THE

NEWCASTLE SONG BOOK;

OR,

TYNE-SIDE

BEING A COLLECTION OF

COMIC AND SATIRICAL SONGS,

DESCRIPTIVE OF ECCENTRIC CHARACTERS,

AND THE MANNERS AND CUSTOMS OF A PORTION OF THE

LABOURING POPULATION OF NEWCASTLE AND THE

NEIGHBOURHOOD.

CHIEFLY IN THE NEWCASTLE DIALECT.

Newcastle upon Tyne:

PRINTED AND SOLD BY W. & T. FORDYCE,

No. 15, GREY STREET.

1842.

A period of sixteen years having elapsed since an edition of Local Songs was published in a collective form, and that volume having been for some time out of print, renders almost superfluous any apology in presenting the following collection to the public. During the last few years, so great has been the progress of education amongst the humbler classes of society, that many of those eccentricities so often seized upon by our Local Poets as subjects of humourous satire, are fast disappearing, and ere many more years shall have elapsed, the Songs of our Local Bards will be the only memorials of the peculiar characteristics of this ancient border town.

Should an occasional coarseness of language meet the eye, let not the fastidious reader forget, that such were the modes of expression used by the parties described, and that elegance of language would be as much out of place as are the polished classical sentences of Shenstone's rustics, so often and so justly a theme of censure.

The Publishers beg to tender their best thanks to the several respectable individuals who have so kindly favoured them with the many original pieces which appear in this volume; and regret that the limited space for an address prevents a more personal allusion, than referring the reader to their names in the table of contents.

CONTENTS.

THE

TYNE SONGSTER.

CANNY NEWCASSEL.

'Bout Lunnun aw'd heard ay sic wonderful spokes,
That the streets were a cover'd wi' guineas:
The houses sae fine, an' sic grandees the folks,
Te them huz i' the North were but ninnies.
But aw fand mawsel blonk'd when to Lunnun aw gat,
The folks they a' luik'd wishey washey;
For gowd ye may howk till ye're blind as a bat,
For their streets are like wors—brave and blashy!

'Bout Lunnun then divent ye myek sic a rout,
There's nowse there maw winkers to dazzle:
For a' the fine things ye are gobbin about,
We can marra iv Canny Newcassel.

A Cockney chep show'd me the Thames druvy fyace,
Whilk he said was the pride o' the nation;
And thowt at their shippin aw'd myek a haze-gaze;
But aw whopt maw foot on his noration.
Wi' huz, mun, three hundred ships sail iv a tide,
We think nowse on't, aw'll myek accydavy;
Ye're a gowk if ye din't knaw that the lads o' Tyneside
Are the Jacks that myek famish wor navy.
'Bout Lunnun, &c.

We went big St. Paul's and Westminster to see,
And aw war'nt ye aw thought they luick'd pritty:
And then we'd a keek at the Monument te;
Whilk maw friend ca'd the Pearl o' the City.
Wey hinny, says aw, we've a Shot Tower sae hee,
That biv it ye might scraffle to heaven;
And if on Saint Nicholas ye once cus an e'e,
Ye'd crack on't as lang as ye're livin.
'Bout Lunnun, &c.

We trudg'd to St. James's, for there the King leaves,
Aw war'nt ye a good stare we teuk on't;
By my faicks! it's been built up by Adam's awn neaves,
For it's and as the hills, by the luik on't.
Shem bin ye! says aw, ye should keep the King douse,
Aw speak it without ony malice:
Aw own that wor Mayor rather wants a new house,
But then—wor Infirm'ry's a palace.
'Bout Lunnun, &c.

Ah hinnies! out com the King, while we were there,
His leuks seem'd to say, Bairns, be happy!
Sae down o' my hunkers aw set up a blare,
For God to preserve him frae Nappy:
For Geordy aw'd dee—for my loyalty's trig,
And aw own he's a good leuken mannie;
But if wor Sir Matthew ye buss iv his wig,
By gocks! he wad leuk just as canny.
'Bout Lunnun, &c.

Ah hinnies! about us the lasses did lowp,
Thick as cur'ns in a spice singin hinnie;
Some aud and some hardly fligg'd ower the dowp,
But aw kend what they were by their whinnie:
Ah! mannie, says aw, ye hev mony a tight girl,
But aw'm tell'd they're oft het i' their tappin:
Aw'd cuddle much rather a lass i' the Sworl,
Than the dolls i' the Strand, or i' Wappin.
'Bout Lunnun, &c.

Wiv a' the stravaigin aw wanted a munch,
An' maw thropple was ready to gizen;
So we went tiv a yell-house, and there teuk a lunch,
But the reck'ning, me saul, was a bizon.
Wiv huz i' the North, when aw'm wairsh i' my way,
(But t' knaw wor warm hearts ye yur-sel come)
Aw lift the first latch, and baith man and dame say,
'Cruick your hough, canny man, for ye're welcome!
'Bout Lunnun, &c.

A shilling aw thought at the Play-house aw'd ware,
But aw jump'd there wiv heuk finger'd people;
Me pockets gat ripe'd, an' heerd them na mair
Nor aw cou'd frae Saint Nicholas's steeple.
Dang Lunnun! wor Play-house aw like just as weel,
And wor play-folks aw's sure are as funny;
A shillin's worth sarves me to laugh till aw squeel,
Nae hallion there thrimmels maw money.
'Bout Lunnun, &c.

The loss o' the cotterels aw dinna regaird,
For aw've gettin some white-heft at Lunnun;
Aw've learn'd to prefer me awn canny calf-yaird;
If ye catch me mair frae't ye'll be cunnun.
Aw knaw that the cockneys crack rum-gum-shus chimes
To myek gam of wor bur and wor 'parel;
But honest Blind Willey shall string this iv rhymes,
And we'll sing'd for a Chrissenmas Carol.
'Bout Lunnun, &c.

THE QUAYSIDE SHAVER.

On each market day, sir, the folks to the Quay, sir,
Go flocking with beards they have seven days worn,
And round the small grate, sir, in crowds they all wait, sir,
To get themselves shav'd in a rotative turn.
Old soldiers on sticks, sir, about politics, sir,
Debate—till at length they quite heated are grown;
Nay, nothing escapes, sir, until Madam Scrape, sir,
Cries, 'Gentlemen, who is the next to sit down?

A medley this place is, of those that sell laces,
With fine shirt-neck buttons, and good cabbage nets;
Where match-men, at meeting, give each a kind greeting,
And ask one another how trade with them sets;
Join'd in with Tom Hoggers and little Bob Nackers,
Who wander the streets in their fuddling jills;
And those folks with bags, sir, who buy up old rags, sir,
That deal in fly-cages and paper wind mills.

There pitmen, with baskets, and gay posey waistcoats,
Discourse about nought but whe puts and hews best;
There keelmen just landed, swear, May they be stranded,
If they're not shav'd first, while their keel's at the fest!
With face full of coal dust, would frighten one almost,
Throw off hat and wig, while they usurp the chair;
While others stand looking, and think it provoking,
But, for the insult, to oppose them none dare.

When under the chin, sir, she tucks the cloth in, sir,
Their old quid they'll pop in the pea-jacket cuff;
And while they are sitting, do nought but keep spitting,
And looking around with an air fierce and bluff.
Such tales as go round, sir, would surely confound, sir,
And puzzle the prolific brain of the wise;
But when she prepares, sir, to take off the hairs, sir,
With lather she whitens them up to the eyes.

No sooner the razor is laid on the face, sir,
Than painful distortions take place on the brow;
But if they complain, sir, they'll find it in vain, sir,
She'll tell them, 'there's nought but what Patience can do:'
And as she scrapes round 'em, if she by chance wound 'em,
They'll cry out, as tho' she'd bereav'd them of life,
'Od smash your brains, woman! aw find the blood's comin,
Aw'd rather been shav'd with an aud gully knife!'

For all they can say, sir, she still rasps away, sir,
And sweeps round their jaws the chop torturing tool;
Till they in a pet, sir, request her to whet, sir;
But she gives them for answer, 'Sit still, you pist fool!'
For all their repining, their twisting and twining,
She forward proceeds till she's mown off the hair;
When finish'd, cries, 'There, sir!' then straight from the chair, sir,
They'll jump, crying, 'Daresay you've scrap'd the bone bare!'

THE JENNY HOOLET;

Or, Lizzie Mudie's Ghost.

Sum time since a Skipper was gawn iv his keel,
His heart like a lion, his fyece like the Deil:
He was steering hissel, as he'd oft duin before,
When at au'd Lizzie Mudie's his keel ran ashore.
Fal de ral la, &c.

The skipper was vext when his keel ran ashore,
So for Geordy and Pee Dee he loudly did roar:
They lower'd the sail—but it a' waddent dee;
Sae he click'd up a coal and maist fell'd the Pee Dee.
Fal de ral, &c.

In the midst of their trouble, not knawn what to do,
A voice from the shore gravely cried out, 'Hoo Hoo!'
How now, 'Mister Hoo Hoo! is thou myekin fun,
Or is this the first keel that thou e'er saw agrun?'
Fal de ral, &c.

Agyen it cried 'Hoo! Hoo!' the skipper he stampt,
And sung out for Geordy to heave out the plank:
Iv a raving mad passion he curs'd and he swore,
'Aw'll hoo-hoo thou, thou b—r, when aw cum ashore!'
Fal de ral, &c.

Wiv a coal in each hand, ashore then he went,
To kill Mister Hoo-hoo it was his intent:
But when he gat there, O what his surprize!
When back he cam running—'O Geordy!' he cries.
Fal de ral, &c.

'Wey, whe dis thou think hes been myekin this gam?
Aw'll lay thou my wallet thou'll not guess his nyem;'—
'Is't the Ghost of au'd Lizzie?'—'O no no, thou fool, it
Is nae ghost at all, but—an au'd Jenny Hoolet!'
Fal de ral, &c.

THE GLISTER.

Some time since a Pitman was tyen very bad,
So caw'd his wife Mall te the side of his bed;
'Thou mun run for a doctor, the forst can be fund,
For maw belly's a' wrang, an' aw'm varry fast bund.'

'Wey, man, thou's a fuil, aw ken thou's fast boon,
Wi' thy last bindin munny thou bowt this new goon:
Nae doctor can lowse thou one morsel or crum,
For thou's bun te Tyne Main for this ten month te cum.'

'Aw divent mean that—maw belly's sae sair;
Run fast or aw'll dee lang afore ye get there!'
So away Mally ran to their awn doctor's shop;
'Gie me somethin for Tom, for his belly's stopt up.'

A glister she gat—and nae langer she'd wait,
But straight she ran hyem, an' gat out a clean plate:
'Oh Tommy! maw Tom! ony haud up thy heed!
Here's somethin 'ill mend thou, suppose thou was deed.

Thou mun eat up that haggish, but sup the thin forst;
Aw's freeten'd that stopple it will be the worst,'—
'Oh, Mally! thou'll puzzen poor Tom altogether,
If aw drink aw the thin, an' then eat up the blether.'

He manag'd it a' wiv a great deal to do;
'Oh, Mally! oh, Mally! thou's puzzen'd me now!'
But she tuik nae notice of poor Tommy's pain,
But straight she ran off te the doctor's again.

'O doctor! maw hinny! Tom's tyen'd a' thegether,
He supp'd up the thin, then he eat up the blether:
The blether was tuif, it myest stuck in his thropple;
If he haddent bad teeth he wad eaten the stopple.'

'Oh, woman! you have been in too great a hurry,
Stead of mending your husband, you'll have him to bury:
Stead of making him better, you've sure made him warse,
For you've put in his mouth what should gone up his a—e.'

THE EAGLE STEAM PACKET.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JEMMY JONESON'S WHURRY.

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

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

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

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

Tyneside seem'd clad wiv bonny ha's,
An' furnaces sae dunny;
Wey this mun be what Bible ca's,
'The land of milk and honey!'
If a' thor things belang'd tiv me,
Aw'd myek the poor reet murry,
An' gar each heart to sing wiv glee,
Iv Jemmy Joneson's Whurry.

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

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

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

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

THE SKIPPER'S WEDDING.

Neighbours, I'm come for to tell ye,
Our Skipper and Mall's to be wed;
And if it be true what they're saying,
Egad we'll be all rarely fed!
They've brought home a shoulder of mutton,
Besides two thumping fat geese,
And when at the fire they're roasting,
We're all to have sops in the greese.
Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

And there will be pies and spice dumplings,
And there will be bacon and peas;
Besides a great lump of beef boiled,
And they may get crowdies who please;
To eat of such good things as these are,
I'm shure you've but seldom the luck;
Besides for to make us some pottage,
There'll be a sheep's head and pluck.
Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

Of sausages there will be plenty,
Black puddings, sheep fat, and neats' tripes;
Besides, for to warm all your noses,
Great store of tobacco and pipes.
A room, they say, there is provided
For us at 'The Old Jacob's Well;'
The bridegroom he went there this morning,
And spoke for a barrel o' yell.
Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

There's sure to be those things I've mention'd,
And many things else; and I learn,
There's white bread and butter and sugar,
To please every bonny young bairn.
Of each dish and glass you'll be welcome
To eat and to drink till you stare;
I've told you what meat's to be at it,
I'll next tell you who's to be there.
Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

Why there will be Peter the hangman,
Who flogs the folks at the cart-tail,
Au'd Bob, with his new sark and ruffle,
Made out of an au'd keel sail!
And Tib on the Quay who sells oysters,
Whose mother oft strove to persuade
Her to keep from the lads, but she wouldn't,
Until she got by them betray'd.
Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

And there will be Sandy the cobbler,
Whose belly's as round as a keg,
And Doll, with her short petticoats,
To display her white stockings and leg;
And Sall, who, when snug in a corner,
A sixpence, they say, won't refuse;
She curs'd when her father was drown'd,
Because he had on his new shoes.
Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

And there will be Sam the quack doctor,
Of skill and profession he'll crack;
And Jack who would fain be a soldier,
But for a great hump on his back;
And Tom in the streets, for his living,
Who grinds razors, scissors, and knives;
And two or three merry old women,
That call "Mugs and doublers, wives!"
Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

But neighbours, I'd almost forgot,
For to tell ye—exactly at one,
The dinner will be on the table,
The music will play till it's done:
When you'll be all heartily welcome,
Of this merry feast for to share;
But if you won't come at this bidding,
Why then you may stay where you are.
Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

THE AMPHITRITE.

Frae Team-Gut to Whitley, wi' coals black and brown,
For the Amphitrite loaded, the keel had gyen down;
But the bullies ower neet gat their gobs sae oft wet,
That the nyem of the ship yen and a' did forget.

For to find out the nyem each bother'd his chops,
And claw'd at his rump fit to murder the lops,—
When the Skipper, wha's guts was beginning to gripe,
Said the paw hoggish luggish was caw'd Empty Kyte.

Frae the Gut to the Point a' the time driving slow,
The bullies kept blairing, 'The Empty Kyte, ho!'
But their blairing was vain, for nae Empty Kyte there,
Tho' they blair'd till their kytes were byeth empty & sair.

Now au'd Slavers, the Skipper, harangu'd a' his men,
Twee mun gan to Newcassel to ax the reet nyem;
But thinking the young one to blame in the matter,
Pee Dee and his Marrow was pack'd 'cross the watter.

Up Shields Road as they trudg'd, wi' their half worn out soals,
Oft b——r—g the Empty Kyte, Skipper, and coals,
At the sign of the Coach they byeth call'd, it befel,
To moan their hard fates, and to swattle some yell.

Here a buck at a surloin hard eating was seen,
And he said that the air myed his appetite keen;—
'Appetite!' cried the bullies, like pole-cats they star'd,
Wide gaping wi' wonder, when loud Cuddy blair'd,

'The Appetite! Geordy, smash! nobbet hear that,
The b——r—g outlandish, cull nyem we forgat;
Bless the Dandy! for had he not tell'd us the nyem,
We might trudg'd to Newcassel byeth weary and lyem.'

Now to Shields back they scamp, & straight frae the keel
Roar'd 'The Appetite, ho!' 'neugh to freighten the deil;
Now they seun fund the ship, cast their coals in a swet,
Still praising the Dandy that day they had met.

Now into the huddock, weel tir'd, they a' gat,
And of Appetite, Empty Kyte, lang they did chat;
When the Skipper fund out, mair wise than a king,
If not the same nyem, they were much the same thing.

MY LORD 'SIZE.

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

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

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

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

Now the Mansion-house Butler thus gravely depos'd:—
'My Lord on the terrace seem'd studying his charge;
And when (as I thought) he had got it compos'd,
He went down the stairs and examin'd the barge.
First the stem he survey'd, then inspected the stern,
Then handled the tiller, and look'd mighty wise;
But he made a false step when about to return,
And souse in the water straight tumbled Lord 'Size.'

Now his narrative ended—the Butler retir'd.
Whilst Betty Watt mutt'ring (half drunk) thro' her teeth,
Declar'd, 'In her breest greet consarn it inspir'd,
That my Lord should sae cullishly come by his deeth.'
Next a keelman was call'd on, Bold Archy his name,
Who the book as he kiss d shew'd the whites of his eyes,
Then he cut an odd caper, attention to claim,
And this evidence gave them respecting Lord 'Size:—

'Aw was setting the keel, wi' Dick Stavers and Matt,
An' the Mansion-house stairs we were just alangside,
When we a' three see'd somethin, but didn't ken what,
That was splashing and labbering about i' the tide.
It's a fluiker, ki Dick; No, ki Matt, it's owre big,
It luik'd mair like a skyet when aw furst seed it rise:
Kiv aw—for aw'd gettin a gliff o' the wig—
Ods marcy! wey, marrows, becrike, it's Lord 'Size!

Sae aw huik'd him, and haul'd him suin into the keel,
And o' top o' the huddock aw rowl d him aboot;
An' his belly aw rubb'd, an' a skelp'd his back weel,
But the water he'd drucken it wadn't run oot.
Sae I brought him ashore here, an' doctors, in vain,
Furst this way, then that, to recover him tries;
For ye see there he's lying as deed as a stane,
An' that's a' aw can tell ye about my Lord 'Size.'

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

CAPPY, OR THE PITMAN'S DOG.

In a town near Newcassel a Pitman did dwell,
Wiv his wife nyemed Peg, a Tom Cat, and himsel;
A dog, called Cappy, he doated upon,
Because he was left him by great uncle Tom:

Weel bred Cappy, famous au'd Cappy,
Cappy's the dog, Tallio, Tallio.

His tail pitcher-handled, his colour jet black,
Just a foot and a half was the length of his back;
His legs seven inches frev shoulders to paws,
And his lugs, like two dockins, hung owre his jaws:
Weel bred Cappy, &c.

For huntin of varmin reet cliver was he,
And the house frev a' robbers his bark wad keep free:
Could byeth fetch and carry; could sit on a stuil;
Or, when frisky, wad hunt water-rats in a puil.
Weel bred Cappy, &c.

As Ralphy to market one morn did repair,
In his hat-band a pipe, and weel kyem'd was his hair,
Owre his arm hung a basket—thus onward he speels,
And enter'd Newcassel wi' Cap at his heels:
Weel bred Cappy, &c.

He hadn't got further than foot of the Side,
Before he fell in with the dog-killing tribe:
When a highwayman fellow slipp'd round in a crack,
And a thump o' the skull laid him flat on his back:
Down went Cappy, &c.

Now Ralphy extonish'd, Cap's fate did repine,
While it's eyes like twee little pearl buttons did shine:
He then spat on his hands, in a fury he grew,
Cries "Gad smash! but awse hev settisfaction o' thou,
For knocking down Cappy," &c.

Then this grim-luiken fellow his bludgeon he rais'd,
When Ralphy ey'd Cappy, and then stood amaz'd:
But, fearing beside him he might be laid down,
Threw him into the basket and bang'd out o' town:
Away went Cappy, &c.

He breethless gat hyem, and when liften the sneck,
His wife exclaim'd 'Ralphy! thou's suin getten back:
'Getten back!' replied Ralphy, 'I wish I'd ne'er gyen,
In Newcassel they're fellin dogs, lasses, and men;
They've knock'd down Cappy, &c.

If aw gan to Newcassel, when comes wor pay week,
Aw'll ken him agyen by the patch on his cheek:
Or if ever he enters wor toon wiv his stick,
We'll thump him about till he's black as au'd Nick,'
For killin au'd Cappy, &c.

Wiv tears in her een Peggy heard his sad tale,
And Ralph, wiv confusion and terror grew pale:
While Cappy's transactions with grief they talk'd o'er,
He crap out o' the basket quite brisk on the floor;
Weel duin Cappy! &c.

THE PITMAN'S COURTSHIP.

Quite soft blew the wind from the west,
The sun faintly shone in the sky,
When Lukey and Bessy sat courting,
As walking I chanc'd to espy.
Unheeded I stole close beside them,
To hear their discourse was my plan;
I listen'd each word they were saying,
When Lukey his courtship began.

Last hoppen thou won up my fancy,
Wi' thy fine silken jacket o' blue;
An' smash! if their Newcassel lyedies
Could marrow the curls o' thy brow.
That day aw whiles danc'd wi' lang Nancy,
She couldn't like thou lift her heel:
Maw Grandy lik'd spice singing hinnies,
Maw comely! aw like thou as weel.

Thou knaws, ever since we were little,
Together we've rang'd through the woods;
At neets hand in hand toddled hyem,
Very oft wi' howl kites and torn duds:
But now we can talk about mairage,
An' lang sair for wor weddin day;
When mairied thou's keep a bit shop,
And sell things in a huikstery way.

And to get us a canny bit leevin,
A' kinds o' fine sweetmeats we'll sell,
Reed herrin, broon syep, and mint candy,
Black pepper, dye sand, and sma' yell;
Spice hunters, pick shafts, farden candles,
Wax dollies, wi' reed leather shoes,
Chalk pussy-cats, fine curly greens,
Paper skyets, penny pies, an' huil-doos.

Aws help thou to tie up the shuggar,
At neets when frae wark aw get lowse;
And wor Dick, that leeves ower by High Whickham,
He'll myek us broom buzzoms for nowse.
Like an image thou's stand ower the counter,
Wi' thy fine muslin cambricker goon;
And to let the folks see thou's a lyedy,
On a cuddy thou's ride to the toon.

There's be matches, pipe clay, and brown dishes,
Canary seeds, raisins, and fegs;
And to please the pit laddies at Easter,
A dish full o' gilty paste-eggs.
Wor neybors, that's snuffers and smokers,
For wor snuff and backey they'll seek;
And to shew them we deal wi' Newcassel,
Twee Blackeys sal mense the door cheek.

So now for Tim Bodkin awse send,
To darn maw silk breeks at the knee,
Thou thy ruffles and frills mun get ready,
Next Whitsunday married we'll be.
Now aw think it's high time to be steppin,
We've sitten tiv aw's about lyem.
So then, wiv a kiss and a cuddle,
These lovers they bent their way hyem.

THE BABOON.

Sum time since, sum wild beasts there cam to the toon,
And in the collection a famous Baboon,
In uniform drest—if my story you're willin
To believe, he gat lowse, and ran te the High Fellin.
Fal de rol la, &c.

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

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

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

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

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

BILLY OLIVER'S RAMBLE

Between Benwell and Newcastle.

Me nyem it's Billy Oliver,
Iv Benwell town aw dwell;
And aw's a cliver chep, aw's shure,
Tho' aw de say'd mysel.
Sic an a cliver chep am aw, am aw, am aw,
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

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

When aw gans tiv Newcassel toon,
Aw myeks mawsel se fine,
Wur neybors stand and stare at me,
And say, 'Eh! what a shine!'
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

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

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

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

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

And if the folks that's i' the house,
Cry, 'Haud yor tongue, ye cull!'
Aw's sure to hev a fight wi' them,
For aw's as strang as ony bull.
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

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

A PARODY ON BILLY OLIVER'S RAMBLE.

My nyem is Willy Dixon,
A Coachmaker to my trade;
And when aw see a Pitman come,
Aw run—because aw's flaid.
Sic an a cliver chep am aw, am aw, am aw.
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

On Pay-day neets aw gan to the Cock,
When the Pitmen's aw gyen hyem,
Then aw begins to rair and sing,
And myek o' them a gyem.
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

Ou Sunday mornings, then, you see,
Aw dress mesel se fine;
And wi' me white drill pantaloons,
Aw cuts a fearful shine.
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

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

Then when aw gans to see the lass,
It's in the afternoon;
An' then we gans a wauking,
Wi' her fine lustre goon.
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

And as we gan through Jesmond fields,
The lasses gyep and luick,
And efter we get past them a',
They cry, 'Ah! what a buck!'
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

Then efter wandering up and down,
At neet we toddle hyem;
And aw gies her a kiss, you see,
And she cries, 'Fie for shem!'
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

Then aw seeks out my au'd wark claes,
Gets on another sark;
And on Monday morn, at six o'clock,
Gans whisslin off to wark.
Sic an a cliver chep am aw.

X Y Z AT NEWCASTLE RACES, 1814;

Or, Pitmen's Luck.

Smash! Jemmy, let us buss, we'll off
And see Newcassel Races;
Set Dick the trapper for some syep,
We'll suin wesh a' wor faces.
There's ne'er a lad iv Percy Main
Be bet this day for five or ten;
Wor pockets lin'd wiv notes and cash,
Amang the cheps we'll cut a dash;
For X Y Z, that bonny steed,
He bangs them a' for pith and speed,
He's sure to win the cup, man.

We reach'd the Moor, wi' sairish tews,
When they were gawn to start, man:
We gav a fellow tuppence each,
To stand upon a cart, man:
The bets flew round frae side to side;
'The field agyen X Y!' they cried:
We'd hardly time to lay them a',
When in he cam—Hurraw! hurraw!
'Gad smash!' says aw, 'X Y's the steed,
He bangs them a' for pith an' speed,
We never see'd the like, man!'

Next, to the tents we hied, to get
Sum stuffin for wor bags, man;
Wi' flesh we gaily pang'd wor hides—
Smok'd nowse but patten shag, man;
While rum an' brandy soak'd each chop,
We'd Jackey an' fine Ginger-pop;
We gat what myed us winkin blin'—
When drunkey aw began te sing—
'Od smash! X Y, that bonny steed,
Thou bangs them a' for pith an' speed,
We never see'd his like, man!'

Next up amang the shows we gat,
Where folks a' stood i' flocks, man,
To see a chep play Bob and Joan,
Upon a wooden box, man;
While bairns and music fill'd the stage,
And some, by gox! were grim wi' age:
When next au'd Grin a powny browt,
Could tell at yence what people thowt!
'Od smash!' says aw, 'if he's the breed
Of X Y Z, that bonny steed,
Thou never see'd his like, man.'

But haud! when we cam to the toon,
What thinks tou we saw there, man?
We saw a Blacky puffin, sweetin,
Suckin in fresh air, man;
They said that he could fell an ox—
His name was fighting Molinox:
But ere he fit another round,
His marrow fell'd him to the ground.
'Od smash!' says aw, 'if thou's sic breed
As X Y Z, that bonny steed,
Thou never see'd his like, man!'

Next 'board a Steamer-boat we gat,
A laddie rang a bell, man;
We haddent sitten varry lang,
Till byeth asleep we fell, man:
But the noise seun myed poor Jemmy start—
He thowt 'twas time to gan to wark,
For pick and hoggers roar'd out he—
And myed sic noise it waken'd me.
'Od smash!' says aw, 'X Y's the steed,
He bangs them a' for pith and speed,
Aw never see'd his like, man!'

When landed, straight off hyem aw gans,
An' thunners at the door, man;
The bairns lap ower the bed wi' fright,
Fell smack upon the floor, man:
But to gaur the wifey haud her tongue,
Show'd her the kelter aw had won:
She with a cinder burnt her toes,
An' little Jacob broke his nose—
The brass aw've getten at the race
Will buy a patch for Jacob's face—
So now my sang is duin, man.

NEWCASTLE FAIR;

Or, The Pitman drinking Jackey.

Ha' ye been at Newcastle Fair,
And did ye see owse o' great Sandy?
Lord bliss us! what wark there was there;
And the folks were drinking of brandy.
Brandy a shilling a glass!
Aw star'd, and thought it was shameful:
Never mind, says aw, canny lass,
Give us yell, and aw'll drink my wame full.
Rum te idity, &c.

Says she, Canny man, the yell's cau'd;
It comes frev a man they caw Mackey,
And by my faith! it's byeth sour and au'd;
Ye'd best hev a drop o' wor Jackey.
Your Jackey! says aw, now what's that?
Aw ne'er heard the nyem o' sic liquor.
English Gin, canny man, that's flat,
And then she set up a great nicker.
Rum te idity, &c.

Says aw, Divent laugh at poor folks,
But gan and bring some o' yur Jackey;
Aw want nyen o' yur jibes or jokes,
I' th' mean time aw'll tyek a bit backey.
Aw just tuik a chew o' pig-tail,
She brought in this Jackey sae funny:
Says she, Sir, that's better than ale,
And held out her hand for the money.
Rum te idity, &c.

There's three-pence to pay, if you please:
Aw star'd and aw gap'd like a ninny;
Od smash thee! aw'll sit at my ease,
And not stir till aw've spent a half ginny.
Aw sat and aw drank till quite blind,
Then aw gat up to gan to the door,
But deil smash a door could aw find!
And fell flat o' maw fyece on the floor.
Rum te idity, &c.

There aw lay for ever sae lang,
And dreamt about rivers and ditches;
When waken'd, was singing this sang—
'Smash, Jackey, thou's wet a' me breeches!'
An' faith! but the sang it was true,
For Jackey had been sae prevailing.
He'd whistled himsel' quickly through,
And the chairs and tables were sailing.
Rum te idity, &c.

Then rising, aw went maw ways hyem,
Aw knock'd at the door, and cry'd Jenny!
Says she, Canny man, is te lyem,
Or been wading in Tyne, maw hinny?
I' troth, she was like for to dee,
And just by the way to relieve her,
The water's been wading through me,
And this Jackey's a gay deceiver.
Rum te idity, &c.

If e'er aw drink Jackey agyen,
May the bitch of a lass, maw adviser,
Lowp alive down maw throat, with a styen
As big as a pulveriser.
Rum te idity, &c.

THE LITTLE PEE DEE.

'Twas between Hebbron and Jarrow,
There cam on a varry strang gale,
The Skipper luik'd out o' the huddock,
Crying, 'Smash, man, lower the 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 la, &c.

The gale blew stranger and stranger,
When they cam beside the Muck House,
The Skipper cried out—'Jemmy, swing 'er!"
But still was as fear'd as a mouse.
Pee Dee ran to clear the anchor,
'It's raffled!' right loudly he roar'd:—
They a' said the gale wad sink her,
If it wasn't seun thrawn overboard.

The laddie ran sweaten, ran sweaten,
The laddie ran sweaten about;
Till the keel went bump against Jarrow,
And three o' the bullies lap out:
Three o' the bullies lap out,
And left nyen in but little Pee Dee;
Who ran about stamping and crying—
'How! smash, Skipper, what mun aw dee?'

They all shouted out frae the Kee,
'Steer her close in by the shore;
And then thraw the painter to me,
Thou cat-fyec'd son of a whore!'
The lad threw the painter ashore,
They fasten'd her up to the Kee:
But whe knaws how far she meyt gyen,
Had it not been for Little Pee Dee.

Then into the huddock they gat,
And the flesh they began to fry:
They talk'd o' the gale as they sat,
How a' hands were lost—varry nigh.
The Skipper roar'd out for a drink,
Pee Dee ran to bring him the can:
But odsmash, mun! what d'ye think?—
He cowp'd a' the flesh out o' the pan!
Fal lal la, &c.

THE TYNE COSSACKS.

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

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

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

The Butcher cries, if we begin,
We'll surely kill and slay;
The Tanner swore they'd tan their hides,
Before they came away;
A Tailor next, with fear perplext,
Said, he should like no other station,
Than to be the Doctor's waiting man,
If sanction'd by the Corporation.
Whack row de dow, &c.

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

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

The deed was done by this effort,
All opposition gone,
The ardour of the heroes cool'd,
'Cause they were lookers on:
Odsmash! says yen, if e'er agyen
There's ony mair au'd boats to smatter,
We'll hev horses that's web-footed, then
We'll fight byeth on the land and watter.
Whack row de dow, &c.

Now should our Tyne Cossacks e'er have
To face their enemies,
They'll boldly meet them on the land,
Or on the stormy seas.
While the farmers sing, that they, next spring,
At spreading dung will ne'er be idle:
So—success to these Invincibles,
Their long swords, sadle, bridle.
Whack row de dow, &c.

THE PITMAN'S REVENGE

Against Buonaparte.

Ha' ye heard o' these wondrous Dons,
That myeks this mighty fuss, man,
About invading Britain's land?
I vow they're wondrous spruce, man:
But little do the Frenchmen ken
About our loyal Englishmen;
Our Collier lads are for cockades,
And guns to shoot the French, man.
Tol lol de rol, de rol de rol.

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

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

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

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

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

BOB CRANKY'S 'SIZE SUNDAY.

Ho'way and aw'll sing thee a tune, man,
'Bout huz seein my Lord at the toon, man:
Aw's seer aw was smart, now
Aw'll lay thee a quart, now,
Nyen them a' cut a dash like Bob Cranky!

When aw pat on maw blue coat that shines sae,
Me jacket wi' posies sae fine, sae,
Maw sark sic sma' threed, man,
Maw pig-tail sae greet, man!
Od smash! what a buck was Bob Cranky!

Blue stockings, white clocks, and reed garters,
Yellow breeks, and me shoon wi' lang quarters,
Aw myed wor bairns cry,
Eh! sarties! ni! ni!
Sic varry fine things had Bob Cranky.

Aw went to au'd Tom's and fand Nancy;
Kiv aw, Lass, thou's myed to my fancy!
Aw like thou as weel
As a stannin pye heel,
Ho'way to thee toon wi' Bob Cranky.

As up Jenny's backside we were bangin,
Ki' Geordy, How! where are ye gannin?
Wey t' see my Lord Sizes,
But ye shanna gan aside us,
For ye're not half sae fine as Bob Cranky.

Ki' Geordy, We leeve i' yen raw, wyet,
I' yen corf we byeth gan belaw, wyet,
At a' things aw've play'd,
And to hew, aw'm not flaid,
Wi' sic in a chep as Bob Cranky.

Bob hez thee at lowpin and flingin,
At the bool, foot-ball, clubby, and swingin:
Can ye jump up and shuffle,
And cross owre the buckle,
When ye dance, like the cliver Bob Cranky.

Thou knaws i' my hoggers and drawers,
Aw'm nyen o' your scarters and clawers:
Frae the trap door bit laddie
T' the spletter his daddie,
Nyen handles the pick like Bob Cranky.

Sae, Geordy, od smash my pit sark!
Thou'd best haud thee whisht about wark,
Or aw'll sobble thee body,
And myek thee nose bloody,
If thou sets up thee gob to Bob Cranky.

Nan laugh'd—to church we gat without 'im;
The great crowd, becrike, how aw hew'd 'em!
Smasht a keel-bully roar'd,
Clear the road! whilk's my Lord?
Half sae high as the noble Bob Cranky.

Aw lup up, and catch'd just a short gliff
O' Lord Trials, the Trumpets and Sheriff,
Wi' the little bit mannies,
Sae fine and sae canny,
Ods heft! what a seet for Bob Cranky!

Then away we set off to the yell-hoose,
Wiv a few hearty lasses an' fellows:
Aw tell'd ower the wig,
Sae curl'd and sae big;
For nyen saw't sae weel as Bob Cranky.

Aw gat drunk, fit, and kick'd up a racket,
Rove me breeks and spoil'd a' me fine jacket;
Nan cry'd and she cuddled,
Maw hinny thou's fuddled,
Ho'way hyem, now me bonny Bob Cranky!

So we stagger'd alang frae the toon, mun,
Whiles gannin, whiles byeth fairly down, mun;
Smash, a banksman or hewer,
No, not a fine viewer,
Durst jaw to the noble Bob Cranky.

What care aw for maw new suit, i' tatters,
Twee blaek een—od smash a' sic matters!
When me Lord comes agyen, mun,
Aw'll strive, ev'ry byen, mun,
To bang a' wor consarn, ki Bob Cranky.

O' the flesh an' breed day, when wor bun, mun,
Aw'll buy claes far bonnier thau thou, mun;
For, od smash my nyavel!
As lang as wor yebble,
Let's keep up the day! ki Bob Cranky.

BOB CRANKY'S LEUM'NATION NEET.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But gif Peace brings another gran' neet,
Aw think folk shou'd hae Plenty te eat:
Singin' hinnies, aw'm shoor,
An' strang yell at the door,
Wad better nor candles please Cranky.

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

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

THE PITMAN'S SKELLYSCOPE.

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

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

Wey, then aw ran off hyem—Nan thowt me myekin gyem;
Said, my Deavy[1] for a new aw'd had a cowpey-O:
But she gurn'd, aye, like a sweeper, when aw held it tiv her peeper,
See'd church-windors through my bonny Gleediscowpey-O.

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

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

But she held it tiv her e'e, aye, till she could hardly see,
Oh! then aboot the markettin she thowty-O:
Wey, Lukey, man! says she, 'stead o' shuggar, flesh, an' tea,
Thou's fetch'd us hyem thy bonny Gleediscowpey-O.

She struck me wi' surprise while she skelly'd wiv her eyes,
And aw spak as if aw'd gettin a bit rowpey-O.
So, neighbours, tyek a hint, if ye peep ower lang ye'll squint,
For aw think they're reetly nyem'd a Gleediscowpey-O.

[1] A term for the Safety Lamp.

THE BONNY KEEL LADDIE.

Maw bonny keel laddie, maw canny keel laddie,
Maw 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' maw canny man,
An' are ye sure he's weel, O?
He's gyen ower land, wiv a stick in his hand,
To 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 buddock,
And brings the white money to me, O.

MAW CANNY HINNY.

Where hest te been, maw canny hinny?
An' where hest te been, maw bonny bairn?
Aw was up an' doon seeking for maw hinny,
Aw was through the toon seekin for maw bairn:
Aw went up the Butcher Bank and doon Grundin Chare,
Caw'd at the Dun Cow, but aw cuddent find thee there.

Where hest te been, maw canny hinny?
An' where hest te been, maw 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 hest 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 hest te been, &c.

Fra there aw went alang the Brig, and up to Jackson's Chare,
Then back agyen to the Cross Keys, but cuddent find thee there.
Where hest te been, &c.

Then comin out o' Pipergate, aw met wi' Willy Rigg,
Whe tell'd me that he saw the stannen p——n on the Brig
Where hest te been, &c.

Cummin alang the Brig agyen, aw met wi' Cristy Gee,
He tell'd me that he saw thee gannin down Humes's Entery.
Where hest te been, &c.

Where hev aw been! aw seun can tell ye that;
Cummin up the Kee, aw met wi' Peter Pratt;
Meetin Peter Pratt, we met wi' Tommy Wear,
And went to Humes's t' get a gill o' beer.

There's where aw've been, maw canny hinny,
There's where aw've been, maw bonny lamb!
Wast tu up an' down, seekin for thee hinny?
Wast tu up an' down, seekin for thee lamb?

Then aw met yur Ben, and we were like to fight,
And 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.

A' me sorrow's ower now aw've fund maw hinny;
A' me sorrow's ower now aw've fund maw bairn;
Lang may aw shoot, Maw canny hinny!
Lang may aw shoot, Maw bonny bairn!

BOB CRANKY'S ACCOUNT

Of the Ascent of Mr. Sadler's Balloon, from Newcastle, Sept. 1, 1815.

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

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

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

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

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

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