Is truly distressing to T----ley, forsooth:
He's a foe to the Queen, and no wonder he should,
Since he vows for oppressors to spill his best blood.
What an excellent orator in his own way,
Mechanics, Shoemakers, and Joiners do say:
But he does not remember that Drones steal their food,
Were it not for the Becs he would have no best blood.
The Loyalist party consumptive are grown,
Though time-serving T----ley the fact may disown:
And it will not be long--God forbid that it should!
Ere Reform freeze the springs of T----ley's best blood.
THE NEWCASTLE NOODLES.
BY JAMES MORRISON.
Be easy, good folks, for we're all safe enough,
Better fortune seems now to attend us;
And two canny fellows, both lusty and tough,
Have rais'd a new corps to defend us.
Men sound wind and limb, good sighted and stout,
That can fight well, without being daunted;
Free from all diseases, such like as the gout,
And can jump, or be ready when wanted.
CHORUS.
Then if any invaders should dare us to fight,
Let it be on the shore or the river,
Bold Archy the Noodle, and Tommy the Knight,
Will guard and protect us for ever.
The Noodles have ne'er been at battle as yet,
Nor been brought down by scanty provision;
So to try them whenever his worship thinks fit,
He'll find them in famous condition.
In all their manoeuvres there's scarcely a flaw,
They're quite up to the science o' killing;
For the Noodle drill Serjeant's a limb o' the law,
And an old practis'd hand at the drilling.
Then if any invaders, &c.
Misfortunes, however, will sometimes attend,
For one morning, by danger surrounded,
A poor fellow splinter'd his fore-finger end,
And, of course, in the service was wounded.
'Tis true a sair finger's a very bad thing,
But it didn't diminish his beauty;
So the next day he just popp'd his arm in a sling,
And, Briton-like, went upon duty.
Then if any invaders, &c.
They have all been abroad, and as far too as Shields,
But to walk there was no easy matter,
So, for fear that their boots should go down in the heels,
They took the steam boat down the watter.
Their warlike appearance was awfully grand,
When they fired, it sounded like thunder,
Which put all the natives o' Shields to a stand,
And left them for ages to wonder.
Then if any invaders, &c.
What a pity they cannot get medals to buy,
greatly would add to their grandeur;
"There's Waterloo soldiers!" the strangers would cry,
And think Archy was great Alexander.
These mighty Preservers if death cannot save,
But send one or two of them bummin;
The rest o' the Noodles would fire o'er his grave,
And tell the below-folks he's coming.
Then if any invaders, &c.
BRITISH JUSTICE;
_Or, Newcastle Privy Court_.
Come, all ye Britons who delight
In Freedom's sacred cause,
And boast the Triumphs of your Sires,
Of just and equal laws,
Wrung from a Despot's feeble grasp,
List to this tale of mine,
In baseness which you cannot peer,
Since the days o' Lang Syne.
To fam'd Newcastle's Secret Court
A poor unlucky wight
Was, for the sake of Bastardy,
But very lately brought:
Where, tortur'd most ingeniously,
The rogue was made to whine,
As few have been for sporting so,
Since the days of Lang Syne.
In vain the culprit urg'd his cause,
In eloquence of woe;
In vain he urg'd his poverty,
To save him from the blow:
Regardless of his just complaint,
His judges laid the fine,
So great as few poor dogs could pay,
Since the days of Lang Syne.
Now mark the justice of the Judge,
Precisely at the time--
A gentleman was brought to him,
Just for the self same crime;
To whom the Judge, in alter'd tone,
Begg'd he would not repine,
Such ills are common to the rich,
Since the days of Lang Syne.
Suffice it, these two sinners were,
Tho' in the same degree
Of guilt, adjudg'd a fine to pay,
The ratio one to three:
The man of rags was made to pay
Three times a greater fine;
And sunk in misery, sent to think
On the days of Lang Syne.
Thus, Britons, are your laws dispens'd,
Your boasted freedom's gone,
Laid in your predecessors' graves,
Or from the island flown:
No longer Justice holds her seat,
In majesty divine,
In British Courts presiding now,
As in days of Lang Syne.
In vain you strive to wander back
To times of peaceful joy,
In vain you hope times to recall,
Lost in eternity;
No, never shall those scenes return,
No more shall Britain shine,
As she was wont, so splendidly,
I' the days of Lang Syne.
Can then Eternal Justice sleep,
Regardless of the prayer
Of toiling millions sunk in debt,
And driven to despair,
By stern Oppression's iron hand,
Oh! no, the Power Divine
Shall plead our cause as heretofore,
In the days of Lang Syne.
THE MISFORTUNES OF ROGER & HIS WIFE.
BY J. B.
Tune--"Calder Fair."
Last week was wor pay-week, and aw went to the toon,
Alang wi' wor Susy to buy her a new goon;
A sixpence i' my pocket--we cuddent pass the Close,
But went into the Robin Hood and gat worsels a dose.
Wiv a tooral, looral, looral, &c.
Suen after we gat canny, and com alang the Brig,
An' up the Bottle-bank, man, we byeth sae went the rig,
Wi' reelin' and wi' dancin'--"knacking heel and toe,"
Our heads began to rattle where wor feet before did go.
The Half-Muin Lyen we com te, and that wor Susy found,
For ower the stanes she fell, man, that's lyen all around,
A daver, a devisher agyen the metal pump,
And aw, to save poor Susy, got a duckin' i' the sump.
Ower anenst the Dun Cow, there is a place myed reet,
As good for breaking necks, man, as ony i' the street;
Had e'er an inclination been for leading me astray,
I'm conscious that aw'd fund maw end by coming up this way.
The biggest house i' Gyetshead projecting o'er the road,
Dis scarcely leave a footpath to pass on, if you would:
Were it not for the gas leet that's on the other side,
Mony windpipes wad be clos'd, aye, and mony open'd wide.
A little farther up the street, abuin au'd Jackson's Chare,
A neatish bit o' dournament began, as passing there,
For ---- ---- a ---- wi' guise an' shop-board new,
Is cabbaging at Pleasant ---- to patch his Waterloo.
But the worst of a' these evils, is their planning o' the street,
Aye, sic a shem an' bizen, were but decent folks te see't;
For here's a hill, and there's a hill, and here they're pullin' doon,
And here they're buildin' up, (who's fault?) the _only_ fuils i' toon.
Thus onward we were passin', thro' trouble and thro' strife,
Scarce caring what misfortune had Roger and his Wife:
But ere we gan that way agyen, we'll grease our soles and heels,
To scamper down by Sunderland, and up by smoky Sheels.
NEWCASTLE THEATRE IN AN UPROAR,
With the Bear, the Horses, and the Dogs, as principal Performers.
It's ha'e ye seen how crouse and gay
The lads and lasses bent their way,
To see the horses act the play,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre?
There some in silks did proudly shine,
And some were dress'd in caps se fine,
And some on sticks there did recline,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.
The belles and beaux of low degree
Were eager this fine sight to see;
And soon as they had got their tea,
They set off for the Theatre.
Then at the gallery door they stood--
Impatient, and in fretful mood;
And many a one, faith, did no good
By coming to the Theatre.
The doors being open'd, on they push'd,
Without distinction they were crush'd;
The cry was, Tumble up you must,
To fam'd Newcastle Theatre.
Next direful shrieks were heard aloud,
Whilst heedless throng'd the busy crowd,
Alike the slothful and the proud
Were driven in the Theatre.
A miller chep I chanc'd to see
Frae out amang the crowd sae blae,
Was running up an entry
Near fam'd Newcastle Theatre.
He'd got his coat torn cross the lap,
My conscience! 'twas a sad mishap;
But others still were worse than that,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.
There some their gowns held in their hand,
And others lost their shawls se grand;
And if you crush'd not you might stand,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.
The pretty girls, to get a seat,
Crush'd on, wi' hair dress'd up sae neat;
But soon came back, in sic a freet,
Frae fam'd Newcastle Theatre.
Now some got in without their shoes,
And some got in wi' mony a bruise,
And some cam hyem to tell the news,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.
Within the pit a brutish chap
Had hit a maiden sic a rap,
'Cause she refus'd to take her hat
Off, in Newcastle Theatre.
They took her home without delay,
When in a fit she fainting lay;
And faith she well may curse the day
That e'er she saw the Theatre.
The boxes, too, were fill'd se fine,
With all the labouring sons of Tyne;
And servant lasses, all divine,
Did beautify the Theatre.
The heat was so excessive great,
That, not to keep the folk too late,
They hurry'd on poor Timour's fate,
At fam'd Newcastle Theatre.
The play was done as it struck ten,
Some greedy folks said, 'twas a shem;
However, they all wet went hyem,
From fam'd Newcastle Theatre.
FAREWELL, ARCHY.
Written in 1820.
Tune--"Chapter of Donkies."
Now, Archy, my boy, drop the civical gown,
For none ever fill'd it with half your renown,
For wisdom and valour so glorious you shine,
You're the pride, boast, and bulwark of old coaly Tyne.
O brave Archy, miraculous Archy!
The pink o' the wise, and the wale o' the brave.
To recount all your virtues a volume 'twould swell,
So we'll just name a few, sir, in which you excel;
Your reign's been eventful, the times have gone mad,
And well might have puzzled more brains than you had;
But sufficient was Archy, well able was Archy,
To crush the sedition and treason of Tyne.
Sure Machiavel's self was a fool to our Mayor,
So honest he seem'd--then he promis'd so fair,
To reform all abuses, give justice to all,
And regulate watchmen, blood-suckers and all.
O specious Archy! legitimate Archy!
The firm, staunch supporter of things as they are.
Then of the Great Meeting,[15] by Jove, what a jest!
The Rads set you down for their chairman at least;
But the yeomen and specials in Court you kept hid,
Then sent off that precious epistle to Sid.
O rare Archy! sly old Archy!
Archy's the boy for the word or the blow!
O thou first of inditers, thou brightest of scribes,
Thy invention how fertile, in infamous lies!
How assassin-like was it to stab in the dark,
And from truth and from justice so far to depart.
O serpent-like Archy! O fiend-like Archy!
O Archy! but that was a damnable deed.
Next you went on a voyage of discovery to Shields,
And got handsomely pepper'd for meddling with keels;
Then for refuge you fled to Northumberland's Arms,
Who till now has defended your paper from harms,
Else down had gone Archy, thy paper, dear Archy,
Down stairs might have gone for the public good.
Then, for raising a riot, and reading the act,
Your honour against all opponents I'll back:
And to crown you with laurels, and finish my song,
You're a Colonel of Noodles, and nine makes a man,
Such as Archy and Cabbage,
Canny Jack Dixon, and thief-taking Tom.
Footnote 15: Held on Newcastle Town Moor, Oct. 11, 1819, relating to
the Manchester Massacre.
SIR TOMMY MADE AN ODD FELLOW.
_A Provincial and very popular Song._
I've sung o' Newcassel till black o' the fyess,
Tyne's Muse is as modest as ony;
Tho' oft she comes out in a comical dress--
Here she goes for a lilt at Sir Tommy.
Ye've seen him, nae doubt, wi' his hat on ten hairs,
Then he cuts sic a wonderful caper;
He has long been thought odd, for his kickmashaw airs,
Now he's odd baith by name and by nature.
Let Fame canter on till she's sair i' the hips,
Proclaiming, frae Tynemouth to Stella,
How the sun, moon, and stars a' went into the 'clipse,
When Sir Tommy was made an Odd Fellow.
There's scarce sic a man in a' Newcassel toon,
With the famous Tyne Legion outsetting:
Down at Shields in a fray, they pick'd up sic renoon,
That his nyem will nae mair be forgetten.
Tho' envious at valour, yet a' look asquint,
What heroes in fame e'er surpass'd them?
Wi' Sir Tommy before, and the sailors behint,
It was run! and the devil take the last one!
Let Fame canter on, &c.
A Knight he was dubb'd for sic sarvices brave,
But a Knight without fee is but little:
So they sent him to govern[16] where folks rant and rave,
A station he fit to a tittle.
Grand Master of Orangemen next he was call'd,
Bells rung till the toon was a' quaking;
Now Most Noble Grand of Odd Fellows install'd--
Faicks! it's time a straight-jacket was making.
Let Fame canter on, &c.
That Sir Tommy has wit I wad fain here convince,
He can myek sic a thumping oration,
By which he astonish'd the Legion lang since,
Now he wants to astonish the nation.
By humbug reduc'd, though his head's very lang,
His brains scarce wad balance a feather:
But just nominate him a Parliament man,[17]
Head and brains will take flight a' thegither.
Let Fame canter on, &c.
O sons o' Newcassel! free Burgesses a',
Ne'er be tempted your freedom to barter;
May they hing in tatters to frighten the craws,
If ye budge but an inch frae your Charter.
If ye send up Sir Tommy to London, M. P.
I' the Parliament house to be seated,
Ye may just as weel send Captain Starkey[18] up tee,
Your glory will then be completed.
Let Fame canter on, &c.
Footnote 16: Governor General of the Lunatic House.
Footnote 17: It was reported in the London Papers, that Sir T. B.
intended putting up as a Candidate to serve Newcastle in Parliament.
Footnote 18: An eccentric character well known in Newcastle.
WRECKENTON HIRING.
Oh, Lads and Lasses, hither come
To Wreckenton, to see the fun,
And mind ye bring your Sunday shoon,
There'll be rare wark wi' dancing-o.
And Lasses now, without a brag,
Bring pockets like a fiddle bag,
Ye'll get them cramm'd wi' mony a whag
Of pepper-kyek an' scranchim-o.
And Bess put on that bonny goon
Thy mother bought thou at the toon;
That straw-hat wi' the ribbons broon,
They'll a' be buss'd that's coming-o:
Put that reed ribbon round thy waist,
It myeks thou luik sae full o' grace,
Then up the lonnen come in haste,
They'll think thou's com'd frae Lunnen-o.
Ned pat on his Sunday's coat,
His hat and breeches cost a note,
With a new stiff'ner round his throat,
He luikt the very dandy-o:
He thought that he was gaun to choke,
For he'd to gyep before he spoke:
He met Bess at the Royal Oak,
They had baith yell and brandy-o.
Each lad was there wi' his sweetheart,
And a' was ready for a start,
When in com Jack wi' Fanny Smart,
And brought a merry Scraper-o:
Then Ned jump'd up upon his feet,
And on the table myed a seat;
Then bounc'd the Fiddler up a heet,
Saying, 'Play and we will caper-o.'
Now Ned and Bess led off the ball,
'Play Smash the windows,' he did call,
'Keep in yor feet,' says Hitchy Mall,
Learn'd dancers hae sic prancing-o:'
Now Ned was nowther lyeth nor lyem,
And faith he had baith bouk and byen,
Ye wad thought his feet was myed o' styen,
He gav sic thuds wi' dancing-o.
Now Jackey Fanny's hand did seize,
Cry'd, 'Fiddler, tune your strings to please!'
Play, 'Kiss her weel amang the trees,'
She is my darlin', bliss her-o!
Then off they set, wi' sic a smack,
They myed the joints a' bend and crack:
When duen he took her round the neck,
And faith he dident miss her-o.
The fiddler's elbow wagg'd a' neet,
He thought he wad dropt off his seat,
For deil a bit they'd let him eat,
They were sae keen o' dancin'-o.
Some had to strip their coats for heet,
And sarks and shifts were wet wi' sweet!
They cramm'd their guts, for want o' meat,
Wi' ginger-breed and scranchim-o.
Now cocks had crawn an hour or more,
And ower the yell-pot some did snore;
But how they luikt to hear the roar
Of Matt, the King Pit caller-o!
'Smash him!' says Ned, 'he mun be rang,
He's callin' through his sleep, aw's war'n;'
Then shootin' to the door he ran--
'Thou's asleep, thou rousty bawler-o!'
Now they danc'd agyen till it was day,
And then went hyem--but, by the way,
Some of them had rare fun, they say,
And fand it nine months after-o:
Such tricks are play'd by heedless youth;
And though they're common, north and south,
That's nae excuse for breach of truth,
Nor food for wit and laughter-o.
Suen Wreckenton will bear the sway,
Two Members they'll put in, they say;
Then wor Taxes will be duen away,
And we'll a' sing now or never-o:
Backey and Tea will be sae cheap,
Wives will sit up when they sud sleep,
And we'll float in yell at wor Pay-week,
Then Wreckenton for ever-o.
ON RUSSELL THE PEDESTRIAN,
Who walked 101 miles in 23 hours, 56 minutes, and 30 seconds, on the
25th & 26th of July, 1822, on the Newcastle Race course.
Men's talents vary--for wise ends design'd,
_This_ man has strength of body, _that_, of mind;
Each his peculiar art assiduous plies,
And every maxim of improvement tries,
Till he attain perfection by degrees,
And learns to execute his task with ease.
Wilson,[19] desist! and Simpson,[20] take your rest!
Ease and retirement now will suit ye best;
Your brief excursions will excite no more
That admiration which they did before;
Though doubtless ye have both endeavour'd hard,
Perhaps without an adequate reward;
But such laborious journies lay aside,
And if ye can, instead of walking, _ride_.
"Hide your diminish'd heads!" nor vainly talk,
Among your friends, how rapidly you walk:
First in the annals of Pedestrian fame,
Historians now will enter RUSSELL'S name;
Where he will most conspicuously shine,
And long be hail'd--The Hero of the Tyne.
Upon this art he has so much refin'd,
That he leaves all competitors behind.
With buoyant step we've seen him tread the plain,
And hope, ere long, to see him walk again.
Footnote 19: George Wilson, the Blackheath Pedestrian, walked 90 miles
in 24 successive hours, on the same ground, on Easter Monday and
Tuesday, 1822.
Footnote 20: John Simpson, the Cumberland Pedestrian, attempted to walk
96 miles on the same ground, in the same period of time, on Whit-Monday,
and again on the 29th and 30th of July, 1822; in both of which attempts
he failed.
ON SIMPSON THE PEDESTRIAN'S FAILURE.
Tune--"Barbary Bell."
Sitting crush'd i' the huddock a' gobbing and talking,
We were mov'd wiv a spoke frae the little Pee Dee;
Ah! Skipper, he says, the auld man 'ill be walking,
So we a' rose together and set off to see.
When we gat to the Moor, he was dodging away, man,
Wi' twe cheps on each side, keeping a' the folks back;
And the bairns running after him, shouting hurra, man,
So we just gat a gliff, for he pass'd in a crack.
Now Barney M'Mullin, his reet hand protector,
With a sprig o' shilelagh preparing the way,
Was stopt on the road by a publican hector,
Who hinted that Barney intended foul play.
If Barney mov'd forward he threaten'd to drop him,
For his walking, he said, put the man off his pace;
But Barney concluded he'd ne right to stop him,
And call'd him a big-gutted rogue to his face.
Every Freeman, says Barney, of land has a small stock,
But to dunch people off is most rascally mean;
Then their rights were protected by bold Tommy Alcock,
Who said he'd a share of the pasture sae green.
When Tommy put on his election-day swagger,
His genteel appearance made Barney's tongue cease;
His speech was sae pointed, it pierc'd like a dagger:
So Barney, poor soul, he departed in peace.
We stopt there a' neet, till weel on i' the morning,
Expecting he still wad keep dodging away;
But he gav us the double, without ony warning,
And hodg'd off the Moor, like a sheep gyen astray.
When he enter'd the tent, we were a' sitting drinking,
It was thought he had come to get something to eat;
But now it appears the poor soul had been thinking
On the best ways and means to obtain a retreat.
It seems the auld man had nae notion o' stopping,
But as to what ail'd him, he knaws best his sel';
For whether he fail'd in his wind, strength, or bottom,
The skipper and I were baith puzzled to tell.
But it's owre and deun, so what signifies talking,
Poor man, he must just lay his fist to the spade:
Let them that think fit make their living by walking,
For his part he's fund it's a very bad trade.
The VICTORY;
or, The CAPTAIN DONE OVER.
Tune--"O the golden days of good Queen Bess."
It happen'd very lately, (upon my word 'tis true, sir,)
A party at the Peacock supp'd, as I shall shew to you, sir;
The names of those I shall disclose, who form'd this happy party,
Were Waller Watson, Walton too, both honest blades and hearty;
And with them were two friends of theirs, who just had come to
town, sir,
Hedges and Ingram are their names, both travellers of renown, sir.
They sang and drank, and drank and sang, till time was wearing late,
sir,
Nor ever thought a moment what that night might be their fate, sir:
Near eleven o'clock they sallied out, the night being rather cold, sir,
('Twas on the eighth of April, as we hear the story told, sir,)
They felt it not, for friendship's glass had warm'd their hearts
within, sir,
By drinking brandy, rum, or wine, or eke good Holland's gin, sir.
Watson and Ingram both inclin'd to be a little merry, sir,
The others left--to Dean-street they proceeded in a hurry, sir;
When Hedges he sung "Fly not yet," why haste ye so away, sir?
And Ingram promptly answer'd him, by calling out, "Oh! stay," sir.
The _Verges_ of the night were rous'd--demanded why such
clatter, sir,
What's all this hound-like noise about? come tell us what's the
matter, sir.
Then Walton said, "They're friends of mine, and strangers in the
place, sir;"
But this they disregarded quite, and star'd them in the face, sir.
Now Halbert cried out, "Seize them, Ross!--to the watch-house they
shall go, sir;
And Master Carr will _Kitty_ them, old friendship for to shew, sir."
Then to the watch-house they were ta'en triumphantly along, sir,
For nothing, as the trial prov'd, but singing Tom Moor's song, sir.
Arriving at the watch-house, where Dogberry sat in state, sir,
The watchmen made false charges out, and did so glibly prate, sir;
Tom cried out, "What d'ye think of this? No defence will I hear, sir,
_My servants_ I will listen to, they've made it plain appear, sir.
Off to the _Kitty_ with them, watch, nor grant one short respite,
sirs,
But see that they're completely fast in durance all the night, sirs."
Ye watchmen, for the future, remember Scarlett's dressing, sirs,
The real sound drubbing you've receiv'd may be esteem'd a blessing,
sirs:
And should you e'er repeat such acts, vile tyrants as you've been,
sirs,
Scarlett against you may appear, and trim you black and green, sirs.
Therefore a warning take in time, leave your infernal tricks, sirs,
As you ere this must clearly find, you've kick'd against the
pricks, sirs.
THE ALARM!![21]
_Or, Lord Fauconberg's March._
Tune--"Chevy Chace."
God prosper long our noble king,
And noblemen also,
Who valiantly, with sword in hand,
Do guard us from each foe.
No sooner did Lord Fauconberg,
With heart undaunted hear,
Than news to Gotham had been brought,
Which caus'd our Mayor to fear,
Than up he rose, with eyes on fire,
Most dreadful to the view:
"To arms! to arms!" aloud he cried,
And forth his falchion drew.
To arms! to arms! full long and sore
The rattling drums did beat:
To arms in haste each soldier flies,
And scours through every street.
The women shriek and wring their hands,
Their children weep around;
While some, more wise, fast bolt their doors,
And hide them under ground.
The French are at our gates! they cry,
And we shall all be slain;
For Dumourier is at their head,
And that arch-traitor Paine.
In haste drawn up, in fair array,
Our Yorkshire Guards are seen;
And mounted on a jet black steed,
Lord Fauconberg I ween.
And now he gave the word to march,
And valiant foremost rode:
And now he bounds from side to side--
'Twas well the streets were broad.
From Newgate down to the Broad-chare
They march'd with might and main;
Then gallantly they turn'd them round,
And so march'd up again.
Now fill a bumper to the brim,
And drink to Gotham's Mayor;
And when again he hears such news,
May Fauconberg be there.
Footnote 21: On the commencement of the impress service, in March,
1793, considerable riots took place at Shields, which were represented,
at Newcastle, in a thousand terrific shapes; and a false alarm having
been given at the Mansion house, the drums of the York Militia beat to
arms; Lord Fauconberg marched that regiment to the house of Rendezvous
in the Broad-chare, and then marched back again.
THE HALF-DROWNED SKIPPER.
Air--"Chapter of Donkies."
T'other day up the water aw went in a boat,
Aw brush'd up my trowsers, put on my new coat;
We steer'd up wor boat 'lang side of a keel,
And the luiks o' the Skipper wad frighten'd the Deil.
Fol de rol, &c.
So thinks aw, wi' the keel we'll gan a' the way,
And hear a few words that the skipper may say,
For aw was sure if ought in the keel was deun wrang,
The Skipper wad curse, aye, and call every man.
Fol de rol, &c.