Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Part 7  Directory 5 Click here for main menu of this directory. Use our floating menu to improve navigation. you can reposition it by clicking on top bar and dragging Floating Menu Menu of all of the Sangs Click here For tunes in .abc notation click here For an index of persons and places mentioned in the sangs click here For Bibliography,and Philosophy of the collection click here We invite you to contribute! Click here to comment or add. Soon after our upgrade the songs which the priests have recorded will be high-lighted thusly Illustrated by woodcuts by Joseph Crawhall (Newcastle, 1889)  (Where you see the music note image there will be a midi file-for you to listen to!)

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The Pitman	Jarrow Colliery Opening I	A North Shields Song	Song (Five wives at Acomb)	Brandling and Ridley
Jarrow Colliery II 1809	Cull alias Silly Billy	Ha ye seen oot .	Cullercoats Fishwife (Lass)	The Harrins Heed
RAP 'ER TE BANK	The Eagle Steam Packet	Jemmy Joneson's Whurry	The Baboon	Billy Oliver's Ramble
Parody on Billy Oliver's Ramble	The Tyne Cossacks	The Pitman's Revenge	Bob Cranky's Leum'nation Neet	The Pitman's Skellyscope
Bob Cranky's Account Of the Ascent of Mr. Sadler's Balloon Sept 1, 1815	The Mayor of Bordeaux or Mally's Misake	Winlaton Hopping	The Sandhill Monkey	The Skipper's Dream
The Politicans	Newcastle Wonders or, Hackney Coach Customers	Quayside Ditty	A Shields Soliloquy	The Green-Wives Lamentation
The Cobbler O' Morpeth	Sunderland Jammy's Lamentation	The Fish-Wives' Complaint,	A Petition	Canny Sheels
Permanent Yeast	The Pitman's Ramble Or Newcastle Finery	Coaly Tyne	Newcassel Races	The Quack Doctors
Peggy's Leg	Nanny of the Tyne	The Newcastle Signs	The Wonderful Gutter	The Local Militia-Man	The Skipper's Account of the Orange-Men's Procession

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Of a pitman we'll sing,
Who works for the king,
Jovial, good natur'd and civil;
He'll work and he'll sing,
And profit he'll bring,
From caverns that's near to the devil.

To his labour below,
With courage he'll go,
Upon his pit rope and his crook;
Nor will he once dwell
On the visions of hell,
Nor yet fash his thumb with a book.

All his wish is good ale,
An' his claes upon sale,
For a tankard he'll put ev'ry night;
Let the learned still think,
That a hearthy sound drink,
Is a pitman's most crowned delight.

-by Ogle, in Bell
 
 
 

There was five wives at Acomb,
And five wives at Wa',
And five wives at Fallowfield,
That's fifteen o' them a'

They've drunken ale and brandy,
'Till they are all fu';
And I cannot get home to
My eppie I trow,
My Eppie I trow,
My eppie I trow,
And I cannot get home to
My Eppie I trow.

The tyne water's se deep, that
I cannot wade through;
And I've no horse to ride to
My eppie I trow,
My Eppie I trow,
My Eppie I trow,
And I've no horse to ride to
My Eppie I trow.

In Tyne I hev not a boat,
Nor yet cou'd I row,
Across the deep water to
My Eppie I trow,
My Eppie I trow,
My Eppie I trow
And I've no horse to ride to
My Eppie I trow.

-Bell
 

Brandling and Ridley

Brandling for ever, and Ridley for aye,
Brandling and Ridley carries the day!
Brandliong for ever, and Ridley for aye.
There's plenty of coals on our waggon way.

There's wood for to cut, and coals for to hew,
And the bright star of Heaton will carry us through:
Ridley for ever, and Brandling for aye,
There's plenty of coals on our waggon way.
 

-Bell, 1812,  Allen notes- "Members for Newcastle in seven successive Parliaments.
(In: Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings....,
Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891. )

Brandling
Like as the brand doth flame and burn,
So we from death to life should turn.
-An old rhyme or motto of the Brandling family, whose crest is an oak tree in flames
-perhaps a border beacon- Sharpe's Bishopric Garland
In: Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings....,
Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891.
 

Jarrow Colliery Opening I
A Song written and sung by H.F. H. at the opening
of Jarrow Colliery, Sept. 26, 1803.

Old jarrow, long fam'd for monastical lore,
Where Bede, rusty manuscripts search'd o'er and o'er;
Now see us assembl'd upon her green swa'd,
With faces all smiling, and spirits full glad.

Fal lal de ral la.

No long chaunt of Friars now steals thro' her glooms,
No lazy cowl'd monk now her viands consumes;
But chearful the strain which our voices upraise,
And active the man, who partakes of our praise.

Yet still in researches her sons shew their might,
Still labour in darkness to bring good to light;
Thro' legends and fables the friars explor'd,
Thro' strata of rubbish the miners have bor'd.

The labours of both with success have been crown'd
And the miner to Bede is in gratitude bound;
For while ignorance reign'd from the line to the pole,
In convents the monks preserv'd sciences--Coal.

By science and spirit what great deeds are done,
By the union of these, this rich Coal Pit is won;
And safe from their labours, the lads of the mine,
Now foot it away with the girls of the Tyne.

On ship-board soon plac'd, and impel'd by the gale,
For Augusta's proud towers the produce will sail;
Employment it gives to th' indust'rous and brave,
And its trade's the best nurse for the sons of the wave.

Hail, Commerce! thou parent of Albion's weal,
Let Frenchmen still brandish their threatening steel,
To drag the from England, her sons will not yield,
They'll carry thee on, yet prepare forthe field.

These brave lads around us, their tools will lay down,
And fight for their country, their king, and his crown!
But the Frenchmen destroy'd, or drove back to the main,
They'll take up the Pick-axe and shovel again.

In union thus ever be commerce and arms,
When a tyrant's ambition creates it alarms;
And secure in their courage, let Britons still sing,
Britannia triumphant, and God save the King!

-H.F. H. in Bell

A North Shields Song

We'll all away to the Lowlights,
And there we'll see the sailors come in;
We'll all away to the Lowlights,
And there we'll see the sailors come in.

there clap your hands and give a shout,
And you'll see the sailors go out;
Clap your hands and dance and sing,
And you'll see your laddie come in.

-Bell also in Allan

Of Temple and King, my friends, let us sing,
And of their Colliery at Jarrow;
Of coals that are good as e'er swam the flood,
For home consumption or far, O.

They tell us, my friend, there's coal at Walls-End,
Can scarcely meet with a marrow;
But let them come here, we'll make it appear,
Coals were not then wrought at Jarrow.

There is Heaton Main, and Walker by name,
Know to most near and far, O;
I this will maintain in Language that's plain,
There's none that surpasseth Jarrow;

Above the Tyne Bridge, its often been said,
Few with these can compare, O';
A good dog was Brag--but hold fast my lad--
Nothing they knew then of Jarrow!

To Temple and King, great wealth may they bring,
For home consumption, or far, O;
May success attend, wherever they send
Their coals, the produce of Jarrow.

May overmen all, with great and the small,
Ne'er have occasion to sorrow!
May heart, hand, and head, procure them bread,
For wives and children at Jarrow!

Call another bowl to enliven our soul,
Temple we'll drink and his marrow;
Three cheerswe will give, cry, Long may they live!
The prosp'rous owners of Jarrow.
Call another bowl, &c.

-East Rainton in Bell
 

Whence those cries, my soul that harrow?
Whence those yells, that wound my ear?
'Tis the hapless child of sorrow!
'Tiss poor Billy's plaint I hear.
Now, in tatter'd plight I see him,
Teazing crowds around him press;
Ah! will none from insult free him?
None his injuries redress?

Fil'd with many a fearful notion,
Now he utters piercing cries;
Starting now, with sudden motion,
Swiftly thro' the streets he hides.
Poor, forlorn, and hapless creature,
Victim of insanity!
Sure it speaks a ruthless nature,
To oppress a wretch like thee.

When, by generous friends protected,
All thy actions told thee mild,
Tho' by reason undirected,
And the prey of fancies wild.'
Of those friends did Heav'n deprive thee,
None, alas! supply'd their place?
And to madness now to drive thee,
Ceaseless strives a cruel race.

Youth forlorn! tho' crowds deride thee,
Gentle minds for thee must grieve;
Back to reason, wish to guide thee,
And thy ev'ry want relieve,
O from this sad state to snatch thee,
Why delay the good and kind?
Pity calls them on to watch thee,
And to tranquilize thy mind.

-in Bell, Subject of the song Cull Billy
or Silly Billy was an abused mentally ill
street person of Newcastle who
would perform recitations on the streets. The song
was printed in the Newcastle Chronicle of August
28 1802 signed J.S. After the song appeared
St. John's Parish had Billy put into its poor
house where was confined until he recovered.
See our eccentrics page for more details.

Ha ye seen oot o my boony lad
And are ye sure he's weel oh,
He's gone ower land wi a stick in his hand,
He's gone to moor the keel Oh,

Yes A've seen your bonnie lad,
Twas on the sea I spied him,
His grave is green but not with grass,
And thoul't niver lie aside him.
 

I am a Cullercoats Fishwife rosey and free,
And I wear Flannel Pettycoats up to my knee.

And I sell my fresh fish
to the poor and the rich

Will ye buy?
Will ye buy?
Will ye buy my fresh fish

-Connie Rowley

Version II  The Cullercoats Fish Lass  Tune: " Lilla's a Lady"
Ned Corvan

Aw's a Cullercoats fish-lass, se cozy an' free
Browt up in a cottage close on by the sea;
An' aw sell fine fresh fish ti poor an' ti rich--
Will ye buy, will ye buy, will ye buy maw fresh fish?

Spoken- Finne codlin's hinny; cheaper for hyem consumption
thin butcher meat.  There's fine mackerel. come. Mistor, ye shall hae them at yor awn price, but the sea's
up.  Aw's sure, fish just  noo's as bad to catch iz husbands; and a greet deal warse
ti sell.

Sings- Will ye buy, will ye buy, will ye buy my fresh fish?

Imitate cries- D'ye want a-n-y fish?

Byeth barefoot and barelegged aw trudge mony a week,
Wi' a creel on mee back an' a bloom on mee cheek;
Aw'll supply ye wi' flat fish, fine skyet, or fresh ling,
And sometimes pennywilks, crabs, an' lobsters aw bring.

Will ye buy, will ye buy? etc.

Aw work hard for mee livin', frev a frind aw ne'er begs,
An' aw huff the young gents when they peep at my legs;
Aw's hilthy an' hansom, quite willin' and strong,
To toil for my livin', cryin' fish the day long.

Spoken- That's what aw cawl fishin' for a livin'. But tawkin'
aboot fish, thor's as queer fish on land as there's in the sea--
Gladstone, Tom Sayers, and Blondin-aw cawl  them star-fish,
that baits the public ti sum tuin.  Folks that neglects to buy
the Illustrated Tyneside Songs, aw consider them flat-fish.  Mackey's
men they're dry fish; ye can tell by their gills.  Sailors, they're
salt fish, that shund always keep a wether eye on land-sharks.
Volunteers, they're fresh fish, who, with wor sowigers and sailors, myek
up wor sole defenders.  As for me, with yor kind favours, aw'd be like a fish
oot o' wetter-aye, whei! Aw's a maiden fish oot iv her teens
in sairch ov a husband to myek me comfortable.  Aw want ti teyk
moorins for life in the roads an' channels o' matrimony.

Will ye buy, will ye buy? etc.

-Edward Corvan, 1862, In: Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings....,
Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891.

Sound: Click here

(Image Error- Ned Corvan)

 Oh what'll wi dee wi the harrins heed

 Oh what'll wi dee wi the harrind heed
 We'll mak it inte loaves of breed,
 Harrins heed loaves of breed and all manner of things
 Of all the fish that's in the sea
 The harrin is the one for me
 How a ye the day, how a ye the day, how a ye the day
 Me hinny oh

 It goes on with verses of
 Harrins guts a pair of beuits
 Harrins fins needles and pins
 Harrans tail a boat that sails
 Harrins eyes puddins and pies
 Harrins scales a barrel of ale
 Harrins belly a lass called Nellie
 

RAP 'ER TE BANK
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cho: Rap 'er to bank, me canny lad!
Wind 'er away, keep tornin!
The back-shift men are gannin' hyam,
We'll be back in the mornin'.

My feyther used to call the torn
When the lang shift was ower.
As he went oot bye, ye'd hear him cry;
D'ye knaa it's efter fower?

And when that aaful day arrived,
The last shift for me feyther;
A faal of stones and brokken bones,
But still above the clatter, he cried:

final cho:
Rap 'er te bank, me canny lad!
Wind 'er reet slow, that's clivor!
This poor aad lad hes tekken bad,
Aa'll be back heor nivvor.

-Henry Nattress, Gateshead
Note: The rapper rope hung from a rapper at the minehead; the
miners pulled it as a signal to bring the cage back up
to the surface.

Oh, hae ye heard the wond'rous news?
To hear me sang ye'll not refuse,
Since the new Stam Packet's ta'en a cruise,
An' bore away for Sunderland.

The folks cvam flocking ower the keels,
Betwixt Newcassel Key and Sheels,
Before she ply'd her powerful wheels,
To work their way to Sunderland.

The sky was clear, the day was fine,
Their dress an' leggage all in stile;
An' they thought to cut a woud'rous shine,
When they got safe to Sunderland.

Now when they to the Pier drew nigh,
The guns did fire and streamers fly;
In a moment all was hue and cry,
Amang the folks at Sunderland.

There was male and female lean an' fat,
An' some wi' whiskers like a cat;
But a Barber's "water-proof silk hat"
Was thought the tip at Sunderland.

In pleasures sweet they spent the day,
The shot-liv'd moments wing'd away;
When they must haste without delay,
To quit the port of Sunderland.

As on the ocean wide they drew,
A strong North wind against them blew,
And the billows dash'd the windows through:
A woeful trip to Sunderland.

Such howlin, screamin rend the sky,
All in confusion they did lie,
With pain and sickness like to die,
They wish'd they'd ne'er seen Sunderland.

A lady lay beside the door,
Said she had been at sea before,
Whee foaming billows loud did roar,
But ne'er had been at Sunderland.

She soon amongst the heap was thrown,
While here and there they sat alone:
Poo Puff had passage up and down,
But none could get from Sunderland.

Some in a corner humm'd their prayers,
While others choak'd the cabin stairs;
And bloody noses, unawares,
Werre got in sight of Sunderland.

In vain they strove now to proceed,
So back again they came with speed;
But the passengers were all nigh deed,
When they got back to Sunderland.

Now their dresses fine look'd worse than rags,
While each a safe conveyance begs,
And many had to use their legs,
To travel home from Sunderland.

By this affair your reason guide,
When on the seas you'd wish to ride,
Choose a good strong ship with wind and tide;
And so good bye to Sunderland.

-Wm. Midford, In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

The cavers biv the chimlay reek,
Begox! its all a horney;
For thro' the world aw thowt to keek,
Yen day when aw was corney:
Sae, wiv some varry canny chiels,
All on the hop and murry,
Aw thowt aw'd myek a voyge to Shiels,
Iv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry.

Ye niver see'd the church sae scrudg'd,
As we were there thegither;
An' gentle, simple, throughways rudg'd,
Like burdies of a feather:
Blind Willie, a' wor joys to croon,
Struck up a hey down derry,
An' crouse we left wor canny toon,
Iv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry.

As we push'd off, loak! a' the Key
To me seem'd shuggy-shooin;
An' tho' aw'd niver been at sea,
Aw stuid her like a new-on.
An' when the Malls began their reels,
Aw kick'd maw heels reet murry;
For faix! aw lik'd the voyage to Shiels,
Iv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry.

Quick went wor heels, quick went the oars,
An' where me eyes wur cassin,
It seem'd as if the bizzy shore
Cheer'd canny Tyne i' passin.
What! hes Newcassel now nae end?
Thinks aw it's wond'rous vurry;
Aw thowt I'd like me life to spend
Iv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry.

Tyne-side seem'd sae dunny;
Wey this mun be what Bible ca's,
'the land of milk and honey!
If a' thor things belang'd tiv me,
Aw'd myek the poor reet murry,
Ah' gar each heard to sin wiv glee,
Iv Jemmy Honeson's Whurry.

Then on we went, as nice as ourse,
Till nenst nu'd Lizzy Moody's;
whirlwind cam an'myed a' souse,
Like heaps o' babby boodies.
The heykin myed me vurry wauf,
Me heed turn'd duzzy, vurry;
Me leuks, aw'm shure, wad spyen'd a cauf,
Iv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry.

For hyem and bairns, an'maw wife Nan,
Aw yool'd out like a lubbart;
An' when aw thought we a' shud gan
To Davy Jone's cubbart,
The wind be-baw'd, aw whish'd me squeels,
An' yence mair aw was murry,
For seun we gat a seet o' Shiels,
Frev Jemmy Joneson's Whurry.

Wor Geordies now we thrimmel'd out,
An' tread a' Shiels sae dinny;
Maw faix! it seems a canny sprout,
As big maist as its minny,
Aw smack'd thir yell, aw climb'd thir bree,
The seet was wond'rous, vurry;
Aw lowp'd sic gallant ships to see,
Biv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry.

To Tynemouth then aw thowt aw'd trudge,
To see the folks a' duckin;
Loak! men an' wives together pludg'd,
While hundreds stuid by leukin,
Amang the rest aw cowp'd me creels,
Eh, gox! 'twas funny, vurry;
An' so aw end me voyage to Shiels,
Iv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry.

-T.Thompson,In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
-This song, apparently the lsast the author wrote, seems not to have been printed during
his lifetime.  The earliest copy we can trace is in an old chap-book, fourth edition (1823) published by Marshall.
As it is the fourth, reckoning back, the first edition would likely be published shortly after
Thompson's death in 1816.  Whether through an error in the copy, or by a printer's slip, Marshall, by a simple mistake of
two letters so marred the first line that its meaning has been a puzzle for seventy years.  This error
finally was corrected , on the authority of the author's son, as told in the following letter:-
From the Weekly Chronicle, May 25th 1889.
Mr. R. O. Heslop, in his Northumberland Words, quoting the opening line of
Jemmy Johnson's Whurry,
"Whei cavers biv the chimlay reek,"
raised the question what was the meaning of cavers.  Partly by the discussion so raised I got,
by the kindness of a friend, the address of the author's son and his letter upon the point is most
interesting.  Writing with pencil (as owing to an old wound in his knee received at the battle
of Navarino in 1827-which occasionally troubles him- he was for the first time obliged to keep
in a recumbent position, and so unable to use pen and ink), he says that the beginning line,
as at present in all collections, is wrong; it should be--
"Whei cowers biv the chimlay reek."
Compare the two versions, how apparent the improvement made by the use of the two right
letters.  The old uncertain beginning gives place to the natural bold opening-
"Whie (who) cowers biv the chimlay reek,
Begox! it's all a horny,"
as if the hero of the famous voyage was casting back some slur on
his daring or courage."
Marshall's unfortunate misprint, now corrected, has been copied into more than our local collections.
Macmillan of London, published in 1866 an edition of songs with music, edited by John Hullah, and Jemmy
Joneson's Whurry, with Marshall's mistake was in it.
The song relates to a time when steamboats were unknown.  Then the
conveyance on the Tyne was by wherries and Jemmy Joneson, whose wherry is her celebrated, was
well known to all passengers on the river, but the fame of Jemmy and his wherry was soon to be eclipsed.  The Tyne
Steam Packet the first steamer on the Tyne, commenced plying on Ascension Day, May 19, 1814.-Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings....,
Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891.
 

The Baboon

Sum time since, sum wild beasts thre cam to the toon,
And in the collection a famous Baboon,
In uniform drest-if my story you're willin
To believe, he gat lowse, and ran te the High Fellin

Fal de rol la, &c.

Three Pitmen cam up- they were smoking their pipe,
When straight in afore them Jake lowp'd ower the dike:
Ho, Jemmy! smash, marrow! here's a red-coated Jew,
For his fyece is a' hairy, and he hez on nae shoe!

Wey, man, thou's a fuil! for ye divent tell true,
If thou says 'at that fellow was ever a Jew;
Aw'll lay thou a quairt, as sure's my nyem's Jack,
That queer luikin chep's just a Russian Cossack.

He's ne Volunteer, aw ken biv his wauk;
And if he's outlandish, we'll ken biv his tauk;
He's a lang sword ahint him, ye'll see'd when he turns;
Ony luik at his fyece! smash his byens, how he gurns!

Tom flang doon his pipe, and set up a greet yell;
He's owther a spy, or Bonnypairty's awnsell;
Iv a crack the High Fellin was in full hue and cry,
To catch Bonnypairt, or the hairy French spy.

The wives scamper'd off  for fear he should bite,
The men-folks and dogs ran to grip him se tight;
If we catch him, said they, he's hev ne lodging here,
Ne, not e'en a drop o' reed Robin's sma' beer.

-Armstrong,(1827) In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

Billy Oliver's Ramble
Between Benwell and Newcastle

Me nyem it's Billy Oliver,
Iv Benwell town aw dwell;
And aw's a cliverchep, aw's shure,
Tho' aw de say'd mysel.

Chorus-
Sic an a cliver chep am aw, am aw, am aw
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

There's not a lad iv a' wur wark,
Can put or hew wi' me;
Nor not a lad iv Benwell toon,
Can coax the lasses se.

When aw gans tiv Newcassel toon,
Aw myeks mawsel se fine,
Wur neybors stand and stare at me,
And say, 'eh! what a shine!

And the aw walks wi' sic an air,
That, if the folks hev eyes,
They a' wis think it's sum greet man,
That's cum in i' disguise.

And when aw gans down Westgate-street,
An alang biv Denton-chare,
Aw whussels a' the way aw gans,
To myek the people stare.

And then aw gans intiv the Cock,
Ca's for a pint o' beer;
And when the lassie comes in wid,
Aw a' wis says, Maw dear!

And when aw gets a pint o' beer,
Aw a'wis sings a sang;
For aw've a nice yen aw can sing,
Six an' thorty vairses lang

And if the folks thats i' the house,
Cruy, Haud yor tongue, ye cull!
Aw's sure to hev a fight wi'them,
For aw's as strang as ony bull.

And when aw've had a fight or twee,
And fairly useless grown;
Aw back, as drunk as aw can be
To canny Benwell toon.

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
"Billy Oliver's Ramble" is first met in Marshall's Chap-Books 1823. No author is given, and although the song has been very popular and often printed
none have given an author's name.  H.Robson who wrote "The Collier's Pay Week" was born in Benwell; he was writing in
1823, and may have written it.  The names of others then writing as Shield, Armstrong, Watson, Oliver, etc. might be given.  Possibly
the author, owing to his song holding the pitman so much up to ridicule, may have judged it best to "lie low".
The popularity of this song brought out a parody, "My Nyem is Willy Dixon" It appeared in Fordyce's 1842 volume (see below)-Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings....,Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891.

My nyem is Willy Dixon,
A coachmakere to my trade;
And when aw see a Pitman come,
Aw run--because aw's flaid.

Chorus-
Sic an a cliver chep am aw, am aw, am aw,
Sic an a cliver chep am aw
 

On Pay-day neets wa gan to the Cock,
When the Pitmen's aw gyen hyem,
then aw begins to rair and sing,
And myek o' them a gyem.

On Sunday mornings, then, you see,
Aw dress mesel se fine;
And wi' me white drill pantaloons,
Aw cuts a fearful shine.

Then what a swagger aw dis cut,
As aw gan alang the street,
But aw's myed se like nut-crackers,
That maw nose and chin they meet,

Then when aw gans to see the lass,
It's in the afternoon;
An then we gansa wauking
Wi' her fine lustre goon.

And as we gan through Jesmond Fields,
The lasses gyep and luick,
And efter we get past them a'
They cry, 'Ah! what a buck!

Then efter wandering up and down,
At neet we toddle hyem;
And aw gies her a kiss, you see,
And she cries, Fie for shem!

The aw seeks out my au'd wark claes,
Gets on another sark;
And on Mondy morn, at six o'clock,
Gans  whisslin off to wark

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.

Not long ago, a fray in Shields
And Sunderland began,
Tween the Seamen and Ship-owners,
How their vessels they should man;
But the Owners stiff, to them were deaf,
Which made the Seamen for to grumble,
For our Tyne Cossacks they soon did send,
The haughty pride of Jack to humble

Chorus-

Wack row de dow &c

A letter being sent, they were
Call'd out without delay;
But the Gen'ral thought he'd try their skill
Before they went away;
So round the Moor he made them scour,
Before him cut such wond'rous caperes;
Their praise he sounded high and low,
In all three Newcassel Papers

He cries, My lads, you're qualified
To do such wond'rous feats,
That to Shield and Cleadon you must go,
to clear the lanes and streets;
Destroy all those who may oppose
The ships from sailing down the river,
And the our Prince will sure commend
Your deeds in arms, my boys, so clever,

The Butcher cries, if we begin,
We' surelly kill and slay;
The tanner swore they'd tan their hides,
Before they came away;
A tailor next, with fear perplext,
Said, he should like no other station,
Than to be the Doctor's waiting man,
If sanction'd by the Corporation.

To Shelds they got tho' much fatigued,
Upon their worn-out hacks,
Some cried, The Polish Lancers come!
And others, Tyne's Cossacks!
By some mishap, the Farrier's cap
Blew off, but met with coolish treatment,
Into a huckster's shop it went--
Now Martin's cap's a tatie beatment.

For several weeks they rode about,
Like poachers seekng game;
The Marines so bold, as I am told,
Had better sight then them;
For every boat that was afloat,
They siez'd upon with mad-like fury,
And to the bottom sent them straight,
Not asking either Judge or Jury.

The deed was done by this effort,
All opposition gone,
The ardour of the hereos cool'd
'Cause they were lookers on;
Odsmash! says yen, if e'er agyen
there's only mair au'd boats to smatter,
We'll hev horses that's web-footed, then
We'll fight byeth on the land and watter.

Now should our Tyne Cossacks e'er have
To face their enemies
They'll boldly meet them on the land,
Or on the stormy seas.
While the farmeres sing, that they, next spring,
At spreading dung will ne'er be idle;
So--success to these Invicibles,
Their long swords, sadle, bridle.

-Wm. Midford,In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 
 

Ha' ye heard o' these wondrous Dons,
That myeks this mighty fuss, man,
About invading Britan's land?
I vow they're wondrous spruce, man;
But little do the Frenchmen ken
About our loyal Englishmen;
Our Collier lads are for cockades,
(They'll fling away their picks an' spades)
(For)And guns to shoot the French, man

Chorus-
Tol lol de rol, de rol de rol.

Then to parade the Pitment went,
Wi' hearts byeth stout an' strang, man;
Gad smash the French! we are sae strang.
We'll shoot them every one, man!
Gad smash me sark! if aw wad stick
To tumble them a'down the pit,
As fast as aw could thraw a coal,
Aw'd tumblethem a' doon the hole,
An close her in abuin, man.

Heads up! says yen, ye silly sow,
Ye dinna mind hte word, man;
Eyes right! says Tom, and wi' a dam,
And march off at the word, man;
Did ever mortals see sic brutes,
To order me to lift me cutes!
And smash the fuil! he stands and talks,
How can he learn me to walk,
That's wark'd this forty year, man!

But should the Frenchmen shew their fyeece,
Upon our waggon-ways, man,
Then, there upon the road, ye knaw,
We'd myek them end their days, man;
Aye, Bonaparte's sel aw'd tyek,
And thraw him i' the burning heap,
And wi' greet speed aw'd roast him deed;
His marrows, then, aw wad nae heed,
We'd pick out a' their e'en, man.

Says Willy Dunn to loyal Tom,
Your words are all a joke, man;
For Geordy winna hae your help,
Ye're sic kamstarie folk, man;
Then Willy, lad, we'll rest in peace,
In hopes that a' the wars may cease;
But awse gi'e ye Wull, to understand,
As lang as aw can wield me hand,
Thre's nyen but George shall reign, man.

Enough of this hes sure been said,
Cry'd cowardly Willy Dunn, man;
For should the Frenchmen come this way,
We'd be ready for to run man.
Gad smash you, for a fuil! says Tom,
For if aw could not use me gun,
Aw'd tyek me pick, aw'd hew them doon,
And run and cry, through a' the toon,
God save greet George our King, man!

-Attributed to Shield In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne but Corrected by Allan and properly attributed to George Cameron
(possibly the only song he wrote). Additions in () come from Allan's correction- Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings....,
Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891.

Lord 'Sizes leuks weel in coach shinin',
Whese wig wad let Nan's head an' mine in;
But a bonnier seet,
Was the Leum'nation neet--
It dazzled the een' o' Bob Cranky.

Aboot seven aw gov ower warkin,
Gat beard off, and put a white sark on;
For Newcasslers, thowt aw,
Giff they dinna see me braw,
Will say What a gowk is Bob Cranky!

A ran to the toon without stoppin'
An' fand ilka street like a hoppin;
An' the folks, stood sae thick,
Aw sair wish'd for maw pick,
To hew oot a way for Bob Cranky.

The guns then went off frae the Cassel,
Seun windors wor a' in a dazzle;
Llka place was like day,
Aw then shouted, Hurray!
There's plenty an' peace for Bob Cranky!

Sum windors had pictures sae bonny!
Wi' sma' lamps aw can't tell how mony;
Te count them, aw'm sure,
Wad bother the Viewer--
A greater Goggriffer than Cranky.

Aw see'd croons myed o' lamps blue an' reed,
Whilk aw wad na like to put on my heed!
G.P.R. aw see'd next,
For wor Geordy Prince Rex:--
Nyen spelt it sae weel as Bob Cranky.

Sum had anchors of leet high hung up,
To shew folk greet Bonny was deun up;
But, far as aw see, man,
As reet it wad be, man,
To leet up the pick o' Bob Cranky.

A leg of meat sed, Doon aw's cummin !
But sum chep aw suen fand was hummin;
For aw stopp'd bit belaw,
Handin oot a lang paw,
But mutton cam ne nearer Cranky.

A cask on the Vicar's pump top, man,
Markt Plenty an' Peace gard me stop, man:
Thinks aw te mesel,
Aw's here get sum yell,
But only cau'd waiter gat Cranky.

Bonny, shav'd biv a bear, was then shot man;
And biv Aud Nick weel thump'd in apot, man;
But aw thowt a' the toon
Shuddent lick him when doon,
Tho' he'd a greet spite to Bob Cranky.

Yen Price had the cream o', the bowl, man,
Wi' good lamps clagg'd close cheek by jowl, man:
It was sick a fine seet,
Aw could glower'd a' neet,
Had fu' been the wame o' Bob Cranky.

Ne mair seed aw till signal gun fired,
Out went the leets, and hyem aw gat,tired:
Nan ax'd bout Leum'nations,
Aw bad her hae patience,
An' first fetch sum flesh to Bob Cranky.

Aw tell'd her what news aw had heerd man,
That shuggar was sixpence a pund, man;
an' good beef at a groat:--
Then wor Nan clear'd her throat,
An' Shooted oot, Plenty for Cranky!

Twas a' lees-for when Nan gang'd te toon,
An for yen pund a sixpence pat doon;
Frae shop she was winnin,
When Grosser, deuce bin him!
Teuk a' the cheap shuggar frae Cranky.

But gif Peace brings another gran' neet,
Aw think folk shoul'd hae Plenty te eat:
Singin' hinnies, aw'm shoor,
An' strang yell at the door,
Wad better not candles please Cranky.

Then agyen, what a shem an' a sin!
Te the Pitt dinner nyen ax'd me in:
Yet aw work like a Turk,
Byeth wi' pick, knife an' fork--
An whe's mair a Pittite nor Cranky.

Or what could ye a' dee without me,
When cau'd ice and snaw com aboot ye!
Then sair ye wad shiver,
For a' ye're sae cliver,
An' lang forthe pick o' Bob Cranky!

John Shield In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
"In celebration of the General Peace of 1814. The song shows how
elaborate had been the illumination"-Allan cites the- Tyne Murcury, June 1, 1814 as source
-Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings....,
Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891.

Oh! Tommy, lad, howay! aw's myek thou full o' play;
Aw'm sartin that thou'll byeth skip and lowpy- O:
Aw've sic a bonny think, an' its myed o' glass an tin,
An' they say its nyem's a bonny Gleediscowpy-O

Chorus-
Skellyscowpy-O&c.

A' gawn alang the Close, a bit laddy cock'd his nose,
An' was keekin throud' aside the Jabel Growpey-O
Aw fand that he wad sell'd; sae, odsmash! am'm proud te tell'd!
For twee shillin' bowt his bonny Gleediscowpey-O

Wey, then aw ran off hyem--Nan thowt myekin gyem
Said, my Deavy for a new aw'd had a cowpey-O;
But she gurn'd, aye, like a sweeper, when aw held tiv her peepeer,
See'd church-windowrs through my bonny gleediscowpey-O

Then the bairns they ran like sheep, a' strove to her peep,
Frae the audest lass, aye doon to the dowpey-O;
There Dick dang ower Cud, myed his nose gush out blood,
As he ran to see the bonny Gleediscowpey-O

There was dwiney little Peg, not sae nimmel i' the leg,
Ower the three-footed stuil gat sic acowpey-O
And Sandy wiv his beak, myed a lump i' mother's cheek
Climbin up to see the bonny Gleediscowpey-O:

Wey, Lukey, man! says she, stead o' shuggar, flesh an' tea,
Thou's fetch'd us hyem thy bonny Gleediscowpy-O
She struck me wi' surprise while she skelly'd wiv her eye
And aw spak as if aw'd gettin a bit rowpey-O
So, neighbours, tyek a hint, if ye peep ower lang yer squint,
For aw thiknk they're reely nyem'd a Gleediscowpey-O

-Wm. Midford in Marshall's Collection 1827,In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
"Sir David Brewster's "Kaledeoscope Sir David's invention, when first brought
out about 1820 was a wonderful success. 200,000 were said to have been
sold in London in a week or two.  It is now comparatively forgotten-Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings....,
Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891.

Ho'way, a' me marrows, big, little, and drest,
The first of a' seets may be seen;
It's the Balloon, man, se greet! aye, faiks! it's ne jest
Tho'it seems, a' the warld, like a dream.
Aw read iv the papers, by gocks! aw remember,
It's to flee without wings i' the air,
On this varry Friday, the furst of September,
Be it cloudy, wet weather, or fair.

And a man, mun, there means, in this varry Balloon
Above, 'mang the stars to fly,
And to haud a converse wi' the man i' the moon,
And cockwebs to soop frae the sky.
So we started frae hyem by eight i' the morn,
Byeth faither and mother and son,
But fand a'wor neighbours had started before,
To get in good time for the fun.

The lanes were a' crouded , some riding, some walking.
Aw ne'er see'd the like iv my life;
'Twas bedlam broke oot, aw thowt by thair talking,
Every bairn, lad, lass, and the wife.
The folks at the winders a' jeer'd as we past,
An' thowt' a' wor numbers surprisin;
They star'd and they 'gloweer'd and axed in jest,
Are all of ye pitmen a rising?

Aw fand, at the toon, te, the shops a' shut up,
And the streets wi' folks were sae flocken;
The walls wi' Balloon papers sae closely clagg'd up,
Be cavers! It luckt like a hoppen.
A fellow was turnin it a' into a joke,
Another was a' the folks hummin,
Whil a third said, it was a bag full o' smoke,
Thatower wor heeds was a cummin.

To the furst o' these cheps says aw, Nyen o' yur fun,
Or aw'll lay thee at length on the styens,
Or thy teeth aw'll beat oot, as sure as a gun,
And mevies aw'll chowk ye wi' byens.
To the beak o' the second aw held up my fist,
D--mn! aw'll bray ye as black as a craw,
Iw'lll knock oot yur e'e, if aw don't aw'll be kist.
'An mump a' the slack o' yur jaw.

Aw pat them to reets, an' onward aw steer'd
An' wonder'd the folks aw had see'd,
But a' was palaver that ever aw heard,
So aw walk'd on as other folk did.
At last aw gat up on the top o' sum sheds,
Biv the help  of an au'd crazy lether;
An' woeer the tops o' ten thousand folks heads,
Aw seun gat a gliff o' the blether.

D--mn, a blether aw call it! by gocks, aw am reet,
For o' silk dipt iv leadeater melted
A's myed of, an Lord! what a wonderful seet,
When the gun tell'd that it was flated.
Twas just like the boiler at wor Bella Pit,
O'er which were a great cabbage net,
Which fasten'd, by a parcel of strings sae fit,
A corf  for the mannie to sit.

As aw sat at me ease aw cud hear a' the folk
Gie their notions about the Balloon;
Aw thowt aw shud brust when aw heurd their strange talk,
Aboot the man's gaun to the moon.
Says yen, if a whisper, Aw think aw hev heurd
He is carrying a letter to Bonny,
That's ower the sea to flee like a burd;
The whowt, by my jinkers! was funny.

A chep wiv a fyece like a poor country bumpkin,
Sed the heurd, but may hap tisent true,
That the thing whilk they saw as a great silken pumpkin
By my eye, what a lilly-ba-loo!
Another said Sadler ( for that is the nyem
O' the man) may pay dear for his frolic,
When he's up iv the clouds ( a stree for his fame!)
His guts may have twangsof the cholic.

The man a' this time the great blether was filling,
Wiv stuff that wad myed a dog sick,
It smelt just as though they were garvage distilling,
Till at length it was full as a tick.
The nextstrain'd the ropes to keep the thing steady
Put colley and drams iv the boat;
Then crack went the cannon, to say it was ready,
An' aw see'd the blether afloat.

Not a word was then heurd, a' eyes were a starin,
for the off ganen moment was near;
To see sic a crowd se whisht was amazen,
Aw thowt aw fand palish and queer.
Afte waitin a wee, aw see'd him come to,
Shaken hands, as aw thowt, wiv his friend;
Of his mountin the corf aw had a full view,
as he sat his ways down at the end.

The ropes were then cut, and upwards he went,
A wavin his flag i' the air;
Ev'ry heed was turn'd up, and a' eyes wur intent
On this comical new flying chair;
It went it's ways up like a lavrick sae hee,
Till it luckt 'bout the size of a skyate;
When in tiv a cloud it was lost t' the e'e,
Aw wisht the man better i' fate.
 

W.Midford-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

As Jacky sat lowsin his buttons,
An rowlin his great backey chow,
The bells o' the toon 'gan to tinkle;
Cries Mally, What's happen'd us now?
Ho! jump and fling off thy au'd neet-cap.
And slip on thy lang-quarter'd shoes,
Ere thou gets hauf way up the Key,
Ye'll meet sum that can tell ye the news.

Fol de rol. &c

As Mally was puffin an' runnin,
A gentleman's flonkey she met;
Canny man, ye mun tell us the news,
Or ye'll set wor au'd man i' the pet.
The Mayor of Bordeaux, a French noble,
Has com'd to Newcassel with speed:
To neet he sleeps sound at wor Mayor's
And to morn he'll be at the Queen's Heed.

Now Mally thank'd him wiv a curtsey,
And back tiv her Jackey did prance
Mary Mordox, a fine Fitter's Leydy's
Com'd over in a coble frae France.
Mary Mordoux, a fine Fitter's Leydy!
Ise warrant she's some frolicksome jade,
And com't to Newcassel for fashions,
Or else to suspect the Coal Trade.

So to Peter's thou's gan i' the mornin,
gan suin an' thou'll get a good pleyce;
If thou canna get haud of her paw,
Thou mun get a guid luick at her fyece:
And if ye can but get a word at her,
And mind now ye divent think shem,
Say, Please, ma'm they ca' my wife Marry
Wor next little bairn's be the syem.

So betimes the next mornin he travels,
And up to the Queen's Head he goes,
Where a skinny chep luik'd frev a winder,
Wi' white powther'd wig an 'lang nose
A fine butterflee coat wi' gowld buttons,
A' man! how the folks did hurro;
Aw thowt he'd fled from toy-shop i' Lunnin,
Or else frae sum grand wax-work show.

Smash! Mally, ye've tell'd a big lee,
For a man's not a woman, aw'll swear
But he hardly had spoken these words,
Till out tumbled a cask o' strang beer.
Like a cat Jackey flang his leg ower,
Ay, like bacchus he sat at his ease,
Tiv aw's fuddled, odsmash! ye may tauk
Yor French gabberish as lang as ye please

They crush'd sair, but Jack never minded,
Till wi' liquor he'd lowsen'd ;his bags
At last a great thrust dang him ower,
He lay a' his lang length on the flags
Iv an instant Mall seiz'd his pea jacket,
Says she, is thou drunk, or thou's lyem?
The Mayors o' wor box! smash, aw'm fuddled!
O Mally, wilt thou lead me hyem.

Wm. Midford ( The Budget, 1816) -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
"On the night of June 27th, 1815, the bells of the town began to ring at half-past ten and continued at intervals until after midnight.  The cause of the uncommon
occurrence was the arrival in Newcastle of Count Lynch Mayor of Bordeaux; he was on his way to visit his relative, John Clavering Esq.
of Callaly.  Count Lynch was in favour of the Old French Monarchy, and against Napoleon.  He was the first in France to hoist the white flag,
and surendered Bordeaux to the British arms.  The rejoicings were renewed when next morning, June 28the, the mail arrived confirming the
great victory at Waterloo."-Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings....,
Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891.

Ye sons of glee come join with me,
Ye who love mirth and topping, O,
You'll ne'er refuse to hear my muse
Sing of Winlaton fam'd Hopping O
To Tenche's Hotel let's retire,
To tipple away so neatly, O
The fiddle and song yoiu'll sure admire,
Together they sound so sweetly, O

Chorus- Tal la la, &c.

With box and die yoiu'll Sammy spy,
Of late Sword dancers' Bessy, O--
All patch'd and torn with tail and horn,
Just liek a De'il in dressy, O
But late discharg'd form that employ,
this scheme popp'd in his noddle, O
Which fill'd his little heart with joy,
And pleas'd blithe sammy Doddle, O

Close by the stocks, his dies and box
He rattled away so rarely, O
Both youth and age did he engage,
Together they play'd so cherrly, O
While just close by the sticks did fly
At spice on knobs of woody, O
How! mind my legs! the youngsters cry,
Wey, man, thou's drawn the bloody! O

Rang'd in a row, a glorious show
Of spice, and nuts for cracking, O
With handsome toys for girls and boys,
Grac'd Winlaton fam'd Hopping O
Each to the stalls led his dear lass,
And treat her there so sweetly ,O
Then straight retire to drink a glass,
An shuffle an' cut so neatly, O

Ye men so wise who knowledge prize,
Let not this scene confound ye, O
At Winship's door might ye explore
The world a' running round ye, O
Blithe boys and girls on horse and chair,
Flew round without e'er stopping, O
Sure Blaydon Races can't compare
With Winlanton fam'd Hopping, O.

The night came on, with dance and song,
Each public-house did jingle, O
All ranks did swear to banish Care,
The married and the single, O
They tript away till morning light
Then slept sound without rocking ,O
Next day got drunk in merry plight,
And jaw'd about the Hopping O.

At last Dull Care his crest did rear,
Our heads he sored did riddle O
Till Peacock drew his pipes nad blew
And Tenche he tun'd his fiddle O
Then Painter Jack he led the van,
the drum did join in chorus O,
The old and young then danc'd and sung
Dull Care fled far before us, O

No courtier fine nor grave divine,
that's got the whole he wishes, O
Will ever be so blithe as we,
With all their loaves and fishes, O
Then grant, O Jove! our ardent prayer,
And happy still you'll find us, O;--
Let pining Want and haggard Care
A day's march keep behind us, O

John Lennard (1812)-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
"Winlaton Hopping, always held on the Monday and Tuesday following the
14th of May, is an old institution.  It still survives, but shorn of much fo it's former popularity"-Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings....,
Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891.

The Sandhill Monkey

A story aw's gaun for to tell,
An' t' ye it may luik varry strange,
It was in a shop on the Sandhill,
When the Craw's Nest was on the Exchange.
A monkey was each day drest soon,
Ahint the coonter he sat i' the shop,
Whe cam in an' their money laid doon,
Jaco straight in the till would it pop

Chorus-
Rum ti iddity, &c

A Skipper he cam in yen day,
He coudent help luiking at Jackey,
On the counter his money did lay,
Saying, Please, sir, an ounce of rag backey!
His money Jack popt in the till,
the Skipper kept luiking at him,
A' the time on his seat he sat still,
And he luik'd at the Skipper quite grim.

Now pray, sir, will ye bear a hand?
For aw maun be at Sheels now this tide--
Now pray be as sharp as ye can,
For wor keel she is at the Keyside;--
Au'd man, are ye deef? then he cried,
an' intiv a passion hefell,
On the counter lay some ready weigh'd
Says he, Smash! but aw'll help mysel!

Then he tuik up an ounce o' rag backey,
But afore he cud get turn'd about,
Off his seat then up started au'd Jackey,
An' cathc'd him hard fast by the snout;
He roar'd and he shouted out Murder!
The Maister he see'd a' the fun,
Not wishing the joke to gan farther,
Straight intiv the shop then he run.

What's the matter, my canny good man?
An' he scarcely could keep in the laugh;
Take this au'd man off me--bear a hand!
For aw think now that's mater aneuf--
What's the mateer, ye ax?--Smash! that's funny!
(An' he still kept his eye upon Jackey)
Aw' paid yoiur grandfayther the money,
But he'll not let me hae me backey.

No mind ye, maw canny good man,
If ever thou cums in wor keel,
For the trick thou hes play'd me the day,
Wor Pee Dee shall sobble ye weel;
Eh, for a' yor fine claes I'll engage,
An' for a' ye're a sturdy au'd man,
Tho' he's nobbut twelve years of age,
He shall thresh ye till ye canna gan.

W. Stephenson, Jun., Tyne Songster, 1827 according to Allen (Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings....,
Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891.)In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.

T'other day ye mun knaw, wey aw'd had a sup beer
It ran i' maw heed, and myed me sae queer,
That aw lay doon to sleep i' wor huddock sae snug,
An' dreem'd sic a dreem as gar'd me scart me lug.

Aw dreem'd that the queerest man iver aw see'd
Cam stumping alang wi' three hats on his heed;
A goon on like a preest, (mind aw's telling ne lees)
An' at his side there was hangin a greet bunch o' kees.

He stares i' maw fyece, and says, How d'ye de?
Aw's teufish, says aw, canny man, how are ye?
The he says, wiv a voice gar'd me trimmle, aw's shure
Aw's varry weel, thank ye, but yor day is nigh ower.

Aw studdies awhile, then says aw, Are ye Deeth,
Come here for to wise oot a poor fellow's breeth?
He says, No , aw'm the Pope, cum to try if aw can
Save a vile wretch like ye, fra the nasty Bad Man.

He said, yen St. Peter gov him them great keys
To let into Hiven wheiver he'd please
an' if aw'd turn Papish, and giv him a Note,
He'd send me to Hiven, without ony doot

Then a yel hep o' stuff he talk'd aboot sin,
An' sed he'd forgi' me whativer aw'd deun;
An' if that aw'd murther'd byeth fayther and mother
For a five shillin peece, wey, aw might kill me bruther.

Says aw, Mister Pope, gi's ne mair o' yur tauk,
But oot o' wor huddock aw's beg ye to wauk
An' if ye divent get oot before aw count Nine,
Byeth ye and yor keys, man aw'll fing i' the Tyne.

So aw on tiv me feet wiv a bit iv a skip,
For aw ment for to give him an Orangeman's grip;
But aw waken'd just then in a terrible stew,
An' fand it a dream as aw've told ye just now

T Moor(Tyne Songster 1827)-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.

Wor keel it lay dry on a sand near the Key,
An' it happen'd as how that aw had nowt te de
The bells began ringin just when it struck Ten,
an' they sed that it was for the Loyal Orangemen

Chorus-
Derry down, &c

Aw on t' the Key iv a deuce iv a hurry,
An' brak byth me shins cummin ower a whurry;
But aw haddent time to mind them tho' they smarted sare,
For the Purcession was just comin oot iv a chare.

Aw thowt that wa'd seen bonny seets i' my time,
Mang wor lads that are recon'd the pride o' the Tyne;
When they get theirsels drest i' wor heed-meetin day,
Wiv a band o' musicianors afore them to play.

But the forst set aw see'd put maw pipe oot, aw's shure,
Twas a canny au'd mannie that mairch'd on afore;
Wiv a sword iv his hand, a cock'd hat on his heed,
An' the bonniest new claes on that ever aw see'd

There was colours, and candles, and gilt things galore,
An' things that aw ne'er see'd the like on afore;
An' sum douce-leukin cheps that war aw dress'd i ' black,
But they every yen had a cow's horn on his back

The fine things they com on se thick and se fast,
That aw cuddent tell what was forst and what last;
An' aw see'd a queer man that folks call'd a preest,
An' four cheps swettin under a greet goolden kist.

Aw laugh'd an' aw gurn'd, an' aw gov a greet shoot,
An' aw dang a' the bairns an' the au'd wives aboot;
But maw booels were but in a dismal confloption,
When aw see'd sum cheps cum wiv a bairn's bonny coffin

Aw was in sad consarnment, as ye may be sure,
For a barryin like this, wey aw ne'er see'd afore;
For the morners war drest up wiv sashes an' ribins
An' the band play'd as thof they war gaun tiv a weddin

Aw says tiv a man, says aw, Sor, if ye please,
Can ye tell us whe's deed? an' he civilly says,
Whe's deed aw divent knaw, but as far as aw reckin
It's the De'il or yen Pop that they hev i' thon coffin.

Aw met wor Pee Dee when aw gat tiv the jail,
He says, Lets intiv the chorch, can ye clim o'er the rail
For there's lasses wi' fine Orange ribbins gaen in,
An that hatchet-fyee'd wife says they're gannin te sing

Aw says to the lad. Aw's be in iv a crack!
But a cunstibbel says, Man! yor face is se black,
That if ye gan in--its the truth aw declare,
Ye'll be taen for Au'd Nick, and they'll barry ye there.

So aw see'd ne mair, but aw hard the folks say,
That they'd cum agyen on sum other day;
So, aw said tiv wor lad, Wey we've seen a grand seet
An' we'll drink aw their hilths agyen Setterday neet.

-R.Emery--In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

Last Setterday, as we were gannin
Frae Newcassel, Dick Martin and I,
We caw'd at the sign o' the Cannon,
Because we byeth turn'd varry dry.

They were tauking o' reedin the papers,
Bout Cobbett and his politics,
How fine he exposes the capers
Of Government's comical tricks.

He tauks o' the millions expenses
Browt on us by gannin te war:
But he maun be a man o' greet senses,
Or he cuddent hae reckon'd sae far.

He tauks o' the National Debt,
O' sinequeers, pensions and such;
Wey, aw think how wor Mally wad fret,
If she'd awn just a quarter as much.

Mister Government mun hae greet credit,
Or he ne'er wad get intiv debt;
But they tell yen he hez sike a spirit,
Aw's fish that comes intiv his net,

Says Dick If aw wanted a shillin,
Want, then, yor certain aw must;
For, if yen was ever sae willin,
Ye divent ken where to seek trust.

We expected that when it cam Peace,
wor sowgers and sailors reduc'd,
Wor burdens they quickly wad cease,
But, smash! man, we've been sair seduce'd.

Says Dicky, The taxes this year,
Myeks yen cry, iv a rage, Devil hang them!
For the backey an' yell they're sae dear--
Wey, it's just a cologuin amang them.

Good folks! aw wad hev ye beware
Of some that in Parliament sit;
For they're not hauf sae good as they waur,
Sin' that taistrel they caw'd Billy Pit.

If ye 'loo them te de as they please,
Believe me a'm shure, aye an' sartin,
They'll bring us syef doon te  wor knees!
So ended byeth Dick and Jack Martin.
 

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.

Since the Hackneys began in Newcastle to run,
There's some tricks been play'd off which has myed lots o'  fun;
For poor folks can ride now, that ne'er rode before,
The expense is se canny, its suen gettin ower.

Chorus-
gee, ho, Dobbin, &c.

Mang the rest o' the jokes wasa a lad frae the Fell,
Where he lives wiv his feyther, his neym's Geordy Bell;
For hewin there's nyen can touch Geordy for skill,
When he comes to Newcassel he gets a good gill.

One day being cramm'd wi' fat flesh and strang beer,
Left some friends at the Cock, and away he did steer,
Wiv his hat on three hairs, through Wheat Market did stride,
When a coachman cam up, and said--Sir, will ye ride?

Wey, smash noo--whe's thou, man?--How, what did thou mean?--
I drive the best coach, sir, that ever was seen.--
To ride iv a coach! Smash, says Geordy, aw's willin'-
Aw'll ride i' yor coach though it cost me ten shillin!

Then into the coach Geordy claver'd wi' speed,
And out at the window he poop'd his greet heed:-
Pray, where shall I drive, sir--please give me the name
Drive us a' the toon ower, man, an' then drive us hyem!

Then up and doon street how they rattled alang,
Tiv a chep wi' the news tiv aud Geordy did bang,
'Bout his son in the coach, and for truth, did relate,
He was owtherturn'd Mayor, or the great Magistrate!

Aud Geordy did caper till myestly deun ower,
When Coachee, suen after, drove up to his door--
Young Geordy stept out, caus'd their hopes suen to stagger,
Said he'd paid for a ride just to cut a bit swagger.

To ride frae Newcassel mun cost ye some brass;
Od smash, now,says Geordy, thou talks like an ass!
For half-a-crown piece thou may ride to the Fell--
an' for eighteen-pence mair, smash, they'll drive ye to H--ll!

Aud Geordy then thowt there was comfort in store,
For contrivance the coaches nyen could come before:
Poor men that are tied to bad wives needn't stick--
Just tip Coachee the brass an' they're off tiv Au'd Nick

R. Emery--In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

Ah! what's yor news the day, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor!
Ah! what's yor news the day, Mr. Mayor?
The folks of Sheels, they say,
Want wor Custom House away,
And ye canna say them nay, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
And ye canna say them nay, Mr. Mayor.

But dinna let it gan, Mr Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Or, ye'll ruin us tiv a man, Mr. Mayor:
They say a Branch 'ill dee,
But next they'll tyek the Tree,
And smash wor canny Kee, Mr. Mayor, Mr Mayor

Chorus-
Repeat last verse of stanza.

For ah! they're greedy dogs, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
They'd grub us up like hogs, Mr. Mayor
If the Custom-house they touch,
They wad na scruple much
For to bolt wor very Hutch, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

Before it be woer lang, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Then ca' up a yor gang, Mr. Mayor:
Yor Corporation chiels,
They say they're deep as Deils,
And they hate the folk of Sheels, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,

Ah! get wor Kee-side Sparks, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Wor Fitters and their Clerks, Mr. Mayor,
To help to bar this stroke--
For faicks, they are the folk
That canna bide the joke, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

Aud egg wor men of news, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Wor Murcury and Hues, Mr. Mayor,
Wi' Solomon whe Wise,
their cause to stigmatize,
And trump wors to the skies, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

How wad we grieve to see, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
The grasss grow on the Kee, Mr. Mayor?
So get the weighty prayers
Of the porters in the chares,
And the wives that sell the wares, Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor.

A butcher's off frae Sheels, Mr. Mayor, Mr. myor,
Wi' the Deevil at his heels, Mr. Mayor;
Faicks, all the way to Lunnin,
Just like a strang tide runnin,
And ah he's deev'lish cunnin, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

But Nat's as deep as he, Mr .Mayor, Mr. Mayor
Send him to Lunnin tee, Mr. Mayor,
He has wit, ye may suppose,
Frev his winkers tiv his toes,
Since the Major pull'd his nose, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

And send amang the gang, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Arm-- what d'ye ca' him--STRANG, Mr. Mayor.
Ah! send him, if ye plesase,
The Treasury to teaze,
He'll tell them heaps o'lees, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor

If the Sheels folk get the day, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
Ah what will Eldon say, Mr. Mayor?
If he has time to spare,
He'll surely blast their prayer,
For the luve of his calf Chare, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor

Then just dee a' ye can, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
And follow up the plan, Mr. Mayor,
Else, faicks, ye'll get a spur
In your Corporation fur,
And ye'll plant at Shields wor Burr!!! Mr Mayor
And ye'll plant at Sheels wor Burr!!! Mr. Mayor.
 

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

Ah! waht's to come on us a' now?
(A Shields gowk was heard, grumbling, to say)
We now find it far ower true,
That Newcassel has getten the day;
They'd only been gulling our folk,
When they sent us down that fine letter
But aw think 'twas too much a joke,
To tell us we'd getten the better.

Chorus- Rum ti iddity, &c.

Was't this made our guns fire sae loud?
Did our bells for this ring sae merry?
For this our ships swagger't sae proud?
Faith, we've been in too big a hurry!
But our Star, they said could de ought,
And the Treasury quickly would gull--
Our Butcher was clever, we thought;
But aw think he's come hyem like a feul.

Yet our plan we all thought was good;
for we'dbuild them large cellars and kees;
It likewise might be understood,
Docks and arehouses tee, if they'd please.
then we try'd to set in full view,
That the Revenue it would increase;
Especially as we stood now,
When we thought ourselves snugly at peace.

But the Newcassel folk now, it seems,
Had sent some deep jockies to Lunnin,
And they suen upset all our schemes,
Which we thought se clever and cunnin;
For Big-wig, who mounts the Wool-sack,
Said, That he plainly saw we were wrang,
Since it had been prov'd in a crack,
By the Jocky, whose Arm they call Strang.

But, What's warse than losing our Branch,
Is being spoil'd in our grand speculation;
For 'stead of our shining se staunch,
We now meet wi' nought but vexation.
No ceretainly we must be wrang,
The Barbers are swearing and raving,
Our faces are all grown se lang,
They'll double the price of our shaving!!!!

In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

Wor Green-stalls on Sandhill, se lang fam'd of yore,
Where Greenwives display'd all their fresh shining store,
Where tubs wi' tatoes their proud crests did rear,
Cabbage, carrots, an' turnips wi' joy did appear.

Wor time on the Sandhill wi' pleasure did glide,
To display all wor warees and to scold was wor pride;
Wor noise did the greet folks of Gotham engage;
By the stalls of the Butchers we're now to be caged.

But think not the Sandhill we'll tamely resign,
By the L--d we will meet an' we'll kick up a shine!
Wor voice we'll extend, and with noise rend the sky,
When from the Sandhill we're compell'd to fly.

With speed, haste assemble the first market-day,
Wor forces we'll marshal in glorious array:
A leader let's choose, a virago so bold,
The word let her give, and we rarely will scold.

From off the Sandhill ere our legions depart,
We will vent all wor spleen, and ease each full heart,
We will scold till no malice or rancour remain,
them march off wor forces--a large warlike train.

A procession we'll form , wi' wor tubs and wor swills,
And move with slaw steps frae the dear-lov'd Sandhill
And when the new station our forces obtain,
We'll take a good glass and we'll scorn to complain.
 

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.

When away fra the Sandhill, sir, at first that we wur sent,
It was wi' havey hearts, ye ken, yur Honour, that we went;
But now iv the New Market, sir, we're ev'ry ane admir'd,
And if ye'll nobut cover us, it's all that is desir'd!

Afore your worship judges us, now make a little paws,
And dinna gan to say that we complain without a caws;
For that yur Honour cover'd  a' the country wives, yeknow,
But huz, yur awn sweet townswomen, ye let neglected go.

For shem, now hinny, Mr. Mayor, to gan & play your rigs,
An cover a' the country girls that com to town wi' pigs;
Wi butter an wi' eggs too--they are se dousely made;
Ah, you've cover'd every an of them, sir--iv a slated shade.

Now dinna let folks say that we've ne reet to complain,
When they are a' se snugly plac'd and we are i' the rain;
then without ne mair flash, sir, how do yur Honour say,
That ye will nobut cover us--and we will every pray.

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

The merry day hez getten past,
And we are aw myest broken hearted:
Ye've surely deun for us at last--
Frae Sandhill, noo, ye hev us parted.

Chorus-
Oh! hinnies, Corporation!
A! marcy, Corporation!
Ye hev deun a shemful deed,
To force us frae wer canny station.

It's nee use being iv a rage,
For a' wor pride noo fairly sunk is--
Ye've cramm'd us in a Dandy Cage,
Like yell-yowlies, bears, and monkies;

The cau'd East wind blaws i' wor teeth--
With iron bars we are surrounded;
It's better far to suffer deeth,
Than thus to hev wor feelings wounded.

Wor haddocks, turbot, cod, and ling,
Are lost tiv a' wor friends inspection;
Genteelish folk from us tyek wing,
for fear of catching some infection.

O, kind Sir Matt,-- ye bonny Star,
Gan to the King, and show this ditty--
Tell him what canny folks we are,
And make him free us frae this Kitty.

If ye succeed, agyen we'll sing--
Sweet Madge, wor Queen, will ever bless ye;
And pour au'd Jemmy tee, wor King,
with a' us fish-wives shall caress ye.
 

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

Sunderland Jammy's Lamentation,
December, 1831

My sankeres! we're all in a fine hobble now,
Since the Cholera com tiv our river;
An wadn't hae car'd if 'twas ought that one knew,
But the outlandish nyem myeks one shiver:
Our doctors are all in a deuce of a way,
and some says they've Clannied to wrang us;
But I think we may all curse the Dawn o' that day,
That the bloek-headed Board com amang us.

Some says that Sir cuddy deserves all the bleym,
for lettin the ships up the watter--
That brought ower the Cholera frev its awn hyem,
And some says that myed little matter;
But as a woman's the root of al evil, ye see,
(At least all my live aw heve thought it)
Aw rather believe, as it's been tell'd to me,
That it was one Mall Airey (Malaria) that brought it.

This Chol'ra's the queerest thing e'er had a nyem,
If one may believe what they're talking;
It sometimes gets haud o' folks when they're at hyme,
And sometimes when they're out a walking:
Wey, my neybour of eighty that deed t'other day,
Folks thought that 'twas nature that fail'd him;
But a doctor chep happ'ning to come by that way,
Swore down thumb 'twas the Chol'ra that ail'd him.

Thur doctor cheps prent all the less that they've tell'd;
Ony nonsense--they never will mis't;
My cheek wi' the tuith-wark hez getten all swell'd,
And aw's warn't they'll haed down i' their list;
Aw never was chol-ric but quiet, aw's sure,
Tho' wi' fear aw's grown sweaty and clammy;
So smoke this wi'brumston to myek all secure,
Aw's your servant, A Sunbderland Jammy

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.

The Cobblerr o' Morpeth myeks sic noise,
He frights the country round, sirs;
That if yen i' the guts hez pain,
By the Plague they think he's doom'd sirs.
It was but just tother day,
A skipper, when at Shjeels, sirs,
Drank yell till he cou'd hardly see,
Or ken his head frae heels, sirs.

Chorus-
Bow, wow,wow, &c.

Wi' much ta de he reach'd his hyem,
But hoo,m aw cann tell ye;
When thunnering at the door he cries,
And blubbers out, Wife Nelly--
Oh Nell, maw guts are varra bad,
Aw'm sartin aw shall dee now
For that'd--d plague that's killing a'
The' Cobbler o' Morpeth's in me now

The Cobbler o' Morpeth! whe is he?
Hez he brak frae the jail, now?--
Hout no, ye fule, Jack Russ he's caw'd,
An' kills folks by wholesale, now.
Somehow he creeps up the back way;
Aye it's true as deeth, may Nelly--
For now he's dancin thro' and thro,
And up and down may belly.

Tom sigh'd and moan'd and kick'd and groan'd,
Wi' moony a writhe and start, sirs,
And swore that for a new lapstane,
The Cobbler had ta'en his heart, sirs.
He blether'd Nell, now divent ye hear
His rumblings and his raking,
He twists and twines maw tripes sae sair,
Sure o' them he's wax-ends making.

Now Nell aff ran to Doctor Belch,
And tell'd Tom's case in fright, sirs,
Wha gav her stuff whik varra seun
Set Tommy's guts to right, sirs.
And when that his sad pain was eas'd,
He blam'd nyen but himsel, sirs,
But swore he ne'er agyen at Sheels
Wad drink their d--d new yell, sirs.

Now, neighbours, divent drink to excess--
A canny sober course steer;
Be cleanly, and be temperate,
And the Cobbler o' Morpeth ne'er fear.
But if he should amang huz come,
To th' Infirm'ry we will send him;
And seun they'll purge his au'd saul out,
If that they cannot mend him.

John M'Lellan.-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

Bout Newcassel they've written sae mony fine sangs,
And compar'd their bit place unti Lunnun;
What a shem that 'tiv Sheels not a poet belangs.
For to tell them they le wi' their funnin.
They may boast o' their shippin without ony doubt,
For there's nyen can deny that they've plenty;
But for every yen they are gobbing about,
Aw'm sure we can shew them, ey twenty!

Chorus:

Let them haud their fule gobs then & brag us ne mair,
With their clarty bit au'd Corporation;
For it's varry weel knawn Sheels pays her full share
For to keep Mister Mayor iv his station.

They hev a bit place where they myek a few shot,
Lunnin's column tiv it's like a nine-pin;
And St. Nicholas compar'd wi' St. Paul's an' what not,
Wey it's a yuven compar'd tiv a limekiln.
If their Shot Tower sae hee was plac'd on wor Sand End,
Side wor Light House to scraffle to glory;
Their journey to heaven wad suen hev an end,
For by gox they'd ne'er reach the first story.

They call their Infirm'ry a place for a king,
To be stow'd 'mang the sick, lyem, nad lazy;
If a Sheels man had ventur'd to say sic a thing,
The blind gowks wad a' said he was crazy.
Bout their Custom House tee they myek a great rout,
That the e'en o' the folks it diz dazzel;
But if a' gans reet Sheels, without ony doubt,
Will suen eclipse that at Canny Newcassel.

Then they brag they leuk bonny, fresh-colored and gay,
And the Lunnun folk a' wishey washey;
But L---d put it off tiv a far distant day,
That there's one on huz here leuks sae trashy.
Then they boast o' Sir Matthew--but never enquire
If the foundation's good that he stood on;
But if he comes up to wor canny au'd Squire,
Then becrikes he is nowse but a good 'un

But the Squire, canny man, he's gyen frae the toon,
And aw'm sure on't the poor sairly miss him;
For oft as aw wauk Pearson's Raw up and doon,
Aw hear the folk cry, Heaven bliss him!
Yet aw hope, an' aw trust, he'll suen find his way hyem
And aw's sure aw'll be glad to hear tell on't;
For aw've varry oft thowt-- did ye ne'er think the syem
since he's gyen Sheels hezzent luik't like the sel on't

Then lang life to the King and wor awn noble duik,
May Sheels lang partake of his boutny;
For Newcassel, ye ken, if ye e'er read a buik,
Is at yence byeth a toon and a county.
Northumberland's Duik may still shew his sel there,
But his int'rest frae Sheels n'er can sever;
So aw'll gie ye just now, shou'd aw ne'eer  see ye mair,
Wor Duik and wor Dutchess for ever!

Let them haud their fuel gobs then & brag tis ne mair,
Wi' their this, that, and t'other sae cliver;
Wel'll aw drink as lang's we've a penny to spare,
Here's success to wor awn town for ever!!!
 

John Morris -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

Jack Hume  one day cam into toon,
And efter wandering up and doon,
He bought some things, and 'mang the rest,
A bottle of Permanent Yeast.

Chorus- Fal de ral la, &c,

Now when he'd getten a' things reet,
He was gaun trudgin hyem at neet,
When on the road he hard a crack,
An' fand a bullet in his back.

He fell directly on the spot,
For Jack imagin'd he was shot;
Some said he'd liquor in his head,
And others thought that he was dead.

But jack suen gav a greet groan out,
And after that he com about,
He says, O bring a Doctor here!
Or else aw'll suen be deed, aw fear,

O neighbours, de tyek off maw sark,
And try if ye can find the mark!
They leuk'd but nought there could be seen
The wonder'd a' what it had been.

But, howe'er, it came to pass,
Out of his pocket fell some glass:
Now then, says Jack, it is ne joke,
See there's may good yeast bottle broke!

A fellow wiser than the rest
Soon found out it had been the yeast:
wi' walking Jack had made it work,
the bullet only was the cork.

Now Jackey finding his mistake,
He thought the best plan he could take
Was to be off--he seiz'd his hat,
and ran hyem lake a scadded cat.

John Morrison-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

Ho! lizzen, aw ye neybors roun,
Yor clappers haud and pipes lay doon;
Aw've had a swagger through the toon
Yen morning aw went suen ti'd
Ye see, aw fand aw wasn't thrang,
Sae to Newcassel aw wad gang:
Aw's lap't a' up, just like a sang,
And try to put a tune ti'd

Bad times they'e now, yen weel may say;
Aw've seen when on a markent day,
Wiv wor toon's cheeps aw'd drink away,
And carry on the war, man:
But now yen staups an' stares aboot,
To see what's strange to carry oot;
Brass letters fassen'd on a cloot,
A unicorn, or star, man.

Ye see, aw thowt they were to sell;
So ax'd the chep, if he cud tell,
What he wasd tyek for C nad L,
To nail upon maw hen hoose;
But he insisted, smash his crop!
Aw'd like a fule mistyen the shop;
And bad me quickly off te hop,
He'd bowt them for his awn use.

He flang maw hump sae out o' joint,
Sae, smash! aw thowt aw'd hev a pint!
But when aw gat te Peterpoint,
The chep that sells the candy,
The folks luik'd if a wiv greedy wish,
He'd bonny siller in a dish;
And just abuin, twee bits of fish
Was sweeming, fine as can be.

The tyen was like Hob Fewster's cowt,
A' spreckled round about the snout,
They flapp'd their tails aboot like owt,
Quite full o' gamalerie;
And then the munny shin'd sae breet,
The greet Tome Cat wad hev a peep,
And paunder'd tiv he fell asleep;
The silly thing was weary.

Sae farther up aw teuk my cruize,
And luik'd amang the buits and shoes;
Where yen aw thowt they did ill use,
It sweem'd, aye, like a dazy;
Saws aw, How! man, what's thou aboot?
Weyu, cum and tyek that slipper oot;
Tho, s flay'd away the sammun trout;
Says he, Young man, thous's crazy!

Had aw not been a patient chap,
Aw wad hae feth'd him sike a rap,
As that which daver'd poor au'd Cap;*
But, faith! the Kitty scar'd me;
Sae whisht aw grew; for, efter that,
Iv a lairge glass bowl, byeth round and flat,
Aw spied a maccaroni hat,
But at maw peril dar'd me.

Sae, efter dark, up Pilgrim-street,
The fine Gas Leeters shin'd sae breet,
That if a bonny lass ye meet,
Ye'd ken her varry features;
When pipes are laid, and a' things duen,
They say Newcassel, varry suen,
Will darken, aye, the varry muin,
A' wi' thor fine Gas Leeters.

*A reference to the song called Cappy or the Pitman's Dog.
 

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

Tyne River, running rough or smooth,
Makes bread for me and mine;
Of all the rivers, north or south,
There's none like coaly Tyne.

So here's to coaly Tyne my lads,
Success to coaly Tyne,
Of all the rivers, north or south,
There's none like coaly Tyne,

Long has Tyne's swelling bosom borne
Great riches from the mine,
All by her hardy sones uptorn--
The wealth of coaly Tyne.

Our keelmen brave, with laden keels,
Go sailing down in line,
And with them laod the fleet at Shelds,
That sails from coaly Tyne.

When Bonaparte the world did sway,
Dutch, Spanish, did combine;
By sea nad land proud bent their way,
The sons of coaly Tyne.

The sons of Tyne, in seas of blood,
Trafalgar's fight did join,
When led by dauntless Collingwood,
The hero of the Tyne.

With courage bold, and hearts so true,
Form'd in the British line;
With Wellington, at Waterloo,
Hard fought the sons of Tyne.

When peace, who would be Volunteers?
Or Hero Dandies fine?
Or sham Hussars, or Tirailleurs?--
Disgrace to coaly Tyne

Or who would be a Tyrant's Guard,
Or shield a libertine?
Let Tyrants meet their due reward,
Ye sons of coaly Tyne.

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

There shows of all sorts you may view;
Polito's grand collection too;
Such noise and din and lill-bulloo,
At fam'd Newcassel Races, O.
there some on horses sat astride,
And some in gigs did snugly ride,
With smart young wenches by their side;
Look'd stilish at the Races, O.

A tailor chep aw chanc'd to spy,
Was sneekin through the crowd sae sly,
Tor he'd tyen the darling of his eye,
To swagger at the Races, O.
He says, My dear, well see the show,
Egad! says she, I do not know,
It looks so vulgar and so low,
We'd better see the Races ,O.

One Buck cries Demme, go the rig!
Got two smart lasses in a gig;
He crack'd his whip, and look'd quite big,
While swagg'rin at the Races, O.
But soon, alas! the gig upset,
An ugly thump they each did get;
Some say, that he his breeches wet,
For fear, when at the Races, O.

The one was lyem'd abuin the knee,
The other freetein'd desp' rately;
This demm'd unlucky job! says she,
Has fairly spoil'd my Races, O!
He gat them in, wi' some delay,
And te Newcassel bent his way;
But oft, indeed, he curs'd the day
That e'er he'd seen the Races, O.

Now some were singing songs so fine,
And somewere lying drunk like swine,
Some drakn porter, others wine;
Rare drinkin at the Races, O!
The wanton wags in corners sat,
Wiv bonny lasses on their lap;
An mony a yen gat tit for tat,
Before they left the Races, O.

Now lads and lasses myed for toon,
And in hte road htey oft lay doon;
Faith! mony a lassie spoil'd her goon,
A comin frae the Races, O:
Some gat hyem, midst outs and ins,
Some had black eyes and broken shins,
Andsome lay drunk amang the whins,
A comin frae the Races, O:

Let every one his station mense,
By acting lake a man of sense--
'Twill save him mony a pund expense,
When he gans te the Races, O.
Kind friends, I would you all advise,
Good counsel ye should ne'er despies,
The world's opinion always prize
When ye gan to the Races, O.

W.Watson-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

Wor laureate may sing for his cash,
Of laws, constitution, and proctors,
Contented aw'll blair for a dash
At the slee understrapping quack doctors,
They gob o' their physical skill,
Till their jaws yen might swear they wad rive,
To prove what's alive they can kill,
And what's dead they can suen myek alive.

A' ye wi' the glanders snout-full,
Repair to each wonderous adviser--
For though ye were born a stark fuel,
Depend on't they'll suen myek ye wiser.
Their physic, they say, in a trice,
Snaps every diseas liek a towt:
But the best on't all is their advice--
Ye can get it free gratis for nowt.

Wiv a kessle puff'd up to the chin,
Went to see yen a strapping young doxy,
He examin'd her lugs and her een,
And declar'd her myest dead o' the dropsy.
The lassie he therefore wasd tap,
At which she set up a great yell;
When out popp'd a little wee chap
Myest as wise as the doctor's awnsel'.

Next they teuk him a man, wheel for fancies,
A' day wad sit silent and sad--
He upheld that he'd lost his reet senses,
And therefore he surely was mad.
But now he gies mony a roar,
Of the doctor's great skill to convince--
If he wasn't a madman before
At least he's been yen ever since.

Last, in hobbled gouty Sir Peter,
To get of his drugs a good doze--
Three days he deep studied his water,
Ere he'd his opinion disclose.
Then proclaim'd that Sir. Peet was ower fat,
(For the doctor was never mistyen)
By my faiks! but he cur'd him o' that--
Suen Sir Peet left the warld, skin and byen.

Now, he that winn'd loyally sing,
May he swing like an ass in a tether,
Good hilth an long life to the King,
To keep us in union together.
The heart iv each Briton he leads
To rejoice i the fall o' the quacks--
So we'll ay hae the flesh on wor backs.

-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

O tak't not amiss while I sing, my Peggy,
O tak't not amiss while I sing,
How rude the wind blew, and expos'd thy neat leggy,
Thy knee and red garten string, my Peggy,
Thy knee and red garten string.

Nor take it amiss while I tell thee, Peggy,
Nor take it amiss while I tell,
How a' my heart felt upon seeing thy leggy;--
I've never sinsyne been mysel' my Peggy,
I've never sinsyne been mysel'.

I think the brisk gale acted right, my Peggy,
I think the brisk gale acted right,
In shewing me, O lovely dear! thy sart leggy--
It was sic a glorious sight, my Peggy,
It was sic a glorious sight.

In troth I'd gan monie a mile, my  Peggy
In troth I'd gan monie a mile,
Again, my dear Charmer, to view thy neat leggy,
And see on thy face a sweet smile, my Peggy,'
And see on thy face a sweet smile.

I'm deeply in love wi' thee a' my Peggy,
I'm deeply in love wi' thee a'--
And I'll think on thy face and thy smart buskit leggy,
As lang as I've breath for to draw, my Peggy,
As lang as I've breath for to draw.

H.R.-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

Whilst bards, in strains that sweetly flow,
Extol each nymph so fair,
Be mine my Nanny's worth to shew,
Her captivating air.
What swain can gaze without deligh
On beauty there so fine?
The Graces all their charms unite
In Nanny of the Tyne.

Far from the noise of giddy courts
The lovely charmer dwells;
Her cot the haunt of harmless sports,
In virtue she excels.
With modesty, good nature join'd
To form  the nymph divine;
And truth, with innocence combin'd,
In Nanny of the Tyne.

Flow on, smooth stream, in murmurs sweet
Glide gently past her cot,
'Tis peace and virtue's calm retreat-
Ye great ones, envied not.
And you, ye fair, whom folly leads
Through allher paths supine,
Tho' drest in pleasure's garb, exceeds
Not Nanny of the Tyne.

Can art to nature e'er compaire,
Or win us to believe
But that the frippery of the fair
Was made but to deceive.
Stript from the belle the dress so gay,
Which fashion calls divine,
Will she such loveliness display
As Nanny of the Tyne.

Gibson-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

The Newcastle Signs
Written by Cecil Pitt, and sung at the Theatre-Royal, Newcastle, by Mr. Scriven, June 4, 1806

Should the French in Newcastle but dare to appear,
At each sign they would meet with indifferent cheer;
From the Goat and the Hawk, from the Bell and the Waggon,
And the Dog, they would skip, as St. George made the Dragon.

The Billet, the Highlander, Cross Keys, and Sun,
The Eagle and Ships too, would shew' em some fun;
The Three Kings and Unicorn, Bull's Head and Horse,
Would prove, that the farther they went they'd fare worse.

At the Black House, a strong-Arm, would lay ev'ry man on,
And they'd quickly go off, if they got in the Cannon;
The Nelson and Turk's Head their fears would increase,
And they'd run from the Swan like a parcel of geece.

At the York and the Cumberland, Cornwallis too,
With our Fighting Cocks, sure they'd have plenty to do;
The Nag's Head and Lions would cut such an evil,
And the Angel would drive the whole crew to the devil.

At the World, and the Fountain, the Bridge, Crown and Thistle,
The Bee-Hive, and Tuns, for a drop they might whistle;
With our Prince, or our Crown, should they dare interpose,
They'd prick their French fingers well under the Rose.

At the Half Moon, the Wheat Sheaf, and Old Barley Mow,
A sup's to be got--if they could but tell how;
If they call'd at the Bull and the Tigere to ravage,
As well as the Black Boy, they'd find 'em quite savage,

Ath the Ark, and the Anchor, Pack Horse, and Blue Posts,
And the Newmarket Inn, they would find but rough hosts;
The Old Star and Garter, Cock, Anchor, and more
Would prove, like the Grapes, all most cursedly sour,

The Lion and Lamb, Plough, and Old Robin Hood,
With Crane House, would check these delighters in blood;
From the Butchers' Arms quick they'd be running away
And we all know that Shakespeare would shew 'em some play.

At the White Hart, Three Bull's Heads, the Old Dog and Duck,
If they did not get thrash'd they'd escape by good luck
At the Bird in Bush, Metters' Arms, Peacock, they'd fast
And our Kng's and Queen's Heads we'll defend till the last.

May the sign of the King ever meet with respect,
And our great Constitution each Briton protect;
and may he who would humble Old British Crown,
Be hung on a sign-post till I take him down.

Cecil Pitt-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

The way how aw ken--when aw was at the toon,
Aw met Dicky Wise near the Rose and the Croon;
And as Dicky reads papers, and talks aboot Kings,
Wey he's like to ken weel about Gutters and things;
So he talk'd owre the gutter,&c.

He then a lang story began for to tell,
And said that it often was ca'd a Can-nell;
But he thowt, by a Gutter, aw wad uinderstand,
That's it's cutten reet through a' the Gentlemen's land.
Now that's caw'd a Gutter, &c.

Now, whether the dea's  owre big at the West,
Or scanty at Sheels--wey, ye mebby ken beest;
For he says they can team, aye, without any bother,
A sup ot o' yen a' the way to the tother,
By the great lang Gutter,&c.

Besides, there'll be bridges, and locks, and lairge keys,
And shippies, to trade wiv eggs, butter, and cheese;
And if they'll not sail weel, for want o' mair force,
They'll myek ne mair fuss, but yoke in a strang horse,
to pull through the Gutter, &c.

Ye ken there's a deal that's lang wanted a myel,
When they start wi' the Gutter 'twill thicken their kyell:
Let wages be high, or be just what they may,
It will certainly help to drive hunger away,
While they work at the Guter, &c.

There's wor Tyne sammun tee 'ill not ken what's the matter,
When they get a gobful o' briny saut water;
But if they should gan off, it's cum'd into my nob,
For to myek some amends we mun catch a' the cod,
That sweems down the gutter, &c.

So come money and friends support Willy Armstrang,
In vent'rin a thoosan ye canna get wrang;
While we get wor breed by the sweet o' wor brow,
Success to the Gutter! and prosper the Plough!
The great lang Gutter, &c.

Wm. Midford-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

How! marrows, aw'se tip you a sang,
If ye'll nobbit gibe your attenction.
Aw''ve sarrow'd maw king seven years,
An aw'm now luikin out for the pension.
But when my adventures aw tell,
An' should ye fin reason to doubt it,
An' think it mair thn aw deserve,
Aw' se just rest contented without it

Chorus:
Rum ti idity, &c.

Ye mun ken, when aw first went to drill,
Maw gun aw flang owre maw heed,
Fell'd the chep that stuid close in a-hint me,
He lay kickin and sprawlin for deed.
But when wor manuvres we lairn'd,
Wor Cornell o' huz grew se fond, man,
He match'd us gyen for smashing targets,
Close ower nyont Helsop's Pond, Man.

We mairch'd off at nine i' the mornin,
And at four we were not quite duin,
While a bite never enter'd our thropples:
Wi' hunger were fit to lie doon.
But wor fellows they tuik sic an aim,
Ye wad thought that they shot for a wager;
And yen chep, the deil pay his hide,
He varra nigh shot theDrum-Major.

Suin efter, 'twas on the Vairge Day,
'Bout the time that wor Cornel was Mayor,
Fra Gyetshead we fir'd ower their heeds,
Byed the fokes in Newcassel to stare.
To Newburn we then bore away,
And embark'd just beside a great Dung-hole,
Wi' biscut and plenty o'yell,
And wor Adjutant Clerk o' the Bung-hole.

Wor Triangular Lad lop'd first ashore,
When the folks ran like cows or mad bulls;
Iv a jiffy they cam back to fight us,
Wi' pokers and three-footed stuils.
When they fand he was not Bonnyparty,
Nor nyen ov his sowgers fra France,
The music then started to play,
And we for to caper and dance.

Sie wark as we had efter that,
Wad tyek a lang day for to tell,
How we fronted, an' flankt it, an' maircht
Through the sowgers at Thropley Fell,
At the Play-house we've shin'd mony a time,
Wor scaups a' besmatter-d wi' flour;
But that neet it wad myed the deil gurn,
To see us a' powthert wi' stour.

Yen day we were from'd in a ring,
And wor Cornel said this, 'at ne'er spoke ill,
Ye your sarvis, my lads, mun transfer
Tiv a core caw'd the Durham Foot Local.
So tiv Sunderland if ye'd but gan,
And see us a' stand in a line,
Ye'd swear that a few finer fellows
Ne'er cam fra the Wear and the Tyne.
 
 
 

Wm. Midford-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.