reading

LINES
SENT TO THE EDITOR AND PRINTER.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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WEEL MAY THE KEEL ROW.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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’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.

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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.

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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.

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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,

Thy modern sons, by Ridleys led,

Shall rise to shield thy peace-crown’d shores.

Nor art thou blest for this alone,

That long thy sons in arms have shone;

For every art to them is known,

And science, form’d to grace the mind.

Art, curb’d by War in former days,

Has now burst forth in one bright blaze;

And long shall his refulgent rays

Shine bright, and darkness leave behind.

The Muses too, with Freedom crown’d,

Shall on thy happy shores be found,

And fill the air with joyous sound

Of—War and Darkness’ overthrow.

Then roll thy way, thrice happy Tyne!

Commerce and riches still are thine!

Thy sons in arts and arms shall shine,

And make thee still majestic flow.

BLACKETT’s FIELD.

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BY J. SHIELD, OF NEWCASTLE.

Tune—John Anderson my Jo.

On account of the confined limits of the Parade Ground of the Loyal Newcastle Associated Corps of Volunteer Infantry, it was found necessary to lock the door during the time of drill, to prevent the crowd interfering with the evolutions of the corps.—This circumstance gave rise to the song.

Near Blackett’s Field, sad hov’ring,

(’Twas but the other day,)

Thus sung a melancholy wight

His pity-moving lay:—

How comes this alteration strange!

What can the matter be,

That the brave Association Lads

Are under lock and key?

Ah! lately, on a Sunday,

To dine I hardly staid,—

But from my beef and pudding ran,

T’ attend the gay parade!

Now I may stay and pick my bones,

From anxious hurry free;

For the brave Association Lads

Are under lock and key!

A dimpling smile still grac’d my cheek,

Brave D——n when I saw;

’Twas worth a crown to hear him, too,

Exclaiming ‘Kiver awa’!’

But thus to feast my eyes and ears

No more my lot shall be;

For the brave Association Lads

Are under lock and key!

To church now, when the bells are heard,

With snail-like pace I creep;

And there, in manner most devout,

Compose myself to sleep!

Thus cheerless pass the ling’ring hours,

So lately fraught with glee,

Ere the brave Association Lads

Were under lock and key!

For pity’s sake, then, Ridley!

Thy turnkeys straight discharge,

And let thy armed Patriots

Again be drill’d at large:

So shall my Sunday afternoons,

In gazing, joyous flee,

When the brave Association Lads

Ar’n’t under lock, and key!

Think—urg’d by curiosity,

To climb the Spital walls,

Should any of thy neighbours there,

Sad, break their necks by falls.

O would not such mischances dire

Be justly charg’d on thee,

Who keeps the Association Lads

Thus under lock and key?

Imagine not thy warriors brave,

To glory who aspire,

Whilst thus confin’d in Blackett’s field,

Their station much admire!

Ah! no; in Heaton cellars they

Would rather chuse to be,

Most jovial, carrying on the war,

All under lock and key!

Whilst War’s horrific clangours

Resound throughout the land,

Still may’st thou, gallant Ridley,

Thy town’s-men brave command:

And, oh! that with your martial toils

Delighted I may be,

Ope wide the door of Blackett’s field;

Then break the lock and key!

KIVER AWA’.

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Like the wolves of the forest, ferocious and keen,

The French our blest shores may invade!

But in arms are the Gotham Invincibles seen,

And who’s of invasion afraid?

With ardour heroic each bosom inflames,

No dangers impress them with awe;

And merry they seem, when thus——exclaims,—

“Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’.”

Ye matrons be cheerful, ye virgins be gay,

Your protectors are valiant and true:

No more feel alarm’d, as your charms you survey,

At what Frenchmen may venture to do;

No danger shall reach you, no impudent Gaul,

Shall fill your soft bosoms with awe;

Whilst in tones energetic, thus —— can bawl,—

“Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’, Kiver awa”.

No more let the wight, to misfortune a prey,

For relief to the bottle apply;

But to chace ev’ry painful remembrance away,

To Parade let him instantly hie;

There ——, whilst ardently toiling for fame,

Each thorn from his bosom shall draw:

Ah! who can be sad, when they hear him exclaim,—

“Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’.”

Heav’n prosper thee, Gotham! thou famous old town,

Of the Tyne the chief glory and pride:

May thy heroes acquire immortal renown,

In the dread field of Mars, when they’re try’d:

Amongst them, O ne’er may flincher be found;

And that mirth they from duty may draw,

Long, long, through their ranks may these accents resound,—

“Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’.”

November, 1804.

BRITANNIA’S VOLUNTEERS.

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By S.G. Kemble, Esq. of Newcastle.

Tune—The Newcastle Volunteers’ quick March.

When unprovok’d, when foreign foes,

When danger gave occasion,

Britannia’s Volunteers arose,

To shield her from invasion.

And still whilst other nations bow,

And lowly seek alliance,

Should France transgress again, they vow

To hurl a bold defiance.

The Sons of Tyne,—a youthful band,—

With ardent resolution,

First arm’d to guard their native land,

Their King and Constitution:

Again, whene’er the cause invites,

Our liberties revering,

To guard those dear, those sacred rights,

They’ll go a volunteering.

The shepherd now, beneath his shed,

At eve the dance provoking,

Takes up his lov’d neglected reed,

Long days of Peace invoking.

To plough-shares tho’ our swords we turn,

No more in arms appearing,

With Friendship still our bosoms burn,

Kind actions volunteering.

JOHN DIGGONS.

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By J. Stawpert, of Newcastle.

Tune—Old England’s Roast Beef.

John Diggons be I, from a Country Town,

But the name is se lang and se bad to get down,

Tho’ I’ve swallow’d it often both morning and noon,

At present excuse me the pain,

Oh! at present excuse me the pain.

Father told I, this morning, with quickness to fly,

Away to Newcastle, I ask’d him for why?—

To learn something there, for her sons now stand high,

They’ve been fighting the French off Cadiz,

They’ve been fighting the French off Cadiz.

Well, father, says I, but I don’t much like;

For the Frenchmen, they say, are so given to strike,

Yes, unto an Englishman; that’s it, you tyke!

Have you never yet learn’d the sea phrase?

Why, as to your sea frays, I know not, dear dad,

But frays in our village are oftentimes bad,

And it must be much worse for a poor country lad,

To fight where he can’t run away,

To fight where he can’t run away.

At last he insisted I’d come to this town,

And get some small knowledge of gaining renown,

Buy myself a blue jacket, and put off the clown,

And fight for my country and king,

And fight for my country and king.

But coming up street there, I coud’n’t get quick,

The folks on the pavement were standing se thick,

So I turn’d myself round, and lean’d over my stick,

And heard a poor beggar boy sing,

And heard a poor beggar boy sing.

He sung how that Nelson had lately been shot;

Oh! I verily thought I’d have died on the spot,

For father told I that lead, e’en boiling hot,

Wou’d ne’er take the life of this man,

Wou’d ne’er take the life of this man.

At length the boy prov’d, e’er he ended his song,

That nature and valour, however so strong,

Must still bow to fate; so poor father was wrong:

And Nelson’s gon—dead after all,

And Nelson’s gon—dead after all.

But now I’m determin’d, since this is the case,

To write to Lord Collingwood straight for a place,

For they say he’s right fond of a North Country face:

So I may chance to revenge Nelson’s wrongs,

So I may chance to revenge Nelson’s wrongs.

Adieu, then, my friends, your best wishes I’ll take,

Oh! send them all good for your Collingwood’s sake!

For your Country and you his life’s oft been at stake,

Then bless him, and thank his brave Tars!

I’ll say that I left you all singing his praise,

And begging of Neptune more laurels to raise,

That in England you hope he’ll soon wear the green bays,

And be blest with his friends for past toils,

And be blest with his friends for past toils.

TRAFALGAR’S BATTLE.

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By the same.

Tune—Chapter of Kings.

In a battle, you know, we Britons are strong;

A battle, my friends, is the theme of my song;

Had it not been for this, and the sake of my king,

No mortal, I am sure, had forc’d me to sing,

And Nelson, that great man,

Who bother’d the Frenchmen,

At Trafalgar’s great battle, and died.

His mem’ry must be to each Englishman dear,

For his heart in a battle had never met fear:

Should those that are left e’er encounter another,

We may hear something new from our Nelson’s brave Brother.

Who fought with that great man,

Who bother’d the Frenchmen,

At Trafalgar’s great battle, and died.

’Tis Collingwood he, our Townsman and friend,

May heaven send Angels his life to attend,

To guard him through dangers on Oceans great space,

Returning in Peace may we all see his face.

To bless him, caress him,

In kind words address him,

Ye Britons and Sons of the Tyne.

Though Nelson is dead, yet we ought not to mourn;

The laurels that deck his magnificent Urn,

Are sufficient for mortals that dwell here below;

Let Heaven’s great King other laurels bestow

On him we adore,

Who fought off the shore,

At Trafalgar’s great battle, and died.

Drink a toast, then, my friends, to his dear honour’d shade,

Each widow, each wife, every matron, and maid,

And though you lament for the loss of his blood,

Drink a health to our own, our brave Collingwood,

Who fought with that great man,

That bother’d the Frenchmen,

At Trafalgar’s great battle, and died.

CHESTER WELL.

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By George Pickering, late of Newcastle.

Turks, Infidels, Pagans, Jews, Christians, and Tartars,

Kings, Princes, Queens, Nobles, and Bishops, I pray;

Ye Hottentots too, who to neatness are martyrs,

Attend for a while to my wonderful lay.

At Chester, they tell,

Is discover’d a well,

Which eases in man as in beast ev’ry torture;

Hyp, glanders, and evil,

It sends to the devil,

And silence has seal’d up the pestle and mortar.

Oh Chester, Oh Chester!

When maladies pester,

Thy liquid Catholicon eases our pain!

Mad Turks, Jews, Philistines,

Mad Quakers and Christians,

Are dipp’d into peace and good order again.

No more of old Bath, oh ye medical asses!

With nose-kissing cane, and your full bottom’d wigs;

The Chester Well water in virtue surpasses;

Tho’ Bath cur’d the scab in prince Lud and his pigs.

Since the days of old Adam,

Or Eve, lovely madam,

No well was e’er found fit for drinking till now:

As the liquid ye glut,

’Tis as sweet as a nut,

While Bath’s an emetic for boar, pig, or sow.

Oh Chester, &c.

The maiden who flies to her pillow in sorrow,

Who wakes with a sigh to the music of day;

By tasting to-night, may be happy to-morrow,

And warble as blythe as the birds on the spray.

The tear shall cease flowing,

Her heart cease its glowing,

For plighted troth broken, no longer complain;

The bow and the dart,

That occasion’d her smart,

’Squire Cupid may twang, but their twanging be vain.

Oh Chester, &c.

And oh let the damsel, whose ringlets appear

To be mournfully silvering over with grey;

Who sees in her glass, with dejection and fear,

That Time’s with’ring hand bids her beauties decay:

Ne’er let her be fretful,

But drink and be cheerful,

The stream both her thirst and her grief shall assuage:

No more let her mourn,

For her bloom shall return,

She shall cast off the sad, sober liv’ry of age.

Oh Chester, &c.

The gouty old blades who have drank the clear liquid,

Have snapp’d the fir crutches at seventy-seven;

And into the skulls, long incurably stupid,

A portion of good common-sense has been driv’n.

E’en the nose of the sot,

As a heater red hot,

Or a flaming balloon which philosophy rears,

When dipt in the water,

The luminous matter

Goes out with a hiss, and the blaze disappears.

Oh Chester, &c.

Then haste to the Well, both exotic and native,

A dip and a drink all your sorrows will root out;

Ye too who have groan’d ’neath the knife amputative,

Go plunge, and your heads, legs, et cet’ra, shall sprout out:

The tribe of empirics,

Shall howl in hysterics,

And man shall untortur’d fall into decay:

The pill and the potion,

The ungent and lotion,

In box and in bottle shall moulder away,

Oh Chester, &c.

NEWCASTLE BEER.

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By John Cunningham.

When Fame brought the news of Great Britain’s success,

And told at Olympus each Gallic defeat;

Glad Mars sent by Mercury orders express,

To summon the deities all to a treat:

Blithe Comus was plac’d

To guide the gay feast,

And freely declar’d there was choice of good cheer;

Yet vow’d to his thinking,

For exquisite drinking,

Their nectar was nothing to Newcastle beer.

The great god of war, to encourage the fun,

And humour the taste of his whimsical guest,

Sent a message that moment to Moor’s[2] for a tun

Of stingo, the stoutest, the brightest and best;

No gods, they all swore,

Regal’d so before,

With liquor so lively, so potent, and clear:

And each deified fellow

Got jovially mellow,

In honour, brave boys, of our Newcastle beer.

Apollo, perceiving his talents refine,

Repents he drank Helicon water so long;

He bow’d, being ask’d by the musical Nine,

And gave the gay board an extempore song:

But ere he began,

He toss’d off his cann:

There’s nought like good liquor the fancy to clear:

Then sang with great merit,

The flavour and spirit,

His godship had found in our Newcastle beer.

’Twas stingo like this made Alcides so bold,

It brac’d up his nerves, and enliven’d his pow’rs;

And his mystical club, that did wonders of old,

Was nothing, my lads, but such liquor as ours.

The horrible crew

That Hercules slew,

Were Poverty—Calumny—Trouble—and Fear:

Such a club would you borrow,

To drive away sorrow,

Apply for a jorum of Newcastle beer.

Ye youngsters, so diffident, languid, and pale,

Whom love, like the cholic, so rudely infests;

Take a cordial of this, ’twill probatum prevail,

And drive the cur Cupid away from your breasts:

Dull whining despise,

Grow rosy and wise,

Nor longer the jest of good fellows appear;

Bid adieu to your folly,

Get drunk and be jolly,

And smoke o’er a tankard of Newcastle beer.

Ye fanciful folk, for whom Physic prescribes,

Whom bolus and potion have harrass’d to death!

Ye wretches, whom Law and her ill-looking tribes,

Have hunted about ’till you’re quite out of breath!

Here’s shelter and ease,

No craving for fees,

No danger—no doctor—no bailiff is near!

Your spirits this raises,

It cures your diseases,

There’s freedom and health in our Newcastle beer.

[2] A great Beer House in Newcastle at that time, kept by Moor, at the sign of the Sun.

MY LORD ’SIZE;
Or, Newcastle in an Uproar.

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By J. Shield, of Newcastle.

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 and 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 disolv’d them in tears,

That my Lord at the dead-house was then lying drown’d!

Straight left tête a tête 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 Crowner 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 river straight tumbled Lord ’Size.”

Now his narrative ended—the Butler retir’d,

Whilst Betty Watt, mut’ring (half drunk) thro’ her teeth,

Declar’d, “in her breest great 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 setten the keel, wi’ Dick Stavers an’ Mat,

An’ the Mansion-hoose Stairs we were just alangside,

When we a’ three see’d sumthing, but didn’t ken what,

That was splashing and labbering aboot i’ the tide.

“It’s a fluiker!” ki Dick; “No,” ki Mat, “it’s owre big,

“It luik’d mair like a skyat when aw furst see’d it rise:”

Kiv aw—for aw’d getten a gliff o’ the wig—

Odds marcy! Wye, marrows, becrike it’s Lord ’Size.

Sae aw huik’d him an’ hawl’d him suin into the keel,

An’ o’top o’ the huddock aw rowl’d him aboot;

An’ his belly aw rubb’d, an’ aw skelp’d his back weel,

But the wayter he’d drucken it wadn’t run oot.

Sae aw 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 and the trumpeters came with great speed,

And back to the Mansion-house carried Lord ’Size.

BOB CRANKY’s ’SIZE SUNDAY.

Table of Contents

By John Selkirk.

Set to Music by Thomas Train, of Gateshead.

Ho’way and aw’ll sing thee a tune, mun,

’Bout huz see’n my Lord at the town, mun,

Aw seer aw was smart, now

Aw’ll lay thee a quart, now

Nyen’ them aw cut a dash like Bob Cranky.

When aw pat on my blue coat that shines se,

My jacket wi’ posies se fine see,

My sark sic sma’ threed, man,

My pig-tail se greet, man!

Od smash! what a buck was Bob Cranky.

Blue stockings, white clocks, and reed garters,

Yellow breeks, and my shoon wi’ lang quarters,

Aw myed wour bairns cry,

Eh! sarties! ni! ni!

Sic verra fine things had Bob Cranky.

Aw went to awd 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 the town wi’ Bob Cranky.

As up Jenny’s backside we were bangin,

Ki’ Geordy, How! where are ye gannin?

Weyt’ see my lord ’Sizes,

But ye shanna gan aside us,

For ye’re not half se fine as Bob Cranky.

Ki’ Geordy, We leve i’ yen raw, weyet,

I’ yen corf we byeth gan belaw, weyet,

At a’ things aw’ve play’d,

And to hew aw’m not flay’d,

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 clever Bob Cranky.

Thou naws, i’ my hoggars and drawers,

Aw’m nyen o’ your scarters and clawers:

Fra the trap door bit laddy,

T’ the spletter his daddy,

Nyen handles the pick like Bob Cranky.

So, Geordy, od smash my pit sarik!

Thou’d best had thy whisht about warik,

Or aw’ll sobble thy body,

And myek thy nose bloody,

If thou sets up thy gob to Bob Cranky.

Nan laugh’d—t’church we gat without ’im;

The greet crowd, becrike, how aw hew’d ’em!

Smasht a keel-bully roar’d,

Clear the road! Whilk’s my lord?

Owse se high as the noble Bob Cranky.

Aw lup up an’ catch’d just a short gliff

O’ lord trial, the trumpets, and sheriff,

Wi’ the little bit mannies,

Se fine and se canny,

Ods heft! what a seet for Bob Cranky.

Then away we set off to the yell-house,

Wiv a few hearty lasses and fellows,

Aw tell’d owre the wig,

Se curl’d and se big;

For nyen saw’d se weel as Bob Cranky.

Aw gat drunk, fit, and kick’d up a racket,

Rove my breeks and spoil’d a’ my fine jacket:

Nan cry’d and she cuddled

My hinny, thou’s fuddled,

Ho’way hyem now, my bonny Bob Cranky.

So we stagger’d alang fra the town, mun,

Whiles gannin, whiles baith fairly down, mun:

Smash, a banksman or hewer,

No not a fine viewer,

Durst jaw to the noble Bob Cranky.

What care aw for my new suit, a’ tatters,

Twe black een—od smash a’ sic maters!

When my lord comes agyen, mun,

Aw’l strive every byen, mun,

To bang a’ wor Concern, ki’ Bob Cranky.

O’ the flesh and breed day when wour bun’, mun,

Aw’l buy clase far bonnyer than thon, mun;

For, od smash my neavel!

As lang as wour yebble,

Let’s keep up the day, ki’ Bob Cranky.

BOB CRANKY’s COMPLAINT.

Table of Contents

Odd smash! ’tis hard aw can’t rub dust off,

To see ma lord wi’ wig se fine toss’d off,

But they mak a sang man

Aw can’t tell how lang man,

All myeking a gam o’ Bob Cranky.

Ma blue coat and pigtail’s my awn, wyet!

And when to Newcassel I gang, wyet!

Aw like to shaw town folks,

Whe se oft ca’ us gowks,

They ar’n’t se fine as Bob Cranky.

If aw fin the Owther, as sure as a’m Bob,

A’ll mak him sing the wrang side o’ his gob,

A’ll gi’m sic sobbling

A’ll set him hyem hobbling,

For myeking a gam o’ Bob Cranky.

A’ll myek his noddle as reed as ma garters;

A’ve a lang stick, as weel as lang quarters,

Whilk a’ll lay ow’r his back,

’Till he swears ne’er to mak

Ony mair sangs o’ Bob Cranky.

Aw wonder the maist how he did spy,

What was dyun, when nobody was by—

Some Conj’rer he maun be,

Sic as wi’ Punch aw did see,

Whilk myed the hair stand o’ Bob Cranky.

Our viewer sez aw can’t de better,

Than send him a story cull letter.

But writing a’ll let rest;

The pik fits ma hand best,

A pen’s owr sma for Bob Cranky.

Nan, whe a’ll marry or its very lang,

Sez, “Hinny, din’t mind the cull fellow’s sang,

“Gif he dis se agyan,

“Our schyul maister’s pen

“Shall tak pairt wi’ ma bonny Bob Cranky.”

“Ize warrn’t, gif aw weer my pillease,

“An ma hat myed of very sma strees;

“He’ll be chock full o’ spite,

“An about us will write,

“An say Ize owre fine for Bob Cranky.”

“Sure, Bobby,” says she, “his head’s got a crack,”

“Ne maiter,” sed I, an gov her a smack.

“Pilleases are tippy,

“Like shugar’s thy lippy,

“And thou shalt be wife to Bob Cranky.”

The Crankies, farrer back nor I naw,

Hae gyen to Sizes to see trumpets blaw,

Wi’ white sticks, an’ Sheriff,

But warn’t myed a sang of,

Nor laugh’d at, like clever Bob Cranky.

Lord Sizes cums but yence a year, wyet!

To see his big wig a’ve ne fear, wyat!

So be-crike! while aw leeve,

Thof wi’ lang sangs a’m deav’d,

Me Lord at the church shall see Cranky!

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

Published by Good Press, 2021

goodpress@okpublishing.info

EAN 4064066168391

Table of Contents

LINES
SENT TO THE EDITOR AND PRINTER.

PREFACE.

VERSES
ON
NORTHUMBERLAND MINSTRELSY.

SONGS.

WEEL MAY THE KEEL ROW.

THE NEW KEEL ROW.

BONNY KEEL LADDIE.

THE LITTLE P.D.

MA’ CANNY HINNY.

DOL LI A.

THE TYNE.

BLACKETT’s FIELD.

KIVER AWA’.

BRITANNIA’S VOLUNTEERS.

JOHN DIGGONS.

TRAFALGAR’S BATTLE.

CHESTER WELL.

NEWCASTLE BEER.

MY LORD ’SIZE;
Or, Newcastle in an Uproar.

BOB CRANKY’s ’SIZE SUNDAY.

BOB CRANKY’s COMPLAINT.

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 Published by Good Press, 2021 goodpress@okpublishing.info EAN 4064066168391

Table of Contents

LINES SENT TO THE EDITOR AND PRINTER.

PREFACE.

VERSES ON NORTHUMBERLAND MINSTRELSY.

SONGS.

WEEL MAY THE KEEL ROW.

THE NEW KEEL ROW.

BONNY KEEL LADDIE.

THE LITTLE P.D.

MA’ CANNY HINNY.

DOL LI A.

THE TYNE.

BLACKETT’s FIELD.

KIVER AWA’.

BRITANNIA’S VOLUNTEERS.

JOHN DIGGONS.

TRAFALGAR’S BATTLE.

CHESTER WELL.

NEWCASTLE BEER.

MY LORD ’SIZE; Or, Newcastle in an Uproar.

BOB CRANKY’s ’SIZE SUNDAY.

BOB CRANKY’s COMPLAINT.

Being a Curious Collection of Old and New Songs and Poems, Peculiar to the Counties of Newcastle upon Tyne, Northumberland, and Durham

Published by Good Press, 2021

goodpress@okpublishing.info

EAN 4064066168391

LINES
SENT TO THE EDITOR AND PRINTER.

VERSES
ON
NORTHUMBERLAND MINSTRELSY.

MY LORD ’SIZE;
Or, Newcastle in an Uproar.