a saucer, John,
An' fine him forty bob.

John Chinaman, etc.

John Chinaman, John Chinaman,
Dressed in yor suit ov blue,
Ye've cum te see John Englishman,
'An' axee-how-he-doo.
Yor welcome here, John Chinaman,
Te buy yor guns an' ships,
An' if ye bring yor munny, John,
Ye'll find us jolly chips.

- John Chinaman, etc.

James Horsley, 1881

In 1881, at Armstrong's a war vessel was built for the Chinese Government, and some hundreds of Chinese sailors came to Newcastle as her crew.  The song describes them as seen in the streets.
 

The Flay Craw;Or, Pee Dee's Mishap.
Tune--"Warkworth Feast."

Just as the darkness o' the neet
Began te hide a' things frae seet,
The Skinners' Burn a keel went past,
Wi' sails stritched wide, an' bendin' mast.
Strite as a craw whe myed her way,
An' a' the keelmen thowt that they
Frae Leminton wad not be lang,
An' blist the wind that blew se strang.

Rite fal, etc.

But gud luck niver hes much last;
The Meedis Hoose they'd just gyen past,
When round aboot, te thor dismay,
The wind it crept--then slunk away.
As oney keelmen can, they swore,
An' cursed what they praised just afore;
One nipt the poor Pee Dee's bit neck,
Anuther kicked him 'cross the deck

Rite fal, etc.

'Twas noo pitch dark' an' still thor lay
Two gud lang mile te gan: so they
A' lowered huik wi' little glee,
An' myed the Pee Dee tyek one, tee.
But suen, poor sowl! his huik gat fast
(Mind, game he was--ay, te the last);
He pulled an' twisted, till the keel
Left huik behint--an' lad as weel!

Rite fal, etc.

They niver missed him till close hyem,
Then shooted ov him biv his nyem.
Ne answer com; they sowt aboot,
But gyen he was, withoot a doot.
The skipper shuk his heed, an' said,
"The yung imp's drooned, aw's very flaid;
O' fault wor clear: aw'm shure he had
An angel's life wi' huz, poor lad."

Rite fal, etc.

'Twas summer time, an' suen the morn
Broke on the Pee Dee, a' forlorn;
But sowlger-like, tho' deed almost,
The poor lad stuck true tiv his post.
He watched the shore wi' watery eye
For folks that might be passin' by.
At last wi' joy a man he spied,
Wi' sumthin' hugg'd close tiv his side.

Rite fal, etc.

This chep  (it turned out) tell'd had been
That sum big bords had there been seen;
So, wiv his gun, he sowt the spot,
For fond was Clarky iv a shot,
An' hopeful he was 'boot his luck,
Till he saw the Pee Dee on the huik;
Then, "Gox!" he cried, "for me te trick,
They've stuck that flay-craw on the stick!

Rite fal, etc.

"But dash, they'll get thor rags ne mair;
Te blaw them doon aw'll tyek gud care!"
He aimed and pulled--gud luck, a snap--
Just then the laddie waved his cap,
An' shooted, "Hey! hey! canny man!
Be sharp an' save us if ye can:
Aw'm nearly deed--aw'm stiff an' sair!"--
But lang the chep stud gyepin' there.

Rite fal, etc.

When a' his ghostly doots were gyen,
An' he saw the lad was flesh an' byen,
Sharp as he cud, a boat he sowt,
An' suen ashore Pee Dee he browt.
As. weel he might, the lad was pleased
Beyond a' boonds at bein' released.
He thenked the chep, se timely sent,
An', wiv his huik, off hyem he went.

Rite fal, etc.

-John Taylor, 1872

Jack Simpson's Bairn

Jack Simpson's bairn cried one neet,
An' Jack cud git ne sleep;
The wife she wander'd oot o' bed,
An' sighed reet hard an' deep.
She be'shd an' ba'd the bairn,
To soothe its little grief;
An' then she said, "Wey, Jack ye knaa,
It's cuttin' its bit teeth!"

Chorus.
Jack says: "Oh dear! will mornin' cum,
That aw may git te wark!
Aw'd syuner work than lie i' bed,
Wide-waken i' the dark!"

Jack says: "Noo, Bess, just haud yor tung,
The bairn's two eer awd;
Ye a' ways say its his teeth;
It's ye that myeks 'im bad.
Whativvor he shud cry for,
Ye give 'im--what a farce!
I'steed o' mendin' wor forst born,
Why, Bess, ye myek 'im warse!"

Bess torn'd aroond, an' then she said:
"Jack, patience ye heth nyen;
The bairn he wad be far warse,
If aw let him alyen.
Aw'd bettor walk aboot the floor,
For then he finds relief;
He works sair on aboot his mooth,
A'm shure it is his teeth!"

Jack laid his heed doon i' the bed,
An' then he fell asleep;
He thowt he saw his bairn an' wife,
An' sairly she did weep
Te think the fethur was se cross;
That vishun myed Jack start;
For Jack had sworn before the priest
Te tyek her tiv his heart.

That mornin', efter Jack got up,
He torn'd another leaf;
He smiled at Bes, an' kiss'd the bairn
That had te get its teeth.
Bess a'ways tried to please her man
As they went on throo life,
An' that shud be the duty 
Of ivv'ry man's gud wife.

-Harrison, 1872

Heh Ye Seen Wor Cuddy?
Tune-"The King of the Cannibal Islands."

One neet, when gannin te the toon, 
Aw met a wife called awd Bess Broon,
Wiv a raggy shawl an' durty goon,
    Sayin' "Heh ye seen wor Cuddy?"
Her fyece was flush'd wi' pashun reed,
Her hair hung lowse aboot her heed;
Half flaid aw was when her aw seed,
Aw thowt it she was mad indeed.
She says, "Noo, Billy, ye mun gan
Wi' me, or else ye are ne man;
For find this beest aw niver can--
    Aw've gyen an' lost wor Cuddy!"

Chorus
Fal the dal, the dal, the da,
Fal the dal, the dal, the da,
Fal the dal, the dal, the da,
O, heh ye seen wor Cuddy?

"What culler is yor Cuddy, Bess?
Aboot that beest aw heh ne guess,
Maw heed swims roond in dizziness,
    When aw think aboot yor cuddy!
Is he broon? or is he grey?
When did ye loss him, dye say?
Or, how d'ye knaaw he's cum'd this way?
Thor's uther roads the beest might stray.
What towl-gate did yor Cuddy pass?
Ye knaw doon here thor is ne grass;
It myeks ye luik a stupid lass,
    Te cum here te seek yor Cuddy!"

Fal the dal, etc.

"He's ginger heckled, Bill, ye knaw,
An' weers his hair reet roond his jaw,
An' a greet big tuft his chin belaw,
    Maw drunken ginger  Cuddy!
He's been a trimmer mony a 'eer
An' a reg'lar wet 'un for his beer,
Ya knaw as wel as me it's here,
Cud Broon, the trimmer, Bill, aw feer.
They get thor munny paid th' neet,
Ye knaw yorsel it's owt but reet,
Aw cannot get a bit te eet
    For that nasty, drunken Cuddy!"

Fal the dal, etc.

-George Guthrie, Allan's Collection, 1872

Aw Wish Pay Friday Wad Cum
Tune-- "Aw wish yor Muther wada cum."

'Twas last pay Friday efterneun aw went an' drew my pay,
And, like a fyeul, unto the skeul aw surely bent maw way;
Aw suen lost all my money, and aw stood till aw was numb,
Then away aw went hyem, and wish'd te myself that next pay Friday wad cum.

When aw went hyem an' teld my wife, she nearly broke her heart;
She says, "Maw lad, such wark as this is sure te myek us part;
Aw wadn't cared if thou'd cum'd drunk wi' strang beer, whisky, or rum;
Aw wad tyen the rest, and dyen my best till another pay Friday wad cum.

Then she sobb'd an' sigh'd, and the bairns all cried, and aw was varry bad;
A confused house, and a woman's abuse, is enough to drive a man mad;
Aw knew varry weel what caus'd it all, so aw sat as if aw was dumb,
To speak aw was flaid, so nought aw said, but aw wish'd pay Friday wad cum.

The grocer, and butcher, and shoemaker tee, they all cam' smilin' in,
But what was maw poor wife to dee but tell them she had ne tin?
Their smiles was all torn'd into frowns, it nearly struck them dumb;
And when they went oot, aw couldn't say nought, but aw wish'd pay Friday wad cum.

On Saturday morn to be oot o' the way, aw took mysel off to the town,
But hevvin' ne brass to set me in, had to wander up and down;
Aw met mony a ken'd feyce in the street, but they all appeared to be dumb,
And all the way hyem aw sang te mysel, aw wish pay Friday wad cum.

On Sunday morn, when aw got up,--the sun se bright did shine,
There was nought provided in the house to break wor fast or dine;
The bairns was crying oot for broth and a greet marrow-byen made some;
They myed the house ring wi' tryin' to sing, aw wish pay Friday wad cum.

On Monday morn the miller cam'd in, my wife began to cry,
He said if he couldn't get his tin, he wad surely stop the supply!
Aw's proud to remark that aw was at wark, and oot o’ the way o' the hum,
And all the whole day aw was singing away, aw wish pay Friday wad cum.

We had nought to eat, neither taties nor meat, and the bairns was crying for breed,
My wife was freetin' away er life, and aw wish'd that aw was deed;
My bran new suit had to gan up the spoot, it's a regular practice with some,
But not a good plan for a hard-working man,--so aw wish pay Friday wad cum.

But next pay Friday, aw'll lay my life, aw'll not be such a fyeul,
Aw'll tyek my pay strite hyem to my wife, i'stead of gannin to skeul,
Aw'll treat mysel wiv a glass of good yell, and my wife wiv a good glass of rum,
And aw'll give her the rest, to manage her best, so aw wish pay Friday wad cum.

-Anderson, 1872

I took oot ma card and laid it doon for one and all te see
I tried it to pay for me yell and spree but the barmaid just said it was deed
I searched and searched for another bit card but found there wasn't a one
That haddent expired or was sairly tired I wish the new card would come!

-Conrad Bladey, Peasant, June 22, 2004
 

The author, a Northumbrian miner, is celebrated as the winner of several prizes for local compositions-Note, 1872.  "Pay Friday" won the prize in the Weekly Chronicle competition of 1870. To this competition Joe Wilson sent "Wor Geordy's Local Hist'ry.". It missed the prize, but got honourable mention.  Mr. Anderson still follows his occupation of a miner at Elswick.

Cuddy Willy's Deeth

Noo, Cuddy Willy's deed an' gyen,
Aw's sure ye'll a' be sorry;
He was as hard as ony styen,
An' a' ways was se merry.
His creels he used te cowp se fast,
Till he was nearly silly;
But deeth hes tyun him off at last,
Poor, harmless Cuddy Wily!

A fiddle Willy a'ways had,
He used te play se bonny;
For fiddlin' Willy was the lad--
An' what was varry funny,
A bit o' wood, tied up wi' twine,
Was please a Sandgate filly,
A tune he then wad play se fine,
Wad cliver Cuddy Willy!

The blagaird lads upon the Kee,
They used te treat him cruel:
They'd trip him oot just for a spree,
An' hurt me canny jewel.
But, man alive! aw've seen him row!
Till he was soft as jilly,
An' get up a' reet, upon my sowl!
Wad bonny Cuddy Willy!

A crust o' breed, an' drink o' beer,
If he cud oney get, man;
An' if he gat ne better cheer,
He nivver used te fret, man.
A bite o' tripe, or bacon raw--
Stuff that wad nearly kill'e--
He'd eat up crabs, an' shells, an' a',
Wad bonny Cuddy Willy.

The fishwives a' poor Billy knew,
They a' ca'd him thor pet, man;
O' wilks they wad gie him a few,
Or a share or two o' skyet, man.
Poor Bill was nivver at a loss
Te fill his hungry belly;
He'd drink aud milk at Sandgate cross,
Wad canny Cuddy Willy

In jail Will often used te be
For sleepin' mang the cinders,
Or bein' drunk upon the Kee,
An' smashin' folks's winders;
Or lyin' doon amang the durt
Till he was ca'd an' chilly;
But still he did the folks ne hurt.-
Poor, canny Cuddy Willy!

But iverything cums tiv an end,
An' so did bonny Will, man:
Ne mair happy days he'll spend:
He noo is lyin' still, man.
He vivver did ne body harm,
For a' he was se silly;
The toon seems noo te want a charm
Since it lost poor Cuddy Willy!

-Johsua I.Bagnall, Songs of the Tyne, 1850.

William Maclachlan, better known as "Cuddy Willy," was a well-known eccentric of Newcastle.  For years he wandered the streets without hat or shoes, and in clothes of the scantiest and most tattered description.  He contrived to live by frequenting public-houses, and by playing his fiddle in the streets.  His fiddle was a curiosity, made by himself: it was simply a flat piece of wood, on which he tied a few pieces of string.  He was addicted to drink; and his death was caused by some parties most shamefuly, at a public-house, giving him brandy as long as he would drink it.  The result was, he drank to such an excess that he died from the effects.  His death took place September 27th, 1847.
 

The Bobbies an' the Dogs
Tune—“Aud Cappy”

Since the days o' "Aud Cappy" thor's not been sic stor,
In Newcassel thor niver wa sic like before;
The poor dogs are howlin' an' madly rush by,
An' Bobbies, like leetnin', start off in full cry.

There's a dog, Bobby! after hm, Bobby!
Dog hunting's the game-tallio! tallio!

Noo, the cause of a' this is wor Council's fine plan,
That a' dogs strowlin' lowse to the station mun gan;
An' te catch them se cliver each Bob hes a stick,
Wiv a wire at the end for to gie them a click.

There's a dog, Bobby, etc.

One day, beside Mackey's, a Bobby luk'd sly,
On a lost lukin' bull-dog he'd just clapt his eye:
Thinks he, Ye've ne maister, yor case is a' reet,
Yor byuk'd for a borth at the Manors this neet.

There's a dog, Bobby, etc.

So he edged te the dog, myed a cast wiv his stick,
But his aim wasn't gud, or the dog wes ower quick;
For the dog sav'd his nec, catch'd the wire iv his jaw,
An' then tugged it amain, an' the Bobby an' a'.

There's a dog, Bobby, etc.

Noo, the end of the sport was, the wire, wiv a crack,
Snapt in two, an' the Bobby went flat on his back;
But he up in a rage, on the dog myed a spring,
An' he color'd him fast as the bairns did sing,

There's a dog, Bobby, etc.

Wi' the dog in his airms, he thowt a' was won,
When a Pitman came runnin'-" What hes maw dog duen?
He's an aud un--near blind--an' he quietly follis"--
Shouts X21, "He's resisted the pollis!"

There's a dog, Bobby, etc.

"An' wise was the beest, so ye'd best let him be;
Maw nyem's on his collor-aw pay for him, tee,
Ye've had eneuf sport, noo, so let the dog gan;"-_
An' the Bobby, bein' wise, thowt it was the best plan.

There's a dog, Bobby, etc.

A' ye that hes dogs, noo, ye'd better luk oot;
Beware hoo ye let them gan strowlin' aboot.
Dog hunting's the gam' noo all ower the toon,
An' X21 laffs when he grabs yor half-crown.

There's a dog, Bobby, etc.

-Anonymous

In 1860 the police had orders to secure all stray dogs.  To asist them in this rather difficult operation each policeman had a stick, with a wire noose at the end. The dogs, if not claimed within a given time, were destroyed.  Much amusement was caused by the respective dodging of the dogs and the bobbies--the one to catch, and the other not to be caught.
 
 
 

Bob Chambers

Written on the occasion of the great scullers’ race for the championship of the world, between Robert Chambers, of Newcastle, and Richard A.W. Green of Australia, June 16th, 1863.  Chambers won easily by a quarter of a mile.

Tune-- "Kiss me quick and go."

Aw left Billy Blakey's late last neet,
An' weary wandered hyem,
Fair tired at last te hear the noise,
The cry was still the syem-
It's two te one aw'll lay on Bob,
Wor Tyneside lad for iver,
He's champion o' the saucy Tyems
And Tyneside's Coaly River.

Chorus- It's two te one, etc.

When hyem aw reached aw off te bed,
An' funny though 'twad seem,
Nee suener doon aw'd laid me heed
Then aw'd this queerish dream:
Aw thowt aw stood in London toon,
Wi' thoosands croodin' near,
And Bob and Green were in their skiffs,
When oot a chep bawls clear-

It's two te one, etc.

The start was myed, away they went,
Byeth strove wi' might and main,
But Greeny, lad, had little chance,
For Bob began te gain;
And as he pulled his famous stroke,
The Cockneys a' luk'd queer,
But uz Tynesiders cheered him on,
An' shooted far near--

It's two te one, etc.

The race went on, Green struggled game;
But, hoots, it waddent dee,
The Princess Alexandra
Through the watter fair did flee;
And Bob cam' in the winner,
As he's always dyun before,
And as wor lads haul'd in the brass,
we one and all did roar--

It's two to one, etc.

Now half the world they've travell'd ower
Te lay wor Tynesid law,
The 'tother half they now may try,
And still we'll keep the craw.
Aw says aw'll lay me brass on Bob,
And work the winnin' seam.
Just then aw wakened wiv a start,
And fund 'twas all a dream.

But still aw'll lay be brass on Bob, etc.

-Anonymous, 1863
 

Howdon for Jarrow
Tune--"Chapter of Donkeys."

O. ye taak aboot travels an' voyages far,
But thor's few beats the trip fre' the toon te the bar,
As ye gan doon te Tinmuth ye'll hear the chep shoot,-
"Here's Howdon for Jarrow, maa hinnies loup oot!

Chorus
Howdon for Jarrow, Howdon for Jarrow,
Howdon for Jarrow, maa hinnies loup oot!"

When yen hes been doon bi' the side o' the Tyne,
An' seen all the smoke an' the chimlies se fine,
Ther's mony a voice that is welcome nee doot,
But the bonniest soond that Aa knaa is "Loup oot!

Howdon for Jarrow, Howdon for Jarrow,
Howdon for Jarrow, maa hinnies loup oot!"

Sin' Aa knew the banks o' wor aan bonny river,
There's been changes gawn on, an' there's noo mair noriver;
But the finest ov aa', barrin' change o' the wind,
Is when the soft voice caalls, an' then ye all find,

"Ye mun change here for Jarrow, Howdon for Jarrow,
Howdon for Jarrow, maa hinnies loup oot!"

There's chemicals, copper, coals, clarts, coke, an' stone,
Iron ships, wooden tugs, salt, an' sawdust an' bone,
Manure, an' steam ingins, bar iron, an' vitr'ol,
Gunstans an' puddlers (Aa like to be litt'ral).

At Howdon for Jarrow. Howdon for Jarrow,
Howdon for Jarrow, maa hinnies loup oot!

Besides, on wor river we hev the big dredgers
That howks oot the muck, man, Aa's sure we're ne fledgers,
An' then the greet hopper works like a wheelbarrow-
Ye'll see'd if ye come doon te Howdon for Jarrow.

Howdon for Jarrow, Howdon for Jarrow,
Howdon for Jarrow, maa hinnies loup oot!

Aa yence wis at London, and h'ard a chep shoot,
"Yor tickets!" Aa "Howdon for Jarrow! caaled oot;
He leuked se teun back that, ses Aa te me marrow,
"Here's a chep, mun, that dissent knaa Howdon for Jarrow!"

Howdon for Jarrow, Howdon for Jarrow,
Howdon for Jarrow, maa hinnies loup oot!

Thor's Jack Scott, the puddler (just hear what a caaker).
Uphads that there surely is nee place like Waaker;
But Aa've elways thowt, for't's the place Aa hev grow'd in,
Yen may range thro' the world, but thor's  nee place like Howdon!

Howdon for Jarrow, Howdon for Jarrow,
Howdon for Jarrow, maa hinnies loup oot!

-Richard Oliver Heslop, 1879

Newcastle Toon Nee Mair

R. Ernest Wilberforce, the first  Bishop of Newcastle, consecrated St. James’ Day, 1882
Tune—“Nee good luck aboot the hoose”

Wiv aal the "toon improvement" hash, 
New fangles yit they'll fish up;
So noo they’ve fund, wi' aal thor clash,
The Toon mun he' a Bishop.
They say he'll he' te weer white goons,
An' laan sleeves, leuk ye there!
But when he comes they say the Toon's
Newcatle Toon nee mair!

Chorus

We like the soon' o' "Canny Toon.."
We like wor aad Toon sair;
But ivverything is upside doon,
Newcastle Toon nee mair!

Aad Nichol's chorch, an' steeple tee,
The clock feyce, an' the Beadrel,
They've set the heyl consarn agee,
An caal it noo "cathedral."
Thor'll be a Dean an' Chapter seun,
Te put the job aal square,
We'll not dar say, when aal is deun,
Newcastle Toon nee mair!

Chorus,

Hoo can the Bishop he' the flum
Te caal the pleyce a City?
The toon's been Toon afore he cum;
Te change it mair's the pity!
He mevvies thinks wor nowt but cloons,
An' he' nee wit te spare,
But what's the odds? for O, wor Toon's
Newcastle Toon nee mair!

Chorus

"Maa fellow Toonsmen," noo fareweel,
Maa heed is teum, nee wit is in,
Thor's nowther sense, nor mense, nor feel
In "Hum--maa fellow citizen!"
For aa this fancy change o' soon'
Aa waddent hev a care,
But, O me lads, it's wae! the Toon,
The canny Toon's nee mair!

Chorus

Richard Oliver Heslop, Broadsheet, 1882.
 

A Tow for Nowt.

Oh, wor cargo we'd got oot, away doon at Whitehill Spoot;
But the wind an' tide wis both on them contrairy, O!
An' it seemed we'd hae te lie till the tide wis comin' high,
So the keel we moored, an' leuked aboot se warry, O.

Chorus.
So the keel we moored, etc.

Just then, te wor delight, a tugboat hove i' sight,
An' backed astarn close by where we wor stannin', O.
Ses aa, noo aa'l accost hor! so aa hailed, "Hey, Mister Forster,
Wad ye gie's a ow as far up as wo'r gannin', O?"

Then the tugboat maistor torned, an' he leuked, an' kinda gorned,
Sees he, "Hoo dis thoo knaa they caal me Forster, O?"
"Man," ses aa, "yor dad afore wis a chep aa did adore,
An' yo'r just like him, maa canny Mistor Forster, O,"

Iv a frindly kind o' way, aa got a tow that day;
An' off we set, wi' nowt at aal te cost hor, O.
Aa bargaint wivoot doot, as na past wor towlin' oot,
"At the Mushroom hoy hor off, please Mistor Forster, O."

So we cam' up spankin' fine, an' past aal on the Tyne--
Sic a tow for nowt aa waddent then he lost hor, O.
An' we just hed past the Geuse, an' aa thowt o' getting' lowse;
So, ses aa, "Just hoy hor off, please Mistor Forster, O."

Wi' the tiller 'tween his legs, just like twee wooden pegs,
He nivvor torned, but oney went the faster, O.
Aa shoots oot, "Here we are, yor gannin' ower far;
Aa telt ye 'twas the Mushroom, Mistor Forster, O!"

What wis deein noo wis clear, so aa couldn't help but sweer.
"Yo'r a bad 'un, yo'r as bad as any coster, O!
An' so wis yor aad dad--gosh, he was just as bad!
Where the smash, man, are ye towin's te, ye Forster, O?"

But it aal wis o' nee use, owther sweerin' or abuse;
For a joke there Forster steud as deef as dummy, O;
An' he waddent hoy us free till past Newcastle Quay,
So, thinks aa, a tow for nowt is sometimes rummy, O!

-Richard Oliver Heslop, "Newcastle Weekly Chronicle," 1882.
 

The Singin'-Hinney
Tune- -"The One-Horse Shay."

Notation- click here

Sit doon, noo, man alive!
Te tell ye aa'll contrive
O' the finest thing the worl' hes ivver gin ye, O.
It's not fine claes nor drink,
Nor owt 'at ye can think,
Can had a cannle up ti singin'-hinney, O.
Sing hi, the Puddin' Chare an' Elwick's lonnin', O!

Newcassel's fame 'ill bide
Lang as its coaly tide;
But it winnet rest on what makes sic a shinney, O.
The pride o' a' the North
Is 'cas it forst ga' borth
To the greetest charm o' life-a singin'-hinney, O.
Sing hi, the Spital Tongues an' Javel Groupe, hi O!

Fre the day we forst draa breeth
To the day 'at brings wor deeth,
Fre the forst day ony on us ken'd wor minnie, O,
We gan on step bi step,
An' each gaady day is kept,
Wiv a cheer 'ats elways crooned wi' singin'-hinney O!
Sing hi, for Denton Chare an' the Big Markit, O!

Wor weddin' feast wis spreed
Wi' menseful meat an' breed,
An' ivverything wis theer for kith an' kin, ye O!
As aa sat doon wi' me bride,
Aa wad say aa felt a pride
Te hear them praise her aan-made singin'-hinney, O.
Sing hi, the Bottle Bank, an' the Team-Gut, hi O!

The day the bairn wis born
Wis a snaay New Eer's morn;
Se caad yee'd scarsly feel yorsel' or fin', ye O!
But we put the gordle on
'The rousin' fire upoon,
An' we whistled as we baked wor singin'-hinney, O.
Sing hi, the Dog-Lowp Stairs an' the Darn Cruck, hi O!

At christnen, tee, se fine,
Another wife an' mine
Gans oot an' takes the bairn, see spick an' spinney, O.
Wi' spice cake an' wi' salt,
The forst they met te halt,
An' gar him stan' an' tyest wor singin-hinney, O.
Sing hi, the Friar's Geuse an' the Aad-Faad, hi O!

An' se on, day bi day,
As we trudge alang life's way,
We've troubles roond--like stoor--eneuf te blin' ye, O!
But whiles thor comes a stop,
An' wor tools we then can drop,
Te gan hyem, lads, an' hev a singin'-hinny, O.
Sing hi, the Close, Waal-Knowl, an' the Cut Bank, hi O!

An' when we can enjoy,
Amang wor hivvey 'ploy,
A day 'at brings huz not a single whinney, O;
Let's elwis drop wor cares,
An' set worsels, for fairs,
Te celebrate it wiv a singin'-hinney, O!
Sing hi, the Mushroom, Forth, an' Heed o' Side, hi O!

- Richard Oliver Heslop, "Newcastle Weekly Chronicle, 1885.
 

The Tyneside Chorus

Hadaway, Harry! Hadaway, Harry!
Them wis the days on wor canny aad Tyne!
Clasper afore him could ivverything carry,
Back'd bi the cheer 'at we hard lang sin syne.
    Hadaway, Harry, lad! Hadaway, Harry!
Pull, like a good 'un, through storm or through shine.
    Gan on, wor canny lad--Hadaway, Harry!
Come te the front for the sake iv aad Tyne.

Where's like Tyneside cheps for warkin or owt?
Buffin away, heart an' sowl likete teer;
Hewin' or puddlin', thor beaten bi nowt,
Their owerword's still "How there, lads, what cheer?"
    Hadaway, Harry, lad--Hadaway, Harry!
Afloat or ashore, or doon the coal mine;
    Gan on, maa canny lads, Hadaway, Harry!
Teuf' uns for wark is the lads iv aud Tyne!

Doon the black pit shaft thor's brave lads at wark;
Doon dunny Tyneside the fornaces lowe;
Workers is busy, through dayleet an' dark,
Singin', me hearties, though tired they may grow.
    Hadaway, Harry, lads, Hadaway, Harry!
Cheery, me marrows, an' nivvor a whine;
    Gan on, maa canny lads, Hadaway, Harry!
Gan like th' aad' un for pride o' the Tyne.

'Way ower the seas wor Tyneside lads afloat,
Brave as thor fethors, still fight wi' the storm.
Nee paril flays them; thor prood o' thor boat,
An' marrily cheer as they show the aad form.
    Hadaway, Harry, lads, Hadaway, Harry!
Still te the fore; let yor hears nivvor crine.
    Gan on, maa canny lads, Hadaway, Harry!
Where is thor braver nor crews fre the Tyne?

So, noo, canny cheps, let's nivor forget,
I' life's course reet on, come good or bad luck,
Whativvor we dee, wor motto be yet,
Like and Harry Clasper, the pictur o' pluck--
    Hadaway, Harry, lad, Hadaway, Harry!
Pull like a good 'un, through storm or through shine,
    Gan on, wor canny lad, Hadaway, Harry!
Come to the front for the sake iv aad Tyne.

-Richard Oliver Heslop, "Newcastle Weekly Chronicle", 1886

When the Gud Times Cum Agyen
Tune--"The Captain with the Whiskers."

In sweet anticipashun o' the gud time cummin' back,
Let's join in ruminashun on the days se bad an' black,
That the myest o' foak are troubled, aye, byeth wimmin', bairns, an' men,
That wor joys may al be dubbled when the gud times cum agyen;
For wheriver we may be, on the land or on the sea,
The retrospect 'ill point oot awl things we shudent de,
An' warn us te forsyek sum ways wor footsteps used te een,
Pointin' us te purer pleshors when the gud times cum agyen.

If specalayshun wis yor forte, an awl yor brass wis lost,
Throo some famed bubble company that sair yor temper crost;
Or if on bricks an' mortor, lads, yor 'onest homes war set,
Till ye fund yor cas wis gannin an' yor hooses wadent let;
Oh, it's dinnet pine an' fret, an' get intiv a swet
Ower the twenty-five percentage ye wor hopin' for te net,
But quietly keep plodding on, till mair cotterds ye get, then
Look before ye lowp, lads, when the gud time cum agyen.

If drinking wis yor hobby, when the wages they wor flush,
An' ye spent yor hard 'arned money ower idleness an' lush,
Till ye hardlys had a suit o' claes, a tyebbil or a press,
An' ye stud imang the foremist that wis suf'rin fra distress;
Though the triawl wis seveer, it 'ill still yor future cheer,
If it learns ye te be steady, te be canny wi' the beer,
Ti save up for a rainy day, an' leeve the drink alyen,
Thit troo comforts oft may cheer ye when the gd times cum agyen.

If gamilin engrost yor mind, an' thowts o' dorty greed
Had o' yor heart possesshun tuen, 'twis pitiabil indeed,
Fur dreed remorse mun sair 'a tried yor conshience neet and day,
When plunged in poverty ye mourned the brass ye'd hoyed away;
Then be sure ye dinnet fail, ti forsyek the heed an' tail
That may land ye I' the wark-house, the mad-house, or the jail,
An' seek healthier recreashun mair suitabil te men,
Te improve yor mind an' body, when the gud times cum agyen.

Aye, thor's lessons fra the bad times that every yen may larn,
Wiv a littil bit o' thinking, an' a mind that can discern,
Fur vile extravagence wid ceese if foak had only sense
Fur te note the crime an' fulishness iv useless expense;
Then the gud we mite exert, wiv a pure an' noble heart,
In the workshop, in the cottage, in the mansion, in the mart.
Wid guide wor future footsteps I' the paths o' wisdom, then
Wi mite myke this world an Eden when the gud times cum agyen.

-Thomas Kerr
 

Aw's Glad the Strike’s Duin
Tune--"It's time to get up."

"Oh, aw's glad the strike's duin," shooted lang Geordy Reed,
Ti the groop thit wis stanning iroond,
"Fur the care an' anxiety's ni' turned me heed,
An' am getting is thin is a hoond;
Fur ye knaw me an' Jenny had promist te wed
When the money te start hoose wis won,
But the unlucky stop cawsed wor sporits te drop,
So aw's glad, very glad, the strike's duin."

"Oh, aw's glad the strike's duin," said a hawf-grown lad,
"Fur wor brass it wis getting' se short,
An' the boolin' an' runnin' wis gan te the bad,
An' we'd ni' sen a finish te sport.
Noo te Newcassel Races, se merry an' blate,
We'll yet start like shot iv a gun,
An' it's nyen ower late te back one fur the "Plate,"
So aw's glad, very glad the strike’s duin."

"Oh, aw's glad the strike's duin, for the sake o' my wife."
Said a brave little man in the crood,
"Fur the pinchin' an' plannin' an sorrow an' strife
Neerly had her, poor lass, in her shrood.
Noo wor canny bit bairns ill luik tidy an' trim,
When te chapel on Sundays thor tuin;
An' hoo thenkful, " said he, "iverybody shud be
That the unlucky strike is noo duin."

"Oh, aw's glad the strike's duin," cried oot shopkeeper Jack,
An' he's words they exprest awl he said,
Fur he's fyece wor a smile, an' he's lips gov a smack,
Is he tawk't o' "the prospects o' trade."
Hoo the business wid thrive is it yence did before,
An' the wheels iv prospority run;
"Ay, an' awl get me whack," said shopkeeper Jack,
"So aw's glad, very glad, the strike’s duin."

Then the crood awl agreed, wi' a nod o' the heed,
They war pleased the bad job wis put strite,
An' a wummin or two, is the crood they passed through,
Gae full vent te thor happy delite;
While the bairns in the street, wi' thor voices se sweet,
In the hite o' thor glory an' fun,
Shooted "Hip, hip, horray!! it's settiled the day,
An' wor glad, very glad, the strike's duin."

- Thomas Kerr, 1880

The Dandylion Clock
Tune--"Days we went a-gipsying."

When wor aud toon was the aud toon,
Wi' mony a grassy nyuk,
And posies ivvoreewhere adorn'd
It like sum pikter-byuk;
We lay above the sighin' burn,
On hills ov fern and rock,
To blaw thaw balloon life away,
Maw "dandylion clock."

Two bonnie lasses and me-sel,
But bairns--dash! hoo we play'd
Wiv buttercups and daises pure,
And babby-hooses made.
Before the manly cares cam oot
To gie won's heart a shock,
We lay and blaw'd to tell the time--
The "dandylion clock."

Luk! the dear sunshine's teeming doon
Neagarrays of joy,
On Lizzie's bonnie curly heed,
Like dolls her lovin' toy.
It sparkles like the goold itsel--
Aw might hev had a lock
Is easy as aw blew for her
The "dandylion clock."

And there wis little Katie, tee,
Whe's figur aw wad paint;
But God saves me the trubbil noo,
He's tyun hur to the saint.
And Lizzie tee's an angel gud,
Iv her brite lalock frock;
Aw think aw see her blawin' yet
The "Dandylion clock."

-Alexander Hay, 1879

The Illektric Leet.

Written on Mr. J. Swan, the inventor of the incandescent lamp, lighting with electricity his (Mawson and Swan's) chemist shop, Mosley Street. The first shop in Newcastle lighted by electricity (1880)
Tune--Billy O'Rooke's the Boy."

Aave seen sum queer things in maw time,
When gas did oil eclipse, sor,
For aa remember Neshim's men,
Whe myed wor mowls an' dips, sor,
The tindor box an' rag isteem'd
Begat the loosifors, sor;
Yit still wor greet inventive brain
Is floororie as the Gorze, sor.

Chorus
The illektric leet! the illektric leet!
  The pet ov aal the seasin;
We'll he'd hung up th' morrow neet
  Or else we'll knaa the reasin.

We've had sum clivor cheps it hyem,
Ye'll knaa what they wor worth, sor;
The lion gob ov steem snores oot
The glory of the North, sor.
Its ingins push the ships aboot
Faster nor the breeze, sor;
It helps to win wor wives and bairns
Thor bits ov breed and cheese, sor.

The illektric leet! the illektric leet! etc.

Noo Stevinson an' Watt, ye knaa, 
Sent Geordies ower the seas, sor,
To teach mankind to de the trick,
Myek steam de as they please, sor.
Ye'll find wors in Astrillia,
In aal the isles aboot, sor;
Fur aa'll be bund ne class ov men
Mair babbed the secrit oot, sor!

The illektric leet! the illektric leet! etc.

So here's te Swan, wor canny man;
His 'llektric leet is fine, sor,
That burns away an' rivals day
In honour ov wor Tyne, sor.
The aud wax candels had thor time,
The gas wor sarvant, tee, sor;
But seun Swan's leet 'll blink like stars
Frov Sanget te The Kee, sor.

The illektric leet! the illektric leet! etc.

-Hay, "Weekly Chronicle," 1880.

Nesham- About fifty years ago Mr. Nesham had a famous tallow-chandler's works on the site of Handyside's shops in New Bridge Street.