An' cover a' the country girls that com to town wi' pigs;
Wi' butter and wi' eggs too--they are se dousely made;
Ah, you've _cover'd_ every ane of them, sir--iv a slated shade.
Now dinna let folks say that we've ne reet te complain,
When they are a' se snugly plac'd, and we are i' the rain:
Then without ne mair fash, sir, now do yur Honour say,
That ye will nobut _cover_ us--and we will every pray.
THE FISH-WIVES' COMPLAINT,
_On their Removal from the Sandhill to the New Fish Market, on the 2d of
January, 1826._
The merry day hez getten past,
And we are aw myest broken hearted:
Ye've surely deun for us at last--
Frae Sandhill, noo, ye hev us parted.
Oh! hinnies, Corporation!
A! marcy, Corporation!
Ye hev deun a shemful deed,
To force us frae wor canny station.
It's nee use being iv a rage,
For a' wor pride noo fairly sunk is--
Ye've cramm'd us in a Dandy Cage,
Like yellow-yowlies, bears, and monkies:
O hinnies, &c.
The cau'd East wind blaws i' wor teeth--
With iron bars we are surrounded;
It's better far to suffer deeth,
Than thus to hev wor feelings wounded.
O hinnies, &c.
Wor haddocks, turbot, cod, and ling,
Are lost tiv a' wor friends' inspection;
Genteelish folk from us tyek wing,
For fear of catching some infection.
O hinnies, &c.
O, kind Sir Matt.--ye bonny Star,
Gan to the King, and show this ditty--
Tell him what canny folks we are,
And make him free us frae this Kitty.
O hinnies, &c.
If ye succeed, agyen we'll sing--
Sweet Madge, wor Queen, will ever bless ye;
And poor au'd Jemmy tee, wor King,
With a' us fishwives will caress ye.
O hinnies, &c.
SUNDERLAND JAMMY'S LAMENTATION,
_December, 1831._
My sankers! we're all in a fine hobble now,
Since the Cholera com tiv our river;
Aw wadn't hae car'd if 'twas ought that one knew,
But the outlandish nyem myeks one shiver:
Our doctors are all in a deuce of a way.
And some says they've _Clannied_ to wrang us;
But I think we may all curse the _Daun_ o' that day,
That the _block_-headed _Board_ com amang us.
Some says that Sir Cuddy deserves all the blyem,
For lettin the ships up the watter--
That brought ower the Cholera frev its awn hyem,
And some says that myed little matter;
But as woman's the root of all evil, ye see,
(At least, all my life aw hev thought it,)
Aw rather believe, as it's been tell'd to me,
That it was one _Mall Airey_ (Malaria) that brought it.
This Chol'ra's the queerest thing e'er had a nyem,
If one may believe what they're talking;
It sometimes gets haud o' folks when they're at hyem,
And sometimes when they're out a walking:
Wey, my neybour of eighty, that deed t'other day,
Folks thought that 'twas nature that fail'd him;
But a doctor chep happ'ning to come by that way,
Swore down thump 'twas the Chol'ra that ail'd him.
Thur doctor cheps prent all the lees that they've tell'd;
Ony nonsense--they never will mis't;
My cheek wi' the tuith-wark hez getten all swell'd,
And aw's warn't they'll haed down i' their list:
Aw never was _chol'ric_, but quiet, aw's sure,
Tho' wi' fear aw's grown sweaty and clammy;
So smoke this wi' brumston to myek all secure,
Aw's your servant, A SUNDERLAND JAMMY.
THE COBBLER O' MORPETH--(_Cholera Morbus._)
_By John M'Lellan._
The Cobbler o' Morpeth myeks sic noise,
He frights the country round, sirs;
That if yen i' the guts hez pain,
By the Plague they think he's doom'd, sirs.
It was but just the tother day,
A Skipper, when at Sheels, sirs,
Drank yell till he cou'd hardly see,
Or ken his head frae heels, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
Wi' much ta dee he reach'd his hyem,
But hoo, aw canna tell ye;
When thunnering at the door he cries,
And blubbers out 'Wife Nelly--
Oh Nell, maw guts are varra bad,
Aw'm sartin aw shall dee, now,
For that d----d plague that's killing a',
Th' Cobbler o' Morpeth's in me, now.'
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
'The Cobbler o' Morpeth! whe is he?
Hez he brak frae the jail, now?'--
'Hout no, ye fule, Jack Russ he's caw'd,
An' kills folks by wholesale, now.
Somehow he creeps up the back way;
Aye it's true as deeth, maw Nelly--
For now he's dancin thro' and thro',
And up and down maw belly.'
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
Tom sigh'd and moan'd, and kick'd and groan'd,
Wi' mony a writhe and start, sirs,
And swore that for a new _lapstane_,
The Cobbler had ta'en his heart, sirs.
He blether'd 'Nell, now divent ye hear
His rumbling and his raking,
He twists and twines maw tripes sae sair,
Sure o' them he's _wax-ends_ making.'
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
Now Nell aff ran to Doctor Belch,
And tell'd Tom's case in fright, sirs,
Wha gav her stuff whilk varra seun
Set Tommy's guts to right, sirs.
And when that his sad pain was eas'd,
He blam'd nyen but himsel, sirs,
But swore he ne'er agyen at Sheels
Wad drink their d----d new yell, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
CAUTION.
Now, neighbours, divent drink to excess--
A canny sober course steer;
Be cleanly, and be temperate,
And the Cobbler o' Morpeth ne'er fear.
But if he should amang huz come,
To th' Infirm'ry we will send him;
And seun they'll purge his au'd saul out,
If that they cannot mend him.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
CANNY SHEELS.
(_By John Morris._)
'Bout Newcassel they've written sae mony fine sangs,
And compar'd their bit place unti Lunnun;
What a shem that 'tiv Sheels not a poet belangs,
For to tell them they lee wi' their funnin.
They may boast o' their shippin without ony doubt,
For there's nyen can deny that they've plenty;
But for every yen they are gobbing about,
Aw'm sure we can shew them, ey twenty!
Let them haud their fule gobs then & brag us ne mair,
With their clarty bit au'd Corporation;
For it's varry weel knawn Sheels pays her full share
For to keep Mister Mayor iv his station.
They hev a bit place where they myek a few shot,
Lunnun's Column tiv it's like a nine-pin;
And St. Nicholas compar'd wi' St. Paul's an' what not,
Wey it's a yuven compar'd tiv a limekiln.
If their Shot Tower sae hee was plac'd on wor Sand End,
'Side wor Light House to scraffle to glory;
Their journey to heaven wad suen hev an end,
For by gox they'd ne'er reach the first story.
Let them haud, &c.
They call their Infirm'ry a place for a king,
To be stow'd 'mang the sick, lyem, and lazy;
If a Sheels man had ventur'd to say sic a thing,
The blind gowks wad a' said he was crazy.
'Bout their Custom House tee they myek a great rout,
That the e'en o' the folk it diz dazzel;
But if a' gans reet Sheels, without ony doubt,
Will suen eclipse that at Canny Newcassel.
Let them haud, &c.
Then they brag they leuk bonny, fresh-colored and gay,
And the Lunnun folk a' wishey washey;
But L----d put it off tiv a far distant day,
That there's one on huz here leuks sae trashy.
Then they boast o' Sir Matthew--but never enquire
If the foundation's good that he stood on;
But if he comes up to wor canny au'd Squire,
Then becrikes he is nowse but a good 'un.
Let them haud, &c.
But the Squire, canny man, he's gyen frae the toon,
And aw'm sure on't the poor sairly miss him;
For oft as aw wauk Pearson's Raw up and doon,
Aw hear the folk cry, Heaven bliss him!
Yet aw hope, an' aw trust, he'll suen find his way hyem,
And aw's sure aw'll be glad to hear tell on't;
For aw've varry oft thowt--did ye ne'er think the syem,
Since he's gyen Sheels hezzent luik't like the sel on't.
Let them haud, &c.
Then lang life to the King and wor awn noble Duik,
May Sheels lang partake of his bounty;
For Newcassel, ye ken, if ye e'er read a buik,
Is at yence byeth a toon and a county.
Northumberland's Duik may still shew his sel there,
But his int'rest frae Sheels ne'er can sever;
So aw'll gie ye just now, shou'd aw ne'er see ye mair,
Wor Duik and wor Duchess for ever!
Let them haud their fule gobs then & brag us ne mair,
Wi' their this, that, and t'other sae cliver;
We'll aw drink as lang's we've a penny to spare,
Here's success to wor awn town for ever!!!
PERMANENT YEAST.
Jack Hume one day cam into toon,
And efter wandering up and doon,
He bought some things, and 'mang the rest,
A bottle of Permanent Yeast.
Fal de ral la, &c.
Now when he'd getten a' things reet,
He was gaun trudging hyem at neet,
When on the road he heard a crack,
An' fand a bullet in his back.
Fal de ral la, &c.
He fell directly on the spot,
For Jack imagin'd he was shot;
Some said he'd liquor in his head,
And others thought that he was dead.
Fal de ral la, &c.
But Jack suen gav a greet groan out,
And after that he com about,
He says, O bring a Doctor here!
Or else aw'll suen be deed, aw fear,
Fal de ral la, &c.
O neighbours, de tyek off maw sark,
And try if ye can find the mark!
They leuk'd, but nought there could be seen,
They wonder'd a' what it had been.
Fal de ral la, &c.
But, howe'er, it cam to pass,
Out of his pocket fell some glass:
Now then, says Jack, it is ne joke,
See there's maw good yeast bottle broke!
Fal de ral la, &c.
A fellow wiser than the rest,
Soon found out it had been the yeast:
Wi' walking Jack had made it work,
The bullet only was the cork.
Fal de ral la, &c.
Now Jackey finding his mistake,
He thought the best plan he could take
Was to be off--he seiz'd his hat,
And ran hyem like a scadded cat.
Fal de ral la, &c.
THE PITMAN'S RAMBLE;
_Or, Newcastle Finery,_
Ho! lizzen, aw ye neybors roun,
Yor clappers haud and pipes lay doon;
Aw've had a swagger through the toon,
Yen morning aw went suen ti'd.
Ye see, aw fand aw wasn't thrang,
Sae to Newcassel aw wad gang:
Aw's lap't a' up, just like a sang,
And try to put a tune ti'd.
Bad times they'e now, yen weel may say;
Aw've seen when on a market day,
Wiv wor toon's cheps aw'd drink away,
And carry on the war, man:
But now yen staups an' stares aboot,
To see what's strange to carry oot;
Brass letters fassen'd on a cloot,
A unicorn, or star, man.
Ye see, aw thowt they were to sell;
So ax'd the chep, if he cud tell,
What he wad tyek for C and L,
To nail upon maw hen hoose;
But he insisted, smash his crop!
Aw'd like a fule mistyen the shop;
And bad me quickly off te hop,
He'd bowt them for his awn use.
He flang maw hump sae out o' joint,
Sae, smash! aw thowt aw'd hev a pint!
But when aw gat te Peterpoint,
The chep that sells the candy,
The folks luik'd in wiv greedy wish,
He'd bonny siller in a dish;
And just abuin, twee bits o' fish
Was sweeming, fine as can be.
The tyen was like Hob Fewster's cowt,
A' spreckled round about the snout,
They flapp'd their tails aboot like owt,
Quite full o' gamalerie:
And then the munny shin'd sae breet,
The greet Tom Cat wad hev a peep,
And paunder'd tiv he fell asleep;
The silly thing was weary.
Sae farther up aw teuk my cruize,
And luik'd amang the buits and shoes;
Where yen aw thowt they did ill use,
It sweem'd, aye, like a daisy:
Says aw, How! man, what's thou aboot?
Weyu'cum and tyek that slipper oot;
Tho's flay'd away the sammun trout:
Says he, Young man, thou's crazy!
Had aw not been a patient chap,
Aw wad hae fetch'd him sike a rap,
As that which daver'd poor au'd Cap:[2]
But, faith! the Kitty scar'd me:
Sae whisht aw grew; for, efter that,
Iv a lairge glass bowl, byeth round and flat,
Aw spied a maccaroni hat,
But at maw peril dar'd me.
Sae, efter dark, up Pilgrim-street,
The fine Gas Leeters shin'd sae breet,
That if a bonny lass ye meet,
Ye'd ken her varry features:
When pipes are laid, and a' things duen,
They say Newcassel, varry suen,
Will darken, aye, the varry muin,
A' wi' thor fine Gas Leeters.
Footnote 2: Alluding to the song call'd 'Cappy, or the Pitman's
Dog.'--See page 19.
COALY TYNE.
Tyne River, running rough or smooth,
Makes bread for me and mine;
Of all the rivers, north or south,
There's none like coaly Tyne.
So here's to coaly Tyne, my lads,
Success to coaly Tyne,
Of all the rivers, north or south,
There's none like coaly Tyne.
Long has Tyne's swelling bosom borne
Great riches from the mine,
All by her hardy sons uptorn--
The wealth of coaly Tyne.
Our keelmen brave, with laden keels,
Go sailing down in line,
And with them load the fleet at Shields,
That sails from coaly Tyne.
When Bonaparte the world did sway,
Dutch, Spanish, did combine;
By sea and land proud bent their way,
The sons of coaly Tyne.
The sons of Tyne, in seas of blood,
Trafalgar's fight did join,
When led by dauntless Collingwood,
The hero of the Tyne.
With courage bold, and hearts so true,
Form'd in the British line;
With Wellington, at Waterloo,
Hard fought the sons of Tyne.
When peace, who would be Volunteers?
Or Hero Dandies fine?
Or sham Hussars, or Tirailleurs?--
Disgrace to coaly Tyne.
Or who would be a Tyrant's Guard,
Or shield a libertine?
Let Tyrants meet their due reward,
Ye sons of coaly Tyne.
NEWCASSEL RACES.
It's hae ye heard the ill that's duen?
Or hae ye lost? or hae ye won?
Or hae ye seen what mirth and fun,
At fam'd Newcassel Races, O?
The weather fine, and folks sae gay,
Put on their best, and bent their way
To the Town Moor, to spend the day,
At fam'd Newcassel Races, O.
There shows of all sorts you may view;
Polito's grand collection too;
Such noise and din and lilli-bulloo,
At fam'd Newcassel Races, O.
There some on horses sat astride,
And some in gigs did snugly ride,
With smart young wenches by their side;
Look'd stilish at the Races, O.
A Tailor chep aw chanc'd to spy,
Was sneekin through the crowd sae sly,
For he'd tyen the darling of his eye,
To swagger at the Races, O.
He says, My dear, we'll see the show,
Egad! says she, I do not know,
It looks so vulgar and so low,
We'd better see the Races, O.
One Buck cries, Demme, go the rig!
Got two smart lasses in a gig;
He crack'd his whip, and look'd quite big,
While swagg'rin at the Races, O.
But soon, alas! the gig upset,
An ugly thump they each did get;
Some say, that he his breeches wet,
For fear, when at the Races, O.
The one was lyem'd abuin the knee,
The other freeten'd desp'rately;
"This demm'd unlucky job!" says she,
"Has fairly spoil'd my Races, O!"
He gat them in, wi' some delay,
And te Newcassel bent his way;
But oft, indeed, he curs'd the day,
That e'er he'd seen the Races, O.
Now some were singin songs so fine,
And some were lying drunk like swine,
Some drank porter, others wine;
Rare drinkin at the Races, O!
The wanton wags in corners sat,
Wiv bonny lasses on their lap;
And mony a yen gat tit for tat,
Before they left the Races, O.
Now lads and lasses myed for toon,
And in the road they oft lay doon;
Faith! mony a lassie spoil'd her goon,
A comin frae the Races, O:
Some gat hyem, midst outs and ins,
Some had black eyes and broken shins,
And some lay drunk amang the whins,
A comin frae the Races, O:
Let every one his station mense,
By acting like a man of sense--
'Twill save him mony a pund expense,
When he gans te the Races, O.
Kind friends, I would you all advise,
Good counsel ye should ne'er despise,
The world's opinion always prize,
When ye gan to the Races, O.
THE QUACK DOCTORS.
Wor laureate may sing for his cash,
Of laws, constitution, and proctors,
Contented aw'll blair for a dash
At the slee understrapping quack doctors,
They gob o' their physical skill,
Till their jaws yen might swear they wad rive,
To prove what's alive they can kill,
And what's dead they can suen myek alive.
A' ye wi' the glanders snout-full,
Repair to each wondrous adviser--
For though ye were born a stark fuel,
Depend on't, they'll suen myek ye wiser.
Their physic, they say, in a trice,
Snaps every disease like a towt:
But the best on't all is their advice--
Ye can get it free gratis for nowt.
Wiv a kessle puff'd up to the chin,
Went to see yen, a strapping young doxy,
He examin'd her lugs and her een,
And declar'd her myest dead o' the dropsy.
The lassie he therefore wad tap,
At which she set up a great yell;
When out popp'd a little wee chap
Myest as wise as the doctor's awnsel'.
Next they teuk him a man, whee for fancies,
A' day wad sit silent and sad--
He upheld that he'd lost his reet senses,
And therefore he surely was mad.
But now he gies mony a roar,
Of the doctor's great skill to convince--
If he wasn't a madman before
At least he's been yen ever since.
Last, in hobbled gouty Sir Peter,
To get of his drugs a good doze--
Three days he deep studied his water,
Ere he'd his opinion disclose.
Then proclaim'd that Sir Peet was ower fat,
For the doctor was never mistyen
By my faiks! but he curd him o' that--
Suen Sir Peet left the warld, skin and byen.
Now, he that winn't loyally sing,
May he swing like an ass in a tether,
Good hilth and long life to the King,
To keep us in union together.
The heart iv each Briton he leads
To rejoice i' the fall o' the quacks--
So we'll aye keep the brains i' wor heeds,
And we'll ay hae the flesh on wor backs.
PEGGY'S LEG.
_Written on seeing the Leg of a beautiful Female exposed by the wind on
Tyne Bridge, March, 1806._
O tak't not amiss while I sing, my Peggy,
O tak't not amiss while I sing,
How rude the wind blew, and expos'd thy neat leggy,
Thy knee and red garten string, my Peggy,
Thy knee and red garten string.
Nor take it amiss while I tell thee, Peggy,
Nor take it amiss while I tell,
How a' my heart felt upon seeing thy leggy;--
I've never sinsyne been mysel', my Peggy,
I've never sinsyne been mysel'.
I think the brisk gale acted right, my Peggy,
I think the brisk gale acted right,
In shewing me, O lovely dear! thy smart leggy--
It was sic a glorious sight, my Peggy,
It was sic a glorious sight.
In troth I'd gan monie a mile, my Peggy,
In troth I'd gan monie a mile,
Again, my dear Charmer, to view thy neat leggy,
And see on thy face a sweet smile, my Peggy,
And see on thy face a sweet smile.
I'm deeply in love wi' thee a', my Peggy,
I'm deeply in love wi' thee a'--
And I'll think on thy face and thy smart buskit leggy,
As lang as I've breath for to draw, my Peggy,
As lang as I've breath for to draw.
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.
Hae ye seen owt o' maw canny man,
And 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 buttock,
And brings the white money to me, O.
THE TYNE.
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 where 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 Patriots 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.
NANNY OF THE TYNE.
Whilst bards, in strains that sweetly flow,
Extol each nymph so fair,
Be mine my Nanny's worth to shew,
Her captivating air.
What swain can gaze without delight
On beauty there so fine?
The Graces all their charms unite
In Nanny of the Tyne.
Far from the noise of giddy courts
The lovely charmer dwells;
Her cot the haunt of harmless sports,
In virtue she excels.
With modesty, good nature join'd,
To form the nymph divine;
And truth, with innocence combin'd,
In Nanny of the Tyne.
Flow on, smooth stream, in murmurs sweet
Glide gently past her cot,
'Tis peace and virtue's calm retreat--
Ye great ones, envied not.
And you, ye fair, whom folly leads
Through all her paths supine,
Tho' drest in pleasure's garb, exceeds
Not Nanny of the Tyne.
Can art to nature e'er compare,
Or win us to believe
But that the frippery of the fair
Was made but to deceive.
Strip from the belle the dress so gay,
Which fashion calls divine,
Will she such loveliness display
As Nanny of the Tyne.
THE BONNY GYETSIDERS.
Tune--"Bob Cranky."
Come, marrows, we've happen'd to meet now,
Sae wor thropples together we'll weet now;
Aw've myed a new sang,
And to sing ye't aw lang,
For it's about the Bonny Gyetsiders.
Of a' the fine Volunteer corpses,
Whether footmen, or ridin' on horses,
'Tween the Tweed and the Tees,
Deil hae them that sees
Sic a corpse as the Bonny Gyetsiders.
Whilk amang them can mairch, turn, an' wheel sae?
Whilk their guns can wise off half sae weel sae?
Nay, for myeking a _crack_,
Through England aw'll back
The corps of the Bonny Gyetsiders.
When the time for parading nigh hand grows,
A' wesh theirsels clean i' the sleck troughs:
Fling off their black duddies,
Leave hammers and studdies,
And to drill--run the Bonny Gyetsiders.
To Newcassel, for three weeks up-stannin,
On Parmanent Duty they're gannin;
And seun i' the papers
We's read a' the capers
O' the corps o' the Bonny Gyetsiders.
The Newcassel chaps fancy they're clever,
And are vaunting and braggin' for ever;
But they'll find theirsels wrang,
If they think they can bang,
At sowg'rin', the Bonny Gyetsiders.
The Gen'ral shall see they can lowp dykes,
Or mairch thro' whins, lair whooles, and deep sykes;
Nay, to soom (at a pinch)
Through Tyne, waddent flinch
The corps o' the Bonny Gyetsiders.
Some think Billy Pitt's nobbit hummin,
When he tells aboot Bonnepairt cummin;
But come when he may,
He'll lang rue the day
He first meets wi' the Bonny Gyetsiders:
Like an anchor-shank, smash! how they'll clatter 'im,
And turn 'im, and skelp 'im, and batter 'im;
His byens sal, by jing!
Like a frying-pan ring,
When he meets wi' the Bonny Gyetsiders.
Let them yence get 'im into their taings weel,
Nae fear but they'll give him his whaings weel;
And to Hezlett's Pond bring 'im,
And there in chains hing 'im,
What a seet for the Bonny Gyetsiders!
Now, marrows, to shew we're a' loyal,
And that, wi' the King and Blood Royal,
We'll a' soom or sink,
Quairts a-piece let us drink,
To the brave and the Bonny Gyetsiders.
THE WATER OF TYNE.
I cannot get to my love, if I should dee,
The water of Tyne runs between him and me;
And here I must stand, with the tear in my e'e,
Both sighing and sickly my sweetheart to see.
O where is the boatman? my bonny honey!
O where is the boatman? bring him to me--
To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey,
And I will remember the boatman and thee.
O bring me a boatman--I'll give any money,
(And you for your trouble rewarded shall be)
To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey,
Or skull him across that rough river to me.
THE NEWCASTLE SIGNS.
Written by Cecil Pitt, and sung at the Theatre-Royal, Newcastle, by Mr.
Scriven, June 4, 1806.
Should the French in Newcastle but dare to appear,
At each sign they would meet with indifferent cheer;
From the Goat and the Hawk, from the Bell and the Waggon,
And the Dog, they would skip, as St. George made the Dragon.
The Billet, the Highlander, Cross Keys, and Sun,
The Eagle and Ships too, would shew 'em some fun;
The Three Kings and Unicorn, Bull's Head and Horse,
Would prove, that the farther they went they'd fare worse.
At the Black House, a _strong-Arm_, would lay ev'ry man on,
And they'd quickly go off, if they got in the Cannon:
The Nelson and Turk's Head their fears would increase,
And they'd run from the Swan like a parcel of geese.
At the York and the Cumberland, Cornwallis too,
With our Fighting Cocks, sure they'd have plenty to do;
The Nag's Head and Lions would cut such an evil,
And the Angel would drive the whole crew to the devil.
At the World, and the Fountain, the Bridge, Crown and Thistle,
The Bee-Hive, and Tuns, for a drop they might whistle;
With our Prince, or our Crown, should they dare interpose,
They'd prick their French fingers well under the Rose.
At the Half Moon, the Wheat Sheaf, and Old Barley-Mow,
A sup's to be got--if they could but tell how;
If they call'd at the Bull and the Tiger to ravage,
As well as the Black Boy, they'd find 'em quite savage.
At the Ark, and the Anchor, Pack Horse, and Blue Posts,
And the Newmarket Inn, they would find but rough hosts;
The Old Star and Garter, Cock, Anchor, and more,
Would prove, like the Grapes, all most cursedly sour.
The Lion and Lamb, Plough, and Old Robin Hood,
With the Crane House, would check these delighters in blood;
From the Butchers' Arms quick they'd be running away,
And we all know that Shakespeare would shew 'em some _play_.
At the White Hart, Three Bulls' Heads, the Old Dog and Duck,
If they did not get thrash'd, they'd escape by good luck:
At the Bird in Bush, Metters' Arms, Peacock, they'd fast,
And our King's and Queen's Heads we'll defend till the last.