Conrad Bladey's Beuk O' Newcassel Sangs The Tradition of Northumbria Part 9  Directory 7 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!)

Newcastle Assizes
Duchess versus Mayoress:
Or, a Struggle for Precedence

Why, what's a' this about,
Mr. Mayor, Mister Mayor?
Why, what's a' this about,
Mister Mayor?
Yor Worship's wife they say,
To the Duchess won't give way,
Nor due attention pay,
Mister Mayor!

But is this true aw pray,
Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor?
But is this true, aw pray,
Mister Mayor?
If it's true, as aw believe,
Ye'll ha'e muckle cause to grieve--
The Duke, yor toon will leave,
Mister Mayor!

The Judge, Sir William Scott,
Mr. Mayor, Mister Mayor!
The Judge, Sir William Scott,
Mr. Mayor!
Says, yor wife is much to blame;
And aw think 'twad be ne shame,
To skelp her for the same,
Mister Mayor!

'Tis not the Judge alane,
Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!
'Tis not the Judge alane,
Mr. Mayor!
But the Judge and Jury baith,
Say, she's guilty o' maw faith,
An so Sir Thomas saith,
Mr. mayor!

The Duke and Jury towld,
Mister Mayor, Mr. Mayor!
The Duke and Jury towld,
Mr. Mayor!
He went with them to dine,
And surely he did whine,
'Bout his wife, mun, ow'r his wine,
Mr. Mayor!

'Twas sure ne noble deed,
Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!
'Twas sure ne noble deed,
Mr. Mayor!
He shew'd ne mighty sense,
At your Dame to take offence;
So let his Grace gan hence,
Mr. Mayor!

But there's other folk to blame
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor!
But there's other folk to blame,
Mr. Mayor!
Yor wife has counsell'd with
Wor Vicar, Johnny Smith,
And he's nought, ye knaw, but pith,
Mr. Mayor!

Enjoy life when ye can,
Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!
Enjoy life when ye can,
Mr. Mayor!
Nor let the Brewer Knight,
Nor the Duke, wi' a' his spite,
Say yor wife's no i' the right,
Mr. Mayor.

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

Good people, listen while I sing
And source from whence your comforts spring,
And may each wind that blows still bring
Success unto the Coal Trade?
Who but unusual pleasure feels
To see our fleets of ships and keels!
Newcastle, Sunderland, and Shields,
May ever bless the Coal Trade.

May vultures on the caitiff fly
And gnaw his liver till he die,
Who looks with evil, jealous eye,
Down upon the Coal Trade.
If that should fail, what would ensue?
Sure, ruin and disaster too!
Alas! alas! what could we do,
If 'twere not for the Coal Trade!

What is it gives us cakes of meal?
What is it crams our wames sae weel
With lumps of beef and draughts of ale?
What is't, but just the Coal Trade.
Not Davis' Straits or Greenland oil,
Nor all the wealth springs from the soil,
Could ever make our pots to boil,
Like unto our Coal Trade.

Ye sailor's wives that love a drop
Of stingo fra the brandy shop,
How could you get one single drop,
If it were not for the Coal Trade.
Ye pitmen lads, so blithe and gay,
Who meet to tipple each pay-day,
Down on your marrow bones and pray,
Success unto the Coal Trade!

May Wear and Tyne still draw and pour
Their jet black treasures to the shore,
And we with all our strength will roar,
Success unto the Coal Trade!
Ye owners, masters, sailors a'
Come shout till ye be like to fa';
Your voices raise--huzza! huzza!
We all live by the Coal Trade.

This nation is in duty bound,
To prize those who work under ground,
For 'tis well know this country round
Is kept up by the Coal Trade.
May Wear, and Tyne, and Thames ne'er freeze,
Our ships and keels will pass with ease,
Then Newcastle, Sunderland and Shields,
Will still uphold the Coal Trade.

I tell tthe truth, you may depend,
In Durham or Northumberland,
No trade in them could ever stand,
If it were not for the Coal trade.
The owners know full well, 'tis true,
Without pitmen, keelmen, sailors too,
To Britain they might bid adieu,
If it were not for the Coal Trade.

So to conclude, and make an end
Of these few lines which I have penn'd,
We'll drink a health to all those men
Who carry  on the Coal Trade:
To owneers, pitmen, keelmen too,
And sailors, who the seas do plough,
Without these men we could not do,
Nor carry on the Coal Trade.

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

Tom Carr and Waller Watson
Or, Tom and Jerry at Home
Tune- There was a bold Dragoon

O Marrow, howay to the toon,
What fun we will ha'e there!
We needn't fear the watchmen now,
Let them come if they dare!
We'll hev a gill and sing a sang,
And through the streets we'll roar a ditty,
For tom Carr hez ne bizness now
To put us a' neet i' the Kitty.

Chorus-
Wack, fal, &c.

For when he cam before me Lord,
He fand his sel a' wrang,
For tyaken Watson up yen neet
For singing a wee bit sang.
Another chep ca'd Walton te,
Aw own that he was rather murry,
For he tell'd the watchman to be off,
Or else he'd givehim Tom and Jurry,

The watchman seiz'd him by the neck,
Then up cam other two:
Says Walton. Now let go o' me
Or aw'll let ye knaw just now
Then he lifted up his great lang airm,
Me soul he gave him sec a knoller;
But the watchman kept his haud se lang,
He pull'd off Walton's dandy collar.

To the watch-house then they dragg'd them off,
Before great Captain Carr:
Says he, What ha'e ye getten here,
Me worthy men o' war?
Wye sir, says they, here's two greet cheps,
The yen aw shure deserves a swingin;
For they've roar'd and shouted thro' the streets,
And wyaken'd a' the folks wi' singin.

Aye, aye, says Carr 'aw ken them weel,
Tyek them out o' my seet!
Away wi'them to Mr. Scott,
And keep them there a neet.
Says Walton, Will ye hear me speak?
Says Tommy, Go you to the devil!
Wye, wye, says Walton, nevermind,
But surely this is damn'd uncivil.

Then away they went to Mr. Scott,
And find him varry kind:
Says he, Young men, I'll treat ye weel,
Tho' here against your mind.
O Sir, said they, you're very good,
But faith this place luiks dark and frightful!
Says Walton What a sweet perfume!
Says Watson Lord it's quite delightful!

But Watson myed Tom Carr to rue,
Before 'twas varry lang:
He had him tried before me Lord,
And Carr fand he was wrang.
Me Lord tell'd Carr he had ne reet
To shop them, e'en had it been later,
Until he'd tyen them, first ov a',
Before a Misteer Magistrater.

Now Tommy Carr may claw his lug,
Th' expences he mun pay:
But still there's nyen that's sorry for't
It sarves him reet, they say.
So howay, lads, let's off to toon,
We'll a' put wor bit better hats on;
And if Tom Carr shops us agyen,
Me sowl! we'll give him Waller Watson.

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

Sc-tt-Ah! woe's me what shall I do,
Tommy C-rr, Tommy C-rr?
For I have most cause to rue,
Tommy C-rr!
Though your costs are very great,
Yet much harder is my fate--
I may shut the Kitty gate,
Tommy C-rr!

C-rr- I will soon be clear of mine,
Johny Sc-tt, Johnny Sc-tt!
For I will myself confine,
Johnny Sc-tt!
Just for three short weeks or so,
Up the nineteen steps I'll go,
And bewash'd as white as snow,
Johnny Sc-tt!

Sc-tt- Oh! that tyrant of a Judge,
Tommy C-rr, Tommy C-rr!
He has surely had some grudge,
Tommy C-rr!
Can we gain our honest bread,
Now when cut off in full trade,
We who've been so long well fed,
Tommy C-rr!

C-rr- Oh! how trifling was our chance,
Johnny Sc-tt, Johnny Sc-tt!
Oh! had Scarlett been at France,
Johnny Sc-tt!
Brougham's help was all we had,
Well he knew our case was bad;
And au'd Bayley frown'd like mad,
Johnny Sc-tt!

Sc-tt- I my huckstering shop may let,
Tommy C-rr, Tommy C-rr!
No more customers we'll get,
Tommy C-rr!
Mrs. Sc-tt has room to growl,
There is not one hungry soul
For to buy a penny roll,
Tommy C-rr!

C-rr- Let us curse the day and hour,
Johnny Sc-tt, Johnny Sc-tt!
That depriv'd us of our power,
Johnny Sc-tt!
Fam'd Newcastle's rattling boys
Will kick up a thund'ring noise,
And for fun will black our eyes,
Johnny Sc-tt!

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

Ye that like a lark or spree!
Ye that's iv the Kitty free!
Now's the time for mirth and glee,
For Tommy is up stairs.
Ye that never yet went wrant-
Ne'er did warse than sing a sang,
Ye that offen had to gan
And visit Mr. Mayor's

Now then let your joys abound--
Now begin your neetly rounds,
And myek the streets wi' mirth resound,
Since Tommy is up stairs.
Whe before Judge Bayley stood,
For sending Watson into quod?--
Whe wad grace a frame of Wood?
But honest Tommy C-r.

And when fou, wi' cronies dear,
Ye'd sally out to Filly Fair,
Whe was sure to meet ye there?
But honest Tommy C-r:
Wiv his beaver round and low,
Little switch, and thick surtou',
Like Satan prowling to and fro,
Seeking to devour.

Whe was sure your sport to marr,
And send ye off to Cabbage Square?
Whe was Judge and Jurry there?
But honest Tommy C-r.
Whe wadnever tyek yor word?
And if to walk ye'd not afford,
Whe wad strap ye on a board?
but honest Tommy C-r.

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

The Kitty Port Admiral at the Bench
or, Dogberry in the Suds
air- The Opera Hat

On the Devil go with you, fat Tom C-r!
Bribe him well, he'll be your counsellor,
Give you courage when at the bar,
And grant you a special favour:
Some folks thowt you were gyen to hell,
And other some to Derry:
but sup the broth you've made yoursel'.
There's no one can be sorry.

Chorus- So the Devil go with you, &c.

Tis well you leave the scorn of those
You've sent unto the work-house,
For, hangman-like, you'd have cash and clothes,
When their friends were glad of the carcase.

Bad luck, say I, to your brother brimair!
Your crimes 'twill not half smother;
So go to Stuart's, in Denton-chare,
And prithee choose another

For if ever upon the Quay again,
You beg for beef and biscuit,
The sailor lads will surely cry,
Gods! lad, you've sairly miss'd it.

May the tread-mill turn to a whiskey-shop,
The parrot into a monkey,
And Tom C-r selling fine shirt neck buttons,
Upon a tripe-wife's donkey.

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

The Owl
Written Feb. 1826 Tune X,Y,Z

Now run away amang the snobs,
An' strangies i' the Garth, man,
An hear about the greet black Owl,
That's let on Cappy's hearth, man--
Of sic a breed, the Deil his sell
Its marrow canna find in Hell!
It hops about wiv its slouch hat,
Can worry mice like wor tom-cat--
And sic a yarking blubber heed,
It bangs X, Y, that famous steed,
Or ony thing ye like, Man.

Oft frev its nest, in Cabbage Square,
It flaffer'd out at neets, man,
Mang sic a flock that neetly blare,
And carry crooks and leets, man--
Then prowl'd wor streets in search o' prey,
And if a mouse but cross'd his way,
He quickly had it by the nose,
And pawk'd it off to kuel its toes--
Did Hoo! Hoo! wi the blubber heed,
That bangs X,Y, that famous steed-
So, Cappy keep him tight, man.

To tell how Cappy gat this burd,
Aw wad be rather fash'd, man;
Some say that, of its awn accord,
It went to get white wash'd man.
So scrub him, Cap, with a' yor might,
Just nobbit make the lubbart white--
But if yor brushin' winna dee,
There's Waller Watson, Walton, tee,
They'll scrub him as they did before,
And make the bowdy-kite to roar--
If Cappy keeps him tight, man.

St. Nich'las bells now sweetly ring,
Yor music's sae bewitchin'--
Ye lads in Neil's * now louder sing,
And warble weel Hell's Kitchen**--
For yor au'd friend is in the trap,
Alang wi' his awn brother, Cap:
then shout hura! agyenwe're free,
At neets to hev a canny spree;
In gannin hyem, ne mair we'll dreed
The Lubbart wi' the chuckle heed--
Mind, Cappy, keep him tight, man.

*A famed public -house at the head of Manor-chare.
**The tap-room of a famed public-house near the head of Groat Market

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

Upon the flow'ry banks o' Tyne,
The rose and myrtle may entwine:
But were there every sweet divine,
they wadna a' be like my Delia.

Chorus-
Clear beams the eye o' Delia,
Heaven's in the smile o' Delia
Nor flowers that blaw, nor falling snaw,
Were e'er sae pure as lovely Delia.

Gently blaw, thou whistlin' wind,
Along the bonny banks o' Tyne,
Where nature every grace combin'd
When she first form'd my life, my delia

Tho' a' the wee birds round me sing,
To welcome back the blithefu' spring;
Yet a' the music they can bring
Is nae sae sweet's the voice o' Delia.

The bonny little playfu'lamb,
That frisks along the verdant plain,
Is nae mair free fra guilty stain,
Than is my life, my love, my Delia.

The priests they tell us, all above,
with angels do delight in love;
Then surely angels must approve
Their image in my lovely Delia.

Truth and kindness ever reigns,
In a' he heart, through a' her veins;
Yet nane shall ken the pleasing pains
I hae endur'd for my sweet Delia

chorus-
Heaven's in the smile o' Delia,
Bright's the beam in here dark eye;
Nor floweer that blaws, nor virgin snaws,
Were e'er sae pure as my lov'd Delia.

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

Farewell,ye fragrant, shady groves!
Farewell, thou charming sylvan scene,
Where partial mem'ry hapless roves--
I bid adieu to Pandon Dean.

I bid ye all a long adieu,
And fare thee well, my lovely Jean;
Thine equal I shall never view,
Whilst far awa' fra Pandon Dean.

The songsters chanting on the spray,
The shrubs and flowers, sae fresh and green
Increase my heart's tumultuous play,
Which dwells on thee and Pandon Dean.

Though far awa' in foreign lands,
And trackless oceans foam between,
I ne'er shall break those dearest bands
thou wreath'dst for me in Pandon Dean

These to my heart shall dearest be,
When sharp afflictions pierce me keen;
'Twill soothe my woes to think on thee,
Thou fairest flower in Pandon Dean.

If Fortune smile, I'll then return,
Todeck my love in silken sheen;
And dwell with her just by the burn
That wimples through the bonny Dean.

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

The Londoners long for example we've chose,
and imported each fashion as fast as it 'rose;
Bur the best hit of all, in our awkward approaches,
Is St. Nicholas' Square and the new hackney coaches.

The ladies have long had advantage of man,
In that easy conveyance, a walking sedan;
Now the tables are turn'd on he opposite side,
For the ladies must walk while the gentlemen ride.

When our beaux are dress'd out for a rout or a ball,
They've nothing to do but a hackney to call--
Consult not the weather, nor muffle their chins--
No danger of breaking, o'er scrapers, their shins.

When a couple's resolv'd on a trip to the church,
Wheree a lady has sometimes been left in the lurch;
To prevent a misfortune like this, for the future,
Pack up in a hackney your amiable suitor.

When impertinent tradesmen you're likely to meet,
Or a bailiff descry at the end of the street--
Press into your service a hackney and pair,
For the devil himself would not look for you there.

To many things else they'll apply, I've a notion,
They'll even be found to assist your devotion;
The doctors will find them most useful, no doubt on't,
In peopling the world, or to send people out on't

Then success to the hackneys, and long may they roll--
Of balls and assemblies the life and the soul:
Since so useful they are, and so cheap is the fare,
Pray who would not ride in a carriage and pair?

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

What a cockneyfied toon wor Newcassel hez grown--
Wey aw scarce can believe me awn senses;
Wor canny aud customs for ever ha'e flown,
and there's nowt left ahint for to mense us;
The fashions fra Lunnin are now a' the go,
As there's nowt i' wor toon to content us--
Aw'll not be surpriz'd at wor next 'lection day,
If twe Cockneys put up to present us.

Times ha'e been when a body's been axt out to tea,
Or to get a wee bit of a shiver,
Wor hearts were sae leet we ne'er thowt o' the cau'd,
Or the fear o' wet feet plagu'd us nivere;
But i' blanket coats now we mun get muffled up,
For fear that the cold should approach us--
And to hinder a spark gettin on to wor breeks,
We mun jump into fine Hackney Coaches.

Aw've seen when we've  gyen iv a kind freenly way
To be blithe o'er a jug o' good nappy--
The glass or the horn we shov'd round wi' the pot
For then we were jovial and happy;
But now we mun all hev a glass t'wor sels,
Which plainly appears, on reflection,
We think a' wor neighbours ha'e getten the cl-p,
And are frighten'd we catch the infection.

The very styen pavement they'll not let alyen,
For they've tuen'd up and puttin down gravel;
So now, gentle folks, here's a word i' yor lugs--
Mindthink on't whenever you travel;
If in dry dusty weather ye happen to stray,
Ye'll get yor een a' full o' stour, man--
Or, if it be clarty, you're sure for to get
Weel plaister'd byeth 'hint and afore, man.

If a' their improvements aw were for to tell,
Aw might sit here and sing- aye, forever;
There's the rum weak as watter, i'stead o' the stuff
That was us'd for to burn out wor liver!
Aw's fair seek and tir'd o' the things that aw've sung,
so aw think now aw'll myek a conslusion,
By wishing the cheps iv a helter may swing,
That hae brought us to a' this confusion.

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

Now haud yor tongues 'bout Mollinox, or any o' the trade,
Ye ne'er could say that Kenton Ralph of e'er a chep was flay'd--
Yor langans and yor Springs may come to Kenton toon iv flocks,
Wor Ralph 'ill smatter a' their ribs, he is sae strang, begox!

Chorus-
Fal de ral, &c

Wiv Raply and Luke aw often yen neet for Sandgate on a spree,
And swore Newcassel dandy cheps to fight and myek them flee--
We gat into the Barley Mow wor thropples for to wet,
And sat and drank till fairly fu', alang wi' wood legg'd Bet

We gat up for 'twas gettin' lyet, and leaving Sandgate sue,
To Pandon went to hev a quairt before we left the toon;
Some Fawdon lads were in the Boar, carrying on the war,
Wi' Humpy dick and Black Scotch Peg a' singin' Slush Tom C-rr.

Then gannin hyem by Pligrim-street, some dandy for to catch,
Twe cheps, half drunk, cam up tiv us ,and said, Cum t' the scratch!
Here's Lukey kens that aw's a man, and scartin aw disdain,
but come and lick us if ye can--aw'll fight till aw be slain!

They cramm'd a haggish on each fist, or something very like,
then held them up close to wor fyece, and dar'd us for to strike:
But Lukey, clickin' upon his claes, cried Ralphy, lad, let's run!
Od smash yor luggish heed, how-way--becrike it's tommy D--n!

Poor Lukey ran, but Ralph was left, he couldn't get away,
The pelted him till Watchey cam and ended wor sad fray;
Then Ralphy suen fand Luke agyen; but such a seet begox!
His nose and fyece was thick o' blood--just like a Bubbly Jock's

Smash! how! dis thou ken Tommy D--n? said Ralphy in a hurry:
Aw seed him fightin' on the stage yen neet in Tom and Jurry
A grocer chep aw sat beside, tell'd me his nyem in turn,
Wi' Crib, and' Gas, an' a' the rest, and cliver Jemmy B--n

That neet we had a haggish fight, 'tween B--n and D--n sae fine--
Aw roar'd out, Aw'll lay on ony brass that Jim ower Tom will shine!
But, wiv his haggish, Tommy suen gav Jemmy such a peg.
He fell smack doon upon the stage --begox, he broke his leg!

The next time aw cum ti' the toon, if we fa' in togither,
we'll hav a jill nad drink success to B--n and d--n however:
Aw own that aw was fairly duen, an' smatter'd varry sair,
But ne'er for want o' haggishes shall Ralph be beaten mair.

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

Aw dream'd aw was at teh North Powl,
It's a fine place a-back o' the muen, man--
Maw sangs! Captain Parry will growl,
For he cannot get tid half sae seun, man:
There aw seed the Queen, Caroline,
And her lass they sae badly did use, man,
Wi' Geordy the Thurd drinking wine,
And the snuffy au'd dyem brushing shoes man.

Chorus- Rum ti iddity, &c.

Aw began then to swagger about,
Just to see Castleree aw was itchin',
When Percival gav a greet shout,
Od smash, he's down stairs i' the Kitchen!--
Thowt aw, then he's just safe eneugh--
Walking farther, aw meets Bonapartie,
Alang wi' au'd Blucher, sae bluff,
Speaking gabb'rish to poor Captain Starkie.

Aw gat in to see Robin hood,
Had twe or three quairts wi' John Nipes, Man;
And Wesley, that yence preach'd sae good,
Sat smokin' and praisin the swipes, man;
Legs of mutton here grows on each tree,
Jack Nipes said, and wasn't mistaken--
When rainin' there's such a bit spree,
For there comes down great fat sides o' bacon.

Brave Nelson here sells wooden legs,
Iv a shop where aw think he'll get rich in--
Just to see au'd Mahomet aw begs,
But, wi' Thurtell, he's doom'd i' the Kitchen:
Aw seed Billy Shakespeare sae prime,
Of plays he has written greet lots, man--
And there great John Kemble does shine--
Sam Johnson sups crodies wi' Scots, man

How canny Joe foster did stare,
As he trotted past me on a donkey,
Mang lasses still wild as a hare,
And he keeps Jacky Coxon as flonkey:
Ne bishops nor priests here they need,
For the folks they can say their awn pray'rs man--
but, to myek them work hard for their breed,
they're sent on a mission, doon stiars, man.

Aw agyen see'd the canny au'd King,
He's a far better chep now than ever--
But, set a' yor fine kings iv a ring,
I still think Fourth Geordy's as clever.
Aw've getten a pas for doon Stairs,
And if aw see owt there bewitchin',
Wey just think o' me i' yor pray'rs,
And aw'll send an account o' the Kitchen.

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

The day was fine, the sun did shine,
Aw thowt aw was preparing
To leave the Powl, myed me repine--
Aw scarce could keep fra blairin;
A greet balloon was brought me seun,
Twe cheps wi' wings sae switchin',
Wiv it were sent to tyek me doon
To shew me a' the kitchen.

Chorus-
Right fal de ral &c.

wiv a' my friends aw had a jill,
King Geordy was quite canty--
Says he--Now eat and drink yor fill,
Doon stairs good things are scanty.
When deun, saws aw--Kind folks, fareweel!
Maw guides their wings are stretchin'--
In the balloon aw oft did reel
To see this querish kitchen.

We doon a narrow place did rowl--
As sure as maw nyems Cranky.
This is the passage in the Powl
That's mention'd by the Yankee:*
As we flew on it darker grew,
Wi' such a noise and screechin'--
Greet clouds o' fire we darted through,
and landed in the kitchen.

They used poor folks here warse than beasts--
Greet lots o' Turks and Tartars,
Wi' Lawyers, quakers, kings, and priests,
Were phizzin' in a' quarters.
The Jews were bowlting lumps o' pork--
Mahomet, that au'd vixen,
Was toss'd about frae fork to fork,
Wi' derry in the kitchen.

Fast i' the stockes au'd Neddy sat,
The late Newcassel bellman--
And there was Honor Breet, Bed Watt,
Just gaun the rig hersel', man:
Then farther in, upon a stuel,
Sat Judy downey stichin',
She d--n'd me for a greet stark cull,
For comin' to the kitchen.

Aw, wi' the heat and want o' drink,
Was swelter'd myest to deed, man--
When fairly deun and gaun to sink,
Aw was whupt off wi' speed, man.
How aw escap'd aw's puzzled sair,
'Twas like a sudden twitchin'--
Aw, like a lairk, flew through the air,
Half roasted, frae the kitchen.

As aw cam doon aw pass'd the meun,
an' her greet burning mountains--
Her turnpike roads aw fand out seun,
Strang beer runs here in fountains:
To hev' a sup aw was reet fain,
Wi' some queer cheps thrang ditchin'-
But waken'd then in Percy Main,
A lang way frae the kitchen.

*Alluding to the following extradordinary advertisement which recently made its
appearance in the American journals:--
St Louis (Missouri Territory)
North America, April 10, A.d. 1818.
"to all the world-- I declare the earth to be hollow and habitable within:
 containing a numberof concentric spheres, one within the other, and that their poles are open 12 or 16 degrees
I pledge myself in support of this truth, andam ready to explore the
concave, if the world will support and aid me in the undertaking- John Symmes, &c. &c.
R. Emery--In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 

Famed Filly Fair;
Or, A peep into Pilgrim Street.

Come, Geordy, an' aw'll tell ye, lad, wher aw hae been,
In Pilgrim-street, where there's to see an' to be seen,
A great many lasses, and they shew off sic fine airs,
Aw's sure they're all as wild as only March hares.

Now, d'ye no-but gan there iv next Sunday neet,
About thetime o' six o'clock, you'll see the fine seet,
A large show of lasses fine, that drive about there,
they nyem'd it but reet when they ga'd Filly Fair.

Now, one Sunday neet, to the high town aw went,
That aw might get the evening cannily spent:
Among the rabble, sure enough, aw gat there,
And saw the first dresses in fam'd Filly Fair.

there's some lasses, they say, that are so very keen,
That they come to this place just for to be seen;
And, on every wet Sunday, they sit down to prayer,
And think it provoking they're not at the Fair.

Aw enter'd the street with a great deal of glee,
Where the lads and the lasses in flocks aw did see:
The task wad be endless to tell a' what was there,
Aw mean the fine dresses in fam'd filly Fair.

Aw look'd about all these fine dresses to see,
Aw glowr'd at the lasses, and they glowr'd at me:
So now for a description, I will give to a hair,
Of all the fine things in this fam'd Filly Fair.

There was white gowns, silk spenceers, and flounces galore,
And queer monkey jackets aw'd ne'er seen before;
With little drakes tails, that hing from the hair,
And large ringlets a' curl'd was in fam'd Filly Fair.

The spencers a' carv'd, wye, with cords of a' kind,
That seem'd just like soulgers afore and behind;
And black silks, and stript silks, and a' silks was there,
And pads, and cat backs were in fam'd Filly Fair.

There was hats like my awn, with fine flee-behint cloaks,
And queer things ahint them, like the pitmen's bait pokes;
And hats myed of muslin, to let in the air,
Besides some wi' high crowns were in fam'd Filly Fair.

The hats were deck'd o'er a' with ribbons andlace,
And large cabbae nets were thrown o'er their faee:
Paddysoles too were there, as were monie things mair,
And fine mobbed caps were in fam'd Filly Fair.

Therre was scarfs of a' kinds, and of every degree;
And little wee bairneys, scarce up to my knee;
With beaux, arm in arm, they were driving thro' there,
'Twas shameful to see them in fam'd Filly Fair.

O, mun! just like a loadstone in this curious place,
For what I hev tell'd yoiu, aw'm sure it's the case--
It's the case of them all that walk about there,
To be talk'd of by strangers in fam'd Filly Fair.

And besides a' the tricks that I cannot explain,
For this kind of rambling I'm sure I disdain;
Take advice, my good lasses, and don't wander there,
Or your character's stain'd by walking the Fair.

This advice now, I hope, you will readily take,
And keep up your character, for your own sake;
It's nought unto me if all night you walk there,
But your name will be blasted by attending theFair.

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

While cartwright, and Wooler, and Cobbett, and all
The souls of the brave attend Liberty's call,
J--n T-ley, the best friend of kings since the flood,
Is ready for slavery to spill his best blood.

A press so licentious-- for t'will tell the truth--
Is truly distressing to T--ley, forsooth:
He's a foe to the queen, and no wonder he should,
Since he vows for oppressors to spill his best blood.

What an excellent orator in his own way,
Mechanics, Shoemakers, and Joiners do say:
But he does not remember that Drones steal their food,
Where it not for the Bees he would haveno best blood.

The Loyalist party consumptive are grown,
Though time-serving T--ley by the fact may disown:
And itwill not be long--God forbid that it should!
Ere Reform freeze the springs of T--ley's best blood.

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

Of a' the toons that's i' the north,
Newcastle bangs them a',
For lady folk and gentlemen,
And every thing that's braw,
A fig for Lunnen i' the south--
But mind now, let's hae nae reproaches,
For they say that Lunnen's hang'd hersel,
Through spite at wor new Hackney Coaches.

Chorus-
Yep! fal der al dal, &c.

Wor toon has grown se big now,
Aw ne'er saw the like before;
Live ye only lang eneugh,
Ye'll see't join'd to Tynemouth shore:
We've our Literinary Sieties,
Shops cramm'd wiv plate and diamond broaches,
But  it's ne use telling ony mair,
There's nowt gans doon but Hackney Coaches.

Ca-la-de-scoups were yence the rage,
Sedans--were all the go;
But till the noise gets failry ower,
They may keep them iv a row;
Gang where you will, the talk is still,
At tea or cards why all the rage is,
Why bless me, sir! have you not seen
Our stylish tow-horse Hackney Stages!

A bond-street lounge tee we might hev,
If't wasn't for the mud!
A piccadilly we're gaun to get,
And other streets as good:
Maw sangs! aw think we'll 'clipse them out!
but faith I'd better haud me ditty,
For fear, ye ken, in ganging hyem,
They Hackneyfy me to the Kitty.

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

Be easy, good folks, for we're all safe enough,
Better fortune seems now to attend us:
And two canny fellows, both lusty and tough,
Have rais'd a new corps to defend us.
Men sound wind and limb, good sighted and stout,
That can fight well; without being daunted;
Free from all diseases, such like as the gout,
And can jump, or be ready when wanted.

Chorus-
Then if any invaders should dare us to fight,
Let it be on the shore or the river,
Bold Archy the Noodle, and Tommy the Knight,
Will guard and protect us for ever.

The Noodles have ne'er been at battle as yet,
Nor been brought down by scanty provision;
So to try them whenever his worship thinks fit,
He'll find them in famous condition.
In all their manovers there's scarcely a flaw,
They're quite up to the science o' killing;
For the Noodle drill Serjeant's a lomb o' the law,
And an old practic'd hand at the drilling.

Misfortunes, however, will sometimes attend,
For one morning, by dangersurrounded,
A poor fellow splinter'd his fore-finger end,
And, of course, in the service was wounded.
'Tis true a sair finger's a very bad thing,
But it didn't diminish his beauty;
So the next day he just popp'd his arm in a sling,
And, Briton-like, went upon duty.

They have all been abroad, and as far too as Shields,
But to walk there was no easy matter,
So, for fear that their boots should go down in the heels,
they took the steam boat down the watter.
Their warlike appearance was awfully grand,
When they fired, it sounded like thunder,
Which put all the natives o' Shields to a stand,
And left them for ages to wonder.

What a pity they cannot get medals to buy,
It greatly would add to their grandeur;
There's Waterloo soldiers! the strangers would cry,
And think Archy was great Alexander.
These mighty Preserveres if death cannot save,
But send one or two of them bummin;
The rest o' the Noodleswould fire o'er his grave,
And tell the below-folks he's coming.

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

Come, all ye Britons who delight
In freedom's sacred cause,
And boast the Triumph of your Sires,
Of just and equal laws,
Wrung from a Despot's feeble grasp,
List to this tale of mine,
In baseness which you cannot peer,
Since the days o' Lang Syne.

To fam'd Newcastle's Secret Court
A poor unlucky wight
Was, for the sake of Bastardy,
But very lately brought:
Where, tortur'd most ingeniously,
The rogue was made to whine,
As few have been for sporting so,
Since the days of Lang Syne.

In vain the culprit urg'd his cause,
In eloquence of woe;
In vain he urg'd his poverty,
To save hikm from the blow:
Regardless of his just complaint,
His judges laid the fine,
So great as few poor dogs could pay,
Since the days of Lang Syne

Now mark the justice of the Judge,
Precisely at the time--
A gentleman was brought to him,
Just for the self same crime;
To whom the Judge in alter'd tone,
Begg'd he would not repine,
Such ills are common to the rich,
Since the days of Lang Syne.

Suffice it, these two sinners were,
Tho' in the same degree
Of guilt, adjudg'd a fine to pay,
The ratio one to three:
The man of rags was made to pay
Three times a greater fine;
And sunk in miseery,sent to think
On the days of Lang Syne.

Thus, Britons, are your laws dispens'd,
Your boasted freedom's gone,
Laid in your predecessors' graves,
Or from the island flown:
No longer Justice holds her seat,
In majesty divine,
In British Courts presiding now,
As in the days of Lang Syne.

In vain you strive to wander back
To times of peaceful joy,
In vain you hope times to recall,
Lost in eternity;
No, never shall those scenes return,
No more shall Britain shine,
As she was wont, so splendidly,
I' the days of Lang Syne.

Can then Eternal Justice sleep,
Regardless of the prayer
Of toiling millions sunk indebt,
And driven to despair,
By stern Oppression's iron hand,
Oh! no, the Power Divine
Shall plead our cause as heretofore,
In the days of Lang Syne.

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

As Billy Scott was on the trot
Along the Pudding Chare,
A shilling on the pavement lay,
Which Billy soon, with care,
Into his breeches pocket put,
And trotted on with glee:
A wag, who'd seen him stoop, cried out,
Hold! that belongs to me!

Poor Billy gravely turned about,
And thus did him accost--
Can you upon your honour, say,
You have a sixpence lost?
I have indeed, the wag replied;
Said Bill, I must away!
See, 'tis a shilling I have found!
So thank you, sir- good day.

-Robert Emery's Songs cited in: Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings....,
Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891. (Billy died at St. Jhon's Poor House on the
31st July 1831.)
 
 

Slaw broke the leet 'boot fower yen morn,
When the Deevil aw seed, as sure as thou's born;
His lang beerd hung doon frae his greet lantern jaw,
His eyes wes like sawsers, his mooth filled wi' straw.

Oh, where de ye cum frae, sweet Deevil! oh, where?
But aw gat for an answer a greet ugly blare;
Wor merry lads lay snorin' on the huddock's hard bed;
Here's Aud Nick at the hatch--give him battle, aw said.

The tide rummel'd by, as they luckt up forlonr--
Whist! whist! Oney luik, there's his club feet an' horn!
Says they, Te gie battle, a' hands i' wor keel,
Te Hawthorn's aud goat, 'twad sure bang the Deil!

Cum in, gentle Willy, says they, frae the storm;
In wor huddock lie doon, keep yor aud carkish warm;
If cawd deed ye'd freetened wor skipper se brave,
We'd myed ye follow his byens to the grave.

-Mitford, " Bards of the Tyne",  1849, In: Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings....,
Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891.

Tune: Oh, whistle and I'll come to you, my land.

I have sung thee, clear Coquet--I'll sing thee again
From Harden's bleak fell to the deep-rolling main,
And the Alwine and Wreigh in the garland shall shine,
For they mix, lovely river, their waters wi' thine.
In my youth I have danced on your bonny green braes;
In my old age I think on these dear happy days;
In yoiur streams I have angled and caught the scalded fry,
And your streams they shall live, tho' their beds should run dry.

Chorus--And your streams,etc.

Oh, how should a fisherman ever be old?
There's wrinkles in Glory, there's wrinkles in Gold;
And Love has his sorrows as well as his joys,
And power is made up but of glitter and noise.
Such gewgaws as these let the fisherman scorn--
He's glorious at night, and light-hearted at morn;
With a cheek full of health, be it hot, be it cold,
Oh, how should a fisherman ever be old?

Chorus--Oh, how, etc.

-Robert Roxby, Thomas Doubleday, "Fisher's Garland," 1826
In: Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings....,
Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891.
 

I sing not of greate Cesar's might,
How brave he led his men to fight
....................................................

I choose to sing in strtains much lower,
Of collier lads, unsung before;
What sport and feasting doth ensue
When such life mortals buckle to.

And thus the colliers and their wives
Liv'd drunken, honest, working lives;
Yet still were fond of one another,
And always married thro' each other
............................................................

A collier's daughter, brisk and clean,
Once at a country wake was seen;
The maid was born in Benwell town,
Was not too fair, nor yet too brown;
Of beauty she had got her part,
Enought to wound a collier's heart;
And then her name was up for this--
She loved to spin, but blushed to kiss;
Her pliant limbs, when music played,
Could humour everything it said;
For when she tripped it on the plain
To Jockey's lost his fellow swain,
Her easy steps and airy wheels
Showd she had music in her heels,
She danced so well so very long,
She won the smock and pleased the throng.
A collier lad was standing by,
Andviewed her with a lover's eye.
...............................................................

Come, Bessy, speak; what do ye think?
The old wife cocked her chin and spoke;
Why surely, Tom, you do but joke;
If ye' re sincere as ye are warm,
And mean to do my barin nae harm,
Ye knaw our Jenny's on'y young,
And easily may be o'ercome;
So court her first--hear what she'll say;
We'll have a drink and fix the day.
Her daughter Jane, with modest grace,
And fingers spread before her face,
Cried Mother, Tommy's won my heart--
If ye'll consent we'll never part;
I love him as I do my life,
And would like weel to be his wife!
....................................................

The gates fly open, all rush in--
The church is full with folks and din;
And all the crew, both great and small,
Behave as in a common hall;
For some perhaps that were three-score,
Were never twice in church before.
They scamper, climb, and break the pews,
To see the couple make their vows.
With solemn face the priest draws near,
Poor Tom and Jenny quake for fear;
Are singled out from all the band
That round about them gaping stand.

When they're in decent order got
The priest proceeds to tie the knot.
Then hands are joined, and loosed again,
And Tommy says, I take thee Jane;--
Then Jenny looks a little shy,
And kneels, and says I take Tom-my;
But here's the blessing or the curse,
'Tis done for better or for worse;
For now they're fairly in for life;
The priest declares them man and wife.

Our couple now kneel down to pray,
Much unacquainted with the way;
Whole troops of colliers swarm around,
And seize poor Jenny on the ground.

"Only brief extracts from this old picture of pit life can be given
here, as the collection is one of songs; but to the spirit of the
work Elswick and Benwell, with their colliers of 150 years ago,
are so kindred, that at least room must be found
for a few specimens. The author Edward Chicken was born in Newcastle
in the year 1698. What little is known of his life has principally been gathered by W. Cail, Esq., who, in
1829 published a new and amended edition fo the poem"-In: Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings....,
Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891.

The morn is grey, and green the brae, the wind is freae the wast;
Before the gale the snow-white clouds are drivin', light and fast;
The airly sun is glintin' forth, owre hill, an' dell, an' plain,
And Coquet's streams are glitt'rn as they rin frae muir to main.

My Sun is set; my eyne are wet; cauld poortith now is mine,
Nae mair I'll range by Coqauetside, and thraw the gleesome line;
Nae mair I'll see her bonnie streams in spring-bright raiment drest,
Save in the dream that stirs the heart, when the weary e'e's at rest.

Oh! were my limbs as ance they were, to jink across the green;
And! were my heart as light again as sometimes it has been;
And could my fortunes blink again, as erst when youth was sweet,
Then Coquet-hap what might beside--we'd no be lang to meet.

Or had I but the Cushat's wing, where'er I list to flee,
And wi' a wish might wend my way owre hill, an' dale, an' lea;
'Tis there I'd fauld that weary wing; there gaze my latest gaze;
Content to see thee once again--then sleep beside thy Braes!

-Thomas Doubleday, From Fisher's Garland, 1841,In: Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings....,
Thomas and George Allan, NewcastleUpon Tyne, 1891.

The Fishermen hung the Monkey, O!- These words are the greatest insult you can offer to the Hartlepool fishermen. It is supposed when Napoleon the Grat threatened to invade England the Fishermen were loyal and patriotic, and ever on the look-out for spies. A vessel having been wrecked about this time, all on board perished with the exception of a monkey, which was siezed by the fishermen for a french spy, and hung because hecould not or would not speak English.

Tune- The Tinker's wedding.

In former times, 'mid war an' strife,
When French invashin threatened life,
An' all was arm'd te the knife,
The Fishermen hung the Monkey, O!
The fishermen, wi' courage high,
Siezed the Monkey for a spy.
Hang him says yen, says another he'll die;
They did, an' they hung the Monkey O!

Chorus
(To sympathise with the unfortunate Monkey, altogether.)
Dooram, dooram, dooram, da, etc.

They tried ivery means te myek him speak,
They tortor'd the Monkey tiv he loud did squeak;
Says yet that's French, asys anuther it's Greek,
For the Fishermen then gat drunkey, O!
He's all ower hair sum cheps did cry,
E'en up te summic cute an' sly;
Wiv a cod's heed then they closed an eye,
Afore they hung the Monkey, O!

Spoken- Ladies an' cheps, a chorus this time to mark our disapprobashin o' the Pugnaeshis Fishermen for
closin' the ogle ov the unfortunate monkey.

Dooram, etc.

Some the Monkey's fate they did bewail,
For all the speechles pug had his tail (tale),
He'd been better off i' Durham Jail,
For the Monkey wis tornin funkey, O!
They said he myed some curose mugs,
When they shaved his head an' cut off his lugs,
Sayin' that's the game for French humbugs,
Afore they hung the Monkey, O!

Spoken-- Chorus in considerashin of the removal and total annihilashin of the Monkey's auricular organ by all those who have an
ear for gorilla sensashins.

Dooram, etc.

Hammere his ribs, the thunerin thief,
Pummel his pyet weel wi' yor neef,
He's landed here for nobbit grief,
He's aud Napoleon's Uncky, O!
Thustothe Monkey all hands behaved,
Cut off his whiskers one chep raved;
Another bawled oot he's never been shaved,
So they commenced to scrape the Monkey, O!

Chorus

(Afdter the style of "Lather and sheave' em.")
dooram, etc.

Now let us hope that ever at sea
We'll still maintain soverignty,
May Fance and England long agree,
An' nivor at each other get funkey, O!
As regards poor Pug aw've had my say,
His time they've past for mony a day,
But in Hartlepool, noo, thou'll hear lads say--

Spoken- Aw asy, Mistor, mother says it, she telled me te ax ye, te tell me te tell her;; if ye tell me,- aw say, Mistor, can ye tell us--

(Sings)--Whe hung the Monkey, O?
Dooram, etc.

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

Last week was wor pay-week, and aw went to the toon,
Alang wi' wor Susy to buy her a new goon;
A sixpence i' my pocket- we cuddent pass the Close
But went into the Robin Hood and gat worsels a dose

Chorus-
Wiv a tooral, looral, looral, &c

Suen after we gat canny, and com alang the Brig,
An' up the Bottle-bank, man, we byeth saw went the rig,
Wi' reedin' and wi' dancin'-- knacking heel and toe,
Our heads began to rattle where wor feet before did go

The Half-Muin Lyen we come te, and that wor Susy found,
For ower the stanes she fell, man, that's lyen all around
A dave, a devisher agyen the metal pump,
And aw, to save poor Sucy, got a duckin' i' the sump.

Ower anenst the Dun Cow, there is a place myed reet,
As good for breaking necks, man, as only i' the street;
Had e'er an inclination been for leading me astray,
I'm conscious that aw'd fund maw end by coming up this way.

The biggest house i' Gyetshead projecting o'er the road
Dis scarcely leave a footpath to pass on, if you would;
Were it not for the gas leet that's on the other side,
Mony windpipes wad be clos'd, aye, and mony open wide.

A little farther up the street, abuin au'd Jackson's Chare,
A neatish bit o' dournament bagan, as passing there,
For --------a-----wi' guise an' shop-board new,
Is cabbaging at Pleasant----to patch his Waterloo.

But the worst of a' these evils, is their planning o' the street,
Aye, sic a shem an 'bizen, were but decent folks te see;
For here's a hill, and there's a hill, and here they're pullin' doon.
And here they're buldin' up, (who's fault?) the only fuils i' ton.

Thus onward we were passin, thro' trouble and thro' strife,
Scasrece caring what misfortune had Roger and his Wife;
But ere we gan that way agyen, we'll grease our soles and heels,
To scamper down by Sunderland, and up by smoky Sheels.

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

It's ha e ye seen how crouse and gay
The lads and lasses bent their way,
To see the horses act the play,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

There some in silks did proudly shine,
And some were dress'd in caps se fine,
And some on stickes there did recline,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

The belles and beaux of lo degree
Were eager this fine sight to see;
And soon as they had got their tea,
They set off for the Theatre.

Then at the gallery door they stood--
Impatient, and in fretful mood;
And many a one, faithly did no good
By coming to the Theatre.

The doors being open'd, on they push'd
Without distinction they were crush'd;
The cry was Tumble up you must,
To fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

Next direful shrieks were heard aloud,
Whilst heedless throng'd the busy crowd,
Alike the slothful and the proud
Were driven in the Theatre.

A miller chep I chanc'd to see
Frae out amang the crowd sae blae,
Was running up an entry
Near fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

He'd got his coat torn cross the lap,
My conscience! 'twas a sad mishap;
But others still were worse than that,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

There some their gowns held in their hand,
And others lost their shawls se grand;
And if you crush'd not you might stand,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

The pretty girls, to get a seat,
Crush'd on, wi' hair dress'd up sae neat;
But soon came back, in sic a freet,
Frae fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

Now some got in without their shoes,
And some got in wi' mony a bruise,
and some cam hyem to tell the news,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

Within the pit a brutish chap
Had hit a maiden sic a rap,
'Cause she refus'd to take her hat
Off, in Newcastle Theatre.

They took her home without delay,
When in a fit she fainting lay;
And faith she well may curse the day
That e'er she saw the Theatre.

The boxes, too, were fill'd se fine,
With all the labouring sons of Tyne;
And servant lasses, all divine,
Did beautify the Theatre.

The heat was so excessive great,
That, not to keep the folk too late,
They hurry'd on poor Timour's fate,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.

The play was done as it struck ten,
Some greedy folks said, 'twas a shem;
However, they all wet went hyem,
From fam'd Newcastle Theatre

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

Tune- Chapter of Donkies

Now, Archy, my boy, drop the civical gown,
For none ever fill'd it with half your renown,
For wisdom and valour so glorious you shine,
You're the pride, boast and bulwark of old coaly Tyne.
O brave Archy, miraculous Archy!
The pink o' the wise, and the wale o' the brave.

To recount all your virtues a volume 'twould swell,
So we'll just name a few, sir, in which you excel;
Your reign's been eventful, the times have gone mad,
And well might have puzzled more brains than you had;
But sufficient was Archy, well able was Archy,
To crush the sedition and treason of Tyne.

Sure Machiavel's self was a fool to our Mayor,
so honest he seem'd--then he promis'd so fair,
To reform all abuses, give justice to all,
And regulate watchmen, blood-suckers and all.
O specious Archy! legitimate Archy!
The firm, staunch supporter of things as they are.

Then the Great Meeting* by Jove, what a jest!
The rads set you down for their chairman at least;
But the yoemen and specials in court you kept hid,
Then sent off that precious epistle to Sid.
O rare Archy! sly old Archy!
Archy's the boy for the word or the blow!

O thou first of inditers, thou brightest of scribes,
Thy invention how fertile, in infamous lies!
How assin-like was it to stab in the dark,
and from trugh and from justice so far to depart.
O serpent-like Archy! O fiend-like Archy!
O Archy! but that was a damnable deed.

Next you went on a voyage of discovery to Shields,
Andgot handsomely pepper'd for meddlingwith keels;
Then for refuge you fled to Northumberland's Arms,
Who till now has defended your paper from harms,
Else down had gone Archy, thy paper dear Archy,
Down stairs might have gone for the public good.

Then, for raising a riot, and reading the act,
Your honour against all opponents I'll back;
And to crown you with laurels, and finish my song.
You're a Colonel of Noodles, and nine makes a man,
Such as Archy and Cabbage,
Canny Jack Dixon, and thief-taking Tom.
 

*Held on Newcastle Town Moor, Oct 11, 1819 relating to the Manchester Massacre.

-Written 1820, -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.
 
 

Sir Tommy Made an Odd Fellow
A Provincial and very popular Song.

I've sung o' Newcassel till black o' the fyess,
Tyne's Muse is as modest as ony;
Tho' oft she comes out in a comical dress--
Here she goes for a lilt at Sir Tommy.
Ye've seen him,nae doubt, wi' his hat on ten hairs,
Then he cuts sic a wonderful caper;
He has long been thought odd, for his kickmashaw airs,
Now he's odd baith by name and by nature.

Chorus:

Let Fame canter on till she's sair i' the hips,
Proclaiming, frae Tynemouth to Stella,
How the sun, moon, and stars a' went into the 'clipse,
When Sir Tommy was made an Odd Fellow.

There's scarce sic a man in a' Newcassel toon,
With the famous Tyne Legion outsetting:
Down at Shields in a fray, they pick'd up sic renoon,
That his nyem will nae mair be forgetten.
Tho' envious at valour, yet a' look asquint,
What heroes in fame e'er surpass'd them?
Wi' Sir Tommy before, and the sailors behint,
It was run! and the devil take the last one.

A Knight he was dubb'd for sic sarvices brave,
But a Knight without fee is but little;
So they sent him to govern* where folks rant and rave,
A station he fit to a tittle.
Grand Master of Orangemen next he was call'd,
Bells rung till the toon was a' quaking;
Now most Noble Grand of Odd Fellows install'd--
Faicks! it's time a straight-jacket was making.

That Sir Tommy has wit I wad fain here convince,
He can myek sic athumping oration,
By which he astonish'd the Legion lang since,
Now he wants to astonish the nation.
By humbug reduc'd, though his head's very lang,
His brains scarce wad balance a feather:
But just nominate him a Parliament man**
Head and brains will take flight a' thegither.

O sons o' Newcassel! free Burgesses a'
Ne'er be tempted your freedom to barter;
May they hing in tatters to frighten the craws,
If ye budge but an inch frae your Charter.
If ye sendup Sir Tommy to London, M.P.
I' the Parliament house to be seated,
Ye may just as weel send Captain Starkey*** up tee,
Your glory will then be completed.

*Governor General of Lunatic House.

** It was reported in the London Papers, that Sir T. B. intended
putting up as a Candidate to serve Newcastle in Parliament.

***An eccentric character well known in Newcastle.
 

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

Wreckenton Hiring

Oh, Lads and Lasses, hither come
To Wrekenton, to see the fun,
And mind ye bring your Sunday shoon,
 There'll be rare wark wi' dancing-o.
And Lasses now, without a brag,
Bring pockets like a fiddle bag,
Ye'll get them cramm'd wi' mony a whag
Of pepper-kyek an' scranchim-o.

And Bess put on that bonny goon
thy mother bought thou at the toon;
That straw-hat wi' the ribbons broon,
They'll a' be buss'd that's coming-o:
Put that reed ribbon round thy waist,
It myeks thou  luik sae full o' grace,
Then up the Lonnen come in haste,
They'll think thou's com'd frae Lunnen-o.

Ned pat on his sunday's coat,
His hat and breeches cost a note,
With a new stiff'ner round his throat,
He luikt the very dandy-o;
He thought that he was gaun to choke,
For he'd to gyep before he spoke;
He met Bess at the Royal Oak,
They had baith yell and brandy-o.

Each lad was there wi' his sweetheart,
and a' was ready for a start,
When in com Jack wi' Fanny Smart,
And brought a merry Scrapeer-o;
Then Ned jump'd up upon his feet,
And on the table myed a seat;
Then bounc'd the Fiddler up a heet,
Saying, Play and we will caper-o.

Now Ned and Bess led off the ball,
Play Smash the windows, he did call,
Keep in yor feet, says Hitchy Mall,
Learn'd dancers hae sic prancing-o:
Now Ned was nother lyeth nor lyem,
and faith he had baith bouk and byen,
Ye wad thought his feet was myed o' styen,
He gav sic thuds wi' dancing-o.

Now Jackey Fanny's hand did seize,
Cry'd Fiddler, tune your strings to please!
Play, Kiss her weel amang the trees,
She is my darlin, bliss her-o!
Then off they set, wi' sic a smack,
They myed the joints a' bend and crack:
When duen he took her round the neck,
And faith he dident miss her-o.

The fiddler's elbow wagg'd a' neet,
He thought he wad dropt off his seat,
For deil a bit they'd let him eat,
They were sae keen o' dancin- o.
Some had to strip their coats for heet,
And sarks and shifts were wet wi' sweet!
They cramm'd their guts, for want o' meat,
Wi' ginger-breed and scranchim-o.

Now cocks had crawn an hour or more,
And ower the yell-pot some did snore;
But how they lukt to hear the roar
Of Matt, the King Pit caller-o!
Smash him! says Ned, he mun be rang,
He's callin' through his sleep, aw's war'n;
Then shootin' to the door he ran--
Thou's asleep, thou rousty bawler-o!

Now they danc'd agyen till it was day,
Anbd then went hyem--but by the way,
Some of them had rare fun, they say,
And fand it nine months after-o;
Such tricks are play'd by heedless youth;
And though they're common, north and south,
That's nae excuse for breach of truth,
Nor food for wit and laughter-o.

Suen Wreckenton will bear the sway,
Two Members they'll put in, they say;
Then wor Taxes will be duen away,
Andwe'll a' sing now or never-o:
Backey and Tea will be sae cheap,
Wives will sit up when they sud sleep,
Andwe'll float in yell at wor Pay-week,
Then Wreckenton for ever-o.

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

Who walked 101 miles in 23 hours, 56 minutes, and 30 seconds
on the 25th and 26th of July, 1822, on the Newcastle Race course.

Men's talents vary--for wise ends design'd,
This man has strength of body, that, of mind;
Each his peculiar art, assiduous plies,
And every maxim of improvement tries,
Till he attain perfection by degrees,
And learns to execute his task with ease.
Wilson*, desist! and Simpson,**, take your rest!
Ease and retirement now will suit ye best;
Your brief excursions will excite no more
That admiration which they did before;
Though doubtless ye have both endeavour'd hard,
Perhaps without an adequate reqard;
But such laborious journies lay asside,
And if ye can ,instead of walking, ride.
Hide your diminish'd heads! nor vainly talk,
Among your friends, how rapidly you walk:
First in the annals of Pedestrian fame,
Historians now will enter Russell's name;
Where he will most conspicuously shine,
And long be hail'd--The Hero of the Tyne.
Upon this art he has so much refin'd,
That he leaves all competitors behind.
With boyant step we've seen him tread the plain,
And hope, ere long, to see him walk again.

*George Wilson the Blackheath Pedestrian walked 90 miles
in 24 successive hours, on the same ground on Easter Monday
and Tuesday, 1822.

**John Simpson the Cumberland Pedestrian attempted to walk
96 miles on the same ground, in the same period of time,
on Whit-Monday, and again on the 29th and 30th of July 1822
in both of which attempts he failed.

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

On Simpson the Pedestrian's Failure
tune- Barbary Bell

Sitting crush'd i' the huddock a' gobbing and talking,
We were mov'd wiv a spoke frae the little Pee Dee;
Ah! Skipper, he says, the auld man 'ill be walking,
So we a' rose together and set off to see.
When we gat to the Moor, he was dodging away, man,
Wi' twe cheps on each side, keeping a' the folks back;
And the bairns running after him, shouting hurra, man,
So we just gat agliff, for he pass'd in a crack.

Now Barney M'Mullin, his reet hand protector,
With a sprig o' shilelagh preparing the way,
Was stopt on the road by a publican hector,
Who hinted that Barney intended foul play.
If Barney mov'd forward he threaten'd to drop him,
For his walking, he said, put the man off his pace;
But Barney concluded he'd ne right to stop him,
And call'd him a big-gutted rogue to his face.

Every Freeman, says Barney, of land has a small stock,
but to dunch people off is most rascally mean;
Then their rights were protected by bold Tommy Alcock,
Who said he'd a share of the pasture sae green.
When Tommy put on his election-day swagger,
His genteel appearance made Barney's tongue cease,
His speech was sae pointed, it pierc'd like a dagger:
So Barney, poor soul, he departed in peace.

We stopt there a' neet, till weel on i' the morning,
Expecing he still wad keep dodging away;
But he gav us the double, without ony warning,
And hodg'd off the Moor, like a sheep gyen astray.
When he enter'd the tent, we were a' sitting drinking.
It was thought he had come to get something to eat;
But now it apears the poor soul had been thinking
On the best ways and means to obtain a retreat.

It seems the auld man had nae notion of stopping,
But as to what ail'd him, he knaws best his sel;
For whether he fail'd in his wind, strength, or bottom,
The skipper and I were baith puzzled to tell.
But it's owre and deun, so what signifies talking,
Poor man, he must just lay his fist to the spade;
Let them that think fit make their living by walking,
For this par he's fund it's a very bad trade.

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

The Victory; or The Captain Done Over

tune- O the golden days of good Queen Bess

It happen'd very lately, (upon my word 'tis true sir)
A party at the Peacock supp'd, as I shall shew to you sir;
The names of those I shall disclose, who form'd the happy party,
Were Waller Watson, Walton too, both honest blades and hearty;
And with them were two friends of theirs, who just had come to town,sir,
Hedges nad INgram are their names, both travellers of renown, sir.

They sang and drank, and drank and sang, till time was wearing late, sir,
Nor ever thought a moment what that night might be their fate, sir,
(Twas on the eighth of April, as we hear the story told, sir,)
They felt it not, for friendship's glass had warm'd their hearts within, sir,
By drinking brandy, rum, or wine, or eke good Holland's gin, sir.

Watson and Ingram both inclin'd to be a little merry, sir,
The others left-- to Dean-street they proceeded in a hurry, sir;
When Hedges he sung Fly not yet, why haste ye so away, sir?
And Ingram promptly answer'd him, by calling out, Oh! stay, sir.
The Verges of the night were rous'd--demanded why such clatter, sir,
What's all this hound-like noise about? come tell us what's the matter, sir.

Then Walton said, They're friendsof mine, and strangers in the place, sir;
But this they disregarded quite, and star'd them in the face, sir.
Now Halbert cried out, Seize them, Ross!--to the watch-house they shall go, sir;
And Master Carr will Kitty them, old friendship for to shew, sir.
Then to the watch-house they were ta'en triumphantly along, sir,
For nothing, as the trial prov'd but singing Tom Moor's song, sir.

Arriving at the watch-house, where Dogberry sat in state, sir,
The watchmen made false charges out, and did so glibly prate, sir;
tom cried out, What d'ye think of this? No defence wil I hear, sir;
My servants I will listen to, they've made it plain appear, sir.
Off to the Kitty with them, watch, nor grant one short respite, sirs,
But see that they're completely fast in durance all the night, sirs.

Ye watchmen, for the future, remember Scarlett's dressing, sirs,
The real sound drubbing you've receiv'd may be esteem'd a blessing, sirs:
And should you e'er repeat such acts, vile tyrants as you've been, sirs,
Scarlett against you may appear, and trim you black and green, sirs,
As you ere this must clearly find, you've kick'd against the pricks, sirs.

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

The Alarm!!* Or, Lord Fauconberg's March.

Tune- Chevy Chace

God prosper long our noble king,
And noblemen also,
Who valiantly, with sword in hand,
Do guard us from each foe.

No sooner did Lord Fauconberg,
with heart undaunted hear,
Than news to Gotham had been brought,
Which caus'd our Mayor to fear,

Than up he rose, with eyes on fire,
Most dreadful to the view;
To arms! to arms! aloud he cried,
and forth his falchion drew.

To arms! to arms! full long and sore
The rattling drums did beat:
To arms in haste each soldier flies,
And scours through every street.

The women shriek and wring their hands,
Their children weep around;
While some, more wise, fast bolt their doors,
And hide them under ground.

The French are at our gates! they cry,
And we shall all be slain;
For Dumourier is at their head,
And that arch-traitor Paine.

In haste drawn  up, in fair array,
Our Yorkshire Guards are seen;
And mounted on a jet black steed,
Lord Fauconberg I ween.

And now he gave the word to march,
And vailiant foremost rode:
And now he bounds from side to side--
'Twas well the streets were broad.

From Newgate down to the Broad-chare
They march'd with might and main;
Then gallantly they turn'd them round,
And so march'd up again.

Now fill a bumper to the brim,
And drink to Gotham's Mayor;
And when again he hears such news,
May Fauconberg be there.

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

* On the commencement of the impress service, in March, 1793
considerable riots took place at Shields, which were represented,
at Newcastle, in a thousand terrific shapes; and a false alarm
having been given at the Mansion house, the drums of the York Militia beat
to arms; Lord Fauconberg marched that regiment to the house of Rendezvous in the Broad
-chare, and then marched back again.

The Half-Drowned Skipper

Air- Chapter of Donkies

T'other day up the water aw went in a boat,
Aw brush'd up my trowsers, put on my new coat;
We steer'd up wor boat 'lang side of a keel,
And the luiks o' the Skipper wad frighten'd the Deil.

Chorus-

Fol de rol, &c.

So thinks aw, wi' the keel we'll gan a' the way,
And hear a few words that the skipper may say,
For aw was sure if ought in the keel was deun wrang,
The Skipper wad curse, aye, and call every man.

Now we'd just getten up to the fam'd Skinners' Burn,
When the Skipper bawl'd out that the keel was to turn:
Wye he shouted and roar'd like a man hung in chains,
And swore by the keel he would knock out their brains.

The little Pee-dee jump'd about on the deck,
And the Skipper roar'd out he wad sure smash his neck;
What for? says the Pee-dee, can one not speak a word?--
So he gave him a kick--knock'd him plump overboard,

There was nyen o' the bullies e-er lost a bit time,
But flung their great keel-huiks splash into the Tyne:
they prought up the Pee-dee just like a duck'd craw,
And the Skipper, wi' laughin, fell smack ower an' a'

Now the keelmen being tired of their Skipper se brave
Not one e'er attempted his life for to save;
They hoisted their sail, and we saw no more,
But the half-drown'd Skipper was swimming ashore.

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

The Newcastle Worthies

Air- We're aye been provided for

The praises o' Newcassel aw've lang wish'd to tell,
But now then aw'm determin'd to hae a right good spell,
An' shew what noted kiddies frae Newcassel town hes flit,
For it's a' wis been a canny place, an' sae will it yet.

A chep, they call'd him Scott, he liev'd on the banks o' Tyne,
Had a son, that i' the Government he wanted to shine:
By degrees the youth he rose up, now Lord Chancellor does sit,
And he's fill'd his place reet brawly, aye an' sae will he yet.

Of a' the fine Engravers that grace fair Lunnen toon,
Wor Tom Ransom and Bill Harvey bang a' that's up or doon:
The praises frae the 'Cademy they constantly do get;
Tor their pieces they've got medals, aye an' sae will they yet.

For boxing tee, the Lunnen cheps we'll thresh them i' their turns;
Ony see what science he has lairnt--that noted chep, Jem Burns:
Jem Wallace tee, wor champion, how Tommy Dunn he hit,
But they both good ones ever were, an' sae will they yet.

A vast mair cliver cheps we ha'e some aw'll let ye knaw;
For a strong man, whe could beat both Airchy wi' his wonderous claw;
When six men tuik him in a boat, her bottom suen he split,
And the hiding that he ga'e them, they've not forgot it yet.

For fiddling tee, now whe is there wor Blind Willie can beat?
Or for dancing whe before Jack Cockson e'er could set their feet?
Cull Billy only try him now, he'll cap ye wi' his wit;
He's truly wond'rous, ever was, and sae will he yet.

Bob Cruddance, ah, poor soul! he's deed--he had a cliver knack
O' keeping beer, aye three yards off, when he parish'd the pack!
And whin Bob 'bout the militia constantly does swet;
But by cunningness escap'd them, aye sae will he yet.

Jack Nicholson, the noble soul, a deal o' breeding shows,
Got a patent frae the King to split sheep heads with his nose;
The butchers fearing o' disgrace, a job he ne'er cud get--
But the hounour aye been wi' him, aye, an' sae will it yet.

Of Fishwives tee, that's i' wor toon, up to the present day,
Euphy Scott she is prime minister to Queen Madgie Gray:
The understerappers and descendants maintain that it was fit,
She should rule the market as she lik'd, and' sae will she yet.

Captain Starkey, Pussey Willie, and poor Cuddy Reed,
Lousy Donald and au'd judy, poor souls! they've a' gyen deed:
But, marrows, keep ye up your hearts, this is not the time to fret,
For their memories hae e-eer been up, aye an' say will they yet.

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

Old Nick, for pastime, took a prance,
And to Newcastle did advance;
At Granger's buildings just did glance,
And swagger'd away to H---'s Kitchen.
The Kitchen soon was in a roar,
When Nick excalim'd--I'll pay the score!
So let the drink go round galore--
Which soon laid numbers on the floor:-
Cried Sawalwell Pyet--Old Friend, what cheer!
We're heartily glad to see you here--
Nick smack'd the ale, and soon turn'd queer
Among his friends in the Kitchen.

Chorus

Then shout hurrah for Ralph's good ale!
O may its virtues never fail--
It made Old Nick to cock his tail,
And stagger about in the Kitchen.

In midst of all the noise and din,
The merry crew came tumbling in,
From Parlour and Cock'd Hat so trim,
To join their friend in the Kitchen:--
First Ramsay Jack, the broker's hack,
With G__ and E__ upon his back--
Great Doctor Flash came in a crack--
Brave Noodle W--n join'd the pack;
And from the Vestry, like a rose,
Came M--ty with the brandy nose,
And B--m dress'd in dandy clothes,
To welcome Nick to the Kitchen.

Fam'd H--p acted Crook-back'd Dick,
And sung a song to please Old Nick;
Jim W--n smoak'd till S--t turn'd sick,
And they bundled them out of the Kitchen.
Old S--y, too, that gallant tar,
Said when on board a man of war,
He conquer'd Yankee and Lascar,
And knew all the countries near and far:
Old Nick then gave a dreadful roar,
With voice just like the grizzly boar,
Brave S--y ran towards the door,
And fled half-dead from the Kitchen!

Old Wash C-- with his dirty paws,
Sat rubbing up his grim old jaws,
And scandalizing without cause,
His dearest friend in the Kitchen.
Jim Colvin and Ned Mushel smart,
Were guzzling beer down by the quart!
Old Snuffy Tom well play'd his part,
He swigg'd away with all his heart.
Old Nick cried, Is my Uncle here?
I long to taste of his good cheer! --
A lump of beef did soon appear,
And they gobbled it up in the Kitchen!

O hark! cried Nick the clock strikes one!
So midnight's past--I must be gone;
When I remount my brimstone throne,
I'll oftentimes think of the Kitchen.
Ralph D--d said, before we part--
Come let us have another quart!
Bob C--r swears 'twill break his heart,
To think you should so soon desert!
But Nick still more impatient grew--
At last he bellow'd out- Adieu!
And, in a moment, off he flew,
'Mid thund'ring chears from the Kitchen!
 -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.

Invitation to the Mansion-House Dinner
In honour of the Coronation
air- Scots wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled.

Men who have with Mayors fed;
Men whom oft the Mace hath led;
Welcome to your Beef and Bread,
Come and feast to-day.
See yon Ox's buttocks lower;
See yon bags of pudding flour;
Shew your masticating power
Teeth and Loyalty.

Who can't eat is sure a knave;
Send the scoundrel to his grave;
Who can't drink should be a slave;
Such we ne'er  will be.
Who for King and Country's Law
Will cut away and stuff his maw,
Cans will drain, and corks will draw,
Brothers, come with me.

By what's worse than Slavery's chains,
Empty stomachs, gripes, and pains,
We'll eat and drink, until or veins
Swoln like bladderes be.
See yon lumps of beef laid low,
Puddings fall at every blow!
Wine in bumpers round shall flow:
Brothers, look to me!

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

O yes! ye swinnish Multitude!
To our Newcastle sties repair:
Two whole fate beeves are barbecu'd,
So go and cram your gorges there.

Your mouths will water at the sight;
The oose your unshav'd chops run down;
Your dirty sleeves away will dight
The slobber of tobacco brown.

With cart-grease basted, dredg'd with dust,
The outsides burnt, the insides raw,
Next to some tit bit carrion must
Delight a hog's voracious maw.

Hey! to the Pants, where dribbling wine
And brewer's rot-gut beer distil;
Withspeed let every greedy swine
Swig what he can--aye, swig his fill.

Then to your growing nature true,
REturn to wallow in the mire;
Andlet the Corporate body view
The consummation they require.

Swineherds expect the brutes that run
To guzzle at their garbage feast,
Should compensate, and make them fun;
So hogs come on and play the beast!

And grunt, ye pigs, with savage joy,
While stuffing full your craving maws,
Nor care if staves your skulls annoy,
But quickly move your greedy jaws.

While guzzling down your wishy-wash,
Squeak loud with make believe affection;
And in the puddle kick and splash,
Nor shew one sign of disaffection.

Then, all ye lordly herds laugh loud,
And shake your portly paunches fine;
Shew to your dames the rabble crowd--
And having pray'd retire to dine.

Then tell how the voracious pigs,
With greedy spite press'd to the trow,
And gave each other loyal digs,
Nor car'd for e'er a waddling sow.

Next sagely argue o'eer your wine,
This crew, debas'd beyond compare,
In fact and reason are true swine,
Unlike Corinthian Pillars fair.*

Pigstye Court, Sandhill, 12th July 1821.

*The Rich were called the Corinthian Pillars of Society by the poet poetlorret Burk
while he termed the Industrious Classes the Swinish Multitude.

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

Come, neighbours, to Robson's let's all hie away,
To see the Ox crown'd with ribbons so gay:
His horns are well gilded, his head bright does shine,
We'll soon get a slice and a horn full of wine.

Some come from afar, as did wise men of old,
To see our King's head branch'd out thus with gold.
Success, then, to horns, when they're gilded so clever;
May the....wear horns, and wear them for ever.

In praise then of horns let all Newcastle sing;
For he who scorns horns despises his ....
Let them boast of their garters, and boast of their stars,
But horns are far better than honours or scarss.

Never blush for your horns then though low be your station.
since horns are the pride of the Chief of our nation.
Let them make, Lords and dukes, crown an Ass, if they will
The order of Horns let it be my theme still.

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

Loyal Festivities;
or, Novel Scenes at Newcastle

A popular song in the New Farce of the Coronation
As it was performed at Newcastle upon Tyne,
on Thursday, July 19, 1821.

Sung by the Swinish Multitude in full Chorus.

The Castle guns were fir'd and loud
The bells rang in the morning.
To wake the Swinish Multitude,
And give the public warning:
Atht, as in duty bound, the Mayor,
And loyal Corporation,
Would celebrate, in civic state,
The day of Coronation!

With matchless liberality,
the sums of money voted,
That loyalty might be thereby
Among the herd promoted:
A feast would loyalized the brutes,
Upon this great occasion,
And make them sing, God save the King!
At George's Coronation.

Three royal fountains running beer,,
And one to dribble wine, O,
Would make them flock from far and near,
To grunt like loyal swine, O.
Two bullocks roasted whole, 'twas thought,
Would be a grand donation,
To toss among the rabble rout,
At George's Coronation!

'Twas done--the bullocks roasted were,
The fountains set a flowing;
While Butchers round, upon the ground,
Huge lumps of beef were throwing;
The loyal Swineherds looking on,
In anxious expectation,
To see each beast enjoy the feast
At George's Coronation!

But what was their surprise to find
The swinish herd refuse it;
How strange! their tastes were so refin'd
No hog of sense would use it!
Our Gentry now, the loyal few,
Beheld, with consternation,
The scanty stock of loyalty
At George's Coronation!

They saw, with grief, the roasted beef
By saucy swine neglected!
No grateful beast estoll'd the feast,
Nor loyalty respected!
Their swinish nature sure is chang'd--
O what an alteration!
Time was when pigs would grunt and squeel,
To grace a Coronation!

But ah! the brutes display, at last,
The faculty of Reason!
The age of Chivalry is past!
(Reflection most unpleasing!)
and sad to tell, with that is gone
Othello's occupation!
All servile reverence for a throne,
And priestly domination!

Then why display this make-believe
Affection and profusion?
Ye can no longer swine decive,
They see through the delusion.
What then avails this pagentry,
And useless ostentation?
What signifies your loyalty
At George's Coronation!

Had Derry-Down been on the spot,
And view'd the scene before him,
While beef, and bones, and brcks, like shio,
Were flying in terrorem;
Wh would have star'd with wild affright,
At such a consummation,
And loudly damn'd the useless farce
Of George's Coronation!

Learn hence ye Legislators wise,
Ye guardians of our treasures!
The Swinish Multitude despise
Your insonsistent measures:
Think not that bayonets will gain
The people's admiration;
Or fix a Monarch on the throne,
By a mock coronation!

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

The firing of guns, and the ringing of bells,
Rous'd me from my dreams about magical spells;
So I'll draw you a sketch, as we're now by orsel's
By way of an illustration:
The roads to Newcastle were cover'd almost,
As if Radical thunder * had summon'd its host,
Or an enemy's fleet had been seen off the coast
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

In the streets what a buz among sweethearts and wives,
And children who ne'er rose so soon in their lives;
All higgledy piggledy through other drives,
To view what was in preparation.
The oxen are roasting-outsides a mere crust;
They're stuff'd wi' potatoes, and dredg'd well with dust,
While the turnspits were set as if working o' trust,
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

I next went to view a Boat-race on the Tyne,
For a blue silken flag skill and labour combine;
Gold sovereigns the prizes--to start about nine,
From Walker, with precipitation.
The Greyhound came first, the old Sandgate-shore Gig.
Which went as if chasing a hare, through the Brig.
No doubt but the wives and the lasses were big,
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

The the Gentlemen walk'd in procession to church;
Not even Dissenters did lag in the porch,
But boldly push'd on, amid ruffles and starch,
To praise and to pray with the nation.
The service being ended, the anthemsare sung,
The burnt sacrifice from each service is swung,
When the fountains with wine and strong ale 'gan to run
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

Then a Female Procession, to heighten the scene,
Paraded the streets, with a bust of the Queen;
When her title was plac'd where a crown should have been
Upon the crane-top was its station.
The the Ox was beheaded, and held up to view,
As if he'd done something of Cato-street hue;
A soldier that made his appearance did rue,
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

Then with sqaueezing and tearing began the dispute;
Some held by the Pant, and some grappled the spout,
Till as drunk as a lord and as wise as a brute,
At this swine-feeding jollification.
They drank out of hats and old shoes, very keen,
The fights they went round, quite amusing the scene;
While some, in mistake drank Success to the Queen!
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

The battle grew hot, as they flung round the beef,
Disgusted, they sought no Commander in chief;
The fires they demolish'd, while brickbats and beef
Flew like rockets, in mad desperation.
The Butchers, now thinking their lives very sweet,
Soon threw down their gullies, and beat a retreat;
Not wishing to die, just like dogs, in the street,
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

Upon the Sandhill, where the fountain ran wine,
the keelmen, quite eager to taste of the vine,
Had the Crown taken down, which was thrown in the Tyne,
So fix'd was their determination.
There one, tho' stripp'd naked, so great was his drouth,
Made a new-fashion'd sun-dial, pointing due soiuth,
When the ladies at five of the clock set their mouth,
On George the Fourth's Coronation.

Among the arrivals at Mansion-house gates,
Were the bones of the oxen, the spits, and the grates,
With a keelman, in petticoats, scratching his pate,
For a suit from our rich Corporation.
Had the Den** been but open, the people might say,
For Kill-pudding Joe, and the burdies of prey,***
This sunshine woiuld brought a fine harvest of hay,
On George the Fourth's Coronation.
 

*Referring to the Public Meeting on the Town Moor, on
the 11th Oct. 1819, where, it was supposed 100,000
were assembled, to take into consideration the proceedings at Manchester.

**The House of Correction

***Police Officers

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

O Jockey, my friend, mun, how last you this evening?
Come in, crook your hough, and let's hear all your news;
It appears to me you have been tramping this morning,
I see by the dust that's so thick on your shoes.
I have been a tramping. I've been At Newcastle,
All the things I have seen there my memory can't bring;
The folks from all parts have rais'd such a noration,
About the Coronation of Geordy the King.

The first thing I saw was two fires for the bullocks-
They hung them both down as it struck twelve at night;
But lang ere day-light was come in on the morning,
Both sutffing and 'tatoes were burnt in their kites.
They turn'd them on spite until burnt like two cinders,
And cut them both up about twelve of the day;
As they lay on the stages, they smok'd just like tinder,
And look'd like two muck-heaps, the people did say.

Then the carvers set to with knives cutting and scraping,
And lumps of fat beef with such vengeance were strew'd,
I dare say they thought that the folks were all gaping,
And believ'd they were feeding a swine multitude.
But the stuff they threw out put the folks in a fury,
Both stones and brick-bats they snatch'd up in a rage;
And a radical troop, thus equipp'd in a hurry,
With vengeance bang'd carvers and beef off the stage.

For the folks being determin'd, the beef would not handle,
Nor gobble it up like a stye full of swine;
For their conscience did whisper it would be a scandal;
So the stuff was refus'd by the sons of the Tyne.
The next thing I saw was a British young sailor,
He pull'd the crown down from the top of the crane;
Although with brick bats he got many a nailor,
Yet he stuck up a lebel concerning the Queen.

This bill being put up set the crowd in a motion,
They gavethree times three when first it was seen;
And loudly did praise the brave tars of the ocean,
Who fought in defense of their much injur'd Queen.
These things being done, it rais'd such a durdem,
The stones and the brick-bats flew up like a cloud:
A poor Tyne Cossack, that belong'd to Tom Burdon,
Was near cursh'd to death as he fought with the crowd.

That day in the town was heard no sound of bugles,
And Bold Archy, he too was ne'eer seen iv a';
For if that but once he had brought down the Noodles,
They'd been trod under foot like a bundle of straw.
For so bold are the men about canny Newcassel,
No injustice they'll suffer when assembled a':
If the King had been there he'd ne'er worn his gold tassel,
And as to being crown'd, htat would ne'er done iv a'

The things that were flying appear'd like a battle;
So, afraid of being fell'd, as I stood by the folks,
I on shankie nagie away straight did rattle,
To drag down the street the black bones of the ox.
When I came to the Sandhill my eyes I got open'd,
I saw something standing which brightly did shine;
A large wooden Pant, and a crown on the top o't:
When I came to look close it was running red wine,

The folk that were round it appear'd to be growling
And fighting amongst it like so many cats;
While others I saw among mud and dirt rolling,
And drinking the wine out of old lousy hats.
Thinks I to myself, this is all botheration,
It is but a pretext, I know by their scheme,
to pump out what's left of the wealth of the nation,
To swell the fat bags of the Clergy and King.

The next thing I saw htat took up my attention,
Was a keelman quite nak'd! he'd no breeches iv a';
Some said he, for fighting, deserv'd well a pension,
But I think that he ought to've  been tried by the law.
The wives that were running fell o'er, tappy lappy,
Town serjents the keelmen did pelt well with glare;
And swore, if they could but catch Tripy and Cappy,
They would tear them to rags at the end of the war.

Then I by this time nigh got into a quarrel;
I argued, but could not the battle decide;
So dreading some person might tear my apparel,
I took my departure unto the Quayside.
In going down the Quay there was such a crushing--
I met with a man of the name of Tom Dale,
He said, into Sandgate the folks were all pushing,
For the Pant on the hill there was running strong ale.

When I got to Sandgate I could not help laughing.
The lasses were running about with the swipes;
And old wives that fell in the gutter were scruffling,
Ne'er minded, but smok'd on their old cutty pipes.
I next took my journey as far as the Spital,
To see if ought curious was there to be seen;
But I think that from Sandgate it differed little,
For the folks were all drinking the health of the Queen.

I went to an alehouse, and nearly got fuddled,
For by walking about sae my legs were quite lame;
So on my old pins then away I straight toddled,
And ne'er look'd behind me, but tramp'd away hame.
At Newcastle there have been both horse and boat races,
I have droll things to tell you, if I had but time;
But having to call at some more bits of places,
On some other day I will finish my rhyme.

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

For days, within the 'Spital green,
In ribbands deck'd were Bullocks seen,
And on their horns a royal corwn,
To mock some Cuckold of renown;
And all, whose thoughts agree with mine,
Will say he's nearer Thames than Tyne.

Humanity, with pitying gaze,
Beheld the victims fondly graze
Round the infernalfurnace pile,
Where onewas shortly doom'd to broil,
Purpos'd to feed the humble swine
That dwelt upon the banks of Tyne.

Blush, ye great Ruleers of the town,
Behold your nauseous, loathsome boon!
See men, with manners more discreet,
Disgusted, spurn your beastly treat!
And know, all you who term us swine,
That Reason rules the sons of Tyne.

Give heed to this, Worhsipful Mayor,
Though we're reduc'd by taxes bare,
Our British bosoms still contain
Hearts sound as his with golden chain!
May freedom's rays, whichbrighter shine,
Adorn each manly breast on Tyne.

It adds but little to your praise,
To see your lavish, wasteful ways,
To see a keelman, from his huddock,
Within your wine-trogh wash his buttock,
Which ne'er before was drench'd in wine,
But often plung'd in coaly Tyne.

What did your wilful waste avail?
Your fountains running wine and ale?
The bronzed dome, the glitt'ring crown,
Torn by an enrag'd people down?
Who cheering hail'd Queen Caroline,
Borne by the blooming fair on Tyne.

What would an untaught Heathen said,
To see such brutal scenes display'd?
Is this hte land, he would reply,
That teaches Christianity?
Such might suit yon wild shores of mine,
But shame Great Britain and the Tyne.

The money wasted on the ground,
Had it been wisely dealt around
Amongst the needy poor, half-starv'd--
A thousand pounds would thousands serv'd;
Extravagance was their design,
Who rul'd Newcastle upon Tyne.

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

Coronation Thursday July 19, 1821
Being the Third Epistle from Bob Fudge to his Cousin Bob in the Country.*

Dear Bob-A sad outlaw at length I'm become,
The Tories despise me, the Whigs glump and gloom,
And scowl as they pass, which is something uncivil,
And the Radicals treat me as I would the devil;
And threaten, the next time I make my appearance,
To sourge me completely, with Christain forbearance,
This threat from a party, who never would bawl
For liberal discussion, is worst of them all;
As my writings, I'm sure, must be wond'rous offences,
When such men are talking about consequences.
But whether the head of the Noodles appear,
Or Lambton, or Typo, with sword or with spear,
To blunt their sharp edges at once on my nob,
I'm determin'd to write to my own dearest Bob.

The Pedlar's descendant** may boast in the field,
And the Earl of the North with reluctancy yield,
While Cartwright an excess of freedom may claim--
Perhaps they're all right, since they all are to blame.
The Radicals want more than reason would crave,
They all would be kings, withoiut ever a slave;
And that, my dear Bob, you know never can be--
And as for the Whigs, they love stones more than me.
I dare not maliciously think of the Tory,
No envy his pudding, the Englishman's glory--
He's in, and he's right, and his place is worth keeping,
No wonder he wishes John still to be sleeping:--
And though from stage coffers his wages be taken,
He'd betteer be paid than the office forsaken.
Without Kings and Clergy, and Commons and Peers,
Together the people would be by the ears;
Equal rights, equal liberties, who would not brave,
Lest an excess of Freedom prove Liberty's grave.

We've the use of our fingers, our tongues, and our eyes,
How then are we fetter'd? the good Tory cries;
And as for the taxes Judge Bayley can prove
They're the source of our welfare, the things we should love.
Since the days of king Solomon, that wise man of yore,
All kings have had wisdom and riches in store:
And Britain, sublimely renowned in story,
Has become of the world th' admiration and glory,
By the help of our kings, and prime minister Pitt,
Whose names are a match for the Radicals yet.
But stop--to amuse thee I'll give a relation
Of the sights I beheld I beheld at the King's Coronation;
Which partly convinc'd me that infidels reign,
Since the head of the church met such hoggish disdain.
The morning was fine when the boats came in sight,
And cannons re-echoed the Tories' delight--
Sandgate heroes huzza'd, till the news, so provoking,
Convinc'd tthem the watermen only were joking.
What a d--n'd shame! (cried Archy) such prizes, and never
A man lying breathless, or drown'd in the river!
No squabbling, no fighting, no boats sunk--damnation!
They're fit men to row at a King's Coronation!
then from the Quayside to the Sandhill I wander'd,
And smil'd to behold money foolishly squander'd:
A pant rising splendidly, gilded and crown'd,
To run with good wine, in the centre was found,
And fronting St. Nicholas a black roasted beast,
And another in Spital-field, bespoke a grand feast.
Three pants to run ale-'twas a glorious sight!
Tow cranes and two scaffolds- the butcher's delight.

From  Church now the Mayor and company ride,
And Bab with the Queen, at the foot of the Side,
hoisted high on a pole, with a crown on her head--
(and her effigy more than the devil they dread)
The crowd was so dense, and the shouts so astounding,
And nothing but Radical whiskers surrounding;
Which made it becoming to bow to the Queen,
Though a damnable blot on their loyalty, I ween!,
Releas'd, they drove gently, their plans to fulfill,
By drinking the king's health upon the Sandhill.
But, to their misfortune, round where it was plac'd,
the crowd was so furious, no Tory could fac't;
And high on the gilded dome stood a rude fellow,
With the crown on his head!--people said he was mellow;
But I took him to be some base Radical body,
Who wish'd folk to think that the King was a noddy,
For at the mock gestures of kingly demeanour,
The people bawl'd loudly, and bow'd to his honour;
While many among them cried, Pull the knave down!
Such a bad drunken fellow's not fit for a crown!
He's as good, quoth a keelman, and blew like a porpus,
As the London Mogul, who can drink, wh-e, and robus.
So near was the danger, the Mayor swoon'd away;
But Archy, more bold, as they pranc'd round the fray,
To his comrades cried softly, (but not till past catching)
What treasonable stuff those dammn'd Radicals are hatching!
D'ye see what a mess they have made of the crown,
go call outthe soldiers to pull yon knave down.
Drive on, quoth the Mayor, by this time come about,
There's no time to talk while the Philistines are out.

More furious grew Archy, as nearer he drew
The den of corruption, with th' Noodles in view.
Fetch the soldiers, I say--let the streets swim with blood!
See the crown is insulted , and allthat is good,
When erected this morn, what a sight to behold!
'Twas velvet and ermine, and cover'd with gold!
'Tis sacrilege! treason! hell groans at the sight!
Fetch the soldieers, and put the bad rabble to flight:
We crown'd it, and form'd it to dribble with wine,
That the King's health, when drank, might be cheer'd by the swine;
And shall we be bet while we've soldiers to guard us?
No, call them out quickly--the King will reward us.
As he finish'd the sentence, the crown got a fall,
And rapt'rous delight animated them all.
What savage barbarians those English are grown,
To laugh at the fall of a beautiful crown!
'Twas time for the Mayor and poor Archy to fly
From the radical scene to the  loyal pig-stye.
To St. Nicholas's square then I posted away,
Where Typo's high window peep'd over the fray;
And such an Ox roasting was there to be seed!
'Twas a bad royal meeting for all but the Queen.
The crowd was immense, and their spirits were high,
To honour his Magesty no one durst try.
The scaffold with tipstaves and butchers was clad,
Who blarnied poor folks what fine morsels they had;
And holding the head up, began to huzza,
But a volley of hisses and groans drown'd their jaw:
Though, Thistlewood like, it was something uncivil,
For the head wearing horns was as black as the devil.
St. Nicholas peal'd out as the hisses began,
And seem'd to say, Loyal bucks, do what you can!
As fast as the butchers the collops threw out,
The people return'd them with many a shout;
And many a fat lump loyal whiskers besmear'd,
'Till brick-bats and fat chops the slaughter stage clear'd
A crown that look'd lovely, and honoured the crane,
Call'd forth, beyond measure, the public disdain;
The brick-flying tempest redoubled its terror,
And many a poor Tory's heart trembled with horror.
An Officer* **vent'ring imprrudently near
Receiv'd the same fate as the Coach in the rear;
So high was the Radical sentiment tow'ring,
That public expression was past all enduring.
In vain flew the bricks, save to knock people down,
For the Tories were fled, and too fast was the crown;
At length a bold Tar, in the midst of the fray,
Mounted swiftly, and tore the gilt bauble away;
And put in its palce, which was fair to be seen,
The Queen that Jack lov'd, and cried, God save the Queen!
Then off went their hats, and abroad went the roar,
And shook the glass windows along the Tyne shore.
The mangled black carrion was knock'd from the stage,
And dragg'd round the town with republican rage,
Till deposited safely i' th' Mansion-house yard,
Where Archy Mac Syc. is the master black-guard;
From whence, in accordance with Archibald's wish,
It was sunk in the Tyne- to make broth for the fish.
So that Radical bodies were highly to blame,
When they sung their pig sonnets, and cried out, For shame!
A few drunken fellows the ale-pants surrounded,
And fought for the mish-mash till nearly half-drowned.
But when the wine dribbled beneath the Exchange,
The people were furious, and sought for revenge,
By drinking The Queen! with astounding delight,
While the fine folks above them grew pale at the sight.
But to see a nak'd man holding fast by the spout,
Made the sanctified ladies huzza, clap and shout
Fight away, pigs (quoth Archy) you make us fine fun!
But when the pant suffer'd he alter'd his tune.
In Spital-field loyalty had no more boast,
For the Queen rul'd the heart and the people the roast.
Poor anvil****disgrac'd himself, some people say,
To ask the Mayor leave on the Race-ground to pray;
In fact, after such a deed I should not wonder
But they'll sneak and ask leave, till oblig'd to knock under.
What a punch-loving people! in less than an hour,
To see Lambton's horse, they were all on the moor;
But vex'd that their favorite's coursere should lose,
They car'd not to stay till the Races might close.
Returning at length, like a tempest they came,
Which bursts upon Cheviot, and sets it on flame)
And levell'd the panrts with the spoil of the day,
While a Radical gave them a touch of hsi lay.
In vain the peace-officers handled their staves,
And entreated the crowd to submit like good slaves;
'Twas the Head of the Church who created the day,
And salvation attended a loyal display!
But passive obedience was basely rejected,
And the Head of the Church very little respected;
Which made Archy again for the horse soldiers shout,
So anxious he seem'd for a Manchester rout:
But, thank their good stars, they go freefrom the labour
Of drawing their whittles to hamstring a neighbour.
In its socket was sinking the Radical taper,
Ere snugly the mighty ones sat down to supper.
It cost them two thousand, I mean th' Corporation!
What a round sum, dear Bob, for a King's Coronation!
But surely I need not the money begrudge,
For the sight charm'd the heart of thy cousin,
Bob Fudge.
 
 

*The First Epistle, Radical Monday, a satirical description of the Town Moor great Meeting on the 11th Oct. 1819- The
Second Epistle (unpublished) Radical Thursday and Whig Wednesday, on the public Meetings held in Newcastle, on those
days, for addressing the queen &c.

**Lord Castlereagh
***A military Officer on horseback in the crowd at the time the Mail Coach passed
decorated in honour of the Coronation, was, together with the Coach pelted by the populace.
****An Independent Methodist Preacher, who forgetting the commission of his Divine Master to preach the Gospel, even on the
highways and hedges, applied in vain to the Mayor, for leave for himself and brethren to hold a camp meeting on the Town Moor.  The worthy Magistrate objected, on the ground of injuring the interests of the church as by law established; or more properly speaking, the interests of  the established Clergy.
Anvil is also celebrated by Bob Fudge, in his First Epistle, entitled Radical Monday, as one of the orators at the Town Moor
great meeting on the 11th of October 1819.

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