Me muther often says--"Maw canny lad,
It's myekin rhyme that myeks ye varry bad;
Yor heed's been achin noo for mony a day,
So write ne mair, but thraw the trash away!
What gud can't de ye myekin Tyneside sangs,
Or useless speeches 'boot foaks' reets and rangs?
For poets vary seldum de much gud
Wi' owt they say or write,--besides ye shud
Tyek care i' what ye say, -whe ye defend,
Ye may please sum, but mair ye may offend
Wi' what ye just may think as harmless chaff;
An ye needent kill yorsel te myek foaks laff!
An if wi' study ye shud win a nyem,
It 'ill gan ne farther than yor Tyneside hyem!
Newcassel taek's a queerish thing te reed,
Aw dinnet knaw what put sic i' yor heed:
Yor ower young te tell foaks what te de,
So write ne mair!-tyek this advice frae me!"

Aw's sure aw's sorry that aw thus disploease,
An writin sangs, me canny muther teaze,
But if aw dinnet write, aw think the syem,
Tho maw poor efforts may appear but lyem
Te them greet critics, that man's fate can seal,
Aw hope thor censure aw may nivor feel;
Me constant aim's te please, instruct, amuse,
Gud humour and gud will a' roond infuse:
Contented, blist, shud aw me end attain;
A humble candidate for your regard,
Aw sign me-sel Joe Wilson, Tyneside Bard.
-Joe Wilson
 

Keep't Dark:
or, The Wife that Knaws Ivrything
A contrast to the Chep that Knows Nowt.

Teun--"The Perfect Cure."

Aud Mistress Clark wes fond o' clash,
She lik'd te hear her tung,
She said that tawkin eased the mind,
Wi' foaks byeth aud an' young;
The chep that knaws nowt's gud advice
Wes lost on Mistress Clark,--
But mind aw shuddnt menshun this,
Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark!

Says Mistress Clark te siv'ral frinds
She had one day te tea,
Aw wunder what myeks Geordy Hall
So fond o' beer an' spree?
They say his wife can tyek her gill,
An' neether's fond o' wark,--
But mind aw shuddint menshun this,
Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark!

There's Mary Smith, upon the stairs,
A wild an' rakish lass,
Aw wunder where she gets her claes,
Aw's sure she hes ne brass,
They say she's thick wi' Draper Jim,--
He's not up te the mark,--
But mind aw shuddint menshun this,
Aw hope yell a' keep't dark!

There's Bella Jones that leeves next door,
Got Bessie Thompson's shawl,
An' borrow'd Suzie Ratcliffe's goon,
Te gan te Hopper's ball,
But neether o' them's got them back,
Aw think's owt but a lark,--
Still mind aw shuddint menshun this,
Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark!

Therre's Dollyu Green, that dorty slut,
That leeves alang the yard,
She flirts wi' ivry lad she meets,
She's  worthy ne regard;
Last neet aw catch'd her on the stairs
Wi' Jack the Keyside Clerk;--
But mind aw shuddint menshun this,
Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark.

There's Mistress Johnson pawns heer claes,
As sure as Monday cums:
An' drunkin Mary locks the door,
For fear she'll get the bums:
An' Mistress Black 'ill nivor wesh
Her man a shart for wark,
But mind aw shuddint menshun this!
Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark!

Fat Mistress Jackson likes te clash
Lang Jinnie likes her ways;
An' Mary Riley starves her bairns,
Te get sic dandy cales;
Young Peggie Robson's got her bed,
Throo sum seducin spark;-
But mind aw shuddint menshun this,
Aw hope ye'll a' keep't dark!

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 
 
 
 

Tyneside Lads for Me

Teun="Kill or Cure"

Noo a' ye lads that's Tyneside born, just coock yor lugs an' lissen,
Aw'll gie yor canny toon a turn , an' myek yor goggles glissen;
Ye cannet tell hoo glad aw feel, an' me heart it lowps wi' pride,
When me voice aw raise te sing i' praise ovv canny aud Tyneside,-

.Korus
Then sing me lads wi' glee, an' happy may ye be,
Whack-fal-the-daddy, O!-the Tynesdie lads for me.

Luck at the noble buildins grand-the wark o' Richard Grainger,
Hoo fine like palaces they stand, the wunder ofv each stranger,
Ye may search the world reet throo an' throo, an' travel far an' travel far an' wide,
But aw's sure yhe'll nivor find owt like the manshuns o' Tyneside.

Twes doon the shore, not varry far, George Stephenson invented
The steam engine, so te be a star, forth the the world he sent it,
The foaks amazed went nearly crazed, when they saw its leetnin stride
An' they a'confess'd thor's nyen can best the lads ov aud Tyneside.

Sir William Airmstrang myed a gun- noo it's a reglor wundor,
It myed the funky Chinese run, when they heard it roar like thunder,
Sum want te say it's just a hoax, an' its merits they deride,
But wait a bit he's not deun yit-Sir William of Tyneside.

Where will ye find sic pullers, like them on wor coaly river?
Far-famed as sturdy scullers, thor se strang se stoot, se clivor,
Lang may Chambers an' Cooper leeve, for i' them we can confide
What's dearest tiv each honest heart, the honor ov aud Tyneside.

So pass the glass, an' chant a stave, an' join its chorus sweetly,
I' praise o'Tyneside lads, se brave, they bang the world completely,
An' sing this sang wi' voices strang,-let it echo far 'an wide,
The greet renoon o' wor canny toon, and the heroes o' Tyneside.

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Canny Aud Chrismis!

Teun--"Pull Away Cheerily."

Let's sing for aud Chrismis, canny aud Chrismis!
A time when the world's leet-hearted an' glad,
Let its welcum be hearty, gud-temper'd an' jovial,
Cheer up, maw pets, it's a shem te be sad!
The beef on the tyeble lucks temptin an' lushus,
An' tyests se much sweeter wi' bein the prize;
The holly seems noddin, as tho it wes laffin
At a' the glad fyeces an' bonny brght eyes.

Korus.--
Then sing for aud Chrismis, etc.

Hoo happy the meetin, an' cordial the greetin,
When foaks bid gud-bye te bad temper an' care,
When squeezes an' kisses, an' kind-hearted blisses
Fall in abundance, an' young hearts insnare;
There's smart little Bella sticks weel te that fella
That once set her hyem, de ye think she'd say No!
If he offer'd te tyek her te join i' the dancin?
He's Twice had her under the Mistletoe Bough!

The scene se intrancin, wi' music an' dancin's
Eneuff te myek sorrow sink under the din,
When kettles keep hummin, an' bleezin an' sparklin,
The fires burn brightly as tho they'd join in;
Thor's ne Chrismis log, but Big Harry, the cairtman,
Te stir up the company, an' cawse a bit fun,
Browt a greet lump o' coal, it teuk two men te carry,
It 'ill be Chrismis agyen beforfe the bit's deun!

And fethurs an' muthers, te be like the tuthers,
Cheer up, an' imagine thor young onece agyen,
Luckin eftor what passes, -while gud-luckin lasses
Click at the grand chance te luck eftor the men;
There's blue-eyed young Nanny, byeth cosey an' canny,
Grush'd up iva corner wi' young Geordy Knox,
But the bairns i' the family 'ill not let him rest there,
Thor cravin the lad for a nice Christmis box!

Then sing for aud Chrimis, canny aud Chrismis,
Frae ivry day trubbil we find a release,
When foaks glad an' frindly, cheerful an' kindly,
Meet an' shake hands i' the true bonds o' peace;
When the fiddler's grand teuns myek hearts lowp wi' plissure,
An' feet trip byeth happy an' leet on the floor,
While uthers keep singin, the korus high ringin,
The joys ov aud Chrismis te fully restore.

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 
 

Its Muther's Cum
Teun--"When the Kye cums Hyem."

Wor Geordy got the bairn te keep,
The time his wife wes oot,
But till the pet wes fast asleep, 
He sair wes put aboot;
Before his wife wes oot the hoose
He wisht her back agyen,
At last te Geordy's greet releef,
She landid safely hyem.

Korus
Sleep on, maw bonny bairn,
Sleep on, maw canny son,
Affecshun watches near ye noo,
Sleep on, its muther's cum!

"Oh, Geordy, hes the bairn been gud?"
Cries Peg, quite oot o' breeth,
"Aw thowt ye'd hevv a weary job,
It's bizzy cuttin teeth:
Aw left its boily on the neuk,
Aw thowt the job ye'd curse,
The poor thing cried this mornin sair,
But yor a clivor nurse!"

"Hoo calm it sleeps,-the little pet
Like sum wax figor there,
Ne trubbil cloods its bonny broo,
It's free, as yit, frae care;
Are ye not prood o' such a bairn?
The only lad we've had,
It's nose, its eyes, its mooth, its chin's
The pictor ov its dad!"

"Luck at its lips, its churry lips,
That move when iv its sleep,
As tho it dreamt it had the tit
Between its lips to keep;
Tor's mony a one wad give a croon
Te claim him as thor awn,
The bliss, the joy o' wedded life's 
A kind a' bonny bairn!"

"Whish't, Geordy, for its stirin noo,
Luck at the happy smile
That prightens up its bonny fyece,
Se sweet, an' free frae guile,
Eneuff te myek each sinner blush;
Dream on, thor's nowt te fear,
Thor's kindly watchers near yor bed,
Its dad an' mammy's here!"

-Joe Wilson.
 
 
 
 
 

Newgate Street

Teun--"The Postman's Knock."

The day's just begun, an' a bright bleezin sun
Sends a fine dazzlin lustor a' roond,
When i' famed Newgate Street a' the jolly dogs meet,
An' a' the beer-hooses surroond;
Thor'sa greet race the day, so they a' myek thor stay,
Te get on, an' wiat for the news,
That te sum 'ill be glad, an' te uthers be sad,
An' a lot o' queer feelins infuse.

Korus.
Laffin an' chaffin when movin alang,
Tippin an' tiplin's the way wi' the thrang,
Ivry day-frae morning te neet,
The sportin lads muster i' Newgate Street

Iv a small groop o' three, that seem lickt what te de,
Anxshus whispors yor sartin te hear,
"It's a deed sartinty!" says one i' the three,
"Frev a jockey aw heerd it aw'll sweer,
Just back thing-a-bob, an' ye'll find that me gob
For tippin's a reggilor don!"
When a brave luckin pollis, hard up for a case,
Cums up, an' tells them te MOVE ON!

It's dinner-time noo, an' a dark luckin few
Frae the fact'ries that's a' roond aboot,
Cum up iv a hurry, beukmakers te worry,
An' lay a' thor pocket-brass oot;
"Cum hinny, " says one, "will ye lay three te one?
It's nearly Two noo for me wark!"
Then the chep wi' the beuk, wiv a droll kind o'luck,
Says"Aw'll lay ye'd, but mind ye keep't dark!"

"Whe's that wild-luckin man wi' the beuk iv his hand,
That's ravin as if he wes mad?"
"Whey, it's Dayvis, the preecher, that meddlin aud feul,
His impittince baffles the squad:
Hoo he sets up his jaw, wiv a sanctified craw,
The whole toon 'twad greetly releeve,
If they'd tyek him away te Benshim sum day,
Withoot hopes ov a ticket o' leeve!"

Bliss me, what a din, it's the news that's cum in,
"What's wun, canny man? " then's the cry,
Thor's a rush, an' a scrush, an excitable push,
Then a change te the spectator's eye;
Hoo happy thor's sum, when uthers luck glum,
Then ye'll hear sum aud-fashion'd chep say
"If aw'd only knawn'd a' the hoose aw wad pawn'd 
Te heh been on the winner the day!"

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Thor's Cumfort Iv A Smoke!

Teun--Bitter Beer."

A drink o' beer the heart 'ill cheer,
An' myek the mommints glad,
But beer withoot a quiet smoke
Wad nivor suit this lad;
A smoke's the thing,-byeth peer an' king
An' poor foaks like thor draw,
It's the only thing te myek dull care
Dispair te plague us a'!

Korus
Oh, lads, thor's comfort iv a smoke!
Let Rennilds lector throo the world
Or let him haud his jaw,
Thor's nowt that can console a man
Like a quiet frindly draw!

Beside the fire's bleein flame,
Upon a frosty neet,
Surroondid be sum tawky frinds,
A smoke myeks a' complete;
When teuthewark myeks ye wish yor heed
Wes laid at rest belaw,
Ye'll often find a greet releef
Iv a sweet consolin draw!

When trampin on a weary road 
Withoot a frind or mate,
A pipe o'baccy quite revives
The sowl's dispondin state;
When trubbil shows its ugly fyece
Te myek yor sporrits law,
Or bother'd wi' sum puzzlin thowt,
Thor's cumfort iv a draw!

When anxshus fears prey on the mind,
Or sorrow sends you share,
Or solitude myeks weary time,
Whte cloods dispel the care;
Gie me me pipe an' half-an-oonce
O'shag,--for weel aw knaw
The emblim o' domestic peace
Is a quiet frindly draw!

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 
 
 

Its Time te Get up!

Teun- "The Miller o' the Dee."
 

"Cum Ned, get up!" says young Mary Broon,
One morn tiv her lazy man,
"It's half-past Five, it's time te get up!
So stir, maw hinny, an' gan;
Ye lost a quarter yisterday morn,
Throo fuddlin wi' Davie Spark,
Ye shuddint stop oot se late at neet
If ye want te gan te wark?"

"Get up, or aw'll shake ye weel," says she,
"It's twenty-minnits te Six,
Thor's just time te drink a cup o' tea
An' hurry yor claes on quick;
Last neet-afore ye went te bed,
Ye tell'd us te nip yor lug,
Or de owt aw like't te waken ye up!"
But Ned he still lay snug.

"Ten minnits te Six,-gud grashus me,
Yor gan te sleep in the day;
It may suit ye te lie there an snore,
But te me it's owt but play."
Then she nipt his ear wiv'her finger nails,
An' he rowl'd upon the floor,
As the bell o' the factory rung, he growl'd
"Ye shud wakint us up before!"

"What, wakint ye up afore?" cries she,
"Aw've shooted since half-past Five,
If ye loss a quaarter ivry morn
Ye cannet expect we'll thrive!"
"Huts, lass," says he, "cum inte yor bed,
Yor eneuff te gie foaks a fright
Wi' yor noisy tung,--so haud yor jaw,
An' aw'll start at half-past Ite!"

"But half-pat Ite's not the time te start
For a full day's wark!" says she,
"Ye shud tell'd uis that when aw went te bed,
Than aw wad knawn what te de;
Is't reet that aw shud get up se seun,
When ye lie cosey i' bed?
The morrow, me man, ye may wakin yorsel,
An' see hoo ye like that, Ned!"

Next morning Ned wes up wi' the lark,
But Mary lay quite still,
Till she saw that he intendid wark,
Then te show a hoosewife's skill,
 She lowpt up te tie his brickfist things,
An' myek him a cherrin cup;-
Noo he thinks the best time bar gannin te bed's 
The time that he hes te get up.

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 
 

She's Gyen Te Place At Jarrow

Music Composed by Thomas H. Wilson (a nyemsake O' wors),of Newcassel-upon Tyne.

A lad wes nivor myed te be without a lass,
Or a canny lass te be withoot a lad!
The sweetest time o' life's when yor luckin for a wife,
But sumtimes, --sumtimes it's nowt but varry sad;
Aw wes jolly as cud be, care nivor dwelt wi' me,
An' me life wes like a bright sun-shiney day,
But noo, it's dull an' dark, an' aw's not up te the mark,
Since maw bloomin Bella Johnson went away.

Korus
Oh! she's gyen te place at Jarrow,
An' aw'll nivor find her marrow,
Aw wunder what myed Bella gan away?

Aw wes singin like a lark ivry day aw went te wark,
Like sum bonny fairy dream time quickly flew,
The neybors used to say thor wes nyen se blithe as me,
An' depend upon't aw'll guarantee 'twes true:
But noo, maw cannhy hinnnies, a day's just like a week,
An' de what aw will, aw cannet help but fret,
For iv yor once i' luv, mind, aw mean for fairs i' luv,
The syem lass ye've luv'd, yue cannet weel forget!

Aw wad sit beside the fire, an' spin the aud foaks yarns, 
For they byeth appear'd te think a vast o' me;
An' when aw teuk be Bella roond the Market, for a walk,
An hoor like the shortest minnit used to flee,
But noo it's nowt like then, for aw's not like what aw was,
An' aw cannet weel gie vent te what aw'd say,
For aw;s se sair confoondid, wi' trubbil aw's surroondid,
Oh, aw wunder what myed Bella gan away?

That neet we said "gud-bye," a sad tear fill'd Bella's eye,
Just as if she'd say-Aw'd rethor stop at hyem!
An'aw dinnet think she'd gyen, a frind o' her's tell'd me,
If aw'd only gien a hint te change her nyem;
But as seun as she cums back, aw'll get me Uncle Jack
Te pop the question for us-like a man,
But if she dissent cum, O, the thowt on't strikes us dumb,
Aw'll send him doon on Sunday-if he''ll gan!

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 
 

The Day That We Got Married

Teun-"Robin Tamsin's Smiddy"
 

The Tenth o' Mairch wes bleak an' cawd,
The day byeth wet an' dreary,
When like an honest-meaning lad,
A went te wed me dreary;
Drest up quite gay, we hied away,
At hyem we little tarried,--
The ring wes bowt:--an' wed for nowt,
The day the Prince got married.

Rosettes wes stuck upon each breest,
An' merry bells war ringin,
When swaggrin throo the crooded streets,
Gud korus we war singin;
Processions grand, wi' splendid bands
Alang wi' cheers we hurried,
An' let foaks knaw, wi' shoot an' craw,
That Mall an' me got married.

At last we a' arrived at hyem,
Te tyest the weddin dinner,
Aw's sure we polished ivry byen,
An' myed the pot a spinner;
For roond it went,--still not content,
The drinking moshin's carried,
Wi' dance an' sang, te music strang,
The day that we got married.

When neet set in, we went te see
The grand illuminashuns,
When bonny seets lit up wi' glee
Wor eyes wi' queer sensashuns'
For a' the streets wes fair aleet,
Tho i' the crood nigh worried,
The gas se breet myed blithe the neet
The Prince an' me got married.

They hyem agyen we bent wor way,
Wet throo wi' rain an' scrushin,
Te pass the crood wes owt but play,
Aw's still sair yit wi' pushin;
At hyem at last, --the time we past,
Wi' jokes byeth glen an' aprried,
Ne royal prince, afore or since,
Had fun like us, when married.

Aw wish the Prince had just been there, 
Te see the aud wives dancin;
An' lang fat Mat sat i' the chair,
I' fun te tyek his chance in,
For lips we smackt an' jaws wes crackt,
The lads the lasses flurried,
The Rifle Ball we myed sing small,
The neet that we got married.

Six munths o' time had scarcely gyen,
The doctor myed us wince, man,
When he said-Myour Mally's got a bairn,
Says he ye've lickt the Prince man!
The bairn's bit claes were ready tee,
Aw blist the day we married;-
Withoot a wife-fareweel te life, 
Ye might as weel be barried.

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 
 
 

Teun-"Gentle Jenny Gray."

Me sweetheart, she's a canny lass,
As canny as can be;
Her kind, gud heart's enchanted me--
Withoot her aw wad dee.
She likes te sing gud moral sangs,
Te charm the ear an' mind;
Her feators an' her bonny voice
Are both alike refined.

Korus.
Sweetly singin, glad hopes bringin
Te the sad an' weary heart;
Maw canny sweetheart, bonny lass,
May we nivvor, nivvor part!

Aw've seen her on a little stage,
At meetins where aw've been,
She'd raise her voice for Temparance
In melodies, between
The speeches gentlemen wad myek;
But her voice had the charm:
Thor seemed a lectur iv her sangs
Te keep us a' frae harm.

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 
 

Teun-"Uncle Sam,"

The room's byeth clean an' tidy,--
Se cosey, an' se warm,
The tyebles fill'd wi' drink an' loaf,
The new eer's morning charm;
The aud man tyeks a quiet draw,
Beside his canny mate,
The dowter lucks tewards the door,
An' thinks her swweetheart's late,--

Korus.

Te sing a happy new eer!
Aw wish ye a happy new eer!
May yor life be as glad as the heart o' this lad,
Aw wish ye a happy new eer.

Oh, fethur, muther, --cries the lass,
Just hear the tramp o' feet,
The forst-fut mun be cummin noo,
Aw hear them i' the street:
Ye promised te let Jack in forst,
That's him,-aw knaw his knock,
Aw'open the door, --aw's sure its reet,
It's efter twelve o'clock.

The door's trhwn wide, wi' quickin'd stride,
The forst-fut rushes in,
Attended wi' sic merry mates,
The neet's wark te begin,
What shakin hands, what happy words-
"Drink up,-thro's nowt te fear,
Cum send the bottle roond agyen,
Let's welcum the new eer."

The aud man grasps each young un's hand,
"Yor welcum here me lad,"
The aud wife hands refresmint roond,
"Cum hinnies, let's be glad!"
The dowtor shares the forst-fut's seat,
It's Jack her lad aw'll swear,
The neybors cum wi' bottles full,
Te welcum the new eer.

Give us your hand-maw canny frinds,
An' ye that arnot greet,
Forget the past,-send spite away,
The world's a' kind the neet;
May a' wor lives keep glad as noo,
An' nivor knaw warse cheer,
oh, aw wish that ivry mornin
Wes the forst of ivry eer!

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Varry Canny

Teun- "Canny Newcassel,"

A sooth-country fellow one day says to me,
Ye Newcassel foaks is queer tawkers,
Ye puzzle us sair wi' the words ye'll not find
I' Johnson's, or Webster's, or Walker's,
Huts, hinny, says aw, we speak plain eneuf,
What bothers ye, tell us maw manny,
Says he, Aw wad just like te knaw what ye mean
Be them words that ye say, "varry canny."

"Varry canny, " says aw, are ye puzzled wi' that?
Aw'll gie ye the best explanation
Taht a fellow cana give withoot usin fine words,
For aw havent had greet eddication.
Just luck it yon lass wi' the gud-temper'd fyece,
That the foaks i' the street call young Fanny,
She's not ower gud, or she's not te call bad,
She's just what we call "varry canny."

If yor not ower clivor it owt ye may de,
Or not te call clumsy at tryin,
Yor just"varry canny" te hit twixt the two,
On yor awn humble noshins relyin;
An' if like the gud-hearted sowl that ye are,
Ye held oot yor hand hard an' brawny,
An' axt us te gan te the bar for a gill,
Aw'd say ye wor a chep "varry canny."

But if wi' that gill, or a pint, or a quairt,
Aw show'd signs o' bein on the fuddle,
The foaks they wad say Joe's canny just noo;
Or if wi' sum lass aw shud cuddle,
I' sum quite corner wi' nebody near
Te disturb me or Mary, or Nanny,
Aw was think as aw sat wi' me airm roond her waist,
Aw wes just what they call "varry canny."

The man that 'ill just lend a kind helpin hand
Te ease sum poor fellow's distresses,
Is a real canny hep that the world 'ill respect,
Rispect licks unmeanin caresses;
An' if wi' me sang aw shud please a' the foaks,
Aw'll whisper, cum Joey, maw manny,
Ye maynit de owt like sum greet bleezin star,
But yor reet if ye de "varry canny."

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 
 

Jimmy Jonsin The Barber

Teun- "An Aud Fashin'd Chant."

At the end o' Stowell Street, te bliss a chep's seet, thor's a powl byeth bonny an' lang
Stickin ootside iv its glory an' pride, te invite them that's passin alang
Te hev a clean shave or a fashunable crop biv a gudluckin barber inside,
That's famed Jimmy Jonsin, the king of a' shavers an' hair-cutters a' roond Tyneside:--

Korus.
Teun--"Rob Roy Magregor."

For gien ye shave an' a' the news
Thor's nyen like Jimmy Jonsin, O,
He'll tawk on onythng ye choose-
He's a queerin, Jimmy Jonsin, O.

Aw luckt in one day as aw wes passin that way--" Cum in, thor's just two afore ye!"
Says Jimmy te me, an' his blithe luckin fyece wes a pictor se gladnin te see;
"It's been a fine day the day,--Mistoor, hoo de ye dee?--aw hope a' yor foaks is quite weel:--
They are, that's reet!-it's yor turn, tyek a seat,--man,it's a cumfort when gud health ye feel!

"Waht's yor tip for the race that next week 'ill tyek place?--aw heer thor's a dark un forst-rate,
But dark uns and leet uns is not always reet uns,-aw backt Caller Ou for the Plate.--
Dis the razor shave easy?--bliss  me, what a murder that was i' the papers last week--
But htor's mair murders deun then we knw owt aboot, but we'd knaw if the corpses could speak!

"Aw wes doon at the Consart last neet, an' the singin wes a' that a fellow cud want;-
What a shem that the Madgistrates lets noisy Davis annoy a' the foaks wiv his rant.
Aw wes teetotal last week, it's the truth that aw speak--but aw seun had greet noshuns te drop,
For aw nivor cud see ony gud in wad de, if a man drinkin nowt else but pop!

"That fut-race at Fenhim last week wes a queer un, aw've heerd that it wassent all square!
What a treat it wad be for a fellow te see a race that he knew wes quite fair!
Aw went to hear Rutherford's sermon last Sunday,-dash me, he can tawk aboot owt;
But aw wes fightin last neet wiv a chep i' the street,--man, a glass myeks a chep care for nowt!

"Aw think when aw's deun, ae'll gan doon te the wettor, aw's sure te see sumbody pull.--
De ye think that that chep that jumpt frae the High Level's a real clivor man, or a feul?
Them masheens for hair brushin's a caswshun ye'll say--masheenory myeks lots o' mazors--
But they'll find thorsels puzzilid to myek a masheen te shave onybody like razors!"

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Teun-"Stud it like a Lamb," or "Lukey's Dream."

One winter's neet te bed aw went
Like onny uthor man;
Aw cuddent sleep, tho maw intent
Wes just the varry plan;
For restless aw, wi' kick an' thraw,
Wish'd lang an' sair for morn;
Wi' wink an' blink, aw cuddent think
The neet the bairn wes born!

The neet seems lang when sleep forsakes
The sair an' weary eye,
An' myeks ye wish the hoose awake,
An' brickfast time wes nigh.
Hoo lang aw lay aw cannet say,
When sumthin myed us turn;
Wi' thund'rin clang the door went bang,
The neet the bairn wes born!

Thins aw-it's not the time for wark, 
Aw wundor whe's gyen oot;
Aw lifts me heed-the room wes dark-
Oppress'd wi' fear an' doot.
Aw lissens weel as if the Deil
Wes gawn te gies me turn,
At last a stir aw heers next door
The neet the bairn wes born!

Footsteps aw heers upon the stairs,
An ' whispors te that's clear,
Tho'ts reet te mind yor awn affairs
Aw cuddent help but hear.
Aw heers a cry aw wipes me eye, 
Me feelins myed us gurn,
Across the stocks aw fell, begox,
The neet the bairn wes born!

Half-stunned aw scrammels frae the floor,
"Cum oot!" cries Mistress Gray,
As quick as thowt aw opes the door,
An' next door myed me way,
Where sec a seet aw saw that neet,
Grim wundor myed us gurn;
Wi' greet surprise aw stritched me eyes,
The neet the bairn wes born!

Upon a bed yeth doose an' clean,
Young bonny Bessie lay,
Wi'cheek as pale as onny queen,
Close by stud Mistress Gray.
Wiv a little bairn upon her airm
Sum pictor 'twad adorn,
Its cheek se pknk myed bright eyes blink,
The neet the bairn wes born!

Its fetheur stud beside the bed,
An' blithe an' glad wes he,
Wi' eyes for wife an' bairn he stud,
A bonny seet te see,
The muther smiled se sweet an'mild--
the midwife's jolly yarn;
Wi' gin an' tea myed lots o' spree,
The neet the bairn wes born!

The little bairn wes handed roond,
That a' might get a view,
Its silky cheek wi' luv wes croon'd
Wi' kisses not a few'
Its health, wi'; glee, an' muther's, te,
Wes drunk frae neet te morn,
Byeth lad an' lass cud tyek thor glass
The neet the bairn wes born!

N.B.-Aw think aw'll not tell ye owt mair or ye might varry easy imadjin aw gat on the fuddle, but aw diddent tho mind ye, tho aw can safely say wor Geordy diddnet gan te wark for a week eftor.

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 
 
 

Intoxication!

Teun-"Early in the Morning."

Maw canny bairns, draw near te me,
An' say that ye'll teetotal be;
Be maw experience ye'll see
Drink leads to nowt but misery.

Korus.
Shun vile intoxication!
Keep frev intoxication!
It's vile intoxication
Myeks the world se full o' care!

Just see the myest unhappy hyem,
That i' this world can find a nyem:
A hoose fill'd full o' grief an' shem;
A man that brings ne joy te them,

Throo vile intoxication, etc.

Just see the bairns flee frae thor da,
A man that shud better knaw,
Then be a dreed an' curse tiv a'
That frev him ne affection knaw,
 

Throo vile intoxication, etc.

Mad drunk, he enters his awn hoose,
An' myeks't a scene o' vile abuse;
Like a tyrant he'll thor wants refuse,
An heartless wife an' bairnies use,
 

Throo vile intoxication, etc.

Hoo happy there they a' might be, 
The bairns wad cling aorund his knee;
If he wad just teetotal be,
What different scenes they a' wad see,

Throo vile intoxication, etc.

Hoo mony fall i' manhood's prime,
Cut off, ay, eers before thor time;
We'd nivvor hear se much o' crime
I' this or any uther clime,

But throo intoxication' 
So shun intoxication,
For vile Intoxication
Myeks the world se full o' care.

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Dinnet Spoil the Bairn!

Teun- "Flora Bell."

Oh, dinnet gie that bairn a drop,
Oh, dinnet let it tyest;
Ye munnet lairn that bairn te drink,
Ye owt te knaw what's best.
Poort thing! she's only five eers aud,
Then dinnet let her touch 
The varry stuff thats been yor ruin, 
Tho ye might like't se much!

Korus.
Keep frae the lass that deedly glass,
Just for a moment think;
An' dinnet spoil that bonny bairn,
That canny bairn, wi' drink.

Ne muther's feelins ye mun hev
For that bit cumley lass,
If ye wad force them bonny lips 
Te touch that filthy glass.
Keep't frev her seet, if ye will hed;
But time shud myed ye lairn
That drink's been a greet curse te ye.
Then dinnet spoil the bairn.

Waht diff' rent beins in this world 
A lot o' foaks wad be,
If they cud keep frae practices
In infancey they see.
Then let the drink, for Jenny's sake, 
Be kept oot ov her seet;
She'll nivvor dream ov owt that's rang
If she sees a' that's reet.

Hoo mony muthers spoil thor bairns,
An' sadly rue the day
Whan they see, whe it's ower late,
Thor offspring gyen astray.
Then keep the bonny lass at hyem,
Ye'll find it better far;
Thor's nowt 'ill ruin a bairn as seun
As tyekin't tiv a bar.

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 

The Aud-Fashin'd Bairn!

Teun-"Gud-bye, Sally dear."

Wor Bessie's got a littil bairn,
But, bliss us, what a stir,
It's myed amang the family,
An' the varry foaks next dor
Declair they've nivor seen it's like,
An' aw've heard Dolly Cairns
Sweer it wes mair aud-fashin'd
Then the most o' littl bairns.

Korus.

But, oh my , biiss us a', ye shud see the stir
Betwixt the foaks i' wor hoose, an' them that leeves next dor,
For accordin te thor noshuns, and the words o' Dolly Cairns,
It really is the most aud-fashin'd ov aud-fashin'd bairns.

It hes ne hair upon its heed,
But aw suppose it will;
It likes its meat like uther bairns,
An' screams te hev it's fill;
It cannet walk, it cannet tak,
"Mamma," it just can say
But aw warn'd amang aud-fashhin'd bairns
They'll a' heh the syem way.

It hes its nose abov its mooth,
Its mooth abov its chin,
Aw suppose that myek'st aud -fashin'd,
An' its muther's fond o' gin;
An' when she gis the bairn a drop
Upon her fingor-end,
It suck'st as nattril as can be,
An' myeks a clivor fend.

It cries as hard as ony bairn,
An' likes to be weel nurs'd;
But bliss us, what a pet it is 
An' hes been frae the forst;
Aw've seen a lot o' bonny bairns,
An' aw wad like te see
A one that's not aud-fashin'd-
Oh, but that 'ill nivor be!

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Little Johnny Robinson.

                      Teun-"Castles in the Air"

                      Little Johnny, blithe and bonny, 
                      Sits se canny in his chair,
                      Hoo can he help but be a pet
                      Wi' ivrybody there?
                      Ay, an' ivrybody likes him,
                      When they see his sparklin eyes,
                      Glist'nin wi' thor bright expression,
                      Innocence an' sweet surprise.

                     Little Johnny, blithe an' bonny,
                      Sits content uppon yor knee,
                      Full o' fun an' full o' mishchief,
                      Happy as a bairn can be:-
                      Such a welcum for his fethur,
                      Bright wi' joy his eyes 'ill gleam,
                      Such a welcum for his muther,
                      Equal tiv a muther's dream.

                      May young Johny's days be mony,
                      May they be as glad as noo,
                      May the ties of sweet affection
                      Always be se kind an' true;
                      Gladly wi' thor little treasure,
                      May they spend thor happy days;
                      May his parents live te bless him, 
                      May he always gain thor praise.

                      -Joe Wilson
 

Think O' The Little Ones At Hyem!

                      Teun- "Thump, thump."

                      Oh! dinnet drink ne mair;
                      Hev a care, lad-hev a care
                      For the little ones left be thor-sels at hyem:
                      They heh ne muther noo,
                      An' she tell'd ye te be true,
                      On her death-bed, te be kind an' true te them.

                      Korus.
                      Then think o' the little ones at hyem, lad--
                      Thnk o'yor canny bairns at hyem:
                      They heh ne muther noo,
                      An' they've lost the care they knew,
                      So be careful, an' be always kind te them.

                      She fretted her last days,
                      When she thowt aboot yor ways,
                      An' her heart wes fairly broken when she dee'd.
                      She knew hoo thowtless ye
                      Had been, an' wes like te be,
                      An' she wundor'd whe'd attend them i' thor need.

                      Her last words wes for ye,
                      When she whisper'd, "Try an' be
                      A gud fgethur te the bairns aw'm forced to leeve!"
                      Can yue luck i' thor eyes,
                      An' hear therir heart-rendin' cries?
                      God help them! for thor muther they mun grieve.

                      Heh sum luv for yor awn;
                      Be a man, ay, be a man;
                      Let them see thor's one still left te care for them.
                      So let yor drinkin' end,
                      For on ye they a' depend;
                      Hev a care, man, for the little ones at hyem.

                      -Joe Wilson 
 
 

Maw Bonny Strite-Hair'd Lad!
                      Teun- "Peggy Bawn."

                      On Newcassel Jail's dark gloomy walls
                      Sally Turnbull sadly gazed,
                      Sigh efter sigh broke throo her lips,
                      An then her voice she raised:-
                      "Maw bonny son!-oh, my bonny bairn
                      Tho he's got six munse i' quad,
                      He's still me awn, he''s me pet, me Bill,
                      He's me bonny strite-hair'd lad!

                      "Twes just last Seturday efterneun
                      'Poor Bill went oot for a wark,
                      Te the Market, for he likes that place,
                      But he nivvor mair com back,
                      For a paltry rabbit teuk his eye,
                      An' his appetite's not bad,
                      So he teuk't, tho mind ye, just on tick,
                      Tid me bonny strite-hair'd lad!

                      "But the warst on't he had nivvor axt
                      The man's permisshun te did,
                      An' a big fat Bobby i' private claes,
                      Thowt wor Bill had ne reet wid;
                      So he teuk him te the stayshun hoose,
                      An' it's nearly drove us mad,
                      A better-like lad nivvor suffer'd i' quad
                      Then me bonny strite-haired lad!

                      "Aw's sure he wad paid for'd there an' then,
                      If he'd had the money, poor lad,
                      He always wes fond ov a rabbit-pie,
                      An' black puddins in't myed him glad;
                      In fact, he liked rabbits at ony time,
                      An' at Koorsins, - forst i' the squad,
                      A fine bred bul-an-tarrier bitch
                      Wes the pride o' me strite-hair'd lad!

                      "Not Guilty! he said i' the kort as plain
                      As ivvor a body cud said,
                      An' still they waddent believe his words,--
                      But Billy they cannot degrade
                      P the eyes of his muther, fond an' true,
                      Tho thor's nyen i' the world se bad,
                      He'll still find a place i'; the por aud heart,
                      That greets for her strite-hair'd lad1"

                      -Joe Wilson 
 

Benny 'Ill not Gan Te Scheul!

                      Teun--"The Croppy Boy."

                      "Me eyes thor sair, an' me heart is full,
                      Cas me bony bairn he'll not gawn te scheul;
                      Tho he's ten eers aud, he's as big a dunce
                      As ivor ye'll see wi' yor two eyes at once."

                      Korus. Teun- Banks o' Benlomond."

                      "Benny's gan the rang road, he's gan the road te ruin,
                      An' the feelins ov his muther he's distressin,,
                      For his heed's byeth thick an' dull, an' he plays the wag frae scheul,
                      An' he winnet stop at hyem an' lairn his lesson!"

                      "It's an awful thing-mind, it is indeed,
                      Te think that he cannot yit even reed
                      His nyem, if it's put before his eyes:
                      But he's like his fethur-an' he was nivor wise!

                      "But he's sure te rue'd when it's over late,
                      An' blame his muther for his ignorant state;
                      He'll want te reed when he cannet lairn,--
                      For a man can nivvor say A, B, C's like a bairn!

                      "His fethur just laffs at the silly lad,
                      But what pleases him myeks the muther bad;
                      For hoo can Ben read if he cannet spell,--
                      Then God help the lad, for he cannet help his-sel!"

                      --Joe Wilson 
 
 
 

Wor Canny Second-Born!

                      Air-"Gentle Jenny Gray."

                      Just two eers since a lad wes born,
                      Te myek glad wor fireside,
                      It fill'd its muther an' me-sel
                      Wi' nowt but honest pride;
                      We thowt ov a' bairns i' the world,
                      Him bonniest an' the best,
                      An' thowt we cud luv nyen as much,
                      But noo we've had the test,--

                      Korus.
                      Wor second-born's as big a pet, 
                      We mun give him a turn,
                      He's cum te share the forst one's luv,
                      Wor canny second-born.

                      His bonny cheek like velvet soft,
                      Wes press'd wi' gentle care,
                      The little fellow seem'd te knaw
                      'Twes reet te hev his share;
                      Carresses an' the sweetest words,
                      Myest ivrything we'ved tried,
                      We've kiss'd him when we' ve seen him smile,
                      An' kiss'd him when he's cried.

                      The forst one's just as prood as us,
                      Te see his bonny mate,
                      An' if thor spared te grow up lads,
                      They'll fettle real forst-rate;
                      But if like hempy lads they fight,
                      We'll heh to keep them doon,
                      An' try te myek them byeth as gud
                      As ony in the toon.

                      -Joe Wilson 
 

The Bairn's Nyem.

                      Teun-"Champion o' the Cassel Garth Staris."

                      "What are we gawn te call the bairn?"
                      Says Jack tiv his wife one day,
                      "Wor sornyem Smith's such a common one,
                      Aw divvent knaw what te say.
                      Suppose we call him Hamlet, that's
                      The Nyem o' the chep i' the play!"
                      But his wife she fancied Romeo,
                      If she cud hev her awn way.

                      Says Jack, "Hoo wad ye like Thomas,
                      Efter Sayers, the king o' the ring?"
                      Says she, " Thor's ower many Toms,
                      Wor cat's call'd the varry syem thing?"
                      Says he then, "De ye like Alfred?
                      The nyem ov a Duke's ne mistake!"
                      Says she,"Ne bairn o' min shall be
                      Call'd efter a deuk or a drake!"

                      Says Jack, "Then we'll call him Jonah,
                      A scriptor nyem 'ill not fail!"
                      Says she, "It's ower doleful like,
                      An' it soonds just like a wail!"
                      "Let's call him Charley, Harry, or Fred,"
                      Says he, "one o' them 'ill de!"
                      Says she, "It's Billy, or Bob, or Ned,
                      Or Peter that pleases me!"

                      Granfether, granmuther, an' unkil,
                      An'aunt wees cthen call'd in;
                      The whole had different fancies,
                      But the aud man had te win,--
                      Says he,"Just call him eftor me,
                      It's a nyem that's full o' pith,
                      Besides it's a gud ancient one,
                      So chrissin the bairn Jack Smith!"

                      -Joe Wilson 
 

Kiss Little Joe for Me!

                      Teun- "Irish Mally, O,"

                      Lass, aw'm sorry aw's not wi' ye,
                      Fairly forced te be away,
                      Frae me little wife an' fam'ly,--
                      Hoo aw spend the varry day
                      Myeks us wundor, ay, an' wundor,
                      An' keep narvis as can be,
                      For aw'd like ye, an' aw's sartin
                      Ye'll kiss little Joe for me!

                      Korus.
                      When yor sittin be the fire,
                      Wi' the bairn upon yor knee,
                      Tell him that his fethur's cummin,
                      An' kiss little Joe for me!

                      Tell him that his fethur's cummin,
                      Tell him that he's cummin seun,
                      Then his bonny eyes 'ill glissen,
                      An' he'll goo! goo! full o' fun;
                      An' he'll think the ship ye've promised 
                      Cummin in, he's sure te see,
                      An' he'll twist his lips se clivor,
                      If ye kiss him just for me!

                      For two fyeces myek impreshuns
                      On a litle bairney's mind,
                      An' it thinks ov a' relayshuns
                      That thor's nyen alive se kind
                      As its fethur an' its muther,
                      An' its eyes thor full o' glee,
                      When it sees them byeth asside him,--
                      So kiss little Joe for me!

                      -Joe Wilson 
 
 

Cum Hyem I' Gud Time!

Teun-"The Braw Young Lad."

Oh, Bill, if ye'll only cum hyem i' gud time,
Yor supper aw'll myek, an' the beer shall be prime,
So thinkk o' me words an' cum hyem i' gud time,
An' dinnet for once stop lang!
Maw canny gud man just think o' yor wife
Ye leeve the neet, the weary neet,
Te sit i' the hoose biv her-sel, till yor feet 
Cums staggoring hyem a' rang.

Thor's mony a neet aw've sat till me eye
Wes sair an' dry, wi' mony a sigh,
An' thowt ivry step wes yors that come nigh,
They pass'd, then aw knew aw wes rang;
Can ye not stop  at hyem one neet i' the week?
Ye can heh yor gill beside us, Bill,
An' aw'll sit be yor side an' sew wi' gud will,
An' Jinny shall sing ye a sang.

Is aw not like the syem that aw used te be?
That ye leeve the hoose, se clean an' doose,
Ye once used to say wes yor pallis se croose,
Aw's sartin yor gan a' rang;
The hoose is as clean as it ivor can be,
The bit wark o' me te comfort ye,
An' aw'll de ivrything that a wummin can de
Te save yor breest the least pang!

Just luck at the little bit bairn i' me lap,
That smiles se sweet as tho twad entreat
That ye'd stop at hyem be me side for the neet,
If ye dinnet, aw's sure yor rang;
Oh, Bill, if ye'll only cum hyem i' gud time,
Yor supper aw'll myek an' the beer shall be prime,
So think o' me words an' cum hyem i' gud time,
An' dinnet for once stop lang!

-Joe Wilson
 
 

Teun-"Luck at the Clock!"

Wor Jinny's sighin, an' always crying,
Sighin an' moanin tghe whole day lang,
Sighin an' moanin, cryin an' groanin,
That's myed us sure thor wes sumthin rang:
She's not se tidy, her hair's not curly,
The way she always wor'd before,
She talks at random, an' lucks se silly,
An' what de ye think's the cawse o' the stir?

Korus.
Oh my, wor Jinny's fell oot wiv her lad,
Oh dear, aw nivor saw her se sad,
Oh my, ye wad actwilly say she wes bad;
She'll fret an' she'll cry wi' monny a sigh,
Aboot nowt but her lad!

An' if yor funnin on owt that's stunnin,
She always thinks it's meant for her,
The varry thimmel she weers 'ill trimmil
If a sharpish knock cums te the door;
She's turn'd se snappish, se soor, an' crabby,
Aw sumtimes doot that she's the syem,
Aw's sure me muther, an' Bob, me bruther,
Can hardly beleeve they leeve at hyem!

Aw've seen the dinner, as aw'm a sinner,
Brunt just like sinders black an' dry,
Tho once we praised her for what she myed us,
She noo keeps spoilin byeth puddin an' pie:--
Aw saw Tom Goddin, her aud lad noddin,
As he pass'd by the tuther neet,
But her heed she toss'd it se independint,
Then cried heart-broken, when oot ov his seet!

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 
 

Teun-"Sally cum up!"

Aw's happy as a man can be,
The mornin brings ne care te me,
Except a care aw'll tell te ye,---
That's keep the kettle boilin!
Is thor owt te glad the eye
Se much as when yor dry,
As te see the fire bleezin high,
An' the fam'ly kettle boilin?

Korus.
Aw struggle throo the world te thrive,
An object keeps me mind alive,
Aw've always deun, an' will contrive
Te keep the kettle boillin!

When fortune smiles wiv all its grace,
An' roond the hearth-styen tyeks her place,
Aw bliss the chance thor's i' the case
Te keep the kettle boilin!
An' what's left- aw store away,
For fear a rainy day
Might cum te spoil us myekin hay,
Or stop the kettle boilin!

Aw watch the cumfort o' the hoose,
Aw like te see the fam'ly crouse,
So ivry effort weel aw use
Te keep the kettle boilin
Te sail smoothly wi' the tide
Aw try wiv honest pride,
Wi' thowts o' them that's be me side,
Te keep the kettle boilin.

An' if be chance aw hap te see
Sum canny foaks injoy a spree,
Aw de the best that aw can de
Te keep the kettle boilin!
An' aw's not affraid te sing,
For that's the varry thing
Te myek a man join i' the ring
Te keep the kettle boilin!

Aw like me pipe, aw like me gill,
Aw like te hev me stomach's fill;
But nivor mean te run a bill
Te stop the kettle boilin!
Man, aw's happy a' the day,
So think o' what aw say,
Think o' yor means,-an' leeve that way,
An' keep the kettle boilin!

-Joe Wilson
 
 

Teun- "Joe an' Mary Ann."

"Oh, the morrow's the pay," says Jacob Young,
"An' aw've thorty bob te draw,
But hoo much o' that belangs te me-sel,
When aw's sure aw hardly knaw.

Korus.

But aw's glad that it's the pay,
Aw's glad that it's the pay.
For whativor aw may de,
Whey aw's sure te hev a spree,
Aw always myek't that way.

Forst-thor's twelve shillins for me board an' lodge,
An' aw mun pay that this week;
They gov us a hint when aw paid them short,
Uther lodjins aw might seek!

Then the minadge man's sure te call this week,
But he's sure te gan away,
It's just three months since aw paid him a bob,
An' aw think that that's gud pay!

Then aw got ten glasses o' beer on tick
At the hoose that's doon the raw;
If the lanlord says that he wants ony mair,
Aw'll not pay him owt at a'!

Thor's five shillins aw borrowed frae Davie Smith, 
Whey, aw think aw'll pay him three,
An' the two that's left 'ill de for the basirn
That they say belangs te me!

But surely the toon 'ill turn over het,
If aw shud gan on that way,
If aw act like a man an' pay what aw can,
Aw'll still hev a spree at the pay!"

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 
 
 

Teun-" Trust te Luck."

Here's a tip!-a strite tip!
Here's a tip for a place
I' this wide world o' trial,--
Life's unsartin race!
If ye want te get on
Divvent hang doon yor heed,
De ye think that a horse 
Wins a race withoot speed?
But the speed that it hes
Wad be hid tiv us a',
If the jocky wes false
An' tho that ye may knaw.--

Here's a tip, etc.

Her's at tip!-a strite tip!
If yor meanin's te win
Sum bit prize i' the world,
Hev a heart an' begin!
Think yor body a horse,
An' the jockey yor heed,
An' let him find oot a' 
The points o' yor speed,
So that he may gudie ye
The way roond the course,
An' i' the forst or last place
Run te proove a gud horse!

Here's a tip, etc.

Her's a tip!-a strite tip!
That ye'll say's worth a croon,.
Nivor Join iv a race
If ye think ye'll brick doon!
Forst study the distance,
An' then think o' yor-sel,
For hoo oftin ye've heard
Ov high climmers that fell;
But if croon'd w' laurels
The victor ye be,
Let the jockey hev rest,
An' the horse cumfort tee!

Here's a tip, etc.

Here's a tip!- a strite tip!
If aw's not speakin plain,
Aw'll tell ye the meanin 
Te finish me strain,--
If ye want te get on,
Hev a heart an' begin,
Dinnet think withoot tryin
The prize ye can win.
If the prize is clean oot
O' yor reach, dinnet try,
But wi' payshuns, work hard
Till ye find one cum nigh!

Here's a tip, etc.

-Joe Wilson
 

The Day His Wife Wes Barried

Teun-"Martha the Milkman's Dowtor"

Beside a newly hapt up grave.
The day his wife was barried,
Stood tipsy Dick,--the only one
That i' the churchyard tarried;
He luckt doon at the grass an' clay
That hid his wife for ivor,
Then wip'd his eye an' heav'd a sigh,
His feelins myed him shiver.--

Korus.
Oh, sad is me life, for aw;ve lost me luver,
Me wife's byeth deed an' barried;
Oh, mercy me, what mun aw de?
Wor Janey's deed an' barried!

"Fareweel," says he, "maw canny lass
Yor happy sowl's departed,
Ye've left us i' this weary world,
Aw's sure aw's broken-hearted;
The voice that myed us lowp wi' joy,
When fightin wi' the neybors,
Noo lies at rest-ne mair te pest
Wiv it's mischeevus labours.

"Them eyes that teuk the heart frae me
Just two eers gyen the races,
Ne mair 'ill shine, or wink, or stare;
Aw think aw see yor graces
When cummin frae the moor at neet,
Aw mind the neet wes rainy,
But, faith, an cuddint see a leg
Like yor's, maw cumley Janey!

"Them lips that oftin myed us wish
Aw had the chance te kiss them,
Ne mair 'ill move te treat yor luv,
Aw's sartin that aw'll miss them;
The dimpled cheek, an' yallow broo,
That show'd ne signs o' thinkin,
Ne mair aw'll see the sharp nose tee
That smelt when aw'd been drinkin.

"But, lass, aw'll miss ye i' the bed
That nivor needed warmin;
Aw'll mis the cheek se close te mine,
The squeezin close an' charmin;
Ne mair aw'll find yor big fat airms
Cum roond me neck se handy,
That myed us throo the neet forget
Throo day-time ye wor randy!

"Fareweel, aw'll try te cheer me-sel,
Aw cannet stop ne langer,
Te find releef aw'll droon me greef,
I'beer, or sumthink stranger;
Aw's sure te find sum uther lass
Te tyek yor place te cuddle,--
Aw've still sum feunril money left,
Fareweel,-aw's on the fuddil!"

-Joe Wilson
 

Hannah's Black Eye

Teun-"She's Black."

Hannah's got her eye blackt, but hoo it wes deun
Aw knaw little mair then the man i' the meun;
It might been for fairs or it might been for fun,
But it spoils her gud lucks ne matther hoo deun!

She said twes a bed-post she struck i' the dark,
Then said it wes deun throo a little bit lark
Wi' Peggy the mangil wife doon i' the lane;
But Peggy said diffrint, an' hinted "Mick Kane."

Ye'll a' understand that Mick Kane he's a black,
He nivor gets wark but he seun gets the sack;
He's lazy, he's thievish, an' ivrything bad,
An' still Hanna's teun the big loon for her lad!

Aw's sartin it's him that's disfigor'd her eye,
An' silly-like she te conceal him 'iil try;
The bonny bright eye that once dazzled the view's
As black as her life 'ill be a' the way throo.

Aw mean if she marries the good-for-nowt cull
She'll sup bitter draughts frev a cup ower full;
For if before marridge te strike her's his plan,
What will he de tiv her shud he be her man?

Aw've oftin teun notis hoo lasses 'ill hide
Ill treatmint frae them that shud make them thor pride;
But time works the changes!--the muther an' wife
Wen wed-leeve te rue a' the days o' thor life!

-Joe Wilson
 

Hoo Te Leevee At Lodjins!

Teun-"The Mangil."

"Yor gan te leeve the toon, me lad,
Aw's sure the thowt on't myeks us sad,
Wes Fanny Hedley's greetin tiv her son;
"But think o' me when yor away,
An' send a letter ivry day
Te let yor muther knaw hoo ye get on;
An' if ye can find the syem
Cumfort that ye've had at hyem,
It 'ill warm yor muther's heart
Te hear the gud ye've deun!"

Korus.

"But oh, me lad, it 'ill myek you muther sad,
If she thinks ye've got bad lodjins;
So think o' what aw say, send a letter ivry day,
An' aw'll tell ye hoo te leeve when yor at lodjins!

"Aw think ye 'd better keep yor-sel
O' meat, but dinnet tyek much yell;
Ye knaw twes just throo that ye got the bag;
It's that that's myed ye leave the toon,
An' browt yor muther's sporits doon,
An' myed ye that ye hardly hev a rag.
But aw'll tell ye what te de,
If ye only  follow me,
An' te keep yoursel wi' cumfort
Whey,--ye needint fag!

"When yor away, --just think o' me,
Ye knaw yor just as fond o' tea,
An' oonce or two 'ill sarve ye a' the week;
An' coffee, whey, a quarter pund
Ye'll get at ony shop weel grund,
If ye want mair ye only need te speak;
And thor's shuggor ye'll want te,
Whey aw think a pund might de,
Tho aw knaw when yor at hyem
Ye like yor tea se sweet!

'Then ye can buy a loaf o' breed,
An' mair than that if ye shud need,
A half-a-pund o' butter still might sarve;
For dinner, heve a joint that's hot,
An' what thor's left, whey then ye've got
Sum cad meat that the next day ye may carve;
A piece o' bacon, nice an' sweet,
Or a bloater iv a neet
'Ill tyest yor gob, but aw's sure
That's mair then ye desarve!

"An' if ye buy a bit o' floor,
The lanlady 'ill myek, aw's sure,
A dumplin that 'ill please ye if she's owt,
An' pot-stuff if ye want at a',
Te myek ye broth, just let them knaw,
An' tetties at the syem time may be bowt;
But it 'ill only be yor falt
If ye lay owt oot for salt
Or any little things that ye
Can get for nowt!"

-Joe Wilson
 
 

Teun-"Katey's Letter."

"What mun aw de? " says Mary Gee, "me man's that awful lazy,
Aw's oftin thinkin te me-sel he's sure te drive us crazy;
An nivor thowt the lad that once call'd me his "little daisy".
Wad blight the floo'er he praised se much, an' myek us sigh for him.

"Aw's sure aw's oftin thinkin that the lad's gawn oot his senses,
Since he left wark, for once he tried myest ivrything te mense us;
But noo he nivor gives a hint aboot the week's expensis,
Aw hev te keep the hoose me-sel, as weel as keepin him.

"He once wes a real decent lad, an' drest jus like a drapeer,
Until he red Bell's Life, or sum uther sportin paper;
Theen he bowt a pair o' boxin gluves, te show his fightin capers,
An' noo amang a gang o' blacks they call him Fightin Jim.

"Since then he's play'd at dominones, an' a' sic wicked matches,
An' nivor shows he's fyeece i' doors withoot it's full o' scratches;
An' aw heh te pay for ivrything like stickin plaistor patches,
Oh, aw'm weery o' the life that aw leed wi' Fightin Jim.

"The warst on't if he's ivor paid-ye knaw that he's a rash un,
He hammers me when he comes hyem, on me he vents his pashun;
But if he' tries that on agyen, aw'll give him such a cawshun,
Aw'll let himk see what aw can de, aw'll be a match for him.

"He's got his hair cut short, an' a' te show that he's a bright un,
An' if a frind cums te the hoose, he talks 'boot nowt but fightin;
Aw only wish he'd tell'd us that i' that he teuk delite in, 
Afore he married me, the brute; aw'll leave the hoose an' him!"

-Joe Wilson
 
 

Hoo Te Myek Mischeef!

Teun- " The Donkey Cairt."

One Day Nan Broon an' Mary Green wes talkin i' the yard.
Thor words drew me attenshun, so aw lissen'd till aw heard
What neybors say te neybors when they think nebody near.
What little words myeks greet mischeef, aw' ll try te let ye hear--
For Nanny Broon an' Mary Green that day said quite eneuff
Te myek the yard a scene o' strife wi' foaks byeth wild an' ruff.

Korus.
For oh, but a mischeevous tung
'Ill myek the breest wi' trouble rung,
Ye'll find oot when the sang aw've sung,
That's just exactly true.

Says Mary Green-"Last neet as aw wes waitin for me man,
Aw's sure twes efter half-past twelve, aw heard the toon clock gan,
Aw heard two voices i'; the yard,-aw thot aw knew them tee,
Aw luckt oot the stair-heed window an' whe else shud aw see,
But Fanny Edwards wiv a chep, aw's sure twes Davie Swan,
He had his airms aroond her waist, an' he's a married man!"

Says Nanny Broon- "Faith, Mistress Green, aw think yor nowt but reet,
For Mistress Jonsin, at the club, declared, the tuther neet,
That Fannuy Edwards wes ne better then a lass shud be,
An' Mistress Foster said the syem te Mistress Tate an' me,
Aw's sure aw really think me-sel the lass is little gud.
She's not fit even for a lad like lazy Charley Wood."

Nan Brooon an' Mary went away, but late that varry neet
Aw heard sic noises i' the yard that woke up a' the street,
For Nanny Broon had tell'd a frind what Mary Green had said,
An' Mary Green had deun the syem an' lots o' mischeef myed,
Fopr Mistress Edwards got te knaw her dowtor wes run doon,
So oot she cum te clear thor nyem afore myest a' the toon.

Yung Fanny tee com tiv her aid, an' went to Mary Green.
Says she--" Ye've said a vast aboot last neet what ye had seen.
Ye say ye saw us i' the yard wi' sum aud married man,
An' if ye want to knaw the truth that man wes just yor awn.
He met us cummin throo the street an' set us te the door,
Aw didn't want ne mischeef or aw'd tell'd ye that before."

Directly Fanny spoke these words, wi' yells the row begun,
An' Mistress Mary Green's gud-man rued sairly what he'd deun.
She'd heard it hinted he waes false, an' noo she fund it true,
'The mischeef ended wiv her-sel that she begun te brew;
For days an' weeks it lasted, the talk ov a' the toon,
An' Mary Green te myek things warse, fell oot wi' Nancy Broon.
-Joe Wilson
 
 
 
 

Teun-"Trab, trab."

"Oh, Jack, aw's nearly crazy,
Aw wish that aw wes deed!"
I' grief, says Mistress Vaisey,
"Ye'll drive us oot me heed;
Ye knaw that wark it's slack,
What myed ye get the sack?

Oh, Jack, Jack, Jack,
Ye'll drive us mad,
What myed ye get the bag?

The cupboard's nearly empy,
Thor's ne tick at the shop;
The landlord says we'll heh te pay
If we intend te stop;
Wor ower heed I' debt,
Eneuf te myek us fret.

Oh, Jack, etc.

Nan Thomsin lent us sixpence,
Whenivor will aw paid?
Forbye a bag o' roondy coals
Aw gat frae Mistress Braid;
Me stockins' full o' holes,
Me best beuts hes ne soles.

Oh, Jack, etc.
 

Next Sunday's Tommy's chrisnin,
We'll hev te put that off,
For if we heh ne bottle,
The neybors a' wad scoff;
Besides the cheese an' breed,
But that wor-sels we'll need.

Oh, Jack, etc.

Them's Dolly's claes aw'm mendin,
Thor raggy as can be,
O' patches thor's ne endin,
Will she get owt frae ye?
An' Jimmy's shoes thor bad,
His feet's byeth damp an' cad.

Oh, Jack, etc.
 

Ye say yor foreman's sawsy,.
An' what if he shud be?
Thor's mnyen aw've seen te beat ye,
He issent warse than ye;
Ye've gien him nowt but jaw,
An' that's the cawse, aw knaw.

Oh, Jack, Jack, Jack,
Ye'll drive us mad,
That's hoo ye've got the bag!"

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 

Teun- Maw Boy Tommy."

Whe is't that puts the foaks aboot?
Whey, Superstishus Sally;
An' fills the breest wi' pain an' doot,
Whey, Superstishus Sally;
She'll give a groan an' shake her heed,
An' talk aboot sumbody deed,
An' sweet thor deeth she lang forseed,
A queer aud wife is Sally.

If stawks or leaves float I' the cup,
At tea, ye'll hear aud Sally
Byeth sigh an' say thor's sumthin up,
"Thor strangers," whispers Sally;
An' if the candle-wick burns lang
Wi' snots, she starts te myek a sang,
An' growls, an' sweers thor's sumthink rang,
"It's a bad sign," says aud Sally.

An' if a dog howls I' the street
Wy'll hear the moans o' Sally;
She'll nivor sleep a wink that neet,
Or let ye sleep will Sally;
She sweers it's always signs o' deeth,
She'll ring her hands an' grind her teeth,
An' myek the neybors haud thor breeth,
A deevil's plague is Sally.

The witches that ye've red aboot,
Wad heh ne chance wi' Sally,
She myeks reed fyeces white as cloot
Dis Superstishus Sally;
Wi' chawkin strokes upon a tray,
She leads byeth young an' aud astray,
An' silly-like, ye'll hear them say,
"A clivor wife's aud Sally."

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 
 

Dan's Apprehension.

Teun-"The Geuse Fair."

Aw'll tell y' a lark aboot a chep,
A famous constart man,
That once cud bring the hooses doon,--
Just noo aw'll call him Dan.
It waddint de te tell his nyem,
It might amuse a few,
But still 'twad de ne gud te them
If his real nyem they knew:
He used te sing at consarts i'
The country roond aboot,
A real gud-hearted jolly sowl,
O' that thor is ne doot.

He got engaged te sing sum sangs,
An' keep up his renoon,
At a quiet little country place
Not ten miles frae the toon;
He packt his carpet-bag wi' things
Te suit myest ivry age,
False whiskers, paint, an' claes an' wigs,
He needed for the stage;
Then off he set- got landed there,
An' pleased the foaks se weel,
They waddint let him cum away
Till tipsy he shud feel.

He sat an' drunk till late at neet,
The last train lang had gyen,
So Dan myed up his mind te leave
An' walk the distance hyem;
He flung his bag across his back,
An' bid them a' gud neet,
Then hurried on as best he cud,
An' seun we soot o' seet,--
A mile between the hoose an' him
He seun had put between,
But heere's just where the fun begins,
A scene that's seldum seen.

Two pollis cumin by that way,
Luckt hard an' queer at Dan,
Byeth on the watch for sum greet thief,
They teuk him for the man;
A pair o' bracelets on his wrists,
Afore poor Dan cud wink,
Wes thrust,-an' then they teuk his bag,
He haddint time te think,
Before they march'd him tiv a hoose
He'd nivor seen before,
An' then they threw him iv a cell,
An' then they lockt the door.

Poor Dan at forst wes stupefied,
For drink wes iv his heed,
But when he fund oot where he was, 
His yells wad wake the deed;
The polis byeth luckt iv his bag.
Wi' wide an' greedy eyes,
An' ivrything they fund, they thowt
Wes this greet thief's disguise,-
They waddint lissen te the words
He tried to myek them hear,
But thowt o' praise an' greet rewards
Next morning they wad share.

The morning com-the clerk wes there,
The polis tell'd thor case,
Then browt Dan oot--wi' oaths he swore
He'd myek them tyck his place;
For when he tell'd them what he wes,
They swore he tell'd a lee,
Until he drest an' sung a sang,
An' then they knowt it spree;
But Dan the spree he cuddin't see
Until he myed them pay
Expensis-an' they had te did
Afore he'd gan away.

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 
 

Janey Foster

Teun- "Apple Praties."

Aw think o' Janey Foster when aw's sittin be the fireside,
An' sigh for Janey Foster, cas aw's sittin there me-sel;
Aw wander throo the streets as if aw diddent knaw where aw wes gawn,
An' whisper te me-sel the thowts aw darnet uthers tell;
Tho sweet reflecshuns cheer us when aw's thinking o' maw canny lass,
The time's byeth lang an' dreary till aw meet me luv agyen,
For since aw left the toon she's in, aw wish that aw had browt her wis,
Or else aw wish that Janey just had let me heart alien.

The first time that aw menshun'd luv, she hung her heed as if I' pain,
An' still she seemed tho she wes pleased at what aw just had said,--
Says she-"Aw've heard ye hev a lass-anuther lass that's far away,"
An' when she said these words te me, poor thing, she luckt quite flaid;
But when aw tell'd her that aw'd not, she laid her heed upon me breest,--
Says aw-"Maw canny sweetheart, faith aw heh ne lass but ye;"
Her lips met mine, not once or twice, but twice or thrice, an' ower agyen,
An' me heart's wi' Janey Foster, tho she's far away frae me.

She handed me her photograph the neet before aw com away,
Says she-"Mind ye'll tyek care o' that, an' sumtimes think o' me;"
Says aw-"Aw hope ye'll de the syem"--aw'd gien her mine the day before,--
Says she- "Aw will,"--an' cried, an' aw believe that aw cried tee,
At least aw thowt me heart wad brick; but no, she teuk gud care o' that,
For Janey hes me heart as whole as ony heart can be;
Its sinful,-but aw wish the time away that keeps me luv frae me,
Me heart's wi' Janey Foster till the varry day aw dee.

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 
 
 

Teun- "Try a little Dancin."

Iv a' the troubles that thor is,
Thor's nyen like weary shiftin,
Besides the wark it spoils the things,
Ne matter what yor liftin;-
For Mistress Smith, that leev'd next door,
When shiftin te the second floor
Alang the street, caused sic a stir
The day she started shiftin!

Korus.
Iv a' the troubles that thor is,
Thor's nyen like weary shiftin,
Besides the wark it spoils the things
Ne matter what yor liftin.

The next day efter that, she stud
Bewilder'd like an' weary,
Te put things I' thor place she meant,
Wi' spirits not se cheery;
She luckt aboot, but where te start
She diddent knaw, she quite lost heart
Te try an' myek the hoose luck smart,
Wes puzzling efter shiftin.

Her breest was ful o' heavy sighs,
The draw'rs wes full o' scratches,
Says she-"If aw shift ony mair
Aw'd like te see them catch us;"
The clock weights rol'd aboot the floor
She hardly knew which way te stir,
An' wish'd she'd only knawn before
The miseries o' shiftin.

Her cheeny cups,-she'd only two,
Wes fairly smash'd te shivers,
Alang the tyeble ink an' oil
Wes runnin like two rivers;
The feather bed, se clean last neet,
Wes thick o' dirt, for I' the street
They'd let it fall, an' lost a sheet
Throo nowt else but the shiftin.

The tyebel creakt upon its legs,
Thy whole consarn wes craisin,
She lifted bundles here an' there,
An' broke the wesh-hand baisin;
She pickt things up, then let them fall,
An' knockt her heed agyen the wall,
Her only bairn begun te squall,
Te still myek warse the shiftin.

Frae morn te neet she struggled on,
Byeth in an' oot o' payshuns,
An' wish'd her man wes hyem frae wark,
On this-this sad occashun;
Te work at neet he thowt a shem,
He thowt she'd better did alien,
So faith, he diddent hurry hyem,
He diddent fancy shiftin.

The chair-backs diddent seem te care
For legs that they belang'd te,
The luckin-glass wes nicely scraped,
The bed wes put up rang tee,
For scaircely had they had a snore,
When doon they fell upon the floor.
\An' Jinny cursed, an' Harry swore
The devil tyek the shiftin.

-Joe Wilson
 
 

Settled Doon.

Teun-"Kill or Cure."

When sittin be the fireside, me pipe se calmly smoking,
Or playin wi' the bits o' bairns, or wi' the aud wife jokin,
Aw's as happy, if not happier, than if aw had a croon,
For, me lads, aw's what aw like te be- that's nicely settled doon.

Korus.

Then wire in ! me lads, an' join us i' the tune,
For noo aw's what aw like te be-
That's nicely settled down!

Aw've plenty wark, thenk God for that,-for wark brings real injoyment,
An' men can nivor settle doon without they've got imployument;
An' at neets aw often tyek the wife te walk aboot the toon,
An' we feel se calm an' happy like becas wor settled doon.

Then Jack an' Tom byeth gan te scheul, se willin, --thats a plissure,
Thor byeth gud lads, aw's sure they are,-them here's wor little trissure,
That's little Bell, just six munse aud, she's noddiin te the tune
Her muther sings, as if she knew wor nicely settled doon.

The hoose it maynit be se grand as sum that aw cud menshun,
But what thor's int's wor awn, lads,-an' ye'll nivor hear dissenshun
Betwixt he wife an'me,-for neethor like te cawse a froon,
Wor happy an' wor byeth content becas wor settled doon.

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 

Teun-"What's a' the Steer, Kimmer."

"It's time te gan te bed, Harry,
'It's time te gan te bed,
Last neet aw cuiddint gan te sleep,
The awful tung ye led,
For drink wes I' yor heed, Harry,
Ye waddint had yor jaw,
Ye wakint a' the foaks upstairs, 
An' vext the foaks belaw.

Korus.

It's time te gan te bed, Harry,
It's time to gan te bed,
So put yor claes off, canny lad,
An' cum away te bed.

It's time te gan te bed, Harry,
Wi' stopping oot se late,
Aw's sure ye'll be me deeeth, ye will,
Aw'll reckind frae this date;
Ye needint fill yor pipe, Harry,
Yor smoking a' the day,
Ye'll not be fit for wark the morn,
Oh, hinny, cum away.

Ye once cud cum te bed, Harry,
Like a sober, decent man,
But noo ye sit te vex yor wife
As lang as weel ye can;
Aw's cawd here by me-sel, Harry,-
Aw wish aw diddent care,
But, oh, ye'll get yor deeth o' cawd
Wi' sleepin I' that chair.

Noo put that paper doon, Harry,
Ye shannot reed the neet,
Ye've kept us sittin up se lang
Aw's sure it issent reet;
Yor putting off yor claes, Harry,
But faith yor varry slaw,
Ye'll loss a quarter-day, an' then,
Ye'll blame yor wife, ye knaw.

-Joe Wilson
 
 
 

Teun-"Rip Teerin Jimmie."

Aw'll sing ye a Tyneside sang.
An' aw's sure aw'll not be rang,
For aw think ye'll like te heerd as weel as me,--
I' the dialect aw'll start,
For when aw sing- Tyneside it hes te be.

Korus.
An' oh, me lads, it myeks me heart se glad,
Te sing or hear a lokil sang;
An' aw always like te see iv a cumpony, or a spree,
Sum canny lad te sing a Tyneside sang.

It puts us I' the mind
O' the canny foaks se kind,
That roond wor bonny firesides we see;
An' it myeks us feel at hyem,
An' aw hope that yor the syem,
If ye arnet, whey aw's sure ye owt te be!

But the greetest treat, aw say,
Is whenivor aw'm away,
I' sum friendly cumpny i' sum uther toon,
When aw hear the glasses ring,
An' a real Tynesider sing,
An' the foaks's feet a' beatin te the tune.

It myeks us feel se glad,
That aw fancy aw'm a lad,
Wi' the forst bit lokil sang upon me tung,
An' the dialect's se fine,
All around the "Coaly Tyne,
It's a treat te hear the sangs se hyem-like sung

-Joe Wilson