Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Part 8  Directory 6 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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Masquerade At Newcastle Theatre
Or, The Pitman turned Critic

As Jemmy the brakesman and me
Was taukin 'bout sentries and drill,
We saw, clagg'd agyen a yek-tree,
A fower-square little hand -bill.
Says Jemmy, Now halt tiv aw read her;
When up cam wor canny au'd Sairgan:
Says he, Ye mun come to the Teapot,
On Friday, and get yor dischairge, man.

Chorus-

Sol de rol, &c.

We dress'd worsels smart, cam to toon,
Mister Government paid us wor brass:
Then we swagger'd off to the Hauf Meun,
To rozzel wor nobs viv a glass.
We sang, smok'd and fuddled away,
And cut mony a wonderful caper;
Says aw, Smash! howay to the Play,
Or, what some folks ca' a Theater.

We ran, and seun fand a good playce,
Aye, before they'd weel hoisted their leets;
When a lyedy, wi' gause ower her fyece,
Cam an' tummel'd over twe o' the seats.
Aw hardly kend what for to say;
But says aw, Div ye fin owse the warse?
Says her neybeur, Pop Folly's the Play,
and Maskamagrady's the Farce.

The Playeres the cam on iv dozens,
wiv fine dusty buits without spurs;
And they tauk'd about mothers and cousins,
So did Jemmy and me about wors.
We had plenty o'fiddlin and fleutin,
Till the bugles began for to blaw;
Then aw thowt aw heerd wor Major shootin,
Fa' in, my lads! stand in a raw!

We then see'd a little smart chap,
Went lowpin and skippin aboot;
Says aw, Smash! thou is up to trap!
For he let the fokes byeth in and out.
There was Fawstaff, a fat luikin fellow,
Wiv a Miss in each airm, being drunkey;
Then a black Lyedy, wiv a numbrella,
A fillder, a bear, and a monkey.

Next cam on a swaggerin blade,
He's humpt o' byeth shouthers an' legs;
A blackymoor, painter by trade,
And o' dancing was myekin his brags:
When a collier cam on, quick as thowt,
Maw sarties! but he gat a pauler;
Says he, Smash! aw'll dance thou for owt;
Then says aw, Five to fower on Kit Swaller!

He danc'd the Keel Row to sic tune,
His marrow declar'd he was bet:
som yell ower Kit's shouthers was slung,
So they byeth had their thrpples weel wet.
A lyem sowger cam on wiv twee sticks,
Then a busy-tail'd pinkey wee Frenchman;
Next a chep, wiv some young lunaticks,
Was wanting the mad-house at Bensham.

There was Punch fed his bairn wiv a ladle,
And ga'd some kirn milk for to lyep;
Then he thumpt it till he wasn't yebbel,
Because the poor thing cuddent gyep.
Some were shootin shoe-ties iv a street;
Lang Pat, wiv his last dyin speeches,
Wagg'd hands wiv a lass, that, yen neet,
Tuik seven-pence out o' maw breeches.

Then a gentleman's housey tuik feyre,
As the watchman caw'd Past ten o'clock!
The manny fell into the meyre,
And the wife ran away iv her smock.
The Skipper that saddled the cow,
And rig seven miles forthe howdy,
Was dancing wiv Janny Bawloo,
That scadded her gob wiv a crowdy.

Then a chep, wiv a show on his back,
Cam and show'd us fine pictures, se funny;
He whupt it a' off in a crack,
Because they wad gether ne money.
to end with, there cam a Balloon,
But some gav it's puddings a slit man;
For, afore itgat up to the meun,
It  emptied itsel i' the pit, man.

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

At Cullercoats, near to the sea,
Lives one I often think upon;
Bewitching as the lovely e'e
Of bonny Nancy Wilkinson.

Chorus-
By Tyne, or Blyth, or Coquet clear,
No swain did ever blink upon
A charmer equal to my dear,
My handsome Nancy Wilkinson.

Sweet cherry cheeks, a lofty brow,
Bright hair, that waves in links upon
A neck, white as the purest snow,
Has comely Nancy Wilkinson.

Her virtues, like her beauty, rare;
But terms I ne'er can think upon,
Fit to panegyrise my fair
My constant Nancy Wilkinson.

For her rich ladies I'd refuse,
With all their shining tinsels on;
None else can wake my slumbering Muse,
But lovely Nancy Wilkinson.

Aurora, from the Eastern sky,
Her robes the glowing tints upon,
Is not so viewly to mine eye
As modest Nancy Wilkerson.

Let sordid misers count their wealth,
And guineas guineas clink upon;
All I request of Heav'n is health,
and dear, dear Nancy Wilkinson.
 

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

Now just come and listen a while till aw tell,man,
Of a wonderful seet t'other day aw did see:
As aw was gaun trudgen alang by mysel, man,
Aw met wi' wor skipper, aye just on the Key.
O skipper, saws aw, mun, wye where are ye gannen?
Says he, come wi'me, for aw's gaun up the toon;
Now just come away, for we munnet stand blabbin,
Or we'll be over 'lang for to see the Balloon.

Chorus- Right fal de, &c.

The balloon, man, says aw, wey aw never heard tell on't
What kind o' thing is it? Now skipper tell me;
Says he, It's a thing that gans up by the sel' on't,
And if ye'll gan to the Nuns' Gate, man ye'll see.
So to the Nuns' Gate then we went in a hurry,
And when we gat there, man, the folks stood in crowds;
and aw heerd a chep say, he wad be very sorry,
If it went to the meun, reet clean thro' the clouds.

We stared and luik'd round us, but nought could we see, man,
till a thing it went up as they fir'd a gun:
Cried the skipper, Aw warnd that's the little Pee-dee, man,
Gyen to tell folks above twill be there varry seun.
then a' iv a suddne it came ower the house-tops, man,
It was like a hay-stack, and luikt just as big:
Wiv a boat at the tail on't, all tied tid wi' ropes, man,
Begox! it was just like wor awd Sandgate gig.

And thhere was two cheps that sat in the inside, man,
Wi' twee little things they kept poweyin her roun';
Just like wor skipper when we've a bad tide, man:
Aw warnd they were fear'd that the thing wad come down;
and still the twee cheps kept poweyin her reet man,
For upwards she went, aye clean ower the toon;
They powey'd thill they powey'd her reet out o' seet, man,
That was a' that we saw o' this grand air balloon.

The skipper cam to me, tuik haud o' my hand, man,
Says, What do ye think o' this seet that's been given?
Saws aw, Aw can't tell, but it's a' very grand, man;
Aw wish the cheps byeth safely landend in heaven.
'twad be a good plan to tyek's up when we're deed, man;
For which way we geth there 'twill be a' the syem:
And then for wor Priests we'd stand little need, man:
So me and wor skipper we went wor ways hyem.

Messers Green ascended in their grand Coronation Balloon, from the Nun's
Field in Newcastle, four times: the first time, on Wednesday,
May 11; second time on Whit-Monday, May 23;
third time, on Monday May 30; and the fourth time, on Race-Thursday, July 14, 1825.

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

Alack! and well-a-day!
Mr. Mayor, Mr Mayor;
We are all to grief a prey,
Mr. Mayor:
They are pulling Newgate down,
That structure of renown,
which so long hath graced our town,
Mr. Mayor Mr. Mayor.

Antiquarians think't a scandal,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor;
It would shock a Goth or Vandal,
They declare:
What! destroy the finest Lion
That ever man set eye on!
'tis a deed all must cry fie on,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

St. Andrew's Parishioners,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Loud blame the Gaol-Commissioners,
Mr. Mayor;
To pull down a pile so splendid,
Shews their powers are too extended,
And the Act must be amended,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

If Blackett- Street they'd level,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor
Or with Bond-Street* play the devil,
Who would care?
But on Newgate's massive walls,
When Destruction's hammer falls,
For our sympathy it calls,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

'Tis a pile of ancient standing,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Deep reverence commanding,
Mr. Mayor:
Men of Note and Estimation,
In their course of Elevation,
Have in it helad a station,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

'Tis a first-rate kind of College,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
where is taught much useful knowledge,
Mr. Mayor:
When our fortunes "gang aglee,"
If worthy Mr. Gee**
Does but on us turn his key,
All's soon well, Mr. Mayor.

In beauty, Nought can match it,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor:
Should you think we throw the Hatche!
Mr. Mayor:
John A____n, with ease,
(In purest Portugueze)
Will convince you, if you please,
To consult him, Mr. Mayor.

Th'll prove t'ye in a trice,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
'Tis a pearl of great price,
Mr. Mayor:
For of ancient wood or stone,
The value-few or none
Can better tell than John,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor

Of this Edifice bereft,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
to the Neighbourhood what's left?
Mr. mayor:
The Nuns' Gate, it is true,
Still rises to our view,
But that Modern Babel, few
Much admire, Mr. Mayor.

True, a building 'tis, unique,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
Acharming fancy freak,
Mr. Mayor:
But candour doth impel us,
To won that Strangers tell us,
The Lodge of our Odd fellows,
They suppos'd it, Mr. Mayor.

Still, if Newgate's doom'd to go,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.
to the Carliol Croft--heigh -ho!
Mr. Mayor,
As sure as you're alive,
(and long, sir, may you thrive,)
the shock we'll ne'er survive,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor.

Then pity our condition,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,
And stop its demolition,
Mr. Mayor;
the commissioners restrain,
Fropm causing us such pain,
And we'll pay and ne'er comp[lain,
The Gaol-cess, Mr. Mayor.

*Now called Prudhoe St.
**The Gaoler
-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.

Soldiers whom Newcastle's bred,
View your cornel at your head,
Who's been call'd out of his bed
Toi serve his country.
Now's the time when British Tars
With their Owners are at wars;
And they've sent for us--O Mars!
Assist the Cavalry!

Now, My noble sons of Tyne!
Let your valour nobly shine;
There at last has come a time
To shew your bravery.
But, my lads, be not alarm'd!
You're to fight with men unarm'd!
Who in multitudes have swarm'd--
Before us they must flee!

Then they cry out, every man,
Cornel, we'll die a' we can!
So away to Shields they ran:
O what Cavalry!
But they had no call to fight,
the Marines had bet them quite;
And the Cornel's made a Knight,
For the Victory!

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

Huz Colliers, for a' they can say,
Hae blyeth heads and hearts that are sound--
And if we're but teun i' wor way,
There's few better cheps above ground.
Tom Caveres and me, fra West Moor,
On a kind ov a jollification,
Yen day myed what some folks call a tour,
For a keek at the state o' the nation.

We fand, er we'd lang been on jaunt,
That the world wasn't gannin sae cliver--
It had gettin a Howdon-Pan cant,
As aw gat once at wor boxdinner.
Monny tyels, tee, we heard, stiff and gleg--
Some laid the world straight as a die--
Some crook'd as a dog's hinder leg,
Or, like wor fitter's nose, all a-wry.

One tell'd me, my heart for to flay,
(Thinking aw knew nought about town)
Out o' my three-and-sixpence a-day,
The King always gat half-a-crown.
Aw said they were fuels not to ken
That aw gat a' the brass me awnsel--
Ga' wor Peg three white shillins, and then
Laid the rest out on backey and yell!

They babb'd oot that aw was mistuen-
That maw brains sairly wanted seduction--
Without animal Parliaments seun
We wad a' gan to wreck and construction--
That we'd wrought ower lang for wor lair--
That landlords were styen-hearted tykes--
for their houses and land only fair,
To divide them and live as yen likes!

To bring a'  these fine things about
Was as easy as delving aslent is--
Only get some rapscallion sought out,
And to Lunnin sent up to present us.
Thinks aw to mysel' that's weel meant--
There's wor Cuddy owre laith to de good,
We'll hev him to Parliament sent,
Where he'll bray, smash his byens, for his blood.

Then, says aw, Tommy, keep up thy pluck,
We may a' live to honour wor nation--
So here's tiv Au'd England, good luck!
and may each be content with his station.
Huz Colliers, for a' they can say,
Hae Byeth heeds and hearts that ar sound--
And if we're but teun i' wor way,
There's few better cheps above ground.
 

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

Ye gowks that bout daft Handel swarm,
Your senses but to harrow--
Steyn deaf to strains that 'myest wad charm
The heart iv a wheelbarrow--
To wor Keyside awhile repair,
Mang Malls, and bullies pig in,
To hear encor'd, wi' monie a blair,
Poor au'd Blind Willie's singin.

To hear fine Sinclair tune his pipes
Is hardly worth a scuddock--
It's blarney fair, and stale as swipes
Kept ower lant i' the huddock.
Byeth Brahm and Horn behint the wa'
Might just as well be swingin,
For a' their squeelin's nought at a'
To au'd Blind Willie singin.

About Sir Maffa lang he sung,
Far into high life keekin--
Til Buy Broom Buzzoms roundly swung,
He gae their lugs a sweepin'.
A stave yence myed Dumb Bet to greet,
Sae fine wi' cat-gut stringin'--
Bold Airchy swore it was a treat
To hear Blind Willie Singin.

Aw've heard it said, Fan Welch, one day,
On pepper'd oysters messin,
Went in to hear him sing and play,
an' get a moral lesson.
She vow'd 'twas hard to haud a heel--
An' thowt (the glass while flingin)
Wi' Clarts they should be plaister'd weel
That Jeer'd Blind Willie's singin.

It's fine to hear wor bellman talk--
It's wondrous fine and cheerin'
To hear Bet Watt and Euphy Scott
Scold, fight, or bawl fresh herrin:
To see the keels upon the Tyne,
As thick as hops a' swimmin',
Is fine indeed, but still mair fine
To hear Blind Willie singin.

Lang may wor Tyneside lads sae true,
In heart byeth blithe an' mellow,
Bestow the praise that's fairly due
To this bluff, honest fellow--
And when he's hamper'd i' the dust,
Still i' wor memory springin,
The times we've run till like to brust
To hear blind Willie singin'.

But may he live to cheer the bobs
That skew the coals to shiveres,
Whee like their drink to grip their gobs,
And burn their varry livers.
So, if ye please, aw'll myek an end,
My sang ne farther dingin,
Lest ye may think that aw pretend
To match Blind Willie's singin.

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

What! is he gyen? Bold Airchy said,
And moungin' scratch'd his head--
O can sic waesome news be true?
Is Captain Starkey dead?

Aw's griev'd at heart--push round the can--
Seun empty frae wor hands we'll chuck it--
For now we'll drink wor last to him,
since he has fairly kick'd the bucket.

My good shag hat ne mair aw'll wave,
His canny fyace to see--
Wor bairns' bairns will sing o' him,
As Gilchrist sings o' me--

For O! he was a lad o' wax!
Aw've seen him blithe, an' often mellow--
He might hae faults, but, wi' them a',
We've seldom seen a better fellow.

Yen day they had me drown'd for fun,
Which myed the folks to blair;
Aw mysest could wish, for his dear sake,
That aw'd been drown'd for fair.

On monny a day when cannons roar,
Yen loyal heart will then be missin--
If there be yell, we'll toast his nyem--
If there be nyen, he'll get wor blissin.

Blind Willie then strumm'd up his kit
Wi' monny a weary drone,
Which Thropler, drunk, and Cuckoo Jack
Byeth answer'd wiv a groan.

Nice chep! poor chep! Blind Willie said--
My heart is pierc'd like onny riddle,
To think aw've liv'd to see him dead--
Aw never mair 'ill play the fiddle.

His gam is up, his pipe is out,
And fairly laid his craw--
His fame 'ill blaw about just like
Coal dust at Shiney-Raw.

He surely was a joker rare--
What times there'd been for a' the nation,
Had he but liv'd to be a Mayor,
The glory o' wor Corporation.

But he has gi'en us a' the slip,
And gyen for evermore--
Au'd Judy and Jack Coxon tee,
Has gyen awhile before--
And we maun shortly follow them,
An' tyek the bag, my worthy gentles--
Then what 'ill poor Newcassel dee,
Depriv'd of all her ornamentals!

We'll moralize-- for dowly thowts,
Are mair wor friends thatn foes--
For death, like when the tankard's out,
Brings a' things tiv a close.
May we like him, frae grief and toil,
When laid in peace beneath the hether--
Upon the last eternal shore,
A' happy, happy meet together!

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

Lang years ower meadows, moors, and muck,
I cheerly on did waddle--
So various is the chance o' luck
Between the grave and cradle.
When wark at hyem turn'd rather scant,
I thought 'twas fair humbuggin'
An' so aw even teuk a jaunt,
Faiks, a' the way to Lunnin.

Lord Howick was my chosen ship,
Weel rigg'd byeth stem nad quarter,
The maister was a cannie chep-
They ca'd him Jacky Carter.
Wiu' heart as free frae guilt as care,
I pack'd up all my duddin,
And shipp'd abroad--the wind blew fair--
Away we sail'd for Lunnin.

Safe ower the bar-a-head we tint--
The day was fine and sunny;
And seun we left afar behint,
Wor land o' milk and honey.
But few their dowly thoughts can tyem--
May be the tears were comin'--
Sair griev'd, ne doubt to pairt wi' hyem,
Though gaun to keek at Lunnin.

Fareweel, Tyne Brig and cannie Kee,
Where aw've seen monny a shangy,
Blind Willie, Captain Starkey tee--
Bold Archy and great Hangy.
Farewell Shoe Ties, Jack Tate, Whin Bob,
Cull Billy, and Jack Cummin,
Au'd Judy, Jen Bawloo--aw'll sob
Your praises all at Lunnin.

Some such as me the hyke myed sick,
And myed them rue their roamin'
Still forward plung'd wor gallant ship,
And left the water foamin'.
Waes me! but 'tis a bonny seet,
O land o' beef and puddin!
To see thy tars, in pluck complete,
Haud fair their course for Lunnin!

Hail, Tyneside lads! in collier fleets,
The first in might and motion--
In sunshine days or stormy neets
The lords upon the ocean,
Come England's foes- a countless crew--
Ye'll gie their gobs a scummin',
And myek them a' the day to rue,
They glipp'd their jaws at Lunnin.

I thought mysel a sailor good,
And fired while some lay spralin',
Till where the famous Robin Hood
Sends out his calms or squallin'--
'Twas there aw felt aw scarce ken how--
For a' things teuk a bummin',
And myed me wish, wi' retch and spew,
The ship safe moor'd  at Lunnin.

As round by Flamborough Head we shot,
Down cam a storm upon us--
Thinks aw, we're fairly gyen to pot--
O dear!-- have mercy on us!
Ower northern plains 'twill dowly sound,
And set their eyes a runnin',
When they shall tell that aw was drown'd
Just gannin up to Lunnin.

To cheer wor hearts in vain they brought
The porter, grog, and toddy--
My head swam round when'er aw thoiught
Upon a fat pan-soddy.
O what the plague fetch'd us frae hyem!
Some in the glumps were glummin';
I could hae blubber'd but thoiught shyem,
While gaun a voyange to Lunnin.

Cross Boston Deeps how we did spin,
Skelp'd on by noisy Boreas,
Up yarmouth Roads, and seun up Swin,
The water flew before us.
O glorious seet! the Nore's in view--
Like fire and flood we're scuddin':
Ne mair we'll bouk wor boiley now,
Burt seun be safe at Lunnin.

Hail, bonny Tyames! weel smon thy waves!
A world might flourish bi' them--
And , faiks, they weel deserve the praise
That a' the world gies ti them.
O lang may commerce spread her stores,
Full on thy bosom dinnin'--
Weel worthy thou to lave the shores
O' sic a town as Lunnin.

Seun Black-Wall Point we left astern,
Far ken'd in dismal story--
And Greenwich Towers we now discern,
Au'd England's pride nad glory.
Sure Nature's sel inspir'd my staves,
For I began a crunnin,
And blair'd Britannia rule the waves!
As by we sail'd for Lunnin.

Fornenst the Tower, we made a click,
Where traitors get their fairins',
And where they say that hallion Dick
Yence scumfish'd two wee bairins.
Hitch, step, and loup, I sprang ashore,
My heart reet full o' funnin--
And seun forgat the ocean's war,
Amang the joys o' Lunnin.

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

Oh, waes me, for wor canny toon,
It canna stand it lang--
The props are tumbling one by one,
The beeldin seun mun gan;
For Deeth o' late has no been blate,
But sent some jovial souls a joggin:
Aw niver griev'd for Jackey Tate,
Nor even little Airchy Loggan.

But when maw lugs was 'lectrified
Wiv Judy Downey's deeth,
Alang wi' Heufy Scott aw cried,
Till byeth was out o' breeth;
For greet and sma', fishwives and a'
Luik'd up tiv her wi' veneration--
If Judy's in the Courts above,
Then for Au'd Nick there'll be nae 'cation.

Next Captain Starkey teuk his stick,
And myed his final bow;
Aw wonder if he's scribblin yet,
Or what he's efter now;
Or if he's drinking gills o' yell,
Or axing pennies to buy bakky--
If not allow'd where Starkey's gyen,
Aw'm sure that he'll be quite unhappy.

Jack Coxon iv a trot went off,
One morning very seun--
Cull Billy said, he'd better stop,
But Deeth cried, Jackey, Come!
Oh! few like him could lift their heel,
Or tell what halls were in the county;
Like mony a proud, black-coated chief,
Jack liv'd upon the parish bounty.

But cheeer up, lads, and dinna droop,
Blind Willy's to the fore,
The blythest if the motley group,
And fairly worth the score:
O weel aw like to hear him sing,
'Bout au'd Sir Mat, and Dr. Brummel--
If he but lives to see the King,
There's nyen o' Willy's friends need grummen

Cull Billy, tee, wor lugs to bliss,
Wiv news 'bout t'other warld,
Aw move that, when wor Vicar dees,
The place for him be arl'd;
For aw really think, wiv half his wit,
He'd myek a reet good pulpit knocker:
Aw'll tell ye where the birth wad fit--
He hugs sae close the parish copper.

Another chep, and the aw's duen,
He bangs th tothers far:
Yor mavies wonderin whe aw mean--
Ye goks, it's Tommy C--r!
When lodgin's scarce, just speak to him,
Yor hapless case he'll surely pity,
He'll 'sist upon your gannin in,
To sup wi' S--tt, and see the Kitty.

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

Sic wonders there happens iv wor canny toon,
Sae wise and sae witty Newcassel has grown,
That for hummin, and hoaxing, and tyeking folk in,
We'll suen learn the Lunneners far better things.

We've wonderful Knights, and wondrous Hussars,
Wonderful Noodles, and wonderful Mayors;
For as langas a keel gans down river Tyne,
For wisdom and valour, O A-----y, thou'll shine.

We've R---s and V---s, a time serving crew;
For ov priests and excisemen, and limbs o' the law,
There's ten tiv the dozen 'ill gan down belaw.

And whe wad hae thowt now that iver Au'd Nick,
wiv wor canny toon wad hae gettin sae thick;
That iv Luckley's au'd house he's set up Hell's Kitchen
Where the tyelyers and snobs find the yell se bewitchin

There's canny Tom Lid--l, they've myed him a Lord
For learning his ploughmen to play wi' the sword;
But if ony invaders should britain assail,
They'll slip off their skins and run to the plough-tail.

We've a Captain of watchmen, he's second to nyen,
He dislikesto see folks gannin quietly hyem;
For if ye but mention the nyem o' Tom C--r,
To the care of Jack S--tt, he'll yor body transfer.

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

Now lay up your lugs, a' ye freemen that's poor,
And aw'll rhyme without pension or hire--
Come listen, ye dons that keep cows on the Moor,
Though ye couldn't keep them iv a byre--
And a' ye non-freemen, wherever ye be,
Though dame Fortune has myed sic objections,
That you're neither o' Town nor o' Trinity free,
To be brib'd and get drunk at elections.

When aw was but little, aw mind varry weel
That Joe C--k was the friend o' the freemen--
Aw mysel' heerd him say, his professions to seal,
He wad care very little to dee, man.
Corporation corruptions he sair did expose,
And show'd plain whee was rook and whee pigeon--
While El----h, the cobbler, in fury arose,
And pummell'd Sir M-----w's religion.

Some sly common councilman happen'd to think
That the patriots mebbies had pocket--
So they sent Joe an order for wafers and ink,
And the Custom-house swallow'd the prophet.
Now if ever these worthies should happen to dee,
Andau'd Nick scamper off wiv his booty,
Just imagine yoursels what reformin there'll be,
If belwa thre's no printing or duty.

But there's honest folk yet now, So dinn be flaid,
Though El--h and Joe had desarted--
For a chep they ca' Tunbelly's ta'en up the trade,
And bizzy he's been sin' he started:
aboot town-surveyin' he's open'd wor eyes,
and put Tommy Gee into a pickle---
He's g'en to Jack Proctor a birth i' the skies,
And immortal he's render'd Bob Nichol.

Now, if ony refuse to the freemen their dues,
they're far greater fules that aw thowt them--
Let R--y ne mair stand godfather to cows,
Nor his coiusin swear on- till he's bowt them.
Niver mind what the cheps o' the council may say,
He'll seun sattle obstropolous Billy--
Ne mair he'll refuse for a way-leave to pay,
For fear o' the ditch and Tunbelly.

The good that he's deun scarce a volume wad tell,
But there's one thing that will be a wonder--
If tunbelly losses conceit iv his sel'
Till his head the green sod be laid under.
But we a' hae wor likens, what for shouldn't Tim?
And aw'm shure he  a mense to wor town is--
So fill up your glasses once mair to the brim,
And drink to the Newcastle Junis.
 

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

It was a knight in Scotland born,
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
Was taken prisoner and left forlorn,
Even by the good Earl of Northumberland.

Then was he cast in prison strong,
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
Where he could not walk nor lay along,
Even by the good Earl of Northumberland.

And as in sorrow thus he lay,
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
The Earl's sweet daughter passed that way,
And she the fair flower of Northunmberland.

And passing hy, like an angel bright,
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
The prisoner had of her a sight,
And she the fair flower of Northumberland.

And aloud to her this knight did cry,
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
The salt tears standing in her eye,
And she the fair flower of Northumberlannd.

"Fair lady," he said, "take pity on me,
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
And let me not in prison dee,"
And you the fair flower of Northumberland."

"Fair sir, how should I take pity on thee,
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
Thou being a foe to our countree,
And I the fair flower of Northumberland."

"Fair lady, I am no foe," he said,
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
Through thy sweet love here wvas I stayed,
And thou the fair flower of Northumberland."

"Why shouldst thou come here for love of me,
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
Having wife and bairns in thy own countree,
And I the fair flower of Northumberland."

"I swear by the blessed Trinity,
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
That neither wife nor bairns have I,
And thou the fair flower of Northumberland.

"If courteously thou wilt set me free,
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
I vow that I will marry thee
And thou the fair flower of Northumberland."

"Thou shalt be lady of castles and towers,
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
And sit like a queen in princely bowers,
Even thou, the fair flower of Northumberland."

Then parted hence this lady gay,
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
And got her father's ring away,
And she the fair flower of Northumberland.

Likewise much gold she got by sleight
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
And all to help this forlorn knight
And she the fair flower of Northumberland."

Two gallant steeds, both good and able
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
She likewise took out of the stable
And she the fair flower of Northumberland."

And to the gaoler she sent the ring
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
Who the knight from prison forth did bring
To meet the fair flower of Northumberland."

This token set the prisoner free
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
Who straight went to this fair lady
And she the fair flower of Northumberland."

A gallant steed he did bestride
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
And with the lady away did ride
And she the fair flower of Northumberland."

They rode till they came to a water clear
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
"Good sir, how shall I follow you there?"
And I the fair flower of Northumberland."

"Fear not the ford, fair lady," quoth he
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
"For long I cannot stay for thee,
Even thou, the fair flower of Northumberland."

The lady prickt her gallant steed,
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
And over the water swam with speed,
Even she, the fair flower of Northumberland.

From top to toe all wet was she,
Follow, my love, come over the strand.
" This have I done for love of thee,
Even I, the fair flower of Northumberland."

Thus rode she all one winters night,
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
Till Edinborough they saw in sight,
The fairest town in all Scotland.

"Now choose," quoth he, "thou wanton flower,
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
If thou wilt be my paramour,"
And thou the fair flower of Northuuiberland.

"For I have a wife and children five,
Follow, nmy love, come over the strand ;
In Edinborough they be alive,
And thou the fair flower of Northumberland."

"And if thou wilt not give thy hand
Follow, my love, come over the strand
Then get thee home to fair England,
And thou the fair flower of Northumberland."

"This favour thou shalt have to boot,
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
I'll have thy horse; go thou on foot,
And thou the fair flower of Northumberland."

"O false and faithless knight, quoth she,
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
And canst thou deal so bad with me,
And I the fair flower of Northumberland ?"

" Dishonour not a lady's name,
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
But draw thy sword and end my shame,
And I the fair flower of Northumberland"

He took her from her stately steed,
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
And left her there in extreme need,
And she the fair flower of Northumberland

Then sat she down full heavily,
Follow, my love, come over the strand.
At length two knights came riding by,
And she the fair flower of Northumberland.

Two gallant knights of fair England,
Follow, my love, come over the strand;
And there they found her on the strand,
Even she, the fair flower of Northumberland.

She fell down humbly on her knee,
Follow, my love, come over the strand
Crying, " Courteous knights, take pity on me,
Even I, the fair flower of Northumberland.

"I have offended my father dear,
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
For a false knight that brought me here,
Even I, the fair flower of Northumberland."

They took her up beside them then"
Follow, my love, come over the strand,
And brought her to her father again,
And she the fair flower of Northumberland.

Now alI you fair maids be warned by me,
Follow no Scotchman over the strand.
Scots never were true, nor ever will be
To lord nor lady, nor fair England.

-Child #9
From Songs of Northern England, Stokoe

Thor was a bit laddy lost the tuther day,
And doon the kee he stray'd away,
The muther was cryin' hard they say,
So she fund oot Johnny the bellman;
Says she Gan roond the toon,
Aw'll gie ye half -a-croon,
For if he's not fund it'll be maw ruin,
Wor jimmy he'll surely kill mi.

Chorus-
Johnny luik up! Johnny luik doon,
Johnny gans wandrin roond the toon,
He'll find yor kid for half-a-croon,
Will Johnny luik-up, the bellman

Johnny's a chep that'll not tyek a job,
Unless he's sure that he'll get a bob.
An' when he shoots he twists his gob,
Thor's nyen can shoot like Johnny.
Noo the lads they de him scoff,
He has such a nesty cough,
Aw doot sum fine day he'll pop off,
Then we'll loss poor Johnny.

Before he started te ring the bell,
He used te gan wi' young lambs ti sell,
He was a candy man as aw hear tell,
Noo a perfect cure is Johnny;
An' he used to sell claes pins,
an' sumtimes bairns' rings,
An' a lottery bag he used ti hev',
Mair blanks than owt had Johnny.

In these days he was a regular brick,
When he said the munkeys up the stick,
An' candy for the bairns ti lick,
An tin trumpet then had Johnny;
Ye shud only seen him blaw,
He fairly bangs them a',
It's like a cochin-china's craw;
An sic a beak hes Johnny.

Sum thowt Johnny was rang in his mind,
When he used te gan wi' scissors te grind,
For hard wark he was niver inclined,
For it niver agreed wi' Johnny.
Aw've seen him on a winter's day
When he's been shullin snaw away
Frae shopkeepers' doors, he'd lick a score;
The soup-kitchen prop is Johnny.

Noo aw propose when Johnny dies,
That they tyek oot one of his eyes,
An' put it inti cock-eyed Tome that sells the pies,
Then we'll niver loss seet o' Johnny.
So lads gie your lasses a treat,
Ti this place sum uther neet,
Aw'll gie ye the Bobby on his beat,
An' the life of Johnny the bellman.

-Geordie Ridley

Oh lads aw've turned a bobby noo,
And disn't maw dress luik neat,
Aw've a greet moosetash abuve me gob,
And aw.m on the Gateshead beat;
Noo all the jobs thor is aw've tried,
But nyen aw can endure,
So noo aw've join'd the Gateshead force
And the kids call me the cure.

Aw mind the first neet that aw was on,
It was doon in Pipergate,
An Irish row had started there,
Thinks aw aw'll knaw me fate,
Aw rushes doon and collars one,
We fell in a common sewer,
As aw crawl'd oot the kids did shoot
Just twig poor Bobby's the cure.

The next neet aw was on the bottle bank
Aw was on for a regular spree,
Thre aw fell in win a nice young lass.
She went inti the Goat wi' me,
Noo each of uz hes a glass o' rum,
At her expense your sure,
She was a married wife and her man pop'd in
And he mug'd poor Bobby the cure.

Aw hook'd it off win a sheepish luik,
And her man reported me,
The inspector com' and says noo Bobby
This wark it winna dee!
Aw was taken before the committee,
And was heavy fin'd aw's sure,
And still when aw's on the Oakwellgate beat
The kids call me the cure.

The next neet aw was on the Windmill hills,
Forget it aw niver shall,
They war smahsin' the windows there like fun,
And pushin' doon the walls,
Aw tuik ten te the stashon hoose,
Withoot ony help aw'm sure,
Aw got these two stripes on maw coat,
And they still call me the cure.

A bobbly's the canniest job in the world,
He gets all his drink for nowt;
Aw'm what they call drill sarjant noo,
Maw claes aw ready bowt;
So noo aw've teld hye all maw tricks,
Ye'll pity me aw'm sure,
And niver call me when aw's on maw beat,
And say there gans the cure.

-Geordie Ridley

Oh! lads, aw's turned a keelman noo,
Wi' maw flannin drawers an' stockins blue,
On the Tyne, the Tyne, the Tyne.
In Blaydon aw was bred, an' born,
On the New Year's day at morn,
On the Tyne etc.

Chorus-
Aw niver will leave Blaydon, ah, ho! ah, Ho!
For in Blaydon aw was bred an' born,
Aw niver will leave Blaydon, ah ho! ah Ho!
The Blaydon Lads for iver.

Noo there's Bob Chambers an' Harry Clasper.
Ne two in a boat thor can pull faster,
On the Tyne etc.
Then there's Winship an' awd Harry's son Jack,
These fower agyen the world aw'll back.
On the Tyne etc.

We sailed frae Blaydon wi fire bricks loadin,
Smash! aw believe maw feyther's doatin,
On the Tyne etc.
For he ran agrund at Skinners' Burn,
So we lost wor tide an' had te lie till morn,
On the Tyne etc.

Thor's a new steamboat they call'd the Cowan,
For the Tyne Commissioners ye'll find her towin,
On the Tyne etc...
She's always towin ballast keels,
Loaded wi' the dredger doon at Sheels,
On the Tyne etc.

Noo aw've joined the Blaydon rifle cor,
Ti guard wor canny Tyneside shore,
On the Tyne, etc..
Wi' Armstrang's guns we'll lick them bonny,
An' wor heed commander's coffee Johnny,
On the Tyne etc...

Noo maw wife leef'd servant at Blaydon Burn,
Aw married her at Whickham church one morn,
On the Tyne etc.
In Robson Street we leeve tigether,
Aw work in the keel alang win her feythere,
On the Tyne etc...

-Geordie Ridley
 

Aw had a dream the uthe neet when everything was still,
Aw thowt aw saw the rifles gan on the moor te drill;
Aw thowt aw saw Clinton's model band playin' the Young Recruit,
And Sir John Fife givben his men a walk oot.

Chorus-
Three cheers for STANLEY'S  lang may he shine!
For iv a'  the concerts i' the toon thor's nyen can lick the TYNE.

Aw thowt aw saw Armstrong's Engineers, wi' thor red jackets they luk neat.
They war' gan te meet the Gateshead corps along Blackett Street;
Then there was Allhuesson's fra' Shouth Shore,
Wi' tho white belts aroond them, they're a vary smart corps.

Aw thow't aw saw the Noodles bould led on by Tommy Carr,
and the kids they wor cryin' ye darnet gan te war!
Thor was one fell off his horse and was cover'd ower wi' mud,
He cried like ony bairn when his nose it started blood.

Aw thowt aw went te STANLEY'S  just to spend an hour,
An aw saw Tom Hanford dein the Black Cure,
He sung Aud Bob Ridley, and danced wi' the clogs:
James cam' on wi' Joe and Tommy, then the Monkeys nad the Dogs.

Aw thowt aw saw James Hodge, that' him that plays the base,
and the second fiddlere te, noo he's in the reet place:
Bob sanderson play'd sum nice airs wi' Aleck on the flute,
And Alek says to Carley Coutts Will ye stand a gill of stout?

Noo thor's Stevenson's lads and Hawthorn's they're vary often here.
Mary Hawks' lads and Abbot's lads nivor want thor beer,
Thor's scores flocks fra' the Railway shops, and Morrison's luikin' on,
the glass-hoose lads, they blaw pipes lang, but Armstrang's number one.
-Geordy Ridley
 

Tuther Saturday neet aw saw a grand foot race,
Alang at the Victoria grund,
Between tout Foster and Joe Hogg,
And the stake was fifty pund;
Thor was lots of cheps gettin on their bets,
Thor was little odds on Tout.
The cabs wor stannin at the gate,
Aw saw Joe Hogg luik oot:--

Chorus:
An' aw says Gan on, Joe, maw canny lad,
Thou hes a cliver style,
Ye'll lick the Tout, withoot a doot,
This quarter of a mile.

The gate was opened--and sic a rush,
Thor wes hundreds flockin in,
An' Jimmy Reay amang the crood,
Says--HOGGY'S  sure ti win,
Hoo can he loss? says Jimmy Dodds--
The Ship will float the neet!
Says Markey Hall--we'll hav a rare blaw oot,
Wi' tripe nad haggish meat.

The first iver HOGGY  ran,
It was wi' one the name o'  GILLY,
Up at the Grapes for five aside,
His backers drove him silly;
and aw mind he won a handicap,
And a hurdle race likewise;
and at the Easter wrestlin last year.
He pull'd off the first prize.

He lick'd one o' the name o' MILLER  twice,
And PHILLIPSON  in Newcassel!
And a deed heat he ran GEORDY WILDBORE.
Noo he there thor eyes did dazzel:
the here's success ti Hogg, Rowan and White,
And Belley tee likewise,
Frae ten miles tiv a quartere,
Gateshead can all the world surprise.

Noo HOGGY  had a trainer bould,
Tom Morvel was his nyem,
They tuik their breethins at Primrose Hill,
On the Friday need cam hyem;
Man, Joe he luik'd vary fit,
He seem'd ti be runnin fast,
And when he won, their Neddy sung--
Joe, we've put it on at last.
-Geordie Ridley
 

Oh cheps aw's turn'd a cabman noo, aw stand in St. Nicholas' Square,
So if ye want te hire a one, yor sure te find me there,
Aw've a gud awd horse for gannin', he's a gudun up the banks,
Ye see maw number's twenty-two, aw drive for tommy Shanks.

Chorus-
So if ye want te hire a cab, just call at St. Nicolas' Square,
Ye see maw number's twenty two, yor sure te find me there.

If ye see me at Newcassel races just gi' yorsel a treat,
Aw'll drive ye frae the monument and away alang Blackett Street;
Aw flee past aw the uther cabs, not a minute will aw wait,
Aw shoot cheps are ye gannin up? aw'll tip ye the winner of the plate.

Aw oft get a job at a bowling match, and sumtimes a footrace,
That's ran at the Victoria grund, smash man aw like that place;
'Cas de ye see aw haud the bets, aw gets sixpence te the pund,
And lends the cheps maw whup, ye knaw, te clear away the grund.

Ye shud see me aboot the hirin' time, when servants leeve their place,
Aw's sure to get a job fra' them, aw've sic a winnin' face,
Aw puts thor boxes on the top; if she's a canny lass,
She'll giv us a shilling for maw job and sixpence te get a glass.

Thor's two busses runs te Blaydon noo, and one up the Windmill Hills,
For aw thor opposhun us cabbys we leeve still;
and when aw gets a swell in drunk that leeves up West Parade,
Aw charge him a bob when he gets in and swears he's niver paid.

At funerals, weddins, or chrisnens, aw like sic jobs as these,
Cas de ye see aw gets a rare blaw oot wi' rum an' breed an' cheese,
And if aw get a weddin job which vary oft aw de,
Ye shud see me winkin' at the bride, then the bride she'll wink at me.

-Geordy Ridley

Maw nyem it is Jack Spencer,
Aw hawk aboot the toon.
Aw try ti' keep yor sporrits up
When ye are lettin them gan doon;
Aw'm not like the priests that preach,
And tells ye hoo te get ti heaven,
Aw patter hard yor hearts ti cheer,
And get an honest livin.

Spoken- Black Combs, Side Combs, Ear Rings, Breast Pins, Steel Pens!

Chorus:
Cock-a-doodle-dow, cock -a - doodle-doodle,
Cock-a doodle-dow, cock-a doodle-doodle.

Aw used ti try the peep-show dodge,
But that suin turned oot stale,
And then a quack doctor aw turned,
The flats aw used ti nail;
But one day a bobby he nailed me
For stannin in the street,
And ti the manors he tuik me up,
And kept me there all neet.

Aw gets oot the next morning,
An' gans up ti Clayton Street,
Aw call'd inti Young's the sign o' the Clock,
An' maw box was there all ret!
Aw there falls in wi' Adam Scott,
An each of us had a glass of whisky;
Adam danced a hornpipe fine,
Mesel, aw sung the Bay of Biscay.

The servant lass she says ti me--
Aw say, John, d'ye want a wife?
No! no! says aw, d'ye think aw'm fond,
Or tired of maw life,--
Says aw, thor's mair gets married noo
Then what can manage to keep gud houses,
An' when we are working hard for brass,
Wi' yor nibers ye gan an' boozes.

Aw used ti follow a nice young lass,
She leev'd up Westgate hill,
Aw used ti take her ower the moor
ti see the rifles drill;
Oft ti Tynemouth in her Sunday out,
Aw've seen us byeth sail doon the Tyne,
We'd cum up agyen wi' the eight train,
An' get her in tiv her place at nine.

So noo aw think aw'll cut me stick,
Aw've teld ye all what aw hev been,
An lang may Victoria leeve.
That is ye knaw wor canny Queen!
And lang may the soup kitchen stand
For ivery working man an' woman,
And aw hope it'll not be lang
Before we see the gud time cumin'.
-Geordy Ridley
 

Newcastle Celebrities
Air- Nothing More

Thi day aw thowt aw'd hev a walk, aw wandered doon the quay,
Aw met Henwife Jack an' Ranter, they wor as drunk as they cud be:
They had just cum oot the Custom Hoose alang wi fishwives mony a score
Shootin buy maw caller herrin, hinny, an' aw'll ask for nothing more.

Awd Cuckoo Jack he's deed an gyen, sum called him a knave,
He saved mony a muther's bairn fra' hevin a watery grave;
Deed bodies he got mony a one just doon by the North Shore,
If ye paid Cuckoo for his labour, he wad ask for nothing more.

Dickey Granger's hooked it te, he must hev been a strange creature,
Te build sic streets as Grey Street an' sic a fine Theatre:
If they only had but let him leeve ti the age of fower score,
He wad finished Stephenson's monument, an' wad ask for nothing more.

There's Sir William Airmstrang, knighted by the Queen,
For makin' these guns for government, thor like was niver seen:
An' sud a foreign foe cum here ti invade wor canny shore,
If we get the Airmstrang on we wad ask for nothing more.

Ye'll all knaw Harry Clasper, he's an honour te wor Tyne,
For pullin boats and buildin them, he can all the rest ootshine:
Thor's Chambers, Winship and little Jack will join in a fower oar,
If we only mill the cocknies we'll ask for nothing more.

There's the porter pokemen that works upon the kee,
They are the cheps for jokin, an' they oft get on the spree;
They are all concert ganners, for singin they de adore,
Giv' them a fair day's wage an' a fair day's wark an' they'll ask for nothing more.

-Geordy Ridley

Aw'm gawn te tell ye aboot a race
That cum off som time back.
Bitween one Summers and Bullerwell,
This Summers was all thi crack,
Thi race was at thi Victoria grund,
They said Summers was gawn ti flee,
Says Bob aw cum frae Blaydon,
And ye'll not get ower me.

Noo when they both got at ti scratch,
Summer's backers they did chaff,
But Bob knawin' his little game
Did nowt butstand and laff,
When Bob's backers got thor money on,
Summers wanted thi start d'ye see,
But says Bob aw cum frae Blaydon,
And ye'll not get ower me.

Noo off they went wi Bob in front,
Summer's backers went near mad,
They said that they cud esely wun
If he hadn't tyekin bad.
Noo away Bob went an' got the stakes,
and then they had a spree,
Says Bob aw'm frae the country,
An' ye'l not get ower me.

Noo away we gans ti thi station,
And tyuk the half-past sevin train,
Then off we went ti Blaydon
Ti the sign of the Rifleman,
An' there we all sat fuddlin',
We had a first rate spree,
Says Bob aw cum frae Blaydon,
And ye'll not get ower me.

Then here's success to Bullerwell,
May he always be weel backed,
An' lang may Blaydon flourish,
Since they've passed the Local Act,
And here's success ti thi workin' man,
May he niver want a frind d'ye see,
So lads aw've sung ye maw song.
And ye'll get nee mair frae me.

-Geordy Ridley
 

Now ye've heard of Teasdale Wilson,
He's a keelman doon the shore,
They call him the City Champion,
'Caws they nivor had one before,
For a Keel or in a Coble
He'll give ony man a race,
For five, and twenty pund aside
An' toss for choice of place.

Chorus-
Now he's a Sandgit lad,
The bloomin' City Champion,
So lads noo get yor money on,
Ye may depend upon,
Wheniver he rows he always goes
The whole Hog or none.

Aw mind he rowed a coble race
Wi' Hopey doon at Blyth,
that race was for a hundred pund,
To win Hopey hard did strive;
But the Sandgit cheps they shooted hard,
When the wind blew Teasdale about,
and the Porter-pokemen aw did say,--
He's the gamest lad that's out.

Aw mind when he rowed Matfin,
Now this agyen he won;
Ye'd died a laffin' had ye been there
And ony seen the fun,
As Matfin he fell out of his boat
When he was two lengths forst,
When Teasdale turn'd 'tis said,
He laffed till he nearly borst.

He licked little Dickey Clasper,tee,
This caused agreet sensation,
'Twas tow to one on Dick that day,
For that there was no 'casion;
Mind Dickey took the lead at forst,
'An when they got to the shot tower,
Teasdale shut away a-heed,
Now isn't he a Cure.

Aw can tell ye plenty mair he licked,
But aw think aw'l cut me stick,
They presented him wiv a watchand chain,
An' aw hope to that he'll stick;
So lang may Teasdale flourish,
an' to win he'll always strive,
The Sandgate cheps they all declare
He's the gamest lad alive.

-Geordy Ridley
 
 

The uther day we went to Tinmuth,
Some mair young cheps and me,
An' the first place that we called in
Was the Cottage by the Sea.
There was a young lass sitting,
They called her Nancy Till,
She was axin' Aud Bob Ridley
To gan an' hev a gill.

Chorus-
Oh, ye lasses all, the truth aw'll tell ye hinny
Tyneside's the place where the lasses are se bonny,
An' if ever aw get married,
There's a Sheels lass for me.

Now in cum Billy Pattison
Alang wi' Minnie Clyde,
He said, just Wait for the Waggon,
An'ye'll all get a ride.
Then in cum Annie Laurie,
Alang wi' Robin Grey
The Jolly Waggoner brought in Doran's Ass,
To tyek the waggon away.

Then in comes Peter Gray
Wi Rosalie the Prairee Flower,
An' the Young Man from the Country
Alang wi' the Perfect Cure.
Next in comes Nelly Gray
She was singin' Dixey's Land,
And Widow Machree was cryin'
Oh! Tis hard ti give the Hand.

Then in cum the Artful Dodger,
He was on the Low Back'd Car,
He was gan ti Limerick Races,
Wi' Pat of Mullingar.
Then in comes Gentle Annie,
She was singin' Ole King Cole,
Pat Murphy, he was thre tee,
Just come from the Old Bog Hole.

The Young Man from the Country
Was sittin' on the floor,
He said if he'd a Ragged Coat
He'd Ask for Nothing More.
There is a Flower that Bloometh,
'Tis the Last Rose of Summer;
Ben Bolt cried from the Old Arm Chair,
What's a' the Steer, Kimmer.

The next aw saw John Barleycorn,
He was there wi' Nelly Bly,
She sung My own, my Guiding Star,
And No Irish need Apply.
Now it was So early in the Morning,
That we heard the Postman's Knock,
Then we all sang God save the Queen,
An' the Company up was broke.

-Geordie Ridley

George Stephenson was as great a man
As any in the North;
Ye'll find his Monument stannin' now
In a place it's near the Forth:
He was a poor body's bairn,
And he used to drive a gin,
An' at neets he'd mend the nebor's shoes
His daily bread to win.

Chorus:
Three cheers for Seephenson,
George and Robert Stephenson,
Long may their names be heard
On the Banks of the Coaly Tyne.

Goerge once got a Fireman's job,
He had fourteen shilling a-week.
An' next he got a Brakesman's job,
He then for a wife did seek;
He married one Fanny Henderson,
Her fether was a working man,
An' Robert he was ther only, son,
The cleverest in the land.

Ye shud oney see thor little thatch hoose,
'aside Wylam waggon-way,
the walls were plastered up wi' clarts,
An' the flors war now't but clay.
There was three glass panes for windows,
An' the rest war myed o' wood,
Now there stands a forst-rate beeldin'
Where the aud thatch hoose once stood.

The first locomotive that he myed,
the Rocket she was ca'd,
He said she'd run ten miles an hour,
The folks thow't he'd gyen mad.
These days there was ne iron rails,
Thewaggon-ways were wood,
He said she'd run as hard agyen,
And they said she never could.

Now George he suen left Newburn,
For he knew he was reet clivor;
He shifted doon to Willington Quay,
that's ten miles doon the river.
He invented a steam ballast crane,
Which got him a greet nyem,
The aud ballast crane is stannin' yet,
At least aw'm told the syem.

Now ye see how clivor a man may be,
Tho's he's brought up very poor,
And Robert he was as clivor a man
As ivor liv'd aw'm sure;
Now think on what aw've telled ye, lads,
An' always keep't in min'
An' try to be a Stephenson,
two o' the cliverest men o' Tyne.

-Geordie Ridley
 

Now lads ye've heerd of Chambers,
He's bet the Asstrilyen Green,
For pullin a skiff there is ne doot
He's the best ther's ivor been.
He has regular locomotiv ' speed,
He's upreet, honest, and true,
Wheniver he pulls wiv a pair ov sculls
Aw puts on ivory screw!

Chorus-
Ohh, ye Cockneys all,
Ye mun think't very funny,
for Bob he gans and licks ye all,
An collars all aw yor money,
Whenivor he rows he always goes
The whole hog or none.

Aw hear when Bob was nine year aud,
He oft played the wag frae skull;
He oft wad steel a boat away,
An gan an hev a pull.
Hees fether often tanned hees hide,
But Bob he didn't care,
Now, fether, he says  if ye dinnat bray's
Am sure aw'll did ne mair

Bob struggled hard fra been a bairn
Fore he got to what hee's now.
He pudled iv walker Rowlin Mill
But he's bull'd heessel safe throu';
An aw hope each job he tyeks in hand
Hee'l always hev fair play,
An think a number one--that is--
Never give a chance away.

Now when Bob and Green they pulled thor match,
This green luik'd very wild,
He tuik the lead of Bob at forst
Till they got abyun a mile.
Burt harry gov Bob gthe office then,
Saying aw'l lay ten to ite,
The Reporter of the Chronicle said
That Greeny then turned white.

Now Bob hee's licked byeth Green and white,
And Kelly, an' Everson and aw,
An Cooper put the Mackey on,
And stopped the Cockney's craw.
This Green wad fain row Bob agyn,
But aud Harry he wants a bigger stake,
For they munna think to catch him asleep
For he's always wide awake.

Tyek Bob all in all, as Shakespere says,
We'll ne'eer see his like agyen,
He waddant de an unjust thing
To hurt poor working men;
Win if he can, it is his plan,
so get yor money on,
For whenivor he shows he always goes
The whole hog or none.

-Geordie Ridley

Great was the consternation, amazement, and dismay, sir,
Which both in North and South shields, prevail'd the other day, sir;
Quite panic-struck the nativeswere, when told by the Barber,
That a terrible Sea Monster had got into the harbour!
Now each honest man in Shields--I mean both North and South, sir,
Delighting in occasions to expand their eyes and mouth, sir;
And, fond of seeing marv'loust sights, ne'er staid to get his beard off;
But ran to view the Monster, its arrival when he heard of.
Oh! who could think of shaving when inform'd by the barber,
That a terrible Sea Monster had got into the harbour.

Each wife pursu'd her husband, and every child its mother,
Lads and lasses, helter skelter, scamper'd after one another;
Shopkeepers and mechanics too, forsook their daily labours,
And ran to gape and stare among their gaping, staring neighbours.
All crowded to the river side, when told by the Barber,
That a terrible Sea Monster had got into the harbour.
It happens very frequently that Barber's news is fiction, sir,
But the wond'rous newsthis morning was truth, no contradiction, sir;
Something sure enough was there, among the billows flouncing,
Now sinking in the deep profound, now on the surface bouncing.

True as Gazette or Gospel were the tidings of the Barber,
That a terrible Sea Monster had got into the harbour.
Some thought it was a Shark, sir; a Porpus some conceiv'd it;
Some swore it was a Sea Horse, then own'd themselves mistaken,
for, now they'd got a nearer view--'twas certainly a Kraken.
Each sported his opinion from the Parson to the Barber
Of the terrible Sea Monster they'd gotten in the harbour.
Belay, belay! a sailor cried, What that, this thing a Kraken!
Tis more like one, split my jib! than it is a flitch of bacon!
I've often seen a hundred such, all sporting in the Nile, sir,
And you may trust a sailor's word, it is a Crocodile, sir.

Each straight to Jack knocks under, from the Parson to the Barber,
And all agreed a Crocodile had got into the harbour,
Yet greatly Jack's discovery his auditors did shock sir,
For they dreaded that the Salmon would be eat up by the Croc, sir;
When presently the Crocodile, their consternation crowning,
Rais'd it's head abovethe waves, and cried, Help! O Lord, I'm drowning!
Heavens! how their hair, sir, stood on end, from the Parson to the Barber,
To find a speaking Crocodile had got into the harbour.
This dreadful exclamation appall'd both young and old, sir.
In the very stoutest hearts, indeed, it made the blood run cold, sir;
Ev'n Jack, the hero of the Nile, it caus'd to quake and tremble,
Until an old wife, sighing, cried, Alas! 'tis Stephen Kremble!

Heav'ns! how they all astonish'd were, from the Parson to the Barber,
To find that Stephen Kremble was the Monster in the harbour.
Straight Crocodilish fears gave place to manly gen'rous strife, sir,
Most willingly each lent a hand to save poor Stephen's life, sir;
They dragg'd him gasping to the shore, impatient for his history,
For how he came in that sad plight, to them was quite a mistery.
Tears glisten'd, sir, in every eye, from the Parson to the Barber,
When swoln to thrice his natural size, they dragg'd him from the harbour.
Now having roll'd and rubb'd him well an hour upon the beach, sir,
He got upon his legs again, and made a serious speech,sir;
Quoth he, An ancient proverb says, and true it will be found, sirs,
Those born to profe an airy doom will surely ne'er be drown'd sirs:
 

For Fate, sirs, has us all in tow, from the Monarch to the Barber,
Or surely I had breat'd my last this morning in the harbour.
Resolv'd to cross the river, sirs, a sculler did i get into
May Johna's evil luck be mine, another when I step into
Just when we reach'd the deepest part, O horror! there it flounders,
And down went poor Pilgarlick amongst the crabs and flounders,
But Fate, that keeps us all in tow, from the Monarch to the Barber,
Ordain'd I should not breathe my last this morning in the harbour.
I've broke down many a stage coach, and many a chaise and gig, sirs;
Once, in passing through a trap-hole, I found myself too big, sirs;
I've been circumstanc'd most oddly, while contesting a hard race, sirs,
But ne'er was half so frighten'd as among the Crabs and Plaice, sirs.
O Fate, sirs keeps us all in tow, from the Monarch to the Barber,
Or certainly I'd breath'd my last this morning in the harbour.

My friends, for your exertions, my heart o'erflows with gratitude,
O may it prove the last time you find me in that latitude;
God knows with what mischances dire the future may abound, sirs,
But I hope and trust I'm one ofthose not fated to be drown'd sirs.
Thus ended his oration, I had it from the Barber;
And dripping, like some River god, he slowly left the harbour.
Ye men of North and South shields too, God send you all prosperity!
May your commerce ever flourish, your stately ships still crowd the sea:
-J. Shield--In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 

Let Wombwell, James, and a' the pack
Iv yelpin' curs, beef-eaters,
Ne mair about Bonasses crack,
Them queer, outlandish creturs.
Be dumb, ye leeing, yammering hounds,
Nor wi' yor claves flas us,
For seun aw'll prove wor canny town
Can boast its awn Bonassus.

It chanc'd when honest Bell was Mayor,
And gat each poor man's blessin--
When cheps like G--e, and Tommy C--r
Gat monny a gratis lesson;
Then Bell refus'd to stand agyen,
Tir'd iv the situation,
And ne awd wife wadtyek the chain
Iv a' wor Corporation.

The folks iv Shields has lang begrug'd
The Custom-house beside us;
This was the time, they reetly judg'd,
To come sae fine langside us:
They had a chep, W--t was his nyem,
To poor folk rather scurvy,
They sent him up wor heeds to kyem,
And turn us topsy turvy.

He seum began to show his horns,
And treat the poor like vasals--
He sent the apple wivesto mourn
A month iv wor awd Cassel.
the timber marchants will ne mair
Wiv ten-a-penny deave us--
They swear iv W--t's to be wor Mayor,
That i' the dark they'll leave us.

The drapers next he gov a gleece,
'Bout their unruly samples--
Bound ower the cloutsto keep the peace,
Wiv strings to the door stanchells.
The tatee-market, iv a tift-
(Ye heuxters a' resent it!
My sarties! but that was a shift,)
To the Parade Ground sent it.

Ye gowks, frae Shields ye've oft slipt up,
When ye had little 'casion,
To see wor snobs their capers cut,
Or Geordy's Coronation;
Now altogether come yence mair,
Wor blissins shall attend ye,
If ye'll butridus o' wor Mayor,
Iv hackneys back we'll send ye.

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

Now, Geordy, my lad, sit as mute as a tyed,
An' aw'll tell ye 'bout Chain Brig at's gaun to be myed;
Aw'll begin at the furst, an' gan on till aw cum
To the end o' my story--and then aw'll be deun.
Some folks tell a plain, simple story at times,
But aw'm nothing like them, aw tell a' things iv rhyumes.
Smash, Geordy, sit quiet--keep in thaw great toes,
An' aw'll gan as straight forrat as waggoners goes.

Wey, ye see, the folks thought, i' gaun over the water,
'Stead o' crossing wi' boats, at a brig wad be better;
So the gentlemen gather'd a great congregation,
The syem as folks de at the heed o' the nation;
Then they some things brought forrat, an' some they put back,
So they sattled a Brig sud be built iv a crack.
'Twasn't lang efter this, aw gat haud if a paper,
Tell'd the size ist should be, just as nice as a taper.

How! says aw to mysel, but they haven't been lang,
Dash! a fellow like me may stite myek up a sang,
Or some such like thing-- just to myek a bit fun:
So it's ne seuner said that it's cleverly deun.
Folks thought me a genius when first aw was born--
But what is aw deein?--aw mun tell ye  the form
O' this said Iron Brig 'at aw's talking aboot,
When aw pull up me breeches, and blaw out me snout.

Huge abutments o' styen, aw think they are call'd--
When aw com to that word aw was avarry near pall'd;
On each side o' the river yen o' thor things is myed,
To fit intiv a hole they howk out wiv a spyed.
Frae the tops o' thor pillars to the edge o' the banks,
Varry strang iron chains, myed o' wrought iron links,
Hingin' ower the house-tops o' byeth sides o' the river,.
Thor chains is continued frae pillar to pillar.

Frae the big'uns is hung some inferior in length,
To the bottom of which a foundation of strength
Is first, wrought wi' iron and cover'd wi' styen,
Then surmounted wi' railing--it's deun, skin and byen.
Now, Geordy, what de ye think ov it, my lad?-
Wey, speak--what's the maiter--or ye tyen varry bad?
Or extonishment is it that's sew'd up yor mouth?
But aw divent much wonder, so aw'll tell the real trugh.

Aw wonderwor owners disn't see into it,
And myek a Chain Brig for to gan down wor pit.
A! man, but it's cliver--it's use 'ill be great;
For to what lad o' Shields wad the thought not be sweet,
To cross ower the water without danger or fear,
As aw've monny a time deun i' gawn ower the Wear.
When we cross ower the water i' boats we're in danger,
But the hazard is warse tiv a man 'at's a stranger.

While this hang'd ugly sailing o' packets survives,
We're in very great danger o' losing wor lives.
But it's ne use to tell the unnumber'd disasters
Which happen to 'prentices, workmen, and masters,
On crossing the Tyne i' them sma' sculler boats,
Or ony thing else on the water that floats.
At ony rate, the Chain Brig is a fair safer plan,
And would save mony lives-contradict it whe can!

Besides ye knaw, Geordy, it's easier and better
For the Canny folks 'at leaves on the banks o' the water.
To walk straight afore them 'stead o' gaun doon the street,
And when the're iv a hurry running doon a' they meet,
Forbye being kept myest an hour in suspense,
By cairts, that sometimes myek a plague of a fence,
Then the folks are a' stopt, tho' they be iv a hurry.
Now, ye blithe lads o' Shields, let it be a' yor glory,

To get this Chain Brig rear'd on high in the air,
Then we'll hae to soom aman steam-boats ne mair
Smash their great clumsy wheels! aw like nyen o' their wark,
They once cowpt me owerboard, an' aw was wet to the sark;
But catch me gaun ony mair near them again--
If aw de, say aw divent belang Collingwood Main!
Oliver-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 
 

In Britain's blest island there runs a fine river,
Far fam'd for the ore it conveys from the mine:
Northumbria's pride, and that district doth sever
From Durham's rising hills, and 'tis called--the Tyne.

Chorus-
Flow on, lovely Tyne, undisturb'd be thy motion,
Thy sons hold the threats of proud France in distain;
As long as thy waters shall mix with the ocean,
The fleets of Old England will govern the main.

Other rivers for fame have by poets been noted
In many a soft-sounding musical line;
But for sailors and coals never one was yet quoted,
Could vie with the choicest of rivers--the Tyne.

When Collingwood conquer'd our foes so completely,
And gain'd a fine laurel, his brow to entwine;
In order to manage the matter quite neatly,
Mann'd his vessel with tars  from the banks of the Tyne.

Thou dearest of rivers, oft-times have I wander'd
Thy margin along when oppress'd sore with grief,
And thought of thy stream, as it onward meander'd.
The murmuring melody gave me relief.

From the fragrant wild flowers that blow on they border,
The playful Zephyrus oft steals an embrace,
And curling thy surface in beauteous order,
The willows bend forward to kiss thy clear face.

One favour I crave--O kind fortune befriend me!
When downhill I totter, in Nature's decline--
A competent income-- if this thou wilt send me,
I'll dwindle out life on the banks of the Tyne.

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

The Spring
Written early in May, 1809

Now the gay feather'd train, in each bush,
Court their mates, and love's melody sing--
The blackbird, the linnet, and thrush,
Make the echoing valleys to rong.

The bird with the crimson-dy'd breast,
From the hamlet has made his remove,
To join his love-song with the rest,
And woo his fond mate in the grove.

The lark, high in ether afloat,
Each morn, as he ushers the day,
Attunes his wild-warbling throat,
And sings his melodious lay.

Yon bank lately cover'd with snow,
Now smiles in the spring's bloomy pride;
And the sweet-scented primroses grow
Near the streamlet's sweet gurgling tide.

To the banks of the Tyne we'll away,
And view the enrapturing scene,
While Flora, the goddess of May,
With her flow'rets bespangles the green.

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

Good people, if you'll pay attention,
I'll tell you a comical jest;
The theme I'm about now to mention
Alludes to one Malthus, a priest--
A proud, hypocritical preacher,
Who feds on thithe-pig and good wine;
But him I shall prove a false teacher--
Oh, all things have but a time.

Some years ago, through all the nation,
He publish'd a scandalous book--
An Essay about Population
But widely his text he mistook.
From marriage his plan's to restrain all
Poor people who are in their prime,
Lest the earth prove too small to contain all--
Such notions can last but a time.

But the Clergy who're plac'd in snug station,
The Nobles, and such like fine folks,
May continue their multiplication--
What think you, my friends of such jokes?
What think you of Malthus the Parson,
Who slights each injunction divine,
And laughs while he carries the farce on;--
But all things have but a time.

When the poor folk of hunger are dying,
He deems it no sin in the great,
Their hands to with-hold from supplying
The wretched with victuals to eat!
Such doctrine--sure a great evil--
Becomes not a Christian Divine;
'Tis more like the speech of the devil;--
But all things have but a time.

Now, my friends, you will readily see
Malthus's argument's not worth a curse;
For to starve the industrious bee,
Is no better than killing the goose.
That he does not believe in the Bible,
His book is a very true sign;
On Sacred Writ 'tis a libel--
Siuch trash can last but for a time.

Place the drones on one part of our isle,
The industrious class on the other;
There the former may simper and smile,
And bow and scrape each to his brother:
They can neither plough, throw the shuttle,
Nor build with stone and lime;
They'll then get but little to guttle,
And may grow wiser in time.

Ye blithe British hads and ye lasses,
Ne'er heed this daft, whimsical Priest;
Get sweethearts in spite of such asses--
The Bible Plan sure is the best:
Then away go in couples together,
And marry while you're in yoiur prime,
And strive to agree with each other,
For life only lasts a short time!

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

I, when a child, for trinket ware
Would often cry to mam and daddie;
With other trifles, from the fair,
Dad brought me once a Peter Waggy.

Fine dolls, and many things forby,
A gilded coach and little naggie;
But oh, the darling of my eye,
Was little dancingf Peter Waggy!

Love of such trifles time destroys--
At length each well-grown lass and laddie
Seeks to be pleas'd with other toys,
Some other sort of Peter Waggy.

A lover came to me at last,
In courting me he ne'er grew faggy;
Now he and I are buckled fast--
He is my darling Peter Waggy.

We've got a boy of beauty rare
A credit to his mam and daddie;
When I go to Newcastle Fair,
I'll buy my child a Peter Waggy.

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

In Cramlington we've bonnie lasses enow,
With cheeks red as roses, and eyes black or blue;
But Bessy of Blyth I love better than onie--
My heart is still there with my own dear honey.

My uncle says, Robin, why sure you are mad,
To slight Suky Swan--she's worth money, my lad!
Dear uncle, says I, I'll ne'er marry for money,
And none will I have  but my own dear honey.

Her face I compare to the blush of the morn,
Her breath to the scent of the fresh-blossom'd thorn;
For virtue and sense she's not equall'd by monie--
Few, few can compare with my own dear honey.

As in this world of care there is nought we approve,
Compar'd to the faithful good wife that we love;
To sweeten life's sorrow, the gall mix with honey,
I'll wed my dear Bess, and a fig for their money.

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

To Kelvin Grove we'll go, bonnie laddie, O,
Where the sweetest floweres grow, bonnie laddie, O;
With my true-love by my side,
Of a' the floweers the pride,
I'd wander the warld wide, bonnie laddie, O.

When the throstle hails the morn, bonnie laddie, O,
We'll wander by the burn, bonnie laddie, O;
And we'll rest in the alcove,
In bonny Kelvin Grove,
Where first I told my love to my laddie, O.

When thou leav'st thy native home, bonnie laddie, O.
With thee I mean to roam, bonnie laddie, O;
I'll watch thee in the fight,
and guard thee day and night,
That no mishap alight-on my laddie, O.

In the fatal battle-field, bonnie laddie, O,
Shouldst thou thy spirit yield, bonnie laddie, O--
When thy een are clos'd in death,
I'll sigh my latest bereath,
And one grave shall hold us baith, bonnie laddie, O.

But kind should Fortune prove, bonnie laddie, O,
And spare us baith to love, bonnie laddie, O:
By the stream again we'll rove,
In bonny Kelvin Grove,
And frae hame nae mair remove, dearest laddie, O.
 

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

written in 1824.

O Watson! O Watson! what are you about?
What have you been doing to cause such a rout?
Tis said you've been giving the Clergy a clout;
Which nobody does deny.

O stop! Watson stop! O whither?--say whither
Directs your bold genius?--'twould seem you choose rather
To hammer the Parsons, instead of bend leather;
At starting you were not shy.

What tho' the good Clergy for long time have got,
At Easter, fat putllets to put in their pot,
And ta'en from the people full many a groat,
Yet why into this should you pry?

Of matters relating to Church or to State,
'Tis surely not fit you should trouble your pate;
Yet still you keep thumping, with spirit elate,
As if you would maul the whol fry.

I'd have you respect more the Lord's own anointed,
Who over your conscience to rule are appointed,
And to whom pigs and pullets are sent to be jointed,
And other good things forby.

Repent, then, and quickly pay your Easter Dues,
And to guiileless Parsons give no more abuse,
Or spiritual comfort to you the'll refuse,
and this may cause you to sigh!

For things are so chang'd since you range them a peal,
That the Clerk seems afraid through our parish to speel;
For he's look'd on no better than one come ot steal,
Which nobody can deny.

The clerk of St. John's, that he might have good luck
Employ'd a brave Noodle, whose nick-name is Pluck,
To collect Easter-ence; but the people had struck
Few, few, were brought to comply.

Now the Parsons to you attach all the blame,
O Watson, for saying they had no just claim!
Thus you've brought on yourself their holy disdain,
Yet you'll fill a niche in the Temple of Fame,
Which nobody will deny.

*Peter Watson of Chester-le-Street, Shoemaker--This person for some time, laudably exerted himself to oppose the claims of the
government Clergy to what are  called Easter dues or offerings; and by a powerful appeal to the public, succeeded in convincing
many that such claims were equally oppressive and unjust, and founded neither in the law nor the gospel.--The late
worthy Vicar of Newcastle, Mr. John Smith, actuated with the generous  feelings of a Man and a Christian, and with due deference
to public opinion, restrained the clergy in his jurisdiction from collecting these Exactions during the latter
years of his life.  To him, therefore, and to Peter Watson, in particular, who aroused the  public attention to the subject, the inhabitants
of Newcastle are indebted for being relieved from this  odious, unjust, and oppressive Clerical tax.

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

While Europe rejoices at Bonny's defeat,
And Cossacks pursue him o'er plain and o're hill,
On the banks of the Tyne, in a quiet retreat,
I'll write you a ballad about the new Mill.
To be built by subscription, of famous description;
Ye pale-fac'd mechanics, come join in the club,
Whose bowels are yearning at ev'ning and morning,
And you will get plenty of cheap, wholesome grub.

The millers their spite have already display'd,
And dusty-mouth'd Meal-mongers pettish are grown,
That a plan should be thought of to injure their trade,
A mill that will grind for one half of the town;
Where joyful, you'll hie, for wheat or for rye--
There some trusty fellow your meal-bags will fill;
No mixture of chalk* your intestines to caulk,
but plain, honest dealing practis'd at the Mill.

There's Puff-cake, the baker, too cries out Alack!
If this plan should succeed, I'll have customers few;
And he whinges and whines as he sets up his back
To twirl his long rolling-pin over the dough;
The theme he resumes, with vexation he fumes,
And deems the projector a deep-scheming elf;
His customers gone, he'll soon be undone,
His mixture compound he may swallow himself.

Of Gripe-grain, the corn-factor, much could be sung,
And of Broad-brim, the Quaker, a guilt spotted blade,
Who both in a halter deserves to be strung,
For the housands they've starv'd by the forestalling trade:
But some future time may produce a new rhyme,
Wherein I propose their true features to draw;
Meanwhile ev'ry man give his aid to the plan,
And there'll soon be a down-coming market-Huzza!
 

About the month of Novermber, 1813 (according to the Courier newspaper) a victualler
for the Navy was convicted in adulterating the biscut with chalk and Portland stone, and
suffered the penalty of a very heavy fine. The audacious fellow afterwards boasted, that
he had cleared more money by the practice than the fine amounted to.

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

There lives a nymph o'er yonder lea,
And O she is a winsome hizzie!
Her name is Lizzie Liberty,
And monie wooers has sweet Lizzie:
She sings and trips along the plain,
Free as the wind glides o'er the water;
O bonny Lizzie Liberty!
Now a' the lads wad fain be at her.

The Men o' France to her advance,
And use all arts to gain her favour:
And Spaniards bold, with hearts of gold,
Vow, if she's to be had, they'll have her;
And daft John Bull, that bleth'ring cull,
About the nymph sets up his chatter;
O bonnie Lizzie Liberty!
Now a' the lads wad fain be at her.

Braw Donald Scot steps forth, I wot,
To win the smiles of this fair lady,
And Irish Pat has promis'd that,
To woo the nymph he'll aye be steady:
Whole patriot Bands, of foreign lands,
Do fyke and fistle sair about her:
O bonnie Lizzie Liberty!
Nae happiness is felt without her.

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

Chorus-
March! march to the Dandy Fish Market!
See what our Corporation's done for you,
By pillars and paling so nobly surrounded,
And your stone tables all standing before you.

Where's there a river so fam'd in the nation?
Where's the bold tars that so well grace their station?
Coals, fish, and grindstones--we'll through the world bark it--
And now we ha'e gotten a bonny Fish Market,

Oh! did the fish ken they'd be caged like a birdie,
(Euphy, the Queen, singing, Maw canny Geordie),
They'd pop out their heads then, should ye only watch them,
And call on the fisherment sharply to catch them.

Yet all isn't right, tho'-- in time you may hear it;
One wek is past, and but one cart's come near it:
The loons above stairs preconcerted the order,
And hinder poor bodies to hawk through the border.

Gan to the coast--where's the fishermen's weeding--
Gan to the fells-- where the cuddies are feeding--
Gan to hell's kitchen--should ye have occasion--
Ye'll see hizzies drinking through spite nad vexation.

Where's Madgie's troops that so well could shout oysters?
Gon to a convent or nunnery cloisters!
Where's the wee shop, that once held Jack the Barber?
Gone to make room for the fish brought to harbour!

Then hie to the Custom-house, add to your pleasures,
Now you're well cover'd so toom the new measures:
It ne'er will be finish'd I'll wager a groat,
Till they've cut a canal to admit five-men boats!

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

God prosper long our noble king,
Our lives and safeties all!
A woeful ditty we may sing
On ev'ry fishwife's stall.

Good Magistrates, it were a sin
That we should rail at you;
Altho' the plaice you've put us in,
Is grating to our view.

If crab-bed looks we should put on,
Or flounder in a pet,
Each fishwife's tub would, very soon,
Be in the kit-ty set.

Sure we are not such simple soles,
Though in your legal net,
But we will haul you o'er the coals,
And play hot cockles yet.

The Iron ring in which we're shut,
To make the grudgeons stare,
Will not, says ev'ry scolding slut,
With her-ring e'er compare.

Then ev'ry night that duly falls,
Fresh water may be sen
All floating round our seats and stalls,
As if we had-ducks been.

But thus shell'd in , as now we are,
Within our corp'rate bounds,
Altho' we may not curse and swear,
We still may cry, Cod-sounds!

Let gentle people carp their fill,
At us, our sprees and pranks;
For tho' we're now turn'd off the Hill,
Themselves may lose their Banks.

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

To sing of some nymph in her cot,
Each bard will oft flourish his quill:
I'm glad it has fall'n to my lot,
To celebrate Jesmond Mill.

When Spring hither winds her career,
Our trees and our hedges to fill,
Vast oceans of verdure appear,
To charm you at Jesmond Mill.

To plant every rural delight,
Mere Nature has lavish'd here skill;
Here fragrant soft breezes unite,
To wanton round Jesmond Mill.

When silence each evening here dwells,
The birdes in their coverts all still;
No music in sweetness excells
The clacking of Jesmond Mill.

Reclin'd by the verge of the stream,
Or stretch'd on the side of the hill,
I'm never in want of a theme,
While learning at Jesmond Mill.

Sure Venus some plot has design'd,
Or why is my heart never still,
Whenever it pops in my mind,
To wander near Jesmond Mill.

My object, ye swains, you will guess,
If ever in love you hadskill;
And now I will frankly confess,
'Tis--Jenny of Jesmond Mill.

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

All ye whom minstrel's strains inspire,
Soft as the sighs of morning--
All ye who sweep the rustic lyre,
Your native hills adorning--
Where genius bids her rays descend
O'er blosoms deep and lonesome-
Let every heart and hand respond
The name of Tommy Thompson.

Chorus-
His spirit now is soaring bright,
And leaves us dark and dolesome;
O luckless was the fatal night
That lost us Tommy Thompson.

The lyric harp was all his own,
Each mystic art combining--
Which Envy, with unbending frown,
Might hear with unrepining.
The sweetest flower in summer blown,
Was not more blithe and joysome,
Than was the matchles, merry tone,
Which died with Tommy Thompson

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

Farewell, lovely Tyne, in thy soft murmurs flowing,
Adieu to the shades of thy mouldering towers!
And sweet be the flowers on thy wild margin growing,
And sweet be the nymphs that inhabit thy bowers!

And there shall be ties which no distance can sever,
Thou land of our fathers, the dauntless and free;
Tho' the charms of each change smile around me, yet never
Shall the sigh be inconstant that's hallow'd to thee.

Thy full orb of glory will blaze o'er each contest--
Thy sons, e'er renown'd be the dread of each foe--
Till thy tars chill with fear in the fight or the tempest,
And the pure streams of Heddon have ceas'd more to flow.

May commerce be thine--and from Tynemouth to Stella
May thy dark dingy waters auspiciously roll--
And thy lads in the keels long be jovial and mellow,
With faces as black as the keel or the coal.

O Albion! of words thou shalt e'er be the wonder,
Thy tough wooden walls, thy protection and pride,
so long as the bolts of thy cloud-rending thunder
Are hurl'd by the lads on the banks of Tyneside.

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

To that far-ken'd and wondrous place, Newcassel town,
Where each thing yen lucks at surprises,
Wiv a head full o' fancies, and heart full o' fun,
Aw'd com'd  in to see my Lord Sizes.
In byeth town and country aw glowrin' beheld
Carousin' laird, tenant, an' vassal;
On axin' the cause o' sic joy, aw was tell'd,
Twas Northumberland free o' Newcassel.

The guns frae the Cassel sent monny a peal--
My hair stood on end a' confounded--
The folks on Tyne-brig set up monny a squeel,
And the banks o' Tyneside a' resounded.
In the Mute Hall, Judge Bayley roar'd out, My poor head!--
Gan an' tell them not to myek sic a rattle.
Judge Wood cried out, No--let them fire us half dead,
Since Northumberland's free o' Newcassel!

The Duke e'er has been byeth wor glory an'pride,
For dousely he fills up his station;
May he lang live to hearten the lads o' Tyneside,
The glory and pride o' their nation.
Prave Prudhoe* triumphant shall plough the wide main,
The hash o' the Yankees he'll sattle;
and ages hereefter but sarve to proclaim
Northumberland free o' Newcassel.

May it please Heav'n to grant that the sweet Flower o' Wales, **
Wi' Northumberland's roses entwinin',
May its fragrance shed forth i' celestial gales,
In glory unceasin'ly shinin',
In defence o' wor country, wor laws, an' wor King,
May a Peercy still lead us to battle;
An' monny a brisk lad o' the nyem may there spring
Fra Northumberland, free o' Newcassel.
 

*Baron Prudhoe, of the Royal Navy
**The Duchess of Northumberland.
Robert Gilchrist-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne
 

Ye Northumberland lads and ye lasses,
Come and see what at Newcastle passes,
Here's a damnable rout,
At a tea and turn out,
And no one knows how to bring matters about.

It seems, at our summer Assizes,
(Or at least so the present surmise is)
The wife of the Mayor
Never offer'd her chair
At the Ball when the Duchess from Alnwick was there.

Then 'tis said, too, by way of addition,
To the Mayoress's turn for sediton,
That, in right of her place,
With her impudent face,
She march'd out to tea at the head of her Grace.

So our vigorous young Lord Lietennant,
Next day, when the Grand Jury were present,
Disclos'd to their view,
(In enigma, 'tis true)
The plot of the Mayoress and all her d--d crew.

When his health was propos'd as Lieutennant,
He bow'd to the company present;
Then, with tears in his eyes,
And to all their surprise,
My office, (his Grace said) too heavily lies.

I had firmly imagn'd till now, sirs,
That our county was free from all row, sirs;
But what has occurr'd
Though I shan'nt say a word,
Till the voice of yourselves and the county is heard.

All at present I wish yon to know is,
That my Duchess and Dame Lady Powis,
Have receiv'd such a blow,
That thy never can go
To your ball, at Newcastle, while things remain so.

A high rank has its weight in the nation,
If you hold it in due estimation;
Then the Duchess and I
For redress must apply,
Tho' at present I mention no name--no, not I.

All I wish is to find out your pleasures,
And hope to avoid all harsh measures;
Yet I always foresaw
This Republican jaw
Would sooner or later produce Martial Law.

Thus ended the young Lord Lieutenant,
When the terrified company present,
Cried, Name, my Lord name
Who's to blame--who's to blame;
But the Duek said, the County must smother the flame.

And the Duchess and he, the next morning,
Fulfill'd my Lord Lieutennant's warning;
Then up before day,
And to Alnwick away,
Their faces have ne'er since been seen to this day.

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