Transcriber’s Note: Period and dialect spelling, inconsistent hyphenation, etc. are preserved as printed.
RHYMES
OF
Northern Bards:
BEING A CURIOUS
COLLECTION
OF OLD AND NEW
SONGS AND POEMS,
Peculiar to the Counties of
NEWCASTLE UPON TYNE,
NORTHUMBERLAND, AND DURHAM.
EDITED BY JOHN BELL, JUN.
“NORTHUMBRIA’S SONS STAND FORTH, BY ALL CONFEST,
THE FIRST AND FIRMEST OF FAIR FREEDOM’S TRAIN;
EACH BRAVE NORTHUMBRIAN NURSES IN HIS BREAST
THE SACRED SPARK, UNSULLIED BY A STAIN.”
Newcastle upon Tyne:
Printed for John Bell, by M. Angus & Son, and sold by them,
and other Booksellers in Town.
MDCCCXII.
LINES
SENT TO THE EDITOR AND PRINTER.
Proceed, ye generous friends of Tyne,
And prosperous be your way;
How happy, would our sons incline
To catch the improving ray!
With heart and hand your friendship join,
Bring Taste and Genius forth;
That all may own Newcastle Town,
Emporium of the North.
PREFACE.
Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,
Thinks what ne’er was, nor is, nor e’er shall be.
Pope.
“Give me the writing of all the Ballads, for the people of England, and let who will be their law-giver,” was said by a celebrated orator, in speaking on the manners of the people:—this cheering ray, in behalf of ballad writing, gave rise to the publication of the following pages: for how many of these simple, yet popular effusions, have been lost for want of a repository to give them a chance of living a day beyond the time they were written?—As such, the Summum Bonum of my labours is to rescue from the yawning jaws of oblivion the productions of the Bards of the Tyne; and by so doing, hand them down to future ages as Reliques of Provincial Poetry:—But, conscious of the liability of personal allusions in the generality of provincial poems, the words of the poet have been kept in mind:—
“Curs’d be the verse, how well soe’er it flow,
Which tends to make one worthy man my foe!”
Those who may have expected a matchless collection, and find it inferior to other poetical selections, will please to think of the following Italian proverb:—
“CHI LAVA LA TESTA AL ASINO PERDE IL SAPONE.”
and accept the same from their
Obedient Servant,
THE EDITOR.
Newcastle upon Tyne, August, 1812.
VERSES
ON
NORTHUMBERLAND MINSTRELSY.
BY H.R.
With taste so true, and genius fine,
The blythsome Minsterels of langsyne,
Sung sweetly ’tween the Tweed and Tyne,
Of war and love;
Sounding their melody divine,
Thro’ ev’ry grove.
Northumbria’s waters, woods, and plains,
Her hills and dales, her nymphs and swains,
Her rural sports, in sweetest strains,
The Poets sung;
Till echo, thro’ her wide domains,
Responsive rung.
In witty songs and verses kittle[1],
Who could compare with Thomas Whittle?
The Cambo blade, who to a tittle,
Describ’d each feature;
At painting, too, he varied little
From mother Nature.
Her Pipers also knew the art
To touch the soul, and warm the heart;
Such chearing strains they could impart,
That cank’ring care,
From ev’ry breast away would start,
To pine elsewhere.
When at the harvest, every year,
They play’d, the reapers’ hearts to chear;
The soft-link’d notes, so sweet and clear,
Made labour light;
And many a merry jig, I swear,
They danc’d each night.
[1] Lively.
Old Tyne shall listen to my Tale,
And Echo, down the bordering Vale,
The Liquid Melody prolong.
Akenside.
SONGS.
WEEL MAY THE KEEL ROW.
As I cam thro’ Sandgate, thro’ Sandgate, thro’ Sandgate,
As I cam thro’ Sandgate, I heard a lassie sing,
Weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row,
Weel may the keel row, that my laddie’s in.
He wears a blue bonnet, blue bonnet, blue bonnet,
He wears a blue bonnet, a dimple in his chin:
And weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row,
And weel may the keel row, that my laddie’s in.
THE NEW KEEL ROW.
By T.T.—To the old Tune.
Whe’s like my Johnny,
Sae leish, sae blithe, sae bonny,
He’s foremost ’mang the mony
Keel lads o’ Coaly Tyne;
He’ll set or row so tightly,
Or in the dance so sprightly,
He’ll cut and shuffle sightly,
’Tis true—were he not mine.
Weel may the keel row,
The keel row, the keel row,
Weel may the keel row,
That my laddie’s in:
He wears a blue bonnet,
A bonnet, a bonnet,
He wears a blue bonnet,
A dimple in his chin.
He’s ne mair learning,
Than tells his weekly earning,
Yet reet frae wrang discerning,
Tho’ brave, ne bruiser he;
Tho’ he no worth a plack is,
His awn coat on his back is,
And nane can say that black is
The white o’ Johnny’s ee.
Each pay-day nearly,
He takes his quairt right dearly,
Then talks O, latin O,—cheerly,
Or mavies jaws away;
How caring not a feather,
Nelson and he together,
The springy French did lether,
And gar’d them shab away.
Were a’ kings comparely,
In each I’d spy a fairly,
An’ ay wad Johnny barly,
He gets sic bonny bairns;
Go bon, the queen, or misses,
But wad for Johnny’s kisses,
Luik upon as blisses,
Scrimp meals, caff beds, and dairns.
Wour lads, like their deddy,
To fight the French are ready,
But gie’s a peace that’s steady,
And breed cheap as lang syne;
May a’ the press gangs perish,
Each lass her laddy cherish:
Lang may the Coal Trade flourish
Upon the dingy Tyne.
Breet Star o’ Heaton,
Your ay wour darling sweet’en,
May heaven’s blessings leet on
Your leady, bairns, and ye;
God bless the King and Nation,
Each bravely fill his station,
Our canny Corporation,
Lang may they sing wi’ me,
Weel may the keel row, &c.
BONNY KEEL LADDIE.
My bonny keel laddie, my canny keel laddie,
My bonny keel laddie for me O!
He sits in his keel as black as the deil,
And he brings the white money to me O.
Ha’ye seen owt o’ my canny man,
An’ are ye shure he’s weel O?
He’s geane o’er land wiv a stick in his hand,
T’ help to moor the keel O.
The canny keel laddie, the bonny keel laddie,
The canny keel laddie for me O;
He sits in his huddock, and claws his bare buttock,
And brings the white money to me O.
THE LITTLE P.D.
’Twas between Hebbron and Jarrow,
There cam on a very strang gale,
The skipper look’d out o’ th’ huddock,
Crying, “Smash, man, lower th’ sail!
Smash, man, lower the sail,
Or else to the bottom we’ll go:”
The keel and a’ hands wad been lost,
Had it not been for Jemmy Munro.
Fal lal, &c.
The gale blew stranger an’ stranger,
When they cam beside the Muck House,
The skipper cry’d out—“Jemmy Swinger,”
But still was as fear’d as a mouse;
P.D. ran to clear th’ anchor,
“It’s raffl’d!” right loudly he roar’d,—
They a’ said the gale wad sink her,
If it was’nt seun thrawn owrboard.
The laddy ran sweaten, ran sweaten,
The laddy ran sweaten about;
Till the keel went bump ’gainst Jarrow,
And three o’ th’ bullies lap out;
Three o’ th’ bullies lap out,
And left nyen in but little P.D.
Who ran about stamping and crying—
“How! smash, Skipper, what mun a’ dee?”
They all shouted out fra the kee,
Steer her close in by th’ shore;
And then thraw th’ painter to me,
Thou cat feac’d son of a wh—e.
The lad threw the painter ashore,
They fasten’d her up to th’ kee,
But whe knaws how far she meit gane,
Had it not been for little P.D.
Then into th’ huddock they gat,
And th’ flesh they began to fry,
They talk’d o’ the gale as they sat,
And how a’ hands were lost—very nigh.
The skipper roar’d out for a drink,
P.D. ran to bring him the cann,
But odsmash! mun! what d’ye think?—
He coup’d a’ the flesh out o’ the pan!
Fal lal, &c.
MA’ CANNY HINNY.
Where hast’te been, ma’ canny hinny?
An where hast’te been, ma’ bonny bairn?
Aw was up and down seekin ma’ hinny,
Aw was thro’ the town seekin for my bairn;
Aw went up the Butcher Bank and down Grundin Chare,
Call’d at the Dun Cow, but aw cuddent find thee there.
Where hast’te been, ma’ canny hinny?
An where hast’te been, ma’ bonny bairn, &c.
Then aw went t’ th’ Cassel Garth, and caw’d on Johnny Fife.
The beer drawer tell’d me she ne’er saw thee in her life.
Where hast’te been, &c.
Then aw went into the three bulls heads, and down the Lang Stairs,
And a’ the way alang the Close, as far as Mr Mayor’s.
Where hast’te been, &c.
Fra there aw went alang the brig, an up t’ Jackson’s Chare,
Then back again t’ the Cross Keys, but cuddent find thee there.
Where hast’te been, &c.
Then comin out o’ Pipergate, aw met wi’ Willy Rigg,
Whe tell’d me that he saw thee stannin p——n on the brig.
Where hast’te been, &c.
Cummin alang the brig again, aw met wi’ Cristy Gee,
He tell’d me et he saw thee gannin down Humeses entery.
Where hast’te been, &c.
Where hev aw been! aw sune can tell ye that;
Cummin up the Key, aw met wi’ Peter Pratt,
Meetin Peter Pratt, we met wi’ Tommy Wear,
An went t’ Humeses t’ get a gill o’ beer.
There’s where a’ve been, ma’ canny hinny,
There’s where a’ve been, ma’ bonny lam.
Wast’tu up an down seekin for yur hinny?
Wast’tu up an down seeking for yur lam.
Then aw met yur Ben, an we were like to fight;
An when we cam to Sandgate it was pick night;
Crossin the road, aw met wi’ Bobby Swinny:
Hing on the girdle, let’s hev a singin hinny.
Aw my sorrow’s ower now, a’ve fund my hinny,
Aw my sorrow’s ower now, a’ve fund my bairn;
Lang may aw shout, ma’ canny hinny,
Lang may aw shout, ma’ bonny bairn.
DOL LI A.
A Song famous in Newcastle about the Years 1792-3-4.
Fresh I’m cum fra Sandgate Street,
Do li, do li,
My best friends here to meet,
Do li a,
Dol li th’ dil len dol,
Do li, do li,
Dol li th’ dil len dol,
Dol li a.
The Black Cuffs is gawn away,
Do li, do li,
An that will be a crying day.
Do li a, &c.
Dolly Coxon’s pawn’d her sark,
Do li, do li,
To ride upon the baggage cart.
Do li a, &c.
The Green Cuffs is cummin in,
Do li, do li,
An that ’ill make the lasses sing.
Do li a, &c.
THE TYNE.
By J. Gibson, of Newcastle.
Roll on thy way, thrice happy Tyne!
Commerce and riches still are thine;
Thy sons in every art shall shine,
And make thee more majestic flow.
The busy crowd that throngs thy sides,
And on thy dusky bosom glides,
With riches swell thy flowing tides,
And bless the soil were thou dost flow.
Thy valiant sons, in days of old,
Led by their Chieftains, brave and bold,
Fought not for wealth, or shining gold,
But to defend thy happy shores.
So e’en as they of old have bled,
And oft embrac’d a gory bed,