From the hamlet has made his remove,
To join his love-song with the rest,
And woo his fond mate in the grove.
The lark, high in ether afloat,
Each morn, as he ushers the day,
Attunes his wild-warbling throat,
And sings his melodious lay.
Yon bank lately cover'd with snow,
Now smiles in the spring's bloomy pride;
And the sweet-scented primroses grow
Near the streamlet's sweet gurgling tide.
To the banks of the Tyne we'll away,
And view the enrapturing scene,
While Flora, the goddess of May,
With her flow'rets bespangles the green.
PARSON MALTHUS.
By the Same.--Written in 1826.
Tune--"Ranting roaring Willie."
Good people, if you'll pay attention,
I'll tell you a comical jest;
The theme I'm about now to mention
Alludes to one Malthus, a priest--
A proud, hypocritical preacher,
Who feeds on tithe-pigs and good wine;
But him I shall prove a false teacher--
Oh, all things have but a time.
Some years ago, through all the nation,
He publish'd a scandalous book--
An Essay about "POPULATION;"
But widely his text he mistook.
From marriage his plan's to restrain all
Poor people who are in their prime,
Lest the earth prove too small to contain all--
Such notions can last but a time.
But the Clergy who're plac'd in snug station,
The Nobles, and such like fine folks,
May continue their multiplication--
What think you, my friends, of such jokes?
What think you of Malthus the Parson,
Who slights each injunction divine,
And laughs while he carries the farce on;--
But all things have but a time.
When the poor folk of hunger are dying,
He deems it no sin in the _great_,
Their hands to with-hold from supplying
The wretched with victuals to eat!
Such doctrine--sure a great evil--
Becomes not a Christian Divine;
'Tis more like the speech of the Devil;--
But all things have but a time.
Now, my friends, you will readily see
Malthus' argument's not worth a curse;
For to starve the industrious bee,
Is no better than killing the goose.
That he does not believe in the Bible,
His book is a very true sign;
On Sacred Writ 'tis a libel--
Such trash can last but for a time.
Place the drones on one part of our isle,
The industrious class on the other;
There the former may simper and smile,
And bow and scrape each to his brother:
They can neither plough, throw the shuttle,
Nor build with stone and lime;
They'll then get but little to guttle,
And may grow wiser in time.
Ye blithe British lads and ye lasses,
Ne'er heed this daft, whimsical Priest;
Get sweethearts in spite of such asses--
The BIBLE PLAN sure is the best:
Then away go in couples together,
And marry while you're in your prime,
And strive to agree with each other,
For life only lasts a short time!
PETER WAGGY.
By the Same--Written in 1826.
I, when a child, for trinket ware
Would often cry to mam and daddie:
With other trifles, from the fair,
Dad brought me once a Peter Waggy.
Fine dolls, and many things forby,
A gilded coach and little naggie;
But oh, the darling of my eye,
Was little dancing Peter Waggy!
Love of such trifles time destroys--
At length each well-grown lass and laddie
Seeks to be pleas'd with other toys,
Some other sort of Peter Waggy.
A lover came to me at last,
In courting me he ne'er grew faggy;
Now he and I are buckled fast--
He is my darling Peter Waggy.
We've got a boy of beauty rare,
A credit to his mam and daddie;
When I go to Newcastle Fair,
I'll buy my child a Peter Waggy.
BESSY OF BLYTH.
"A VIRTUOUS WOMAN IS MORE PRECIOUS THAN RUBIES."
By the Same.--Written in 1826.
In Cramlington we've bonnie lasses enow,
With checks red as roses, and eyes black or blue;
But Bessy of Blyth I love better than onie--
My heart is still there with my own dear honey.
My uncle says, "Robin, why sure you are mad,
To slight Suky Swan--she's worth money, my lad!"
Dear uncle, says I, I'll ne'er marry for money,
And none will I have but my own dear honey.
Her face I compare to the blush of the morn,
Her breath to the scent of the fresh-blossom'd thorn;
For virtue and sense she's not equall'd by monie--
Few, few can compare with my own dear honey.
As in this world of care there is nought we approve,
Compar'd to the faithful good wife that we love;
To sweeten life's sorrow, the gall mix with honey,
I'll wed my dear Bess, and a fig for their money.
KELVIN GROVE.--THE LASSIE'S ANSWER.
By the Same--Written in 1827.
To Kelvin Grove we'll go, bonnie laddie, O,
Where the sweetest flowers grow, bonnie laddie, O;
With my true-love by my side,
Of a' the flowers the pride,
I'd wander the warld wide, bonnie laddie, O.
When the throstle hails the morn, bonnie laddie, O,
We'll wander by the burn, bonnie laddie, O;
And we'll rest in the alcove,
In bonny Kelvin Grove,
Where first I told my love to my laddie, O.
When thou leav'st thy native home, bonnie laddie, O,
With thee I mean to roam, bonnie laddie, O;
I'll watch thee in the fight,
And guard thee day and night,
That no mishap alight--on my laddie, O.
In the fatal battle-field, bonnie laddie, O,
Shouldst thou thy spirit yield, bonnie laddie, O--
When thy een are clos'd in death,
I'll sigh my latest breath,
And one grave shall hold us baith, bonnie laddie, O.
But kind should Fortune prove, bonnie laddie, O,
And spare us baith to love, bonnie laddie, O:
By the stream again we'll rove,
In bonny Kelvin Grove,
And frae hame nae mair remove, dearest laddie, O.
TO MR. PETER WATSON[8],
WHO LAYS POWERFUL BATS ON THE KNAVES WITH FIRE-SHOVEL HATS ON.
By the Same.--Written in 1824.
O Watson! O Watson! what are you about?
What have you been doing to cause such a rout?
'Tis said you've been giving the Clergy a clout;
Which nobody does deny.
O stop! Watson, stop! O whither?--say whither
Directs your bold genius?--'twould seem you choose rather
To hammer the Parsons, instead of bend leather;
At starting you were not shy.
What tho' the good Clergy for long time have got,
At Easter, fat pullets to put in their pot,
And ta'en from the people full many a groat,
Yet why into this should you pry?
Of matters relating to Church or to State,
'Tis surely not fit you should trouble your pate;
Yet still you keep thumping, with spirit elate,
As if you would maul the whole fry.
I'd have you respect more the _Lord's_ own _Anointed_,
Who over your conscience to rule are appointed,
And to whom pigs and pullets are sent to be jointed,
And other good things forby.
Repent, then, and quick pay your EASTER DUES,
And to _guileless_ Parsons give no more abuse,
Or spiritual comfort to you they'll refuse,
And this may cause you to sigh!
For things are so chang'd since you rang them a peal,
That the Clerk seems afraid through our parish to speel;
For he's look'd on no better than one come to steal;
Which nobody can deny.
The Clerk of St. John's, that he might have good luck,
Employed a brave Noodle, whose nick-name is _Pluck_,
To collect Easter-pence; but the people had struck--
Few, few were brought to comply.
Now the Parsons to you attach all the blame,
O Watson, for saying they had no just claim!
Thus you've brought on yourself their _holy_ disdain;
Yet you'll fill a niche in the Temple of Fame,
Which nobody will deny.
Footnote 8: Peter Watson, of Chester-le-Street, Shoemaker.--This
person, for some time, laudably exerted himself to oppose the claims of
the Government Clergy to what are called Easter dues or offerings; and
by a powerful appeal to the public, succeeded in convincing many that
such claims were equally oppressive and unjust, and founded neither in
the law nor the gospel.--The late worthy Vicar of Newcastle, Mr. John
Smith, actuated with the generous feelings of a Man and a Christian, and
with due deference to public opinion, restrained the Clergy in his
jurisdiction from collecting these Exactions during the latter years of
his life. To him, therefore, and to Peter Watson, in particular, who
aroused the public attention to the subject, the inhabitants of
Newcastle are indebted for being relieved from this odious, unjust, and
oppressive Clerical Tax.
THE NEWCASTLE SUBSCRIPTION MILL.
Tune--"Newcastle Ale."--1814.
While Europe rejoices at Bonny's defeat,
And Cossacks pursue him o'er plain and o'er hill,
On the banks of the Tyne, in a quiet retreat,
I'll write you a ballad about the new Mill,
To be built by subscription, of famous description;
Ye pale-fac'd mechanics, come join in the club,
Whose bowels are yearning at ev'ning and morning,
And you will get plenty of cheap, wholesome grub.
The Millers their spite have already display'd,
And dusty-mouth'd Meal-mongers pettish are grown,
That a plan should be thought of to injure their trade,
A Mill that will grind for one half of the town;
Where, joyful, you'll hie, for wheat or for rye--
There some trusty fellow your meal-bags will fill;
No mixture of chalk[9], your intestines to caulk,
But plain, honest dealing practis'd at the Mill.
There's Puff-cake, the baker, too, cries out "Alack!
If this plan should succeed, I'll have customers few;"
And he whinges and whines as he sets up his back
To twirl his long rolling-pin over the dough:
The theme he resumes, with vexation he fumes,
And deems the projector a deep-scheming elf;
His customers gone, he'll soon be undone,
His mixture compound he may swallow himself.
Of Gripe-grain, the corn-factor, much could be sung,
And of Broad-brim, the Quaker, a guilt-spotted blade,
Who both in a halter deserve to be strung,
For the thousands they've starv'd by the forestalling trade:
But some future time may produce a new rhyme,
Wherein I propose their true features to draw;
Meanwhile ev'ry man give his aid to the plan,
And there'll soon be a down-coming market--Huzza!
Footnote 9: About the month of November, 1813, (according to the
Courier newspaper) a Victualler for the Navy was convicted in
adulterating the biscuit with chalk and Portland stone, and suffered the
penalty of a very heavy fine. The audacious fellow afterwards boasted,
that he had cleared more money by the practice than the fine amounted
to.
LIZZIE LIBERTY.
Tune--"Tibby Fowler i' the Glen."
_By the Same._
Sung at a Meeting of Reformers at the Golden Lion Inn, Bigg Market,
Newcastle, on the Liberation of Henry Hunt, Esq. in 1822.
There lives a nymph o'er yonder lea,
And O she is a winsome hizzie!
Her name is Lizzie Liberty,
And monie wooers has sweet Lizzie:
She sings and trips along the plain,
Free as the wind glides o'er the water;
O bonny Lizzie Liberty!
Now a' the lads wad fain be at her.
The Men o' France to her advance,
And use all arts to gain her favour;
And Spaniards bold, with hearts of gold,
Vow, if she's to be had, they'll have her;
And daft John Bull, that bleth'ring cull,
About the nymph sets up his chatter;
O bonnie Lizzie Liberty!
Now a' the lads wad fain be at her.
Braw Donald Scot steps forth, I wot,
To win the smiles of this fair lady,
And Irish Pat has promis'd that,
To woo the nymph he'll aye be steady:
Whole Patriot Bands, of foreign lands,
Do fyke and fistle sair about her:
O bonnie Lizzie Liberty!
Nae happiness is felt without her.
THE NEW FISH MARKET.
BY WILLIAM MIDFORD.
Tune--"Scots come o'er the Border."
March! march to the Dandy Fish Market!
See what our Corporation's done for you,
By pillars and paling so nobly surrounded,
And your stone tables all standing before you.
Where's there a river so fam'd in the nation?
Where's the bold tars that so well grace their station?
Coals, fish, and grindstones--we'll through the world bark it--
And now we ha'e gotten a bonny Fish Market,
March! march, &c.
Oh! did the fish ken they'd be caged like a birdie,
(Euphy, the Queen, singing, "Maw canny Geordie,")
They'd pop out their heads then, should ye only watch them,
And call on the fishermen sharply to catch them.
March! march, &c.
Yet all isn't right, tho'--in time you may hear it;
One week is past, and but one cart's come near it:
The loons above stairs preconcerted the order,
And hinder poor bodies to hawk through the border.
March! march, &c.
Gan to the coast--where the fishermen's weeding--
Gan to the fells--where the cuddies are feeding--
Gan to hell's kitchen--should ye have occasion--
Ye'll see hizzies drinking through spite and vexation.
March! march, &c.
Where's Madgie's troops that so well could shout oysters?
Gone to a convent or nunnery cloisters!
Where's the wee shop that once held Jack the Barber?
Gone to make room for the fish brought to harbour!
March! march, &c.
Then hie to the Custom-house, add to your pleasures,
Now you're well cover'd, so toom the new measures:
It ne'er will be finish'd, I'll wager a groat,
Till they've cut a canal to admit five-men boats!
March! march, &c.
A NEW YEAR'S CAROL,
_For the Fishwives of Newcastle._
Tune--"Chevy Chase."
God prosper long our noble king,
Our lives and safeties all!
A woeful ditty we may sing
On ev'ry fishwife's stall.
Good Magistrates, it were a sin
That we should _rail_ at you;
Altho' the _plaice_ you've put us in,
Is _grating_ to our view.
If _crab_-bed looks we should put on,
Or _flounder_ in a pet,
Each fishwife's _tub_ would, very soon,
Be in the _kit_-ty set.
Sure we are not such simple _soles_,
Though in your legal _net_,
But we will haul you _o'er the coals_,
And play _hot cockles_ yet.
The iron ring in which we're shut,
To make the _gudgeons_ stare,
Will not, says ev'ry scolding slut,
With _her-ring_ e'er compare.
Then ev'ry night, that duly falls,
_Fresh water_ may be seen
All floating round our seats and stalls,
As if we _had-ducks_ been.
But thus _shell'd_ in, as now we are,
Within our corp'rate bounds,
Altho' we may not curse and swear,
We still may cry, _Cod-sounds_!
Let gentle people _carp_ their fill,
At us, our sprees and pranks;
For tho' we're now turn'd off the _Hill_,
Themselves may lose their _Banks_.
JESMOND MILL.
BY PHIL. HODGSON.
To sing of some nymph in her cot,
Each bard will oft flourish his quill:
I'm glad it has fall'n to my lot,
To celebrate Jesmond Mill.
When Spring hither winds her career,
Our trees and our hedges to fill,
Vast oceans of verdure appear,
To charm you at Jesmond Mill.
To plant every rural delight,
Mere Nature has lavish'd her skill;
Here fragrant soft breezes unite,
To wanton round Jesmond Mill.
When silence each evening here dwells,
The birds in their coverts all still;
No music in sweetness excels
The clacking of Jesmond Mill.
Reclin'd by the verge of the stream,
Or stretch'd on the side of the hill,
I'm never in want of a theme,
While learning at Jesmond Mill.
Sure Venus some plot has design'd,
Or why is my heart never still,
Whenever it pops in my mind,
To wander near Jesmond Mill.
My object, ye swains, you will guess,
If ever in love you had skill;
And now I will frankly confess,
'Tis--Jenny of Jesmond Mill.
TOMMY THOMPSON.
Author of 'Canny Newcassel,' 'Jemmy Joneson's Whurry,' &c.
BY ROBERT GILCHRIST.
All ye whom minstrel's strains inspire,
Soft as the sighs of morning--
All ye who sweep the rustic lyre,
Your native hills adorning--
Where genius bids her rays descend
O'er bosoms deep and lonesome--
Let every heart and hand respond
The name of Tommy Thompson.
CHORUS.
His spirit now is soaring bright,
And leaves us dark and dolesome;
O luckless was the fatal night
That lost us Tommy Thompson.
The lyric harp was all his own,
Each mystic art combining--
Which Envy, with unbending frown,
Might hear with unrepining.
The sweetest flower in summer blown,
Was not more blithe and joysome,
Than was the matchless, merry tone,
Which died with Tommy Thompson.
His spirit, &c.
FAREWELL TO THE TYNE.
By the Same.
Farewell, lovely Tyne, in thy soft murmurs flowing,
Adieu to the shades of thy mouldering towers!
And sweet be the flowers on thy wild margin growing,
And sweet be the nymphs that inhabit thy bowers!
And there shall be ties which no distance can sever,
Thou land of our fathers, the dauntless and free;
Tho' the charms of each change smile around me, yet never
Shall the sigh be inconstant that's hallow'd to thee.
Thy full orb of glory will blaze o'er each contest--
Thy sons, e'er renown'd, be the dread of each foe--
Till thy tars chill with fear in the fight or the tempest,
And the pure streams of Heddon have ceas'd more to flow.
May commerce be thine--and from Tynemouth to Stella
May thy dark dingy waters auspiciously roll--
And thy lads in the keels long be jovial and mellow,
With faces as black as the keel or the coal.
O Albion! of worlds thou shalt e'er be the wonder,
Thy tough wooden walls, thy protection and pride,
So long as the bolts of thy cloud-rending thunder
Are hurl'd by the lads on the banks of Tyneside.
NORTHUMBERLAND FREE O' NEWCASSEL.
Composed extempore, on the Duke of Northumberland being presented with
the Freedom of Newcastle.
BY THE SAME.
To that far-ken'd and wondrous place, Newcassel town,
Where each thing yen lucks at surprises,
Wiv a head full o' fancies, and heart full o' fun,
Aw'd com'd in to see my Lord Sizes.
In byeth town and country aw glowrin' beheld
Carousin' laird, tenant, an' vassal;
On axin' the cause o' sic joy, aw was tell'd,
'Twas Northumberland free o' Newcassel.
The guns frae the Cassel sent monny a peal--
My hair stood on end, a' confounded--
The folks on Tyne-brig set up monny a squeel,
And the banks o' Tyneside a' resounded.
In the Mute Hall, Judge Bayley roar'd out, "My poor head!--
Gan an' tell them not to myek sic a rattle."
Judge Wood cried out, "No--let them fire us half dead,
Since Northumberland's free o' Newcassel!"
The Duke e'er has been byeth wor glory an' pride,
For dousely he fills up his station;
May he lang live to hearten the lads o' Tyneside,
The glory and pride o' their nation.
Brave Prudhoe[10] triumphant shall plough the wide main,
The hash o' the Yankees he'll sattle;
And ages hereefter but sarve to proclaim
Northumberland free o' Newcassel.
May it please Heav'n to grant that the sweet Flower o' Wales,[11]
Wi' Northumberland's roses entwinin',
May its fragrance shed forth i' celestial gales,
In glory unceasin'ly shinin',
In defence o' wor country, wor laws, an' wor King,
May a _Peercy_ still lead us to battle;
An' monny a brisk lad o' the nyem may there spring
Fra Northumberland, free o' Newcassel.
Footnote 10: Baron Prudhoe, of the Royal Navy.
Footnote 11: The Duchess of Northumberland.
THE DUCHESS AND MAYORESS.
Written in September, 1819.
Ye Northumberland lads and ye lasses,
Come and see what at Newcastle passes,
Here's a damnable rout,
At a tea and turn out,
And no one knows how to bring matters about.
It seems, at our summer Assizes,
(Or at least so the present surmise is)
The wife of the Mayor
Never offer'd her chair
At the Ball when the Duchess from Alnwick was there.
Then 'tis said, too, by way of addition,
To the Mayoress's turn for sediton,
That, in right of her place,
With her impudent face,
She march'd out to tea at the head of her Grace.
So our vigorous young Lord Lieutenant,
Next day, when the Grand Jury were present,
Disclos'd to their view,
(In enigma, 'tis true)
The plot of the Mayoress and all her d--d crew.
When his health was propos'd as Lieutenant,
He bow'd to the company present;
Then, with tears in his eyes,
And to all their surprize,
"My office, (his Grace said) too heavily lies.
I had firmly imagin'd till now, sirs,
That our county was free from all row, sirs;
But what has occurr'd,
Though I sha'n't say a word,
Till the voice of yourselves and the county is heard.
All at present I wish yon to know is,
That my Duchess and Dame Lady Powis,
Have receiv'd such a blow,
That thy never can go
To your ball, at Newcastle, while things remain so.
A high rank has its weight in the nation,
If you hold it in due estimation;
Then the Duchess and I
For redress must apply,
Tho' at present I mention no name--no, not I.
All I wish is to find out your pleasures,
And hope to avoid all harsh measures;
Yet I always foresaw
This Republican jaw
Would sooner or later produce Martial Law."
Thus ended the young Lord Lieutenant,
When the terrified company present,
Cried, "Name, my Lord, name
Who's to blame--who's to blame;"
But the Duke said, the County must smother the flame.
And the Duchess and he, the next morning,
Fulfill'd my Lord Lieutenant's warning;
Then up before day,
And to Alnwick away,
Their faces have ne'er since been seen to this day.
NEWCASTLE ASSIZES.
DUCHESS _versus_ MAYORESS;
_Or, a Struggle for Precedence_.
Why, what's a' this about,
Mr. Mayor, Mister Mayor?
Why, what's a' this about,
Mister Mayor?
Yor Worship's wife, they say,
To the Duchess won't give way,
Nor due attention pay,
Mister Mayor!
But is this true, aw pray,
Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor?
But is this true, aw pray,
Mister Mayor?
If it's true, as aw believe,
Ye'll ha'e muckle cause to grieve--
The Duke yor toon will leave,
Mister Mayor!
The Judge, Sir William Scott,
Mr. Mayor, Mister Mayor!
The Judge, Sir William Scott,
Mr. Mayor!
Says, yor wife is much to blame;
And aw think 'twad be ne shame,
To skelp her for the same,
Mister Mayor!
'Tis not the Judge alane,
Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!
'Tis not the Judge alane,
Mr. Mayor!
But the Judge and Jury baith,
Say, she's guilty o' maw faith,
An' so Sir Thomas saith,
Mr. Mayor!
The Duke the Jury towld,
Mister Mayor, Mr. Mayor!
The Duke the Jury towld,
Mr. Mayor!
He went with them to dine,
And surely he did whine,
'Bout his wife, mun, ow'r his wine,
Mr. Mayor!
'Twas sure ne noble deed,
Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!
'Twas sure ne noble deed,
Mr. Mayor!
He shew'd ne mighty sense,
At yor Dame to take offence;
So let his Grace gan hence,
Mr. Mayor!
But there's other folk to blame,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor!
But there's other folk to blame,
Mr. Mayor!
Yor wife has counsell'd with
Wor Vicar, Johnny Smith,
And he's nought, ye knaw, but pith,
Mr. Mayor!
Enjoy life when ye can,
Mister Mayor, Mister Mayor!
Enjoy life when ye can,
Mr. Mayor!
Nor let the Brewer Knight,
Nor the Duke, wi' a' his spite,
Say yor wife's no i' the right,
Mr. Mayor!
THE COAL TRADE.
Good people, listen while I sing
The source from whence your comforts spring,
And may each wind that blows still bring
Success unto the Coal Trade?
Who but unusual pleasure feels
To see our fleets of ships and keels!
Newcastle, Sunderland, and Shields,
May ever bless the Coal Trade.
May vultures on the caitiff fly
And gnaw his liver till he die,
Who looks with evil, jealous eye,
Down upon the Coal Trade.
If that should fail, what would ensue?
Sure, ruin and disaster too!
Alas! alas! what could we do,
If 'twere not for the Coal Trade!
What is it gives us cakes of meal?
What is it crams our wames sae weel
With lumps of beef and draughts of ale?
What is't, but just the Coal Trade.
Not Davis' Straits or Greenland oil,
Nor all the wealth springs from the soil,
Could ever make our pots to boil,
Like unto our Coal Trade.
Ye sailors' wives that love a drop
Of stingo fra the brandy shop,
How could you get one single drop,
If it were not for the Coal Trade.
Ye pitmen lads, so blithe and gay,
Who meet to tipple each pay-day,
Down on your marrow bones and pray,
Success unto the Coal Trade!
May Wear and Tyne still draw and pour
Their jet black treasures to the shore,
And we with all our strength will roar,
Success unto the Coal Trade!
Ye owners, masters, sailors a',
Come shout till ye be like to fa';
Your voices raise--huzza! huzza!
We all live by the Coal Trade.
This nation is in duty bound,
To prize those who work under ground,
For 'tis well known this country round
Is kept up by the Coal Trade.
May Wear, and Tyne, and Thames ne'er freeze,
Our ships and keels will pass with ease,
Then Newcastle, Sunderland, and Shields,
Will still uphold the Coal Trade.
I tell the truth, you may depend,
In Durham or Northumberland,
No trade in them could ever stand,
If it were not for the Coal Trade.
The owners know full well, 'tis true,
Without pitmen, keelmen, sailors too,
To Britain they might bid adieu,
If it were not for the Coal Trade.
So to conclude, and make an end
Of these few lines which I have penn'd,
We'll drink a health to all those men
Who carry on the Coal Trade:
To owners, pitmen, keelmen too,
And sailors, who the seas do plough,
Without these men we could not do,
Nor carry on the Coal Trade.
TOM CARR AND WALLER WATSON;
_Or, Tom and Jerry at Home._
Tune--"There was a bold Dragoon."
O Marrow, howay to the toon,
What fun we will ha'e there!
We needn't fear the watchmen now,
Let them come if they dare!
We'll hev a gill and sing a sang,
And through the streets we'll roar a ditty,
For Tom Carr hez ne bizness now
To put us a' neet i' the Kitty.
Whack, fal, &c.