Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Part 3 of Directory 1  Click here for the main menu of this directory. Use our floating menu to improve navigation. you can reposition it by clicking on top bar and dragging Floating Menu Menu of all of the Sangs Click here For tunes in .abc format click here We invite you to contribute! Click here to comment or add. For an index of persons and places mentioned in the sangs click here For bibliography,and philosophy of the collection click here Soon after our upgrade the songs which the Whisky Priests have recorded will be high-lighted thusly  Illustrated by woodcuts by Joseph Crawhall (Newcastle, 1889) (Where you see the music note image there will be a midi file-for you to listen to!)

Turner- Keelmen Hauling in Coals by Moonlight

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The Amphitrite
For Notation click here
For midi sound click here

Frae Team gut to Whitley wi'coals black an'broon,
For the Amphitrite loaded, the keel had come doon:
But the bullies, ower neet had their thropples see wet,
That the nyem o' the ship yen an'a' did forget.

Chorus
Fal-de-ral...

To find ooot the nyem, noo, each worried his chops,
An' claw'd at his hips fit to murder the lops--
Then the Skipper, went hunger'd was a'ways myest bright,
Swore the pawhogger luggish was ca'd Empty Kite.

Frae the Point, roond the Girt, a' the time sailin'slow,
Each bully kept bawlin', "The Empty Kite, ho!"
But their blairin'was vain, for nee Empty Kite there,
Tho' they blair'd till their kites were byeth empty an' sair.

A' Slaverin the Skipper ca'd Geordy an' Jim,
For to gan to Newcassel and ax the reet nyem;
The youngest he thowt myest, to blame i' this bore,
Sae Pee-Dee an' his marrow was seun pack'd ashore.

Up the Shields Road they trodg'd i'  their myest worn-oot soles,
Oft cursin' the Empty Kite, Skipper, and coals;
At the sign of "The Coach" they byeth ca'd it befell,
To mourn their hard case owre a tankard o' yell.

Here a Buck at a sirloin hardeatin' was seen,
An' he said 'at the air'd myed his appetite keen;
"Appetite!" cried the bullies--like maislins they stared,
Wide gyepin'wi' wonder, till "Crikes!" Jemmy blair'd.

"The Appetite, Geordy! smash! dis tu hear that?
It's the varry ootlandish, cull nyem we forgat;
Bliss the dandy! for had he not tell't us the nyem,
To Newcassel we'd wander'd byeth weary and lyem!"

To Shields back they canter'd an' seun, frae the keel,
Roar'd--"The Appetite, ho!" 'neuf to frighten the De'il,
Thus they fund oot the ship, cast the coals in a sweat,
Still praisin' the Dandy they'd luckily met.

Then into the huddock, weel tir'd they a' gat,
An' of Empty Kite, Appetite, lang did they chat,
When the Skipper fund oot--(wise as Solomon, King)--
Tho' not the syem word--'twas aboot the syem thing.

-By Robert Gilchrist, to the Tune "Gee-ho! Dobbin," popularly known as "Cappy"., Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs.
Joseph Cawhall,
1888
 

Aboot the bush., Willy,
Aboot the beehive,
Aboot the bush, Willy,
I'll meet the, belive;

Then to my ten shillings
Add you but a groat,
I'll go to Newcastle
And buy a new coat.

Five and five shillings,
Five and a crown,
Five and five shillings
Will buy a new gown.

Five and five shillings,
Five and a groat,
Five and five shillings
Will buy a new coat.

Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs.
Joseph Cawhall,
1888
 

The jailor for trial had brought up a thief,
Whose looks seem'd a passport to Botnay Bay;
The Lawyers, some with, and some wanting a brief,
Around the green table were seated so gay;
Grave jurrors and witnesses waiting a call;
Attornies and clients, more angry than wise,
With strangers and town's people throng'd the Guildhall,
All waiting and gaping to see my Lord 'Size.

Oft stretch'd were their necks, oft erected their ears,
Still fancying they heard of the trumpets the sound,
When tidings arriv'd which dissolv'd them in tears,
That my Lord at the Dead-house was then lying drown'd.
Straight left tete-a-tete were the jailors an' thief;
The horror struck crowd to the Dead-house quick hies;
E'en the Lawyers, forgetful of fee and of brief,
Set off, helter-skelter, to view my Lord 'Size.

And now the Sandhill with the sad tidings rings,
And the tubs of the taties are left to take care;
Fish-women desert their crabs, lobsters, and lings,
And each to the Dead-house now runs like a hare.
The glassmen, some naked, some clad, heard the news,
And off they ran smoking, like hot mutton pies;
While Castle-garth tailors, like wild kangaroos,
Came tail-on-end jumping, to see my Lord 'Size.

The Dead-house they reach'd where his Lordship they found,
Pale, stretch'd on a plank, like themselves out of breath;
The Coronere an' Jury were seated around,
Most gravely enquiring  the cause of his death.
No haste did they seem in their task to complete,
Aware that from hurry mistakes oft arise:
Or wishful, perhaps, of prolonging the treat
Of thus sitting in judgment upon my Lord 'Size.

Now the Mansion-house butler thus gravely depos'd--
"My Lord on the terrace seem'd studdying his charge;
And when (as I thought) he had got it composed,
He went down the stairs and examined the barge.
First the stem he surveyed, then inspected the stern,
The handled the tiller, and looked mighty wise;
But he made a false step when about to return,
And souse in the water straight tumbled Lord 'Size."

Now his narrative ended, the Butler retired,
Whilst Betty Watt, mutt'ring (half drunk} thro' her teeth,
Declared "in her breest greet consarn it inspir'd
That my Lord shou'd see cullishly come to his deeth.
Next a keelman was call'd on --Bold Archy his name,
Who, the book as he kiss'd it show'd the whites of his eyes,
Then he cut an odd caper, attention to claim,
And this evidience tender'd respecting Lord 'Size.

"Aw was settin'the keel wi Dick Stavers an'Matt,
An' the Mansion-house stairs we wor just alangside,
When we a' three see'd sumthin', but didn't ken what,
That was splashin' an labberin' aboot i' the tide.
It's a flucker, ki Dick; No, ki Matt, it's ower big,
It luik't mair like a skyett when aw forst see'd it rise;
Kiv aw--for aw'd getten' a gliff o' the wig--
Ods marcy! wey, marrows! becrike, it's Lord 'Size!

Sae aw huik'd him an' suin haul'd him into the keel,
An' o' top o' the huddock aw rowl'd him aboot;
An' his belly aw rubb'd, an' aw skelpt his back weel,
But the watter he'd drucken it waddent run oot.
Sae a brought him ashore here, an' doctors, in vain,
Forst his way, than that, to recover him tries,
For ye see that he's lyin' as deed as a styen,
An' that's a' aw can tell ye aboot my Lord 'Size."

Now the Jury for close consultation retir'd;
Some "Death Accidental" were will ing to find;
Some "God's Visitation" most eager requir'd,
Andsome were for "Fell in the River" inclin'd;
But, ere on their verdict they all were agreed,
My Lord gave a groan, and wide open'd his eyes;
Then the Coach and the Trumpeters came with great speed,
And back to the Mansion-house carried Lord 'Size.
 

-by John Shield, to the tune: "Newcastle in an Uproar.", Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs.
Joseph Cawhall,
1888

O Dick, What's kept ye a' this time,
Aw've fretted sair aboot ye,
Aw thowt that ye'd fa'n i' the Tyne,
What wad aw duin withoot ye?
O,hinny, Dolly, sit th' doon,
An' hear the news aw've browt frae Toon,
Newcassel folk hes hulk'd a meun,
An' myed it a fiery clock fyece.

Thou knaws St. Nicholas Church maw pet,
Where we waur tied togither--
That plyece aw knaw, thoo'll not forget,
Forget it! aw will niver.
'Twas there maw jew'l, aw saw the seet,
As aw cam' staggerin' through the street,
Aw thowt it queer at pick-dark neet,
To see a fiery clock-fyece.

The folk they stood in flocks aboot--
Aw cried--How! what's the matter?
Aw glower'd--at last aw gove a shoot,
For them to fetch some watter.
The Chorch is fired an' varry suin
That bonny plyece will be burnt doon;
Chep says, ye fyeull, it's a bonny meun
They've catch't, an' myed a clock-fyece.

On Monday when aw gan to wark,
Aw'll surely tell wor banks-man,
If we had sec a leet i' th' dark,
We'd niver break wor shanks, man.
How! marraws let's be off to Toon
To see if we can huik a meun--
If we can nobbit coax yen doon,
We'll myekt a fiery clock-fyece.

Then if we get it doon the pit
We'd ha't stuck on a pole, man,
'Twill tell us hoo wor time gans on,
Likewise to hew wor coal, man.
Sae noo, maw pet, let's gan to bed
And not forget the need w' wor wed;
The morn we'll tell wor Uncle Ned
Aboot the fiery clock-fyece.

by Robert Nunn; to the tune, "The Coal-hole.", Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs.
Joseph Cawhall,
1888
 

In a toon near Newcassel a pitman did dwell,
Wiv his wife by nyem Peg, a Tom-cat,an' hissel,
A dog they ca'd Cappy he doated upon,
Because he was left him by great Uncle Tom.

Chorus
Weel bred Cappy, famous and Cappy
Cappy's the dog--Tally ho! Tally ho!

His tail pitcher-handled, his culler jet black,
Just a foot an' a half was the length of his back;
His legs seven inches frae shouthers to paws,
An' his lugs like twee dockins hung over his jaws.

For huntin' o' varmin reet clivvor was he,
An' the hoose frae a' robbers his bark wad keep fee;
Cou'd byeth fetch and carry--co'd sit on a stuil,
Or, when frisky, wad hunt wetter rats in a puil.

As Ralphy, to market one morn did repair,
In his  hat band a pipe, an' weel kyem'd was his hair,
Owre his arm hung a basket--thus onward he speels,
An' cam' into Newcassel wi' Cap at his heels.

He haddent gyen farther than foot o' the Side
Before he fell in wi' the dog-killing tribe,
When a highwayman-fellow slipt roond in a crack,
An' wi' thump on the skull laid him flat on his back.

Doon went Cappy, &.
 

Noo Raplhy, extonish'd Cap's fate did repine,
While its eyes just like twe pyerl buttons did shine;
Then he spat on his hands, in a furry he grew,
Smash! he cried-- but awse ha'e satisfaction o' thoo,

For knockin doon Cappy &
 

Then this grim-luikin' fellow his bludgeon he rais'd
When Ralphy ey'd Cappy, an' stood sair amaz'd
But flay'd that beside him he might be laid doon,
Flang him into the basket an' bang'd oot o' toon.

Away went Cappy, &
 

He breethless gat hyem, an' when lifting the sneck,
His wife ca'd ooot, "Ralphy--thou's seun getten back."
"Getten back, " replied Ralphy, I wish I'd ne'er gyen,
I' Newcassel they're fellin' dogs, lasses, and men.

They'v knocked doon Cappy, &
 

If aw gan to Newcassel when comes wor pay-week,
Aw'll ken him agyen by the patch on his cheek;
Or if ivver he comes to wor toon wiv his stick,
We'll thump him aboot till he's black as aud Nick,

For killing auld Cappy, &.

Wi tears iv her een Peggy heard his sad tale,
An' Ralph wi' confusion an' terror grew pale,
While Cappy's misfortuns wi' grief they talk'd ower,
He crap oot o' the basket quite brisk on the floor.

Well duin Cappy, Famous and Cappy,
Cappy's the dog--Tally ho! Tally Ho!
 

by William Mitford, or Midford; to the tune "Gee-ho! Dobbin.," Locally popularized as "Cappy., Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs.
Joseph Cawhall,
1888

A' the neet ower an' ower,
An' a' the neet ower agyen--
A' the need ower an' ower,
The peacock followed the hen.

A Hen's a hungerie dish,
A geusse is hollwo within;
There's nee deceit iv a puddin';
A pye's a dainty thing.

-Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs.
Joseph Cawhall,
1888
 

As Skipper Carr an' Markie Dunn
Was gannin', drunk, thro' Sandgate,
A dog bit Mark, an' off did run,
But sair the poor sowl fand it.
The skipper, in a voice see rough,
Aw's warn'd, says he, it's mad eneugh;
Howay, an' get som Doctor's stuff
For fear of Hydrophobie!

The Doctor dresse'd the wound se wide,
And left poor Markie smartin';
Then, for a joke, towld Carr, aside,
Mark wad gan mad, for sartin'.
Noo, Skipper, mind, when in yor keel,
Be sure 'at ye watch Markie weel,
If he begins to bark an'squeel,
Depend--It's Hydrophobie.

For Shilds next day they sail'd wi' coal,
An' tyeuk aboard a Quaker
Who wish'd to go as far's Dent's Hole,
To see a friend call'd Baker.
The Skipper whisper'd in his ear,
Wor Markie will gan mad, aw fear!
He'll bite us a'--sure as yo'r here,
We'll get the Hydrophobie!

Said Quake, I hope this can't be true,
Nay, friend, thou art mistaken;
We must not fear what man can do--
Wea! I will stand unshaken.
The Skipper, to complete the fun {alt text=farce}
Then told the Quaker what'd been done--
{alt text: line above- sub -Said, Maister Quaker, what's far warse,
A b_____g dog bit Markie's a--e,}
(A dog'd bit Mark an'off did run}
An' browt on Hydrophobie.

Now Markie overheard their talk,
Thinks he--aw'll try the Quaker--
Makes Pee-dee to the huddock walk,
Of fun to be partaker.
To howl and bark he wasn't slack,
The quaker o'erboard in a crack,
Wi' the fat Skipper on his back
For fear of Hydrophobie.

Now Pee-dee laugh'd to see the two,
Who, to be saved, were striving;
Mark haul'd them oot, with much ado,
An' call'd them culls for diving.
The Quaker seun was put ashore,
For he was frighten'd very sore;
The Skipper promis'd never more
To mention Hydrophobie!

-by Robert Emery; to the tune "The Cameronian's Rant," or "X.Y.Z."., Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs.
Joseph Cawhall, 1888.  Alt text from: In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

The Grunstan' Afloat
For notation click here
For midi sound click here

Not lang sin' some keelmen were gaun doon to Sheels,
When a hoop round some froth cam' alang side their keel;
The Skipper saw't first, an' he gov a greet shout--
How! beggar, man, Dick! here's a grunstan' afloat,

Derry down &c.

Dick leuk't, an' he showt 'at the Skipper was reet,
See they'd hev her ashore, an' then sell her that neet;
Then he jumpt' ower to fetch her--maw sang! what a splatter--
Nee grunstan' was there, for he fand it was watter.

Derry down &c.

The skipper astonish'd, quite struck wi' surprise,
He roar'd oot to Dickey when he saw him rise--
How! smash, marrow! Dick, ho! what is thoo aboot?
Come here, mun, an' let's ha'ed the gunstan' tyen oot.

Derry down &c.

A Grunstan'! says Dick--wey, thou slaverin' cull,
Wi' wetter maw belly an pockets is full;
By the gowkey, aw'll sweer 'at ye're drunk, daft or doatin'--
It's nee grunstan' at a', but some au'd iron floatin'.
Derry down, &c.

by William Armstrong; to the tune, "Derry Down". Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs.
Joseph Cawhall,
1888

The Sailors are a' at the Bar
For notation click here
For midi sound click here

The Sailors are a' at the Bar,
They canna get up to Newcassel;
The Sailors are a' at the Bar,
They canna get up to Newcassel.

Up wi' smoky Shields,
An' hey for bonny Newcassel;
Up wi' smoky Shields,
An' hey for bonny Newcassel.

-Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs.
Joseph Cawhall,
1888
___________________
The Lad wi' the trowsers on,
He says he winnot hae me;
The lad wi' the trowsers on,
He says he winnot hae me.
If he winnot hae me,
He can let me be;
Aw can get another,
Twice as good as he

-source: Northumbrian Minstrelsy
 
 

Use and Abuse or The Pitman and the Preachers

For notation click here
For midi sound click here

Teetotlers may jaw 'boot the drink as they will,
An' preach till they're black i' the muzzle,
Maw Feyther an' Muther byeth lik'd a good gill,
And their son tee mun weeten his whussel.
Guid yell hes dune mair for to warm a man's breest,
When misfortun' hes cum wiv his hammer,
Than a thoosan' dry sermons frae ranterfied priest,
'At gets paid for his lees an' his yammer.

Folk talk aboot drink: was the grapes sent for nowt
But to stuff i' wor dumplins an' hinnies?
If the goold frae the yerth, man, had niver been browt,
Smash! the mint cuddent coin monny guinnees.
Because a man's hung, mun we myek nee mair twine?
Mun we starve 'cas some fyeulls gormandizes?
If a keel gets upset, mun we shut up the Tyne?
Man! sec humbug yen's reason surprizes.

Aw knaw yen 'at's torn'd a Teetotaller noo,
An 'laps up the fizzify'd wetter:
But aw find, on the slee, he his toddy can brew,
For his beak is to brandy a debtor.
His wife, she gat hauld o' the key ov his box,
Iv a raw the black bottles was pleyc'd in;
Like as fizzick frae doctors, a' labell'd, by gox!
But the wife she gat mortal with tyestin'!

Wey, its deeth, nevvies warse, if to't yell hoose ye gan,
For a glass, an' to hear some fine singin';
They sweer that the lan'lord's the Deevil's best man,
An' the band's nowt but imps ov his bringin'.
Man, they're spited to see that thor hooses hes sprung
Frae the seed o'lang patience an' merit;
Smash! they're awn dizzy consarts is shemfully sung,
For their sangs, like thorsels, hes nee sperrit.

Aw divvent praise fyeulls, that like pigs i' the muck,
Gan gruntin' an' guzzlin' for ivver;
There's nee ' casion to soom i' the drink like a duck,
But just sup what'll meyk a chep clivvor.
Noo, ye knaw varry weel what King Solomon says,
An' he dissent mean gluttons to 'tice man;
"Eat, drink, an' be merry to lenthen your days"--
An', by gox! but aw'll tyek his advice, man.

- by J.P. Robson; to the tune "Canny Newcassel". Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs.
Joseph Cawhall,
1888
 

Twee Keelmen efter leavin' Church,
Afore me they waur walkin';
Close in ahint them aw did march,
An' ower-heerd their talkin'.
Says yen, "Oh Dick! maw heart is sair--
Sair, sin' aw heer'd that sarmin;
It's neuf to myek yen drink ne mair--
Smash man! it was alarmin'!

When he began to talk o' Hell,
Myed for a sinner's dwellin',
By gox! aw tyeks it to mesell--
It set my breest a swellin';
An' when he said each wicked man,
Wad leeve alang wi' deevils;
Aw surely thowt there aw wad gan
For a' my former evils.

"Noo, Dick, wor ye not varry bad,
When he sae fine was teachin'?
Did ye not feel a' queer an' sad,
An' trimmel at his preachin'?
Aw's sure aw cud ha'e roar'd, Amen,
Had it not been wor Willy;
For he'd ha'e jeer'd an towld wor men,
An' they'd ha'w ca'd it silly."

Then up he spak--"Aw divverent knaw--
Aw thowt't was a'  a folly,
Aw thowt aboot the fad a' straw,
That Mick ga' to wor Dolly.
An' then aboot the fight aw had,
Wi' Geordie i' the keel, man;
Hoo awa upset him on his back,
An' gar'd him roar an' squeel, man."

Aw nobbet gan to see the Priest,
An' hear the bonny organ;
Aw'd  seuner hev a haggish feast,
An' drink wi' Skipper Morgan.
To tell the truth, what myeks me gan,
Wor Maister's torn'd religious,
He'll think aw's sec a godly man,
And mevvies raise me wages.

Aw heer'd it just the t'other neet,
As aw went doon the Kee man,
A chep 'at learns the folk to pray,
Drink just as hard as me man;
Sae, Willy, if we gan to Hell,
That Priest'll gan there tee man;
Sae--let's away an' ha'e some yell,
An' let sec things abee, man."

-to the tune  "Jimmy Johnson's Wherry."  Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs.
Joseph Cawhall,
1888

Some time sin' a Skipper was gaun iv his keel,
His heart like a lion, his fyece like the De'il;
He was steerin' hissel, as he'd oft duin afore,
When at auld Lizzie Mudie's his keel ran ashore

Fal- de -ral, &c.

The Skipper was vext when his keel gat ashore,
Sae for Geordie and Pee-dee he loodly did roar;
The sail it was lower'd, but a' waddent dee,
Sae he clickt up a coal an' maist fell'd the Pee-dee.

I' the midst o' their trouble, scarce knaw'n what to do,
A voice frae the shore gravely cried oot- Hoo! hoo!.
Hoo noo mister Hoo! hoo! is thou myken fun?
Or is't the forst keel 'at thoo e'er saw agrun?

Agyen a Hoo! hoo! an' the Skipper he stampt,
An' sung oot for Geordie to heave oot a plank;
In a ravin' mad passion he curs'd an' he swore,
Aw'll hoo! hoo! thou, thou beggar, if aw cum ashore.

Wiv a coal in each hand, ashore then he went,
To kill Mister Hoo! hoo! it was his intent;
But when he gat there ye may judge his surprise!
When back he com runnin'--Oh! Geordie--he cries-

Wey, whe dis' tu' think hes been makin' this gam,
Aw'll lay th' my wallet thou'll not guess his nyem,
"Is't the ghost of auld Lissie?" Oh, no, thou au'd fool, it
Is nee ghost at a'-but an au'd Jenny Hoolet!

-by W. Armstrong to the tune "Gee-Ho! Dobbin"  Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs.
Joseph Cawhall,
1888
 
 

Come, Geordie--ha'd the Bairn or Aw wish thy Muther wad cum.

Joe Wilson, Tune: "The Whistling Thief".
For notation click here
For midi sound click here

Come, Geordie, ha'd the bairn,
Aw's sure aw'll not stop lang;
Aw'd tyek the jewel me sel,
But really aw's not strang.
Thor's floor an' coals to get,
The hoose-wark's not half deun,
Sae--haud the bairn for fairs,
Thou's often deun't for fun.

Then Geordie held the bairn,
But sair agyen his will;
The poor bit thing wes good,
But Geordie had nee skill;
He haddent its Muther's ways,
He sat byeth stiff an' numb;
Afore five minutes was gyen,
He wish'd its Muther wad cum.

His wife had hardlys gyen,
The bairn began to squall,
With hikin't up an' doon
He varry neigh let it fall.
It nivver wad ha'd its tung,
Tho' some aud teun he'd hum--
"Jack and Jill went up the hill"--
"Aw wish thy Muther wad cum."

What weary toil said he
This nursin' bairns mun be;
A bit on't's well enough,
Aye, quite eneuf for me.
To ha'd-a blubberin' bairn,
It may be grand to some;
A day's wark's not as bad--
"Aw wish thy Muther wad cum."

Men seldom give a thowt
To what their wives endure;
Aw thowt she'd nowt to dee
But clean the hoose, aw's sure,
Or myek my dinner an' tea--
(It's startin' to sook its thumb;
The Poor thing wants its tit)--
"Aw wish thy Muther wad cum."

What a selfish world this is!
There's nowt mair sae than Man;
He laffs at Wimmin's toill,
An' nivvir 'll norse his awn--
(It's startin' to cry agyen--
Aw see tuts throo it's gum;)
Maw canny bit pet, O dinna thoo fret--
"Aw wish thy Muther wad cum."

But kindness dis a vast-
It's nee use gettin vext--
It'll niver please the bairn,
Or ease a mind perplext.
At last it's gyen to sleep,
The Wife'll not say aw's numb--
She'll think aw's a real good nurse--
But--"Aw wish thy Muther wad cum."

-Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs.
Joseph Cawhall,
1888

The Pitman's Courtship
For Notation Click here
For midi sound click here

Quite soft blew the wind frae the West,
An'the sun faintly shone i' the sky,
When Lukey and' Betty sat courtin'
As walking I chanc'd for to spy;
Unheeded, I stole close beside them;
To hear their discoursee was my plan--
I listen'd each word they were saying,
When Lukey his courtship began;--

"Last hoppin' thou wun up my fancy
Wi' thy fine silken jacket o' blue;
An' smash! if thor Newcassel lyeddies
Coul'd marra the curls o' thy brow;
That day aw whiles danc't wi' lang Nancy--
She cou'dn't like thou lift her heel;
May granny likes spice singin' hinnies,
Maw comely, aw like thou as weel.

Thou knaws, ever since we wor little
Thegither we've trodg'd through the woods,
An' at neet hand in hand toddled hyem,
Varry oft wi' howl kites an' torn duds;
But noo we can talk aboot mairridge,
An' lang syne for wor weddin' day;
When mairried we'll keep a bit shop
An' sell things iv a huiksterry way.

To get us a canny bit leevin',
A' kind of fine sweetmeats we'll sell,
Reed-harrin, broon-syep, an' mint-candy,
Black-pepper, dye-sand, an' sma' yell;
Spice-hunters, pick-shafts, farden candles,
Wax-dollies wi' reed leather shoes,
Chalk pussy-cats, fine corly-greens,
Paper-skyetts, penny-pies, an' Yule-doos.

A w'll help thou' to tie up the shuggar,
At neets, when frae wark aw get lowse,
An' wor Dick 'at leeves ower High Whickham,
'll myek us broom buzzoms for nowse.
Like an image tho'll stand owre the counter,
Wi thy fine muslin, cambricker goon,
An' to let the folk see thou's a lyeddy,
On a cuddy thou's ride to the Toon.

There'll be matches, pipe-clay, an 'broon dishes,
Canary-seed, raisins, and fegs;
An' to please the pit-laddies at Easter,
A dishful o' gily pyest-eggs.
For wor neybors that's snuffers an' smoakers,
For wor snuff an' baccy they'll seek;
An' to show them we deal wi' Newcassel,
Twee Blackeys sall mense the door-cheek.

Sae, noo for Tim Bodkin aw'll send,
For to darn my silk breeks at the knee,
Thy ruffles an' frills mun get ready--
Next Whissunday married we'll be.
Aw think it's boot time we waur steppin',
We've sitten till aw's aboot lyemm."
So, then--wirth a kis and a cuddle
These lovers they toddelt off hyem.

-by William Mitford; to the tune, "The Night before Larry was stretch'd or. "The Irish Drops o' Brandy.",  Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs.
Joseph Cawhall,
1888
 
 

It was between Hebbron an' Jarrow,
Thor cam' on a varry strang gale;
The Skipper luikt oot o' the huddock,
Cried, "Smash, man! lower the sail!
Smash, man! lower the sail!
Or else to the bottom we'll go!"
The keel an' a' hands 'ad been lost
Had it not been for Jemmy Munro

The gale it blew strang'r an' strang'r
When they com' aside the Muck hoose,
The Skipper cried oot, "Jemmy, swing'er!"
But still was as fear'd as a moose.
Pee-dee ran to clear the anchor,
"It's raffed!" reet loudly he roar'd--
They a' said the gale it wad sink her
If it wasn't suen thrawn owerboard.

The laddie ran sweatin', ran sweatin',
The laddie ran sweatin' aboot,
Till the keel she went bump agyen Jarrow,
An' three o' the bullies lap oot;
Three o' the bulies lap oot,
An' left nyen in but little Pee-dee,
Whe ran aboot stampin' an cryin'
"How, smash! Skipper--what mun aw dee?"

The Skipper ca'd oot, frae the Kee--
"Close in by the shore myek her run,
An' then thraw the painter to me,
Thou cat fyec'd son of a Gun;"
The lad threw the painter ashore,
They fastn'd her up to the Kee,
But whe knaws hoo far she'd ha'e gyen
Had it not been for little Pee-dee.
 

-To the tune : "The Irish Drops of Brandy.", Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs.
Joseph Cawhall,
1888
 
 

Of a' the plagues a poor man meets,
Alang life's weary way,
There's nyen amang them a' that beats
A rainy weshin'-day.
An let that day come when it man,
It a'ways is maw care,
Before aw break maw fast, to pray
It may be fin an' fair.

Chorus:
For it's thump! thump! souse! souse!
Scrup! scrup away!
There's nowt but glumpin' i' the house
Upon a weshin'-day.

For sud the morn when Sall torns oot,
Be rainy, dark, or dull,
She cloots the bits o' bairns aboot,
An'backs them off to skuil.
In ivvery day throuhoot the week
The goodman hez his say,
But this; when if he chance to speak,
It's--"Get oot o' maw way!"

Her step hez starn defiance in't,
She luiks a' fire an'tow;
A single word, like spark frae flint,
Wad set her iv a low.
The varry claes upon her back,
Sae pinn'd an' tuck't up are,
As if they'd say, to bairns an' Jack,
"Come near me if ye daur."

The cat's the picture o' distress,
The kittlins daur na' play;
Poor Pincher niver shows his fyece.
Upon this dreary day.
the burd sits mopin' on the balk,
Like sumthing iv a flay;
The pig's as hungry as a hawk;
The hens lay a' away.

The hearth is a' wi cinders strown,
The floor with dorty duds;
The hoose is a' turn'd upside doon
When Sal is i' the suds.
But when the fray's a' ower an' duin,
An' a's hung up to dry,
A cup, an' blast o' baccy, suin
Blaws a' bad temper bye.

Then the thump! thump! souse! souse!
Scrup! Scrub away!
Myek ne mair glumpin' i' the hoose-
Until next weshin'-day.

-by Thomas Wilson; to the tune "There's nae luck aboot the Hoose"., Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs.
Joseph Cawhall,
1888

Come all ye good people and listen to me,
And a comical tale I will tell unto ye,
Belangin' yen Spottie--leev'd on the law Quay,
That had nowther hoose nor harbour he.

The poor auld wives o' the North side dissn't knaw what for to dee,
For the daurna' come to see their husbands when they come to the Quay;
Theyt're feared for their sels, an' their infants tee,
For this roguish fellow they ca' Spottie.

But noo he's gyen away unto the seaside,
Where mony a yen wishes he may be weshed away wi' the tide,
For if Floutter's flod com' as it used for to dee,
It'll drive his heart oot--then where'll his midred be?

The poor auld wives of Whitburn dissn't knaw what for to dee,
For they dar not come alang the sands, wi'their lang tail skates
in their hands, to Jacob Spenceley's landing, as they us'd for te dee.
They daurna come alang the sands wi' their swills i' their hands,
But they're forced to tyek a coble an' come in by the sea.

As Laird Forster was riding alang in the sands,
As he, or any other gentleman might chance for to dee,
Spottie cam' oot- his tanter-wallups did flee--
His horse teuk the boggle, an' off flew he.

He gethers coals i' the day-time, as he's well knawn for to dee,
An'myeks a fire on a neet, which kests a leet into the sea,
Which gar'd poor sloopy cry "hellem a lee,"
An' aback o' the Carcasses cam' poor she.

Alack! an' well-a-day, said the Maister--"What mun we dee?"
"Truist to Providence" said the Mate, "an' we're sure to get free;"
There was a poor little lad 'at had come a trial viage to sea,
His heart went like a pair of bellowses, an' he didn't knaw what for to dee,

Johhy Ushere, the Maister, wad ha'e carried him away,
But the ships company swore, de'il be their fate if they wad wi' him stay;
We'll first forfeit oor wages for not gannin' to sea
Afore we'll gan' wi' that foguish fellow they ca' Spottie.

-(Sunderland) Spottie was a poor lunatic who lived in a cave at Roker, between Whitburn and Sunderland, which still retains the name of "Spottie's Hole."., Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs. Joseph Cawhall, 1888
From:
-Source: The Bishoprick Garland or a Collection of Legends, Songs Ballads &c.. Belonging to The County of Durham. London: Nichols, and Baldwin & Cradock. 1834.: This curious ditty is printed from a copy found in the papers of the late Thomas Clerke Esq., of Sunderland; ( and possibly written by him.). He was a geltleman of pwoerful convivial talents, and the author of several spirited, and anacreonitc songs, which are now attributed to others.  He was a cheerful member of society, and his poetical contributions werre remarkable for their ready wit and sparkling humour.  His "Sons of the Wear," is bold and enlivening; his "Musical Club," is full of good natured point and playful fancy; and his ode to Silver Street, is a pungent and lively portrait. Amongst his miscellaneous papers, which his son, Dr. Thomas Clerke, preserves with great care , are several complimentary letters from persons of consideration; and amongst others an anonymous ode, of which the following are the concluding verses:-
See how the varied, comic strife,
How each pursues that game of life
Which suits his humour best,
While thy good nature wins the prize,
And wit now bears thee to the skies,
O Clerrke! by all caress'd,
O should this humble mimic lay,
Approv'd by thee, one line betray,
Fraught with true lyric fire;
And should my muse enforce a smile,
Or please my witty friend a while,
'Tis all that I desire.

Flouter's Flood= A great flood which carried away flouter's mill, near Murton, and is remembered (locally) by the name of "Flouter's flood."
 
 

Its O but aw ken weel,
A.U. hinny Burd,
Thje bonny las o' Benwell,
A.U.A.
She's lang-legg'd an' mother-loike,
A.U. hinny Burd,
See, she's rakin' up the dyke,
A.U.A.

The Quayside for sailors,
The Castle-garth for tailors,
The Gateshead Hills for millers,
The North shore for keelers.

There's Sandgate for auld rags,
An' gallowgate for trolly bags;
There's Denton an' Kenton,
An' canny Lang Benton.

There's Tynemouth an' Cullercoats,
An' North Shields for sculler-boats;
There's Westoe lies iv a neuk,
An' Sooth Shields the llyce for seut.

There's Horton an' Holywell,
An' bonny Seaton Delaval;
Hartley-pans for sailors,
An' Bedlington for nailers.
-Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs.
Joseph Cawhall,
1888
 

In holiday gown, and my new fangl'd hat,
Last Monday I tript to the fair;
I held up my head, and I'll tell you for what,
Brisk Roger I guess'd would be there;
He woos me to marry whenever we meet,
There's honey sure dwells on his tongue!
He hugs me so close, and he kisses so sweet,
I'd wed--if I were not too young

Fond Sue, I'll assure you, laid hold on the boy,
(The vixen would fain be his bride,}
Some token she claim'd, either ribbon or toy,
And swore that she'd not be deny'd;
A top-knot he bought her, and garters of green,
Pert Susan was cruelly stung;
I hate her so much, that, to kill her with spleen,
I'd wed--if I were not too young.

He whisper'd such soft pretty things in mine ear!
He flatter'd he promis'd and swore!
Such trinkets he gave me, such laces and gear,
That, trust me,--my pockets ran o'er;
Some ballads he brought me, the best he could find,
And sweetly their burthen he sung;
Good faith, he's so handsome, so witty and kind,
I'd wed--if I were not too young.

The sun was just setting, 'twas time to retire
(Our cottage was distant a mile)
I rose to be gone--Roger bow'd like a squire,
And handed me over the stile;
His arms he threw round me--Love laugh'd in his eye,
He led me the meadows among,
There prest me so close, I agreed, with a sigh,
To wed-for I was not too young.

--Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs.
Joseph Cawhall,
1888
 
 

I sit by the side of the broad rolling river,
That sparkles along on its way to the sea;
But my thoughts fly again o'er the wide heaving main,
To the home of my childhood so happy and free;
The sun with rare splendour may brighten each scene,
All Nature in hues the most gorgeous may shine,
But all is in vain the fond wish to restrian,
I wish I were again on the Banks of the Tyne.

How clearly before me again each bright scene
Of my childhood appears to my sad longing eye;
The wild rugged banks where so often I've played,
And listen'd the river roll murmuring by;
Though brighter the river that rolls at my feet,
And fairer the banks where I sadly recline;
All, all, I'd resign for the bleak hills of mine,
Oh! I wish I were again on the Banks of the Tyne.

Oh Fortune! I pray thee, Oh! list to the prayer
Of the exile who mourns on a far foreign shore;
If here I must die'neath the fierce blazing sky,
And the home of my youth I must never see more;
Take me far, far from here in my still narrow beir,
And lay me where lie all the past race of mine,
With them would I lie where the river rolls by,
On the banks, dearly lov'd, of my own native Tyne.

--Source A Beuk o' Newcassel Sangs.
Joseph Cawhall,
1888